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FROM  THE  LIBRARY  OF 

PROFESSOR  W.  H.  CLAWSON 

DEPARTMENT  OF  ENGLISH 

UNIVERSITY  COLLEGE 


THE 


ATLANTIC  MONTHLY 


A  MAGAZINE   OF 


,iterature,  l^cience,,  Stot,  ana 


VOLUME  XCIII 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,   MIFFLIN   AND    COMPANY 
€l)e  lUitjcr^itie 

1904 


COPTKIOHT,  1903  AND  1904, 

BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND  COMPANY. 


AP 

2> 

A* 


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


CONTEXTS. 


INDEX  BY  TITLES. 


Abuses  of  Public  Advertising,  Charles  Mul- 

ford  Robinson 289 

Advertising,  The  Psychology   of,    Walter 

D.Scott 29 

Age  Limit,  The,  E.  S.  Johnson     ....  542 

America  in  Literature,  H.  W.  Boynton    .  417 

American  Primer,  An,  Walt  Whitman      .  460 
Aristocracy  of  the  Dollar,   The,    Thomas 

Wentworth  Higginson 506 

Bachelor's  Fancy,  Alice  Brown    ....  37 
Bachelors  of    Braggy,  The,  Seumas  Mac- 

Manus 597 

Basket  of  "Chips,  A,  Henry  Oldys      ...  219 

Baxter's  Procrustes,  Charles  W.  Chesnutt  .  823 

Beggar's  Pouch,  The,  Agnes  Repplier  .     .  385 

Biographical,  M.  A.  De  W.  Howe     .    .     .  567 

Blue  Color  of  the  Sky,  The,,  T.  J.  J.  See  85 
Books  New  and  Old. 

Stops  of  Various  Quills,  H.    W.  Boyn- 
ton    119 

Old  Wine  in  New  Bottles,  Ferris  Greens- 
let    265 

Hans  Holbein  and  Some  Other  Masters, 

Royal  Cortissoz 402 

Byways   of  Literature,    H.   W.   Boyn- 
ton    560 

Some  Biographical  Studies,  H.  W.  Boyn- 
ton    707 

A  Few  Spring  Novels,  H.  W.  Preston   .  852 
Books  Unread,  Thomas  Wentivorth  Higgin- 
son         344 

Butterflies  in  Poetry,   Thomas  Wentworth 

Higginson 746 

By  Catalogue,  Beatrice  Hanscom      .    .    .  241 

Christian  Science,  John  W.  Churchman      .  433 

Cicero  in  Maine,  Martha  Baker  Dunn     .     .  253 
Common  Lot,  The,  Robert  Herrick,  14,  202,  352, 

479,  633,  754 
Contemporary  Men  of  Letters  Series,  The, 

Bliss  Perry 274 

Cynicism,  Arthur  Stanwood  Pier      .     .     .  260 

Death  of  Thoreau's  Guide,  The,  Fannie 

Hardy  Eckstorm 736 

Decent  Thing,  The,  Frederick  Orin  Bartlett  379 

Diplomatic  Contest  for  the  Mississippi 
Valley,  The,  Frederick  J.  Turner  .  676,  807 

Dream  of  Akinosuke,  The,  Lafcadio  Hearn  340 

England,  A  Letter  from  :    The   Issue   of 

Protection,  R.  Brimley  Johnson      .     .     .  141 


English  and  American  Cousins,  Thomas 

Wentworth  Higginson 184 

Ethics  of  Taxation,  The,  Winthrop  More 

Daniels 772 

Father  Hennepin,  Bliss  Perry 419 

Fishing  with  a  Worm,  Bliss  Perry   .     .     .  699 

Fra  Paolo  Sarpi,  Andrew  D.  White    .       45,  225 

France,  The  Year  in,  Alvan  F.  Sanborn    .  652 

Frenchwoman's  Son,  The,  <S.  Carleton  .     .  449 

George  Borrow,  H.  W.  Boynton  ....  244 

Germany,  A  Letter  from,  W.  C.  Dreher  .  389 
Great  Delusion  of  our  Time,  The,  John  H. 

Denison 721 

Home  Life  in  the  Seventeenth  Century, 

S.  M.  Francis 566 

Hour  with  our  Prejudices,  An,  Samuel 

McChord  Crothers 663 

Humors  of  Advertising,  The,  R.  L.  Hartt  602 

Indianapolis :  a  City  of  Homes,  Meredith 

Nicholson 836 

"  Intensely  Human,"  Thomas  Wentworth 

Higginson 588 

Is  Commercialism  in  Disgrace  ?  John  Gra-  • 

ham  Brooks 194 

Judge,  The,  Harriet  A.  Nash 692 

Laura  Bridgman,  William  James  ...  95 

Law  of  the  Soul,  The,  I.  B.  Finley  .  .  .  623 
Letters  of  John  Ruskin,  Charles  Eliot 

Norton 577,  797 

Lincoln,  Recollections  of,  Henry  Villard  .  165 
Literary  Aspect  of  Journalism,  The,  H. 

W.  Boynton 845 

Lugging  Boat  on  Sowadnehunk,  Fannie 

Hardy  Eckstorm 501 

Lynching :  A  Southern  View,  C.  H.  Poe  .  155 

Mississippi  Valley,  The  Diplomatic  Con- 
test for  the,  Frederick  J.  Turner      .    676,  807 
Moorish  Empire  in  Europe,  The,  A.  L.  P. 

Dennis 862 

Moral  Overstrain,  George  W.  Alger  .  .  .  4% 
Morley's  Gladstone,  Rollo  Ogden .  .  .  .  63 

Mr.  Mabie's  Latest  Book,  Bliss  Perry  .  .  418 
Mr.  Huneker's  Musical  Essays,  Lewis  M. 

Isaacs 859 

Music,  A  History  of  American,  Howard  M. 

Ticknor  .  .  860 


IV 


Contents. 


New  American  Type,  The,  H.  D.  Sedgwick  535 
New  England,  Two  Books  about,  H.  W. 

Boynton 126 

New  Hunting,  The,  Kate  Milner  Babb  .  99 
Notes  on  the  Scarlet  Letter,  Theodore  T. 

Munger 521 

Novel  Experiment  in  Poetry,  A,  H.  \V. 

Boynton 275 

Odd  Sort  of  Popular  Book,  An,  Gamaliel 

Bradford,  Jr 548 

On  Catering  for  the  Public,  Bliss  Perry    .  1 

Part  of  a  Man's  Life,  Thomas  Wentworth 

Higginson. 
The  Sunny  Side  of  the  Transcendental 

Period 6 

English  and  American  Cousins  ....  184 

Books  Unread 344 

The  Aristocracy  of  the  Dollar  ....  506 

"  Intensely  Human  " 588 

Butterflies  in  Poetry 74ti 

Platonic  Poetry,  Ferris  Greenslet ....  124 
Poet  Gray  as  a  Naturalist,  The,  Ferris 

Greenslet 420 

Prescott  the  Man,  Eollo  Ogden  ....  320 
Psychology  of  Advertising,  The,  Walter 

D.  Scott 29 

Quiet  Man,  The,  Arthur  S.  Pier  ....  830 

Race   Factors  in  Labor  Unions,   William 

Z.  Eipley 299 

Return  of  the  Gentlewoman,  The,  Harriet 

Lewis  Bradley 400 

Rhode  Island,  The  Meaning  of,  G.  P.  W.  127 

Roman  Cabman,  A,  T.  E.  Sullivan  ...  308 

Roxella's  Prisoner,  Harriet  A,  Nash  .  .  72 
Ruskin,  Letters  of  John,  Charles  Eliot 

Norton     .                                                 577,  797 


Scab,  The,  Jack  London 54 

Shadow,  The,  Charles  Miner  Thompson  .  175 
Sicilian  Highlands,  The,  William  Sharp  .  471 
Singapore,  Elizabeth  W.  H.  Wright ...  105 
Small  Business  as  a  School  of  Manhood, 

The,  Henry  A.  Stimson 337 

Some  Books  about  Cities,  //.  W.  Boynton  276 
Some  Nineteenth-Century  Americans,  M. 

,     A.  DeWolfe  Howe 79 

Tsome  Recent  Aspects  of  Darwinism,  E.  T. 

Brewster 513 

Song-Forms  of  the  Thrush,  Theodore  Clarice 

Smith 777 

Stage  Coach,  The,  Elia  W.  Peattie  ...     787 
Street  Railway  Legislation  in  Illinois,  Ed- 
win Burritt  Smith 109 

\ 
Tenement  House  Problem,  The,  Burton  J. 

Hendrick 414 

Theodor  Mommsen,  Jesse  Benedict  Car- 
ter   373 

Three  Dramatic  Studies,  H.  W.  Boynton  .  712 
Three  English  Writers,  H.  W.  Boynton  .  569 
Timotheos  and  the  Persians,  J.  Irving 

Manatt 234 

Training  in  Taste.  W.  H.  Downes  ...  817 
Transcendental  Period,  The  Sunny  Side  of 

the,  Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson ...        6 
Trolley  Competition  with  the  Railroads, 

Bay  Morris 730 

"  True  Poets, "  Ferris  Greenslet    ....    421 

Wall  Street  and  the  Country,  Charles  A. 

Conant 145 

Warwick  Castle  and  its  Earls,  S.  M. 

Francis 714 

When  I  Practised  Medicine,  Leighton 

Parks 555 

Work  of  the  Woman's  Club,  The,  Martha 

E.  D.  White  .  .    614 


INDEX  BY  AUTHORS. 


Alger,  George  W.,  Moral  Overstrain      .     .  496 

Bartlett,    Frederick     Orin,    The    Decent 

Thing 379 

Boynton,  H.  W. 

Two  Books  about  New  England    .     .     .  120 

George  Borrow 244 

A  Novel  Experiment  in  Poetry      .     .     .  275 

Some  Books  about  Cities 276 

America  in  Literature 417 

Three  English  Writers 569 

Three  Dramatic  Studies 712 

The  Literary  Aspect  of  Journalism    .     .  845 
Books  New  and  Old. 

Stops  of  Various  Quills 119 

Byways  of  Literature 560 

Some  Biographical  Studies     ....  707 

Bradford,  Gamaliel,  Jr.,  An  Odd  Sort  of 

Popular  Book 548 

Bradley,  Harriet  Lewis,   The  Return  of 

the  Gentlewoman 400 

Brewster,  E.  T.,  Some  Recent  Aspects  of 

Darwinism 513 


Brooks,  John  Graham.  Is  Commercialism 

in  Disgrace  ? 194 

Broicn,  Alice,  Bachelor's  Fancy  ....  37 

Buck,  Gertrude.  Invocation 500 

Burton,  Bichard,  Dead  Out  of  Doors    .     .  319 

Carleton,  S.,  The  Frenchwoman's  Son  .     .  449 
Carter,  Jesse  Benedict,  Theodor  Momm- 
sen        373 

Cawein,  Madison,  Whippoorwill  Time      .  613 

Chadwick,  John  White,  Timeo  Danaos  .     .  233 
Cheney,  John  Vance. 

Thanks 352 

Content 554 

Weeds  and  Flowers 851 

Chesnutt,  Charles  W..  Baxter's  Procrustes  823 

Churchman,  John  W.,  Christian  Science    .  433 
Conant,  Charles  A.,  Wall  Street  and  the 

Country 145 

Cortissoz,  Boyal. 
Books  New  and  Old. 
Hans  Holbein  and  Some  Other  Mas- 
ters    .402 


Contents. 


Crothers,  Samuel  McChord,  An  Hour  with 
our  Prejudices 663 

Daniels,  Winthrop  More,  The  Ethics  of 
Taxation 772 

Denison,  John  H.,  The  Great  Delusion  of 
our  Time 721 

Dennis,  A.  L.  P.,  The  Moorish  Empire  in 
Europe 862 

Downes,  W.  H.,  Training  in  Taste    .     .     .     817 

Dreher,  W.  C.,  A  Letter  from  Ger- 
many   389 

Dunn,  Martha  Baker,  Cicero  in  Maine  .     .     253 

Earle,  Mabel,  Birch  Creek  Caiion  ...  71 

Eckstorm,  Fannie  Hardy. 

Lugging  Boat  on  Sowadnehunk  .     .     .  501 

The  Death  of  Thoreau's  Guide.  ...  736 

Finley,  Isabel  Bowman,  The  Law  of  the 
Soul 623 

Francis,  S.  M. 

Home  Life  in  the  Seventeenth  Century .     566 
Warwick  Castle  and  its  Earls    ....     714 

Grant,  Robert,  Verses  to  Colonel  Higgin- 
son  on  his  Eightieth  Birthday  ....  192 

Greenslet,  Ferris. 

Platonic  Poetry 124 

Books  New  and  Old. 

Old  Wine  in  New  Bottles  ....  265 
The  Poet  Gray  as  a  Naturalist  ...  -120 
"True  Poets" .421 

Hanscom,  Beatrice,  By  Catalogue     .     .     .  241 
Hartt,  Rollin  Lynde,  The  Humors  of  Ad- 
vertising        602 

Hearn,  Lafcadio,  The   Dream  of  Akino- 

suke" 340 

Hendrick,  Burton  J.,  The  Tenement  House 

Problem 414 

Herrick,  Robert,  The  Common  Lot,  14,  202,  352, 

479,  633,  754 

Higginson,  Thomas  Wentworth. 
Part  of  a  Man's  Life. 
The  Sunny  Side  of  the  Transcendental 

Period 6 

English  and  American  Cousins  .     .     .  184 

Books  Unread 344 

The  Aristocracy  of  the  Dollar    .     .     .  506 

"  Intensely  Human  " 588 

Butterflies  in  Poetry 746 

Howe,  M.  A.  De  Wolfe. 

Some  Nineteenth-Century  Americans     .  79 

Strange  Instrument  of  Many  Strings       .  174 

Biographical 567 

Isaacs,  Lewis  M.,  Mr.  Huneker's  Musical 
Essays 859 

James,  William,  Laura  Bridgman    ...  95 
Johnson,  E.  S.,  The  Age  Limit    ....  542 
Johnson,  R.  Brimley,  A  Letter  from  Eng- 
land :  The  Issue  of  Protection  ....  141 

Ketchum,  Arthur,  Candlemas 218 


Lennah,  M.,  The  Richness  of  Poverty  . 
London,  Jack,  The  Scab 


MacManus,    Seumas,  The   Bachelors  of 
Braggy 

Manatt,  J.  Irving,  Timotheos  and  the  Per- 
sians   

Messer,  Mary  Burt,  Life's  Tavern    . 

Morris,   Ray,   Trolley   Competition    with 
the  Railroads 

Munger,  Theodore  T.,  Notes  on  the  Scarlet 
Letter 

Nash,  Harriet  A. 

Roxella's  Prisoner 

The  Judge 

Nicholson,  Meredith,  Indianapolis  :  a  City 

of  Homes 

Norton,  Charles  Eliot,  Letters  of  John 

Ruskin 577, 

Ogden,  Hollo. 

Morley's  Gladstone 

Prescott  the  Man 

Oldys,  Henry,  A  Basket  of  Chips 


Palmer,  Francis  Sterne,  Paul  Lenthier's 

Feeshin'-Pole 

Parks,  Leighton,  When  I  Practised  Medi- 
cine   

Peattie,  Elia  W.,  The  Stage  Coach  .  . 
Perry,  Bliss. 

On  Catering  for  the  Public 

The  Contemporary  Men  of  Letters 
Series 

Mr.  Mabie's  Latest  Book 

Father  Hennepin 

Fishing  with  a  Worm 

Pier,  Arthur  Stanwood. 

Cynicism 

The  Quiet  Man 

Poe,  Clarence  H.,  Lynching:  A  Southern 

View 

Preston,  Harriet  Waters,  A  Few  Spring 

Novels 

Rabb,  Kate  Milner,  The  New  Hunting  .     . 

Reese,  Lizette  W.,  The  Cry  of  the  Old 
House 

Repplier,  Agnes,  The  Beggar's  Pouch  .     . 

Ripley,  William  Z.,  Race  Factors  in  Labor 
Unions 

Robinson,  Charles  Mulford,  Abuses  of  Pub- 
lic Advertising 

Sanborn,  Alvan  F.,  The  Year  in  France    . 

Scollard,  Clinton,  The  Book-Lover  .     .     . 

Scott,  Walter  D.,  The  Psychology  of  Ad- 
vertising   

Sedgwick,  H.  D.,  The  New  American 
Type. 

See,  T.  J.  J.,  The  Blue  Color  of  the 
Sky  ....... 

Sharp,  William,  The  Sicilian  Highlands  . 

Smith,  Edwin  Burritt,  Street  Railway 
Legislation  in  Illinois 


99 
54 


597 

234 
470 

730 
521 


72 
692 


836 
797 


63 
320 

219 


706 


555 

787 


174 
418 
419 
699 

260 
830 

155 

852 

99 

821 
385 

299 

289 

652 
264 

29 
535 

85 
471 

109 


VI 


Contents. 


Smith,  Theodore  C.,  Song-Forms  of  the 

Thrush 777 

Spofford,  Harriet  Prescott,  Dust  to  Dust  .  674 

Stimson,  Henry  A.,  The  Small  Business  as 

a  School  of  Manhood 337 

Sullivan,  T.  R.,  A  Roman  Cabman  .     .  * .  308 

Tabb,  John  B.,  A  Wind  Call 379 

Thayer,  William  Roscoe,  At  the  Grave  of 

Samuel  Adams 771 

Thompson,  Charles  Miner,  The  Shadow .     .  175 
Ticknor,  Howard  M.,  A  History  of  Amer- 
ican Music  .                                                 .  860 


Turner,  Frederick  J.,  The  Diplomatic  Con- 
test for  the  Mississippi  Valley   .     .       676,  807 

Van  Dyke,  Henry. 

Reliance 28 

A  Quatrain 806 

Villard,  Henry,  Recollections  of  Lincoln  .  165 

White,  Andrew  D.,  Fra  Paolo  Sarpi .     .  45,  225 
White,  Martha  E.  D.,  The  Work  of  the 

Woman's  Club 614 

Whitman,  Walt,  An  American  Primer.     .    460 
Wright,  Elizabeth  W.  H.,  Singapore     .     .    105 


POETRY. 

At  the  Grave  of  Samuel  Adams,  William  Quatrain,  A,  Henry  van  Dyke 806 

Roscoe  Thayer 771 

Reliance,  Henry  van  Dyke 28 

Birch  Creek  Canon,  Mabel  Earle      ...       71       Richness  of  Poverty,  The,  M.  Lennah   .     .      99 
Book-Lover,  The,  Clinton  Scollard  ...    264 

Strange     Instrument    of    Many    Strings, 

Candlemas,  Arthur  Ketchum 218          M.  A.  De  Wolfe  Howe 174 

Content,  John  Vance  Cheney 554 

Cry  of  the  Old  House,  The,  Lizette   W. 

Eeese  .    821 


Thanks,  John  Vance  Cheney 352 

Timeo  Daiiaos,  John  White  Chadwick  .     .    233 


Dead  Out  of  Doors,  Richard  Burton     . 
Dust  to  Dust.  Harriet  Prescott  Spofford 


319 

674 


Verses  to  Colonel  Higginson  on  his  Eight- 
ieth Birthday,  Robert  Grant      ....     192 


Invocation,  Gertrude  Suck 500      Weeds  and  Flowers,  John  Vance  Cheney  .     851 

Whippoorwill  Time,  Madison  Cawein   .     .    613 
Life's  Tavern,  Mary  Burt  Messer      ...    470      Wind-Call,  A,  John  B.  Tabb 379 

Paul    Lenthier's    Feeshin'-Pole,    Francis 
Sterne  Palmer  .     706 


CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB. 
Clock-Ticks 574      On  Traveling 138 


Confessions  of  a  Woman  Lecturer    .     .     .     868 
Contemporaneousness 871 


On  Traveling,  Again :  The  "  Deposit "  Sys- 
tem      .720 


Disagreeable  People  I  have  Known  Who 
have  Loved  Plants  ........    866 


Pilgrim    Fathers,    The :    Their    Debt    to 

Us 137 

Plea  for  Patent  Affection,    A 719 

Educated  Mispronunciations 864      Punster  and  the  Poet,  The 135 


Europe  Unvisited 428 


"  Handsomely  Illustrated  "      ... 
Honorable  Point  of  Ignorance,  An  . 


136 
132 


Quotation  and  Allusion 575 


Things  Found  in  Books 863 

Tradition  and  Biography 285 

Idealistic  Realist,  An 280      Typewriter  vs.  Pen 425 

I  Take  My  Niece  to  Parsifal 717 

Unhandsomely  Illustrated 427 

Mouth  of  the  Mime,  The 716      Unruly  Kingdom,  The 282 


New  Conditions  in  Reading 572      Waning  Art  of  Making  Believe,  The    . 

New  England  Visionaries 430      What  Children  Want  to  Know     .     .     . 


133 

286 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY 


of  literature^  ^>cience5  3rt>  anD 

VOL.  XGIIL  —  JANUARY,  1904.  —  No.  DL  V. 


ON  CATERING  FOR  THE  PUBLIC. 


IN  that  brief  catalogue  of  New  Year's 
resolutions  which  the  good  American  is 
periodically  tempted  to  construct,  the  re- 
solve not  to  talk  shop  deserves  a  place 
of  honor.  To  be  silent  about  one's  trade 
is  the  beginning  of  virtue ;  but  it  is  diffi- 
cult for  most  of  us  to  maintain  such  reti- 
cence for  long.  That  an  editor  of  a 
magazine  should  presume  to  the  posses- 
sion of  qualities  beyond  the  compass  of 
his  readers  is  not  to  be  thought  of,  and 
the  present  writer  proposes,  even  before 
the  New  Year  has  fairly  begun,  to  break 
that  fragile  resolution  of  discretion,  and 
to  turn  his  yearly  greetings  to  the  Atlan- 
tic's company  into  a  discourse  upon  one 
aspect  of  his  own  profession.  May  the 
Toastmaster,  before  the  real  entertain- 
ment for  1904  begins,  chat  for  a  moment 
upon  the  perilous  art  of  catering  for  the 
public  ? 

The  best  that  may  be  said  for  Tho- 
reau's  regimen  of  beans  is,  not  that  that 
immortal  diet  was  merely  wholesome  or 
cheap,  or  even  that  it  was  transmuted 
into  delightful  literature, — but  that  Tho- 
reau  liked  it.  He  was  catering  for  him- 
self and  to  himself.  When  Byron  came 
of  age,  he  provided  the  conventional 
roast  ox  and  ale  for  his  tenants  in  honor 
of  his  majority,  and  then  dined  alone 
upon  his  favorite  delicacy,  eggs  and  ba- 
con. He  catered  for  his  public  first,  and 
to  himself  afterwards.  But  the  only  edi- 
tors who  permit  themselves  such  solitary 
luxury  of  personal  indulgence  are  the 
young  men  who  own,  write,  and  print  the 
queer  little  5x7  magazines  with  still 


queerer  names.  They  give  no  hostages 
to  fortune  except  paper,  printer's  ink,  and 
time.  If  you  would  seek  a  better  analo- 
gy to  the  real  editorial  function,  follow 
some  excellent  citizen  of  Baltimore,  or 
of  a  foreign  city  where  marketing  bears 
as  yet  no  social  stigma,  as  he  journeys  to 
the  public  market,  with  basket  upon  his 
careful  arm,  intent  upon  selecting  a  din- 
ner for  his  family. 

Observe  him.  For  all  his  apparent 
leisureliness  of  manner,  the  good  gentle- 
man is  carrying  the  burden  of  a  theory. 
He  has  certain  convictions,  more  or  less 
definite,  about  desirable  combinations  of 
food  and  drink.  Convention,  which  is 
only  common  sense  deposited  for  long 
periods  upon  the  reluctant  mind  of  our 
species,  has  dictated  to  him  some  rude 
outline  of  a  bill  of  fare.  He  has  indi- 
vidual partialities  of  taste,  but  he  has 
also  tolerably  distinct  ideas  of  what  is 
possible  for  his  purse.  Terrapin  and 
champagne  must  be  for  high  days  only. 
And  our  worthy  householder  has  also 
some  fixed  notions  as  to  what  is  best  for 
his  family.  They  will  thrive  better,  he 
knows,  upon  honest  soups  and  roasts  than 
upon  cocktails  and  eclairs.  Thus,  as  he 
makes  his  way  from  stall  to  stall,  does 
he  select,  from  the  countless  appetizing 
things  displayed,  the  material  for  a  fore- 
ordained dinner.  He  buys  it,  precisely 
as  he  would  gather  harmoniously  colored 
flowers  for  a  bouquet,  and  tucking  it  into 
that  ample  basket,  takes  it  home  in  all 
innocence  of  heart.  It  is  his  affair,  after 
all.  If  he  and  his  family  like  what  is 


On   Catering  for  the  Public. 


purchased,  well  and  good,  provided  their 
tastes  do  not  become  a  public  scandal,  or 
their  cookery  grow  too  menacing  to  their 
neighbors'  peace  of  mind.  It  is  a  sim- 
ple matter,  this  catering  for  a  family 
table,  though  not  quite  so  simple  as  Tho- 
reau's  beans  or  Byron's  eggs  and  bacon. 
But  where  is  the  analogy  to  editing  a 
magazine  ?  Is  it  so  cunningly  hidden 
away  in  this  image  of  the  householder 
that  one  cannot  find  it  at  all  ? 

"  Patience  a  moment,"  —  to  quote  the 
most  impatient  of  poets.  We  are  get- 
ting "  warm,"  as  the  children  say,  and  in 
a  minute  more  we  shall  discover  our  com- 
plete and  archetypal  editor.  He  is  fore- 
shadowed in  the  market-haunting  house- 
holder, but  he  is  —  the  being  who  keeps 
boarders. 

Is  it  not  The  boarding-house 

keeper  is  no  vulgar  caterer  to  the  public 
in  general.  He  leaves  that  art  to  the 
yellow  journal  and  the  corner  saloon. 
But  he  does  cater  for  that  portion  of  the 
public  who  have  done  him  the  honor  to 
become  his  guests.  Individual  dietary 
theory  may  still  lurk  in  his  imagination, 
but  it  must  not  be  over-indulged.  His 
own  favorite  beans  or  eggs  and  bacon  will 
be  too  monotonous  for  his  boarders.  The 
family  responsibilities  of  the  householder 
linger  in  him,  too ;  he  must  not  poison 
his  boarders,  or  subtly  undermine  their 
faith  in  human  nature.  Yet  he  has  his 
weekly  or  monthly  bills  to  meet,  and  he 
can  meet  them  only  by  pleasing  his  pa- 
trons. Not  what  his  boarders  ought  to 
like,  if  they  would  grow  truly  fat  and 
wise  and  good,  but  what  they  do  like, 
gradually  comes  to  affect  the  policy  of 
even  the  most  stubborn-souled  Provider. 

The  Toastmaster  wonders  if  any  read- 
ers of  the  Atlantic  recall  the  once  fa- 
mous pension  in  Paris,  kept  by  M.  Al- 
phonse  Doucette,  "  formerly  professor  at 
Lyons?"  It  was  known  in  the  Anglo- 
American  colonies,  from  one  end  of  Eu- 
rope to  the  other,  as  the  pension  des  vio- 
lettes,  —  spoken  with  a  smile.  Yes,  one 
smiled  at  M.  Doucette's  amiable  vagaries, 


but  one  kept  on  going  there,  and  paying  a 
whole  franc  more  a  day  than  was  charged 
at  any  pension  of  its  class  in  Paris.  For, 
as  every  one  hastened  to  explain,  it  was 
really  an  admirably  kept  establishment, 
—  and  then  there  were  the  violets ! 
Every  night  at  dinner,  in  season  or  out 
of  season,  there  was  a  tiny  boutonniere 
of  them  for  each  gentleman,  and  a  cor- 
sage bouquet  of  violets  was  laid  by  each 
lady's  plate.  And  Monsieur  himself, 
"formerly  professor  at  Lyons,"  if  you 
please,  always  sat  at  the  head  of  the 
table  and  addressed  his  variegated  com- 
pany with  the  most  incessant  and  exqui- 
site drollery.  Only  a  franc  more  than 
was  charged  at  the  commonplace  pen- 
sions, and  all  those  violets  thrown  in ! 

It  happened  that  the  Toastmaster  re- 
turned to  the  Pension  Doucette  very  late 
one  night,  after  witnessing  a  most  dreary 
seven-act  tragedy  at  the  Frangais.  In 
the  little  office  off  the  dining-room  sat 
M.  Doucette  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  drink- 
ing sugared  water,  and  looking  more 
tragic  than  Mounet-Sully  at  his  worst. 
Something  had  gone  wrong.  It  was  a 
trivial  matter  enough,  but  the  former 
professor  at  Lyons  opened  his  whole 
heart.  Never  before  or  since  —  save 
once  in  a  Vermont  woodshed  on  a  Sun- 
day morning,  when  my  host  was  morosely 
freezing  the  ice  cream  for  dinner  and  im- 
parting with  each  slow  turn  of  the  crank 
some  darkly  pessimistic  generalization 
on  the  subject  of  summer  boarders  —  has 
the  Toastmaster  seen  deeper  into  the 
Caterer's  professional  soul.  Oh,  the  sor- 
rows of  trying  to  hold  the  fickle  taste  of 
English  and  American  visitors  in  Paris ! 

"  But  there  are  the  violets,"  I  ven- 
tured. 

"  The  violets  !  "  M.  Doucette  spread 
his  palms. 

A  ghastly  suspicion  dawned  upon  me. 
Was  his  love  for  violets  only  a  pretense  ? 

"  I  loathe  violets  !  "  he  broke  out.  "  A 
bas  les  violettes  !  The  odor  and  the  sight 
of  them  are  nauseating  to  me.  But  it 
is  too  late.  If  I  were  to  give  up  the 


On   Catering  for  the  Public. 


violets,  I  should  lose  my  trademark, 
my  prestige,  my  clientele.  My  pension- 
naires  expect  violets  !  " 

I  saw  the  trap  he  had  laid  for  himself. 
And,  oddly  enough,  my  thoughts  wan- 
dered to  the  veteran  editor  of  a  famous 
magazine,  who  was  once  discussing  two 
sonnets  by  the  same  poet.  He  had  ac- 
cepted one  and  rejected  the  other ;  and 
now  he  was  praising  the  one  he  had  re- 
turned. 

"  But  it  was  the  other  which  you 
printed  !  "  exclaimed  his  puzzled  auditor. 

"  Oh,  that  was  my  choice  for  the  maga- 
zine, certainly  ;  but  personally  "  —  And 
he  waved  his  cigar  stub  in  a  parabola 
that  opened  up  infinite  distances  of  per- 
spective into  the  editorial  consciousness. 
Was  it  possible  that  he,  too,  loathed  his 
violets  ? 

And  yet,  why  not  ?  Not  to  speak  it 
profanely,  does  anybody  suppose  that 
Mr.  Munsey's  favorite  reading  is  the 
Munsey  Storiettes  ?  Does  "  the  sound 
of  the  swashbuckler  swashing  on  his 
buckler  "  seem  less  humorous  to  the  edi- 
tors who  encourage  it  than  it  does  to 
Mr.  Howells,  who  has  laid  aside  his  edi- 
torial armor  and  can  smile  at  the  weak- 
nesses of  his  former  fellow  warriors  ? 
Do  the  peaceful  editors  of  The  Outlook 
really  thrill  with  those  stern  praises  of 
fighting  men  and  fighting  machines  which 
adorn  its  secularized  pages  ?  Or  does 
the  talented  conductor  of  The  Ladies' 
Home  Journal  really  .  .  .  No,  he  can- 
not. As  the  Toastmaster  makes  these 
too  daring  interrogations,  it  seems  to  him 
that  he  perceives  a  faint  odor  of  violets, 
—  not  the  shy  flower  of  the  woodside, 
but  the  brazen-faced,  tightly  laced  bou- 
tonniere  of  the  pavement,  —  in  a  word, 
the  violet  of  commerce. 

That  single  glimpse  of  M.  Doucette 
in  his  shirt-sleeves  and  in  his  despon- 
dency ought  not  to  obliterate  the  memory 
of  a  hundred  nights  when,  clothed  in 
proper  evening  attire,  he  reigned  glori- 
ously over  his  long  table-full  of  guests, 


giving  and  receiving  pleasure.  When 
all  is  going  well,  catering  has  its  inno- 
cent delights  and  its  honest  satisfactions. 
To  invent  a  new  dish,  or  to  serve  an 
old  one  with  recognized  skill,  is  to  share 
at  once  the  artist's  joy  and  the  bour- 
geois's complacency.  Yet  having  once 
beheld  the  confidential  shirt-sleeves,  one 
is  thenceforward  subtly  aware  of  them, 
hidden  though  they  be  for  another  hun- 
dred nights  by  the  dress  coat.  They  are 
there,  those  shirt-sleeves  of  the  Caterer, 
and  his  workaday  responsibilities  are 
inescapable.  In  vain  does  Sir  Leslie 
Stephen,  in  one  of  those  papers  which 
have  lately  charmed  the  Atlantic's  read- 
ers, blithely  assert  that  an  editor  "  only 
vouches  for  the  readability  of  the  article, 
not  for  the  correctness  of  the  opinions 
expressed."  It  is  a  a  tt§nnial  dream. 
It  asks  too  much  of  human  nature. 
Shall  the  Toastmaster,  except  in  a  New 
Year's  confidence,  dare  to  say,  "  My  dear 
guests,  I  am  no  mycologist.  This  dish 
may  be  toadstool  or  mushroom  for  all  I 
know,  but  I  assure  you  that  the  odor  is 
appetizing  "  ? 

Alas,  it  is  true  that  he  is  no  mycologist ; 
he  prints  every  month  a  dozen  articles 
on  topics  concerning  which  he  knows 
nothing,  as  well  as  a  half  dozen  more 
whose  views  of  politics  and  society  and 
criticism  are  the  very  opposite  of  his 
own.  He  vouches  for  their  readability, 
that  is  all ;  —  and  sometimes  this  is  quite 
enough  to  take  upon  his  conscience.  But 
the  public  is  shrewdly  suspicious  of  this 
happy  impartiality  of  ignorance.  It  keeps 
reminding  the  Toastmaster  that  he  is  Ca- 
terer too  ;  that  he  has  the  responsibility 
of  buying  the  provisions  in  the  open  mar- 
ket as  well  as  merely  arranging  them 
upon  the  table  and  announcing  the  bill 
of  fare. 

In  one  sense,  the  public  is  quite  right. 
Some  one  must  take  the  responsibility  of 
decision.  But  the  public  sometimes  for- 
gets how  the  Caterer  must  make  up  in 
faith  what  he  lacks  in  special  knowledge. 
He  depends  upon  the  honesty  of  the  mar- 


On   Catering  for  the  Public. 


ketmen,  the  producers.  This  confidence 
is  rarely  betrayed.  M.  Doucette  would 
have  died  of  shame,  no  doubt,  if  he  had 
really  served  toadstools  to  his  trusting 
company.  Yet  it  never  happened.  His 
mushrooms  were  always  mushrooms.  It 
is  the  contributors  to  a  magazine  like  the 
Atlantic  who  maintain,  after  all,  the  fine 
traditions  of  the  institution.  For  pur- 
poses of  convenience,  it  is  assumed  that 
the  editor  knows  what  he  is  purchasing. 
In  reality,  he  is  only  exercising  faith  in 
writers  who  know  what  they  are  writing 
and  whose  views  —  strange  as  it  may 
seem  !  —  may  be  worth  consideration 
even  if  they  do  not  harmonize  with  his 
own.  The  monthly  table  of  contents  is 
neither  more  nor  less  than  such  a  con- 
fession of  faith.  It  cannot  be  made  with- 
out a  certain  hardihood.  In  camp,  when 
it  is  your  week  to  cook,  you  can  always 
enjoy  the  luxury  of  finding  fault  with  the 
man  who  laid  in  the  supplies :  he  should 
have  bought  more  bacon  or  a  different 
brand  of  coffee,  and  why  did  he  forget 
the  onions  ?  Even  the  suave  conductor 
of  the  dining-car,  who  presents  you  with 
a  menu  which  requests  explicit  criticism 
of  meals  and  service,  can  shrug  his  shoul- 
ders and  explain  that  he  did  not  buy  that 
steak  himself.  But  here  in  the  magazine 
world  there  is  no  shuffling.  Month  by 
month  what  is  in  the  larder  comes  on  to 
the  table,  and  if  it  is  mouldy  or  tough  or 
raw  the  Toastmaster  cannot  blame  the 
Caterer,  for  he  is  both  in  one  :  Dr.  Jekyll 
and  Mr.  Hyde,  the  red  slayer  and  the 
slain. 

Who  is  there  that  can  tell,  after  all, 
precisely  how  to  please  even  the  most  in- 
dulgent of  publics  ?  The  editors  of  the 
Atlantic  have  always  been  drafted  from 
the  ranks  of  its  contributors ;  mere  con- 
tributors, who  once  inclosed  stamps  for 
the  return  of  manuscript  and  waited  and 
wondered  if  it  would  prove  "  magazin- 
able."  How  can  such  a  one,  drawn  in 
a  moment,  like  Browning's  conscript, 
"  From  the  safe  glad  rear  to  the  dreadful  van  " 

pretend  that  he  has  been  invested  with 


infallibility?  "I  am  fain  to  think  it 
vivacious,"  wrote  Lowell  of  a  certain 
Contributor's  Club  which  he  was  submit- 
ting to  the  editor  in  1890,  nearly  thirty 
years  after  his  own  editorship  closed, 
"  but  if  your  judgment  verify  my  fears, 
don't  scruple  to  return  it.  I  can  easily 
make  other  disposition  of  it,  or  at  worst 
there  is  always  the  waste-basket."  His 
Club  was  accepted,  in  spite  of  Lowell's 
fears,  —  and,  as  it  happened,  it  was  his 
last  contribution  to  the  magazine.  But 
whenever  an  author's  manuscript  carries 
the  bunker  of  the  editor's  judgment,  there 
remains  a  far  more  formidable  hazard 
still,  namely,  the  unknown  taste  of  the 
public. 

Who  really  understands  it  ?  Did  not 
Emerson,  that  most  unmercenary  of  edi- 
tors, accept  for  The  Dial,  pro  honoris 
causa  and  with  a  sinking  heart,  that  ar- 
ticle of  Theodore  Parker's  on  the  Rever- 
end John  Pierpont,  which  nevertheless, 
to  Emerson's  astonishment,  sold  out  the 
entire  edition  ?  Did  not  Coleridge,  an 
equally  unworldly  member  of  the  guild, 
lose  five  hundred  subscribers  to  the  ill- 
starred  Watchman  on  the  publication  of 
the  very  second  number,  by  "  a  censurable 
application  of  a  text  from  Isaiah  as  its 
motto"  ? 

Of  one  thing  only  may  the  editor  be 
sure.  No  matter  what  dish  be  served, 
some  one  at  the  table  will  be  positive 
that  it  either  ought  not  to  have  been 
brought  on  at  all,  or  that  it  should  have 
been  cooked  differently.  If  the  Atlantic 
has  dispatched  a  representative  to  Bor- 
rioboola  Gha  to  report  upon  the  condition 
of  blankets-and-top-boots  in  that  unhap- 
py country,  some  correspondent  will  turn 
up,  as  soon  as  the  article  is  printed,  to 
prove  that  he  himself  was  the  sole  origi- 
nator of  the  blankets-and-top-boots  idea, 
and  that  the  Atlantic  has  misrepresent- 
ed the  blessed  work  now  going  forward 
there.  May  he  not  have  ample  space  in 
the  next  number  to  reply  ?  Well,  very 
likely  he  ought  to  have  it.  But  the  un- 
lucky editor,  puzzling  at  that  moment 


On  Catering  for  the  Public. 


over  the  problem  of  finding  space  in  the 
issue  three  months  hence,  thinks  with  a 
sigh  of  M.  Doucette's  pension.  For  at 
those  long  table-d'hote  dinners  no  one 
was  expected  to  care  for  every  course ; 
if  you  allowed  a  dish  to  pass  or  left  it 
barely  tasted,  you  must  for  that  very  rea- 
son talk  the  more  agreeably  with  your 
neighbor ;  and  if  individual  clamor  over 
some  unfortunate  concoction  reached  the 
quick  ear  of  M.  Doucette,  with  what 
infinite  ease  and  wit  did  he  offer  the 
critic  the  honor  of  planning  and  pre- 
paring the  next  meal  in  person,  —  an 
invitation  which  was  somehow  never  ac- 
cepted. Besides,  as  M.  Doucette  used 
sometimes  to  hint,  when  flushed  with  his 
success,  if  one  did  not  like  the  pension 
des  violettes,  there  were  plenty  of  other 
pensions  across  the  way,  eager  for  patron- 
age. 

Is  all  this  too  intimate  a  survey  of  the 
editorial  pantry  and  kitchen  ?  Pray  con- 
sider it  nothing  more  than  the  shirt- 
sleeved  conversation  of  that  garrulous 
M.  Doucette,  provoked  into  real  confi- 
dence by  an  unusual  hour.  The  New 
Year's  greetings  come  but  once  a  twelve- 
month, after  all.  And  the  Caterer's  sor- 
rows are  very  few  in  comparison  with 
the  pleasure  of  spreading  the  Atlantic's 
table  and  seeing  the  still  increasing  guests 
appear.  May  every  one  find  in  the 
courses  now  presented  something  to  his 
taste !  Not  to  like  Colonel  Higginson's 
new  essays  will  indeed  be  to  betray  a 
fantastic  appetite.  If  articles  upon  Ad- 
vertising and  the  Ethics  of  Business 
savor  too  much  of  the  very  shop  which 


you  take  up  the  Atlantic  to  forget,  turn 
back  to  the  sixteenth  century,  and  follow 
Mr.  Andrew  D.  White's  account  of  the 
singular  career  of  Father  Paul.  If  you 
love  that  cheerful  sound  of  the  swash- 
buckler in  fiction,  you  must  wait  a  little 
longer,  for  Mr.  Herrick's  The  Common 
Lot  is  only  about  Chicago,  and  concerns 
itself  with  men  and  women  who  are  un- 
commonly like  ourselves.  There  will  be 
some  contributions  from  writers  who 
long  since  laid  down  their  pens :  from 
Emerson,  whose  Journals  begin  in  a  few 
months ;  from  Timrod,  and  the  elder 
Henry  James  ;  and  from  Walt  Whitman, 
who  appeared  in  these  pages  twice  or 
thrice  in  his  early  manhood,  and  now 
comes  back  as  a  lusty  ghost.  But  many 
of  the  contributors  are  young ;  provok- 
ingly  young,  indeed,  to  know  so  much 
and  to  write  so  well.  There  will  be  va- 
riety enough,  at  least,  with  some  dishes 
of  the  fine  old  substantial  sort,  and  wine 
that  needs  no  praise,  and  coffee  and 
cigars  for  those  who  like  them,  or  gossip 
about  men  and  women  and  books,  if  that 
be  more  to  your  after-dinner  fancy.  And 
perhaps  there  will  be  a  few  violets,  pur- 
chased with  secret  anxiety  of  heart,  but 
laid  by  each  plate  with  such  grace  as 
Park  Street  may  afford. 

At  any  rate,  here  is  a  clean  cloth  for 
1904  and  an  unfeigned  welcome.  For- 
get, if  you  will,  the  unskilled  service,  and 
remember  that  market-place  and  kitchen 
are  as  yet  imperfect  places  in  an  imper- 
fect, although  improvable  and  improv- 
ing world.  And  here  is  a  boy's  appe- 
tite to  every  guest,  and  a  Happy  New 
Year! 

B.  P. 


The  Sunny  Side  of  the  Transcendental  Period. 


PART  OF  A  MAN'S  LIFE. 

"  The  uttered  part  of  a  man's  life,  let  us  always  repeat,  bears  to  the  unuttered,  unconscious 
part  a  small  unknown  proportion.  He  himself  never  knows  it,  much  less  do  others."  —  Carlyle's 
Essay  on  Scott. 

THE   SUNNY   SIDE   OF  THE  TRANSCENDENTAL   PERIOD. 


IT  happened  to  me  once  to  be  sum- 
moned on  short  notice  to  the  house  of  a 
most  agreeable  neighbor,  then  Dean  of 
the  Episcopal  Theological  School  at  Cam- 
bridge, to  assist  in  entertaining  two  Eng- 
lish guests  unexpectedly  arrived.  These 
guests  were  a  husband  and  wife,  both 
authors,  and  visiting  this  country  for  the 
first  time.  They  proved  to  belong  to  that 
class  of  British  travelers  who,  as  the  gen- 
ial Longfellow  used  to  say,  come  hither, 
not  so  much  to  obtain  information  about 
America,  as  to  communicate  it.  We 
were  scarcely  seated  at  table  when  the 
little  lady  —  for  they  were  both  very 
small  in  person  —  looked  up  at  me  con- 
fidingly and  said,  "  Don't  you  think  it 
rather  a  pity  that  all  the  really  interesting 
Americans  seem  to  be  dead  ?  "  It  was 
difficult  for  a  living  man  to  maintain  any 
resistance  against  a  conclusion  so  deci- 
sive, and  all  I  remember  is  that  our  talk 
became  a  series  of  obituaries.  To  those 
might  now  be  added,  were  it  needful, 
similar  memorials  of  my  fair  questioner, 
of  her  husband,  and  of  our  gracious  host 
himself,  since  these  also  have  passed 
away.  And  why  should  such  remem- 
brances be  sad,  one  may  well  ask,  if  they 
are  brought  together  in  a  sunny  spirit, 
and  have  for  their  motto,  not  the  mourn- 
fulness  of  old-time  epitaphs,  but  rather 
the  fine  outburst  of  Whitman's  brief  song 
of  parting,  "  Joy,  Shipmate,  Joy."  Even 
the  gloomy  Carlyle  had  to  admit  that 
"  there  is  no  life  of  a  man  faithfully  re- 
corded, but  is  a  heroic  poem  of  its  sort, 
rhymed  or  unrhymed." 

Those  who  followed  the  chorus  of  af- 
fectionate praise  which  surrounded  the 


celebration  of  Emerson's  hundredth 
birthday  must  have  felt  very  keenly  its 
unlikeness  to  the  ever  renewing  tumult  of 
discussion  around  the  grave  of  Carlyle. 
The  difference  was  in  great  measure  the 
penalty  of  temperament,  or  in  Emerson's 
case,  its  reward.  No  one  recognized 
this  more  fully  than  Carlyle  himself 
when  he  said  sadly  to  me,  "  Ah  !  the 
dear  Emerson  !  He  thinks  that  every- 
body in  the  world  is  as  good  as  himself  ;  " 
just  as  he  had  said  to  Longfellow,  years 
before,  that  Emerson's  first  visit  to  him 
was  "  like  the  visit  of  an  angel."  It  is 
clear  that  the  whole  atmosphere  of  Emer- 
son's memory  is  that  of  sunshine,  but  it 
gradually  appears,  in  tracing  it  farther, 
that  much  of  this  traditional  atmosphere 
extends  —  at  least  for  those  who  lived 
through  it  and  perhaps  for  their  children 
also  —  over  the  whole  intellectual  period 
of  which  Emerson  was  the  best  repre- 
sentative. This  period  is  now  usually 
and  doubtless  vaguely  known  in  America 
as  the  period  of  Transcendentalism.  Un- 
satisfying as  the  word,  when  thus  ap- 
plied, must  be,  it  may  yet  be  employed 
for  want  of  a  better,  without  entering  too 
profoundly  into  its  source  or  its  services. 
Originally  a  philosophic  term,  it  can  be 
used  for  the  present  to  indicate  a  period. 
The  word  "  Transcendentalism  "  was 
apparently  first  employed  by  the  leader 
among  modern  German  philosophers, 
Immanuel  Kant,  to  designate  the  in- 
tuitive method  of  reaching  truth,  as  apart 
from  the  experimental  or  sensational 
method  of  Locke,  which  had  held  its 
own  so  stoutly.  Kant  died  in  1804,  but 
the  word  was  handed  on,  so  modified 
and,  we  might  perhaps  say,  battered  by 


The  Sunny  Side  of  the  Transcendental  Period. 


later  German  thinkers,  that  it  would 
now  be  useless  to  attempt  to  employ  it 
further  than  as  a  landmark  or  guidepost, 
as  it  will  be  used  here.  If  we  wish  to 
ax  the  birth-time  of  the  American  pe- 
riod bearing  that  name,  we  may  place  it 
somewhere  near  the  publication  of  Emer- 
son's Nature  (1836),  or  the  appearance 
of  the  first  number  of  The  Dial  (July, 
1840),  or  the  formation  of  the  "  Brook 
•Farm  Institute  "  or  "  Community  "  as  it 
was  oftenest  called,  near  Boston  (1841). 
The  special  interest  of  this  household  for 
the  world  was  not  so  much  because  it 
gave  a  new  roof-tree  for  a  little  domestic 
experiment,  —  the  Moravians  and  Shak- 
ers had  long  before  done  that,  —  but 
rather  because  it  offered  also  an  atmos- 
phere of  freedom. 

It  visibly  relaxed  restraint,  suggested 
a  substitute  for  the  strict  Puritan  tradi- 
tion, brought  together  the  most  open  and 
hopeful  minds  of  the  community,  some- 
times uniting  with  them  the  fanatics, 
still  oftener  the  do-nothings  ;  giving  con- 
servatives and  radicals  alike  something 
to  talk  about.  Those  whose  names  are 
now  oftenest  associated  with  the  Brook 
Farm  enterprise,  as  Emerson,  Alcott, 
Margaret  Fuller  Ossoli,  and  William 
Henry  Channing,  never  actually  be- 
longed to  it ;  while  its  most  noted  mem- 
bers, as  Hawthorne  and  George  William 
Curtis,  were  there  only  during  the  first 
year.  The  only  narrator  who  has  writ- 
ten his  personal  remembrances  of  it  was 
but  a  second-year  member  ;  and  its  more 
systematic  historian,  Mr.  Lindsay  Swift, 
says  justly  of  it,  "  There  was  a  distinct 
beginning,  a  fairly  coherent  progress, 
but  a  vague  termination."  He  also 
touches  the  keynote  of  the  whole  history 
when  he  says  in  his  preface,  "  It  is  more 
than  fifty  years  since  the  last  dweller  in 
that  pleasant  domain  turned  his  reluctant 
steps  away  from  its  noble  illusions,  and 
toward  the  stress  of  realities  ;  but  from 
no  one  of  this  gracious  company  has  ever 
come  the  admission  that  Brook  Farm  was 
a  failure."  Surely  this  is  much  to  say. 


In  going  still  farther  back  for  the  his- 
toric origins  of  American  transcendental- 
ism, we  must  recognize  the  earlier  influ- 
ence of  Burns,  Coleridge,  and  Words- 
worth, as  laying  the  foundations  for  all 
this  new  atmosphere  of  thought  and  liv- 
ing. This  is  a  fact  of  much  interest  as 
compared  with  the  first  reception  of  all 
these  poets  in  their  own  country.  The 
London  Monthly  Review  —  the  lead- 
ing critical  magazine  in  England  before 
the  Edinburgh  Review  appeared  —  pro- 
nounced Burns's  first  volume  to  be  "  dis- 
gusting," and  "  written  in  an  unknown 
tongue/'  the  editor  adding  his  own  partial 
version  of  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night 
translated  into  the  English  language  ! 
The  same  editor  pronounced  Coleridge's 
Ancient  Mariner  "  the  strangest  story  of 
a  cock  and  bull  that  we  ever  saw  on  paper 
...  a  rhapsody  of  unintelligible  wildness 
and  incoherence,  of  which  we  do  not  per- 
ceive the  drift,"  while  Christabel  was 
described  by  him  as  "  rude,  unfeatured 
stuff."  Even  of  Wordsworth's  Tintern 
Abbey  the  same  critic  complains  that  it  is 
"  tinctured  with  gloomy,  narrow,  and  un- 
sociable ideas  of  seclusion  from  the  com- 
merce of  the  world  ;  "  and  yet  on  turning 
the  pages  of  Dennie's  Portfolio  published 
in  Philadelphia  simultaneously  with  the 
English  periodical  just  quoted  (1786),  we 
find  these  very  poets  and,  indeed,  these 
identical  poems  hailed  as  the  opening  of 
a  new  intellectual  era.  Such,  indeed,  it 
was,  but  an  era  heralded  in  America  with 
an  eagerness,  cordiality,  and,  above  all,  a 
cheerfulness  such  as  might  well  belong  to 
a  fresher  and  more  youthful  life. 

Then  followed  Carlyle's  great  influ- 
ence through  his  Sartor  Resartus,  whose 
American  editor,  Charles  Stearns  Wheel- 
er, I  can  well  remember  to  have  watched 
with  timid  reverence  at  the  Boston  Athe- 
naeum Library  as  he  transcribed  that  ex- 
citing work  from  the  pages  of  Fraser's 
Magazine,  for  its  first  reprinting  in  book 
form.  Still  more  must  be  recalled  the  in- 
fluence of  Kant  and  Fichte,  Hegel  and 
Schleiermacher,  with  the  more  transient 


8 


The  Sunny  Side  of  the  Transcendental  Period. 


eclectic  philosophy  of  the  Frenchmen 
Cousin  and  Jouffroy,  whose  books  were 
translated  from  the  French  and  used  for 
a  time  as  text-books  in  Harvard  College 
and  elsewhere,  as  early  as  1839.  The 
German  poets  also  were  just  being  trans- 
lated, though  of  course  in  a  fragmentary 
way,  in  America,  especially  Goethe,  Schil- 
ler, and  even  Heine  ;  and  the  poetic  writ- 
ings of  Hoffmann,  Novalis,  Jean  Paul 
Richter,  and  others  lent  their  influence, 
first  under  the  lead  of  Carlyle,  and  after- 
wards through  direct  American  transla- 
tors, the  Rev.  Charles  T.  Brooks  and  Mrs. 
Eliza  Buckminster  Lee.  Many  of  these 
poetic  translations  appeared  in  The  Dial, 
and  the  prose  versions  in  the  series  of  vol- 
umes, fourteen  in  all,  entitled  Specimens 
of  Foreign  Standard  Literature,  planned 
and  edited  by  George  Ripley.  To  him 
especial  attention  should  be  given,  since 
if  the  sunny  atmosphere  of  the  period 
was  personally  incarnated  in  any  one,  it 
was  undoubtedly  in  him. 

George  Ripley  was  the  single  con- 
summate type,  during  that  period,  of 
that  rarest  of  combinations,  the  natural 
scholar  and  the  cheery  good  fellow.  Evi- 
dence of  the  former  quality  might  be 
found  in  the  catalogue,  had  it  only  been 
.  preserved,  of  his  library  sold  in  aid  of 
the  organization  of  Brook  Farm,  and  uni- 
versally recognized  as  the  best  German 
library  then  to  be  found  in  America; 
while  the  best  tribute  to  the  other  trait 
was  the  universal  regret  said  to  have 
been  felt  among  his  clerical  brethren  at 
the  loss  of  the  gayest  companion  and  best 
story-teller  in  their  ranks.  He  it  was 
who  with  Emerson,  Hedge,  and  George 
Putnam  called  together  the  first  meet- 
ing of  "  what  was  named  in  derision  the 
Transcendental  Club,"  as  Hedge  writes ; 
and  he  it  was  who  resigned  his  clerical 
charge  in  1840,  with  a  view  to  applying 
to  some  form  of  action  the  newer  and 
ampler  views  of  life. 

Even  Dr.  Channing,  then  the  intellec- 
tual leader  of  Boston,  had  some  confer- 
ence with  Ripley  as  to  whether  it  would 


be  possible  to  bring  cultivated  and 
thoughtful  people  together  and  make  a 
society  that  deserved  the  name.  Mr. 
Swift  in  his  admirable  book  on  Brook 
Farm  reminds  us  that  there  was  a  con- 
sultation on  this  subject  at  the  house  of 
Dr.  John  C.  Warren,  then  the  leading 
physician  of  Boston,  which  ended  "  with 
an  oyster  supper,  crowned  by  excellent 
wines."  Undoubtedly,  on  that  occasion, 
George  Ripley  told  his  best  stories  and 
laughed  his  heartiest  laugh.  But  we  may 
be  sure  that  his  jubilant  cheeriness  was 
no  less  when  he  turned  his  back  on  all 
this  and  left  the  flesh-pots  of  Egypt  for 
a  dinner  of  herbs  at  Brook  Farm. 

There  is  something  very  interesting 
and  not  wholly  accidental  in  the  way  in 
which  a  German  influence  was  thus  eai'ly 
making  itself  felt  in  this  country  and 
contributing,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to 
its  sunshine.  This  clearly  came  from 
a  double  influence,  the  appearance  in 
America  of  a  number  of  highly  educated 
Germans,  of  whom  Lieber,  Follen,  and 
Beck  were  types,  who  were  driven  from 
their  country  by  political  uproar  about 
1825  ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  the  return 
of  a  small  number  of  highly  educated 
Americans,  at  a  period  a  little  earlier, 
who  had  studied  at  the  German  universi- 
ties. The  most  conspicuous  among  these 
men  were  Edward  Everett,  George  Tick- 
nor,  George  Bancroft,  and  Joseph  Green 
Cogswell,  the  latter  being  the  organizer 
of  our  first  great  American  library,  the 
Astor.  Their  experience  and  influence 
had  a  value  quite  inestimable,  and  the 
process  of  their  training  is  shown  unmis- 
takably in  a  remarkable  series  of  letters 
from  them  to  my  father,  then  steward 
of  Harvard  College,  and  in  some  respects 
their  sponsor ;  letters  published  by  my- 
self in  the  Harvard  Graduates'  Magazine 
for  September,  1897.  In  one  of  these 
letters,  the  cool  and  clear-headed  Ever- 
ett, going  from  the  Continent  to  inspect 
the  universities  of  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge, expressed  the  opinion  that  Amer- 
ica had  at  that  date  (1819)  "  nothing  to 


The  Sunny  Side  of  the  Transcendental  Period. 


9 


learn  from  England  [in  regard  to  uni- 
versity methods],  but  everything  to  learn 
from  Germany,"  and  I  have  been  more 
than  once  assured  by  English  scholars,  on 
quoting  to  them  the  passage,  that  the  re- 
mark was,  at  the  period  indicated,  abso- 
lutely true.  It  is,  however,  also  true  that 
Mr.  Everett  himself  practically  recog- 
nized a  subsequent  change  in  conditions, 
when  he  sent  his  own  son,  forty  years 
later,  to  an  English  and  not  to  a  German 
university. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  the 
"  Disciples  of  the  Newness,"  as  they  liked 
to  call  themselves,  were  allowed  to  go  on 
their  way  unchecked.  Professor  Bowen  of 
Harvard,  always  pungent  and  often  tart, 
followed  them  up  vigorously  in  the  North 
American,  as  did  Professor  Felton  more 
mildly.  Yet  there  was  always  something 
behind  the  cloud,  an  influence  which  re- 
vived these  victims  like  some  cloud-con- 
cealed goddess  in  Homer,  and  however 
severe  the  attacks  may  have  been  they 
were  usually  the  fruit  of  narrowness,  not 
of  mere  malice.  They  were  rarely  mixed 
with  merely  personal  bitterness,  as  were 
the  contests  of  the  same  period,  under 
Poe's  influence,  among  New  York  men 
of  letters ;  nor  were  they  so  much  en- 
tangled with  money-quarrels  as  those, 
since  money  was  a  thing  with  which  New 
England  students  had  little  to  do.  No 
one  among  them,  however,  fared  so  mis- 
erably, in  financial  negotiations,  as  did 
poor  Cornelius  Mathews  in  New  York, 
who,  after  his  Big  Abel  and  the  Little 
Manhattan  had  been  announced  as  a 
forthcoming  volume  of  a  series,  was  of- 
fered by  the  repentant  publishers  $100 
to  allow  them  to  withdraw  the  offer  and 
leave  the  book  unpublished,  but  who  re- 
fused the  request.  The  North  American 
Review  —  then  a  Boston  periodical  — 
settled  the  case  of  this  unfortunate  au- 
thor tersely  by  saying,  "  Mr.  Mathews 
has  shown  a  marvelous  skill  in  failing, 
each  failure  being  more  complete  than 
the  last."  Horace  Greeley  hit  his  mere- 
ly political  opponents  as  hard  as  this,  but 


the  New  York  Tribune  under  Margaret 
Fuller's  influence  kept  clear  of  bitter  per- 
sonalities in  literature,  something  which 
she  had  not  always  quite  done  in  The 
Dial. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  the  Tran- 
scendentalists  never,  in  the  early  days, 
called  themselves  by  that  name.  Their 
most  ambitious  title  was,  as  has  been  said, 
that  of  Disciples  of  the  Newness.  It 
must  also  be  remembered  that  this  New- 
ness itself  was  in  some  degree  a  reversion 
to  the  old,  as  in  Margaret  Fuller's  case  it 
came  from  a  learned  father  who  brought 
her  up  in  direct  inheritance  of  whatever 
was  ancient.  She  was,  by  her  own  state- 
ment, early  "  placed  in  a  garden  with  a 
great  pile  of  books  before  her."  She  be- 
gan to  read  Latin  before  she  read  Eng- 
lish. The  Greek  and  Roman  deities  were 
absolutely  real  to  her,  and  she  prayed, 
"  O  God,  if  thou  art  Jupiter  ;  "  or  else  to 
Bacchus  for  a  bunch  of  grapes.  When 
she  was  old  enough  to  think  about  Chris- 
tianity, she  cried  out  for  her  dear  old 
Greek  and  Roman  gods.  It  was  a  long 
time,  her  friend  Mrs.  Dall  tells  us,"  before 
she  could  see  the  deeper  spirituality  of  the 
Christian  tradition."  Hence  it  is,  per- 
haps, that  we  see  rather  less  of  sunshine  in 
her  than  in  the  other  Transcendentalists. 

For  the  unbelieving  world  outside,  it 
must  be  remembered,  the  Transcendental 
movement  at  least  contributed  some  such 
sunshine  through  the  very  sarcasms  it 
excited ;  as  when  Mrs.  Russell,  Father 
Taylor's  brilliant  daughter,  did  not  flinch 
from  defining  the  Transcendentalists  as 
"  a  race  who  dove  into  the  infinite,  soared 
into  the  illimitable,  and  never  paid  cash ; " 
or  when  Carlyle  described  Ripley,  who 
had  called  on  him  in  England,  as  "  a  So- 
cinian  minister,  who  had  left  the  pulpit  to 
reform  the  world  by  cultivating  onions." 
Emerson  compared  Brook  Farm  to  "  a 
French  Revolution  in  small,"  and  a  cer- 
tain meeting  of  the  Transcendental  Club 
to  "  going  to  heaven  in  a  swing."  All 
the  peculiai-ities  of  Brook  Farm,  we  may 
be  sure,  were  reported  without  diminu- 


10 


The  Sunny  Side  of  the   Transcendental  Period. 


tion  in  the  gossip  of  Boston  society,  even 
the  jokes  of  the  young  people  made  upon 
themselves  being  taken  seriously  in  the 
world  outside;  as  when  they  asked  at 
the  dinner-table,  "Is  the  butter  within 
the  sphere  of  your  influence  ?  "  or  pro- 
posed that  a  pie  should  be  cut  "  from  the 
centre  to  the  periphery."  There  being 
more  young  men  than  young  women, 
at  first,  an  unusual  share  of  household 
duties,  moreover,  fell  upon  the  stronger 
sex.  They  helped  in  the  laundry,  brought 
water  from  the  pump,  prepared  vege- 
tables in  the  barn.  The  graceful  George 
William  Curtis  trimmed  lamps,  and  the 
manly  and  eminently  practical  Charles 
Dana  organized  a  band  of  "  griddle-cake 
servitors,"  composed  of  "  four  of  the  most 
elegant  youths  of  the  community." 

There  was  also  a  Brook  Farm  legend 
that  one  of  the  younger  members  or  pupils 
confessed  his  passion  while  helping  his 
sweetheart  to  wash  dishes  ;  and  Emerson 
is  the  authority  for  stating  that  as  the  men 
danced  in  the  evening,  clothespins  some- 
times dropped  from  their  pockets.  Haw- 
thorne wrote  to  his  sister,  not  without  sar- 
casm, "  The  whole  fraternity  eat  togeth- 
er, and  such  a  delectable  way  of  life  has 
never  been  seen  on  earth  since  the  days  of 
the  early  Christians.  We  get  up  at  half- 
past  six,  dine  at  half-past  twelve,  and  go 
to  bed  at  nine."  An  element  of  moral 
protest  also  entered  into  the  actual  work 
of  the  more  serious  members.  Thus  Mr. 
Ripley  said  to  Theodore  Parker  of  John 
Dwight,  afterwards  eminent  as  a  musi- 
cal critic,  "  There  is  your  accomplished 
friend  ;  he  would  hoe  corn  all  Sunday  if 
I  would  let  him,  but  all  Massachusetts 
could  not  make  him  do  it  on  Monday." 
Rumor  adds  that  Parker  replied,  "  It  is 
good  to  know  that  he  wants  to  hoe  corn 
any  day  in  the  week."  The  question  is 
not  how  far  these  details  were  based  on 
fact  or  were  the  fruit  of  fancy,  but  the 
immediate  point  is  that  they  materially 
aided  in  keeping  up  the  spirits  of  the  un- 
believing world  outside. 

It   is   possible   that   those   seemingly 


vague  and  dreamy  times  might  have  com- 
municated to  those  reared  in  them  too 
passive  and  negative  a  character  but  for 
the  perpetual  tonic  of  the  anti- slavery 
movement,  which  was  constantly  entan- 
gling itself  with  all  merely  socialistic  dis- 
cussion. At  every  crisis  brought  on  by 
this  last  problem  it  turned  out  that  mere 
moral  purpose  might  impart  to  these  pa-  . 
cific  social  reformers  a  placid  courage 
which  rose  on  occasion  to  daring.  Thus 
it  took  years  to  appreciate  the  most  typi- 
cal of  these  men,  Bronson  Alcott.  The 
quality  that  was,  at  first,  rather  exas- 
perating in  him  became  ultimately  his 
greatest  charm  :  the  manner  in  which 
this  idealist  threw  himself  on  the  Uni- 
versal Powers  and  left  his  life  to  be  as- 
signed by  them.  That  life  had  seemed 
at  first  as  helpless  and  unpromising  as 
the  attitude  of  the  little  Italian  child  who, 
having  stopped  at  a  certain  door  near 
Boston  and  received  breakfast  for  sweet 
charity's  sake,  was  found  sitting  placidly 
on  the  doorstep,  two  hours  later,  and  be- 
ing asked  why  she  had  not  gone  away 
replied  serenely,  "  What  for  go  away  ? 
Plenty  time  go  away  !  "  The  wide  uni- 
verse was  to  Alcott  a  similai-ly  vast  and 
tranquil  scene.  He  had,  as  was  said  of 
his  English  friend  Greaves,  "  a  copious 
peacefulness."  It  was  easy  enough  to 
see  this  in  a  humorous  light,  but  when  in 
later  years,  after  those  who  had  broken 
down  the  Boston  Court  House  door  for 
the  rescue  of  Anthony  Burns  had  been 
driven  out,  and  the  open  doorway  was  left 
bare,  it  was  Alcott  who  walked  unarmed 
up  the  empty  steps,  calmly  asking,  "  Why 
are  we  not  within  ?  "  and  on  finding  him- 
self unsupported  turned  back  slowly,  then 
walked  placidly  down  again,  he  and  his 
familiar  cane,  without  visible  disturbance 
of  mind.  It  has  lately  come  to  light,  since 
the  publication  of  the  memoirs  of  Daniel 
Ricketson,  that  Alcott  afterwards  offered 
to  be  one  of  a  party  for  the  rescue  of  Cap- 
tain John  Brown.  It  was  still  the  same 
Alcott,  only  that  he  watched  the  slowly 
forming  lines  of  his  horoscope,  and  found 


Sunny  Side  of  the  Transcendental  Period. 


11 


them  in  Emerson's  phrase,  "  come  full 
circle."  In  a  similar  way,  Thoreau,  after 
all  his  seeming  theories  of  self-absorption, 
ranged  himself  on  the  side  of  Brown  as 
placidly  as  if  he  were  going  for  huckle- 
berries. 

Yet  the  effect  of  Transcendentalism  on 
certain  characters,  a  minority  of  its  adher- 
ents, was  seemingly  disastrous;  though 
the  older  we  grow,  the  harder  it  is  to 
be  sure  that  we  know  all  the  keys  to  in- 
dividual character.  The  freedom'  that 
belonged  to  the  period,  the  sunny  at- 
mosphere of  existence,  doubtless  made 
some  men  indolent,  like  children  of  the 
tropics.  Some  went  abroad  and  lived 
in  Europe,  and  were  rarely  heard  from ; 
others  dwelt  at  home,  and  achieved  no- 
thing ;  while  others,  on  the  contrary,  had 
the  most  laborious  and  exacting  careers. 
Others  led  lives  morally  wasted,  whether 
by  the  mere  letting  loose  of  a  surge  of 
passion  ill  restrained,  or  by  that  terrible 
impulse  of  curiosity  which  causes  more 
than  half  the  sins  of  each  growing  gen- 
eration, and  yet  is  so  hard  to  distinguish 
from  the  heroic  search  after  knowledge. 
I  can  think  of  men  among  those  bred  in 
that  period,  and  seemingly  under  its  full 
influence,  who  longed  to  know  the  worst 
of  life  and  knew  it,  and  paid  dearly  for 
their  knowledge  ;  and  their  kindred  paid 
more  dearly  still.  Others  might  be  named 
who,  without  ever  yielding,  so  far  as  I 
know  or  guess,  to  a  single  sensual  or 
worldly  sin,  yet  developed  temperaments 
so  absolutely  wayward  that  it  became 
necessary,  in  the  judgment  of  all  who 
knew  the  facts,  for  their  wives  and  chil- 
dren to  leave  them  and  stay  apart,  so  that 
these  men  died  in  old  age  without  seeing 
the  faces  of  their  own  grandchildren. 
Others  vanished,  and  are  to  this  day 
untraced;  and  yet  all  these  were  but  a 
handful  compared  with  that  majority 
which  remained  true  to  early  dreams 
while  the  world  called  them  erratic,  and 
the  church  pronounced  them  unredeemed 
or,  in  Shakespeare's  phrase,  "  unhousel'd, 
disappointed,  unaneled." 


It  must  be  remembered  also  that,  in 
that  period  of  general  seething,  all  other 
reformatory  movements  alternated  with 
efforts  of  the  socialists  and  joined  with 
them  to  keep  up  the  spirits  of  the  Com- 
munity. The  anti-slavery  meetings,  for 
instance,  mingled  sorrow  with  joy  and 
sometimes  even  with  levity.  Nowhere  in 
all  the  modern  world  could  have  been 
seen  more  strikingly  grouped  the  various 
dramatis  personae  of  a  great  impending 
social  change  than  on  the  platform  of 
some  large  hall,  filled  with  Abolitionists. 
There  sat  Garrison  in  the  centre,  his 
very  attitude  showing  the  serene  im- 
movableness  of  his  mind,  and  around  him 
usually  two  or  three  venerable  Quaker 
Vice  Presidents,  always  speechless,  while 
in  themselves  constituting  an  inexorable 
though  unwearied  audience.  Grouped 
among  them  were  "  devout  women,  not 
a  few,"  as  the  Scripture  has  it,  and  fiery 
orators  brought  together  from  different 
fields  of  action,  where  they  had  been  al- 
ternately starved,  frozen,  or  mobbed,  ac- 
cording to  the  various  methods  adopted 
by  unbelieving  rural  scoffers.  Mingled 
with  these  were  a  few  city  delegates,  the 
most  high-bred  men  and  women  in  ap- 
pearance to  be  found  in  Boston,  like  Wen- 
dell Phillips,  Edmund  Quincy,  and  Mrs. 
Chapman.  Among  these,  strangest  of 
all,  were  the  living  texts  for  all  the  im- 
pending eloquence  of  the  platform  :  the 
fugitive  slaves,  black  or  mulatto  or  some- 
times indistinguishably  white,  perhaps 
just  landed  from  their  concealment  on 
Southern  packet  ships,  or  in  covert  cor- 
ners of  freight  cars.  There  might  be 
Henry  Box  Brown,  so  named  from  the 
box  in  which  he  had  been  nailed  up  and 
been  borne,  occasionally  on  his  head,  from 
slavery  to  freedom ;  or  Harriet  Tubman, 
who  after  making  her  own  escape  from 
the  land  of  slavery  had  made  eight  or 
ten  covert  visits  thither,  each  time  bring- 
ing back  by  the  underground  railroad  her 
little  band  of  fugitives  ;  or  William  and 
Ellen  Craft,  she  going  from  city  to  city 
northward  as  a  white  woman,  and  he  as 


12 


The  Sunny  Side  of  the  Transcendental  Period. 


her  attendant  slave.  These,  and  such 
as  these,  passed  across  the  stage  in  suc- 
cessive years.  And  no  one  who  early  saw 
Frederick  Douglass  just  rescued  from 
slavery  could  possibly  have  foreseen  in 
him  the  princely  and  commanding  aspect 
with  which  he  was  to  tread  in  later  years 
those  same  boards  and  prove  himself,  as 
the  veteran  reporter  Yerrington  used  to 
say,  the  only  orator  on  the  platform,  ex- 
cept Wendell  Phillips,  whose  speeches 
needed  absolutely  no  revision  before 
printing. 

These  gave  the  tragic,  the  Shakespear- 
ean aspect  of  the  anti-slavery  movement, 
to  be  relieved  by  another  side  of  the 
screen  when  Wendell  Phillips  and  some 
other  hero  of  the  platform  led  beyond  the 
door  the  shrieking  Abby  Folsom,  with  her 
unfailing  cry,  "  It 's  the  capitalists  !  "  or 
Mellen  was  silenced  by  more  subtle  per- 
suasions, and  tempted  away  to  continue 
his  interminable  harangue  to  some  single 
auditor  in  the  side  scenes.  Once  take 
Garrison  himself  away  from  the  conven- 
tion and  no  man  better  loved  his  placid 
joke.  He  could  go  to  prison  without 
flinching,  but  could  not  forego  his  pun, 
we  may  be  sure,  after  he  got  there,  and 
would  no  more  have  denied  himself  that 
innocent  relaxation  in  jail  than  a  typical 
French  nobleman  in  Revolutionary  days 
would  have  laid  aside  his  snuff-box  in  the 
presence  of  the  guillotine.  A  similar 
cheerful  and  unwavering  tone  pervaded 
those  leaders  generally,  and  I  remem- 
ber when  Mrs.  Chapman  established  the 
first  outdoor  anti-slavery  festival,  on  the 
avowed  ground  that  there  was  no  reason 
why  the  children  of  this  world  should 
enjoy  themselves  better  than  the  Chil- 
dren of  Light. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  the  tropical 
race  in  whose  interest  all  this  anti-slavery 
work  was  carried  on  took  their  share  of 
levity,  when  opportunity  came,  the  in- 
stances of  habitual  gloom  being  usually 
found,  not  among  those  who  had  escaped 
from  slavery,  but  rather  in  those  born 
free,  bred  at  the  North,  having  some 


worldly  prosperity,  and  yet  feeling  that 
a  modified  subjugation  still  socially  rest- 
ed upon  them.  The  inexhaustible  sense 
of  humor  in  Frederick  Douglass,  on  the 
other  hand,  kept  him  clear  of  this,  as  was 
never  better  seen  than  on  the  once  famous 
occasion  when  the  notorious  Isaiah  Ryn- 
ders  of  New  York  at  the  head  of  a  mob 
had  interrupted  an  anti-slavery  meeting, 
captured  the  platform,  placed  himself  in 
the  chair,  and  bade  the  meeting  proceed. 
Douglass  was  speaking  and,  nothing 
loath,  made  his  speech  only  keener  and 
keener  for  the  interference,  weaving 
around  the  would-be  chairman's  head  a 
wreath  of  delicate  sarcasm  which  carried 
the  audience  with  it,  while  the  duller  wits 
of  the  burly  despot  could  hardly  follow 
him.  Knowing  only,  in  a  general  way, 
that  he  was  being  dissected,  Rynders  at 
last  exclaimed,  "  What  you  Abolitionists 
want  to  do  is  to  cut  all  our  throats ! " 
"  Oh,  no  !  "  replied  Douglass  in  his  most 
dulcet  tones.  "  We  would  only  cut  your 
hair  ;  "  and  bending  over  the  shaggy  and 
frowzy  head  of  the  Bowery  tyrant  he 
gave  a  suggestive  motion  as  of  scissors,  to 
his  thumb  and  forefinger,  with  a  profes- 
sional politeness  that  instantly  brought 
down  the  house,  friend  and  foe,  while 
Rynders  quitted  the  chair  in  wrath,  and 
the  meeting  dissolved  itself  amid  general 
laughter.  It  was  a  more  cheerful  con- 
clusion, perhaps,  than  that  stormier  one 
—  not  unknown  in  reformatory  conven- 
tions —  with  which  Shakespeare  so  often 
ends  his  scenes :  "  Exeunt  fighting." 

One  of  the  most  curious  circumstances 
connected  with  the  whole  Transcenden- 
tal period,  and  one  tending,  whether  in 
seriousness  or  through  satire,  to  bring 
out  its  sunny  side,  was  its  connection 
with  Horace  Greeley.  He  himself  was 
a  strange  mixture  of  the  dreamy  and  the 
practical,  and  his  very  appearance  and 
costume,  his  walk  and  conversation,  com- 
bined these  inconsistent  attributes.  The 
one  great  advertising  medium  possessed 
by  the  whole  Brook  Farm  movement  was 
the  New  York  Tribune,  and  it  is  a  part 


The  Sunny  Side  of  the   Transcendental  Period. 


13 


of  the  quaintness  of  the  whole  affair  at 
Brook  Farm  that  an  enterprise  so  physi- 
cally insignificant  should  have  for  its 
organ  a  journal  then  rapidly  on  its  way 
to  becoming  the  most  widely  circulated 
in  the  nation.  Yet  Greeley's  own  exter- 
nals, when  he  first  stood  at  the  door  at 
Brook  Farm,  might  have  suggested  a 
visitor  from  any  part  of  the  land  rather 
than  New  York  city,  and  a  delegate  from 
any  other  sphere  rather  than  that  of 
metropolitan  journalism.  Miss  Amelia 
Russell,  a  member  of  Brook  Farm,  thus 
describes  his  appearance  at  first  glance : 
"  His  hair  was  so  light  that  it  was  almost 
white  ;  he  wore  a  white  hat,  his  face  was 
entirely  colorless,  even  the  eyes  not  add- 
ing much  to  save  it  from  its  ghostly  hue. 
His  coat  was  a  very  light  drab,  almost 
white,  and  his  nether  garments  the  same." 
No  better  samples  could,  perhaps,  be 
given  of  the  mirth-making  aspects  of 
that  period  than  might  be  done  by  a  se- 
ries of  extracts  from  Greeley's  letters  as 
published  in  the  volume  called  Passages 
from  the  Correspondence  of  Rufus  W. 
Griswold,  in  which  you  find  Greeley  al- 
ternately moving  heaven  and  earth  to 
get  for  the  then  unknown  Thoreau  the 
publication  of  his  maiden  essay  on  Car- 
lyle  in  Graham's  Magazine  and  himself 
giving  $75  to  pay  for  it  in  advance  ;  and 
about  the  same  time  writing  to  Griswold, 
"  Gris.  make  up  for  me  a  brief  collection 
of  the  best  Epigrams  in  the  Language  — 
say  three  folio  sheets  of  MSS.  ; "  then 
cheerfully  adding,  "  A  page  may  be  given 
to  epitaphs,  if  you  please,  though  I  don't 
care ! " 

This  suggests  how  much  of  the  sun- 
shine at  that  period  came  also  to  many 
from  Thoreau  himself,  whose  talk  and 
letters,  like  his  books,  were  full  of  deli- 
cate humor ;  and  who  gave  to  outdoor 
hours  such  an  atmosphere  of  serene  de- 
light as  made  one  feel  that  a  wood-thrush 
was  always  soliloquizing  somewhere  in 
the  background.  Walks  with  him  were 
singularly  unlike  those  taken  with  Alcott, 
for  instance,  who  only  strolled  serenely 


to  some  hospitable  fence  at  the  entrance 
to  some  wood,  and  sat  down  there,  obliv- 
ious whether  frogs  or  wood-thrushes  filled 
the  air,  so  long  as  they  did  not  withdraw 
attention  from  his  own  discourses.  As 
Alcott  carried  his  indoor  meditations  out 
of  doors,  so  Thoreau  brought  his  outward 
observations  indoors,  and  I  remember 
well  the  delightful  mornings  when  his 
favorite  correspondent,  Harry  Blake,  my 
•neighbor  in  Worcester,  Mass.,  used  to 
send  round  to  a  few  of  us  to  come  in 
and  hear  extracts  from  Thoreau's  last  let- 
ter at  the  breakfast  table  ;  these  extracts 
being  the  very  materials  that  were  af- 
terwards to  make  up  his  choicest  vol- 
ume, Walden  ;  letters  that  combined  with 
breakfast  and  with  sunrise  to  fill  the  day 
for  us  auditors  with  inexhaustible  de- 
light. 

That  period  is  long  passed,  and  these 
few  stray  memories  can  at  best  give  but 
a  few  glimpses  of  its  sunnier  side.  The 
fact  that  it  did  pass  and  that  it  can  never 
be  reproduced  is  the  very  thing  that 
makes  its  memories  worth  recalling. 
The  great  flood -tide  of  the  civil  war 
bore  this  all  away,  followed  by  the  stu- 
pendous growth  of  a  changed  nation. 
Every  age  has  its  own  point  of  interest ; 
and  the  longest  personal  life,  if  lived 
wholesomely,  can  offer  but  a  succession 
of  these.  But  one  question  still  remains, 
and  will  perhaps  always  remain,  unan- 
swered. Considering  the  part  originally 
done  by  the  English  Lake  Poets  in  bring- 
ing about  this  period  of  sunshine  in 
America,  why  is  it  that  the  leaders  of 
English  literature  on  its  native  soil  for 
the  last  half  century  have  had  a  mourn- 
ful and  clouded  tone  ?  From  Carlyle 
and  Ruskin  through  Froude  and  Arnold 
to  Meredith,  Hardy,  Stevenson,  and 
Henley,  all  have  had  a  prevailing  air  of 
sadness,  and  sometimes  even  of  frightful 
gloom.  Even  Tennyson,  during  at  least 
a  portion  of  his  reactionary  later  life, 
and  Browning,  toward  the  end  of  his, 
showed  the  same  tendency.  In  Amer- 
ica, on  the  other  hand,  during  the  same 


14 


The   Common  Lot. 


general  period,  the  leading  literary  fig- 
ures, with  the  solitary  exception  of  Poe, 
—  who  was  wont  to  be  an  exception  to 
all  rules,  —  were  sunshiny  and  hopeful, 
not  gloomy.  This  is  certainly  true  of 
Emerson,  AJcott,  Thoreau,  Longfellow, 
Lowell,  Holmes,  Whittier,  Whitman. 
Even  if  Hawthorne  may  have  seemed  to 
the  world  an  exception  from  his  reti- 
cence and  sombre  bearing,  we  must  re- 


member how  he  laid  aside  those  traits 
within  his  own  household.  "  Never  was 
there  such  a  playmate,"  said  to  me  once 
his  noble  and  stately  daughter  Una,  de- 
scribing her  happy  childhood.  These 
and  all  the  rest,  save  Poe,  found  joy, 
predominant  joy,  in  life.  Why  this  dif- 
ference ?  It  is  not  yet  time,  perhaps,  to 
fathom  the  mystery  and  give  a  clear  an- 
swer to  the  question. 

Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson. 


THE  .COMMON  LOT.1 


FROM  time  to  time  the  door  opened  to 
admit  some  tardy  person.  Then  the  May 
sunlight  without  flooded  the  dim,  long 
hall  with  a  sudden  radiance,  even  to  the 
arched  recess  in  the  rear,  where  the  coffin 
was  placed.  The  late-comers  sank  into 
the  crowd  of  black-coated  men,  who  filled 
the  hall  to  the  broad  stairs.  Most  of  these 
were  plainly  dressed,  with  thick,  grizzled 
beards  and  lined  faces :  they  were  old 
hands  from  the  Bridge  Works  on  the 
West  Side,  where  they  had  worked  many 
years  for  Powers  Jackson.  In  the  par- 
lors at  the  left  of  the  hall  there  were  more 
women  than  men,  and  more  fashionable 
clothes  than  in  the  hall.  But  the  faces 
were  scarcely  less  rugged  and  lined. 
These  friends  of  the  old  man  who  lay  in 
the  coffin  were  mostly  life -worn  and 
gnarled,  like  himself.  Their  luxuries  had 
not  sufficed  to  hide  the  scars  of  the  bat- 
tles they  had  waged  with  fortune. 

When  the  minister  ceased  praying,  the 
men  and  the  women  in  the  warm,  flower- 
scented  rooms  moved  gratefully,  trying 
to  get  easier  positions  for  their  cramped 
bodies.  Some  members  of  the  church 
choir,  stationed  at  the  landing  on  the 
stairs,  began  to  sing.  Once  more  the 
door  opened  silently  in  the  stealthy 


hands  of  the  undertaker,  and  this  time  it 
remained  open  for  several  seconds.  A 
woman  entered,  dressed  in  fashionable 
widow's  mourning.  She  moved  deliber- 
ately, as  if  she  realized  exactly  the  full 
effect  of  her  entrance  at  that  hour  among 
all  these  heated,  tired  people.  The  men 
crowded  in  the  hall  made  way  for  her 
instinctively,  so  that  she  might  enter  the 
dining-room,  to  the  right  of  the  coffin, 
where  the  family  and  the  nearest  friends 
of  the  dead  man  were  seated.  Here,  a 
young  man,  one  of  Powers  Jackson's 
nephews,  rose  and  surrendered  his  chair 
to  the  pretty  widow,  whispering :  — 

"  Take  this,  Mrs.  Phillips  !  I  am  afraid 
there  is  nothing  better." 

She  took  his  place  by  the  door  with  a 
little  deprecatory  smile,  which  said  many 
things  at  the  same  time  :  "  I  am  very  late, 
I  know  ;  but  I  really  could  n't  help  it ! 
You  will  understand,  won't  you  ?  " 

And  also :  "  You  have  come  to  be  a 
handsome  young  man  !  When  I  saw  you 
last  you  were  only  a  raw  boy,  just  out  of 
college.  Now  we  must  reckon  with  you, 
as  the  old  man's  heir,  —  the  heir  of  so 
much  money !  " 

Then  again  :  "  I  have  had  my  sorrows, 
too,  since  we  met  over  there  across  the 
sea." 

All   this   her   face   seemed   to  speak 


1  Copyright,  1903,  by  ROBERT  HERKICK. 


The   Common  Lot. 


15 


swiftly,  especially  to  the  young  man, 
whose  attention  she  had  quite  distracted, 
as  indeed  she  had  disturbed  every  one  in 
the  other  rooms  by  her  progress  through 
the  hall.  By  the  time  she  had  settled 
herself,  and  made  a  first  survey  of  the 
scene,  the  hymn  had  come  to  an  end,  and 
the  minister's  deep  voice  broke  forth  in 
the  words  of  ancient  promise,  "  I  am  the 
Resurrection  and  the  Life  "... 

At  these  words  of  triumph  the  pret- 
ty widow's  interruption  was  forgotten. 
Something  new  stirred  in  the  weary 
faces  of  those  standing  in  the  hall,  touch- 
ing each  one  according  to  his  soul,  vibrat- 
ing in  his  heart  with  a  meaning  personal 
to  him,  to  her,  quite  apart  from  any  feel- 
ing that  they  might  have  for  their  old 
friend,  in  the  hope  for  whose  immortality 
it  had  been  spoken.  .  .  . 

"  I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life  " 
..."  yet  in  my  flesh  shall  I  see  God  ".  . . 

The  words  fell  fatefully  into  the  close 
rooms.  The  young  man  who  had  given 
his  chair  to  Mrs.  Phillips  unconsciously 
threw  back  his  head  and  raised  his  eyes 
from  the  floor,  as  though  he  were  follow- 
ing some  point  of  light  which  had  burst 
into  sight  above  his  head.  His  gaze  swept 
over  his  mother's  large,  inexpressive  coun- 
tenance, his  cousin  Everett's  sharp  fea- 
tures, the  solemn,  blank  faces  of  the  other 
mourners  in  the  room.  It  rested  on  the 
face  of  a  young  woman,  who  was  seated 
on  the  other  side  of  the  little  room,  al- 
most hidden  by  the  roses  and  the  lilies 
that  were  banked  on  the  table  between 
them.  She,  too,  had  raised  her  face  at  the 
triumphant  note,  and  was  seeing  some- 
thing beyond  the  man's  eyes,  beyond  the 
walls  of  the  room.  Her  lips  had  parted 
in  a  little  sigh  of  wonder  ;  her  blue  eyes 
were  filled  with  unwept  tears.  The  man's 
attention  was  arrested  by  those  eyes  and 
trembling  lips,  and  he  forgot  the  feeling 
that  the  minister's  words  had  roused,  in 
sudden  apprehension  of  the  girl's  beauty 
and  tenderness.  He  had  discovered  the 
face  in  a  moment  of  its  finest  illumina- 
tion, excited  by  a  vague  yet  pure  emotion, 


so  that  it  became  all  at  once  more  than 
it  had  ever  promised.  The  tears  trembled 
at  the  eyelids,  then  dropped  unnoticed  to 
the  face.  The  young  man  looked  away 
hastily,  with  an  uncomfortable  feeling  at 
beholding  all  this  emotion.  He  could  not 
see  why  Helen  Spellman  should  take  his 
uncle's  death  so  much  to  heart.  The  old 
man  had  always  been  kind  to  her  and  to 
her.  mother.  She  had  been  at  the  house 
a  great  deal,  for  her  mother  and  his  uncle 
were  old  friends,  and  the  old  man  loved 
to  have  the  girl  about  the  house.  Yet  he 
did  not  feel  his  uncle's  death  that  way ; 
he  wondered  whether  he  ought  to  be  af- 
fected by  it  as  Helen  was.  He  was  cer- 
tainly much  nearer  to  the  dead  man  than 
she,  —  his  nephew,  the  son  of  his  sister 
Amelia,  who  had  kept  his  house  all  the 
many  years  of  her  widowhood.  And,  — 
he  was  aware  that  people  were  in  the 
habit  of  saying  it,  —  he  was  his  favorite 
nephew,  the  one  who  would  inherit  the 
better  part  of  the  property.  This  last 
reflection  set  his  mind  to  speculating  on 
the  impending  change  in  his  own  world. 
The  new  future,  which  he  pleasantly 
dreamed,  would  bring  him  nearer  to  her. 
For  the  last  few  days,  ever  since  the  doc- 
tors had  given  up  all  hope  of  the  old 
man's  recovery,  he  had  not  been  able  to 
keep  his  imagination  from  wandering  in 
the  fields  of  this  strange,  delightful  future 
which  was  so  near  at  hand.  .  .  . 

"  There  is  a  natural  body,"  so  the  min- 
ister was  saying  solemnly,  "  and  there  is 
a  spiritual  body.  .  .  .  For  this  corruptible 
must  put  on  incorruption,  and  this  mor- 
tal must  put  on  immortality." 

The  young  man  tried  to  curb  his  im- 
agination, to  feel  the  significance  of  the 
fact  before  him  in  some  other  way  than  as 
it  might  affect  his  own  material  fate.  .  .  . 

When  the  clergyman  began  his  re- 
marks about  the  dead  man's  personality, 
he  roused  the  tired  people  and  brought 
them  back  to  their  common  earth.  What 
could  he  say  ?  The  subject  was  full  of 
thorns.  Powers  Jackson  had  not  been  a 
bad  man,  take  his  life  all  in  all,  but  he 


16 


The   Common  Lot. 


had  been  accused,  justly,  of  some  ruth- 
less, selfish  acts.  His  morality  had  never 
quite  satisfied  the  ideals  of  his  neighbors, 
and  he  could  not  be  called,  in  any  sense 
of  the  word  known  to  the  officiating  min- 
ister, a  religious  man. 

Yet  there  was  scarcely  a  person  present 
to  whom  Powers  Jackson  had  not  done 
some  kind  and  generous  act.  Each  one 
in  his  heart  knew  the  dead  man  to  have 
been  good  and  human,  and  forgave  him 
his  sins,  public  and  private.  What  did 
it  matter  to  old  Jim  Ryan,  the  office  por- 
ter, who  was  standing  in  the  corner  with 
his  son  and  grandson,  whether  Powers 
Jackson  had  or  had  not  conspired  with 
certain  other  men  to  capture  illegally  a 
great  grant  of  Texas  land  !  He  and  his 
family  had  lived  in  the  sun  of  the  dead 
man's  kindness. 

While  the  minister  was  saying  what 
every  one  agreed  to  in  his  heart,  —  that 
their  dead  friend  was  a  man  of  large 
stature,  big  in  heart  as  in  deed,  strong  for 
good,  as  for  evil,  —  his  nephew's  thoughts 
kept  returning  to  that  glowing,  personal 
matter,  —  what  did  it  all  mean  to  him  ? 
Of  course,  his  uncle  had  been  good  to  him, 
had  given  him  the  best  kind  of  an  edu- 
cation and  training  in  his  profession  ;  but 
now  he  was  about  to  give  him  the  largest 
gift  of  all,  —  freedom  for  his  whole  life- 
time, freedom  to  do  with  himself  what  he 
pleased,  freedom  first  of  all  to  leave  this 
dull,  dirty  city,  to  flee 'to  those  other  parts 
of  the  earth  which  he  knew  so  well  how 
to  enjoy !  .  .  .  The  pretty  widow  beside 
him  fidgeted.  She  was  exceedingly  un- 
comfortable in  the  close,  stuffy  room,  and 
the  minister's  skillful  words  only  roused 
a  wicked  sense  of  irony  in  her.  She 
could  have  told  the  reverend  doctor  a 
thing  or  two  about  old  Powers !  She 
threw  back  her  jacket,  revealing  an  at- 
tractive neck  and  bust.  She  had  scanned 
the  faces  of  most  of  those  in  the  rooms, 
and,  with  great  rapidity,  had  cast  up 
mentally  their  score  with  the  dead.  This 
handsome  young  nephew  was  the  only 
one  that  counted  in  her  own  estimation. 


What  was  he  going  to  do  with  the  old 
fellow's  money?  She  threw  a  specula- 
tive, admiring  look  at  him.  .  .  . 

Across  the  room  the  girl's  face  had 
settled  into  sober  thought,  the  tears  dry- 
ing on  her  cheeks  where  they  had  fallen. 
In  that  glorious  promise  of  Life  Ever- 
lasting, which  was  still  reverberating  in 
her  soul,  she  felt  that  the  only  real  Life 
which  poor  human  beings  might  know 
was  that  life  of  the  "  spiritual  body,"  the 
life  of  the  good,  which  is  all  one  and  alike ! 
To  her,  Powers  Jackson  was  simply  a 
good  man,  the  best  of  men.  For  she  had 
known  him  all  her  life,  and  had  seen  no- 
thing but  good  in  him.  She  loved  him, 
and  she  knew  that  he  could  not  be  dead  ! 

Finally,  the  minister  rounded  out  his 
thought  and  came  to  the  end  of  his  re- 
marks. The  singers  on  the  stairs  began 
to  chant  softly,  "  Now,  O  Lord,  let 
thy  servant  depart  in  peace  !  "  And  the 
tired  faces  relaxed  from  their  tense  se- 
riousness. Somehow,  the  crisis  of  their 
emotion  had  been  reached  and  passed. 
Comforted  and  reassured,  the  men  and 
women  were  leaving  this  house  of  mourn- 
ing. An  old  man,  childless,  a  widower 
of  many  years,  who  had  done  his  work 
successfully  in  this  world,  and  reaped  the 
rewards  of  it,  —  what  can  one  feel  for 
his  death  but  a  solemn  sense  of  mystery 
and  peace !  Perhaps  to  one  only,  the 
girl  hidden  behind  the  lilies  and  the  roses 
in  the  dining-room,  was  it  a  matter  of 
keen,  personal  grief.  He  had  left  her 
world,  who  had  stroked  her  head  and 
kissed  her,  who  had  loved  her  as  a  father 
might  love  her,  who  had  always  smiled 
when  she  had  touched  him. 

On  the  sidewalk  outside  the  people 
gathered  in  little  knots,  speaking  in  sub- 
dued tones  to  one  another,  luxuriating  in 
the  riotous  spring  air.  Then  they  moved 
away.  After  the  house  was  pretty  well 
emptied,  those  mourners  who  had  been 
in  the  dining-room  appeared,  to  take  car- 
riages for  the  cemetery.  Mrs.  Phillips 
came  first,  talking  to  young  Jackson  Hart. 
She  was  saying :  — 


The   Common  Lot. 


17 


"  It  was  all  quite  what  the  dear  old  gen- 
tleman would  have  liked  and  such  good 
taste,  —  that  was  your  part,  I  know !  " 

As  he  handed  her  into  her  carriage, 
she  leaned  toward  him,  with  a  very  per- 
sonal air :  — 

"  It  is  so  different  from  the  last  time 
we  met !  Do  you  remember  ?  You  must 
come  and  see  me,  now  that  I  am  hack  in 
this  place  for  good." 

As  the  young  man  turned  away  from 
her,  he  met  Helen  Spellman  descending 
the  long  flight  of  steps.  She  was  carry- 
ing in  her  arms  a  great  mass  of  loose 
flowers,  and  his  cousin  Everett  was  simi- 
larly burdened. 

"  Are  you  going  on  ahead  of  us  ?  " 
Jackson  asked  anxiously. 

"  Yes.  I  want  to  put  these  flowers 
there  first ;  so  that  it  won't  seem  so  bare 
and  lonely  when  he  comes.  See !  I  have 
taken  those  he  liked  to  have  in  his  library, 
and  yours  and  your  mother's,  too  !  " 

She  smiled,  but  her  eyes  were  still 
dull  with  tears.  Again  she  brought  his 
thoughts  back  from  self,  from  his  futile, 
worldly  preoccupations,  back  to  her  love 
for  the  dead  man,  which  seemed  so  much 
greater,  so  much  purer  than  his. 

"  That  will  be  very  nice,"  he  said,  tak- 
ing the  flowers  from  her  hands  and  plac- 
ing them  in  a  carriage  that  had  driven 
up  to  the  curb.  "  I  am  sure  he  would 
have  liked  your  thought  for  him.  He 
was  always  so  fond  of  what  you  did,  of 
you." 

"  Dear  uncle,"  she  murmured  to  her- 
self. Although  the  dead  man  was  not 
connected  with  her  by  any  ties  of  blood, 
she  had  grown  into  the  habit  of  calling 
him  uncle,  first  as  a  joke,  then  in  affec- 
tion. 

"  He  always  had  me  get  the  flowers 
when  he  wanted  to  give  a  really  truly 
dinner !  "  she  added,  a  smile  coming  to 
her  face.  "  I  know  he  will  like  to  have 
me  take  these  out  to  him  there  now." 

She  spoke  of  the  dead  in  the  present 
tense,  with  a  strong  feeling  for  the  still 
living  part  of  the  one  gone. 

VOL.  XGIII.  —  NO.  555.  2 


"  I  should  like  to  drive  out  there  with 
you !  "  the  young  man  exclaimed  impul- 
sively. "  May  I  ?  " 

"  Oh  no !  You  must  n't,"  she  replied 
quickly.  "  There  's  your  mother,  who 
is  expecting  you  to  be  with  her,  and 
then,"  —  she  blushed  and  stepped  away 
from  him  a  little  space,  —  "I  had  rather 
be  alone,  please  !  " 

When  the  heavy  gates  of  the  vault  in 
Rose  Hill  had  closed  upon  Powers  Jack- 
son forever,  the  little  group  of  intimate 
friends,  who  had  come  with  him  to  his 
grave,  descended  silently  the  granite 
steps  to  their  carriages.  Insensibly  a 
wave  of  relief  stole  over  the  spirit  of  the 
young  nephew,  as  he  turned  his  back 
upon  the  ugly  tomb,  in  the  American- 
Greek  style,  with  heavy  capitals  and  false 
pillars.  It  was  not  a  selfish  or  heartless 
desire  to  get  away  from  the  dead  man, 
to  forget  him  now  that  he  no  longer 
counted  in  this  world  ;  it  was  merely  the 
reaction  from  a  day  of  gloom  and  sober 
thought.  He  felt  stifled  in  his  tall  silk 
hat,  long  frock  coat,  patent-leather  shoes, 
and  black  gloves.  His  spirit  shrank 
from  the  chill  of  the  tomb,  to  which  the 
day  had  brought  him  near. 

"  Let 's  send  all  the  women  back  to- 
gether, Everett,"  he  suggested  to  his  cou- 
sin, "  and  have  a  smoke.  I  am  pretty 
nearly  dead !  " 

As  the  three  men  in  the  party  got  into 
their  carriage,  Jackson  took  out  his 
cigarette-case  and  offered  it  to  his  cousin; 
but  Everett  shook  his  head  rather  con- 
temptuously and  drew  a  cigar  from  his 
breast  pocket. 

"  I  never  got  in  the  habit  of  smok- 
ing those  things,"  he  remarked  slowly. 
There  was  an  implication  in  his  cool  tone 
that  no  grown  man  indulged  himself  in 
that  boyish  habit. 

"  He  never  liked  cigarettes  either,  — 
would  n't  have  one  in  the  house,"  Jackson 
commented  lightly. 

The  other  man,  Hollister,  had  taken 
a  cigar,  and  the  three  men  smoked  in 


18 


The   Common  Lot. 


silence  while  the  carriage  bumped  at  a 
rapid  pace  over  the  uneven  streets  of 
Chicago.  Hollister,  so  Hart  reflected, 
must  know  what  was  in  the  will.  He  had 
been  the  old  man's  confidential  business 
man  for  a  good  many  years,  and  was  one 
of  the  executors.  Everett  Wheeler,  who 
was  a  lawyer  with  a  large  and  very  high- 
ly paid  practice,  was  another. 

Perhaps  this  cousin  was  to  get  the  bulk 
of  the  property  after  all,  though  their 
uncle  had  never  displayed  any  great  fond- 
ness for  Everett.  The  lawyer  had  al- 
ways done  the  best  that  was  expected  of 
him.  He  had  entered  a  law  office  from 
the  high  school,  preferring  to  skip  the 
intermediate  years  of  college  training, 
which  Powers  Jackson  had  offered  him, 
and  he  never  ceased  referring  to  his  suc- 
cess in  his  profession  as  partly  due  to  the 
fact  he  had  "  fooled  no  time  away  at  col- 
lege." So  far  as  his  business  went,  which 
was  to  patch  together  crazy  corporations, 
he  had  no  particular  use  for  a  liberal  edu- 
cation. He  had  no  tastes  whatsoever  out- 
side of  this  business  and  a  certain  mild 
interest  in  politics.  His  dull  white  fea- 
tures, sharpened  to  a  vulpine  point,  and 
his  large  nose  betrayed  his  temperament. 
He  was  a  silent,  cool-blooded,  unpassion- 
ate  American  man  of  affairs,  and  it  would 
be  safe  to  say  that  he  would  die  rich. 
Thus  far  he  had  not  had  enough  emotion 
to  get  married.  No  !  his  cousin  reflected, 
Everett  was  not  a  man  after  old  Powers 
Jackson's  heart !  Their  uncle  was  not  a 
cold,  passionless  man.  .  .  . 

Those  two  men  opposite  him  knew  what 
was  the  fact  in  this  matter  so  momentous 
to  him.  They  smoked,  wrapped  in  their 
own  thoughts. 

"  I  wonder  who  was  the  joker  who 
put  up  that  monstrous  Greek  temple  out 
there  in  the  cemetery !  "  Jackson  finally 
observed,  in  a  nervous  desire  to  say 
something. 

"  You  mean  the  family  mausoleum  ?  " 
Everett  asked  severely,  removing  his 
cigar  from  his  lips,  and  spitting  carefully 
out  of  the  half-opened  window.  "  That 


was  done  by  a  fellow  named  Roly,  and  it 
was  considered  a  very  fine  piece  of  work. 
It  was  built  the  time  aunt  Frankie  died." 

"  It 's  a  spooky  sort  of  place  to  put  a 
man  into !  " 

"  I  think  the  funeral  was  what  your 
uncle  would  have  liked,"  Hollister  re- 
marked. "  He  hated  to  be  eccentric, 
and  yet  he  despised  pretentious  cere- 
monies. Everything  was  simple  and 
dignified.  The  parson  was  good,  too,  in 
what  he  said.  And  the  old  men  turned 
out  in  great  numbers.  I  was  glad  of 
that !  But  I  was  surprised.  It 's  nearly 
two  years  since  he  gave  up  the  Works, 
and  memories  are  short  between  master 
and  man." 

"  That  's  a  fact.  But  he  knew  every 
man-jack  about  the  place  in  the  old 
days,"  Everett  observed,  removing  his 
silk  hat  as  if  it  were  an  ornamental  in- 
cumbrance. 

"Yes,"  said  Hollister,  taking  up  the 
theme.  "  I  remember  how  he  would 
come  into  the  front  office  on  pay  days, 
and  stand  behind  the  grating  while  the 
men  were  signing  off.  He  could  call 
every  one  by  a  first  name.  It  was  Pete 
and  Dave  and  Jerry  and  Steve,  —  there 
were  n't  so  many  of  those  Hungarians  and 
Slavs,  the  European  garbage,  then." 

"But  he  was  stiff  with  'em  in  the 
strike,  though,"  the  lawyer  put  in,  a 
smile  wrinkling  his  thin,  pallid  lips. 
"  He  fired  every  one  who  went  with  the 
union,  — never  'd  let  'em  back,  no  matter 
what  they  did.  Those  there  to-day  were 
mostly  old  ones." 

The  two  older  men  began  to  exchange 
stories  about  the  dead  man,  of  things  they 
had  seen  while  they  were  working  for 
him,  —  his  tricks  of  temper,  whims  of 
mind.  The  older  man  spoke  gently,  al- 
most tenderly,  of  the  one  he  had  worked 
with,  as  of  one  whose  faults  were  flaws 
in  a  great  stone.  The  lawyer  spoke 
literally,  impassively,  as  of  some  phenom- 
enon of  nature  which  he  had  seen  often 
and  had  thoroughly  observed. 

Young  Hart  lit  another  cigarette,  and 


The   Common  Lot. 


19 


he  thought  of  the  girl's  face  as  he  had 
seen  it  that  day,  utterly  moved  and  trans- 
fixed with  a  strange  emotion  of  tender 
sorrow  that  was  half  happiness.  She  was 
religious,  he  believed,  meaning  by  that 
word  that  she  was  moved  by  certain  feel- 
ings other  than  those  which  affected  him 
or  Everett  or  Hollister,  even.  And  this 
new  thought  of  her  made  her  more  pre- 
cious in  his  eyes.  He  looked  for  her 
when  they  reached  the  sombre  old  house 
on  Ohio  Street,  but  she  had  already  driven 
home. 

As  Hollister  was  leaving,  he  said  to 
the  young  man  :  — 

"  Can  you  come  over  to  Everett's  office 
to-morrow  about  four  ?  Judge  Phillips 
will  be  there,  the  other  executor.  We  are 
to  open  the  will.  They  have  suggested 
that  I  ask  you  to  join  us,"  he  added  has- 
tily, with  an  effort  to  be  matter-of-fact. 

"  All  right,  Hollister,"  the  young  man 
answered,  with  an  equal  effort  to  appear 
unconcerned.  "  I  '11  be  over  !  " 

But  his  heart  thumped  strangely. 


II. 


"  Get  all  ready  before  you  start,"  Pow- 
ers Jackson  had  said,  when  his  nephew, 
after  four  years  at  Cornell  and  three 
years  at  a  famous  technical  school  in  the 
East,  had  suggested  the  propriety  of  fin- 
ishing his  training  in  architecture  by 
study  in  Paris.  "  Get  all  ready,  —  then 
let  us  have  results." 

He  had  been  getting  ready.  He  had 
chosen  to  go  to  Cornell  rather  than  to  a 
larger  university,  because  some  of  the 
boys  of  his  high  school  class  were  going 
there.  With  us  in  America  such  mat- 
ters are  often  settled  in  this  childish  way. 
The  reason  why  he  chose  the  profession 
of  architecture  was,  in  the  first  place, 
scarcely  less  frivolous.  A  "  fraternity 
brother "  at  Cornell,  just  home  from 
Paris,  fired  the  college  boy's  imagination 
for  "  the  Quarter."  But,  once  started 
in  the  course  of  architecture  at  the  tech- 


nical school,  he  found  that  he  had  stum- 
bled into  something  which  really  inter- 
ested him.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life 
he  worked. 

At  the  Beaux  Arts  he  worked,  also, 
though  he  did  not  forget  the  amenities  of 
life.  The  two  years,  first  talked  of,  ex- 
panded into  two  and  a  half,  then  round- 
ed to  three.  Meanwhile  the  generous 
cheques  from  the  office  of  the  Bridge 
Works  came  with  pleasant  regularity. 
His  mother  wrote,  "  Powers  hopes  that 
you  are  deriving  benefit  from  your  stud- 
ies in  Paris."  What  the  old  man  had 
said  was,  "  How 's  Jackie  doing  these 
days,  Amelia  ?  "  And  young  Hart  was 
"  doing  "  well.  There  were  many  bene- 
fits, not  always  orthodox,  which  the  young 
American,  established  cosily  on  the  Rue 
de  rUniversite",  derived  from  Paris. 

The  day  of  preparation  came  to  an 
end,  however.  Those  last  weeks  of  his 
stay  in  Europe  he  was  joined  by  his 
mother  and  Helen  Spellman.  Powers 
Jackson  had  taken  this  occasion  to  send 
them  both  abroad.  Mrs.  Spellman  being 
too  much  of  an  invalid  to  take  the  jour- 
ney, Mrs.  Amelia  Hart  had  been  very 
glad  to  have  the  girl's  companionship. 
Jackson  met  them  in  Naples.  After  he 
had  kissed  his  mother  and  taken  her 
handbag,  to  which  she  was  clinging  in 
miserable  suspicion  of  the  entire  foreign 
world,  he  turned  to  the  girl,  whose  pres- 
ence he  had  been  conscious  of  all  the 
time.  Helen  was  not  noticeably  pretty 
or  well  dressed ;  but  she  had  an  air  of 
race,  a  fineness  of  feature,  a  certain  per- 
sonal delicacy,  to  which  the  young  man 
had  long  been  unaccustomed.  Perhaps 
three  years  of  student  life  in  Paris  had 
prepared  him  to  think  very  well  of  a 
young  American  woman. 

So  their  six  weeks  in  Italy  had  been 
very  happy  ones  for  all  three,  —  six 
golden  weeks  of  May  and  early  June. 
The  beautiful  land  smiled  at  them  from 
every  field  and  wall.  Each  fresh  land- 
scape in  the  panorama  of  their  little 
journeys  was  another  joy,  a  new  excite- 


20 


The   Common  Lot. 


ment  that  burned  in  a  flush  of  heightened 
color  on  the  girl's  face.  One  of  their 
last  days  they  spent  at  the  little  village 
of  Ravello,  on  a  hilltop  above  Amalfi,  and 
there  in  the  clear  twilight  of  a  warm 
June  day,  with  gold-tipped  clouds  brood- 
ing over  the  Bay  of  Salerno,  they  came 
for  the  first  time  upon  the  personal  note. 
They  were  leaning  over  the  railing  of 
the  terrace  in  the  Palumbo,  listening  to 
the  bells  in  the  churches  of  Vetri  beneath 
them. 

"  Would  n't  this  be  good  for  always  ?  " 
he  murmured. 

He  was  touched  with  sentimental  self- 
pity  at  the  thought  of  leaving  all  this,  — 
the  beauty,  the  wonder,  the  joy  of  Eu- 
rope !  In  another  short  month  instead  of 
this  there  would  be  Chicago,  whose  harsh 
picture  three  years  had  not  softened. 

"  I  don't  know,"  the  girl  replied,  with 
a  long  sigh  for  remembered  joy.  "  One 
could  not  be  as  happy  as  this  for  months 
and  years." 

"  I  'd  like  to  try !  "  he  said  lightly. 

"  No !  Not  you,"  she  retorted  with 
sudden  warmth.  "  What  could  a  man 
do  here  ?  " 

"  There  are  a  lot  of  fellows  in  Europe 
who  manage  to  answer  that  question 
somehow.  Most  of  the  men  I  knew  in 
Paris  don't  expect  to  go  back  yet,  and 
not  to  Chicago  anyway." 

Her  lips  compressed  quickly.  Evi- 
dently they  were  not  the  kind  of  men 
she  thought  well  of. 

"  Why  !  "  she  stammered,  words 
crowding  tempestuously  to  her  tongue. 
"  How  could  you  stay,  and  not  work  out 
your  own  life,  not  make  your  way  in  the 
world  like  uncle  Powers  ?  How  it  would 
trouble  him  to  hear  you  say  that !  " 

He  was  a  trifle  ashamed  of  his  desire 
to  keep  out  of  the  fight  any  longer' 
Hers,  he  judged,  was  a  militant,  am- 
bitious nature,  and  he  was  quick  to  feel 
what  she  expected  of  him. 

After  they  had  sat  there  a  long  time 
without  speaking,  she  said  gently,  as  if 
she  wished  to  be  just  to  him :  — 


"  It  might  be  different,  if  one  were 
an  artist ;  but  even  then  I  should  think 
a  man  would  want  to  carry  back  what 
he  had  received  here  to  the  place  he  was 
born  in,  —  should  n't  you  ?  " 

"  Well,  perhaps,"  he  admitted,  "  if  it 
were  n't  just  —  Chicago  !  " 

And  these  simple  words  of  the  girl 
spoken  in  the  garden  of  Ravello  were  a 
tonic  for  other  moments  of  regret. 

They  made  the  long  voyage  homewards 
through  the  Mediterranean,  touching  at 
Gibraltar  for  a  last,  faint  glimpse  of  ro- 
mance. It  was  a  placid  journey  in  a  slow 
steamer,  with  a  small  company  of  dull, 
middle  -  aged  Americans,  and  the  two 
were  left  much  to  themselves.  In  the  iso- 
lation of  the  sunny,  windless  sea,  their 
acquaintance  took  on  imperceptibly  a  per- 
sonal character.  After  the  fashion  of  the 
egotistic  male,  he  told  her,  bit  by  bit,  all 
that  he  knew  about  himself,  —  his  college 
days,  his  friends,  and  his  work  at  the 
Beaux  Arts.  From  the  past,  —  his  past, 
—  they  slid  to  the  future  that  lay  before 
him  on  the  other  shore  of  the  Atlantic. 
He  sketched  for  her  in  colored  words  the 
ideals  of  his  majestic  art.  Tucked  up  on 
deck  those  long,  cloudless  nights,  they 
touched  the  higher  themes,  —  what  a  man 
could  do,  as  Richardson  and  Atwood  had 
shown  the  glorious  way,  toward  express- 
ing the  character  and  spirit  of  his  race 
in  brick  and  stone  and  steel ! 

Such  thoughts  as  these  touched  the 
girl's  imagination,  just  as  the  sweet  frag- 
ments of  a  civilization  finer  than  ours 
had  stirred  her  heart  in  Italy.  All  these 
ideas  she  took  to  be  the  architect's 
original  possessions,  not  being  familiar 
with  the  froth  of  Paris  studios,  the  wis- 
dom of  long  dejeuners.  And  she  was 
eager  over  his  plans  for  the  future.  For 
something  earnest  and  large  was  the  first 
craving  of  her  soul,  something  that  had 
in  it  service  and  beauty  in  life.  .  .  . 

At  the  time  of  the  great  exposition  in 
Chicago  she  had  had  these  matters 
brought  to  her  attention.  Powers  Jack- 
son, as  one  of  the  directors  of  the  enter- 


The   Common  Lot. 


21 


prise,  had  entertained  many  of  the  artists 
and  distinguished  men  who  came  to  the 
city,  and  at  his  dinner-table  she  had 
heard  men  talk  whose  vital  ideals  were 
being  worked  into  the  beautiful  buildings 
beside  the  lake.  Their  words  she  had 
hoarded  in  her  schoolgirl's  memory,  and 
now  in  her  sympathy  for  the  young 
architect  she  began  to  see  what  could  be 
done  with  an  awakened  feeling  for  art, 
for  social  life,  to  make  our  strong  young 
cities  memorable.  This,  she  dreamed 
shyly,  would  be  the  work  of  the  man  be- 
side her ! 

He  was  handsome  and  strong,  vigor- 
ously built,  though  inclined  to  heaviness 
of  body.  His  brown  hair  waved  under 
his  straw  hat,  and  a  thick  mustache 
turned  stiffly  upwards  in  the  style  of  the 
German  Emperor,  which  was  then  just 
coming  into  fashion.  This  method  of 
wearing  the  mustache,  and  also  a  habit 
of  dressing  rather  too  well,  troubled  the 
girl ;  for  she  knew  that  uncle  Powers 
would  at  once  note  such  trivial  aspects  of 
his  nephew.  The  keen  old  man  might 
say  nothing,  but  he  would  think  con- 
temptuous thoughts.  The  young  archi- 
tect's complexion  was  ruddy,  healthily 
bronzed  ;  his  features  were  regular  and 
large,  as  a  man's  should  be.  Altogether 
he  was  a  handsome,  alert,  modern  Amer- 
ican. Too  handsome  !  She  thought  ap- 
prehensively of  the  rough-looking,  rude 
old  man  at  home,  his  face  tanned  and 
beaten,  knobby  and  hard  like  the  gnarled 
stump  of  an  oak  ! 

She  was  very  anxious  that  the  archi- 
tect should  make  a  good  impression  on 
his  uncle,  not  simply  for  his  own  sake, 
but  for  the  lonely  old  man's  comfort. 
She  felt  that  she  knew  Powers  Jackson 
better  than  his  nephew  did  ;  knew  what 
he  liked  and  what  he  despised.  She 
wanted  him  to  love  this  nephew.  Sev- 
eral times  she  talked  to  Jackson  about 
his  uncle.  The  young  man  listened  with 
an  amused  smile,  as  if  he  had  already  a 
good  formula  for  the  old  man. 

"  Mother  can't  get  him  out  of  that 


Mansard  brick  menagerie  on  Ohio  Street, 
where  he  has  lived  since  the  fire.  All 
his  friends  have  moved  away  from  the 
neighborhood.  But  he  thinks  the  black- 
walnut  rooms,  the  stamped  leather  on  the 
walls,  and  the  rest  of  it,  is  the  best  going 
yet.  That  buffet,  as  he  calls  it !  It 's 
early  Victorian,  a  regular  chef-d'oeuvre 
of  ugliness.  That  house !  " 

"  It 's  always  been  his  home,"  she  pro- 
tested, finding  something  trivial  in  put- 
ting this  comic  emphasis  on  sideboards 
and  bookcases.  "  He  cares  about  good 
things  too.  Lately  he  's  taken  to  buying 
engravings.  Mr.  Hollister  interested  him 
in  them.  And  I  think  he  would  like  to 
buy  pictures,  if  he  was  n't  afraid  of  being 
cheated,  of  making  a  fool  of  himself." 

"  You  '11  make  him  out  a  patron  of 
the  fine  arts." 

Jackson  laughed  long  at  the  picture 
of  his  uncle  as  a  connoisseur  in  art. 

"  Perhaps  he  will  be  yet !  "  she  re- 
torted stoutly.  "  At  any  rate,  he  is  a 
very  dear  old  man." 

He  would  not  have  described  his  uncle 
Powers  in  the  same  simple  words.  Still 
he  had  the  kindest  feelings  toward  him, 
mixed  with  a  latent  anxiety  over  what 
the  old  man  would  do  about  his  allow- 
ance, now  that  his  schooldays  had  come 
definitely  to  a  close.  .  .  . 

Thus  in  the  long  hours  of  that  voyage, 
with  the  sound  of  the  gurgling,  dripping 
water  all  about  them,  soothed  with  the 
rhythm  of  pounding  engines,  the  man 
and  the  woman  came  to  a  sort  of  know- 
ledge of  each  other.  There  was  created 
in  the  heart  of  each  a  vision  of  the  other. 
The  girl's  vision  was  glorified  by  the 
warmth  of  her  imagination,  which  trans- 
formed all  her  simple  experiences.  In 
her  heart,  if  she  had  looked  there,  she 
would  have  seen  an  image  of  youth  and 
power,  very  handsome,  with  great  mas- 
culine hopes,  and  aspirations  after  un- 
wrought  deeds.  Unconsciously  she  had 
given  to  that  image  something  which  she 
could  never  take  back  all  the  years  of  her 
life,  let  her  marry  whom  she  might ! 


22 


The   Common  Lot. 


And  he  could  remember  her,  if  here- 
after he  should  come  to  love  her,  as  she 
was  these  last  days.  The  shadow  of  the 
end  of  the  romance  was  upon  her,  and  it 
left  her  subdued.  To  the  artist  in  the 
architect  her  head  was  too  large,  the  brow 
not  smooth  enough,  the  hair  two  shades 
too  dark,  the  full  face  too  broad.  The 
blue  eyes  and  the  trembling,  small  mouth 
gave  a  certain  childishness  to  her  ex- 
pression that  the  young  man  could  not 
understand.  It  was  only  when  she  spoke 
that  he  was  much  moved  ;  for  her  voice 
was  very  sweet,  uncertain  in  its  accents, 
tremulous.  She  seemed  to  breathe  into 
commonplace  words  some  revelation  of 
herself.  .  .  . 

In  the  morning  of  their  arrival  the  lofty 
buildings  of  the  great  city  loomed  through 
the  mist.  The  architect  said  :  — 

"  There  are  the  hills  of  the  New  World ! 
Here  endeth  the  first  chapter." 

"  I  cannot  believe  it  has  ended,"  she 
replied  slowly.  "  Nothing  ends  !  " 

Powers  Jackson  and  Mrs.  Spellman 
met  the  travelers  in  New  York.  It  was 
just  at  the  time  that  Jackson  was  nego- 
tiating with  the  promoters  of  a  large 
trust  for  the  sale  of  his  Bridge  Works. 
This  fact  his  nephew  did  not  learn  for 
some  months,  for  the  old  man  made  it  a 
rule  to  tell  nothing  about  his  deeds  and 
intentions.  At  any  rate,  he  did  sell  the 
Works  one  morning  in  the  lobby  of  his 
hotel  and  for  his  own  price,  which  was 
an  outrageous  one  as  the  stockholders 
of  the  new  trust  came  to  know  to  their 
chagrin. 

He  shook  hands  with  his  sister,  kissed 
Helen  on  the  forehead,  and  nodded  to 
his  nephew. 

"  How  's  the  Pope,  Amelia  ?  "  he 
asked  gravely. 

"  You  need  n't  ask  me  !  Did  you 
think,  Powers,  I  'd  be  one  to  go  over  to 
the  Vatican  and  kiss  that  old  man's 
hand  ?  I  hope  I  'm  too  good  a  Chris- 
tian to  do  that !  " 

"  Oh,  don't  be  too  hard  on  the  feller," 


Jackson  said,  continuing  his  joke.  "  I 
hoped  you  'd  pay  your  respects  to  the 
Pope.  Why,  he  's  the  smartest  one  of 
the  whole  bunch  over  there,  I  guess." 

He  looked  to  Helen  for  sympathy.  It 
should  be  said  that  Powers  Jackson  re- 
garded his  sister  Amelia  as  a  fool,  but 
that  he  never  allowed  himself  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  the  fact  except  in  such  trifling 
ways  as  this. 

When  the  two  men  were  alone  in  the 
private  parlor  at  the  hotel,  the  uncle 
said  :  — 

"  So  you  've  finished  up  now?  You  're 
all  through  over  there  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  Hart  answered,  not  feel- 
ing at  all  at  his  ease  with  this  calm  old 
man.  "  I  guess  I  am  ready  to  begin 
building,  as  soon  as  any  one  will  have 
me!" 

"  I  see  there  's  plenty  doing  in  your 
line,  all  over." 

The  architect  fidgeted  before  he  could 
think  what  to  say.  Then  he  expressed 
his  sense  of  gratitude  for  the  great  op- 
portunities his  uncle  had  given  him  in 
Paris.  Jackson  listened  but  said  nothing. 
The  architect  was  conscious  that  the  old 
man  had  taken  in  with  one  sweep  of  his 
sharp  little  eyes  his  complete  appearance. 
He  suspected  that  the  part  in  the  middle 
of  his  brown  hair,  the  pert  lift  to  the  ends 
of  his  mustache,  the  soft  stock  about  his 
neck,  the  lavender  colored  silk  shirt  in 
which  he  had  prepared  to  meet  the  piti- 
less glare  of  the  June  sun  in  the  city,  — 
that  all  these  items  had  been  noted  and 
disapproved.  He  reflected  somewhat  re- 
sentfully that  he  was  not  obliged  to  make 
a  guy  of  himself  to  please  his  uncle.  He 
found  his  uncle's  clothes  very  bad.  Pow- 
ers Jackson  was  a  large  man,  and  his 
clothes,  though  made  by  one  of  the  best 
tailors  in  Chicago,  had  a  draggled  ap- 
pearance, as  if  he  had  forgotten  to  take 
them  off  when  he  went  to  bed.  However, 
when  the  old  man  next  spoke,  he  made 
no  reference  to  his  nephew's  attire. 

"  I  was  talking  to  Wright  about  you 
the  other  day.  Ever  heard  of  him?  " 


The   Common  Lot. 


23 


"  Of  Walker,  Post  &  Wright?  "  Hart 
asked,  naming  one  of  the  best  known 
firms  of  architects  in  the  country. 

"  Yes.  They  've  been  doing  something 
for  me  in  Chicago.  If  you  have  n't  made 
any  plans,  you  might  start  in  their  office. 
That  '11  teach  you  the  ropes  over  here." 

Nothing  was  said  about  an  allowance 
or  a  continuation  of  those  generous  and 
gratefully  acknowledged  cheques  which 
had  made  life  at  Cornell  and  at  Paris  so 
joyous. 

And  nothing  more  was  ever  said  about 
them  !  Jackson  Hart  had  taken  the  posi- 
tion that  Wright  had  made  for  him  in 
his  Chicago  office,  and  within  a  fortnight 
of  the  day  he  landed  at  New  York  he 
was  making  his  daily  pilgrimage  to  the 
twelfth  floor  of  the  Maramanoc  Building, 
where  under  the  bulkheads  worked  a 
company  of  young  gentlemen  in  their 
shirt-sleeves. 

That  was  two  years  ago,  and  by  this 
time  he  was  ready  for  almost  any  kind  of 
change. 

III. 

The  morning  after  the  funeral  Francis 
Jackson  Hart  was  working  on  the  eleva- 
tion of  a  large  hotel  that  Walker,  Post 
&  Wright  were  to  build  in  Denver.  This 
was  in  all  probability  the  last  piece  of 
work  that  he  should  be  called  upon  to  do 
for  that  firm,  and  the  thought  was  plea- 
sant to  him.  He  had  not  spent  an  al- 
together happy  two  years  in  that  office. 
It  was  a  large  firm,  with  other  offices  in 
St.  Paul  and  New  York,  and  work  under 
construction  in  a  dozen  different  states. 
Wright  was  the  only  member  of  the  firm 
who  ever  thought  of  coming  to  Chicago ; 
he  dropped  into  the  office  nearly  every 
month,  coming  from  somewhere  north  or 
east  and  bound  for  somewhere  south  or 
west,  with  only  a  few  days  to  spare.  He 
was  a  tall,  thin  man,  with  harassed,  near- 
sighted eyes,  —  a  gentleman,  and  well 
trained  in  his  profession  according  to  the 
standards  of  a  generation  ago.  But  he 


had  fallen  upon  a  commercial  age,  and 
had  not  been  large  enough  to  sway  it. 
He  made  decent  compromises  between  his 
taste  and  that  of  his  clients,  and  prided 
himself  on  the  honesty  of  construction  in 
his  buildings. 

Wright  had  hurt  Hart's  susceptibilities 
almost  at  the  start,  when  he  remarked 
about  a  sketch  that  the  young  architect 
had  made  for  a  new  telephone  exchange : 

"  All  you  want,  my  boy,  is  the  figure  of 
a  good  fat  woman  flopping  around  above 
the  third  story  to  make  the  Prix  de 
Rome" 

For  the  next  few  months  Hart  had 
been  kept  busy  drawing  spandrels.  From 
this  he  was  promoted  to  designing  stables 
for  rich  clients.  He  resented  the  im- 
plied criticism  of  his  judgment,  and  he 
put  Wright  down  as  a  mere  Philistine, 
who  had  got  his  training  in  an  American 
office. 

Now,  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  took 
down  his  street  coat  and  adjusted  his 
cuffs  before  going  over  to  his  cousin's 
office  to  hear  the  will,  he  should  leave 
Wright's  "  department  store,"  and  show 
"  the  old  man  "  what  he  thought  of  the 
kind  of  building  the  firm  was  putting  up 
for  rich  and  common  people.  He,  at  least, 
would  not  be  obliged  to  be  mercenary. 
His  two  years'  experience  in  Chicago  had 
taught  him  something  about  the  fierce- 
ness of  the  struggle  to  exist  in  one  of  the 
professions,  especially  in  a  profession 
where  there  is  an  element  of  fine  art. 
And  his  appetite  to  succeed,  to  be  some 
one  in  the  hurly-burly  of  Chicago,  had 
grown  very  fast.  For  he  had  found  him- 
self less  of  a  person  in  his  native  city 
than  he  had  thought  it  possible  over  in 
Paris,  —  even  with  the  help  of  his  rich 
uncle,  with  whom  he  had  continued  to 
live. 

So,  as  the  elevator  of  the  Dearborn 
Building  bore  him  upwards  that  after- 
noon, his  heart  beat  exultantly :  he  was 
to  hear  in  a  few  moments  what  advan- 
tage he  had  been  given  over  all  the  toil- 
ing, sweating  fraternity  here  in  the  ele- 


24 


The   Common  Lot. 


vator,  out  there  on  the  street !  By  the 
right  of  fortunate  birth  he  was  to  be 
spared  the  common  lot  of  man,  to  be 
placed  high  up  on  the  long,  long  ladder 
of  human  fate.  .  .  . 

When  he  entered  Everett  Wheeler's 
private  office,  Hollister  was  talking  with 
Judge  Phillips.  The  latter  nodded  plea- 
santly to  the  young  man,  and  gave  him 
his  hand. 

"How  do  you  do,  sir?"  he  asked, 
with  great  emphasis. 

The  judge,  who  had  not  sat  in  a  court 
for  more  than  a  generation,  was  a  vigor- 
ous, elderly  man,  with  a  sweeping  gray 
mustache.  He  was  an  old  resident  of 
Chicago,  and  had  made  much  money, 
most  of  it  in  Powers  Jackson's  enter- 
prises. 

Hollister  nodded  briskly  to  the  archi- 
tect, and  motioned  him  to  a  seat.  Pre- 
sently Everett  came  in  from  the  safe 
where  he  had  gone  to  get  some  papers, 
and  Hollister,  who  seemed  to  be  spokes- 
man for  the  executors,  clearing  his  throat, 
began :  — 

"  Well,  gentlemen,  we  all  know  what 
we  are  here  for,  I  presume." 

The  young  architect  never  remem- 
bered clearly  how  it  all  came  about.  At 
first  he  wondered  why  old  Hollister 
should  open  the  proceedings  with  such 
elaborate  eulogies  of  the  dead  man.  Hol- 
lister kept  saying  that  few  men  had  un- 
derstood the  real  man  in  Powers  Jack- 
son, the  warm,  man's  heart  that  beat 
beneath  the  rude  and  silent  manner. 

"  I  want  to  say,"  Hollister  exclaimed 
in  a  burst  of  unwonted  emotion,  "  that 
it  was  more  than  mutual  interest  which 
allied  the  judge  and  me  to  Mr.  Jackson. 
It  was  admiration  !  Admiration  for  the 
man ! " 

The  judge  punctuated  this  opinion 
with  a  grave  nod. 

"  Especially  these  latter  years,  when 
your  uncle  was  searching  for  a  way  in 
which  he  might  most  benefit  the  world 
with  the  fortune  that  he  had  earned  by 
his  ability  and  hard  work." 


The  gray-bearded  man  ceased  talking 
for  a  moment  and  looked  at  the  two 
younger  men.  Everett  was  paring  his 
nails,  very  neatly,  with  the  air  of  atten- 
tion he  wore  when  he  was  engaged  in  tak- 
ing a  deposition.  The  architect  looked 
blankly  mystified. 

"  He  wanted  to  help  men,"  Hollister 
resumed  less  demonstratively.  "  Espe- 
cially workingmen,  the  kind  he  had  known 
all  his  life.  He  never  forgot  that  he 
worked  at  the  forge  the  first  five  years 
he  lived  in  Chicago.  And  no  matter 
what  the  labor  unions  say,  or  the  cheap 
newspaper  writers,  there  was  n't  a  man 
in  this  city  who  cared  for  the  best  inter- 
ests of  laboring  men  more  than  Powers 
Jackson." 

Across  the  judge's  handsome  face  flit- 
ted the  glimmer  of  a  smile,  as  if  other 
memories,  slightly  contradictory,  would 
intrude  themselves  on  this  eulogy.  Ever- 
ett, having  finished  cutting  his  nails,  was 
examining  his  shoes.  He  might  be  think- 
ing of  the  price  of  steel  billets  in  Liver- 
pool, or  he  might  be  thinking  that  Hol- 
lister was  an  ass,  —  no  one  could  tell. 

"  He  took  advice  ;  he  consulted  many 
men,  among  them  the  president  of  a 
great  Eastern  university.  And  here  in 
this  document  "  —  Hollister  took  up  the 
will  — "  he  embodied  the  results,  —  his 
purposes." 

In  the  architect's  confused  memory  of 
the  fateful  scene  there  was  at  this  point 
a  red  spot  of  consciousness.  The  man 
of  affairs,  looking  straight  at  him,  seem- 
ingly, announced : — 

"  Powers  Jackson  left  the  bulk  of  his 
large  fortune  in  trust  with  the  purpose 
of  founding  a  great  school  for  the  chil- 
dren of  workingmen ! " 

There  ensued  a  brief  pause.  Hart  did 
not  comprehend  at  once  the  full  signifi- 
cance of  what  had  been  said.  But  the 
others  made  no  remark,  and  so  Hollister 
asked  the  lawyer  to  read  the  will,  clause 
by  clause. 

It  was  a  very  brief  document.  There 
was  an  item,  Jackson  recalled  afterward, 


The   Common  Lot. 


25 


leaving  the  old  family  farm  at  Vernon 
Falls  in  Vermont  to  "my  dear  young 
friend,  Helen  Powers  Spellman,  because 
she  will  love  it  for  my  sake  as  well  as 
for  itself."  And  to  this  bequest  was 
added  a  few  thousand  dollars  as  a  main- 
tenance fund. 

He  might  have  treated  her  more  gen- 
erously, it  occurred  to  the  architect  vague- 
ly, valuing  in  his  own  mind  the  old  place 
as  naught. 

"And  to  my  nephews,  Everett  Wheeler 
and  Francis  Jackson  Hart,  ten  thousand 
dollars  each  in  the  following  securities." 

This  he  understood  immediately.  So, 
that  was  his  figure  !  He  scarcely  noted 
the  next  clause,  which  gave  to  his  mother 
the  Ohio  Street  house  and  a  liberal  income 
for  her  life.  He  did  not  fully  recover 
himself  until  Hollister  remarked  with  a 
little  upward  inflection  of  satisfaction : 

"  Now  we  come  to  the  core  of  the  ap- 
ple ! " 

Slowly,  deliberately,  Everett  read 
on:  — 

"  Being  desirous  that  the  larger  part 
of  whatever  wealth  I  may  die  possessed 
of  may  be  made  of  immediate  and  wide 
benefit  to  mankind,  I  do  give  and  be- 
queath the  residue  of  my  estate  to  Judge 
Harrison  Phillips,  Everett  Wheeler,  and 
Mark  Kingsford  Hollister,  in  trust,  for 
the  following  described  purposes.  .  .  . 
Said  fund  and  its  accumulations  to  be 
devoted  to  the  founding  and  maintenance 
of  a  school  or  institution  for  the  purpose 
of  providing  an  education,  industrial  and 
technical,  for  the  children  of  working- 
men,  of  the  city  of  Chicago." 

"  That,"  exclaimed  Hollister  trium- 
phantly, "  is  to  be  Powers  Jackson's  gift 
to  mankind !  " 

There  were  a  few  more  sentences  to 
the  will,  elaborating  slightly  the  donor's 
design  and  providing  for  a  partition  of 
the  estate  into  building  and  endowment 
funds.  Yet,  as  a  whole,  the  document 
was  singularly  simple,  almost  bare  in  its 
disposition  of  a  very  large  amount  of 
money.  It  reposed  a  great  trust  in  the 


men  selected  to  carry  out  the  design,  in 
their  will  and  intelligence.  Doubtless 
the  old  man  had  taken  Hollister,  at  least, 
into  his  confidence,  and  had  contented 
himself  with  leaving  verbal  and  general 
directions,  knowing  full  well  the  fate 
of  elaborately  conceived  bequests.  The 
wise  old  man  seemed  to  have  contented 
himself  with  outlining  broadly  and  plain- 
ly his  large  intention. 

"  That 's  a  pretty  bad  piece  of  work, 
that  instrument,"  Everett  observed,  nar- 
rowing his  eyes  to  a  thin  slit.  "  He 
didn't  get  me  to  draw  it  up.  I  can't 
see  how  the  old  man  could  trust  his  stuff 
to  such  a  loosely  worded  document." 

"  Fortunately,"  Hollister  hastened  to 
say,  "  in  this  case  we  may  hope  that  will 
make  no  difference." 

There  was  an  awkward  pause,  and 
then  the  lawyer  replied  drawlingly :  — 

"  No,  I  don't  suppose  there  '11  be  any 
trouble.  I  don't  see  why  there  should 
be." 

Jackson  felt  dimly  that  here  was  his 
chance  to  protest,  to  object  to  Everett's 
calm  acceptance  of  the  will.  But  a  cer- 
tain shame,  or  diffidence,  restrained  him 
at  the  moment  from  showing  these  men 
that  he  felt  injured  by  his  uncle's  will. 
He  said  nothing,  and  Hollister  began  to 
talk  of  the  projected  school.  It  was  to 
be  something  new,  not  exactly  like  any 
other  attempt  in  education  in  our  coun- 
try, and  it  would  take  time  to  perfect  the 
details  of  the  plan.  There  was  no  need 
for  haste. 

"  We  must  build  for  generations  when 
we  do  start,"  Hollister  said.     "  And  the 
other  trustees  agree  with  me  that  this 
is  not  the  most  opportune  time  for  con-  * 
verting  the  estate  into  ready  money." 

"  It  will  pretty  nearly  double  the  next 
five  years,"  the  judge  observed  authori- 
tatively. 

"  At  the  present,  as  closely  as  we  can 
estimate  it,  there  is  available  for  the  pur- 
poses of  the  trust  a  little  over  three  mil- 
lions of  dollars." 

Over  three  millions !     Jackson  Hart 


26 


The   Common  Lot. 


started  in  his  chair.  He  had  had  no 
idea  that  his  uncle  was  worth  anything 
like  that  amount.  And  these  shrewd 
men  thought  it  would  probably  double 
during  the  next  five  years !  Well,  so 
far  as  he  was  concerned  it  might  be  three 
cents.  Possibly  Everett  would  get  a  few 
dollars  out  of  it  as  trustee.  He  had  al- 
ready shared  in  some  of  the  old  man's 
plums,  Hart  reflected  bitterly.  While 
the  trustees  were  discussing  some  detail 
among  themselves,  the  young  architect 
made  an  excuse  of  a  business  engage- 
ment and  slipped  away.  Just  as  he 
reached  the  door,  Everett  called  out :  — 

"  We  '11  send  the  will  over  for  probate 
to-morrow.  If  there  's  no  hitch,  the  lega- 
cies will  be  paid  at  once.  I  '11  be  over 
to  see  your  mother  very  soon  and  ar- 
range for  the  payment  of  her  annuity." 

Jackson  nodded.  He  did  not  like  to 
try  his  voice.  He  knew  that  it  was  very 
dry.  Somehow  he  found  himself  in  the 
elevator  herded  in  a  cage  of  office  boys 
and  clerks,  sweating  and  dirty  from  a 
long  day's  work.  At  the  street  level  he 
bought  a  newspaper,  and  the  first  thing 
that  caught  his  eye  in  its  damp  folds 
were  the  headlines  :  — 

JACKSON'S  MILLIONS  GO  TO  EDUCA- 
TION 

THE   STEEL    MAGNATE'S    MONEY   WILL 
FOUND   INDUSTRIAL   SCHOOL 

Hart  crumpled  up  the  sheet  and  threw 
it  into  the  gutter.  The  first  intelligible 
feeling  that  he  had  over  his  situation  was 
a  sort  of  shame  that  his  uncle  should 
have  held  him  so  cheap.  For  so  he  in- 
terpreted the  gift  of  ten  thousand  dol- 
lars !  And  he  began  to  try  in  his  mind 
the  case  between  himself  and  his  uncle. 
He  had  always  been  led  to  believe  that 
he  was  the  most  favored  of  all  the  old 
man's  dependents.  Surely  he  had  been 
treated  like  a  son,  and  he  was  not  con- 
scious that  he  had  ever  been  ungrateful 
or  unworthy.  Now,  without  having  com- 
mitted any  public  folly,  he  was  made  a 


thing  of  pity  and  contempt  before  his 
friends ! 

He  resented  the  old  man's  kindness, 
now  that  he  knew  where  it  led.  Very 
swiftly  he  began  to  realize  what  it  would 
mean  to  be  without  fortune.  He  had  in- 
tended to  move  to  New  York,  where  some 
of  his  friends  had  started  prosperously, 
and  had  invited  him  to  join  them.  And 
there  was  Helen,  whom  he  had  come  to 
love !  Marriage  was  now  out  of  the 
question.  For  Helen  no  more  than  he 
had  been  favored  by  his  uncle.  Even 
Helen,  whom  he  had  pretended  to  love, 
had  been  left  with  only  a  stony  farm. .  . . 

Thus  he  ploughed  his  way  down  the 
murky  street  in  the  direction  of  the  North 
Side  -Bridge.  The  gloom  of  a  foggy 
spring  evening  was  added  to  the  smoke 
and  grime  of  the  careless  city.  The  ar- 
chitect felt  dirty  and  uncomfortable,  and 
he  knew  now  that  he  was  condemned  to 
struggle  on  in  this  unlovely  metropolis, 
where  even  the  baked  meats  of  life  were 
flung  at  one  ungarnished. 

When  the  architect  entered  the  house, 
his  uncle's  old  home,  his  mother  was 
sitting  by  the  library  table  reading,  just 
as  she  had  sat  and  read  for  the  past 
twenty  years.  Powers  Jackson  had  seen 
to  it  that  she  could  continue  this  habit  as 
long  as  she  might  live.  She  called  to 
her  son  :  — 

"  You  're  late,  son.  Supper  's  on  the 
table." 

"  Don't  wait  for  me.  I  must  -wash 
up,"  he  answered  dully. 

When  he  joined  his  mother  at  the 
supper-table,  his  mustache  was  brushed 
upwards  in  a  confident  wave,  and  his 
face,  though  serious,  was  not  blackened 
by  soot  and  care. 

"  Did  you  see  Everett  ?  "  Mrs.  Hart 
asked  suggestively. 

Jackson  told  her  in  a  few  words  the 
chief  provisions  of  the  will  as  he  remem- 
bered them.  For  some  moments  she 
said  nothing.  Then  she  remarked,  with 
a  note  of  annoyance  in  her  voice  :  — 


The   Common  Lot. 


27 


"  Powers  was  always  bound  I  sh'd 
never  leave  this  house  except  to  follow 
him  to  Rose  Hill.  He  's  fixed  it  so  now 
I  can't!  I  could  never  make  him  see 
how  sooty  it  was  here.  We  have  to  wash 
the  curtains  and  things  once  a  fortnight, 
and  then  they  ain't  fit  to  be  seen." 

Her  son,  who  thought  that  he  had  his 
own  grievances  against  his  uncle,  made 
no  reply  to  this  complaint.  Before  they 
had  finished  their  meal,  Mrs.  Hart 
added : — 

"  He  might  have  done  more  for  you, 
too,  seeing  what  a  sight  of  money  he  left." 

"  Yes,  he  might  have  done  it,  but  you 
see  he  did  n't  choose  to.  And  I  guess 
the  best  thing  we  can  do  is  to  say  as 
little  as  possible  about  the  money.  That 
is,  unless  we  decide  to  fight  the  will." 

He  threw  this  out  tentatively.  It  had 
not  occurred  to  him  to  contest  the  will 
until  he  began  to  wash  for  supper.  Then 
he  had  thought  suddenly  :  — 

"  Why  should  I  stand  it  ?  " 

But  Mrs.  Hart,  who  had  never  opposed 
her  brother  in  all  her  life,  exclaimed :  — 

"  You  would  n't  do  that,  Jackson !  I 
am  sure  Powers  would  n't  like  it." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  the  young  man  replied 
ironically.  "  It  is  n't  his  money,  now, 
though." 

It  occurred  to  him  soon,  however,  that 
by  this  act  he  would  endanger  his  mo- 
ther's comfortable  inheritance,  besides  es- 
tranging his  cousin  Everett  and  all  the  old 
man's  friends.  To  contest  the  will  would 
be  a  risk.  It  was  a  matter  upon  which 
he  should  have  to  take  advice  at  once. 
When  he  spoke  again  at  the  end  of  their 
supper,  he  said  judicially  :  — 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  comfortably 
looked  out  for,  though  I  hope  I  should  al- 
ways be  able  to  give  you  a  home  anyway. 
And  we  must  remember  that  uncle  gave 
me  my  education  and  my  three  years  in 
Paris,  and  I  suppose  that  after  that  he 
thought  ten  thousand  dollars  was  all  that 
I  was  worth,  —  or  could  take  care  of !  " 

He  said  this,  standing  in  front  of  the 
heavy  black-walnut  bookcases,  which  he 


abhorred,  while  he  lit  a  cigarette,  one  of 
those  vices  despised  by  the  old  man.  He 
felt  that  he  was  taking  his  injury  in  a 
manly  way,  although  he  still  reserved  to 
himself  the  right  to  seek  relief  from  the 
courts.  And  in  the  deeper  reaches  of  his 
being  there  was  a  bitter  sense  of  resent- 
ment, a  desire  to  make  the  world  pay 
him  in  some  manner  for  his  disappoint- 
ment. If  he  had  to,  he  would  show 
people  that  he  could  make  his  own  way ; 
that  he  was  more  than  the  weakling  his 
uncle  had  contemptuously  overlooked  -in 
the  disposal  of  his  property.  He  should 
rise  in  his  profession,  make  money,  and 
show  the  world  how  he  could  swim  with- 
out Powers  Jackson's  millions. 

"  What  kind  of  a  school  are  they  go- 
ing to  start  with  all  that  money  ?  "  Mrs. 
Hart  asked,  as  she  seated  herself  for  the 
evening. 

"  Oh,  something  technical.  For  sons 
of  mechanics,  a  kind  of  mechanics'  in- 
stitute." 

He  thought  of  some  of  the  old  man's 
caustic  remarks  about  charities. 

"  Wanted  to  make  good  before  he 
quit,  I  suppose,"  he  mused. 

"  Will  you  stay  on  with  that  firm  ?  " 
Mrs.  Hart  asked,  taking  up  Lanciani's 
Pagan  and  Christian  Rome. 

"  I  suppose  I  '11  have  to,"  her  son  an- 
swered after  a  time.  .  .  . 

Thus  these  two  accepted  the  dead 
man's  will.  Powers  Jackson  had  come 
to  his  decision  after  long  deliberation, 
judging  that  toward  all  who  might  have 
claims  of  any  kind  upon  him  he  had  acted 
justly  and  generously.  He  had  studied 
these  people  about  him  for  a  long  time. 
With  Everett  he  had  acquitted  himself 
years  before,  when  he  had  put  it  in  the 
young  man's  way  to  make  money  in  his 
profession,  to  kill  his  prey  for  himself. 
Jackson,  he  deemed,  would  get  most  out 
of  the  fight  of  life  by  making  the  strug- 
gle, as  he  had  made  it  himself,  unaided. 
As  for  Helen,  he  had  given  the  girl  what 
was  most  intimately  his,  and  what  would 
do  her  the  least  harm  by  attracting  to  her 


28  Reliance, 

the  attention  of  the  unscrupulous  world,  doubt.  Whether  or  not  he  had  chosen 
There  remained  what  might  be  called  his  the  best  way  to  settle  this  account  with 
general  account  with  the  world,  and  at  the  world,  by  trying  to  help  those  unfa- 
the  end  he  had  sought  to  settle  this,  the  vored  by  birth,  cannot  be  easily  answered, 
largest  of  all.  Conceiving  it  to  be  his  inalienable  right 

Powers  Jackson  had  not  been  a  good  to  do  with  his  money  what  he  would, 
man,  as  has  been  hinted,  but  that  he  after  death  as  in  life,  he  had  tried  to  do 
took  his  responsibilities  to  heart  and  a  large  thing  with  it.  Thus  far,  he  had 
struggled  to  meet  them  there  can  be  no  succeeded  in  embittering  his  nephew. 

Robert  Herrick. 
(To  be  continued.) 


KELIANCE. 

NOT  to  the  swift,  the  race: 
Not  to  the  strong,  the  fight: 
Not  to  the  righteous,  perfect  grace: 
Not  to  the  wise,  the  light. 

But  often  faltering  feet 
Come  surest  to  the  goal ; 
And  they  who  walk  in  darkness  meet 
The  sunrise  of  the  soul. 

A  thousand  times  by  night 
The  Syrian  hosts  have  died ; 
A  thousand  times  the  vanquished  right 
Hath  risen,  glorified. 

The  truth  the  wise  men  sought 
Was  spoken  by  a  child; 
The  alabaster  box  was  brought 
In  trembling  hands  defiled. 

Not  from  my  torch,  the  gleam, 
But  from  the  stars  above : 
Not  from  my  heart,  life's  crystal  stream, 
But  from  the  depths  of  Love. 

Henry  van  Dyke. 


The  Psychology  of  Advertising. 


29 


THE   PSYCHOLOGY  OF  ADVERTISING. 

[This  article,  the  first  of  a  series  of  studies  of  Modern  Advertising,  has  been  written  by  Walter 
D.  Scott,  Assistant  Professor  of  Psychology  in  Northwestern  University.  —  THE  EDITORS.] 


THE  only  method  of  advertising  known 
to  the  ancients  was  the  word  of  mouth. 
The  merchant  who  had  wares  to  offer 
brought  them  to  the  gate  of  a  city  and 
there  cried  aloud,  making  the  worth  of 
his  goods  known  to  those  who  were  en- 
tering the  city,  and  who  might  be  induced 
to  turn  aside  and  purchase  them.  We 
are  not  more  amused  by  the  simplicity 
of  the  ancients  than  we  are  amazed  at 
the  magnitude  of  the  modern  systems  of 
advertising.  From  the  day  when  Boaz 
took  his  stand  by  the  gate  to  advertise 
Naomi's  parcel  of  land  by  crying,  u  Ho, 
.  .  .  turn  aside,"  to  the  day  when  Bar- 
num  billed  the  towns  for  his  three-ringed 
circus,  the  evolution  in  advertising  had 
been  gradual,  but  it  had  been  as  great  as 
that  from  the  anthropoid  ape  to  P.  T. 
Barnum  himself. 

As  soon  as  printed  symbols  were  in- 
vented the  advertising  man  made  use  of 
them  to  give  publicity  to  his  merchan- 
dise. We  find  advertisements  engraved 
on  walls  and  tombs,  written  on  parch- 
ment and  papyrus,  and  printed  by  the 
first  printing  presses.  Although  these 
various  forms  of  advertising  were  em- 
ployed, but  little  thought  and  care  seem 
to  have  been  expended  upon  them.  Post- 
ers, painted  signs,  street -car  placards, 
booklets,  calendars,  almanacs,  handbills, 
magazine  and  newspaper  advertising 
have  now  become  forms  of  advertising 
so  well  established  that  we  look  upon 
them  as  a  necessity,  and  are  surprised  to 
learn  that  most  of  them  are  modern  in- 
novations. 

The  first  advertisement  printed  in 
English  appeared  in  the  Imperial  In- 
telligencer in  March,  1648.  Advertis- 
ing in  magazines  was  not  begun  until 
comparatively  recent  times.  For  in- 
stance, the  first  advertisement  appeared 


in  Harper's  Magazine  in  1864.  In  this 
magazine  more  space  has  been  devoted 
to  advertising  during  the  past  year  than 
the  sum  total  of  space  for  the  twenty- 
four  years  from  1864  to  1887,  inclusive. 
Indeed,  advertising  may  be  said  to  have 
been  in  its  swaddling  clothes  until  about 
the  year  1887.  The  most  rapid  devel- 
opment has  taken  place  during  the  last 
fifteen  years.  The  change  has  been  so 
great  that  the  leading  advertisers  say 
that  in  comparison  with  to-day  there  was 
in  existence  fifteen  years  ago  no  adver- 
tising worthy  of  the  name. 

The  gain  in  the  quantity  of  advertis- 
ing can  be  seen  by  observing  the  increase 
in  the  number  of  pages  devoted  to  ad- 
vertisements in  any  of  our  publications. 
The  month  of  October  is  regarded  as  the 
typical  month,  therefore  we  present  the 
number  of  pages  devoted  to  advertise- 
ments for  the  month  of  October  in  Har- 
per's Magazine  for  each  year  from  the 
first  appearance  of  advertisements  in  that 
magazine  to  the  present  time,  • —  1864, 
3£  ;  '65,  2 ;  '66,  3  ;  '67,  6 ;  '68,  7£ ; 
'69,  5£  ;  '70, 4*  ;  '71,  3  J ;  '72,  2 ;  '73,  i  ; 
'74,  6 ;  '75,  0~;  '76,  0 ;  '77,  0 ;  '78,  0 ; 
'79,  0 ;  '80,  0 ;  '81,  0  ;  '82,  1£  ;  '83,  8J ; 
'84,  8 ;  '85, 1H ;  '86,  20  ;  '87,  37 ;  '88, 
54 ;  '89,  48  ;  '90,  73 ;  '91,  80£ ;  '92,  87  ,• 
'93,  77^ ;  '94,  75| ;  '95,  78£  ;  '96, 73  ; 
'97,  80f ;  '98,  81f  ;  '99,  106f  ;  1900, 
97i  ;  '01,  93^;  '02,  128;  '03,  141. 

It  will  be  noticed  in  the  data  as  given 
above  that  during  the  years  of  special 
prosperity  there  was  a  very  great  in- 
crease in  the  volume  of  advertising  while 
there  was  but  a  slight  falling  off  follow- 
ing a  financial  depression.  The  increase 
was  not  pronounced  until  about  1887, 
but  from  that  time  on  it  has  been  very 
marked,  not  only  in  Harper's,  but  in  al- 
most all  of  our  publications. 


30 


The  Psychology  of  Advertising. 


There  has  not  only  been  an  increase 
in  the  number  of  advertising  pages  in 
the  individual  publications,  but  the  num- 
ber of  publications  has  increased  enor- 
mously of  recent  years.  The  increase  of 
population  in  the  United  States  has  been 
rapid  during  the  last  fifty  years,  but  the 
increase  in  the  total  number  of  copies  of 
the  different  publications  has  been  many 
fold  greater.  Thus  the  distribution  of 
the  copies  of  these  periodicals  to  each 
individual  was  as  follows  :  — 

In  1850  each  individual  received  on 
the  average  18  copies  from  one  or  more 
of  these  periodicals  ;  in  1860,  29  ;  in 
1870,  39 ;  in  1880,  41 ;  in  1890,  74 ; 
in  1900,  107. 

A  significant  cause  of  this  increase  is 
the  reduction  in  the  subscription  price 
which  is  made  possible  because  of  the 
profit  accruing  to  such  publications  from 
their  advertisements.  The  total  income 
secured  from  subscriptions  for  all  these 
publications  last  year  was  less  than  the 
amount  paid  for  the  advertising  pages. 
We  have  this  current  year  about  20,000 
periodicals  carrying  advertisements,  each 
with  a  constantly  increasing  number  of 
pages  devoted  to  them,  and  with  a  rapidly 
advancing  rate  secured  for  each  adver- 
tisement. In  addition  to  this,  the  in- 
crease is  phenomenal  in  the  use  of  book- 
lets, posters,  painted  signs,  street-car 
placards,  almanacs,  and  many  other 
forms  of  advertising.  One  firm  is  sup- 
posed to  have  distributed  25,000,000 
almanacs  in  a  single  year. 

The  expense  connected  with  these 
various  forms  of  printed  advertising 
reaches  far  into  the  millions.  One  au- 
thority puts  the  total  annual  expense  of 
printed  forms  of  advertising  at  six  hun- 
dred million  dollars.  This  sum  does  not 
seem  to  be  an  exaggeration.  Mr.  Post 
spends  as  much  as  six  hundred  thousand 
dollars  annually  in  advertising  his  food 
products.  One  million  dollars  was  spent 
last  year  in  advertising  Force.  Over 
six  hundred  thousand  dollars  is  spent 
annually  in  advertising  Ayer's  remedies  ; 


and  over  one  million  dollars  in  adver- 
tising Peruna. 

The  advertising  rate  has  been  ad- 
vanced repeatedly  in  many  magazines 
during  the  last  few  years.  Firms  which 
formerly  paid  but  one  hundred  dollars 
for  a  full-page  advertisement  in  the  Cen- 
tury Magazine  now  pay  two  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars  for  the  same  amount  of 
space.  The  Ladies'  Home  Journal  has 
increased  its  advertising  rate  to  six  dol- 
lars for  a  single  agate  line  (there  are 
fourteen  agate  lines  to  the  inch),  the 
width  of  one  column,  for  a  single  inser- 
tion. The  cost  of  a  full  page  for  a  single 
issue  is  four  thousand  dollars.  The  Proc- 
ter &  Gamble  Co.  have  made  a  three 
years'  contract  for  a  single  page  in  each 
issue,  to  be  devoted  to  the  advertisement 
of  Ivory  Soap.  For  this  space  they  pay 
four  thousand  dollars  a  month,  forty-eight 
thousand  dollars  a  year,  and  one  hundred 
and  forty-four  thousand  dollars  for  the 
term  of  three  years.  Think  of  the  risk 
a  firm  runs  in  investing  four  thousand 
dollars  in  a  single  page  advertisement ! 
How  can  they  expect  to  get  back  the 
equivalent  of  such  a  sum  of  money  from 
a  single  advertisement  ? 

There  are  very  many  advertisements 
that  do  not  pay.  One  man  has  roughly 
estimated  tha.t  seventy-five  per  cent  of 
all  advertisements  do  not  pay  ;  yet  the 
other  twenty-five  per  cent  pay  so  well 
that  there  is  scarcely  a  business  man 
who  is  willing  to  stand  idly  by  and  allow 
his  competitors  to  do  the  advertising. 
The  expense  connected  with  advertising 
has  increased  ;  the  competition  between 
rival  firms  has  become  keener  ;  and  con- 
sequently the  demand  for  good  advertis- 
ing has  become  imperative.  The  number 
of  unsuccessful  advertisements  are  many, 
and  yet  the  loss  incurred  in  an  unsuccess- 
ful advertising  campaign  is  so  great  that 
many  firms  stand  aghast  at  the  thought  of 
such  an  undertaking.  Many  merchants 
see  the  necessity  of  advertising  their  busi- 
ness, but  feel  unable  to  enter  the  arena 
and  compete  with  successful  rivals. 


The  Psychology  of  Advertising. 


31 


The  day  of  reckless,  sporadic,  haphaz- 
ard advertising  is  rapidly  coming  to  an 
end  so  far  as  magazine  advertising  is 
concerned.  Although  the  number  of 
pages  devoted  to  advertising  in  our  best 
magazines  has  increased  during  the  last 
ten  years,  the  number  of  firms  adver- 
tising in  these  same  magazines  has  de- 
creased. The  struggle  has  been  too 
fierce  for  any  but  the  strongest.  The 
inefficient  advertisers  are  gradually  being 
eliminated,  and  the  survival  of  the  fittest 
seems  to  be  a  law  of  advertising  as  it  is 
of  everything  else  that  develops. 

The  leaders  of  the  profession  feel  that 
their  work  has  grown  till  it  is  beyond 
their  control  and  comprehension.  They 
have  been  successful,  and  hardly  know 
how  it  has  all  come  about.  The  men 
who  have  been  the  most  successful  are 
often  the  ones  who  feel  most  deeply  their 
inability  to  meet  new  emergencies.  They 
believe  that  there  should  be  some  under- 
lying principles  which  could  help  them  in 
analyzing  what  they  have  already  accom- 
plished, and  assist  them  in  their  further 
efforts.  As  their  entire  object  is  to  pro- 
duce certain  effects  on  the  minds  of  pos- 
sible customers,  it  is  not  strange  that 
they  have  turned  to  psychology  in  search 
of  such  principles.  Traditionally  the 
practical  business  man  scouts  at  theo- 
ry. Psychology,  to  the  popular  mind,  is 
something  devoid  of  all  practical  appli- 
cation, related  to  metaphysics,  and  suited 
only  to  the  recluse  and  the  hermit.  If 
ever  there  was  ground  to  expect  sarcastic 
and  pessimistic  prophecies  from  the  hard- 
headed  business  man,  it  was  when  it  was 
proposed  to  establish  advertising  on  a  the- 
oretical basis  deduced  from  psychology. 
Such  adverse  criticism  has,  however,  been 
the  exception.  The  American  business 
man  is  not  afraid  of  theories.  He  wants 
them,  and  the  more  the  better. 

The  best  thought  of  the  advertising 
world  finds  expression  in  the  advertising 
journals  and  in  the  addresses  delivered 
by  various  experts  at  gatherings  of  pro- 
fessional advertisers.  In  1895  in  one 


of  the  leading  advertising  journals  ap- 
peared the  following  editorial :  "  Prob- 
ably when  we  are  a  little  more  en- 
lightened, the  advertisement  writer,  like 
the  teacher,  will  study  psychology.  For, 
however  diverse  their  occupations  may 
at  first  sight  appear,  the  advertisement 
writer  and  the  teacher  have  one  great 
object  in  common  —  to  influence  the  hu- 
man mind.  The  teacher  has  a  scientific 
foundation  for  his  work  in  that  direction, 
but  the  advertisement  writer  is  really 
also  a  psychologist.  Human  nature  is  a 
great  factor  in  advertising  success  ;  and 
he  who  writes  advertisements  without 
reference  to  it  is  apt  to  find  that  he  has 
reckoned  without  his  host."  The  man  who 
penned  this  editorial  was  a  practical 
advertiser,  but  he  admitted  of  no  incon- 
gruity between  the  practical  and  the 
theoretical. 

In  Publicity,  for  March,  1901,  ap- 
peared a  leading  article  on  psychology 
and  advertising.  The  following  is  a  quo- 
tation from  it :  — 

"  The  time  is  not  far  away  when  the 
advertising  writer  will  find  out  the  in- 
estimable benefits  of  a  knowledge  of  psy- 
chology. The  preparation  of  copy  has 
usually  followed  the  instincts  rather  than 
the  analytical  functions.  An  advertise- 
ment has  been  written  to  describe  the 
articles  which  it  was  wished  to  place 
before  the  reader ;  a  bit  of  cleverness, 
an  attractive  cut,  or  some  other  catchy 
device  has  been  used,  with  the  hope  that 
the  hit  or  miss  ratio  could  be  made  as 
favorable  as  possible.  But  the  future 
must  needs  be  full  of  better  methods 
than  these  to  make  advertising  advance 
with  the  same  rapidity  as  it  has  during 
the  latter  part  of  the  last  century.  And 
this  will  come  through  a  closer  know- 
ledge of  the  psychological  composition 
of  the  mind.  The  so-called  '  students  of 
human  nature '  will  then  be  called  suc- 
cessful psychologists,  and  the  successful 
advertisers  will  be  likewise  termed  psy- 
chological advertisers.  The  mere  men- 
tion of  psychological  terms,  habit,  self, 


32 


The  Psychology  of  Advertising. 


conception,  discrimination,  association, 
memory,  imagination  and  perception, 
reason,  emotion,  instinct  and  will,  should 
create  a  flood  of  new  thought  that  should 
appeal  to  every  advanced  consumer  of 
advertising  space." 

In  an  address  before  the  Agate  Club 
of  Chicago  the  speaker  said  :  "As  adver- 
tisers, all  your  efforts  have  been  to  pro- 
duce certain  effects  on  the  minds  of  pos- 
sible customers.  Psychology  is,  broadly 
speaking,  the  science  of  the  mind.  Art 
is  the  doing  and  science  is  the  under- 
standing how  to  do,  or  the  explanation 
of  what  has  been  done.  If  we  are  able 
to  find  and  to  express  the  psychological 
laws  upon  which  the  art  of  advertising 
is  based,  we  shall  have  made  a  distinct 
advance,  for  we  shall  have  added  the 
science  to  the  art  of  advertising." 

In  a  recent  address  before  the  Atlas 
Club  of  Chicago  the  speaker  said :  "In 
passing  to  the  psychological  aspect  of 
our  subject,  advertising  might  properly 
be  defined  as  the  art  of  determining  the 
will  of  possible  customers.  .  .  .  Our  acts 
are  the  resultants  of  our  motives,  and  it 
is  your  function  in  commercial  life  to 
create  the  motives  that  will  effect  the 
sale  of  the  producer's  wares." 

In  response  to  this  felt  need  on  the 
part  of  the  advertiser,  several  students 
of  psychology  have  tried  to  select  those 
principles  of  psychology  which  might  be 
of  benefit  to  the  advertiser,  and  to  present 
them  to  the  advertising  world  through 
pamphlets,1  magazine  articles,2  public  ad- 
dresses,8 and,  in  one  case  at  least,  by 
means  of  a  book.4 

The  method  employed  by  the  psycho- 
logist in  attempting  to  give  advertising  a 
theoretical  basis  has  been  quite  uniform. 
He  has  first  analyzed  the  human  mind 

into  its  various  activities,  then  analyzed 

i 

1  On  the  Psychology   of  Advertising.     Pro- 
fessor HARLOW  GALE,  author  and  publisher : 
Minneapolis,  Minn.     1900. 

2  Mahin's  Magazine,  Chicago.     This  maga- 
zine contains  monthly  articles  on  The  Psycho- 
logy of  Advertising. 


advertisements  to  discover  what  there  is 
in  them  that  may  or  may  not  awaken  the 
activity  desired.  This  method  can  best 
be  understood  from  an  example.  For 
an  illustration  we  shall  consider  Mental 
Imagery  as  understood  by  the  psycholo- 
gist and  in  its  application  to  advertising. 

The  man  who  is  born  blind  is  not  only 
unable  to  see  objects,  but  he  is  equally 
unable  to  imagine  how  they  look.  After 
we  have  looked  at  objects  we  can  see  them 
in  our  mind's  eye  with  more  or  less  dis- 
tinctness, even  if  our  eyes  are  closed  or 
the  object  is  far  removed  from  us.  When 
we  imagine  how  an  absent  object  looks 
we  are  said  to  have  a  visual  image  of  it. 
We  cannot  imagine  how  a  thing  looks 
unless  we  have  actually  seen  it  in  our 
previous  experience.  The  imagination 
can  take  the  data  of  former  experience 
and  unite  them  into  new  forms,  but  all 
the  details  of  the  new  formation  must  be 
taken  from  the  former  experience  of  the 
individual. 

The  man  who  is  born  deaf  can  neither 
hear  nor  imagine  what  sounds  are  like. 
Whatever  we  have  heard,  we  can  live 
over  again  in  imagination, — we  can  form 
auditory  images  of  it.  We  cannot  im- 
agine any  sound  which  we  have  not  ac- 
tually heard,  although  we  can  unite  into 
new  combinations  the  sounds  and  tones 
which  we  have  experienced. 

I  can  imagine  how  beefsteak  tastes, 
but  I  cannot  imagine  the  taste  of  hashish, 
for  in  all  my  past  experience  I  never 
have  tasted  it,  and  do  not  even  know 
which  one  of  my  former  experiences  it 
is  like.  If  I  knew  that  it  tasted  like 
pepper,  or  like  pepper  and  vinegar  mixed, 
I  could  form  some  sort  of  an  image  of 
its  taste  ;  but  as  it  is  I  am  perfectly  help- 
less when  I  try  to  imagine  it.  I  can, 
with  more  or  less  success,  imagine  how 

8  Found  in  the  published  proceedings  of  the 
various  advertising  clubs. 

4  The  Theory  of  Advertising.  By  WALTER 
DILL  SCOTT.  Boston  :  Small,  Maynard  &  Co. 
1903. 


The  Psychology  of  Advertising. 


33 


everything  tastes  which  I  have  eaten,  but 
I  cannot  imagine  the  taste  of  a  thing 
which  I  have  not  touched  to  my  tongue. 
Analogous  descriptions  could  be  given  of 
images  of  movements,  of  smell,  of  touch, 
of  heat,  of  cold,  of  pressure,  and  of  pain. 

We  have  no  direct  knowledge  of  the 
minds  of  our  neighbors  ;  we  assume  that 
their  thinking  is  very  much  like  ours,  for 
their  actions  —  outward  expressions  of 
thought  —  are  so  similar  to  ours.  It  was 
formerly  assumed  that,  given  any  partic- 
ular object  of  thought,  all  normal  minds 
would  reach  the  same  conclusion  con- 
cerning it,  and,  furthermore,  the  differ- 
ent stages  in  the  line  of  thought  and 
the  "  mind  stuff "  would  be  the  same 
throughout.  Such  a  conception  is  wholly 
false.  Normal  minds  reach  different 
conclusions  under  apparently  identical 
outward  circumstances,  but  there  is  a 
greater  difference  in  the  terms  of  thought, 
or  the  mind  stuff  with  which  the  think- 
ing is  done.  One  man  thinks  in  terms  of 
sight.  He  is  said  to  be  "  eye-minded." 
His  thinking  is  a  rapid  succession  of  pic- 
tures. When  he  thinks  of  a  violin  he 
thinks  rather  how  it  looks  than  how  it 
sounds. 

Another  man  thinks  in  terms  of  sound. 
He  is  "  ear-minded."  His  thinking  is  a 
succession  of  sounds.  When  he  thinks 
of  his  friends  he  hears  their  voices,  but 
cannot  possibly  imagine  how  they  look. 
He  does  not  know  that  there  are  other 
possible  forms  of  thought,  and  so  assumes 
that  all  people  think  in  terms  of  sound 
as  he  does.  If  he  should  describe  a 
battle  his  description  would  be  full  of 
the  roar  and  tumult  of  the  strife.  An- 
other man  is  "  motor-minded."  He 
thinks  in  terms  of  movements.  Even 
when  he  looks  at  a  painting  he  whispers 
inaudibly  to  himself  a  description  of  the 
painting.  Later  when  he  describes  the 
picture  to  a  friend  he  may  do  it  in  the 
terms  which  he  whispered  to  himself 
when  he  was  looking  at  the  picture. 

Thus  it  has  been  found  that  there  are 
great  personal  differences  in  normal  in- 

voii.  xcni.  —  NO.  555.  3 


dividuals  in  their  ability  to  form  certain 
classes  of  mental  images. 

All  persons  seem  to  be  able  to  form 
at  least  unclear  and  indistinct  visual 
images  ;  most  persons  seem  to  have  some 
ability  in  forming  auditory  images  ;  very 
many  can  imagine  movements  with  some 
degree  of  satisfaction.  There  are  many 
who  cannot  imagine  how  pickles  taste ; 
others  cannot  imagine  the  odor  of  a 
flower.  There  are  persons  who  have  a 
limited  ability  to  form  all  sorts  of  images, 
but  most  persons  have  a  very  decided 
ability  for  one  class  and  a  corresponding 
weakness  for  others.  This  difference  in 
the  ease  with  which  certain  classes  of 
images  can  be  formed,  as  well  as  the  dif- 
ference in  individuals  in  imagining  differ- 
ent classes  of  sensations,  is  followed  with 
practical  consequences. 

In  a  former  age  the  seller,  the  buyer, 
and  the  commodity  were  brought  to- 
gether. The  seller  described  and  exhib- 
ited his  wares.  The  buyer  saw  the 
goods,  heard  of  them,  tasted  them,  smelt 
them,  felt,  and  lifted  them.  He  tested 
them  by  means  of  every  sense  organ  to 
which  they  could  appeal.  In  this  way  the 
buyer  became  acquainted  with  the  goods. 
His  perception  of  them  was  as  complete 
as  it  could  be  made.  In  these  latter  days 
the  market-place  has  given  way  to  the 
office.  The  consequent  separation  of  buy- 
er, seller,  and  commodity  made  the  com- 
mercial traveler  with  his  sample  case  seem 
a  necessity.  But,  with  the  growing  vol- 
ume of  business,  and  with  the  increased 
need  for  more  economical  forms  of  trans- 
acting business,  the  printed  page,  as  a 
form  of  advertisement,  has  superseded 
the  market-place,  and  is,  in  many  cases, 
displacing  the  commercial  traveler.  In 
this  transition  from  the  market-place  and 
the  commercial  traveler  to  the  printed 
page,  the  advertiser  must  be  on  his  guard 
to  preserve  as  many  as  possible  of  the 
good  features  of  the  older  institutions. 
In  the  two  older  forms  of  barter  all  the 
senses  of  the  purchaser  were  appealed  to, 
if  possible,  and  in  addition  to  this  the 


34 


The  Psychology  of  Advertising. 


word  of  mouth  of  the  seller  was  added 
to  increase  the  impressions,  and  to  call 
special  attention  to  the  strong  features 
of  the  commodity.  In  the  printed  page 
the  word  of  mouth  is  the  only  feature 
which  is  of  necessity  entirely  absent.  In- 
deed, the  printed  page  cannot  appeal 
directly  to  any  of  the  senses  except  the 
eye,  but  the  argument  may  be  of  such  a 
nature  that  the  reader's  senses  are  ap- 
pealed to  indirectly  through  his  imagina- 
tion. 

The  function  of  our  nervous  system  is 
to  make  us  aware  of  the  sights,  sounds, 
feelings,  tastes,  etc.,  of  the  objects  in  our 
environment,  and  the  more  sensations 
we  receive  from  an  object  the  better  we 
know  it.  The  nervous  system  which  does 
not  respond  to  sound  or  to  any  other  of 
the  sensible  qualities  is  a  defective  ner- 
vous system.  Advertisements  are  some- 
times spoken  of  as  the  nervous  system  of 
the  business  world.  That  advertisement 
of  musical  instruments  which  contains 
nothing  to  awaken  images  of  sound  is  a 
defective  advertisement.  That  advertise- 
ment of  foods  which  contains  nothing  to 
awaken  images  of  taste  is  a  defective  ad- 
vertisement. As  our  nervous  system  is 
constructed  to  give  us  all  the  possible 
sensations  from  objects,  so  the  advertise- 
ment which  is  comparable  to  the  nervous 
system  must  awaken  in  the  reader  as 
many  different  kinds  of  images  as  the 
object  itself  can  excite. 

A  person  can  be  appealed  to  most  easi- 
ly and  most  effectively  through  his  domi- 
nating imagery.  Thus  one  who  has  vis- 
ual images  that  are  very  clear  and  dis- 
tinct appreciates  descriptions  of  scenes. 
The  one  who  has  strong  auditory  im- 
agery delights  in  having  auditory  images 
awakened.  It  is  in  general  best  to 
awaken  as  many  different  classes  of  im- 
ages as  possible,  for  in  this  way  variety 
is  given,  and  each  reader  is  appealed  to  in 
the  sort  of  imagery  which  is  the  most 
pleasing  to  him,  in  which  he  thinks  most 
readily,  and  by  means  of  which  he  is 
most  easily  influenced. 


One  of  the  great  weaknesses  of  the  pre- 
sent day  advertising  is  found  in  the  fact 
that  the  writer  of  the  advertisement  fails 
to  appeal  thus  indirectly  to  the  senses. 
How  many  advertisers  describe  a  piano 
so  vividly  that  the  reader  can  hear  it  ? 
How  many  food  products  are  so  described 
that  the  reader  can  taste  the  food  ?  How 
many  advertisements  describe  a  perfume 
so  that  the  reader  can  smell  it  ?  How 
many  describe  an  undergarment  so  that 
the  reader  can  feel  the  pleasant  contact 
with  his  body  ?  Many  advertisers  seem 
never  to  have  thought  of  this,  and  make 
no  attempt  at  such  descriptions. 

The  cause  of  this  deficiency  is  twofold. 
In  the  first  place,  it  is  not  easy  in  type  to 
appeal  to  any  other  sense  than  that  of 
sight.  Other  than  visual  images  are 
difficult  to  awaken  when  the  means  em- 
ployed is  the  printed  page.  In  the  sec- 
ond place,  the  individual  writers  are  defi- 
cient in  certain  forms  of  mental  imagery, 
and  therefore  are  not  adepts  in  describing 
articles  in  terms  which  to  themselves  are 
not  significant.  This  second  ground  for 
failure  in  writing  effective  advertise- 
ments will  be  made  clear  by  the  examples 
taken  from  current  advertisements  which 
are  quoted  below. 

A  piano  is  primarily  not  a  thing  to 
look  at  or  an  object  for  profitable  invest- 
ment, but  it  is  a  musical  instrument.  It 
might  be  beautiful  and  cheap,  but  still 
be  very  undesirable.  The  chief  thing 
about  a  piano  is  the  quality  of  its  tone. 
Many  advertisers  of  pianos  do  not  seem 
to  have  the  slightest  appreciation  of  this 
fact. 

When  they  attempt  to  describe  a 
piano  they  seem  as  men  groping  in  the 
dark.  Their  statements  are  general  and 
meaningless.  As  an  example  of  such  a 
failure  the  advertisement  of  the  Knabe 
Piano  is  typical :  — 

The  KNABE 

Its  successful  growth  and  experi- 
ence of  nearly  seventy  years  guar- 
antees to  new  friends  the  greatest 


The  Psychology  of  Advertising. 


35 


degree  to  tried  and  tested  excel- 
lencef  judged  from  any  stand- 
point of  criticism  or  comparison. 

WM.  KNABE  &   CO. 
NEW  YORK        BALTIMORE        WASHINGTON 

This  is  a  half-page  advertisement,  but 
it  contains  no  illustration,  makes  no  re- 
ference to  tone  or  to  any  other  quality  of 
music,  and  does  not  even  suggest  that  the 
Knabe  is  a  musical  instrument  at  all. 
Many  advertisers  describe  the  appearance 
and  durability  of  the  case  or  the  cost  of 
the  entire  instrument,  but  ordinarily  their 
statements  are  so  general  that  the  adver- 
tisement could  be  applied  equally  well 
to  perfumes,  fountain  pens,  bicycles,  au- 
tomobiles, snuff,  or  sausages,  but  would 
be  equally  inefficient  if  used  to  advertise 
any  of  them.  They  do  not  describe  or 
refer  in  any  way  to  the  essential  charac- 
teristics of  a  piano.  They  awaken  no 
images  of  sound  ;  they  do  not  make  us 
hear  a  piano  in  our  imagination. 

The  following  is  a  quotation  in  full  of 
an  advertisement  of  the  Vose  Piano,  but 
with  the  words  "  sewing  machine  "  sub- 
stituted for  "  piano."  This  advertise- 
ment, like  the  one  quoted  above,  contains 
no  illustration,  and  it  will  be  noted  that 
there  is  nothing  in  the  text  which  does  not 
apply  equally  well  to  a  sewing  machine. 

VOSE 
SEWING  MACHINES 

Have  been  Established  over  51  Years 
They  are  perfect  examples  of  sewing 
machine  strength.  The  Construction  of 
the  Vose  is  the  result  of  fifty  years  of 
development  and  the  application  of  the 
highest  mechanical  skill  to  the  produc- 
tion of  each  separate  part. 

By  our  easy  payment  plan,  every  family  in 
moderate  circumstances  can  own  a  fine  sewing 
machine.  We  allow  a  liberal  price  for  old  in- 
struments in  exchange,  and  deliver  the  sewing 
machine  in  your  house  free  of  expense.  Yon 
can  deal  with  us  at  a  distant  point  the  same  as 
in  Boston.  Send  for  our  descriptive  catalogue  H, 
which  gives  full  information. 
VOSE  &  SONS  SEWING  MACHINE  CO. 
161  BOYLSTON  STREET,  BOSTON,  MASS. 


Many  of  the  advertisements  of  the 
Emerson,  Weber,  Everett,  and  of  a  few 
other  piano  firms  are  equally  poor  at- 
tempts to  present  the  desirable  features 
of  pianos. 

In  recent  advertisements  of  the  Bla- 
sius  piano  an  attempt  is  made  to  present 
a  piano  as  a  musical  instrument.  A 
music  score  is  used  as  the  background 
of  the  advertisement ;  there  is  a  cut  of  a 
young  lady  playing  the  piano ;  and  in 
the  text  appear  these  expressions  :  "  Ex- 
cellent tone,"  "  the  sweetest  tone  I  ever 
heard,"  "  sweet  and  melodious  in  tone," 
"  like  a  grand  church  organ  for  power 
and  volume  :  and  a  brilliant,  sweet-toned 
piano  in  one."  Thus  the  background, 
the  illustration,  and  the  text  all  unite  to 
awaken  images  of  sound,  and  to  suggest 
that  about  a  piano  which  is  the  real 
ground  for  desiring  such  an  instrument. 

In  determining  which  foods  I  shall  eat 
it  is  a  matter  of  some  importance  to  know 
how  the  goods  are  manufactured,  what 
the  prices  are,  how  they  are  prepared  for 
the  table,  and  whether  they  are  nourish- 
ing or  harmful  to  my  system.  The  one 
essential  element,  however,  is  the  taste. 
When  I  look  over  a  bill  of  fare  I  choose 
what  I  think  will  taste  good.  When  I 
order  groceries  I  order  what  pleases  and 
tickles  my  palate.  I  want  the  food  that 
makes  me  smack  my  lips,  that  makes  my 
mouth  water.  Under  these  circumstances 
all  other  considerations  are  minimized  to 
the  extreme*-  > 

In  advertisements  of  food  products  it 
is  surprising  to  note  that  many  foods  are 
advertised  as  if  they  had  no  taste  at  all. 
One  would  suppose  that  the  food  was  to 
be  taken  by  means  of  a  hypodermic  in- 
jection, and  not  by  the  ordinary  process 
of  taking  the  food  into  the  mouth  and 
hence  into  contact  with  the  organ  of 
taste.  The  advertisers  seem  to  be  at  a 
loss  to  know  what  to  say  about  their 
foods,  and  so  have,  in  many  cases,  ex- 
pressed themselves  in  such  general  terms 
that  their  advertisements  could  be  ap- 
plied to  any  product  whatever. 


36 


The  Psychology  of  Advertising. 


The  following  is  the  complete  text  of  a 
full-page  advertisement  which  appeared 
in  recent  magazines.  The  only  change  is 
that  here  we  have  substituted  "  scouring 
soap  "  for  the  name  of  the  commodity  : 
"The  grocer's  smile.  The  smile  that 

wont  come  off. 

More  scouring  soap  the  grocer  said, 
No  other  brand  will  do  instead  ; 
And  o'er  his  kindly  features  spread 
The  smile  that  won't  come  off. 
Look  for  the  coupon  in  the  package." 

The  illustration  was  that  of  a  grocer 
looking  at  a  package  which  might  as  well 
have  been  scouring  soap  as  Quaker  Oats. 
There  is  nothing  to  suggest  taste. 

Some  advertisers  of  food  are  evidently 
chronic  dyspeptics,  and  take  it  for  grant- 
ed that  all  others  are  in  the  same  condi- 
tion. They  have  nothing  to  say  about 
their  foods  except  that  they  have  won- 
derful medicinal  properties.  To  me  a 
food  which  is  only  healthful  savors  of  hos- 
pitals and  sickrooms,  and  is  something 
which  a  well  man  would  not  want. 

There  are  other  advertisers  who  appre- 
ciate the  epicurean  tendency  of  the  ordi- 
nary man  and  woman.  They  describe 
food  in  such  a  way  that  we  immediate- 
ly want  what  they  describe.  The  man 
who  wrote  the  following  advertisement 
belongs  to  this  class :  "  That  very  old 
proverb  about  reaching  the  heart  of  a 
man  is  best  exemplified  with  Nabisco  su- 
gar wafers.  A  fairy  sandwich  with  an 
upper  and  a  lower  crust  of  indescribable 
delicacy,  separated  with  a  creamy  flavor 
of  lemon,  orange,  chocolate,  vanilla, 
strawberry,  raspberry,  or  mint.  Ask  for 
your  favorite  flavor."  The  picture  repre- 
sents a  beautiful  young  lady  presenting  a 
gentleman  with  the  commodity  described. 

This  advertisement  has  character  and 
individuality.  Its  statements  ,  could  not 
be  applied  to  anything  but  foods,  and,  in- 
deed, to  nothing  but  Nabisco.  They  do 
not  say  that  Nabisco  is  healthy,  but 


when  I  read  them  I  feel  sure  that  Na- 
bisco would  agree  with  me. 

This  illustration  of  the  way  in  which 
one  chapter  of  psychology  (Mental  Im- 
agery) can  be  applied  to  advertising  is  but 
one  of  a  score  of  illustrations  which  could 
be  given.  Psychology  has  come  to  be  one 
of  the  most  fascinating  of  all  the  sciences, 
and  bids  fair  to  become  of  as  great  prac- 
tical benefit  as  physics  and  chemistry.  As 
these  latter  form  the  theoretical  basis  for 
all  forms  of  industry  which  have  to  do 
with  matter,  so  psychology  must  form  the 
theoretical  basis  for  all  forms  of  endeavor 
which  deal  with  mind. 

The  householder  in  glancing  through 
his  morning  paper  has  his  attention 
caught  by  the  more  attractive  advertise- 
ments. The  mechanic  in  going  to  and 
from  his  place  of  employment  whiles 
away  his  time  in  looking  at  the  display 
cards  in  the  trolley  or  the  elevated  cars. 
The  business  man  can  scarcely  pass  a  day 
without  being  forced  to  look  at  the  ad- 
vertisements which  stare  at  him  from  the 
bill  boards.  The  members  of  the  family 
turn  over  the  advertising  pages  in  their 
favorite  magazine,  not  because  they  are 
forced  to,  but  because  they  find  the  ad- 
vertisements so  interesting  and  instruc- 
tive. These  persons  are  oblivious  to  the 
enormous  expense  which  the  merchant 
has  incurred  in  securing  these  results. 
They  are  unconscious  of  the  fact  that  the 
results  secured  are  the  ones  sought  for, 
and  that  in  planning  the  advertising  cam- 
paign the  merchant  has  made  a  study  of 
the  minds  of  these  same  householders, 
mechanics,  business  men,  and  members 
of  the  family.  Advertising  is  an  essen- 
tial factor  in  modern  business  methods, 
and  to  advertise  wisely  the  business  man 
must  understand  the  workings  of  the 
minds  of  his  customers,  and  must  know 
how  to  influence  them  effectively, — he 
must  know  how  to  apply  psychology  to 
advertising. 

Walter  D.  Scott. 


Bachelor's  Fancy, 


37 


BACHELOR'S  FANCY. 


CYNTHIA  GALE  sat  by  the  window  in 
the  long  shed  chamber,  her  hands  at  mo- 
mentary ease.  She  was  a  slight,  sweet 
creature,  with  a  delicate  skin,  and  hair 
etherealized  by  ashen  coverts.  Her  eyes 
were  dark,  and  beauty  throbbed  into 
them  with  drifting  thoughts.  Cynthia 
was  tired.  She  had  been  at  work  at 
the  loom  since  the  first  light  of  day,  and 
now  she  had  given  up  to  the  languor  of 
completed  effort,  her  head  thrown  back, 
her  arms  along  the  arms  of  the  chair, 
in  an  attitude  of  calm.  Her  hair  had 
slipped  from  its  coil,  and  fallen  on 
either  side  of  her  face  in  gentle  dis- 
array. She  was  very  lovely. 

The  room,  the  scene  of  her  toil  and 
resting,  was  dark  with  age  and  signifi- 
cant in  tokens  of  a  disused  art.  The 
loom  stood  well  in  the  centre,  its  great 
upright  beams  obstructing  the  light 
from  window  to  window.  All  about 
were  the  lesser  implements  of  a  weav- 
er's trade :  the  linen  wheel,  the  reels 
and  swifts.  On  a  chest  were  skeins  of 
indigo-blue  yarn  Cynthia  had  dyed,  and 
near  by,  the  flaxen  thread  she  had  un- 
earthed from  an  ancient  hoard  under 
the  rafters.  At  last,  she  knew  how  to 
weave.  She  had  walked  a  weary  way 
in  the  pursuit  of  her  trade,  and  now  she 
had  reached  the  first  of  many  goals. 

The  stillness  of  the  autumn  day  made 
a  great  world  about  her  where  every- 
thing was  happy  because  everything  was 
busy.  A  woodpecker  settled  on  the 
locust  outside,  and  began  drumming. 
She  looked  out  at  him  from  4he  idle- 
ness of  a  well-earned  rest,  and  smiled. 
It  seemed  to  her  a  wonderful  earth 
where  there  was  so  much  to  do.  From 
first  to  last,  she  saw,  creation  moved 
and  toiled,  and  she  moved  with  it. 
Without  conscious  thought,  she  felt  the 
strength  and  beauty  of  the  twisting 
chain. 

Cynthia  had  come  to  happiness  by  a 


long  road.  Her  first  memories  were  of 
the  poorhouse  near  the  sea,  where  her 
mother,  a  sad  waif  out  of  the  drift  of 
life,  had  been  swept,  to  die.  Cynthia 
knew  nothing  about  her  father,  except 
that  he  drank  and  played  the  violin. 
People  said  he  invented  things,  what 
things  she  never  heard.  He  was  clever 
with  his  hands  and  brain ;  but  nothing  he 
had  was  used  to  his  own  advantage.  He 
was  one  of  life's  pensioners.  Cynthia, 
growing  up  at  the  poorhouse,  seemed  to 
have  no  more  to  do  with  life  as  it  is  than 
he.  She  did  the  housework  set  her  as 
her  portion  with  an  absent  care,  and 
then  escaped  into  the  open  for  some 
mysterious  sustenance  that  she  under- 
stood as  little  as  the  people  who  watched 
her  ways.  There  were  hours  when, 
tramping  inland,  she  lay  prone  under 
the  pines  in  the  pasture,  smelling  at  life 
and  very  happy.  There  were  more  when 
she  sat  looking  at  a  great  island  of  fern, 
entranced  by  something  she  could  not 
apprehend,  and  had  no  need  to,  because 
feeling  was  enough.  Though  she  did 
her  tasks,  she  was  called  lazy,  and  she 
lived,  in  a  sense,  apart  from  people  un- 
til one  day  Andrew  Gale,  driving  about 
to  buy  cattle,  met  her  in  the  country 
road  as  she  was  coming  home  like  Ruth 
from  her  gleaning,  only  that  Cynthia's 
arms  were  piled  with  golden-rod  instead 
of  grain.  Her  eyes  were  brimming 
with  still  happiness.  Her  cheeks  had 
a  bloom  over  their  summer  tan.  An- 
drew caught  his  breath  and  stared  again. 
The  next  day,  after  patient  watching, 
he  found  her  by  the  sea,  and  again  he 
met  her  when  she  went  to  gather  grapes. 
In  a  month  he  married  her  and  took  her 
home  to  the  great  house  where  he  had 
lived  alone  since  his  mother's  death, 
with  only  old  Hannah  to  do  the  work 
in  a  perfect  fashion  that  left  him  lone- 
lier than  before,  in  the  solitude  made 
by  her  deaf  ears. 


38 


Bachelor's  Fancy. 


Cynthia  blossomed  like  a  flower,  and 
from  some  inner  secret  of  being  she  felt 
like  one.  This  was  like  growing  in  a 
garden  with  fructifying  soil,  the  sun 
upon  her  and  gentle  rains,  and  one  great 
tree  to  shade  her  from  too  strong  efful- 
gence. Andrew  was  the  tree.  He  was 
a  silent  creature,  the  emotion  in  him 
hidden  by  a  fine  reserve ;  but  he  tended 
and  protected  her  until  she  grew  wor- 
shipful of  him  in  a  way  neither  of  them 
quite  realized.  All  Cynthia's  capacity 
for  love  bloomed  out  in  a  fervor  that 
made  her  vivid,  with  a  charm  added  to 
her  beauty.  When  they  had  been  mar- 
ried a  few  months,  old  Hannah  died,  and 
then  Cynthia,  shrinking  from  a  new  pre- 
sence in  their  intimate  solitude,  did  the 
work  alone.  She  threw  it  off  easily 
enough,  without  heart  or  fancy,  and  very 
swiftly,  to  give  her  time  to  be  with 
Andrew  in  the  fields  or  during  his  trips 
over  the  countryside.  Housework,  to 
her  mind,  was  a  dull  means  to  life,  only 
made  tolerable  because  Andrew  was  sat- 
isfied with  everything  she  did.  It  was 
devoid  of  grace,  not,  like  weaving,  a 
road  to  happy  fantasy.  In  spite  of  it, 
she  kept  the  purely  untrammeled  habit 
of  life  which  lies  in  a  perfect  freedom, 
with  love  at  the  end  of  each  day's  work. 
Again  her  estate  seemed  to  her  like 
that  of  the  flowers  of  the  field.  She 
had  nothing  to  do  but  live  and  bloom. 

When  she  had  been  married  a  year, 
her  own  individual  passion  came  upon 
her.  One  day  she  went  up  into  the 
shed  chamber  in  search  of  an  old  sad- 
dle Andrew  remembered  as  one  of  the 
family  holdings,  and  found  herself  in  a 
mysterious  workshop.  This  was  the 
weaving  room.  It  had  a  strange  look 
of  waiting,  of  holding  secrets  it  was 
ready  to  divulge,  of  keeping  a  strange 
silence  it  might  some  time  break.  In- 
stant recognition  laid  hold  on  her.  At 
first  it  seemed  curiosity;  then  it  grew 
into  something  more  piquing.  Thrown 
upon  a  bench,  as  if  the  last  weaver  had 
left  it  there,  was  a  book  written  in  a 
delicate  yet  unformed  hand,  in  faded 


ink  upon  a  yellowed  page.  She  turned 
it  swiftly.  There  were  the  patterns  for 
weaving  the  old  blue  coverlets  of  which 
the  house  already  had  a  store.  The 
names  made  her  breathless  with  their 
sound  of  homely  poesy  :  Bachelor's 
Fancy,  Girl's  Love,  Primrose  and  Dia- 
monds, Chariot  Wheels  and  Church 
Windows,  Pansies  and  Roses  in  the 
Wilderness.  There  were  full  directions 
in  the  faded  hand,  and  the  patterns  had 
been  made  in  the  careful  drawing  of 
one  who  rules  her  lines  and  works  from  a 
pathetic  ignorance.  Cynthia  ran  down- 
stairs tumultuously,  and  unfurled  the 
book  before  Andrew  where  he  sat  mend- 
ing the  harness. 

"See  here!  "  she  cried.  "See  what 
I  've  found." 

Andrew  looked  up  with  an  abstracted 
interest. 

"Oh,"  said  he,  "that 's  Argentine's 
book." 

"  Who  was  Argentine  ?  " 

"She  was  great-grandmother  Pyn- 
cheon's  sister.  She  was  a  great  weaver. 
She  stuck  to  it  when  everybody  else  had 
give  it  up.  She  was  goin'  to  be  mar- 
ried, but  he  was  lost  at  sea,  an'  after 
that  she  never  did  much  but  weave. 
Them  coverlets  you  set  such  store  by 
were  all  hers." 

Cynthia  had  treasured  the  coverlets 
with  an  unreasoning  love.  Their  pat- 
tern pleased  her.  The  close  firm  weave 
awoke  respect,  beside  more  modern  fab- 
rics. New  passion  stirred  in  her  from 
that  first  interest. 

"  0  Andrew !  "  she  breathed,  "  do  you 
s'pose  I  could  weave  coverlets?  " 

It  was  not  Andrew's  custom  to  deny 
anything  in  their  little  world. 

"  I  guess  so, "  said  he  indulgently. 
"I  guess  you  could  do  anything  you  set 
out  to.  Mebbe  old  Foss  could  put  you 
on  the  road." 

Old  Foss  lived  a  mile  away,  in  a  lit- 
tle house  filled  with  treasures  of  ancient 
usage  which  he  seemed  to  prize  only 
because  collectors  came  at  intervals  and 
fixed  a  market  value  in  his  mind.  Next 


Bachelor's  Fancy. 


39 


day  Andrew  hitched  up  and  went  down 
to  borrow  him ;  but  Foss  clung  to  his 
hearthstone.  He  could  weave,  he  said, 
but  weaving  had  gone  out.  He  guessed 
with  cotton  cloth  as  cheap  as  it  was 
now,  there  's  no  need  of  wastin'  any- 
body's time  over  a  loom.  Next  day, 
Cynthia  herself  went  down  with  her 
book  of  patterns,  and  he  gave  her  a  few 
grudging  rules.  Then  she  started  on 
her  ignorant  way,  and  to-day  was  the 
culmination  of  long  desire.  Bachelor's 
Fancy  was  in  process  of  growth.  It 
was  only  a  question  of  time  when  she 
should  have  a  coverlet  of  her  own  to 
hoard  with  Argentine's. 

The  silence  in  the  shed  chamber  grew 
more  drowsy  with  the  mounting  day. 
Suddenly  Cynthia  was  aware  that  she 
was  more  than  half  asleep,  nodding 
over  the  verge  of  something  almost  tan- 
gible, it  was  so  deep  and  still.  She  was 
hungry,  too,  but  that  she  scarcely  knew. 
A  slice  of  bread  and  a  cup  of  milk  had 
made  her  early  breakfast,  and  since  then 
this  breathless  achievement  had  lifted 
her  outside  the  pale  of  daily  needs. 
But  now  she  rose  and  went  swaying 
down  the  stairs,  her  eyelids  heavy. 
The  house  below  was  still.  Andrew 
had  been  away  a  week  with  the  thresh- 
ing machine,  leaving-  the  next  neighbor 
to  milk  and  "feed  the  critters."  Cyn- 
thia had  half  promised  to  go  over  to  the 
neighbor's  house  to  sleep,  but  the  pas- 
sion for  weaving  had  so  engrossed  her 
that  now  she  scarcely  knew  light  from 
darkness,  and  the  short  intervals  in  her 
work  it  seemed  foolish  to  spend  away 
from  home.  Besides,  she  missed  An- 
drew less  if  she  stayed  in  their  familiar 
places,  where  the  walls  were  reminiscent 
of  him.  In  the  bottom  of  her  heart  was 
always  a  crying  hunger  for  him,  an 
aching  loneliness.  But  she  could  bear 
it.  She  had  the  weaving  and  a  child's 
eager  hope  to  bring  him  the  work  of 
her  own  hands. 

Down  there  in  the  kitchen  she  looked 
about  and  smiled  a  sleepy  smile  at 
its  disorder.  Her  plate  and  cup  were 


on  the  table,  and  there  was  a  pile  of 
dishes  in  the  sink.  Even  the  milk 
pails  were  unwashed,  and  she  did  shrink 
momentarily  under  the  guilt  of  that. 

"O  my  soul !  "  said  she. 

Ashes  had  blown  across  the  hearth, 
and  the  kitten  had  rolled  an  egg  from 
the  table  to  the  rug.  Through  the  open 
bedroom  door  her  unmade  bed  was 
yawning.  It  was  sweet  and  clean. 
The  sun  lay  brightly  on  the  tick,  and  the 
autumn  breeze  blew  on  snowy  sheets. 
Yet  it  was  disorder,  and  Cynthia  knew 
it,  as  any  housewife  would  know,  or 
any  man  used  to  the  rigor  of  routine. 
She  was  a  slattern.  Her  house  tattled 
the  tale  even  to  her  own  eyes.  Never- 
theless, she  had  achieved  Bachelor's 
Fancy,  and  her  mouth  curled  in  a  smile 
that  widened  to  a  pretty  yawn.  She 
stretched  herself  out  on  the  lounge  and 
went  to  sleep. 

There  was  a  step  on  the  threshold, 
impatient,  swift.  Cynthia  opened  her 
eyes  from  deep  beatitude  to  a  flood  of 
noon  sunlight  in  the  disordered  room, 
and  a  figure  standing  in  the  midst  of 
it.  She  rose  to  her  elbow,  pushing  back 
her  hair.  Then  she  gave  a  cry :  — 

"Andrew!  Andrew!  O  Andrew!" 
She  was  on  her  feet,  on  tiptoe  to  fly  to 
him,  but  his  face  arrested  her.  "An- 
drew! "  she  called,  "what  is  it?  " 

He  had  had  a  hard  week.  A  man  had 
failed  them,  and  he  had  been  doing  dou- 
ble work,  feeding  the  machine  in  dust 
and  heat  and  for  two  days  with  a  beard 
of  barley  in  his  eye.  They  had  taken 
the  threshing  by  the  job,  and  he  had  put 
it  through  madly,  to  get  home  to  Cyn- 
thia, spurred  always  by  the  certainty  of 
her  loneliness,  and  half  ashamed  of  his 
childish  worry  over  her.  He  was  dead 
tired,  he  was  hungry,  dirty,  hot.  Even 
his  face  was  blackened  from  the  dust, 
and  little  moist  runnels  had  streaked 
and  whitened  it.  The  sight  of  him 
amazed  her,  and  she  stood  there  a-wing, 
ready  to  go  to  him,  her  child's  cheeks 
creased  with  drowsiness  and  her  great 
eyes  dark.  But  something  about  his  set 


40 


Bachelor's  Fancy. 


mouth  and  glowing  eyes  forbade  her 
nearer  greeting. 

"0  Andrew!  "  she  breathed  again, 
"I  did  n't  think  you  'd  come." 

"You  did  n't  think  I  'd  come  ?  Why 
did  n't  you?  " 

Instantly  there  flashed  into  her  mind 
a  story  she  had  heard  about  the  Gale 
temper.  Andrew  was  a  slow  man,  the 
neighbors  said,  "till  you  got  him 
roused.  Then  you  better  stan'  from 
under."  Andrew  had  owned  it  to  her 
once,  with  a  shamefaced  grin.  But  after 
his  confession  they  had  both  laughed, 
and  she  had  felt  his  arms  about  her  in 
that  mutual  understanding  which  was 
more  than  human  trust,  but  a  some- 
thing ineffable  neither  could  define. 
Now  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  there 
was  a  barrier  between  them,  invisible 
but  potent.  She  did  not  dare  approach 
him. 

"  Why  did  n  t  you  think  so  ?  "  he  re- 
peated. 

She  faltered  in  her  answer.  "You 
said  'twould  be  a  week." 

"It  's  been  a  week.  I  said  I  'd  be 
here  Thursday  noon." 

"  Yes  "  —  she  opened  her  mouth  in 
futile  protest  and  then  closed  it.  But 
the  truth  came  to  her,  and  she  told  it 
with  a  childlike  confidence  that  it  would 
be  the  same  to  Andrew  as  to  her.  "I 
got  weaving.  I  forgot." 

"You  got  weaving!  "  he  repeated. 
Then  he  looked  about  the  room,  and  its 
disorder  made  satirical  commentary  on 
her  words.  But  Cynthia  had  gained 
courage.  The  mention  of  her  new  tri- 
umph reminded  her  that  she  had  a  joy 
to  bring  him. 

"O  Andrew!  "  she  breathed,  "I  've 
learned  it.  I  've  learned  Bachelor's 
Fancy.  Mine 's  as  good  as  Argen- 
tine's." 

Andrew  stood  looking  at  her  for  a 
moment,  her  distended  eyes,  her  pretty 
mouth  where  the  smile  was  just  begin- 
ning, and  would  come  if  he  invited  it. 
But  at  that  moment  the  smile  was  not 
for  him.  It  meant  a  child's  absorption 


in  a  foolish  game,  and  oblivion  of  him 
for  whom  there  was  hard  work  and 
barley  beards.  He  turned  abruptly. 

"Well,"  he  announced,  "I've  got 
no  more  to  say." 

He  had  taken  a  step  toward  the  open 
door,  but  her  voice  followed  him.  It 
was  sharp  with  quick  alarm. 

"Andrew,  where  you  goin'  ?  " 

He  turned  upon  her. 

"I  '11  tell  you  where  I  'm  goin'.  I  'm 
goin'  on  to  Trumbull's  with  the  thrash- 
ers, an'  get  a  meal  o'  victuals." 

"But,  Andrew,  I  '11  get  dinner.  I 
can,  in  no  time.  There  's  eggs.  You 
like  eggs,  Andrew." 

"Mebbe  you  don't  remember  what 
we  said  that  last  mornin'  I  set  off.  I 
told  ye  I  'd  bring  Miles  an'  t'other  men 
to  dinner.  It  ain't  been  out  o'  my 
mind  a  minute.  For  two  days  I  've 
been  houndin'  'em  to  finish  up,  so  's 
we  could  git  here  this  noon.  What  do 
you  s'pose  I  wanted  to  do  it  for?  I 
wanted  to  show  off.  I  wanted  to  let 
'em  see  how  well  we  were  fixed.  An' 
this  kitchen  don't  look  as  if  there  'd 
been  a  meal  o'  victuals  cooked  in  it 
sence  the  time  o'  Noah.  It  ain't  a 
kitchen;  it  's  a  hurrah's  nest." 

"O  Andrew!  "  She  backed  pite- 
ously  away  from  him,  with  a  sudden, 
alien  sense  of  a  house  not  her  own. 
She  seemed  to  herself  in  that  instant 
to  be  not  his  wife,  but  a  guest  by  whom 
his  hospitality  had  been  abused.  Then 
again  she  trembled  into  speech.  "May- 
be you  've  done  with  me,  Andrew. 
Maybe  you  don't  want  me  to  stay  here 
any  more." 

"I  don't  care  what  ye  do  nor  where 
ye  go,"  said  Andrew  blindly.  "I'm 
goin'  to  Trumbull's."  He  strode  out 
and  away  down  the  path,  and  she  heard 
him  hailing  the  threshers  at  the  gate. 
They  answered  jovially,  and  then  the 
heavy  team  went  grinding  on. 

She  sat  down  upon  the  couch  and 
looked  about  her.  The  sun  came  cru- 
elly in  at  the  window,  and  showed  the 
room  in  all  its  dusty  disarray.  The 


Bachelor's  Fancy. 


41 


dazed  spot  in  her  brain  cleared,  like  a 
lifting  sedative,  and  left  her  vulnerable 
to  pain.  She  saw  his  house  as  he  had 
seen  it,  and  for  the  instant  felt  how  he 
had  hated  it  and  her.  With  that  cer- 
tainty she  met  also  the  ultimate  pang 
of  youth  which  knows  when  its  hour  is 
spoiled,  and  says,  "This  is  the  end." 
There  was  but  one  thing  to  do.  She 
must  take  herself  away.  She  went  to 
the  cupboard  and  reached  to  the  up- 
per shelf  where  old  Hannah  used  to 
keep  her  toothache  drops.  There  was 
laudanum  enough  in  them,  Andrew  had 
said,  to  kill  an  army.  It  would  kill 
her.  But  as  she  stood  there  in  the 
stillness  with  the  bottle  in  her  hand, 
distaste  came  upon  her  for  the  ugliness 
of  such  a  death,  and  that  moment, 
sounding  in  her  ears,  she  heard  the  sea. 
Whether  it  was  because  she  had  begun 
her  life  by  it  or  through  some  quickness 
of  the  mind,  running  over  the  possibil- 
ities of  a  decent  death,  she  remembered 
a  little  mate  of  hers  who  had  been  play- 
ing in  a  dory  when  the  anchor  slipped, 
and  had  drifted  out,  never  to  be  seen 
again.  And  now  the  sea  was  calling 
her. 

"You  gimme  a  match,  won't  ye?  " 
called  old   Nancy  Hutchens  from   the 
door.      "I  won't  come  in.      I  'm  all* 
over  muck  from  the  swamp  down  there. 
I  crossed  by  the  willers,  to  save  steps." 

Cynthia  tucked  the  bottle  back  in  its 
place  and  crossed  the  kitchen  swiftly, 
taking  a  card  of  matches  as  she  went. 
Old  Nancy  stood  there  on  the  door- 
stone,  a  squat  figure  with  one  shoulder 
higher  than  the  other.  She  had  the 
imposing  equipment  of  an  aquiline  nose 
and  sound  white  teeth  at  seventy. 
Her  thick  gray  hair  was  drawn  back 
into  a  knot,  and  the  lines  in  her  brown 
face  were  crisp  and  deep.  A  life  soli- 
tary in  itself,  and  yet  spent  among  peo- 
ple in  a  drifting  way,  had  touched  her 
face  with  little  quizzical  shades  of 
meaning.  Her  cold  pipe  was  in  her 
hand,  waiting  to  be  filled. 

"  Here  's  the  matches, "  said  Cynthia. 


Nancy  took  them  with  a  mechanical 
touch,  and  remained  looking  at  her. 

"  Law !  "  said  she,  "  't  ain't  wuth  it." 

"What  ain't?  "  repeated  Cynthia. 

"  What  you  've  got  on  your  mind, 
whatever  't  is.  Wait  a  day  an'  it  '11  be 
a  thing  o'  the  past.  If  't  ain't  in  a 
day,  't  will  be  in  a  year,  or  ten  year, 
or  a  lifetime.  Wait  long  enough,  an' 
the  whole  on  us  '11  be  underground." 

"Yes,"  said  Cynthia,  "we  shall  be 
underground."  But  her  mind  was  not 
with  the  old  woman,  but  on  her  own 
preparations  for  flight.  The  tawdry 
room  still  troubled  her,  the  slatternly 
picture  he  must  find  when  he  came 
home.  She  would  leave  his  house  in 
order  for  him.  "Look  here,  Nancy," 
said  she  suddenly,  "you  stay  the  rest 
o'  the  day  an'  help  me  clean." 

Nancy  smiled  satirically.  She  looked 
up  at  the  blue  sky,  sown  with  flying 
white,  and  then  over  the  line  of  upland 
where  her  fate,  every  day  renewed,  was 
waiting  for  her. 

"I  don't  clean  for  myself,"  she 
said.  "My  bed  ain't  been  made  nor 
slep'  in  for  a  fortnight.  I  been  tramp- 
in'  the  countryside." 

"I '11  give  you  a  dollar!" 

"I  ain't  got  much  use  for  dollars  till 
winter  time,  an'  then  I  guess  I  shall  be 
provided  for.  I  got  a  passel  o'  herbs 
to  sell  this  fall."  But  she  was  search- 
ing Cynthia's  face  with  her  impersonal 
glance,  and  her  mind  altered.  "Law, 
yes!  "  said  she.  "It 's  as  good  a  way 
o'  passin'  time  as  any  other.  You  let 
me  pull  off  these  muddy  boots.  You 
got  a  pair  o'  rubbers  I  can  scuff  round 
in?  Where  you  goin'  to  begin?  " 

With  the  word,  she  had  caught  up 
an  old  pair  of  Andrew's  shoes  beside 
the  shed  door,  and  slipped  her  feet  into 
them.  Cynthia  left  her,  and  went  fly- 
ing upstairs  with  an  unregarding  haste. 
She  went  first  to  the  shed  chamber,  and, 
without  a  glance  at  her  precious  handi- 
work, closed  the  door  upon  it.  Then, 
running  to  the  other  rooms  in  turn,  she 
breathed  dull  satisfaction  at  finding 


42 


Bachelor's  Fancy. 


them  in  comfortable  array.  There  was 
the  west  chamber;  she  had  put  that  in 
order  when  aunt  Patten  had  been  ex- 
pected, a  week  before,  to  spend  the 
night,  and  the  other  rooms  had  to  match 
it  because  aunt  Patten  would  go  mous- 
ing round.  Cynthia  had  laughed  with 
Andrew,  in  the  doing,  over  so  patently 
setting  her  scene  for  a  meddler.  But 
aunt  Patten  had  diverged,  on  her  vis- 
iting way,  and  Cynthia's  pains  had 
seemed  unnecessary. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  Nancy  was 
awaiting  her.  She  had  an  air  of  large 
leisure;  yet  in  some  subtle  fashion  her 
man's  attitude  showed  the  reserve 
strength  in  her  and  inspired  content. 

"What  be  I  goin'  to  fly  at  fust?  " 
she  asked  indulgently,  as  at  a  madness 
not  her  own. 

"You  sweep  the  sittin'-room, "  re- 
turned Cynthia.  "When  the  dust  is 
settled,  you  can  do  the  winders.  I  '11 
begin  on  the  bedroom." 

Cynthia  did  not,  it  seemed  to  her, 
think  at  all  as  she  went  about  her  work, 
doing  it  swiftly  and  still  with  the  far- 
off  sound  of  the  sea  in  her  ears.  She 
was  simply  a  different  creature  from 
that  other  happy  woman  who  had  been 
weaving  coverlets  that  morning.  She 
had  brought  upon  herself  a  colossal  pun- 
ishment. She  never  stopped  to  won- 
der whether  the  punishment  were  just. 
It  was  simply  there. 

At  one  she  and  Nancy  had  some  eggs 
and  tea,  and  in  mid  afternoon  they  met 
in  the  kitchen,  each  about  her  task. 
Cynthia  was  baking  now,  cream  o'  tar- 
tar biscuits  and  custard  pie,  and  Nancy 
was  cleaning  the  woodwork  with  great 
sweeps  of  her  lean  arm. 

"I  didn't  know  you  was  such  a 
driver,"  she  said  at  length,  as.  she  sat 
on  the  top  of  the  step-ladder,  taking  a 
pull  at  her  pipe. 

"I  guess  I  ain't  been,"  said  Cyn- 
thia, her  pretty  brows  in  a  painstaking 
frown  over  the  scalloped  edges  of  the 
pie.      "I  ain't  done  much  housework." 
"  You  like  it  ?  "  asked  Nancy. 


A  swift  terror  fled  across  Cynthia's 
face,  like  a  beating  wing.  At  that  mo- 
ment she  liked  housework  better  than 
anything  on  earth.  It  was  not  a  cold 
routine.  It  had  at  last  a  poignant 
meaning.  It  meant  Andrew  and  her 
home.  But  she  answered  stolidly,  "I 
guess  so." 

"If  you  've  took  it  on  yourself, 
you  've  got  to  like  it, "  said  Nancy  phil- 
osophically, rising  and  knocking  the 
ashes  from  her  pipe.  "You  hand  me 
up  that  bar  soap.  That  's  the  wust  o' 
menfolks.  Once  you  've  got  'em,  you 
got  to  slave  for  'em.  Lug  'em  or  leave 
'em!  But  don't  git  'em,  I  say.  Look 
here,  now!  Fifty  year  ago  come  No- 
vember, I  said  I  'd  marry  a  man  down 
Sudleigh  way.  I  went  to  stay  a  spell 
with  his  mother.  Well,  sir!  I  come 
home  an'  I  broke  it  off.  '  I  ain't  a-goin' 
to  spend  my  days  makin'  sugar  ginger- 
bread,'  says  I.  'No,  sir!  Nor  cuttin' 
it  out  in  an  oak-leaf  pattern,  —  not  by 
a  long  chalk!  ' 

"  He  likes  sugar  gingerbread, "  said 
Cynthia  to  herself.  "I  guess  I  got 
time  to  make  some." 

"I  warrant  ye  the  colored  pop 'lation 
never  felt  freer  'n  I  did  when  I  see  him 
walkin'  away  down  the  path  arter  I 
told  him  't  was  broke  off,"  chuckled 
Nancy,  moving  the  step-ladder  along. 
"I  never  had  a  minute's  sorrer  over  it, 
—  not  a  second." 

"I  guess  I  '11  put  in  a  mite  o'  gin- 
ger, "  said  Cynthia,  stirring  breathless- 
ly. "Do  you  use  ginger,  Nancy?  " 

"Law!  I  dunno  what  ye  do,  it's 
so  long  sence  I  've  tried  any.  I  don't 
concern  myself  with  sweet  trade.  I 
can  make  as  good  a  meal  as  I  want  out 
o'  crackers  an'  cheese  an'  wash  it  down 
with  a  drink  o'  water  out  o'  the  well. 
Look  here !  did  it  ever  come  into  your 
head  that  everybody  ain't  called  to 
preach,  an'  everybody  ain't  called  to 
marry?  " 

"Some  ain't  fit,"  said  Cynthia  bit- 
terly, her  passionate  mind  on  her  own 
defects,  "they  ain't  fit  to  marry." 


Bachelor's  Fancy. 


43 


"  'T  ain't  only  that,  —  they  're  like  a 
bird  in  a  cage.  You  look  here!  men- 
folks  think  they  're  dull  sometimes,  set- 
tled down  in  a  pint  measure  with  one 
woman.  Lordymighty !  the  women 's 
dull,  too,  on'y  they  don't  let  on.  Pious 
little  devils !  they  go  round  washin' 
dishes  an'  moppin'  up  under  the  sto', 
and  half  on  'em  wants  to  be  trampin' 
like  me,  an'  t'other  half  dunno  what 
they  want.  Keep  out  on  't,  I  say !  keep 
out  on't!  " 

Nancy  lifted  her  voice  in  a  tuneful 
stave,  the  words  satirically  fit,  but  Cyn- 
thia was  not  listening.  The  notes  fell 
upon  her  like  a  patter  of  unregarded 
rain,  as  she  creased  her  gingerbread 
and  beat  her  mind  back  from  futile 
wonderment  over  her  own  plight  when 
Andrew  should  be  here  alone. 

"The  house  has  got  to  be  jes'  so," 
pursued  Nancy.  "The  woman  's  got 
to  be  jes'  so.  They  can  come  home  all 
over  gurry,  but  she  's  got  to  have  on  a 
clean  apron  an'  her  hair  slicked  up  to 
the  nines.  They  can  set  all  the  even- 
in'  huskin'  together  an'  hootin'  over 
old  stories,  an'  come  stumblin'  in  when 
they  git  ready,  an'  find  doughnuts  an' 
pie  set  out  complete.  What  's  fair  for 
one  's  fair  for  another,  I  say." 

"No,  it  ain't!  "  cried  Cynthia,  sud- 
denly awakened.  She  stood  straight  and 
slender  in  the  middle  of  her  kitchen. 
Defensive  fires  burned  hotly  in  her 
eyes.  "Nancy,  I  ain't  goin'  to  have 
such  talk  in  here.  I  can't  stand  it. 
You  think  of  him  gettin'  all  over  dust 
an'  dirt  workin'  like  a  dog.  You  think 
of  it,  Nancy!  It's  his  house.  It's 
no  more  'n  right  he  should  have  it  the 
way  he  wants  it.  I  should  like  to  know 
if  he  ain't  goin'  to  have  anything  the 
way  he  wants  it?  "  Her  voice  choked 
in  passionate  championship  of  the  man 
whose  pride  was  hurt. 

But  Nancy  only  gave  a  derisive 
chuckle.  "Law!  "  said  she.  "You 
needn't  worry.  I  guess  they'll  look 
out  for  themselves.  I  never  see  a  man 
yet  but  had  time  enough  for  that." 


At  five  o'clock  the  house  was  in  or- 
der and  Nancy  had  started  on  her 
homeward  way,  a  dollar  in  her  pocket, 
and,  despite  some  ruthless  indifference 
on  her  part,  a  basket  of  food  in  her 
hand.  Cynthia  dismissed  her  with  an 
unwitting  solemnity. 

"Good-by,  Nancy,"  said  she. 
"You  've  been  a  real  help  to  me.  I 
don't  know  how  I  should  have  got 
through  it  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you." 

"It's  clean  as  a  ribbin, "  Nancy 
called  back  cheerfully.  "But  land! 
cleanin'  up  's  nothin'.  Trouble  is  to 
keep  it  so.  Well,  I  '11  be  pokin' 
along. " 

Cynthia  stood  and  watched  her  well- 
knit  figure  swinging  on  between  the 
willows  that  marked  the  road.  Then 
she  turned  back  to  her  clean  house  for 
a  last  look  and  the  renewed  certainty 
of  its  perfect  state.  She  walked  deli- 
cately about  the  kitchen,  lest  a  grain  of 
dust  should  be  tracked  upon  the  speck- 
less  floor.  The  food  not  yet  cooled  from 
the  oven  was  in  the  pantry.  All  through 
the  lower  rooms  there  was  the  fragrance 
of  cake  and  bread.  It  was  a  house  set 
in  order,  and  finding  it  perfect,  she  made 
herself  sweet  and  clean,  and  changed 
her  working  dress  for  a  crisper  calico. 
In  the  doing,  she  thought  solemnly  how 
she  had  once  helped  bathe  a  child  that 
had  died  at  the  poorhouse,  and  prepare 
it  for  burial.  This  body  of  hers  was 
also  being  prepared,  and  though  she  had 
no  words  to  say  so,  it  seemed  to  her 
the  body  of  her  love.  And  all  the  time 
the  sea  kept  calling  her,  with  its  assur- 
ances of  manifold  and  solemn  refuge. 

Presently  she  was  ready  to  go.  She 
had  made  the  clothing  she  had  slipped 
off  into  a  little  bundle,  to  leave  none 
but  fresh  things  behind  her,  and  now  she 
took  it  in  her  hand  and  stepped  out  at 
the  front  door.  That  she  closed,  but 
the  windows  were  still  open.  It  was 
better  that  storms  should  invade  the 
house  than  that  he  should  find  it  inhos- 
pitably shut.  Day  and  night  could  be 
trusted  with  their  welcome  to  him. 


44 


Bachelor's  Fancy. 


But  turning  from  the  door,  she  smelled 
her  garden,  and  its  autumn  bitterness  of 
breath  awoke  in  her  a  final  pang  of 
homesickness.  She  laid  down  her  bun- 
dle and  hurried  round  to  the  well,  to 
draw  bucket  after  bucket  of  water  and 
drench  the  roots  she  had  kept  tended 
since  the  spring.  It  was  a  separate  good- 
by  to  every  one.  Here  were  the  deli- 
cate firstlings  whose  day  had  long  been 
over,  and  the  hollyhocks  that  had  made 
the  summer  gay.  Dahlias  and  asters 
were  the  ones  to  keep  this  later  watch, 
but  she  sprinkled  them  impartially, 
whether  they  were  to  bloom  again  or 
wither  till  the  winter's  spell.  The  moon 
was  rising  behind  the  wooded  hill,  and 
there  was  suddenly  a  prophetic  touch  of 
frost  in  the  air.  She  stood  for  a  moment 
listening  to  the  stillness,  recognizing 
life  as  if  it  all  came  flooding  in  on  her 
at  once,  only  to  retreat  like  a  giant 
wave  and  wash  some  farther  shore. 
Her  brain  apprehended  what  her  tongue 
could  never  say.  She  understood  the 
meaning  of  service  and  harmonious  liv- 
ing. It  was  no  more  dull  to  her  now 
than  daily  sunrise.  She  looked  at  An- 
drew's house,  builded  by  another  Gale 
over  a  hundred  years  ago.  It  meant 
more  than  a  shelter.  It  was  the  roof 
of  love,  the  nest  of  springing  hopes. 
Yet  being  a  child  at  heart,  she  could 
not  stay  after  he  had  found  her  for  one 
day  unworthy,  and  she  was  too  young 
to  know  how  storms  may  pass. 

The  man  came  heavily  along  the  dark- 
ened road  and  reached  the  gate  as  she 
did.  She  saw  him  and  dropped  her  bun- 
dle in  the  shade  of  the  lilac  at  the  fence. 
Andrew  did  not  speak.  He  threw  open 
the  gate,  stepped  in,  and  put  his  arms 
about  her.  He  held  her  to  him  as  we 
hold  what  is  almost  lost  us  through  our 
own  lax  grasp ;  but  when  he  spoke  to 
her,  she  did  not  hear,  and  when  he  loosed 
his  clasp  to  look  at  her,  she  sank  down 
and  would  have  fallen. 

"Cynthy.for  God's  sake!  "  he  cried, 
and  his  voice  recalled  her.  Then  she 
gained  her  feet,  he  helping  her. 


"  What  is  it,  dear  ?  what  is  it,  dear  ?  " 
he  kept  saying,  and  she  answered  him 
with  her  tremulous  breath  upon  his 
cheek.  Presently  they  went  up  the  path 
together,  and  in  at  the  closed  door. 
"By  George, don't  it  smell  good!  "  said 
Andrew.  His  voice,  in  nervous  jovial- 
ity, was  shaking,  like  his  hands.  "Le' 
me  git  a  light,  honey.  I  've  got  to 
look  at  you.  Got  to  make  sure  you  're 
here!" 

The  blaze  from  the  shining  lamp 
struck  full  on  her,  and  Andrew  caught 
his  breath.  Cynthia  looked  like  the 
angel  of  herself.  Her  tired  face,  over- 
laid by  joy,  was  like  that  of  a  child 
awakened  from  sleep  to  unexpected  wel- 
come. She  seemed  an  adoring  hand- 
maid, incredulous  of  the  beauty  of  her 
task.  Andrew  felt  the  wistfulness  of 
her  air,  the  presence  of  things  unknown 
to  him.  He  went  over  to  her  and  drew 
her  nearer. 

"You  knew  I'd  come,"  he  said. 
"You  knew  I  could  n't  stan'  it  after 
I  'd  been  ugly  to  you.  Look  at  this 
house!  You  fixed  all  up,  an'  made  it 
neat  as  wax.  I  started  just  as  they  set 
down  to  supper,  an'  put  for  home.  I  've 
been  scairt  'most  to  death  all  the  after- 
noon. I  dunno  what  I  thought  would 
happen  to  you,  but  I  had  to  come." 

"I  've  cleaned  the  house,"  said  Cyn- 
thia, like  a  child.  "I  got  old  Nancy." 

"Yes,  dear,  yes,"  he  soothed  her. 
"You  knew  I  'd  come.  You  knew  I 
would  n't  stay  away  a  night  after  I 
broke  your  heart.  You  tell  about  your 
weavin',  dear.  I  want  to  hear  it  now. " 

"My  weavin'?"  repeated  Cynthia 
vaguely.  The  words  roused  her  a  lit- 
tle from  her  happy  dream,  and  for  one 
luminous  instant  she  felt  the  signifi- 
cance of  all  the  threads  that  make  the 
web  of  life.  She  laughed.  "'Twas 
only  Bachelor's  Fancy,"  she  said.  "I 
learned  it,  that 's  all.  There  's  lots  o' 
things  I  'd  ruther  do.  You  go  in  the 
pantry,  dear,  an'  look." 

Andrew  left  her  with  a  kiss  that  was 
like  meeting,  not  good-by.  But  as 


Fra  Paolo  Sarpi. 


45 


he  took  the  lamp  from  the  table,  Cyn- 
thia slipped  out  at  the  front  door. 

"Where  you  goin'  ?  "  he  called. 

"Only  out  to  the  lilac, "  she  answered 
throbbingly.  "I  dropped  somethin' 
there." 

While  he  lingered  for  her,  she  came 


back  and,  as  she  ran,  tossed  her  little 
bundle  into  the  closet  under  the  stairs. 
The  hues  of  youth  were  on  her  face. 
Her  eyes  were  wet  and  glad. 

"I'm  terrible  hungry,  too,"  she 
told  him.  "Come!  there  's  sugar  gin- 
gerbread." 

Alice  Brown. 


FRA  PAOLO   SARPI. 


A  THOUGHTFUL  historian  tells  us  that, 
between  the  fourteenth  century  and  the 
nineteenth,  Italy  produced  three  great 
men.  As  the  first  of  these,  he  names 
Machiavelli,  who,  he  says,  "  taught  the 
world  to  understand  political  despotism 
and  to  hate  it ;  "  as  the  second,  he  names 
Sarpi,  who  "  taught  the  world  after 
what  manner  the  Holy  Spirit  guides  the 
Councils  of  the  Church  ; "  and  as  the 
third,  Galileo,  who  "  taught  the  world 
what  dogmatic  theology  is  worth  when 
it  can  be  tested  by  science." 

I  purpose  now  to  present  the  second 
of  these.  As  a  man,  he  was  by  far  the 
greatest  of  the  three  and,  in  various  re- 
spects, the  most  interesting ;  for  he  not 
only  threw  a  bright  light  into  the  most 
important  general  council  of  the  Church 
and  revealed  to  Christendom  the  methods 
which  there  prevailed,  —  in  a  book  which 
remains  one  of  the  half-dozen  classic  his- 
tories of  the  world,  —  but  he  fought  the 
most  bitter  fight  for  humanity  against 
the  papacy  ever  known  in  any  Latin  na- 
tion, and  won  a  victory  by  which  the 
whole  world  has  profited  ever  since. 
Moreover,  he  was  one  of  the  two  fore- 
most Italian  statesmen  since  the  Middle 
Ages,  the  other  being  Cavour. 

He  was  born  at  Venice  in  1552,  and 
it  may  concern  those  who  care  to  note 
the  subtle  interweaving  of  the  warp  and 
woof  of  history  that  the  birth  year  of 


this  most  resourceful  foe  that  Jesuitism 
ever  had  was  the  death  year  of  St. 
Francis  Xavier,  the  noblest  of  Jesuit 
apostles. 

It  may  also  interest  those  who  study 
the  more  evident  evolution  of  cause  and 
effect  in  human  affairs  to  note  that,  like 
most  strong  men,  he  had  a  strong  mother ; 
that  while  his  father  was  a  poor  shop- 
keeper who  did  little  and  died  young, 
his  mother  was  wise  and  serene. 

From  his  earliest  boyhood,  he  showed 
striking  gifts  and  characteristics.  He 
never  forgot  a  face  once  seen,  could  take 
in  the  main  contents  of  a  page  at  a 
glance,  spoke  little,  rarely  ate  meat,  and, 
until  his  last  years,  never  drank  wine. 

Brought  up,  after  the  death  of  his 
father,  first  by  his  uncle,  a  priest,  and 
then  by  Capella,  a  Servite  monk,  in 
something  better  than  the  usual  priestly 
fashion,  he  became  known,  while  yet  in 
his  boyhood,  as  a  theological  prodigy. 
Disputations  in  his  youth,  especially  one 
at  Mantua,  where,  after  the  manner  of 
the  time,  he  successfully  defended  sev- 
eral hundred  theses  against  all  comers, 
attracted  wide  attention,  so  that  the 
Bishop  gave  him  a  professorship,  and 
the  Duke,  who,  like  some  other  crowned 
heads  of  those  days,  —  notably  Henry 
VIII.  and  James  I.,  —  liked  to  dabble 
in  theology,  made  him  a  court  theologian. 
But  the  duties  of  this  position  were 
uncongenial :  a  flippant  duke,  fond  of 
putting  questions  which  the  wisest  theo- 


46 


Fra  Paolo  Sarpi. 


logian  could  not  answer,  and  laying  out 
work  which  the  young  scholar  evidently 
thought  futile,  apparently  wearied  him. 
He  returned  to  the  convent  of  the  Ser- 
vites  at  Venice,  and  became,  after  a  few 
years'  novitiate,  a  friar,  changing,  at  the 
same  time,  his  name ;  so  that,  having  been 
baptized  Peter,  he  now  became  Paul. 

His  career  soon  seemed  to  reveal  an- 
other and  underlying  cause  of  his  re- 
turn :  he  evidently  felt  the  same  impulse 
which  stirred  his  contemporaries, 'Lord 
Bacon  and  Galileo ;  for  he  began  devot- 
ing himself  to  the  whole  range  of  scien- 
tific and  philosophical  studies,  especial- 
ly to  mathematics,  physics,  astronomy, 
anatomy,  and  physiology.  In  these  he 
became  known  as  an  authority,  and  be- 
fore long  was  recognized  as  such  through- 
out Europe.  It  is  claimed,  and  it  is  not 
improbable,  that  he  anticipated  Harvey  in 
discovering  the  circulation  of  the  blood, 
and  that  he  was  the  forerunner  of  noted 
discoveries  in  magnetism.  Unfortunate- 
ly the  loss  of  the  great  mass  of  his  papers 
by  the  fire  which  destroyed  his  convent 
in  1769  forbids  any  full  estimate  of  his 
work ;  but  it  is  certain  that  among  those 
who  sought  his  opinion  and  advice  were 
such  great  discoverers  as  Acquapendente, 
Galileo,  Torricelli,  and  Gilbert  of  Col- 
chester, and  that  every  one  of  these  re- 
ferred to  him  as  an  equal,  and  indeed  as 
a  master.  It  seems  also  established  that 
it  was  he  who  first  discovered  the  valves 
of  the  veins,  that  he  made  known  the 
most  beautiful  function  of  the  iris,  —  its 
contractility,  —  and  that  various  surmises 
of  his  regarding  heat,  light,  and  sound 
have  since  been  developed  into  scientific 
truths.  It  is  altogether  likely  that,  had 
he  not  been  drawn  from  scientific  pur- 
suits by  his  duties  as  a  statesman,  he 
would  have  ranked  among  the  greater 
investigators  and  discoverers,  not  only 
of  Italy,  but  of  the  world. 

He  also  studied  political  and  social 
problems,  and  he  arrived  at  one  conclu- 
sion which,  though  now  trite,  was  then 
novel,  —  the  opinion  that  the  aim  of  pun- 


ishment should  not  be  vengeance,  but 
reformation.  In  these  days  and  in  this 
country,  where  one  of  the  most  serious  of 
evils  is  undue  lenity  to  crime,  this  opin- 
ion may  be  imputed  to  him  as  a  fault ; 
but  in  those  days,  when  torture  was  the 
main  method  in  procedure  and  in  penal- 
ty, his  declaration  was  honorable  both  to 
his  head  and  heart. 

With  all  his  devotion  to  books,  he 
found  time  to  study  men.  Even  at 
school,  he  had  seemed  to  discern  those 
who  would  win  control.  They  discerned 
something  in  him  also  ;  so  that  close  re- 
lations were  formed  between  him  and 
such  leaders  as  Contarini  and  Morosini, 
with  whom  he  afterwards  stood  side  by 
side  in  great  emergencies. 

Important  missions  were  entrusted  to 
him.  Five  times  he  visited  Rome  to 
adjust  perplexing  differences  between 
the  papal  power  and  various  interests 
at  Venice.  He  was  rapidly  advanced 
through  most  of  the  higher  offices  in  his 
order,  and  in  these  he  gave  a  series  of 
decisions  which  won  the  respect  of  all 
entitled  to  form  an  opinion. 

Naturally  he  was  thought  of  for  high 
place  in  the  Church,  and  was  twice  pre- 
sented for  a  bishopric ;  but  each  time  he 
was  rejected  at  Rome,  —  partly  from 
family  claims  of  less  worthy  candidates, 
partly  from  suspicions  regarding  his 
orthodoxy.  It  was  objected  that  he  did 
not  find  the  whole  doctrine  of  the  Trinity 
in  the  first  verse  of  Genesis,  that  he  cor- 
responded with  eminent  heretics  of  Eng- 
land and  Germany,  that  he  was  not 
averse  to  reforms,  that,  in  short,  he  was 
not  inclined  to  wallow  in  the  slime  from 
which  had  crawled  forth  such  huge  in- 
carnations of  evil  as  John  XXIII.,  Ju- 
lius II.,  Sixtus  IV.,  and  Alexander  VI. 

His  orthodox  detractors  have  been 
wont  to  represent  him  as  seeking  ven- 
geance for  his  non-promotion ;  but  his 
after  career  showed  amply  that  personal 
grievances  had  little  effect  upon  him.  It 
is  indeed  not  unlikely  that  when  he  saw 
bishoprics  for  which  he  knew  himself 


Fra  Paolo  Sarpi. 


well  fitted  given  as  sops  to  poor  crea- 
tures utterly  unfit  in  morals  or  intellect, 
he  may  have  had  doubts  regarding  the 
part  taken  by  the  Almighty  in  selecting 
them ;  but  he  was  reticent,  and  kept  on 
with  his  work.  In  his  cell  at  Santa  Fosca, 
he  quietly  and  steadily  devoted  himself  to 
his  cherished  studies  ;  but  he  continued 
to  study  more  than  books  or  inanimate 
nature.  He  was  neither  a  bookworm  nor 
a  pedant.  On  his  various  missions  he 
met  and  discoursed  with  churchmen  and 
statesmen  concerned  in  the  greatest  trans- 
actions of  his  time,  notably  at  Mantua 
with  Oliva,  secretary  of  one  of  the  great- 
est ecclesiastics  at  the  Council  of  Trent ; 
at  Milan  with  Cardinal  Borrorneo,  by  far 
the  noblest  of  all  who  sat  in  that  assem- 
blage during  its  eighteen  years ;  in  Rome 
and  elsewhere  with  Arnauld  Ferrier, 
who  had  been  French  Ambassador  at  the 
Council,  Cardinal  Severina,  head  of  the 
Inquisition,  Castagna,  afterward  Pope 
Urban  VII. ,  and  Cardinal  Bellarmine, 
afterward  Sarpi's  strongest  and  noblest 
opponent. 

Nor  was  this  all.  He  was  not  content 
with  books  or  conversations ;  steadily  he 
went  on  collecting,  collating,  and  testing 
original  documents  bearing  upon  the 
great  events  of  his  time.  The  result  of 
all  this  the  world  was  to  see  later. 

He  had  arrived  at  middle  life  and  won 
wide  recognition  as  a  scholar,  scientific 
investigator,  and  jurist,  when  there  came 
the  supreme  moment  of  a  struggle  which 
had  involved  Europe  for  centuries,  —  a 
struggle  interesting  not  only  the  Italy 
and  Europe  of  those  days,  but  universal 
humanity  for  all  time. 

During  the  period  following  the  fall  of 
the  Roman  Empire  of  the  West  there 
had  been  evolved  the  temporal  power  of 
the  Roman  Bishop.  It  had  many  vicis- 
situdes. Sometimes,  as  in  the  days  of  St. 
Leo  and  St.  Gregory,  it  based  its  claims 
upon  noble  assertions  of  right  and  justice, 
and  sometimes,  as  in  the  hands  of  pon- 
tiffs like  Innocent  VIII.  and  Paul  V.,  it 
sought  to  force  its  way  by  fanaticism. 


Sometimes  it  strengthened  its  authority 
by  real  services  to  humanity,  and  some- 
times by  such  monstrous  frauds  as  the 
Forged  Decretals.  Sometimes,  as  under 
Popes  like  Gregory  VII.  and  Innocent 
III.,  it  laid  claim  to  the  mastership  of  the 
world,  and  sometimes,  as  with  the  ma- 
jority of  the  pontiffs  during  the  two  cen- 
turies before  the  Reformation,  it  became 
mainly  the  appanage  of  a  party  or  faction 
or  family. 

Throughout  all  this  history,  there  ap- 
peared in  the  Church  two  great  currents 
of  efficient  thought.  On  one  side  had 
been  developed  a  theocratic  theory,  giving 
the  papacy  a  power  supreme  in  temporal 
as  well  as  in  spiritual  matters  through- 
out the  world.  Leaders  in  this  during  the 
Middle  Ages  were  St.  Thomas  Aquinas 
and  the  Dominicans;  leaders  in  Sarpi's 
days  were  the  Jesuits,  represented  espe- 
cially in  the  treatises  of  Bellarmine  at 
Rome  and  in  the  speeches  of  Laynez  at 
the  Council  of  Trent.1 

But  another  theory,  hostile  to  the  des- 
potism of  the  Church  over  the  State,  had 
been  developed  through  the  Middle  Ages 
and  the  Renaissance  ;  —  it  had  been 
strengthened  mainly  by  the  utterances 
of  such  men  as  Dante,  ^Egidio  Colonna, 
John  of  Paris,  Ockham,  Marsilio  of 
Padua,  and  Laurentius  Valla.  Sarpi 
ranged  himself  with  the  latter  of  these 
forces.  Though  deeply  religious,  he  re- 
cognized the  God-given  right  of  earthly 
governments  to  discharge  their  duties 
independent  of  church  control. 

Among  the  many  centres  of  this  strug- 
gle was  Venice.  She  was  splendidly  re- 
ligious —  as  religion  was  then  under- 
stood. She  was  made  so  by  her  whole 
environment.  From  the  beginning  she 
had  been  a  seafaring  power,  and  seafar- 
ing men,  from  their  constant  wrestle  with 
dangers  ill  understood,  are  prone  to  seek 
and  find  supernatural  forces.  Nor  was 
this  all.  Later,  when  she  had  become 

1  This  has  heen  admirably  shown  by  N.  R.  F. 
Brown  in  his  Taylorian  Lecture,  pages  229-234, 
in  volume  for  1889-99. 


48 


Fra  Paolo  Sarpi. 


rich,  powerful,  luxurious,  licentious,  and 
refractory  to  the  priesthood,  her  most 
powerful  citizens  felt  a  need  of  atoning 
for  their  many  sins  by  splendid  religious 
foundations.  So  her  people  came  to  live 
in  an  atmosphere  of  religious  observance, 
and  the  bloom  and  fruitage  of  their  reli- 
gious hopes  and  fears  are  seen  in  the  whole 
history  of  Venetian  art,  —  from  the  rude 
sculptures  of  Torcello  and  the  naive  mo- 
saics of  San  Marco  to  the  glowing  altar- 
pieces  and  ceilings  of  John  Bellini,  Titian, 
and  Tintoretto  and  the  illuminations  of 
the  Grimani  Psalter.  No  class  in  Venice 
rose  above  this  environment.  Doges  and 
Senators  were  as  susceptible  to  it  as  were 
the  humblest  fishermen  on  the  Lido.  In 
every  one  of  those  glorious  frescoes  in 
the  corridors  and  halls  of  the  Ducal  Pal- 
ace which  commemorate  the  victories  of 
the  Republic,  the  triumphant  Doge  or 
Admiral  or  General  is  seen  on  his  knees 
making  acknowledgment  of  the  divine 
assistance.  On  every  Venetian  sequin, 
from  the  days  when  Venice  was  a  power 
throughout  the  earth  to  that  fatal  year 
when  the  young  Bonaparte  tossed  the 
Republic  over  to  the  House  of  Austria, 
the  Doge,  crowned  and  robed,  kneels 
humbly  before  the  Saviour,  the  Virgin,  or 
St.  Mark.  In  that  vast  Hall  of  the  Five 
Hundred,  the  most  sumptuous  room  in 
the  world,  there  is  spread  above  the  heads 
of  the  Doge  and  Senators  and  Council- 
ors, as  an  incentive  to  the  discharge  of 
their  duties  on  earth,  a  representation  of 
the  blessed  in  Heaven. 

From  highest  to  lowest,  the  Venetians 
lived,  moved,  and  had  their  being  in  this 
religious  environment,  and,  had  their  Re- 
public been  loosely  governed,  its  external 
policy  would  have  been  largely  swayed 
by  this  all-pervading  religious  feeling, 
and  would  have  become  the  plaything  of 
the  Roman  Court.  But  a  democracy  has 
never  been  maintained  save  by  the  dele- 
gation of  great  powers  to  its  chosen  lead- 
ers. It  was  the  remark  of  one  of  the  fore- 
most American  Democrats  of  the  nine- 
teenth century,  a  man  who  received  the 


highest  honors  which  his  party  could 
bestow,  that  the  Constitution  of  the 
United  States  was  made,  not  to  promote 
Democracy,  but  to  check  it.  This  state- 
ment is  true,  and  it  is  as  true  of  the  Ve- 
netian Constitution  as  of  the  American.1 

But  while  both  the  republics  recognized 
the  necessity  of  curbing  Democracy,  the 
difference  between  the  means  employed 
was  world-wide.  The  founders  of  the 
American  Republic  gave  vast  powers  and 
responsibilities  to  a  president  and  un- 
heard-of authority  to  a  supreme  court ; 
in  the  Venetian  Republic  the  Doge  was 
gradually  stripped  of  power,  but  there 
was  evolved  the  mysterious  and  unlim- 
ited authority  of  the  Senate  and  Council 
of  Ten. 

In  these  sat  the  foremost  Venetians, 
thoroughly  imbued  with  the  religious 
spirit  of  their  time ;  but,  religious  as  they 
were,  they  were  men  of  the  world,  trained 
in  the  politics  of  all  Europe  and  espe- 
cially of  Italy. 

In  a  striking  passage,  Guizot  has  shown 
how  the  Crusaders  who  went  to  the  Orient 
by  way  of  Italy  and  saw  the  papacy  near 
at  hand  came  back  skeptics.  This  same 
influence  shaped  the  statesmen  of  Venice. 
The  Venetian  Ambassadors  were  the  fore- 
most in  Europe.  Their  Relations  are 
still  studied  as  the  clearest,  shrewdest, 
and  wisest  statements  regarding  the  men 
and  events  in  Europe  at  their  time.  All 
were  noted  for  skill ;  but  the  most  skill- 
ful were  kept  on  duty  at  Rome.  There 
was  the  source  of  danger.  The  Doges, 
Senators,  and  controlling  Councilors  had, 
as  a  rule,  served  in  these  embassies,  and 
they  had  formed  lucid  judgments  as  to 
Italian  courts  in  general  and  as  to  the 
Roman  Court  in  particular.  No  men  had 
known  the  Popes  and  the  Curia  more 
thoroughly.  They  had  seen  Innocent 
VIII.  buy  the  papacy  for  money.  They 
had  been  at  the  Vatican  when  Alexander 
VI.  had  won  renown  as  a  secret  murderer. 
They  had  seen,  close  at  hand,  the  merci- 

1  See  Horatio  Seymour's  noted  article  in  the 
North  American  Review. 


Fra  Paolo  Sarpi. 


49 


less  cruelty  of  Julius  II.  They  had  care- 
fully noted  the  crimes  of  Sixtus  IV., 
which  culminated  in  the  assassination  of 
Julian  de'  Medici  beneath  the  dome  of 
Florence  at  the  moment  the  Host  was  up- 
lifted. They  had  sat  near  Leo  X.  while 
he  enjoyed  the  obscenities  of  the  Ca- 
landria  and  the  Mandragora,  —  plays 
which,  in  the  most  corrupt  of  modern  cit- 
ies, would,  in  our  day,  be  stopped  by  the 
police.  No  wonder  that,  in  one  of  their 
dispatches,  they  speak  of  Rome  as  "  the 
cloaca  of  the  world."  * 

Naturally,  then,  while  their  religion 
showed  itself  in  wonderful  monuments  of 
every  sort,  their  practical  sense  was  shown 
by  a  steady  opposition  to  papal  encroach- 
ments. 

Of  this  combination  of  zeal  for  religion 
with  hostility  to  ecclesiasticism  we  have 
striking  examples  throughout  the  his- 
tory of  the  Republic.  While,  in  every 
other  European  state,  cardinals,  bishops, 
priests,  and  monks  were  given  leading 
parts  in  civil  administration  and,  in  some 
states,  a  monopoly  of  civil  honors,  the 
Republic  of  Venice  not  only  excluded  all 
ecclesiastics  from  such  posts,  but,  in  cases 
which  touched  church  interests,  she  ex- 
cluded even  the  relatives  of  ecclesiastics. 
When  church  authority  decreed  that  com- 
merce should  not  be  maintained  with  infi- 
dels and  heretics,  the  Venetian  merchants 
continued  to  deal  with  Turks,  Pagans, 
Germans,  Englishmen,  and  Dutchmen 
as  before.  When  the  Church  decreed 
that  the  taking  of  interest  for  money  was 
sin,  and  great  theologians  published  in 
Venice  some  of  their  mightiest  treatises 
demonstrating  this  view  from  Holy  Scrip- 
ture and  the  Fathers,  the  Venetians  con- 
tinued borrowing  and  lending  money  on 
usance.  When  efforts  were  made  to  en- 
force that  tremendous  instrument  for  the 
consolidation  of  papal  power,  the  bull 
In  Coena  Domini,  Venice  evaded  and 
even  defied  it.  When  the  Church  frowned 

1  For  Sixtus  IV.  and  his  career,  -with  the 
tragedy  in  the  Cathedral  of  Florence,  see  Vil- 
lari's  Life  of  Machiavelli,  English  Edition,  vol. 

VOL.  xcin.  —  NO.  555.  4 


upon  anatomical  dissections,  the  Vene- 
tians allowed  Andreas  Vesalius  to  make 
such  dissections  at  their  University  of 
Padua.  When  Sixtus  V.,  the  strongest 
of  all  the  Popes,  had  brought  all  his  pow- 
ers, temporal  and  spiritual,  to  bear  against 
Henry  IV.  of  France  as  an  excommuni- 
cated heretic,  and  seemed  ready  to  hurl 
the  thunderbolts  of  the  Church  against 
any  power  which  should  recognize  him, 
the  Venetian  Republic  not  only  recog- 
nized him,  but  treated  his  Ambassador 
with  especial  courtesy.  When  the  other 
Catholic  powers,  save  France,  yielded  to 
papal  mandates  and  sent  no  representa- 
tives to  the  coronation  of  James  I.  of 
England,  Venice  was  there  represented. 
When  Pope  after  Pope  issued  endless 
diatribes  against  the  horrors  of  toleration, 
the  Venetians  steadily  tolerated  in  their 
several  sorts  of  worship  Jews  and  Greeks, 
Mohammedans  and  Armenians,  with  Pro- 
testants of  every  sort  who  came  to  them 
on  business.  When  the  Roman  Index 
forbade  the  publication  of  most  important 
works  of  leading  authors,  Venice  de- 
manded and  obtained  for  her  printers 
rights  which  were  elsewhere  denied. 

As  to  the  religious  restrictions  which 
touched  trade,  the  Venetians  in  the  pub- 
lic councils,  and  indeed  the  people  at 
large,  had  come  to  know  perfectly  what 
the  papal  theory  meant,  —  with  some  of 
its  promoters,  fanaticism,  but  with  the 
controlling  power  at  Rome,  revenue,  rev- 
enue to  be  derived  from  retailing  dis- 
pensations to  infringe  the  holy  rules. 

This  peculiar  antithesis  —  nowhere 
more  striking  than  at  Venice,  on  the  one 
side,  religious  fears  and  hopes ;  on  the 
other,  keen  insight  into  the  ways  of  ec- 
clesiasticism —  led  to  peculiar  compro- 
mises. The  bankers  who  had  taken  inter- 
est upon  money,  the  merchants  who  had 
traded  with  Moslems  and  heretics,  in 
their  last  hours  frequently  thought  it  best 
to  perfect  their  title  to  salvation  by  turn- 

ii.  pp.  341,  342.  For  the  passages  in  the  dis- 
patches referred  to,  vide  ibid.  vol.  i.  p.  198. 


50 


Fra  Paolo  Sarpi, 


ing  over  large  estates  to  the  Church. 
Under  the  sway  of  this  feeling,  and  es- 
pecially of  the  terrors  infused  by  priests 
at  deathbeds,  mortmain  had  become  in 
Venice,  as  in  many  other  parts  of  the 
world,  one  of  the  most  serious  of  evils. 
Thus  it  was  that  the  clergy  came  to  pos- 
sess between  one  fourth  and  one  third  of 
the  whole  territory  of  the  Republic,  and 
in  its  Bergamo  district  more  than  one 
half ;  and  all  this  was  exempt  from  tax- 
ation. Hence  it  was  that  the  Venetian 
Senate  found  it  necessary  to  devise  a 
legal  check  which  should  make  such  ab- 
sorption of  estates  by  the  Church  more 
and  more  difficult. 

There  was  a  second  cause  of  trouble. 
In  that  religious  atmosphere  of  Venice, 
monastic  orders  of  every  sort  grew  lux- 
uriantly, not  only  absorbing  more  and 
more  land  to  be  held  by  the  dead  hand, 
thus  escaping  the  public  burdens,  but 
ever  absorbing  more  and  more  men  and 
women,  and  thus  depriving  the  state  of 
any  healthy  and  normal  service  from 
them.  Here,  too,  the  Senate  thought  it 
best  to  interpose  a  check  :  it  insisted  that 
all  new  structures  for  religious  orders 
must  be  authorized  by  the  State. 

Yet  another  question  flamed  forth. 
Of  the  monks  of  every  sort  swarming 
through  the  city,  many  were  luxurious 
and  some  were  criminal.  On  these  last, 
the  Venetian  Senate  determined  to  lay 
its  hands,  and  in  the  first  years  of  the 
seventeenth  century  all  these  questions, 
and  various  other  matters  distasteful  to 
the  Vatican,  culminated  in  the  seizure 
and  imprisonment  of  two  ecclesiastics 
charged  with  various  high  crimes,  — 
among  these  rape  and  murder. 

There  had  just  come  to  the  papal 
throne  Camillo  Borghese,  Paul  V.,  — 
strong,  bold,  determined,  with  the  highest 
possible  theory  of  his  duties  and  of  his 

1  For  details  of  these  cases  of  the  two  monks, 
see  Pascolato.  Fra  Paolo  Sarpi,  Milano,  1893, 
pp.  126-128.  For  the  Borghese  avarice,  see 
Ranke's  Popes,  vol.  iii.  pp.  9-20.  For  the  de- 
velopment of  Pope  Paul's  theory  of  govern- 


position.  In  view  of  his  duty  toward  him- 
self, he  lavished  the  treasures  of  the 
faithful  upon  his  family,  until  it  became 
the  richest  which  had  yet  risen  in  Rome ; 
in  view  of  his  duty  toward  the  Church, 
he  built  superbly,  and  an  evidence  of  the 
spirit  in  which  he  wrought  is  his  name, 
in  enormous  letters,  still  spread  across 
the  facade  of  St.  Peter's.  As  to  his  po- 
sition, he  accepted  fully  the  theories  and 
practices  of  his  boldest  predecessors,  and 
in  this  he  had  good  warrant ;  for  St. 
Thomas  Aquinas  and  Bellarmine  had 
furnished  him  with  convincing  arguments 
that  he  was  divinely  authorized  to  rule  the 
civil  powers  of  Italy  and  of  the  world.1 

Moreover  there  was,  in  his  pride,  some- 
thing akin  to  fanaticism.  He  had  been 
elected  by  one  of  those  sudden  movements, 
as  well  known  in  American  caucuses  as  in 
papal  conclaves,  when,  after  a  deadlock, 
all  the  old  candidates  are  thrown  over, 
and  the  choice  suddenly  falls  on  a  new 
man.  The  cynical  observer  may  point 
to  this  as  showing  that  the  laws  govern- 
ing elections,  under  such  circumstances, 
are  the  same,  whether  in  party  caucuses 
or  in  church  councils  ;  but  Paul,  in  this 
case,  saw  the  direct  intervention  of  the 
Almighty,  and  his  disposition  to  magnify 
his  office  was  vastly  increased  thereby. 
He  was  especially  strenuous,  and  one  of 
his  earliest  public  acts  was  to  send  to  the 
gallows  a  poor  author,  who,  in  an  unpub- 
lished work,  had  spoken  severely  regard- 
ing one  of  Paul's  predecessors. 

The  Venetian  laws  checking  mort- 
main, taxing  church  property,  and  re- 
quiring the  sanction  of  the  Republic  be- 
fore the  erection  of  new  churches  and 
monasteries  greatly  angered  him ;  but 
the  crowning  vexation  was  the  seizure 
of  the  two  clerics.  This  aroused  him 
fully.  He  at  once  sent  orders  that  they 
be  delivered  up  to  him,  that  apology  be 

ment,  see  Ranke,  vol.  ii.  p.  345,  and  note,  in 
which  Bellarmine's  doctrine  is  cited  textually  ; 
also  Bellarmine's  Selbstbiographie,  herausge- 
geben  von  Dollinger  und  Reusch.  Bonn,  1887. 
pp.  181,  et  seq. 


Fra  Paolo  Sarpi. 


51 


made  for  the  past  and  guarantees  given 
for  the  future,  and  notice  was  served  that, 
in  case  the  Republic  did  not  speedily 
obey  these  orders,  the  Pope  would  ex- 
communicate its  leaders  and  lay  an  inter- 
dict upon  its  people.  It  was  indeed  a 
serious  contingency.  For  many  years 
the  new  Pope  had  been  known  as  a  hard, 
pedantic  ecclesiastical  lawyer,  and  now 
that  he  had  arrived  at  the  supreme 
power,  he  had  evidently  determined  to 
enforce  the  high  mediaeval  supremacy  of 
the  Church  over  the  State.  Everything 
betokened  his  success.  In  France  he  had 
broken  down  all  opposition  to  the  decrees 
of  the  Council  of  Trent.  In  Naples, 
when  a  magistrate  had  refused  to  dis- 
obey the  civil  law  at  the  bidding  of 
priests,  and  the  viceroy  had  supported 
the  magistrate,  Pope  Paul  had  forced  the 
viceroy  and  magistrate  to  comply  with 
his  will  by  threats  of  excommunication. 
In  every  part  of  Italy,  —  in  Malta,  in 
Savoy,  in  Parma,  in  Lucca,  in  Genoa,  — 
and  finally  even  in  Spain,  he  had  petti- 
fogged, bullied,  threatened,  until  his  op- 
ponents had  given  way.  Everywhere  he 
was  triumphant ;  and  while  he  was  in  the 
mood  which  such  a  succession  of  triumphs 
would  give  he  turned  toward  Venice.1 

There  was  little  indeed  to  encourage 
the  Venetians  to  resist ;  for,  while  the  in- 
terests of  other  European  powers  were 
largely  the  same  as  theirs,  current  politi- 
cal intrigues  seemed  likely  to  bring  Spain 
and  even  France  into  a  league  with  the 
Vatican. 

To  a  people  so  devoted  to  commerce, 
yet  so  religious,  the  threat  of  an  inter- 
dict was  serious  indeed.  All  church  ser- 
vices were  to  cease ;  the  people  at  large, 
no  matter  how  faithful,  were  to  be  as 
brute  beasts,  —  not  to  be  legally  married, 

—  not  to  be  consoled  by  the  sacraments, 

—  not  to  be  shriven,  and  virtually  not  to 
be  buried  ;  other  Christian  peoples  were 
to  be  forbidden  all  dealings  with  them, 
under  pain  of  excommunication  ;   their 

1  For  letters  showing  the  craven  submission 
of  Philip  III.  of  Spain  at  this  time,  see  Cornet, 


commerce  was  to  be  delivered  over  to 
the  tender  mercies  of  any  and  every  other 
nation ;  their  merchant  ships  to  be  as 
corsairs ;  their  cargoes,  the  legitimate 
prey  of  all  Christendom ;  and  their  peo- 
ple, on  sea  and  land,  to  be  held  as  ene- 
mies of  the  human  race.  To  this  was 
added,  throughout  the  whole  mass  of  the 
people,  a  vague  sense  of  awful  penalties 
awaiting  them  in  the  next  world.  Despite 
all  this,  the  Republic  persisted  in  assert- 
ing its  right. 

Just  at  this  moment  came  a  diplomatic 
passage  between  Pope  and  Senate  like  a 
farce  before  a  tragedy,  and  it  has  histor- 
ical significance,  as  showing  what  re- 
sourceful old  heads  were  at  the  service  of 
either  side.  The  Doge  Grimani  having 
died,  the  Vatican  thought  to  score  a  point 
by  promptly  sending  notice  through  its 
Nuncio  to  Venice  that  no  new  election 
of  a  Doge  could  take  place  if  forbidden 
by  the  Pope,  and  that,  until  the  Senate 
had  become  obedient  to  the  papacy,  no 
such  election  would  be  sanctioned.  But 
the  Senate,  having  through  its  own  Am- 
bassador received  a  useful  hint,  was  quite 
equal  to  the  occasion.  It  at  once  declined 
to  receive  this  or  any  dispatch  from  the 
Pope  on  the  plea,  made  with  redundant 
courtesy  and  cordiality,  that,  there  being 
no  Doge,  there  was  no  person  in  Venice 
great  enough  to  open  it.  They  next  as 
politely  declined  to  admit  the  papal  Nun- 
cio on  the  ground  that  there  was  nobody 
worthy  to  receive  him.  Then  they  pro- 
ceeded to  elect  a  Doge  who  could  receive 
both  Nuncio  and  message,  —  a  sturdy  op- 
ponent of  the  Vatican  pretensions,  Leo- 
nardo Donato. 

The  Senate  now  gave  itself  entirely 
to  considering  ways  and  means  of  warding 
off  the  threatened  catastrophe.  Its  first 
step  was  to  consult  Sarpi.  His  answer 
was  prompt  and  pithy.  He  advised  two 
things :  first,  to  prevent,  at  all  hazards, 
any  publication  of  the  papal  bulls  in  Ven- 
ice or  any  obedience  to  them  ;  secondly, 

Paolo  V.  e  la  Republica  Veneta,  Vienna,  1859, 
p.  285. 


52 


Fra  Paolo  Sarpi. 


to  hold  in  readiness  for  use  at  any  mo- 
ment an  appeal  to  a  future  Council  of  the 
Church. 

Of  these  two  methods,  the  first  would 
naturally  seem  by  far  the  more  difficult. 
So  it  was  not  in  reality.  In  the  letter 
which  Sarpi  presented  to  the  Doge,  he 
devoted  less  than  four  lines  to  the  first 
and  more  than  fourteen  pages  to  the 
second.  As  to  the  first  remedy,  severe 
as  it  was  and  bristling  with  difficulties, 
it  was,  as  he  claimed,  a  simple,  natural, 
straightforward  use  of  police  power.  As 
to  the  second,  the  appeal  to  a  future 
Council  was  to  the  Vatican  as  a  red  flag 
to  a  bull.  The  very  use  of  it  involved  ex- 
communication. To  harden  and  strength- 
en the  Doge  and  Senate  in  order  that 
they  might  consider  it  as  an  ultimate  pos- 
sibility, Sarpi  was  obliged  to  show  from 
the  Scriptures,  the  Fathers,  the  Councils, 
the  early  Popes,  that  the  appeal  to  a 
Council  was  a  matter  of  right.  With  won- 
derful breadth  of  knowledge  and  clear- 
ness of  statement  he  made  his  points  and 
answered  objections.  To  this  day,  his 
letter  remains  a  masterpiece.1 

The  Republic  utterly  refused  to  yield, 
and  now,  in  1606,  Pope  Paul  launched 
his  excommunication  and  interdict.  In 
meeting  them,  the  Senate  took  the  course 
laid  down  by  Sarpi.  The  papal  Nuncio 
was  notified  that  the  Senate  would  re- 
ceive no  paper  from  the  Pope  ;  all  eccle- 
siastics, from  the  Patriarch  down  to  the 
lowest  monk,  were  forbidden,  under  the 
penalties  of  high  treason,  to  make  public 
or  even  to  receive  any  paper  whatever 
from  the  Vatican  ;  additional  guards  were 
placed  at  the  city  gates,  with  orders  to 
search  every  wandering  friar  or  other 
suspicious  person  who  might,  by  any 
possibility,  bring  in  a  forbidden  missive  ; 

1  For  Sarpi's  advice  to  the  Doge,  see  Bi- 
anchi  Giovini,  vol.  i.  pp.  216,  et  seq.  The  doc- 
ument is  given  fully  in  the  Lettere  di  F.  P.  S., 
Firenze,  1863,  vol.  i.  pp.  17,  et  seq. ;  also  in 
Machi,  Storia  del  Consiglio  dei  Dieci,  cap. 
xxiv.,  where  the  bull  of  excommunication  is 
also  given. 


a  special  patrol  was  kept,  night  and  day, 
to  prevent  any  posting  of  the  forbidden 
notices  on  walls  or  houses ;  any  person 
receiving  or  finding  one  was  to  take  it 
immediately  to  the  authorities,  under  the 
severest  penalties,  and  any  person  found 
concealing  such  documents  was  to  be  pun- 
ished by  death. 

At  first  some  of  the  clergy  were  re- 
fractory. The  head  of  the  whole  church 
establishment  of  Venice,  the  Patriarch 
himself,  gave  signs  of  resistance  ;  but  the 
Senate  at  once  silenced  him.  Sundry 
other  bishops  and  high  ecclesiastics  made 
a  show  of  opposition  ;  and  they  were 
placed  in  confinement.  One  of  them 
seeming  reluctant  to  conduct  the  usual 
church  service,  the  Senate  sent  an  exe- 
cutioner to  erect  a  gibbet  before  his  door. 
Another,  having  asked  that  he  be  al- 
lowed to  await  some  intimation  from  the 
Holy  Spirit,  received  answer  that  the 
Senate  had  already  received  directions 
from  the  Holy  Spirit  to  hang  any  person 
resisting  their  decree.  The  three  reli- 
gious orders  which  had  showed  most  op- 
position —  Jesuits,  Theatins,  and  Capu- 
chins —  were  in  a  semi-polite  manner 
virtually  expelled  from  the  Republic.2 

Not  the  least  curious  among  the  re- 
sults of  this  state  of  things  was  the  war 
of  pamphlets.  From  Rome,  Bologna,  and 
other  centres  of  thought,  even  from  Paris 
and  Frankfort,  polemic  tractates  rained 
upon  the  Republic.  The  vast  majority 
of  their  authors  were  on  the  side  of  the 
Vatican,  and  of  this  majority  the  leaders 
were  the  two  cardinals  so  eminent  in 
learning  and  logic,  Bellarmine  and  Ba- 
ronius  ;  but,  single-handed,  Sarpi  was,  by 
general  consent,  a  match  for  the  whole 
opposing  force.8 

Of   all   the  weapons   then  used,  the 

2  For  interesting  details  regarding  the  de- 
parture of  the  Jesuits,  see  Cornet,  Paolo  V.  e 
la  Republica  Veneta,  pp.  277-279. 

3  In   the   library  of  Cornell  University  are 
no  less  than  nine  quartos  filled  with  selected 
examples  of  these  polemics  on  both  sides. 


Fra  Paolo  Sarpi. 


53 


most  effective  throughout  Europe  was 
the  solemn  protest  drawn  by  Sarpi  and 
issued  by  the  Doge.  It  was  addressed 
nominally  to  the  Venetian  ecclesiastics, 
but  really  to  Christendom,  and  both  as  to 
matter  and  manner  it  was  Father  Paul 
at  his  best.  It  was  weighty,  lucid,  pun- 
gent, and  deeply  in  earnest,  —  in  every 
part  asserting  fidelity  to  the  Church  and 
loyalty  to  the  papacy,  but  setting  com- 
pletely at  naught  the  main  claim  of  Pope 
Paul :  the  Doge  solemnly  declaring  him- 
self "  a  prince  who,  in  temporal  matters, 
recognizes  no  superior  save  the  Divine 
Majesty." 

The  victory  of  the  friar  soon  began  to 
be  recognized  far  and  near.  Men  called 
him  by  the  name  afterward  so  generally 
given  him,  — the  "  terribile  frate."  The 
Vatican  seemed  paralyzed.  None  of  its 
measures  availed,  and  it  was  hurt,  rather 
than  helped,  by  its  efforts  to  pester  and 
annoy  Venice  at  various  capitals.  At 
Rome,  it  burned  Father  Paul's  books  and 
declared  him  excommunicated  ;  it  even 
sought  to  punish  his  printer  by  putting 
into  the  Index  not  only  all  works  that  he 
had  ever  printed,  but  all  that  he  might 
ever  print.  At  Vienna,  the  papal  Nuncio 
thought  to  score  a  point  by  declaring  that 
he  would  not  attend  a  certain  religious 
function  in  case  the  Venetian  Ambassa- 
dor should  appear ;  whereupon  the  Vene- 
tian announced  that  he  had  taken  physic 
and  regretted  that  he  could  not  be  pre- 
sent, —  whereat  all  Europe  laughed. 

Judicious  friends  in  various  European 
cabinets  now  urged  both  parties  to  re- 
cede or  to  compromise.  France  and  Spain 
both  proffered  their  good  offices.  The 
offer  of  France  was  finally  accepted, 
and  the  French  Ambassador  was  kept 
running  between  the  Ducal  Palace  and 
the  Vatican  until  people  began  laughing 
at  him  also.  The  emissaries  of  His  Holi- 
ness begged  hard  that,  at  least,  appear- 
ances might  be  saved  ;  that  the  Republic 
would  undo  some  of  its  measures  before 
the  interdict  was  removed,  or  at  least 
would  seem  to  do  so,  and  especially  that 


it  would  withdraw  its  refusals  before  the 
Pope  withdrew  his  penalties.  All  in  vain. 
The  Venetians  insisted  that  they  had 
committed  no  crime  and  had  nothing  to 
retract.  The  Vatican  then  urged  that  the 
Senate  should  consent  to  receive  absolu- 
tion for  its  resistance  to  the  Pope's  au- 
thority. This  the  Senate  steadily  refused ; 
it  insisted,  "  Let  His  Holiness  put  things 
as  before,  and  we  will  put  things  as  be- 
fore ;  as  to  his  absolution,  we  do  not  need 
it  or  want  it ;  to  receive  it  would  be  to 
acknowledge  that  we  have  been  in  the 
wrong."  Even  the  last  poor  sop  of  all 
was  refused  :  the  Senate  would  have  no 
great  "  function  "  to  celebrate  the  termi- 
nation of  the  interdict ;  they  would  not 
even  go  to  the  mass  which  Cardinal  Joy- 
euse  celebrated  on  that  occasion.  The 
only  appearance  of  concession  which  the 
Republic  made  was  to  give  up  the  two  ec- 
clesiastics to  the  French  Ambassador  as 
a  matter  of  courtesy  to  the  French  king ; 
and  when  this  was  done,  the  Ambassador 
delivered  them  to  the  Pope  ;  but  Venice 
especially  reserved  all  the  rights  she  had 
exercised.  All  the  essential  demands  of 
the  papacy  were  refused,  and  thus  was 
forever  ended  the  papal  power  of  lay- 
ing an  interdict  upon  a  city  or  a  people. 
From  that  incubus,  Christendom,  thanks 
to  Father  Paul  and  to  Venice,  was  at  last 
and  forever  free. 

The  Vatican  did,  indeed,  try  hard  to 
keep  its  old  claim  in  being.  A  few  years 
after  its  defeat  by  Fra  Paolo,  it  endea- 
vored to  reassert  in  Spain  the  same  au- 
thority which  had  been  so  humbly  ac- 
knowledged there  a  few  years  before. 
It  was  doubtless  felt  that  this  most  pious 
of  all  countries,  which  had  previously 
been  so  docile,  and  which  had  stood 
steadily  by  the  Vatican  against  Venice 
in  the  recent  struggle,  would  again  set 
an  example  of  submission.  Never  was 
there  a  greater  mistake  :  the  Vatican  re- 
ceived from  Spanish  piety  a  humiliating 
refusal. 

Next  it  tried  the  old  weapons  against 
the  little  government  at  Turin.  For 


54 


The  Scab. 


many  generations  the  House  of  Savoy 
had  been  dutifully  submissive  to  religious 
control ;  nowhere  out  of  Spain  had  here- 
sy been  treated  more  cruelly  ;  yet  here, 
too,  the  Vatican  claim  was  spurned.  But 
the  final  humiliation  took  place  some 
years  later  under  Urban  VIII.,  —  the 
same  pontiff  who  wrecked  papal  infalli- 
bility on  Galileo's  telescope.  He  tried 
to  enforce  his  will  on  the  state  of  Lucca, 
which,  in  the  days  of  Pope  Paul,  had  sub- 
mitted to  the  Vatican  decrees  abjectly ; 
but  that  little  republic  now  seized  the 
weapons  which  Sarpi  had  devised,  and 
drove  the  papal  forces  out  of  the  field  : 
the  papal  excommunication  was,  even  by 


this  petty  government,  annulled  in  Vene- 
tian fashion  and  even  less  respectfully.1 
Thus  the  world  learned  how  weak  the 
Vatican  hold  had  become.  Even  Pope 
Paul  learned  it,  and,  from  being  the 
most  strenuous  of  modern  pontiffs,  he 
became  one  of  the  most  moderate  in 
everything  save  in  the  enrichment  of  his 
family.  Thus  ended  the  last  serious 
effort  to  coerce  a  people  by  an  interdict, 
and  so,  one  might  suppose,  would  end  the 
work  of  Father  Paul.  Not  so.  There 
was  to  come  a  second  chapter  in  his  bio- 
graphy, more  instructive,  perhaps,  than 
the  first,  —  a  chapter  which  has  lasted 
until  our  own  day. 

A.  D.  White. 


THE   SCAB. 

[Although  the  author  of  this  paper  has  been  chiefly  known  to  the  readers  of  the  ATLANTIC  as 
a  writer  of  stories  of  the  Klondike,  he  has  given  many  years  to  the  study  of  social  problems. 
The  People  of  the  Abyss  is  one  of  his  latest  productions  in  this  field.  The  present  article  is  an 
interesting  contribution,  from  a  radical  point  of  view,  to  the  ATLANTIC'S  series  of  papers  on  the 
Ethics  of  Business.  It  is  to  be  followed  in  February  by  an  article,  Is  Commercialism  in  Dis- 
grace ?  by  John  Graham  Brooks.  —  THE  EDITORS.] 

IN  a  competitive  society,  where  men     hours.     To  hold  his  place  (which  is  to 


struggle  with  one  another  for  food  and 
shelter,  what  is  more  natural  than  that 
generosity,  when  it  diminishes  the  food 
and  shelter  of  men  other  than  he  who 
is  generous,  should  be  held  an  accursed 
thing  ?  Wise  old  saws  to  the  contrary, 
he  who  takes  from  a  man's  purse  takes 
from  his  existence.  To  strike  at  a  man's 
food  and  shelter  is  to  strike  at  his  life, 
and  in  a  society  organized  on  a  tooth- 
and-nail  basis,  such  an  act,  performed 
though  it  may  be  under  the  guise  of 
generosity,  is  none  the  less  menacing 
and  terrible. 

It  is  for  this  reason  that  a  laborer  is 
so  fiercely  hostile  to  another  laborer  who 
offers  to  work  for  less  pay  or  longer 

1  The  proofs  —  and  from  Catholic  sources  — 
that  it  was  the  Pope  who  condemned  Galileo's 
doctrine  of  the  earth's  movement  about  the 
sun,  and  not  merely  the  Congregation  of  the 


live),  he  must  offset  this  offer  by  another 
equally  liberal,  which  is  equivalent  to 
giving  away  somewhat  from  the  food 
and  shelter  he  enjoys.  To  sell  his  day's 
work  for  two  dollars  instead  of  two  dol- 
lars and  a  half  means  that  he,  his  wife, 
and  his  children  will  not  have  so  good  a 
roof  over  their  heads,  such  warm  clothes 
on  their  backs,  such  substantial  food  in 
their  stomachs.  Meat  will  be  bought 
less  frequently,  and  it  will  be  tougher 
and  less  nutritious  ;  stout  new  shoes  will 
go  less  often  on  the  children's  feet ;  and 
disease  and  death  will  be  more  imminent 
in  a  cheaper  house  and  neighborhood. 

Thus,    the   generous    laborer,    giving 
more  of   a  day's  work   for  less  return 

Index,  the  present  writer  has  given  in  his 
History  of  the  Warfare  of  Science  with  The- 
ology, vol.  i.  chap.  iii. 


The  Scab. 


55 


(measured  in  terms  of  food  and  shelter), 
threatens  the  life  of  his  less  generous 
brother  laborer,  and,  at  the  best,  if  he 
does  not  destroy  that  life,  he  diminishes 
it.  Whereupon  the  less  generous  laborer 
looks  upon  him  as  an  enemy,  and,  as 
men  are  inclined  to  do  in  a  tooth-and- 
nail  society,  he  tries  to  kill  the  man  who 
is  trying  to  kill  him. 

When  a  striker  kills  with  a  brick  the 
man  who  has  taken  his  place,  he  has  no 
sense  of  wrong-doing.  In  the  deepest 
holds  of  his  being,  though  he  does  not 
reason  the  impulse,  he  has  an  ethical 
sanction.  He  feels  dimly  that  he  has 
justification,  just  as  the  home-defending 
Boer  felt,  though  more  sharply,  with 
each  bullet  he  fired  at  the  invading  Eng- 
lish. Behind  every  brick  thrown  by  a 
striker  is  the  selfish  "  will  to  live  "  of 
himself  and  the  slightly  altruistic  will 
to  live  of  his  family.  The  family-group 
came  into  the  world  before  the  state- 
group,  and  society  being  still  on  the 
primitive  basis  of  tooth  and  nail,  the 
will  to  live  of  the  state  is  not  so  com- 
pelling to  the  striker  as  the  will  to  live 
of  his  family  and  himself. 

In  addition  to  the  use  of  bricks,  clubs, 
and  bullets,  the  selfish  laborer  finds  it 
necessary  to  express  his  feelings  in 
speech.  Just  as  the  peaceful  country- 
dweller  calls  the  sea-rover  a  "  pirate," 
and  the  stout  burgher  calls  the  man  who 
breaks  into  his  strong-box  a  "  robber," 
so  the  selfish  laborer  applies  the  oppro- 
brious epithet  "  scab  "  to  the  laborer  who 
takes  from  him  food  and  shelter  by  being 
more  generous  in  the  disposal  of  his  la- 
bor-power. The  sentimental  connotation 
of  scab  is  as  terrific  as  that  of  "  trai- 
tor "  or  "  Judas,"  and  a  sentimental  de- 
finition would  be  as  deep  and  varied  as 
the  human  heart.  It  is  far  easier  to  ar- 
rive at  what  may  be  called  a  technical 
definition,  worded  in  commercial  terms, 
as,  for  instance,  that  a  scab  is  one  who 
gives  more  value  for  the  same  price 
than  another, 

The  laborer  who  gives  more  time,  or 


strength,  or  skill,  for  the  same  wage,  than 
another,  or  equal  time,  or  strength,  or 
skill,  for  a  less  wage,  is  a  scab.  This 
generousness  on  his  part  is  hurtful  to  his 
fellow  laborers,  for  it  compels  them  to 
an  equal  generousness  which  is  not  to 
their  liking,  and  which  gives  them  less 
of  food  and  shelter.  But  a  word  may 
be  said  for  the  scab.  Just  as  his  act 
makes  his  rivals  compulsorily  generous, 
so  do  they,  by  fortune  of  birth  and  train- 
ing, make  compulsory  his  act  of  gener- 
ousuess.  He  does  not  scab  because  he 
wants  to  scab.  No  whim  of  the  spirit, 
no  burgeoning  of  the  heart,  leads  him  to 
give  more  of  his  labor-power  than  they 
for  a  certain  sum. 

It  is  because  he  cannot  get  work  on 
the  same  terms  as  they  that  he  is  a  scab. 
There  is  less  work  than  there  are  men 
to  do  work.  This  is  patent,  else  the  scab 
would  not  loom  so  large  on  the  labor- 
market  horizon.  Because  they  are 
stronger  than  he,  or  more  skilled,  or  more 
fortunate,  or  more  energetic,  it  is  impos- 
sible for  him  to  take  their  places  at  the 
same  wage.  To  take  their  places  he 
must  give  more  value,  must  work  longer 
hours,  or  receive  a  smaller  wage.  He 
does  so,  and  he  cannot  help  it,  for  his 
will  to  live  is  driving  him  on  as  well 
as  they  are  being  driven  on  by  theirs, 
and  to  live  he  must  win  food  and  shelter, 
which  he  can  do  only  by  receiving  per- 
mission to  work  from  some  man  who 
owns  a  bit  of  land  or  piece  of  machinery. 
And  to  receive  permission  from  this  man, 
he  must  make  the  transaction  profitable 
for  him. 

Viewed  in  this  light,  the  scab  who 
gives  more  labor-power  for  a  certain 
price  than  his  fellows  is  not  so  generous 
after  all.  He  is  no  more  generous  with 
his  energy  than  the  chattel  slave  and  the 
convict  laborer,  who,  by  the  way,  are 
the  almost  perfect  scabs.  They  give 
their  labor-power  for  about  the  minimum 
possible  price.  But,  within  limits,  they 
may  loaf  and  malinger,  and,  as  scabs, 
are  exceeded  by  the  machine,  which 


56 


The  Scab. 


never  loafs  and  malingers,  and  which  is 
the  ideally  perfect  scab. 

It  is  not  nice  to  be  a  scab.  Not  only  is  it 
not  in  good  social  taste  and  comradeship, 
but,  from  the  standpoint  of  food  and 
shelter,  it  is  bad  business  policy.  No- 
body desires  to  scab,  to  give  most  for 
least.  The  ambition  of  every  individual 
is  quite  the  opposite,  —  to  give  least  for 
most ;  and  as  a  result,  living  in  a  tooth- 
and-nail  society,  battle  royal  is  waged 
by  the  ambitious  individuals.  But  in  its 
most  salient  aspect,  that  of  the  struggle 
over  the  division  of  a  joint-product,  it  is 
no  longer  a  battle  between  individuals, 
but  between  groups  of  individuals.  Cap- 
ital and  labor  apply  themselves  to  raw 
material,  make  something  useful  out  of 
it,  add  to  its  value,  and  then  proceed  to 
quarrel  over  the  division  of  the  added 
value.  Neither  cares  to  give  most  for 
least.  Each  is  intent  on  giving  less  than 
the  other  and  on  receiving  more. 

Labor  combines  into  its  unions  ;  capi- 
tal into  partnerships,  associations,  cor- 
porations, and  trusts.  A  group-struggle 
is  the  result,  in  which  the  individuals,  as 
individuals,  play  no  part.  The  Brother- 
hood of  Carpenters  and  Joiners,  for  in- 
stance, serves  notice  on  the  Master  Build- 
ers' Association  that  it  demands  an  in- 
crease of  the  wage  of  its  members  from 
$3.50  a  day  to  $4.00,  and  a  Saturday 
half-holiday  without  pay.  This  means 
that  the  carpenters  are  trying  to  give  less 
for  more.  Where  they  received  $21.00 
for  six  full  days,  they  are  endeavoring  to 
get  $22.00  for  five  days  and  a  half,  — 
that  is,  they  will  work  half  a  day  less 
each  week  and  receive  a  dollar  more. 

Also,  they  expect  the  Saturday  half- 
holiday  to  give  work  to  one  additional 
man  for  each  eleven  previously  employed. 
This  last  affords  a  splendid  example  of 
the  development  of  the  group  idea.  In 
this  particular  struggle  the  individual 
has  no  chance  at  all  for  life.  The  indi- 
vidual carpenter  would  be  crushed  like 
a  mote  by  the  Master  Builders'  Associa- 
tion, and  like  a  mote  the  individual  mas- 


ter builder  would  be  crushed  by  the 
Brotherhood  of  Carpenters  and  Joiners. 

In  the  group-struggle  over  the  division 
of  the  joint-product,  labor  utilizes  the 
union  with  its  two  great  weapons,  —  the 
strike  and  boycott ;  while  capital  utilizes 
the  trust  and  the  association,  the  weapons 
of  which  are  the  blacklist,  the  lockout, 
and  the  scab.  The  scab  is  by  far  the 
most  formidable  weapon  of  the  three. 
He  is  the  man  who  breaks  strikes  and 
causes  all  the  trouble.  Without  him 
there  would  be  no  trouble,  for  the  strik- 
ers are  willing  to  remain  out  peacefully 
and  indefinitely  so  long  as  other  men 
are  not  in  their  places,  and  so  long  as 
the  particular  aggregation  of  capital  with 
which  they  are  fighting  is  eating  its  head 
off  in  enforced  idleness. 

But  both  warring  groups  have  reserve 
weapons  up  their  sleeves.  Were  it  not 
for  the  scab,  these  weapons  would  not  be 
brought  into  play.  But  the  scab  takes 
the  places  of  the  strikers,  who  begin  at 
once  to  wield  a  most  powerful  weapon,  — 
terrorism.  The  will  to  live  of  the  scab 
recoils  from  the  menace  of  broken  bones 
and  violent  death.  With  all  due  re- 
spect to  the  labor  leaders,  who  are  not 
to  be  blamed  for  volubly  asseverating 
otherwise,  terrorism  is  a  well-defined  and 
eminently  successful  policy  of  the  labor 
unions.  It  has  probably  won  them  more 
strikes  than  all  the  rest  of  the  weapons 
in  their  arsenal.  This  terrorism,  how- 
ever, must  be  clearly  understood.  It  is 
directed  solely  against  the  scab,  placing 
him  in  such  fear  for  life  and  limb  as  to 
drive  him  out  of  the  contest.  But  when 
terrorism  gets  out  of  hand  and  inoffensive 
non-combatants  are  injured,  law  and 
order  threatened, and  property  destroyed, 
it  becomes  an  edged  tool  that  cuts  both 
ways.  This  sort  of  terrorism  is  sincerely 
deplored  by  the  labor  leaders,  for  it  has 
probably  lost  them  as  many  strikes  as 
have  been  lost  by  any  other  single  cause. 

The  scab  is  powerless  under  terrorism. 
As  a  rule  he  is  not  so  good  or  gritty  a 
man  as  the  men  he  is  displacing,  and  he 


The  Scab. 


57 


lacks  their  fighting  organization.  He 
stands  in  dire  need  of  stiffening  and 
backing.  His  employers,  the  capitalists, 
draw  their  two  remaining  weapons,  the 
ownership  of  which  is  debatable,  but 
which  they  for  the  time  being  happen  to 
control.  These  two  weapons  may  be 
called  the  political  and  judicial  machin- 
ery of  society.  When  the  scab  crumples 
up  and  is  ready  to  go  down  before  the 
fists,  bricks,  and  bullets  of  the  labor-group, 
the  capitalist-group  puts  the  police  and 
soldiers  into  the  field,  and  begins  a  gen- 
eral bombardment  of  injunctions.  Vic- 
tory usually  follows,  for  the  labor-group 
cannot  withstand  the  combined  assault  of 
gatling  guns  and  injunctions. 

But  it  has  been  noted  that  the  owner- 
ship of  the  political  and  judicial  machin- 
ery of  society  is  debatable.  In  the  Ti- 
tanic struggle  over  the  division  of  the 
joint-product,  each  group  reaches  out  for 
every  available  weapon.  Nor  are  they 
blinded  by  the  smoke  of  conflict.  They 
fight  their  battles  as  coolly  and  collected- 
ly as  ever  battles  were  fought  on  paper. 
The  capitalist-group  has  long  since  real- 
ized the  immense  importance  of  con- 
trolling the  political  and  judicial  machin- 
ery of  society.  Taught  by  gatlings  and 
injunctions,  which  have  smashed  many 
an  otherwise  successful  strike,  the  labor- 
group  is  beginning  to  realize  that  it  all  de- 
pends upon  who  is  behind  and  who  is  be- 
fore those  weapons.  And  he  who  knows 
the  labor-movement  knows  that  there  is 
slowly  growing  up  and  being  formulated 
a  clear,  definite  policy  for  the  capture  of 
the  political  and  judicial  machinery. 

This  is  the  terrible  spectre  which  Mr. 
John  Graham  Brooks  sees  looming  por- 
tentously over  the  twentieth  -  century 
world.  No  man  may  boast  a  more  intimate 
knowledge  of  the  labor-movement  than 
he,  and  he  reiterates  again  and  again  the 
dangerous  likelihood  of  the  whole  labor- 
group  capturing  the  political  machinery 
of  society.  As  he  says  in  his  recent  book: l 

1  The  Social  Unrest.  New  York :  The  Mac- 
millan  Co.  1903. 


"  It  is  not  probable  that  employers  can 
destroy  unionism  in  the  United  States. 
Adroit  and  desperate  attempts  will,  how- 
ever, be  made,  if  we  mean  by  unionism 
the  undisciplined  and  aggressive  fact  of 
vigorous  and  determined  organizations. 
If  capital  should  prove  too  strong  in  this 
struggle,  the  result  is  easy  to  predict. 
The  employers  have  only  to  convince 
organized  labor  that  it  cannot  hold  its 
own  against  the  capitalist  manager,  and 
the  whole  energy  that  now  goes  to  the 
union  will  turn  to  an  aggressive  political 
socialism.  It  will  not  be  the  harmless 
sympathy  with  increased  city  and  state 
functions  which  trade  unions  already 
feel ;  it  will  become  a  turbulent  political 
force  bent  upon  using  every  weapon  of 
taxation  against  the  rich." 

This  struggle  not  to  be  a  scab,  to  avoid 
giving  more  for  less,  and  to  succeed  in 
giving  less  for  more,  is  more  vital  than 
it  would  appear  on  the  surface.  The 
capitalist  and  labor  groups  are  locked  to- 
gether in  desperate  battle,  and  neither 
side  is  swayed  by  moral  considerations 
more  than  skin-deep.  The  labor-group 
hires  business  agents,  lawyers,  and  or- 
ganizers ;  and  is  beginning  to  intimidate 
legislators  by  the  strength  of  its  solid 
vote,  and  more  directly,  in  the  near 
future,  it  will  attempt  to  control  legisla- 
tion by  capturing  it  bodily  through  the 
ballot-box.  On  the  other  hand,  the  cap- 
italist-group, numerically  weaker,  hires 
newspapers,  universities,  and  legisla- 
tures, and  strives  to  bend  to  its  need  all 
the  forces  which  go  to  mould  public 
opinion. 

The  only  honest  morality  displayed  by 
either  side  is  white-hot  indignation  at 
the  iniquities  of  the  other  side.  The 
striking  teamster  complacently  takes  a 
scab  driver  into  an  alley  and  with  an  iron 
bar  breaks  his  arms  so  that  he  can  drive 
no  more,  but  cries  out  to  high  heaven 
for  justice  when  the  capitalist  breaks  his 
skull  by  means  of  a  club  in  the  hands  of 
a  policeman.  Nay,  the  members  of  a 
union  will  declaim  in  impassioned  rhet- 


58 


The  Scab. 


oric  for  the  God-given  right  of  an  eight- 
hour  day,  and  at  the  time  be  working 
their  own  business  agent  seventeen  hours 
out  of  the  twenty-four. 

A  capitalist,  such  as  the  late  Collis  P. 
Huntington,  and  his  name  is  Legion,  af- 
ter a  long  life  spent  in  buying  the  aid  of 
countless  legislatures,  will  wax  virtuous- 
ly wrathful  and  condemn  in  unmeasured 
terms  "  the  dangerous  tendency  of  cry- 
ing out  to  the  government  for  aid  "  in 
the  way  of  labor  legislation.  Without  a 
quiver,  a  member  of  the  capitalist-group 
will  run  tens  of  thousands  of  pitiful  child- 
laborers  through  his  life-destroying  cot- 
ton factories,  and  weep  maudlin  and 
Constitutional  tears  over  one  scab  hit  in 
the  back  with  a  brick.  He  will  drive 
a  "  compulsory "  free  contract  with  an 
unorganized  laborer  on  the  basis  of  a 
starvation  wage,  saying,  "  Take  it  or 
leave  it,"  knowing  that  to  leave  it  means 
to  die  of  hunger ;  and  in  the  next  breath, 
when  the  organizer  entices  that  laborer 
into  a  union,  will  storm  patriotically 
about  the  inalienable  rights  of  all  men 
to  work.  In  short,  the  chief  moral  con- 
cern of  either  side  is  with  the  morals  of 
the  other  side.  They  are  not  in  the  busi- 
ness for  their  moral  welfare,  but  to 
achieve  the  enviable  position  of  the  non- 
scab  who  gets  more  than  he  gives. 

But  there  is  more  to  the  question  than 
has  yet  been  discussed.  The  labor  scab 
is  no  more  detestable  to  his  brother 
laborers  than  is  the  capitalist  scab  to  his 
brother  capitalists.  A  capitalist  may 
get  most  for  least  in  dealing  with  his 
laborers,  and  in  so  far  be  a  non-scab  ;  but 
at  the  same  time,  in  his  dealings  with  his 
fellow  capitalists,  he  may  give  most  for 
least  and  be  the  very  worst  kind  of  scab. 
The  most  heinous  crime  an  employer 
of  labor  can  commit  is  to  scab  on  his 
fellow  employers  of  labor.  Just  as  the 
individual  laborers  have  organized  into 
groups  to  protect  themselves  from  the 
peril  of  the  scab  laborer,  so  have  the  em- 
ployers organized  into  groups  to  protect 
themselves  from  the  peril  of  the  scab 


employer.  The  employers'  federations, 
associations,  and  trusts  are  nothing  more 
or  less  than  unions.  They  are  organized 
to  destroy  scabbing  amongst  themselves 
and  to  encourage  scabbing  amongst 
others.  For  this  reason  they  pool  inter- 
ests, determine  prices,  and  present  an 
unbroken  and  aggressive  front  to  the 
labor-group. 

As  has  been  said  before,  nobody  likes 
to  play  the  compulsorily  generous  role 
of  scab.  It  is  a  bad  business  proposition 
on  the  face  of  it.  And  it  is  patent  that 
there  would  be  no  capitalist  scabs  if  there 
were  not  more  capital  than  there  is  work 
for  capital  to  do.  When  there  are  enough 
factories  in  existence  to  supply,  with  oc- 
casional stoppages,  a  certain  commodity, 
the  building  of  new  factoi-ies,  by  a  rival 
concern,  for  the  production  of  that  com- 
modity, is  plain  advertisement  that  that 
capital  is  out  of  a  job.  The  first  act  of 
this  new  aggregation  of  capital  will  be  to 
cut  prices,  to  give  more  for  less  ;  in  short, 
to  scab,  to  strike  at  the  very  existence  of 
the  less  generous  aggregation  of  capital, 
the  work  of  which  it  is  trying  to  do. 

No  scab  capitalist  strives  to  give  more 
for  less  for  any  other  reason  than  that  he 
hopes,  by  undercutting  a  competitor  and 
driving  that  competitor  out  of  the  mar- 
ket, to  get  that  market  and  its  profits  for 
himself.  His  ambition  is  to  achieve  the 
day  when  he  shall  stand  alone  in  the  field 
both  as  buyer  and  seller,  when  he  will 
be  the  royal  non-scab,  buying  most  for 
least,  selling  least  for  most,  and  reducing 
all  about  him,  the  small  buyers  and  sell- 
ers (the  consumers  and  the  laborers),  to 
a  general  condition  of  scabdom.  This, 
for  example,  has  been  the  history  of  Mr. 
Rockefeller  and  the  Standard  Oil  Com- 
pany. Through  all  the  sordid  economies 
of  scabdom  he  has  passed  until  to-day  he 
is  a  most  regal  non-scab.  However,  to 
continue  in  this  enviable  position,  he 
must  be  prepared  at  a  moment's  notice 
to  go  scabbing  again.  And  he  is  pre- 
pared. Whenever  a  competitor  arises, 
Mr.  Rockefeller  changes  about  from  giv- 


The  Scab. 


59 


ing  least  for  most,  and  gives  most  for 
least  with  such  a  vengeance  as  to  drive 
the  competitor  out  of  existence. 

The  banded  capitalists  discriminate 
against  a  scab  capitalist  by  refusing  him 
trade  advantages,  and  by  combining 
against  him  in  most  relentless  fashion. 
The  banded  laborers,  discriminating 
against  a  scab  laborer  in  more  primitive 
fashion,  with  a  club,  are  no  more  merci- 
less than  the  banded  capitalists. 

Mr.  Casson  tells  of  a  New  York  capi- 
talist, who  withdrew  from  the  Sugar 
Union  several  years  ago  and  became  a 
scab.  He  was  worth  something  like 
twenty  millions  of  dollars.  But  the 
Sugar  Union,  standing  shoulder  to 
shoulder  with  the  Railroad  Union  and 
several  others,  beat  him  to  his  knees  till 
he  cried  enough.  So  frightfully  did  they 
beat  him  that  he  was  obliged  to  turn  over 
to  his  creditors  his  home,  his  chickens, 
and  his  gold  watch.  In  point  of  fact,  he 
was  as  thoroughly  bludgeoned  by  the 
Federatio.u  of  Capitalist  Unions  as  ever 
scab  workman  was  bludgeoned  by  a  labor 
union.  The  intent  in  either  case  is  the 
same,  to  destroy  the  scab's  producing 
power.  The  labor  scab  with  concussion 
of  the  brain  is  put  out  of  business,  and 
so  is  the  capitalist  scab  who  has  lost  all 
his  dollars  down  to  his  chickens  and  his 
watch. 

But  the  role  of  scab  passes  beyond  the 
individual.  Just  as  individuals  scab  on 
other  individuals,  so  do  groups  scab  on 
other  groups.  And  the  principle  in- 
volved is  precisely  the  same  as  in  the 
case  of  the  simple  labor  scab.  A  group, 
in  the  nature  of  its  organization,  is  often 
compelled  to  give  most  for  least,  and,  so 
doing,  to  strike  at  the  life  of  another 
group.  At  the  present  moment  all  Eu- 
rope is  appalled  by  that  colossal  scab, 
the  United  States.  And  Europe  is  clam- 
orous with  agitation  for  a  Federation  of 
National  Unions  to  protect  her  from  the 
United  States.  It  may  be  noted,  in 
passing,  that  in  its  prime  essentials  this 
agitation  in  no  wise  differs  from  the 


trade  union  agitation  among  workmen  in 
any  industry.  The  trouble  is  caused  by 
the  scab  who  is  giving  most  for  least. 
The  result  of  the  American  Scab's  ne- 
farious actions  will  be  to  strike  at  the 
food  and  shelter  of  Europe.  The  way 
for  Europe  to  protect  herself  is  to  quit 
bickering  among  her  parts  and  to  form 
a  union  against  the  Scab.  And  if  the 
union  is  formed,  armies  and  navies  may 
be  expected  to  be  brought  into  play  in 
fashion  similar  to  the  bricks  and  clubs 
in  ordinary  labor  struggles. 

In  this  connection,  and  as  one  of 
many  walking  delegates  for  the  nations, 
M.  Leroy-Beaulieu,  the  noted  French 
economist,  may  well  be  quoted.  In  a 
letter  to  the  Vienna  Tageblatt,  he  advo- 
cates an  economic  alliance  among  the 
Continental  nations  for  the  purpose  of 
barring  out  American  goods,  an  economic 
alliance,  in  his  own  language,  "  which 
may  possibly  and  desirably  develop  into 
a  political  alliance" 

It  will  be  noted  in  the  utterances  of 
the  Continental  walking  delegates  that, 
one  and  all,  they  leave  England  out  of 
the  proposed  union.  And  in  England 
herself  the  feeling  is  growing  'that  her 
days  are  numbered  if  she  cannot  unite 
for  offense  and  defense  with  the  great 
American  Scab.  As  Andrew  Carnegie 
said  some  time  ago,  "  The  only  course 
for  Great  Britain  seems  to  be  reunion 
with  her  grandchild,  or  sure  decline  to  a 
secondary  place,  and  then  to  comparative 
insignificance  in  the  future  annals  of  the 
English-speaking  race." 

Cecil  Rhodes,  speaking  of  what  would 
have  obtained  but  for  the  pig-headedness 
of  George  III.,  and  of  what  will  obtain 
when  England  and  the  United  States  are 
united,  said,  "  No  cannon  would  .  .  . 
be  fired  on  either  hemisphere  but  by 
permission  of  the  English  race."  It 
would  seem  that  England,  fronted  by 
the  hostile  Continental  Union  and  flanked 
by  the  great  American  Scab,  has  nothing 
left  but  to  join  with  the  Scab  and  play  the 
historic  labor-role  of  armed  Pinkerton. 


60 


The  Scab. 


Granting  the  words  of  Cecil  Rhodes,  the 
United  States  would  be  enabled  to  scab 
without  let  or  hindrance  on  Europe,  while 
England,  as  professional  strike-breaker 
and  policeman,  destroyed  the  unions  and 
kept  order. 

All  this  may  appear  fantastic  and 
erroneous,  but  there  is  in  it  a  soul  of 
truth  vastly  more  significant  than  it  may 
seem.  Civilization  may  be  expressed 
to-day  in  terms  of  trade  unionism.  In- 
dividual struggles  have  largely  passed 
away,  but  group  struggles  increase  pro- 
digiously. And  the  things  for  which 
the  groups  struggle  are  the  same  as  of 
old.  Shorn  of  all  subtleties  and  com- 
plexities, the  chief  struggle  of  men,  and 
of  groups  of  men,  is  for  food  and  shelter. 
And,  as  of  old  they  struggled  with  tooth 
and  nail,  so  to-day  they  struggle,  with 
teeth  and  nails  elongated  into  armies 
and  navies,  machines,  and  economic 
advantages. 

Under  the  definition  that  a  scab  is 
one  who  gives  more  value  for  the  same 
price  than  another,  it  would  seem  that 
society  can  be  generally  divided  into  the 
two  classes  of  the  scabs  and  the  non- 
scabs.  But  on  closer  investigation,  how- 
ever, it  will  be  seen  that  the  non-scab  is 
almost  a  vanishing  quantity.  In  the 
social  jungle  everybody  is  preying  upon 
everybody  else.  As  in  the  case  of  Mr. 
Rockefeller,  he  who  was  a  scab  yester- 
day is  a  non-scab  to-day,  and  to-morrow 
may  be  a  scab  again. 

The  woman  stenographer  or  book- 
keeper who  receives  forty  dollars  per 
month  where  a  man  was  receiving 
seventy-five  is  a  scab.  So  is  the  woman 
who  does  a  man's  work  at  a  weaving 
machine,  and  the  child  who  goes  into  the 
mill  or  factory.  And  the  father,  who  is 
scabbed  out  of  work  by  the  wives  and 
children  of  other  men,  sends  his  own 
wife  and  children  to  scab  in  order  to 
save  himself. 

When  a  publisher  offers  an  author 
better  royalties  than  other  publishers 
have  been  paying  him,  he  is  scabbing 


on  those  other  publishers.  The  reporter 
on  a  newspaper  who  feels  he  should  be 
receiving  a  larger  salary  for  his  work, 
says  so,  and  is  shown  the  door,  is  re- 
placed by  a  reporter  who  is  a  scab ; 
whereupon,  when  the  belly-need  presses, 
the  displaced  reporter  goes  to  another 
paper  and  scabs  himself.  The  minister 
who  hardens  his  heart  to  a  call,  and  waits 
for  a  certain  congregation  to  offer  him 
say  five  hundred  a  year  more,  often 
finds  himself  scabbed  upon  by  another 
and  more  impecunious  minister  ;  and  the 
next  time  it  is  his  turn  to  scab  while  a 
brother  minister  is  hardening  his  heart 
to  a  call.  The  scab  is  everywhere.  The 
professional  strike-breakers,  who,  as  a 
class,  receive  large  wages,  will  scab  on 
one  another,  while  scab  unions  are  even 
formed  to  prevent  scabbing  upon  scabs. 

There  are  non-scabs,  but  they  are 
usually  born  so,  and  are  protected  by  the 
whole  might  of  society  in  the  possession 
of  their  food  and  shelter.  King  Edward 
is  such  a  type,  as  are  all  individuals 
who  receive  hereditary  food-and-shelter 
privileges,  such  as  the  present  Duke  of 
Bedford,  for  instance,  who  yearly  re- 
ceives $75,000  from  the  good  people  of 
London  because  some  former  king  gave 
some  former  ancestor  of  his  the  market 
privileges  of  Covent  Garden.  The  irre- 
sponsible rich  are  likewise  non-scabs,  and 
by  them  is  meant  that  coupon-clipping 
class  which  hires  its  managers  and  brains 
to  invest  the  money  usually  left  it  by  its 
ancestors. 

Outside  these  lucky  creatures,  all  the 
rest,  at  one  time  or  another  in  their  lives, 
are  scabs,  at  one  time  or  another  are  en- 
gaged in  giving  more  for  a  certain  price 
than  any  one  else.  The  meek  professor 
in  some  endowed  institution,  by  his  meek 
suppression  of  his  convictions,  is  giving 
more  for  his  salary  than  the  other  more 
outspoken  professor  gave,  whose  chair 
he  occupies.  And  when  a  political  party 
dangles  a  full  dinner-pail  in  the  eyes  of 
the  toiling  masses,  it  is  offering  more  for 
a  vote  than  the  dubious  dollar  of  the  op- 


The  Scab. 


61 


posing  party.  Even  a  money-lender  is 
not  above  taking  a  slightly  lower  rate  of 
interest  and  saying  nothing  about  it. 

Such  is  the  tangle  of  conflicting  inter- 
ests in  a  tooth-and-nail  society  that  peo- 
ple cannot  avoid  being  scabs,  are  often 
made  so  against  their  desires,  and  un- 
consciously. When  several  trades  in  a 
certain  locality  demand  and  receive  an 
advance  in  wages,  they  are  unwittingly 
making  scabs  of  their  fellow  laborers  in 
that  district  who  have  received  no  advance 
in  wages.  In  San  Francisco  the  bar- 
bers, laundry  workers,  and  milk-wagon 
drivers  received  such  an  advance  in 
wages.  Their  employers  promptly  add- 
ed the  amount  of  this  advance  to  the 
selling  price  of  their  wares.  The  price 
of  shaves,  of  washing,  and  of  milk  went 
up.  This  reduced  the  purchasing  power 
of  the  unorganized  laborers,  and,  in  point 
of  fact,  reduced  their  wages  and  made 
them  greater  scabs. 

Because  the  British  laborer  is  disin- 
clined to  scab,  that  is,  because  he  restricts 
his  output  in  order  to  give  less  for  the 
wage  he  receives,  it  is  to  a  certain  extent 
made  possible  for  the  American  capital- 
ist, who  receives  a  less  restricted  output 
from  his  laborers,  to  play  the  scab  on  the 
English  capitalist.  As  a  result  of  this 
(of  course,  combined  with  other  causes), 
the  American  capitalist  and  the  Ameri- 
can laborer  are  striking  at  the  food  and 
shelter  of  the  English  capitalist  and  la- 
borer. 

The  English  laborer  is  starving  to-day 
because,  among  other  things,  he  is  not  a 
scab.  He  practices  the  policy  of  "  Ca' 
Canny,"  which  may  be  defined  as  "go 
easy."  In  order  to  get  most  for  least,  in 
many  trades  he  performs  but  from  one 
fourth  to  one  sixth  of  the  labor  he  is  well 
able  to  perform.  An  instance  of  this  is 
found  in  the  building  of  the  Westing- 
house  Electric  Works  at  Manchester. 
The  British  limit  per  man  was  400  bricks 
per  day.  The  Westinghouse  Company 
imported  a  "  driving "  American  con- 
tractor aided  by  half-a-dozen  "  driving  " 


American  foremen,  and  the  British  brick- 
layer swiftly  attained  an  average  of  1800 
bricks  per  day,  with  a  maximum  of  2500 
bricks  for  the  plainest  work. 

But  the  British  laborer's  policy  of 
Ca'  Canny,  which  is  the  very  honor- 
able one  of  giving  least  for  most,  and 
which  is  likewise  the  policy  of  the  Eng- 
lish capitalist,  is  nevertheless  frowned 
upon  by  the  English  capitalist  whose 
business  existence  is  threatened  by  the 
great  American  Scab.  From  the  rise  of 
the  factory  system,  the  English  capitalist 
gladly  embraced  the  opportunity,  wher- 
ever he  found  it,  of  giving  least  for  most. 
He  did  it  all  over  the  world  wherever  he 
enjoyed  a  market  monopoly,  and  he  did 
it  at  home,  with  the  laborers  employed 
in  his  mills,  destroying  them  like  flies  till 
prevented,  within  limits,  by  the  passage 
of  the  Factory  Acts.  Some  of  the  proud- 
est fortunes  of  England  to-day  may  trace 
their  origin  to  the  giving  of  least  for 
most  to  the  miserable  slaves  of  the  fac- 
tory towns.  But  at  the  present  time 
the  English  capitalist  is  outraged  because 
his  laborers  are  employing  against  him 
precisely  the  same  policy  he  employed 
against  them,  and  which  he  would  em- 
ploy again  did  the  chance  present  itself. 

Yet  Ca'  Canny  is  a  disastrous  thing 
to  the  British  laborer.  It  has  driven 
ship-building  from  England  to  Scotland, 
bottle-making  from  Scotland  to  Belgium, 
flint-glass-making  from  England  to  Ger- 
many, and  to-day  it  is  steadily  driving 
industry  after  industry  to  other  coun- 
tries. A  correspondent  from  Northamp- 
ton wrote  not  long  ago:  "Factories  are 
working  half  and  third  time.  .  .  .  There 
is  no  strike,  there  is  no  real  labor  trouble, 
but  the  masters  and  men  are  alike  suf- 
fering from  sheer  lack  of  employment. 
Markets  which  were  once  theirs  are  now 
American."  It  would  seem  that  the  un- 
fortunate British  laborer  is  'twixt  the 
devil  and  the  deep  sea.  If  he  gives  most 
for  least,  he  faces  a  frightful  slavery  such 
as  marked  the  beginning  of  the  factory 
system.  If  he  gives  least  for  most,  he 


62 


The  Scab. 


drives  industry  away  to  other  countries, 
and  has  no  work  at  all. 

But  the  union  laborers  of  the  United 
States  have  nothing  to  boast  of,  while, 
according  to  their  trade-union  ethics,  they 
have  a  great  deal  of  which  to  be  ashamed. 
They  passionately  preach  short  hours  and 
big  wages,  the  shorter  the  hours  and  the 
bigger  the  wages  the  better.  Their  ha- 
tred for  a  scab  is  as  terrible  as  the  hatred 
of  a  patriot  for  a  traitor,  of  a  Christian 
for  a  Judas.  And  in  the  face  of  all  this 
they  are  as  colossal  scabs  as  the  United 
States  is  a  colossal  scab.  For  all  of  their 
boasted  unions  and  high  labor-ideals,  they 
are  about  the  most  thorough-going  scabs 
on  the  planet. 

Receiving  $4.50  per  day,  because  of 
his  proficiency  and  immense  working 
power,  the  American  laborer  has  been 
known  to  scab  upon  scabs  (so  called)  who 
took  his  place  and  received  only  $.90  per 
day  for  a  longer  day.  In  this  particular 
instance,  five  Chinese  coolies.,  working 
longer  hours,  gave  less  value  for  the  price 
received  from  their  employer  than  did 
one  American  laborer. 

It  is  upon  his  brother  laborers  over- 
seas that  the  American  laborer  most  out- 
rageously scabs.  As  Mr.  Casson  has 
shown,  an  English  nailmaker  gets  $3.00 
per  week,  while  an  American  nailmaker 
gets  $30.00.  But  the  English  worker 
turns  out  200  pounds  of  nails  per  week, 
while  the  American  turns  out  5500 
pounds.  If  he  were  as  "  fair "  as  his 
English  brother,  other  things  being  equal, 
he  would  be  receiving,  at  the  English 
worker's  rate  of  pay,  $82.50.  As  it  is, 
he  is  scabbing  upon  his  English  brother 
to  the  tune  of  $79.50  per  week.  Dr. 
Schultze-Gaevernitz  has  shown  that  a 
German  weaver  produces  466  yards  of 
cotton  a  week  at  a  cost  of  .303  per  yard, 
while  an  American  weaver  produces  1200 
yards  at  a  cost  of  .02  per  yard. 

But,  it  may  be  objected,  a  great  part 
of  this  is  due  to  the  more  improved 
American  machinery.  Very  true  ;  but, 
none  the  less,  a  great  part  is  still  due  to 


the  superior  energy,  skill,  and  willing- 
ness of  the  American  laborer.  The  Eng- 
lish laborer  is  faithful  to  the  policy  of 
Ca'  Canny.  He  refuses  point  blank  to 
get  the  work  out  of  a  machine  that  the 
New  World  scab  gets  out  of  a  machine. 
Mr.  Maxim,  observing  a  wasteful  hand- 
labor  process  in  his  English  factory, 
invented  a  machine  which  he  proved 
capable  of  displacing  several  men.  But 
workman  after  workman  was  put  at  the 
machine,  and  without  exception  they 
turned  out  neither  more  nor  less  than 
a  workman  turned  out  by  hand.  They 
obeyed  the  mandate  of  the  union  and 
went  easy,  while  Mr.  Maxim  gave  up  in 
despair.  Nor  will  the  British  workman 
run  machines  at  as  high  speed  as  the 
American,  nor  will  he  run  so  many.  An 
American  workman  will  "  give  equal  at- 
tention simultaneously  to  three,  four,  or 
six  machines  or  tools,  while  the  British 
workman  is  compelled  by  his  trade  union 
to  limit  his  attention  to  one,  so  that  em- 
ployment may  be  given  to  half-a-dozen 
men." 

But  to  scabbing,  no  blame  attaches  it- 
self anywhere.  All  the  world  is  a  scab, 
and,  with  rare  exceptions,  all  the  people 
in  it  are  scabs.  The  strong,  capable 
workman  gets  a  job  and  holds  it  because 
of  his  strength  and  capacity.  And  he 
holds  it  because  out  of  his  strength  and 
capacity  he  gives  a  better  value  for  his 
wage  than  does  the  weaker  and  less  ca- 
pable workman.  Therefore  he  is  scab- 
bing upon  his  weaker  and  less  capable 
brother  workman.  This  is  incontrover- 
tible. He  is  giving  more  value  for  the 
price  paid  by  the  employer. 

The  superior  workman  scabs  upon  the 
inferior  workman  because  he  is  so  con- 
stituted and  cannot  help  it.  The  one,  by 
fortune  of  birth  and  upbringing,  is  strong 
and  capable ;  the  other,  by  fortune  of 
birth  and  upbringing,  is  not  so  strong  or 
capable.  It  is  for  the  same  reason  that 
one  country  scabs  upon  another.  That 
country  which  has  the  good  fortune  to 
possess  great  natural  resources,  a  finer 


Morley's   Gladstone. 


63 


sun  and  soil,  unhampering  institutions, 
and  a  deft  and  intelligent  labor  class  and 
capitalist  class,  is  bound  to  scab  upon  a 
country  less  fortunately  situated.  It  is 
the  good  fortune  of  the  United  States 
that  is  making  her  the  colossal  scab,  just 
as  it  is  the  good  fortune  of  one  man  to 
be  born  with  a  straight  back  while  his 
brother  is  born  witli  a  hump. 

It  is  not  good  to  give  most  for  least, 
not  good  to  be  a  scab.  The  word  has 
gained  universal  opprobrium.  On  the 
other  hand,  to  be  a  non-scab,  to  give 
least  for  most,  is  universally  branded  as 
stingy,  selfish,  and  unchristian-like.  So 
all  the  world,  like  the  British  workman, 
is  'twixt  the  devil  and  the  deep  sea.  It 
is  treason  to  one's  fellows  to  scab,  it  is 
treason  to  God  and  unchristian-like  not 
to  scab. 

Since  to  give  least  for  most  and  to 
give  most  for  least  are  universally  bad, 


what  remains  ?  Equity  remains,  which 
is  to  give  like  for  like,  the  same  for  the 
same,  neither  more  nor  less.  But  this 
equity,  society,  as  at  present  constituted, 
cannot  give.  It  is  not  in  the  nature  of 
present-day  society  for  men  to  give  like 
for  like,  the  same  for  the  same.  And  as 
long  as  men  continue  to  live  in  this  com- 
petitive society,  struggling  tooth  and  nail 
with  one  another  for  food  and  shelter, 
(which  is  to  struggle  tooth  and  nail  with 
one  another  for  life),  that  long  will  the 
scab  continue  to  exist.  His  will  to  live 
will  force  him  to  exist.  He  may  be  flout- 
ed and  jeered  by  his  brothers,  he  may  be 
beaten  with  bricks  and  clubs  by  the  men 
who  by  superior  strength  and  capacity 
scab  upon  him  as  he  scabs  upon  them 
by  longer  hours  and  smaller  wages,  but 
through  it  all  he  will  persist,  going  them 
one  better,  and  giving  a  bit  more  of  most 
for  least  than  they  are  giving. 

Jack  London. 


MORLEY'S  GLADSTONE. 


MOOBE  records  in  his  Diary  a  break- 
fast at  Jeffrey's  where  Sydney  Smith 
spoke  of  Sir  T.  Lawrence  having  bled 
to  death  owing  to  the  ignorance  of  a  ser- 
vant in  not  properly  adjusting  the  band- 
age :  "  On  my  remarking  the  additional 
ill  luck,  after  such  a  death,  of  falling  into 
the  hands  of  such  a  biographer  as  Camp- 
bell, he  started  up  and  exclaimed  theat- 
rically, '  Look  to  your  bandages,  all  ye 
that  have  been  blooded ;  there  are  bio- 
graphers abroad ! ' ' 

The  modern  biographer  abroad,  to  say 
nothing  of  his  lack  of  skill  in  dressing 
wounds,  has  torn  open  so  many  that  one 
commonly  experiences  a  certain  involun- 
tary trepidation  on  taking  up  a  new  Life. 
Nor  does  the  fact  that  the  biography  is 
official  necessarily  relieve  the  apprehen- 
sion. "  Literary  executors,"  said  Cole- 
ridge, "  make  sad  work  in  general  with 


their  testators'  brains."  This  was  prob- 
ably not  a  direct  prophecy  of  Froude  or 
Purcell.  Even  before  their  day,  which 
Coleridge  would  have  distinctly  not  re- 
joiced to  see,  lives  had  been  taken  under 
the  guise  of  being  written.  That  literary 
tragedy,  however,  no  man  need  have 
feared  to  see  repeated  in  John  Morley's 
biography  of  Gladstone.1  It  was  certain 
in  advance  that  nothing  but  poised  judg- 
ment, measured  estimate,  and  perfect 
taste,  with  fair  though  pungent  phrase 
and  characterization,  should  we  get  from 
the  biographer  of  Cromwell  and  Cobden, 
the  interpreter  of  Diderot  and  Voltaire 
and  Rousseau,  of  Walpole  and  of  Burke, 
and,  latterly,  the  political  orator  whom 
the  best  of  England  hear  gladly.  His 

1  The  Life,  of  William  Ewart  Gladstone. 
By  JOHN  MORLEY.  In  three  volumes.  New 
York:  The  Macmillan  Co.  1903. 


64 


Morley's   Gladstone. 


old  chief  never  gave  a  better  proof  that, 
contrary  to  the  general  opinion,  he  was 
a  good  judge  of  men  than  in  the  choice 
of  a  literary  executor.  The  appeal  to 
Mr.  Morley's  discretion,  to  speak  for  the 
moment  of  that  quality  alone,  was  of  the 
slightest  from  the  transparent  openness 
of  Gladstone's  manner  of  life.  "  No- 
body ever  had  fewer  secrets."  There 
were  no  pathological  passages  in  his 
letters  or  journals  of  which  to  make  a 
public  clinic.  Even  the  asterisks  de- 
noting omitted  sentences  in  his  corre- 
spondence, as  printed,  hide,  Mr.  Morley 
assures  us,  "  no  piquant  hit,  no  person- 
ality, no  indiscretion."  There  will  be 
no  place,  then,  for  the  future  digger- up 
of  the  original  manuscripts,  on  scandal 
bent.  We  have  before  us  the  "  real  " 
Gladstone,  without  that  abused  word  at 
all  possessing  its  now  customary  conno- 
tation of  something  derogatory  or  repel- 
lent. 

One  formidable  difficulty  obviously 
confronted  Mr.  Morley  from  the  start. 
How  was  the  biographer  to  disentangle 
the  hero  from  the  history  of  his  time,  of 
which  he  was  so  great  a  part  ?  The  life 
could  not  be  made  intelligible  apart  from 
its  political  setting ;  on  the  other  hand, 
to  make  the  latter  stand  out  full  and 
clear  would  be  to  run  the  risk  of  throw- 
ing the  man  himself  too  much  into  the 
shadow.  It  cannot  be  said  that  the 
bulky  volumes  wholly  escape  the  double 
peril.  It  would  be  unfair  to  apply  to 
them  what  has  been  said  of  Professor 
Masson's  Life  and  Times  of  Milton,  — 
that  the  Times  are  to  the  Life  as  nine  to 
one ;  yet  there  is  an  undeniable  impres- 
sion, now  and  then,  in  this  work  of  Mr. 
Morley's,  of  the  historian  getting  the  bet- 
ter of  the  biographer.  Even  contem- 
porary events  in  which  Gladstone  had 
but  a  minor  r<5le  —  such  as  the  Franco- 
German  war  —  are  narrated  in  a  way  to 
come  near  falling  between  two  stools. 
The  history  is  scamped,  the  biography 
overweighted.  In  the  case  of  such  themes 
as  Ireland,  the  Transvaal,  Egypt,  the 


struggle  for  Italian  unity,  the  rescue  of 
the  bleeding  provinces  from  the  Turk, 
we  may  well  admit  the  demand  for  full 
handling,  since  with  them  Gladstone  had 
a  militant  and  fiercely  debated  connec- 
tion. Indeed,  there  is  one  theory  of  the 
function  which  Mr.  Morley  may  have 
defined  to  himself  that  would  justify  all 
his  historical  longueurs.  It  is  possible 
that  he  designed  his  great  work,  not  pre- 
cisely as  a  "  huge  Whig  tract "  of  the 
Macaulay  order,  but  as  a  conscious  con- 
tribution to  the  propaganda  of  Liberal- 
ism, —  using  that  word  in  no  party  sense, 
but  as  signifying  the  movement  to  en- 
franchise the  spirit  of  mankind.  The 
careful  translation  of  all  the  citations 
from  Greek,  Latin,  and  even  French  and 
Italian,  would  look  as  if  his  volumes  were 
sent  out  in  the  hope  of  being  understand- 
ed  of  the  common  people.  Their  sale  by 
popular  subscription  in  England  points 
the  same  way.  If  the  actual  aim  were 
to  make  all  plain  to  short  memories  and 
meagre  reading,  there  is  constructive  ex- 
cuse for  pages  which  would  otherwise  be 
voted  both  superfluous  and  tedious. 

Thirty  years  ago,  John  Morley  as  the 
biographer  of  William  Ewart  Gladstone 
would  have  seemed  the  most  palpable 
misfit.  Even  to-day,  many  have  had 
grave  doubt  on  one  point.  Would  not 
the  Life  reveal  much  less  than  perfect 
sympathy  between  writer  and  subject 
on  the  religious  side  ?  How  could  an 
avowed  agnostic,  though  of  the  most 
grave  and  weighty  cast  of  mind,  possibly 
hope  to  portray  the  ardent  theologian, 
the  convinced  Churchman,  the  devout 
Christian  believer,  who,  as  Dean  Church 
said  of  his  personal  knowledge  of  Glad- 
stone, went  from  his  knees  to  the  business 
of  the  nation  ?  Mr.  Gladstone  himself, 
so  Frederic  Harrison  reminds  us,  thought 
Morley's  Life  of  Cobden  defective  in  re- 
ligious appreciation.  In  his  own  case 
the  difficulty  would  seem  vastly  greater. 
But  it  is  vanquished  ambulando.  Frank- 
ly stating  that  he  can  only  describe  from 
the  exterior  Gladstone's  religious  nature 


Morley  &   Gladstone. 


65 


and  activities,  Mr.  Morley  at  once  rises 
to  serene  impartiality  of  spirit  in  saying : 
"  It  was  the  affinity  of  great  natures  for 
great  issues  that  made  Mr.  Gladstone 
from  his  earliest  manhood  onwards  take 
and  hold  fast  the  affairs  of  the  churches 
for  the  objects  of  his  most  absorbing  in- 
terest. He  was  one  and  the  same  man, 
his  genius  was  one.  His  persistent  in- 
cursions all  through  his  long  life  into 
the  multifarious  doings,  not  only  of  his 
own  Anglican  communion,  but  of  the 
Latin  church  of  the  West,  as  well  as  of 
the  motley  Christendom  of  the  East, 
puzzled  and  vexed  political  whippers-in, 
wire-pullers,  newspaper  editors,  leaders, 
colleagues ;  they  were  the  despair  of 
party  caucuses  ;  and  they  made  the  neu- 
tral man  of  the  world  smile,  as  eccen- 
tricities of  genius  and  rather  singularly 
chosen  recreations.  All  this  was,  in 
truth,  of  the  very  essence  of  his  charac- 
ter, the  manifestation  of  its  profound 
unity."  If  that  does  not  echo  the  emo- 
tional sympathy  of  a  brother  in  the  faith, 
it  at  least  shows  us  the  sound  and  fair 
critic.  Mr.  Morley,  in  reality,  sets  forth 
the  churchly  and  the  Christian  side  of 
Gladstone  with  satisfactory  clearness,  if 
not  with  all  ecclesiastical  amplitude.  The 
most  apprehensive  Anglican  must  con- 
fess the  picture  to  be  faithful.  Minuter 
traits  are  not  overlooked.  We  are  shown 
Gladstone's  Cromwellian  habit  of  being 
greatly  stayed  by  some  verse  of  Scrip- 
ture when  goingf  orth  to  oratorical  slaugh- 
ter. If  anything  is  left  out  it  is  the 
laughter,  or  the  mockery,  which  Mr. 
Gladstone's  consuming  religious  zeal  so 
often  provoked  in  the  ungodly.  Their 
gibes  Mr.  Morley  passes  by.  Kinglake, 
for  example,  was  only  one  of  many  to 
call  Mr.  Gladstone  "  a  good  man  in  the 
worst  sense  of  the ,  term,  conscientious 
with  a  disordered  conscience."  And  it 
was  in  an  "  Imaginary  Conversation  " 
between  Madame  Novikoff  and  Gort- 
chakoff  that  the  same  brilliant  but  bit- 
ter writer  conveyed  wittily  the  general 
impression  of  the  way  in  which  Glad- 
VOL.  xcin.  —  NO.  555.  5 


stone's  theological  flank  lay  open  to  at- 
tack :  — 

"  Gortchakoff  :  How  did  you  get  hold 
of  Gladstone  ? 

"  Madame  Novikoff :  Rien  de  plus 
simple.  Four  or  five  years  ago  I  asked 
what  was  his  weak  point,  and  was  told 
that  he  had  two  — '  Effervescence '  and 
'Theology.'  With  that  knowledge  I 
found  it  all  child's  play  to  manage  him. 
I  just  sent  him  to  Munich,  and  there 
boiled  him  up  in  a  weak  decoction  of 
Filioque,  then  kept  him  ready  for  use, 
and  impatiently  awaited  the  moment 
when  our  plans  for  getting  up  the  '  Bul- 
garian atrocities '  should  be  mature,"  etc. 

Whatever  might  have  been  dreaded  in 
regard  to  Mr.  Morley's  painting  of  Glad- 
stone the  theologian,  everybody  must 
have  recognized  his  peculiar  advantage 
in  describing  Gladstone  the  statesman. 
It  is  the  advantage  of  first-hand  acquain- 
tance with  the  matter.  This  enables  him 
not  only  to  understand,  but  to  give  those 
realistic  touches  of  experience  which  we 
find,  for  example,  in  Condorcet's  Life 
of  Turgot,  Disraeli's  sketch  of  Bentinck, 
Rosebery's  Pitt,  and  Schurz's  Clay.  Sat- 
urated for  years  in  politics,  himself  active 
in  the  movements  that  he  describes,  an 
intimate  of  the  men  who  made  the  history 
it  is  his  task  to  write,  Mr.  Morley  is  able 
to  light  up  his  pages  with  many  a  flash 
of  personal  familiarity.  Thus  when  the 
mysterious  break-up  of  a  certain  Cabinet 
is  under  discussion,  he  turns  this  ray 
upon  the  problem,  —  "  Perhaps  the  Min- 
isters had  grown  weary  of  each  other." 
That  could  have  occurred  to  no  one  who 
had  not  himself  kissed  hands  and  held 
a  portfolio.  Even  his  journalistic  years 
yield  Mr.  Morley  something,  as  when, 
referring  to  an  unhappy  attempt  to  "  in- 
spire "  a  newspaper,  he  remarks  :  "  Un- 
luckily, it  would  seem  to  need  at  least  the 
genius  of  a  Bismarck  to  perform  with 
precision  and  success  the  delicate  office 
of  inspiring  a  modern  oracle  on  the  jour- 
nalistic tripod." 

Mr.  Morley  is  no  idolizing  biographer. 


66 


Morley's   Gladstone. 


His  critic's  eye  is  not  dazzled  even  by  the 
splendid  orb  of  Gladstone's  genius.  He 
sees  and  points  out  the  flecks  in  the  bril- 
liance. With  resolute  hand  he  unveils  for 
us  the  deep  mystery  of  Mr.  Gladstone's 
complex  nature,  —  simply  duplex,  his 
enemies  called  it.  This  personal  interest 
is,  after  all,  the  most  compelling  thing  in 
the  1800  pages.  Old  political  issues  — 
Maynooth  and  the  Gorham  judgment, 
distribution  bills  and  budgets,  even  Bul- 
garia and  Irish  Home  Rule  —  seem  far 
away  and  burned  out  compared  with  the 
perennial  charm  and  vitality  of  a  domi- 
nant human  personality.  In  Gladstone 
there  was  as  extraordinary  a  union  of 
opposites  as  ever  met  in  one  breast. 
"  Ah,"  said  a  disapproving  old  Whig,  at 
the  time  of  the  1860  budget,  "  Oxford  on 
the  surface,  but  Liverpool  below."  This 
was  but  one  of  the  many  phrases  in  which 
Gladstone's  remarkable  dualism  of  char- 
acter was  bodied  forth.  He  was  at  once 
the  meticulous  scholastic  theologian,  and 
the  prodigious  worker  in  the  practical. 
This  strange  mingling  of  qualities,  with 
its  resultant  perils,  Mr.  Morley  puts 
fairly  before  us.  A  hair-splitting  intel- 
lect yoked  to  immense  moral  enthusiasm 
was  certain  to  lead  its  owner  into  awk- 
ward passages,  and  to  lay  him  open  to  the 
charge  of  sophistry  or  insincerity.  The 
subtly  mediaeval  tinge  of  Mr.  Gladstone's 
mind  was  perceived  with  marvelous  clar- 
ity of  vision  by  Walter  Bagehot,  in  that 
acute  analysis  of  the  man  which  he  pub- 
lished as  far  back  as  1860.  "  His  intel- 
lect is  of  a  thoroughly  scholastic  kind. 
He  can  distinguish  between  any  two  pro- 
positions ;  he  never  allowed,  he  could  not 
allow,  that  any  two  were  identical.  If 
any  one  on  either  side  of  the  House  is 
bold  enough  to  infer  anything  from  any- 
thing, Mr.  Gladstone  is  ready  to  deny  that 
the  inference  is  accurate  —  to  suggest 
a  distinction  which  he  says  is  singularly 
important  —  to  illustrate  an  apt  subtlety 
which,  in  appeai'ance  at  least,  impairs  the 
validity  of  the  deduction.  No  schoolman 
could  be  readier  at  such  work.  ...  It 


must  be  pleasant  to  have  an  argumenta- 
tive acuteness  which  is  quite  sure  to  ex- 
tricate you,  at  least  in  appearance,  from 
any  intellectual  scrape.  But  it  is  a  dan- 
gerous weapon  to  use,  and  particularly 
dangerous  to  a  very  conscientious  man. 
He  will  not  use  it  unless  he  believes  in  its 
results  ;  but  he  will  try  to  believe  in  its 
results,  in  order  that  he  may  use  it." 

Mr.  Morley  practically  acquiesces  in 
this  diagnosis.  Indeed,  confirmation  of 
it  rains  upon  any  one  who  closely  follows 
Gladstone's  career,  and  notes  the  im- 
pression he  made  upon  different  men. 
"  He  perplexes  his  chief  [Sir  Robert 
Peel],"  writes  Lord  Rosebery  of  Glad- 
stone, in  his  little  book  on  Peel,  "who 
complains  of  sometimes  finding  great  dif- 
ficulty in  exactly  comprehending  what 
he  means."  This  recalls  a  saying  of  the 
Pope  :  "  I  like,  but  I  do  not  understand, 
Mr.  Gladstone."  It  was  a  complaint 
which  dogged  Gladstone  from  his  earliest 
to  his  latest  years.  In  1830  he  wrote  a 
long  letter  to  his  father  urging  that  he  be 
permitted  to  give  his  life  to  the  Church. 
There  were  in  it  sentences  of  burning  and 
martyr-like  devotion,  but  alongside  stand 
others  which  leave  one  uncertain  what 
the  youth  really  wanted.  This  "  vague 
and  obscure  "  letter  is,  observes  Mr.  Mor- 
ley, "  the  first  definite  indication  alike 
of  the  extraordinary  intensity  of  his  reli- 
gious disposition,  and  of  that  double-mind- 
edness,  that  division  of  sensibility  be- 
tween the  demands  of  spiritual  and  of 
secular  life,  which  remained  throughout 
one  of  the  marking  traits  of  his  career." 
From  this  involved  letter  at  twenty-one, 
down  to  his  apparent  but  Orphic  denial 
that  he  was  to  resign  the  premiership  at 
eighty-five,  —  though  he  promptly  did  it, 
—  Gladstone  left  behind  him  an  enor- 
mous number  of  letters,  articles,  and 
speeches  in  which  lurking  qualifications, 
meaning  everything  to  him,  though  un- 
perceived  by  the  general,  lay  as  so  many 
snares  for  the  unwary,  so  many  causes  of 
wrath  to  the  plain  and  blunt  Englishman 
who  blurts  his  whole  mind  out.  No  won- 


Morley's   Gladstone. 


67 


der  that  this  trait  "  sometimes  amused 
friends,  but  always  exasperated  foes.  .  .  . 
His  adversary,  as  he  strode  confidently 
along  the  smooth  grass,  suddenly  found 
himself  treading  on  a  serpent;  he  had 
overlooked  a  condition,  a  proviso,  a  word 
of  hypothesis  or  contingency,  that  sprang 
from  its  ambush  and  brought  his  triumph 
to  naught  on  the  spot.  If  Mr.  Gladstone 
had  only  taken  as  much  trouble  that  his 
hearers  should  understand  exactly  what 
it  was  that  he  meant,  as  he  took  trouble 
afterwards  to  show  that  his  meaning  had 
been  grossly  misunderstood,  all  might 
have  been  well.  As  it  was,  he  seemed 
to  be  completely  satisfied  if  he  could 
only  show  that  two  propositions,  thought 
by  plain  men  to  be  directly  contradic- 
tory, were  all  the  time  capable  on  close 
construction  of  being  presented  in  perfect 
harmony." 

Along  with  this  tendency  to  "  over- 
refining  in  words,  a  disproportionate  im- 
pressiveness  in  verbal  shadings  without 
real  difference,"  went  an  amazing  com- 
bativeness.  This  is  perhaps  a  part  of  the 
oratorical  temperament.  Fox  was  once 
reproached  for  disputing  vehemently 
about  a  trifle.  "  I  must  do  so,"  he  said  ; 
"  I  can't  live  without  discussion."  To 
quote  Bagehot  again :  "  Mr.  Gladstone 
by  nature,  by  vehement  overruling  na- 
ture, longs  to  pour  forth  his  own  belief ; 
he  cannot  rest  till  he  has  contradicted 
every  one  else."  This  made  the  most 
peace-loving  of  statesmen  the  most  pug- 
nacious of  debaters.  "  He  can  bear  a 
good  deal  about  the  politics  of  Europe  ; 
but  let  a  man  question  the  fees  on  vatting, 
or  the  change  in  the  game  certificate, 
or  the  stamp  on  bills  of  lading  —  what 
melodious  thunders  of  loquacious  wrath  ! 
The  world,  he  hints,  is  likely  to  end  at 
such  observations."  Indeed,  great  as 
were  Mr.  Gladstone's  oratorical  powers 
in  exposition  or  persuasion,  they  never 
blazed  so  high  as  in  rejoinder.  "  He  is 
terrible  in  the  rebound,"  testified  Lord 
Aberdeen.  This  falls  in  with  what  Glad- 
stone himself  said,  when  asked  if  he  were 


ever  nervous  about  speaking.     "  In  open- 
ing, yes  ;  in  reply,  never." 

But  this  intense  nature  was  not  always 
in  the  white  heat  of  mighty  labor  or  close- 
joined  debate.  He  had  his  lighter,  play- 
ful side.  The  bow  was  sometimes  unbent. 
His  wonderful  charm  in  undress  conversa- 
tion, his  story-telling,  his  mimicry,  his  fa- 
cile acting  —  to  say  nothing  of  his  stores 
of  out-of-the-way  knowledge  and  exhaust- 
less  fund  of  reminiscence  —  built  up  a 
strong  and  enduring  tradition  of  his  fas- 
cinating personality  in  private  life.  But 
almost  all  of  this  part  of  Gladstone  is  left 
in  the  shadow  by  Mr.  Morley.  He  asserts 
its  existence,  but  he  illustrates  it  only  in 
the  most  meagre  way.  Presumably,  au- 
thentic material  was  lacking.  There  was 
no  Boswell  by,  unluckily.  Mr.  Morley 
prints  twenty-five  pages  of  his  own  notes 
of  Gladstone's  conversation  on  successive 
days  at  Biarritz.  It  is  bookish,  glancing, 
rather  superficial ;  little  quotable,  no- 
where making  a  deep  impression,  though 
showing  a  great  range  of  reading  for  a 
busy  public  man.  In  his  letters  Mr. 
Gladstone  seems  never  to  have  overflowed 
in  raillery  or  anecdote.  All  was  intent 
on  the  matter  in  hand.  It  was  as  if  the 
previous  question  were  always  on  the 
point  of  being  ordered.  Even  in  the 
correspondence  with  his  friend  of  many 
years,  the  Duchess  of  Sutherland,  one 
finds  little  of  that  lightsome  play  of  mind 
which  an  intellectual  woman  will  call  out 
of  a  man  if  he  has  it  in  him.  This  helps 
us  to  understand  the  Queen's  complaint 
that  Gladstone  always  talked  to  her  as 
if  she  were  a  public  meeting.  The  net 
result  is  to  make  his  letters  uninteresting, 
except  as  fixing  disputed  dates  and  the 
true  order  of  his  unfolding  policy ;  so 
that  Mr.  Morley  was  wise  to  publish  but 
a  few  pf  the  thousands  that  were  turned 
over  to  him.  Nor  is  Gladstone's  private 
diary  richer  in  the  asides  and  leisurely 
jottings  of  a  full  mind.  It  was  strictly 
business,  —  a  kind  of  skeleton  agenda  or 
adjudicata.  It  was  a  record,  and  re- 
cords are  not  lively  reading.  And  yet, 


68 


Morley's   Gladstone. 


and  yet,  we  know  that  there  was  a  Glad- 
stone who  could  disarm  and  delight  even 
his  enemies  by  his  bright  bravura  at  din- 
ner or  reception  ;  who  gave  George  Rus- 
sell some  of  his  best  and  wickedest  sto- 
ries, —  even  that  one  about  the  swearing 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury  ;  who  pursued 
the  oddest  fads  with  enthusiasm,  and 
took  up  with  the  wildest  fashions  in  a 
spirit  of  hilarity.  In  Lord  Malmesbury's 
memoirs  we  find  him  writing  in  1844  : 
"Met  Mr.  Gladstone,  a  man  who  is  much 
spoken  of  as  one  who  will  come  to  the 
front.  We  were  disappointed  at  his  ap- 
pearance, which  is  that  of  a  Roman  Cath- 
olic ecclesiastic."  But  twenty  years  later 
the  same  nobleman  wrote  :  "  Gladstone, 
who  was  always  fond  of  music,  is  now 
quite  enthusiastic  about  negro  melodies, 
singing  them  with  the  greatest  spirit  and 
enjoyment,  never  leaving  out  a  verse,  and 
evidently  preferring  such  as  '  Camptown 
Races.'  "  Punch  seized  upon  the  con- 
trast of  monk  and  negro  minstrel,  and 
had  its  caricature  of  Mr.  Gladstone  in 
clerical  black,  his  downcast  eyes  upon 
his  breviary  ;  with  a  parallel  portrait  dis- 
playing him  in  the  exaggerated  dress  of 
the  end  man,  screaming,  "  Oh,  do  dah 
dey !  "  But  no  comic  art,  testifies  an  in- 
timate of  the  family,  "  could  body  forth 
a  more  amusing  picture  than  the  scene 
in  real  life  when  Mr.  Gladstone,  taking 
Mrs.  Gladstone  by  the  hand,  would  war- 
ble the  song  of  the  wandering  fiddler  :  — 

'  A  ragamuffin  husband  and  a  rantipoling  wife. 
We  '11  fiddle  it  and  scrape  it  through  the  ups 
and  downs  of  life.'  " 

One  can  only  sigh  and  wish  that  it  had 
been  in  Mr.  Morley's  power  to  give  us 
more  of  this  Gladstone.  We  moderns 
would  not  be  so  fastidious  as  Greville, 
who  confided  to  his  diary,  in  1854,  that 
he  conld  not  dispute  Gladstone's  "  ex- 
traordinary capacity,"  but  noted  that  "  I 
was  not  prepared  to  hear  the  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer  warble  a  sentimental 
ballad,  accompanied  by  his  wife." 

For  so  conspicuously  marked  and  bril- 
liant  a   young    man,    Mr.    Gladstone's 


political  development  was  strangely  slow. 
He  signally  defied  the  saying  that  the 
great  driving  impulses  come  to  a  man 
under  thirty.  Gladstone  was  fifty  be- 
fore it  even  became  certain  to  which 
political  party  he  was  to  belong.  A  dis- 
heartening list  of  reactionary  measures 
had  his  early  approval.  But  his  sympa- 
thies broadened  with  time ;  he  burst 
through  the  hard  casing  of  his  Oxford 
education,  and  began  to  be  of  Burke's 
approved  type  of  statesman,  —  one  who, 
with  a  disposition  to  preserve,  united  the 
ability  to  improve.  His  improvements,  no 
doubt,  often  looked  like  willful  changes. 
It  was  said  of  him  that  he  could  let 
nothing  alone  —  in  flat  defiance  of  Lord 
Melbourne's  counsel  of  political  wisdom. 
"  Sir,"  said  an  old  distributer  of  revenue 
stamps,  "  I  must  resign.  My  head  is 
worn  out.  The  Chancellor,  sir,  is  im- 
posing of  things  that  I  can't  understand." 
Many  others  rebelled  at  Mr.  Gladstone's 
appalling  industry  of  innovation.  Yet 
one  supreme  test  always  differentiated 
him  from  the  mere  agitator.  He  was 
ever  ready  with  his  bill  to  enact  his 
policy.  His  outcry  was  not  the  vague 
protest  which  aims  at  it  knows  not  what. 
His  grievances  he  stood  ready  to  reduce 
to  writing,  and  produced  his  remedy  in 
the  form  of  an  act  of  Parliament.  It 
was  not  his  way  to  carry  an  election  on 
blown  promises,  and  then,  when  chal- 
lenged on  the  score  of  fulfillment,  to  fall 
back  with  the  audacious  cynicism  of  a 
Disraeli  upon  the  assertion  that  "  many 
things  have  happened  "  since  the  pledge 
was  made.  "  Do  you  call  that  amus- 
ing ? "  he  asked  Browning,  when  the 
poet  once  told  him  of  "  Dizzy's  "  latest 
duplicity  ;  "  I  call  it  devilish."  And 
through  all  the  changes  of  front  which 
he  had  to  offer  to  a  changing  enemy, 
Gladstone  held  fast  to  some  one  princi- 
ple which,  to  him  at  least,  was  vital. 
This  is  no  place  to  review  his  Irish  policy. 
Those  who  wish  to  must  go  to  Mr.  Mor- 
ley.  But  one  thing  may  be  said.  From 
the  moment  that  Gladstone  bent  his  mind 


Morley' s   Gladstone. 


69 


to  the  discovery  of  a  real  cure  for  the 
chronic  malady  of  Irish  misgovernment, 
he  clung  to  the  central  conception  which 
he  formed,  through  good  report  and 
through  evil  report.  One  dismal  failure 
more,  or  a  splendid  posthumous  success 
—  and  it  is  too  soon  to  say  which  his 
Home  Rule  scheme  will  be  rated  by  his- 
tory —  in  his  personal  attitude  through- 
out the  great  debate  he  seemed  to  be  the 
visible  realization  of  Coleridge's  prayer: 
"  How  miserably  imbecile  and  objectless 
has  the  English  government  of  Ireland 
been  for  forty  years  past !  Oh  !  for  a 
great  man  —  but  one  really  great  man  — 
who  could  feel  the  weight  and  the  power 
of  a  principle,  and  unflinchingly  put  it 
into  act !  " 

But  all  Mr.  Gladstone's  political  prin- 
ciples were  subsumed  in  one.  "  Political 
life  was  only  part  of  his  religious  life." 
Mr.  Morley  writes  :  "  At  nearly  every 
page  of  Mr.  Gladstone's  active  career, 
the  vital  problem  stares  us  in  the  face  of 
the  correspondence  between  the  rule  of 
private  morals  and  of  public.  Is  the 
rule  one  and  the  same  for  the  individual 
and  the  state  ?  From  his  early  years 
onwards,  Mr.  Gladstone's  whole  language 
and  the  moods  that  it  reproduces,  —  his 
vivid  denunciations,  his  sanguine  expec- 
tations, his  rolling  epithets,  his  aspects 
and  appeals  and  points  of  view,  —  all  take 
for  granted  that  right  and  wrong  depend 
on  the  same  set  of  maxims  in  public  life 
and  in  private.  The  puzzle  will  often 
greet  us,  and  here  it  is  enough  to  glance 
at  it.  In  every  statesman's  case  it  arises  ; 
in  Mr.  Gladstone's  it  is  cardinal  and 
fundamental."  It  is,  of  course,  easy  for 
the  closet  moralist  to  maintain  that  the 
law  of  right  conduct  is  for  the  politician 
exactly  what  it  is  for  the  man  ;  but  for  a 
leader  of  a  great  party  in  a  democracy 
to  assert  it,  and  proudly  to  challenge 
the  testing  of  his  own  political  course 
through  many  years  by  this  touchstone  — 
that  is  another  thing.  It  would  be  ab- 
surd to  say  that  Mr.  Gladstone  always 
emerges  triumphant  from  the  ordeal. 


No  intellect  but  one  as  subtle  and  refin- 
ing as  his  own  could  make  out  a  clear 
moral  consistency  in  all  the  crises  of  his 
public  career.  He  himself  confesses  to 
a  certain  opportunism.  The  difficulty  of 
saying  at  a  given  moment  just  what  is 
the  greater  good,  he  admits.  But  there 
lies  the  hidden  rock  for  the  Christian 
statesman.  A  little  weak  compromising 
to  save  the  party,  concealment  or  truck- 
ling for  the  sake  of  "  the  cause,"  doubt 
whether  the  nation  might  not  suffer  more 
by  your  renouncing  the  devil,  and  being 
driven  out  of  office  for  it,  than  by  speak- 
ing him  fair  and  staying  in  to  compass 
your  beneficent  ends,  —  those  are  the 
nice  distinctions  which  make  political 
morality  so  dubious  and  controverted. 
That  Gladstone  never  left  a  gap  between 
his  principles  and  his  acts  need  not  be 
contended.  Mr.  Morley  defends  no  such 
thesis.  But  the  principles  were  so  high, 
and  the  approximation  to  them  in  prac- 
tice so  remarkable,  —  in  the  age  of  Bis- 
marck, —  that  Gladstone  was,  in  this 
respect,  if  not  impeccable,  at  least  first, 
and  the  rest  nowhere,  among  the  com- 
manding public  figures  of  his  time. 

This  trait  of  a  higher  standard  and  a 
severer  morality  early  impressed  those 
who  observed  him  narrowly.  "  The  only 
Cabinet  Minister  of  five  years'  standing," 
wrote  Cobden  in  1859,  "  who  is  not  afraid 
to  let  his  heart  guide  his  head  a  little  at 
times."  This  was  particularly  the  case 
in  all  matters  affecting  foreign  relations. 
He. was  the  most  plain-spoken  and  fear- 
less of  diplomats.  Every  one  recalls  the 
lengths  he  went  in  denouncing  the  Aus- 
trian government  during  his  Midlothian 
campaign.  For  this,  when  taking  office 
again,  he  made  an  apology  as  Minister  of 
the  Crown ;  as  Gladstone  the  man,  his 
opinions  doubtless  remained  the  same. 
"Gladstone,"  wrote  the  Duke  of  New- 
castle to  Abraham  Hay  ward  in  1858,  "  is 
not  a  diplomat,  and  probably  spoke  in  the 
salons  of  Count  Beust  very  much  what  he 
felt  about  the  tyrannies  of  Bomba,  or  those 
of  some  of  our  more  intimate  friends." 


70 


Morley's   Gladstone. 


That  early  and  chivalrous  championing 
of  the  wretched  in  Naples  marked  a  hu- 
mane and  lofty  impulse  which  never 
ceased  to  vibrate  under  appeal.  Glad- 
stone left  a  mass  of  notes  for  a  volume 
which  he  once  contemplated  on  Future 
Retribution.  The  pages  were  found  dock- 
eted :  "  From  this  I  was  called  away  to 
write  on  Bulgaria."  The  present  scorch- 
ing of  sinners  could  not  wait  as  well  as  the 
Day  of  Judgment.  Mr.  Gladstone  had 
an  extraordinary  capacity  for  righteous 
indignation.  What  his  flaming  speech 
against  giant  injustice  could  do  in  the  way 
of  impressing  the  popular  imagination, 
let  his  sweeping  victory  of  1880,  in  the 
teeth  of  the  wisest  political  prophets,  be 
the  witness.  And  as  the  historian  J.  R. 
Green  wrote  to  Humphry  Ward  :  "  Let 
us  never  forget  that  the  triumph  is  his. 
He  and  he  only  among  the  Liberals  I  met 
never  despaired.  He  and  he  only  fore- 
saw what  the  verdict  on  this  '  great  trial ' 
would  be.  When  folk  talk  of  '  cool-head- 
ed statesmen  '  and  '  sentimental  rhetori- 
cians '  again,  I  shall  always  call  to  mind 
that  in  taking  stock  of  English  opinion  at 
this  crisis  the  sentimental  rhetorician  was 
right  and  the  cool-headed  statesmen  were 
wrong."  Mr.  Morley  quotes  Green's 
glowing  tribute  to  the  leader  of  whom  he 
was  so  proud,  —  the  man  who  "  was  al- 
ways noble  of  soul."  Mr.  Gladstone  had 
the  power  of  thus  impressing  widely  di- 
verse natures.  Large -fibred  Spurgeon 
rivaled  the  finely  grained  Green  in  admi- 
ration. "  We  believe,"  he  wrote,  "  in  no 
man's  infallibility,  but  it  is  restful  to  be 
sure  of  one  man's  integrity."  "  That  ad- 
mirable sentence,"  comments  Mr.  Mor- 
ley, "  marks  the  secret."  No  ordinary 
man  could  have  so  clasped  to  himself 
such  differing  supporters.  At  Oxford, 
he  had  Pusey's  vote,  and  he  had  Jowett's. 
Of  this  richly  endowed  and  flashing 
nature,  what  was  the  master-passion  ? 


Gladstone  himself  thought  it  was  a  love 
of  human  liberty.  He  worked  out  into 
it  slowly.  Oxford  scholasticism  and  Ox- 
ford prejudice  long  smothered  the  sacred 
flame.  But  at  last  it  burst  out.  Blazingbe- 
fore  the  eyesof  all  the  world,  it  gave  Glad- 
stone his  peculiar  fame,  —  friend  of  hu- 
manity, enemy  of  all  tyrants.  An  extract 
from  his  journal  in  1879  lets  us  into  his 
inner  mind :  "  I  am  writing  in  the  last 
minutes  of  the  seventh  decade  of  my  life. 
...  It  is  hardly  possible  that  I  should  com- 
plete another  decade.  .  .  .  For  the  last 
three  and  a  half  years  I  have  been  pass- 
ing through  a  political  experience  which 
is,  I  believe,  without  example  in  our  par- 
liamentary history.  I  profess  to  believe 
it  has  been  an  occasion  when  the  battle  to 
be  fought  was  a  battle  of  justice,  human- 
ity, freedom,  law,  all  in  their  first  ele- 
ments from  the  very  root,  and  all  on  a 
gigantic  scale.  The  word  spoken  was  a 
word  for  millions,  and  for  millions  who 
for  themselves  cannot  speak.  If  I  really 
believe  this,  then  I  should  regard  my 
having  been  morally  forced  into  this 
work  as  a  great  and  high  election  of  God. 
.  .  .  Such  are  some  of  an  old  man's 
thoughts,  in  whom  there  is  still  something 
that  consents  not  to  be  old."  Nor  did  it 
for  fifteen  years  thereafter.  That  frame 
of  steel  bore  him  later  into  still  fiercer 
battles  for  the  inarticulate  oppressed.  His 
intellect,  with  its  wonderful  strength  and 
its  almost  equally  wonderful  weaknesses, 
—  entirely  dead,  as  it  was,  to  the  whole 
scientific  movement  of  his  age,  —  flamed 
high  and  steady  for  a  decade  and  a  half 
longer  before  the  men  who  followed  him, 
like  another  Dandolo,  to  a  nobler  fight ; 
while  over  all,  a  pillar  of  cloud  by  day 
and  fire  by  night,  was  that  moral  enthu- 
siasm, that  majestic  rage  for  truth  and 
right  and  justice  which  made  Gladstone 
an  inspiring  leader  not  simply  of  a  party, 
but  of  mankind. 

Hollo  Ogden. 


Birch   Creek   Canon.  71 


BIRCH  CREEK  CANON. 

THREE  pines  stand  out  against  the  tawny  hill, 

With  long  roots  reaching  down  among  the  moss  ; 

A  slender  aspen  slants  with  leaves  a-thrill, 

And  at  its  foot  a  charred  log  leans  across 

The  damp  black  rocks,  the  fronded  ferns,  the  thread 

Of  silver  glittering  from  its  gravel  bed. 

Feeling  its  way  beneath  low  briers  and  brush 

The  stream  slips  onward,  fed  by  hidden  springs ; 

A  crystal  murmur  in  the  canon's  hush, 

Through  splintered  rocks,  and  wild  sweet  growing  things, 

Into  the  shade  where  narrowing  pine-walls  rise 

Dark  on  the  blue  of  burning  stainless  skies. 

(0  my  heart's  heart,  beyond  the  purple  pines, 

A  thousand  leagues  beyond  the  sunset  hill, 

I  find  you  here,  where  yonder  wild-rose  twines ; 

Your  step  has  left  the  aspen  leaves  a-thrill ; 

Your  voice  was  here  but  now  —  or  whence  this  ache 

Of  poignant  silence,  sweet  on  brier  and  brake  ? ) 

By  shadowed  banks  the  water  murmurs  on, 
Where  shelving  ledges  shut  the  light  away, 
With  glitters  from  the  darkness  come  and  gone, 
And  ripples  gleaming  out  against  the  day, 
And  silver  flash  of  fins,  where  lurking  trout 
From  the  green  shadow  of  the  ledge  leap  out. 

A  black  birch  swings  its  lustrous  branches  down, 
Flecking  the  sunlight  through  its  checkered  screen, 
Above  the  boulders  mossed  with  lichens  brown, 
And  fallen  leaves,  and  starry  tufts  of  green. 
On  either  slope  the  serried  fir  trees  wait 
Rank  after  rank,  to  guard  the  canon  gate. 

(0  my  heart's  heart,  beyond  that  guarded  watt 
A  world  of  struggle  lies  between  us  still ; 
Yet  you  are  here  !     I  felt  your  shadow  fall 
But  now  across  the  grassy  sunlit  hill, 
And  where  the  fir-boughs  yonder  interlace 
Could  I  but  venture,  I  should  find  your  face.) 

Mabel  Earle. 


72 


Koxella's  Prisoner. 


ROXELLA'S  PRISONER. 


THE  house  part,  painted  white  with 
neat  green  blinds,  faced  the  village  and 
the  sunrise  with  an  air  of  conscious  rec- 
titude, which  quite  overshadowed  all 
suggestion  of  bad  company.  The  dingy 
stone  structure  in  its  rear  looked  away 
through  narrow  close-barred  windows  to 
the  open  country  and  the  hills.  There 
were  no  other  buildings  near,  for  the 
shire  town  of  Evergreen  County  was  but 
a  sleepy  country  village  after  all,  and 
prospecting  home  builders  by  common 
consent  avoided  the  near  neighborhood 
of  Evergreen  County  Jail.  Yet  it  had 
been  a  not  unpeaceful  neighborhood  in 
years  gone  by.  For  long  months  of  many 
years  the  narrow  stone  rooms  had  stood 
closed  and  tenantless,  or  open  only  to 
admit  a  mild  offender  for  the  briefest 
possible  term.  Evergreen  County  was 
the  banner  county  of  the  state,  and  Pe- 
terson Thomas,  who  had  been  its  sheriff, 
and  jailer  for  twelve  successive  years, 
boasted  freely  of  the  county's  record 
during  that  time.  "We  ain't  sent  but 
three  to  State  Prison  in  all  them  years, " 
he  was  fond  of  asserting,  "and  one  of 
them  I  never  felt  sure  ought  to  gone; 
this  circumstantial  evidence  is  a  terri- 
ble clincher  when  it  comes  to  provin' 
things  that  could  have  happened  so  and 
so  whether  they  actually  did  or  not. 
The  other  two  I  ain't  got  nothin'  to  say 
for.  They  might  have  been  guilty  of 
the  crimes  charged  against  'em,  and  then 
again  they  mightn't.  But  I'm  free 
to  confess,  after  a  close  acquaintance  of 
two  months,  that  prison  was  the  proper 
place  for  'em  both  on  any  charge  what- 
soever that  would  gain  'em  entrance 
there,  whether  they  did  it  or  not.  I 
never  could  see  no  real  good  reason  why 
the  brains  we  send  down  to  Augusty  year 
after  year,  and  pay  'em  high  to  go, 
could  n't  make  a  law  that  '11  take  care 
of  the  natural-born  criminal  before  he 
actually  jeperdizes  the  safety  an'  well- 


bein'  of  the  community.  A  villain  's  a 
villain  so  fur  as  that  goes,  and  any  hon- 
est man  of  good  judgment  can  size  him 
up  first  jest  as  easy  as  last.  But  then 
professional  villains  ain't  common  to 
Evergreen  County.  No,  sir.  Our  folks 
for  the  most  part  are  an  honest,  good-in- 
tentioned  sort  of  fellers,  who  'd  done  a 
heap  better  if  they  hadn't  meant  so 
well.  Weak  wills  and  shif  tlessness  may 
be  full  as  aggravatin'  as  crime,  but 
they  're  more  respectable." 

For  Jailer  Thomas  in  his  career  as 
sheriff  had  learned  to  regard  his  pris- 
oners with  much  the  same  loyalty  which 
Dr.  Roswell,  president  of  a  neighboring 
college,  felt  toward  his  students. 

"If  the  other  party  don't  increase  in 
power  more  'n  they  have,  Emily  Ann, 
you  and  me  bids  fair  to  die  in  harness, " 
Jailer  Thomas  frequently  assured  his 
good  wife.  "Well,  we  might  done 
worse.  It 's  a  peaceful  life,  and  our 
record  's  one  to  be  proud  of.  Heaven 
grant  there  don't  no  murders  nor  bank 
robberies  come  up  in  this  county  to  dis- 
grace us  in  our  old  age." 

That  the  thirteenth  year  of  his  term 
of  office  entered  upon  Friday  was  not  at 
the  time  regarded  by  the  good  man  as 
a  specially  ominous  circumstance,  yet 
he  recalled  it  mournfully  when,  in  the 
months  following,  the  jail  experienced 
what  Mrs.  Thomas  declared  to  be  "a 
terrible  rush  of  business, "  and  seven  of 
its  ten  cells  were  occupied  at  once  by 
offenders  of  varying  degrees  of  crime. 
Peterson  Thomas  was  plunged  in  gloom. 
"We  're  goin'  back  on  our  record,"  he 
declared  mournfully.  "I  'd  ought  to 
let  well  enough  alone,  and  refused  to  run 
the  thirteenth  year."  His  dejection 
did  not  lessen  when  just  before  spring 
planting  an  attack  of  lumbago  prostrated 
the  energetic  mistress  of  the  house. 

"I  sh'll  have  to  have  a  girl,  Peter- 
son," she  said  tearfully,  —  "I  that  's 


Roxella's  Prisoner. 


73 


made  my  boasts  never  once  to  have  hired 
a  day's  work  or  a  washing  done  in  all 
my  married  life.  Poor  health  in  it- 
self 's  a  dretful  affliction,  but  it  rs  no- 
thin'  in  my  opinion  to  the  hired  help 
which  comes  in  its  train."  Sheriff 
Thomas,  sitting  hopelessly  on  the  edge 
of  her  bed,  whistled  a  funeral  march  in 
dreary  notes. 

"The  case  is  peculiar, "  he  declared 
as  the  tune  came  to  an  end,  "and  or- 
dinary hired  help  ain't  fit  to  be  trusted 
with  county  responsibilities.  I  wonder 
if  one  of  Hiram  Hodges 's  girls  would 
n't  come  down  for  a  spell  jest  to  accom- 
modate. The  Hodgeses  are  mighty  de- 
pendable stock,  and  in  pickin'  a  hired 
help  for  the  county  I  feel  jest  as  I  did 
in  pickin'  a  wife  for  myself, —  the  best 
ain't  none  too  good." 

"I  don't  believe  but  what  they 
would, "  assented  Mrs.  Thomas  in  a  re- 
lieved tone.  " Never  havin'  been  used 
to  village  life,  those  girls  wouldn't  be 
light-headed  and  flighty  like  so  many 
young  folks  nowadays.  You  better  set 
right  down  and  write  up  to  their  folks. " 

So  it  came  about  that  one  April 
morning  Roxella,  youngest  of  Hiram 
Hodges 's  seven  daughters,  stood  just 
behind  Jailer  Thomas  while  he  unlocked 
the  heavy  iron  door  which  shut  the 
stone  jail  off  from  the  white  house. 
Roxella's  rosy  cheeks  were  a  little  pale. 
"I'm  almost  scairt, "  she  acknow- 
ledged in  an  awestruck  whisper.  "Are 
they  awful  bad  ?  " 

"  Bad  enough, "  returned  Jailer 
Thomas,  whose  gloom  was  still  appar- 
ent. "There  ain't  no  actual  murderers 
among  them  that  's  ever  manifested 
themselves  as  such,  but  there  's  one 
sheep  thief  which  makes  the  general 
average  pretty  low.  That 's  him  sulk- 
in'  by  the  window  of  his  cell  'way  down 
along.  I  've  had  several  sheep  thieves 
more  or  less  in  the  last  twelve  years, 
but  I  can't  recall  one  that  's  ever  turned 
out  well  yet.  Now  mind,  Roxelly,  you 
ain't  to  hold  any  converse  with  'em 
whatsoever.  I  don't  know  what  your 


father  'n'  mother  'd  say  to  me  lettin' 
you  sweep  this  corridor  anyhow,  but 
I  'm  clear  at  my  wit's  end  unless  you  do. 
I  'm  too  fur  behind  with  the  county's 
plantin'  to  do  any  more  such  work  my- 
self, and  I  don't  dare  risk  Emily  Ann 
gettin'  around  to  see  it  in  this  state. 
Like  enough  she  'd  have  a  relapse. 
You  ain't  scairt,  be  you?  There  ain't 
none  of  'em  really  dangerous.  If  they 
speak  to  you  don't  answer.  They  get 
sassy  sometimes." 

Left  alone  in  the  long  chilly  corridor, 
lighted  only  by  a  high  window  at  either 
end,  Roxella  strove  to  quiet  her  fears. 
"There  is  n't  anything  to  be  scared  of,  " 
she  assured  herself,  even  while  uncom- 
fortably mindful  of  interested  faces 
looking  out  upon  her  from  five  of  the 
grated  doors. 

"Good-mornin',  miss,  how  long  are 
you  in  fur?  "  called  a  derisive  voice. 

"Sent  up  for  stealin'  some  poor  fel- 
ler's heart  most  likely,  "  added  another. 
Roxella  did  not  even  glance  toward 
the  line  of  doors,  but  commenced  her 
work  in  a  far  corner  by  an  unoccupied 
cell.  "  I  won't  be  scared, "  she  insisted 
to  herself,  and  in  an  attempt  to  prove 
it  began  the  first  verse  of  Pull  for  the 
Shore,  in  a  voice  which  quavered  no- 
ticeably at  first,  but  increased  in  power 
as  she  sang.  "That  's  a  handsome  piece, 
miss ;  give  us  another, "  suggested  the 
prisoner  who  had  first  accosted  her,  as 
the  song  came  to  an  end.  The  voice  at 
least  held  no  note  of  wickedness,  and 
Roxella,  though  mindful  of  her  instruc- 
tions to  make  no  reply,  summoned  cour- 
age for  a  glance  in  its  direction.  The 
glance  was  followed  at  intervals  in  her 
work  by  others  toward  the  line  of  faces 
still  regarding  her  with  deep  interest. 
Roxella's  spirits  lightened  suddenly, 
and  she  was  conscious  that  she  had  ex- 
pected to  find  these  prisoners  not  unlike 
the  Wild  Man  from  Orinoco,  who  had 
grimaced  and  gnashed  his  teeth  at  her 
from  his  securely  barred  cage  in  the  cir- 
cus at  Plainville  last  summer.  These 
men,  hardened  criminals  though  they 


74 


Roxella^s  Prisoner. 


were  in  Roxella's  estimation,  differed 
not  in  general  appearance  from  the  cus- 
tomers she  was  accustomed  to  serve  in 
her  father's  little  country  hotel  far  up 
the  river.  Four  of  them  were  young, 
not  so  very  far  past  her  own  age.  The 
fifth,  a  gray-haired  man,  whose  mild 
blue  eyes  smiled  vacantly  upon  her, 
called  her  Susie,  and  begged  her  to 
bring  him  a  handful  of  dandelions  from 
the  grassy  yard  below.  Roxella  hesi- 
tated. Jailer  Thomas's  prohibition  of 
conversation  had  not  included  dande- 
lions. "He  ain't  wicked  so  much  as 
he  is  foolish, "  decided  Roxella  as  she 
passed  the  coveted  blossoms  through 
the  grating.  "  And  goodness  knows 
I  've  seen  fools  enough  in  my  life,  so 
I  needn't  be  scared  of  them."  She 
shook  her  head  in  refusal  of  a  polite 
request  for  squash  blossoms  from  cell 
No.  4,  and  even  smiled  guardedly  at 
No.  3's  petition  for  a  fresh  watermelon. 
It  was  not  so  bad  after  all ;  these  young 
men  might  have  been  a  party  of  honest 
woodsmen  come  in  for  supper  after 
a  hard  day's  toil.  She  glanced  with 
some  apprehension  at  the  occupant  of 
No.  6,  who  had  thus  far  taken  no  no- 
tice of  her  presence.  "That  's  the  sheep 
stealer, "  she  remembered  uncomfort- 
ably, with  a  second  glance  at  the  stal- 
wart figure  which  stood  back  to  the  door 
with  hands  deep  in  its  pockets,  staring 
out  of  the  narrow  window.  "  He  looks 
dangerous, "  decided  Roxella. 

There  was  one  more  prisoner,  a  little 
apart  from  the  others,  in  cell  No.  9. 
Roxella  noticed  with  some  curiosity 
that  this  cell  was  larger  than  the  oth- 
ers and  rather  more  comfortable.  A 
vase  of  flowers  stood  upon  the  window 
ledge,  and  a  table  with  writing  mate- 
rials occupied  the  centre  of  the  room. 
A  young  man  whose  dress  was  some- 
what superior  to  that  of  the  other  pris- 
oners sat  beside  the  table,  his  head 
pillowed  upon  his  folded  arms.  Roxel- 
la observed  that  his  hair  was  black  and 
curly,  and  wondered  as  she  carefully 
swept  the  corners  of  his  doorway  what 


injustice  or  misfortune  had  brought  him 
here.  "He  certainly  ain't  like  the 
others, "  she  decided,  even  before  the 
prisoner  lifted  his  head  to  regard  her 
mournfully  with  large  eyes  set  in  a  face 
of  startling  pallor.  He  sighed  heavily 
and  dropped  his  head  upon  his  arms 
once  more.  The  girl's  heart  stirred 
with  pity,  and  she  began  to  regret  the 
command  which  prevented  an  expres- 
sion of  it.  She  lingered  a  little  by  the 
door,  wondering  if  he  would  address 
her,  but  he  took  no  further  notice  of 
her  presence. 

"  Roxelly, "  said  Peterson  Thomas 
doubtfully,  three  mornings  later,  "do 
you  s 'pose  you  could  give  the  board- 
ers their  feed,  come  noontime,  for  a 
spell?  Now  we're  workin'  on  that 
northeast  medder  I  could  save  an  hour 
for  the  county  ev'ry  day  by  not  comin' 
home.  I  hate  to  have  you  do  it,  but  it 
don't  seem  jest  right  to  waste  the  coun- 
ty's time.  You  wouldn't  be  scairt, 
would  you  ?  " 

Roxella  consented  readily.  "Not  a 
mite,"  she  declared. 

"So  fur  as  that  goes,"  Peterson 
Thomas  continued  musingly,  "I  s'pose 
you  've  fed  worse  criminals  'n  they  be, 
many  's  the  time,  and  never  give  it  a 
thought.  The  criminals  ain't  all  be- 
hind bars,  and  there  's  some  men  in 
that  ought  to  be  out,  though  that  ain't 
for  us  to  settle.  I  ain't  sayin'  but 
what  there  's  such  in  this  very  jail. 
However,  our  part  is  to  keep  'em  safe 
and  give  'em  enough  to  eat.  Nobody 
livin'  can't  say  a  prisoner  ever  went 
hungry  from  this  jail  yet.  You  're 
sure  you  ain't  scairt?  Well,  don't  talk 
to  'em,  and  above  all  don't  let  'em 
think  you  feel  scared." 

"I  ain't,"  Roxella  declared  stoutly. 
"I  've  got  all  over  that." 

"It 's  funny,"  she  said  reflectively, 
sitting  by  Mrs.  Thomas's  bedside  a 
week  later.  "But  there  ain't  a  man 
up  there  that 's  done  a  thing  to  be  put 
in  for  without  it  's  the  sheep  stealer, 
and  he  don't  say  a  word  as  to  whether 


Roxella's  Prisoner. 


75 


he  did  or  didn't.  They  don't  any  of 
'em  say  a  word  about  each  other,  but 
accordin'  to  each  man's  own  story  there 
ain't  a  guilty  one  there." 

"There  never  is,"  replied  the  pros- 
trate mistress  of  the  house  skeptically. 
"In  all  the  years  I  've  been  here  we  've 
never  had  one  that  was  guilty  by  his 
own  showin',  except  a  crazy  man  who 
confessed  to  a  crime  he  never  commit- 
ted, and  was  proved  innocent  against  his 
own  testimony.  You  can't  help  their 
running  on  to  you  I  s'pose,  but  you 
mustn't  talk  back  to  'em,  Roxelly. 
Peterson  would  be  terrible  put  out." 

"No,  ma'am,  I  don't, "  replied  Rox- 
ella  obediently,  adding  a  moment  later, 
"that  is,  not  without  it 's  just  to  pass 
the  time  of  day,  or  say  '  do  tell '  or '  is 
that  so  ?  '  or  something.  I  don't  even  do 
that  much  talkin'  with  the  sheep  man. 
He  acts  dreadful  ill  natured.  You  don't 
suppose  he  's  dangerous,  do  you?  " 

Mrs.  Thomas  shook  her  head  con- 
temptuously. "There  never  was  one  of 
his  breed  had  spunk  enough  to  be  dan- 
gerous, "  she  said.  "They  're  a  bad  lot 
all  through,  and  Peterson  and  I  both 
hope  he  '11  get  a  long  term  when  his 
case  comes  up.  Just  let  him  sulk  it  out 
and  take  no  notice  of  him." 

Roxella  portioned  the  plain  fare  pro- 
vided by  Evergreen  County  for  its 
prisoners  into  seven  narrow  tin  trays, 
and  surveyed  it  doubtfully.  "I  s'pose 
a  hotel  bringin*  up  makes  this  look 
meaner, "  she  mused  ;  "but  the  county  's 
well-to-do,  and  on  the  ground  of  holdin' 
every  man  innocent  till  he  's  proved 
guilty  I  must  say  I  can't  see  any  justice 
in  it.  No.  9  don't  eat  enough  to  keep  a 
mouse  alive,  and  I  believe  his  appetite 
needs  temptin'.  Neither  the  county 
nor  Peterson  Thomas  would  want  him 
to  go  into  a  decline  on  their  hands." 

She  resolutely  added  a  rhubarb  pie 
to  the  tray,  and  carefully  cut  it  in  seven 
impartial  sections.  "Nobody  ever  told 
me  not  to, "  she  protested  to  her  con- 
science as  she  traversed  the  long  corri- 
dor, "and  anyhow  rhubarb's  cheap." 


"I  '11  leave  it  for  you  to  say,"  she 
said,  standing  pie  in  hand  before  the 
door  of  cell  No.  1.  "The  county  ain't 
been  accustomed  to  servin'  desserts,  but 
those  that  think  they  ain't  undeservin' 
of  pie  can  have  it." 

There  was  no  apparent  feeling  of 
unworthiness  until  she  timidly  repeated 
her  formula  at  the  door  of  No.  6.  To 
her  surprise  the  tall  prisoner  smiled  and 
shook  his  head.  "I  guess  I  ain't  wor- 
thy, miss, "  he  admitted,  attacking  his 
bread  and  potatoes  with  the  appetite  of 
a  hungry  man.  Roxella  reflected  upon 
his  hardened  character  as  she  went  on 
to  No.  9,  who  pushed  aside  the  plainer 
food  disdainfully,  but  consumed  the 
two  remaining  pieces  of  pie  with  appar- 
ent relish.  "It  reminds  me  of  home," 
he  said  in  a  subdued  tone.  "I  was 
longing  for  a  piece  of  my  mother's  pie 
this  morning  when  I  saw  you  pulling 
rhubarb'  in  the  jail  garden.  I  have 
watched  you  far  more  than  you  know 
in  the  past  two  weeks.  You  can  never 
realize  how  a  true  woman's  presence 
brightens  even  a  gloomy  prison.  I  hope 
your  womanly  powers  of  perception 
have  revealed  to  you  that  I  am  not  like 
these  others."  Roxella  blushed. 

"Of  course  I  couldn't  help  seeing 
there  was  a  difference, "  she  acknow- 
ledged shyly. 

"A  political  prisoner  has  much  to 
endure  of  injustice  and  persecution, " 
he  continued  sadly;  "but  he  has  the 
satisfaction  of  knowing  that  no  one,  not 
even  his  enemies,  can  rate  him  with  the 
common  criminal.  My  only  crime  is 
in  loving  my  native  land  too  well.  Yet 
in  the  dreary  days  which  passed  before 
you  came  to  lighten  the  darkness  I  never 
regretted  it." 

Roxella  listened  attentively.  It 
sounded  like  a  book. 

"It's  a  downright  pity,"  she  de- 
clared in  deeply  sympathetic  tones. 
"I  wish  there  was  something  more  I 
could  do  for  you, "  she  added  bash- 
fully. "Could  you  relish  a  custard,  do 
you  suppose  ?  " 


76 


Roxella's  Prisoner. 


"Your  sympathy  is  more  help  than 
you  realize,  "  he  replied  sadly.  "Cus- 
tard, did  you  say?  Yes,  mother  used 
to  make  those  too." 

The  six  worthy  prisoners  dined  upon 
custards  next  day.  "For  I  ain't  goin' 
to  show  partiality  even  if  he  is  differ- 
ent, "  Roxella  decided. 

The  day  following  there  was  ice 
cream.  "The  county  can  afford  it," 
Roxella  assured  herself,  resolutely  sti- 
fling a  guilty  pang. 

She  went  one  afternoon  to  answer  an 
unaccustomed  peal  of  the  front  door 
bell,  and  received  from  the  hands  of  a 
ten-year-old  girl  a  large  basket  and  a 
bouquet  of  lilac  blossoms.  "For  pa, " 
the  child  explained.  "Hiram  Risley, 
you  know.  He  's  stoppin'  here  a  spell. " 

Roxella  hesitated.  "I  don't  know 
whether  it 's  against  the  rules  or  not, " 
she  acknowledged  frankly,  "and  Mis' 
Thomas  is  havin'  a  poor  day,  so  I  can't 
ask  her.  Her  lumbago  's  developed  into 
nervous  prostration.  Never  mind,  sis, 
I  '11  risk  it.  What  's  your  pa's  num- 
ber did  you  say  ?  " 

The  child  looked  puzzled.  "What 's 
he  in  for?  "  Roxella  continued. 

"Nothin'  at  all,"  the  child  returned 
hotly.  "  They  said  he  stole  John  Fre- 
mont's sheep  ;  but  he  never,  for  ma 
says  he  never. " 

Roxella  carried  the  basket  to  the 
door  of  No.  6  and  tapped  gently. 

"Your  folks  have  sent  you  some  lit- 
tle tokens, "  she  explained.  The  tall 
prisoner's  face  lighted. 

"Well,  now,  that 's  something  I  was 
n't  lookin'  for,"  he  said. 

"Most  people  get  more  or  less  that 
they  don't  really  deserve,"  remarked 
Roxella.  "I  hope  'twill  lead  you  to 
serious  thoughts  of  a  better  life. "  She 
crowded  the  lilacs  through  the  grating 
as  she  spoke  and  looked  doubtfully  at 
the  basket.  "This  won't  go  through; 
shall  I  open  the  basket  and  pass  the 
things  in  ?  "  she  asked.  He  looked  with 
interest  at  the  doughnuts  and  ^ponge 
cake. 


"I  don't  know  why  it  should  be 
made  easier  for  me  any  more  than  other 
men,"  he  said  aloud.  "I  guess  I  won't 
eat  any,  miss.  You  just  pass  the  sweet 
stuff  round  among  the  boys  wherever 
you  think  it 's  needed  most,  and  give' 
the  flowers  to  Uncle  Petingill.  He  '11 
like  'em  to  play  with,  poor  old  soul. 
For  me,  I  '11  take  jail  life  just  as  it 
comes." 

Roxella  delivered  the  lilacs  to  the 
delighted  old  man,  then  carried  the 
basket  straight  to  No.  9. 

"The  sheep  man  don't  feel  worthy 
of  all  this  which  his  folks  has  sent, " 
she  explained.  "And  I  'm  glad  to  see 
him  show  a  little  proper  feelin'.  Could 
you  relish  a  piece  ?  "  He  finally  ac- 
cepted the  entire  loaf  of  cake  under 
protest.  "The  others  like  doughnuts 
best,  so  I  will  leave  them  all  for  them, " 
he  said.  "The  cake  isn't  frosted  as 
mother  used  to  do,  but  it  may  be  I  can 
eat  a  piece. "  He  slipped  a  folded  paper 
through  the  grate. 

"This  will  show  you  how  I  brighten 
the  weary  hours,"  he  explained. 

It  was  a  little  poem,  written  upon 
a  sheet  of  letter  paper  and  entitled  A 
Fettered  Bird.  "It  was  just  lovely," 
Roxella  assured  him  next  day  as  she 
passed  a  tiny  dish  of  early  strawberries 
through  the  grate. 

She  was  becoming  very  good  friends 
with  most  of  the  prisoners,  even  while 
following  Sheriff  Thomas's  command  to 
say  little  to  them .  "  You  can  get  pretty 
well  acquainted  with  folks  by  just  lis- 
tening, "  Roxella  decided.  She  brought 
to  the  gray-haired  man  in  No.  2  a  daily 
offering  of  spring  blossoms,  wrote  occa- 
sional letters  for  illiterate  No.  3,  and 
one  June  afternoon  paused  triumphant- 
ly before  the  door  of  No.  5,  bearing 
upon  Mrs.  Thomas's  best  china  platter 
a  frosted  mound  encircled  by  exactly 
two  dozen  wild  roses.  Upon  the  snowy 
surface  of  the  cake,  wrought  in  pink 
candy,  was  the  inscription  "No.  5  aged 
24."  "It  's  angel  underneath,"  Rox- 
ella announced.  "Too  bad  you  can't 


Roxella's  Prisoner. 


11 


have  it  whole,  but  I  've  brought  a  long 
knife  so  you  could  cut  it  yourself  through 
the  grating  and  then  take  in  the  pieces. 
I  heard  you  holler  to  No.  4  this  morn- 
in'  about  to-day  bein'  your  birthday." 

No.  5  sliced  the  cake  carefully,  con- 
cealing beneath  a  gay  exterior  some  real 
emotion.  "There  never  was  any  wo- 
man livin'  ever  made  me  a  birthday 
cake  before, "  he  said  solemnly  as  he 
swallowed  the  last  pink  crumb  of  the 
"5,"  "and  this  's  the  first  time  I  ever 
even  tasted  angel.  I  would  n't  be  sur- 
prised if  it  went  clear  through  and  made 
another  fellow  of  me.  Now,  miss, 
please  pass  some  of  it  to  the  other 
boys." 

Even  No.  6,  after  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation, accepted  a  piece,  and  No.  9,  hav- 
ing eaten  his,  spent  the  rest  of  the  af- 
ternoon in  writing  a  poem  entitled  The 
Angel  of  the  Prison. 

A  week  later  Nos.  4  and  5,  having 
served  their  ninety  days'  sentence  for 
drunkenness  and  disorderly  conduct, 
were  dismissed,  and  the  gray-haired 
prisoner  finished  his  term  for  vagrancy 
soon  after.  Roxella  found  her  midday 
duties  lightened.  She  was  becoming 
deeply  interested  in  the  political  pris- 
oner, who  confided  to  her  by  degrees  long 
portions  of  his  early  history  and  blighted 
career. 

"My  real  name  is  Philip  Cart- 
wright,"  he  whispered  one  day.  "I 
wanted  you  to  know,  though  for  politi- 
cal reasons  I  am  now  bearing  another. 
It  doesn't  matter,  since  the  rest  of 
my  life  will  undoubtedly  be  passed  in 
prison.  If  I  could  only  be  brought  to 
trial  all  might  yet  be  well.  But  my 
enemies  prevent  that,  knowing  that  my 
innocence  could  soon  be  proved." 

"I  didn't  know  those  things  ever 
happened  outside  of  story  books, "  Rox- 
ella assured  him  with  distressed  face. 

No.  6  beckoned  to  her  one  day  as  she 
passed  his  door.  "It 's  none  of  my  af- 
fair," he  said  kindly,  "but  I  sh'd  want 
somebody  to  meddle  if  'twas  a  sister 
of  mine.  I  'm  no  hand  to  talk  about 


my  neighbors,  and  I  wouldn't  for  the 
world  carry  tales  to  Peterson  Thomas 
as  mebbe  I  ought  to  do,  but  I  want  to 
advise  you  as  a  wellwisher  not  to  go 
too  far  with  any  of  us  fellows  in  here, 
or  to  take  too  much  stock  in  what  we 
say.  Our  judgment  gets  warped  till 
we  think  too  well  of  ourselves  and  too 
little  of  other  folks,  and  we  ain't  to  be 
trusted.  I  would  n't  listen  to  that  fel- 
low in  No.  9  quite  so  long  to  a  time, 
if  I  was  you." 

Roxella' s  cheeks  blazed.  "That 's 
about  what  I  should  have  expected  from 
you,"  she  said  with  indignation.  "If 
I  want  advice,  thank  you,  I  can  get  it 
outside  the  jail." 

Next  day  she  defiantly  spent  a  full 
half  hour  in  conversation  with  No.  9. 
The  political  prisoner  was  looking  ill 
from  his  long  confinement.  "I  am 
wasting  for  want  of  sunshine  and  fresh 
air,"  he  reluctantly  admitted  when 
Roxella  anxiously  remarked  upon  his 
failing  health.  "  Roxella,  would  it  not 
be  possible  for  you  to  grant  me  a  brief 
hour  in  the  open  air,  sometimes?  It 
would  be  perfectly  safe.  The  wall  is 
far  too  high  for  me  to  scale  in  my  weak 
condition  even  were  other  bonds  than 
my  word  necessary.  Let  me  have  an 
hour  there  with  you  in  the  moonlight, 
since  sunlight  is  no  more  for  me." 

Roxella  assented  eagerly.  "It  's 
just  what  you  need,"  she  declared. 
"I'll  ask  Sheriff  Thomas  this  very 
night." 

He  stopped  her  sadly.  "That  is 
worse  than  useless, "  he  said.  "  It  would 
only  end  in  depriving  me  of  the  one 
pleasure  left  in  life  —  your  visits.  No, 
if  you  do  not  pity  me  enough  to  grant 
this  little  boon  without  the  knowledge 
of  any  one,  I  must  still  languish  here." 

For  a  week  Roxella  held  firm  against 
pleading  and  reproaches,  while  No.  9 
grew  paler  and  weaker  each  day.  Then 
she  yielded. 

"Broad  daylight  's  the  best  time," 
she  said  shortly.  "Sheriff's  gone  all 
day,  and  Mis'  Thomas's  room  is  on  the 


78 


Roxella's  Prisoner. 


front.  You  '11  give  me  your  word  of 
honor  to  come  back  when  the  hour  is 
up  ?  "  He  cast  a  reproachful  look  upon 
her.  "This  —  f rom  you,  Roxella, "  he 
said  weakly. 

He  drew  in  deep  breaths  of  the  sum- 
mer air  as  they  sat  in  the  shadow  of  the 
south  wall  upon  a  long  bench.  A  huge 
elm  tree  drooped  its  branches  from  the 
other  side,  and  fragrant  odors  of  sum- 
mer floated  about  them.  "Oh,  to  be 
free  again  and  go  my  way  unhindered 

—  with   you   beside   me, "    he  sighed. 
Roxella    rose   hastily.       "The   kitchen 
clock  's  striking  four, "  she  announced. 

She  locked  the  door  of  No.  9  upon 
him  once  more,  and  went  back  to  pre- 
parations for  the  evening  meal  with 
troubled  face.  "It 's  nothing  short  of 
unfaithfulness  to  them  that  trust  me," 
she  acknowledged  to  her  conscience. 
"I  'm  choosin'  a  wrong  course  deliber- 
ately rather  than  see  a  fellow  bein' 
who  is  really  innocent  waste  away  be- 
fore my  eyes." 

The  following  day  was  rainy,  but 
Roxella  and  her  charge  walked  for  an 
hour  up  and  down  the  gravel  walk  be- 
neath a  large  umbrella. 

"Even  the  rain  is  a  blessed  privilege 

—  with  you,"  he  whispered. 

On  the  fourth  day,  as  they  sat  again 
beneath  the  wall,  the  prisoner  leaned 
suddenly  toward  his  jailer.  "Dear- 
est "  —  he  began,  but  Roxella  shrank 
away.  "Don't!  "  she  commanded. 

A  sudden  push  sent  her  headlong 
upon  the  soft  grass.  Half  stunned  she 
scrambled  to  her  feet,  to  find  her  pris- 
oner scaling  the  high  wall  in  a  manner 
which  indicated  both  strength  and  agil- 
ity. Already  his  hands  were  grasping 
the  very  top.  In  Roxella 's  bewildered 
brain  there  was  room  for  but  one 
thought,  —  her  responsibility  to  Ever- 
green County.  She  flung  herself  against 
the  wall,  grasping  his  right  foot  with 
desperate  energy,  while  the  other  flour- 
ished wildly  about  her  head,  and  threats 
of  dire  vengeance  all  unheeded  floated 
down  to  her  from  the  top  of  the  wall. 


"  Help  —  help  —  help !  "  screamed 
Roxella,  though  hopeless  of  aid  ;  for 
Sheriff  Thomas  and  his  farm  hands 
were  two  good  miles  away. 

A  well-aimed  kick  struck  the  top  of 
her  head.  Roxella  felt  her  brain  reel 
and  her  grasp  weaken.  He  would  es- 
cape, and  she  had  betrayed  the  trust  of 
Evergreen  County.  Her  hands  weakly 
slipped  from  their  hold,  but  a  pair  of 
strong  arms  reaching  above  her  head 
pulled  the  escaping  prisoner  to  the 
ground. 

"You  contemptible  villain!  "  cried 
the  indignant  voice  of  No.  6.  "I  don't 
see  why  I  didn't  stop  you  before  you 
got  this  fur." 

He  marched  the  recaptured  prisoner 
back  to  his  cell,  delivering  upon  the 
way  sundry  pungent  bits  of  advice  and 
warning,  while  Roxella,  with  aching 
head  and  deep  humiliation  of  spirit, 
followed  with  the  political  prisoner's 
hat. 

"How  'd  you  get  out?  "  she  ques- 
tioned of  No.  6  as  they  locked  their 
prisoner  in  once  more. 

"I  ain't  ever  been  locked  in,"  re- 
plied No.  6  lightly.  "Pete  Thomas 
said  he  couldn't  help  my  bein'  fool 
enough  to  come  here,  since  that  was  a 
matter  between  me  and  my  own  brains 
or  the  lack  of  'em,  but  he  swore  he 
would  n't  never  turn  a  key  on  me,  and 
he  hasn't."  He  turned  to  Roxella. 
"What  did  you  s'pose  I  was  here 
for?  "  he  asked.  "No,  I  ain't  goin'  in 
again.  My  time  was  up  two  days  ago, 
but  I  made  a  bogus  excuse  to  Pete  and 
hung  on  here  to  watch  that  fellow.  I 
knew  he  was  up  to  something  of  this 
kind,  and  I  'd  ought  to  stopped  him 
sooner.  What  'd  you  say  you  thought 
I  was  here  for?  " 

He  laughed  shortly  at  Roxella 's  fal- 
tered confession. 

"That's  Hi  Risley  in  No.  9,"  he 
said  with  some  sarcasm.  "Mighty  slick 
talker,  ain't  he?  " 

Roxella,  sitting  down  in  the  side 
doorway  of  the  white  house,  subsided 


Some  Nineteenth- Century  Americans. 


79 


into  a  flood  of  emotion.      No.  6's  sar- 
castic tone  changed  instantly. 

"Oh, come  now,  little  girl, don't  take 
it  that  way,"  he  pleaded.  '"T  ain't 
any  wonder  after  all.  Hi  's  the  slick- 
est liar  I  ever  saw,  and  he  's  fooled 
many  a  shrewd  man  who  had  long  ex- 
perience in  the  art  himself.  Why 
should  n't  he  take  in  a  tender-hearted 
little  woman,  who,  bein'  the  soul  of 
truth  herself,  has  a  right  to  expect  it  in 
other  folks  ?  That  interestin'  paleness 
of  his  was  chalk,  and  them  circles 
round  his  eyes  black  lead.  More  or 
less  of  it  got  rubbed  off  in  rescuing 
him,  but  he  '11  have  it  on  again  before 
he  goes  before  a  jury.  There,  there, 
never  mind.  He  ain't  worth  sheddin' 
a  tear  over.  But  with  all  his  lyin' 
propensities  there  never  was  truer  words 
spoke  than  those  poetry  pieces  he  wrote 
off  about  sunshine  and  angels  gettin' 
into  the  jail." 

"I  wouldn't  never  believed  it  of  a 
Hodges,  Roxelly, "  said  Sheriff  Thomas 
in  a  reproachful  tone  as  he  listened  to 
Roxella' s  confession.  "I  'm  terri- 
bly disappointed.  But  there,  as  Tom 
Leslie  says,  it  wa'n't  any  more  than 
natural  for  one  so  innocent  and  trustin' 
to  be  taken  in,  and  I  've  a  strong  sus- 


picion your  father  'd  say  I  was  the  one 
to  blame.  Anyhow,  Tom  made  me 
promise  I  would  n't  blame  you,  so  we 
won't  say  no  more  about  it.  Court 
sets  next  week,  and  we  '11  soon  be  rid  of 
this  blot  on  a  respectable  institution." 

"Mr.  Sheriff,"  questioned  Roxella 
a  few  moments  later,  "who  is  No.  6, 
and  what  was  he  here  for?  " 

"That,"  replied  Peterson  Thomas 
with  satisfaction,  "was  Tom  Leslie. 
He  's  been  one  of  my  best  deputies  for 
years,  for  all  he  's  a  young  feller.  And 
he  's  jest  served  a  term  of  sixty  days 
for  contempt  of  Court  in  refusin'  to 
testify  against  a  neighbor,  and  send  him 
to  jail  away  from  his  dyin'  wife  and 
little  children.  It  ought  to  been  set- 
tled by  a  fine,  but  Tom  and  the  Court 
was  both  stuffy,  though  the  judge  says 
to  me  afterwards,  says  he,  '  Every  inch 
of  that  fellow's  six  feet  is  clear  man,' 
says  he.  And  that 's  the  truth.  You  've 
done  well  for  yourself,  Roxelly,  and 
your  father,  who  knows  the  Leslies, 
won't  find  no  fault  with  me  on  that 
ground." 

"But  it  's  not  —  I  did  n't  —  I  have 
n't  done  anything,"  protested  Roxella 
with  burning  cheeks. 

"You  wait  and  see,"  replied  Sheriff 
Thomas  in  prophetic  tones. 

Harriet  A.  Nash. 


SOME  NINETEENTH-CENTURY  AMERICANS. 


THE  books  on  the  biographical  shelf 
of  any  library  stand  a  double  chance  of 
interesting  the  reader  to  whom  no  human 
thing  is  foreign.  They  are  like  all  other 
books  in  that  the  writers  must  give  their 
own  flavor,  more  or  less  individual,  to 
each.  They  are  unlike  the  rest  of  the 
library  in  that  the  theme  of  each  is  in- 
evitably that  most  human  of  themes,  — a 
person  and  his  life,  with  all  that  is  im- 
plied in  the  contact  of  one  life  with  oth- 
ers. It  may  almost  be  said  that  a  dou- 


ble stupidity  is  required  to  make  a  bio- 
graphy dull,  —  a  stupidity  enveloping 
both  the  writer  and  his  theme.  There 
are  widely  varying  degrees  of  interest  in 
the  things  to  be  revealed  in  different  bio- 
graphies, even  as  biographers  display  a 
wide  diversity  of  cunning  and  power  in 
making  the  most  of  their  opportunities. 
Yet  the  stars  do  not  often  conjoin  so 
malignly  as  to  permit  a  complete  disap- 
pointment both  in  theme  and  in  treat- 
ment. Certainly  the  titles  and  the  au- 


80 


Some  Nineteenth- Century  Americans. 


thorship  of  a  few  of  the  new  accessions 
to  the  shelf  of  biography  bear  with  them 
a  promise  of  which  at  least  a  partial  ful- 
fillment is  assured. 

It  has  become  the  fashion  amongst 
biographers  to  let  a  man  speak  as  volu- 
bly as  possible  for  himself  —  through 
letters,  diaries,  and  quotations  from  his 
published  works.  When  the  biographer 
is  essentially  less  interesting  than  his 
theme,  this  is  a  fortunate  fashion.  This 
relation,  however,  does  not  always  exist. 
It  may  even  happen  at  times  that  the 
reader  finds  himself  in  the  condition  of 
a  guest  at  a  dinner  to  which  a  delightful 
host  has  asked  him  to  meet  a  delightful 
friend.  The  guest  goes  home  disap- 
pointed if  the  host  has  taken  the  role  of 
a  mere  prompter,  asking  those  leading 
questions  which  provide  the  links  of  con- 
versation, and  has  contributed  nothing 
more  himself.  Our  host,  Mr.  Henry 
James,  leaves  no  such  regret  with  those 
whom  he  has  introduced  to  William  Wet- 
more  Story  and  His  Friends.1  His  book 
has  grown  from  "  a  boxful  of  old  papers, 
personal  records  and  relics  all,"  which 
was  placed  in  his  hands.  In  printing 
these  papers,  chiefly  letters,  he  has  seized 
every  opportunity  to  let  Story  speak  for 
himself ;  but,  in  the  nature  of  the  case, 
the  letters  to  Story  outnumber  those  of 
his  own  writing.  From  beginning  to  end 
of  the  two  volumes,  moreover,  Mr. 
James  supplies  a  generous  contribution 
of  comment  and  interpretation,  page  af- 
ter page  of  writing  which  could  have 
come  from  no  pen  but  his  own.  The 
reader  is  correspondingly  grateful  that 
Mr.  James  has  not  followed  blindly  the 
current  fashion  of  biography,  for  besides 
learning  all  that  is  told  of  Story  and  his 
friends  one  gains  a  new  and  fuller  ac- 
quaintance with  Mr.  James  himself. 

The  preliminary  chapter,  Precursors, 
strikes  the  keynote  of  Mr.  James's  spe- 
cial fitness  for  his  task.  His  Precursors 

1  William  Wetmore  Story  and  His  Friends. 
By  HENRY  JAMES.  In  two  volumes.  Boston 
and  New  York  :  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  1903. 


are  those  first  Americans  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  who  found  their  native 
land  barren  of  artistic  promptings  and 
satisfactions,  and  sought  in  Europe  what 
they  missed  at  home.  The  keen  sympa- 
thy of  Mr.  James  with  these  pioneers 
and  their  successors  is  repeatedly  shown 
forth.  This,  indeed,  is  quite  as  it  should 
be,  for  Story,  with  all  his  reasons  for 
feeling  himself  a  true  portion  of  the  Bos- 
ton and  Cambridge  community,  mani- 
festly suffered  from  something  very  like 
homesickness  when  he  revisited  it.  What 
it  all  amounted  to  —  as  Mr.  James  him- 
self has  made  bold  to  state  the  case  — 
"  was  that,  with  an  alienated  mind,  he 
found  himself  again  steeped  in  a  soci- 
ety both  fundamentally  and  superficially 
bourgeois,  the  very  type  and  model  of 
such  a  society,  presenting  it  in  the  most 
favorable,  the  most  admirable,  light ;  so 
that  its  very  virtues  irritated  him,  so  that 
its  inability  to  be  strenuous  without  pas- 
sion, its  cultivation  of  its  serenity,  its  pre- 
sentation of  a  surface  on  which  it  would 
appear  to  him  that  the  only  ruffle  was  an 
occasionally  acuter  spasm  of  the  moral 
sense,  must  have  acted  as  a  tacit  re- 
proach." Yet  Mr.  James  indulges  the 
speculation  that  if  Boston,  and  not  Italy, 
had  been  the  home  of  Story,  the  poet 
rather  than  the  sculptor  might  have  at- 
tained the  higher  development  in  him. 
The  literary  art,  as  the  biographer  sub- 
tly argues,  "  has  by  no  means  all  its  ad- 
vantages in  the  picturesque  country.  .  .  . 
In  London,  in  Boston,  he  would  have 
had  to  live  with  his  conception,  there  be- 
ing nothing  else  about  him  of  the  same 
color  and  quality."  In  one  way  and  an- 
other, then,  it  is  honestly  made  to  appear 
that  Story  paid  the  penalty  of  the  absen- 
tee. But  the  points  at  which  the  insight 
of  Mr.  James  has  penetrated  the  less 
evident  significances  of  this  theme  are 
quite  too  many  to  specify. 

Of  the  letters  at  Mr.  James's  disposal, 
those  written  by  Story  himself  reveal 
many  winning  qualities  of  a  man  with 
rarely  versatile  powers.  In  none  of  them 


Some  Nineteenth- Century  Americans. 


81 


does  he  stand  forth  more  clearly  than 
when  writing  to  the  friends  of  longest  as- 
sociation, Lowell  and  Mr.  Norton.  Yet 
he  appears  with  but  little  loss  of  distinct- 
ness in  the  letters  which  all  his  friends 
wrote  to  him.  One  realizes  him  the  more 
clearly  for  finding  Lowell  at  his  own  de- 
lightful best  in  more  than  one  of  his  char- 
acteristic bits  of  fooling.  It  is  only  to  a 
man  of  a  certain  sort  —  none  too  familiar 
—  that  Browning  could  have  written  as 
he  did  in  the  great  crisis  that  came  to  him 
with  the  death  of  Mrs.  Browning.  Of 
many  other  friends  —  such  as  Sumner, 
Landor,  Lord  Lytton  —  there  are  char- 
acteristic glimpses.  Mr.  James's  image 
of  most  of  them  as  "  ghosts  "  is  forced  per- 
haps into  a  duty  too  constant  and  obvious. 
In  many  passages  of  the  biographer's 
work  there  is  of  course  much  that  is  any- 
thing but  obvious.  Humor,  insight,  deli- 
cacy of  perception  and  expression,  — 
these  good  things  are  so  abundant  that 
one  should  not  grow  querulous  over  such 
sentences  as,  "  The  ship  of  our  friends 
was,  auspiciously  —  if  not  indeed,  as 
more  promptly  determinant  of  reactions, 
ominously  —  the  America,  and  they 
passed  Cape  Race  (oh  the  memory,  as 
through  the  wicked  light  of  wild  sea- 
storms,  of  those  old  sick  passings  of  Cape 
Race  !)  on  October  13th."  This  is  not  an 
isolated  example  of  what  may  be  called 
Mr.  James's  past-mastery  of  the  English 
sentence.  These  happily  separated  frag- 
ments baffle  and  estrange  one  like  pas- 
sages from  his  later  novels.  Yet  here 
they  may  be  taken  —  like  the  inadequate 
index  with  which  the  volumes  are 
equipped  —  not  too  seriously  ;  for  the 
compensations  are  many.  The  total  im- 
pression of  the  volumes  is  that  of  a  faithful 
picture  of  a  delightful  man,  period,  and 
group  of  personalities. 

The  fruits  of  sophistication  and  of  sim- 
plicity could  hardly  be  contrasted  more 
strongly  than  in  turning  from  Mr.  James's 
work  to  the  record  of  Mr.  J.  T.  Trow- 

1  My    Own    Story.      With    Recollections    of 
Noted  Persons.     By  JOHN  TOWNSEND  TBOW- 
VOL.  xcin.  —  NO.  555.  6 


bridge's  *  fruitful  years.  In  this  volume, 
witli  which  the  readers  of  the  Atlantic 
have  already  had  some  opportunity  to 
familiarize  themselves,  subject  and  writer 
are  one.  The  Backwoods  Boyhood  which 
Mr.  Trowbridge  describes,  and  his  early 
experiences  of  teaching  and  bread-win- 
ning by  various  methods,  provided  as  a 
whole  the  most  valuable  training  he  could 
have  had  for  the  work  he  was  destined  to 
perform.  In  spite  of  the  novels  and 
poems  with  which  he  has  delighted  his 
maturer  readers,  it  is  of  course  as  a 
writer  of  stories  for  boys  that  he  has 
taken  his  securest  hold  upon  the  remem- 
brance of  his  generation.  It  is  the  privi- 
lege of  maturity  to  exhibit  toward  what 
has  concerned  the  boyhood  left  behind 
an  attitude  in  which  something  patroniz- 
ing, perhaps  half  apologetic,  is  found. 
But  with  this  is  blended  the  peculiar  ten- 
derness which  accompanies  a  sense  of 
proprietorship  and  early  discovery.  If 
the  boys  who  have  not  yet  grown  to  man- 
hood are  doomed  to  lack  a  memory  which 
shall  become  a  possession  of  this  sort,  so 
much  the  worse  for  them.  Their  fathers 
have  had  Mr.  Trowbridge,  and  in  his  Own 
Story  many  of  them  will  find  abundant 
grounds  for  their  allegiance  to  him. 

The  qualities  in  a  writer  upon  which 
the  youthful  reader  is  perhaps  surest  to 
insist  are  those  of  directness  and  sanity. 
These  appear  with  rare  distinctness  in 
Mr.  Trowbridge's  reminiscences.  The 
manner  of  the  narrative  is  simplicity  it- 
self. It  is  all  as  modest  as  the  writer 
was  when  he  spoke  to  Longf eUow  "  of  his 
being  already  a  famous  poet,  a  Cam- 
bridge professor,  a  man  representing  the 
highest  culture,  when  I  first  came  to 
Boston  with  the  odor  of  my  native  back- 
woods still  upon  me, — without  friends,  or 
academic  acquirements,  or  advantages  of 
any  sort ;  —  and  of  the  feeling  I  could 
never  quite  get  over,  of  the  immense 
distance  between  us."  Yet  there  is  never 
a  trace  of  that  false  modesty  which 

BRIDGE.  Boston  and  New  York :  Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Co.  1903. 


82 


Some  Nineteenth- Century  Americans. 


sometimes  becomes  a  distorting  glass 
when  its  possessor  looks  through  its  me- 
dium upon  surrounding  objects  and  per- 
sons. This  seeing  of  things  clearly  — 
the  quality  which  appeals  to  boys  —  gives 
a  high  value  to  the  comments  Mr.  Trow- 
bridge  has  made  in  the  later  chapters  of 
his  book  upon  contemporary  writers.  To 
Emerson  his  "  spiritual  indebtedness  was 
first  and  last  the  greatest,"  and  he  ac- 
knowledges it  generously.  In  writing  of 
Whitman,  whom  he  knew  well,  he  takes 
the  point  of  view  which  must  ultimately 
come  to  prevail  —  of  separating  wheat 
from  chaff,  both  in  the  man's  character 
and  in  his  work.  His  powers  are  recog- 
nized, and  his  limitations.  His  debt  to 
Emerson  is  recorded,  apparently  beyond 
dispute.  Against  those  later  friends  of 
Whitman  who  maintain  "  that  he  wrote 
his  first  Leaves  of  Grass  before  he  had 
read  Emerson,"  Mr.Trowbridge  squarely 
arrays  himself :  "  When  they  urge  his 
own  authority  for  their  contention,  I  can 
only  reply  that  he  told  me  distinctly  the 
contrary,  when  his  memory  was  fresher." 
The  handling  of  Alcott  is  as  reverent 
as  one  with  Mr.  Trowbridge's  esteem  of 
Emerson's  opinion  would  naturally  make 
it.  Yet  the  pervading  sanity  of  the  rem- 
iniscences incites  the  reader  to  draw 
his  own  conclusions  from  the  story  of 
Alcott  on  the  Nantasket  boat,  compla- 
cently accepting  the  "provision"  which 
he  foresaw  would  be  made  for  his  fare, 
and  of  the  Conversation  in  which  the 
Sage  ascribed  to  himself  and  Emerson 
the  "  highest  "  temperament,  and  placed 
his  hearers,  including  Mr.  Trowbridge, 
far  lower  in  the  scale.  By  swelling  the 
list  of  just  such  anecdotes  as  these,  Mr. 
Trowbridge  does  his  part  in  confirming 
the  justice  of  Professor  Wendell's  esti- 
mate of  "  the  extreme  type  of  what 
Yankee  idealism  could  come  to  when  un- 

1  Recollections  Personal  and  Literary.  By 
RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD.  Edited  by 
RIPLEY  HLTCHCOCK,  with  an  Introduction  by 
EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN.  New  York: 
A.  S.  Barnes  &  Co.  1903. 


hampered  by  humor  or  common-sense." 
Indeed,  there  is  hardly  any  one  of  whom 
Mr.  Trowbridge  has  written  without 
making  a  personality  more  definite.  It 
is  even  worth  while  to  know  that  Long- 
fellow after  a  conversation  with  Dr. 
Holmes  almost  always  suffered  from  a 
headache.  It  is  noteworthy,  also,  that  the 
author  —  as  if  to  symbolize  his  habit  of 
getting  at  the  reality  of  whatever  he  is 
writing  about  —  is  fond  of  setting  down 
the  stature  of  his  friends  in  feet  and 
inches.  The  book,  in  a  word,  is  one  of 
those  valuable  contributions  to  the  know- 
ledge of  a  period  which  are  also  to  be 
measured  by  the  genuine  pleasure  they 
bring  to  the  reader. 

The  service  of  Mr.  Trowbridge's  boy- 
hood in  preparing  him  for  his  work  in 
the  world  is  one  of  those  things  which 
are  easier  to  recognize  when  past  than 
they  would  have  been  in  looking  forward. 
Yet  the  recognition  is  complete.  The 
two  other  autobiographies  in  the  present 
group  of  books  provide  instances  of  be- 
ginnings from  which  it  is  even  harder  to 
see  how  a  poet l  and  a  scientist 2  could 
have  emerged. 

The  New  England  childhood  of  Rich- 
ard Henry  Stoddard  was  of  the  somewhat 
squalid,  quite  unlettered  kind  not  often 
recorded  of  real  persons,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  few  who  have  experienced  it 
have  developed  the  power  to  conquer 
their  circumstances.  Even  of  his  mother- 
who  moved  from  one  mill  town  to  an- 
other, and  after  his  father's  death  married 
a  stevedore  and  drifted  to  New  York, 
the  son  cannot  give  an  encouraging  re- 
port. His  schooling  was  of  the  slender- 
est, yet,  with  what  he  taught  himself  by 
indomitable  reading,  it  might  have  led  to 
something  more  germane  to  his  later  life 
than  the  work  in  an  iron  foundry  to 
which  he  found  himself  committed  at 

2  Reminiscences  of  an  Astronomer.  By  SIMON 
NEWCOMB.  Boston  and  New  York  :  Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Co.  1903. 


Some  Nineteenth- Century  Americans. 


83 


eighteen.  After  three  years  of  this  hard 
labor  there  was  a  period  of  employment 
by  a  carriage  painter,  and  of  the  emer- 
gence from  this  work  into  that  of  the 
writer  there  is  no  more  definite  account 
than  the  statement  with  which  the  story 
of  his  courtship  comes  to  a  climax  :  "  Be- 
ing married,  I  set  resolutely  to  work  to 
learn  the  only  trade  for  which  I  seemed 
fitted  —  literature."  The  rarely  con- 
genial life  of  the  married  poets,  the  good 
and  evil  fortunes  which  they  faced  with 
equal  courage,  the  intimacies  with  such 
men  from  the  front  rank  of  the  second 
order  in  letters  as  G.  H.  Boker,  T.  B. 
Read,  and  Bayard  Taylor,  the  frequent 
glimpses  of  others  with  more  abiding 
claims  to  greatness,  —  these  are  the  chief 
themes  of  Mr.  Stoddard's  reminiscences. 
Interesting  as  many  of  them  are,  they 
fail  as  a  whole  to  impress  one  with  the 
importance  which  would  attach  to  a  small 
collection  of  the  very  best  lyrics  from  the 
published  writings  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stod- 
dard. 

Of  a  type  of  boyhood  quite  as  unfami- 
liar in  American  annals  as  that  of  Mr. 
Stoddard  Professor  Newcomb's  Reminis- 
cences afford  a  striking  example.  The 
Canadian  provinces  have  so  far  supplied 
but  few  of  our  men  of  distinction.  Yet 
the  picture  of  Nova  Scotia  in  the  fourth 
and  fifth  decades  of  the  century  is  drawn 
against  a  background  like  that  of  the  re- 
moter parts  of  New  England  at  an  earlier 
time.  The  anomaly  of  Professor  New- 
comb's  formative  period  was  his  appren- 
ticeship through  the  important  years 
between  sixteen  and  eighteen  to  a  quack 
botanic  doctor  whose  theory  of  life  was 
summed  up  in  his  declaration  :  "  This 
woi'ld  is  all  a  humbug,  and  the  biggest 
humbug  is  the  best  man.  That 's  the 
Yankee  doctrine,  and  that 's  the  reason 
the  Yankees  get  along  so  well."  It  was  a 
good  augury  for  the  future  of  the  appren- 
tice that  this  man  and  his  theory  filled 
him  with  increasing  disgust,  which  finally 
expressed  itself  in  just  such  a  running 
away  to  seek  his  fortunes  as  many  a 


writer  of  fiction  has  utilized  as  "  mate- 
rial "  for  his  opening  chapters.  The 
hero  of  the  escape  soon  found  himself  in 
those  thickly  trodden  paths  of  school- 
teaching  which  have  so  often  led  on  to 
eminence.  On  the  avenues  by  which  it 
was  reached  —  through  work  on  the  Nau- 
tical Almanac,  in  the  Naval  Observatory 
at  Washington,  in  many  important  astro- 
nomical undertakings  —  he  came  into 
contact  with  many  men  of  distinction  in 
the  world  of  science.  Of  them,  and  of 
the  various  scientific  enterprises  with 
which  Washington  and  the  national  gov- 
ernment have  had  to  do,  Professor  New- 
comb  has  written  with  enthusiasm  and  a 
contagious  sympathy.  To  some  readers 
it  will  be  a  matter  of  surprise  to  find  how 
many  of  the  names  which  are  instantly 
recognized  as  important  mean  less  to  the 
uninstructed  in  scientific  lore  than  cor- 
responding, or  even  less  important,  names 
in  almost  any  of  the  arts  would  signify. 
With  the  realization  of  this  fact  comes  a 
sense  of  the  usefulness  of  Reminiscences 
like  these  of  Professor  Newcomb's  :  they 
will  bring  into  the  clearer  light  of  recog- 
nition some  of  the  most  valuable  phases  of 
intellectual  activity  in  America  through 
the  generations  which  may  now  fairly  be- 
gin to  be  reminiscent. 

The  beginning  and  the  long  continu- 
ance of  Whittier's  career  are  matters  of 
pi'ofuse  and  familiar  record.  One  does 
not  look,  therefore,  for'  many  surprises 
in  the  new  attempts  to  picture  his  life. 
It  is  more  interesting  to  compare  the 
points  of  view  of  two  writers  who  bring 
to  their  task  respectively  the  qualifica- 
tions of  the  younger  contemporary  and 
of  the  very  much  younger  student  who 
belongs  to  a  later  generation. 

Colonel  Higginson's  book 1  has  already 
been  a  year  before  the  public.  The  per- 
sonality of  the  writer  finds  expression  in 
it  perhaps  a  little  less  freely  than  one 
might  wish.  Like  one  without  the  ad- 

1  John  Greenleaf  Whittier.  By  THOMAS 
WENTWOHTH  HIGGINSON.  English  Men  of  Let- 
ters. New  York :  The  Macmillan  Co.  1902. 


84 


Some  Nineteenth- Century  Americans. 


vantages  of  a  contemporary,  Colonel  Hig- 
ginson  has  availed  himself  freely  of  the 
previous  records  of  Whittier  and  his 
times,  not  even  eschewing  his  own  good 
story  of  the  Atlantic  Club  dinner  in 
honor  of  Mrs.  Stowe.  But  in  addition 
to  his  use  of  the  more  obvious  sources,  he 
has  drawn  with  advantage  —  as  befits  so 
constant  a  champion  of  the  sex  —  upon 
the  short  sketches  of  Whittier  by  his 
friends  Mrs.  Fields  and  Mrs.  Claflin. 
The  passages  from  their  little  books  con- 
firm all  one's  impressions  of  the  true  sym- 
pathy which  existed  between  Whittier 
and  his  feminine  friends,  and  therefore 
have  even  a  greater  biographic  value  than 
that  which  appears  on  the  surface.  For 
the  light  the  volume  throws  upon  the  an- 
ti-slavery period  one  welcomes  especial- 
ly such  pages  as  those  in  which  Colonel 
Higginson  discriminates  between  the  vot- 
ing and  the  non-voting  abolitionists,  and 
shows  how  possible  he  himself  found  it 
to  work  with  both.  It  is  because  these 
pages  have  so  marked  a  value  that  the 
reader  finds  himself  regretting  that  there 
are  not  more  of  them. 

The  writer  of  a  later  generation  cannot 
rely  upon  the  aid  of  these  personal  re- 
membrances. The  necessity  is  therefore 
laid  upon  him  of  putting  to  the  best 
possible  use  all  the  existing  sources  of  in- 
formation. Before  Professor  Carpenter's 
book  l  was  finished  Colonel  Higginson's 
could  be  added  to  the  list  of  authorities. 
What  he  has  done  is  not  so  much  to  draw 
upon  their  pages  for  quotation  —  though 
of  course  they  must  frequently  be  used 
in  this  way  —  as  to  make  them  his  own, 
and  to  give  forth  in  a  fresh  form  their 
essential  elements.  Professor  Carpenter, 
addressing  the  younger  generation  in  its 
own  language,  has  accomplished  this  dif- 
ficult task  with  uncommon  success.  He 
has  been  fortunate,  moreover,  in  securing 
really  important  letters,  not  hitherto  pub- 

1  John  Greenleaf  Whittier.  By  GEORGE  RICE 
CARPENTER.  American  Men  of  Letters.  Bos- 
ton and  New  York :  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 
1903. 


lished,  which  passed  between  Whittier 
and  such  men  as  John  Quincy  Adams, 
Henry  Clay,  and  William  Lloyd  Garri- 
son. These,  together  with  what  appears 
to  be  the  justifiable  emphasis  laid  upon 
Whittier's  reluctant  celibacy,  place  cer- 
tain pages  of  the  book  among  the  "  origi- 
nal sources  "  for  future  study.  There  is  a 
fresh  value  also  in  the  author's  discussion 
of  the  anti-slavery  question  as  it  affected 
not  only  Whittier,  but  all  his  fellow  coun- 
trymen. The  book,  from  its  very  nature, 
makes  no  attempt  at  the  completeness 
of  the  Lives  and  Letters  which  are  sure 
to  follow  the  death  of  a  great  man.  It 
is  merely  an  admirable  specimen  of  those 
products  of  a  later  day  which  give  pos- 
terity what  it  really  wishes  and  needs  to 
know,  and  render  the  more  voluminous 
records  necessary  in  the  course  of  time 
to  special  students  only. 

It  has  been  said  in  England  that  the 
supreme  test  of  citizenship  in  the  United 
States  is  found  in  the  record  of  a  man's 
relation  to  the  civil  war.  Both  Whit- 
tier and  Henry  Ward  Beecher  were  of 
the  generation  to  which  the  remark  ap- 
plies. A  full  third  of  Dr.  Lyman  Ab- 
bott's new  life  of  Beecher  2  deals  with 
the  period  which  begins  with  the  anti- 
slavery  agitation  and  ends  with  the  prob- 
lems of  reconstruction.  Beecher's  part 
in  the  great  struggle  of  our  national  life 
is  set  forth  with  a  fullness  and  compre- 
hension which  make  these  pages  —  like 
the.  best  of  Colonel  Higginson's  and  Pro- 
fessor Carpenter's  —  a  genuine  addition 
to  the  history  of  the  period.  The  unique 
service  of  Beecher  to  his  country  was  — 
as  everybody  knows  —  the  series  of 
speeches  in  England  which  had  so  re- 
markable an  effect  in  bringing  the  British 
middle  and  laboring  classes  into  sym- 
pathy with  the  Union  cause.  It  was  a 
self-imposed  duty  undertaken  with  some 
doubt  regarding  its  wisdom.  The 

2  Henry  Ward  Beecher.  By  LYMAN  ABBOTT. 
Boston  and  New  York :  Houghton,  Mifflin  & 
Co.  1903. 


The  Blue   Color  of  the  Sky. 


85 


speeches,  but  five  in  number,  were  de- 
livered under  circumstances  of  the  utmost 
physical  difficulty.  But  their  success, 
first  with  the  audiences  that  had  to  be 
conquered,  and  then  with  a  half-hostile 
public,  was  one  of  the  notable  triumphs 
of  our  heroic  period ;  and  Dr.  Abbott  is 
to  be  thanked  for  putting  it  so  effective- 
ly on  record.  For  the  rest  of  Beecher's 
career  —  it  is  no  easy  task  to  write  of 
the  most  conspicuous  member  of  the 
family  which  inspired  the  remark  that 
mankind  is  divided  into  "  the  good,  the 
bad,  and  the  Beechers."  It  would  be 
harder  for  most  biographers  than  it  has 
been  for  Dr.  Abbott,  for,  except  in  such 
a  chapter  as  the  discreet  and  restrained 
"  Under  Accusation,"  into  which  the 
whole  miserable  Tilton  business  is  com- 


pressed, the  author  has  permitted  himself 
the  fluency  of  one  whose  constant  prac- 
tice has  made  it  easy  to  expatiate  on  any 
theme.  Some  condensation  might  there- 
fore have  been  well.  Yet  the  book 
leaves  a  clear  impression  of  an  extraor- 
dinary personality  :  — the  preacher  who, 
using  his  text,  as  he  said  himself,  as  a 
gate  not  to  swing  upon,  but  to  push  open 
and  go  in,  made  his  pulpit  a  living  power ; 
the  editor,  who  observed  no  rules  or 
office  hours,  yet  profoundly  affected  the 
type  of  journalism  with  which  he  had  to 
do ;  the  writer  and  public  speaker,  of 
persuasive  wit  and  eloquence.  The  fig- 
ure of  Beecher  could  not  be  spared  from 
an  American  gallery  of  the  last  century, 
and  Dr.  Abbott's  picture  bids  fair  to 
stand  as  the  authoritative  portrait. 

M.  A.  DeWolfeHowe. 


THE  BLUE  COLOR  OF  THE  SKY. 


THE  blue  color  of  the  sky  on  a  clear 
day  is  familiar  to  all.  And  yet  how 
many  have  considered  the  source  of  this 
delicate  mantle  of  azure  which  Nature 
spreads  over  the  dome  of  the  heavens? 
The  beautiful  tints  of  the  sky  are  uni- 
versally admired,  and  every  one  has  wel- 
comed with  mental  relief  the  break  in 
the  clouds  which  gives  a  glimpse  of 
the  firmament  when  gloom  and  darkness 
have  long  hovered  over  the  Earth.  The 
color  of  this  blue  naturally  appears  the 
more  striking  when  seen  in  immediate 
contact  with  the  clouds. 

Probably  our  very  familiarity  with 
the  every-day  appearance  of  the  sky 
diminishes  our  wonder  at  one  of  the 
most  exquisite  colors  in  the  physical 
world,  and  for  this  reason  we  seldom  in- 
quire into  its  origin.  It  certainly  is  a 
remarkable  circumstance  in  the  history 
of  the  human  mind  that  some  of  the 
most  obvious  of  natural  phenomena, 
which  every  one  notices  and  no  one 
especially  dwells  upon,  should  have  es- 


caped the  attention  of  philosophers  to 
such  an  extent  that  even  now  their 
causes  are  not  fully  understood,  while 
other  phenomena  much  more  remote, 
and  having  little  connection  with  daily 
life,  excite  such  wonder  that  they  have 
long  since  been  duly  explained  and 
appreciated.  These  latter  phenomena 
obviously  are  cases  where  "distance 
lends  enchantment  to  the  view,"  and 
therefore  after  all  are  not  so  unnatural 
as  they  at  first  appear. 

It  is  undeniable  that  a  singular  charm 
often  attaches  to  objects  remote  from  us 
either  in  time  or  space,  and  a  similar 
mental  attitude  is  frequently  illustrated 
in  the  history  of  the  Physical  Sciences. 
This  subtle  psychological  tendency 
arises  from  a  natural  disposition  to  en- 
dow those  things  which  we  see  in  the 
distance,  or  learn  of  only  by  report, 
with  all  the  perfections  of  descriptive 
language  so  framed  as  to  convey  the 
salient  qualities  of  interest,  without  the 
imperfections  usually  revealed  by  per- 


8G 


The  Blue   Color  of  the  Sky. 


sonal  contact  and  close  observation. 
The  creations  of  the  imagination  are 
more  ideal  than  the  works  of  Nature, 
and  we  always  see  these  remote  objects 
under  the  fascination  of  the  imagina- 
tion. 

The  blue  color  of  the  sky  on  a  bright 
clear  day  has  been  constantly  noticed 
by  the  individual  from  childhood.  To 
the  primitive  lay  mind  the  azure  tint 
of  the  firmament  is  simply  its  natural 
color.  But  our  daily  experience  shows 
that  the  visible  dome  of  the  heavens  is 
only  an  appearance,  and  Science  teaches 
us  to  inquire  critically  into  the  nature 
of  things.  The  cause  of  this  color 
viewed  from  a  scientific  standpoint  has 
been  almost  as  elusive  as  the  fabled 
philosopher's  stone,  which  during  the 
Middle  Ages  was  for  centuries  an  object 
of  profound  research.  The  same  may 
be  said  of  the  familiar  color  of  the  deep- 
blue  sea,  which  has  elicited  the  admira- 
tion of  dwellers  on  the  ocean  shores 
from  the  earliest  ages  of  mankind ;  and 
yet  probably  no  great  number  of  in- 
dividuals have  inquired  into  the  cause 
of  this  color. 

Viewed  from  an  artistic  standpoint, 
the  ancient  Greeks,  who  were  so  much 
favored  by  auspicious  influences  both 
human  and  divine,  were  especially  for- 
tunate in  their  location  in  a  region  of 
the  world  where  the  color  phenomena 
of  sea,  sky,  and  mountains  assume  a 
beauty  not  only  unsurpassed  but  prob- 
ably unapproached  at  any  other  point  of 
the  terrestrial  globe.  These  vivid  im- 
pressions of  the  Physical  Universe,  work- 
ing upon  the  free  minds  of  the  most 
gifted  race  of  antiquity,  turned  their 
idealizing  tendency  to  Art,  Poetry, 
and  Science,  whence  has  come  the  most 
beautiful  language  and  literature  in 
history.  The  sea- faring  Greeks  beheld 
daily  the  bluest  of  skies  reflected  in 
dark  blue  seas  beneath  their  feet ;  and 
at  the  distant  horizon  snow-capped 
mountains  of  bluish  purple  appeared  to 
prop  the  firmament  above  the  Earth  like 
the  fabled  Atlas  of  old.  Admiration 


for  these  wonders  of  nature  finds  expres- 
sion in  the  gorgeous  colors  which  they 
bestowed  on  their  temples  in  imitation 
of  the  divine  spirit  pervading  the  world, 
and  which  they  worshiped  in  majestic 
edifices  of  noble  simplicity. 

It  was  natural  for  the  Greeks  to 
inquire  into  physical  phenomena,  so 
far  as  the  knowledge  of  the  times  per- 
mitted, and  nothing  excited  their  won- 
der and  admiration  more  than  the  blue 
canopy  of  the  heavens,  from  which  the 
gods  of  Homer  descended  to  their  min- 
istrations in  the  affairs  of  men.  Indeed, 
Zeus  or  Jupiter  means  the  Father  of  the 
Skies,  the  deity  who  presides  over  the 
orderly  and  beautiful  Cosmos.  This 
spirit  is  admirably  conveyed  by  Kaul- 
bach's  justly  celebrated  painting  in  the 
National  Gallery  at  Berlin,  where  the 
Greeks  of  the  Homeric  age  are  seen  on 
the  seashore  near  an  imposing  temple, 
mingling  with  the  nymphs  of  the  blue 
sea.  while  the  gods  are  ascending  to 
Heaven  over  the  arches  of  a  brilliant 
rainbow  which  illuminates  the  sky,  after 
the  manner  of  the  token  which  God  set 
in  the  clouds  as  a  sign  of  the  everlasting 
covenant  made  with  Noah  and  all  living 
creatures  after  the  Flood. 

If  the  Physical  Sciences  had  been  de- 
veloped in  antiquity,  it  is  safe  to  say 
that  the  Greek  spirit  of  devotion  to  all 
that  is  artistic  and  beautiful  in  the  Cos- 
mos would  have  led  them  to  inquire  as 
minutely  into  the  colors  of  the  sea  and 
sky  as  they  did  into  those  sublime  rela- 
tions of  Art,  Philosophy,  and  Mathe- 
matical Science,  which  have  filled  sub- 
sequent generations  with  admiration 
and  despair.  Nothing  could  surpass 
the  artistic  and  aesthetic  spirit  of  the  age 
of  .ZEschylus  and  Sophocles,  Phidias 
and  Praxiteles,  Aristotle  and  Plato. 

Yet  astonishing  as  were  the  intel- 
lectual creations  of  the  Greeks,  there 
is  no  record  of  the  scientific  study  of 
the  familiar  color  of  the  firmament. 
Nor  indeed  could  such  study  be  expect- 
ed, when  we  consider  the  infancy  of  the 
sciences  at  that  early  epoch,  and  the 


The  Blue   Color  of  the  Sky. 


87 


amazing  difficulties  of  the  problem  as 
made  known  by  the  scientific  methods 
of  our  own  age.  We  look  therefore  in 
vain  for  a  correct  understanding  of  the 
cause  of  the  color  of  the  sea  and  sky 
among  the  ancients,  not  because  artis- 
tic appreciation  or  scientific  ability  was 
lacking,  but  because  the  state  of  re- 
search was  then  much  too  primitive  to 
fathom  the  depths  of  a  problem  at  once 
familiar  and  profound. 

The  color  of  the  sky  has  to  be  stud- 
ied in  connection  with  the  theory  of 
light,  and  as  this  was  not  well  under- 
stood by  the  ancients,  we  find  scientific 
theories  of  the  colors  of  natural  objects 
only  in  modern  times,  chiefly  since  the 
epoch  of  the  great  Newton. 

The  simple  propagation  of  light  in 
right  lines  was  well  known  to  the  an- 
cients. Archimedes  understood  the 
conic  sections  and  the  elementary  theo- 
ries of  optics  so  well  that  by  means  of 
reflecting  mirrors  of  his  own  construc- 
tion he  was  enabled  to  burn  the  ships  of 
the  besieging  Romans  in  the  harbor  of 
Syracuse.  The  astronomer  Ptolemy 
clearly  understood  the  reflection  of  light 
from  mirrors,  and  even  recognized  the 
effects  of  atmospheric  refraction  upon 
the  light  of  the  stars  and  planets.  But 
all  the  ancients  thought  the  velocity  of 
light  was  infinite,  or  that  it  passed  in- 
stantaneously from  one  part  of  the  earth 
to  another;  and  even  in  modern  times 
similar  views  continued  to  prevail 
until  the  year  1675,  when  Roemer 
discovered  from  irregularities  in  the 
eclipses  of  Jupiter's  satellites  that  light 
is  propagated  across  the  Earth's  orbit 
in  measurable  time.  This  discovery  is 
one  of  the  most  fortunate  in  the  annals 
of  history ;  and  yet  when  first  announced 
Roemer 's  theory  seemed  so  extraordi- 
nary that  for  a  time  it  was  scarcely  be- 
lieved. The  realization  of  Roemer's 
observations  of  the  satellites  of  Jupiter 
depended  upon  the  astronomical  tele- 
scope which  Galileo  had  invented  sixty- 
five  years  before,  and  applied  with  such 
revolutionary  effect  to  the  study  of  the 


heavens.  These  discoveries  opened  up 
new  views  of  the  nature  of  light,  and 
it  subsequently  came  to  be  the  subject 
of  profound  philosophical  research  and 
experimentation,  especially  by  the  illus- 
trious Newton,  who  analyzed  the  spec- 
trum in  1666,  and  during  the  next  ten 
years  was  much  occupied  with  develop- 
ing a  theory  of  the  colors  of  natural 
bodies.  These  were  the  first  strictly 
scientific  attempts  to  explain  the  color 
of  objects  by  principles  deduced  from 
experimental  research,  in  which  the  an- 
cients had  been  singularly  deficient. 
Unfortunately,  the  novelty  of  the  new 
theory  of  colors  gave  rise  to  professional 
jealousies  which  involved  Sir  Isaac  New- 
ton in  disputes  so  bitter  that  he  after- 
wards regretted  publishing  his  work. 
He  blamed  his  imprudence  in  parting 
with  so  substantial  a  blessing  as  his 
peace  of  mind  to  run  after  the  shadow 
of  fame,  and  said  if  he  got  rid  of  certain 
controversies  with  Linus  he  would  bid 
adieu  to  such  experiments  forever  except 
such  as  he  did  for  his  own  satisfaction, 
or  left  to  come  out  after  him.  He  de- 
clared that  "  a  man  must  either  resolve 
to  put  out  nothing  new, or  make  himself 
a  slave  to  defend  it." 

Before  the  memorable  work  of  New- 
ton some  of  the  great  Continental  paint- 
ers of  the  Renaissance  had  formed  the- 
ories of  light  and  color  based  upon  the 
mixture  of  pigments ;  and  a  few  of  them 
naturally  attempted  to  account  for  the 
blue  color  of  the  sky.  Leonardo  da 
Vinci,  who  had  devoted  much  atten- 
tion to  the  composition  of  colors  in  his 
extensive  artistic  designs,  conjectured 
that  the  blue  color  of  the  sky  was  the 
result  of  the  mixing  of  the  white  sun- 
light reflected  from  the  upper  layers  of 
the  atmosphere  with  the  intense  black- 
ness of  space.  Historically  this  is  the 
first  explanation  of  the  color  of  the  sky 
worthy  of  mention,  and  its  simplicity 
reminds  one  of  the  early  speculations  of 
the  Ionian  philosophers  that  the  world 
is  composed  of  the  elements  water,  fire, 
air,  and  earth.  Though  resembling  the 


88 


The  Blue   Color  of  the  Sky. 


natural  science  of  the  primitive  Greeks, 
this  explanation  after  all  comes  nearer 
the  modern  theories  than  might  be  ex- 
pected, for  these  declared  that  the  blue 
color  of  the  sky  is  due  to  reflections 
from  very  minute  particles  of  oxygen 
and  nitrogen  in  the  upper  layers  of  the 
atmosphere. 

Before  touching  upon  these  recent 
investigations  it  seems  advisable  to  elu- 
cidate the  historical  steps  by  which  such 
views  were  established.  Newton's  study 
of  the  color  of  the  sky  was  a  part  of 
the  brilliant  optical  experiments  which 
he  finished  about  the  year  1675.  While 
absorbed  in  these  laborjs  during  the  year 
1666,  the  young  philosopher  admitted 
a  beam  of  sunlight  into  his  chamber 
through  a  small  aperture  in  the  win- 
dow shutter.  On  passing  it  through  a 
triangular  prism  of  glass  he  produced 
the  famous  experiment  of  colors,  lead- 
ing at  once  to  the  solar  spectrum ;  and 
when  this  spectrum  was  again  passed 
through  a  reversed  prism  he  produced 
white  light.  To  a  keen  youth  of  twenty- 
four  these  experiments  opened  a  very 
wide  field  of  optical  investigation,  and 
for  the  next  ten  years  he  was  largely 
occupied  with  researches  into  the  nature 
of  light,  and  especially  with  investi- 
gating the  colors  of  thin  films  of  trans- 
parent bodies.  He  used  soap  bubbles 
as  the  most  practicable  means  of  getting 
films  of  water  of  the  requisite  thinness, 
and  studied  the  colcrs  which  they  ex- 
hibit. 

It  is  well  known  that  under  the  ac- 
tion of  gravity  the  water  composing  such 
a  thin  shell  tends  to  run  down  on  all 
sides,  so  that  the  walls  of  the  bubble 
grow  thin  at  the  top  and  thicken 
toward  the  bottom.  After  a  time  the 
bubble  becomes  so  thin  at  the  top  that 
further  flow  of  water  from  this  point  can 
hardly  take  place,  and  finally  the  bubble 
bursts.  But  before  this  last  stage  is 
reached  a  degree  of  thinness  in  the 
walls  of  the  bubble  is  attained,  which 
causes  it  to  glow  with  brilliant  irides- 
cent colors.  Newton  noticed  that  on 


top  of  the  thin  bubble  illuminated  by 
white  sky  light  a  black  spot  is  formed ; 
with  increase  of  thickness  downward 
from  this  point  on  all  sides,  a  red  band 
next  appears,  then  a  blue  one ;  then, 
again,  red  and  blue,  red  and  blue,  and 
so  on;  the  colors  showing  more  ex- 
tremes of  red  and  purple  in  the  higher 
orders.  This  blue  band,  which  first  ex- 
pands outward  from  the  black  spot  at 
the  top,  and  descends  slowly  with  the 
subsidence  of  the  water,  Newton  called 
the  "blue  of  the  first  order;  "  and  al- 
though somewhat  dingy,  he  judged  it  to 
be  of  the  same  tint  as  the  blue  of  the 
sky- 

Newton's  theory  of  the  colors  of  bod- 
ies rests  upon  the  iridescent  effects  pro- 
duced by  white  light  falling  upon  thin 
plates  of  the  given  substances;  and  he 
says  the  color  will  be  the  same  when  the 
plates  are  cut  up  into  infinitely  thin 
strips,  and  again  cut  crosswise  into  par- 
ticles ;  so  that  he  explains  the  color  of 
powdered  paint  by  referring  it  to  the 
color  of  plates  of  the  same  thickness  as 
the  grains  of  powder. 

Reasoning  from  analogy,  he  inferred 
that  the  transparent  globules  in  the  air 
were  small  particles  of  water,  such  as 
a  thin  soap  bubble  would  yield  when  cut 
up  into  small  particles.  The  following 
passages  from  Newton's  famous  Treatise 
on  Optics,  published  in  1704,  are  of 
interest :  — 

"If  we  consider  the  various  phenom- 
ena of  the  Atmosphere,  we  may  observe 
that  when  Vapors  are  first  raised,  they 
hinder  not  the  transparency  of  the  Air, 
being  divided  into  parts  too  small  to 
cause  any  reflexion  in  their  superficies. 
But  when  in  order  to  compose  drops  of 
rain  they  begin  to  coalesce  and  consti- 
tute globules  of  all  intermediate  sizes, 
those  globules,  when  they  become  of  a 
convenient  size,  reflect  some  colors  and 
transmit  others,  may  constitute  clouds 
of  various  colours  according  to  their 
sizes.  And  I  see  not  what  can  be  ra- 
tionally conceived  in  so  transparent  a 
substance  as  water  for  the  production  of 


The  Blue    Color  of  the  Sky. 


89 


these  colours,  besides  the  various  sizes 
of  its  fluid  and  globular  parcels.  .  .  . 
"The  blue  of  the  first  order,  though 
very  faint  and  little,  may  possibly  be 
the  color  of  some  substances ;  and  par- 
ticularly the  azure  of  the  skys  seems  to 
be  of  this  order.  For  all  vapors,  when 
they  begin  to  condense  and  coalesce  into 
small  parcels,  become  first  of  that  big- 
ness whereby  such  an  azure  must  be  re- 
flected, before  they  can  constitute  clouds 
of  other  colours.  And  so,  this  being  the 
colour  which  vapours  begin  to  reflect,  it 
ought  to  be  the  colour  of  the  finest  and 
most  transparent  skys  in  which  vapours 
are  not  arrived  to  that  grossness  requi- 
site to  reflect  other  colours,  as  we  find 
it  by  experience. " 

Newton's  explanation  seemed  so 
plausible  that  for  a  long  time  it  was 
generally  accepted  as  correct.  But 
since  the  discovery  of  the  blue  clouds 
which  Tyndall  artificially  produced  in 
the  laboratory  about  a  third  of  a  cen- 
tury ago,  and  Lord  Rayleigh's  subse- 
quent mathematical  investigations  of  the 
reflection  of  light  from  small  particles, 
it  has  been  replaced  by  the  theory  of 
Tyndall  as  verified  by  Rayleigh,  an  ac- 
count of  which  will  be  given  below. 

Before  taking  up  this  recent  work  it 
may  be  remarked  that  the  French  phy- 
sicist Mariotte  about  1675  adopted 
the  naturalistic  .view  that  it  is  an  in- 
herent quality  of  the  sky  to  reflect  blue 
light.  Under  the  influence  of  this 
opinion  the  great  Euler  in  1762 
wrote :  "  It  is  more  probable  that  all 
the  particles  of  the  air  should  have  a 
faintly  bluish  cast,  but  so  very  faint  as 
to  be  imperceptible,  until  presented  in 
a  prodigious  mass,  such  as  the  whole 
extent  of  the  atmosphere,  than  that 
this  color  is  to  be  ascribed  to  vapors 
floating  in  the  air,  which  do  not  pertain 
to  it.  In  fact  the  purer  the  air  is,  and 
the  more  purged  from  exhalation,  the 
brighter  is  the  lustre  of  heaven's  azure, 
which  is  sufficient  proof  that  we  must 
look  for  the  cause  of  it  in  the  nature  of 
the  particles  of  the  air. " 


Sir  John  Herschel  about  1830  still 
adhered  to  Newton's  original  view  that 
the  color  of  the  sky  is  a  blue  of  the  first 
order,  and  he  made  extensive  use  of 
this  theory.  When  Clausius  in  1847  at- 
tempted to  test  Newton's  theory  math- 
ematically, he  reached  the  conclusion 
that  if  the  heavenly  bodies  are  to  ap- 
pear sharply  defined  through  such  a 
medium  the  particles  of  water  in  the 
air  must  have  the  form  of  thin  shells  or 
hollow  spheres,  whose  parallel  surface 
would  not  greatly  refract  the  waves  of 
light,  but,  when  the  bubbles  are  suffi- 
ciently thin,  would  yet  reflect  the  blue 
of  the  first  order.  This  singular  doc- 
trine of  vesicular  vapor  did  not  origi- 
nate with  Clausius,  but  had  come  down 
from  the  speculative  age  of  Leibnitz 
and  Descartes ;  in  recent  years  it  has 
been  entirely  abandoned  as  having  no 
foundation  in  nature. 

It  was  discovered  by  Arago  in  1810, 
and  more  fully  established  by  the  ob- 
servations of  Sir  David  Brewster  about 
1840,  that  blue  sky  light  is  always  po- 
larized in  a  plane  passing  through  the 
Sun,  the  point  of  the  sky  observed,  and 
the  observer.  According  to  the  laws 
of  polarization  of  light  by  reflection,  this 
proved  that  the  light  of  the  sky  is  sun- 
light reflected  from  solid  particles  in  the 
air.  Moreover,  the  maximum  polariza- 
tion occurs  in  a  great  circle  of  the  hea- 
vens ninety  degrees  from  the  Sun.  In 
1853  the  German  physicist  Brucke 
showed  that  the  light  scattered  by  fine 
particles  in  a  turbid  medium  is  blue, 
and  that  the  blue  of  the  sky  is  in  reality 
much  deeper  than  Newton  had  supposed, 
being  of  at  least  the  second  or  third 
order. 

In  1869  Tyndall  showed  by  some 
very  beautiful  experiments  which  have 
since  become  famous  that  when  the  par- 
ticles causing  the  turbidity  are  so  ex- 
ceedingly fine  as  to  be  invisible  with  a 
powerful  microscope,  the  scattered  light 
is  not  only  a  magnificent  blue,  but  is 
polarized  in  the  plane  of  scattering,  the 
amount  of  the  polarization  being  a  max- 


90 


The  Blue   Color  of  the  Sky. 


imum  at  an  angle  of  ninety  degrees 
with  the  incident  light.  The  definition 
of  objects  seen  through  this  fine-grained 
medium  was  found  to  be  unimpaired  by 
the  turbidity.  Here  for  the  first  time 
the  physicist  at  work  in  the  laboratory 
had  produced  all  the  essential  qualities 
of  blue  sky  light.  Tyndall's  experi- 
ment was  recognized  as  giving  the  key 
to  the  problem  which  had  wellnigh 
proved  the  riddle  of  the  ages. 

Using  a  glass  tube  about  a  yard  in 
length  and  some  three  inches  in  diame- 
ter containing  air  of  one  tenth  the  ordi- 
nary density  mixed  with  nitrite  of  bu- 
tyl vapor,  which  is  extremely  volatile, 
and  then  exposing  the  mixture  to  the 
action  of  a  concentrated  beam  of  elec- 
tric light  which  would  pass  almost  un- 
hindered through  the .  transparent  ends 
of  the  tube,  Tyndall  was  enabled  to  pre- 
cipitate the  attenuated  vapors  in  the 
form  of  a  blue  cloud.  This  cloud  is  not 
visible  in  ordinary  daylight,  and  to  be 
seen  must  be  surrounded  with  darkness, 
the  vapor  alone  being  illuminated.  The 
blue  cloud  differs  in  many  ways  from  the 
finest  ordinary  clouds,  and,  in  fact,  oc- 
cupies an  intermediate  position  between 
these  clouds  and  true  cloudless  vapor. 
By  graduating  the  quality  of  vapor  ad- 
mitted into  the  tube,  Tyndall  found 
that  the  precipitation  may  be  obtained 
of  any  desired  degree  of  fineness,  so  that 
particles  could  be  produced  sufficiently 
coarse  to  be  visible  to  the  naked  eye, 
or  so  fine  as  to  be  hopelessly  beyond  the 
reach  of  the  most  powerful  microscope. 
The  light  emitted  by  the  blue  cloud  in 
a  direction  perpendicular  to  the  beam 
of  incident  light  was  found  to  be  com- 
pletely polarized,  and  the  polarization 
was  the  more  perfect  the  deeper  the 
blue  of  the  cloud.  Tyndall  demon- 
strated that  the  blue  cloud  would  result 
from  particles  of  any  kind  provided 
they  are  sufficiently  fine,  and  the  ana- 
logy of  the  blue  sky  was  so  evident  that 
he  concluded  that  the  phenomenon  of  the 
firmamental  blue  found  definite  expla- 
nation in  these  experiments.  He  as- 


sumed the  existence  of  fine  particles  of 
water  in  the  higher  regions  of  the  air, 
and  his  studies  on  the  heat-retaining 
power  of  aqueous  vapor,  which  does  not 
extend  very  high  above  the  Earth,  led 
him  to  think  that  these  particles  are  in  a 
solid  state,  owing  to  the  intense  cold  to 
which  they  are  exposed  in  the  rare  me- 
dium of  oxygen  and  nitrogen  composing 
the  upper  layers  of  the  atmosphere. 

In  these  experiments  Tyndall  felt 
confident  that  "particles  might  be  pre- 
cipitated whose  diameters  constitute  but 
a  very  small  fraction  of  the  wave  length 
of  violet  light.1  .  .  .  In  all  cases,  and 
with  all  substances,  the  cloud  formed 
at  the  commencement,  when  the  precip- 
itated particles  are  sufficiently  fine,  is 
blue,  and  it  can  be  made  to  display  a 
color  rivaling  that  of  the  purest  Italian 
sky."  On  account  of  certain  difficulties 
incident  to  the  use  of  aqueous  vapor  at 
the  pressure  and  temperature  desirable 
in  these  experiments,  he  made  no  actual 
use  of  water  in  any  form;  yet  he  says: 
"  That  water-particles,  if  they  could  be 
obtained  in  this  exceedingly  fine  state 
of  division,  would  produce  the  same 
effects,  does  not  admit  of  reasonable 
doubt.  .  .  .  Any  particles,  if  small 
enough,  will  produce  both  the  color  and 
polarization  of  the  sky.  But  is  the  exist- 
ence of  small  water-particles,  on  a  hot 
summer's  day,  in  the  Jiigher  regions  of 
our  atmosphere,  inconceivable  ?  It  is  to 
be  remembered  that  the  oxygen  and  ni- 
trogen of  the  air  behave  as  a  vacuum  to 
radiant  heat,  the  exceedingly  attenuated 
vapors  of  the  higher  atmosphere  being 
therefore  in  practical  contact  with  the 
cold  of  space." 

Tyndall  concludes  his  theory  of  the 
color  of  the  sky  thus :  "  Suppose  the  at- 
mosphere surrounded  by  an  envelope 
impervious  to  light,  but  with  an  aper- 
ture on  the  sunward  side,  through  which 
a  parallel  beam  of  solar  light  could  enter 
and  traverse  the  atmosphere.  Sur- 
rounded on  all  sides  by  air  not  directly 

1  Which  is  about  one  sixty -thousandth  of  an 
inch. 


The  Blue    Color  of  the  Sky. 


91 


illuminated,  the  track  of  such  a  beam 
would  resemble  that  of  a  parallel  beam 
of  the  electric  light  through  an  incipient 
cloud.  The  sunbeam  would  be  blue,  and 
it  would  discharge  light  laterally  in  the 
same  condition  as  that  discharged  by 
the  incipient  cloud.  The  azure  revealed 
by  such  a  beam  would  be  to  all  intents 
and  purposes  a  '  blue  cloud.'  ' 

Lord  Rayleigh's  profound  mathemat- 
ical investigations  prove  that  when  white 
light  is  transmitted  through  a  cloud  of 
particles  small  in  comparison  with  the 
cube  of  the  shortest  wave  length,  the 
light  scattered  laterally  is  polarized  in 
the  plane  of  scattering,  the  maximum  of 
polarization  is  ninety  degrees  from  the 
incident  light,  and  the  intensity  of  the 
scattered  light  varies  inversely  as  the 
fourth  power  of  the  wave  length.  This 
result  takes  no  account  of  light  which 
has  undergone  more  than  a  single  scat- 
tering. All  the  facts  brought  out  by 
Lord  Rayleigh  have  been  shown  to  agree 
with  phenomena  observed  in  the  labora- 
tory when  light  is  passed  through  turbid 
media ;  and  very  recently  this  illustrious 
physicist  has  shown  that  about  one  third 
of  the  total  intensity  of  the  blue  light 
of  the  sky  may  be  accounted  for  by  the 
scattering  due  to  the  molecules  of  oxy- 
gen and  nitrogen  in  the  air,  entirely  in- 
dependent of  the  dust  and  aqueous  vapor 
which  assume  great  importance  in  the 
lower  layers  of  the  atmosphere.  Solid 
particles  of  water,  ozone,  and  very  fine 
aggregations  of  oxygen  and  nitrogen 
condensed  under  the  intense  cold  pre- 
vailing in  the  upper  regions  of  the  at- 
mosphere enable  us  to  account  for  the 
rest  of  the  sky  light  in  accordance  with 
Rayleigh's  mathematical  theory. 

It  is  worthy  of  remark  that  but  for 
the  brightness  of  the  sky  the  stars  could 
be  seen  in  daylight.  Even  as  matters 
stand,  some  of  the  brighter  of  them  have 
been  seen  after  sunrise  by  explorers  in 
high  mountains,  where  the  air  is  very 
clear  and  the  sky  dark  blue.  If  we 
could  go  above  the  atmosphere  the  sky 
would  appear  perfectly  black,  and  stars 


would  be  visible  right  close  up  to  the 
Sun.  Astronomers  observe  bright  stars 
in  daytime  by  using  long  focus  tele- 
scopes, the  dark  tubes  of  which  cut  off 
the  side  light ;  and  persons  in  the  bot- 
toms of  deep  wells  have  noticed  stars 
passing  overhead,  the  side  light  being 
reduced  by  the  great  depths  of  the 
wells. 

The  sky  is  bluer  in  the  zenith  than 
elsewhere,  because  the  path  traversed 
by  scattered  light  is  here  the  shortest, 
so  that  it  appears  with  less  admixture 
of  white  light  reflected  from  haze  and 
water  vapor,  and  less  absorption  of  blue 
light  in  the  same  watery  envelope. 
Near  the  horizon,  where  the  path  trav- 
ersed by  the  light  reflected  from  the 
Sun  is  very  long,  there  should  be  a  great 
increase  in  the  whiteness  of  the  back- 
ground, and  this  is  fully  verified  by  ex- 
perience. The  sky  is  generally  more 
or  less  milky  near  the  horizon,  and  if 
it  assumes  a  perfectly  blue  color  it  is 
usually  just  after  a  heavy  rain.  At 
this  time  all  the  dust  is  washed  out  of 
the  air  and  the  watery  haze  has  been 
precipitated.  Even  then  the  blue  re- 
mains deepest  in  the  zenith,  for  the  rea- 
sons above  mentioned. 

In  the  average  condition  of  the  sky 
the  haze  is  usually  sufficiently  prevalent 
to  render  our  sunsets  and  sunrises  yel- 
lowish or  reddish.  This  is  due  mainly 
to  selective  absorption  of  the  blue  rays 
by  water  vapor,  smoke,  and  dust  in  the 
air.  The  existence  of  this  selective  ab- 
sorption is  a  fortunate  circumstance  for 
painters,  poets,  and  writers,  who  have 
used  these  beautiful  and  familiar  adorn- 
ments of  Nature  to  fascinate  the  minds 
and  charm  the  imaginations  of  mankind 
in  all  ages. 

The  study  of  the  polarization  and 
color  of  the  sky  viewed  scientifically  is 
very  useful  to  meteorologists,  as  indi- 
cating the  size  and  kind  of  condensation 
taking  place  in  the  atmosphere.  Con- 
siderable observational  data  on  these 
points  have  been  collected  in  the  past 
by  Sir  David  Brewster  and  Professor 


92 


The  Blue    Color  of  the  Sky. 


James  D.  Forbes,  and  by  the  Swedish 
physicist  Rubenson,  but  a  vastly  greater 
work  is  being  done  now  by  the  scientists 
of  the  United  States  Weather  Bureau  in 
supplying  valuable  observations  for  the 
future  study  of  the  atmosphere. 

The  great  aerial  ocean  over  our  heads 
is  made  up  of  an  infinite  multitude  of 
moving  currents  and  streams  of  varying 
density  and  temperature,  all  in  process 
of  continued  change  and  adjustment  due 
to  the  heating  of  the  atmosphere  by  the 
Sun  during  the  day  and  cooling  by  ra- 
diation at  night.  The  atmosphere  is 
full  of  little  waves  or  streaming  masses 
of  air  somewhat  resembling  the  ripples 
in  a  shallow  stream  of  water  flowing 
over  gravel.  And  if  the  astronomer 
will  point  his  telescope  on  a  bright  star 
and  remove  the  eye-piece,  so  as  to  look 
directly  upon  the  object-glass  illumi- 
nated by  the  light  of  the  star,  he  may 
see  these  streaming  currents  dancing  in 
all  their  complexity.  It  is  these  little 
waves  in  the  air  which  cause  the  twin- 
kling of  the  fixed  stars.  As  the  waves 
are  passing  before  our  eyes  they  act 
like  prisms,  deflecting  the  light  first  this 
way  and  then  that,  producing  flashes 
of  the  spectral  colors  and  sometimes 
almost  extinguishing  the  stars,  so  that 
momentarily  they  appear  to  go  out.  In 
high  dry  countries  where  the  atmosphere 
is  quiescent  these  waves  are  greatly  di- 
minished in  importance;  and  astrono- 
mers have  noticed  that  in  such  localities 
the  scintillation  of  the  stars  almost 
ceases.  There  the  air  is  quite  free  from 
agitating  currents,  and  the  astronomers 
can  make  good  observations.  At  pre- 
sent such  regions  are  known  chiefly  in 
Peru,  and  in  the  high  dry  plateaus  of 
the  southwestern  part  of  the  United 
States. 

Having  thus  penetrated  the  cause  of 
the  blue  color  of  the  sky,  it  is  not  a  very 
great  leap  to  infer  that  a  similar  expla- 
nation holds  for  the  color  of  the  ocean, 
which  next  to  the  sky  offers  to  our 
senses  the  most  attractive  tints  of  the 
great  objects  in  nature.  The  saline  and 


other  mineral  substances  dissolved  in 
the  waters  of  the  sea  may  be  looked 
upon  as  infinitely  small  particles  in  a 
turbid  medium ;  and  these  should  reflect 
the  sunlight  and  give  a  bluish  green  ap- 
pearance to  the  ocean,  just  such  as  we 
observe.  For  the  salts  are  not  in  chemi- 
cal combination  with  the  water,  but 
merely  dissolved  in  the  medium,  and 
thus  constitute  an  infinitely  fine  mixture 
of  molecules  and  particles  suspended  in 
a  colorless  fluid.  The  light  of  the  Sun 
penetrates  the  ocean  to  a  considerable 
depth  before  all  the  reflections  are  pro- 
duced, and  the  depth  of  this  layer  is 
such  that  some  of  the  shorter  waves  of 
blue  are  absorbed,  while  the  slightly 
longer  waves  of  green  are  transmitted. 
This  accounts  for  the  appearance  of  the 
well-known  greenish  tinge  in  the  color 
of  the  ocean. 

If  the  sea  water  is  full  of  air  bub- 
bles, as  in  the  neighborhood  of  breakers, 
or  when  turning  violently  before  a  mov- 
ing ship,  the  light  reflected  from  the 
surface  of  these  bubbles  suffers  a  double 
absorption  by  the  water  before  it  reaches 
the  eye,  thus  producing  some  of  the 
exquisite  colors  of  the  sea.  Near  the 
shore,  or  in  shoal  water,  another  cause 
sometimes  comes  into  play,  namely,  fine 
solid  particles  suspended  in  the  water. 
Such  particles,  whether  in  air  or  in 
water,  if  sufficiently  small,  may  produce 
colors  due  to  their  minuteness  alone,  as 
we  have  seen  in  the  experiments  of 
Tyndall.  If  the  particles  are  somewhat 
coarser,  like  fine  grains  of  soil  washed 
down  in  the  erosion  of  rivers,  they  may 
give  the  water  a  muddy  appearance,  as 
in  the  China  Sea ;  while  again,  if  exces- 
sively minute,  they  may  produce  the  deep 
blue  seen  in  the  West  Indies  and  the 
equatorial  Pacific.  Extremely  minute 
animalculse,  both  living  and  dead,  are 
said  to  affect  the  color  of  the  sea  water 
in  many  places.  Owing  to  the  suspen- 
sion of  such  mineral  matter  in  the 
waters  of  the  ocean,  they  are  not  pene- 
trable by  the  Sun's  rays  to  any  very 
great  depth.  After  a  depth  of  a  few 


The  Blue    Color  of  the  Sky. 


93 


hundred  fathoms  has  been  attained,  the 
darkness  becomes  so  great  that  attempts 
at  submarine  photography  have  to  be 
made  by  artificial  electric  light  sent 
down  for  the  purpose.  And  sea  animals 
of  all  kinds  living  in  the  bottom  of  the 
ocean  are  wrapt  in  perpetual  night  of 
such  blackness  that  Nature  has  bene- 
ficently provided  them  with  phosphor- 
escent powers  for  illuminating  their 
surroundings,  not  unlike  the  common 
bull's-eye  lamp  so  frequently  used  for 
exploring  dark  corners.  The  phosphor- 
escent lamps  of  the  denizens  of  the  deep 
sea  serve  for  the  explorations  needed  in 
their  daily  life,  and  also  for  gratifying 
the  sense  of  color,  which  is  preserved 
and  even  highly  developed  among  ani- 
mals dwelling  in  the  total  darkness  of 
the  uttermost  abysses  of  the  ocean. 

The  beauty  of  pictorial  works  of  Art 
dealing  with  ocean  scenery  depends  very 
largely  upon  the  magnificent  coloring  of 
the  background ;  and  here,  as  in  the  case 
of  the  aerial  ocean  over  our  heads,  the 
color  is  due  to  reflection  of  light  by  small 
particles  suspended  in  the  fluid  medium. 
According  to  Helmholtz,  the  blueness 
of  the  eyes  is  also  due  to  the  action  of 
suspended  particles.  The  "dark  blue 
sea  "  of  Homer,  and  the  endless  variety 
of  allusions  to  the  color  of  the  ocean  in 
the  literature  of  all  ages,  thus  find  a  cu- 
rious and  instructive  explanation  in  the 
light  of  modern  Science. 

Let  us  now  consider  how  the  theory  of 
Tyndall  and  Rayleigh  works  when  the 
lower  strata  of  the  atmosphere  are  filled 
with  dust  and  water  vapor  in  its  various 
forms.  It  is  well  known  that  but  lit- 
tle water  vapor  ascends  to  a  very  great 
height  above  the  Earth's  surface.  The 
temperature  decreases  so  rapidly  as  we 
ascend,  that  at  a  height  of  29,000 
feet  the  thermometer  falls  to  sixteen 
degrees  below  zero  centigrade,  as  was 
observed  by  the  English  aeronauts 
Glaisher  and  Coxwell  in  1862.  At  this 
height  the  color  of  the  sky  was  noticed 
to  be  "an  exceedingly  deep  Prussian 
blue, "  and  the  air  was  "almost  deprived 


of  moisture. "  In  an  ascent  to  the  height 
of  23,000  feet  made  at  Paris  in  1804 
Gay-Lussac  found  the  temperature  nine 
degrees  below  zero  centigrade,  and  the 
dryness  of  the  air  so  extreme  that  hy- 
grornetric  substances  such  as  paper  and 
parchment  became  dried  and  crumpled, 
as  if  they  had  been  near  a  fire.  At  this 
great  height  he  noticed  that  the  sky  had 
a  dark  blue  tint,  and  that  the  absolute 
silence  prevailing  was  impressive.  Most 
of  the  moisture  in  the  atmosphere  had 
been  left  behind  before  the  balloon 
entered  the  rare  abode  of  the  cirrus 
clouds,  which  surround  the  tops  of  our 
highest  mountains. 

In  high  altitudes  in  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains, the  Andes,  and  the  Alps,  travel- 
ers notice  the  striking  blueness  of  the 
sky,  and  the  rarity  and  dryness  of  the 
atmosphere.  The  writer  recalls  very 
vividly  the  blue  aspect  of  the  sky  as 
seen  from  the  top  of  the  San  Francisco 
Mountains  in  Arizona,  which  have  an 
altitude  of  13,000  feet  above  the  sea; 
and  in  an  ascent  of  Popocatepetl  to  a 
height  of  16,000  feet  the  sky  also  ap- 
peared deep  blue.  The  same  color  was 
noticed  at  other  points  of  the  Rocky 
Mountains  and  in  the  Alps  of  Switzer- 
land, where  the  contrast  between  the 
blue  of  the  sky  and  white  snow  on  the 
mountain  peaks  appeared  so  striking  as 
to  attract  the  instant  notice  of  the 
thoughtful  observer.  Similar  phenom- 
ena have  been  noticed  by  travelers  who 
have  explored  high  mountains  in  all 
parts  of  the  globe,  and  theory  and  obser- 
vation agree  in  indicating  that  water 
vapor  is  confined  mainly  to  the  lower 
part  of  the  atmosphere,  though  in  the 
form  of  cirrus  clouds  the  height  has  been 
shown  occasionally  to  exceed  ten  miles. 
At  this  height  the  water  of  course  is 
frozen,  and  the  clouds  are  made  up  of 
crystals  of  ice  and  snow. 

One  of  the  simplest  means  of  verify- 
ing these  views,  that  the  water  vapor 
and  dust  of  the  air  are  confined  to  the 
layers  within  a  few  miles  of  the  sea 
level,  is  to  notice  the  shadows  cast  by 


94 


The,  Blue   Color  of  the  Sky. 


heavy  clouds  on  mountains  at  the  set- 
ting or  rising  of  the  Sun.  The  great 
beams  which  spread  out  fanlike  from 
the  setting  Sun  teach  us  a  great  deal 
about  the  atmosphere.  We  always  see 
a  blue  streak  where  the  clouds  or  moun- 
tains cast  a  shadow ;  while  the  sur- 
rounding region  of  the  sunset  sky  is 
whitish,  golden,  purple,  or  even  red- 
dish, and  sometimes  the  colors  are 
amazingly  brilliant.  Thunder  clouds 
seldom  exceed  the  height  of  five  miles, 
and  yet  the  shadows  cast  by  them  at  the 
time  of  sunset  are  conspicuously  blue. 
The  blue  color  of  the  shadow  indicates 
that  the  predominant  part  of  the  blue 
light  of  the  sky  originates  at  great 
height,  while  the  whitish,  yellow,  and 
reddish  colors  are  confined  to  the  lower 
strata  of  the  air.  The  persistence  of 
the  blue  color  for  more  than  an  hour 
after  sunset,  when  the  sky  light  is  re- 
flected from  illuminated  particles  in  the 
rare  medium  more  than  one  hundred 
miles  above  the  Earth's  surface,  also 
strengthens  this  view.  In  the  spaces 
intervening  between  the  blue  beams  the 
lower  layers  of  the  atmosphere  are  di- 
rectly illuminated  by  the  Sun,  and  re- 
produce Homer's  "rosy -fingered  dawn. " 
This  color  is  due  to  the  absorption  of 
blue  light  in  the  denser  and  more  tur- 
bid medium  of  the  lower  air,  through 
which  only  the  longer  waves,  as  the  yel- 
low, 'orange,  and  red,  can  be  freely 
transmitted. 

It  was  this  gorgeous  aspect  of  the 
rising  Sun,  casting  shadows  from  the 
clouds  and  mountains  of  Greece  against 
a  sky  naturally  rich  in  color,  which  gave 
the  Greek  poets  their  elegant  concep- 
tions of  the  dawn.  The  sun-god  Apollo, 
worshiped  at  Delphi,  without  doubt  owes 
much  of  his  mystery  and  impressiveness 
to  the  towering  mountains  which  sur- 
round the  seat  of  the  ancient  oracle. 
Nothing  could  be  more  majestic  than 
mountains  like  Parnassus,  to  the  east 
of  Delphi,  from  which  the  morning  sun 
looks  down  into  the  precipitous  gorges  in 
front  of  that  famous  temple.  The  Sun 


emerges  suddenly  from  his  hiding  be- 
hind overhanging  peaks,  and  is  seen  ra- 
diating with  all  brilliancy  in  a  sky  of 
the  deepest  blue.  The  natural  color  of 
the  Greek  landscape  combined  with  the 
gorgeous  phenomena  of  the  rising  Sun 
bursting  upon  a  scene  where  shadows 
from  mountains  and  clouds  fill  the  air 
with  luminous  beams  of  purple  and 
azure,  without  doubt  accounts  for  much 
of  the  glory  of  Apollo  at  the  Temple 
of  Delphi.  As  seen  by  the  art-loving 
Greeks  of  the  primitive  ages  nothing 
could  be  more  beautiful  or  more  impres- 
sive than  this  grand  natural  spectacle, 
which  we  now  explain  by  the  reflection 
of  light  from  myriads  of  minute  parti- 
cles suspended  in  the  atmosphere.  Most 
of  the  deep  sky  blue  comes  from  ex- 
cessively minute  particles  at  a  great 
height ;  while  the  "  rosy-fingered  dawn  " 
arises  from  aqueous  vapor,  and  haze, 
and  innumerable  particles  of  smoke  and 
dust  floating  near  the  earth. 

Those  who  have  visited  Egypt,  where 
the  atmosphere  is  usually  clear,  and  so 
free  from  clouds  that  the  annual  rain- 
fall is  only  tan  inch  and  a  half,  have 
been  impressed  by  the  absence  of  a  pure 
deep  blue  sky.  The  vault  of  the  firma- 
ment appears  rather  whitish,  or  muddy, 
due  of  course  to  the  absorption  of  the 
blue  by  dust  diffused  from  the  dry  re- 
gions of  Sahara.  While  the  Egyptian 
sky  is  very  bright,  the  white  light  is  so 
pronounced  that  the  blue  does  not  ap- 
pear particularly  attractive.  The  skies 
of  Italy  and  the  Alps,  on  the  other 
hand,  frequently  are  clear  blue.  Of  all 
the  places  which  the  writer  has  visited 
Greece  has  the  purest  and  deepest  blue 
sky.  The  color  frequently  is  so  strik- 
ing that  one  does  not  wonder  at  even 
the  most  vivid  descriptions  in  Greek 
literature.  While  traveling  in  Greece 
during  the  spring  of  1891  the  writer 
took  particular  occasion  to  notice  the 
color  of  the  sky,  sea,  and  mountains. 
The  atmospheric  colors  are  much  the 
most  brilliant  known  in  any  part  of  the 
world.  The  mountains  of  Greece  seen 


Laura  Bridgman. 


95 


at  a  distance  of  more  than  ten  miles 
appear  of  deep  indigo  blue  tinged  with  a 
delicate  purple  of  inexpressible  beauty. 

The  admirable  paintings  in  the  Na- 
tional Museum  at  Berlin,  representing 
restorations  of  various  places  of  clas- 
sic celebrity,  as  Athens,  Olympia,  and 
Syracuse,  convey  this  rich  coloring  of 
bluish  purple  in  great  vividness,  but  are 
not  in  the  least  degree  overdrawn.  They 
are  among  the  most  beautiful  paintings 
in  the  world,  and  eminent  scholars  have 
regretted  that  they  are  not  extensively 
reproduced. 

It  is  probable  that  the  climate  of 
Greece,  from  a  combination  of  several 
natural  causes,  is  such  that  the  atmos- 
pheric reflection  and  absorption  be- 
come especially  pronounced.  And  as 
this  sky  was  evidently  the  same  in  clas- 
sic antiquity  as  it  is  to-day,  this  color 
phenomenon  affords  an  interesting  proof 
of  the  unchanging  climatic  conditions 
of  that  part  of  our  globe  during  the  last 
two  thousand  years. 

In  most  parts  of  the  United  States 
our  skies  are  whitened  by  water  vapor, 
haze,  and  dust;  and  we  usually  see  the 
deepest  blue  just  after  rainy  days,  when 
the  haze  and  moisture  have  been  pre- 
cipitated, and  the  particles  of  dust 
washed  out  of  the  atmosphere  by  the 
falling  rains. 

It  is  perhaps  fortunate,  from  an 
aesthetic  point  of  view,  that  the  appear- 
ance of  the  sky  varies  so  much  as  it 


does.  The  infinite  varieties  of  color 
which  it  affords  when  so  delicately 
frescoed  with  clouds  of  all  forms  and 
of  all  shades  of  color  and  intensity,  com- 
bined with  vegetable  and  mineral  hues 
upon  the  land,  whether  in  the  green  of 
spring,  the  smoky  blue  of  Indian  Sum- 
mer, the  purple  of  autumn,  or  the  white- 
ness of  winter,  yield  in  due  succession 
a  constant  mental  relief,  and  have  in- 
spired most  of  the  exquisite  delineations 
of  Nature  in  pictorial  Art  as  well  as  in 
Literature.  The  soft  hues  with  which 
the  land  is  clothed  give  to  the  whole  as- 
pect of  the  world  a  lifelike  appearance, 
and  the  light  of  the  Sun  reflected  from 
the  blue  sky  and  luminous  clouds  fills  the 
whole  scene  with  such  vivid  radiation, 
that  the  Universe  becomes  to  a  modern 
student  as  truly  an  inspiration  as  the  or- 
derly and  beautiful  Cosmos  was  to  the 
primitive  Greeks.  As  Goethe  says :  — 

"  Angels  are  strengthen' d  by  the  sight, 
Though  fathom  thee  no  angel  may  ; 
Thy  works  still  shine  with  splendour  bright, 
As  on  Creation's  primal  day." 

Now  that  Science  has  at  length  added 
her  share  to  these  pleasurable  contem- 
plations by  showing  the  causes  from 
which  the  inspirations  of  the  mind  have 
sprung,  the  result  of  explaining  the 
color  of  the  sea  and  sky,  phenomena 
often  considered  almost  obvious  and  yet 
for  long  ages  wholly  obscure,  may  be 
ranked  among  the  most  gratifying  tri- 
umphs of  the  human  mind. 

T.  J.  J.  See. 


LAURA   BRIDGMAN. 


THE  world  changes,  and  the  minds 
of  men.  Helen  Keller  outstrips  Laura 
Bridgman,1  as  Rudyard  Kipling  out- 
strips Maria  Edgeworth.  Will  Helen 
herself  appear  quaint  and  old-fashioned 
fifty  years  hence,  to  a  generation  spoiled 

1  Laura  Bridgman.  Dr.  Howe's  Famous  Pu- 
pil and  what  He  taught  Her.  By  MAUD  HOWE 


by  some  still  more  daring  recipient  of  its 
sympathy  and  wonder  ?  We  can  answer 
such  a  question  as  little  as  Dr.  Howe 
could  have  answered  it  fifty  years  ago  ; 
for  the  high-water  mark  of  one  age  in 
every  line  of  its  prowess  always  seems 

and  FLORENCE  HOWE  HALL.  Boston  :  Little, 
Brown  &  Co.  1903. 


96 


Laura  Bridgman. 


"  the  limit,"  —  at  any  rate  the  only  limit 
positively  imaginable  to  those  who  are 
living,  —  and  just  what  form  and  what 
direction  Evolution  will  strike  into  when 
she  takes  her  next  step  into  novelty  is 
ever  a  seci'et  till  the  step  is  made. 

Laura  was  the  limit  in  her  day.  The 
child  of  seven  was  dumb  and  blind  and 
almost  without  the  sense  of  smell,  with 
no  plaything  but  an  old  boot  which  served 
for  a  doll,  and  with  so  little  education  in 
affection  that  she  had  never  been  taught 
to  kiss.  She  was  sternly  handled  at  home, 
and  was  irascible  and  an  object  of  fear 
and  pity  to  all  but  one  of  the  village 
neighbors,  and  that  one  was  half-witted. 
The  way  in  which  she  became  in  a  few 
years,  through  Dr.  Howe's  devotion,  an 
educated  girl,  delicate-mannered,  spirit- 
ual-minded, and  sweet-tempered,  seemed 
such  a  miracle  of  philanthropic  achieve- 
ment that  the  fame  of  it  spread  not  only 
over  our  country,  but  throughout  Europe. 
It  was  regarded  as  a  work  of  edification, 
a  missionary  feat.  The  Sunday-schools 
all  heard  of  Laura  as  a  soul  buried  alive 
but  disentombed  and  brought  into  God's 
sunlight  by  science  and  religion  work- 
ing hand  in  hand.  The  few  other  blind 
deaf-mutes  on  whom  attempts  at  rescue 
had  been  made  —  Oliver  Caswell,  Julia 
Brace,  and  others  —  were  so  inferior  that 
Laura's  decidedly  attenuated  personality 
stood  for  the  extreme  of  richness  attain- 
able by  humanity  when  its  experience 
was  limited  to  the  sense  of  touch  alone. 
Of  such  all-sided  ambitions  and  curiosi- 
ties, of  such  untrammeled  soarings  and 
skimmings  over  the  fields  of  language,  of 
such  completeness  of  memory  and  easy 
mastery  of  realities  as  Helen  Keller  has 
shown  us,  no  one  then  had  a  dream. 

It  is  now  indeed  the  age  of  Kipling 
versus  that  of  Edgeworth.  Laura  was 
primarily  regarded  as  a  phenomenon  of 
conscience,  almost  a  theological  phenom- 
enon. Helen  is  primarily  a  phenome- 
non of  vital  exuberance.  Life  for  her 
is  a  series  of  adventures,  rushed  at  with 
enthusiasm  and  fun.  For  Laura  it  was 


more  like  a  series  of  such  careful  indoor 
steps  as  a  convalescent  makes  when  the 
bed  days  are  over.  Helen's  age  is  that 
of  the  scarehead  and  portrait  be-spat- 
tered  newspaper.  In  Laura's  time  the 
papers  were  featureless,  and  the  public 
found  as  much  zest  in  exhibitions  at  in- 
stitutions for  the  deaf  and  dumb  as  it 
now  finds  in  football  games. 

In  contrast  with  the  recklessly  sensa- 
tional terms  in  which  everything  nowa- 
days expresses  itself,  there  seems  a  sort 
of  white  veil  of  primness  spread  over 
this  whole  biography  of  Laura.  All 
those  who  figure  in  it  bear  the  stamp  of 
conscience.  Dr.  Howe  himself  took  his 
educative  task  religiously.  It  was  his 
idea,  as  it  was  that  of  all  the  Amer- 
ican liberals  of  his  generation,  that  the 
soul  has  intuitive  religious  faculties 
which  life  will  awaken,  independently 
of  revelation.  Laura's  nature  was  in- 
tensely moral,  —  almost  morbidly  so,  in 
fact,  —  and  assimilated  the  conception 
of  a  Divine  Ruler  with  great  facility ; 
but  it  does  not  appear  certain  that  such 
an  idea  would  have  come  to  her  spon- 
taneously. She  was  easily  converted 
into  revivalistic  evangelicism  at  the  age 
of  thirty-three,  through  communications 
which  her  biographers  deplore  as  having 
perverted  her  originally  optimistic  faith. 
Her  spiritual  accomplishments  seem  to 
have  been  regarded  rather  as  matters  for 
wonder  by  the  public  of  her  day.  But, 
granted  a  nature  with  a  bent  in  the 
spiritual  direction,  it  is  hard  to  imagine 
conditions  more  favorable,  to  its  develop- 
ment than  Laura's.  Her  immediate  life, 
once  it  was  redeemed  (as  Dr.  Howe  re- 
deemed it)  from  quasi-animality,  was  al- 
most wholly  one  of  conduct  toward  other 
people.  Her  relations  to  "  things,"  only 
tactile  at  best,  were  for  the  most  part 
remote  and  hearsay  and  symbolic.  Per- 
sonal relations  had  to  be  her  foreground, 
—  she  had  to  think  in  terms  almost  ex- 
clusively social  and  spiritual. 

When  she  was  twenty-two  years  old 
her  education    was  practically  finished, 


Laura  Bridgman. 


97 


and  she  was  sent  to  her  parents'  home 
in  New  Hampshire.  The  withdrawal 
of  the  personal  attentions  with  which  at 
the  Perkins  Institution  she  had  been 
so  lovingly  surrounded,  the  loss  of  the 
thousand  communications  which  had  fed 
her  mental  being  daily,  came  near  cost- 
ing the  sensitive  creature  her  life.  At 
the  farm,  mother,  father,  brothers,  all 
had  engrossing  occupations,  and  no  one 
could  give  time  to  the  formidably  tire- 
some task  of  manual  alphabet  conver- 
sation with  Laura.  She  had  to  subsist 
mainly  on  her  internal  resources.  Julia 
Brace  would  have  turned  over  on  her 
face  and  gone  to  sleep  like  a  dog.  Laura 
simply  sickened  unto  death  with  moral 
starvation.  "  On  one  occasion  she  be- 
came so  impatient  with  her  mother  for 
not  talking  with  her,  that  she  struck  her ! 
—  and  was  immediately  overcome  with 
despair  at  her  action.  She  brooded  over 
it  continually  and  would  not  be  comfort- 
ed. .  .  .  Dr.  Howe  was  summoned  and 
found  her  a  shadow  of  herself,  dying  of 
that  subtle  disease  which  we  call  home- 
sickness." A  friend,  Miss  Paddock,  was 
sent  to  bring  her  home.  It  was  bitter 
winter  weather.  When  Miss  Paddock 
came  to  the  girl's  bedside  "  and  spelt  into 
the  nerveless  hand  these  words  :  '  I  have 
come  to  take  you  home,'  a  wave  of  color 
surged  over  the  wan  face.  '  When  do 
we  start  ? '  whispered  the  thin  fingers. 
'As  soon  as  you  can  eat  an  egg,'  an- 
swered the  practical  Paddock."  Before 
they  had  covered  half  the  distance  to 
the  railroad,  Laura  had  fainted,  but  her 
will  never  faltered.  "  To  Boston !  to 
Boston !  that  cry  had  gone  up  night 
and  day  from  her  homesick  heart.  .  .  . 
And  her  fingers  flew  faster  and  faster  as 
the  train  brought  her  nearer.  Would 
Doctor  meet  them  ?  Was  he  glad  she 
was  coming  ?  These  two  questions  were 
repeated  endlessly."  At  last  they  ar- 
rived, and  in  the  warm  and  affectionate 
human  atmosphere  of  the  institution  she 
soon  recovered  her  vitality.  It  was  an 
exquisite  case  of  purely  moral  nostalgia. 
VOL.  xcin.  —  NO.  555.  7 


Laura  never  got  a  perfectly  free  use 
of  the  English  language.  Her  style  in 
writing  was  of  a  formality  both  quaint 
and  charming.  From  the  History  of 
My  Life,  which  she  wrote  at  the  age 
of  thirty,  I  cull  a  few  examples,  slips  of 
the  pen  and  all,  just  as  they  were  writ- 
ten :  — 

"  I  was  very  full  of  mischief  and  fun. 
I  was  in  such  high  spirits  generally.  I 
would  cling  to  my  Mother  so  wildly  and 
peevishly  many  times.  I  took  hold  of 
her  legs  and  arms  as  she  strode  across 
the  room.  She  acted  so  plain  as  if  it 
irritated  her  very  much  indeed.  She 
scolded  me  sternly.  I  could  not  help 
feeling  so  cross  and  uneasy  against  her. 
I  did  not  know  any  better.  I  never  was 
taught  to  cultivate  patience  and  mildness 
and  placid  until  I  came  away  from  my 
blessed  family  at  home.  .  .  .  Sometimes 
I  took  possession  of  a  small  room  in  the 
attic.  I  slept  and  sat  there  with  some 
of  my  dear  friends.  I  observed  many 
different  things  in  the  garret,  barrels  con- 
taining grain  and  rye  etc.  and  bags  filled 
with  flour  wheat.  I  was  very  much 
alarmed  by  not  finding  a  banister  on  the 
edge  of  the  floor  above  the  stairs.  .  .  . 

l(  I  loved  to  sport  with  the  cat  very 
much.  One  morning  I  was  sitting  in 
my  little  rocking  chair  before  the  fire. 
I  stretched  out  my  hand  toward  the  old 
cat  and  drew  her  up  to  my  side.  I  in- 
dulged myself  in  having  a  game  with  her. 
It  was  so  cruel  a  sport  for  the  poor  liv- 
ing being.  I  was  extremely  indiscreet 
and  ignorant.  I  rejected  the  poor  crea- 
ture into  the  hot  fire.  My  Mother  came 
rushing  suddenly  and  rescued  the  cat 
from  her  danger.  She  seemed  very  im- 
pulsive with  the  insent  she  shook  and 
slapped  me  most  sternly  for  my  commit- 
ting a  sin  against  her  dear  cat.  She 
punished  me  so  severely  that  I  could  not 
endure  the  effect  of  it  for  a  long  time. 
She  held  two  of  the  cat's  paws  up  for  me 
to  discerne  the  mark  of  the  flame  of  fire. 
My  conscience  told  me  at  length  that  it 
was  truly  very  wicked  in  me  to  have  done 


98 


Laura  Bridgman. 


a  harm  to  her.  It  was  very  strange  for 
the  cat  to  go  with  the  greatest  fearful 
suspeetion.  She  concealed  herself  so 
lucky  some.  The  old  cat  never  brought 
her  company  to  her  oldest  home  since 
she  was  banished  from  our  sight.  I  can- 
not ask  her  the  reason  why  she  never  re- 
traced her  natural  steps.  I  am  positive 
that  it  must  be  reality  of  her  death  now. 
The  favorite  cat  had  not  faith  in  us  that 
we  should  treat  her  more  kindly  and 
tenderly  again.  .  .  . 

"  Once  I  set  a  chair  by  the  fire  place ; 
I  was  trying  to  reach  the  shelf  to  search 
for  something.  I  drooped  my  central 
gravity  down  and  I  scorched  my  stom- 
ach so  terribly  that  it  effectually  made 
me  very  unwell  and  worrisome."  ] 

There  are  endless  interesting  traits, 
some  of  them  humanly  touching,  some 
of  them  priceless  to  the  psychologist, 
scattered  through  this  life  of  Laura.  The 
question  immediately  suggests  itself, 
Why  was  Laura  so  superior  to  other 
deaf-mutes,  and  why  is  Helen  Keller  so 
superior  to  Laura  ?  Since  Galton  first 
drew  attention  to  the  subject,  every  one 
knows  that  in  some  of  us  the  material  of 
thought  is  mainly  optical,  in  others  audi- 
tory, etc.,  and  the  classification  of  human 
beings  into  the  eye-minded,  the  ear- 
minded,  and  the  motor-minded,  is  fami- 
liar. Of  course  if  a  person  is  born  to  be 
eye-minded,  blindness  will  maim  his  life 
far  more  than  if  he  is  ear-minded  origi- 
nally. If  ear-minded,  deafness  will  maim 
him  most.  If  he  be  natively  constructed 
on  a  touch-minded  or  motor-minded  plan, 
he  will  lose  less  than  the  others  from 
either  blindness  or  deafness.  Touch-im- 
ages and  motor-images  are  the  only  terms 
that  subjects  "  congenitally  "  blind  and 
deaf  can  think  in.  It  may  be  that  Laura 
and  Helen  were  originally  meant  to  be 
more  "  tactile  "  and  "motile  "  than  their 
less  successful  rivals  in  the  race  for  edu- 
cation, and  that  Helen,  being  more  ex- 

1  I  take  these  extracts  from  Professor  San- 
ford's  article  on  Laura  Bridgman's  writings,  in 


clusively  motor-minded  than  any  subject 
yet  met  with,  is  the  one  least  crippled  by 
the  loss  of  her  other  senses. 

But  such  comparisons  are  vague  con- 
jectures. What  is  not  conjecture,  but 
fact,  is  the  philosophical  conclusion  which 
we  are  forced  to  draw  from  the  cases 
both  of  Laura  and  of  Helen.  Their  entire 
thinking  goes  on  in  tactile  and  motor 
symbols.  Of  the  glories  of  the  world  of 
light  and  sound  they  have  no  inkling. 
Their  thought  is  confined  to  the  pallid- 
est  verbal  substitutes  for  the  realities 
which  are  its  object.  The  mental  ma- 
terial of  which  it  consists  would  be  con- 
sidered by  the  rest  of  us  to  be  of  the 
deadliest  insipidity.  Nevertheless,  life 
is  full  of  absorbing  interest  to  each  of 
them,  and  in  Helen's  case  thought  is  free 
and  abundant  in  quite  exceptional  mea- 
sure. What  clearer  proof  could  we  ask 
of  the  fact  that  the  relations  among 
things,  far  more  than  the  things  them- 
selves, are  what  is  intellectually  inter- 
esting, and  that  it  makes  little  difference 
what  terms  we  think  in,  so  long  as  the 
relations  maintain  their  character.  All 
sorts  of  terms  can  transport  the  mind 
with  equal  delight,  provided  they  be 
woven  into  equally  massive  and  far-reach- 
ing schemes  and  systems  of  relationship. 
They  are  then  equivalent  for  intellectual 
purposes,  and  for  yielding  intellectual 
pleasure,  for  the  schemes  and  systems 
are  what  the  mind  finds  interesting. 

Laura's  life  should  find  a  place  in 
every  library.  Dr.  Howe's  daughters 
have  executed  it  with  tact  and  feeling. 
No  reader  can  fail  to  catch  something  of 
Laura's  own  touching  reverence  for  the 
noble  figure  of  "  the  Doctor."  And  if 
the  ruddier  pages  which  record  Helen's 
exploits  make  the  good  Laura's  image 
seem  just  a  little  anaemic  by  contrast, 
we  cannot  forget  that  there  never  could 
have  been  a  Helen  Keller  if  there  had 
not  been  a  Laura  Bridgman. 

William  James. 

the  Overland  Monthly  for  1887.  For  some  rea- 
son they  are  omitted  from  the  present  volume. 


The  Richness  of  Poverty.  —  The  New  Hunting. 


99 


THE   RICHNESS   OF   POVERTY. 

GOD  made  nay  spirit  somewhat  weak  and  small. 
From  rich  satiety  of  joy  I  shrink : 
The  faintly  fragrant  wild-rose,  faintly  pink, 

Better  I  love  than  garden  beauties  tall, 

Deep-scented,  with  full-petaled  coronal ; 

Better  the  hillside  brook  wherefrom  I  drink 

Than  strong  sweet  wines;  and  best  the  twilight  brink 

And  borderland  of  whatso  holds  me  thrall. 

But  if  life's  pageantry  is  not  for  me, 

And  if  I  may  not  reach  the  mountains  dim 
That  beckon  on  the  blue  horizon  rim, 

No  disillusion  hath  mine  eyes  defiled, 

And  I  shall  enter  Paradise  heart-free, 
With  the  fresh  April  wonder  of  a  child. 


M.  Lennah. 


THE  NEW   HUNTING. 


THE  good  fairy  evidently  considered 
that  she  had  done  enough  for  Tommy 
when  she  gave  him  the  eyes  of  a  saint. 
Either  she  considered  soul  an  unimpor- 
tant matter,  or  left  it  to  some  other  of 
the  twelve  invited  fairies.  The  story  of 
the  christening  has  never  been  told,  but 
it  is  barely  possible  that  the  thirteenth 
godmother  cut  off  Thomas's  supply  of 
soul,  or  hampered  its  development  in 
some  way  or  other.  At  any  rate,  there 
is  abundant  room  for  this  inference. 

Fortunately  for  Tommy,  however,  a 
deficiency  in  soul  is  not  so  conspicuous 
as  some  mere  physical  imperfection,  and 
no  one  ever  looked  once  at  the  dear  little 
fellow  with  his  yellow  hair  fashionably 
bobbed,  and  his  sweet  little  face  with 
its  great  innocent  black  -  fringed  eyes, 
without  longing  to  take  him  up  and  kiss 
him.  And  Tommy,  even  in  trousers  and 
short  hair  and  the  Fifth  Grade,  was  still 
an  angel  so  far  as  ocular  expression  was 
concerned. 


But  if  Tommy  was  lacking  in  soul, 
Miss  Laurel  Petit,  teacher  of  the  Fifth 
Grade,  was  oversupplied  with  it.  Ever 
since  Miss  Laurel  began  teaching,  —  and 
her  career  may  be  fitly  epitomized  by 
stating  that  she  entered  on  her  life-work 
when  programme  was  spelled  with  the 
me  and  accented  on  the  last  syllable, 
and  had  taught  through  program,  pro- 
gr'm,  and  back  to  programme  again,  — 
she  had  been  an  ever-flowing  fount  of 
soulf  ulness  in  the  arid  desert  of  the  three- 
story  brick  schoolhouse  in  which  she 
presided  over  Grade  5A.  Other  teach- 
ers complained  of  stupidity,  of  the  odor 
of  onions  and  asafoetida  bags  worn  to 
keep  off  contagion,  which  hung  about 
certain  classes,  of  supervisors,  of  new 
methods,  but  through  it  all,  Miss  Laurel, 
her  head  above  the  clouds,  her  sweet 
blue  eyes  slightly  rolled  upward,  her 
plump  form  becomingly  attired  in  dainty 
stylish  gowns,  knew  nothing  of  such  dis- 
comforts, but  took  fresh  and  ever-grow- 


100 


TJie  New  Hunting. 


ing  joy  in  the  instruction  of  the  infant 
mind.  For  one  reason,  she  ever  found 
her  work  more  congenial.  Leaders  of 
the  new  education  had  year  by  year 
been  refuting  the  axiom  that  there  is  no 
royal  route  to  learning.  The  corduroy 
roads  of  her  childhood  had  given  place 
to  macadam  pavements ;  the  birch  rod 
and  the  frown  had  been  supplanted  by 
persuasion  and  the  smile  ;  the  once  ugly 
schoolroom  had  been  beautified,  and  there 
was  a  constantly  increasing  demand  for 
the  instillation  of  soul  into  school  work, 
—  the  development  of  soul  among  the 
children.  "  Remember  that  spirit  is 
more  important  than  information  ;  "  "  in 
beginning  to  teach  birds,  think  more  of 
the  pupil  than  of  ornithology  ;  "  "  nature 
study  is  not  facts,  it  is  not  science,  it  is 
not  knowledge,  it  is  spirit,"  were  some 
of  the  principles  laid  down  by  her  pre- 
ceptors, principles  which  naturally  ap- 
pealed far  more  to  her  than  they  did 
to  Miss  Henrietta  Tuck,  teacher  of  the 
GAB,  and  Assistant  Principal  of  the 
Thomas  Jefferson  School,  whose  scien- 
tific training  had  been  acquired  by  strict 
laboratory  methods,  and  whose  sharp 
brown  eyes  saw  through  every  boy,  to  his 
certain  knowledge,  the  very  first  time  he 
marched  downstairs  under  her  strict  su- 
pervision. 

Having  duly  inspected  and  classified 
Tommy  on  his  entrance  to  the  Thomas 
Jefferson  School  some  years  before,  and 
having  found  no  reason  for  changing  her 
classification,  Miss  Henrietta  laughed 
scornfully  at  Miss  Laurel's  exposition 
of  her  favorite's  nature  work. 

"  Dear  little  fellow  !  He  is  such  an 
inspiration !  Just  look  at  his  notes  on 
spring !  "  They  were  together  in  Miss 
Laurel's  room  one  spring  evening  after 
school. 

"  Humph !  "  said  Miss  Tuck,  glancing 
through  the  meagre  notes  in  Tommy's 
painfully  vertical  hand.  "  Here  he  has, 
'  The  lilac  buds  is  4sided.  The  snow  bird 
is  a  wren.  They  is  fond  of  evergreens. 
The  popular  buds  looks  like  catapil- 


lers.  The  pussy  willows  is  baby  kittens.' 
Baby  kittens  !  What  does  that  mean  ? 
Humph !  "  And  Miss  Henrietta  threw 
down  the  notebook  and  looked  sharply 
at  Mr.  Putnam,  the  Principal,  who  was 
standing  in  the  doorway. 

"  That  is  where  you  make  a  mistake, 
Ret,"  remonstrated  Miss  Laurel  gently. 
"  I  was  just  saying  to  Mr.  Putnam  yes- 
terday that  this  is  where  you  fail  to  catch 
the  meaning  of  nature  study,  —  where 
your  strict  scientific  training  leads  you 
astray.  We  are  not  teaching  science, 
we  are  instilling  a  love  for  nature.  Sup- 
pose dear  little  Tommy  does  say  a  lilac 
bud  is  four-sided  when,  in  fact,  it  is  six ; 
so  long  as  he  really  loves  the  lilac,  what 
is  the  difference  ?  " 

"  Prove  to  me  that  Tommy  Owen  loves 
anything,  and  I  '11  give  you  a  prize,"  re- 
sponded Miss  Henrietta  sharply. 

"  You  would  never  say  that  if  you  had 
him  in  your  classes.  I  feel  fresh  inspi- 
ration every  time  I  look  into  those  beau- 
tiful clear  gray  eyes  of  his.  Other  chil- 
dren may  be  slow  to  comprehend,  but 
I  always  feel  that  Tommy  understands. 
And  even  if  he  never  studies  botany, 
and  never  finds  out  your  scientific  truths 
about  the  lilac  bud,  I  am  sure  that  his 
whole  life  will  be  sweetened  and 
strengthened  by  the  beauty  of  the  lilacs, 
that  his  soul  "  — 

"  Soul !  That  child  has  no  soul ! 
Soul !  Humph !  " 

And  Mr.  Putnam,  who,  though  an  apos- 
tle of  nature  study,  had  had  a  fine  sci- 
entific training,  disregarding  the  pained 
look  in  Miss  Laurel's  sweet  blue  eyes, 
turned  and  went  downstairs  with  Miss 
Henrietta. 

In  spite  of  his  trained  mind,  it  had 
never  occurred  to  the  Principal  that 
these  vexations  over  Miss  Laurel's  un- 
scientific enthusiasms  came  only  in  the 
presence  of  Miss  Henrietta's  flouts  at 
nature  study.  Neither  had  his  scien- 
tific training  been  of  the  slightest  avail 
in  interpreting  a  certain  expression  in 
Miss  Henrietta's  eyes  in  his  presence,  a 


The  New  Hunting. 


101 


queer  softening  and  brightening  that 
was,  however,  perfectly  visible  and  in- 
terpretable  to  every  boy  and  girl  in  the 
building. 

But  Mr.  Putnam  was  openly  delighted 
witli  the  club  which  Miss  Laurel  organ- 
ized that  spring  among  her  pupils,  and 
of  which,  at  her  suggestion,  Tommy 
Owen  was  made  president.  The  object 
of  this  club  was  to  pursue  nature  study 
more  fully  than  was  possible  in  the 
classroom,  to  study  natural  objects  in 
their  places  in  the  fields  and  woods,  and, 
above  all,  to  instill  a  love  for  wild  ani- 
mals which  would  forever  prevent  the 
child's  doing  them  any  injury. 

All  the  apostles  of  nature  study  being 
unanimous  in  declaring  that  the  pupil 
must  study  from  the  living  animal,  — 
"  Will  a  stuffed  bobolink  do  ?  No !  To 
the  fields  for  a  live  bobolink !  The 
light,  the  dark,  the  fly,  the  bird,  the 
cockroach,  they  are  all  ours  !  "  —  even 
Miss  Henrietta  could  make  no  carping 
criticism  on  the  club  in  Mr.  Putnam's 
presence.  Its  motto  was  from  Agassiz, 
"  Study  nature,  not  books,"  a  point  on 
which,  it  is  needless  to  say,  the  members 
thoroughly  agreed  with  Agassiz ;  and  it 
rejoiced  in  the  rather  ponderous  name 
of  "  Hast  Thou  Named  All  The  Birds 
Without  A  Gun  Club." 

The  success  of  Miss  Laurel's  organ- 
ization, whose  work  consisted  of  strolls 
after  school  about  the  neighboring 
parks,  and  on  Saturdays  of  trips  to  the 
groves  beyond  the  city  limits,  was 
nothing  short  of  phenomenal.  Not  only 
were  teachers  in  other  buildings  exhorted 
to  follow  Miss  Laurel's  example,  and  to 
teach  humanity  to  all  living  things,  to- 
gether with  nature  study,  but  articles 
descriptive  of  its  work  appeared  in  the 
leading  educational  journals,  dwelling 
particularly  on  this  beautiful  phase  of 
nature  study,  the  instillation  of  humane 
instincts,  the  teaching  of  little  children 
from  live,  uncaged  specimens,  picturing 
the  future  of  this  coming  generation, 
taught  in  its  infancy,  so  to  speak,  to 


hate  the  instruments  of  slaughter,  the 
gun  and  the  knife,  taught  to  loathe  the 
very  idea  of  bloodshed.  When  these 
children  reached  their  majorities,  surely, 
it  was  prophesied,  time  would  run  back 
and  fetch  the  Age  of  Gold,  and  the 
battle  flags  would  be  furled  in  the  Par- 
liament of  Man,  the  Federation  of  the 
World. 

Whenever  a  party  of  teachers  from 
some  other  town  came  to  Enterprise  to 
visit  its  far-famed  schools  —  and  these 
visits  were  frequent  —  they  demanded 
first  of  all  to  be  taken  to  the  Thomas 
Jefferson  School,  there  to  visit  the  grade 
in  which  was  organized  the  famous 
Hast  Thou  Named  All  The  Birds 
Without  A  Gun  Club,  that  they  might 
tell  their  pupils  about  it.  And  once 
there,  all  speedily  fell  victims  to  Miss 
Laurel's  charm  of  manner,  and  to  the 
beauty  of  Tommy's  innocent  eyes,  as,  at 
Miss  Laurel's  request,  for  the  fiftieth 
time  that  term,  perhaps,  he  flitted  across 
the  beach  with  the  little  sandpiper,  or 
chee-chee-cheed  with  Robert  o'  Lincoln. 

One  morning  in  June,  when  Miss 
Laurel  had  been  detained  at  home  by 
some  unforeseen  occurrence,  she  found  a 
company  of  teachers  from  a  town  some 
twenty  miles  from  Enterprise  already 
assembled  in  the  lower  hall  when  she 
arrived.  Miss  Henrietta  was  there  also, 
leading  across  the  hall  in  the  direction 
of  Mr.  Putnam's  office  two  boys  in  an 
attitude  of  resistance.  Bud  Dolan,  Miss 
Henrietta's  worst  pupil,  was  one ;  the 
other  she  recognized,  to  her  horror,  — 
not  instantly,  because  of  his  flushed  face 
and  disheveled  hair,  —  as  her  beloved 
Tommy ! 

"  What  does  this  mean,  Ret  ?  "  she 
whispered  anxiously,  as  the  Assistant 
Principal  thrust  the  boys  in  Mr.  Put- 
nam's office,  and  there  commanded  them 
to  remain  until  that  gentleman  came 
downstairs. 

"  Go  up  to  your  room  and  see  !  "  re- 
plied Miss  Henrietta  sternly. 

Miss  Laurel,  hastening  upward,  met 


102 


The  New  Hunting. 


Mr.  Putnam  in  the  doorway.  Across 
the  room,  from  Tommy's  seat  in  the 
front  row  to  her  desk,  stretched  a  long 
procession  of  legless  grasshoppers,  living 
but  helpless,  bisected  earthworms,  and 
dehorned  pinching  bugs. 

Miss  Laurel's  pleading  eyes  met  Mr. 
Putnam's  stern  ones.  "  Wh — what  does 
this  mean  ?  "  she  gasped. 

"  As  nearly  as  I  can  gather,"  he  re- 
plied, "  Bud  Dolan  and  the  angelic  Tom- 
my have  fallen  out  and  had  a  fight. 
Unfortunately,  Tommy  was  the  victor, 
and  this  is  Bud's  revenge.  Bud,  it 
seems,  is  weary  of  having  Tommy  ex- 
alted and  himself  abased,  and  he  has 
taken  this  unique  method  of  revealing 
the  young  villain  in  his  true  colors.  A 
fine  collection  for  the  president  of  such 
an  organization,  is  it  not  ?  And  an  op- 
portune moment  for  their  exhibition  ! 
Those  people  downstairs  will  be  up  here 
presently." 

His  tones  cut  like  a  knife,  and  Miss 
Laurel's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Amiable 
as  she  was,  a  swift  suspicion  of  the  in- 
stigator of  Bud's  activity  had  flashed 
through  her  mind,  but  this,  of  course, 
she  could  not  voice.  With  a  distinctly 
feminine  shiver  at  the  approach  of  an 
unusually  active  pinching  bug,  she  drew 
back  into  the  hall,  her  pleading  blue  eyes 
fixed  on  Mr.  Putnam's  impassive  face. 

"  I  '11  send  up  the  janitor  at  once  to 
take  them  away,"  said  the  Principal, 
softening  visibly  in  Miss  Henrietta's  ab- 
sence. 

"  And  Tommy  " — she  faltered.  "  You 
know  my  recitation  will  be  nothing  with- 
out him.  Could  n't  you  —  could  n't  you 
punish  him  afterwards  ?  " 

"It  has  been  my  plan,"  explained  Miss 
Laurel  half  an  hour  later  to  her  visitors, 
"  to  write  every  week  a  little  nature  story 
which  I  have  some  one  of  the  children  tell 
to  the  others.  Each  has  his  turn,  and  this 
morning,  Thomas  Owen,  president  of  our 
little  club,  will  tell  the  story  of  the  little 
starfishes." 

"  One   time,"   began  Tommy   in  his 


sweet,  piping  little  voice,  at  the  same 
time  taking  a  dried  starfish  from  Miss 
Laurel's  table. 

"  One  minute,  Tommy.  It  is  not  our 
plan,"  explained  Miss  Laurel  to  her 
visitors,  "  to  use  dead  specimens  in  our 
work  ;  indeed,  we  are  opposed  to  the  use 
of  specimens  at  all.  Rather  will  we 
roam  the  fields  and  see  the  little  animals, 
unfrightened  and  happy,  in  their  homes. 
But  it  is  necessary,  as  well,  that  the  chil- 
dren should  know  something  of  the  trea- 
sures of  the  great  deep,  and  as  it  is 
manifestly  impossible  to  procure  a  living 
starfish,  I  have,  for  one  time,  violated 
my  rule,  and  brought  this  specimen.  Go 
on,  dear." 

"  One  time,"  repeated  Tommy,  his 
eyes,  which  had  been  resting  during  this 
interlude,  with  deep  meaning,  on  a  boy  in 
the  front  row,  now  turned  to  the  visitors 
with  a  look  of  angelic  sweetness  in  their 
clear  gray  depths,  —  "  one  time  a  little 
starfish  laid  some  tiny  eggs  in  the  white 
sea  sand,  and  then  hovered  over  them, 
watching  lest  some  danger  should  threat- 
en them.  One  day  the  eggs  opened, 
and  some  strange  little  creatures  that 
looked  much  like  the  eggs  themselves 
came  out.  They  moved  about  in  the  blue 
water  with  their  pretty  star  mother,  and 
at  night  they  saw,  far  above,  many  other 
stars  like  their  mother,  only  far  more 
bright,  in  what  seemed  like  another  blue 
ocean. 

"  How  beautiful  these  stars  were ! 
Why  could  not  they,  too,  be  stars  ?  They 
became  discontented  as  they  thought 
about  it.  But  their  star  mother  said, 
'  Do  not  have  such  thoughts ;  the  way 
to  grow  beautiful  is  to  think  beautiful 
thoughts.'  Then  the  little  ones  stopped 
thinking  of  themselves.  They  thought 
of  the  beautiful  things  about  them,  —  the 
coral  branches  bearing  flower-like  pol- 
yps ;  the  sea  flower  whose  hues  seemed 
to  grow  more  lovely  as  they  watched  it ; 
and  the  pearly  shells  that  lay  all  about 
on  the  shining  sand.  The  golden  sun 
gilded  the  waves  above  them,  and  at 


The  New  Hunting. 


103 


night  the  heavenly  stars  seemed  to  smile 
upon  them,  for  now  they  were  not  dis- 
contented as  they  watched  their  mother 
and  these  brighter  stars. 

"  And  all  the  time  the  loving  Father 
of  all  had  not  forgotten  for  one  instant 
these  little  creatures  ;  and  one  night  the 
stars  above  shone  down  through  the 
waves  on  the  mother  star  and  some  tiny 
stars  that  moved  happily  beside  her." 

"  And  what  does  this  lesson  teach  you, 
Tommy  ?  "  asked  Miss  Laurel  sweetly. 

"  The  lesson  of  aspiration  ;  that  by 
continually  striving  we  may  at  last  at- 
tain." 

The  visitors,  properly  impressed,  had 
no  suspicion  of  why  Tommy  was  at  once 
excused  to  Mr.  Putnam's  office.  Neither, 
of  course,  could  they  know  what  occurred 
there ;  but  Miss  Henrietta  did,  and  re- 
joiced thereat. 

But  worse  was  to  happen  that  same 
day,  for,  unexpectedly,  another  delega- 
tion of  teachers  came  in,  and  Tommy, 
restored  again  to  the  seat  of  honor  in  the 
front  row,  was  the  principal  object  of 
interest  to  the  visitors.  The  Superin- 
tendent of  the  visiting  school,  an  ardent 
ornithologist,  and  therefore  intensely 
interested  in  the  Hast  Thou  Named 
All  The  Birds  Without  A  Gun  Club, 
not  only  listened  to  the  recitations,  but 
himself  told  the  children  of  a  little  bird 
he  had  seen  that  afternoon,  a  very  lit-tle 
bir-rd  which  he  had  seen  from  the  win- 
dows of  the  inter-urban  as  he  came  over, 
flitting  happily  about  from  fence  post  to 
tree.  It  was  a  lit-tle  bir-rd,  the  crown 
of  its  head  slate  color,  bordered  by  a 
white  line,  its  throat  was  yellow,  the 
back  of  its  wings  and  tail  were  a  black- 
ish olive,  there  was  a  large  white  patch 
on  its  wings,  and  the  middle  of  its  tail 
quills  were  white.  How  many  lit-tle 
boys  and  gir-rls  of  this  class  could  tell 
him,  he  wondered,  what  might  be  its 
name. 

Miss  Laurel  eyed  her  class  anxiously. 

"  A  canary,"  piped  one  small  voice. 

"No  —  no  "  — 


"  An  oriole,"  ventured  another. 

"  No  —  no  —  not  an  oriole,  not  a 
canary.  What  would  a  lit-tle  caged 
canary  be  doing  out  in  the  wide  free 
fields  and  woods  ?  No,  no,  little  ones," 
he  continued  benevolently.  "  Now,  who 
is  going  to  answer  my  question  correctly  ? 
A  lit-tle  yellow  and  black  bir-rd,  a  large 
white  patch  on  its  wings,  the  middle  of 
its  tail  quills  white —  Ah,  I  thought 
so  !  Here  is  a  lit-tle  hand !  Who,  of 
course,  can  answer  my  question,  if  not 
the  president  of  this  club  of  which  we 
have  heard  so  often  ?  Rise,  lit-tle  boy, 
and  let  me  hear  your  reply  to  this  ques- 
tion. But  first,  step  out  here,  my  lit-tle 
fellow,  and  let  us  hear  you  repeat  the 
poem  which  has  given  its  name  to  the 
club." 

Tommy,  his  beautiful  gray  eyes  fixed 
on  the  visitors,  his  sweet  little  innocent 
voice,  pure  music,  recited  the  poem  on 
which  Miss  Laurel  had  been  drilling  him 
ever  since  the  organization  of  the  club :  — 

"  Hast  thou  named  all  the  birds  without  a 
gun? 

Loved  the  woodrose  and  left  it  on  its  stalk  ? 

At  rich  men's  tables  eaten  bread  and  pulse  ? 

Unarmed,  faced  danger  with  a  heart  of  trust  ? 

And  loved  so  well  a  high  behavior 

In  man  or  maid,  that  thou  from  speech  re- 
frained 

Nobility  more  nobly  to  repay  ? 

0  be  my  friend  and  teach  me  to  be  thine !  " 

"  Good,  very  good  !  Beautifully  and 
feelingly  spoken  !  Recited  as  though  he 
meant  it."  The  Superintendent  nodded 
to  his  teachers,  while  Miss  Laurel  smiled 
happily.  "  And  now,  my  lit-tle  fellow 
—  Thomas  ?  yes  ?  Thomas,  let  us  hear 
the  name  of  the  bird  which  I  have  de- 
scribed to  you.  Without  a  doubt,  you 
can  name  it  correctly." 

"It 's  a  Magnolia  Warbler." 
"  Correct,  my  lit-tle  fellow,  correct.  I 
knew  we  should  get  an  answer.  And 
now,  wait  a  bit,"  as  Tommy,  who  had 
returned  from  the  platform,  prepared 
to  take  his  seat.  "  One  more  ques- 
tion: tell  us  where  and  how  you  came 
to  know  this  lit-tle  woodland  creature 


104 


The  New  Hunting. 


—  on  what  one  of  your  pleasant  strolls 
through  — through  field  and  grove  you 
saw  him  flitting  from  bough  to  bough." 

"  'T  was  n't  on  no  walk,"  replied 
Tommy,  rules  of  grammar  forgotten 
in  his  contempt  for  such  guilelessness. 
"  'T  was  yesterdevening  in  our  yard.  I 
swatted  him  with  my  sling-shot,  I  did, 
and  Miss  Tuck  she  come  along  just  then 
and  told  me  his  name." 

No  amount  of  optimism  and  soulful- 
ness  could  lift  Miss  Laurel  from  the 
depths  into  which  this  incident  plunged 
her,  but  somehow  the  days  dragged  on 
until  the  Thomas  Jefferson  School  picnic, 
which  took  place  on  the  last  Saturday 
before  the  close  of  the  term. 

She  must  attend  this,  of  course,  and 
so  must  Tommy,  who,  though  deposed 
from  his  high  office  of  president  of  the 
Hast  Thou  Named  All  The  Birds 
Without  A  Gun  Club,  showed  surpris- 
ingly little  feeling  over  his  disgrace  and 
that  which  he  had  brought  on  his  room 
and  his  teacher. 

It  was  a  beautiful  June  day,  just  warm 
enough  to  make  the  shelter  of  the  forest 
trees  agreeable.  The  picnic  was  held  in 
a  park  recently  added  to  the  city,  a  large 
part  of  which  was  still  uncultivated  wood- 
land. Naturally  the  children  liked  this 
best,  for  it  was  "  real  woods,"  and  they 
found  its  rough  state  much  more  delight- 
ful than  the  smooth  shaven  parks  so  like 
their  own  city  lawns. 

The  teachers  too,  so  nearly  freed  from 
the  winter's  slavery,  rejoiced,  and  sat 
about  after  luncheon  was  eaten,  talking 
together  and  paying  as  little  attention  as 
possible  to  their  young  charges,  who  scam- 
pered here  and  there,  playing  wood  tag 
and  hide  and  go  seek. 

All  were  happy,  —  that  is,  all  but  Miss 
Laurel,  who  sat  alone  on  a  great  log,  a 
volume  of  Wordsworth  in  her  plump 
white  hands.  Wordsworth  was  a  nature 
poet,  and  Miss  Laurel  should  have  been 
reveling  in  his  cloud  of  golden  daffodils 
and  other  poems  on  nature's  pure  de- 
lights. Instead,  however,  she  was  using 


the  book  as  a  blind,  as  a  pretense  of  be- 
ing occupied. 

In  what  other  way  could  she  occupy 
herself  when  Mr.  Putnam,  who  had  been 
freezingly  polite  and  very  distant  to  her 
ever  since  the,  to  Henrietta  ridiculous,  to 
her  heartbreaking,  episode  of  Tommy 
and  the  bird,  was  absorbingly  engaged 
with  Miss  Henrietta  ?  They  had  come 
out  to  Eden  Park  together,  they  had 
eaten  their  lunch  together,  or,  rather,  he 
had  eaten  with  Miss  Henrietta  the  lunch 
provided  by  her,  and  together  they  had 
been  spending  the  afternoon,  gathering 
flowei-s,  analyzing  them,  prodding  the 
shallows  of  the  little  brook  to  stir  up  pol- 
liwogs  and  minnows  for  the  entertain- 
ment of  the  children,  always  entirely 
neglecting  and  ignoring  her. 

Mr.  Putnam  had  felt  himself  and  his 
whole  school  disgraced  by  the  New  Hunt- 
ing episode,  for  he  had  himself  made 
much  of  the  club,  and  Miss  Henrietta 
had  endeavored  to  make  him  feel  the 
disgrace  as  keenly  as  possible.  He  re- 
proached himself  for  his  weakness  in 
allowing  Miss  Laurel's  feminine  attrac- 
tiveness to  lure  him  from  the  paths  of 
duty  ;  had  he  not  been  unduly  influenced 
by  her  blue  eyes,  the  tragedy  would  never 
have  happened.  Hardening  his  heart, 
he  devoted  himself  to  Miss  Henrietta, 
who  was  only  too  glad  to  accept  his  at- 
tentions and  snub  her  colleague. 

Miss  Laurel  had  worn  a  pretty  gown 
to  the  picnic,  a  light  blue  muslin  with 
much  lace  trimming  and  many  billowy 
little  ruffles.  It  was  very  becoming,  as 
was  also  the  big  hat  with  the  forget-me- 
not  garland,  and  the  white  parasol, 
but  was  as  inappropriate  a  costume  for 
such  an  occasion  as  Miss  Henrietta's  shirt 
waist  and  short  skirt  were  sensible.  Miss 
Henrietta  could  tramp  about  in  the  tall 
weeds  and  wade  along  the  edge  of  the 
brook  without  fear  of  soiling  her  clothes, 
and  it  did  not  seem  to  matter  at  all  to 
Mr.  Putnam  that  she  looked  square  and 
stumpy,  and  that  stray  locks  of  straight 
hair  hung  down  about  her  ears  and  neck. 


Singapore. 


105 


Of  these  things  Miss  Laurel  was  think- 
ing dejectedly,  so  dejectedly  and  ab- 
sorbedly  that  at  first  she  scarcely  no- 
ticed something  touch  her  foot.  At  a 
second  touch,  however,  and  the  sensa- 
tion of  a  heavy  body  resting  there,  she 
looked  up  from  the  page  to  gaze  straight 
into  the  beady  eyes  of  what  seemed  to 
her  an  immense  snake. 

At  her  scream,  everybody  turned  to 
see  what  was  the  matter,  but  no  one  was 
near  enough  to  go  to  her  help.  Nobody, 
that  is,  except  Tommy,  who,  concealed 
behind  a  tree  near  by  in  his  game  of  hide 
and  go  seek,  heard  her  agonized  cry  for 
help.  Tommy,  though  devoid  of  soul, 
possessed  some  slight  traces  of  affection, 
and  an  exceptionally  well  -  developed 
memory.  He  remembered  that  it  was 
Mr.  Putnam  and  Miss  Henrietta  who  had 
trounced  him,  and  what  heart  he  had 
was  tender  toward  Miss  Laurel,  who  had 
merely  shed  some  senseless  tears,  and 
had  relieved  him  of  the  presidency  of 
that  miserable  club.  And  so,  seizing  a 
fallen  branch  that  lay  at  hand,  he  rushed 
to  the  rescue. 

"  Don't  move,  teacher ;  I  '11  kill  him  ! " 
And  thwack,  down  on  the  serpent's  body 
descended  Thomas's  mighty  blows. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  other  members 
of  the  party  were  gathered  about  them, 
and  the  deposed  president  of  the  Hast 


Thou  Named  All  The  Birds  Without  A 
Gun  Club  was  receiving  congratulations 
on  the  promptness  and  efficiency  with 
which  he  had  performed  the  act  he  had 
been  trained  not  to  do.  All  were  inter- 
ested equally  in  Tommy  and  the  snake, 
which  was  really  a  remarkably  large 
specimen  of  the  Coluber  Constrictor. 
Miss  Henrietta  was  already  on  her  knees 
beside  it,  scolding  Tommy  for  having 
thwacked  it  with  such  unnecessary  vigor 
as  to  spoil  its  skin  for  mounting,  explain- 
ing the  arrangement  of  the  scales,  and 
exhibiting  its  forked  tongue  to  the  chil- 
dren. Mr.  Putnam's  eyes,  however,  were 
on  Miss  Laurel's  pale  face.  They  must 
have  said  much,  for  in  another  minute 
vivid  blushes  had  chased  away  the  pallor, 
and  Miss  Laurel,  obeying  his  look,  had 
risen  and  stepped  toward  him. 

Miss  Henrietta,  looking  up  a  few  min- 
utes later,  saw  the  blue  muslin  ruffles 
trailing  off  over  the  grass  beside  Mr.  Put- 
nam, who  was  carrying  the  closed  white 
parasol  over  his  shoulder.  The  little 
blue  volume  of  Wordsworth  lay  forgot- 
ten on  the  log.  She  followed  them  with 
her  eyes  until  they  disappeared  among 
the  shadows  of  the  trees,  and  then,  sneer- 
ing savagely,  returned  to  her  specimen. 
It  was  the  triumph  of  "  spirit "  over 
science,  and  on  Miss  Henrietta's  shoul- 
ders lay  the  dust  of  defeat. 

Kate  Milner  Rabb. 


SINGAPORE. 


THE  equator  burns  its  course  through 
the  Indian  Ocean,  belts  a  path  across  Su- 
matra, strikes  east  again  into  the  sea,  — 
and  just  here  Asia  ends,  and  finishes  with 
a  period.  •  This  is  the  island  and  town  of 
Singapore. 

There  is  an  hotel  in  Singapore  the 
town,  where  you  can  sit  and  watch  the 
ships  of  all  the  world  go  by.  And  that 
means  steamers  with  red  funnels,  and 


freighters  with  black  ones,  and  yachts 
that  quiver  white  in  the  sunlight,  and 
men-of-war  that  stare  a  sullen  gray.  It 
means  white-winged  sailing  ships,  and 
junks  that  creak  a  flap  of  burnished 
brown,  and  myriads  of  tiny  paddling 
craft  that  fret  the  water  with  their  cease- 
less motion.  It  means  everything,  in 
fact,  that  drives  upon  the  sea  as  the  great 
highway. 


106 


Singapore. 


You  can  even  sit  at  your  table  and  see 
all  this  if  you  face  the  right  way,  for  the 
sea  swims  off  blue  through  all  the  wide 
doors  and  openings.  The  room  that  you 
sit  in  is  huge  and  white  and  cool.  It  is 
of  white  marble  or  white  plaster,  or  any- 
way, of  whatever  it  is,  the  color  is  white, 
so  the  effect  is  the  same.  There  are  big 
pillars  and  a  high  sort  of  dome  that  ends 
in  a  skylight,  and  to  most  of  the  pillars 
are  fastened  whirring  electric  fans.  And 
so  you  sit  and  are  comforted  by  the  cool 
whiteness  about  you  and  the  cool  whir- 
ring above  you. 

If  you  go  outside  you  can  take  a  rick- 
shaw or  a  gharry,  —  if  you  are  wise,  a 
gharry.  They  rattle  furiously,  and  the 
seats  are  hard,  but  the  roof  is  thick,  and 
there  are  shutters  that  pull  up  all  the 
way  round.  The  gharry  pony  is  a  wee 
troublesome  beast.  Sometimes  he  balks 
rigid  in  the  roadway,  and  the  gharry 
rolls  over  him  and  he  is  lost.  Some- 
times he  kicks  and  plunges  on  both  sides 
of  the  road  at  once,  and  speaks  clamor- 
ously to  the  passers-by.  Oftener  the 
gharry-syce  runs  at  his  head  and  stuffs 
him  with  bright  green  grass,  and  this  en- 
courages him  to  go  forward. 

At  first,  you  sit  and  blink  at  the  hard 
sunlight  and  the  clouds  of  fine  red  dust 
that  choke  your  lungs.  Gradually  you 
make  out  the  red  road  unwinding  be- 
fore you  and  the  hedges  covered  with  red 
dust.  Then  you  see  other  gharries  pass- 
ing, and  rickshaws,  and  high  English 
carts  with  red-faced  men  and  white-faced 
women.  You  see  victorias  roll  by  with 
much  be-liveried  servants  and  a  heavy 
rattling  of  chains,  and  every  time  you 
look  you  see  a  sleek  Chinaman  lolling  on 
his  cushions,  with  a  wide  alpine  hat  and 
a  fat  cigar. 

You  see  Sikh  policemen  in  khaki  knick- 
erbockers and  red  turbans,  standing  in 
the  streets  or  marching  past  in  squads. 
Not  so  readily  you  spy  government  peons, 
Tamils,  and  Malays,  in  white  duck  with 
bands  of  red  across  their  breasts,  and 
pancake  hats  of  red  and  yellow. 


There  are  quantities  of  creatures  pass- 
ing you  continually  whom  you  seldom 
notice.  They  are  more  or  less  the  color 
of  the  road,  and  their  sarongs  and  loin- 
cloths have  been  burned  to  almost  the 
color  of  their  wearers.  Sometimes  there 
is  a  flash  of  green  or  orange  past  your 
window,  and  you  look  and  shudder  at 
the  rings  and  buttons  screwed  into  ugly 
noses.  These  are  Tamil  women  ;  they 
are  bold  and  black,  and  stride  along 
chewing  betel,  which  leaks  red  out  of 
the  corners  of  their  mouths.  The  Ma- 
lay women  you  rarely  see,  for  their  sa- 
rongs seem  always  dun-colored  or  dust- 
colored,  like  the  feathers  of  timid  birds. 
They  hood  their  heads  and  slip  by  un- 
noticed, —  but  if  you  knew,  you  would 
catch  a  corner  down  and  round  eyes 
staring  at  you. 

If  Sikh  women  or  Bengali  chance  to 
pass,  you  stare  after  them  out  of  the  back 
of  the  gharry ;  but  this  is  not  often. 
They  look  like  beautiful  tropical  birds, 
and  their  plumage  is  green  and  saffron 
and  flame-color.  They  step  daintily  like 
birds,  and  their  slender  legs  are  bound 
tight  with  coral  or  pale  lemon.  Their 
ankles  ring  with  heavy  silver  bracelets, 
and  it  was  the  clashing  of  the  chains 
about  their  throats  that  made  you  look. 

You  never  look  at  the  Chinese  in  the 
roads.  They  are  ugly  creatures,  —  coo- 
lie women  with  blue,  wide-flapping  trou- 
sers, and  men  with  bare  backs  burned  a 
dirty  yellow.  They  swing  by  with  heavy 
burdens,  heads  down,  muttering  a  heavy 
sort  of  chant. 

These,  then,  are  the  roadway  people, 
whose  naked  feet  leave  patterns  "in  the 
thick  red  dust.  There  are  thousands  of 
them,  and  their  twitterings  sink  un- 
heeded in  the  vast  low  hum  of  Singa- 
pore. 

There  are  other  people  whom  you 
cannot  fail  to  see.  They  reign  in  the 
hotels  and  shops,  and  fill  gharries  and 
I'ickshaws,  and  sometimes  dogcarts. 
If  you  meet  them  on  foot  they  are  apt 
to  jostle  you  and  stare  rudely.  They 


Singapore. 


107 


dress  like  Europeans,  only  more  so,  and 
they  love  pink  and  brightest  blue. 
Some  of  them  are  ash-color,  some  are 
yellow,  and  all  of  them  are  sallow  and 
unhealthy-looking.  These  are  the  Eura- 
sians. All  the  people  you  cannot  quite 
place  are  sure  to  belong  to  them,  —  the 
foreign-looking  people  in  high  traps,  and 
the  frouzy,  wretched  women  who  wear 
cotton  wrappers  on  their  front  door- 
steps. 

But  these  are  the  people  of  Singapore  ; 
besides,  there  are  things,  —  buildings  and 
bridges,  and  a  dirty  little  river  crammed 
with  boats.  There  are  long  red  roads 
with  avenues  of  bright  green  trees  that 
meet  overhead.  There  are  private 
houses  in  deep  tangled  gardens,  and 
cottages  called  villas  staring  on  the  open 
street.  There  are  polo  grounds  with 
lathered  horses  and  dripping  sun-burned 
men,  and  golf  links  and  tennis  courts 
with  heated  women.  There  are  bar- 
racks for  the  regiment,  and  deep-browed 
bungalows  for  the  officers.  There  is  a 
wide-spi-eading  garden  rustling  with  rare 
plant  life,  and  in  one  corner  a  dark 
nook  of  transplanted  jungle,  —  birds  and 
beasts  just  trapped,  and  a  restless  yawn- 
ing tiger  striped  and  shining. 

Then  there  is  Government  House,  in 
a  big  park  that  might  be  England.  Par- 
ticularly in  the  evening,  when  the  road 
winds  through  a  bit  of  meadow  land 
with  low  mists  rising,  like  English  mists, 
only  more  unhealthy,  —  and  just  beyond 
where  you  startle  three  deer.  But  the 
view  from  the  top  is  not  English.  That 
is  of  the  East,  with  its  stretch  of  shining 
sea  lying  hot  and  languid.  And  the  green 
islands,  green  the  year  round,  they  are 
not  English.  Nor  is  the  blur  of  spread- 
ing brown  roofs,  nor  the  slow  droning 
hum  that  rises  above  the  heat  and  the  red 
dust.  Nor  again,  when  a  breeze  puffs 
that  way,  is  the  sickish,  heavy,  clinging 
breath  a  Western  breath. 

The  signal  station  waves  its  gaunt  arms 
just  beyond,  and  on  the  bare  beams 
ripples  a  speech  that  East  and  West 


may  read.  A  speech  of  colors  that 
light  and  hover  on  the  naked  mast  like 
fluttering  butterflies  in  sunlight,  and 
spell  in  symbol  the  passing  word. 

There  are  many  turns  to  the  winding 
roads  of  Singapore.  They  stretch  under 
avenues  of  branching  trees,  and  the  air 
is  still  and  heavy  with  perfume,  and  the 
horses  step  on  limp,  wide-flaring  blos- 
soms. They  spread  hot  and  glaring  to 
the  water  front  that  reeks  of  brine  and 
rotting  wood.  Fragrant  and  shaded 
again,  they  draw  into  villas  and  cottages. 
Then  out  they  run  between  two  lines  of 
marching  palms  to  the  island's  rim,  with 
Johore  across  the  way. 

There  are  other  places  not  so  nice. 
One  long  road  of  dust  and  flat-faced 
houses.  You  bend  low  when  you  enter, 
and  even  then  your  head  is  brushed  by 
dangling  shabby  coats  and  cast-off  finery. 
And  in  the  dim  corners  are  cases  filled 
with  the  glitter  of  pawned  gold  and 
the  trinkets  of  half  the  world  grown 
desperate.  This  road  winds  narrow  into 
other  streets,  wretched  streets  where  a 
noisy,  reeling  life  washes  night  and  day. 
Heavy,  helpless,  heated  ways  where  the 
final  misery  of  the  world  drifts  in.  No 
green  shows  here,  only  the  trodden  red 
road  and  the  stare  of  blistered  house 
fronts. 

There  is  yet  another  part  of  Singa- 
pore. You  sit  on  a  wide  veranda  that 
leans  an  elbow  in  the  street,  and  smoke 
and  drink  and  stare  at  the  people  going 
past,  —  and  time  curls  away.  There 
is  a  thin  gray  mist  in  the  air,  and  the 
harbor  is  of  glass.  The  boats  float  in 
slowly  like  dreams,  and  the  mist  drifts 
out  to  sea. 

You  do  not  want  to  move,  —  never. 
Perhaps  you  cannot ;  you  wonder  about 
it  languidly.  The  big,  hot,  open  play- 
ground is  just  across  the  way.  And 
everywhere  is  a  swimming  together  of 
much  green,  —  heavy,  motionless  lettuce- 
green.  The  road  looks  hot,  and  passing 
traps  raise  great  clouds  of  the  eternal 
red  dust.  You  stare  after  them  lazily 


108 


Singapore. 


and  watch  them  out  of  sight.     You  can 
do  this  without  moving. 

And  .also  without  moving  you  can  see 
a  great  blur  of  red  in  the  midst  of  the 
trees.  You  have  been  speculating  about 
it  idly  for  the  last  hour  or  so.  The 
ground  under  it  looks  like  spilled  blood, 
and  every  few  minutes  the  air  about 
it  dims  with  falling  red.  It  looks  very 
hot  and  striking  in  the  great  smear 
of  green.  Sleepily  it  pleases  you,  and 
you  wonder  what  manner  of  tree,  or 
bush,  or  beast  it  is. 

Down  the  same  way  is  the  big,  yellow, 
sun-bleached  cathedral.  Bits  of  it  are 
sticking  through  the  trees.  It  looks  un- 
Eastern  and  out  of  place,  yet  altogether 
rather  nice.  It  seems  to  be  Sunday,  and 
slow  tired  bells  are  telling  people  so. 
The  punkah-pullers  are  jerking  at  their 
ropes  outside.  And  you  actually  find 
yourself  inside,  with  a  high,  slender, 
Gothic  distance  before  you,  and  a  glint 
of  long  blue  windows.  The  walls  and 
arches  look  dim,  and  a  white  punkah  on 
a  very  long  rope  is  swinging  just  above 
your  head. 

There  are  other  punkahs,  all  on  long 
ropes,  and  all  flapping  slowly.  There 
seems  to  be  no  particular  connection  be- 
tween them.  They  flap  and  swing  most 
irregularly,  and  you  watch  and  try  des- 
perately hard  to  fit  them  to  an  even  time. 
You  give  it  up  at  last,  but  the  attempt 
has  got  you  into  a  delicious,  rhythmical 
mood  that  you  vaguely  feel  is  sleep. 
Then  you  do  not  know  anything  very 
clearly.  You  are  conscious  of  a  deep 
throbbing  that  is  probably  the  organ, 
and  of  languid  groups  of  voices  that  fade 
away  before  you  place  them. 

Finally  a  single  voice  speaks,  and  that 
startles  you  for  a  moment  into  listening. 
At  the  same  time  you  become  distinctly 
aware  of  the  Eurasian  school  in  front 
of  you.  They  are  all  of  them  in  white 
with  white  hats,  and  they  look  partic- 
ularly clean.  They  all  have  a  bit  of  blue 
about  them.  Some  have  blue  sashes  with 
scant  bows.  The  smaller  ones  wear 


scarfs  of  blue  across  their  breasts  like 
peons.  Others  have  only  collars  and 
belt  ribbons  of  blue.  You  wonder  why 
they  do  not  choose  different  colors,  —  and 
then  realize  how  much  cheaper  a  single 
one  must  be.  You  look  more  closely  at 
the  big  girl  just  in  front,  and  find  that  she 
is  almost  white  with  tawny  hair.  But 
the  little  one  next  is  as  nearly  black  with 
stiff  straight  hair.  After  that  you  find 
all  shades  and  features,  —  and  speculate 
thoughtfully  on  Eurasians  in  general. 

Your  eyes  wander  farther  and  watch 
curiously  a  jet-black  Tamil  in  white 
duck.  He  seems  tremendously  in  ear- 
nest and  never  misses  a  response.  He 
is  rather  dramatic,  and  stands  with  arms 
impressively  folded.  There  is  a  large 
smattering  of  gay  brunette  ladies  who 
nod  a  great  deal  and  wear  artificial  flow- 
ers and  much  fluttering  ribbon.  They 
sing  with  great  zest,  but  their  voices  are 
not  pleasant ;  they  are  flat  and  shrill,  and 
their  words  round  off  lamely.  They  are 
Eurasians  of  course.  Finally,  you  pick 
out  a  handful  of  Europeans  in  limp,  out- 
of-date  clothes,  and  a  pervading  atmos- 
phere of  mildew  and  camphor. 

Then  your  interest  wanes,  and  the  last 
thing  you  remember  is  the  downward 
swish  of  your  punkah,  and  out  of  an 
opening  a  final  gleam  of  pure  gold  be- 
hind a  cocoanut. 

Afterwards  you  go  home  in  a  rick- 
shaw. Quantities  of  other  rickshaws 
rattle  past  you,  and  the  night  seems  full 
of  double  yellow  lights.  Suddenly  an 
unknown  land  stretches  close  at  hand. 
Lights  have  started  in  the  harbor,  and 
you  marvel  at  their  number.  You  watch 
the  far-away  flickerings  of  sampans  and 
the  beacons  swaying  at  heavy  mast-heads. 
There  are  streets  and  avenues  of  these 
lights,  —  and  unrecorded  constellations. 

A  bugle  call  rings  into  the  shore,  — 
the  last  notes  with  a  breeze  at  their  heels. 
This  is  later,  for  the  call  is  "  lights  out." 
You  are  alone  now  on  your  veranda, 
and  the  night  is  droning  on.  Rickshaws 
roll  past  softly.  Out  in  that  other  night 


Street  Railway  Legislation  in  Illinois. 


109 


a  vagrant  ship  pokes  off  again  into  the 
great  loneliness. 

Far  away  comes  a  crash  of  Chinese 
cymbals,  and  much  nearer  is  the  low, 
broken  whining  of  an  Indian  pipe.  But 
these  sounds  come  far  apart,  are  filled  in 
with  spaces  of  silence,  with  waves  of 
muffled  heavy  darkness. 

Down  the  street  are  the  dim  lamp- 
lighted  tents  of  a  wandering  circus.  At 


the  entrance  is  a  flare  of  smoke  and 
torches,  and  the  sudden  lighting  up  of  na- 
tive faces.  There  is  a  deadened  banging 
and  beating  going  on  inside.  Snatches  of 
it  drift  into  the  listless  night,  —  mirth- 
less, mournful  tunes  of  decades  ago. 

A  heavy,  breathless  night  settles  over 
the  town,  and  beyond  in  the  black  sea 
sink  the  four  great  stars  of  the  Southern 
Cross. 

Elizabeth  W.  H.  Wright. 


STREET  RAILWAY   LEGISLATION  IN   ILLINOIS. 


THE  story  of  the  street  railways  of 
Chicago  illustrates  at  every  point  the 
want  of  foresight  that  has  marked  the 
policy,  or  lack  of  policy,  of  American 
cities  touching  the  public  services  now 
required  by  urban  populations.  Recent 
Illinois  legislation,  due  to  the  Chicago 
street  railway  situation,  is  of  more  than 
local  or  passing  interest.  The  Act  of 
May  18,  1903,  known  during  its  stormy 
passage  through  the  two  houses  of  the 
General  Assembly  as  "  Senate  Bill  No. 
40,"  is  believed  to  be  the  first  general 
legislative  act  in  the  United  States  pro- 
viding for  the  municipal  ownership  of 
street  railways.  Its  final  passage  after 
six  years  of  earnest  effort,  despite  the 
utmost  opposition  of  public  service  cor- 
porations and  their  political  allies,  is  one 
of  the  most  notable  triumphs  of  public 
opinion  within  recent  years. 

The  street  railways  of  Chicago  were 
constructed  and  have  been  maintained 
under  statutes  and  ordinances  enacted 
from  time  to  time  since  1858.  All  stat- 
utes enacted  prior  to  the  State  Constitu- 
tion of  1870,  which  prohibited  such  acts, 
were  special.  By  enactments  of  1859 
and  1861  three  street  railway  corpora- 
tions, for  the  several  natural  divisions 
of  the  city,  were  created,  each  to  have 
corporate  life  for  twenty-five  years.  In 
1865,  by  act  passed  at  the  instance  of 


the  companies,  and  by  means  which  have 
never  been  defended,  over  the  veto  of 
Governor  Oglesby,  their  corporate  life 
was  extended  to  ninety-nine  years. 
They  claim  that  this  act  also  operates 
to  extend  their  rights  in  the  streets  of 
Chicago  for  a  like  period.  The  city 
has  always  protested  against  this  legisla- 
tive disposition  of  its  streets  as  a  viola- 
tion of  the  principle  of  home  rule.  It 
also  contends  that  the  act  violates  the 
State  Constitution  of  1848  in  certain 
particulars. 

There  are  wide  differences  of  view  as 
to  the  scope  of  the  Act  of  1865.  The 
city  contends  that,  if  valid,  it  only  affects 
the  streets  occupied  by  the  companies  at 
the  date  of  its  passage.  This  view  is 
practically  that  of  the  Chicago  City  Rail- 
way Company,  which  occupies  the  south 
division  of  the  city,  and  is  owned  by  local 
capitalists.  This  company  only  claims 
that  about  fifteen  percentage  of  its  mile- 
age, including  important  portions  of  its 
terminals  in  the  centre  of  the  city,  is 
covered  by  the  act.  The  allied  companies 
which  occupy  the  north  and  west  divi- 
sions of  the  city,  and  are  largely  owned 
by  the  Widener-Elkins  syndicate  of  New 
York  and  Philadelphia,  after  accepting 
during  many  years  grants  from  the  city 
for  extensions  and  cross  lines,  strictly 
limited  to  twenty  years,  have  recently 


110 


Street  Railway  Legislation  in  Illinois. 


sought  to  repudiate  all  limitations  in 
favor  of  the  city,  claiming  that  the  Gen- 
eral Assembly  of  1865  really  intended  a 
system  grant,  and  that  every  concession 
since  made  by  the  city  added  so  much 
to  their  ninety-nine-year  possessions. 

The  city,  on  July  30,  1883,  to  set  at 
rest  for  the  time  being  its  controversy 
with  the  companies  over  the  Ninety- 
Nine-Year  Act,  made  a  general  exten- 
sion grant  for  twenty  years  without  pre- 
judice to  the  conflicting  claims  of  the 
parties.  Under  this  and  many  subse- 
quent grants  similarly  limited  for  exten- 
sion and  cross  lines,  the  cable  and  electric 
lines  of  the  companies  have  been  con- 
structed and  operated.  At  no  time  have 
the  companies  operated  any  of  their  lines 
under  the  Ninety-Nine- Year  Act  unsup- 
ported by  city  grants. 

The  state,  by  a  general  act  of  1874, 
provided  for  corporations  to  construct, 
maintain,  and  operate  "  Horse  and  Dum- 
my Railroads."  Under  its  provisions  the 
cities  of  the  state  might  make  grants  of 
rights  in  their  streets  for  terms  not  ex- 
ceeding twenty  years.  This  act,  never 
sufficient  for  the  protection  of  the  public 
and  private  interests  involved,  gradually 
became  more  and  more  inadequate  for 
these  purposes.  With  the  transforma- 
tion of  pioneer  horse  lines  into  costly 
cable  and  electric  systems  having  hun- 
dreds of  miles  of  trackage,  great  power 
plants,  thousands  of  employees,  and  mil- 
lions of  dollars  in  annual  receipts,  the 
need  of  new  legislation  became  more 
and  more  apparent.  However,  the 
growth  of  the  public  service  corporation 
from  small  beginnings  had  been  so 
rapid,  its  corrupting  influence  was  so 
insidious,  and  the  citizens  were  so  occu- 
pied with  their  private  concerns,  that  as 
yet  there  was  no  clearly  defined  public 
policy  to  be  expressed  in  new  legislation. 

The  people  of  Chicago,  while  still 
groping  for  a  policy,  as  long  ago  as  1896 
realized  that  the  employment  of  private 
capital  in  the  conduct  of  the  public  busi- 
ness is  the  direct  cause  of  municipal  mis- 


rule and  the  real  issue  in  municipal 
politics ;  that  the  question  in  every  Ameri- 
can city  is  whether  the  public  authority 
shall  be  exercised  by  the  people  for  pub- 
lic ends,  or  by  allied  public  service  cor- 
porations for  incorporated  greed;  and 
that  it  will  soon  be  determined  whether 
the  city  of  the  people  is  to  become  a  pri- 
vate municipality. 

The  City  Council,  for  oft-repeated  good 
and  valuable  considerations,  had  long 
been  a  corporate  possession  of  the  street 
railways  and  their  allied  corporate  inter- 
ests. With  the  first  attempt  of  the  people 
to  recover  possession  of  the  legislative 
authority  of  the  city,  these  interests  took 
alarm.  Under  cover  of  the  exciting  na- 
tional campaign  of  1896  they  in  advance 
acquired  title  to  the  incoming  Govern- 
or and  General  Assembly  of  the  state. 
Early  in  the  legislative  session  of  1897, 
the  street  railway  companies  caused  to 
be  introduced  into  both  houses  of  the 
General  Assembly  a  bill  to  extend  for 
fifty  years  their  disputed  rights  in  the 
streets  of  Chicago,  in  wanton  disregard 
of  public  interests.  This  bill  promptly 
passed  the  Senate  by  a  large  majority. 
It  was  bitterly  opposed  by  the  people 
and  press  of  Chicago,  and  was  finally 
defeated  in  the  House.  The  companies 
thereupon  caused  to  be  introduced  and 
passed  a  simple  measure  authorizing  the 
several  cities  of  the  state  to  make  grants 
to  street  railway  companies  for  periods 
not  exceeding  fifty  years. 

The  Act  of  1897  operated  to  extend 
the  term  for  which  franchise  grants 
might  be  made  by  municipalities  from 
twenty  to  fifty  years.  It  was  passed  by 
means  that  disgraced  the  state,  and 
aroused  bitter  feeling  from  Chicago  to 
Cairo.  How  keenly  the  people  of  Illi- 
nois resented  this  debauchery  of  their 
state  government  was  shown  a  year  and  a 
half  later,  at  the  next  election  of  members 
of  the  General  Assembly.  Of  sixteen 
retiring  senators  who  voted  for  the  ob- 
noxious measure  of  1897  but  two  were 
reflected ;  and  of  the  eighty-two  represen- 


Street  Railway  Legislation  in  Illinois. 


Ill 


tatives  who  so  voted  but  fourteen  secured 
reelection.  There  was,  perhaps,  never 
such  a  slaughter  of  state  legislators.  The 
memory  of  the  tragedy  of  1898  still 
haunts  the  corridors  of  the  state  capitol 
at  Springfield.  Indeed,  since  that  mem- 
orable election  the  General  Assembly  of 
Illinois  has  dealt  with  much  fear  and 
trembling  with  the  subject  of  street  rail- 
way legislation.  At  its  next  session,  by 
unanimous  vote  in  the  House,  it  repealed 
the  Act  of  1897,  and  restored  the  former 
statute.  The  Governor  who  signed  the 
obnoxious  measure  of  two  years  before 
gave  his  official  sanction  to  the  new  act 
restoring  the  situation.  Meantime  the 
street  railway  companies,  which  for  two 
years  had  vainly  sought  fifty-year  exten- 
sions from  the  City  Council  of  Chicago, 
stood  idly  by,  unable  to  avert  the  bitter 
humiliation  of  utter  defeat. 

Thus  closes  the  first  chapter  of  the 
story  of  recent  street  railway  legislation 
in  Illinois.  Pending  the  struggle  above 
outlined,  an  affirmative  public  policy  for 
the  better  control  of  street  railways  was 
taking  form  in  Chicago.  Leaders  in  the 
movement  for  the  protection  of  public 
interests  had  framed  a  comprehensive 
bill  looking  to  public  control  and  possible 
public  ownership,  which  they  offered  at 
the  legislative  session  of  1899.  How- 
ever, public  opinion  was  not  yet  ripe  for 
constructive  legislation  in  the  public  in- 
terest ;  and  the  General  Assembly,  al- 
most entirely  composed  of  new  members, 
was  afraid  to  experiment  with  so  dan- 
gerous a  subject. 

The  movement  to  make  the  City  Coun- 
cil representative  of  public  interests  had 
so  far  succeeded,  that  from  the  year  1900 
its  able  Committee  on  Local  Transporta- 
tion properly  assumed  the  leadership  on 
behalf  of  Chicago  in  the  effort  to  secure 
adequate  street  railway  legislation.  The 
committee,  having  made  an  extensive 
study  of  the  conditions,  submitted  to  the 
General  Assembly  of  1901  a  compre- 
hensive bill  for  a  general  street  railway 
law.  It  was  assumed  by  the  framers  of 


this  measure  that  local  transportation 
should  be  treated  as  a  monopoly  ;  that, 
while  conducted  by  the  public  service 
corporation,  it  should  be  subjected  to 
strict  public  control ;  and  that  the  right 
of  municipal  ownership  should  be  re- 
served and  safeguarded.  The  bill,  drawn 
on  these  lines,  although  ably  supported 
by  the  Council  Committee  at  Springfield, 
was  strangled  in  the  House  Committee 
to  which  it  was  referred.  After  re- 
peated public  hearings  this  committee 
simply  failed  to  report.  The  bill  was 
not  relished  by  certain  of  the  street  rail- 
way interests ;  and  it  is  believed  that  the 
inaction  of  the  House  was  not  solely  due 
to  legislative  timidity. 

Two  years  now  quickly  passed,  during 
which  the  struggle  on  behalf  of  public 
interests  steadily  gained  ground  in  Chi- 
cago. The  general  extension  ordinance 
of  1883  was  to  expire  on  July  30,  1903. 
In  the  spring  of  1902,  under  a  recent 
act  permitting  the  submission  of  public 
questions  to  popular  vote,  the  electors  of 
the  city,  by  a  majority  of  about  five  to 
one,  expressed  their  opinion  in  favor  of 
the  municipal  ownership  of  the  street 
railways.  However,  as  many  grants  of 
particular  streets  made  at  different  times 
to  the  companies  will  not  expire  for  sev- 
eral years,  and  the  city  is  not  in  financial 
condition  for  so  great  a  purchase,  early 
municipal  ownership  is  impracticable 
even  if  desirable.  The  popular  vote  of 
1902  favoring  it  must  be  regarded  as  an 
expression  of  hostility  to  the  street  rail- 
way companies  rather  than  as  a  demand 
for  immediate  municipal  ownership. 

The  failure  of  the  comprehensive 
street  railway  bills  of  1899  and  1901, 
and  the  conservative  attitude  of  leading 
country  members  to  legislation  uniformly 
branded  "  socialistic  "  by  the  owners  of 
the  securities  of  public  service  corpora- 
tions, led  the  Committee  on  Local  Trans- 
portation of  the  City  Council  of  Chicago 
and  its  supporters  to  propose  a  more 
simple  measure  at  the  session  of  the 
General  Assembly  of  1903.  The  end 


112 


Street  Railway  Legislation  in  Illinois. 


sought  was  to  reverse  existing  conditions, 
and  place  the  city,  instead  of  the  com- 
panies, in  control  of  the  situation.  To 
accomplish  this,  it  was  deemed  necessary 
to  obtain  for  the  city  power  to  acquire, 
own,  and  operate  its  street  railways. 
Hence  there  arose,  prior  to  the  opening 
of  the  session,  a  wide  demand  for  ena- 
bling legislation  as  a  condition  precedent 
to  the  further  extension  of  the  expiring 
franchises  of  the  street  railway  compa- 
nies. Bills  to  empower  the  cities  of  Illi- 
nois to  acquire  street  railways,  and  to  re- 
serve the  right  of  municipal  acquisition 
in  franchise  grants,  were  promptly  offered 
by  the  Council  Committee  and  others. 

It  was  known  prior  to  the  organization 
of  the  House  that  the  effort  to  pass  such 
a  measure  would  be  the  chief  feature  of 
the  session.  The  Governor,  represent- 
ing the  spoils  faction  of  his  party,  of 
course  desired  to  have  his  supporters 
control  the  House.  The  party  boss  of 
Chicago,  Mr.  William  C.  Lorimer,  for 
purposes  of  "  politics "  wished  to  pos- 
sess the  House.  The  editor  of  the  In- 
ter-Ocean, Mr.  George  W.  Hinman,  — 
brought  from  New  York  by  Mr.  Charles 
T.  Yerkes  when  he  purchased  that  stal- 
wart party  organ  and  made  it  the  avowed 
champion  of  the  street  railway  corpora- 
tions, —  had,  in  his  capacity  of  organ 
grinder,  acquired  some  party  influence 
outside  Chicago,  which  gave  him  a  place 
in  the  combine  to  control  the  House. 
These  allies,  by  the  utmost  effort,  in- 
cluding the  use  of  state  patronage,  con- 
trolled the  caucus  by  a  bare  majority 
and  secured  the  organization.  They 
chose  for  Speaker  a  weak  and  unknown 
man,  pledging  him  to  obey  orders.  It 
was  subsequently  understood  in  the 
House  that  as  a  condition  of  his  election 
the  Speaker  was  required  to  promise  to 
carry  out  Hinman's  orders  on  all  street 
railway  measures,  and  to  use  the  gavel 
when  necessary  to  defeat  objectionable 
legislation.  Mr.  "  Gus  "  Nohe,  —  Lori- 
mer's  member  from  his  own  legislative 
district,  —  when  asked  whether  there 


was  to  be  any  traction  legislation,  re- 
plied :  "  I  don't  know.  I  do  whatever 
the  old  man  tells  me  to  ;  and  he  tells  me 
to  do  about  traction  as  Hinman  says." 
Hinman  himself  announced  that  there 
would  be  no  traction  legislation  at  that 
session.  The  companies,  thus  safe- 
guarded by  the  organization  of  the 
House,  were  not  openly  represented  at 
Springfield. 

The  City  Council  of  Chicago  sent  to 
the  General  Assembly,  with  its  indorse- 
ment, a  bill  for  an  enabling  act  prepared 
by  its  Committee  on  Local  Transporta- 
tion. A  special  committee,  composed  in 
part  of  members  of  the  Council,  pre- 
sented a  somewhat  more  radical  measure. 
Several  members  offered  individual  bills 
largely  copied  from  these  two.  A  bill, 
mainly  drafted  by  the  Secretary  of  the 
Municipal  Voters'  League  of  Chicago, 
and  offered  in  the  Senate  by  Senator 
Mueller,  became  known  as  Senate  Bill 
No.  40. 

While  the  situation  at  Springfield  was 
thus  confused,  the  mayoralty  campaign 
came  on  in  Chicago.  The  platform  of 
the  Municipal  Voters'  League,  on  which 
more  than  two  thirds  of  the  members 
of  the  Council  had  been  elected,  was 
heartily  indorsed  by  the  conventions  of 
both  parties.  The  Mayor  had  actively 
participated  in  the  development  of  the 
street  railway  programme  embodied  in 
the  League  platform.  His  Republican 
opponent,  who  was  without  a  traction 
record,  actively  exerted  his  influence  to 
advance  the  "  Mueller  Bill "  at  Spring- 
field. In  part  because  of  his  efforts,  and 
in  response  to  the  unanimous  demand  of 
the  public  press  of  Chicago,  Senate  Bill 
No.  40  passed  the  Senate  just  after  the 
municipal  election  in  Chicago. 

The  House  organization  now  set  itself 
to  suppress  the  Senate  measure  and 
to  defeat  all  street  railway  legislation, 
meanwhile  pretending  to  meet  the  popu- 
lar demand.  Messrs.  Lorimer  and  Hin- 
man went  to  Springfield  and  openly  as- 
sumed personal  direction  of  the  House. 


Street  Railway  Legislation  in  Illinois. 


113 


The  municipal  committee,  composed  al- 
most entirely  of  machine  puppets,  prompt- 
ly suppressed  the  Senate  bill,  reporting  a 
substitute  prepared  by  its  chairman,  Mr. 
Cicero  J.  Lindley,  under  the  immediate 
supervision  of  Messrs.  Lorimer  and  Hin- 
man.  These  open  supporters  of  the 
Yerkes  legislation  of  1897  now  posed  as 
saviors  of  the  city  from  the  alleged  evil 
designs  of  the  reform  leaders.  They 
insisted  that  there  should  be  no  grants, 
even  if  made  from  time  to  time  in  suc- 
cession, for  more  than  twenty  years  in 
the  aggregate.  They  claimed  that  their 
"  Lindley  Bill  "  was  the  only  genuine 
municipal  ownership  measure.  The  bill 
itself  was  a  blundering  abstract  of  parts 
of  the  Senate  bill.  The  provision  of 
that  measure  authorizing  cities  to  borrow 
money  on  special  certificates  with  which 
to  acquire  street  railway  property  was 
carefully  emasculated.  Other  changes 
and  omissions  pointed  unmistakably  to  a 
desire  to  protect  the  existing  companies. 

It  may  be  asked,  why  did  Lorimer, 
absolute  dictator  of  the  House  organiza- 
tion, offer  a  substitute  for  the  Senate  bill 
in  the  House  ?  Why  did  he  not  suppress 
the  obnoxious  measure  and  have  done 
with  the  matter  ?  The  answer  is  that 
public  opinion  was  so  aroused  in  favor  of 
enabling  legislation,  the  suspicion  of  cor- 
porate interference  with  the  public  pro- 
gramme was  so  general,  that  even  Lori- 
mer did  not  dare  openly  to  defy  it.  The 
plan  was  for  the  House  to  pass  pretended 
enabling  legislation,  and  to  have  it  fail 
between  the  two  houses. 

The  popular  demand  for  the  Mueller 
Bill  became  so  insistent  that  on  the 
night  before  the  substitute  was  set  for 
second  reading,  Mr.  Lorimer  became 
alarmed.  The  Democrats  and  minority 
Republicans  that  night  held  separate  cau- 
cuses to  plan  for  the  substitution  of  the 
Senate  measure.  How  many  votes  could 
be  mustered  against  the  organization,  be- 
lieved absolutely  to  control  the  fate  of  all 
pending  measures  in  the  then  closing 
hours  of  the  session,  was  not  clear;  but 

VOL.  xcni.  —  NO.  555.  8 


it  was  evident  that  the  revolt  was  for- 
midable. 

Late  that  night  a  memorable  confer- 
ence was  held  at  the  call  of  William  C. 
Lorimer.  The  place  was  his  private 
chamber  at  the  Leland  House,  in  Spring- 
field. The  time  was  from  about  11.30 
P.  M.  to  3.30  A.  M.  The  subject  discussed 
was  the  pending  street  railway  legisla- 
tion. There,  in  his  lair,  the  boss  and  his 
subordinates  received  the  representatives 
of  public  interests.  Mr.  Lorimer  was 
supported  by  Mr.  Hinman,  and  Messrs. 
Lindley,  David  E.  Shanahan,  "  Gus " 
Nohe,  and  u  Ed  "  Morris  of  the  House. 
Mr.  Frank  O.  Lowden  was  present  in 
the  dual  capacity  of  friend  of  the  organ- 
ization and  of  the  city.  Messrs.  Bennett, 
Mavor,  and  Eidman,  of  the  Council  Com- 
mittee, and  Mr.  Graeme  Stewart  (late 
Republican  candidate  for  Mayor  of  Chi- 
cago'), Mr.  E.  L.  Reeves,  and  the  writer, 
of  the  Chicago  delegation,  were  present 
on  Mr.  Lorimer's  invitation. 

We  were  promptly  asked,  "  What  do 
you  want  ?  "  Our  reply  was,  "  We  care 
nothing  for  names ;  but,  in  substance,  we 
want  the  Senate  bill.  Nothing  less  will 
serve."  Mr.  Lorimer  emphatically  told 
us  that  the  Senate  bill  was  dead  and 
buried,  and  that  the  only  hope  of  legis- 
lation at  that  session  lay  in  the  enact- 
ment of  the  Lindley  substitute.  We  were 
urged  to  accept  that  measure,  and  invited 
then  and  there  to  submit  amendments. 
It  was  assumed  throughout  the  confer- 
ence that  we  were  "  up  against  the  real 
thing ;  "  that  whatever  amendments  Mr. 
Lorimer  might  accept  that  night  would 
go  through  the  House  the  next  day.  The 
attitude  of  the  members  of  that  body  on 
the  principal  question  of  the  session  was 
assumed  to  be  wholly  immaterial. 

It  makes  one,  who  regards  the  people 
as  the  source  of  political  authority  and 
the  General  Assembly  as  a  means  for  the 
expression  of  their  will,  feel  somewhat 
queer  to  participate  in  a  midnight  gather- 
ing called  by  a  voluntary  political  boss 
to  dispense  legislation  of  vital  public  con- 


114 


Street  Railway  Legislation  in  Illinois. 


cern.  However,  under  present  conditions, 
only  thus  may  one  be  sure  to  get  next 
to  the  "  powers  that  prey."  Thus  only 
may  one  reach  the  source  of  legislation 
affecting  privileged  interests  and  study 
it  in  process.  In  this  instance  we  knew 
full  well  that  our  presence  that  night  be- 
hind the  scenes  was  solely  due  to  omi- 
nous signs  of  revolt  in  the  House.  The 
boss  sought  to  avert  the  storm. 

The  night  wore  on  in  discussion —  of- 
ten heated  discussion  —  of  the  defects 
of  the  substitute  bill.  That  measure,  as 
it  then  stood,  was  a  bungling  imitation 
of  the  Senate  bill,  so  emasculated  as  to 
render  it  practically  valueless.  It  bore 
unmistakable  marks  of  tender  regard  for 
the  traction  interests.  It  appeared  on 
its  face  to  provide  for  municipal  owner- 
ship, but  withheld  the  means  for  its  ac- 
complishment. By  the  omission  of  the 
provision  of  the  Senate  bill,  broadly  au- 
thorizing the  municipality  to  grant  streets 
already  occupied  by  street  railways  to 
any  corporation,  without  new  frontage 
consents,  it  was  sought  to  make  it  ne- 
cessary for  the  city  to  deal  with  the  pre- 
sent companies  and  to  confirm  them  in 
their  possession  of  the  streets. 

These  chief  defects  of  the  substitute 
bill  were  stoutly  defended,  the  first  as 
an  alleged  protection  to  the  public  from 
the  possibility  of  grants  for  more  than 
twenty  years  ;  the  second  out  of  a  pro- 
fessed regard  for  abutting  property  own- 
ers. Amendments  to  cure  several  mi- 
nor defects,  and  one  covering  frontage 
consents  so  worded  as  not  to  fall  within 
the  title  of  the  bill,  were  finally  offered 
us.  The  boss  thereupon  delivered  his 
ultimatum,  in  substance  as  follows : 
"  You  must  accept  the  Lindley  Bill  with 
these  amendments,  pull  down  all  oppo- 
sition on  the  floor  of  the  House  and  from 
the  Chicago  press,  and  actively  support 
the  bill.  It  is  the  Lindley  Bill  or  no- 
thing." 

A  few  hours  later,  as  the  House  as- 
sembled to  consider  the  Lindley  substi- 
tute on  second  reading,  the  Chicago  dele- 


gation, about  twenty  in  number,  —  com- 
posed of  the  Mayor,  citizens  appointed  by 
him,  and  the  Council  Committee,  —  re- 
jected by  practically  unanimous  vote  the 
Lorimer  ultimatum.  This  action,  taken 
with  full  knowledge  that  it  might  mean 
present  defeat  instead  of  a  weak  compro- 
mise with  the  machine,  was  taken  the 
more  readily  because  Lorimer  by  giving 
out  the  proposed  amendments  had  already 
committed  himself  to  them,  and  because 
the  representatives  of  the  city  believed 
that  it  was  his  intention  to  pass  the 
amended  substitute  through  the  House 
and  kill  it  in  the  closing  hours  of  the 
session. 

The  fight  on  the  floor  of  the  House 
was  now  on.  The  Speaker,  who,  the 
day  before,  on  the  written  demand  of  a 
majority  of  the  House,  declined  to  say 
whether  he  would  recognize  the  constitu- 
tional demand  of  five  members  for  a  yea 
and  nay  vote  on  all  proposed  amend- 
ments, arbitrarily  postponed  the  second 
reading  of  the  bill  to  two  o'clock  that 
day,  and  then  until  nine  o'clock  the  next 
morning.  Meanwhile  the  recalcitrant 
members  were  subjected  to  one  of  the 
most  severe  of  machine  tests.  Some 
seventy-five  bills  making  appropriations 
for  the  state  government  and  the  public 
institutions  throughout  the  state,  and 
many  other  bills  of  local  or  special  inter- 
est to  the  members,  stood  on  the  calendar 
on  third  reading.  Those  favoring  the 
Senate  traction  bill,  led  by  Mr.  Oliver 
W.  Stewart,  the  able  prohibition  mem- 
ber, had  given  notice  that  none  of  these 
measures  should  pass  until  the  traction 
question  was  acted  on  by  the  House. 

The  organization  leaders  now  pre- 
sented two  carefully  chosen  appropriation 
bills  for  passage.  The  first  was  the  ap- 
propriation bill  for  the  maintenance  of 
the  State  Normal  School  at  Macomb,  the 
home  of  Mr.  Sherman,  leader  of  the  Re- 
publican opposition.  It  was  permitted  to 
fail,  the  friends  of  Senate  Bill  No.  40, 
including  Sherman,  refusing  to  vote.  A 
second  appropriation  bill  shared  the  fate 


Street  Railway  Legislation  in  Illinois. 


115 


of  the  first.  Thereupon  the  House  trans- 
acted some  unimportant  business  and 
adjourned  for  the  day.  That  night  re- 
presentatives of  the  city  declined  an  in- 
vitation by  Mr.  Lorimer  to  another  con- 
ference. 

All  now  anxiously  awaited  the  morrow. 
Would  the  Speaker  obey  his  oath  of 
office,  permitting  a  roll  call  ?  Was  the 
will  of  William  Lorimer  to  be  more  po- 
tent than  the  Constitution  of  Illinois  ? 
Was  the  Speaker's  gavel  to  be  used  to 
make  a  minority  equivalent  to  a  major- 
ity ?  The  action  of  the  Speaker  would 
plainly  demonstrate  to  an  entire  people 
whether  the  public  service  corporation 
regards  its  wants  superior  to  all  law, 
whether  corporate  influence  has  become 
the  supreme  law  of  a  great  state.  The 
opponents  of  the  Lindley  Bill  believed 
that  the  Speaker  would  finally  observe 
his  oath.  Even  they  had  not  fathomed 
corporate  and  political  insolence. 

The  next  morning,  when  the  House 
met  with  packed  galleries,  "  the  organi- 
zation "  made  a  final  effort  to  break  the 
ranks  of  the  majority.  The  "  Child  Labor 
Bill,"  the  most  popular  measure  on  the 
calendar,  was  called  on  final  passage. 
The  vote  disclosed  the  exact  strength 
of  the  opposing  forces.  Fifty  members 
voted  aye.  Ninety-six  sat  mute.  The 
majority  against  the  Lindley  Bill  was 
almost  two  to  one.  Had  William  Lori- 
mer been  present,  he  might  have  changed 
the  pi'ogramme  ;  but,  having  given  his 
Speaker  orders  for  the  day,  he  awaited 
results  at  his  hotel.  No  one  having  au- 
thority was  there. 

The  crisis  now  came.  The  Lindley 
Bill  was  called  on  second  reading.  The 
Speaker,  deathly  pale,  stood  at  his  desk, 
gavel  in  hand.  Behind  him  were  several 
ladies.  Massed  about  his  desk  were 
twenty  or  more  strong  men  prepared  to 
defend  him.  Mr.  Lindley  offered  his 
first  amendment.  The  opposition  leader 
moved  to  lay  it  on  the  table.  Ninety- 
six  members  rose  in  their  seats  and 
shouted,  "Roll  call!  Roll  call!"  The 


Speaker,  refusing  to  hear  them,  declared 
the  amendment  adopted  by  viva  voce 
vote.  "You  lie!  "  shouted  Representa- 
tive Allen  of  the  minority.  Then  amid 
the  utmost  confusion  and  excitement,  with 
the  majority  members  standing  on  their 
desks  shouting,  "  Roll  call!  Roll  call!  " 
Mr.  Lindley  hastily  offered  his  six  other 
amendments.  The  Speaker,  without  the 
formality  of  reading  or  a  vote,  declared 
them  all  adopted.  Without  motion,  he 
also  declared  the  bill  passed  to  its  third 
reading,  beyond  the  reach  of  further 
amendments. 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  scene 
or  to  convey  an  adequate  idea  of  its  in- 
tensely dramatic  interest.  The  pale  and 
trembling  Speaker,  protected  from  fly- 
ing inkstands  by  the  women  placed  for 
that  purpose  at  his  back,  hastily  executed 
his  orders.  But  he  was  not  thus  to  es- 
cape the  utmost  personal  humiliation. 
While  in  the  act  of  declaring  the  bill 
passed  to  a  third  reading,  Representative 
Burke  of  Chicago,  unsupported,  made  a 
rush  for  him,  only  to  be  roughly  thrown 
to  the  floor.  This  was  the  extent  of  the 
so-called  "  riot "  in  the  House.  There 
was  a  rush  of  members  to  the  support  of 
Burke ;  but  the  cowardice  of  the  Speaker 
averted  a  general  fight.  The  rush  of  one 
outraged  member  was  quite  enough  for 
him.  Without  waiting  for  more,  he  pre- 
cipitately fled  to  his  room,  declaring  that 
the  House  had  taken  a  recess  until  after- 
noon. 

All  this  took  place  in  much  less  time 
than  it  has  taken  to  describe  it.  The 
turmoil  and  excitement  at  this  point  are 
indescribable.  The  Speaker's  hasty  flight 
led  to  a  quick  transformation.  Repre- 
sentative Murray  of  Springfield,  stand- 
ing on  his  seat  near  the  Speaker's  desk, 
solemnly  called  the  House  to  order  and 
said  :  "  It  appears  that  the  House  is  with- 
out a  presiding  officer ;  I  move  that  Mr. 
Allen  of  Vermilion  be  chosen  Speaker 
pro  tern."  The  motion  carried,  Mr. 
Allen  took  the  deserted  chair,  and  the 
confusion  quickly  subsided.  Within  per- 


116 


Street  Railway  Legislation  in  Illinois. 


haps  a  minute  after  the  Speaker  fled, 
the  reorganization  was  perfected,  and  a 
roll  call  of  the  House  was  in  progress. 

The  manner  in  which  the  ninety-six 
members,  whose  high  duty  it  was  to  re- 
store constitutional  government  in  Illi- 
nois, performed  their  unexpected  task  left 
nothing  to  be  desired.  Their  action  on 
that  memorable  day  and  in  the  remain- 
ing days  of  the  session  will  forever  re- 
main conspicuous  among  the  landmarks 
on  the  difficult  road  to  really  represen- 
tative government.  There  are  men  in 
our  public  life  who  are  not  the  creatures 
of  the  corporations,  men  who  care  for 
something  higher  than  spoils. 

The  House  now  proceeded  to  recall 
the  Liudley  Bill  from  its  third  read- 
ing. When  each  amendment  had  been 
reconsidered  and  laid  on  the  table,  the 
Senate  bill  was  substituted,  and  the 
Lindley  Bill  became  in  fact,  if  not  in 
name,  Senate  Bill  No.  40.  Meanwhile 
the  leaders  of  the  majority,  in  conference 
in  an  adjoining  committee  room,  pre- 
pared the  following  preamble  and  reso- 
lution :  — 

"  Whereas,  The  Speaker  of  this  House 
has  by  revolutionary  and  unconstitutional 
methods  denied  a  hearing  in  this  House 
on  a  roll  call  constitutionally  demanded 
upon  measures  of  grave  import,  prepared 
by  those  not  members  of  this  House,  and 
has  attempted  by  the  same  methods  to 
force  the  same  beyond  the  point  where 
they  can  be  amended  or  calmly  con- 
sidered upon  their  merits, 

" 'Therefore,  be  it  resolved,  That,  un- 
til the  House  records  shall  show  a  re- 
consideration of  the  action  of  this  House 
on  House  Bill  No.  864  [Lindley  Bill] 
and  all  amendments  thereto,  and  shall 
show  the  adoption  of  this  resolution,  and 
the  House  shall  be  assured  of  the  con- 
tinuous observance  during  the  remainder 
of  this  session  of  the  constitutional  right 
of  a  roll  call  on  all  questions  and  the 
due  consideration  of  the  business  of  this 
House,  no  further  votes  be  cast  upon  any 
pending  bill  by  the  members  of  this 


House  without  a  permanent  reorganiza- 
tion of  this  House." 

The  foregoing  preamble  and  resolution 
were  thereupon  signed  by  the  ninety-six 
opposition  members  and  spread  on  the 
Journal  of  the  House.  The  Speaker 
pro  tern,  was  also  instructed  to  read  it  to 
the  Speaker  in  the  presence  of  the  House 
on  his  return  to  the  chair.  This  was 
done  by  Mr.  Allen  with  great  solemnity 
that  afternoon.  Whereupon  the  House 
took  a  recess,  during  which  the  Speaker 
conferred  with  Mr.  Lorimer,  Mr.  Hin- 
man,  the  Governor,  Mr.  Lindley,  and  a 
few  others.  Upon  his  reappearance  he 
presented  the  following  written  state- 
ment to  the  House  :  — 

"  I  have  been  approached  at  different 
times  by  parties  who  intimated  to  me 
that  I  could  make  money  by  allowing  a 
roll  call  on  what  is  known  as  the  Mueller 
Bill  or  permitting  its  passage.  I  do  not 
know  whether  the  parties  making  the 
statements  were  authorized  to  make  them 
or  not,  but  the  statements  having  been 
made  to  me,  and  some  of  them  recently, 
fully  convinced  me  that  there  was  some- 
tiling  wrong  with  this  effort  on  the  part 
of  outside  parties  to  push  this  bill.  For 
this  reason,  I  denied  the  roll  call,  and 
have  stood  firm  on  this  proposition  up  to 
the  very  limit.  A  majority  of  the  House 
having  signified  their  desire  to  have  a 
roll  call  on  this  proposition,  I  wash  my 
hands  of  the  entire  matter,  and  will  per- 
mit a  roll  call  to  be  had." 

Thereupon  Mr.  Rinaker,  the  able 
leader  of  the  majority,  promptly  moved 
the  appointment  by  the  Speaker  himself 
of  a  committee  of  five  members  to  in- 
vestigate his  charges.  Upon  Mr.  Rina- 
ker's  suggestion  it  was  determined  that 
no  action  should  be  taken  on  traction  or 
any  other  important  legislation  pending 
the  investigation  of  the  charges  made  by 
the  Speaker  reflecting  on  the  House,  and 
that  the  time  of  adjournment,  already 
agreed  upon,  should  be  postponed  as  long 
as  might  be  necessary  for  a  thorough 
investigation  of  the  charges,  and  for  the 


Street  Railway  Legislation  in  Illinois. 


117 


consideration  thereafter  of  the  pending 
street  railway  measures. 

The  next  morning  the  press  contained 
a  statement  from  Governor  Yates,  in 
which  he  said  :  — 

"  As  to  Speaker  Miller's  action  in 
opposing  a  roll  call  on  the  Mueller  Bill, 
...  I  am  glad  to  have  the  opportunity 
to  say  that  I  believe  him  to  be  a  brave 
and  honest  man,  pursuing  the  only  course 
such  a  man  can  pursue  under  the  circum- 
stances. ...  I  repeat,  that  I  believe 
that  in  opposing  what  he  believed  to  be 
corruption,  his  action  is  honest  and  brave, 
and  entitles  him  to  the  thanks  of  every 
good  citizen  of  Illinois." 

The  following  morning  Representative 
Schlagenhauf  of  the  majority  called  the 
attention  of  the  House  to  a  recent  edi- 
torial published  by  Mr.  Hinman  in  the 
Chicago  Inter-Ocean,  which  was  in  part 
as  follows  :  "  And  the  boodle  is  ready. 
And  it  is  in  use.  And  some  members 
already  have  been  bought.  And  others 
are  negotiating  for  it.  ...  Can  money 
buy  the  Forty-Third  General  Assembly 
of  the  State  of  Illinois  ?  "  Thereupon 
the  House  voted  to  call  Mr.  Hinman 
before  its  bar  to  give  such  information 
as  he  might  have  in  support  of  his 
charges.  Afterwards  the  House  referred 
this  matter  to  the  investigating  commit- 
tee. The  Speaker  in  appointing  the 
committee  passed  over  Mr.  Ririaker, 
placing  on  it  members  a  majority  of 
whom  it  was  feared  could  be  depended 
upon  to  make  a  whitewashing  report. 
Thereupon  Representative  Darrow  of 
Chicago,  after  a  hasty  consultation, 
moved  to  amend  by  adding  six  names  of 
leading  members,  including  Mr.  Rinaker. 
This  motion  was  carried  on  roll  call. 

This  committee  on  April  30  made 
its  report,  finding  in  part  as  follows :  — 

"1.  That  the  evidence  produced  be- 
fore us  does  not  establish  any  real  at- 
tempt to  corruptly  influence  the  action  of 
the  Speaker  of  this  House. 

"  2.  That  there  was  no  reasonable  or 
substantial  ground  for  the  editorial  en- 


titled '  Boodle,'  published  in  the  Chicago 
Inter-Ocean  on  April  21,  1903,  and  re- 
cited in  the  resolution  introduced  by  Re- 
presentative Schlagenhauf  ;  and  that  the 
charges  therein  contained,  and  as  speci- 
fied further  in  the  testimony  of  Mr.  Hin- 
man, were  wholly  without  truth  or  foun- 
dation as  to  any  member  or  officer  of 
this  House,  so  far  as  we  have  been  able 
to  discover.  Your  committee  feels  it  due 
to  it  to  say,  in  view  of  the  publication  by 
Mr.  Hinman  of  his  statement  read  before 
it,  that  it  regarded  the  '  rumors '  so  fre- 
quently referred  to  by  him,  and  the  jocu- 
lar remarks  attributed  to  members  and 
others,  as  utterly  unworthy  of  notice,  and 
the  charges  reflecting  upon  citizens  of 
Chicago,  employed  or  selected  to  repre- 
sent it,  who,  in  the  opinion  of  your  com- 
mittee, deservedly  stand  high  in  the  es- 
timation of  its  best  citizens,  as  wholly 
outside  the  purposes  of  this  investigation. 
It  also,  in  the  light  of  the  evidence  before 
it,  upon  the  specific  charges  made  by  him, 
placed  no  credence  upon  any  of  his 
charges  of  improper  conduct  or  motives 
upon  their  part  in  connection  with  the 
subject  of  this  investigation." 

The  report  of  the  committee  was  adopt- 
ed by  a  unanimous  vote  of  the  House  on 
roll  call.  Messrs.  Lorimer  and  Hinman, 
at  the  close  of  Mr.  Hinman's  testimony 
before  the  committee,  had  left  Spring- 
field, not  to  return  during  the  session. 
Upon  the  adoption  of  the  report  of  the 
committee,  the  House  by  unanimous  vote 
directed  its  Municipal  Committee  to  re- 
port Senate  Bill  No.  40.  Mr.  Lindley 
at  once  complied,  and  the  bill  was  prompt- 
ly passed,  with  certain  amendments  pro- 
posed and  accepted  by  the  representa- 
tives of  the  city,  by  both  houses.  It  went 
to  the  Governor  the  day  before  final 
adjournment.  He  promptly  called  on 
the  Attorney-General  for  an  opinion  as  to 
its  constitutionality,  meanwhile  request- 
ing both  houses  of  the  General  Assembly 
not  to  adjourn  until  he  had  had  time 
fully  to  consider  its  terms.  The  At- 
torney-General on  the  last  night  of  the 


118 


Street  Railway  Legislation  in  Illinois. 


session  gave  his  opinion  to  the  effect  that 
the  constitutional  objections  to  the  mea- 
sure were  not  well  founded.  The  friends 
of  the  bill  in  both  houses,  believing  that 
to  comply  with  the  Governor's  request 
would  lead  to  a  veto,  and  that  if  the 
whole  responsibility  was  thrown  on  him 
he  would  approve  it,  adjourned  sine 
die. 

The  Governor  took  the  full  ten  days 
allowed  by  the  Constitution  to  determine 
whether  to  veto  or  sign  the  bill.  After 
two  public  hearings,  and  after  receiving 
much  advice,  both  public  and  private,  he 
finally  on  the  last  day  approved  it  with 
extreme  reluctance.  How  difficult  it  was 
for  him  to  do  so  appears  from  the  memo- 
randum explaining  his  action,  which  he 
filed  with  the  Secretary  of  State.  In 
that  remarkable  document,  he  said  :  — 

''  I  would  veto  this  bill,  wei-e  it  not 
that  I  have  great  confidence  in  the  City 
Council  of  1903,  and  great  confidence  in 
the  people.  .  .  . 

"  It  has  been  urged  against  this  bill  by 
the  one  man  in  Illinois  who  was  so  cour- 
ageous as  to  argue  for  its  veto  after  it 
was  passed  .  .  .  that  this  bill  was  passed 
under  the  whip  and  spur  of  a  few  news- 
papers in  the  city  of  Chicago.  This  is 
true.  Worse  than  that,  it  was  passed  by 
default  in  the  Senate  and  by  riot  in  the 
House.  Intimidation  of  every  possible 
kind  has  been  resorted  to,  and  within  the 
ten  days  during  which  the  Governor  has 
the  right,  under  the  wise  and  wholesome 
and  hitherto  unquestioned  veto  power  of 
the  Constitution,  to  consider  and  examine 
a  bill,  these  same  newspapers  have  en- 
deavored to  complete  their  usurpation  of 
governmental  functions  —  their  '  govern- 


ment   by   newspapers  '  —  by   ridiculing 
and  abusing  the  executive. 

"I  approve  the  bill  in  spite  of  this 
clamor,  because  the  real  question  is,  shall 
the  city  councils  of  cities,  and  the  people 
thereof,  be  permitted  to  do  a  right  thing, 
and  not,  has  the  right  thing  been  brought 
about  in  the  wrong  way  ? 

"  I  believe  that  this  bill  should  be  ve- 
toed, were  the  General  Assembly  in  ses- 
sion, and  that  then  either  this  bill  should 
be  amended,  or  a  new  bill  passed  with- 
out the  faults  of  this  bill." 

Thus  after  six  years  of  strenuous  con- 
flict between  public  and  private  interests, 
Senate  Bill  No.  40  became  a  law  of  the 
State  of  Illinois.  This  struggle,  if  it  be 
as  significant  as  it  seems  to  the  writer, 
means  that  the  employment  of  private 
capital  in  the  conduct  of  the  public  busi- 
ness has  led  us  to  the  brink  of  gov- 
ernment by  corporations.  If  the  public 
service  corporation  is  permanently  to 
participate  in  the  public  administration, 
it  must  submit  to  public  control.  Some 
basis  other  than  that  of  vested  right  must 
be  sought  for  the  security  of  private 
capital  employed  in  the  public  business. 
That,  however,  is  another  story. 

It  is  sufficient  here  to  add  that  pre- 
sent conditions  are  intolerable.  By  means 
of  the  Act  of  1903  the  people  of  Chicago 
have  sought  to  create  conditions  that  will 
make  the  interests  of  the  city  and  of  the 
companies  much  more  nearly  identical, 
and  lead  to  greatly  improved  relations, 
with  adequate  public  control.  Conserva- 
tive men  hope  that  this  attempt  will  suc- 
ceed. If  other  solution  of  the  problem 
be  not  found,  and  that  speedily,  public 
ownership  is  inevitable  and  desirable. 
Edwin  Burritt  Smith. 


Books  New  and   Old. 


119 


BOOKS  NEW  AND  OLD. 


STOPS   OF  VARIOUS   QUILLS. 


THE  present  commentator  wishes  to 
offer  for  consideration  several  books  of 
verse  which  seem  to  him  to  merit  more 
than  ordinary  attention.  It  is  always  in- 
teresting to  examine  a  first  book  of  verse 
by  a  writer  who  has  won  a  reputation  in 
prose.  Who  knows  but  it  may  bring  us 
into  a  new  and  more  intimate  relation 
with  an  old  acquaintance  ?  Who  knows 
—  and  human  nature  faces  this  possibili- 
ty with  almost  equal  complaisance  —  but 
the  verse  may  bring  into  clear  outline  cer- 
tain suspected  limitations,  arid  so  settle 
the  question  once  for  all.  In  taking  up 
the  first  collection  of  Josephine  Daskam's 
poems,1  one  is  struck  anew  with  the  re- 
markable flexibility  of  her  talent.  She 
touches  with  no  little  adroitness  the  stops 
of  various  quills ;  she  satisfies  the  ear 
with  metres  and  the  taste  with  images. 
Once  or  twice  she  stirs  the  imagination. 
In  short,  she  writes  excellent  verse,  most 
of  which  seems  the  product  of  an  inspi- 
ration from  without.  She  has  written, 
one  surmises,  from  some  motive  other 
than  the  desire  for  self-expression ;  per- 
haps from  a  private  wish  to  prove  her- 
self possessed  of  something  more  than 
the  worldly  cleverness  upon  which  her 
popularity  is  founded.  As  a  result,  her 
verse,  skillful  and  interesting  as  it  is, 
lacks  personal  distinction  ;  it  is  not  her 
u  right-hand  mode  of  expression  ;  "  it  is 
not,  perhaps,  in  the  very  strictest  sense, 
poetry. 

This  is  high  ground,  but  one  is  excused 
for  taking  it  by  the  quality  of  several 
other  new  books  of  verse  which  seem  to 
possess  both  spontaneity  and  distinction. 

1  Poems.    By  JOSEPHINE    DASKAM.    New 
York  :  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.     1903. 

2  The  Singing  Leaves.    A  Book-  of  Songs  and 


Young  persons  still  dream  dreams  of 
startling  the  world  by  some  outburst  of 
metrical  frenzy  which  shall  write  their 
names  upon  the  skies.  Few  persons  of 
any  age  are  ready  to  devote  themselves, 
for  better  or  worse,  to  "  the  homely 
slighted  shepherd's  trade."  Few  of  us 
are  worthy  to  be  so  slighted  ;  we  do  not 
deserve  the  tribute  of  contempt  which  the 
vulgar  world  is  ready  to  pay  to  those  who 
brazenly  pursue  the  best.  No  American 
writer  of  verse  is  now  moved  by  a  more 
sincere  poetic  impulse  than  Miss  Pea- 
body.  Among  her  lesser  qualities  is  a 
cleverness  which  might  easily  have  been 
employed  to  win  popular  success  in  some 
of  the  forms  of  literature  now  most  sure 
of  a  wide,  and  casual,  audience.  It  has 
not  been  cultivated  to  that  end,  and  the 
writer's  reward  is  to  have  produced,  in  a 
period  during  which  good  versifying  has 
become  the  rule,  not  a  little  true  poetry. 
As  "  a  book  of  songs  and  spells  "  The 
Singing  Leaves  2  differs  in  some  evident 
respects  from  Miss  Peabody's  former 
books  of  verse  ;  but  its  essential  qualities 
are  the  same.  This  is  to  say  that  they 
are  the  reverse  of  commonplace.  Her 
poetry  has  a  delicate  savor  of  its  own, 
a  mystical  sweetness,  a  purity  of  ways 
untrodden  and  apart,  yet  not  remote  from 
the  common  field  of  this  our  strife.  I 
am  almost  sorry  to  have  used  the  word 
"  mystical,"  lest  some  brethren  of  robust 
sense,  who  connect  the  word  with  a  vague 
condition  of  inspired  foolishness,  should 
mistake  my  meaning.  It  means  nothing 
of  the  sort  to  me.  However  simple  the 
diction,  one  cannot  always  be  sure,  on 
first  reading,  of  the  distinct  "  meaning  " 
of  some  of  Miss  Peabody's  songs.  Very 

Spells.  By  JOSEPHINE  PRESTON  PEABODY. 
Boston  and  New  York :  Houghton,  Mifflin  & 
Co.  1903. 


120 


Books  New  and   Old. 


likely  there  might  be  difficulty  in  para- 
phrasing them ;  perhaps  one  might  find 
it  hard  to  reduce  them  to  logical  form. 
Miss  Daskam's  verses  are  characterized 
by  the  same  alert  common  sense  which 
is  the  mark  of  her  prose  work.  Miss 
Peabody's  poems  are  the  product  of  a 
sense  uncommon  and  subtle,  a  divining 
sense ;  and  whatever  appearance  of  ob- 
scurity there  may  be  in  its  expression  is 
due  to  the  diviner's  method  of  suggesting 
truth  by  adumbration  rather  than  by  de- 
finition. This  seems  a  clumsy  way  of 
explaining  what  is,  after  all,  a  sufficiently 
simple  thing.  One  does  not  need  to  have 
the  difference  between  this  Road-Song 
and  a  mathematical  proposition  set  forth 
with  diagrams  :  — 

"  At  home  the  waters  in  the  grass 

Went  singing  happy  words ; 
But  here,  they  flicker  through  my  hands 
As  silent  as  the  birds. 

"  I  see  a  Rose.     But  once  they  grew 

All  thronging,  thronging,  —  wild, 
And  white,  and  red,  before  I  came 
To  be  a  human  child." 

Perhaps  it  is  in  her  "  spells  "  that  the 
poet's  sense  of  intangible  relations  is  most 
clearly  expressed.  We  may  quote  only 
one,  a  Charm  :  to  be  Said  in  the  Sun  :  — 

"  I  reach  my  arms  up  to  the  sky, 
And  golden  vine  on  vine 
Of  sunlight,  showered  wild  and  high, 
Around  my  brows  I  twine. 

"  I  wreathe,  I  wind  it  everywhere, 
The  burning  radiancy 
Of  brightness  that  no  eye  may  dare, 
To  be  the  strength  of  me. 

"  Come,  redness  of  the  crystalline, 
Come  green,  come  hither  blue 
And  violet  —  all  alive  within, 
For  I  have  need  of  you. 

"  Come  honey-hue  and  flush  of  gold, 
And  through  the  pallor  run, 
With  pulse  on  pulse  of  manifold 
New  largess  of  the  Sun  ! 

"  O  steep  the  silence  till  it  sing ! 
O  glories  from  the  height, 
Come  down,  where  I  am  garlanding 
With  light,  a  child  of  light !  " 


The  latest  book  of  verses  by  Mr. 
Yeats  *  does  not  show  an  increase  of  con- 
trol over  his  instrument.  One  has  ad- 
mired the  childlike  quality  of  his  genius 
while  deploring  its  occasional  lapses  into 
childishness.  A  poet  must  for  proof  of 
greatness  show  independence  even  of  his 
own  fancies.  Mr.  Yeats  is  often  spirit- 
ualistic rather  than  spiritual,  vaguely  su- 
perstitious rather  than  mystical.  How 
much  of  his  work  is  the  product  of  crea- 
tive imagination,  how  much  of  indulged 
whimsy,  remains  to  be  determined.  In 
form  the  present  volume  is  deliberately 
queer.  The  printer  has  been  encouraged 
to  use  red  ink  in  certain  passages  which 
do  not  seem  especially  to  cry  for  rubrica- 
tion.  A  preface  is  let  fall  unexpectedly 
in  the  middle  of  the  book.  Here  and 
there  the  sign  for  "  and  "  is  substituted 
for  the  word.  Is  there  something  sym- 
bolic in  the  usage  ?  Several  of  the  poems 
seem  to  mean  nothing,  and  one  or  two 
are  not  recognizably  metrical,  as,  for  in- 
stance, the  lines  called  The  Arrow :  — 

"  I  thought  of  your  beauty  and  this  arrow 
Made  out  of  a  wild  thought  is  in  my  marrow. 
There  's  no  man  may  look  upon  her,  no  man, 
As  when  newly  grown  to  be  a  woman, 
Blossom  pale,  she  pulled  down  the  pale  blossom 
At  the  moth  hour  and  hid  it  in  her  bosom. 
This  beauty  's  kinder,  yet  for  a  reason 
I  could  weep  that  the  old  is  out  of  season." 

This  is  rather  too  much  for  the  old- 
fashioned  ear,  which  is  used  to  expect 
that  a  poem  shall  be  written  in  some 
kind  of  verse  and  shall  make  some  kind 
of  sense.  It  is  an  extreme  instance  of 
Mr.  Yeats's  irresponsible  manner.  There 
are  many  passages  of  pure  poetry  in  the 
book  :  — 

"  We  sat  grown  quiet  at  the  name  of  love. 
We  saw  the  last  embers  of  daylight  die, 
And  in  the  trembling  blue-green  of  the  sky 
A  moon,  worn  as  if  it  had  been  a  shell 
Washed  by  time's  waters  as  they  rose  and  fell 
About  the  stars  and  broke  in  days  and  years." 

With  such  lines  for  evidence,  one  must 
continue  to  hope  that  time  will  prove 

1  In  the  Seven  Woods.  By  W.  B.  YEATS. 
New  York  :  The  Macmillan  Co.  1903. 


Books  New  and   Old. 


121 


this  brilliant  writer  priest  of  a  true  poetic 
faith,  and  not  merely  victim  of  a  minor 
obsession. 

Mr.  Yeats  is  childlike  in  his  lack  of 
humor  ;  to  the  profane,  indeed,  humor- 
lessness  seems  a  main  quality  of  these 
symbolistic  people.  We  are  really  not 
ready  to  be  persuaded  that  the  sublime 
and  the  ridiculous  are  precisely  the  same 
thing.  When  Mr.  Yeats  writes  grave- 
ly:- 

"  Michael  will  unhook  his  trumpet 
From  a  bough  overhead, 
And  blow  a  little  noise 
When  the  supper  has  been  spread. 
Gabriel  will  come  from  the  water 
With  a  fish  tail,  and  talk 
Of  wonders  that  have  happened 
On  wet  roads  where  men  walk," 

one  must  be  allowed  to  think  it  funny ; 
though  one  may  keep  his  face  straight 
as  he  does  before  a  child  whose  speech 
is  equally  ingenuous  and  cryptic. 

II. 

There  is  no  mysticism  in  Gawayne 
and  the  Green  Knight,1  and  there  is  a 
great  deal  of  humor.  It  is,  in  fact,  an 
agreeable  reversion  to  a  type  of  poetry 
now  little  cultivated.  The  present  review- 
er confesses  that  lie  sighed  over  the  title, 
expecting  to  find  some  aerated  treatment 
of  the  familiar  Arthurian  material.  A 
glance  at  the  first  page  relieved  his  mind 
at  once.  "  Bless  me  !  "  he  murmured, 
rubbing  his  eyes,  "  couplets  !  " — 

"  My  tale  is  ancient,  but  the  sense  is  new,  — 
Replete    with    monstrous    fictions,   yet    half 

true ;  — 

And,  if  you  '11  follow  till  the  story 's  done, 
I  promise  much  instruction,  and  some  fun." 

The  promise  is  kept.  The  story  shall 
not  be  told  here.  One  might  say  that  the 
style  combines  something  of  the  mellow- 
ness of  Holmes  with  the  airy  familiarity 
of  Byron  ;  but  it  is  not  especially  grace- 
ful, after  all,  to  express  admiration  of 
one  person  in  terms  of  two  or  three 

1  Gawayne  and  the  Green  Knight.  By  CHARL- 
TON  MINER  LEWIS.  Boston  and  New  York : 
Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  1903. 


others.  Mr.  Lewis  is  not  an  imitator  ; 
his  little  work  bears  all  the  marks  of 
spontaneity.  It  belongs  to  a  school  of 
English  poetry  older  and  clearly  more 
indigenous  than  that  of  Mr.  Yeats ;  a 
school  of  which  the  first  and  greatest 
master  is  Chaucer.  For  a  brief  sample 
of  its  quality  we  may  quote  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  heroine  :  — 

"  Her  face  was  a  dim  dream  of  shadowy  light, 
Like  misty  moonbeams  on  the  fields  of  night, 
And  in  her  voice  sweet  Nature's  sweetest  tunes 
Sang  the  glad  song  of  twenty  cloudless  Junes. 
Her  raiment,  —  nay ;  go,  reader,  if  you  please, 
To  some  sage  Treatise  on  Antiquities, 
Whence  writers  of  historical  romances 
Cull  old  embroideries  for  their  new-spun  fan- 
cies ; 

I  care  not  for  the  trivial,  nor  the  fleeting. 
Beneath  her  dress  a  woman's  heart  was  beat- 
ing 

The  rhythm  of  love's  eternal  eloquence, 
And  I  confess  to  you,  in  confidence, 
Though  flowers  have  grown  a  thousand  years 

above  her, 
Unseen,  unknown,  with  all  my  soul  I  love  her." 

Mr.  Zangwill's  verses  2  are  modern, 
and,  as  a  whole,  impressive.  They  possess 
the  poignant  racial  note  which  has  given 
the  key  to  his  best  prose  work.  Few 
among  the  inspired  sons  of  Israel  have 
concerned  themselves  so  frankly  and 
forcibly  with  the  issues  of  Zion.  There 
are,  to  be  sure,  many  bits  of  verse  in 
the  present  volume  which,  unless  as  they 
remind  us  of  Heine,  seem  the  work  of 
a  poet,  and  not  especially  of  a  Hebrew 
poet : — 

"  Of  woman  and  wine,  of  woods  and  spring, 

And  all  fair  things  that  be, 

The  poets  have  sung,  of  everything  : 

What  is  there  left  for  me  ? 

Why,  songs  of  thee." 

But  the  poems  which  strike  deepest  are 
those  which  express  the  poet's  sombre 
fidelity  to  the  truth  of  that  racial  fate 
in  which  his  own  fate  is  involved.  Mr. 
Zangwill  has  never  shrunk  from  re- 
cording the  sordidness  as  well  as  the 
grandeur  of  the  Hebrew  character. 

2  Blind  Children.  By  ISRAEL  ZANQWILL. 
New  York  :  Funk  &  Wagnalls  Co.  1903. 


122 


Books  New  and  Old. 


The  conclusion  of  the  whole  matter  seems 
to  be  expressed  in  the  verses  which  he 
calls  simply  Israel :  — 

"  Hear,  O  Israel,  Jehovah,  the  Lord  our  God  is 

One, 
But  we,  Jehovah,  his  people,  are  dual  and  so 

undone. 

"  Reeling  before   every   rowdy,   sore    with    a 

hundred  stings, 
Clothed  in  fine  linen  and  purple,  loved  at  the 

courts  of  Kings. 

"Faithful  friends  to  our  foemen,  slaves  to  a 

scornful  clique, 
The   only    Christians  in   Europe,   turning  the 

other  cheek. 

"  Priests  of  the  household  altar,  blessing  the 
bread  and  wine, 

Lords  of  the  hells  of  Gomorrah,  licensed  keep- 
ers of  swine. 

"  Blarneying,  shivering,   crawling,   taking  all 

colors  and  none, 
Lying  a  fox  in  the  covert,  leaping  an  ape  in 

the  sun. 

"  Tantalus  —  Porteus  of  peoples,  security  comes 

from  within ; 
Where    is   the   lion   of   Judah  ?     Wearing  an 

ass's  skin!  " 

This  is  vigorous  speech,  bitter  speech ; 
for  there  is  nobody  more  loyal  to  the 
ideals  of  his  race  than  the  speaker. 

Not  a  few  of  the  poems  possess  an 
almost  classical  grace  and  finish.  Here 
is  one  of  the  best  of  them  :  — 

"  Silly  girl !     Yet  morning  lies 
In  the  candor  of  your  eyes, 
And  you  turn  your  creamy  neck, 
Which  the  stray  curl-shadows  fleck, 
Far  more  wisely  than  you  guess, 
Spite  your  not-unconscious  dress. 
In  the  curving  of  your  lips 
Sages'  cunning  finds  eclipse, 
For  the  gleam  of  laughing  teeth 
Is  the  force  that  works  beneath, 
And  the  warmth  of  your  white  hand 
Needs  a  God  to  understand. 
Yea,  the  stars  are  not  so  high 
As  your  body's  mystery, 
And  the  sea  is  not  so  deep 
As  the  soul  in  you  asleep." 

1  The  Eastward  Eoad.  By  JEANNETTE 
BLISS  GILLESPY.  New  York :  James  Pott  & 
Co.  1903. 


Miss  Gillespy's  bent  is  reflective  rather 
than  impassioned,  and  finds  an  especially 
happy  expression  in  the  measured  phrase 
and  balanced  structure  of  the  classical 
forms  of  English  verse.1  Possibly  her 
tendency  toward  didacticism  is  a  little 
too  strongly  marked,  but  that  is  a  fault 
easily  to  be  detected  in  other  people  ; 
and  it  is  something  like  ingratitude  to 
animadvert  upon  an  impulse  which  can 
produce  such  a  quatrain  as  this :  — 

"  '  0   clear-eyed   daughter  of    the    gods,   thy 

name  ?  '  — 

Gravely  she  answered,  '  I  am  called  Success.' 
'  The  house,  the  lineage,  whence  thy  beauty 

came  ? '  — 
'  Failure  my  sire ;   my  mother,  Weariness.'  " 

But  classical  versification  is  also,  in 
the  right  hands,  an  instrument  for  the 
expression  of  impassioned  feeling  which 
none  of  the  modern  exuberant  forms 
have  excelled.  So  pure  a  technique  as 
Mr.  Watson's,  applied  to  the  expression 
of  so  pure  a  passion,  could  hardly  fail 
to  make  his  verses,  "  written  during 
estrangement," 2  unusually  impressive. 
The  very  restraint  which  his  chosen 
medium  imposes  upon  him  is  to  the 
ultimate  advantage  of  his  poetry.  If 
Mr.  Kipling  was  the  laureate  of  impe- 
rialism during  the  Boer  war,  Mr.  Wat- 
son was  the  laureate  of  England ;  and 
this,  in  after  years,  when  The  Absent- 
Minded  Beggar  and  other  popular  dog- 
gerel of  the  sort  is  forgotten,  England 
will  not  be  slow  to  feel.  What  is  there 
in  such  verse  as  this,  unless  the  prick  of 
truth,  to  have  aroused  a  popular  clamor 
of  resentment  ?  — 
"  When  lofty  Spain  came  towering  up  the  seas 

This  little  stubborn  land  to  daunt  and  quell, 
The  winds  of  heaven  were  our  auxiliaries, 

And  smote  her,  that  she  fell. 

"  Ah,  not  to-day  is  Nature  on  our  side  ! 

The  mountains  and  the  rivers  are  our  foe, 
And  Nature  with  the  heart  of  man  allied 

Is  hard  to  overthrow." 

2  For  England:  Written  During  Estrange- 
ment. By  WILLIAM  WATSON.  New  York  and 
London :  John  Lane.  1903. 


Books  New  and   Old. 


123 


The  popular  clamor  did,  as  we  know, 
arise.  If  the  poet  had  written  blatant 
nonsense  about  the  Briton's  Duty  to 
Strike  for  his  Altar  and  his  Birthright, 
his  verse  would  have  been  accepted  as 
quite  suitable  for  the  occasion.  His 
position  needs  no  further  defense  than  is 
given  by  his  own  noble  lines,  On  Being 
Styled  "  Pro-Boer  :  "  — 

"  Friend,  call  me  what  you  will :  no  jot  care  I : 
I  that  shall  stand  for  England  till  I  die. 
England!     The  England  that  rejoiced  to  see 
Hellas  unbound,  Italy  one  and  free  ; 
The  England  that  had  tears  for  Poland's  doom, 
And  in  her  heart  for  all  the  world  made  room ; 
The   England   from   whose    side    I    have    not 

swerved ; 
The    Immortal   England   whom  I,    too,    have 

served, 

Accounting  her  all  living  lands  above, 
In  Justice,  and  in  Mercy,  and  in  Love." 

Surely  this  is  worthy  to  be  set  among 
the  "  noble  numbers  "  of  old  England. 

in. 

Signs  increase  of  a  tendency  on  the 
part  of  our  verse  writers  to  approach 
the  dramatic  form.  Miss  Daskam's  vol- 
ume ends  with  a  dramatic  sketch  in 
blank  verse  which  is,  perhaps,  the  best 
thing  in  the  book.  Mr.  Yeats's  collec- 
tion includes  a  fresh  play  for  his  new  Irish 
stage,  —  apparently  (how  can  a  plain 
person  be  sure  ?)  only  another  leaf  out 
of  Maeterlinck.  There  are,  moreover, 
since  last  accounts,  several  new  volumes 
of  metrical  plays  upon  the  market,  only 
two  of  which  can  be  mentioned  here. 

The  first *  is  especially  interesting  be- 
cause in  presenting  "  five  modern  plays 
in  English  verse,"  the  author  is  actually 
trying  to  interpret  the  present  moment 
in  blank  verse ;  and  she  comes  very  near 
success,  nearer,  perhaps,  than  any  one 
else  has  come.  The  three  briefer  num- 
bers can  hardly  be  called  plays,  but 
they  are  extremely  good  poetic  dialogues, 
and  one  of  them,  at  least  (At  the  Goal) 

1  The  Passing  Show.  By  HARRIET  MON- 
ROE. Boston  and  New  York  :  Houghton,  Mif- 
flin  &  Co.  1903. 


is,  with  all  its  brevity,  not  only  dra- 
matic, but  tragic.  One  is  not  sure  that  the 
two  longer  pieces  should  have  been  cast 
in  verse  at  all.  Perhaps  it  is  simply 
their  novelty  which  one  resists ;  I  am 
inclined  to  think  there  is  a  real  incon- 
gruity between  their  substance  and  their 
form.  It  is  hardly  possible  to  doubt 
that  the  author  has  found  her  key-note 
in  Sudermann,  and  Sudermann  is  essen- 
•  tially  a  prose  interpreter  of  life.  There 
is  plenty  of  human  intensity  in  his  plays, 
but  no  precipitation  of  immortal  pas- 
sion. Like  Ibsen,  he  studies  conditions 
and  types ;  the  record  of  his  observa- 
tions is  a  marvel,  but  it  is  not  poetry. 
In  Miss  Monroe's  two  plays  we  find 
similar  materials.  Each  of  them  pre- 
sents a  pregnant  psychological  episode 
in  the  lives  of  a  group  of  persons ;  and 
there  is  nothing  in  either  situation  which 
prose  could  not  have  taken  care  of. 
Such,  after  several  careful  readings  and 
some  serious  thought,  is  my  unwilling 
conclusion  with  regard  to  the  absolute 
merit  of  these  interesting  studies. 

Mr.  Torrence's  play 2  is  both  less 
novel  and  less  questionable  in  quality. 
It  is  tragic  both  in  substance  and  in  form. 
Its  theme  has  the  inestimable  advantage 
of  possessing  already  a  hold  upon  the 
imagination  of  the  general ;  an  advan- 
tage which  great  dramatic  poets  from 
.ZEschylus  to  Shakespeare  have  sedulous- 
ly pursued,  and  which  the  best  of  their 
successors  down  to  Mr.  Stephen  Phillips 
have  continued  to  pursue.  Mr.  Tor- 
rence  has,  like  Mr.  Phillips,  successful- 
ly avoided  the  Shakespearean  manner. 
How  difficult  a  feat  this  is  can  hardly 
be  understood  by  those  who  disbelieve 
in  the  existence  of  a  poetic  diction.  Ob- 
serving the  usage  rather  than  the  theory 
of  Wordsworth,  we  perceive  that  every 
age  has  its  noble  and  familiar  forms  of 
speech ;  and  the  poet's  only  folly  is  to 
fail  of  recognizing  the  loftier  instrument 

2  El  Dorado.  By  RIDGELY  TORRENCE.  New 
York  and  London  :  John  Lane.  1903, 


124 


Books  New  and   Old. 


which,  in  his  own  day,  is  ready  to  his 
hand.  This  is  the  variety  of  folly  which 
produces  pseudo-Elizabethan  plays  and 
plays  in  modern  colloquial  verse. 

Mr.  Torrence's  play  is  dignified  and 
original.  He  does  not  altogether  discard 
old  forms,  but  he  does  not  slavishly  fol- 
low them.  The  Prologue  and  Epilogue 
are  so  admirable  that  one  wishes  to 
quote  them  entire.  This  much,  at  least, 
we  may  give  from  the  Prologue  :  — 

''  Shadow.    Into  this  world  where  Life  is  born 

of  Light 

I,  Shadow,  have  been  sent  to  bring  you  peace, 
To  make  you  wise ;  within  my  tragic  themes, 
Lost  Love,  A  Sullen  Will,  Dead  Hope  and 

Dread, 

You  shall  find  balm,  pleasant  with  secret  nard 
To  heal  your  discontent,  for  all  men  know 
That  he  for  whom  noon's  brightest  radiance 

glows 
Is  he  who  waked  and  shuddered  at  midnight 

The  gold,  five-keyed  Elizabethan  horn 
Shall  be  for  us  the  soothing  instrument. 
Then  for  the  tale's  sake  I  do  kneel  for  help, 
To  sky-browed  ^Eschylus,  who,  down  the  years, 
Mourns  deeply  through  a  sterner,  briefer  shell, 
Making  men  hear  the  eagle  wheel  and  shriek 
Round   the   sea  rock  on  which  all  hope   lay 
bound." 

There  is  no  mistaking  the  firm,  sus- 
tained touch  of  these  verses ;  and  their 
promise  is  not  belied  in  the  drama  which 
follows.  If  the  characterization  were 
of  as  rare  quality  as  the  theme  and  the 
verse,  the  play  would  be  great  indeed. 
Just  at  that  point  in  the  poet's  effort 
there  seems  a  little  suggestion  of  strain. 
Beatrix  d'  Estrada  is  admirable,  but 
Perth  and  Coronado,  the  leading  male 
characters,  are  not  altogether  free  from 
that  overt  appeal  to  the  sympathies  which 
is  a  known  property  of  melodrama.  The 
dialogue  is,- for  the  most  part,  rapid  and 
compact,  and  the  action,  while  it  does  not 
attempt  to  preserve  the  unities,  is  dramat- 
ically true  and  complete.  We  ought  to 
be  grateful  for  so  pure  a  product  in  dra- 
matic poetry  from  the  hand  of  an  Amer- 
ican. 

1  Platonism  in  English  Poetry  of  the  Sixteenth 
and  Seventeenth  Centuries.  By  JOHN  SMITH 


In  the  end,  one  finds  that  the  study 
of  these  contrasting  experiments  in  po- 
etic drama  has  served  simply  to  reaffirm 
an  ancient  article  of  faith.  No  great 
dramatic  poetry,  no  great  epical  poetry, 
has  ever  dealt  with  contemporary  con- 
ditions. Only  the  austere  processes  of 
time  can  precipitate  the  multitude  of 
immediate  facts  into  the  priceless  re- 
siduum of  universal  truth.  The  great 
dramatists  have  turned  to  the  past  for 
their  materials,  not  of  choice,  but  of 
necessity.  Here  and  there  in  the  dark 
backward  and  abysm  of  time,  some  hu- 
man figure,  some  human  episode,  is  seen 
to  have  weathered  the  years,  and  to 
have  taken  on  certain  mysterious  attri- 
butes of  truth ;  and  upon  this  founda- 
tion the  massive  structure  of  heroic 
poetry  is  builded. 

H.  W.  Boynton. 

ONE  envies  Mr.  Harrison  the  many 
Platonic  months  of  earnest  study  which 
Poetry.  must  have  gone  to  the  making 
of  his  account  of  Platonism  in  English 
Poetry.1  To  walk  familiarly,  when  one 
is  young,  with  the  ideal  forms  of  Beauty, 
Truth,  and  Goodness  which  loom  over 
the  pages  of  Plato,  and  ennoble  by  their 
presence  so  many  fine  English  poems,  is 
to  insure  genial  and  humane  thinking 
when  years  shall  have  brought  the  philo- 
sophic mind.  Yet  the  wisdom  of  allow- 
ing such  delightful  studies  to  be  erected 
into  a  volume  is  not  so  clear.  In- 
deed, the  book  seems  to  fall  between 
the  academic  and  literary  stools.  "Its 
method,"  says  Mr.  Harrison,  "  is  purely 
critical.  It  has  not  attempted  to  treat 
the  subject  from  the  standpoint  of  the 
individual  poet,  but  has  tried  to  inter- 
pret the  whole  body  of  English  poetry 
of  the  period  under  survey  as  an  integral 
output  of  the  spiritual  thought  and  life 
of  the  time."  Unluckily  the  "  purely 
critical "  method  is  not  justified  in  the 
result.  The  book  is  disabled  for  both 

HARRISON.     New  York :    The  Columbia  Uni- 
versity Press.     (The  Macmillan  Co.)     1903. 


Books  New  and  Old. 


125 


the  scholarly  and  the  general  reader  by 
lack  of  perspective  and  of  definition. 
Spenser  and  John  Norris  are  mentioned 
in  the  same  breath,  despite  the  century 
of  changing  ideals  between  them.  Henry 
More,  an  interesting  man,  but  one  of 
the  most  lamentable  of  poets,  is  made 
to  bulk  as  large  as  Sidney ;  yet  Joseph 
Beaumont,  the  40,000  lines  of  whose 
Psyche  was  one  vast  fabric  of  Platouism, 
is  not  mentioned  at  all.  Save  in  the 
preface,  nothing  is  said  of  those  Conti- 
nental forces  from  which  English  Pla- 
tonism  can  never  be  disentangled,  and 
there  is  no  account  at  all  of  any  of  those 
personal  groups  and  influences  on  which 
the  actual  life  of  any  Platonism  has 
always  depended.  To  a  purely  critical 
book  the  lack  of  definition  is  a  more 
serious  drawback.  No  clear  distinction 
is  made  between  the  theoretical  and 
almost  systematic  Platonism  which  ap- 
peared in  the  poetry  of  the  period,  and 
the  more  intimate  Platonism  of  mood 
which  has  never  been  absent  from  the 
poetic  temperament ;  nor  is  any  line  of 
cleavage  laid  down  between  Platonism 
proper,  and  Cabbalism,  Cartesianism, 
Rosicrucianism,  Catholic  mysticism,  and 
the  hundred  other  isms  too  tedious  to 
mention,  which  engaged  the  men  of  those 
moody  and  unquiet  times.  It  is  a  pity 
that  so  much  detraction  must  be  made 
from  an  earnest  book  which  contains 
many  interesting  poetical  extracts,  some 
pages  of  excellent  expository  writing, 
and  a  useful  bibliography,  yet  it  is  im- 
portant that  persons  having  authority  in 
such  matters  should  consider  the  dangers 
which  beset  the  belletristic  student  when 
he  ventures  upon  the  strange  seas  of 
philosophic  thought. 

An  interesting  volume  for  collateral 
reading  with  Mr.  Harrison's  book  is  Mr. 
Cooke's  anthology  of  Transcendental  po- 
etry.1 It  is  a  workmanlike  compilation 
made  with  information  and  taste.  It 

1  The,  Poets  of  Transcendentalism.  Edited  by 
GEORGE  WILLIS  COOKE.  Boston  and  New 
York :  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  1903 


presents  a  striking  racial  embodiment  of 
the  Platonic  mood  in  poetry,  and  offers 
some  curious  points  of  similarity  and 
opposition  to  the  specimens  of  Platoniz- 
ing  poetry  furnished  by  Mr.  Harrison. 
The  Transcendental  poets  themselves 
would  have  disclaimed  the  analogy ;  for 
Platonism  was  but  a  drop  in  the  vast 
bucket  of  their  omniscience.  They  ac- 
cepted the  universe,  and  all  one  to  them 
were 

' '  The  grand  and  magnificent  dreamers  ; 
The  heroes  and  mighty  redeemers  ; 
The  martyrs,  reformers,  and  leaders ; 
The  voices  of  mystical  Vedas." 

Yet  considering  their  poetry  as  a  finished 
product,  its  spiritual  sense  of  life  —  its 
constant  sense  of  the  unity  and  sempi- 
ternity  of  beauty  —  makes  it  more  com- 
parable to  the  body  of  English  Platonic 
poetry  than  to  any  similar  body  of  verse 
in  the  world,  not  excepting  the  flights  of 
the  German  Transcendental  lyre.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  racy,  indigenous  qual- 
ity of  the  verse  which  Mr.  Cooke  has 
collected  makes  a  difference  as  strik- 
ing as  the  likeness.  Where  the  typical 
Platonizing  poem  is  florid  with  imagery 
drawn  from  the  beauties  of  sky  and 
meadow  and  the  female  sex,  the  typical 
Transcendental  poem  is  as  scrawny  and 
pungent  as  a  rock-rooted  pine.  Indeed, 
poetic  Transcendentalism  seems  almost 
the  cult  of  the  pine ;  and  there  are  few 
stanzas,  and  fewer  poems,  in  Mr.  Cooke's 
books,  that  do  not  allude  to  it.  We 
hear  a  great  many  such  ejaculations  as 
this :  — 

"  0  tall  old  pine  !  0  gloomy  pine  ! 
O  grim  gigantic  gloomy  pine  ! 
What  is  there  in  that  voice  of  thine 
That  thrills  so  deep  this  heart  of  mine  ?  " 

Yet  there  is  as  fine  poetic  impressiveness 
in  the  poet's  suggestion  that  in  the  sigh- 
ing of  the  pines  he  catches  a  sound  of 

"  The  soul's  unfathomable  sea, 

The  ocean  of  eternity," 
as  in  Vaughan's 

"  I  saw  eternity  the  other  night 
Like  a  great  Ring  of  pure  and  endless  light." 


126 


Books  New  and  Old. 


In  both  the  English  Platonics  and  the 
American  Transcendentalists  there  was 
a  growing  tendency  toward  artificiality  ; 
the  lesser  men  constantly  tended  to  accept 
as  mere  current  counters  the  phrases  and 
images  which  the  leaders  had  used  to  ex- 
press real  emotions  and  sincere  thoughts. 
In  the  long  run  the  Transcendentalists 
fall  far  behind  the  Platonists  not  only  in 
the  music  and  color  of  their  verse,  but 
in  elan  and  suggestiveness  as  well.  Yet 
when  it  becomes  a  question  of  which  set 
of  poets  concealed  the  ink-horn  more  suc- 
cessfully the  advantage  goes  the  other 
way.  The  Platonist  poets  were  largely 
young  men  in  libraries  or  courts  or  tap- 
rooms, and  most  of  them  died  young. 
The  Transcendental  poets  were  of  both 
sexes ;  they  seem,  when  out  of  the  pul- 
pit or  parlor,  to  have  been  walking 
woodland  roads.  We  discover  from  Mr. 
Cooke's  biographical  notes  that  few  of 
them  failed  to  weather  threescore  and  ten, 
while  many  of  them  —  half  a  century 
after  the  flowering  of  their  school  —  still 
survive  at  an  even  more  advanced  and 
honorable  old  age.  F.  G. 

WE  do  well  to  cherish  the  remains, 
Two  Books  wnether  recorded  or  legend- 

afcout  New  ary,  of  our  Colonial  phase.  It 
England.  . 

is  pleasant  to  feel  that,  with  all 

our  youthfulness  as  a  nation,  we  have  a 
local  past  of  some  venerableness.  It  did 
not  express  itself  in  any  form  of  art,  but 
we  have  ceased  to  take  for  granted  on  this 
account  that  Virginian  life  was  all  laxity 
and  unintelligence,  or  Puritan  life  all 
primness  and  fanaticism.  Fiction  has 
done  much  of  late  to  invest  the  Colonial 
period  with  a  romantic  glamour  ;  but  our 
new  sense  of  its  mellowness  and  com- 
pleteness we  owe  rather  to  the  diligence 
which  keeps  unearthing  and  classifying 
old  chronicles,  town  records,  legal  docu- 
ments, journals,  and  letters. 

To  this  useful  order  belong  our  two 

1  The  Romance  of  Old  New  England  Churches. 
By  MABY  C.  CRAWFORD.  Boston  :  L.  C.  Page 
&  Co.  1903. 


books.1  The  reader  who  has  an  eye  for 
such  chronicles  will  remember  Miss  Craw- 
ford's recent  Romance  of  Old  New  Eng- 
land Roof-Trees.  It  was  a  much  less 
sentimental  book  than  its  title  led  one  to 
suppose,  a  piece  of  simple,  clear,  readable 
annal-writing.  The  present  book  is  of 
the  same  sort.  In  this  case,  also,  the 
title  fails  to  suggest  the  exact  nature  of 
the  contents.  The  narrative  concerns 
itself  little  with  the  history  of  churches, 
though  here  and  there  interesting  data 
are  presented  in  compact  form,  in  con- 
nection, for  instance,  with  King's  Chapel, 
the  Old  South  Church,  Old  Trinity,  and 
other  churches  as  old  though  less  widely 
known.  But  the  book  will  not  be  mainly 
acceptable  for  its  data.  The  chapters, 
most  of  them,  chronicle  the  varied  lives 
of  certain  members  of  the  old  ecclesias- 
tical aristocracy  of  New  England.  It 
is  pleasant  to  note  how  much  more  satis- 
faction the  writer  takes  in  dealing  with 
the  experiences  of  Elizabeth  Whitman  or 
Esther  Edwards  or  Samuel  Sewall,  than 
in  recording  the  history  of  church  organ- 
izations, sites,  and  edifices.  Her  treat- 
ment of  these  themes  is  historical  rather 
than  literary.  She  does  not  fail  to  sug- 
gest her  interpretation  of  the  incidents 
which  she  records,  but  her  main  purpose 
is  to  make  the  record  ;  yet,  as  is  not  un- 
commonly the  reward  of  such  an  effort, 
the  literary  quality  of  her  work  is  the 
sounder  for  being  less  fanciful. 

Old  Paths  and  Legends  of  New  Eng- 
land is  a  much  more  bulky  and  compen- 
dious book.  It  is,  indeed,  a  little  too 
bulky  and  heavy  to  serve,  as  it  might 
otherwise  admirably  serve,  as  a  way- 
book  for  Massachusetts,  Rhode  Island, 
and  New  Hampshire.  The  large  num- 
ber of  illustrations  are  responsible  for  its 
size  and  weight ;  but  they  need  not  be 
ashamed  of  the  responsibility.  They  are 
as  good  pictures  as  can  be  made  by  the 
reproduction  of  good  photographs,  and 

Old  Paths  and  Legends  of  New  England.  By 
KATHARINE  M.  ABBOTT.  New  York  and  Lon- 
don :  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons.  1903. 


The  Meaning  of  Rhode  Island. 


127 


are  really  a  valuable  supplement  to  the 
text.  Each  chapter  deals  jvith  some  his- 
toric town,  concisely,  yet  not  mechani- 
cally, matters  of  guidebook  information 
being  relegated  to  a  separate  note  under 
the  heading  "  Landmarks."  The  text 
is  spirited  and  intelligent.  It  contrives, 
in  presenting  many  facts,  to  preserve 
their  value  in  perspective,  and,  a  more 
difficult  thing,  to  suggest  the  emotion 
inherent  in  old  places  and  structures 
which,  only  less  convincingly  than  the 
written  word,  embody  the  past  for  us. 
A  New  Englander  may  harbor  a  preju- 
dice against  sightseeing  and  still  be  un- 
able to  lay  down  this  book  without  an 
impulse  to  look  up  some  of  the  ancient 
haunts,  which,  it  reminds  one,  lie  well 
within  a  Sabbath  day's  trolley  of  the 
home-spot.  This  is  to  say  that  the  vol- 
ume is  particularly  worth  the  care  of  the 
pilgrim  from  Chicago  or  Oklahoma  who 
wishes  to  do  the  East  and  not  be  done 
by  it. 

The  reasonable  and  sympathetic  spirit 
in  which  the  author  has  undertaken  her 
task  is  well  suggested  by  the  opening  sen- 
tences of  her  Preface  :  "  Once  upon  a 
time  it  might  have  been  said,  '  Who 
knows  an  American  town  ? ' .  .  Some 


travellers  thought  we  were  too  young  to 
be  interesting ;  others,  in  the  words  of 
the  Old  Play,  directed  their  search  '  to 
farthest  Ind  in.  search  of  novelties,' 
blinking  owl-like  at  '  ten  thousand  ob- 
jects of  int'rest  wonderful '  before  their 
very  thresholds,  arid  even  the  most  inde- 
fatigable lovers  of  America  became  dis- 
couraged by  difficulties  in  the  way  of 
travelling  almost  insurmountable.  The 
American  found  it  a  far  more  simple 
affair  to  journey  with  the  immortals  from 
Loch  Katrine  to  Mont  Blanc  than  to 
follow  the  course  of  Whittier's  Merri- 
mack  with  its  sheaf  of  legends  from 
source  to  sea.  To-day  .  .  .  our  history- 
loving  countryman,  with  his  favorite  vol- 
ume in  his  pocket,  may  step  down  by  the 
wayside  from  the  wheel,  the  electric  car, 
or  automobile,  and  explore  some  little 
stream  to  the  spot  where  the  grist-mill's 
wheel  turns  still,  and,  in  the  hand-made 
nails  of  a  primitive  garrison,  live  over 
again,  as  it  were,  his  great-great-great- 
grandfather's experiences." 

With  such  a  traveler  this  volume 
might  well  be  a  chosen  favorite.  It 
will  not  go  into  his  pocket,  but  perhaps 
a  lighter  and  more  compact  edition  may 
follow.  H.  W.  B. 


THE  MEANING  OF   RHODE  ISLAND.1 


"  THE  meaning  of  Rhode  Island  "  im- 
plies a  problem,  the  solution  of  which  is 
attempted  in  every  comprehensive  work 
on  American  history,  but  which  still  re- 

1  Rhode  Island,  its  Making  and  its  Meaning, 
1636-1683.  By  IRVING  BEBDINE  RICHMAN, 
with  an  Introduction  by  JAMES  BBYCE.  Two 
volumes.  New  York :  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons. 
1902. 

State  of  Rhode  Island  and  Providence  Plan- 
tations at  the  End  of  the  Century.  A  history  [by 
CLARENCE  SAUNDERS  BRIGHAM]  edited  by 
EDWARD  FIELD.  Three  volumes.  Boston  and 
Syracuse  :  Mason  Publishing  Company.  1 902. 


mains  a  problem  to  those  who  are  trying 
to  understand  the  past  and  the  present  of 
this  puzzling  little  commonwealth.  The 
circumstances  which  led  to  the  founding 

Correspondence  of  the  Colonial  Governors  of 
Rhode  Island,  1723-1775.  Edited  by  GER- 
TRUDE SELWYN  KIMBALL,  for  the  Colonial 
Dames  of  America  in  Rhode  Island.  Two  vol- 
umes. Boston  and  New  York :  Houghton,  Mif- 
flin  &  Co.  1902. 

Harris  Papers  [with  an  Introduction  by 
IRVING  B.  RICHMAN  and  Notes  by  CLARENCE 
S.  BRIGHAM].  Collections  of  the  Rhode  Island 
Historical  Society,  X.  Providence.  1902. 


128 


The  Meaning  of  Rhode  Island. 


of  the  colony,  and  the  conditions  under 
which  it  developed  during  the  second 
quarter  of  the  seventeenth  century,  were 
most  exceptional.  To  no  other  American 
community  were  offered  such  opportuni- 
ties for  experimenting  with  the  theories  of 
democratic  government,  along  the  lines 
in  which  progress  has  been  made  toward 
freedom  for  the  individual  and  power  for 
the  body  politic.  Bancroft,  picturing  the 
development  of  the  nation  with  the  eye 
of  a  painter  seeking  the  general  effect, 
and  Charles  Francis  Adams,  sketching 
the  details  with  realistic  accuracy,  alike 
see  in  Rhode  Island  the  original  sugges- 
tion for  more  of  the  ideas  which  are  em- 
bodied in  the  present  scheme  of  govern- 
ment for  the  United  States  than  in  any 
other  of  its  constituent  parts.  Such  a 
reputation  demands  that  the  history  of 
this  state  shall  be  made  known,  so  as  to 
reveal  why  these  ideas  originated  there, 
how  they  were  experimented  with,  and 
what  led  to  their  ultimate  acceptance  by 
the  nation. 

The  annals  of  Rhode  Island's  forma- 
tive years  have  been  set  forth  with  abun- 
dance of  detail,  and  their  record  shows 
clearly  that  the  men  who  projected  the 
first  settlements  on  Narragansett  Bay 
fully  appreciated  their  opportunities. 
They  deliberately  prepared  the  founda- 
tions for  a  society  in  which  the  members 
might  enjoy  the  utmost  individual  liberty 
in  civil  and  social  as  well  as  in  religious 
affairs.  It  is  such  a  society  as  exists 
to-day,  more  than  anywhere  else,  in  the 
United  States  of  America ;  which  was 
made  possible,  and  which  was  on  the 
verge  of  coming  into  being,  in  the  settle- 
ments at  Providence  and  Aquidneck  in 
1640.  The  story  of  those  two  commu- 

The  Fourth  Paper  presented  by  Major  Butler, 
wi'h  other  Papers  edited  and  published  by  Eager 
Williams  in  London,  1652.  With  an  Introduc- 
tion by  CLARENCE  SAUNDERS  BRIGHAM.  Prov- 
idence :  The  Club  for  Colonial  Reprints.  1903. 

The  Early  Records  of  the  Town  of  Providence, 
Vol.  XVII.  Town  Papers,  1682-1722.  Prov- 
idence :  Record  Commissioners.  1903. 

The  Early  Records  of  the  Town  of  Portsmouth, 


nities  during  the  five  years  preceding  that 
date  is  in  many  respects  unsurpassed  in 
interest  or  importance  by  any  equal 
period  of  Colonial  history.  It  has  re- 
ceived from  historical  writers  the  atten- 
tion it  so  fully  merits.  No  community, 
however,  and  least  of  all  an  independent 
commonwealth,  is  entitled  to  be  judged 
by  a  single  half  decade  of  its  career. 
The  friends  of  "  Little  Rhody  "  are  far 
from  asking  for  any  such  limitation  of 
judgment.  The  temptation  is  never- 
theless very  strong  for  the  historian  to 
look  at  the  succeeding  years  through  the 
halo  created  by  the  ideas  which  domi- 
nated that  formative  period.  Even  Mr. 
Richman,  searching  for  the  truth  with 
the  broad  outlook  of  a  dweller  on  the 
prairies  beyond  the  Mississippi,  is  carried 
by  the  impulse  of  the  idyllic  begin- 
nings through  half  a  century  of  rancorous 
squabblings  over  land  and  bloody  alterca- 
tions about  cattle,  of  bitter  theological 
recrimination  and  hypocritical  neglect  of 
social  safeguards.  Rhode  Island's  part 
in  the  making  of  the  United  States  is  less 
significant  than  is  her  contribution  to  the 
more  important  history  of  human  society ; 
and  the  meaning  of  this  must  be  sought 
in  the  periods  beginning  where  it  would 
be  more  agreeable  to  leave  the  story  of 
colony  and  state. 

Rhode  Island  has  suffered  because  of 
the  reputation  given  her  by  writers  who 
have  formed  their  opinions  without  taking 
into  account  two  essential  factors,  —  the 
development  of  similar  ideas  contempo- 
raneously in  other  parts  of  the  world, 
and  the  relation  between  what  her  peo- 
ple have  said  and  what  they  have  done. 
Roger  Williams  was  in  a  remarkable  de- 
gree, to  quote  Mr.  Richman's  admirable 

edited  by  the  librarian  of  the  Rhode  Island 
Historical  Society  [C.  S.  BRIGHAM].  Provi- 
dence, for  the  State.  1901. 

The  Dorr  War,  or  the  Constitutional  Struggle 
in  Rhode  Island.  By  ARTHUR  MAY  MOWRY. 
Providence  :  Preston  &  Rounds.  1901. 

The  Finances  and  Administration  of  Provi- 
dence. By  HOWARD  KEMBLE  STOKES.  Balti- 
more :  The  Johns  Hopkins  Press.  1903. 


The  Meaning  of  Rhode  Island. 


129 


phrase,  "  the  exponent  in  America  of 
the  time  -  spirit  of  Toleration."  Mr. 
Brigham,  the  librarian  of  the  state  His- 
torical Society,  in  his  essay  on  a  tract 
which  Williams  published  in  London  in 
1652,  presents  abundant  evidence  to 
prove  that  the  founder  of  Rhode  Island 
was  one  of  a  large  company  of  English- 
men,—  undoubtedly  well-nigh  the  fore- 
most among  them,  —  with  Milton  and 
Cromwell  and  a  score  of  others,  who  be- 
lieved as  thoroughly  as  he  did  in  the  right 
of  all  men  to  have  their  own  opinions  re- 
garding the  best  way  of  worshiping  God. 
The  others  realized,  as  Williams,  despite 
his  exceptional  opportunities  for  observ- 
ing the  theory  in  practice,  apparently 
never  realized,  that  most  people  in  1650 
were  not  sufficiently  sure  of  their  own 
opinions  to  disregard  in  every-day  life 
the  opinions  of  their  neighbors.  Roger 
Williams  also  failed  to  perceive  that  the 
Englishmen  who  joined  him  in  settling 
Rhode  Island  were  among  those  most 
deeply  imbued  with  the  "time-spirit," 
and  that  they,  better  than  he,  understood 
its  full  import.  Mr.  Richman  shows 
with  much  skill  that  it  was  not  Williams, 
but  the  general  body  of  settlers,  their 
ideas  shaped  by  constant  friction,  who 
developed  the  practical  conception  of 
individual  freedom  for  opinions  regard- 
ing social  and  political,  as  well  as  reli- 
gious matters.  A  great  deal  of  gratitude 
is  due  to  the  founders  of  Rhode  Island 
who  put  these  ideas,  which  had  been 
agitating  men's  minds  all  over  Europe 
for  a  hundred  years,  to  the  test  of  actual 
experiment.  The  experience  and  the 
example  of  Rhode  Island  were  kept  con- 
stantly in  mind  by  those  who  were  re- 
sponsible for  the  administration  of  the 
neighboring  colonies,  and  they,  and  the 
nation  which  they  founded,  profited  in- 
estimably by  the  lessons  taught  by  Rhode 
Island. 

It  is  surprising  that  Mr.  Richman, 
keenly  in  touch  as  he  is  with  contempo- 
rary tendencies  in  historical  study,  did 
not  take  advantage  of  his  opportunity  to 

VOL.  xcin.  —  NO.  555.  9 


depart  from  the  traditional  notion  that 
the  ideas  of  the  founders  constitute  the 
substance  of  Rhode  Island's  history. 
The  theories  practiced  by  Roger  Wil- 
liams and  his  fellow  settlers  make  up  an 
important  chapter  in  the  record  of  the 
evolution  of  religious,  political,  and  social 
ideas.  It  is  a  chapter  to  which  Mr. 
Richman  contributes  some  noteworthy 
additions,  chief  of  which  is  his  explana- 
tion of  what  became  of  Williams,  theo- 
logically, after  his  brief  mental  sojourn 
with  the  Baptists.  The  passages  by 
which  he  is  traced  to  the  Seekers,  a  sect 
among  whom  he  became  a  leader  in  the 
quest  for  something  believable,  are 
among  the  best  in  Mr.  Richman's  many 
brilliant  pages.  But  the  true  meaning 
of  Rhode  Island,  its  important  contribu- 
tion to  the  history  of  institutions  and  of 
society,  is  to  be  found,  not  in  these  ideas, 
but  in  the  use  which  has  been  made  of 
them.  Rhode  Island  had  a  start  in- 
comparably more  favorable  for  the  de- 
velopment of  democratic  institutions  than 
any  other  of  the  communities  out  of 
which  has  grown  this  freest  of  repub- 
lics. She  has  still  a  reputation  for  free- 
dom in  speech  and  action  beyond  any  of 
her  neighbors.  It  is,  according  to  the 
repeated  statements  of  the  man  whom 
the  people  of  the  state  have  elected  to 
be  their  governor,  the  freedom  which 
tends  to  license  and  libertinism.  These 
statements,  and  the  current  daily  news 
from  Rhode  Island,  are  curiously  sig- 
nificant commentary  upon  two  facts  in 
her  earliest  history.  Providence  organ- 
ized itself  into  a  government  absolute- 
ly without  control,  restraint,  or  guidance 
from  beyond  its  own  narrow  limits,  and 
such  control  as  its  neighbors  undertook  to 
impose  was  successfully  rejected.  New- 
port, organized  under  similar  external 
conditions,  began  its  career  by  selecting 
as  its  first  governor  one  of  the  richest 
men  of  his  time  in  English  America. 
Students  of  society  and  of  political  organi- 
zation are  fairly  entitled  to  information 
regarding  the  way  in  which  the  existing 


130 


The  Meaning  of  Rhode  Island. 


state  of  affairs  has  developed  out  of  the 
seed  planted  by  Roger  Williams,  Wil- 
liam Coddington,  and  Samuel  Gorton. 
The  chapters  of  Rhode  Island  history 
which  need  to  be  written  will  deal  with 
the  periods  associated  with  the  names 
of  William  Harris  and  John  Clarke,  the 
governors  Wanton,  Hopkins,  and  Ward, 
and  Thomas  W.  Dorr.  Material  addi- 
tions to  an  understanding  of  each  of 
these  periods  have  recently  been  made, 
and  more  will,  follow  when  the  long-ex- 
pected work  of  Mr.  Sidney  S.  Rider  ap- 
pears, wherein  there  are  likely  to  find 
expression  more  of  the  distinctive  char- 
acteristics of  Rhode  Island  than  in  any- 
thing that  has  yet  been  printed. 

Rhode  Island  is  essentially  a  problem 
in  social  organization.  Its  beginnings, 
unprecedented  in  ideals  and  opportuni- 
ties, were  sadly  like  those  of  other  fron- 
tier settlements  in  personnel.  As  the 
growth  of  the  surrounding  colonies  shut 
it  in,  the  aggressive  qualities  developed 
by  frontier  responsibilities  disappeared. 
Rhode  Island  after  a  few  years  became 
a  sort  of  back  water,  an  eddy  into  which 
was  gathered  the  flotsam  cast  off  by  the 
main  current  of  New  England  life.  A 
large  proportion  of  the  population  of 
Rhode  Island  in  its  earlier  days  appears 
to  have  been  made  up  of  those  who  had 
not  succeeded  in  making  a  place  for  them- 
selves in  the  other  colonies.  Harris,  de- 
scribed by  Williams  as  "  an  impudent 
Morris  dancer  in  Kent,"  who,  under  a 
very  ragged  "  cloak  of  separation,  got  in 
with  myself,"  was  doubtless  a  fair  speci- 
men of  the  crowd  that  flocked  toward 
the  new  settlements  at  Providence  and 
Portsmouth.  At  Portsmouth,  where  the 
followers  of  Mistress  Hutchinson  built 
the  first  houses  on  the  island  at  the 
mouth  of  Narragansett  Bay,  the  unruly 
ne'er-do-wells  became  so  large  a  major- 
ity that  most  of  the  first-comers,  who 
had  been  men  of  substance  and  stand- 
ing in  Boston,  withdrew  and  chose  new 
homes  for  themselves  at  the  less  fertile 
Newport.  In  Providence,  the  lawless 


members  of  the  community,  who  refused 
to  vote  taxes  and  resisted  execution  of 
the  decrees  of  town  meeting  with  blud- 
geon and  flint-lock,  were  driven  out  after 
a  bitter  struggle,  to  resettle  down  the  bay 
toward  Warwick,  or  deep  in  the  Paw- 
tuxet  woods. 

Newport,  settled  by  men  of  property, 
and  so  situated  that  unusual  diligence 
was  necessary  to  secure  a  livelihood,  soon 
became  a  prospering  seaport.  It  is,  in 
consequence,  Newport  which  represents 
Rhode  Island  in  external  dealings 
throughout  the  pre-Revolutionary  period. 
This  fact  is  made  very  clear  by  the  two 
volumes  of  letters  to  and  from  the  govern- 
ors and  the  agents  who  represented  the 
colony  in  London,  edited  by  Miss  Kim- 
ball,  for  the  Colonial  Dames  of  America 
in  Rhode  Island.  These  volumes  are 
like  a  breath  of  Newport's  own  refresh- 
ing sea  air  to  the  reader  who  turns  their 
pages  after  a  sitting  with  the  town  meet- 
ing records  of  disputes  about  land  and 
cattle,  of  bastardy  and  divorce,  tax-dodg- 
ing and  log-rolling,  and  the  other  details 
which  engrossed  the  local  Solons.  The 
mercantile  interests  of  Newport  con- 
trolled the  Colonial  administration  down 
to  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
and  even  after  the  increasing  wealth  of 
the  northern  capital  enabled  it  to  com- 
pete for  the  rural  vote  —  the  cash  price 
of  which  was  as  well  known  in  1760  as 
in  1903  —  the  Newporters  continued  to 
direct  the  policy  of  the  colony  in  its  deal- 
ings with  the  English  authorities.  The 
natural  result  is  that  the  letters  of  the 
London  agents  show  that,  so  far  as  they 
were  concerned,  Rhode  Island  was  very 
much  like  the  other  colonies  of  New 
Hampshire  and  New  Jersey.  They  were 
alike  slow  in  making  payment  for  long 
past  services,  equally  liable  to  sudden 
and  unreasonable  contradictions  in  giv- 
ing instructions  whenever  temporary  ad- 
vantages loomed  before  the  Provincial 
legislators,  and  equally  averse  to  furnish- 
ing data  concerning  their  local  commerce 
and  industries.  The  agents'  letters  re- 


The  Meaning  of  Rhode  Island. 


131 


veal  a  most  interesting  phase  of  Colonial 
life,  the  importance  of  which  has  only 
come  to  be  recognized  since  historical 
students  awoke  to  the  fact  that  the 
American  settlements  were  an  integral 
portion  of  the  British  kingdom,  directly 
affected  by  European  political  changes, 
and  vitally  concerned  with  the  commer- 
cial news  from  Lisbon,  Copenhagen,  and 
Marseilles. 

In  the  commercial  and  industrial  life 
of  Rhode  Island  lay  the  hope  for  its  fu- 
ture. Therein  was  dormant  whatever  of 
public  spirit  the  colony  possessed.  The 
example  of  Coddington,  scheming  to  or- 
ganize a  government  wherein  he  might 
wear  all  the  gold  lace,  and  of  Harris, 
anxious  to  serve  any  interest,  for  or 
against  the  colony  he  had  helped  to  es- 
tablish, provided  he  could  thereby  in- 
crease the  value  of  his  landed  posses- 
sions, sank  deep  into  the  popular  imagi- 
nation and  still  dominates  the  standards 
of  a  large  part  of  the  community.  Pub- 
lic spirit  implies  education,  which  means 
expenditure  without  immediate  visible 
return,  and  to  this  the  earlier  inhabitants 
of  town  as  well  as  country  were  immov- 
ably opposed.  Rhode  Island  was  settled 
by  men  who  were  unwilling  to  pay  for 
the  religious  teaching  desired  by  a  ma- 
jority of  the  people  among  whom  they 
had  been  living.  Most  of  them  pos- 
sessed each  his  own  religion,  sufficient 
unto  himself,  and  they  quickly  acquired 
an  indisposition  to  contributing  toward 
any  sort  of  merely  spiritual  service  for  the 
community  as  a  whole.  Public  spirit  has 
existed  from  the  beginning,  and  as  com- 
mercial prosperity  increased  it  becomes 
evident  more  and  more  frequently  against 
the  background  of  popular  indifference 
regarding  posterity.  Before  the  Revolu- 
tion, Hopkins  in  Providence  and  Red- 
wood in  Newport  established  libraries 
which  continue  to  exert  an  active  influ- 
ence on  the  intellectual  life  of  these 
cities.  Manning  was  guaranteed  a  liv- 
ing in  order  that  a  school  might  be  set 
up  in  Warren.  Nicholas  Brown  &  Co. 


agreed  to  pay  all  the  bills  for  erecting 
the  college  edifice  in  Providence,  when  it 
became  certain  that  many  of  the  sub- 
scribers toward  the  cost  of  the  build- 
ing were  expecting  to  evade  their  obliga- 
tions. Members  of  the  same  firm  of 
"  the  Four  Brothers,"  when  the  Boston 
Port  Bill  threw  the  Massachusetts  me- 
chanics out  of  work,  engaged  them  to 
put  up  the  famous  First  Baptist  Meeting 
House,  "  for  the  worship  of  God  and  to 
hold  Commencement  in,"  which  is  still 
the  pride  of  Providence.  There  is  to- 
day no  lack  of  evidence  of  generous,  pub- 
lic-spirited willingness  to  do  everything 
for  the  public  except  trust  it  politically. 
The  fault  is  obviously  with  the  people, 
who  do  not  care  about  being  trusted, 
doubtless  because  they  do  not  trust  them- 
selves. From  the  standpoint  of  the  po- 
litical theorist,  the  need  of  Rhode  Island 
to-day,  quite  as  much  as  when  Dorr  be- 
gan his  "  rebellion,"  is  a  modern  consti- 
tution of  democratic  government.  Prac- 
tically, this  is  insignificant  in  comparison 
with  the  need  for  citizens  who  care 
whether  their  governor  closes  gambling 
houses  and  stops  the  playing  of  policy. 
The  "  lively  experiment  "  of  Roger  Wil- 
liams succeeded  for  a  time  because  the 
people  who  made  up  his  community  did 
not  care  what  other  folks  thought  so  long 
as  each  could  do  as  he  or  she  liked.  It 
afterwards  failed,  in  the  opinion  of  many, 
because  most  persons  object  to  living  in 
the  neighborhood  of  those  who  are  likely 
to  do  extremely  disagreeable  things.  The 
outcome  is  a  commonwealth  which  is  still 
trying  to  solve  the  problem  of  how  to 
prevent  the  doing  of  things  that  are  un- 
pleasant and  unprofitable  to  the  body 
politic,  without  the  use  of  compelling 
force.  Rhode  Island  continues  to  be  a 
very  lively  experiment,  carried  on  by 
the  lineal  and  spiritual  descendants  of 
Williams  and  Harris  and  Gorton  and 
Arnold  and  John  Clarke  and  Mary  Dyer, 
and  the  thousands  of  others  who  have 
followed  them  out  from  Massachusetts, 
—  and  its  full  meaning  is  yet  to  be  told. 


132 


The,   Contributors'   Club. 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB. 


To  add  anything  to  Mr.  Crothers's  in- 
.  H  valuable  pleafor  theprotection 

able  Point  of  of  ignorance  would  seem  to 
Ignorance.  ^Q  ag  unfi^ing  as  to  attach 
footnotes  to  Charles  Lamb.  I  shrink 
from  doing  it,  but  a  hardened  missionary 
spirit  within  me  makes  me  yearn  that  his 
message  should  prevail  to  the  largest  pos- 
sible extent.  I  fear  that  too  many  will 
look  upon  his  delightful  achievements  in 
not  knowing  too  much,  long  for  the  same 
freedom  and  happiness,  and  then  fall  back 
discouraged  again  into  the  old  ways,  as 
defenseless  against  knowledge  as  poor 
Robert  Elsmere  was  said  to  have  been 
against  the  truth. 

Mr.  Crothers  has  lifted  up  the  vision. 
Our  hearts  have  gone  out  to  it  and  been 
lifted  up  to  it,  but  when  we  came  back 
to  the  common  life  again  we  hardly 
knew  how  to  go  to  work  to  keep  the 
vision  permanent.  Of  the  actual  disci- 
plines which  are  to  produce  in  others  his 
own  freedom  Mr.  Crothers  has  hardly  a 
word  to  say.  He  acts  as  if  it  were  per- 
fectly easy  and  perfectly  feasible  for 
any  one  to  be  ignorant,  and  as  if  all  one 
has  to  do  is  to  let  himself  go.  Not  so 
easily,  however,  does  one  escape  from  the 
lifelong  habit  of  knowledge.  It  would 
have  been  kinder  had  he  furnished  us  a 
few  hints  as  to  how  to  begin.  I  have  be- 
gun, and  should  my  experience  be  of 
use  to  others  it  is  freely  offered. 

I  was  looking  about  for  some  good 
chance  to  begin  over  again,  and  I  found  it. 
It  was  New  Zealand.  It  was  the  only 
subject  I  could  think  of  which  could  be 
taken  in  time.  It  was  the  only  one  which 
so  far  had  not  intruded  on  me  to  the 
point  of  making  ignorance  ever  after 
impossible.  Without  the  least  intention 
I  had  gotten  implicated  in  the  China 
business  before  I  was  aware  of  it,  and  it 
is  now  too  late  to  withdraw.  I  cannot 
shake  off  what  I  know  of  China,  —  it 


has  gotten  a  right  of  way  in  me,  and  I 
am  resigned  to  it.  No  one  knows  what 
I  have  suffered  from  the  Philippines. 
Five  years  ago  I  should  have  said  that 
of  all  things  in  this  world  the  Philip- 
pines were  the  least  likely  ever  to  invade 
my  ignorance,  but  now  I  can  never  hope 
to  shake  them  off.  I  shall  go  through 
life  knowing  about  the  Philippines.  I 
have  no  use  for  them,  but  must  act  as  if 
I  had.  Our  old  religious  weekly,  which 
for  years  had  been  a  faithful  protector 
of  ignorance,  suddenly  capitulated  to  the 
enemy  and  went  over.  After  that  we 
were  fortunate  to  get  off  with  one  edi- 
torial a  week  on  these  distant  islands. 
We  now  speak  of  the  paper  at  our  house 
as  The  Philippine  Weekly.  Occasion- 
ally the  editor  gives  us  something  of  the 
old  sort,  but  it  is  manifest  that  he  does 
not  like  it.  Henceforth  my  mental 
background  is  full  of  unwelcome  bolo- 
men  and  friars  and  tariffs.  Nothing 
can  be  done  about  it  now. 

But  New  Zealand  is  my  providential 
opportunity,  and  with  gratitude  I  take  it. 
I  am  determined  not  to  know  anything 
about  New  Zealand.  New  Zealand 
shall  have  a  fair  chance.  My  mistake 
hitherto  has  been  in  supposing  that  my 
ignorance  would  take  care  of  itself, 
hence  I  was  always  endangering  it  and 
risking  it  here  and  there  too  carelessly. 
Now  I  know  that  one  must  watch  it  with 
all  diligence  as  too  good  a  thing  to  be 
left  to  chance.  Whenever,  therefore,  I 
see  anything  about  New  Zealand  I  say 
to  myself,  "  Now  is  the  time  to  put  your 
professions  and  aspirations  to  the  test," 
and  I  deliberately  turn  away.  Tempta- 
tion comes  to  me  in  many  forms,  but  I 
remain  resolute.  No  matter  if  nearly 
everybody  in  our  club  does  know  about 
it,  what  is  that  to  rne  ?  Ignorance  ought 
to  cost  something.  There  are  weeks  in 
which  it  seems  as  if  the  whole  magazine 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


133 


and  newspaper  world  were  in  a  conspir- 
acy to  make  New  Zealand  gain  a  foot- 
ing in  my  soul.  At  such  times  I  fight 
it  off  hour  by  hour,  as  the  mariner  does 
the  storm,  and  when  after  a  day  of  it  a 
fine  glow  suffuses  my  soul,  as  I  go  down 
to  join  the  family  at  dinnei-,  they  wonder 
what  has  happened  to  me.  But,  alas,  it 
would  be  useless  to  tell  them,  for  such 
things  are  best  confessed  only  to  "  the 
great  congregation."  I  could  never  get 
any  of  my  family  to  believe  that  it  cost 
me  anything  to  remain  ignorant.  They 
suspect  nothing  of  what  I  suffer. 

Once  or  twice  I  have  recklessly  imper- 
iled all.  In  a  moment  of  wool-gathering 
one  evening  I  had  allowed  a  friend  of 
sociological  tendencies  to  get  going  with- 
out noticing  what  he  was  about.  I  was 
trimming  the  wick  at  the  time,  and  when 
I  sat  down  I  found  him  launched  out 
into  a  full  course  of  the  wonders  of  New 
Zealand.  I  shut  my  inward  ears  and 
professed  to  be  bored,  when  in  reality  I 
was  frightened.  Finally,  I  said  that  I  was 
not  interested  in  New  Zealand.  A  so- 
ciological friend  needs  no  more  than  this 
to  set  him  going.  "  What,"  said  he, 
"  are  n't  you  interested  in  the  finest 
specimen  of  economic  freedom  and  cour- 
age in  the  world  ?  "  "  Not  a  bit,"  I  re- 
plied. Then,  scornfully,  "  What  are  you 
interested  in,  may  I  ask  ?  "  That  par- 
ticular day  I  had  been  dwelling  with 
profound  delight  upon  Charles  Lamb's 
aunt  at  Calne,  whom  he  had  never  seen 
engaged  in  any  more  arduous  occupa- 
tion than  dropping  large  beans  into  a 
fair  basin  of  cool  water,  and  I  confessed 
it.  When  he  recovered  his  speech  he 
asked  if  it  was  not  true,  as  he  had 
heard,  that  I  once  had  an  uncle  living 
in  Australia.  This  was  true,  but  I  cut 
off  this  method  of  approach  by  telling 
him  of  a  native  in  the  backwoods  of 
Connecticut  who,  on  hearing  that  I 
came  from  Bangor,  said  he  thought  we 
ought  to  get  on  finely  together  as  he  was 
well  acquainted  up  in  those  parts,  hav- 
ing a  daughter  living  in  Fitchburg,  and 


five  or  six  sisters  buried  in  Prince  Ed- 
ward Island. 

On  another  occasion  I  nearly  suc- 
cumbed to  temptation  through  my  in- 
nate love  of  what  Dean  Stanley  called 
an  ecclesiastical  curiosity.  It  was  just 
a  line  in  some  paper,  which  began  by 
stating  that  in  New  Zealand  there  was  a 
movement  toward  the  union  of  Presby- 
terians and  Congregationalists.  There 
I  stopped  and  painfully  examined  my 
resolutions.  Had  the  tempter  caught 
me  at  last  ?  If  it  had  been  a  scientific 
announcement  that  at  last  some  way  had 
been  discovered  of  blending  oil  and  vine- 
gar, it  would  have  left  me  without  sur- 
prise, because  I  was  accustomed  to  the 
thought  that  in  nature  almost  anything 
was  possible  ;  but  when  it  was  a  case 
of  two  kinds  of  ecclesiastical  oil  being 
coaxed  into  unity,  I  confess  it  was  a 
great  temptation  to  go  on  and  know 
more  no  matter  what  happened.  But  I 
turned  toward  another  page,  and  to  this 
day  remain  guiltless  of  any  knowledge 
as  to  the  reunion  of  our  brothers  in  Aus- 
tralia. 

What  Mr.  Crothers  speaks  of  so  gen- 
tly and  winningly  is  heroic  business  down 
at  the  bottom.  It  demands  ways  and 
means  coolly  planned  and  relentlessly 
carried  out.  I  thought  to  drift  pleasant- 
ly into  it,  but  found  that  for  me  the  only 
way  to  it  was  strenuously  to  let  New 
Zealand  remain  new.  It  is  only  a  be- 
ginning, yet  it  has  made  me  feel  that  I 
have  read  the  fine  essay  on  The  Honor- 
able Points  of  Ignorance  as  Augustine 
advises  when  he  says,  "  So  read  that  you 
may  deserve  to  understand." 

I  AM  told  concerning  one  of  the  plays 
The  Waning  now  running  in  New  York 

Art  Of  Making  .    ° 

Believe.  that  the  piano  that  appears 
upon  the  stage  in  the  third  act  is  a  real 
one,  that  the  silver  service  is  marked 
sterling,  and  that  the  books  on  the 
shelves  are  the  literature  of  the  genuine 
library.  I  can  see  for  myself  that  the 
children  who  scamper  about  the  play- 
room in  the  first  act  are  real  children, 


134 


The    Contributors'    Club, 


and  within  a  year  or  two  of  the  age  for 
which  they  are  dressed.  The  acme  of 
realism  is  achieved  in  the  properties, 
and  if  the  acting  sometimes  fails  to  con- 
vince, the  background  is  irreproacha- 
ble. For  my  part,  I  rather  like  this 
honest,  downright  method  of  creating 
atmosphere  for  a  play,  and  I  judge  that 
most  of  my  companions  among  theatre- 
goers also  like  it.  We  have  the  feeling 
of  the  child  whose  Christmas  doll  turns 
out  to  have  in  its  wardrobe  an  umbrella 
and  a  mackintosh,  and  a  pair  of  bona 
fide  rubbers  to  protect  its  impervious 
feet.  We  are  conscious  of  a  sense  of 
superiority  over  our  neighbor  who  at- 
tends plays  in  which  wobbling  walls  are 
shaken  by  the  slightest  tap  upon  the 
equally  uncertain  door,  in  which  the 
jewels  are  paste,  and  the  silver  is  some- 
thing worse  than  pewter.  Thus  it  is 
that  we  are  being  trained  by  those  who 
provide  our  pleasures  to  scorn  shams 
and  rejoice  in  the  lovely  truth.  One 
doubt  only  is  occasionally  whispered  by 
the  still  small  voice  of  my  mind  in  the 
presence  of  these  aids  to  sincerity.  Ai'e 
we  possibly  in  danger  of  losing  thereby 
a  very  precious  possession,  our  happy 
faculty  for  making  believe  ?  I  remem- 
ber a  servant  who  came  from  the  lower 
order  of  Irish  peasantry,  and  who  upon 
reaching  this  country  was  obliged  to 
learn  how  to  walk  upstairs.  The  same 
atrophy  of  function  has  been  discovered 
in  children  born  in  apartment  houses, 
and  raised  and  lowered  by  the  public 
elevator.  And  then  I  recall  the  dolls 
of  my  childhood,  made  out  of  rags,  with 
mouths  indicated  by  a  red  cotton  thread. 
They  called  forth  all  my  power  of  trans- 
muting prose  of  fact  into  poetry  of  feel- 
ing. They  may  be  said  to  have  pre- 
pared the  way  for  my  becoming  in  later 
life  that  most  imaginative  of  writers,  — 
a  biographer.  My  fancy  waxed  as 
sturdy  upon  their  uncompromising  sur- 
faces as  the  puppy  gnawing  at  his  pi&ce 
de  resistance,  a  bone  stripped  of  its 
meat.  I  learned  from  them  to  use  the 


concrete  as  merely  a  symbol  of  the  ab- 
stract, and  to  work  with  my  mind  upon 
the  most  uninspiring  material.  In  those 
days  all  my  world  was  a  stage  and  I  the 
only  player.  I  composed  theatrical  per- 
formances after  the  manner  of  children, 
in  which  I  was  cast  for  the  double  role 
of  actor  and  audience.  I  remember  that 
the  scene  of  one  of  my  tragedies  was  laid 
in  the  arctic  regions,  and  for  iceberg 
and  snowy  plain  I  appropriated  my 
grandmother's  parlor  pier  glass  with  a 
marble  slab  at  its  base.  It  was  the  most 
realistic  of  my  properties. 

In  after  years  I  went  frequently  to 
melodramatic  performances,  and  I  found 
that  my  practice  in  making  believe  stood 
me  in  excellent  stead.  It  was  nothing  to 
me  that  the  scenic  backgrounds  were  as 
wrinkled  as  the  brow  of  old  Polonius, 
and  that  the  solid  earth  rose  and  fell 
like  the  waves  of  the  sea  at  any  gust  of 
air.  The  heroine's  cotton  velvet  gown 
was  the  emblem  of  elegance  to  my  initi- 
ated mind.  There  was  no  disillusion- 
ment possible,  as  the  illusion  was  sup- 
plied by  my  faithful  and  trained  imagi- 
nation. 

Now  all  this  has  changed.  I  have  not 
tried  myself  on  dolls,  but  the  other  day 
after  an  interval  of  many  years  I  went 
again  to  a  melodrama.  The  theatre 
teemed  with  sad  and  sweet  associations. 
I  loved  the  signs  upon  the  walls  warn- 
ing me  that  my  seat  ticket  did  not  in- 
clude a  babe  in  arms,  and  that  I  must 
not  whistle  or  hang  my  wraps  on  the 
balcony  rail.  When  the  good  old  cur- 
tain went  up  and  I  saw  the  noble-hearted 
sub-hero  pacing  the  stage,  inquiring  in 
stentorian  tones  what  he  could  do  to 
save  his  friend,  I  could  have  wept  in  an 
ecstasy  of  reminiscence.  But  there  for 
me  it  ended.  As  the  play  advanced  I 
found  myself  lazy  and  listless,  unwilling 
to  take  my  part  in  the  performance  and 
translate  the  whole  shabby  and  super- 
ficial show  into  sound  reality  and  legiti- 
mate art.  And  the  fault  was  not  chiefly 
with  the  acting ;  of  that  I  am  convinced. 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


135 


The  heroine  had  her  moments  of  real 
passion  and  her  expressions  of  sincerity. 
Certainly  her  poor  young  bones  must 
have  ached  with  the  thumping  ardor  of 
the  swoons  which  sent  her  crashing  to 
the  floor  in  every  second  scene.  As  for 
the  hero,  there  were  notes  in  his  voice, 
forced  elocutionary  notes,  that  I  had 
heard  frequently  enough  in  the  little 
theatre  of  the  piano  and  the  solid  silver 
service.  But  the  "  business "  of  the 
stage  was  so  stupidly  false  to  life  that 
after  a  time  I  ceased  even  to  be  amused 
by  it.  The  scenery  was  so  tawdry  that 
it  bored  me.  The  die  cast  by  Irving 
in  his  splendid  settings  had  spoiled  for 
me  the  theatre  of  my  youth.  I  was  like 
the  formal  city  guest  at  the  friendly  coun- 
try table,  —  stiffly  unaccustomed  to  reach- 
ing and  passing,  uncomfortably  conscious 
of  missing  the  luxury  of  service.  Cer- 
tain critics  assure  me  that  this  is  my  good 
fortune,  that  my  taste  lias  been  elevated, 
but  I  have  my  moments  of  indecision 
when  I  mourn  my  ancient  knack  at  mak- 
ing believe. 

A  PUNSTER  is  an  incipient  poet ;  a  poet 
The  Punster  mav  we^  De  a  perfected  pun- 
and  the  Poet.  ster-  Charles  Lamb  was  the 
one,  William  Shakespeare  was  the  other  ; 
and  yet  the  man  who  makes  a  pun  is  rele- 
gated to  the  ranks  of  those  "  who  would 
not  scruple  to  pick  a  pocket."  Scorners 
of  the  pun  have  no  right  to  self -congratu- 
lation ;  rather  should  they  lament  their 
lack  of  appreciation  of  a  very  telling  or- 
der of  genius.  If  the  potential  power  of 
the  pun-maker  were  directed  along  artis- 
tic lines  he  would  very  soon  achieve  dis- 
tinction by  reason  of  a  gift  desired  by 
all  poets,  and  one  that  only  a  poet  can 
properly  appreciate. 

The  link  that  unites  the  punster  and 
the  poet  is  neither  wit  nor  worth,  but 
words.  These  two  do  not  meet  in  the 
high  realms  of  imaginative  fervor,  but  on 
a  material,  linguistic  plane.  The  poet 
loves  to  win  from  human  speech  its  full- 
est beauty  and  significance,  he  delights 
in  delicate  discriminations,  he  lingers  over 


melodious  and  expressive  turns  of  phrase. 
So,  also,  does  the  punster ;  is  not  he,  too, 
^twctilious  in  the  use  of  language  ? 

What  is  a  pun  ?  It  is  a  perversion  of 
words,  a  willful  interference  with  the  so- 
ber meaning  of  a  word  or  phrase.  Lamb 
said  of  a  certain  man,  "  From  his  gravity 
Newton  might  have  deduced  the  theory 
of  gravitation."  In  this  species  of  pun 
we  can  see  the  whole  relation  of  poet  and 
punster.  The  latter  has  a  sensitive  ear, 
he  is  quick  to  notice  resemblances  be- 
tween sounds,  and  on  the  rapidity  of  his 
associative  powers  depends  his  success. 
The  more  exact  and  close  the  purely  ex- 
ternal association  of  words,  the  mere  skel- 
eton of  sound,  and  the  more  remote  the 
intellectual  content  and  signification,  the 
greater  the  incongruity,  the  more  ludi- 
crous the  pun. 

Was  not  the  instinct  for  puns,  which 
gives  spirit  to  so  much  of  the  literature  of 
the  Age  of  Elizabeth,  simply  a  manifes- 
tation of  the  poetic  impulse  of  the  time  ? 
Does  it  not  represent  for  us  one  side  of 
the  vigorous  love  of  language,  that  exces- 
sive pleasure  in  music  and  in  harmonious 
adjustment  of  letters  ?  Shakespeare  was 
an  inveterate  pun-maker,  brilliant,  euphu- 
istic,  delighting  in  chance  allusions  and 
incongruous  resemblances.  His  full  and 
rounded  genius  did  not  shrink  from  ver- 
bal nonsense.  In  King  Henry  IV.  how 
he  carries  it  to  extremes. 

Falstaff.  .  .  .  And,  I  prithee,  sweet  wag, 
when  thou  art  king,  as,  God  save  thy 
grace, —  majesty  I  should  say,  for  grace 
thou  wilt  have  none,  — 

Prince.     What,  none  ? 

Falstaff.  No,  by  my  troth,  not  so  much  as 
will  serve  to  be  prologue  to  an  egg  and 
butter. 

But  the  poets  who  make  no  puns,  who 
have  none  of  that  sensitive  affection  for 
pure  sound  !  Are  not  our  poorest  makers 
of  rimes  those  who  pun  not  ?  They  have 
no  ear  for  the  softer  correspondences, 
the  subtle  cadence  of  the  syllable.  Can- 
not the  taste  for  well-sustained  rimes  be 
learned  from  the  punster  who  would  cen- 
sure such  lines  as  these  :  — 


136 


The    Contributors'    Club. 


"  I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view 
A  spirit,  yet  a  Woman  too  ! 

A  Creature  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food." 

Let  us  withdraw  the  opprobrium  we 
have  been  pleased  to  attach  to  the  pun- 
ster. Indeed,  let  us  establish  a  new 
school  of  criticism  of  poetry,  and  have 
rightfully  associated  with  the  serene  lover 
of  wisdom  the  lover  of  puns,  who  has  de- 
voted his  best  and  worst  service  to  a 
muse. 

SINCE  the  Atlantic  is  not  illustrated 
"Handsomely  (save  in  its  advertisements)  I 
Illustrated."  mav  hope  to  find  place  in  its 
uniform  pages  for  my  quarrel  with  the 
"  handsomely  illustrated."  Being  in  pre- 
carious relations  with  the  editors  of  illus- 
trated magazines,  I  prefer  to  exhibit  my 
views  anonymously  in  the  department  of 
Clever-Things-Guess- Who  -Wrote  -  'Em. 
It  is  safer  sometimes  to  fight  with  a 
mask. 

Illustrations  include  two  sorts  of  pic- 
tures, —  those  which  decorate,  and  those 
which  elucidate.  To  pure  ornaments  no 
one  need  object ;  it  is  proper  for  any 
book  or  magazine  to  bear  designs  on  the 
cover,  and  to  contain  illuminated  initials, 
tail-pieces,  scrolls,  swirls,  and  other  fan- 
ciful embellishments.  My  objection  is 
to  most  pictures  the  function  of  which  is 
indicated  by  the  intellectual  sense  of  the 
word  illustration. 

In  a  novel  of  American  society  I  find 
both  in  the  book  and  in  the  numbers  of 
the  magazine  which  offered  the  story  in 
serial  parts  a  dozen  pictures  "  hand- 
somely illustrating  "  the  text.  "  She 
smiled  and  looked  up  at  him  expres- 
sively." Half-tone  picture  of  her  smil- 
ing expressively.  The  picture  does  not 
give  a  better  idea  of  her  smile  or  of  his 
manner  of  receiving  it  than  the  reader 
could  get  from  the  printed  words.  Unless 
the  illustrator  has  had  personal  confer- 
ence with  the  author  he  derives  his  idea 
from  the  text  just  as  the  reader  derives 
his.  "  '  Good  -  evening,'  he  remarked, 


removing  his  hat  politely."  Half-tone 
drawing  of  a  brick  pavement  on  which 
stands  a  young  man  with  his  hat  held  in 
his  right  hand  four  inches  from  his  hair. 
In  the  story  this  polite  incident  is  re- 
counted by  a  few  words  tucked  into  the 
narrative.  It  is  a  passing  detail  which 
the  illustrator  has  raised  to  the  impor- 
tance of  a  full  page.  The  young  man 
may  be  worth  looking  at,  but  so  he  is  in 
that  mental  picture  which  the  skill  of  the 
writer  has  conjured  forth  in  the  mind  of 
the  excited  reader.  Here,  again,  the  il- 
lustrator proceeds  with  no  more  certain 
or  ample  knowledge  than  the  author  af- 
fords to  any  human  being  who  reads  his 
words.  Indeed,  the  picture  may  hinder 
perfect  understanding,  for  the  modern 
illustrator  frequently  leaves  his  author 
behind,  and  tracks  off  into  the  human  wil- 
derness in  independent  quest  of  the  model 
young  man.  The  gesture  as  represented 
in  the  picture  has  no  significance  ;  neither 
has  the  hat.  We  all  know  how  hats  are 
removed.  If  the  picture  appeared  in  a 
book  of  fashions,  published  by  a  mer- 
chant tailor,  the  shape  of  the  hat  might 
increase  our  grasp  of  the  prevailing 
styles.  Possibly,  too,  the  kind  of  hat  de- 
picted may  tell  us  something  of  impor- 
tance by  indirect  exposition.  A  silk  hat 
would  indicate  that  the  courteous  episode 
took  place  in  the  afternoon.  An  opera 
hat  would  fix  the  time  after  six  o'clock. 
A  derby  hat  might  establish  the  hour 
broadly  between  seven  in  the  morning 
and  five  in  the  afternoon.  The  signifi- 
cance might  be  still  deeper.  A  slouch 
hat  would  indicate  that  the  story  is  laid 
in  the  South,  or  that  the  young  man  is 
a  college  student.  But  here,  again,  we 
should  learn  only  facts  which  we  could 
descry  by  such  scrupulous  study  of  the 
text  as  most  of  us  devote  to  current  fiction. 
Illustrations  have  thorough  value  in 
exemplifying  printed  information  about 
unknown  things  and  unusual  people.  An 
article  on  the  compass  should  contain 
both  a  diagram  of  the  compass  and  a 
good  picture  of  the  arrangement  of  a 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


137 


compass  on  a  real  ship.  A  photograph 
would  be  best  because  it  would  be  accu- 
rate, and  with  modern  photographic  im- 
provements it  might  be  beautiful  and  in- 
teresting in  itself.  Similarly  an  essay 
on  Thibet  should  be  illustrated  with  views 
of  the  people,  the  houses,  and  the  land- 
scape. Likewise  some  Personal  Reminis- 
cences of  George  Washington  and  Abra- 
ham Lincoln  might  be  accompanied  by 
good  portraits  of  those  great  men. 

In  addition,  there  is  value  in  illustra- 
tions of  strange  and  difficult  fiction.  Sup- 
pose an  American  magazine  publishes  an 
expurgated  story  of  modern  French  life, 
in  which  occurs  a  fight  between  two  of 
the  villains.  "  '  La-la-la  !  '  cried  Aston, 
kicking  Galphonse  deftly  behind  the 
ear."  This  needs  an  illustration.  We 
do  not  understand  that  kind  of  fighting. 
The  magazine  should  send  to  Paris  a 
staff  of  artists  to  get  valid  pictures  of 
typical  footfights,  and  should  publish  a 
good  picture,  carefully  studied,  whereby 
we  should  see  with  full  knowledge  and 
an  understanding  heart  this  thrilling  en- 
counter and  know  the  technicalities  of 
the  contest.  The  corresponding  episode 
in  an  American  novel  of  Indiana  life 
would  need  no  picture.  "The  big  fel- 
low was  almost  laid  away  by  the  left 
hook  jab,  but  negotiated  heavily  with  his 
right,  and  landed  on  the  point  of  Percy 
Frederick  Billington's  jaw."  No  picture 
is  necessary.  Every  true  American, 
every  honest  Englishman,  would  under- 
stand that  incident  at  the  first  flash  of 
the  words. 

In  some  other  modern  stories  illustra- 
tions are  legitimate,  especially  in  realis- 
tic fiction,  which  is  so  perplexingly  un- 
real. I  should  like  to  own  an  illustrated 
edition  of  Henry  James  for  my  wife  and 
children.  The  vague,  interthreaded  ab- 
stractions would,  under  the  touch  of  a 
really  great  illustrator,  solidify  into  vis- 
ual actualities  which  any  child  could 
apperceive  —  were  he  not  enfolded  by 
the  veil  of  a  temperamental  density,  were 
he  not  of  a  weakness  relating  to  certain 


ocular  defects  of  heredity,  which,  had  he 
known  it,  would  have  deterred  him,  no 
doubt,  for  a  time,  at  least,  from  essaying 
with  show  of  hope  of  success  any  visual 
activity  whatsoever.  The  style  is  easy  to 
write,  but  difficult  to  read  (propter  hoc). 
The  illustrator  who  could  depict  James's 
women  probably  does  not  exist.  If  he 
could  be  found,  what  a  benefactor  would 
he  be  of  his  race  and  generation. 

The  whole  matter  is  clear.  Decora- 
tions should  decorate ;  illustrations  should 
illustrate.  Other  sorts  of  pictures  re- 
duce a  book  or  a  magazine  to  a  mere 
picture  album. 

THE  Pilgrim  Fathers.     What  words 

The  Pilgrim  these  are  to  conjure  with,  and 
Fathers;  i  i  i  • 

Their  Debt     how    the    modern    conjurers, 

to  Us.  historic,  literary,  and  social, 

have  exercised  that  privilege  !  From  the 
first  epoch  of  our  youth  when  we  are  sad- 
dened by  the  recital  of  that  poem  which 
pictures  their  landing  amid  "  breaking 
waves"  upon  a  "rock -hound  shore" 
(from  which  all  rocks  save  one  have 
strangely  disappeared),  through  the  times 
when  we  are  harassed  by  text-books  tell- 
ing of  the  forefathers'  stay  in  Holland, 
and  why  they  failed  to  do  it  longer,  and 
on  through  all  the  entire  Pilgrim's  Pro- 
gress, we  are  reluctantly  conveyed.  In 
after  years  we  focus  our  attention  upon 
their  social,  educational,  and  ethical  con- 
ditions, and  our  declining  days  are  punc- 
tuated by  books  regarding  them,  memo- 
rials to  them,  societies  commemorating 
them  under  all  phases  and  circumstances. 

"  Posthumous  glory  "  has  been  defined 
as  "  a  revenue  payable  to  our  ghosts," 
and  such  a  revenue  we  have  paid  gladly 
and  abundantly  to  those  grim  Pilgrim 
ghosts.  We  have  awarded  them  a  wealth 
of  fame  beyond  the  wildest  dreams  that 
their  imaginations  might  have  formu- 
lated. 

We  hear  much  of  our  debt  to  these 
hardy  and  conscientious  pioneers.  We 
have  been  trained  to  estimate  our  pre- 
sent blessings,  our  country's  vast  posses- 
sions, the  land's  prosperity,  and  then  to 


138 


The    Contributors'    Club. 


give  thanks  to  Heaven  and  to  the  Pilgrim 
Fathers. 

What  is  our  debt  to  them  ? 

In  the  first  place,  they  came  here  to 
suit  themselves.  They  were  dissatisfied 
with  their  surroundings  and  wanted  a 
land  where  they  could  follow  their  own 
sweet  wills,  and  be  quite  free  to  order 
others  about  and  make  them  attend  meet- 
ing for  as  many  hours  at  a  time  as  they 
saw  fit.  They  did  not  come  on  our  ac- 
count. If  any  thought  of  us  entered 
their  minds,  it  must  have  been  formed 
upon  apologetic  lines.  They  must  have 
realized  the  problems  and  perplexities 
they  were  bequeathing  us,  helpless  pos- 
terity. In  place  of  "  merry  England," 
arranged,  mapped  out,  and  in  good  run- 
ning order,  we  had  a  wilderness,  peopled 
with  savage  tribes,  in  which  to  demon- 
strate our  right  to  "  life,  liberty,  and  the 
pursuit  of  happiness." 

Gratitude  is  most  fittingly  bestowed 
on  those  who  intentionally  benefit  their 
kind,  and  not  on  those  who  do  it  inciden- 
tally or  accidentally. 

What  did  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  give  us 
intentionally  ?  Little  compared  with 
that  which  they  relinquished  for  us ; 
even  the  admirable  traits  of  character 
which  they  bestowed  were  cultivated  not 
on  our  account,  but  rather  as  a  kind  of 
fire  insurance  against  an  equatorial  at- 
mosphere in  the  hereafter  ;  and  then  the 
other  traits  which  formed  our  small  in- 
heritance, they  were  not  much  to  be 
desired.  That  stern  intolerance,  that 
torturing  New  England  conscience,  that 
self-repression,  that  jealous  mistrust  of 
simple  joy  for  its  own  sake  ;  all  those  and 
similar  possessions  were  our  unasked-for 
legacy.  Is  the  debt  vast  or  not,  on  our 
side? 

And  how  is  it  on  theirs  ? 

What  have  we  done  for  them  ?  We, 
who  had  power  to  consign  them  to  total 
oblivion.  We  have  immortalized  them ; 
glorified  their  aims  and  endeavors.  In 
song  and  story,  in  bronze  and  marble,  we 
have  commemorated  their  most  minute 


concerns.  We  have  erected  innumerable 
monuments  to  their  memory.  Our  art 
and  literature  are  permeated  with  ap- 
preciative tributes  to  these  first  comers. 
No  modern  cruiser,  or  ocean  greyhound, 
may  ever  hope  to  vie  with  the  fame  of 
that  little  boat  that  landed  its  valuable 
cargo  on  Plymouth  Rock.  We  may  "  re- 
member the  Maine  "  for  a  brief  season 
only,  but  we  can  never  forget  the  May- 
flower. 

It  were  too  difficult  a  task  to  enumer- 
ate what  we  have  done  for  these  our 
Pilgrim  ancestors,  we  whom  they  intro- 
duced to  a  rough  country  and  then  de- 
serted, with  small  thought  of  our  welfare, 
leaving  us  to  work  out  our  own  salvation 
through  very  troublous  times.  We  have 
done  them  much  credit,  and  have  amply 
bestowed  the  same  upon  them.  We 
have  done  all  that  any  grateful  posterity 
may  do  in  this  free  country,  where  we 
have  not  the  Chinese  prerogative  of  en- 
nobling our  forefathers. 

Each  year  a  splendid  gathering  of 
members  of  the  New  England  Society 
meets  in  the  city  of  New  York  to  cele- 
brate that  chilly  and  auspicious  day 
which  brought  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  to 
these  shores.  At  every  such  assembly 
eloquent  tones  voice  our  indebtedness  to 
those  first  immigrants.  Is  it  not  time 
some  voices  were  lifted  to  proclaim  the 
vastness  of  the  debt  which  has  accumu- 
lated upon  the  Pilgrim  Fathers'  side  ? 

IN  old  literature  life  is  compared  to  a 
On  Travel-  journey,  and  wise  men  rejoice 
to  question  old  men  because, 
like  travelers,  they  know  the  sloughs  and 
roughnesses  of  the  long  road.  Men  arose 
with  the  sun,  and  toddled  forth  as  chil- 
dren on  the  day's  journey  of  their  lives, 
and  became  strong  to  endure  the  heavi- 
ness of  noonday.  They  strived  forward 
during  the  hours  of  early  afternoon  while 
their  sun's  ambition  was  hot,  and  now  as 
the  heat  is  cooling  they  have  reached  the 
crest  of  the  last  hill,  and  their  road  dips 
gently  to  the  valley  where  all  roads  end. 
And  on  into  the  quiet  evening,  until,  at 


The    Contributors'    Club. 


139 


last,  they  lie  down  in  that  shadowed  val- 
ley, and  await  the  long  night. 

This  figure  has  lost  its  meaning,  for 
we  now  travel  by  rail,  and  life  is  now 
expressed  in  terms  of  the  railway  time- 
table. As  has  been  said,  we  leave  and 
arrive  at  places,  but  we  no  longer  travel. 
Consequently,  we  cannot  understand  the 
hubbub  that  Marco  Polo  must  have  caused 
among  his  townsmen  when  he  swaggered 
home.  He  and  his  crew  were  bronzed 
by  the  sun,  were  dressed  as  Tartars,  and 
could  speak  their  native  Italian  with  great 
difficulty.  To  convince  the  Venetians  of 
their  identity  Marco  gave  a  magnificent 
entertainment,  at  which  he  and  his  offi- 
cers received,  clad  in  gorgeous  Oriental 
dresses  of  red  satin.  Three  times  dur- 
ing the  banquet  they  changed  their 
dresses,  distributing  the  discarded  gar- 
ments among  the  guests.  At  last,  the 
rough  Tartar  clothing  worn  on  their 
travels  was  displayed  and  then  ripped 
open.  Within  was  a  profusion  of  price- 
less jewels  of  the  Orient,  the  gifts  of 
Kublai  Khan  of  Cathay.  The  proof  was 
regarded  as  perfect,  and  from  that  time 
Marco  was  acknowledged  by  his  coun- 
trymen, and  loaded  with  distinction.  And 
it  is  neither  the  first  time,  nor  the  last, 
that  the  flash  of  wealth  has  served  as  a 
letter  of  introduction.  When  Drake  re- 
turned from  the  Strait  of  Magellan,  and, 
powdered,  wigged,  and  beflunkied,  told 
his  lies  at  fashionable  London  dinners, 
no  doubt  he  was  believed.  And  his  crew, 
let  loose  on  the  beer-shops,  gathered  each 
his  circle  of  listeners,  drank  at  his  ad- 
mirers' expense,  and  yarned  far  into  the 
night.  It  was  worth  one's  while  to  be  a 
traveler  in  those  times. 

But  traveling  has  fallen  on  evil  days. 
The  greatest  traveler  now  is  the  brake- 
man.  Next  is  he  who  sells  colored  cot- 
ton. A  poor  third  pursues  health  and 
flees  from  restlessness.  Wise  men  have 
ceased  to  question  travelers,  except  to  in- 
quire of  the  arrival  of  trains  and  of  the 
comfort  of  hotels. 

To-day  I  am  one  thousand  miles  from 


home.  From  my  window  the  world 
stretches  massive,  homewards.  Even 
though  I  stood  on  the  most  distant  range 
of  mountains  and  looked  west,  still  I 
would  look  on  a  world  that  contained  no 
suggestion  of  home ;  and  if  I  leaped  to 
that  horizon  and  to  the  next,  the  result 
would  be  the  same,  —  so  insignificant 
would  be  the  relative  distance  accom- 
plished. And  here  I  am  set  down  with 
no  knowledge  of  how  I  came.  There 
was  a  continuous  jar  and  the  noise  of 
motion.  We  passed  a  barn  or  two,  I  be- 
lieve, and  on  one  hillside  animals  were 
frightened  from  their  grazing  as  we 
passed.  There  were  cluttered  streets  of 
several  cities  and  villages.  There  was 
a  prodigious  number  of  telegraph  poles 
going  in  the  opposite  direction,  hell-bent 
as  fast  as  we,  which  poles  considerately 
went  at  half-speed  through  towns,  for 
fear  of  hitting  children.  The  United 
States  was  once  an  immense  country,  and 
extended  quite  to  the  sunset.  For  con- 
venience we  have  reduced  its  size,  and 
made  it  but  a  map  of  its  former  self. 
Any  section  of  this  map  can  be  unrolled 
and  inspected  in  a  day's  time. 

In  the  books  the  children  read  is  the 
story  of  the  seven-league  boots,  wonder- 
ful boots,  worth  a  cobbler's  fortune.  If 
a  prince  is  escaping  from  an  ogre,  if  he 
is  eloping  with  a  princess,  if  he  has  an 
engagement  at  the  realm's  frontier  and 
the  wires  are  down,  he  straps  these  boots 
to  his  feet,  and  strides  the  mountains  and 
spans  the  valleys.  For  with  the  clicking 
of  the  silver  buckles  he  has  destroyed  the 
dimensions  of  space.  Length,  breadth, 
and  depth  are  measured  for  him  but  in 
wishes.  One  wish  and  perhaps  a  theat- 
rical snap  of  the  fingers,  or  an  invoca- 
tion to  the  devil  of  locomotion,  and  he 
stands  on  a  mountain  top,  the  next  range 
of  hills  blue  in  the  distance ;  another 
wish  and  another  snap  and  he  has  leaped 
the  valley.  Wonderful  boots,  these ! 
Worth  a  king's  ransom.  And  this  prince, 
too,  as  he  travels  thus  dizzily  may  remem- 
ber one  or  two  barns,  animals  frightened 


140 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


from  their  grazing,  and  the  cluttered 
street  of  cities  nested  in  the  valley. 
When  he  reaches  his  journey's  end  he 
will  be  just  as  wise  and  just  as  ignorant 
as  we  who  now  travel  by  rail  in  magic, 
seven-league  fashion.  For  here  I  am 
set  down,  and  all  save  the  last  half-mile 
of  my  path  is  lost  in  the  curve  of  the 
mountains.  From  my  window  I  see  the 
green-covered  mountains,  new  to  me  this 
morning,  so  different  from  city  streets 
with  their  horizon  of  buildings. 

I  fancy  that,  on  that  memorable  morn- 
ing when  Aladdin's  Palace  was  set  down 
in  Africa  after  its  magic  night's  ride 
from  the  Chinese  capital,  a  house-maid 
must  have  gone  to  the  window,  thrown 
back  the  hangings  and  looked  out,  as- 
tounded, on  the  barren  mountains,  when 
she  expected  to  see  only  the  courtyard 
of  the  palace  and  its  swarm  of  Chinese 
life.  She  then  recalled  that  the  building 
rocked  gently  in  the  night,  and  that  she 
heard  a  whirling  sound  as  of  wind. 
These  were  the  only  evidences  of  the 
devil-guided  flight.  Now  she  looked  on 
a  new  world,  and  the  familiar  pagodas 
lay  far  to  the  east  within  the  eye  of  the 
rising  sun. 

There  are  summer  evenings  in  my  re- 
collection when  I  have  traveled  the  skies. 
I  and  my  pipe,  and  quiet  companionship 
which  does  not  intrude  on  my  fancies, 
have  landed  from  the  sky's  blue  sea  upon 
the  cloud  continent,  and  traversed  its 
mountain  ranges,  its  inland  lakes,  har- 
bors, and  valleys.  Over  their  wind-swept 
ridges  we  have  gone,  like  gods  watching 
the  world-change,  seeing 

"  the  hungry  ocean  gain 
Advantage  on  the  Kingdom  of  the  shore, 
And  the  firm  soil  win  of  the  watery  main, 
Increasing  store  with  loss  and  loss  with  store." 

The  greatest  traveler  that  I  know  is 
a  little  man,  slightly  bent,  who  walks  with 
a  stick  in  his  garden  or  sits  passive  in  his 
library.  Other  friends  have  boasted  of 


travels  in  the  Orient,  of  mornings  spent 
on  the  Athenian  Acropolis,  of  visiting 
the  Theatre  of  Dionysius,  and  of  halloo- 
ing to  the  empty  seats  that  reechoed. 
They  warn  me  of  this  and  that  hotel, 
and  advise  me  concerning  the  journey 
from  London.  The  usual  tale  of  travel- 
ers is  that  Athens  is  a  ruin.  I  have 
heard  it  rumored,  for  instance,  that  the 
Parthenon  marbles  are  in  London,  and 
that  the  Parthenon  itself  has  suffered 
from  the  "  wreckful  siege  of  battering 
days  ;  "  that  the  walls  to  the  Piraeus  con- 
tain hardly  one  stone  left  upon  another. 
And  this  sets  me  to  thinking,  for  my 
friend  denies  all  this  with  such  an  air 
of  sincerity  that  I  am  almost  inclined 
to  believe  his  word  against  all  the  rest. 
The  Athens  he  pictures  is  not  ruinous, 
the  Parthenon  stands  before  him  as  it 
left  the  hand  of  its  sculptor  Phidias. 
The  walls  to  the  Piraeus  stand  high  as 
on  that  morning,  now  almost  forgotten, 
when  Athens  awaited  the  Spartan  attack. 
Men,  women,  and  children  have  wiped 
the  sweat  from  their  faces,  as  they  lay 
down  their  motley  tools  and  surveyed 
their  work  complacent.  For  him  the  Di- 
onysian  Theatre  does  not  echo  with  tour- 
ists' shouts,  but  gives  forth  the  sound  of 
many-voiced  Greek  life.  He  knows,  too, 
the  people  of  Athens.  He  walked  one 
day  with  Socrates  along  the  banks  of  the 
Ilissus,  and  afterward  visited  him  in  his 
prison  when  about  to  drink  the  Hemlock. 
It  is  of  the  grandeur  of  Athens  and  her 
sons  that  he  speaks,  not  of  her  ruins. 
The  best  of  his  travels  is  that  he  buys  no 
ticket  of  Cook,  nor,  indeed,  of  any  one, 
and  when  he  has  seen  the  cities'  sights,  his 
wife  enters  and  says,  "  Is  n't  it  time  for 
the  bookworm  to  eat  ?  "  So  he  has  his 
American  supper  in  the  next  room  over- 
looking Attica,  so  to  speak.  Oh,  there 
are  many  ways  of  traveling,  and  my 
brakeman's  view  from  his  box-car  is  not 
the  only  view. 


A  Letter  from  England :   The  Issue  of  Protection. 


141 


A  LETTER   FROM  ENGLAND:   THE   ISSUE   OF   PROTECTION. 


I  MAY  be  pardoned,  I  hope,  for  open- 
ing the  present  letter  by  recalling  the 
fact  —  however  immaterial  —  that  last 
January,  when  summarizing  1902,  I 
hazarded  a  reference  to  Protection  as 
one  of  two  questions  "  rapidly  stealing 
upon  us  to  the  exclusion  of  all  others, 
the  decision  of  which  may  be  destined  to 
bring  about  more  far-reaching  changes 
in  our  civic  and  commercial  life  than  the 
inventions  or  reforms  of  the  century." 
The  dramatic  fulfillment  of  this  modest 
prophecy,  enacted  by  Mr.  Chamberlain, 
I  cannot  certainly  pretend  to  have  fore- 
seen ;  but,  in  writing  to-day,  there  can 
be  no  difference  of  opinion  as  to  the  pre- 
dominance of  the  issue.  In  wisdom  or 
folly,  for  good  or  ill,  we  are  inevitably 
committed  to  a  very  searching  and  ex- 
haustive inquiry  into  the  situation. 

Meanwhile,  the  particular  manner  in 
which  this  crisis  has  been  precipitated 
involves  us  in  one  incidental  element  of 
danger,  and  in  another  of  no  less  signifi- 
cant security.  In  the  first  place  we  may 
wander,  at  least  temporarily,  from  the 
vital  issue  toward  a  too  curious  study, 
or  a  too  enthusiastic  partisanship,  of  the 
attitudes  adopted  and  the  characters  dis- 
played by  individual  statesmen.  The 
ex-Colonial  Secretary,  who  shares  with 
the  German  Emperor  a  genius  without 
parallel  for  absorbing  public  attention, 
has  thrown  himself  in  the  face  of  Eng- 
lish tradition  with  an  impetuosity  which 
lends  to  his  proposals  a  certain  glamour 
of  knight-errantry.  He  declaims  our 
difficulties  so  fearlessly  that  he  may 
hurry  us  into  the  adoption  of  his  panacea. 
The  middle  position  of  Mr.  Balfour  is 
too  intellectual  and  too  apparently  tem- 
porizing for  the  average  mind  to  trust 
its  sincerity  ;  while  the  most  zealous  and 
most  thoughtful  Free  Traders  can  with 
difficulty  escape  the  suspicion  of  having 
set  their  faith  on  shibboleths  and  of 


out-Cobdening  Cobden.  Leader-writers 
in  support  of  the  new  commercialism 
are  forever  crying  out :  "  Free  Trade 
may  be  an  ideal,  but  it  is  unattainable. 
Trade  has  never  been  free,  it  is  not  free, 
it  cannot  be  free.  Drop  the  moral  atti- 
tude and  face  facts."  Thus  they  ignore, 
and  in  time  they  may  tempt  us  to  forget, 
that  Free  Trade  —  as  taught  by  all  econ- 
omists —  is  no  more  an  absolute  theory 
or  dogma  than  Protection.  Both  are 
practical  policies  or  systems,  "  in  one  of 
which  the  protective  element  is  slight 
and  accidental,  while  in  the  other  it  is 
considerable  and  avowed."  We  should 
do  well  to  avoid  either  catchword  and 
speak  of  "  Tariff  Reform,"  through  the 
investigation  of  which  any  given  propo- 
sal may  be  fairly  stated  and  discussed  on 
its  own  merits. 

But  a  compensating  consequence  of 
the  sensational  denouement  of  the  last 
few  months  may  be  found  in  the  precise 
contrary  of  what  it  seems  on  the  surface 
to  have  produced.  Though  Mr.  Cham- 
berlain might  be  accused,  with  some  show 
of  justice,  of  having  split  up  the  Tory 
camp  by  his  latest  sortie  as  effectually 
as  he  broke  the  ranks  of  Liberalism  by 
opposing  Home  Rule,  it  is  by  no  means 
improbable  that  his  present  campaign 
may  have  the  ultimate  effect  of  restoring 
to  almost  stable  equilibrium  the  balance 
of  parties,  on  which  our  system  of  gov- 
ernment is  generally  believed  to  depend. 
The  Home  Rule  rupture  dislocated  old 
landmarks,  and  they  were  finally  demol- 
ished under  the  war  fever.  Unionism 
has  never  been  a  healthy  growth.  But 
we  are  confronted  to-day  —  on  Mr. 
Chamberlain's  initiative  undoubtedly  — 
by  a  broad  and  definite  parting  of  the 
ways.  We  are  face  to  face  with  a  prob- 
lem in  which  the  genuine  and  tradi- 
tional spirit  of  the  Liberal  is  unflinch- 
ingly opposed  to  the  stout  Tory.  An 


142 


A  Letter  from  jEngland :   The  Issue  of  Protection. 


honest  fight  in  the  open  field  should 
clear  the  air.  Maybe  even  the  Whigs 
will  find  their  feet  again,  and,  once  the 
temporary  confusions  of  nomenclature 
are  eradicated,  we  shall  every  one  of  us 
know  where  we  stand.  The  issue  is 
modern,  inasmuch  as  it  is  essentially  at 
once  imperial  and  commercial  ;  but  the 
most  cherished  of  our  national  ideals 
are  equally  involved,  and  a  fair  poll  on 
Protection  would  nail  the  electorate  to 
its  colors. 

On  the  eve  of  the  struggle,  perhaps, 
amidst  the  clamor  of  tongues  and  the 
hailstorm  of  political  pamphlets,  it  may 
not  be  immediately  easy  to  discern  why 
the  English  peoples  should  have  been 
summoned,  thus  suddenly  and  imperi- 
ously, to  the  settlement  of  a  controversy 
which  in  reality  consists,  as  one  of  our 
younger  economists  has  written,1  of  two 
cries  and  four  problems. 

"  The  cries  are,  on  the  one  hand,  that 
our  national  prosperity  is  threatened  by 
foreign  competition,  and,  on  the  other, 
that  the  fabric  of  imperial  unity  is  crum- 
bling away.  The  problems  have  refer- 
ence to  the  desirability,  or  otherwise,  of 
the  following  suggestions  :  first,  a  return 
to  some  form  of  general  Protection,  es- 
pecially in  the  case  of  manufactured  ar- 
ticles ;  secondly,  a  special  and  limited 
application  of  Protection  against  the  ag- 
gressive action  of  Trusts  and  Kartels ; 
thirdly,  a  modification  of  tariff  policy, 
designed  to  increase  our  power  of  bar- 
gaining with  other  nations ;  and,  lastly, 
a  system  of  reciprocal  preferential  ar- 
rangements within  the  British  Empire." 

Impartial  judgment  will  probably  in 
a  short  time  decide  that  the  plea  of  ur- 
gency based  on  these  cries,  by  which 
some  of  our  protectionist  friends  have 
tried  to  shout  down  opposition,  is  not 
justified  by  facts.  In  the  first  place, 
though  trade  statistics  are  formed  from 
very  complicated  detail  of  which  the 
significance  may  be  variously  interpret- 
ed, the  consensus  of  responsible  opin- 

1  The  Riddle  of  the  Tariff.    By  A.  C.  Pigou. 


ion  does  not  sanction  either  the  vague 
alarms  of  "  depression  "  or  the  assump- 
tion of  alien  underselling  as  its  cause. 
The  common  deduction  is  taken  entirely 
from  import  and  export  returns,  where- 
as "  the  richer  a  country  becomes,  the 
greater  in  all  probability  will  be  the 
disparity  between  advances  in  its  real 
wealth  and  prosperity  and  the  upward 
movement  of  its  foreign  trade."  It  is 
obvious  that,  "  in  the  limiting  case  of  a 
nation  already  rich  enough  to  buy  all 
the  foreign  goods  of  which  it  has  any 
need,  these  latter  figures  will  go  no  high- 
ex-,  however  great  the  leaps  and  bounds 
by  which  wealth  continues  to  increase." 

The  second,  that  is  the  imperial,  cry 
of  "  Rocks  ahead  "  may  be  silenced  by 
statements  at  once  simple  and  convin- 
cing. Amid  much  of  certain  evil,  of 
doubtful  promise,  recent  events  in  South 
Africa  have  at  least  proved  beyond  cavil 
that  the  ties  of  sentiment  between  Great 
Britain  and  her  distant  daughter-lands 
are  more  than  verbal.  And  through 
the  present  crisis  the  leaders  of  Colo- 
nial thought  have  been  unanimous  in  de- 
clarations that  contain  "  no  hint  or  sus- 
picion of  any  anxiety  to  force  a  prefer- 
ential market  upon  us  as  the  price  of 
their  continued  loyalty." 

If,  then,  we  can  rest  assured  that  re- 
form is  not,  in  fact,  immediately  impera- 
tive, it  becomes  possible  to  dispassionate- 
ly investigate  "  certain  rival  schemes  of 
fiscal  policy,"  which  may  still,  of  course, 
for  other  reasons  be  desirable  toward 
our  ultimate  prosperity.  And  we  may 
further  admit  in  passing,  on  the  one 
hand,  that  foreign  protected  competition, 
like  all  trusts  and  dumping,  is  one  of 
the  elements  producing  crises  in  com- 
merce ;  and,  on  the  other,  that  all  advan- 
tages claimed  for  Protection  have  a  far 
greater  appearance  of  cogency  for  young 
and  undeveloped  countries  (as  trusts 
have  for  new  industries)  than  for  those 
of  established  status  like  our  own. 

Reverting  to  the  four  practical  sugges- 
tions named  above,  it  will  be  easily  rec- 


A  Letter  from  England :   The  Issue  of  Protection.  143 


ognized  that,  while  the  first  "  has  been 
advocated  only  by  irresponsible  persons 
upon  grounds  implying  an  imperfect  un- 
derstanding of  economic  analysis,  "  the 
second  and  third  are  now  admitted  into 
the  official  programme  of  Mr.  Balfour 
and  his  present  Cabinet,  while  the  fourth 
presents  the  distinguishing  item  of  Mr. 
Chamberlain's  personal  campaign,  the 
chosen  corner  stone  of  the  New  Impe- 
rialism. 

The  Prime  Minister  claims  to  "  ap- 
proach the  subject  from  the  free  trade 
point  of  view,"  1  and,  theoretically,  the 
proposal  to  increase  our  bargaining  pow- 
ers —  by  retaliation  or  concession  — 
does  not  involve  the  introduction  of  the 
protection  principle.  Our  present  tariff 
policy,  aged  twenty-five  years,  would 
"  confine  that  part  of  our  revenue  which 
is  derived  from  customs  "  (with  one  spe- 
cial exception  from  which  the  protec- 
tive element  is  eliminated  by  excise)  "  to 
duties  on  commodities  not  produced  at 
all  in  the  United  Kingdom."  It  would, 
therefore,  seem  feasible  to  open  tariff  ne- 
gotiations in  some  quarters  by  raising  or 
lowering  the  duties  on  such  commodities, 
without  in  any  way  disturbing  home  in- 
dustry. But  to  "  compensate  ourselves 
for  the  harm  done  us  by  a  given  rise  in 
our  own  tariff,  we  should  need  to  secure  a 
fall  about  equal  to  that  rise  in  the  tariff's 
of  all  the  world  ;  "  a  triumph  of  diplomacy 
surely  Utopian ;  while  retaliation  would 
be  even  more  dangerous.  On  the  con- 
trary, we  must  remember  that  our  free 
trade  policy  has  not  tempted  other  na- 
tions to  any  hostile  discrimination.  "  It 
has  everywhere,  and  in  all  important  par- 
ticulars, secured  for  our  goods  '  most 
favored  nation  '  treatment,  —  an  advan- 
tage of  which  there  is  no  reason  to  sup- 
pose that  they  are  the  least  likely  to  be 
deprived."  And  in  practice  it  is  almost 
certain  that  "  the  conversion  of  the  na- 
tion to  tariff  bargaining  would  mean  the 

1  Economic  Notes  on  Insular  Free  Trade. 
By  the  Eight  Hon.  Arthur  James  Balfour, 
M.  P. 


erection  of  a  customs  system  under 
which  more  than  one  British  interest 
benefited  at  the  public  expense." 

Arguments  for  the  principle  of  Pro- 
tection, whether  generally  applied  or  lim- 
ited to  the  attack  on  Trusts  and  Kartels, 
are  too  intricate  for  full  discussion  within 
the  limits  of  this  letter.  Every  one  is 
familiar  with  the  outlines  of  the  crusade 
against  the  threatened  encroachments  of 
foreign  monopolists.  It  remains  for  the 
English  electorate  to  consider  how  far  the 
injury  undoubtedly  inflicted  upon  us  by 
the  high  customs  duties  of  other  nations 
is  really  different  in  kind,  or  even  in 
degree,  from  any  other  form  of  "check 
upon  exchange  ;  "  and  whether  it  would 
not,  in  fact^be  increased  by  any  "  burden 
we  might  ourselves  put  upon  the  inward 
branch  of  our  foreign  trade,"  similar  to 
that  now  put  by  others  upon  the  outward. 
The  protectionist  can  easily  show  that 
small  temporary  benefits  would  accrue 
from  the  erection  of  tariff  walls  to  par- 
ticular industries,  or,  more  accurately,  to 
the  capitalists  controlling  them ;  but  he 
must  prove  that  such  a  nursing  of  vested 
interests  will  be  permanently  advanta- 
geous to  the  community.  He  must  main- 
tain, in  fact,  what  would  seem  contrary 
to  the  laws  of  economy,  that  any  deliber- 
ately imposed  artificial  restraint  of  capi- 
tal and  labor  from  those  occupations,  to 
which  it  is  being  impelled  by  the  broad 
economic  forces  of  the  time,  would  notpro- 
duce  a  loss  of  total  efficiency.  Finally, 
he  must  face  the  grave  disadvantages 
(if  an  advocate  of  limited  Protection) 
"  which  are  bound  to  arise  when  or- 
dinary human  beings  endeavor  in  prac- 
tice to  select  the  proper  cases  for  inter- 
vention, the  right  time  for  beginning  it, 
and,  above  all,  the  moment  at  which  the 
temporary  duty  ought  to  be  removed  ;  " 
since,  once  the  protective  element  has 
been  introduced,  powerful  interests  are 
perennially  opposed  to  any  reductions. 
"  There  are  also  to  be  apprehended  those 
evils  other  than  material  which  Protec- 
tion brings  in  its  train, — the  loss  of 


144  A  Letter  from  -England :   The  Issue  of  Protection. 


purity  in  politics,  the  unfair  advantage 
given  to  those  who  wield  the  powers  of 
jobbery  and  corruption,  unjust  distribu- 
tion of  wealth,  and  the  growth  of  sinister 
interests."  1 

It  is  not  difficult  to  see  that  Mr. 
Chamberlain's  preferential  scheme  in- 
volves unlimited  Protection,  and,  indeed, 
presents  the  most  natural  and  consistent 
completion  of  the  new  policy.  We  can- 
not give  a  preference  to  some  without 
taxing  all ;  we  cannot  effect  anything 
substantial  for  the  Colonies  by  confin- 
ing our  action  to  goods  not  produced 
at  home.  We  shall  be  pledged  to  full 
retaliation,  because  the  Colonies  have 
plainly  declared  that  any  return  con- 
cessions from  them  to  us  will  not  take 
the  form  of  lower  rates  to  the  Mother- 
land, but  of  higher  to  the  foreigner. 
Should  an  Imperial  Fiscal  Unity  be 
established,  we  may  lose  the  "  most  fa- 
vored nation "  treatment  as  a  retalia- 
tion to  Colonial  action.  Preferences, 
therefore,  can  only  be  recommended  by 
evidence  of  very  strong  internal  advan- 
tages, which  mostly  vanish  with  a  denial 
of  the  urgency  plea.  They  are  commonly 
also  defended  as  the  surest  means  of 
encouraging  the  development  of  agri- 
cultural resources,  which,  however,  are 
bound  in  nature  to  make  rapid  strides 
whatever  our  attitude  toward  them  ;  and 
for  certain  political  considerations,  which 
will  not  bear  close  inspection.  It  is 
said  that  a  protected  supply  of  food 
within  the  Empire  would  be  invaluable  in 
case  of  war ;  but  the  emergency  presup- 

1  From  a  Letter  to  the  Times,  signed  by  four- 
teen academic  economists. 


poses  the  hostility  of  all  other  markets  ; 
which  is  most  improbable,  for  example, 
in  the  case  of  the  United  States.  It  is 
said  that  we  must  make  any  sacrifices  to 
secure  the  fighting  service  of  our  sons 
"  over  the  water  ;  "  but,  in  fact,  the  diffi- 
culties of  adjustment  between  the  Colo- 
nies would  be  infinitely  provocative  of 
friction,  as  they  were  in  the  first  half  of 
the  nineteenth  century,  and  a  cash  nexus 
may  easily  snap  the  thread  of  disinter- 
ested affection.  Here,  more  emphatically 
than  in  any  other  form  of  Protection, 
we  dare  not  go  back  in  case  of  failure. 
"  The  old  preferences  of  sixty  years  ago 
were  not  done  away  without  rousing  very 
bitter  feeling  among  the  Colonists.  To 
grant  them  a  second  time,  and  again  to 
withdraw  them,  would  be  scarcely  possi- 
ble without  the  risk  of  grave  disaster. 
There  is  at  present  no  evidence  of  a  ten- 
dency on  the  part  of  the  Empire  to  '  fall 
to  pieces  and  separate  atoms  ; '  but  it  is 
doubtful  if  the  same  could  be  said,  should 
it  ever  come  to  be  subjected  to  so  severe  a 
strain  as  this." 

Any  one  of  the  present  schemes  for 
fiscal  reform,  or  any  compromise  be- 
tween all,  more  likely  to  override  the 
free  trade  tradition,  is  accompanied  by 
certain  danger ;  and  it  remains  for  the 
protectionist  to  prove  that  evils  exist  de- 
manding the  change  or  amenable  to  the 
remedy.  Popular  opinion  sees  that  Pro- 
tection must  make  food  dearer.  It  is 
not  yet  convinced  that  our  commercial 
difficulties  are  due  to  Free  Trade,  or  that 
a  change  of  policy  would  secure  us  an 
increase  of  wealth  to  meet  the  greater 
cost  of  living. 

R.  Brindey  Johnson. 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY: 
at  tfiaga;ine  of  literature^  ^>cience3  &rt3  anD 

VOL.  XCIIL  —  FEBR  UARY,  1904.  —  No.  DL  VI. 


WALL  STREET  AND  THE   COUNTRY. 


THE  perturbations  to  which  prices  have 
been  subjected  on  the  New  York  Stock 
Exchange  during  the  past  year  have 
naturally  caused  revulsions  of  feeling 
among  those  who  have  suffered  from 
them,  and  much  questioning  of  the  wis- 
dom of  some  of  the  recent  operations  of 
prominent  American  financiers.  It  is  a 
familiar  aphorism  that  "  Wall  Street " 
is  very  popular  in  periods  of  ascending 
prices,  and  is  very  unpopular  in  periods  of 
declining  prices.  The  public  often  seem 
to  forget  that  quotations  in  Wall  Street 
are  only  the  mirror  of  their  own  estimate 
of  the  value  of  securities,  and  that  most 
financiers  would  be  as  well  pleased  as 
outsiders  if  they  could  warp  this  mirror 
to  give  the  reflection  of  a  constantly  as- 
cending value  to  the  properties  which 
they  control.  There  are  many  lessons 
to  be  learned  from  recent  experiences, 
one  of  the  most  obvious  being  that  the 
outsider  should  not  enter  the  stock  mar- 
ket in  the  gambling  spirit,  but  only  for 
investment,  and  then  only  when  he  has 
made  a  careful  study  of  values  of  proper- 
ties and  their  earning  power,  and  of  the 
conditions  which  affect  the  market. 

The  creation  of  industrial  companies 
during  the  past  five  years  and  the  as- 
cending prices  of  their  securities  until 
within  the  past  year  have  written  a  new 
chapter  in  the  history  of  the  world's  ef- 
fort to  work  out  its  economic  destiny. 
It  has  afforded  a  new  illustration  of  the 
law  of  the  survival  of  the  fittest.  Prac- 
tically every  form  of  financial  enterprise 
has  had  to  go  through  the  same  birth- 


pangs  when  it  was  a  new  and  untried 
project ;  and  only  those  features  of  it 
have  survived  which  have  been  found  to 
possess  real  economic  value.  It  is  usually 
those  who  initiate  the  new  methods  who 
take  the  greater  risks.  If  their  projects 
will  not  stand  the  test  of  competition, 
they  carry  down  their  projectors  with 
them  to  disaster ;  if  they  succeed,  they 
sometimes  confer  rich  rewards  upon  the 
far-sighted  and  venturesome  pioneer ;  but 
in  the  latter  case  they  render  a  net  eco- 
nomic service  to  the  community.  It  is 
the  experience  through  which  the  new 
methods  of  finance  have  passed,  and  that 
through  which  they  are  yet  to  pass, 
which  is  to  determine  whether  they 
have  in  them  elements  of  survival. 

The  mechanism  of  modern  finance 
has  been  devised  piece  by  piece  to  meet 
the  constantly  growing  demand  for  more 
efficient  methods  of  giving  mobility  to 
capital.  By  mobility  is  meant  facility 
for  transferring  capital  promptly  and 
without  loss  from  one  person  to  another. 
It  was  the  use  of  money  which  primarily 
made  possible  the  transfer  of  capital 
when  trade  began  to  emerge  from  the 
condition  of  barter.  It  has  been  the  func- 
tion of  modern  commerce  and  finance, 
as  capital  grew  in  volume,  to  devise 
new  means  of  transferring  it  from  place 
to  place  and  from  industry  to  indus- 
try. Hence  has  arisen  the  complicated 
but  symmetrical  structure  of  deposit 
banking,  note  issue,  the  joint  stock 
company,  the  negotiable  security,  the 
produce  and  stock  exchanges,  the  bank- 


146 


Wall  Street  and  the   Country. 


ers'  clearing  house,  the  stock  exchange 
clearing  house,  the  cable  transfer  for 
credit,  and  the  arbitrage  of  stock  and  ex- 
change transactions,  by  which  the  change 
of  a  fraction  of  one  per  cent  in  the  rate 
indicating  the  demand  for  credit  in  one 
market  would  put  at  its  command  the 
resources  of  the  other  markets  of  the 
world. 

This  great  fabric  has  been  rendered 
necessary  by  the  growth  of  the  fund  of 
capital  seeking  investment.  This  growth 
in  the  volume  of  capital  has  been  the 
phenomenon  of  our  generation.  It  has 
been  a  growth  of  astonishing  rapidity, 
because  the  increase  in  the  investment 
fund  has  been  much  more  rapid  than 
the  increase  in  the  total  capital  of  the 
community.  This  has  resulted  from  a 
simple  process  of  mathematical  incre- 
ment. If  an  agricultural  producer  in 
1850  had  an  annual  producing  power 
which  might  be  expressed  by  $350,  of 
which  $300  was  necessary  to  supply  his 
actual  physical  necessities,  he  would  have 
a  surplus  of  $50,  to  be  made  a  part  of 
the  investment  fund  of  the  community. 
If  ten  years  later,  in  1860,  he  had  in- 
creased his  producing  power  by  one  sev- 
enth, his  total  annual  product  would  be 
$400 ;  but  the  effect  would  be  felt  upon 
the  investment  fund  of  the  community, 
not  merely  by  the  increase  of  one  sev- 
enth, or  about  15  per  cent,  in  his  total 
product,  but  by  an  increase  of  100  per 
cent  in  the  net  product.  Assuming  that 
his  actual  needs  were  still  supplied  by 
$300,  he  would  have  $100  for  investment 
where  he  formerly  had  $50.  If  by  1880 
his  annual  producing  power  further  in- 
creased by  one  fourth  part  of  its  effi- 
ciency in  1860  to  a  total  of  $500,  the 
surplus  funds  seeking  investment  in  the 
market  would  have  risen  by  another  100 
per  cent  within  twenty  years,  or  by  400 
per  cent  within  thirty  years. 

These  conclusions,  based  upon  hypoth- 
esis, are  sustained  by  the  evidence.  The 
increase  in  the  capital  employed  in  man- 
ufactures over  and  above  the  normal  in- 


crease in  proportion  to  population  is  one 
of  the  gauges  of  the  increased  fund  of 
saving  in  the  community.  This  increase 
was  from  $2,118,208,769  in  1870  to 
$9,835,086,909  in  1900.  This  increase 
of  more  than  $7,700,000,000  in  manu- 
facturing capital  since  1870  is  paralleled 
by  the  increased  application  of  capital  in 
another  direction,  — the  construction  and 
equipment  of  railways.  The  total  liabili- 
ties of  American  railways,  chiefly  upon 
their  capital  stock  and  funded  debt,  in- 
creased from  $3,784,543,034  in  1873  to 
$12,326,491,526  in  1901.1  The  pro- 
portional increase  called  for  by  the 
growth  of  population  was  only  to  about 
$7,000,000,000,  leaving  a  residue  of 
about  $5,300,000,000  as  the  result  of  the 
increased  producing  power  of  the  people 
of  the  United  States  under  modern  con- 
ditions. The  two  items  of  manufacturing 
capital  and  railway  investment  thus  ac- 
count for  an  investment  fund  of  $16,000,- 
000,000,  which  has  been  accumulating 
during  the  past  generation,  and  these  are 
only  illustrations  of  the  great  fund  of 
saved  capital  seeking  investment  which 
has  been  accumulating  in  recent  years  in 
every  field  of  productive  industry. 

Capital  available  for  investment  is 
subject  to  the  law  of  supply  and  demand. 
In  this  respect,  it  does  not  differ  from 
commodities  of  a  more  specific  charac- 
ter. Other  things  being  equal,  two  impor- 
tant elements  operate  upon  the  price  paid 
for  an  investment,  —  its  safety  and  the 
net  return  paid  in  interest  or  dividends. 
A  high  degree  of  safety  will  contribute 
toward  raising  the  price  of  an  invest- 
ment, but  this  rise  in  price  will  render 
it  less  attractive  upon  the  other  side  by 
reducing  the  return  upon  it.  For  the 
owner  of  an  investment  security,  and  es- 
pecially for  him  who  has  it  to  sell,  a 
scarcity  of  safe  securities  and  a  rise  in 
their  price  are  acceptable  and  desirable. 
For  the  owner  of  capital  seeking  invest- 
ment, however,  an  excess  of  such  capital 
in  the  market  and  a  high  price  for  securi- 

1  U.  S.  Statistical  Abstract,  1902,  p.  407. 


Wall  /Street  and  the   Country. 


147 


ties  are  an  injury,  because  they  reduce 
the  earning  power  of  his  capital,  in  what- 
ever particular  securities  he  may  invest 
it.  To  meet  his  needs,  new  demands  for 
capital  must  be  found  from  time  to  time, 
equal  to  the  amount  of  capital  created. 

To  find  such  openings  for  investment 
is  the  business  of  the  financier  and  pro- 
moter. He  found  them  early  in  the 
nineteenth  century  without  difficulty,  be- 
cause new  demands  for  capital  were 
springing  up  faster  than  they  could  be 
met.  When  society  is  in  a  stationary 
state,  —  that  is,  when  there  are  no  im- 
portant new  inventions  or  changes  in 
social  conditions,  —  saved  capital  ac- 
cumulates faster  than  opportunities  for 
secure  and  profitable  investments  present 
themselves.  The  tendency  of  such  a 
condition  is  to  correct  itself  by  creating 
new  wants,  and  hence  invoking  a  demand 
for  the  capital  to  provide  the  mechanism 
to  supply  them ;  but  this  tendency  has 
not  prevented  on  several  occasions  the 
serious  congestion  of  savings  beyond 
effective  demand  and  a  consequent  fall  in 
the  rate  of  interest. 

In  modern  times,  even  more  than  in 
those  more  remote,  there  has  been  a 
frequent  tendency  to  the  accumulation 
of  saved  capital  temporarily  beyond  the 
legitimate  demand  for  it  for  the  creation 
of  new  enterprises.  The  eminent  French 
economist,  Paul  Leroy-Beaulieu,  in  dis- 
cussing this  subject  in  L'Economiste 
Francais  of  January  28,  1899,  calls  at- 
tention to  the  fact  that  there  were  inter- 
ruptions in  the  downward  course  of  in- 
terest when  steam  came  to  be  generally 
employed  as  a  motive  power  between 
1850  and  1865,  and  again  after  the  great 
destruction  of  capital  in  the  Franco- 
Prussian  war.  But,  he  declares,  "  after 
each  of  these  interruptions,  the  rate  of 
interest  again  tended  to  decline  to  a  level 
lower  than  before  ;  so  that,  in  taking  as 
the  point  of  departure  the  beginning  of 
the  last  quarter  century,  or  that  of  the  last 
half  century,  or  that  of  the  last  century, 
—  the  year  1874  or  the  year  1850,  — 


it  may  be  noted  that  the  rate  of  interest 
has  considerably  fallen,  not  in  a  straight 
line,  it  is  true,  but  in  a  broken  line,  and 
that  never  in  our  history  was  it  as  low 
as  in  1897." 

One  of  the  best  proofs  of  this  super- 
abundance of  capital  in  the  market  about 
1897  was  the  great  number  of  cases  in 
which  governments  and  stock  companies 
successfully  sought  to  convert  old  obliga- 
tions on  which  they  were  paying  a  high 
rate  of  interest  into  new  ones  paying  a 
low  rate  of  interest.  Great  Britain  re- 
funded her  consolidated  debt  in  1888  at 
two  and  three  quarters  per  cent,  and  in 
1897  and  1898  the  quotations  of  these 
new  issues  reached  112,  and  even  a  max- 
imum of  113  J.  The  great  Prussian  con- 
version was  operated  during  1897,  and 
applied  to  $850,000,000  of  consolidated 
four  per  cent  securities.  These  four  per 
cents  were  quoted  at  104.5,  and  the 
three  and  a  half  per  cents  were  quoted 
at  104.2  in  October,  1896.  The  three 
per  cent  obligations  issued  in  1890  and 
then  quoted  at  86.5  reached  par  on 
July  5, 1895,  and  stood  at  99.6  on  Octo- 
ber 5, 1896.  Herr  Miquel,  the  Prussian 
Minister,  in  announcing  his  project,  re- 
called the  fact  that  in  1894  France  had 
converted  her  four  and  a  half  per  cents 
into  three  and  a  half  per  cents ;  that 
Sweden,  Norway,  Luxembourg,  Zurich, 
Saxe-Gotha,  Wurtemberg,  and  Bavaria 
had  converted  four  per  cent  into  three 
and  a  half  per  cent  securities  ;  and  that 
Denmark,  Belgium,  Holland,  Bremen, 
and  Berne  had  converted  three  and  a 
half  per  cents  into  three  per  cents,  not 
to  speak  of  the  great  Russian  conversion 
of  five  per  cents  into  four  per  cents. 

In  the  United  States,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  a  new  country  usually  makes 
large  demands  for  capital,  the  supply 
tended  to  exceed  the  legitimate  and  ef- 
fective demand  down  to  1897.  The  fact 
that  this  increase  in  the  supply  had  great- 
ly reduced  its  capacity  to  earn  interest  is 
plainly  indicated  by  the  facts  set  forth  in 
the  spring  of  1903  by  Professor  Meade  : 


148 


Wall  Street  and  the   Country. 


"  For  the  last  thirty  years  the  invest- 
ment rate  of  interest  has  been  steadily 
sinking.  In  the  early  Seventies  seven 
per  cent  railway  bonds  were  common. 
In  the  next  decade  these  were  largely 
replaced  by  five  per  cent  bonds,  and  in 
recent  years  three  and  a  half  per  cent 
bonds  have  been  generally  issued  by 
railway  companies.  At  the  same  time 
that  the  interest  rate  was  falling,  the 
price  of  a  $1000  bond  increased.  In 
the  Seventies  railway  companies  often 
paid  ten  per  cent  for  money.  At  the 
present  time  three  and  a  half  per  cent 
is  the  ordinary  rate." 

It  is  clear  that  this  great  accumulation 
of  capital  would  be  employed  with  great 
difficulty  but  for  the  organization  of  a 
system  of  transferring  it  readily  from 
hand  to  hand  and  place  to  place.  If 
every  one  who  saved  was  compelled  to 
employ  his  savings  under  his  own  per- 
sonal care  and  direction  in  order  to  make 
them  fruitful,  many  difficulties  would 
arise  and  serious  blunders  would  be 
made.  Large  savings  would  seem  in  the 
natural  course  of  events,  therefore,  to 
have  suggested  the  organization  of  means 
of  employing  them  without  imposing  the 
burden  upon  each  individual  who  had 
made  savings.  This  has  been  the  case 
in  advanced  commercial  society,  but  has 
not  been  the  case  in  undeveloped  society. 

The  economic  efficiency  of  Europe 
and  America  is  due  in  a  large  degree  to 
the  fact  that  saved  capital  does  not  re- 
pose in  idle  hoards,  but  is  transferred  as 
fast  as  it  is  saved  into  hands  which  are 
able  to  put  it  to  productive  use.  In  all 
civilized  countries  the  mechanism  of 
credit  has  now  attained  a  considerable 
degree  of  efficiency,  but  this  efficiency 
varies  to  a  marked  extent  from  country 
to  country. 

Among  the  methods  of  putting  capi- 
tal into  negotiable  form  these  may  be 
enumerated  :  attracting  deposits  to  bank- 
ing institutions ;  the  organization  of 
stock  companies  for  banking  and  other 
large  enterprises ;  the  organization  of 


railroad  companies ;  the  capitalization 
of  industrial  enterprises  as  stock  com- 
panies ;  the  diversification  of  banking 
methods  and  of  the  forms  of  security 
investment. 

It  is  not  necessary  here  to  dwell  upon 
the  expansion  of  banking  in  its  simpler 
forms.  This  has  been  more  obvious  to 
the  ordinary  observer  as  a  means  of  ac- 
cumulating and  transferring  capital  than 
some  of  the  other  features  of  the  modern 
organization  of  credit.  Next  in  order 
to  banking  deposits  as  a  part  of  the  new 
mechanism  of  finance  comes  the  joint 
stock  company.  A  joint  stock  company 
affords  the  means  for  dividing  the  own- 
ership of  properties  in  such  a  way  that, 
on  the  one  hand,  an  individual  of  small 
means  may  become  part  owner  in  a  great 
enterprise,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  enter- 
prises may  be  successfully  carried  out, 
of  a  magnitude  which  could  not  well  be 
undertaken  by  a  single  individual.  The 
creation  of  share  companies  divides  the 
risk  of  an  undertaking  among  many  per- 
sons, and  places  the  enterprise  beyond 
the  accidents  of  a  single  human  existence 
by  giving  it  a  fictitious  body  dowered  by 
law  with  perpetual  life.  When  these 
properties  are  listed  on  the  stock  ex- 
change they  are  afforded  a  general  mar- 
ket, in  which  it  is  easy  to  obtain  a  de- 
finite test  of  their  value.  A  mill  or  a 
factory  which  is  in  private  hands  is  sala- 
ble or  not  according  to  individual  and 
local  circumstances.  When  not  con- 
verted into  the  form  of  shares,  a  small 
property  of  this  character  has  a  market 
which  is  narrow  and  uncertain.  The 
property  may  pay  a  fair  dividend  upon 
the  capital  invested  or  upon  the  cost  of 
replacement,  but  unless  it  happens  to  at- 
tract the  attention  of  a  capitalist  who  is 
also  an  expert  in  the  same  line  of  indus- 
try, it  cannot  be  sold  at  the  will  of  the 
owner.  When,  however,  it  is  a  part  of 
a  property  which  comprises  many  other- 
mills,  and  this  property  is  represented  by 
bonds,  preferred  stock  and  common  stock, 
distributed  among  a  multitude  of  own- 


Wall  Street  and  the   Country. 


149 


ers  and  listed  on  the  stock  exchange,  then 
it  is  in  the  power  of  the  individual  owner 
to  part  with  his  property  at  will  at  the 
quotations  of  the  market. 

One  of  the  natural  consequences  of 
the  abundance  of  capital  seeking  invest- 
ments is  the  tendency  to  produce  new 
forms  of  securities.  The  evidence  of 
this  is  afforded  by  the  great  variety  of 
securities  which  are  now  at  the  command 
of  the  investor  in  Great  Britain  and 
America.  The  first  form  of  investment 
offered  in  the  stock  markets  was  govern- 
ment obligations.  These  represented 
capital  taken  from  the  community  and 
often  applied  in  a  manner  which  was  not 
economic,  for  the  purposes  of  war  or 
preparations  for  war.  Then  came  the 
primitive  form  of  the  stock  company, 
which  was  simply  the  issue  of  shares  es- 
tablishing a  common  and  divisible  right 
in  a  large  property.  It  has  remained 
for  recent  years  to  develop  the  preferred 
share,  the  mortgage  bond,  income  bonds, 
convertible  bonds,  debentures,  and  many 
other  forms  of  obligation.  These  vari- 
ous types  of  securities  offer  a  variety  of 
investment  which  permits  each  investor 
to  choose  among  them  according  to  his 
individual  valuation  of  the  relative  ad- 
vantages of  risk  with  large  returns,  se- 
curity with  small  returns,  prompt  returns 
or  ultimate  profit.  The  mortgage  bond 
of  a  first-class  railway,  varying  little 
under  ordinary  conditions  in  its  market 
quotations  because  it  pays  a  fixed  income, 
is  the  most  secure  investment  after  the 
government  bond,  and  the  most  appro- 
priate for  the  investment  of  trust  funds. 
The  preferred  stock  of  a  well-established 
investment  enterprise  offers  a  fixed  re- 
turn with  perhaps  a  higher  degree  of  risk, 
and  is,  therefore,  likely  to  pay  a  larger  re- 
turn in  relation  to  the  price  than  the  bond. 
The  convertible  bond  offers  a  high  de- 
gree of  security,  with  the  additional 
allurement  of  admitting  the  bondholder 
to  a  share  in  the  expanding  profits  of  the 
preferred  shareholder  when  the  price  of 
stock  rises  above  the  price  of  the  bonds. 


Every  form  of  investment  which 
proves  more  attractive  to  a  certain  class 
of  investors  than  previous  forms  adds  to 
the  means  for  drawing  capital  out  of 
hoards  and  private  hands  and  putting  it 
at  the  command  of  the  community.  If 
bonds  and  ordinary  shares  prove  unat- 
tractive to  a  certain  type  of  investor, 
then  the  market  where  only  those  forms 
of  investment  are  available  does  not  af- 
ford the  highest  facilities  for  drawing 
hoarded  capital  from  idleness  into  utili- 
ties. This  was  the  case  until  recently 
in  France,  where  the  issue  of  preferred 
shares  was  not  permitted  by  law,  but  only 
common  shares  and  bonds.  The  device 
so  frequent  in  the  organization  of  Amer- 
ican industrial  corporations,  by  which 
the  assured  earning  power  is  capitalized 
as  preferred  stock  and  the  contingent 
profits  of  bankers  and  promoters  are  con- 
verted into  common  stock,  to  be  sold  for 
what  it  will  bring  or  laid  away  until  it 
earns  dividends,  was  not  available  for  the 
French  financier.  Hence  the  inducement 
was  lacking  to  unify  and  strengthen 
French  industry  by  consolidating  old 
companies  and  putting  the  best  equip- 
ment and  most  far-sighted  management 
at  the  command  of  new  companies. 

The  countries  of  Europe,  especially 
those  of  the  Continent,  have  much  to 
learn  from  America  in  diversifying  the 
forms  of  investment  so  as  to  put  saved 
capital  to  its  most  productive  use ;  but 
America  has  also  something  to  learn 
from  Europe.  We  have  done  much 
more  than  France  and  Germany  to  draw 
the  small  capitals  of  the  masses  into  our 
commercial  banks  ;  but  they  have  devel- 
oped forms  of  investment  which  we  have 
not  tried,  or  which  we  have  not  managed 
with  prudence. 

A  striking  instance  of  the  diversifica- 
tion of  banking  methods  which  has  thus 
far  failed  to  obtain  a  firm  footing  in 
America  is  the  mortgage  loan  bank.  The 
purpose  of  such  an  institution  is  to  give 
to  the  ownership  of  real  estate  something 
of  the  transferability  and  divisibility  of 


150 


Wall  Street  and  the   Country. 


other  property.  This  is  accomplished 
by  converting  the  aggregate  of  many 
small  mortgages  upon  real  estate  into 
negotiable  bonds.  In  Europe  great 
banks  of  this  character  exist  in  France, 
Germany,  Austria-Hungary,  Spain,  and 
several  other  countries,  and  recently  the 
system  has  been  extended  to  Egypt. 
By  the  sale  of  a  block  of  debenture  bonds, 
secured  by  mortgages  upon  the  land  upon 
which  loans  have  been  made,  the  in- 
vestor has  a  security  which  is  negotiable 
at  any  time  on  the  market,  instead  o£ 
dealing  with  a  single  mortgage  which  he 
might  find  difficulty  in  selling,  in  case  of 
need,  for  what  he  paid  for  it.  There  is 
no  doubt  of  the  perfect  practicability 
and  safety  of  the  system,  when  loans  are 
made  to  only  a  legitimate  percentage  of 
the  ascertained  value  of  the  property 
and  other  proper  precautions  are  taken. 
The  Credit  Foncier  of  France,  which  is 
engaged  in  such  business,  has  mortgage 
bonds  out  to  the  amount  of  about  $350,- 
000,000.  In  Germany  thirty-three  such 
banks  have  similar  obligations  to  the 
amount  of  more  than  $1,500,000,000, 
scattered  in  every  part  of  the  empire  ; 
while  the  Land  Mortgage  .Bank  of  Aus- 
tria-Hungary has  debentures  of  nearly 
$40,000,000,  and  the  Mortgage  Bank  of 
Spain  has  similar  obligations  of  $17,000,- 
000.  These  institutions  practically  bring 
into  the  security  market  a  large  part  of 
the  land  values  of  Europe.  A  mortgage 
bank  of  this  sort  is  able  to  increase  its 
loans  to  the  limit  of  the  debentures  which 
it  can  sell,  and  every  few  months  wit- 
nesses an  offer  of  a  block  of  such  securi- 
ties, which  are  eagerly  subscribed  for  by 
those  seeking  a  safe  and  steady  invest- 
ment. 

The  genius  of  American  financiers  and 
promoters  has  blazed  out  investment 
paths  of  its  own.  The  path  followed 
during  the  last  few  years  has  been  the 
conversion  into  large  corporations  of  in- 
dustrial enterprises.  The  Wall  Street 
Journal  recently  estimated  the  new  se- 
curities thrown  upon  the  market  as  a 


result  of  this  process  at  nine  billions  of 
dollars,  and  declared  :  — 

"  The  next  stage  was  the  sale  of  these 
securities  to  people  who  had  up  to  that 
time  neither  been  owners  of  plants  and 
manufacturers,  nor  investors,  but  who, 
tempted  by  the  novel  opportunity,  in- 
vested their  money  in  the  new  industrial 
securities.  The  fact  that  the  United 
States  Steel  Corporation  now  has  some- 
thing like  55,000  stockholders  is  the  best 
demonstration  of  this  that  any  one  could 
wish.  Consequently,  the  industrial  pro- 
motions had  the  effect  of  tapping  to  quite 
a  large  extent  a  fund  which  had  hereto- 
fore not  been  available  to  the  security 
market,  having  found  investment  largely 
in  savings  banks,  real  estate,"  etc. 

When  capital  began  to  accumulate 
rapidly,  therefore,  after  the  recovery 
from  the  long  prostration  of  1893-97, 
and  only  a  limited  outlet  was  found  for 
it  at  first  in  the  creation  of  new  manu- 
facturing plants  and  the  extension  of 
railways,  the  financier  turned  naturally 
to  the  project  of  organizing  manufactur- 
ing industries  upon  the  basis  of  stock  com- 
panies. Other  reasons,  like  the  sever- 
ity of  competition,  undoubtedly  produced 
the  tendency  to  consolidate  industries  by 
bringing  to  an  end  useless  duplications 
of  expenditures  and  getting  rid  of  com- 
petition. These  causes,  however,  could 
not  have  produced  the  phenomena  of  re- 
cent years  if  there  had  not  been  a  great 
fund  of  capital  in  the  money  market  seek- 
ing new  investments.  There  would  not 
have  been  the  capital  available  in  the 
hands  of  one  manufacturer  to  buy  out 
another,  or  in  the  hands  of  promoters  to 
buy  them  both  out,  which  has  been  found 
available  under  the  conditions  of  recent 
years. 

When,  however,  the  earning  power 
of  a  number  of  mills  or  factories  could 
be  capitalized  into  bonds  and  preferred 
stock,  a  supply  of  securities  could  be  thus 
created  which  would  meet  the  demand 
for  new  forms  of  investment  arising  from 
among  those  who  were  rapidly  making 


Wall  Street  and  the   Country. 


151 


money  under  favorable  commercial  con- 
ditions. In  many  cases  it  was  found 
that  the  owners  of  the  old  establishments 
were  willing  to  retire  from  business  and 
to  accept  a  fixed  income  upon  their  capi- 
tal. To  others  the  original  investment 
could  be  reimbursed  from  the  savings  of 
outsiders  who  became  shareholders  in  the 
consolidated  industries.  The  transfer  of 
such  considerable  sums  to  the  owners  of 
the  old  plants,  where  they  were  paid  in 
cash,  added  to  the  fund  seeking  invest- 
ment, and  thereby  added  to  the  capacity 
of  the  market  for  absorbing  securities. 

That  this  tendency  to  create  securities 
has  been  overdone  within  the  past  few 
years  is  undoubtedly  true.  The  inevit- 
able operation  of  the  law  of  supply  and 
demand  curtailed  demand  when  the  sup- 
ply of  capital  available  for  such  invest- 
ments was  absorbed.  The  process  of 
creating  new  securities  proved  so  profit- 
able —  or  at  least  appeared  so  —  that 
the  demand  was  soon  more  than  satisfied. 
Hence  came  the  phenomenon  of  a  mass 
of  "  undigested  securities  "  which  could 
no  longer  find  the  ready  market  of  a  few 
years  before.  The  fault  has  not  lain  al- 
together with  the  character  of  the  securi- 
ties. The  fall  in  quotations  for  indus- 
trials on  the  New  York  stock  market  is 
not  due  altogether  to  impairment  of  con- 
fidence in  the  value  of  such  enterprises, 
but  it  is  the  inevitable  result  of  an  ex- 
cessive offer  in  relation  to  effective  de- 
mand. That  effective  demand  depends 
upon  the  supply  of  capital.  The  evidence 
of  deficiency  of  capital  in  Great  Britain 
is  afforded  by  the  heaviness  of  British 
consols,  which  carried  them  down  from 
112  in  1897  to  94  in  1899,  and  finally  be- 
low 88  in  1903.  It  was  not  that  confi- 
dence had  been  impaired  in  the  willing- 
ness and  ability  of  the  British  government 
to  pay  interest  in  full  on  these  securities 
as  it  became  due,  but  the  fact  that  new 
issues  of  such  obligations  increased  the 
supply  on  the  market  beyond  the  demand 
for  a  safe  security  at  the  higher  prices. 
To  a  like  cause  —  absorption  of  the 


surplus  capital  in  the  market  —  may  be 
attributed  the  fall  in  first-class  railroad 
stocks  and  the  hesitation  of  the  market 
to  absorb  new  stocks  and  bonds  of  the 
most  gilt-edged  character. 

Undoubtedly,  also,  in  the  case  of  in- 
dustrial securities  issued  on  the  Ameri- 
can market,  the  character  of  those  issued 
has  tended  in  many  cases  to  become 
worse  as  the  issues  have  increased.  This 
would  not  necessarily  be  the  fact  in  each 
separate  case,  but  would  result  from  the 
natural  tendency  to  consolidate  indus- 
tries and  issue  securities  first  where  there 
was  the  best  economic  justification  for  it. 
The  first  consolidations  were  the  result 
of  the  pressure  of  economic  necessity  in 
order  to  escape  forms  of  competition 
which  had  become  unprofitable.  They 
promised  real  economies  in  management 
and  increased  earnings,  in  order  to  com- 
mend themselves  to  the  promoters  and 
investors  who  took  them  up.  When  con- 
solidation, however,  had  become  simply 
an  imitative  mania,  and  the  investor, 
tempted  by  the  large  profits,  or  appar- 
ent large  profits,  of  the  first  combina- 
tions, became  eager  to  buy  their  securi- 
ties, it  was  inevitable  that  the  quality  of 
new  enterprises  of  this  character  should 
progressively  deteriorate.  When  the  de- 
mand for  new  securities  was  small,  it 
was  necessary  that  they  should  be  of  the 
highest  character  to  find  a  market ;  when 
the  demand  became  apparently  insati- 
able, it  was  natural  that  shrewd  and  some- 
times unscrupulous  promoters  should  set 
themselves  to  provide  a  supply.  It  might 
be  said  in  a  broad  sense  that  the  early  con- 
solidations were  forced  upon  promoters 
and  financiers  by  industrial  conditions, 
—  while  some  of  the  later  ones  were  the 
result  of  the  efforts  of  such  promoters 
to  create  conditions  which  would  afford 
them  opportunities  for  "  a  rake-off."  In 
an  economic  sense,  the  later  process  was 
putting  the  cart  before  the  horse.  When 
mushroom  trust  companies  were  created 
for  the  purpose  of  imitating  the  large  pro- 
fits of  the  older  and  more  conservative 


152 


Wall  /Street  and  the   Country. 


companies,  it  was  natural  that  they  should 
greedily  swallow  any  bait  which  pro- 
mised large  profits,  without  going  behind 
the  prospectus  to  inquire  too  closely  into 
the  solidity  of  the  new  projects,  or  even 
into  the  honesty  of  those  who  brought 
them  forward. 

But  the  public  is  to  blame  in  such 
cases  quite  as  much  as  misguided  or  dis- 
honest promoters.  If  they  pass  by  con- 
servative companies  and  safe  investments 
to  seize  upon  glittering  offers  of  specula- 
tive stocks.by  mushroom  institutions,  who 
is  to  stay  them  or  retrieve  their  errors, 
so  long  as  those  who  delude  them  keep 
barely  within  the  line  of  indictable  fraud  ? 
It  is  the  same  old  story  which  has  been 
told  many  times  in  periods  of  expanding 
trade.  The  public  fail  to  discriminate 
between  those  securities  which  are  proper 
for  trust  investments  and  those  whose  low 
prices  are  determined  by  the  very  fact 
that  they  are  speculative.  Each  succes- 
sive generation  in  a  period  of  prosperity 
and  ascending  prices  seems  to  forget  the 
fundamental  rule  of  finance,  —  that  the 
return  paid  upon  a  security  is  inversely 
to  its  safety.  To  those  financiers  who  in- 
culcate this  rule  they  turn  a  deaf  ear,  and 
the  latter  are  perforce  compelled  to  drift 
with  the  current  or  see  themselves  strand- 
ed without  clients  or  profits. 

Every  new  form  of  financial  organiza- 
tion has  to  pass  through  the  test  of  fire. 
Experience  is  required,  to  develop  its  ele- 
ments of  strength  and  weakness.  When 
the  principle  of  the  stock  company  with 
limited  liability  was  first  recognized  in 
modern  industry,  Adam  Smith  declared 
that  its  use  was  limited  to  a  few  special 
enterprises  like  banking,  which  followed 
a  settled  routine.  Every  one  has  gotten 
away  from  that  prejudice,  but  the  ulti- 
mate capacity  of  the  joint  stock  system 
of  organization  is  still  untested.  During 
the  past  century  it  has  been  extended  to 
nearly  every  form  of  manufacture  and  to 
the  complicated  problems  of  transporta- 
tion by  land  and  sea.  It  contains,  how- 
ever, other  possibilities  which  have  not 


yet  been  developed.  Among  those  which 
have  recently  been  put  into  practice  have 
been  the  consolidation  of  great  industries, 
the  leasing  of  one  corporation's  property 
to  another,  and  the  control  of  operating 
companies  by  companies  holding  their 
securities.  Whether  these  new  forms  of 
joint  stock  enterprise  will  be  successful 
must  be  determined  by  the  same  test 
which  has  been  applied  to  all  other  en- 
terprises, —  the  test  of  experience. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  the  first  experi- 
ments have  afforded  results  which  in 
some  cases  are  subject  to  criticism.  This 
was  the  case  with  some  of  the  first  joint 
stock  companies  in  their  simplest  form, 
and  was  so  conspicuously  the  case  with 
banking  in  our  earlier  history  that  the 
innocent  use  of  credit  in  the  form  of 
printed  bank-notes  has  not  yet  shaken  off 
the  prejudice  resulting  from  these  experi- 
ments. Even  the  corporate  organization 
of  railways,  with  their  issues  of  bonds 
and  stock  to  create  pathways  through  the 
wilderness,  resulted  in  great  losses  in 
1873,  and  nearly  two  hundred  receiver- 
ships as  recently  as  1893.  The  London 
Statist  has  within  a  few  weeks  recalled 
to  British  investors  that  "  in  their  early 
days  many  of  the  [American]  railroads 
were  over-capitalized  much  as  indus- 
trial companies  now  are,  but  owing  to 
their  enormous  betterment  outlays  for 
many  years  past,  the  water  in  Ameri- 
can railway  capital  has  now  been  in  most 
cases  effectively  squeezed  out,  and  the 
properties  brought  up  to  their  book  val- 
ues." 

But  the  joint  stock  principle,  the  rail- 
ways and  the  banks  have  survived  the 
trials  resulting  from  early  errors,  and  are 
now  admitted  by  every  one  to  be  essen- 
tial and  beneficent  parts  of  our  finan- 
cial machinery.  Railway  bonds  and 
many  railway  stocks  have  reached  a 
solid  investment  basis,  superior  to  the 
storms  of  business  disturbance  which  are 
sweeping  over  the  newer  enterprises. 
The  older  and  larger  banks  and  trust 
companies  have  also  avoided  the  blun- 


Wall  Street  and  the   Country. 


153 


ders  of  early  days,  and  have  kept  their 
assets  in  a  form  in  which  they  could  be 
quickly  converted  into  cash  in  case  of 
need.  The  fact  that  deposits  payable  on 
demand  should  be  covered  by  assets 
convertible  on  demand  has  been  well 
learned  by  American  bankers.  Only  the 
amateurs  and  the  incompetents  among 
bankers  and  trust  company  managers 
have  forgotten  the  famous  distinction  of 
Mr.  Hankey  between  a  mortgage  and  a 
bill  of  exchange.  The  more  conservative 
of  the  New  York  trust  companies  in  par- 
ticular, making  their  advances  exclu- 
sively on  the  best  stock  exchange  securi- 
ties, with  a  margin  of  twenty  per  cent 
between  the  market  value  and  the  amount 
loaned,  have  not  failed  since  the  first 
signs  of  a  coming  storm  to  husband  their 
resources,  to  scan  critically  even  high- 
priced  collateral,  and  to  give  the  benefit 
of  the  doubt  always  on  the  side  of  con- 
servatism. 

It  remains  to  apply  to  the  industrial 
trust  and  the  new  forms  of  financial 
organization  the  lessons  so  well  learned 
in  the  school  of  experience  in  railroading 
and  banking.  To  obtain  a  given  result 
by  the  greatest  possible  economy  of  cap- 
ital and  of  effort  is  the  secret  of  success 
in  finance,  in  industry,  and  in  competi- 
tion in  foreign  markets.  The  Bank  of 
England  does  the  great  business  of  the 
British  banking  system  with  a  metallic 
reserve  many  times  less  than  that  of  the 
New  York  banks  and  the  Treasm-y  of 
the  United  States.  In  the  early  days 
of  England's  financial  primacy,  the  re- 
serve proved  insufficient,  and  English 
finance  was  all  but  wrecked.  So  it  may 
be  that  our  industrial  combinations  must 
learn  the  lesson  of  larger  reserves  and 
sufficient  working  capital  before  they  are 
planted  on  a  solid  basis ;  but  in  the  end, 
even  if  they  cannot  realize  the  ambitious 
dream  of  putting  an  end  to  perturbations 
in  industry,  they  are  likely  to  vindicate 
their  claim  to  increasing  the  productive 
efficiency  and  competitive  power  of  our 
country. 


It  may  well  prove,  also,  that  the  prin- 
ciple of  the  operating  company,  and  the 
security-holding  company,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  they  give  a  minority  of  strong 
holders  the  power  to  dictate  the  policy 
of  the  corporation  under  control,  may 
serve  the  public  interest  by  bringing 
unity  and  concentration  into  manage- 
ment which  has  been  incoherent  and  in- 
competent. The  system  of  the  security- 
holding  company  permits  far  -  sighted 
men,  for  instance,  who  are  willing  to 
postpone  present  dividends  to  future 
wealth,  to  study  the  needs  of  a  growing 
community,  and  to  promote  its  growth  by 
building  traction  lines  in  advance  of  the 
public  demand  instead  of  waiting  for 
such  a  demand  to  become  imperative. 
It  enables  the  managers  of  a  great  trunk 
line  to  put  an  end  to  transfers  of  pas- 
sengers at  state  boundaries  and  local 
terminals,  and  to  run  the  palatial  trains 
across  the  continent  upon  harmoniously 
adjusted  schedules  which,  far  from  being 
"  in  restraint  of  trade,"  have  done  more 
to  promote  it  than  all  the  laws  for  pre- 
venting combination  or  all  the  suits  begun 
in  pursuance  thereof.  The  system  of 
the  holding  company  undoubtedly  in- 
creases the  power  of  the  big  financiers, 
but  it  enables  them  in  many  cases  to  go 
forward  with  far-sighted  plans  for  meet- 
ing the  certain  expansion  of  local  traffic 
in  our  imperial  city,  or  of  international 
traffic  between  the  grainfields  of  Min- 
nesota and  the  markets  of  Asia,  which 
would  be  difficult  or  impossible  under 
the  old  system  of  petty  competing  or- 
ganizations governed  by  the  restricted 
vision  of  some  neighborhood  magnate. 

The  voting  trust  is  another  system  of 
organization  designed  to  the  same  end, 
—  to  put  properties  into  the  hands  of 
competent  and  responsible  persons,  and 
to  remove  them  from  the  danger  of 
manipulative  control  through  the  stock 
market.  One  of  the  greatest  evils  of  our 
system  of  an  unfettered  stock  market  is 
the  opportunity  which  it  affords  to  rich 
buccaneers  to  upset  values  and  threaten 


154 


Wall  Street  and  the   Country. 


the  tranquil  ownership  of  property. 
Against  this  danger  the  voting  trust 
forms  a  safeguard.  In  thus  making  it 
easy  to  locate  upon  a  few  heads  the  re- 
sponsibility for  the  conduct  of  great  en- 
terprises, the  management  of  our  finan- 
cial projects  follows  the  tendency  to- 
ward the  fixing  of  responsibility  which 
has  become  the  model  under  our  best  city 
charters,  where  the  scattered  authority 
of  commissions  and  legislative  bodies  has 
been  concentrated  to  a  large  degree  in 
the  hands  of  a  single  executive. 

The  concentration  of  banking  re- 
sources and  the  power  which  is  derived 
from  cooperation  among  the  banks  and 
a  few  resolute  leaders  in  times  of  crisis 
are  generally  recognized  to  be  one  of 
the  most  potent  factors  in  our  recent 
industrial  progress  and  our  present 
financial  security.  If  the  recent  decline 
in  the  price  of  securities  had  found  the 
market  depending  upon  a  large  number 
of  banking  institutions  with  small  cap- 
ital, indifferently  managed,  and  divid- 
ed by  petty  jealousies,  it  might  have 
tumbled  them  over  like  a  row  of  bricks, 
and  made  the  declining  market  of  1903 
a  repetition  of  the  panic  experiences  of 
1873  and  1893.  Combination  has  vin- 
dicated itself  the  world  over  in  banking ; 
it  remains  to  be  seen  whether,  after  due 
experimentation,  it  will  not  also  vindi- 
cate itself  in  railway  management  and 
manufacturing. 

America  has  a  great  destiny  to  per- 
form in  the  industrial  development  of 
the  world.  She  can  perform  it  only  by 
applying  to  every  part  of  the  machin- 
ery of  production,  transportation,  and 
exchange  the  principle  of  the  greatest 
economy  of  effort  to  obtain  the  greatest 
sum  of  results.  The  opportunity  for 
every  man  to  rise  by  his  talents  from 
the  lowest  to  the  highest  place,  the  right 
to  reap  and  hold  the  rewards  of  one's 
labor  without  excessive  taxation  or  vex- 
atious visitation,  the  privilege  of  trans- 
ferring property  on  the  stock  exchanges 
without  the  fetters  imposed  on  such 


transactions  in  Europe,  and  the  freedom 
to  extend  new  methods  of  economy  and 
combination  in  trade  and  finance  across 
the  continent,  untrammeled  by  local  tar- 
iffs and  state  boundaries,  are  among  the 
weapons  which  give  our  country  its  great 
advantages  in  dealing  with  older  compet- 
itors. It  is  not  surprising  that,  in  the 
strenuous  work  of  forging  these  weapons 
to  their  sharpest  temper,  mistakes  have 
been  made,  capital  has  been  lost,  the  sub- 
tile resentment  has  been  aroused  of  those 
incompetent  to  meet  the  new  conditions ; 
but  such  errors  are  the  almost  inevitable 
incidents  of  a  period  of  progress.  They 
correct  themselves  in  the  furnace  of  com- 
petition better  than  they  are  likely  to  be 
corrected  by  paternal  legislation,  which 
is  usually  bungling  and  often  ineffective. 

A  community  which  does  not  within 
proper  limits  encourage  the  enterprise  of 
the  promoter  puts  fetters  upon  the  trans- 
fer of  its  capital  to  its  most  efficient 
uses  and  upon  the  development  of  the 
highest  industrial  efficiency.  Upon  the 
proper  direction  of  capital  rests  the  in- 
dustrial development  of  a  nation.  Every- 
thing which  tends  to  hamper  the  trans- 
fer of  capital  from  an  industry  which 
has  ceased  to  be  profitable,  because  per- 
haps it  has  been  too  widely  extended, 
tends  to  prevent  the  direction  of  the 
capital  of  the  country  into  the  channels 
where  it  is  most  efficient.  The  work  of 
the  promoter  in  recent  years  has  tended 
to  increase  this  transf  erability  of  capital 
by  providing  a  method  for  getting  rid  of 
useless  plants  without  direct  loss  to  their 
owners,  and  adjusting  the  productive 
capacity  of  an  industry  to  the  actual 
demand  for  its  products.  More  than 
this,  in  the  organization  of  a  new  enter- 
prise, like  the  opening  of  a  new  mine, 
the  promoter  actually  adds  to  the  effi- 
cient wealth  of  the  community  by  open- 
ing sources  of  income  which  were  before 
untouched.  As  Professor  Meade  well 
says  in  his  book  on  Trust  Finance  :  — 

"  In  the  present  scheme  of  production 
the  resources  and  the  money  are  useless 


Lynching :  A   Southern    View. 


155 


apart.  Let  them  be  brought  together, 
and  wealth  is  the  result.  The  unassisted 
coincidence  of  investment  funds  with 
investment  opportunities,  however,  is 
fortuitous  and  uncertain.  The  investor 
and  the  land  or  patent  or  mine  owner 
have  few  things  in  common.  Left  to 
themselves  they  might  never  meet.  But 
the  promoter  brings  these  antithetical 
elements  together,  and  in  this  way  is  the 
means  of  creating  a  value  which  did  not 
before  exist,  and  which  is  none  the  less 
a  social  gain  because  much  of  it  is  ab- 
sorbed by  the  promoter  and  the  finan- 
cier." 

The  new  methods  and  the  new  pro- 
jects are  going  through  the  test  of  fire 
to-day,  and  some  of  them  are  being  con- 
sumed. The  tests  which  weeded  out 


the  badly  organized  and  incompetent  of 
the  early  stock  companies,  which  drove 
to  the  wall  the  "  wildcat  "  banks  of  ante- 
bellum days,  and  which  wiped  out  divi- 
dends and  stock  rights  in  badly  managed 
railways,  are  now  being  applied  to  the 
new  forms  of  organization  which  have 
been  the  growth  of  the  past  decade.  But 
the  stronger  and  better  organized  of 
these  new  corporations  are  likely  to  meet 
these  trials  without  disaster,  or  to  modify 
their  methods  to  conform  to  the  teach- 
ings of  experience,  until  there  remains 
to  the  financial  world  a  valuable  residu- 
um of  new  methods  for  giving  flexibility 
to  capital  and  promoting  its  transfer 
promptly  and  efficiently  from  the  in- 
dustries where  it  is  not  needed  to  those 
where  it  will  render  its  highest  service. 
Charles  A.  Conant. 


LYNCHING:   A   SOUTHERN   VIEW. 

[The  author  of  this  article  is  a  native  of  North  Carolina,  and  has  been  for  several  years  editor 
of  the  Raleigh  Progressive  Farmer.  —  THE  EDITORS.] 


THAT  lynching  is  an  evil  is  denied  by 
no  one.  Even  Mr.  John  Temple  Graves, 
who  defended  it  in  his  recent  Chautau- 
qua  address,  had  to  admit  that  it  is  de- 
moralizing and  criminal,  and  that  its 
logical  consummation  is  anarchy.  The 
savage,  we  know,  punishes  by  the  mob 
or  by  personal  vengeance,  while  "  it  is  the 
first  law  of  the  social  order  that  no  man 
shall  be  the  judge  in  his  own  cause," 
that  the  government  alone  shall  have  the 
right  to  fix  penalties  and  punish  crimi- 
nals, and  that  each  citizen  shall  uphold 
the  majesty  of  the  law  and  swear  alle- 
giance to  the  courts  of  justice.  This  is 
the  basis  of  all  order ;  on  this  depends 
the  safety  of  life  and  property.  And 
such  unity  obtains  in  our  governmental 
fabric  that  we  cannot  disturb  this  funda- 
mental principle  in  any  manner  without 
endangering  the  entire  structure.  If  one 
pillar  totters,  all  the  pillars  will  totter. 


To  protect  anarchy  at  one  point  is  to 
spread  anarchy  to  all  points.  We  can- 
not encourage  a  hundred  men  to  disre- 
gard law  without  encouraging  the  indi- 
vidual to  disregard  law ;  we  cannot 
encourage  law-breaking  to  gratify  ven- 
geance without  encouraging  law-breaking 
to  gratify  hate  or  greed  or  lust.  The 
mob  spirit  breeds  disrespect  for  all  law. 
For  yet  other  reasons  is  lynching  to 
be  dreaded  and  deplored.  It  threatens 
justice  and  engenders  unrest.  Our  judges, 
as  a  class,  are  men  of  high  character  and 
ability,  and  our  juries  are  composed  of 
fair-minded  and  intelligent  men.  But 
the  mob  may  be  recruited  from  the  worst 
element  of  the  community,  men  of  bad 
character  and  low  intelligence  ;  its  mem- 
bers may  even  have  private  grudges 
against  the  alleged  criminal.  The  court, 
too,  acts  in  the  open,  seen  and  scrutinized 
by  all ;  the  judge  and  the  jurymen  are 


156 


Lynching :  A   Southern    View. 


known,  and  they  know  that  their  repu- 
tations will  be  injured  if  they  act  care- 
lessly or  unrighteously.  But  the  mob  has 
no  such  incentive  to  right  action.  It 
hides  itself  in  the  dark ;  it  shrinks  from 
the  gaze  of  men ;  its  members  are  not 
known  to  their  fellow  citizens  ;  the  fear 
of  incurring  individual  condemnation 
does  not  restrain  them  from  injustice. 
Moreover,  thfe  court  considers  evidence 
calmly  and  carefully.  "  If  this  man  is 
guilty,  let  him  be  punished  ;  if  he  is  not 
guilty,  let  the  real  criminal  be  sought 
out  and  dealt  with."  But  the  mob  works 
in  the  heat  of  passion  and  in  great  haste. 
Too  often  it  hangs  the  man  on  incom- 
plete circumstantial  evidence,  hangs  the 
wrong  man.  But  that  ends  the  matter ; 
there  is  no  further  investigation,  and  the 
guilty  man  goes  free,  —  perhaps  to  repeat 
his  crime.  These  are  a  few  of  the  many 
dangers  of  mob  law. 

Hurtful  and  vicious  as  is  the  lynching 
evil,  we  have  in  the  South  another  evil 
that  is  not  less  dark  and  diabolical.  For 
every  negro  who  is  disturbed  by  fear  of 
the  mob,  a  hundred  white  women  are 
haunted  by  the  nameless  dread.  These 
are  the  twin  perils  that  menace  South- 
ern peace,  —  twin  perils,  I  say,  for  there 
is  a  vital  connection  between  them.  To 
say  that  men  are  lynched  for  other  crimes 
than  that  against  white  women,  and  that 
therefore  lynching  cannot  be  attributed 
to  it,  is  to  be  more  plausible  than  accu- 
rate. It  is  with  this  crime  that  lynch- 
ing begins  ;  here  and  here  only  could 
the  furious  mob  spirit  break  through  the 
resisting  wall  of  law  and  order.  Once 
through,  it  does  not  stop.  But  it  is  only 
because  lynching  for  rape  is  excused 
that  lynching  for  any  other  crime  is  ever 
attempted.  If  there  were  no  lustful  brutes 
to  deal  with,  it  would  be  easy  to  develop 
a  public  sentiment  that  would  make  any 
form  of  lynching  impossible. 

There  are,  therefore,  two  ways  of  at- 
tacking the  mob  spirit.  We  may  (1)  as- 
sail lynching  directly,  or  we  may  (2) 
seek  to  destroy  the  crime  which  nour- 


ishes and  sustains  it.  Both  direct  and 
indirect  methods,  as  I  shall  try  to  show 
in  this  paper,  ought  to  be  employed. 


Heretofore  we  have  attacked  mob  law 
only  in  the  most  direct  of  direct  ways. 
We  have  passed  laws  breathing  out 
threatenings  and  slaughter  against  lynch- 
ers,  only  to  find  that  it  is  useless  to  have 
an  anti-lynching  law  on  our  statute  books 
until  the  people  have  an  anti-lynching 
law  in  their  hearts  and  consciences.  In 
the  eyes  of  the  court  eveiy  man  who  kills 
without  warrant  of  law  —  whether  or 
not  the  victim  be  accused  of  crime  —  is  a 
murderer.  In  North  Carolina  this  prin- 
ciple was  supplemented  more  than  a  de- 
cade ago  by  a  special  statute  making  it  a 
felony  to  break  into  a  jail  for  the  pur- 
pose of  lynching  a  prisoner.  Judges 
have  charged  juries  against  the  crime, 
and  Governor  Aycock  —  risking  his  po- 
litical fortunes  for  his  convictions  —  re- 
cently offered  a  reward  of  $400  each  for 
the  conviction  of  a  party  of  seventy-five 
who  lynched  a  negro  near  Salisbury. 
But  never  yet  has  the  law  punished  a 
North  Carolina  lyncher. 

We  may  as  well  admit,  therefore,  that 
this  plan  of  action,  unless  supplemented 
by  other  measures,  is  a  failure.'  When 
the  flock  is  threatened,  it  is  wiser  to 
unloose  the  dogs  than  try  to  bind  the 
wolves.  When  law  is  threatened,  it  is 
better  to  unfetter  the  courts  than  to  try 
to  fetter  the  mob.  And  the  courts  are 
fettered. 

That  the  law  at  present  is  lacking  in 
efficiency  is  not  an  idle  assertion,  a  mere 
excuse  of  the  bloodthirsty.  It  is  not  an 
unsupported  supposition  of  editors  and 
politicians,  and  of  people  not  versed  in 
legal  lore.  It  is  the  testimony  of  men 
who  know  whereof  they  speak.  One  of 
the  finest  and  gentlest  men  I  know,  an 
old-school  Southern  lawyer  whose  tender- 
ness is  such  that  he  will  not  prosecute  a 
man  for  his  life,  said  to  me  two  years 
ago  that  with  our  peremptory  challenges, 


Lynching  :  A   Southern    View. 


157 


habeas  corpus  proceedings,  writs  of  error, 
changes  of  venue,  exceptions,  appeals, 
new  trials,  respites,  pardons,  etc.,  our  law- 
makers have  labored  so  assiduously  to 
protect  the  accused  prisoner  that  they 
have  become  unjust  to  the  accusing  pub- 
lic. "  Our  civilization  has  gone  too  far 
in  these  matters,"  says  the  Georgia  Bar 
Association,  "  and  has  overdone  itself." 
"  Enough  lias  been  done  for  those  who 
murder,"  says  one  Chief  Justice  ;  "  it  is 
time  the  courts  were  doing  something  for 
those  who  do  not  wish  to  be  murdered." 
And  Justice  Brewer  of  our  United  States 
Supreme  Court,  who  speaks  from  wide 
experience  and  lifelong  observation,  said 
to  the  law  class  of  Yale  College  a  few 
months  ago :  — 

"It  has  seemed  to  me  at  times  that 
legislation  was  conceived  in  the  spirit  of 
obstruction  to  the  punishment  of  crimi- 
nals. To  obstruct  the  administration  of 
justice,  the  writ  of  habeas  corpus,  writs 
of  error,  and  pleas  for  stays  of  proceed- 
ings have  been  resorted  to  by  many  law- 
yers, and,  last  of  all,  often  and  often 
stand  tender-hearted  executives  to  inter- 
pose clemency.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered 
at  that  some  communities  have  arisen  in 
their  wrath  and  have  inflicted  the  sum- 
mary punishment  that  machinery  of  the 
law  has  delayed,  and  which  they  feared 
it  might  delay  among  them,  too." 

It  may  be  claimed  —  and  I  know 
lawyers  who  do  claim  —  that  such  ex- 
pressions as  these  have  themselves  en- 
couraged the  mob  spirit.  But  the  mob 
gets  ten  times  as  much  strength  from  the 
fact  as  from  the  publication  of  the  fact ; 
the  danger  is,  not  that  the  weakness  is 
charged,  but  that  it  exists.  Loyalty  to 
law  demands  that  we  condemn  lack  of 
reverence  for  it,  whatever  its  imperfec- 
tions ;  but  loyalty  demands  no  less  sure- 
ly that  we  remove  these  imperfections 
that  irreverence  may  be  more  readily 
destroyed. 

Taking  first  things  first,  let  us  con- 
sider the  matter  of  peremptory  challenges 
of  venire  men.  In  most  states  the  dis- 


parity between  the  number  allowed  the 
defendant  and  the  number  allowed  the 
state  is  much  too  great.  In  this  we  have 
a  survival  of  that  early  period  of  judicial 
history  when  the  man  accused  of  a  capi- 
tal offense  was  not  allowed  compulsory 
process  to  summon  witnesses  in  his  be- 
half, was  without  counsel  to  speak  for 
him,  and  was  supposed  to  be  discrim- 
inated against  by  the  officers  of  the  law 
who  selected  the  prospective  jurymen. 
To  protect  the  prisoner  in  the  face  of 
these  unfair  conditions,  he  was  given 
much  the  larger  number  of  challenges, 
—  an  advantage  which  he  still  largely 
retains,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  de- 
fense is  now  on  an  equal  footing  with 
the  prosecution.  "  The  policy  of  those 
states  which  discriminate  against  the 
prosecution  in  this  particular,"  says  one 
of  our  best-known  American  authorities 
(Thompson  and  Merriarn  on  Juries), 
"  is  not  apparent.  The  government  cer- 
tainly has  the  same  right  to  an  impartial 
jury  as  an  accused  person  has,  and,  it 
would  seem,  ought  to  be  possessed  of 
equal  facilities  for  procuring  it." 

The  latest  statistics  which  I  have  been 
able  to  obtain,  however,  show  that  in 
the  trial  of  prisoners  for  capital  crimes 
only  seven  of  the  United  States  (New 
York,  Massachusetts,  Colorado,  Illinois, 
Florida,  Connecticut,  and  Rhode  Island) 
have  these  "  equal  facilities  for  procur- 
ing an  impartial  jury."  Three  hundred 
peremptory  challenges  for  the  prosecu- 
tion to  six  hundred  and  fifty  for  the  de- 
fendant is  about  the  aggregate  for  the 
several  states.  Massachusetts  is  unique 
in  that  it  allows  a  greater  number  to  the 
government  than  to  the  prisoner,  — twen- 
ty-two to  twenty.  On  the  other  hand, 
twenty  for  the  defendant  and  two  for  the 
state  is  the  rule  in  South  Carolina,  whose 
population  is  said  to  have  furnished  the 
largest  number  of  murders  last  year,  and 
the  smallest  proportion  of  legal  hang- 
ings. In  North  Carolina  the  defendant 
has  twenty-three  peremptory  challenges, 
the  state  four ;  and  Chief  Justice  Clark 


158 


Lynching  :  A   Southern    View. 


in  a  recent  opinion  referred  to  this  dis- 
parity and  the  consequent  weakening  of 
the  law  as  one  reason  for  the  increase  of 
crime  and  lynching.  "  It  is  only  neces- 
sary," he  says,  "  for  the  defendant  to 
'  run '  for  one  man  on  the  panel  who  is 
friendly  to  him,  for  if  he  can  secure  that 
man  by  the  rejection  of  twenty-three  oth- 
ers, besides  those  stood  aside  for  cause, 
he  has  defeated  the  unanimous  verdict 
which  is  requisite  for  conviction." 

A  case  in  point  has  just  been  brought 
to  light  in  the  writer's  own  city.  In  the 
trial  of  a  man  of  wealth,  charged  with 
murder,  it  transpired  that  he  had  em- 
ployed agents  in  each  township  to  take  a 
census  of  the  men  subject  to  jury  duty 
and  ascertain  who  were  friendly  to  him 
and  who  hostile,  who  inclined  to  be 
friendly  and  who  inclined  to  be  hostile, 
—  thus  enabling  him  to  use  his  larger 
number  of  challenges  in  a  manner  mani- 
festly inimical  to  the  interests  of  justice. 

Clearly,  therefore,  to  take  away  this 
unfair  advantage  given  the  criminal  is 
one  of  the  imperative  tasks  confronting 
those  who  would  stay  the  mob  spirit.  It 
will  make  for  surer  punishment  of  crimi- 
nals. But  we  must  also  have  speedier 
trials.  "  Crime  and  punishment  grow 
out  of  one  stem,"  says  Emerson  ;  but  the 
only  way  to  teach  the  ignorant  classes 
the  logical  connection  between  the  two  is 
to  inflict  the  punishment  while  public  in- 
terest is  still  fixed  on  the  crime.  More- 
over, speed  is  required  because  punish- 
ment is  sure  only  when  it  is  speedy. 
The  indignation  and  abhorrence  which 
wrong-doing  always  excites  effervesce  too 
quickly.  Let  an  unruly  child  induce  its 
parents  to  postpone  punishment  for  a 
week  or  a  month,  and  the  offense  will 
be  punished  inadequately  or  not  at  all. 
At  first  the  voice  of  our  brother's  blood 
may  cry  to  us  from  the  ground,  but  the 
voice  grows  weaker  and  weaker  as  time 
goes  on.  The  legal  principle,  an  eye  for 
an  eye  and  a  life  for  a  life,  can  be  en- 
forced only  when  there  is  a  vivid  reali- 
zation of  the  victim's  loss.  As  this  be- 


comes dimmer,  the  punishment  of  the 
criminal  seems  more  and  more  like  a 
new  and  useless  effusion  of  blood.  Thus 
"the  law's  delay,"  regarded  even  in 
Hamlet's  day  as  one  of  life's  grievous 
evils,  is  still  a  force  for  evil. 

Of  remedies,  the  most  notable  yet  pro- 
posed is  that  advocated  by  Justice  David 
J.  Brewer.  In  cases  of  capital  crime  he 
would  have  the  nearest  judge  convene 
court  as  early  as  possible  for  the  trial  of 
the  accused.  He  would  abolish  appeals 
in  all  criminal  cases,  but  would  allow  the 
prisoner  to  submit  at  once  to  the  Su- 
preme Court  a  stenographic  report  of  the 
evidence,  —  a  new  trial  to  be  granted 
should  the  court  reach  the  conclusion 
that  the  wrong  man  had  been  convicted, 
but  never  for  mere  violation  of  legal 
technicalities.  We  may  not  wish  to  go 
so  far,  but  the  fact  that  a  member  of  our 
highest  court  suggests  such  a  remedy  for 
the  weakness  ,of  the  judiciary  and  the 
spread  of  lawlessness  is  enough  to  con- 
vince all  of  the  need  of  genuine  reform. 
For  example,  it  is  stated  on  high  author- 
ity that  "  not  a  single  public  official 
charged  with  wrong-doing  in  New  York 
within  the  last  fifteen  years  has  actually 
received  legal  punishment.  Many  have 
been  indicted ;  a  number  have  been  con- 
victed and  sentenced,  but  some  higher 
court  has  interfered  in  every  case,  always 
on  the  ground  of  a  flaw  in  the  indictment 
or  some  other  purely  technical  defect,  and 
never  on  the  relative  merits  of  the  ques- 
tion at  issue."  One  inexcusable  fault  was 
pointed  out  by  a  Southern  bar  association 
some  time  ago  in  a  resolution  which  de- 
clared that  new  trials  should  not  be 
granted  on  account  of  error  "  unless  it 
appear  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  appellate 
court  that  such  error  probably  and  rea- 
sonably affected  the  result  adversely  to 
the  appealing  party."  The  mere  state- 
ment of  such  a  condition  is  argument 
enough  for  a  change.  Let  us  not  blame 
the  criminal  lawyer  for  using  these  op- 
portunities for  delay  ;  let  us  blame  our- 
selves for  permitting  them  to  exist. 


Lynching :  A  Southern    View. 


159 


The  pardoning  power  ought  also  to  be 
hedged  about  with  greater  restrictions. 
That  it  has  been  often  abused  there  can 
be  no  doubt.  A  false  idea  of  mercy 
has  led  many  of  our  governors  to  do  far- 
reaching  harm  to  society.  Where  mercy 
can  be  given  the  criminal  without  in- 
justice to  the  public,  the  pardoning  power 
should  be  exercised.  But  often,  to  par- 
don means  to  lessen  the  criminal's  fear 
of  law,  to  weaken  the  citizen's  confidence 
in  it,  and  to  strengthen  the  mob  spirit 
among  all  classes.  In  such  cases  it  is 
better  to  be  merciful  to  a  thousand  law- 
abiding  citizens  than  to  one  man  whom 
the  courts  have  pronounced  guilty  of 
crime.  It  would  probably  be  well  to  re- 
strict pardons  and  commutations  —  at 
least  for  those  crimes  of  which  the  ex- 
treme penalty  is  death — to  those  recom- 
mended by  the  judge  or  solicitor  of  the 
court  which  tried  the  prisoner. 

These  are  some  of  the  changes  needed 
in  our  general  legal  machinery.  But  we 
shall  have  to  recognize  the  fact  that  the 
one  crime  which  oftenest  provokes  lynch- 
ing is  a  peculiar  one  and  demands  pe- 
culiar treatment.  Whatever  we  may  do 
in  murder  cases,  in  dealing  with  rape  we 
shall  have  to  adopt  Judge  Brewer's  plan 
in  its  entirety. 

Moreover,  the  Universal  Peace  Union 
and  a  number  of  prominent  periodicals 
have  recently  suggested  the  unsexing  of 
criminals  of  this  class.  In  the  South,  at 
least,  where  the  peril  is  most  imminent, 
nothing  less  than  death  will  ever  be  re- 
garded as  sufficient  punishment.  Im- 
prisonment, however,  is  our  only  penalty 
for  assault  with  intent,  and  for  this  crime 
the  surgeon's  remedy  would  doubtless 
prove  more  effective  as  a  deterrent,  while 
as  a  protection  to  society  against  the 
repetition  of  the  offense  it  would  be  ab- 
solute. The  Wilmington,  Delaware,  ne- 
gro who  was  lynched  last  spring  had  once 
been  in  prison  for  attempted  assault.  Set 
free  with  the  same  lustful  mania,  a  wolf 
in  human  form,  he  brought  death  to 
himself  and  to  a  pure-hearted  victim, 


and  shame  to  a  great  state.  The  law 
should  effectively  protect  the  public 
against  the  degenerate  whose  uncontrol- 
lable passion  has  once  led  him  to  threat- 
en our  women ;  if  it  will  not,  the  mob 
will.  The  proposed  legal  remedy  may 
be  objected  to  as  a  reversion  to  barbaric 
custom,  but,  as  Qollier's  Weekly  ob- 
serves, "  no  precedent  for  maiming  as  a 
general  practice  could  be  established  in 
these  days."  And  I  repeat  that  we  must 
recognize  the  fact  that  we  have  a  peculiar 
crime,  to  be  dealt  with  in  a  peculiar  man- 
ner. 

We  should  also  take  notice  of  the  fact 
that  lynching  is  often  condoned  because 
of  the  humiliation  the  wronged  woman 
must  endure  in  appearing  against  the 
prisoner  in  open  court.  As  for  the  time- 
worn  suggestion  that  the  affidavit  of  the 
woman  be  accepted  as  sufficient,  this  is 
effectually  barred  by  the  Sixth  Amend- 
ment to  our  national  Constitution,  which 
guarantees  the  right  of  the  criminal  to 
be  "  confronted  by  the  witnesses  against 
him."  But  the  judge  has  power  to  keep 
the  defendant's  counsel  within  the  bounds 
of  decency  and  courtesy,  even  if  the  dan- 
ger of  outraging  public  sentiment  were 
not  alone  enough  to  insure  this.  In  a 
case  of  this  kind  a  short  time  ago  a 
Southern  judge  excluded  all  women  and 
all  boys  under  sixteen  from  the  court 
house.  He  then  requested  that  all 
"gentlemen"  who  were  mere  onlookers 
leave  the  room,  and  the  majority  left. 
Such  methods  as  these  might  be  more 
generally  adopted.  Better  still,  the  law 
might  empower  judges  in  such  cases  to 
clear  the  room  of  all  idle  spectators.  I 
believe  it  is  generally  admitted  that  this 
would  not  infringe  upon  the  constitu- 
tional rights  of  the  defendant. 

"  The  establishment  of  greater  confi- 
dence in  the  summary  and  certain  pun- 
ishment of  the  criminal,"  — this  is  Judge 
Brewer's  remedy  for  lynching,  and  the 
changes  we  have  considered  will  do  much 
to  bring  it  about.  It  will  remove  the 
cause  of  most  lynchings  that  are  regarded 


160 


Lynching :  A   Southern    View. 


as  excusable,  and  will  uncloak  the  inex- 
cusable ones.  For  there  are  inexcusable, 
utterly  inexcusable  lynchings.  The  mob 
is  not  always  actuated  by  fear  of  a  guilty 
man's  escape.  Sometimes  the  ruling 
passion  is  only  a  savage,  diabolical  blood- 
thirstiness.  Sometimes  it  is  sheer  and 
fiendish  bullyism  tormenting  the  weak 
and  defenseless.  Sometimes  it  is  the 
mob  leader's  desire  for  personal  ven- 
geance, —  murderous  hate  doing  its  work 
in  the  name  of  justice.  But  these  crimi- 
nals find  refuge  in  the  same  defense 
which  shields  those  who  are  impelled  by 
an  honest  (however  mistaken)  desire  to 
protect  the  sanctity  of  their  homes,  —  the 
inefficiency  of  the  law.  We  must  de- 
prive them  of  this  protection  and  expose 
them  to  the  penalties  they  deserve.  Re- 
move the  legal  shortcomings  that  cause 
law-loving  men  to  condone  lynching,  and 
the  lawless  can  no  longer  practice  it 
with  impunity.  Excepting  possibly  for 
the  most  heinous  crimes  and  in  commu- 
nities where  the  white  population  is  en- 
tirely outnumbered  by  negroes  of  the 
lowest  type,  lynching  can  then  be  made 
odious  and  punishable  (as  it  should  be). 
For  our  warfare  on  mob  law  will  not 
be  complete  without  a  stringent,  but  flex- 
ible and  enforcible  anti-lynching  law. 
First  of  all,  the  law  must  recognize  the 
fact  that  the  average  lyncher,  criminal 
as  he  is,  does  not  deserve  the  punishment 
given  for  capital  crime,  and  that  to  re- 
fuse to  recognize  lynching  as  anything 
but  murder  is  equivalent  to  refusing  to 
recognize  it  as  a  crime  at  all ;  for  it  can- 
not be  punished  as  murder.  There 
should  be  a  wide  range  of  penalties,  be- 
ginning with  a  fine  and  brief  imprison- 
ment for  the  man  who  joins  a  mob, 
prompted  only  by  a  desire  to  punish 
crime,  and  ending  with  death  for  the 
possible  enormity  of  using  the  mob  to 
kill  a  personal  enemy.  If  only  a  three 
months'  term  in  jail  stared  every  lyncher 
in  the  face,  only  the  sternest  sense  of 
duty  or  the  strongest  of  passions  would 
cause  men  to  take  the  law  into  their  own 


hands.  And  not  only  should  lynchers  be 
punished,  but  all  officers  who  tamely  sur- 
render prisoners  to  the  fury  of  the  mob 
ought  to  be  severely  dealt  with. 

Finally,  good  men  everywhere  must 
preach  in  season  and  out  of  season  the 
sanctity  of  law  and  the  peril  of  lawless- 
ness. We  must  excuse  lynching  under 
no  conditions,  for  as  certainly  as  a  fire, 
fanned  to  a  fury  in  one  room,  will  sweep 
on  to  other  rooms,  so  certainly  will  the 
mob,  if  generally  encouraged  to  punish 
one  crime,  sweep  irresistibly  on  to  sup- 
plant the  court  at  all  points.  Instead 
of  excusing  it  where  the  crime  is  horrible 
and  the  guilt  of  the  criminal  undoubted, 
we  must  teach  that  in  such  cases  mob 
law  is  the  more  indefensible  —  because 
of  the  increased  certainty  and  speed  of 
legal  punishment. 

It  is  not  the  criminal's  rights,  but  the 
court's  rights,  that  we  need  to  emphasize. 
In  his  heart  of  hearts  every  man  must 
say  with  the  lynchers  that  the  rapist  is  a 
brute  who  has  forfeited  all  human  rights. 
But  the  law  that  we  have  set  up  in  God's 
name,  and  in  the  name  of  all  the  people, 

—  this  has  the  highest   and  noblest  of 
rights,  and  it  is  the  law's  right  to  try  the 
criminal,  not  the   criminal's  right  to  a 
lawful  trial,  that   is  violated  whenever 
and  wherever  an  irresponsible  minority 
usurps  the  powers  which  the  whole  peo- 
ple have  vested  in  our  courts  of  justice. 
We  need  to  teach  that,  if  Satan  himself 
should  commit  a  crime,  we  should  try 
him  in  legal  form,  —  not  for  Satan's  sake, 
but  for  the  sake  of  law  and  order  and 
civilization  ;  not  that  he  would  have  the 
right  to  a  court  trial,  but  that  our  courts 
alone  would  have  the  right  to  try  him  ; 
and  that  trial  by  any  other  body  is,  and 
will  ever  be,  usurpation  and  minority  rule, 

—  un-American,  undemocratic,  and  un- 
endurable. 

n. 

So  much  for  the  direct  ways  of  at- 
tacking the  mob  spirit.  With  these  im- 
provements in  our  judicial  system,  I  be- 
lieve that  lynching  for  any  other  crime 


Lynching  :  A   Southern    View. 


161 


than  that  against  white  women  can  be 
stopped  within  a  reasonable  period  of 
time,  and  that  lynching  for  this  offense 
can  be  materially  and  steadily  dimin- 
ished. For  this  crime,  however,  the  less 
intelligent  classes  will  long  regard  the 
mob  as  the  rightful  executioner ;  and  it 
is  by  this  crime,  and  this  only,  that  the 
lynching  evil  can  be  kept  alive  in  the 
South.  It  is  not  without  reason,  there- 
fore, that  so  much  of  this  paper  is  de- 
voted to  a  discussion  of  how  to  stop  the 
offense  which,  under  existing  conditions, 
will  continue  to  provoke  outbreaks  of  mob 
violence,  and  which,  even  with  a  perfect 
law,  would  mightily  stir  the  passions  of 
the  people. 

There  are  two  ways  of  working  to 
this  end.  We  should  (1)  endeavor  to 
put  such  safeguards  about  those  exposed 
to  the  crime  as  to  make  its  commission 
less  frequent,  and  (2)  endeavor  to  de- 
stroy the  spirit  of  savagery  and  back- 
wardness of  which  this  offense  is  but 
one  of  many  evidences. 

The  first  consideration  of  those  who 
seek  direct  methods  of  preventing  the 
crime  is  to  provide  better  protection  to 
residents  of  isolated  country  districts. 
Of  course,  the  progress  of  civilization  is 
itself  contributing  to  the  solution  of  this 
problem.  As  population  becomes  denser 
and  the  people  get  into  closer  touch 
with  one  another  by  means  of  good 
roads,  the  criminal's  chances  of  escape 
correspondingly  decrease,  and  crime  dies 
when  the  hope  of  escape  dies.  The  ru- 
ral telephone  system,  where  it  has  been 
introduced,  is  also  a  notable  deterrent, 
for,  as  a  correspondent  in  another  coun- 
ty has  just  reminded  me,  "  no  sane  man 
is  likely  to  commit  a  heinous  crime  in 
a  community  where  a  network  of  wires 
makes  it  easy  to  put  the  entire  neigh- 
borhood immediately  on  the  alert." 

But  as  yet  these  agencies  are  not 
widespread,  and  for  some  years  to 
come  we  must  depend  on  other  rem- 
edies. In  the  first  place,  the  vagrancy 
laws  should  be  more  strictly  enforced, 

VOL.  xcni.  —  NO.  556.  11 


and  the  public  should  be  continually  on 
guard  against  the  reckless,  roving  ele- 
ment of  blacks  from  which  the  criminal 
class  is  chiefly  recruited.  The  rural 
districts  should  also  have  better  police 
protection.  A  member  of  the  Georgia 
Legislature  last  winter  presented  a  bill 
for  a  rural  police  patrol,  —  mounted 
patrolmen  to  guard  country  residents 
against  tramps  and  criminals  in  much 
the  same  way  that  the  "  patty-rollers  " 
of  the  Uncle  Remus  stories  guarded  the 
people  against  vicious  or  runaway  slaves. 
This  bill  of  Mr.  Blackburn's  attracted 
much  attention  and  much  favorable 
comment,  and  I  shall  not  be  surprised 
to  find  the  idea  generally  adopted  by 
Southern  Legislatures  within  the  next 
ten  years. 

And  now  we  come  to  the  deeper  and 
profounder  problem,  —  that  of  dealing 
with  the  spirit  back  of  the  crime,  the 
spirit  of  degradation  and  animalism  of 
which  the  rapist  is  the  most  horrible 
product.  It  is  the  old  story  of  the 
white  man's  burden.  And  we  have  the 
old  message  so  often  repeated  by  the 
late  Dr.  J.  L.  M.  Curry  :  "  We  must 
lift  these  people  up  or  they  will  drag  us 
down." 

Fraught  with  much  meaning  is  the  fact 
that  the  crime  against  white  women  was 
practically  unknown  in  slavery  ;  that  not 
one  of  the  hundreds  of  graduates  who 
have  gone  out  from  Hampton  and  Tuske- 
gee  has  ever  been  guilty  of  it ;  and  that 
of  those  who  commit  this  crime  to-day 
few  are  able  to  read,  have  steady  employ- 
ment, or  own  homes.  Ignorance,  idle- 
ness, thriftlessness,  —  out  of  these  does 
crime  come,  and  against  these  must  our 
warfare  be  waged  if  we  would  destroy 
the  spirit  that  breeds  crime.  The  dis- 
cipline of  steady  labor  is  a  wonderful 
restraint  on  the  passions,  and  the  fact 
that  women  were  not  attacked  by  even 
the  lowest  negroes  in  slavery  must  be 
chiefly  attributed  to  this.  Of  the  negro 
prisoners  in  1890  (the  1900  census  fig- 
ures on  crime  are  not  yet  available),  less 


162 


Lynching :  A   Southern   View. 


than  one  tenth  had  trades,  and  less  than 
two  fifths  were  able  to  read  and  write. 

I  look  then  to  right  industrial,  educa- 
tional, and  religious  training  as  our  chief 
safeguard  against  negro  crime.  Only  a 
few  weeks  ago  a  friend  of  the  writer's  re- 
ported this  illustration :  "  Last  year  I 
spent  some  time  on  one  of  the  islands  off 
the  Georgia  coast  where  the  negroes  when 
emancipated  were  as  depraved  as  any- 
where in  the  South.  They  even  offered 
libations  to  the  moon.  But  into  that  mass 
of  ignorant  blacks  two  good  teachers 
went,  and  set  about  uplifting  the  peo- 
ple, morally,  industrially,  intellectually. 
When  I  was  there  last  summer  the  South- 
ern lady  with  whom  I  stopped  went  with 
her  young  daughter  on  a  night  trip  of  five 
miles  across  the  island,  and  without  a 
thought  of  danger." 

But  do  the  general,  nation-wide  results 
indicate  that  education  is  helpful  ?  It 
has  often  been  claimed  that  they  do  not. 
And  in  proof  we  have  the  oft-repeated 
charge  that  the  percentage  of  literacy 
among  negro  criminals  in  1890  was 
higher  than  that  for  the  total  negro  pop- 
ulation, —  in  other  words,  that  the  lit- 
erate negroes  furnished  a  larger  propor- 
tion of  prisoners  than  the  illiterate. 
This  statement  was  made  in  an  address 
before  the  National  Prison  Association 
in  1897.  It  was  printed  in  one  of  our 
foremost  magazines,  the  North  Ameri- 
can Review,  in  June,  1900.  It  was  re- 
peated by  a  governor  of  Georgia  in  a 
public  message.  A  Mississippi  preach- 
er has  sent  it  broadcast  over  the  South, 
and  it  was  doubtless  used  in  the  re- 
cent campaign  in  that  state.  Scores 
of  papers  have  copied  it.  Even  now 
a  Southern  daily  which  I  have  just 
received  has  a  two-column  argument 
against  negro  education,  based  on  the 
alleged  census  figures.  "  To  school  the 
negro,"  says  the  writer,  "  is  to  increase 
his  criminality.  Official  statistics  do  not 
lie,  and  they  tell  us  that  the  negroes  who 
can  read  and  write  are  more  criminal 
than  the  illiterate.  In  New  England, 


where  they  are  best  educated,  they  are 
four  and  a  half  times  as  criminal  as  in 
the  Black  Belt,  where  they  are  most  ig- 
norant. The  more  money  for  negro  ed- 
ucation, the  more  negro  crime.  This  is 
the  unmistakable  showing  of  the  United 
States  Census." 

That  such  statements  as  these  have 
thus  far  gone  unchallenged  should  in- 
deed excite  our  special  wonder.  It  was 
only  a  desire  to  get  the  exact  figures 
that  led  me  to  discover  their  falsity. 
The  truth  is,  that  of  the  negro  prisoners 
in  1890  only  38.88  per  cent  were  able 
to  read  and  write,  while  of  the  total 
negro  population  42.90  per  cent  were 
able  to  read  and  write.1  And  in  every 
division  of  the  country  save  one  (and 
that  with  only  a  handful  of  negro  crimi- 
nals) the  prisons  testified  that  the  liter- 
ate negroes  were  less  lawless  than  the 
illiterate.  To  make  the  matter  plain, 
the  following  figures  have  been  prepared 
by  the  United  States  Bureau  of  Educa- 
tion. They  show  the  number  of  crimi- 
nals furnished  by  each  100,000  colored 
literates,  and  the  number  furnished  by 
each  100,000  colored  illiterates,  accord- 
ing to  the  Census  of  1890  :  — 

CRIMINALS  IN  EACH  100,000. 

Section.  Literates.    Illiterates. 

North  Atlantic  Division  .     .    828.   '.     .1174 

South  Atlantic  Division  .     .     320 .     .    .     426 

South  Central  Division  ..     317  ...     498 

North  Central  Division  ..  807  ...  820 
Western  Division  ....  542 .  .  .  518 

When  we  consider  that  there  were 
only  258  negro  prisoners  in  all  the  West- 
ern Division  (out  of  the  24,277  in  the 
Union),  the  mere  accident  that,  of  these 
few,  seven  more  than  the  exact  propor- 
tion came  from  the  literate  element  loses 
all  significance  ;  the  test  is  on  a  scale 
too  small  for  general  conclusions.  Sum- 
ming up,  it  appears  that  of  our  total 
colored  population  in  1890  each  100,000 
illiterates  furnished  489  criminals,  and 

1  See  Compendium  of  Census,  part  iii.  p.  300, 
and  Bulletin  on  Crime,  Pauperism  and  Benevo- 
lence, part  i.  p.  173. 


Lynching :  A   Southern    View. 


163 


each  100,000  literates  only  413  crimi- 
nals. Even  more  striking  testimony 
comes  from  the  North  Carolina  State's 
Prison  situated  in  the  writer's  own  city. 
In  the  two  years  during  which  it  has 
kept  a  record,  the  proportion  of  negro 
criminals  from  the  illiterate  class  has 
been  forty  per  cent  larger  than  from  the 
class  which  has  had  school  training. 

It  is  plain,  therefore,  that  even  with 
the  pitifully  foolish  and  inefficient  meth- 
ods which  have  obtained  heretofore, 
the  schooling  the  negro  has  had  has 
been  helpful  and  not  harmful.  But  we 
must  adopt  a  wiser  policy.  Industrial 
education,  as  exemplified  in  Hampton 
and  Tuskegee  Institutes,  strikes  directly 
at  the  evils  which  foster  crime ;  and  to 
breathe  the  spirit  of  these  institutions 
into  the  general  public  school  system  of 
the  race  is  the  imperative  and  immedi- 
ate duty  of  those  who  have  the  matter 
in  charge.  To  delay  in  this  means  dan- 
ger. It  is  the  impotence  and  ineptness 
of  the  old  systems  that  have  brought 
people  to  doubt  the  wisdom  of  all  negro 
education.  A  direct  result  is  the  tri- 
umph of  Governor-elect  Vardaman  of 
Mississippi,  on  the  platform,  "  No  white 
taxes  to  teach  negroes." 

But  even  if  the  negro's  schools  were 
not  to  be  improved  and  rationalized,  to 
adopt  the  Vardaman  policy  would  be 
disastrous.  It  means  either  that  we  are 
to  abandon  the  black  man  to  animalism, 
and  honeycomb  the  South  with  African 
savagery,  or  that  we  are  to  surrender 
his  education  to  incensed  leaders  and 
fanatical  theorists,  —  and  from  their  sow- 
ing of  dragons'  teeth  we  have  had  har- 
vest enough.  The  present  prevalence 
of  negro  crime  is  probably  due  in  some 
measure  to  unwholesome  notions  of  social 
equality  and  intermarriage  that  they 
have  inculcated,  —  the  natural,  elemental 
passion  to  breed  upward,  to  mate  with  a 
higher  order,  called  forth  in  violent  form. 
How  much  worse  would  be  the  condition 
if  the  teaching  of  millions  of  negro  chil- 
dren were  entirely  surrendered  to  this 


class  !  We  must  abandon  the  errors  in 
our  educational  work,  but  not  the  work 
itself. 

And  not  only  must  we  use  the  schools 
to  guide  the  young  negroes  into  right 
paths,  but  to  stay  the  spread  of  crime 
there  must  be  greater  cooperation  be- 
tween the  religious  leaders  of  the  whites 
and  the  religious  leaders  of  the  blacks. 
The  strongest  religious  denomination  in 
the  South  will  make  a  step  in  this  direc- 
tion at  its  next  general  convention.  As 
a  factor  in  actual  life  negro  religion 
now  counts  for  almost  nothing,  and  the 
moral  instruction  of  the  young  is  prob- 
ably inferior  to  that  given  by  the  slave- 
holders of  the  Upper  South.  Hysterical 
preaching  is  more  popular  than  Biblical 
teaching.  A  typical  illustration  has  just 
come  to  my  notice.  An  intelligent, 
educated  negro  pastor  had  been  labor- 
ing earnestly  with  his  congregation,  try- 
ing to  raise  their  morals  and  give  them 
worthier  ideals.  He  went  away  for  a 
week,  and  found  on  his  return  that 
he  had  been  supplanted.  An  old-time 
"  mourner  "  preacher,  appealing  only  to 
the  emotions,  had  captivated  the  mem- 
bership by  making  everybody  "  happy." 
Writing  of  this  problem  in  a  recent 
Hampton  Institute  publication,  Frances 
A.  Kellor  says  :  "  The  religious  life  of 
the  negro  to-day,  with  its  mysticism, 
superstition,  and  excesses,  in  some  cases 
predisposes  to  crime.  It  accentuates  an 
excess  of  emotion,  which  condition  is 
traced  in  many  criminal  cases."  And 
yet  we  are  sending  missionaries  thou- 
sands of  miles  to  Africa  while  the  Africa 
at  our  own  doors  goes  neglected. 

The  white  people  of  the  South  should 
do  their  full  duty  in  providing  proper 
educational  and  religious  training  for 
the  blacks,  and  then  they  should  hold 
the  negro  leaders  largely  responsible  for 
the  moral  condition  of  the  race.  As 
one  of  the  most  thoughtful  and  conserv- 
ative North  Carolina  editors  has  said : 
"  The  negro  preachers,  teachers,  and 
leaders  must  be  made  to  feel  their 


164 


Lynching :  A   /Southern    View. 


responsibility  for  negro  crime.  They 
should  manufacture  an  anti-raping  sen- 
timent, and  force  it  down  through  the 
several  strata  of  their  society  until  it 
touches  bottom  ;  then  outrages  would 
cease.  They  have  not  done  it.  Instead 
they  have  virtually  encouraged  the  crime 
by  denouncing  only  its  punishment  by 
the  mob."  So  careful  a  journal  as  the 
Review  of  Reviews  has  commented  on 
this  indifference  on  the  part  of  the 
colored  leaders.  "  Why  do  they  bother 
themselves  so  much  about  the  lynching 
of  negro  criminals  and  so  little  about 
the  hideousness  of  negro  crime  ?  "  asks 
Dr.  Shaw.  "Here  we  have  the  most 
painful  aspect  of  the  whole  problem." 

This  condition,  moreover,  is  reflected 
in  the  negro's  general  attitude  toward 
law.  Not  a  guardian  protecting  his 
rights,  but  an  enemy  restricting  his  free- 
dom, has  always  been  his  conception  of 
government.  Lynching  would  be  much 
less  frequently  resorted  to,  if  the  negroes, 
instead  of  concealing  and  shielding  their 
criminals,  would  disown  them  and  coop- 
erate with  the  whites  in  the  endeavor  to 
punish  them. 

But  let  us  also  deal  honestly  with  our- 
selves. Let  us  see  to  it  that  we  place 
no  stumbling-block  in  the  path  of  the 
weaker  race.  Here,  for  example,  is  a 
charge  which  comes,  I  believe,  from 
Dr.  H.  B.  Frissell,  of  Hampton  Insti- 
tute :  "  The  way  in  which  many  re- 
spectable, intelligent  colored  girls  are 
hounded  by  white  men  of  the  baser  sort 
does  much  to  create  bitterness  among 
the  negroes,  and  leads  them  to  palliate 
the  crimes  of  their  own  race."  If  this 
condition  exists  in  any  degree  whatever 
we  ought  to  free  ourselves  from  the 
shame  of  it.  The  pressure  of  outraged 
public  opinion  should  be  strongly  brought 
to  bear  on  any  white  man  who  by  any 
means  encourages  immorality  among 
negro  women.  It  is  demoralizing.  It 
is  unworthy  of  our  race.  It  reacts  to 
our  hurt.  The  bestiality  of  negro  men 
is  fostered  by  the  unchastity  of  negro 


women.    No  form  of  racial  amalgamation 
must  find  toleration  among  the  whites. 

Here,  too,  is  a  charge  by  Professor 
W.  H.  Council,  one  of  our  best-known 
negro  educators  :  "  The  negroes  are  bru- 
talized, prepared  for  a  career  of  crime,  by 
low  saloons  and  dens  of  vice,  and  these 
vice-factories  owe  their  existence  to  white 
people.  The  blacks  make  no  laws,  they 
execute  no  laws.  No  judge  or  board  of 
aldermen  would  allow  the  establishment 
of  a  saloon  on  the  petition  of  negroes 
alone."  In  view  of  the  earnestness  with 
which  we  have  sought  to  protect  the  In- 
dian against  the  demoralizing  effects  of 
drink  and  vice,  it  is  surprising  that  the 
phase  of  the  matter  to  which  Professor 
Council  alludes  has  not  had  more  atten- 
tion. I  would  commend  to  other  states 
the  action  of  our  last  North  Carolina 
Legislature  in  abolishing  all  saloons  in 
rural  districts.  In  a  community  in  which 
the  whites  are  in  a  minority,  and  without 
police  protection,  it  is  little  less  than 
suicidal  to  keep  a  bar-room  to  inflame 
the  passions  and  derange  the  reasons  of 
criminally  disposed  negroes. 

in. 

And  the  outlook  —  what  of  it  ?  I  see 
no  reason  whatever  for  pessimism.  The 
careful  reader  has  probably  anticipated 
this  point,  and  has  perceived  that  three 
notable  forces  are  making  against  the 
progress  of  the  mob  spirit. 

1.  The  delays,  the  technicalities,  the 
solemn  plausibilities  of  our  legal  machin- 
ery have  done  much  to  promote  the  evil. 
But  now  there  are  unmistakable  signs  of 
a  public  awakening.     Reforms  will  fol- 
low, and  lynching  will  become  less  fre- 
quent as  law  becomes  more  effective. 

2.  The  sudden  translation  of  the  ne- 
gro from  a  state  of  slavery  to  that  of 
freedom  and    political    prestige    engen- 
dered unnatural  aspirations  and  unwhole- 
some tendencies.     With  many,  to  avoid 
manual  labor  and  to  get  social  recognition 
among  the  whites  became  a  ruling  pas- 
sion.   But  now  the  leaders  of  the  race  are 


Recollections  of  Lincoln. 


165 


beginning  to  lay  emphasis  on  the  fun- 
damentals, industry  and  character,  as  of 
more  importance  than  political  ambition 
or  a  veneering  of  impossible  "  culture." 
A  Booker  Washington,  who  trains  work- 
ers, and  who  preaches  peace  and  self-re- 
liance, has  succeeded  a  Frederick  Doug- 
lass, whose  business  was  politics,  and  who 
preached  social  equality  and  practiced 
miscegenation.  The  change  is  to  uplift 
negro  character,  and  to  decrease  lynch- 
ings  by  decreasing  the  crimes  which  pro- 
voke lynching. 

-  3.  The  isolation  of  our  rural  districts 
has  made  effective  police  protection  im- 


possible, thus  widening  the  opportuni- 
ties for  crime  and  the  opportunities  for 
the  punishment  of  crime  by  the  mob. 
But  with  the  coming  of  denser  population 
and  quicker  means  of  communication,  the 
diminished  number  of  crimes  and  the 
greater  efficiency  of  the  law  will  alike 
insure  the  decadence  of  the  mob  spirit. 

In  its  deepest  meaning,  lynch  law  is 
only  a  belated  outcropping  of  primitive 
anarchy,  a  symptom  of  an  immature 
civilization.  The  development  of  the 
reforms  I  have  indicated  will  bring  the 
day  when  it  can  no  longer  exist  in  an 
American  atmosphere. 

Clarence  H.  Poe. 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF  LINCOLN. 


[The  following  recollections  of  Abraham  Lincoln  are  from  the  pen  of  the  late  Henry  Villard, 
war  correspondent  and  financier,  and  form  part  of  his  autobiography,  which  is  shortly  to  appear 
in  book  form.  Mr.  Villard  came  to  the  United  States  from  Germany  in  1853,  and  as  soon  as  he 
bad  mastered  the  English  language  began  newspaper  work,  contributing  to  various  New  York 
and  Western  journals.  He  first  met  Mr.  Lincoln  while  reporting  the  Lincoln-Douglas  debate 
for  the  New  York  Staats-Zeitung,  as  stated  below.  From  that  time  on  it  was  his  good  fortune 
to  see  a  great  deal  of  Mr.  Lincoln,  and  to  accompany  him  to  New  York  on  his  journey  to  Wash- 
ington for  his  inauguration,  and  to  win  Mr.  Lincoln's  confidence.  He  was  in  turn  able  to  be  of 
service  to  Mr.  Lincoln  in  various  ways,  as,  for  instance,  in  bringing  to  the  President  the  first  au- 
thentic account  of  the  condition  of  the  Ariny  of  the  Potomac  after  the  battle  of  Fredericksburg. 
—  THE  EDITORS.] 

nothing  in  favor  of  Lincoln.  He  had  a 
lean,  lank,  indescribably  gawky  figure, 
an  odd-featured,  wrinkled,  inexpressive, 
and  altogether  uncomely  face.  He  used 
singularly  awkward,  almost  absurd,  up- 
and-down  and  sidewise  movements  of  his 
body  to  give  emphasis  to  his  arguments. 
His  voice  was  naturally  good,  but  he  fre- 
quently raised  it  to  an  unnatural  pitch. 
Yet  the  unprejudiced  mind  felt  at  once 
that,  while  there  was  on  the  one  side  a 
skillful  dialectician  and  debater  arguing 
a  wrong  and  weak  cause,  there  was  on 
the  other  a  thoroughly  earnest  and  truth- 
ful man,  inspired  by  sound  convictions 
in  consonance  with  the  true  spirit  of 


THE   LINCOLN-DOUGLAS   DEBATES. 

THE  first  jointdebate  between  Douglas 
and  Lincoln  which  I  attended  (the  sec- 
ond in  the  series  of  seven)  took  place 
on  the  afternoon  of  August  27,  1858,  at 
Freeport,  Illinois.  It  was  the  great  event 
of  the  day,  and  attracted  an  immense 
concourse  of  people  from  all  parts  of  the 
state.  Douglas  spoke  first  for  an  hour, 
followed  by  Lincoln  for  an  hour  and 
a  half ;  upon  which  the  former  closed 
in  another  half  hour.  The  Democratic 
spokesman  commanded  a  strong,  sono- 
rous voice,  a  rapid,  vigorous  utterance,  a 
telling  play  of  countenance,  impressive 
gestures,  and  all  the  other  arts  of  the 
practiced  speaker.  As  far  as  all  exter- 
nal conditions  were  concerned,  there  was 


American  institutions.  There  was  no- 
thing in  all  Douglas's  powerful  effort 
that  appealed  to  the  higher  instincts  of 


166 


Recollections  of  Lincoln. 


human  nature,  while  Lincoln  always 
touched  sympathetic  chords.  Lincoln's 
speech  excited  and  sustained  the  enthu- 
siasm of  his  audience  to  the  end.  When 
he  had  finished,  two  stalwart  young  farm- 
ers rushed  on  the  platform,  and,  in  spite 
of  his  remonstrances,  seized  and  put  him 
on  their  shoulders  and  carried  him  in  that 
uncomfortable  posture  for  a  considerable 
distance.  It  was  really  a  ludicrous  sight 
to  see  the  grotesque  figure  holding  fran- 
tically to  the  heads  of  his  supporters, 
with  his  legs  dangling  from  their  shoul- 
ders, and  his  pantaloons  pulled  up  so  as 
to  expose  his  underwear  almost  to  his 
knees.  Douglas  made  dexterous  use  of 
this  incident  in  his  next  speech,  express- 
ing sincere  regret  that,  against  his  wish, 
he  had  used  up  his  old  friend  Lincoln  so 
completely  that  he  had  to  be  carried  off 
the  stage.  Lincoln  retaliated  by  saying 
at  the  first  opportunity  that  he  had  known 
Judge  Douglas  long  and  well,  but  there 
was  nevertheless  one  thing  he  could  not 
say  of  him,  and  that  was  that  the  Judge 
always  told  the  truth. 

I  was  introduced  to  Lincoln  at  Free- 
port,  and  met  him  frequently  afterwards 
in  the  course  of  the  campaign.  I  must 
say  frankly  that,  although  I  found  him 
most  approachable,  good-natured,  and  full 
of  wit  and  humor,  I  could  not  take  a  real 
personal  liking  to  the  man,  owing  to  an 
inborn  weakness  for  which  he  was  even 
then  notorious  and  so  remained  during 
his  great  public  career.  He  was  inordi- 
nately fond  of  jokes,  anecdotes,  and  sto- 
ries. He  loved  to  hear  them,  and  still 
more  to  tell  them  himself  out  of  the  in- 
exhaustible supply  provided  by  his  good 
memory  and  his  fertile  fancy.  There 
would  have  been  no  harm  in  this  but  for 
the  fact  that,  the  coarser  the  joke,  the 
lower  the  anecdote,  and  the  more  risky 
the  story,  the  more  he  enjoyed  them, 
especially  when  they  were  of  his  own 
invention.  He  possessed,  moreover,  a 
singular  ingenuity  in  bringing  about  oc- 
casions in  conversation  for  indulgences  of 
this  kind.  I  have  to  confess,  too,  that, 


aside  from  the  prejudice  against  him 
which  I  felt  on  this  account,  I  shared 
the  belief  of  a  good  many  independent 
thinkers  at  the  time,  including  prominent 
leaders  of  the  Republican  party,  that, 
with  regard  to  separating  more  effec- 
tively the  anti-slavery  Northern  from  the 
pro-slavery  Southern  wing  of  the  Demo- 
cracy, it  would  have  been  better  if  the 
reelection  of  Douglas  had  not  been  op- 
posed. 

The  party  warfare  was  hotly  continued 
in  all  parts  of  the  state  from  early  sum- 
mer till  election  day  in  November.  Be- 
sides the  seven  joint  debates,  both  Doug- 
las and  Lincoln  spoke  scores  of  times 
separately,  and  numerous  other  speakers 
from  Illinois  and  other  states  contributed 
incessantly  to  the  agitation.  The  two 
leaders  visited  almost  every  county  in 
the  state.  I  heard  four  of  the  joint  de- 
bates, and  six  other  speeches  by  Lincoln 
and  eight  by  his  competitor.  Of  course, 
the  later  efforts  became  substantial  repeti- 
tions of  the  preceding  ones,  and  to  listen 
to  them  grew  more  and  more  tiresome  to 
me.  As  I  had  seen  something  of  politi- 
cal campaigns  before,  this  one  did  not 
exercise  the  full  charm  of  novelty  upon 
me.  Still,  even  if  I  had  been  a  far  more 
callous  observer,  I  could  not  have  helped 
being  struck  with  the  efficient  party  or- 
ganizations, the  skillful  tactics  of  the  man- 
agers, the  remarkable  feats  of  popular 
oratory,  and  the  earnestness  and  enthu- 
siasm of  the  audiences  I  witnessed.  It 
was  a  most  instructive  object-lesson  in 
practical  party  politics,  and  filled  me 
with  admiration  for  the  Anglo-Ameri- 
can method  of  working  out  popular  des- 
tiny. 

In  other  respects,  my  experiences  were 
not  altogether  agreeable.  It  was  a  very 
hot  summer,  and  I  was  obliged  to  travel 
almost  continuously.  Illinois  had  then 
only  about  a  million  and  a  half  of  in- 
habitants, poorly  constructed  railroads, 
and  bad  country  roads,  over  which  latter 
I  had  to  journey  quite  as  much  as  over 
the  former.  The  taverns  in  town  and 


Recollections  of  Lincoln. 


167 


country,  as  a  rule,  were  wretched ;  and, 
as  I  moved  about  with  the  candidates  and 
their  followers  and  encountered  crowds 
everywhere,  I  fared  miserably  in  many 
places.  Especially  in  the  southern  part  • 
of  the  state,  then  known  as  "  Egypt " 
and  mostly  inhabited  by  settlers  from  the 
Southern  states,  food  and  lodging  were 
nearly  always  simply  abominable.  I 
still  vividly  remember  the  day  of  semi- 
starvation,  and  the  night  with  half-a- 
dozen  room-mates,  I  passed  at  Jonesboro', 
where  the  third  joint  debate  took  place. 

I  saw  more  of  Illinois  than  I  have 
since  seen  of  any  other  state  in  the  Union, 
and  I  acquired  a  thorough  faith,  based 
on  the  immeasurable  fertility  of  her 
prairies,  in  the  great  growth  that  she  has 
since  attained.  I  also  formed  many  val- 
uable acquaintances,  a  number  of  which 
have  continued  to  this  day.  It  was  then 
that  I  first  saw  my  lifelong  friend  Horace 
White,  who  accompanied  Mr.  Lincoln  as 
the  representative  of  the  Chicago  Tri- 
bune, and  R.  R.  Hitt,  the  official  steno- 
grapher of  the  Republican  candidate. 
He  was  one  of  the  most  skilled  shorthand 
writers  in  the  country,  and  his  success  as 
such  led  in  due  time  to  his  appointment 
as  reporter  of  the  United  States  Supreme 
Court.  This  position  he  resigned  for  a 
successful  career  as  diplomat  and  Con- 
gressman. 

I  firmly  believe  that,  if  Stephen  A. 
Douglas  had  lived,  he  would  have  had  a 
brilliant  national  career.  Freed  by  the 
Southern  rebellion  from  all  identification 
with  pro-slavery  interests,  the  road  would 
have  been  open  to  the  highest  fame  and 
position  for  which  his  unusual  talents 
qualified  him.  As  I  took  final  leave  of 
him  and  Lincoln,  doubtless  neither  of 
them  had  any  idea  that  within  two  years 
they  would  be  rivals  again  in  the  Presi- 
dential race.  I  had  it  from  Lincoln's 
own  lips  that  the  United  States  Senator- 
ship  was  the  greatest  political  height  he 
at  the  time  expected  to  climb.  He  was 
full  of  doubt,  too,  of  his  ability  to  secure 
the  majority  of  the  Legislature  against 


Douglas.  These  confidences  he  imparted 
to  me  on  a  special  occasion  which  I  must 
not  omit  to  mention  in  detail  before  leav- 
ing this  subject. 

He  and  I  met  accidentally,  about  nine 
o'clock  on  a  hot,  sultry  evening,  at  a  flag 
railroad  station  about  twenty  miles  west 
of  Springfield,  on  my  return  from  a 
great  meeting  at  Petersburg  in  Menard 
County.  He  had  been  driven  to  the  sta- 
tion in  a  buggy  and  left  there  alone.  I 
was  already  there.  The  train  that  we 
intended  to  take  for  Springfield  was 
about  due.  After  vainly  waiting  for  half 
an  hour  for  its  arrival,  a  thunderstorm 
compelled  us  to  take  refuge  in  an  empty 
freight  car  standing  on  a  side  track,  there 
being  no  buildings  of  any  sort  at  the 
station.  We  squatted  down  on  the  floor 
of  the  car  and  fell  to  talking  on  all  sorts 
of  subjects.  It  was  then  and  there  he 
told  me  that,  when  he  was  clerking  in  a 
country  store,  his  highest  political  ambi- 
tion was  to  be  a  member  of  the  state 
Legislature.  "  Since  then,  of  course," 
he  said  laughingly,  "  I  have  grown  some, 
but  my  friends  got  me  into  this  business 
[meaning  the  canvass].  I  did  not  con- 
sider myself  qualified  for  the  United 
States  Senate,  and  it  took  me  a  long  time 
to  persuade  myself  that  I  was.  Now, 
to  be  sure,"  he  continued,  with  another 
of  his  peculiar  laughs,  "  I  am  convinced 
that  I  am  good  enough  for  it ;  but,  in 
spite  of  it  all,  I  am  saying  to  myself 
every  day :  '  It  is  too  big  a  thing  for 
you ;  you  will  never  get  it.'  Mary  [his 
wife]  insists,  however,  that  I  am  going 
to  be  Senator  and  President  of  the  Unit- 
ed States,  too."  These  last  words  he 
followed  with  a  roar  of  laughter,  with 
his  arms  around  his  knees,  and  shaking 
all  over  with  mirth  at  his  wife's  ambi- 
tion. "  Just  think,"  he  exclaimed,  "  of 
such  a  sucker  as  me  as  President !  " 

He  then  fell  to  asking  questions  re- 
garding my  antecedents,  and  expressed 
some  surprise  at  my  fluent  use  of  Eng- 
lish after  so  short  a  residence  in  the 
United  States.  Next  he  wanted  to  know 


168 


Recollections  of  Lincoln. 


whether  it  was  true  that  most  of  the  edu- 
cated people  in  Germany  were  "  infi- 
dels." I  answered  that  they  were  not 
openly  professed  infidels,  but  such  a  con- 
clusion might  be  drawn  from  the  fact 
that  most  of  them  were  not  church-goers. 
"  I  do  not  wonder  at  that,"  he  rejoined  ; 
"  my  own  inclination  is  that  way."  I 
ventured  to  give  expression  to  my  own 
disbelief  in  the  doctrine  of  the  Christian 
Church  relative  to  the  existence  of  God, 
the  divinity  of  Christ,  and  immortality. 
This  led  him  to  put  other  questions  to  me 
to  draw  me  out.  He  did  not  commit  him- 
self, but  I  received  the  impression  that 
he  was  of  my  own  way  of  thinking.  It 
was  no  surprise  to  me,  therefore,  to  find 
in  the  writings  of  his  biographers  Ward 
Hill  Lamon  and  W.  H.  Herndon  that  I 
had  correctly  understood  him.  Our  talk 
continued  till  half-past  ten,  when  the 
belated  train  arrived.  I  cherish  this 
accidental  rencontre  as  one  of  my  most 
precious  recollections,  since  my  compan- 
ion of  that  night  has  become  one  of  the 
greatest  figures  in  history. 

I  went  from  Jonesboro'  to  Chicago, 
and  remained  there  till  after  the  election. 
I  considered  the  outcome  so  uncertain 
that  I  did  not  venture  any  predictions  in 
my  correspondence.  Douglas  himself,  I 
knew,  was  much  in  doubt ;  Lincoln  and 
his  friends  were  very  confident,  and  there- 
fore bitterly  disappointed  by  the  result. 

LINCOLN  AND   THE   BUFFALO   ROBE. 

[In  1859  Mr.  Villard  went  as  correspondent 
of  the  Cincinnati  Commercial  to  Colorado  to 
report  upon  the  newly  discovered  gold  regions. 
On  his  return  journey  over  the  plains,  which 
was  made  in  a  two-horse  wagon,  there  occurred 
the  meeting  described  by  him  as  follows :  — ] 

About  thirty  miles  from  St.  Joseph 
an  extraordinary  incident  occurred.  A 
buggy  with  two  occupants  was  coming 
toward  us  over  the  open  prairie.  As  it 
approached,  I  thought  I  recognized  one 
of  them,  and,  sure  enough,  it  turned  out 
to  be  no  less  a  person  than  Abraham 
Lincoln!  I  stopped  the  wagon,  called 
him  by  name,  and  jumped  off  to  shake 


hands.  He  did  not  recognize  me  with 
my  full  beard  and  pioneer's  costume. 
When  I  said,  "  Don't  you  know  me  ?  " 
and  gave  my  name,  he  looked  at  me, 
most  amazed,  and  then  burst  out  laugh- 
ing. "  Why,  good  gracious !  you  look 
like  a  real  Pike's  Peaker."  His  surprise 
at  this  unexpected  meeting  was  as  great 
as  mine.  He  was  on  a  lecturing  tour 
through  Kansas.  It  was  a  cold  morn- 
ing, and  the  wind  blew  cuttingly  from 
the  northwest.  He  was  shivering  in  the 
open  buggy,  without  even  a  roof  over  it, 
in  a  short  overcoat,  and  without  any 
covering  for  his  legs.  I  offered  him  one 
of  my  buffalo  robes,  which  he  gratefully 
accepted.  He  undertook,  of  course,  to 
return  it  to  me,  but  I  never  saw  it  again. 
After  ten  minutes'  chat,  we  separated. 
The  next  time  I  saw  him  he  was  the  Re- 
publican candidate  for  the  Presidency. 

SPRINGFIELD. 

[In  the  last  days  of  November,  1860,  the  As- 
sociated Press  sent  Mr.  Villard  to  Springfield, 
Illinois,  to  report  current  events  at  that  place 
by  telegraph,  until  the  departure  of  Mr.  Lin- 
coln for  Washington.  This  duty  brought  Mr. 
Villard  into  daily  relations  with  the  President- 
elect, who  gave  him  a  most  friendly  welcome 
and  bade  him  ask  for  information  at  any  time 
he  wished  it.] 

Mr.  Lincoln  soon  found,  after  his  elec- 
tion, that  his  modest  two-story  frame 
dwelling  was  altogether  inadequate  for 
the  throng  of  local  callers  and  of  visitors 
from  a  distance,  and,  accordingly,  he 
gladly  availed  himself  of  the  offer  of  the 
use  of  the  governor's  room  in  the  Cap- 
itol building.  On  my  arrival,  he  had 
already  commenced  spending  a  good  part 
of  each  day  in  it.  He  appeared  daily, 
except  Sundays,  between  nine  and  ten 
o'clock,  and  held  a  reception  till  noon, 
to  which  all  comers  were  admitted,  with- 
out even  the  formality  of  first  sending  in 
cards.  Whoever  chose  to  call  received 
the  same  hearty  greeting.  At  noon,  he 
went  home  to  dinner  and  reappeared  at 
about  two.  Then  his  correspondence  was 
given  proper  attention,  and  visitors  of 


Recollections  of  Lincoln. 


169 


distinction  were  seen  by  special  appoint- 
ment at  either  the  State  House  or  the 
hotel.  Occasionally,  but  very  rarely,  he 
passed  some  time  in  his  law  office.  In 
the  evening,  old  friends  called  at  his 
home  for  the  exchange  of  news  and  polit- 
ical views.  At  times,  when  important 
news  was  expected,  he  would  go  to  the 
telegraph  or  newspaper  offices  after  sup- 
per, and  stay  there  till  late.  Altogether, 
probably  no  other  president-elect  was  so 
approachable  to  everybody,  at  least  dur- 
ing the  first  weeks  of  my  stay.  But  he 
found  in  the  end,  as  was  to  be  expect- 
ed, that  this  popular  practice  involved  a 
good  deal  of  fatigue,  and  that  he  needed 
more  time  for  himself  ;  and  the  hours  he 
gave  up  to  the  public  were  gradually 
restricted. 

I  was  present  almost  daily  for  more  or 
less  time  during  his  morning  receptions. 
I  generally  remained  a  silent  listener,  as 
I  could  get  at  him  at  other  hours  when  I 
was  in  need  of  information.  It  was  a 
most  interesting  study  to  watch  the  man- 
ner of  his  intercourse  with  callers.  As 
a  rule,  he  showed  remarkable  tact  in 
dealing  with  each  of  them,  whether  they 
were  rough-looking  Sangamon  County 
farmers  still  addressing  him  familiarly 
as  "  Abe,"  sleek  and  pert  commercial 
travelers,  staid  merchants,  sharp  politi- 
cians, or  preachers^  lawyers,  or  other 
professional  men.  He  showed  a  very 
quick  and  shrewd  perception  of  and 
adaptation  to  individual  characteristics 
and  peculiarities.  He  never  evaded  a 
proper  question,  or  failed  to  give  a  fit 
answer.  He  was  ever  ready  for  an  ar- 
gument, which  always  had  an  original 
flavor,  and,  as  a  rule,  he  got  the  better 
in  the  discussion.  There  was,  however, 
one  limitation  to  the  freedom  of  his  talks 
with  his  visitors.  A  great  many  of  them 
naturally  tried  to  draw  him  out  as  to  his 
future  policy  as  President  regarding  the 
secession  movement  in  the  South,  but  he 
would  not  commit  himself.  The  most 
remarkable  and  attractive  feature  of 
those  daily  "levees,"  however,  was  his 


constant  indulgence  of  his  story-telling 
propensity.  Of  course,  all  the  visitors 
had  heard  of  it  and  were  eager  for  the 
privilege  of  listening  to  a  practical  illus- 
tration of  his  preeminence  in  that  line. 
He  knew  this,  and  took  special  delight 
in  meeting  their  wishes.  He  never  was 
at  a  loss  for  a  story  or  an  anecdote  to 
explain  a  meaning  or  enforce  a  point,  the 
aptness  of  which  was  always  perfect. 
His  supply  was  apparently  inexhaustible, 
and  the  stories  sounded  so  real  that  it 
was  hard  to  determine  whether  he  re- 
peated what  he  had  heard  from  others, 
or  had  invented  himself. 

None  of  his  hearers  enjoyed  the  wit  — 
and  wit  was  an  unfailing  ingredient  — 
of  his  stories  half  as  much  as  he  did 
himself.  It  was  a  joy  indeed  to  see  the 
effect  upon  him.  A  high-pitched  laughter 
lighted  up  his  otherwise  melancholy 
countenance  with  thorough  merriment. 
His  body  shook  all  over  with  gleeful 
emotion,  and  when  he  felt  particularly 
good  over  his  performance,  he  followed 
his  habit  of  drawing  his  knees,  with  his 
arms  around  them,  up  to  his  very  face, 
as  I  had  seen  him  do  in  1858.  I  am 
sorry  to  state  that  he  often  allowed  him- 
self altogether  too  much  license  in  the 
concoction  of  the  stories.  He  seemed  to 
be  bent  upon  making  his  hit  by  fair 
means  or  foul.  In  other  words,  he  never 
hesitated  to  tell  a  coarse  or  even  outright 
nasty  story,  if  it  served  his  purpose.  All 
his  personal  friends  could  bear  testimony 
on  this  point.  It  was  a  notorious  fact 
that  this  fondness  for  low  talk  clung  to 
him  even  in  the  White  House.  More 
than  once  I  heard  him  "  with  malice 
aforethought "  get  off  purposely  some 
repulsive  fiction  in  order  to  rid  himself 
of  an  uncomfortable  caller.  Again  and 
again  I  felt  disgust  and  humiliation  that 
such  a  person  should  have  been  called 
upon  to  direct  the  destinies  of  a  great 
nation  in  the  direst  period  of  its  history. 
Yet  his  achievements  during  the  next 
few  years  proved  him  to  be  one  of  the 
great  leaders  of  mankind  in  adversity,  in 


170 


Recollections  of  Lincoln. 


whom  low  leanings  only  set  off  more 
strikingly  his  better  qualities.  At  the 
time  of  which  I  speak,  I  could  not  have 
persuaded  myself  that  the  man  might 
possibly  possess  true  greatness  of  mind 
and  nobility  of  heart.  I  do  not  wish  to 
convey  the  idea,  however,  that  he  was 
mainly  given  to  trivialities  and  vulgari- 
ties in  his  conversation  ;  for,  in  spite  of 
his  frequent  outbreaks  of  low  humor,  his 
was  really  a  very  sober  and  serious  na- 
ture, and  even  inclined  to  gloominess  to 
such  an  extent  that  all  his  biographers 
have  attributed  a  strongly  melancholic 
disposition  to  him. 

I  often  availed  myself  of  his  authori- 
zation to  come  to  him  at  any  time  for 
information.  There  were  two  questions 
in  which  the  public,  of  course,  felt  the 
deepest  interest,  and  upon  which  I  was 
expected  to  supply  light,  namely,  the 
composition  of  his  Cabinet,  and  his  views 
upon  the  secession  movement  that  was 
daily  growing  in  extent  and  strength. 
As  to  the  former,  he  gave  me  to  un- 
derstand early,  by  indirection,  that,  as 
everybody  expected,  William  H.  Seward 
and  S.  P.  Chase,  his  competitors  for 
the  presidential  nomination,  would  be 
among  his  constitutional  advisers.  It  was 
hardly  possible  for  him  not  to  recognize 
them,  and  he  steadily  turned  a  deaf  ear 
to  the  remonstrances  that  were  made 
against  them  as  "  extreme  men "  by 
leading  politicians  from  the  Border 
States,  particularly  from  Kentucky  and 
Missouri.  As  to  the  remaining  mem- 
bers of  his  Cabinet,  they  were  definitely 
selected  much  later,  and  after  a  pro- 
tracted and  wearisome  tussle  with  the 
delegations  of  various  states  that  came 
to  Springfield  to  urge  the  claims  of  their 
"  favorite  sons."  I  shall  refer  again  to 
this  subject. 

No  one  who  heard  him  talk  upon  the 
other  question  could  fail  to  discover  his 
"  other  side,"  and  to  be  impressed  with 
his  deep  earnestness,  his  anxious  con- 
templation of  public  affairs,  and  his 
thorough  sense  of  the  extraordinary  re- 


sponsibilities that  were  coming  upon 
him.  He  never  refused  to  talk  with  me 
about  secession,  but  generally  evaded 
answers  to  specific  interrogatories,  and 
confined  himself  to  generalizations.  I 
was  present  at  a  number  of  conversa- 
tions which  he  had  with  leading  public 
men  upon  the  same  subject,  when  he 
showed  the  same  reserve.  He  did  not 
hesitate  to  say  that  the  Union  ought  to, 
and  in  his  opinion  would,  be  preserved, 
and  to  go  into  long  arguments  in  sup- 
port of  the  proposition,  based  upon  the 
history  of  the  republic,  the  homogeneity 
of  the  population,  the  natural  features 
of  the  country,  such  as  the  common 
coast,  the  rivers  and  mountains,  that 
compelled  political  and  commercial  unity. 
But  he  could  not  be  got  to  say  what  he 
would  do  in  the  face  of  Southern  seces- 
sion, except  that  as  President  he  should 
be  sworn  to  maintain  the  Constitution 
of  the  United  States,  and  that  he  was 
therefore  bound  to  fulfill  that  duty.  He 
met  in  the  same  general  way  the  fre- 
quent questions  whether  he  should  con- 
sider it  his  duty  to  resort  to  coercion  by 
force  of  arms  against  the  states  engaged 
in  attempts  to  secede.  In  connection 
therewith  I  understood  him,  however, 
several  times  to  express  doubts  as  to 
the  practicability  of  holding  the  slave 
states  in  the  Union  by  main  force,  if 
they  were  all  determined  to  break  it  up. 
He  was  often  embarrassed  by  efforts  of 
radical  anti-slavery  men  to  get  something 
out  of  him  in  encouragement  of  their 
hopes  that  the  crisis  would  result  in  the 
abolition  of  slavery.  He  did  not  respond 
as  they  wished,  and  made  it  clear  that 
he  did  not  desire  to  be  considered  an 
"  abolitionist,"  and  that  he  still  held  the 
opinion  that  property  in  slaves  was  en- 
titled to  protection  under  the  Constitu- 
tion, and  that  its  owners  could  not  be 
deprived  of  it  without  due  compensation. 
Consciously  or  unconsciously,  he,  like 
everybody  else,  must  have  been  influ- 
enced in  his  views  by  current  events. 
As  political  passion  in  the  South  rose 


Recollections  of  Lincoln. 


171 


higher  and  higher,  and  actual  defiance 
of  Federal  authority  by  deeds  of  violence 
occurred  almost  daily  after  his  election, 
culminating  in  the  formal  secession  of 
seven  states  and  the  establishment  of 
the  Southern  Confederacy  under  Jeffer- 
son Davis  at  Montgomery,  Alabama, 
the  belief,  which  he  doubtless  had  origi- 
nally, that  by  a  conciliatory  course  as 
President  he  could  pacify  the  rebellious 
states,  must  have  become  shaken.  Still, 
I  think  I  interpret  his  views  up  to  the 
time  of  his  departure  for  Washington 
correctly  in  saying  that  he  had  not  lost 
faith  in  the  preservation  of  peace  be- 
tween the  North  and  the  South,  and  he 
certainly  did  not  dream  that  his  princi- 
pal duty  would  be  to  raise  great  armies 
and  fleets,  and  the  means  to  maintain 
them,  for  the  suppression  of  the  most 
determined  and  sanguinary  rebellion,  in 
defense  of  slavery,  that  our  planet  ever 
witnessed. 

The  Jacksonian  "  doctrine  "  that  "  to 
the  victors  belong  the  spoils  "  was  still 
so  universally  the  creed  of  all  politicians, 
that  it  was  taken  for  granted  there 
would  be  a  change  not  only  in  all  the 
principal,  but  also  in  all  the  minor,  Fed- 
eral offices.  It  was  also  expected  that 
the  other  time-honored  party  practice  of 
a  division  of  executive  patronage  among 
the  several  states  would  be  carried  out. 
Accordingly  there  appeared  deputations 
from  all  the  Northern  and  Border 
States  at  Springfield  to  put  in  their  re- 
spective claims  for  recognition.  Some 
of  them  came  not  only  once,  but  several 
times.  From  a  number  of  states  sev- 
eral delegations  turned  up,  representing 
rival  factions  in  the  Republican  ranks, 
each  pretending  to  be  the  rightful  claim- 
ant. Almost  every  state  presented  can- 
didates for  the  Cabinet  and  for  the  prin- 
cipal diplomatic  and  departmental  offices. 
The  hotel  was  the  principal  haunt  of  the 
place-hunters.  The  tricks,  the  intrigues, 
and  the  manoauvres  that  were  practiced 
by  them  in  pursuit  of  their  aims  came 
nearly  all  within  the  range  of  my  obser- 


vation, as  it  was  my  duty  to  furnish  the 
earliest  possible  news  of  their  success  or 
failure.  As  a  rule,  the  various  sets  of 
spoilsmen  were  very  willing  to  take  me 
into  their  confidence,  but  it  was  not  al- 
ways easy  to  distinguish  what  was  true 
in  their  communications  from  what  they 
wished  me  to  say  to  the  press  purely  in 
furtherance  of  their  interests.  Among 
the  political  visitors  the  most  prominent 
I  met  were :  Simon  Cameron,  S.  P. 
Chase,  Thurlow  Weed,  Lyman  Trum- 
bull,  N.  B.  Judd,  Richard  J.  Oglesby, 
Francis  P.  Blair,  Sr.  and  Jr.,  B.  Gratz 
Brown,  William  Dennison,  D.  C.  Carter 
of  Ohio,  Henry  J.  Winter,  and  Oliver 
P.  Morton.  Thurlow  Weed  was  by  far 
the  most  interesting  figure  and  the  most 
astute  operator  among  them  all. 

From  what  I  have  said,  it  will  be 
understood  that  the  President-elect  had 
a  hard  time  of  it  with  the  office-seekers. 
But  as  he  himself  was  a  thorough  be- 
liever in  the  doctrine  of  rotation  in 
office,  he  felt  it  his  duty  to  submit  to 
this  tribulation.  The  Cabinet  appoint- 
ments, other  than  those  already  named, 
were  especially  troublesome  to  him. 
There  was  an  intense  struggle  between 
Indiana  and  Illinois,  most  embarrassing 
inasmuch  as  there  were  several  candi- 
dates from  his  own  state,  all  intimate 
personal  friends.  Then  came  the  bitter 
contest  between  the  Border  States  of 
Kentucky,  Missouri,  and  Maryland,  and 
the  Pennsylvania  cabals  pro  and  contra 
Simon  Cameron.  Amidst  all  his  per- 
plexities, Lincoln  displayed  a  good  deal 
of  patience  and  shrewdness  in  dealing 
with  these  personal  problems.  His  nev- 
er-failing stories  helped  many  times  to 
heal  wounded  feelings  and  mitigate  dis- 
appointments. But  he  gradually  showed 
the  wear  and  tear  of  these  continuous 
visitations,  and  finally  looked  so  careworn 
as  to  excite  one's  compassion. 

THE  JOURNEY  TO  WASHINGTON. 

During  the  month  of  January,  1861, 
there  appeared  in  Springfield  one  W.  S. 


172 


Recollections  of  Lincoln. 


Wood,  a  former  hotel  manager  and  or- 
ganizer of  pleasure  excursions,  I  believe, 
from  the  interior  of  New  York  state, 
who,  on  the  recommendation  of  Thur- 
low  Weed,  was  to  take  charge  of  all  the 
arrangements  for  the  journey  of  the 
President-elect  to  Washington.  He  was 
a  man  of  comely  appearance,  greatly 
impressed  with  the  importance  of  his 
mission,  and  inclined  to  assume  airs  of 
consequence  and  condescension.  As  he 
showed  a  disposition  to  ignore  me,  I 
made  a  direct  appeal  to  Mr.  Lincoln, 
who  instructed  him  that  I  was  to  be  one 
of  the  presidential  party.  In  fact,  I 
was  the  only  member  of  the  press  form- 
ing part  of  it  as  far  as  Cincinnati,  al- 
though Messrs.  Nicolay  and  Hay,  for 
some  unexplained  reason,  fail  to  men- 
tion me  in  naming  the  members  of  the 
party. 

The  start  on  the  memorable  journey 
was  made  shortly  after  eight  o'clock 
on  the  morning  of  Monday,  February 
11.  It  was  a  clear,  crisp  winter  day. 
Only  about  one  hundred  people,  mostly 
personal  friends,  were  assembled  at  the 
station  to  shake  hands  for  the  last  time 
with  their  distinguished  townsman.  It 
was  not  strange  that  he  yielded  to  the 
sad  feelings  which  must  have  moved 
him  at  the  thought  of  what  lay  behind 
and  what  was  before  him,  and  gave 
them  utterance  in  a  pathetic  formal  fare- 
well to  the  gathering  crowd,  as  fol- 
lows :  — 

"  My  Friends,  —  No  one  not  in  my 
position  can  appreciate  the  sadness  I  feel 
at  this  parting.  To  this  people  I  owe 
all  that  I  am.  Here  I  have  lived  more 
than  a  quarter  of  a  century  ;  here  my 
children  were  born,  and  here  one  of  them 
lies  buried.  I  know  not  how  soon  I 
shall  see  you  again.  A  duty  devolves 
upon  me  which  is,  perhaps,  greater  than 
that  which  has  devolved  upon  any  other 
man  since  the  days  of  Washington.  He 
never  would  have  succeeded  except  for 
the  aid  of  Divine  Providence,  upon  which 
he  at  all  times  relied.  I  feel  that  I  can- 


not succeed  without  the  same  Divine  aid 
which  sustained  him,  and  in  the  same 
Almighty  Being  I  place  my  reliance 
for  support ;  and  I  hope  you,  my  friends, 
will  all  pray  that  I  may  receive  that 
Divine  assistance,  without  which  I  can- 
not succeed,  but  with  which  success  is 
certain.  Again  I  bid  you  all  an  affec- 
tionate farewell." 

I  reproduce  this  here,  as  but  for  me 
it  would  not  have  been  preserved  in  the 
exact  form  in  which  it  was  delivered. 
It  was  entirely  extemporized,  and,  know- 
ing this,  I  prevailed  on  Mr.  Lincoln, 
immediately  after  starting,  to  write  it  out 
for  me  on  a  "  pad."  I  sent  it  over  the 
wires  from  the  first  telegraph  station. 
I  kept  the  pencil  manuscript  for  some 
time,  but,  unfortunately,  lost  it  in  my 
wanderings  in  the  course  of  the  civil 
war. 

Our  traveling  companions  at  the  start 
were  (besides  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lincoln  and 
their  three  sons)  W.  S.  Wood;  J.  G. 
Nicolay  and  John  Hay  ;  two  old  personal 
friends  of  Mr.  Lincoln,  Judge  David 
Davis  of  Bloomington,  afterwards  As- 
sociate Justice  of  the  United  States  Su- 
preme Court,  and  N.  B.  Judd  of  Chicago, 
who  had  the  promise  of  the  Secretaryship 
of  the  Interior ;  Dr.  W.  S.  Wallace,  a 
brother-in-law  ;  Lockwood  Todd,  a  rela- 
tive of  Mrs.  Lincoln,  who  was  employed 
on  several  important  political  missions 
during  the  next  few  months  ;  and  Ward 
Hill  Lamon,  a  lawyer  of  Bloomington, 
who  afterwards  became  United  States 
Marshal  for  the  District  of  Columbia, 
and  as  such  a  sort  of  major-domo  at  the 
White  House,  and  finally  the  author  of  a 
biography  of  Abraham  Lincoln.  For  de- 
scribing him  in  this  as  an  infidel  Lamon 
was  much  and  unjustly  attacked.  He 
brought  a  banjo  along,  and  amused  us 
with  negro  songs.  There  was  also  a  mili- 
tary escort,  consisting  of  Colonel  Ed- 
win Vose  Sumner,  the  white-haired  com- 
mander of  a  cavalry  regiment  of  the 
regular  army,  and  of  Major  David  Hun- 
ter, Captain  John  Pope,  and  Captain 


Recollections  of  Lincoln. 


173 


Hazard  of  the  same  service.  Colonel 
Suraner,  Major  Hunter,  and  Captain 
Pope  became  well-known  commanding 
generals  during  the  war.  Another  "  mili- 
tary "  character,  a  sort  of  pet  of  Mr. 
Lincoln,  was  Colonel  E.  E.  Ellsworth, 
who,  though  a  mere  youth,  of  small 
but  broad  figure,  curly  black  head,  and 
handsome  features,  had  achieved  con- 
siderable local  notoriety  as  a  captain 
of  a  crack  "  Zouave  "  militia  company  in 
Chicago.  He  was  one  of  the  first  victims 
of  the  civil  war,  being  shot  by  a  rebel 
while  raising  the  United  States  flag  at 
Alexandria,  Virginia. 

The  party  had  a  special  train,  com- 
posed at  first  only  of  an  ordinary  passen- 
ger car,  —  there  were  no  parlor  or  draw- 
ing-room or  sleeping  cars  in  those  days, 
—  a  baggage-car,  and  engine.  The  first 
day's  journey  took  us  from  the  capital  of 
Illinois  to  that  of  Indiana.  Until  we 
reached  the  boundary  of  the  latter  state, 
the  demonstrations  along  the  route  were 
insignificant,  except  at  Decatur,  where  a 
great  crowd,  headed  by  Richard  J.  Ogles- 
by,  then  a  hotel-keeper,  but  subsequently 
a  general  in  the  war,  Governor,  and 
United  States  Senator,  greeted  the  future 
Chief  Magistrate,  who  delivered  another 
farewell  speech.  At  the  boundary,  the 
train  was  boarded  by  a  large  delegation 
of  leading  Indianians,  including  Schuyler 
Colfax,  Henry  S.  Lane,  Caleb  B.  Smith, 
and  Thomas  H.  Nelson.  At  Lafayette, 
a  great  crowd  awaited  our  coming,  and 
the  President-elect  had  to  appear  and 
speak  to  them.  At  Indianapolis,  where 
the  first  day's  journey  ended,  he  was 
formally  welcomed  by  Governor  Oliver 
P.  Morton,  and  replied  to  him  at  length. 
His  speech  was  remarkable  for  the  first 
public  intimation  that  he  should  consider 
it  his  duty  as  President  to  retake  the 
properties  of  the  United  States,  including 
the  forts  unlawfully  seized  by  the  rebel- 
lious states,  and  otherwise  reestablish  the 
authority  of  the  Federal  Government. 

The  next  stage  of  the  journey  was 
from  Indianapolis  to  Cincinnati ;  the 


third,  from  Cincinnati  to  Columbus  ;  the 
fourth,  from  Columbus  to  Pittsburg ; 
the  fifth,  from  Pittsburg  to  Cleveland ; 
the  sixth,  from  Cleveland  to  Buffalo, 
where  a  rest  was  taken  over  Sunday. 
The  eighth  day  the  journey  was  contin- 
ued as  far  as  Albany,  and  on  the  follow- 
ing day  we  reached  New  York.  Every- 
where there  were  formal  welcomes  by  the 
state  or  municipal  authorities  and  by 
great  crowds  of  people,  with  brass  bands, 
and  public  and  private  receptions.  In 
different  localities  pleasant  variations 
were  offered  in  the  way  of  serenades, 
torchlight  processions,  and  gala  theatri- 
cal performances.  Altogether,  the  Presi- 
dent had  every  reason  to  feel  flattered 
and  encouraged  by  the  demonstrations  in 
his  honor.  But  the  journey  was  a  very 
great  strain  upon  his  physical  and  mental 
strength,  and  he  was  well-nigh  worn  out 
when  he  reached  Buffalo.  He  must  have 
spoken  at  least  fifty  times  during  the 
week.  In  the  kindness  of  his  heart  — 
not  from  any  love  of  adulation,  for  he 
really  felt  very  awkward  about  it  —  he 
never  refused  to  respond  to  a  call  for  his 
appearance  wherever  the  train  stopped. 
While  he  thus  satisfied  the  public  curi- 
osity, he  disappointed,  by  his  appearance, 
most  of  those  who  saw  him  for  the  first 
time.  I  could  see  that  impression  clearly 
written  on  the  faces  of  his  rustic  audi- 
ences. Nor  was  this  surprising,  for  they 
certainly  saw  the  most  unprepossessing 
features,  the  gawkiest  figure,  and  the  most 
awkward  manners.  Lincoln  always  had 
an  embarrassed  air.  too,  like  a  country 
clodhopper  appearing  in  fashionable  so- 
ciety, and  was  nearly  always  stiff  and 
unhappy  in  his  off-hand  remarks.  The 
least  creditable  performance  en  route  was 
his  attempt  to  say  something  on  the  ques- 
tion of  tariff  legislation  in  his  Pittsburg 
speech.  What  he  said  was  really  nothing 
but  crude,  ignorant  twaddle,  without 
point  or  meaning.  It  proved  him  to  be 
the  veriest  novice  in  economic  matters, 
and  strengthened  my  doubts  as  to  his 
capacity  for  the  high  office  he  was  to  fill. 


174 


Strange  Instrument  of  Many  Strings. 


So  poor  was  his  talk  that  most  of  the 
Republican  papers,  while  they  printed  it, 
abstained  from  comment. 

After  ten  days  of  the  wearisome  same- 
ness of  the  "  performances  "  at  the  sever- 
al halting-places,  I  was  very  sick  of  the 
"  traveling  show,"  and  I  therefore  asked 
to  be  relieved  from  my  duties  on  reach- 
ing New  York.  My  request  was  granted, 
and  I  remained  behind.  It  turned  out 
that  I  lost  only  the  reception  in  Inde- 


pendence Hall  in  Philadelphia,  as  the 
journey  was  cut  short  by  the  incognito 
night  run  of  the  President  from  Harris- 
burg  to  Washington.  This  sudden  move 
on  his  part  created  at  the  time  consid- 
erable disappointment,  even  among  his 
warmest  political  followers,  being  regard- 
ed as  an  evidence  of  unwarranted  fear. 
But  subsequent  events  and  developments 
proved  his  course  to  have  been  a  wise 
one. 

Henry  Villard. 


STRANGE  INSTRUMENT  OF  MANY   STRINGS. 

THOU  instrument  of  many  strings 
For  men  to  play  on,  slaves  and  kings, 
Let  me  but  keep  thee,  Life,  in  tune, 
That  fall  what  may,  by  night  or  noon, 
Still  in  the  heart  shall  sing  for  me 
One  clear  and  constant  melody. 

Too  oft  the  clamor  and  the  strife 
Of  living  quench  the  notes  of  life ; 
Too  oft  they  lose  their  customed  way, 
In  alien  sequences  to  stray. 
Yet  ever  stealing  back,  they  fall 
Into  the  cadence  sought  through  all. 

Then  grief  and  gladness,  love  and  pain 
Blend  all  their  harmonies  again ; 
The  heavens  uplift  a  shining  arch 
Spacious  above  the  soul's  brave  march  : 
If  I  but  keep  thee,  night  and  noon,, 
Ever  and  truly,  Life,  in  tune  — 
Strange  instrument  of  many  strings 
For  slaves  to  play  on,  and  for  kings. 

M.  A.  DeWolfe  Howe. 


The  Shadow. 


175 


THE  SHADOW. 


JOHN  BARRINGTON,  whose  sombre  and 
exceptional  history  I  am  going  to  tell, 
suggested,  when  I  first  knew  him,  no- 
thing either  sombre  or  exceptional.  He 
was  an  undergraduate  at  Harvard  in  the 
earliest  eighties,  and  will  be  recalled  by 
all  his  contemporaries  there  as  big  Jack 
Barrington.  The  mention  of  this  name, 
so  far  from  suggesting  to  those  who  knew 
him  anything  tragic,  may,  if  their  memo- 
ries are  acute,  evoke  a  vision  not  only 
commonplace,  but  touched  with  remi- 
niscent humor.  For  before  their  mind's 
eye  will  rise  a  youth,  tall,  florid,  and 
handsome,  to  be  sure,  but  dressed  in  the 
height  of  the  absurd  style  of  those  days, 
—  an  incredibly  shallow  derby  hat,  a  cut- 
away coat  of  rough  material,  a  high-cut 
waistcoat  of  gorgeous  colors,  with  a  bril- 
liant watchchain  extending  from  one  up- 
per pocket  to  the  other,  and  patent  leather 
shoes  preposterously  long  and  pointed. 
Still,  after  all,  the  clothes  —  as  much 
extravagant  apparel  has  done  before  and 
will  do  again  —  expressed  the  joy  and 
glory  of  youth. 

He  was  a  Western  man,  rich,  lavish, 
very  popular.  His  success  with  the  fel- 
lows he  owed  to  his  smile,  and  to  the 
democratic,  indiscriminate  way  in  which 
he  lavished  it.  His  cordial  eye,  his  reg- 
ular white  teeth,  his  whole  round,  fresh- 
colored,  good-humored  face,  made  this 
smile  very  charming.  Health  and  good 
humor  radiated  from  him  ;  he  seemed  to 
like  every  one,  and  certainly  every  one 
liked  him.  I  can  see  him  now  —  the 
centre  and  the  leader  of  a  group  of  ex- 
clusive youths  — sauntering  through  the 
yard,  and  smiling  his  irresistible  smile 
upon  the  unfashionable,  the  poor,  the  shy, 
the  "  grinds,"  —  upon  every  one  whom 
so  magnificent  a  creature  might  be  expect- 
ed not  to  want  to  know,  and  I  fully  under- 
stand his  amazing  popularity. 

A  butterfly  he  doubtless  was,  but  one 


who  did  not  seem  doomed  after  that  one 
sunshiny  hour.  There  seemed  no  rea- 
son why  he  should  not  live  through  all 
of  a  long  life  in  the  same  care-free,  hap- 
py way.  Some  brilliant  urban  society 
seemed  his  natural  playground  in  winter ; 
Newport  or  Europe  his  natural  place  of 
recreation  in  summer.  I  think  that  many 
a  poor  classmate  envied  him  his  roseate 
future. 

A  man,  as  I  discovered  afterwards,  of 
much  sensibility,  he  had  the  gift  of  grace- 
ful expression  —  whether  with  tongue 
or  pen.  This  —  with  the  smile  —  car- 
ried him  on  to  the  staff  of  one  of  the 
college  papers.  As  I  also  was  chosen 
an  editor,  I  met  him,  and  underwent 
the  charm  of  his  splendor  and  affability. 
For  some  reason  —  perhaps  because  all 
men  like  a  faithful,  unquestioning  wor- 
shiper —  he  liked  me,  and  I,  happy  in 
his  friendship,  followed  him  about,  as 
much  a  slave  of  his  as  the  bulldog 
which  usually  trotted  at  his  heels.  I  was 
not  ashamed  of  my  subjection :  I  had 
much  company,  and  the  post  was  one  of 
honor. 

When  Barrington  was  graduated,  he 
went  to  New  York  and  bought  aseat  in  the 
Stock  Exchange.  I,  on  the  other  hand, 
became  principal  of  a  high  school  in  a 
small  and  rather  remote  village  in  New 
Hampshire.  As  it  happened,  none  of 
my  classmates  lived  very  near  me,  and 
all  I  could  learn  of  my  college  friends 
was  what  I  gleaned  from  the  periodic 
reports  of  our  class  secretary.  Barring- 
ton's  accounts  of  himself  were  meagre  in 
the  extreme  :  in  fact,  I  can  remember 
but  one  item.  Five  years  after  his  grad- 
uation, he  reported  his  marriage  to  a  girl 
whose  name  I  recognized  as  one  I  often 
saw  in  the  "  society  columns "  of  the 
New  York  newspapers.  That  was  quite 
as  it  should  be,  and  I  smiled  at  this  con- 
firmation of  the  prevision  I  had  had  in 


17G 


The  Shadow. 


college  days  of  his  worldly  success.  Ob- 
viously, the  butterfly  was  still  as  gorgeous 
as  ever. 

More  than  fifteen  years  went  by  before 
I  strayed  from  my  country  solitudes ; 
then  I  went  to  New  York  for  a  brief 
holiday,  and  at  once  sought  out  Barring- 
ton.  When  I  saw  him  I  was  shocked. 
Although  but  thirty-seven,  his  hair  was 
not  only  thin,  but  quite  gray.  That  he 
should  be  stout  and  florid  was  perhaps  no 
more  than  I  should  have  expected,  but 
his  flesh  and  his  color  suggested  drink 
rather  than  health,  and  his  face  had  a 
strained,  nervous  look,  quite  at  variance 
with  the  air  of  careless  good  humor 
which  it  had  worn  in  college  days.  The 
familiar  splendor  of  garb  was  there,  but 
it  accented,  rather  than  concealed,  his 
misery  and  ill  health.  I  wondered  if  he 
were  engaged  in  any  dangerous  specula- 
tion. 

His  smile,  as  I  marked  with  much  re- 
lief when  he  greeted  me,  had,  at  any  rate, 
lost  none  of  its  old  charm.  He  explained 
that  his  wife  had  gone  South  for  the 
winter  for  the  benefit  of  her  health,  and 
that  he  was  leading  what,  with  an  ob- 
vious attempt  at  gayety,  he  was  pleased 
to  call  a  merry  bachelor  existence.  We 
dined  at  one  of  his  clubs,  —  he  knew,  no 
man  better,  how  to  order  a  dinner,  — 
went  to  the  theatre,  and  then  wandered 
again  to  the  club  for  a  late  supper  and  a 
chance  to  talk  over  old  times.  As  the 
evening  passed  I  could  not  help  studying 
him.  On  the  street,  his  eyes,  traveling 
constantly  from  right  to  left,  studied  the 
crowds  as  if  there  were  some  one  whom 
he  expected,  yet  dreaded,  to  meet,  and 
he  showed  a  certain  distinct  if  very  slight 
nervous  shrinking  as  we  turned  corners 
or  approached  his  places  of  habitual  re- 
sort. I  gave  up  the  idea  of  risky  specu- 
lation. His  worry  was  of  a  different 
kind  :  he  acted  like  a  man  afraid. 

As  was  natural,  it  was  over  our  late 
supper  that  we  grew  confidential.  See- 
ing that  the  old  intimacy  still  had  its 
rights,  I  ventured  to  speak  of  his  altered 


appearance,  and  to  ask  him  what  was  the 
trouble. 

He  looked  up  in  unaffected  surprise. 
"  What,"  he  said,  "  is  it  possible  you  do 
not  know  ?  In  New  York  I  'in  a  marked 
man.  Every  one  knows  my  history.  How 
does  it  happen  that  "  — 

"  But  you  forget  my  backwoods  exist- 
ence," I  interrupted  him.  "  You  are 
the  first  of  the  fellows  whom  I  have  seen 
since  we  graduated." 

Then  he  told  me  his  history.  But 
before  I  repeat  it  I  want  to  mention  a 
fact  which,  as  it  gradually  grew  plain  to 
me,  increased  a  thousandfold  the  pitiful- 
ness  of  his  tale.  The  man  actually  en- 
joyed telling  the  tragedy  of  his  life.  I 
have  mentioned  his  literary  gift :  he  used 
it  to  deepen  the  contrasts,  to  heighten 
the  effects.  I  saw  that,  by  a  quality  in 
human  nature  easy  enough  to  understand, 
he  had  grown  to  prize  his  calamity  for 
the  distinction  it  gave  his  life.  I  divined 
that  it  was  not  only  a  glory,  but  that  it 
was  also  —  as,  for  example,  in  the  matter 
of  his  drinking  —  a  never-failing  excuse. 
My  classmates,  at  any  rate,  will  under- 
stand that,  if  I  make  this  comment  on 
my  friend,  it  is  because  he  and  his  wife 
are  dead,  and  no  one  remains  who  might 
be  pained  by  it.  Were  this  not  so,  in- 
deed, I  should  not  tell  any  of  his  story. 

"  I  was  only  a  year  or  so  out  of 
college,"  he  began,  "  when  I  met  Elea- 
nor. She  was  not  exactly  in  my  social 
set.  She  was  an  orphan,  alone  in  New 
York,  without  friends.  She  had  money, 
—  plenty  of  money  ;  but  she  lived  a  life 
which  I  fancy  is  not  uncommon  in  New 
York.  There  must  be  many  solitary 
women  of  means,  the  last  surviving 
members  of  good  families,  who  come  to 
the  city  to  escape  the  dullness  of  country 
life.  Too  proud  to  make  the  acquain- 
tances that  offer,  and  unable  to  know  the 
people  whom  they  would  naturally  choose 
to  meet,  they  lead  lives  of  practical  soli- 
tude. An  aunt  lived  with  Eleanor  and 
played  respectability.  I  think  that  among 
ordinary  people  this  aunt  would  have 


The  Shadow. 


177 


seemed  a  woman  of  some  force  of  char- 
acter, yet  Eleanor  ruled  her  absolutely. 
Eleanor  was  quiet  in  manner,  but  she 
always  had  her  way.  The  two  women, 
domiciled  in  an  apartment  in  a  good  quar- 
ter of  the  town,  found  their  amusement 
in  the  streets  and  in  the  shops.  They 
shopped  a  great  deal,  they  went  to  con- 
certs and  to  the  theatre,  but  they  had  no 
social  life. 

"  A  classmate  of  ours  who  had  known 
Eleanor  in  other  days  wrote  and  asked 
me  to  call  upon  her.  We  all  get  such 
letters :  we  call  once,  we  find  some  pro- 
vincial and  uninteresting  little  girl,  and 
—  well,  the  most  of  us  never  call  again. 
Such  a  girl  I  expected  to  find  when 
I  made  my  first  call,  and  I  went  with- 
out enthusiasm,  —  from  a  sense  of  duty. 
What  I  found  was  a  girl  of  twenty,  of 
somewhat  shy  and  sullen  manner,  to  be 
sure,  but  surprisingly  beautiful,  and  far 
from  dull.  Her  manner  I  put  down  at 
once  to  social  inexperience ;  I  found 
myself  pitying  her  lonely  life,  and,  in 
short,  I  fell  in  love  with  her.  Not  ten- 
tatively, self-indulgently,  as  a  man  often 
does  with  lonely  and  pretty  girls  who 
are  not  quite  —  well,  you  understand 
what  I  mean ;  but  deeply,  absorbingly, 
without  reserve.  I  burned  all  my  bridges  ; 
we  became  engaged. 

"  Then  I  began  to  find  out  what  sort 
of  a  woman  I  had  promised  to  marry. 
You  are  an  old  friend ;  I  may  tell  you 
things  I  might  not  tell  to  every  one.  She 
was  jealous  and  exacting  beyond  belief. 
I  do  not  mean  that  she  was  jealous  of 
other  women  only,  —  although  her  re- 
cluse life  had  made  her  suspicious  of 
what  she  called  my  fashionable  women 
friends,  —  but  of  anything  and  every- 
thing which  kept  me  away  from  her, 
even  for  a  moment.  She  was  jealous 
of  the  men  I  knew,  of  my  clubs,  of  my 
business,  of  my  books,  of  my  very 
thoughts.  Whenever  I  saw  her,  I  was 
met  with  questions  —  questions  —  ques- 
tions —  adroit,  persistent,  suspicious  — 
which  searched  out  everything,  which 
VOL.  xcni.  —  NO.  556.  12 


turned  my  soul  inside  out  for  her  terrible 
inspection.  To  this  jealousy  I  had  to 
sacrifice  my  friends,  —  women  first,  then 
men.  My  man  had  to  go  ;  she  did  not 
trust  him.  To  please  her,  I  destroyed 
photographs  that  I  cared  for,  until  none 
but  her  own  was  to  be  found  in  my 
rooms.  Finally,  she  made  me  sell  my 
dog;  think  of  it,  my  dog!  I  lavished 
upon  it  too  much  affection.  Can  you 
imagine  it  ?  —  she  was  jealous,  actual- 
ly jealous  of  the  poor  beast.  Then  my 
letters,  —  she  read  every  one  of  them, 
and  each  was  the  subject  of  irritating 
cross-examination.  And  woe  to  me  if  I 
contradicted  myself.  She  had  a  memory 
for  what  interested  her  that  was  like  a 
burr :  facts  clung  to  it  forever.  If  what 
I  said  to-day  varied  by  a  hair's  breadth 
from  what  I  had  said  a  week,  or  a  month, 
or  even  a  year  before,  the  discrepancy 
was  at  once  detected,  and  had  to  be  ex- 
plained on  the  spot,  —  minutely,  compre- 
hensively explained  and  justified. 

"  And  she  had  the  mania  of  control. 
Where  she  loved,  she  wished  to  rule. 
She  insisted  upon  dictating  what  I  should 
do,  where  I  should  go,  what  I  should  eat, 
what  I  should  wear,  what  I  should  spend. 
The  complaint  seems  petty,  but  I  assure 
you  nothing  can  be  more  exasperating, 
more  humiliating,  than  this  tyranny  of 
a  loving  woman. 

"Why  did  I  not  rebel?  Man,  this 
woman  had  a  will  like  steel,  and  a  pride 
in  ruling  that  would  not  be  thwarted. 
You  might  murder  her  —  if  you  dared  ; 
but  while  she  lived,  you  obeyed.  And 
I  have  shown  you  but  one  side  of  the 
shield.  She  was  not  merely  beautiful, 
—  she  was  fascinating.  There  are  wo- 
men whom  if  you  have  once  kissed,  you 
will  go  through  any  humiliation,  any  loss 
of  self-respect,  if  only  you  may  come  to 
kiss  them  again.  Eleanor  was  such  a 
woman.  Besides,  I  did  rebel  —  in  a 
fashion.  Dreading  the  ordeal  through 
which  I  always  had  to  pass  at  the  begin- 
ning of  our  interviews,  I  dared  now  and 
then  to  give  myself  a  holiday.  But 


178 


The  Shadow. 


when  I  returned  to  her,  I  paid  heavily  for 
my  stolen  day  of  liberty.  Never  losing 
control  of  herself,  she  drove  me  to  fury 
by  the  most  humiliating  questions,  by 
making  me  satisfy  the  most  cruelly  in- 
jurious suspicions.  These  scenes  left 
me  stricken  with  shame  both  for  myself 
and  for  her,  left  me  stripped  bare  of 
self-respect. 

"These  are  things  which  a  man  does 
not  usually  tell ;  but  I  want  you  to  un- 
derstand why  I  left  her,  —  jilted  her, 
broke  my  vows.  Flesh  and  blood  could 
not  stand  her  exactions,  and  the  prospect 
of  a  lifetime  with  her  became  a  thing  to 
drive  one  insane.  There  came  a  time 
when  it  seemed  to  me  that  if  I  saw  her 
any  more,  I  should  kill  her  —  or  myself. 
Yet,  for  a  time,  I  continued  to  endure  all 
her  injuries,  her  cool  insults.  It  seems 
incredible,  and  I  hardly  know  how  to 
explain,  —  to  find  the  words.  She  was 
proud,  imperious,  passionate,  feline,  —  all 
suspicion  and  jealousy  one  instant,  all 
caresses  and  affection  the  next.  She  had 
infinite  surprises,  she  was  infinitely  in- 
teresting. In  going  to  her,  I  knew  only 
that  I  should  be  intensely  happy,  or  in- 
tensely miserable,  or  both.  Do  you  won- 
der that  she  owned  me  morally,  physical- 
ly ;  that  I  was  her  slave,  her  plaything ! 
Some  of  the  old  Italian  women  must  have 
been  like  her. 

"  Was  she  of  foreign  blood  ?  Not  at 
all !  She  was  a  Yankee,  the  daughter 
of  a  man  of  rare  force  of  character,  I 
believe,  whose  mills  created  the  prosper- 
ous town  from  which  she  came.  You 
have  read  Miss  Wilkins's  new  novel 
Pembroke,  perhaps.  It 's  a  horrible 
story  of  the  force  of  perverted  wills,  but 
it  has  helped  me  to  understand  Eleanor. 

"  But  at  last  I  summoned  every  bit 
of  moral  strength  I  had  and  broke  from 
her.  I  cannot  make  you  understand 
what  the  struggle  cost  me,  so  strong 
was  the  desire  which  now  and  again 
came  over  me  to  return  to  my  bond- 
age. But  I  did  not  go  to  her.  I  refused 
to  see  her.  I  refused  to  answer  her  let- 


ters, though  they  revealed  to  me  a  depth 
of  passion  I  had  not  guessed  before. 
Finally,  I  refused  —  partly  through  fear 
of  the  emotion  they  caused  me  —  even  to 
read  them.  I  returned  them  all  —  un- 
opened. Then  she  sent  me  telegrams. 
As  I  could  not,  of  course,  guess  from 
whom  these  might  be,  I  had  to  open 
them.  They  were  —  unbelievable  ! 

"  Finally,  they  stopped.  For  a  while 
I  breathed  more  easily.  Little  by  little 
I  gained  —  so  I  thought  —  an  assured 
self-control.  Only  one  thing  spoiled  my 
pleasure  in  my  recovered  freedom,  —  I 
knew  that  she  still  loved  me  even  more 
deeply,  perhaps,  than  I  had  loved  her.  I 
knew  she  never  would,  never  could  love 
again.  I  knew  how  much  against  her 
were  the  circumstances  of  her  lonely  life. 
I  knew  how — without  friends,  without  so- 
cial distractions  —  she  would  have  every 
opportunity  to  brood  morbidly  over  my 
desertion.  I  knew  how  deep  and  cruel 
would  continue  to  be  her  despair,  how 
bitter  and  fierce  would  be  her  resentment 
of  the  insult  I  had  given  to  her  pride. 
I  knew  —  and  the  burden  was  heavy  — 
that  I  had  ruined  a  life. 

"  Well,  the  weeks  went  by:  these  pain- 
ful impressions  lost  something  of  their 
sharpness.  I  began  again  the  inter- 
rupted round  of  my  usual  social  routine. 
Calls,  dinners,  dances,  the  play,  and  the 
opera  became  again  a  part  of  my  life. 
I  thought  only  occasionally  of  the  deso- 
late woman  going  about  her  apartments, 
too  proud,  as  I  imagined,  to  seek  the 
one  source  of  possible  sympathy,  —  the 
old  aunt.  One  night  I  had  been  with 
a  theatre  party  to  the  play.  It  was 
a  winter  evening,  bitterly  cold,  with  a 
wind  that  cut  like  a  knife.  When  we 
left  the  theatre  we  were  all  talking  and 
laughing,  and  I  had  stepped  forward 
to  help  one  of  the  women  —  a  pretty 
girl,  radiant  at  the  moment  with  pleasure 
—  into  one  of  the  waiting  carriages, 
when  a  familiar  perfume  made  another 
woman  rush  back  into  my  memory,  and 
filled  me  with  the  most  disturbing,  the 


The  Shadow. 


179 


most  poignant  emotion.  I  turned  in- 
stinctively. Dressed  in  black,  thin,  pale, 
her  resolutely  compressed  lips  blue  with 
cold,  her  eyelids  with  their  dark  lashes 
cast  down,  there  at  my  elbow  stood 
Eleanor.  She  did  not  look  at  me,  she 
did  not  speak,  she  did  not  move.  She 
simply  stood  there  in  the  cutting  wind, 
a  living  reproach.  And  there  she  re- 
mained until  all  of  us  had  entered  the 
carriages  and  been  driven  away.  My 
wonder  as  to  what  accident  brought  her 
there  at  that  hour,  and  in  that  garb,  did 
not  prevent  the  spectacle  of  her  desolate 
and  pathetic  figure  from  striking  deep 
home  to  my  conscience.  It  made  me 
realize  the  depth  of  her  misery,  and  for 
that  misery  I,  and  I  alone,  was  responsi- 
ble. Only  by  recalling  with  all  possible 
vividness  the  somewhat  blunted  memory 
of  her  jealous  exactions  could  I  keep 
myself  from  going  to  her  at  once.  For 
that  evening  all  power  even  to  appear 
cheerful  went  from  me. 

"  More  surprises  followed.  The  next 
evening  when  I  went  to  the  club  for 
dinner,  she  stood  on  the  curbstone,  in 
the  same  black  gown,  with  the  same 
pallor,  the  same  controlled  quiet,  the 
same  downcast  eyes.  Oppressed  by  the 
thoughts  and  emotions  which  these  un- 
expected meetings  evoked,  I  went  that 
night  again  to  the  theatre,  on  the  chance 
of  finding  there  some  slight  self-f  orgetf  ul- 
ness.  She  stood  by  the  door  as  I  passed 
in,  she  was  standing  on  the  curb  when  I 
came  out.  The  next  morning  when  I 
went  down  town  to  my  office,  she  was 
there,  —  a  black,  accusing  figure  against 
one  of  the  white  pillars  that  upheld  the 
portico  of  the  great  building.  And  so  it 
was  for  a  week,  a  month.  Everywhere 
I  went,  there  she  was  patiently  waiting 
on  the  sidewalk  near  where  I  must  pass, 
—  in  rain,  in  shine,  in  cold,  in  snow,  — 
always  in  black,  always  silent  and  mo- 
tionless, like  a  statue  with  downcast  eyes. 
I  soon  saw  that  these  meetings  were  not 
accidental :  they  were  planned.  I  thought 
I  divined.  I  had  left  her  no  way  to  win 


back  her  happiness  except  by  this  dumb, 
pathetic  appeal." 

Harrington  paused  and  wet  his  dry 
lips  from  the  glass  of  whiskey  and  water 
which  stood  by  his  hand  on  the  table. 
He  had  been  drinking  steadily  all  the 
evening,  but  the  liquor  seemed  to  have 
no  other  effect  than  to  flush  his  cheeks, 
and  to  brighten  the  lustre  of  his  restless, 
fear-struck  eyes. 

"You  can  imagine,"  he  continued, 
"  how  this  would  affect  a  man.  Her  ap- 
pearance so  moved  me,  so  filled  me  with 
pity,  that  all  I  recalled  was  the  charm, 
the  affection  of  her  good  moments.  And 
bear  in  mind  her  beauty,  her  seductive- 
ness, her  strong  will,  which  I  felt  upon 
me  even  through  her  always  downcast 
lids.  It  was  like  magnetism.  Remem- 
ber, I  had  been  under  her  powerful  spell 
for  months,  —  and  to  the  last  degree  of 
possible  humiliation.  Remember  that  I 
had  the  habit  of  yielding  to  her.  Habit, 
desire,  pity,  remorse  for  the  wrong  I 
had  done  her  were  the  powerful  enemies 
I  had  to  fight.  For  a  time,  wherever  I 
saw  her,  my  face  turned  white,  my  knees 
-were  like  broken  reeds  ;  I  seemed  to  suffo- 
cate ;  I  had  an  almost  irresistible  impulse 
to  surrender.  Then  came  a  period  when 
I  was  visited  with  an  even  more  over- 
whelming emotion.  It  took  the  form  of 
a  strange  anger  and  terror,  a  mastering 
desire  to  escape  or  to  resist !  Is  it  strange 
that  in  those  few  moments  when  I  saw 
the  situation  sanely,  —  how  utterly  im- 
possible it  was  that  I  should  ever  return 
to  her,  —  I  was  afraid  of  her,  doubly 
afraid  of  myself? 

"  Then  came  a  new  trouble,  —  petty, 
but  real.  My  friends  began  to  notice. 
No  one  asked  questions,  but  veiled  allu- 
sions were  made,  adroitly  managed  op- 
portunities were  offered  me  to  explain. 
Women  whom  I  was  with  grew  silent 
when  we  passed  a  certain  black  figure, 
and  cast  discreet  sidelong  glances  full  of 
inquiry.  Men  sauntered,  as  if  acciden- 
tally, to  the  club  windows  and  gazed. 
Sudden  hushes  fell  among  people  as  I 


180 


The  Shadow. 


approached.  Some  —  and  among  them 
were  the  best  women  I  knew  —  grew 
cool  in  their  demeanor.  I  received  fewer 
invitations. 

"The  mere  spectacle  of  her  had 
hitherto  so  moved  me,  so  preoccupied 
my  thoughts,  that  I  had  never  questioned 
the  accuracy  of  my  first  guess  as  to  her 
motive  in  so  showing  herself  to  me.  But 
in  the  third  month  little  by  little  came 
doubt.  In  all  that  troubled  period,  I 
had  given  myself  courage  by  saying  to 
myself  that  she  would  see  that  this  last 
appeal  was,  like  all  the  others,  quite  vain 
and  would  pursue  me  no  longer.  But 
she  had  never  let  me  see  her  eyes,  which 
might  have  revealed  to  me  something 
of  her  thoughts.  Now,  I  had  certainly 
proved  my  firmness,  yet  she  showed  not 
the  slightest  sign  of  discouragement. 
Perhaps,  I  said  to  myself,  passion  has  so 
wrought  in  her  that  she  must  see  me,  and 
that  sight  of  me  is  her  sole  object.  Then, 
once  or  twice,  it  came  into  my  unwilling 
mind  that  her  motive  might  be  revenge, 
that  she  sought  to  cause  me  misery  rather 
than  to  allay  her  own.  That  thought  I 
dismissed.  It  was  unworthy. 

"  As  another  slow  month  went  by, 
other  questions  began  to  form  themselves 
in  my  mind.  How  long  did  she  intend 
to  continue  this  strange  appeal,  —  if  it 
were  one  ;  this  senseless  persecution,  — 
if  it  were  that  ?  And  whence  did  she 
obtain  so  close  a  knowledge  of  my  move- 
ments ?  As  to  that,  I  began  to  test  her 
powers,  —  or,  rather,  it  was  with  a  blind 
wish  to  avoid  her  that  I  began  to  change 
my  hour  of  arriving  at  my  office,  to  dine 
at  unusual  hours  at  clubs  I  did  not  or- 
dinarily frequent,  or  at  obscure  restau- 
rants. But  this  I  soon  found  out :  change 
my  ways  as  I  would,  I  could  not  long 
avoid  her.  Before  the  day  was  over,  some- 
where, early  or  late,  I  saw  her.  The 
nervous  dread  of  seeing  that  pale  face 
was  every  moment  with  me.  I  found 
myself  asking,  '  Will  it  be  on  the  steps 
of  my  office  ?  On  the  curbstone  by  this 
restaurant  ?  Will  I  meet  her  as  I  turn 


this  corner  ? '  Dread  of  her  became  an 
acute  mental  torture  impossible  to  de- 
scribe. 

"  I  became  wretchedly  nervous,  unfit 
for  work,  unfit  for  pleasure.  Once  I 
stayed  for  two  days  in  my  rooms  without 
stirring  from  them  ;  but  on  the  second, 
chancing  to  look  from  my  window,  I  saw 
her  there  in  the  street  before  my  door. 
There  was  no  escape  for  me  even  in  cow- 
ardly retreat.  I  hope  you  can  understand 
why,  as  the  months  passed,  I  found  this 
strange,  silent  battle  wearing  me  out, 
slowly  killing  me.  I  hope  you  will  un- 
derstand how  the  idea  of  retreat,  escape, 
hiding,  —  no  matter  how  cowardly,  — 
grew  more  and  more  attractive.  Pride 
struggled  hard,  self-respect  said  no  ;  all 
my  manhood  revolted  ;  nevertheless,  one 
day  —  it  was  now  early  June  —  I  threw 
some  things  into  a  bag  and  left  for  Bar 
Harbor.  There,  for  one  blessed  day  and 
night,  I  was  a  free  man,  walking  the 
earth  without  dread.  On  leaving  my 
hotel  on  the  second  day,  there  by  the 
door,  doubly  conspicuous  in  that  little 
town,  was  the  silent,  black-robed  figure 
I  had  so  learned  to  dread. 

"  I  took  the  next  train  back  to  New 
York.  I  said  to  myself,  I  will  stay  in 
the  city  the  entire  summer ;  she  cannot 
endure  the  heat.  But  she  did.  Then 
—  for  I  was  utterly  unnerved  and  not  my- 
self —  I  did  an  unmanly  thing :  I  went 
to  the  police.  I  asked  to  be  protected 
from  the  persecution  of  a  woman. 

"  '  What  does  she  do  ?  '  asked  the  high 
official  to  whom  I  had  applied. 

" '  Nothing,'  I  was  forced  to  answer, 
feeling  how  like  an  imbecile  it  was  to 
say  so.  I  tried  to  explain,  and  I  saw  by 
his  look  that  he  thought  me  demented. 
That  a  woman  stood  on  the  sidewalk, 
without  so  much  as  looking  at  me  as  I 
went  by,  did  not  seem  to  him  serious 
persecution.  The  man  had  no  imagi- 
nation !  He  did  not  see,  and  I  could 
not  make  him  understand,  the  exquisite 
cruelty. 

"  Finally  he  said,  '  I  am  sorry,  Mr. 


The  Shadow. 


181 


Barrington,  but  I  can  do  nothing.  She 
has  the  same  right  to  the  use  of  the  streets 
that  you  have.  If  she  should  accost 
you,  or  make  herself  disagreeable  in  any 
way,  of  course  —  But  until  she  commits 
some  overt  act  I  cannot  interfere.  Or, 
hold  on ;  I  could  instruct  policemen  to 
tell  her  to  move  on  if  she  stays  too  long 
in  one  place  ;  but  you  say  she  's  a  re- 
spectable woman  ?  —  and  has  means  ? 
There  might  be  a  difficulty.  I  think 
we  'd  better  not  move  in  the  matter. 
Come,  sir,  you  're  worked  up  over  no- 
thing. Go  along  quietly,  pay  no  atten- 
tion to  her ;  she  '11  soon  tire  of  that 
amusement.  What  can  she  get  by  it, 
after  all  ? ' 

"  '  Accost  you,'  —  '  commits  some 
overt  act,'  —  you  can  guess  how  these 
stale  bits  of  the  police  vocabulary  jarred 
on  me.  You  can  see  how  significant  they 
were  of  a  vulgar  police  interpretation  of 
the  facts.  And  then  the  question, '  What 
can  she  get  by  it  ? '  It  measured  the 
comprehension  of  human  nature  which 
is  given  to  the  police.  The  man  had  no 
conception  of  anything  more  subtle  than 
blackmail.  I  went  away  utterly  dis- 
heartened. 

"  I  went  to  my  rooms  and  thought. 
I  tried  to  divine  her  plan,  her  object. 
I  could  make  nothing  of  the  mystery. 
Broken  as  I  was,  I  thought  again  of 
flight,  of  Europe.  But  I  had  yielded  to 
cowardice  once  —  and  again  ;  I  would 
yield  no  more.  I  had  unquestionably 
done  the  woman  an  irreparable  wrong, 
and  I  would  stay  and  face  the  punish- 
ment like  a  man.  And,  besides,  flight  to 
Europe,  or  anywhere,  was  vain.  She  had 
followed  me  to  Bar  Harbor ;  she  could 
follow  me  anywhere.  She  had  money 
enough,  and  I  well  knew  she  did  not 
lack  determination. 

"  Until  winter  returned,  I  kept  my 
resolve  to  suffer  in  silence.  Then 
again  I  felt  the  temptation  to  escape  — 
by  any  means.  With  I  hardly  know 
what  hope,  I  employed  a  private  detec- 
tive to  find  out  what  he  could.  Little 


enough  he  told  me,  —  only  that  certain 
associates  of  his  in  the  trade  were  hired 
by  her  to  shadow  me,  and  were  well 
paid,  and  that  they  knew  nothing  of  her 
motives.  Thus  I  found  out  how  she 
knew  so  well  where  to  place  herself 
where  I  must  pass.  Thus  I  was  enabled 
to  see  with  terrible  clearness  the  lengths 
to  which  she  was  willing  to  go  ! 

"  Next,  I  consulted  a  lawyer.  But  all 
that  he  could  suggest  was  an  inquiry  into 
her  sanity.  He  thought  that  such  an  in- 
quiry might  result  in  her  confinement  in 
an  asylum.  But,  much  as  I  desired  to  es- 
cape, I  had  at  least  strength  enough  not 
to  resort  to  that  cruel  expedient.  If  she 
was  insane,  —  and  I  for  one  did  not 
believe  she  was,  —  clearly  it  was  I  who 
had  made  her  so.  My  hands  were  tied. 

"  Probably  her  detectives  reported  to 
her  these  proceedings.  At  any  rate,  when 
I  next  saw  her,  I  detected  for  the  first 
time  a  difference  in  her  expression,  —  so 
slight,  indeed,  that  I  am  not  sure  to  this 
day  that  it  did  not  exist  solely  in  my  im- 
agination, morbidly  active  after  a  year  of 
mental  suffering.  I  had  been  making 
a  call,  —  for,  in  spite  of  everything,  I 
forced  myself  to  lead  my  usual  life,  —  and 
came  down  the  steps  of  my  friend's  house 
late  in  the  afternoon  of  a  winter  day. 
She  stood  under  a  gaslight,  and  as  I 
passed  her,  I  thought  I  detected  in  her 
face  —  I  know  I  detected  in  her  face  — 
the  subtlest  look,  a  mere  shadow  of  irony. 
You  may  guess  I  knew  this  face  well. 
How  could  the  minutest  change  escape 
me  ? 

"  The  new  expression  dwelt  in  my 
memory,  and  seemed  to  suggest  an  ex- 
planation. Of  course  I  inferred  at  once 
that  she  knew  I  had  had  recourse  to  detec- 
tives and  to  lawyers,  but  there  seemed  to 
be  more  in  her  look  than  that.  I  racked 
my  mind  with  that  intense  effort  which 
is  common  to  us  all  when  we  are  trying 
to  recall  anything  which  we  greatly  wish 
to  remember,  and  which  is,  as  we  say,  on 
the  tip  of  our  tongue.  I  seemed  as  near 
to  the  meaning  of  her  expression  as  that. 


182 


The  Shadow. 


But  I  could  not  catch  the  whole  of  its 
deep  significance. 

"  That  night  I  awoke  in  a  cold  sweat, 
starting  up  in  bed  as  if  with  nightmare, 
my  heart  beating  as  if  with  uncontrol- 
lable terror.  The  scales  had  dropped 
from  my  eyes  —  I  knew  ! 

"  She  was  not  like  the  police  ;  she  did 
have  imagination!  And  what  an  im- 
agination it  was  that  could  conceive  the 
plan  which  I  had  at  last  divined !  She 
knew  the  danger  of  the  '  overt  act,'  and 
indeed  she  would  despise  anything  so 
clumsy.  She  had  the  courage  and  the 
will  power  to  do  anything,  even  murder, 
—  of  the  long-planned,  deliberate  kind, 
which  shows  will.  No  sudden  assault, 
nothing  which  might  cause  my  death, 
such  as  might  content  a  weak-willed 
woman,  could  be  adequate  to  her  ideal 
of  revenge  as  it  was  now  suddenly  re- 
vealed to  me.  She  wanted  no  scene,  no 
physical  attack  which  the  police  could 
stop,  and  which  could  terminate  only  in 
the  vulgarity  of  the  police  court.  She 
wished  to  subject  me  to  a  torture  that 
was  insidious  and  slow,  against  which  I 
could  make  no  protest,  that  would  in- 
crease rather  than  diminish  as  time  went 
on,  that  would  be  unending.  Such  tor- 
ture as  that  must  transcend  the  physical, 
it  must  be  mental.  Seeking  such  an 
end,  she  had  imagination  enough  to  con- 
ceive this  plan  of  becoming  my  shadow, 
she  had  the  strength  of  will  —  and  a  pro- 
digious strength  was  required  —  to  carry 
it  out.  But  the  horror  lay  in  this,  — 
her  plan,  to  be  perfect,  must  include  the 
intention  of  being  my  shadow  as  long  as 
I  lived ! 

"  If  I  well  knew  her  unconquerable 
will,  I  knew,  also,  her  devouring  pride. 
Do  what  I  would,  she  would  rule  my 
life  in  spite  of  me.  Her  love  I  might 
reject ;  but  her  pride,  at  least,  I  should  be 
made  to  gratify.  And  to  this  passion,  and 
to  that  of  revenge,  and  to  her  distorted 
love,  she  would  subordinate  her  whole 
life,  —  all  her  strength,  all  her  fortune, 
all  her  prospects  of  happiness.  No  dif- 


ficulty would  daunt  her,  no  discourage- 
ment reach  her,  no  ill  health  weaken 
her.  I  quailed  before  the  vision. 

"  For  a  moment,  —  but  believe  me 
only  for  a  moment,  —  as  I  gazed  ahead 
into  the  years  and  saw  this  life,  —  one 
the  most  stolid  could  not  endure  unmoved, 
—  I  thought  of  suicide.  Then  I  said  no  : 
I  will  stay  and  fight.  She  shall  never 
know  —  so  far  as  I  can  help  it  —  that  I 
suffer  from  her  persecution,  nor  will  I 
again  attempt  to  interfere.  Her  only 
punishment  shall  be  to  think  her  revenge 
a  failure.  I  will  try  to  make  her  think, 
hereafter,  that  I  mind  her  no  more  than 
I  do  any  casual  passer-by,  than  a  lamp- 
post, or  a  hydrant. 

"  This  resolution  calmed  me,  and  I 
slept  again.  I  awoke  in  the  morning 
not  so  much  fatigued.  For  in  a  way  the 
full  revelation  of  her  purpose  had  freed 
me  of  one  source  of  weakness.  Pity  for 
the  woman  vanished  ;  intense  aversion 
took  its  place.  For  a  while  thereafter 
I  think  I  actually  enjoyed  the  sight  of 
her  miserable  face. 

"  Another  year  went  by.  My  moods 
during  this  time  alternated  between  ab- 
ject dread  and  a  certain  savage  joy  as  I 
met  her.  For  I  believed  that  to  her  I 
showed  no  sign  of  suffering.  Of  course 
my  history  gradually  became  known  to 
my  friends,  and  as  it  did  so  I  observed 
a  certain  shifting  of  sympathy  from  her 
to  me.  I  had  had  none  while  the  affair 
remained  a  mystery.  Now,  people  be- 
gan to  think  I  was  being  excessively  pun- 
ished. She  became  known  as  '  Barring- 
ton's  ghost,'  and  the  slur  in  the  name 
was  for  her,  not  for  me.  All  this  gave 
me  courage.  I  thought  with  joy  that  I 
should  really,  in  time,  become  wholly  in- 
different. I  might,  perhaps,  even  enjoy  a 
certain  happiness. 

"  Now,  if  a  man  is  in  misery,  there  is 
always  some  woman  who  will  love  him, 
and  her  love  will  be  measured  not  by 
his  deserts,  but  by  his  suffering.  I  met 
such  a  woman, — a  girl  whose  pure 
beauty,  whose  exquisite  goodness,  whose 


The  Shadow. 


183 


great  courage  seemed  to  make  a  bright- 
ness round  about  her.  I  loved  her,  and 
I  dared  to  tell  her  so.  She  knew,  I 
said,  what  shadow  haunted  me  :  could 
she,  in  spite  of  that,  dare  to  marry  me  ? 
'  When  this  unhappy  woman,'  she  an- 
swered, 'sees  you  married,  happy,  in- 
different, surely  she  will  know  she  is 
defeated  and  will  cease  to  trouble  you.' 
Although  I  knew  I  should  see  my  shadow 
when  I  left  the  house  that  night,  I  allowed 
myself  to  believe  her.  Why  not  ?  I 
knew  my  recent  indifference  had  been 
manifest ;  I  knew  she  knew  her  revenge 
was  failing.  Would  not  such  a  new  proof 
as  my  marriage  show  her  that  I  was  se- 
cure against  her  ?  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
I  had  put  a  new  weapon  into  her  hands. 

"  But,  full  of  these  hopes,  I  married. 
The  Shadow  was  present  when  we  left 
the  church ;  the  Shadow,  in  her  black 
gown  and  with  her  white  face,  stood  a 
little  apart  from  the  crowd  in  the  rail- 
way station  when  we  returned  from  our 
wedding  trip.  I  afterwards  learned 
that  illness  alone  had  prevented  her  fol- 
lowing where  we  went.  She  never  left 
us  after  our  return.  At  first  my  wife 
never  seemed  to  notice,  she  never  com- 
plained, she  never  even  mentioned  the 
Shadow;  she  lived  her  life  with  a  gay 
courage ;  but  when  the  Shadow  stood 
with  us  by  the  grave  of  our  baby,  born 
only  to  die  —  Well,  I  think  I  said  my 
wife  has  gone  South  for  the  winter  ? 
The  reason  ?  She  is  a  complete  nervous 
wreck,  —  health,  beauty,  youth,  all  gone ! 

"  Did  I  never  make  any  appeal  to 
that  woman?  Once.  When,  after  the 
death  of  our  child,  I  saw  that  my  wife 
grew  afraid,  when  I  saw  that  her  health 
began  to  fail,  I  did  try.  I  went  to  her 
house,  but  I  could  not  gain  admission. 
I  wrote,  but  without  result.  Then,  much 
as  I  dreaded  a  scene  in  the  streets,  I  de- 
termined to  speak  to  her.  That  even- 
ing I  went  to  a  political  dinner.  At  its 
close  I  saw  her,  and,  for  the  first  time  in 
six  years,  I  spoke  to  her.  I  begged  her 
to  let  me  say  a  few  words.  She  turned, 


and  by  a  gesture  permitted  me  to  walk 
up  the  street  at  her  side.  For  a  block, 
while  men  who  knew  the  story  stared  in 
wonder,  I  poured  forth  remonstrance, 
denunciation,  entreaty.  Through  it  all, 
her  even  pace  never  changed,  her  cold 
face  never  altered,  she  spoke  no  word, 
made  no  gesture  of  assent  or  of  dissent. 
At  the  end  of  the  block  was  her  carriage. 
Into  this  she  stepped,  and  left  me  — 
without  a  word.  She  must  enjoy  the 
memory  of  that  hour  ! 

"  Come,"  added  Barrington,  breaking 
off  abruptly.  "  I  've  finished  my  story. 
It's  late.  We  must  go.  For  fourteen 
years  I  've  endured  this  misery.  Don't 
say  anything  —  I  know,"  and  then,  half 
under  his  breath,  he  added,  "  Poor  Elea- 
nor !  her  beauty  is  quite  gone,  too." 

Out  of  doors,  a  drizzling  rain  was  fall- 
ing. The  reflected  light  of  the  street 
lamps  shimmered  on  the  damp  pave- 
ments. It  was  two  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing ;  the  strange  odor  of  streets  on  a 
warm  wet  night  filled  the  air ;  it  was 
very  still.  Then,  suddenly,  the  roar  of 
an  elevated  train  on  Sixth  Avenue, 
a  block  away,  broke  the  silence.  We 
turned  down  the  street,  and  there,  stand- 
ing on  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk,  was 
an  apparition  at  which  I  stared  with 
instinctive,  certain  recognition.  The  wo- 
man was  in  black ;  she  was  very  pale  ; 
her  eyes  were  feverish  and  had  deep 
shadows  under  them ;  her  cheeks  were 
hollow.  As  Barrington  had  said,  her 
beauty  had  gone  in  these  fourteen  years, 
but  her  unconquerable  will  had  not  gone. 
A  glance  satisfied  me  of  that.  She  was 
his  fate,  and  could  not  leave  him.  She 
did  not  speak  or  move,  but,  as  we  passed, 
the  expression  of  her  eyes  as  she  re- 
garded Barrington  —  for  she  raised  her 
eyes  the  second  he  had  passed  —  was 
one  I  shall  never  forget.  Then,  turning, 
I  saw  her  beckon  to  a  waiting  carriage. 
This  she  entered,  and  was  driven  rapid- 
ly away,  the  wet  top  of  the  vehicle  flash- 
ing as  it  passed  under  successive  electric 
lights. 

Charles  Miner  Thompson. 


184 


English  and  American   Cousins. 


PART  OF  A  MAN'S  LIFE. 

"  The  uttered  part  of  a  man's  life,  let  us  always  repeat,  bears  to  the  unuttered,  unconscious 
part  a  small  unknown  proportion.  He  himself  never  knows  it,  much  less  do  others." —  Carlyle's 
Essay  on  Scott. 

ENGLISH   AND   AMERICAN   COUSINS. 


I  HEARD  on  board  ship,  a  few  years 
ago,  a  discussion  as  to  the  comparative 
number  of  Americans  visiting  England 
and  of  Englishmen  visiting  America. 
None  rated  the  proportion  of  the  for- 
mer class  as  less  than  ten  to  one ;  but 
the  most  experienced  traveler  among  us 
laughed  at  this  low  estimate,  and  declared 
that  five  hundred  to  one  would  be  much 
nearer.  Be  the  difference  less  or  more, 
it  shows  the  utterly  unequal  ground  on 
which  the  two  national  bodies  meet,  as  to 
mutual  acquaintance.  Traveling  on  the 
Continent  of  Europe,  soon  after,  with  a 
party  of  young  Americans,  I  was  witness 
of  their  dismay  at  being  assailed  from 
time  to  time  by  friendly  English  fellow 
travelers  with  such  questions  as  these : 
"  Is  it  not  very  lonely  in  America  ?  Are 
there  any  singing  birds  there  ?  Any 
wild  flowers  ?  Any  bishops  ?  Are  there 
booths  in  the  streets  of  New  York  ?  Do 
people  read  English  books  there  ?  Have 
they  heard  of  Ruskin ;  and  how  ?  "  These 
were  from  the  rank  and  file  of  question- 
ers, while  a  very  cultivated  clergyman 
lost  caste  somewhat  with  our  young  peo- 
ple by  asking  confidently,  "Are  Harvard 
and  Yale  both  in  Boston  ?  "  a  question 
which  seemed  to  them  as  hopelessly  be- 
nighted as  the  remark  of  a  lady,  just 
returned  from  the  wonders  of  the  New 
World,  who  had  been  impressed,  like  all 
visitors,  with  the  novelties  offered  in  the 
way  of  food  at  the  Baltimore  dinner- 
tables,  but  still  sighed  with  regret  at  hav- 
ing been  obliged  to  come  away  without 
eating  "  a  canvas-backed  clam." 

One  needs  to  know  but  little  of  large 
families  of  collateral  kindred  to  recog- 
nize that  the  nearer  the  cousinship,  the 


closer  the  criticism.  Theodore  Hook 
profanely  declares  the  phrase  "a  friend 
that  sticketh  closer  than  a  brother"  to 
designate  a  cousin,  and  Lord  Bacon 
comes  near  enough  to  the  same  thought 
to  point  out  that  we  are  bidden  by  the 
highest  authority  to  forgive  our  enemies, 
but  are  nowhere  bidden  to  forgive  our 
friends.  It  may  be  wise,  therefore,  for 
Americans  to  draw  their  compliments, 
not  from  their  own  newspapers,  but  from 
the  verdicts  of  such  English  critics  as 
Lord  Lyons,  who,  as  recorded  in  the 
delightful  Letters  from  a  Diplomat's 
Diavy,  declared  on  his  return  from  a 
long  residence  in  Washington  that  he 
"  had  never  yet  met  a  stupid  American 
woman,"  or  Mr.  Froude,  who,  during  his 
voyage  around  the  world,  records,  "Let 
me  say  that  nowhere  in  America  have  I 
met  with  vulgarity  in  its  proper  sense." 
These  two  compliments  are  undoubtedly 
so  sweeping  that  perhaps  no  American 
citizen  would  think  it  quite  safe  to  ap- 
ply them  to  the  people  who  live  in  the 
adjoining  street :  but  they  are  at  least 
worth  a  thousand  vague  newspaper  libels. 
Even  Matthew  Arnold,  who  certainly 
cannot  be  said  to  have  loved  America 
much,  or  to  have  known  much  about  it,  — 
for  what  can  a  man  be  said  to  know 
about  America  who  describes  a  Virginia 
mob  as  fortifying  its  courage  with  fish 
balls  and  ice  water  ? 1  —  was  led,  while 
making  a  comparison  with  those  whom 
he  had  left  at  home,  to  say,  "Our  [Eng- 
lish] countrymen,  with  a  thousand  good 
qualities,  are  really,  perhaps,  a  good  deal 
wanting  in  lucidity  and  flexibility." 

In  the  same  way,  Americans  might 
1  The  Nineteenth  Century,  May,  1887,  p.  317. 


English  and  American   Cousins. 


185 


borrow  their  criticisms  on  England  from 
those  writing  in  that  country.  Tims, 
Mr.  H.  G.  Wells,  a  novelist  and  scien- 
tist in  one,  but  not  himself  a  university 
man,  writes  in  the  Fortnightly  Review 
of  "  the  ordinary  Oxford,  Cambridge,  or 
London  B.  A. : "  "  He  has  a  useless 
smattering  of  Greek ;  he  cannot  read 
Latin  with  any  comfort,  much  less  write 
or  speak  that  tongue ;  he  knows  a  few 
unedifying  facts  round  and  about  the 
classical  literature  ;  he  cannot  speak  or 
read  French  with  any  comfort ;  he  has 
an  imperfect  knowledge  of  the  English 
language,  insufficient  to  write  it  clearly, 
and  none  of  German ;  he  has  a  queer, 
old-fashioned,  and  quite  useless  know- 
ledge of  certain  rudimentary  sections  of 
mathematics,  and  an  odd  little  bite  out 
of  history.  He  knows  practically  nothing 
of  the  world  of  thought  embodied  in 
English  literature,  and  absolutely  no- 
thing of  contemporary  thought ;  he  is 
totally  ignorant  of  modern  political  or 
social  science.  If  he  knows  anything  of 
evolutionary  science  and  heredity  it  is 
probably  matter  picked  up  in  a  casual 
way  from  the  magazines,  and  art  is  a 
sealed  book  to  him." 

And  lest  it  be  said  that  Mr.  Wells, 
with  all  his  knowledge  and  brilliancy,  is 
not  himself  a  graduate  of  any  English 
university,  it  is  fair  to  cite  the  opinion 
of  Mr.  Rudolph  C.  Lehmann  (Trinity 
College,  Cambridge,  M.  A.),  who,  after 
spending  much  time  in  America,  where 
he  was  familiar  with  our  university  life, 
makes  the  following  remark  as  to  the 
English  and  American  schoolboy.  He 
writes  :  — 

"  There  can  be  no  comparison  between 
the  two.  The  English  public  schoolboy 
is  one  of  the  most  profoundly  ignorant 
creatures  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  Of 
geography  he  knows  only  as  much  as 
he  may  have  gathered  by  collecting  post- 
age stamps.  With  English  literature  he 
is  not  even  on  terms  of  distant  polite- 
ness. The  style  and  composition  of  his 
letters  would  make  a  housemaid  smile, 


and  modern  history,  whether  of  his  own 
country  or  of  the  world  in  general,  is  a 
sealed  book  to  him." 

No  criticism  from  Americans  is  more 
common  than  that  as  to  the  greater  slow- 
ness of  the  English  mind  as  compared 
with  the  American  ;  and  Professor  Tyn- 
dall,  when  lecturing  in  this  country,  was 
amused  to  find,  as  he  told  me,  that 
whereas  in  making  experiments  before 
a  London  audience  he  had  to  repeat  his 
explanation  three  times,  —  once  to  make 
his  hearers  comprehend  what  he  was 
about  to  do,  then  to  show  what  he  was 
doing,  and  then  to  explain  what  he  had 
done,  —  he  could  after  his  first  lecture 
in  America  omit  the  final  explanation, 
and  latterly  the  middle  one  as  well.  He 
also  told  a  story  to  the  same  effect  about 
an  English  manager  of  a  "  minstrel " 
troupe,  traveling  in  America,  who  was 
accustomed  to  prolong  his  jokes  by  the 
aid  of  two  end  men,  each  bringing  out  a 
part  of  the  joke,  but  who  found  with  in- 
dignation that  every  American  audience 
"  caught  on "  without  waiting  for  the 
second  end  man.  Yet  the  careful  Ameri- 
can observer  soon  finds  that  the  standard 
of  quickness  is  to  be  determined  in  Eng- 
land, as  everywhere  else,  by  the  point 
of  view.  People  who  go  slowly  on  new 
ground  may  turn  out  to  be  quick  enough 
when  wholly  at  home  with  any  particu- 
lar line  of  thought. 

How  odious  and  complicated,  for  in- 
stance, seems  to  an  American  observer 
the  computation  of  pounds,  shillings,  and 
pence !  It  seems  strange  that  any  na- 
tion should  consent  for  a  day  to  employ 
anything  but  a  decimal  currency ;  yet 
with  what  lightning  rapidity  does  a  Lon- 
don bookkeeper  make  his  computations  ! 
Again,  what  a  life  of  tedious  formality 
seems  that  of  an  English  house  servant ; 
yet  there  was  no  slowness  of  intellect  in 
that  footman,  in  an  earl's  family,  who, 
when  his  young  lord  fell  over  the  banis- 
ter, and  his  younger  brother  called  to 
ask  if  the  elder  boy  was  hurt,  answered 
promptly,  "  Killed,  my  lord  !  "  thus  pro- 


186 


English  and  American   Cousins. 


moting  the  second  son  to  the  peerage 
while  the  elder  was  falling  over  the  ban- 
ister. Even  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
the  difference  from  an  American  delib- 
erative body  is  found  to  vary  accord- 
ing to  the  point  from  which  you  look  at 
the  discussion.  The  Englishman  begins 
with  a  curious  air  of  hesitation,  whereas 
the  American  glides  into  his  speech  at 
once  ;  but  the  difference  is  that  the  Eng- 
lishman suddenly  surprises  you  by  com- 
ing to  his  point  with  clearness  and 
decision,  after  which  he  amazes  you  yet 
more  by  sitting  down ;  whereas  the 
American,  after  his  first  good  hit,  is 
apt  to  seem  intoxicated  by  his  own  suc- 
cess, and  feels  bound  to  keep  on  indefi- 
nitely, waiting  for  another.  You  are 
left  under  the  impression  that  an  ideal 
speech  in  any  debating  body  would  be 
achieved  by  having  an  American  to  be- 
gin it  and  an  Englishman  to  end  it. 

Such  plain  facts  as  these  show  the 
injustice  of  attributing  to  our  cousins 
any  deliberate  unfairness  to  ourselves, 
and  any  conscious  spirit  of  boastfulness. 
We  have  only  to  read  the  newspapers  to 
see  that  party  spirit  rises,  on  the  whole, 
higher  in  England  than  here ;  and  cer- 
tainly it  is  impossible  for  our  cousins  to 
criticise  us  with  more  formidable  frank- 
ness than  that  which  they  apply  to  one 
another.  No  man  who  ever  lived  was 
more  universally  claimed  as  a  typical 
Englishman  than  Walter  Savage  Lan- 
dor,  and  yet  he  wrote  to  Lady  Blessing- 
ton,  "I  would  not  live  in  London  the 
six  winter  months  for  £1000  a  week. 
No,  not  even  with  the  privilege  of  hang- 
ing a  Tory  on  every  lamp  arm  to  the 
right,  and  a  Whig  on  every  one  to  the 
left,  the  whole  extent  of  Piccadilly." 

It  must  be  remembered  that  the  pro- 
gress of  events  is  in  one  respect,  at  least, 
distinctly  drawing  the  two  nations  into 
closer  connection.  The  advance  of  colo- 
nization undoubtedly  tends  to  democra- 
tize England,  while  the  same  develop- 
ment has  the  opposite  effect  in  America. 
Froude,  in  his  travels,  found  the  British 


colonists,  here  and  there,  thinking  that 
Tennyson  must  have  lost  his  wits  to  ac- 
cept a  peerage,  and  it  is  well  remem- 
bered that  at  least  one  of  those  who 
came  to  the  Queen's  Jubilee  to  represent 
different  regions  of  the  globe  refused  a 
proffered  knighthood  on  the  ground  that 
his  constituents  would  not  endure  it. 
Anglo-Indian  life,  to  be  sure,  shows  no 
such  results,  the  conditions  there  be- 
ing wholly  different ;  but  I  speak  of  the 
self-governing  colonies  like  Canada  and 
Australia  ;  and  no  one  can  have  stayed 
any  time  under  the  same  roof  with  such 
colonists  in  England,  or  paced  the  quar- 
ter-deck with  them  on  board  ship,  with- 
out feeling  them  to  be  nearer  to  Ameri- 
cans than  to  Englishmen  in  their  general 
mental  attitude.  Both  would  probably 
be  criticised  by  Englishmen  as  having 
that  combination,  which  a  high  educa- 
tional authority  once  selected  as  the  qual- 
ity most  frequently  produced  by  the  great 
English  public  schools,  —  "a  certain  shy 
bumptiousness." 

Perhaps  the  best  single  key  to  the  lin- 
gering difference  between  English  and 
American  temperament  is  to  be  found 
in  that  precept  brought  to  the  front  in 
almost  any  text-book  of  morals  or  man- 
ners one  can  open  in  England,  bidding 
each  man  to  be  faithful  to  that  station 
of  life  to  which  he  is  called.  For  the 
American  upon  whom  has  always  been 
imposed  the  duty  of  creating  for  himself 
his  own  station,  this  seems  to  explain  all 
the  vast  and  unsatisfactory  results  which 
seem  to  follow  from  the  English  method. 
Is  the  calling  equally  providential  and 
even  sacred,  no  matter  from  whom  the 
voice  proceeds  ?  The  first  glance  at  the 
history  of  the  English  peerage  shows 
us  six  peerages  created  to  ennoble  the 
offspring  of  Charles  II,  who  left  no  le- 
gitimate child.  Seven  more  were  cre- 
ated by  William  IV  for  his  illegitimate 
sons  ;  and  his  two  illegitimate  daughters 
were  the  wives  of  peers.  All  these  fam- 
ilies are  entitled  to  use  the  royal  liv- 
eries. Next  to  this  lineage  of  degrada- 


English  and  American   Cousins. 


187 


tion  come  the  peerages  and  other  grades 
of  rank  founded  primarily  on  wealth,  — 
a  process  naturally  beginning  with  the 
lower  grades.  Hume  tells  us  that  James  I 
created  the  order  of  Baronets  in  1611  by 
selling  two  hundred  of  those  titles  for  a 
thousand  pounds  each.  Mr.  Pitt  went  so 
far  as  to  say  that  all  men  whose  income 
was  rated  at  more  than  twelve  thousand 
pounds  should  be  in  the  House  of  Lords. 
How  systematically  this  method  has  been 
carried  on  to  this  day  may  be  seen  in  the 
following  passage  from  the  Spectator  of 
May  23,  1896 :  — 

"  The  Birthday  Honors  published  on 
May  20  hardly  call  for  comment.  Lord 
Salisbury  does  not  distribute  them  ec- 
centrically, but  according  to  the  regular 
custom,  taking  wealthy  squires  like  Mr. 
E.  Heneage  and  Colonel  Malcolm  of  Pol- 
talloch  for  his  peerages  ;  and  giving  bar- 
onetcies to  Mr.  R.  U.  P.  Fitzgerald,  Mr. 
W.  O.  Dalgleish,  Mr.  Lewis  Mclver, 
Mr.  J.  Verdin,  and  Mr.  C.  Cave,  because 
they  are  wealthy  men  who  have  done 
service  to  the  party." 

If  it  be  said  that  this  process  does 
not  vary  essentially  from  the  method  by 
which  social  rank  is  created  in  America, 
the  reply  is  plain  enough.  Grant  that 
the  two  forms  of  aristocracy  have  much 
in  common,  both  in  their  sense  of  power, 
and  in  that  comforting  fact  which  Lady 
Eastlake  so  finely  pointed  out,  that  both 
of  them  often  "  return  to  the  simplest 
tastes  ;  they  have  everything  that  man 
can  make,  and  therefore  they  turn  to 
what  only  God  can  make."  Nevertheless 
there  is  this  further  difference,  that,  as 
Mr.  Howells  has  so  well  shown,  though 
the  rich  man  may  look  down  as  distinctly 
as  the  lord  can,  the  poor  man  does  not 
equally  look  up.  Note,  too,  that  in  the 
next  place,  the  prestige  of  the  rich  Ameri- 
can vanishes  with  his  wealth,  and  in  case 
he  dies  poor,  his  children  inherit  nothing ; 
whereas  inherited  rank  in  England  goes 
by  blood  only,  and  is  not  impaired  by 
the  fact  that  it  passes  afterwards  into 
the  hands  of  a  bankrupt  or  a  scoundrel. 


The  same  limitation  applies  to  the  riches 
of  the  brain,  which  may  also  refuse  to 
be  hereditary.  One  can  hardly  cast  so 
much  as  a  glance  at  the  United  States 
Senate  in  session,  and  then  at  the  Eng- 
lish House  of  Lords  in  session,  without 
recognizing  the  American  elective  body  to 
have  a  far  more  intellectual  aspect  than 
the  other  assemblage  ;  or  without  further 
observing  that  nine  tenths  of  the  visible 
intellect  in  the  British  House  is  to  be  seen 
in  the  faces  and  foreheads  of  the  Bench 
of  Bishops,  or  the  so-called  Law  Lords, 
whose  origin  may  have  been  of  the  hum- 
blest. "Why  noble  Earls  should  be  so 
ugly,"  wrote  one  English  observer  of  some 
note  in  his  day,  "  is  a  problem  in  na- 
ture ; "  but  the  question  is  not  that  of 
mere  beauty  or  ugliness ;  it  is  of  visible 
mental  power. 

Even  so  far  as  a  possible  heredity 
goes,  it  must  be  recognized  that  a  repub- 
lican life  is  what  makes  grandparents 
most  truly  interesting.  Free  from  the 
technical  whims  of  an  organized  peerage, 
—  such,  for  instance,  as  primogeniture,  — 
one  is  left  free  to  trace  for  good  or  for 
evil  his  inheritance  from  the  various  lines 
of  ancestry.  Those  lines  may  be  drawn 
with  especial  interest  from  public  service 
or  social  prominence ;  from  pursuits,  or 
education,  or  even  wealth.  Whittier's 
Quaker  inheritance  was  as  important  to 
him  as  Longfellow's  parentage  of  judges 
and  landed  proprietors  was  to  him.  I 
knew  an  American  radical,  who,  on  going 
to  England,  paid  some  one  at  the  Her- 
alds' College  to  look  up  his  ancestry. 
Coming  back  to  London  some  months 
later,  he  found  that  the  inquirer  had 
gone  back  no  farther,  as  yet,  than  to 
reach  one  of  his  name  who  was  hanged 
as  a  rebel  under  the  Tudors.  "  Just  as 
I  expected,"  said  the  American  in  de- 
light ;  "  do  not  follow  it  any  further.  I 
am  perfectly  satisfied." 

Fifty  years  ago,  so  far  as  mere  trav- 
eling was  concerned,  the  distinctions  of 
rank  in  the  mother  country  did  not  in- 
trude themselves  on  the  American  cousin. 


188 


English  and  American   Cousins. 


It  was  the  frequent  habit  of  traveling 
Americans,  visiting  England  for  the  first 
time,  to  assume  that  their  hosts  would  be 
ungracious,  and  that  they  themselves 
must  necessarily  wear  a  hedgehog  suit. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  however,  even  then, 
the  American  traveler  usually  laid  aside 
his  prickles  on  the  second  day,  finding 
that  there  was  no  use  for  them  in  those 
small  railway  carriages.  Traveling  Eng- 
lishmen of  all  conditions,  at  least  on  their 
own  soil,  turned  out  quite  as  ready  to 
offer  a  railway  guide,  or  a  bit  of  advice, 
as  in  this  country.  It  is  to  be  remem- 
bered, moreover,  that  the  whole  system  of 
traveling  habits  in  England  —  railways, 
hotels,  and  all  —  has  greatly  expanded 
and  liberalized  within  that  time.  No 
doubt  much  of  the  former  American  in- 
justice was  due  to  the  example  of  Eng- 
lishmen of  the  last  generation  in  doing 
injustice  to  one  another.  Horace  Wai- 
pole  said  that  he  should  love  his  country 
very  much  if  it  were  not  for  his  country- 
men. "  I  hate  Englishmen,"  said  Keats, 
"for  they  are  the  only  men  I  know." 
Heinrich  Heine,  that  Parisian  German, 
said  that  he  was  firmly  convinced  that  a 
blaspheming  Frenchman  was  regarded 
with  more  favor  by  the  Almighty  than  a 
praying  Englishman,  and  one  might  find, 
even  among  Englishmen  themselves,  al- 
most equally  piquant  self-reproaching. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  sense  of  truth- 
fulness, of  national  rectitude,  of  a  cer- 
tain solid  quality,  comes  over  you  like 
a  whiff  of  English  air  in  the  very  tone 
of  voice  of  the  first  railway  porter  you 
meet.  I  recall  vividly,  as  a  type  of  this 
trait,  a  certain  little  English  sergeant, 
with  hair  as  fiery  as  his  uniform,  whom 
I  met  in  an  Irish  post  office  in  1870.  I 
had  landed  at  Cork  the  day  before,  on 
my  first  trans-Atlantic  trip,  soon  after 
the  civil  war ;  and  having  been  lately 
familiar  with  our  own  troops,  felt  a  great 
desire  to  see  those  of  the  mother  coun- 
try. Having  readily  obtained  informa- 
tion from  him  as  to  the  barracks  near 
by,  we  carried  the  conversation  a  little 


further.  My  new  acquaintance  seemed 
pleased  at  hearing  that  I  had  taken  a 
modest  part  in  the  civil  war,  and  rather 
disappointed  to  find  that  I  had  been  on 
what  he  evidently  regarded  as  the  wrong 
side.  He  told  me  in  return  that  al- 
though now  a  sergeant  of  the  Guards, 
he  had  previously  served  in  another  regi- 
ment. Leaving  him  presently,  I  went 
to  purchase  some  stamps  at  the  office, 
where  I  was  somewhat  delayed  by  other 
applicants,  and  also  by  a  natural  in- 
experience in  handling  British  money. 
During  this  time  I  observed  that  my 
friend  of  the  brilliant  coloring  was  lin- 
gering and  keeping  his  eye  on  me,  as  if 
waiting  for  some  further  interview ;  and 
as  I  went  toward  the  door  he  approached 
me,  and  begged  my  pardon  for  say- 
ing something  more.  "  I  told  you,  sir," 
he  said,  "that  I  was  a  sergeant  of  the 
Guards,  which  is  true.  But  I  wish  to  ex- 
plain that  I  was  not  originally  a  mem- 
ber of  that  regiment,  but  was  transferred 
to  it  after  the  battle  of  the  Alma,  where  I 
was  severely  wounded.  I  give  you  my 
word  of  honor,  sir,  that  I  am  the  very 
shortest  man  in  the  corps !  "  I  could 
only  think  of  the  phrase  attributed  to 
the  Duke  of  Wellington,  "  The  Guard 
dies,  but  never  surrenders  !  " 

The  name  of  the  Guards  suggests  to 
me  a  striking  instance  where  an  English 
friend  and  distant  kinsman  of  mine,  then 
in  command  of  the  Grenadier  Guards, 
found  himself  under  the  need  of  testing 
very  suddenly  the  essential  manhood  of 
a  body  of  Englishmen  on  the  dangerous 
verge  of  what  seemed  for  the  moment 
an  insurrection.  It  was  on  that  well-re- 
membered night  when  the  London  mob 
tore  down  the  fences  of  Hyde  Park,  to 
be  used  either  as  bonfires  or  as  barri- 
cades, as  the  case  might  be.  On  that 
perilous  evening,  this  officer  was  dining 
at  a  friend's  house,  all  unconscious  of 
impending  danger,  when  he  received  a 
summons  from  the  War  Department, 
telling  him  that  his  regiment  was  or- 
dered out  to  deal  with  a  mob.  Hurrying 


English  and  American   Cousins. 


189 


back  to  his  own  house,  and  calling  for  his 
man  servant  to  saddle  his  horse,  he  found 
that  the  man  had  gone  by  permission  for 
the  evening,  and  had  the  key  of  the  stable 
in  his  pocket ;  so  that  the  officer,  after 
hastily  donning  his  uniform,  must  pro- 
ceed on  foot  to  the  Guards'  Armory, 
which  lay  on  the  other  side  of  Hyde  Park. 
Walking  hastily  in  that  direction,  he 
came  out  unexpectedly  at  the  very  head- 
quarters of  the  mob,  where  they  were 
piling  up  the  fences.  Already  his  uni- 
form had  been  recognized,  and  angry 
shouts  began  to  rise.  It  must  have 
seemed  for  the  moment  to  the  mob  that 
the  Lord  had  delivered  their  worst  enemy 
into  their  hands.  There  was  but  one  thing 
to  be  done.  Making  his  way  straight 
toward  the  centre  of  action,  he  called  to 
a  man  mounted  on  the  pile,  the  apparent 
leader  of  the  tumult,  "  I  say,  my  good 
fellow,  my  regiment  has  been  called  out 
by  Her  Majesty's  orders.  Will  you  give 
me  a  hand  over  this  pile  ?  "  The  man 
hesitated  for  an  instant,  and  then  said 
with  decision,  "  Boys,  the  gentleman  is 
right !  He  is  doing  his  duty,  and  we  have 
no  quarrel  with  him.  Lend  a  hand,  and 
help  him  over."  This  was  promptly  done, 
with  entire  respect,  and  the  officer,  in  his 
brilliant  uniform,  went  hastily  on  his  way 
amid  three  cheers  from  the  mob,  which 
then  returned  to  its  work,  to  be  completed 
before  he  whom  they  had  aided  should 
come  back  at  the  head  of  his  regiment,  and, 
if  needful,  order  them  to  be  shot  down. 
Surely  the  most  travel-worn  American, 
one  would  think,  when  recalling  such 
scenes,  can  never  revisit  London  without 
being  reminded  of  the  noble  description 
of  that  great  capital  in  Milton's  Areo- 
pagitica,  written  in  1644  :  "  Behold  now 
this  vast  city,  a  city  of  refuge,  the  man- 
sion house  of  liberty,  encompassed  and 
surrounded  with  his  protection  ;  the  shop 
of  war  hath  not  there  more  anvils  and 
hammers  working,  to  fashion  out  the 
plates  and  instruments  of  armed  justice 
in  defence  of  beleaguered  truth,  than 
there  be  pens  and  heads  there  sitting  by 


their  studious  lamps,  musing,  searching, 
revolving  new  notions  and  ideas  where- 
with to  present,  as  with  their  homage 
and  fealty,  the  approaching  reformation  ; 
others  as  fast  reading,  trying  all  things, 
assenting  to  the  force  of  reason  and  con- 
vincement.  .  .  .  Under  these  fantastic 
terrors  of  sect  and  schism,  we  wrong  the 
earnest  and  jealous  thirst  after  know- 
ledge and  understanding  which  God  hath 
stirred  up  in  this  city." 

When  it  comes  to  the  use  of  their  com- 
mon language,  the  English  and  American 
cousins  have  no  doubt  those  variations 
which  habitually  mark  kindred  families, 
even  in  adjacent  houses  ;  and,  as  between 
those  families,  there  are  always  argu- 
ments on  both  sides,  and  many  dictiona- 
ries and  even  lexicons  need  to  be  turned 
over  before  coming  to  a  decision.  In 
the  same  way,  when  a  New  England 
farmer  says,  "  I  don't  know  nothin'  about 
it,"  we  are  apt  to  forget  that  this  dou- 
ble negative  was  a  matter  of  course  in 
the  Anglo-Saxon  (see  Hickes's  Thesau- 
rus), as  it  still  is  in  the  French ;  and  it 
may  be  found  abundantly  in  Chaucer  and 
in  Shakespeare,  as  in  Romeo  and  Ju- 
liet (act  iii,  scene  v),  — 

"  a  sudden  day  of  joy, 
That  thou  expect'st  not  nor  I  look'd  not  for." 

In  the  same  way,  when  our  country 
people  say  "  learn  me,"  instead  of  "  teach 
me,"  they  have  behind  them  the  author- 
ity of  the  English  Bible,  "  learn  me  true 
understanding,"  and  also  of  Chaucer, 
Spenser,  and  Shakespeare,  the  latter, 
curiously  enough,  sometimes  employing 
both  words  in  the  same  sentence,  as  in  The 
Tempest  (act  i,  scene  ii)  where  Cali- 
ban says,  — 

"  You  taught  me  language  ;  .  .  . 
.  .  .  The  red  plague  rid  you 
For  learning  me  your  language  !  " 

The  French  apprendre  combines  the 
meaning  of  the  two  words  in  the  same 
way. 

All  the  cousins  must  admit  that  such 
phrases  are  everywhere  better  preserved 
in  rustic  communities  than  elsewhere. 


190 


English  and  American   Cousins. 


Even  in  America,  we  get  nearer  the 
Chaucerian  and  Shakespearean  dialect  in 
the  country  than  in  the  city.  Old  people 
are  also  necessarily  nearer  to  it  than 
the  young,  whatever  the  language.  Thus 
M.  Pasquier,  who  died  in  France  in  1615 
at  the  age  of  eighty-seven,  remembered 
that  in  his  youth  the  French  word  honnete 
had  still  an  s  in  it,  as  in  the  English  "  hon- 
est," and  complained  that  he  lived  to  see 
the  s  dropped  and  a  circumflex  accent 
substituted.  It  is  to  be  noted,  also,  that 
in  a  new  country  all  changes,  when  once 
introduced,  make  their  way  much  faster 
than  in  an  older  one.  We  still  see  Eng- 
lish critics  laying  the  whole  responsibil- 
ity for  the  dropping  of  the  u  in  "  hon- 
or," "  favor,"  and  the  like,  on  Webster's 
Dictionary,  when  it  really  originated  in 
England  long  before  the  publication  of 
that  work.  It  is  stated  in  The  Gentle- 
man's Magazine  for  1803  (No.  Ixxiii, 
part  i,  p.  146)  that  there  was  at  that  time 
in  the  library  of  St.  John's  College,  Cam- 
bridge, a  copy  of  Middleton's  Life  of 
Cicero  printed  with  the  omission  of  the  u 
in  such  words,  —  a  volume  in  which  some 
pious  student  had  taken  the  pains  to  re- 
insert them  all.  It  would,  at  that  time, 
have  been  thought  an  equal  outrage  to 
drop  the  closing  k  from  physick,  musick, 
publick,  and  the  like,  the  only  difference 
being  that  the  u  has  thus  far  held  its  own, 
and  the  k  has  not.  The  English  language 
simply  changes  faster  in  America  than 
in  England ;  and  in  this  respect,  as  in 
some  others,  we  are  more  like  the  French 
in  our  qualities.  Vaugelas,  an  old  French 
translator  of  Quintus  Curtius,  after  de- 
voting thirty  years  to  the  work,  had  to 
correct  the  language  and  spelling  of  the 
earlier  part  to  make  it  conform  to  that 
of  the  latter  pages ;  so  that  the  critic 
Voiture  applied  to  his  case  the  Latin  epi- 
gram of  Martial  on  a  barber  who  did  his 
work  so  slowly  that  the  hair  began  to 
grow  again  upon  one  half  the  face,  while 
he  was  shaving  the  other. 

When  we  pass  from  the  comparative 
dialects  of  the  English  and  American 


cousins  to  their  respective  intonations,  we 
find  that,  as  Mr.  William  Archer  has 
admirably  pointed  out  in  the  Pall  Mall 
Magazine,  there  are  so  many  whims  and 
inconsistencies  to  be  counted  up  in  each 
family  that  it  is  hardly  worth  while  to 
strike  the  balance.  In  colloquial  utter- 
ance it  is  a  curious  fact  that  the  nation 
which  uses  the  more  even  and  uninflected 
tone  is  the  more  impetuous  and  impulsive 
of  the  two,  namely,  the  American  ;  while 
the  Englishman,  slower  and  more  staid, 
has  yet  a  far  more  varied  intonation. 
The  most  patriotic  American,  after  a 
stay  of  some  months  in  England,  is  struck 
by  a  certain  flatness  and  monotony  in 
the  prevailing  utterance  of  his  fellow 
countrymen,  on  the  quarter-deck  of  the 
returning  steamer.  Here,  as  in  most 
things,  there  is  a  middle  ground,  and  the 
two  families  are  much  less  distinguish- 
able in  this  respect  than  formerly.  The 
American  nasality  is  also  toned  down, 
and  it  is  more  and  more  common  for  two 
English-speaking  strangers  to  meet  and 
try  in  vain  to  guess  the  national  origin 
of  each  other.  When  it  comes  to  the  ac- 
tual pronunciation,  it  is  a  curious  fact  to 
notice,  that  special  variations  of  speech 
in  the  English  lower  class  have  ceased 
to  be  accidental  and  unconscious,  if  they 
ever  were  so,  but  are  more  deliberate  and, 
so  to  speak,  premeditated,  than  those 
of  the  corresponding  class  —  so  far  as 
there  is  such  a  class  —  in  America.  I 
heard  with  interest,  for  the  first  time, 
in  a  third-class  railway  carriage  in  Lon- 
don an  evidently  conscientious  and  care- 
ful mother  impressing  on  her  child  as  a 
duty  that  extraordinary  transformation 
of  the  letter  a  into  i  or  y,  of  which  the 
best  manual  is  to  be  found  in  Mr.  White- 
ing's  inexhaustible  tale,  No.  5  John 
Street.  His  neighbors  on  that  street 
usually  transformed  "  paper  "  into  "  pi- 
per," "  lady  "  into  "  lidy,"  and  "  always  " 
into  "  alwize."  In  my  own  case,  when 
a  sudden  shower  came  up,  the  little  boy 
called  attention  to  it,  in  what  would  seem 
to  us  a  natural  enough  dialect,  ''  Mother, 


English  and  American  Cousins. 


it 's  rainin' !  "  "  You  should  n't  say  rain- 
in',"  said  the  anxious  mother ;  "  you 
should  say  rynin' !  "  It  brought  home 
to  me  a  similar  attempt,  on  the  part  of 
an  Irish- American  orator,  to  correct  Sen- 
ator Lodge's  habitual  and  very  proper 
pronunciation  of  the  place  of  his  summer 
residence,  Nahant.  "  Mr.  Lodge  of  Na- 
hant,"  said  the  orator,  with  a  contemptu- 
ous prolongation  of  the  last  two  vowels. 
He  then  paused  for  a  sympathetic  re- 
sponse from  a  Cambridge  audience,  but 
receiving  none,  he  repeated,  "  Mr.  Lodge 
of  Nahant ;  that 's  the  way  he  calls  it. 
Common  people  call  it  N&hant." 

The  conclusive  statement  as  to  the 
future  relation  of  English  and  American 
cousins  may  perhaps  be  found  in  that 
quiet  sentence  in  which  Emerson's  vol- 
ume called  English  Traits  sums  up  (in 
1856)  its  whole  contents :  "  It  is  no- 
ticeable that  England  is  beginning  to 
interest  us  a  little  less."  Toward  this 
tends  the  whole  discussion  of  that  in 
which  the  mother  country  differs  from 
her  still  formidable  rival,  France,  on  the 
one  side,  and  from  her  gigantic  child,  the 
American  Republic,  on  the  other.  As 
against  both  of  these,  England  still  clings 
to  the  toy  of  royalty  and  all  which  it  im- 
plies. Against  countries  where  aspir- 
ing intellect  finds  nothing  too  high  for 
it  to  aim  at,  there  still  remains  in  Eng- 
land the  absolute  precedence  of  the  House 
of  Lords.  I  knew  a  young  American 
girl,  who,  going  to  England  under  the 
care  of  an  ambassador's  family,  and 
attending  her  first  large  dinner  party, 
selected,  upon  looking  about  her,  as  the 
most  interesting  guest  in  the  room,  one 
man  of  distinguished  aspect,  whom  she 
resolved  to  watch.  When  the  guests 
were  ushered  into  the  dining-hall  accord- 
ing to  the  laws  of  precedence,  she  found 
herself  at  the  very  end  of  the  brilliant 
procession,  as  one  of  two  untitled  plebe- 
ians, in  company  with  the  very  man  who 
had  interested  her,  and  who  proved  to 
be  Samuel  Rogers,  the  poet  and  patron 
of  art,  and  the  recognized  head  of  liter- 


ary society  in  London.  She  always  said 
that  she  secured  two  things  at  that  en- 
tertainment, namely,  the  most  delight- 
ful companion  that  she  ever  had  at  a 
dinner  party,  and,  moreover,  a  lesson  in 
the  outcome  of  mere  hereditary  rank  that 
would  last  a  lifetime.  Rogers's  poems 
are  not  now  read  so  much  as  formerly, 
but  at  that  time  the  highest  attention  a 
literary  American  visitor  could  receive 
in  London  was  to  dine  with  him.  He 
was  also  one  of  the  richest  bankers  in 
that  city,  and  was  very  possibly  the  only 
person  in  the  room  who  had  won  for  him- 
self a  reputation  outside  of  his  own  little 
island ;  but  he  was  next  to  nobody  in  that 
company,  and  the  little  American  girl 
was  the  nobody. 

Max  O'Rell  points  out  that  the  French- 
man who  takes  no  notice  of  a  duke  will 
turn  to  take  a  second  look  at  a  great 
literary  man  or  savant.  No  doubt  the 
English  aristocracy,  as  is  always  the 
case  with  aristocracies,  often  goes  out  of 
its  way  to  do  honor  to  literature  and  art 
in  the  form  of  courtesy  or  patronage ; 
but  this,  too,  has  its  limits.  It  is  easy 
enough  for  a  literary  man  in  England  to 
dine  with  a  lord  who  shares  his  own 
tastes ;  it  is  only  when  he  is  asked  to 
dine  with  a  stupid  lord  that  the  attention 
can  be  counted  as  a  social  recognition. 
Even  in  this  case  it  may  be  in  the  hope 
of  finding  the  barbaric  guest  amusing ; 
and  it  was  said  that  the  immediate  cause 
of  the  artist  Haydon's  suicide  was  his 
despair  at  being  hopelessly  eclipsed  in 
polite  society  by  Tom  Thumb.  If  this  is 
true,  what  fatal  instances  of  self-destruc- 
tion may  not  have  taken  place  among 
American  artists  and  authors  who  found 
themselves  equally  outshone  in  the  Eng- 
lish fashionable  life  by  Buffalo  Bill ! 

But  let  us  turn  from  these  trifles  and 
go  deeper.  No  American  could  possi- 
bly have  passed  through  England  dur- 
ing the  anxious  days  of  President  Mc- 
Kinley's  final  ordeal  and  death,  without 
being  profoundly  impressed  with  the  in- 
alienable tie  between  the  two  nations 


192 


Verses  to   Colonel  Thomas    Wentworth  Higyinson. 


whose  cousinship  never  before  was  so 
strikingly  visible.  I  happened  to  be  at 
Exeter,  a  city  as  marked,  perhaps,  as  any 
in  England  for  all  that  is  non-American 
in  church  and  state.  All  through  that 
fatal  Sunday  the  telegrams  conveying  the 
latest  returns  were  put  out,  ^from  time  to 
time,  at  the  windows  of  the  office,  and 
all  day  long  one  might  see  groups  or  sin- 
gle observers  coming,  going,  and  pausing 
to  inspect ;  even  children  eagerly  trans- 
mitting the  successive  items  of  news  from 
one  to  another.  There  was  no  religious 
service  held  in  the  city,  from  the  most 
conservative  to  the  most  liberal,  where 
there  was  not  some  reference  made  to 
the  incident.  In  all  of  these  there  was 
reported  —  and  as  to  three  or  four  I  can 
personally  testify  —  a  fullness  of  feeling 


such  as  touched  the  heart  of  every  Ameri- 
can. On  the  next  morning,  whole  pages 
of  the  country  newspapers,  usually  so  bar- 
ren of  American  items,  were  crowded  with 
reports  of  Sunday  services  in  various 
towns  and  villages.  Driving  through  the 
country,  in  any  direction,  during  those 
sorrowful  days,  one  saw  mourning  flags 
here  and  there,  on  the  streets,  on  public 
buildings,  and  before  private  houses.  In 
London  the  very  omnibus  drivers  some- 
times carried  them.  We  were  constantly 
told  that  no  European  sovereign's  death 
had  ever  brought  forth  so  much  testimo- 
nial of  grief,  and  we  could  well  believe  it. 
No  American  who  happened  to  be  in 
England  during  that  experience  can  ever 
again  doubt  the  depth  and  reality  of  Eng- 
lish and  American  cousinship. 

Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson. 


VERSES  TO   COLONEL  THOMAS   WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON 

ON   HIS   EIGHTIETH    BIRTHDAY. 

PREACHER  of  a  liberal  creed, 
Pioneer  in  Freedom's  cause; 
Ever  prompt  to  take  the  lead 
In  behalf  of  saner  laws, 
Still  your  speech  persuasive  flows 
As  the  brooks  of  Helicon. 
You  have  earned  a  fair  repose, 
Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson  ! 

You  have  never  stooped  to  feat 
Taunt  of  opulence  or  place, 
Smug  convention's  frosty  sneer, 
Fashion's  elegant  grimace. 
In  your  youthful  vision  pure 
Truth  a  constellation  shone. 
Truth  is  still  your  cynosure, 
Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson. 

Throbbing  with  indignant  zeal, 
Lawlessly  you  sought  to  save 
From  the  law's  relentless  seal 
Burns  the  fugitive,  a  slave. 


Verses  to   Colonel  Thomas    Wentworth  Higginson.  193 

Your  indictment  came  to  naught, 
For  some  flaw  was  hit  upon. 
Time  is  an  enshrining  court, 
Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson. 

Wounded  where  the  bravest  fell 
To  redeem  your  fellow  men  ; 
Working  by  the  double  spell 
Of  your  eloquence  and  pen ; 
Now  that  eighty  years  are  scored, 
Busy  souls  may  pause  to  con. 
'T  was  the  service  of  the  Lord, 
Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson. 

You  have  printed  many  lines 

To  inspire  an  eager  age. 

Counsel  wholesome  as  our  pines, 

Timely  essays  keen  and  sage. 

Memories  of  "  Oldport  Days  " 

Which  we  love  to  dwell  upon,  , 

With  your  "  Cheerful  Yesterdays," 

Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson. 

Eighty  years  are  but  a  crown 

When  the  soul  is  true  and  kind, 

And  sparse  locks  of  grizzled  brown 

Grace  a  vigorous  active  mind. 

Soldier,  patriot,  and  seer, 

Writer,  scholar,  gentleman, 

To  the  native  heart  more  dear 

For  the  gauntlet  which  you  ran 

In  pursuit  of  many  a  goal 

Which  the  creeping  world  condemned ; 

Aspiration  kept  your  soul, 

And  you  feared  not  to  offend. 

Lo !  amid  your  autumn  leaves 

What  men  scorned  now  truth  appears, 

And  your  dreams  are  bearing  sheaves 

In  the  harvest  of  your  years. 

Preacher  of  a  liberal  creed, 
Pioneer  in  Freedom's  cause  ; 
Ever  prompt  to  take  the  lead 
In  behalf  of  saner  laws, 
Still  your  speech  persuasive  flows 
As  the  brooks  of  Helicon. 
You  have  earned  a  fair  repose, 
Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson ! 

Robert  Grant. 

VOL.  xcni.  —  NO.  556.  13 


194 


Is   Commercialism  in  Disgrace  ? 


IS  COMMERCIALISM   IN   DISGRACE? 


IT  must  be  admitted  that  a  certain 
ignominy  rests  upon  "  Commercialism  " 
as  that  term  is  commonly  used.  It  is  not 
merely  that,  in  the  recent  months,  we  have 
witnessed  something  like  a  national  out- 
burst of  mingled  indignation  and  cyni- 
cism because  the  poker  mask  has  been 
torn  from  certain  giddy  schemes  of  the 
"  high  finance."  Such  obloquy  as  exists 
dates  from  days  older  than  Christian- 
ity. Neither  Plato  nor  Cicero  conceals 
his  scorn  of  the  trader.  So  long  as  the 
heroic  energies  of  the  race  were  given 
to  war,  it  was  inevitable  that  some  odi- 
um should  be  associated  with  mercantile 
pursuits.  These  obscure  callings  then 
brought  no  splendor  of  social  distinction. 
They  were  honestly  believed  to  be  squal- 
id occupations.  Every  enlarged  privi- 
lege of  the  trader  had  to  be  gained  by 
cunning,  by  bribes,  or  by  slavish  impor- 
tunities. There  is  quite  enough  humili- 
ating economic  history  in  our  own  civil 
war  to  make  this  clear.  A  man  of  sci- 
ence in  the  employ  of  the  Government 
went  to  Mr.  Lincoln,  in  1863,  to  tell  him 
how  the  large  contractors  were  debauch- 
ing our  politicians  and  fleecing  the  Gov- 
ernment. Mr.  Lincoln  heard  his  story, 
but  at  its  end  surprised  the  visitor  by 

saying,  "  Mr. ,  I  know  all  that  and 

a  good  deal  more,  but  to  stop  this  thiev- 
ing would  stop  the  war." 

Every  gluttonous  passion  for  gain  had 
so  instantly  allied  itself  with  the  desper- 
ate practical  needs  to  which  war  gives 
rise,  that  to  stop  the  looting  was  to  im- 
peril the  work  of  the  army  in  the  field. 
The  financial  orgies  connected  with  mod- 
ern wars  in  Russia,  France,  and  England 
are  well  known.  Even  of  the  German 
war  of  1870,  a  Berlin  banker  has  said 
that  the  secret  history  of  supplying  the 
army  at  that  time  would,  if  allowed  to 
be  published,  shock  the  whole  Father- 
land. If  this  be  true  to-day,  it  is  easy 


to  understand  how  business  methods  must 
have  suffered  in  ages  that  were  prevail- 
ingly military. 

It  is  less  clear  why  the  reproach  should 
appear  among  the  scholastic  economists 
who  had  come  to  disapprove  of  war  and 
to  recognize  the  social  service  of  trade. 
Yet  a  world  of  proof  is  at  hand  that  the 
trader  had  a  sorry  task  to  account  for 
himself  morally.  The  ethical  censure 
was  severest  against  those  whose  main 
occupation  it  was  to  take  interest  on 
moneys,  and  it  was  long  before  usury 
was  distinguished  from  interest.  In  spite 
of  civil  laws,  as  late  as  the  fourteenth 
century  the  church  prohibited  usury  on 
moral  grounds.  Aquinas  condemns  it  as 
against  nature  and  all  precepts  of  reli- 
gion, while  Dante  in  the  Inferno  has  the 
usurers  in  his  low  seventh  circle  of  Hell. 
One  might  charge  interest  to  an  enemy 
as  a  means  of  punishing  him,  — 

"  If  thou  wilt  lend  this  money,  lend  it  not 
As  to  thy  friend,  —  for  when  did  friendship 

take 

A  breed  of  barren  metal  of  his  friend  ? 
But  lend  it  rather  to  thine  enemy." 

If  the  military  era  be  thought  to  char- 
acterize race  effort  until  the  modern  in- 
dustrial regime  fairly  begins,  this  would 
go  far  to  account  for  these  earlier  disgraces 
of  money-getting  as  a  primary  occupation. 
It  is  the  soldier  in  Napoleon  that  taunts 
England  with  being  a  nation  of  shopkeep- 
ers. It  was  meant  in  derision,  and  was 
taken  in  the  polite  world  as  an  insult. 
Even  Ruskin  delights  to  hold  up  the 
soldier  as  a  gallant  figure,  in  comparison 
with  which  the  trader  is  but  a  shabby 
creature. 

Yet  this  conflict  between  military  and 
industrial  ideals  but  partially  explains 
the  aversion  to  commercialism.  Other 
hostilities  have  arisen  which,  in  their 
origin,  are  quite  apart  from  this  tradition 
of  war  versus  peace.  Three  terms  are 


Is  Commercialism  in  Disgrace  ? 


195 


now  in  current  use  :  "  industrialism," 
"  capitalism,"  '•  commercialism."  While 
a  literature  of  vituperation  has  appeared 
against  capitalism  and  commercialism, 
there  is  rarely  a  word  of  abuse  for  indus- 
trialism, probably  because  it  stands  pop- 
ularly for  the  quieter  and  better  behaved 
processes  of  wealth  production.  This 
inoffensive  term  represents,  however,  the 
principles  applicable  to  industry  as  now 
organized  and  carried  on.  Yet  it  goes 
scot  free,  while  capitalism  and  commer- 
cialism take  their  scathing.  As  the  one 
term  is  taken  at  its  best,  the  other  two  are 
taken  at  their  worst. 

One  could  fill  an  encyclopaedia  with 
picturesque  and  vehement  denunciation 
of  commercialism  from  the  pulpit,  from 
men  of  letters,  from  social  and  political 
reformers,  and  especially  from  the  whole 
world  of  art.  We  hear  a  great  deal 
about  the  commercializing  of  the  church  ; 
the  exclusion  of  the  poor  by  the  money 
standard  of  high  pew  rents,  and  the  un- 
due influence  there  of  rich  men.  From 
political  reformers  we  hear  no  less  inces- 
santly about  the  impudent  disregard  of 
every  civic  decency,  if  only  franchises 
or  legislative  immunities  are  required. 
It  is  against  these  dangers  to  our  polit- 
ical health  and  well-being  that  the  moral 
revolt  culminates.  Yet  neck  to  neck  in 
this  tilt  against  commercialism,  every- 
where may  be  found  the  artist.  It  is 
the  artist  in  Morris,  in  Zola,  in  Ibsen, 
that  flames  out  against  "  the  sordidness 
of  our  huckster  age."  In  Carlyle,  in 
Raskin,  in  Tolstoi,  one  is  uncertain 
whether  the  anger  springs  first  from 
the  moralist  or  first  from  the  artist. 

The  moral  reproach  is  directed  largely 
against  the  passion  for  gain  when  it  be- 
comes an  end  in  itself.  Once  the  am- 
plest competence  has  been  won,  why,  it  is 
asked,  should  the  fever  and  the  strain  go 
on  until  the  victim  has  no  other  joy  left 
but  this  accumulating  for  its  own  sake  ? 
In  one  of  his  later  essays  Max  Muller 
maintained  that  this  disease  was  under 
our  control.  His  remedy  took  the  form 


of  an  appeal,  to  those  who  had  gained  this 
competence,  to  quit  work,  not  merely  for 
their  own  sake,  but  to  open  the  way  for 
younger  men.  There  appears  to  be  no 
eagerness  to  take  this  counsel  so  long  as 
the  "  disease  "  is  there.  It  is  precisely 
this  unnatural  stimulus  to  mass  unneces- 
sary gains  which  has  brought  against  our 
competitive  system  the  most  convincing 
ethical  reproach.  Commercialism,  in  its 
current  bad  sense,  has  come  to  stand  for 
all  this  abnormal  overdoing,  as  well  as 
for  the  incidental  frauds  that  may  accom- 
pany it. 

It  was  Ruskin's  opinion  that  we  should 
not  become  a  civilized  people  until  men 
went  into  business  to  serve  their  fellows. 
Men  with  genuine  spiritual  elevation  go 
into  the  church  under  the  influence  of 
this  motive.  Why,  asks  Ruskin,  should 
we  not  take  up  business  with  the  express 
object  of  doing  good  ?  I  once  heard  this 
view  stated  before  a  group  of  business 
men  of  the  better  sort.  It  was  taken 
first  as  a  sally  of  humor.  When  the 
speaker  grew  serious  about  it,  the  audi- 
ence still  regarded  it  as  food  for  merri- 
ment. It  was  like  telling  a  soldier  that 
he  was  in  the  army  for  the  purpose  of 
forgiving  his  enemies.  Men  go  to  busi- 
ness with  the  very  distinct  aim  of  mak- 
ing money.  Multitudes  of  them  have 
high  and  unselfish  motives  about  the  use 
to  which  the  money  shall  be  put  when 
gained.  First,  and  most  general,  is  the 
support  and  education  of  the  family. 
The  affections  which  centre  there  are  the 
spring  of  much  of  the  hardest  work  men 
do  in  business.  Nor  is  money  ever  used 
to  better  purpose.  Others,  obviously  in 
considerable  numbers,  are  moved  by  the 
hope  of  enriching  the  community  life 
by  gifts.  For  beauty,  health,  recreation, 
educational  opportunity,  several  hundred 
millions  have  been  given  to  our  people 
in  the  last  generation. 

To  say  that  men  go  to  business  solely 
for  money  conceals  more  truth  than  it 
discloses.  It  is  true  that  the  first  object 
is  not  to  do  good,  but  to  get  money,  and 


196 


7s   Commercialism  in  Disgrace  ? 


it  is  this  primary  and  engrossing  aim 
which  brings  it  into  conflict  with  those 
who  are  striving  first  for  other  ideals. 
An  architect,  if  he  have  the  serious  pas- 
sion of  the  artist,  insists  first  upon  the 
fitness,  symmetry,  and  beauty  of  his  de- 
sign. To  say  that  he  thinks  first  of 
money  is  to  say  that  he  is  not  first  an  ar- 
tist. To  the  business  man  who  employs 
the  architect,  the  controlling  aim  is  likely 
to  be  the  return  upon  his  investment. 
"  Fitness "  to  him  and  to  the  designer 
is  not  the  same  word.  Symmetry  and 
beauty  must  take  their  chances.  They 
are  subservient  and  secondary  to  other 
purposes.  There  is  no  sphere  of  art, 
science,  politics,  or  religion  in  which  this 
conflict  is  not  felt.  So  long  as  the  money 
motive  acts  on  its  own  plane,  it  is  with- 
out offense ;  but  let  it  once  invade  the 
field  of  other  arts,  conflict  arises  so  far 
as  it  essays  to  dominate  there.  It  is 
this  attempted  domination  against  which 
all  those  who  are  loyal  to  other  ideals 
enter  protest. 

The  very  existence  of  the  Arts  and 
Crafts  Societies  is  owing  to  the  rude 
ascendency  of  commercialism  in  a  sphere 
where  it  should  serve  and  not  rule.  Quan- 
tity, and  not  quality,  will  be  the  busi- 
ness aim  ;  specialization  will  separate  the 
designer  from  the  craftsman,  and  every 
art  value  will  become  accidental.  The 
heroic  effort  of  these  associations  to  keep 
the  designer  and  craftsman  together,  to 
give  the  conditions  and  leisure  for  per- 
fect workmanship,  to  safeguard  the  ut- 
most freedom  of  the  artistic  impulse,  is 
a  valiant  attempt  to  keep  the  enemy  at 
bay.  The  more  definite  form  which  the 
enemy  takes  in  this  special  field  is  the 
machine.  It  is  the  body,  of  which  com- 
mercialism may  be  called  the  soul. 

The  embittered  diatribes  of  Ruskin 
against  this  monster  are  now  seen  to  be 
whimsical  in  their  extravagance.  In  its 
place  the  machine,  like  commercialism,  is 
as  much  a  part  of  civilization  as  a  statue, 
a  symphony,  or  the  Stones  of  Venice.  It 
is  only  when  machinery  is  allowed  to 


enslave  us,  or  is  set  to  tasks  for  which  its 
automatic  character  forever  unfits  it,  that 
objection  is  raised.  The  artist  must  have 
structure  and  raw  material  on  which  to 
work.  The  imprint  which  the  pliant 
spirit  of  his  genius  leaves  on  this  mate- 
rial is  art.  Those  who  deserve  the  name 
of  artist  fret  and  are  jealous  when  the 
machine  is  out  of  place.  They  feel,  and 
feel  rightly,  that,  out  of  place,  its  results 
are  mischievous.  In  no  sphere  better 
than  that  of  the  artist  can  one  see  that 
the  contest  is  not  against  the  proper 
service  of  the  machine,  or  the  business 
spirit  that  works  through  it,  but  against 
specific  perversities  traceable  to  man's 
ignorance  and  greed.  The  artists  are, 
however,  not  alone  in  this  crusade. 

Three  men  of  such  splendid  equipment 
as  John  Stuart  Mill,  Professor  F.  A. 
Lange,  and  Herbert  Spencer  would  class 
awkwardly  as  artists,  yet  each  writes 
himself  down  among  the  sharpest  censors 
of  commercialism.  Though  the  displea- 
sure of  the  socialist  is  primarily  against 
capitalism,  because  the  world's  machin- 
ery is  so  narrowly  owned  that  it  turns 
interest,  rent,  and  profits  into  the  private 
purse,  rather  than  into  the  common  trea- 
sury, yet  socialists  never  weary  of  de- 
faming the  mercantile  spirit.  To  make 
things  for  profit  and  gain,  rather  than  for 
use,  is  a  sin  they  never  allow  us  to  forget. 
We  read,  without  surprise,  in  Belfort  Bax: 
"  In  the  commercial  relation,  as  such,  the 
moral  relation  is  abolished.  .  .  .  Con- 
science, which  has  its  ground  in  social 
union,  can  have  no  part  nor  lot  with  com- 
merce which  has  its  ground  in  anti-social 
greed."  No  one,  indeed,  quite  matches 
the  thorough-going  socialist  in  damnatory 
phrases.  Yet  if  our  social  destinies  ever 
fall  under  collectivist  control,  trade  and 
commerce,  with  political  management, 
would  still  go  on.  They  assure  us  that 
capitalism  would  cease,  as  the  mech- 
anism of  production  —  railways,  banks, 
mills,  mines  —  slowly  passes  to  public 
ownership. 

The   formidable   task   that  socialism 


Is  Commercialism  in  Disgrace  ? 


197 


sets  itself  is  to  do  the  world's  work  direct- 
ly by  the  community,  without  the  help  of 
the  individual  money  lender  and  profit 
maker.  The  community,  as  communi- 
ty, is  to  furnish  the  capital  and  the  man- 
agement, and  is,  therefore,  to  retain  the 
fruits  of  both.  If  only  the  community 
(city  and  state)  could  do  this  effective- 
ly, capitalism,  as  now  understood,  would 
cease.  Commercialism  in  some  sense 
must  go  on.  The  socialist's  easy  answer 
to  a  hard  question  helps  us  in  this  inquiry. 
He  assures  us  that  every  fang  of  commer- 
cialism would  be  drawn  if  it  were  once 
freed  from  certain  abuses.  With  this 
the  sturdiest  individualist  agrees,  only 
he  would  fix  upon  another  order  of  abuses 
as  the  chief  source  of  danger.  To  him, 
the  first  and  supreme  difficulty  is  neither 
in  the  "incubus  of  the  three  rents,"  nor  in 
the  private  control  of  machinery.  So  far 
as  these  are  evil,  they  are  secondary  and 
not  primary.  Thus,  when  Spencer,  the 
"  High  Priest  of  individualism,"  criti- 
cises trade,  he  is  of  more  help  to  us  than 
Mr.  Bax. 

It  is  Spencer  who  has  made  the  great 
plea  of  our  time  in  favor  of  industrialism 
as  against  the  military  spirit.  He  is  the 
doughtiest  individualist  in  the  arena,  yet 
in  his  Morals  of  Trade  he  writes :  "  On 
all  sides  we  have  found  the  result  of  long 
personal  experience  to  be  the  conviction 
that  trade  is  essentially  corrupt.  .  .  . 
To  live  in  the  commercial  world  it  appears 
necessary  to  adopt  its  ethical  code  :  nei- 
ther exceeding  nor  falling  short  of  it,  — 
neither  being  less  honest  nor  more  hon- 
est. Those  who  sink  below  its  standard 
are  expelled  ;  while  those  who  rise  above 
it  are  either  pulled  down  to  it  or  ruined. 
As,  in  self-defense,  the  civilized  man  be- 
comes savage  among  savages ;  so,  it 
seems  that,  in  self-defense,  the  scrupu- 
lous trader  is  obliged  to  become  as  little 
scrupulous  as  his  competitors.  It  has 
been  said  that  the  law  of  the  animal  crea- 
tion is  —  Eat  and  be  eaten  ;  and  of  our 
trading  community  it  may  similarly  be 
said  that  its  law  is  —  Cheat  or  be  cheated. 


A  system  of  keen  competition,  carried 
on,  as  it  is,  without  adequate  moral  re- 
straint, is  very  much  a  system  of  com- 
mercial cannibalism.  Its  alternatives 
are  —  Use  the  same  weapons  as  your 
antagonists,  or  be  conquered  and  de- 
voured." 

This  essay  was  written  nearly  a  half 
century  ago,  when  the  position  of  a 
tradesman  in  England  was  something 
better  than  that  of  a  lackey.  No  son 
of  the  great  Argyle  yet  sold  tea,  nor 
had  the  scions  of  stately  houses  begun 
to  flock  to  city  markets  with  the  express 
object  of  making  money  in  trade.  They 
do  not  thus  far  take  gayly  to  retailing 
useful  commodities,  but  they  take  al- 
most greedily  to  various  forms  of  money 
lending ;  though,  in  the  hands  of  Jews, 
this  was  thought  by  Christians,  for  cen- 
turies, to  be  but  a  scurvy  pursuit.  This 
knightly  approval  of  the  hitherto  vulgar 
has  much  to  encourage  us,  though  it  may 
not  wholly  rescue  the  higgling  of  the 
market  from  its  knaveries. 

Of  the  tart  comments  of  Lange  and 
Mill  on  commercial  practices,  it  may  be 
said  confidently  that  their  own  writings 
show  that  they  were  dealing  with  the 
abuses  of  trade,  and  not  with  its  uses. 
The  cheating  and  the  buccaneering  con- 
nected with  trade  sting  Spencer  into 
indiscriminate  protests  that  seem  an  im- 
peachment of  the  entire  industrial  and 
trade  process,  which  is  commercialism, 
unless  we  choose  arbitrarily  to  apply 
this  word  to  whatever  is  evil  in  our  in- 
dustrial life.  The  products  which  con- 
stitute wealth  must  in  some  way  be 
exchanged,  and  the  methods  of  these 
exchanges  must  be  organized.  What 
names  shall  we  give  to  those  trade  func- 
tions ?  Shall  we  invent  a  new  word, 
or  shall  we  retain  commercialism,  with 
the  knowledge  that  it  must,  like  other 
race  forces,  include  the  evil  with  the 
good? 

After  writing  the  words  "  trade  is 
essentially  corrupt,"  Spencer  shows  us 
that  he  does  n't  quite  mean  it.  He  not 


198 


Is  Commercialism  in  Disgrace  ? 


only  speaks  of  "the  large  amount  of 
honest  dealing,"  but  adds,  "There  is  no 
good  reason  for  believing  that  the  trad- 
ing classes  are  intrinsically  worse  than 
other  classes."  He  then  straightway 
exposes  with  much  skill  the  frailties  in 
other  professions.  Nor  does  he  fall  into 
the  error  of  many  socialists,  who  would 
have  us  believe  that,  if  it  were  not  for 
our  present  business  regime,  all  other 
callings,  like  medicine,  letters,  law,  and 
politics  would  forthwith  be  clean  and 
disinterested. 

By  no  torturing  of  the  word  can  com- 
mercialism be  made  to  bear  so  heavy  a 
burden.  Average  human  nature,  with 
its  undisciplined  hungers,  underlies  this 
and  all  other  ways  of  winning  power. 
It  has  come  about  that  no  symbol  of 
what  man  desires  has  quite  the  fasci- 
nation that  attaches  to  money.  With 
neither  question  nor  delay,  it  exchanges 
for  all  other  forms  of  wealth.  As  no 
other,  it  opens  the  way  to  every  satisfac- 
tion, save  the  rarest  and  highest,  for 
which  ordinary  folk  do  not  agonize.  To 
possess  this  medium  of  exchange  a  part 
of  the  race  will  sacrifice  most  other 
values. 

Because  the  most  dazzling  prizes  in 
this  kind  are  connected  with  the  market 
and  trade,  ambitious  men  flock  thither 
and  play  the  game  according  to  their 
character,  as  they  play  all  other  games, 
—  love,  war,  or  politics.  Even  in  the 
excesses  of  these  "  men  of  the  market," 
they  usually  act'  with  the  consent  of  the 
community  in  which  they  live.  A  cor- 
poration wants  a  franchise  for  a  street 
railway,  and  it  wants  it  at  the  earliest 
possible  date.  The  bolder  officials  say 
plainly,  that,  if  it  is  to  he  done  in  busi- 
ness fashion,  legislatures  or  city  councils 
must  be  manipulated. 

Now  it  happens  that  the  whole  com- 
munity wants  quickness,  as  the  business 
man  wants  it.  Society  is  impatient  for 
speedy  and  imposing  results.  This  is 
the  atmosphere  in  which  our  hardiest 
business  men  live  ijj  common  with  most 


of  their  neighbors.  If  there  is  a  twist 
in  the  character  of  the  petty  retailer,  he 
plays  the  game  just  as  disreputably  as 
the  most  rakish  millionaire.  Blood  sis- 
ter to  these  is  the  woman  who,  with  more 
or  less  indirection,  lies  her  pretty  things 
through  the  Custom  House  in  known 
violation  of  the  law  of  her  own  land.  Of 
the  same  kin  is  that  multitude  of  those 
whose  delight  is  in  extremes  of  cheapness 
that  are  a  direct  premium  on  dishonesty. 
or  inconsistent  with  a  living  wage  to  the 
workers,  as  in  the  sweat-shop,  or  in  the 
many  uses  of  child  labor. 

While  low-priced  commodities  are  as 
much  a  boon  to  people  of  small  resources 
as  are  higher  wages,  there  are  countless 
forms  of  cheapness  under  which  dishon- 
esty is  organized  with  deliberate  intent 
to  trick  the  public.  They  may  take 
shape  in  arbitrary  rebates  to  favored 
persons,  or  in  a  "  cut-price  "  drug  store, 
where  articles  known  for  their  genuine- 
ness and  excellence  are  advertised  at  cost. 
If  one  asks  in  these  jugglers'  shops  for 
the  honest  article,  the  main  occupation 
behind  the  counter  is  to  persuade  the 
customer  that  some  adulterated  article, 
at  half  the  price,  is  quite  as  good.  This 
succeeds  often  enough  to  make  the  im- 
position profitable.  Necessity,  ignorance, 
or  greed  on  the  part  of  the  customer 
gives  enormous  scope  to  these  humbug 
wiles. 

It  is  again  the  very  essence  of  the 
whole  gambling  spirit,  and  the  protean 
shapes  it  takes  in  the  community,  to 
get  an  advantage  without  an  equivalent. 
Yet  from  top  to  bottom,  this  temper  per- 
meates society.  It  may  be  nearly  as  com- 
mon among  factory  operatives  as  in  a  club 
of  the  idle  rich.  Newshoys,  miners,  and 
dagos  may  do  far  more  gambling  in  pro- 
portion to  their  means  than  any  class 
of  the  well-to-do,  as  it  is  almost  a  pri- 
mary occupation  among  many  primitive 
peoples  who  have  no  commercialism  what- 
ever. 

Admitting,  then,  to  the  full  the  dreary 
list  of  sinister  facts  that  are  a  part  of 


Is  Commercialism  in  Disgrace  ? 


199 


trade,  there  is  no  namable  class  among 
us  that  has  not  its  deliberate  share  in  a 
common  guilt.  Most  of  us  directly  or 
indirectly  are  "  in  it,"  and  give  continu- 
ance to  the  ills  by  our  own  easy  acqui- 
escence in  accepting  the  fruits. 

I  have  often  heard  a  literary  man  in 
a  fine  frenzy  of  resentment  against  com- 
mercialism, although  at  regular  intervals 
he  went  into  deliberate  partnership  with 
the  object  of  his  scorn.  I  have  heard 
a  clergyman  very  eloquent  against  trade 
abuses  upon  which  much  of  his  church 
and  charitable  work  directly  depended, 
and  still  more  indirectly  depended.  I 
have  known  an  Arts  and  Crafts  Society 
many  of  whose  members  were  very  su- 
perior in  their  belief  that  commercialism 
was  the  best  synonym  for  general  degen- 
eracy, yet  this  admirable  association,  as 
it  got  to  work,  became  definitely  com- 
mercial. One  of  the  leaders  told  me, 
"  The  truth  is,  we  can't  do  any  work  as 
an  organization,  without  adopting  trade 
principles." 

This  was  said  apologetically  and  with 
regret,  yet  the  society  was  justified  from 
its  own  point  of  view.  It  was  in  no 
sense  primarily  a  money-making  institu- 
tion. This  would  have  been  its  defeat. 
Its  controlling  aim  was  the  artistic  edu- 
cation of  the  community.  That  a  mar- 
ket had  to  be  organized,  and  trade  rela- 
tions established  to  connect  the  worker 
and  the  buyer ;  that  the  society  came  to 
act  as  middleman,  taking  a  profit  on  ar- 
ticles sold,  was  commercial,  but  it  was 
this  wholly  freed  from  abuses. 

I  have  known  a  society  to  fail  and 
close  its  doors  because  it  would  not  com- 
promise even  to  this  extent,  and  its  fail- 
ure was  deserved.  It  was  trying  to 
meet  a  problem  by  running  away  from 
it.  Trade  alliances  may  be  formed  that 
are  as  honorable  as  any  of  life's  activities. 
Our  first  plain  duty  is  to  stop  telling  lies 
about  trade  as  a  whole.  By  far  the  larger 
part  of  business  is  carried  on  in  decent 
and  uneventful  ways,  with  open  competi- 
tion on  every  hand.  Innumerable  shops, 


mills,  stores,  —  even  the  department  car- 
avansaries,—  are  so  pitted  against  one 
another  in  unfenced  fields,  that  their  very 
existence  is  conditioned  on  serving  the 
public  with  better  and  cheaper  products. 
They  rest  solidly  upon  a  credit  system 
that  assumes  the  competence  and  gen- 
eral integrity  of  those  in  control.  Much 
more  than  three  fourths  of  our  wealth- 
making  and  distributing  is  of  this  char- 
acter. 

The  so-called  trust  touches  hardly  ten 
per  cent  of  our  commodities.  No  class  that 
can  be  named  has,  upon  the  whole,  more 
readiness  and  ability  for  good  citizen- 
ship than  that  of  those  who  have  gained 
their  moral  strength  by  carrying  business 
burdens.  Proofs  of  this  are  at  hand  in 
most  communities  where  hard  and  unpaid 
service  to  the  public  is  given  by  business 
men.  It  is  as  unfair  to  say  that  the  trade 
activities  which  engage  these  men  are  in 
disgrace,  as  to  say  that  religion,  education, 
or  law  is  in  disgrace.  There  are  men 
who  direct  science  and  invention  to  evil 
objects.  To  this  degree,  such  persons 
are,  or  ought  to  be,  under  ban.  In  no 
other  sense  should  commercialism  be  un- 
der condemnation.  The  use  of  its  mech- 
anism to  further  huge  schemes  has  set 
its  ugly  stamp  on  so  many  shady  ventures, 
that  we  confuse  this  occasional  use  with 
the  incalculably  greater  service  which  or- 
ganized industry  renders. 

It  is  these  excesses  of  the  "  dramatic 
tenth  of  business  "  which  justly  excite 
our  pessimistic  humors.  The  winners 
in  this  game  often  have  the  gamblers' 
vices.  They  riot  in  showy  expenditures. 
Their  pleasures  must  have  the  glare  and 
spice  of  extravagance.  Order  and  re- 
straint become  as  intolerable  to  them  as 
to  a  prostitute.  Yet  the  very  glitter  and 
loudness  of  their  lives  fix  upon  them 
a  degree  of  attention  grotesquely  out  of 
proportion  to  their  real  share  in  our  na- 
tional life.  They  are  as  exceptional  as 
purposed  fraud  is  exceptional  in  the  en- 
tire volume  of  business.  Seen  upon  the 
background  of  the  whole,  it  is  partial 


200 


Is  Commercialism  in  Disgrace  ? 


and  occasional,  rather  than  uniform  and 
organic. 

The  world's  first  and  most  imperious 
concern  is  to  get  its  living.  The  methods 
through  which  this  is  accomplished  can- 
not always  bear  the  seal  of  the  later  and 
the  higher  virtues.  Practical  exigencies 
are  first  in  order,  and  will  long  remain 
so.  Though,  for  the  most  part,  bereft  of 
beauty,  they  are  not  necessarily  immor- 
al. The  exchange  of  commodities  by  the 
help  of  money,  or  by  primitive  swapping, 
may  carry,  and  usually  does  carry,  an  ad- 
vantage to  both  parties.  If  it  were  not 
generally  so  it  could  not  go  on. 

Ills  enough  are  here,  as  in  every  walk 
of  life,  but  they  are  evils  to  be  distin- 
guished from  things  not  evil.  Immense 
energy  is  devoted  to  the  art  of  healing, 
but  shameless  quackeries  are  practiced 
every  day  by  armies  of  men  and  women 
who  play  upon  the  elemental  fears  and 
superstitious  of  the  race.  To  this  extent 
an  excellent  profession  is  in  disgrace. 
Except  by  a  belated  theologian  here 
and  there,  we  no  longer  hear  science 
anathematized.  The  dignity  and  univer- 
sality of  its  service  are  conceded,  yet  it, 
too,  is  in  disgrace  precisely  as  commercial- 
ism is  in  disgrace.  As  electricity  may 
light  either  a  brothel  or  a  village  library, 
science  may  have  many  perverse  uses. 
It  enables  trained  men  to  use  their  skill 
in  adulterating  foods,  medicines,  drinks, 
knowing  that  lying  labels  will  be  attached 
with  express  intent  to  deceive  the  buyer. 
A  stigma  so  far  rests  upon  science,  or, 
more  strictly,  upon  the  men  who  use  it 
basely.  In  no  other  sense  can  commer- 
cialism be  brought  to  judgment. .  There 
is  this  large  difference.  Into  trade  and 
commerce  the  main  energies  of  our  peo- 
ple are  poured.  It  is  overwhelmingly 
the  occupation  of  the  many  and  of  the 
strong.  In  bulk  and  intensity  it  is  su- 
preme. In  proportion  to  this  mass  of 
effort,  has  it  more  abuses  than  chemistry  ? 
Has  the  average  business  man  more  or 
subtler  temptations  than  the  doctor,  the 
lawyer,  or  the  clergyman  ?  I  do  not  be- 


lieve it,  different  as  the  temptations  may 
be.  It  is,  moreover,  by  this  yielding  to 
temptation  that  the  case  is  to  be  judged 
in  every  calling.  It  is  in  each  case  the 
man  we  are  criticising,  and  not  the  field 
in  which  he  works.  We  do  not  say  that 
electricity  is  good  or  bad,  farther  than 
men  direct  it  to  social  hurt  or  to  social 
welfare.  Politics  is  in  disgrace  enough, 
yet  no  jot  or  tittle  farther  than  men  de- 
mean themselves  in  working  it.  In  the 
hand  of  the  gamester,  commercialism 
may  turn  to  piracy  or  petty  pilfering, 
but  it  is  against  him  and  his  kind  that 
the  gravamen  always  holds. 

Nor  is  much  bettering  likely  to  come, 
faster  than  the  intellectual  and  moral 
recognition  of  this  fact.  President  Had- 
ley  is  right  when  he  asks  that  business 
turpitude  be  met  by  social  ostracism.  It 
must  be  met,  too,  not  by  easy  and  safe 
abstractions,  but  definitely  and  person- 
ally. In  a  social  club,  I  once  saw  a  man 
not  only  refuse  to  shake  the  proffered 
hand  of  a  well-known  financier,  but  de- 
liberately turn  his  back  upon  him.  The 
reason  was  given  to  me  thus  :  "  He  gives 
regularly  the  largest  amounts  in  my  ward 
to  corrupt  members  of  the  city  govern- 
ment. He  has  done  it  systematically  for 
years,  because  he  wants  to  break  certain 
ordinances,  or  get  an  extension  of  fran- 
chises for  a  corporation  in  which  he  is  a 
heavy  owner.  When  I  charged  him  with 
this,  he  got  mad  and  said,  '  Well,  do  you 
think  me  fool  enough  to  want  what  you 
call  honest  men  there  ? '  I  cut  him  for 
that,  and  shall  never  recognize  him  so- 
cially or  personally  again." 

This  gentleman  had  large  interests  of 
his  own,  and  ran  some  risks  because  of 
this  uncompromising  act.  Yet  the  strong- 
holds of  ill-doing  are  never  taken,  and 
the  area  of  social  morality  extended,  by 
any  other  means.  A  hundred  men  in 
that  club  knew  this  freebooter's  charac- 
ter as  well  as  the  man  who  cut  him. 
Most  of  them  would  have  been  very  lofty 
and  severe  with  a  rogue  in  fustian,  but 
before  this  well-groomed  financier,  with 


Is  Commercialism  in  Disgrace  ? 


201 


power,  a  palace,  and  costly  toys,  there  was 
general  and  smiling  deference.  There 
is  no  knavish  ruse  in  trade  so  dangerous 
as  this  humiliating  fact  of  our  common 
cowardice.  Nor  is  there  any  cure  apart 
from  its  cure  in  ourselves.  As  long  as 
the  fleshpots  of  utmost  attainable  wealth 
are  desired  above  all  things,  we  shall  be 
speciously  busy  in  framing  excuses  why 
we  should  not  show  the  mettle  of  this 
gentleman  at  the  club. 

Given  in  any  community  men  and  wo- 
men enough  of  his  moral  valor,  and  the 
most  scandalous  practices  of  commercial- 
ism would  begin  to  diminish.  It  is  true, 
they  would  have  to  be  scandalous  in  the 
sense  of  being  conspicuously  and  prova- 
bly  evil,  —  an  evil  as  definite  and  heinous 
as  that  of  using  company  funds  to  pur- 
chase walking  delegates ;  of  promoting 
combinations  known  from  the  start  to  be 
fraudulent,  or,  as  in  the  case  just  cited,  in 
which  dignified  officials  permit  the  use  of 
corporation  resources  to  strengthen  the 
political  party  from  which  it  expects  to 
get  lawless  privileges. 

We  are  very  squeamish  about  such 
unpleasant  words  as  boycott.  It  is  as- 
sociated with  insolent  perversities,  yet 
there  is  about  as  much  social  morality 
in  any  community  as  there  is  boycot- 
ting of  persons  definitely  known  to  be 
evil.  The  eminent  and  telling  service 
which  a  small  group  of  plucky  men  has 
rendered  to  cleaner  politics  in  Chicago 
has  been  through  the  boycotting  of  men 
found  on  examination  to  be  personally 
unfit  for  office.  It  is  to  a  Philadelphian 
that  we  owe  the  sentence,  "  Until  we  get 
moral  stamina  enough  to  begin  to  boycott 


certain  very  influential  persons  in  our  city 
and  state,  we  shall  retain  our  distinction 
of  being  the  worst  governed  city  in  the 
country." 

This  by  no  means  denies  the  need  of 
many  legal  and  administrative  reforms  : 
some  approach  to  equity  in  taxation  ;  an 
extension  of  community  power  over  the 
franchises  and  values  that  are  distinct- 
ly social  in  their  origin,  and  the  utmost 
furtherance  of  the  non-partisan  concep- 
tion of  municipal  politics.  These,  and 
many  other  practical  duties,  are  still  un- 
done. They  are  measui-es,  every  one,  that 
strike  at  private  privilege  in  its  most 
dangerous  form.  Many  outer  changes 
must  go  hand  in  hand  with  the  trans- 
formation of  our  inner  temper,  purpose, 
and  aim  in  life.  There  is,  nevertheless, 
no  darker  delusion  from  which  we  suffer 
than  this  :  that  we  are  abject  and  help- 
less until  the  external  and  administra- 
tive reforms  have  been  effected. 

It  would  be  but  the  fool's  paradise  to 
cozen  ourselves  with  the  hope  that  the 
evils  of  commercialism  will  much  abate 
until  we  desire  other  objects  more  eager- 
ly than  we  desire  what  the  overdoing  of 
commercialism  gives  us,  —  that  is,  the 
too  long  list  of  our  materialistic  excesses  ; 
the  unnatural  lust  for  bigness,  glare,  in- 
tensity, display,  strain,  and  needless  com- 
plication. In  coming  days,  when  the  na- 
tional heart,  perhaps  from  very  surfeit, 
sickens  of  all  this,  and  looks  for  peace 
and  health  in  simpler  and  less  distracted 
ways,  it  may  then  be  that  our  span  can  be 
lived  out  with  new  capacity  for  achieve- 
ment more  consistent  with  serenity,  re- 
pose, and  gladness. 

John  Graham  Brooks. 


202 


The   Common  Lot. 


THE  COMMON  LOT.1 


rv. 


THE  next  morning  Jackson  Hart  was 
at  work  once  more  on  the  plans  for 
the  Denver  hotel.  Now  that  he  knew 
his  fate,  the  draughting-room  under  the 
great  skylights  of  the  Dearborn  Building 
seemed  like  a  prison.  The  men  in  the 
office,  he  felt  sure,  had  read  all  about 
the  will,  and  had  had  their  say  upon  his 
affairs  before  he  had  come  in.  He  could 
tell  that  from  the  additional  nonchalance 
in  the  manner  of  the  head  draughtsman, 
Cook.  Early  in  the  afternoon  a  wel- 
come interruption  came  to  him  in  the 
shape  of  an  urgent  call  from  the  electri- 
cians working  on  the  Canostota  apart- 
ment house  on  the  South  Side.  The 
head  of  the  office  asked  Hart  to  go  to  the 
Canostota  and  straighten  the  men  out,  as 
Harmon,  their  engineer,  was  at  home  ill. 

As  Jackson  crossed  the  street  to  take 
the  elevated  he  met  his  cousin.  They 
walked  together  to  the  station,  and  as 
Wheeler  was  turning  away,  the  architect 
broke  out : — 

"  I  've  been  thinking  over  uncle's  will. 
I  can't  say  I  think  it  was  fair  —  to  treat 
me  like  that  after — after  all  these  years." 

The  lawyer  smiled  coldly. 

"  We  both  got  the  same  deal,"  he  re- 
marked. 

"  Well,  that  don't  make  it  any  better ; 
besides,  you  have  had  as  good  as  money 
from  him  long  ago.  Your  position  and 
mine  aren't  just  the  same." 

"  No,  that 's  so,"  the  lawyer  admitted. 
"  But  what  are  you  going  to  do  about 
it?" 

"  I  don't  know  yet.  I  want  to  think 
it  over.  How  long  "  —  he  started  to  ask. 

"  How  long  have  you  to  give  notice 
you  want  to  contest  ?  About  three  weeks," 
Wheeler  replied  coolly.  "  Of  course,  you 
know  that  if  you  fight,  you  '11  put  your 


mother's  legacy  in  danger.     And  I  guess 
Hollister  and  the  judge  would  fight." 

"  And  you  ?  " 

Wheeler  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  I  should  stick  with 
the  others." 

Then  Wheeler  nodded  and  was  off 
down  the  street.  He  was  as  much  dis- 
turbed as  if  his  cousin  had  told  him  it 
was  going  to  rain  on  the  morrow.  Hart 
continued  on  his  way  to  the  Canostota. 
There  he  found  the  foreman  for  the  elec- 
trical contractor,  and  spent  a  busy  hour 
explaining  to  the  man  the  intricacies  of 
the  office  blue  prints.  Then  the  steam- 
fitter  got  hold  of  him,  and  it  was  nearly 
five  o'clock  before  he  had  time  to  think 
of  himself  or  his  own  affairs.  As  he 
emerged  from  the  basement  by  a  hole 
left  in  the  floor  for  the  plumbers  and 
steam-fitters  to  run  their  pipes  through, 
he  noticed  a  section  of  the  fireproof , 
partition  which  had  been  accidentally 
knocked  out.  Through  this  hole  he  could 
see  one  of  the  steel  I-beams  that  support- 
ed the  flooring  above,  where  it  had  been 
drilled  to  admit  the  passing  of  a  steam 
pipe.  Something  unusual  in  the  thick- 
ness of  the  metal  caught  his  eye,  and  he 
paused  where  he  was,  halfway  out  of 
the  basement,  to  look  at  it  again.  The 
I-beam  seemed  unaccountably  thin.  He 
was  not  quite  familiar,  even  yet,  with  the 
material  side  of  building  in  America ;  but 
he  knew  in  a  general  way  the  weights  of 
steel  beams  that  were  ordinarily  specified 
in  Wright's  office  for  buildings  of  this 
size. 

"  How 's  this,  Davidson  ?  "  he  asked 
the  steam-fitter,  who  was  close  at  his 
heels.  "  Is  n't  that  a  pretty  light  fifteen- 
inch  I-beam  ?  " 

The  workman  looked  absolutely  blank. 
"  I  dunno.    I  expect  it 's  what 's  called 
for." 


Copyright,  1903,  by  ROBERT  HERBICK. 


The  Common  Lot. 


203 


Even  if  the  man  had  known  all  about 
it,  he  would  have  said  nothing.  It  was 
silly  to  ask  a  subcontractor  to  give  evi- 
dence damaging  to  his  employer.  The 
architect  stooped,  and  asked  the  man  to 
hand  him  his  rule.  As  he  was  trying  to 
measure  the  section  of  steel,  he  saw  a 
man's  face  looking  down  at  him  from  the 
floor  above.  Presently  a  burly  form  ap- 
peared in  the  opening.  It  was  Graves, 
who  was  the  general  contractor  for  the 
building. 

"  We  have  n't  begun  to  patch  up  the 
tile  yet,"  the  contractor  observed,  nod- 
ding to  the  architect.  "  We  thought 
we  'd  leave  it  open  here  and  there  until 
Mr.  Harmon  could  get  around  and  look 
into  things.  I  'm  expecting  Mr.  Wright 
will  be  out  here  the  first  of  the  week, 
too." 

The  contractor  talked  slowly,  without 
taking  his  eyes  from  Hart.  He  was  a 
large,  full-bearded  man,  with  a  manner 
self-confident  or  assuming,  as  one  chose 
to  take  it.  Hart  was  always  at  a  loss 
how  to  treat  a  man  like  Graves,  — 
whether  as  a  kind  of  upper  workman  to 
be  ordered  about,  or  as  a  social  equal. 

"  Is  that  so  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  noncom- 
mittal tone.  "  Mr.  Harmon  has  n't  been 
out  here  much  of  late  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.  It  must  be  three  weeks  or 
more  since  Mr.  Harmon  was  here  last. 
He  's  been  sick  that  long,  ain't  he  ?  " 

The  steam-fitter  had  slipped  away. 
Hart  had  it  on  his  lips  to  ask  the  con- 
tractor to  show  him  the  specifications  for 
the  steel  work.  Graves  kept  his  cool 
gray  eyes  fastened  on  the  young  archi- 
tect, while  he  said  :  — 

"  That 's  why  I  've  been  keeping  things 
back,  so  as  Mr.  Wright  could  satisfy 
himself  that  everything  was  all  right.  A 
tei-ribly  particular  man,  that  Mr.  Wright. 
If  you  can  please  him  !  " 

He  was  studying  the  young  man  be- 
fore him,  and  very  ably  supplying  an- 
swers to  the  architect's  doubts  before  he 
could  express  them.  The  contractor  did 
not  pause  to  give  Hart  time  to  think,  but 


kept  a  stream  of  his  slow,  confident  words 
flowing  over  the  architect. 

"  You  fellows  give  us  a  lot  of  bother. 
Now  take  that  tile.  Mr.  Wright  speci- 
fies Caper's  Al,  which  happens  to  be  out 
of  the  market  just  now.  To  please  him 
I  sent  to  Cleveland  and  Buffalo  for  some 
odds  and  ends  they  had  down  there.  But 
there  are  a  dozen  makes  just  as  good !  " 

He  spoke  like  a  man  who  did  always 
a  little  more  than  his  duty.  Although 
the  architect  was  conscious  of  the  skillful 
manner  in  which  his  attention  was  being 
switched  from  the  steel  beams,  he  felt  in- 
clined to  trust  the  contractor. 

Graves  was  not  one  of  the  larger  con- 
tractors employed  on  the  firm's  buildings. 
He  had  worked  up  from  small  beginnings 
as  a  master  mason.  Wright  had  used 
him  on  several  little  commissions,  and 
had  always  found  him  eager  to  do  his 
best.  This  was  the  first  job  of  any  con- 
siderable size  that  Graves  had  done  for 
the  firm,  and  he  had  got  this  by  under- 
bidding considerably  all  the  other  gen- 
eral contractors  who  had  been  invited  to 
bid  on  the  work.  These  facts  Hart  did 
not  happen  to  know. 

"  Are  you  going  north,  Mr.  Hart  ?  " 
Graves  asked,  as  they  turned  to  the 
street  entrance.  "  My  team  is  just  out- 
side. Shall  be  pleased  to  give  you  a 
lift." 

Speaking  thus  he  ushered  the  architect 
from  the  Canostota  where  the  dusk  was 
already  falling. 

The  contractor's  horse  was  a  nervous, 
fast  little  beast.  The  light  runabout 
whirled  into  the  broad  avenue  of  Grand 
Boulevard,  and  there  Graves  let  the  ani- 
mal out  for  a  couple  of  blocks.  A  thin 
smile  of  satisfaction  wrinkled  the  con- 
tractor's bearded  lips.  Then  he  pulled 
on  the  reins,  and  turned  in  his  seat  to 
face  the  architect. 

"  I  'm  glad  of  this  chance  to  see  you, 
Mr.  Hart,"  he  began  pleasantly.  "  I 
have  been  thinking  lately  that  we  might 
be  of  some  use  to  each  other." 

He  paused  to  let  his  words  sink  into 


204 


The   Common  Lot. 


his  companion's  mind.  Then  he  resumed 
in  a  reflective  manner  :  — 

"  I  ain't  content  to  build  just  for  other 
folks.  I  want  to  put  up  something  on 
my  own  account.  Oh,  nothing  like  as 
fine  as  that  Canostota,  but  something 
pretty  and  attractive,  and  something  that 
will  pay.  I  've  just  the  lot  for  it,  out 
south  alongside  Washington  Park.  It 's 
a  peach !  A  corner  and  two  hundred 
feet.  Say !  Why  won't  you  come  out 
right  now  and  have  a  look  at  it  ?  Can 
you  spare  the  time  ?  Good." 

The  little  runabout  whisked  around, 
and  they  went  speeding  south  over  the 
hard  boulevard. 

"  Now  's  about  the  time  to  build.  I  've 
owned  the  property  ever  since  the  slump 
in  real  estate  right  after  the  fair.  Well, 
I  want  an  architect  on  my  own  account ! 
I  suppose  I  could  go  to  one  of  those  Jews 
who  sell  their  dinky  little  blue  prints 
by  the  yard.  Most  of  the  flat  buildings 
hereabouts  come  that  way.  But  I  want 
something  swell.  That 's  going  to  be  a 
fine  section  of  the  city  soon,  and  looks 
count  in  a  building,  as  elsewhere." 

Hart  laughed  at  this  cordial  testimony 
to  his  art. 

"  There  's  your  boss,  Wright.  But 
he 's  too  high-toned  for  me,  —  would  n't 
look  at  anything  that  toted  up  less  than 
the  six  figures.  And  I  guess  he  don't 
do  much  designing  himself.  He  leaves 
that  to  you  young  fellows,!  " 

Hart  could  see,  now,  the  idea  that  was 
in  the  contractor's  mind.  They  pulled 
up  near  the  south  corner  of  the  Park,  be- 
side some  vacant  land.  It  was,  as  Graves 
said,  a  very  favorable  spot  for  a  showy 
apartment  building. 

"  I  want  something  real  handsome," 
the  contractor  continued.  "  It  '11  be  a 
high-priced  building.  And  I  think  you 
are  the  man  to  do  it." 

Graves  brought  this  out  like  a  shot. 

"  Why,  I  should  like  to  think  of  it," 
the  architect  began  conventionally,  not 
sure  what  he  ought  to  say. 

"  Yes,  you  're   the  man.     I  saw  the 


plans  for  that  Aurora  church  one  day 
while  I  was  waiting  to  talk  with  Mr. 
Wright,  and  I  said  to  myself  then, 
'  There 's  the  man  to  draw  my  plans. 
That  feller 's  got  something  out  of  the 
ordinary  in  him !  He  's  got  style !  ' ' 

Praise,  even  from  the  mob,  is  honey  to 
the  artist.  Hart  instinctively  thought 
better  of  the  self-confident  contractor, 
and  decided  that  he  was  a  bluff,  honest 
man,  —  common,  but  well  meaning. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  say,  Mr.  Hart  ?  " 

It  ended  with  Hart's  practically  agree- 
ing to  prepare  a  preliminary  sketch. 
When  it  came  to  the  matter  of  business, 
the  young  architect  found  that,  notwith- 
standing the  contractor's  high  considera- 
tion of  his  talent,  he  was  willing  to  offer 
only  the  very  lowest  terms  for  his  work. 
He  told  the  contractor  that  he  should 
have  to  leave  Wright's  office  before  un- 
dertaking the  commission. 

"  But,"  he  said  with  a  sudden  rush  of 
will,  "  I  was  considering  starting  for  my- 
self very  soon,  anyway." 

It  was  not  until  after  the  contractor 
had  dropped  him  at  his  club  in  the 
down-town  district  that  he  remembered 
the  steel  beams  in  the  Canostota.  Then  it 
occurred  to  him  that  possibly,  had  it  not 
been  for  the  accident  which  had  brought 
Graves  to  that  part  of  the  building  just 
as  he  was  on  his  knees  trying  to  mea- 
sure the  thickness  of  the  metal,  the  con- 
tractor might  not  have  discovered  his 
great  talent.  As  he  entered  the  club 
washroom,  the  disagreeable  thought  came 
to  him  that,  if  the  I-beams  were  not  right, 
Graves  had  rather  cleverly  closed  his 
mouth  about  the  Canostota.  In  agreeing 
to  do  a  piece  of  work  for  Wright's  con- 
tractor, he  had  placed  himself  where  he 
could  not  easily  get  that  contractor  into 
trouble  with  his  present  employer. 

As  he  washed  his  hands,  scrubbing 
them  as  if  they  had  been  wood  to  re- 
move the  afternoon's  dirt,  he  felt  that 
there  was  more  than  one  kind  of  grime 
in  the  city. 


The   Common  Lot. 


205 


V. 


There  were  very  few  men  to  be  found 
in  the  club  at  this  hour.  The  dingy 
library,  buzzing  like  a  beehive  at  noon 
with  young  men,  was  empty  now  except 
for  a  stranger  who  was  whiling  away 
his  time  before  meeting  a  dinner  en- 
gagement. The  men  that  the  archi- 
tect met  at  this  club  were,  like  himself, 
younger  members  of  the  professions, 
struggling  up  in  the  crowded  ranks  of 
law,  medicine,  architecture.  Others  were 
in  brokers'  offices,  or  engaged  in  general 
business.  Some  of  them  had  been  his 
classmates  in  Cornell,  or  in  the  techno- 
logical school,  and  these  had  welcomed 
him  with  a  little  dinner  on  his  return 
from  Paris. 

After  that  cheerful  reunion  he  had 
seen  less  of  these  old  friends  than  he 
had  hoped  to,  when  he  had  contemplated 
Chicago  from  his  Paris  apartment.  Per- 
haps there  had  been  something  of  envy 
among  them  for  Jackson  Hart.  Things 
had  seemed  very  pleasantly  shaped  for 
him,  and  Chicago  is  yet  a  community 
that  resents  special  favors. 

Every  one  was  driving  himself  at  top 
speed.  At  noon  the  men  fell  together 
about  the  same  table  in  the  grill-room, 
—  worried,  fagged,  preoccupied.  As 
soon  as  the  day's  work  was  over,  their 
natural  instinct  was  to  flee  from  the  dirt 
and  noise  of  the  business  street,  where 
the  club  was  situated,  to  the  cleaner  quar- 
ters north  or  south,  or  to  the  semi-rural 
suburbs.  Thus  the  centrifugal  force  of 
the  city  was  irresistible. 

To-night  there  were  a  number  of  men 
in  the  cardroom,  sitting  over  a  game  of 
poker,  which,  judging  from  the  ash-trays 
about  them,  had  been  in  progress  since 
luncheon.  Several  other  men  with  hats 
on  and  coats  over  their  arms  were  stand- 
ing about  the  table  looking  on. 

"  Well,  Jackie,  my  boy  !  "  one  of  the 
players  called  out,  "  where  have  you  been 
hiding  yourself  this  week  ?  " 


Ben  Harris,  the  man  who  hailed  the 
architect,  had  apparently  been  drinking 
a  good  deal.  The  other  men  at  the  ta- 
ble called  out  sharply,  "  Shut  up,  Ben. 
Play!" 

But  the  voluble  Harris,  whose  drink 
had  made  him  more  than  usually  im- 
pudent, remarked  further :  — 

"Say,  Jack!  ain't,  you  learned  yet 
that  we  don't  pattern  after  the  German 
Emperor  here  in  Chicago  ?  Better  comb 
out  your  mustache,  or  they  '11  be  taking 
you  for  some  foreign  guy." 

Hart  merely  turned  his  back  on  Har- 
ris, and  listened  with  exaggerated  inter- 
est to  what  a  large,  heavy  man,  with  a 
boy's  smooth  face,  was  saying :  — 

"  He  was  of  no  special  'count  in  col- 
lege, —  a  kind  of  second-rate  hustler, 
you  know.  But,  my  heavens  !  Since  he 
struck  this  town,  he  's  got  in  his  work. 
I  don't  believe  he  knows  enough  law  to 
last  him  over  night.  But  he  knows  how 
to  make  the  right  men  think  he  does. 
He  started  in  to  work  for  those  Selinas 
Mills  people,  —  damage  suits  and  collect- 
ing. Here  in  less  than  five  years  he  's 
drawing  the  papers  for  the  consolidation 
of  all  the  paper  mills  in  the  country  !  " 

"  Who  's  that,  Billy  ?"  Hart  asked. 

"  Leverett,  Joe  Leverett.  He  was  Yale 
'89,  and  at  the  law  school  with  me." 

"  He  must  have  the  right  stuff  in 
him,"  commented  one  man. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that !  "  the  first 
speaker  retorted.  "  Some  kind  of  stuff, 
of  course.  But  I  said  he  was  no  lawyer, 
and  never  will  be,  and  I  repeat  it.  And 
what 's  more,  half  the  men  who  are  earn- 
ing the  big  money  in  law  here  in  Chi- 
cago don't  know  enough  law  to  try  a 
case  properly." 

"  That 's  so,"  assented  one  man. 

"  Same  thing  in  medicine." 

"  Oh,  it 's  the  same  all  over." 

The  men  about  the  card-table  launched 
out  into  a  heated  discussion  of  the  one 
great  topic  —  Success.  The  game  of 
poker  finally  closed,  and  the  players 
joined  in  the  conversation.  Fresh  drinks 


206 


The   Common  Lot. 


were  ordered,  and  cigars  were  passed 
about.  The  topic  caught  the  man  most 
eager  to  go  home,  and  fired  the  hrain 
most  fagged. 

"  The  pity  of  it,  too,"  said  the  large 
man  called  Billy,  dominating  the  room 
with  his  deep  voice  and  his  deliberate 
speech,  —  "  the  pity  of  it  is  that  it  ruins 
the  professions.  You  can  see  it  right 
here  in  Chicago.  Who  cares  for  fine 
professional  work,  if  it  don't  bring  in 
the  stuff  ?  Look  at  our  courts  !  Yes, 
look  at  our  doctors  !  And  look  at  our 
buildings !  It 's  money  every  time.  The 
professions  are  commercialized." 

"  Oh,  Billy  !  "  exclaimed  Ben  Harris. 
"  Is  this  a  commencement  oration  you 
are  giving  us  ?  " 

A  quiet  voice  broke  in  from  behind 
the  circle :  — 

"  There  's  much  in  what  you  say,  Mr. 
Blount.  Time  has  been  when  it  meant 
something  of  honor  for  a  man  to  be  a 
member  of  one  of  the  learned  profes- 
sions. Men  were  content  to  take  part 
of  their  pay  in  honor  and  respect  from 
the  community.  There 's  no  denying 
that's  all  changed  now.  We  measure 
everything  by  one  yardstick,  and  that 
is  money.  So,  the  able  lawyer  and  the 
able  doctor  have  joined  the  race  with 
the  mob  for  the  dollars.  But "  —  his  eye 
seemed  to  rest  on  the  young  architect, 
who  was  listening  attentively  —  "  that 
state  of  affairs  can't  go  on.  When  we 
shake  down  in  this  modern  world  of  ours, 
and  have  got  used  to  our  wealth,  and 
have  made  the  right  adjustment  between 
capital  and  labor,  —  the  professions,  the 
learned  professions,  will  be  elevated  once 
more.  Men  are  so  made  that  they  want 
to  respect  something.  And  in  the  long 
run  they  will  respect  learning,  ideas,  and 
devotion  to  the  public  weal." 

"  That 's  all  right,  Pemberton,"  Har- 
ris retorted.  "  That 's  first-class  talk. 
But  I  guess  I  see  about  as  much  of 
human  nature  in  my  business  as  any 
man,  and  I  tell  you,  it 's  only  human 
nature  to  get  what  you  can  out  of  the 


game.  What  men  respect  in  this  town 
is  money,  —  first,  last,  and  all  the  time. 
So  it 's  only  natural  for  a  man,  whether 
he  is  a  lawyer  or  anything  else,  to  do 
as  the  other  Romans  do." 

Harris  brought  his  bony,  lined  hand 
down  on  the  card-table  with  a  thump, 
and  leaned  forward,  thrusting  out  his 
long,  unshaven  chin  at  the  older  man 
who  had  spoken.  His  black  hair,  which 
was  thin  above  the  temples  and  across 
the  middle  of  his  head,  was  rumpled, 
his  collar  bent,  and  his  cuffs  blackened 
about  the  edges.  Hart  had  known  him 
as  a  boy  twelve  years  before  at  the  South 
Side  High  School.  From  the  Univer- 
sity of  Michigan  Harris  had  entered 
a  broker's  office,  and  had  made  money 
on  the  Board  of  Trade.  Lately  it  had 
been  reported  that  he  was  losing  money 
in  wheat. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  he  snarled  on,  having  sup- 
pressed the  others  for  the  moment.  "It 
don't  make  much  difference,  either,  how 
you  get  your  money  so  far  as  I  can  see. 
Whether  you  do  a  man  in  a  corner  in 
wheat,  or  run  a  pool  room.  All  is,  if 
you  want  to  be  in  the  game,  you  must 
have  the  price  of  admission  about  you. 
And  the  rest  is  talk  for  the  ladies  and 
the  young." 

The  older  man,  Pemberton,  said  in  a 
severe  tone  :  — 

"  That  is  easy  to  say  and  easy  to  be- 
lieve. But  when  I  think  of  the  magnifi- 
cent gift  to  the  public  just  made  by  one 
of  these  very  men  whom  you  would  con- 
sider a  mere  money-grabber,  I  confess  I 
am  obliged  to  doubt  your  easy  analysis 
of  our  modern  life  !  " 

Pemberton  spoke  with  a  kind  of  au- 
thority. He  was  one  of  the  older  men 
of  the  club,  much  respected  in  the  city, 
and  perfectly  fearless.  But  the  broker, 
also,  feared  no  man's  opinion. 

"  Gifts  to  education !  "  sneered  Ben 
Harris.  "  That 's  what  they  do  to  show 
off  when  they're  through  with  their 
goods.  Anyway,  there  's  too  much  edu- 
cation going  around.  It  don't  count. 


The   Common  Lot. 


207 


The  only  thing  that  counts,  to-day,  here, 
now,  is  money.  Can  you  make  it  or 
steal  it  or —  inherit  it !  " 

He  looked  at  Jackson  Hart  and 
laughed.  The  architect  disliked  this  vul- 
gar reference  to  his  own  situation,  but, 
on  the  whole,  he  was  inclined  to  agree- 
with  the  broker. 

"  I  am  sorry  that  such  ideas  should 
be  expressed  inside  this  club,"  Pember- 
ton  answered  gravely.  "  If  there  is  one 
place  in  this  city  where  the  old  ideals 
of  the  professions  should  be  reverenced, 
where  men  should  deny  that  cheap  phi- 
losophy of  the  street,  by  their  acts  as 
well  as  by  their  words,  it  should  be  here 
in  this  club." 

Some  of  the  other  men  nodded  their 
approval  of  this  speech.  They  said  no- 
thing, however  ;  for  the  conversation  had 
reached  a  point  of  delicacy  that  made 
men  hesitate  to  say  what  they  thought. 
Pemberton  turned  on  his  heel  and 
walked  away.  The  irrepressible  Harris 
called  after  him  belligerently  :  — 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that,  now, 
Mr.  Pemberton.  It  takes  all  kinds  of 
men  to  make  a  club,  you  know." 

The  little  group  broke  up.  Harris 
linked  his  arm  in  Hart's. 

"  I  've  got  something  to  say  to  you, 
Jackie,"  he  said  boisterously.  "  We  '11 
order  some  dinner,  if  you  are  free,  and 
I  '11  put  you  up  to  something  that 's  bet-', 
ter  than  old  Pemberton's  talk.  It  just 
occurred  to  me  while  we  were  gassing 
here." 

The  young  architect  did  not  quite 
like  Harris's  style,  but  he  had  planned  to 
dine  at  the  club,  and  they  went  upstairs 
to  the  dining-room  together.  He  was 
curious  to  hear  what  the  broker  might 
have  to  suggest  to  him. 

Hart  had  agreed  with  Pemberton's 
ideas,  naturally  enough,  in  the  abstract. 
But  in  the  concrete,  the  force  of  circum- 
stances, here  in  this  roaring  city  where 
he  found  himself  caught,  was  fast  pre- 
paring him  to  accept  the  Harris  view. 
He  was  neither  an  idealist  nor  a  weak 


man  :  he  was  merely  a  young  man,  still, 
making  up  his  character  as  he  went 
along,  and  taking  color  more  or  less 
from  the  landscape  he  found  himself  in. 

His  aspirations  for  art,  if  not  fine, 
were  sufficiently  earnest  and  sincere. 
He  had  thought  of  himself  as  luckily 
fortuned,  so  that  he  could  devote  himself 
to  getting  real  distinction  in  his  profes- 
sion. So  in  Paris.  Now,  brought  back 
from  that  pleasant  world  into  this  stern 
city,  with  all  its  striving,  apparently,  cen- 
tred upon  the  one  business  of  making 
money,  then  deprived  by  what  seemed  to 
him  a  harsh  and  unfair  freak  of  fortune 
of  all  his  pleasant  expectations,  he  was 
trying  to  read  the  face  of  Destiny.  And 
there  he  seemed  to  find  written  what  this 
gritty  broker  had  harshly  expressed. 

"  Say,  you  've  got  a  good  friend  in 
Mrs.  Will  Phillips,"  Harris  began  blunt- 
ly when  they  were  seated  opposite  each 
other. 

Hart  remembered  that  he  had  not  fol- 
lowed the  widow's  invitation  to  call  upon 
her,  all  thought  of  her  having  been  driv- 
en out  of  his  mind  by  the  happenings  of 
the  last  few  days. 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  know  all  right.  She  's  a  good 
customer  of  ours.  I  've  been  talking  to 
her  half  the  afternoon  about  things." 

His  next  remark  had  nothing  to  do 
with  Mrs.  Phillips. 

"You  fellows  don't  make  much  money 
building  houses.  Ain't  that  so  ?  You 
need  other  jobs.  Well,  I  am  going  to 
give  you  a  pointer." 

He  stopped  mysteriously,  and  then  be- 
gan again  :  — 

"  I  happen  to  know  that  the  C.  R.  & 
N.  Road  is  going  to  put  a  lot  of  money 
into  improvements  this  summer.  Among 
other  things  they  're  getting  ready  to 
build  new  stations  all  along  the  north 
line,  —  you  know,  up  through  the  sub- 
urbs, —  Forest  Park,  Shoreham,  and  so 
on.  They  've  got  a  lot  of  swell  patronage 
out  that  way,  and  they  are  making  ready 
for  more." 


208 


The   Common  Lot. 


Hart  listened  to  the  broker  intently. 
He  wondered  why  Harris  should  happen 
to  know  this  news  ahead  of  the  general 
public,  and  he  tried  to  think  how  it 
might  help  his  fortune. 

"  That 's  where  they  are  going  to  put 
a  lot  of  their  surplus  earnings.  Now, 
those  stations  must  be  the  top  of  the 
style,  —  real  buildings,  not  sheds.  I 
don't  think  they  have  any  architect." 

"  Oh  !  "  objected  Hart,  disappointed. 
"  The  president  or  one  of  the  vice  presi- 
dents will  have  a  son,  or  nephew,  or  some 
one  to  work  in.  Or,  perhaps,  they  will 
have  a  competitive  trial  for  the  plans." 

"  Perhaps  they  will,  and  perhaps  they 
won't,"  Harris  answered  knowingly. 
"  The  man  who  will  decide  all  that  is 
their  first  vice  president,  —  Raymond, 
Colonel  Stevens  P.  Raymond,  —  know 
him  ?  " 

Hart  shook  his  head. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Phillips  does.  He  lives 
out  in  Forest  Park,  where  she  's  think- 
ing of  building  a  big  house." 

"  Is  Mrs.  Phillips  thinking  of  build- 
ing in  Forest  Park  ? "  the  architect 
asked. 

Harris  looked  at  him  in  a  bored  man- 
ner. 

"  Why,  I  thought  you  were  going  to 
draw  the  plans  !  " 

"  She  asked  me  to  come  to  see  her," 
Hart  admitted.  "  But  that  was  all." 

"  Well,  if  a  rich  and  good-looking  wo- 
man asks  you  to  call,  I  should  n't  take 
all  year  about  making  up  my  mind." 

Hart  could  not  help  thinking  that  it 
would  be  harder  to  go  to  Mrs.  Phillips 
now  than  if  he  had  not  had  this  talk 
with  the  broker.  Their  meeting  in  Paris 
had  been  pleasant,  unalloyed  with  busi- 
ness. He  remembered  how  he  had  ra- 
ther patronized  the  ambitious  young  wo- 
man, who  had  desired  to  meet  artists,  to 
go  to  their  studios,  and  to  have  little 
dinners  where  every  one  talked  French 
but  her  stupid  husband. 

"The  widow  Phillips  thinks  a  lot  of 
your  ability,  Jackie,  and  old  S.  P.  R. 


thinks  a  lot  of  the  widow.  Now  do  you 
see  ?  " 

The  architect  laughed  nervously.  He 
could  see  plainly  enough  what  was 
meant,  but  he  did  not  like  it  altogether. 

"  She  can  do  what  she  likes  with  the 
old  man.  The  job  is  as  good  as  yours, 
if  you  do  the  proper  thing.  I  've  given 
you  the  tip  straight  ahead  of  the  whole 
field.  Not  a  soul  knows  that  the  C.  R. 
&  N.  is  going  in  for  this  kind  of  thing." 

"  It  will  be  a  big  chance,"  the  archi- 
tect replied.  "  It  was  good  of  you  to 
think  of  me,  Ben." 

"  That 's  all  right.  It  popped  into  my 
head  when  that  ass  Pemberton  began  his 
talk  about  your  uncle's  gift  to  the  pub- 
lic. I  must  say,  it  seemed  to  me  a  dirty 
trick  of  the  old  man  to  cut  you  out  the 
way  he  did.  Are  you  going  to  fight  the 
will,  or  is  it  so  fixed  that  you  can't  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  yet." 

"  To  bring  a  fellow  up  as  he  did  you, 
and  then  knock  on  him  at  the  end,  — 
it 's  just  low-down." 

That  was  the  view  Jackson  Hart  was 
more  and  more  inclined  to  take  of  his 
uncle's  will,  and  he  warmed  to  the  coarse, 
outspoken  broker,  who  had  shown  him 
real  friendliness.  Harris  seemed  to  him 
to  be  warm-blooded  and  human.  The 
young  architect  was  beginning  to  feel 
that  this  was  not  a  world  for  delicacy  of 
motive  and  refinement.  When  Hart  sug- 
gested diffidently  that  some  large  firm  of 
architects  would  probably  be  chosen  by 
the  C.  R.  &  N.  people,  Harris  said :  — 

"  Rats  !  Raymond  won't  hunt  round 
for  references,  beyond  what  Mrs.  Phil- 
lips will  give  him.  You  see  her  as  quick 
as  you  can,  and  tell  her  you  want  the 
chance." 

The  opportunity  which  Harris  had 
suggested  would  be  given  to  him  by  a 
woman.  Yet,  however  much  he  might 
dislike  to  go  to  a  woman  for  such  help,  the 
chance  began  to  loom  large  in  his  imagi- 
nation. Here  was  something  that  Wright 
himself  would  be  glad  to  have.  He  saw 
himself  in  his  own  office,  having  two 


The   Common  Lot. 


209 


large  commissions  to  start  with,  and 
possibly  a  third,  —  Mrs.  Phillips's  new 
house  in  Forest  Park. 

Perhaps  Wright  did  know,  after  all, 
about  the  C.  R.  &  N.  matter.  Hart's  fight- 
ing blood  rose :  he  would  do  his  best  to 
snatch  the  good  thing  from  him,  or  from 
any  other  architect !  He  forgot  his  con- 
tempt for  that  American  habit  of  pull, 
which  he  had  much  deplored  in  studio 
discussions.  All  that  had  been  theory  ; 
this  was  personal  and  practical. 

Within  the  day  Fortune  had  smiled 
upon  him  twice.  Neither  time,  to  be 
sure,  was  the  way  to  her  favor  quite 
what  he  would  have  chosen  if  he  could 
have  chosen.  But  one  must  not  dis- 
criminate too  nicely  when  one  picks  up 
the  cards  to  play.  .  .  . 

Below,  from  the  busy  street,  rose  the 
piercing  note  of  the  city,  —  rattle,  roar, 
and  clang,  scarcely  less  shrill  at  eight  of 
an  evening  than  at  noon.  From  the  bulk- 
heads on  the  roof  of  the  next  building 
soared  a  drab-colored  cloud  of  steam, 
eddying  upwards  even  to  the  open  win- 
dows of  the  club  dining-room.  The  noise, 
the  smell,  the  reek  of  the  city  touched 
the  man,  folded  him  in,  swayed  him  like 
a  subtle  opiate.  The  thirst  of  the  ter- 
rible game  of  living,  the  desire  of  things, 
the  brute  love  of  triumph  filled  his  veins. 
Old  Powers  Jackson,  contemptuously 
putting  him  to  one  side,  had  uncon- 
sciously worked  this  state  of  mind  in 
him.  He,  Jackson  Hart,  would  show 
the  world  that  he  could  fight  for  himself, 
could  snatch  the  prize  that  every  one 
was  fighting  for,  the  prize  of  man's  life, 
—  a  little  pot  of  gold  ! 


VI. 

"  How  did  young  Mr.  Hart  take  the 
news  of  the  will?  "  Mrs.  Phillips  asked 
her  brother-in-law  the  first  time  she  saw 
him  after  the  funeral. 

"  Why,  all  right,  I  guess,"  the  judge 
answered  slowly.  "  Why  should  n't  he  ?  " 

VOL.  xcni.  —  NO.  556.  14 


"  I  hoped  he  would  fight  it,"  the 
widow  replied,  eyeing  the  judge  calmly. 

"  I  believe  he  is  n't  that  much  of  a  fool. 
Just  because  Powers  looked  after  his 
mother,  and  fed  him  all  these  years,  and 
gave  him  an  expensive  education,  —  why 
should  he  be  obliged  to  leave  the  chap 
all  his  money,  if  he  did  n't  want  to  ?  " 

Mrs.  Phillips  avoided  a  direct  reply, 
and  continued  to  announce  her  opinions, 
—  a  method  of  conversation  which  she 
knew  was  highly  irritating  to  the  judge. 

"  Philanthropy !  What 's  the  use  of 
such  philanthropy  ?  The  city  has  enough 
schools.  It 's  all  foolishness  to  give  your 
money  to  other  people  to  eat  up !  " 

"  That  is  a  matter  of  feeling,"  Judge 
Phillips  answered  dryly.  "  I  should  n't 
expect  you  to  feel  as  Powers  did  about 
such  things." 

Harrison  Phillips  had  few  illusions 
concerning  his  sister  -  in  -  law,  and  she 
knew  it.  Years  before  they  had  reached 
the  point  where  they  dispensed  with  po- 
lite subterfuges.  He  had  known  her  ever 
since  she  came  to  Chicago  from  a  little 
Illinois  town  to  study  music.  Indeed, 
he  had  first  introduced  his  younger  bro- 
ther to  her,  he  remembered  unhappily. 
She  was  Louise  Faunce,  then,  —  a  keen, 
brown-eyed  country  girl  of  eighteen. 
When  Will  Phillips  wanted  to  marry 
her,  the  judge  had  already  felt  the  girl's 
little  claws,  and  had  been  foolish  enough 
to  warn  his  brother.  Will  Phillips  was 
a  dull  young  man,  and  had  poor  health. 
The  older  brother  knew  that  Will  was 
being  married  for  his  money,  —  a  con- 
siderable fortune  for  a  girl  from  Ot- 
tumwa,  Illinois. 

And  the  marriage  had  not  been  a 
happy  one.  The  last  years  of  his  life 
Will  Phillips  had  taken  to  drinking.  The 
judge  felt  that  the  wife  had  driven  his 
brother  to  his  sodden  end,  and  he  hated 
her  for  it,  with  a  proper  and  legal  hatred. 
The  last  six  months  of  her  husband's 
life,  Mrs.  Phillips  had  spent  in  Europe 
with  her  two  children.  Why  she  had 
chosen  to  return  to  Chicago  after  her 


210 


The   Common  Lot. 


husband's  death  was  a  mystery  to  the 
judge,  who  never  gave  Louise  Phillips 
credit  for  half  her  character. 

She  told  him  that  she  had  found  Eu- 
rope an  unsuitable  place  in  which  to 
bring  up  the  children,  and  proposed  to 
build  a  new  house,  perhaps  in  Forest 
Park,  —  one  of  the  older  and  more  de- 
sirable suburbs  to  the  north  of  the  city. 

"  I  must  make  a  home  for  my  children 
among  their  father's  friends,"  she  said  to 
the  judge  with  perfect  propriety.  "  Ve- 
netia,  especially,  should  have  the  right 
background." 

Venetia,  so  named  in  one  of  the  rare 
accesses  of  sentiment  which  came  to  Mrs. 
Phillips,  as  to  all  mortals,  was  now  six- 
teen years  old.  Her  brother  Stanwood, 
a  year  younger,  had  been  placed  in  a 
fashionable  Eastern  school,  where  he  was 
preparing  for  Yale,  and  ultimately  for 
the  "  career  of  diplomacy,"  as  his  mother 
called  it. 

The  judge  had  been  discussing  to-day 
his  sister-in-law's  intentions  in  regard  to 
the  new  house,  and  she  had  notified  him 
that  she  should  need  presently  a  large 
amount  of  money. 

"  If  you  will  wait,"  she  remarked, 
having  exhausted  her  opinion  about  phi- 
lanthropy and  Powers  Jackson's  will, 
"  you  might  see  my  architect.  I  have 
asked  Mr.  Hart  to  call  this  afternoon." 

"  I  don't  pine  to  see  him,"  the  old 
man  retorted  testily.  "  So  you  have  gone 
that  far  ?  " 

"  Yes !  There  is  n't  the  slightest  use 
of  being  disagreeable  about  it,  you  see. 
Nothing  that  you  can  say  will  change  my 
mind.  It  never  has.  You  would  like 
to  keep  me  from  spending  the  money. 
But  you  can't  without  a  row,  a  scandal. 
Besides,  it 's  a  good  investment  for  both 
the  children." 

"  You  were  always  pretty  keen  for  a 
good  investment !  " 

"  You  mean  by  that  sarcasm  that  you 
think  I  was  sharp  when  I  married  your 
brother,  because  I  had  nothing  but  my 
good  looks.  They  were  worth  more  than 


a  husband  —  who  —  drank  himself  —  to 
death." 

"  We  won't  go  into  that,  please,"  the 
judge  said,  his  bright  blue  eyes  glitter- 
ing. "  I  hope,  Louise,  to  live  to  see  the 
day  when  you  get  what  you  deserve,  — 
just  how  I  don't  know." 

"  Thank  you,  Harrison,"  Mrs.  Phillips 
replied  unperturbed.  "  We  all  do  get 
what  we  deserve,  sooner  or  later,  don't 
we?" 

"  Sometimes  I  give  up  hope  !  " 

"  There  's  my  young  man  now !  "  she 
exclaimed,  looking  out  of  the  window. 
"  If  you  want  to  know  just  what  extrav- 
agances I  am  going  into,  you  had  better 
wait." 

"  I  '11  know  soon  enough !  Where  's 
Ven  ?  I  want  to  see  her." 

"  She  should  be  out  riding  with  John." 

Mrs.  Phillips  rose  from  her  deep  chair 
to  greet  the  architect.  All  at  once  her 
face  and  manner  seemed  to  change  from 
the  hard,  cold  surface  that  she  had  pre- 
sented to  the  judge,  the  surface  of  a  mid- 
dle-aged, shrewd  woman.  Suddenly  she 
expanded,  opened  herself  graciously  to 
the  young  man. 

The  old  gentleman  stalked  out  of  the 
drawing-room,  with  a  curt  nod  and  a 
grunt  for  Hart.  The  architect  looked 
to  the  widow  for  an  explanation  of  the 
stormy  atmosphere,  but  she  smiled  a 
warm  welcome,  ignoring  the  judge. 

"  So  good  of  you  to  answer  my  note 
promptly,"  she  murmured.  "  For  I  know 
how  busy  you  are !  " 

"  I  had  already  promised  myself  the 
pleasure,"  Hart  replied  quickly,  using  a 
phrase  he  had  thought  up  on  his  way 
into  the  room. 

As  he  looked  at  her  resting  in  her 
deep  chair,  he  realized  that  it  was  a  dis- 
tinct pleasure  to  be  there.  In  Chicago 
Mrs.  Will  Phillips  was  much  more  of  a 
person  than  she  had  been  in  Paris.  Still, 
the  woman  in  her  was  the  first  and  last 
fact.  She  was  thirty-seven,  and  in  the 
very  best  of  health.  To  one  who  did  not 


The   Common  Lot. 


211 


lay  exclusive  emphasis  on  mere  youth, 
the  first  bloom  of  the  fruit,  she  was 
much  more  beautiful  than  when  she  mar- 
ried Willie  Phillips.  Sensitive,  nervous, 
in  the  full  tide  of  her  physical  life,  she 
had,  what  is  euphemistically  called  to- 
day, temperament.  To  this  instinctive 
side  of  the  woman,  the  handsome,  strong, 
young  man  had  always  appealed. 

It  is  also  true  that  she  was  clever,  and 
had  learned  with  great  rapidity  how  to 
cover  up  the  holes  of  a  wretched  educa- 
tion. At  first,  however,  a  man  could 
think  of  but  one  thing  in  the  presence 
of  Mrs.  Phillips  :  — 

"  You  are  a  woman,  and  a  very  pretty 
one !  " 

Doubtless  she  meant  that  men  should 
think  that,  and  nothing  more,  at  first. 
Those  who  had  come  through  the  fire,  to 
whom  she  was  cold  and  hard,  like  an  in- 
ferior gem,  might  say  with  the  judge  :  — 

"  Louise  flings  her  sex  at  you  from  the 
first  smile.  The  only  thing  to  do  is  to 
run." 

Jackson  Hart  had  not  yet  reached  this 
point  of  experience.  He  was  but  dim- 
ly aware  that  the  woman  opposite  him 
troubled  his  mind,  preoccupied,  as  it  hap- 
pened to  be,  with  business,  like  a  too  pro- 
nounced perfume.  Here,  in  the  hard  at- 
mosphere of  an  American  city,  he  was 
not  inclined  to  remember  the  sentimen- 
talities of  his  Paris  days.  According- 
ly, Mrs.  Phillips,  with  quick  perception, 
dropped  the  reminiscential  tone  that  she 
had  been  inclined  to  take.  She  came 
promptly  to  business  :  — 

"  Could  you  consider  a  small  commis- 
sion, Mr.  Hart  ?  "  she  asked  with  appar- 
ent hesitation. 

The  architect  would  have  undertaken 
to  build  a  doll's  house.  Nevertheless, 
his  heart  sank  at  the  word  "  small." 

"  I  so  much  want  your  advice,  at  any 
rate.  I  value  your  taste  so  highly.  You 
taught  me  how  to  look  at  things  over 
there.  And  we  should  agree,  should  n't 
we?" 

Then  she  unfolded  more  plainly  her 


purpose  of  building  in  Forest  Park. 
She  had  thought  of  something  Tudor. 
(She  had  been  visiting  at  a  Tudor  house 
in  the  East.)  But  the  architect,  without 
debating  the  point,  sketched  on  the  back 
of  an  envelope  the  outline  of  an  old 
French  chateau,  —  a  toy  study  in  part  of 
the  famous  chateau  at  Chenonceaux. 

"  What  a  lovely  roof !  "  Mrs.  Phil- 
lips exclaimed  responsively.  "  And  how 
the  thing  grows  under  your  hand !  It 
seems  as  if  you  must  have  had  me  in 
mind  for  a  long  time."  She  leaned  over 
the  little  piece  of  paper,  fascinated  by 
the  architect's  facility. 

As  he  drew  in  the  facade,  he  noticed 
that  the  widow  had  very  lovely  hair,  of 
a  tone  rarely  found  in  America,  between 
brown  and  black,  dusky.  He  remem- 
bered that  he  had  made  the  same  obser- 
vation before  in  Paris.  The  arch  of  her 
neck,  which  was  strong  and  full,  was  also 
excellent.  And  her  skin  had  a  perfect 
pallor. 

By  the  time  he  had  made  these  obser- 
vations and  finished  his  rough  little 
sketch,  the  Tudor  period  had  been  for- 
gotten, and  the  question  of  the  commis- 
sion had  been  really  decided.  There  re- 
mained to  be  debated  the  matter  of  cost. 
After  one  or  two  tactful  feints  the  archi- 
tect was  forced  to  ask  bluntly  what  the 
widow  expected  to  spend  on  the  house. 
At  the  mention  of  money  Mrs.  Phillips's 
brows  contracted  slightly.  A  trace  of 
hardness,  like  fine  enamel,  stole  across 
her  features. 

"  What  could  you  build  it  for  ?  "  she 
demanded  brusquely. 

"  Why,  on  a  thing  like  this  you  can 
spend  what  you  like,"  he  stammered. 
"Of  course  a  house  in  Forest  Park 
ought  to  be  of  a  certain  kind,  —  to  be  a 
good  investment,"  he  added  politely. 

"  Of  course.  Would  twenty-five  thou- 
sand dollars  do  ?  " 

The  architect  felt  relieved  on  hearing 
the  size  of  the  figure,  but  he  had  had  time 
to  realize  that  this  agreeable  client  might 
be  close  in  money  matters.  It  would  be 


212 


The   Common  Lot. 


well  to  have  her  mind  keyed  to  a  liberal 
figure  at  the  start,  and  he  said  boldly :  — 

"  You  could  do  a  good  deal  for  that. 
But  not  a  place  like  this.  Such  a  one 
as  you  ought  to  have,  Mrs.  Phillips,"  he 
added,  appealing  to  her  vanity. 

Once  he  had  called  her  Louise,  and 
they  both  were  conscious  of  the  fact. 
She  eyed  him  keenly.  She  was  quite 
well  aware  that  he  wanted  to  get  all  the 
freedom  to  develop  his  sketch  that  a 
good  sum  of  money  would  give,  and  also 
had  in  mind  the  size  of  his  fee,  which 
would  be  a  percentage  of  the  cost.  But 
this  did  not  offend  her.  In  this  struggle, 
mental  and  polite,  over  the  common 
topic  of  money,  she  expected  him  to  do 
his  best. 

"  It 's  no  use  being  small  in  such  mat- 
ters," she  conceded  at  length.  "  Let  us 
say  fifty  thousand  !  " 

"  That 's  much  more  possible  !  "  the 
architect  replied  buoyantly,  with  a  vague 
idea  already  forming  that  his  sketches 
might  call  for  a  house  that  would  cost 
seventy  or  seventy-five  thousand  dollars 
to  complete. 

The  money  matter  out  of  the  way,  the 
widow  relapsed  into  her  friendly  manner. 

"  I  hope  you  can  begin  right  away ! 
I  am  so  anxious  to  get  out  of  this  old 
barn,  and  I  want  to  unpack  all  the  trea- 
sures I  've  bought  in  Europe  this  last 
time." 

Judge  Phillips  would  have  shuddered 
to  hear  his  brother's  large  brick  house, 
with  its  neat  strip  of  encircling  green 
lawn,  in  Chicago  fashion,  referred  to  as 
a  barn.  And  the  architect,  on  his  side, 
knowing  something  of  Louise  Phillips's 
indiscriminate  taste  in  antiquities,  was 
resolved  to  cull  the  "  treasures  "  before 
they  found  a  place  in  his  edifice. 

"  Why,  I  '11  begin  on  some  sketches 
right  away.  If  they  please  you,  I  could 
do  the  plans  at  once  —  just  as  soon  as  I 
get  my  own  office,"  he  added  honestly. 
"  You  know  I  have  been  working  for 
Walker,  Post  &  Wright.  But  I  am  go- 
ing to  leave  them  very  soon." 


"  Yes,"  Mrs.  Phillips  replied  sympa- 
thetically. "  I  know  it  ought  to  have 
been  so  different.  I  think  that  will  was 
disgraceful !  I  hope  you  can  break  it." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  shall  try,"  he 
answered  hastily,  startled  at  the  widow's 
cool  comment  on  his  uncle's  purposes. 

''Well,  you  know  best,  I  suppose. 
But  I  should  think  a  long  time  before  I 
let  them  build  that  school." 

"  I  shall  see.  At  any  rate,  it  looks 
now  as  if  I  should  want  all  the  work  I 
can  get,"  he  said,  looking  into  her  eyes, 
and  thinking  of  what  Harris  had  told 
him  of  the  C.  R.  &  N.  job.  He  had 
it  on  his  lips  to  add,  "  Can't  you  say  a 
word  for  me  to  your  friend  Colonel  Ray- 
mond ?  "  But  he  could  not  bring  him- 
self to  the  point  of  asking  outright  for 
business  favors  at  a  woman's  hand. 

However,  she  happily  saved  him  from 
the  crudity  of  open  speech. 

"  Perhaps  I  can  help  you.  There  's 
something  —  Well,  we  won't  begin  on 
that  to-day.  But  you  can  rest  assured 
that  I  am  your  friend,  can't  you  ?  " 

They  understood  each  other  thus  easi- 
ly. He  knew  that  she  was  well  aware 
of  what  was  in  his  mind,  and  was  dis- 
posed to  help  him  to  the  full  extent  of 
her  woman's  power.  In  his  struggle  for 
money  and  place,  —  things  that  she  ap- 
preciated, —  she  would  be  an  able  friend. 

Having  come  to  a  complete  agreement 
on  many  matters,  in  the  manner  of  a 
man  and  a  woman,  they  began  to  talk  of 
Paris  and  of  other  days.  Outside  in  the 
hall  there  was  the  sound  of  steps,  and 
a  laughing,  vigorous  girl's  voice.  The 
architect  could  see  a  thin,  tall  girl,  as 
she  threw  her  arms  about  Judge  Phil- 
lips's plump  neck  and  pulled  his  head 
to  a  level  with  her  mouth.  He  noticed 
that  Mrs.  Phillips  was  also  watching 
this  scene  with  stealthy  eyes.  When 
the  door  had  closed  upon  the  judge,  she 
called  :  — 

"  Venetia,  will  you  come  here,  dear. 
I  want  you  to  meet  Mr.  Hart.  You  re- 
member Mr.  Hart  ?  " 


The   Common  Lot. 


213 


The  girl  crossed  the  drawing-room 
slowly,  the  fire  in  her  strangely  extin- 
guished. She  gave  a  bony  little  hand 
to  the  architect,  and  nodded  her  head, 
like  a  rebellious  trick  dog.  Then  she 
drew  away  from  the  two  and  stood  beside 
the  table,  waiting  for  the  next  order. 

She  was  dark  like  her  mother,  but 
her  features  lacked  the  widow's  pleasant 
curves.  They  were  firm  and  square,  and 
a  pair  of  dark  eyes  looked  out  moodily 
from  under  heavy  eyebrows.  The  short 
red  lips  were  full  and  curved,  while  the 
mother's  lips  were  dangerously  thin  and 
straight.  As  the  architect  looked  at  the 
girl,  standing  tall  and  erect  at  the  ta- 
ble, he  felt  that  she  was  destined  to  be 
of  some  importance.  It  was  also  plain 
that  she  and  her  mother  were  not  sym- 
pathetic. When  her  mother  spoke,  the 
daughter  seemed  to  listen  with  the  ter- 
rible criticism  of  youth  lurking  in  her 
eyes. 

A  close  observer  would  have  seen, 
also,  that  the  girl  had  in  her  a  capacity 
for  passion  that  the  mother  altogether 
lacked.  The  woman  was  mildly  sensu- 
ous and  physical  in  mood,  but  totally 
without  the  strong  emotions  that  might 
sweep  her  to  any  act,  mindless  of  fate. 
When  the  clash  came  between  the  two, 
the  mother  would  be  the  one  to  retreat. 

"  Have  you  had  your  ride,  dear  ?  " 
Mrs.  Phillips  asked  in  soothing  tones, 
carefully  prepared  for  the  public. 

"  No,  mamma.  Uncle  Harry  was 
here,  you  know."  ';'i  • 

"  I  am  sorry  not  to  have  you  take 
your  ride  every  day,  no  matter  what 
happens,"  the  mother  continued,  as  if 
she  had  not  heard  the  girl's  excuse. 

"  I  had  rather  see  uncle  Harry.  Be- 
sides, Frolic  went  lame  yesterday." 

"You  can  always  take  my  horse," 
Mrs.  Phillips  persisted,  her  eyebrows 
contracting  as  they  had  over  the  money 
question. 

A  look  of  what  some  day  might  be- 
come contempt  shadowed  the  girl's  face. 
She  bowed  to  the  architect  in  a  way  that 


made  him  understand  it  was  no  recom- 
mendation to  her  favor  that  he  was  her 
mother's  friend,  and  walked  across  the 
room  with  a  dignity  beyond  the  older  wo- 
man's power. 

"  She  is  at  the  difficult  age,"  the  mo- 
ther murmured. 

"  She  is  growing'  beautiful !  "  Hart 
exclaimed. 

"  I  hope  so,"  Mrs.  Phillips  answered 
composedly.  "  When  can  you  let  me 
see  the  sketches  ?  Won't  you  dine  with 
us  next  Wednesday  ?  " 

She  seemed  to  have  arranged  every 
detail  with  accuracy  and  care. 


VII. 

The  Spellmans  lived  on  the  other  side 
of  the  city  from  Mrs.  Phillips,  on  Maple 
Street,  very  near  the  lake.  Their  lit- 
tle stone-front,  Gothic-faced  house  was 
pretty  nearly  all  the  tangible  property 
that  Mr.  Spellman  had  to  leave  to  his 
widow  and  child  when  he  died,  sixteen 
years  before.  There  had  been  also  his 
interest  in  Jackson's  Bridge  Works,  an 
interest  which  at  the  time  was  largely 
speculative,  but  which  had  enabled  Pow- 
ers Jackson  to  pay  the  widow  a  liberal 
income  without  hurting  her  pride. 

The  house  had  remained  very  much 
what  it  had  been  during  Mr.  Spellman's 
lifetime,  its  bright  Brussels  carpets  and 
black-walnut  furniture  having  taken  on 
the  respectability  of  age  and  use.  Here, 
in  this  homely  eddy  of  the  great  city, 
mother  and  daughter  were  seated  read- 
ing after  their  early  dinner,  as  was  their 
custom.  Helen,  having  shown  no  apti- 
tude for  society,  after  one  or  two  seasons 
of  playing  the  wall-flower  at  the  modest 
parties  of  their  acquaintance,  had  reso- 
lutely sought  her  own  interests  in  life. 
One  of  these  was  a  very  earnest  attempt 
to  get  that  vague  thing  called  an  edu- 
cation. Just  at  present,  this  consisted 
of  much  reading  of  a  sociological  charac- 
ter. 


214 


The   Common  Lot. 


Mrs.  Spellman,  who  had  been  turning 
the  leaves  of  a  magazine,  finally  looked 
up  from  its  pages  and  asked,  "  Have  you 
seen  Jackson  since  the  funeral  ?  " 

Helen  dropped  her  book  into  her  lap 
and  looked  at  her  mother  with  startled 
eyes. 

"  No,  mother.  I  suppose  he  is  very 
busy." 

She  spoke  as  if  she  had  already  asked 
herself  this  question  and  answered  it 
without  satisfaction. 

"  I  wonder  what  he  means  to  do  about 
the  will,"  Mrs.  Spellman  continued.  "  It 
must  have  been  a  disappointment  to  him. 
I  wonder  if  he  had  any  idea  how  it  would 
be  ?  " 

"  What  makes  you  think  he  would  be 
disappointed  ?  "  the  girl  asked  literally. 

"  Why,  I  saw  Everett  this  morning, 
and  he  told  me  he  thought  his  cousin 
might  dispute  the  will.  He  said  Jack- 
son was  feeling  sore.  It  would  be  such 
a  pity  if  there  were  any  trouble  about 
the  will!" 

Helen  shut  the  book  in  her  lap  and 
laid  it  on  the  table  very  firmly. 

"  How  can  Everett  say  such  things ! 
You  know  Jackson  would  never  think  of 
anything  so  —  mean,  so  ungrateful!  " 

"  Some  people  might  think  he  was 
justified.  And  it  is  a  very  large  sum  of 
money.  If  he  expected  "  — 

"  Just  because  uncle  Powers  was  al- 
ways so  good  to  him !  "  the  girl  inter- 
rupted hotly.  "  Was  that  any  reason 
why  he  should  give  him  a  lot  of  money  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  most  people  would  think  it 
was  a  sufficient  reason  for  giving  him 
more  than  he  did." 

"  Then  most  people  are  very  self-in- 
terested !  Everett  Wheeler  might  ex- 
pect it.  But  Jackson  has  something  else 
in  life  to  do  than  worry  over  not  getting 
his  uncle's  money." 

Mrs.  Spellman,  who  had  known  Jack- 
son since  he  was  a  child,  smiled  wisely? 
but  made  no  reply. 

"  What  should  he  want  more  than  he 
has,  —  the  chance  to  do  splendid  things, 


to  work  for  something  better  than  money? 
That 's  the  worst  about  Chicago,  —  you 
hear  nothing  but  money,  money,  from 
morning  to  night.  No  one  believes  any 
man  cares  for  any  other  thing.  Everett 
does  n't ! " 

"  Poor  Everett !  "  her  mother  said  with 
quiet  irony.  "  He  is  n't  thinking  of  con- 
testing the  will,  however." 

"Nor  is  Jackson,  I  know,"  the  girl 
answered  positively. 

She  rose  from  her  chair  by  the  lamp, 
and  walked  to  and  fro  in  the  room. 
When  she  stood  she  was  a  tall  woman, 
almost  large,  showing  the  growth  that 
the  New  England  stock  can  assume  in  a 
favorable  environment.  While  she  read, 
her  features  had  been  quite  dull.  They 
were  fired  now  with  feeling,  and  the  deep 
eyes  burned. 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Spellman  remarked, 
"  Why  should  n't  we  go  away,  to  Eu- 
rope ?  Would  n't  you  like  to  spend  a 
year  abroad  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  "  the  girl  demanded  quickly, 
pausing  opposite  her  mother.  "  What 
makes  you  say  that  ?  " 

"  There  is  n't  much  to  keep  us  here," 
Mrs.  Spellman  explained. 

The  girl  turned  away  her  face,  as  she 
answered  evasively,  "  Why  should  we 
go  away  ?  I  don't  want  to  leave." 

She  knew  that  her  mother  was  think- 
ing of  what  had  occurred  to  her  many 
times  as  these  last  days  had  gone  by 
without  their  seeing  the  young  architect. 
Possibly,  now  that  he  knew  himself  to 
be  without  fortune,  he  wished  to  show 
her  that  there  could  be  no  question  of 
marriage  between  them.  She  rejected 
the  idea  haughtily.  And  even  if  it  were 
so,  she  would  not  admit  to  herself  the 
wound.  It  would  be  no  pleasure  for  her 
to  go  away. 

Could  it  be  true  that  he  was  thinking 
of  fighting  the  will  ?  Her  heart  scorned 
the  suggestion.  She  returned  to  her 
chair,  resolutely  picked  up  her  book,  and 
turned  the  pages  with  a  methodical,  un- 
seeing regularity.  As  the  clock  tinkled 


The   Common  Lot. 


215 


off  nine  strokes,  Mrs.  Spellman  rose, 
kissed  her  daughter,  silently  pressing  her 
fingers  on  the  light  folds  of  her  hair,  and 
went  upstairs  to  her  room.  Another  half 
hour  went  by ;  then,  as  the  clock  struck 
the  hour,  the  doorbell  rang.  Helen,  recol- 
lecting that  the  servants  had  probably 
left  the  kitchen,  put  down  her  book  and 
stepped  into  the  hall.  She  waited  a  mo- 
ment there,  but  when  the  bell  rang  a 
second  time  she  went  resolutely  to  the 
door  and  opened  it. 

"  Oh !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Jackson  ! 
I  thought  it  might  be  a  tramp." 

"  You  are  n't  so  far  wrong,"  the  archi- 
tect answered  with  a  laugh.  "  Is  it  too 
late  to  come  in  ?  " 

For  answer  she  held  the  door  wide 
open. 

"  I  have  been  dining  with  Mrs.  Phil- 
lips ;  she  has  asked  me  to  draw  some 
plans  for  her,"  Hart  explained.  "  I 
thought  I  would  tell  you  and  your  mo- 
ther about  it." 

"  Mother  has  gone  upstairs,  but  come 
in.  You  know  I  read  late.  And  I  am 
so  glad  to  hear  about  the  plans." 

The  strong  night  wind  brushed  bois- 
terously through  the  open  door,  ruffling 
the  girl's  loosely  coiled  hair.  She  put 
her  hands  to  her  head  to  tighten  the 
hairpins  here  and  there.  If  the  man 
could  have  read  colors  in  the  dark  hall, 
he  would  have  seen  that  the  girl's  face, 
usually  too  pale,  had  flushed.  His  ears 
were  quick  enough  to  detect  the  tremu- 
lous note  in  her  voice,  the  touch  of  sur- 
prise and  sudden  feeling.  It  answered 
something  electric  in  himself,  something 
that  had  driven  him  across  the  city 
straightway  from  Mrs.  Phillips's  house. 

He  followed  her  into  the  circle  of 
lamplight,  and  sat  down  heavily  in  the 
chair  that  she  had  been  occupying. 

"  What 's  this  thing  you  are  reading  ?  " 
he  asked  in  his  usual  tone  of  authority, 
picking  up  the  bulky  volume  beneath 
the  lamp.  "  Hobson's  Social  Problem. 
Where  did  you  get  hold  of  that  ?  It 's 
a  queer  thing  for  a  girl,  is  n't  it  ?  " 


His  tolerantly  amused  tone  indicated 
the  value  he  put  on  women's  education. 

"  Professor  Sturges  recommended  it." 

"  Una,"  he  commented,  turning  over 
the  leaves  critically. 

"  But  tell  me  about  Mrs.  Phillips  and 
the  plans." 

There  was  an  awkward  constraint  be- 
tween them,  not  that  the  hour  or  the 
circumstance  of  their  being  alone  made 
them  self-conscious.  There  was  nothing 
unusual  in  his  coming  late  like  this. 
But  many  things  had  happened  since 
they  had  been  together  alone :  the  old 
man's  death,  the  funeral,  the  will,  — 
most  of  all  the  will ! 

He  told  her  of  the  new  house  in  For- 
est Park.  It  had  been  decided  upon 
that  evening,  his  plans  having  been  re- 
ceived enthusiastically.  But  he  lacked 
all  interest  in  it.  He  was  thinking  how 
the  week  had  changed  everything  be- 
tween them.  Because  of  that  he  had  not 
been  to  see  her  before,  and  he  felt  guilty 
in  being  here  now. 

"  Mother  and  I  have  just  been  talking 
of  you.  We  have  n't  seen  you  since  the 
funeral,"  Helen  said,  speaking  what  was 
in  her  mind. 

Her  words  carried  no  reproach.  Yet 
at  once  he  felt  that  he  was  put  on  the 
defensive  ;  he  did  not  care  to  explain 
why  he  had  avoided  the  Maple  Street 
house. 

"  A  lot  has  happened,"  he  replied 
vaguely.  "  Things  have  changed  pretty 
completely  for  me  !  " 

A  tone  of  bitterness  crept  into  his 
voice  in  spite  of  himself.  He  wanted 
sympathy  ;  for  that,  in  part,  he  had  come 
to  her.  At  the  same  time  he  felt  that 
it  was  a  weak  thing  to  do,  that  he  should 
have  gone  almost  anywhere  but  to  her. 

"  It  takes  a  man  a  few  days  to  catch 
his  breath,"  he  continued,  "  when  he 
finds  he  's  been  cut  off  with  a  shilling, 
as  they  say  in  the  play." 

Her  eyes  dropped  from  his  face,  and 
her  hands  began  to  move  restlessly  over 
the  folds  of  her  skirt. 


216 


The   Common  Lot. 


"  I  've  had  a  lot  to  think  about  —  to 
look  at  the  future  in  a  new  way.  There  's 
no  hope  now  of  leaving  this  place,  thanks 
to  uncle  !  " 

"  Oh  !  "  she  exclaimed  in  a  low  voice. 
The  coldness  of  her  tone  was  not  lost 
upon  the  man.  He  saw  suddenly  that 
it  would  not  do  to  admit  to  her  that 
he  contemplated  contesting  his  uncle's 
will. 

"  Of  course,"  he  hastened  to  add  mag- 
nanimously, "  uncle  had  a  perfect  right  to 
do  as  he  liked.  It  was  his  money.  But 
what  could  he  have  had  against  me?  " 

"  Why,  nothing,  I  am  sure  !  "  she  an- 
swered quickly. 

"  It  looks  as  if  he  had !  " 

"  Perhaps  he  thought  it  was  better 
so,  —  better  for  you,"  she  suggested  gen- 
tly. "  He  used  to  say  that  the  men  of 
his  time  had  more  in  their  lives  than 
men  have  nowadays,  because  they  had  to 
make  all  the  fight  for  themselves.  Now- 
adays so  many  young  men  inherit  capital. 
He  thought  there  were  two  great  gifts 
in  life,  —  health  and  education.  When  a 
man  had  those,  he  could  go  out  to  meet 
the  future  bravely." 

"  Yes,  I  know  all  that,"  he  hastened 
to  say.  "  But  the  world  is  n't  running 
on  just  the  same  lines  it  was  when  uncle 
Powers  was  working  at  the  forge.  It 's 
a  longer  road  up  these  days." 

"  Is  it  ?  "  the  girl  asked  vaguely.  Then 
they  were  silent  once  more. 

There  was  nothing  of  reproof  in  her 
words,  yet  he  felt  the  strange  difference 
in  the  atmosphere  of  this  faded  little 
Maple  Street  house  from  the  world  he 
had  been  living  in.  He  had  told  himself 
for  the  last  ten  days  that  now  he  could  not 
marry  this  woman,  that  a  great  and  per- 
fectly obvious  barrier  had  been  raised 
by  his  disinheritance.  It  had  all  been 
so  clear  to  him  that  he  had  not  questioned 
the  idea. 

That  very  evening  he  had  had  more 
talk  about  the  will  with  the  clever  Mrs. 
Phillips,  and  he  had  come  away  from 
her  resolved  to  contest  the  instrument. 


On  the  morrow  he  intended  to  notify  his 
cousin  and  take  the  preliminary  steps. 
Yet,  on  the  very  heels  of  that  decision, 
there  had  come  an  irresistible  desire  to 
see  this  other  woman,  the  longing  for 
the  antithesis  which  so  often  besets  the 
feeble  human  will.  Nothing  was  more 
unlike  Mrs.  Phillips  in  his  horizon  than 
this  direct,  inexperienced  girl,  full  of 
pure  enthusiasms. 

Now  he  saw  very  clearly  that  nothing 
would  remove  him  farther  from  Helen 
than  the  act  he  was  contemplating.  If 
she  but  knew  his  intention,  she  would 
scorn  him  forever !  He  had  lost  her 
somehow,  either  way,  he  kept  saying  to 
himself,  as  he  sat  there  trying  to  think 
calmly.  He  put  another  black  mark 
against  his  uncle's  memory  ! 

He  had  never  cared  to  be  near  her 
so  much  as  now.  Every  soreness  and 
weakness  of  his  spirit  seemed  to  call  out 
for  her  strong,  capable  hand.  Even  the 
sensuous  Mrs.  Phillips,  by  some  subtle 
crossing  of  the  psychological  wires,  had 
driven  him  to  this  plain  girl,  with  the 
honest  eyes  and  unimpassioned  bosom. 
So  also  had  the  contractor  and  the  men 
at  his  club.  In  fact,  his  world  had 
conspired  to  set  him  down  here,  before 
the  one  who  alone  knew  nothing  of  its 
logic ! 

"  You  have  n't  said  anything  about 
the  school,"  Helen  remarked  after  a 
time.  "Aren't  you  glad!"  she  ex- 
claimed, in  the  need  of  her  spirit  to  know 
him  to  be  as  generous  as  she  thought  him. 
"  It  was  so  big,  so  large-hearted  of  him  ! 
Especially  after  all  the  bitter  things  the 
papers  had  said  about  him,  —  to  give 
everything  he  had  made,  the  whole  work 
of  his  life,  to  help  the  people  and  the  very 
ones  who  had  so  often  misunderstood  him 
and  tried  to  hurt  him.  He  was  great 
enough  to  forget  the  strikes  and  the  riots, 
and  their  shooting  at  him  !  He  forgave 
them.  He  saw  why  they  erred,  and  he 
wanted  to  lift  them  out  of  their  hate  and 
their  ignorance.  He  wanted  to  make 
their  lives  happier  and  better  !  Were  n't 


The   Common  Lot. 


217 


you  glad  ?  Was  n't  it  a  splendid  answer 
to  his  enemies  ?  " 

The  warmth  of  her  feeling  lent  her 
quiet  face  glow  and  beauty.  She  spoke 
fast,  but  in  a  distinct,  low  voice.  It 
had  a  note  of  appeal  in  it,  coming  from 
her  desire  to  rouse  the  man.  For  the 
moment  she  succeeded.  He  was  ashamed 
to  be  unworthy  in  her  eyes. 

"  Why,  yes,"  he  admitted ;  "  as  you 
put;  it,  it  seems  fine.  But  I  don't  feel 
sure  that  I  admire  an  old  man's  philan- 
thropies, though.  He  does  n't  want  the 
money  any  longer,  —  that 's  a  sure  thing ! 
So  he  chucks  it  into  one  big  scheme  or  an- 
other that 's  likely  to  bring  him  a  lot  of 
fame.  Uncle  Powers  was  sharp  enough 
in  gathering  his  dollars,  and  in  keeping 
'em  too  "  — 

"  Oh !  How  can  you  say  that !  Don't," 
the  girl  implored,  looking  at  him  with 
troubled  eyes. 

If  she  had  had  much  experience  of  men 
and  things,  she  would  have  understood 
the  architect's  attitude  long  before  this. 
But  added  to  her  inexperience  was  her 
persistent  need  of  soul  to  see  those  she 
loved  large  and  generous. 

"  Well,"  Hart  resumed,  less  confident- 
ly, "  I  did  n't  mean  any  disrespect  to  the 
old  man.  It 's  only  the  oldest  law  of  life 
that  he  lived  up  to.  And  I  guess  he 
meant  to  have  me  learn  that  law  as  fast 
as  I  can.  You  've  got  to  fight  for  what 
you  want  in  this  world,  and  fight  hard, 
and  fight  all  the  time.  And  there  is  n't 
much  room  for  sentiment  and  fine  ideas 
and  philanthropy  until  you  are  old,  and 
have  earned  your  pile,  and  done  your 
neighbor  out  of  his  in  the  process." 

She  was  silent,  and  he  continued,  will- 
ing to  let  her  see  some  of  the  harder, 
baser  reaches  of  his  mind  :  — 

"  It 's  just  the  same  way  with  art. 
It 's  only  good  when  it  succeeds.  It 
does  n't  live  unless  it  can  succeed.  I  see 
that  now !  Chicago  has  taught  me  that 
in  two  years.  I  'm  going  to  open  my  own 
shop  pretty  soon  and  look  for  trade. 
That 's  what  uncle  wanted.  If  I  get 


some  big  commissions,  and  put  up  a  lot  of 
skyscrapers  or  mills,  why,  I  shall  have 
won  out.  What  does  any  one  care  for 
the  kind  of  work  you  do  ?  It 's  the  price 
it  brings  every  time  !  " 

"  Don't  say  that !  Please,  please  don't 
talk  that  way,  so  bitterly." 

There  was  real  pain  in  her  voice,  and 
her  eyes  were  filmed  with  incipient  tears. 
He  leaned  forward  in  his  low  chair  and 
asked  impetuously,  "  Why  do  you  say 
that?  Why  do  you  care  what  I  say  ?  " 

Her  lips  trembled  ;  she  looked  at  him 
piteously  for  a  moment,  as  if  to  beg  him 
not  to  force  her  to  confess  more  openly 
how  he  had  hurt  her,  how  much  she 
could  be  hurt  by  seeing  in  him  the  least 
touch  of  baseness.  She  rose,  without 
knowing  what  she  did,  with  an  uncon- 
scious instinct  of  flight.  She  twisted  her 
hands  nervously,  facing  him,  as  he  rose, 
too,  with  her  misty,  honest  eyes. 

"  Tell  me  !  "  he  whispered.  "  Do  you 
care  ?  " 

"  Don't,"  she  moaned  inarticulately, 
seeking  in  her  whirling  brain  for  some 
defense  against  the  man. 

They  hung  there,  like  this,  for  the 
space  of  several  seconds,  their  hearts 
beating  furiously,  caught  in  a  sudden 
wave  of  emotion,  which  drew  them  in- 
exorably closer,  against  their  reason  and 
their  will ;  which  mastered  their  natures 
without  regard  for  their  feeble  human 
purpose.  .  .  . 

He  drew  her  to  him  and  kissed  her. 
She  murmured  in  the  same  weak,  de- 
fenseless tone  as  before,  —  "  Don't,  not 

yet." 

But  she  gave  herself  quite  unreserv- 
edly to  his  strong  arms.  She  gave  her- 
self with  all  the  perfect  self-f orgetf ulness 
of  an  absolutely  pure  woman  who  loves 
and  is  glad.  The  little  thoughts  of  self 
were  forgotten,  the  preconceptions  of  her 
training.  She  was  glad  to  give,  to  give 
all  in  the  joy  of  giving  to  him  ! 

The  man,  having  thus  done  what  his 
reason  had  counseled  him  for  the  past 


218  Candlemas. 

week  not  to  do,  what  he  would  have  said  He  had  committed  himself  to  a  very 
an  hour  before  was  impossible  for  him  difficult  future  by  engaging  himself  to  a 
to  do,  came  out  of  the  great  whelming  poor  woman  and  struggling  upwards  in 
wave  of  feeling,  and  found  himself  alone  real  poverty,  instead  of  taking  the  de- 
upon  the  dark  city  street  under  the  tran-  cencies  of  a  comfortable  bachelorhood, 
quil  canopy  of  the  city  smoke.  His  whole  But  there  was  something  inspiring  in 
being  was  at  rest  with  the  purification  of  what  had  happened,  something  strange- 
strong  passion,  at  rest  and  at  peace,  with  ly  electrifying  to  his  nerves.  He  had 
that  wonderful  sense  of  poise,  of  Tightness  stooped  and  caught  the  masculine  burden 
about  one's  self,  which  comes  when  pas-  of  the  race,  but  he  felt  his  feet  a-tingle 
sion  is  perfect  and  touches  the  whole  soul,  for  the  road  before  him.  And,  best  of 
The  fret  about  his  affairs  and  his  uncle's  all,  in  his  heart  there  was  reverence  for 
will,  in  which  he  had  lived  for  the  past  that  unknown  woman  who  had  kissed 
week,  had  vanished  with  the  touch  of  her  him  and  taken  him  to  her  —  for  al- 
lips.  ways. 

Robert  Herrick. 
(To  be  continued.) 


CANDLEMAS. 

THE  hedge-rows  cast  a  shallow  shade 

Upon  the  frozen  grass, 
But  skies  at  evensong  are  soft, 

And  comes  the  Candlemas. 

Each  day  a  little  later  now 

Lingers  the  westering  sun ; 
Far  out  of  sight  the  miracles 

Of  April  are  begun. 

O  barren  bough  !     O  frozen  field ! 

Hopeless  ye  wait  no  more. 
Life  keeps  her  dearest  promises  — 

The  Spring  is  at  the  door ! 

Arthur  Ketchum. 


A  Basket  of 


219 


A  BASKET   OF   CHIPS. 


IN  the  season  when  trees  are  bare  and 
grass  is  brown  the  varied  blossoms  and 
bird  songs  are  but  a  memory,  or,  if 
the  mind  be  prophetic  rather  than  re- 
trospective, an  anticipation.  True,  a  few 
days  of  unusual  mildness  may  induce  a 
modest  chickweed  or  veronica  to  open  a 
sleepy  eye  here  and  there,  particularly 
in  the  more  protected  park  or  lawn  of 
the  city,  or  a  song  sparrow  or  Carolina 
wren,  or  perhaps  a  tufted  titmouse,  mead- 
ow lark,  or  even  a  cardinal,  to  try  its 
voice ;  but  these  are  straggling  and  in- 
cidental occurrences  that  merely  serve 
to  accentuate  the  general  emptiness  of 
winter. 

Still,  though  the  musical  spirit  may  be 
dormant  or  fled  to  another  clime,  the 
woods  and  fields  are  not  absolutely  silent. 
For  the  birds  are  not  limited  vocally  to 
those  aesthetic  utterances  that  bring  us 
so  much  delight.  Many  are  the  notes  at 
their  command,  expressive  of  other  emo- 
tions than  the  pure  love  of  music,  which 
so  palpably  governs  them  in  their  sing- 
ing. Surprise,  anxiety,  alarm,  content- 
ment, happiness, — these  and  other  states, 
doubtless,  have  their  appropriate  utter- 
ances. Mere  chattering,  for  companion- 
ship's sake,  may  be  heard,  too.  Often, 
as  it  seems,  a  mere  habit  — as  though 
a  human  were  to  hum  unconsciously  to 
himself  without  reference  to  mental  state 
or  occupation  —  is  the  only  cause  of 
some  of  the  little  notes  or  phrases  that 
thinly  clothe  the  wintry  woods. 

It  is,  therefore,  worth  while  sometimes 
to  take  a  winter's  walk  and  gather  a  few 
of  these  "  chips,"  as  most  of  them  are 
called.  They  may  be  drier  and  colder 
than  the  full-clad  tree  of  song  from  which 
they  are  cut,  but  they  have  much  power 
for  warmth  to  the  spirit,  and  the  pursuit 
is  full  of  interest. 

Strictly  speaking,  such  birds  as  king- 
lets, chickadees,  and  wrens  do  not  chip ; 


but  then,  very  strictly  speaking,  neither 
do  sparrows,  —  not  even  chipping  spar- 
rows, —  so  we  need  not  balk  at  the  term. 

It  must  be  confessed,  too,  that  if  we 
listen  very  closely,  the  chickadee 1  does 
not  utter  his  name  as  he  roves  singly  or 
in  a  merry  band  through  the  trees,  glean- 
ing such  sustenance  as  the  season  permits. 
His  common  phrase,  which  has  been  thus 
anglicized,  consists  of  two  kinds  of  utter- 
ances, —  a  high  note  of  a  somewhat  thick 
soprano  quality,  and  a  series  of  low 
notes,  often  very  musical  in  tone.  These 
low  notes  are  very  peculiar.  They  vary 
in  pitch,  apparently  with  the  varying 
stress  with  which  they  are  uttered,  but 
by  breaks,  instead  of  gradually.  The 
first  I  ever  listened  to  attentively  were 
confined  to  the  three  notes  of  the  first 
inversion  of  the  chord  of  D  minor, 


passing  irregularly  from  each  to  the  next 
above  or  below.  For  a  while  I  heard 
these  same  notes  in  the  dee  part  of  each 
chick-a^dee  that  I  noted  closely,  and  con- 
cluded that  it  was  likely  that  all  the  dee 
notes  were  similarly  constructed,  and 
that  this  probably  accounted  for  the 
mournful  tinge  that  attaches  to  this  ut- 
terance despite  its  sprightliness.  But  I 
subsequently  heard  tones  of  other  pitch 
that  upset  my  supposed  fact  and  its  corol- 
lary, the  major  triad  of  F 


being  among  the  chords  represented. 

Chickadee  has  also  a  very  high,  fine 
note,  which  he  has,  perhaps,  borrowed 
from,  or  lent  to,  the  kinglet,  and  which 

1  The  chickadee  referred  to  in  this  article  is 
the  Carolina  chickadee,  which  is  very  abundant 
about  Washington,  particularly  in  winter. 


220 


A  Basket  of  Chips. 


may  often  be  heard  from  the  trees 
through  which  he  is  passing.  This  note, 
which  is  much  higher  than  his  chick  note, 
he  commonly  uses  as  a  preface  to  the 
clear  notes  of  his  song.  He  is  also  fond 
of  introducing  his  dee  note  into  his  songs, 
giving  an  effect  somewhat  suggestive  of 
the  vocal  efforts  of  the  red-winged  black- 
bird. Only  last  Christmas  eve  I  heard 
this  incongruous  mixture  as  a  chickadee 
flitted  over  a  partly  frozen  stream.  I  also 
heard  from  the  same  bird  a  very  clear, 
pretty  song  consisting  of  treble  B  flat, 
a  second  B  flat  an  octave  higher  (the 
kinglet  note),  and  treble  G.  This  song 
8va.  loco. 


really  has  no  more  place  in  the  present 
article  than  a  flower  would  have  had  in 
the  basket  of  Christmas  greens  I  was 
gathering  at  the  time ;  still,  had  I  met 
with  a  flower  during  my  quest  it  would 
probably  have  gone  into  my  basket. 

Our  bright  little  friend  with  attractive 
garb  and  unfailing  good  spirits  is  a  so- 
ciable youngster,  fearless  of  man,  and  on 
excellent  terms  with  his  avian  neighbors, 
through  constant  association  with  which 
he  has  become  a  very  good  linguist,  and 
so  is  able  to  express  himself  to  several 
of  his  associates  in  their  own  languages. 
Sometimes  he  utters  a  quacking  chip  like 
that  of  the  English  sparrow ;  certain  of 
his  notes  suggest  a  speaking  acquain- 
tance with  the  house  wren ;  and  very  fre- 
quently he  may  be  heard  reproducing 
the  phffibe's  song,  though  without  the 
phffibe's  silvery  quality  of  voice.  Anent 
the  last  a  word  of  explanation  is  nec- 
essary. When  Thoreau  wrote  of  the 
"  phoebe  note  "  of  the  chickadee  he  prob- 
ably had  in  mind  the  two  long,  clear 
whistles  often  uttered  by  the  Northern 
chickadee ;  and  these  two  tones  have 
been  referred  to  by  other  writers  since 
as  the  phrebe  note  of  the  chickadee. 
But  the  chickadee  of  the  South  has  an- 
other utterance,  one  of  his  various  calls 


—  not   a  song  —  in  which   he  imitates 
almost   perfectly,  though  with    coarser, 
harsher   tone,   the  phce-be'  which   an- 
nounces the  spring  arrival  of  the  earli- 
est flycatcher.     This  is  more  properly 
entitled  to  be   called  his  phcebe    note. 
Sometimes  he  mixes  this  with  his  chick- 
a-dee,  producing  a  combination  somewhat 
like  chick-er-a-be1 . 

I  cannot  interpret  these  varied  frag- 
ments of  sounds  other  than  as  notes  of 
content,  sociable  chattering,  or  semi-con- 
scious utterances  of  habit,  with  a  sec- 
ondary object  —  or  maybe  it  is  primary 

—  of  serving  to  keep  united  the  jolly  lit- 
tle bands  that  go  a-roving  through  the 
woods.    That  none  are  expressive  of  dis- 
agreeable emotions  I  am  confident ;  for 
never  have  I  seen  the  chickadee  disturbed 
by  fear  or  anger. 

The  tufted  titmouse,  in  passing  like  the 
chickadee  through  the  woods  in  a  forag- 
ing band,  makes  his  presence  manifest 
by  notes  that  are  very  suggestive  of  the 
chick-a-dee  of  his  cousin,  —  that  is,  when 
the  band  is  in  a  noisy  mood,  for  fre- 
quently only  the  first  of  the  dual  notes 
is  heard.  The  full  utterance  usually  con- 
sists of  a  high  note,  followed  by  sever- 
al slightly  upward  gliding  chest  notes, 
bringing  to  mind  a  brood  of  young  pigs. 

A  lively  crew  it  is  that  goes  by,  —  flit- 
ting from  tree  to  tree  by  a  route  laid  out 
by  some  avian  geographer  or  surveyor. 
Each  voyager  hastily  snatches  a  bit  from 
a  limb,  and  hurries  on  with  it  to  join  his 
companions,  fearful  lest  the  strenuous 
pace  (quite  as  needless  in  their  case  as  in 
that  of  humanity)  should  cause  it  to  be 
left  behind,  should  it  linger  to  select  or 
enjoy  a  choice  morsel ;  and  each,  all  the 
while,  calls  to  his  mates  his  tse-day-day- 
day.  As  they  pass  they  fill  the  trees 
before  us  with  life,  and  for  some  distance 
the  stir  of  their  presence  is  yet  to  be  per- 
ceived. When,  however,  as  often  oc- 
curs, the  chest  notes  are  omitted,  there  is 
merely  an  unobtrusive  sound  of  icy  tin- 
kles, as  though  a  few  minute  icicles  were 
suspended  and  lightly  clinked  together. 


A  Basket  of  Chips. 


221 


This  double-register  utterance  consti- 
tutes the  characteristic  conversational  or 
call  note  of  the  tufted  titmice,  by  means 
of  which,  probably,  they  come  or  keep 
together,  but  it  does  not  exhaust  their 
vocabulary.  Indeed,  I  am  strongly  in- 
clined to  believe  that  if  any  species  of 
bird  be  studied  carefully,  it  will  be  found 
to  have  many  unsuspected  little  quips 
and  quirks  of  conversation.  The  fact 
that  it  is  impossible  to  write  the  song 
of  any  species,  because  of  individual  va- 
riety, is  becoming  well  known  ;  and  it 
seems  probable  that  much  of  the  same 
individuality  is  to  be  found  in  the  chips 
and  calls.  And  why  should  not  the  wild 
birds  have  something  of  the  variety  of  ar- 
ticulations possessed  by  domestic  fowls, 
—  a  slighter,  earlier  manifestation  of 
man's  articulatory  powers  ?  It  never 
surprises  me  when  I  hear  a  familiar  bird 
utter  a  strange  note  ;  nor  am  I  inclined 
to  question  another's  record  of  a  song  or 
call  that  has  no  correspondence  with  my 
own  recorded  experience. 

Hence,  when  on  a  day  of  mid-May  I 
heard  a  peculiar  cry,  which  may  be  in- 
terpreted (as  well  as  syllables  will  per- 
mit) ts-yanh',  the  last  syllable  very  nasal 
and  with  a  metallic  ring,  and  traced  the 
unusual  woodland  sound  to  a  tufted  tit- 
mouse in  a  neighboring  tree,  it  seemed 
quite  natural  that  I  should  thus  have 
stumbled  upon  a  word  of  the  titmouse 
language  that  I  had  not  happened  to  hear 
before. 

Nor  was  I  surprised  at  another  time, 
early  in  spring,  to  hear  from  a  tufted 
titmouse  another  utterance  that  was  new 
to  me.  This  could  hardly  be  called  a 
word  or  call,  but  was  probably  intended 
for  a  musical  performance  designed  to 
form  an  important  factor  in  the  court- 
ship then  in  progress.  The  bird  — 
doubtless  a  male  —  perched  on  a  twig  in 
some  brush,  was  stooping  with  elevated 
and  rapidly  quivering  wings,  uttering  a 
high-pitched,  bell -like,  vibratory  note, 
very  attractive  to  my  ear,  as,  I  have  no 
doubt,  it  was  also  to  that  of  his  lady-love. 


The  usual  note  of  the  white-breasted 
nuthatch  has  been  written  yank  and 
hank.  My  own  observation  would  lead 
me  to  adopt  the  second  of  these  terms  as 
most  closely  representing  the  sound,  but 
with  the  substitution  of  an  h  for  the  k, 
and  with  the  explanation  that  the  n  re- 
presents nearly  the  sound  of  the  French 
nasal,  so  that  the  call  is  a  close  rhyme 
for  vin.  When  I  first  heard  the  call  it 
suggested  to  my  mind  an  old  woman  say- 
ing querulously,  "  Hanh,  hanh  ?  "  But 
whether  the  tone  of  the  first  nuthatch  I 
met  was  particularly  light  and  uncertain, 
or  whether  the  first  impression  has  been 
altered  by  familiarity,  there  is  now  to 
my  ears  a  sturdier  ring  to  the  note.  It 
has  a  muffled  quality,  also,  as  though  the 
bird  were  carrying  in  its  mouth  the  nut 
it  is  designing  to  hatch.  Sometimes  it 
suggests  one  of  the  notes  of  a  distant 
crow  or  the  subdued  chimp  of  a  song 
sparrow.  Again  I  imagine  it  to  resemble 
a  note  from  a  far-off  bluebird.  There  is 
a  ventriloquial  effect  to  it  that  seems  to 
separate  it  from  that  little  bluish  bird 
that  is  so  carefully  inspecting  the  bark 
of  the  tree  in  the  foreground. 

Much  has  been  said  of  the  propensity 
of  the  nuthatch  to  progress  head  up  or 
down  indifferently,  but  his  tendency  is 
generally  upward,  though  he  does  not 
hesitate  to  reverse  his  position  for  con- 
venience' sake.  Nor  is  he  peculiar  in 
the  latter  regard,  as  is  supposed  by  many 
observers.  I  have  seen  the  brown  creeper 
move  a  short  distance  down  a  tree  trunk 
with  his  tail  pointed  toward  the  zenith, 
and  I  am  a  competent  witness  to  a  some- 
what related  feat  on  the  part  of  a  downy 
woodpecker  that  was  on  the  under  side 
of  a  horizontal  limb,  and  dropped  off  with 
his  back  toward  the  ground,  but  righted 
himself  by  an  aerial  somersault  before  he 
had  fallen  a  foot. 

The  mention  of  the  downy  woodpecker 
floods  my  mind  with  memories.  I  never 
before  fully  realized  how  thoroughly  the 
little  elf  is  identified  with  my  rambles 
through  the  separate  domains  of  Nature, 


222 


A  Basket  of  Chips. 


—  how  many  doors  of  my  storehouse  are 
ready  to  fly  open  at  the  sound  of  his 
strident  voice.  A  sturdy,  solitary,  inde- 
pendent descendant  of  Thor,  pursuing 
his  own  way  up  or  down  the  tree  trunk, 
hammering  persistently  at  the  end  of 
a  broken  limb,  or  resting  quietly  after 
meals  composedly  making  his  toilet,  — 
all  the  while  utterly  unmoved  by  the 
many  alarms  that  perhaps  send  com- 
posite bands  of  tree  and  song  sparrows, 
j uncos,  goldfinches,  and  other  birds,  from 
the  field  where  they  are  feeding  to  seek 
shelter  in  his  tree.  I  admire  his  isola- 
tion and  independence  as  I  admire  the 
chickadee's  good-fellowship  and  sociabil- 
ity ;  and  though  the  harsh  call  that  tells 
of  his  presence,  and  the  clattering,  scram- 
bling descent  of  the  gamut,  his  nearest 
approach  to  a  song,  have  little  of  musical 
beauty,  they  are  such  sounds  as  pro- 
perly harmonize  with  his  cynical  philoso- 
phy. How  many  days  of  solitary,  un- 
disturbed commingling  with  Nature  are 
bound  up  in  those  jagged-edged  tones  !  — 
Days  spent  in  the  heart  of  the  wilderness, 
though  but  a  few  minutes'  walk  from 
my  home  in  the  suburbs  of  Washington  ; 
for  the  wilderness  is  not  measured  by 
miles,  and  he  who  seeks  it  in  the  right 
spirit  will  always  find  its  heart.  It  needs 
not  a  railroad  journey  across  a  conti- 
nent to  enjoy  the  charm  of  the  primeval 
forest.  It  often  requires  but  the  brief- 
est walk  to  step  into  a  domain  where 
epoch  and  race  no  longer  exist,  —  an- 
other world  where  a  spell  of  enchantment 
seizes  and  enthralls  us.  We  belong  to 
no  country,  no  age.  Our  identity  falls 
from  us  like  a  discarded  mantle,  and  we 
blend  with  our  environment. 

"  I  steal 

From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 
To  mingle  with  the  universe." 

In  the  world  we  have  left  we  are  tied 
by  a  million  bonds  to  a  particular  spot 
on  the  earth's  surface,  to  a  particular 
point  in  the  earth's  history,  but  here,  in 
the  land  of  woodpeckers  and  titmice, 
there  is  no  such  bondage,  and  we  roam 


free  and  untrammeled.  This  little  purl- 
ing brook,  this  lichen-covered  rock,  these 
massive  oaks  and  beeches,  these  dark, 
quiet  pools  may  belong  to  any  one  of 
many  ages  or  climes :  they  own  no  spe- 
cial master.  Amid  their  unchanged 
beauties  might  meet  on  equal  terms,  as 
tenants,  the  savage  of  a  prehistoric  era 
and  one  of  that  noble  race  that  shall  in- 
herit the  earth  when  the  present  era  shall 
have  passed  into  the  dark  gloom  of  bar- 
barism. We  are  in  the  presence  of  an 
eternal  Now,  and  for  the  hour  are  one 
with  it.  Our  occupation,  even  though  it 
be  but  the  gathering  of  chips,  is  trans- 
formed by  its  touch  into  a  pursuit  of 
prime  importance,  to  which  we  may  lend 
ourselves  zealously  without  compromise 
of  dignity.  In  fact,,  it  must  be  confessed, 
the  little  local  issues  of  ephemeral  poli- 
tics, shifting  commercial  and  industrial 
systems,  fluctuating  empires,  varying  re- 
ligions, which  have  such  prominence  in 
that  remote  world  we  have  left,  seem 
petty  and  ignoble  objects  of  thought 
and  attention  in  the  majestic  presence  of 
this  world  of  immutability  we  have  en- 
tered. 

To  return  to  our  birds,  —  the  white- 
breasted  nuthatch  has  a  Canadian  cousin 
that  spends  the  winter  with  us,  whose 
breast  is  red,  instead  of  white  ;  a  trim 
little  sprite,  that  seems  designed  for  a 
perpetual  example  of  staccato.  He  darts 
about  in  a  series  of  quick,  short  jerks, 
uttering  all  the  while  a  little  pit-pit-pit- 
pit-pit,  of  very  light  notes,  suggestive  of 
dripping  water.  These  notes  he  some- 
times expands  into  a  hanh-hanh  closely 
resembling  that  uttered  by  his  cousin, 
but  distinguished  by  a  brassier  sound, 
that  recalls  the  tones  of  the  tiny  toy 
trumpet  whose  music  used  to  delight  our 
childish  ears  for  a  full  hour  of  a  Christ- 
mas morning. 

The  first  red-breasted  nuthatch  of  my 
acquaintance  gave  me  a  surprise  :  he  flew 
down  to  a  stream  to  drink,  and,  as  he 
lifted  his  bill  skyward  and  chewed  the 
water,  after  the  peculiar  manner  of  birds,. 


A  Basket  of  Chips. 


223 


he  uttered  a  funny  little  series  of  faint, 
spueaky  notes  that  suggested  the  thought 
that  the  delicate  machinery  of  his  throat 
needed  oiling.  The  purpose,  if  any,  of 
these  notes  was  not  apparent. 

One  would  think  that  the  nuthatch 
method  of  earning  a  living  would  cause 
nearsightedness.  Constantly  and  actively 
moving  up  or  down  the  trunks  and  limbs 
of  trees,  with  the  focus  of  the  gaze  only 
an  inch  or  two  from  the  eyes,  these  birds 
might  well  be  excused  if  objects  a  few 
feet  away  were  but  a  blurred  mass.  Yet 
I  have  seen  the  red-breasted  nuthatch 
dart  out  twenty  feet  from  the  limb  on 
which  he  sat  preening  his  feathers  and 
capture  a  flying  insect.  The  eyesight 
of  birds  and  other  creatures,  however, 
teaches  us  to  be  cautious  in  judging  oth- 
ers by  ourselves.  To  say  nothing  of  the 
eagle  gazing  at  the  sun  without  blink- 
ing, or  the  hawk  on  the  top  of  a  tall 
tree  descrying  the  grasshopper  in  the 
meadow  grass,  we  must  remember  that 
the  eyes  of  birds  are  set  so  far  back  in  the 
head  that  they  cannot  come  to  a  focus ; 
they  must  either  see  double  or  use  only 
one  eye  at  a  time.  Still  further  are  we 
removed  from  the  certain  and  proved 
ground  of  experience  if  we  descend  to 
the  fish,  whose  eyes  stare  simultaneous- 
ly in  opposite  directions.  And  when,  as 
in  the  case  of  the  flounder  and  others, 
each  eye  can  be  projected  slightly  and 
turned  backward  and  forward  indepen- 
dently of  what,  according  to  our  experi- 
ence, ought  to  be  its  mate,  we  can  but 
focus  our  own  interdependent  eyes  upon 
the  peculiar  creature  in  a  helpless  stare. 

The  brown  creeper,  like  the  nut- 
hatches, looks  at  his  food  at  close  range. 
Clinging  even  more  closely  than  they  to 
the  tree  trunk,  he  progresses  upward  in 
the  same  jerky  fashion,  seeking  his  prey 
in  the  crevices  of  the  bark,  and  uttering 
the  while  faint,  high-pitched,  and  elusive 
notes.  Usually  his  presence  in  the  vicin- 
ity is  indicated  by  a  constantly  repeated 
note  that  should  be  marked  on  a  minia- 
ture staff  with  the  point  of  a  needle ; 


though  this  is  often  replaced  by  a  silvery, 
tremulous  trill  that  might  be  a  section 
cut  from  the  reduced  song  of  a  chipping 
sparrow.  Again,  when  flying  from  the 
upper  part  of  one  tree  trunk  to  the  base 
of  another,  he  frequently  transmits  to 
the  bird  world  a  musical  telegram,  in 
which  only  such  characters  are  used  as 
c,  e,  h,  i,  and  others  that  are  represented 
solely  by  dots. 

The  chips  thus  far  collected  have  been 
gathered  in  the  woods,  the  usual  place 
to  pick  up  chips,  it  is  true,  but  by  no 
means  the  only  one,  particularly  in  the 
case  of  birds.  Out  in  the  brown  meadow 
or  idle  winter  field,  where  grasses  and 
weeds  furnish  a  full  supply  of  provender 
to  those  birds  whose  bills  are  adapted  to 
the  fare  they  offer,  are  many  more,  blown 
about  by  the  wind,  perhaps,  but  easy  to 
gather  for  our  basket. 

Here,  close  to  protecting  cover,  —  a 
bushy  brook,  or  the  edge  of  a  wood,  or, 
perhaps,  a  tangle  of  blackberry  and 
brier,  —  we  shall  find  many  a  motley 
throng  of  birds  banded  together  by  the 
gregarious  spirit,  rather  than  by  commu- 
nity of  interest,  busily  attacking  the  crop 
that  the  farmer  can  best  spare.  There 
may  have  been  a  heavy  fall  of  snow, 
and  only  the  tallest  of  the  plants  that  re- 
tain their  seeds  through  the  season,  such 
as  amaranth  and  broom-sedge,  are  with- 
in reach ;  yet  bountiful  meals  may  still 
be  had,  and  the  enforced  diet  but  gives 
greater  zest  to  the  variety  attainable 
when  the  white  cover  has  been  removed. 

But  howsoever  limited  the  choice  of 
food,  there  is  abundant  variety  in  the 
notes  that  besprinkle  the  frosty  air. 
There  are  the  long-drawn,  tremulous 
tseets  of  the  white-throated  sparrows  ;  the 
dry  chips  of  the  song  sparrows,  replaced 
by  louder,  more  resonant  chimps  when 
danger  seems  nigh ;  the  goldfinches' 
light,  staccato  notes,  uttered  in  groups 
of  four  or  five  with  a  tendency  to  rise  at 
the  end,  and  once  in  a  while  giving  way 
to  a  sweet,  sympathetic  ah-ee,  that  sug- 
gests the  idea  of  a  most  musical  yawn  ; 


224 


A  Basket  of  Chips. 


and,  perhaps,  an  occasional  note  from  one 
or  two  big,  overgrown  fox  sparrows  that 
have  lingered  thus  far  .north,  either  a 
high,  chirpy  chip  or  a  tseet  very  much 
like  that  of  the  whitethroats.  And  un- 
derlying all,  leaving  no  interstices,  are 
the  many  bits  of  sound  contributed  to 
the  general  chorus  by  the  loquacious  tree 
sparrows  and  juncos.  The  former  fill 
the  air  with  liquid  splinters,  each  of 
which  sounds  like  a  nasal  e-lick',  and 
which  have  t  been  aptly  likened  to  the 
clink  of  a  tiny  stone  chisel ;  the  juncos, 
true  genii  of  winter  in  this  latitude,  are  a 
well-equipped  battery  of  wintry  notes,  — 
icy  tinklings,  electric  snappings,  and  pe- 
culiar muffled  tones,  such  as  accompany 
a  stone  skipping  over  a  frozen  pond. 

It  may  be  that  in  the  cover  to  which 
these  birds  are  making  frequent  trips 
en  masse  to  escape  a  real  or  more  often 
imaginary  hawk,  or  other  bugaboo,  there 
is  a  cardinal.  If  so,  it  is  easy  to  detect 
his  loud,  commanding  clink  above  the 
twittering  uproar  of  the  frightened  mob. 
Or  we  may  hear  from  him  a  peculiar  ut- 
terance, —  a  series  of  percussive  notes, 
to -to -to -to-  to,  followed  by  a  whirring 
sound  that  recalls  the  drum  roll  some- 
times made  by  a  horse  with  his  lips. 

It  is,  perhaps,  from  frequent  associa- 
tion with  the  cardinal  that  the  juncos  have 
acquired  a  to-to-to  that  is  the  cardinal's 
own  on  a  smaller  scale,  and  that  is  often 
used  by  them  as  the  expression  of  some 
emotion  incident  to  their  winter's  sojourn 
in  the  South.  Their  commonest  note, 
however,  is  the  little  crystalline  tinkle. 
This  bit  of  frosty  music  characterizes 
every  winter  ramble  ;  for  the  juncos  have 
appropriated  our  season  of  bare  woods 
and  fields  and  made  it  their  own.  Go 
where  you  will,  the  juncos,  with  their 
clean,  neutral  wintry  colors,  are  there 
before  you.  That  walk  must  indeed  be 
barren  of  birds  that  does  not  yield  sight 
or  sound  of  at  least  one  of  these  spirits  of 
snow  and  ice.  Sometimes  I  have  come 
upon  an  immense  flock  of  them  in  a  cor- 
ner of  a  pine  wood,  —  for  they  are  ubi- 


quitous, and  are  as  likely  to  be  found  in 
dense  woods  as  in  the  open,  —  splitting 
its  silence  into  tiny  slivers  with  their  mul- 
titudinous snappings  and  tinklings. 

What  trim  little  birds  they  are  !  And 
how  demure  their  Quaker  garb  !  They 
seem  to  have  been  colored  by  the  same 
artist  that  painted  the  field  of  snow  and 
the  gray  sky  that  meets  it  at  the  horizon. 
I  am  glad  we  do  not  have  them  with  us 
in  summer,  for  they  belong  so  wholly 
to  the  winter. 

But  this  last  supply  of  chips  has  quite 
filled  our  small  basket,  and  we  must  de- 
fer the  gathering  of  more  to  that  future 
day  that  may  or  may  not  dawn.  A 
pleasant  and  profitable  expedition  it  has 
been,  for  we  have  filled  our  souls  as  we 
have  filled  our  basket,  and  have  breathed 
the  tonic  air  of  purity  and  peace.  Our 
spiritual  lungs  will  be  better  able  to  resist 
the  miasmatic  atmosphere  of  the  world  to 
which  we  must  return,  —  a  world  whose 
responsibilities  and  duties  we  cannot  shirk, 
if  we  would,  but  can  only  leave  behind 
for  a  brief  respite. 

Yet,  as  we  make  our  way  from  world 
to  world,  let  us  linger  a  moment  to  note 
this  band  of  cedar  birds  resting  motion- 
less in  the  top  of  a  tall  tree,  and  seem- 
ingly all  unconscious  of  the  whining  tone 
of  a  single  pitch  that  oozes  from  their 
many  throats.  We  have  not  yet  passed 
the  confines  of  this  land  of  loitering,  and 
may  stop  to  listen  and  see  without  fear 
of  reproach. 

How  still  they  are !  Has  not  some 
whimsical  taxidermist  passed  this  way 
and  filled  the  tree  with  samples  of  his 
skill  ?  It  is  hard  to  believe  that  these 
sleek,  fawn-colored  bodies,  rigid  and  up- 
right, and  that  penetrating  tone  of  com- 
plaint, are  in  any  way  related.  The 
sound  seems  like  a  dog's  whine,  disem- 
bodied, and  hovering  for  the  moment 
above  our  heads.  Only  for  the  moment, 
for  at  some  imperceptible  signal  the  en- 
tire flock  has  suddenly  risen  with  a  single 
movement,  and  is  on  its  way  to  a  distant 


Fra  Paolo  Sarpi. 


225 


tree  to  hold  another  solemn  meeting  in  a 
different  part  of  the  field. 

And   now   we,   too,    must   be   going. 
Bidding  farewell  to  this  land  of  eternity, 


we  must  step  across  the  boundaries  into 
the  region  where  time  and  locality  gov- 
ern, and  resume  our  trivial  duties,  tem- 
porarily abandoned,  of  guiding  the  Ship 
of  State  and  making  a  living. 

Henry  Oldys. 


FRA  PAOLO  SARPI. 


II. 


THE  Venetian  Republic  showed  it- 
self duly  grateful  to  Sarpi.  The  Sen- 
ate offered  him  splendid  presents  and 
entitled  him  "  Theologian  of  Venice." 
The  presents  he  refused,  but  the  title 
with  its  duty,  which  was  mainly  to 
guard  the  Republic  against  the  en- 
croachments of  the  Vatican,  he  accept- 
ed, and  his  life  in  the  monastery  of 
Santa  Fosca  went  on  quietly,  simply, 
laboriously,  as  before.  The  hatred  now 
felt  for  him  at  Rome  was  unbounded. 
It  corresponded  to  the  gratitude  at 
Venice.  Every  one  saw  his  danger,  and 
he  well  knew  it.  Potentates  were  then 
wont  to  send  assassins  on  long  errands, 
and  the  arm  of  the  Vatican  was  espe- 
cially far-reaching  and  merciless.  It 
was  the  period  when  Pius  V,  the  Pope 
whom  the  Church  afterwards  proclaimed 
a  saint,  commissioned  an  assassin  to 
murder  Queen  Elizabeth.1 

But  there  was  in  Father  Paul  a  trust 
in  Providence  akin  to  fatalism.  Again 
and  again  he  was  warned,  and  among 
those  who  are  said  to  have  advised  him 
to  be  on  his  guard  against  papal  assas- 
sins was  no  less  a  personage  than  his 
greatest  controversial  enemy,  —  Cardi- 
nal Bellarmine.  It  was  believed  by 
Sarpi's  friends  that  Bellarmine's  Scotch 

1  This  statement  formerly  led  to  violent  de- 
nials by  ultramontane  champions ;  but  in  1870 
it  was  made  by  Lord  Acton,  a  Roman  Catholic, 
one  of  the  most  learned  of  modern  historians, 
and  when  it  was  angrily  denied,  he  quietly  cited 
the  official  life  of  Pope  Pius  in  the  Acta  Sanc- 

VOL.  xcin.  —  NO.  556.  15 


ideas  of  duty  to  humanity  prevailed  over 
his  Roman  ideas  of  fealty  to  the  Vati- 
can, and  we  may  rejoice  in  the  hope  that 
his  nobler  qualities  did  really  assert 
themselves  against  the  casuistry  of  his 
brother  prelates  which  sanctioned  assas- 
sination. 

These  warnings  were  soon  seen  to  be 
well  founded.  On  a  pleasant  evening 
in  October,  1607,  a  carefully  laid  trap 
was  sprung.  Returning  from  his  day's 
work  at  the  Ducal  Palace,  Father  Paul, 
just  as  he  had  crossed  the  little  bridge 
of  Santa  Fosca  before  reaching  his  con- 
vent, was  met  by  five  assassins.  Two 
of  his  usual  attendants  had  been  drawn 
off  by  the  outburst  of  a  fire  in  the  neigh- 
borhood ;  the  other  two  were  old  men 
who  proved  useless.  The  place  was  well 
chosen.  The  descent  from  the  bridge 
was  so  narrow  that  all  three  were  obliged 
to  march  in  single  file,  and  just  at  this 
point  these  ruffians  from  Rome  sprang 
upon  him  in  the  dusk,  separated  him 
from  his  companions,  and  gave  him,  in 
a  moment,  fifteen  dagger  thrusts,  two 
in  his  throat  and  one  —  a  fearful  gash 
—  on  the  side  of  his  head,  and  then, 
convinced  that  they  had  killed  him,  es- 
caped to  their  boats,  only  a  few  paces 
distant. 

The  victim  lingered  long  in  the  hos- 
pital, but  his  sound  constitution  and 

torum,  published  by  the  highest  church  au- 
thority. This  was  final ;  denial  ceased,  and  the 
statement  is  no  longer  questioned.  For  other 
proofs  in  the  line  of  Lord  Acton's  citation,  see 
Bellarmine's  Selbstbiographie,  cited  in  a  pre- 
vious article,  pp.  306,  et  seq. 


226 


Fra  Paolo  Sarpi. 


abstemious  habits  stood  him  in  good 
stead.  Very  important  among  the  qual- 
ities which  restored  him  to  health  were 
his  optimism  and  cheerfulness .  An  early 
manifestation  of  the  first  of  these  was 
seen  when,  on  regaining  consciousness, 
he  called  for  the  stiletto  which  had  been 
drawn  from  the  main  wound  and,  run- 
ning his  fingers  along  the  blade,  said 
cheerily  to  his  friends,  "  It  is  not  filed. " 
What  this  meant,  any  one  knows  who 
has  seen  in  various  European  collections 
the  daggers  dating  from  the  "ages  of 
faith  "  cunningly  filed  or  grooved  to  hold 
poison. l 

As  an  example  of  the  second  of  these 
qualities,  we  may  take  his  well-known 
reply  when,  to  the  surgeon  dressing  the 
wound  made  by  the  "style  "  or  stiletto, 
—  who  spoke  of  its  "extravagance," 
rudeness,  and  yet  ineffectiveness,  —  Fra 
Paolo  quietly  answered  that  in  these 
characteristics  could  be  recognized  the 
style  of  the  Roman  Curia. 

Meantime  the  assassins  had  found 
their  way  back  to  Rome,  and  were  wel- 
comed with  open  arms ;  but  it  is  some 
comfort  to  know  that  later,  when  such 
conscience  as  there  was  throughout  Italy 
and  Europe  showed  intense  disgust  at 
the  proceeding,  the  Roman  Court  treat- 
ed them  coldly  and  even  severely. 

The  Republic  continued  in  every  way 
to  show  Sarpi  its  sympathy  and  grati- 
tude. It  made  him  many  splendid  offers 
which  he  refused ;  but  two  gifts  he  ac- 
cepted. One  was  full  permission  to  ex- 
plore the  Venetian  archives,  and  the  oth- 
er was  a  little  doorway,  cut  through  the 
garden  wall  of  his  monastery,  enabling 
him  to  reach  his  gondola  without  going 
through  the  narrow  and  tortuous  path 
he  had  formerly  taken  on  his  daily 
journey  to  the  public  offices.  This 

1  There  is  a  remarkable  example  of  a  beau- 
tiful dagger,  grooved  to  contain  poison,  in  the 
imperial  collection  of  arms  at  Vienna. 

2  The  present  writer  has  examined  with  care 
the  spot  where  the  attack  was  made,  and  found 
that  never  was  a  scoundrelly  plot  better  con- 
ceived or  more  fiendishly  executed.     He  also 


humble  portal  still  remains.  Beneath 
few  triumphal  arches  has  there  ever 
passed  as  great  or  as  noble  a  con- 
queror.2 

Efforts  were  also  made  to  cajole  him, 
—  to  induce  him  to  visit  Rome,  with 
fine  promises  of  recognition  and  honor, 
and  with  solemn  assurances  that  no 
harm  should  come  to  him ;  but  he  was 
too  wise  to  yield.  Only  a  few  years 
previously  he  had  seen  Giordano  Bruno 
lured  to  Rome  and  burned  alive  on  the 
Campo  dei  Fiori.  He  had  seen  his 
friend  and  correspondent,  Fra  Fulgentio 
Manfredi,  yield  to  similar  allurements 
and  accept  a  safe  conduct  to  Rome, 
which,  though  it  solemnly  guaranteed 
him  against  harm,  proved  as  worthless 
as  that  of  John  Huss  at  the  Council 
of  Constance ;  the  Inquisition  torturing 
him  to  death  on  the  spot  where,  six 
years  earlier,  it  had  burned  Bruno.  He 
had  seen  his  friend,  the  Archdeacon 
Ribetti,  drawn  within  the  clutch  of  the 
Vatican,  only  to  die  of  "a  most  pain- 
ful colic  "  immediately  after  dining  with 
a  confidential  chamberlain  of  the  Pope, 
and,  had  he  lived  a  few  months  longer, 
he  would  have  seen  his  friend  and  con- 
fidant, Antonio  de  Dominis,  Archbishop 
of  Spalato,  to  whom  he  had  entrusted 
a  copy  of  his  most  important  work,  en- 
ticed to  Rome  and  put  to  death  by  the 
Inquisition.  Though  the  Vatican  ex- 
ercised a  strong  fascination  over  its  ene- 
mies, against  Father  Paul  it  was  pow- 
erless ;  he  never  yielded  to  it,  but  kept 
the  even  tenor  of  his  way.8 

In  the  dispatches  which  now  passed, 
comedy  was  mingled  with  tragedy. 
Very  unctuous  was  the  expression  by 
His  Holiness  of  his  apprehensions  re- 
garding "  dangers  to  the  salvation " 
and  of  his  "fears  for  the  souls  "  of  the 

visited  what  was  remaining  of  the  convent  in 
April,  1902,  and  found  the  little  door  as  ser- 
viceable as  when  it  was  made. 

8  A  copy  of  Manfredi' s  "safe  conduct "ia 
given  by  Castellani,  Lettere  Inedite  di  F.  P.  S., 
p.  12,  note.  Nothing  could  be  more  explicit. 


Fra  Paolo  Sarpi. 


227 


Venetian  Senators,  if  they  persisted  in 
asserting  their  own  control  of  their  own 
state.  Hardly  less  touching  were  the 
fears  expressed  by  the  good  Oratorian, 
Cardinal  Baronius,  that  "a  judgment 
might  be  brought  upon  the  Republic '-' 
if  it  declined  to  let  the  Vatican  have 
its  way.  But  these  expressions  were 
not  likely  to  prevail  with  men  who  had 
dealt  with  Machiavelli. 

Uncompromising  as  ever,  Father 
Paul  continued  to  write  letters  and 
publish  treatises  which  clenched  more 
and  more  firmly  into  the  mind  of  Ven- 
ice and  of  Europe  the  political  doctrine 
of  which  he  was  the  apostle, —  the  doc- 
trine that  the  State  is  rightfully  inde- 
pendent of  the  Church,  —  and  through- 
out the  Christian  world  he  was  recog- 
nized as  victor. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  bitterness 
of  the  attacks  upon  him,  though  some 
of  them,  at  this  day,  provoke  a  smile. 
While  efforts  were  made  to  discredit 
him  among  scholars  by  spurious  writings 
or  by  interpolations  in  genuine  writings, 
efforts  equally  ingenious  were  made  to 
arouse  popular  hostility.  One  of  these 
was  a  painting  which  represented  him 
writhing  amid  the  flames  of  hell,  with 
a  legend  stating,  as  a  reason  for  his 
punishment,  that  he  had  opposed  the 
Holy  Father. 

Now  it  was  indeed,  in  the  midst  of  fe- 
rocious attacks  upon  his  reputation  and 
cunning  attempts  upon  his  life,  that  he 
entered  a  new  and  most  effective  period 
of  activity.  For  years,  as  the  adviser 
of  Venice,  he  had  studied,  both  as  a 
historian  and  as  a  statesman,  the  great- 
est questions  which  concerned  his  coun- 
try, and  especially  those  which  related 
to  the  persistent  efforts  of  the  Vatican 
to  encroach  upon  Venetian  self-govern- 
ment. The  results  of  these  studies  he 
had  embodied  in  reports  which  had 

1  For  the  extent  to  which  these  attacks  were 
carried,  see  the  large  number  in  the  Sarpi  col- 
lection at  the  Cornell  University  Library,  es- 
pecially volume  ix. 

2  The  old  English  translation  of  this  book, 


shaped  the  course  of  the  Republic  ;  and 
now,  his  learning  and  powers  of  thought 
being  brought  to  bear  upon  the  policy 
of  Europe  in  general,  as  affected  by 
similar  papal  encroachments,  he  began 
publishing  a  series  of  treatises,  which 
at  once  attracted  general  attention.1 

First  of  these,  in  1608,  came  his 
work  on  the  Interdict.  Clearly  and 
concisely  it  revealed  the  nature  of  the 
recent  struggle,  the  baselessness  of  the 
Vatican  claims,  and  the  solidarity  of 
interest  between  Venice  and  all  other 
European  states  regarding  the  question 
therein  settled.  This  work  of  his  as  a 
historian  clenched  his  work  as  a  states- 
man; from  that  day  forward  no  nation 
has  even  been  seriously  threatened  with 
an  interdict. 

Subsidiary  works  followed  rapidly 
from  his  pen,  strengthening  the  civil 
power  against  the  clerical;  but  in  1610 
came  a  treatise,  which  marked  an  epoch, 
—  his  History  of  Ecclesiastical  Bene- 
fices.2 In  this  he  dealt  with  a  problem 
which  had  become  very  serious,  not  only 
in  Venice,  but  in  every  European  state, 
showed  the  process  by  which  vast  trea- 
sures had  been  taken  from  the  control 
of  the  civil  power  and  heaped  up  for  ec- 
clesiastical pomp  and  intrigue,  pointed 
out  special  wrongs  done  by  the  system  to 
the  Church  as  well  as  the  State,  and  ad- 
vocated a  reform  which  should  restore 
this  wealth  to  better  uses.  His  argu- 
ments spread  widely  and  sank  deep,  not 
only  in  Italy,  but  throughout  Europe, 
and  the  nineteenth  century  has  seen 
them  applied  effectively  in  every  Euro- 
pean country  within  the  Roman  obedi- 
ence. 

In  1611  he  published  his  work  on 
the  Inquisition  at  Venice,  present- 
ing historical  arguments  against  the 
uses  which  ecclesiasticism,  under  papal 
guidance,  had  made  of  that  tribunal. 

published  in  1736  at  Westminster,  is  by  no 
means  a  very  rare  book,  and  it  affords  the  gen- 
eral reader  perhaps  the  most  accessible  means 
of  understanding  Fra  Paolo's  simplicity,  thor- 
oughness, and  vigor. 


228 


Fra  Paolo  Sarpi. 


These  arguments  spread  far,  and  devel- 
oped throughout  Europe  those  views  of 
the  Inquisition  which  finally  led  to  its 
destruction.  Minor  treatises  followed, 
dealing  with  state  questions  arising  he- 
tween  the  Vatican  and  Venice,  each 
treatise  —  thoroughly  well  reasoned  and 
convincing  —  having  a  strong  effect  on 
the  discussion  of  similar  public  questions 
in  every  other  European  nation. 

In  1613  came  two  books  of  a  high 
order,  each  marking  an  epoch.  The 
first  of  these  was  upon  the  Right  of 
Sanctuary,  and  in  it  Sarpi  led  the  way, 
which  all  modern  states  have  followed, 
out  of  the  old,  vicious  system  of  sanc- 
tioning crime  by  sheltering  criminals. 
The  cogency  of  his  argument  and  the 
value  of  its  application  gained  for  him 
an  especial  tribute  by  the  best  authority 
on  such  questions  whom  Europe  had 
seen,  —  Hugo  Grotius. 

Closely  connected  with  this  work  was 
that  upon  the  Immunity  of  the  Clergy. 
Both  this  and  the  previous  work  were 
in  the  same  order  of  ideas,  and  the 
second  fastened  into  the  European  mind 
the  reasons  why  no  state  can  depend 
upon  the  Church  for  the  punishment  of 
clerical  criminals.  His  argument  was 
a  triumphant  vindication  of  Venice  in 
her  struggle  with  Paul  V  on  this  point ; 
but  it  was  more  than  that.  It  became 
the  practical  guide  of  all  modern  states. 
Its  arguments  dissipated  the  last  efforts 
throughout  Europe  to  make  a  distinc- 
tion, in  criminal  matters,  between  the 
priestly  caste  and  the  world  in  gen- 
eral. 

Among  lesser  treatises  which  fol- 
lowed is  one  which  has  done  much  to 
shape  modern  policy  regarding  public 
instruction.  This  was  his  book  upon 
the  Education  given  by  the  Jesuits. 
One  idea  which  it  enforced  sank  deep 
into  the  minds  of  all  thoughtful  men, — 
his  statement  that  Jesuit  maxims  devel- 
op "sons  disobedient  to  their  parents, 
citizens  unfaithful  to  their  country,  and 
subjects  undutiful  to  their  sovereign." 
Jesuit  education  has  indeed  been  main- 


tained, and  evidences  of  it  may  be 
seen  in  various  European  countries. 
The  traveler  in  Italy  constantly  sees  in 
the  larger  Italian  towns  long  lines  of 
young  men  and  boys,  sallow,  thin,  and 
listless,  walking  two  and  two,  with 
priests  at  each  end  of  the  coffle.  These 
are  students  taking  their  exercise,  and 
an  American  or  Englishman  marvels  as 
he  remembers  the  playing  fields  of  his 
own  country.  Youth  are  thus  brought 
up  as  milksops,  to  be  graduated  as  scape- 
graces. The  strong  men  who  control 
public  affairs,  who  lead  men  and  ori- 
ginate measures  in  the  open,  are  not 
bred  in  Jesuit  forcing-houses.  Even  the 
Jesuits  themselves  have  acknowledged 
this,  and  perhaps  the  strongest  of  all 
arguments  supplementary  to  those  given 
by  Father  Paul  were  uttered  by  Padre 
Curci,  eminent  in  his  day  as  a  Jesuit 
gladiator,  but  who  realized  finally  the 
impossibility  of  accomplishing  great 
things  with  men  moulded  by  Jesuit 
methods. 

All  these  works  took  strong  hold  upon 
European  thought.  Leading  men  in  all 
parts  of  Europe  recognized  Sarpi  as  both 
a  great  statesman  and  a  great  historian. 
Among  his  English  friends  were  such  men 
as  Lord  Bacon  and  Sir  Henry  Wotton ; 
and  his  praises  have  been  sounded  by 
Grotius,  by  Gibbon,  by  Hallam,  and  by 
Macaulay.  Strong,  lucid,  these  works 
of  Father  Paul  have  always  been  espe- 
cially attractive  to  those  who  rejoice 
in  the  leadership  of  a  master  mind. 

But  in  1619  came  the  most  impor- 
tant of  all,  — a  service  to  humanity 
hardly  less  striking  than  that  which  he 
had  rendered  in  his  battle  against  the 
Interdict,  —  his  history  of  the  Council 
of  Trent. 

His  close  relations  to  so  many  of  the 
foremost  men  of  his  day  and  his  long 
study  in  public  archives  and  private 
libraries  bore  fruit  in  this  work,  which 
takes  rank  among  the  few  great,  endur- 
ing historical  treatises  of  the  world. 
Throughout,  it  is  vigorous  and  witty, 
but  at  the  same  time  profound ;  every- 


Fra  Paolo  Sarpi. 


229 


where  it  bears  evidences  of  truthfulness 
and  is  pervaded  by  sobriety  of  judg- 
ment. Its  pictures  of  the  efforts  or 
threats  by  representatives  of  various 
great  powers  to  break  away  from  the 
papacy  and  establish  national  churches ; 
its  presentation  of  the  arguments  of 
anti-papal  orators  on  one  side  and  of 
Laynez  and  his  satellites  on  the  other ; 
its  display  of  acts  and  revelations  of 
pretexts ;  its  penetration  into  the  whole 
network  of  intrigue,  and  its  thorough 
discussion  of  underlying  principles,  — 
all  are  masterly. 

Though  the  name  of  the  author  was 
concealed  in  an  anagram,  the  book  was 
felt,  by  the  Vatican  party,  to  be  a  blow 
which  only  one  man  could  have  dealt, 
and  the  worst  blow  which  the  party  had 
received  since  its  author  had  defeated 
the  Interdict  at  Venice.  Efforts  were 
made,  by  outcries  and  calumnies,  to  dis- 
credit the  work,  and  they  have  been  con- 
tinued from  that  day  to  this,  but  in 
vain.  That  there  must  be  some  gaps 
and  many  imperfections  in  it  is  certain ; 
but  its  general  character  is  beyond  the 
reach  of  ultramontane  weapons.  The 
blow  was  felt  to  be  so  heavy  that  the 
Jesuit  Pallavicini  was  empowered  to 
write  a  history  of  the  Council  to  coun- 
terbalance it,  and  his  work  was  well 
done;  but  Ranke,  the  most  unpreju- 
diced of  judges,  comparing  the  two, 
assigns  the  palm  to  Father  Paul.  His 
book  was  immediately  spread  through- 
out Europe ;  but  of  all  the  translations, 
perhaps  the  most  noteworthy  was  the 
English.  Sarpi  had  entrusted  a  copy 
of  the  original  to  his  friend,  Antonio 
de  Dominis,  Archbishop  of  Spalato, 
and  he,  having  taken  refuge  in  Eng- 
land, had  it  translated  there,  the  au- 
thorship being  ascribed  on  the  title-page 
to  "Pietro  Soave  Polano."  This  Eng- 
lish translation  was,  in  vigor  and  pith, 
worthy  of  the  original.  In  it  can  be 
discerned,  as  clearly  as  in  the  original, 
that  atmosphere  of  intrigue  and  brutal 
assertion  of  power  by  which  the  Roman 
Curia,  after  packing  the  Council  with 


petty  Italian  bishops,  bade  defiance  to 
the  Catholic  world.  This  translation, 
more  than  all  else,  has  enabled  the 
English-speaking  peoples  to  understand 
what  was  meant  by  the  Italian  historian 
when  he  said  that  Father  Paul  "  taught 
the  world  how  the  Holy  Spirit  guides 
the  Great  Councils  of  the  Church. "  It 
remains  cogent  down  to  this  day ;  after 
reading  it  one  feels  that  such  guidance 
might  equally  be  claimed  for  Tammany 
Hall. 

Although  Father  Paul  never  acknow- 
ledged the  authorship  of  the  history  of 
the  Council  of  Trent,  and  although  his 
original  copy,  prepared  for  the  press, 
with  his  latest  corrections,  still  remains 
buried  in  the  archives  at  Venice,  the 
whole  world  knew  that  he  alone  could 
have  written  it. 

But  during  all  these  years,  while 
elaborating  opinions  on  the  weightiest 
matters  of  state  for  the  Venetian  Sen- 
ate, and  sending  out  this  series  of  books 
which  so  powerfully  influenced  the  atti- 
tude of  his  own  and  after  generations 
toward  the  Vatican,  he  was  working 
with  great  effect  in  yet  another  field. 
With  the  possible  exception  of  Voltaire, 
he  was  the  most  vigorous  and  influen- 
tial letter-writer  during  the  three  hun- 
dred years  which  separated  Erasmus 
from  Thomas  Jefferson.  Voltaire  cer- 
tainly spread  his  work  over  a  larger 
field,  lighted  it  with  more  wit,  and 
gained  by  it  more  brilliant  victories ; 
but  as  regards  accurate  historical  know- 
ledge, close  acquaintance  with  states- 
men, familiarity  with  the  best  and 
worst  which  statesmen  could  do,  sober 
judgment  and  cogent  argument,  the 
great  Venetian  was  his  superior.  Cu- 
riotlfcly  enough,  Sarpi  resembles  the 
American  statesman  more  closely  than 
either  of  the  Europeans.  Both  he  and 
Jefferson  had  the  intense  practical  in- 
terest of  statesmen,  not  only  in  the 
welfare  of  their  own  countries,  but  in 
all  the  political  and  religious  problems 
of  their  times.  Both  were  keenly  alive 
to  progress  in  the  physical  sciences, 


230 


Fra  Paolo  Sarpi. 


wherever  made.  Both  were  wont  to 
throw  a  light  veil  of  humor  over  very 
serious  discussions.  Both  could  use, 
with  great  effect,  curt,  caustic  descrip- 
tion: Jefferson's  letter  to  Governor 
Langdon  satirizing  the  crowned  heads 
of  Europe,  as  he  had  seen  them,  has  a 
worthy  pendant  in  Fra  Paolo's  pictures 
of  sundry  representatives  of  the  Vati- 
can. In  both  these  writers  was  a  deep 
earnestness  which,  at  times,  showed  it- 
self in  prophetic  utterances.  The  amaz- 
ing prophecy  of  Jefferson  against  Ameri- 
can slavery,  beginning  with  the  words, 
"  I  tremble  when  I  remember  that  God 
is  just, "  which,  in  the  light  of  our  civil 
war,  seems  divinely  inspired,  is  par- 
alleled by  some  of  Sarpi 's  utterances 
against  the  unmoral  tendencies  of  Jesu- 
itism and  Ultramontanism ;  and  these 
too  seem  divinely  inspired  as  one  reads 
them  in  the  light  of  what  has  happened 
since  in  Spain,  in  Sicily,  in  Naples,  in 
Poland,  in  Ireland,  and  in  sundry  South 
American  republics. 

The  range  of  Sarpi's  friendly  rela- 
tions was  amazing.  They  embraced 
statesmen,  churchmen,  scholars,  scien- 
tific investigators,  diplomatists  in  every 
part  of  Europe,  and  among  these  Gali- 
leo and  Lord  Bacon,  Grotius  and  Mor- 
nay,  Salmasius  and  Casaubon,  De  Thou 
and  Sir  Henry  Wotton,  Bishop  Bedell 
and  Vossius,  with  a  great  number  of 
others  of  nearly  equal  rank.  Unfortu- 
nately the  greater  part  of  his  corre- 
spondence has  perished.  In  the  two 
small  volumes  collected  by  Polidori, 
and  in  the  small  additional  volume  of 
letters  to  Simon  Contarini,  Venetian 
Ambassador  at  Rome,  unearthed  a  few 
years  since  in  the  Venetian  archives  by 
Castellani,  we  have  all  that  is  known. 
It  is  but  a  small  fraction  of  his  episto- 
lary work,  but  it  enables  us  to  form  a 
clear  opinion.  The  letters  are  well 
worthy  of  the  man  who  wrote  the  his- 
tory of  the  Council  of  Trent  and  the 

1  For  this  famous  utterance,  see  notes  of 
conversations  given  by  Christoph,  Burggraf  von 
Dohna,  in  July,  1608,  in  Brief e  und  Acten  zur 


protest  of  Venice  against  the  Inter- 
dict. 

It  is  true  that  there  has  been  derived 
from  these  letters,  by  his  open  enemies 
on  one  side  and  his  defenders  of  a 
rather  sickly  conscientious  sort  on  the 
other,  one  charge  against  him :  this  is 
based  on  his  famous  declaration,  "I 
utter  falsehood  never,  but  the  truth  not 
to  eveiy  one."  ("La  falsita  non  dico 
mai  mai,  ma  la  verita  non  a  ogniuno. ")  l 
Considering  his  vast  responsibilities 
as  a  statesman  and  the  terrible  dan- 
gers which  beset  him  as  a  theologian; 
that  in  the  first  of  these  capacities 
the  least  misstep  might  wreck  the  great 
cause  which  he  supported,  and  that  in 
the  second  such  a  misstep  might  easily 
bring  him  to  the  torture  chamber  and 
the  stake,  normally  healthful  minds 
will  doubtless  agree  that  the  criticism 
upon  these  words  is  more  Pharisaic  than 
wholesome. 

Sarpi  was  now  spoken  of,  more  than 
ever,  both  among  friends  and  foes,  as 
the  "terribilefrate."  Terrible  to  the 
main  enemies  of  Venice  he  indeed  was, 
and  the  machinations  of  his  opponents 
grew  more  and  more  serious.  Efforts 
to  assassinate  him,  to  poison  him,  to 
discredit  him,  to  lure  him  to  Rome,  or 
at  least  within  reach  of  the  Inquisition, 
became  almost  frantic ;  but  all  in  vain. 
He  still  continued  his  quiet  life  at  the 
monastery  of  Santa  Fosca,  publishing 
from  time  to  time  discussions  of  ques- 
tions important  for  Venice  and  for  Eu- 
rope, working  steadily  in  the  public  ser- 
vice until  his  last  hours.  In  spite  of  his 
excommunication  and  of  his  friendships 
with  many  of  the  most  earnest  Protest- 
ants of  Europe,  he  remained  a  son  of 
the  church  in  which  he  was  born.  His 
life  was  shaped  in  accordance  with  its 
general  precepts,  and  every  day  he  heard 
mass.  So  his  career  quietly  ran  on 
until,  in  1623,  he  met  death  calmly, 
without  fear,  in  full  reliance  upon  the 

Geschichte  des  Dreissigjahrigen  Krieges,  Mun- 
chen,  1874,  p.  79. 


Fra  Paolo  Sarpi. 


231 


divine  justice  and  mercy.  His  last 
words  were  a  prayer  for  Venice. 

He  had  fought  the  good  fight.  He 
had  won  it  for  Venice  and  for  human- 
ity. For  all  this,  the  Republic  had,  in 
his  later  years,  tried  to  show  her  grati- 
tude, and  he  had  quietly  and  firmly  re- 
fused the  main  gifts  proposed  to  him. 
But  now  came  a  new  outburst  of  grate- 
ful feeling.  The  Republic  sent  notice 
of  his  death  to  other  powers  of  Europe 
through  its  Ambassadors  in  the  terms 
usual  at  the  death  of  royal  personages ;  in 
every  way,  it  showed  its  appreciation  of 
his  character  and  services,  and  it  crowned 
all  by  voting  him  a  public  monument. 

Hardly  was  the  decree  known,  when 
the  Vatican  authorities  sent  notice  that, 
should  any  monument  be  erected  to 
Sarpi,  they  would  anew  and  publicly 
declare  him  excommunicate  as  a  here- 
tic. At  this,  the  Venetian  Senate  hesi- 
tated, waited,  delayed.  Whenever  af- 
terwards the  idea  of  carrying  out  the 
decree  for  the  monument  was  revived, 
there  set  in  a  storm  of  opposition  from 
Rome.  Hatred  of  the  terrible  friar's 
memory  seemed  to  grow  more  and  more 
bitter.  Even  rest  in  the  grave  was  de- 
nied him.  The  church  where  he  was 
buried  having  been  demolished,  the  ques- 
tion arose  as  to  the  disposition  of  his 
bones.  To  bury  them  in  sacred  ground 
outside  the  old  convent  would  arouse 
a  storm  of  ecclesiastical  hostility,  with 
the  certainty  of  their  dispersion  and 
desecration  ;  it  seemed  impossible  to  se- 
cure them  from  priestly  hatred :  there- 
fore it  was  that  his  friends  took  them 
from  place  to  place,  sometimes  conceal- 
ing them  in  the  wall  of  a  church  here, 
sometimes  beneath  the  pavement  of  a 
church  there,  and  for  a  time  keeping 
them  in  a  simple  wooden  box  at  the 
Ducal  Library.  The  place  where  his 
remains  rested  became,  to  most  Vene- 
tians, unknown.  All  that  remained  to 
remind  the  world  of  his  work  was  his 
portrait  in  the  Ducal  Library,  showing 
the  great  gash  made  by  the  Vatican 
assassins. 


Time  went  on,  and  generations  came 
which  seemed  to  forget  him.  Still 
worse,  generation  after  generation  came, 
carefully  trained  by  clerical  teachers  to 
misunderstand  and  hate  him.  But  these 
teachers  went  too  far;  for,  in  1771, 
nearly  one  hundred  and  fifty  years  af- 
ter his  death,  the  monk  Vaerini  ga- 
thered together,  in  a  pretended  bio- 
graphy, all  the  scurrilities  which  could 
be  imagined,  and  endeavored  to  bury 
the  memory  of  the  great  patriot  beneath 
them.  This  was  too  much.  The  old 
Venetian  spirit,  which  had  so  long  lain 
dormant,  now  asserted  itself:  Vaerini 
was  imprisoned  and  his  book  suppressed. 

A  quarter  of  a  century  later  the  Re- 
public fell  under  the  rule  of  Austria,  and 
Austria's  most  time-honored  agency  in 
keeping  down  subject  populations  has 
always  been  the  priesthood.  Again 
Father  Paul's  memory  was  virtually 
proscribed,  and  in  1803  another  desper- 
ate attempt  was  made  to  cover  him  with 
infamy.  In  that  year  appeared  a  book 
entitled  The  Secret  History  of  the  Life 
of  Fra  Paolo  Sarpi,  and  it  contained 
not  only  his  pretended  biography,  but 
what  claimed  to  be  Sarpi 's  own  letters 
and  other  documents  showing  him  to  be 
an  adept  in  scoundrelism  and  hypocrisy. 
Its  editor  was  the  archpriest  Ferrara  of 
Mantua ;  but  on  the  title-page  appeared, 
as  the  name  of  its  author,  Fontanini, 
Archbishop  of  Ancira,  a  greatly  re- 
spected prelate  who  had  died  nearly 
seventy  years  before,  and  there  was  also 
stamped,  not  only  upon  the  preliminary, 
but  upon  the  final  page  of  the  work,  the 
approval  of  the  Austrian  government. 
To  this  was  added  a  pious  motto  from 
St.  Augustine,  and  the  approval  of  Pius 
VII  was  distinctly  implied,  since  the 
work  was  never  placed  upon  the  Index, 
and  could  not  have  been  published  at 
Venice,  stamped  as  it  was  and  registered 
with  the  privileges  of  the  University, 
without  the  consent  of  the  Vatican. 

The  memory  of  Father  Paul  seemed 
likely  now  to  be  overwhelmed.  There 
was  no  longer  a  Republic  of  Venice  to 


232 


Fra  Paolo  Sarpi. 


guard  the  noble  traditions  of  his  life 
and  service.  The  book  was  recommend- 
ed and  spread  far  and  wide  by  preachers 
and  confessors. 

But  at  last  came  a  day  of  judgment. 
The  director  of  the  Venetian  archives 
discovered  and  had  the  courage  to  an- 
nounce that  the  work  was  a  pious  fraud 
of  the  vilest  type ;  that  it  was  never 
written  by  Fontanini,  but  that  it  was 
simply  made  up  out  of  the  old  scurrilous 
work  of  Vaerini,  suppressed  over  thirty 
years  before.  As  to  the  correspondence 
served  up  as  supplementary  to  the  bio- 
graphy, it  was  concocted  from  letters 
already  published,  with  the  addition  of 
Jesuitical  interpolations  and  of  forger- 
ies.1 Now  came  the  inevitable  reaction, 
and  with  it  the  inevitable  increase  of 
hatred  for  Austrian  rule  and  the  in- 
evitable question,  how,  if  the  Pope  is  the 
infallible  teacher  of  the  world  in  all  mat- 
ters pertaining  to  faith  and  morals,  could 
he  virtually  approve  this  book,  and  why 
did  he  not,  by  virtue  of  his  divine  iner- 
rancy, detect  the  fraud  and  place  its  con- 
demnation upon  the  Index.  The  only 
lasting  effect  of  the  book,  then,  was  to 
revive  the  memory  of  Father  Paul's 
great  deeds  and  to  arouse  Venetian 
pride  in  them.  The  fearful  scar  on  his 
face  in  the  portrait  spoke  more  elo- 
quently than  ever,  and  so  it  was  that, 
early  in  the  nineteenth  century,  many 
men  of  influence  joined  in  proposing  a 
suitable  and  final  interment  for  the  poor 
bones,  which  had  seven  times  been  bur- 
ied and  reburied,  and  which  had  so  long 
been  kept  in  the  sordid  box  at  the  Ducal 
Library.  The  one  fitting  place  of  bur- 
ial was  the  cemetery  of  San  Michele. 
To  that  beautiful  island,  so  near  the 
heart  of  Venice,  had,  for  many  years, 
been  borne  the  remains  of  leading  Ve- 
netians. There,  too,  in  more  recent  days, 
have  been  laid  to  rest  many  of  other 
lands  widely  respected  and  beloved. 

1  For  a  full  and  fair  statement  of  the  re- 
searches which  exposed  this  pious  fraud,  see 
Castellani,  Prefect  of  the  Library  of  St.  Mark, 
preface  to  his  Lettere  Inedite  di  F.  P.  S.,  p. 


But  the  same  persistent  hatred  which, 
in  our  own  day,  grudged  and  delayed 
due  honors  at  the  tombs  of  Copernicus 
and  Galileo  among  Catholics,  and  of 
Humboldt  among  Protestants,  was  still 
bitter  against  the  great  Venetian  scholar 
and  statesman.  It  could  not  be  forgot- 
ten that  he  had  wrested  from  the  Vati- 
can the  most  terrible  of  its  weapons. 
But  patriotic  pride  was  strong,  and  final- 
ly a  compromise  was  made :  it  was  ar- 
ranged that  Sarpi  should  be  buried  and 
honored  at  his  burial  as  an  eminent  man 
of  science,  and  that  no  word  should  be 
spoken  of  his  main  services  to  the  Re- 
public and  to  the  world.  On  this  condi- 
tion he  was  buried  with  simple  honors. 

Soon,  however,  began  another  chapter 
of  hatred.  There  came  a  pope  who  add- 
ed personal  to  official  hostility.  Gregory 
XVI,  who  in  his  earlier  days  had  been 
abbot  of  the  monastery  of  San  Michele, 
was  indignant  that  the  friar  who  had 
thwarted  the  papacy  should  lie  buried 
in  the  convent  which  he  himself  had 
formerly  ruled,  and  this  feeling  took 
shape,  first,  in  violent  speeches  at  Rome, 
and  next,  in  brutal  acts  at  Venice.  The 
monks  broke  and  removed  the  simple 
stone  placed  over  the  remains  of  Father 
Paul,  and  when  it  was  replaced,  they 
persisted  in  defacing  and  breaking  it, 
and  were  only  prevented  from  dragging 
out  his  bones,  dishonoring  them  and  cast- 
ing them  into  the  lagoon,  by  the  weight 
of  the  massive,  strong,  well-anchored 
sarcophagus,  which  the  wise  foresight  of 
his  admirers  had  provided  for  them. 
At  three  different  visits  to  Venice,  the 
present  writer  sought  the  spot  where 
they  were  laid,  and  in  vain.  At  the 
second  of  these  visits,  he  found  the  Pa- 
triarch of  Venice,  under  whose  rule  va- 
rious outrages  upon  Sarpi 's  memory 
had  been  perpetrated,  pontificating  gor- 
geously about  the  Grand  Piazza ;  but  at 
his  next  visit  there  had  come  a  change. 

xvii.  For  methods  used  in  interpolating  or 
modifying1  passages  in  Sarpi's  writings,  see  Bi- 
anchi  Giovini,  Biografia  di  Sarpi,  Zurigo,  1847, 
vol.  ii.  pp.  135,  et  seq. 


Timeo  Danaos. 


233 


The  monks  had  disappeared.  Their  in- 
sults to  the  illustrious  dead  had  been 
stopped  by  laws  which  expelled  them 
from  their  convent,  and  there,  little  re- 
moved from  each  other  in  the  vestibule 
and  aisle  of  the  great  church,  were  the 
tombs  of  Father  Paul  and  of  the  late 
Patriarch  side  by  side ;  the  great  pa- 
triot's simple  gravestone  was  now  al- 
lowed to  rest  unbroken. 

Better  even  than  this  was  the  reaction 
provoked  by  these  outbursts  of  ecclesi- 
astical hatred.  It  was  felt,  in  Venice, 
throughout  Italy,  and  indeed  through- 
out the  world,  that  the  old  decree  for 
a  monument  should  now  be  made  good. 
The  first  steps  were  hesitating.  First, 
a  bust  of  Father  Paul  was  placed  among 
those  of  great  Venetians  in  the  court  of 
the  Ducal  Palace ;  but  the  inscription 
upon  it  was  timid  and  double-tongued. 
Another  bust  was  placed  on  the  Pincian 
Hill  at  Rome,  among  those  of  the  most 
renowned  sons  of  Italy.  This  was  not 
enough :  a  suitable  monument  must  be 


erected.  Yet  it  was  delayed,  timid  men 
deprecating  the  hostility  of  the  Roman 
Court.  At  last,  under  the  new  Italian 
monarchy,  the  patriotic  movement  be- 
came irresistible,  and  the  same  impulse 
which  erected  the  splendid  statue  to 
Giordano  Bruno  on  the  Piazza  dei  Fiori 
at  Rome,  —  on  the  very  spot  where  he 
was  burned,  —  and  which  adorned  it 
with  the  medallions  of  eight  other  mar- 
tyrs to  ecclesiastical  hatred,  erected  in 
1892,  two  hundred  and  seventy  years 
after  it  had  been  decreed,  a  statue, 
hardly  less  imposing,  to  Paolo  Sarpi, 
on  the  Piazza  Santa  Fosca  at  Venice, 
where  he  had  been  left  for  dead  by  the 
Vatican  assassins.  There  it  stands, 
noble  and  serene,  —  a  monument  of 
patriotism  and  right  reason,  a  worthy 
tribute  to  one  who,  among  intellectual 
prostitutes  and  solemnly  constituted  im- 
postors, stood  forth  as  a  true  man,  the 
greatest  of  his  time,  —  one  of  the  great- 
est of  all  times,  —  an  honor  to  Venice, 
to  Italy,  and  to  humanity. 

Andrew  D.  White. 


TIMEO  DANAOS. 

ART  proud,  my  country,  that  these  mighty  ones, 

Wearing  the  jeweled  splendor  of  old  days, 

Come  bringing  prodigality  of  praise 
To  thee  amid  thy  light  of  westering  suns ; 
Bidding  their  blaring  trumpets  and  their  guns 

Salute  thee,  late  into  their  crooked  ways 

Now  fallen,  to  their  sorrow  and  amaze, 
Blood  of  whose  hearts  the  ancient  honor  runs  ? 

Nay,  fear  them  rather,  for  they  cry  with  glee, 

"  She  has  become  as  one  of  us,  who  gave 
All  that  she  had  to  set  a  people  free: 

She  wears  our  image  —  she  that  loved  the  slave!" 
Fear  them,  for  there  is  blood  upon  their  hands, 
And  on  their  heads  the  curse  of  ruined  lands. 

John   White  Chadwick. 


234 


Timotheos  and  the  Persians. 


TIMOTHEOS  AND  THE  PERSIANS. 


FOB  a  dead  language  Greek  betrays 
a  shameless  vivacity.  Not  content  with 
putting  forth  new  shoots  and  fruits,  — 
and  Athens  to-day,  is  said  to  turn  out 
more  books  and  periodicals  per  capita 
than  any  other  community  on  the  globe, 
—  the  old  trunk  must  needs  revive  at  the 
roots.  Dead,  it  may  be,  in  the  snap 
judgments  of  a  little  hour  ;  yet  the  Phi- 
listine woodman  may  well  be  warned  to 
spare  this  sacred  olive,  whose  very  stump 
gives  promise  of  immortal  aftergrowth. 

The  voluminous  literature  of  contem- 
porary Greece  does  not  concern  us  here  ; 
but  the  "  bursting  forth  of  genius  from 
the  dust "  is  brought  home  to  us  once 
more  in  the  recovery  of  Timotheos.  It 
is  hardly  six  years  since  we  were  wel- 
coming back  a  far  sweeter  singer  in  Bac- 
chylides;  yet  few  may  remember  how 
this  new  lead  was  opened  well-nigh  fifty 
years  ago  by  the  finding  of  Alkman's 
maiden-song,  —  a  song  that  admits  us  to 
the  very  dance  of  that  Laconian  herd  of 
girls,  with  the  radiant  Hagesichora  and 
Agido  at  their  head.  Since  then  every 
mummy-case  is  become  a  possible  casket 
of  hid  treasure  for  the  Hellenist,  for  even 
the  embalmed  crocodile  is  often  wrapped 
in  old  Greek  texts  ;  and  to  such  safe- 
keeping we  are  already  indebted  for  not 
a  few  precious  works  long  lost  to  the 
world,  —  among  them  considerable  vol- 
umes of  Aristotle,  Bacchylides,  and  He- 
rondas,  and  important  fragments  of  Ar- 
chilochos,  Sappho,  and  Menander. 

The  earliest  and  latest  of  these  finds 

1  The  papyrus  measures  some  42  inches  in 
length,  divided  into  five  columns  of  about  26 
lines  each,  and  is  written  in  clear-cut  capitals, 
such  as  mark  the  lapidary  inscriptions  of  the 
fourth  century,  —  thus  confirming  the  other 
archaeological  data,  which  fix  the  interment 
about  350  B.  C.,  and  so  make  this  by  far  the 
oldest  Greek  book  yet  known  to  us.  Strictly 
speaking,  it  is  but  half  a  book.  The  papyrus 
had  been  cut  clean  in  two,  leaving  no  margin, 


come  from  the  same  neighborhood,  that 
of  old  Memphis ;  and  each  restores  an 
else  lost  form  of  Greek  melic,  —  the  par- 
thenion,  all  the  more  precious  because  of 
Alkman's  unchallenged  mastery  in  that 
kind,  and  the  nome  in  which  Timotheos 
won  his  chief  laurels. 

This  last  recovery  we  owe  to  a  German 
spade,  as  we  owe  its  editio  princeps  to 
that  prince  of  German  humanists,  von 
Wilamowitz-Mollendorf .  While  conduct- 
ing excavations  in  February,  1902,  at 
Abousir  (ancient  Busiris,  a  suburb  of 
Memphis),  Ludwig  Borchardt  struck  an 
old  Egyptian  mummy-case  tenanted  (at 
second  hand)  by  a  stalwart  Greek,  whose 
well-kept  anatomy  shows  once  more  how 
fully  the  Greeks  in  the  Nile  country  had 
adopted  Egyptian  burial  customs.  From 
lesions  in  the  skull  it  would  seem  that 
this  strapping  Greek  had  come  to  a  vio- 
lent end ;  and,  indeed,  he  may  have 
fought  and  fallen  in  that  Egyptian  cam- 
paign of  Agesilaus  and  Chabrias  (circa 
358  B.  c.).  For  his  last  long  Campaign 
in  the  undiscovered  country,  his  outfit 
is  slight  enough,  —  chiefly,  an  empty 
leather  purse,  a  pair  of  sandals,  and  a 
poet !  Happily,  in  this  instance,  the  poet 
had  signed  his  work  ;  and  no  sooner  was 
the  papyrus  unrolled  than  it  was  seen  to 
be  the  long  lost  PERSIANS  of  Timotheos, 
and  that  in  a  copy  well-nigh  old  enough 
to  have  come  from  the  author's  own 
hand.1 

A  volume  that  Demosthenes  and  Aris- 
totle might  have  thumbed  must  stir  even 

not  to  say  fly-leaf,  for  our  first  column ;  and 
Wilamowitz  judges  from  the  text  that  more 
than  half  the  whole  poem  is  missing.  Appar- 
ently, a  stingy  heir  grudged  our  mummied 
Greek  a  full  libretto  ;  and,  inasmuch  as  the 
roll  always  opened  from  the  title-column,  it  is 
the  first  part  (possibly  including  other  pieces) 
that  is  lopped  off,  —  leaving  us,  luckily,  the 
poet's  seal  and  signature. 


Timotheos  and  the  Persians. 


235 


a  sluggish  imagination.  And,  quite  apart 
from  that,  Wilamowitz  is  not  without 
warrant,  in  holding  that  these  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  verses  of  Timotheos  are 
historically  worth  a  hundredfold  more 
than  as  many  new  verses  of  Pindar  or 
Sophocles,  no  matter  how  inferior  in  in- 
trinsic value.  On  the  other  hand,  some 
good  Hellenists  —  regarding  the  Pin- 
daric rule  that  "  each  ungodded  thing  is 
none  the  worse  for  being  quenched  in  si- 
lence "  —  might  be  glad  to  give  our  poet 
another  millennial  lease  of  sleep.  Cer- 
tainly, no  Hellenic  god  in  his  sober  spells 
could  have  taken  pure  delight  in  a  per- 
formance so  un-Hellenic  as  The  Persians, 
—  as  un-Hellenic,  at  first  blush,  as  the 
"  Artimis  by  Ephesus,"  on  whom  our 
sputtering  Phrygian  relies.  Still,  as  no 
artist  can  pass  quite  unheeded  that  out- 
landish alabaster-bronze  Diana  of  the 
Ephesians  in  the  Naples  Museum,  so  no 
student  of  literature  can  quite  shut  his 
eyes  to  a  work,  however  unclassical,  of 
this  master-singer  of  his  time. 

In  that  conviction,  I  have  had  the 
temerity  —  in  the  face  of  the  editor  prin- 
ceps,  who  declares  it  untranslatable  —  to 
undertake  a  transcript  of  The  Persians, 
and,  indeed,  to  try  to  hit  off  "  the  very 
turn  of  each  phrase  in  as  Greek  a  fash- 
ion as  English  will  bear."  How  much  of 
that  fashion  English  will  bear,  now  that 
the  man  in  the  street  is  our  schoolmas- 
ter, it  may  not  be  easy  to  measure.  Cer- 
tainly, were  he  to-day  asked  for  glosses 
on  his  great  Pindaric  ode,  Gray  could 
hardly  plead  again  "  too  much  respect  for 
the  understanding  of  his  readers  to  take 
such  a  liberty."  At  all  events,  the  pre- 
sent reader  will  hardly  resent  the  liberty 
taken  in  some  slight  prolegomena,  intend- 
ed mainly  to  clear  his  way  through  a  jun- 
gle of  metaphor,  and  to  set  him  in  touch 
with  the  old  singer  and  his  audience. 

If  Timotheos  was  "the  detestation  of 
the  old  Athens,  the  darling  of  the  new," 
we  must  remember  that  he  was  not  Athe- 
nian born.  "  The  town  that  nursed  him," 
as  he  tells  us  in  The  Persians,  was  Mile- 


tus ;  and  Milesian  manners  —  Ionian 
crossed  with  Carian  on  the  distaff  side 
from  the  very  start  —  would  have  some- 
what of  an  Oriental  cast  even  when  the 
place  ceased  for  a  while  to  be  a  Persian 
outpost  under  the  Peace  of  Kallias,  con- 
cluded about  the  time  of  the  poet's  birth 
(circa  450  B.  c.).  And  we  know  what 
strange  fruits  its  proper  breeding  could 
yield,  —  fruits  which  Athens  was  even 
then  proving,  with  no  great  relish,  in  the 
person  of  Aspasia. 

To  the  young  Milesian  sane  fifth-cen- 
tury Athens  would  be  but  a  slow  old 
town  ;  and,  when  he  bestirred  him  to 
set  the  pace  anew,  no  wonder  she  de- 
tested him.  In  The  Persians,  indeed,  the 
apology  for  his  art  may  impress  the 
reader  as  a  bit  abject,  but  then  he  is 
pleading  to  a  Spartan  bench.  Contrast 
this  frank  avowal  (Fragment  12),  doubt- 
less flung  in  the  face  of  Athenian  cen- 
sors, who  hardly  went  with  Euripides  in 
hailing  Timotheos  as  the  poet  of  the 
future  :  — 

"  Nay,  I  sing  no  more  the  old  songs, 
For  our  new  ones  are  the  better. 
Newly  Zeus  our  king  now  reigneth, 
But  of  old  was  Kronos  ruler. 
Get  thee  gone,  then,  thou  antique  Muse." 

Of  the  new  Muse's  quality,  the  extant 
fragments  —  some  thirty  lines  all  told  — 
had  left  us  in  small  doubt.  Notably, 
the  first  from  the  Hymn  to  Artemis, 
which  Ephesian  taste  rated  at  a  thousand 
gold  pieces,  and  the  Ephesian  budget 
provided  for  accordingly,  but  which  must 
have  set  Athenian  teeth  on  edge.  Its 
sole  fragment  is  just  a  string  of  epithets, 

6vid8a  (f>oij3a.8a  //.atvaSct  AucreraSa 
(as  who  should  say,  — 

antical  frantical  mantical  rant-ical ! ), 

singularly  suggestive  of  the  Naples  enor- 
mity ;  and  we  can  but  sympathize  with 
lank  old  Kinesias,  —  something  of  a 
"  song-twister  "  himself,  —  who,  on  the 
poet's  repeating  them  at  Athens,  rose  in 
the  theatre  and  sang  out,  "  May  you  get 
a  daughter  of  your  own  like  that !  " 


236 


Timotheos  and  the  Persians. 


In  one  instance,  happily,  we  can  con- 
front the  new  Muse  with  the  old,  and 
measure  the  celestial  diameter  that  di- 
vides them ;  for  we  have  the  Milesian's 
"  Wine  of  Ismaros "  and  its  Homeric 
original.  Here  is  the  good  old  vintage 
(Odyssey  ix,  208  f.)  :  — 

"  Oft  as  they  drank  that  red  wine  honey-sweet, 

One  cup  he  'd  fill  and  then  on  twenty  parts  of 
water 

Pour  it,  and  a  sweet  smell  from  the  mixer 
smelled 

And  marvellous.  Then,  truly,  't  were  no  plea- 
sure to  refrain." 

And  here  is  the  Milesian  brew  (Frag- 
ment 3)  :  — 

"  He  filled  one  ivy-cup  of  the  dark 
ambrosial  drop,  with  foam  a-bubbling, 
and  that    on  twenty    measures    poured    and 

blended 
Bacchus'  blood  with  Nymphs'    fresh-flowing 

tears." 

Shades  of  Byron  and  his  "  Chinese 
nymph  of  tears,  green  tea !  "  The  ratio 
is  Homeric,  but  the  bouquet  is  fled  ;  and 
for  honest  wine  and  water  who  could 
choose  this  drench  of  blood  and  tears  ! 

From  these  bits  we  get  a  fair  foretaste 
of  the  longer  poem.  Timotheos  is  nothing 
if  not  metaphorical.  He  cannot  call  a 
spade  a  spade.  It  is  no  plain  javelin,  but 
Ares  himself,  whose  ether-borne  body  we 
see  shot  from  men's  hands,  and  lighting  on 
limbs  (of  ships  ?),  where  it  still  quivers  ; 
the  sword  is  a  cutthroat  minister  ("  ye 
murthering  ministers  ") ;  and  hors  de 
combat  is  orphaned  of  battles.  His  ships 
have  no  gunwales  and  rowlocks,  but 
mouths  and  teeth,  —  which  are,  to  be 
sure,  the  children  of  the  mouth  ;  no  oars, 
but  hands  or  feet,  —  now  fir-tree  hands, 
and  now  long  -  neck  -  floating  mountain- 
grown  feet ;  no  hulls,  but  limbs ;  no  ram, 
but  an  iron  skull  or  a  side-assailing  flash. 
They  are  not  simply  stripped  of  their 
oars,  they  are  "  disglorified,"  and,  in 
lieu  of  keeling  over,  they  just  "  toss  up 
their  manes."  Quite  the  caper,  this,  for  a 
sea-horse,  and  even  Pindar  sings  "  swift 
Argo's  bridle,"  and  makes  Viking  Posei- 
don Master  of  the  Horse  tTnraos,  as 


he  was,  in  fact,  the  primal  Horseman; 
or  it  may  be  a  concession  to  the  "  emer- 
ald-haired sea,"  which  swallows  many  a 
wretch  from  "Mysia's  tree-maned glens  " 
before  the  "  ship-drops  "  incarnadine  it. 
As  these  ship-drops  may  be  either  fly- 
ing brands  or  spurts  of  blood,  my  "  ships' 
red  rain  "  follows  the  poet  in  leaving  the 
reader  his  choice.  The  bay  of  Salamis 
is  "  Amphitrite's  fish-enwreathed  mar- 
ble-girt bosom  ;  "  and  to  one  who  has 
watched  the  play  of  a  glancing  school 
of  many-tinted  fishes  that  were  no  bad 
posy  for  the  sea-dame's  breast.  From 
his  throne  on  ^Egaleos  the  Great  King 
"  hems  in  with  errant  eyes  "  these  floating 
plains  (one  thinks  of  the  Lotus-Eaters' 
"  wandering  fields  of  barren  foam  "),  — 
that  is  to  say,  he  sweeps  the  battle  scene 
with  imperious  glance.  But  he  has  al- 
ready "built  a  solid  roof  o'er  floating 
Helle,"  and  "  yoked  down  her  haughty 
neck  in  a  hemp-bound  collar,"  —  both 
variations  on  the  familiar  bridge  of  boats. 
Yet  this  protean  sea  fairly  outdoes  her- 
self, when  upon  the  Phrygian  landlubber 
she  rains  "  a  foaming  flood  unbacchic," 
and  plumps  into  —  not  his  stomach,  but 
—  his  bread-basket  (rp6<ftifjiov  ayyos). 
But  this  sea-water  cure  is  sui  generis  ; 
and  we  can  almost  hear  the  roar  of  the 
groundlings,  to  whom,  here  and  again 
flagrantly  in  the  broken  Greek  of  the 
Kelainaean,  the  poet  is  playing. 

Still,  there  are  redeeming  touches: 
"  the  woven  beauty  of  the  limbs ; "  "  Fire's 
lurid  sprite  with  its  fierce  body  burning 
up"  the  flower  of  Persia's  youth;  and 
"  the  Mountain-Mother's  dark-leaf-kir- 
tled  queenly  knees"  and  "fair-elbowed 
arms."  There  we  can  yet  see,  as  the 
wretched  suppliant  saw  in  his  mind's 
eye,  the  sculptured  form  of  his  far-away 
Phrygian  goddess,  with  her  embroidered 
drapery,  like  that  of  the  kindred  Mis- 
tress of  Lykasoura  now  in  the  Athens 
Museum,  and  her  bare  forearms  gleam- 
ing white,  as  we  know  them  in  many  an 
old  Greek  marble. 

But  we  must  not  anticipate  too  much, 


Timotheos  and  the  Persians. 


237 


needful  as  these  glosses  are  to  the  ap- 
prehension of  a  poet  who  has  so  far 
abused  the  coining  privilege  and  over- 
worked the  metaphor  that  the  "  dress- 
ing "  bids  fair  to  oust  the  dinner.  Still, 
we  may  not  forget  that  these  multiple 
Massilian  compounds,  with  their  ringing 
numbers,  were  addressed  not  so  much  to 
the  understanding  as  to  the  ear.  It  is  no 
longer,  as  in  the  great  Lyric  Age,  "  music 
married  to  immortal  verse,"  but  verse 
harnessed  in  the  triumphal  car  of  music. 
The  Queen  of  the  Lyre  is  become  its 
creature,  the  poet  lost  in  the  composer  ; 
and  The  Persians  is  an  opera.  But  only 
its  bare  words  have  come  down  to  us ; 
for  the  old  Greek  who  fell  on  sleep  at 
Busiris  was  no  singer,  and  so  had  not 
provided  himself  with  the  score.  Justly 
to  appreciate  it,  we  must  put  ourselves 
in  the  place  of  its  first  hearers  :  we  must 
take  our  seats  in  the  great  gathering  of 
the  twelve  Ionian  cities  at  Poseidon's 
sacred  grove  on  the  north  slope  of  Mount 
Mykale  in  or  about  the  year  396  before 
Christ.1 

On  this  bold  headland  one  vividly  re- 
calls that  well-aimed  blow  at  Persian 
power  delivered  here  not  so  many  years 
past,  and  one  may  even  fancy  that  the 
Milesian  singer  in  his  new  Persians  is 
to  celebrate  that  day  and  this  scene. 
But  not  so.  It  is  the  scene  and  day 
of  Salamis,  already  immortalized  by  a 
greater  singer  in  a  greater  Persians,  — 
by  a  poet  who  was  there,  and  who  is  tell- 
ing the  story  to  his  comrades  in  the 
Athenian  theatre,  whose  upper  benches, 
at  least,  look  out  on  the  strait  where  he 
and  they  pulled  stroke  for  stroke,  and 
fought  shoulder  to  shoulder,  only  eight 
years  before.  If  there  be  on  Mykale 
to-day  a  centenarian  who  was  in  that 
fight  and  at  that  play,  and  who  is  look- 
ing for  somewhat  to  stir  his  old  Athe- 

1  Such,  with  good  reason,  Wilamowitz  takes 
to  be  the  time,  place,  and  occasion  of  bringing 
out  the  piece. 

2  Anyway,    it    was    so    with    Philopoamen 
some  two  centuries  later,  when,  at  the  head  of 
the  stalwart,  well  set-up  men  whom  he   had 


nian  blood,  he  is  doomed  to  sore  disillu- 
sion. For  Athens  the  times  are  out  of 
joint,  and  Sparta  is  in  the  saddle,  —  ay, 
in  the  front  seats  here  at  the  Panionia. 
Even  the  Persian  has  more  to  do  him 
reverence  now  than  the  City,  —  the  Per- 
sian who  in  three  short  years  is  again  to 
sit  as  satrap  in  Miletus  itself,  while  Ko- 
non  restores  the  Long  Walls  with  the 
King's  gold.  And  so  in  all  our  opera, 
a  thinly  veiled  plea  for  an  aggressive 
Eastern  policy  under  Sparta's  lead,  we 
do  not  catch  the  name  of  Athens.  But 
then  it  is  all  a  story  without  a  name,  — 
even  Salamis  and  Xerxes  are  nameless  ; 
and,  indeed,  the  only  persons  named  in 
the  body  of  the  piece  are  deities.  How 
unlike  our  jEschylus's  bristling  bead-roll 
of  Iranian  grandees,  his  stately  muster 
of  the  streams  and  isles  of  Hellas  ! 

As  the  musician-poet  enters  in  his 
singing  robes,  with  the  garland  on  his 
brow,  and,  smiting  the  lyre,  leads  off  in 
the  noble  hexameter,  — 

"  Liberty's  great  and  glorious  jewel  for  Hellas 

achieving,"  — 

our  old  Athenian  may  well  think  of 
Themistocles,  but  all  eyes  are  upon 
Agesilaus,2  as  they  are  again  when  he 
portrays  the  strenuous  Spartan's  very 
features  in  the  line,  — 
"  Revere  ye  spear-embattled  Valor's  helpmate, 

Modesty ;  ' ' 
and  again,  upon  this  ringing  challenge, — 

"  Ares  is  lord,  but  Hellas  dreads  not  Gold." 
For  this  Spartan  Agamemnon  of  a  new 
Iliad  has  turned  the  tables  on  the  Per- 
sian, and  satraps  are  learning  to  cool 
their  heels  on  his  doorsteps  ;  while  herds 
of  Asiatics,  spoil  of  his  triumphant 
raids,  are  stripped  and  paraded  in  their 
soft,  white  limbs  for  athletic  Greeks  to 
crow  over,  and  then  —  particularly  the 
Phrygians  —  driven  off  to  glut  Ionian 
slave  marts. 

recently  led  to  victory  at  Mantinea  (207  B.  c.), 
he  entered  the  theatre  at  Nemea  just  as  Pyla- 
des,  the  first  kitharoides  of  the  age,  was  sing- 
ing the  same  verse.  We  owe  to  Polybius  this 
proof  that  the  Persians  held  the  stage  so  long. 


238 


Timotheos  and  the  Persians. 


Timotheos  has  caught  the  cue  ;  and, 
having  once  set  his  battle  in  array,  he 
passes  to  a  series  of  scenes  well  chosen 
to  heighten  Hellenic  scorn  without  too 
far  outraging  Hellenic  taste. 

There  is,  to  begin  with,  the  Phrygian 
landlubber  afloat  and  —  with  all  comic  cir- 
cumstance—  swallowing  the  sea,  which 
takes  his  tongue-lashing,  and  then  swal- 
lows him  in  turn.  Then  the  shivering 
wretches  on  the  rocks,  the  pathos  of 
whose  appeal  to  their  far-off  fatherland 
and  the  Phrygian  goddess  strikes  a  true 
tragic  note.  Again,  to  split  the  ears  of 
the  groundlings,  another  Phrygian,  haled 
by  the  hair  of  his  head,  grovels  at  his 
captor's  knees,  and  in  painfully  broken 
Greek  sues  for  life,  in  which  suit  a  cho- 
rus of  Asiatics  join,  as  in  a  fugue.  And, 
finally,  we  look  upon  the  utter  rout,  and 
listen  to  the  Great  King's  simple  and 
not  undignified  lament. 

If  we  have*  not  perused  a  battle  his- 
tory, we  have  witnessed  a  battle  drama ; 
and  we  feel  how  fully  the  poet  must  have 
placed  the  scenes  before  his  own  eyes, 
and  acted  the  parts  in  his  own  mind,  be- 
fore he  could  bring  them,  thus  throbbing, 
home  to  us.  He  does  not  stay  to  cele- 
brate the  victory ;  but,  with  brief  allu- 
sion to  trophy,  paean,  and  dance,  he  drops 
the  theme.  Indeed,  to  compare  slight 
things  with  sublime,  he  has  just  touched 
the  theme  "  in  points  of  light,"  as  the 
Theban  singer  signals  us  from  peak  to 
peak  in  his  Quest  of  the  Golden  Fleece.1 

It  remains  to  seal  the  performance 
with  the  poet's  apology  addressed  to  the 
Spartan  who  has  flouted  him  and  his 
muse,  but  who  should  now  be  mollified 
by  the  subtle  flattery  pf  his  new  song. 
It  is  a  rather  pedestrian  "  Progress  of 
Poesy  :  "  first,  Orpheus  ;  next,  your 
own  Terpander ;  now,  Timotheos,  — 
come  not  to  pervert,  but  to  perfect.  And 
then,  with  his  best  bow  to  mother  Mile- 
tus and  the  Panionian  community,  in- 
voking on  their  heads  Apollo's  gift  of 
Peace,  with  her  mate  Good  Government, 
1  Pindar's  Fourth  Pythian. 


the  singer  quits  the  thymele  (not  Diony- 
sos'  altar,  here,  but  Poseidon's),  leaving 
us  content  with  the  sweet  and  insinuat- 
ing music  of  his  eleven  strings,  even  if 
somewhat  surfeited  with  his  superfine 
metaphors  and  his  coarse  fun.  All  but 
our  old  Athenian  :  now  that  he  has 
assisted  at  the  great  Persians  and  the 
small,  he  must  be  taking  the  true  mea- 
sure of  his  century  as  he  muses  grimly 
on  the  descent  from  ^schylus  to  Timo- 
theos ;  from  Salamis  to  jEgospotami ; 
from  that 

"Radiant,  violet-crowned,  exalted  in  song, 
Bulwark  of  Hellas,  glorious  Athens, 
City  of  walls  divine," 

to  the  flute-girl  frolic  in  which  the 
starved  and  stricken  City  has  but  lately 
seen  those  walls  pulled  down.  And  it 
is  a  son  of  Miletus,  her  eldest  and  best 
loved  daughter,  who  can  sing  the  song 
of  Salamis  without  once  remembering 
that  Athens  was !  Between  this  lyre 
and  those  flutes  our  veteran  surely  has  his 
fill  of  a  music  fit  "  to  untune  the  sky." 

But  it  is  high  time  to  let  the  poet 
speak  for  himself,  albeit  in  broken  num- 
bers. With  all  the  resources  of  free 
coinage,  wherein  German  asks  little  or  no 
odds  of  Greek,  Wilamowitz  pronounces 
The  Persians  untranslatable ;  and  the 
reader  may  presently  agree  with  him. 
But  what  follows  is  Timotheos  unadul- 
terated, with  his  metaphors  gone  mad, 
his  long,  loose-jointed  epithets,  his  dithy- 
rambic  diction,  —  half  riddle,  half  jar- 
gon, —  in  short,  treading  his  own  mea- 
sure, so  far  as  I  dare  let  him,  without 
leaving  the  reader  quite  in  the  dark. 
Something  has  been  sacrificed  to  keep 
the  prevailing  iambic  movement,  while 
quite  neglecting  the  lyric  variations ;  for 
the  transcript  makes  no  claim  to  be  any- 
thing but  modulated  prose,  and  the  lin- 
ing is  merely  for  convenience  in  refer- 
ring to  the  Greek  text. 

Of  the  first  half  of  the  poem,  we  have 
only  the  three  random  lines  already 
quoted  which  it  may  be  well  to  reset  in 
their  probable  connection.  The  first  col- 


Tlmotheos  and  the  Persians. 


239 


umn  of  the  papyrus  yields  hardly  one 
complete  word,  to  say  nothing  of  connect- 
ed sense.  In  the  second,  though  some- 
what mutilated,  the  drift  is  clear.  The 
battle  is  on,  the  ram  is  rampant.  We 
get  a  glimpse  of  ships,  "  with  cornice- 
lanced  frame  of  teeth  set  round  for  the 
feet,"  —  that  is  to  say,  red  gunwales,  with 
white  rowlocks  for  the  oars  ;  and  of  rams, 
"  with  arched  heads  beset,  that  sweep 
aside  the  fir-tree  hands."  And  now,  from 
verse  8  of  the  editio  princeps,  we  may 
take  the  plunge  with  the  poet. 

THE  LIBRETTO. 

Liberty's  great  and  glorious  jewel  for  Hellas 
achieving   .  .  . 

(The  overture  would  align  the  great  antagonists, 
Greek  and  Barbarian,  and  must  have  sounded  a 
note  of  genuine  national  feeling.  Then  comes  the 
contrast  with  Eastern  swagger  or  Athenian  hy- 
bris :) 

Revere  ye  spear-embattled  Valor's  helpmate, 
Modesty ! 

(And,  now  that  the  King's  gold  is  again  open- 
ing Greek  city-gates,  this  defiance :) 

Ares  is  lord,  but  Hellas  dreads  not  Gold. 

And  oft  as  thence  was  dealt 

the  unforewarned  blow, 
10     thwart-breaking,  all  rushed  upon 

the  foeman  front  to  front. 
And  if  upon  the  sides  the  lightning  leapt, 

with  sweep  of  quick-stroke  pine 
the  ships  bore  back  again. 
And  some,  with  timbers  riven  all  apart, 
laid  bare  their  linen-girthed  ribs  ; 
some,  'neath  the  plunging  leaden  shaft, 
tossed  up  their  manes  and  sank ; 
and  some  on  beam-ends  lay, 
20         of  all  their  bravery  shorn 

by  the  iron  skull. 
Now,  like  to  Fire,  man-quelling 

Ares  loop-enleashed 
shot  from  hands  and  fell  on  limbs, 
through    all    his    ether  -  coursing    frame 

a-quiver  still. 

The  hard-packed  murderous  leaden  bolts 
sped  on  their  coarse,  and  on  sped  pitchy 

balls 
on  galling  ox-goads  set  and  all  aflame 

with  fire. 

And  life  innumerons  was  sacrificed 
30        to  slender  feathery  bronze-tipt  flights 
from  bow-string  tense. 


And,  lo !  the  emerald-tressed  sea 
in  furrows  'neath  the  ships'  red  rain 
incarnadined ; 

and  shriek  and  shout  commingled  rose. 

And  now  anear  the  ships'  array 

barbaric,  pell-mell,  bore  down  again 
in  Amphitrite's  fish-enwreathed  bosom 
marble-girt ;  where,  sooth  to  say, 
40         a  Phrygian  landsman, 

lord  of  demense  a  day's  run  round, 
plowing  with  his  legs  the  showery  plain 
and  paddling  with  his  hands,  an  islesman 

floated  now, 

lashed  by  winds  and  billow-buffeted, 
still  vainly  seeking  thoroughfare. 

( But  there  is  no  thoroughfare  ;  and  the  next  25 
lines  are  in  as  desperate  case  as  the  spent  swim- 
mer who  meets  us  again  as  soon  as  the  text  closes 
up  in  Column  III.) 

70     ...  When  here  the  winds  went  down, 

there  in  upon  him  rained 

a  foaming  flood  unbacchic 

and  down  his  gullet  poured ; 

but  when  the  upheaved 

brine  surged  o'er  his  lips, 
in  shrill-pitched 

voice  and  frenzied 

mood  of  mind 

thus,  loathful,  on  that  ruin  of  his  life, 
80    the  sea,  he  railed 

and  gnashed  his  teeth 

in  mimic  wise : 

"  Erewhile,  bold  brute, 

thy  furious  neck  thou  got'st 

yoked  down  in  linen-lashed  bond ; 

and  now  my  master,  mine, 

shall  rouse  thee  up 
with  mountain-gendered  pines 

and  hem  in  thy  fields  of  flood  with  er- 
rant eyes  — 
90    thou  oestrus-maddened  ancient  hate 

and  fickle  leman 

of  the  whelming  wind !  " 

He  said,  with  spent  breath  strangling, 
and  the  loathly  gorge  outcast, 

withal  upbelching 
at  the  mouth  the  deep-sea  brine. 

Anon,  in  flight  back  sped  the  Persian 

host  barbaric  in  hot  haste. 
And  swirl  on  swirl  of  galleys  crashed ; 
100       and  out  of  hand  they  flung 

the  long  lithe-plying  highland 
feet  o'  the  ship,  while  from  ship's  mouth, 

ontleapt  its  marble-gleaming 

offspring  in  the  shock. 


240 


Timotheos  and  the  Persians. 


As  sown  with  stars,  with  bodies  now 
bereft  of  life  and  breath 

the  deep  sea  swanned 
and  laden  were  the  shores. 

Or  on  the  sea-cliffs 
110       stranded,  naked-freezing, 

with  cry  and  moan  and  trickling  tear, 

breast-beating  wallers 
urged  the  mournful  plaint 
and  called,  the  while,  upon  their  father- 
land: 

"  0  Mysia's  tree-maned  glens, 
rescue  me  hence,  where  we  by  blasts 

are  borne  ;  else  nevermore 

shall  earth  receive  my  frame, 
now  that  my  hand  hath  touched  the  old- 
nymph- 

breeding  grot  untrodden 

.  .  .  goal  deeper  than  the  sea. 
O,  have  me  hence,  where  once  o'er 

Helle's  flood  a  solid  roof  — 

a  pathway  far  and  firm  — 
my  master  builded  me.     Else  Tmolos 

I   had   not  quitted,  —  nay,  nor  Sardes' 
Lydian  town, 

nor  come  to  ward  this  Hellene  Ares  off. 
130       And  now  how  shall  we  win  —  of  refuge 
all  forlorn  — 

a  refuge  sweet  from  doom  ? 
She  that  fares  to  Ilion  sole  deliverer 

from  woes  might  prove, 
if  haply  at  the  Mountain-Mother's 

dark-leaf -kirtled  queenly  knees 

't  were  mine  to  fall 

and  I  might  clasp  her  fair  white  arms. 
Deliver,  golden-tressed  goddess 

Mother,  I  implore, 
140  my  life,  mine  own  —  of  refuge  all  forlorn ; 

for  that  right  now 
and  here  with  cutthroat  minister  of  steel 

they  shall  make  way  with  me, 
or  wave-dissolving  ship-destroying 

blasts,    with    nightly   freezing    Boreas 
leagued, 

to  pieces  dash   me.     For   round   about 
the  billow  wild  hath  broken  all 

the  woven  beauty  of  my  limbs 
and  I  shall  lie  here,  pitiful, 
150      for    carrion    crew   of    birds  to    batten 


So  made  they  moan  and  wept. 

But  oft  as  iron -haf ted  Hellene 

took  and  haled 
some  denizen  of  many-flocked  Kelainai  — 

now  orphaned  of  the  fight  — 
by  the  hair  he  'd  clutch  and  hale  him ; 

while  round  about  his  knees  the  wretch 
would  twine 


and    supplicate,  Hellenic    speech    with 

Asian 

intertwining  and  shrilly 
160       shattering  his  lips'  close  seal, 

the   while  he    hunted   out  Ionian   utter- 


"I  —  thee  —  me  —  how  —  and  what  to 

do? 

Never  would  I  come  back  again ! 
Even  now  my  master  't  was 

that  hither  fetched  me  here. 
Henceforth,  no  more,  0  sire, 

no  more  to  battle  back  here  am  I  com- 
ing 

but  to  home  I  keep. 
I  —  thee  —  hither  —  nay  —  I 
170      yonder  by  Sardis,  by  Sousa, 

by  Agbatana  abiding. 
Artimis,  my  great  god, 

by  Ephesus  shall  guard  me." 

Now,  when  back-faring  flight 
they  took,  swift  faring, 
straightway  two-edged  darts 

from  out  their  hands  they  flung, 
and  face  by  nail  was  torn, 

and  Persian  robe  fine-spun 
180      about  the  breast  they  rent, 

and  tense  attuned  was 
the  Asian  wail. 
And   then  with  many  a  groan  and  blow 

on  breast 

the  King's  whole  muster  fell 
on   panic   fear,    envisaging   the   doom   to 

come. 

And  as  the  King  beheld 
that  motley  host  urge  on 
the  backward  faring  flight, 
then  on  his  knees  he  fell  and  marred  his 

flesh 
190  and   in    the    flood  -  tide    of   his   troubles 


"  Alas  !  the  ruin  of  my  house 

and  scorching  ships  of  Hellas  — 
ye  that  utterly  destroyed  my  mated  prime 

of  youth  —  full  many  a  man  ; 

and  our  ships  .  .  . 
shall  bear  them  home  again  no  more, 

but  Fire's  lurid  sprite 

with  its  fierce  body  burn  them  up, 

while  groans  and  anguish 
200      wait  on  Persia's  land. 
O  heavy  lot 

that  into  Hellas  led  me  ! 
Nay,  go  —  no    more    delay  —  yoke    ye 
here 

the  four-horse  chariot, 
and  the  uncounted  treasure 

bear  ye  yonder  on  the  wains, 


By   Catalogue. 


241 


and  fire  the  tents, 
and  may  they  get 
no  comfort  of  our  wealth." 

210  And  so  they  raised  their  trophy,  Zeus' 

holiest  shrine ;  Paian 
hailed  they  loud,  le'ian  king  ; 
and  in  full  choir  beat  time 
with  flying  feet.        • 

O  thou,  who  dost  exalt  the  golden  lyre's 

new-fashioned  strain, 
come  helper  to  my  hymns, 

le'ian  Paian. 

For  Sparta's  mighty  leader-folk, 
220       high-born,  longeval, 

yet  swelling  in  youth's  bloom, 
with  fiery  blame  upflaring 

doth  vex  and  drive  me  out  — 
for  that  with  new-spun  hymns 

I  put  the  elder  Muse  to  shame. 
But  none,  or  young  or  old 

or  my  co-eval, 

from  any  hymns  would  I  bar  out. 
Only  the  ancient-Muse-debasers  — 
230      them  I  ward  away, 


manglers  of  song 
that  quite  outstrain 
the  shrill-loud-lungid  heralds'  cry. 

First,  the  shell  of  varied  note 

our  Orpheus  fathered, 
Kalliope's  Pierian  son. 
And  next  with  ten  chords 

Terpander  yoked  the  Muse  — 
him  Aiolian  Lesbos  bred, 
240      Antissa's  boast. 
And  last  Timotheos 

ushers  in  his  lyre 

with  measured  rhythm  of  eleven  beats, 
thus  opening  a  many-hymned  store 

of  the  Muses  garnered. 
The  town  that  nursed  him  is  Miletus, 

that  graces  our  twelve-castled  common- 
wealth — 
prime  offshoot  of  the  Achaian  stock. 

And  now,  far-darting  Pythian,  come 
250       with  blessing  to  this  holy  town ; 

and  aye  to  this  inviolate  commonwealth 

send  Peace 
that  blooms  as  Order's  mate. 

J.  Irving  Manatt. 


BY   CATALOGUE. 


THE  Doctor  lifted  the  old  lady  out  of 
his  buggy,  and  carried  her  carefully  into 
the  hospital  hall. 

The  transit  would  have  been  more  dig- 
nified and  less  dangerous  if  she  had  not 
insisted  on  clinging  to  an  uncommonly 
large  bandbox,  which,  being  of  a  light- 
hearted  and  irresponsible  character,  blew 
about  in  the  fresh  breeze,  now  banging 
the  Doctor  on  the  knee,  now  threatening 
to  knock  off  his  hat,  now  caroming  lightly 
against  the  gate-post,  and,  finally,  nar- 
rowly escaping  its  own  destruction  by 
getting  underneath  the  old  lady  herself 
just  as  the  Doctor  put  her  down  in  the 
big  chaii*. 

"  Now  we  've  got  you  where  we  can 
take  care  of  you,  Mrs.  Parrish,"  he  said 
cheerfully,  as  he  wiped  his  brow  with  an 
expansive  and  immaculate  handkerchief, 
and  inwardly  gave  devout  thanks  that 
the  goal  was  reached ;  for  the  hospital 
.  VOL.  XCITI.  —  NO.  556.  16 


was  directly  opposite  a  house  where  lived 
a  certain  young  woman  with  a  sense  of 
humor,  and  the  Doctor,  being  similarly 
endowed,  realized  fully  that  it  would  not 
have  been  possible  to  view  his  tortuous 
course  from  the  buggy  to  the  hospital 
door  without  an  outburst  of  mirth. 

Mrs.  Parrish  looked  about  her  in  ju- 
dicial criticism  and  qualified  disapproval. 

Her  dingy  gown  refused  to  yield  to 
the  friendly  advances  of  the  chair,  and 
had  the  appearance  of  holding  itself  gin- 
gerly aloof ;  a  still  dingier  bonnet  of 
mixed  architecture  sat  upon  her  sparsely 
haired  head  with  a  questioning  air  ;  and 
her  careworn  face,  seamed  with  the  long 
war  between  inherent  energy  and  dis- 
couraged resignation,  turned  restlessly 
as  the  sharp  black  eyes  scrutinized  that 
spotless  hall  in  search  of  a  vantage-point 
for  unfavorable  criticism. 

"  Well,  I  'm  here,  right  enough,"  she 


242 


By   Catalogue. 


said  rather  grimly.  "  I  hope  you  did  n't 
hurt  that  bunnit-box  any,  comin'  in. 
You  acted  kind  of  keerless.  Sounded  to 
me  's  if  it  hit  that  fence-post  pritty  hard. 

"  Won't  you  ketch  cold  in  that  calico 
dress  ?  "  she  inquired  sharply  of  the  nurse 
who  came  toward  her.  "  This 's  as  drafty 
a  hall 's  I  ever  see." 

"  Then  you  'd  like  to  go  to  your  room 
at  once,  I  'm  sure,"  responded  the  nurse 
pleasantly.  "  I  hope  you  '11  like  the  view 
from  the  window  as  well  as  I  do.  You 
can  see  every  one  who  goes  down  town. 
It 's  like  having  callers  all  the  time  with- 
out the  trouble  of  entertaining  them." 

Katherine  Gray,  Nurse,  was  one  of 
those  people  whom  you  like  instinctively 
at  first  sight. 

Even  Mrs.  Parrish's  time  -  battered 
face  relaxed  before  the  pleasant,  sympa- 
thetic smile,  which  seemed  to  compre- 
hend, in  some  occult  way,  the  exact  men- 
tal attitude  of  the  person  to  whom  it  was 
given. 

The  Doctor  sometimes  wondered  if 
Nurse  Gray  was  as  understandingly  sym- 
pathetic as  she  looked,  and,  if  so,  why  she 
was  still  alive. 

One  of  the  first  signs  of  her  conquest 
in  the  present  instance  was  Mrs.  Par- 
rish's graciously  accorded  permission  to 
carry  the  bandbox  upstairs  to  the  little 
room  overlooking  the  main  thoroughfare. 

"  I  don't  know  what  she  has  in  it," 
said  the  Doctor  to  Nurse  Gray  later,  in 
the  corridor,  "but  from  the  way  she 
guarded  it  coming  down,  I  should  sus- 
pect that  it  held  the  crown  jewels,  at  least. 
You  have  n't  heard  that  any  of  the 
crowned  heads  have  been  advertising 
that  they  've  lost  theirs  ?  —  No  ?  — 
Have  her  ready  for  the  operation  at  eight 
to-morrow  morning.  Yes.  Major  opera- 
tion, — pretty  serious.  McShane  's  com- 
ing to  help  me.  She  has  a  fair  chance 
if  the  heart  behaves  all  right.  Good- 
morning,  Miss  Gray." 

It  was  a  bright,  cheery  little  room : 
the  white-painted  furniture,  the  white 


iron  bed,  the  crisp  white  muslin  curtain 
at  the  window,  and  the  cool,  fresh  feeling 
of  the  bed  linen  gave  Mrs.  Parrish  an 
unaccustomed  sense  of  well-being;  and 
her  tired  muscles,  tense  with  the  struggle 
of  coping  with  the  exigencies  of  life,  per- 
mitted themselves  the  pleasure  of  a  gen- 
tle relaxation. 

Nevertheless,  when  Nurse  Gray  came 
into  the  room,  Mrs.  Parrish's  eyes  closed 
in  apparent  slumber  ;  while  beneath  those 
deceptive  lids  the  keen  old  eyes  watched 
the  nurse's  every  movement. 

By  accident,  or  design,  the  nurse  kept 
her  back  to  the  bed  as  she  deftly  lowered 
the  window  shade  just  enough  to  shut 
out  a  sunbeam  that  was  growing  a  trifle 
intrusive,  and  not  enough  to  shut  out  the 
sight  of  the  passers-by. 

But  when  she  turned  and  placed  on 
the  bedside  table  a  perfect  pink,  hothouse 
rose,  in  a  slender,  clear,  glass  vase,  Mrs. 
Parrish,  suddenly  wide-eyed,  gave  a  gasp 
of  surprise. 

"  'T  ain't  fur  me,"  she  said  incredu- 
lously. 

"  Certainly  it  is,"  smiled  the  nurse ; 
"  the  lady  across  the  hall  sent  it  to  you 
with  her  kind  regards.  She  is  just  sit- 
ting up  after  an  operation  much  like 
yours,  and  she  was  interested  in  you  at 
once.  She  is  coming  in  to  see  you  when 
she  can." 

A  tear  coursed  its  uncertain  way  down 
the  furrowed  cheek. 

"  It 's  proper  kind  of  her,"  said  Mrs. 
Parrish,  her  mouth  working  at  the  cor- 
ners. 

Nurse  Gray  went  quietly  out  of  the 


It  was  evening,  and  Mrs.  Parrish  sat  up 
in  bed,  with  a  dull  red  spot  on  each  cheek. 

"  You  're  a  good  girl,"  she  said  to  the 
nurse,  "  'n'  I  'm  goin'  to  tell  you  about  it. 
It 's  an  even  chance  I  don't  git  through 
that  operation  to-morrow,  'n'  I  want  it  off 
my  mind  anyway.  Hand  me  my  bun- 
nit-box.  I  hed  to  bring  it  with  me.  I 
wa'n't  goin'  to  have  folks  a-peekin'  an' 


By   Catalogue. 


243 


pryin'  round  while  I  vvuz  gone,  'n'  spec'- 
latin'  on  it.  You  see,"  she  went  on,  work- 
ing at  the  knot  with  trembling  fingers, 
"  I  ain't  got  any  too  much  money.  I 
guess  you  could  see  that.  But  I  've  tried 
awful  hard  to  keep  up  'pearances,  'n'  to 
do  the  best  I  could.  'N'  I  've  paid  my 
debts,  'n'  hed  a  new  bunnit  once  a  year, 
'n'  kep'  my  mouth  shet  about  half  starvin' 
myself  to  git  it.  'N'  I  expect  I  talked 
bigger  'n  I  spent,  to  the  neighbors  ;  but 
you  know  how  't  is  :  you  've  got  to  keep 
up  some  in  talk  when  you  can't  keep  up 
much  in  spendin'." 

"  I  know,"  said  Nurse  Gray  gently. 

"  'N'  I  allus  sent  fur  Morton  'n'  Kurd's 
catalogue,  —  you  kin  buy  anything  on 
airth  there,  —  'n'  picked  out  my  bunnit 
from  the  pictures,  'n'  ordered  it  by  num- 
ber ;  'n'  I  mus'  say  they  was  allus  jus' 
like  it,  'n'  give  me  good  satisfaction. 

"  Well,  this  spring  I  saved  'n'  scrimped, 
'n'  I  picked  out  a  proper  bunnit.  It  hed 
a  feather  ?n'  a  velvet  bow ;  'n'  't  was 
three  seventy-five.  The  catalogue  man 
hed  printed  under  it,  '  Really  worth  jive 
dollars.'  I  s'pose  probably  't  was.  I 
wrote  'em  jus'  as  I  allus  hed,  'n'  ordered 
by  number,  'n'  sent  the  money.  'N' 
this,"  said  Mrs.  Parrish  solemnly,  "  this 
is  what  come." 

With  the  air  of  a  priestess  placing  a 
sacrificial  offering  upon  the  altar,  she  took 
from  her  box,  and  presented  to  Nurse 
Gray's  astonished  eyes,  a  child's  hat. 

And  such  a  hat !  Coarse  leghorn, 
decked  out  with  ribbon  whose  blue  paro- 
died the  Mediterranean,  and  a  wreath  of 
roses  whose  garish  color  and  patent  ar- 
tificiality constituted  a  grotesque  carica- 
ture which  would  have  caused  the  Queen 
of  Flowers  to  win  in  a  libel  suit. 

"  Well  ?  "  gasped  Katherine  Gray,  for 
once  nonplused. 

"  I  'd  ordered  from  an  old  fall  cata- 
logue," answered  Mrs.  Parrish  wearily. 
"  This  was  the  number  in  the  new  spring 
one." 

"  But  would  n't  they  exchange  it  ?  " 
The  nurse  was  catching  at  straws  now. 


"  I  wrote  'em,"  said  Mrs.  Parrish,  giv- 
ing the  touch  of  finality  to  the  tragedy, 
"  'n'  they  wrote  back  that  they  regretted 
that  they  could  n't  break  their  invariable 
rule  not  to  exchange  trimmed  hats,  'n' 
they  was  sincerely  mine.  So  was  this 
hat,"  she  added  grimly. 

"  That 's  all,"  she  said,  lying  back  on 
the  pillows  again,  "  except  that  I  ain't 
got  any  money  to  git  another ;  'n'  I  don't 
much  keer  how  that  operation  comes  out 
to-morrow.  I  'd  'bout  as  soon  die 's 
wear  my  ol'  bunnit  all  summer.  It 's 
easy  enough  to  talk  about  not  keerin' 
fur  the  things  of  this  world,  but  the 
folks  that  does  is  mostly  the  folks  that 
has  'em,  I  've  noticed." 

From  disaster  to  its  remedy,  Nurse 
Gray's  mind  took  its  usual  logical  course, 
—  surmounted  several  obstacles  to  find 
itself  in  a  blind  alley,  and  came  back, 
finally,  to  take,  not  at  all  to  her  surprise, 
the  way  which  led  to  a  personal  sacrifice 
on  her  part. 

For  there  were  reasons  why  even 
three  seventy-five  looked  a  sizable  sum 
to  Nurse  Gray  just  then. 

"  We  must  find  some  child  whose 
mother  will  buy  it,"  she  said  cheerfully. 
"  Of  course,  if  you  paid  three  seventy- 
five  for  it,  it  is  worth  that.  And  I  think 
if  you  will  trust  me  with  it,  I  can  sell  it 
for  you." 

"  I  guess  I  kin  trust  you,  right 
enough,"  said  Mrs.  Parrish,  with  a  grim 
smile.  "  I  ain't  a  mite  afraid  you  '11 
wear  it  yourself ;  'n'  if  you  could  sell 
it "  —  The  light  of  hope  came  back  into 
her  eyes. 

Up  in  her  own  room,  Nurse  Gray  ex- 
tracted the  sum  in  question  from  a  pock- 
et-book whose  extreme  emaciation  sug- 
gested long  lack  of  proper  nourishment, 
and  she  laughed  a  little  unsteadily  as  she 
did  so. 

The  Things  of  This  World  are  also 
desirable  when  one  is  twenty-four. 

Then  she  fell  upon  the  offending  band- 


244 


George,  Borrow. 


box  with  superfluous  energy,  and  jammed 
it,  with  its  contents,  on  her  brightly  burn- 
ing grate  fire. 

"  You  shall  disfigure  no  human  head," 
she  said  gayly,  shaking  her  finger  at  the 
last  rose  as  it  burned  to  a  crisp  on  its 
supposedly  parent  stem,  "and  you  de- 
served death  anyway." 

Mrs.  Parrish's  eyes  questioned  her. 

"Yes,  it's  sold,"  she  said. 

"  Was  the  party  responsible  ?  "  qua- 
vered Mrs.  Parrish. 

"  Entirely,"  laughed  the  nurse.  "  I  '11 
have  the  money  for  you  when  you  wakeup. 
Now  you  must  take  the  ether  nicely." 

"  Breathe  slowly  and  deeply,  Mrs. 
Parrish,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  slowly  and 
deeply  —  slowly  —  deeply  —  slowly  — 
deep —  " 

It  sounded  like  the  ticking  of  a  clock 
to  her  as  she  slipped  away  down  —  down 
—  down  —  into  a  black  stillness. 


The  little  room  was  bright  with  the 
glory  of  the  noonday  sun  ;  the  Doctor 
stood  beside  her,  smiling  like  a  school- 
boy, Nurse  Gray  was  adjusting  the  pil- 
low comfortably  under  her  head,  and 
on  the  dresser  she  saw  a  little  pile  of 
silver  coins. 

"  You  're  a  prize  patient,  Mrs.  Par- 
rish," said  the  Doctor  exultantly,  "  and 
you  are  going  to  be  a  well  woman.  Now 
while  you  're  lying  here  perfectly  still, 
you  must  think  of  the  thing  you  'd  like 
most  to  have,  first  of  all." 

Mrs.  Parrish  looked  at  the  nurse. 

"  If  you  'd  send  fur  Morton  'n'  Kurd's 
spring  catalogue  ? "  she  said  hesitat- 
ingly. 

"  The  very  latest  one,"  said  Nurse 
Gray  gayly. 

"  Oh,  you  women  !  "  said  the  Doctor ; 
but  he  smiled  as  he  said  it. 

Mrs.  Parrish  closed  her  eyes  con- 
tentedly. 

Beatrice  Hanscom. 


GEORGE  BORROW. 


IN  that  hour  of  precocious  senility 
which  marks  the  passing  of  boyhood, 
when  it  seemed  quite  clear  to  me  that 
everything  was  known  and  nothing  worth 
knowing,  I  had  the  luck  to  fall  into  the 
company  of  George  Borrow.  He  took 
me  in  hand  somewhat  brusquely,  and 
showed  me  how  to  break  a  way  through 
the  sophomoric  thickets  in  which  I  had 
got  myself  entangled.  I  had  about  de- 
cided against  immortality,  for  one  thing, 
and  this  seemed  to  leave  me  a  little  lan- 
guid, temporarily,  as  to  the  business  of 
the  present  world.  For  the  rest,  I  had 
been  growing  sickly  over  sundry  ques- 
tions of  current  literary  contrivance.  I 
wished  (as  much  as  it  was  convenient  to 
wish  anything)  to  write  like  Maupassant 
and  to  talk  like  Meredith  ;  I  should  not 
have  minded  producing  a  story  as  good 


as  Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles.  I  also  wrote 
sonnets,  after  Rossetti,  on  love  and  death, 
and  on  other  themes  of  which  I  was  as 
well  qualified  to  speak.  Doubtless,  con- 
tact with  any  hardy  nature  might  have 
set  me  right,  but  the  honor  happened  to 
fall  to  Borrow.  He  was  prompt  to  as- 
sure me,  in  his  blunt  way,  that  life  is  not 
a  quibble,  nor  literature  a  trick  ;  and  so 
made  a  Borrovian  of  me  for  good  and 
all. 

Borrovians  are  not  a  sect ;  I  believe 
there  is  no  society.  They  are  simply  the 
people  who  belong  to  Borrow.  No  bet- 
ter excuse  can  be  made  for  the  present 
estimate  than  the  one  which  was  offered 
nearly  ten  years  ago  by  an  English  critic  : 
"  I  think  that  he  should  be  written  about 
occasionally,  if  only  for  the  reason  that, 


George  Borrow. 


245 


his  name  being  so  seldom  heard,  there  is 
some  danger  of  the  right  people  going  to 
their  graves  without  encountering  him,  — 
a  mischance  that  cannot  be  contemplated 
easily  by  any  right-thinking  man."  It 
may  be  that  the  excuse  is  not  so  good  as 
it  was,  for  Borrow 's  work  has  been  sev- 
eral times  reprinted  since  then,  and  the 
little  company  of  his  friends  has  un- 
doubtedly grown.  Let  us  take  refuge  in 
the  fact  that  his  centenary  is  barely  past ; 
and  that  some  fresh  mention  of  him  in 
these  pages  is  therefore  only  a  little  over- 
due. 

If  Borrow  opens  a  new  world  to  the 
right  people,  it  is  not  a  world  into  which 
mere  wandering  led  him.  One  finds  little 
indication  of  his  genius  in  the  fact  of  those 
early  roving  experiences  of  his.  The 
newspapers  remind  us  daily  how  ordi- 
nary, as  recorded  fact,  extraordinary 
conduct  is.  In  his  own  time  Sorrow's 
exploits  were  barely  a  nine  days'  wonder; 
now  they  would  not  be  thought  worthy  of 
remark.  The  slum,  the  dive,  the  hell, 
the  joint,  are  among  the  popular  exhib- 
its of  our  Vanity  Fair,  and  it  is  easy  to 
get  a  respectable  guide.  Also,  we  have 
learned  to  fare  forth,  with  notebooks, 
along  the  trail  of  the  gypsy  or  the  hobo, 
and  to  make  a  show-place  of  his  most 
retired  habitat.  Borrow's  motive  differ- 
entiates him  from  us,  to  be  sure.  He  was 
not  a  reporter  or  a  student.  He  did  not 
look  forward  to  a  Ph.  D.  in  sociology,  or  to 
a  display  of  higher  journalism.  His  way- 
side studies  in  ethnology  and  philology 
were  even  less  serious  than  he  took  them 
to  be.  The  simple  truth  is  that  he  had 
an  instinct  for  vagabondage,  and  could 
not  keep  away  from  it.  It  was  a  part 
of  him,  and,  as  his  talent  was  primarily 
autobiographical,  it  went  far  toward  de- 
termining the  substance  of  his  work.  But 
it  is  the  world  in  Borrow  which  gives  en- 
chantment to  the  world  through  which  he 
moved.  If  there  are  no  new  facts  under 
the  sun,  there  is,  thank  Heaven,  no  dearth 
of  new  personalities  in  the  light  of  which 
the  old  facts  continue  to  serve  admirably. 


George  Borrow  was  born  in  July,  1803, 
of  decent  Cornish  stock.  His  father  was 
a  captain  of  militia,  a  sturdy,  simple- 
minded  Briton,  whose  pride  was  to  have 
been  for  one  glorious  day  the  conqueror 
of  Big  Ben,  champion  bruiser  of  all  Eng- 
land. ,  The  son  was  also  strong  of  frame 
and  able  with  his  fists,  but  there  was  no- 
thing else  about  him  for  the  father  to 
understand.  He  bore,  indeed,  many  of 
the  marks  of  the  ne'er-do-weel.  He  left 
undone  many  things  which,  from  the  pa- 
rental point  of  view,  he  ought  to  have 
done,  and  did  many  things  which  he 
ought  not  to  have  done.  He  neglected 
his  Greek  for  Irish,  he  neglected  law  for 
the  company  of  law-breakers,  and  he 
preferred  the  acquaintances  to  be  made 
in  an  inn  or  a  stable  to  those  which  a  re- 
spectable provincial  drawing-room  could 
afford.  Yet  there  was  much  health  in 
him.  He  went  his  own  way  not  through 
viciousness,  but  through  a  hardy  inde- 
pendence of  nature.  Unfortunately  the 
world  —  and  parents  —  have  to  make  a 
rule  of  discountenancing  irregularity  and 
insubordination,  because  these  are,  in  the 
ordinary  instance,  signs  of  moral  and 
mental  weakness.  So,  by  this  lamenta- 
ble chance,  it  comes  about  that  extraor- 
dinary exertions  of  force  often  look  quite 
like  the  commonest  laxities.  It  is  easy 
enough  to  see  now  that  Borrow  was  sim- 
ply going  about  his  business.  He  did  not 
himself  understand  what  that  business 
was,  and  had  even  a  quaint  sympathy 
with  the  paternal  disapproval.  For  whom 
shall  we  feel  the  greater  sympathy  as 
we  listen  to  the  last  interview  reported 
between  Lavengro  and  the  stout  cap- 
tain ?  — 

"  '  I  wish  to  ask  you  a  few  questions,' 
said  he  to  me  one  day,  after  my  mother 
had  left  the  room. 

"  '  I  will  answer  anything  you  may 
please  to  ask  me,  my  dear  father.' 

"  '  What  have  you  been  doing  lately  ? ' 

"  '  I  have  been  occupied,  as  usual,  at- 
tending at  the  office  at  the  appointed 
hours.' 


246 


George  Borrow. 


"  l  And  what  do  you  there  ?  ' 

"'Whatever  I  am  ordered.' 

" '  And  nothing  else  ?  ' 

"  '  Oh,  yes,  I  sometimes  read  a  book.' 

" '  Connected  with  your  profession  ? ' 

" '  Not  always ;  I  have  been  lately 
reading  Armenian.'  .  .  . 

"  '  What 's  that  ? ' 

" '  The  language  of  a  people  whose 
country  is  a  region  on  the  other  side  of 
Asia  Minor.' 

"  <  Well ! ' 

"  '  A  region  abounding  in  mountains.' 

"  «  Well ! ' 

"  '  Amongst  which  is  Mount  Arai-at.' 

"  '  Well !  ' 

" '  Upon  which,  as  the  Bible  informs 
us,  the  ark  rested.' 

"  «  Well ! ' 

" '  It  is  the  language  of  the  people  of 
those  regions.' 

"  '  So  you  told  me.' 

"  '  And  I  have  been  reading  the  Bible 
in  their  language.' 

"  '  Well !  .  .  .  And  what  does  it  all 
amount  to  ? ' 

"  '  Very  little,  father  ;  indeed,  there 
is  very  little  known  about  the  Armeni- 
ans ;  their  early  history,  in  particular,  is 
involved  in  considerable  mystery.' 

"  '  And  if  you  knew  all  that  it  is  possi- 
ble to  know  about  them,  to  what  would  it 
amount  ?  To  what  earthly  purpose  could 
you  turn  it  ?  Have  you  acquired  any 
knowledge  of  your  profession  ?  ' 

"  '  Very  little,  father.' 

"  '  Very  little  !  Have  you  acquired 
all  in  your  power  ?  ' 

"  '  I  can't  say  that  I  have,  father.'  " 

Upon  such  terms  they  soon  after 
parted. 

It  was  not  his  unconventionality  alone 
which  gave  the  family  of  young  Borrow 
cause  for  uneasiness.  He  was  subject 
to  fits  of  what  I  suppose  we  should  call 
acute  melancholia,  —  he  called  it  "  the 
Fear,"  or  "  the  Horrors,"  and  it  led  him 
more  than  once  to  the  brink  of  suicide. 
He  never  quite  outgrew  these  seizures,  but 
in  later  life  he  learned  to  control  them 


by  a  prompt  application  of  ale  or  port,  — 
a  remedy  which  he  recommends,  with  an 
air  of  discovery,  to  whomsoever  it  may 
concern. 

The  death  of  his  father  put  an  end  to 
Borrow'slaw  studies,  and  dispatched  him 
to  London,  the  forlorn  spot  in  which, 
with  the  customary  fatuity  of  English 
provincials,  he  fancied  that  a  fortune  lay 
waiting  for  him.  For  the  next  ten  years 
he  had  a  hard  struggle  to  keep  alive,  by 
dint  of  the  meanest  literary  hack-work. 
Beyond  the  compilation  of  records  of 
criminal  trials,  and  the  probably  mythi- 
cal Life  of  Joseph  Sell  of  which  Laven- 
gro  tells  us,  we  are  ignorant  as  to  what 
specific  tasks  may  have  occupied  him. 
It  is  clear  that  his  appointment  in  1833 
as  agent  of  the  British  and  Foreign  Bible 
Society  meant  a  rise  in  life.  Thereupon 
followed  the  adventures  in  Spain,  and, 
in  1840,  his  marriage  to  a  widow  of  com- 
fortable means.  This  brought  an  end  to 
his  struggles,  and  set  him  free  to  lead  for 
the  rest  of  his  years  (he  died  in  1881)  a 
quiet  and  independent  life  in  the  country. 
By  all  accounts  he  was  fonder  to  the  last 
of  his  gypsies  and  his  'ostlers  than,  as  he 
would  have  said  scornfully,  of  "  the  gen- 
teel persons  "  of  his  vicinity. 

Wild  Wales  is  the  only  record  of  these 
later  years,  and  the  journey,  made  with 
the  impedimenta  of  a  wife  and  a  step- 
daughter, could  not  be  expected  to  yield 
the  most  romantic  episodes.  It  is  by  a 
lucky  chance  that  we  are  not  given  the 
bill  of  fare  at  quite  every  meal.  Yet 
the  vintage,  if  milder,  has  the  right  bou- 
quet, and  the  faithful  Borrovian  would 
sacrifice  hardly  a  drop  of  it.  Here,  for 
example,  is  a  little  vignette  (wife  and 
stepdaughter  being,  it  happens,  some 
miles  in  the  background)  :  — 

"The  inn  at  Cerrig  y  Drudion  was 
called  the  Lion,  whether  the  white,  black, 
red  or  green  lion  I  do  not  know,  though 
I  am  certain  that  it  was  a  lion  of  some 
colour  or  other.  It  seemed  as  decent 
and  respectable  a  hostelry  as  any  travel- 
ler could  wish,  to  refresh  and  compose 


George  Borrow. 


247 


himself  in,  after  a  walk  of  twenty  miles. 
I  entered  a  well-lighted  passage,  and 
from  thence  a  well-lighted  bar-room,  on 
the  right  hand,  in  which  sat  a  stout, 
comely,  elderly  lady  dressed  in  silks  and 
satins,  with  a  cambric  coif  on  her  head, 
in  company  with  a  thin,  elderly  man  with 
a  hat  on  his  head,  dressed  in  a  rather 
prim  and  precise  manner.  '  Madam,' 
said  I,  bowing  to  the  lady,  '  as  I  sup- 
pose you  are  the  mistress  of  this  estab- 
lishment, I  beg  leave  to  inform  you  that 
I  am  an  Englishman  walking  through 
these  regions  in  order  fully  to  enjoy  their 
beauties  and  wonders.  I  have  this  day 
come  from  Llangollen,  and  being  some- 
what hungry  and  fatigued,  hope  I  can  be 
accommodated  here  with  a  dinner  and 
a  bed.' 

" '  Sir,'  said  the  lady,  getting  up  and 
making  me  a  profound  curtsey,  '  I  am 
as  you  suppose  the  mistress  of  this  estab- 
lishment, and  am  happy  to  say  that  I 
shall  be  able  to  accommodate  you  — 
pray  sit  down,  sir,'  she  continued,  hand- 
ing me  a  chair.  '  You  must  indeed  be 
tired,  for  Llaugollen  is  a  great  way  from 
here.' " 

All  of  the  writing  which  brought  Bor- 
row fame  was  done  after  his  marriage. 
The  Zincali  (1841)  lacked  the  vigor  and 
discursiveness  of  the  later  books,  but 
its  theme  was  fresh,  and  its  style  had  an 
odd  tang  of  its  own  which  caught  not 
a  few  ears  in  Europe  and  elsewhere. 
The  author  was  advised  of  his  faults, 
and  urged  to  do  something  better  ;  and 
the  something  better  which  resulted  was 
The  Bible  in  Spain.  A  remarkable  pas- 
sage in  one  of  his  prefaces  describes  his 
manner  of  composing  the  book  ;  it  is  in 
Sorrow's  characteristic  style  :  — 

"  Mistos  amande  :  /  am  content,  I  re- 
plied, and  sitting  down  I  commenced 
The  Bible  in  Spain.  At  first  I  pro- 
ceeded slowly,  —  sickness  was  in  the 
land,  and  the  face  of  nature  was  over- 
cast, —  heavy  rain-clouds  swam  in  the 
heavens,  —  the  blast  howled  in  the  pines 


which  nearly  surround  my  lonely  dwell- 
ing, and  the  waters  of  the  lake  which 
lies  before  it,  so  quiet  in  general  and 
tranquil,  were  fearfully  agitated.  '  Bring 
lights  hither,  O  Hazim  Ben  Attar,  son 
of  the  miracle  ! '  And  the  Jew  of  Fez 
brought  in  the  lights,  for  though  it  was 
midday  I  could  scarcely  see  in  the  little 
room  where  I  was  writing.  ...  A  dreary 
summer  and  autumn  passed  by  and  were 
succeeded  by  as  gloomy  a  winter.  I  still 
proceeded  with  the  Bible  in  Spain.  The 
winter  passed,  and  spring  came  with 
cold  dry  winds  and  occasional  sunshine, 
whereupon  I  arose,  shouted,  and  mount- 
ing my  horse,  even  Sidi  Habismilk,  I 
scoured  all  the  surrounding  district, 
and  thought  but  little  of  the  Bible  in 
Spain.  .  .  . 

"  Then  came  the  summer  with  much 
heat  and  sunshine,  and  then  I  would  lie 
for  hours  in  the  sun  and  recall  the  sunny 
days  I  had  spent  in  Andalusia,  and  my 
thoughts  were  continually  reverting  to 
Spain,  and  at  last  I  remembered  that 
the  Bible  in  Spain  was  still  unfinished; 
whereupon  I  arose  and  said,  This  loiter- 
ing profiteth  nothing,  —  and  I  hastened 
to  my  summer-house  by  the  side  of  the 
lake,  and  there  I  thought  and  wrote,  and 
every  day  I  repaired  to  the  same  place, 
and  thought  and  wrote  until  I  had  fin- 
ished the  Bible  in  Spain." 

This  is  highly  imaginative  writing, 
though  Borrow  probably  was  conscious 
of  giving  nothing  more  than  a  simple 
autobiographical  item.  There  is  an  odd 
reminder  of  Poe  in  it ;  the  opening  lines 
might  almost  be  taken  from  The  Fall  of 
the  House  of  Usher,  —  or  is  it  "  the  dank 
tarn  of  Auber  "  of  which  this  ominously 
agitated  English  lake  reminds  one? 

The  Bible  in  Spain  was  taken  seriously 
by  the  English  reviews.  Borrow  found 
himself  compared  to  Le  Sage,  Bunyan, 
and  Cervantes ;  the  critic  who  pleased 
him  most  was  the  one  who  called  the 
book  "  a  Gil  Bias  in  water  colours." 
As  a  mere  narrative  of  travels  it  would 
have  gained  a  wider  hearing  than  such 


248 


George  Borrow. 


books  can  now  hope  for.  It  appeared 
during  a  dark  age  of  English  and 
American  intelligence  with  regard  to 
foreign  lands  and  peoples.  If  we  still 
manage  to  be  reasonably  ignorant  of  such 
matters,  it  is  not  because  we  have  lacked 
the  chance  to  learn.  Just  then  even  the 
European  world  lay  dark  to  our  eyes, 
and  we  were  only  beginning  to  ask  for 
light.  Americans  were  eager  for  the 
chance  rays  of  Irving,  and  Englishmen 
were  ready  to  look  upon  the  unaccus- 
tomed scenes  which  Borrow  brought  be- 
fore them. 

This  collocation  of  names  suggests  an 
odd  contrast.  The  Tales  of  the  Alham- 
bra  were  published  in  1832,  and  The 
Bible  in  Spain  ten  years  later.  Irving  and 
Borrow  must  have  been  in  Spain  at  near- 
ly the  same  time ;  both  were  there  pri- 
marily on  other  than  literary  business ; 
both  presently  turned  their  experiences  to 
literary  account.  Here  the  resemblance 
ends.  Irving  was  the  senior  by  twenty 
years,  a  writer  of  established  reputation, 
a  man  of  elegant  tastes.  He  was  loyal 
to  the  theory  of  democracy,  but  breathed 
comfortably  only  in  the  air  of  what 
Borrow  called  "  gentility."  He  had  a 
quick  eye  for  the  picturesque  and  the 
romantic,  and  a  discreet  blindness  for  the 
squalid  and  the  obscene.  He  found  in 
Spain  a  mighty  treasure  of  romance,  a 
tradition  of  past  greatness,  striking  rel- 
ics of  the  Moorish  occupancy,  a  national 
temperament  still  full  of  grace  and  color. 
So  he  wrote  The  Tales  of  the  Alham- 
bra. 

Borrow  was  an  unknown  hack-writer, 
a  man  of  singular  life  and  violent  opin- 
ion, by  instinct  a  democrat,  and  by  prac- 
tice a  vagabond.  Spain  was  not  a  land 
of  romantic  glamour  to  him.  It  was  a 
land  of  gross  ignorance  and  superstition, 
of  duplicity,  of  kind  hearts,  of  pleasantly 
various  dialects,  of  engrossing  wayside 
encounters.  These  are  the  materials 
from  which  the  fabric  of  The  Bible  in 
Spain  is  wrought.  How  much  weight  the 
element  of  information  had  with  Bor- 


row's  audience  is  shown  by  the  remark 
of  a  contributor  to  Chambers's  Cyclo- 
paedia of  English  Literature  after  the  ap- 
pearance of  Lavengro  and  The  Romany 
Rye  :  "  These  works  are  inferior  in  in- 
terest to  his  former  publications,  but  are 
still  remarkable  books."  The  public  was 
not  prompt  in  recognizing  the  pure  genius 
of  this  English  colporteur  and  student  of 
gypsies. 

That  genius  found,  of  course,  its  best 
expression  in  Lavengro  and  its  sequel, 
which  together  form  one  of  the  strangest 
narratives  the  world  has  known.  I  do 
not  mean  that  it  seems  to  me  queer ;  the 
strange  thing  about  it  is  its  spontaneity. 
Nobody  can  feel  that  Borrow  had  to 
choose  between  modes  of  expression  ;  it 
was  discursive  autobiography  or  nothing 
for  him.  Nor  does  there  seem  to  have 
been  possible  question  as  to  the  period 
which  he  should  record.  At  the  end 
of  The  Romany  Rye  he  has  reached  his 
twenty-fourth  year.  Of  the  next  seven 
years  he  never  gave  any  account,  allud- 
ing to  it  as  "  the  veiled  period."  One 
or  two  intimations  he  let  fall  as  to  ex- 
tensive traveling,  which  must  have  been 
done,  if  at  all,  during  this  interval.  His 
editor  and  biographer  (Professor  Knapp, 
an  American)  thinks  this  time  was  spent 
at  dreary  hack-work  which  he  wished  to 
forget  and  to  have  forgotten.  However 
this  may  be,  there  is  no  doubt  that  the 
Lavengro  narrative  gives  a  full  and  fairly 
accurate  account  of  the  first  twenty-three 
years  of  the  author's  life.  During  his 
later  years,  Borrow  chose  to  assert,  and  to 
reassert,  with  a  good  deal  of  heat,  that 
the  narrative  "  was  not  what  is  general- 
ly termed  an  autobiography."  Why  he 
made  so  sweeping  an  assertion  nobody 
knows.  The  researches  of  his  biographer 
have  shown  that  in  its  original  manu- 
script form  the  narrative  was  frankly 
personal,  and  that  the  changes  which  he 
afterwards  made  to  give  it  an  impersonal 
turn  were  as  slight  as  they  could  well  be. 
That  his  characters  were  all  drawn  from 
the  life,  moreover,  is  a  fact  which  has 


George  Borrow. 


249 


been  placed  beyond  doubt.  What  Bor- 
row did,  saw,  felt,  and  was :  these  are  the 
themes  which  give  his  work  value. 

This  he  never  fully  understood,  or  we 
should  have  been  spared  not  only  the 
unhappy  Appendix  of  which  I  shall  have 
to  speak,  but  a  good  deal  of  material 
which  obstructs  the  free  course  of  his 
narrative.  It  is  irritating  that  the  Man 
in  Black  should  be  allowed  to  intrude 
upon  so  many  of  the  precious  moments 
which  we  have  to  spend  in  Mumper's 
Dingle  with  Lavengro  and  the  glorious 
Isopel.  It  is  well  enough  to  be  invited 
to  hate  the  Pope  of  Rome,  but  there  are 
moments  when  we  should  prefer  simply 
to  ignore  him.  Borrow  prided  himself 
on  being  a  champion  of  Protestantism, 
a  scholar,  a  philosopher.  He  was  none  of 
these,  but  a  writer  of  unique  genius  ;  and 
upon  this  fact,  if  he  suspected  it,  he 
prided  himself  not  at  all.  Consequently, 
when  his  book  is  attacked,  he  sets  him- 
self to  defend  it  as  a  work  in  theology, 
or  philology,  or  morals.  "  Those  who  read 
this  book  with  attention  .  .  .  may  derive 
much  information  with  respect  to  matters 
of  philology  and  literature ;  it  will  be 
found  treating  of  most  of  the  principal 
languages  from  Ireland  to  China,  and  of 
the  literature  which  they  contain ;  and 
it  is  particulai'ly  minute  with  regard  to 
the  ways,  manners,  and  speech  of  the 
English  section  of  the  most  extraordinary 
and  mysterious  clan  or  tribe  of  people  to 
be  found  in  the  whole  world,  —  the  chil- 
dren of  Roma.  But  it  contains  matters 
of  much  more  importance  than  anything 
connected  with  philology,  and  the  litera- 
tures and  manners  of  nations.  Perhaps 
no  work  was  ever  offered  to  the  public 
in  which  the  kindness  and  Providence  of 
God  have  been  set  forth  by  more  striking 
examples,  or  the  machinations  of  priest- 
craft been  more  truly  and  lucidly  ex- 
posed, or  the  dangers  which  result  to  a 
nation  that  abandons  itself  to  effeminacy, 
and  a  rage  for  what  is  novel  and  fashion- 
able, than  the  present." 

So  Borrow  looks  upon  his  masterpiece 


when  it  is  done.  Was  there  ever  a  more 
extraordinary  begging  of  the  question  ? 
Of  the  voluminous  commentary  upon 
himself  and  his  critics,  from  which  I  have 
just  quoted  (there  are  eleven  chapters 
of  it  printed  as  an  Appendix  to  The 
Romany  Rye),  one  need  only  say  that 
it  shows  him  at  his  worst.  His  creative 
work  was  spontaneous  and  sound  ;  but 
he  was  neither  graceful  nor  convincing 
as  a  controversialist.  There  is  open  ran- 
cor with  unstinted  Billingsgate  in  this 
extraordinary  effusion :  an  indiscrimi- 
nate damning  of  gentility,  Popery,  Tory- 
ism, Whiggery,  teetotalism,  Jacobitistn, 
Wellington  -  worship,  and,  in  general, 
"the  thousand  and  one  cants  and  species 
of  nonsense  prevalent  in  England."  It 
is  not  pretty  to  read  or  comfortable  to 
remember.  The  truth  is,  Borrow  never 
knew  what  was  important  in  his  own 
work ;  and  when  it  was  received  with 
acrimony,  on  minor  counts,  among  vari- 
ous classes  of  sticklers  for  the  conven- 
tional, he  was  indiscreet  enough  to  retort 
in  kind.  He  had  plenty  of  bees  in  his 
bonnet ;  it  is  lucky  that  they  did  not 
make  greater  havoc. 

As  a  work  of  pure  literature,  Lavengro 
and  its  sequel  needed  no  defense ;  they 
constitute  a  sort  of  English  Odyssey  of 
the  Road.  The  hero  has  the  Odyssean 
craft  and  power  of  arm,  and  a  wholly 
English  integrity  ;  he  goes  his  way  as  the 
wind  blows,  without  fear  or  favor.  What 
talk,  what  ale,  what  scenes,  what  blows  ! 
And  what  amazing  figures :  the  Flam- 
ing Tinman,  Mrs.  Hearne,  who  "  comes 
of  the  hairy  ones,"  Mr.  Petulengro  the 
inconsequential,  the  postilion,  Francis 
Ardry,  the  apple-woman,  —  there  is  no 
end  to  them,  unless  (and  she  ought  to  be 
the  beginning)  we  make  an  end  with  the 
name  of  the  great  Isopel  Berners.  Her 
real  name  was  Bess,  late  authorities  say  ; 
I  shall  continue  to  love  her  as  Isopel.  I 
can  forgive  Lavengro  anything  else,  even 
his  Armenian  verbs,  but  never  his  clumsi- 
ness in  losing  that  magnificent  young  per- 


250 


George,  Borrow. 


son.  Nor  can  I  help  thinking  that  last 
glimpse  of  her  one  of  the  most  moving 
scenes  in  literature,  though  there  is  not 
much  in  the  words,  after  all :  "  On  ar- 
riving at  the  extremity  of  the  plain,  I 
looked  towards  the  dingle.  Isopel  Ber- 
ners  stood  at  the  mouth,  the  beams  of  the 
early  morning  sun  shone  full  on  her 
noble  face  and  figure.  I  waved  my  hand 
towards  her.  She  slowly  lifted  up  her 
right  arm.  I  turned  away,  and  never 
saw  Isopel  Berners  again." 

In  truth,  this  is  not  "  what  is  generally 
termed  autobiography."  Each  incident 
and  character  seems  to  have  had  a  coun- 
terpart in  Borrow's  actual  experience,  but 
stands  transfigured  in  his  narrative.  He 
was  not,  I  have  said,  a  reporter.  He  was 
a  creative  artist  who  worked  with  the 
chance  materials  which  experience  of- 
fered. It  is  well  enough  to  rank  him  with 
Cervantes,  Le  Sage,  and  Bunyan ;  he 
has  also  been  compared  to  Hawthorne, 
Sterne,  and  Defoe  ;  and  I  have  just  been 
guilty  of  finding  something  of  Foe  in  him. 
The  truth  is,  one  might  go  on  with  this 
kind  of  rating  until  one  had  complet- 
ed the  list  of  prose  geniuses  who  have 
expressed  themselves  somewhat  irregu- 
larly and  discursively.  So  far,  I  be- 
lieve, nobody  has  happened  to  name 
Rousseau  or  De  Quincey  in  this  connec- 
tion. If  it  were  profitable  to  make  any 
detailed  comparison,  it  would  be  with 
Defoe,  the  writer  who  first  aroused  Bor- 
row from  his  childish  lethargy,  the  only 
master  whom  he  acknowledged :  "  Hail  to 
thee,  spirit  of  Defoe  !  What  does  not  my 
own  poor  self  owe  to  thee  ?  England  has 
better  bards  than  either  Greece  or  Rome, 
yet  I  could  spare  them  easier  far  than 
Defoe,  '  unabashed  Defoe,'  as  the  hunch- 
backed rhymer  styled  him." 

Borrow  stood  as  square  upon  his  own 
feet  as  any  one  who  ever  wrote,  and  this 
has  irritated  the  academic  mind.  He 
has  yet  to  make  his  way,  after  Defoe, 
into  the  manuals  of  literary  history. 
There  are,  as  we  have  seen,  confused  ele- 
ments in  his  work.  When  one  cannot 


tell  whether  a  writer  is  trying  to  express 
opinions,  to  communicate  facts,  or  to  in- 
terpret life,  it  is  hard  to  make  up  one's 
mind  as  to  what  he  has  actually  done. 
With  Borrow  the  chief  intention  seems 
to  have  been  to  edify,  the  chief  impulse, 
to  interpret.  His  work  seems  too  often 
to  spring  from  the  unamiable  wedlock 
of  these  two  motives. 

In  The  Zincali,  after  speaking  of  the 
skill  of  the  English  gypsies  as  jockeys, 
he  says  impressively,  "They  are  also 
fond  of  resorting  to  the  prize  ring,  and 
have  occasionally  even  attained  some  emi- 
nence in  those  disgraceful,  and  brutal- 
izing exhibitions  called  pugilistic  com- 
bats." Now  the  Borrows,  father  and 
son,  were,  as  we  have  noted,  skilled  in 
the  manly  art,  and  not  a  few  passages 
in  Lavengro  owe  their  charm  to  the  gusto 
with  which  the  artist  and  Briton  de- 
scribes a  hearty  bout  with  the  natural 
weapon.  What  should  we  do  without  the 
battle  between  Jerry  Grant  and  Bagg  ?  — 
"Bagg  says  that  he  was  quite  satisfied 
with  the  blow,  more  especially  when  he 
saw  the  fellow  reel,  fling  out  his  arms, 
and  fall  to  the  ground."  —  Or  the  mill 
with  the  Flaming  Tinman,  Belle  second- 
ing, and  coaching  Lavengro  to  the  final 
triumphant  application  of  "  Long  Mel- 
ford  "  ?  —  Or  the  salutary  lesson  given  to 
a  bully  by  the  elderly  disciple  of  Brough- 
ton? 

Nor  is  Lavengro  always  a  reluctant 
spectator  at  "  those  brutalizing  exhibi- 
tions." He  has,  indeed,  hardly  a  more 
memorable  passage  than  that  noble  apos- 
trophe of  the  bruisers  of  England  :  "  Let 
no  one  sneer  at  the  bruisers  of  England 
—  what  were  the  gladiators  of  Rome, 
or  the  bull-fighters  of  Spain,  in  its  palm- 
iest days,  compared  to  England's  bruis- 
ers ?  Pity  that  ever  corruption  should 
have  crept  in  amongst  them  —  but  of 
that  I  wish  not  to  talk ;  let  us  still 
hope  that  a  spark  of  the  old  religion,  of 
which  we  were  the  priests,  still  lingers 
in  the  breasts  of  Englishmen.  There 
they  come,  the  bruisers  from  far  London, 


George  Borrow. 


251 


or  from  wherever  they  might  chance  to 
be  at  the  time,  to  the  great  rendezvous 
in  the  old  city.  .  .  .  Hail  to  thee,  Tom 
of  Bedford.  .  .  .  Hail  to  thee,  six-foot 
Englishman  of  the  brown  eye,  worthy 
to  have  carried  a  six-foot  bow  at  Flod- 
den,  where  England's  yeoman  triumphed 
over  Scotland's  King,  his  clans  and  chiv- 
alry. Hail  to  thee,  last  of  England's 
bruisers,  after  all  the  many  victories 
which  thou  hast  achieved  —  true  English 
victories,  unbought  by  yellow  gold."  A 
true  Briton  this  !  we  exclaim.  With  all 
his  fondness  for  drifting  among  alien 
peoples  and  tongues,  he  retained  the 
ground-anchor  of  his  insular  bias ;  if 
England  was,  to  his  mind,  full  of  cant 
and  nonsense,  his  heart  held  that  it  was 
the  best  of  all  lands,  containing  the  best 
bruisers,  the  best  poets,  the  best  aristo- 
cracy, and  the  best  ale  in  the  world. 

He  was,  by  his  own  account,  of  a  mo- 
rose and  unsocial  nature,  but  we  find  that 
he  has  no  trouble  ii.  making  friends 
everywhere,  in  spite  of  his  blunt  manner. 
He  understood  the  people  he  met,  in- 
stinctively ;  and  not  only  as  individuals. 
His  portraits  of  them  are  without  ex- 
aggeration, leisurely,  unquestioning,  real- 
istic in  the  best  sense.  His  humor  is 
saturnine.  He  makes  no  broad  appeal 
to  the  sensibilities,  never  seduces  us  into 
whimpering,  nor  cajoles  us  into  hearty 
laughter.  His  immobility  often  suggests 
apathy,  but  it  really  expresses  his  re- 
luctance to  meddle,  —  or,  perhaps,  rather 
his  extreme  independence.  Lavengro  is 
not  going  to  be  bothered  with  opportuni- 
ties, either  for  action  or  for  speech.  He 
reserves  the  right  to  ignore  any  advances 
which  Providence  may  make. 

One  of  my  favorites  among  the  minor 
figures  is  that  of  the  old  'ostler.  Borrow 
might  easily  have  made  it  more  popular- 
ly effective  by  a  little  coarser  method. 
He  prefers  to  let  the  old  boy  speak  for 
himself :  as  he  does,  at  some  length. 
His  directions  to  Lavengro  for  making 
a  journey  on  horseback,  in  case  he  should 


ever  be  a  gentleman,  and  own  a  horse, 
and  wish  to  take  such  a  journey,  would 
fill  some  five  or  six  pages  of  the  Atlan- 
tic. The  tune  goes  like,  this  :  — 

"  Before  you  start,  merely  give  your 
horse  a  couple  of  handfuls  of  corn  and 
a  little  water,  somewhat  under  a  quart, 
and  if  you  drink  a  pint  of  water  your- 
self out  of  the  pail,  you  will  feel  all  the 
better  during  the  whole  day ;  then  you 
may  walk  and  trot  your  animal  for  about 
ten  miles,  till  you  come  to  some  nice  inn, 
where  you  may  get  down  and  see  your 
horse  led  into  a  nice  stall,  telling  the 
'ostler  not  to  feed  him  till  you  come.  If 
the  'ostler  happens  to  be  a  dog-fancier, 
and  has  an  English  terrier-dog  like  that 
of  mine  there,  say  what  a  nice  dog  it  is, 
and  praise  its  black  and  tawn  ;  and  if  he 
does  not  happen  to  be  a  dog-fancier,  ask 
him  how  he  's  getting  on,  and  whether 
he  ever  knew  worse  times  ;  that  kind  of 
thing  will  please  the  'ostler,  and  he  will 
let  you  do  just  what  you  please  with  your 
own  horse,  and  when  your  back  is  turned, 
he'll  say  to  his  comrades  what  a  nice 
gentleman  you  are,  and  how  he  thinks  he 
has  seen  you  before ;  then  go  and  sit 
down  to  breakfast,  and  before  you  have 
finished  your  breakfast  get  up  and  go 
and  give  your  horse  a  feed  of  corn.  .  .  . 
When  you  have  finished  your  breakfast 
and  called  for  the  newspaper,  go  and 
water  your  horse,  letting  him  have  one 
pailful,  then  give  him  .another  feed  of 
corn,  and  enter  into  discourse  with  the 
'ostler  about  bull-baiting,  the  prime  min- 
ister, and  the  like." 

One  can  imagine  the  gravity  with 
which  Borrow  may  have  listened  to  this 
monologue,  and  the  grim  smile  with 
which  he  may  have  set  it  down. 

There  is,  in  the  end,  no  accounting  for 
the  excellence  of  Sorrow's  work  except 
on  the  score  of  pure  genius.  A  merely 
remarkable  talent  could  hardly  have  been 
developed  by  his  experience.  He  knew 
too  much,  for  one  thing.  An  acquain- 
tance with  thirty-odd  tongues  and  dia- 
lects, and  some  sort  of  contact  with  as 


252 


George  Borrow. 


many  literatures,  does  not  conduce  to  ori- 
ginal work.  On  narrower  grounds,  a  ro- 
ver and  a  linguist  is  not  likely  to  be  master 
of  one  tongue  ;  yet  Borrow  is  both  a  mas- 
ter of  English  and  a  creator  of  literature. 
His  style,  in  the  small  sense,  is  not  without 
relation  to  the  established  literary  man- 
ner of  the  day.  It  was  a  statelier  man- 
ner than  ours  ;  it  was  not  afraid  of  being 
even  eloquent.  Apostrophe  was  one  of 
its  most  effective  forms,  and  no  modern 
English  writer,  unless  De  Quincey,  has 
made  such  effective  use  of  it  as  Borrow. 
As  a  mode  of  condensed  retrospective 
description,  what  have  we  to  take  its 
place  in  the  shamefaced  English  of  our 
day  ?  Borrow  evidently  rejoiced  in  it  as 
an  escape-valve  for  the  emotion  which 
his  instinct  led  him  to  repress  under  or- 
dinary circumstances. 

How  shall  I  make  an  end  without  quot- 
ing, for  the  benefit  of  those  hypothetical- 
ly  ignorant  "  right  people,"  this  and  that 
cherished  passage  of  description  or  dia- 
logue from  the  well-thumbed  volumes  ? 
Yet  how,  if  the  brake  were  once  let 
go,  should  I  make  an  end  at  all  ?  With 
one  simple  little  scene  I  must  be  con- 
tent :  — 

"  '  Young  gentleman,'  said  the  huge 
fat  landlord,  '  you  are  come  at  the  right 
time ;  dinner  will  be  taken  up  in  a  few 
minutes,  and  such  a  dinner,'  he  con- 
tinued, rubbing  his  hands,  '  as  you  will 
not  see  every  day  in  these  times.' 

" '  I  am  hot  and  dusty,'  said  I,  '  and 
should  wish  to  cool  my  hands  and  face.' 

"  '  Jenny  !  '  said  the  huge  landlord, 
with  the  utmost  gravity,  '  show  the  gentle- 
man into  number  seven,  that  he  may 
wash  his  hands  and  face.' 

"  'By  no  means,'  said  I,  '  I  am  a  per- 
son of  primitive  habits,  and  there  is  no- 
thing like  the  pump  in  weather  like  this.' 

"  '  Jenny,'  said  the  landlord,  with  the 
same  gravity  as  before,  '  go  with  the 
young  gentleman  to  the  pump  in  the  back 
kitchen,  and  take  a  towel  along  with 
you.' 

"Thereupon  the  rosy-faced,  clean-look- 


ing damsel  went  to  a  drawer,  and  produ- 
cing a  large,  thick,  but  snowy  white  towel, 
she  nodded  to  me  to  follow  her ;  where- 
upon I  followed  Jenny  through  a  long 
passage  into  the  back  kitchen. 

"  And  at  the  end  of  the  back  kitchen 
there  stood  a  pump ;  and  going  to  it  I 
placed  my  hands  beneath  the  spout,  and 
said,  '  Pump,  Jenny ; '  and  Jenny  incon- 
tinently, without  laying  down  the  towel, 
pumped  with  one  hand,  and  I  washed  and 
cooled  my  heated  hands. 

"And  when  my  hands  were  washed 
and  cooled,  I  took  off  my  neckcloth,  and, 
unbuttoning  my  shirt  collar,  I  placed  my 
head  beneath  the  spout  of  the  pump,  and 
I  said  unto  Jenny, '  Now,  Jenny,  lay  down 
the  towel,  and  pump  for  your  life.' 

"  Thereupon  Jenny,  placing  the  towel 
on  a  linen-horse,  took  the  handle  of  the 
pump  with  both  hands  and  pumped  over 
my  head  as  handmaid  had  never  pumped 
before ;  so  that  the  water  poured  in  tor- 
rents from  my  head,  my  face,  and  my 
hair,  down  upon  the  brick  floor. 

"And,  after  the  lapse  of  somewhat 
more  than  a  minute,  I  called  out  with  a 
half-strangled  voice,  '  Hold,  Jenny ! '  and 
Jenny  desisted.  I  stood  for  a  few  mo- 
ments to  recover  my  breath,  then  taking 
the  towel  which  Jenny  proffered,  I  dried 
composedly  my  hands  and  head,  my  face 
and  hair ;  then,  returning  the  towel  to 
Jenny,  I  gave  a  deep  sigh  and  said, 
'  Surely  this  is  one  of  the  pleasant  mo- 
ments of  life.' " 

Borrow  has  more  intense  moods  than 
this,  as  well  as  more  trivial  ones ;  but  this 
will  do  to  rest  upon.  It  is  the  mood  for 
which,  after  all,  one  is  likely  to  return 
oftenest  to  the  tale  of  the  word  -  mas- 
ter. Manly  health  and  courage,  womanly 
bloom  and  strength,  the  delight  of  clear 
airs,  pure  waters,  hearty  fare,  and  honest 
buffets,  —  these  are  what  Borrow  has  to 
offer.  The  haunt  of  his  Muse  is,  it  may 
be,  the  pump  in  the  back  kitchen ;  no  mat- 
ter :  not  the  Bandusian  rill,  not  smooth- 
sliding  Mincius,  not  the  very  sisters  of 


Cicero  in  Maine. 


253 


Jove's  sacred  well  can  put  her  to  shame. 
"Surely,"  says  the  right  person,  as,  La- 
vengro  in  hand,  he  settles  comfortably 
into  his  evening  niche  (there  is  a  pile  of 
new  fiction  at  his  elbow  which  ought  to 


be  looked  over,  the  children  have  quieted 
down,  the  fire  is  in  good  condition,  the 
cat  has  stopped  fidgeting,  and  the  pipe 
draws)  :  "  Surely,  this  is  one  of  the  plea- 
sant moments  of  life." 

H.  W.  Boynton. 


CICERO  IN  MAINE. 


WHEN  I  was  a  girl  attending  the  high 
school,  —  a  when  that  opens  the  gate- 
way into  a  magic  land  of  youth,  —  we 
were  fortunate  enough  to  have  a  teach- 
er who  was,  as  I  heard  a  college  youth 
phrase  it  the  other  day,  "  dead  stuck  on 
Latin."  It  was  not  simply  that  this 
gifted  man  had  a  passion  for  Latin  lit- 
erature, but  he  was,  or  seemed  so  to  our 
youthful  imaginations,  besotted  with  the 
grammar  of  the  language.  No  degree 
of  proficiency  or  distinction  to  which  we 
could  attain  in  the  matter  of  fluent  trans- 
lations was  ever  allowed  to  excuse  us 
from  the  daily  collection  of  gems  of 
knowledge  from  Andrews's  and  Stod- 
dard's  Latin  Grammar. 

The  class  of  which  I  was  a  member 
was  a  small  but  unique  aggregation. 
Our  teacher  had  high  hopes  of  classical 
triumphs  for  us  because,  though  our  in- 
tellectual gifts  might  not  be  of  surpass- 
ing lustre,  our  critical  faculties  were  ab- 
normally developed.  The  heroic  degree 
of  discipline  which  enabled  the  immortal 
Light  Brigade  to  feel  that  it  was 
"  Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why," 

would  have  found  no  favor  in  our  ranks. 
The  most  uncouth  lad  in  the  class,  the 
least  hopeful  of  success  in  polite  literary 
attainments,  was  the  very  one,  it  seems 
to  me  now,  who  oftenest  voiced  our  unit- 
ed conclusions  most  clearly. 

"  If  we  ain't  to  ask  questions,  and  ain't 
to  say  what  we  think,  what  are  we  goin' 
to  do  ?  "  he  queried  ;  and  one  and  all  felt 
that  to  such  a  question  there  could  be 


but  one  reply  :  we  were  to  ask  questions, 
we  were  to  say  what  we  thought,  —  for 
what  else  were  we  in  school  ? 

To  this  method  of  pursuing  our  re- 
searches our  teacher  had  no  objection 
provided  we  kept  within  reasonable 
bounds,  and  he  had  his  own  way  of  set- 
ting the  limits. 

"  Ain't  we  ever  goin'  to  git  through 
studyin'  grammar  ?  "  inquired  the  afore- 
mentioned awkward  lad,  after  months 
of  hope  deferred. 

"  If  Mr.  Brown  thinks  he  has  learned 
all  the  grammar  has  to  impart,  perhaps 
he  will  kindly  give  us  a  little  informa- 
tion about  its  contents,"  the  teacher  sug- 
gested blandly  ;  and  then  followed  a  ter- 
rible ten  minutes  for  Mr.  Brown,  during 
which  every  vestige  of  his  fancied  fa- 
miliarity with  Andrews  and  Stoddard 
fled  from  his  grasp. 

The  victim  sat  down  at  last  baffled, 
perspiring,  but  by  no  means  entirely  van- 
quished ;  no  sooner  was  he  seated  than 
his  hand  began  to  wave  frantically  aloft, 
signaling  the  fact  that  he  had  yet  a  Par- 
thian arrow  to  dispatch. 
"Obstupui,  steteruntque  comae,  et  vox  fauci- 
bus  haesit," 

he  quoted  in  a  quavering  voice  from 
yesterday's  lesson,  while  we  looked  at 
him  open-mouthed  at  such  erudition. 
"  When  I  'm  all  badgered  up  so,  I  know 
a  good  deal  more  'n  I  'pear  to  be  able  to 
tell." 

"It  would  seem  so,  Mr.  Brown,  it 
would  seem  so,"  the  teacher  assented 
with  a  darkling  glance  which  warned  the 


254 


Cicero  in  Maine, 


rest  of  us  of  sorrow  to  come,  "  and  there- 
in you  differ  from  some  of  your  class- 
mates who  are  often  able  to  tell  more 
than  they  can  know." 

It  was  owing  to  this  lively,  though 
shallow,  intelligence  of  ours,  and  the 
facility  with  which  we  engrafted  pagan 
Rome  on  Puritan  New  England,  that  our 
instructor  was  encouraged  to  jump  us 
from  Caesar  to  Virgil  with  no  interven- 
ing stages.  To  him,  as  to  Mr.  Cooper, 
the  commentator  whose  notes  assisted  our 
studies,  the  reading  of  Virgil  was  a  joy 
of  which  one  could  not  partake  too  soon 
or  too  copiously.  He  expected  us  to  be- 
come rapturously  interested  in  the  pro- 
gress of  the  story,  to  enjoy  with  him  the 
favorite  passages  which  he  rolled  out  so- 
norously for  our  benefit ;  mouth-filling 
lines  like 

"Exoritur    clamorque    virum  clangorque   tu- 
barum," 

or  the  softer  modulations  of 

"Sunt  lachrymae  reruin  et  mentem   mortal ia 
tangunt." 

Alas,  how  grievously  we  disappointed 
the  good  man's  hopes !  Virgil's  poetic 
genius  appealed  to  us  little  more  than 
Milton's  Paradise  Lost  would  appeal  to 
a  primer  class  suddenly  plunged  into  its 
mysteries.  Even  when  we  translated 
most  glibly  we  were  like  creatures 

"  Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realised." 

The  virtues  of  the  pious  2Eneas  were  of 
a  variety  not  mentioned  in  our  Sunday- 
school  lessons ;  we  held  his  seamanship 
very  cheap ;  we  had  reasons  of  our  own 
for  doubting  the  authenticity  of  the  whole 
Trojan  legend. 

"  How  did  they  ever  git  to  Troy  ?  " 
our  class  orator  inquired  dubiously. 
"  There  wa'n't  one  in  the  whole  lot 't 
knew  any  more  'bout  navigation  'n  a  fly 
in  a  pan  o'  milk  !  "  This  was  after  we 
had  learned  from  Mr.  Cooper's  preface 
to  Book  I  that  our  friend  ^neas  had 
already  been  roaming  the  seas  for  seven 
years  before  presenting  himself  for  the 
pleasure  of  our  acquaintance. 


From  the  first  we  had  no  use  for  Dido. 
Love  was  an  emotion  which  had  been 
mentioned  in  our  hearing,  and  there  were 
boys  and  girls  among  our  number  who 
"  went  together,"  and  displayed  varying 
degrees  of  what  we  called  "  softness  "  in 
so  doing  ;  but  that  any  human  creature 
could  be  soft  enough  deliberately  to  toast 
herself  upon  a  funeral  pile,  simply  because 
another  human  creature  sailed  away  and 
left  her,  was  beyond  our  wildest  concep- 
tion of  the  tender  passion. 

The  uncouth  lad,  who  frequently  wrote 
notes  for  general  circulation  among  the 
girls  of  the  class,  issued  the  following  as 
soon  as  Dido's  funereal  intentions  were 
announced :  — 

"  Pass  this  On. 

"  Dido  was  a  Fool ;  how  'd  she  know 
but  Eneeus  would  be  Blowed  back  by  the 
first  Wind  ?  " 

Some  of  the  boys  who  were  studying 
Greek  originated  a  sort  of  class  chant, 
and  the  schoolroom  for  a  time  resound- 
ed during  play  hours  with  the  ringing 
notes  of 

"  Dido,  Dido,  died  ou'  doors  !  " 

As  a  result  of  such  callousness  to  all  the 
tender  and  lofty  emotions,  we  were  at 
last  transferred  to  Cicero,  and  here,  for 
the  first  time,  we  touched  solid  ground. 
We  lived  in  an  age  when  treason  and 
traitors  were  matters  of  recent  history, 
and  philippics  were  something  we  were 
very  familiar  with,  albeit  under  a  differ- 
ent name. 

The  class  lyric,  by  an  easy  transition, 
blossomed  into 

"  We  '11  hang  old  Cat'line  to  a  sour  apple  tree," 

and  without  a  dissenting  voice  we  took 
the  great  orator  to  our  homes  and  hearts. 
The  teacher,  when  he  discerned  our 
enthusiasm,  and  heard  the  uncouth  lad 
vociferating  genially,  "  He  's  jest  givin' 
it  to  the  old  Cat  to-day,  ain't  he  ?  "  heaved 
a  sigh,  perhaps,  over  the  incomprehen- 
sible vagaries  of  pupils,  and  wisely  ad- 
dressed himself  to  making  the  most  of 
the  situation. 


Cicero  in  Maine. 


255 


One  Saturday  forenoon  he  brought 
Rufus  Choate's  Eloquence  of  Revolu- 
tionary Periods,  and  read  us  what  a 
great  American  orator  had  to  say  about 
the  genius  of  Cicero.  Splendid  words 
they  were,  these  vibrating  sentences  of 
Choate's,  and  as  we  listened  our  eyes 
shone  and  our  hearts  beat :  — 

"  From  that  purer  eloquence,  from 
that  nobler  orator,  the  great  trial  of  fire 
and  blood  through  which  the  spirit  of 
Rome  was  passing  had  burned  and 
purged  away  all  things  light,  all  things 
gross ;  the  purple  robe,  the  superb  atti- 
tude and  action,  the  splendid  common- 
places of  a  festal  rhetoric,  are  all  laid 
by  ;  the  ungraceful,  occasional  vanity  of 
adulation,  the  elaborate  speech  of  the 
abundant,  happy  mind  at  its  ease,  all 
disappear  ;  and  instead,  what  directness, 
what  plainness,  what  rapidity,  what  fire, 
what  abnegation  of  himself,  what  disdain, 
what  hate  of  the  usurper  and  the  usur- 
pation, what  grand,  swelling  sentiments, 
what  fine  raptures  of  liberty,  roll  and 
revel  there ! " 

On  the  next  declamation  day,  as  soon 
as  the  class  orator  mounted  the  platform, 
we  realized  by  the  light  in  his  dark  eyes 
that  he  had  something  new  to  offer  us. 
There  never  was  a  more  moving  speaker 
than  our  class  orator.  No  matter  how 
many  times  he  declaimed  Virginius,  — 
and,  owing  to  many  pressing  engage- 
ments which  swallowed  up  his  time  for 
learning  new  "  pieces,"  this  happened 
with  tolerable  frequency,  —  with  that 
slow,  deliberate,  musical  accent  he  cap- 
tured his  audience.  At  every  repetition, 

"  Over  the  Alban  mountains  the  light  of  morn- 
ing broke," 

as  if  it  were  for  us  a  new  birth ;  when, 
at  the  critical  moment, 

"  Virginius  caught  the  whittle  up  and  hid  it  in 
his  gown," 

we  greeted  its  disappearance  with 
the  same  shuddering  breath;  and  that 
"hoarse,  changed  voice"  in  which  he 
spake,  "  Farewell,  sweet  child,  farewell !  " 
never  lost  its  magic  for  tears. 


On  this  well-remembered  day,  how- 
ever, the  sorrows  of  Virginius  were  for- 
gotten ;  it  was  Rufus  Choate's  magnifi- 
cent version  of  a  representative  passage 
of  Cicero's  oratory  that  fell  upon  our 
charmed  ears,  and  we  listened  to  the 
swelling  tones  of  the  speaker  with  that 
quickened,  thrilling  breath  which  marks 
the  hearer  who  has  surrendered  himself 
to  the  emotion  of  the  moment. 

"  Lay  hold  on  this  opportunity  of  our 
salvation,  conscript  fathers  —  by  the  im- 
mortal gods  I  conjure  you! — and  re- 
member that  you  are  the  foremost  men 
here,  in  the  council  chamber  of  the  whole 
earth.  Give  one  sign  to  the  Roman 
people  that  even  now  as  they  pledge  their 
valor,  so  you  pledge  your  wisdom  to  the 
crisis  of  the  state,"  —  thus  the  appeal 
opened.  It  was  the  ageless  cry  for  liberty, 
the  cry  that  is  the  same  yesterday,  to- 
day, and  forever. 

"  Born  to  glory  and  to  liberty,  let  us 
hold  these  distinctions  fast,  or  let  us 
greatly  die!"  —  these  are  words  that 
belong  to  every  century  and  to  every  race 
of  men.  We  did  not  know  how  to  for- 
mulate what  we  felt,  but  it  was  a  moment 
when  Bull  Run  and  Gettysburg,  that 
worn  face  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  and  all 
the  unmarked  graves  on  Southern  battle- 
fields confused  themselves  within  us  in 
some  indefinable  passion,  and  took  hold 
on  the  heroic  memories  of  ancient  Rome. 
—  a  moment  when,  as  in  all  the  high 
impulses  of  life,  the  barriers  of  time  and 
place  were  melted  away. 

I  believe,  as  I  look  back  now,  that  our 
first  conscious  inspiration  toward  what 
was  best  in  literature  and  noblest  in 
statesmanship  took  root  from  that  time. 
We  were  living  in  strenuous  days  of  re- 
construction after  a  great  war,  and  the 
air  was  still  full  of  battle  echoes,  but  we 
drank  in  the  influences  of  the  hour  as 
unheedingly  as  a  plant  drinks  the  sun- 
shine and  the  dew  ;  it  needed  this  breath 
from  ancient  Rome  to  shape  the  cumu- 
lative forces  within  us  into  the  beginnings 
of  American  citizenship. 


256 


Cicero  in  Maine. 


No  healthy  young  creature  realizes 
the  process  of  his  own  growth,  but  many 
of  us  can  vaguely  remember  the  period 
when 

"  those  first  affections 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing," 

first  reminded  our  bodies  of  the  souls  that 
dwelt  mysteriously  within.  We  received 
that  reminder  noisily  or  undemonstra- 
tively  according  to  our  varying  tempera- 
ments, but  in  each  one  of  us,  none  the 
less,  life  marked  the  hour  when  a  new 
epoch  began. 

The  regular  daily  session  of  the  school 
closed  at  half-past  four  in  the  afternoon, 
but  from  that  time  until  five  o'clock  a 
dark-faced,  sweet-voiced  woman,  with 
what  seemed  to  us  a  marvelous  twist  to 
her  tongue,  gave  instruction  in  French 
to  the  ambitious  few  who  aspired  to  a 
knowledge  of  that  polished  language. 
There  was  the  girl  who  learned  easily 
and  forgot  everything,  the  girl  who 
learned  ploddingly  and  forgot  nothing, 
and  another,  still,  who  seems  to  me  now 
the  farthest  away  of  all,  although  there 
are  buoyant  hours  when  her  once  over- 
flowing youth  and  bounding  vitality  re- 
turn to  her  pulses  like  the  resurrection  of 
a  lost  joy. 

Of  the  three  male  members  —  for  the 
class  was  a  well-balanced  one  —  the  class 
orator  and  the  uncouth  lad  constituted 
two,  and  the  third  was  the  genius  of  the 
school,  the  only  scholar,  perhaps,  whose 
intuitions  leaped  unerringly  to  the  goal, 
who  saw  a  subject  whole,  and  wrested 
the  inwardness  from  it  while  the  rest  of 
us  were  laboriously  pondering  its  earliest 
developments.  Just  why  the  uncouth 
lad  elected  to  study  the  French  language 
I  could  not  then  comprehend,  though  I 
have  often  told  myself  that  the  mere  re- 
collection of  his  recitations  added  a  dis- 
tinct flavor  to  life. 

He  himself  accounted  for  his  presence 
in  the  class  by  the  statement  that  "  as 


he  took  care  o'  the  schoolhouse  he  might's 
well  be  recitin'  French  as  doin'  nothin', 
seein'  as  he  'd  got  to  stay  anyway; " 
and  to  behold  the  vital  interest  whicli  he 
displayed  in  the  sugar  and  spice  of  the 
grocer,  or  the  mahogany  table  of  the 
cabinet  maker,  was  only  one  degree  less 
joy-inspiring  than  when  he  announced, 
giving  to  each  syllable  its  full  value, 
"  Jay  lese  belles  pantou-flees  de  ma  belle- 
mare,"  or  clothed  himself  gayly  in  the 
ribbons  of  his  father-in-law. 

It  was  when  the  French  recitation  had 
ended,  however,  and  the  old  brick  school- 
house  was  left  to  our  undisturbed  pos- 
session, that  we  sat  around  the  great 
sheet-iron  stove,  with  no  light  but  the 
red  blur  of  the  setting  sun  through  the 
western  windows,  and  told  all  things  that 
ever  we  knew.  On  one  Tuesday  after- 
noon in  particular,  I  remember,  the  talk 
began  with  that  tale  of  the  celebrated 
wooden  horse  which  Virgil  makes  .^EneaS 
tell  as  a  sort  of  after-dinner  story  in  the 
second  book  of  the  ./Eneid.  Our  teacher, 
always  hoping  against  hope  that  he  might 
some  day  interest  us  in  his  beloved  Virgil, 
had  that  afternoon  been  dwelling  on  the 
great  poet's  talent  as  a  raconteur. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  we  rejected 
the  whole  narrative  as  puerile.  The 
school  genius,  indeed,  made  some  modi- 
fying reflections  in  regard  to  the  primi- 
tiveness  of  the  age  in  which  the  decep- 
tion was  located.  "  I  s'pose  we  ought 
to  consider  "  —  he  began  deprecating- 
ly,  but  the  uncouth  lad  brusquely  inter- 
rupted, — 

"  We  ain't  got  to  consider  nothin',  "  he 
declared,  "  except  that  the'  wa'n't  any 
last  one  of  'em  't  had  any  more  head  'n 
a  carpet  tack." 

"  A  wooden  hoss,"  the  class  orator 
sneered,  taking  up  the  theme  ;  —  "  poh  ! 
't  would  n't  fool  a  baby.  My  little 
brother  had  one  for  a  Christmas  present, 
an'  't  would  n't  go  into  his  stockin',  so 
mother  took  an'  hitched  it  on  with  a 
string." 

"  I  '11  bait   ye,  sir,"  the  uncouth  lad 


Cicero  in  Maine. 


257 


declaimed  oratorically,  "  that  we  could 
n't  'a'  fooled  the  rebels  with  any  wooden 
hoss  when  we  was  tryin'  to  take  Rich- 
mond. If  they  'd  seen  us  drawin'  off  an' 
leavin'  any  such  contrivance  round  to 
hitch  to  their  stockin',  they  'd  said,  '  No, 
thank  ye.  We  ain't  keepin'  Christmas 
this  year,  an'  if  we  was,  the  Yankees  ain't 
no  Santy  Glaus.'  " 

"  What  do  you  think,"  asked  the  girl 
who  was  quick  to  learn,  "  of  the  man  that 
came  into  school  to-day  ?  "  It  was  a  part 
of  her  adaptability  that  she  knew  how  to 
change  a  subject  in  season  to  prevent  it 
from  growing  threadbare. 

We  lived  within  two  miles  of  the  State 
capitol,  and  in  all  the  high  moments  of 
life  we  felt  ourselves  enhaloed  by  the 
shadow  of  its  dome.  The  state  legisla- 
ture was  in  session,  and  our  visitor  that 
day  had  been  one  of  the  members  of  this 
august  body.  Our  generation  was  much 
less  sophisticated  than  the  present  up- 
to-date  class  of  young  people,  and  for 
us  very  simple  things  frequently  assumed 
heroic  proportions.  To  our  admiring 
eyes  this  visitor  was  not  a  mere  country 
lawyer,  with  that  taste  for  the  literature 
of  Latin  which  many  country  lawyers  used 
to  possess  ;  he  was  a  wise  and  powerful 
being,  who  created  laws  out  of  his  inner 
consciousness,  and  hobnobbed  with  prin- 
cipalities and  powers,  and  we  venerated 
him  accordingly.  The  teacher  had  in- 
formed him  of  our  intimacy  with  Cicero, 
and  when,  at  the  close  of  the  recitation, 
the  great  man  "  addressed  "  us,  he  had 
the  acumen  to  leave  the  ordinary  plati- 
tudes unsaid,  and  draw  from  the  Roman 
orator's  life  and  words  the  message  of 
that  nobler  patriotism,  that  larger  citizen- 
ship, whose  ideal  forever  appeals  to  ar- 
dent souls  with  the  thrill  of  a  passion  for 
which  men  have  been  content  to  die. 

When  the  girl  who  was  quick  to  learn 
recalled  our  visitor  to  our  minds  the 
thrill  came  back  too,  and  our  eyes  turned 
toward  the  red  streamers  in  the  darken- 
ing west,  as  if  they  were  the  banners  of 
victory  beckoning  us  on. 

VOL.  xciu.  —  NO.  556.  17 


"  Le  's  go  up  to  the  legislature  to-mor- 
row," the  slow  girl  suddenly  suggested, 
seized  by  an  unwonted  inspiration ;  and 
with  one  accord  we  assented,  for  Wednes- 
day afternoon  would  be  a  holiday. 

When,  next  day,  we  met  at  the  ap- 
pointed hour  for  our  long  walk,  the  af- 
ternoon seemed  to  have  been  created  for 
our  purpose.  It  was  one  of  those  clear, 
bracing  winter  days  when  the  snowy 
path  echoes  crisply  under  one's  tread, 
and  snow  and  sky  melt  into  a  dazzle, 
whose  blended  light  and  color  is  empha- 
sized by  the  dark  shapes  of  feathery  pine 
and  fir  trees. 

It  must  not  be  thought  that  our  lit- 
tle company  dallied  along  in  couples 
absorbed  in  any  sentimental  discourse. 
On  the  contrary,  we  marched  by  threes, 
the  boys  leading  the  way,  the  girls 
briskly  keeping  pace.  The  road  which 
we  followed  was  then,  and  to  me  is  to 
this  day,  filled  with  childhood  memories 
of  "  the  war,"  and  it  was  of  these  things 
that  we  discoursed  as  we  went  along. 
That  commonplace-looking,  hip-roofed 
farmhouse  had  been  the  military  pest- 
house,  and  awesome  associations  lingered 
around  it  still ;  in  yonder  field  a  battery 
had  once  encamped,  and  one  of  the  girls 
related  the  story  of  how,  at  the  venture- 
some age  of  twelve,  she,  with  several 
companions  of  equally  mature  years, 
having  wandered  within  the  limits  of 
the  camp,  had  been  promptly  arrested 
and  haled  before  the  commanding  offi- 
cer, the  terrors  of  whose  cross-examina- 
tion had  been  little  mitigated  by  roars 
of  laughter  from  surrounding  listeners. 
The  echoes  of  marching  infantry  and 
the  beating  hoofs  of  cavalry  horses 
seemed  to  us  hardly  to  have  died  from 
the  air,  and  when  we  reached  the  State 
House  at  last  we  were  keyed  for  heroic 
doings. 

The  capitol  building  of  our  native 
state  was  to  us,  in  those  days,  the  grand- 
est structure  in  the  world.  I  confess 
here  that  it  has  never  lost  its  ancient 
charm  for  me.  It  stands  on  high 


258 


Cicero  in  Maine. 


ground,  and  I  have  seen  its  dome  blur 
grandly  into  many  sunrises  and  sunsets ; 
when  one  begins  to  mount  the  succes- 
sive flights  of  broad,  granite  steps  that 
lead  to  the  majestic  front  entrance,  one 
begins  to  say  to  one's  ''  inward  ear," 
"  Here  is  a  centre  of  deeds ;  here  events 
are  shaped  for  good  or  ill ;  "  and  the  fact 
that  many  of  these  shapings  are  trivial 
in  themselves  —  sometimes,  indeed,  ill- 
shaped  —  does  not  altogether  rob  them 
of  their  significance  in  the  eternal  frame- 
work of  things. 

As  we  entered  the  rotunda  that  day, 
our  footsteps  resounding  on  the  floor 
seemed  almost  an  impertinence.  We 
lingered  to  look  at  the  portraits  of  the 
old-time  governors  in  their  gay  coats  ; 
we  paused  in  sincere  homage  before  the 
clustering  battle-flags,  which  were  then 
being  gathered  into  the  State  House  as 
their  last,  honored  resting-place.  A 
copy  of  Moses  Owen's  stirring  poem, 
the  Returned  Maine  Battle-Flags,  hung 
beside  the  sacred  relics,  and  the  class 
orator  could  not  resist  the  opportunity  to 
thrill  us  with  its  music.  As  he  read  he 
forgot  himself  and  the  place,  and  more 
than  one  hurrying  foot  checked  itself  at. 
the  sound,  as  if  a  sentinel  had  called 
"Halt!" 

"  As   the  word  is  given  —  they  charge  !  they 

form ! 
And  the   dim  hall   rings    with    the    battle's 

storm ! 

And  once  again  through  the  smoke  and  strife 
Those  colors  lead  to  a  nation's  life." 

After  numerous  digressions  we  reached 
the  gallery  of  the  House  of  Representa- 
tives, and  hung  over  the  rail  gazing  at 
the  mighty  men  below.  The  triviality 
of  the  subjects  under  discussion  might, 
had  we  been  maturer  auditors,  have 
served  to  dampen  our  heroic  mood,  but 
to  us  it  was  all  mysteriously  large  and 
significant.  When  two  honorable  mem- 
bers chanced  to  indulge  in  lively  recrim- 
ination, the  uncouth  lad  was  observed 
to  murmur  as  in  meditation,  "  How 
long,  O  Catiline,"  —  the  familiar  phrase 


which  had  become  to  us  like  a  household 
word. 

Once  during  the  afternoon  a  large, 
blond  young  man,  with  a  cherubic  vis- 
age, rose  in  answer  to  a  question,  and 
drawled  forth  a  reply  which  commanded 
the  instant  and  amused  attention  of  the 
house. 

•'  That 's  Tom  Reed,"  we  heard  some- 
body say,  and  we  looked  with  quick- 
ened interest  at  a  speaker  who  had  al- 
ready begun  to  make  himself  felt  as  a 
power. 

By  and  by  there  was  a  stir  in  the  rear 
of  the  great  hall  as  loitering  men  in  the 
corridor  greeted  a  fresh  comer.  Now 
Cicero  was  indeed  among  us !  We  all 
knew  that  erect  form,  with  the  head  gal- 
lantly thrown  back,  and  the  keen,  dark 
eyes  that  had  not  then  learned  to  ques- 
tion Fate  otherwise  than  blithely  ;  the 
eyes  that  had  ever  a  smile  of  quick  re- 
cognition, as  we  well  knew,  for  every 
boy  and  girl  to  whom  their  glance  had 
been  directed.  It  was  little  wonder  that 
we  all  loved  Mr.  Blaine,  —  there  was 
much  about  him  that  was  supremely 
lovable. 

The  usual  routine  of  a  visit  to  the 
State  House  included  the  climbing  of  the 
winding  stairs  which  led  to  the  cupola, 
to  assure  ourselves  that  Kennebec  County 
remained  securely  anchored  below ;  but, 
on  this  occasion,  as  the  short  winter  af- 
ternoon was  waning  fast,  we  contented 
ourselves  with  a  visit  to  the  massive 
stone  balcony  which  opens  from  the  sec- 
ond story.  A  tinge  of  rosy  light  was 
already  reflected  in  the  eastern  sky,  and 
a  few  ambitious  stars  had  begun  to 
show  themselves.  In  front  of  us  lay  the 
"  state  grounds,"  which  had  so  lately 
been  a  bustling  camp,  empty  now  and 
solitary  save  where  a  marble  shaft  glim- 
mered whitely  to  mark  the  spot  where 
some  departed  statesman  had  wrapped 
the  drapery  of  his  couch  about  him  and 
lain  down  to  pleasant  dreams.  Even  the 
glimmering  line  of  the  river  was  white, 
too.  As  we  stood  at  the  balustrade's 


Cicero  in  Maine. 


259 


edge,  brooding  over  the  landscape,  life 
thrilled  large  within  us,  life  uncompre- 
hended,  unformulated,  the  full  cup,  the 
fulfilled  dream,  which  seem  wholly  pos- 
sible only  to  the  hopefulness  of  youth. 
When  the 

"  whole  soul  revolves,  the  cup  runs  over, 
The  world  and  life  's  too  big  to  pass  for  a 
dream." 

A  large  bird  rose  slowly  in  the  distant 
sky,  his  wings  showing  black  against  the 
clear  ether.  "  It 's  funny,  too,"  the 
genius  said,  thinking  aloud  ;  "  the  Roman 
eagles,  the  American  eagle,  —  and  those 
old  chaps  thought  their  birds  were  the 
emblems  o'  freedom  jest  as  we  think  ours 
is  !  Well,  I  don'  know 's  I  'd  change 
James  G.  Blaine  for  old  Cicero." 

In  the  middle  of  the  Latin  recitation 
next  day  the  uncouth  lad  inquired  ab- 
ruptly, "  What  ever  became  o'  him,  any- 
how, —  I  mean  what  end  did  he  make  ?  " 

The  teacher  stared  for  a  moment,  un- 
comprehending. "  Oh,  you  mean  Cic- 
ero ?  " 

"Course,"  the  uncouth  one  replied 
laconically. 

Then  the  teacher  —  how  fortunate  it 
was  for  us  that  this  wise  man  always 
knew  how  to  seize  the  heart  of  an  oppor- 
tunity—  gave  us  a  brief  sketch  of  the 
great  Roman's  life,  showing  us  how  his 
true  nobleness  overbalanced  his  politi- 
cal weaknesses  and  vanity.  He  —  the 
teacher  —  "  knew  a  man  "  who  had  vis- 
ited Tusculum  and  seen  the  spot  where 
the  ruins  of  Cicero's  villa  still  stand,  with 
the  great  ivy  tree  growing  against  the 
sunny  wall.  He  told  us  of  the  neighbors 
whose  country  houses  surrounded  Cic- 
ero's dwelling,  —  Caesar,  Pompey,  Bru- 
tus, the  poet  Catullus,  Lucullus,  cele- 
brated for  his  feasts,  with  whom  Cicero 
used  to  exchange  books,  —  names  these 
were  to  conjure  with.  He  told  us,  too,  of 
our  hero's  beloved  daughter,  his  little 
Tullia,  and  her  early  death  ;  and  he  made 
it  all  more  real  by  reminding  us  that  this 
was  the  same  Tusculum  with  whose  long, 
"  white  streets  "  we  were  so  familiar  in 


Macaulay's  poem.  Here  the  class  'ora- 
tor's lips  began  to  move,  and  we  knew 
that  he  was  muttering  dumbly,  — 

"  From  the  white  streets  of  Tusculum, 
The  proudest  town  of  all." 

He  had  often  declaimed  it. 

When  the  narrator  went  on  to  describe 
how  Cicero,  betrayed  and  deserted,  was 
finally  assassinated,  the  fatal  blow  being 
struck  by  a  man  whom  he  had  formerly 
defended,  the  uncouth  lad,  forgetting  the 
dignity  of  the  place  and  hour,  brought  his 
hand  down  on  his  knee  with  a  resound- 
ing smack,  and  declared  in  quivering 
tones,  "  I  call  it  gol-darned  mean  !  " 

All  this  passed  years  ago.  The  girl 
who  was  quick  to  learn  and  the  school 
genius  both  heard  the  call  early  in  life 
to  that  land  where  naught  but  evil  is 
ever  forgotten,  and  where  insight  is  di- 
vine and  eternal.  The  girl  who  never 
forgot  has  spent  her  powers  in  patiently 
bestowing  her  accumulations  on  others ; 
the  class  orator  has  disseminated  his 
gifts  of  language  through  the  pen  rather 
than  the  persuasive  voice  ;  and  it  was, 
after  all,  the  uncouth  lad,  uncouth  no 
longer,  magnificent  in  stature  and  in 
wisdom,  who,  on  a  well-remembered  day, 
rolled  grandly  forth  that  noble  address 
on  Christian  Citizenship. 

There  was  a  lump  in  my  throat  when 
I  heard  him  say,  "  My  own  first  con- 
scious impulse  towards  making  a  good 
citizen  of  myself  dates  from  the  time 
when  I  was  awkwardly  but  enthusiasti- 
cally translating  Cicero's  orations  in  the 
old  brick  schoolhouse  in  my  native  town. 
I  was  fortunate  enough  to  begin  the 
study  of  Latin  under  a  teacher  who 
taught  with  the  spirit  and  the  under- 
standing also,  and  who  had  the  magnetic 
power  of  making  his  pupils  realize  that 
every  great  language  possesses  a  soul  as 
well  as  an  anatomy." 

When  I  stood  before  that  former  un- 
couth lad  at  the  close  of  his  discourse, 
and  saw  him  look  at  me  questioningly,  as 
one  who  dimly  divines  a  ghost  of  the 


260 


Cynicism. 


past,  I  said  to  him, —  since  it  is  generally 
wiser  to  laugh  than  to  cry,  —  "  Avez- 
vous  les  pantoufles  de  velours  de  I'e'pi- 
cier  ?  " 

He  seized  my  hand  in  a  mighty  grasp 
of  recognition  and  welcome  :  "  I  have, 
—  and  those  of  the  butcher  and  baker 
and  candlestick-maker  as  well.  The  wo- 
men in  my  parish  were  always  sending 
'em  to  me  before  I  was  married." 

But,  when  all  is  said,  the  true  link  be- 
tween us,  in  the  new  as  in  the  old  day, 
was  something  in  which  the  grocer's  vel- 


vet slippers  had  little  part :  that  which 
made  our  old  school  days  worth  remem- 
bering, the  image  which  shaped  itself  in 
both  our  minds  as  we  stood  there,  — 

"  One  and  one  with  a  shadowy  third," 

was  that  of  the  wise  schoolmaster,  who 
had  known  how  to  draw  us  into  the 
grand  circle  where  old  Rome  and  young 
America,  all  nations,  indeed,  and  all 
races  of  men,  were  made  one  and  indi- 
visible in  the  deathless  continuity  of  a 
moral  ideal. 

Martha  Baker  Dunn. 


CYNICISM. 


ONE  of  the  seeming  waywardnesses 
of  our  human  nature  is  the  respect  for  a 
cynic  that  lurks  in  nearly  every  heart. 
The  respect  is  not  for  his  character, 
certainly  not  for  his  disposition ;  but  it 
goes  out  to  him  as  a  man  of  intellect, 
and  is  often  disproportionate  to  his  abil- 
ity. To  hear  that  a  man  is  cynical  is  to 
accept  him  as  of  superior  intelligence. 
There  is  a  universal  deference  to  what 
is  universally  deemed  an  unlovely  and 
undesirable  attitude  of  mind.  The  en- 
trance of  the  cynic  into  the  drawing- 
room  produces  an  air  of  expectant  in- 
terest ;  his  rancorous  comments  are  re- 
ceived as  admirable  wit.  So,  at  least, 
according  to  the  contemporary  novels  of 
society  ;  so,  even,  —  though  in  a  some- 
what less  obvious  and  artificial  manner, 
—  according  to  one's  own  observation. 
We  all  find  more  interesting  the  person 
who  discusses  his  friend's  failings  than 
him  who  dwells  upon  his  friend's  vir- 
tues. We  do  not  like  the  cynic  better, 
but  we  regard  him  as  the  more  pene- 
trating, and  the  better  informed. 

Hence  we  find  him  excellent  com- 
pany. For  instance  :  Brown  takes  pains 
to  make  a  pleasant  impression  on  those 
whom  he  meets,  and,  in  the  ordinary  re- 


lations of  life,  gets  on  with  his  acquain- 
tances and  friends  very  comfortably. 
When,  therefore,  the  cynical  observer 
shrugs  his  shoulders  and  intimates  some- 
thing to  Brown's  discredit,  the  idea  has 
for  those  who  know  Brown  the  charm  of 
novelty,  and  adorns  him  with  a  new  in- 
terest. Having  never  before  held  him 
in  discredit,  they  feel  that  his  detractor 
has  got  below  the  surface.  The  convic- 
tion is  strengthened  by  the  cynic's  air  of 
mental  reservation,  his  unwillingness  to 
utter  definitely  what  he  knows,  his  man- 
ner that  implies,  "  Oh  yes,  all  very  well, 
but  I  could  tell  things  if  I  would." 

This,  however,  is  not  the  only  cause 
that  contributes  to  the  general  deference. 
If  one  man  declares  a  person  to  be 
charming,  fascinating,  or  delightful,  and 
another  pronounces  him  disgusting,  re- 
pulsive, or  intolerable,  who  makes  the 
more  profound  impression  ?  The  lan- 
guage of  enthusiasm  is  emasculate  com- 
pared with  that  of  hatred  or  contempt. 
A  sufficient  reason  for  the  undemon- 
strative nature  of  the  English-speaking 
race  lies  in  the  effeminate  quality  of  the 
adjectives  that  denote  admirable  traits. 
Some  of  them  can  hardly  be  uttered 
without  a  consciousness  of  a  loss  of 


Cynicism. 


261 


virility.  One  has  only  to  contrast  with 
them  the  hearty  gusto  of  our  vocabulary 
of  dislike  and  depreciation  to  perceive 
the  tremendous  advantage  that  the  cynic 
enjoys. 

His  very  name  supports  his  preten- 
sions to  a  superior  intelligence.  "  Cynic," 
for  all  that  it  meant  originally  "  dog- 
like,"  is  an  aristocratic  word.  One  is 
not  prone  to  think  of  coal  heavers,  sail- 
ors, miners,  as  cynics  ;  it  has  probably 
occurred  to  but  few  that  their  grocers 
and  butchers  are  cynics.  The  word  is 
erudite  and  Greek ;  the  presumption  is 
that  the  man  designated  by  a  term  of 
such  distinguished  lineage  is  of  education 
—  and  intelligence.  We  have  a  habit 
of  deriving  ideas  in  this  illogical  way. 
The  cynics  in  the  humbler  walks  of  life 
are  not  regarded  as  cynics,  but  as  men 
soured  and  disappointed.  And  when  we 
hear  of  one  that  he  is  soured  and  disap- 
pointed, we  do  not  instinctively  pay  trib- 
ute to  his  intelligence. 

Is  there,  then,  no  wisdom  in  cynicism, 
no  virtue  in  disbelief  ?  Does  the  un- 
doubted suggestion  of  intelligence  which 
the  word  implies  rest  entirely  upon  such 
trivial  and  empty  grounds  ?  Unques- 
tionably the  inner  respect  which  persists, 
notwithstanding  the  superficial  condem- 
nation, proceeds  from  a  dim  recognition 
of  certain  useful  services  that  cynicism 
does  perform.  An  attempt  to  discover 
these  and  set  them  forth  fairly  need  not 
disturb  even  the  most  believing. 

A  reasonable  cynicism  affords  recrea- 
tion to  the  mind.  A  man  may  always, 
with  advantage  to  his  mental  health,  in- 
dulge in  a  cynicism  as  a  hobby  ;  he  may, 
for  instance,  be  cynical  of  women,  or 
newspapers,  or  party  politics,  or  the  pub- 
lishers of  novels,  and  be  the  better  for  it. 
But  he  is  in  a  serious  state  if  his  cyni- 
cism includes  women  and  newspapers  and 
party  politics  and  the  publishers  of  nov- 
els. Then,  indeed,  is  his  outlook  bleak 
and  barren,  and,  in  all  probability,  he 
lives  and  works  only  to  malign  ends. 

Nearly  all  sane,  normal  people,  how- 


ever, enjoy  one  cynicism  by  way  of  di- 
version. It  is,  indeed,  essential  to  char- 
acter to  have  some  object  at  which  to 
scoff,  swear,  or  sneer.  Cynicism  is  never 
a  native  quality  of  the  mind ;  it  always 
has  its  birth  in  some  unhappy  experi- 
ence. The  young  man  finds  that  the 
girl  who  has  gathered  up  for  him  all  the 
harmony  and  melody  of  earth  rings  hol- 
low at  the  test ;  and  he  drops  his  lyrical 
language  and  becomes  cynical  of  women. 
The  citizen  of  Boston  has  naturally 
grown  cynical  of  newspapers.  The  can- 
didate for  public  office  who  has  been  de- 
finitely retired  to  private  life  by  being 
"  knifed "  at  the  polls  distrusts  party 
politics.  A  man  publishes  a  novel  and 
thenceforth  is  cynical  of  the  publishers 
of  novels.  Yet  these  misfortunes  have 
their  salutary  aspect.  The  disappointed 
lover,  generalizing  bitterly  upon  the  sex, 
is  not  always  implacable  ;  a  cooler  judg- 
ment tempers  and  restores  his  passion, 
gives  it  another  object,  and  so  guides  him 
to  a  safer,  if  less  gusty  and  emotional 
love.  The  citizen  of  Boston,  the  be- 
trayed candidate,  the  blighted  young 
novelist,  all  have  for  their  condition,  even 
though  they  know  it  not,  a  valuable  com- 
pensation ;  for  the  very  experience  that 
has  brought  them  to  this  pass  of  reason- 
able cynicism  has  stirred  their  indigna- 
tion; yes,  in  spite  of  their  seeming  in- 
ertness, indignation  is  now  smouldering. 
And  this  is  a  great  force  ;  slow  though  it 
may  be  to  start  the  wheels  of  machinery, 
it  is  still  an  important  fuel  in  keeping 
alive  the  fires  under  the  boilers  of  civili- 
zation. The  faculty  of  it  becomes  dulled 
by  disuse,  and  is  the  more  alert  and 
righteous  for  a  little  rasping.  How  im- 
pressive and  commanding  a  quality  in  a 
man  is  that  of  a  great  potential  indigna- 
tion !  It  is  essential  to  the  chieftain.  He 
may  never  show  more  than  the  flash  of  an 
eye,  yet  that  will  serve.  And  such  power 
of  indignation  never  came  to  one  who 
had  not  penetrated  some  large  bland 
sham,  and  learned  thereby  to  hate  and 
disbelieve  all  its  seductive  kindred. 


262 


Cynicism. 


In  supplying  one  with  a  theme  for 
indignation,  the  turn  toward  cynicism 
furnishes  also  an  additional  amusement 
and  charm.  If  a  man  is  in  the  habit, 
for  example,  of  expecting  nothing  but 
tales  of  murder,  suicide,  and  scandal  on 
the  first  page  of  his  newspaper,  he  be- 
comes actually  pleased  at  the  rich  daily 
reward  of  his  expectations.  "  Scurrilous 
sheet !  "  he  cries,  striking  it  with  open 
palm.  To  behold,  morning  after  morn- 
ing, its  recurring  off  ensiveness  and  hypoc- 
risy, to  feel  that  there  are  less  discern- 
ing persons  who  approve  of  the  very 
features  that  make  it  despicable,  and  to 
exclaim  to  himself,  "  So  this  is  what  the 
public  likes !  "  brings  him  each  time 
a  curious  *  satisfaction.  Perhaps  it  is 
merely  the  satisfaction  of  a  small  grati- 
fied vanity,  but  it  enables  him  to  begin 
his  day  in  a  comfortable  frame  of  mind  ; 
he  is  prepared  to  snarl  only  at  news- 
papers. It  is  desirable  that  every  man 
should  have  a  small  vanity  gratified 
daily  ;  it  keeps  him  in  good  temper  with 
himself  and  the  world.  And  to  observe 
small  vanities  and  foibles  in  others  per- 
forms this  service,  since  a  man  always 
absolves  himself  from  sharing  the  weak- 
nesses that  he  sees. 

Yet  cynicism  has  a  more  valuable  end 
than  merely  to  amuse.  It  is  a  means  to- 
ward sturdiness  and  independence  in  a 
man ;  it  quickens  his  activities,  and  pre- 
vents a  too  ready  acceptance  of  exist- 
ing conditions.  It  is  almost  necessary  to 
important  achievement.  The  reverential 
frame  of  mind  is  inefficient  when  con- 
fronted with  the  world's  work  ;  too  much 
in  the  problems  of  life  demands  not  to 
be  reverenced,  but  to  be  cursed.  There 
can  be  no  useful  and  permanent  building 
up  without  a  clearing  of  the  site  ;  old 
foundations  and  debris  have  to  be  swept 
away.  The  man  of  reverential  mind, 
who  has  no  touch  of  cynicism,  is  unfit 
for  this  work.  He  is  unfit,  for  instance, 
to  serve  as  district  attorney  in  one  of  our 
large  cities,  —  as  useful  a  function  as 
an  educated  man  may  perform,  yet  one 


in  the  performance  of  which  the  man 
of  entirely  reverential  spirit  would  be 
harmfully  employed.  The  reverential 
spirit,  contemplative  of  the  established 
order,  crowds  out  capacity  for  initia- 
tive ;  the  cynical  spirit,  scouting  the  es- 
tablished order,  stimulates  initiative.  Of 
this  spirit  have  been  the  great  reformers, 
men  for  whom  Swift,  in  defining  his  own 
life,  has  supplied  a  motto :  "  The  chief 
end  of  all  my  labor  is  to  vex  the  world 
rather  than  to  divert  it."  It  was  charac- 
teristic of  Cromwell  that  in  dissolving 
the  Long  Parliament  he  should  display 
a  wanton  cynicism.  "  My  Lord  Gen- 
eral, lifting  the  sacred  mace  itself,  said, 
'  What  shall  we  do  with  this  bauble  ? 
Take  it  away !  '  ' '  The  scorn  with  which 
he  disposed  of  the  revered  symbol  of 
majesty  was  in  itself  symbolic  ;  as  the 
Cavalier  had  been  cynical  of  the  Puri- 
tan's piety,  so  was  the  Puritan  cynical 
of  the  pomp  and  trappings  of  the  Cava- 
lier. 

The  great  rulers,  like  the  great  re- 
formers, have  had  the  cynical  sense,  and 
have  in  the  same  way  derived  from  it, 
not  paralysis,  but  an  effective  reckless- 
ness. Louis  XIV,  most  brilliant  of  mon- 
archs,  observed  in  making  an  appoint- 
ment to  office,  "  J'aifait  dix  mScontents 
et  un  ingrat"  And  he  continued  to  ap- 
point whom  he  pleased.  Frederick  the 
Great  was  the  pupil  of  Voltaire ;  and 
when  a  Board  of  Religion  came  to  him 
with  a  complaint  that  certain  Roman 
Catholic  schools  were  used  for  sectarian 
purposes,  he  bade  them  remember  that 
"  in  this  country  every  man  must  get  to 
heaven  his  own  way."  The  ruthless  cyn- 
icism of  Peter  the  Great  was  supple- 
mented by  the  splendid  constructive 
hopefulness  from  which  issued  his  say- 
ing, "  I  built  St.  Petersburg  as  a  window 
to  let  in  the  light  of  Europe." 

Yet  we  need  not  go  to  history  for  illus- 
tration ;  even  in  one's  own  experience  it 
is  not  difficult  to  note  the  efficiency  which 
a  vein  of  cynicism,  properly  combined 
with  other  qualities,  gives  a  man.  Those 


Cynicism. 


263 


who  are  regarded  as  successful,  or  as 
being  on  the  road  to  success,  are  cheerful, 
hopeful  persons,  with  just  this  slightly 
cynical  outlook.  Those  who  have  failed, 
or  are  failing,  are  just  as  surely  the  utter- 
ly cynical,  the  decayed,  querulous,  and 
embittered,  or  the  supremely  reveren- 
tial, who  have  too  much  respect  for  things 
as  they  are  to  undertake  any  altera- 
tion. These  are  the  indolent ;  they  may 
work  hard  all  their  lives,  yet  are  they 
none  the  less  indolent  mentally,  and  un- 
alert. 

There  is,  indeed,  what  may  be  called 
the  cynical  sense,  not  to  be  confused 
with  the  sense  of  humor,  though  akin  to 
it.  It  is  this  which  enables  a  man  to 
keep  out  of  the  stock  market,  and,  even 
more,  to  look  without  jealousy  on  the 
achievements  of  those  who  are  in  the 
stock  market.  It  is  the  antiseptic  sense. 
So  far  from  promoting  envy,  malice,  and 
uncharitableness,  it  is  allied  with  sympa- 
thy. For  sympathy  means  understand- 
ing, and  there  can  be  no  true  understand- 
ing if  one  does  not  detect  the  weaknesses 
as  well  as  the  virtues  ;  without  this  cyni- 
cal sense,  one  has  not  humanity.  It  gives 
a  man  a  lively  and  discriminating  inter- 
est in  life  ;  it  guards  him  against  the  par- 
alyzing vice  of  hero  -  worship,  —  which 
is  a  virtue  only  in  the  young  and  imma- 
ture, —  and  against  the  more  sinful  fault 
of  arrogance  toward  the  dejected  and 
beaten.  For  just  as  it  enables  him  to 
see  how  trivial  are  even  the  greatest 
achievements  of  human  ingenuity  and 
labor,  with  what  little  loss  the  work  of 
even  the  best  and  wisest  might  have  been 
omitted  in  the  progress  of  the  world, 
so,  also,  it  prevents  him  from  being  un- 
duly scornful  of  those  who  have  accom- 


plished —  for  all  that  appears  on  the  sur- 
face —  nothing.  Seeing  a  man  who  has 
failed,  the  cynically  minded  wonders 
what  accidents  of  birth  and  circumstance 
imposed  his  f  ruitlessness  upon  him  ;  see- 
ing a  man  who  has  succeeded,  the  cynic 
wonders  if  he  had  done  so  without  the 
innumerable  reinforcements  of  chance. 
If  this  view  tends  toward  fatalism,  so 
does  it  also  toward  democracy. 

Yet  one's  cynicism  must  always  be 
tempered  in  its  sentiment  and  limited  in 
its  scope.  A  man  may  profitably  be 
cynical  of  women,  yet  his  faith  and  loy- 
alty to  at  least  one  woman  —  his  mother, 
or  his  sister,  or  the  woman  he  loves  — 
must  be  unswerving  and  unquestioning. 
A  man  may  not  be  cynical  of  children, 
or  with  children.  He  cannot  be  cynical 
of  friends,  and  keep  them.  He  must 
not  grow  cynical  of  himself,  for  then 
nothing  remains.  And  the  danger  of 
cynicism  is  that  once  admitted  into  a 
man  it  may  grow,  appropriating  one 
after  another  of  his  channels  and  outlets, 
narrowing  his  hopes  and  enthusiasms, 
until  finally  it  rots  the  man  himself. 

Reasonably  limited  and  kept  within 
bounds,  it  is  a  source  of  strength  to  a 
man  rather  than  of  weakness ;  it  gives 
him  an  independent  and  self-respecting 
point  of  view ;  it  berates  him  if  he  tends 
toward  a  weak  sentimentality ;  it  is  the 
companion  of  a  cheerful  levity.  Take 
their  cynical  outlook  away  from  Heine 
and  Goethe  and  Victor  Hugo,  from  Swift 
and  Johnson  and  Franklin,  —  and  how 
flavorless  would  be  what  remained ! 
How  insipid  would  be  a  literature  in 
which  wit  and  humor  had  to  disport  them- 
selves entirely  among  the  pleasant  facts 
of  life ! 

Arthur  Stanwood  Pier. 


264  The  Book-Lover. 


THE  BOOK-LOVER. 

I  LOVE  a  book,  if  there  but  run 
From  title-page  to  colophon 
Something  sincere  that  sings  or  glows, 
Whate'er  the  text  be,  rhyme  or  prose. 
And  high-perched  on  some  window-seat, 
Or  in  some  ingle-side  retreat, 
Or  in  an  alcove  consecrate 
To  lore  and  to  the  lettered  great, 
For  happiness  I  need  not  look 
Beyond  the  pages  of  my  book. 
Yea,  I  believe  that,  like  an  elf, 
I'd  be  contented  with  a  shelf, 
If  thereupon  with  me  might  sit 
Some  work  of  wisdom  or  of  wit 
Whereto,  at  pleasure,  I  might  turn, 
And  the  fair  face  of  Joy  discern ! 

I  love  a  book,  —  its  throbbing  heart ! 

And  while  I  may  not  hold  the  art 

That  dresses  it  in  honor  scant,  — 

The  tree-calf  "  tooled  "  or  "  crushed  "  Levant,  — 

Rather  a  rare  soul,  verily, 

Than  a  bedizened  husk  for  me ! 

So,  though  no  Midas'  magic  hands 

To  gold  transmute  my  barren  sands, 

Though  friendly  Fame  deign  not  to  lay 

About  my  brows  the  vine  and  bay, 

Though  fond  eyes  marry  not  with  mine, 

Nor  lip  to  lip  give  sacred  sign, 

The  core  of  all  content  I  know, 

A  blessing  that  is  balm  for  woe  ; 

On  life  with  level  gaze  I  look, 

And  all  because  I  love  —  a  book ! 

Clinton  Scollard. 


Books  New  •  and   Old. 


265 


BOOKS  NEW  AND   OLD. 


OLD   WINE   IN   NEW   BOTTLES. 


THE  ancient  disputation  between  the 
Body  and  the  Soul  gives  rise  —  in  a 
fanciful  mind  at  least  —  to  a  curious 
conception  of  the  world  of  books.  In 
that  fresh  and  vigorous  inaugural  lec- 
ture, wherewith  the  present  professor  of 
poetry  at  Oxford  took  up  his  torch, 
there  is  a  text,  apt  to  the  elaboration 
of  this  view.  "  An  actual  poem,"  said 
Mr.  Bradley,  "  is  the  succession  of  expe- 
riences —  sounds,  images,  thoughts,  emo- 
tions —  through  which  we  pass  when  we 
are  reading  as  poetically  as  we  can."  1 
So,  one  might  say  by  way  of  inference,  an 
actual  book  is  the  train  of  various  and 
connected  pleasures  which  we  enjoy  on 
a  long  winter's  evening  by  the  fire,  or 
under  Jove  on  a  summer's  day,  as  we 
peruse  from  top  to  bottom  one  of  the 
inky,  multitudinously  split  parallelepi- 
peds miscalled  a  volume.  It  is  a  queer 
realm  of  phantasmagoria  to  which  this  de- 
finition leads  us  ;  the  idealistically  mind- 
ed reader  may  wander  there  at  his  own 
sweet  will,  while  the  pedestrian  reviewer 
goes  his  ways. 

In  appraising  some  of  the  more  not- 
able new  editions  of  the  past  year,  upon 
which  the  publishers  have  expended 
time  and  money  and  taste  in  the  en- 
deavor to  make  them  beautiful  and  fit, 
this  old  notion  of  the  ideality  of  letters 
will  cheer  and  guide  us.  Yet  the  true 
book-lover  is  no  mere  Platonick,  any 
more  than  he  is  of  that  Epicurean  Stye, 
where  large-paper  editions  quite  virgin 
of  the  paper-knife  go  down  to  a  forlorn 
decay.  He  is  one  who  is  peculiarly 
aware  of  the  temperament  of  books,  — 

1  Poetry  for  Poetry's  Sake.    By  A.  C.  BRAD- 
LET.     Oxford :  The  Clarendon  Press.     1901. 

2  The  Marble  Faun.    By  NATHANIEL  HAW- 
THORNE.    (The   Unit   Books,    No.    1.)      New 
York:  Bell.     1903. 


that  misty  mid-region  where  Soul  and 
Body,  the  Actual  Book  and  its  format, 
blend  in  an  individuality  as  of  a  person. 
Such  an  one  knows  well  how  appreciably 
the  fit  embodiment  adds  to  his  joy  in  a 
beloved  author;  his  first  care  with  the 
new  edition  of  an  old  author  is  to  read 
it  through ;  and  with  him  the  consider- 
ation of  the  beauty  and  fitness  of  its 
form  is  always  secondary  to  his  plea- 
sure in  the  Actual  Book,  and  to  his  in- 
terest in  determining  whether  there  has 
been  any  change  in  the  quality  of  this 
pleasure  since  last  he  felt  it,  —  and,  if 
there  has  been,  the  reasons  and  the  ex- 
tent of  the  change. 


There  has  been  in  recent  years  no 
more  interesting  and  revolutionary  ven- 
ture in  publishing  than  that  which  is 
now  giving  life  to  the  so-called  Unit 
Books.2  The  scheme  calls  for  a  series 
of  reprints  of  classical  and  entertaining 
works  at  the  uniform  price  of  one  cent 
for  each  unit  of  twenty-five  pages,  with 
a  slight  addition  for  variation  in  bind- 
ing. The  first  two  volumes,  The  Marble 
Faun,  and  Lincoln's"  Letters  and  Ad- 
dresses, are,  in  many  respects,  admir- 
able specimens  of  book -making.  The 
paper  and  letter-press  are  decent  and 
comely,  the  binding  in  good  taste,  and 
the  editorial  notes  more  than  ordinarily 
intelligent  and  useful.  Yet  though  the 
Actual  Books  are  there,  the  true  book- 
lover,  who  is  always  something  of  a 
whimsicalist,  is  likely  to  find  the  vol- 
umes lacking  in  temperament,  and  the 

Letters  and  Addresses  of  Abraham  Lincoln. 
(The  Unit  Books,  No.  2.)  New  York :  Bell. 
1903. 


266 


Books  New  and   Old. 


melancholy  product  of  a  machine-made 
age.  In  the  little  stock-company  theatre 
under  his  shabby  hat  some  such  comedy 
as  this  is  sure  to  be  enacted :  — 

PERSONS  OF  THE  DRAMA  :  MERCATOR  ; 

BIBLIOPHILUS. 

Scene:  Mercator's  Book  Emporium. 
Mercator  solus,  to  him  Biblio- 
philus. 

Mercator.  Good-morning,  Bibliophi- 
lus,  how  can  I  serve  you  this  morning, 
sir  ? 

Bibliophilus.  Cut  me  off  four  pounds 
of  fiction,  if  you  please,  and  trim  me  up 
a  dozen  essays. 

Mercator.  Very  good,  sir ;  anything 
else,  sir? 

Bibliophilus.  No,  but  let  me  tell  you 
that  if  you  send  me  any  more  short- 
weight  histories,  as  you  did  day  before 
yesterday,  I  shall  take  my  patronage 
elsewhere. 

Mercator.  The  history  was  an  even 
nine  pounds,  sir,  as  you  ordered. 

Bibliophilus.   It  was  not ! 

Mercator.  I  will  speak  to  my  clerks, 
sir. 

(Excursions  and  alarums,  and  final- 
ly exit  Bibliophilus,  drawing  his  cloak 
about  him,  and  tapping  the  ground 
feverishly  with  his  stick  as  if  in  agi- 
tation.) 

We  may  imagine  that  Bibliophilus 
does,  indeed,  take  his  patronage  else- 
where, —  and  most  of  his  ilk  with  him, 
—  while  the  book-butcher  continues  to 
make  a  living,  and  a  fat  one,  by  catering 
to  the  needs  of  Scholasticus,  Viator,  and 
Bibliothecarius.  So  let  us  leave  them 

1  The  Works  of  Charles  Lamb.    Edited  by 
WILLIAM  MACDONALD.     In   twelve   volumes. 
Vol.  I.    The  Essays  of  Elia.    Vol.  II.    Critical 
Essays.    Vol.  III.     Last  Essays  of  Elia.     Lon- 
don :  J.  M.  Dent  &  Co. ;  New  York:  E. P.  But- 
ton &  Co.     1903. 

2  Not  the  least  admirable  and  desirable  of 
the  reprints  of  the  year  is  Mr.  Ingpen's  new 
edition  of    this   same    Autobiography,  —  that 
"  pious,     ingenious,    altogether    human     and 
worthy  book,"   as   the    atrabiliar,   honest  old 


with  their  units  and  the  rest,  and  pass 
with  Bibliophilus  to  the  perusal  of  cer- 
tain newly  reprinted  volumes  wherein 
writings  more  than  ordinarily  savored 
with  the  salt  of  personality  have  been 
embodied  in  forms  which  pretend  to  a 
like  distinction. 

n. 

At  the  risk  of  having  some  Lamb-like 
reader  wishful  to  "  get  at  our  bumps," 
we  may  venture  the  truism  that  in  all 
literature  there  is  no  book  more  vitally 
instinct  with  the  pure  essence  of  per- 
sonality than  the  Essays  of  Elia.1  Mr. 
MacDonald  has  endeavored  in  his  new 
and  complete  edition  of  Lamb  to  pro- 
duce a  definitive  edition,  comporting 
with  the  individuality  of  the  author.  As 
an  announcer  Mr.  MacDonald  interests 
us  a  good  deal.  The  superior  complete- 
ness of  his  own  edition  is  proclaimed, 
perhaps  a  bit  too  noisily,  but  he  has 
gathered  into  his  set  much  that  the  lover 
of  Lamb  would  not  willingly  forgo.  It 
is  pleasant,  for  example,  to  know  that 
he  is  to  forsake  the  narrow  path  of  pre- 
vious editors  and  include  among  Lamb's 
complete  works  some  minor  pieces  ex- 
cluded by  Mr.  Ainger's  modesty,  as  well 
as  the  lovely  volume  of  Poetry  for  Chil- 
dren. As  Leigh  Hunt  wrote,  in  that 
charming  passage  of  his  Autobiography  2 
where  the  character  of  Lamb  is  painted 
with  so  tender  a  detachment,  "  he  was 
a  great  acquaintance  of  the  little  chil- 
dren," and  his  selective  instinct  in 
choosing  their  poetry  is  in  the  highest 
degree  sound  and  fine,  and  significant 
of  character. 

Sage  of  Chelsea  called  it.  Thornton  Hunt's 
additions  to  his  father's  story  are  printed  with- 
in brackets  continuously  with  the  text ;  Mr. 
Ingpen's  own  biographical  annotation  is  terse 
and  helpful ;  and  the  two  stately,  parchment- 
backed  octavos,  with  their  many  excellent 
portraits,  are  as  judiciously  made  up  as  the 
most  difficult  Bibliophilus  could  desire. 

The  Autobiography  of  Leigh  Hunt.  Newly 
edited  by  ROGER  INGPEN.  2  vols.  New  York : 
E.  P.  Button  &  Co.  1903. 


Books  New  and   Old. 


267 


Mr.  MacDonald's  Memoir  of  Lamb, 
which  attains  the  proportion  of  a  re- 
spectable short  biography,  is  a  very  hon- 
est and  virile  piece  of  writing.  His 
Gaelic  sportiveness,  both  here  and  in 
his  excellent  ample  notes,  does  not  always 
consort  quite  amicably  with  the  Celtic 
playfulness  of  Lamb.  Some  of  his  face- 
tiae come  but  lamely  off,  and  one  likes 
to  imagine  how  Elia  (to  filch  yet  another 
phrase  from  Hunt)  would  have  "  pelted 
his  head  with  pearls."  He  is  addicted, 
too,  to  the  use  of  passing  queer  words  in 
what  he  seems  to  think  the  manner  of 
his  author  ;  and  he  accomplishes  the  ses- 
quipedalian by  the  sheer  strength  of  his 
bootstraps,  with  none  of  the  tender,  hu- 
morsome  irony  which  makes  Lamb's  dal- 
liance with  big,  old  words  so  charming. 
We  are  presented  with  many  a  morsel 
like  this :  "...  an  extreme  example, 
this,  of  flagrant  intrusion,  of  unseason- 
able ebullition ;  rapscallion  irruption  of 
the  mere  quotidian  mortal "...  Yes, 
indeed  !  Yet  we  like  the  fellow. 

For  all  his  noise,  Mr.  MacDonald's  is 
in  many  respects  the  best  brief  life  of 
Lamb  that  we  have  had.  No  other  paints 
so  convincingly,  and  with  so  little  of 
mere  quavering  sentimentality,  the  som- 
breness  and  horror  that  made  the  warp 
of  Lamb's  life.  It  reads  like  a  Greek 
tragedy  of  love  and  madness  and  valiant 
renunciation.  Some  months  before  the 
letters  to  Myra  Kelly  had  been  made 
public,  Mr.  MacDonald,  by  a  curious 
piece  of  biographic  insight,  had  recon- 
structed the  episode,  and  woven  a  new 
tragic  factor  into  the  story  of  Elia's  life. 
No  one,  not  even  Walter  Pater,  has  writ- 
ten better  of  the  transmutation  of  these 
tragic  forces  into  the  finest  humor  in  the 
world  ;  and  how  searching  and  sombre  is 
this  statement  of  Lamb's  cbaracteristic 
view  of  the  world  :  — 

"The  problematical  was  too  continu- 
ously a  dweller  in  his  own  house  —  the 
need  to  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  man, 
even  as  seen  in  the  history  of  one  inno- 
cent woman,  was  too  often  forced  upon 


his  attention  —  for  him  to  have  any  de- 
light in  the  expatiations  of  adipose  piety 
or  the  philosophic  earnestness  that  never 
knew  a  grief.  Existence  for  him  and 
for  Mary  had  been  a  gift  too  fateful  and 
dark,  too  fraught  with  a  burden  of  ques- 
tions that  could  only  be  answered  by 
tears,  for  him  ever  to  refer  with  large 
assurance  to  those  common  topics  of 
everybody  else  —  of  the  meanings  of 
life,  and  the  nature  of  man,  and  the 
ascertained  destiny  of  the  world.  He 
drew  instinctively  toward  the  particular 
things  and  the  comradeships  of  the  earth : 
the  old  places,  and  the  old  books,  and 
the  full-flavored  passages  of  old  writing 
in  them  ;  but  especially  towards  those 
human  relationships,  of  which  not  the  in- 
telligence but  the  sympathies  are  the  in- 
terpreter, the  sanction,  and  the  proof." 

Yet  Charles  Lamb  was  no  mere  dim 
doubter,  no  mere  vague-eyed  seeker  of 
sympathy.  His  was  a  head,  as  Leigh 
Hunt  declared,  worthy  of  Aristotle  or  of 
Bacon.  We  like  best  to  leave  him  in 
the  light  of  Mr.  MacDonald's  final  char, 
acterization,  which  is  quite  in  accord  with 
that  of  his  masculine  admirers  every- 
where, —  a  pure  intellect  fit  to  be  com- 
pared with  the  greatest,  a  writer  of  the 
finest  and  richest  prose,  and  the  brav- 
est man  in  the  history  of  English  let- 
ters. 

What  a  pleasure  it  would  be  to  read 
Lamb  in  folio,  so  that  the  eye  might  have 
that  luxurious  sense  of  covering  ground  as 
it  moves  along  the  amplitude  of  the  lines  ! 
Yet  as  no  publisher  has  seen  fit  to  give 
us  a  fourteen-inch  Elia,  we  may  well  be 
grateful  for  the  present  light  and  distin- 
guished edition,  with  its  excellent  print- 
ing and  dainty  binding,  —  a  bit  too  fussy 
perhaps,  but  savoring  of  personality. 
Bibliophilus  could  wish  nothing  away 
save  Mr.  Brock's  illustrations.  The  pic- 
tures are  always  quaintly  and  delicately 
drawn,  with  perhaps  as  intimate  an  im- 
aginative visualization  of  the  subtile  text 
as  is  possible  for  an  illustrator  to  attain. 
Yet,  for  all  that,  they  vulgarize  the  iin- 


Books  New  and  Old. 


perishable  and  ideal  charm  of  Elian  folk, 
as  the  sweetest  melody  jars  upon  the 
spirit  ditties  of  no  tone  which  melt  in  the 
music  of  a  true  lyric.1 

in. 

The  reader  in  this  year  of  grace  1904, 
who  shares  Lamb's  love  for  old  books 
and  the  full-flavored  passages  of  old 
writing  in  them,  will  find  much  to  engage 
him  in  the  new  editions  of  the  past  year. 
Whether  he  is  moved  by  the  affection- 
ate curiosity  of  the  amateur  of  letters, 
or  by  that  deeper  passion  which  still 
drives  many  a  man  to  seek  upon  his 
shelves  solace  for  the  barrenness  or  the 
stifled  sorrow  of  his  days,  where  shall  he 
drink  more  deeply  of  life,  or  bring  away 
a  better  cheer  than  from  old  romance 
of  adventure,  from  the  older  English 
Dramatists,  from  Fielding  and  Smollett, 
from  Don  Quixote,  or  from  the  novels 
of  Thomas  Love  Peacock  ?  2 

A  book  that  would  surely  have  glad- 
dened the  heart  of  Elia,  to  which  nothing 
quaintly  human  was  ever  alien,  is  The 
History  of  Oliver  and  Arthur,  the  oldest 
wine  in  the  newest  bottle  that  we  have 
to  taste.  After  nearly  four  centuries  of 
Stygian  obscurity  the  tale  comes  again 
bravely  from  the  press  in  a  form  full  of 
temperament ;  for  the  double-columned 
page  of  Caxton  type,  with  its  rubrica- 
tions  and  facsimiles  of  queer,  simple- 
minded  woodcuts,  is  as  close  an  approxi- 

1  Excursive  readers,   who  wish  to  consider 
further  this  attractive  question  of  the  relation 
of  the  lyric  to  its  musical  setting,  will  do  well 
to  consult  a  recently  published  volume  wherein 
the  whole  subject  is  set  forth  with  learning  and 
taste,  and  with  an  unusually  intimate  sense  of 
the  moods  of  music  and  poetry.     It  is  an  aca- 
demic dissertation,  yet  singularly  like  an  Ac- 
tual Book  :  — 

The  Elizabethan  Lyric.  By  JOHN  ERSKINE. 
New  York :  The  Columbia  University  Press. 
(The  MacmiUan  Co.)  1903. 

2  The  History  of  Oliver  and  Arthur.    Written 
in  French  in  1511,  translated  into  German  by 
WILHELM  LIELY  in  1521,  and  now  done  into 
English  by  WILLIAM  LEIGHTON   and  ELIZA 
BARRETT.    Boston  and  New  York  :  Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Co.     1903. 


mation  to  old  printing  as  has  recently 
been  seen.  The  flavor  of  the  wine  does 
not  belie  the  look  of  the  bottle.  Wilhelm 
Liely  of  Bern,  who  in  1521  turned  this 
old  tale  out  of  French  into  German,  was 
no  Malory.  He  was  rather,  if  one  may 
guess,  the  Trollope,  the  E.  P.  Roe,  the 
Mrs.  Alexander  of  his  age,  and  he  tells 
the  story  of  the  generous  friendship  and 
miraculous  adventures  of  Oliver  and  Ar- 
thur in  the  sentimental,  prosy,  and  prag- 
matical vein  of  one  who  writes  for  the 
common  reader.  This  quality,  which 
doubtless  accounted  for  the  popularity 
which  the  tale  seems  to  have  enjoyed  in 
its  century,  has  been  caught  with  con- 
siderable felicity  by  the  present  transla- 
tors, who  —  by  virtue  of  eschewing  the 
aureate  diction  affected  by  most  trans- 
lators of  Mediaeval  or  Renaissance  prose 
—  have  contrived  to  convey  from  their 
German  original  much  of  its  homely  and 
flat-footed  gait,  together  with  many  of 
its  turns  of  unconscious  humor.  In  vir- 
tue of  this  quality  and  of  the  significance 
of  the  book  in  showing  the  attitude  of  a 
Plain  Man  of  the  Renaissance  approach- 
ing and  retelling  a  marvelous  Mediaeval 
story,  this  book,  which  has  been  strange- 
ly overlooked  by  literary  historians,  will 
deeply  engage  the  interest  not  only  of 
Bibliophilus,  but  of  Scholasticus  as  well. 
The  excellent  Mermaid  Series  —  what 
memories  in  the  name  for  the  lover  of 
old  plays  !  —  is  extremely  prepossessing 

The  Mermaid  Series.  (New  thin  paper  edi- 
tion.) New  York  :  Imported  by  Charles  Scrib- 
ner's  Sons.  1903.  Marlowe,  Steele,  Congreve, 
Shirley,  Otway,  each  1  vol.  Jonson,  3  vols. 

The  Works  of  Henry  Fielding.  With  Intro- 
ductions by  G.  H.  MAYNADIER.  12  vols.  New 
York :  T.  Y.  Crowell  &  Co.  1903. 

The  Works  of  Tobias  Smollett.  With  Intro- 
duction by  G.  H.  MAYNADIER.  12  vols.  New 
York :  T.  Y.  Crowell  &  Co.  1903. 

Don  Quixote ;  by  Miguel  de  Cervantes  Saave- 
dra.  Edited  by  JAMES  FiTzMAURicE  KELLY. 
Translated  by  JOHN  ORMSBY.  4  vols.  New 
York :  T.  Y.  Crowell  &  Co.  1903. 

The  Novels  of  Thomas  Love  Peacock.  New 
York :  Imported  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 
1903. 


Books  New  and   Old. 


:>G9 


in  its  new  embodiment.  For  getting  at 
the  full,  salty  savor  of  an  old  dramaturge, 

"  So  nimble  and  so  full  of  subtle  flame," 

naught  can  compare  with  a  dog's-eared 
small  quarto.  Yet  the  man  who  per- 
sists in  squeezing  small  quartos  into  the 
side  pocket  of  his  coat,  with  a  dolorous 
distention  of  the  same,  will  be  too  fre- 
quently called  upon  to  enact  an  inglori- 
ous part  in  curtain-comedy,  to  contem- 
plate his  return  from  the  pleasantest 
ramble  without  anxiety.  Such,  an  one, 
can  he  be  but  once  brought  to  it,  will  be 
most  thankful  for  the  present  reprint,  — 
so  slim  and  insinuating.  He  will  be 
glad  to  know,  too,  that  new  volumes 
are  to  be  added,  offering  for  his  perusal 
some  of  the  best  of  the  eloquent  high- 
flown  plays  of  Shadwell  and  Dryden. 

It  is  just  possible  that  our  worthy 
Bibliophilus  may  be  disposed  to  wrinkle 
his  delicate  nose,  as  he  thrusts  it  into  the 
successive  volumes  of  the  new  editions 
of  Fielding  and  Smollett  which  Mr.  May- 
nadier  has  edited.  The  rubrication  of 
the  title-pages  may  seem  to  him  too 
gratuitous,  the  pictures,  for  all  their  firm 
and  studious  drawing,  a  bit  too  conven- 
tionally Howard  Pylean,  and  the  look 
of  the  page  too  suggestive  of  the  Six 
most  Popular  Books  of  the  Week,  to  be 
quite  the  proper  dress  for  such  roister- 
ing, full-bodied  tales  as  those  of  Jones 
and  Rory  Random.  Yet  here  again  a 
Plain  Man  may  venture  with  an  apage 
to  send  Bibliophilus  piking  home  to  the 
dust  and  dilapidation  of  his  old  editions, 
while  he  himself  sits  him  down  to  enjoy 
the  clear  large  type  and  comfortable 
lightness  of  the  new.  The  Plain  Man 
may  perhaps  find  Mr.  Maynadier's  Intro- 
ductions to  the  various  novels  somewhat 
over  ample,  but  they  are  full  of  sound 
and  readable  criticism,  which  will  help 
him,  not  only  by  the  longer  balking  of 
his  curiosity,  to  bring  a  keener  gust  to 
the  enjoyment  of  the  Actual  Books. 

Should  the  Plain  Man  rise  from  his 
reading  of  Fielding  and  Smollett  with  a 


desire  to  refresh  his  memory  of  the  in- 
comparable Book  which  was  their  chief 
exemplar  and  inspiration,  he  may  now 
procure  an  edition  of  Don  Quixote  which 
will  suit  his  purpose  admirably,  and  by 
which  even  the  querulousness  of  Bibli- 
ophilus will  be  subdued.  The  idea  of 
an  English  Don  Quixote  in  thin  and 
pocketable  volumes  is  not  a  new  one, 
but  it  was  a  wise  choice  that  selected  in 
the  present  instance  John  Ormsby's  trans- 
lation for  such  embodiment.  With  the 
exception  of  Shelton's  quaint  and  breezy 
version,  no  English  translation  of  Cer- 
vantes's  book  is  in  itself  such  delightful 
reading,  while,  by  virtue  of  the  trans- 
lator's superior  Spanish  scholarship,  it 
is  the  most  faithful  of  all.  Ormsby,  we 
recall,  was  a  private  scholar,  so  virile  and 
reticent  that  the  name  Warrington  was 
constantly  on  the  lips  of  his  friends. 
His  favorite  reading  was  always  in  the 
great  English  novelists  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  and  this,  one  thinks,  was  the 
prime  source  of  the  curious  felicity  of 
his  dealings  with  Don  Quixote.  In  his 
version  there  is  just  the  mingling  of  gus- 
to and  formality,  plain  speech  and  ornate, 
that  the  book  needs,  and  that  is  best  at- 
tained by  imbuing  one's  self  with  the 
modes  of  expression  of  Smollett  and 
Fielding.  His  style  has  always  an  old- 
time,  but  not  an  archaic,  flavor  ;  and 
no  one  else  has  dealt  so  well  with  the 
proverbial  wisdom  of  Sancho  Panza. 
The  English  Cervantist  will  be  unaffect- 
edly pleased  with  this  handy  little  set, 
and  its  component  volumes  will  often 
be  found  in  his  pocket. 

The  seven  Novels  of  Thomas  Love 
Peacock  complete  in  one  volume  seven 
inches  by  four,  with  its  pages,  numerous 
as  the  years  of  Methuselah,  bulking  to 
but  three  quarters  of  an  inch  in  thick- 
ness, is  as  big  a  book  of  its  size  as 
any  one  could  wish  to  see.  It  is  hard 
to  measure  the  joy  in  it  of  the  true-born 
Peacockian.  A  more  genial  traveling 
companion  for  sea  or  shore  than  this 
learned  whimsicalist  it  would  be  impos- 


270 


Books  New  and   Old. 


sible  to  conceive.  Nor  will  Bibliophilus 
find  the  book  lacking  in  temperament, 
for  the  soft,  intricately  stamped  leather 
cover  and  quaintly  conceived  title-page 
agree  most  harmoniously  with  the  ex- 
quisite humor,  poetic  fancy,  and  all  the 
other  kindred  qualities  of  that  light  fan- 
tastic pen  which  they  embellish. 

The  reader  who  has  drunk  his  fill  of 
Peacock's  inimitable  distillation  may 
wish  to  round  out  the  night  by  applica- 
tion to  the  good  English  ale  of  other 
Early  Victorian  and  Late  Georgian  hu- 
morists. Nothing  can  be  more  apt  for 
the  purpose  of  such  an  one  than  a  series 
of  reprints  whose  sleek  red  bodies  and 
white  labeled  backs  chime  most  conso- 
nantly with  their  rubicund  contents.1  The 
Memoirs  of  John  Mytton,  the  Napoleon 
of  English  eccentrics,  are  as  valuable  to 
students  of  the  Byronic  mood  as  they  are 
diverting  to  lovers  of  curious  reading. 
For  collateral  reading  with  this  veracious 
memoir  nothing  could  be  more  fit  than 
the  high-spirited  sporting  fiction  wherein 
R.  S.  Surtees  set  forth,  in  the  ample 
diction  of  his  sub-title,  u  The  Hunting, 
Shooting,  Racing,  Driving,  Sailing,  Eat- 
ing, Eccentric  and  Extravagant  Exploits 
of  that  Renowned  Sporting  Citizen,  Mr. 
John  Jorrocks  of  St.  Botolph  Lane  and 
Great  Coram  Street."  The  amazing  ac- 
tivity of  those  beefy  times  is  still  further 
and  more  strikingly  shown  in  the  Tour 
of  Doctor  Syntax,  and  the  other  poems 
of  William  Combe,  where  his  poetic  fac- 
ulty is  seen  to  be  no  mere  trickling  rill  in 
a  Castalian  meadow,  but  a  spring  freshet 
and  inundation.  Yet  in  all  the  prodi- 
gious submerged  area  of  his  doggerel  ver- 
sifying there  is  hardly  a  dull  or  a  nerve- 

1  Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  John  Mytton.  By 
NIMBOD.  With  colored  plates  by  H.  ALKEN  and 
T.  J.  RAWLINS.  The  Life  of  a  Sportsman.  By 
NIMROD.  With  colored  plates  by  H.  ALKEN. 
The  Tour  of  Doctor  Syntax,  The  Second  Tour  of 
J)octor  Syntax,  The  History  of  Johnny  Quae 
Genus,  The  Dance  of  Life,  each  1  vol.  The 
English  Dance  of  Death,  2  vols.  All  with  col- 
ored illustrations  by  THOMAS  ROWLANDSON. 
Handly  Cross.  By  R.  S.  SUKTEES.  With  col- 


less  line  ;  and  nowhere  in  the  rapid  poetic 
narrative  is  there  a  serious  discrepancy 
from  Rowlandson's  vigorous  Hogarth- 
ian  plates,  which  it  was  written  to  ac- 
company. 

If,  during  this  ambrosial  night  and 
long  potation  of  the  pride  of  life,  any 
reader  feel  sharp  compunction  stir  within 
him,  he  may  find  penitential  reading  in 
the  Bay  Psalm  Book.2  It  was  a  sublime 
adventure  that  called  "  the  thirty  pious 
and  learned  ministers  "  then  in  New  Engt 
land  to  set  all  the  Psalms  of  David  over 
into  English  metre ;  and  it  is  a  worthy 
ambition  that  leads  the  present  publish- 
ers to  call  in  the  aid  of  Old  Sol  —  sub- 
tlest of  printers  —  in  reproducing  the 
first  volume  printed  in  America.  The 
metrical  versions,  not  smoothed  "  with 
the  f  weetnes  of  any  paraphrafe,"  breathe 
more  piety  than  poetry  ;  but  they  are  full 
of  the  very  quintessential  spirit  of  quaint- 
ness,  and  the  page  lacks  only  the  savor 
of  must  in  the  nostrils  of  being  an  ideal 
setting.  Yet  the  last  impression  we  bring 
away  from  the  book  is  not  that  of  re- 
moteness and  queerness,  rather  it  is  a 
feeling  of  the  actuality  and  sempiterni- 
ty  of  what  the  men  of  those  times  were 
pleased  to  call  the  motions  of  the  Soul. 
Thus  we  are  pleased  to  learn  by  the  first 
words  of  the  preface  of  the  pious  and 
learned  ministers,  that  even  in  those 
days  church  music  was  not  always  a 
cause  of  congregational  concord.  For 
they  tell  us  :  "  The  finging  of  Pfalmes, 
though  it  breath  forth  nothing  but  holy 
harmony  and  melody :  yet  f uch  is  the 
fubtilty  of  the  enemie  and  the  enmity  of 
our  nature  againft  the  Lord,  &  his  wayes, 
that  our  hearts  can  finde  matter  of  dif- 

ored  plates  and  woodcuts  by  JOHN  LEECH. 
Jorrocks'  Jaunts  and  Jollities.  By  R.  S.  SDB- 
TEES.  With  colored  illustrations  by  H.  ALKEN. 
New  York  :  D.  Appleton  &  Co.  1903. 

2  The  Bay  Psalm  Book.  Being  a  facsimile 
Reprint  of  the  First  Edition  Printed  by  STE- 
PHEN DATE  At  Cambridge  in  New  England 
in  1640.  With  an  Introduction  by  WILBER- 
FORCE  EAMES.  New  York :  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co. 
1903. 


Books  New  and  Old. 


271 


cord  in  this  harmony,  and  crotchets  of 
divifion  in  this  holy  melody." 

IV. 

To  pass  from  the  pleasant,  busy  land- 
scape, through  which  the  reader  of  the 
books  we  have  been  considering  progresses 
so  wholesomely,  to  the  devious  coverts 
of  spiritual  dismay  which  await  him  in 
the  poems  of  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  is 
a  parlous  affair.  Yet  the  present  pub- 
lication of  a  notable  edition  of  Rossetti's 
poems,1  illustrated  from  his  own  designs, 
forces  an  issue  which  even  a  peace-lov- 
ing man  like  Bibliophilus  cannot  dare  to 
shirk.  Let  us  follow  him  as,  pulling  the 
bolt  upon  his  books,  he  grasps  a  stout 
staff,  —  which  may  be  useful, — and  fares 
to  his  adventure. 

In  nearly  all  of  its  mechanical  and 
editorial  details  this  edition  is  admirable. 
The  page  is  tall  and  noble-seeming,  the 
paintings  excellently  reproduced,  and  the 
binding  in  commendable  taste.  Miss 
Gary  has  done  her  work  well.  One 
wishes  that  more  of  Rossetti's  paintings 
might  have  been  offered,  and  that  some 
of  those  given  us  might  have  been  dis- 
posed in  a  little  easier  contiguity  to  the 
poems  they  carnify.  The  propriety  of 
printing  introductory  notes  continuously 
with  the  poetical  text  and  in  the  same 
type  is  questionable  ;  but  the  notes  them- 
selves are  more  than  commonly  intel- 
ligent and  sensible.  All  in  all,  by  virtue 
of  the  presentation  of  both  poems  and 
pictures,  the  chronological  arrangement 
of  them  together  with  many  earlier  ver- 
sions, and  the  judicious  statement  of  sig- 
nificant biographical  details,  this  is  the 
best  edition  that  we  know  of,  to  be  studied 
by  a  person  wishing  to  get  at  the  actual 
Rossetti.  It  is,  precisely,  this  Actual 
Rossetti  that  will  engage  Bibliophilus  and 
his  stout  staff. 

For  our  final  impression  of  the  book  is 
that  it  contains  the  mongrel  art  of  a  man 
whom  a  mixed  ancestry  had  deprived  of 

1  The  Poems  of  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti,  with 
illustrations  from  his  own  designs.  Edited  by 


the  deep-rooted  imaginative  energy  of 
racial  integrity,  at  the  same  time  that 
it  endowed  him  with  the  wistful,  brief 
fecundity  which  so  often  appears  in  the 
hybrid.  In  Rossetti's  work,  poetry  and 
painting  were  strangely  interfused,  and 
in  this  arrangement  of  it  the  pictorial 
quality  of  his  writing  is  strikingly  mani- 
fest, and  the  relation  of  the  quality  of  his 
art  to  the  quality  of  his  mind  becomes 
clear.  Despite  Miss  Gary's  and  other 
evidence  of  his  bursts  of  epistolary  ani- 
mation, we  do  not  get  over  the  notion 
that  he  was  a  moody,  preoccupied  man. 
Through  this  very  preoccupation  his  pas- 
sionate dream  of  the  world  became  deeply 
colored  and  rich  in  beautiful  detail.  The 
depth  of  coloring  and  beauty  of  detail 
appear  equally  in  his  pictures  and  in  his 
poems.  But  in  his  pictures  these  quali- 
ties are  adapted  to  the  development  of  a 
composed  theme,  while  in  his  poems  — 
save  in  sonnets  where  structure  is  given 
in  the  form,  and  in  a  few  tales  like  the 
King's  Tragedy  where  it  is  given  in  the 
subject  —  we  have  only  a  series  of  pic- 
turesque moments  of  arrested  expression, 
slackly  joined  by  an  under-running  mood. 
The  crystallizing  heat  of  the  true  poetic 
fire  is  not  there.  We  hear  his  sad  music 
with  its  ravishing  division  ;  we  are  sub- 
jected to  the  witchery  of  a  spell  as  sedu- 
cing as  Lady  Lilith's ;  yet,  with  all  its 
glamour,  no  poetry  of  this  sort,  so  devoid 
of  initial  poetic  energy,  has  ever  proved 
more  than  a  beautiful,  short-lived  hybrid. 
The  reader  of  this  new  edition  will  not 
see  in  its  queer  interfusion  of  poetry  and 
painting  any  conscious  and  premeditat- 
ed Anderstreben,  or  Wagnerian  striving 
after  the  effect  of  mingled  arts ;  rather 
he  will  see  a  mind  in  which  the  visualiz- 
ing faculty  of  the  painter  and  the  senti- 
mentalizing faculty  of  the  poet  are  inex- 
tricably tangled  in  a  mystical  and  un- 
healthy temperament ;  in  which  neither 
is  of  sufficient  independent  vigor  to  be 
applied  quite  independently.  As  the 

ELISABETH  LUTHER  GARY.  2  vols.  New  York : 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons.     1903. 


272 


Books  New  and  Old. 


result  of  this  he  will  find  a  dispropor- 
tionate amount  of  imagery  in  the  poems, 
and  an  equally  disproportionate  amount 
of  sentiment  in  the  pictures.  Where  the 
poem  and  the  picture  are  closely  linked 
together  the  effect  is  startling  and  phan- 
tasmagoric ;  and  this  will  be  the  interest- 
ing and  characteristic,  if  not  the  attrac- 
tive thing  about  Rossetti  to  the  men  of 
the  more  classically  minded  age  which  is 
likely  to  succeed  our  own.  To  romantic 
sensibilities  easily  touched  by  the  wist- 
fulness  of  beauty,  or  to  shadowy  souls 
who  go  mournfully  adown  the  world, 

"  Bipae  ulterioris  amore," 
the  appeal  of  the  Blessed  Damozel  is  the 
same  whether  she  be  painted  in  words 
or  in  pigments.  The  malign  light,  as 
of  another  world  than  ours  of  the  sun,  in 
which  Beata  Beatrix  sits  ugly,  unwhole- 
some, and  forlorn  is  the  same  that  baffles 
and  distorts  our  vision  in  the  House  of 
Life,  —  the  same  that  Dr.  Johnson  in  his 
Elysian  conversation  with  Mr.  William 
Watson  reprobated  so  severely. 

v. 

"  The  faces  of  the  Madonnas  are  be- 
yond the  discomposure  of  passion,  and 
their  very  draperies  betoken  an  Elysian 
atmosphere  where  wind  never  blew." 
So  wrote  Edward  FitzGerald  in  one  of 
his  casual,  imperishable  letters  ;  and  how 
good  it  is  to  come  up  out  of  the  dim  and 
troubled  places,  whither  our  pursuit  of 
Bibliophilus  has  led  us,  into  the  upper 
air,  the  calm  and  quietude  of  high  art, 
there  to  hear  one  discoursing  of  great 
things  simply,  in  a  style  as  pure  and  liv- 
ing as  ever  mirrored  the  mind  of  a  man 
of  genius :  — 

"  E  quindi  uscimmo  a  riveder  le  stelle." 

To  the  zeal  of  FitzGerald's  authorized 
publishers,  and  to  the  pious  care  of  his 
friend  Mr.  Aldis  Wright,  we  owe  a  lux- 
urious definitive  edition  of  his  complete 
works  in  seven  octavo  volumes.1  It  would 

1  Letters  and  Literary  Remains  of  Edward 
FitzGerald.  7  vols.  London  and  New  York : 
Macmillan.  1902-3. 


have  startled  the  recluse  of  Woodbridge 
could  he  in  his  retired  and  unlaborious 
days  have  foreseen  such  a  monument 
erected  from  the  materials  of  his  daily 
literary  diversions.  One  who,  already 
knowing  his  FitzGerald  well,  is  lured  by 
the  dignified  page  and  artfully  contrived 
temperament  of  the  set  into  a  thorough 
re-reading,  so  to  taste  again  and  re-mea- 
sure his  joy  in  the  Actual  Books,  will  be 
not  so  much  startled  as  more  deeply  de- 
lighted and  impressed. 

Beginning  with  the  four  volumes  dl 
the  letters,  it  is  pleasant  to  notice  that 
the  letters  to  Fanny  Kemble  have  been 
disposed  in  their  proper  chronological 
places,  thus  giving  to  the  collection  some- 
thing of  the  completeness  and  continuity 
of  autobiography,  and  compensating  in 
a  measure  for  Mr.  Wright's  extreme  re- 
ticence in  the  matter  of  biographical  an- 
notation. Of  the  irresistible  personal 
charm  of  the  letters  it  is  as  needless  to 
speak  here,  as  it  is  impertinent  to  dis- 
course at  large  of  the  reality  of  learning, 
the  precision  and  intensity  of  taste,  the 
lively  humanity,  which  everywhere  in- 
form them.  It  is  enough  to  say  that 
they  are  of  the  priceless  Actual  Books 
of  the  world. 

When  one  comes  to  the  volumes  of 
the  translations  of  -*Eschylus  and  Sopho- 
cles and  Calderon  he  is  newly  filled  with 
admiration  for  the  mingled  unction  and 
grandeur  of  an  English  dramatic  style, 
which  in  its  harmonious  union  of  racy, 
homespun  speech  with  poetic  phrases 
that  go  like  arrows  to  the  gold  is  nearer 
to  the  inapproachable  Shakespearean 
style  than  that  of  any  other  dramatic 
writer  in  English  for  a  hundred 'years. 
Nor  will  he  complete  the  reading  with- 
out an  admiration  still  more  profound 
for  the  intellectual  force  that  would  con- 
vey into  English  both  the  pathos  and  the 
ethos  of  alien  drama,  so  fully  and  firmly, 
and  with  so  little  loss.  It  is  not  easy  to 
exaggerate  the  importance  of  such  work. 
For  all  the  long  list  of  admirable  trans- 
lations that  have  appeared  in  our  tongue 


Books  New  and  Old. 


273 


since  King  Alfred  set  so  high  a  standard 
in  the  translator's  art,  we  are  still  far 
behind  the  Germans  in  the  wealth  of 
translated  literature  which  we  possess. 
It  is  probably  not  too  much  to  affirm 
that  there  is  no  considerable  piece  of  the 
world's  literature  which  cannot  be  found 
done  into  German  not  only  adequately, 
but  brilliantly,  —  naturalized,  as  it  were. 
The  part  played  by  such  an  inheritance 
in  enriching  national  culture  is  incalcu- 
lable. 

It  is  a  fair  question  whether,  from  the 
suffrage  of  the  centuries,  these  free  dra- 
matic translations  may  not  appear  to  be 
a  service  to  English  literature  greater 
than  the  perfectly  phrased  and  musical 
rendering  of  the  blasphemous  Persian 
Horace,  greater  than  the  faultless  Eu- 
phranor,  with  its  exquisitely  drawn  pic- 
ture of  young  English  manhood,  greater, 
even,  than  the  incomparable  letters.  At 
any  rate,  these  two  volumes,  with  their 
dozen  of  plays,  serve  to  put  FitzGerald 
quite  out  of  that  polite  company  of  liter- 
ary idlers  to  which  he  is  so  often  rele- 
gated. Despite  his  modest  disclaiming, 
they  give  evidence  of  a  scholarship  be- 
side which  slovenly  and  ill-assimilated 
learning  is  seen  for  what  it  is,  and  of  a 
vital  imaginative  realization  which  could 
only  have  been  attained  by  the  strictest 
and  most  searching  thought  in  a  mind 
of  unusual  native  power.  Furthermore, 
it  is  a  good  subject  for  psychological 
inquiry  by  some  earnest  young  man, 
whether  thei'e  is  not  actually  as  much 
volitional  energy  —  as  much  overcom- 
ing of  organic  inhibitions  —  involved  in 
translating  a  difficult  play  from  Greek 
or  Spanish  as  in  taking  a  city. 

The  character  of  Old  Fitz  emerges 
from  this  monumental  collection  of  his 
classic  "  scribblings  "  less  eccentric,  more 
human,  more  melancholy  than  he  has 
sometimes  seemed  to  essayists  and  bio- 


graphers who  have  not  been  forgetful  of 
the  popular  appeal  of  lettered  eccentri- 
city. We  know  him  for  a  sturdy  senti- 
mentalist, who  could  ignore  Rossetti  and 
rail  at  Mrs.  Browning,  yet  weep  over 
Sophocles,  Virgil,  and  Crabbe.  If  he 
was  "  eccentric  "  it  was  largely  because 
he  preferred  a  breezy  human  talk  with 
the  captain  of  his  schooner  to  being 
bored  in  a  parlor  ;  the  first-rate  in  litera- 
ture to  the  third-rate  ;  God's  country  to 
man's  town. 

As  we  by  aid  of  the  letters  share  his 
mood  from  his  ardent,  friendly  youth 
down  to  his  serene  and  solitary  old  age, 
we  notice  how  tenaciously  he  held  to  the 
old  friends  and  the  old  books ;  how,  as 
death  and  inevitable  estrangement  did 
their  mortal  work,  he  more  and  more 
found  in  these  old  books  support  against 
the  failing  and  angustation  of  his  life. 

"  I  read  of  mornings,"  he  says,  "  the 
same  old  books  over  again,  for  I  have 
no  command  of  new  ones :  Walk  with 
my  great  black  dog  of  an  afternoon,  and 
at  evening  sit  with  open  windows  up  to 
which  China  roses  climb,  with  my  pipe, 
while  the  black-birds  and  thrushes  begin 
to  rustle  bedwards  in  the  garden,  and 
the  nightingale  to  have  the  neighbor- 
hood to  herself."  He  was  the  sincerest, 
sanest,  most  constant  Book-lover  since 
Lamb. 

It  is  a  moved  and  mellowed  Biblioph- 
ilus  that  rises  from  this  survey  and  pere- 
grination defauteuil,  and  proceeds  with 
slippered  shuffling  to  his  bed.  The  Ac- 
tual Books  that  have  taken  place  within 
him  have  left  him  the  breath  of  a  richer 
being,  and  stirred  him  with  the  undula- 
tions of  a  deeper  self.  So  let  us  leave 
him,  stepping  bedwards  with  no  evil  in 
his  heart ;  none  toward  those  wan,  sad 
women  of  the  painter-poet ;  toward  Mer- 
cator  and  his  Units,  none. 

Ferris  Greenslet. 


VOL.  xcin.  —  NO.  556. 


18 


274 


Books  New  and   Old. 


THE  editor  of  the  Contemporary  Men 
The  Oontem-  °f  Letters  Series l  announces 

SlTene^e-  that  its  PurPose  is  to  P™' 
ries.  vide  brief  but  comprehensive 

sketches,  biographical  and  critical,  of  liv- 
ing writers  and  of  those  who,  though  dead, 
may  still  properly  be  regarded  as  belong- 
ing to  our  time.  European  as  well  as 
English  and  American  men  of  letters  are 
to  be  included,  so  as  to  give  a  survey  of 
the  intellectual  and  artistic  life  of  a  cos- 
mopolitan age.  It  is  too  soon  to  hazard 
a  guess  whether  this  new  venture  will  seri- 
ously dispute  the  territory  now  occupied 
by  the  well-known  English  and  American 
Men  of  Letters  Series.  Externally,  as 
compared  with  them,  the  new  volumes 
are  evidently  to  be  much  more  brief,  con- 
taining scarcely  more  than  twenty  to 
twenty-five  thousand  words.  Their  typo- 
graphy is  unusually  attractive. 

The  critical  work  of  the  authors  of  the 
first  two  volumes  issued  is  already  fami- 
liar to  readers  of  the  Atlantic.  Mr. 
Boynton's  easy  command  of  the  resources 
of  sound  objective  criticism  is  seen  to 
good  advantage  in  his  study  of  Bret 
Harte.  Independence  of  attitude,  clarity 
and  precision  of  treatment  characterize 
it  throughout.  The  skillful,  if  somewhat 
over-generous  use  of  illustrative  quota- 
tions supports  his  position,  and  as  an 
assessment  of  the  value  of  Bret  Harte's 
stories,  Mr.  Boynton's  book  leaves  little 
for  the  Judgment  Day  to  complete.  For 
it  is  doubtless  true,  as  Mr.  Boynton  re- 
marks, that  Bret  Harte's  talent  was  not 
quite  of  the  first  kind,  and  that  "  he  had 
one  brilliant  vision  and  spent  the  rest  of 
his  life  in  reminding  himself  of  it."  One 
cannot  quarrel  with  the  essential  justice 
of  this  estimate.  But  in  sketching  Bret 
Harte's  personality,  Mr.  Boynton's  right- 
eous and  almost  petulant  resentment  of 
the  elder  author's  idleness,  extravagance, 
and  irregularity  seems  to  blind  him,  mo- 

1  Contemporary  Men  of  Letters  Series.  Edited 
by  WILLIAM  ASPENWALL  BRADLEY. 

Bret  Harte.  By  HENRY  W.  BOYNTON.  New 
York:  McClure,  Phillips  &  Co.  1903. 


mentarily,  to  other  traits  that  also  belong 
in  the  picture.  Less  truth  would  have 
been  somehow  more  true.  Hazlitt  had 
a  friend  who  bound  Burke's  Reflections 
on  the  French  Revolution  and  Paine's 
Rights  of  Man  into  one  volume,  claiming 
that  together  they  made  a  very  good 
book.  If  by  some  lucky  accident  Mr. 
Howells's  delightful  reminiscences  of 
Bret  Harte  in  the  December  Harper's 
could  be  bound  up  with  Mr.  Boynton's 
study,  we  should  have  an  excellent  com- 
posite portrait  of  the  author  of  Dickens  in 
Camp  and  the  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat. 

Compared  with  Mr.  Boynton's  cool 
expertness  in  walking  around  his  object 
and  making  swift  sketches  of  it,  Mr. 
Greenslet's  book  on  Walter  Pater  re- 
presents criticism  of  the  "  laborious  ori- 
ent  ivory  "  order  of  workmanship.  It  is 
wrought  with  true  inwardness,  consum- 
mate refinement,  a  happy  ingenuity,  and 
the  merest  touch,  here  and  there,  of  pre- 
ciosity. Like  Pater's  own  writing,  it  is 
intended  for  the  judicious  and  attentive 
reader,  for  "  modern  young  men  of  an 
uncommercial  turn."  The  little  book 
invites  and  rewards  the  very  closest 
scrutiny.  If  in  certain  passages  there 
are  traces  of  a  preference  for  the  "  hu- 
manistic "  rather  than  the  human,  and 
for  the  superfine  rather  than  the  fine, 
these  are  faults  which  in  our  day  of  dic- 
tated composition  and  of  blurred  sense 
for  literary  values  may  almost  pass  for 
virtues.  The  third  and  fifth  chapters, 
devoted  to  Criticism  of  Art  and  Let- 
ters and  The  New  Cyrenaicism,  contain 
especially  valuable  contributions  to  the 
intelligent  study  of  Pater.  Mr.  Greens- 
let  does  not  lack  audacity,  as  witne-ss  his 
clever  defense  of  his  paradox  that  Pater 
is  essentially  a  humorous  writer.  Of  his 
many  felicitous  passages  this  description 
of  the  "  African  "  quality  of  Pater's  prose 
must  serve  as  a  single  example  :  — 

Walter  Pater.  By  FERRIS  GREENSLET.  New 
York:  McClure,  Phillips  &  Co.  1903. 


Books  New  and   Old. 


275 


"  Pater's  prose  is  obviously  not  Attic 
prose.  Matthew  Arnold  and  Cardinal 
Newman,  among  the  Victorians,  came 
nearer  to  that,  and  how  different  they  are 
from  Pater  !  Nor  is  it  Asiatic  ;  it  has  lit- 
tle of  De  Quincey's  florid  luxuriance,  his 
Ciceronian  rhythms,  and  Persian  pomp. 
To  keep  to  the  figure  for  suggestion 
rather  than  definition,  Pater's  style  is 
African  in  its  flavour.  It  is  a  character- 
istic product  of  an  Alexandrine  society, 
too  urbane  ever  to  be  grandiloquent,  yet 
too  curious  in  its  scholarship,  too  profuse 
of  its  sympathies  to  be  quite  content  with 
simple,  Addisonian  clarity." 

In  pages  like  these  Mr.  Greenslet 
not  only  betrays  the  secret  of  Pater's 
charm  for  the  Paterian,  but  brings  his 
author  into  such  clearly  apprehended  re- 
lations to  the  great  world  of  letters  that 
the  very  infirmities  of  Pater's  style  and 
the  defects  in  his  scheme  of  things  are 
discreetly  manifested.  It  may  be  pos- 
sible, after  a  score  or  two  of  years,  to 
write  more  positively  than  Mr.  Greens- 
let  has  done  concerning  Pater's  influence 
upon  his  generation,  but  Pater  will  be  for- 
tunate if  he  finds  another  critic  of  such 
catholic  scholarship  and  such  affectionate 
intimacy  of  interpretation.  B.  P. 

THERE  could  hardly  be  a  more  curi- 

A  Novel  Ex-  ous  expression  of  the  modern 
periment  in         .       . r         ••..•.         •       «•     j 
Poetry.          scientific  spirit  than  is  afford- 
ed by  the  preface  of  Mr.  Shaler's  recent 
work.1 

In  youth  he  has,  he  admits,  loved 
poetry  and  written  verses.  Thereafter 
he  has  been  more  and  more  completely 
diverted  from  such  addictions  by  enthu- 
siasm for  scientific  studies.  Shakespeare 
has  long  since  become  tedious  to  him, 
and  he  "  has  not  willingly  visited  a  thea- 
tre for  forty  years."  Nevertheless,  he 
believes  that  his  imagination  has  con- 
tinued to  ripen  by  exercise  upon  scien- 
tific themes.  He  believes  that  a  scien- 

1  Elizabeth  of  England.  A  Dramatic  Ro- 
mance. In  Five  Parts.  By  N.  S.  SHALEK, 
Professor  of  Geology  in  Harvard  University. 


list's  progressive  indifference  to  literature 
(he  naturally  cites  the  case  of  Darwin) 
is  due  not  to  loss  of  faculty,  but  simply 
to  preoccupation.  This  belief,  which  the 
lay  intelligence  might  be  willing  to  let 
stand  as  a  conviction,  Mr.  Shaler  has 
wished  to  put  to  the  proof,  for  his  own 
satisfaction.  Coming  to  the  conclusion 
(with  the  advice,  as  he  says,  of  "  those 
well-informed  in  the  matter  ")  that  the 
Elizabethan  dramatic  form  would  be 
best  for  his  purpose,  he  has  produced  the 
present  "  romance."  After  some  experi- 
menting with  prose  "  the  writing  began  to 
take  shape  as  heroic  verse,  which  at  once 
proved  to  be  an  easier  and  more  sustain- 
ing mode  of  expression  than  prose."  At 
this  point  we  come  to  one  of  the  most  in- 
teresting details  of  the  transaction.  The 
romance  was  written  at  odd  intervals,  but 
"  it  soon  became  evident  that  the  compo- 
sition was,  in  a  way,  continued  from  day 
to  day  in  the  region  below  the  plane  of 
consciousness,  appearing  only  when  at- 
tention was  directed  to  it." 

This  is  a  sound  doctrine  of  literary 
composition,  and  has,  no  doubt,  a  true 
analogy  in  the  processes  by  which  im- 
portant advances  in  science  are  made. 
But  it  is  not  quite  clear  that  Mr.  Shaler's 
long  exercise  of  the  scientific  imagination 
has  directly  affected  his  present  exercise 
of  the  poetic  imagination.  Despite  the 
reliable  assurance  that  the  author  has 
made  little  conscious  preparation  for  the 
work,  by  way  either  of  special  research 
or  of  practice  in  writing  blank  verse,  one 
cannot  take  the  product  as  that  of  a 
literary  novice.  Mr.  Shaler's  instinct 
for  poetic  expression  was  early  aroused, 
and  has  been  developed  by  a  perfectly 
normal,  though  sub-conscious  or  "  sub- 
liminal "  process.  His  knowledge  of  life, 
his  general  efficiency,  have  been  increased 
by  experience,  and  his  sense  of  literary 
form  has  been  singularly  tenacious.  From 
these  unusual  conditions  we  cannot  be 

Boston  and  New  York :  Houghton,  Mifflin  & 
Co.  1903. 


276 


Some  Books  about   Cities. 


surprised  that  an  unusual  product  has 
emerged.  That  absorbed  application  to 
scientific  study  need  not  prevent  the  par- 
tial development  of  a  preexistent  literary 
faculty  is  abundantly  proved  by  this  ex- 
periment. 

We  say  "  partial  development,"  be- 
cause it  is  evident  that  Mr.  Shaler's  nat- 
ural faculty  for  poetic  expression  might 
have  been  further  developed  by  conscious 
and  continued  effort.  In  structure  it 
is  evident  that  this  study  does  not  pro- 
ceed from  the  hand  of  a  writer  practiced 
in  dramatic  composition.  The  parts  of 
the  romance,  though  they  are  given  the 
five-act  form,  cannot  be  called  in  any 
strict  sense  plays.  They  lack  the  com- 
pactness of  dialogue,  the  rapidity  of  ac- 
tion, and,  what  is  more  important,  the 
organic  structure,  of  real  drama.  Mr. 
Shaler  has,  he  tells  us,  omitted  something 
like  one  third  of  his  material  as  it  stood 
in  the  original  manuscript.  What  re- 
mains might  still,  under  the  influence  of 
a  controlled  as  well  as  spontaneous  crea- 
tive faculty,  be  advantageously  subjected 
to  further  compression.  Much  of  his  po- 
etic matter  is  yet  in  solution,  and  would 
be  greatly  more  effective  if,  by  that  right 
touch  which  only  experience  can  confer, 
it  had  been  fairly  precipitated.  But  the 
experimenter  does  not  profess  to  be  an 
accomplished  poet,  and  is  right  in  sup- 
posing that  his  work  possesses,  though 
not  a  supreme,  a  genuine  poetic  quality. 

The  fourth  part,  The  Death  of  Essex, 


most  nearly  approximates  the  form  and 
the  substance  of  a  veritable  drama.  It 
has  greater  unity  of  action,  and  a  more 
effective  climax.  Its  verse  is  more  preg- 
nant and  stately  :  one  might  have  said 
more  studied,  if  the  author  had  not  as- 
sured us  to  the  contrary.  One  finds 
it,  indeed,  not  a  little  difficult  to  read  a 
speech  like  this  of  Elizabeth's  as  the  im- 
provisation of  a  person  unskilled  in  the 
poetic  craft,  unaware  of  any  resemblance 
between  his  manner  and  that  of  the  great 
period  of  English  poetic  drama :  — 

"  But  he 's  a  man 

With  noble  gentleness  to  move  all  hearts. 
He  strides  not  with  his  fellows,  for  his  feet 
Are  winged  with  eager  thoughts.    The  ancient 

hills, 

The  common  mount  with  panting,  are  to  him 
But  stepping  stones  which  space  unnoticed  voids 
That  part  him  from  his  goals.     So  on  he  goes, 
An  Atlas  seeking  for  some  world  that  waits 
His  might  to  stay  its  fall,  or  else  to  hurl 
Some  blessed  orb  to  ruin.     For  such  will 
There  is  no  place  within  this  balanced  realm 
Where  might  needs  ward  of  reason." 

Of  the  lyrics  with  which  the  dialogue  is 
interspersed  it  can  only  be  said  that  they 
betray  more  readily  than  the  blank  verse 
that  method  of  improvisation  which  the 
author  has  not  hesitated  to  avow,  even 
to  insist  upon.  As  a  most  interesting 
exercise  in  a  somewhat  irregular  form 
of  dramatic  composition,  this  work  can 
hardly  fail  to  be  read  with  attention ; 
and  more  than  this  its  author  does  not 
ask  of  us.  H.  W.  B. 


SOME  BOOKS  ABOUT  CITIES. 


IT  is  no  longer  a  national  virtue  to 
mind  one's  own  business.  The  globe- 
trotter, it  seems,  has  not  trotted  for  no- 
thing, nor  the  white  man  carried  his  bur- 
den in  vain.  We  feel  a  neighborly  con- 
cern not  only  in  the  earthquakes  and 
famines,  the  wars  and  rumors  of  wars  of 


Dan  and  Beersheba,  but  in  their  little 
domestic  privacies.  Yet  with  this  in- 
quisitiveness  as  to  the  holes  and  corners 
of  creation,  our  main  interest  is  reserved 
for  the  typical  cities.  Expansion  is  a 
beautiful  word,  but  the  force  which  we 
actually  count  upon  to  advance  the  spe- 


Some  Books  about   Cities. 


277 


cies  is  centripetal.  A  great  city,  more- 
over, cannot  long  be  a  congregation  with- 
out becoming  a  personality.  That  con- 
noisseur in  subtle  emotions,  Mr.  Arthur 
Symons,  is  among  other  things  a  collector 
of  cities,  and  has  just  brought  together  a 
series  of  papers  l  dealing  with  the  more 
important  treasures  of  his  collection. 
His  standard  of  choice  has  been  personal 
and  exacting.  "  I  have  come  upon  many 
cities,"  he  says,  "  which  have  left  me 
indifferent,  perhaps  through  some  acci- 
dent in  my  way  of  approach ;  at  any  rate, 
they  had  nothing  to  say  to  me  :  Madrid, 
for  instance,  and  Vienna,  and  St.  Peters- 
burg, and  Berlin.  It  would  be  impossible 
for  me  to  write  about  these  cities :  I  should 
have  nothing  to  say.  But  certain  other 
cities,  Rome,  Venice,  Seville,  how  I  have 
loved  them,  what  a  delight  it  was  to  me  to 
be  alive,  and  living  in  them !  . . .  Moscow, 
Naples,  how  I  have  hated  them,  how  I 
have  suffered  in  them,  merely  because  I 
was  there  ;  and  how  clearly  I  see  them 
still,  with  that  sharp  memory  of  discom- 
fort !  "  The  writer  of  these  sentences 
is  not  quite  an  English  D'  Annunzio,  but 
one  cannot  deny  that  he  possesses  that 
abnormal  form  of  susceptibility  which  is 
always  on  the  fearful  edge  of  satiety. 
To  such  a  nature  even  a  city  may  be 
an  object  of  voluptuous  pursuit,  and  the 
record  of  its  adventures  will  not  be  free 
from  an  element  of  almost  pathological 
interest. 

Mr.  Symons  has  not  been  unconscious 
of  the  perilousness'of  his  chosen  method. 
He  has  "  tried  to  do  more  than  write  a 
kind  of  subjective  diary,  in  which  the 
city  should  be  an  excuse  for  his  own  sen- 
sations." In  this  attempt  he  has  suc- 
ceeded quite  as  well  as  we  should  care 
to  have  him,  for  he  is,  at  best  and  at 
worst,  an  individuality.  Moreover,  he  is 
not  at  all  a  person  of  die-away  intelli- 
gence. The  present  book  has  plenty  of 
vigorous  passages,  the  product  of  that 
sound  critical  sense  which  Mr.  Symons 

1  Cities.  By  ARTHUR  SYMONS.  New  York  : 
James  Pott  &  Co.  1903. 


has  so  often  shown  in  another  kind  of 
work.  And  in  seizing  upon  the  salient 
element  of  appeal  in  his  chosen  cities, 
he  by  no  means  confines  himself  to  a  re- 
cord of  vague  emotions.  "Everything  in 
Rome,"  he  says,  for  example,  "  impresses 
by  its  height,  by  an  amplitude  of  adjusted 
proportions,  which  is  far  more  than  the 
mere  equivalent  of  vast  space  covered, 
as  in  London,  invisible  for  its  very  size. 
The  pride  of  looking  down,  the  pride  of 
having  something  to  look  up  to,  are  alike 
satisfied  for  the  Romans,  by  what  nature 
and  art  have  done  for  Rome."  The  chap- 
ters on  Rome,  Venice,  and  Seville,  records 
of  fond  enthusiasms,  are,  in  the  nature  of 
things,  pleasanter  to  read  than  the  rest ; 
they  are,  perhaps,  more  profitable,  as  love 
is  more  profitable  than  hatred.  A  sen- 
tence or  two  from  the  paper  on  Moscow 
will  serve  to  suggest  the  pictorial  quality 
of  the  author's  descriptions,  and  the  acute 
discomfort  to  which  his  sensitiveness 
makes  him  liable  :  "  Colours  shriek  and 
flame ;  the  Muscovite  eye  sees  only  by 
emphasis  and  by  contrast ;  red  is  com- 
pleted either  by  another  red  or  by  bright 
blue.  There  are  no  shades,  no  reticences, 
no  modulations.  The  restaurants  are 
filled  with  the  din  of  vast  mechanical  or- 
gans, with  drums  and  cymbals  ;  a  great 
bell  clashes  against  a  chain  on  all  the 
trams,  to  clear  the  road ;  the  music  which 
one  heai'S  is  a  ferocity  of  brass.  The 
masons  who  build  the  houses  build  in 
top-boots,  red  shirts,  and  pink  trousers  ; 
the  houses  are  painted  red  or  green  or 
blue  ;  the  churches  are  like  the  temples 
of  savage  idols,  tortured  into  every  un- 
natural shape  and  coloured  every  glaring 
colour." 

The  other  books  about  cities  which 
have  recently  come  to  hand  happen  to 
deal  with  material  altogether  different 
from  that  with  which  Mr.  Symons  con- 
cerns himself.  Their  method  is  less  per- 
sonal, therefore  less  literary  ;  it  ranges 
all  the  way  from  the  journalistic  to  the 
sociological,  and  from  the  sociological  to 


278 


Some  Books  about   Cities. 


the  historical.  Mr.  London's  latest  book 1 
has  to  do  professedly  with  one  of  the  ug- 
liest results  of  the  centripetal  tendency. 
His  picture  of  London  slum  life  is  ap- 
palling enough,  painted  with  plenty  of 
vigor  and  not  a  little  coarseness ;  but  it  is 
not  strikingly  fresh.  There  is  something 
needlessly  exacerbated  in  the  perennial 
astonishment  with  which  students  of  so- 
ciology rediscover  the  horrors  of  urban 
vice  and  poverty.  The  evils  are  there, 
and  we  ought  never  to  cease  hearing  of 
them  ;  but  not  seldom  the  social  Jere- 
miah seems  to  have  insufficiently  assimi- 
lated the  facts  with  which  his  somewhat 
hasty  observation  has  acquainted  him. 
The  indignation  with  which  he  speaks  is 
more  savage  than  righteous ;  the  book  is 
unfortunately  deficient  in  the  firmness 
and  dignity  of  mood  and  touch  which 
might  have  made  it  literature.  One  is 
likely  to  lay  it  down  with  the  feeling  that 
one  has  been  reading  a  long  and  reason- 
ably sensational  newspaper  story. 

Thirty  Years  of  Musical  Life  in  Lon- 
don 2  ignores  the  "  submerged  "  society 
of  the  East  End  no  more  thoroughly  than 
the  commercial  and  drawing-room  circles 
of  the  West  End.  Its  busy  professional 
air  is  not  tempered  by  amenities,  literary 
or  other.  It  has  to  give,  in  a  simple  and 
personally  modest  way,  certain  reminis- 
cences of  the  London  experience  of  many 
of  the  greatest  musicians  of  the  nine- 
teenth century.  The  book  contains  much 
good  anecdote  and  not  a  little  interesting 
criticism.  A  fact  which  it  makes  sur- 
prisingly clear  is  that  Englishmen  have 
persisted  in  resenting  the  preference  for 
foreign  musicians  which  the  English  public 
has  unmistakably  felt.  One  imagines  that 
in  America  the  preeminence  of  European 
musicians,  whether  composers  or  players, 
is  pretty  generally  recognized.  The  pre- 
sent reviewer  recalls  hearing,  some  years 
ago,  an  American  violinist  of  merit  re- 

1  The  People  of  the  Abyss.    By  JACK  LON- 
DON.    New  York  :  The  Macmillan  Co.     1903. 

2  Thirty  Years  of  Musical  Life  in  London.  By 
H.  KLEIN.    New  York :  The  Century  Co.   1903, 


mark,  somewhat  wearily  but  not  resent- 
fully, that  there  was  only  one  American 
in  the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra.  We 
do  not  understand  that  the  organization 
of  musical  labor  which  has  just  adver- 
tised itself  so  widely  has  made  a  distinc- 
tion against  the  immigrant ;  it  could  ill 
afford  to  do  so.  Yet  in  Dr.  .Klein's  book 
we  find  so  prominent  a  man  as  Sir  Ar- 
thur Sullivan  gravely  protesting  against 
the  appointment  of  Hans  Richter  as  con- 
ductor of  the  Birmingham  Festival :  "  I 
think,"  he  says,  in  a  letter  to  the  author, 
"  all  this  musical  education  for  the  Eng- 
lish is  vain  and  idle,  as  they  are  not  al- 
lowed the  opportunity,  of  earning  their 
living  in  their  own  country.  Foreigners 
are  thrust  in  everywhere,  and  the  press 
supports  this  injustice."  As  Richter 
was  one  of  the  great  conductors  of  the 
day,  the  point  of  injustice  does  not  seem 
quite  clear.  Sir  Arthur  Sullivan  was,  ac- 
cording to  Dr.  Klein,  "  England's  great- 
est musician  ;  "  yet  how  little  he  stands 
for  in  world-music !  The  present  volume 
owes  its  interest  largely  to  the  foreign 
composers,  conductors,  and  players  who 
have  been  inevitably  in  the  foreground  of 
English  musical  life.  Nevertheless,  it  is 
an  important  phase  of  life  in  nineteenth- 
century  London  which  the  book  records. 
And  the  treatment  of  special  phases  is, 
apart  from  the  personal  literary  method, 
the  only  fresh  method  of  dealing  with 
metropolitan  life  to  be  hoped  for. 

People  who  are  fond  of  "  fashnable 
fax  and  polite  annygoats  "  will  find  it 
worth  while  to  glance,  at  least,  into  the 
latest  book  which  is  made  up  of  this  sort 
of  material.8  It  is  always  a  relief  to  come 
upon  an  English  book  about  Paris  which 
succeeds  in  keeping  clear  of  the  boule- 
vards and  the  Latin  Quarter.  These 
letters  were  written  during  the  Second 
Empire  by  a  French  attache".  The  fact 
that  they  were  originally  contributed  to 

3  Gossip  from  Paris.  Selected  and  Arranged 
by  A.  R.  WALLER.  New  York :  D.  Appleton 
&Co.  1903, 


Some  Books  about   Cities. 


279 


an  English  newspaper  would  be  more 
surprising  if  one  did  not  see  at  once  that 
the  political  allusions  are  of  the  most 
general  nature.  In  fact,  the  writer  is  all 
for  high  life.  He  has  no  end  of  sprightly 
gossip  about  court  functions ;  he  has  an 
excellently  light  touch  in  the  description 
of  places  and  persons ;  and  there  is  much 
amiable  chatter  about  the  pedigree,  social 
achievements,  matrimonial  concerns,  of 
the  fashionable  set  in  which  he  moves. 
He  writes  always  with  grace  and  anima- 
tion, but  superficially,  as  a  talented  cor- 
respondent rather  than  a  person  who 
wishes  to  produce  literature.  The  let- 
ters are  perishable  stuff ;  they  yield  at 
best  a  suggestion  of  faded  elegance,  an 
odor  of  forgotten  trifles ;  they  are  not  alive, 
they  have  simply  been  restored  for  a  mo- 
ment to  the  light.  It  is  fortunate  that  the 
editor  has  retained  only  one  twelfth  of 
the  material  at  his  disposal ;  and  it  is 
doubtful  if  even  that  deserves  more  than 
a  momentary  audience  at  this  time.  So 
much  it  does  deserve. 

Some  years  ago  a  book  on  Egypt  was 
published  which  has  proved  to  be  suffi- 
ciently important  to  deserve  revision.1 
The  writer's  aim  is  simple.  He  does  not 
attempt,  he  says,  "  to  solve  the  riddle  of 
the  Sphinx,"  but  merely  to  furnish  "  a 
discursive  budget  of  information  and  com- 
ment, —  social,  political,  economic,  and 
administrative."  He  is  successful  in  do- 
ing just  this.  The  book  has  no  literary 
graces,  but  those  who  wish  to  know  some- 
thing about  the  irrigation,  women,  ciga- 
rettes, bazaars,  and  rulers  of  Egypt  may 
find,  as  Mr.  Penfield  says,  "something 
and  not  too  much "  in  this  well-made, 
well-illustrated,  and  pleasantly  written 
volume. 

The  two  books 2  among  our  number 
which  deal  with  American  cities  are  his- 

1  Present  Day  Egypt.   By  FREDERIC  C.  PEN- 
FIELD.    New  York:  The  Century  Co.     1903. 

2  Boston :    The  Place  and  the   People.     By 
M.  A.   DEWOLFE  HOWE.    New  York:  The 
Macmillan  Co.     1903. 


torical  in  substance,  but  literary  in  treat- 
ment. They  do  not  profess  to  be  based 
upon  original  research,  but  rather  to  pre- 
sent a  readable  and  reliable  interpreta- 
tion of  material  which  has  been  accumu- 
lated by  other  hands.  The  compara- 
tively recent  work  of  such  writers  as  Mr. 
Fiske  has  done  much  to  deepen  our  sense 
of  the  value  of  the  historical  interpreter 
as  distinguished  from  the  historical  in- 
vestigator. 

For  variety,  for  picturesqueness,  for 
richness  in  the  elements  of  romance,  the 
annals  of  Old  Boston  can  hardly  rival 
those  of  Old  Quebec.  The  present  nar- 
rative begins  and  continues  in  a  style  of 
vigor  and  "  pace."  Its  character  as  a 
story  is  never  compromised  by  the  in- 
troduction of  minor,  or,  rather,  insig- 
nificant detail.  It  is  no  small  triumph 
for  the  authors  to  have  succeeded  in  pro- 
ducing an  "  assimilation  of  the  generous 
data  "  as  to  the  history  of  Quebec  which 
have  now  become  common  property. 
Due  credit  is  of  course  given  to  Parkman, 
the  only  American  who  both  as  investi- 
gator and  as  interpreter  stands  in  the 
first  rank  among  historians. 

The  style  of  Mr.  Howe's  Boston  is 
less  fluent,  more  anecdotal  and  descrip- 
tive. It  possesses  some  of  the  qualities 
of  a  handbook  ;  all  of  them,  if  we  give 
the  word  its  best  possible  sense.  For  the 
general  reader  it  is  the  best  compact  work 
on  Boston  which  has  yet  been  produced. 

Professedly  historical  as  these  books 
are,  it  is  plain  that  neither  writer  has 
failed  to  develop  a  sense  of  intimate  ac- 
quaintance with  one  city  or  the  other  as 
a  living  personality.  "  The  venerable 
fortress  on  the  tidal  water,"  say  the  au- 
thors of  Old  Quebec,  in  drawing  to  a 
close,  "  ever  was,  and  still  remains,  the 
noblest  city  of  the  American  continent. 
There  still  works  the  antique  spirit  which 

Old  Quebec:  The  Fortress  of  New  France. 
By  GILBERT  PARKER  and  CLAUDE  G.  BRYAN. 
New  York  :  The  Macmillan  Co.  1903. 


280 


The    Contributors'    Club. 


cherishes  culture  and  piety  and  domestic 
virtue  as  the  crown  of  a  nation's  deeds 
and  worth.  .  .  .  Apart  from  the  hot  winds 
of  politics  —  civic,  provincial,  and  na- 
tional —  which  blow  across  the  temper- 
ate plains  of  their  daily  existence,  the 
people  of  the  city  and  the  province  live 
as  simply,  and  with  as  little  greedy  am- 
bition, as  they  did  a  hundred  years  ago." 
Mr.  Howe,  accepting  the  definition  of 
Boston  as  "  a  state  of  mind,"  finds  that 
state  made  up  largely  of  '*  a  keen  sense 
of  civic  responsibility."  He  is  not  trou- 
bled by  the  fact,  which  he  records,  that 
the  Boston  government  is  largely  in  the 
hands  of  foreign-born  persons.  "  The 
attempt  to  amalgamate  the  diverse  ele- 
ments into  a  common  citizenship  goes  for- 
ward through  hundreds  of  agencies,  — 


the  public  schools,  the  social  settlements, 
the  organization  of  charities,  secular  and 
religious,  designed  to  meet  every  con- 
ceivable need  of  the  unfortunate,  but  in 
such  a  way  as  to  create  citizens  as  well 
as  paupers."  Perhaps  we  have  not  been 
sufficiently  ready  to  think  of  Boston  as 
an  abode  of  citizens  ;  we  feel  more  at 
home  with  "the  critical  attitude"  and 
"  the  good  principle  of  rebellion,"  which 
Mr.  Howe  presently  mentions  as  com- 
ponents of  the  Boston  state  of  mind. 
There  are  other  and  subtler  ingredients, 
one  feels,  —  they  are  all  present  in  the 
character  and  work  of  the  Autocrat. 
One  may  be  in  a  state  of  mind  about 
things ;  Boston  has  always  been  that : 
but  to  be  a  state  of  mind  is  a  horse  of 
another  color.  H.  W.  B. 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB. 


IN  the  vocabulary  of  criticism  the  word 
An  Idealistic  "realism"  has  been  soiled 
Realist.  with  all  ignoble  use,  and  one 

would  hate  to  apply  it  unconditionally  to 
the  work  of  a  writer  whom  one  admired. 
George  Gissing,  whose  death  is  a  loss 
to  English  literature  none  the  less  actual 
because  he  never  won  a  wide  circle  of 
readers,  would  no  doubt  be  called  a  real- 
ist by  those  who  fancy  that  when  once 
they  have  attached  a  label  to  a  man  there 
is  nothing  more  to  be  said  about  him ; 
but  such  a  characterization  cannot  be  ac- 
cepted if  it  is  meant  to  put  him  in  the 
same  category  with  Emile  Zola,  Flau- 
bert, Mr.  George  Moore,  and  Mr.  How- 
ells,  who  are  all  realists  in  their  differ- 
ent ways.  With  them  it  is  the  fact,  and 
the  fact  only,  which  seems  to  count. 
But  it  is  the  fact  transfigured  by  the 
imagination  that  one  seeks  in  a  work  of 
art ;  and  the  finest  realism  is  not  found 
in  the  record,  but  in  the  interpretation 
of  the  record.  Gissing  was  a  realist  con- 


trolled by  an  ideal.  He  might  seem  to 
insist  upon  the  sordid  side  of  life,  but  he 
had  a  passionate  love  of  beauty.  Con- 
sequently, in  his  analysis  of  the  ugly 
there  was  always  an  implied  contrast 
with  the  beautiful.  This  idealizing  ten- 
dency grew  upon  him  as  he  wrote.  The 
Crown  of  Life,  one  of  his  last  books,  is 
far  richer  in  spiritual  nourishment  than 
The  Unclassed,  one  of  his  first. 

Yet  even  in  The  Unclassed,  and  in 
Demos,  and  Workers  in  the  Dawn,  the 
difference  between  his  method  and  that 
of  others  who  have  dealt  with  the  under 
side  of  human  existence  was  sufficiently 
marked.  It  was  no  doubt  a  fault  in  his 
art  that  hb  emphasized  things  evil  un- 
duly ;  but  he  did  not  fail  to  see  the  soul 
of  goodness  in  them.  He  was  not  mor- 
bid and  he  was  not  indecent.  He  did 
not  spare  the  dark  touches  necessary  to 
complete  the  picture,  but  he  did  not  put 
them  there  simply  because  they  were 
dark.  One  feels  that  Zola  gloated  over 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


281 


his  repulsive  details,  that  Flaubert  de- 
picted vice  with  cold  contempt,  that  Mr. 
Moore  attempts  to  discover  in  a  spirit  of 
bravado  how  much  the  public  will  stand, 
that  Mr.  Howells  more  genially  expounds 
the  significance  of  the  unessential.  But 
George  Gissing  was  obviously  moved  by 
the  "  daily  spectacles  of  mortality  "  he 
contemplated.  His  was  not  the  detached 
attitude  of  the  scientist ;  it  was  the  keen 
sympathy  of  the  artist.  He  did  not  let 
his  sensibilities  run  away  with  him  ;  he 
was  never  morbid  or  mawkish  ;  he  dis- 
dained the  devices  of  a  melodramatic 
sentimentalism ;  he  was  incapable  of 
"  working  up  "  pathos.  He  could  put 
the  situation  before  us  as  vividly  as  any 
realist  of  them  all.  But  the  deep  and 
poignant  emotion  was  there,  even  if  the 
superficial  reader  did  not  discover  it.  No 
cold  observation  could  have  accomplished 
this.  No  novelist  by  a  little  intellectual 
slumming  can  really  tell  us  how  the  other 
half  lives. 

In  the  second  period  of  his  career 
that  saeva  indignatio  in  him  turned  more 
to  grim  satire.  He  dealt,  not  with  those 
whom  all  classes  had  cast  out,  but  with 
a  class  least  likely  to  have  comprehen- 
sive sympathies,  the  class  which  one 
must  still  call,  despite  the  objections  of 
many  persons  to  the  term,  the  "lower 
middle."  Perhaps  In  the  Year  of  Ju- 
bilee is  his  most  remarkable  achieve- 
ment in  this  respect.  The  dull  monotony 
of  the  daily  round,  the  sordid  aims,  the 
laxity  of  moral  fibre,  the  incapacity  to 
comprehend,  much  less  to  experience, 
the  nobler  emotions,  —  these  things  are 
portrayed  with  a  distinctness  which  one 
may  fairly  call  appalling.  Eve's  Ran- 
som is  a  study  of  human  selfishness. 
The  man  sacrifices  himself  for  the  girl, 
and  she  receives  the  sacrifice  gayly,  and 
goes  her  way,  leaving  him  to  cherish  his 
hurt  in  silence.  Yet  even  here  Gissing's 
idealism  has  the  last  word.  The  man 
realizes  that  his  pain  has  been  worth 
living  through.  "  Entbehren  sollst  du, 
sollst  enibehren"  —  that  is  the  law  of 


life.  The  lesson  is  taught  with  bitterer 
emphasis  to  the  hero  of  New  Grub 
Street,  for  whom  "  la  lutte  pour  la  vie  " 
proves. too  much,  and  whose  genius  can- 
not survive  the  hardest  blows  of  fate. 
In  the  struggle  of  Reardon  to  be  true 
to  his  art  against  the  most  adverse  con- 
ditions there  is  possibly  some  flavor  of 
autobiography,  —  though  for  that  matter 
every  novel  that  is  worth  anything  must 
have  a  glimpse  of  the  writer's  own  soul. 
But  Gissing  was  not  the  man  to  exploit 
his  personality  ;  he  was  not  up  to  the 
tricks  of  the  trade  as  practiced  by  the 
commercial  novelist ;  and  it  does  not 
require  for  the  appreciation  of  his  art 
any  impertinent  intrusion  into  his  life. 
New  Grub  Street  is  a  book  to  be  read. 
Those  who  choose  to  do  so  may  take  it 
as  an  argument  against  the  marriage  of 
men  of  genius  to  commonplace  and  self- 
ish women.  Indeed,  the  unequal  bond 
of  wedlock  was  often  a  theme  with 
Gissing.  But  if  so  many  marriages  are 
unhappy,  if  a  union  brought  about  by 
anything  less  than  perfect  love  and  trust 
is  certain  to  be  unhappy,  what  place  in 
the  world  shall  the  women  who  do  not 
marry  take  ?  Such  a  question  is  hardly 
answered  by  The  Odd  Women,  an- 
other novel  far  superior  to  most  con- 
temporary fiction.  The  heroine  of  that 
tale  does  not  have,  after  all,  the  courage 
of  her  convictions.  But  then  so  few  of 
us  do ! 

The  Odd  Women  manifested  conspicu- 
ously Gissing's  growing  interest  in  wider 
and  higher  themes ;  it  also  marked  a 
further  growth  of  his  idealistic  temper ; 
and  therefore  his  later  books  may  appeal 
to  readers  whom  his  earlier  did  not  in- 
terest. The  Crown  of  Life  is,  on  the 
whole,  the  most  remarkable  of  these  ;  it 
reveals  the  passionate  tenderness  which 
is  the  root  of  all  the  author's  convictions. 
Love  is  the  crown  of  life,  and  the  right 
woman  is  worth  any  man's  while  to  wait 
for.  And  there  are  large  public  ques- 
tions involved  in  the  story,  —  imperial- 
ism, for  example.  Our  Friend  the  Char- 


282 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


latan  is  a  still  closer  study  of  political 
conditions,  though  what  gives  it  its  value 
is  the  unsparing  analysis  of  the  man  who 
deludes  himself  no  less  than  he  deludes 
others.  It  is  upon  his  skill  in  the  deline- 
ation of  character  that  the  fame  of  the 
novelist  is  most  likely  to  rest ;  plots  are 
easily  forgotten,  but  the  Becky  Sharps 
and  Colonel  Newcomes  remain  more  real 
than  the  figures  of  authentic  history. 
One  cannot  help  feeling  that  Gissing 
would  have  done,  had  he  lived,  better 
work  in  the  future  than  in  the  past.  But 
he  did  enough  to  make  his  fame  secure. 

"  MY  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is,"  wrote 
The  Unruly  Sir  Edward  Dyer  something 
Kingdom.  \faQ  three  hundred  years  ago  ; 
and  in  a  tiresome  strain  of  self -laudation 
he  continues,  — 
"  Though  much  I  want  that  most  would  have, 

Yet  still  my  mind  forbids  to  crave." 

To  condense  the  substance  of  several 
stanzas  into  plain  prose,  this  remarkable 
mind,  he  claims,  was  indifferent  to  wealth, 
power,  love,  or  hate,  had  no  desires  to 
satisfy,  nothing  to  fear,  no  cares  to  trou- 
ble ;  and  he  concludes,  — 

"  Thus  do  I  live,  thus  will  I  die  ; 
Would  all  do  so  as  well  as  I !  " 

To  me  it  has  always  seemed  that  in 
the  matter  of  that  poem  Sir  Edward  was 
either  an  impostor  or  the  victim  of  gross 
self-delusion.  If  he  had  taken  the  trou- 
ble to  keep  a  careful  eye  upon  the  go- 
ings-on of  his  mind  for  even  one  day,  he 
doubtless  would  have  discovered  that  his 
kingdom  was  in  no  such  ideal  state  of 
subjection  as  he  proudly  asserted. 

In  fact,  I  much  misdoubt  any  human 
being's  having  a  perfectly  disciplined, 
docile  mind  which  never  runs  away,  un- 
expectedly shies,  or  balks  at  inconvenient 
seasons.  When  I  encounter  a  person 
who  is  always  outwardly  serene  and  self- 
controlled,  I  find  myself  wondering  what 
sort  of  scenes  he  has  with  himself  in  pri- 
vate. That  there  are  some  lively  ones 
I  am  confident. 

Of  course  there  are  minds  and  minds, 
all  differing  in  their  amenability  to  con- 


trol and  in  their  various  ways  of  evading 
and  rebelling  against  the  will  and  judg- 
ment of  their  owners.  I  may  be  biased 
in  my  impression  of  their  general  un- 
reliability by  the  peculiarly  untractable 
character  of  my  own,  which  I  have  found 
endowed  with  all. of  the  undesirable  ten- 
dencies mentioned  by  Professor  James, 
as  well  as  possessed  of  several  original 
shortcomings  as  yet  uncatalogued  by  psy- 
chologists. 

Often  after  a  day  spent  in  heading  off 
and  checking  one  train  of  thought  after 
another,  only  to  have  each  in  its  turn 
supplanted  by  something  equally  objec- 
tionable, I  have  found  myself  exhausted 
by  the  conflict  with  these  rebellious  men- 
tal processes,  and  in  a  mood  of  unquali- 
fied disgust  and  discontent  with  myself. 
At  such  times  I  have  occasionally  taken 
an  imaginary  revenge  on  the  refractory 
mind,  which  has  given  so  much  trouble, 
by  telling  it  how  cheaply  I  would  dis- 
pose of  it,  if  minds  were  only  market- 
able commodities.  On  the  supposition 
that  they  could  be  bartered,  I  have  im- 
agined myself  inserting  in  the  column 
for  subscribers'  wants  in  some  reputable 
journal  an  announcement  something  like 
the  following :  "  For  sale  or  exchange. 
A  mind  in  a  good  state  of  preservation, 
never  having  been  subjected  to  hard  use, 
tolerably  quick,  and  fairly  good  in  dis- 
position. The  owner's  reason  for  part- 
ing with  it  is  that  it  never  has  been  well 
broken,  is  somewhat  willful,  and  too  fond 
of  play.  Any  one  able  to  train  it  would 
find  it  desirable  for  light,  varied  use. 
The  present  proprietor  is  in  need  of  a 
thoroughly  trained,  steady-going  mind 
of  a  more  substantial  character." 

But,  on- the  whole,  if  one  could  be  at 
will  the  possessor  of  a  plodding,  draft- 
horse  sort  of  mind,  would  there  not  be 
some  disadvantages  connected  with  such 
an  article  ?  It  seems  as  if  there  might 
be  a  dreary  monotony  about  the  opera- 
tions of,  a  mind  which  always  worked  in 
a  rut,  and  whose  methods  and  proceed- 
ings could  be  predicted  with  tolerable 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


283 


certainty.  The  erratic  kind  is  more  than 
a  little  trying  at  times,  when  it  neglects 
the  tasks  assigned  it,  and  disports  itself 
on  forbidden  ground ;  but  it  must  be 
confessed  that  the  unexpectedness  of  its 
performances  sometimes  makes  it  more 
entertaining  than  if  it  were  better  regu- 
lated. 

When  one  is  thrown  upon  one's  own  re- 
sources for  diversion,  it  is  not  altogether 
a  bad  thing  to  have  a  mind  liable  at 
times  to  do  idiotic  or  preposterous  things. 
It  becomes  rather  amusing,  if  not  car- 
ried too  far.  I  suspect  that  many  peo- 
ple have  discovered  a  closer  mental  kin- 
ship between  themselves  and  Mr.  Barrie's 
Thomas  Sandys  than  they  would  care  to 
acknowledge.  It  was  with  genuine  de- 
light that  I  read  of  the  sprained  ankle 
which  Tommie  was  obliged  to  have  as 
an  excuse  for  being  discovered  in  tears. 
I  have  been  caught  so  many  times  in  a 
similar  predicament  that  it  is  a  pleasure 
to  believe  that  Mr.  Barrie  may  possibly 
himself  have  experienced  the  shame  and 
confusion  into  which  one  is  plunged  un- 
der such  circumstances. 

When  a  small  child  I  was  one  day 
found  crying  comfortably  by  myself. 
The  family  was  greatly  concerned  to 
know  the  cause  of  a  trouble  which  sought 
retirement  instead  of  demanding  sym- 
pathy and  consolation.  Upon  hearing 
that  I  was  just  thinking  how  I  should 
feel  if  a  bear  came  up  and  bit  my  hand, 
there  was  a  chorus  of  laughter,  and  I  was 
left  to  the  enjoyment  of  my  grief.  Since 
then  I  have  been  surprised  more  than 
once  in  either  tears  or  laughter  due  to  an 
imaginary  cause,  and  have  been  forced 
to  conjure  a  more  or  less  plausible  ex- 
planation ;  but  never  since  that  first  time 
have  I  owned  the  truth  that  I  was  merely 
making  believe. 

When  as  a  child  I  was  taken  to  church 
I  used  to  beguile  the  time  during  the 
prayer  and  sermon  by  counting  the  panes 
of  glass  in  the  long  windows  which  ran 
nearly  to  the  ceiling.  There  were  three 
sashes  to  a  window,  and  each  sash,  I  think, 


had  four  rows  of  five  panes.  I  counted 
those  panes  in  every  possible  way,  —  up 
and  down,  sideways,  diagonally,  and  zig- 
zag. If  the  results  did  not  tally,  I  knew 
there  was  a  mistake  somewhere  and  be- 
gan again.  At  a  later  period  I  formed 
the  habit  of  amusing  myself  during  the 
sermon  by  repeating  poetry.  Now,  if 
my  mind  shows  a  disposition  to  wander 
from  the  clergyman's  discourse,  I  sit  with 
my  eyes  fastened  respectfully  upon  him 
and  perhaps  make  up  a  sermon  of  my 
own.  Two  or  three  of  these  have  proved 
of  more  interest  than  the  others,  so  I  go 
back  to  them  in  preference  to  inventing 
new  ones.  Sunday  after  Sunday  I  have 
delivered  one  or  the  other  of  those  ser- 
mons to  large  and  attentive  audiences. 
On  such  occasions  I  speak  without  notes. 
My  delivery  is  exceedingly  simple  and 
quiet,  with  no  effort  at  display,  but  the 
audience  is  invariably  impressed  by  the 
deep  feeling  and  moral  earnestness  with 
which  the  address  is  pervaded. 

I  am  more  fond,  however,  of  singing  in 
opera  than  of  being  a  popular  preacher. 
My  voice  is  a  soprano  of  remarkable 
purity  and  richness,  equally  good  in  its 
high  and  low  tones.  My  favorite  part 
is  that  of  Brunhild,  which  I  render  with 
a  dramatic  intensity  never  yet  equaled. 
The  cry  of  the  Valkyrs,  as  I  give  it,  has 
a  superhuman  quality  which  sends  chills 
creeping  up  and  down  the  spine  of  the 
most  stolid  listener.  Not  infrequently  I 
appear  in  the  ballet  of  an  opera.  Quite 
often  I  am  an  actress.  It  being  hard  for 
me  to  decide  on  my  favorite  character,  I 
generally  play  on  benefit  nights,  when  I 
give  the  best  scenes  from  several  of  my 
most  famous  parts. 

However,  I  am  by  no  means  always  a 
celebrity.  Frequently  I  am  content  to 
be  a  very  commonplace  person,  my  only 
remarkable  points  being  an  extremely 
magnetic  personality  combined  with  an 
ever  ready  sympathy  and  a  charm  none 
the  less  real  because  indefinable,  which 
bring  me  the  love  and  esteem  of  all  who 
know  me. 


284 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


Of  course  this  is  supremely  idiotic,  and 
no  one  would  confess  to  being  so  foolish 
if  he  were  not  tolerably  sure  that  most 
of  his  fellow  creatures  know  in  their 
own  hearts  they  are  no  more  sensible. 
They  may  not  acknowledge  it.  That  is 
a  different  matter. 

I  wonder  how  many  people  realize  the 
comfort  there  is  in  having  a  real  brisk 
quarrel  mentally  with  your  friends  when 
they  prove  exasperating.  If  it  could 
only  be  rightly  managed,  a  not  too  fre- 
quent vigorous  scene  would  be  a  help  in 
most  of  the  intimate  relations  of  life.  It 
would  serve  at  least  to  break  out  of  the 
rut  of  commonplace  into  which  any  con- 
stant companionship  is  liable  to  sink.  All 
the  accumulating  annoyances  and  vexa- 
tions from  small  daily  frictions  could  thus 
be  swept  away  in  one  half  hour  and  the 
weather  cleared  for  some  time  to  come. 
The  difficulty  is  that  it  is  an  exceedingly 
delicate  piece  of  business  to  conduct  such 
a  settlement  in  the  right  way.  One  side 
or  the  other  is  pretty  sure  to  overdo  the 
matter.  In  sultry  weather  a  hard  shower 
with  some  sharp  thunder  and  lightning 
is  refreshing,  but  you  don't  want  a  water 
spout  or  a  six  weeks'  pour. 

It  is  a  more  prudent  procedure,  there- 
fore, unless  reasonably  confident  of  the 
discretion  of  the  other  party,  to  conduct 
such  a  readjustment  entirely  by  one's 
self.  In  that  way,  while  endeavoring  in 
the  presence  of  a  friend  to  preserve  an 
outward  demeanor  aptly  described  by 
Scott's  Pet  Marjorie  in  the  lines  quoted 
by  Mr.  Lang  with  such  relish,  — 
"  She  was  more  than  usual  calm, 
She  did  not  give  a  single  dam,"  — 

I  have  been  freely  applying  to  the  un- 
conscious object  of  my  wrath  the  entire 
alphabet  of  abusive  terms  at  my  com- 
mand, ranging  from  anaconda,  beast  and 
crocodile,  to  zebra.  After  further  going 
on  to  declare  mentally  to  the  person  be- 
fore me  that  I  despise,  detest,  loathe,  and 
hate  him  or  her,  as  the  case  may  be,  the 
atmosphere  will  be  decidedly  fresher  and 
a  pleasant  friendly  feeling  restored. 


What  satisfactory  substitute  can  mar- 
ried people  find  for  the  amusement  of 
considering  the  qualifications  of  mem- 
bers of  the  opposite  sex  for  husbands  or 
wives?  One  ought  doubtless  to  have 
conscientious  scruples  against  indulging 
in  this  diversion  after  marriage,  and  what 
a  source  of  entertainment  must  be  lost ! 
A  woman  can  find  endless  mental  occu- 
pation in  contemplating  the  various  mer 
of  her  acquaintance,  and  deciding  with 
regai-d  to  each  whether  he  would  be  com- 
panionable, or  glum,  uncommunicative 
and  frigid,  at  home ;  whether  he  would 
make  himself  a  dictator  in  regard  to 
family  affairs,  so  that  his  wife  would  feel 
under  constant  restraint.  Could  she  go 
to  the  city  for  a  day  just  because  she  was 
in  the  mood  for  it,  without  his  wanting 
to  know  the  reason,  and  thinking  she 
had  better  take  another  day  and  another 
train  than  she  had  planned  ?  Worse  yet, 
would  he  insist  upon  going  with  her  and 
regulating  the  whole  day's  programme 
according  to  his  own  ideas  ? 

What  turn  do  a  man's  speculations 
take  with  respect  to  the  women  he  knows  ? 
Probably  he  wonders  whether  such  a 
woman  is  given  to  nagging,  fretting,  or 
worrying ;  whether  she  would  be  serene 
and  adequate  to  the  situation  when  the 
cook  leaves  without  warning;  whether 
she  would  inflict  all  the  particulars  of 
domestic  annoyances  upon  her  husband 
every  day,  and  —  and  —  Well,  men 
know  best  what  they  think. 

But  one  of  the  greatest  annoyances 
liable  to  be  experienced  from  minds 
arises  from  having  one  that  is  a  misfit. 
There  is  a  disagreeable  incongruity  about 
an  old  head  on  young  shoulders.  We  all 
know  people  who  were  old  in  character 
and  tastes*  from  the  time  they  were  born  ; 
and  very  tedious  they  usually  are,  too. 
But  the  contrary  of  this  is  still  worse.  It 
is  positively  mortifying  to  have  a  mind 
which  totally  ignores  birthdays,  and  finds 
its  delight  in  pastimes  it  should  have  out- 
grown. It  is  decorous  to  retain  an  in- 
terest in  the  enjoyments  of  youth,  but  it 


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285 


is  highly  undignified  to  have  a  fondness 
for  them  yourself  after  the  season  for 
them  is  past.  My  mind  has  shown  most 
alarming  symptoms  in  this  direction. 
Already  it  is  a  good  ten  years  behind  its 
age.  What  a  prospect  if  it  should  con- 
tinue to  lag  !  Imagine  getting  into  the 
sixties  and  being  disgraced  in  the  eyes 
of  all  who  know  you  by  a  mind  that  still 
lingered  in  the  thirties !  Does  any  one 
know  of  a  remedy  for  such  a  case  ? 

SUCH  a  book  as  Wilfrid  Meynell's 
Tradition  and  fthout  Disraeli1  makes  one 
Biography.  doubt  whether  a  formal  bio- 
graphy has,  after  all,  so  great  an  advan- 
tage over  tradition  in  fixing  the  reputa- 
tion of  a  man  who  has  lived  long  in  full 
view  of  the  public.  It  is  one  contrast 
more  between  the  great  rivals.  Mr. 
Morley's  copious  illustration  of  Glad- 
stone appeared  nearly  at  the  same  time 
that  we  learned  of  Lord  Rowton's  death. 
He  was  Disraeli's  literary  executor,  and 
for  twenty  years  it  had  been  supposed 
that  the  official  life  of  his  chief  would 
come  from  him.  But  he  is  gone ;  and 
except  for  a  handful  of  what  Americans 
would  call  "  campaign  "  biographies  of 
Disraeli,  along  with  the  personal  detail 
and  pleasant  gossip  that  Mr.  Meynell 
has  now  given  us  in  his  disconnected 
narrative,  we  have  no  documented  record 
of  his  career.  Yet  what  figure  could 
stand  out  with  more  individual  distinct- 
ness in  the  history  of  his  time  ?  Could 
the  most  elaborate  written  life  do  more 
than  expand  or  deepen  the  impression 
of  him  that  intelligent  students  of  the 
English  politics  of  his  day  have  already 
formed  ?  His  novels  and  speeches  and 
epigrams,  with  the  report  of  him  that 
thousands  bore  away  from  personal  con- 
tact, have  etched  a  character  which,  we 
may  be  sure,  no  amount  of  recovered 
letters  or  diaries  could  present  with  fun- 
damental difference.  Color  and  body 
might  be  added,  but  the  great  outlines 

1  Benjamin  Disraeli.  An  Unconventional 
Biography.  By  WILFRID  MEYNELL.  New 
York  :  D.  Appleton  &  Co.  1903. 


are  there.  "  Dizzy  always  wants  plenty 
of  lights,"  said  his  attentive  wife.  He 
lived  in  full  glare.  A  set  biography  could 
bring  out  little  from  dark  corners.  The 
Disraeli  tradition  has  grown  up,  and  we 
are  entitled  to  say  of  it,  with  the  prince 
in  Richard  III :  — 

"  But  say,  my  lord,  it  were  not  registered, 
Methinks  the  truth  should  live  from  age  to  age, 
As  't  were  retailed  to  all  posterity, 
Even  to  the  general  all-ending  day." 

Men  will  have  their  stubborn  theories, 
of  hero  or  villain,  in  real  life,  and  so 
they  will  in  biography.  What  an  idea 
of  tenacious  conviction  one  gets,  for  ex- 
ample, from  Mr.  Meynell's  account  of 
Nathaniel  Basevi,  Disraeli's  cousin.  Ear- 
ly in  his  political  career,  when  he  was 
hard  pressed  for  money,  as,  indeed,  he 
long  was,  Disraeli  had  applied  to  his 
uncle,  Mr.  George  Basevi,  for  a  loan. 
The  father  called  son  Nathaniel  into 
counsel,  and  the  two  determined  that  the 
flighty  political  adventurer,  as  they  de- 
cided he  was,  had  no  real  security  to 
offer.  Accordingly,  the  request  for  an 
advance  met  a  peremptory  refusal.  Very 
well ;  uncles  had  been  hard-hearted  and 
cousins  incredulous  before.  But  note 
what  followed.  Years  later,  the  Right 
Honorable  Benjamin  Disraeli,  Prime 
Minister  of  England,  was  at  Torquay, 
where  Mr.  Nathaniel  Basevi  was  living 
in  retirement.  To  this  Israelite,  indeed, 
in  whom  there  was  no  giving  in,  it  was 
intimated  that  his  distinguished  kinsman 
would  be  glad  to  receive  him,  letting 
bygones  be  bygones.  But  the  stout  old 
gentleman  would  not  budge.  He  was 
not  dazzled.  Once  an  adventurer,  al- 
ways an  adventurer,  whether  starveling 
aspirant  or  triumphant  Premier.  The 
cousin  would  neither  call  upon  him,  nor 
be  called  upon  by  him.  How  could  Lord 
Rowton  possibly  have  converted  this 
sturdy  skeptic  ? 

Jowett's  theory  of  Disraeli  was  less 
simple  or  rigorous.  He  wrote  to  Sir 
R.  B.  D.  Morier  in  1878 :  "  Dizzy  is  a 
curious  combination  of  the  Archpriest 


286 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


of  Humbug  and  a  great  man."  Mr. 
Meynell,  loyal  as  he  is  to  Disraeli,  —  but 
also  loyal  to  the  truth,  —  does  not  wholly 
break  down  the  first  part  of  this  defini- 
tion of  Jowett's,  though  he  undoubtedly 
brings  much  reinforcement  to  the  second 
part.  At  a  few  critical  junctures,  Dis- 
raeli appears  tricky,  careless  of  veracity. 
There  was,  for  example,  that  letter  which 
he  wrote  to  Sir  Robert  Peel,  applying  for 
office.  This  in  his  lifetime  he  roundly 
denied  having  written.  After  his  death 
it  was  published  in  the  Life  of  Peel. 
Mr.  Meynell  admits  that  we  have  here 
something  "  mysterious."  There  were 
other  things  betraying  a  shifty  nature. 
They  helped  make  Disraeli  so  intensely 
"  unpopular  "  even  with  his  own  party,  as 
one  of  his  colleagues  in  different  Minis- 
tries, Lord  Malmesbury,  frequently  noted 
in  his  diary  that  he  was.  Yet  he  made 
himself  indispensable  to  the  inarticulate 
country  squires  who  were  the  strength 
of  the  Tory  party.  He  could  speak. 
His  fleering  audacity  in  debate  and  bold 
initiative  in  policy,  his  merciless  attack, 
his  biting  characterization,  his  immense 
gift  of  language,  and  his  unbounded  self- 
confidence  made  him  the  leader  he  was 
for  so  many  years.  Little  loved,  he  was 
greatly  admired.  There  was  never  any 
question  of  his  genius,  though  there  un- 
fortunately sometimes  was  of  his  sincer- 
ity. Strong  and  straightforward  natures 
somehow  found  in  him  no  echo.  They 
caught,  rather,  an  ostentatious,  an  Ori- 
ental note.  Asked  once  what  was  the 
most  enviable  life,  Disraeli  replied  in  a 
gleam  of  self-revelation,  "  A  continued 
grand  procession  from  manhood  to  the 
tomb."  He  had  it.  The  crowd  and  the 
shouting  seldom  failed  him.  Opportuni- 
ties for  display  came  thick  and  fast.  The 
extraordinary  favor  of  the  Queen  he 
knew  how  to  conquer.  For  his  aston- 
ishing talents  he  found  a  great  theatre. 
Yet  tradition  has  been  just ;  it  has  per- 
petuated a  faithful  picture  of  the  man  in 
habit  as  he  was ;  and  no  biography,  no 
matter  how  full  it  might  be,  nor  how 


many  minor  myths  it  might  destroy, 
could  now  make  posterity  see  Benjamin 
Disraeli  in  any  other  essential  guise  than 
that  in  which  his  shrewdest  and  most 
sharp-sighted  contemporaries  have  bid- 
den us  behold  him. 

IT  is  usual  for  teachers  to  propound 

What  CM1-  <luesti°ns'  an(i  ^ or  children  to 
dren  want  answer  them,  and  there  is  no 
doubt  about  which  is  the  easier 
task  of  the  two.  To  reverse  matters,  and 
also,  if  possible,  to  find  out  what  is  pass- 
ing in  the  thoughts  of  my  children,  I 
yesterday  confronted  them  with  this  de- 
mand :  "  Suppose  this  morning  an  all- 
wise  man  were  to  enter  our  classroom, 
one  who  could  and  would  answer  any 
question  you  chose  to  put  to  him,  what 
six  things  would  you  ask  ?  " 

The  children  were  common,  ordinary, 
every-day  boys  and  girls,  between  the  ages 
of  nine  and  fourteen,  —  but  the  questions 
they  put  to  that  imaginary  shape  from 
the  All- Wise  shades  were  not  common- 
place. They  surprised  me  not  a  little, 
and  have  set  me  thinking.  Perhaps  they 
will  interest  others. 

The  first  set  of  questions  was  from  a 
boy  of  eleven,  a  little  button-nosed,  red- 
headed chap,  and  they  were  all  of  a  geo- 
graphical strain  :  "  Who  made  the  oceans 
salty  ?  Why  is  it  that  the  sun  only  goes 
halfway  round  the  earth?  Why  is  it 
that  we  don't  slip  off  the  earth  ?  If  the 
earth  stopped  what  would  happen  to  us? 
How  big  is  a  volcano  inside  ?  What  is 
the  quietest  spot  in  Europe  ?  " 

The  next  six  were  a  girl's,  and  all  of 
them  purely  personal  in  their  nature,  her 
motto  evidently  being,  "  Know  thou  thy- 
self." —  "  Who  is  my  future  husband  ? 
When  am  I  going  to  die  ?  Where  is  the 
thief  that  stole  my  watch  ?  Please  can 
you  tell  me  how  to  draw  well  ?  What 
position  or  situation  will  I  have  when  I 
get  older  ?  How  could  I  be  healthy  all 
my  life  ?  " 

A  quiet  little  girlie  of  ten,  who  walks 
gently  in  and  out  of  her  classroom  every 
day,  and  looks  demure  and  purely  recep- 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


287 


tive,  produces  from  the  quiet  depths  of 
somewhere  these  six  posers  :  "  Who  was 
the  first  school-teacher  ?  Why  are  not  all 
the  people  in  the  world  the  same  color  ? 
Why  are  boys  and  girls  not  the  same  ? 
Why  is  it  that  oil  will  not  mix  with  wa- 
ter ?  How  many  feet  of  snow  are  there 
hi  the  Rocky  Mountains  ?  Please  can 
you  tell  me  all  about  history  ?  " 

A  remarkable  series  is  that  of  a  black- 
eyed  little  Jewess,  a  bright  wee  maid  as 
sharp  as  a  needle :  "  How  many  jewels 
has  Queen  Alexandra?  Will  I  be  rich 
or  poor  ?  Who  were  the  first  people  who 
lived  in  Jerusalem  ?  How  is  it  that  the 
more  people  get  the  more  they  want? 
Is  it  true  that  there  is  gold  and  diamonds 
on  Cocos  Island  ?  When  the  world  comes 
to  an  end,  how  can  the  people  be  united 
if  parts  of  their  bodies  are  in  different 
parts  of  the  world  ?  " 

A  young  cynic  with  but  half-veiled 
irony  demands  (it  is  a  boy  this  time)  : 
"  Who  was  the  man  that  invented  gram- 
mar ?  Who  was  Your  school  -  teacher 
when  You  was  at  school?  Who  first 
thought  it  was  wise  to  have  schools  ? 
What  good  does  history  do  us  ?  Did 
you  ever  count  the  stars,  —  you  think  you 
know  everything  ?  What  does  ignorance 
personified  mean  ?  " 

Many  go  back  to  first  principles  with 
mild  little  queries  like  these  :  "  Why  did 
Adam  die  ?  How  old  is  North  America  ? 
What  was  here  before  the  world  was 
made?  What  language  did  Adam  and 
Eve  speak  when  they  first  entered  the 
world?  Who  married  Cain?  Where 
was  the  Lord  before  He  made  the  world  ? 
Where  was  God  born  ?  Are  we  de- 
scendants of  the  ape  ?  When  we  hear 
about  Christ,  He  lived  at  the  beginning 
of  the  first  century ;  was  that  his  first 
time  on  this  earth  ?  If  Jesus  was  born 
on  the  25th  of  December,  why  did  they 
not  begin  to  count  time  then  instead  of  at 
the  first  of  January  ?  What  would  there 
be  if  there  was  no  universe  ?  When  and 
how  was  God  the  Father  created  ?  What 
holds  this  world  up  ?  What  were  Adam 


and  Eve,  —  English,  French,  or  what  ? 
Is  it  true  that  we  were  once  monkeys  ? 
How  are  we  to  connect  what  the  Bible 
says  of  the  beginning  of  the  earth  with 
what  science  says  ?  What  comes  after 
space  ?  "  These  are  the  problems  which 
occupy  our  children's  minds  when  they 
obediently  are  doing  "  simple  interest " 
for  us,  or  "  long  division,"  or  pointing 
out  the  boundaries  of  Europe. 

But  there  are  worse  to  follow :  "  Why 
is  a  wise  man  better  than  an  inventor  ? 
Where  do  people  go  when  the  Mael- 
strom takes  them  down  ?  How  far  does 
a  bird  fly  without  stopping  ?  Please  can 
you  tell  me,  if  all  the  people  on  the  earth 
were  dead,  what  would  happen?  Who 
made  the  Sphinx,  and  when,  and  how? 
When  will  the  Lord  come  again  ?  Why 
should  a  girl  have  more  sleep  than  a 
boy  ?  Is  Charley  Ross,  the  boy  that  was 
kidnapped  long  ago,  living,  and  where  ? 
I  would  like  to  know  when  and  how  the 
Russian  nation  came  to  be  so.  Why  do 
large  fish  eat  little  ones  ?  What  was  the 
first  show  in  the  Coliseum  ?  How  many 
births  occurred  on  Wednesday  last  in 
Canada  ?  Will  perpetual  motion  ever 
be  discovered  ?  In  Christ's  time  were 
the  people  who  lived  to  be  hundreds  of 
years  old,  100  years  a  baby,  or  100  years 
an  old  man  ?  Will  the  American  repub- 
lic ever  become  a  limited  monarchy  ? 
When  will  there  be  no  saloons  or  bar- 
rooms ?  When  will  there  be  no  more 
war  ?  What  do  men  see  in  tobacco  ? 
How  do  earrings  make  people's  eyes 
sharper?  Is  it  true  that  when  we  die, 
we  will  come  back  as  a  cat  or  dog  ?  "  etc. 

The  rapid  transition  of  thought  strikes 
one  on  reading  the  question  slips.  For 
instance,  were  two  things  more  widely 
apart  than  these  ever  before  brought  into 
juxtaposition :  "  If  you  jumped  off  the 
world,  and  went  straight  on,  where  would 
you  go  to  ?  Who  killed  Julius  Caesar  ?  " 
Or  take  this  pair :  "  Why  did  Joseph  not 
tell  his  brethren  he  was  their  brother  the 
first  time  they  came  down  to  Egypt  to 
buy  corn  ?  What  is  the  power  of  one 


288 


The    Contributors'    Club. 


of  the  suckers  of  a  devil-fish  ?  "  Or  this  : 
"  When  will  the  Doukhobors  go  home  to 
be  sensible  and  eat  proper  food  ?  Why 
has  the  elephant  got  a  trunk  ?  " 

The  purely  ethical  questions  are,  some 
of  them,  very  good  :  "  Why  are  there  so 
many  religious  sects  and  denominations, 
as  there  is  only  one  way,  all  taken  into 
consideration,  to  serve  God?  I  would 
like  you  to  tell  me  why  men  equally 
brave  are  some  despised  and  some  hon- 
ored under  the  same  conditions  and  by 
the  same  country.  Is  it  right  to  rescue 
from  drowning  a  man  who  is  your  ene- 
my and  a  scourge  to  his  neighbors  ? 
When  people  have  great  troubles  in  this 
world,  why  do  they  not  end  these  trou- 
bles ?  Why  do  some  people  fancy  them- 
selves above  others,  when  they  all  have 
to  die  some  day,  and  as  we  are  told 
when  Christ  comes  again  to  judge  the 
living  and  the  dead  we  will  all  be  equal, 
none  above  any  of  the  others,  —  and  some 
men  are  great,  but  the  paths  of  glory  lead 
but  to  the  grave  ?  If  we  live  again  in 
this  world  will  we  be  better,  and  will  we 
be  able  to  have  the  accomplishments  we 
have  in  our  present  life,  to  a  greater  ex- 
tent? Can  or  will  we  be  able  to  send 
messages  to  each  other  through  our 
thoughts  ?  How  ?  People  say  it  is  wrong 
to  drink  wine.  Why  then  did  Jesus  turn 
water  into  wine  ?  When  a  man  murders 
another  man  and  then  a  man  hangs  the 
murderer,  is  the  hangman  not  a  mur- 
derer himself  ?  Do  you  think  the  world 
will  ever  become  one  nation  with  the 
same  religion  ?  Why  should  the  King 
and  Queen  be  more  powerful  and  be 
treated  better  than  any  other  person  ? 
Why  should  a  man  be  hung  if  he  shot 
another  man,  and  in  war,  if  they  shoot  a 
man,  they  would  be  praised  and  thought 
much  of  ?  Is  it  wrong  to  tell  stories  in 
defense  of  others  ?  Is  it  wrong  to  sus- 
pect ?  If  so,  how  are  we  to  know  what 
to  guard  against  ?  Will  people  who  have 
had  no  chance  of  hearing  about  God  be 
admitted  to  Heaven  ?  What  is  the  no- 
blest life  ?  "  These,  surely,  all  of  them, 


are  thoughtful    questions;    these  young 
people  are  doing  their  own  thinking. 

With  a  few  of  what  even  to  Swivel- 
ler  would  be  "  staggerers  "  we  close  the 
list.  Here  they  are :  "  Do  you  know 
how  people  hypnotize  each  other  ?  Was 
Shakespeare  the  same  as  other  men  in 
his  age  as  regards  to  morals  ?  Who 
wrote  the  first  poem  ?  Who  is  the  pret- 
tiest person  in  the  world  ?  Will  you 
please  tell  me  all  about  the  people  in 
this  world  ?  Where  did  Mozart,  Schu- 
bert and  the  other  old  musicians  learn  so 
much  in  the  first  place  ?  Why  do  peo- 
ple get  sick  ?  Will  women  ever  be  con- 
sidered as  equal  to  men  in  politics  and 
in  business  ?  What  makes  some  people 
so  clever  and  others  so  stupid?  Why 
did  Noah  take  some  animals  into  the  ark 
and  leave  others  to  get  drowned  ?  Will 
there  ever  again  be  as  clever  a  writer  as 
Shakespeare  ?  Why  do  men  smoke  to- 
bacco ?  Was  Hamlet  after  his  father's 
death  sane  or  insane  ?  Why  do  people 
think  differently  and  after  about  an  hour's 
argument  think  the  same  as  they  did  be- 
fore ?  How  is  it  that  animals  don't  be- 
come civilized  ?  Will  there  come  a  time 
when  the  castes  in  India  join  ?  Why 
is  there  such  a  thing  as  polotics  f  What 
are  people's  brains  like  ?  What  kind 
of  a  bird  was  it  that  first  lit  in  Canada  ? 
How  many  hairs  are  there  in  a  man's 
head  ?  Why  can't  the  owl  see  in  the 
daytime  ?  Why  don't  people  look  the 
same  ?  What  does  the  teacher  make 
us  ask  these  questions  for  ?  Why  can't 
I  always  do  my  lessons  right?  What 
makes  me  lose  my  temper  so  much  ? 
Why  are  some  people  more  sensible  than 
others  ?  " 

It  is  a  boy  who  writes :  "  I  would 
like  to  know  how  you  could  tell  mother- 
pigeons  from  father-pigeons,"  and  "  Who 
invented  the  first  joke  ?  "  —  while  the 
youngest  girl  in  the  whole  class  wrote  in 
a  wee  little  hand  in  the  middle  of  a  sheet 
of  foolscap,  "  Please  would  you  tell  me 
what  my  mother  thinks  every  day  in  her 
mind  ?  " 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY: 
iftaga$ine  of  literature;  ^cience^  art,  anD 

VOL.  XCIIL  —  MAR  CH,  1904.  —  No.  DL  VII. 


ABUSES  OF  PUBLIC  ADVERTISING. 

[The  author  of  this  article  in  the  series  devoted  to  modern  advertising  is  a  member  of  the 
National  Committee  on  Municipal  Improvement  of  the  Architectural  League  of  America,  and 
Secretary  of  the  American  Park  and  Outdoor  Art  Association.  His  books,  The  Improvement  of 
Towns  and  Cities,  and  Modern  Civic  Art,  are  of  recognized  authority.  —  THE  EDITORS.] 


IN  considering  the  abuses  of  public  ad- 
vertising, it  is  best  to  admit  at  the  start 
that  advertising  is  a  thoroughly  credit- 
able, an  important,  and  even  an  indispen- 
sable part  of  trade,  and  that  its  benefit 
is  scarcely  less  to  the  consumer  than  to 
the  producer.  Hence,  discussion  of  its 
"  abuses  "  means  only  discussion  of  the 
wrong  use  of  a  good  thing,  —  as  one 
might  find,  if  he  wished,  a  fruitful  theme 
in  the  "  abuses  "  of  religion  or  of  public 
libraries. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  are  many 
different  phases  of  this  wrong  use  of  pub- 
He  advertising,  so  that  they  cannot  all  be 
grouped  under  the  two  heads,  moral  and 
aesthetic,  beneath  which  they  would  prob- 
ably be  placed  by  a  general  audience 
asked  to  classify  them.  There  is,  for  in- 
stance, not  infrequently,  economic  abuse. 
Yet  the  wrong  uses  of  advertising  that 
concern  the  public  are  undoubtedly  most 
often  violations  of  the  ideals  of  morality 
or  aesthetics. 

In  so  far,  however,  as  advertising  is 
public,  in  the  sense  that  it  does  not  make 
a  personal  appeal  by  inclosure  in  an  ad- 
dressed envelope,  by  appearing  on  the 
front  steps  of  the  house,  or  under  the 
door,  or  by  its  publication  in  a  periodical 
admitted  to  the  home,  the  moral  issue  has 
ceased  to  be  especially  pressing.  Even 
in  that  personal  appeal  that  is  so  general 
as  barely  to  escape  being  "  public,"  the 


offense  (when  there  is  one)  is  rather  in 
suggestiveness,  or  against  good  taste,  than 
actually  immoral  in  its  character. 

The  public  advertising  that  vaunts  it- 
self upon  the  highway  recognizes,  as  re- 
gards moral  standards,  the  force  of  a  pub- 
lic opinion  that  has  found  itself.  It  is  no 
part  of  the  advertiser's  business  to  offend 
people,  and  even  had  he  himself  a  very 
debased  moral  standard,  that  of  the  com- 
munity would  become  his  law.  So  the 
moral  issue,  in  fact  or  in  name,  is  raised 
only  now  and  then  concerning  the  public 
advertising ;  and  it  is  confined  for  the 
most  part  to  a  dispute  regarding  what 
may  be  called  the  conventional  street  cos- 
tume of  the  ladies  of  the  billboard,  in 
communities  with  a  stricter  sense  of  the 
proprieties  than  is  common  in  great  cities. 
The  matter  becomes  one  of  local  option, 
with  the  advertisers  willing  enough  to 
respect  the  existing  prejudices,  if  they 
know  them ;  since  the  play  can  hardly 
make  a  profit  in  the  town  that  will  not 
endure  its  posters.  And  of  all  the  sub- 
jects of  public  advertising,  only  one  in- 
volves these  objections. 

Thus  it  is  that  a  consideration  of  the 
abuses  of  this  business  must  deal  mainly 
at  present  with  its  violation  of  aesthetic 
ideals.  There  are  several  reasons  for 
this.  The  aesthetic  standard  of  the  com- 
munity is  much  less  definite  and  concur- 
rent than  the  moral ;  and  advertisers,  con- 


290 


Abuses  of  Public  Advertising. 


sidering  the  matter  one  only  of  taste,  have 
no  special  compunction  about  offending 
such  a  standard  as  may  exist.  They 
may  even  glory  in  shocking  the  eye,  on 
the  ground  that  thus  they  will  make  an 
impression,  and  that,  willy  nilly,  their  an- 
nouncement will  be  remembered.  So  in 
the  business  of  public  advertising  much 
is  done  that  an  intelligent  and  increas- 
ingly large  section  of  the  public  may 
properly  deem  an  abuse  of  the  public's 
aesthetic  rights  ;  and  there  is  coming  to  be 
serious  question  concerning  these  abuses, 
and  what  steps  can  be  taken  to  check  or 
to  remedy  them. 

The  first  question  of  the  exasperated 
citizen  is  likely  to  be  an  impatient  inquiry 
whether  the  whole  business  of  display 
advertising  in  public  cannot  be  stopped  ; 
whether  the  advertisers  may  not  be 
driven  to  the  newspapers  and  magazines 
to  make  their  announcements,  pictorial 
or  printed  ;  or,  at  best,  be  suffered  to 
make  public  announcement  only  on  the 
premises  occupied  by  the  business  adver- 
tised. If  the  step  were  possible,  it  would 
be  sheer  folly  to  take  it.  This  kind  of 
advertising  has  been  accurately  described 
as  an  attempt  "  to  call  people's  attention 
to  something  for  which  they  are  not  seek- 
ing, but  which  it  may  be  for  their  advan- 
tage to  know."  How  long  some  of  us 
would  live  without  certain  little  conven- 
iences or  luxuries  of  table,  toilet,  or  dress, 
and  what  a  business  we  should  have  to 
make  of  watching  the  papers  for  amuse- 
ment announcements,  if  display  adver- 
tising in  public  were  not  constantly  call- 
ing our  attention  to  such  matters,  insur- 
ing us  from  overlooking  them  !  The 
producer's  need  of  advertising  would  not 
exist,  did  not  the  public  need  it  also. 

The  next  question,  and  one  repeatedly 
advanced  by  those  who  write  letters  to 
newspapers,  is  whether  it  may  not  be  pos- 
sible for  an  "  enlightened  "  public  opinion 
to  make  its  influence  felt,  and  to  compel 
respect  for  its  taste  by  the  advertisers, 
through  means  of  the  boycott.  If  the 
goods  offensively  advertised  were  not 


so  often  the  best  goods  of  their  class, 
and  if,  through  the  very  aggressiveness 
of  their  advertisement,  their  names  did 
not  stick  in  the  mind  when  the  article 
of  modest  announcement  has  been  forgot- 
ten, there  might  be  a  chance  for  the  pro- 
posed boycott  to  succeed.  But  now  all 
the  weight  of  psychology  and  the  force 
of  our  poor  sheeplike  human  nature  are 
against  it. 

Shall  we  give  up  the  fight,  then  ;  shall 
we  offer  no  obstructions  to  the  ever  ris- 
ing flood  of  public  advertisements ;  shall 
we  abandon  our  towns  and  cities  to  them, 
relinquish  the  dream  of  dignity,  peace, 
and  beauty  in  our  surroundings ;  shall 
we  hold  nothing  sacred,  • —  sky  or  ocean, 
rock  or  tree,  public  building,  church,  or 
monument?  The  churches  and  monu- 
ments of  Paris  have  served  as  boards  for 
despised  and  fluttering  posters ;  trees 
have  died  that  their  dead  trunks  might 
advertise  a  pill ;  romantic  scenery  has 
been  forced  to  offer  reminder  of  ache  or 
appetite  ;  the  glory  of  the  sunset  silhou- 
ettes against  the  sky  the  title  of  a  break- 
fast food ;  and  the  windows  of  the  de- 
fenseless home  look  out  on  circus  girls, 
corsets,  and  malt  whiskey.  There  is  need- 
ed no  apology  for  an  assertion  that  the 
business  has  abuses  ;  and  clearly,  if  we 
cannot  deal  with  it  in  one  general  act 
of  prohibition  or  of  boycott,  there  yet 
must  be  expressions  and  developments 
upon  the  abusive  quality  of  which  we 
all  shall  agree.  For  such  abuses  correc- 
tion should  be  possible ;  but  we  must  be 
fair,  for  against  unreasonableness  even 
the  bulwark  of  law  and  ordinance  cannot 
stand. 

First,  then,  we  may  consider  the  dese- 
cration of  natural  scenery.  This  was  one 
of  the  earliest  and  most  flagrant  of  the 
abuses.  It  is  still  so  rampant  on  lines 
of  heavy  travel  that  its  correction  seems 
a  futile  dream,  and  yet  in  response  to 
a  public  opinion  that  is  proceeding  cau- 
tiously and  reasonably  in  its  demands  re- 
forms are  in  progress.  The  Associated 
Billposters  of  the  United  States  and  Can- 


Abuses  of  Public  Advertising. 


291 


ada  now  officially  condemn  the  practice 
of  painting  signs  upon  rocks  and  other 
natural  objects  in  picturesque  landscapes, 
although  they  seem  to  offer  no  objection 
to  putting  a  hoarding  for  posters  and 
paintings  in  front  of  the  natural  object. 
The  distinction  is  a  fine  one,  but  it  means 
some  gain.  Several  railroads  have  pro- 
hibited the  erection  of  billboards  on  their 
own  property  ;  and  although  this  scarcely 
disturbs  the  advertiser,  who  can  still  use 
the  private  property  on  either  side  of  the 
right  of  way,  it  shuts  out  one  possible  ex- 
tension of  the  abuse  that  has  tremendous 
possibilities.  In  at  least  one  case,  also, 
a  great  railroad  company  has  taken  to 
planting  quickly  growing  trees  at  such 
places  as  to  hide  the  hoardings  erected  on 
adjacent  land.  The  Boston  and  Albany 
Road  has  gained  a  like  end  in  the  subui-bs 
of  Boston  by  planting  screens  of  shrubs  or 
a  hedge  at  the  top  of  the  cut ;  and  it  has 
become  no  unusual  thing  for  a  railroad 
company,  conscious  of  the  popular  feel- 
ing, to  exert  its  influence,  as  far  as  it  can, 
upon  the  adjacent  property  owners,  to  in- 
duce them  to  refuse  to  lease  advertising 
rights.  But  a  public  opinion,  that  very 
unanimously  considers  the  extension  of 
hospitality  to  advertisements  by  a  barn 
or  other  outbuilding,  or  even  by  a  field, 
as  a  badge  of  the  farmer's  poverty,  is  per- 
haps doing  more  than,  is  anything  else  to 
remedy  this  abuse. 

When  the  natural  scenery  is  not  that 
of  the  free  and  open  country  a  new  phase 
of  the  difficulty  appears.  If  it  should 
be  easy  now  for  the  public  to  keep  adver- 
tisements out  of  a  domain  which  the  pub- 
lic has  reserved  for  its  own  enjoyment, 
the  very  circumstance  that  the  excep- 
tional beauty  or  grandeur  of  the  scene 
attracts  multitudes  of  visitors  makes  the 
field  one  especially  coveted  by  the  adver- 
tiser. He  cannot  enter,  but  he  can  go 
to  the  border.  For  example,  two  govern- 
ments have  united  at  great  expenditure 
to  preserve  from  violation  the  majesty  of 
Niagara  Falls.  Yet  on  a  strip  of  untaken 
territory,  in  full  view  from  nearly  every 


vantage  point,  an  enormous  hoarding 
overlooks  the  cataract.  If  it  stands  upon 
Canadian  soil  it  advertises  an  American 
business,  so  that  the  enterprise  is  as 
fairly  international  as  must  be  the  recog- 
nition of  the  sign's  unfitness  there. 

In  The  Billposter  for  January,  1903, 
there  was  the  statement :  — 

"  At  a  seaside  resort  you  will  find  all 
classes  gathered  together,  all  looking  for 
health,  rest,  and  happiness.  At  these 
places  every  one  is  at  ease,  there  are  no 
business  cares  to  worry  or  annoy,  and 
when  people  are  in  that  peculiarly  happy 
frame  of  mind,  they  are  more  easily  im- 
pressed, and  the  impressions  last  longer 
than  at  any  time. 

"  As  all  advertising  is  simply  the  in- 
denting of  certain  facts  into  the  minds  of 
the  public,  then  at  no  other  place  can 
these  results  be  reached  as  quickly  or  as 
surely  as  at  a  seaside  resort.  In  large  cit- 
ies busy  men  and  women  may  not  always 
have  the  time  to  see  a  billboard  or  bulle- 
tin, but  at  a  seaside  resort  they  take  the 
time  to  look  at  it,  to  read  it,  and  to  store 
up  the  statements." 

This  is  the  argument  of  the  advertiser. 
It  is  the  explanation  of  a  development  in 
the  business  that  we  all  perceive  to  be  an 
abuse.  Its  logical  conclusion  would  find 
in  the  city  parks,  created  that  the  people 
might  there  find  rest  and  throw  off  the 
protective  shell  of  hostile  indifference, 
which  in  town  is  their  only  safeguard 
against  nervous  exhaustion,  a  capital  site 
for  billboards.  But  the  public  saw  this 
danger,  and  the  parks  were  saved  from 
trespass.  The  advertiser  accordingly  ob- 
tained a  footing  on  private  lands  in  sight 
of  the  parks,  and  there  erected  posters 
that  should  scream  across  the  meadows, 
overtop  the  shrubs  and  bushes,  and  peer 
among  the  trees.  At  Niagara  Falls  he 
attained  a  triumph  that  was  splendid  be- 
cause he  had  so  little  to  overcome ;  but 
in  kind  it  did  not  diffe'r  from  the  petty 
victories  on  the  park  borders  of  count- 
less towns  and  cities.  Thus  it  has  lately 
become  clear  that  the  public  must  go  a 


292 


Abuses  of  Public  Advertising. 


step  farther,  fully  to  safeguard  its  own 
reservations.  It  must  regulate  the  ad- 
vertising on  the  adjacent  land. 

In  Massachusetts  a  legislative  bill  be- 
came a  law  in  the  winter  of  1903,  confer- 
ring upon  "  the  officer  or  officers,  having 
charge  of  public  parks  and  parkways  in 
any  city  or  town  "  of  the  state,  authority 
to  "  make  such  reasonable  rules  and  reg- 
ulations respecting  the  display  of  signs, 
posters,  or  advertisements  in  or  near  to 
or  visible  from  public  parks  or  parkways 
entrusted  to  their  care,  as  they  may  deem 
necessary  for  preserving  the  objects  for 
which  such  parks  and  parkways  are  es- 
tablished and  maintained."  Violation  of 
the  regulations  adopted  was  made  pun- 
ishable by  fine.  The  enactment  of  such 
a  law  had  been  vigorously  contested  for 
years,  and  it  was  only  after  a  strong  and 
very  interesting  opinion,  upholding  its 
constitutionality,  had  been  secured  from 
the  attorney  general,  that  the  public- 
spirited  bodies  engaged  in  pushing  the 
bill  were  able  to  secure  its  passage.  Now 
that  the  bill  is  a  law  the  fact  that  there 
was  such  a  fight  vastly  strengthens  it.  A 

1  The  principal  contest  in  regard  to  this  legis- 
lation was  waged  over  the  point  whether  the 
state,  if  proposing  to  take  from  the  owner  of  a 
piece  of  land  a  right  that  might  be  valuable  (as 
the  display  of  advertisements),  should  not  take 
this  right  by  eminent  domain  and  compensate 
him  for  its  loss,  rather  than  under  the  police 
powers  without  compensation.  Following  are 
some  extracts  from  the  attorney  general's  opin- 
ion:— 

"  Any  use  of  private  property  which  materi- 
ally interferes  with  the  public  comfort,  except  in 
those  cases  where  the  reasonable  requirements  of 
the  owner  afford  him  justification  or  excuse,  is  a 
nuisance.  Noises  and  odors  have  always  been 
treated  as  nuisances,  even  without  legislative 
adjudication  that  they  are  unwholesome.  .  .  . 

"  There  is  no  legal  reason  why  an  offense  to 
the  eyes  should  have  a  different  standing  from 
an  offense  to  the  other  organs.  To  strike  the 
unwilling  ear  is  in  principle  the  same  as  to 
catch  the  unwilling  eye.  .  .  . 

"  Persons  whose  property  is  affected  by  such 
restrictions  have  no  right  to  compensation,  be- 
cause one  of  the  incidents  to  property  is  a  condi- 
tion that  it  shall  not  be  so  used  as  unreasonably 
to  impair  the  interests  of  the  community.  .  .  . 


test  case,  however,  has  been  carried  into 
the  courts. 

Of  the  rules  adopted  by  the  various 
park  boards  in  response  to  the  author- 
ity thus  granted,  those  of  the  Metropoli- 
tan Commission  may  be  fairly  taken  as 
a  type.  They  prohibit  the  erection  or 
maintenance  of  any  sign,  poster,  or  ad- 
vertisement within  such  distance  of  the 
park  or  parkway,  or  in  such  place,  as 
shall  render  its  "  words,  figures,  or  de- 
vices .  .  .  plainly  visible  to  the  naked 
eye  within  such  park  or  parkway."  But 
from  this  prohibition  they  except,  on 
land  or  building,  one  advertisement  not 
exceeding  fifteen  inches  by  twenty  feet, 
and  relating  exclusively  to  the  property 
on  which  it  is  placed,  "  or  to  the  business 
thereon  conducted,  or  to  the  person  con- 
ducting the  same."  These  rules,  which 
have  been  accepted  as  "  reasonable,"  yet 
safeguard  even  the  borders  of  the  re- 
served domain.1  In  Chicago  there  had 
been  adopted,  two  years  before,  a  local 
ordinance  declaring  that  any  billboard 
within  two  hundred  feet  of  a  park  or 
parkway,  and  more  than  three  feet 

"  Since  the  public  good  justifies  the  spending 
of  money  to  produce  an  aesthetic  effect,  the 
court  will  not  hold  that  a.  reasonable  regulation 
to  preserve  the  effect  for  which  the  public 
money  was  spent  is  beyond  the  power  of  the 
Legislature." 

Another  argument  brought  forward  at  the 
hearings  was  that  the  principal  value  of  the  right 
to  be  curtailed  had  been  created  by  the  public 
as  an  incident  to  the  establishment  of  the  much 
sought  public  pleasure  grounds,  and  that  it  was 
proposed  to  curtail  the  right  only  in  so  far  as 
its  exercise  interfered  with  the  public  purpose 
which  gave  rise  to  its  value.  The  question  of 
compensation  has  lately  had  a  similar  decision 
in  Prussia,  where  within  a  few  months  the  par- 
liament has  enacted  a  bill  "  to  prevent  the  dis- 
figurement of  places  remarkable  for  their  nat- 
ural beauty."  The  bill  empowers  police  courts 
(elective  municipal  bodies)  to  prohibit  "such 
advertisement  boards  and  other  notices  and  pic- 
tures as  disfigure  the  landscape  outside  urban 
districts."  No  exception  is  made  for  the  place 
or  purpose  of  the  sign,  as  the  one  criterion  is 
disfiguring  effect ;  and  no  compensation  is  al- 
lowed. This  measure  also  had  very  thorough 
discussion  before  it  was  passed. 


Abuses  of  Public  Advertising. 


293 


square,  was  a  public  nuisance,  and  should 
be  torn  down ;  and  in  New  York  an  or- 
dinance to  like  effect  had  been  passed 
even  earlier.  It  would  seem  that  the 
principle,  which  has  had  such  thorough 
examination,  must  apply  with  equal  fair- 
ness in  other  states  and  cities,  and  thus 
that  one  popularly  recognized  abuse  of 
advertising  may  be  remedied. 

From  the  thought  that  advertisements 
may  be  properly  restricted  in  certain 
places  in  a  town,  because  of  the  injury 
they  do  to  a  desired  aesthetic  effect,  it  is 
no  long  step  to  a  belief  that  the  right 
should  be  given  to  the  municipality  to 
determine  where  they  may  or  may  not 
be  put,  in  all  parts  of  the  town.  To  illus- 
trate :  a  few  years  ago  the  London  branch 
of  a  Chicago  firm  caused  two  huge  adver- 
tisements to  be  so  placed  at  Dover  that 
they  were  staringly  visible  against  the 
background  of  the  cliffs.  Although  no 
park  scenery  was  affected,  protests  ap- 
peared in  the  newspapers,  not  only  of 
Dover,  but  of  London  and  other  cities ; 
and  a  strongly  signed  petition  was  pre- 
sented to  the  Mayor  and  Council  beg- 
ging for  interference.  The  officials  re- 
quested the  firm  to  forego  its  privilege, 
and  the  firm  declined.  The  Mayor  and 
his  colleagues  then  appealed  to  Parlia- 
ment, and  secured  the  passage  of  a  bill 
giving  to  the  Corporation  of  Dover  the 
power  to  grant  advertisement  licenses  for 
such  sites  as  it  saw  fit,  and  to  require  the 
removal  of  any  advertisements  for  which 
there  was  no  license,  unless  they  were 
exhibited  within  a  window,  or  gave  notice 
of  an  entertainment  to  be  held  on  the 
land  or  in  the  building  that  bore  them. 
So  the  step  was  taken.  And  the  history 
of  its  taking  at  Dover  is  little  more  than 
a  repetition  of  the  circumstances  which 
had  caused  it  in  1897  to  be  taken  in 
Edinburgh,  with  the  result  that  Edin- 
burgh has  been  called  the  pioneer  in  the 
municipal  regulation  of  advertisements. 

But  if  the  thought  that  town  or  city 
can  designate  the  places  on  which  adver- 
tisements may  be  shown,  and  can  prohibit 


their  erection  elsewhere,  has  seemed  to 
be  reached  by  entirely  natural  steps,  it 
is  not  to  be  supposed  that  this  conception 
has  failed  to  encounter  vigorous  opposi- 
tion from  the  advertisers.  It  is  too  sim- 
ple and  sweeping  a  panacea  to  the  abuses 
of  advertising  for  them  calmly  to  submit. 
Fully  to  understand  this,  we  should  go 
back  a  little  and  note  that  there  have  been 
three  interesting  movements  in  progress 
in  the  advertising  business :  (1)  Its  amaz- 
ing increase  in  the  last  few  years,  and 
the  multiplication  and  growing  extent  of 
what  may  be  called  its  abuses ;  (2)  the 
consequent  increase  of  public  interest, 
concern,  and  occasional  resentment,  with 
no  little  hostile  legislation  resulting ;  (3) 
the  affiliation  of  local  billboard  interests 
into  a  national  body,  for  the  purpose  of 
more  successfully  opposing  adverse  pub- 
lic action. 

The  line  of  battle  has  thus  been  clearly 
drawn.  The  public  in  a  thousand  com- 
munities recognizes  certain  developments 
of  advertising  as  abuses,  and  is  trying  to 
check  them,  while  the  advertisers  are 
standing  together  for  what  they  call  their 
rights.  A  fourth  movement  that  should 
develop  with  us,  and  for  which  there  is 
already  call,  is  a  similar  coordinating  of 
the  local  public  efforts.  This  has  been 
accomplished  in  Great  Britain,  first  by 
the  organization  of  a  National  Society  for 
Checking  Abuses  of  Public  Advertising 
("  Scapa  "),  and  second  by  the  formation 
of  the  Parliamentary  Amenities  Party. 
The  latter  is  a  committee,  of  which 
James  Bryce  is  chairman,  made  up  of 
members  of  both  houses  of  Parliament, 
who  agree  to  stand  by  and  stand  for  the 
preservation  of  civic  and  rural  amenities 
and  to  oppose  unfavorable  legislation. 
To  accomplish  its  purposes,  the  com- 
mittee appoints  a  small  sub-committee 
which  keeps  in  communication  with  seven 
societies  that  exist  for  the  furtherance  of 
one  or  another  phase  of  these  amenities. 
There  are  plenty  of  societies  in  this  coun- 
try, and  the  work  to  be  done  now  is 
to  make  possible  their  concerted  action. 


294 


Abuses  of  Public  Advertising. 


Until  this  has  been  accomplished,  the 
warfare  between  the  public  and  the  ad- 
vertisers must  be  a  series  of  guerrilla  con- 
flicts which  can  be  of  little  satisfaction 
to  either  side.  The  narrative  also  be- 
comes difficult  to  write,  for  it  is  made  up 
from  various  small  specific  contests  that 
have  to  serve  as  types.  These  can  best 
be  marshaled  into  order  by  now  imagin- 
ing ourselves  as  entering  the  town. 

In  the  open  country  "  the  enemy  "  had 
gathered  in  strongest  force  along  the 
steam  road,  the  trolley  road,  and  high- 
way ;  coming  into  town  we  have  observed 
that  the  parks  are  safe,  and  that  the 
advertisers  are  retiring  even  from  park 
boundaries.  But  we  shall  see  that  in  the 
town  there  is  the  hardest  fighting.  Here 
the  advertisers  have  most  to  lose.  Such 
satisfactory  conditions  as  those  described 
in  Edinburgh  and  Dover  are  exceptional 
in  Great  Britain,  and  are  probably  with- 
out parallel  in  the  United  States.  Most 
communities  have  to  deal  separately  with 
a  large  variety  of  abuses. 

Possibly  the  first  to  attract  attention  is 
the  fixture  of  advertisements  to  trees. 
This  is  done  in  the  country  also,  but  in 
the  city  it  tends  to  become  a  prevalent 
rather  than  an  occasional  evil.  There  is 
a  state  law  against  it  in  Massachusetts  ; 
in  New  Hampshire  one  must  have  a  writ- 
ten permit  from  the  tree  warden ;  and 
municipal  ordinances  against  the  abuse 
have  become  throughout  the  country  far 
commoner  than  is  their  strict  enforce- 
ment. It  is  clearly  an  economic  waste 
to  endanger  the  life  of  a  beautiful  tree 
that  has  attained  its  growth  only  after 
years  by  affixing  to  it  posters  of  doubtful 
interest  to-day  and  of  none  to-morrow. 
The  abuse  is  so  palpable  that  there  has 
been  little  difficulty  about  making  it  ille- 
gal ;  but  the  advertisements  put  on  trees 
are  generally  small,  and  public  opinion  is 
careless  about  the  law's  enforcement. 

Frequently  the  ordinance  designed  to 

1  These  words  are  taken  from  the  opinion 
written  by  Justice  Martin  of  the  Court  of  Ap- 
peals (New  York)  in  the  case  of  the  City  of 


protect  the  tree  classes  with  it  the  tele- 
graph, telephone,  and  lighting  service 
pole,  though  the  abuse  in  this  case  as 
far  as  the  public  is  concerned  is  much 
less  obvious.  But  the  fixture  of  posters 
to  a  pole  is  almost  as  bad  for  the  pole  as 
for  the  tree,  and  if  an  ordinance  does 
not  protect  it  the  company  to  whom  the 
poles  belong  is  likely  to  require  that  ad- 
vertisers keep  away.  In  the  larger  cities, 
therefore,  this  evil  —  recently  so  serious 
—  is  beginning  to  be  checked. 

Advertisements  on  the  trees  seemed  an 
abuse  so  outrageous  as  to  demand  im- 
mediate attention  ;  but  the  billboards  that 
in  the  country  were  scattered,  now  that 
the  town  is  reached,  commence  to  close 
in  upon  us.  They  line  the  street  where 
there  is  vacant  land ;  they  are  erected  even 
upon  roofs  ;  they  are  no  respecters  of  fine 
views,  of  neighborhoods,  of  civic  dignity, 
of  pretensions  to  civic  pride  or  stateliness. 
They  may  rise  billboard  upon  billboard, 
two  "  decked  "  or  three ;  they  are  of  all 
kinds,  —  some  neat  and  orderly,  and 
some  with  torn  posters  on  broken  boards, 
thoroughly  disreputable.  It  is  plain  that 
the  billboard  question  of  the  cities  is  not 
one  question,  but  many ;  and  it  is  here 
that  the  guerrilla  warfare  becomes  most 
in  evidence. 

There  is  no  public  demand  that  the 
billboards  be  utterly  suppressed,  —  only 
that  they  be  regulated  ;  and  if  we  are  to 
regulate  them  we  must  determine  what 
of  their  developments  may  be  fairly  called 
abuses.  Excessive  height  certainly  is 
one.  Municipal  ordinances  usually  at- 
tack this  under  the  building  laws,  on  the 
plea  that  hoardings  wholly  unlimited  as 
to  height  and  dimensions  "  might  readily 
become  a  constant  and  continuing  dan- 
ger to  the  lives  and  persons  of  those  who 
should  pass  along  the  street  in  proximity 
to  them."  *  There  is,  as  pointed  out  in 
some  communities,  an  added  danger  from 
fire. 

Rochester  against  Robert  West  (1900),  all  the 
judges  concurring. 


Abuses  of  Public  Advertising. 


295 


This  effort  to  limit  the  height  of  bill- 
boards affords,  by  the  way,  some  interest- 
ing illustrations  of  the  unequal  conflict 
now  going  on  between  the  united  bill- 
posters and  a  public  that  lacks  union. 
An  ordinance  was  adopted  in  Buffalo,  for 
example,  a  few  years  ago,  to  limit  the 
height  of  billboards  to  seven  feet.  It 
was  contested,  and  the  battle  was  carried 
from  court  to  court,  until  finally  the  ordi- 
nance was  approved  by  the  highest  court 
of  the  state.  The  Billposters'  Associa- 
tion, in  order  to  become  a  foreign  corpo- 
ration and  thus  come  under  the  jurisdic- 
tion of  the  Federal  courts,  then  obtained 
incorporation  outside  of  New  York,  and 
began  injunction  proceedings  in  a  United 
States  court  to  prevent  action  under  the 
ordinance.  By  this  means  long  delays 
were  gained,  and  the  fight  is  now  being 
made  for  the  Buffalo  posters  by  the  Na- 
tional Association.  This  is  thoroughly 
organized,  and  its  system  is  said  to  be  so 
complete  that  it  practically  controls  the 
situation  in  every  city  and  town  in  the 
United  States. 

The  location  of  the  billboards  may  be 
a  not  less  aggravating  abuse  than  exces- 
sive height,  and  it  is  even  more  frequent 
in  its  annoyance.  We  have  seen  how  the 
thought  that  a  city  can  forbid  the  placing 
of  billboards  in  proximity  to  a  park  may 
lead  by  a  natural  advance  to  its  claim  of 
the  right  to  determine  where  they  shall 
be  located,  in  all  parts  of  the  town.  But 
the  step,  if  natural,  has  proved  too  radi- 
cal to  be  taken  as  yet  except  on  the  rar- 
est occasions,  and  the  billposting  com- 
panies are  restricted  in  their  choice  of 
desirable  sites  only  by  the  easy  task  of 
finding  a  land-owner  who  is  willing  to 
lease  to  them  a  strip  of  property  that 
otherwise  probably  brings  him  nothing. 
It  has  been  many  times  suggested  that  a 
reasonable  condition  to  impose  would  be 
the  procurement  of  the  consent  of  the  ad- 
jacent property  holders.  A  man  should 
not  be  suffered  to  do  with  his  property 
that  which  his  neighbors  consider  a  nui- 
sance. In  Chicago  this  requirement  has 


been  put  into  an  ordinance  which  de- 
mands that  no  billboard  be  erected  on  a 
residence  street  without  the  consent  of 
three  fourths  of  the  frontage  in  the  block 
concerned.  Another  suggested  require- 
ment is  that  the  billboards  be  put  back  a 
certain  number  of  feet  from  the  building 
line,  with  the  result  that  they  shall  be  vis- 
ible only  when  one  is  directly  in  front  of 
them,  and  shall  not  mar  the  street  vista. 
The  measures  that  have  been  adopted 
in  some  foreign  cities  for  the  control  of 
advertisements,  generally,  of  course  affect 
hoardings  in  particular,  since  these  ex- 
ist expressly  for  advertisements.  They 
will  be  touched  upon  later.  Meanwhile 
it  is  only  fair  to  say  parenthetically  that 
even  the  billboard,  with  all  its  faults,  has 
good  points  and  has  improved.  A  well- 
built  hoarding,  with  neatly  framed  post- 
ers, may  be  so  much  preferable  to  an 
abandoned  vacant  lot  as  to  be  by  com- 
parison no  nuisance.  And  with  the  enor- 
mous growth  and  more  efficient  organiza- 
tion of  the  advertising  business,  there  are 
factors  naturally  at  work  to  remedy  some 
of  the  more  glaring  billboard  offenses. 
The  hoardings  are  better  constructed ; 
they  are  kept  in  repair ;  the  posters  have 
distinctly  improved  in  artistic  character  ; 
it  is  becoming  the  custom,  in  order  to 
secure  greater  effectiveness,  to  set  each 
poster  within  its  own  frame  or  moulding ; 
and  this,  with  a  standardizing  of  sizes, 
tends  to  lessen  somewhat  the  discordance 
of  the  always  inharmonious  battery. 
Finally,  the  advertisers  themselves  have 
learned  that  mere  multiplicity  may  go  too 
far ;  and  now  in  almost  every  city  there 
are  advertising  rights  which  are  leased 
but  not  used,  because  the  signs  displayed 
are  rendered  more  valuable  through  the 
keeping  of  neighboring  sites  vacant. 
That  the  best  billboard  may  invite  to 
acts  behind  it  that  are  contrary  to  the 
law,  and  may  be  so  offensive  in  itself  to 
a  neighborhood  as  actually  to  decrease 
the  value  of  property,  is  good  evidence 
that  the  possibilities  of  advertising  abuse 
are  very  many  in  the  billboard,  and  that 


296 


Abuses  of  Public  Advertising. 


unless  the  hoardings  are  legislated  out 
of  existence  no  general  restrictions  can 
guarantee  unfailing  satisfaction.  There 
will  always  remain  cases  to  be  separately 
judged.  In  justice,  therefore,  it  ought 
to  be  acknowledged  that  the  hoarding  is 
not  wholly  evil,  however  fruitful  a  source 
of  evil ;  and  that  the  billboard  which  is 
a  civic  abuse  iu  one  place  may  not  be 
one  somewhere  else. 

Of  other  advertising  developments,  the 
so-called  "  sky  signs  "  are  generally  re- 
cognized in  Great  Britain  as  an  abuse, 
many  of  the  corporations  having  ordi- 
nances prohibiting  the  erection  of  signs 
of  which  the  letters,  standing  clear  of 
a  building's  top,  show  against  the  sky. 
This  is  forbidden  even  in  London.  Flash- 
lights and  certain  kinds  of  illuminated 
advertisements  are  also  condemned,  on 
the  ground  that  they  might  frighten 
horses ;  and  the  use  of  vehicles  exclu- 
sively or  principally  for  the  displaying  of 
advertisements  is  very  frequently  pro- 
hibited. American  cities  and  towns 
quite  commonly  go  to  the  extent  of  pro- 
hibiting the  stringing  of  banners  across 
the  street,  or  requiring  for  the  act  a  spe- 
cial permission  that  is  rarely  granted 
except  to  political  parties.  Projecting 
signs,  standing  out  from  building  fronts, 
have  so  many  possibilities  of  abuse  that 
ordinances  almost  always  hedge  them 
about,  determining  their  minimum  height 
above  the  sidewalk  and  their  maximum 
projection  and  size. 

It  may  be  well  at  this  point,  lest  these 
and  other  curbs  to  the  advertiser's  free- 
dom to  ply  his  business  how  and  where 
he  pleases  seem  too  onerous,  to  ask  our- 
selves just  what  would  be  a  reasonable 
ideal  in  the  display  of  advertisements 
on  the  street.  For  our  modern  civic  art 
is  not  impractical.  It  would  not  exclude 
from  its  dream  of  the  city  beautiful  the 
whir  and  hum  of  traffic,  the  exhilarat- 
ing evidences  of  nervous  energy,  enter- 
prise, vigor,  and  endeavor.  It  loves  the 
straining,  striving,  competing,  as  the  most 
marked  of  urban  characteristics,  and  in 


the  advertising  problem  it  will  feel,  not 
hostility,  but  the  thrill  of  opportunity. 
It  will  recognize  evils  in  the  present 
methods,  but  will  find  them  the  evils  of 
excess  and  unrestraint,  and  it  will  perceive 
possibilities  of  artistic  achievement  by 
which  even  the  advertising  can  be  made 
to  serve  the  ends  of  art  dans  la  rue.  As 
far,  then,  as  abuses  are  concerned,  civic 
art  would  predicate  its  desire  for  restric- 
tions upon  the  conception  of  what  the 
street  reasonably  ought  to  be.  Any  ad- 
vertising display  out  of  harmony  with  this 
conception  would  be  considered  an  abuse. 

There  would  be  required,  first,  a  clear 
path  for  travel  by  walk  or  road,  which 
means  that  advertisements  must  retire  to 
the  building  line.  Second,  there  would 
be  insistence  that  no  announcement  in- 
trude upon  the  vista  of  the  street.  These 
requirements  purport,  concretely,  that 
civic  art  —  that  is,  the  art  of  making 
cities  dignified  and  beautiful  —  would 
prohibit  advertisement  erections  of  any 
kind  at  the  curb  or  on  the  sidewalk,  and 
would  suffer  no  public  utility,  or  ornament 
of  the  way,  to  be  placarded  ;  would  frown 
upon  projecting  signs,  and  would  have 
no  banners  hung  across  the  street.  It 
would  sweep,  the  street  clean  of  adver- 
tisements from  building  line  to  building 
line.  And,  on  the  buildings,  it  would  re- 
quire that  there  be  some  respect  for  the 
architecture ;  it  would  not  have  adver- 
tisements plaster  a  fagade.  In  this  mat- 
ter it  has  a  positive  as  well  as  a  negative 
creed,  but  that  is  not  part  of  a  discussion 
of  the  abuses  of  advertising. 

Of  the  restrictions  thus  demanded  sev- 
eral have  already  had  mention.  In  re- 
gard to  the  removal  of  bulletin  boards, 
signs,  and  transparencies  from  a  position 
on  the  sidewalk,  probably  the  most  in- 
teresting case  for  citation  is  that  lately 
offered  by  the  Merchants'  Association  of 
San  Francisco.  This  is  interesting  be- 
cause the  prime  movers  in  demanding  the 
ordinance  and  its  rigid  enforcement  were 
merchants,  —  not  a  few  visionary  and 
impractical  idealists,  but  the  advertisers 


Abuses  of  Public  Advertising. 


297 


themselves ;  and  the  action,  formally 
taken  after  long  thought,  was  that  of  the 
association  which  represented  them,  and 
which  is  one  of  the  strongest  commercial 
bodies  in  the  United  States.  The  ordi- 
nance excludes  everything  except  clocks, 
and  refuses  to  permit  any  advertisement 
on  these.  It  should  be  noted  in  con- 
nection with  this  that  when  all  the  adver- 
tisers of  a  community  are  subject  to  the 
same  prohibition,  no  one  is  put  at  a  disad- 
vantage ;  and  that,  without  restrictions, 
there  may  be  a  competition  between  ad- 
vertisers which  will  prove  a  very  serious 
abuse  to  them. 

The  fixture  of  posters  to  monuments 
and  other  public  ornaments  of  the  way 
is  not  attempted  in  this  country ;  but 
two  years  ago  it  was  a  serious  abuse  in 
Paris.  The  public  utilities  are  usually 
protected  by  ordinance,  whether  owned 
by  the  municipality  or  public  service  cor- 
porations, and  lately  there  has  been  an 
interesting  extension  of  this  restriction 
by  its  application  to  railroad  structures. 
Chicago  offers  an  example  in  an  ordi- 
nance adopted  last  fall.  It  requires  that 
the  advertisements  on  so  much  of  the 
elevated  railroad  structures  and  stations 
as  is  not  on  the  company's  own  right  of 
way  —  that  is,  for  instance,  on  stations 
built  over  cross  streets  —  shall  be  re- 
moved. In  London  advertising  on  rail- 
road bridges  is  forbidden,  and  in  Glas- 
gow and  many  other  cities  of  Great 
Britain  advertisements  are  not  allowed 
on  the  outside  of  the  trams.  This  was 
an  advertising  abuse  that  had  become 
much  more  serious  in  England  than  it 
ever  has  become  with  us.  Finally,  any 
advertisements  on  the  public  buildings 
or  on  the  pavements,  or  the  scattering  of 
handbills  in  the  streets  which  the  city  is 
trying  to  keep  clean,  may  be  properly 
called  an  advertising  abuse  that  it  is  ut- 
terly inconsistent  for  the  city  to  allow. 

There  is  philosophically  also  an  essen- 
tial fitness  in  the  protection  by  a  city  of 
its  own  property  from  advertising  disfig- 
urement ;  for  if  the  community  as  a  body 


cannot  be  loyal  to  a  wish  for  civic  dig- 
nity and  beauty,  or  does  not  on  its  own 
property  set  an  example,  it  cannot  ex- 
pect its  citizens  to  be  zealous  and  partic- 
ular. It  has  the  advantage,  too,  that  it 
can  be  frankly  loyal  to  an  aesthetic  ideal, 
while  the  citizens  have  to  show  that  the 
advertisement  to  which  they  object  does 
injury  and  is  a  nuisance.  They  also  are 
distracted  by  conflicting  interests,  and 
find  it  difficult  to  judge  impartially  of 
the  good  or  evil  of  advertisements  from 
the  standpoint  that  the  city,  in  its  aloof- 
ness, takes.  And  no  other  course  than 
the  protection  of  its  property  is  logical 
for  a  community  that  is  spending  money 
not  merely  to  keep  clean  and  neat,  but  to 
secure  positive  aesthetic  results  by  main- 
taining parks  and  squares,  and  by  erect- 
ing handsome  public  buildings,  fountains, 
and  statues. 

A  grievous  mistake,  therefore,  is  made 
when  a  town  undertakes  to  advertise  its 
attractions  by  means  of  a  monster  hoard- 
ing beside  the  railroad.  This  is  an  abuse 
of  advertising  that  is  growing  somewhat 
in  frequency.  In  the  West  you  will 
often  come  to  a  town  with  a  town-sign  ; 
but  the  best  thing  that  a  town  can  have 
is  an  ideal,  and  a  civic  spirit  that  will 
work  for  that  ideal.  The  town-sign  re- 
veals, more  emphatically  than  it  says 
anything  else,  the  crudity  of  the  vision 
which  the  community  has:  The  condi- 
tion is  sad  enough  when  the  great  city 
of  New  York  presents  to  the  stranger  on 
the  viaduct  of  Brooklyn  Bridge  only  a 
sea  of  signs  ;  but  he  does  not  think  quite 
as  badly  of  it  as  he  would  if  the  city 
itself  had  officially  set  up  the  signs,  — 
to  show  him  that  it  was  thriving !  He 
would  have  then  considered  it  thriving, 
and  nothing  better. 

Akin,  in  lack  of  consistency,  to  a 
town's  deliberate  and  official  marring  of 
its  beauty  by  the  erection  of  a  hoarding 
is  the  permission  which  associations  that 
exist  to  uplift  communal  life  sometimes 
grant  to  advertisers  to  use  their  property. 
The  Academy  of  Design  in  New  York, 


298 


Abuses  of  Public  Advertising. 


having  purchased  a  spacious  site  for  a 
beautiful  new  home,  let  for  advertising 
purposes  the  boards  surrounding  its  pro- 
perty. These  were  covered  with  a  huge 
sign  to  advertise  a  five-cent  cigar,  while 
on  the  same  premises  the  society  was 
conducting  free  art  classes  in  an  effort 
to  train  the  taste  of  the  youth  of  New 
York.  It  is  clear  that  all  the  advertis- 
ing abuses  are  not  due  to  the  advertisers. 
A  degree  of  responsibility  rests  upon  the 
public  itself. 

In  occasional  discouragement,  the 
champions  of  a  better  sort  of  advertising 
may  well  ask,  now  and  then,  "  Whom 
shall  we  trust  ?  "  This  feeling,  and,  above 
all,  the  knowledge  of  the  immense  and 
rapid  growth  of  the  business,  of  its  in- 
creasing resources,  and  its  efficient  or- 
ganization, have  inspired  a  fear  that  has 
led  to  attempts  to  control  it  and  restrict 
it  as  a  whole.  Foreign  cities  and  nations, 
managing  this  more  easily  than  can  the 
United  States,  offer  a  number  of  inter- 
esting examples.  France  and  Belgium 
have  a  tax  on  posters,  and  such  an  impost 
has  been  proposed  in  England.  It  is 
easily  levied  by  means  of  stamps,  and 
through  the  proportioning  of  the  tax  to 
the  size  of  the  poster  considerable  re- 
straint is  exercised.  The  tax  also  makes 
it  possible  for  the  government  to  scruti- 
nize the  advertisements  before  they  are 
set  up,  the  law  requiring  their  submission 
before  posting.  In  France  the  poster  tax 
brings  in  something  like  four  millions  of 
francs  a  year.  In  the  cities  of  France, 
Belgium,  Germany,  and  Italy,  the  post- 
ers must  be  placed  on  columns  or  other 
devices  especially  prepared  for  the  pur- 
pose. These  are  placed  at  designated 
spots,  are  of  a  design  approved  by  the 
municipality,  and  are  frankly  artistic  in 
effort. 

In  New  York  state  a  bill  was  intro- 
duced in  the  Legislature  in  the  winter  of 
1902,  and  received  influential  backing, 
for  the  imposition  of  a  stamp  tax  on  post- 
ers, the  suggested  tax  being  one  cent  per 
two  square  feet,  measuring  the  greatest 


length  by  the  greatest  width.  The  bill 
was  opposed  by  the  labor  and  other  in- 
terests, and  failed  to  pass  ;  but  the  intro- 
duction of  the  measure  was  not  a  little 
significant.  In  Pennsylvania  there  was 
enacted  last  winter  a  law  which  makes  it 
necessary  for  the  advertiser  to  secure  the 
written  consent  of  the  owner  or  tenant 
upon  whose  property  a  sign  or  poster  is 
attached,  and  prohibiting  altogether  the 
fixture  of  advertisements  (save  legal 
notices  or  announcements  pertaining  to 
the  business  conducted  on  the  premises) 
to  any  property  of  the  state  or  of  any  coun- 
ty, township,  or  city  in  the  state.  In  Illi- 
nois last  winter  a  bill  was  introduced  and 
valiantly  championed  which  would  have 
given  to  the  officials  of  the  cities,  towns, 
and  villages  of  the  state  the  "  power  to 
license  street  advertising  and  billboard 
companies,  and  regulate  and  prohibit 
signs  and  billboards  upon  vacant  proper- 
ty and  upon  buildings  advertising  other 
business  than  that  of  the  occupant."  The 
measure  was  fought  aggressively  by  the 
billboard  trust,  and  at  last  it  failed. 

Now  these  bills  are  significant  because 
they  go  to  show  that  in  this  country  also 
popular  attention  has  been  aroused  to  the 
abuses  of  public  advertising.  Any  seri- 
ous extension  of  these  abuses  is  likely 
to  provoke  an  adverse  legislation  that 
will  be  costly  to  the  advertisers.  This 
significance  is  the  more  marked  when 
the  origin  of  the  bills  is  examined.  Be- 
hind the  bill  which  was  introduced  in 
New  York  state  was  the  American  Scenic 
and  Historic  Preservation  Society ;  the 
bill  that  became  a  law  in  Pennsylvania 
was  fathered  by  the  American  Park  and 
Outdoor  Art  Association,  which  has  on 
this  subject  a  standing  committee,  to 
whose  interesting  latest  report  this  paper 
is  much  indebted  ;  the  Illinois  bill  was 
introduced  at  the  request  of  the  Munici- 
pal Art  League  of  Chicago.  The  public 
has  not  yet  united,  as  have  the  billboard 
people, — but  it  has  taken  the  first  step 
in  forming  itself  into  organized  bodies 
for  the  waging  of  the  contest.  If  any 


Race  Factors  in  Labor   Unions. 


299 


abuse  becomes  very  serious  these  bodies 
can  be  depended  upon  to  act  together, 
if  they  do  not  combine.  And  there  are 
these  hopeful  elements  in  the  contest: 
the  public  does  not  and  will  not  fight  to 
suppress  advertising,  but  only  to  restrict 
it  to  reasonable  proportions  ;  the  adver- 
tisers do  not  want  to  offend  the  public, 
but  are  bound  to  respect  any  genuine 
popular  sentiment.  As  it  is  not  war  to 
the  death,  but  a  mutual  adjustment  of 
opinions  (which  have  differed  because 
of  different  points  of  view),  that  is  be- 
fore us,  in  the  just  settlement  of  the  ad- 
vertising problem,  mere  discussion  must 
help  to  cure  the  mistakes  on  either 
side. 

Finally,  there  is  this  to  be  said :  the 
advertisers  can  gain  their  ends  in  other 
and  unobjectionable  ways.  In  the  bare 
recital  of  abuses  it  may  have  seemed  as 
if  there  were  so  many  that,  should  they 
all  be  checked  successfully,  there  would 


be  left  to  the  advertiser  small  chance  to 
proclaim  his  wares.  But  that  is  not  true. 
He  would  still  have  opportunities,  sub- 
stituting —  with  much  gain  to  the  com- 
munity and  probably  with  some  to  him- 
self —  for  mere  bigness  and  multiplicity 
of  announcements  a  quality  of  attractive- 
ness. There  would  lie  the  new  compe- 
tition. He  has  already  learned  that  em- 
phasis is  gained  not  only  by  screaming 
a  word,  but  by  pausing  before  and  after 
its  utterance.  He  is  finding  it  more  pro- 
fitable to  put  his  colors  together  harmo- 
niously than  to  shock  the  eye.  He  has 
discovered  that  if  he  can  entertain  and 
amuse  the  public  with  jingles  or  clever 
names  or  well-drawn  pictures,  he  makes 
more  impression  than  by  shouting.  Thus 
advertisements  now  render  many  a  long 
ride  less  tedious  than  it  used  to  be,  and 
even  win  for  the  billboards  some  friends 
where  before,  because  of  the  abuses,  all 
must  have  been  their  enemies. 

Charles  Mulford  Robinson. 


RACE  FACTORS  IN  LABOR  UNIONS. 

[The  author  of  this  paper  is  professor  of  economics  in  Harvard  University.  His  investigations 
in  preparing  his  well-known  work  on  the  Races  of  Europe  peculiarly  qualify  him  to  treat  the 
present  theme  with  authority.  —  THE  EDITORS.] 


SOME  months  ago  Wall  Street  was  cur- 
rently reported  to  be  suffering  from  an 
overload  of  undigested  securities,  —  the 
result  of  unprecedented  industrial  pro- 
motion. This  situation  has  now  resolved 
itself  into  the  "  digestion  of  insecurities," 
through  the  long  process  of  financial  liqui- 
dation which  has  been  in  progress  since 
last  summer.  American  trade-unionism 
to-day,  while  numerically  prosperous  be- 
yond comparison,  shows  symptoms  of  the 
same  disorder.  The  incubus,  in  this  case, 
consists  of  a  vast  new  and  as  yet  but  half- 
assimilated  membership.1  This  condition 

1  The  recent  phenomenal  rise  of  trade-union- 
ism in  the  United  States  is  traced  by  the  writer 
in  the  World's  Work  for  November,  1903. 


of  instability  in  labor  organization  as 
compared  with  Great  Britain  is,  in  part, 
due  to  the  racial  peculiarity  of  the  popu- 
lation of  the  United  States.  Ethnic  het- 
erogeneity enormously  complicates  the  sit- 
uation for  all  parties  concerned,  but  espe- 
cially for  the  working  classes  themselves. 
Consider  the  situation  for  a  moment. 

For  half  a  century  about  one  seventh 
of  our  total  population  has  been  regu- 
larly constituted  of  persons  born  outside 
the  United  States;  and  for  twenty-five 
years  at  least,  one  third  of  our  people 
have  not  enjoyed  the  inestimable  privi- 
lege of  American-born  parentage,  that  is 
to  say,  with  both  parents  native  born. 
More  than  half  of  the  population  of  the 


300 


Race  Factors  in  Labor   Unions. 


North  Atlantic  States  in  1900,  nearly 
two  thirds  in  Massachusetts  and  Rhode 
Island,  and  three  fifths  in  New  York 
and  Connecticut,  —  all  primarily  manu- 
facturing communities,  —  was  of  foreign 
parentage,  wholly  or  in  part.  True,  the 
proportion  is  almost  as  high  in  Wiscon- 
sin, Minnesota,  and  North  Dakota ;  but 
these  states  are  mainly  agricultural.  This 
proportion  of  alien  blood,  high  enough 
for  the  population  at  large,  is  more 
marked  in  the  cities,  which  are  the  main 
centres  alike  of  industry  and  of  trade- 
unionism.  New  York  and  Chicago  are 
more  than  three  fourths  of  foreign  par- 
entage. Boston  and  Pittsburg  follow 
with  about  two  thirds  of  their  population 
as  yet  imperfectly  American ;  while  in 
some  of  the  smaller  industrial  centres  in 
the  East,  the  proportion  of  foreign  par- 
entage rises  above  four  fifths,  —  as  in 
Lawrence,  Holyoke,  Fall  River,  and 
Hoboken,  —  almost  rivaling  Milwaukee 
in  this  regard.  Boston  is  largely  an 
Irish  town  ;  Chicago  is  said  to  be  the 
third  largest  Bohemian  city  in  the  world. 
It  would  be  easy  to  duplicate  in  size 
many  of  the  large  cities  of  Europe  in  the 
foreign-born  population  of  our  munici- 
palities. These  proportions,  be  it  ob- 
served, are  for  our  great  cities  as  a  whole. 
We  may  push  the  comparison  still  far- 
ther by  considering  the  proportion  of  pop- 
ulation of  foreign  extraction,  not  only 
in  the  great  cities  at  large,  but  in  their 
industrial  sections  separately.  As  an  ex- 
ample, tbe  custom  clothing  trade  of  New 
York  may  be  mentioned  ;  wherein,  on  the 
authority  of  the  United  States  Industrial 
Commission,  it  was  found  that  nearly 
three  fourths  of  those  employed  were  di- 
rect immigrants  ;  while  among  the  tailors 
in  the  same  city  the  proportion  of  actual 
foreigners  rose  to  upwards  of  ninety  per 
cent. 

These  proportions  of  alien  blood  are 
very  marked  among  the  so-called  work- 
ing-classes, recruited  as  they  are  directly 
from  the  Old  World.  The  reservoir  of 
onr  industrial  population  is  indeed  sup- 


plied from  the  bottom  rather  than  the 
top.  The  data  for  1900  are  not  yet 
available,  but  prediction  is  not  difficult. 
While  approximately  half  of  the  total 
population  of  the  United  States  in  1890 
was  born  in  the  United  States  of  Ameri- 
can parentage,  only  about  forty  per  cent 
of  the  population  engaged  in  manufac- 
tures was  thus  doubly  dyed  American. 
About  one  fourth  of  those  so  employed 
in  industry  in  1890  were  born  in  the 
United  States,  although  their  parents 
were  foreign  born  ;  and  nearly  one  third 
of  the  industrial  class  was  constituted  of 
actual  immigrants.  Such  being  the  con- 
dition, how  great  is  the  task  of  the  trade- 
unionist  in  the  attempt  to  bring  these 
aliens  into  any  permanent  organization, 
foreign  as  they^re  to  one  another  and  to 
us  in  every  detail  of  life.  Not  only  a 
large  number  of  undigested  trade-union- 
ists has  to  be  dealt  with,  but  a  mass  of 
imperfect  Americans  as  well.  In  1900 
there  were  a  million  and  a  quarter  white 
persons  in  the  United  States  who  could 
not  speak  English,  this  being  about  one 
eighth  of  our  foreign-born  population 
over  ten  years  of  age.  Even  when  by 
the  use  of  interpreters  —  and  the  United 
Mine  Workers  sometimes  have  to  use 
three  or  four  different  ones  in  their  gen- 
eral meetings  —  these  foreigners  can  be 
made  to  understand  what  is  up,  consider 
how  various  are  their  social  standards 
and  customs.  What  is  mere  bread  and 
meat  to  a  Swede  may  be  cake  or  taboo 
to  a  Russian  Jew,  according  to  the  dic- 
tum of  his  rabbi.  A  subsistence  mini- 
mum to  a  German  is  luxury  to  a  Pole. 
The  old  adage  about  "  fleas  upon  fleas  " 
finds  application  here.  The  English  and 
American  workman  is  underbid  by  the 
Scandinavian.  He  in  turn  is  cut  under 
by  the  Jew  and  Bohemian.  The  Pole 
will  take  less  even  than  these,  and  finds 
at  last  his  standard  of  living  undermined 
by  the  Syrian  and  the  Armenian.  Even 
the  lowly  have  their  different  social 
standards  to  uphold.  The  Jew  will  not 
permit  his  wife  to  work  in  a  factory,  and 


Race  Factors  in  Labor   Unions. 


301 


insists  upon  sending  his  children  to 
school ;  while  the  Italian  is  the  hardest 
of  taskmasters  to  his  own  family.  The 
Polish  factory  Lands  are  predominantly 
women  and  young  girls.  The  Bohemian 
will  not  allow  religious  scruples  to  inter- 
fere with  his  livelihood,  while  the  Jew 
must  observe  his  religious  holidays  at 
any  cost.  The  Finns  and  Syrians  prefer 
to  work,  if  at  all,  in  bunches,  under  their 
customary  clan  rule.  The  individualistic 
Jew  will  throw  up  his  job  rather  than 
work  in  a  factory,  subjected  to  its  neces- 
sary and  rigid  discipline.  Then  again  the 
workmen  all  have  their  political  antago- 
nisms and  inherited  hatreds.  It  is  said 
that  the  Austro  -  Hungarian  Empire  is 
held  together  only  by  the  life  of  the  ruling 
sovereign.  We  annually  receive  many 
thousands  from  these  warring  national- 
ities of  Austria-Hungary  alone.  The 
Czech  hates  the  German ;  and  the  Hun 
and  the  Slovak  will  not  work  together. 
The  Finn  feels  toward  the  Russian  as  — 
shall  we  say  ?  —  the  Irish  regard  the  Eng- 
lish. Even  within  the  same  nationality 
these  hatreds  are  observable.  The  Pole 
from  Austria  bears  an  inherited  hatred 
of  the  Pole  from  Russia.  All  hands 
dislike  the  Jew,  the  Syrian,  and  the  Ar- 
menian. 

Certain  curious  differences  in  attitude 
respecting  labor  organization  are  observ- 
able among  these  different  nationalities. 
The  English  and  Scotch  take  to  team 
work  like  ducks  to  water.  No  sooner 
are  they  landed  than  their  trade-union 
cards  have  given  them  a  status  among 
their  fellows.  This  is  partly  due  to  nat- 
ural aptitude,  but  more  to  long  practice 
in  the  school  of  experience  at  home.  The 
German  workingmen  take  their  places  in 
the  trade  to  which  they  were  born,  and 
speedily  comprehend  the  novel  problems 
of  the  new  residence.  The  Swedes  are 
said  to  be  hard  to  organize,  but  become 
excellent  members  when  once  initiated. 
One  branch  of  the  clothing  trade  in  Chi- 
cago, the  "  special  order  "  business,  has 
been  entirely  remodeled  under  their  con- 


trol. These  Swedes  have,  in  fact,  com- 
pelled the  Jewish,  Polish,  and  Italian 
home  finishers  of  clothing  to  come  into 
an  organization.  The  Bohemians  also 
speedily  become  ardent  unionists.  They 
are  reputed  to  be  "  good  stickers "  in 
a  strike,  and  are  ready  to  support  the 
organization  through  thick  and  thin  by 
prompt  payment  of  dues.  In  this  re- 
spect they  contrast  sharply  with  the 
Poles,  who  have  well  earned  their  racial 
opprobrium  of  strike  breakers.  Excel- 
lent workmen  showing  great  endurance, 
and  seemingly  capable  of  great  speed  in 
piece  work,  in  many  parts  of  the  country 
the  Poles  show  an  especial  zeal  for  house 
owning.  They  are  industrious,  but  are 
hated  by  their  neighbors  in  industrial  dis- 
tricts because  they  apparently  have  little 
sense  of  working-class  solidarity.  The 
long  course  of  Polish  history  seems  to 
have  made  them  over-docile  and  submis- 
sive. Their  priests  appear  to  be  partly 
responsible  for  this  attitude  of  hostility 
to  labor  organizations.  It  was  through 
them,  for  example,  that  the  Chicago 
strike  of  1896  was  broken.  This  pecu- 
liarity of  the  Poles  has  operated  greatly 
to  increase  their  representation  in  the 
clothing  trades  of  our  great  cities.  An 
agricultural,  outdoor  people,  they  would 
not  seem  otherwise  to  be  well  suited  to 
this  sedentary  occupation ;  yet  clothing 
contractors,  discovering  that  the  Poles 
will  refuse  to  go  out  on  strike  with  the 
Jews  and  Bohemians,  at  the  behest  of  the 
labor  leaders,  have  encouraged  the  Polish 
shops  as  a  consequence.  The  only  na- 
tionalities more  hated  by  the  trade-union- 
ist are  the  political  rough-scuff  of  Europe 
now  coming  in  ever-increasing  numbers, 
such  as  the  Armenians,  Greeks,  and  Syr- 
ians. These  are  all  lumped  as  strike 
breakers  in  a  class  by  themselves.  And 
where  employed  in  large  establishments, 
as  in  a  prominent  Philadelphia  house, 
they  are  so  disliked  as  to  make  it  neces- 
sary to  segregate  them  in  departments  by 
themselves. 

The  French  Canadians,  who  are  flock- 


302 


Race  Factors  in  Labor   Unions. 


ing  in  increasing  numbers  into  the  indus- 
tries of  New  England,  show  little  liking 
or  aptitude  for  trade-union  organization 
and  discipline.  This  is  partly  due  to 
their  low  standard  of  living,  making  them 
content  under  conditions  which  would  en- 
gender a  strike  among  other  peoples  ;  but 
I  am  inclined  to  the  belief  that  the  main 
reason  for  their  backwardness  lies  in  the 
transient  character  of  their  employment. 
They  are  birds  of  passage  to  a  consider- 
able extent.  It  is  estimated  that  from 
fifty  to  seventy  thousand  come  and  go 
from  Canada  into  New  England  for  em- 
ployment in  the  cotton  mills  alone.  In 
this  respect  they  resemble  the  South 
Italians,  and  the  "  Blue-noses  "  who  come 
down  from  Nova  Scotia  to  work  in  com- 
petition with  American  carpenters.  Most 
of  these  people,  especially  the  French 
Canadians,  remain  only  so  long  as  times 
are  good.  When  the  mills  are  shut  down, 
as  in  the  recent  Lowell  strike,  they  be- 
take themselves  to  their  farms  again. 
The  French  Canadians  seem  to  be  even 
less  useful  unionists  than  the  Portuguese, 
who  are  increasing  so  rapidly  in  the  same 
part  of  the  country.  These  people  are 
reported  to  be  trustworthy  members  of 
working  organizations.  Only  when  the 
French  Canadians  have  been  long  enough 
in  the  cities  to  become  thoroughly  Amer- 
icanized do  they  respond  to  the  demands 
of  the  trade-union  leaders.  This  peculi- 
arity of  the  industrial  population  of  New 
England  will  serve  to  explain,  in  part,  a 
curious  contrast  between  the  labor  situa- 
tion in  Great  Britain  and  the  United 
States.  In  England  the  cotton  mill  oper- 
atives have  one  of  the  oldest,  and,  next 
to  the  miners,  the  most  powerful  organ- 
ization in  the  country.  It  is  over  a  half- 
century  old,  and  numbers  130,000  mem- 
bers. Practically  all  of  the  Lancashire 
cotton  mill  operatives  of  all  grades  are 
enrolled  in  it.  This  exemplifies  the  close 
relationship  between  labor  organization 
and  the  development  of  the  factory  sys- 
tem. On  the  other  hand,  our  New  Eng- 
land cotton  mills  were  the  first,  and  have 


always  been  the  most  notable,  examples 
of  industrial  organization  on  a  large  scale. 
Yet,  strange  to  say,  the  New  England 
cotton  mill  operatives  have  never  suc- 
ceeded in  building  up  an  organization 
of  any  great  importance.  This  anomaly 
is  doubtless  due  in  part  to  the  generally 
amicable  relations  which  have  subsisted 
between  the  employers  and  operatives ; 
but  it  is  also  due  in  part  to  the  large 
number  of  French  Canadians  who  dom- 
inate the  situation. 

The  position  of  the  Jewish  race  in  in- 
dustry is  a  peculiarly  interesting  one. 
Their  activities  are  almost  entirely  con- 
fined in  this  country  to  a  few  trades,  such 
as  tailoring,  cigar-making,  and  the  like. 
This  is  not  due  to  any  previous  industrial 
training,  for  scarcely  more  than  ten  per 
cent  of  the  Jewish  immigrants  seem  to 
have  been  tailors,  for  example,  at  home  ; 
while  in  New  York,  until  recently,  practi- 
cally all  of  the  clothing  manufacture  was 
in  their  hands.  The  race  is,  in  fact,  con- 
demned to  follow  these  sedentary  trades 
because  of  its  physical  disabilities.  By 
reason  of  their  predominance  in  these 
few  chosen  occupations  the  condition  of 
trade-unionism  therein  plainly  reflects 
certain  racial  peculiarities  of  the  Jews. 
Professor  Commons,  in  his  excellent  re- 
port on  Immigration,  for  the  United  States 
Industrial  Commission,  aptly  described 
the  situation  in  the  assertion  that  even  as 
a  trade-unionist  the  Jewish  conception  of 
organization  is  that  of  a  tradesman  rather 
than  a  workman.  The  Jew  will  join  a 
union  only  when  there  is  a  bargain  directly 
in  sight  in  the  shape  of  material  advance- 
ment. His  natural  timidity  renders  him 
otherwise  unaggressive  ;  so  that  he  is  apt 
to  be  inconstant  in  his  allegiance  to  the  or- 
ganization during  flush  times  when  wages 
are  high  and  work  is  plenty.  The  Jew- 
ish unions  have  consequently  in  the  past 
shown  a  rather  abnormal  fluctuation  in 
their  membership  as  compared  with  other 
organizations.  Even  in  this  period  of 
trade-union  activity,  the  clothing  trades 
since  October,  1902,  are  almost  alone 


Race  Factors  in  Labor  Unions. 


303 


in  showing  considerable  decline  in  their 
membership.  Nevertheless,  the  Jews  are 
rapidly  learning,  under  the  leadership  of 
peculiarly  able  men ;  and  no  more  splen- 
did service  in  uplifting  the  lot  of  the  lowly 
can  be  found  than  that  rendered  by  the 
warfare  of  the  United  Garment  Workers 
of  America  against  the  sweat  shops. 

The  future  of  the  Jew  in  the  labor 
field  is  bound  to  be  interesting.  Under 
novel  American  conditions  he  is  begin- 
ning to  invade  many  other  trades.  For 
example,  I  have  in  mind  a  very  large 
shoe  factory,  which,  by  reason  of  the 
harassing  exactions  of  the  unions  in  a  pro- 
vincial trade  centre,  moved  to  one  of 
the  large  cities  as  an  experiment.  The 
first  feature  to  attract  my  attention  in 
visiting  this  model  plant  —  for  such  it  is 
in  its  mechanical  equipment  —  was  the 
extraordinary  number  of  Jews.  Their 
presence  was  rendered  peculiarly  notice- 
able by  the  fact  that  the  Jews  were  all 
men,  working  in  rooms  in  direct  compe- 
tition with  Irish-American  and  German 
girls  and  women.  In  other  words,  men 
were  competing  at  women's  work.  This, 
many  of  the  more  virile  nationalities  will 
not  undertake.  In  this  instance  it  ap- 
peared that  a  vast  reservoir  of  cheap 
male  labor  had  been  tapped.  These  Jews 
were  rapidly  adapting  themselves  to  the 
new  trade  of  shoemaking.  As  in  tailor- 
ing, these  men  developed  an  extraordi- 
nary speed  in  piece  work.  This,  together 
with  their  low  standard  of  living,  enabled 
them  to  compete  on  even  terms  with  the 
women  operatives.  These  city  Jews  are 
as  yet  unorganized  except  in  the  clothing 
and  cigar  trades,  but  it  is  not  without 
interest  to  note  that  they  labor  under  an 
autocracy  no  less  formidable  than  that 
of  the  walking  delegate.  In  this  par- 
ticular instance  I  chanced  to  visit  the 
establishment  just  after  an  enforced  re- 
ligious holiday  of  three  or  four  days. 
The  absence  of  the  Jews  seriously  crip- 
pled the  entire  factory  of  several  thou- 
sand hands,  nor  was  there  any  argument 
or  board  of  conciliation  which  could  sub- 


due the  operatives  or  their  rabbis.  In- 
dustry had  run  afoul  of  a  deep-seated 
religion ;  and  industry  had  to  give  place. 
A  new  element  in  the  labor  situation  was 
apparent,  threatening  to  prove  no  less 
menacing  to  the  calculations  of  the  em- 
ployer than  his  previous  interviews  with 
strike  committees. 

The  first  step  toward  assimilation  of 
the  various  nationalities  in  our  country, 
where  the  trade  is  large  enough,  is  by  ef- 
fecting the  labor  organization  not  only  by 
occupations,  but  by  nationalities  within 
each  trade.  Where,  as  among  the  Jews 
in  the  clothing  industry  in  New  York, 
they  are  all  of  one  race,  the  question  is 
relatively  simple.  On  the  other  hand, 
in  Chicago,  in  the  same  business  the  sit- 
uation is  very  different.  The  trade  there 
is  recruited  from  Swedes,  Bohemians, 
and  Jews  in  about  equal  proportions,  the 
remaining  quarter  being  composed  main- 
ly of  Poles,  with  a  scattering  of  Ger- 
mans. New  York  has  had  for  fifteen 
years  a  headquarters  of  unionism  in  the 
United  Hebrew  Trades.  The  only  dis- 
turbing element  now  is  the  presence  of 
the  Italians ;  but  in  Chicago  the  conten- 
tion is  not  only  against  the  avarice  and 
cupidity  of  the  clothing  contractors,  but 
against  the  racial  antipathies  of  the  op- 
eratives among  themselves.  In  Boston, 
the  Italians  in  this  industry,  most  of  whom 
cannot  speak  English,  are  allowed  to 
form  by  themselves  a  section  of  the  local 
union.  They  meet  in  a  separate  room, 
debate  matters  of  importance  in  their 
own  tongue,  and  transmit  their  votes  to 
the  general  assembly  through  an  inter- 
preter-representative. 

Interesting  examples  of  the  organiza- 
tion of  trade-unions  by  nationality  are 
given  by  Professor  Commons  in  the  ex- 
cellent report  to  which  reference  has  al- 
ready been  made.  The  longshoremen 
on  the  Great  Lakes  have  for  some  years 
had  a  powerful  and  efficient  organization 
which  has  greatly  improved  their  lot. 
This  occupation  is  recruited  from  the 
Swedes,  Italians,  Finns,  Slavs,  and  Por- 


304 


Race  Factors  in  Labor   Unions. 


tuguese.  The  difficulty  of  maintaining  an 
organization  has  been  partially  overcome 
at  Ashtabula,  for  example,  by  having  a 
local  union  for  each  nationality.  A  cen- 
tral council  composed  of  English-speak- 
ing delegates  from  the  local  unions  is  an 
essential  part  of  the  same  scheme.  A 
similar  arrangement  is  made  in  many  in- 
dustries in  Chicago,  notably  in  the  wood- 
working trades,  where  the  Germans,  Bo- 
hemians, and  mixed  English-speaking 
unions  are  maintained  separately.  The 
Chicago  carpenters  likewise  have  sep- 
arate and  distinct  unions  for  the  French, 
Bohemians,  Swedes,  Germans,  and  Jews. 
The  hod  -  carriers,  originally  polyglot, 
have  now  reorganized  along  similar  lines, 
with  separate  unions  for  Germans,  Bo- 
hemians, Poles,  and  English-speaking 
peoples. 

There  are  certain  disadvantages,  how- 
ever, in  this  form  of  organization  along 
racial  lines.  Take  the  United  Mine 
Workers,  for  example.  Their  ethnic  het- 
erogeneity is  probably  greater  than  that 
of  any  other  occupation,  over  ninety  per 
cent  of  them,  as  a  whole,  being  actually 
of  foreign  birth.  Only  about  half  of  the 
miners  can  speak  English  at  all.  This 
English-speaking  group  is  about  half 
Irish,  with  the  remainder  constituted  of 
Welsh,  English,  German,  and  Scotch. 
Most  of  these  latter  are  native  born,  being 
one  generation  removed  from  the  original 
immigrants.  They  are  mainly  in  charge 
of  the  collieries  as  superintendents,  bosses, 
engineers,  pump  runners,  and  skilled 
artisans.  The  other  fifty  per  cent  of 
the  miners  are  about  half  Poles,  leaving 
the  remaining  one  quarter  of  the  entire 
body  of  miners  about  evenly  divided  be- 
tween Ruthenians,  Letts,  and  Hungari- 
ans. A  few  Italians  and  some  Bohemians 
are  scattered  through  the  fields.  Of  these, 
the  Poles  are  increasing  most  rapidly 
since  1890.  Formerly  the  United  Mine 
Workers  were  organized  as  far  as  possi- 
ble along  racial  lines,  but  the  attempt 
has  been  abandoned  for  two  reasons.  In 
the  first  place,  it  affords  no  chance  for 


the  men  to  learn  English  ;  and,  secondly, 
the  different  nationalities  are  so  geo- 
graphically scattered  that  organization 
has  to  be  effected  on  the  basis  of  locality 
for  purposes  of  convenience. 

The  racial  heterogeneity  of  our  Amer- 
ican population  affords  a  rare  opportunity 
to  the  Irishman.  It  will  never  cease  to 
be  a  surprise  to  me  that  the  Irish,  who 
have  never  been  allowed  to  govern  them- 
selves, should  show  among  all  the  races 
of  the  earth  the  greatest  aptitude  for  the 
control  of  political  organizations.  One  of 
the  most  peculiar  features  of  our  Ameri- 
can labor  problem  is  found  in  the  leader- 
ship which  the  Irish  have  assumed  in  the 
movement.  Thus,  for  example,  while 
not  more  than  one  fourth  of  the  United 
Mine  Workers  are  of  Irish  extraction,  it 
appears  that  more  than  three  fourths  of 
the  officers  and  organizers  are  of  this 
stock.  Curious  upon  this  point,  I  have 
taken  some  pains  to  examine  the  avail- 
able data.  Two  years  ago  the  United 
States  Industrial  Commission  took  testi- 
mony from  nearly  seven  hundred  wit- 
nesses from  all  parts  of  the  United  States. 
Seventy-nine  of  these  were  representa- 
tives of  organized  labor.  Judging  by 
their  names,  —  an  imperfect  criterion,  to 
be  sure,  —  thirty  of  these  seventy-nine,  or 
about  forty  per  cent,  were  of  Irish  blood, 
while  only  twenty-eight  of  the  labor  lead- 
ers bore  English  names.  The  remainder 
were  Germans  or  Jews.  The  American 
Federation  of  Labor  annually  publishes 
a  list  of  officers  of  its  affiliated  national 
unions.  Twenty-nine  out  of  ninety-six 
unions,  or  about  thirty  per  cent,  so  list- 
ed a  year  ago  were  officered  by  men  of 
Irish  extraction.  The  proportion  of  Irish 
leadership  varies  greatly,  of  course,  as 
between  different  trades  and  sections.  It 
is  but  natural  that  Irish  trades  should  be 
officered  by  men  of  the  same  nationality. 
One  would  naturally  expect  the  bricklay- 
ers, stone  masons,  lathers,  and  plasterers, 
and  the  street  and  dock  laborers,  to 
elect  Jrish  leaders.  The  Irishman  domi- 
nates the  building  trades  all  over  the 


Race  Factors  in  Labor   Unions. 


305 


country.  Nineteen  witnesses  before  the 
Industrial  Commission  represented  or- 
ganized labor  in  testimony  concerning 
the  Chicago  strike  of  1900.  Of  these 
more  than  half  were  Irish.  In  one  hun- 
dred and  twelve  unions  in  the  building 
trades  in  New  York,  about  forty  per  cent 
of  the  officers  were  of  the  same  national- 
ity. Analyzing  the  returns  from  different 
parts  of  the  country,  the  same  high  pro- 
portion is  manifested.  In  Massachusetts 
twelve  out  of  twenty  city  Central  Labor 
Unions  were  officered  by  Irish  ;  and  of 
twenty-two  local  unions  listed  for  Con- 
necticut fourteen  were  so  officered. 

The  Irishman  tends  to  monopolize  the 
situation,  not  alone  in  the  distinctively 
Irish  trades  and  states,  but  peculiarly  in 
proportion  as  the  rank  and  file  in  the  or- 
ganizations are  composed  of  the  inert, 
non-Teutonic,  unpolitical  peoples  of  the 
earth.  He  will  hold  his  fair  proportion 
of  the  offices  in  a  company  of  Scotch, 
English,  Swedes,  or  Germans ;  but  his 
place  is  securely  at  the  head  of  the  line 
in  a  company  comprising  Bohemians, 
Slovaks,  Huns,  and  Italians.  The  rea- 
sons are  perfectly  obvious :  a  ready  com- 
mand of  English  makes  the  Irishman 
their  natural  spokesman  ;  his  native  elo- 
quence makes  him  a  most  effective  or- 
ganizer; his  strong  sense  of  personal 
fealty  makes  him  peculiarly  faithful  to 
the  organization.  Add  to  these  qualities, 
tact,  a  generous  good  nature,  and  aggres- 
sive fighting  qualities,  and  a  rare  combi- 
nation is  the  result.  They  are  precisely 
the  qualities  which  have  given  the  Em- 
erald Isle  so  predominant  an  influence 
in  the  direction  of  our  municipal  political 
affairs.  Kipling  has  put  it  well :  — 

"  There  came  to  these  shores  a  poor  exile  from 

Erin ; 

The  dew  on  his  wet  robe  hung  heavy  and  chill ; 
Yet  the  steamer  which  brought  him  was  scarce 

out  of  hearin' 
Ere 't  was  Alderman  Mike  inthrojucin'  a  bill." 

One  of  the  strangest  features  in  the 
American  situation,  as  contrasted  with 
Great  Britain,  is  revealed  by  this  unique 

VOL.  xcni.  —  NO.  557.  20 


position  of  the  Irish.  They  tend  to  dom- 
inate and  direct  the  policy  of  our  Amer- 
ican unions ;  while  in  the  United  King- 
dom, they  seem  not  only  to  have  been 
backward,  but  rather  unsuccessful,  in 
the  councils  of  the  trade-unionists.  The 
early  English  labor  organizations  were 
for  a  long  time  unable  to  assimilate  the 
Irish  either  to  their  theory  or  to  practice. 
According  to  the  reliable  chronicle  of  the 
Webbs,  conditions  of  fraternal  relation- 
ship amounting  to  tacit,  if  not  formal, 
federation  prevailed  between  the  British 
and  the  Scotch  trade-unions  ;  but,  after 
years  of  vain  striving  to  incorporate  the 
Irish  successfully,  the  attempt  was  in 
some  cases  abandoned,  as  in  1840  by 
the  Friendly  Society  of  Operative  Stone 
Masons.  The  records  of  years  are  filled 
with  criticisms  of  the  Irish  trade-union- 
ists from  the  British  point  of  view.  Even 
in  1892,  according  to  the  Webbs,  no  less 
than  four  principal  Irish  branches  of  the 
Amalgamated  Society  of  Tailors  suffered 
rebuke  for  their  shortcomings.  One  of 
the  difficulties  in  another  case  was  well 
put :  "  Holding  that  there  was  only  one 
element  of  danger,  and  it  was  the  put- 
ting of  too  many  Irishmen  together." 
We  need  not  examine  as  to  details.  The 
failings  were  those  which  we  all  recog- 
nize as  peculiar  to  the  Irish  as  a  people. 
Far  be  it  from  me  to  underestimate  the 
fine  qualities  and  the  magnificent  contri- 
butions of  the  Irish- Americans  to  our 
national  well-being ;  but  with  their  vir- 
tues certain  shortcomings  are  to  be  found, 
which  are  in  many  cases  coincidentally 
attributable  to  our  labor  organizations. 
Not  least  among  these  are  the  qualities, 
admirable  in  certain  predicaments,  of 
aggressive  combativeness,  of  blind  and 
enthusiastic  loyalty,  too  often  coupled 
with  an  inability  to  husband  resources 
against  a  time  of  need.  Could  the  lead- 
ers of  our  trade -unions  guard  against 
eveiy  one  of  these  faults,  all  human, 
but  also  —  may  we  say  so  ?  —  peculiarly 
Irish,  the  proportion  of  successes  to  fail- 
ures in  the  labor  movement  might  be  con- 


306 


Race  Factors  in  Labor   Unions. 


siderably  increased.  Our  labor  leaders  are 
too  seldom  tactful  and  compromising,  and 
their  followers  are  not  quick  enough  to 
sink  their  personal  loyalty  in  a  judicial 
habit  of  mind.  And  the  third  fault 
which  we  have  mentioned  is  a  peculiarly 
flagrant  one,  namely,  the  financial  reck- 
lessness of  the  organizations  in  time  of 
stress.  In  this  respect  a  powerful  con- 
trast with  the  policy  of  their  British  con- 
temporaries is  noticeable.  This  may 
form  the  topic  of  further  discussion  in 
another  place. 

What  is  the  attitude  of  the  native 
American,  or,  shall  we  say,  of  the  Ameri- 
canized mind  toward  labor  organization  ? 
Assuming  that  it  is  a  question  of  indi- 
vidualism, or  of  personal  initiative  and 
independence  of  action,  versus  collectiv- 
ism, or  subordination  to  a  class  will,  this 
question  would  appear  to  be  answerable 
by  psychological  analysis.  One  would 
naturally  expect  the  free-born,  liberty- 
loving  American  to  rebel  against  the  so- 
called  tyranny  of  an  organization,  espe- 
cially when  the  policy  of  that  organization 
is  dictated  by  a  foreign-born  majority. 
Such  analysis  by  an  appeal  to  mere  psy- 
chology is,  however,  dangerous  to  an  ex- 
treme in  industrial  questions.  The  fac- 
tors are  too  complex.  Action  is  too  often 
a  compromise  between  conflicting  im- 
pulses, —  the  love  of  individual  freedom 
as  against  the  desire  for  material  advance- 
ment. Too  often,  also,  the  question  is 
merely  a  quantitative  one,  turning  upon 
the  degree  of  individual  subordination 
within  or  without  the  organization. 
Without  organization  the  isolated  work- 
man may  be  entirely  at  the  mercy  of  the 
employer ;  within  it  he  may  still  be  as 
clay,  but  the  potter,  at  least,  is  one  of  his 
own  class,  while  he  himself  has  a  turn  at 
the  wheel.  The  only  satisfactory  answer 
as  to  the  native  American  attitude  is  to 
be  found  in  the  recorded  facts  of  indus- 
trial life.  It  is  difficult  to  obtain  statis- 
tics, and  not  always  easy  to  believe  them 
when  once  they  have  been  found.  Only 
one  investigation  have  I  been  able  to  find, 


and  that  from  a  predominantly  agricul- 
tural state,  —  a  fact  rendering  the  returns 
inadequate  and  somewhat  inconclusive. 
The  Minnesota  Bureau  of  Labor  made 
an  especial  attempt  some  years  ago  to 
discover  whether  the  trade-unions  in  that 
state  were  controlled  by  the  foreign 
born,  and  also  as  to  the  attitude  of  the 
unions  toward  American  boys  seeking 
admission.  Returns  were  received  from 
1985  workmen.  Of  this  number  59  per 
cent  were  born  in  the  United  States,  and 
41  per  cent  were  of  foreign  birth.  In 
the  general  population  of  Minnesota,  on 
the  other  hand,  only  38  per  cent  of  the 
males  of  voting  age  were  native  born. 
This  was  taken  at  the  time  to  mean  that 
native-born  workmen  were  one  and  a 
half  times  as  frequent  in  the  trade-unions 
as  in  the  adult  male  population  at  large. 
The  phenomenal  growth  of  unionism  in 
recent  years  in  the  United  States  would 
seem  also  to  support  this  contention,  for 
such  progress  could  never  have  obtained 
without  successful  appeal  to  the  great 
body  of  artisans  of  American  birth. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  seems  clear  that 
the  native  American,  as  well  as  the  for- 
eigner, must  be  educated  to  appreciate 
trade-union  standards.  He  must  indeed, 
as  the  advocates  of  organization  affirm, 
often  be  forced  into  the  organization  in 
the  first  instance,  in  order  to  test  its  bene- 
fits. Whether  as  a  free-born  American 
he  will  thereafter  remain  an  ardent  trade- 
unionist  must  depend  upon  the  judgment 
which  he  may  form  after  joining.  Dr. 
Bushe'e,  in  his  excellent  monograph  on 
Ethnic  Factors  of  the  Population  of 
Boston,  observes  that  rural  Americans, 
particularly  those  from  northern  New 
England,  do  not  appear  to  favor  the 
labor  organizations.  Another  interesting 
instance  tending  to  confirm  this  view  as 
to  the  attitude  of  the  rural  American  is 
offered  by  the  experience  of  the  United 
Mine  Workers.  This  is  described  in  the 
excellent  report  on  Immigration  to  which  . 
reference  has  already  been  made.  For 
seven  years  after  the  organization  of  the 


Race  Factors  in  Labor   Unions. 


307 


United  Mine  Workers  in  1886  they 
struggled  against  the  competition  of  the 
unorganized  miners  in  southern  Illinois. 
Even  at  the  present  time  they  are  seek- 
ing ineffectually  to  enroll  the  native-born 
West  Virginia  miners  in  their  organiza- 
tion. In  Illinois,  however,  the  case  is 
more  interesting,  because  the  standard 
of  living  is  considerably  higher  than  in 
West  Virginia.  In  1899,  in  the  mine 
districts  of  northern  Illinois  there  were 
as  few  as  11  per  cent  of  American-born 
miners,  while  in  the  southern  part  of  the 
same  state  80  per  cent  of  the  miners 
were  pure-blooded  Americans.  These 
latter  were  in  the  main  farm  laborers, 
who  resorted  to  the  mines  as  a  source  of 
ready  cash.  These  Americans  were  of- 
ten willing  to  work  for  less  than  half  the 
price  per  ton  paid  in  northern  Illinois. 
This  they  could  do  because  of  the  greater 
thickness  of  the  veins  and  their  compara- 
tive ease  of  working.  The  competition 
of  such  wages  was,  however,  none  the 
less  severe.  Finally,  these  American 
miners  were  persuaded  to  come  into  the 
organization  by  the  foreign-born  miners 
in  the  northern  part  of  the  state.  We 
need  not  deal  with  the  relative  adjust- 
ment of  wages  effected,  other  than  to  say 
that  it  aimed  to  equalize  not  the  earn- 
ings, but  the  competitive  conditions.  The 
important  point  for  us  to  note  is  that  the 
American-born  miners  were  induced  to 
demand  higher  wages,  in  order  that  their 
foreign-born  competitors  in  another  dis- 
trict might  obtain  a  living  wage.  Or- 
ganization aimed  to  benefit  both  parties, 
but  the  initiative  came  surely,  not  from 
the  American,  but  from  the  foreign  born. 
The  significant  query  for  the  student 
of  American  conditions  is  as  to  the  future 
attitude  of  these  Americans.  Will  they 
continue  to  be  docile  in  the  hands  of 
their  old  leaders  ?  Or  will  they  here,  as 
elsewhere,  assume  a  more  positive  role  in 
directing  the  policy  of  the  organization  ? 
The  future  of  American  trade-unionism 
will  depend  largely  upon  the  attitude  thus 
assumed,  not  alone  by  these  American- 


born  miners,  but  by  workmen  of  Ameri- 
can parentage  and  tradition  in  every  line 
of  industry  throughout  the  country. 

Whatever  our  judgment  as  to  the  le- 
gality or  expediency  of  the  industrial 
policy  of  our  American  unions,  no  stu- 
dent of  contemporary  conditions  can 
deny  that  they  are  a  mighty  factor  in 
effecting  the  assimilation  of  our  foreign- 
born  population.  Schooling  is  primarily 
of  importance,  of  course,  but  many  of 
our  immigrants  come  here  as  adults. 
Education  can  affect  only  the  second  gen- 
eration. The  churches,  particularly  the 
Catholic  hierarchy,  may  do  much.  Pro- 
testants seem  to  have  little  influence  in 
the  industrial  centres.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  newspapers,  at  least  such  as  the 
masses  see  and  read,  and  the  ballot  un- 
der present  conditions  in  American  cities, 
have  no  uplifting  or  educative  power  at 
all.  The  great  source  of  intellectual  in- 
spiration to  a  large  percentage  of  our 
inchoate  Americans,  in  the  industrial 
classes,  remains  in  the  trade-union.  It 
is  a  vast  power  for  good  or  evil,  accord- 
ing as  its  affairs  are  administered.  It 
cannot  fail  to  teach  the  English  language. 
That  in  itself  is  much.  Its  benefit  sys- 
tem, as  among  the  cigar-makers  and 
printers,  may  inculcate  thrift.  Its  jour- 
nals, the  best  of  them,  give  a  general 
knowledge  of  trade  conditions,  impossi- 
ble to  the  isolated  workman.  Its  demo- 
cratic constitutions  and  its  assemblies 
and  conventions  partake  of  the  primitive 
character  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  folkmoot, 
so  much  lauded  by  Freeman,  the  histori- 
an, as  a  factor  in  English  political  edu- 
cation and  constitutional  development. 
Not  the  next  gubernatorial  or  presidential 
candidate  ;  not  the  expansion  of  the  cur- 
rency, nor  the  reform  of  the  general  staff 
of  the  army  ;  not  free-trade  or  protection, 
or  anti-imperialism,  is  the  real  living  thing 
of  interest  to  the  trade-union  workman. 
His  thoughts,  interests,  and  hopes  are 
centred  in  the  politics  of  his  organization. 
It  is  the  forum  and  arena  of  his  social 
and  industrial  world. 


308 


A  Roman   Cabman. 


Are  the  positive  educational  advan- 
tages of  trade-unionism,  in  the  solution 
of  our  pressing  racial  problem,  more  than 
offset  by  the  evils  which  attach  to  the 
labor  movement  in  its  present  status? 
If  the  raw  immigrant  finds  himself  ruled 
by  leaders  of  the  Sam  Parks  type  !  If 
he  observes  that  the  end  in  view  is  not 
to  increase  the  efficiency  of  the  work- 
man, but  rather  to  enforce  rules  for  the 
restriction  of  output,  in  order  to  "  do  " 
the  employer !  If  the  opportunity  for 
his  children  to  fit  themselves  to  become 
honest  artisans  is  closed  by  absurd  re- 
strictions concerning  apprentices  !  If  the 
policy  of  "  graft "  is  kept  to  the  fore  by 
secret  agreements  with  capitalistic  mo- 


nopolies to  down  their  rivals,  and  jointly 
fleece  the  consumer,  as  has  recently  been 
revealed  in  the  case  of  the  New  York 
Realty  and  Construction  Company,  the 
Chicago  Coal  Dealers'  Association,  and 
others,  of  a  like  kind,  which  might  be 
named  in  our  own  Massachusetts  !  If 
recruits  are  to  be  gained  and  held,  not  by 
the  promise  of  tangible  benefits,  social 
and  financial,  but  by  the  methods  of  the 
foot-pad  and  the  anarchist !  If  these  be 
the  lessons  taught  by  the  Unions  to  their 
neophytes,  the  future  is  dark  indeed. 
The  friend  of  Unionism  can  only  hope 
that  these  shadows  are  cast  by  passing 
clouds,  and  that  a  brighter  day  for  hon- 
est labor  effort  will  ensue. 

William  Z.  Ripley. 


A   ROMAN   CABMAN. 


IT  was  in  the  vast,  solemn  precincts 
behind  St.  Peter's  that  I  saw  him  first. 
Coming  out  under  the  pale  November 
sky  after  a  morning  in  the  Vatican  sculp- 
ture gallery,  I  suddenly  found  the  cab- 
stand at  its  portal  the  most  grateful  sight 
in  Rome.  He  stood  third  or  fourth  in 
the  line,  and  he  had  neither  moved  nor 
spoken,  though  his  eye  caught  mine  with 
a  sympathetic  sparkle.  I  saw  that  his 
small,  black  horse  was  plump  and  glossy, 
that  the  whole  equipage,  from  his  own 
dress  to  the  well-brushed  cushions  of  the 
open  victoria,  looked  scrupulously  neat; 
and,  bidding  the  man  drive  to  the  Piazza 
di  Spagna,  I  sprang  in,  with  no  thought 
beyond  that  of  making  this  last  course  in 
a  busy  morning  as  comfortable  as  cir- 
cumstance permitted. 

"  Your  horse  wastes  no  time,"  I  said, 
when  we  came  out  into  the  great  square, 
and  shot  across  it  through  the  spray  of 
the  fountains  toward  the  bridge  of  Sant' 
Angelo. 

"  No,  signore ;  the  Moor  is  never  lazy. 
That  is  his  name,  —  the  Moor,  from  the 


accident  of  his  color,  as  one  sees ;  he  eat 
well,  sleeps  well,  and  goes  on  all  his  foi 
feet,  —  not  so  badly." 

"  And  is  treated  not  so  badly,  —  as  one 
also  sees." 

The  man  laughed.  "  Eh,  signore,  we 
have  nothing  to  complain  of,  either  of 
us.  We  understand  each  other,  the  Moor 
and  I,  and  take  the  world  lightly." 

"  '  A  merry  heart  goes  all  the  day  ! '" 
thought  I,  with  Autolycus.  "  What  bet- 
ter motto  for  a  cabman  ?  "  Then,  think- 
ing aloud,  I  added,  "  You  are  a  vei 
cheerful  philosopher." 

He  turned  to  look  down  at  me,  laugt 
ing  louder  than  before.     "  I  am  a  mar 
like   another.     Che,    die!     After   fifty 
years  of  life,  one  adjusts  himself  to  the 
seat,  —  or  Dio  mio  !    one   gets   do\ 
signore !  " 

There  was  no  more  to  be  said,  just 
then,  for  we  had  crossed  the  river,  and 
our  intricate  way  toward  the  Corso  deep- 
ly engaged  both  the  Moor  and  his  master. 
Meanwhile,  their  cheery  vigilance  im- 
pressed me  so  favorably,  that  when  I 


A  Roman   Cabman. 


309 


spoke  again  it  was  to  secure  them  for  the 
afternoon ;  and  by  the  hearty  wish  for 
good  appetite  given  me  as  I  alighted  at 
the  hotel  door,  I  was  convinced  that  the 
master,  at  least,  if  not  the  Moor,  still 
found  cheer  in  the  prospect. 

I  sat,  smoking,  near  a  window  that 
overlooked  the  courtyard,  when  the  man 
drove  in  at  the  appointed  hour.  And, 
waiting  on  to  finish  my  cigar,  I  had  for 
the  first  time  a  good  look  at  him.  In 
figure  he  was  below  the  middle  height, 
broad-shouldered,  sturdy,  and  erect ;  nat- 
urally dark,  he  was  bronzed  by  years  of 
Roman  sunshine ;  his  cheeks  were  deep- 
ly furrowed,  his  features  large  and  clum- 
sy, plain  indisputably ;  so  that  his  face 
would  have  been  heavy,  dull  even,  but 
for  the  smile  that  seemed  always  to  lurk 
under  his  gray  mustache,  and  the  re- 
sponsive light  in  his  sharp,  black  eyes. 
The  soul  of  good-humored  jollity  illumi- 
nated him  now,  as  he  stood  chatting  with 
the  portier  j  the  horse  put  up  his  nose 
for  a  caress,  and  he  turned  in  his  talk  to 
stroke  his  Moorship's  neck  affectionately. 
The  hint  thus  given  of  their  pleasant 
comradeship  suggested  a  familiar  horse- 
dealing  phrase,  which,  mentally,  I  ap- 
plied to  both.  "  Sound  and  kind  !  "  I 
thought ;  and  found  no  occasion  to  qualify 
that  first  judgment  through  any  after 
knowledge.  In  all  my  travels  along  the 
world's  highways  a  sounder  and  kinder 
pair  than  this,  most  assuredly,  I  have 
never  known. 

That  afternoon,  we  drove  far  out  upon 
the  Campagna,  where  my  tired  brain 
sought  rest  and  rumination  from  the 
morning's  labors.  The  sky  had  clouded 
over,  and  in  the  mild,  gray  light  the 
softened  plain,  stretching  hazily  off  to 
the  Alban  hills,  brought  to  eyes  over- 
occupied  with  artistic  detail  their  natural 
refreshment.  We  followed  the  old  Via 
Latina,  at  first,  toward  the  arches  of  the 
Claudian  Aqueduct,  by  grass-grown  walls 
and  crumbling  tombs  ;  then,  turning  from 
the  straight  road,  we  took  a  winding  cart- 
path  through  open  meadows  and  rough 


pasture-land,  into  the  heart  of  the  wil- 
derness ;  until,  nearer  than  Rome  itself, 
stood  out  the  white  villages  of  the  snow- 
capped hills,  —  Genzano,  Ariccia,  Rocca 
di  Papa,  —  my  companion  identified 
them,  one  and  all,  —  and  the  wine  of 
Genzano  was  not  so  bad !  At  a  sharp 
turn  of  the  road  we  drew  up  on  a  bit  of 
rising  ground,  to  consider  the  strange, 
sombre  landscape ;  and,  looking  back 
upon  the  city  walls  and  towers,  I  asked 
my  genial  guide  where  he  lived.  Point- 
ing with  his  whip,  he  explained  that  he 
lodged  in  the  Trastevere,  close  under  the 
Janiculan  Hill ;  as  we  looked,  in  line  with 
the  cathedral  dome.  Then  I  inquired  his 
name,  and  learned  that  he  was  called 
Bianchi  Andrea,  —  the  surname  coming 
first,  in  the  usual  Italian  fashion.  And 
when  I  commented  upon  this  custom, 
"  Why  not  ?  "  said  he,  "  since  every  one 
calls  me  Bianchi,  —  except  my  wife." 
Ah,  he  was  married,  then  ?  "  Oh  yes, 
signore."  And  he  had  children  ?  "  No, 
signore ;  there  was  a  child  once,  —  a 
daughter,  —  but,  alas !  .  .  .  there  is  a 
grandchild,  signore,  —  a  boy,  who  lives 
with  me,  —  very  quick  and  capable,  — 
Hector  is  his  name." 

We  drove  on,  encountering  no  living 
creature  but  a  shaggy  dog,  left  on  guard 
over  his  herd  that  grazed  in  a  neighbor- 
ing field.  An  inquisitive  pair  of  crows 
circled  lazily  above  our  heads  ;  then,  with 
croaks  of  disapproval,  flew  off  to  join 
their  flock  hovering  over  the  great  sepul- 
chral tower  on  the  Appian  Way.  Be- 
tween us  and  that  noted  landmark  of  the 
Campagna  stood  a  solitary  farmhouse  to 
which  my  vetturino  drew  attention.  One 
could  find  fresh  eggs  there  at  a  bargain ; 
we  must  pass  its  door ;  might  he  have 
the  signore's  permission  to  buy  the  raw 
material  for  an  omelet,  to  celebrate  his 
name-day,  which  fell  upon  the  morrow  ? 
To  wait  for  a  little  moment  only  ? 

Of  course  this  favor  was  granted  him  ; 
and  as  we  approached  the  farm  I  looked 
at  it  curiously.  Never  had  I  seen  a 
drearier  dwelling-place.  The  stucco  of 


310 


A  Roman   Cabman. 


its  walls  was  stained  and  weather-beaten  ; 
the  outbuildings  were  ruinous ;  all  seemed 
deserted  as  well  as  neglected,  for  no  one 
stirred  to  question  us.  A  whistle  from 
Bianchi  was  unanswered.  "  Agostino  !  " 
he  called ;  then,  muttering,  "  The  boy 
sleeps,  lazy  hound !  "  he  handed  me  the 
reins,  with  a  "permesso,  signore  ?  "  and 
went  off  upon  his  errand. 

The  haze  was  fast  turning  into  mist, 
through  which  I  heard  the  sound  of 
wheels.  It  came  from  a  peasant's  cart, 
rude  and  cumbersome,  with  the  custom- 
ary wisp  of  hay  attached  to  a  forked  stick 
projecting  from  one  of  the  shafts.  At 
this  primitive  lure,  just  out  of  his  reach, 
the  horse,  as  he  labored  toward  me,  made 
ineffectual  plunges.  I  watched  his  slow 
advance  with  a  smile,  suddenly  discover- 
ing that  I  was  watched  in  my  turn  by 
the  man  and  woman  who  sat  behind  him. 
They  wore  peasant  costume  ;  the  man. 
gray,  uncouth,  listless,  held  the  reins 
loosely,  as  if  he  were  half  asleep ;  but 
his  lack-lustre  eyes  fixed  themselves  upon 
me  with  a  vacant  look,  strangely  forbid- 
ding. The  woman  at  his  side,  though 
by  no  means  old,  had  faded  early,  after 
the  manner  of  her  countrywomen.  Yet 
her  face  showed  signs  of  former  beauty  ; 
and  she  had  in  her  bright  colors  an  air 
of  self-conscious  picturesqueness  that  sug- 
gested a  posing  contadina  from  the  Span- 
ish Steps,  rather  than  a  toiling  one.  As 
if  she  fancied  that  my  smile  was  meant 
for  her,  she  leaned  forward  to  return  it, 
and  seemed  about  to  speak  a  friendly 
word.  But  either  her  intent  changed, 
or  I  deceived  myself ;  for  she  drew  back 
without  the  greeting,  and  to  my  good-day 
only  muttered  a  forced  reply.  "  He  is 
a  foreigner,"  I  heard  her  say  to  her  com- 
panion, as  they  passed.  Then,  at  a  little 
distance,  both  turned  to  stare  again  in- 
tently ;  I  looked  away ;  looked  back,  to 
find  them  still  staring.  So  they  moved 
out  of  sight  mysteriously,  like  spectres  of 
the  mist,  leaving  a  chill  behind  them. 

The  sinister  effect,  however,  was  only 
of  the  moment.  In  the  next,  out  came 


Bianchi,  with  the  farm-hand  whom  he 
had  called  Agostino,  —  a  shy,  sickly  boy, 
who  turned  from  me  with  a  smile  to  wish 
his  compatriot  a  merry  night  of  feasting. 
At  this  word,  Bianchi  pointed  to  his 
small  purchase  of  eggs,  wrapped  in  a  red 
handkerchief.  "  IScco,  signore  !  Per  la 
festa  di  San?  Andrea  !  "  Chuckling,  he 
stowed  them  carefully  away  under  the 
box-seat,  and  we  drove  off ;  slowly,  at 
first,  for  the  road  was  heavy  and  steep. 
As  we  climbed  up  from  the  hollow,  the 
sun  burst  through  the  clouds,  glorifying 
the  ruined  farm  buildings,  when  I  turned 
for  a  last  look  at  them,  with  a  shaft  of 
golden  light.  But  now  before  the  door, 
where  I  had  waited,  stood  the  cart  which 
had  passed  me  by  ;  two  peasant  figures, 
descending  from  it,  entered  the  house ; 
they  were  gone  hi  a  flash ;  yet,  clearly 
enough,  they  were  the  figures  that  I  had 
seen,  —  the  man  and  woman  whom  my 
presence  for  some  reason  had  discon- 
certed. 

The  sunlight  faded,  the  mist  shut 
down.  Consultation  with  Bianchi  shed 
no  gleam  upon  my  small  adventure.  He 
had  not  seen  the  uncouth  wayfarers,  nor 
could  he  .recognize  them  by  my  descrip- 
tion. The  farm  was  leased  to  a  shep- 
herd, who  acted  as  agent,  or  fattore ; 
honest,  as  men  went,  —  we  were  none  of 
us  saints,  nowadays ;  he  was  absent  in 
the  pastures,  as  the  boy  had  stated ;  if 
one  chaffered  well,  having  the  wit  to  in- 
vent a  "  combination  "  and  to  make  the 
most  of  it,  he  sold  his  eggs  at  a  fair  price. 
Perhaps  the  strangers  had  come  to  drive 
a  bargain  ;  they,  too,  perhaps,  kept  the 
feast  of  Sant'  Andrea !  Why  not  ? 

We  drove  back  to  Rome  in  the  twi- 
light ;  and  long  before  reaching  the  city 
gate  I  had  dismissed  the  intruders  fror 
my  mind.  But  to  dismiss  is  one  thing, 
to  forget  is  another.  Who  shall  say  that 
the  brain  really  loses  the  vaguest  impres- 
sion which  it  has  once  recorded  ?  In 
my  dreams,  that  night,  the  two  sinister 
shapes  of  the  Campagna  passed  before 
me  again,  with  threatening  looks  like 


A  Roman   Cabman. 


311 


harbingers  of  evil.  I  woke,  and  they 
were  gone,  —  I  laughed  at  them.  These 
disturbers  of  my  peace  clung  to  me, 
nevertheless,  dogging  my  steps  in  the 
form  of  a  recurrent  nightmare.  Often, 
that  winter,  I  saw  them,  —  at  Cairo,  at 
Luxor,  at  Damascus,  at  Constantinople ; 
whenever,  for  any  cause,  my  sleep  was 
oppressed,  the  oppression  always  resolved 
itself  into  that  prospect  of  the  wide  and 
desolate  Campagna,  with  the  same  grim 
peasant  figures  moving  toward  me  in  the 
gathering  twilight.  They  never  spoke, 
they  threatened  only  with  their  eyes. 

Gradually  the  visitations  became  more 
infrequent,  less  vivid  ;  and  they  might 
have  ceased  altogether,  fading  even  from 
my  remembrance,  but  for  the  accident 
of  my  return  to  Rome,  where,  in  the 
spring,  as  I  journeyed  back  from  the 
East,  my  stay  was  unexpectedly  pro- 
longed. So  improbable  had  seemed  this 
change  of  plan,  that  I  had  neglected  to 
obtain  the  address  of  my  good  vetturino  ; 
and  an  hour  after  my  arrival,  as  I  walked 
up  the  Corso,  I  found  that  I  missed  him 
sorely.  Rome  was  a  strange,  unfriendly 
city  without  his  thoughtful  assiduities. 
By  what  steps  could  I  regain  them  ?  I 
had  taken  hardly  ten  steps  more,  when 
lo  !  they  were  mine  again  ;  for  the  man 
drove  toward  me  along  the  crowded  pave- 
ment. Upon  the  instant  our  pleasant 
relations  were  resumed. 

These  were  the  early  days  of  April, 
and  I  was  to  remain  until  after  Easter, 
which,  that  year,  fell  late.  Winter  had 
melted  away  at  a  breath;  the  grayness 
was  all  gone ;  and  under  soft  white 
clouds,  which  only  deepened  the  blue  be- 
yond them,  Rome  kept  holiday,  for  the 
most  part,  in  dazzling  sunshine.  The 
roses  were  coming  on ;  and  when  we 
drove  now  over  the  Campagna,  which  no 
longer  was  desolate,  but  gay  with  nodding 
wild-flowers,  we  often  started  up  a  lark, 
whose  flight  was  only  to  be  traced  by  the 
sweetest  of  all  bird-songs  borne  far  above 
our  heads  straight  into  the  sun's  eye.  The 
days  passed  all  too  swiftly,  like  the  song  ; 


even  though,  recognizing  them  as  rare 
ones,  I  clung  to  each  tenaciously,  avoid- 
ing my  kind,  and  keeping,  so  far  as  was 
possible,  to  myself. 

One  evening  (that  of  Easter  Monday, 
to  be  exact)  after  my  coffee  and  cognac 
at  the  big  cafe"  in  the  Piazza  Colonna, 
much  frequented  by  chattering  soldiers, 
I  grew  tired  of  their  noisy  argument,  and 
broke  away  from  it.  Having,  as  usual, 
dismissed  Bianchi  at  sundown,  I  was  un- 
attached ;  on  foot,  therefore,  I  made  my 
way  into  the  Via  Nazionale.  Glancing 
up,  I  saw  that  the  stars  were  obscured, 
and  felt  that  a  shower  threatened.  I 
had  no  umbrella ;  but  as  I  carried  over 
my  arm  a  waterproof  coat  of  well-tested 
infallibility,  rain,  more  or  less,  would  be 
nothing.  A  moment  later,  when  I  was 
halfway  up  the  hill  within  a  stone's  throw 
of  the  theatre,  the  first  drops  fell.  I 
stepped  aside  into  a  doorway  to  put  on 
the  coat,  which  was  of  that  sleeveless,  en- 
veloping sort  known  to  Anglo-Saxons  as 
an  Inverness  cape,  dark  gray  in  color ; 
pleasantly  inconspicuous,  it  looked  by 
night,  at  least,  not  unlike  the  loose  cloak 
so  often  worn  by  Italian  men. 

As  I  stood  in  shelter,  muffling  myself 
about  the  throat,  I  started  in  surprise  at 
seeing  what  appeared  to  be  my  own 
likeness  passing  swiftly  along  on  the 
other  side  of  the  way.  At  home,  it  is  no 
uncommon  thing  for  the  man  of  average 
height  and  figure  to  be  taken  for  some 
one  else.  We  are  not  all,  unfortunately, 
of  a  type  so  distinguished  as  to  induce 
the  belief  that  Nature,  after  our  satisfac- 
tory development,  destroyed  the  mould. 
Yet  rarely,  at  home  or  abroad,  does  one, 
unprompted,  detect  a  close  resemblance 
to  himself.  This,  certainly,  was  the  first 
accident  of  the  kind  in  my  own  experi- 
ence ;  and  it  proved  so  startling  that  I 
shrank  from  the  impression.  I  watched 
the  man  disappear  in  the  uncertain  light, 
and  thought  of  old,  uncanny  tales  with 
fatal  issues.  Then  I  shrugged  my  shoul- 
ders, and,  laughing  at  my  own  credulity, 
turned  the  other  way. 


312 


A  Roman  Cabman. 


Evidently,  it  was  a  gala  night  at  the 
Teatro  Nazionale.  There  were  many 
signs  of  that  besides  the  highly  colored 
poster  announcing  a  special  performance 
of  Hamlet,  with  a  famous  young  actor  in 
the  title  part.  The  bait  lured  me  into  a 
demand  for  any  vacant  place  obtainable. 
Nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  was  the  first 
answer.  Stay !  One  of  the  posti  distinti 
had  just  been  returned  by  the  purchaser 
at  the  last  moment,  —  far  from  the  stage 
it  was,  to  be  sure,  but  still  worth  having, 
even  at  the  advanced  price.  I  closed 
the  bargain  quickly,  hurrying  on  to  grope 
my  way  with  difficulty  ;  for  the  lights 
were  down,  the  ghostly  revelations  upon 
the  platform  at  Elsinore  already  in  pro- 
gress. They  seemed  a  long  way  off,  as 
I  settled  into  my  seat,  which  proved  to  be 
in  the  right-hand  curve  of  the  great  horse- 
shoe, directly  under  the  boxes.  The 
proscenium  arch  slowly  detached  itself 
from  the  gloom,  until  I  saw  its  principal 
box  on  the  left  of  the  grand  tier,  still 
vacant,  elaborately  draped  with  flags 
and  garlands,  —  the  royal  box,  decked 
for  the  King  and  Queen  !  The  audience, 
ever  on  the  alert,  awaited  their  arrival 
with  an  indifference  to  the  mimic  court 
of  Denmark  which  even  the  anguish  of 
the  Ghost  could  not  dispel.  The  pre- 
vailing restlessness  soon  infected  me, 
and  I  congratulated  myself  upon  my  point 
of  view,  which,  though  distant,  was  not 
unfavorable. 

The  curtain  fell  upon  the  first  act 
tamely  enough  ;  the  lights  went  up,  mak- 
ing the  whole  place  resplendent ;  while 
the  row  of  chairs  in  the  royal  box  stood 
out  conspicuously,  still  unoccupied.  Dur- 
ing the  long  wait,  I  observed  with  a  stran- 
ger's interest  alien  details,  —  the  shrill 
hawkers  of  books  and  papers,  the  per- 
sistent, sharp-eyed  flower-girls,  brazen  in 
their  assurance.  Then  came  the  signal 
from  the  stage,  the  hush  of  anticipation  ; 
and  at  that  moment  something  struck 
my  shoulder,  darting  from  it  into  my 
hand,  —  a  little  bunch  of  white  flowers, 
such  as  the  women  had  been  pressing 


upon  us.  But  this  had  dropped  from 
one  of  the  boxes,  surely.  I  glanced  up, 
and  saw  in  the  third  tier,  almost  over- 
head, a  woman's  face  peering  down  at 
me.  She  drew  back,  but  not  before  I 
recognized  the  fact  that  our  eyes  had 
met  before ;  though  when,  I  failed  to  re- 
collect. Where  could  I  have  encountered 
those  worn,  gaunt  features,  that  keen  scru- 
tiny which  seemed  at  once  to  warn  and 
threaten  me  ?  "  Grim  as  fate  !  "  I  mut- 
tered ;  "they  fade  early,  these  Italians  !  " 
I  had  thought  precisely  this  before  of  the 
same  face,  and  knew  it  now.  She  was 
my  evil  spirit  of  the  Campagna,  who  had 
passed  me  by  on  that  chill  November 
afternoon,  haunting  my  dreams  long  af- 
terward. Then  she  had  worn  peasant 
garb,  now  she  was  in  lace  and  jewels : 
yet  there  could  be  no  question  of  iden- 
tity. It  was  she,  beyond  a  doubt.  I 
turned  from  the  stage,  and,  leaning  for- 
ward in  my  place,  fixed  my  eyes  upon 
the  box  from  which  the  flowers  had  fall- 
en. The  lights  were  down  again,  how- 
ever ;  I  strained  my  muscles  until  they 
ached,  —  in  vain. 

The  second  act  ended,  and  still  royalty 
did  not  appear.  There  was  manifest  im- 
patience everywhere,  and  a  general  out- 
ward movement  for  the  interval.  I  fol- 
lowed, mainly  to  get  a  better  view  of  that 
box  in  the  third  tier,  which  now  was 
empty.  Going  on  into  the  foyer,  I  stood 
in  ambush  there  to  watch  the  faces.  All 
were  unfamiliar.  The  fateful  presence, 
having  fulfilled  its  purpose,  if  such  pur- 
pose existed,  apparently  had  left  the  the- 
atre. I  looked  at  the  flowers  in  my 
hand,  and  wondered  whether  they  had 
been  dropped  by  accident,  or  whether, 
like  the  eyes  that  seemed  to  guide  them, 
they  conveyed  some  message  capable  of 
interpretation  into  threat  or  warning. 

The  sprays  of  jasmine  were  still  fresh 
and  sweet.  The  better  to  slip  into  an 
unguarded  buttonhole,  they  were  bound 
to  a  long,  straight  twig  from  which  the 
waxed  thread  had  loosened.  As  I  pre- 
pared to  re-wind  it,  a  gleam  of  white 


A  Roman  Cabman. 


313 


underneath  resolved  itself,  upon  reversal 
of  the  thread,  into  a  narrow  strip  of  paper 
tightly  curled  about  the  twig.  Unroll- 
ing this,  I  found  scrawled  upon  it  in  pen- 
cil these  words :  — 

" He  will  not  come" 

This,  then,  was  her  message.  Though 
without  date  or  signature,  the  cramped 
irregular  handwriting  had  a  feminine 
cast ;  not  for  the  fraction  of  an  instant 
could  I  doubt  that  it  was  hers.  But  the 
purport  of  it  ?  Who  would  not  come  ? 
What  was  his  coming  or  not  coming  to 
me  ?  Why,  of  all  men,  had  I  been  se- 
lected at  the  moment  for  this  covert  no- 
tification ? 

I  stuffed  the  flowers  and  the  paper 
into  my  pocket,  and  went  back  to  my 
place  at  the  sound  of  the  signal-bell,  not- 
ing by  the  way  that  the  occupant  of  the 
third-tier  box  had  not  returned.  The 
act  began  ;  and  it  was  well  advanced 
when,  suddenly,  at  a  word  of  command 
the  lights  flashed  up.  At  once,  the  voice 
of  Denmark  died  away  in  a  broken  pe- 
riod, while  all  action  upon  the  stage  came 
to  a  standstill.  With  one  impulse  the 
spectators,  high  and  low,  rose  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  Court,  which  was  accom- 
plished swiftly  and  silently.  Almost  in 
the  same  instant  the  Queen  was  seated 
in  the  place  of  honor,  bowing  and  smil- 
ing an  acknowledgment  of  the  applause 
which  welcomed  her,  while  the  household 
grouped  itself  in  the  background.  Then 
the  lights  were  turned  down,  the  motion- 
less actors  woke  to  life,  the  tragedy  re- 
sumed its  course. 

My  republican  eyes  found  in  the  small 
ceremonial  but  one  cause  for  disappoint- 
ment, —  the  absence  of  the  King.  I  had 
assumed,  not  unnaturally,  that  he  would 
be  there  with  the  others ;  and  I  was  not 
the  only  one  to  assume  it,  as  much  whis- 
pered comment  about  me  clearly  proved. 
But  the  subject  was  soon  dismissed,  and 
the  whole  house  became  absorbed  in  the 
question  of  the  play,  which  now  swept  on 
superbly  into  a  triumph  for  its  chief  in- 


terpreter. At  the  end,  following  the  au- 
dience out  at  leisure,  I  found  the  better 
part  of  it  drawn  up  in  the  halls  and  cor- 
ridors as  if  for  a  supplementary  pageant. 
What  ceremony  else  ?  I  wondered,  and 
was  not  long  in  doubt.  Down  the  wide 
sweep  of  staircase,  which  seemed  built 
for  the  purpose,  came  the  Court,  pre- 
ceded by  footmen  in  scarlet  livery  ;  there 
was  a  glitter  of  gold  lace,  a  rustle  of 
silken  fabrics,  a  gleaming  of  jewels,  while 
the  crowd  looked  on  in  solemn  silence, 
with  heads  uncovered.  All  eyes  were 
bent  upon  the  Queen's  face,  which  now 
was  sad  and  preoccupied,  deepening  by 
its  look  the  reverence  they  paid.  I  stood 
at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  could  have 
touched  her  as  she  passed.  This  un- 
looked-for epilogue,  at  once  so  stately 
and  so  simple,  impressed  me  profoundly. 
Yet  it  oppressed  me,  too  ;  when  it  was 
over,  and  the  last  carriage  had  driven 
off,  I  breathed  more  freely.  Graceful 
as  the  expression  of  faith  in  the  people 
had  been,  I  doubted  its  worth  in  view  of 
the  attendant  risk.  In  these  perilous 
days  of  death-dealing  inventive  power, 
of  fanatical  crimes  committed  in  the 
name  of  liberty,  was  it  well  wholly  to  un- 
hedge  the  King  of  his  divinity  and  leave 
humanity  unbridled? 

"  After  all,  the  King  was  not  there," 
I  argued,  as  I  walked  to  my  hotel  through 
the  drenched,  deserted  streets  ;  "  he  did 
not  come."  A  weak,  inconsequent  con- 
clusion, yet  it  haunted  me  all  the  way 
like  a  refrain,  and,  seated  by  the  fire,  I 
found  myself  reiterating  it.  "  He  did 
not  come."  The  bit  of  staircase  etiquette 
with  its  dangerous  possibilities  had  given 
me  a  new  sensation,  which  stood  foremost 
in  my  thoughts.  By  way  of  diverting 
them,  I  pulled  out  the  crushed  flowers, 
the  enigmatic  message  which  read  now 
like  the  echo  of  my  own  persistent  bur- 
den. "  He  will  not  come,  —  he  did  not 
come !  "  Were  the  two  one  and  the  same  ? 
Was  it  the  King  to  whom  the  woman's 
word  had  reference  ?  For  the  moment 
I  seemed  to  have  solved  the  riddle.  But 


314 


A  Roman   Cabman. 


why  should  she  desire  to  furnish  me  — 
a  stranger  —  with  that  information  ? 

O 

Why,  unless  she  mistook  me  for  some 
one  else  ?  No  ;  I  must  still  be  wide  of 
the  mark,  for  that  was  inconceivable  ; 
such  a  mistake  would  imply  a  very  close 
resemblance  ;  surely,  in  Rome  I  had  no 
double  — 

The  thought,  the  word,  brought  me  to 
my  feet  with  a  sharp  cry.  No  double  ? 
I  had  one,  and  had  seen  him  three  hours 
ago,  —  there  in  the  Via  Nazionale,  a  few 
steps  from  the  theatre.  What  if  my  seat 
there  had  been  his,  but  just  relinquished  ? 
What  if  through  a  coincidence,  strange 
indeed,  yet  not  impossible,  I,  his  counter- 
part, had  acquired  and  occupied  it  ?  Ad- 
mitting this,  the  woman's  error  was  the 
most  natural  thing  in  the  world.  More- 
over, this  would  explain,  as  nothing  else 
could,  her  interest  in  me  at  our  former 
meeting  upon  the  Campagna.  It  had 
amounted  almost  to  a  recognition.  She 
had  been  on  the  very  point  of  speaking, 
and  her  changed  purpose  held  in  it  a 
wonder  ill  concealed.  Why  ?  Because  it 
was  my  fortune  or  misfortune  to  be  the 
living  image  of  a  man  whom  she  knew 
well,  whose  presence  at  the  theatre  to- 
night she  had  confidently  expected. 

The  more  I  thought  of  it,  the  more  con- 
vinced I  became  that  in  this  resemblance 
lay  the  clue  to  the  enigma.  But  when, 
striving  to  follow  the  clue,  I  sought  a 
definite  solution,  I  was  soon  lost  in  pure 
conjecture.  That  my  double  in  some 
way  had  gained  in  advance  the  informa- 
tion conveyed  to  me,  and  so  absented 
himself  from  his  post,  was  not  improb- 
able. But  to  what  did  the  information 
tend  ?  to  whom  refer  ?  That  it  involved 
the  King  I  had  really  not  the  smallest 
proof.  I  was,  perhaps,  merely  entangled 
in  the  meshes  of  some  vulgar  intrigue, 
—  some  rendezvous,  frustrated  or  post- 
poned. 

The  next  morning,  for  once,  the  faith- 
ful Bianchi  failed  me.  When  his  hour 
came,  I  received  word  that  he  was  kept 
at  home  by  a  slight  cold,  and  that  I  might 


expect  him  on  the  morrow,  if  the  day  were 
fine.  Perfect  as  that  was  otherwise,  it 
brought  no  sign  of  him  ;  and  fearing  that 
he  might  be  seriously  ill,  I  went  as  soon 
as  possible  to  his  address  in  the  Traste- 
vere,  which,  this  time,  I  had  been  care- 
ful to  procure. 

The  street  was  a  dark,  narrow  one, 
between  the  river  and  the  Janiculan  Hill. 
I  found  the  house  without  difficulty,  amid 
a  long  row  of  dingy  tenements.  The 
cabman's  rooms  were  at  the  top,  up  in- 
numerable stairs.  He  lay  in  bed,  rest- 
less and  feverish,  attended  by  his  wife, 
a  shy,  gentle  soul,  prematurely  old.  The 
place  was  neat,  but  poorly  furnished.  On 
one  bare,  whitewashed  wall  hung  a  col- 
ored print  of  the  Madonna ;  on  another,  a 
crucifix  above  a  shelf  filled  with  tawdry 
ornaments.  The  woman,  agitated  by  my 
visit,  nervously  dusted  the  one  chair  in 
the  room,  and,  after  drawing  it  for  me 
to  the  bedside,  fluttered  away. 

Bianchi  was  much  distressed  at  the 
thought  of  putting  me  to  inconvenience. 
He  had  tried  to  come,  but  the  doctor's 
order  prevented  that ;  and  so  he  had  writ- 
ten me  a  letter  by  the  hand  of  his  grand- 
son. It  was  somewhere  about,  —  on 
the  shelf  perhaps.  I  did  my  best  to  quiet 
him,  begging  him  not  to  talk ;  then,  as 
he  insisted,  to  relieve  his  mind  I  looked 
for  the  letter,  which  lay,  as  he  supposed, 
upon  the  shelf  behind  me.  In  taking 
it  down  I  accidentally  overturned  a  small 
unframed  photograph  that  stood  against 
a  vase  which  held  a  spray  of  artificial 
flowers ;  and  when  I  picked  up  the  card 
to  replace  it,  I  could  scarcely  suppress  a 
startled  cry.  For  the  portrait,  taken 
from  life,  was  of  the  woman  —  my  sibyl 
of  the  Campagna  and  the  Teatro  Nazion- 
ale —  who  had  disturbed  repeatedly  my 
waking  hours  and  my  dreams. 

After  a  second  look,  to  make  sure,  — 
as  if  the  face  were  one  that  I  could  for- 
get !  —  I  put  back  the  photograph,  and 
a  few  moments  later  went  away  without 
gratifying  or  even  betraying  my  curiosity 
concerning  it.  I  had  questions  to  ask, 


A  Roman   Cabman. 


315 


but  poor  Bianchi  was  in  no  state  to  an- 
swer them,  and  I  let  them  all  await  his 
convalescence  or  recovery.  Fortunately, 
for  my  peace  of  mind,  I  did  not  have  to 
wait  long.  His  malady  with  timely  care 
was  soon  checked  ;  in  a  week  he  was  on 
his  box  again.  Then,  catching  him  in 
a  confidential  mood  on  one  of  our  long 
drives  together,  I  soon  discovered  the 
surprising  fact  that  the  woman  was  none 
other  than  his  own  daughter.  She  had 
been  well  married  in  her  own  class  to  a 
skilled  workman  of  the  quarter ;  had 
borne  him  one  child,  the  grandson,  Hec- 
tor, now  an  inmate  of  Bianchi's  house ; 
but,  developing  ambitious  tastes  above 
her  station,  she  had  followed  false  stan- 
dards which  she  was  pleased  to  call  ad- 
vanced, —  secretly,  at  first,  until  detec- 
tion precipitated  an  end  that  from  the 
first  was  inevitable.  Then  she  had  left  all 
abruptly  —  home,  husband,  child  —  for 
a  rich  man,  whose  creature  she  had  be- 
come. He  was  a  brute,  a  barbarian,  a 
social  outcast,  a  skeptic,  irreconcilable, 
irresponsible ;  he  had  cast  his  evil  eye 
upon  her,  and  had  enticed  her  away.  It 
was  believed  that  they  were  in  foreign 
parts ;  just  where,  no  one  knew.  The 
husband  had  died  ;  Bianchi  had  taken  the 
boy  to  bring  him  up  ;  but  as  for  the  wo- 
man, once  his  daughter,  he  disowned  her, 
—  she  was  dead  to  him.  It  was  his  wife, 
poor,  tender-hearted  soul,  who  clung  to 
that  likeness  of  her,  which  he  longed  to 
tear  into  a  thousand  pieces.  If  the  si- 
gnore  understood !  Santo  nome  di  dia- 
volo  ! 

His  story  trailed  off  into  a  storm  of 
oaths  that  grew  inarticulate  with  tearless 
rage.  I  had  no  heart  to  torment  him 
further  by  any  detail  of  my  own  adven- 
ture. It  could  avail  nothing  to  state  upon 
the  best  of  evidence  that  his  degenerate 
daughter  was  a  little  nearer  than  he  im- 
agined. I  let  all  go,  and  lapsed  back 
into  silence,  while  my  good  friend's  wrath 
slowly  wore  itself  out.  We  were  coming 
in  from  the  Valle  dell'  Inferno,  and  at  the 
Ponte  Molle,  where  the  ways  diverged, 


I  chose  the  Flaminian  one,  for  a  turn  in 
the  Villa  Borghese. 

It  was  a  perfect  Roman  afternoon. 
The  old  elms  of  the  Villa  avenues  were 
in  full  leaf ;  the  wide,  grassy  slopes 
gleamed  with  daisies,  violets,  and  anem- 
ones ;  the  students  of  the  Propaganda,  in 
particolored  gowns,  played  ball  sedate- 
ly on  their  green  amphitheatre,  around 
which  a  double  line  of  carriages  circled 
back  and  forth  in  continuous  parade.  All 
ranks  were  represented,  all  nationalities. 
We  were  democratic  and  informal.  Yet 
we  could  be  formal,  too,  upon  occasion ; 
for  when  the  Queen  came  by  in  state,  we 
straightened  in  our  seats  and  doffed  our 
hats  to  her.  And  when  the  King  fol- 
lowed, not  in  state  at  all,  but  driving,  him- 
self, in  a  high  dogcart  with  an  officer  at 
his  side,  we  did  the  same  for  him,  even 
more  punctiliously,  if  possible.  Then  we 
drove  on  among  the  moss-grown  foun- 
tains, the  gray  marbles,  the  clumps  of 
ilex,  the  long  vistas  of  sun  and  shade ; 
until,  meeting  royalty  again  in  another 
segment  of  the  circle,  we  looked  the  op- 
posite way,  according  to  etiquette,  in  the 
proud  consciousness  of  duty  done,  —  as 
if  such  exalted  personages  could  recall 
our  humble  features  and  the  fact  that  we 
had  paid  our  tribute  loyally. 

We  passed  the  Queen  for  the  second 
time  with  averted  faces,  and  the  King 
drew  near.  Close  before  him  in  the  ad- 
vancing line  came  a  low,  one-horse  victoria 
of  no  richer  appointments  than  our  own. 
Almost  abreast  of  us  its  horse  reared  and 
balked,  —  plunged,  reared  again,  refused 
to  go  on.  Instantly  a  space  opened  be- 
side us,  while  all  beyond  stood  still.  The 
King's  way  was  blocked  ;  general  confu- 
sion threatened ;  there  were  contradictory 
shouts,  which  only  confirmed  the  brute 
in  his  obstinacy ;  and  the  man  on  the  box 
seemed  to  have  lost  control  of  him.  The 
stolid  fellow,  with  his  hat  pushed  over  his 
eyes  to  shield  them  from  the  setting  sun, 
clutched  the  reins  mechanically,  incom- 
petently. Bianchi  hesitated  for  a  mo- 
ment. Then  he  pulled  up  the  Moor, 


316 


A  Roman   Cabman. 


handed  me  the  reins,  and  made  a  dash  for 
the  bridle  of  the  unruly  horse  ;  he  caught 
it,  dragged  him  down,  was  dragged  along 
in  his  turn  almost  to  the  ground.  The 
victoria  swept  past  me  with  its  occupants, 
a  man  and  a  woman  whom  I  scarce- 
ly noticed,  until  the  man  leaped  down 
almost  at  our  wheel  and  disappeared 
among  the  carriages.  But  not  before  I 
had  a  good  look  at  his  face,  —  a  startled 
look  it  must  have  been  ;  for  I  recognized 
in  him  my  double  of  the  Via  Nazionale. 

Bianchi  had  conquered.  I  glanced  be- 
hind and  saw  that  the  horse  was  quiet- 
ed. The  victoria  drove  on  without  hin- 
drance, smoothly  enough.  But  as  it  passed 
my  vetturino,  he  saw  the  woman,  and  a 
change  came  over  him.  His  genial  face 
grew  white  with  anger,  then  flushed  to  the 
temples.  "  Canaglia  !  "  he  hissed  ;  and, 
turning  after  her,  repeated  with  a  shout 
the  obnoxious  word,  "  Canaglia  !  "  She 
paid  no  heed  to  it,  —  was  gone.  In  rage 
ungovernable  he  stamped  and  spit  upon 
the  ground  ;  then,  recovering  himself,  he 
rushed  back,  climbed  to  his  box,  seized 
the  reins,  and  started  forward  without  a 
word.  The  woman  was  veiled,  as  I  re- 
membered, and  I  had  caught  the  merest 
glimpse  of  her  ;  yet  I  suspected  instantly 
who  she  was  ;  before  I  could  confirm  the 
suspicion,  however,  a  stir  in  front  of  us 
diverted  my  thought.  I  heard  a  scuffle 
in  the  crowd,  a  murmur  of  excitement. 
The  King  passed  again,  driving  as  before, 
unruffled,  at  the  accustomed  gait.  A 
stern  voice  ordered  us  to  move  on  quickly. 
As  we  obeyed,  whirling  by  to  join  the  fast 
receding  line  at  its  vanishing  point,  I  saw 
a  man,  with  his  back  toward  me,  led 
away  by  the  police,  and  understood  that 
within  a  few  feet  of  us,  for  some  indeter- 
minate offense,  an  arrest  had  been  made. 

What  had  happened  ?  We  wondered 
and  demanded  on  all  sides,  but  no  one 
could  enlighten  us.  When,  fifteen  min- 
utes later,  we  returned  to  the  scene  of  our 
adventure,  the  crowd  had  dispersed,  the 
carriages  were  few  and  far  between. 
Impending  twilight  marked  the  limit  of 


the  fashionable  hour,  and  we  turned  the 
Moor's  head  toward  home.  Bianchi 's 
low  spirits  were  apparent ;  but  I  forbore 
to  question  him,  until,  as  we  crossed  the 
Piazza  del  Popolo  alone  in  the  dim  light, 
he  gave  me  a  sidelong  look  so  mournful 
that  it  appealed  for  sympathy.  Lean- 
ing forward,  I  whispered,  "  It  was  she, 
then  !  "  And  he,  through  his  clenched 
teeth,  replied  :  "  Yes,  signore.  Here  in 
Rome,  la  malcreata  !  Oh,  the  shame  of 
it !  "  with  an  amazing  sequence  of  mut- 
tered imprecations.  I  let  him  alone  ;  but, 
later,  at  the  hotel  door,  shook  his  hand 
and  tried  to  cheer  him,  —  wasting  my 
words,  for  he  would  not  be  comforted. 

The  mystery  of  the  arrest  was  cleared 
up  in  the  next  morning's  paper,  where  I 
read  of  a  bold  attempt  to  assassinate  the 
King  in  the  Villa  Borghese.  During  a 
momentary  halt  in  the  line,  a  man  had 
sprung —  from  the  earth,  as  it  seemed 
—  to  the  carriage-step  with  a  drawn  knife 
in  his  hand.  Providentially,  at  that  in- 
stant the  King's  horses  had  started  up ; 
the  man's  foot  had  slipped  ;  and,  falling, 
he  had  been  easily  disarmed,  captured, 
dragged  away  to  prison.  There  he  bore 
himself  with  unexampled  indifference,  im- 
plicating no  one  else,  refusing  to  explain 
his  motive,  or  to  make  any  statement 
whatever,  beyond  the  simple  fact  that  he 
was  an  Englishman  ;  a  fact  doubted  by 
the  authorities.  Then  followed  a  rough 
woodcut  of  the  prisoner,  who  was  de- 
scribed as  well  dressed  and  sufficiently 
presentable  in  appearance.  The  sketch 
hardly  warranted  even  this  craftily  quali- 
fied clause  about  his  looks.  Yet  with  its 
help  I  promptly  identified  my  enigmatic 
shadow,  —  run  to  earth,  at  last.  The  re- 
semblance, now  reduced  to  its  lowest 
terms,  was  most  unflattering.  But  I 
could  only  attribute  that  to  the  draughts- 
man's lack  of  skill,  and  rejoice  that 
things  were  no  worse,  —  or  no  better. 

Nothing  in  the  printed  report  con- 
nected the  assailant  with  the  blockade  in 
the  line  of  carriages.  The  whole  affair 
had  been  of  a  moment  only ;  and  the 


A  Roman  Cabman. 


317 


man,  worming  his  way  in  and  out  be- 
tween the  wheels,  might  well  have  seemed 
to  spring  from  the  earth.  But  for  his 
familiar  face,  he  would  have  slipped  by 
me  unnoticed.  Now  I  perceived  plainly 
that,  in  his  deep-laid  scheme  to  gain  a 
sure  foothold  and  possible  escape,  the  halt 
and  the  small  distraction  occasioned  by 
it  were  important  factors.  He  had  reck- 
oned confidently  upon  both  ;  but  he  had 
reckoned  without  Bianchi.  Through  the 
vetturino's  quick  wit  and  ready  resource, 
unconsciously  working  to  a  purpose  un- 
foreseen, the  scheme  had  miscarried. 
Thus  did  my  spurred  imagination,  so 
long  ineffective,  suddenly  begin  to  patch 
these  shadowy  proofs  together  into  one 
clear,  substantial  whole. 

Nor  did  imagination  stop  there.  Its 
vivid  light  streamed  backward,  making 
significant  my  adventure  at  the  theatre. 
The  abortive  attempt  in  the  Villa  Bor- 
ghese  seemed  to  me  no  sudden  impulse, 
but  the  outcome  of  a  deliberate  plot,  an 
organized  conspiracy,  in  which  several 
minds  had  long  been  actively  engaged. 
The  woman,  surely,  must  be  an  accom- 
plice ;  so,  likewise,  the  too  incompetent 
driver  of  the  victoria,  who  might  or 
might  not  have  been  her  former  compan- 
ion, the  dull-eyed  spectre  of  the  Cam- 
pagna.  Intent  upon  the  King's  murder, 
they  had  awaited  a  favorable  opportu- 
nity, which  almost  offered  itself  on  that 
gala  night  in  the  Teatro  Nazionale.  Had 
the  King  attended  the  performance,  their 
attempt  would  have  been  made  at  its 
close,  as  he  walked  down  the  staircase, 
within  reach  of  the  assassin's  hand.  But 
something  had  occurred  to  change  his 
plan,  and  word  of  the  change  had  been 
passed  on  to  me,  in  mistake.  The  deed 
of  yesterday  proved  the  tardy  de'noue- 
ment  to  which  these  threads  had  tended. 

For  an  hour  or  so  I  contemplated  a 
descent  upon  the  police,  to  put  myself 
and  all  my  theories  at  their  disposal.  But 
sober  second  thought  reversed  this  rash 
intention.  The  ways  of  the  police  were 
inscrutable.  My  testimony,  as  I  fore- 


saw, would  involve  me  in  awkward,  not  to 
say  vexatious  delays,  conflicting  with  all 
my  plans,  and  of  most  unpleasant  publi- 
city ;  when  all  was  done,  it  might  well  be 
deemed  too  slight,  and  lead  to  nothing. 
The  plot,  if  plot  there  were,  had  failed 
completely,  yielding  the  law  its  victim. 
Here  was  a  conclusion  upon  which  I  could 
rest  comfortably.  It  was  clear  that  in 
Bianchi's  mind  the  two  incidents  of  the 
halt  and  the  attack  were  unrelated.  He 
had  not  seen  his  daughter  again ;  he 
neither  knew  nor  wished  to  know  her 
whereabouts  ;  she  had  passed  beyond  the 
pale  of  his  conjecture  even.  There  I 
resolved  to  leave  her.  And  when,  I  said 
farewell  to  him  and  Rome  a  few  days 
afterward,  nothing  had  occurred  to  shake 
my  resolution. 

At  the  moment  of  departure,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course,  I  had  tossed  a  soldo  into 
the  Fountain  of  Trevi  to  insure  my  re- 
turn ;  but  with  small  faith  in  this  travel- 
er's charm,  which,  indeed,  failed  to  work 
for  many  a  day.  Ten  years  and  more 
elapsed.  Then,  through  a  happy  whirl 
of  Fortune's  wheel,  I  found  myself  in 
Rome  once  more,  with  a  whole  month  — 
the  month  of  May  —  before  me.  Again, 
almost  my  first  thought  was  of  Bianchi. 
But,  this  time,  no  sudden  stroke  of  good 
luck  conjured  him  up.  I  had  kept  his 
old  address,  and  wrote  to  him  there,  re- 
ceiving no  answer.  I  watched  for  him 
in  the  Corso,  inspected  cabstands,  ques- 
tioned porters,  without  result.  At  men- 
tion of  his  name  all  shook  their  heads. 
And,  finally,  I  dropped  the  matter. 

A  Sunday  came  which  was  to  be  my 
last  in  Rome.  As  I  returned  on  foot 
from  St.  Peter's,in  the  afternoon,  through 
the  Via  Condotti,  the  declining  sunlight 
shone  full  upon  the  distant  church  of 
Santa  Trinita  de'  Monti  rising  above  the 
vista  of  the  Spanish  Steps  against  a  clear 
blue  sky.  I  remembered  opportunely 
that  this  was  the  hour  for  the  fine  choral 
service  there,  at  which,  on  Sunday,  the 
nuns  of  the  adjoining  convent  assisted. 


318 


A  Roman   Cabman. 


Hurrying  on,  I  was  still  in  time  for  a 
portion  of  the  office  ;  and  pushing  aside 
the  leathern  curtain,  I  went  in. 

The  dim  nave  was  crowded  to  the  in- 
tersecting grate  which  defends  the  nuns 
and  their  sanctuary  from  the  world. 
Through  the  bars,  afar  off,  gleamed  the 
candles  of  the  altar,  the  vestments,  the 
swinging  censers  ;  the  unseen  choir  sang, 
the  organ  boomed,  the  smoke  curled  up- 
ward in  the  encroaching  darkness.  I 
listened  to  the  music,  idly  watching  the 
beam  of  daylight  that  stretched  across 
the  nearer  pavement  when  the  curtain 
swung  inward.  Suddenly,  revealed  for 
the  moment  in  its  glow,  stood  the  fig- 
ure of  an  elderly  man,  shabbily  dressed, 
broken  with  years  and  with  illness  too, 
perhaps,  for  his  gait  was  uncertain.  He 
limped  forward  into  the  shadow,  and  be- 
came immediately  absorbed  in  his  devo- 
tions. The  picturesqueness  of  the  man 
and  his  reverent  attitude  interested  me, 
and  I  studied  his  face,  which  now  was 
but  just  discernible.  "  He  is  a  little  like 
Bianchi,"  I  thought;  "though  much 
older."  Then,  remembering  that  I  had 
not  seen  my  former  friend  for  ten  years, 
I  began  to  wonder  whether  it  could  be 
he.  "  No,  impossible  !  "  I  soon  decided  ; 
yet  I  drew  toward  him  for  a  better  and 
more  searching  look.  Just  then,  in  the 
distance,  came  the  elevation  of  the  host, 
and  the  man  knelt  slowly  and  painfully. 
Turning  his  head  for  an  instant,  he  caught 
my  eye,  but  with  no  light  of  recognition. 
"It  is  not  he  !  "  I  sighed. 

None  the  less,  when,  a  few  moments 
later,  the  man  rose,  and,  after  dusting 
his  knees  carefully,  moved  toward  the 
door,  I  followed  him  out,  down  the  steps 
at  his  own  slow  pace,  keeping  close  be- 
hind him.  As  he  reached  the  Piazza,  he 
turned  with  an  air  of  mild  surprise.  "  Is 
your  name  Bianchi  Andrea?  "  I  asked. 

At  the  sound  of  my  voice  he  started, 
flashed  upon  me  the  old  sparkling  look, 
and  knew  me  instantly.  "  Dio  mio,  Dio 
mio,  Dio  mio  /  "  he  chattered,  like  a  par- 
rot ;  "  what  a  combination,  what  a  com- 


bination, caro  signore!  To  think  you 
should  be  there  in  the  church !  It  was 
the  Madonna  that  led  me  to  it !  " 

"  Bianchi !  It  is  really  you  !  Still  at 
your  old  trade  !  " 

"  Of  course  !  "  he  laughed,  limping 
toward  the  vettura,  which  stood  near  by. 
"  See !  Here  is  my  horse.  Alas,  no 
longer  the  Moor !  But  what  a  combina- 
tion !  Dio  mio,  Dio  mio,  Dio  mio  !  " 

"  You  have  been  ill  ?    You  are  lame." 

"Naturally,  since  I  am  old.  It  is  no- 
thing. My  health  is  not  so  bad." 

"  And  your  wife  ?    She  is  well,  too  ?  " 

"Ah,  signor  mio!  She  is  dead, — 
dead  these  two  years.  Yet  I  am  not 
alone  ;  the  boy  is  with  me,  and  "  — 

At  that  moment  we  were  interrupted 
by  the  vetturino's  fare  for  the  time  being, 
—  two  elderly  women,  severe  in  aspect, 
evidently  English  and  single.  They  had 
followed  from  the  church,  and  now  eyed 
us  with  impatient  wonder.  I  could  do 
no  more  than  give  Bianchi  my  address, 
bidding  him  come  to  me  on  the  morrow. 
He  clambered  to  the  box  and  drove  off; 
while  I,  left  alone,  slowly  recovered  from 
my  astonishment  at  this  happy  chance 
which  ha4  reestablished  the  old  relation- 
ship,—  with  the  Madonna's  help,  as  I, 
too,  was  half  inclined  to  believe. 

We  made  the  most  of  the  two  days 
left  me,  with  many  a  blessing  for  the  be- 
lated favor.  When  the  end  drew  near, 
I  told  him  that  I  must  see  his  grandson 
before  going  away,  and  begged  him  to 
drive  at  once  to  his  lodging.  It  was  not 
the  old  place,  but  a  brighter  and  better 
one  in  a  new  quarter.  My  visit  had  been 
timed  for  the  breakfast  hour,  when  the 
youth,  who  was  a  laborer,  would  not  fail 
to  be  at  home.  In  a  few  moments  he  ap- 
peared, stalwart  and  unabashed,  — a  tall, 
manly  fellow,  who  looked  as  if,  upon  oc- 
casion, he  might  prove  as  valiant  as  his 
namesake,  the  Trojan  hero.  While  we 
talked  together,  a  voice  summoned  him, 
and  he  excused  himself.  The  meal  was 
ready,  he  had  a  sharp  appetite.  "  Con 
permesso  !  "  And  he  went  out; 


Dead  Out  of  Doors. 


319 


His  keen,  black  eyes  recalled  others, 
still  unforgotten,  that  I  ana  not  likely  to 
forget.  Upon  my  lips  trembled  a  ques- 
tion, which  I  had  been  often  tempted  to 
ask  during  the  previous  forty-eight  hours. 
Yet  the  subject  was  one  that  I  wished  to 
make  Bianchi,  himself,  introduce,  if  that 
could  be  accomplished.  He  may  have 
read  my  thought ;  for  while  he  shifted 
his  position  uneasily,  his  eyes  avoided 
mine.  "  Let  us  go ! "  I  said  ;  and  he 
sprang  eagerly  toward  the  door ;  but  at 
the  sound  of  a  step  on  the  landing  out- 
side, he  drew  back,  as  a  woman  stood 
before  him  in  the  doorway.  Pale,  worn, 
wasted  by  disease,  in  dress  of  the  hum- 
blest sort,  she  would  have  been  unrecog- 
nizable but  for  the  eyes,  which,  shining 
with  what  now  seemed  unnatural  bright- 
ness, betrayed  her  identity  even  through 
the  transforming  mask  of  years.  She  re- 
coiled at  sight  of  us ;  then  with  a  mur- 
mured apology  for  her  intrusion,  shuffled 
hastily  away.  An  inner  door  closed  be- 
hind her.  And  when  all  was  quiet,  Bi- 
anchi silently  led  the  way  out.  Not  until 
we  were  in  the  open  air  did  he  meet 
my  inquiring  glance.  Then  there  was 
no  need  of  further  question.  At  once  he 
told  me  the  little  there  was  to  tell,  readily 
and  volubly. 

After  that  chance  encounter  in  the 
Villa  Borghese,  his  daughter  did  not 
cross  his  path  again,  and  he  heard  no- 


thing of  her  for  a  long  time.  All  trace 
seemed  lost  forever.  But  his  wife  upon 
her  death-bed,  convinced  that  the  daugh- 
ter was  still  alive,  had  exacted  from  him 
a  promise  that  if  any  appeal  should  be 
made,  he  would  hearken  to  it.  His  wife 
died  and  was  buried.  Then,  three  months 
later,  word  came  that  his  daughter  had 
returned  to  Rome  ill,  if  not  dying,  and 
in  want.  He  had  kept  his  promise  faith- 
fully, going  to  her  relief,  cancelling  all 
the  past,  and  bringing  her  home  to  die, 
as  he  believed.  She  was  there  ;  she  had 
recovered,  in  a  measure ;  but  there  was 
no  harm  in  her  now,  as  one  might  see  at 
a  glance.  She  devoted  herself  to  her  boy, 
to  him,  to  her  mother's  memory.  Oil, 
an  angel  of  devotion !  What  would  the 
signore  have  ?  It  had  been  a  sad  story, 
but  it  was  well  over.  In  this  world,  one 
must  be  a  good  father,  or  one  was  nothing. 
Upon  that  word  we  parted  company. 
And  it  is  the  last  woi-d  of  his  that  I  re- 
member. Our  leave-taking  of  the  next 
morning  at  the  station,  hurried  and  for- 
mal as  it  was,  slips  wholly  from  my  re- 
collection. The  honest-hearted  fellow 
turned  back  into  the  Roman  streets,  where 
still,  perhaps,  grown  older  and  grayer, 
he  pursues  his  calling.  If  so,  at  church, 
or  Corso,  or  piazza,  with  the  Madonna's 
help,  we  shall  surely  meet  again.  If 
not:  — 

"  Atque  in  perpetuum,  frater,  ave  atque  vale  !  " 
T.  R.  Sullivan. 


DEAD  OUT  OF  DOORS. 

HIGH  from  the  ground,  and  blown  upon  by  air 
Sun-sanctified ;  caught  from  corruption's  mould, 
Girdled  by  streams  amidst  the  foot-hills  fair, 
With  wind-chants  making  music  sweet  and  old, 

This  red  man  rests.     Unto  the  elements 
He  doth  return ;  his  soul  soars  glad  and  free, 
And  e'en  his  body  seems,  in  going  hence, 
To  cry,  "  O  grave,  where  is  thy  victory !  " 

Richard  Burton. 


320 


Prescott  the  Man. 


PRESCOTT  THE  MAN. 


GEORGE  HILLAKD,  writing  to  Prescott 
in  January,  1844,  spoke  of  "  that  warm 
heart  of  yours  which  makes  those  who 
have  the  privilege  of  being  your  friends 
entirely  forget  that  you  are  a  great  his- 
torian, and  only  think  of  you  as  a  person 
to  be  loved." 

Subsequent  forgetting  has  been  of  a 
different  kind.  For  most  of  us,  the  his- 
torian has  swallowed  the  man.  We  think 
of  Prescott  in  his  study,  though  for  but 
few  of  us,  even  there,  do  his  twenty 
pairs  of  old  shoes  piled  on  a  step-ladder 
cause  the  face  of  Clio  to  relax ;  but  we 
scarcely  realize  him  at  all  in  the  nursery. 
That  boon  companion  of  children  ;  that 
rich  and  spontaneous  nature ;  that  most 
charming  of  hosts  and  most  welcome  of 
guests ;  that  devoted  son,  that  fond  fa- 
ther, that  sportively  benignant  grandfa- 
ther ;  that  loyal  friend,  good  citizen, 
helper  of  the  poor ;  that  man  in  whom 
gentleness  dwelt  with  strength,  and  whom 
kindness  clothed  as  with  a  garment,  — 
very  human,  withal,  and  not  exempt  from 
laughable  weaknesses  and  engagingly 
whimsical  traits,  —  the  winning  person- 
ality has  been  too  much  lost  in  the  stately 
historical  writer. 

This  is  due  partly  to  the  inevitable 
fading  of  personal  tradition  with  the 
lapse  of  time.  Those  who  knew  Pres- 
cott in  his  radiant  youth  and  sunny  man- 
hood are  gone.  In  his  family  the  mem- 
ory of  the  authentic  man  survives,  but 
for  the  world  at  large  there  remains  only 
the  written  record.  That,  so  far  as  the 
histories  are  concerned,  necessarily  yields 
but  a  feeble  light  upon  the  man  behind 
the  book.  An  author  may  unlock  his 
heart  in  a  sonnet,  but  certainly  cannot 
in  a  history  of  dead  centuries.  And 
even  in  Prescott's  formal  biography  his 
real  personality  is  somewhat  elusive. 
Ticknor  was  Prescott's  lifelong  friend, 
and  a  most  painstaking  biographer.  He 


had  ample  material,  and  used  it  conscien- 
tiously, —  it  is  not  necessary  to  say  dis- 
creetly, for  not  a  line  that  Prescott  wrote 
needed  to  be  suppressed  for  fear  of  hurt- 
ing the  feelings  of  the  living  or  of  the 
friends  of  the  dead.  But  Ticknor  was 
an  old  man  when  he  wrote  the  Life. 
His  own  view  of  society  and  of  literature, 
always  severe,  had  deepened  into  some- 
thing like  austerity  ;  and  for  him  to  have 
brought  out  vividly  the  playful,  jocose, 
and  warmly  human  aspects  of  Prescott's 
character  would  doubtless  have  seemed 
to  him  very  much  like  taking  liberties 
with  the  Muse  of  History.  At  any  rate, 
the  awful  dignity  of  historical  composi- 
tion, and  the  weighty  responsibilities  go- 
ing with  life  in  that  "  pale  of  society  " 
where  Ticknor  drew  his  well-regulated 
breath,  are  the  main  personal  impressions 
which  one  derives  to-day  from  the  official 
biography  of  Prescott.  The  rest  is  there, 
no  doubt,  by  implication,  and  f ugitively. 
Prescott's  social  charm  is  asserted,  though 
without  detail;  his  light-heartedness  at 
home,  his  vivacious  wit  in  conversation, 
his  grace  of  manner,  his  innocent  fond- 
ness for  the  good  things  of  life,  —  all  are 
affirmed  by  Ticknor,  but  in  a  slighting 
way  which  prevents  these  qualities  from 
taking  the  place  which  they  ought  to  have 
in  the  picture  of  the  total  man.  Over  a 
great  mass  of  material  in  Prescott's  jour- 
nals and  letters,  illustrating  the  true  na- 
ture of  the  historian  in  habit  as  he  was, 
Ticknor  passed  too  hastily. 

Prescott  was  not  only  well  born  but 
happily  born.  His  heredity  was  nicely 
fitted  to  his  problem  of  life.  From  his 
mother,  Governor  Wolcott  thought,  he 
derived  his  "  unfailing  spirits."  In 
Pierce's  Life  of  Sumner  there  is  record 
of  a  conversation  at  dinner,  where  Web- 
ster, Ticknor,  Sumner,  and  Prescott  were 
present,  among  others.  The  talk  turned 
on  the  question  what  most  vitally  shaped 


Prescott  the  Man. 


321 


men's  characters  and  activities.  Some 
said  one  thing,  some  another.  "Mr. 
Prescott  declared  that  a  mother's  influ- 
ence was  the  most  potent."  He  was  a 
living  witness.  All  the  accounts  which 
Ticknor  piously  gathered  from  Salem 
contemporaries  agree  that  the  boy  Wil- 
liam had  his  bright  vivacity  from  his 
mother.  "I  am  the  only  classmate  of 
Mr.  Prescott  now  present,"  said  Presi- 
dent Walker  of  Harvard,  at  the  memorial 
meeting  held  in  honor  of  the  dead  his- 
torian by  the  Massachusetts  Historical 
Society  on  February  1, 1859.  "  My  re- 
collections of  him  go  back  to  our  college 
days  when  he  stood  among  us  one  of  the 
most  joyous  and  light-hearted."  He  had 
need  to  be.  An  accident,  in  his  junior 
year,  destroyed  the  sight  of  his  left  eye, 
and  later  was  followed  by  an  obscure 
disease  in  the  other  which  brought  him 
to  the  verge  of  total  blindness.  From 
fear  of  the  latter  he  was  never  exempt 
while  he  lived.  Nothing  but  an  indom- 
itable gayety  of  spirit  could  have  carried 
him  through  those  early  years  of  almost 
absolute  darkness  and  the  lifelong  crip- 
pling, and  left  him  the  serene  and  happy 
nature  his  friends  always  found  him. 
He  was,  in  fact,  obstinately  and  unrea- 
sonably cheerful.  At  his  grandfather's 
house  in  the  Azores,  a  lad  of  nineteen, 
he  was  for  three  months  shut  up  in  a 
dark  room  and  kept  on  a  reducing  diet. 
Yet  his  spirits  were  throughout  unflag- 
ging. He  was  not  merely  not  despondent, 
he  was  positively  hilarious.  He  sang  and 
spouted  poetry,  and  mouthed  Latin,  and 
walked  hundreds  of  miles  within  the  four 
walls  of  his  large  chamber,  —  from  cor- 
ner to  corner,  thrusting  out  his  elbows  to 
keep  himself  from  running,  in  the  dark, 
against  the  sharp  angles.  Indeed,  as  he 
wrote  to  his  parents,  he  "  emerged  "  from 
his  "dungeon,  not  with  the  emaciated 
figure  of  a  prisoner,  but  in  the  full  bloom 
of  a  bon  vivant."  A  little  later,  in  Lon- 
don, he  was  told  by  the  leading  oculist 
whom  he  consulted  that  there  was  no 
hope  of  a  permanent  cure  of  his  affection 
VOL.  xcni.  —  NO.  557.  21 


of  the  eye,  and  that,  as  he  wrote  home, 
"  I  must  abandon  my  profession  for- 
ever." But  even  that  could  not  daunt 
him,  and  he  added,  "  Do  not  think  that 
I  feel  any  despondency.  .  .  .  My  spirits 
are  full  as  high  as  my  pulse  ;  fifteen  de- 
grees above  the  proper  temperament." 

As  one  proof  more  of  Prescott's  un- 
conquerable temper  and  light-heartedness 
that  never  failed,  may  be  cited  what  his 
mother  said,  years  after,  to  her  pastor : 
"  This  is  the  very  room  where  William 
was  shut  up  for  so  many  months  in  utter 
darkness.  In  all  that  trying  season,  when 
so  much  had  to  be  endured,  and  our 
hearts  were  ready  to  fail  for  fear,  I  never 
in  a  single  instance  groped  my  way  across 
the  apartment  to  take  my  place  at  his 
side  that  he  did  not  salute  me  with  some 
hearty  expression  of  good  cheer,  —  as  if 
we  were  the  patients,  and  it  was  his  place 
to  comfort  us." 

Prescott  was  known  as  "the  blind 
historian  ;  "  and  the  tradition  that  he 
was  totally  blind  became  early  fixed  and 
almost  impossible  to  dislodge.  Maria 
Edgeworth  sighed  over  the  "  poor  man," 
on  the  supposition  that  he  was  entirely 
without  sight.  The  Edinburgh  Review, 
in  its  notice  of  the  Conquest  of  Mexico, 
spoke  of  the  writer  as  having  "  been  blind 
several  years."  "  The  next  thing,"  wrote 
Prescott  in  his  journal,  "  I  shall  hear  of 
a  subscription  set  on  foot  for  the  blind 
Yankee  author."  At  about  the  same 
time  he  wrote  to  Colonel  Aspinwall,  "  I 
can  t  say  I  like  to  be  called  blind.  I 
have,  it  is  true,  but  one  eye  ;  but  that 
has  done  me  some  service,  and,  with  fair 
usage  will,  I  trust,  do  me  some  more." 
But  in  spite  of  all  his  explanations  the 
world  went  on  believing  that  Prescott 
was,  as  he  humorously  protested  that  he 
was  not,  "  high-gravel  blind."  Edward 
Everett  wrote  him  from  London,  June  2, 
1845  :  "  I  noticed  the  note  in  the  Edin- 
burgh Review  [this  was  a  correction  of 
the  earlier  mistake]  about  your  blindness, 
and  I  continually  hear  and  as  often  con- 
tradict the  same  statement  in  conversa- 


322 


Prescott  the  Man. 


tion,  but  I  do  not  always  command  belief. 
Sir  John  Hobhouse  last  Saturday  even- 
ing insisted  upon  it  you  were  as  blind  as 
a  mole,  and  being  a  quiet  man,  I  was 
obliged  to  let  him  have  his  own  way." 
The  truth  is  that  Prescott  always  had 
precarious  vision  in  one  eye,  which  he 
was  able  to  use  only  with  extreme  caution 
and  for  but  short  periods  at  a  time  ;  and 
even  so,  frequent  intervals  of  complete 
blindness  fell  upon  him  with  the  recur- 
rence of  his  disease.  The  oculists  of  the 
day  assured  him  of  the  sufficiency  of  his 
one  feeble  eye  for  all  the  ordinary  pur- 
poses of  life,  provided  he  would  give  up 
his  literary  labors.  But  he  quietly  re- 
fused to  pay  the  price.  Holding  himself 
to  a  rigid  regimen,  carefully  observing 
every  precaution  that  his  own  experience 
or  the  skill  of  physicians  could  suggest, 
he  yet  preferred  the  joys  of  his  intellec- 
tual pursuits  to  the  certainty  of  eyesight. 
Again  and  again  in  his  journals  we  find 
him  calmly  contemplating  the  possibil- 
ity of  absolute  and  permanent  blindness. 
Even  then  there  is  no  expression  of  re- 
gret or  slackened  resolution ;  only  a 
weighing  of  the  possibility  of  his  being 
able  to  press  on  with  his  work  when 
wholly  dependent  upon  the  eyes  of  others. 
"  The  obstacles,"  he  wrote  in  1830,  "  I 
do  not  believe  to  be  insuperable,  unless 
I  become  deaf  as  well  as  blind."  As  to 
the  actual  extent  and  effect  of  his  disable- 
ment, a  few  of  his  own  private  records 
are  worth  pages  of  description :  — 

January  16,  1831.  "  I  can  dispense 
entirely  with  my  own  eyes." 

June  26,  1836.  "  The  discourage- 
ments under  which  I  have  labored  have 
nearly  determined  me  more  than  once 
to  abandon  the  enterprise.  I  met  with 
a  remark  of  Dr.  Johnson  on  Milton  at 
an  early  period,  stating  that  the  poet 
.  gave  up  his  history  of  Britain,  on  be- 
coming blind,  since  no  one  could  pursue 
such  investigations  under  such  disadvan- 
tages. This  remark  of  the  great  doctor 
confirmed  me  in  the  resolution  to  attempt 
the  contrary.  ...  I  must  not  overstate 


the  case,  however,  for  certainly  my  eyes 
have  not  been  high-gravel  blind  all  the 
while." 

March  24,  1846.  "  The  last  fortnight 
I  have  not  read  or  written,  in  all,  five 
minutes.  .  .  .  My  notes  have  been  writ- 
ten by  ear-work  :  snail-like  progress." 

November  1,  1846.  "I  reckon  time 
by  eyesight,  as  distances  are  now  reck- 
oned by  railroads.  There  is  about  the 
same  relative  value  of  the  two,  in  regard 
to  speed." 

July  9,  1848.  "  I  use  my  eyes  ten 
minutes  at  a  time,  for  an  hour  a  day.  So 
I  snail  it  along." 

February  15,  1849.  "How  can  I 
feel  enthusiasm  when  limping  like  a  blind 
beggar  on  foot  ?  I  must  make  my  brains 
—  somehow  or  other  —  save  my  eyes." 

July  15, 1849.  "  Worked  about  three 
hours  per  diem,  of  which  with  my  own 
eyes  (grown  very  dim,  alas !)  about  30 
minutes  a  day." 

October  3,  1853.  "  Have  been  quack- 
ing again  for  my  eye." 

It  was  not  really  quacking,  though 
Prescott  suffered  many  things  of  many 
physicians.  His  case  seemed  to  be  pre- 
figured in  Voltaire's  Zadig.  The  great 
impostor  Hermes,  in  whose  person  the 
whole  faculty  was  satirized,  declared,  "  If 
it  had  been  the  right  eye  I  could  have 
cured  it,  but  the  wounds  of  the  left  are 
incurable." 

One  entry  more  from  the  journals  :  — 

June  16,  1857.  "  I  fight  as  —  meta- 
phorically speaking  —  Cervantes  fought 
at  Lepanto  —  with  one  hand  crippled." 

For  more  than  thirty  years  Prescott 
employed  private  secretaries.  They  read 
to  him,  made  notes  for  him,  and,  hardest 
task  of  all,  deciphered  and  transcribed 
his  own  blind  man's  writing,  —  his  noc- 
tographs.  In  the  latter  form  nearly  all 
his  composing  was  done.  He  himself 
described  the  writing  contrivance.  The 
apparatus,  he  wrote  in  a  letter  to  the 
publisher  of  the  Homes  of  American 
Authors,  consisted  of  "  a  frame  of  the 
size  of  a  common  sheet  of  letter-paper, 


Prescott  the  Man. 


323 


with  brass  wires  inserted  in  it  to  corre- 
spond with  the  number  of  lines  wanted. 
On  one  side  of  this  frame  is  pasted  a  leaf 
of  thin  carbonated  paper,  such  as  is  used 
to  obtain  duplicates.  Instead  of  a  pen, 
the  writer  makes  use  of  a  stylus,  of  ivory 
or  agate,  the  latter  better  or  harder. 
The  great  difficulties  in  the  way  of  a 
blind  man's  writing  in  the  usual  manner 
arise  from  his  not  knowing  when  the  ink 
is  exhausted  in  his  pen,  and  when  his 
lines  run  into  one  another.  Both  these 
difficulties  are  obviated  by  this  simple 
writing  case,  which  enables  one  to  do  his 
work  as  well  in  the  dark  as  in  the  light." 
It  is  a  fact,  however,  that  one  difficulty 
remained.  Prescott  sometimes  forgot  to 
insert  the  sheet  of  paper,  and  then,  as 
he  once  wrote,  he  would  proceed  for  a 
page  "  in  all  the  glow  of  composition  " 
before  finding  that  all  had  been  in  vain. 
With  characteristic  good  nature,  he  al- 
luded to  this  occasional  contretemps  as 
one  of  the  "  whimsical  distresses  "  of  his 
method.  Of  the  resulting  manuscript, 
let  one  of  his  secretaries  speak.  Mr. 
Robert  Carter,  who  was  engaged  by 
Prescott  in  1847,  had  assigned  him  as 
his  first  duty  the  task  of  familiarizing 
himself  with  the  noctograph  writing.  "  I 
was  appalled,"  he  wrote  afterwards,  "  by 
its  appearance.  It  was  nearly  as  illegi- 
ble as  so  much  shorthand.  I  could  not 
make  out  the  first  line,  or  even  the  first 
word."  This  is  fully  confirmed  by  what 
Prescott  wrote  to  R.  W.  Griswold  in 
1845.  He  said  that  the  characters  of  his 
noctographs  "  might  indeed  pass  for  hie- 
roglyphics." His  secretaries  managed 
to  interpret  them,  but  "  sometimes  my 
hair  stood  on  end  at  the  woeful  blun- 
ders and  misconceptions  of  the  original 
which  every  now  and  then  found  their 
way  into  the  first  proof  of  the  printer." 
It  may  be  added  "that  the  noctograph 
original  of  this  very  letter  to  Griswold 
is  preserved  among  the  Prescott  papers, 
and  is  itself  a  fine  example  of  his  most 
inscrutable  writing.  The  resource  of 
dictation  was  distasteful  to  Prescott.  He 


did,  indeed,  dictate  his  short  memoir  of 
Pickering,  but  his  secretary  states  that 
he  "  did  not  like  the  method,  and  never 
again  resorted  to  it  when  writing  for  the 
public."  Prescott's  own  account  of  the 
matter  is  as  follows  :  "  Thierry,  who  is 
totally  blind,  urged  me  by  all  means  to 
cultivate  the  habit  of  dictation,  to  which 
he  had  resorted  ;  and  James,  the  eminent 
novelist,  who  has  adopted  his  habit,  finds 
it  favorable  to  facility  in  composition. 
But  I  am  too  long  accustomed  to  my  own 
way  to  change.  And,  to  say  truth,  I 
never  dictated  a  sentence  in  my  life  for 
publication  without  its  falling  so  flat  on 
my  ear  that  I  felt  almost  ashamed  to  send 
it  to  the  press.  I  suppose  it  is  habit." 

The  outward  effects  of  Prescott's  par- 
tial blindness  were  not  so  important  as 
its  influence  in  shaping  and  making 
beautiful  his  character.  No  one  can  read 
the  remarkable  record  in  his  journals  of 
the  way  in  which  he  turned  from  a  dim 
world  without  to  a  radiant  world  within, 
took  himself  in  hand,  and  forged  labori- 
ously in  the  dark  the  tempered  weapon 
of  his  mind  and  heart,  without  becoming 
persuaded  that  his  strength  was  plucked 
from  his  very  disabling.  It  was  this  view 
of  the  matter  which  led  the  Rev.  N.  L. 
Frothingham  to  say  of  him  after  his 
death  that  the  mischance  which  robbed 
him  of  eyesight  could  "  hardly  be  called 
a  calamity,  so  manfully,  so  sweetly,  so 
wondrously  did  he,  not  only  endure  it, 
but  convert  it  to  the  highest  purposes 
of  a  faithful,  scholarly,  serviceable  life." 
On  Prescott's  tomb,  as  on  that  of  another 
gentle  scholar  and  intrepid  invalid  of 
New  England,  might  have  been  written, 
"  Meine  Trtibsal  war  mein  Glttck." 

The  making  of  the  man  lies  open  to 
us  in  Prescott's  letters  and  especially  in 
his  journals.  Never  was  there  a  sharper 
reminder  of  the  physical  basis  of  life ; 
never,  also,  a  more  reassuring  proof  that, 
after  all,  it  is  the  soul  which  doth  the 
body  make.  In  Prescott's  case,  the 
process  clearly  began  with  the  physical. 
His  bodily  crippling  gave  him  an  intro- 


324 


Prescott  the  Man. 


spective  habit.  He  watched  himself  like 
an  experimenter.  Every  symptom  he 
noted  down.  His  diet  he  scrupulously 
recorded  for  many  months.  His  parti- 
tion of  the  day,  —  his  hours  of  sleep ;  the 
time  given  to  reading ;  the  amount  of 
exercise  and  recreation,  with  the  effects 
of  each ;  social  amusements  and  the  tax 
paid  to  friendship,  —  all  was  written  out 
and  studied  and  commented  upon  through 
several  rigorous  years.  It  was  not  done 
selfishly,  least  of  all  morbidly.  Prescott 
had  a  problem  to  solve.  How  could  he 
do  the  work  of  a  man  without  a  man's 
eyesight?  It  was  to  answer  that  ques- 
tion that  he  undertook  his  prolonged  self- 
scrutiny  and  self-testing.  He  did  it  with 
almost  scientific  objectivity.  He  was  as 
cool  and  unbiased  as  if  writing  of  an- 
other. Not  one  hint  of  a  diseased  con- 
sciousness appears  in  the  whole  record, 
which  thus  stands  unparalleled,  I  think, 
in  the  literature  of  diaries.  To  put  one's 
nature,  physical  and  mental,  under  the 
microscope  daily,  yet  to  betray,  not 
simply  no  morbid  feeling,  but  almost  no 
sense  of  self  at  all ;  to  be  calm,  even 
jocose,  while  recording  ill  health  and 
noting  limitations  ;  to  preserve  a  cheer- 
ful temper  while  wrestling  with  the  prob- 
lem how  to  make  his  life  bear  fruit  in 
darkness  ;  and  to  do  all  this  in  a  series  of 
records  meant  only  for  his  own  eye  and 
his  own  guidance,  —  such  was  the  high 
and  unique  achievement  of  Prescott. 

Brought  up  in  what  was,  for  those 
times,  luxury,  Prescott  had  certain  temp- 
tations of  the  palate.  In  his  early  trav- 
els he  carefully  noted,  and  sampled,  the 
confectionery  of  the  various  countries 
he  visited.  Until  within  a  few  years,  a 
Boston  druggist  was  living  who  used  to 
supply  him  regularly  with  licorice-root, 
—  that  child's  dainty  of  a  ruder  age ! 
It  was  used  by  the  historian  as  a  means 
of  ingratiating  himself  with  children. 
His  grandchildren  recall  the  little  packets 
of  licorice-root,  and  other  sweets,  which 
he  always  had  ready  for  them 

While  still  a  young  man  in  Europe, 


he  began  mortifying  the  flesh.  A  Paris 
physician  bade  him  never  exceed  two 
glasses  of  wine  per  diem.  The  story  of 
a  traveling  companion  was  that  Prescott 
at  once  seized  upon  the  largest  wine- 
glasses on  the  table,  to  measure  by. 
However  that  may  have  been,  we  have 
in  his  own  handwriting  a  register  of  his 
daily  wine-drinking  for  a  period  of  two 
years  and  nine  months.  It  was  no  cal- 
endar of  a  sybarite.  The  effect  on  his 
eye  was  the  one  standard  to  which  every- 
thing was  referred.  Thus  when  we  find 
him  writing,  July  22,  1820,  "  Went  to 
Nahant  —  drank  too  much  wine  in  Bos- 
ton," —  we  know  that  he  simply  meant 
too  much  for  his  eye.  Wine  was  pre- 
scribed for  him  ;  he  found  it  useful ;  the 
only  thing  required  was  to  work  out  a  rule 
as  to  kind  and  quantity,  and  this  he  did 
with  an  amazing  sort  of  impersonal  zeal. 
And  every  other  act  or  experience  of  his 
daily  life  was  interrogated  in  the  same 
spirit  and  to  the  same  end.  After  months 
of  minute  inspection  and  full  experiment, 
aiming  at  the  correct  regimen,  he  wrote 
down  the*  following :  — 

"  Eat  jneat ;  light  breakfasts  ;  temper- 
ate dinners  ;  light  teas  ;  no  suppers  ;  sim- 
ple food ;  no  great  variety  at  dinner ; 
exercise  =  4  miles  pr.  day  at  3  or  4  dif- 
ferent times ;  light  not  intense,  but  full, 
clear  ;  no  spirits  ;  no  wine  except  excel- 
lent and  old ;  not  exceed  4  glasses  of  that, 
nor  oftener  than  once  in  5  days ;  read 
moderately  large  print,  when  eye  is  well ; 
not  walk  in  the  cold  or  wind ;  no  wine 
when  I  have  a  cold  ;  no  goggles  ?  not  sit 
up  late." 

Other  kindred  entries  in  his  joui 
are  :  — 

January,  1820.  "  N.  B.  Theatre,  late 
Balls,  smoking,  supper  parties,   alwaj 
pernicious  —  ergo,  not  go  —  or  not  stay 
late." 

"  Rule  about  balls.  Not  more  than 
one  a  week,  and  not  stay  after  11  or  more 
than  2£  h." 

"  Club,  not  stay  after  12." 

It  is  easy  to  understand,  from  the  fore- 


Prescott  the  Man. 


325 


going,  how  one  of  Prescott's  intimate 
friends  could  speak  of  a  certain  "  stoical " 
basis  in  a  life  of  which  the  outward  man- 
ner was  only  ease  and  smiling  amiability. 
This  man,  all  rippling  with  grace  and 
good  nature,  who,  as  Professor  Parsons 
said  of  him,  "  could  be  happy  in  more 
ways,  and  more  happy  in  every  one  of 
them,  than  any  other  person  I  have  ever 
known,"  had  the  power  of  gripping  him- 
self silently  and  in  secret,  and  making 
himself  lord  of  his  own  fate.  Yet  he  was 
no  methodarian.  His  rules  were  aids, 
not  fetters.  Even  his  dietary  was  not  in- 
flexible. "  How  can  you  eat  that,  Wil- 
liam ?  "  his  wife  would  sometimes  call  out 
at  table,  seeing  him  wander  into  forbid- 
den dishes.  He  would  laugh  away  the 
warning,  and  affirm  that  the  only  way 
he  knew  he  had  rules  of  eating  was  by 
occasionally  breaking  them.  During  his 
English  trip  in  1850,  he  stood  up  nobly 
for  the  honor  of  his  country's  digestion, 
and  was  a  valiant  trencherman  at  the 
endless  breakfasts  and  dinners  to  which 
he  was  invited.  Sydney  Smith  had  sent 
word  to  him  in  advance  that,  if  he  visited 
London,  he  would  be  drowned  in  claret  or 
turtle  soup.  "  I  believe  I  can  swim  in 
those  seas,"  wrote  Prescott  in  his  journal. 
His  wonderful  social  charm  was  instant- 
ly recognized  by  the  best  English  society. 
He  was  as  much  sought  after  there  as  he 
always  was  in  Boston  and  New  York. 
"  If  I  were  asked,"  said  Theophilus  Par- 
sons, "to  name  the  man,  whom  I  have 
known,  whose  coming  was  most  sure  to 
be  hailed  as  a  pleasant  event  by  all  whom 
he  approached,  I  should  not  only  place 
Prescott  at  the  head  of  the  list,  but  I 
could  not  place  any  other  man  near  him." 
It  was  not  that  he  was  a  professional 
diner-out,  still  less  that  even  more  porten- 
tous person,  the  professional  teller  of  sto- 
ries and  retailer  of  smart  sayings.  Pres- 
cott used  to  make  horrible  puns,  but  his 
social  manner  had  its  immense  attrac- 
tion mainly  through  unfailing  kindness, 
unerring  sympathy,  and  vivacious  good 
spirits  which  nothing  could  depress.  It 


was  his  simplicity  and  spontaneity  which 
delighted  everybody. 

Mr.  G.  T.  Curtis,  writing  to  Mr.  Hil- 
lard,  says  :  "  Prescott,  the  historian,  not 
yet  an  author,  was  at  that  time  in  the  full 
flush  of  his  early  manhood,  running  over 
with  animal  spirits,  which  his  studies  and 
self-discipline  could  not  quench ;  talking 
with  a  joyous  abandon,  laughing  at  his 
own  inconsequences,  recovering  himself 
gayly,  and  going  on  again  in  a  graver 
strain  which  soon  gave  way  to  some  new 
joke  or  brilliant  sally.  Wherever  he 
came  there  was  always  a  '  fillip '  to  the 
discourse,  be  it  of  books  or  society,  or 
reminiscences  of  foreign  travel,  or  the 
news  of  the  day." 

Sometimes  this  unstudied  impulsive- 
ness of  his  betrayed  him  into  an  un- 
conscious malapropos.  "  What  have  I 
said  ?  "  he  would  cry  out  when  he  saw 
his  wife,  who  kept  a  dutiful  watch  upon 
these  lapses  of  his,  looking  at  him  se- 
verely. Naturally,  such  a  fresh  naivete^ 
would  but  lay  additional  stress  upon  his 
original  unlucky  remark.  Once  a  titled 
Englishwoman  was  arguing  with  him  in 
his  own  home  on  the  subject  of  Ameri- 
canisms. She  objected  strongly  to  our 
use  of  the  word  "  snarl "  in  the  sense 
of  confusion.  "  Why,  surely,"  spoke  up 
Prescott  in  all  innocence, "  you  would  say 
that  your  ladyship's  hair  is  in  a  snarl?" 
As  such  unfortunately  was  the  case  at 
the  time  —  it  was  the  era  of  plastered 
hair  —  the  visitor  had  to  cool  her  wrath 
by  remembering  that  her  host  was  blind. 

Samuel  Eliot  describes  the  home  life 
of  Prescott  at  his  country  place  in  Pep- 
perell.  Here  he  passed  the  happiest  part 
of  his  existence.  Work  went  on  as  usual, 
but  did  not  seem  to  be  his  principal  in- 
terest. This  lay  in  "  the  enjoyment  of 
the  family  and  the  friends  forming  a  por- 
tion of  the  family  ;  the  drive  or  the  walk ; 
the  gay  dinner ;  the  evening  with  read- 
ings, but  oftener  and  more  delightfully 
with  games  and  songs."  One  game  in 
particular  was  an  especial  favorite  with 
Prescott.  It  was  called  Albano,  because 


326 


Prescott  the  Man. 


introduced  by  some  young  friends  of  his 
who  had  played  it  in  Rome.  It  was 
really  only  a  variant  of  Puss  in  the  Cor- 
ner. The  players  chose  geographical 
names  from  the  four  quarters  of  the 
globe ;  but  the  one  that  Prescott  took, 
and  which  was  never  shouted  without 
provoking  tumultuous  outbursts  of  glee, 
was  Nessitisset.  It  was  the  name  of  the 
stream  flowing  by  his  farm.  Eliot  also 
tells  of  a  comic  dispute  which  once  oc- 
curred at  Pepperell  between  Prescott  and 
his  uncle,  Isaac  Davis.  The  old  gentle- 
man complained  of  growing  deaf,  but 
Prescott  maintained  that  his  uncle's  hear- 
ing was  as  good  as  his  own.  To  test  it, 
he  had  his  wife  hang  an  old-fashioned 
watch  at  the  end  of  the  room,  and  the 
two  men  advanced  slowly  toward  it  to 
determine  which  could  first  hear  the  tick- 
ing. "  Do  you  hear  it,  Davis  ?  "  "  No." 
"  Neither  do  I."  So  on,  step  by  step, 
until  in  amazement  Prescott  put  his  ear 
actually  to  the  timepiece.  "  Susan ! 
the  thing  isn't  going!"  he  cried  to  the 
sly  woman  who  had  stopped  it.  This 
boyish  spirit  and  welling  gayety  Prescott 
carried  into  his  work  as  well  as  his  social 
relaxation.  One  of  his  secretaries  wrote 
that  whenever  he  came  to  describe  some 
stirring  scene,  like  a  battle,  he  would  hu- 
morously key  himself  up  to  it  by  bursting 
into  song.  One  favorite  was  a  ballad 
beginning,  "  0,  give  me  but  my  Arab 
steed  !  "  He  was  fond  of  music.  Senti- 
mental songs  would  sometimes  set  him 
weeping.  "  They  are  only  my  opera 
tears,"  he  would  explain.  This  was  one 
sign  of  that  "  simplicity  in  which  noble- 
ness of  nature  most  largely  shares,"  to 
quote  the  words  of  Thucydides  which 
Professor  Felton  applied  to  Prescott  after 
his  death.  Such  tributes  could  be  multi- 
plied. "  One  of  the  most  frank,  amiable, 
warm-hearted  and  open-hearted  of  human 
beings,"  wrote  Hillard ;  and  added,  "  Of 
all  men  I  have  known  he  was  the  most 
generally  beloved,  the  most  universal  so- 
cial favorite."  It  might  be  said  of  Pres- 
cott, as  Sydney  Smith  said  of  Mackintosh, 


that  "  the  gall-bladder  was  omitted  in  his 
composition."  "  Not  a  single  unkind  or 
harsh  or  sneering  expression,"  testifies 
one  of  his  secretaries,  "  could  be  found  in 
any  of  the  hundreds  of  letters  I  wrote  at 
his  dictation."  The  same  may  be  said 
of  his  private  journals.  Not  a  line  of 
them  needs  to  be  blotted.  This  man  had 
that  even  sweetness  of  temper  and  ex- 
haustless  benevolence  which  can  stand  the 
searching  test  of  impressions  made  upon 
children  and  servants.  Prescott  was  not 
a  hero  to  his  valet,  but  he  was  sometliing 
better,  —  a  man  to  win  undying  respect 
and  love.  All  his  private  secretaries  left 
his  service  with  regret,  and  ever  retained 
for  him  the  most  affectionate  regard. 

Prescott's  self-discipline  was  applie 
as  rigorously  to  his  moral  as  to  his  physi- 
cal or  mental  nature.  His  habit  was 
keep  by  him  a  complete  inventory  of  his 
moral  qualities,  —  chiefly  a  list  of  the 
faults  which  he  set  himself  to  strive  to 
correct.  Slips  written  by  his  own  hand, 
and  seen  by  his  eye  alone,  he  kept  in  a 
large  envelope,  each  one  containing  a  rec- 
ord of  something  he  had  found  amiss  in 
himself.  *  Over  this  card-catalogue  of  fail- 
ings he  would  periodically  go,  —  usually 
on  a  Sunday  morning  after  church,  — • 
and  conscientiously  check  up  his  moral 
account.  One  besetting  defect  mastered, 
its  record  would  be  blotted  out ;  a  new 
weakness  detected,  it  would  have  its 
scrupulous  entry.  To  the  last  he  kept 
up  this  recurring  self-examination,  and 
after  his  death  the  envelope  was  found, 
marked,  "  To  be  burnt."  To  ashes  the 
whole  was  reduced.  Not  enough  to  make 
a  moment's  blaze,  —  the  sum  of  the  faults 
of  one  so  universally  loved.  "  The  only 
man,"  wrote  Hillard,  "  whom  we  never 
heard  any  one  speak  against." 

In  the  early  journals  there  are  some 
traces  of  the  struggle  of  Prescott's  spirit 
to  find  itself. 

"  Since  the  age  of  23,  the  most  wretch- 
ed period  of  my  life  was  when  my  pas- 
sions and  temper  controlled  me,  the  most 
happy  when  I  controlled  them" 


Prescott  the  Man. 


327 


"  Without  answering  for  others,  I  may 
say  that  these  qualities  of  mind  are  suffi- 
cient for  my  happiness :  — 

"  I.  Good  Nature.  II.  Manliness. 
III.  Independence.  IV.  Industry.  V. 
Honesty.  VI.  Cheerful  Views.  VII. 
Religious  Confidence." 

On  one  occasion,  as  if  bursting  into  a 
"  let  us  hear  the  conclusion  of  the  whole 
matter,"  he  wrote :  — 

Voila. 

P.  S.  I  have  been  perfectly  contented, 
light-hearted  and  happy,  ye  last  two 
weeks  —  with  my  BOOKS  7  hrs.  &  DO- 
MESTIC SOCIETY  —  &  Benev*  Feels  (Not 
thinking  of  it)  Not  VANITY 

Prescott's  athletic  training  of  mind 
and  pen  for  the  task  he  set  himself  can 
be  but  barely  alluded  to  here.  He  knew 
to  the  full  "  what  belonged  to  a  scholar ; 
what  pains,  what  toil,  what  travail,  con- 
duct to  perfection."  The  records  of  his 
rigid  discipline  from  his  twenty -sixth 
to  his  fortieth  year  remain  as  proof  of 
what  would  otherwise  seem,  considering 
his  handicap,  the  incredible  amount  of 
work  he  got  through.  With  the  certain 
prospect  of  indifferent  health  and  depen- 
dence upon  the  eyes  of  another,  he  yet 
attacked  light-heartedly  a  mass  of  read- 
ing which  would  have  taxed  the  rudest 
physique.  His  toils  were  undertaken, 
moreover,  through  no  necessity,  —  except 
the  spur  of  a  noble  mind,  —  since  his 
father's  ample  means  assured  him  com- 
fort and  even  luxury.  Yet  we  find  him, 
while  still  only  feeling  after  his  life-oc- 
cupation, sitting  down  in  1822  to  the  fol- 
lowing self-imposed  task  :  "  I  am  now," 
he  wrote  in  his  journal,  "  twenty-six 
years  of  age,  nearly.  By  the  time  I  am 
thirty,  God  willing,  I  propose,  with  what 
stock  I  have  already  on  hand,  to  be  a 
very  well-read  English  scholar ;  to  be 
acquainted  with  the  classical  and  use- 
ful authors,  prose  and  poetry,  in  Latin, 
French,  and  Italian,  and  especially  in 
history  ;  I  do  not  mean  a  critical  or  pro- 
found acquaintance.  The  two  following 
years,  31-32,  I  may  hope  to  learn  Ger- 


man, and  to  read  the  classical  German 
writers ;  and  the  translations,  if  my  eye 
continues  weak,  of  the  Greek.  And  this 
is  enough  for  general  discipline."  For 
German  he  had  later  to  offer  Spanish  as 
a  substitute  ;  his  dim  eye  and  the  aid  of 
his  secretary  having  proven,  greatly  to 
his  disappointment,  inadequate  to  mas- 
tering the  tongue  of  the  learned.  All 
told,  however,  in  those  acquisitive  years, 
almost  without  the  knowledge  of  his 
most  intimate  friends  or  even  of  his  own 
family,  he  put  an  immense  amount  of 
material  behind  him.  The  record  of  it 
remains,  —  not  simply  a  bare  catalogue 
of  books,  but  analyses  and  criticisms, 
often  very  full  and  always  careful ;  for, 
as  he  wrote  in  describing  his  own  method 
and  purpose,  it  was  obvious  to  him  that 
"  superficial  considerations  are  not  worth 
recording,  as  the  recollection  of  them  can 
in  no  way  add  to  the  solid  stores  of 
knowledge." 

To  his  reading,  and  especially  to  his 
writing,  Prescott  held  himself  faithfully, 
and  constantly  reinforced  his  resolution 
by  admonitory  entries  in  his  journal. 
One  amusing  resort  of  his  to  flog  him- 
self along  was  his  habit  of  imposing  for- 
feits upon  a  failure  to  complete  a  given 
task  by  a  day  fixed.  This  contrivance 
he  appears  to  have  taken  up  while  still 
in  college.  Very  early  in  his  journals 
we  find  traces  of  the  custom.  Thus  one 
of  his  "  Maxims  of  Composition,"  writ- 
ten down  almost  at  the  beginning,  reads  : 
"  Pay  a  forfeit  if  you  read  a  word  as 
you  are  writing  it  —  if  you  look  over 
the  last  3  lines  you  have  written,  except 
it  be  impossible,  after  trying,  to  recollect 
them  (you  may  at  last  3  words),  if  you 
review  any  except  2  pages  when  I  begin 
to  write  in  the  day  ...  I  may  read 
what  has  been  written  on  the  same  day 
in  which  I  take  this  liberty,  provided  it 
shall  be  absolutely  necessary  to  write 
further"  Later,  he  transmuted  his  sys-' 
tern  of  forfeits  into  a  plan  of  making 
wagers  (the  odds  heavily  against  him- 
self) with  his  private  secretaries.  A 


328 


Prescott  the  Man. 


memorandum  of  one  of  them  survives, 
and  runs  as  follows  :  — 

"  June  <ith  1846.  This  memorandum 
is  to  witness  that  a  bet  of  one  dollar 
to  fifty  dollars  has  been  made  between 
E.  B.  Otis  and  Wm.  H.  Prescott  Esq., 
the  latter  betting  fifty  dollars  that  he 
will  read  for,  compose  and  write  one 
hundred  pages  of  his  History  of  Peru  in 
a  hundred  days,  the  days  to  be  counted 
from  the  fourth  day  of  June,  1846,  in- 
clusive, making  due  allowance  for  the  ex- 
cepted  days  hereinafter  specified. 

"  This  bet  shall  be  renewed  at  the  end 
of  the  hundred  days  (the  amount,  con- 
ditions, and  exceptions  of  the  second  bet 
being  the  same  in  every  particular  with 
those  herein  recited  ;)  unless  Mr.  Pres- 
cott shall,  within  two  days  from  the 
expiration  of  the  first  period  of  a  hun- 
dred days,  enter  on  this  memorandum 
a  written  statement  of  his  desire  to  dis- 
solve the  Bet.  If  the  History,  including 
the  Postscripts,  should  not  hold  out,  but 
should  fall  short  of  the  second  hun- 
dred pages,  the  wager  shall  be  con- 
strued pro  rata,  that  is,  Mr.  Prescott 
shall  lose  his  second  bet  of  fifty  dollars 
unless  he  finishes  the  remainder  of  his 
History  at  the  rate  of  a  page  a  day, 
(reckoning  the  days  from  the  expiration 
of  the  first  hundred  days)  for  every  day 
after  the  determination  of  the  first  wager 
till  the  work  is  finished,  with  the  follow- 
ing exceptions. 

"  The  days  to  be  excepted  when  calcu- 
lating the  result  of  either  bet  are  these, 
viz. :  When  Mr.  Prescott  is  absent  from 
town  for  a  day  or  more,  also  a  day  be- 
fore and  after  return,  also  two  days 
must  be  allowed  for  moving  to  Nahant, 
to  Boston  and  to  Pepperell  —  each  ;  or 
when  prevented  from  study  by  the  sick- 
ness of  himself  or  friends  for  a  day  or 
more,  or  by  the  occurrence  of  any  unfore- 
seen event  (to  be  determined  himself) 
that  might  occupy  him  otherwise,  also 
the  days  employed  in  writing  the  Me- 
moir of  Mr.  Pickering;  (Writing  letters 
is  not  an  unforeseen  event ;  )  also  the 


days  that  gentlemen  visitors  stay  in  the 
house  with  Mr.  Prescott.  No  days  shall 
be  excepted  but  those  herein  specified, 
and  entered  on  this  sheet. 

"  Weakness  of  the  eyes  shall  not  count 
as  illness  unless  upon  such  days  as  Mr. 
Prescott  cannot  read  himself  2  hours 
and  has  not  his  secretary  with  him,  or 
the  latter,  (when  Mr.  Prescott  is  unable 
to  read  said  two  hours  — )  from  any 
cause  is  unable  to  read  3  hours  on  any 
day  when  Mr.  Prescott  is  not  employed 
in  composing  text  of  a  chapter  and  ex- 
cept working  (not  reading)  causes  pain. 

"  If  working  exclusive  of  reading  causes 
pain  for  several  days  Mr.  Prescott  has 
a  right  to  dissolve  this  agreement. 
"  Signed  June  4th. 

WM.  H.  PRESCOTT. 
EDMUND  B.  OTIS. 

"  I  promise  on  my  honor  as  a  gentle- 
man not  to  release  Mr.  Prescott  from 
any  forfeiture  that  he  may  incur  by  this 
Engagement  except  in  such  cases  as  are 
provided  for  in  the  contract  —  this  con- 
tract being  made  at  his  desire  for  his  own 
accommodation  solely. 

EDMUND  B.  OTIS. 

"  Days  excepted  June  7-21,  25,  26,  28.  July 
6-14." 

Prescott  always  took  this  betting  on 
his  own  industry  with  perfect  seriousness. 
Sometimes  he  would  radiantly  greet  his 
secretary  with,  "  You  have  lost !  You 
owe  me  a  dollar."  And  he  would  exact 
payment.  Occasionally  he  would,  with 
woe-begone  countenance,  produce  and 
pay  over  to  the  protesting  secretary  the 
twenty  or  thirty  dollars  he  himself  had 
lost.  It  was  Prescott's  one  "  oddity," 
remarked  a  friend.  Madame  de  Se'vigne', 
who  had  a  similar  habit,  called  it  a  sot- 
tise.  "  Je  reviens  a  nos  lectures  :  c'est 
sans  prejudice  de  Cle*opatre  [a  romance 
in  twelve  octavo  volumes]  que  j'ai  gage" 
d'achever  (vous  savez  comme  je  soutiens 
mes  gageures)  :  je  songe  quelquefois  d'ou 
vient  la  folie  que  j'ai  pour  ces  sottises- 
la." 

With  his  warm  social  nature,  and  the 


Prescott  the  Man. 


329 


constant  invitations  and  increasing  duties 
as  host  and  as  representative  of  Ameri- 
can literature  thickening  upon  him,  Pres- 
cott often  found  it  difficult  to  adhere  to 
hours  and  plans  of  work.  His  friend 
Gardiner  gave  one  instance  of  the  way 
in  which  pleasure  struggled  with  his  rule 
of  quitting  any  company  in  which  he 
might  be  by  ten  o'clock :  — 

"  Mr.  Prescott  was  the  entertainer,  at 
a  restaurateur's,  of  an  invited  company 
of  young  men,  chiefly  of  the  bon  vivant 
order.  He  took  that  mode  sometimes 
of  giving  a  return  dinner,  to  avoid  intrud- 
ing too  much  on  the  hospitality  of  his 
father's  roof,  as  well  as  to  put  at  ease 
the  sort  of  company  which  promised  exu- 
berant mirth.  His  dinner  hour  was  set 
early  ;  purposely,  no  doubt,  that  all  might 
be  well  over  in  good  season.  But  it 
proved  to  be  a  prolonged  festivity.  Un- 
der the  brilliant  auspices  of  their  host, 
who  was  never  in  higher  spirits,  the 
company  became  very  gay,  and  not  at 
all  disposed  to  abridge  their  gayety,  even 
after  a  reasonable  number  of  hours.  As 
the  hour  of  ten  drew  near,  I  noticed  that 
Prescott  was  beginning  to  get  a  little 
fidgety,  and  to  drop  some  hints,  which 
no  one  seemed  willing  to  take,  —  for  no 
one  present,  unless  it  were  myself,  was 
aware  that  time  was  of  any  more  impor- 
tance to  our  host  than  it  was  to  many 
of  his  guests.  Presently,  to  the  general 
surprise,  the  host  himself  got  up  abrupt- 
ly, and  addressed  the  company  nearly  as 
follows :  '  Really,  my  friends,  I  am  very 
sorry  to  be  obliged  to  tear  myself  from 
you  at  so  very  unreasonable  an  hour; 
but  you  seem  to  have  got  your  sitting- 
breeches  on  for  the  night.  I  left  mine 
at  home,  and  must  go.  But  I  am  sure 
you  will  be  very  soon  in  no  condition  to 
miss  me,  —  especially  as  I  leave  behind 
that  excellent  representative,'  —  point- 
ing to  a  basket  of  several  yet  uncorked 
bottles,  which  stood  in  a  corner.  '  Then 
you  know,'  he  added,  '  you  are  just  as 
much  at  home  in  this  house  as  I  am. 
You  can  call  for  what  you  like.  Don't 


be  alarmed,  —  I  mean  on  my  account. 
I  abandon  to  you,  without  reserve,  all 
my  best  wine,  my  credit  with  the  house, 
and  my  reputation  to  boot.  Make  free 
with  them  all,  I  beg  of  you,  —  and,  if 
you  don't  go  home  till  morning,  I  wish 
you  a  merry  night  of  it.'  With  this  he 
was  off,  and  the  Old  South  clock,  hard 
by,  was  heard  to  strike  ten  at  the  in- 
stant." 

A  few  extracts  from  the  journals  will 
further  light  up  this  aspect  of  the  histo- 
rian :  — 

November  10,  1839.  "  Diverted  too 
much  by  passing  objects  —  children's  re- 
citation, talking,  etc.  Another  year  ar- 
range what  hours  children  may  occupy 
the  library  [at  Pepperell]  —  how  often 
ask  questions  about  their  lessons,  and  al- 
low a  definite  time  for  them  —  not  to  be 
exceeded." 

January  10, 1841.  "  I  have  not  been 
diligent  enough.  I  chew  on  my  subject 
more  than  enough.  If  I  put  my  bones 
to  it,  I  should  do  the  work  better  as  well 
as  faster.  I  will.  Or  write  against  time 
and  a  forfeit." 

September  10, 1841.  "  I  will  be  stead- 
ily employed,  as  suits  this  holy  quiet  of 
the  country.  '  Rapido  si,  ma'  rapido  con 
leggi '  —  as  Tasso  says.  Work  —  not 
overwork.  ...  I  feel  as  if  the  country 
should  be  my  chronic  residence." 

February  6,  1842.  "  Have  not  been 
super-industrious  —  on  the  contrary.  I 
have  got  through  with  Dickens,  who 
dined  with  me  yesterday  —  and  as  the 
lions  are  all  done  up,  I  suspect  for  the 
season,  I  will  be  true  and  hearty,  almost 
exclusive,  in  my  own  work  —  till  May  4, 
say,  my  birthday.  My  daily  labor  and 
my  thoughts  by  night.  Eschew  company, 
especially  dining." 

September  4,  1842.  "  Company  — 
company  —  company  !  It  will  make  me 
a  misanthrope  —  and  yet  there  is  some- 
thing very  interesting  and  instructive  in 
the  conversation  of  travelers  from  dis- 
tant regions.  Last  week  we  had  Cal- 
deron  —  just  from  Mexico  —  Stephens 


330 


Prescott  the  Man. 


from  Central  America  and  Yucatan, 
General  Hai-lan  from  Afghanistan,  where 
he  commanded  the  native  troops  for  many 
years.  But  what  has  it  all  to  do  with  the 
conquest  of  Mexico  ?  " 

September  8, 1842.  "  I  am  here  [Pep- 
perell]  40  miles  from  all  enemies  —  and 
friends,  worse  than  enemies  —  except  a 
few  dear  ones." 

November  16,  1842.  "  I  will  see  if  I 
can't  adopt  some  rules  which  shall  se- 
cure me  as  much  time  in  town  as  country." 

June  24,  1843.  "  Nahant !  To-day 
I  have  been  settling,  clearing  the  decks 
for  action.  Now  if  I  don't  make  the 
powder  and  shot  fly  !  I  will  be  out  to 
everybody.  I  will  have  but  one  idea. 
I  will  be  a  free  man  by  September  — 
first  week.  I  will  not  invite  nor  will  I 
go  out  to  dine,  and  very  rarely  have  com- 
pany —  once  or  twice  only  —  and  that 
only  at  Nahant,  and  not  sit  long  then. 
I  will  answer  letters  shorthand,  and 
economize  every  way,  eyes  and  time. 
.  .  .  The  very  day  of  this  entry  a 
stranger  came  to  Nahant  and,  being  re- 
fused admittance  —  I  being '  out '  —  staid 
overnight  and  passed  all  the  evening  with 
us.  He  came,  he  said,  to  Boston  to  see 
me,  so  what  could  I  do  less  ?  What  then 
becomes  of  the  Conquest?  ot  fjuol.  It 
is  no  joke." 

September  15,  1844.  "  Pepperell. 
Dragged  to  town  two  days  since  to  see 
Von  Raumer.  Neither  Von  nor  Don 
shall  start  me  again." 

August  15, 1845.  "  Great  doings  for 
so  long  a  stretch  —  and  would  carry  me 
through  more  than  1000  pages  per  an- 
num !  .  .  .  —  Lucky  for  the  world  I  am 
not  starving !  " 

December  14,  1845.  "Twaddle  — 
twaddle !  .  .  .  I  will  make  regular  heb- 
domadal entries  of  my  laziness.  I  think 
I  can't  stand  the  repetition  of  such  rec- 
ords long.  ...  I  may  find  some  apology 
in  the  demi  winter  days,  and  in  an  influx 
of  visiting  friends  in  my  new  quarters  — 
and  be  hanged  to  them  —  not  the  quar- 
ters, but  the  friends." 


January  11, 1846.  "  A  miracle  —  I 
have  kept  my  resolve  thus  far  and  been 
industrious  three  whole  days !  Now 
meliora  spero." 

October  1,1855.  Pepperell.  "I shall 
have  at  least  the  sense  of  sweet  security 
from  friends  —  the  worst  foes  to  time." 

October  28,  1855.  "Boston  is  not 
Pepperell.  The  first  day  I  dined  with 
a  large  party.  The  second,  at  the  theatre 
with  Mdlle.  Rachel  till  midnight.  This 
is  not  the  way  they  lived  at  Yuste." 

The  kindest  and  most  considerate  of 
men,  Prescott  inherited  much  of  the  en- 
ergetic philanthropy  of  his  mother.  He 
was  actively  or  tacitly  interested  in  many 
public  charities.  Particularly  to  the 
Perkins  Institution  for  the  Blind  did  he 
give  time  and  money.  "  Much  occupied 
the  last  ten  days  with  the  affairs  of  the 
Blind,"  is  an  entry  of  May  9,  1833,  not 
without  its  pathetic  suggestion.  He  had 
his  private  pensioners  as  well,  some  of 
whom  were  a  legacy,  so  to  speak,  from 
his  lady  bountiful  mother.  One  of  his 
secretaries  tells  us  that  he  regularly  gave 
away  one  tenth  of  his  income.  The  latter 
was  figured,  in  the  late  forties  (of  course, 
after  his  father  had  died)  at  upwards  of 
$12,000  a  year.  For  the  times,  it  spelled 
luxury.  Prescott's  methods  in  alms- 
giving were  not  always,  one  fears,  such 
as  would  commend  themselves  to  the 
Charity  Organization  Society.  Here  is 
a  specimen  of  his  minute  accounts  writ- 
ten down  after  taking  a  walk  :  "  Apple 
2  —  newspaper  2  —  gloves  1.00  —  char- 
ity 25."  During  his  stay  in  London  he 
employed  a  valet,  one  Penn  ("  a  Penn  I 
will  not  cut,"  was  his  punning  description 
to  his  wife),  who,  he  wrote  home,  would 
be  "  perfectly  invaluable  if  he  did  not 
drink,  to  which  he  has  an  amiable  incli- 
nation." There  is  something  human  in 
the  addition :  "  I  will  let  him  get  drunk 
once  before  I  part  with  him." 

Here  is  as  good  a  place  as  any  to  in- 
troduce extracts  from  his  English  letters 
of  the  summer  of  1850,  passed  over  by 
Ticknor :  — 


Prescott  the  Man. 


331 


TO   MRS.    PRESCOTT. 

STEAMER  NIAGARA,  June  3,  1850. 

.  .  .  This  sea  life  is  even  worse  than 
I  thought  it  was.  I  had  forgotten  half 
its  miseries.  I  will  never  trust  a  man 
hereafter  who  talks  complacently  of  it. 
As  to  Kirk  [his  private  secretary]  he  has 
been  actively  sick  ever  since  we  left 
Halifax.  For  myself,  I  have  had  a  ba- 
sis of  nausea  that  turns  my  stomach 
against  everything  I  usually  like.  Chew- 
ing camomile  is  my  best  satisfaction  — 
almost  as  bad  off  as  Milton's  devils  with 
their  dust  apples.  .  .  . 

But  nothing  can  redeem  the  utter 
wretchedness  of  a  sea  life  —  and  never 
will  I  again  put  my  foot  in  a  steamer, 
except  for  Yankee  land,  and,  if  I  were 
not  ashamed,  should  ree'mbark  in  the 
Saturday  Steamer  from  Liverpool,  and 
settle  the  wager  in  another  fortnight. . . . 

LONDON,  June  7,  1850. 

...  It  was  a  rich  cit's  dinner  —  dull 
eno'  —  and  concluded  by  a  clergyman  — 
a  great  gun  here  —  making  an  exposition 
of  a  verse  or  two  of  "  Revelations  "  —  a 
hopeful  theme.  In  the  midst  of  the 
lecture  a  mischievous  clock  in  the  room 
struck  ten  —  and  at  once  went  off  with  a 
waltz,  running  it  off  merrily,  as  if  to  dis- 
tance the  preacher.  The  poor  host  was 
in  great  alarm  —  tried  in  vain  to  throttle 
the  imp ;  the  more  he  tried,  the  louder 
the  tunes  it  played ;  till  the  good  divine 
was  fairly  silenced.  Is  it  not  a  strange 
style  of  things  at  a  dinner !  But  they 
tell  me  here  it  is  not  likely  I  shall  meet 
with  such  an  experience  again. 

...  —  before  I  reached  the  great  le- 
viathan [London]  I  would  have  given 
something  to  see  a  ragged  fence  or  an 
old  stump,  or  a  bit  of  rock,  or  even  stone 
as  big  as  one's  fist  —  to  show  that  the 
herd  of  men  had  not  been  combing  Na- 
ture's head  so  vigorously.  I  felt  I  was 
not  in  my  own  dear  wild  America. 

LONDON,  June  9,  1850. 
...  In  the  latter  part  of  the  evening, 


as  I  was  talking  with  the  Duchess  of 
Leeds  —  one  of  the  Catons  (Louisa)  who 
has  grown  coarser,  with  a  bad  complexion 
—  a  rather  striking-looking  Jewish  cast 
of  physiognomy,  with  long  love  locks,  at- 
tracted my  eye,  and  she  said,  "  That  is 
Disraeli ;  would  you  like  to  know  him  ?  " 
"  Pray,"  said  he,  "  are  you  related  to  the 
great  American  author  —  the  author  of 
the  Spanish  Histories  ?  "  I  squeezed  his 
arm,  telling  him  that  I  could  not  answer 
for  the  greatness,  but  I  was  the  man  him- 
self ;  and  though  at  first  he  was  a  little 
confused  —  as  one  or  two  near  smiled  at 
the  blunder  —  we  had  a  merry  chat.  .  .  . 

LONDON,  June  11,  1850. 
.  .  .  The  lunch  [with  Richard  Ford] 
was  all  Spanish ;  —  Spanish  wines  — 
delicious  ;  Spanish  dishes,  which  good 
breeding  forced  me  to  taste,  but  no  power 
could  force  me  to  eat,  for  they  were  hot- 
ter than  the  Inquisition. 

LONDON,  June  18,  1850. 

.  .  .  Lockhart  said,  when  I  was  intro- 
duced to  him,  "  You  and  the  Nepaulese 
Ambassador  are  the  lions  of  London,  I 
believe."  "  And  the  hippopotamus  ?  "  — 
I  added. 

LONDON,  June  9,  1850. 

.  .  .  He  did  not  come  up  in  costume  to 
the  Nepaul  envoy,  who  is  walking  about 
here  at  the  evening  parties  with  a  huge 
necklace  of  rough  emeralds,  —  a  scarlet 
petticoat  well  garnished  with  pearls,  and 
a  head-gear  made  of  the  beak  of  a  bird, 
six  inches  high. 

LONDON,  June  30,  1850. 
.  .  .  • —  the  Prince  did  me  the  honor  to 
say  a  few  words  to  me.  He  asked  me,  of 
course,  how  long  I  had  been  here,  said  he 
believed  this  was  not  my  first  visit  to  the 
country,  and  expressed  his  satisfaction 
that  I  had  now  repeated  my  visit.  To  all 
which  I  replied  with  wonderful  presence 
of  mind,  "  Your  Royal  Highness  does  me 
honor."  I  was  introduced,  by  the  bye, 
at  Hallam's,  the  other  day  to  a  gentle- 


332 


Prescott  the  Man. 


man  whom  I  thought  he  called  Lord 
Aberdeen.  Hallam  in  introducing  me 
made  a  little  flourish  about  my  being  al- 
ready known,  etc.,  and  as  I  like  to  give 
tit  for  tat  on  such  occasions,  as  far  as 
may  be,  I  said,  "  And  the  name  of  the 
person  to  whom  I  have  the  honor  of  being 
introduced  is  also  known  wherever  the 
Anglo-Saxon  race  is  to  be  found."  After- 
wards at  dinner  I  observed  that  this  in- 
dividual, with  whom  I  had  then  no  fur- 
ther talk,  seemed  very  shy  whenever  I 
attempted  to  address  him  across  the 
table.  On  my  asking  the  lady  next  me 
if  this  was  not  Lord  Aberdeen  she  said 
it  was  Lord  Harry  Vane. 

TO  MRS.  TICKNOR. 

LONDON,  July  18,  1850. 
.  .  .  Lockhart  showed  us  the  diary  of 
Sir  Walter.  He  (Lockhart)  had  two  cop- 
ies of  it  printed  for  himself.  One  of  them 
was  destroyed  in  printing  the  memoir, 
for  which  he  made  extracts.  One  he  did 
not  make  because  the  party  was  living. 
It  was  this  :  "  We  dined  at  Sam  Rogers'. 
He  told  me  that  it  was  recommended  to 
print  the  Italian  on  the  opposite  pages  of 
Rose's  translation  of  Ariosto,  in  order  the 
better  to  understand  the  English  !  " 

TO  MR.  SUMNER. 

LONDON,  September  4,  1850. 
.  .  .  Just  seen  old  Rogers,  for  the  last 
time  —  Cato  the  Censor  Atticized.  He 
was  in  his  drawing-room,  preparing  to  go 
to  Brighton,  and  says  he  has  humbugged 
the  world  this  time.  [Rogers  had  been 
desperately  ill,  but  had  recovered ;  hence 
the  humbug.] 

The  mention  of  Sumner's  name  sug- 
gests not  merely  a  long  and  stanch 
friendship  of  Prescott's,  but  the  question 
of  his  political  sympathies.  It  was  pre- 
cisely of  him,  I  believe,  that  John  Quincy 
Adams  made  the  remark,  "  A  great  his- 
torian has  neither  politics  nor  religion." 
As  regards  the  first,  at  any  rate,  Pres- 
cott is  commonly  thought  to  have  been  as 


colorless  in  life  as  he  was  in  his  writings. 
Ticknor  dismisses  this  aspect  of  the  man 
in  a  cold  phrase  or  two.  Nor  would  it 
be  just  to  give  the  impression  that  Pres- 
cott ever  took  such  keen  interest  in  that 
passing  pageant  of  present  politics  which 
makes  future  history,  as  did,  for  example, 
Dr.  Arnold.  Brought  up  a  conservative 
Whig,  and  kept  by  his  physical  limita- 
tions and  chosen  pursuits  from  the  hurly- 
burly  of  public  affairs,  it  was  only  late 
in  life  that  he  showed  signs  of  being 
deeply  stirred  by  the  conflicts  of  politi- 
cal doctrine  which  foreshadowed  the  civil 
war.  He  admired  Sumner,  and  stood 
by  him  personally  and  socially  when  all 
blue-blooded  Boston  turned  its  very  cold 
shoulder  upon  the  man  whose  radicalism, 
Ticknor  said,  had  placed  him  outside 
"  the  pale  of  society."  Apropos  of  this 
early  obloquy,  Prescott  wrote  to  Sumner 
in  1851,  reminding  him  how  Judge 
Story  had  suffered  from  "the  bitterness 
of  party  feeling,"  and  adding,  "Boston 
is  worse  than  New  York  in  this  respect." 
Yet  Sumner  understood  perfectly  that 
_  Prescott  did  not  go  with  him  politically. 
Writing  to  Lord  Morpeth  in  1847,  he 
said,  "  Prescott  shakes  his  head  because 
I  have  anything  to  do  with  the  thing 
[slavery].  His  insensibility  to  it  is  a 
perfect  bathos.  This  is  wrong  ;  I  wish 
you  would  jar  him  a  little  on  this  side." 
Yet  it  was  only  six  years  later,  when 
Sumner  made  his  great  speech  in  the 
Senate  on  the  repeal  of  the  Missouri 
Compromise,  that  Prescott  wrote,  "I 
don't  see  but  what  all  Boston  has  got 
round ;  in  fact,  we  must  call  Sumner  the 
Massachusetts  Senator."  Brooks's  in- 
famous assault  on  Sumner  roused  Pres- 
cott as  no  display  of  the  slavery  spirit 
had  before  done.  "  You  have  escaped 
the  crown  of  martyrdom,"  he  wrote  to 
his  friend,  "  by  a  narrow  chance,  and 
have  got  all  the  honors,  which  are  almost 
as  dangerous  to  one's  head  as  a  gutta- 
percha  cane.  There  are  few  in  old 
Massachusetts,  I  can  assure  you,  who  do 
not  feel  that  every  blow  on  your  cranium 


Prescott'  the  Man, 


333 


was  a  blow  on  them."  And  when  the 
Senator  returned  to  receive  the  homage 
of  Boston,  Prescott  and  his  family  waved 
a  welcome  to  him,  as  the  procession 
passed,  from  the  balcony  of  their  Beacon 
Street  house.  Calling  on  Sumner  the 
next  day,  the  historian  told  him  that  if 
he  had  known  there  were  to  be  decora- 
tions and  inscriptions  on  the  houses,  he 
should  have  placed  on  his  these  words  : 
"  May  22,  1856. 

"  Then  I,  and  you,  and  all  of  us  fell  down, 
Whilst  bloody  treason  flourish' d  over  us." 
Sumner,  on  his  part,  was  loyalty  itself  to 
the  man  with  whom,  as  he  testified,  his 
relations  "  had  for  years  been  of  peculiar 
intimacy."  "  This  death,"  he  wrote  to 
Longfellow,  when,  in  France,  he  heard 
of  Prescott's  end,  "touches  me  much. 
Perhaps  no  man,  so  much  in  people's 
mouths,  was  ever  the  subject  of  so  little 
unkindness.  Something  of  that  immu- 
nity which  he  enjoyed  in  life  must  be  re- 
ferred to  his  beautiful  nature,  in  which 
enmity  could  not  live."  To  the  widow, 
five  years  later,  Sumner  wrote,  on  occa- 
sion of  the  publication  of  Ticknor's  Life 
of  Prescott :  "  The  past  has  been  revived. 
...  I  have  felt  keenly  how  much  I  was 
permitted  to  enjoy,  and  how  much  I  have 
lost.  Those  evenings  in  the  darkened 
room  in  Bedford  Street,  with  the  kind, 
sparkling,  intimate  talk  on  books,  his- 
tory, friends  abroad  and  at  home ;  the 
pleasant  suppers  below,  where  were  the 
venerable  parents,  so  good  and  cordial ; 
then  as  I  became  absorbed  in  public  af- 
fairs, the  constant  friendship  which  we 
maintained  ;  the  welcome  he  always  gave 
me  on  my  return  from  Washington  ;  our 
free  conversation  on  public  affairs  and 
public  men ',  and  perhaps  more  than  all 
things  else  his  tender  sympathy  as  he  sat 
by  my  bedside,  revealing  how  his  heart 
was  moved,  only  a  short  time  before  the 
summons  came  to  himself,  —  all  these  I 
think  of,  and  in  selfish  sorrow  I  grieve 
that  he  is  gone." 

To  piece  out  the  account  of  Prescott's 
political  associations  and  gradual  change 


of  view,  the  testimony  of  his  private  sec- 
retary, Mr.  Robert  Carter,  may  be  cited. 
Speaking  of  their  first  acquaintance 
(1847),  he  wrote,  "He  was  a  conserva- 
tive Whig  as  I  a  Free  Soiler."  But  he 
adds,  "  Ten  years  later,  I  had  the  plea- 
sure of  knowing  that  he  voted  for  Fre- 
mont for  President,  and  for  Burlingame 
for  Congress,  notwithstanding  his  high 
personal  esteem  for  his  friend  and  neigh- 
bor, Mr.  Appleton,  the  candidate  opposed 
to  Burlingame."  It  would  be  a  mistake 
to  class  Prescott  among  abolitionists,  or 
even  as  outspoken  against  the  aggressions 
of  slavery ;  but  that  his  nature  did  not 
fail  to  thrill  under  the  indignities  heaped 
upon  the  free  North  is  made  manifest  in 
a  letter  which  he  wrote  to  an  English- 
woman in  1854  :  — 

"  We  have  had  most  alarming  doings 
here  lately  in  the  fugitive  slave  line.  .  .  . 
A  regiment  of  the  militia  was  called  out, 
the  streets  in  certain  quarters  were  closed 
against  passengers,  and  swords  and  mus- 
kets were  flashing  in  our  eyes  as  if  we 
had  been  in  a  state  of  siege.  I  am  rather 
of  the  conservative  order,  you  know,  but 
I  assure  you  it  made  my  blood  boil  to  see 
the  good  town  placed  under  martial  law 
so  unceremoniously  for  no  other  purpose 
than  to  send  back  a  runaway  negro  to  his 
master.  It  is  a  disagreeable  business  at 
any  time,  and  it  was  only  a  strong  con- 
viction of  the  claims  which  the  South  had 
on  us  by  virtue  of  the  Constitution,  which 
made  us  one  nation,  that  induced  our 
people  to  sign  the  famous  Compromise 
act  of  1850.  But  the  Nebraska  Bill 
looks  to  us  so  much  like  double  dealing 
in  the  matter  that  there  is  now  a  great 
apathy  in  regard  to  our  enforcing  our 
own  part  of  the  contract.  Then  the  thing 
was  carried  here  with  such  a  rash  hand. 
The  town  was  turned  over  to  the  military 
by  the  mayor.  .  .  ".  Every  petty  captain 
of  a  militia  corps  was  left  to  act  at  his 
own  discretion.  In  one  case  the  guns 
were  leveled  to  fire  on  the  multitude 
without  any  notice  to  warn  the  people  of 
the  danger ;  and  it  was  by  a  mere  acci- 


334 


Prescott  the  Man. 


dent  that  a  bloody  fray  did  not  take 
place,  which,  if  once  begun,  would  have 
put  us  in  mourning  for  many  a  day.  Old 
Boston  has  rather  a  relish  for  rebellion, 
and  when  it  lay  in  the  path,  as  it  seemed 
to  do  here,  it  required  some  restraining 
grace  not  to  pick  it  up.  ...  I  am  told 
the  government  was  quite  willing  we 
should  dip  our  fingers  in  rebellion.  It 
knows  it  cannot  have  any  support,  and 
for  that  reason  would  be  very  glad  to  put 
us  in  the  wrong  with  the  rest  of  the  coun- 
try. The  Nebraska  business  has  called 
up  a  feeling  which,  though  not  Free  Soil, 
or  Abolitionist,  is  so  near  akin  to  them 
that  they  can  all  work  in  the  same  har- 
ness." 

It  is,  in  truth,  in  Prescott's  English 
correspondence  that  we  find  the  work- 
ings of  his  mind  on  American  politics 
most  clearly  revealed.  At  one  time,  he 
is  enlisting  the  sympathies  and  receiving 
the  contributions  of  English  friends  in 
behalf  of  a  slave,  —  presumably  a  fugi- 
tive. At  another,  he  is  discussing  with 
the  Duke  of  Argyll,  or  with  Lord  Mor- 
peth,  the  fatal  drift  of  slavery  toward  the 
extinction  of  human  rights.  Not  im- 
mediately upon  these  themes,  but  on 
others  which,  after  all,  were  kindred  with 
them,  a  couple  of  unpublished  letters  are 
of  interest. 

TO  MB.   B.  C.   WINTHROP. 

May  30,  1847. 

.  .  .  Everything  has  gone  well  for 
you  here,  no  extra  session  of  Congress, 
and  none  like  to  be.  We  ride  on,  con- 
quering and  to  conquer,  as  you  see,  up  to 
the  very  Halls  of  Montezuma,  and  many 
I  should  think  from  the  positive  manner 
they  speak  of  them  expect  to  find  the 
palace  of  the  old  Aztec  still  standing. 
The  Mexicans  have  missed  it  in  fighting 
pitched  battles  instead  of  trusting  to  a 
guerilla  warfare.  My  friend  General 
Miller,  who  has  much  experience  of  the 
Spanish- American  character,  told  me  that 
the  guerilla  was  the  only  way  by  which 
they  could  fight  us  with  success  ;  and  if 


they  pursued  that  system  they  would  be 
invincible.  They  may  trouble  us  yet  in 
that  way ;  but  the  capital  and  seaports 
seem  destined  to  come  into  our  hands. 
But  what  shall  we  do  with  them  ?  It 
will  be  a  heavy  drag  on  our  republican 
car,  and  the  Creole  blood  will  not  mix 
well  with  the  Anglo-Saxon.  Then  there 
will  be  the  slavery  question  as  a  fire- 
brand which  will  keep  you  hot  enough 
next  winter  in  the  Capitol. 

TO    C.    GUSHING. 

BOSTON,  April  3,  1848. 

MY  DEAR  SIB,  —  I  should  sooner 
have  thanked  you  for  your  friendly  letter 
from  the  environs  of  Mexico.  You  are 
in  a  position  for  an  accurate  comprehen- 
sion of  my  narrative  and  the  subject  of  it. 
And  I  shall  be  very  glad  if  the  result  does 
not  lead  to  the  detection  of  greater  inac- 
curacies than  those  you  have  pointed  out. 

You  have  closed  a  campaign  as  brilliant 
as  that  of  the  great  conquistador  him- 
self, though  the  Spaniards  have  hardly 
maintained  the  reputation  of  their  hardy 
ancestors.  The  second  conquest  would 
seem  a  priori  to  be  a  matter  of  as  much 
difficulty  as  the  first,  considering  the 
higher  civilization  and  military  science  of 
the  races  who  now  occupy  the  country, 
but  it  has  not  proved  so,  —  and  my  read- 
ers I  am  afraid  will  think  I  have  been 
bragging  too  much  of  the  valor  of  the  old 
Spaniard. 

I  hope  we  shall  profit  by  the  tempo- 
rary possession  of  the  capital  to  discover 
some  of  the  Aztec  monuments  and  MSS. 
The  Spanish  archives  everywhere,  both 
public  and  those  belonging  to  private 
families  in  Old  Spain  and  in  the  colonies, 
are  rich  in  MSS.,  which  are  hoarded  up 
from  the  eye  of  the  scholar  as  carefully 
as  if  they  were  afraid  of  the  facts  coming 
to  light.  Of  late  these  collections  have 
been  somewhat  opened  in  the  Peninsula. 
But  such  repositories  must  exist  in  Mex- 
ico, and  Senor  Alaman,  formerly  min- 
ister of  foreign  affairs,  has  communicated 
some  to  me,  and  made  liberal  use  of 


Prescott  the  Man. 


335 


others  in  his  own  publications.  If  you 
meet  with  him  you  will  see  one  of  the 
most  accomplished  and  clever  men  in 
Mexico.  But  I  hear  he  was  in  disgrace 
a  year  since  from  his  royalist  predilec- 
tions. Could  you  oblige  me  by  saying 
to  him  if  you  meet  him  that  I  am  very 
desirous  to  send  him  my  Conquest  of 
Peru,  and  if  he  can  let  me  know  how  to 
do  so  I  shall  do  it  at  once  with  great 
pleasure.  Have  you  met  on  the  spot  any 
of  the  Mexican  translations  of  my  Mex- 
ico ?  The  third  volume  of  one  of  them 
contains  and  is  filled  with  engravings 
taken  from  old  pictures  of  the  time  of 
the  Conquest,  at  least  so  it  purports. 
This  edition  alone  contains  also  some 
very  learned  and  well-considered  criti- 
cism on  different  passages  of  the  work. 
I  trust  that  your  military  duties  and 
dangers  are  now  at  an  end,  and  that 
Mexico  will  accept  our  propositions  for 
peace.  It  has  been  a  war  most  honor- 
able to  our  arms,  as  all  must  admit,  what- 
ever we  may  think  of  the  wisdom  of  the 
counsels  that  rushed  us  into  it. 

At  the  end  of  one  of  Prescott's  nocto- 
graph  letters  to  his  wife,  written  from 
Philadelphia  in  1828,  appears  a  sentence 
printed  with  most  painstaking  care.  It 
was  to  please  the  four-year-old  at  home, 
who,  he  was  sorry  to  hear,  was  suffer- 
ing from  a  cold,  and  it  ran :  "  I  love 
little  Kitty,  and  will  buy  her  a  work- 
box  in  New  York,  if  she  is  a  good  girl." 
But  on  February  1,  1829,  this  eldest 
child,  Catherine  Hickling  Prescott,  died. 
The  event  was,  to  her  father,  not  only  a 
source  of  profound  sorrow,  but  the  oc- 
casion of  driving  him  to  a  close  exami- 
nation of  the  foundations  of  his  religious 
faith.  "  The  death  of  my  dearest  daugh- 
ter," he  wrote  in  his  journal,  "  having 
made  it  impossible  for  me  at  present  to 
resume  the  task  of  composition,  I  have 
been  naturally  led  to  more  serious  re- 
flection than  usual,  and  have  occupied 
myself  in  reviewing  the  evidences  of  the 
Christian  religion."  To  this  work,  with 


characteristic  thoroughness,  he  devoted 
many  weeks.  In  company  with  his  fa- 
ther, "  an  old  and  cautious  lawyer,"  he 
read  thoroughly  the  various  standard 
works  on  the  "  Evidences."  His  conclu- 
sion was  that  the  Gospel  narratives  were 
authentic,  though  he  did  not  find  in  them 
the  doctrines  commonly  accounted  ortho- 
dox, and  deliberately  recorded  his  rejec- 
tion of  the  dogmas  of  "  eternal  damna- 
tion, the  Trinity,the  Deity  of  Christ,  Elec- 
tion, and  Original  Sin."  Theologically, 
therefore,  he  confirmed  his  belief  in  that 
more  liberal  form  of  Unitarianism  in 
which  he  had  been  reared.  Practically, 
his  life  was  one  of  those  which  make 
observers  say  that  its  creed  can't  be 
wrong,  so  reverent  and  pure  was  it,  and 
so  filled  with  goodness.  Yet  it  was  this 
gentle  and  tolerant  man,  abounding  in  all 
charity  of  thought  and  deed,  whom  a  re- 
viewer in  the  Baltimore  Catholic  Maga- 
zine dubbed  a  "  bigot,"  while  the  Dublin 
Quarterly  Review  breathed  a  prayer  for 
his  "  conversion  from  spiritual  error." 
Prescott's  sole  comment  in  his  journal 
was :  "  As  I  have  always  considered 
charity  as  the  foundation  of  every  hon- 
est creed,  whether  religious  or  political, 
I  don't  believe  I  deserve  the  name  of 
bigot." 

If  suffering  fools  gladly  and  bearing 
with  the  infirmities  of  the  weak  are  evi- 
dences of  true  religion,  Prescott  was 
entitled  to  something  like  canonization. 
From  the  earliest  burst  of  his  fame  to 
the  end  of  his  life  he  was  peculiarly  be- 
set by  aspirants  seeking  his  counsel  or 
patronage.  When,  in  1840,  his  kinsman, 
Henry  Prescott  of  Newfoundland,  wrote 
to  express  his  gratification  at  seeing  the 
family  name  raised  to  literary  distinction 
by  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  he  begged  to 
invite  the  historian's  benevolent  attention 
to  some  accompanying  poems  by  the 
writer's  daughter.  A  more  flattering 
poet  was  Mr.  William  Henry  Leatham 
of  Wakefield,  England.  He  wrote  in 
1841  to  request  permission  to  dedicate 
to  Prescott  a  corrected  edition  of  his 


336 


Prescott  the  Man. 


drama,  the  Siege  of  Granada.  Three 
years  later,  the  same  volunteer  corre- 
spondent sent  some  verses  of  his  own  on 
Montezuma  —  suggested  by  reading  the 
Conquest  of  Mexico.  Lowell  thought  at 
one  time  of  writing  an  epic  on  the  ex- 
ploits of  Cortes,  but  he  surely  could  never 
have  sounded  the  lyre  in  Mr.  Leatham's 
strain,  in  which,  to  quote  himself,  "  hu- 
man gore  was  seen  to  pour  like  water  in 
the  sun."  To  show  what  are  the  unwrit- 
ten penalties  of  fame,  a  few  of  the  lines 
inflicted  upon  Prescott  may  be  cited  :  — 

"  He  speaks  no  more  but  bows  his  head,  his 

eye-balls  cease  to  roll. 
His  race  is  run  and  with  the  sun  has  passed  the 

monarch's  soul. 
Soon  as  the  awestruck  Mexicans  had  heard  their 

king  was  dead, 
A  distant  wail  rose  on  the  gale,  and  through 

the  city  spread. 
But  short   their  grief;  each  warrior-chief  by 

Cuitlahuac  led 
In  wrath  arose  to  smite  his  foes,  if  not  already 

fled  — 
Their  sullen  tramp  has  reached  the  camp  where 

Cortez  vainly  strives ; 

The  Spaniard  from  the  wave-girt  wall  the  gal- 
lant Aztec  drives ; 
Till  morning  breaks  o'er  reedy  lakes  throughout 

the  dismal  night, 
The  swarthy  sons  of  Mexico  prolong  the  bloody 

fight. 
And  for  his  cursed  stratagem  the  General  dearly 

paid, 
For  vainly  did  he  wield  his  lance   and   keen 

Toledo  blade !" 

Another  English  writer  to  whose  im- 
possible appeals  Prescott  made  wonder- 
fully considerate  responses  was  Dr.  Dun- 
ham. That  worthy  but  dull  man,  having 
failed  to  support  himself  by  his  pen  in 
his  own  country,  had  the  happy  thought 
of  setting  up  as  a  literary  man  in  Amer- 
ica. Prescott's  kind  but  frank  discour- 
agement of  the  proposal  casts  an  instruc- 
tive light  upon  the  conditions  of  author- 
ship in  the  forties. 

TO   DB.    DUNHAM. 

BOSTON,  January  30,  1844. 
MY  DEAR  SIR,  —  I  am  extremely  con- 
cerned to  learn  that  the  cloud  still  hangs 


so  darkly  over  your  prospects,  now  that 
you  are  again  on  your  native  soil.  I  was 
in  hopes  that,  once  more  among  your 
friends,  and  in  a  country  where  men  of 
letters  are  sufficiently  numerous  to  make 
a  distinct  and  important  class,  your  just 
claims  would  be  recognized.  It  is  im- 
possible for  a  foreigner,  like  myself,  to 
judge  of  the  expediency  of  the  plans  you 
suggest  for  the  future  maintenance  of 
your  family.  And  I  am  grieved  to  be 
obliged  to  say  that  I  think  it  would  be 
in  vain  to  look  for  a  contribution  towards 
it  here.  There  are  so  many  projects  that 
appeal  so  directly  to  those  most  liberally 
disposed  in  our  community  that  their  re- 
sources seem  to  be  preoccupied. 

With  respect  to  contributions  to  the 
newspapers,  I  fear  there  will  be  as  little 
chance  of  success  in  that  quarter.  You 
might  indeed  furnish  articles  on  literary 
matters  to  a  respectable  Journal  like  our 
North  American.  But  the  compensation 
is  too  inconsiderable  to  furnish  an  induce- 
ment ;  since  it  is  only  a  dollar  a  printed 
page.  I  have  known  this  Journal  to 
give  two  dollars  a  page  to  a  popular 
writer  who  would  contract  for  a  certain 
amount  of  pages  per  annum.  I  know 
not  whether  this  is  ever  done  by  the  pre- 
sent editor.  Should  you  send  anything 
to  me  for  that  Journal  I  shall  have  much 
pleasure  in  handing  it  to  the  Editor,  and 
ascertaining  whether  he  would  be  in- 
clined to  make  an  engagement  with  you 
for  the  future.  Our  newspapers  do  not 
press  often  into  their  service  writers 
who  have  drunk  deep  of  the  good  wells 
of  learning,  and  a  penny-a-line  manufac- 
turer of  casualties  will  find  more  encour- 
agement with  most  of  them  than  a  man 
of  learning.  I  have  suggested  it  to  one 
of  our  most  respectable  editors,  but  he 
has  given  me  no  encouragement. 

W.  H.  PRESCOTT. 

Opening  in  1858  a  new  volume  of  the 
journal  which  he  had  kept  for  more  than 
forty  years,  Prescott  wrote  on  the  inside 
of  the  cover,  "  Literary  Memorandum 


The  Small  Business  as  a  School  of  Manhood. 


837 


Book  No.  XIV  —  and,  as  I  eschew  long 
entries,  probably  the  last."  Less  than 
three  pages  were,  in  fact,  written  in  this 
volume.  On  February  4,  1858,  he  suf- 
fered a  slight  stroke  of  apoplexy.  Though 
his  strength  slowly  returned,  the  remain- 
der of  his  life  was  passed  in  something 
of  a  shadow,  —  yet  his  spirit  continued 
undaunted  and  his  brightness  undimmed. 
Parting  from  his  wife  in  merry  laughter 
on  January  28,  1859,  he  went  into  his 
study.  The  blow  fell  swiftly;  he  was 


heard  groaning,  was  found  absolutely 
unconscious,  and  died  in  a  few  hours. 
As  grieving  Motley  wrote,  "  The  night 
of  time  had  suddenly  descended  upon 
the  unfinished  peristyle  of  a  stately  and 
beautiful  temple."  Before  burial,  the 
body  of  Prescott  was  taken,  in  accord- 
ance with  a  request  he  had  made,  to  lie 
for  a  time  in  his  library.  The  best  of 
all  ages  looked  down  upon  him  from  their 
books,  but  not  one  of  those  "  lettered 
dead  "  was  manlier  or  purer  than  he. 
Rollo  Ogden. 


THE  SMALL  BUSINESS  AS  A  SCHOOL  OF  MANHOOD. 


FOB  generations  the  small  business, 
that  is,  the  business  house  as  it  was  be- 
fore the  advent  of  the  great  Corporation 
and  the  Trust,  was  a  school  of  char- 
acter second  in  importance  only  to  the 
Church.  It  is  now  rapidly  being  super- 
seded, and  the  question  is,  What  is  to  be 
the  effect  upon  the  business  world  ? 

Many  years  ago  I  was  confidential 
clerk  in  a  typical  city  business  house  of 
the  old  style.  Its  heads  were  two  young 
merchants,  both  from  New  England.  As 
I  was  their  confidential  clerk,  I  had  the 
opportunity  of  knowing  them  both  inti- 
mately, and  of  observing  the  effect  of  their 
business  upon  their  characters.  The  one 
was  a  gentleman  by  instinct  and  family 
connection,  —  courteous,  kindly,  and  un- 
selfish. The  other  was  self-made,  aggres- 
sive, cold-blooded,  ambitious,  selfish,  and 
intelligent  enough  to  know  the  value  of 
honesty  as  a  policy,  but  without  convic- 
tions. The  daily  routine  of  the  business 
divided  itself  between  these  two  men  by 
a  kind  of  natural  law.  Everything  that 
required  courtesy  and  the  cultivation  of 
the  good  will  of  customers  fell  to  the  one  ; 
while  the  planning  of  the  business,  and 
all  those  important  decisions  which  had 
to  do  with  men  whose  good  will  was  not 
particularly  important  to  the  firm,  were 

VOL.  xcm.  —  NO.  557.  22 


passed  upon  by  the  other.  The  business 
itself,  with  its  daily  necessities  and  rou- 
tine, constituted  a  school  of  character, 
giving  play  to  the  talents  of  both,  and 
holding  their  limitations' in  restraint.  It 
would  be  interesting  to  look  over  the  of- 
fice letter-books  of  those  days  and  read 
in  the  correspondence  the  characteristic 
features  of  those  two  men,  one  of  whom 
has  since  become  very  prominent.  There 
would  be  found  recorded,  as  accurately 
as  in  the  record  of  a  boy  at  school,  their 
native  traits  and  the  story  of  their  growth. 
Each  knew,  as  all  the  men  of  their  day 
knew,  that  the  success  of  every  business 
house  depended  upon  the  personal  traits 
of  the  partners  and  their  individual  re- 
lations to  the  world  of  business,  quite  as 
much  as  upon  the  wisdom  of  their  plans. 
This  is  understood  in  all  forms  of  in- 
dividual business,  from  the  village  store 
to  the  city  establishment,  where  in  each 
instance  the  storekeeper  is  made  keenly 
aware  of  the  value  of  the  good  will  of 
his  customers.  As  a  consequence  he  ia 
kept  under  an  impulse  to  be  courteous 
and  honest  and  considerate  and  truthful, 
until  these  traits  become  largely  charac- 
teristic. Whatever  men  may  think  about 
the  business  of  the  world,  it  is  inconceiv- 
able that  the  great  business  houses  of  the 


338 


The  Small  Business  as  a  School  of  Manhood. 


older  type,  which,  passing  from  father  to 
son,  sometimes  survived  for  centuries, 
could  have  continued  under  any  other 
conditions.  The  great  guilds  of  the 
Middle  Ages  were  simply  associations 
of  men  of  this  pattern.  They  organized 
for  self-defense  as  individual  merchants 
or  tradesmen,  not  in  any  sense  as  part- 
ners in  a  corporation.  And  membership 
in  these  guilds  quickly  came  to  he  de- 
pendent upon  certain  established  types 
of  character.  Because  of  this  the  guilds 
held  together,  and  became  the  permanent 
power  which  resulted  in  making  the  cit- 
ies the  instruments  which  enabled  the 
early  kings  to  shake  off  the  power  of  the 
barons,  and  to  break  up  the  foundations 
of  the  feudal  system  in  Europe.  The 
Chinese  guilds,  the  oldest  existing  organ- 
izations of  business  men,  are  also  of  this 
class. 

The  record  of  those  early  days  still  re- 
mains in  our  literature.  Shakespeare's 
tale,  the  Merchant  of  Venice,  turns  upon 
the  integrity,  indisputable  and  dominant, 
of  the  merchants  of  that  time ;  and  the 
effect  of  the  Chinese  guilds  upon  the  Chi- 
nese mercantile  life  is  everywhere  appar- 
ent. The  other  day  the  president  of  the 
Anglo-Chinese  Bank  at  Shanghai,  resign- 
ing, to  return  to  England,  after  twenty- 
five  years  of  service,  in  a  public  address 
testified  that  not  a  dollar  had  ever  been 
lost  by  the  bank  through  a  Chinese  mer- 
chant, and  that  the  great  fear  he  had  for 
the  changes  now  going  on  in  the  relations 
between  the  Orient  and  the  Occident  was 
lest  the  influx  into  China  of  foreign  mer- 
chants, with  a  different  standard  of  per- 
sonal honesty,  would  do  more  to  compli- 
cate and  disturb  the  relations  of  China 
with  the  outside  world  than  any  other 
cause.  For  the  Chinese  have  not  been 
familiar  with  the  lower  standards  of  busi- 
ness integrity  which  prevail  elsewhere. 

Over  against  the  guilds  have  arisen 
the  modern  Corporation  and  the  modern 
Trust.  They  have  so  completely  changed 
the  essential  conditions  of  business  life 
as  these  bear  upon  the  individual  busi- 


ness man,  that  it  is  well  to  attempt  to 
estimate  the  effect.  Many  men  in  New 
York  remember  when  A.  T.  Stewart 
opened  his  great  establishment  in  the 
Chambers  Street  building.  It  soon  be- 
came known  in  the  street  that  when  any 
failure  occurred  in  the  dry-goods  district, 
the  principal  man  in  the  broken  firm 
would  be  quickly  invited  by  Mr.  Stewart 
to  enter  his  employ.  And  it  was  not 
long  before  in  the  Stewart  establishment 
could  be  seen  many  well-known  business 
men,  whose  houses  had  been  unfortunate, 
now  servants  of  Mr.  Stewart,  as  buyers, 
or  heads  of  departments.  A  change  in 
the  bearing  of  these  men  was  noticeable 
even  to  young  people.  They  no  longer 
had  either  the  responsibilities  or  the  dig- 
nity of  their  former  position.  Their  in- 
come, it  is  true,  was  assured,  and  per- 
haps was  in  some  cases  as  large  as  it  had 
been  before.  They  were  not  burdened 
with  cares  for  the  business  as  a  whole,  and 
could  go  home  at  night  with  the  same  feel- 
ing of  a  day's  work  done  that  other  clerks 
enjoyed.  But  they  were  no  longer  busi- 
ness mien,  in  the  old  sense.  They  were 
servants,  in  that  their  powers  were  obe- 
dient to  the  decisions  of  another ;  and 
they  were  removed  from  the  stimulus, 
intellectual  and  moral,  which  the  neces- 
sities of  meeting  the  conditions  of  inde- 
pendent business  require.  It  is  true  they 
slept  well  at  night,  and  grew  fat  and 
sleek ;  but  one  was  reminded  of  the  fable 
of  the  wolf  and  the  house  dog,  —  one 
looked  for  the  sign  of  the  collar,  and 
mourned  for  the  loss  of  something  fine 
in  manhood.  Such  a  man  came  into  the 
employ  of  the  firm  for  which  I  worked, 
and  his  struggle  to  maintain  his  self- 
respect,  and  his  little-repressed  exulta- 
tion in  being  a  member  of  a  social  club  to 
which  his  ambitious  employer  could  not 
obtain  election,  were  to  his  fellow  clerks 
both  intelligible  and  pathetic. 

The  pride  of  the  merchant,  or  the 
manufacturer,  in  the  business  to  which 
he  was  giving  his  life,  and  which  bore 
his  name,  and  which  he  hoped  to  make 


The  Small  Business  as  a  School  of  Manhood. 


339 


permanent  in  the  community  and  to  trans- 
mit to  his  children,  has  given  place  to 
another  temper  of  mind  in  the  passing 
of  those  smaller  men  into  the  great  cor- 
porations. Names  still  linger  from  the 
early  days :  the  Maydole  hammer,  the 
Buck  chisel,  the  Disston  saw,  the  Scott 
gun,  the  Morley  hosiery,  the  Clay  woolen, 
the  Torrey  strop,  the  Hassell  brush,  tell 
of  a  day  when  the  skillful  workman  be- 
gan to  produce  a  better  article  than  his 
neighbor,  and  soon  discovering  that  his 
customers  recognized  its  merits,  found 
the  way  open  to  a  career  in  which  his 
heart  found  its  sweetest  pride,  and  his 
business  life  its  most  satisfactory  reward. 
All  that  has  vanished  with  the  passing 
of  the  old  conditions. 

Under  the  new  conditions  a  very  few 
men  are  carrying  the  heavy  strain,  or 
may  be  considered  as  responding  to  the 
old  challenge  to  be  their  very  best,  and 
to  prove  themselves  masters  in  a  splen- 
did contest.  It  must  be  admitted  that 
the  prizes  of  the  business  world  were 
never  so  magnificent  for  the  capable  few 
as  they  are  to-day.  The  title  "  merchant 
prince  "  has  taken  on  a  new  significance. 
But  this  applies  only  to  the  very  few. 
Where  there  are  in  every  great  corpora- 
tion or  trust  two  or  three  or,  perhaps,  a 
few  more,  men  at  the  head  who  carry  the 
responsibility  and  find  their  powers  taxed 
to  the  utmost  by  their  daily  duties,  there 
are  thousands  of  all  grades  of  capacity, 
who  now  have  no  other  feeling  than  that 
of  the  clerk,  or  the  servant.  Their  in- 
tellectual activity  is  limited  to  doing  the 
task  that  is  set  for  them.  They  need  to 
be  keen,  simply  to  understand  directions 
and  to  meet  the  requirements  of  their 
department.  Their  moral  responsibility 
is  limited  to  obeying  orders  and  earning 
their  daily  wage.  The  tax  made  upon 
them  is  only  to  do  their  day's  work  as 
it  arrives,  and  at  night  leave  their  desk 
clear.  They  are  part  of  a  vast  machine 
to  whose  perfection  they  are  contribut- 
ing ;  and  in  so  doing  are  limiting  their 
own  powers,  and  bringing  on  the  day 


when  they  can  the  more  readily  be  dis- 
pensed with  and  forgotten.  The  best 
they  can  hope  for  is  a  pension.  As  life 
goes  that  is  much,  but  it  is  not  the  best. 

The  other  day  I  asked  the  auditor  of 
a  great  Trust,  "  What  is  the  method  upon 
which  your  new  business  is  being  organ- 
ized, —  to  make  a  machine  so  perfect 
that  no  knave  can  take  advantage  of  it, 
or  to  develop  individual  character  to  such 
an  extent  that  the  machinery  shall  be 
relatively  secondary  ?  "  He  looked  at 
me  for  a  moment,  and  then  with  a  curious 
smile,  said,  "  The  latter  is  what  I  should 
be  glad  to  do,  but  my  directors  have  dif- 
ferent ideas.  We  are  trying  to  make  a 
machine  which  will  be  as  absolutely  per- 
fect as  possible."  "  Then,"  I  said,  "  you 
will  be  beaten,  for  a  man  is  always 
cleverer  than  a  machine."  "  Yes,"  he 
said,  "  I  fear  so."  He  has  himself  since 
resigned,  and  gone  back  into  private  busi- 
ness. 

The  great  corporation  is  unquestion- 
ably the  necessity  of  the  hour.  It  will 
continue  to  take  on  constantly  new  forms 
of  development.  It  is  already  playing 
and  will  continue  to  play  a  tremendous 
part  in  the  progress  of  civilization.  But 
its  limitations  are  none  the  less  real.  The 
evils  that  are  inevitably  connected  with 
it  must  be  clearly  realized  if  they  are 
to  be  offset.  Among  them  all  none  is 
more  serious  than  this  radical  one  of  the 
effect  upon  the  character  of  many  em- 
ployees, who,  under  former  conditions, 
would  have  been  either  managing  their 
own  business  or  ambitious  for  the  oppor- 
tunity of  doing  so.  The  life,  in  a  multi- 
tude of  homes  where  a  salary  takes  the 
place  of  business  earnings,  is  doubtless 
calmer  and  steadier,  and  also  in  many 
cases  ampler,  in  that  the  income  is 
larger.  A  certain  stability  is  hoped  for 
in  a  society  where  anxiety  over  business 
conditions  is  exchanged  for  the  content- 
ment of  an  assured  stipend.  And  the 
steadying  and  quieting  of  the  temper,  no 
longer  made  irritable  by  the  daily  anx- 
iety, is  unquestionably  a  notable  social 


340 


The  Dream  of  Akinosuke. 


contribution.  Indeed,  it  is  quite  con- 
ceivable that  whole  communities,  like  our 
new  suburban  settlements,  made  up  of 
pretty  homes,  with  their  flowers  and  their 
lawns,  which  are  occupied  so  largely  by 
the  well-to-do  employees  of  the  great  cor- 
porations, may  be  regarded  as  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  and  most  characteristic 
features  of  modern  life.  But  when  one 
looks  within  and  asks  what  is  to  take  the 
place  of  the  old  discipline,  with  its  insist- 
ent demand  for  those  traits  of  character 
which  have  made  the  merchant  and  the 
manufacturer  the  sturdy,  thoughtful,  self- 
respecting  men  they  always  have  been, 
we  are  at  a  loss  for  an  answer. 

When  thoughtful  writers  like  Mr.  Ben- 
jamin Kidd  speak  of  "  the  freest  possible 
play  of  forces  within  the  community,  and 
the  widest  possible  opportunities  for  the 
development  of  every  individual's  facul- 
ties and  personality  "  as  the  condition  of 
progress,  and  of  "the  personal  rivalry 
and  competition  of  life  "  as  being  not  only 
now,  but  having  been  from  the  begin- 
ning "  the  fundamental  impulse  behind 
all  progress,"  there  is  surely  cause  for 
concern  as  we  find  ourselves  tempted  to 
exploit  agencies  which  effectually  remove 
or  destroy  those  conditions. 

It  is  certain  that  a  great  change  is 
going  on,  and  one  of  that  subtle  and  un- 
perceived  kind  the  effect  of  which  is 


sure  to  be  widely  felt  before  it  is  under- 
stood, not  to  say  corrected.  How  much 
it  means  of  difficulty,  or  even  of  disaster, 
in  the  business  world  of  the  future,  it 
may  be  difficult  to  determine,  but  it  will 
certainly  have  a  profound  effect  in  shap- 
ing the  prospects  even  of  the  Trust.  It 
creates  conditions  under  which  it  will  be 
growingly  difficult  to  produce  men  with 
the  character  and  the  intellectual  stamina 
which  are  necessary  in  the  management 
of  the  great  corporations.  Men  who  have 
grown  up  simply  as  clerks  will  never  be 
truly  competent  to  fill  these  positions. 
They  will  become  more  and  more  men  of 
detail.  And  the  system  of  inbreeding, 
that  is,  of  limiting  the  filling  of  their 
more  important  posts  to  men  who  have 
risen  through  all  the  ranks  of  lower  ser- 
vice, —  which  now  is  proclaimed  by  some 
of  our  great  railways,  —  is  a  policy  as 
truly  suicidal  as  it  is  unintelligent.  Great 
administrative  positions  require  men  who 
have  been  accustomed  to  that  indepen- 
dence of  action  and  that  breadth  of  view 
which  only  the  responsibility  of  directing 
their  own  affairs  can  produce.  It  is  a 
temper  of  mind  and  of  spirit  as  far  as 
possible  from  that  of  the  lifelong  clerk  or 
employee.  And  no  problem  in  the  busi- 
ness world  is  more  vital,  or  has  farther- 
reaching  relations,  than  the  question  how 
such  men  are  in  the  future  to  be  produced. 
Henry  A.  Stimson. 


THE  DREAM  OF  AKINOSUKE. 


THERE  used  to  live,  in  the  district  of 
Toichi,  in  the  province  of  Yamato,  a 
goshi  named  Miyata  Akinosuke".  .  .  . 
[Here  I  must  tell  you  that  in  Japanese 
feudal  days  there  was  a  privileged  class 
of  soldier-farmers,  freeholders,  —  corre- 
sponding to  the  class  of  yeomen  in  Eng- 
land, —  and  these  were  called  goshi.~\ 

In  Akinosukd's  garden  there  was  a 
very  old  and  very  large  sugi  tree,1  under 


which  he  liked  to  rest  on  sultry  days. 
One  very  hot  afternoon,  while  he  was 
sitting  under  this  tree  with  two  of  his 
friends,  fellow-goshi,  drinking  wine,  he 
felt  all  of  a  sudden  very  drowsy,  —  so 
drowsy  that  he  begged  his  comrades  to 
excuse  him  for  taking  a  nap  in  their 
presence.  Then  he  lay  down  at  the  foot 
of  the  tree,  and  dreamed  this  dream  :  — 
1  Cryptomeria  Japonica. 


The,  Dream  of  Akinosuke. 


341 


He  thought  that  he  saw,  as  he  lay 
there,  a  procession  advancing,  like  the 
train  of  a  daimyo,  and  that  he  got  up  to 
look  at  it.  A  very  grand  procession  it 
proved  to  be,  —  more  imposing  than  any- 
thing of  the  kind  that  he  had  ever  seen 
before  ;  and  in  the  van  of  it  he  observed 
a  number  of  young  men,  in  costly  ap- 
parel, drawing  a  great  lacquered  palace- 
carriage,  or  gosho  -  guruma,  hung  with 
bright  blue  silk.  When  the  procession 
arrived  within  a  short  distance,  it  halt- 
ed ;  and  a  richly  dressed  stranger,  evi- 
dently a  person  of  rank,  approached 
Akinosuke,  bowed  profoundly,  and  then 
said :  — 

"You  see  before  you,  honored  Sir,  a 
kerai  [follower]  of  the  Kokuo  of  To- 
koyo.1  My  master,  the  King,  commands 
me  to  greet  you  in  his  name,  and  to  place 
myself  at  your  service.  He  also  bids  me 
convey  to  you  this  message,  —  that  he 
augustly  desires  your  presence  at  his  pal- 
ace. Be  therefore  pleased  to  enter  im- 
mediately this  august  carriage  which  he 
has  sent  for  you." 

Upon  hearing  these  words,  Akinosuke' 
wished  to  make  some  fitting  reply  ;  but 
he  found  himself  too  much  astonished  and 
embarrassed  to  utter  a  word  ;  and  at  the 
same  time  his  will  seemed  to  melt  away, 
so  that  he  could  do  only  as  the  kerai  bade 
him.  He  entered  the  carriage  ;  the  kerai 
took  a  place  beside  him,  and  gave  a  sig- 
nal ;  the  drawers,  seizing  the  silken  cables, 
turned  the  great  vehicle  southwards ;  and 
the  journey  began. 

In  a  very  short  time,  to  Akinosuk^'s 
surprise,  the  carriage  stopped  before  a 
huge  two -storied  gateway  (romon),  of 
Chinese  style,  which  he  had  never  be- 
fore seen.  Here  the  kerai  dismounted, 
—  saying,  "  I  go  to  announce  the  august 
arrival,"  —  and  disappeared  within.  Af- 
ter some  little  waiting,  Akinosuke'  saw 

1  This  name  is  strangely  indefinite.  Accord- 
ing to  circumstances  it  may  mean  any  unknown 
or  far-off  country,  —  or  it  may  signify  that "  un- 
discovered country  from  whose  bourn  no  travel- 
ler returns,"  —  or  it  may  signify  the  Fairyland 


two  noble-looking  men,  wearing  robes  of 
purple  silk  and  high  caps  of  the  form  in- 
dicating lofty  rank,  come  from  the  gate- 
way. These,  after  having  profoundly 
saluted  him,  helped  him  to  descend 
from  the  carriage,  and  led  him,  through 
the  gate  and  across  a  vast  garden,  to 
the  entrance  of  a  palace  whose  front 
appeared  to  extend,  west  and  east,  to 
a  distance  of  miles.  Presently  he  was 
shown  into  a  reception  hall  of  wonder- 
ful size  and  splendor.  His  guides  con- 
ducted him  to  the  place  of  honor,  and 
respectfully  seated  themselves  apart ; 
while  serving-maids,  in  costume  of  cere- 
mony, brought  refreshments.  When 
Akinosuke  had  been  duly  served,  the  two 
purple-robed  attendants  bowed  low  be- 
fore him,  and  addressed  him  in  the  fol- 
lowing words,  —  each  speaking  alter- 
nately, in  accordance  with  the  fashion 
of  courts  :  — 

"  It  is  now  our  honorable  duty  to  in- 
form you  ...  as  to  the  reason  of  your 
having  been  summoned  hither.  .  .  . 
Our  master  the  King  augustly  desires 
that  you  become  his  son-in-law ;  .  .  . 
and  it  is  his  wish  that  you  wed  this  very 
day  .  .  .  the  August  Princess  his  daugh- 
ter. .  .  .  We  shall  soon  conduct  you  to 
the  presence-chamber  .  .  .  where  His 
Augustness  even  now  is  waiting  to  re- 
ceive you.  .  .  .  But  it  is  necessary  that 
we  first  invest  you  .  .  .  with  the  ap- 
propriate garments  of  ceremony." 

Having  spoken  thus,  they  rose  to- 
gether, and  opened  an  alcove  at  the  fur- 
ther end  of  the  apartment ;  and  they 
took,  from  a  chest  of  gold-lacquer  in 
that  alcove,  various  robes  and  girdles  of 
rich  material,  and  a  kamuri,  or  regal 
cap.  With  these  they  attired  Akino- 
suke' as  befitted  a  princely  bridegroom. 
Then  they  conducted  him  to  the  pre- 
sence room,  where  he  saw  the  Kokuo  of 

of  Far-Eastern  fable,  the  Realm  of  Horai,  the 
Elysian  Mountain.  —  The  term  "  Kokuo  "  means 
the  ruler  of  a  country,  —  therefore  a  monarch 
or  king. 


342 


The  Dream  of  Akinosuke. 


Tokoyo,  seated  upon  the  daiza,1  wearing 
the  high  black  cap  of  state,  and  robed  in 
robes  of  yellow  silk.  Before  the  daiza, 
to  left  and  right,  a  multitude  of  dignitaries 
sat,  motionless  as  images  within  a  tem- 
ple ;  and  Akinosukd,  advancing  between 
their  ranks,  saluted  the  King  with  the 
triple  prostration.  The  King  then  greet- 
ed him  with  gracious  words,  and  said :  — 

"  You  have  already  been  informed  as 
to  the  reason  of  your  having  been  sum- 
moned to  Our  presence.  We  have  de- 
cided that  you  shall  become  the  adopted 
husband  of  Our  daughter ;  and  the  wed- 
ding ceremony  shall  now  be  performed." 

As  the  King  finished  a  sound  of  joy- 
ous music  was  heard ;  and  a  long  train 
of  beautiful  court  ladies  entered  from 
behind  a  curtain  to  conduct  Akinosuke"  to 
the  room  in  which  his  bride  awaited  him. 

The  room  was  immense  ;  but  it  was 
scarcely  able  to  contain  the  multitude  of 
guests  that  had  assembled  to  witness  the 
ceremony.  All  bowed  down  before  Aki- 
nosuke', as  he  took  his  place,  facing  the 
King's  daughter,  on  the  kneeling-cushion 
made  ready  for  him.  As  a  maiden  of 
heaven  the  bride  appeared  ;  and  her  robes 
were  beautiful  and  bright  as  a  summer 
sky.  And  the  marriage  ceremony  was 
performed  amid  great  rejoicing. 

Afterwards,  the  pair  were  conducted 
to  a  suite  of  apartments  that  had  been 
prepared  for  them  in  another  portion  of 
the  palace  ;  and  there  received  the  con- 
gratulations of  many  noble  persons,  and 
wedding  gifts  almost  beyond  counting. 

Some  days  later,  Akinosuke'  was  again 
summoned  to  the  presence  room.  On 
this  occasion  he  was  received  even  more 
graciously  than  before;  and  the  King 
said  to  him  :  — 

"  In  the  southwestern  part  of  Our  do- 
minion, there  is  an  island  called  Raishu. 
We  have  now  appointed  you  the  Gov- 
ernor of  that  island.  You  will  find  the 
people  loyal  and  docile ;  but  their  laws 
have  not  yet  been  brought  into  proper  ac- 

1  This  was  the  name  given  to  the  Estrade,  or 
dais,  upon  which  a  feudal  prince  or  ruler  sat 


cord  with  the  laws  of  Tokoyo,  and  their 
customs  have  not  yet  been  properly  regu- 
lated. We  entrust  you  with  the  duty  of 
improving  their  social  condition  as  much 
as  possible  ;  and  We  desire  that  you  shall 
rule  them  with  wisdom  and  kindness. 
All  the  preparations  necessary  for  your 
voyage  to  Raishu  have  been  made." 

So  Akinosuke'  with  his  bride  departed 
from  the  palace  of  Tokoyo,  accompanied 
by  a  great  escort  of  nobles  and  of  retain- 
ers, and  embarked  upon  a  ship  of  state 
provided  by  the  King.  And  with  favor- 
ing winds  he  sailed  safely  to  Raishu,  and 
found  the  good  people  of  the  island  as- 
sembled upon  the  beach  to  welcome  him. 

Then  he  entered  upon  his  new  duties 
at  once  ;  and  they  did  not  prove  difficult. 
During  the  first  three  years  of  his  gov- 
ernorship, he  was  occupied  chiefly  with 
the  devising  and  the  enactment  of  laws  ; 
but  he  had  wise  counselors  to  help  him, 
and  he  never  found  the  work  unpleasant. 
When  it  had  all  been  finished,  he  had  no 
active  duties  to  perform,  beyond  attend- 
ing ,the  ceremonies  and  rites  ordained 
by  ancient  custom.  The  country  was  so 
healthy  and  so  fertile  that  -sickness  and 
want  were  unknown ;  and  the  people  were 
so  good  that  no  laws  were  ever  broken. 
And  Akinosuk^  dwelt  and  ruled  in  Rai- 
shu for  twenty  years  more,  —  making  in 
all  twenty-three  years  of  sojourn,  during 
which  no  shadow  of  sorrow  traversed  his 
life. 

But  in  the  twenty-fourth  year  of  his 
governorship  a  great  misfortune  came  to 
him  ;  for  the  princess  his  wife,  who  had 
borne  him  seven  children,  —  five  boys 
and  two  girls,  —  fell  sick  and  died.  She 
was  buried  with  high  pomp  on  the  sum- 
mit of  a  hill  in  the  district  of  Hanryoko ; 
and  a  monument,  exceedingly  splendid, 
was  erected  above  her  grave.  But  Aki- 
nosuk£  felt  such  grief  at  her  loss  that  he 
no  longer  cared  to  live. 

Now,  when  the  legal  period  of  mourn- 
ing was  over,  there  came  to  Raishu  a 

in  state.  Literally  the  term  signifies  "  great 
seat." 


The  Dream  of  Akinosuke. 


343 


King's  messenger  (shisha)  from  Tokoyo. 
The  shisha  delivered  a  message  of  con- 
dolence to  Akinosukd,  and  then  said  to 
him :  — 

"  These  are  the  words  of  our  august 
master,  the  King  of  Tokoyo,  which  I  am 
bidden  to  repeat :  We  will  now  send 
you  back  to  your  native  place.  As  for 
the  seven  children,  they  are  the  grand- 
sons and  the  granddaughters  of  the 
King,  and  shall  be  properly  cared  for. 
Do  not,  therefore,  allow  your  mind  to  be 
troubled  concerning  them." 

On  receiving  this  mandate,  Akinosuke* 
prepared  for  his  departure.  When  all 
his  affairs  had  been  arranged,  and  the 
ceremony  of  bidding  farewell  to  his  coun- 
selors and  trusted  officials  had  been  con- 
cluded, he  was  escorted  with  great  honor 
to  the  port.  There  he  embarked  upon  the 
ship  sent  for  him ;  —  and  the  ship  sailed 
out  into  the  blue  sea  under  the  blue  sky  ; 
—  and  the  shape  of  the  island  of  Raishu 
turned  likewise  blue,  and  then  turned 
gray,  and  then  vanished  like  a  ghost. 
And  Akinosuke'  suddenly  awoke un- 
der the  sugi  tree  in  his  own  garden !  .  .  . 

For  the  moment  he  was  dazed  and 
stupefied.  But  he  saw  his  two  friends 
still  seated  near  him,  —  drinking  and 
chatting  merrily.  He  stared  at  them 
in  a  bewildered  way,  and  cried  aloud, 
"  How  strange  !  " 

"Akinosuke'  must  have  been  dream- 
ing," one  of  them  said,  with  a  laugh. 
"  What  did  you  see,  Akinosuke',  that 
was  so  strange  ?  " 

Then  Akinosuke'  told  them  all  his 
dream,  —  that  dream  of  three-and-twenty 
years  passed  in  the  island  of  Raishu,  in 
the  realm  of  Tokoyo  ;  —  and  they  won- 
dered very  much,  because  he  had  really 
slept  for  no  more  than  a  few  minutes. 

One  of  the  goshi  said :  — 

"  You  saw  strange  things  indeed  !  We 
also  saw  something  strange  while  you 
were  asleep.  A  little  yellow  butterfly 
was  fluttering  over  your  face  for  a  mo- 
ment or  two ;  and  we  watched  it.  Then 


it  lighted  on  the  ground  beside  you,  close 
to  the  tree  ;  and  almost  as  soon  as  it 
perched  there,  a  big,  big  ant  came  out  of 
a  hole,  and  seized  it,  and  dragged  it  down 
into  the  hole.  Just  before  you  awoke, 
we  saw  that  very  butterfly  come  out  of 
the  hole  again,  and  flutter  over  your  face 
as  before.  Then  it  disappeared :  we  do 
not  know  where  it  went." 

"  Perhaps  it  was  Akinosuke^s  soul," 
the  other  goshi  said ;  "  certainly  I 
thought  that  I  saw  it  fly  into  his  mouth. 
.  .  .  But  even  if  that  butterfly  was  Aki- 
nosuke" s  soul,  the  fact  would  not  explain 
his  dream." 

"  The  ants  might  explain  it,"  said  the 
first  speaker.  .  .  .  "Ants  are  queer  beings, 
—  possibly  goblins.  .  .  .  Anyhow,  there 
is  a  big  nest  of  ants  under  that  sugi  tree." 

"  Then  let  us  look !  "  exclaimed  Aki- 
nosuke', greatly  impressed  by  the  sugges- 
tion ;  and  he  went  for  a  spade. 

The  ground  beneath  and  about  the 
tree  proved  to  have  been  excavated  in 
the  most  surprising  way  by  a  prodigious 
colony  of  ants,  whose  tiny  constructions 
of  sticks  and  straws  and  leaves  and  clay 
bore  an  odd  resemblance  to  miniature 
cities.  In  the  centre  of  one  construction, 
larger  than  the  rest,  there  was  a  marvel- 
ous swarming  of  small  ants  around  one 
very  big  ant,  which  had  yellowish  wings, 
and  a  long  black  head. 

"  Why,  there  is  the  King  of  my 
dream!"  cried  Akinosuke',  "and  there 
is  the  palace  of  Tokoyo !  .  .  .  How  ex- 
traordinary !  .  .  .  Raishu  ought  to  lie 
somewhere  southwest  of  it,  —  to  the  left 
of  that  big  forked  root  .  .  .  Yes !  here 
it  is  !  .  .  .  How  very  strange !  Now  I 
am  sure  that  I  can  find  the  hill  at  Han- 
ryoko,  and  even  the  grave  of  the  prin- 
cess." .  .  . 

He  searched  and  searched  in  the  wreck 
of  the  nest,  and  actually  discovered  a  tiny 
mound,  on  the  top  of  which  was  lying  a 
water-worn  pebble,  resembling  in  shape 
a  Buddhist  tomb.  Underneath  it  he 
found,  embedded  in  clay,  the  dead  body 
of  a  female  ant  .  .  . ! 

Lafcadio  Hearn. 


344 


Books   Unread. 


PART  OF  A  MAN'S  LIFE. 


"  The  uttered  part  of  a  man's  life,  let  us  always  repeat,  bears  to  the  unuttered,  unconscious 
part  a  small  unknown  proportion.  He  himself  never  knows  it,  much  less  do  others."  —  Carlyle's 
Essay  on  Scott. 

BOOKS   UNEEAD. 


than  by  Margaret  Fuller  when  she  says, 
"  A  man  who  means  to  think  and  write 
a  great  deal  must,  after  six  and  twenty, 
learn  to  read  with  his  fingers."  A  few 
men  of  leisure  may  satisfy  themselves 
by  reading  over  and  over  a  single  book 
and  ignoring  all  others,  like  that  Eng- 
lish scholar  who  read  Homer's  Iliad  and 
Odyssey  every  year  in  the  original,  de- 
voting a  week  to  each  canto,  and  reserv- 
ing the  minor  poems  for  his  summer  vaca- 
tion. Nay,  there  are  books  in  the  English 
language  so  vast  that  the  ordinary  reader 
recoils  before  their  text  and  their  foot- 
notes. Such,  for  instance,  is  Gibbon's 
Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire, 
containing  substantially  the  history  of 
the  whole  world  for  thirteen  centuries. 
When  the  author  dismissed  the  last  page 
of  his  book,  on  June  27, 1787,  in  that  his- 
toric garden  at  Geneva,  knowing  that  he 
was  to  address  his  public  at  once  in  four 
different  languages,  is  it  not  possible  that 
he  may  have  felt  some  natural  misgiving 
as  to  whether  any  one  person  would  ever 
read  the  whole  of  it  ?  We  know  him  to 
have  predicted  that  Fielding's  Tom  Jones 
would  outlast  the  palace  of  the  Escurial 
and  the  imperial  eagle  of  Austria,  but  he 
recorded  no  similar  claim  for  his  own 
work.  The  statesman,  Fox,  to  be  sure, 
pronounced  the  book  to  be  "  immortal," 
simply  because,  as  he  said,  no  man  in 
the  world  could  do  without  it ;  and  Sher- 
idan added,  with  undue  levity,  that  if 
not  luminous,  it  was  at  least  voluminous. 
But  modern  readers,  as  a  rule,  consult  it, 
they  do  not  read  it.  It  is,  at  best,  a  tool- 
chest. 

Yet  there  lies  before  me  what  is,  per- 
haps, the  most  remarkable  manuscript 


ofcf  yap  TO  viro/j.vri(*dTid 
ffov  ft.f\\tis  a.vayiv<i>ffKfiv,  afire  ras  apxaicov 
'Pamaiiuf  Kal  'E\\rjv(tjv  irpofeiy,  Kal  ras  e/c  ruv 
awYypa.find.Toiv  fK\oyas,  &s  els  TO  yrfpas  aavTip 
aTreTlBfffo."  —  MABCUS  ANTONINUS,  iii,  14. 

"  No  longer  delude  thyself ;  for  thon  wilt 
never  read  thine  own  memoranda,  nor  the  re- 
corded deeds  of  old  Romans  and  Greeks,  and 
those  passages  in  books  which  tliou  hast  been 
reserving  for  thine  old  age." 

IN  the  gradual  growth  of  every  stu- 
dent's library,  he  may  or  may  not  con- 
tinue to  admit  literary  friends  and  ad- 
visers ;  but  he  will  be  sure,  sooner  or 
later,  to  send  for  a  man  with  a  tool-chest. 
Sooner  or  later,  every  nook  and  corner 
will  be  filled  with  books,  every  window 
will  be  more  or  less  darkened,  and  added 
shelves  must  be  devised.  He  may  find 
it  hard  to  achieve  just  the  arrangement 
he  wants,  but  he  will  find  it  hardest  of 
all  to  meet  squarely  that  inevitable  in- 
quiry of  the  puzzled  carpenter,  as  he  looks 
about  him,  "  Have  you  really  read  all 
these  books  ?  "  The  expected  answer  is, 
"  To  be  sure,  how  can  you  doubt  it  ?  " 
Yet  if  you  asked  him  in  turn,  "Have 
you  actually  used  every  tool  in  your  tool- 
chest?"  you  would  very  likely  be  told, 
"  Not  one  half  as  yet,  at  least  this  sea- 
son ;  I  have  the  others  by  me,  to  use  as 
I  need  them."  Now  if  this  reply  can  be 
fairly  made  in  a  simple,  well-defined,  dis- 
tinctly limited  occupation  like  that  of  a 
joiner,  how  much  more  inevitable  it  is  in 
a  pursuit  which  covers  the  whole  range 
of  thought  and  all  the  facts  in  the  uni- 
verse. The  library  is  the  author's  tool- 
chest.  He  must  at  least  learn,  as  he  grows 
older,  to  take  what  he  wants  and  to  leave 
the  rest. 

This  never  was  more  tersely  expressed 


Books   Unread. 


345 


catalogue  of  books  read  that  can  be  found 
in  the  English-speaking  world,  this  being 
the  work  of  a  man  of  eighty-three,  who 
began  life  by  reading  a  verse  of  the  Bible 
aloud  to  his  mother  when  three  years  old, 
had  gone  through  the  whole  of  it  by  the 
time  he  was  nine,  and  then  went  on  to 
grapple  with  all  the  rest  of  literature, 
upon  which  he  is  still  at  work.  His  vast 
catalogue  of  books  read  begins  with  1837, 
and  continues  up  to  the  present  day,  thus 
covering  much  more  than  half  a  century, 
a  course  of  reading  not  yet  finished  and 
in  which  Gibbon  is  but  an  incident.  One 
finds,  for  instance,  at  intervals,  such  items 
as  these :  "  Gibbon's  Decline  and  Fall  of 
the  Koman  Empire,  read  twice  between 
1856  and  1894 ;  "  «  Gibbon's  Decline  and 
Fall,  third  reading,  1895  ;  "  "  Gibbon's 
Decline  and  Fall,  vols.  1  and  2,  fourth 
reading ;  "  followed  soon  after  by  "  Gib- 
bon, vols.  3-6,  fourth  reading ;  "  "  Gib- 
bon, vols.  7-8,  fourth  reading."  What 
are  a  thousand  readings  of  Tom  Jones 
compared  with  a  series  of  feats  like  this  ? 
And  there  is  a  certain  satisfaction  to  those 
who  find  themselves  staggered  by  the  con- 
templation of  such  labor,  when  they  read 
elsewhere  on  the  list  the  recorded  confes- 
sion that  this  man  of  wonderful  toil  oc- 
casionally stooped  so  far  as  cheerfully  to 
include  That  Frenchman  and  Mr.  Barnes 
of  New  York. 

The  list  of  books  unread  might  proper- 
ly begin  with  those  painted  shelves  of 
mere  book  covers  which  present  them- 
selves in  some  large  libraries,  to  veil  the 
passageway.  These  are  not  books  un- 
read, since  they  are  not  books  at  all. 
Much  the  same  is  true  of  those  which 
perhaps  may  still  be  seen,  as  formerly,  in 
old  Dutch  houses  round  Albany  ;  the  effi- 
gies of  books  merely  desired,  but  not  yet 
possessed  ;  and  only  proposed  as  pur- 
chases for  some  day  when  the  owner's 
ship  should  come  in.  These  were  made 
only  of  blocks  of  wood,  neatly  painted 
and  bound  in  leather  with  the  proper  la- 
bets,  but  surely  destined  never  to  be  read, 
since  they  had  in  them  nothing  readable. 


Almost  as  remote  from  the  real  books 
are  those  dummies  made  up  by  booksell- 
ers to  be  exhibited  by  their  traveling 
agents.  Thus  I  have  at  hand  a  volume 
of  my  own  translation  of  Epictetus,  con- 
sisting of  a  single  "  signature  "  of  eigh- 
teen pages,  repeated  over  and  over,  so 
that  one  never  gets  any  farther :  each 
signature  bearing  on  the  last  page,  by  one 
of  Fate's  simple  and  unconscious  strokes, 
the  printed  question,  "Where  is  progress, 
then  ?  "  (page  18).  Where,  indeed  ! 
Next  to  these,  of  course,  the  books  which 
go  most  thoroughly  unread  are  those 
which  certainly  are  books,  but  of  which 
we  explore  the  backs  only,  as  in  fine  old 
European  libraries  ;  books  as  sacredly 
preserved  as  was  once  that  library  at 
Blenheim,  —  now  long  since  dispersed, — 
in  which,  when  I  idly  asked  the  custo- 
dian whether  she  did  not  find  it  a  great 
deal  of  trouble  to  keep  them  dusted,  she 
answered  with  surprise,  "  No,  sir,  the 
doors  have  not  been  unlocked  for  ten 
years."  It  is  so  in  some  departments  of 
even  American  libraries. 

Matthew  Arnold  once  replied  to  a 
critic  who  accused  him  of  a  lack  of  learn- 
ing that  the  charge  was  true,  but  that  he 
often  wished  he  had  still  less  of  that  pos- 
session, so  hard  did  he  find  it  to  carry 
lightly  what  he  knew.  The  only  know- 
ledge that  involves  no  burden  lies,  it  may 
be  justly  claimed,  in  the  books  that  are 
left  unread.  I  mean  those  which  remain 
undisturbed,  long  and  perhaps  forever,  on 
a  student's  bookshelves ;  books  for  which 
he  possibly  economized,  and  to  obtain 
which  he  went  without  his  dinner ;  books 
on  whose  backs  his  eyes  have  rested  a 
thousand  times,  t'enderly  and  almost  lov- 
ingly, until  he  has  perhaps  forgotten  the 
very  language  in  which  they  are  written. 
He  has  never  read  them,  yet  during  these 
years  there  has  never  been  a  day  when 
he  would  have  sold  them  ;  they  are  a  part 
of  his  youth.  In  dreams  he  turns  to 
them  ;  in  dreams  he  reads  Hebrew  again  ; 
he  knows  what  a  Differential  Equation 
is ;  "  how  happy  could  he  be  with  either." 


346 


Books   Unread. 


He  awakens,  and  whole  shelves  of  his 
library  are,  as  it  were,  like  fair  maidens 
who  smiled  on  him  in  their  youth  but 
once,  and  then  passed  away.  Under  dif- 
ferent circumstances,  who  knows  but  one 
of  them  might  have  been  his  ?  As  it  is, 
they  have  grown  old  apart  from  him  ;  yet 
for  him  they  retain  their  charms.  He 
meets  them  as  the  ever  delightful  but 
now  half-forgotten  poet  Praed  meets  his 
"  Belle  of  the  Bail-Room  "  in  later  years  : 

' '  For  in  my  heart's  most  secret  cell 

There  had  been  many  other  lodgers ; 
And  she  was  not  the  ball-room's  belle, 
But  only  Mrs.  Something  Rogers." 

So  in  my  case,  my  neighbors  at  the 
Harvard  Observatory  have  solved  the 
differential  equations  ;  my  other  neigh- 
bors, the  priests,  have  read  —  let  us  hope 
—  the  Hebrew  psalms ;  but  I  live  to 
ponder  on  the  books  unread. 

This  volume  of  Hirsch's  Algebra,  for 
instance,  takes  me  back  to  a  happy  period 
when  I  felt  the  charm  given  to  mathemat- 
ics by  the  elder  Peirce,  and  might  easily 
have  been  won  to  devote  my  life  to  them, 
had  casual  tutorships  been  tossed  about 
so  freely  as  now.  No  books  retain  their 
attraction  when  reopened,  I  think,  as 
much  as  the  mathematical ;  the  quaint 
formulae  seeming  like  fascinating  recluses 
with  cowled  heads.  A  mere  foreign  lan- 
guage, even  if  half  forgotten,  is  some- 
thing that  can  be  revived  again.  It  is 
simply  another  country  of  the  world,  and 
you  can  revisit  it  at  will  ;  but  mathemat- 
ics is  another  world.  To  reenter  it  would 
be  to  leave  common  life  behind,  and  yet 
it  seems  so  attractive  that  even  to  sit 
down  and  calculate  a  table  of  logarithms 
would  appear  tempting.  The  fact  of 
dwelling  near  an  observatory,  as  I  do, 
might  seem  to  nourish  this  illusion,  yet  I 
have  never  encountered  any  pursuit,  not 
even  astronomy,  which  does  not  leave  its 
votaries  still,  by  their  own  confession, 
bound  by  the  limitations  of  mortal  men. 

Many  books  go  unread  in  our  libra- 
ries that  are  prized  for  their  associations 
only.  There  is,  for  instance,  yonder  set 


of  Fourier  in  five  volumes.  I  have  read 
them  little,  but  they  are  full  of  manu- 
scripf  notes  in  the  fine  Italian  hand  of  the 
dear  friend  to  whom  I  loaned  them  in 
our  days  at  the  University.  His  life  and 
career  have  e^er  been  a  note  of  sadness 
in  those  early  memories,  but  when  I  open 
the  books  he  comes  before  me  in  all  his 
youthful  charm.  There  is  Fourier's  por- 
trait, still  noble  and  impressive  as  when 
I  pasted  it  in  the  first  volume  ;  nothing 
in  his  books  ever  equaled  it,  yet  its  ex- 
pression is  as  hard  to  read  as  were  his 
books.  How  much  of  that  period  they 
all  represent !  and  each  time  I  open  them, 
the  face  of  Fourier  seems  to  fade  away, 
and  there  is  the  shadowy  impression  of 
that  of  my  friend,  just  receding  at  the 
open  door. 

The  same  illusion  extends  also  to  all 
one's  shelves  of  Greek  and  Latin  authors ; 
they  reproduce  their  associations.  We 
chant  with  Pindar,  sing  with  Catullus, 
without  taking  a  book  from  its  place. 
Yonder  series  of  volumes  of  JEschylus, 
with  his  commentators,  holds  the  eye  with 
charm  and  reverence  ;  I  rarely  open  any 
one  of  them  except  that  which  contains 
the  Agamemnon  ;  and  that  most  often  to 
verify  some  re  -  reading  of  FitzGerald's 
wonderful  translation  ;  the  only  version 
from  the  Greek,  so  far  as  I  know,  in 
which  the  original  text  is  bettered,  and 
one  in  which  the  translator  has  moreover 
put  whole  passages  of  his  own,  that  fitly 
match  the  original.  Yet  he  wrote  in  a 
letter  which  lies  before  me,  "I  am  yet 
not  astonished  (at  my  all  but  seventy 
years  of  age)  with  the  credit  given  me 
for  so  far  succeeding  in  reproducing  other 
men's  thoughts,  which  is  all  I  have  tried 
to  do.  [Italics  my  own.]  I  know  yet 
many  others  would  have  done  as  well, 
and  any  Poet  better."  And  again,  on 
those  other  shelves  are  sixteen  volumes 
relating  to  Aristophanes,  of  which  only 
three  contain  the  originals,  and  all  the 
rest  hold  only  commentaries  or  transla- 
tions, exhibiting  the  works  of  the  one 
light  or  joyous  brain  which  ancient 


Books   Unread. 


347 


Greece  produced  ;  a  poet  who  was  able 
to  balance  all  the  tragedians  by  the  grace 
and  charm  of  his  often  translated  but 
never  reproduced  comedy  of  The  Birds. 

Books  which  we  have  first  read  in  odd 
places  always  retain  their  charm,  whether 
read  or  neglected.  Thus  Hazlitt  always 
remembered  that  it  was  on  the  10th  of 
April,  1798,  that  he  "  sat  down  to  a  vol- 
ume of  the  New  Eloise  at  the  Inn  at  Llan- 
gollen  over  a  bottle  of  sherry  and  a  cold 
chicken."  In  the  same  way  I  remember 
how  Professor  Longfellow  in  college  re- 
commended to  us,  for  forming  a  good 
French  style,  to  read  Balzac's  Peau  de 
Chagrin  ;  and  yet  it  was  a  dozen  years 
later  before  I  found  it  in  a  country  inn, 
on  a  lecture  trip,  and  sat  up  half  the 
night  to  read  it.  It  may  be,  on  the  other 
hand,  that  such  haphazard  meetings  with 
books  sometimes  present  them  under  con- 
ditions hopelessly  unfavorable,  as  when 
I  encountered  Whitman's  Leaves  of 
Grass  for  the  first  time  on  my  first  voy- 
age in  an  Azorian  barque  ;  and  it  inspires 
to  this  day  a  slight  sense  of  nausea,  which 
it  might,  after  all,  have  inspired  equally 
on  land. 

Some  of  my  own  books,  probably  the 
most  battered  and  timeworn,  have  re- 
called for  nearly  half  a  century  the  as- 
sociations of  camp  life  during  the  civil 
war.  They  represent  the  few  chosen 
or  more  likely  accidental  volumes  that 
stood  against  the  wall  in  the  primitive 
little  shelves  at  some  picket  station.  A 
part  of  them  survived  to  be  brought  home 
again  :  the  small  Horace ;  the  thin  vol- 
ume containing  that  unsurpassed  book 
of  terse  nobleness,  Sir  Thomas  Browne's 
Christian  Morals ;  the  new  translation  of 
Jean  Paul's  Titan  just  then  published, 
sent  from  home  by  a  zealous  friend,  and 
handed  from  tent  to  tent  for  reading  in 
the  long  summer  afternoons ;  books  in- 
terrupted by  the  bugle  and  then  begun 
again.  They  were  perhaps  read  and  re- 
read, or  perhaps  never  even  opened  ;  they 
may  never  have  been  opened  since ;  but 
they  now  seem  like  silent  members  of 


the  Loyal  Legion  or  the  Grand  Army  of 
the  Republic.  I  may  or  may  not  care 
much  for  the  individual  men  as  they  are, 
but  they  represent  what  was  and  what 
might  have  been ;  and  it  is  the  same  with 
the  books.  The  same  mixture  of  feel- 
ings applies  to  certain  French  or  German 
books  bought  in  the  lands  where  they 
were  printed,  or  even  imported  thence, 
or  from  old  bookstores  in  London.  No 
matter ;  their  land  is  the  world  of  litera- 
ture ;  their  mere  presence  imparts  a 
feeling  like  that  which  Charles  Lamb 
applies  to  himself  in  the  cloisters  at  Ox- 
ford which  he  had  visited  only  during 
the  weeks  of  vacation  :  "  In  graver  moods, 
I  proceed  Master  of  Ai-ts." 

The  books  most  loved  of  all  in  a  stu- 
dent's library  are  perhaps  those  which 
first  awakened  his  literary  enthusiasm, 
and  which  are  so  long  since  superseded 
by  other  and  possibly  better  books  that  he 
leaves  them  unread  and  yet  cannot  part 
with  them  ;  books  which  even  now  open 
of  themselves  at  certain  favorite  passages, 
having  a  charm  that  can  never  be  com- 
municated to  a  more  recent  reader.  Re- 
membering, as  I  do,  the  first  books  which 
created  in  America  the  long  period  of 
enthusiasm  for  German  literature  which 
has  now  seemingly  spent  itself,  I  turn  to 
them  with  ever  fresh  delight,  although 
I  may  rarely  open  them.  Such,  for  in- 
stance, are  Heine's  Letters  on  German 
Literature,  translated  by  G.  W.  Haven 
in  this  country  in  1836,  and  Mrs.  Aus- 
ten's Characteristics  of  Goethe,  largely 
founded  on  Falk's  recollections,  and  pub- 
lished in  1841.  A  passage  in  this  last 
book  which  always  charmed  me  was 
that  which  described  how  the  heroes  of 
German  literature  —  Goethe,  Herder, 
Wieland,  and  Gleim  —  went  out  with  the 
Court  into  the  forests  where  Goethe's 
gypsy  songs  were  written  ;  and  another 
passage  where  it  says,  "At  the  hermitage, 
where  a  visit  from  a  wandering  stag  is 
not  uncommon,  and  where  the  forester 
watches  the  game  by  the  light  of  the 
autumnal  moon,  a  majestic  tree  is  yet 


348 


Books   Unread. 


standing,  on  which,  inscribed  as  in  a  liv- 
ing album,  the  names  of  Herder,  Gleim, 
Lavater,  Wieland,  and  Goethe,  are  still 
distinctly  legible."  How  many  vows  I 
made  in  youth  to  visit  that  little  hermit- 
age built  of  trunks  of  trees  and  covered 
with  moss,  on  whose  walls  Goethe  had 
written  the  slumber  song  of  summer :  — 

Ueber  alien  Gipfeln 
1st  Huh, 
In  alien  Wipf  eln 
Spiirest  da 
Kaum  einen  Hauch ; 
Die  Vogelein  schweigen  im  Walde. 
Warte  nur,  balde 
Ruhest  du  auch. 

Thus  much  for  Goethe's  Characteristics. 
I  fear  that  my  boyish  copy  of  Heine  opens 
of  itself  at  the  immortal  compliment 
given  by  the  violin  player  Solomons  to 
George  III  of  England,  then  his  pupil : 
"  Violin  players  are  divided  into  three 
classes :  to  the  first  belong  those  who 
cannot  play  at  all ;  to  the  second  belong 
those  who  play  very  miserably ;  and  to 
the  third,  those  who  play  finely ;  Your 
Majesty  has  already  elevated  yourself  to 
the  rank  of  the  second  class."  Tried 
by  such  a  classification,  Heine  certainly 
ranks  in  the  third  class,  not  the  second  ; 
yet  strange  it  is  that,  of  the  two  German 
authors  who  bid  fair  to  live  longest  on 
the  road  to  immortality,  the  one,  Goethe, 
should  be  the  most  absolutely  German 
among  them  all,  while  Heine  died  in 
heart,  as  in  residence,  a  Frenchman. 

But  there  are  other  books,  perhaps 
inherited  or  bought  in  a  deluded  hour, 
that  have  no  page  at  which  they  open  of 
themselves  through  mere  habit.  "  What 
actual  benefits  do  we  reap,"  asks  Hazlitt, 
"  from  the  writings  of  a  Laud,  or  a  Whit- 
gift,  or  a  Bishop  Bull,  or  a  Bishop  Water- 
land,  or  Prideaux's  Connections,  or  Beau- 
sobre,  or  St.  Augustine,  or  of  Pufendorf, 
or  of  Vattel  ?  "  Take  from  this  list  St. 
Augustine,  and  I  could  indorse  it;  but 
his  Confessions  I  think  will  forever 
remain  fascinating  because  they  are  in- 
tensely human,  though  one  cannot  easily 
read  more  than  one  or  two  pages  at  a 


time.  He  makes  revelations  which  are, 
in  depth  of  feeling,  when  compared  to 
the  far-famed  Confessions  of  Rousseau, 
as  Hamlet  to  Love's  Labour  's  Lost.  I 
refer  especially,  in  case  we  must  read 
it  in  English,  to  a  fine  anonymous  frag- 
mentary translation,  far  superior  to  Pu- 
sey's,  and  edited  by  Miss  Elizabeth  P. 
Peabody  in  Boston,  sixty  years  ago. 
Upon  what  superb  sentences  does  one 
open  in  this  version,  "  How  deep  are 
Thy  ways,  O  God,  Thou  only  great,  that 
sittest  silent  on  high  and  by  an  unwearied 
law  dispensing  penal  blindness  to  lawless 
desires !  "  How  this  thought  of  penal 
blindness  haunted  the  author !  and  who 
ever  penetrated  the  desultory  tragedies 
of  too  ardent  youth  like  Augustine? 
"  Thy  wrath  had  gathered  over  me,  and 
I  knew  it  not.  I  was  grown  deaf  by  the 
clanking  of  the  chain  of  my  mortality,  the 
punishment  of  the  pride  of  my  soul,  and 
I  strayed  further  from  Thee,  and  Thou 
lettest  me  alone,  and  I  was  tossed  about, 
and  wasted,  and  dissipated,  and  I  boiled 
over  in  my  fornications,  and  Thou  held- 
est  Thy  peace,  0  Thou  my  tardy  joy ! 
Thou  then  heldest  Thy  peace,  and  I  wan- 
dered further  and  further  from  Thee, 
into  more  and  more  fruitless  seed-plots 
of  sorrow,  and  a  proud  dejectedness,  and 
a  restless  weariness."  What  trenchant 
phrases  are  these !  —  and  what  self -analy- 
sis in  such  revelations  as  this  :  "  What  is 
worthy  of  blame  but  Vice  ?  But  I  made 
myself  worse  than  I  was,  that  I  might 
not  be  dispraised  ;  and  when  in  anything 
I  had  not  sinned  like  the  abandoned  ones, 
I  would  say  that  I  had  done  what  I  had 
not  done,  that  I  might  not  seem  con- 
temptible in  proportion  as  I  was  innocent ; 
or  of  less  account,  the  more  chaste." 

Who  can  wonder  that  the  heretical 
Pope,  Clement  XIV  (Ganganelli),  wrote, 
"  Take  care  to  procure  the  Confessions 
of  St.  Augustine,  a  book  written  with 
his  tears  "  ?  or  who  can  be  surprised  that 
a  certain  Bishop  said  to  Augustine's  mo- 
ther, when  she  reproached  him  for  not 
watching  and  questioning  her  son  inces- 


Books   Unread. 


349 


santly,  "Go  thy  ways  and  God  bless 
thee,  for  it  is  not  possible  that  the  son 
of  these  tears  should  perish  "  ?  Most  im- 
portant of  all,  and  a  passage  which  I,  for 
one,  would  gladly  see  engrossed  on  parch- 
ment and  hung  above  the  desk  of  every 
teacher  of  elocution  in  America,  is  the 
following :  — 

"Behold,  O  Lord  God,  yea,  behold 
patiently,  as  Thou  art  wont,  how  care- 
fully the  sons  of  men  observe  the  cove- 
nanted rules  of  letters  and  syllables  that 
those  who  spake  before  them  used,  neg- 
lecting the  eternal  covenant  of  everlast- 
ing salvation  received  from  Thee.  In 
asmuch,  that  a  teacher  or  learner  of  the 
hereditary  laws  of  pronunciation  will 
more  offend  men,  by  speaking  without 
the  aspirate,  of  a  '  uman  being,'  in  de- 
spite of  the  laws  of  grammar,  than  if  he, 
a  '  human  being,'  hate  a  '  human  being  ' 
in  despite  of  Thee.  ...  In  quest  of  the 
fame  of  eloquence,  a  man  standing  before 
a  human  judge,  surrounded  by  a  human 
throng,  declaiming  against  his  enemy 
with  fiercest  hatred,  will  take  heed  most 
watchfully,  lest,  by  an  error  of  the  tongue, 
he  murder  the  word  '  human-being ; ' 
but  takes  no  heed,  lest,  through  the  mal- 
ice of  his  heart,  he  murder  the  real  hu- 
man being." 

There  are  many  books  which,  although 
left  unread,  are  to  be  valued  for  single 
sentences  only,  to  be  found  here  and 
there.  Others  are  prized  for  the  pic- 
turesque manner  in  which  their  quarto 
or  folio  pages  are  filled  with  capital  or 
italic  letters,  or  even  for  the  superb  and 
daring  eccentricity  of  their  title-pages 
alone.  I  have  volumes  of  Jacob  Behmen 
where  each  detached  line  of  the  title-page 
has  something  quaint  and  picturesque  in 
it,  and  a  dozen  different  fonts  of  type 
are  drawn  upon  to  conduct  the  reader 
through  their  mazes,  as  for  instance  in 
this:  — 

"  Aurora. 

That  is,  the 

Day-Spring. 

Or 


Dawning  of  the  Day  in  the  Orient 

Or 

Morning-Rednesse 
in  the  Rising  of  the 

Sun. 
That  is 

The  Root  or  Mother  of 

Philosophic,  Astrologie  &  Theologie 

from  the  true  Ground. 

Or 

A  Description  of  Nature. 
All  this  set  down  diligently  from  a  true 

Ground  in  the  Knowledge  of  the 
Spirit,  and  in  the  impulse  of  God, 

By 

Jacob  Behme 

Teutonick  Philosopher. 

Being  his  First  Book. 

Written  in  Gerlitz   in    Germany  Anno 

Christi  M.  DC.  XII.  on  Tuesday  after 

the  Day  of  Pentecost  or  Whitsunday 

^tatis  suae  37. 

London,  Printed  by  John  Streater,  for 
Giles  [sic]  Calvert,  and  are  be  sold  at 
his  Shop  at  the  Black-spread-Eagle  at 

the  West-End  of  Pauls,  1656." 
Could  I  represent  this  title-page  by  pho- 
tography as  it  is,  you  would  see  "  Day- 
Spring  "  in  lower-case  letters  ;  but  in  the 
largest  type  of  all,  as  if  leading  a  flight, 
the  "  Morning-Rednesse  "  in  broad  smil- 
ing German  text,  the  "  Dawning  of  the 
Day  in  the  Orient  "  in  a  long  italic  line 
which  suggests  the  very  expansion  of  the 
light ;  and  the  "  Sun  "  in  the  very  centre 
of  the  page,  as  if  all  else  were  concentrat- 
ed there  ;  the  word  itself  being  made  still 
terser,  if  possible,  by  the  old-fashioned 
spelling,  since  it  reads  briefly  "  SVN." 

Or  consider  such  a  magnificent  hurl- 
ing together  of  stately  and  solemn  words 
as  this ;  the  whole  Judgment  Day  of  the 
Universe,  as  it  were,  brought  together 
into  a  title-page  :  — 

"  Signatura  Rerum : 

or  the 
Signature  of  all  Things: 

shewing 

The  Sign,  and  Signification  of  the  sev- 
erall 


350 


Books   Unread. 


Forms  and  Shapes  in  the 

Creation : 
And  what  the 

Beginning,  Ruin,  and  Cure  of  every 
Thing  is  ;   it  proceeds  out  of  Eternity 

into  Time, 
and  again  out  of  Time  into  Eternity, 

and  comp- 

rizeth  All  Mysteries. 

Written  in  High  Dutch,  MDCXXIL 

By  Jacob  Behmen, 

alias 
Teutonicus  Phylosophus. 

London, 
Printed  by  John  Macock,  for  Gyles  Cal- 

vert,  at  the  black  spread 
Eagle,  at  the  West  end  of  Pauls  Church, 

1651." 

Here  again  the  words  "  Beginning,  Ruin, 
and  Cure  "  are  given  in  large  italic  let- 
ters, and  I  never  open  the  book  without 
a  renewed  sensation  of  awe,  very  much 
as  if  I  were  standing  beside  that  gulf 
which  yawned  at  Lisbon  in  1755,  and 
had  seen  those  30,000  human  beings 
swallowed  up  before  my  eyes. 

We  do  not  sufficiently  appreciate,  in 
modern  books,  the  condensed  and  at 
least  readable  title-pages  which  stand 
sentinel,  as  it  were,  at  their  beginning. 
We  forget  how  much  more  easily  the 
books  of  two  centuries  ago  were  left  un- 
read, inasmuch  as  the  title-page  was  apt 
to  be  in  itself  as  long  as  a  book.  Take, 
for  instance,  this  quaint  work,  not  to  be 
found  in  Allibone's  Dictionary  of  Au- 
thors, but  owing  its  authorship  to  "  J. 
Bland,  Professor  of  Physic,"  who  pub- 
lished in  1773,  at  London,  "  An  Essay  in 
Praise  of  Women  ;  or  a  Looking  Glass 
for  Ladies  to  see  their  Perfections  in 
with  Observations  how  the  Godhead 
seemed  concerned  in  their  Creation ; 
what  Respect  is  due  to  them  on  that 
Account ;  how  they  have  behaved  in  all 
Ages  and  especially  in  our  Saviour's 
Time."  Thus  begins  the  title-page,  which 
is  as  long  as  an  ordinary  chapter,  and 
closes  thus  :  "  Also  Observations  and  Re- 
flections in  Defense  against  base  and 


satirical  Authors,  proving  them  not  only 
erroneous  and  diabolical  but  repugnant 
to  Holy  Scripture.  The  Whole  being  a 
Composition  of  Wit  and  Humor,  Moral- 
ity and  Divinity  fit  to  be  perused  by  all 
the  curious  and  ingenious,  especially  the 
Ladies."  After  this  title-page,  it  is  ask- 
ing too  much  of  any  one  to  read  the  book, 
unless  it  be  to  study  the  manner  in  which 
the  tea-table,  now  held  so  innocent,  had, 
in  1733,  such  associations  of  luxury  and 
extravagance  that  Professor  J.  Bland  is 
compelled  to  implore  husbands  not  to  find 
fault  with  it.  "  More  harmless  liquor 
could  never  be  invented  than  the  ladies 
in  this  age  have  made  choice  of.  What 
is  so  pleasant  and  grateful  to  the  taste  as 
a  dish  of  tea,  sweetened  with  fine  loaf 
sugar  ?  What  more  innocent  banquet 
could  have  ever  been  in  use  than  this? 
and  what  more  becoming  conversation 
than  the  inoffensive,  sweet  and  melodi- 
ous expressions  of  the  fair  ones  over  an 
entertainment  so  much  like  themselves  ?  " 
Or  let  us  turn  to  one  of  the  early 
American  books,  "  The  Columbian  Muse, 
a  Selection  of  American  Poetry  from 
various  Authors  of  Established  Reputa- 
tion. Published  in  New  York  in  1794." 
The  most  patriotic  American  could  not 
now  read  it  with  patience,  yet  the  most 
unpatriotic  cannot  deny  its  quaint  and 
fervent  flavor.  It  is  full  of  verses  on  the 
President's  birthday  and  the  genius  of 
America  ;  and  of  separate  odes  on  Amer- 
ican sages,  American  poets,  and  Ameri- 
can painters.  The  monotonous  coup- 
lets, the  resounding  adjectives,  the  per- 
sonifications, the  exclamation  points,  all 
belong  to  their  period,  the  time  when 
"  Inoculation,  heavenly  maid "  was 
deemed  an  appropriate  opening  for  an 
ode.  The  very  love  poetry  was  patriotic 
and  bore  the  title  "  On  Love  and  the 
American  Fair,"  by  Colonel  Humphreys, 
who  also  contributes  a  discourse  on  "  The 
Future  State,"  which  turns  out  to  refer 
to  "  Western  Territory."  Aside  from  the 
semi-political  allusions  there  is  no  local 
coloring  whatever,  except  that  Richard 


Books   Unread. 


351 


Alsop  in  an  elegy  written  in  February, 
1791,  gives  the  very  first  instance,  so  far 
as  I  know,  of  au  allusion  in  verse  to  any 
flower  distinctively  American  :  — 

"  There  the  Wild-Rose  in  earliest  pride  shall 

bloom, 

There  the  Magnolia's  gorgeous  flowers  un- 
fold, 

The  purple  Violet  shed  its  sweet  perfume : 
And  beauteous  Meadia  wave  her  plumes  of 
gold." 

This  last  plant,  though  not  here  accurate- 
ly described,  must  evidently  have  been 
the  Dodecatheon  Meadia,  or  "  Shooting 
Star."  This  is  really  the  highest  point  of 
Americanism  attained  in  the  dingy  little 
volume ;  the  low-water  mark  being  clear- 
ly found  when  we  read  in  the  same  vol- 
ume the  work  of  a  poet  then  known  as 
"  W.  M.  Smith,  Esq.,"  who  could  thus 
appeal  to  American  farmers  to  celebrate 
a  birthday  :  — 

"  Shepherds,  then,  the  chorus  join, 
Haste  the  festive  wreath  to  twine : 
Come  with  bosoms  all  sincere, 
Come  with  breasts  devoid  of  care ; 
Bring  the  pipe  and  merry  lay, 
'T  is  Elua's  natal  day." 

Wordsworth  says  in  his  Personal  Talk, 
"  Dreams,  books  are  each  a  world  ;  " 

and  the  books  unread  mingle  with  the 
dreams  and  unite  the  charm  of  both. 
This  applies  especially,  I  think,  to  books 
of  travel ;  we  buy  them,  finding  their 
attractions  strong,  but  somehow  we  do 
not  read  them  over  and  over,  unless 
they  prove  to  be  such  books  as  those  of 
Urquhart,  —  the  Pillars  of  Hercules  espe- 
cially, where  the  wealth  of  learning  and 
originality  is  so  great  that  we  seem  in  a 
different  region  of  the  globe  on  every 
page.  One  of  the  most  poetic  things 
about  Whittier's  temperament  lay  in  this 
fact,  that  he  felt  most  eager  to  visit  each 


foreign  country  before  he  had  read  any 
book  about  it.  After  reading,  the  dream 
was  half  fulfilled,  and  he  turned  to  some- 
thing else,  so  that  he  died  without  visit- 
ing any  foreign  country.  But  the  very 
possession  of  such  books,  and  their  pre- 
sence on  the  shelves,  carries  one  to  the 
Arctic  regions  or  to  the  Indian  Ocean. 
No  single  book  of  travels  in  Oceanica,  it 
may  be,  will  last  so  long  as  that  one  stanza 
of  Whittier's,  — 

"  I  know  not  where  Thine  islands  lift 

Their  f  ronded  palms  in  air ; 

But  this  I  know,  I  cannot  drift 

Beyond  Thy  love  and  care." 

How  often  have  I  known  that  poem  to 
be  recited  by  those  who  did  not  even 
know  the  meaning  of  the  word  "  f  rond- 
ed " !  It  is  the  poet,  not  the  explorer 
or  the  geographer,  who  makes  the  whole 
round  world  his  own. 

'  After  all,"  as  the  brilliant  and  melan- 
choly Ruf  us  Choate  said,  "  a  book  is  the 
only  immortality  ;  "  and  sometimes  when 
a  book  is  attacked  and  even  denounced, 
its  destiny  of  fame  is  only  confirmed. 
Thus  the  vivacious  and  cheery  Pope,  Pio 
Nono,  when  asked  by  a  too  daring  author 
to  help  on  his  latest  publication,  suggest- 
ed that  he  could  only  aid  it  by  putting  it 
in  the  Index  Expurgatorius.  Yet  if  a 
book  is  to  be  left  unread  at  last,  the  fault 
must  ultimately  rest  on  the  author,  even 
as  the  brilliant  Lady  Eastlake  com- 
plained, when  she  wrote  of  modern  Eng- 
lish novelists,  "  Things  are  written  now 
to  be  read  once,  and  no  more  ;  that  is, 
they  are  read  as  often  as  they  deserve. 
A  book  in  old  times  took  five  years  to 
write  and  was  read  five  hundred  times 
by  five  hundred  people.  Now  it  is  writ- 
ten in  three  months,  and  read  once  by 
five  hundred  thousand  people.  That 's 
the  proper  proportion." 

Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson. 


352  Thanks.  —  The   Common  Lot. 


THANKS. 

THANKS  to  you,  sun  and  moon  and  star, 
And  you,  blue  level  with  no  cloud,  — 
Thanks  to  you,  splendors  from  afar, 
For  a  high  heart,  a  neck  unbowed. 

Thanks  to  you,  wind,  sent  to  and  fro, 
To  you,  light,  pouring  from  the  dawn ; 
Thanks  for  the  breath  and  glory-flow 
The  steadfast  soul  can  feed  upon. 

Thanks  to  you,  pain  and  want  and  care, 
And  you,  joys,  cunning  to  deceive, 
And  you,  balked  phantoms  of  despair; 
I  battle  on,  and  I  believe. 

Thanks  to  you  ministers  benign, 
In  whatsoever  guise  you  come ; 
Under  this  fig  tree  and  this  vine, 
Here  I  am  master,  and  at  home. 

John  Vance  Cheney. 


THE  COMMON  LOT.1 

VIII.  died    and    remembered    him    in    their 

wills." 

"  HELLO,  Jackie !  "  But  Cook  dismissed  the  subject  by 

Such  familiarity  of  address  on  the  part  calling  out  to  one  of  the  men,  "  Say, 

of  Wright's  head  draughtsman  had  long  Ed,  come  over  here  and  tell  me  what 

annoyed  Hart,  but  this  morning,  instead  you  were  trying  to  do  with  this  old  hen- 

of  nodding  curtly,  he  replied  briskly,  —  coop." 

"  Hello,  Cookey !  "  He  might  take  privileges  with  the  au- 

The  draughtsman  winked  at  his  neigh-  gust  Jackson  Hart,  whose  foreign  train- 

bor  and  thrust  out  an  elbow  at  a  derisive  ing  had  rather  oppressed  the  office  force 

angle,  as  he  laid  himself  down  on  the  at  times ;  but  he  would  not  allow  Gracie 

linen  plan  he  was  carefully  inking  in.  Bellows,  the  stenographer,  to  "  mix  "  in 

The  man  next  to  him  snickered,  and  the  his  joke. 

stenographer  just  outside  the  door  smiled.  Cook  was  a  spare,  black-haired  little 

An  office  joke  was  in  the  air.  man,  with  beady  brown  eyes,  like  a  squir- 

"  Mr.  Hart  looks  as  though  something  rel's.     He  was  a  product   of  Wright's 

good   had  happened  to   him,"  the  ste-  Chicago  office,  having  worked  his  way  to 

nographer  remarked  in  a  mincing  tone,  the  practical  headship  of  the  force.     Al- 

"  Perhaps  some  more  of  his  folks  have  though  he  permitted  himself  his  little 

1  Copyright,  1903,  by  ROBERT  HKKKICK. 


The   Common  Lot. 


353 


fling  at  Hart,  he  was  the  young  architect's 
warmest  admirer,  approving  even  those 
magnificent  palaces  of  the  French  Renais- 
sance type  which  the  Beaux  Arts  man 
put  forth  during  the  first  months  of  his 
connection  with  the  firm. 

The  little  man,  who  was  as  sharp  as 
one  of  his  own  India  ink  lines,  could  see 
that  Hart  had  something  on  his  mind, 
and  he  was  curious,  in  all  friendliness,  to 
find  out  what  it  was.  But  Hart  did  not 
emerge  from  his  little  box  of  an  office 
for  several  hours.  Then  he  sauntered 
by  Cook's  table,  pausing  to  look  out  of 
the  window  while  he  abstractedly  lighted 
a  cigarette. 

Presently  the  stenographer  came  up 
to  Hart  and  said  :  — 

"  Mr.  Graves  is  out  there  and  wants 
to  see  you  particular,  Mr.  Hart.  Shall 
I  show  him  into  your  office  ?  " 

"Ask  him  to  wait,"  the  young  archi- 
tect ordered. 

After  he  had  smoked  and  stared  for  a 
few  moments  longer,  he  turned  to  Cook. 

"What  did  we  specify  those  I-beams 
on  the  Canostota  ?  Were  they  forty-twos 
or  sixties  ?  " 

Without  raising  his  hand  from  the  mi- 
nute lines  of  the  linen  sheet,  the  draughts- 
man grunted :  — 

"  Don't  remember  j  ust  what.  Were  n't 
forty -twos.  Nothing  less  than  sixties 
ever  got  out  of  this  office,  I  guess.  May 
be  eighties." 

"  Um,"  the  architect  reflected,  knock- 
ing his  cigarette  against  the  table.  "  It 
makes  a  difference  in  the  sizes  what  make 
they  are,  does  n't  it  ?  " 

"  It  don't  make  any  difference  about 
the  weights  !  "  And  the  draughtsman 
turned  to  his  linen  sheet  with  a  shrug  of 
the  shoulders  that  said,  "  You  ought  to 
know  that  much  !  " 

The  architect  continued  to  stare  out 
of  the  murky  window. 

"  When  is  Harmon  coming  back?" 

"  Ed  lives  out  his  way,  and  he  says 
it 's  long-term  typhoid.  You  can't  tell 
when  he  '11  be  back." 

VOL.  xcm.  —  NO.  557.  23 


"  Has  the  old  man  wired  anything  new 
about  his  plans  ?  " 

"  You  '11  have  to  ask  Miss  Bellows." 

"  He  said  he  'd  be  here  next  Wednes- 
day or  Thursday  at  the  latest." 

The  draughtsman  stared  hard  at  Hart, 
wondering  what  was  in  the  man's  mind. 
But  he  made  no  answer  to  the  last  re- 
mark, and  presently  Hart  sauntered  to 
the  next  window. 

As  Hart  well  knew,  Graves  was  wait- 
ing to  close  that  arrangement  which  he 
had  proposed  for  building  an  apartment 
house.  The  architect  had  intended  to 
look  up  the  Canostota  specifications  be- 
fore he  went  further  with  Graves,  but  he 
had  been  distracted  by  other  matters. 

Jackson  Hart  was  not  given  to  undue 
speculation  over  matters  of  conduct.  He 
had  a  serviceable  code  of  business  morals, 
which  hitherto  had  met  all  the  demands 
of  his  experience.  He  called  this  code 
"professional  etiquette."  In  this  case 
he  was  not  clear  how  the  code  should 
be  applied.  The  Canostota  was  not  his 
affair.  It  was  only  by  the  merest  acci- 
dent that  he  had  been  sent  there  that  day 
to  help  the  electricians,  and  had  seen 
that  drill-hole  which  had  led  him  to 
question  the  thickness  of  the  I-beams, 
about  which  he  might  very  well  have 
been  mistaken.  If  there  were  anything 
wrong  with  them,  it  was  Wright's  busi- 
ness to  see  that  the  contractor  was  pro- 
perly watched  when  the  steel  work  was 
being  run  through  the  mill.  And  he  did 
not  feel  any  special  sense  of  obligation 
toward  Wright,  who  had  never  displayed 
any  great  confidence  in  him. 

He  wanted  the  contractor's  commis- 
sion, now  more  than  ever,  with  his  en- 
gagement to  Helen  freshly  pricking  him 
to  look  for  bread  and  butter ;  wanted  it 
all  the  more  because  all  thought  of  fight- 
ing his  uncle's  will  had  gone  when  Helen 
had  accepted  him. 

When  he  rang  for  the  stenographer 
and  told  her  to  show  Graves  into  his 
office,  he  had  made  up  his  mind.  Clos- 
ing his  door,  he  turned  and  looked  into 


354 


The   Common  Lot. 


the  contractor's  heavy  face  with  an  air 
of  alert  determination.  He  was  about 
to  play  his  own  game  for  the  first  time, 
and  he  felt  the  man's  excitement  of  it ! 

The  two  remained  shut  up  in  Hart's 
cubby-hole  for  over  an  hour.  When 
Cook  had  returned  from  the  restaurant 
in  the  basement  where  he  lunched,  and 
the  other  men  had  taken  their  hats  and 
coats  from  the  lockers,  Hart  stepped  out 
of  his  office  and  walked  across  the  room 
to  Cook's  table.  He  spread  before  the 
draughtsman  a  fresh  sepia  sketch,  the 
water  scarcely  dried  on  it.  It  was  the 
front  elevation  for  a  house,  such  a  one 
as  is  described  impressively  in  the  news- 
papers as  "  Mr.  So-and-So's  handsome 
country  residence." 

"  Now,  that 's  what  I  call  a  peach  !  " 
Cook  whistled  through  his  closed  teeth, 
squinting  at  the  sketch  admiringly.  "  No- 
thing like  that  residence  has  come  out  of 
this  office  for  a  good  long  time.  The  old 
man  don't  favor  houses  as  a  rule.  Is  this 
for  some  magnate  ?  " 

"  This  is  n't  for  the  firm,"  Hart  an- 
swered. 

"  Oh  !  "  Cook  received  the  news  with 
evident  disappointment.  "  Just  a  fancy 
sketch?" 

"  Not  for  a  minute  !  This  is  my  own 
business.  It's  for  a  Mrs.  Phillips  at 
Forest  Park." 

Cook  looked  again  at  the  elevation  of 
the  large  house  with  admiring  eyes.  If 
he  had  ever  penetrated  beyond  the  con- 
fines of  Cook  County  in  the  state  of  Illi- 
nois, he  might  have  wondered  less  at 
Hart's  creation.  But  he  was  not  fami- 
liar with  the  Loire  chateaux,  even  in 
photograph,  for  Wright's  taste  happened 
to  be  early  English. 

"  So  you  're  going  to  shake  us  ?  "  Cook 
asked  regretfully. 

"  Just  as  soon  as  I  can  have  a  word 
with  Mr.  Wright.  This  is  n't  the  only 
job  I  have  on  hand." 

"  Is  that  so  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  want  to  come  in  ?  "  Hart 
asked  abruptly.  "  I  shall  want  a  good 


practical  man  in  the  office.  How  would 
you  like  to  run  the  new  office  ?  " 

Cook's  manner  froze  into  caution. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  It 's  pretty  good 
up  here  looking  after  Wright's  business." 

Hart  picked  up  his  sketch  and  turned 
away. 

"  I  thought  you  might  like  the  chance. 
Some  of  the  men  I  knew  in  Paris  may 
join  me,  and  I  shan't  have  much  trouble 
in  making  up  a  good  team." 

Then  he  went  out  to  his  luncheon,  and 
when  he  returned,  he  shut  himself  up  in 
his  box,  stalking  by  Cook's  desk  without 
a  word.  When  he  came  forth  again  the 
day's  work  was  over,  and  the  office  force 
had  left.  Cook  was  still  dawdling  over 
his  table. 

"  Say,  Hart !  "  he  called  out  to  the 
architect.  "I  don't  want  you  to  have 
the  wrong  idea  about  my  refusing  that 
offer  of  yours.  I  don't  mind  letting  you 
know  that  I  ain't  fixed  like  most  of  the 
boys.  I  've  got  a  family  to  look  after, 
my  mother  and  sister  and  two  kid  bro- 
thers. It  is  n't  easy  for  us  to  pull  along 
on  my  pay,  and  I  can't  afford  to  take  any 
chances." 

"  Who 's  asking  you  to  take  chances, 
Cookey  ?  "  Hart  answered,  mollified  at 
once.  "  Perhaps  you  might  do  well  by 
yourself." 

"You  see,"  Cook  explained  further, 
"  my  sister 's  being  educated  to  teach,  but 
she  's  got  two  years  more  at  the  Nor- 
mal. And  Will 's  just  begun  high  school. 
Ed  's  the  only  earner  besides  myself  in 
the  whole  bunch,  and  what  he  gets  don't 
count." 

Thereupon  the  architect  sat  down  on 
the  edge  of  the  draughting  -  table  in 
friendly  fashion  and  talked  freely  of  his 
plans.  He  hinted  at  the  work  for  Graves 
and  at  his  prospects  with  the  railroad. 

"  I  have  ten  thousand  dollars  in  the 
bank,  anyway.  That  will  keep  the  office 
going  some  time.  And  I  don't  mind  tell- 
ing you  that  I  have  something  at  stake, 
too,"  he  added  in  a  burst  of  confidence. 
"  I  am  going  to  be  married." 


The   Common  Lot. 


355 


Cook  grinned  sympathetically.  It 
pleased  him  vastly  to  be  told  of  Hart's 
engagement  in  this  confidential  way. 
After  some  further  talk  the  matter  of  the 
new  office  was  arranged  between  them 
then  and  there.  Cook  agreed  to  look  into 
a  new  building  that  had  just  pushed  its 
head  among  the  skyscrapers  near  the 
Maramanoc,  to  see  if  there  was  anything 
left  that  would  answer  their  purposes. 
As  they  were  leaving  the  office,  Hart 
stopped,  exclaiming,  — 

"  I  've  got  to  telephone !     Don't  wait." 

"  That  's  always  the  way,"  the 
draughtsman  replied.  "  You  '11  be  tele- 
phoning most  of  the  time,  now,  I  ex- 
pect !  " 

The  architect  did  not  telephone  to 
Helen  Spellman,  however.  He  called  up 
his  cousin's  office  to  tell  Wheeler  that  he 
had  concluded  not  to  contest  the  will. 

"  And  Everett,"  he  said  frankly,  "  I 
guess  I  have  made  rather  an  ass  of  my- 
self, telling  you  I  was  going  to  kick  up 
a  row.  I  hope  you  won't  say  anything 
about  it." 

The  lawyer  wondered  what  had 
brought  about  this  change  of  heart  in  his 
cousin.  Later,  when  the  news  of  the  en- 
gagement reached  him,  he  understood. 
For  he  knew  Helen,  in  a  way  better  than 
her  lover  did,  — knew  her  as  one  knows 
the  desired  and  unattainable. 

A  few  days  later  Wright  reached  the 
office,  and  Hart  told  him  of  his  plan  to 
start  for  himself,  asking  for  an  early 
release  because  important  business  was 
waiting  for  his  entire  attention. 

Wright  had  arrived  only  that  morn- 
ing ;  he  was  seated  before  his  broad  desk, 
which  was  covered  to  the  depth  of  sev- 
eral inches  with  blue  prints,  typewritten 
specifications,  and  unopened  mail.  He 
had  been  wrestling  with  contractors  and 
clients  every  minute  since  he  had  entered 
the  office,  and  it  was  now  late  in  the  af- 
ternoon. 

"  So  you  are  going  to  try  it  for  your- 
self," he  commented,  a  new  wrinkle 


gathering  on  his  clouded  brow.  It  oc- 
curred to  him  that  Hart  might  be  merely 
hinting  politely  for  an  advance  in  salary, 
but  he  dismissed  the  thought.  "Have 
you  had  enough  experience  ?  "  he  asked 
bluntly. 

"  I  '11  be  likely  to  get  some  more  !  " 
Hart  replied,  irritated  at  the  remark. 

"  I  mean  of  the  actual  conditions  under 
which  we  have  to  build, — the  contractors, 
the  labor  market,  and  so  on  ?  Of  course 
you  can  leave  at  once  if  you  wish  to.  I 
should  n't  want  to  stand  in  your  light. 
It  is  rather  a  bad  time  with  Harmon 
home  sick.  But  we  can  manage  some- 
how. Cook  is  a  pretty  good  man  for  al- 
most everything.  And  we  can  draw  on 
the  St.  Paul  office." 

Hart  murmured  his  regret  at  the  incon- 
venience of  his  departure,  and  Wright 
said  nothing  for  a  few  minutes.  He  re- 
membered now  that  some  one  had  told 
him  that  Hart  was  drawing  plans  for 
Mrs.  Phillips.  That  had  probably  made 
the  young  architect  ambitious  to  start  for 
himself.  He  felt  that  Hart  should  have 
asked  his  consent  before  undertaking  this 
outside  work.  At  least  it  would  have 
been  more  delicate  to  do  so.  But  Wright 
was  a  kindly  man,  and  bore  no  malice. 
In  what  he  said  next  to  the  young  archi- 
tect he  was  moved  by  pure  good  will. 

"  I  don't  want  to  discourage  you,  Hart, 
but  I  know  what  sort  of  luck  young  fel- 
lows, the  best  of  them,  have  these  days 
when  they  start  a  new  office.  It 's  fierce 
work  getting  business,  here  especially." 

"I  suppose  so,"  Hart  admitted  con- 
ventionally. 

"  The  fine  art  side  of  the  profession 
don't  count  much  with  client  or  contrac- 
tor. It 's  just  a  tussle  all  the  time  !  "  he 
sighed,  reflecting  how  he  had  spent  two 
hours  of  his  morning  in  trying  to  con- 
vince a  wealthy  client  of  the  folly  of  cut- 
ting down  construction  cost  from  fifty  to 
thirty  cents  a  cubic  foot. 

"You  young  fellows  just  over  from 
the  other  side  don't  realize  what  it  means 
to  run  an  office.  If  you  succeed,  you 


356 


The   Common  Lot. 


have  no  time  to  think  of  your  sketches, 
except  after  dinner  or  on  the  train,  may- 
be. And  if  you  don't  succeed,  you  have 
to  grab  at  every  little  job  to  earn  enough 
to  pay  office  expenses." 

Hart's  blank  face  did  not  commit  him 
to  this  wisdom. 

"  The  only  time  I  ever  had  any  real 
fun  was  when  I  was  working  for  the  old 
firm,  in  New  York.  God !  I  did  some 
pretty  good  things  then.  Old  man  Post 
used  to  trim  me  down  when  I  got  out  of 
sight  of  the  clients,  but  he  let  me  have 
all  the  rope  he  could.  And  now,  —  why, 
it 's  you  who  have  the  fun !  " 

"  And  you  who  trim  me  down  !  "  Hart 
retorted,  with  a  grim  little  smile. 

"Well,  perhaps.  I  have  to  keep  an 
eye  on  all  you  Paris  fellows.  You  come 
over  here  well  trained,  damned  well 
trained,  —  we  can't  do  anything  like  it 
in  this  country,  —  but  it  takes  a  few 
years  for  you  to  forget  that  you  are  n't 
in  la  belle  France.  And  some  never  get 
over  their  habit  of  making  everything 
French  Renaissance.  You  are  n't  flexi- 
ble. Some  of  you  are  n't  creative  —  I 
mean,"  he  said,  getting  warm  on  a  favor- 
ite topic,  "you  don't  feel  the  situation 
here.  You  copy.  You  try  to  express 
everything  just  as  you  were  taught.  You 
have  got  to  feel  things  for  yourself,  by 
thunder ! " 

Hart  kept  his  immobile  face.  It  did 
not  interest  him  to  know  what  Wright 
thought  of  the  Beaux  Arts  men.  Yet 
he  had  no  intention  of  falling  out  with 
Wright,  who  was  one  of  the  leading  ar- 
chitects of  the  country,  and  whose  con- 
nection might  be  valuable  to  him. 

"  I  see  you  don't  care  to  have  me 
preach,"  the  older  man  concluded  hu- 
morously. "  And  you  know  your  own 
business  best." 

The  Powers  Jackson  educational  be- 
quest meant  that  there  would  be  a  chance 
for  some  one  to  do  a  large  public  build- 
ing. Probably  the  family  interests  had 
arranged  to  put  this  important  piece  of 
work  into  Hart's  hands.  Wright  hoped 


for  the  sake  of  his  art  that  the  trustees 
would  put  off  building  until  the  young 
architect  had  developed  more  indepen- 
dence and  firmness  of  standard  than  he 
had  yet  shown. 

"  I  think  I  understand  a  little  better 
than  I  did  two  years  ago  what  it  takes 
to  succeed  here  in  Chicago,"  Hart  re- 
marked at  last. 

Wright  shot  a  piercing  glance  at  him 
out  of  his  tired  eyes. 

"  It  means  a  good  many  different 
kinds  of  things,"  the  older  man  said  slow- 
ly. "  Just  as  many  in  architecture  as  else- 
where. It  is  n't  the  firm  that  is  putting 
up  the  most  expensive  buildings  that  is 
always  making  the  biggest  success,  by  a 
long  shot." 

"  I  suppose  not,"  Hart  admitted. 

And  there  the  conversation  lapsed. 
The  older  man  felt  the  real  impossibility 
of  piercing  the  young  architect's  manner, 
his  imperturbability. 

"  He  does  n't  like  me,"  he  said  to 
himself  reproachfully. 

For  he  would  have  liked  to  say  some- 
thing to  the  younger  man  out  of  his  twen- 
ty years  of  experience,  something  con- 
cerning the  eternal  conflict  there  is  in  all 
the  professions  between  a  man's  ideals  of 
his  work  and  the  practical  possibilities  in 
the  world  we  have  about  us ;  something, 
too,  concerning  the  necessity  of  yield- 
ing to  the  brute  facts  of  life  and  yet  not 
yielding  everything.  But  he  had  learned 
the  great  truth  that  talk  never  saves  a 
man  from  his  fate,  especially  that  kind 
of  talk.  A  man  lives  up  to  what  there 
is  in  him,  and  Jackson  Hart  would  follow 
the  rule. 

So  he  dug  his  hands  into  the  letters 
on  his  desk,  and  said  by  way  of  conclu- 
sion :  — 

"  Perhaps  we  can  throw  some  things 
your  way.  There  's  a  little  job,  now." 
He  held  up  a  letter  he  had  just  glanced 
at.  "  They  want  me  to  recommend  some 
one  to  build  a  clubhouse  at  Oak  Hills. 
There  is  n't  much  in  it.  They  can't 
spend  but  seven  thousand  dollars.  But 


The   Common  Lot. 


357 


I  had  rather  take  that  than  do  some 
other  things !  " 

"Thank  you,"  Hart  replied  with  con- 
siderable animation.  "  Of  course  I  want 
every  chance  I  can  get." 

He  took  the  letter  from  Wright's  out- 
stretched hand. 

IX. 

After  the  few  swift  months  of  spring 
and  summer  they  were  to  be  married, 
late  in  the  fall. 

Above  the  lake  at  Forest  Park,  in  a 
broad,  open  field,  Mrs.  Phillips's  great 
house  had  already  risen.  It  was  judged 
variously  by  those  who  had  seen  it,  but 
it  altogether  pleased  the  widow ;  and  the 
architect  regarded  it  —  the  first  work 
of  his  manhood  —  with  complacency  and 
pride.  Helen  had  not  seen  it  since  the 
walls  had  passed  the  first  story.  Then, 
one  day  late  in  September,  the  architect 
and  she  made  the  little  journey  from  the 
city,  and  walked  over  to  the  house  from 
the  Shoreham  station,  up  the  lake  road. 

It  was  a  still,  soft  fall  day,  with  all 
the  mild  charm  of  late  summer  that 
comes  only  in  this  region.  The  leaves 
still  clung  in  bronzed  masses  to  the  little 
oaks ;  a  stray  maple  leaf  dipped  down, 
now  and  then,  from  a  gaudy  yellow  tree, 
and  sailed  like  a  bird  along  their  path. 
There  was  a  benediction  in  the  country, 
before  the  dissolution  of  winter.  The 
girl's  heart  was  filled  with  joy. 

"  If  we  could  only  live  here,  Francis !  " 

"  All  the  year  ?  "  he  queried  doubt- 
fully. 

"  Yes,  always.  Even  the  worst  days 
I  should  not  feel  lonely.  I  shall  never 
feel  lonely  again,  anyway." 

As  he  drew  her  hand  close  to  his 
breast,  he  said  contentedly,  with  a  large 
view  of  their  future :  — 

"  Perhaps  we  can  before  long.  But 
land  is  very  dear.  Then  you, have  to 
keep  horses  and  servants,  if  you  want  to 
live  in  the  country." 

"  Oh !  I  did  n't  think  of  all  that." 


They  walked  slowly,  very  close  to- 
gether, neither  one  anxious  to  reach  the 
misty  horizon,  where,  in  a  bed  of  opal- 
escent gray,  lay  the  beautiful  lake.  The 
sunshine  and  the  fruity  odors  of  the 
good  earth,  the  tranquil  vistas  of  bronze 
oaks,  set  the  woman  brooding  on  her 
nesting  time,  which  was  so  close  at  hand. 
And  the  man  was  thinking  likewise,  in 
his  way,  of  this  coming  event,  anxiously, 
yet  with  confidence.  The  plans  for  the 
Graveland,  the  contractor's  big  apart- 
ment house,  were  already  nearly  finished. 
New  work  must  come  to  the  office. 
There  were  the  Rainbows,  who  had 
moved  to  Shoreham,  having  made  a  sud- 
den fortune.  And  Raymond,  the  rail- 
road man,  on  whose  good  will  he  counted, 
with  Mrs.  Phillips's  assistance. 

Suddenly  the  house  shot  up  before 
their  eyes,  big  and  new  in  all  the  rawness 
of  fresh  brick  and  stone.  It  towered 
blusteringly  above  the  little  oaks,  a  great 
red-brick  chateau,  with  a  row  of  little 
round  windows  in  its  massive,  thick-tiled 
red  roof. 

Helen  involuntarily  stood  still  and 
caught  her  breath.  So  this  was  his  ! 

"  Oh  !  "  she  murmured.  "  Is  n't  it 
big,  Francis ! " 

"  It 's  no  three-room  cottage,"  he  an- 
swered, with  a  little  asperity. 

Then  he  led  her  to  the  front,  where 
she  could  get  the  effect  of  the  two  wings, 
the  southerly  terrace  toward  the  lake, 
the  sweeping  drive,  and  the  classic  en- 
trance. 

"  I  know  I  shall  grow  to  like  it,  Fran- 
cis," the  girl  said  loyally.  "  It  must  be 
very  pretty  inside,  with  those  lovely 
French  windows ;  and  the  brick  court  is 
attractive,  too." 

She  felt  that  she  was  hurting  her 
lover  in  his  tenderest  spot,  and  she  tried 
anxiously  to  find  better  words,  to  show 
him  that  it  was  only  her  ignorance  which 
limited  her  appreciation.  They  strolled 
about  among  the  refuse  heaps  of  the 
builders,  viewing  the  place  at  every  angle. 
Just  as  they  were  about  to  enter  the 


358 


The   Common  Lot. 


house,  there  came  from  the  Shoreham 
road  the  puffing  of  an  automobile,  and 
presently  Mrs.  Phillips  arrived  in  a  large 
touring  car,  with  some  people  who  had 
been  lunching  with  her  at  the  Shoreham 
Club.  They  came  up  to  the  house,  talk- 
ing and  joking  in  a  flutter  of  good-na- 
tured comment.  The  architect  recog- 
nized the  burly  form  of  Colonel  Ray- 
mond. He  was  speaking  :  — 

"  Well,  Louise,  you  will  have  to  take 
us  all  in  next  season.  I  didn't  know 
you  were  putting  up  a  hotel  like  this." 

"  Hotel !  It  is  a  perfect  palace  !  "  ex- 
claimed a  short,  plump  woman  who  was 
following  close  behind.  "  I  hope  you 
are  going  to  have  a  pergola.  They  're 
so  nice.  Every  country  house  has  a  per- 
gola nowadays." 

"  Why  not  an  English  garden  and  a 
yew  hedge  ?  "  added  a  man  who  had  on 
the  red  coat  of  the  Hunt  Club.  "  I  hope 
you  have  got  your  stabling  up  to  this, 
Mrs.  Phillips." 

Then  they  recognized  the  architect  and 
Helen.  Mrs.  Phillips  introduced  them  to 
her  friends,  and  they  all  went  inside  to 
make  a  tour  of  the  rooms.  The  painters, 
who  were  rubbing  the  woodwork,  looked 
curiously  at  the  invading  party ;  then, 
with  winks  among  themselves,  turned  in- 
differently to  their  tasks.  The  visitors 
burst  into  ripples  of  applause  over  the 
hall  with  its  two  lofty  stone  fireplaces, 
the  long  drawing-room  that  occupied  the 
south  wing  of  the  house,  the  octagonal 
breakfast  room  and  the  dining-room  in 
the  other  wing.  The  architect  led  them 
about,  explaining  the  different  effects  he 
had  tried  to  get.  He  did  it  modestly, 
touching  lightly  on  architectural  points 
with  a  well-bred  assumption  that  the  vis- 
itors knew  all  about  such  things.  The 
plump  little  woman  followed  close  at  his 
heels,  drinking  in  all  that  he  said.  Helen 
wondered  who  she  might  be,  until,  in  an 
eddy  of  their-  progress,  Hart  found  a 
chance  to  whisper  to  her,  "  It 's  Mrs. 
Rainbow ;  she 's  thinking  of  building." 

He  seemed  very  much  excited  about 


this,  and  the  general  good  luck  of  being 
able  to  show  these  people  over  the  house 
he  had  made.  After  the  first  floor  had 
been  exhausted,  the  party  drifted  up- 
stairs in  detachments.  Helen  could  hear 
her  lover's  pleasant  voice  as  he  led  the 
way  from  suite  to  suite  above.  The 
voices  finally  centred  in  Mrs.  Phillips's 
bathroom,  where  the  sunken  marble  bath, 
the  walls  of  colored  marble,  caused  much 
joking  and  laughter. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  where  Mrs.  Phillips 
is  ? "  a  voice  sounded  from  the  door. 
Helen  turned  with  a  start.  The  young 
girl  who  asked  the  question  was  dressed 
in  a  riding  habit.  Outside  on  the  drive 
a  small  party  of  people  were  standing 
with  their  horses.  The  girl  spoke  some- 
what peremptorily,  but  before  Helen  had 
time  to  reply,  she  added  :  — 

"  Are  n't  you  Miss  Spellman  ?  I  am 
Venetia  Phillips." 

Then  the  two  smiled  at  each  other  in 
the  way  of  women  who  feel  that  they 
may  be  friends.  "I  was  off  with  my 
uncle  the  day  you  dined  with  mamma," 
she  continued,  "  so  I  missed  seeing  you. 
Is  n't  this  a  great  —  barn,  I  was  going 
to  say."  She  laughed  and  caught  her- 
self. "  I  did  n't  remember  !  We  have 
just  been  out  with  the  hounds,  —  the  first 
run.  It 's  too  early  to  have  a  real  hunt 
yet.  Do  you  ride  ?  " 

They  sat  down  on  the  great  staircase 
and  were  at  once 'absorbed  in  each  other. 
In  the  meantime  the  party  of  visitors  had 
returned  from  the  upper  story  by  the 
rear  stairs,  and  were  penetrating  the  mys- 
teries of  the  service  quarters.  Hart  was 
showing  them  proudly  all  the  little  de- 
vices for  which  American  architecture  is 
famous,  —  the  interior  telephone  service, 
the  laundry  shoots,  the  electric  dumb- 
waiters, the  electric  driers.  These  de- 
vices aroused  Colonel  Raymond's  ad- 
miration. When  the  others  came  back 
to  the  hall  he  took  the  architect  aside 
and  discussed  driers  earnestly.  From 
that  they  got  to  the  heating  system,  which 
necessitated  a  visit  to  the  basement. 


The   Common  Lot. 


359 


Mrs.  Phillips  took  this  occasion  to  say 
to  Helen :  — 

"  You  can  be  proud  of  your  young  man, 
Miss  Spellman.  He  's  done  a  very  suc- 
cessful piece  of  work.  Every  one  likes  it. 
It 's  all  his,  too,"  she  added  generously. 

Helen  found  nothing  to  say  in  reply. 
The  widow  was  not  an  easy  person  for 
her  to  talk  to.  On  that  other  occasion 
when  they  had  met,  in  Mrs.  Phillips's 
city  house,  the  two  women  had  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes,  and  both  had  re- 
mained cold.  The  meeting  had  not  been 
all  that  the  architect  had  hoped  for  it. 

So  this  time  Mrs.  Phillips  examined 
the  younger  woman  critically,  saying  to 
herself,  "  She  's  a  cold  piece.  She  won't 
hold  him  long !  " 

At  last  the  party  gathered  itself  to- 
gether and  left.  The  big  touring  car 
puffed  up  to  the  door,  and  the  visitors 
climbed  in,  making  little  final  comments 
of  a  flattering  nature,  to  please  the  archi- 
tect, who  had  charmed  them  all.  He 
was  assiduous  to  the  very  end,  laughing 
at  Mrs.  Rainbow's  joke  about  the  marble 
tub,  which  she  repeated  for  the  benefit 
of  those  who  had  not  been  upstairs. 

After  Hart  had  helped  her  to  mount 
the  steps  of  the  car,  she  leaned  over  and 
gave  him  her  hand. 

"  So  glad  to  have  met  you,  Mr.  Hart," 
she  said  with  plump  impressiveness.  "  I 
am  sure  if  we  build,  we  '11  have  to  come 
to  you.  It 's  just  lovely,  everything." 

"  I  shall  have  to  give  that  away  to 
Rainbow,"  the  colonel  joked.  "  There  's 
nothing  so  bad  to  eat  up  money  as  a  good 
architect." 

Then  he  shook  hands  cordially  with 
Hart,  lit  a  cigarette,  and  swung  himself 
to  the  seat  beside  Mrs.  Phillips.  After 
the  car  had  started,  the  riders  mounted. 
Hart  helped  Venetia  Phillips  to  her  seat, 
and  slipped  in  a  word  about  the  hunt. 
But  the  girl  leaned  over  on  the  other 
side  toward  Helen,  with  a  sudden  en- 
thusiasm. 

"  When  you  are  married,  can't  I  see 
a  lot  of  you  ?  " 


Helen  laughed,  and  the  two  held  hands 
for  a  moment,  while  the  man  in  the  red 
coat  talked  with  the  architect. 

When  they  had  all  gone,  Jackson 
turned  to  Helen,  a  happy  smile  of  tri- 
umph on  his  face. 

"  It  seemed  to  take !  " 

There  had  not  been  one  word  of  com- 
ment on  the  house  itself,  on  the  building 
as  a  home  for  generations  of  people. 
But  Hart  did  not  seem  to  notice  that. 
He  was  flushed  with  the  exhilaration  of 
approval. 

"  Yes,"  Helen  answered,  throwing  all 
the  animation  she  could  into  the  words ; 
"  I  think  they  all  liked  it." 

She  was  silent,  with  many  vague  im- 
pressions from  the  little  incident  of  the 
afternoon.  There  had  been  revealed  to 
her  a  new  side  of  her  lover,  a  worldly 
side,  which  accorded  with  his  alert  air, 
his  well-trimmed  mustache,  and  careful 
attention  to  dress.  He  had  been  very 
much  at  home  with  all  these  people ; 
while  she  had  felt  more  or  less  out  of 
her  element.  He  knew  how  to  talk  to 
them,  how  to  please  them,  just  as  he 
knew  how  to  build  a  house  after  their 
taste  for  luxury  and  display.  He  could 
talk  hunters  or  motor  cars  or  bridge 
whist,  as  the  occasion  demanded.  He 
was  one  of  them  in  instinct ! 

She  cast  a  timid  look  at  the  great 
facade  above  them,  over  which  the  cold 
shadows  of  the  autumn  evening  were  fast 
stealing,  leaving  it  still  more  hard  and 
new  and  raw.  She  was  glad  it  was  not 
to  be  her  fate  to  live  there  in  all  its 
grandeur  and  stiff  luxury. 

The  architect  had  to  speak  to  the  su- 
perintendent of  the  building,  and  Helen 
sat  down  on  the  stone  balustrade  of  the 
terrace  to  wait.  The  painters  were  leav- 
ing their  job,  putting  on  their  coats  as 
they  hurried  from  the  house.  They 
scarcely  cast  a  glance  her  way  as  they 
passed,  disappear  ing  into  the  road,  fleeing 
from  the  luxurious  abode  and  the  silent 
woods,  which  were  not  theirs,  to  the  vil- 
lage and  the  city.  .  .  .  This  great  Amer- 


360 


The   Common  Lot. 


ican  chateau  was  so  different  from  what 
she  had  always  dreamed  her  lover  would 
build,  this  caravansary  for  the  rich,  this 
toy  where  they  could  hide  themselves  in 
aristocratic  seclusion  and  take  their  plea- 
sures. And  the  thought  stole  into  her 
mind  that  he  liked  it,  this  existence  of 
the  rich  and  prosperous,  their  sports 
and  their  luxuries,  —  and  would  want  to 
earn  with  his  life  their  pleasures,  their 
housing,  their  automobiles,  and  hunters. 
It  was  all  strange  to  her  experience,  to 
her  dreams ! 

From  the  second  floor  there  came  the 
sound  of  voices  :  — 

"  I  tells  you,  Muster  Hart,  you  got  to 
rip  the  whoal  dam  piping  out  from  roof 
to  basement  if  you  wants  to  have  a  good 
yob  of  it.  I  tole  you  that  way  back  six 
weeks  ago.  It  ware  n't  specified  right 
from  the  beginning." 

"  I  '11  speak  to  Rollings  about  it  to- 
morrow and  see  what  can  be  done." 

"  That 's  what  you  say  every  time," 
the  Swede  growled. 

"  See  here,  Anderson  !  Who 's  run- 
ning this  job  ?  "  .  .  . 

The  girl  strolled  away  from  the  voices 
toward  the  bluff,  where  she  could  see  the 
gray  bosom  of  the  lake.  The  twilight 
trees,  the  waveless  lake  soothed  her : 
they  were  real,  her  world.  The  house 
back  there,  the  men  and  women  of  it, 
were  shadows  on  the  marge. 

"  Nell !  "  her  lover  called. 

"  Coming,  Francis." 

When  he  came  up  to  her  she  rested 
her  head  on  his  shoulder,  looking  at  him 
with  vague  longing,  desiring  to  keep  him 
from  something  not  clearly  defined  in 
her  own  mind. 

"We  must  hurry  to  get  that  train. 
When  we  live  out  here  we  '11  have  to 
sport  a  motor  car,  won't  we  ?  "  he  said 
buoyantly. 

She  answered  slowly,  "  I  don't  know 
that  I  should  want  to  live  just  here,  after 
all." 

"  Why,  I  thought  you  were  crazy 
about  the  country !  And  I  've  been 


thinking  it  might  be  the  very  thing  for 
us  to  do.  There 's  such  a  lot  of  building 
in  these  places  now.  Mrs.  Phillips  has 
asked  me  several  times  why  I  didn't 
move  out  here  on  the  shore.  Just  before 
she  left  she  asked  me  if  I  did  n't  want 
to  build  a  lodge  for  her  and  take  it  for 
a  year  or  so.  Of  course  that 's  a  joke. 
But  I  know  she  's  bought  a  lot  of  pro- 
perty on  the  bluff  here,  and  might  be 
willing  to  let  me  have  a  small  bit  on  rea- 
sonable terms.  She  's  been  so  friendly 
all  along !  " 

He  was  still  in  the  flush  of  his  triumph, 
and  talked  rapidly  of  all  that  opened  out 
before  his  fervent  ambition.  Suddenly 
he  took  note  of  her  mood  and  said  sharp- 
ly, "  Nell,  you  don't  like  her." 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  she  ex- 
claimed, surprised  in  her  inner  thoughts. 
"  I  don't  really  know." 

"  Why,  it 's  plain  enough.  You  don't 
talk  to  her.  You  are  so  cold !  And  the 
same  way  with  Mrs.  Rainbow." 

"  0  Francis  !  I  did  n't  mean  to  be 
cold.  Ought  I  to  like  them  if  you  are 
to  do  work  for  them  ?  " 

The  architect  laughed  at  her  simpli- 
city. 

"  Rich  people  always  puzzle  me,"  she 
continued  apologetically.  "  They  always 
have,  except  uncle  Powers,  and  you  never 
thought  of  him  as  rich  !  I  don't  feel  as 
if  I  knew  what  they  liked.  They  are  so 
much  preoccupied  with  their  own  affairs. 
That  other  time  when  I  met  Mrs.  Phil- 
lips she  was  so  much  worried  over  the 
breakfast  room  and  the  underbutler's 
pantry  !  What  is  an  underbutler's  pan- 
try, Francis  ?  " 

This  raillery  over  the  needs  of  the 
rich  seemed  almost  anarchistic  to  the 
architect.  They  walked  to  the  station 
silently  in  the  gathering  darkness.  But 
after  a  time,  on  the  train,  he  returned  to 
the  events  of  the  afternoon. 

"  She  can  do  anything  she  likes  with 
Raymond.  It  would  be  a  big  stroke  to 
get  that  C.  R.  &  N.  business !  " 

Helen  made  no  reply  to  this  observa- 


The   Common  Lot. 


361 


tion,  and  they  relapsed  again  into  silent 
thought. 

The  night  before  their  marriage  the 
architect  told  her  exultantly  that  he  had 
been  sent  for  by  Raymond's  private  sec- 
retary to  talk  over  work  for  the  railroad 
corporation. 

"That's  Mrs.  Phillips's  doing,"  he 
told  Helen.  "  You  must  remember  to 
say  something  to  her  about  it  to-mor- 
row, if  you  get  the  chance.  It 's  likely 
to  be  the  biggest  wedding  present  we  '11 
have ! " 

"I  am  glad,"  Helen  replied  simply, 
without  further  comment. 

He  thought  that  she  did  not  compre- 
hend what  this  good  fortune  meant. 
And  he  was  quite  mystified  when  she  re- 
fused to  see  him  again  before  the  cere- 
mony of  the  following  day.  He  could 
not  realize  that  in  some  matters  —  a  few 
small  matters  —  he  had  bruised  the  wo- 
man's ideal  of  him  ;  he  could  not  under- 
stand why  these  last  hours,  before  she 
took  him  to  her  arms  forever,  she  wished 
to  spend  alone  with  her  own  soul  in  a 
kind  of  prayer.  .  .  . 

There  were  only  a  few  people  present 
at  the  marriage  in  the  little  Maple  Street 
house  the  next  day.  Many  of  their 
fashionable  friends  were  still  away  from 
the  city.  Mrs.  Phillips  had  made  a 
point  of  coming  to  the  wedding,  and  after 
much  insistence  she  had  been  made  to 
bring  Venetia,  who  had  discovered  a 
sudden  enthusiasm  for  weddings.  Pem- 
berton,  an  old  friend  of  the  Spellmans 
who  had  recently  been  added  to  the  Jack- 
son trustees,  was  there,  and  also  little 
Cook,  who  was  the  backbone  of  the  new 
office.  Everett  Wheeler  was  the  best 
man.  He  and  Hollister  had  put  off  their 
yearly  fishing  trip  to  do  honor  to  Jack- 
son Hart,  who  had  earned  their  approval, 
because  the  young  man  had  swallowed 
his  disappointment  about  the  will  and 
was  going  to  marry  a  poor  girl.  Hollis- 
ter and  Pemberton  had  brought  Judge 
Phillips  with  them,  because  he  was  in 


town  and  liked  weddings,  and  ought  to 
send  the  pair  a  goodly  gift.  Of  the  pre- 
sence of  all  these  and  some  others  the 
young  architect  was  pleasantly  conscious 
that  October  morning.' 

Only  that  morning,  on  the  way  to  the 
house,  Everett  had  referred  to  the  great 
school,  a  monumental  affair,  which  the 
trustees  would  have  to  build  some  day. 
It  was  in  the  aroma  of  this  new  prospect, 
and  of  all  the  other  good  fortune  that 
had  been  his  since  he  had  taken  up  his 
burden  of  poverty,  that  Jackson  Hart 
was  married. 

But  the  girl  walked  up  to  him  to  be 
married,  in  a  dream,  unconscious  of  the 
whole  world,  with  a  mystery  of  love  in 
her  heart.  When  the  ceremony  was 
over,  she  looked  up  into  her  husband's 
resolute  face,  which  was  slightly  flushed 
with  excitement.  Venetia,  standing  by 
her  uncle's  side  a  few  steps  away,  could 
see  tears  in  the  bride's  eyes,  and  the  girl 
wondered. 

Did  Helen  know  now  that  the  man 
who  stood  there  face  to  face  with  her,  her 
husband,  was  yet  a  stranger  to  her  soul  ? 
She  raised  her  lips  swiftly  to  him,  and 
he  bowed  his  head  to  kiss  her,  there  be- 
fore all. 


X. 


After  a  winter  in  the  city  the  Harts 
went  to  live  at  Shoreham,  taking  rooms 
for  the  season  at  the  club.  The  new 
station  which  the  railroad  was  building 
at  Eversley  Heights,  and  the  Rainbows' 
cottage  on  the  ridge  just  west  of  the 
club,  had  brought  the  architect  consid- 
erable reputation.  His  acquaintance  was 
growing  rapidly  among  the  men  who  rode 
to  and  fro  each  day  on  the  suburban 
trains  of  the  C.  R.  &  N.  It  was  the 
kind  of  acquaintance  which  he  realized 
might  be  very  valuable  to  him  in  his 
profession. 

Between  Chicago  and  Shoreham,  the 
northernmost  of  the  long  line  of  pros- 
perous suburbs,  there  lay  a  considerable 


362 


The   Common  Lot. 


variety  of  American  society.  As  the 
train  got  away  from  the  sprawling  out- 
skirts of  the  city,  each  stop  marked  a 
pause  in  social  progress.  Each  town 
gathered  to  itself  its  own  class,  which 
differed  subtly,  but  positively,  from  that 
attracted  by  its  neighbor.  Shoreham 
was  the  home  of  the  hunting  set,  its  so- 
ciety centring  in  the  large  club.  At 
Popover  Plains  there  was  a  large  sum- 
mer hotel,  and  therefore  the  society  of 
Popover  Plains  was  considered  by  her 
neighbors  as  more  or  less  "  mixed." 
Eversley  Heights  was  still  undeveloped, 
the  home  of  a  number  of  young  people, 
who  were  considered  very  pleasant,  even 
incipiently  smart.  But  of  all  the  more 
distant  and  desirable  settlements  Forest 
Park  had  the  greatest  pride  in  itself,  be- 
ing comparatively  old,  and  having  large 
places  and  old-fashioned  ugly  houses  in 
which  lived  some  people  of  permanent 
wealth.  All  these  suburban  towns  had 
one  common  characteristic :  they  were 
the  homes  of  the  prosperous,  who  had 
emerged  from  the  close  struggle  in  the 
city  with  ideals  of  rest  and  refreshment 
and  an  instinct  for  the  society  of  their 
own  kind.  Except  for  a  street  of  shops 
near  the  stations,  to  which  was  relegated 
the  service  element  of  life,  the  inhabit- 
ants got  exclusively  the  society  of  their 
kind. 

The  architect  went  to  the  city  by  one 
of  the  earlier  trains  and  came  back  very 
late.  He  had  all  the  labor  of  superin- 
tending the  construction  of  his  buildings, 
for  the  work  in  the  office  did  not  warrant 
engaging  a  superintendent.  He  emerged 
from  the  city,  after  a  day  spent  in  run- 
ning about  here  and  there,  with  a  kind 
of  speechless  listlessness,  which  the  wife 
of  a  man  in  business  soon  becomes  ac- 
customed to.  The  dinner  in  the  lively 
dining-room  of  the  clubhouse,  with  the 
chatter  about  sport  and  the  gossip,  the 
cigar  afterwards  on  the  veranda  over- 
looking the  green,  turfy  valley  golden  in 
the  afterglow  of  sunset,  refreshed  him 
quickly.  He  was  always  eager  to  accept 


any  invitation,  to  go  wherever  they  were 
asked,  to  have  himself  and  his  wife  in 
the  eyes  of  their  little  public  as  much  as 
possible.  His  agreeable  manners,  his 
keen  desire  to  please,  his  instinct  for  the 
conventional,  the  suitable,  made  him 
much  more  popular  than  his  wife,  who 
was  considered  shy,  if  not  positively 
countrified.  As  the  season  progressed, 
Hart  was  sure  that  they  had  made  a  wise 
choice  of  a  place  to  settle  in,  and  they 
began  to  look  for  a  house. 

In  spite  of  all  the  apparent  prosperity 
which  the  little  office  enjoyed  from  the 
start,  the  profit  for  the  first  year  was 
startlingly  small.  The  commission  from 
the  Phillips  house  had  long  since  been 
eaten ;  also  as  much  of  the  fee  from 
Graves  as  that  close  contractor  could  be 
induced  to  pay  over  before  the  building 
had  been  finished.  The  insatiable  office 
was  now  devouring  the  profits  from  the 
railroad  business.  When  Cook  saw  the 
figures,  he  spoke  to  the  point :  —  "It 's 
just  self-indulgence  to  build  houses.  We 
must  quit."  If  they  were  to  succeed, 
they  must  do  a  larger  business,  —  fac- 
tories, mills,  hotels,  —  work  that  could 
be  handled  on  a  large  scale,  roughly  and 
rapidly. 

The  Harts  were  living  beyond  their 
means,  not  extravagantly,  but  with  a 
constant  deficit,  which  from  the  earliest 
weeks  of  their  marriage  had  troubled 
Helen.  Reared  in  the  tradition  of  thrift, 
she  held  it  to  be  a  crime  to  spend  money 
not  actually  earned.  But  she  found  that 
her  husband  had  another  theory  of  do- 
mestic economy.  To  attract  money,  he 
said,  one  must  spend  it.  He  insisted  on 
her  dressing  as  well  as  the  other  women 
who  used  the  club,  although  they  were 
for  the  most  part  wives  and  daughters 
of  men  who  had  many  times  his  income. 
At  the  close  of  the  first  six  months  of 
their  marriage  venture  Helen  spoke  au- 
thoritatively :  — 

"  At  this  rate  we  shall  run  behind  at 
least  two  thousand  dollars.  We  must  go 
back  to  the  city  to  live  !  " 


The   Common  Lot. 


363 


They  had  been  talking  of  renting  a 
house  in  Forest  Park.  But  she  knew 
that  in  the  city  she  could  control  the  ex- 
penditure, the  manner  of  living.  The 
architect  laughed  at  her  scruples. 

"  I  '11  see  Bushfield  to-day  and  find  out 
when  they  are  to  get  at  the  Popover  sta- 
tion." 

She  still  looked  grave,  having  in  mind 
a  precept  that  young  married  people,  bar- 
ring sickness,  should  save  a  fifth  of  their 
income. 

"  And  if  that  is  n't  enough,"  her  hus- 
band added,  "  why,  we  must  pull  out 
something  else.  There  's  lots  doing !  " 

He  laughed  again,  and  kissed  her  be- 
fore going  downstairs  to  take  the  club 
'bus.  His  light-hearted  philosophy  did 
not  reassure  her.  If  one's  income  was 
not  enough  for  one's  wants,  he  said,  — 
why,  expand  the  income  !  This  hopeful, 
gambling  American  spirit  was  natural  to 
him.  He  was  too  young  to  realize  that 
the  point  of  expansion  for  professional 
men  was  definitely  limited.  A  lawyer, 
a  doctor,  an  architect,  had  but  his  one 
brain,  his  one  pair  of  hands,  his  own 
eyes,  —  and  the  scope  of  these  organs 
was  fixed  by  nature. 

"  And  we  give  so  little  !  "  she  protested 
in  her  heart  that  morning.  Her  mother 
had  given  to  their  church  and  to  certain 
charities  always  a  tenth  of  their  small 
income.  That  might  be  a  mechanical, 
old-fashioned  method  of  estimating  one's 
dues  to  mankind,  but  it  was  better  than 
the  careless  way  of  giving  when  it  oc- 
curred to  one,  or  when  some  friend  who 
could  not  be  denied  demanded  help.  .  .  . 

The  architect,  as  he  rode  to  the  early 
morning  train  in  the  club  'bus,  was  talk- 
ing to  Stephen  Lane,  a  rich  bachelor,  who 
had  a  large  house  and  was  the  chief  pro- 
moter of  the  Hunt  Club.  Lane  grum- 
bled rather  ostentatiously  because  he  was 
obliged  to  take  the  early  train,  having 
had  news  that  a  mill  he  was  interested 
in  had  burned  down  overnight. 

"  You  are  going  to  rebuild  ?  "  the  ar- 
chitect asked. 


"  Begin  as  soon  as  we  can  get  the  plans 
done,"  Lane  replied  laconically. 

It  shot  into  the  architect's  mind  that 
here  was  the  opportunity  which  would 
go  far  to  wipe  out  the  deficit  he  and 
Helen  had  been  talking  about.  With 
this  idea  in  view  he  got  into  the  smoking 
car  with  Lane,  and  the  two  men  talked 
all  the  way  to  town.  Hart  did  not  like 
Stephen  Lane;  few  at  the  club  cared 
for  the  rich  bachelor,  whose  manners 
carried  a  self-consciousness  of  wealth. 
But  this  morning  the  architect  looked  at 
him  from  a  different  angle,  and  condoned 
his  tone  of  patronage.  As  the  train 
neared  the  tangled  network  of  the  city 
terminal,  he  ventured  to  say,  "  What 
architects  do  your  work  ?  " 

He  hated  the  sound  of  his  voice  as  he 
said  it,  though  he  tried  to  make  it  im- 
personal and  indifferent.  Lane's  voice 
seemed  to  change  its  tone,  something  of 
suspicion  creeping  in. 

"  I  have  always  had  the  Stearns  bro- 
thers. They  do  that  sort  of  thing  pretty 
well." 

As  they  mounted  the  station  stairs, 
Lane  asked  casually,  "  Do  you  ever  do 
that  kind  of  work  ?  It  is  n't  much  in 
your  line." 

"  I  've  never  tried  it.  But  of  course 
I  should  like  the  chance  !  " 

Then  Lane,  one  hand  on  the  door  of 
a  waiting  cab,  remarked  slowly,  "  Well, 
we  '11  talk  it  over,  perhaps.  Where  do 
you  lunch  ?  "  and  gave  the  architect  two 
fingers  of  his  gloved  hand. 

He  was  thinking  that  Mrs.  Hart  was 
a  pleasant  woman,  who  always  listened 
to  him  with  a  certain  deference.  And 
these  Harts  must  be  hard  put  to  it,  with- 
out old  Jackson's  pile. 

Hart  went  his  way  on  foot,  a  taste  of 
something  little  agreeable  in  his  mouth. 
He  had  to  stop  at  the  railroad  offices  to 
see  the  purchasing  agent. 

The  railroad  did  its  own  contracting, 
naturally,  and  it  was  through  this  man 
Bushfield  that  the  specifications  for  the 
buildings  had  to  pass.  The  architect  had 


364 


The   Common  Lot. 


had  many  dealings  with  the  purchasing 
agent,  and  had  found  him  always  friend- 
ly. This  morning  Bushfield  was  already 
in  his  office,  perspiring  from  the  July 
heat,  his  coat  off,  a  stenographer  at  his 
elbow.  When  Hart  came  in  he  looked 
up  slowly,  and  nodded.  After  he  had  fin- 
ished with  the  stenographer,  he  asked,  — 

"  Why  do  you  specify  Star  cement  at 
Eversley,  Hart  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it 's  about  the  best.  We  always 
specify  Star  for  outside  work." 

"  How  's  it  any  better  than  the  Cli- 
max ?  "  the  purchasing  agent  asked  in- 
sistently. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  the 
Climax.  What 's  the  matter  with  Star  ?  " 

Bushfield  scratched  his  chin  thought- 
fully for  a  moment. 

"  I  have  n't  got  anything  against  Star. 
What  I  want  to  know  is  what  you  have 
got  against  Climax  ?  " 

The  smooth  guttural  tones  of  the  pur- 
chasing agent  gave  the  architect  no  cause 
for  suspicion,  and  he  was  dull  enough  not 
to  see  what  was  in  the  air. 

"  It  would  take  time  to  try  a  new  ce- 
ment properly,"  he  answered. 

The  purchasing  agent  picked  up  his 
morning  cigar,  rolled  it  around  in  his 
mouth,  and  puffed  before  he  replied :  — 

"  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  it  means 
something  to  me  to  have  Climax  used  at 
Eversley.  It's  just  as  good  as  any  ce- 
ment on  the  market.  I  give  you  my 
word  for  that.  I  take  it  you  're  a  good 
friend  of  mine.  I  wish  you  would  see 
if  you  can't  use  the  Climax." 

Then  they  talked  of  other  matters. 
When  Hart  got  back  to  the  office  he 
looked  up  the  Climax  cement  in  a  trade 
catalogue.  There  were  hundreds  of 
brands  on  the  market,  and  the  Climax  was 
one  of  the  newest.  Horace  Bushfield,  he 
reflected,  was  Colonel  Raymond's  son-in- 
law.  If  he  wished  to  do  the  Popover 
station,  he  should  remain  on  good  terms 
with  the  purchasing  agent  of  the  road. 
Some  time  that  day  he  got  out  the  type- 
written specifications  for  the  railroad 


work,  and  in  the  section  on  the  cement 
work  he  inserted  neatly  in  ink  the  words, 
"  Or  a  cement  of  equal  quality  approved 
by  the  architect." 

Not  many  days  later  the  purchasing 
agent  telephoned  to  him  :  — 

"  Say,  Hart,  the  Buckeye  Hardware 
people  have  just  had  a  man  in  here  see- 
ing me  about  the  hardware  for  that  build- 
ing. I  see  you  have  specified  the  For- 
rest makes.  Are  n't  the  Buckeye  people 
first-class  ?  " 

The  architect,  who  knew  what  was 
coming  this  time,  waited  a  moment  be- 
fore replying.  Then  he  answered  coolly, 
"  I  think  they  are,  Bushfield." 

"  Well,  the  Buckeye  people  have  al- 
ways done  our  business,  and  they  could 
n't  understand  why  they  were  shut  out 
by  your  specifying  the  Forrest  makes. 
You  '11  make  that  all  right  ?  So  long." 

As  Hart  hung  up  his  telephone,  he 
would  have  liked  to  write  Raymond,  the 
general  manager,  that  he  wanted  nothing 
more  to  do  with  the  railroad  business. 
Some  weeks  later  when  he  happened 
to  glance  over  the  Buckeye  Company's 
memoranda  of  sales  for  the  Eversley  sta- 
tion, and  saw  what  the  railroad  had  paid 
for  its  hardware,  he  knew  that  Horace 
Bushfield  was  a  thief.  But  they  were 
talking  of  the  Popover  station  then. 

Something  similar  had  been  his  expe- 
rience with  the  contractor  Graves. 

"  Put  me  up  a  good,  showy  building," 
the  contractor  had  said,  when  they  dis- 
cussed the  design.  "  That 's  the  kind 
that  will  take  in  that  park  neighborhood. 
People  nowadays  want  a  stylish  home 
with  elevator  boys  in  uniform.  .  .  .  That 
court  you  've  got  there  between  the  wings, 
and  the  little  fountain,  and  the  grand 
entrance, — all  just  right.  But  they 
don't  want  to  pay  nothin'  for  their  style. 
Flats  don't  rent  for  anything  near  what 
they  do  in  New  York.  Out  here  they 
want  the  earth  for  fifty,  sixty  dollars  a 
month  ;  and  we  got  to  give  'em  the  near- 
est thing  to  it  for  their  money." 


The   Common  Lot. 


365 


So,  when  it  came  to  the  structure  of 
the  building,  the  contractor  ordered  the 
architect  to  save  expense  in  every  line 
of  the  details.  The  woodwork  was  cut 
to  the  thinnest  veneer ;  partitions,  even 
bearing-walls,  were  made  of  the  cheapest 
studding  the  market  offered ;  the  large 
floors  were  hung  from  thin  outside  walls, 
without  the  brick  bearing-walls  provided 
by  the  architect.  When  Hart  murmured 
Graves  said  frankly  :  — 

"  This  ain't  any  investment  proposi- 
tion, my  boy.  I  calculate  to  fill  the 
Graveland  in  two  months,  and  then  I  '11 
trade  it  off  to  some  countryman  who  is 
looking  for  an  investment.  Put  all  the 
style  you  want  into  the  finish.  Have 
some  of  the  flats  Flemish,  and  others  Co- 
lonial, and  so  on.  Make  'em  smart." 

The  architect  tried  to  swallow  his  dis- 
gust at  being  hired  to  put  together  such 
a  flimsy  shell  of  plaster  and  lath.  But 
Cook,  who  had  been  trained  in  Wright's 
office,  where  work  of  this  grade  was  never 
accepted,  was  in  open  revolt. 

"  If  it  gets  known  around  that  this  is 
the  style  of  work  we  do  in  this  office, 
it  '11  put  us  in  a  class,  and  it  ain't  a  plea- 
sant one,  either.  .  .  .  Say,  Jack,  how 's 
this  office  to  be  run,  —  first-class  or  the 
other  class  ?  " 

"  You  know,  man,"  the  architect  re- 
plied, "  how  I  am  fixed  with  Graves.  I 
don't  like  this  business  any  better  than 
you  do,  but  we  '11  be  through  with  it  be- 
fore long." 

He  growled  in  his  turn  to  the  contrac- 
tor, who  received  his  protest  with  con- 
temptuous good  humor. 

"  You  'd  better  take  a  look  at  what 
other  men  are  doing,  if  you  think  I  am 
making  the  Graveland  such  an  awful 
cheap  building.  I  tell  you,  there  ain't 
money  in  the  other  kind.  Why,  I  worked 
for  a  man  once  who  put  up  a  first-class 
flat  building,  slow-burning  construction, 
heavy  woodwork,  and  all  that.  It 's  old- 
fashioned  by  this  time,  and  its  rents  are 
way  down.  And  I  saw  by  the  paper  the 
other  day  that  it  was  sold  at  the  sher- 


iff's sale  for  not  more  than  what  my  bill 
came  to !  What  have  you  got  to  say  to 
that  ?  " 

Therefore  the  architect  dismissed  the 
Graveland  from  his  mind  as  much  as  he 
could,  and  saw  little  of  it  while  it  was 
under  construction,  for  the  contractor  did 
his  own  superintending.  One  day,  how- 
ever, he  had  occasion  to  go  to  the  build- 
ing, and  took  his  wife  with  him.  They 
drove  down  the  vast  waste  of  Grand 
Boulevard ;  after  passing  through  that 
wilderness  of  painful  fancies,  the  lines  of 
the  Graveland  made  a  very  pleasant  im- 
pression. 

Hart  had  induced  Graves  to  sacrifice 
part  of  his  precious  land  to  an  interior 
court,  around  which  he  had  thrown  his 
building  like  a  miniature  chateau,  thus 
shutting  out  the  sandy  lots,  the  ragged 
street,  which  looked  like  a  jaw  with  teeth 
knocked  out  at  irregular  intervals.  A 
heavy  wall  joined  the  two  wings  on  the 
street  side,  and  through  the  iron  gates 
the  Park  could  be  seen,  just  across  the 
street. 

"  Lovely ! "  Helen  exclaimed.  "  I  'm 
so  glad  you  did  it!  I  like  it  so  —  so 
much  more  than  the  Phillips  house." 

They  studied  it  carefully  from  the  car- 
riage, and  Hart  pointed  out  all  the  little 
triumphs  of  design.  It  was,  as  Helen 
felt,  much  more  genuine  than  the  Phillips 
house.  It  was  no  bungling  copy,  but  an 
honest  answer  to  a  modern  problem,  — 
an  answer,  to  be  sure,  in  the  only  lan- 
guage that  the  architect  knew. 

Helen  wanted  to  see  the  interior,  al- 
though Jackson  displayed  no  enthusiasm 
over  that  part  of  the  work.  And  in  the 
inside  came  the  disaster !  The  evidences 
of  the  contractor's  false,  flimsy  building 
darkened  the  architect's  brow. 

"  The  scamp  ! "  he  muttered,  emerg- 
ing from  the  basement.  "  He  's  propped 
the  whole  business  on  a  dozen  or  so  '  two- 
by-fours.'  And  he  's  put  in  the  rotten- 
est  plumbing  underground  that  I  ever 
saw.  I  don't  believe  it  ever  had  an  in- 
spection." 


366 


The   Common  Lot. 


"  Show  me  what  you  mean,"  Helen 
demanded. 

He  pointed  out  to  her  some  of  the  de- 
vices used  to  skimp  the  building. 

"  Even  the  men  at  work  here  know  it. 
You  can  see  it  by  the  way  they  look  at 
me.  Why,  the  thing  is  a  paper  box !  " 

In  some  of  the  apartments  the  rough 
work  was  scarcely  completed  ;  in  others 
the  plasterers  were  at  work ;  but  the 
story  was  the  same  everywhere. 

"  I  can't  see  how  he  escaped  the  Build- 
ing Department.  He  's  violated  the  or- 
dinances again  and  again.  But  I  sup- 
pose he  's  got  the  inspectors  in  his  pay  !  " 

He  remembered  the  Canostota  :  he  had 
no  manner  of  doubt,  now,  about  those 
I-beams  in  the  Canostota  ! 

"  Francis  !  "  Helen  exclaimed  with 
sudden  passion  ;  "  you  won't  stand  it ! 
You  won't  let  him  do  this  kind  of 
thing?" 

The  architect  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  It 's  his  building.  He  bought  the 
plans  and  paid  for  them." 

She  was  silent,  troubled  in  her  mind 
by  this  business  tangle,  but  convinced 
that  some  wrong  was  being  done.  A 
thing  like  this,  a  fraud  upon  the  public, 
should  be  prevented  in  some  way. 

"  Can't  you  tell  him  that  you  will  re- 
port him  to  the  Building  Department  ?  " 
she  asked  finally. 

Hart  smiled  at  her  impetuous  unprac- 
ticality. 

"  That  would  hardly  do,  would  it,  to 
go  back  on  a  client  like  that  ?  It 's  none 
of  my  business,  really.  Only  one  hates 
to  feel  that  his  ideas  are  wasted  on  such 
stuff  as  this  is  made  of.  The  city  should 
look  after  it.  And  it 's  no  worse  than 
most  of  these  flat  buildings.  Look  at 
that  one  across  the  street.  It 's  the  same 
cheap  thing.  I  was  in  there  the  other 
day.  .  .  .  No,  it 's  the  condition  of  things 
in  this  city,  —  the  worst  place  for  good 
building  in  the  country.  Every  one  says 
so.  But  God  help  the  poor  devils  who 
come  to  live  here,  if  a  fire  once  gets 
started  in  this  plaster-and-lath  shell !  " 


He  turned  to  the  entrance  and  kicked 
open  the  door.  His  wife's  face  was  pale 
and  set,  as  if  she  could  not  dismiss  the 
matter  thus  lightly. 

"  I  never  thought  of  fire  !  "  she  mur- 
mured. "  Francis,  if  anything  like  that 
should  happen  !  To  think  that  you  had 
drawn  the  plans  !  " 

"  Oh !  it  may  last  out  its  time,"  he  re- 
plied reassuringly.  "  And  it  does  n't 
affect  the  appearance  of  the  building  at 
present.  It 's  real  smart,  as  Mrs.  Rain- 
bow would  say.  Don't  you  think  so, 
Nell  ?  " 

She  had  turned  her  back  to  the  plea- 
sant facade  of  the  Graveland,  and  was 
staring  into  the  Park  across  the  street. 
She  turned  around  at  his  words  and  cast 
a  swift,  scrutinizing  glance  "over  the  build- 
ing. 

"  It  is  n't  right !  I  see  fraud  looking  out 
of  every  window.  It 's  just  a  skeleton 
covered  with  cloth." 

The  architect  laughed  at  her  solem- 
nity. He  was  disgusted  with  it  himself ; 
it  offended  his  workman's  conscience. 
But  he  was  too  modern,  too  practical,  to 
allow  merely  ideal  considerations  to  upset 
him.  And,  after  all,  in  his  art,  as  in 
most  arts,  the  effect  of  the  thing  was  two 
thirds  the  game.  With  her  it  was  alto- 
gether different.  Through  all  outward 
aspect,  or  cover,  of  things  pierced  their  in- 
ner being,  from  which  one  could  not  es- 
cape by  illusion. 

As  they,  were  getting  away  from  the 
building,  the  contractor  drove  up  to  the 
Graveland  for  his  daily  inspection.  He 
came  over  to  the  architect,  a  most  affable 
smile  on  his  bearded  face. 

"Mrs.  Hart,  I  presume,"  he  said,  smil- 
ing. "  Looking  over  your  husband's 
work  ?  It 's  fine,  fine,  I  tell  you.  Be- 
tween ourselves  it  beats  Wright  all  out." 

Helen's  stiffness  of  manner  did  not 
encourage  cordiality.  Graves,  thinking 
her  snobbish,  bowed  to  them,  and  went 
into  the  building. 

"  You  '11  never  do  anything  for  him 
again,  will  you,  Francis  ?  Promise  me  ! " 


The   Common  Lot. 


367 


And  he  promised  lightly  enough,  for 
he  thought  it  highly  improbable  that  the 
contractor  ever  would  return  to  him,  or 
that  he  should  feel  obliged  to  take  his 
work  if  he  offered  it. 

Nevertheless,  the  contractor  did  return 
to  the  office,  and  not  long  afterwards.  It 
was  toward  the  end  of  the  summer,  when 
the  architect  and  his  wife  were  still  de- 
bating the  question  of  taking  a  house  in 
the  country  for  the  winter.  One  after- 
noon Hart  returned  from  his  luncheon  to 
find  Graves  waiting  for  him  in  the  outer 
office.  The  stenographer  and  Cook  were 
hard  at  work  in  the  room  beyond,  with 
an  air  of  having  nothing  to  say  to  the 
contractor.  As  Graves  followed  Hart 
into  his  private  office,  Cook  looked  up 
with  a  curl  on  his  thin  lips  that  expressed 
the  fullness  of  his  heart. 

"  Say,"  Graves  called  out  as  soon  as 
Hart  had  closed  the  door  to  the  outer 
room,  "  I  sold  that  Graveland  a  month 
ago,  almost  before  the  plaster  was  dry. 
A  man  from  Detroit  came  in  to  see  me 
one  morning,  and  we  made  the  deal  that 
day." 

"  Is  that  so  ?  "  Hart  remarked  coolly. 

"  It  was  a  pretty  -building.  I  knew  I 
should  n't  have  any  trouble  with  it.  Now 
I  have  something  new  in  mind." 

Hart  listened  in  a  non-committal  man- 
ner. 

"  Part  of  that  trade  with  the  Detroit 
feller  was  for  a  big  block  of  land  out  west 
here  a  couple  of  miles.  I  am  thinking 
of  putting  up  some  tidy  little  houses  to 
sell  on  the  installment  plan." 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  put  into 
them  ?  "  the  architect  asked  bluntly. 

"  Well,  they  'd  ought  to  sell  for  not 
more  than  eight  thousand  dollars." 

"And  cost  as  much  less  as  you  can 
make  them  hold  together  for  ?  I  don't 
believe  I  can  do  anything  for  you,  Mr. 
Graves,"  the  architect  replied  firmly. 

"  Is  that  so  ?  Well,  you  are  the  first 
architect  I  ever  saw  who  was  too  busy 
to  take  on  a  paying  piece  of  business." 


He  sat  down  more  firmly  in  the  chair 
opposite  Hart's  desk,  and  he  began  to  de- 
scribe his  scheme.  There  was  to  be  a 
double  row  of  houses,  three  stories  and 
basement,  each  one  different  in  style,  in 
a  different  kind  of  brick  or  terra  cotta, 
with  a  distinguishing  "  feature  "  worked 
in  somewhere  in  the  design.  They  were 
to  be  bait  for  the  thrifty  clerk,  who  want- 
ed to  buy  a  permanent  home  on  the  install- 
ment plan  rather  than  pay  rent.  There 
were  many  similar  building  schemes  in 
different  parts  of  the  city,  the  advertise- 
ments of  which  one  might  read  in  the 
street  cars. 

"  Why  do  you  want  me  to  do  the 
job  ?  "  Hart  asked  at  last.  "  Any  boy 
just  out  of  school  could  do  what  you 
are  after." 

"  No,  he  could  n't.  He  has  n't  the 
knack  of  giving  a  fresh  face  to  each 
house.  It  won't  be  hard  work  for 

you ! » 

This,  the  architect  knew,  was  very  true. 
It  would  be  very  easy  to  have  Cook  hunt 
up  a  lot  of  photographs  from  French 
and  English  architectural  journals,  which, 
with  a  little  arrangement,  would  serve. 
With  a  few  hours'  work  he  could  turn 
out  that  individual  fagade  that  Graves 
prized  commercially.  Here  was  the 
large  job  that  could  be  done  easily  and 
roughly,  ready  to  hand. 

"I  don't  like  to  have  such  work  go 
through  the  office.  That 's  all  there  is. 
about  it  !  "  he  exclaimed  at  last. 

"  Tony,  eh  ?  Well,  we  won't  fight  over 
that.  Suppose  you  make  the  sketches 
and  let  another  feller  prepare  the  de- 
tails ?  " 

There  were  many  objections  to  this 
mode  of  operation,  but  the  contractor 
met  every  one.  Hart  himself  thought 
of  Van  Meyer,  a  clever,  drunken  Ger- 
man, to  whom  he  had  given  work  now 
and  then  when  the  office  was  busy.  He 
would  do  what  he  was  told  and  say  no- 
thing about  it.  ... 

It  was  late  when  Graves  left  the  of- 
fice. Cook  and  the  stenographer  had 


368 


The   Common  Lot. 


already  gone.  Hart  went  down  into 
the  street  with  the  contractor,  and  they 
nodded  to  each  other  when  they  parted, 
in  the  manner  of  men  who  have  reached 
an  understanding.  On  the  way  to  the 
train,  Hart  dropped  into  his  club  for  a 
drink.  He  stood  staring  into  the  street 
while  he  sipped  his  gin  and  bitters. 
The  roar  of  the  city  as  it  came  through 
the  murky  windows  seemed  to  him  more 
than  commonly  harsh  and  grating.  The 
gray  light  of  the  summer  evening  filtered 
mournfully  into  the  dingy  room.  .  .  . 
He  was  not  a  weak  man  ;  he  had  no 
qualms  of  conscience  for  what  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  that  afternoon  to  do. 
It  was  disagreeable,  but  he  had  weighed 
it  against  other  disagreeable  alternatives 
which  might  happen  if  he  could  not  get  the 
money  he  needed.  By  the  time  he  had 
reached  Shoreham  he  had  entirely  ad- 
justed his  mind  to  Graves,  and  he  met  his 
wife,  who  had  walked  over  to  the  station, 
with  his  usual  buoyant  smile.  And  that 
evening  he  remarked  :  — 

"  I  guess  we  had  better  take  the  Lor- 
ing  place.  It 's  the  only  fit  one  for  rent. 
We  '11  have  to  keep  a  horse,  — that 's  all." 

They  had  been  debating  this  matter 
of  the  Loring  house  for  several  weeks. 
It  was  a  pleasant  old  house,  near  the 
lake,  not  far  from  Mrs.  Phillips's  in  For- 
est Park.  It  was  Mrs.  Phillips  who  had 
first  called  the  architect's  attention  to  it. 
But,  unfortunately,  it  was  too  far  from 
either  station  of  the  railroad  to  be  within 
walking  distance.  And  it  was  a  large 
establishment  for  two  young  persons  to 
maintain,  who  were  contemplating  the 
advent  of  a  baby  and  a  nurse. 

All  this  Helen  had  pointed  out  to  her 
husband,  and  lately  they  had  felt  too 
poor  to  consider  the  Loring  place. 

"  What  has  happened,  Francis  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"  A  lot  more  business  has  come  in,  — 
houses.  They  will  be  very  profitable," 
he  answered  vaguely,  remembering 
Helen's  antipathy  to  the  contractor. 
"  Did  you  lunch  with  Venetia?  " 


XI. 

The  Lady  Venetia  de  Phillips,  as  the 
young  woman  used  to  call  herself  in  the 
doll  age,  had  never  set  foot  in  a  common 
street  car,  or,  indeed,  in  anything  more 
public  than  a  day  coach  on  the  Forest 
Park  suburban  train ;  and  in  that  only 
because  the  C.  R.  &  N.  had  not  found 
it  profitable  to  provide  as  yet  a  special 
coach  for  her  class.  Mrs.  Phillips,  who 
had  known  what  it  was  to  ride  in  an  Ot- 
tumwa  buggy,  comfortably  cushioned  by 
the  stout  arm  of  an  Ottumwa  swain,  un- 
derstood the  cardinal  principle  of  class 
evolution,  which  is  separation.  She  had 
educated  her  children  according  to  that 
principle. 

So  it  happened  shortly  before  Mrs. 
Phillips  had  taken  possession  of  her  new 
home  that  Miss  Phillips,  having  to  pay 
a  visit  on  the  North  Side  of  the  city,  was 
driving  in  her  mother's  victoria,  in  dig- 
nity, according  to  her  estate.  Beside 
her  sat  her  favorite  terrier,  Pete,  scan- 
ning the  landscape  of  the  dirty  streets 
by  which  they  were  obliged  to  pass  from 
the  South  to  the  North  Side.  Sudden- 
ly as  the  carriage  turned  a  corner,  Pete 
spied  a  long,  lank  wharf  rat,  of  a  kind 
that  did  not  inhabit  his  own  neighbor- 
hood. The  terrier  took  one  impulsive 
leap  between  the  wheels  of  the  victoria, 
and  was  off  up  Illinois  Street  after  the 
rat.  It  was  a  good  race ;  the  Lady 
Venetia's  sporting  blood  rose,  and  she 
ordered  the  coachman  to  follow.  Sud- 
denly there  dashed  from  an  alley  a  light 
baker's  wagon,  driven  by  a  reckless 
youth.  Pete,  unmindful  of  the  clatter- 
ing wagon;*  intent  upon  his  loping  prey, 
was  struck  full  in  the  middle  of  his  body : 
two  wheels  passed  diagonally  across  him, 
squeezing  him  to  the  pavement  like 
india-rubber  ball.  He  dragged  hi 
to  the  sidewalk,  filling  the  street  wi 
hideous  howls.  The  passers-by  stoppe 
but  the  reckless  youth  in  the  baker 
wagon,  having  leaned  out  to  see  wh 


The   Common  Lot. 


369 


damage  had  been  done,  grinned,  shook 
his  reins,  and  was  off. 

Before  the  coachman  had  brought  the 
victoria  to  a  full  stop  Venetia  was  out 
and  across  the  street.  Pete  had  crawled 
into  an  alley,  where  he  lay  in  a  little 
heap,  moaning.  When  his  mistress  tried 
to  gather  him  into  her  skirt  he  whim- 
pered and  showed  his  teeth.  Something 
was  radically  wrong !  The  small  boys 
who  had  gathered  advised  throwing  Pete 
into  the  river,  and  offered  to  do  the  deed. 
But  Venetia,  the  tears  falling  from  her 
eyes,  turned  back  into  the  street  to  take 
counsel  with  the  coachman.  A  young 
man  who  was  hurrying  by,  swinging  a 
little  satchel  and  whistling  to  himself, 
stopped. 

'  "  What  'a  up  ?  "  he  asked,  smiling  at 
the  girl's  tears. 

Venetia  pointed  at  the  dog,  and  the 
stranger,  pushing  the  small  boys  aside, 
leaned  over  Pete. 

"  Gee  !  He 's  pretty  well  mashed, 
ain't  he  ?  Here,  Miss,  I  '11  give  him  a 
smell  of  this  and  send  him  to  by-by." 

He  opened  his  little  satchel  and  hunt- 
ed for  a  bottle.  Venetia  timidly  touched 
his  arm. 

"  Please  don't  kill  him !  " 

"  That 's  just  what  I  'm  going  to  do, 
sure  thing !  "  He  paused,  with  the  little 
vial  in  his  hand,  and  looked  coolly  at  the 
girl.  "  You  don't  want  the  pup  to  suffer 
like  that?" 

"  But  can't  he  be  saved  ?  " 

The  stranger  looked  again  at  Pete, 
then  back  at  Venetia.  Finally  he  tied 
a  handkerchief  over  the  dog's  mouth,  and 
began  to  examine  him  carefully. 

"  Let 's  see  what  there  '»  left  of  you 
after  the  mix-up,  Mr.  Doggie.  We  '11 
give  you  the  benefit  of  our  best  atten- 
tion and  skill,  —  more  'n  most  folks  ever 
get  in  this  world,  —  because  you  are  the 
pet  of  a  nice  young  lady.  .If  you  were 
just  an  alley-cat  you  would  n't  even  get 
the  chloroform.  Well,  Miss,  he  'd  have 
about  one  chance  in  a  hundred,  after  he 
had  that  hind  leg  cut  off." 

VOL.  xcm.  —  NO.  557.  24 


"  Could  you  cure  him  ?  Mamma  will 
be  very  glad  to  pay  you  for  your  ser- 
vices." 

"  Is  that  so  ?  "  the  stranger  remarked. 
"  How  do  you  know  that  my  services 
don't  come  very  high  ?  Well,  come  on, 
pup !  We  '11  see  what  can  be  done  for 
you." 

Drawingtheimprovised  muzzle  tighter, 
he  gathered  Pete  up  in  a  little  bundle. 
Then  he  strode  down  the  street  to  the 
west.  The  coachman  drew  up  beside 
the  curb  and  touched  his  hat. 

"  Won't  you  get  in  ?  "  Venetia  asked. 

"  It 's  only  a  step  or  so  to  my  place," 
he  answered  gruffly.  "  You  can  follow 
me  in  the  carriage." 

But  she  kept  one  hand  on  Pete,  and 
walked  beside  the  stranger  until  he 
stopped  at  an  old,  one-story,  wooden  cot- 
tage. Above  the  door  was  painted  in 
large  black  letters,  "  S.  COBUKN,  M.  D. 
PHYSICIAN  AND  SURGEON." 

"  May  I  come  in  ? "  the  girl  asked 
timidly. 

"  Sure  !  Why  would  I  keep  you  sit- 
ting on  the  doorstep  ?  " 

Inside  there  was  a  little  front  room, 
apparently  used  as  a  waiting-room  for 
patients.  Back  of  this  was  a  large  bare 
room,  into  which  the  doctor  led  the  way. 
It  occupied  all  the  rest  of  the  cottage. 
A  wooden  bench  extended  the  entire 
length  of  this  room,  underneath  a  row  of 
rough  windows,  which  had  been  cut  in 
the  wall  to  light  the  bench.  Over  in 
one  corner  was  a  cot,  with  the  bed- 
clothes negligently  dragging  on  the  floor. 
Near  by  was  an  iron  sink.  On  a  table 
in  the  centre  of  the  room,  carefully 
guarded  by  a  glass  case,  was  a  complex 
piece  of  mechanism  which  looked  to  the 
girl  like  one  of  the  tiresome  machines 
her  teacher  of  physics  was  wont  to  ex- 
hibit. 

"  My  laboratory,"  the  doctor  explained 
somewhat  grandly. 

Venetia  stepped  gingerly  across  the 
dirty  floor,  glancing  about  with  curios- 
ity. The  doctor  placed  the  dog  on  the 


370 


The   Common  Lot. 


table,  and  turned  on    several    electric 
lights. 

"  You  '11  have  to  help  at  this  perform- 
ance," the  doctor  remarked,  taking  off 
his  coat. 

Together  they  gave  Pete  an  opiate 
and  removed  the  muzzle.  The  doctor 
then  turned  him  over  and  poked  him 
here  and  there. 

"  Well,"  he  pronounced,  "  Peter  has 
a  full  bill.  Compound  fracture,  broken 
rib,  and  mashed  toes.  And  I  don't  know 
what  all  on  the  inside.  He  has  a  slim 
chance  of  limping  around  on  three  legs. 
Shall  I  give  him  some  more  dope  ?  What 
do  you  say  ?  " 

"  Pete  was  a  gamy  dog,"  Venetia  re- 
plied thoughtfully.  "  I  think  he  would 
like  all  his  chances." 

"  Good !  "  The  doctor  tossed  aside 
the  sponge  that  he  had  held  ready  to  give 
Pete  his  farewell  whiff.  He  told  the 
girl  how  to  hold  the  dog,  and  how  to 
touch  the  sponge  to  his  nose  from  time 
to  time.  They  were  absorbed  in  the 
operation  when  the  coachman  pushed  his 
way  into  the  room. 

"What  shall  I  do,  Miss,  about  the 
horses  ?  Mis'  Phillips  gave  particler 
instructions  I  was  n't  to  stay  out  after 
five-thurty.  It 's  most  that  now." 

"  Tell  him  to  go  home,"  the  doctor 
ordered.  "  We  '11  be  an  hour  more/' 

"  But  how  shall  I  get  home  ?  "  the 
girl  asked,  perplexed. 

"  On  your  feet,  I  guess,  same  as  most 
folks,"  the  doctor  answered,  testing  a 
knife  on  his  finger.  "  And  the  cars  ain't 
stopped  running  on  the  South  Side,  have 
they?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  never  use  them," 
Venetia  replied  helplessly. 

The  doctor  put  the  knife  down  beside 
Pete,  and  looked  at  the  girl  from  her 
head  to  her  feet,  a  teasing  smile  creeping 
over  his  swarthy  face. 

"  Well,  it 's  just  about  time  for  you  to 
find  out  what  they  're  good  for.  I  '11  take 
you  home  myself  just  to  see  how  you  like 
them.  You  won't  get  hurt,  not  a  bit. 


You  may  go,  Thomas !  "  He  waved  his 
hand  sarcastically  to  the  coachman. 
"  And  when  you  go  out,  be  good  enough 
to  slip  the  latch.  We  have  a  little  busi- 
ness to  do  here,  and  don't  want  to 
interrupted." 

When  the  coachman  had  left,  Venetia 
turned  to  the  doctor  with  a  red  face,  and 
copying  her  mother's  most  impressive 
tones,  asked,  — 

"  What  would  you  like  me  to  do  now, 
Dr.  C  oburn  ?  " 

"  Nothing  special.  Turn  your  back 
if  you  don't  like  to  see  me  take  a  chop 
out  of  doggie." 

He  laughed  at  her  dignity ;  therefore 
she  kept  her  face  turned  resolutely  on 
poor  Pete.  She  could  not  help  being 
interested  in  the  man  as  she  watched  his 
swift  movements.  He  was  stocky  and 
short,  black-haired,  with  a  short  black 
mustache  that  did  not  disguise  the  perpet- 
ual sardonic  smile  of  his  lips.  She  noticed 
that  his  trousers  were  very  baggy  and 
streaked  at  the  bottoms  with  mud.  They 
were  the  trousers  of  a  man  who,  according 
to  her  experience,  was  not  a  gentleman. 
The  frayed  cravat,  which  showed  its 
cotton  filling,  belonged  to  the  same  cate- 
gory as  the  trousers.  But  there  was 
something  in  the  fierce  black  eyes,  the 
heavy  jaw,  the  nervous  grip  of  the  lips 
when  the  man  was  thinking,  that  awed 
her.  The  more  Venetia  looked  at  him, 
the  more  she  was  afraid  of  him ;  not 
afraid  that  he  would  do  any  harm  to 
her,  but  vaguely  afraid  of  his  strength, 
his  force.  His  bare  arms  were  thick  and 
hairy,  although  the  fingers  were  supple, 
and  he  touched  things  lightly.  Alto- 
gether he  was  a  strange  person  in  her 
little  world,  and  somewhat  terrifying. 

Dr.  Coburn  talked  all  the  time,  whil< 
he  worked  swiftly  over  the  dog,  descril 
ing  to  the  girl  just  what  he  was  doing. 
Venetia  watched  him  without  flinchinj 
though  the  tears  would  roll  down  h< 
face.     She  put  one  hand  under  Pete's 
limp  head  to  hold  it,  as  she  would  have 
liked  to  have  her  head  held  under  the 


The   Common  Lot. 


371 


same  circumstances.  At  last  the  doctor 
straightened  himself  and  exclaimed  :  — 

"  Correct !  He 's  done  up  in  first-class 
style."  He  went  to  the  sink  and  washed 
his  arms  and  hands.  "  Yes,  Peter  is  as 
well  patched  as  if  the  great  Dr.  Parks 
had  done  it  himself  and  charged  you  ten 
thousand  dollars  for  the  job.  I  donno' 
but  it 's  better  done.  And  he  would  have 
charged  you  all  right !  "  He  gave  a  loud 
ironical  laugh,  and  swashed  the  water 
over  his  bare  arms. 

Then  he  came  back  to  the  operating 
table,  wiping  his  hands  and  arms  on  a 
roller  towel  that  was  none  too  clean. 

"  You  can  quit  that  sponge  now,  Miss, 
and  I  guess  doggie  won't  appreciate  the 
little  attention  of  holding  his  head  yet  a 
while.  He  has  n't  got  to  the  flower  and 
fruit  stage  yet,  have  you,  eh,  purp  ?  " 

Venetia  stood  like  a  little  girl,  awk- 
wardly waiting  for  orders. 

"  What 's  your  name  ?  "  the  doctor 
demanded  abruptly. 

"  Venetia,  —  Venetia  Phillips." 

"  Well,  Miss  Venetia,  you  seem  fond 
of  animals.  Would  you  like  to  see  my 
collection  ?  " 

He  strode  to  the  farther  end  of  the 
room  and  opened  a  trap  door. 

"  Come  over  here  !  " 

The  girl  peeped  through  the  trap  door 
into  the  cellar.  There,  in  a  number  of 
pens,  were  huddled  a  small  menagerie  of 
animals,  —  dogs,  cats,  guinea-pigs,  rab- 
bits. 

"  What  do  you  do  with  all  of  them  ?  " 
the  girl  asked,  her  heart  sinking  with 
foreboding. 

"  Cut  'em  up !  " 

"Cut  them  up?" 

"  Sure !  And  dose  'em.  This  is  an 
experimental  laboratory."  The  doctor 
waved  his  hand  rather  grandly  over  the 
dirty  room.  "  There  are  not  many  like 
it  in  the  city  of  Chicago,  I  can  tell  you. 
I  am  conducting  investigations,  and  I 
use  these  little  fellers." 

"  It 's  horrid  !  "  the  girl  exclaimed, 
looking  apprehensively  at  Pete. 


"  Not  a  bit  of  it !  "  The  doctor  reached 
his  hand  down  and  pulled  up  a  rabbit,  a 
little  mangy  object,  which  tottered  a  few 
steps  and  then  fell  down,  as  if  dizzy. 

"Jack  's  had  fifteen  minims  of  the  so- 
lution of  hydrochlorate  of  manganese  this 
morning.  He  looks  kind  of  dopy,  don't 
he  ?  He  11  be  as  smart  as  a  trivet  to- 
morrow. But  I  guess  he  's  about  reached 
his  limit  of  hydrochlorate,  eh,  Jack  ?  " 

In  spite  of  herself  the  girl's  curiosi- 
ty was  aroused.  When  the  doctor  had 
returned  Jack  to  his  pen,  she  asked, 
"  What 's  that  queer  machine  over 
there  ? " 

"  That 's  to  pump  things  into  your 
body,  to  squirt  medicines  into  you,  in- 
stead of  dropping  them  into  your  tummy 
loose,  as  doctors  usually  do.  See  ?  When 
I  stick  this  long  needle  into  you  and  work 
this  handle,  a  little  stream  of  the  thing 
I  want  to  give  you  is  pumped  into  your 
body  at  the  right  spot.  Would  you  like 
to  have  me  try  it  on  you  ?  No !  I 
thought  not.  That's  why  Jack  has  to 
take  his  dose  every  morning." 

He  went  into  his  explanation  more 
thoroughly,  and  they  talked  of  many 
things  that  were  as  wonderful  to  Vene- 
tia, brought  up  in  the  modern  city  of 
Chicago,  as  if  she  had  come  out  of  Thi- 
bet. 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  leave  Pete. 
May  I  come  to  see  him  sometimes  ?  " 
she  said  at  last. 

"  Sure  !  As  often  as  you  like.  I  'm 
generally  in  afternoons.  I  '11  telephone 
if  the  patient's  pulse  gets  feeble  or  his 
temperature  goes  up." 

"You  need  n't  make  fun  of  me.  And 
I  think  I  can  find  my  way  home  alone," 
she  added,  as  the  doctor  took  las  hat  from 
the  table  and  jammed  it  on  his  head. 

"  I  said  I  'd  see  you  home.  I  am  not 
going  to  miss  seeing  you  take  that  first 
ride  on  the  cable,  not  much !  Perhaps 
you  won't  mind  walking  across  the  bridge 
and  up  the  avenue  to  the  cable  line  ?  It 's 
a  pretty  evening,  and  it  will  do  you  good 
to  take  the  air  along  the  river." 


372 


The   Common  Lot. 


So  the  two  started  for  the  city  and 
crossed  the  busy  thoroughfare  of  the 
Rush  Street  Bridge  just  as  the  twilight 
was  touching  the  murky  waters  of  the 
river.  The  girl  was  uncomfortably  con- 
scious that  the  man  by  her  side  was  a 
very  shabbily  dressed  escort.  She  was 
glad  that  the  uncertain  light  would  hide 
her  from  any  of  her  acquaintances  that 
might  be  driving  across  the  bridge  at 
this  hour.  The  doctor  seemed  to  be  in 
no  hurry ;  he  paused  on  the  bridge  to 
watch  a  tug  push  a  fat  grainboat  up  the 
river,  until  they  were  almost  caught  by 
the  turning  draw. 

"  That 's  a  fine  sight !  "  he  remarked. 

"  Yes,  the  sunset  is  beautiful,"  she  re- 
plied conventionally. 

"  No !  I  mean  that  big  vessel  loaded 
with  grain.  That 's  what  you  live  on  : 
it 's  what  you  are,  —  that  and  a  lot  of 
dirty  cattle  over  in  the  pens  of  the  stock- 
yard. That 's  you,  Miss  Venetia,  — 
black  hair,  pink  cheeks,  and  all !  " 

"  What  a  very  materialistic  way  of 
looking  at  life ! "  Veuetia  replied  se- 
verely. 

"  Lord,  child  !  "  the  doctor  exclaimed 
ironically.  "  Who  taught  you  that  hor- 
rid word  ?  "  He  proceeded  to  give  her 
a  little  lecture  on  physiology,  which  oc- 
cupied her  attention  all  the  way  to  the 
cable  car,  so  that  she  forgot  her  snobbish 
anxieties. 

The  car  was  crowded,  and  no  one  of- 
fered her  a  seat.  She  was  obliged  to 
stand  crowded  in  a  corner,  swaying  from 
a  strap  overhead,  while  the  persistent 
doctor  told  her  all  about  the  car,  the 
motive  power,  the  operatives,  the  num- 
ber of  passengers  carried  daily,  the  dis- 
pute over  the  renewal  of  the  franchise, 
and  kindred  matters  of  common  concern. 

"  Now,  it 's  likely  enough  some  of  your 
folks  own  a  block  of  their  watered  stock," 
he  continued  in  his  clear,  high  voice,  that 
made  itself  felt  above  the  rattle  of  the 
car.  "  And  you  are  helping  pay  them 
their  dividends.  Some  day,  though,  may- 
be the  rest  of  us  won't  want  to  go  on 


paying  five  cents  to  ride  in  their  old  ca 
Then  your  stock  will  go  down,  the  wa 
will  dry  up,  and  perhaps  you  '11  have  o: 
or  two  dresses  less.  You  '11  rememb 
then  I  told  you  the  reason  why." 

Venetia  had  heard  enough  about  stocks 
and  bonds  to  know  that  a  good  deal  of 
the  Phillips  money  was  invested  in  the 
City  Railway.  But  she  had  also  learned 
that  it  was  very  vulgar  for  a  man  to  dis- 
cuss money  matters  with  a  girl.  Further- 
more, peering  about  the  crowded  con- 
veyance, she  had  caught  sight  of  Porter 
Howe,  one  of  her  brother  Stanwood's 
friends.  He  was  looking  at  her  and  the 
doctor,  and  she  began  to  feel  uncomfort- 
able again.  It  had  never  occurred  to 
her  that  the  young  men  of  her  class  were 
in  the  habit  of  using  the  street  cars,  at 
least  until  they  had  reached  those  as- 
sured positions  at  the  head  of  industry 
which  awaited  them. 

So  the  novelty  of  the  ride  in  the  pub- 
lic car  had  something  of  torture  in  it, 
and  she  was  glad  enough  to  escape 
through  the  front  door  at  Eighteen 
Street. 

"  Won't  you  come  in  ?  "  she  asked  t 
doctor  politely  when  they  came  to  the 
formidable  pile  of  red  brick  where  she 
lived. 

"  Thanks.  I  don't  believe  your  folks 
will  want  me  to  stay  to  supper,  and  I 
am  getting  hungry.  Hope  you  enjoyed 
your  ride.  Some  day  I  '11  come  and 
take  you  for  a  trolley  ride  down  toward 
the  south." 

He  shook  her  hand  vigorously  and 
laughed.  Then  he  started  briskly  for 
the  city,  his  hands  thrust  in  his  trousers' 
pockets,  his  black  felt  hat  drawn  forward 
over  his  brows.  Venetia  had  barely 
mounted  the  first  bank  of  steps  befo: 
she  heard  her  name. 

"Say,  Miss  Venetia !" 

The  doctor  was  shouting  back  to  he 
one  hand  at  the  side  of  his  mouth. 

"  Don't  you  worry  about  that  pup ! 
think  I  can  bring  him  round  all  right." 

She  nodded,  and  stepped  into  the  ves 


pe 


Theodor  Mommsen. 


373 


bule  with  a  sense  of  relief  from  her  com- 
panion. She  knew  that  Dr.  Coburn  was 
what  her  brother  called  a  "  mucker,"  and 
her  mother  spoke  of  as  a  "  fellow."  Yet 


she  recognized  that  there  was  something 
in  the  man  to  be  respected,  and  this  in- 
sight, it  may  be  said,  distinguished  Ve- 
netia  from  her  mother  and  her  brother. 
Robert  Herrick. 


(To  be  continued.) 


THEODOR  MOMMSEN. 


THE  conditions  of  human  life  vouch- 
safe an  immortality  of  personal  fame  to 
every  great  artist,  but  the  scholar's  por- 
tion is  usually  to  be  forgotten  ;  he  builds 
his  share  of  the  City  of  Knowledge,  proud 
if  they  who  come  after  him  carry  on  the 
work  along  his  lines,  content  if  they  tear 
down  what  he  has  done,  and  use  for  a 
fairer  building  the  stones  which  he  has 
quarried.  For  a  few  brief  years  after 
his  death  the  fragrance  of  his  personality 
may  linger,  the  impact  of  the  whole  man 
may  still  be  felt,  but  slowly  he  will  pass 
over  into  the  long  list  of  scholars  known 
only  to  scholars,  and  even  to  most  of 
them  only  by  name.  We  must  needs  re- 
mind ourselves  of  these  things  because 
they  are  truths  which  we  are  apt  to  for- 
get in  the  presence  of  an  individual  case, 
truths  which  we  are  only  too  ready  to 
doubt  in  the  fullness  of  our  present  know- 
ledge. And  yet,  if  they  are  true,  a  great 
scholar's  life  when  it  is  completed  de- 
serves an  immediate  study  before  the 
color  has  faded  from  the  sunset  sky.  It 
is  safe  to  say  that  none  of  us  will  ever 
again  see  the  like  of  Theodor  Mommsen, 
and  the  elements  of  the  scholar's  life 
which  we  may  study  elsewhere,  piecing 
them  together,  here  a  bit  and  there  a  bit, 
are  found  combined  in  him,  and  writ  so 
large  that  even  the  most  unsympathetic 
must  be  impressed  by  them. 

Christian  Matthias  Theodor  Momm- 
sen was  born  November  30,  1817,  at 
Garding,  a  small  village  in  Schleswig- 
Holstein,  not  far  from  the  North  Sea. 


It  was  not  without  result  that  his  earliest 
years  were  passed  in  the  borderland  of 
Germany,  in  a  province  whose  heart  was 
with  Germany,  but  whose  land  was  then 
reckoned  a  part  of  Denmark,  in  the  years 
when  the  reaction  from  Napoleon  was 
setting  in,  and  the  German  national  feel- 
ing was  springing  into  life.  Up  to  the 
age  of  seventeen  he  lived  with  his  par- 
ents in  company  with  his  two  younger 
brothers,  Tycho  (born  1819),  afterwards 
known  for  his  work  on  Pindar  and  Hor- 
ace, and  August  (born  1821),  whose 
reputation  rests  principally  on  his  studies 
in  Greek  and  Roman  chronology.  After 
spending  five  years  at  the  Gymnasium 
at  Altona  (near  Hamburg),  he  matricu- 
lated in  1838,  aged  twenty-one,  at  the 
University  of  Kiel.  There  he  studied  for 
another  five  years,  attaining  his  Doctor- 
ate of  Philosophy  in  1843  with  a  modest 
treatise  on  a  subject  connected  with  Ro- 
man Law,  the  forerunner  of  so  many 
hundreds  of  monographs  from  his  pen. 
In  the  following  year  he  obtained  a  trav- 
eling fellowship,  which  enabled  him  to 
pursue  his  studies  in  Italy.  He  spent 
there  the  years  1843-47.  These  Wan- 
derjahre  were  a  time  of  wonderful  de- 
velopment for  the  young  Mommsen.  He 
made  the  acquaintance  of  the  great  Bor- 
ghese,  the  most  famous  authority  of  his 
day  on  Roman  Inscriptions.  Subsequent- 
ly (in  1852)  the  dedication  of  Momm- 
sen's  first  great  work,  the  Inscriptions 
of  the  Kingdom  of  Naples,  to  Borghese, 
"  Magistro.,  Patrono,  Amico,"  bears  trib- 


374 


Theodor  Mommsen. 


ute  to  these  years.  The  thirty-year-old 
student  was  already  looking  far  into  the 
future,  for  in  the  last  year  of  the  Italian 
stay  (1847)  he  published  a  Plan  for  a 
Corpus  of  Latin  Inscriptions.  As  early 
as  1844  the  famous  jurist  Savigny  had 
proposed  to  the  Berlin  Academy  that 
Mommsen  be  put  in  charge  of  the  Col- 
lection of  Roman  Inscriptions  which  the 
Academy  proposed  to  publish.  But  when 
Mommsen's  ideas  had  been  explained  to 
them  they  feared  the  expense  and  favored 
a  rival  claimant,  a  certain  Zumpt,  who 
proposed  an  economical  (and  worthless) 
rehashing  of  existing  printed  collections, 
whereas  Mommsen  demanded  that  the 
original  stones  be  sought  for  again  and 
recopied.  It  took  Mommsen  a  year  to 
establish  his  point,  and  he  was  compelled 
to  give  tangible  proof  of  it  in  his  Inscrip- 
tions of  the  Kingdom  of  Naples,  published 
independently,  before  he  was  eventually 
put  in  charge  of  the  undertaking. 

It  is  characteristic  of  the  man  that 
even  in  the  midst  of  this  scholastic  work 
in  the  congenial  surroundings  of  Italy 
his  ear  should  not  have  been  deaf  to  the 
call  of  his  fatherland.  Christian  VIII 
of  Denmark  had  begun  to  threaten 
the  liberty  of  Schleswig-Holstein,  and 
Mommsen  the  epigraphist  became  ap- 
parently lost  temporarily  in  Mommsen 
the  patriot.  With  his  wonted  energy 
he  not  only  returned  to  Schleswig-Hol- 
stein, but  became  the  editor  of  a  political 
paper  in  Rendsburg.  In  the  nature  of 
things  his  work  there  came  to  an  end  in 
the  early  months  of  1848,  when  Fried- 
rich  VII  succeeded  Christian  VIII,  Den- 
mark became  a  constitutional  monarchy, 
and  the  war  of  the  Duchies  began.  And 
so  in  1848  the  editor  of  the  Schleswig- 
Holsteinische  Zeitung  became  the  Pro- 
fessor of  Roman  Law  in  the  University 
of  Leipsic.  It  need  not  surprise  us  that 
in  this  same  year  the  ex-editor,  now  pro- 
fessor, should  publish  a  learned  work  on 
Roman  surveying,  nor  that  in  the  follow- 
ing year  his  political  interests,  invoking 
his  sympathy  with  Prussia,  should  have 


made  him  so  hostile  to  the  Saxon  authori- 
ties that  he  was  compelled  to  resign  his 
professorship  and  seek  refuge  in  hospit 
ble  Switzerland.     Nothing  daunted 
his  voluntary  exile,  he  accepted  a  prc 
fessorship  at  the  University  of  Zurich  ii 
1852,  and  made  the  most  of  his  oppor 
tunities.     These  were  the  years  in  whicl 
he  was  quietly  working  on  his  Roma 
History ;  but  alongside  of  this  he  founc 
time  to  turn  his  environment  to  a  profit 
able  use,  writing  the  admirable  article  or 
Switzerland  in  Roman  Times,  and  pub- 
lishing a  collection  of  the  Latin  inscrip- 
tions found  in  Switzerland.    These  smal 
articles  are  characteristic  of  the  man's 
ever  present  consciousness   of  envirot 
ment  and  his  sympathetic  touch  with  it 
In   1854  his  Roman  History  began  to 
appear,  and  at  the  same  time  he  was 
transferred  from  Zurich  to  Breslau,  again 
as  Professor  of  Roman  Law.     The  suc- 
cess of  the  Roman  History  was  phenor 
enal,  and  in  less  than  a  decade  it  he 
been  translated  into   most   of   the   Eu- 
ropean languages.     It  was  largely  owing 
to  the  success  of  the  book  that  he  wa 
called  to  Berlin  in  1858  to  a  professor 
ship  of  Ancient  History. 

In  the  year  of  his  coming  to  Berlii 
falls    the    publication    of    his    Ronu 
Chronology,  a   work   which,  altogethe 
aside  from  its  historical  value,  is  of 
culiar  personal  interest  because  it  ws 
largely  inspired  by  the  writings  of  his 
brother  August,  and  was  written  in  oj 
position  to  his   theories.     The   preface 
gives  a  frank  statement  of  the  case,  ane 
combines  in  a  rare  degree  personal  syi 
pathy  and  admiration  for  "  brother  AT; 
gust "  and  reckless  objective  criticism 
the  theories  of    "A.   Mommsen,"  enc 
ing  with  a  prayer  to  the  reader  not 
confuse  the  two  standpoints.     "  If  f utur 
biographers  shall   repeat  in  connectic 
with  this  controversy  the  note  in  the  lis 
of  the  Roman  Consuls,  '  Hei  fratres  ge- 
minifuerunt,'  let  them  do  so  unhinderec 
But  those  who  wish  to  know  the  trut 
in  the  matter  will,  I  hope,  convince  ther 


Theodor  Mommsen. 


375 


selves  that  the  personal  element  does  not 
enter  into  the  discussion."  We  can  only 
wish  that  the  same  distinction  of  person 
and  thing  had  characterized  all  his  sub- 
sequent expression  of  opinion  in  other 
connections. 

From  1858  on,  except  for  one  short 
interval,  his  home  was  in  Berlin  ;  and, 
for  most  of  these  forty-five  years  till  his 
death,  in  the  modest  little  house  in  Char- 
lottenburg  where  he  died.  During  this 
almost  half-century  his  scholarly  activity 
continued  unbroken  up  to  within  a  few 
days  of  his  death,  for  it  would  be  a  great 
error  to  consider  that  his  outside  interests, 
notably  his  political  life,  in  any  wise  in- 
terfered with  his  literary  activity.  The 
two  proceeded  side  by  side,  each  inevit- 
ably bound  up  with  the  other.  In  1863 
the  first  volume  of  Corpus  of  Latin  In- 
scriptions appeared,  his  own  work,  in 
preparation  for  which  he  had  been  plan- 
ning and  toiling  for  almost  twenty  years. 
In  the  following  year  came  the  first  of 
his  two  volumes  of  monographs  on  Ro- 
man History.  Seven  years  later  the 
Roman  Constitutional  Law  appeared,  a 
stupendous  undertaking,  as  technical  and 
erudite  as  the  Roman  History  was  pop- 
ular and  simple.  Events  were  moving 
rapidly  for  him  in  these  years.  In  1872 
he  founded  a  periodical  devoted  to  the 
Science  of  Inscriptions,  —  a  sort  of  light- 
weight cavalry  troop,  preceding  the  slow 
moving  infantry  of  the  Corpus.  In  the 
following  year  he  was  made  Perpetual 
Secretary  of  the  Berlin  Academy,  and  at 
the  same  time  a  member  of  the  Prussian 
House  of  Representatives.  Until  1882 
he  continued  a  member  of  the  Prussian 
Diet,  identifying  himself  with  the  Lib- 
eral party,  and  more  particularly  with 
that  portion  of  it  which  stood  aloof  from 
Socialism.  In  these  years  following  the 
Franco-Prussian  war  all  eyes  were  turned 
on  Bismarck.  Mommsen's  attitude  here 
was  one  of  intense  hostility.  He  saw  in 
Bismarck  not  the  man  who  had  given 
unity  to  Germany,  Mommsen's  own  ideal, 
but  merely  the  triumphant  aristocrat  with 


whom  he  could  have  no  sympathy.  His 
hostility  led  him  so  far  as  to  speak  of 
Bismarck's  policy  as  a  "  swindle."  He 
was  brought  to  trial  for  his  words,  and 
though  he  was  ultimately  acquitted  by 
the  Court  of  Appeals,  it  was  in  a  sense 
the  end  of  his  active  political  life. 

However,  during  the  decade  (1873- 
82)  the  scholar  was  not  forgotten  in  the 
politician.  In  1877,  on  the  occasion  of 
his  sixtieth  birthday,  a  memorial  album 
was  published  in  his  honor  by  his  friends 
and  pupils.  Six  different  languages  are 
used  as  the  medium  of  expression,  and 
almost  every  branch  of  the  study  of  an- 
tiquity is  represented.  In  return  Momm- 
sen sent  to  each  of  the  contributors  a  lit- 
tle volume  entitled  "  Roman  History  by 
Theodor  Mommsen  :  Volume  IV,"  —  a 
reference  to  the  famous  fourth  volume 
of  his  History,  which  has  never  appeared. 
It  was  inscribed  with  this  motto  :  — 
"  Genie  hatte  ieh  fortgeschrieben 
Aber  es  ist  liegen  geblieben."  1 

The  book  contained  merely  a  reprint  of 
a  small  article  published  in  Hermes  some 
time  before.  But  while  the  fourth  vol- 
ume was  never  written,  Volume  V,  the 
History  of  the  Roman  Provinces  under 
the  Empire,  appeared  in  1885.  A  great 
multitude  of  short  articles  and  many  re- 
visions of  already  published  works  helped 
to  fill  up  the  next  fourteen  years.  But 
his  main  occupation  during  this  time  was 
the  preparation  of  the  work  on  Roman 
Criminal  Law,  which  appeared  in  1899, 
—  a  closely  printed  book  of  over  a  thou- 
sand pages,  crowded  with  references,  and 
accompanied  by  all  the  paraphernalia  of 
scholarship,  published  by  this  wonderful 
old  gentleman  in  his  eighty-second  year. 
It  is  hardly  necessary  to  add  that  this 
was  his  last  large  book,  although  he  con- 
tinued to  publish  articles  until  the  end, 
and  was  at  work  on  the  Lives  of  the  Ro- 
man Emperors  when  death  stopped  his 
busy  pen,  which  had  been  writing  for 
threescore  years. 

1  I  would  have  finished  it  gladly ! 
But  alas  !  it  lagged  so  sadly ! 


376 


Theodor  Mommsen. 


Moramsen's  biography  is  more  than  a 
bibliography,  for,  wonderful  as  were  his 
works,  he  was  more  man  than  book. 
We  instinctively  apply  to  him  his  own 
words  :  "  Each  one  must  specialize  in 
one  branch  of  learning,  but  not  shut 
himself  up  in  it.  How  miserable  and 
small  is  the  world  in  the  eyes  of  the 
man  who  sees  in  it  only  Greek  and  Latin 
authors  or  mathematical  problems  !  " 
There  was  no  danger  of  this  in  his  case, 
for  in  him  were  combined  the  man  of 
books,  the  man  of  letters,  the  man  of  the 
state,  and  the  man  of  the  world.  Schol- 
arship, letters,  and  politics  were  all  united 
in  an  unforgettable  personality.  Person- 
ally he  was  a  curious  combination  of  the 
ascetic  savant  and  the  man  of  the  world ; 
rising  at  five  to  drink  a  cup  of  cold  cof- 
fee to  begin  his  work,  so  absent-minded 
that  he  failed  to  recognize  his  own  chil- 
dren on  the  street,  so  helpless  that  he 
put  his  crying  baby  in  a  scrap-basket 
and  covered  it  with  papers  to  deaden  the 
noise,  so  absorbed  that  he  set  his  hair  on 
fire  while  looking  for  a  book,  —  and  yet 
alongside  of  this,  the  social  favorite,  a 
perfect  dinner  companion,  fond  of  dining 
out  and  of  entertaining.  It  is  perhaps 
foolhardy  at  this  early  date  to  try  to  es- 
timate the  value  of  his  life,  and  to  ap- 
praise his  worth  along  the  various  lines 
of  activity  which  he  pursued,  and  yet  al- 
ready certain  great  facts  are  evident. 

With  that  curious  fallacy  of  self-esti- 
mation of  which  history  brings  so  many 
instances  in  the  case  of  great  men, 
Mommsen  possibly  set  more  store  by  his 
political  work  than  by  his  scholarship  or 
his  letters,  and  probably  he  would  rather 
go  down  in  history  as  a  great  statesman 
than  as  a  great  scholar.  Certainly  in 
the  last  twenty  years  of  his  life  the  one 
drop  of  bitterness  in  his  cup  of  joy  was 
his  lack  of  political  power  and  influence. 
He  cast  longing  eyes  away  from  the 
honors  of  scholarship  heaped  at  his  feet 
to  the  laurels  of  the  statesman  which 
were  being  decreed  to  others.  It  is  true 
that  those  who  knew  him  cannot  con- 


ceive of  him  other  than  he  was,  anc 
Mommsen  without  the  political  instint 
would  be  a  riddle  beyond  solution, 
political  interests  are  absolutely  essential 
to  his  life ;  out  of  them  much  that  is 
otherwise  a  puzzle  may  be  explained, 
and  his  greatest  and  most  popular  worl 
owes  its  greatness  and  popularity  alike 
to  them.  It  was  no  affectation,  but  the 
necessary  expression  of  the  whole  mar 
because  he  was  a  whole  man.  He  neve 
exchanged  living  citizenship  in  the  pre 
sent  in  return  for  the  doubtful  honor 
being  more  at  home  in  the  ancient  world 
than  in  the  modern.  His  studies  never 
brought  with  them  that  paralyzing  cor 
viction  of  the  cyclic  movement  in  histoi 
and  the  vanity  of  present  endeavor. 
From  the  stirring  year  of  1843  on,  when 
his  sympathy  for  Schleswig-Holstein's 
liberty  led  him  to  seek  Prussia,  for  sixty 
years  he  continued  a  German  and 
Prussian,  —  a  valiant  fighter  for  the  lib- 
erty of  the  individual  and  the  unity 
the  German  people.  He  was  devoid 
once  of  all  self-seeking  and  all  fear.  Ii 
1850,  with  Haupt  and  Jahn,  he  lost  his 
professorship  at  Leipsic  in  his  defiance 
of  Saxony  ;  and  what  the  youth  of  185( 
dared  then,  the  old  man  of  1882  dared 
in  his  defiance  of  Bismarck.  But,  after 
all,  it  was  Mommsen  the  scholar  that  lent 
dignity  to  Mommsen  the  politician.  His 
vehemence  of  expression,  which  merelj 
quickens  our  attention  when  it  is  turne 
against  Cicero,  makes  us  move  uneasilj 
when  it  strikes  Bismarck,  or  the  French, 
or  the  English.  Especially  in  his  lat 
years  he  spoke  with  a  freedom  whicl 
the  world  loved,  because  it  was  the  gram 
old  man  who  spoke,  and  the  world  fel 
honored  that  he  should  speak  of  it 
all ;  but  his  was  never  the  sane,  equabl 
speech  of  the  calm,  deliberate  statesmar 
However,  just  as  little  as  we  could 
ford  to  lose  the  touch  of  the  born  stat 
man  Gladstone  writing  on  the  Homeric 
problem,  just  so  little  could  we  afford 
to  lose  the  sight  of  the  born  scholar 
Mommsen  attacking  Bismarck.  Home 


Theodor  Mommsen. 


377 


and  Bismarck  were  not  much  injured, 
while  Gladstone  and  Mommsen  gained 
infinitely.  The  eye  which  saw  so  clear- 
ly the  Caesar  of  two  thousand  years  ago 
was  holden  that  it  could  not  see  the  Caesar 
of  his  own  day.  Whatever  his  political 
errors  and  indiscretion  may  have  been, 
in  at  least  two  points  he  was  a  rock  of 
strength,  —  in  his  opposition  to  the  fat- 
uous anti-Semitic  movement  in  recent 
years,  and  in  his  championship  of  aca- 
demic freedom. 

But  the  man  who  failed  to  be  in  poli- 
tics all  he  desired  to  be,  succeeded  in 
scholarship  and  in  literature  beyond  his 
highest  expectations.  He  was  certainly 
the  greatest  scholar  of  our  time,  and  in 
point  of  toilsome  erudition  turned  into 
knowledge,  it  is  doubtful  if  the  world  has 
ever  seen  his  superior.  To  Mommsen, 
history  and  jurisprudence  were  insepara- 
bly combined,  but  any  estimate  of  him 
must  distinguish  between  the  two  fields, 
because,  great  as  were  his  deserts  in  both, 
he  accomplished  a  very  different  thing  in 
one  case  than  in  the  other.  At  the  time 
when  Mommsen  turned  to  the  study  of 
Roman  jurisprudence,  private  law  had 
been  rescued  from  the  philologists  by  Sa- 
vigny  and  his  predecessors,  but  public  law 
was  still  in  the  grasp  of  men  who  cared 
more  about  history  than  law,  and  more 
about  literature  than  both  law  and  his- 
tory. It  was  fortunate  that  Mommsen's 
early  training  had  taught  him  more  of 
law  than  the  average  philologist  knew, 
and  that  he  was  not  a  philologist  attack- 
ing the  study  of  law,  but  an  out-and-out 
jurist,  philologically  trained.  The  result 
was  that  he  accomplished  what  neither 
jurists  nor  philologists  before  him  had 
been  able  to  do,  — namely,  he  presented 
Roman  law  as  a  lawyer  would  present 
it,  but  with  the  philological  knowledge 
which  a  lawyer  would  ordinarily  lack. 
His  treatment  marks,  therefore,  a  distinct 
advance  both  in  method  and  in  know- 
ledge :  in  method,  because  the  subject 
was  treated  as  jurisprudence,  not  as  phi- 
lology demanded ;  in  knowledge,  because 


the  philologist  found  new  material,  which 
had  hitherto  escaped  the  jurists. 

Many  men  go  into  the  vineyards  of 
history  and  gather  the  grapes,  many 
others  press  out  the  wine,  but  there  are 
few  who  do  both,  as  Mommseu  did. 
There  is  hardly  a  source  of  Roman  his- 
tory where  he  has  not  been  at  work 
at  some  time  in  his  busy  life,  improv- 
ing texts,  arranging  chronology,  pointing 
out  parallels,  explaining  allusions.  The 
largest  source  of  all,  the  material  in  in- 
scriptions, has  been  so  widened  and  clar- 
ified by  his  lifework  on  the  Corpus  of 
Latin  Inscriptions  that  it  has  become  al- 
most a  new  field.  Of  course  there  were 
many  collaborators ;  that  very  fact  re- 
dounds to  his  credit,  partly  because  he 
was  one  of  the  greatest  exponents  of  the 
cooperative  method  in  scholarship,  and 
partly  because  the  presence  of  these  col- 
laborators, while  it  made  the  task  feasi- 
ble, by  no  means  removed  many  of  its 
difficulties.  The  ability  to  pick  the  best 
men,  to  gain  their  cooperation,  and  to 
keep  them  at  the  height  of  their  output, 
and  their  output  at  its  highest  quality,  — 
these  are  the  traits  of  a  great  general, 
and  here,  too,  Mommsen  was  tried  and 
not  found  wanting.  The  infinitude  of 
small  detail  incident  to  the  publication 
of  a  volume  of  inscriptions  is  fully  known 
only  to  one  who  has  attempted  it,  but 
even  a  layman  cannot  pick  up  a  volume 
of  the  Corpus  without  an  overwhelming 
sense  of  the  multitude  of  minute  facts 
requisite  to  the  proper  fulfillment  of  the 
task.  Yet  in  all  the  volumes  for  which 
Mommsen  is  directly  responsible,  inac- 
curacies are  so  rare  that  a  positive  inter- 
est attaches  to  one  little  inscription  to 
which  Mommsen  wrote  a  Latin  comment 
with  this  humiliating  confession :  "  I 
have  unfortunately  neglected  to  make  a 
note  of  where  I  found  this  inscription." 
One  is  tempted  to  feel  that  here  in  the 
Corpus  and  in  his  publication  of  the  Mon- 
umenta  Germanise,  the  sources  of  early 
German  history,  that  better  part  of  bis 
work  lies  which  shall  not  be  taken  from 


378 


Theodor  Mommsen. 


him.  It  does  not  seem  possible  that  schol- 
arship will  ever  reach  the  point  where 
these  books  will  be  out  of  date.  Cer- 
tainly no  scholar  now  living  can  point 
out  any  reason  why  this  should  ever  be 
so.  But  if  that  which  is  not  at  present 
conceivable  should  eventually  be  realized, 
if  the  day  should  come  when  some  grand 
international  Academy  should  reedit  the 
body  of  Roman  inscriptions  along  some 
new  and  superior  line,  so  that  the  present 
Corpus  would  have  merely  historic  in- 
terest, Mommsen's  name  would  still  live, 
and  that  in  a  totally  different  connection, 
in  the  realm  not  of  pure  scholarship,  but 
of  mere  literature. 

Some  one  has  well  said  that  but  for 
the  Roman  History  Mommsen  would  be 
a  great  man  "  taken  on  faith."  That  is 
probably  true,  but  we  have  the  Roman 
History,  —  perhaps  the  most  remarkable 
piece  of  German  literature  written  in 
the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century.  It 
is  a  wonderful  testimony  to  the  power  of 
humanity  over  humanity  that  the  most 
human  work  which  Mommsen  wrote 
should  be  the  most  popular.  The  Ro- 
man History  was  the  expression  of  the 
whole  man,  and  if  ever  it  should  cease 
to  have  value  as  Roman  history,  it  will 
never  cease  to  be  of  value  as  a  spirit- 
ual document,  as  a  picture  of  the  hopes 
and  ideals  of  Theodor  Mommsen.  By 
a  happy  chance,  when  the  book  was 
brought  into  the  world  it  appeared  in  the 
naked  simplicity  of  its  narrative  with- 
out the  swaddling  clothes  of  footnotes 
and  sources.  The  clear-cut  style  showed 
forth  to  its  best  advantage.  The  world 
at  large  took  its  statements  on  faith,  schol- 
ars were  at  liberty  to  test  them  in  other 
books  of  Mommsen  himself,  or  of  other 
men.  At  the  time  when  his  history  was 
published  the  world  was  feeling  the  re- 
action which  was  bound  to  follow  the 
renunciation  demanded  by  the  new  criti- 
cal method  of  Niebuhr.  That  scholar 
had  shown  most  brilliantly  what  Roman 
history  was  not.  He  had  made  many 


erasures.  It  remained  for  Mommsen  to 
fill  them  up  and  show  what  Roman  his- 
tory was.  Mommsen  had  to  help  him, 
what  Niebuhr  had  not  had,  the  compara- 
tive method.  Yet  it  is  not  even  this 
method  with  its  results,  nor  yet  his  com- 
mercial theory  of  the  origin  of  Rome, 
which  elevates  his  book  to  its  rank  in  lit- 
erature. It  was  the  fact  that  the  author 
wrote  it  out  of  the  fullness  of  his  own 
feelings.  Rome  had  done,  so  Mommsen 
thought,  what  his  own  Germany  had 
failed  to  do.  With  a  careful  guarding 
of  all  the  liberties  of  the  individual  she 
had  worked  out  her  own  unity.  And  so 
Mommsen  read  Roman  history  in  the 
light  of  the  nineteenth  century,  and  stud- 
ied contemporary  politics  in  the  light  of 
Roman  history.  A  book  thus  written 
with  the  heart  enforcing  the  head  could 
not  fail  of  success.  Impartial  history  it 
is  not,  but  literature  it  is,  —  and  of  the 
first  order.  And  yet,  with  all  its  exag- 
geration it  does  not  go  wide  of  the  mark, 
and  it  is  a  question  whether  the  artist 
Mommsen  did  not  come  nearer  to  ultimate 
historical  truth  than  the  scholar  Momm- 
sen did  in  his  more  objective  works.  It 
may  lose  in  calm  judicial  weighing  of 
opinion,  but  in  passion  and  dramatic  ef- 
fect it  gains  almost  the  value  of  the  nar- 
rative of  a  contemporary  historian. 

We  are  in  an  age  of  extreme  reticence 
in  regard  to  opinion.  We  are  willing 
to  write  endless  columns  of  the  debit  and 
credit  of  historical  facts,  yet  few  have 
the  courage  to  add  up  and  strike  the  bal- 
ance. But  learning  can  ripen  into  know- 
ledge only  in  the  sunshine  of  opinion. 
Mommsen  opened  up  to  the  world  a 
wealth  of  historical  sources.  Other  men 
will  use  them,  and  scholarship  will  be  ad- 
vanced by  them,  yet  their  names  and  the 
name  of  Mommsen  will  be  hidden  under 
their  own  massive  constructions.  But 
the  Roman  History  as  a  work  of  art  is 
an  abiding  possession,  never  out  of  date 
as  literature,  a  memorial  to  its  author 
more  lasting  than  bronze. 

Jesse  Benedict  Carter. 


A    Wind -Call. —  The  Decent  Thing. 


379 


A  WIND-CALL. 

DUST  thou  art,  and  unto  dust, 
Playfellow,  return  thou  must ; 
Lingering  death  it  is  to  stay 
In  the  prison-house  of  clay  — 
Bricks  of  Egypt  year  by  year 
Walling  up  a  sepulchre. 

Better  far  the  soul  to  free 
From  its  close  captivity, 
And  with  us,  thy  comrades,  go 
Wheresoe'er  we  list  to  blow. 
Come !  for  soon  again  to  dust, 
Playfellow,  return  thou  must. 


John  B.  Tabb. 


THE  DECENT  THING. 


I. 


THE  chattering  typewriters  had  ceased 
their  gossiping,  and  the  telegraph  instru- 
ments down  the  corridor  were  snapping 
out  in  sharp  metallic  clicks  the  lag  end 
of  things  coming  in  too  late  for  the  last 
edition.  The  electric  fan  in  the  corner 
sang  like  a  droning  bee.  The  hot,  dead 
air  from  the  street  below  entered  at  the 
open  window,  was  caught  in  its  brass 
blades,  and  skirled  out  into  the  corridor 
to  fight  with  the  heavy  odor  of  printers' 
ink.  The  clock  hands  were  crawling  to- 
ward five,  and  three  men  were  watching 
them  crawl.  If  ever  five  were  reached 
without  a  summons  from  the  city  editor, 
Jackson,  the  tall  man  with  the  brierwood 
pipe,  would  go  to  the  beach ;  Fay,  the 
man  with  the  corncob,  would  go  home 
to  his  wife  and  three  children  ;  Barton, 
the  cub,  would  go,  —  well,  he  did  n't 
know  where  he  would  go. 

Fay,  who  covered  funerals  and  such 
things,  whined  a  complaint  about  people 
dying  in  July. 


"  It 's  the  most  sensible  thing  a  man 
can  do,"  opined  Jackson. 

"  And  then,"  continued  Fay,  unloosen- 
ing his  collar,  "  to  think  of  their  having 
the  nerve  to  go  and  get  burned !  Bah  ! 
I  can  stand  a  funeral  in  a  house  where 
the  blinds  are  down  and  it 's  cool,  but 
services  at  a  crematory,  with  the  forced 
draft  and  "  — 

"  Oh,  cut  it  out !  "  cried  Barton. 

"  I  shall  dream  of  that  "  — 

"  Barton  !  Oh,  Barton  !  "  It  was  the 
office  boy  with  a  call  from  the  city  editor. 

As  Barton  hurried  out,  Jackson  re- 
moved the  pipe  from  his  mouth. 

"  He  's  about  all  in,"  said  he. 

"  Good  thing,"  answered  Fay.  "  If 
he  can  get  scared  out  of  this  work,  he  is 
to  be  congratulated." 

"  It  is  n't  fear.  I  know  what  it  is. 
I  've  had  it." 

"  Home  and  mother  ?  " 

"  Bah  !  "  growled  Jackson  in  disgust. 
"One  could  hold  a  more  intelligent  con- 
versation with  a  rhinoceros  on  the  uses 
of  face  powder." 


380 


The  Decent  Thing. 


Both  men  smoked  on  in  silence.  Then 
Fay  said  irritably, — 

"  Your  simile  is  far-fetched,  and  you 
are  n't  up  against  the  proposition  of  how 
to  support  five  on  twenty  per  week.  Damn 
such  weather  !  The  baby  is  sick." 

When  Barton  returned  to  the  room, 
Jackson  glanced  curiously  at  him. 

"  What  cher  got,  kid  ?  " 

There  was  a  strained  expression  on 
Barton's  face  as  of  one  very  ill.  His  lips 
were  white  and  compressed,  and  beaded 
with  moisture.  He  threw  himself  in  a 
chair  without  answering,  and  folding  his 
arms  on  the  desk  before  him,  buried  his 
face,  not  weeping. 

Fay  went  out. 

"  What  cher  got,  Billy  ?  "  asked  Jack- 
son again. 

Barton  slowly  raised  his  head.  He 
had  delicate,  sympathetic  features,  of  the 
kind  capable  of  hardening  on  occasion. 

"  What  have  I  got  ?  "  he  repeated 
fiercely  ;  "  I  've  got  another  misery  story. 
Weymouth  has  a  tip  that  old  Baxter,  who 
lost  all  his  money  last  year,  is  living  out 
of  town  here  in  a  garret  with  his  daugh- 
ter. It  is  one  of  his  damn  human  inter- 
est stories.  '  Go  write  up  the  contrast,' 
said  he, '  the  poverty,  the  dying  old  man, 
faithful  daughter  brought  up  in  society 
now  doing  housework.  Whoop  it  up 
for  a  Sunday  special ! '  Why  can't  he 
let  'em  alone  ?  " 

"  It 's  a  good  story,"  commented  Jack- 
son without  removing  his  pipe. 

For  a  second  Billy  stared  straight 
ahead  of  him,  and  then  suddenly  leaning 
forward,  he  asked  in  a  nervous,  pleading 
voice,  — 

"  I  say,  Jackson,  is  n't  there  anything 
decent  in  this  world  ?  " 

"  Lots  of  things,  if  you  are  blind 
enough  to  see  them." 

"  Then  God  help  me  !  "  burst  out  Bar- 
ton, rising  to  his  feet.  "  I  wish  I  were 
blind  !  I  can't  look  a  man  in  the  face 
now  without  wondering  when  he  is  going 
crooked ;  I  can't  look  at  the  outside  of 
a  respectable  house,  without  wondering 


when  a  skeleton  is  going  to  stalk  forth ; 
I  —  I  can't  look  a  woman  in  the  face 
without  —  Oh,  I  'm  sick  of  it,  —  sick 
of  it,  do  you  hear  ?  I  want  to  get  back 
to  the  green  fields,  and  the  mountains, 
and  the  fresh  air!  I  am  sick  of  all 
this ! " 

He  stood  there  with  his  nostrils  quiv- 
ering as  though  he  had  been  running. 
Jackson  arose,  and  going  to  his  side,  laid 
a  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  See  here,  boy,  I  don't  want  the  re- 
sponsibility of  inducing  you  to  remain  in 
this  business.  I  believe  as  the  French- 
man said,  '  It 's  a  good  business  if  you 
get  out  of  it  soon  enough.'  Only  there 
are  some  of  us  who  don't  get  out ;  could 
n't  get  out  if  we  wanted  to.  And  we 
don't  want  to.  That 's  the  trouble,  we 
don't  want  to.  But  don't  run  and  don't 
get  out  too  soon.  That 's  worse.  It 's  — 
it 's  like  going  behind  the  scenes  and  see- 
ing the  tinsel,  and  the  paint,  and  the 
wheels,  without  waiting  long  enough  to 
learn  what  it  all  means.  Now  listen, 
Billy  ;  I  don't  set  myself  up  as  a  philoso- 
pher, but  I  have  learned  this,  —  there  is 
just  one  decent  thing  in  all  this  world, 
but  that  one  thing  makes  all  things  else 
decent.  Find  it  before  you  quit.  Find 
it  for  yourself." 

He  looked  at  Barton  a  moment  as 
though  about  to  say  more,  but  changed 
his  mind  and  started  from  the  room. 
He  knew  the  lad  would  be  ashamed  of 
himself  for  his  temporary  weakness,  and 
likely  enough  would  hate  him  for  his  ad- 
vice. But  he  turned  back  once. 

"  Say,  why  don't  you  come  down  to 
the  beach  and  have  a  swim  before  you 
start  ?  You  are  looking  kind  of  white." 

"No,"  answered  Billy,  with  sudden 
stubbornness,  "  I  'm  going.  I  'm  going 
now." 

So  he  took  the  5.30  train  for  Wessex. 
The  stuffy,  suffocating  cars  were  drawn 
over  hot  rails  by  a  panting  engine,  leav- 
ing in  their  wake  a  cloud  of  dry,  yellow 
dust.  Men  spoke  seldom,  and  then  me- 
chanically, in  emotionless  monosyllables. 


The  Decent  Thing. 


381 


A  querulous  babe  cried  in  spasms.  The 
sun  sank  red  behind  the  parched  fields, 
and  left  an  atmosphere  as  parched  as  the 
grass  itself.  The  brown  landscape  flowed 
past  the  car  windows,  a  dark  stream,  like 
a  sluggish  tropical  river.  The  monotony 
of  it  all  was  only  varied  by  the  sight  of 
factories  and  huts,  and  yards  full  of  bro- 
ken and  unclean  things. 

He  leaned  far  back  in  the  seat,  and 
closed  his  eyes.  His  mind  became  occu- 
pied with  trying  to  find  breath  in  the  gas- 
laden  atmosphere,  and  in  thinking  an 
exasperating  air  which  he  soon  felt  that 
he  must  hum  in  time  with  the  clicking  of 
the  car  wheels  over  the  rails.  It  was  an 
unpleasant  task,  but  if  he  neglected  it, 
the  cars  would  go  off  the  rail  or  some- 
thing, and  then  there  would  be  an  odd, 
jumbled-up  mass  of  twisted  iron  and 
splinters,  with  arms  and  legs  sticking 
out.  And  he  would  have  to  go  round 
and  ask  their  names  for  his  paper.  Yes, 
he  would  have  to  shout  into  that  pile  of 
burning  ties,  — 

"  I  say,  you  with  the  arm  sticking  out, 
I  'm  from  the  Times,  what 's  your  name  ?  " 

If  the  man  died,  gasping  it,  would  that 
be  a  scoop  ? 

He  laughed  mirthlessly  as  he  straight- 
ened himself  and  gazed  out  the  window 
again. 

The  lamps  in  the  car  had  been  light- 
ed before  the  smutty  -  faced  brakeman 
growled,  "  Wessex." 

He  found  himself  on  the  station  plat- 
form. A  small  boy  was  watching  the 
disappearing  train,  and  wriggling  his  toes 
in  an  uncomfortable  fashion.  A  baggage- 
man in  blue  overalls  was  making  much 
ado  over  the  single  parcel  left  on  the  hot 
planks.  Beyond  the  station,  Billy  saw 
a  few  houses,  lights  in  the  windows  ;  be- 
yond that,  darkness.  He  stood  there 
stupidly,  looking  at  the  lights. 

"  Waitin'  fer  some  one?  "  queried  the 
baggageman. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Billy  mechanically. 

"Hot,  ain't  it?" 

"  Yes." 


"  Should  n't  wonder  if  we  had  a 
shower." 

"Yes." 

He  wondered  vaguely  how  much  this 
fellow  stole  in  the  course  of  a  year.  He 
was  of  half  a  mind  to  ask  him.  It  would 
make  a  good  story,  —  trusted  railroad 
employee,  country  station  — 

"  —  and  so  I  reckon  I  'd  better  g'orn 
home  and  tell  my  wife  and  be  done  with 
it." 

What  had  the  man  been  talking  about  ? 

"  I  tell  yer,  young  feller,  don't  you 
never  git  married.  That 's  when  yer 
troubles  begin !  " 

Billy  turned  upon  him  fiercely,  with 
sudden  madness :  — 

"  You  lie !  It 's  good  for  a  man,  I  tell 
you.  It 's  "  — 

The  baggageman  was  staring  in  open- 
mouthed  astonishment.  Billy  regained 
his  senses. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  —  I —  Where 
does  old  man  Baxter  live  ?  " 

"  Old  man  Baxter  ?  "  asked  the  bag- 
gageman suspiciously. 

"  Poor  old  man  Baxter." 

"  Dunno  's  he  's  so  poor.  He  lives  on 
the  old  Baxter  place  down  the  road. 
Keep  up  over  the  hill  and  g'orn  till  you 
come  to  a  little  house  with  a  flower  gar- 
den before  it." 

The  man  sidled  away,  and  from  a  safe 
distance  watched  Billy  as  he  stumbled 
off  down  the  road. 

It  was  a  pleasant  road,  a  peaceful, 
quiet  sort  of  road,  with  large  maple  trees 
either  side  of  it  and  fields  beyond,  but  it 
was  full  of  a  white  hot  dust  that  choked 
and  burned.  He  hurried  along  unmind- 
ful of  the  cooling  breeze  trying  to  stir 
the  large  green  leaves,  unmindful  that 
the  air  was  freshening,  unmindful  of  the 
night  song  of  the  birds.  He  continued 
to  the  turn,  and  kept  on  over  the  hill. 
By  that  sheer  force  of  will  power  which 
a  runner  exercises  on  the  last  mile  of  a 
long  race,  he  forced  his  legs  down  the 
hill  to  the  house  with  the  flower  garden 
before  it. 


382 


The  Decent  Thing. 


There  was  a  light  in  the  window. 
He  stumbled  and  fell. 


II. 


When  Billy  opened  his  eyes,  he  knew 
that  two  persons  were  bending  over  him, 
though  in  the  dark  he  could  not  dis- 
tinguish their  faces. 

"  He  's  fainted,  dad,"  said  one  in  a 
voice  soft,  low,  half  full  of  fright.  It 
was  as  though  a  shadow  should  speak. 

With  an  effort  Billy  rose  on  his  elbow. 

"I  —  I  beg  pardon,"  he  said. 

A  man's  hand  was  laid  upon  his 
shoulder. 

"  What 's  the  trouble,  lad  ?  " 

It  was  the  voice  of  an  old  man. 

"  Trouble  ?  I  —  I  don't  know.  I 
fell." 

"  I  guess  it 's  the  heat.  Can  you  walk 
a  little  ?  Ruth,  take  his  other  arm." 

Between  the  two,  still  unconscious  of 
where  he  was,  he  reached  the  cottage 
with  the  flower  garden  before  it.  They 
led  him  into  the  living-room,  where  a 
single  candle  was  burning,  and  bade  him 
sit  while  they  hurried  about  for  water  and 
ice.  Then  he  knew  where  he  was,  — 
knew  with  a  rush  of  ugly  thoughts  that 
nearly  drove  him  again  into  unconscious- 
ness. This  was  old  man  Baxter's  home. 

He  closed  his  eyes.  He  had  no  right 
there,  no  right  to  see.  He  would  n't  see  ! 
He  would  take  their  cooling  draught,  and 
then  go  out,  his  eyes  still  closed  so  that 
he  should  not  be  even  tempted  to  de- 
scribe what  was  within. 

But  he  heard  a  voice  near  him,  — 

"  Won't  you  drink  this  ?  " 

And  upon  opening  his  eyes  he  saw  be- 
side him  a  young  woman  clothed  in  dainty 
white  muslin,  holding  out  to  him  a  glass 
in  which  the  ice  tinkled.  He  drank,  his 
eyes  still  upon  her. 

"  You  look  very  tired  and  —  and  hun- 
gry," she  said.  "  Are  you  hungry  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  answered. 

He  should  have  been  hungry,  for  he 


had  not  eaten  since  breakfast,  but  all  he 
knew  now  was  that  the  mere  sight  of  tl 
girl,  so  fresh,  so  pure,  so  cool,  was  as 
balm  to  his  eyes,  and  through  his  eyes 
reached  and  cooled  his  feverish  brain. 

Then  dad  came  in  with  an  ice  bag  for 
his  head,  and  made  him  lie  back  in  the 
chair  a  few  moments  while  this  took  the 
heat  from  out  the  space  over  his  brow. 
He  studied  him  in  the  feeble  candlelight, 

—  an  old  man  with  hair  snow-white  and 
a  clean  shaven  face  furrowed  with  deep 
lines  just  above  the  aquiline  nose  and 
about  the  thin  mouth,  his  eyes  half  hid- 
den beneath  shaggy  brows.    And  beside 
him  was  his  daughter,  one  arm  thrown 
over  his  shoulder.    Her  face  was  his  face 
without  the  lines,  and  throughout  of  a 
finer  mould,  differing  only  in  that  her 
eyes  were  gray  and  his  were  blue.    Anc 
both  were  happy.     He  thanked  God  for 
that,  —  they  both  looked  happy.  He  felt, 
as  much  as  saw,  that  the  room  in  which 
they  sat  was  comfortably  furnished ;  and 
in  the  dark,  in  one  corner,  he  discovered 
the  outlines  of  a  piano.    He  thanked  God 
for  that,  too. 

The  ice  made  him  very  comfortable 
and  half  drowsy.  He  would  have  liked 
to  remain  there  so,  indefinitely,  just 
watching  these  two.  There  seemed  to 
be  no  reason  why  he  should  n't  until  — 
he  suddenly  remembered  who  he  was. 
He  had  no  right  there !  He  was  a  news- 
paper man !  He  had  come  to  hurt  them, 

—  to  lay  bare  to  the  world,  in  the  brutal 
fashion  of  a  Sunday  paper,  the  sweet  pri- 
vacy of  their  life !     He  was  to  bring  the 
world  into  this  house,  —  the  coarse,  vul- 
gar, curious  world  they  had  fled  to 
cape !     He  felt  as  foul  as  he  who  spit 
upon  Godiva! 

Staggering  to  his  feet,  he  started  act 
the  room. 

"  I  must  go,"  he   said   huskily, 
must  go." 

"  No,  no !  "  exclaimed  the  girl,  "  yoi 
must  n't  go  yet.     There  is  no  carriaf 
and  you  cannot  walk." 

"  Ruth  is  right,"  added  the  old  gentle 


The  Decent  Thing. 


383 


man.  "  You  will  faint  before  you  reach 
the  road.  If  you  have  important  busi- 
ness "  — 

"  No,  I  have  n't  any  business,  only  "  — 

Why,  that  was  it :  he  had  n't  any  busi- 
ness. How  simple  it  was !  He  returned 
to  his  chair  with  a  heavy  weight  lifted 
from  his  shoulders.  His  thought  up  to 
now  had  been  that  he  must  obey  orders, 
for  that  had  been  drilled  into  him  as  it 
is  into  a  soldier.  Well,  and  if  he  would 
not,  what  then  ?  His  brain  started  to  rea- 
son about  the  matter,  but  he  would  not 
listen.  He  refused  absolutely  to  listen, 
even  at  the  beginning.  He  was  sole  mas- 
ter of  himself,  and  that  was  the  end  of  it. 

"You  are  very  good  to  me,"  he  said ; 
"  I  feel  much  better." 

"  You  have  walked  far  to-day  ?  "  asked 
the  old  gentleman,  not  to  question,  but 
out  of  sympathy. 

"  No,  not  far,"  answered  Billy.  "  Only 
it  has  been  a  rough  road  and  a  hot,  dusty 
road." 

He  glanced  first  at  the  girl  and  then 
at  the  father,  with  a  curious  look  of  doubt, 
pleading,  and  frankness. 

"  Do  you  mind  if  —  if  I  forget  a  lit- 
tle?" 

The  father  drew  his  daughter  closer. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  forget.  This  is  the 
house  of  Oblivion." 

She  kissed  her  father's  hair  and  smiled 
her  assent,  too. 

"  I  have  a  sister  who  looks  like  you," 
went  on  Billy.  "My  name  is  Barton. 
I  come  from  Maine.  She  is  down  there 
now  among  the  trees,  —  the  big  trees." 

The  old  gentleman  bowed  slightly. 

"My  name  is  Baxter.  This  is  my 
daughter." 

Billy  rose,  but  she  motioned  him  to  be 
seated  again.  He  leaned  far  back  in  the 
big  chair.  Though  still  feeling  weak,  all 
the  pain  had  vanished,  all  the  fever.  He 
felt  as  one  tired  and  dusty  does  after  a 
bath  in  a  clear  cold  spring.  Glancing 
about  him  once  again,  he  noticed  how 
each  article  in  the  room  breathed  that 
wonderful  word,  "  Home." 


"  Oh,  but  this  is  good ! "  he  exclaimed. 
"  You  don't  know  how  good  this  is !  " 

The  old  man's  eyes  and  the  young 
man's  eyes  met  and  they  understood  each 
other. 

"  You  have  learned  early,"  said  the 
elder.  "  It  took  me  fifty  years  to  learn 
what  is  good." 

The  girl  was  watching  them  both  curi- 
ously, not  understanding. 

"  You  men ! "  she  said,  with  a  little 
laugh  ;  "  I  envy  you  your  power  of  learn- 
ing. You  learn  —  everything,  and  we 
women,  we  go  on  learning  only  by  acci- 
dent." 

"  But  half  of  what  we  learn,"  said  her 
father,  "  is  learning  all  over  again.  We 
forget  so  much  !  " 

"  And  we  remember  so  much !  "  said 
she. 

"  And  happiness  is  only  learning  what 
to  remember  and  what  to  forget,"  said 
Billy. 

"  And  we  all  get  so  mixed  up  and 
Maeterlincky  when  we  try  to  be  wise," 
she  laughed. 

And  then  they  all  laughed  together, 
with  the  perfect  sympathy  of  three  notes 
going  to  make  up  a  chord. 

Billy  settled  himself  more  comfortably. 
But  this  was  good !  There  was  such 
a  dead  certainty  about  happiness  like 
theirs,  and  it  was  big  and  wholesome 
and  beautiful,  like  a  spring  morning. 

They  chatted  away  for  an  hour,  the 
girl  always  laughing  when  the  conversa- 
tion threatened  to  become  serious,  and 
dad  and  Billy  always  stopping  to  listen, 
and  then  to  laugh  themselves.  And 
finally  dad  asked  her  to  play,  and  with- 
out excuse  she  melted  into  the  shadow 
of  the  piano  and  struck  a  chord. 

"  But  do  you  not  play,  Mr.  Barton  ?  " 
she  asked,  turning  a  moment. 

"  I  used  to  play  a  little,  —  the  violin, 
—  but"  — 

The  old  gentleman  straightened  him- 
self. 

"  Won't  you  try  ?  T  myself  used  to 
play,  but  now  "  — 


384 


The  Decent  Thing. 


He  held  out  his  palsied,  trembling  arm. 

When  he  brought  the  instrument  to 
the  young  man,  he  passed  his  hand  over 
it  as  a  father  often  does  over  his  child's 
head  when  introducing  him  to  a  stranger. 

"I  think  you  will  like  it,"  he  said 
simply. 

And  as  Billy  tuned  it,  he  felt  his  nerves 
thrill  at  the  softness  of  it, — the  sympathy 
of  it. 

They  sat  there  in  the  light  of  the  single 
candle,  she  at  the  piano  in  the  shadows, 
Billy  in  his  chair,  with  the  instrument 
tucked  heneath  his  chin,  and  his  eyes 
closed,  the  old  gentleman  with  his  hand 
over  his  brow,  as  though  in  prayer.  He 
spoke  only  to  ask  them  to  play  some 
favorite  air  of  his.  Billy  seemed  to  re- 
member everything  that  evening,  and  she 
at  the  piano  followed  him  almost  intui- 
tively with  rich  soft  chords  and  little 
laughing  hurries  of  her  own,  up  and  down 
the  keys.  And  as  they  listened,  each  fol- 
lowed a  different  path  with  his  thoughts, 
—  the  old  man,  the  young  man,  and  the 
girl.  But  that  which  they  dreamed  that 
hour  was  sacred  to  them  ever  after. 

The  last  air  died  away.  There  was  a 
long  silence  in  which  the  essence  of  all 
those  songs  still  lingered  like  the  perfume 
of  flowers  just  removed.  The  old  gen- 
tleman could  be  heard  breathing  deeply, 
regularly.  Then  Billy  was  conscious  of 
a  whisper. 

"  He  has  not  slept  so  for  long,  —  oh, 
very  long !  "  she  said. 

"  Do  not  wake  him,"  he  whispered  in 
reply ;  "  I  will  go.  I  am  very  strong 
now." 

He  tiptoed  across  the  floor,  she  follow- 
ing. 

"  I  am  sure,"  she  said,  "he  would  wish 
you  to  remain.  May  I  call  him  ?  " 

It  was  odd,  the  way  she  asked  if  she 
might.  He  liked  it. 

"  No,"  he  answered  ;  "  such  sleep 
should  not  be  broken.  You  will  thank 
him  for  me  ?  " 

He  found  his  cap  and  she  went  with 
him  to  the  end  of  the  path.  He  hesitated 


because  he  did  not  like  to  say  good-by. 
Only  her  little  form  was  visible  in  the 
dark,  with  just  a  white  suggestion  of  the 
face. 

"It  is  very  wonderful  how  you  two 
have  come  into  my  life,"  he  said.  There 
was  a  touch  of  finality  in  his  tone  which 
she  was  quick  to  catch. 

"  But  you  speak  as  though  you  were 
not  to  return,"  she  said. 

He  seemed  to  ponder  a  moment. 

"  I  thought  so  at  first  because  —  Why, 
perhaps  I  am  to  return !  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  you  are  to  return,"  she 
said.  "  And  —  and  dad  asks  you  to  tea 
to-morrow." 

She  had  gone. 
• 

When  Billy  Barton  stamped  up  the 
office  stairs  the  next  morning,  he  was 
whistling  a  brisk  march.  There  was  a 
swing  to  his  shoulders,  a  careless  poise  to 
his  head,  and  a  brusqueness  of  manner 
which  had  not  been  his  for  many  months. 

The  city  editor  glanced  up  as  he  en- 
tered the  office. 

"  Well !  "  he  growled. 

"Nothin1  doin',''  said  Billy  cheerfully. 

"  What ! " 

"  No  story  down  there." 

A  moment  the  editor  stared  at  him. 
Then  he  said  very  slowly,  — 

"  Young  man,  I  feel  way  down  deep  in 
my  heart  that  your  talents  are  being 
wasted  here.  I  wish  you  Godspeed." 

"  S'long,"  said  Billy. 

Down  the  corridor  he  saw  Jackson, 
and  made  a  dive  for  him. 

"  I  've  found  it,  Jackson  !  Oh,  I  've 
found  it !  "  he  shouted. 

Then  a  broad  grin  slowly  spread  over 
his  features,  and  he  gave  Jackson's  hand 
a  grip  that  made  the  latter  wince. 

"  And  say,"  he  announced,  "  I  'm 
fired ! " 

"  So !  "  said  Jackson.  "  What  you  go- 
ing to  do  ?  " 

"  Do  ?  "  queried  Billy  as  though  sur- 
prised at  the  question ;  "  do  ?  Why,  I  'm 
going  to  Wessex  for  tea  !  " 

Frederick  Orin  Bartlett. 


The  Beggar's  Pouch. 


385 


THE  BEGGAR'S  POUCH. 


A  RICH  American,  with  a  kind  heart 
and  a  lively  sense  of  humor,  was  heard 
to  remark  as  he  crossed  the  Italian  fron- 
tier, en  route  for  Switzerland,  "  Now, 
if  there  be  any  one  in  the  length  and 
breadth  of  Italy  who  has  not  yet  begged 
from  me,  this  is  his  time  to  come  for- 
ward." 

It  was  a  genial  invitation,  betokening 
that  tolerance  of  mind  rarely  found  in 
the  traveling  Saxon,  who  is  fortified 
against  beggars,  as  against  many  other 
foreign  institutions,  by  a  petition  -  proof 
armor  of  finely  welded  principle  and  pre- 
judice. He  disapproves  of  mendicancy 
in  general.  He  believes  —  or  he  says 
he  believes  —  that  you  wrong  and  de- 
grade your  fellow  men  by  giving  them 
coppers.  He  has  the  assurance  of  his 
guidebook  that  the  corps  of  ragged  vet- 
erans who  mount  guard  over  every  church 
door  in  Rome  are  unworthy  of  alms,  be- 
ing themselves  capitalists  on  no  ignoble 
scale.  His  irritation,  when  sore  beset,  is 
natural  and  pardonable.  His  arguments 
are  not  easily  answered.  He  can  be 
vaguely  statistical, — real  figures  are  hard 
to  come  by  in  Italy,  —  he  can  be  earnest- 
ly philosophical,  he  can  quote  Mr.  Au- 
gustus Hare.  In  the  end,  he  leaves  you 
perplexed  in  spirit  and  dull  of  heart, 
with  sixpence  saved  in  your  pocket,  and 
the  memory  of  pinched  old  faces — which 
do  not  look  at  all  like  the  faces  of  capi- 
talists at  home  —  spoiling  your  appetite 
for  dinner. 

This  may  be  right,  but  it  is  a  melan- 
choly attitude  to  adopt  in  a  land  where 
beggary  is  an  ancient  and  not  dishonor- 
able profession.  All  art,  all  legend,  all 
tradition,  tell  for  the  beggar.  The  splen- 
did background  against  which  he  stands 
gives  color  and  dignity  to  his  part.  We 
see  him  sheltered  by  St.  Julian,  —  ah, 
beautiful  young  beggar  of  the  Pitti !  — 
—  fed  by  St.  Elizabeth,  clothed  by  St. 

VOL.  xcm.  — NO.  557.  25 


Martin,  warmed  by  the  fagots  which 
St.  Francesca  Romano  gathered  for  him 
in  the  wintry  woods.  What  heavenly 
blessings  have  followed  the  charity  shown 
to  his  needs,  what  evils  have  followed 
thick  and  fast  where  he  has  been  reject- 
ed !  I  remember  these  things  when  I 
meet  his  piteous  face  and  outstretched 
palm  to-day.  It  is  true  that  the  Italian 
beggar  almost  always  takes  a  courteous, 
or  even  an  impatient  denial  in  wonder- 
fully good  part ;  but,  should  he  feel  dis- 
posed to  be  malevolent,  I  am  not  one  to 
be  indifferent  to  his  malevolence.  I  do 
not  like  to  hear  a  shaken  old  voice  wish 
that  I  may  die  unshriven.  There  are  too 
many  possibilities  involved. 

"  So  sang  a  withered  Sibyl  energetical, 
And  banned  the  ungiving  door  with  lips  pro- 
phetical." 

Mr.  Henry  James  is  of  the  opinion 
(and  one  envies  him  his  ability  to  hold 
it)  that  "  the  sum  of  Italian  misery  is, 
on  the  whole,  less  than  the  sum  of  the 
Italian  knowledge  of  life.  That  people 
should  thank  you,  with  a  smile  of  en- 
chanting sweetness,  for  the  gift  of  two- 
pence is  a  proof  certainly  of  an  extreme 
and  constant  destitution  ;  but  —  keeping 
in  mind  the  sweetness  —  it  is  also  a  proof 
of  a  fortunate  ability  not  to  be  depressed 
by  circumstances."  This  is  a  comforting 
faith  to  foster,  and  more  credible  than 
the  theory  of  secreted  wealth  within  the 
beggar's  pouch.  It  takes  a  great  many 
pennies  to  build  up  a  substantial  fortune, 
and  the  competition  in  mendicancy  is  too 
keen  to  permit  of  the  profits  being  large. 
The  business  —  like  other  roads  to  for- 
tune —  is  "  not  what  it  once  was."  A 
particularly  good  post,  long  held  and 
undisputed,  an  imposingly  venerable  and 
patriarchal  appearance,  a  total  absence 
of  legs  or  arms,  —  these  things  may  lead 
to  modest  competency  ;  but"  these  things 
are  rare  equipments.  My  belief  in  the 


386 


The  Beggar's  Pouch. 


affluence  of  beggars  —  a  belief  I  was 
cherishing  carefully  for  the  sake  of  my 
own  peace  of  mind  —  received  a  rude 
shock  when  I  beheld  a  crippled  old  wo- 
man, whose  post  was  in  the  Piazza  S. 
Claudio,  tucked  into  a  doorway  one  cold 
December  midnight,  her  idle  crutches  ly- 
ing on  her  knees.  If  she  had  had  a  com- 
fortable, or  even  an  uncomfortable  home 
to  go  to,  why  should  she  have  stayed  to 
shiver  and  freeze  in  the  deserted  Roman 
streets  ? 

The  latitude  extended  by  the  Italian 
Church  to  beggars,  the  patronage  shown 
them,  never  ceases  to  vex  the  tourist  mind. 
An  American  cannot  reconcile  himself 
to  marching  up  the  church  steps  between 
two  rows  of  mendicants,  each  provided 
with  a  chair,  a  little  scaldino,  and  a  tin 
cup,  in  which  a  penny  rattles  lustily. 
There  is  nothing  casual  about  the  appear- 
ance of  these  freeholders.  They  make 
no  pretense  —  as  do  beggars  at  home 
—  of  sudden  emergency,  or  frustrated 
hopes.  They  are  following  their  daily 
avocation,  —  the  only  one  for  which  they 
are  equipped,  —  and  following  it  in  a 
spirit  of  acute  and  healthy  rivalry.  To 
give  to  one  and  not  to  all  is  to  arouse 
such  a  clamorous  wail  that  it  seems,  on 
the  whole,  less  stony-hearted  to  refuse 
altogether.  Once  inside  the  sacred  walls, 
we  find  a  small  and  well-selected  body  of 
practitioners  hovering  around  the  portals, 
waiting  to  exact  their  tiny  toll  when  we 
are  ready  to  depart.  "  Exact "  is  not 
too  strong  a  word  to  use,  for  I  have  had 
a  lame  but  comely  young  woman,  dressed 
in  decent  black,  with  a  black  veil  fram- 
ing her  expressive  face,  hold  the  door  of 
the  Aracoali  firmly  barred  with  one  arm, 
while  she  swept  the  other  toward  me  in  a 
gesture  so  fine,  so  full  of  mingled  entreaty 
and  command,  that  it  was  worth  double 
the  fee  she  asked.  Occasionally  —  not 
often  —  an  intrepid  beggar  steals  around 
during  mass,  and,  touching  each  member 
of  the  congregation  on  the  shoulder,  gen- 
tly implores  an  alms.  This  is  a  practice 
frowned  upon  as  a  rule,  save  in  Sicily, 


where  a  "  plentiful  poverty "  doth  so 
abide  that  no  device  for  moving  com- 
passion can  be  too  rigidly  condemned.  I 
have  been  present  at  a  high  mass  in 
Palermo,  when  a  ragged  woman  with  a 
baby  in  her  arms  moved  slowly  after  the 
sacristan,  —  who  was  taking  up  the  of- 
fertory collection,  —  and  took  up  a  sec- 
ond collection  of  her  own,  quite  as  though 
she  were  an  authorized  official.  It  was  a 
scandalous  sight  to  Western  eyes,  —  in 
our  well-ordered  churches  at  home  such 
a  proceeding  would  be  as  impossible  as 
a  trapeze  performance  in  the  aisle,  —  but 
what  depths  of  friendly  tolerance  it  dis- 
played, what  gentle,  if  inert,  compassion 
for  the  beggar's  desperate  needs  ! 

For  in  Italy,  as  in  Spain,  there  is 
no  gulf  set  between  the  rich  and  poor. 
What  these  lands  lack  in  practical  phi- 
lanthropy is  atoned  for  by  a  sweet  and 
universal  friendliness  of  demeanor,  and 
by  a  prompt  recognition  of  rights.  It 
would  be  hard  to  find  in  England  or 
America  such  tattered  rags,  such  gaunt 
faces  and  hungry  eyes  ;  but  it  would  be  im- 
possible to  find  in  Italy  or  Spain  a  church 
where  rags  are  relegated  to  some  incon- 
spicuous and  appropriate  background. 
The  Roman  beggar  jostles  —  but  jostles 
urbanely  —  the  Roman  prince  ;  the  no- 
blest and  the  lowliest  kneel  side  by  side 
in  the  Cathedral  of  Seville.  I  have  heard 
much  all  my  life  about  the  spirit  of  equali- 
ty, and  I  have  listened  to  fluent  sermons, 
designed  to  prove  that  Christians  —  im- 
pelled by  supernatural  grace  —  love  this 
equality  with  especial  fervor  ;  but  I  have 
never  seen  its  practical  workings,  save  in 
the  churches  of  southern  Europe.  There 
tired  mothers  hush  their  babies  to  sleep, 
and  wan  children  play  at  ease  in  their 
Father's  house.  There  I  have  been  priv- 
ileged to  stand  for  hours,  during  long 
and  beautiful  services,  because  the  only 
available  chairs  had  been  appropriated 
by  forlorn  creatures  who  would  not  have 
been  permitted  to  intrude  into  the  guard- 
ed pews  at  home. 

It  has  been  always  thus.     We  have 


The  Beggar's  Pouch. 


387 


the  evidence  of  writers  who  give  it  with 
reluctant  sincerity  ;  —  of  Borrow,  for 
example,  who  firmly  believed  he  hated 
many  things  for  which  he  had  a  natural 
and  visible  affinity.  "  To  the  honour  of 
Spain  be  it  spoken,"  he  writes  in  The 
Bible  in  Spain,  "  that  it  is  one  of  the 
few  countries  in  Europe  where  poverty 
is  never  insulted,  nor  looked  upon  with 
contempt.  Even  at  an  inn  the  poor  man 
is  never  spurned  from  the  door,  and,  if 
not  harboured,  is  at  least  dismissed  with 
fair  words,  and  consigned  to  the  mercies 
of  God  and  His  Mother." 

The  more  ribald  Nash,  writing  centu- 
ries earlier,  finds  no  words  too  warm  in 
which  to  praise  the  charities  of  Catho- 
lic Rome.  —  "  The  bravest  Ladies,  in 
gownes  of  beaten  gold,  washing  pilgrims' 
and  poor  soldiours'  feete.  .  .  .  This  I 
must  say  to  the  shame  of  us  English  ;  if 
good  workes  may  merit  Heaven,  they 
doe  them,  we  talk  about  them." 

The  Roman  ladies  "  doe  them  "  still ; 
not  so  picturesquely  as  they  did  three 
hundred  years  ago,  but  in  the  same  noble 
and  delicate  spirit.  Their  means  and 
their  methods  are  far  below  the  means 
and  methods  of  charitable  organizations 
in  England  and  America.  They  cannot 
find  work  where  there  is  no  work  to  be 
done.  They  cannot  lift  the  hopeless 
burden  of  want  which  is  the  inevitable 
portion  of  the  Italian  poor.  They  can 
at  best  give  only  the  scanty  loaf  which 
keeps  starvation  from  the  door.  They 
cannot  educate  the  children,  nor  make 
the  swarming  populace  of  Rome  "  self- 
respecting,"  by  which  we  mean  self-sup- 
porting. But  they  can  and  do  respect 
the  poverty  they  alleviate.  Their  men- 
tal attitude  is  simpler  than  ours.  They 
know  well  that  it  is  never  the  wretchedly 
poor  who  "  fear  fate  and  cheat  nature," 
and  they  see,  with  more  equanimity  than 
we  can  muster,  the  ever  recurring  tra- 
gedy of  birth.  The  hope  —  so  dear  to 
our  Western  hearts  —  of  ultimately  rais- 
ing the  whole  standard  of  humanity 
shines  very  dimly  on  their  horizon ;  but 


if  they  plan  less  for  the  race,  they  draw 
closer  to  the  individual.  They  would 
probably,  if  questioned,  say  frankly  with 
Sir  Thomas  Browne,  "  I  give  no  alms 
only  to  satisfy  the  hunger  of  my  Brother, 
but  to  fulfil  and  accomplish  the  Will  and 
Command  of  my  God."  And  if  the  Re- 
ligio  Medici  be  somewhat  out  of  date,  — 
superseded,  we  are  told,  by  a  finer  altru- 
ism which  rejects  the  system  of  reward, — 
we  may  still  remember  Mr.  Pater's  half- 
rueful  admission  that  it  was  all  "  pure 
profit  "  to  its  holder. 

When  Charles  Lamb  lamented,  with 
innate  perversity,  the  decay  of  beggars, 
he  merely  withdrew  his  mind  from  actu- 
alities, —  which  always  annoyed  him,  — 
and  set  it  to  contemplate  those  more 
agreeable  figures  which  were  not  suffer- 
ing under  the  disadvantage  of  existence. 
It  was  the  beggar  of  romance,  of  the  bal- 
lads, of  the  countryside,  of  the  merry  old 
songs,  whose  departure  he  professed  to 
regret.  The  outcast  of  the  London  streets 
could  not  have  been  —  even  in  Lamb's 
time  —  a  desirable  feature.  To-day  we 
find  him  the  most  depressing  object  in  the 
civilized  world ;  and  the  fact  that  he  is 
what  is  called,  in  the  language  of  the  phi- 
lanthropist, "  unworthy,"  makes  him  no 
whit  more  cheerful  of  contemplation. 
The  ragged  creature  who  rushes  out  of 
the  darkness  to  cover  the  wheel  of  your 
hansom  with  his  tattered  sleeve  manages 
to  convey  to  your  mind  a  sense  of  degrad- 
ed wretchedness,  calculated  to  lessen  the 
happiness  of  living.  His  figure  haunts 
you  miserably,  when  you  want  to  forget 
him  and  be  light  of  heart:  By  his  side, 
the  venerable,  white-bearded  old  hum- 
bugs who  lift  the  leather  curtains  of  Ro- 
man and  Venetian  churches  stand  forth 
as  cheerful  embodiments  of  self-respect- 
ing mendicancy.  They,  at  least,  are  no 
pariahs,  but  recognized  features  of  the 
social  system.  They  are  the  Lord's  poor, 
whose  prayers  are  fertile  in  blessings.  It 
is  kind  to  drop  a  coin  into  the  out- 
stretched hand,  and  to  run  the  risk  — 
not  so  appalling  as  we  seem  to  think  — 


388 


The  Beggar's  Pouch. 


of  its  being  unworthily  bestowed.  "  Rake 
not  into  the  bowels  of  unwelcome  truth 
to  save  a  half -penny ;  "  but  remember, 
rather,  the  ever  ready  alms  of  Dr.  John- 
son, who  pitied  most  those  who  were  least 
deserving  of  compassion.  Little  doubt 
that  he  was  often  imposed  upon.  The 
fallen  women  went  on  their  way,  sinning 
as  before.  The  "  old  struggler  "  prob- 
ably spent  his  hard-earned  shilling  for 
gin.  The  sick  beggar  whom  he  carried 
on  his  back  should  by  rights  have  been 
languishing  in  the  poorhouse.  But  the 
human  quality  of  his  kindness  made  it 
a  vital  force,  incapable  of  waste.  It 
warmed  sad  hearts  in  his  unhappy  time, 
as  it  warms  our  sad  hearts  now.  Like 
the  human  kindness  of  St.  Martin,  it 
still  remains  —  a  priceless  heritage  —  to 
enrich  us  poor  beggars  in  sentiment  to- 
day. 

And  this  reminds  me  to  ask  —  without 
hope  of  answer  —  if  the  blessed  St.  Mar- 
tin can  be  held  responsible  for  the  num- 
ber of  beggars  in  Tours  ?  The  town  is 
not  pinched  and  hunger-bitten  like  the 
sombre  old  cities  of  Italy,  but  possesses 
rather  an  air  of  comfort  and  gracious 
prosperity.  It  is  in  the  heart  of  a  pro- 
vince where  cruel  poverty  is  unknown, 
and  where  "  thrift  and  success  present 
themselves  as  matters  of  good  taste." 
Yet  we  cannot  walk  half  an  hour  in  Tours 
without  meeting  a  number  of  highly  re- 
spectable beggars  engrossed  in  their  pro- 
fessional duties.  They  do  not  sin  against 
the  harmony  of  their  surroundings  by 
any  revolting  demonstration  of  ragged- 
ness  or  penury.  On  the  contrary,  they 
are  always  neat  and  decent;  and,  on 
Sundays,  have  an  aspect  of  such  unob- 
trusive well-being  that  one  would  never 
suspect  them  of  mendicancy.  When  a 
clean,  comfortably  dressed  old  gentle- 
man, with  a  broad  straw  hat  and  a  rose- 
bud in  his  buttonhole,  crosses  the  street 
to  affably  ask  an  alms,  I  own  I  am  sur- 
prised, until  I  remember  St.  Martin,  who, 
sixteen  hundred  years  ago,  shared  his 
military  mantle  with  the  beggar  shiver- 


ing by  the  way.  It  was  at  Amiens  that 
incident  occurred,  but  the  soldier  sain 
became  in  time  the  apostle  and  bishop  of 
Tours  ;  wherefore  it  is  in  Tours,  and  not 
in  Amiens,  that  beggars  do  plentiful! 
abound  to-day ;  it  is  in  Tours,  and 
in  Amiens,  that  the  charming  old  tal 
moves  us  to  sympathy  with  their  not  very 
obvious  needs.  They  are  an  inheritance 
bequeathed  us  by  the  saint.  They  are 
in  strict  accord  with  the  traditions  of  t 
spot.  I  am  told  that  giving  sous  to  o 
men  at  church  doors  is  not  a  practi 
form  of  benevolence ;  but  neither  was  it 
practical  to  cut  a  valuable  cloak  in  two. 
Something  must  be  allowed  to  impu 
something  to  the  generous  unreason 
humanity. 

And,  after  all,  it  is  not  begging,  bu 
only  the  beggar  who  has  forfeited  favor 
with  the  elect.  We  are  begged  from  on  an 
arrogantly  large  scale  all  our  lives,  and 
we  are  at  liberty  to  beg  from  others.  It 
may  be  wrong  to  give  ten  cents  to  a  leg- 
less man  at  a  street  corner ;  but  it  is  right, 
and  even  praiseworthy,  to  send  ten  tick- 
ets for  some  dismal  entertainment  to  our 
dearest  friend,  who  must  either  purchase 
the  dreaded  things,  or  harass  her  friends 
in  turn.  If  we  go  to  church,  we  are  con- 
fronted by  a  system  of  begging  so  com- 
plicated and  so  resolute  that  all  other 
demands  sink  into  insignificance  by  its 
side.  John  Richard  Green,  the  historian, 
was  wont  to  maintain  that  the  begging 
friar  of  the  pre-reform  period,  "  who  at 
any  rate  had  the  honesty  to  sing  for  his 
supper,  and  preach  a  merry  sermon  from 
the  portable  pulpit  he  carried  round 
had  been  far  outstripped  by  a  "  fin 
mendicant,"  the  begging  rector  of  to-da 
A  hospital  nurse  once  told  me  that  s 
was  often  too  tired  to  go  to  church 
—  when  free  —  on  Sundays.  "But  it 
does  n't  matter  whether  I  go  or  not,"  she 
said  with  serious  simplicity,  "  because  in 
our  church  we  have  the  envelope  system." 
When  asked  what  the  system  was  which 
thus  lifted  church-going  from  the  number 
of  Christian  obligations,  she  explained 


I 


>m 

I 


A  Letter  from   Germany. 


389 


that  envelopes  marked  with  each  Sun- 
day's date  were  distributed  to  the  con- 
gregation, and  duly  returned  with  a 
quarter  inclosed.  When  she  stayed  at 
home,  she  sent  the  envelope  to  represent 
her.  The  collecting  of  the  quarters  be- 
ing the  pivotal  feature  of  the  Sunday's 
service,  her  duty  was  fulfilled. 

With  this,  and  many  similar  recollec- 
tions in  my  mind,  I  own  I  am  disposed 
to  think  leniently  of  Italy's  church-door 
mendicants.  How  moderate  their  de- 
mands, how  disproportionate  their  grati- 
tude, how  numberless  their  disappoint- 
ments, how  unfailing  their  courtesy  !  I 
can  push  back  a  leather  curtain  for  my- 
self, I  can  ring  a  sacristan's  bell.  But 
the  patriarch  who  relieves  me  of  these 
duties  has  some  dim,  mysterious  right 
to  stand  in  my  way,  —  a  right  I  cannot 
fathom,  but  will  not  pretend  to  dispute. 
He  is,  after  all,  a  less  insistent  beggar 
than  are  the  official  guardians  of  gal- 
leries and  museums,  who  relieve  the  un- 
utterable weariness  of  their  idle  days  by 
following  me  from  room  to  room  with 
exasperating  explanations,  until  I  pay 
them  to  go  away.  I  have  heard  tourists 
protest  harshly  against  the  ever-recur- 
ring obligation  of  giving  pennies  to  the 
old  men  who  in  Venice  draw  their  gon- 
dolas in  to  shore,  and  push  them  out 
again.  They  say  —  what  is  perfectly 
true  —  that  it  is  an  extortion  to  be  com- 
pelled to  pay  for  unasked  and  unneces- 


sary services,  and  they  generally  add 
something  about  not  minding  the  money. 
It  is  the  principle  of  the  thing  to  which 
they  are  ruthlessly  opposed.  But  these 
picturesque  accessories  of  Venetian  life 
are,  for  the  most  part,  worn-out  gondo- 
liers, whose  days  of  activity  are  over, 
and  who  are  saved  from  starvation  only 
by  the  semblance  of  service  they  perform. 
Their  successors  connive  at  their  pre- 
tense of  usefulness,  knowing  that  some 
day  they,  too,  must  drop  their  oars,  and 
stand  patiently  waiting,  hook  in  hand, 
for  the  chance  coin  that  is  so  grudgingly 
bestowed.  That  it  should  be  begrudged 
—  even  on  principle  —  seems  strange  to 
those  whose  love  for  Venice  precludes 
the  possibility  of  fault-finding.  The 
graybeards  sunning  themselves  on  the 
marble  steps  are  as  much  a  part  of  the 
beautiful  city  as  are  the  gondoliers  sil- 
houetted against  the  sky,  or  the  brown 
boys  paddling  in  the  water.  Such  old 
age  is  meagre,  but  not  wholly  forlorn. 
A  little  food  keeps  body  and  soul  to- 
gether, and  life  yields  sweetness  to  the 
end.  "It  takes  a  great  deal  to  make 
a  successful  American,"  confesses  Mr. 
James  ;  "  but  to  make  a  happy  Venetian 
takes  only  a  handful  of  quick  sensibility. 
.  .  .  Not  the  misery  of  Italians,  but  the 
way  they  elude  their  misery,  is  what 
pleases  the  sentimental  tourist,  who  is 
gratified  by  the  sight  of  a  beautiful  race 
that  lives  by  the  aid  of  its  imagination." 
Agnes  Repplier. 


A  LETTER  FROM  GERMANY. 


THE  year  1903  was  not  an  eventful 
one  to  Germany  in  its  foreign  relations. 
It  brought,  indeed,  the  conclusion  of 
the  Venezuela  incident ;  but  of  the  other 
large  movements  that  agitated  the  world, 
—  the  Macedonian  outbreak,  Russia's  po- 
sition in  Manchuria  and  the  Russo-Jap- 
anese imbroglio,  the  surprising  revival  of 


protectionism  in  England,  —  Germany 
occupied  merely  the  attitude  of  an  inter- 
ested spectator.  All  the  more  interesting, 
on  the  other  hand,  were  the  home  devel- 
opments of  the  year, — the  Reichstag 
elections,  registering  the  amazing  pro- 
gress of  Socialism  ;  conditions  in  the  Lib- 
eral parties,  foreshadowing  their  possible 


390 


A  Letter  from   Germany. 


reunion  and  the  rejuvenation  of  Liberal- 
ism ;  army  discipline,  the  maltreatment 
of  soldiers,  and  the  doings  of  military 
courts.  Less  important  was  the  year's 
legislation ;  while  in  the  economic  life 
of  the  Empire  the  watchword  was  the 
recuperation  of  business,  along  with  the 
consolidation  of  industrial  and  financial 
interests. 

"  Our  policy  in  East  Asia  is  to  hold 
on  to  what  we  have  and  develop  it,  with- 
out burning  our  fingers  in  matters  that  do 
not  concern  us."  In  these  words  Count 
von  Billow  rejected  the  assumption  that 
Germany  should  take  an  active  hand  in 
excluding  Russia  from  Manchuria.  Ac- 
cording to  the  Chancellor  there  is  no  quar- 
ter of  the  world  in  which  Germany  has 
less  to  seek  than  in  Manchuria.  This 
declaration  of  policy  by  Germany's  lead- 
ing statesman  may  seem  to  approach  the 
utmost  verge  of  modesty,  in  view  of  the 
fact  that  Germany  seized  Kiao-Chau  only 
six  years  ago  for  the  express  purpose  of 
extending  her  trade  relations  in  the  Far 
East.  Nevertheless,  it  merely  extends 
to  Asia  what  has  grown  to  be  Germany's 
traditional  attitude  toward  Russia  in  the 
field  of  European  politics.  Ever  since 
the  estrangement  between  the  two  coun- 
tries growing  out  of  the  Berlin  Congress, 
Germany's  policy  has  been  to  win  back 
the  confidence  of  the  St.  Petersburg  Gov- 
ernment. Hence,  Russia's  will  must  not 
be  crossed,  except  upon  the  very  gravest 
occasion.  In  view  of  possible  develop- 
ments beyond  the  Vosges,  Germany  must 
necessarily  regard  Russia's  friendship  as 
a  most  valuable  asset  in  her  political  bal- 
ance sheet ;  and  to  transfer  it  to  the  side 
of  liabilities  for  the  sake  of  wholly  prob- 
lematical trade  advantages  in  Manchuria 
would  be  moonshine  madness.  This  is 
the  view  that  prevails  at  Berlin,  and  it 
cannot  be  doubted  that  it  meets  the  ap- 
proval of  the  vast  majority  of  the  Ger- 
man people,  Herr  Bebel  to  the  contrary 
notwithstanding.  During  the  embroil- 
ment of  Russia  and  Japan,  too,  this  line 
of  action  has  been  rigidly  adhered  to. 


Germany  has  maintained  a  strict  neutral- 
ity ;  no  word  or  act  of  the  Government 
has  shown  where  its  sympathies  lie  ;'and 
the  standpoint  of  the  press,  whether  in- 
spired or  other,  has  been  the  same.  Ger- 
many maintained  a  similar  reserve  dur- 
ing the  Macedonian  troubles.  From  the 
very  beginning  she  took  the  position  that 
Russia  and  Austria  were  the  two  foreign 
countries  most  immediately  concerned, 
and  that  they  should  be  given  the  lead 
in  shaping  the  policy  of  the  great  Powers 
in  respect  to  introducing  reforms  and  re- 
moving the  reasonable  grievances  of  the 
Macedonian  population.  Berlin,  ther 
fore,  loyally  supported  every  line  of 
tion  agreed  upon  at  St.  Petersburg  ar 
Vienna. 

The  most  notable  event  in  the  relatioi 
between  Germany  and  the  United  Stat 
during  the  year  was  the  winding  up 
the  Venezuela  incident.  While  Germany 
succeeded  beyond  expectations  in  enfor 
cing  her  claims  against  that  vagabond : 
public,  the  feeling  here  was  pretty  ger 
eral  that  the  game  was  not  worth  the  i 
die,  since  it  aroused  in  the  United  Stat 
deep  suspicions  as  to  Germany's  genera 
policy  for  the  future  in  South  America ; 
and  it  also  brought  into  bold  relief  tt 
animosity  against  Germany  that  had 
cumulated  in  England   during  the 
happy  war  in  South  Africa.     In  sor 
quarters,  too,  the  Venezuela  affair  ws 
regretted  as  having  only  increased  tl: 
prestige  of  the  United  States  in  worl 
politics,  while  damaging,  rather  than  ir 
proving,  that  of  Germany.     This  vie\ 
found  expression,  at  least,  in  the  opj 
sition  speeches  in  the  Reichstag.     Cei 
tainly  the  whole  matter  did  nothing 
better  the  state   of  German  feeling 
ward  the  people  of  the  United  States ; 
and  when  the  little  Panama  revolutic 
occurred  the  newspapers  pretty  genei 
ly  vented  their  spleen  against  us  by 
nouncing  that  they  heard  "  the  rolling  i 
the  almighty  dollar."    With  all  the  cod 
sureness  of  subjective  journalism,  —  h 
the  lack  of  a  decent  news-service  abroa 


A  Letter  from   Germany. 


391 


—  German  editors  can  spin  out  their  dis- 
quisitions about  the  settled  policy  of  the 
United  States  to  absorb  the  whole  of 
South  America ;  and  American  machi- 
nations and  American  money  are  readi- 
ly pressed  into  service  to  throw  light  on 
sinister  events  in  that  continent  where 
simpler  explanations  would  be  more  ob- 
vious. 

Nevertheless,  the  Panama  revolution 
certainly  gave  satisfaction  to  the  German 
Government,  and  to  the  saner  part  of 
the  press,  from  one  standpoint,  —  name- 
ly, the  possibility  that  it  opens  for  the 
construction  of  the  Isthmian  canal.  It 
was  doubtless  this  consideration  —  along 
with  the  wish  to  do  a  friendly  act  to  the 
United  States  —  that  moved  the  German 
Government  to  recognize  the  young  re- 
public with  unusual  promptness.  The 
assumption  that  has  found  expression  in 
a  few  American  newspapers,  that  Ger- 
many would  like  in  some  way  to  hinder 
that  enterprise,  is  too  fantastic  for  sober 
treatment.  On  the  contrary,  she  awaits 
the  building  of  the  canal  by  the  United 
States  with  impatience,  since  her  trade 
connections  with  the  west  coasts  of  North 
and  South  America,  with  Australia  and 
the  German  possessions  in  the  Pacific, 
can  only  be  greatly  improved  through 
the  establishment  of  this  shorter  route. 

All  that  I  said  in  this  magazine  a  year 
ago  regarding  the  serious  situation  cre- 
ated for  us  by  the  new  German  tariff 
law  could  be  repeated  here.  Indeed, 
the  prospect  for  satisfactory  trade  rela- 
tions between  the  two  countries  has  grown 
still  more  ominous  since  that  time ;  for 
the  probability  foreshadowed  in  my  let- 
ter of  March,  1903,  that  Germany  would 
withdraw  from  us  trade  advantages  given 
to  other  countries  under  treaty,  has  now 
become  a  certainty.  Indeed,  before  that 
letter  appeared  in  print,  Count  Posa- 
dowsky  announced  in  the  Reichstag  that 
the  most-favored  -  nation  clause  no  lon- 
ger exists  as  between  Germany  and  the 
United  States,  because  our  action  in  mak- 
ing special  concessions  to  other  coun- 


tries, in  order  to  secure  reciprocity  ar- 
rangements, amounts  to  its  suspension. 
The  correctness  of  this  policy  has  only 
been  strengthened,  from  the  German 
standpoint,  through  the  ratification  of 
our  Cuban  Reciprocity  Treaty,  which 
will  give  the  deathblow  to  Germany's 
sugar  trade  in  the  United  States. 

In  view  of  the  changed  situation 
brought  about  by  Count  Posadowsky's 
announcement,  it  is  high  time  that  our 
statesmen  should  begin  to  consider  what 
they  can  do  to  secure  as  favorable  terms 
for  the  admission  into  Germany  of  our 
agricultural  produce  and  other  merchan- 
dise as  other  countries  will  enjoy.  No- 
thing short  of  a  radical  revision  of  our 
tariff  law  in  the  direction  of  giving  the 
President  large  discretion  to  reduce  du- 
ties in  return  for  equivalent  advantages 
will  enable  him  to  secure  to  our  farmers 
and  exporters  their  due  place  in  the 
German  market.  There  are  no  indica- 
tions, indeed,  that  anybody  in  Germany, 
beyond  a  handful  of  extreme  Agrarians, 
wants  a  tariff  war  with  us.  With  the 
German  Government,  however,  the  ques- 
tion will  not  be  what  it  wants,  but  what 
the  domestic  and  foreign  political  situa- 
tion will  force  upon  it.  How  can  it 
again  succeed  in  negotiating  good  com- 
mercial treaties  with  Russia  and  Austria, 
for  example,  if  those  countries  know  in 
advance  that  the  United  States  can  have, 
without  the  asking,  all  the  trade  advan- 
tages that  they  themselves  must  haggle 
and  barter  for  ?  And,  at  home,  how  can 
it  affront  the  powerful  Agrarian  parties, 
upon  which  it  must  rely  for  general 
political  support,  by  making  unbought 
concessions  to  the  very  country  that  of- 
fers the  sharpest  competition  for  German 
agriculture  ?  The  German  Government 
is  friendly  enough  toward  us  ;  but,  for  all 
that,  the  exigencies  of  home  and  foreign 
politics  will  compel  it  to  apply  to  our 
goods,  in  the  absence  of  treaty,  rates  of 
duty  which  it  regards  itself  as  excessive. 
Those  rates  are  in  the  law  against  its 
will ;  only  our  action  will  enable  it  to 


392 


A  Letter  from   Germany, 


dispense  with  applying  them  against  us. 
I  am  sure  that  the  German  Government 
would  be  thankful  to  us  if  we  should  re- 
lieve it  from  this  unpleasant  dilemma. 

The  passage  of  a  law  by  Congress  to 
prevent  the  pirating  of  literary  and  art 
productions  exhibited  by  foreigners  at 
the  St.  Louis  Exposition,  made  a  good 
impression  here,  and  corresponds  with 
the  expressed  wish  of  Germans  inter- 
ested in  those  lines.  There  was  consid- 
erable agitation  of  the  matter  when  many 
manufacturers  of  art  prints  refused  to 
exhibit  at  St.  Louis,  on  the  ground  that 
they  had  no  protection  from  virtual  theft. 
While  the  enactment  of  the  law,  therefore, 
has  been  received  with  satisfaction,  the 
latter  is  tempered  by  the  consideration 
that  Congress  only  acted  as  an  after- 
thought, in  order  to  promote  the  material 
success  of  the  Exposition,  while  ignoring 
the  abiding  equities  in  the  matter.  In 
this  connection  the  German  press  has  in- 
dulged in  some  rather  bitter  comment 
upon  the  general  subject  of  copyright 
conditions  in  the  United  States.  German 
laws,  it  is  complained,  give  the  American 
author  and  artist  absolute  protection  from 
piracy,  while  our  Copyright  Law  requires 
the  manufacture  of  books  and  art  prints 
in  the  United  States  before  guaranteeing 
protection.  It  is  a  standing  source  of 
irritation  among  German  writers  that 
their  stories  are  habitually  reprinted  by 
German  newspapers  in  America,  without 
their  having  any  way  of  securing  re- 
dress ;  and  newspaper  editors,  given  to 
plainness  of  speech,  hold  us  up  to  con- 
tempt as  "a  state  with  legally  author- 
ized robbery  of  intellectual  property." 

The  visit  of  an  American  squadron  to 
Kiel,  the  Emperor's  speech  there  at  the 
banquet  given  by  our  ambassador  at 
Berlin,  together  with  his  subsequent  of- 
fer of  a  cup  to  American  yacht  clubs  as 
a  prize  for  an  international  race  across 
the  Atlantic,  were  all  events  making  for 
good  relations  between  the  two  countries. 
After  reading  his  speech  at  Kiel,  surely 
no  intelligent  American  can  doubt  the 


Emperor's   sincere    good   will   for    the 
United  States  and  its  people.    The  organ- 
ization of  a  thriving  American  Chambe 
of  Commerce  at  Berlin  creates  anothe 
bond  between  the  two  lands  that  promise 
happy  results  for  both.    I  mentioned  la 
year  the  fact  that  many  Germans  wei 
visiting  the   United  States  in  order  to 
study  our  industrial  and  transportation 
methods.     Those  economic  pilgrimages 
became  in  1903  more  frequent  and  mor 
important  than  ever ;  and  during  19( 
the  St.  Louis  Exposition  will  cause  such 
a  migration  of  inquiring  Germans  on  er- 
rands of  investigation  into  various  fields 
of   American    economic   activity  as  we 
have   never  before  witnessed.     Indeed, 
it  is  no  exaggeration  now  to  speak  of  the 
United  States  as  the  economic  Mecca  of 
German  manufacturers  and  students  of 
affairs.    The  United  States  attracts  mor 
German  visitors   of  this   class  than 
other  countries  combined ;  even  impoi 
tant    lands   like    England   and   Franc 
scarcely   count   in    comparison.       Ever 
newspapers  that  are  little  friendly  to 
are  now  saying  that  the  German  write 
who  undertakes  to  discuss  the  large  ecc 
nomic  questions  and  tendencies  of  tt 
world  without  accurate  knowledge  of  tr 
United  States,  based  upon  personal  ol 
servation,  is  only  a  second-rate  authorit 
and  his  opinions  carry  no  weight. 

Herr    Goldberger   recently  publishe 
his  study,  Das  Land  der  Unbegrenztei 
Moeglichkeiten  ;  and  it  is  highly 
ficant  of  the  interest  felt  here  in  01 
country  that  six  editions  of   the  bool 
were  called  for  in  two  months,  althougl 
the  Germans  proverbially  buy  few  bool 
It  is  no   less    significant   that   its   tit 
speedily  became  a    "  winged  word " 
the  fugitive  literature  of  the  day.    Every- 
body is  now  talking  about  "  Unbegrenzt 
Moeglichkeiten  "  in  a  thousand  different 
applications,  and  everybody  is  asking 
American   friends  what   they  think  ol 
Goldberger's  book.     These,  if  they  ar 
discriminating,  have  to  admit  that  fc 
once    a   German  has  taken  a  too  ros 


A  Letter  from   Germany. 


393 


colored  view  of  the  United  States,  that 
his  keen  appreciation  of  our  material 
progress  and  our  aptitude  for  marshal- 
ing purely  economic  forces,  has  misled 
the  writer  into  an  optimism  hardly  war- 
ranted by  manifestations  on  higher  planes 
of  our  national  life.  The  late  Wilhelm 
von  Polenz  also  brought  out  during  the 
year  a  book  on  the  United  States,  founded 
on  extended  personal  observations,  and 
giving  full  recognition  to  the  finer  ten- 
dencies in  our  life,  without  ignoring  our 
many  shortcomings. 

Along  with  this  more  careful  study  of 
our  country,  the  exaggerated  fear  of  the 
"  American  Danger  "  that  agitated  the 
German  public  several  years  ago  has  been 
greatly  modified.  The  economic  travel- 
ers referred  to  above  all  came  home  with 
an  immense  respect  for  our  material  re- 
sources and  their  magnificent  develop- 
ment ;  nevertheless,  some  of  them  re- 
turned with  the  conviction  that  Ger- 
many's economic  position  in  the  world  is 
not  imperiled  by  our  progress.  Count 
Thiele-Winkler,  indeed,  was  so  impressed 
with  what  he  saw  in  our  iron  industry 
that  he  came  home  and  brought  out  a 
translation  of  Mr.  Vanderlip's  pamphlet 
on  the  American  commercial  invasion  of 
Europe,  adding  a  preface  pitched  in  a 
tone  of  despondent  concern  as  to  Ger- 
many's prospects  in  competition  with 
American  iron  and  steel  manufactures. 
Goldberger,  on  the  other  hand,  boldly 
says,  "  For  Germany  there  is  no  Amer- 
ican Danger."  This  more  confident  at- 
titude is  due  to  tendencies  and  events 
observed  in  the  United  States.  It  rests 
chiefly  upon  the  fact  that  the  costs  of  pro- 
duction with  us  have  risen  through  high- 
er wages,  dearer  raw  materials,  heavier 
transportation  charges ;  while  the  remark- 
able growth  of  labor  unions  and  their  au- 
tocratic methods  for  forcing  high  wages 
by  multiplying  strikes  are  referred  to  as 
a  serious  handicap  for  the  American  ex- 
port trade.  The  financing  of  our  indus- 
trial trusts,  their  over-capitalization,  the 
breakdown  of  the  Shipbuilding  Trust, 


and  the  forced  retirement  of  the  president 
of  the  Steel  Corporation  deepened  the 
German  distrust  of  our  financial  meth- 
ods ;  while  Mr.  Morgan's  contract  with 
the  British  Admiralty  was  interpreted  as 
a  practical  capitulation  of  the  great  finan- 
cier. He  was  accordingly  treated  in  the 
German  press  as  shorn  of  his  locks,  and 
was  compelled  to  make  sport  for  the  Phi- 
listines. Corresponding,  too,  with  this 
waning  of  the  American  Danger,  the 
great  process  of  liquidation  in  Wall  Street 
made  almost  no  impression  on  the  Ger- 
man security  markets,  notwithstanding 
the  eager  attention  given  to  our  stock 
quotations. 

The  pleasant  facts  already  mentioned 
as  making  for  satisfactory  relations  be- 
tween us  and  Germany  might  convey  a 
false  impression,  if  left  to  be  considered 
alone.  Of  course  there  is  another  side 
to  the  picture,  —  German  chauvinism 
and  German  sensitiveness  were  sure  to 
provide  for  that.  An  American  living 
in  Germany  never  ceases  to  be  amazed 
at  the  supersensitiveness  of  many  Ger- 
mans in  regard  to  their  national  dignity. 
There  is  an  element  here  — characterized 
by  the  late  Professor  Mommsen  as  "  our 
national  fools,  they  are  called  Pan-Ger- 
mans "  —  which  is  ever  on  the  watch- 
towers  of  the  nation's  glory,  ever  seeking 
to  espy  some  enemy  who  but  crooks  his 
finger  at  the  object  of  their  patriotic 
adoration.  To  them  it  is  a  deep  humili- 
ation for  their  nation  when  the  German 
ambassador  at  Washington  goes  to  the 
railway  station  to  bid  adieu  to  the  Presi- 
dent. When  young  Mr.  Vanderbilt 
visited  Dantzic  last  summer  at  the  sug- 
gestion of  the  Emperor,  the  latter,  in 
recognition  of  the  American  attentions 
to  Prince  Henry,  had  an  unimportant 
government  official  detailed  to  receive 
him  and  show  him  objects  of  interest. 
Forthwith  the  alarm  was  sounded  in  a 
section  of  the  German  press,  which  sus- 
pected their  Emperor  of  bending  the 
knee  to  American  Mammon  ;  and  the 
tempest  in  the  national  teapot  fumed  and 


394 


A  Letter  from   Germany. 


sputtered  for  weeks.  Five  months  later, 
when  the  incident  had  sunk  out  of  public 
view,  it  again  came  up  in  the  Reichstag, 
where  the  Chancellor  of  the  Empire 
thought  it  necessary  to  make  an  official 
statement  about  it.  Alas,  what  a  petty 
incident  I  am  putting  into  my  letter !  — 
but  how  typically  German  ! 

German  newspapers  are  never  weary 
of  attributing  to  our  "  yellow  press  "  the 
blame  for  whatever  unpleasantness  may 
exist  in  the  relations  between  the  two 
countries  ;  and  even  weighty  professors 
of  history  write  for  the  reviews  in  sup- 
port of  this  assumption.  One  of  the 
specialties  of  that  press  seems  to  be  the 
invention  of  stories  about  Germany  ac- 
quiring a  coaling  station  somewhere  in 
American  waters.  This  canard  has  re- 
appeared in  so  many  forms  that  it  has 
quite  lost  its  adaptability  for  inch  head- 
lines on  the  American  side.  Neverthe- 
less, it  never  fails  to  bring  out  a  chorus 
of  indignant  protests  in  the  German 
newspapers ;  and  I  suspect  that  the  in- 
ventors of  it  are  subscribers  to  some 
German  clipping  agency,  and  take  a  mean 
delight  in  studying  the  German  echo  to 
their  cheap  trick.  At  any  rate,  the  story 
argues  no  special  malice  toward  Ger- 
many, but  rather  a  foolish  love  for  sen- 
sation. What  we  Americans  find  to  ob- 
ject to,  however,  in  a  part  of  the  German 
press,  is  a  more  serious  matter,  —  their 
brutal  disregard  of  tact  in  treating  of 
American  affairs,  their  malevolent  gibes, 
their  studied  superciliousness,  their  gross 
exaggeration  of  our  national  vices,  —  but 
the  list  is  a  long  one,  and  I  shall  not  try 
to  complete  it.  What  we  complain  of, 
too,  is  by  no  means  confined  to  the  news- 
papers. The  following  is  a  mild  case : 
The  Berlin  Wagner  Society  recently  pro- 
tested against  the  performance  of  Parsi- 
fal in  New  York,  as  it  had  a  perfect  right 
to  do  ;  but  it  could  not  lose  this  opportu- 
nity to  express  its  deep  contempt  for  the 
musical  taste  of  New  York,  thus  :  "  The 
sacred  legacy  that  Richard  Wagner  left 
to  art  is  to  be  thrown  away  upon  hear- 


ers in  the  dollar-land,  upon  whom  the 
true  spirit  of  Wagnerian  art  has  hardly 
dawned,  and  doubtless  never  will  dawn." 
The  Society  was  bidding  for  American 
support  in  preventing  the  "  desecration ; " 
here  we  have  its  conception  of  how  to 
win  it. 

The  protectionist  revival  in  England 
naturally  awakens  lively  interest  in  Ger- 
many. As  that  country  affords  far  and 
away  the  largest  market  for  German 
goods,  the  Chamberlain  agitation  cannot 
be  viewed  with  indifference  by  German 
statesmen.  The  fact,  too,  has  not  es- 
caped attention  here  that  the  erratic 
Englishman  finds  the  ground  prepared 
for  his  agitation  by  German  help ;  for 
the  anti-German  feeling  that  has  sprung 
up  in  England  in  connection  with  the 
Boer  War,  impartial  writers  admit,  has 
given  an  immense  impulse  to  that  move- 
ment. The  Germans  had  in  1903  an- 
other striking  illustration,  too,  of  the  deep 
resentment  now  cherished  against  them 
in  England.  A  group  of  London  capi- 
talists was  about  to  join  similar  groups 
of  German  and  French  financiers  last 
spring  in  organizing  the  Bagdad  Rail- 
way, and  were  only  awaiting  the  sanction 
of  the  British  Cabinet  for  certain  features 
of  the  enterprise.  That  sanction  appeared 
to  be  no  longer  in  doubt  after  the  Prime 
Minister  had  spoken  in  Parliament,  show- 
ing the  desirability  of  enlisting  English 
financial  support  for  the  undertaking, 
rather  than  leave  it  to  the  exclusive  con- 
trol of  the  Germans  and  French.  There- 
upon a  storm  of  indignant  protests  was 
heard,  the  old  cry  of  "  British  interests  " 
was  raised ;  and  the  result  was  that  the 
Cabinet  faced  about  sharply  and  refused 
to  sanction  the  project. 

The  subject  most  strongly  engaging 
the  attention  of  Germany  just  now  in  its 
foreign  relations  is  the  negotiation  of 
new  commercial  treaties.  The  old  ones 
elapse  with  the  current  year ;  and  all 
the  business  interests  of  the  country  are 
eagerly  speculating  as  to  their  probable 
status  under  the  forthcoming  agreements. 


A  Letter  from   Germany. 


395 


It  was  expected,  when  the  new  tariff 
law  was  passed,  that  some  of  the  trea- 
ties could  be  laid  before  the  Reichstag 
within  a  twelvemonth.  Instead  of  this, 
however,  one  hears  only  of  negotiations 
with  Russia  and  Switzerland,  with  no 
indication  as  to  their  completion.  Mean- 
while, the  Conservatives  in  the  Reichstag 
are  interpellating  the  Government  about 
them,  and  demanding  that  the  old  trea- 
ties, at  least,  be  denounced.  How  the 
negotiations  are  progressing  nobody 
knows ;  but  the  impression  prevails  that 
the  Russian  treaty  presents  very  grave 
difficulties. 

Indeed,  the  whole  question  of  the 
treaties  is  involved  in  the  greatest  un- 
certainty. What  the  Reichstag  will  do 
with  them  nobody  can  predict.  The 
Socialists,  by  whose  votes  the  existing 
arrangements  were  ratified,  have  an- 
nounced in  advance  that  they  will  sup- 
port no  treaties  that  increase  the  price 
of  the  necessaries  of  life.  It  is  highly 
improbable,  moreover,  that  any  treaties 
that  the  Government  can  make  will  prove 
acceptable  to  the  two  Conservative  par- 
ties and  the  Agrarian  element  among 
the  Clericals  and  National  Liberals  ;  for 
they  can  only  be  ratified  by  conceding 
heavy  reductions  from  the  maximum 
scale  of  duties,  —  a  thing  which  the  Agra- 
rians would  bitterly  resist.  It  may  easily 
occur,  therefore,  that  the  most  reaction- 
ary elements  in  German  politics  and  the 
most  radical,  the  Socialists,  will  unite  to 
reject  the  Government's  treaties. 

What  would  then  happen  ?  Would 
the  Government  put  the  new  tariff  law 
into  force,  or  would  it  —  as  some  free- 
trade  optimists  predict  —  continue  the 
present  law,  after  having  made  agree- 
ments with  the  treaty  powers  to  prolong 
existing  arrangements  ?  The  former  al- 
ternative would  undoubtedly  be  exceed- 
ingly repugnant  to  the  Government,  since 
it  is  fully  aware  that  the  high  duties 
forced  into  the  law  against  its  will  would 
greatly  damage  German  interests  in 
many  directions.  On  the  other  hand, 


could  it  refuse  to  enforce  the  law  and 
take  the  political  risks  involved  ?  Con- 
stitutionally, indeed,  the  Cabinet  is  re- 
sponsible, not  to  the  Reichstag,  but  to 
the  Emperor ;  and  the  latter  can  nega- 
tive a  law  by  refusing  to  promulgate  it. 
This  theoretical  independence  of  the  Cab- 
inet, however,  would  hardly  embolden  it 
to  break  with  its  own  supporters  in  a  mat- 
ter where  they  and  their  constituents  have 
such  large  private  interests  at  stake  ;  for, 
after  all,  a  German  Cabinet  cannot  gov- 
ern long  without  a  majority. 

Germany  continues  to  round  out  her 
social  reform  legislation.  Hitherto  the 
various  sick  funds  gave  assistance  for  only 
thirteen  weeks,  while  the  invalid  pen- 
sion could  be  drawn  only  after  twenty-six 
weeks  of  continuous  sickness.  A  new 
measure  passed  last  year  closes  the  gap, 
so  that  the  working  classes  are  now  com- 
pletely insured  against  sickness.  Another 
measure  worthy  of  mention  was  the  intro- 
duction of  secret  balloting  at  the  Reichs- 
tag elections,  which  the  country  squires 
cannot  quite  forgive  the  Government  for 
carrying  through  at  the  repeated  demand 
of  the  Radicals  and  Socialists. 

The  Reichstag  elections  showing  the 
prodigious  growth  of  the  Social  Demo- 
cracy was  the  largest  event  of  the  year 
in  the  national  life.  Indeed,  this  gain 
of  900,000  Socialist  votes  in  five  years 
is  a  most  stupendous  fact.  It  marks 
a  significant  milestone  in  the  country's 
history,  and  the  national  consciousness 
has  been  busy  for  a  half-year  in  contem- 
plating and  trying  to  explain  it,  —  a 
milestone  to  which  Germans  will  long 
revert  as  the  starting-point  of  new  con- 
ditions in  the  Empire.  Those  3,000,000 
votes  weigh  heavily  upon  the  minds  of 
men  who  fancy  themselves  the  appointees 
of  Providence  to  keep  this  mad  world 
in  its  social  orbit.  Something  must  be 
done,  they  are  saying ;  "  we  are  on  an 
express  train  that  is  rolling  with  the 
wind's  velocity  into  the  Zukunfts-Staat, 
and  only  the  Government  can  save  us  ;  — 
let  it  put  on  the  brakes  !  " 


396 


A  Letter  from   Germany. 


How  was  this  Socialist  victory  possi- 
ble ?  Was  it,  in  fact,  a  Socialist  vic- 
tory? In  my  letter  of  a  year  ago  I 
said  that  the  cry  of  "  Bread-usury " 
would  be  raised  by  the  party,  and  its 
speakers  would  everywhere  attack  the 
new  tariff  law  as  designed  to  enhance  the 
price  of  the  laboring  man's  necessary 
food.  Such,  indeed,  was  the  case  ;  the 
burden  of  the  Socialists'  speeches  was 
everywhere  the  tariff ;  they  and  their 
enemies  are  agreed  as  to  that.  Apart 
from  this  they  made  some  political  capi- 
tal out  of  their  treatment  by  the  courts 
and  the  Government,  the  restrictions 
upon  the  liberties  of  the  working  popula- 
tion in  the  matter  of  their  organizations, 
and  the  association  of  these  for  common 
action ;  out  of  army  conditions,  mal- 
treatment of  privates,  and  the  sentences 
inflicted  by  military  courts  ;  finally,  out 
of  the  Emperor's  speeches  against  the 
Socialists,  which  they  regarded  as  an  un- 
warrantable interference  by  the  Crown 
in  the  political  controversies  of  the  peo- 
ple. All  live,  present-day  matters,  — 
nothing  anywhere  about  the  Utopia  of 
the  Socialists,  a  state  with  all  industries 
nationalized  and  everybody  made  happy 
under  a  system  of  collectivism.  Thus 
their  surprising  success  was  hardly  a 
victory  of  Socialism,  but  rather  of  radical 
Liberalism.  Somebody  has  aptly  char- 
acterized it  by  paraphrasing  Disraeli's 
well-remembered  ban  mot :  the  Socialists 
caught  the  Liberals  bathing  and  stole 
their  clothes. 

Under  this  view  the  election  affords  a 
sort  of  bitter-sweet  solace  for  the  three 
little  radical  parties,  which  are  being 
ground  to  powder  between  the  upper 
and  nether  millstones  of  the  Reaction 
and  Socialism.  Indeed,  it  is  recognized 
on  all  sides  that  the  Socialist  vote  was 
swollen  to  its  huge  volume  partly  through 
the  assistance  of  electors  who  do  not 
dream  of  adopting  the  creed  of  that  party. 
Large  numbers  of  citizens  were  deeply 
disgusted  with  political  conditions  in  the 
Empire,  and  wanted  to  give  the  strongest 


possible  expression  to  their  protest.  They 
found  the  Socialists  ploughing  with  the 
Liberal  heifer,  cutting  a  much  wider  fur- 
row, too,  than  the  rightful  owner,  and  so 
holding  out  the  promise  of  exterminating 
the  weeds  more  speedily  and  effectively. 
Hence,  a  vote  for  Socialist  candidates 
would  be  the  heaviest  body  blow  against 
the  Government  that  they  could  deliver ; 
and  so  they  voted.  That  party  was  thus 
the  only  one  that  came  out  of  the  elec- 
tion with  a  marked  accession  of  strength. 
They  gained  twenty-one  seats,  raising 
their  force  in  the  Reichstag  to  eighty- 
one  members  ;  and  they  would  have  one 
hundred  and  twenty-five  if  the  districts 
were  apportioned  according  to  popula- 
tion. 

The  election  then  demonstrated  anew 
and  with  overwhelming  force  that  So- 
cialism is  a  great  elementary  movement 
in  the  life  of  the  German  people.  What 
will  come  out  of  it  ?  Did  June  Sixteenth 
register  its  high-water  mark,  or  was  it 
the  point  at  which  the  dike  began  to 
crumble  before  the  inrushing  flood  ?  Can 
the  rising  tide  be  stemmed  in  time  to 
save  the  State  ?  Where  and  how  are 
the  resisting  walls  to  be  built?  Such 
are  the  anxious  questions  that  people  be- 
gan to  ask  themselves  last  June. 

While  this  perturbed  state  of  the  pub- 
lic mind  was  at  its  height  an  event  oc- 
curred which  partly  relieved  its  tension. 
The  yearly  convention  of  the  Social  De- 
mocracy was  held  in  Dresden  in  Sep- 
tember, and  presented  such  a  repulsive 
picture  of  dissension  and  distrust  in  the 
party  as  to  restore  in  a  measure  the 
equanimity  of  over-anxious  souls.  The 
Socialist  leaders,  the  laurels  of  their  June 
victory  still  fresh  upon  their  brows,  greet- 
ed one  another  there  with  such  ejacula- 
tions as  "  lies  !  "  "  perfidy  unparalleled  !  " 
One  "  comrade  "  was  denounced  as  "  deep- 
ly degraded  morally  ;  "  and  Herr  Bebel, 
the  fiery  Boanerges  of  the  party,  was 
forced  openly  to  admit,  "  We  were  never 
more  divided  than  now."  Then,  too,  the 
stringency  of  party  discipline,  brought 


A  Letter  from   Germany. 


397 


out  in  the  debates  where  it  was  shown 
that  Socialist  writers  had  to  apply  to  the 
National  Committee  for  permission  to 
print  articles  in  bourgeois  newspapers, 
was  pointed  to  by  the  foes  ot  Socialism 
as  a  tyranny  that  must  ultimately  grow 
intolerable  and  disrupt  the  party. 

However,  while  the  Dresden  Conven- 
tion reassured  some  minds,  it  was  a  dis- 
tinct disappointment  to  others.  Some 
progressive  politicians  and  university  pro- 
fessors had  hoped  that  the  Socialists,  in 
view  of  their  accession  of  new  followers 
from  various  sections  of  the  urban  and 
rural  population,  would  depart  from  their 
old  policy  of  narrowly  representing  the 
interests  of  the  proletariat  and  put  their 
movement  upon  a  broader  basis.  That 
hope  was  dashed  at  Dresden.  The  Re- 
visionists were  again  voted  down  by 
an  overwhelming  majority  ;  Bebel,  who 
again  proved  himself  the  soul  of  the  par- 
ty, swept  the  Convention  away  with  his 
declaration  of  undying  hostility  to  the 
existing  order  of  society  ;  and  his  resolu- 
tions, reiterating  that  the  Socialist  move- 
ment is  a  class  conflict,  were  emphatically 
indorsed.  Hermann  Sudermann,  always 
a  pronounced  Liberal,  thus  confessed  his 
disappointment  over  the  outcome  at  Dres- 
den :  "  Since  the  Dresden  Convention 
the  middle-class  bourgeoisie  is  without 
hope,  without  a  future." 

The  strife  in  the  party  as  exhibited  at 
Dresden  was  regarded  in  some  quarters 
as  foreshadowing  its  speedy  dissolution ; 
but  the  united  front  presented  by  it  a 
few  weeks  later  in  the  elections  for  the 
Prussian  Diet  demonstrated  anew  the 
ability  of  the  Socialists  to  bury  their 
theoretical  differences  and  go  to  work. 
The  Revisionists,  under  the  leadership 
of  Bernstein,  continue  to  pound  away  at 
the  Marxist  groundwork  of  the  party's 
creed,  and  perhaps  they  will  crumble  it 
in  time  —  after  Bebel  is  gone  ;  but  their 
faith  in  State  collectivism  remains  intact, 
and  harmony  at  this  cardinal  point  will 
doubtless  keep  the  party  united  and  on  a 
war  footing  for  all  practical  tasks. 


As  to  the  final  issue  of  the  Socialist 
movement  nobody  at  present  can  form 
an  authoritative  judgment ;  but  condi- 
tions undoubtedly  point  to  its  ultimate 
success.  The  party  has  now  shown  its 
ability  to  win  support  from  the  peasant- 
ry ;  it  has  swept  into  its  ranks  vast  num- 
bers of  petty  tradesmen  and  independent 
artisans.  It  is  spreading  among  the 
smaller  Government  officials ;  and  many 
retired  army  officers,  fretting  over  what 
they  regard  as  the  premature  termina- 
tion of  their  careers,  quietly  embrace 
Socialism.  The  crowded  state  of  the 
professions,  too,  makes  for  the  spread  of 
that  doctrine ;  and  the  Universities,  with 
their  37,000  students,  are  yearly  swell- 
ing the  ranks  of  the  discontented  intel- 
lectual proletariat  which  lightly  takes  to 
Socialist  views.  A  recent  inquiry  brought 
out  the  fact  that  thirty-one  per  cent  of 
the  physicians  of  Berlin  have  incomes  of 
less  than  $750  from  their  practice  and 
all  other  sources.  Now,  a  man  living 
under  these  hard  conditions  is  sure  to 
think  earnestly  upon  the  social  problem, 
and  it  is  almost  certain  that  he  will  think 
radically.  Thus  the  crowded  profes- 
sions supply  the  material  from  which 
Socialism  continually  recruits  its  intel- 
lectual leaders. 

Moreover,  the  foes  of  Socialism  have 
apparently  learned  nothing  from  June 
Sixteenth,  and  continue  to  turn  water 
upon  its  wheels.  In  the  Reichstag  a  Con- 
servative leader  suggested  a  law  for  the 
disf ranchisement  of  all  Socialists  profess- 
ing to  be  republicans  and  revolutionists. 
The  Chancellor,  indeed,  rejected  the  idea 
of  special  measures  of  repression,  and  an- 
nounced his  intention  to  enforce  existing 
laws  against  open  attack,  and  to  extend 
social  reform  legislation ;  but  he  thought  it 
necessary  to  give  the  following  warning 
to  Socialists  :  "  The  State  will  defend  it- 
self. Who  is  the  State  ?  If  you  once 
resort  to  action  you  will  soon  find  out." 
In  other  words,  the  final  argument  is  — 
the  sword.  Also,  the  Chancellor's  an- 
nouncement that  no  Government  official 


398 


A  Letter  from  Germany. 


who  is  a  Socialist  would  be  retained  in 
the  service  of  the  State  will  prove  but  a 
blow  in  the  water  ;  for  a  discreet  silence 
can  be  practiced  by  the  official,  as  well 
as  by  the  soldier.  The  latter  is  forbidden 
by  the  regulations  to  confess  himself  a 
Socialist ;  indeed,  a  perturbed  Conserva- 
tive leader  reminded  the  Chancellor  that 
the  time  was  coming  when  the  army  could 
no  longer  be  relied  upon  to  act  unitedly 
against  that  party  in  an  emergency. 

The  election  has  started  a  remarkable 
agitation  in  the  four  Liberal  parties  of 
the  Empire.  The  impotence  of  German 
Liberalism,  through  its  unhappy  divi- 
sions, was  never  more  apparent  than 
now ;  and  the  outcome  of  the  elections 
has  forced  it  to  serious  questionings  as 
to  its  future.  There  is  something  ex- 
ceedingly pathetic  in  the  disappointment 
of  many  of  the  best  minds  of  Germany, 
like  that  of  the  late  Professor  Mommsen, 
over  the  decline  of  Liberalism  and  the 
apathy  of  the  masses.  In  answer  to  an 
editor  who  asked  for  an  expression  of  his 
views  upon  the  result  of  the  elections,  the 
old  historian  wrote :  "  To  me  it  seems 
that  the  battle  is  definitively  lost.  .  .  . 
I  am  too  old  and  weary  to  give  expres- 
sion publicly  in  the  press  to  absolute 
hopelessness." 

Decimated  by  the  advance  of  Social- 
ism, and  weakened  by  their  own  fac- 
tional quarrels,  the  Radical  Liberals  see 
their  modicum  of  political  influence  slip- 
ping from  them  ;  whereas  the  National 
Liberal  Party,  the  controller  of  the  Em- 
pire's destinies  a  generation  ago,  has 
more  and  more  lost  its  Liberal  principles, 
and  succeeded  in  checking  its  numerical 
decline  only  by  meekly  voting  for  the 
measures  of  the  Government.  The  three 
radical  groups  —  the  Radical  People's 
Party,  the  Radical  Union,  and  the  South 
German  People's  Party  —  were  nearly  as 
strong  as  the  Socialists  in  the  old  Reichs- 
tag ;  now  they  are  not  half  so  strong ; 
and  even  including  the  National  Liberals 
they  only  slightly  outnumber  the  Social- 
ists. The  weakening  of  Liberalism  and 


the  advance  of  Socialism  have  both  tend- 
ed in  the  same  direction,  so  far  as  their 
influence  upon  the  Government  is  con- 
cerned ;  the  latter,  namely,  has  been 
forced  to  ally  itself  more  closely  with  the 
Conservatives  and  the  powerful  Cleri- 
cals ;  and  these  latter  parties  have  grown 
more  disposed  to  bury  their  differences 
of  religious  creed,  in  order  to  interpose 
a  common  front  against  the  rising  tide 
of  Socialism  on  the  one  hand,  and  intel- 
lectual freedom  on  the  other.  That  the 
spirit  of  the  age  must  be  resisted  and  the 
principle  of  authority  upheld  are  com- 
mon articles  of  political  faith  with  these 
parties ;  and  they  are  known  to  cherish 
designs  against  the  common  schools,  as 
well  as  against  those  bulwarks  of  Ger- 
many's intellectual  liberty,  the  Universi- 
ties. 

Threatened  thus  from  right  and  left, 
the  Liberals  are  beginning  to  ask  them- 
selves what  they  can  do  to  bring  their 
principles  again  into  favor.  The  idea 
of  reuniting  their  scattered  fragments  is 
abroad  in  the  land ;  the  watchword  of 
a  Great  Liberal  Party  has  been  spon- 
taneously given  out  in  many  quarters ; 
even  in  the  ranks  of  the  National  Lib- 
erals the  idea  of  union  has  taken  hold,  and 
is  fermenting  vigorously.  When,  how- 
ever, the  attempt  is  made  to  formulate 
a  common  creed  for  the  new  party,  the 
enormous  difficulties  in  the  way  of  union 
become  painfully  apparent.  The  Na- 
tional Liberals,  for  example,  are  most- 
ly high  protectionists,  being  the  party 
of  the  great  manufacturers  ;  the  radical 
groups,  on  the  other  hand,  are  free- 
traders. On  other  important  matters, 
like  appropriations  for  the  army  and 
navy,  the  parties  are  equally  at  variance. 
However,  a  modest  beginning  toward 
reunion  was  made  last  autumn,  when 
Pastor  Naumann's  little  National  Social 
Party  was  absorbed  by  the  Radical 
Union.  This  move  has  deeply  offended 
Eugen  Richter,  the  leader  of  the  Radi- 
cal People's  Party,  who  is  a  stiff  Liberal 
of  the  old  school,  and  who  boasts  that 


A  Letter  from   Germany. 


399 


he  has  not  changed  his  opinions  for  for- 
ty years.  Dr.  Barth,  the  leader  of  the 
Union,  realizes  that  no  party  can  make 
headway  in  Germany  which  stands  in 
the  way  of  the  national  defense,  and 
which  opposes  social  reform  legislation  ; 
while  Richter,  with  his  group,  opposes  all 
increases  of  army  and  navy,  and  still  oc- 
cupies toward  social  reform  the  old  stand- 
point of  laisser-faire.  Barth,  too,  enthu- 
siastically espouses  the  idea  of  reuniting 
the  Liberals,  while  Richter  regards  this 
as  a  visionary  plan,  and  coldly  says, 
"  Perhaps  a  great  Liberal  party  will  be 
possible  after  some  decades."  All  things 
considered,  therefore,  it  seems  certain 
that  the  Great  Liberal  Party  will  remain 
a  pious  wish. 

Dr.  Barth  has  also  started  a  new  move- 
ment in  the  radical  groups  in  favor  of 
an  alliance  with  the  Social  Democracy, 
and  has  argued  his  case  with  great  force. 
His  own  party  indorsed  the  idea  in  a 
modified  form,  and  so  did  the  South  Ger- 
man Radicals  ;  but  the  Richter  group  will 
none  of  it,  and  evidently  the  voters  are 
averse  to  an  alliance  with  the  Socialists. 
The  latter,  on  their  part,  have  given  the 
plan  a  cold  reception ;  and  apparently 
there  is  no  encouragement  for  German 
Liberalism  in  this  direction. 

The  army  was,  last  year,  again  the  sub- 
ject of  much  discussion  and  much  con- 
cern. The  country  has  been  treated 
within  six  months  to  one  sensation  after 
another  in  the  shape  of  military  trials 
for  the  maltreatment  of  soldiers.  On  a 
recent  date  a  lieutenant  was  sentenced 
for  698  instances  of  maltreating  his  men, 
and  a  non-commissioned  officer  for  1520 
instances.  These  and  numbers  of  other 
cases  of  the  kind  have  made  an  exceed- 
ingly unfavorable  impression  upon  the 
country  ;  and  the  public  mind  is  appre- 


hensive lest  conditions  in  the  army  are 
even  worse  than  revealed  by  these  sen- 
sational cases.  It  was  but  natural  that 
this  public  concern  should  be  reflected  in 
the  recent  Reichstag  debates,  and  the 
speakers  of  all  parties  except  the  Con- 
servatives tried  a  tilt  at  the  army  admin- 
istration, which,  of  course,  gave  earnest 
assurances  that  the  evils  complained  of 
would  be  rooted  out. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  that  litera- 
ture has  already  seized  upon  this  new  as- 
pect of  the  army  for  treatment.  Hitherto 
the  officer  had  figured  in  fiction  and  on 
the  stage  mainly  as  an  agreeable  social 
figure,  irresistible  to  young  maidens' 
hearts ;  now  the  more  tragical  note  is 
caught.  Baron  von  Schlicht  has  recent- 
ly printed  nine  novelettes  under  the  col- 
lective title,  Ein  Ehrenwort,  with  the 
following  bill  of  fatalities :  five  officers 
resign  under  compulsion,  five  shoot  them- 
selves, and  one  is  killed  in  a  duel.  The 
most  widely  read  book  of  the  year  was 
Beyerlein's  Jena  oder  Sedan  ?  which 
casts  doubt  upon  the  efficiency  of  the 
army  because  of  the  spread  of  immorali- 
ty and  luxury  therein.  It  is  significant, 
too,  that  active  corps  commanders  are 
writing  in  the  magazines  against  luxury 
in  the  army,  and  urging  the  return  to  the 
good  old  simple  ways.  Another  book, 
far  less  important  as  literature,  but  hardly 
less  sensational  than  the  one  just  men- 
tioned, was  Lieutenant  Bilse's  Aus  einer 
Kleinen  Garnison.  It  would  scarcely 
have  attracted  any  attention  if  it  had  not 
been  made  the  basis  of  a  court-martial 
for  the  author,  at  which  the  astonishing 
fact  was  brought  out  that  his  realistic 
descriptions  of  moral  decay  in  the  social 
life  of  a  small  garrison  battalion  were 
largely  photographic  copies  from  real 
life. 

William  C.  Dreher. 


400 


The  Return  of  the   Gentlewoman. 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  GENTLEWOMAN. 


IT  is  true  she  has  not  wholly  left  us, 
but  her  presence  has  grown  rare,  and  at 
times  she  seems  vanishing,  as  fringed 
gentians  have  a  way  of  doing  in  favorite 
meadows,  where  once  there  were  blue 
stretches  of  them,  until  a  summer  comes 
when  the  most  diligent  searcher  is  only 
rewarded  by  a  scattered  half-dozen. 

To-day  every  New  England  town  pos- 
sesses localities  in  whose  still  stately 
mansions  lived  families  spoken  of  as 
"  best."  These  "  Best  Families  "  hav- 
ing diminished  and  faded  away,  their 
dwellings  stand  with  closed  blinds,  or, 
it  may  be,  have  developed  into  homes 
for  the  aged,  orphan  asylums,  schools, 
places  where  people  lodge  and  board. 
Here  and  there  a  house  retains  its  origi- 
nal character,  and  its  mistress  goes  se- 
renely in  and  out.  She  is  surrounded 
by  souvenirs  of  the  past  and  the  flowers 
of  her  garden,  is  much  given  to  hospital- 
ity and  the  reading  of  good  books,  uses 
the  most  charming  English  we  have  ever 
heard,  and  has  on  all  subjects  views  that 
are  wise  and  witty  and,  withal,  consider- 
ate and  charitable.  In  brief,  —  a  Gen- 
tlewoman. 

But  it  is  like  the  half-dozen  fringed 
gentians  in  the  meadow.  Only  now  and 
then  does  one  find  her. 

There  is  a  descriptive  word  of  dreary 
import  formerly  applied  with  freedom  to 
a  Gentlewoman  in  such  moments  of  ad- 
versity as  involved  the  loss  of  friends 
and  fortune.  In  this  sad  situation  one 
was  apt  to  call  her  "  decayed,"  exactly 
as  if  one  were  speaking  of  a  fallen  house 
or  a  ruined  castle,  instead  of  a  sweet 
and  gracious  soul  that  would  always  be 
greater  than  anything  that  could  happen 
to  it. 

Heaven  be  thanked,  this  word,  in  her 
connection,  is  becoming  obsolete  and  not 
likely  to  be  associated  with  her  in  the 
future.  The  modern  Gentlewoman  will 


have  profited  by  the  modern  processes 
of  life  and  learned  how  to  defend  her- 
self against  evil  days. 

The  fashion  of  this  world  passeth, 
and  it  was  no  doubt  decreed  from  the  be- 
ginning that  a  number  of  things  should 
cease  to  exist,  that  there  should  be  a  pass- 
ing of  the  spare  room,  of  the  front  door- 
yard,  of  the  polite  art  of  letter-writing, 
of  the  pleasant  companionship  of  the 
horse  in  drives  through  town  and  coun- 
try, of  that  receptacle,  once  so  essential 
a  part  of  a  woman's  dress,  the  convenient 
pocket.  The  Gentlewoman  is  not  a  fash- 
ion of  this  world.  She  is  of  that  world 
that  was  and  is  and  ever  shall  be. 

But  when  she  comes  again,  what  will 
be  the  conditions  ?  Will  she  serve  tea 
as  of  old  in  delicate  heirloom  china  ? 
Will  her  pleasant  rooms,  hung  with  an- 
cestral portraits,  look  into  a  well-kept 
garden,  rose-planted,  and  shaded  by  an- 
cestral fruit  trees  ?  Possibly,  since  the 
title  she  bears  implies  wealth  of  years, 
and  hence  opportunities  of  inheriting 
things  having  the  charm  of  years. 
Still  the  immediate  ancestors  of  the 
Gentlewoman  of  the  future  are  no  longer 
home-makers  in  the  sense  that  their  own 
ancestors  were.  Many  of  them  are 
birds  of  passage,  flitting  from  one  point 
to  another,  collecting  memories  and  ex- 
periences in  greater  numbers  than  house- 
hold treasures  or  plants  in  gardens. 
They  board ;  they  live  in  apartments ; 
they  spend  six  months  here  and  six 
months  there ;  they  give  away  their  old 
gowns  and  coats  and  hats,  instead  of 
packing  them  in  attic  chests  to  be  taken 
out  half  a  century  later  for  use  in  cha- 
rades and  tableaux  and  private  theatri- 
cals. Or  if  too  much  occupied,  or  not 
sufficiently  well-informed  concerning  the 
need  of  their  neighbors  to  distribute  in- 
telligently of  their  abundance,  societies 
stand  ready  to  do  this  for  them,  societies 


The  Return  of  the   Gentlewoman. 


401 


whose  business  it  is  not  only  to  dispense 
thoughtfully  the  necessities  of  life,  but 
also   its   feathers    and   ornaments    and 
flowers ;  as,  for  instance,  that  of  the  "  In- 
ternational Sunshine  "  with  its  motto,  — 
"  Have  you  had  a  kindness  shown, 
Pass  it  011 ;  "  — 

which  means,  literally,  if  you  have  a  ball 
dress,  or  a  fan,  or  a  volume  of  poems,  or 
a  piece  of  embroidery  lying  idle,  send  it 
to  us  and  we  will  see  that  it  gives  plea- 
sure elsewhere. 

This  habit  of  modern  life,  so  essential 
to  a  Bird-of-Passage  Person  who  has  no 
hoarding-place  save  in  the  hired  corner 
of  a  public  storehouse,  somewhat  limits 
the  future  Gentlewoman's  chances  of  in- 
heriting ancestral  articles.  However,  all 
people  of  to-day  are  not  birds  of  passage. 
Some  there  be  who  have  built  or  bought 
themselves  housesj  and  in  making  the 
latter  habitable,  followed  the  tendency 
of  the  age  to  put  old  wine  into  new  bot- 
tles, that  is  to  say,  old  furniture  collected 
from  the  earth's  four  corners  into  modern 
rooms.  Having  safely  passed  the  un- 
beautif  ul  period  of  parlor  sets  and  cham- 
ber sets  and  vases  in  pairs,  they  thirst  for 
unmatched  pieces  of  antiquity.  Go  into 
a  twentieth-century  dwelling  and  you 
will  find  chairs  and  tables  that  must  be 
enjoying  a  sensation  of  renewed  youth, 
since  in  place  of  growing  daily  more  ven- 
erable in  native  air,  they  have  knocked 
about  all  over  Bohemia,  and  are  now 
making  new  acquaintances  in  a  manner 
quite  unusual  with  things  of  their  day 
and  generation.  Here  is  a  chair  ac- 
quired yesterday  at  a  sale  of  old  colonial 
furniture  from  Virginia ;  here  is  a  clock 
bought  last  summer  in  a  Dutch  fishing 
village ;  here  is  a  dressing-table  that 
once  crossed  the  sea  in  that  ship  pre- 
pared, so  the  story  runs,  to  rescue  the 
unhappy  Marie  Antoinette,  and  finally 
obliged  to  set  sail  without  her.  Here  is 
an  old  stool,  carved  and  gilded,  and  a 
spinnet  with  some  yellow  music  resting 
open  upon  it,  —  stool  found  in  one  town, 
spinnet  in  a  second,  and  music  in  a  third. 

VOL.  xcui.  —  NO.  557.  26 


If  these  things,  with  others,  can  be  kept 
together  until  the  future  Gentlewoman, 
now  a  child,  has  herself  grown  old  among 
them,  her  surroundings,  in  appearance  at 
least,  will  in  no  wise  greatly  differ  from 
those  of  the  Gentlewomen  of  her  ances- 
tors. The  difference  will  be  in  the  his- 
tory of  her  surroundings. 

The  other  day  I  heard  some  one  say, 
alluding  to  the  death  of  an  aged  relative, 
"  She  was  the  last  gentlewoman  of  our 
family."  It  was  as  if  the  speaker  had 
said,  "  The  last  princess  of  a  royal  line ; 
there  will  never  be  another." 

And  it  may  be  that  never  again  shall 
we  see  Gentlewomen  like  those  now  go- 
ing from  us,  as  it  may  be  that  never 
again  will  there  be  a  field  white  and  gold 
and  fragrant  in  exactly  the  same  manner 
as  the  one  through  which  we  walked  last 
June,  never  again  a  summer  night  like 
that  of  last  July,  when  the  evening  prim- 
roses, little  sisters  to  the  moon,  were 
shining  along  the  garden  path  ;  but  the 
memory  of  the  afternoon  in  June  and  of 
the  evening  in  the  midsummer  garden  is 
ours  to  keep  forever,  and  each  of  us  has 
a  heritage  bequeathed  by  the  Gentlewo- 
man we  loved,  also  to  keep  forever,  if 
we  can,  —  a  heritage  that  has  nothing  in 
common  with  real  estate  or  the  safety 
deposit  bank,  that  is  not  subject  to  dam- 
age by  fire  or  flood  and  yet  demands 
more  care  than  ever  material  possessions. 

Each  year  of  living  means  more  rush 
and  more  haste,  and  less  time  for  think- 
ing, since  the  main  thing  seems  to  be  to 
arrive,  and  to  do  that  one  must  run  faster 
and  faster.  It  is  well  to  arrive,  and  ad- 
visable. It  is  also  well  to  make  one's 
haste  after  the  fashion  recommended  by 
the  German  proverb,  "  Eile  mit  Weile," 
even  at  the  risk  of  not  arriving  at  all. 
It  is  safer  for  the  heritage  left  us  by  the 
Gentlewoman  we  loved.  In  the  break- 
neck speed  of  modern  life  there  are  so 
many  chances  of  accidents  to  things  other 
than  limbs. 

Happening  to  call  upon  a  friend  the 
other  evening  at  the  moment  of  a  dinner 


402 


Books  New  and   Old. 


party,  I  was  shown  into  the  presence  of 
the  young  son  and  daughter  of  the  house, 
aged  fourteen  and  thirteen.  They  gave 
me  cordial  greeting,  and  after  I  had 
been  told  the  names  of  the  guests  in  the 
dining-room,  and  we  had  somewhat  dis- 
cussed them  and  wondered  how  much 
longer  they  would  sit  at  the  table,  and 
talked  of  the  animals  at  the  Zoo  and  the 
birds  in  the  Park  and  the  books  we  liked 
best,  the  children  showed  me  a  picture 
that  had  been  occupying  their  attention 
when  I  entered. 

It  was  a  large  colored  print  of  a 
Christy  girl  playing  golf. 

"  I  am  going  to  have  it  framed  for  my 
room,"  said  Ruth.  "  What  do  you  think 
of  it  ?  Oh !  I  forgot,"  she  added,  "  you 
don't  approve  of  the  modern  girl." 

There  was  a  pretty  apology  in  her 
voice,  and  nothing  in  her  manner  to  give 
the  impression  that  a  person  in  the  state 
of  mind  she  had  indicated  might  be  un- 
reasonable or  unnatural  or  otherwise  ob- 
jectionable. But  Richard  arose,  asking 
in  a  voice  that  sounded  like  a  challenge, 
"  Not  approve  of  her,  —  why  not  ?  " 

"Well,"  I  said,  "I  don't  exactly 
know.  It 's  a  sort  of  feeling.  Of  course 
it  does  n't  include  every  modern  girl. 
It  would  never  include  Ruth.  The 
young  woman  in  the  picture  is  certainly 
bewitching,  but  I  should  n't  think  of  giv- 
ing such  a  picture  to  Ruth  for  her  room ; 
or  at  least  I  might  give  one,  but  not  a 
whole  row  of  them,  there  are  so  many 
other  pictures  to  give  her  "  — 


Under  Richard's  clear  and  questioning 
gaze  I  was  growing  confused,  when  Ruth 
spoke  for  me. 

"You  see,  Richard,"  she  said,  "  yoi 
were  not  with  us  last  August,  but  thei 
was  a  girl  who  used  to  come  into  the 
dining  -  room  with  such  a  stride !   anc 
she  always  wore  her  sleeves  stripped  uj 
above  her  elbows,  and  her  arms  had  gc 
fearfully  burned  ;  in  fact,  they  were  quit 
black,  and  she  was  so  proud  of  them  ;  but 
of  course  they  did  n't  look  very  well, 
pecially  at  dinner  with  pretty  dresses; 
and  her  hair  was  rather  wild,  and  she 
never  wore  a  hat,  not  even  when  she 
went  into  the  business  part  of  the  town 
and  she  knew  a  good  deal  of  slang,  but 
she  was  a  very  nice  girl,  and  "  —     Just 
here  the  dinner  party  was  heard  wend- 
ing its  way  into  the  drawing-room,  anc 
we  three  being  invited  to  join  it,  the 
strain  of  the  situation  ended. 

What  makes  a  Gentlewoman?     Put 
the   question     in   another   form.     Whc 
made   the   Gentlewoman  ?     God    ms 
her.     To  say  that  He  made  the  Societ 
Woman,  and  the  Club  Woman,  and  the 
Sportswoman  with  her  sisterhood,  woulc 
be  not  unlike  saying  that  He  made  the 
town  and  the  steam  cars  and  green  ca 
nations  and  gray  roses.     But  we  may 
quite  sure  that  He  made  the  Gentlewc 
man,   and    that  with   every  generatioi 
adopting  the  best  of  things  new  and  keej 
ing  the  best  of  things  old,  she  will  retui 
in  all  her  sweet  dignity  to  add  to  the  joj 
of  the  world. 

Harriet  Lewis  Bradley. 


BOOKS  NEW  AND  OLD. 


HANS   HOLBEIN   AND   SOME   OTHER   MASTERS. 


THIS  is  a  lawless  age  in  matters  of  art 
There  are  as  many  "  schools  "  as  there 


three   men    younger    than   themselves 
Dumas  used  to  say  that  all  he  needed  fo 


are    painters   clever  enough  to   impose     the  making  of  a  drama  was  two  trestle 
their  ideas,  or  eccentricities,  on  two  or     some  boards,  and  a  passion.     Nowadays 


Books  New  and  Old. 


403 


all  that  is  needed  for  the  making  of  an 
artistic  "  movement "  is  a  handful  of 
brushes,  some  colors,  and  a  new  trick.  I 
remember  the  first  exhibition  of  the  New 
Salon,  —  it  was  new  once.  There  was 
probably  not  a  man  there  whom  some- 
body or  other  was  not  calling  "  cher 
Maitre."  Well,  these  "  schools  "  dis- 
appear. Even  Whistler's  following,  that 
wonderful  source  of  Whistlerian  sym- 
phonies which  in  essence  were  neither 
Whistlerian  nor  symphonic,  is  not  to-day 
what  it  was.  But  while  the  old  cliques 
pass  new  ones  arise,  and  the  general  ten- 
dency of  artists  to  run  after  this  or  that 
specious  novelty  is  always  with  us.  It 
is  comforting,  therefore,  whenever  a  book 
appears  like  the  one  which  Mr.  Gerald  S. 
Davies  has  published  on  Hans  Holbein 
the  Younger.1  This  author  brought  out, 
a  year  ago,  a  book  on  Frans  Hals  which 
showed  that  he  was  well  qualified  to  as- 
sume the  duties  of  an  historian  of  art. 
He  has  knowledge,  sympathy,  taste,  and 
common  sense.  These  qualities  have 
gone  to  the  making  of  a  book  on  Holbein 
which  was  much  needed,  for  the  biblio- 
graphy of  the  subject  has  hitherto  in- 
cluded nothing  in  English  sufficiently 
comprehensive,  nothing  embodying  all 
the  fruits  of  recent  research.  Wornum's 
book  is  nearly  forty  years  old,  and  the 
last  edition  of  the  translation  of  Wolt- 
mann's  Holbein  und  Seine  Zeit  dates 
from  1872.  Both  works  are  of  value, 
but  for  the  preparation  of  a  really  defin- 
itive biography  Mr.  Davies  has  had  prac- 
tically a  clear  field.  He  has  entered  it 
not  only  well  equipped  as  a  writer,  but 
with  all  the  advantages  which  modern 
reproductive  processes  could  give  him. 
His  illustrations  include  fine  photograv- 
ures of  the  paintings,  tinted  facsimiles  of 
the  drawings,  and  good  reproductions  of 
Holbein's  decorative  designs  and  of  the 
Dance  of  Death. 

Somewhere,  in  contemplating  the  writ- 

1  Hans  Holbein  the  Younger.  By  GERALD  S. 
DAVIES,  M.  A.  New  York :  The  Macmillan 
Co.  1903. 


ings  of  the  Fathers,  and  the  huge  mass 
of  literature  based  on  the  firm  foundation 
they  provided,  Matthew -Arnold  speaks 
of  the  disposition  of  the  man  of  imagina- 
tion, "  in  spite  of  her  tendency  to  burn 
him,"  to  gravitate  toward  the  Church  of 
Rome.  In  spite  of  its  tendency  to  freeze 
him,  the  connoisseur  must  always,  sooner 
or  later,  gravitate  toward  the  school 
whose  principles  make  for  law  and  order. 
It  does  not  smother  idiosyncrasy,  but  it 
has  a  way  of  putting  that  element  of  ar- 
tistic interest  in  its  proper  place.  It  im- 
plies, no  doubt,  certain  renunciations,  and 
the  rank  and  file  in  any  age,  but  espe- 
cially in  our  own,  find  it  difficult,  if  not 
impossible,  to  accept  its  conditions.  But 
there  have  been  great  masters  to  whom 
the  keen  airs  on  the  heights  most  con- 
genial to  the  methods  of  this  school  are 
as  the  very  breath  of  life,  and  Hans  Hol- 
bein was  one  of  them.  He  is  great,  first 
by  virtue  of  the  clearness  of  his  vision, 
and  then  through  the  perfection  of  his 
skill  in  realizing  what  he  saw  in  terms 
of  form  and  color,  without  even  the  most 
trifling  deviation  into  obscurity  or  man- 
nerism. He,  too,  made  his  renuncia- 
tions, though  it  is  perhaps  more  accurate 
to  say  that  his  works  involve  renuncia- 
tions for  us  rather  than  for  him,  since  he 
was  indubitably  unconscious  of  just  what 
was  sacrificed  to  the  realistic  trend  of  his 
genius.  The  point  refers,  of  course,  to 
the  diminution  of  the  force  of  the  spirit- 
ual motive  in  Holbein  by  the  assertive- 
ness  of  that  material  fabric  which  it  was 
his  peculiar  gift  to  express.  Mr.  Davies 
takes  a  more  favorable  view  of  the  mat- 
ter, but  this  is  due,  I  fear,  to  the  common 
weakness  of  biographers,  who  cannot 
well  live  absorbed  for  a  long  period  in 
the  works  of  a  single  master  without  un- 
consciously seeing  them  too  much  with 
that  master's  eyes. 

He  says  of  the  central  figure  in  the 
Solothurn  Madonna  that  "  nothing  more 
womanly,  more  pure,  more  gentle,  more 
sweet,  and  yet  more  strong  has  been  given 
to  us  by  any  painter  who  has  essayed 


404 


Books  New  and  Old. 


this  subject  and  made  us  richer  by  this 
vision  or  by  that  of  divine  motherhood." 
Passing  from  this  to  the  Meier  Madonna 
at  Darmstadt,  he  maintains  the  same  at- 
titude. It  is  hard  to  quarrel  with  him. 
Both  pictures  have  great  sweetness  and 
beauty  as  religious  conceptions.  But  in 
such  conceptions  the  North  must  yield  to 
the  South,  and  though  a  completely  Ital- 
ianized Holbein  would  have  been  a  Hol- 
bein weakened,  it  seems  to  me  that  ad- 
miration of  his  Madonnas  should  rest,  if 
it  is  to  be  discriminating,  somewhere  on 
the  safe  side  of  the  ecstatic.  Mr.  Davies 
is  even  more  provocative  in  what  he  has 
to  say  in  describing  the  two  panels  in 
monochrome  at  Basel,  the  Ecce  Homo 
and  Mater  Dolorosa.  Both  designs  are 
powerful,  but  when  this  biographer  re- 
marks that  "  the  figure  of  Christ  in  the 
Man  of  Sorrows  has,  for  its  expressive- 
ness of  its  great  theme,  few  equals  in 
Art,"  he  is  overstating  the  case.  Is  it 
really  possible,  in  studying  this  famous 
panel,  to  place  the  artist's  purely  ana- 
tomical preoccupation  in  the  subsidiary 
position  to  which  it  should  be  relegated  ? 
I  doubt  it.  The  difficulty,  and  the  loss 
that  it  implies,  will  be  made  manifest 
even  more  clearly,  perhaps,  by  a  com- 
parison of  the  Entombment,  also  at  Basel, 
with,  say,  Mantegna's  Dead  Christ,  in 
the  Brera,  with  Michael  Angelo's  Pieta, 
in  St.  Peter's,  or  with  the  latter's  beau- 
tiful drawing  in  the  British  Museum. 
Instantly  Holbein's  want  of  tragic  pas- 
sion makes  itself  felt.  But  to  dwell  on 
his  limitations  would  be,  after  all,  seri- 
ously to  distort  the  perspective  in  which 
Holbein  must  be  seen,  and  it  is  pleasant, 
in  returning  to  the  qualities  that  give 
him  his  high  rank,  to  find  the  best  pos- 
sible light  thrown  upon  them  in  a  pas- 
sage by  Mr.  Davies. 

Alluding  to  the  German's  realistic 
method,  which  is,  "  in  the  hands  of  any 
man  of  less  genius,  apt  to  degenerate  into 
mere  laborious  accuracy,  or  to  take  the 
place  and  usurp  the  interest  in  the  picture 
which  ought  to  be  left  for  the  products 


of  the  higher  imagination,"  he  points  out 
that  with    Holbein  it  never  takes  this 
pedestrian  turn,  and  continues :  "  It  is 
to  him  the  natural  and  only  method  of 
expressing  himself,  —  absolute  perf  ectior 
of  craftsmanship,  in  all  that  he  handles 
carried  into  every  part  of  the  picture,  anc 
yet  all  of  it  so  kept  in  due  relation  and  di 
subordination,  because  of  the  dominating 
presence  of  the  higher  interests  and  aims 
of  the  picture,  that  you  are  unconscioi 
until  you  begin  purposely  to  forget  thes 
higher  interests  in  order  to  search  int 
his  way  of  doing  things,  that  you  ai 
looking  at  a  work  in  which  industry  anc 
perfect  craftsmanship  have  borne  theii 
part  in  carrying  out  the  master  thought" 
There  is  a  sure  touchstone  here,  ready 
the  hand  of  the  student  of  Holbein  ;  anc 
it  is  gratifying  to  observe  that  Mr.  Davit 
renders  a  further  service  to  his  reader 
laying  stress  upon  the  fact  that  while  his 
artist's  method  is  wholly  unlike  that 
later  painters,  such  as  Velasquez,  Fra 
Hals,  and  Van  Dyck,  "  neither  method  is 
righter  than  the  other." 

If  Holbein's  method  rests  too  muc 
upon  a  basis  of  reality  to  lift  his  religious 
pictures  to  the  loftiest  plane,  it  serves, 
all  events,  to  make  him  one  of  the  si 
preme  masters  of  portraiture.     In  what 
he  has  to  say  under  this  head,  Mr.  Davit 
rarely  provokes  dissent.     His  efforts 
deprive  Holbein  of  the  Dorothea  Offer 
burg  and  the  Lais  Corinthiaca,  and 
give  them  to  Cesare  da  Sesto,  are  moi 
zealous  and  ingenious  than  convincing 
—  I  do  not  believe  the  Milanese  eve 
saw  either  of  the  two,  —  but  in  traversii 
the  bulk  of  the  master's  work  as  a  poi 
trait  painter,  he  is  content  to  avoid 
venturous  hypotheses.     He  might  have 
taken  safely  a  firmer  line  in  following 
Miss  Hervey's  opinion,  rather  than  that 
of  Mr.  W.  F.  Dickes,  in  the  curious  con- 
troversy over  the  identity  of  the  figures 
in   the  Ambassadors,   of   the    National 
Gallery.     The  main  point,  however,  is 
that  he  does  full  justice  to  those  incom- 
parable portraits,  like  the  George  Gyze, 


Books  New  and  Old. 


405 


at  Berlin,  the  Derich  de  Born,  at  Wind- 
sor, and  the  Erasmus,  at  Longford  Cas- 
tle, which,  for  insight  into  character, 
heroic  simplicity,  and  beauty  of  style, 
stand  as  monuments,  so  to  say,  to  the 
glory  of  realistic  art.  Holbein  is,  in 
these  portraits,  a  painter  if  ever  there 
was  one,  despite  the  glib  assumption 
made  in  some  quarters  that  only  Velas- 
quez and  one  or  two  others  deserve  the 
title ;  yet  there  is  no  denying  the  great 
part  which  a  purely  linear  quality  plays 
in  these  very  works.  Mr.  Davies  rightly 
pays  attention  to  the  drawings  as  of  no 
less  significance  than  the  paintings,  for 
in  Holbein's  line,  wherever  we  find  it,  we 
have  the  most  characteristic  reflection  of 
his  genius  ;  in  it  he  illustrates,  with  crys- 
talline clearness,  the  power  of  knowledge 
and  authority  in  art. 

He  stumbles  over  no  details,  he  evades 
no  problems,  but  draws  with  a  kind  of 
naked  force,  and  proves,  what  it  is  always 
so  important  to  remember,  that  in  the 
artistic  interpretation  of  beauty  it  is  not 
in  the  least  necessary  to  be  esoteric,  or  to 
torture  technique  and  experiment  with 
the  point  or  with  the  brush,  until  the 
truth  is  lost  in  a  maze  of  self-conscious 
or  eccentric  "  method."  In  his  portraits, 
painted  or  drawn,  you  have  art  in  its  bare 
integrity.  It  is  a  testimony  to  the  illim- 
itable scope  of  art  taken  in  that  estate, 
that  it  still  gives  the  freest  sway  to  indi- 
viduality. Holbein  is  almost  scientific 
in  his  precision,  but  his  style  remains 
one  of  the  most  original  in  the  annals  of 
European  painting.  He  is  a  standing 
protest  against  the  theory  that  emotion- 
al rapture  is  the  only  source  of  great 
achievement  in  art.  From  his  triumphs, 
as  from  those  of  Raphael,  for  example, 
we  may  know  that  intellectual  power  is 
also  a  key  to  artistic  immortality. 

With  Holbein  the  drawing  and  the 
painting  are  practically  interchangeable 
if  we  are  pursuing  the  secret  of  his  art ; 

1  The  Drawings  of  the  Florentine  Painters. 
Classified,  Criticized  and  Studied  as  Documents 
in  the  History  and  Appreciation  of  Tuscan 


but,  with  most  men,  work  with  the  pen- 
cil or  chalk  has  meant  a  more  sponta- 
neous disclosure  of  personal  qualities  than 
usually  goes  with  work  in  oils,  and  this 
circumstance  has  given  to  drawings  a 
special  place  in  the  history  of  connois- 
seurship.  Such  souvenirs  of  a  great  artist 
have,  of  course,  a  strictly  historical  value, 
and  are  of  much  practical  use  in  the  clear- 
ing up  of  questions  of  attribution  and 
the  like.  But  if  a  study  in  chalk  for 
some  famous  picture  or  decoration  has 
much  the  same  curious  and  instructive 
interest  as  attaches  to  a  poet's  first  draft 
for  some  famous  composition,  it  possesses, 
also,  much  more  than  the  literary  sketch, 
an  intrinsic  charm.  The  pressure  of  an 
artist's  hand  upon  his  crayon  is  an  affair 
peculiarly  self-revealing ;  it  is  like  the 
violinist's  pressure  upon  his  bow,  with 
this  difference,  that  your  musician  must 
blend  his  personality  with  a  definite  idea 
if  he  is  to  make  a  successful  appeal, 
whereas,  in  the  case  of  the  artist,  it 
sometimes  scarcely  matters  whether  he 
has  anything  important  to  say  or  not ;  it 
is  his  way  of  saying  it,  it  is  his  accent, 
which  he  can  convey  in  the  veriest  trifle, 
that  counts. 

Mr.  Berenson's  work  on  the  Drawings 
of  the  Florentine  Painters  *  possesses  un- 
usual importance  on  its  scientific  side 
alone.  The  two  huge  volumes  —  too 
huge  for  mere  convenience  —  were  un- 
dertaken in  a  spirit  of  severe  research. 
The  author  has  classified  his  material,  he 
has  threshed  out  many  questions  of  au- 
thenticity, and  he  has  framed  a  catalogue, 
embracing  nearly  three  thousand  num- 
bers, which  constitutes  in  itself  an  indis- 
pensable work  of  reference.  Surveying 
his  draughtsmen,  from  the  Primitives 
down  to  ,Pontormo  and  Rosso,  in  chro- 
nological order,  he  has  annotated  their 
works  with  a  fullness  of  detail  that  places 
the  student  in  search  of  critical  informa- 
tion deeply  in  his  debt.  The  facsimiles 

Art.  With  a  Copious  Catalogue  Raisonne".  By 
BERNHARD  BERENSON.  New  York :  E.  P. 
Button  &  Co.  1903. 


406 


Books  New  and  Old. 


he  gives  are  among  the  finest  reproduc- 
tions I  have  ever  seen ;  they  are,  for  or- 
dinary working  purposes,  equivalents  for 
the  originals  as  nearly  exact  as  could  be 
desired.  But  I  confess  that  it  is  not  of 
the  workshop  that  I  am  disposed  to  think 
longest  in  considering  Mr.  Berenson's 
book.  I  am  grateful  for  the  additions  he 
has  made  to  the  tools  of  art  criticism,  but 
I  am  grateful  also  for  the  influence  which 
the  volumes  must  exert  in  developing  ar- 
tistic taste  where  it  is  too  often  weak. 

I  once  heard  a  drawing  of  Diirer's 
criticised  because  the  man  it  portrayed 
was  made  to  appear  cross-eyed.  Per- 
haps the  poor  creature  was  really  so  af- 
flicted, but,  supposing'  that  Diirer  had 
libeled  him,  we  might  deplore  the  slip 
without  losing  sight  of  the  linear  beauty 
with  which  the  drawing  brims  over. 
Beauty  of  this  sort  does  not  need  to  be 
impeccable  as  regards  fidelity  to  nature. 
In  Holbein's  drawings  truth  happens  to 
be  of  prime  significance.  With  many 
other  masters,  whether  truth  be  present 
or  not,  our  pleasure  remains  the  same.  It 
is  the  pleasure  which  you  find  in  a  deli- 
cately turned  phrase,  in  an  intonation,  or 
even  in  a  sudden  and  well-placed  silence, 
—  the  counterpart  of  the  omission  in 
linear  art,  one  of  the  most  potent  of  all 
sources  of  effect.  Line  is,  in  short,  a 
language  by  itself,  susceptible  of  being 
used  for  the  conveyance  of  great  thoughts 
or  for  the  most  casual  and  intimate  pur- 
poses. The  early  Florentine  fascinates 
you  by  flinging  some  new  and  beautiful 
creation  in  all  its  freshness  upon  the  pa- 
per, giving  it  a  poignancy  which  may 
disappear  when  he  comes  to  elaborate  it 
into  a  formal  scheme  ;  or,  with  the  best 
intentions  in  the  world,  seeking  to  carry 
out  a  given  idea  within  the  limits  of  a 
drawing,  he  actually  ends  by  leaving 
you  indifferent  to  his  subject,  as  subject, 
and  absorbed  in  what  I  may  call  pure- 
ly autographic  qualities.  Mr.  Berenson 
well  clarifies  this  point  in  speaking  of 
Botticelli's  illustrations  to  Dante.  "  Their 
value,"  he  says,  "consists  in  their  being 


drawings  by  Botticelli,  not  at  all  in  th 
being  illustrations  to  Dante,"  and  h 
happily  remarks  of  the  Florentine 
"  he  loved  to  make  the  line  run  and  lea 
to  make  it  whirl  and  dance."  Bottice 
being  what  he  was,  —  a  poet  and  a  drea 
er,  —  wove  his  line  into  beautiful  form 
and  he  moves  the  imagination, 
satisfies  the  eye,  in  these  Dantesq 
drawings ;  they  have  the  glamour  of 
fancy  as  they  have  the  glamour  of  his 
style.  But  it  is  the  glamour  of  style  thai 
we  could  not  afford  to  do  without. 

It  is  the    same  with  all  the  maste 
discussed  by  Mr.  Berenson,  and  the  fi 
ought  never  to  be  forgotten  by  the  s 
dent,  since  it  explains  and  justifies 
survival  across  the  ages,  as  objects 
enthusiasm  among  artists  and  collecto 
of  drawings  sometimes  very  nearly  mea 
ingless  so  far  as  subject  is   concern 
The  merest  scrap  will  often  exert  thi 
perhaps  sensuous  spell  upon  the  disce 
ing    critic.     Witness  Van  Dyck's  c 
brated  sketchbook  at  Chatsworth,  whic 
contains  odds  and  ends  of  no  earthly  i 
terest  save  as  fragments  of  that  langu 
which  the  painter  used  when  he  dash 
off  a  pictorial  memorandum,  a  note  o 
some  masterpiece  he  saw  in  Italy, 
the  other  hand,  Mr.  Berenson's  collection 
of  facsimiles  emphasizes  once  more  that 
element  in  Italian  art  which  makes   it 
unique,    the   instinctive   and    often,    no 
doubt,  unconscious    expression,    on   th 
part  of  every  painter  or  sculptor  of  an 
consequence  whatever,  of  a  feeling  for  th 
imponderable  beauty  that  seems  som 
how  bound  up  with  all  that  was  finest  i 
the  Italian   genius   of   the   golden  a 
They  had  something  to  say  even  whe: 
they  were  not  themselves  aware  of  i 
That  is,  they  put  into  their  work  ch 
acter,  distinction,  the  things  that  com 
from  imaginative  fervor.     It  is  interesi 
ing  to  place  an  old  Italian  study  of 
limb   or  bit  of   drapery  beside   simil 
drawings  from  any  modern  studio,  n 
matter   how   eminent.     The    old   worl 
quivers  with  inspiration,  it  has  a  kind 


Books  New  and  Old. 


407 


soul.  The  modern  work  may  be  all  com- 
pact of  cleverness,  it  may  suggest  a  won- 
derful eye  and  an  extraordinarily  skillful 
hand,  but  beside  the  other  it  is  like  an 
empty  shell.  Mr.  Berenson  gives  us 
abundant  data  to  support  this  contention, 
confining  himself  to  the  Florentines.  I 
hope  the  preparation  of  a  similar  book 
by  him,  treating  of  the  North  Italian  mas- 
ters, is  only  a  question  of  time,  —  and 
not  simply,  I  may  add,  because  he  writes 
about  drawings  to  such  good  purpose, 
but  because,  in  the  course  of  his  work, 
he  has  so  much  to  say  that  is  worth  read- 
ing on  the  general  aspects  of  Italian  art. 
His  chapters  on  Leonardo  and  Michael 
Angelo  in  this  book  are  so  suggestive, 
they  are  so  rich  in  the  fruits  of  scholar- 
ship, presented  with  far  less  pedantry 
than  has  hitherto  marred  his  criticisms, 
that  they  deserve  publication  in  a  form 
more  widely  accessible.  It  might  easily 
be  worth  while  to  publish  the  text  and 
catalogue  given  in  these  volumes  in  a 
handy  octavo,  the  illustrations  being  put 
in  portfolios  by  themselves. 

Mr.  Berenson's  heroic  folios  rather 
dwarf  the  other  contributions  which  have 
recently  been  made  to  the  literature  of 
Italian  art,  but  several  of  these  never- 
theless command  high  respect.  I  would 
place  well  in  the  forefront  of  this  com- 
paratively minor  group  of  publications 
what  is,  in  great  measure,  an  old  book, 
yet  practically  a  new  one,  the  revised  edi- 
tion of  Crowe  and  Cavalcaselle's  History 
of  Painting  in  Italy,1  which  has  long  been 
out  of  print.  Though  it  has  never  lost 
its  usefulness,  it  has  been  much  in  need 
of  correction.  Sir  Joseph  Crowe,  be- 
fore he  died  in  1896,  had  finished  the 
rewriting  of  more  than  a  third  of  the 
book,  and  with  the  help  of  the  additional 
manuscripts  he  left,  and  their  own  not 
inconsiderable  resources,  Mr.  Langton 

1  A  History  of  Painting  in  Italy.  By  J.  A. 
CROWE  and  G.  B.  CAVALCASELLE.  Edited  by 
R.  LANGTON  DOUGLAS,  assisted  by  S.  ARTHUR 
STRONG.  New  York :  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 
1903. 


Douglas  and  Mr.  S.  Arthur  Strong  have 
undertaken  to  overhaul  this  classic  of 
criticism  and  bring  it  abreast  of  the  latest 
modern  research.  The  publishers  are 
giving  it  substantial  if  not  luxurious  form, 
numerous  good  half-tones  being  used  as 
illustrations,  with  a  few  photogravures. 
The  edition  is  to  be  completed  in  six 
volumes,  two  of  which  have  thus  far  ap- 
peared, devoted  respectively  to  Early 
Christian  Art  and  Giotto  and  the  Giot- 
tesques.  In  the  first  of  these  volumes 
there  are  brief  sketches  of  the  two  au- 
thors, in  which  Mr.  Douglas  speaks  of 
them  with  appreciation  not  only  of  their 
historical  and  critical  aptitudes,  but  of 
their  admirable  personal  qualities.  Crowe 
and  Cavalcaselle  have  suffered  too  much 
patronage  at  the  hands  of  certain  later 
writers,  who,  pinning  their  faith  upon 
Morelli,  have  liked  to  assume  that  only 
from  him  —  or  from  themselves  —  could 
the  student  expect  to  receive  the  pure 
milk  of  the  word.  Mr.  Douglas,  with  a 
little  needless  temper,  redresses  the  bal- 
ance. The  fact  is  that  one  has  only  to 
dip  into  these  familiar  pages  to  recall  the 
services  the  devoted  pair  have  rendered 
in  illuminating  many  a  bewildering  ques- 
tion, and  to  realize  anew  with  how  much 
insight  and  thoroughness  they  did  their 
work.  Of  course  to-day  they  require 
editing.  In  Mr.  Douglas's  notes  on  the 
Rucellai  Madonna,  which  he  prefers  to 
give  to  Duccio  rather  than  to  Cimabue, 
we  have  a  good  instance  of  the  desira- 
bility of  reediting  periodically  a  work  of 
the  sort.  But  it  is  noticeable  that  occa- 
sions for  the  drastic  rehandling  of  any 
matter  dealt  with  by  Crowe  and  Caval- 
caselle have  not  been  frequent.  This 
is  one  of  the  new  art  books  which  the 
student  could  not  possibly  ignore.  With 
it  must  be  bracketed  the  translation, 
bearing  the  hybrid  title  of  The  Anonimo,2 

2  The  Anonimo.  Notes  on  Pictures  and  Works 
of  Art  in  Italy  made  by  an  Anonymous  Writer 
in  the  Sixteenth  Century.  Translated  by  PAOLO 
Mussi.  Edited  by  G.  C.  WILLIAMSON,  Litt.  D. 
New  York:  The  Macmillan  Co.  1903. 


408 


Books  New  and  Old. 


of  those  anonymous  sixteenth  -  century 
notes  which  have  been  familiar  to  spe- 
cialists in  the  original,  but  which  have 
not  hitherto  been  put  into  English.  They 
record  the  observations  of  an  intelligent 
traveler,  whose  pages  are  useful  inas- 
much as  they  give  the  original  locations 
of  certain  famous  works  of  art,  describe 
others  which  have  since  been  lost  and  may 
some  day  reappear,  and  give  suggestive 
hints  to  the  critic  hunting  down  mys- 
teries of  attribution.  The  book  has  been 
well  translated  by  Paolo  Mussi,  and  Mr. 
G.  C.  Williamson  has  discreetly  edited 
it.  This  edition  contains,  moreover,  a 
number  of  good  illustrations. 

A  book  to  be  commended  not  only  to 
the  student  but  to  the  layman  with  artis- 
tic predilections  is  Mr.  Charles  Holroyd's 
Michael  Angelo  Buonarroti,1  which  is 
really  a  translation  of  Condivi's  Life, 
with  the  three  famous  dialogues  by  Fran- 
cisco d'  Ollanda  placed  at  the  back. 
Modern  biographies  of  Michael  Angelo, 
like  the  one  which  Symonds  made  almost 
but  not  quite  definitive  some  ten  years 
ago,  are  numerous  enough,  but  Condivi's 
first-hand  narrative  has  virtues  to  which 
none  of  his  successors  can  lay  claim,  and 
which  make  it  difficult  to  understand 
why  it  was  not  sooner  put  into  English. 
It  is  full  of  living  personal  details.  The 
tragic  story  of  the  tomb  for  Pope  Julius 
has  never  been  set  forth  elsewhere  with 
the  direct  and  vivid  touch  which  we  find 
in  Condivi.  Mr.  Holroyd  supplements 
his  translation  with  some  chapters  of  his 
own  on  Michael  Angelo's  work,  exhibit- 
ing acumen  and  an  admirable  faculty  for 
the  blending  of  critical  with  biographical 
notes ;  and  his  version  of  the  Portuguese 
dialogues  rounds  out  a  book  which  has  a 

1  Michael  Angelo  Buonarroti.    By  CHARLES 
HOLROYD,  Keeper  of  the  National  Gallery  of 
British  Art,  with  Translations  of  the  Life  of  the 
Master  by  his  Scholar,  ASCANIO  CONDIVI,  and 
Three  Dialogues  from  the  Portuguese  of  Fran- 
cisco d'  Ollanda.     New  York :   Charles  Scrib- 
ner's  Sons.     1903. 

2  Donatella.    By  Lord  BALCARRES.     New 
York :  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.     1903. 


much  more  tangible  reason  for  existing 
than  is  often  to  be  discovered  where  art 
publications  are   concerned.     It  is    tl 
first  volume  in  a  series  published  undt 
the  general  title  of  the  Library  of  Ai 
It  has  been  followed  by  a  monograph  or 
Donatello,2  by  Lord  Balcarres,  a  carefully 
written  production,  supplying  guidance 
that  is  trustworthy,  but  none  of  the 
which  it  would  be  good  to  find  in  a  studj 
of  such  an  inspiring  theme.     Both  bool 
are  attractively  made  and  have  manj 
half-tone  illustrations.     Only  subjects 
the  highest  importance  are  to  be  treat 
in  the  series.     It  is  to  include  volume 
on  Titian,  Dtirer,  Correggio,  and  Piss 
nello,  and   there   are  to  be   others  or 
groups  or  schools  of  painters,  as,  for  ex- 
ample, Ghirlandajo  and  the  Earlier  Flor 
entines,  Raphael  and  his  School  in  Rome 
and  the  Three  Bellini  and  the  Earlie 
Venetians.     The  prospectus  is  exceptioi 
ally   promising,   and    the    two   volume 
briefly  touched  upon  above  warrant  the 
assumption  that  the  series  will  be  mail 
tained  upon  a  level  of  serious,  authorit 
tive  workmanship. 

Of  no  popular  series,  however,  is  it 
safe  to  predicate  absolutely  uniform  ex- 
cellence.  In  the  one,  for  example,  edit 
by  Dr.  Williamson   under   the  title  ol 
the  Great  Masters  in  Painting  and  Sculj 
ture,  the  Botticelli  8  by  Mr.  A.  Streeter, 
which  has  recently  appeared,  is  a  mildly 
creditable  handbook,  but  nothing  mor 
The    Michael    Angelo    Buonarroti 4  oi 
Lord  Ronald  Gower,  though  painstakii 
enough,  is,  on  the  whole,  rather  wooder 
The  same    author's  Thomas   Gainsbor 
ough,5  in  the  British  Artists  Series,  is 
better  book,  and  will  serve  as  a  rapc 
sketch  of  the  subject ;  but  it  is  at  bottom  i 

3  Botticelli.    By  A.  STREETER.    New  Yorl 
The  Macmillan  Co.     1903. 

4  Michael  Angelo  Buonarroti.   By  Lord  Roi 
ALD  SUTHERLAND   GOWER,  F.  S.  A.     Ne 
York  :  The  Macmillan  Co.     1903. 

5  Thomas  Gainsborough.     By  Lord  RONAI 
SUTHERLAND  GOWER,  F.  S.  A.    New  Yori 
The  Macmillan  Co.     1903. 


Books  New  and  Old. 


409 


commonplace  piece  of  work,  and  is  chief- 
ly to  be  valued  for  its  illustrations,  which 
include  a  welcome  batch  of  the  paint- 
er's drawings  and  studies.  The  series 
of  pocket  volumes  called  the  Popular  Li- 
brary of  Art,  edited  by  Edward  Garnett, 
has  thus  far  preserved,  in  its  modest  way, 
a  good  standard.  Dr.  Gronau's  Leonardo 
da  Vinci  *  is  a  first-rate  piece  of  conden- 
sation. Less  weighty,  but  thoroughly  in- 
telligent and  readable,  are  the  booklets 
written  for  this  series  by  Miss  Lina  Eck- 
enstein  on  Albrecht  Dilrer,2  by  M.  Ro- 
main  Holland  on  Millet,8  by  M.  Canaille 
Mauclair  on  the  French  Impressionists,4 
and  by  Mr.  A.  B.  Chamberlain  on 
Thomas  Gainsborough.6  This  series  is  a 
good  one  for  beginners.  The  monographs 
in  it  are  brief,  they  contain  enough  infor- 
mation, and  though  published  at  a  small 
price  are  very  well  illustrated.  The  last 
series  I  have  to  mention  is  the  Artist's 
Library,  in  which  four  new  volumes  have 
recently  appeared.  Two  of  them,  on 
Van  Dyck,6  are  written  by  Mr.  Lionel 
Cust,  who  has  published  a  large  volume 
on  the  Flemish  painter,  and  knows  his 
subject  well.  He  treats  it  adequately  in 
these  brief  chapters,  and  at  the  same  time 
gives  too  much  the  impression  of  a  piece 
of  clever  hack  work.  Miss  Frances  C. 
Weale's  Hubert  and  John  Van  Eyck7 
is  similarly  thoroughgoing,  and  similarly 
innocent  of  the  faintest  spark  of  kindling 
emotion.  The  best  of  the  recent  publi- 
cations in  this  series  is  Mr.  Herbert  P. 
Home's  Leonardo  da  Vinci,8  which  is 
formed  of  a  felicitous  translation  of  Va- 
sari's  life  of  the  painter,  with  interpola- 
tions by  the  English  critic.  It  is  a  some- 
what audacious  performance,  but  Mr. 

1  Leonardo  da  Vinci.     By  Dr.  GEOBG  GRO- 
NAU.    New  York  :  E.  P.  Button  &  Co.     1903. 

2  Albrecht    D'drer.    By  LINA    ECKENSTEIN. 
New  York :  E.  P.  Button  &  Co.     1903. 

8  Millet.  By  ROMAIN  HOLLAND.  New  York : 
E.  P.  Button  &  Co.  1903. 

4  The  French  Impressionists.  By  CAMILLE 
MAUCLAIR.  New  York :  E.  P.  Button  &  Co. 
1903. 

8  Thomas  Gainsborough.    By  A.  B.  CHAM- 


Horne  knows  what  he  is  about,  and  has 
brought  some  really  serviceable  ideas  and 
facts  to  the  completion  of  his  unconven- 
tional task.  In  these  books  the  full-page 
illustrations  are  always  at  the  back,  by 
themselves.  The  Leonardo  plates  are 
particularly  welcome  since  they  include 
some  of  his  drawings. 

Every  series  of  popular  handbooks  on 
art  that  is  published  nowadays  follows 
much  the  same  editorial  policy.  One 
may  differ  from  another  in  size  and 
price,  but  all  are  alike  in  that  all  run  to 
a  sort  of  specialization.  It  is  assumed 
that  what  is  wanted  by  the  public  ad- 
dressed is  concise  instruction  on  this  or 
that  famous  man.  The  system  has  its 
merits  and  its  drawbacks.  It  leads,  for 
one  thing,  as  in  literary  enterprises  of  a 
kindred  nature,  to  the  useless  duplication 
by  one  publisher  of  projects  undertak- 
en by  another.  Furthermore,  as  the  au- 
thors engaged  are,  as  a  rule,  simply  good 
journeymen,  without  anything  very  fresh 
or  startling  to  communicate,  safe  but  not 
in  the  least  inspiring  ciceroni,  the  ulti- 
mate results  threaten  to  be  more  impos- 
ing in  bulk  than  in  quality,  and  we  shall 
not  improbably  see  many  a  pretty  volume 
dismembered  for  the  sake  of  its  illustra- 
tions, by  those  who  have  found  out  the 
usefulness  of  a  well-ordered  scheme  of 
scrapbooks.  In  the  meantime  these  in- 
numerable little  manuals  are  fertilizing 
the  soil,  —  one  may  cheerfully  admit  that 
without  taking  them  too  seriously,  —  and 
it  is  good  to  know,  moreover,  that  the 
rule  of  brevity  forced  upon  the  writers  of 
them  spares  us  a  lot  of  highfalutin. 

But  to  whom  is  the  student  to  go  for 
general  ideas,  for  the  broader  edification 

BERLAIK.  New  York :  E.  P.  Button  &  Co. 
1903. 

6  Van  Dyck.  By  LIONEL  CUST.   New  York : 
Longmans,  Green  &  Co.     1903. 

7  Hubert  and  John  Van  Eyck.    By  FRANCES 
C.  WEALE.     New  York :  Longmans,  Green  & 
Co.     1903. 

8  Leonardo    da    Vinci.      By   HERBERT    P. 
HORNE.     New  York :  Longmans,  Green  &  Co. 
1903. 


410 


Books  New  and   Old. 


which,  when  all  is  said,  is  more  impor- 
tant to  him  than  the  minutiae  of  any  single 
artist's  history  ?  If  such  ideas  are  pre- 
sent in  the  more  elaborate  works,  like 
those  of  Mr.  Davies  and  Mr.  Berenson 
at  which  we  have  just  glanced,  they  are 
necessarily  incidental  to  analysis  of  a 
leading  theme.  The  few  new  books  in 
which  masters  or  schools  are  discussed 
at  large  are  interesting,  but  not  momen- 
tous. The  Art  of  the  Italian  Renais- 
sance,1 by  Professor  Wolfflin,  offers  a 
rational  interpretation  of  a  subject  often 
enveloped  by  historians  in  a  haze  of 
metaphysics.  The  learned  author  has 
common-sense  views  of  Leonardo,  Mi- 
chael Angelo,  Raphael,  and  the  lesser 
masters  ;  and  in  his  explication  of  the 
significance  of  pure  form  in  their  work, 
he  takes  his  reader  close  to  the  con- 
structive principle  underlying  much  of 
the  most  characteristic  art  of  the  Re- 
naissance. He  helps  to  clear  the  air  of 
aesthetic  cant ;  his  artists,  when  he  has 
completed  his  surveys  of  them,  are  seen 
more  as  artists  in  the  true  sense,  less  as 
the  seers  and  high  priests  which  loose- 
thinking  writers  like  to  consider  them. 
Yet  the  book  wants  gusto ;  it  is  a  shade 
too  professorial.  Klaczo's  Rome  and 
the  Renaissance,2  in  the  agreeable  trans- 
lation which  has  been  made  by  John 
Dennie,  is  not  so  deeply  pondered,  and 
when  the  author  gives  rein  to  his  fancy, 
inventing  conversation  with  the  hope  of 
lending  verisimilitude  to  his  picture,  he 
is  more  diverting  than  instructive.  But 
the  work  embodies  an  excellent  idea. 
It  portrays  Pope  Julius  in  his  artistic 
relations,  and  the  pages  on  the  masters 
he  employed  are  written  partly  in  ex- 
position of  their  individual  traits,  but 

1  The  Art  of  the  Italian   Renaissance.     By 
Professor  HEINKICH  WOLFFLIN.     New  York : 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons.     1903. 

2  Rome  and  the  Renaissance.     The  Pontifi- 
cate of  Julius  II.     From  the  French  of  JULIAN 
KLACZO.     Authorized    Translation    by  JOHN 
DENNIE.     New  York:   G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons. 
1903. 

8  Isabella  D'Este,  Marchioness  of  Mantua, 


still  more  with  the  purpose  of  reprodu- 
cing the  atmosphere  in  which  they  la- 
bored. We  have  here  not  a  bodv  of 
technical  analysis,  but  a  panorama  drawn 
with  scholarship,  flexibility,  and  a  con- 
stant feeling  for  the  human  aspect  of 
artistic  affairs. 

Since  they  are  not  strictly  works  on 
art,  I  may  only  give  a  few  words  to  Isa- 
bella D'Este,  Marchioness  of  Mantua,8 
by  Julia  Cartwright  (Mrs.  Ady),  and 
to  the  new  edition  of  Beatrice  D'Este, 
Duchess  of  Milan,4  by  the  same  author, 
but  they  are,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  worth 
a  dozen  textbooks  as  aids  to  an  appre- 
hension of  the  conditions  under  which 
art  was  produced  in  the  time  of  which 
they  treat.  These  great  ladies  of  the 
Renaissance  patronized  the  painters, 
sculptors,  and  artistic  craftsmen  of  their 
day  with  ardor  and  intelligence,  and 
their  biographies  contain  many  passages 
showing  their  relations  with  the  masters, 
relations  typical  of  a  great  epoch  in  civ- 
ilization. The  story,  delightfully  told 
by  Mrs.  Ady,  of  Isabella's  efforts  to  se- 
cure for  her  collection  certain  marbles, 
an  antique,  and  a  Cupid  of  Michael 
Angelo's,  that  had  fallen  into  the  hands 
of  Cesare  Borgia,  is  exactly  the  kind 
of  story  to  set  the  reader  on  a  clearer 
notion  of  Renaissance  taste  and  of  those 
racial  springs  of  high  enthusiasm  to 
which  we  owe  such  a  wilderness  of  things 
of  beauty.  Some  interesting  sidelights 
on  what  the  South  has  done  to  influence 
and  color  European  culture  are  afforded 
by  the  Book  of  Italian  Travel,5  a  com- 
pilation in  which  Mr.  Neville  Maugham 
has  put  together  the  impressions  record- 
ed by  famous  travelers  as  far  back  as 
the  sixteenth  century,  and  by  writers  as 

1474-1539.  By  JULIA  CARTWRIGHT  (Mrs. 
Ady).  New  York :  E.  P.  Button  &  Co.  1903. 

*  Beatrice  D'Este,  Duchess  of  Milan,  1475- 
1497.  By  JULIA  CARTWRIGHT  (Mrs.  Ady). 
New  York :  E.  P.  Button  &  Co.  1903. 

5  The  Book  of  Italian  Travel  (1580-1900). 
By  H.  NEVILLE  MAUGHAM.  New  York  :  E.  P. 
Button  &  Co.  1903. 


Books  New  and   Old. 


411 


near  our  own  time  as  Symonds  and  Henry 
James.  The  patchwork  is  the  outcome 
of  wide  but  judicious  reading,  and  is 
deftly  arranged.  It  may  not  overwhelm 
the  reader  with  a  flood  of  those  general 
ideas  for  which  he  is  looking,  but  it  will 
put  him  in  a  frame  of  mind,  giving  him 
something  of  that  glamour  of  Italy  which 
never  comes  amiss  in  the  study  of  Italian 
art.  The  efficacy  of  Cellini's  Autobio- 
graphy as  a  means  of  initiation  into  the 
spirit  of  the  Renaissance  is  a  common- 
place of  criticism.  Miss  Anne  Macdon- 
ell  has  newly  translated  this  classic  of 
picaresque  and  artistic  literature,1  and 
though  she  has  not  shaken  my  loyalty  to 
Symonds's  version,  I  confess  that  her 
animated  treatment  of  the  text  is  very 
beguiling.  She  has  a  pointed  note  on 
Cellini's  portrait,  discrediting  the  fami- 
liar image  of  a  "  white-bearded,  benevo- 
lent person,"  the  one  prefixed  to  Sy- 
monds's translation,  and  identifying  with 
Cellini  a  certain  head,  which  she  repro- 
duces, in  a  fresco  by  Vasari  in  the  Pa- 
lazzo Vecchio  at  Florence.  The  portrait 
bears  out  her  contention.  It  is  of  a  "  vig- 
orous, fiery  man,"  and  readily  persuades 
us  that  in  it  we  have,  as  Miss  Macdonell 
asserts,  "  our  Benvenuto  to  the  life." 

Mr.  La  Farge's  Great  Masters  2  is  a 
collection  of  papers  on  Michael  Angelo, 
Raphael,  Rembrandt,  Rubens,  Velas- 
quez, Dtirer,  and  Hokusai,  which  were 
originally  written  for  a  popular  maga- 
zine, and  have  the  qualities  essential  in 
discourse  addressed  to  a  large  and  mis- 
cellaneous audience.  The  author  avoids 
technical  jargon,  and,  though  writing 
from  the  artist's  point  of  view,  gives  to 
his  fellows  a  perfect  illustration  of  the 
way  in  which  to  appeal  to  laymen  with 
no  risk  of  being  misunderstood.  Indeed, 
if  the  book  errs  anywhere  it  is  on  the 
side  of  simplicity.  The  history  of  each 

1  The  Life  of  Benvenuto  Cellini.  Written 
by  Himself.  Translated  out  of  the  Italian  with 
an  Introduction  by  ANNE  MACDONELL.  New 
York:  E.  P.  Button  &  Co.  1903. 


artist  is  carefully  traversed,  and  his  sa- 
lient characteristics  are  clearly  indicat- 
ed. Here  and  there  an  observation,  re- 
minding us  that  the  author  has  views  of 
his  own,  ripples  the  surface  of  the  expe- 
ditious and  businesslike  narrative,  but  the 
tone  of  the  book  as  a  whole  is  neither  as 
original  nor  as  stimulating  as  Mr.  La 
Farge's  previous  excursions  into  art  criti- 
cism have  caused  one  to  expect.  He  has 
gained  much  in  clearness  of  style,  but 
while  his  book  should  prove  beneficial 
when  placed  in  quite  inexperienced  hands, 
it  leaves  the  reader  who  has  made  any 
artistic  investigations  at  all  practically 
where  it  finds  him.  A  popular  introduc- 
tion to  the  study  of  some  of  the  masters, 
as  well  written  as  this  is,  could  not  but  be 
a  credit  to  any  one,  even  to  a  painter  who 
is  himself  a  master.  Yet  it  would  be  a 
great  gain  if  Mr.  La  Farge  were  to  give 
his  pen  to  flights  worthier  of  his  powers, 
if  he  were  to  write  a  book  taking  a  wider 
sweep  and  going  deeper  into  the  subject. 
In  place  of  the  rich  banquet  for  mature 
minds  which  he  might  spread,  he  has  set 
forth  the  mild  fare  suited  to  the  naive 
young  reader,  and,  coming  from  him,  it 
inspires  gratitude  tempered,  with  regret. 
I  cannot  grudge  the  multitude  of  undisci- 
plined seekers  after  artistic  instruction 
the  benefit  and  pleasure  they  will  de- 
rive from  these  pages,  but  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  suppress  a  wish  that  Mr.  La  Farge 
might  at  least  have  given  them  a  freer 
scope. 

He  is  not  the  only  American  who  has 
of  late  been  occupied  with  the  public  dis- 
cussion of  artistic  topics.  Mr.  Lorado 
Taft  has  written  an  excellent  History 
of  American  Sculpture  8  in  a  new  series, 
treating  of  all  the  manifestations  of  art 
in  this  country,  which  is  being  edited  by 
Mr.  John  C.  Van  Dyke.  We  have  no 
other  book  covering  the  field  so  thor- 

2  Great  Masters.    By  JOHN  LA  FAROE.   New 
York  :  McClure,  Phillips  &  Co.     1903. 

3  The   History   of  American  Sculpture.     By 
LORADO  TAFT.    New  York :  The  Macmillan 
Co.    1903. 


412 


Books  New  and  Old. 


oughly.  Mr.  Taf t  treats  in  chronological 
order  all  of  our  sculptors  down  to  the 
men  who  are  still  living,  and  he  has 
given  his  book  the  more  authority  by  tak- 
ing pains  to  avoid  too  enthusiastic  or  too 
severe  a  tone.  He  is  just  to  exploded 
reputations,  he  loses  sight  of  nothing  that 
is  good  in  the  work  of  artists  generally 
so  feeble  as  Hiram  Powers,  or  Harriet 
Hosmer,  and  he  does  not  lose  his  head 
when  he  is  talking  about  either  St.  Gau- 
dens  or  French.  A  truthful,  sober  book, 
which  places  the  American  school  of 
sculpture  in  a  clear  light,  and  supplies 
the  information  that  is  needed  about  all 
its  members,  famous  and  obscure.  With 
Mr.  Whistler,  of  course,  the  makers  of 
books  are  already  busy,  but  not,  so  far 
as  the  first  fruits  of  their  labors  go  to 
show,  to  very  good  purpose.  Mr.  Arthur 
Jerome  Eddy's  Recollections  and  Im- 
pressions of  James  A.  McNeill  Whis- 
tler *  is  an  ill-formed  collection  of  anec- 
dotes and  other  miscellaneous  data.  It 
contains  a  quantity  of  raw  material  which 
some  future  biographer  may  find  useful, 
but  it  is  neither  serious  biography  nor 
soundly  reasoned  criticism ;  it  belongs 
in  the  category  of  distinctly  ephemeral 
productions.  The  illustrations  are  good 
photogravures.  The  Art  of  James  Mc- 
Neill Whistler,2  by  Mr.  T.  R.  Way  and 
Mr.  G.  R.  Dennis,  has  likewise  the  de- 
fects of  the  "  occasional "  publication  ; 
it  is  superficial  and  scrappy,  but  the  au- 
thors keep  to  a  dignified  key,  and  one  of 
them,  Mr.  Way,  through  his  personal  re- 
lations with  Whistler,  has  been  enabled  to 
contribute  some  interesting  information 
to  the  volume,  especially  with  reference 
to  his  work  in  lithography.  This  book 
contains  many  illustrations  that  have  not 
hitherto  been  accessible  to  the  student. 
Whistler's  own  book,  the  Gentle  Art  of 

1  Recollections  and  Impressions  of  James  A. 
McNeill  Whistler.   By  ARTHUR  JEROME  EDDY. 
Philadelphia:  J.  B.  Lippincott  Co.     1903. 

2  The  Art  of  James  McNeill  Whistler.     An 
Appreciation.     By  T.  R.  WAY  and  G.  R.  DEN- 
NIS.   New  York :  The  Macmillan  Co.    1903. 


Making  Enemies,3  has  just  been  brought 
out  in  a  new  edition  with  some  additional 
matter,  notably  the  catalogue  of  the  fa- 
mous exhibition  of  Nocturnes,  Marines, 
and  Chevalet  Pieces,  in  which  the  artist 
repeated  his  trick  of  discomfiting  his  crit- 
ics by  reproducing,  with  ingenious  malice, 
the  comments  on  his  work  in  which  they 
had  had  the  misfortune  to  indulge.  I 
have  so  recently  discussed  the  volume  in 
these  pages  that  I  merely  call  attention 
now  to  the  fact  of  its  reappearance. 

Mr.  Whistler's  brilliant  fellow  coun- 
tryman, the  painter  whose  fame  not  only 
equals  but  has  threatened  to  overshadow 
his  own,  the  painter  whose  Carmen- 
cita  figures  no  less  triumphantly  in  the 
Luxembourg  than  the  famous  Portrait 
of  the  Artist's  Mother,  has  been  made 
the  hero  of  a  book  which  for  divers  de- 
lightful reasons  can  only  be  characterized 
as  astonishing.  The  Work  of  John  S. 
Sargentr  R.  A.4  is,  in  a  way,  unique. 
Other  modern  men  have  been  celebrated 
in  books,  and  some  of  them  have  deserved 
the  honor.  Paul  Baudry,  for  example, 
was  the  kind  of  artist  to  bear  the  severe 
test  of  an  exhibition  of  his  works  within 
the  covers  of  a  book,  and  Ingres  has 
more  than  deserved  the  beautiful  tribute 
paid  him  not  long  ago  through  the  devo- 
tion of  M.  Lapauze  in  getting  his  draw- 
ings reproduced.  But  Mr.  Sargent's 
case  remains  an  extraordinary  one.  He 
has  withheld  from  this  volume  a  great 
number  of  his  paintings,  and  he  still  has 
years  of  activity  before  him.  Yet  in  a 
selection  from  his  works  —  including 
many  of  his  best  things,  but  still  only  a 
selection  —  there  is  enough  genius  to 
keep  a  dozen  ordinary  men  going  all 
their  lives. 

Mr.  Sargent  has  something  of  the  fe- 
cundity and  the  power  of  the  old  masters. 

8  The  Gentle  Art  of  Making  Enemies.  By 
JAMES  MCNEILL  WHIST LEB.  New  York: 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons.  1903. 

*  The  Work  of  John  S.  Sargent,  JR.  A.  With 
an  Introductory  Note  by  Mrs.  MEYNELL.  New 
York:  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  1903. 


Books  New  and   Old. 


413 


Whether  or  not  he  will  ever  attain  to 
their  rank  is  an  interesting  problem. 
If  he  falls  short  of  it,  it  will  be,  I  think, 
because  of  his  limitations  as  a  colorist, 
and  because  of  his  want  of  spiritual 
depth.  On  other  grounds  he  moves  us 
already  as  we  are  moved  by  the  great 
executants  of  the  historical  epochs.  This 
collection  of  sixty  large  photogravures  is 
dazzling  to  the  eye  somewhat  as  the  col- 
lection of  paintings  by  Frans  Hals  in  the 
little  old  building  at  Haarlem  is  daz- 
zling. To  keep  the  latter  memorable  as- 
semblage of  portraits  in  the  mind's  eye, 
as  one  considers  the  portraits  in  this 
book,  is  to  revive  dubiety  as  to  Mr.  Sar- 
gent's ever  standing  on  equal  terms  with 
the  Dutchman.  The  latter  has  a  broader 
humanity.  His  art,  for  all  that  it  is  so 
thoroughly  realistic,  goes  deeper.  Yet  it 
might  fairly  be  argued  that  Hals's  sin- 
cerity, as  we  see  it,  draws  a  great  deal  of 
its  virtue  from  his  models,  and  that  the 
feverish  flush  on  the  modern  man's  work 
is  there  just  because  he  is  a  modern  man, 
—  in  other  words,  that  the  restless  bril- 
liancy so  characteristic  of  Mr.  Sargent  is 
but  the  natural  expression  of  the  leading 
traits  in  the  world  he  depicts.  This  much 
is  certain,  that  no  painter  of  his  time 
could  face  the  future  with  more  confi- 
dence in  its  verdict  than  Mr.  Sargent  is 
justified  in  feeling.  He  knows  what  he 
wants  to  do,  and  he  knows  how  to  do  it. 
He  paints  his  sitters  with  a  fluency  that 
no  other  living  artist  can  rival,  and  it  is 
not  the  fluency  of  the  merely  clever  man, 
it  is  that  of  a  positive  master. 

His  range  promised  at  one  time  to  be 
wider  than  it  seems  to-day.  He  painted 
canvases  like  the  Carnation,  Lily,  Rose, 
and  El  Jaleo,  and  in  them  approved 
himself  a  true  maker  of  pictures.  But 
long  after,  when  he  undertook  the  deco- 
rations for  the  Boston  Public  Library, 
he  got  out  of  his  depth,  and  it  is  per- 
haps fortunate  that  since  he  has  aban- 

1  Bryan's  Dictionary  of  Painters  and  En- 
gravers. Edited  by  G.  C.  WILLIAMSON,  Litt.  D. 
New  York :  The  Macmillan  Co.  1903. 


doned  the  pictorial  ambitions  of  his  ear- 
lier years  he  has  devoted  himself  more  to 
portraiture  than  to  anything  else.  There 
he  gives  play  to  his  inborn  gifts  with  the 
ease  and  buoyancy  of  some  giant  exult- 
ing in  his  strength ;  he  grasps,  without 
apparent  effort,  one  individuality  after 
another,  covers  scores  of  canvases  with 
seemingly  inexhaustible  fertility  of  de- 
sign and  unchanging  sureness  of  hand, 
and  never  for  a  moment  ceases  to  exert 
the  fascination  of  an  original  and  splen- 
did style.  He  is  spectacular,  if  you  like, 
but  there  is  not  a  trace  of  vulgarity  in 
the  spectacle.  Like  the  giant  aforesaid, 
he  is  a  type  of  materialism  triumphant. 
But  his  is  a  materialism  wonderfully 
refined  by  intelligence  and  taste,  and  if 
on  opening  this  book  of  reproductions 
one  is  seized  with  an  emotion  of  unques- 
tioning admiration,  one  closes  it  with 
feelings  of  the  most  thoughtful  respect. 
It  is  a  pity  that  the  plates  are  accompa- 
nied by  an  essay  by  Mrs.  Meynell,  whose 
delicate  affectations  are  totally  inappro- 
priate to  the  occasion.  Mr.  Sargent's 
work  is  too  masculine,  too  brilliant,  to 
be  made  the  subject  of  pretty  vaporings. 
The  half-dozen  publications  to  which 
brief  allusion  remains  to  be  made  are 
works  of  reference  or  books  of  special 
interest  to  collectors.  Two  of  the  five 
volumes  in  which  the  new  edition  of 
Bryan's  Dictionary  of  Painters  and  En- 
gravers 1  is  to  be  completed  have  thus 
far  appeared.  A  revision  of  the  text 
has  for  some  time  been  required,  and 
many  omissions  have  needed  to  be  re- 
paired. Dr.  Williamson  is  bringing  the 
book  up  to  date  with  judgment,  and  the 
publishers  are  greatly  enhancing  its 
interest  by  filling  it  with  full-page  illus- 
trations, though  a  rather  arbitrary  mode 
of  selection  slightly  discounts  their  good 
intentions.  Some  of  the  plates  seem 
only  to  reflect  the  editor's  whim.  The 
Sculptures  of  the  Parthenon,2  by  Dr. 

2  The  Sculptures  of  the  Parthenon.  By  Dr. 
A.  S.  MURRAY.  New  York:  E.  P.  Dutton  & 
Co.  1903. 


414 


Books  New  and  Old. 


A.  S.  Murray,  gives  in  a  few  terse  chap- 
ters a  vivid  description  of  the  marbles, 
with  explanations,  never  idly  speculative, 
of  their  significance.  The  illustrations 
have  been  prepared  with  solicitude  for 
the  interests  of  the  student  following  his 
researches  in  his  own  library.  They 
have  been  planned  so  that  he  may  ex- 
amine the  sculptures  in  their  decorative 
and  architectural  relations,  no  less  than 
for  their  individual  character,  as  nearly 
as  possible  as  though  he  were  looking  at 
the  Parthenon  itself. 

Mr.  J.  J.  Foster's  Miniature  Paint- 
ers, British  and  Foreign,  with  Some  Ac- 
count of  Those  who  Practised  in  Amer- 
ica in  the  Eighteenth  Century,1  a  work 
in  two  handsome  volumes,  contains  well- 
written  text  and  some  very  useful  lists, 
but  for  collectors  the  significance  of  the 
book  lies  largely  in  its  plates,  which  re- 
produce more  than  two  hundred  exam- 
ples. In  the  department  of  prints  two 
good  books  have  been  issued.  Mr. 
Cyril  Davenport's  Mezzotints 2  appears 
in  the  Connoisseur's  Library,  a  series 
practical  in  aim  and  luxurious  in  form. 
The  author  of  this  volume  writes  with 
authority  on  the  technical  side  of  his 
subject,  and  discourses  pleasantly  on  the 
engravers  whose  works  he  describes. 
The  plates  are  beautiful  photogravures. 
Samuel  William  Reynolds,8  by  Alfred 
Whitman,  deals  at  length  with  an  Eng- 
lish master  of  mezzotint,  to  whom,  of 
course,  Mr.  Davenport  can  only  give  a 
limited  amount  of  space.  This  volume 
also  is  fully  illustrated.  The  two  indi- 
rectly draw  attention  to  a  fashion  of  col- 
lecting which  has  become  a  fad.  The 
high  prices  paid  in  the  auction  room  for 
eighteenth-century  mezzotints  are  out  of 
all  proportion  to  their  intrinsic  value. 
But  the  best  plates  of  the  best  men  have 
unquestionably  great  beauty,  and  appre- 

1  Miniature  Painters,  British  and  Foreign, 
with  Some  Account  of  Those  who  Practised  in 
America  in  the  Eighteenth  Century.  By  J.  J. 
FOSTER.  New  York:  E.  P.  Dutton  &  Co. 
1903. 


ciation  of  them  cannot  fail  to  be  greatly 
furthered  by  the  books  I  have  just  men- 
tioned. 

Royal  Cortlssoz. 

ONE  of  the  latest  evidences  of  growing 

The  Tsne-  American  civilization  is  the 
ment  House  .  .,  ,  .  , 

Problem.        interest  manifested  in  housing 

reform.  Stimulated  largely  by  the  work 
of  the  New  York  Tenement  House  Com- 
mission of  1901,  many  cities  are  now  in- 
vestigating their  slums  and  framing  laws 
for  their  improvement.  The  importance 
of  this  awakening  is  emphasized  by  the 
growth  of  immigration  and  by  the  change 
in  its  character.  The  congested  sections 
of  our  large  cities  are  populated  mainly 
from  the  immigrant  ships.  In  New  York 
the  connection  has  always  been  so  close 
that  popular  movements  for  tenement  re- 
form have  almost  invariably  followed  pe- 
riods of  the  largest  immigration.  These 
uprisings  against  the  physical  shortcom- 
ings of  the  city  have  been  about  as  fre- 
quent, and,  as  far  as  lasting  results  are 
concerned,  almost  as  ineffectual,  as  the 
periodical  outbursts  against  its  govern- 
mental failings.  The  one  commission 
that  resulted  in  widespread  and  perma- 
nent betterment  was  that  appointed  by 
Governor  Roosevelt  in  1900.  Its  most 
active  members  were  its  chairman,  Mr. 
Robert  W.  de  Forest,  and  its  secretary, 
Mr.  Lawrence  Veiller.  They  directed 
the  investigations  that  formed  the  basis 
of  the  law  ;  and  the  law  itself,  incorporat- 
ing the  new  Tenement  Department,  was 
framed  by  them.  They  were  promptly 
selected  by  Mayor  Low  as  the  organizers 
and  administrators  of  the  new  depart- 
ment, which,  under  their  supervision,  was 
one  of  the  strongest  features  of  the  reform 
government.  Their  most  recent  service 
to  the  cause  of  housing  reform  is  two 
exhaustive  volumes  on  the  Tenement 

2  Mezzotints.  By  CYRIL  DAVENPORT.  New 
York  :  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons.  1903. 

8  Samuel  William  Reynolds.  By  ALFRED 
WHITMAN.  New  York:  The  Macmillan  Co. 
1903. 


Books  New  and  Old. 


415 


House  Problem,1  which  present  a  graphic 
description  of  existing  conditions  in  New 
York,  a  concise  and  reasonably  thorough 
record  of  the  seventy-five  years'  agitation 
which  finally  resulted  in  the  law  of  1901, 
and  a  large  amount  of  cognate  material 
on  tenement  conditions  both  in  this  coun- 
try and  in  Europe. 

It  is  evident  at  once  that  Chicago, 
Boston,  and  other  leading  American  cit- 
ies, herding  a  large  impoverished  popula- 
tion, have  everything  to  learn  from  the 
experience  of  New  York.  The  prepon- 
derant space  allotted  to  the  metropolis 
does  not  detract  from  the  general  inter- 
est of  the  book.  It  is  true  that  Man- 
hattan Island's  tenement  situation  is 
unique  ;  but  the  same  tendencies  are  at 
work  elsewhere.  The  city  is  useful  es- 
pecially as  a  warning.  It  is  a  horrible 
example  of  what  a  metropolis  can  be- 
come, once  vested  interests,  with  abun- 
dant opportunity  for  employment,  are 
given  free  scope.  In  spite  of  the  excel- 
lent results  accomplished  under  the  De 
Forest  law,  the  tenement  problem  in 
New  York  is,  to  a  considerable  degree, 
insolvable.  The  mischief,  in  great  sec- 
tions of  the  city,  has  already  been  done. 
The  East  Side,  the  abiding  place  of  not 
far  from  600,000  Jews,  200,000  Italians, 
and  scattering  representations  of  other 
races,  is  almost  entirely  built  up  with  the 
worst  type  of  tenement.  The  same  is 
true  of  other  congested  areas.  These 
buildings  are  far  more  profitable  than 
any  that  could  replace  them,  because 
they  hold  at  least  one  third  more  people. 
They  will  not  be  demolished  except  by 
municipal  action,  —  a  contingency  not 
immediately  possible,  —  and  they  must 
therefore  continue  to  house  the  bulk  of 
the  city's  poor.  Such  parcels  of  unim- 
proved land  as  remain  will,  under  the 
new  law,  be  built  up  with  sanitary  tene- 
ments ;  and  the  future  of  the  now  vacant 
outlying  sections  is  also  assured.  But 

1  The  Tenement  House  Problem.  Including 
the  Report  of  the  New  York  State  Tenement 
House  Commission  of  1900.  By  Various  Writ- 


for  the  most  part  the  city  must  remain 
as  it  is.  It  is  an  extreme  evidence  of 
the  fathers'  sins  visited  upon  the  chil- 
dren. In  Manhattan  Island  to-day  we 
see  the  results  of  a  century's  neglect. 
Had  the  repeated  warnings  of  public- 
spirited  citizens,  philanthropic  organiza- 
tions, and  state  and  municipal  commis- 
sions been  heeded,  the  poor  people  of 
New  York,  instead  of  being  among  the 
worst  housed  in  the  world,  would  have 
been  among  the  best.  The  present  vol- 
umes review  the  repeated  attempts  made 
to  secure  better  ventilated  and  more  sani- 
tary tenements.  As  far  back  as  1842 
Dr.  John  H.  Griscom,  the  City  Inspec- 
tor of  the  Board  of  Health,  attempted  to 
rouse  public  interest  in  the  subject,  the 
evils  he  described  being  substantially 
those  that  exist  to-day.  The  report  of 
the  first  Tenement  Commission,  that  of 
1853,  devoted  much  space  to  one  of  the 
city's  most  notorious  tenements,  —  a  cer- 
tain Gotham  Court  on  Cherry  Street. 
This  structure  was  not  destroyed  until 
1896.  Some  gain  resulted,  of  course, 
from  the  numerous  agitations  extending 
from  1842  to  1900 ;  but  real  tenement 
reform  begins  at  the  latter  date.  That 
is,  it  was  not  until  then  that  the  build- 
ers were  forced  to  abandon  the  old  tene- 
ment type,  and  to  begin  the  construction 
of  large,  well-ventilated,  fire-protected, 
many-family  dwellings. 

A  distinction  should  be  made  between 
tenement  evils  and  bad  housing.  Lon- 
don, for  example,  which  has  compara- 
tively few  tenements,  is  famous  for  its 
slums.  The  working  people  live  for  the 
most  part  in  small  two  and  three  story 
dwellings.  The  chief  problems  are  over- 
crowding in  single  rooms  and  lack  of 
adequate  sanitation.  In  New  York,  on 
the  other  hand,  the  poorer  classes  live  al- 
most exclusively  in  four,  five,  and  six  story 
tenements,  usually  built  upon  a  25-foot 
lot,  each  floor  divided  into  four  two  and 

era.  Edited  by  ROBERT  W.  DE  FOREST  and 
LAWRENCE  VEILLER.  Two  volumes.  New 
York  :  The  Macmillan  Co.  1903. 


416 


Books  New  and  Old. 


three  room  apartments.  The  only  rooms 
in  these  structures  receiving  direct  light 
and  air  are  those  facing  the  street  and 
the  yard.  Those  in  the  interior  are  al- 
most entirely  without  ventilation.  Their 
occupants  are  thus  deprived  of  the  two 
gifts  of  nature  which,  perhaps  above  all, 
make  for  health  and  happiness,  —  fresh 
air  and  sunshine.  Life  in  these  build- 
ings is  practically  one  long  Arctic  twi- 
light. The  development  of  an  entire 
city  along  these  lines,  and  the  consequent 
dwarfing  of  the  physical  and  moral  na- 
ture of  at  least  one  half  its  population, 
would  seem  a  fearful  reflection  upon 
American  twentieth-century  civilization. 
This,  however,  is  the  tenement  problem 
of  New  York.  It  is  evident  at  once  that 
it  is  difficult  of  solution.  Insanitary  two 
and  three  story  dwellings  can  be  de- 
stroyed, and  replaced  with  model  cot- 
tages. This  is  the  favorite  method  of 
correcting  bad  housing  in  England.  But 
the  razing  of  whole  tenement  blocks,  each 
populated  by  2000  or  3000  people,  is  too 
drastic  and  expensive  a  process  for  this 
generation.  The  proper  treatment  evi- 
dently is  not  correction,  but  prevention. 
Thus  the  experience  of  New  York  is 
of  the  utmost  importance  to  other  cities. 
It  is  true  that  tenement  evils,  as  described 
above,  have  not  developed  elsewhere  to 
the  same  alarming  degree.  Compared 
with  Europe,  housing  in  American  cities 
is  almost  ideal.  Mr.  Veiller  has  inves- 
tigated twenty-seven  municipalities,  and 
finds  even  the  beginnings  of  a  tenement 
house  problem  in  only  six.  These,  be- 
sides New  York,  are  Boston,  Pittsburg, 
Cincinnati,  Jersey  City,  and  Hartford. 
Bad  housing  conditions  are  found  occa- 
sionally elsewhere ;  but  the  wholesale 
erection  of  tenements,  except  in  the  cities 
mentioned,  is  unknown.  This  general 
immunity,  however,  is  not  likely  to  last. 
The  poor  of  Chicago  are  housed  mostly 
in  one  and  two  story  dwellings.  A  few 
of  the  orthodox  New  York  double-decker 
tenements,  however,  began  recently  to 


appear.  Had  Chicago  followed  the  ex- 
ample of  New  York,  the  portent  would 
have  been  officially  ignored ;  and,  in  a 
few  years,  a  tenement  system  would  have 
been  deep-seated.  The  City  Homes  As- 
sociation, however,  made  a  thorough  in- 
vestigation, and  secured  the  passage  of 
a  tenement  act  closely  following  that  of 
New  York.  As  a  result,  Chicago  can 
never  become  a  city  of  insanitary  tene- 
ments. Other  places,  even  those  where 
the  "  tenementization  "  process  has  not 
begun,  have  thus  forever  forestalled  it. 
Mr.  Veiller  finds  fairly  satisfactory  hous- 
ing conditions  in  Cleveland.  About  five 
per  cent  of  the  houses  are  occupied  by 
more  than  one  family.  Yet  the  citizens 
of  Cleveland  are  now  framing  a  law 
based  upon  that  of  New  York.  Thus 
Cleveland  again  can  never  become  a 
city  of  insanitary  tenements.  Here  and 
elsewhere  the  same  tendencies,  unless 
checked  in  time,  threaten  to  duplicate 
the  New  York  conditions.  All  our  large 
cities  have  poor  and  ignorant  populations 
which  must  be  housed.  They  all  have 
rich  and  not  over  -  scrupulous  property 
owners  and  builders,  eager  to  invest  their 
money  at  profitable  rates.  The  danger 
increases  every  day,  with  the  growth  of 
an  especially  benighted  class  of  immi- 
grants. These  immigrants  not  only  fur- 
nish the  tenants,  but  the  real  estate  spec- 
ulators, the  builders,  and  the  landlords. 
Thus  thousands  of  the  tenements  of  New 
York  are  owned  by  Jews,  Germans,  and 
Italians,  who  fight  hard  whenever  the 
system  is  attacked.  Such  antagonisms 
will  not  be  aroused  in  cities  in  which  the 
tenement  has  not  developed.  Land  prices 
are  not  predicated  upon  the  possible 
construction  of  many-storied  dwellings  ; 
and,  in  other  ways,  property  interests  are 
not  greatly  involved.  The  present  is 
thus  a  favorable  time  for  those  cities  that 
have  no  tenement  laws  to  pass  them. 
Reform  in  this  particular  case  should 
properly  begin  before  there  is  anything 
to  reform. 

Burton  J.  Hendrick. 


Books  New  and  Old. 


417 


THE  series  of  essays  which  Mr.  Wood- 
America  In  berry  here  assembles  1  consti- 
Literature.  tutes  a  fairly  complete  though 
extremely  compact  summary  of  Ameri- 
can literary  activity  and  achievement. 
The  activity  has  been  considerable,  he 
decides,  the  achievement  in  pure  litera- 
ture small.  American  readers  who  have 
been  brought  up  to  a  theory  of  patriot- 
ism which  holds  that  one  can  hardly  be 
loyal  to  the  flag  without  exaggerating, 
among  other  things,  the  feats  of  Ameri- 
can authorship,  will  not  be  pleased  with 
these  papers.  The  writer  does  not  scru- 
ple to  assert  that  our  production  of  work 
which  possesses  some  absolute  literary 
value  begins  with  Irving.  He  professes 
no  reverence  for  "  the  received  tradition 
of  our  colonial  literature  which  has  so 
swelled  in  bulk  by  the  labors  of  our  liter- 
ary historians."  He  has  no  mercy  even 
upon  those  few  colonial  relics  in  which, 
many  of  us  think,  a  true  spark  is  to  be 
discerned.  "  What  of  the  Day  of  Doom, 
The  New  England  Primer,  and  Poor 
Richard's  Almanack,  and  the  other 
wooden  worthies  of  our  Noah's  Ark,  sur- 
vivors from  the  Flood,  archaic  idols  ? 
These  are  relics  of  a  literary  fetichism, 
together  with  Franklin's  Autobiography 
and  Edwards's  On  the  Freedom  of  the 
Will,  except  that  the  great  character  of 
Franklin  still  pleads  for  one,  and  the 
great  intellect  of  Edwards  for  the  other, 
with  a  few.  They  do  not  belong  with 
the  books  that  become  the  classics  of  a 
nation."  Here  Mr.  Woodberry  is  speak- 
ing of  literature  in  the  polite  sense  ;  else- 
where he  more  commonly  uses  the  word 
to  mean  any  utterance  in  print  of  any 
human  activity.  So  in  speaking  of  New 
York  he  says :  "  In  no  other  city  is  the 
power  of  the  printed  word  more  im- 
pressive. The  true  literature  of  the  city 
is,  in  reality,  and  long  has  been,  its  great 
dailies  ;  they  are  for  the  later  time  what 
the  sermons  of  the  old  clergy  were  in 

1  America  in  Literature.  By  GEORGE  E. 
WOODBERRY.  New  York :  Harper  &  Brothers. 
1903. 


VOL.  xcin.  —  NO.  557. 


27 


New  England,  —  the  mental  sphere  of 
the  community ;  and  in  them  are  to  be 
found  all  the  elements  of  literature  except 
the  qualities  that  secure  permanence." 

The  paper  on  the  Knickerbocker  Era 
is  the  most  finished  and  adequate  of  the 
four  chapters  which  deal  with  special 
periods.  The  power  of  Mr.  Woodberry 's 
style  is  in  general  cumulative  rather  than 
episodical ;  yet  there  are  pithy  phrases 
of  his  which  stick  in  the  memory  :  "  It 
is  hard  in  any  case  to  localize  Bryant. 
...  That  something  Druidical  which 
there  is  in  his  aspect  sets  him  apart." 
..."  Drake  and  Halleck  stand  for  our 
boyish  precocity  ;  death  nipped  the  one, 
trade  sterilized  the  other;  there  is  a 
mortuary  suggestion  in  the  memory  of 
both."  ..."  Every  metropolis,  how- 
ever, breeds  its  own  race  of  local  writers, 
like  mites  in  a  cheese,  numerous  and  ac- 
tive, the  literary  coteries  of  the  moment. 
To  name  one  of  them,  there  was  Willis  ; 
he  was  gigantic  in  his  contemporaneous- 
ness." 

Mr.  Woodberry's  treatment  of  the 
New  England  period,  or,  as  he  has  it,  the 
Literary  Age  of  Boston,  is  far  slighter  ;  it 
reminds  us  that  the  present  book  is  a 
collection  of  separately  published  essays, 
and  not  a  composition  of  chapters.  For 
the  book,  it  is  unfortunate  that  the  scale 
of  the  Knickerbocker  paper  should  not 
have  been  maintained.  The  material  at 
the  critic's  disposal  here  (he  includes 
the  Cambridge  and  Concord  writers  and 
Whittier)  would  seem  to  be  quite  equal 
in  importance  to  all  the  rest  of  his  sub- 
ject matter.  His  discussion  of  Emerson, 
Hawthorne,  and  Longfellow,  the  three 
in  whom  "  the  genius  of  the  people, 
working  out  in  the  place  and  among  the 
things  of  its  New  England  nativity, 
reached  its  height,"  is  full  and  satisfy- 
ing. But  we  are  not  quite  prepared 
to  find  Thoreau  disposed  of  with  a  bare 
mention,  and  Holmes,  Whittier,  and 
Lowell  each  hit  off  in  a  brief  paragraph. 
We  should  have  liked  some  qualification, 
or  expansion  of  some  of  his  judgments, 


418 


Books  New  and   Old. 


as  this  of  Holmes :  "  Such  a  writer  is  sel- 
dom understood  except  by  the  generation 
with  which  he  is  in  social  touch  ;  magnet- 
ism leaves  him  ;  he  amuses  his  own  time 
with  a  brilliant  mental  vivacity,  but  there 
it  ends."  There  should  end,  by  this 
same  token,  one  reflects,  your  Horace, 
your  Pepys,  your  Lamb,  all  your  blessed 
provincials,  whether  rural  or  town-made, 
who  have  made  shift  to  keep  their  audi- 
ences thus  far. 

He  has  much  to  say  of  Southern  writ- 
ers, and  little  to  say  for  them.  Simms 
composed  "  facile  and  feeble  poems  ;  " 
Timrod  had,  "  like  the  whippoorwill,  a 
thin,  pathetic,  twilight  note  ;  "  Hayne, 
"  one  would  rather  liken  to  the  mocking- 
bird, except  that  it  does  no  kind  of  justice 
to  the  bird ; "  Lanier,  with  his  "  emotion- 
al phases  .  .  .  seems  like  Ixion,  embra- 
cing the  cloud."  Poe,  finally,  is  "  the  one 
genius  of  the  highest  American  rank  who 
belongs  to  the  South." 

The  tone  of  these  judgments  would 
seem  less  severe  if  it  did  not  chance  that 
in  the  ensuing  essay  on  the  West,  the  au- 
thor places  much  stress  upon  the  agree- 
able wild  notes  of  Joaquin  Miller,  and 
upon  the  "  pietistic "  romancer,  Lew 
Wallace.  The  moods  of  the  two  essays 
seem  to  be  somewhat  different.  The 
Southern  writers  are  attacked  upon  the 
stern  ground  of  literary  merit ;  the  West- 
ern writers  are  forgiven  much  because 
they  seem  to  embody  the  Western  spirit. 
The  volume  is,  we  may  repeat,  a  collec- 
tion of  essays,  not  a  treatise.  The  final 
chapter,  in  which  the  discussion  of  gener- 
al "  results  and  conditions  "  is  no  longer 
hampered  by  the  necessity  for  personal 
estimates,  conveys  an  impression  of  en- 
tire consistency.  In  it  the  author's  mys- 
ticism, his  profound  faith,  are  seen  to 
mellow  and  ennoble  the  sobriety  of  his 
attitude  toward  what  has  been  and  what 
is  :  "  Special  cultures  arise  .  .  .  and  min- 
gle with  currents  from  above  and  under, 
and  with  crossing  circles  in  the  present ; 
and  the  best  that  man  has  found  in  any 
quarter,  nationalized  in  many  peoples, 


takes  the  race  and  shapes  it  to  itself  after 
its  own  image,  and  especially  with  power 
in  those  who  live  the  soul's  life.  .  .  .  But 
now  in  our  own  time,  and  in  this  halt  of 
our  literary  genius,  it  is  plain  that  our 
nobler  literature,  with  its  little  Western 
afterglow,  belonged  to  an  heredity  and 
environment,  and  a  spirit  of  local  culture 
whose  place,  in  the  East,  was  before  the 
great  passion  of  the  Civil  War,  and,  in 
the  West,  has  also  passed  away.  It  all 
lies  a  generation,  and  more,  behind  us. 
The  field  is  open,  and  calls  loudly  for 
new  champions."  H.  W.  £. 

URBANITY  of  manner,  breadth  of 
Mr.  Matte's  yiew>  tolerance  of  temper,  and 
Latest  Book.  a  kindly,  easy,  genial  attitude 
toward  life,  —  these  are  the  qualities 
ascribed  to  Irving  in  the  latest  book  by 
Mr.  Mabie.  Fortunate  is  the  man  of  let- 
ters who  possesses  them  ;  they  account  in 
part  for  the  charm  of  Backgrounds  of  Lit- 
erature,1 but  they  also  serve  to  explain  the 
ungracious  and  perhaps  illogical  irritation 
with  which  some  of  Mr.  Mabie's  readers 
will  close  the  pages  of  his  attractive  vol- 
ume. 

There  is  no  question  of  Mr.  Mabie's 
competency  for  commenting  upon  the 
natural  and  social  surroundings  which 
have  affected  the  work  of  these  seven 
well-known,  although  quite  unrelated  au- 
thors. He  is  a  man  of  wide  reading,  of 
swift  and  sympathetic  observation.  A 
long  row  of  popular  books  already  bears 
witness  to  his  facility  of  expression.  In 
the  present  volume,  the  easiest  task  was 
to  describe  the  Lorna  Doone  country,  and 
the  most  difficult  was  to  analyze  the 
American  spirit  in  the  poetry  of  Walt 
Whitman.  Both  papers  are  extraordi- 
narily well  done.  The  constructive  criti- 
cism of  Whitman  is  quite  as  skillful  in  its 
complex  workmanship  as  is  the  essential- 
ly slight  but  pleasing  record  of  the  obvi- 
ous emotions  of  a  sentimental  tourist  in 

1  Backgrounds  of  Literature.  By  HAMILTON 
WRIGHT  MABIE.  New  York  :  The  Outlook  Co. 
1903. 


Books  New  and   Old. 


419 


the  Doone  valley.  Goethe,  Scott,  Words- 
worth, Irving,  and  Emerson  are  the  sub- 
jects of  the  other  papers.  That  they  are 
graceful  and  well-informed  goes  without 
saying.  The  better  one  knows  Weimar 
and  Edinburgh  and  Concord  the  better 
one  realizes  how  admirable  these  essays 
are  up  to  a  certain  point ;  but  the  great- 
er also  is  one's  regret  that  Mr.  Mabie  so 
rarely  chooses  to  go  beyond  the  bounds 
which  he  has  set  for  himself. 

An  author's  choice  of  company  is  of 
course  his  own  affair ;  as  far  as  conscious 
election  plays  a  part  in  it  he  may  write 
for  posterity  or  for  "  antiquity  "  as  he 
prefers.  Mr.  Mabie  early  chose  the  mod- 
est and  useful  part  of  preaching  the  gos- 
pel of  culture  to  the  half-cultivated.  He 
has  talked  long  and  well  to  the  Christian 
Endeavorers  of  literature.  He  has  earned 
the  right  of  addressing  himself  more  di- 
rectly to  the  saints.  No  American  writ- 
er of  our  day  has  done  more  "good," 
in  the  simple  sense  of  that  word  ;  but  he 
has  been  gradually  educating  the  more 
thoughtful  portion  of  his  large  audience 
away  from  those  mellifluous  common- 
places in  which  beseems  to  think  that 
the  greatest  good  for  the  greatest  number 
is  still  to  be  found.  Many  excellent  mis- 
sionaries have,  through  long  and  fluent 
preaching  in  a  foreign  tongue,  forgotten 
how  to  use  English.  Danger  lurks  in  Mr. 
Mabie's  hierophantic  manner  of  chanting 
the  eternal  truths  of  literature.  Those 
rich  cadences  may  please  the  ear  without 
leaving  any  trace  upon  the  memory.  His 
is  not,  in  its  characteristic  features,  a  style 
that  "  bites,"  but  rather  one  of  smooth- 
ly woven  periods,  produced  by  words 
thrown  deftly  back  and  forth  upon  a  well- 
oiled  shuttle,  reversing  automatically  at 
every  "  but "  or  "yet,"  and  then,  as  the 
arithmetics  used  to  say,  "  proceeding  as 
before." 

Our  quarrel,  it  will  be  perceived,  is 
not  with  one  of  the  most  genial  and  gifted 
of  our  writers,  but  with  that  missionary 

1  A  New  Discovery  of  a  Vast  Country  in 
America.  By  Father  Louis  HENNEPIN.  Ed- 


spirit  which  keeps  him  so  frequently  in 
Macedonia  when  he  ought  to  be  preach- 
ing to  the  Athenians  on  Mars'  hill.  No 
man  reasons  more  persuasively  concern- 
ing righteousness  and  temperance  in  let- 
ters, yet  he  might,  we  think,  say  more 
than  he  does  about  the  judgment  sure 
to  come  upon  faulty  theory  and  slovenly 
practice.  Mr.  Mabie  uses  every  word  in 
a  critic's  vocabulary  except  that  one  in- 
dispensable word  "  damn."  His  public 
does  not  like  this  expression,  and  all  pub- 
lishers unite  in  thinking  it  very  bad  form. 
Mr.  Mabie  courteously  refrains  from  its 
use.  This  is  a  pity,  for  we  have  few  men 
who  care  more  sincerely  for  excellence, 
and  who  might  say  with  greater  authority 
to  our  generation  :  — 

"  Thou  ailest  here,  and  here  !  " 

If  any  proof  of  this  were  needed,  it  may 
be  found  in  the  essay  on  America  in 
Whitman's  Poetry  in  the  present  vol- 
ume. Here  is  discriminating  criticism, 
expressed  with  vigor  and  precision.  For 
penetration,  steady  grasp  of  a  complicated 
matter,  and  luminous  statement,  it  is  the 
best  critique  of  Whitman  thus  far  writ- 
ten in  England  or  America.  B.  P. 

UNIFORM  with  their  excellent  reprint 
Father  Hen-  °^  *ne  Expedition  of  Lewis 
nepln.  an(j  dark5  issued  a  year  or 

more  ago,  Messrs.  A.  C.  McClurg  & 
Company  have  now  published,  under  the 
editorship  of  Reuben  Gold  Thwaites, 
Father  Hennepin's  famous  New  Dis- 
covery.1 The  text  is  that  of  the  second 
London  issue  of  1698,  and  there  are  fac- 
similes of  original  title-pages,  maps,  and 
illustrations,  together  with  a  breezy  in- 
troduction by  Mr.  Thwaites,  and  a  bib- 
liography of  Hennepin's  works  by  Mr. 
Victor  Paltsits  of  the  Lenox  Library. 
Father  Hennepin  was  one  of  the  most  en- 
tertaining liars  who  ever  journeyed  into 
a  far  country.  His  account  of  Niagara, 
of  "  the  incomparable  River  Mescha- 

ited  by  REUBEN  GOLD  THWAITES,  Chicago : 
A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co.  1903. 


420 


Books  New  and  Old. 


sipi,"  and  of  the  savage  tribes  that  in- 
habited the  vast  Mississippi  basin,  loses 
no  whit  of  its  interest  as  the  learned 
editor  of  the  Jesuit  Relations  points  out 
the  precise  measure  of  his  departure  from 
the  truth.     As  if  in  anticipation  of  au 
age  of  historical  scholarship,  note  how 
charmingly  the  mendicant  friar  defends 
himself  against  his  future  annotators :  — 
"I  am  not  insensible  of  the  Reflec- 
tions   I  shall  meet  with  from  such  as 
never   dar'd   to   travel    themselves,    or 
never  read  the  Histories  of  the  Curious 
and  Brave,  who  have  given  Relations  of 
the  strange  Countries  they  have  taken 
upon  them  to  see ;  I  doubt  not  but  that 
sort  of  Cattle  will  account  of  this  my  Dis- 
covery as   being   false    and   incredible. 
But  what  they  say  shall  not  trouble  me 
much  :  They  themselves  were  never  Mas- 
ters of  the  Courage  and  Valour  which 
inspires  Men  to  undertake  the  glorious 
Enterprizes  that  gain  'em  Reputation  in 
the  World,  being  confin'd  within  narrow 
Bounds,  and  wanting  a  Soul  to  atchieve 
any  thing  that  can  procure  'em  a  dis- 
tinguishing and  advantageous  Character 
among  Men.     It  were  better  therefore 
for  such  to  admire  what  they  cannot  com- 
prehend, and  rest  satisfy'd  in  a  wise  and 
profound  Silence,  than  thus  foolishly  to 
blame  what  they  know  nothing  of." 

No  less  delightful  is  his  melancholy 
summary  of  the  causes  of  his  failure  to 
propagate  the  gospel  among  the  Indians 
at  Fort  Frontenac  :  — 

"  They  were  attentive  and  diligent  in 
coming  to  their  Prayers,  tho  they  had 
none  of  that  openness  of  Spirit  which 
is  necessary  to  enter  into  the  Verities  of 
Religion.  They  came  to  seek  Instruction 
with  a  Spirit  of  Interest,  to  have  our 
Knives,  Awls,  and  such  like  things." 
Surely  our  contemporary  apostles  of  the 
New  Education,  which  endeavors,  alike 
in  the  innocent  tasks  of  the  kindergar- 
ten and  in  the  Graduate  Schools  of  Ap- 

1  The  Poet  Gray  as  a  Naturalist.  With  Se- 
lections from  his  Notes  on  the  Systema  Naturae 
of  Linnaeus  and  Facsimiles  of  Some  of  his  Draw- 


plied  Science,  "  to  seek  Instruction  with 
a  Spirit  of  Interest,"  should  give  their 
days  and  nights  to  a  study  of  Henne- 
pin.  They  will  find  no  edition  so  good 
as  this.  £,  p^ 

"SULLENLY"  was  the  adverb  which 
The  Poet  ^r'  J°nnson  chose  to  describe 
Gray  as  a  the  temper  in  which  Gray 
Naturalist  ,  , .  .  .  ,  .  ' 

passed  his  days  in  his  Cam- 
bridge chambers.     For  once  the  Levia- 
than's judgment  of  men,  usually  so  con- 
vincing, was  at  fault.     The  case  against 
him  has  become  clearer  with  time,  and 
the  issue  of  The  Poet  Gray  as  a  Natural- 
ist 1  only  serves  to  illustrate  more  vivid- 
ly the  perversity  of  phrase.     Mason  had 
written  at  length  of  Gray's  wholesome 
concern   with  the  out-of-door   sciences, 
and  his  prote^  Bonstetten  had  written 
of  his  preoccupation  with  the  Systema 
Naturae :  "After  breakfast  appear  Shake- 
speare and  old  Lineus  [stc]  struggling 
together  as  two  ghosts  would  do  for  a 
damned  soul.     Sometimes  the  one  gets 
the  better,  sometimes  the  other."     But 
not  until  now  has  it  been  possible  to 
know  the  extent  and/juality  of  the  poet's 
dealings   with  this  same  old  "  Lineus." 
Gray's   copy   of   the    Systema,  passing 
through  several  hands,  came  at  last  to 
Ruskin's,  and  after  his  death  was  given 
by   his   heir   to  Charles  Eliot  Norton. 
Now  we  have  a  selection  from  Gray's 
notes  therein  and  facsimiles  of  his*  draw- 
ings, edited  by  Mr.  Norton  with  his  fa- 
miliar fine  carefulness,  and  published  in 
a  form  of  much  distinction  and  beauty. 
In  the  three  volumes  of  the  Systema, 
Gray,  it  seems,   caused  to  be  inserted 
1380  pages  of  interleaving,  which  he  all 
but  quite  covered   with  Latin  notes  in 
his  delicate,  cursive  script,  and  with  easy 
and  spirited  delineations  of   birds  and 
insects.    Along  with  the  laborious  learn- 
ing which  we  might  expect,  the  notes 
show  a  skill  as  a  descriptive  naturalist 

ings.    By  CHARLES  ELIOT  NORTON.     Boston  : 
Charles  E.  Goodspeed.     1903. 


"True  Poets" 


421 


which  could  only  come  from  the  nice 
observation  of  the  types  of  nature,  sub 
Jove.  The  relation  of  these  studies  to 
the  classic  quality  of  Gray's  poetic  art,  to 
his  poetic  taciturnity,  would  be  a  choice 
theme  for  the  expatiation  of  a  casual 
critic  who  could  keep  his  reader  in  ig- 
norance of  the  awkward  fact  that  they 
were  chiefly  the  occupation  of  Gray's  last 
years,  when  his  brief  poetic  activity  had 
ceased.  It  is,  however,  certainly  not  out 
of  place  to  note  how  the  firm  hold  of  the 
substantial  forms  of  things  which  marks 
these  notes  comports  with  the  reality  of 
image,  which  for  all  his  personifications 
and  allusiveness  is  the  life  of  his  poetry. 


And  it  is,  at  least,  amusing  to  trace  spe- 
cific parallelisms  between  his  poetry  and 
his  scientific  annotation.  To  take  a  sin- 
gle instance  :  does  not  this  description  of 
Fells  catus  serve  to  illustrate  the  mood 
of  the  elegist  of  Selima  ?  "  Domesticus 
parum  docilis,  subdolus,  adulatorius ; 
domino  dorsum,  latera,  caput,  affricare 
amat.  Junior  mire  lusibus  deditus  et 
jocis  ;  adultus  tranquillior  ..."  and 
so  to  more  technical  items.  Indeed,  to  a 
careful  critic  nothing  which  makes  clear- 
er the  mind  of  a  poet  is  quite  foreign  to 
the  appreciation  of  his  art ;  and  this  little 
book — so  full  of  the  reality  of  scholarship 
—  is  a  true  piece  of  Gray's  mind.  F.  G. 


"TRUE   POETS." 


AT  a  time  when  the  flattering  proposals 
of  a  publisher,  who  —  for  a  suitable  sum 
in  hand  —  "  has  faith  in  poetry,"  bring 
before  an  inattentive  public  too  many 
meagre  volumes  of  unripe  and  bewil- 
dered verse,  it  is  cheering  to  find  four 
books  containing  the  artistic  expression 
of  sincere  imaginative  moods.  The 
latest  volumes  of  Mr.  Carman  and  Mrs. 
Watson,  whatever  we  may  think  of  the 
worth  of  the  thoughts  informing  them, 
have  that  measure  of  virtue  at  least ;  Mr. 
Taylor's  first  book  shares  it,  and  has  a 
very  marked  poetic  idiosyncrasy  beside  ; 
while  Mr.  Woodberry's  collected  Poems 
is  almost  unique  among  recent  books  of 
verse  in  giving  evidence  of  all  three  of 
the  aptitudes  of  the  "  true  poet "  in  har- 
monious accord,  —  temperament,  skilled 
mastery  of  the  ancient  resources  of  the 
poetic  art,  and  a  poet's  mind.1 

1  Sappho.  One  Hundred  Lyrics.  By  BLISS 
CABMAN.  With  an  Introduction  by  CHARLES 
G.  D.  ROBERTS.  Boston :  L.  C.  Page  &  Co.  1904. 

After  Sunset.  By  ROSAMUND  MARRIOTT- 
WATSON.  New  York  and  London :  John  Lane. 
1904. 


Mr.  Carman's  attempted  compellation 
of  the  shade  of  Sappho  in  the  rewriting 
of  her  hundred  lost  odes  is  an  instructive 
experiment,  colored  by  a  very  pleasing 
poetic  quality.  Handicapped  as  it  is 
by  Mr.  Roberts's  emotional  Introduction 
singularly  lacking  in  "  the  high,  imperi- 
ous verbal  economy  "  which  it  celebrates, 
and  notwithstanding  the  copious  same- 
ness of  the  work  itself,  it  contains  scarce- 
ly a  line  which  read  by  itself  will  not 
trouble  and  delight  the  imagination  with 
a  vague  sense  of 

"  Old,  unhappy,  far-off  things," 

and  quicken  it  with  the  poignancy  of 

"  the  first  sob  of  the  south  wind 
Sighing  at  the  latch  with  spring." 

Yet  a  haunting  sense  of  poetic  imperfec- 
tion will  stay  with  the  reader.  This  is 
particularly  noticeable  in  the  different 

The  Overture.  By  JOSEPH  RUSSELL  TAYLOR. 
Boston  and  New  York :  Houghton,  Mifflin  & 
Co.  1903. 

Poems.  By  GEORGE  EDWARD  WOODBERRY. 
New  York :  The  Macmillan  Co.  1903. 


422 


"True  Poets." 


lustre  of  the  tags  from  Wordsworth  and 
from  Mr.  Carman  which  we  have  just 
quoted.    Mr.  Carman's  half-quantitative, 
unrhymed  versification,  with  its  subtle 
suggestion  of  Sapphic  metre,  is  a  technical 
triumph,  the  atmosphere  and  mood  suffer 
no  lapse,  and  the  phrase  is  always  suave 
and  limpid ;    but  its  very  suavity  and 
limpidity  are  allied  to  the  source  of  its 
defect.     Sings  Mr.  Carman,  — 
And  there  as  darkness  gathers 
In  the  rose-scented  garden 
The  god  who  prospers  music 
Shall  give  me  skill  to  play. 
And  thou  shalt  hear,  all  startled, 
A  flute  blown  in  the  twilight 
With  the  soft  pleading  magic 
The  greenwood  heard  of  old. 

This  sweetness  of  phrase  and  tune  is 
everywhere  in  the  book,  but  it  goes  along 
with  a  kind  of  facile  profusion  which  is 
never  drawn  together  in  a  single  great 
line,  compact,  pregnant,  and  immortal 
like  the  one  of  Wordsworth's  we  have 
applied  as  a  touchstone,  and  like  all  of 
Sappho's.  Furthermore,  there  is  a  letting 
down  of  tone,  a  coolness  of  passion,  that 
estops  the  verse  from  dateless  perfection. 
For  a  time  the  magic  of  the  flute  (and 
with  all  its  useful  tone-color  and  conno- 
tation, the  word  occurs  in  nearly  every 
poem)  makes  us  oblivious  of  the  real 
mood  of  what  we  are  reading.  Grad- 
ually we  are  aware :  it  is  not  Love,  not 
Sapphic  love,  not  even  Theocritean  love ; 
it  is  I'amour. 

Mrs.  Watson's  writing  in  verse  has 
the  poetic  effectiveness  that  inheres  in 
the  simple  and  musical  expression  of 
moods  of  real  tenderness  and  regret. 
Her  pieces  rarely  convey  the  effect  of 
bookishness  so  common  in  the  plaintive 
music  of  fellow  poets  not  for  nothing 
called  minor.  Her  chief  literary  inspira- 
tion is  clearly  from  the  German  lyric 
Muse  ;  but  the  likeness  is  one  of  affinity 
rather  than  of  imitation.  This  connec- 
tion is  most  obvious  in  her  naming  of 
poems,  where  such  titles  as  Abschied, 
"Einst  O  Wunder,"  or  Zigeunerlied 


aptly  suggest  the  burden  of  her  song. 
Her  gift  of  intimating  a  lyric  mood  in 
the  German  fashion,  with  the  sparing 
use  of  "  poetic  "  imagery  and  diction,  as 
well  as  her  tone  of  casual,  unrevising 
spontaneity  will  appear  from  these  fine 
memorial  verses :  — 

The  wind  blows  sweet  through  the  valley, 
A  strong  wind,  pleasant  and  free  ; 

It  blows  with  a  rumour  of  travel 
To  the  moorland  up  from  the  sea. 

The  miles  and  the  desolate  distance, 

It  shatters  them  all  at  will, 
While  we-  wait  here  for  a  message 

From  a  voice  forever  still. 

O  wind  from  the  great  new  countries, 
What  know  you  of  pain  or  loss  ? 

We  are  weeping  for  him  in  England 
Who  died  'neath  the  Southern  Cross. 

Herrick  in  Ohio  would  have  been  an 
apt  sub-title  for  the  little  book  of  an  un- 
commonly attractive  individuality  which 
Mr.  Taylor  has  happily  called  The  Over- 
ture. Mr.  Taylor  has  little  of  the  lim- 
pidity of  Mr.  Carman,  and  less  of  the 
simplicity  of  Mrs.  Watson.  His  work 
is  exuberant  with  imagery  and  sound 
drawn  from  American  woods  and  fields, 
conveyed  in  a  prodigious  number  of 
lyric  words  drawn  from  the  vast  stor,e- 
house  of  the  poets.  But  this  opulence 
is  more  promising  than  penury  ;  it  is  so 
often  controlled  by  an  imaginative  heat, 
and  so  invariably  modulated  in  unusual 
and  effective  rhythms,  that  it  augurs  still 
better  work  to  be  done.  There  is  no 
other  poet  now  writing  who  adventures 
irregular  swallow  flights  of  dactyls  and 
anapaests  so  successfully  as  Mr.  Taylor ; 
witness  these  enraptured  lines  :  — 

Hark,  how  the  bobolinks  ripple  and  bubble  ! 
Out  of  the  orchard  what  rapture  of  robins  ! 
And  look,  the  brown  thrush  up  and  facing  the 

storm 
With  a  shaken,  jubilant  splendor  and  storm  of 

song, 
And  more  than  the  heart  can  bear ! 

We  like  Mr.  Taylor  better  in  his  deal- 
ings with  bird  songs  and  the  Ohio 
countryside  than  we  always  do  in  his 


"True  Poets" 


423 


celebrations  of  more  social  sentiments. 
He  is  rather  too  much  disposed  toward 
undue  detail  and  unction  in  his  enumer- 
ation of  a  girl's  charms,  too  prone  to 
dally  over  some  one  of  them,  like  the 
ankle,  not  particularly  expressive  of 
character.  Some  of  the  Elizabethans 
and  Herrick  contrived  to  produce  fine 
poetry  in  spite  of  a  similar  predilection. 
But  nowadays  it  is  haply  a  dangerous 
thing  to  attempt  to  poetize  the  passion 
of  love  unidealized  either  by  the  mood 
of  romantic  devotion,  or  by  that  fore- 
boding of  motherhood  which  has  en- 
nobled most  English  poetry  in  this  kind. 
Mr.  Taylor  has  the  advantage  that  his 
dalliance  is  out  of  doors,  and  the  keen 
air  and  sunlight  which  fill  his  lines  keep 
the  sentiment  just  above  I'amour.  As  is 
often  the  case  with  young  poets,  whose 
store  of  allusion  and  observation  is  an 
embarrassment,  Mr.  Taylor  is  seen  at  his 
best  in  set  verse  forms.  This  sonnet 
might  to  advantage  have  known  more  of 
file  and  hammer,  but  nevertheless  it  re- 
presents the  quality  of  his  best  achieve- 
ment, and  conveys  his  characteristic  mood 
and  poetic  creed  :  — 

Not  only  through  old  legend's  royal  guise, 
Nor  in  the  quest  that  sought  the  fleece,  the  grail, 
The  sudden  god  looks  forth  to  turn  men  pale 
With  wonder  looking  out  of  beauty's  eyes. 
At  times  a  light  of  great  enchantment  lies 
On  my  plain  fields ;  in  woods  as  through  a  veil 
Gleams  the  unknown  romance  ;  and  the  lost  tale 
Informs  familiar  rivers  with  surprise. 
Once,  when  upon  the  utmost  hills  the  sun 
An  hour  unmoving  hung,  and,  all  song  dead, 
Grew  lovelier,  sterner,  deepening  into  red, 
Harrow  of  stars,  shaping  the  arrow  blade 
I  saw  the  wild  geese  go.    Summer  was  done. 
The  winged  longing  left  me  half  afraid. 

Writing  in  the  Atlantic  fourteen  years 
ago  Mr.  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich,  then 
editor  of  the  magazine,  said  at  the  close 
of  an  extended  review  of  Mr.  Wood- 
berry's  first  volume  of  verse  :  "  The  re- 
viewer whose  diversions  in  this  sort  are 
not  many  counts  it  a  fortunate  month, 
indeed  a  fortunate  year  when  he  can  say, 
'  Here  is  a  new  poet,'  and  commend  a 


volume  which  makes  so  rich  promise  as 
the  North  Shore  Watch."  But  two  cli- 
macterics of  Mr.  Woodberry's  life  have 
passed  since  then  ;  "  a  life,"  as  he  says, 
in  his  preface,  "  never  so  fortunate  as  to 
permit  more  than  momentary  and  inci- 
dental cultivation  of  that  art  which  is  the 
chief  grace  of  the  intellectual  life  ;  "  yet 
the  promise  has  been  made  good.  The 
collected  edition  will  be  welcomed  by 
many  readers  to  whom  the  North  Shore 
Watch  and  Wild  Eden  are  not  so  much 
books  of  admirable  verse  to  be  respect- 
fully neglected,  as  a  constant  and  inti- 
mate possession.  Though  it  is  too  fine 
and  sincere  a  product  ever  to  be  the  idol 
of  a  cult,  there  are  qualities  in  Mr. 
Woodberry's  poetry  which  make  it,  in 
a  certain  loose  sense,  esoteric.  For  all 
its  human  wistfulness  it  is  not  quite  po- 
etry for  the  man  in  the  street,  nor  is  it 
poetry  for  the  lean  and  slippered  panta- 
loon ;  it  is  peculiarly  the  poetry  of  young 
men,  of  young  men  of  generous  mind,  no 
strangers  to  the  old  paths  of  the  Muses 
and  soaring  philosophies,  yet  quick  with 
the  sense  of  present  beauty,  and  earnest 
with  the  thought  of  present  obligation. 
It  will,  perhaps,  not  be  amiss  to  take  oc- 
casion of  the  appearance  of  this  collected 
edition  to  consider  the  quality  and  signi- 
ficance of  Mr.  Woodberry's  work. 

It  is  impossible  to  open  the  volume 
anywhere,  at  random,  without  at  once 
observing  as  its  prime  characteristics  a 
purity  of  line,  a  sweetness  of  melody,  a 
fineness  of  sentiment,  not  to  be  found 
present  in  such  perfect  and  unbroken 
harmony  in  the  work  of  any  other  among 
contemporary  poets.  These  lines  from 
the  little  Platonic  drama  of  Agathon  are 
not  a  purple  patch ;  they  represent  the 
color  and  texture  of  the  woof  of  the 
poem :  — 

Love  comes  in  youth,  and  in  the  wakeful  heart 
Delight  begins,  soft  as  Aurora's  breath 
Fretting  the  silver  waves,  and  dimly  sweet 
As  stir  of  birds  in  branches  of  the  dawn, 
So  soft,  so  sweet,  thy  touches  round  my  heart. 
O,  fable,  fable  on  ! 


424 


'•'•True  Poets" 


Here,  in  little,  are  many  of  the  qualities 
of  Mr.  Woodberry's  work ;  its  musical 
sweetness,  its  fineness,  its  concern  with 
maidenhood,  and  maiden  youth.  But  to 
see  these  traits  in  their  intensity  we  shall 
have  to  turn  to  some  of  the  lyrics,  where- 
in a  true  lyrical  mood  is  poetized,  with 
firm  lyrical  structure,  and  with  the  cano- 
rous quality  that  invites  to  reading  aloud. 
Take,  for  example,  these  stanzas :  — 

O,  strange  to  me  and  wondrous, 

The  storm  passed  by, 
With  sound  of  voices  thundrous 

Swept  from  the  sky  ; 
But  stranger,  love,  thy  fashion,  — 

0,  tell  me  why 
Art  thou,  dark  storm  of  passion, 

So  slow  to  die  ? 

As  roll  the  billowy  ridges 

When  the  great  gale  has  blown  o'er ; 
As  the  long  winter  dirges 

From  frozen  branches  pour ; 
As  the  whole  sea's  harsh  December 

Pounds  on  the  pine-hung  shore  ; 
So  will  love's  deep  remember, 

So  will  deep  love  deplore. 

In  the  deepening  music  of  the  vowels, 
in  subtle  and  haunting  repetends,  in  per- 
fect fusion  of  syntax  in  cadence,  as  well 
as  in  the  imaginative  Tightness  of  the 
underlying  similitude,  this  is  as  perfect 
in  its  way  as  —  why  should  we  hesitate 

—  the  songs  of  Tennyson. 

There  are  in  these  lines  qualities,  other 
than  those  of  formal  perfection,  which 
will  lead  us  inward.  The  view  of  na- 
ture in  them  is  of  a  piece  with  that  found 
in  every  poem.  There  is  almost  no  piece 
without  its  setting  of  landscape, —  Italy, 
the  Cy clop's  shore,  the  sea,  the  prairie ; 

—  but  most  often  it  is  the  keen,  sweet 
New  England  countryside  and  seashore. 
This  is  the  real  natural  background  of 
Mr.    Woodberry's   mind,   and   it  is  so 
sharply  realized  that  all  of  his  work  has 
a  peculiarly  racy  and  indigenous  tang. 
In  that  noble    elegy  the   North   Shore 
Watch,  for  all  its  freightage  of  idealistic 
monism,  the  mood  of  the  old  lament  for 
Bion  is  as  perfectly  reproduced  amid  the 
"  brine  and  bloom  "  of  the  Beverly  shore 


as  it  was  by  Milton  on  the  banks  of  Cam, 
or  by  Arnold  on  Thamesside.  But  here, 
as  everywhere  else  in  the  volume,  there 
is  one  striking  fact  to  be  noted  which 
will  help  us  to  apprehend  the  quality  of 
the  poetry  still  more  intimately.  The  nat- 
ural background  is  uncommonly  real  and 
vivid,  but  we  do  not  enter  upon  it  by  the 
aid  of  many  details  of  observation,  as  in 
the  case  of  Mr.  Taylor's  verse,  or  through 
very  much  concrete  imagery.  Mr.  Wood- 
berry's  affair  is  not  so  much  with  the 
types  of  Nature,  as  with  her  moods  and 
symbolical  processes,  with  the  turn  of 
tides  and  seasons,  and  with  the  temper- 
ament of  the  weather.  It  is  Nature 
recollected  in  tranquillity  —  and  Plato- 
nized. 

Here  we  have  foreshadowed  the  trait 
of  Mr.  Woodberry's  poetry  that  gives  it 
its  power  with  youth,  and  justifies  our 
attribution  to  him  of  the  poet's  mind. 
His  work  has  the  tonical  coherence  that 
springs  from  a  single  view  of  the  world, 
clearly  conceived,  and  firmly  and  con- 
sistently maintained.  It  is  easy  for  the 
whimsicalist  who  has  never  found  —  or 
has  lost  —  himself  to  smile  at  "  ideal- 
ism ;  "  it  is  easy  for  the  Lockist  to  con- 
fute it ;  yet  it  is  the  indispensable  stuff 
of  poetry  which  is  life.  Mr.  Woodberry 
is  a  Puritan  by  inheritance,  a  Platonist 
by  temperament,  and  a  cosmopolitan  stu- 
dent of  letters  by  training.  Out  of  these 
strands  he  has  woven  and  presented  else- 
where in  prose  an  idealistic  programme 
which  is  pretty  much  that  of  Sidney 
and  Shelley  ripened  for  the  times.  Held 
by  an  immature  mind  of  any  age,  such 
a  faith  is  often  far  from  convincing,  but 
when  it  is  put  forth  with  mature  enthu- 
siasm, and  informed  with  the  results  of 
sound  histoi-ical  and  literary  scholarship, 
it  gains  an  evidential  import  that  will 
not  be  gainsaid.  This  is  the  vital  prin- 
ciple in  Mr.  Woodberry's  poetry,  and  it 
will  appear  more  clearly  from  almost 
any  stanza  of  the  poetry  itself  than  from 
many  paragraphs  of  expository  tedious- 
ness.  These  stanzas,  torn  from  an  ode 


The  Contributors'   Club. 


425 


remarkable  for  its  sustained  flight  in  a 
perilous  course,  will  serve  for  illustra- 
tion. We  quote  from  Wild  Eden  (1899), 
which  here,  as  in  several  other  cases, 
presents  a  better  text,  to  our  mind,  than 
that  of  the  collected  edition  :  — 

I  shall  go  singing  over-seas  : 
"  The  million  years  of  the  planet's  increase, 
All  pangs  of  death,  all  cries  of  birth, 
Are  clasped  at  one  by  the  heart  of  earth." 

I  shall  go  singing  by  tower  and  town  : 
"  The  thousand  cities  of  men  that  crown 
Empire  slow-rising  from  horde  and  clan 
Are  clasped  at  one  by  the  heart  of  man." 

I  shall  go  singing  by  flower  and  brier  : 
"  The  multitudinous  stars  of  fire, 
And  man  made  infinite  under  the  sod 
Are  clasped  at  one  by  the  heart  of  God." 

It  is  clear  that  poetry  so  intellectual 
as  this,  so  constantly  —  even  in  occa- 
sional pieces  —  guided  by  the  spiritual 
sense  of  life,  is  not  calculated  to  win  to 
the  outer  circles  of  popularity.  There 
will,  moreover,  be  those  who  will  call  it 
"  academic."  This  is  a  true  character- 
ization, but  if  it  be  used  in  dispraise  it  in- 
volves a  misconception.  Mr.  Woodberry 
is  an  academic  poet  in  precisely  the  sense 
that  Virgil  and  Catullus,  Milton  and 


Tennyson  were  academic  poets ;  not  in 
the  sense  that  Addison  and  Leo  XIII 
were  so.  He  has  the  sieve  for  noble 
words.  Everywhere  in  the  volume  are 
images,  turns  of  thought,  cadences,  sym- 
bols, that  send  the  lettered  mind  flash- 
ing away  to  Shelley,  or  Gray,  or  Tasso, 
or  Theocritus  ;  yet  no  piece  is  merely 
bookish.  The  mood  is  always  real  and 
deeply  felt,  and  if  for  the  expression  of 
it  the  author  has  drawn  deeply  from  the 
old  stores  of  the  Muses,  it  is  but  the 
rightful  privilege  of  the  ultimus  cala- 
mus, the  last  pen,  which,  so  it  make  them 
its  own  by  eminent  domain,  may  use  at 
will  all  the  riches  of  its  predecessors. 
It  may  well  be  that  here  and  there  is  a 
turn  of  this  sort  that  is  "  bookish  "  in  the 
sense  that  it  fails  quite  to  carry  to  a  reader 
not  acquainted  with  the  classics  of  our 
own  and  other  tongues.  In  the  main, 
however,  Mr.  Woodberry's  volume  is  a 
vindication  of  the  scholarly  mode  of 
poetry.  His  envisagement  of  life  is  the 
richer  for  his  scholarship,  his  expression 
more  suave  and  eloquent.  And  if  there 
be  a  loss  in  extensiveness  of  appeal,  there 
is  a  compensating  gain  in  the  intensity  of 
delight  for  qualified  readers.  F.  G. 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB. 


WHEN  I  declare  my  preference  for 
Typewriter  tine  Pen  over  the  typewriter, 
vs.  Pen.  tbe  hustling  business  man  of 
to-day  will  class  me  among  the  cranks 
who  would  abolish  the  railway  in  favor 
of  the  stagecoach.  But  I  am  no  bigoted 
devotee  of  ancient  ways.  I  have  myself 
used  the  typewriter  for  thirteen  years, 
and  would  not  hesitate  to  give  it  a  testi- 
monial for  services  rendered.  I  can  un- 
derstand, too,  that  to  the  merchant  or 
lawyer,  with  his  immense  correspon- 
dence, it  has  become  a  necessary  labor- 
saving  device.  I  do  not  dispute  its  use- 


fulness as  a  commercial  instrument ;  it  is 
as  a  literary  instrument  that  I  believe  its 
value  to  be  commonly  over-rated. 

Let  it  be  granted  that  in  many  cases 
the  machine  promotes  legibility.  There 
are  persons  of  so  vexatious  a  handwrit- 
ing that  the  Golden  Rule  would  prohibit 
them  from  putting  their  thoughts  on  pa- 
per without  its  assistance.  Yet,  in  spite 
of  the  neglect  of  penmanship  in  modern 
schools,  these  are  exceptions.  The  next 
advantage  is  speed.  No  doubt  this  counts 
for  much  in  an  office,  or  in  the  reporters' 
room  of  a  daily  paper,  but  where  it  is  a 


426 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


question  of  thoughtful  composition,  and 
not  of  the  mere  transcribing  of  shorthand 
notes,  the  supposed  profit  is  illusory.  You 
do  not  need  a  literary  automobile  for 
ideas  that  can  scarcely  keep  up  with  a 
pedestrian  pace.  I  have  serious  doubts 
about  the  ingenious  conceptions  that  have 
been  lost  to  the  world  because  the  author's 
pen  lagged  behind  his  imagination. 

Now  for  my  grievances  against  this 
vaunted  substitute  for  the  old-fashioned 
pen.  First,  there  is  its  weight,  which 
restricts  its  use  to  the  table  or  desk  at 
home.  Next,  there  is  the  fact  that,  be- 
ing a  machine,  it  is  subject  to  all  the  ills 
that  machinery  is  heir  to.  All  makes 
of  typewriter  except  one  —  see  adver- 
tisements and  circulars  passim  —  have 
a  tendency  to  get  out  of  order,  and  the 
law  of  chances  makes  it  unlikely  that  any 
individual  among  us  will  capture  that  elu- 
sive perfect  creation.  Now,  as  a  rule,  the 
professional  author  is  not  of  a  mechani- 
cal bent :  neither  natural  aptitude  nor 
training  has  given  him  the  knack  of  deal- 
ing authoritatively  with  levers  and  pawls. 
And  the  derangements  are  sure  to  come 
at  the  most  irritating  moments,  with  dis- 
astrous effects  upon  the  writer's  moods. 
There  was  no  unhealthiness  of  tone  about 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  yet  he  was  care- 
ful to  avoid  all  possible  friction  that 
might  interrupt  the  act  of  composi- 
tion. Many  a  fine  thought,  he  said,  had 
perished  ere  it  was  fairly  born,  being 
strangled  in  the  birth  by  a  hair  on  the 
nib  of  the  pen  or  choked  out  of  life  by 
muddy  ink.  How  much  more  apprehen- 
sive would  he  have  been  of  the  intellec- 
tual parts  of  an  erratic  type-bar  or  a 
refractory  ribbon  !  Then,  the  physical 
labor  involved  in  the  working  of  any 
make  of  machine  must  consume  much 
more  energy  than  the  formation  of  let- 
ters by  the  pen.  Possibly  the  average 
literary  man  would  be  better  if  he  took 
more  exercise,  but  indoor  athletics  of  this 
sedentary  type  scarcely  supply  the  lack. 
Further,  although  one  may  not  be  acutely 
conscious  of  the  noise  of  the  operation, 


the  constant  rattle  cannot  hut  add  to  tt 
strain,  and  produce  a  certain  nervoi 
wear  and  tear. 

A  novice  at   typewriting    commonlj 
fears  that  the  demand  of  the  machir 
upon  the  attention  must  make  origins 
composition  upon  it  impossible.     Acti 
ally  there  is  no  difficulty  here,  for  aft 
a  little  practice  he  thinks  as  little  aboi 
his  keys  as  the  bicyclist  about  his  ba 
ance.     The  real  drawback  does  not 
in  any  sense  of  the  unnaturalness  of  the 
medium,  but  in  the  awkwardness  of  mat 
ing  corrections  while  writing.     It  is 
clumsy  task  to  alter  a  word,  or  chang 
the  order  of  clauses,  or  make  interlines 
tions  while  the  paper  is  on  the  cylinder 
so  we  decide  to  wait  until  the  sheet  come 
off  the  machine.     By  the  time  we  ha^ 
reached   the   bottom   of   the   page 
projected   amendment  has  slipped    01 
memory.     To  some  kinds  of  writing 
forfeiture  of   this  opportunity  means 
serious   loss.     Literary    quality   is   stil 
further   impaired    by   a   temptation 
which  the  typewriter  exposes  those 
thors  for  whose  work  there  is  a  grea 
demand.    In  the  facilities  it  supplies  f c 
the  copying  of  dictated  matter  in  a  shor 
time,  and  at  a  cheap  rate,  some  profe 
sional  writers  have  discerned  an  expedi- 
ent for  increasing   their  output.     This 
inevitably  means  the  production  of  poorer 
stuff.     Mr.  Herbert  Spencer  confessed 
not  long  ago  that  in  re-reading  his  own 
books  he  found  those  which  had  been 
dictated  inferior  in  style  to  the  others. 
When  a  writer  attempts  to  compose  at 
shorthand   speed  he  turns  himself  into 
an  extempore  speaker ;  he  is  insensibly 
drawn  to  cultivate  the  style  of  the  man 
on  the  platform,  and  his  article  has  the 
diffuseness  of  an  harangue.     It  might 
be  impressive  with  an  audience,  but  it 
wearies  the  reader. 

But  suppose  that  the  book  or  article  is 
completed  without  the  aid  of  either  ste- 
nographer or  machine,  is  it  not  desirable 
that  the  manuscript  should  then  be  trans- 
lated into  the  clearer  letterpress  of  the 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


427 


typewriter  before  coming  into  the  print- 
er's hands  ?  Only  in  one  case,  — namely, 
when  the  author  performs  this  translation 
himself.  If  his  own  handwriting  is  hard 
to  read,  better  let  him  send  his  autograph 
sheets  to  the  printer  in  all  their  tangle  and 
uncouthness  than  have  them  ''straight- 
ened out "  in  a  typewriting  office.  The 
average  compositor,  in  a  good  house,  is 
far  more  competent  than  the  average 
girl  typist  to  decipher  difficult  manu- 
script, and  when  his  sagacity  fails  he  has 
expert  assistance  close  at  hand  to  appeal 
to.  The  typist  will  misread  a  word  and 
substitute  another,  which,  though  it  goes 
a  long  way  toward  spoiling  the  sentence, 
does  not  make  nonsense  of  it.  The  au- 
thor, glancing  hurriedly  through  the  type- 
written sheets  and  not  comparing  them 
minutely  with  the  fii'st  draft,  does  not 
notice  the  difference,  and  the  printer,  of 
course,  follows  the  copy  that  is  set  before 
him.  If  the  autograph  original  had  gone 
straight  to  the  compositor's  case  the  mis- 
take would  not  have  been  made.  I  could 
give  instances  within  my  own  knowledge, 
illustrating  the  corruption  of  a  text  by 
the  process  just  described.  As  I  said  at 
the  outset,  I  am  no  unreasoning  foe  to 
the  typewriter,  for  it  has  been  a  helper 
and  friend  to  the  journalist  and  author 
as  well  as  to  the  man  of  business ;  but 
at  a  time  when  there  are  so  many  other 
causes  of  slovenliness  in  the  production 
of  printed  matter  it  will  be  a  great  pity 
if  its  indiscriminate  use  leads  to  a  degen- 
eration in  literary  style,  or  to  a  lowering 
of  the  standard  of  high-class  printing. 
I  BEGAN"  to  read  the  Contribution  called 

Unhand-        "Handsomely  Illustrated,"  in 

somely 

Illustrated,     a  recent   Club,   with   all  the 

pleasant  anticipation  of  the  small  boy 
who  sees  his  contemporary  about  to  come 
in  for  an  application  of  the  maternal 
slipper.  (Let  me  correct  myself  and  say 
paternal,  for  the  Contributor  has  done 
his  utmost  for  the  credit  of  the  Club  by 
betraying  his  sex.)  I  read  with  interest 
and  sympathy,  but  finished  disappointed. 
Was  it  possible  that  he  had  failed  to 


bring  the  slipper  down  on  the  right  spot, 
—  which  meant,  of  course,  the  one  I  was 
thinking  of  ?  Should  that  bad  boy  still 
go  unpunished  for  that  particular  sin  ? 
Discipline  forbid  !  Not  if  I  have  to  give 
him  what  he  deserves  myself ! 

"  He  [the  illustrator]  derives  his  idea 
from  the  text  just  as  the  reader  derives 
his,"  remarks  the  Contributor.  But 
there  are  times  when  we  are  forced  sadly 
to  doubt  the  truth  of  this  statement,  in 
fact,  to  wonder  whether  the  illustrator 
derives  his  idea  from  the  text  at  all. 
''  Sophronia  sat  in  the  twilight  ponder- 
ing," Sophronia  being  represented  in  the 
story  as  a  gentle,  quiet  New  England 
maid.  Illustration,  a  thick-lipped,  fierce- 
eyed,  disheveled,  tropical  sort  of  creature 
whom  one  suspects  of  mixed  descent. 
Or  Alicia's  straitened  circumstances  and 
narrow  village  life  are  happily  indicated 
by  a  modish,  low-cut,  evening  frock.  Two 
generations  ago  we  could  forgive  a  Becky 
Sharp  who  was  apparently  a  decrepit  Ital- 
ian hag.  And  in  1840,  when  the  burning  of 
the  Steamer  Lexington  was  pictured,  we 
were  much  edified  toseeall  the  gentlemen, 
escaping  on  mattresses  or  floating  in  the 
water,  prudently  attired  in  high  hats. 
We  should  not,  I  think,  have  caviled  if 
we  had  seen  them  courteously  removing 
those  stately  coverings  in  deference  to 
the  ladies  whom  they  were  helping  to 
places  of  refuge.  But  times  have  changed 
since  then,  and  our  demands  have 
changed  with  them.  It  appears,  how- 
ever, that  methods  have  not  changed  so 
much  as  we  are  sometimes  led  to  fancy. 
With  all  the  boasted  advance  in  illustra- 
tion, Sophronia's  West  Indian  counte- 
nance and  Alicia's  low-necked  dress  seem 
to  my  humble  perception  to  belong  to  the 
same  stage  of  development  as  the  early 
Becky  and  the  "  toppers  "  of  the  Lexing- 
ton's passengers. 

Another  weakness  we  should  surely 
have  outgrown.  "  Isabel  watched  Rob- 
ert's changing  expression,"  remarks  an 
author  in  a  late  magazine.  But  in  the 
illustration,  Isabel's  attention  is  deter- 


428 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


minedly  fixed  upon  a  spot  on  the  wall, 
about  on  a  level  with  Robert's  waist. 
Again  I  am  sent  back  to  the  past,  this 
time  to  those  large  wall-engravings  that 
within  not  so  very  long  a  memory  no  gen- 
tleman's parlor  was  without.  "  The  Mar- 
riage of  Pocahontas  "  was  especially  ad- 
mirable for  the  ingenuity  of  the  artist  in 
providing  separate  points  of  attention  for 
all  the  numerous  wedding  guests,  and  still 
avoiding  the  necessity  of  having  a  single 
one  glance  in  the  direction  of  the  pair  just 
making  their  vows  to  Heaven.  "  The 
Declaration  of  Independence  "  presents 
the  same  effect  with  no  less  success,  the 
august  Signers  showing  an  entire  lack  of 
interest  in  the  great  document  before 
them,  and  bending  their  minds,  to  judge 
from  their  evident  uneasy  self-conscious- 
ness and  rapt  gaze  at  vacancy,  on  hav- 
ing their  pictures  taken.  The  illustrator 
who  gave  us  Isabel  cannot  rival  these 
examples  in  point  of  elaborate  composi- 
tion, but  so  far  as  his  subject  permits  he 
has  followed  their  tradition  faithfully. 

I  quite  agree  with  the  Contributor. 
Illustrations  should  illustrate.  Is  it  too 
much  to  ask  that  they  also  make  a  nearer 
approach  to  that  realism  which  we  are 
so  often  assured  is  the  most  striking  char- 
acteristic of  our  time  ? 

IT  is  a  matter  of  self-gratulation  with 

Europe  Un-  me  that  ^  am  at  one  and  the 
visited.  same  time  an  American,  and 
not  a  millionaire.  Because  of  the  first 
I  may  go  to  Europe  ;  because  of  the  sec- 
ond, I  have  n't  been  there  already. 

But  I  find  two  fears  menacing  my  air- 
ship fancies.  Do  I  know  enough  to  go 
to  Europe  ?  When  Tarn  ready  to  see  Eu- 
rope, will  there  be  a  Europe  there  to 
see  ?  For  I  am  densely,  deeply  ignorant. 
That  is  all  very  well  in  America,  where 
I  am  only  one  among  a  nation  of  bluffers  ; 
but  would  not  Europe  see  through  me, 
find  me  out,  refuse  to  shake  hands  ?  I 
fear  that  the  Grandmother  Past  would  not 
take  me  on  her  lap  and  tell  me  stories  if 
I  could  n't  recite  my  English  sovereigns, 
if  I  proved  hazy  on  architecture,  and  im- 


perfect in  geography.  Would  the  des 
come  forth  debonair  out  of  their  crypt 
to  welcome  me,  if  I  could  furnish  nc 
dates  by  way  of  credentials  ?  I  knowint 
no  Italian,  would  the  gondoliers  sing  int 
my  heart  all  the  gayety  of  Venice  ? 
French  being  rusted,  would  Paris  p 
with  me  the  merry  time  of  day  ?  l 
afraid  Europe  will  say  to  me,  Out  of  mj 
palaces,  away  from  my  pictures,  don't 
lay  finger  on  my  cathedrals,  —  no  ignor 
mus  wanted  here  !  —  But  I  have  no  time 
to  study  all  these  matters,  nor  patiem 
either.  Nor  am  I  minded  to  do  Euroj 
by  Baedeker  ;  I  am  right  gypsy  with  the 
lust  for  strange  faces  and  beckoning  by- 
ways, and  with  no  nose  whatsoever 
be  buried  in  a  guidebook.  I  mentione 
these  my  doubts  and  fears  to  a  fellov 
worker,  who  had  scraped  and  saved  anc 
bought  herself  a  summer,  and  returne 
as  one  likes  to  see  travelers  return - 
shabby  -  coated,  shining  -  eyed,  speaking 
little,  with  do-it-again-as-soon-as-possibl 
writ  large  over  all  her  plans  and  pui 
poses.  She  answered  promptly,  "  It 
much  better  to  study  about  it  after  yoi 
have  seen  it  than  before."  Perhaps  it  is  ; 
I  will  leave  it  that  way,  I  think.  Euroj 
must  take  me  just  as  I  am  ;  if  it  does  n't 
so  much  the  worse  for  Europe. 

Yet  when  I  take  stock  of  my  kno\ 
ledge  of  that  various  other  side,  what 
small  parcel  it  is,  and  how  shakily  dor 
up  !  London,  for  instance.     In  Londor 
there  are  the  Tower,  and  Westminster 
and  the  Temple,  and  lodgings,  —  street 
and  streets  of  lodgings.     In  the  Towe 
are   beef -eaters,  —  a  sort   of   mediaen 
policemen  carrying  halberds ;  and 
jewels  in  glass  cases,  —  I  never  did  ca 
much  for  things  in  glass  cases  ;  and  the 
there  are  bloodstains ;  but  I  am  afraic 
to  appreciate  bloodstains  ;  I  should  ha\ 
gone  abroad  younger.     Westminster  is 
great  dim  place  where  you  may  stay 
day,  like  a  Mr.  Addison  or  a  Mr.  Hare 
ing,  or  poking  about  the  Poets'  Corner 
feeling  the  ashes  of  the  great  mouldering 
genially  all  about  you,  —  only  it  would 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


429 


be  just  my  luck  to  be  thrilled  by  a  ceno- 
taph. 

The  Temple  is  a  name  of  magic.  I  've 
no  notion  of  its  appearance.  There  is 
an  Inner  Temple,  —  that  implies,  I  sup- 
pose, a  building  like  an  American  apart- 
ment house  built  around  a  court.  But  it 
is  the  Temple,  the  Inner  Temple  that  I 
want  to  see  in  London,  because  he  lived 
there,  had  chambers  there,  held  his 
Wednesday  evenings  there,  —  the  sad- 
dest, merriest  soul  that  ever  chuckled  in 
print. 

Those  London  lodgings,  —  I  should 
have  to  live  in  lodgings  in  London,  poor 
lodgings,  because  they  are  cheap  and  I 
am  cheap,  —  frowzy  lodgings,  savored 
with  frying,  garnished  at  intervals  with 
a  slatternly  landlady  and  a  little  slavey. 
In  lodgings  they  furnish  candles  and 
toast  and  tea,  a  diet  which  would  have  to 
be  washed  down  with  plentiful  draughts 
from  that  cask  I  carry  with  me,  that  wine 
called  Traveler's  Delight. 

My  Continental  itinerary  is  delight- 
fully vague ;  my  imagination  supplies  a 
map  of  the  everywhere,  marked  with 
bright  red  crosses  where  are  the  Alps, 
Paris,  Rome,  Venice.  My  general  im- 
pression of  the  Continent  is  that,  as  a 
whole,  it  suffers  from  a  lack  of  the  great 
American  bathtub,  and  does  not  supply 
ice  water.  Dirty  and  thirsty  and  happy- 
hearted  shall  I  make  my  pilgrimage. 
Paris  first,  where  you  can  sit  —  sit  on 
what  ?  —  and  see  all  the  world  drive  by, 
see  all  the  world  out  pleasuring  ;  Paris, 
that  performs  all  manner  of  naughtiness 
so  prettily  that  nobody  cares,  because  it 's 
Paris,  —  should  I  dare  to  sip  the  tiniest 
sip  of  absinthe  myself  ?  Paris,  —  where 
I  should  be  cheated  of  my  hard-wrung 
dollars  with  shrugs  so  picturesque  and 
smiles  so  ready  that  I  would  gladly  pay 
the  price.  But  I  have  heard  that  in 
Paris  strange  men  speak  to  young  girls 
on  the  street.  I  am  not  a  young  girl,  but 
a  man  might  speak  to  me,  and  being  an 
American,  I  should  n't  like  it. 

Posting   southward,  I  shall   find  my 


Italy,  with  its  sunshine,  its  brown,  care- 
free beggars,  its  old  gardens,  its  old  pal- 
aces, its  old  statues,  all  its  grace  of  beauti- 
ful decay.  I  want  to  see  Rome,  Horace's 
Rome,  Hawthorne's  Rome,  Crawford's 
Rome ;  I  want  to  see  the  Pope,  and  St. 
Peter's,  and  the  Faun,  and  Miriam.  And 
I  want  to  see  the  catacombs.  How  do 
you  get  to  them  ?  I  picture  myself  run- 
ning about  the  streets  hunting  diligently 
for  a  stairway  down,  just  as  I  hunt  for 
the  basement  in  a  department  store. 
How  damp  and  shivery  and  fearsome 
and  Poe-ish !  Let  no  man  cheat  me  of 
my  catacombs. 

Venice  is  the  next  red  spot  on  my  map, 
Venice  by  day  and  Venice  by  night,  with 
the  music  over  the  water,  the  rhythmic 
dip  of  oars,  the  lights  of  palace  windows, 
and  the  gliding  through  moonlight  into 
shadow.  But  my  American  soul  rises 
up  in  query,  as  thus,  —  if  Venice  were  in 
America,  what  a  clatter  it  would  make 
in  the  press  with  its  typhoid  and  its  ma- 
laria !  what  in  the  world  does  Venice  do 
about  microbes  and  mosquitoes  ?  This  is 
irreverence.  Let  me  here  admonish  my- 
self betimes,  —  look  'ee,  miss,  when  you 
go  to  Europe,  do  not  carry  the  skeleton 
of  a  microbe  with  you  to  spoil  the  feast. 

But  even  as  I  dream  of  my  red  crosses, 
and  the  brave  unknown  roads  that  lead 
to  them,  that  other  fear  of  mine  comes 
knocking,  knocking,  —  will  Europe  wait 
for  me  ?  Even  now  it  shows  signs  of 
impatience  at  my  delay,  says,  "  Hurry 
up !  "  and  knocks  down  a  Campanile  in 
dudgeon.  It  is  causing  its  cathedrals  to 
crumble,  it  is  girdling  its  Alps  with  trol- 
ley lines,  it  is  undressing  its  peasants  to 
trick  them  out  in  ugly  clothes  like  ours, 
it  is  even  muttering  threats  of  household 
sanitation.  If  it  would  only  wait  a  little 
while ! 

Such  titles  as  "  Vanishing  London  " 
alarm  me.  I  had  not  supposed  that  Lon- 
don would  be  vulgar  enough  to  vanish. 
I  thought  they  did  things  better  over 
there  ;  Henry  James  gave  me  so  to  un- 
derstand. I  should  have  thought  John 


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The   Contributors'   Club. 


Bull  would  thrust  forward  his  jaw  as 
who  should  say,  "  Pooh,  pooh.  Don't 
talk  to  me  about  vanishing  !  " 

Not  long  since  there  appeared  a  series 
of  articles  showing  forth  the  commercial 
conquest  of  Europe  by  America.  I  did 
not  read  the  articles ;  the  illustrations 
made  me  sufficiently  sick  at  heart.  They 
represented  glaring  American  dollar 
signs  hung  out  all  over  the  landscape 
from  Labrador  to  the  boot-toe  of  Italy, 
from  Portugal  to  Siberia !  Matter  of 
apprehension,  indeed,  to  the  wanderer 
held  at  home ! 

You  travelers  who  are  setting  out 
ahead  of  me,  who  are  even  now  shoulder- 
ing scrip  and  taking  up  staff  for  the  pil- 
grimage, carry  my  message  over  the  seas, 

—  tell  Europe  to  wait  for  me,  pray  Europe 
to  sit  down  hard  and  hold  on  to  itself 
with  both  hands  to  keep  from  vanishing, 
for  I  am  surely  coming,  —  I,  the  great 
American  wage-earner  —  tramp,  tramp ! 

—  I  am  coming ! 

A  PHASE  of  the  rural  life  of  New  Eng- 

NewEng-  land,  often  touched  upon  by 
landVi-  '  At 

sionaiies.  local  writers,  surely  needs  fur- 
ther elucidation.  No  attempt  to  define 
the  cause  or  even  the  nature  of  a  well- 
known  feature  of  this  part  of  our  country 
seems  adequate.  There  are  not  many 
villages  or  settlements  in  New  England 
where  there  is  not  at  least  one  person 
afflicted  —  if  you  choose  to  use  that 
word  —  with  a  sort  of  mild  monomania, 
an  unshaken  belief  in  something  which 
does  not  exist,  either  a  remembering  of 
what  has  never  happened,  or  a  hoping 
for  what  cannot  come.  One  can  hardly 
call  this  insanity,  madness,  for  upon  all 
other  points  the  mind  is  clear  and 
healthy.  Some  have  styled  these  hallu- 
cinations dreams.  But  we  wake  from 
dreams,  and  I  have  never  known  a  case 
of  the  kind  referred  to  cured,  or  one  of 
these  illusions  or  delusions  dispelled.  I 
would  not  bring  such  a  trite  subject  to 
these  pages  had  I  not  met  lately  with 
two  or  three  illustrations  which  seem  to 
me  somewhat  significant. 


For  several  years  I  have  met  at  inter- 
vals in  one  of  our  northern  hill  villages 
a    pleasant    little  countrywoman.     He 
neat,  white  cottage  and  gay  little  garde 
are  well  known  to  many  summer  boa 
ers.     She  is  a  tiny  creature,  with  twir 
kling  black  eyes  and  intelligent  face,  ai 
I  have  always  enjoyed  my  chats  wit 
her  about  her  posies,  her  dog  and  cat,  ar 
her  neighbors.     For  years  I  never  sav 
in  her  the  faintest  sign  of  an  unbalance 
mind,  nor  did  any  of  the  country  fol 
about  seem  to  regard  her  as  anything 
but  sane  and  sensible.    But  one  day  when 
she  came  to  bring  me  a  bunch  of  "  posy- 
peas  "  —  a  name  given  to  distinguish  the 
decorative  sweet  peas  of  the  borders  from 
the  homelier  blossoms  of  the  kitchen  gar- 
den —  she  told  me  a  story.    I  knew  that 
she  had  lost  two  children  under  painful 
circumstances   many  years  before,  but 
had  forgotten  that  she  had  a  son  still 
living.    Some  word  of  mine  showed  that 
I    thought   her   childless,   and  she   ex- 
claimed, "  Why,  don't  you  know  I  've  got 
a  boy   livin'   way    out    West  ?  "      Her 
whole  face  shone  as  she  went  on  speak- 
ing of   that  boy.     In  her  story  he  was 
the  best,  the  most  devoted  of  sons,  steady, 
industrious,  prosperous,  and,  moreover, 
very  religious.     He   was   married,  and 
had  two  children,  little  girls.    These  she 
had  never  seen,  but  they  loved  her  dearly, 
and  always  sent  her  messages  of  affec- 
tion in  their  father's  weekly  letters.     "  I 
wish  I  'd  got  their  picturs  here,"  she  said 
wistfully.    "  I  'd  'a'  fetched  'em  along  if 
I  'd  thought ;  so  pretty  and  cunnin'  they 
be  in  their  little  white  frocks,  with  their 
hair  all  slicked  and  curled.     John  says 
in  his  last  letter  —  Here,  I  '11  read  it  to 
you."     She  put  her  hand  to  the  bosom 
of   her  dress  as  if   to  draw  forth  the 
cherished  paper,  but  withdrew  it,  saying, 
"  No,  I  left  it  to  home.     But  I  can  say 
it  off  every  word."    And  she  repeated 
slowly,  as  if  from  memory,  "  '  Mary  Ann 
and  'Lizy  '  —  that  one  's  named  for  me 
—  '  send  their  love   to    dear  grandma. 
They  keep  a-talkin'  about  you,  and  every 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


431 


single  night  when  they  say  their  prayers 
they  put  in  "  God  bless  grandma  and  take 
care  of  her."  '  The  old  woman's  voice 
broke,  and  the  tears  rolled  down  her  face 
as  she  quoted  this.  She  gave  me  many 
homely  details,  till  I  seemed  to  know  all 
about  this  loving  son  and  his  filial  piety. 
It  was  a  pathetic  tale,  but  as  she  used 
the  broadest  dialect  of  the  region,  and  in- 
troduced many  odd  idioms  of  her  own,  I 
often  "  smiled  as  well  as  sighed."  When 
she  spoke  earnestly  of  her  daughter-in- 
law,  "John's  wife,  Libby  Jane,  the  best 
woman  that  ever  breathed  the  breath  o' 
life,"  I  was  touched,  and  thought  of 
Jean  Ingelow's  lines,  — 

"  A  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 
Than  my  son's  wife,  Elizabeth." 

But  when  she  added  that  Libby  Jane  was 
a  real  Christian  though  she  did  weigh 
nigh  on  to  two  hunderd  pounds,  I  smiled 
inwardly. 

She  went  away,  promising  to  bring  the 
pictures  and  letters  soon. 

Now  for  my  sequel :  The  poor  wo- 
man's story  was  true  only  in  one  par- 
ticular, —  she  had  a  son  living.  But  he 
was  a  scamp.  He  left  her  years  before, 
and  had  never  sent  her  a  word  since  he 
went  away.  She  heard  of  him  from 
time  to  time,  of  his  ill  repute  as  a  drunk- 
en, worthless  vagabond.  He  had  mar- 
ried, but  had  abandoned  his  wife  after  a 
few  months.  These  were  the  hard  foun- 
dation facts  upon  which  was  reared  the 
airy,  beautiful  castle  shown  me  that  day. 

Now,  nobody  can  make  me  believe 
that  this  little  woman  was  deliberately 
lying.  That  she  thoroughly  believed,  at 
the  time,  all  she  told  me,  I  cannot  doubt. 
You  would  not  doubt  had  you  seen  and 
heard  her.  The  neighbors  whom  I  ques- 
tioned all  gave  her  credit  for  being  hon- 
est and  truthful,  and  all  pronounced  her 
sane.  "  But,"  as  one  of  them  said  in 
explanation,  "  she  's  had  a  sight  of  trou- 
ble, and  no  child  to  be  a  mite  of  com- 
fort, so  she  's  just  got  to  believing  this 
about  her  son  being  good  and  all  that, 
and  we  never  let  on  it  is  n't  so."  Well, 


I  hope  no  sincere  but  mistaken  stickler 
for  truth  will  ever  let  on  to  the  poor 
woman  that  it  is  n't  so.  I  have  met  her 
again  and  again  since  that  time,  but  she 
has  rarely  spoken  of  her  son.  Once  she 
met  me,  with  a  beaming  face,  saying,  as 
soon  as  she  was  within  hearing,  "  I  got 
a  letter  from  John  last  night,  and  I  'm 
goin'  to  fetch  it  over."  She  never  fetched 
it.  Now,  where  and  how  did  her  story, 
with  its  many  little  details  of  her  son's 
devotion  and  that  of  his  family,  come  to 
the  simple  soul  ?  She  could  not  have 
manufactured  all  at  any  one  time.  It 
must  have  been  the  growth  of  years,  all 
that  the  poor  creature  had  heard  or  seen 
of  filial  affection  being  woven  into  it,  bit 
by  bit.  It  seems  to  me  it  must  have  be- 
gun with  a  yearning  desire  which  at  last 
became  to  her  the  firm  substance  of  the 
"  things  hoped  for." 

I  was  driving  in  northern  New  Eng- 
land a  few  years  ago,  and  stopped  for 
the  night  at  a  small  inn.  When  I  went 
to  my  room  I  was  at  once  struck  by  the 
odd  look  of  a  piece  of  furniture  there. 
It  was  a  low,  benchlike  table  or  table- 
like bench,  not  a  foot-stove,  nor  a  shelf, 
but  a  little  like  either  or  both.  Its  deco- 
ration was  the  most  striking  thing  about 
it.  This  was  in  gaudy  color,  —  a  wild, 
flying,  sprawling,  bold,  free  creation. 
Was  it  a  dragon  or  an  archangel  ?  Was 
it  meant  for  a  winged  victory  or  the 
spirit  of  plague,  pestilence,  and  famine  ? 
I  cannot  describe  it ;  I  never  saw  any- 
thing so  weird  as  this  —  Thing  —  as  it 
tossed  its  limbs  or  wings  or  tentacles 
about  and  flung  them  across  that  wooden 
background.  I  found  myself  saying  over 
to  myself  some  lines  from  an  old  hymn 
my  father  used  to  sing :  — 

"  And  on  the  wings  of  mighty  winds 
Came  flying  all  abroad." 

When  the  landlady's  little  daughter 
came  into  the  room  I  asked  her  what  the 
strange  object  was.  She  answered  glibly, 
but  I  could  not  understand  her.  The 
reply  seemed  one  long,  unintelligible 


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The   Contributors'   Club. 


word.  I  repeated  my  inquiry.  This 
embarrassed  the  bashful  child,  and  rat- 
tling off  the  name  again  she  fled  from 
the  room.  But  this  time  I  made  out 
the  syllables  of  the  strange  utterance, 
"  crazy-man's- vision."  And  she  spoke 
the  strange  name  as  if  it  was  the  well- 
known  designation  of  any  ordinary  bit 
of  household  furnishing,  as  one  should 
say,  a  low-boy,  or  a  settle,  or  a  secre- 
tary. 

As  I  passed  through  the  hall  on  my 
way  downstairs  I  glanced  into  two  or 
three  bedrooms,  and  in  each  I  saw  an 
exact  counterpart  of  the  article  in  my 
own  room.  Later  I  found  one  in  the 
parlor  and  another  in  the  dining-room. 
Then  I  questioned  the  landlady,  an  in- 
telligent, sensible  woman,  and  this  is 
what  she  told  me :  — 

These  objects  were  all  made  by  a  resi- 
dent of  the  village,  a  man  of  some  means, 
not  obliged  to  work  for  a  living.  For 
years  his  one  occupation  had  been  the 
making  and  decorating  these  strange, 
useless  things.  They  were  all  exactly 
alike,  having  upon  each  the  same  mar- 
velous, spreading,  flying  —  as  my  in- 
formant described  it,  "  sprangling  "  — 
creature.  And  it  was  his  own  name  for 
these  which  the  little  girl  had  given  me, 
crazy-man's-vision.  He  never  sold  one, 
but  gave  them  all  to  friends  and  neigh- 
bors. "  He  don't  need  money,"  the  good 


woman  said,  "being  about  the  well-to- 
doest  man  about  here."  And  she  add- 
ed, "  There  is  n't  a  house  in  the  village, 
I  guess,  that  has  n't  got  at  least  one  of 
these  crazy  -  man's  -  visions."  The  man 
himself  was  said  to  be  sensible  and  bright, 
esteemed  by  his  neighbors,  and  often  con- 
sulted by  them  in  matters  of  business  and 
village  affairs.  He  had  never  shown  the 
slightest  sign  of  an  unsound  mind  save 
in  this  one  matter.  But  my  landlady 
and  one  or  two  neighbors  with  whom  I 
talked  all  spoke  of  his  strange  absorption 
in  this  occupation,  and  his  intense  ad- 
miration of  the  completed  work.  "  I  've 
seen  him  sit  and  look  at  one  of  those 
outlandish  figures,"  said  one  old  man, 
"  by  the  hour,  and  I  've  heard  him  say 
that  folks  did  n't  know  how  splendid  that 
picture  was,  but  they  would  some  day." 

These  two  illustrations  —  drawn  from 
real  life  and  not  retouched  or  exagger- 
ated in  the  slightest  degree  —  seem  to 
have  much  in  common. 

The  mother  -  love,  disappointed  and 
objectless,  seeking  a  resting  -  place  so 
earnestly  that  it  seems  already  gained  ; 
the  artistic,  imaginative  nature,  untaught, 
untrained,  aspiring  toward  expression, 
and  finding  this  strange  outlet  and  ut- 
terance, —  these  are  not  dissimilar.  But 
I  found  no  theory  upon  them.  I  leave 
that  to  wiser  heads. 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY: 
iftaga?ine  of  Literature,  Science,  art,  anD 

VOL.  XCIIL  —  APRIL,  1904.  —  No.  DL  VIII. 


CHRISTIAN  SCIENCE. 


THE  historian  of  the  future,  review- 
ing an  epoch  preeminent  in  so  many  re- 
spects, will  find  the  nineteenth  century 
not,  at  least,  far  behind  its  predecessors 
in  the  odd  character  of  its  cults.  He 
will  be,  moreover,  surprised  to  learn  that 
one  of  the  most  bizarre  of  these,  though 
compelled  by  nature  to  make  its  way 
without  the  assistance  of  logic,  actually 
grew  —  slowly  but  surely  —  until  it  had, 
in  a  few  years'  time,  attained  a  size  to 
be  accounted  for,  if  not  an  influence  to  be 
reckoned  with ;  and  that  this  eminently 
illogical  proceeding  took  place  without 
the  appearance  of  anything  that  could 
be  called  a  serious  answer  to  the  chal- 
lenges made,  —  even  from  the  profes- 
sion most  directly  attacked.  For  the 
criticisms  of  Christian  Science,  though 
numerous  and  in  many  cases  just,  have 
been,  I  think,  far  from  satisfactory.  And 
for  this  reason :  that  they  have  attacked 
superficial  defects  without  due  regard 
to  underlying  principles.  Probably  no 
characteristic  of  the  Christian  Science 
Bible,  for  example,  is  so  obvious  as  its 
inconsistencies  ;  certainly  no  book,  mak- 
ing any  claim  to  scientific  consideration, 
so  abounds  in  manifest  contradictions. 
And  yet  we  have  not  disposed  of  the 
question  when  we  have  pointed  these 
out.  Mrs.  Eddy  offers  us  a  theory  of 
knowledge  and  of  evil ;  and  her  incon- 
sistencies in  elaboration  affect  the  truth 
of  neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  Jibes, 
too,  make  a  somewhat  poor  substitute 


for  logic,  —  if  reasoned  conviction  be, 
indeed,  your  aim  ;  for  it  is  easy  to  ridi- 
cule where  you  cannot  cope,  and  a  very 
small  genius  may  be  a  very  large  jester. 
Nor  does  the  charge  of  fanaticism  do 
away  with  all  need  of  debate  ;  for  Truth 
has,  in  more  than  one  instance,  been 
done  high  service  by  this  enthusiasm  run 
riot.  Jeopardizing  accuracy  in  an  epi- 
gram, we  may  say  that  history  hibernates 
between  honest  fanatics.  But  for  them, 
indeed,  the  world's  thankless  chores  would 
fare  but  ill.  Without  under-estimating 
the  value  of  a  conservative  position  in 
both  the  theoretical  and  the  practical  con- 
cerns of  life,  or  for  a  moment  suggesting 
that  any  other  position  could,  in  the  long 
run,  surpass  it  in  the  majestic  front  it 
offers  to  fickleness  of  thought  and  ac- 
tion, it  is  important  to  remember  that 
the  people  of  one  idea  —  the  "  dare-to- 
do-right  "  men  of  the  juvenile  books  — 
have  done,  unattractive  as  their  lack  of 
mental  equilibrium  may  be,  some  big 
things  in  the  world.  The  really  intel- 
lectual men  of  an  age  are,  for  the  most 
part,  conservative  men  ;  and  often  they 
are  conservative  to  the  extreme  of  pre- 
judice. Anything  iconoclastic  risks  be- 
ing for  them,  ipso  facto,  beyond  the  pale 
of  legitimate  belief.  Yet  we  must  not 
forget  how  often  in  history  the  thought- 
ful and  conservative  men  of  a  century 
have  accepted  and  taught  ideas  which 
the  conservative  and  thoughtful  men  of 
preceding  years  had  dallied  with  only  to 
scoff  at  them.  Any  striking  work  must 
expect  striking  opposition.  Indeed,  those 


434 


Christian  Science. 


who  wish  to  be  effective  in  the  world 
have,  among  the  first  and  most  discour- 
aging obstacles  they  meet,  the  wooden 
men  who  hover  on  the  safe  edge  of  every 
conflict,  their  arms  laden  with  wet  blan- 
kets, finding  the  delight  of  their  life  in 
smothering  enthusiasms.  A  long  history 
has  taught  us  that  to  condemn  as  a  fa- 
natic may  be  to  canonize,  —  provided, 
always,  the  enthusiast  qualify  for  saint- 
hood by  his  absolute  sincerity. 

Nor,  again,  is  it  any  sure  sign  of  fal- 
sity that  Christian  Science  has  been  an 
intellectual  failure.  Mrs.  Eddy  has,  to 
be  sure,  failed  to  make  a  strong  brief 
for  a  confessedly  weak  case.  She  has 
elaborated  a  system  which  will  be  most 
readily  accepted  by  those  who  are  usually 
found  at  the  other  end  of  tangents.  Yet 
truth  may  live  in  spite,  not  because,  of 
its  intellectual  support.  Indeed,  many 
of  the  thought-movements  which  subse- 
quent history  has  stamped  as  genuine 
advances  of  the  truth  have  had  at  the 
outset  to  contend  with  the  culture  and 
refinement  of  their  day,  and  to  find  their 
champions  in  the  crude,  the  unlettered, 
sometimes  even  the  coarse  stratum  of 
society.  Luther,  with  his  monk's  train- 
ing and  one  deep  conviction,  gave  a  new 
direction  to  history  ;  while  Erasmus,  the 
aristocrat  of  scholars,  refusing  to  soil  his 
mind  with  theological  squabbles,  busied 
his  more  brilliant  talents  with  the  fine 
subtleties  of  thought,  leaving  the  dark 
age  to  get  its  light  as  best  it  could.  The 
humility  of  intellect  and  the  insolence  of 
intellect  are  phrases  with  a  meaning  in 
history.  An  emphasis  of  the  moral  rea- 
son and  a  relative  neglect  of  the  pure 
reason  are  no  sure  signs  of  weakness  ; 
and  the  logician  has  sometimes  to  follow 
the  visionary. 

In  a  word,  then,  it  is  the  duty  of  the 
critic  of  Christian  Science  to  detect  some 
weakness  in  its  basal  principles.  That 
duty  neglected,  he  has  accomplished  no- 
thing final,  though  he  attack  its  obvious 
inconsistencies  with  never  so  logical  an 
accuracy,  or  its  fanaticism  with  never  so 


keen  a  humor,  or  its  intellectual  weak- 
ness with  never  so  fine  a  scorn. 

To  gain -anything  like  a  clear  idea  of 
just  what  Mrs.  Eddy  intends  the  teacl 
ing  of  Christian  Science  to  be  is  a  mos 
difficult  matter ;  for  it  is  never  easy  to 
analyze  into  a  systematic   grouping  of 
principles,  a  maze  of  disconnected  anc 
contradictory  statements.     Mrs.  Eddy's 
book    is    absolutely    inorganic,  —  wha 
Lamb   would  call  ySt/SAtW  a/3i/3Aiov : 
sequence  of  sentences  characterized 
chronic   nou-sequaciousness.     It   kn 
nothing  of  outline,  and  is  innocent  of  df 
velopment.     Yet  certain  points  are  made 
clear,  even  if  not  consistently  adhered 
to.     To  begin  negatively,  —  and  this  is 
an   all-important  point,  because  misun- 
derstanding of  the  facts  has  resulted  in 
the  popular  misconception  to  the  contra- 
ry, —  Christian    Science    is  not  funda- 
mentally a  system  of  therapeutics,  any 
more  than  it  is  fundamentally  a  system 
of  salvation.     Sin  and  Sickness  are,  by 
its  dictum,  in  the  same  category  ;  and 
the  transference  of  emphasis  from  Evil 
in  general  to  Sickness  in  particular,  is  an 
incident  in  the  history,  rather  than  at 
essential  in  the  theory,  of  Christian  Sci- 
ence.    The  transition  from  philosophy 
therapeutics  is,  of  course,  simple  enougt 
if  you  start  with  a  certain  kind  of  pi 
losophy.     Here  is  Mrs.   Eddy's   logic: 
Instances  of  the  deceitful  testimony  of 
the  sense-organs  are  common  ;  therefor 
we  can  never  trust  what  they  tell  us  of 
the  world  without.     But  their  testimony 
of  that  world  being  that  it  is  existent 
and  that  testimony  being  always  false 
the  external  world  does  not  exist.  There 
fore,  matter  in  general  does  not  exis 
and  the  conditions  of  matter  must 
illusions.     Disease  is  a  condition  of 
ter,  and  is,  therefore,  an  illusion ;  anc 
the  cure  for  it  is  the  removal  of  the  ilk 
sion.     Therapeutics,  evidently,   is   onl> 
secondary  ;  and  an  attack  in  that  direc 
tion,  to  be  effective,  must  be  aimed  bad 
at  the  philosophy.     For  Christian 


Christian  Science. 


435 


ence  therapeutics  is  the  truth  if  Chris- 
tian Science  philosophy  is  the  truth ; 
indeed,  if  Mrs.  Eddy's  premises  be  cor- 
rect, her  conclusion  is  the  only  consistent 
one.  Fundamentally,  Christian  Science 
is  a  philosophy  of  Evil  based  on  a  phi- 
losophy of  Knowledge,  and  its  cure  of 
disease  is  only  incidental,  even  though 
identified  in  the  popular  mind  with  the 
system  itself. 

The  basal  propositions  upon  which 
Christian  Science  may  be  wrought  into 
a  system,  and  at  which  any  criticism  of 
that  system  must  be  directed,  are  its 
teachings  about  God,  Man,  Knowledge, 
Matter,  Evil,  and  Christianity.  Briefly, 
they  are  these :  — 

1.  God,  the  Ego,  is  All  in  All,  the  only 
Life,  Substance,  and  Soul,  the  only  In- 
telligence of  the  Universe.     He  is  Mind 
and  fills  all  space. 

2.  Man  is  the  true  image  of  God ;  he 
has  no  consciousness  of  material  life  or 
death  ;  his  material  body  is  a  mortal  be- 
lief ;  he  was,  is,  and  ever  shall  be  per- 
fect. 

3.  Knowledge.      Knowledge   gained 
from  the  material  senses  is  a  tree  whose 
fruits  are  sin,  sickness,  and  death.     The 
evidence  of  the  senses  is  not  to  be  ac- 
cepted in  the  case  of  sickness  any  more 
than  it  is  in  the  case  of  sin.     The  physi- 
cal senses  are  simply  beliefs  of  mortal 
mind. 

4.  Matter   cannot  be   actual.      God 
being  all,  matter  is  nothing. 

5.  Evil,  (a)    Sin.     Error   is  unreal. 
All  that  God  made  is  good ;  hence  there 
is  no  evil,     (b)  Sickness.     Health  is  not 
a   condition   of   matter.     Human  mind 
produces  organic  disease  as  certainly  as 
it  produces  hysteria,     (c)  Death  is  an 
illusion,     (d)  Cure.     The  cure  for  sin, 
sickness,  and  death  —  since  all  are  illu- 
sions —  is  the  destruction  of  the  illusion. 

6.  Christianity   is  a   demonstration 
of  divine  principle  casting  out  error  and 
healing  the  sick.     Soul  cannot  sin  nor 
being  be  lost.     Scripture  must  be  inter- 
preted spiritually. 


n. 

There  are  four  great  highways  of  evi- 
dence which  will  lead,  I  think,  —  as  all 
roads  met  at  Rome,  —  to  the  essential 
unsoundness  of  Christian  Science :  though 
each  may  bring  us  to  a  different  aspect 
of  it.  In  the  first  place  it  defies  the 
canons  of  history  ;  and  it  may  be  shown, 
in  addition,  to  be  specious  philosophy, 
superficial  science,  and  a  caricature  on 
Christianity. 

Christian  Science  comes  to  us  claiming 
a  revealed  origin  ;  and  the  presumption 
from  the  first  is  therefore  against  it 
Men  who  have  read  history  have  learned 
to  suspect  such  claims.  They  know  that 
thousands  like  it  have  been  made  before  ; 
and  they  know,  too,  that  few  have  stood 
off  oblivion  long  enough  even  to  get 
themselves  discussed.  They  have  come 
to  recognize  certain  characteristics  as 
proofs  of  speciousness  ;  they  have  learned 
to  demand  as  indispensable  certain  other 
distinguishing  qualities.  Simplicity,  with 
a  majestic  mystery ;  humility,  with  a 
commanding  dignity ;  when  these  are 
wanting  —  as  they  are  most  emphatically 
wanting  in  Science  and  Health  —  men 
with  some  knowledge  of  history  have  a 
right  to  be  suspicious  ;  and  when  shocked 
Christian  Science  replies,  "  The  Hand 
that  made  me  is  Divine,"  the  critic,  with 
his  textbook  of  the  Past  open,  answers, 
"  Your  name  is  Legion."  Claims  to 
divinity  must  stand  history's  tests ;  when 
they  fail  to  do  so,  history  can  do  no  more 
than  stamp  them  specious.  And  it  is 
about  as  likely  that  the  Great  Unknown, 
casting  about  for  a  medium  for  his  sani- 
tary pronouncement,  should  have  singled 
out  this  bungling  prophetess,  as  that  the 
immortal  spirits,  dead  and  not  yet  born, 
should  find  no  more  profitable  occupa- 
tion than  strumming  banjos  for  the  de- 
light of  mediums  too  spiritually  consti- 
tuted to  engage  in  honest  work. 

But  Christian  Science  takes  its  second 
fling  at  the  canons  of  history  in  its  atti- 
tude toward  the  future  and  its  limitless 


436 


Christian  Science. 


claims  over  it.  For  this  naive  philosophy 
nothing  is  impossible.  It  is  a  catholicon 
—  absolute  and  unfailing.  The  myste- 
ries of  Life  —  the  one  mystery  especially 
which  has  absolutely  baffled  every  think- 
er who  has  attacked  it  (and  that  includes 
humanity)  —  are  to  Mrs.  Eddy  ridicu- 
lously plain.  We  are  suspicious  of  om- 
niscience, and  we  have  a  right  to  be.  A 
few  aeons  of  disappointed  hopes  have 
taught  us  to  smile  at  that  word  "  Pan- 
acea." 

More  unhistorical  still,  however,  is 
the  claim  of  Christian  Science  to  be,  not 
a  development,  but  a  flash  of  light  from 
heaven.  Truth  hates  haste,  and  history 
knows  no  short  cuts.  Most  iconoclastic 
institutions  have  made  their  entrance  into 
the  world  gradually,  in  the  face  of  re- 
cognized difficulty ;  and,  if  analogies  from 
nature  be  valid,  it  would  seem  that  it  is 
always  thus  with  progressive  processes. 
Indeed,  so  thoroughly  have  men  come  to 
realize  this  fact  that  "  evolution  "  is  a 
byword  with  the  essayists  ;  and  whether 
the  subject  be  "  The  Digestive  Apparatus 
of  the  Oyster,"  or  "  The  Origin  of  Reli- 
gion," they  are  never  tired  of  telling  us 
that  slow  growth  is  the  universal  habit 
of  the  truth.  Only  in  rare  instances  has 
any  new  truth  been  brought  to  light  by  a 
flash ;  the  rule  that  history  teaches  is  —  a 
slow  stumbling  in  the  dark  until  the  light 
is  reached.  The  presumptive  evidence, 
as  the  great  laws  of  life  working  them- 
selves out  in  history  have  made  it  of  value 
to  us,  is  against  Christian  Science.  The 
system  fails  to  align  itself  with  the  past. 
It  fails  emphatically  to  exhibit  the  pre- 
monitory symptoms  of  truth.  And,  apart 
from  all  other  considerations,  these  are 
strong  counts  against  it. 

But,  as  a  system  of  philosophy,  —  and 
as,  essentially,  a  theory  of  matter  and 
knowledge,  —  Christian  Science  is  even 
more  obviously  unsatisfactory.  The 
history  of  idealism  in  modern  times, 
from  Bishop  Berkeley  down  through 
Leibnitz  and  Kant  to  Hegel,  is  one 
of  the  most  fascinating  chapters  in  the 


story  of  thought.  Moreover,  the  contest 
that  raged  so  long  and  so  fiercely  as 
to  the  ultimate  nature  of  knowledge  re- 
sulted, at  least,  in  establishing  the  value 
of  the  profound  idea  that  is  at  the  basis 
of  a  thoughtful  idealism.  The  thinkers 
of  this  school  felt,  not  of  course  for  the 
first  time,  but  perhaps  more  centrally 
and  vividly  than  their  predecessors,  that 
we  had  possibly  been  too  hasty  in  ac- 
cepting as  final  the  outer  world  as  it  im- 
pressed itself  upon  us.  They  suggested 
that  we  be  cautious  in  regarding  as  real 
anything  which  could  not  be  proven  real. 
And,  while  they  realized  that  our  rela- 
tion to  the  objective  world  —  as  mediated 
by  senses  which  we  must  trust  absolutely 
in  their  perceptions,  though  never  allow- 
ing them  to  be  final  in  their  interpreta- 
tions—  was  an  unchangeable  fact,  they 
also  realized  that  the  traditional  theory 
of  matter  and  our  relation  to  it  was  not 
necessarily  the  true  one.  The  value  of 
idealism  became,  of  course,  apparent; 
and  men,  as  usual  in  history,  began  to  be 
extreme.  From  doubting  matter  they 
came  to  deny  it ;  and  the  fundamental 
weakness  of  idealism,  cropping  out  even 
in  its  most  thoughtful  exponents,  but 
painfully  obvious  in  the  extremists,  was 
seen  to  be  its  failure  to  square  with  whs 
we  may  call  —  indefinitely,  it  is  true,  but 
still  intelligibly  —  common  sense.  To 
say  that  matter  is  non-existent  means 
nothing,  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  those 
words  ;  the  only  way  in  which  it  can  be 
made  to  mean  anything  is  by  interpret- 
ing it,  not  as  a  statement  about  matter, 
but  as  an  unusual  definition  of  existence. 
And  it  was  just  this  that  the  profounder 
idealists  had  in  mind.  It  was  not  the 
annihilation  of  phenomenal  existence, 
but  the  distinction  of  it  from  real  exist 
ence  which  they  insisted  upon ;  so  thz 
on  logical  grounds  they  stand  immeasur 
ably  above  the  gross  philosophy  whicl 
identifies  lack  of  "  existence  "  with  nc 
thingness.  Yet,  on  grounds  of  commor 
sense,  even  this  position  is  a  weak  one 
"  The  essence  of  anything,"  said  Spinoz 


Christian  Science. 


437 


in  his  seventh  axiom,  "  which  can  be  con- 
ceived as  non-existent  does  not  imply  ex- 
istence." But  the  point  is  that  matter 
cannot  be  so  conceived.  For  matter  is 
as  existent  as  anything  we  know  about. 
We  can  conceive  of  spirits  as  on  a  higher 
plane  of  existence  because  manifesting 
qualities  which  we,  intuitively  or  empiri- 
cally, if  not  arbitrarily,  call  higher ;  but 
the  qualities  which  we  ascribe  to  spirit 
are  as  much  a  matter  of  perception  with 
us  (though  not,  it  is  true,  directly  per- 
ceived by  the  physical  senses)  as  the  qual- 
ities which  we  ascribe  to  matter.  So 
that,  to  discard  the  findings  of  percep- 
tion is  to  annihilate  not  matter  only, 
but  spirit  also,  and  to  leave  us  with  no 
world  to  explain.  We  must  ask  extreme 
idealists  to  define  their  terms.  When 
they  say  that  matter  does  not  exist  what 
do  they  mean  ?  That  it  really  fails  to 
exhibit  extension  in  space  ?  Then  there 
remains  for  them  to  explain  the  illusion, 
and  they  have  only  substituted  one  prob- 
lem for  another ;  beside  which,  they  have 
denied  to  the  one  object  we  know  which 
seems  to  exhibit  extension  in  space  that 
attribute  without  the  manifestation  of 
which  by  matter  the  whole  conception  of 
extension  in  space  becomes  unthinkable. 
Or  do  they  mean  that  extension  in  space 
can  be  exhibited  by  an  object  which  does 
not  exist  ?  Then  they  are  merely  defin- 
ing existence  in  a  new  way,  and  species 
of  existence  must  now  be  distinguished. 
What  then  do  they  take  as  a  standard  ? 
Spii-itual  existence  ?  This  itself  is  a  mat- 
ter of  perception,  and  there  is  nothing  to 
show  that  it  exhibits  more  stigmata  of 
reality  than  material  existence  —  what- 
ever you  may  hypothecate  about  its  im- 
mortality or  self -consciousness,  which  are, 
after  all,  only  added  attributes  to  an  al- 
ready existent  object.  Or  do  they  speak 
in  terms  of  abstract  existence  ?  Then  I 
answer  that  their  statements  mean  no- 
thing ;  for  while  abstract  existence  may 
be  a  dialectical  entity,  it  is  far  more  rea- 
sonable to  suppose  that  an  object,  with 
which  we  are  brought  into  actual  relation 


with  every  activity  of  the  cells  of  our 
sense-organs,  really  is,  than  to  imagine 
that  existence  is  monopolized  by  a  some- 
thing the  conception  of  which  simply 
passes  human  understanding ;  unless  we 
only  hypothecate  it  as  a  basis  for  the 
actual  world  with  which  we  have  to  do, 
and  so  make  that  world  not  final,  but  a 
manifestation  of  something  more  funda- 
mental. But  philosophy  must  be  more 
than  a  "  soulless  play  of  concepts."  It 
will  not  do  merely  to  "  play  bricks  with 
words  "  and  imagine  that  we  are  doing 
a  grown  man's  work.  It  is  possible,  I 
suppose,  by  way  of  analogy,  to  talk  of 
dry  water.  But  it  is  ridiculous  ;  as  it 
is  always  ridiculous  for  men  to  adopt  the 
concepts  of  another  universe  than  their 
own  and  apply  them  to  present  condi- 
tions. We  mean  nothing  when  we  talk 
in  terms  of  another  existence.  The  world 
of  matter  and  the  world  of  spirit  are  the 
two  worlds  with  which  we  have  actually 
to  do ;  and  to  talk  of  one  of  them  as  illu- 
sional  is  an  attempt  to  view  life  with 
a  perspective  which  only  omniscience 
makes  possible.  "  A  dream  which  all 
dream  together/'  said  Kant,  "  and  which 
all  must  dream,  is  not  a  dream,  but  real- 
ity." "  That  which  is  probable  for  all," 
said  Aristotle,  "  is  certain."  And,  prac- 
tically, too,  the  theory  is  unsatisfactory. 
For,  granted  that  external  objects  have 
no  existence  save  as  subjective  ideas,  how 
will  that  change  my  relation  to  them  ? 
I  cannot  destroy  my  sensations  ;  and  so 
long  as  I  have  sensations  the  illusion 
stays.  While  eyes  and  ears  and  hands 
remain  the  fashion,  the  world  will  exist 
for  me ;  and  my  belief  that  it  does  not 
exist  in  itself,  but  only  in  my  mind,  can 
alter  in  no  respect  my  practical  attitude 
toward  it.  If  subjective  idealism  means 
merely  that  matter  and  spirit  manifest 
themselves  in  different  ways,  then  it  is  a 
self-evident  truth ;  if  it  means  that  all 
our  knowledge  is  a  knowledge  of  rela- 
tions, and  that  the  unconditioned  is  at- 
tainable by  faith  alone,  then  it  is,  if  not 
the  truth,  at  least  defensible  ;  but  if  it 


438 


Christian  Science. 


means,  on  the  other  hand,  that  matter 
can  be  actually  proven  non-existent,  then 
it  is  a  philosophy  which,  though  conceiv- 
ably tenable  for  omniscience,  is  ridiculous 
and  unpractical  as  a  theory  of  life  for 
finite  man.1 

So  much  for  idealism  per  se.  The  un- 
compromising idealism,  however,  which 
Mrs.  Eddy  offers  us  not  only  has  these 
defects,  but  is  guilty  of  a  far  more  seri- 
ous charge.  It  poses  as  an  explanation, 
and  is  in  reality  a  total  evasion.  To 
deny  that  matter  exists,  and  assert  that 
it  is  an  illusion,  is  only  another  way  of 
asserting  its  existence  ;  you  are  freed 
by  your  suggestion  from  explaining  the 
fact,  but  forced  by  it  to  explain  the  il- 
lusion. It  is  the  old  mistake  of  imagin- 
ing that  an  escape  from  a  problem  is  a 
solution.  You  are  out  of  the  frying-pan, 
it  is  true,  but  you  are  in  the  fire  instead. 
Christian  Science  philosophy  makes  sen- 
sations and  dreams  analogous  ;  but  it  is 
a  fallacy  to  attempt  to  analogize  two 
activities  which  not  only  are  felt  to  be 
different  in  kind,  but  which  bear  a  sug- 
gestive time  relation  to  each  other,  and 
without  the  previous  occurrence  of  one 
of  which  the  other  can  never  be  shown 
to  function.  And  this  is  the  fact  about 
sensations  and  dreams.  I  smell  a  rose, 
and  that  night  I  dream  of  what  I  have 
done.  Both  acts,  says  Mrs.  Eddy,  are 
dreams.  Then,  I  answer,  how  do  you 
account  for  my  recognition  of  the  two 
activities  as  different  in  kind  ?  If  all 
psychic  phenomena  are  dreams,  why  do 
I  recognize  only  certain  psychic  phe- 
nomena as  dreams  ?  To  equate  illusion 
and  sensation  is  to  balance  inches  with 
pounds;  and  it  explains  neither.  The 
great  ideal  philosophers  recognized  this 
inadequacy;  though  it  was  Berkeley's 
weakness  that  he  failed  to  recognize  it 
clearly.  Kant,  Leibnitz,  Fichte,  and 
Hegel  were  idealists  with  a  qualifica- 
tion ;  and  this  qualification  was  their 

1  For  a  recent  statement,  in  more  philosophi- 
cal form,  of  the  epistemology  here  advanced, 
see  Reality  and  Delusion,  by  August  Kirch- 


salvation.  But  Mrs.  Eddy  has  strength- 
ened her  position  in  no  such  way.  For 
the  testimony  of  the  senses  is,  to  her, 
absolutely  unacceptable :  not  because  it 
fails  to  be  final,  but  because  it  is  essen- 
tially false.  She  quite  ignores  the  fact 
that  while,  so  long  as  we  have  no  extrin- 
sic standard,  it  may  be  impossible  to 
demonstrate  the  reliability  of  the  senses' 
reports,  it  is  equally,  and  for  the  same 
reason,  impossible  to  prove  their  unreli- 
ability. And  matter,  which  idealism  had 
warned  us  against  accepting  as  known 
or  knowable,  Mrs.  Eddy  rejects,  not  as 
unproven,  but  as  proven  non-existent. 
In  a  word,  she  has  jumped  at  a  conclu- 
sion in  a  way  that  is  pathognomonic  of 
dilettanteism.  From  slight  hints  which 
Nature  gives  that,  in  certain  details,  the 
external  world  is  not  just  as  our  senses 
report  it,  the  wild  hypothesis  is,  I  will 
not  say  arrived  at,  but  rushed  at,  that 
everything  with  which  our  senses  have 
to  do  is  a  deep,  base  lie.  She  tells  us 
that  inasmuch  as  we  cannot  be  sure  that 
the  external  world  does  exist  as  we  per- 
ceive it,  we  must  be  sure  that  it  does 
not  exist  at  all ;  whereas  the  conservative 
and  rational  theory,  which  the  facts  sug- 
gest, is  that  the  report  of  the  senses,  so 
far  from  being  rejected,  is  to  be  sin- 
cerely accepted :  but  always  under  the 
condition  that  the  perceptions  be  sub- 
ject to  mental  interpretation.  "  Do  not 
conclude,"  says  Browning,  "that  the 
child  saw  nothing  in  the  sky  because  he 
assuredly  did  not  see  a  flying  horse  there 
as  he  says." 

While  Christian  Science,  then,  is  so 
closely  allied  to  this  fundamental  posi- 
tion of  philosophy,  it  must  not,  for  a 
moment,  be  supposed  that  it  rises  or 
falls  with  the  rise  or  fall  of  idealism. 
The  latter,  in  its  healthy  manifestations, 
is  one  of  the  profoundly  true  positions 
of  modern  thought,  for  it  makes  the 
valuable  fundamental  distinction  be 

mann.    American  Journal  of  Psychology,  Julj 
October,  1903. 


Christian  Science. 


439 


tween  conditioned  and  non-conditioned 
existence ;  but  Christian  Science  onto- 
logy is  not  healthy  ideal  metaphysics, 
and  the  very  best  that  can  be  said  for 
it  is  that  it  wildly  hypothecates  what 
the  extreme  interpretation  of  ideal- 
ism merely  suggests.  Transcendentally 
speaking,  we  can  never  show  that  mat- 
ter either  has  or  has  not  real  existence. 
The  weakness  lies  not  in  suggesting  that 
it  may  not  exist,  —  philosophers  recog- 
nize that  clearly  enough,  —  but  in  assert- 
ing dogmatically  that  it  does  not  exist ; 
and  Mrs.  Eddy  has  taken  the  weakest 
portions  of  a  weak  philosophy,  and,  by 
subtracting  its  elements  of  strength,  has 
made  it  weaker  still. 

Her  treatment  of  Evil,  too,  —  mani- 
festing itself  in  the  favorite  trio :  sin, 
sickness,  and  death,  —  is  equally  unsatis- 
factory from  the  philosopher's  point  of 
view.  The  explanation  of  each  is  its 
non-existence  ;  the  origin  of  the  illusion 
is  simply  neglected.  Here,  for  example, 
is  a  man  from  whom  you  have  removed 
the  heart.  He  is  dead,  according  to  our 
ignorant  and  loose  use  of  the  word. 
"  No,"  says  Mrs.  Eddy,  "  that  statement 
shows  a  subjective  illusion."  "  Whence 
did  this  illusion  arise  ?  "  I  ask.  "  From 
custom,"  is  the  reply ;  "  men  have 
learned  to  associate  the  supposed  ab- 
sence of  a  non-existent  heart  with  the 
illusion,  death."  kt  But,"  I  say,  "  back 
in  primitive  times,  before  there  were 
customs  or  majority  opinions,  before 
men  had  learned  to  connect  the  heart 
with  life  at  all,  what  started  the  illusion, 
death  ? "  And  there  is  absolute  and 
ridiculous  silence.  She  has  done  nothing 
more,  you  see,  than  define  death  —  and 
the  same  holds  true  of  sickness  —  in  an 
unusual  way ;  but  incapable  of  a  large 
vision,  and  ignorant  of  the  distinction 
between  proximate  and  ultimate  causes, 
she  persuades  herself  that  she  has  really 
explained  the  mystery. 

Moreover,  aside  from  all  theoretical 
considerations,  the  practical  solution  of 
suffering  which  the  heroes  of  life  and 


thought  have  given  us,  and  have  proven 
practicable  by  applying  it  to  the  sorrow 
and  limitations  and  cruel  obstacles  in 
their  own  careers,  has  in  it  so  much  of 
nobility  and  bravery,  so  little  of  hypo- 
crisy and  willing  blindness  to  facts,  — 
rings,  in  a  word,  so  true  to  the  highest 
ideas  and  ideals  of  life,  —  that  the  dis- 
cordant clang  of  this  panacea  grates 
on  a  discriminating  taste.  Blind  John 
Milton,  "  bearing  the  mild  yoke "  in  a 
life  of  high-minded  and  stimulating  con- 
tent ;  Stevenson  refusing  to  allow  medi- 
cine bottles  and  bloody  handkerchiefs 
to  color  his  view  of  things  ;  martyrs  and 
saints  in  high  places  and  low,  going  cheer- 
fully and  usefully  to  work  in  a  world 
whose  ugliest  facts  are  best  known  to 
them  in  some  circumstances  of  their  own 
lives,  which  are  there  to  be  triumphed 
over,  but  which,  nevertheless,  are  there : 
does  not  this  attitude  appeal  by  its  frank- 
ness and  bravery  and  nobility  where 
Christian  Science  disgusts  by  its  insin- 
cerity and  bravado  and  lack  of  refine- 
ment ?  "  That  he  is  unhappy,"  writes 
Epictetus,  "  is  an  addition  which  each 
one  must  make  for  himself  ;  "  signifi- 
cantly calling  attention  to  the  facts  which 
must  exist  before  our  attitude  can  be 
added,  and  reminding  us  that  the  nature 
of  the  addition  we  make  determines  the 
character  of  our  philosophy  —  whether  of 
hope  or  despair  —  and  the  outcome  of  our 
living  —  whether  in  triumph  or  defeat. 

The  theology  which  Mrs.  Eddy  offers 
us  is  nothing  more  nor  less  than  panthe- 
ism. It  is  true  that  she  denies  this  ac- 
cusation often  and  strenuously ;  but,  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  no  grosser  statement 
of  the  pantheistic  position  has  ever  been 
made  than  when  Mrs.  Eddy  attempts 
to  eliminate  matter  by  maintaining  that 
if  it  existed  and  had  real  dimensions, 
God  would  by  it  be  actually  elbowed  out 
because  there  would  be  no  room  for  Him 
in  space.  The  philosophical  argument 
against  pantheism  is,  of  course,  well 
enough  known,  and,  it  may  be  thought, 
admits  of  satisfactory  answer.  I  wish 


440 


Christian  Science. 


here  only  to  point  out  the  inconsistency 
of  Mrs.  Eddy's  adoration  of  the  Bible, 
on  the  one  hand,  and  her  absolute  mon- 
ism, on  the  other.  The  man  who  has 
finally  accepted  pantheism  should,  in- 
deed, take  his  Bible  from  the  philosoph- 
ical shelf  and  treat  it  henceforth  as  mere 
literature.  His  thinking  from  that  time 
on,  if  it  is  to  be  characterized  by  sincer- 
ity and  brave  honesty,  must  find  some 
other  foundation  than  the  book  of  the 
Christians :  for  to  attempt  to  insinuate 
pantheism  in  the  Biblical  philosophy  is 
an  experiment  in  dovetailing,  the  miser- 
able results  of  which  are  among  Mrs. 
Eddy's  most  obvious  failures. 

But  if  the  system  is  heretical  on  the 
philosophical  side,  it  is  even  more  so  as 
science.  Nothing,  I  suppose,  is  more 
characteristic  of  the  best  science  than 
accuracy  of  observation  and  carefulness 
in  recording  it ;  yet  you  will  find  Mrs. 
Eddy's  method  as  loose  in  the  latter  re- 
spect as  it  is  inconsistent  in  quoting  and 
arguing  from  the  evidence  of  the  former. 
Having  positively  overthrown  the  senses' 
testimony,  you  might  be  surprised  to 
find  the  Christian  Scientist  proving  her 
cures  from  data  obtained  by  those  same 
senses ;  but  that  is  because  you  do  not 
understand  the  Divine  Science.  And 
to  one  used  to  the  reports  of  experiments 
written  with  a  carefulness  of  detail  that 
makes  accurate  deduction  possible,  Mrs. 
Eddy's  clinical  records  are  somewhat 
startling.  Let  us  take  a  few  examples. 
In  order  to  prove  that  man  is  neither 
young  nor  old  a  story  is  told  of  a  wo- 
man, who,  becoming  insane  and  losing 
all  account  of  time,  literally  grew  no 
older.  Now  I  am  curious  enough  to  ask 
whether  a  microscopical  examination  of 
her  tissues  actually  showed  no  senile 
changes  ;  also,  if  she  died  ;  and  if  so, 
how  it  was  explained  on  the  hypothesis 
that  death  is  an  illusion  ?  A  scientific 
observer  would  follow  a  case  to  the  end. 
Again,  we  are  frequently  told  of  cures 
of  "consumption  "  and  of  "  organic  dis- 


ease," but  I  am  impudent  enough  to  ask, 
in  the  first  place,  how  the  healer  knew 
what  disease  she  had  in  charge  ;  and,  in 
the  second  place,  what  warrant  she  had 
for  considering  it  cured.  In  view  of  the 
popular  misconceptions  on  medical  sub- 
jects and  the  similarity  of  Mrs.  Eddy's 
claims  to  the  conventional  quackery,  I 
must  ask  something  more  definite  than 
mere  lay  assertions  :  bacteriological  and 
pathological  and  clinical  testimony,  for 
example.  For  if  ever  there  was  debate 
in  which  appeal  to  demonstration  could 
be  final,  the  discussion  about  the  cure  of 
disease  is  that  debate.  Here  is  a  novel 
treatment  claiming  definitely  to  accom- 
plish certain  things  ;  and  Medicine,  her- 
self somewhat  familiar  with  the  condi- 
tions of  the  case,  says  quite  fairly  and 
reasonably,  "  Well  and  good  ;  but  show 
us  your  results."  And  what  has  the  an- 
swer been  ?  Has  the  case  been  ingenu- 
ously submitted  to  competent  judges  ? 
Has  the  slightest  effort  been  made,  by 
those  who  claim  to  have  here  a  balm  for 
every  ill,  to  ascertain  the  facts  and  pub- 
lish them  for  the  conviction  of  the  be- 
nighted world  in  which  Mrs.  Eddy  has 
such  a  keen  maternal  interest  ?  You  may 
search  the  "  literature  "  of  the  subject 
through,  but  you  will  find  not  a  single 
complete  clinical  history,  not  the  record 
of  one  careful  examination,  nothing,  from 
hark  away  to  kill,  beyond  the  "  I  say  so  " 
of  laymen  and  laywomen  who  could  not 
tell  a  floating  cartilage  from  a  floating 
kidney,  or  a  malarial  parasite  from  a 
cobra  de  capello.  For,  though  "  yarbs  " 
have  cured  their  thousands,  and  simples 
their  tens  of  thousands,  you  will  still  find 
men,  like  Judge  Ewing  of  Boston,  who 
ought  to  know  something  of  the  nature  of 
evidence,  throwing  the  whole  weight  of 
the  Christian  Science  structure  on  simi- 
lar and  equally  convincing  testimony. 
But  to  this  deplorable  inaccuracy 
added  a  looseness  of  statement  and  of 
gument  that  is  simply  laughable.  "  Lon- 
gevity is  increasing,"  Mrs.  Eddy  tel 
us,  "  for  the  world  feels  the  alterative 


Christian  Science. 


441 


effect  of  Truth."  Is  this  guessing  or 
statistics  ?  Does  she  seriously  mean  to 
tell  us  that  since  1865,  or  thereabouts, 
the  slight  hold  that  Christian  Science 
has  had  on  the  world  has  really  length- 
ened life  ?  Could  statistics  culled  in  a 
period  covering  only  thirty-eight  years 
really  prove  anything  as  to  longevity  and 
its  cause  ?  Has  she  any  scientific  un- 
derstanding of  the  meaning  of  statistics 
and  of  the  tremendous  periods  they  must 
cover  in  order  to  be  of  value  ?  "  It  is 
proverbial,"  we  are  told  again,  "  that  so 
long  as  you  read  medical  works  you  will 
be  sick ; "  and  the  expansion  of  a  fal- 
lacy with  a  semblance  of  truth  in  it 
into  such  a  lie  as  that  is  expected  to 
appeal  to  hard-headed  men  !  "  The  ear 
really  hears  not,"  Mrs.  Eddy  tells  us  in 
her  typical  dogmatic  way ;  but  such  a 
glib  statement  is  surely  capable  of  de- 
monstration, and  if  the  demonstration 
has  been  wanting,  it  is  fair  to  assume 
that  the  statement  is  prattle.  Will  she 
stuff  her  ears  and  tell  me  what  I  am 
saying  ?  "  Brain,"  we  are  told,  "  is  the 
material  stratum  of  the  human  mind,  a 
mortal  consolidation  of  material  men- 
tality and  its  suppositional  activities  ;  " 
and  we  are  not  surprised  that  a  mind 
which  can  call  that  mess  of  words  a  de- 
finition —  in  face  of  the  fact  that  all 
materiality  has  previously  been  denied 
—  runs  into  argument  after  argument 
whose  weakness  and  looseness  are  ob- 
vious to  the  slightest  thought.  Here 
are  a  few  samples  of  such  logic.  The 
simple  fact  that  the  sun's  apparent  ro- 
tation is  really  due  to  the  movement 
of  the  earth  is  made  a  proof  of  the 
unreliability  of  the  senses'  testimony. 
"  Until  this  false  testimony  of  the  eye 
was  rebuked  by  clearer  views  of  the 
everlasting  facts  it  deluded  the  judgment 
and  induced  false  conclusions  ;  "  but,  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  the  testimony  of  the 
eye  falsely  interpreted,  so  far  from  be- 
ing rebuked  by  clearer  views,  was  set 
straight  by  that  same  eye  -  testimony, 
rightly  interpreted.  It  was  not  the  tes- 


timony, but  the  meaning  of  it,  that  was 
at  fault ;  and  it  is  the  most  specious  sort 
of  logic  which  can  argue  away  the  value 
of  the  sense-organs  by  quoting  conclu- 
sions based  on  the  work  done  by  those 
very  organs.  It  is  obvious  enough  that 
the  brain  is  necessary  back  of  the  senses  ; 
but  that  does  not  eliminate  the  senses. 
For  Copernicus,  as  for  Ptolemy,  the 
thing  seen  was  a  moving  sun ;  Astro- 
nomy was  reborn  only  when  an  old  ob- 
servation received  a  new  and  true  inter- 
pretation. 

Again,  notice  the  absurd  explanation 
of  the  action  of  drugs.  ''  When  the  sick 
recover,"  we  are  told,  "  by  the  use  of 
drugs,  it  is  the  law  of  general  belief,  cul- 
minating in  individual  faith,  which  heals  ; 
even  if  you  take  away  the  individual 
confidence  in  a  drug  .  .  .  the  chemist, 
.  .  .  the  doctor,  and  the  nurse  equip  the 
medicine  with  their  faith,  and  the  ma- 
jority of  beliefs  rules."  Acetanilid,  then, 
reduces  temperature,  by  action  on  the  heat- 
coordinating  nerve  centre,  because  the 
majority  of  men,  or  the  patient  himself, 
believe  this  to  be  the  case.  Well,  the 
fact  is  that  the  majority  of  men  have  never 
heard  of  acetanilid,  or  the  heat  centre  ; 
that  there  was  a  time  when  practically 
no  one  had  heard  of  the  drug,  and  yet  it 
had  the  very  action  that  it  now  exhibits  ; 
that  the  explanation  of  its  power,  as  due 
not  essentially  to  an  effect  on  metabolism 
but  to  an  increase  of  heat-dissipation 
through  a  vaso-motor  change,  had  to  win 
its  way  to  its  present  universal  accept- 
ance in  the  face  of  scientists'  previous 
unanimous  belief  that  the  opposite  was 
the  case  ;  that  the  drug  itself,  in  spite  of 
the  majority  opinion  of  those  who  know, 
—  that  it  will  always  reduce  fever, — 
sometimes  fails  to  do  so  even  when  ex- 
hibited in  maximal  quantities  ;  and  that 
its  action,  so  far  from  being  dependent 
on  the  patient's  belief,  is  observed  in  ani- 
mals, which  may  reasonably  be  assumed 
to  have  no  belief  on  the  subject  whatever  ! 
Again,  Mrs.  Eddy  has  loosely  ignored 
origins.  She  neglects  the  fact  that  a  ma- 


442 


Christian  Science. 


jority  opinion  must  start  somewhere  ;  and 
she  betrays  a  lamentable  ignorance  of  the 
frequency,  in  the  history  of  pharmacolo- 
gy, with  which  an  established  majority 
belief  has  been  overthrown  by  the  ideas 
of  one  man.  Her  explanation,  besides, 
takes  no  account  of  the  varying  action  of 
drugs  when  exhibited  under  varying  con- 
ditions. Some  of  the  antipyretics,  for 
example,  fail  to  reduce  temperature  when 
the  connection  between  body  and  basal 
ganglia  is  broken ;  yet  there  can  be  only 
one  majority  opinion  at  one  time,  and  this 
is  not  affected  by  an  operation  on  an  un- 
conscious dog's  brain.  If  belief  were  the 
essence  of  therapeutics,  patent  medicine 
would,  long  ere  this,  have  induced  para- 
dise :  as  a  myriad  dupes  could  testify. 

But  no  less  deplorable  than  her  inac- 
curacy and  speciousness  is  Mrs.  Eddy's 
ignorance  of  elemental  natural  history,  — 
an  ignorance  quite  unimportant  except 
for  the  fact  that  she  has  not  only  claimed, 
but  actually  usurped,  the  function  of  ora- 
cle to  a  large  and  growing  clientele. 
When  a  finger  is  amputated  we  are  told 
that  the  nerve  is  gone  which  we  say  had 
been  the  occasion  of  pain  in  the  finger ; 
and  referred  pain  after  amputation  is 
made  to  prove  that  sensation  is  inde- 
pendent of  matter.  This  is  inexcusable 
ignorance.  The  nerve  is  not  gone;  and 
pain  is,  of  course,  just  as  possible,  as  it 
is  possible  for  water  to  run  through  a 
hose  with  its  nozzle  wanting ;  or,  in  Weir 
Mitchell's  simile,  as  it  is  possible  to  ring 
a  doorbell  from  any  point  along  the 
wire  as  well  as  from  the  knob  itself. 
The  appearance  of  the  horizon  on  the 
retina  is  cited  as  a  proof  of  the  falsity  of 
sense  testimony  ;  here  sky  and  earth  ap- 
pear to  meet  when,  as  a  matter  of  fact 
(we  are  told  this  as  though  it  were  a  new 
idea),  they  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  Well, 
Mrs.  Eddy  is  apparently  ignorant  of  the 
fact  that  the  retina  alone  does  not  give 
us  our  idea  of  the  outside  world  ;  that  a 
complicated  system  of  fibres,  known  as 
the  optic  tract,  and  a  part  of  the  brain  in 
the  region  of  the  calcarine  fissure  are 


part  and  parcel  of  the  visual  apparatus. 
If  apparent  vision  proves  the  sense-organ 
a  liar,  what  about  the  sight  of  the  mind 
without  an  organ  of  vision  ?  Does  a 
blind  man  see  truly  ? 

Unscientific,  too,  is  the  charlatanry 
with  which  the  author  of  Science  and 
Health  appropriates  for  proof,  as  re- 
sults of  her  system,  cases  in  which  that 
system  has  not  been  applied.  It  is  a 
popular  misconception  that  the  thera- 
peutics of  Christian  Science  is  identical 
with  the  therapeutics  of  Mental  Science  ; 
that  both  teach  the  annihilation  of  exist- 
ent disease  by  the  superior  influence  of 
spirit  over  existent  matter.  True  mental 
therapeutics  is,  however,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  based  on  the  theory  that  disease  is 
a  molecular  disorder,  and  that  the  power 
of  mind  is  curative  by  reason  of  its  abil- 
ity to  bring  order  out  of  molecular  chaos ; 
while  obviously,  Mrs.  Eddy  teaches  no- 
thing of  the  kind.  "  The  remedy  for 
disease,"  as  she  outlines  it,  "  lies  in  prob- 
ing the  trouble  to  the  bottom,  in  finding 
and  casting  out,  by  denial,  the  error  of 
belief  which  produces  a  mortal  disorder, 
and  never  honoring  it  with  the  title  of 
law  or  yielding  obedience  to  it ;  "  and  yet 
in  nearly  every  one  of  her  reported  cures 
such  a  procedure  is  conspicuous  by  it 
absence !  It  is  the  boldest  kind  of  aj 
propriation  to  assume  that  a  given  cui 
is  the  result  of  a  therapy  which  has  not 
been  applied  in  the  case,  but  which  has 
been  replaced  by  methods  of  treatment 
whose  power  is  perfectly  well  recognized. 
And  appropriation  is  only  a  parlor  name 
for  theft. 

But,  again,  Mrs.  Eddy  is  unscientific 
in  her  attitude  toward  the  Bible.     This, 
she  noisily  claims,  over  and  again,  as  her 
sole  guide  ;  but  when  we  press  the  mat- 
ter home  we  find  that  the  Bible  means  ar 
allegory  based  on  the  Hebrew  Scriptures 
interpreted  so  as  to  accord  with  a  specia 
pleader's  views,  and  mutilated  till  it  suj 
ports  them.     It  is  a  canon  of  scientific 
criticism  that  the  right  meaning  of  a  pa 
sage  is  the  meaning  it  would  naturall) 


Christian  Science. 


443 


have  conveyed  to  those  for  whom  it  was 
written.  In  this  light  read  Mrs.  Eddy's 
"  Spiritual  interpretation  "  of  the  Lord's 
Prayer,  which  (though  I  say  nothing  of 
the  actual  mutilation  where,  by  altering 
the  hortatory  of  the  original  Greek,  the 
petition  "  Thy  Kingdom  come  "  is  made 
to  read  "  Thy  kingdom  is  come,"  and  is 
interpreted  as  a  statement  of  a  proposi- 
tion of  Christian  Science)  which,  I  say, 
were  it  not  so  blasphemous,  would  be  as 
ridiculous  as  it  is  unscientific  ;  and  then 
place  with  it  her  interpretation  of  Simon's 
impetuous  reply,  "  Thou  art  the  Christ, 
the  son  of  the  living  God  "  (by  which  he 
meant,  she  says,  "  The  Messiah  is  what 
Thou  hast  declared  —  Christ,  the  divine 
idea  of  Truth  and  Life  which  heals  men- 
tally ")  ;  and,  though  you  are  ignorant 
of  her  ridiculous,  fragmentary  view  of 
Genesis  and  of  numerous  other  absurd  in- 
terpretations which  defy  every  principle 
of  criticism,  you  have  in  these  two  quota- 
tions alone  sufficient  patents  of  quackery. 
But  the  last  item  in  the  indictment  is 
that  Christian  Science  is  fundamentally 
unchristian,  —  a  charge  made,  not  against 
one  who  has  refused  intellectual  assent 
to  a  certain  faith,  in  which  case  it  would 
be  a  statement  and  no  charge,  but 
against  one  confessedly  committed  to  the 
very  tenets  thus  wantonly  emasculated, 
in  which  case  the  question  of  honesty 
naturally  arises.  For  Christianity  cer- 
tainly embodies  some  ideas,  and  you  can- 
not, without  hypocrisy,  bow  piously  in  the 
creed,  and  then  go  about  denying  in  the 
voice  of  the  street  what  you  have  just  in- 
toned. And  central  in  the  Christian  the- 
ology stands  the  idea  of  the  Atonement ; 
for  it  is  the  one  idea,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  uniqueness  of  its  Christian  form,  in- 
timately incorporated  in,  and  expressly 
developed  by,  Jewish  ritualistic  history, 
Psalms  and  Prophecy,  Christ's  own 
words,  and  the  writings  of  apostles  and 
fathers  alike.  To  deny  it  may  be  to  take 
a  perfectly  rational  position  ;  but  of  one 
thing  there  is  no  question  :  it  is  to  take  a 
thoroughly  antichristian  position. 


I  offer  no  theory  of  the  Atonement ; 
nor  do  I  pretend  here  to  defend  the  tra- 
ditional theory.  I  make  all  reasonable 
allowance  for  the  honest  difference  of 
opinion  which  has  long  existed  on  every 
side  of  the  question,  among  those  whose 
ideas  we  are  bound  to  respect,  as  to  the 
correct  interpretation  of  the  mystery.  I 
ask  for  no  hard-and-fast  definition  of  a 
phenomenon  which  men  can  no  more  ex- 
plain than  comprehend.  I  plead  neither 
for  a  vicarious,  nor  for  a  symbolic,  nor 
for  an  idealistic  interpretation.  But  I 
do  say  that,  given  a  belief  in  the  essen- 
tial truth  of  the  Bible,  no  one  can  dare 
honestly  to  call  himself  a  Christian  who 
does  not  regard  Christ's  death  as  sacrifi- 
cial, whatever  interpretation  he  may  sub- 
sequently make  of  that  word.  And  the 
point  is  that  logically,  whatever  may  be 
Mrs.  Eddy's  method  of  smoothing  over 
this  obvious  defect,  the  whole  idea  of  the 
Atonement,  whether  interpreted  sacrifi- 
cially  or  not,  should  be  rejected  by  Chris- 
tian Science  ;  for,  having  annihilated  sin 
as  a  fact  in  life,  what  need  is  there  for  a 
savior  from  sin  ?  But  it  is  characteris- 
tic of  Mrs.  Eddy  to  reject  so  much  of  a 
system  of  thought  as  flies  counter  to  her 
hypotheses,  and  to  accept  enough  to  serve 
for  a  captious  catch-call.  Nazarene,  not 
Christian,  should  she  be  called,  —  as 
Canon  Liddon  said  of  Martineau.  The 
Resurrection,  too,  —  which  most  Chris- 
tian thinkers  rationally  regard  as  a  cen- 
tral fact  in  Christian  apologetics,  —  Mrs. 
Eddy  will  have  none  of.  She  does  not 
deny  the  historical  fact,  —  we  might 
sympathize  with  her  if  she  did.  But  she 
interprets  the  fact  away.  It  is  not,  she 
tells  us,  a  demonstration  of  Christ's 
divinity,  but  of  man's  divinity.  Christ 
rose  —  that  is,  spirit  overcame  matter  — 
in  order  to  show  that  man  may  do  the 
same.  "  Anybody  can  do  that,"  is  her 
Easter  hymn ;  and  it  seems  only  a  fail- 
inference  to  draw  that  a  system  which  re- 
jects both  Atonement  and  Resurrection 
does  little  less  than  masquerade  when  it 
poses  as  Christian. 


444 


Christian  Science. 


But  it  is  in  her  attitude  toward  the 
Scriptures  that  Mrs.  Eddy  is  most 
brazenly  unchristian.  This  shows  itself, 
first,  in  literal  contradiction  ;  for  exegesis 
with  her  means  acceptance  of  so  much 
of  the  Bible  as  aligns  itself  with  her 
hypotheses,  and  flat  contradiction  of  the 
rest.  Her  pages  bristle  with  assertions 
most  strikingly  opposed  to  the  state- 
ments of  the  Book  she  loves  so  much,  and 
the  opposition  extends,  in  many  cases, 
to  verbal  gainsaying.  But  what  are  we 
to  expect  ?  We  cannot  ask  literal  con- 
sistency of  one  whose  theory  of  interpre- 
tation allows  her  to  accept  as  revealed 
truth  two  chapters  and  five  verses  of 
Genesis  because  so  much  of  it  answers 
her  needs,  and  to  reject  as  Error's 
Story  the  rest  of  the  account,  for  the 
very  acceptable  reason  that  it  fails  to 
square  with  her  ideas !  The  fact  is, 
Mrs.  Eddy's  loving  adoration  of  the 
Bible  shrivels,  under  the  light  of  inves- 
tigation, to  the  crassest  maudlin  senti- 
ment. She  is  innocent  of  exegesis.  Eise- 
gesis  she  has  substituted  for  it,  and  she 
has*  done  it  clumsily. 

It  often  happens,  however,  that  heresy 
hi  spirit  is  more  serious  than  crime 
against  the  letter :  and  Mrs.  Eddy's  is  a 
case  in  point.  Her  philosophy  is  more 
blasphemous  than  her  exegetical  mutila- 
tion. The  Bible  has  little  or  nothing  to 
say  as  to  the  origin  of  evil ;  for  the  ac- 
count of  the  Fall  is,  after  all,  not  an  ex- 
planation, but  a  description.  But  it  has 
a  great  deal  to  say  on  man's  attitude  to- 
ward the  problem.  I  suppose  it  says  it 
nowhere  more  fully  nor  more  clearly 
than  in  the  Book  of  Job :  the  book  which, 
Mr.  Froude  tells  us,  "  will  one  day  be 
seen  towering  up  alone,  far  away  above 
all  the  poetry  of  the  world."  I  take  it 
that  that  book  teaches  essentially  three 
things  as  to  suffering :  first,  that  it  is 
really  here ;  second,  that  God,  if  not  its 
author,  has,  at  least,  an  overseeing  part  in 
it ;  and  third,  that  the  solution  consists, 
not  in  denial  of  the  fact,  but  in  one's  atti- 
tude toward  the  fact.  In  one  line  —  mag- 


nificent and  triumphant  —  the  man  of  Uz 
outlined  the  attitude  toward  suffering 
which  found  favor  with  God.  "  Though 
he  slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust  him ;  "  that 
was  the  optimism  of  Job.  And  the 
whole  Bible  teaches  no  other.  From 
Genesis  to  Revelation  the  word  is,  En- 
dure ;  and  Christ  himself  never  at- 
tempted to  treat  as  anything  less  than 
fact  the  sorrow  of  the  world,  before  his 
share  of  which  even  his  own  bravery  al- 
most flinched.  There  is  nowhere  the 
slightest  Scriptural  warrant  for  expect 
ing  immunity  from  pain.  No  rosy  pic- 
ture is  anywhere  drawn.  The  only  solu- 
tion of  the  problem  from  first  to  last 
is  the  old-fashioned  trust  of  intelligent 
resignation.  And  the  drama  of  Job, 
aligning  itself  with  Scripture  as  a  whole, 
teaches  as  plainly  as  drama  can  teach 
that  faith  is  the  only  philosophy  which 
can  square  with  God's  demands ;  that, 
as  Mr.  Froude  puts  it,  "  no  clearer  or 
purer  faith  is  possible  for  man  than  that 
which  Job  achieved  when  he  learned  to 
feel  that  he  could  do  without  happiness 
that  it  was  no  longer  essential,  that  he 
could  live  on  and  still  love  God  and  cling 
to  Him."  This  is  the  answer  of  the  He- 
brew poem  to  the  world's  great  question  : 
Be  brave  and  trust ;  for  "  only  to  those 
who  have  learned  to  say  '  We  can  do 
without  happiness,  it  is  not  what  we  ask 
or  desire,'  is  there  no  secret."  But  for 
Christian  Science  the  opposite  is 
truth.  With  a  flare  of  bravery  that 
nothing  more  than  bravado,  a  foolisl 
claim  of  certainty  is  substituted  for 
majestic  and  triumphant  faith.  Suffei 
ing  is  no  longer  a  mystery  and  trust 
impossible.  The  grim  philosophy  of  Jot 
which  has  seldom  failed  in  history 
lead  to  the  sturdy  faith  that  makes  mer 
is  swept  away  at  a  blow  ;  and  in  its  pi 
we  have  the  effeminate  bravery  of  a  vi 
gar  creed  of  certainty.  Essentially 
lacks  nobility.  If  it  had  been  regarde 
as  truth  from  the  first,  history  woulc 
have  lost  its  chapter  of  heroes.  It  stands 
condemned  by  rational  philosophy 


Christian  Science. 


445 


shamed  by  Christian  faith ;  and  by  its 
fundamental  opposition  to  the  Scriptural 
theory  of  the  solution  of  the  problem  of 
evil,  it  brands  itself  as  criminally  incon- 
sistent. It  is  nothing  less  than  blasphemy 
—  and  blasphemy  of  the  most  insidious 
kind  —  to  distort  the  plain  philosophy  of 
the  Bible,  until  it  offers  men  the  pathetic 
delusion  that  they  are  to  escape  completely 
the  suffering,  without  a  relatively  large 
share  of  which  no  human  being  has  been 
known  to  pass  his  threescore  and  ten. 
The  essential  unsoundness  of  practical 
Christian  Science  lies  here :  that  a  phi- 
losophy is  proposed  which  assumes  man 
made  purposely  for  perfect  happiness  in 
this  dispensation,  —  an  assumption  at 
once  gratuitous  if  observation  base  phi- 
losophy, and  groundless  if  Holy  Writ  be 
the  standard.  It  is  not,  as  Dr.  Wace 
said  in  a  very  different  connection,  that 
things  ought  not  to  be  so  explained,  but 
that  they  cannot  be.  Mrs.  Eddy's  op- 
position to  the  spirit  of  the  Bible  is  even 
more  fundamentally  heretical  than  her 
contradictions  of  its  letter ;  and  the  evi- 
dence of  infidelity  to  professed  standards, 
corroborating  the  evidence  of  historical, 
philosophical,  and  scientific  weakness, 
points  to  the  fact,  or,  —  if  knowledge 
may  never  get  higher  than  probability,  — 
to  the  extremely  well-founded  probabil- 
ity that  Christian  Science  is,  at  the  best, 
a  long,  long  way  from  the  truth. 

m. 

The  bald  facts  of  life  may  be  said  to 
be  the  legitimate  forbears  of  pessimism  ; 
the  possibilities  of  life  the  legitimate  for- 
bears of  meliorism ;  and  rose-water  op- 
timism a  bastard  for  which  indifference, 
ignorance,  or  inexperience  is  responsible. 
Pessimism  is  here  ;  meliorism  must  be 
constructed.  Material  for  it  exists,  no 
doubt ;  but  it  is  not  obvious,  does  not  ob- 
trude like  the  other,  —  must,  indeed,  be 
sought  for  with  diligence,  and  marshaled, 
even  whipped,  into  line  before  any  ser- 
viceable theory  results.  That  the  Evil 
of  the  world  is  a  reality,  that  improve- 


ment is  a  possibility,  but  that  equation  of 
facts  with  our  highest  desires  is  an  ex- 
treme improbability  :  this  is  a  creed  to 
which,  I  suppose,  the  most  wholesomely 
thoughtful  among  men  would  not  hesitate 
to  subscribe.  "  Panacea  "  and  "  De- 
spair "  are  twin  devil-words,  which,  de- 
spite their  fascination,  history  has  blot- 
ted from  thoughtful  language.  Healthy- 
minded  men,  while  they  do  not  blind 
themselves  by  gazing  straight  at  the  sun, 
are  broad  enough,  at  the  same  time,  not 
to  turn  backs  to  the  sun  and  spend  their 
lives  with  eyes  on  the  shadows.  Not  to 
emphasize  either  the  cloud  or  the  lining, 
but  to  stand  aside  that  we  may  see  both, 
—  this  is  the  liberalism  of  culture.  Evil 
is  a  fact ;  but  possibility  of  improvement 
is  also  a  fact ;  and  the  honest  seeker  af- 
ter truth  must  not  look  so  intently  at  the 
former  as  to  be  blind  to  the  latter.  Men 
who  have  known  what  it  is  to  suffer  and 
to  see  others  suffer  are  cruel  if  they  are 
not  ever  ready  to  accept  any  innovation 
that  gives  promise  of  amelioration.  But 
such  men,  aware  of  the  terrifying  power 
of  disease,  and  of  the  pathetically  help- 
less attitude  which  medicine  must  take 
before  so  many  of  its  manifestations,  will 
turn  with  a  sickening  sense  of  disappoint- 
ment and  disgust,  and  a  humiliating  feel- 
ing of  tricked  credulity,  from  the  boastful 
claims  of  Christian  Science.  Its  ridicu- 
lous extremism,  unsupported  by  dignity, 
breadth,  or  logic,  marks  it  unmistakably 
as  charlatanry.  It  ignores  the  past,  as 
it  defies  the  future.  It  makes  limitless 
claims,  substitutes  assertion  for  proof, 
prefers  the  captious  to  the  logical, 
abounds  in  contradiction,  never  hesitates 
to  shift  ground  when  the  enemy's  firing 
grows  hot,  answers  unanswerable  argu- 
ment with  suave  evasion,  contents  itself 
with  the  most  obviously  superficial  rea- 
soning, appropriates  as  its  own  work 
what  is  manifestly  the  work  of  others  : 
in  a  word,  exhibits  absolutely  no  points 
of  strength,  courage,  or  consistency,  but 
preserves  an  unbroken  monotony  of  fan- 
tastical word-play  that,  were  it  true, 


446 


Christian  Science. 


would  be  as  hopelessly  unpractical  as, 
being  false,  it  is  hopelessly  unappealing. 
And  when  all  is  said  and  done,  what  does 
it  offer  suffering  men  ?  Why,  this  emi- 
nently satisfying  advice  :  that  to  ignore 
obstacles  is  to  overcome  them  ;  that  to 
avoid  the  precipice  we  must  close  our 
eyes  and  be  blind  to  it ;  that  the  darkness 
of  night  is  to  be  illuminated  by  blowing 
out  the  stars !  And  what  is  the  word 
with  which  we  are  sent  back  to  a  world 
of  error  and  ignorance  and  sin  and  suf- 
fering ?  That  God's  service  is  the  dead- 
ening of  sensation  ;  that  a  world  of  brave- 
ly struggling  individuals  must  be  trans- 
formed into  a  raft  of  logs :  heroes  and 
God's  men  being  the  most  thoroughly 
anaesthetized  among  them  ! 

And  yet  it  is  interesting  to  inquire 
whether  the  "  genetic  succession  of 
ideas  "  may  not  be  found  to  account  for 
the  presence  in  the  world  —  not  of  Chris- 
tian Science,  for  that  certainly  can  be 
given  no  place  in  so  distinguished  an  evo- 
lution, but  —  of  the  general  mental  move- 
ment of  which  it  is  but  one,  and  that  a 
pathological,  manifestation.  And  I  think 
the  people  who  are  fond  of  the  word  "  in- 
evitable "  might  use  it  with  some  effect 
in  this  connection.  It  might,  for  instance, 
be  found  that  a  movement,  no  matter  how 
exorbitant,  which  tended  to  restrain  a 
popular  mind  now  in  extravagant  ecsta- 
sy over  a  purely  natural  method  could, 
where  it  touched  thought  at  all,  only  im- 
prove it.  For  it  ought  not  to  be  forgotten 
that  the  great  problem  as  to  the  ultimate 
nature  of  matter  and  spirit  is  not  yet 
really  laid  ;  nor  assumed  that  it  will  ever 
be  solved  by  a  "  wave  of  the  critical 
hand."  History  has,  it  is  true,  shown 
the  practical  results  of  spiritual  intoxi- 
cation :  volatilization  of  activity  with 
nothing  more  virile  than  asceticism  left. 
But  it  has  also  shown  something  of  the 
other  extreme,  —  prostitution  of  activity, 
degradation  of  purpose,  and  worship  of 
license  that  come  when  a  people  has 
*'  sucked  —  got  drunk  —  at  the  nipple  of 
sense."  And  it  may  quite  conceivably 


be  true  that  we  need,  both  in  our  philoso- 
phy and  in  our  life,  a  reminder  of  the 
mental  problem,  so  busy  are  we  with  the 
concerns  of  the  physical.  For  Science,  • 
a  loose  enough  word  to  be  sure,  but  one 
suggesting  pretty  definitely  the  attitude 
of  mind  which  inaccurate  usage  has  assc 
ciated  with  it,  —  having  passed  her  non- 
age and  reached  her  proverbially  dan- 
gerous majority,  begins  to  assume  the 
precarious  function  of  making  the  tra- 
ditions ;  and  mindful,  perhaps,  of  the 
bullying  to  which  she  was  subjected  in 
youth,  when  the  traditions  had  another 
source,  she  has  in  some  instances  be£ 
to  bully  in  turn.  We  have,  for  example, 
but  the  other  day,  seen  a  book  —  the 
reasoning  of  which  was  pronounced  from 
a  high  source  to  be  a  disgrace  to  the  phi- 
losophy of  Germany  —  set  the  scientific 
world  agape,  and  the  pseudo-scientific 
herd  hurrying  along  after  it  like  hungry 
sheep,  for  no  better  reason  than  that  the 
author  spoke  the  tongue  of  science  like  a 
native,  — the  tongue  from  the  vocabulary 
of  which  "  authority  "  and  its  synonyms 
were  once  blotted  with  such  gusto.  It  is 
quite  easy,  indeed,  to  forget  the  limits  be- 
yond which  Roger  Bacon  long  ago  stated 
that  scientific  explanation  had  no  right 
to  go ;  and,  rushing  into  metaphysics,  to 
indulge  in  dogmatism  far  more  sweeping 
than  that  which  is  criticised  so  keenly  in 
the  opponents. 

But  the  simple  fact  remains  that  the 
question  "  Whence  ?  "  still  goes  unan- 
swered save  for  the  old-fashioned  reply  ; 
and  the  chief  objection  to  that  rejoinder 
seems  to  be  that  it  clashes,  not  with 
truth,  but  with  the  new  traditions,  — 
which  is  a  sort  of  reversed  echo  from  the 
past  with  a  ring  Science  ought  to  reco| 
nize.  And  while  we  cannot  complain  if 
Science  refuse  to  dally  with  that  question, 
—  indeed  the  point  is  that  her  sphere 
lies  entirely  this  side  of  it,  and  has  to  dc 
with  that  other  question,  "  How  ?  "  —  we 
are  right  in  complaining  if  she  presumes, 
with  no  more  data  than  are  now  at  hand, 
to  answer  it  definitely  with  any  othe 


Christian  Science, 


447 


word  than  the  traditional  one.  Sugges- 
tive phenomena,  too,  keep  crowding  to 
the  front  with  every  advance  in  know- 
ledge, which  make  it  idle  blandly  to  dis- 
miss the  metaphysical  element  in  living 
activity. 

In  calling  attention  to  this  limitation 
of  a  purely  natural  method,  it  is  by  no 
means  necessary,  of  course,  to  degrade 
criticism  to  tirade.  It  would  be  idle,  as 
it  would  be  unjust,  to  attempt  to  detract 
from  the  glory  of  the  recent  triumphs  of 
Natural  Science.  The  term,  indeed,  has 
been  not  so  much  developed  as  made 
anew.  Old  fields  have  been  worked  out 
and  fresh  ones  opened.  New  hypotheses, 
new  methods,  and  a  new  spirit,  —  what 
could  these  beget  save  an  almost  new 
world  of  thought  ?  Instruments  hitherto 
undreamed  of  for  their  delicacy  and  in- 
genuity, a  technique  almost  fantastic  in 
some  of  its  refinements,  an  equipment 
made  possible  by  the  combination  of 
growing  interest  and  growing  wealth,  a 
spirit  almost  religious  in  its  enthusiasm, 
fidelity,  high  ideals,  and  intolerance  of 
defect,  —  these  are  some  of  the  forces 
whose  resultant  we  see  in  that  array  of 
facts  and  figures,  laws  and  hypotheses, 
truths  and  guesses,  which,  massed  to- 
gether, we  know  as  Science.  And  the 
questioner  has  known  no  bounds.  Birth 
and  death,  hitherto  restraints  to  inquiry, 
no  longer  block  the  way.  Research  re- 
fuses to  confine  her  labors  to  the  day  of 
Life.  She  will  prevent  the  morning ; 
and  far  into  the  dark,  when  only  the 
stars  are  burning,  she  will  carry  the 
query  with  a  brave  spirit,  a  triumphant 
hope,  and  what  light  from  the  day  her 
ingenuity  can  devise.  "  But  do  not  con- 
clude from  this,"  the  mental  philosophy 
might  say,  "  that  the  whole  problem  has 
been  cleared  up."  The  "  Topsy  "  theory 
of  things  —  that  they  "  just  growed  "  — 
has  yet  to  prove  itself  the  final  theory ; 
Feuerbach's  definition  of  man  ("  Er  ist 
was  er  isst ")  has  not  given  quite  the 
complete  satisfaction  once  prophesied 
and  hoped  for ;  mental  causation,  as 


Martineau  said,  has  not  been  success- 
fully reduced  to  physical  by  diluting  it 
with  duration ;  nor  is  there  now  any 
more  reason  than  in  Romanes's  day  for 
concluding  that,  when  "  a  phenomenon 
has  been  explained  by  means  of  natural 
causation,  it  has  thereupon  ceased  to  be 
ascribable  to  God."  It  is,  moreover,  to 
put  it  mildly,  hasty  epistemology  to  echo 
the  trite  and  tiresome  monotone  running 
through  thought  and  literature  to-day  : 
"  We  know  only  what  we  see  or  feel  or 
taste  or  hear  or  smell ;  "  and  any  system, 
be  it  Christian  Science  or  what  not, 
which  strikes  a  blow  at  this  cheap  sort 
of  precipitate  conclusion  from  quite  in- 
adequate data  has,  to  that  extent,  struck 
for  fairness,  if  not  for  the  truth. 

But  such  considerations  as  these  lead 
us  somewhat  afield ;  for  our  most  obvious 
task,  in  view  of  the  popular  identifica- 
tion of  Christian  Science  with  its  thera- 
peutics, is  to  determine  whether  this 
thought-deformity  —  whatever  may  be 
our  criticism  of  its  metaphysics  —  has 
really  anything  of  value  to  offer  ortho- 
dox medicine  as  regards  either  its  theory 
or  its  practice.  Now  it  must  never  be 
forgotten  that  the  moment  we  make 
philosophical  inquiry  into  the  nature  of 
disease  we  enter  on  a  devious  path 
leading  through  delicate  metaphysical 
ground.  The  word  itself  hardly  admits 
of  exclusive  definition  ;  and,  though  you 
have  as  you  think  never  so  satisfactory 
a  theory,  you  will  be  sore  put  to  it  to 
understand  or  explain  intelligently  many 
pathological  phenomena  lying  in  the  twi- 
light realm  between  perfect  health  and 
outspoken  disease.  You  cannot  draw 
sharp  lines  about  disease  by  making  it 
always  depend  on  a  pathological  lesion, 
and  so  class  those  morbid  phenomena, 
with  apparently  no  such  etiology,  as  illu- 
sory conditions.  For  that  test  is  obvi- 
ously impossible  always  to  apply.  Nor 
will  it  do  to  imagine  that  by  introducing 
the  word  "  neurasthenia  "  or  "  psycho- 
sis "  the  problem  vanishes.  For  pain, 
one  of  the  most  constant  and  striking 


448 


Christian  Science. 


manifestations  of  disease,  is  so  obviously 
a  subjective  symptom  that  our  diagnosis 
of  it  as  "  in  the  head  "  not  only  gives  us 
no  solution  of  the  problem,  but  is  a  hair- 
fine  distinction  for  the  patient,  whose 
testimony,  after  all,  is  the  final  witness 
as  to  the  existence  or  non-existence  of 
the  condition  in  question.  The  problem 
of  perception  is,  of  course,  elusive  enough, 
attack  it  where  you  will ;  but  when  the 
question  is  of  such  a  nature  that  the 
perceptive  faculties  of  more  than  one 
individual  may  be  called  into  court,  we 
have,  at  least,  the  law  of  probability  to 
guide  us.  So  that  if  one  man  sees  a 
golden  cross  in  the  sky  and  a  hundred 
thousand  cannot  see  it,  the  verdict  can 
only  be  one  way.  "  Illusory  pain  "  can- 
not, however,  be  so  easily  dealt  with  ; 
so  that  when  Christian  Science  offers  us 
a  theory  of  disease  which  is  manifestly 
not  the  true  one,  Medicine  ought  to  re- 
member that  her  own  pathological  theory 
of  the  thing,  though  perfectly  satisfac- 
tory so  far  as  it  goes,  ceases  to  be  in- 
vulnerable where  all  natural  reasoning 
begins  to  weaken,  —  at  the  mysterious 
blending  of  physical  and  "  mental  "  con- 
ditions. As  a  matter  of  fact,  technical 
terminology  no  more  explains  "  illu- 
sional  "  pathological  conditions  unasso- 
ciated  with  known  lesions,  than  Chris- 
tian Science  explains  ordinary  organic 
disease.  Virtually  an  orthodox  physician 
yields  to  the  Christian  Science  position 
when  he  talks  of  "  appendicular  hypo- 
chondriasis ; "  but  these  and  similar 
perfectly  legitimate  descriptive  words 
are  disingenuously  assumed  to  be  at  the 
same  time  explanatory  in  a  far  different 
sense.  So  long,  however,  as  we  cannot 
ourselves  offer  any  explanation  that  is 
satisfactory,  a  bland  dismissal  of  a  the- 
ory of  disease  —  which  emphasizes,  even 
if  it  exaggerates,  the  mental  factors  of 
pathological  conditions — is  unwarranted. 
For  there  are  certainly  clinical  facts  — 
like  the  curious  phenomena  of  hysteria 
— far  too  suggestive  to  be  waved  away  ; 
and  to  attempt  to  cover  our  low-sound- 


ing ignorance  with  high-sounding  wore 
is    merely  to  substitute  the  pretentioi 
Latin  of  the  physician  for  the  captious 
capitals  of  Mrs.   Eddy,  —  without  anj 
gain   in   the   logical    appeal.     For   the 
problem  is  a  real  one.     On  this  side,  ol 
vious  physical  facts ;  on  that  side,  quit 
as  apparent  "  mental  "  phenomena ;  be 
tween  them,  a  mysterious  link,  the  exist 
ence  of  which  long  ago  ceased  to  be  de 
batable.     What  sort  of  a  theory  is 
which  removes  or  lessens  the  mystery 
Certainly  not  the  one  Mrs.  Eddy  ha 
given  us,  —  that  to  acknowledge  the  mei 
tal  factors  of  disease  or  health  is  to  make 
cancer  a  phantom.     But  when  that 
said  the  problem    still  looms,  —  loor 
large  despite  a  scientific  shrug,  an  ii 
posing  dialect,  a  condescending   smile 
How  satisfactorily  to  comprehend  the  eti- 
ological  importance  of  mental  states 
disease,  and  the  relation  of  tissue  change 
to  psychoses  ;  how  intelligently  to  applj 
to  therapeutics  the  mental  factor  whicl 
present  ignorance  forces  us  to    negle 
altogether,  or  to  treat  as  a  mere  plaj 
thing,  —  these  are  the  problems  whicl 
the  "  mental  "  movement  is  giving  ove 
to  science  for  solution.  Christian  Scienc 
may  have  succeeded  in  calling  more  ei 
phatic  attention  to  a  neglected  group 
phenomena ;  certainly  it  has  failed  sat 
isfactorily  to  interpret  them.     But  just 
as  certainly,  in  spite  of  a  tendency  in- 
differently to  shun  the  issue  or  to  regai 
the  question  as  a  closed  one,  the  la 
word  is  very  far  from  having  been  sa 
on  this  mysterious  subject. 

And  all  this  theoretical  consideratior 
has  a  very  practical  bearing.     For  this 
much  may  at  least  be  said  :  that,  how- 
ever great  be  the  limitations  in  our  the 
ory,  the  relation  of  intelligence  to  disea 
is  a  clinical  reality.    In  the  large  major 
ity  of  patients  (most  typically,  perhaps 
in  those  afflicted  with  tumors)  it  is  hai 
to  conceive  that  this  relation  means  any- 
thing at  all :  for  there  is  not  the  slighte 
trustworthy  evidence  that  the  course 
one  of  these  has  ever  in  a  single  instam 


The  Frenchwoman's  Son. 


449 


been  affected  by  the  mental  state.  In 
others,  however,  the  "  habit  of  mind " 
seems  to  be  an  important  factor  in  deter- 
mining the  occurrence  or  issue  of  disease, 
—  a  proposition  of  no  mystical  nature 
if  the  well-established  relation  between 
"  emotions  "  and  physiological  processes 
be  kept  in  mind.  And  if  this  be  true, 
as  I  think  it  is,  the  therapeutic  deduction 
is  obvious.  Moreover,  it  is  a  deduction 
which  a  generation  destined  to  a  high- 
tension  life  (such  as  the  coming  genera- 
tion will  necessarily  lead)  would  do  well 
to  write  on  the  tablets  of  their  hearts. 
It  is  not  mysticism,  but  the  statement 
of  clinical  inference,  to  call  Descartes' 
motto — "tacher  tou jours  a  me  vain- 
cre  "  *  —  good  hygiene  as  well  as  good 
philosophy ;  and  if  the  children  of  to- 
day, who  are  to-morrow's  men,  be  taught 
to  overcome  that  sort  of  selfishness  which 
centres  attention  on  one's  own  sensations, 
future  health  will  have  been  potentially 
promoted  by  the  relegation  to  history  of 
that  class  who  —  "  habit,"  with  them, 
"  tending  toward  disease "  (as  Burton 
said)  —  enter  the  large  army  of  the  neu- 
rasthenics, and  worry  themselves  into 
their  graves.  For  the  striking  fact  is  that 
people  of  high  intelligence  and  of  natu- 
ral or  studied  composure  actually  offer  a 
stronger  front  to  disease,  other  things  be- 


ing equal,  than  their  weaker  brethren. 
If  a  cancer  single  them  out  they  will,  of 
course,  go  the  one  way,  for  all  their 
"  willing  ;  "  but  with  a  properly  schooled 
mind  the  man  of  an  average  constitution, 
decently  cared  for,  may  actually  avoid 
that  great  class  of  diseases  which,  though 
their  etiology  is  not  yet  clear,  are  certain- 
ly furthered,  if  not  started,  by  an  impro- 
per mental  attitude.  High-minded  and 
intelligent  indifference  to  small  but  an- 
noying ailments  beyond  cavil  increases 
effectiveness  and  makes  for  health. 

The  history  of  philosophy  has  grown 
up  about  three  high  aims  of  intellect. 
Theories  of  the  Universe,  theories  of 
Knowledge,  theories  of  Evil :  these  are 
the  massive  concept-systems  which  As- 
piration has  left  pricking  up  into  history, 
relieving  the  deeps  of  degeneration,  and 
ribbing  —  as  mountain  ranges  stand  out 
from  a  continent — the  dead  flat  of  self- 
content.  But  Christian  Science,  exhib- 
iting no  constructive  activity  whatever, 
has  certainly  played  no  part  in  this  crea- 
tive work.  No  peak  in  the  philosophi- 
cal landscape  reaches,  after  Mrs.  Eddy's 
vaporings,  one  whit  nearer  heaven.  The 
most  charitable  thing  to  be  said  is  that 
attention  has  again  been  called  to  certain 
glaring  defects  and  limitations  in  our 
much  vaunted  towers  of  Babel. 

John  W.  Churchman. 


THE  FRENCHWOMAN'S   SON. 


IT  was  the  year  of  the  coarse  April 
that  the  Frenchwoman's  son  took  to  the 
woods.  He  had  no  reason,  except  that 
with  the  spring  he  had  become  abruptly 
aware  that  since  his  mother's  death  his 
house  was  intolerable,  and  that  he  could 
farm  no  longer  on  the  small  holding  that 
had  been  hers.  It  was  beyond  him  to 

"  TScher  toujours  plutot  a  me  vaincre  que 
la  fortune  et  a  changer  mes  de"sirs  que  1'ordre 
du  monde." 

VOL.  xcin.  —  NO.  558.  29 


dig,  and  plant  potatoes,  and  raise  two 
lean  pigs  to  be  killed  in  the  fall.  He 
left  Bear  Cove  without  ostentation,  and 
his  absence  found  it  indifferent ;  he  had 
never  been  an  ornament,  nor  precisely 
a  reproach ;  but  neither  was  he  missed. 
The  priest  was  the  only  soul  in  the  par- 
ish who  stood  an  instant  at  the  shut  door 
of  the  silent,  forlorn  house,  and  even  he 
said  nothing.  As  for  his  thoughts,  they 
were  more  in  tune  with  the  ceaseless  rain 


450 


The  Frenchwoman's  Son. 


than  with  the  battering  -west  wind  that 
was  driving  the  ice  off  the  shore  and  lift- 
ing up  the  dull  winter  grass.  But  he  had 
been  too  cold  all  winter,  and  too  much 
given  to  fasting  that  the  poor  of  his  flock 
might  eat,  to  have  much  of  the  spring  in 
his  blood.  And  the  fact  remained ;  the 
Frenchwoman's  son  was  gone. 

He  had  made  inland  of  a  rough,  gray 
morning,  and  his  method  of  traveling 
was  the  method  of  the  otter,  who  never 
sleeps  two  nights  in  the  same  place  ;  and 
for  a  fortnight  he  rioted  in  it.  He  sang 
to  himself  as  he  toiled  over  the  wet,  tree- 
less barrens ;  laughed  when  he  just  got 
out  with  his  life  from  the  sucking  soil 
of  the  Long  Swamp,  which  was  not 
a  thoroughfare ;  was  exultant  when  he 
came  at  last  to  the  woods  where  the  trees 
were  a  man's  girth  round.  He  had  turned 
his  back  on  the  sea  for  good  and  all ;  on 
the  gray  swelter  of  the  spring  tides ;  on 
the  winter-thickened  waves  that  ran  sul- 
len, too  cold  to  break ;  on  the  miserable 
village  that  dragged  a  living  out  of  the 
bitter  water  and  the  sour,  brackish  land. 
He  was  free.  He  did  not  even  mind  the 
icy  rain,  nor  the  wicked  gales  that  blew 
all  that  month,  though  down  on  the  shore 
he  had  left  they  would  have  been  another 
matter.  He  was  where  he  belonged ;  and 
he  accepted  the  rough  weather  as  pla- 
cidly as  did  the  just  come  robins  that 
sang  all  round  him,  no  more  at  home 
than  he.  Things  he  had  never  known 
came  to  him  spontaneously.  He  built 
and  lit  his  fires  of  wet  wood  without  any 
trouble  to  speak  of,  though  he  had  scarce- 
ly made  a  fire  out-of-doors  in  his  life ;  and 
the  camp  that  he  began  to  build  one 
morning  by  the  head  waters  of  the  lonely 
Sou'west  was  done  in  a  way  which  was 
not  that  of  the  shore  settlements,  nor  of 
any  shelter  he  had  ever  seen.  But  it 
had  a  form  of  its  own,  and  it  pleased 
him ;  also  it  shed  water  like  a  loon's 
back,  and  when  he  was  inside  it  the  roar 
and  lash  of  the  spring  storms  might  be 
sounding  like  a  mighty  organ  in  the  great 
hemlocks  overhead,  and  the  rain  sluicing 


on  the  open  spaces,  but  he  was  in  his 
house. 

"It  is,"  he  said  to  himself  thought- 
fully, "  a  camp  with  long  walls."  The 
words  pleased  him,  and  sounded  fa- 
miliar ;  which  was  absurd,  because  in  all 
his  twenty  years  he  had  never  heard  of 
anything  but  shingled  houses. 

He  had  no  plans  about  life;  it  was 
merely  a  thing  that  had  been  thoroughly 
distasteful,  and  was  become  an  insistent, 
ever-present  pleasure  and  excitement ; 
and  when  one  morning  the  sun  at  la 
came  out  clear  and  scorching  he  sat  on 
drying  deadfall  and  basked  in  it,  am 
smelt  the  spring  out  of  the  soggy  grounc 
He  never  thought  at  all  of  Bear  Cove,  nc 
even  of  the  priest ;  and  he  had  been  f  one 
of  the  priest.  His  mother  had  been  or 
curiously  equal  terms  with  the  smooth- 
faced old  man.  She  had  never  been  a 
common  woman,  no  matter  what  else  she 
had  been  in  the  years  she  cast  behind  her 
when  she  arrived  in  the  ugly  little  Eng- 
lish-speaking settlement  and  bought  Jim 
Miller's  house. 

"The  Frenchwoman,"  the  village 
called  her,  all  but  the  priest ;  who,  per- 
haps, was  sorry  for  her,  for  he  was  kind 
to  her  and  the  boy,  and  unoffended  by 
her  wild  moods  and  flinging  tongue. 
But  she  had  been  dead  for  a  year  now, 
and  there  was  no  tombstone  over  her  till 
Sandy  Brine  had  time  to  cut  one.  Father 
Gillespie  had  not  hurried  him.  There 
was  in  his  mind  a  discrepancy  between 
his  answers  to  her  dying  instructions  as 
to  a  truthful  inscription  over  her  grave, 
and  those  regarding  her  son.  But  the 
son  had  cut  away  the  knot  of  both  pro- 
mises by  his  absolute  unconsciousness  that 
there  was  any  to  cut.  Whereby  he  sat 
and  whistled  on  his  sunny  perch,  and 
mocked  a  song  sparrow  till  it  suddenly 
flew  away.  The  boy  sniffed  the  air  quite 
as  suddenly,  and  swung  round  his  long 
legs  till  he  faced  the  east. 

An  Indian  was  standing  close  beside 
him.  He  looked  young,  but  it  was  not 
then  the  Frenchwoman's  son  .could  tell 


The  Frenchwoman's  Son. 


451 


an  Indian's  age.  Anyhow,  he  was  not 
thinking  of  it.  He  sat  angry  and  very 
still;  and  the  man  greeted  him  eagerly 
•with  a  long-drawn  "  Well  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  he  asked 
roughly.  He  had  been  thoroughly  star- 
tled, for  he  had  not  heard  a  sound  of 
footsteps.  "  Do  you  live  here  ?  " 

"  Want  you."  The  man  regarded  him 
from  under  the  thatch  of  stiff  hair  that 
stuck  out  from  his  hat.  "  Your  name 
John —  John  Noel  ?  "  He  said  Noo-el, 
with  the  soft  Indian  o. 

The  boy  stared.  "Yes —  But  I 
don't  use  that  name  !  Ba'tiste,  I  use." 

"  That  all  same,"  said  the  visitor 
blandly.  "  Ba'tiste  your  mother  call  you ; 
your  father  John.  You  his  son,  so  we 
come." 

"  Whose  son  ?  "  snapped  John  Ba'- 
tiste ;  he  had  never  heard  mention  of  his 
father,  nor  been  particularly  concerned 
about  him. 

The  Indian  took  off  his  hat.  "  The 
Old  Man's." 

It  was  Greek  to  the  hearer,  to  whom 
an  old  man  was  an  old  man  ;  he  never 
dreamed  that  the  words  and  the  act 
were  a  shibboleth  of  respect  for  an  In- 
dian esteemed  next  to  a  chief. 

"  What  old  man  ?  "  he  asked  con- 
temptuously ;  the  thing  had  nothing  to 
do  with  him  if  his  name  were  John  ten 
times  over. 

"  He  tell  me  you  come  some  day  "  — 
the  question  was  placidly  ignored  —  "  so 
we  come.  Long  time  ago  that  —  fifteen 
year  —  we  don'  know  !  But  he  say  you 
come  all  same  as  him." 

"  You  could  n't  know  I  was  here  !  " 

"  We  come  see,"  quietly  ;  "  every  year 
we  come.  Old  Man  my  friend  ;  he  say, 
'  We  die.  You  be  good  friend  my  son. 
Some  time  he  come  to  the  Sou'west, 
where  he  was  born  at.  You  be  help  to 
my  son.'  " 

The  listener  got  down  from  his  log  and 
spoke  with  rage.  "  I  was  born  at  Miri- 
michi ;  and  I  don't  know  who  you  are, 
but  you  never  knew  my  father.  He 's 


been  dead  for  years,  and  he  never  needed 
Indians  for  friends.  Where  d'  ye  live  ? 
Because  you  'd  better  go  back  there." 

The  Indian  turned  away  with  an  ugly 
dignity.  "  Old  Man  good  man  to  me, 
he  say  you  all  same ;  very  well.  You 
say  not  so  ;  very  well  too.  We  go." 

"  Oh,  stop.  Do  you  live  round  here  ? 
That 's  what  I  want  to  know."  If  he 
had  neighbors  he  would  tramp  at  once. 

"  No  one  live  here.  No  Indian  come 
but  me."  He  waved  his  hand  around 
him.  "  We  come  not  one  time  more.  Your 
house,  your  place,"  he  observed  finally  ; 
and  the  Frenchwoman's  son  affirmed  it 
with  an  oath. 

Yet  his  curiosity  was  awake  in  him, 
and  he  turned  a  volley  of  questions  on 
his  visitor ;  but  the  man  walked  away 
untouched  by  the  demands  fired  at  him. 
The  Frenchwoman's  son  never  knew 
what  made  him  care,  but  he  made  a 
dash  after  him  and  held  out  his  hand. 

The  Indian  seized  it,  his  whole  face 
changing,  till  it  was  another  man  who 
smiled. 

"  We  bring  things,"  he  cried  ;  "  flour, 
all  what  you  say  !  You  good  friend ; 
we  give  you  this.  Every  year  we  bring  it 
here,  like  Old  Man  say.  He  say :  '  Good 
friend  to  you,  you  give  it ;  bad  friend, 
you  go  'way  ! ' '  He  fumbled  in  his 
coat  and  brought  out  a  letter. 

The  Frenchwoman's  son  stared  at  it. 
Old,  tattered,  dirty,  and  written  in  char- 
acters and  a  language  he  did  not  know, 
it  could  not  belong  to  him.  But  he  took 
it.  And  then  a  lordly  thought  struck 
him. 

"  Come  in  and  have  something  to  eat." 
Houses  still  meant  eating  to  him,  and  his 
house  was  his  pride. 

The  Indian  laughed.  "  We  got  plenty 
meat !  We  kill  caribou  two  days  back. 
You  got  plenty  meat  ?  " 

"Yes."  John  Ba'tiste  was  savage 
again.  It  had  seemed  to  him  that  he 
was  doing  great  things  by  living  alone 
in  the  wilderness,  and  here  was  a  low 
person  who  considered  it  a  storehouse. 


452 


The  Frenchwoman's  Son. 


"  Well,"  he  nodded  offendedly,  "  good- 
by ;  if  you  don't  want  anything  to 
eat!" 

"Adiou,"  returned  the  man,  and 
laughed  again.  He  was  gone  into  the 
bushes  while  the  Frenchwoman's  son 
stood  staring  stupidly,  and  wondering 
where  he  had  heard  people  say  adieu 
with  that  twist  to  it  before,  till  suddenly 
there  came  back  to  him  his  mother's 
daily  cry  at  him :  "  Will  you  speak  like 
a  pig  and  an  outcast  ?  Whistle  your  u, 
I  tell  you ;  shape  your  mouth  !  I  will 
not  have  you  '  adiou '  like  an  outcast." 
It  was  funny,  and  he  laughed.  Through 
the  laugh  a  voice  came  to  him  suddenly. 

"  Bitneby  you  hungry  ;  then  we  come," 
it  remarked. 

The  Frenchwoman's  son  swore  at  it, 
and  retired  to  his  house.  He  glanced 
contemptuously  at  the  extraordinary  let- 
ter which  was  meant  for  somebody  else, 
and  was  going  to  burn  it ;  only  his  fire 
was  out ;  and  then  he  applied  himself 
once  more  to  the  joys  of  doing  nothing, 
and  not  caring  what  time  it  was ;  he  had 
had  to  care  in  the  village.  Yet  daylight 
of  the  next  morning  found  him  pulling 
the  letter  out  of  a  crack  in  his  wall,  and 
staring  at  it.  What  if  it  were  for  him, 
after  all?  But  the  queer  words  were 
nothing  that  he  could  make  out,  and  only 
made  him  angry  ;  he  put  it  away  again, 
and  was  suddenly  aware  that  he  was 
lonely,  and  afraid  ;  something  had  taken 
the  heart  out  of  him.  He  had  no  plea- 
sure any  more  in  his  house,  nor  in  his 
prowls  over  the  country.  He  took  to  sit- 
ting at  his  door,  beside  a  senseless  anxie- 
ty. Every  now  and  then  he  took  out  the 
crazy  letter  that  was  not  meant  for  him, 
and  all  he  got  from  it  was  a  biting  anger 
that  he  could  not  read  the  thing.  It 
grew  to  be  an  obsession  ;  he  woke  to  it 
in  the  long  mornings,  could  not  eat  for 
the  memory  of  it  lying  in  its  chink ; 
time  and  again  tried  to  burn  it,  and  never 
did.  He  let  his  food  give  out,  because 
every  day  he  meant  to  leave  his  camp 
and  the  letter  in  it ;  but  he  never  started, 


and  he  knew  it  was  because  he  had  taken 
a  terror  of  meeting  more  men  who  should 
speak  to  him  of  his  father.  It  was  like 
sitting  alone  in  the  dark  and  fearing  a 
dead  man  at  his  elbow,  and  about  as 
sensible.  If  he  had  been  in  his  white- 
washed house  by  the  shore  he  would  have 
sickened,  but  the  woods  he  had  loved 
kept  him  whole.  They  were  kind  to 
him,  even  while  he  was  hardly  conscious 
of  them.  The  black  birch  twigs  that  he 
chewed,  just  to  be  chewing,  took  his  bod- 
ily fever  out  of  him  ;  the  nameless  sweet- 
ness in  the  wind  of  midnight  made  him 
drowsy ;  a  hundred  things  helped  him 
even  while  he  was  careless  of  all  but  his 
own  haunting  misery,  till  one  May  morn- 
ing he  woke  to  find  himself  lying  hungry 
at  his  door  with  a  man  between  him  and 
the  sunshine. 

It  was  the  Indian  back  again,  and  a 
queer  pain  jolted  the  boy's  heart,  till  he 
could  not  think  of  a  word  to  say.  He 
saw  that  the  man  carried  a  heavy  load, 
and  that  there  must  be  things  to  eat  in 
it,  but  his  real  thought  was  that  now  he 
could  get  at  that  letter.  He  swayed  on 
his  feet  as  he  stood  up. 

The  man  looked  at  him  curiously. 
"  We  bring  things,"  he  said,  "  we  cook ; 
bimeby  we  talk.  You  call  us  Sabiel." 

He   flung   down   his   pack,    and   the 
Frenchwoman's  son  sat  and  glared.    He 
had  not  eaten  fresh  meat  all  that  winter, 
—  it  was  not  an  article  of  diet  in  Bear 
Cove,  —  and  the  smell  of  it  made  him  f  01 
get  even  the  letter.    As  he  ate,  the  stronj 
food  went  to  his  head  like  drink,  till 
sat  happy  in  the  sun,  and,  basking,  lit 
last  fill  of   tobacco,  or  meant  to.     T) 
match  died  in  his  fingers  as  he  spill< 
half  his  pipeful  in  his  palm  and  held  ii 
out  to  Sabiel,  who  shook  his  head. 

"  Bapkusedumef  !  "  said   he,  brinj 
out  a  dirty  clay. 

The  Frenchwoman's  son  starti 
Somewhere,  long  and  long  ago,  he  h; 
heard  that  word  time  and  again.  He 
swore  to  himself  in  French,  and  Sabiel 
smiled  uncomprehendingly :  — 


The  Frenchwoman's  Son. 


453 


"  We  say,  we  light  our  pipe  !  " 

"  I  know  that,"  snapped  the  boy, 
"  though  I  don't  see  how  you  do ;  "  and 
through  his  angry  puzzle  a  queer  phrase 
came  to  him.  "  Menuagai  tamovvayau  !  " 
said  he,  very  slowly  and  falteringly  ;  and 
sat  back  lax  and  sick.  The  Indian  had 
handed  him  a  fig  of  tobacco,  and  gab- 
bled something  in  a  jargon  of  which  at 
least  two  words  were  familiar  even  if 
he  had  not  translated  the  last  one  as 
he  pointed  to  the  camp,  —  "  pembtek,  a 
house  with  long  walls." 

"  What  are  you  talking  ?  "  screeched 
the  Frenchwoman's  son  ;  "  what  kind  of 
language  ?  " 

"  Indian,"  placidly.  "  Your  father's 
talk." 

"  Indian !  Do  you  mean  my  father 
was  an  Indian  ?  "  He  hardly  knew  he 
said  it,  and  he  did  not  listen  to  the  an- 
swer. He  was  seeing,  as  from  a  long 
way  off,  his  mother  making  a  fire  on  the 
ground ;  seeing  himself,  a  little  boy, 
playing  with  a  burning  stick,  and  an  In- 
dian man  laughing  where  he  sat  beside 
him  ;  and  the  man  had  been  his  father. 
He  knew  it  as  he  knew  he  sat  now  cheek 
by  jowl  with  another  Indian  and  under- 
stood his  tongue.  "  But  my  father  was  a 
Frenchman  !  "  He  found  his  voice  with- 
out commanding  it,  and  even  in  the  mak- 
ing of  the  words,  remembered  they  had 
never  been  said  to  him ;  he  had  only 
taken  them  for  granted.  But  he  kept  on 
speaking.  "  I  don't  believe  you." 

Sabiel  returned  three  slow  sentences. 
They  broke  the  defenses  the  boy  was 
trying  to  make  in  his  mind,  because  he 
knew  them  to  be  true ;  and  the  gist  of 
them  checked  his  heart.  He  was  a  half- 
breed  ;  just  a  half-breed.  He  knew  now 
why  there  had  been  days  when  his  mo- 
ther hated  him,  knew  why  the  priest  had 
set  him  down  to  books  and  the  choir- 
singing  as  soon  as  he  began  to  take  to 
the  wind-swept  woods  over  the  village. 
He  had  never  been  meant  to  know  ;  and 
he  saw  how  easy  it  had  been  to  keep 
him  ignorant.  They  never  had  Indians 


round  Bear  Cove,  never  thought  of  them  ; 
his  mother's  French  blood  had  been 
enough  to  carry  a  darker  skin  and  eyes 
than  his.  Half  of  his  soul  rose  up  in  a 
dreadful  revolt,  and  half  of  it  in  a  wilder 
exaltation  of  freedom.  He  sat  and  stam- 
mered questions  at  the  man  on  the  other 
side  of  the  fire,  and  finally  got  out  what 
was  last  in  his  mind  as  it  had  been  first. 
The  letter :  he  wanted  it  read  to  him. 

When  he  had  heard  it  his  eyes  were 
different.  He  got  up  and  lit  his  pipe  as 
if  he  had  never  thrown  it  away  from 
him  ;  and  after  a  long  time  he  spoke, 
with  a  laugh  that  was  not  a  boy's  laugh. 

"  While  I  choose  to  be  a  white  man,  I 
will  be  a  white  man !  "  he  said,  and  cast 
away  salvation  ;  for  in  the  woods  he  was 
one  tiling,  and  out  of  them  another.  He 
took  the  Indian  letter  he  could  not  read 
for  himself  from  where  it  lay  on  the 
ground,  and  threw  it  on  the  fire,  and  on 
top  of  it  he  tossed  the  red  head  handker- 
chief that  had  been  his  mother's.  The 
old  paper  blazed,  and  the  common  silk 
smouldered  writhingly,  but  he  did  not 
look  at  them  ;  neither  of  the  two  should 
ever  call  to  him  any  more.  He  would 
be  a  white  man  now,  and  make  a  new 
name  for  himself. 

But  he  never  did  it,  his  world  being  a 
jealous  world  which  did  its  own  chris- 
tening. There  were  not  ten  people  who 
ever  knew  him  as  John  Noel,  and  they 
were  unimportant,  chief  among  them 
being  a  despised  squatter  called  Welsh, 
to  whose  retired  abode  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  repairing  when  he  was  tired  of 
being  the  white  man  whom  his  intimates 
addressed  as  Frenchy.  As  for  his  offi- 
cial name,  it  was  no  new  one;  though 
when  it  cropped  up  in  a  lawless  country 
it  stood  for  a  hundred  things.  Well- 
off  people  shook  at  the  mention  of  it, 
but  to  the  poor  and  desolate  it  was  an- 
other matter.  When  Sabean  the  out- 
law was  finally  caught  and  caged  there 
were  scores  of  prayers  going  up  that  the 
Frenchwoman's  son  might  not  be  caught 
too.  Sabean  had  been  the  terror  of  two 


454 


The  Frenchwoman's  Son. 


counties,  and,  having  the  poor  on  his 
side,  had  robbed  with  impunity ;  there 
was  not  a  man  anxious  for  his  capture 
'but  his  victims  and  the  sheriff,  and  every 
one  but  they  knew  he  was  only  the  tool 
of  the  Frenchwoman's  son.  If  there 
were  darker  things  they  were  only  whis- 
pered of;  the  Frenchwoman's  son  had 
found  a  world  full  of  friends  by  the  sim- 
ple process  of  placidly,  and  at  once, 
cracking  down  on  his  enemies.  There 
was  always,  or  nearly  always,  a  smack  of 
righteous  vengeance  in  his  sins. 

When  McManus's  mill  was  burned 
just  as  he  was  bringing  down  his  season's 
cut,  well-informed  people  did  not  con- 
sider it  an  accident,  though  not  one  of 
them  said  so ;  and  the  Frenchwoman's 
son  was  unostentatiously  elsewhere  on 
important  business,  so  that  the  law  did 
not  seek  him  any  more  than  public  gos- 
sip named  him.  It  was  well  for  McManus 
that  he  had  no  insurance,  or  his  friends 
would  have  said  he  fired  his  mill  him- 
self. As  it  was  they  smiled  crookedly, 
and  remarked  that  the  attention  drawn 
to  the  working  of  his  lumber  business 
was  worse  than  the  fire  ;  —  whereat  he 
swore  impotently,  and  cast  about  for  ven- 
geance, which  was  not  forthcoming ;  and 
was  so  unpleasant  to  Fanny,  his  house- 
keeper, that  she  ran  away  of  a  dark  night 
with  his  foreman,  and  he  had  to  do  his 
own  cooking,  which  did  not  cool  him. 
He  began  to  talk  of  sending  for  his  only 
daughter,  who  had  been  banished  to  her 
uncle  Welsh's  with  the  advent  of  Fanny ; 
but  it  was  a  radical  measure,  and  he  put 
it  off. 

The  Frenchwoman's  son  heard  nothing 
of  these  last  matters  because  he  had  gone 
out  to  Welsh's  on  the  Long  Swamp  to 
make  love  to  Welsh's  niece. 

In  the  northern  woods  the  spring  comes 
up  in  scarlet,  leaf  and  shrub  and  blossom, 
with  white  drifts  of  Indian  pear  flower 
flung  across  a  blood-red  world.  He  had 
seen  the  red  of  it  often  enough,  but  it 
was  the  first  year  in  his  life  he  had  no- 
ticed the  white,  or  thought  of  the  priest 


at  Secret  Lake  in  connection  with  a 
woman  ;  and  he  had  known  a  few  as  tall 
as  Welsh's  niece,  and  not  so  ragged.  In 
the  intervals  of  his  variegated  life  he  had 
watched  her  growing  up,  cast  off,  half 
starved,  and  lonely,  till  his  heart  was  soft 
within  him. 

Welsh  was  a  kind  man  when  he  was 
not  drunk,  but  his  shack  was  too  con- 
venient a  place  to  bestow  an  incon- 
venient child.  In  front  of  it  stretched 
a  lake,  and  close  behind  it  the  Long 
Swamp,  which  was  not  as  pretty  as  it 
looked.  It  was  not  called  a  quicksand ; 
but  it  was  not  crossed,  even  in  winter. 
A  few  Indians  had  tried  it.  Persons 
having  business  afterwards  on  the  other 
side  went  round ;  and  there  grew  up 
about  it  an  ugly  tradition  with  an  Indian 
name.  It  looked  an  innocently  sleeping 
waste ;  but  it  had  its  times,  which  were 
not  seasons,  for  waking.  In  the  dead 
calm  of  an  August  noon  the  French- 
woman's son  had  seen  its  bay  bushes 
sway  as  with  wind,  bow,  and  spring 
backwards  with  the  passage  of  things  he 
could  not  see ;  had  heard  out  of  it  the 
crying  that  might  have  been  the  crying 
of  a  hurt  loon,  or  the  frantic  screech  of  a 
man  who  tries  to  keep  death  off  him  by 
shrieking  to  the  living.  To  a  stray  trap- 
per hearing  it  meant  to  wipe  the  sweat 
from  his  face,  if  he  knew  any  Indian 
words.  But  the  Frenchwoman's  son  was 
a  white  man  determinedly,  and  had  put 
away  all  fear  of  ghost-calling ;  it  was 
merely  a  shamefaced  care  for  the  child 
that  sent  him  to  Welsh's  to  see  her  after 
an  absence  of  a  year.  He  found  her  a 
woman.  Also  absolutely  and  astound- 
ingly  beautiful  in  an  old  flannel  shirt 
Welsh's,  and  a  skirt  made  of  flour  sacl 

At  the  sight  of  her  he  stood  dumb  f  01 
the  first  time  in  his  pleasantly  irrespor 
sible  life.  Then,  as  she  ran  to  him  ane 
put  her  hands  on  his,  he  was  suddenly 
aware  that  the  spring  was  scarlet,  anc 
the  whiteness  of  the  pear  blossoms  th« 
whiteness  of  Mary  McManus's  face  anc 
throat  above  her  unspeakable  clothes.  It 


The  Frenchwoman's  Son. 


455 


was  not  till  he  had  spoken  about  the 
priest  at  Secret  Lake  that  he  kissed  her. 

He  was  not  known  by  sight  in  that  dis- 
trict, so  that  when  he  went  to  McManus 
and  announced  he  was  going  to  marry 
his  daughter  it  was  annoying  to  be  shown 
the  door  —  profanely.  McManus's  mill 
happened  to  burn  down  the  night  John 
Noel  went  back  to  his  courting.  His 
plans  were  not  changed,  merely  hurried, 
but  back  at  Welsh's  by  the  Long  Swamp 
they  bade  fair  to  be  destroyed.  Mary 
McManus  had  waked  to  the  desire  of 
clothes. 

"  But,"  said  he,  very  tenderly  and 
without  laughter,  "  I  will  buy  you  clothes 
for  the  wedding.  Your  father  says  "  — 
he  had  never  lost  his  mother's  shrug  — 
"  there  will  be  no  wedding ;  and  he  says 
other  things,  too." 

"  You  saw  Fanny !  "  She  spoke  with- 
out looking  at  him. 

"  Yes."     For  once  his  mind  was  slow. 

"  Then,"  very  low,  "  /  'II  have  a  dress 
with  roses  on  it ;  and  a  pair  of  shoes ! 
I  never  had  a  pair  of  shoes  since  I  come 
here." 

"  I  can  buy  them."  He  smiled  into 
her  eyes,  but  they  did  not  answer  him. 

"  No ;  I  '11  make  him  !  I  'm  his  daugh- 
ter; and  Fanny  has  silk  dresses." 

The  Frenchwoman's  son  sat  down  on 
the  spring  flowers,  and  looked  across  the 
nameless  color  of  the  Long  Swamp. 

"  Then  it  will  be  a  long  time  to  the 
wedding,"  he  said,  softly  considering, 
"  when  he  takes  you  home  and  I  have 
to  steal  you  out  of  his  house  in  the  dark. 
It  is  spring  now,  and  there  are  a  great 
many  things  to  do  where  I  live  —  in 
spring !  There  is  the  loon  to  watch,  —  on 
her  nest."  Something  in  his  slow  voice 
flooded  her  slim  throat  scarlet. 

"  When  I  cook  for  you  in  your  house 
you  shall  buy  me  clothes,"  she  retorted 
passionately. 

The  Frenchwoman's  son  was  not  used 
to  complex  emotions.  He  sat  silent,  be- 
cause he  was  provoked  and  grieved  and 
proud  of  her  all  at  once.  He  knew  that 


the  sooner  he  and  she  were  off  to  the 
priest  and  the  Sou'west  the  better,  for 
many  reasons.  But  she  was  extremely 
beautiful,  and  very  white. 

"  You  go  'way  and  get  me  some  pa- 
per," she  ordered  suddenly,  "  and  I  '11 
send  him  in  a  letter."  With  his  first 
word  of  love  to  her  she  had  changed  from 
the  little  girl  who  had  openly  adored  him 
all  her  life  at  Welsh's  to  a  woman  who 
dominated  him  body  and  soul.  "  You 
learned  me  to  write  ;  I  '11  write  to  him." 

"  When  we  've  been  to  the  priest,"  he 
said. calmly;  and  she  flung  round  on 
him. 

"  I  can't  —  in  these,"  she  sobbed.  Her 
shame  had  caught  her  at  her  heart  as  she 
looked  at  her  rags  and  her  bare  legs. 
"  Why,  there  's  people,  and  —  I  can't. 
And  Welsh  has  n't  any  money,  and  I 
want  a  —  cotton  dress  —  with  roses  on 
it." 

The  Frenchwoman's  son  took  her  in  a 
strong  arm  and  comforted  her  with  more 
confidence  in  himself  than  in  McManus. 

"  You  shall  have  the  dress  with  roses 
on  it.  I  will  bring  the  paper  and  you  shall 
write  ;  but  it  will  take  two  days.  Will 
that  do  ?  " 

"What's  that?"  she  said,  without 
answering.  "  Don't  you  hear  some  one 
calling  ?  "  She  twisted  away  from  him, 
and  stood  listening. 

"  No !  "  And  on  the  heel  of  it  he  did 
hear.  It  was  only  the  old  cry  he  was 
used  to  disbelieving  in  that  floated  over 
the  loneliness,  and  he  laughed.  "  That  ? 
It 's  only  a  bird  in  the  swamp  !  You  've 
often  heard  it." 

"  Never  that  way.  There,"  —  every 
line  of  her  was  rigid,  —  "  it 's  coming 
again  !  It  —  it  sounds  like  as  if  it  was 
calling  me.  I  —  oh,  I  'm  afraid  !  " 

"  There  's  no  harm  in  it.  Why,"  — 
he  moved  to  her  serenely  as  he  remem- 
bered, —  "I  went  through  the  swamp 
once,  when  I  was  a  boy.  It's  a  very 
good  way  to  go  if  you  know  the  path." 

"  There  's  no  path  !  " 

"  I  know  one ;  "  and  over  his  comfort- 


456 


The  Frenchwoman's  Son. 


able  voice  the  call  came  close  and  mock- 
ing. 

"  Welsh  says,"  she  clutched  him,  whis- 
pering, "  that 's  lost  people's  ghosts  ;  and 
they  only  call  when  they  're  hungry !  I 
—  don't  it  sound  like  my  name  ?  "  and  he 
felt  the  fear  in  her. 

"  It 's  only  a  bird,"  he  said  softly.  "  Do 
I  look  as  if  I  were  afraid  of  it  ?  If  it 
were  your  name  I  would  be  afraid." 

McManus's  daughter  looked  at  him, 
and  at  five-and-twenty  the  Frenchwo- 
man's son  was  a  beautiful  sight.  There 
was  no  half-breed  about  him  except 
the  straight  sling  of  his  walk  and  the 
dark  clearness  of  the  cheek  bent  down  to 
her  ;  and  there  was  that  in  his  eyes  that 
made  her  safe  and  happy  and  miserable 
all  at  once.  If  she  had  not  caught  sight 
of  her  own  incredible  skirt  she  would 
have  clung  to  him,  and  begged  him  to 
take  her  away  then  and  there.  But  she 
had  remembered  the  cotton  dress,  and 
her  father's  money  ;  and  Fanny  in  silk. 
And  perhaps  the  sudden  terror  that  cut 
the  quiet  air  was  only  a  bird  !  What  he 
said  was  gospel. 

"  There  's  nothing  you  'd  be  afraid  of, 
except  me  !  "  she  said,  with  the  insolence 
of  a  woman  to  the  man  she  adores.  "  Get 
me  the  paper  an'  a  pencil." 

It  was  Welsh  who  took  in  the  letter, 
half  from  honest  affection  for  his  niece, 
and  half  for  the  chance  of  getting  thor- 
oughly drunk  on  some  one  else's  whiskey. 
If  he  did  it  was  not  on  McManus's. 
Mary  was  no  diplomatist,  especially  in 
the  written  word. 

"  I  take  my  pen  in  hand  to  tel  you  I 
am  going  to  be  married  to  mister  Noel  if 
you  don't  send  me  some  mony  to  get  a 
dress  I  wil  come  down  to  the  vilage  and 
tel  how  you  tret  me  I  wil  come  in 
Welsh's  old  shirt  and  the  flower  sak  I 
hav  for  a  petticoat  that  is  al  the  dress  I 
hav  and  show  them  Mary  at  Welsh's." 

Perfectly  sober,  and  a  day  before  his 
time,  the  messenger  returned,  and  sheep- 
ishly confronted  his  niece  and  Noel. 

"  He    says,"    he    announced    sourly, 


"  that  you  're  to  come  home  right  to  once, 
and  he  '11  flour-sack  you  !  —  and  his  mill 's 
burnt  down,   and  the  talk  is   that  the 
Frenchwoman's  son  done  it.     And  Fan- 
ny 's  run  off  with  Jake  Perry,  and  you  'i 
to  go  home  to-morrow.     And  so  I  gues 
you  two  'd  better  git  married  and  gont 
and  tell  him  afterwards ;  for  he  won't 
give  you  nothing,  and  he 's  wanting 
you  home." 

"  He   can   want,"     said    McManus'g 
daughter  blackly.     "  Did  n't  he  send : 
nothing  ?  " 

"  Just  that  word,  honey  ;  and  you  ain't 
but  seventeen ;  he  can  git  you.  I  —  I 
ain't  a  man  to  fight,"  with  sudden  shrill- 
ness, "  and  that  letter  made  him  dump 
me  right  out  on  the  road !  " 

She  stood  up  straight  and  looked  at 
him.  "  I  '11  never  go  home,  and  I  '11  have 
my  clothes ;  and  I  'm  glad  his  mill 's 
burnt,  and  I  love  the  Frenchwoman's  son 
for  doing  it,  and  I  'm  glad  Fanny  's  run 
away  ;  and  I  hate  dad,"  she  said,  as  emo- 
tionless as  though  she  repeated  a  lesson. 

Noel  looked  sharply  from  Welsh 
the  girl.  "  What 's  that  about  the  Frencl 
woman's  son  ?  " 

"  Some  say  it  was  him  had  a  grudge 
again  McManus.  Labrador  said  so  ;  he 
only  said  so  ;  they  don't  know  who  done 
it.  I  ain't  never  seen  the  man,  but  he  's 
got  a  hard  reputation,  and  Labrador 
thinks  it  was  him.  But  when  I  wanted 
to  know  why,  he  soured  on  me  ;  and  he 
said  he  'd  kill  me  if  I  opened  my  mout 
on  it  to  McManus." 

"  He  certainly  would,"  returned  Mr. 
Noel  placidly  ;  and  having  been  hand  in 
glove  with  Frank  Labrador,  perhaps  he 
knew. 

"  The  Frenchwoman's  son  ain't  bad  if 
Labrador  likes  him,"  said  Mary  unex- 
pectedly. "  I  love  him,  anyhow  !  " 

"  Yes  "  —  began  Noel  stupidly,  anc 
stopped.  She  did  not  know  any  moi 
than  Welsh  did,  and  perhaps  he  hac 
never  realized  it  before.  But  it  was  timt 
to  get  away  from  the  Long  Swamp  anc 
take  his  wife  with  him.  "  I  am  SOT 


The  Frenchwoman's  Son. 


457 


about  that  burning,"  he  observed  slowly. 
"  It  was  a  pity  ;  and  foolish.  But  he  is 
not  altogether  a  bad  man,  the  French- 
woman's son." 

"  Well,  there  's  no  handling  McManus 
till  he  finds  out  who  burnt  his  mill !  " 
muttered  Welsh.  He  was  suddenly  tired 
of  the  subject.  "He  ain't  heard  of  the 
Frenchwoman's  son,  and  he  ain't  likely 
to.  You  git  away  and  git  married, 
honey  !  Noel,  he  '11  git  you  a  dress." 

Mary  made  no  answer ;  the  French- 
woman's son  saw  there  was  no  handling 
her,  either.  He  stood  and  whistled  a 
thoughtful  tune,  and  she  .swung  round 
on  him. 

"Who's  the  Frenchwoman's  son?" 
she  demanded. 

"Just  a  man."  He  said  it  between 
two  bars  of  the  tune  that  covered  his 
thoughts. 

"  Is  he  in  the  village  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Can  dad  catch  him  ?  " 

The  whistle  stopped  abruptly  in  a 
scornful  smile.  "  Not  if  he  'd  seen  him 
fire  the  mill !  " 

"  Do  you  think  he  did  it  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,"  carelessly.  "  But  he  had 
his  reasons !  "  He  looked  at  her  with 
amusement.  "  He  has  never  done  things 
without  his  reasons." 

"  They  say  he  's  a  hard-living  man," 
Welsh  objected  casually. 

"  That 's  a  lie,"  slowly.  "  And  if  he 
was  he 's  done  with  it.  And  catch  him  " — 
he  laughed  superbly.  "  When  they  can 
catch  the  screaming  in  the  swamp ! " 
He  flung  back  at  it  with  a  free  gesture 
of  his  head  and  shoulders,  and  McMa- 
nus's  daughter  drew  a  breath  and  set 
her  teeth  on  it.  There  could  not  be  in 
all  the  world  a  man  like  him  !  She  would 
go  with  him  to  the  priest  in  a  dress  with 
roses  on  it,  in  spite  of  her  father.  She 
listened  without  objecting  while  he  and 
Welsh  arranged  for  the  wedding  in  three 
days'  time,  but  when  she  turned  away  to 
the  house  she  sat  thinking,  instead  of 
getting  supper.  Noel  had  departed  to 


interview  the  priest,  and,  incidentally, 
the  proprietor  of  the  only  shop  at  Secret 
Lake.  In  three  days  he  would  be  back 
for  the  wedding ;  and  the  dress  with 
roses  oji  it  was  no  nearer.  Nothing 
would  take  Welsh  back  to  McManus, 
and  she  had  no  other  messenger.  But 
when  in  the  white  dawn  Welsh  arose 
and  unexpectedly  went  fishing,  his  niece 
leaped  from  her  bed  and  cast  on  her  cas- 
ual garments.  Even  as  his  back  disap- 
peared in  the  thin  spring  bushes  she  was 
down  at  the  lake  shore,  and  the  last  sound 
of  his  going  was  covered  by  another 
sound :  the  plunging  rush  of  a  canoe 
launched  and  sprung  into  with  one  and 
the  same  movement.  Frank  Labrador, 
coming  up  half  an  hour  later  on  business 
of  his  own,  saw  the  shack  deserted  ex- 
cept for  the  blue  jays  making  faces  at 
him  from  the  roof  tree,  and  went  half- 
heartedly away. 

It  was  sunrise  of  the  next  day  when 
the  girl  came  back,  to  find  the  place 
still  empty.  She  was  tired,  and  she  went 
to  sleep,  but  once  and  again  a  horrible 
clamor  in  the  swamp  roused  her  till  she 
went  out  to  listen :  when  she  came  back 
for  the  second  time  she  barred  the  door 
uneasily,  and  dressed  herself.  Her  skin 
crept  on  her  as  she  crouched  down  by  the 
window  and  watched  the  empty  glitter- 
ing lake  the  long,  silent  morning,  wish- 
ing impatiently  that  Welsh  would  come 
back  ;  if  she  had  had  even  a  dog  to  speak 
to  it  would  have  lightened  the  senseless 
dread  that  was  on  her.  And  at  the 
thought,  leaning  out  and  shading  her 
eyes,  she  forgot  it.  A  canoe  had  shot 
round  the  point  and  was  at  the  landing. 
There  was  one  man  in  it,  —  a  dirty  mes- 
senger with  a  parcel. 

When  she  raced  down  and  dragged  it 
out  of  his  hand  she  saw  her  shoes,  her 
stockings,  and  her  wedding  gown.  Her 
father  had  been  as  good  as  his  word, 
though  he  had  sent  the  things  by  a 
stranger,  instead  of  by  Labrador  as  she 
had  asked  him.  With  a  low  laugh  she 
plumped  down  on  her  knees  and  fondled 


458 


The  Frenchwoman^  Son. 


the  common  print  with  roses  on  it ;  when 
she  looked  up  to  ask  the  man  who  had 
brought  it  if  he  wanted  his  dinner,  he 
had  gone  away,  and  in  the  still  air  the 
rustling  from  the  swamp  was  loud.  For 
a  moment  her  chill  fear  rushed  back  on 
her,  but  she  would  not  heed  it.  She  was 
back  at  the  house,  kneeling  on  the  floor, 
feverishly  putting  the  scissors  into  her 
wedding  gown. 

The  Frenchwoman's  son,  coming  unex- 
pectedly to  the  door  in  the  late  afternoon, 
stood  thunderstruck.  Mary  had  sprung 
to  her  feet  at  the  sight  of  him,  transfig- 
ured; her  face  a  pale  flame,  her  eyes 
shining,  her  triumphant  mouth  scarlet. 
He  let  fall  the  things  he  had  painfully 
procured  for  her  as  he  stared. 

"  I  got  it !  "  she  cried,  and  flung  her- 
self at  him,  her  arms  warm  round  his 
throat;  "I  made  him.  I've  shoes  and 
stockings  and  white  cotton  and  a  dress 
with  roses  on  it.  And  it 's  nearly  done, 
and  I  '11  marry  you  to-morrow !  " 

"  How  did  you  get  them  ? "  He 
laughed  because  he  was  proud  of  her, 
and  had  never  seen  her  so  beautiful. 
"Tell  me!  How?" 

"  I  went  down,"  —  simply,  —  "  and 
waited  at  the  portage,  and  sent  a  boy  with 
notes  on  the  paper  you  gave  me.  I  asked 
him  if  he  would  give  me  the  dress  if  I  told 
him  who  fired  his  mill,  and  he  sent  back 
'  Yes.'  So  I  told  him  it  was  the  French- 
woman's son,  and  he  sent  back  to  say  '  it 
was  cheap  at  a  cotton  gown,  and  he  'd 
send  it  right  away.'  And  he  did.  And 
you  said  he  could  n't  catch  the  French- 
woman's son ! " 

Life,  color,  and  expression  were  all 
wiped  off  her  listener's  face. 

"  The  Frenchwoman's  son !  "  he  re- 
peated like  a  parrot.  "  But  —  and  you 
told  him  ?  "  His  ready  tongue  had  failed 
him. 

"You  said  he  could  n't  catch  him, 
any  more  than  the  ghost-calling  in  the 
swamp."  She  stood  back,  a  little  anx- 
ious. "  He  —  he  can't,  can  he  ?  " 

"  Not  then !  Now  "  —     He  took  her 


with  both  hands,  and  held  her  at  his  arms' 
length,  and  the  feel  of  his  hands  fright- 
ened her,  like  the  strangeness  in  his 
voice.  "  Did  n't  you  know  Labrador 
was  here  looking  for  me?  That  he 
found  me  last  night,  and  told  me  a  man 
from  Sabean's  had  seen  me  when  I  fooled 
over  to  speak  to  your  father,  and  told 
him  it  was  me  you  were  going  to  marry ; 
me,  the  Frenchwoman's  son !  And 
now "  —  The  familiar  shrug  did  not 
match  the  sound  in  his  voice.  "  Well  — 
I  should  have  told  you.  But  I  could  n't 
trust  Welsh." 

"  You  ain't  French."  She  smiled  dis- 
dainfully ;  but  as  she  saw  what  was  in 
his  face  her  legs  shook  under  her,  and 
she  shrieked  at  him,  "  Do  you  mean  it  ? 
Did  I  do  — that?" 

"  My  mother  was  a  Frenchwoman,"  he 
said  heavily ;  he  had  no  desire  to  swear, 
even  to  be  angry  with  her ;  the  thing  had 
gone  too  deep.  "  But  I  've  been  coming 
here  for  so  long  I  forgot  you  could  n't 
know."  He  glanced  through  the  open 
door  to  get  the  time  from  the  westering 
sun,  and  saw,  instead,  that  the  young 
scarlet  was  gone  from  the  world  ;  it  was 
old,  green,  usual, — and  the  thought  made 
his  voice  rough.  "  Come,  we  '11  get  out 
of  this !  "  If  he  left  her  behind  he  would 
lose  her,  and  once  at  the  head  waters  of 
the  Sou'west,  it  would  be  a  better  man 
than  McManus  who  should  lay  a  claw 
on  him.  But  his  heart  felt  numb  as  he 
stooped  to  gather  up  the  poor  finery  that 
had  betrayed  him. 

As  he  bent,  the  girl's  miserable  eyes 
1  fell  on  the  window. 

"  Keep  down,"  she  whispered  thickly. 
"  There  's  a  boat !  There 's  —  it 's  dad, 
and  another  man  !  " 

The  Frenchwoman's  son  heard  her 
without  surprise.  He  did  not  even  glance 
out,  but  as  he  stepped  softly  back  into 
the  shadow  of  the  room  he  looked  at  her 
with  a  curious  trick  of  the  eyes  that  made 
them  seem  all  pupil,  and  showed  the 
whites  above  and  below  the  irids. 

"That  is  the  sheriff,"  he  said  evenly, 


The,  Frenchwoman's  Son. 


459 


"with  your  father.  What  would  you 
like  me  to  do  ?  For  I  burned  the  mill 
because  your  father  was  cruel  to  you,  and 
I  disliked  him."  He  kept  his  strange 
gaze  on  her,  standing  motionless. 

McManus's  daughter  sobbed  word- 
lessly as  she  sprang  at  him  and  ran  him 
out  the  back  door. 

"  There  's  the  swamp ;  you  ain't  afraid 
of  it,"  —  anguish  and  hate  had  killed  her 
own  terror  of  the  place  ;  "  hide  !  What 's 
an  old  mill  ?  Hide  !  " 

"  You  'd  be  afraid  in  it !  "  he  said  un- 
easily ;  and  she  laughed  fiercely  over  her 
sobbing. 

"  That  would  n't  make  me  stay.  Hur- 
ry ;  stoop  down  !  " 

There  was  dead  silence  abroad  now. 
Through  it  the  two  slipped  safely  across 
Welsh's  inadequate  clearing,  into  the 
thin  green  of  its  fringe  of  alders ;  and 
between  them  and  the  heavy  screen  of 
the  swamp  maples  something  moved. 
It  was  the  man  from  Sabean's,  the  dirty 
messenger  of  the  morning;  and  the 
Frenchwoman's  son  cut  off  his  shout  in 
the  middle.  But  the  half  cry  had  done 
it  McManus  was  hot  foot  round  the 
house  with  the  sheriff  after  him,  and 
Noel  was  dragging  the  girl  through  the 
binding  maples,  down  into  the  bay  bushes 
that  stretched  breast-high  between  green 
abysses  and  runnels  of  fathomless  black 
water.  When  they  reached  his  path 
they  could  drop  and  lie  hidden,  for  not 
a  man  would  dare  follow  them  ;  but  for 
now  they  must  be  cat-footed  over  the 
deadly  green  that  spurted  to  their  every 
step.  There  was  cover  enough,  and  he 
put  her  behind  him,  without  daring  to 
take  his  eyes  from  the  quaking  ground 
under  his  feet. 

"Walk  in  my  steps,"  he  ordered, 
wondering  if  the  next  few  yards  would 
bear  them  ;  and  his  heart  stopped  as  she 
screamed,  — 


"  My  dress  —  my  dress  with  roses  on 
it!  "  Even  as  he  wheeled  to  clutch  her 
she  had  broken  away  from  him  and  was 
running,  leaping  helter-skelter  back  to 
the  house,  with  no  heed  to  the  careful 
way  she  had  come. 

The  Frenchwoman's  son  stood  up 
straight  in  the  afternoon  light,  his  black 
head  a  clear  mark  against  the  young 
sun-filtered  green  of  the  thicket  he  was 
making  for. 

"  Lie  down !  "  he  yelled,  "  lie  down !  " 

He  did  not  hear  any  answer.  It  was 
McManus  who  had  fired,  and  the  sheriff, 
who  was  half-hearted  about  the  whole 
business,  had  been  slow  in  knocking  up 
his  gun.  Mary  McManus  had  lain  down 
in  a  very  pretty  patch  of  quaking  grass. 
The  Frenchwoman's  son  knew  she  was 
dead  as  she  crumpled  forwards,  but  he 
was  a  white  man  who  had  been  going  to 
marry  a  white  girl.  He  went  back  for 
her.  He  was  heedless  of  the  sheriff's 
calling ;  he  knew  a  path  through  the 
swamp,  and  he  must  carry  her  to  it  that 
he  might  bury  her  out  in  the  clean  ground 
of  the  Sou'west.  But  the  weight  across 
his  shoulder  had  somehow  confused  him ; 
and  the  dead  girl's  hair  kept  brushing 
over  his  eyes,  so  that  in  the  waving  shad- 
ow of  it  he  saw  another  shadow  moving 
before  him.  To  the  dull  anguish  of  his 
haste  the  very  bushes  were  malignant ; 
they  kept  him  back,  springing  in  his  face 
with  blow  after  blow,  as  though  he  fol- 
lowed too  close  a  trail.  But  he  was  a 
white  man,  and  he  fought  through  them, 
making  blindly  for  the  sinking  sun.  It 
was  on  the  edge  of  a  bottomless  black 
channel  that  he  stumbled,  and  fell. 

No  sound  came  back  out  of  the  swamp ; 
that  which  had  been  unquiet  was  perhaps 
fed ;  but  in  Welsh's  house  a  light  air 
crept  through  the  open  back  door  and 
fluttered  the  dress  with  roses  on  it  that 
lay  half  made  on  the  floor. 

S*  Carleton. 


460 


An  American  Primer. 


AN  AMERICAN   PRIMER.1 


[The  American  Primer  is  a  challenge  rather  than  a  finished  fight.  Whitman  shows  in  it  what 
he  was  prepared  to  do  rather  than  what  he  thought  he  had  perfected.  It  was  his  original  inten- 
tion to  enlarge  these  notes  into  a  study  which  would  in  a  sense  inclose  the  theme  and  dignify  it 
in  the  way  it  deserved.  Whitman  in  his  early  career  planned  for  all  sorts  of  literary  ventures 
which  were  not  consummated.  Whitman  was  undoubtedly  convinced  that  he  had  a  mission. 
This  conviction  never  assumed  fanatic  forms.  Whitman  was  the  most  catholic  man  who  ever 
thought  he  had  a  mission.  But  he  did  regard  himself  as  such  a  depository.  Yet  he  never  be- 
lieved or  contended  that  he  possessed  exclusive  powers  or  an  extraordinary  divination.  He  felt 
that  if  the  message  with  which  he  was  entrusted  did  not  get  out  through  him  it  would  get  out 
through  some  other.  But  in  his  earlier  career,  after  he  tired  of  writing  in  the  formal  way  and 
to  the  formal  effect,  —  for  he  played  the  usual  juvenile  part  in  literary  experiment,  —  he  felt  thi 
it  would  be  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  secure  publishers  either  for  his  detail  work  or  for 
books.  He  often  asked  himself,  How  am  I  to  deliver  my  goods  ?  He  once  decided  that 
would  lecture.  And  he  told  me  that  when  the  idea  of  the  American  Primer  originally  came 
him  it  was  for  a  lecture.  He  wrote  at  this  thing  in  the  early  fifties,  —  even  as  far  along  as  1856-57. 
And  there  is  evidence  that  he  made  brief  additions  to  it  from  time  to  time  in  the  ten  years  tl 
followed.  But  after  1855,  when  he  succeeded  in  issuing  the  first  edition  of  Leaves  of  Grass, 
some  of  his  old  plans  were  abandoned,  —  this  lecture  scheme  with  others,  —  and  certain  new  plans 
were  formulated.  The  Primer  was  thenceforth,  as  a  distinct  project,  held  in  abeyance.  I  re- 
member that  once  in  the  late  eighties  he  laughed  and  said  to  me,  "  I  may  yet  bring  the  Primer 
out."  And  when  I  laughed  incredulously  he  added,  "  Well,  I  guess  you  are  right  to  laugh  :  I 
suppose  I  never  shall.  And  the  best  of  the  Primer  stuff  has  no  doubt  leaked  into  my  other 
work."  It  is  indeed  true  that  Whitman  gave  expression  to  the  substance  of  the  Primer  in  one 
way  or  another.  Even  some  of  its  sentences  are  utilized  here  and  there  in  his  prose  and  verse 
volumes.  But  the  momentum  gathered  and  brought  to  bear  upon  the  subject  in  the  manuscript 
now  under  view  was  nowhere  else  repeated.  The  Primer,  therefore,  has,  as  a  part  of  Whitman's 
serious  literary  product,  a  marked  identity.  Whitman  said  of  it,  "  It  was  first  intended  for  a 
lecture  :  then  when  I  gave  up  the  idea  of  lecturing  it  was  intended  for  a  book  :  now,  as  it  stands, 
it  is  neither  a  lecture  nor  a  book."  —  HORACE  TRAUBEL.] 

MUCH  is  said  of  what  is  spiritual,  and     rude.    As  humanity  is  one  under  its  amaz- 


spirituality,  in  this,  that,  or  the  other,  — 
in  objects,  expressions.  For  me,  I  see  no 
object,  no  expression,  no  animal,  no  tree, 
no  art,  no  book,  but  I  see,  from  morn- 
ing to  night,  and  from  night  to  morn- 
ing, the  spiritual.  Bodies  are  all  spirit- 
ual. All  words  are  spiritual  —  nothing 
is  more  spiritual  than  words.  Whence 
are  they  ?  Along  how  many  thousands 
and  tens  of  thousands  of  years  have  they 
come  ?  —  those  eluding,  fluid,  beautiful, 
fleshless  realities,  Mother,  Father,  Wa- 
ter, Earth,  Me,  This,  Soul,  Tongue, 
House,  Fire. 

A  great  observation  will  detect  same- 
ness through  all  languages,  however  old, 
however  new,  however  polished,  however 

1  As  an  alternate  to  his  adopted  headline  I 
find  this  among  Whitman's  memoranda :  "  The 
Primer  of  Words :  For  American  Young  Men 


ing  diversities,  language  is  one  under  its. 
The  flippant  read  on  some  long  past  age, 
wonder  at  its  dead  costumes  [customs  ?], 
its  amusements,  &c. ;  but  the  master  un- 
derstands well  the  old,  ever-new,  ever- 
common  grounds,  below  those  anil 
growths,  and,  between  any  two  ages, 
two  languages  and  two  humanities,  how- 
ever wide  apart  in  time  and  space,  marks 
well  not  the  superficial  shades  of  diffei 
ence,  but  the  mass  shades  of  a  joint  na- 
ture. 

In  a  little  while,  in  the  United  Si 
the  English  language,  enriched  with  coi 
tributions  from  all  languages,  old  an< 
new,  will  be  spoken  by  a  hundred  mi] 
lions  of  people  :  perhaps  a  hundred  thoi 

and  Women,  For  Literati,  Orators,  Teacher 
Musicians,  Judges,  Presidents,  &c."  —  H.  T. 


Copyright,  1904,  by  HORACE  TKAUBEL. 


An  American  Primer. 


461 


sand  words  ("  seventy  or  eighty  thousand 
words  "  —  Noah  Webster). 

The  Americans  are  going  to  be  the 
most  fluent  and  melodious  voiced  people 
in  the  world — and  the  most  perfect 
users  of  words.  Words  follow  character, 
—  nativity,  independence,  individuality. 

I  see  that  the  time  is  nigh  when  the 
etiquette  of  salons  is  to  be  discharged 
from  that  great  thing,  the  renovated  Eng- 
lish speech  in  America.  The  occasions 
of  the  English  speech  in  America  are 
immense,  profound  —  stretch  over  ten 
thousand  vast  cities,  over  through  thou- 
sands of  years,  millions  of  miles  of  mead- 
ows, farms,  mountains,  men.  The  occa- 
sions of  salons  are  for  a  coterie,  a  bon 
soir  or  two  —  involve  waiters  standing 
behind  chairs,  silent,  obedient,  with  backs 
that  can  bend  and  must  often  bend. 

What  beauty  there  is  in  words  !  What 
a  lurking  curious  charm  in  the  sound  of 
some  words  !  Then  voices  !  Five  or  six 
times  in  a  lifetime  (perhaps  not  so  often) 
you  have  heard  from  men  and  women 
such  voices,  as  they  spoke  the  most  com- 
mon word  !  What  can  it  be  that  from 
those  few  men  and  women  made  so  much 
out  of  the  most  common  word  !  Geogra- 
phy, shipping,  steam,  the  mint,  the  elec- 
tric telegraph,  railroads,  and  so  forth, 
have  many  strong  and  beautiful  words. 
Mines  —  iron  works  —  the  sugar  planta- 
tions of  Louisiana  —  the  cotton  crop  and 
the  rice  crop  —  Illinois  wheat  —  Ohio 
corn  and  pork  —  Maine  lumber  —  all 
these  sprout  in  hundreds  and  hundreds 
of  words,  all  tangible  and  clean-lived,  all 
having  texture  and  beauty. 

To  all  thoughts  of  your  or  any  one's 
mind,  —  to  all  yearnings,  passions,  love, 
hate,  ennui,  madness,  desperation  of  men 
for  women,  and  of  women  for  men,  —  to 
all  charging  and  surcharging,  —  that  head 
which  poises  itself  on  your  neck  and  is 
electric  in  the  body  beneath  your  head, 
or  runs  with  the  blood  through  your 
veins,  or  in  those  curious  incredible  mira- 
cles you  call  eyesight  or  hearing,  —  to  all 
these,  and  the  like  of  these,  have  been 


made  words.  Such  are  the  words  that 
are  never  new  and  never  old. 

What  a  history  is  folded,  folded  inward 
and  inward  again,  in  the  single  word  I. 

The  words  of  the  Body !  The  words 
of  Parentage  !  The  words  of  Husband 
and  Wife.  The  words  of  Offspring ! 
The  word  Mother  !  The  word  Father  ! 

The  words  of  Behavior  are  quite  nu- 
merous. They  follow  the  law  ;  they  are 
courteous,  grave,  have  polish,  have  a 
sound  of  presence,  and  abash  all  furni- 
ture and  shallowness  out  of  their  sight. 

The  words  of  maternity  are  all  the 
words  that  were  ever  spoken  by  the  mouth 
of  man,  the  child  of  woman,  —  but  they 
are  reborn  words,  and  the  mouth  of  the 
full-sized  mother,  daughter,  wife,  amie, 
does  not  offend  by  using  any  one  of  them. 

Medicine  has  hundreds  of  useful  and 
characteristic  words  —  new  means  of  cure 

—  new  schools  of  doctors  —  the  wonder- 
ful anatomy  of  the  body  —  the  names  of 
a  thousand  diseases  —  surgeon's  terms 

—  hydropathy  —  all  that  relates  to  the 
great  organs  of  the  body.     The  medical 
art  is  always  grand  —  nothing  affords  a 
nobler  scope  for  superior  men  and  wo- 
men.    It,  of  course,  will  never  cease  to 
be  near  man,  and  add  new  terms. 

Law,  Medicine,  Religion,  the  Army, 
the  personnel  of  the  Army  and  Navy, 
the  Arts,  stand  on  their  old  stock  of 
words,  without  increase.  In  the  law  is 
to  be  noticed  a  growing  impatience  with 
formulas,  and  with  diffuseness,  and  ven- 
erable slang.  The  personnel  of  the 
Army  and  the  Navy  exists  in  America, 
apart  from  the  throbbing  life  of  America, 

—  an  exile  in  the  land,  foreign  to  the  in- 
stincts and  tastes  of  the  people,  and,  of 
course,  soon  in  due  time  to  give  place 
to  something  native,  something  warmed 
with  throbs  of  our  own  life. 

These  States  are  rapidl}r  supplying 
themselves  with  new  words,  called  for  by 
new  occasions,  new  facts,  new  politics, 
new  combinations.  Far  plentier  addi- 
tions will  be  needed,  and,  of  course,  will 
be  supplied. 


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An  American  Primer. 


Because  it  is  a  truth  that  the  words 
continually  used  among  the  people  are, 
in  numberless  cases,  not  the  words  used 
in  writing,  or  recorded  in  the  dictionaries 
by  authority,  there  are  just  as  many 
words  in  daily  use,  not  inscribed  in  the 
dictionary,  and  seldom  or  never  in  any 
print.  Also,  the  forms  of  grammar  are 
never  persistently  obeyed,  and  cannot  be. 

The  Real  Dictionary  will  give  all  the 
words  that  exist  in  use,  the  bad  words  as 
well  as  any.  The  Real  Grammar  will 
be  that  which  declares  itself  a  nucleus 
of  the  spirit  of  the  laws,  with  liberty  to 
all  to  carry  out  the  spirit  of  the  laws, 
even  by  violating  them,  if  necessary. 
The  English  Language  is  grandly  law- 
less like  the  race  who  use  it,  —  or,  rather, 
breaks  out  of  the  little  laws  to  enter 
truly  the  higher  ones.  It  is  so  instinct 
with  that  which  underlies  laws  and  the 
purports  of  laws  it  refuses  all  petty  in- 
terruptions in  its  way. 

Books  themselves  have  their  peculiar 
words,  —  namely,  those  that  are  never 
used  in  living  speech  in  the  real  world, 
but  only  used  in  the  world  of  books. 
Nobody  ever  actually  talks  as  books  and 
plays  talk. 

The  Morning  has  its  words  and  the 
Evening  has  its  words.  How  much  there 
is  in  the  word  Light !  How  vast,  sur- 
rounding, falling,  sleepy,  noiseless,  is  the 
word  Night !  It  hugs  with  unf elt  yet 
living  arms. 

Character  makes  words.  The  Eng- 
lish stock,  full  enough  of  faults,  but  averse 
to  all  folderol,  equable,  instinctively  just, 
latent  with  pride  and  melancholy,  ready 
with  brawned  arms,  with  free  speech, 
with  the  knife-blade  for  tyrants  and  the 
reached  hand  for  slaves  —  have  put  all 
these  in  words.  We  have  them  in 
America,  —  they  are  the  body  of  the 
whole  of  the  past.  We  are  to  justify  our 
inheritance,  —  we  are  to  pass  it  on  to 
those  who  are  to  come  after  us,  a  thou- 
sand years  hence,  as  we  have  grown  out 
of  the  English  of  a  thousand  years  ago  : 
American  geography  —  the  plenteous- 


ness  and  variety  of  the  great  nations  of 
the  Union  —  the  thousands  of  settlements 

—  the  seacoast  —  the    Canadian  North 

—  the  Mexican  South  —  California  and 
Oregon  —  the  inland  seas  —  the  moun- 
tains —  Arizona  —  the   prairies  —  the 
immense  rivers. 

Many  of  the  slang  words  among  fight- 
ing men,  gamblers,  thieves,  prostitutes, 
are  powerful  words.  These  words  ought 
to  be  collected,  —  the  bad  words  as  well 
as  the  good.  Many  of  these  bad  words 
are  fine. 

Music  has  many  good  words,  now 
technical,  but  of  such  rich  and  juicy 
character  that  they  ought  to  be  taken  for 
common  use  in  writing  and  speaking. 

New  forms  of  science,  newer,  freer 
characters,  may  have  something  in  them 
to  need  new  words.  One  beauty  of 
words  is  exactitude.  To  me  each  word 

out  of  the that  now  compose  the 

English  language,  has  its  own  meaning, 
and  does  not  stand  for  anything  but  it- 
self —  and  there  are  no  two  words  the 
same  any  more  than  there  are  two  per- 
sons the  same. 

Much  of  America  is  shown  in  its 
newspaper  names,  and  in  the  names  of 
its  steamboats,  ships,  —  names  of  char- 
acteristic amusements  and  games. 

What  do  you  think  words  are  ?  Do 
you  think  words  are  positive  and  original 
things  in  themselves  ?  No.  Words  are 
not  original  and  arbitrary  in  themselves. 
Words  are  a  result  —  they  are  the  pro- 
geny of  what  has  been  or  is  in  vogue.  If 
iron  architecture  comes  in  vogue,  as  it 
seems  to  be  coming,  words  are  wanted 
to  stand  for  all  about  iron  architecture, 
for  the  work  it  causes,  for  the  different 
branches  of  work  and  of  the  workman  — 
those  blocks  of  buildings,  seven  storie 
high,  with  light,  strong  facades,  and  gird- 
ers that  will  not  crumble  a  mite  in  a  thoi 
sand  years. 

Also  words  to  describe  all  America 
peculiarities,  —  the  splendid  and  rugge 
characters  that  are  forming  among  the 
states,  or  are  already  formed  —  in 


An  American  Primer. 


463 


cities,  the  firemen  of  Mannahatta,  and  the 
target  excursionist  and  Bowery  boy  —  the 
Boston  truckman  —  the  Philadelphian. 

In  America  an  immense  number  of 
new  words  are  needed  to  embody  the 
new  political  facts,  the  compact  of  the 
Declaration  of  Independence,  and  of  the 
Constitution  —  the  union  of  the  States 
—  the  new  States  —  the  Congress  —  the 
modes  of  election  —  the  stump  speech  — 
the  ways  of  electioneering  —  addressing 
the  people  —  stating  all  that  is  to  be  said 
in  modes  that  fit  the  life  and  experience 
of  the  Indianian,  the  Michiganian,  the 
Vermonter,  the  men  of  Maine.  Also 
words  to  answer  the  modern,  rapidly 
spreading  faith  of  the  vital  equality  of 
women  with  men,  and  that  they  are  to 
be  placed  on  an  exact  plane,  political- 
ly, socially,  and  in  business,  with  men. 
Words  are  wanted  to  supply  the  copious 
trains  of  facts,  and  flanges  of  facts,  argu- 
ments, and  adjectival  facts,  growing  out 
of  all  new  knowledges.  (Phrenology.) 

Drinking  brandy,  gin,  beer,  is  gener- 
'  ally  fatal  to  the  perfection  of  the  voice  ; 
meanness  of  mind  the  same  ;  gluttony  in 
eating  of  course  the  same ;  a  thinned 
habit  of  body,  or  a  rank  habit  of  body 
rots  the  voice.  .  .  .  The  great  Italian 
singers  are  above  all  others  in  the  world 
from  causes  quite  the  same  as  those  that 
make  the  voices  of  native  healthy  sub- 
strata of  Mannahatta  young  men,  espe- 
cially the  drivers  of  horses,  and  all  whose 
work  leads  to  free  loud  calling  and  com- 
manding, have  such  a  ring  and  freshness. 

Pronunciation  of  Yankees  is  nasal  and 
offensive  —  it  has  the  flat  tones.  It  could 
probably  be  changed  by  placing  only 
those  teachers  in  schools  who  have  rich 
ripe  voices  —  and  by  the  children  practi- 
cing to  speak  from  the  chest  and  in  the 
guttural  and  baritone  methods.  All  sorts 
of  physical,  moral,  and  mental  deformi- 
ties are  inevitably  returned  in  the  voice. 

The  races  that  in  their  realities  are  sup- 
ple, obedient,  cringing,  have  hundreds  of 
words  to  express  hundreds  of  forms  of 
acts,  thoughts,  flanges,  of  those  realities, 


which  the  English  language  knows  no- 
thing of. 

The  English  tongue  is  full  of  strong 
words  native  or  adopted  to  express  the 
blood-born  passion  of  the  race  for  rude- 
ness and  resistance,  as  against  polish  and 
all  acts  to  give  in  :  Robust,  brawny,  ath- 
letic, muscular,  acrid,  harsh,  rugged,  se- 
vere, pluck,  grit,  effrontery,  stern,  resist- 
ance, bracing,  rude,  rugged,  rough,  shag- 
gy, bearded,  arrogant,  haughty.  These 
words  are  alive  and  sinewy,  —  they  walk, 
look,  step,  with  an  air  of  command.  They 
will  often  lead  the  rest,  —  they  will  not 
follow.  How  can  they  follow?  They 
will  appear  strange  in  company  unlike 
themselves. 

English  words.  Even  people's  names 
were  spelt  by  themselves,  sometimes  one 
way,  sometimes  another.  Public  neces- 
sity remedies  all  troubles.  Now,  in  the 
80th  year  of  these  States,  there  is  a  little 
diversity  in  the  ways  of  spelling  words, 
and  much  diversity  in  the  ways  of  pro- 
nouncing them.  Steamships,  railroads, 
newspapers,  submarine  telegraphs,  will 
probably  bring  them  in.  If  not,  it  is  not 
important. 

So  in  the  accents  and  inflections  of 
words.  Language  must  cohere  —  it  can- 
not be  left  loosely  to  float  or  to  fly  away. 
Yet  all  the  rules  of  the  accents  of  and 
inflections  of  words  drop  before  a  per- 
fect voice  —  that  may  follow  the  rules  or 
be  ignorant  of  them  —  it  is  indifferent 
which.  Pronunciation  is  the  stamina  of 
language,  —  it  is  language.  The  noblest 
pronunciation,  in  a  city  or  race,  marks 
the  noblest  city  or  race,  or  descendants 
thereof. 

Why  are  names  (words)  so  mighty  ? 
Because  facts,  ancestry,  maternity,  faiths, 
are.  Slowly,  eternally,  inevitably,  move 
the  souls  of  the  earth,  and  names  (words) 
are  its  (their)  signs. 

Kosmos  words,  words  of  the  free  ex- 
pansion of  thought,  history,  chronology, 
literature,  are  showing  themselves,  with 
foreheads,  muscular  necks  and  breasts. 
These  gladden  me.  I  put  my  arms 


464 


An  American  Primer. 


around  them  —  touch  my  lips  to  theirs. 
The  past  hundred  centuries  have  confided 
much  to  me,  yet  they  mock  me,  frown- 
ing. I  think  I  am  done  with  many  of 
the  words  of  the  past  hundred  centuries. 
I  am  mad  that  their  poems,  bibles,  words, 
still  rule  and  represent  the  earth,  and  are 
not  yet  superseded.  But  why  do  I  say 
so  ?  I  must  not,  will  not,  be  impatient. 

The  American  city  excursions,  for 
military  practice,  for  firing  at  the  target, 
for  all  the  exercises  of  health  and  man- 
hood, —  why  should  not  women  accom- 
pany them  ?  I  expect  to  see  the  time  in 
Politics,  Business,  Public  Gatherings, 
Processions,  Excitements,  when  women 
shall  not  be  divided  from  men,  but  shall 
take  their  part  on  the  same  terms  as  men. 
What  sort  of  women  have  Massachusetts, 
Ohio,  Virginia,  Pennsylvania,  and  the 
rest,  correspondent  with  what  they  con- 
tinually want.  Sometimes  I  have  fancied 
that  only  from  superior,  hardy  women 
can  rise  the  future  superiorities  of  these 
States. 

Man's  words,  for  the  young  men  of 
these  States,  are  all  words  that  have 
arisen  out  of  the  qualities  of  mastership, 
going  first,  brunting  danger  first,  — 
words  to  identify  a  hardy  boyhood  — 
knowledge  —  an  erect,  sweet,  lusty  body, 
without  taint  —  choice  and  chary  of  its 
love-power. 

The  spelling  of  words  is  subordinate. 
Morbidness  for  nice  spelling  and  tenaci- 
ty for  or  against  some  one  letter  or  so 
means  dandyism  and  impotence  in  litera- 
ture. Of  course  the  great  writers  must 
have  digested  all  these  things,  —  passed 
lexicons,  etymologies,  orthographies, 
through  them  and  extracted  the  nutri- 
ment. Modern  taste  is  for  brevity  and 
for  ranging  words  in  spelling  classes. 
Probably  the  words  of  the  English  tongue 
can  never  be  ranged  in  spelling  classes. 
The  phonetic  (?)  spelling  is  on  natural 
principles  —  it  has  arbitrary  forms  of 
letters  and  combinations  of  letters  for  all 
sounds.  It  may  in  time  prevail,  —  it 
surely  will  prevail  if  it  is  best  it  should. 


For  many  hundred  years  there  was  no- 
thing like  settled  spelling. 

A  perfect  user  of  words  uses  things 
—  they  exude  in  power  and  beauty  from 
him  —  miracles  from  his  hands  —  mira- 
cles from  his  mouth  —  lilies,  clouds,  sun- 
shine, woman,  poured  copiously  —  things 
whirled  like  chain-shot  rocks,  defiance, 
compulsion,  horses,  iron,  locomotives,  the 
oak,  the  pine,  the  keen  eye,  the  hairy 
breast,  the  Texan  ranger,  the  Boston 
truckman,  the  woman  that  arouses  a  man, 
the  man  that  arouses  a  woman. 

Tavern  words,  such  as  have  reference 
to  drinking,  or  the  compliments  of  those 
who  drink,  —  the  names  of  some  three 
hundred  different  tavern  drinks  in  one 
part  or  another  of  these  States. 

Words  of  all  degrees  of  dislike,  from 
just  a  tinge,  onward  or  deepward. 

Words  of  approval,  admiration,  friend- 
ship. This  is  to  be  said  among  the  young 
men  of  these  States,  that  with  a  wonder- 
ful tenacity  of  friendship,  and  passionate 
fondness  for  their  friends,  and  always  a 
manly  readiness  to  make  friends,  they 
yet  have  remarkably  few  words  of  names 
for  the  friendly  sentiments.  They  seer 
to  be  words  that  do  not  thrive  here  among 
the  muscular  classes,  where  the  real  qual- 
ity of  friendship  is  always  truly  to 
found.  Also,  they  are  words  which  the 
muscular  classes,  the  young  men  of  these 
States,  rarely  use  and  have  an  aversion 
for  ;  they  never  give  words  to  their  most 
ardent  friendships. 

Words  of  politics  are  numerous  in  these 
States,  and  many  of  them  peculiar.  The 
Western  States  have  terms  of  their  own  : 
the  President's  message  —  the  political 
meeting  —  the  committees  —  the  reso- 
lutions :  new  vegetables  —  new  trees  — 
new  animals. 

If  success  and  breed  follow  camels 
and  dromedaries,  that  are  now  just  in- 
troduced into  Texas,  to  be  used  for  trave 
and  traffic  over  the  vast  wilds  between 
the  lower  Mississippi  and  the  Pacific, 
number  of  new  words  will  also  have 
be  tried  after  them. 


An  American  Primer. 


465 


The  appetite  of  the  people  of  these 
States,  in  popular  speeches  and  writings, 
is  for  unhemmed  latitude,  coarseness, 
directness,  live  epithets,  expletives,  words 
of  opprobrium,  resistance.  This  I  un- 
derstand because  I  have  the  taste  myself 
as  large,  as  largely,  as  any  one.  I  have 
pleasure  in  the  use,  on  fit  occasions,  of 
—  traitor,  coward,  liar,  shyster,  skulk, 
doughface,  trickster,  mean  cuss,  back- 
slider, thief,  impotent,  lickspittle. 

The  great  writers  are  often  select  of 
their  audiences.  The  greatest  writers 
only  are  well  pleased  and  at  their  ease 
among  the  unlearned,  —  are  received  by 
common  men  and  women  familiarly,  do 
not  hold  out  obscure,  but  come  welcome 
to  table,  bed,  leisure,  by  day  and  night. 

A  perfect  writer  would  make  words 
sing,  dance,  kiss,  bear  children,  weep, 
bleed,  rage,  stab,  steal,  fire  cannon,  steer 
ships,  sack  cities,  charge  with  cavalry  or 
infantry,  or  do  anything  that  man  or 
woman  or  the  natural  powers  can  do. 

Latent,  in  a  great  user  of  words,  must 
actually  be  all  passions,  crimes,  trades, 
animals,  stars,  God,  sex,  the  past,  might, 
space,  metals,  and  the  like  —  because 
these  are  the  words,  and  he  who  is  not 
these  plays  with  a  foreign  tongue,  turn- 
ing helplessly  to  dictionaries  and  author- 
ities. How  can  I  tell  you  ?  I  put  many 
things  on  record  that  you  will  not  under- 
stand at  first,  —  perhaps  not  in  a  year,  — 
but  they  must  be  (are  to  be)  understood. 
The  earth,  I  see,  writes  with  prodigal 
clear  hands  all  summer,  forever,  and  all 
winter  also,  content,  and  certain  to  be 
understood  in  time.  Doubtless,  only  the 
greatest  user  of  words  himself  fully  en- 
joys and  understands  himself. 

Words  of  names  of  places  are  strong, 
copious,  unruly,  in  the  repertoire  for  the 
American  pens  and  tongues.  The  names 
of  these  States  —  the  names  of  Coun- 
tries, Cities,  Rivers,  Mountains,  Villages, 
Neighborhoods  —  borrowed  plentifully 

1  Whitman  here  inserts  a  memorandum,  a 
sort  of  self -query,  to  this  effect :  "  A  few  char- 
acteristic words  —  words  give  us  to  see  —  (list 

VOL.  xcin.  —  NO.  558.  30 


from  each  of  the  languages  that  graft  the 
English  language  —  or  named  from  some 
natural  peculiarity  of  water  or  earth,  or 
some  event  that  happened  there  —  often 
named  from  death,  from  some  animal, 
from  some  of  those  subtle  analogies  that 
the  common  people  are  so  quick  to  per- 
ceive. The  names  in  the  list  of  the  Post 
Offices  of  these  States  are  studies. 

What  name  a  city  has  —  what  name  a 
State,  river,  sea,  mountain,  wood,  prairie, 
has  —  is  no  indifferent  matter.  All  abo- 
riginal names  sound  good.  I  was  asking 
for  something  savage  and  luxuriant,  and 
behold,  here  are  the  aboriginal  names. 
I  see  how  they  are  being  preserved. 
They  are  honest  words,  —  they  give  the 
true  length,  breadth,  depth.  They  all 
fit.  Mississippi !  —  the  word  winds  with 
chutes  —  it  rolls  a  stream  three  thousand 
miles  long.  Ohio,  Connecticut,  Ottawa, 
Monongahela,  all  fit. 

Names  are  magic.  One  word  can  pour 
such  a  flood  through  the  soul.  To-day  I 
will  mention  Christ's  before  all  other 
names.  Grand  words  of  names  are  still 
left.  What  is  it  that  flows  through  me 
at  the  sight  of  the  word  Socrates,  or 
Cincinnatus,  or  Alfred  of  the  olden  time 

—  or  at  the  sight  of  the  word  Columbus, 
or  Shakespeare,  or  Rousseau,  or  Mira- 
beau  - —  or   at   the    sight   of   the   word 
Washington,  or  Jefferson,  or  Emerson  ? 

Out  of  Christ  are  divine  words  —  out 
of  this  savior.  Some  words  are  fresh 
smelling,  like  lilies,  roses,  to  the  soul, 
blooming  without  failure.  The  name  of 
Christ  —  all  words  that  have  arisen  from 
the  life  and  death  of  Christ,  the  divine 
son,  who  went*  about  speaking  perfect 
words,  no  patois  —  whose  life  was  per- 
fect, —  the  touch  of  whose  hands  and  feet 
was  miracles,  —  who  was  crucified,  — 
his  flesh  laid  in  a  shroud,  in  the  grave.1 

Words  of  names  of  persons,  thus  far, 
still  return  the  old  continents  and  races 

—  return  the  past  three  thousand  years  — 

of  poets  —  Hindoo  —  Homer  —  Shakespeare  — 
Pythagoras,  Plato,  Zoroaster,  Menu,  Socrates, 
Sesostris,  Christ).  Improve  this."  —  H.  T. 


466 


An  American  Primer. 


perhaps  twenty  thousand  —  return  the 
Hebrew  Bible,  Greece,  Rome,  France, 
the  Goths,  the  Celts,  Scandinavia,  Ger- 
many, England.  Still  questions  come  : 
what  flanges  are  practicable  for  names  of 
persons  that  mean  these  States  ?  What 
is  there  in  the  best  aboriginal  names? 
What  is  there  in  strong  words  of  quali- 
ties, bodily,  mental,  —  a  name  given  to 
the  cleanest  and  most  beautiful  body,  ot- 
to the  offspring  of  the  same  ?  What  is 
there  that  will  conform  to  the  genius  of 
these  States,  and  to  all  the  facts  ?  What 
escape  with  perfect  freedom,  without  af- 
fectation, from  the  shoals  of  Johns,  Pe- 
ters, Davids,  Marys  ?  Or  on  what  happy 
principle,  popular  and  fluent,  could  other 
words  be  prefixed  or  suffixed  to  these,  to 
make  them  show  who  they  are,  what 
land  they  were  born  in.  what  govern- 
ment, which  of  the  States,  what  genius, 
mark,  blood,  times,  have  coined  them 
with  strong-cut  coinage  ? 

The  subtle  charm  of  beautiful  pronun- 
ciation is  not  in  dictionaries,  grammars, 
marks  of  accent,  formulas  of  a  language, 
or  in  any  laws  or  rules.  The  charm  of 
the  beautiful  pronunciation  of  all  words, 
of  all  tongues,  is  in  perfect  flexible  vocal 
organs,  and  in  a  developed  harmonious 
soul.  All  words,  spoken  from  these, 
have  deeper,  sweeter  sounds,  new  mean- 
ings, impossible  on  any  less  terms.  Such 
meanings,  such  sounds,  continually  wait 
in  every  word  that  exists  —  in  these 
words  —  perhaps  slumbering  through 
years,  closed  from  all  tympana  of  tem- 
ples, lips,  brains,  until  that  comes  which 
has  the  quality  patiently  waiting  in  the 
words.  .  .  .  Likely  there  are  other  words 
wanted.  Of  words  wanted,  the  matter 
is  summed  up  in  this :  When  the  time 
comes  for  them  to  represent  anything  or 
any  state  of  things,  the  words  will  surely 
follow.  The  lack  of  any  words,  I  say 
again,  is  as  historical  as  the  existence  of 
words.  As  for  me,  I  feel  a  hundred  re- 
alities, clearly  determined  in  me,  that 
words  are  not  yet  formed  to  represent. 
Men  like  me  —  also  women,  our  counter- 


parts —  perfectly  equal  —  will  gradually 
get  to  be  more  and  more  numerous,  — 
perhaps  swiftly,  in  shoals  ;  then  the  words 
will  also  follow,  in  shoals.  It  is  the  glory 
and  superb  rose-hue  of  the  English  lan- 
guage, anywhere,  that  it  favors  growth 
as  the  skin  does,  —  that  it  can  soon  be- 
come, whenever  that  is  needed,  the  tough 
skin  of  a  superior  man  or  woman. 

The  art  of  the  use  of  words  would 
a  stain,  a  smutch,  but  for  the  stami 
of  things.     For  in  manners,  poems,  or 
tions,  music,  friendship,  authorship,  w 
is  not  said  is  just  as  important  as  w 
is  said,  and  holds  just  as  much  meanin 
Fond  of  men,  as  a  living  woman  is 
fond  of  women,  as  a  living  man  is. 

I  like  limber,  lasting,  fierce  words.  I 
like  them  applied  to  myself,  —  and  I  like 
them  in  newspapers,  courts,  debates,  con- 
gress. Do  you  suppose  the  liberties  and 
the  brawn  of  these  States  have  to  do  only 
with  delicate  lady-words  ?  with  gloved 
gentlemen  words  ?  Bad  Presidents,  bad 
judges,  bad  clients,  bad  editors,  owners 
of  slaves,  and  the  long  ranks  of  Nor 
era  political  suckers  (robbers,  traito: 
suborned),  monopolists,  infidels,  .  . 
shaved  persons,  supplejacks,  ecclesi 
tics,  men  not  fond  of  women,  women  i* 
fond  of  men,  cry  down  the  use  of  stron 
cutting,  beautiful,  rude  words.  To  t 
manly  instincts  of  the  People  they 
forever  be  welcome. 

In  words  of  names,  the  mouth  and 
of  the  people  show  an  antipathy  to  titl 
misters,  handles.  They  love  short  fi 
names  abbreviated  to  their  lips:  To 
Bill,  Jack.  These  are  to  enter  into 
erature,  and  be  voted  for  on  politi 
tickets  for  the  great  offices  :  Expletiv> 
.  .  .  curious  words  and  phrases  of 
sent  or  inquiry,  nicknames  either  to  p 
sons  or  customs.  Many  actions,  ma 
kinds  of  character,  and  many  of  the 
fashions  of  dress  have  names  among  two 
thirds  of  the  people,  that  would  never  be 
understood  among  the  remaining  third, 
and  never  appear  in  print. 

Factories,  mills,  and  all  the  processes 


An  American  Primer. 


467 


of  hundreds  of  different  manufacturers 
grow  thousands  of  words.  Cotton,  wool- 
len, and  silk  goods,  —  hemp,  rope,  car- 
pets, paper  -  hangings,  paints,  roofing 
preparations,  hardware,  furniture,  pa- 
per mills,  the  printing  offices  with  their 
wonderful  improvements,  engraving,  da- 
guerreotyping. 

This  is  the  age  of  the  metal  iron.  Iron, 
with  all  that  it  does,  or  that  belongs  to 
iron,  or  flanges  from  it,  results  in  words  : 
from  the  mines  they  have  been  drawn,  as 
the  ore  has  been  drawn.  Following  the 
universal  laws  of  words,  these  are  welded 
together  in  hardy  forms  and  characters. 
They  are  ponderous,  strong,  definite,  not 
indebted  to  the  antique,  —  they  are  iron 
words,  wrought  and  cast.  I  see  them  all 
good,  faithful,  massive,  permanent  words, 
—  I  love  well  these  iron  words  of  1856. 
Coal  has  its  words  also,  that  assimilate 
very  much  with  those  of  iron. 

Gold,  of  course,  has  always  its  words. 
The  mint,  the  American  coinage,  the 
dollar  piece,  the  fifty  dollar  or  one  hun- 
dred dollar  piece.  California,  the  me- 
tallic basis  of  banking,  chemical  tests  of 
gold,  —  all  these  have  their  words:  Can- 
ada words,  Yankee  words,  Mannahatta 
words,  Virginia  words,  Florida  and  Ala- 
bama words,  Texas  words,  Mexican  and 
Nicaraguan  words,  Ohio,  Illinois,  and  In- 
diana words. 

The  different  mechanics  have  differ- 
ent words,  —  all,  however,  under  a  few 
great  over-arching  laws.  These  are  car- 
penter's words,  mason's  words,  black- 
smith's words,  shoemaker's  words,  tailor's 
words,  hatter's  words,  weaver's  words, 
painter's  words. 

The  farmer's  words  are  immense. 
They  are  mostly  old,  partake  of  ripeness, 
home,  the  ground, —  have  nutriment,  like 
wheat  and  milk.  Farm  words  are  added 
to,  now,  by  a  new  class  of  words,  from 
the  introduction  of  chemistry  into  farm- 
ing, and  from  the  introduction  of  numer- 
ous machines  into  the  barn  and  field. 

The  nigger  dialect  furnishes  hundreds 
of  outre*  words,  many  of  them  adopted 


into  the  common  speech  of  the  masses  of 
the  people.  Curiously,  these  words  show 
the  old  English  instinct  for  wide  open 
pronunciations,  as  yallah  for  yellow,  — 
massah  for  master,  —  and  for  rounding 
off  all  the  corners  of  words.  The  nigger 
dialect  has  hints  of  the  future  theory  of 
the  modification  of  all  the  words  of  the 
English  language,  for  musical  purposes, 
for  a  native  grand  opera  in  America, 
leaving  the  words  just  as  they  are  for 
writing  and  speaking,  but  the  same 
words  so  modified  as  to  answer  per- 
fectly for  musical  purposes,  on  grand 
and  simple  principles.  Then  we  should 
have  two  sets  of  words,  male  and  female 
as  they  should  be,  in  these  States,  both 
equally  understood  by  the  people,  giving 
a  fit,  much-needed  medium  to  that  pas- 
sion for  music  which  is  deeper  and  purer 
in  America  than  in  any  other  land  in  the 
world.  The  music  of  America  is  to  adopt 
the  Italian  method,  and  expand  it  to 
vaster,  simpler,  far  superber  effects.  It  is 
not  to  be  satisfied  till  it  comprehends  the 
people  and  is  comprehended  by  them. 

Sea  words,  coast  words,  sloop  words, 
sailor's  and  boatman's  words,  words  of 
ships,  are  numerous  in  America.  One 
fourth  of  the  people  of  these  States  are 
aquatic,  —  love  the  water,  love  to  be  near 
it,  smell  it,  sail  on  it,  swim  in  it,  fish, 
clam,  trade  to  and  fro  upon  it.  To  be 
much  on  the  water,  or  in  constant  sight 
of  it,  affects  words,  the  voice,  the  pas- 
sions. Around  the  markets,  among  the 
fish-smacks,  along  the  wharves,  you  hear 
a  thousand  words,  never  yet  printed  in 
the  repertoire  of  any  lexicon,  —  words, 
strong  words  solid  as  logs,  and  more  beau- 
ty to  me  than  any  of  the  antique.  .  .  . 

In  most  instances  a  characteristic  word 
once  used  in  a  poem,  speech,  or  what 
not,  is  then  exhausted  ;  he  who  thinks 
he  is  going  to  produce  effects  by  freely 
using  strong  words  is  ignorant  of  words. 
One  single  name  belongs  to  one  single 
place  only,  —  as  a  keyword  of  a  book 
may  be  best  used  only  once  in  the  book. 
A  true  composition  in  words  returns  the 


468 


An  American  Primer. 


human  body,  male  or  female,  —  that  is 
the  most  pei'fect  composition,  and  shall 
be  best  beloved  by  men  and  women,  and 
shall  last  the  longest,  which  slights  no 
part  of  the  body,  and  repeats  no  part  of 
the  body.  To  make  a  perfect  composi- 
tion in  words  is  more  than  to  make  the 
best  building  or  machine,  or  the  best 
statue  or  picture.  It  shall  be  the  glory 
of  the  greatest  masters  to  make  perfect 
compositions  in  words. 

The  plays  of  Shakespeare  and  the 
rest  are  grand.  Our  obligations  to  them 
are  incalculable.  Other  facts  remain  to 
be  considered :  their  foreignness  to  us 
in  much  of  their  spirit  —  the  sentiment 
under  which  they  were  written,  that  caste 
is  not  to  be  questioned  —  that  the  noble- 
man is  of  one  blood  and  the  people  of 
another. 

Costumes  are  retrospective,  —  they  rise 
out  of  the  sub-strata  of  education,  equal- 
ity, ignorance,  caste,  and  the  like.  A 
nation  that  imports  its  costumes  imports 
deformity.  Shall  one  man  be  afraid,  or 
one  woman  be  afraid,  to  dress  in  a  beau- 
tiful, decorous,  natural,  wholesome,  inex- 
pensive manner,  because  many  thousands 
dress  in  the  reverse  manner?  There  is 
this,  also,  about  costumes,  —  many  save 
themselves  from  being  exiled,  and  keep 
each  other  in  countenance,  by  being  alike 
foolish,  dapper,  extravagant.  I  see  that 
the  day  is  to  come  very  soon  in  America 
when  there  will  not  be  a  flat  level  of 
costumes. 

Probably  there  is  this  to  be  said  about 
the  Anglo-Saxon  breed,  —  that  in  real 
vocal  use  it  has  less  of  the  words  of  the 
various  phases  of  friendship  and  love 
than  any  other  race,  and  more  friend- 
ship and  love.  The  literature,  so  full  of 
love,  is  begotten  of  the  old  Celtic  met- 
rical romances,  and  of  the  extravagant 
lays  of  those  who  sang  and  narrated,  in 
France,  and  thence  in  England,  —  and 
of  Italian  extravaganzas,  —  and  all  that 
sighing,  vowing,  kissing,  dying,  that  was 
in  songs  in  European  literature  in  the 
sixteenth  century.  Still,  it  seems  as  if 


this  love  sickness  engrafted  on  our  lite: 
ature  were  only  a  fair  response  and  ei 
joyment  that  people  nourish  themselvi 
with,  after  repressing  their  words.    T] 
Americans,  like   the  English,  probabb 
make  love  worse  than  any  other  raci 
Voices  follow  character,  and  nothing 
better  than  a  superb  vocalism.    I  think 
this  land  is  covered  with  the  weeds  and 
chaff  of  literature. 

California    is   sown   thick   with 
names  of  all  the  little   and  big  sainl 
Chase  them  away  and  substitute  aboi 
ginal    names.     What   is   the   fitness 
what  the  strange  charm  —  of  aborigini 
names  ?    Monongahela :  it  rolls  with  ven- 
ison richness  upon  the  palate.     Among 
names  to  be  revolutionized :  that  of  the 
city  of  "  Baltimore." 

Never  will  I  allude  to  the  English 
Language  or  tongue  without  exultation. 
This  is  the  tongue  that  spurns  laws,  as 
the  greatest  tongue  must.  It  is  the  most 
capacious  vital  tongue  of  all,  —  full 
of  ease,  definiteness,  and  power,  —  full 
of  sustenance,  —  an  enormous  treasure 
house,  or  ranges  of  treasure  houses,  ar- 
senals, granary,  chock  full  of  so  many 
contributions  from  the  north  and  from 
the  south,  from  Scandinavia,  from 
Greece  and  Rome  —  from  Spaniards, 
Italians,  and  the  French  —  that  its  own 
sturdy  home-dated  Angles-bred  words 
have  long  been  outnumbered  by  the 
foreigners  whom  they  lead  —  which  is 
all  good  enough,  and  indeed  must  be. 
America  owes  immeasurable  respect  and 
love  to  the  past,  and  to  many  ancestries, 
for  many  inheritances,  —  but  of  all  that 
America  has  received  from  the  past, 
from  the  mothers  and  fathers  of  laws, 
arts,  letters,  etc.,  by  far  the  greatest 
inheritance  is  the  English  Language  — 
so  long  in  growing  —  so  fitted. 

All  the  greatness  of  any  laud,  at  any 
time,  lies  folded  in  its  names.  Would  I 
recall  some  particular  country  or  age  ? 
the  most  ancient  ?  the  greatest  ?  I  recall 
a  few  names  —  a  mountain  or  sierra  of 
mountains  —  a  sea  or  bay  —  a  river  — 


An  American  Primer. 


469 


some  mighty  city  —  some  deed  of  per- 
sons, friends  or  enemies,  —  some  event, 
perhaps  a  great  war,  perhaps  a  greater 
peace  —  some  time-marking  and  place- 
marking  philosoph,  divine  person,  king, 
bard,  goddess,  captain,  discoverer,  or  the 
like.  Thus  does  history  in  all  things  hang 
around  a  few  names.  Thus  does  all  hu- 
man interest  hang  around  names.  All 
men  experience  it,  but  no  man  ciphers  it 
out. 

What  is  the  curious  rapport  of  names  ? 
I  have  been  informed  that  there  are  peo- 
ple who  say  it  is  not  important  about 
names,  —  one  word  is  as  good  as  another 
if  the  designation  be  understood.  I  say 
that  nothing  is  more  important  than 
names.  Is  art  important  ?  Are  forms  ? 
Great  clusters  of  nomenclature  in  a  land 
(needed  in  American  nomenclature)  in- 
clude appropriate  names  for  the  months 
(those  now  used  perpetuate  old  myths)  ; 
appropriate  names  for  the  days  of  the 
week  (those  now  used  perpetuate  Teu- 
tonic and  Greek  divinities)  ;  appropriate 
names  for  persons  American  —  men,  wo- 
men, and  children  ;  appropriate  names 
for  American  places,  cities,  rivers,  coun- 
ties, etc.  The  word  "  country  "  itself 
should  be  changed.  Numbering  the 
streets,  as  a  general  thing,  with  a  few 
irresistible  exceptions,  is  very  good.  No 
country  can  have  its  own  poems  without 
it  have  its  own  names.  The  name  of 
Niagara  should  be  substituted  for  the  St. 
Lawrence.  Among  the  places  that  stand 
in  need  of  fresh  appropriate  names  are 
the  great  cities  of  St.  Louis,  New  Or- 
leans, St.  Paul. 

The  whole  theory  and  practice  of  the 
naming  of  college  societies  must  be  re- 
made on  superior  American  principles. 
The  old  theory  and  practice  of  classical 
education  is  to  give  way,  and  a  new  race 
of  teachers  is  to  appear.  I  say  we  have 
here,  now,  a  greater  age  to  celebrate, 
greater  ideas  to  embody,  than  anything 
even  in  Greece  or  Rome,  or  in  the  names 
of  Jupiters,  Jehovahs,  Apollos,  and  their 
myths.  The  great  proper  names  used 


in  America  must  commemorate  things 
belonging  to  America  and  dating  thence. 
Because,  what  is  America  for  ?  To 
commemorate  the  old  myths  and  the 
gods  ?  To  repeat  the  Mediterranean 
here  ?  Or  the  uses  and  growths  of  Eu- 
rope here?  No  (na-o-o),  but  to  destroy 
all  those  from  the  purposes  of  the  earth, 
and  to  erect  a  new  earth  in  their  place. 

All  lies  folded  in  names.  I  have 
heard  it  said  that  when  the  spirit  arises 
that  does  not  brook  submission  and  imi- 
tation, it  will  throw  off  the  ultramarine 
names.  That  Spirit  already  walks  the 
streets  of  the  cities  of  these  States.  I, 
and  others,  illustrate  it.  I  say  that 
America,  too,  shall  be  commemorated, 
—  shall  stand  rooted  in  the  ground  in 
names,  —  and  shall  flow  in  the  water  in 
names,  and  be  diffused  in  time,  in  days, 
in  months,  in  their  names.  Now  the 
days  signify  extinct  gods  and  goddesses, 
— the  months  half-unknown  rites  and  em- 
perors, —  and  chronology  with  the  rest  is 
all  foreign  to  America,  —  all  exiles  and 
insults  here. 

But  it  is  no  small  thing,  —  no  quick 
growth  ;  not  a  matter  of  ruling  out  one 
word  and  of  writing  another.  Real  names 
never  come  so  easily.  The  greatest  cities, 
the  greatest  politics,  the  greatest  physio- 
logy and  soul,  the  greatest  orators,  poets, 
and  literati,  —  the  best  women,  the  freest 
leading  men,  the  proudest  national  char- 
acter, —  such,  and  the  like,  are  indis- 
pensable beforehand.  Then  the  greatest 
names  will  follow,  for  they  are  results,  — 
and  there  are  no  greater  results  in  the 
world. 

Names  are  the  turning  point  of  who 
shall  be  master.  There  is  so  much  virtue 
in  names  that  a  nation  which  produces  its 
own  names,  haughtily  adheres  to  them, 
and  subordinates  others  to  them,  leads 
all  the  rest  of  the  nations  of  the  earth. 
I  also  promulge  that  a  nation  which  has 
not  its  own  names,  but  begs  them  of 
other  nations,  has  no  identity,  marches 
not  in  front,  but  behind. 

Names  are  a  test  of  the  aesthetic  and 


470 


Life's  Tavern. 


of  spirituality.  A  delicate  subtle  some- 
thing there  is  in  the  right  name  —  an 
undemonstrable  nourishment  —  that  ex- 
hilarates the  soul.  Masses  of  men,  un- 
aware what  they  like,  lazily  inquire  what 
difference  there  is  between  one  name  and 
another.  But  the  few  fine  ears  of  the 
world  decide  for  them,  —  the  masses  be- 
ing always  as  eligible  as  any  whether 
they  know  it  or  not.  All  that  immense 
volumes,  and  more  than  volumes,  can 
tell,  is  conveyed  in  the  right  name.  The 
right  name  of  a  city,  State,  town,  man, 
or  woman,  is  a  perpetual  feast  to  the  aes- 
thetic and  musical  nature.  Take  the 
names  of  newspapers.  What  has  such 
a  name  as  The  -iEgis,  The  Mercury, 
The  Herald,  to  do  in  America  ? 

Californian,  Texan,  New  Mexican, 
and  Arizonian  names  have  the  sense  of 
the  ecstatic  monk,  the  cloister,  the  idea 
of  miracles,  and  of  devotees  canonized 


after  death.  They  are  the  results  of  the 
early  missionaries  and  the  element  of 
piety  in  the  old  Spanish  character.  They 
have,  in  the  same  connection,  a  tinge 
of  melancholy  and  of  a  curious  free- 
dom from  roughness  and  money-making. 
Such  names  stand  strangely  in  Califor- 
nia. What  do  such  names  know  of 
democracy,  —  of  the  hunt  for  the  gold 
leads  and  the  nugget,  or  of  the  religion 
that  is  scorn  and  negation  ? 

American  writers  are  to  show  far  more 
freedom  in  the  use  of  words.  Ten  thou- 
sand native  idiomatic  words  are  grow- 
ing, or  are  to-day  already  grown,  out 
of  which  vast  numbers  could  be  used 
by  American  writers,  with  meaning  and 
effect,  —  words  that  would  be  welcomed 
by  the  nation,  being  of  the  national 
blood,  —  words  that  would  give  that  taste 
of  identity  and  locality  which  is  so  dear 
in  literature. 

Walt  Whitman. 


LIFE'S  TAVERN. 

IN  this  old  Tavern  there  are  rooms  so  dear 

That  I  would  linger  here. 

I  love  these  corners  and  familiar  nooks 

Where  I  have  sat  with  people  and  with  books; 

The  very  imperfections  and  the  scars 

About  the  walls  and  ceiling  and  the  floor, 

The  sagging  of  the  windows  and  the  door, 

The  dinginess  that  mars 

The  hearth  and  chimney,  and  the  wood  laid  bare 

There  on  the  old  black*  chair. 

The  dear  dilapidation  of  the  place 

Smiles  in  my  face, 

And  I  am  loath  to  go. 

Here  from  the  window  is  a  glimpse  of  sea, 

Enough  for  me ; 

And  every  evening,  through  the  window  bars, 

Peer  in  the  friendly  stars. 

—  And  yet  I  know 

That  some  day  I  must  go,  and  close  the  door, 

And  see  the  House  no  more. 

Mary  Burt  Messer. 


The  Sicilian  Highlands. 


471 


THE  SICILIAN   HIGHLANDS. 


WITH  the  exception  of  the  hinterland 
of  Calabria,  there  is  probably  no  part  of 
Europe  so  unknown  to  the  ordinary  trav- 
eler as  the  interior  of  Sicily.  These  in- 
lands practically  begin  at  the  coastline 
all  along  the  circumference  of  over  six 
hundred  miles  ;  it  is  only  on  the  southern 
and  southwestern  coasts,  or  the  desolate 
promontory  behind  which  lie  the  ruins  of 
Selinunte,  and  then  again  at  Terranova, 
the  ancient  Gela,  and  thence  along  the 
sea-loop  to  Syracuse  and  Augusta,  to 
Lentini  and  Catania,  that  a  mountain- 
wall  does  not  at  once  exclude  the  inlands 
from  the  shore  lands  as  a  country  apart. 
Of  the  seven  or  eight  railway  lines  or 
short  branches  which  traverse  this  Sicil- 
ian hinterland  at  remote  distances,  only 
three  are  commonly  traveled  by  the  tour- 
ist in  Sicily :  the  north-coast  line  from 
Messina  to  Palermo,  the  east-coast  line 
from  Messina  to  Syracuse,  and  the  cen- 
tral line  from  Palermo  and  Termini  via 
Castrogiovanni  to  Catania  (with  its  due 
south  bifurcation  from  Roccapalumba  to 
Girgenti).  Very  few  tourists  avail  them- 
selves of  the  Palermo-Occidental  rail- 
way, except  those  interested  in  the  wine 
and  other  export  trade  of  Marsala  and 
Trapani  —  or  a  few  of  the  more  erudite 
travelers,  anxious  to  break  at  Calatafimi 
for  the  solitary  magnificence  of  the  ruins 
of  Segesta ;  or  at  Castelvetrano  for  the 
fallen  temples  of  Selinunte  (Selinus)  ;  or 
at  Marsala  to  view  that  promontory  of 
Lilybaion,  the  "  most  splendid  city,"  the 
scene  of  one  of  the  greatest  of  Roman 
sieges,  where  thirty  years  earlier  the  great 
Pyrrhus  failed  disastrously,  and  where 
for  generations  Melkarth  and  the  gods  of 
Carthage  reigned  supreme.  Every  year, 
too,  a  few  classical  enthusiasts  journey  to 
Trapani,  to  see  and  climb  the  Monte  San 
Giuliano  of  to-day,  the  Eryx  of  the  an- 

1  The  highest  reach  is  between  Randazzo  and 
Bronte.  Between  the  watersheds  of  the  Al- 


cient  world,  at  whose  summit  (2500  feet) 
stood  one  of  the  most  famous  of  all  the 
shrines  of  antiquity,  that  of  Venus  Ery- 
cina,  — as,  before  her,  of  the  Erycinian 
Aphrodite  of  the  Hellenes,  as,  before  her, 
of  the  Phoenician  Astarte ;  and,  once 
more,  as,  before  her,  of  the  unknown 
Goddess  of  the  Sea  and  of  Love,  wor- 
shiped by  the  primitive  Sikelians,  —  per- 
haps in  turn  the  successor  of  the  Woman 
before  whom  bowed  down  the  semi-leg- 
endary Elymians  and  Sicanians. 

The  southwest  railway  between  Sira- 
cusa  and  Licata  may  be  said  to  be  wholly 
unused  either  by  the  "  classically  mind- 
ed "  traveler  or  the  ordinary  tourist. 
The  country  is  desolate  and  unbeautif  ul : 
traveling  is  never  comfortable,  and  in  out- 
lying regions  is  sometimes  unsafe ;  and 
the  towns  of  Modica,  Ragusa,  and  Licata 
(the  Hellenic  Phintias)  have  little  to  at- 
tract the  general  traveler,  though  they 
have  much  to  interest  the  folk-lorist. 
Even  less  traversed,  save  by  the  few 
Sicilians  concerned,  is  the  short  bifurca- 
tion inland,  from  Lentini  to  Caltagirone. 

There  remains  only  the  short  line  south 
from  Palermo  up  into  the  mountain  lands 
of  Corleone,  —  concerning  which  the  Pa- 
lermitans  have  a  jibe,  —  that  only  one 
forestiero  (foreigner)  in  a  year  attempts 
the  journey,  and  he  never  returns ! 

To  these  official  railway  lines  must  be 
added  the  short  CircunWEtnea  loop  line, 
—  a  narrow  mountain-climbing  railway 
starting  westward  from  Catania  or  north- 
ward from  Giarre,  and  making  the  cir- 
cuit of  the  vast  lava  lands  of  Etna  by 
Linguaglossa  and  Terremorte  to  Ran- 
dazzo and  Bronte  (west,  north,  and  east 
of  which  lies  the  duchy  of  Bronte,  —  the 
Sicilian  estate  of  our  great  Nelson,  Duke 
of  Bronte),  —  where  the  line  ascends 
sometimes  to  close  on  4000  feet,1  to 

cantara  and  the  Simeto,  a  few  miles  from  Ran- 
dazzo, the  elevation  of  the  line  is  over  3800 


472 


The  Sicilian  Highlands. 


Adern6  (the  ancient  ffadranum),  Pa- 
tern  6  (Hybla  Minor),  and  southwest- 
ward  down  the  lava-ravaged,  earthquake- 
shaken,  southern  flanks  of  Etna,  through 
a  paradise  of  orange  and  lemon  and 
almond,  of  prickly  pear  and  medlar  and 
fig,  to  where  the  black  flood  of  the  vol- 
cano stops  like  an  arrested  wave  outside 
the  Borgo  of  Catania. 

But  if  one  look  at  an  enlarged  map  of 
Sicily,  it  will  be  seen  at  a  glance  that  by 
far  the  greater  part  of  the  island,  prac- 
tically the  whole  hinterland  from  the 
coasts,  remains  uninvaded  by  the  dra- 
gone  a  vapore,  —  the  iron  horse,  as  we 
have  it.  And,  in  truth,  as  with  so  much 
of  the  Basilicata  and  Calabria,  this  vast 
isolated  country  is  little  invaded  even  by 
roads,  —  roads,  that  is,  as  distinct  from 
stony  mule-paths  or  craggy  hillways. 
From  centres  such  as  Petralia,  under 
Monte  Salvatore  of  the  Madonian  moun- 
tain range ;  or  Gangi  in  its  hill- wilder- 
ness between  Monte  Zimmara  and  Monte 
Zambughetti ;  or  those  regional  mountain 
capitals  Nicosia  or  Troina,  one  may  look 
out  upon  a  vast  mountainous  wilderness 
little  changed  if  at  all  for  a  thousand 
years.  Or,  again,  as  wild  and  lonely  a 
region  may  be  seen  from  Mistretta,  iso- 
lated between  the  highlands  of  Tusa  and 
the  great  Bosco  or  forest  region  of  Karo- 
nfa  to  the  north  of  the  Nebrodian  Range, 
or  from  Novara,  swept  by  the  Tyrrhene 
winds  beating  upon  the  arid  crests  of  the 
Peloritanitan  (or  Peloric)  Mountains, 
whence  one  may  look  far  southward  past 
Roccafiorita  or  Francavilla  to  where 
Mount  Tauros  overhangs  beautiful  Taor- 
mina  on  the  Ionian  Sea,  or  far  north- 
ward to  the  pearl-white  gulf  where  of 
old  (with  Vulcano  and  Stromboli  and  the 
other  Lipari  Islands  beyond)  sat  the 
towns  of  Mylae  and  Tyndaris  and  per- 
haps Longanum  (to-day,  respectively, 
Milazzo,  and  La  Scala  di  Capo  Tindaro, 

feet ;  at  Maletto,  the  station  for  the  Castle  of 
Maniace  (the  Duke  of  Bronte)  stands  at  3700. 

1  Not  only  is  the  site  of  the  short-lived  if  not 
legendary  Longanum  uncertain,  but  it  is  dis- 


and  Barcellona1),  and  even  westward  to 
the  long  shore  where  are  the  Sweet 
Waters  of  Saint  Agatha,  and  that  lovely 
promontory  of  Karonia,  the  Kalakte,  or 
"beautiful  shore,"  founded  by  Ducetius 
in  the  fifth  century. 

To-day,  as  in  the  days  of  the  Hellenes 
of  Sicily,  the  true  centre  of  the  land 
Enna  (Castrogiovanni).  But  the  famous 
home  of  Persephone  is  not  a  suitable 
"  centre  "  for  the  pilgrim  to  old  sites  01 
the  seeker  of  interesting  or  picturesque 
survivals.  Indeed,  except  the  excursion 
to  the  opposite  crag-citadeled  town  of 
Calascibetta,  on  the  north,  or,  on  the 
south,  to  the  Lake  of  Pergusa,  "  that 
beautiful  water  where  Persephone  sank," 
a  desolate  swamp  (without  charm  save 
in  early  spring)  reached  by  an  undriv- 
able  circuitous  path,  or,  on  the  east,  to 
Assoro,  the  site  of  the  ancient  Sikelian 
town  of  Assorus,  there  is  none  that  a 
not  better  be  made  from  a  more  accea 
sible  point  of  departure,  —  for  thougl 
Agira  (Agyrium)  and  Centorbi  (Ke 
turipa)  seem  near,  these  can  be  reached 
more  conveniently  from  Adernb,  on  the 
Circum-^Etiiea  railway  ;  whence  also,  or 
from  Bronte,  it  is  easier  to  reach  the 
mountain  towns  of  Troina  and  Nicosia. 
Moreover,  at  Castrogiovanni,  everything 
of  to-day  is  as  it  was  three  hundred  years 
ago,  as  Sicilians  themselves  complain. 
If,  however,  the  traveler,  or  travelers 
(for  it  is  not  agreeable,  nor  even  advis- 
able, for  strangers  to  travel  alone  in 
this  region)  are  hardy,  and  content  to 
fare  roughly  in  the  Holy  City  of  De- 
meter  and  Persephone,  and  can  discard 
the  service  of  a  carriage  for  that  of  mules, 
or,  at  need,  can  go  far  afoot,  then,  cer 
tainly,  rooms  may  be  taken  for  a  day  or 
two  at  the  locanda  in  the  Via  Roma. 

An   undulating   line   drawn  througl 
the  inlands  of  Sicily  will  loop  at  the 
six   mountain   towns:   Corleone,  in  the 

pnted  that   the   stream  by  Barcellona  is 
Longanus  where  Hiero,  Tyrant   of  Syraci 
defeated  the  Mamertines  in  B.  c.  269. 


The  Sicilian  Highlands. 


473 


heart  of  the  western  province,  some 
forty  miles  due  south  from  Palermo  (for 
Salemi,  the  ancient  Ifalicyce,  some  fifty 
miles  westward  toward  Marsala,  though 
it  has  a  population  of  about  15,000,  is 
only  a  rude  hill  village  without  an  inn)  ; 
Castrogiovanni,  in  the  heart  of  the  cen- 
tral province  ;  Troina,  the  "  capital "  of 
the  northeast ;  Centuripe,  high-set  among 
its  craggy  ways  above  the  valley  of  the 
Symaithos  (Simeto);  Randazzo,  formerly 
&tnea,  between  which  and  Troina  lie 
the  lofty  forest  lands  and  lower  vine- 
lands  and  orange  woods  of  the  beautiful 
duchy  of  Bronte ;  and  Novara,  the  cen- 
tre of  the  province  of  Messina. 

Corleone  is  the  mountain  terminus  of 
the  little  line  which  crawls  up  from  Pa- 
lermo, by  way  of  Misilmeri,  the  Moor- 
ish Menztt-al-Ensir.  Both  at  the  last- 
named  and  at  Corleone,  whose  name  has 
changed  little  from  Korliftn,  the  Sara- 
cenic type  has  survived  more  strongly 
than  perhaps  anywhere  else  in  Sicily. 
There  is  little  of  interest  to  see  here : 
the  population  is  of  the  worst  Sicilian 
type,  and  the  beggars  have  all  the  swarm- 
ing instinct  of  those  at  Cefalu,  the  gnat- 
like  insistency  of  those  at  Monreale, 
and  the  insolence  of  those  at  Girgenti, 
with  a  clamant  perseverance  and  terrible 
famished  appeal  all  their  own.  Still,  if 
one  would  traverse  the  wild  and  desolate 
crossways  between  Corleone  and  Cas- 
trogiovanni, one  must  either  begin  here 
or  leave  the  region  unexplored.  The 
best  road  is  that  southeast  along  the 
rocky  slopes  of  Monte  Cardellia,  and 
thence  to  Castionoro,  where  fresh  mules 
and  a  hill  guide  must  be  hired  for  the 
mountain  paths  of  the  Cammarata.  But 
for  the  less  hazardous  traveler  I  should 
recommend  that  the  Corleone-Prizzi  hill 
road  be  left  about  halfway,  at  the  Ford  of 
the  Amendola,  and  that  then  the  course 
of  the  Amendola  be  followed  for  some 
twelve  miles  by  rude  goat-ways,  till  a 
road  is  reached  beneath  the  hill  village 
of  Vicari,  which  will  lead  south  and  then 
northeastward  to  Roccapalumba.  There 


is  neither  good  accommodation  nor  tol- 
erable fare  to  be  had  in  the  village,  but 
at  the  station  of  the  same  name  (the  junc- 
tion on  the  Palermo-Catania  Central  Line 
for  Girgenti)  one  can  be  fairly  sure  of  a 
meal  and  even  of  the  purchase  of  provi- 
sions. Here  as  elsewhere,  however,  one 
should  remember  the  cardinal  rule  for 
travel  in  the  interior  of  Sicily,  —  name- 
ly, to  travel  with  waterproof  tent  if  pos- 
sible, but  in  any  case  always  to  carry 
ample  provender,  solid  and  liquid.  Milk 
(goat's  milk,  of  course)  can  sometimes 
be  procured  by  the  way,  but  rarely  any- 
thing else,  even  bread.  In  many  regions, 
too,  one  must  be  on  guard  against  drink- 
ing the  water  unboiled. 

It  is  extremely  doubtful,  however,  if 
this  part  of  the  Sicilian  hinterland  be 
worth  the  trouble,  expense,  and  fatigue 
of  a  systematic  tour.  It  would  be  better 
for  the  traveler  to  start  by  rail  from  Gir- 
genti in  the  south,  or  from  Termini- 
Imerese  (or,  better,  of  course,  as  so  near, 
from  Palermo  itself)  on  the  north,  and,  by 
either  route,  reach  Roccapalumba,  hav- 
ing previously  arranged  with  the  Capo 
di  Stazione  there  to  procure  mules  and 
a  guide.  Hence  one  may  pass  under 
the  old  half-savage  hill  town  of  Alia,  — 
where  it  is  said  certain  ancient  Moorish 
or  Saracenic  rites  as  well  as  types  sur- 
vive, —  across  the  picturesque  and  beau- 
tiful region  of  the  southern  Madonian 
spurs  to  the  two  Petralias,  —  Petralia 
Soprana,  and  Petralia  Sottana,  —  and 
thence  to  the  remote  and  almost  from 
year's  end  to  year's  end  unvisited  moun- 
tain town  of  Gaugi,  and  so  to  Nicosia, 
of  which  the  citizens  claim  that  it  is  the 
heart  of  Sicily. 

Although  in  the  Nebrodian  and  Pelo- 
ritanitan  highlands  of  the  north  and 
northeast  the  mountain  scenery  is,  as  a 
rule,  wilder  and  grander,  no  trip  in  cen- 
tral Sicily  could  be  more  impressive  in 
its  way,  or  could  better  afford  an  idea  of 
the  Sicily  of  the  Middle  Ages  and  of  the 
Norman  and  Saracenic  days,  than  that 
from  Corleone  or  Termini  to  Nicosia. 


474 


The  Sicilian  Highlands. 


If  one  has  time  to  spare,  money  to 
spend,  patience  to  accept  the  divers 
tribulations  of  travel  in  a  country  less 
civilized  than  England  or  France  many 
centuries  ago,  and  a  serviceable  know- 
ledge of  Italian  (with  at  least  a  smatter- 
ing of  Sicilian  colloquial  terms),  the  best 
way  to  make  this  trip  would  be  to  start 
from  Termini-Imerese,  with  mules  hired, 
not  at  the  Grande  Albergo  della  Terme, 
where  the  few  foreigners  invariably  put 
up,  but  at  the  neighboring  and  less  pre- 
tentious Locanda  della  Fenice.  There 
is  also  a  very  fine  forest  route,  somewhat 
shorter,  starting  inland  a  few  miles  east- 
ward of  Cefalii,  via  Castelbuono  and 
Gerace  (called  Gerace  Siculo  to  distin- 
guish it  from  the  Gerace  of  Calabria)  to 
Gangi.  But  from  first  to  last  the  incon- 
veniences of  this  route  are  very  great. 
As  to  making  Gangi  a  point  at  which  to 
rest,  or  upon  which  to  depend  for  any 
manner  of  accommodation  or  service  in 
that  wild  and  desolate  if  picturesque  hill 
capital  of  one  of  the  most  wild  and  deso- 
late regions  of  Sicily,  blessed  is  he  who 
expects  nothing,  for  he  shall  not  be  dis- 
appointed. 

Having  left  Termini-Imerese,  then,  we 
travel  eastward  two  or  three  miles  till 
we  reach  the  gray-green  waters  of  the 
Fiume  Torte,  and  then  diverge  due  south 
by  the  road  to  Cerda.  In  this  wild  re- 
gion, between  the  Fiuma  Torte  on  the 
west  and  the  Fiume  Grande  (or  Imera 
Settentrionale)  on  the  east,  we  are  upon 
the  famous  Saracen  Road  ;  for  this  was 
the  favorite  route  of  the  Carthaginians 
of  the  city  which  the  later  Hellenes  called 
Panormus,  and  of  the  Saracens  (and  Nor- 
mans) of  Palermo,  on  their  martial  or 
predatory  raids  into  the  interior.  On 
this  steep  winding  road  southward  from 
Cerda  to  Sclafani  (a  desolate  township 
in  a  relatively  fertile  region,  where  one 
must  not  look  to  obtain  even  a  cup  of 
coffee)  many  a  splendid  procession  of 
turbaned  and  vividly  arrayed  Orientals 
must  have  ridden  proudly  through  what 
they  considered  subject  lands,  or  re- 


turned more  proudly  still,  with  spoil  and 
captives  from  the  Hellenic  settlements  or 
Sikelian  towns  of  the  interior.  , 

The  abrupt  racial  contrasts  so  often  to 
be  noted  in  Sicily  are  exceptionally  evi- 
dent here.  At  Termini-Imerese,  for  in- 
stance, Norman  and  Roman,  or  the  later 
"  Sicilian  blend,"  are  prevalent ;  at  Ce- 
falu,  a  few  miles  away,  the  Greek  type 
is  to  be  seen  oftener  than  perhaps  any- 
where along  the  north  coast,  where  it  is 
less  frequent  than  on  the  southern  shores, 
and  notably  at  Syracuse,  Girgenti,  and 
Taormina,  or  rather  the  vicinage  of  Ta- 
ormina  (Letojanni,  Gallodoro,  Mola, 
Graniti,  Roccafiorita,  Castiglione,  and 
Linguaglossa)  ;  and  here  at  Sclafani  the 
debased  Italic  type  is  common,  while  at 
the  high  hill  town  opposite,  Caltavuturo, 
one  might  almost  fancy  one's  self  in  El 
Keb  or  other  of  the  mountain  towns  of 
Western  Tunisia,  or  in  the  beyarchy  of 
Constantino.  It  is  worth  the  ascent,  to 
walk  or  ride  on  muleback  up  the  steep 
winding  road  to  Caltavuturo,  that  ancient 
Saracenic  eyrie  perched  at  a  height  of 
3000  feet.  The  population  (of  whom, 
at  certain  seasons,  few  will  be  seen,  ex- 
cept women,  children,  and  old  men)  will 
not  beg  insistently,  as  in  most  places  of 
the  kind,  but  will  stare  at  one  with  a 
fixed,  passive  curiosity  as  concentrated 
as  that  which  meets  the  European  in  one 
of  the  oasis  towns  of  the  Sahara.  The 
name,  too,  is  Saracenic,  and  is  taken 
from  the  ruined  fortress  which  crowns 
the  arid  rock  rising  beyond  it,  much  as 
Mola  rises  beyond  the  Monte  di  Castello 
at  Taormina,  or,  rather,  as  the  Monte  di 
Castello  rises  out  of  and  over  Taormina. 
Till  the  Arabic  tongue  faded  out  of  Sici- 
ly the  hill  fortress  of  Caltavuturo  was 
Kala't-Abi-Tooro  (TMr),  —  the  fortress 
town  of  the  lord  Abi-Thur. 

In  the  now  extraordinary  and  fantas- 
tic savagery  of  this  region  a  rough  ti'i- 
angle  might  be  drawn,  with  Caltavuturo 
as  its  left  base,  the  two  Petralias  as  its 
right,  and  Polizzi  with  the  towering 
height  of  Monte  Salvatore  and  of  the 


The  Sicilian  Highlands. 


475 


Peaks  of  the  Antenna  —  two  of  the  high- 
est summits  of  the  Madonian  Range  — 
as  its  apex. 

There  is,  except  from  Mount  Etna  or 
from  the  Comb  of  the  Cammarata,  from 
the  great  rock  above  Castrogiovanni,  or 
from  the  walls  of  Centuripe  or  Troina,  or 
from  the  beech  woods  of  Maniace  at  the 
summit  of  the  Serra  del  Re,  no  view  in 
Sicily  comparable  in  magnificent  range 
with  that  from  La  Generosa,  as  Polizzi 
is  surnamed.  This  small  town,  once  a 
Norman  eyrie  of  Count  Roger,  —  his 
mountain  whip  for  the  Saracens,  —  stands 
on  an  extraordinary  rock  or  precipice  at 
an  elevation  of  over  3000  feet  sheer  from 
the  surrounding  mountain  region.  In  the 
Middle  Ages  Polizzi  was  one  of  the  most 
prosperous  inland  towns  of  the  Sicilian 
Highlands,  though  how  it  could  ever  have 
been  so  may  well  puzzle  the  traveler  of 
to-day,  who  looks  up  to  its  crag-set  height 
either  in  the  blaze  of  the  merciless  heat 
beating  with  a  furnace-wing  against  the 
arid  rock,  or  with  the  sleety  rain  and 
tempestuous  cloud  of  the  tramontane/,  or 
gregdle  in  the  dreaded  stagione  di  Tem- 
porale  —  the  Season  of  Tempest. 

But  none  will  grudge  the  ascent. 
There  is,  too,  a  tolerable  locanda,  not  to 
put  up  at,  but  at  which  to  rest  awhile  and 
enjoy,  perhaps,  a  garlicky  omelet  or  still 
more  highly  savored  frittura,  and  some 
strong  and  crude,  but  otherwise  credita- 
ble, red  wine.  The  immense  panorama 
of  the  view  extends  over  much  of  cen- 
tral Sicily,  —  from  the  last  spurs  of  the 
Madonian  Range  on  the  north,  above 
Cefalu  and  the  Tyrrhene  Sea,  to  the 
height  of  Enna  in  the  south;  from  the 
Montemaggiore  and  Cammarata  moun- 
tain ranges  of  the  west  to  the  steeps  of 
Nicosia  and  Troina  and  to  the  snows  .of 
sky-reaching  Etna  on  the  east.  Far  be- 
low, in  the  rocky  valley,  foam  the  tor- 
rents which  become  the  Fiume  Salso  (the 
Himera  Meridionalis)  and  the  Fiume 
Grande  (the  Himera  Septentrionalis). 
Near  by  are  the  precipitous  neighboring 
mountain  towns  of  Castellana  and  Pe- 


tralia,  and,  due  south,  Alimena,  on  the 
flanks  of  Monte  Balza,  —  the  site,  it  is 
believed,  of  the  ancient  Imacha.  And 
even  in  the  little'  town  itself  there  are 
things  of  interest  to  be  seen,  —  in  particu- 
lar some  fine  carving  and  other  sculptural 
adornment  in  the  Duomo,  or  Chiesa  Ma- 
tinee, as  the  cathedral  church  is  always 
called  in  Sicily,  and  in  the  church  of  Sta. 
Maria  degli  Angeli  a  really  fine  archaic 
triptych,  brought  here  no  one  seems  to 
know  when  or  by  whom,  but  obviously 
painted  by  a  disciple  of  Memlinc,  if  not 
by  the  great  Fleming  himself. 

As  for  the  Petralias,  I  wonder  if  any 
tourist  has  ever  wandered  thither  by 
some  strange  freak  of  curiosity  or  acci- 
dent ?  Coins  and  other  remains  have 
been  found  here  in  considerable  number, 
but  nothing,  I  believe,  of  special  inter- 
est, or  even  absolutely  to  confirm  the 
fact  that  here  of  old  stood  Petraea. 
Gangi,  on  the  other  hand,  that  grimly 
sordid  centre  of  a  region  in  part  luxuri- 
antly fertile,  and  for  the  rest  desolately 
wild,  may  well  draw  the  archaeologist 
who  remembers  how  Verres  (who  de- 
spoiled so  many  Sicilian  fanes  and  so 
many  civic  treasures,  and  yet  whom  we 
in  a  sense  gratefully  remember  as  the 
cause  of  some  of  Cicero's  most  vivid  and 
splendid  eloquence)  swept  this  Siculo- 
Cretan  township  of  all  it  held  most 
sacred,  and  how  the  great  Roman  orator 
spoke  bitterly  of  the  "  august  and  sacred 
fane  "  that,  till  the  robber-praetor  came, 
still  stood  here  undefiled  in  honor  of  the 
Cretan  Mothers  (the  "  Magna  Mater," 
rather,  of  Cicero's  oration).  The  ama- 
teur archaeologist  must  be  on  guard, 
however  ;  for  the  Gangi  of  to-day  is  not 
the  same  as  that  which  as  Engyum  stood 
some  two  miles  southward,  on  the  bridle 
path  leading  to  Buonpietro.  All  that 
remained  of  Engyum  to  the  Middle 
Ages  was  destroyed  in  the  last  year  of 
the  thirteenth  century  by  the  then  ruler 
of  Sicily  because  of  the  revolt  of  its  over- 
lord, one  of  the  powerful  family  of  Ven- 
timiglia. 


476 


The  Sicilian  Highlands. 


From  Gangi  to  Nicosia  is  from  ten  to 
twelve  miles,  though  a  pedestrian  in  late 
spring  or  early  autumn  might  think  it 
twenty. 

Nicosia  is  perhaps  the  one  remote 
town  of  the  interior  to  which  a  few  trav- 
elers do  annually  find  their  way.  These, 
however,  do  not  approach  from  the  north- 
east or  north  or  west,  rarely  even  from 
Castrogiovanni  in  the  south  ;  but  from 
Troina  in  the  east,  or  directly  from  more 
distant  Adern6,  —  which,  by  comparison 
with  the  rail-unserved  towns  of  the  inte- 
rior, appears  to  the  inland  traveler  as  a 
modern  civilized  town  of  excellent  parts. 
Nicosia  is  certainly  well  worth  a  visit  for 
its  picturesque  aspect,  standing  as  it  does 
on  a  precipitous  steep  with  two  ragged 
peaks,  on  the  higher  of  which  are  the  ruins 
of  one  of  Roger  the  Norman's  many  cas- 
tles or  fortresses.  Below  are  the  two  tor- 
rents of  the  Fiume  Salso,  and  all  around 
is  a  region  of  sometimes  beautiful  and 
always  savage  and  fantastic  mountain 
scenery.  But  the  interest  of  the  town  and 
its  citizens  has  been  exaggerated.  The 
one  is  said  to  be  the  most  mediaeval-look- 
ing town  in  Sicily,  or  even  in  Italy,  and 
the  other  are  reputed  to  be  both  in  dia- 
lect and  appearance  a  people  more  Lom- 
bard than  Sicilian.  Nicosia  is  certainly 
"  mediaeval "  enough,  both  in  dirt  and 
discomfort,  and  in  general  backwardness, 
but  is  less  noteworthy  in  this  respect 
than,  say,  Corleone,  or  even  than  Bronte, 
for  all  that  the  latter  is  on  the  popu- 
lous ^Etnean  slope.  The  "  Lombard," 
too,  has  long  since  disappeared.  As  to 
the  dialect,  it  seems  to  be  neither  better 
nor  worse  than  the  Sicilian  of  the  coast 
lands,  though  colloquially  it  no  doubt 
retains  many  archaic  or  debased  Lom- 
bard words,  survivals  of  the  Norman  and 
Lombard  colonists  who  settled,  or  were 
"  planted "  here  seven  or  eight  centu- 
ries ago.  For  the  benefit,  however,  of 
those  who  think  their  Italian  will  carry 
them  far  with  Sicilian,  let  me  give  a  few 
lines  in  the  vernacular.  A  popular  son- 
net begins,  — 


A  Ddi  e  a  Mmaria.  .  .  .  Acussi  passa  V  atr1 
anuu.  .  .  . 

Another,  — 

liva  u  mmiaggiu  agghiiri  a  Bbillafranca. 

Another,  — 

A  nna~tru  lu  'ngiuriani  Sam  Pasquali. 
But  as  the  most  popular  sonetti  are  thoa 
in  dialogue,  here  is  a  typical  example,  — 
mercifully  given  only  in  part :  — 

Chi  ffa  la  chiina  ?!  ... 

—  A  ddocu  !  .  .  .  taliati ! 
Ari  'ria  facci  di  malacunnutta 
Co  'm  pari  veru  !  .  .  . 

—  Bbah  !  .  .  .  si  vi  fidati 
D'  idda  pi  ccamadora,  vi  cci  ammutta 
Certu  ddagghiusu  a  mmari  :  'un  ci  pinzati ! 
Pi  ccomu  la  canussciu  ji'  !  .  .  . 

—  Cchiu  ssutt 

L'acqui  fannu  trimari !     'Ntrubulati 
Tunnu  p'  unn'  en'  e  gghi&  !  .  .  .  (etc.) 

A  friend  in  Taormina,  to  whom  I  showed 
this,  remarked  that  it  took  away  from  him 
all  desire  to  visit  the  interior,  as  he  could 
not  sleep  a  night  in  a  place  where  he 
heard  any  one  —  "  murderer  or  mur- 
dered "  —  "  sputtering  "  words  like,  — 

Certu  ddagghiusu  a  mmari  .  .  .  'Ntrubulati 
Tunnu  p'  unn'  en'  e  gghifc  ! 

The  hill  town  of  Troina,  some  twelve 
miles  eastward,  is  better  worth  a  visit. 
From  both,  it  should  be  added,  are  to 
had  the  noblest  views  of  Etna  in  its  full 
gigantic  magnificence.     Troina  is  calle 
the  highest  town  in  Sicily,  but  there  ai 
several  at  a  greater  elevation,  thougl 
certainly,  it   looks   a  more  inaccessible 
eyrie  than  any  other  mountain  citadel. 
The  neighboring   JEtnean  township   of 
Maletto,  for  example,  is  higher  in  actm 
elevation  above  the  sea  by  about  a  hur 
dred  feet  (3730).     Here,  at  Troina,  the 
people  are   indeed    primitive.     I  writ 
this  article  at  Taormina,  and  only  a  fev 
days  ago  a  good  lady  came  to  this  "  dz 
zling  "  place  in  the  great  outer  world  or 
her  first  visit  away  from  her  mountaii 
town,  though  she  is  nearer  seventy  thar 
sixty  ;  and  it  was  strange  to   note    he 
anxiety  to   behold   at  first  hand  thre 
things  she  had  never  seen,  —  a  steamei 
a  train,  and  a  piano.     The  steamer  wa 


The  Sicilian  Highlands. 


477 


too  far  away  to  impress  her  much  ;  the 
train,  even  viewed  from  the  safe  distance 
of  the  station  wall  at  Giardini,  had  more 
of  terror  than  of  delight ;  but  before  the 
marvel  of  the  piano  her  whole  soul  all 
but  worshiped  and  adored. 

No  one  who  visits  Troina  is  likely  to 
omit  a  visit  to  its  rival,  Centuripe  or 
Centorbi,  where  to  this  day  more  coins, 
terra-cottas,  and  other  Graeco  -  Roman 
fragments  are  found  than  almost  any- 
where else  in  Sicily.  The  people  here 
are  markedly  of  the  Hellenic  type  or 
types,  though  the  Roman  or  Neronian 
face  is  often  to  be  seen  among  the  lithe 
stalwart  youth.  Probably  the  real  Sicil- 
ian of  the  earlier  Middle  Ages  survives 
more  in  Troina  and  Centorbi  than  in  any 
other  Trinaerian  town. 

Novara,  far  away  in  the  northeast, 
the  hill  capital  of  the  Messenian  High- 
lands, or  the  "  Neptunian  mountains," 
or  "  Peloric  range,"  as  the  geographers 
and  historians  have  it,  is  practically 
never  visited.  From  the  north,  it  can 
be  best  reached  by  the  village  of  Fal- 
cone in  the  Gulf  of  Milazzo,  about  half- 
way between  Barcellona  and  Patti,  —  a 
long  and  arduous  but  superbly  beautiful 
ascent.  But  few  will  ever  attempt  that 
route.  From  the  south,  by  mule,  I 
should  recommend  either  the  northeast 
route  from  Randazzo  (a  guide,  and  per- 
haps a  single  carabiniero  escort,  and 
certainly  ample  store  of  provender, 
should  be  taken),  or,  if  the  traveler  be 
a  good  climber  and  willing  to  "  rough 
it,"  and  able  also  to  risk  rapidly  vary- 
ing climatic  changes,  to  go  from  Taor- 
mina  —  the  Eden  of  Sicily,  where  it 
rests  in  inexhaustible  beauty  and  charm 
on  its  chasm-riven  crags  above  the 
Ionian  Sea  —  either  up  behind  Mola 
and  Monte  Venere,  and  then  by  way  of 
Graniti  and  Francavilla,  or  first  to  Leto- 
janni  on  the  eastern  Corniche,  and  then 
northward  and  upward  by  Gallodoro, 
Mongiuffi,  and  Roccafiorita.  At  these 
last-named  villages,  however,  the  people 
are  often  unfriendly,  and  at  best  are  apt 


to  be  sullen.  It  will  be  well,  therefore, 
not  to  accede  to  any  prior  requests  for 
a  halt  for  food  or  rest  there,  unless  for 
change  of  mules.  But  except  for  the 
splendid  views,  —  hardly,  however,  so 
exceptional  as  to  be  worth  the  fatigue  and 
trouble  of  the  excursion,  —  there  is  no- 
thing to  see  in  Novara  itself,  and  even 
the  archaeologist  is  hardly  likely  to  be  im- 
pelled by  any  passionate  desire  to  view 
the  site  of  ancient  Abacaenum.  At  Roc- 
cafiorita, I  may  add,  one  day  last  spring, 
I  came  upon  a  brotherhood  of  three  re- 
joicing in  the  baptismal  names  Orestes, 
.^Eschylus  (jffischllb),  .  .  .  and  Gala- 
had (Galahotto)  !  and  heard  of  a  girl 
of  the  place  called  Saffa  (Sappho, 
Psappha).  At  Taormina  and  Syracuse, 
indeed,  there  are  many  Greek  names  in 
common  use  among  the  people.  I  have 
been  shaved  by  an  Orestes  in  the  one, 
and  by  a  Diodoro  in  the  other,  and,  in 
the  same  street  as  the  latter,  saw  Olisso 
(Ulysses)  and  Ullissu  (Sicilian)  twice, 
and  Dionisio  (Dionysius)  and  Empedo- 
cle,  above  shops  or  handicraft  quarters. 
Medea  and  Aretusa,  and  other  Greek 
women-names  survive  ;  and  among  the 
two  or  three  hundred  vine  laborers  on 
the  lands  of  Maniace,  in  the  duchy  of 
Bronte,  are  such  unexpected  baptismal 
names  as  the  ancient  Zeffonla  and 
Sephone,  both  (like  the  Sicilian  Ssuf- 
finnu)  a  corruption  of  Persephone  — 
and  as  the  more  modern  surname  Kyrie- 
eleison  !  Indeed,  there  are  at  least  a 
score  of  vintagers  —  possibly  a  score  of 
families  —  on  the  Maniace  estate,  whose 
name  of  Kyrieeleison  (Pietro  Kyrieelei- 
son,  Maria  Kyrieeleison,  Giorgio  Kyrie- 
eleison, and  so  forth  —  modern  Graeco- 
Sicilian  colonists,  no  doubt)  I  have  seen 
entered  on  the  Duke  of  Bronte's  labor 
list,  kindly  brought  to  me  for  my  inter- 
ested investigation  by  Mr.  Charles  Beek, 
Lord  Bridport's  (the  Duke  of  Bronte's) 
agent  at  Castello  di  Maniace,  the  ducal 
residence. 

From  Castello  di  Maniace  date  some 
of  my  most  memorable  and  delightful 


478 


The  Sicilian  Highlands. 


experiences  of  inland  Sicily.  In  the 
company  of  the  Duca  Alessandro  J — or 
the  Ducckino,  the  Young  Duke,  as  he  is 
commonly  called  —  I  have  seen  more  of 
the  wild  and  beautiful  country  behind 
Etna  than  would  be  practicable  other- 
wise. The  duchy  of  Bronte  is,  in  itself, 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  tracts  in 
Sicily,  stretching  as  it  does  from  the 
high  plateau  of  lava-covered  lands  near 
the  Lake  of  Gurrida  (between  Randaz- 
zo  and  Maletto),  —  the  Baize,  as  it  is 
called,  and  not  only  the  legendary  scene 
of  the  wanderings  of  Demeter,  but  the 
historical  background  of  a  great  battle 
wherein  the  Saracen  host  was  routed  by 
the  Greek  general  Maniaces  and  his  ally 
—  of  all  unexpected  persons,  Harald 
Hardrada,  future  King  of  Norway,  with 
his  fierce  Northmen  !  — to  the  superb 
orange  forest  of  the  ravines  of  the  Sime- 
to  (Symaithos),  miles  away  beyond  Ma- 
niace  Castle  and  its  vinelands,  and  dis- 
tant, half-savage,  hill-set  Bronte  itself, 
and  more  than  a  thousand  feet  lower. 
At  Maletto  one  looks  over  a  great  re- 
gion that  is  all  the  duchy ;  and  at 
Bronte,  ten  or  twelve  miles  away,  at 
another  part  of  it ;  and  from  the  hills 
above  the  Simeto  at  another  part,  hidden 
below  the  gorges  of  that  classic  and 
beautiful  stream ;  and  from  the  far- 
stretching  vinelands  of  Maniace,  below 
the  fantastic  hill  of  Rapiti,  as  from  the 
beautiful  gardens  and  north  end  of  the 
castle  itself,  up  at  hill  rising  from  hill, 
and  mountain  ridge  cresting  upon  moun- 
tain ridge,  first  to  the  oak  woods  of  the 
Serraspina,  and  then  to  the  famous  ducal 
beech  forests  of  the  Serra  del  Re. 

I  have  lived  amid  and  traversed  this 
wonderful  region  —  which  one  regrets 
that  the  first  Duke  of  Bronte,  our  great 
Nelson,  never  saw  —  in  spring  and  au- 

1  Lord  Bridport's  son,  the  Hon.  Alex.  Nel- 
son Hood,  Administrator-General  of  the  duchy 
of  Bronte. 


tumn    and    winter,    and    hardly     know 
when  it  is  loveliest.     Doubtless  it  has  a 
supreme  loveliness  in  March  and  April, 
when  the  lava-wilderness  blossoms  with 
the  yellow  flowers  of  the  spurge,  —  that 
characteristic  Sicilian  plant,  the  euphor 
bia,  more   characteristic  even  than  the 
cactus  or  prickly  pear  ("Indian  fig"), 
so  omnipresent   throughout   Sicily    am 
southern  Italy,  and  yet  so  strangely  ig 
nored  by  both  painter  and  poet  that  I  car 
remember  no  painting  wherein  it  take 
its  dominant   place,  and   only  a  single 
poem  in  which  it  is  even  mentioned, 
one  of  the  lovely  "  sonetti  di  natura  sel- 
vaggia  "  in  the  Flora  of  Alinda  Bruna 
monti ;  and  there,  as  Veleni  (used  equiv- 
alently  to  fleurs-dii-mal),  the  poet  see 
only  the  evil  side  of  this  beautiful  if  poi- 
sonous plant : — 

Euforbie  gonfie  di  maligno  latte, 
Neri  solani  e  di  cicuta  ombrelle 
Consacrate  alia  morte  atre  sorelle, 

Grescon  tra  sassi  dove  il  Sol  non  batte.  .  . 

At  this  season,  too,  every  variety  of 
crocus  and  lily  and  violet,  of  jonquil  anc 
narcissus  and    iris,    almost  every    wild 
bloom  of  north  and  south,  from  the  wil 
rose  to  the  asphodel,  appears  in  incred- 
ible luxuriance.     This  is  the  season  of 
Persephone,   and  of  the  youth   of   the 
world.    But  inland  Sicily  is  not  a  joyoi 
land,  and  I  think  its  beauty  is  less  poign- 
ant and  more  exquisite  in  late  Octot 
or  early  November.     Is  there  anything 
in  Europe  finer  than  the  beech  forests  of 
the  Serra  del  Re  when  the  wind  fror 
Etna,  blowing  at  a  height  of  six  to  eight 
thousand  feet,  moves   across  this  golc 
and  amber  mountain  raiment,  immense 
primeval,  solitary,  on  the  neck  of   the 
vast  Sicilian  watershed ;  or,  anywhere,  is 
there  another  Enchanted  Garden    like 
that  giardino  selvaggio  of  the  Castle 
Maniace,  surrounded  by  giant  poplars 
vast  tremulous  columns  of  shaken  br 
unfailing  gold  ? 

William  Sharp. 


The   Common  Lot. 


479 


THE  COMMON  LOT.1 


XII. 


THE  Phillipses  had  spent  the  winter 
in  Europe.  Mrs.  Phillips  was  still  add- 
ing to  her  collection  for  the  new  house, 
—  Forest  Manor  as  she  had  dubbed  it. 
Leaving  Venetia  in  Paris  with  some 
friends,  she  descended  upon  Italy,  the 
rage  for  buying  in  her  soul.  There  she 
gathered  up  the  flotsam  of  the  dealers,  — 
marbles,  furniture,  stuffs,  —  a  gold  ser- 
vice in  Naples,  a  vast  bed  in  Milan,  bat- 
tered pictures  in  Florence.  Mrs.  Phil- 
lips was  not  a  discriminating  amateur ; 
she  troubled  her  soul  little  over  the  au- 
thenticity of  her  spoil.  To  San  Giorgio, 
Simonetti,  Richetti,  and  their  brethren 
in  the  craft,  she  was  a  rich  harvest,  and 
they  put  up  many  a  prayer  for  her  re- 
turn another  season. 

In  March  of  that  year,  Jackson  Hart, 
struggling  with  building  strikes  in  Chi- 
cago, had  a  cablegram  from  the  widow. 
"  Am  buying  wonderful  marbles  in  Flor- 
ence. Can  you  come  over  ?  "  The  ar- 
chitect laughed  as  he  handed  the  mes- 
sage to  his  wife.  "  Some  one  ought  to 
head  her  off  !  She  '11  send  over  a  ship- 
load of  fakes."  Helen,  thinking  that  he 
needed  the  vacation,  urged  him  gener- 
ously to  accept  the  invitation  and  get  a 
few  weeks  in  Italy.  But  it  was  no  time 
just  then  for  vacation  :  he  was  in  the 
grip  of  business,  and  another  child  was 
coming  to  them. 

From  time  to  time  Mrs.  Phillips's 
treasures  arrived  at  Forest  Park,  and 
were  stored  in  the  great  hall  of  her 
house.  Then  late  in  the  spring  the  wid- 
ow telephoned  the  architect. 

"  Yes !  I  am  back,"  came  her  brisk, 
metallic  tones  from  the  receiver.  "  Glad 
to  be  home,  of  course,  with  all  the  dirt 
and  the  rest  of  it.  How  are  you  getting 
on  ?  I  hear  you  are  doing  lots  of  things. 


Maida  Rainbow  told  me  over  there  in 
Paris  that  you  were  building  the  Bush- 
fields  an  immense  house.  I  am  so  glad 
for  you,  —  I  hope  you  are  coining  mon- 
ey!" 

"  Not  quite  that,"  he  laughed  back. 

"  I  want  you  to  see  all  the  treasures  I 
have  bought.  I  've  ruined  myself  and 
the  children.  However,  you  '11  think 
it 's  worth  it,  I  'm  sure.  You  must  tell 
me  what  to  do  with  them.  Come  over 
Sunday,  can  't  you  ?  How  is  Mrs.  Hart  ? 
Bi-ing  her  over,  too,  of  course." 

Thus  she  gathered  him  up  on  her  re- 
turn, with  that  dexterous  turn  of  the 
wrist  which  exasperated  her  righteous 
brother-in-law.  On  the  Sunday,  Jack- 
son went  to  see  the  "  treasures,"  but 
without  Helen,  who  made  an  excuse  of 
her  mother's  weekly  visit.  He  found 
the  widow  in  the  stable,  directing  the 
efforts  of  two  men  servants  in  unpacking 
some  cases. 

"  How  are  you  ?  " 

She  extended  a  strong,  flexible  hand 
to  Hart,  and  with  the  other  motioned  to- 
ward a  marble  that  was  slowly  emerging 
from  the  packing  straw. 

"  Old  copy  of  a  Venus,  the  Syracuse 
one.  It  will  be  great  in  the  hall,  won't 
it?" 

"  It 's  ripping !  "  he  exclaimed  warm- 
ly. "  Where  did  you  get  that  bench  ?  " 

"You  don't  like  it?" 

"  Looks  to  be  pure  fake." 

"Simonetti  swore  he  knew  the  very 
room  where  it 's  been  for  over  a  hundred 
years." 

"  Oh !  He  probably  slept  on  it !  " 

"  Come  into  the  house  and  see  the 
other  things.  I  have  some  splendid 
pictures." 

For  an  hour  they  examined  the  arti- 
cles she  had  bought,  and  the  architect 
was  sufficiently  approving  to  delight  the 


Copyright,  1903,  by  ROBERT  HEBBICK. 


480 


The   Common  Lot. 


widow.  Neither  one  had  a  pure,  reti- 
cent taste.  Both  were  of  the  modern 
barbarian  type  that  admires  hungrily, 
and  ravishes  greedily  from  the  treasure 
house  of  the  Old  World  what  it  can  get, 
what  is  left  to  get,  piling  the  spoil  hel- 
ter-skelter into  an  up-to-date  American 
house.  Mediaeval,  Renaissance,  Italian, 
French,  Flemish,  —  it  was  all  one  !  They 
would  turn  Forest  Manor  into  one  of 
those  bizarre,  corrupt,  baroque  museums 
that  our  lavish  plunderers  love,  —  elec- 
tric-lighted, telephoned,  with  gilded  mar- 
ble fireplaces,  massive  bronze  candelabra, 
Persian  rugs,  Gothic  choir  stalls,  French 
bronzes,  —  a  house  of  barbarian  spoil ! 

A  servant  brought  in  a  tray  of  liquors 
and  cigarettes ;  they  sat  in  the  midst  of  pic- 
tures and  stuffs,  and  sipped  and  smoked. 

"  Now,"  Mrs.  Phillips  announced 
briskly,  "  I  want  to  hear  all  about  you." 

"  It 's  only  the  old  story,  — more  jobs 
and  strikes,  —  the  chase  for  the  nimble 
dollar,"  he  answered  lightly.  "  You  have 
to  run  faster  for  it  all  the  time." 

"  But  you  are  making  money  ?  "  she 
questioned  directly. 

"  I  'm  spending  it !  " 

He  found  it  not  difficult  to  tell  her 
the  state  of  his  case.  She  nodded  com- 
prehendingly,  while  he  let  her  see  that 
his  situation  was  not  altogether  as  pros- 
perous as  it  appeared  on  the  surface. 
Payments  on  buildings  were  delayed  on 
account  of  the  strikes  ;  office  expenses 
crept  upwards ;  and  personal  expenses 
mounted  too.  And  there  was  the  con- 
stant pressure  of  business,  the  fear  of  a 
cessation  in  orders. 

"  We  may  have  to  move  back  to  town. 
That  Loring  place  is  pretty  large  to 
swing.  In  town  you  can  be  poor  in  ob- 
scurity." 

"  Nonsense  !  You  must  not  go  back. 
People  will  know  that  you  have  n't  money. 
You  are  going  to  get  bigger  things  to  do. 
And  you  are  so  young.  My  !  Not  thirty- 
five  !  " 

Her  sharp  eyes  examined  the  man 
frankly,  sympathetically,  approving  him 


swiftly.  His  clay  was  like  hers ;  he 
would  succeed  —  in  the  end. 

"  Come !  I  have  an  idea.  Why 
should  n't  you  build  here,  on  my  land  ? 
Something  pretty  and  artistic,  —  it  would 
help  you,  of  course.  I  know  the  very 
spot,  just  the  other  side  of  the  ravine, 
—  in  the  hickories.  Do  you  remember 
it?" 

In  her  enthusiasm  she  proposed  to  go 
at  once  to  examine  the  site.  Pinning  a 
big  hat  on  her  head,  she  gathered  up  her 
long  skirt,  and  they  set  forth,  following 
a  neat  wood-path  that  led  from  the  north 
terrace  into  the  ravine,  across  a  little 
brook,  and  up  the  other  bank. 

"  Now,  here  !  "  She  pointed  to  a  patch 
of  hazel  bushes.  "  See  the  lake  over 
there !  And  my  house  is  almost  hid. 
You  would  be  quite  by  yourselves." 

He  hinted  that  to  build  even  on  this 
charming  spot  a  certain  amount  of  capi- 
tal would  be  needed.  She  frowned  and 
settled  herself  on  the  stump  of  a  tree. 

"  Why  don't  you  try  that  Harris  man  ? 
You  know  him.  He  made  a  heap  of 
money  for  me  once,  —  corn,  I  think. 
He  knew  just  what  was  going  to  happen. 
He  'a  awfully  smart,  and  he  's  gone  in 
with  Rainbow,  you  know.  I  am  sure  he 
could  make  some  money  for  you." 

"  Or  lose  it  ?  " 

She  laughed  scornfully  at  the  idea  of 
losing. 

"  Of  course  you  have  got  to  risk  some- 
thing. I  would  n't  give  a  penny  for  a 
man  who  would  n't  trust  his  luck.  You 
take  my  advice  and  see  Harris.  Tell 
him  I  sent  you." 

She  laughed  again,  with  the  conviction 
of  a  successful  gambler,  and  it  became 
her  to  laugh,  for  it  softened  the  lines  of 
her  mouth. 

She  was  now  forty-one  years  old,  and 
she  appeared  to  Jackson  to  be  younger 
than  when  he  had  first  gone  to  see  her 
about  the  house.  She  had  come  back 
from  Europe  thinner  than  she  had  been 
for  several  years.  Her  hair  was  per- 
fectly black,  still  undulled  by  age,  and 


The   Common  Lot. 


481 


her  features  had  not  begun  to  sharpen 
noticeably.  She  had  another  ten  years 
of  active,  selfish  woman's  life  before  her, 
and  she  knew  it. 

Meantime  he  had  grown  older,  so  that 
they  were  much  nearer  together.  She 
treated  him  quite  as  her  equal  in  experi- 
ence, and  that  flattered  him. 

"  Yes,"  she  continued,  in  love  with 
her  project,  "there  is  n't  a  nicer  spot  all 
along  the  shore.  And  you  would  be  next 
door,  so  to  say.  You  could  pay  for  the 
land  when  you  got  ready." 

She  gave  him  her  arm  to  help  her  in 
descending  the  steep  bank  of  the  ravine, 
and  she  leaned  heavily  on  him.  The 
June  sun  lay  warmly  about  the  big  house 
as  they  returned  to  it.  The  shrubbery 
had  grown  rankly  around  the  terrace, 
doing  its  best  in  its  summer  verdancy 
to  cover  the  naked  walls.  Beneath  the 
bluff  the  laka  lapped  at  the  sandy  shore 
in  a  summer  drowse.  The  architect 
looked  at  the  house  he  had  built,  with 
renewed  pride.  It  was  pretentious  and 
ambitious,  mixed  in  motive  like  this  wo- 
man, like  himself.  He  would  have  fitted 
into  the  place  like  a  glove,  if  his  uncle  had 
done  the  right  thing !  Somewhat  the 
same  thought  was  in  the  widow's  mind. 

"  It  was  a  shame  that  old  Powers 
treated  you  so  shabbily  !  It  ought  to 
have  been  yours." 

They  stood  for  a  moment  on  the  ter- 
race, looking  at  the  house.  Yes,  it  was 
like  them  both !  They  loved  equally  the 
comforts  and  the  luxuries  and  the  powers 
of  this  our  little  life.  And  they  were 
bold  to  snatch  what  they  wanted  from 
the  general  feast. 

"  You  must  make  Harris  do  something 
for  you !  "  she  mused.  "  You  can't  bury 
yourself  in  a  stuffy  flat."  Then  in  a  few 
moments  she  added,  "  How  's  that  hand- 
some wife  of  yours  ?  I  hear  she  's  going 
to  have  another  child."  She  continued 
with  maternal,  or,  perhaps,  Parisian,  di- 
rectness, —  "  Two  babies,  and  not  on 
your  feet  yet !  You  must  n't  have  any 
more.  These  days  children  are  no  un- 

VOL.  xcni.  —  NO.  558.  31 


mixed  blessing,  I  can  tell  you.  .  .  .  Ve- 
netia  ?  I  left  her  in  the  East  with  some 
friends.  She 's  too  much  for  me,  already. 
She  needs  a  husband  who  can  use  the 
curb." 

When  Jackson  reported  to  Helen  the 
widow's  offer,  his  wife  said  very  quickly, 
"  I  had  rather  go  back  to  the  city, 
Francis  !  " 

"  Why  ?  "  he  asked  with  some  irrita- 
tion. 

"  Because,  because  "  — 

She  put  her  arms  about  his  neck  in 
her  desire  to  make  him  feel  what  she 
could  not  say.  But  he  was  thinking  of 
Mrs.  Phillips's  advice  to  see  the  broker, 
and  merely  kissed  her  in  reply  to  her 
caress.  It  was  the  year  of  the  great  bull 
market,  when  it  seemed  as  if  wealth 
hung  low  on  every  bough,  and  all  that  a 
bold  man  had  to  do  to  win  a  fortune  was 
to  pick  his  stock  and  make  his  stake.  .  .  . 

Forest  Park  was  very  gay  that  sum- 
mer. There  were  perpetual  dinners  and 
house  parties  and  much  polo  at  the 
Shoreham  Club.  The  architect,  who  was 
very  popular,  went  about  more  than  ever, 
sometimes  with  his  wife,  and  often  alone, 
as  her  health  did  not  permit  much  ef- 
fort. Occasionally  he  played  polo,  tak- 
ing the  place  of  one  of  the  regular  team, 
and  usually  when  there  was  a  match  he 
stopped  at  the  club  on  his  way  from  the 
city. 

One  of  these  polo  Wednesdays,  late  in 
August,  Helen  strolled  along  the  shore- 
path  in  the  direction  of  the  Phillipses' 
place,  with  an  idea  of  calling  on  Venetia 
Phillips,  if  her  strength  held  out.  The 
path  followed  the  curves  of  the  bluff  in 
full  view  of  the  lake,  from  which  rose 
a  pleasant  coolness  like  a  strong  odor. 
Back  from  the  edge  of  the  bluff,  in  the 
quiet  of  well  -  spaced  trees,  stood  the 
houses.  They  seemed  deserted  on  this 
midsummer  afternoon  ;  those  people  who 
had  the  energy  to  stir  had  gone  to  the 
polo  grounds.  The  Phillips  house  was 
asleep,  but  Helen  finally  roused  a  ser- 


482 


The   Common  Lot. 


vant,  who  departed  in  search  of  Venetia. 
The  silence  of  the  long  drawing-room, 
with  its  close  array  of  dominating  furni- 
ture, oppressed  her.  She  moved  about 
restlessly,  then  crossed  the  hall  to  an 
open  window,  where  from  the  north  the 
lake  air  was  floating  into  the  close  house. 
Outside  on  the  terrace  there  were  voices. 

The  murmur  of  the  voices  was  broken 
by  a  laugh  which  she  knew  to  be  her  hus- 
band's, and  she  started  forward  in  sur- 
prise. Through  the  open  window  she 
could  see  the  blue  lake,  and,  nearer,  a  cor- 
ner of  the  north  terrace,  where  the  lux- 
uriant vines  curtained  a  sheltered  nook. 
Jackson  and  Mrs.  Phillips  were  there, 
leaning  slightly  forward  in  the  animation 
of  their  talk.  The  widow  put  her  hand 
on  the  architect's  arm  to  emphasize  her 
words,  and  it  lay  there  while  she  looked 
into  the  man's  face  with  her  vivacious, 
gleaming  eyes.  The  odor  of  Jackson's 
cigar  floated  up  through  the  open  win- 
dow into  Helen's  face. 

It  was  nothing.  She  had  no  suspicion 
of  wrong,  or  jealousy  of  this  woman,  who 
liked  men,  —  all  men.  Yet  some  unfa- 
miliar pain  gripped  her  heart.  Some 
mysterious  and  hostile  force  had  entered 
her  field,  and  she  seemed  to  see  it  pic- 
tured, dramatized  here  before  her  in  this 
little  scene,  a  man  and  a  woman  with 
chairs  pulled  close  together,  their  faces 
aglow  with  eager  f  eelings !  The  other 
part  of  her  husband,  that  side  she  dimly 
felt  and  put  from  her  with  dread,  was 
fed  by  this  woman.  And  the  wife  hated 
her  for  it. 

She  lingered  a  moment,  not  listening, 
but  trying  to  still  her  beating  heart,  not 
daring  to  trust  herself  to  move.  .  .  . 

There  was  nothing  evil,  however,  be- 
tween those  two  on  the  terrace.  The  ar- 
chitect had  come  from  town  by  an  early 
train  to  see  the  polo,  and  there  Mrs.  Phil- 
lips had  found  him,  and  had  brought  him 
home  in  her  automobile.  She  had  just 
learned  a  piece  of  news  that  concerned 
the  architect  closely,  and  they  were  dis- 


cussing it  in  the  shade  and  quiet  of  the 
north  terrace. 

"  I  know  they  're  going  to  start  soon. 
The  judge  let  it  out  last  night.  He  's 
no  friend  of  yours,  of  course,  because  I 
like  you.  You  must  get  hold  of  your 
cousin  and  the  other  trustees." 

It  was  here  that  Mrs.  Phillips  laid  her 
hand  on  the  young  man's  arm  in  her 
eagerness.  Hart  murmured  his  thanks, 
thinking  less  of  the  widow  than  of  the 
trustees  of  the  Powers  Jackson  bequest. 

"  It  '11  be  the  biggest  thing  of  its  kind 
we  have  had  in  this  city  for  years.  It  's 
only  right  that  you  should  have  it,  too. 
Can't  your  wife  win  over  the  judge? 
He  's  always  talking  about  her." 

It  was  not  strange  that  the  man  should 
take  the  woman's  hand  in  the  end,  and 
hold  it  while  he  expressed  his  gratitude 
for  all  her  good  offices  to  him.  It  was  a 
pleasant  hand  to  hold,  and  the  woman 
was  an  agreeable  woman  to  have  in 
one's  confidence.  Naturally,  he  could  not 
know  that  she  considered  all  men  base, 

—  emotionally    treacherous    and    false- 
hearted. .  .  . 

Venetia  found  Helen  in  the  drawing- 
room,  very  white,  her  lips  trembling,  and 
beads  of  perspiration  on  her  forehead. 

"  It 's  nothing,"  the  older  woman  pro- 
tested. "  I  should  n't  have  walked  so 
far.  And  naw  I  must  go  back  at  once, 

—  yes,  really  I  must.     I  'm  so  sorry  !  " 
"  Let   me   call   Mr.   Hart,"  Venetia 

said,  troubled  by  the  woman's  face.  "  I 
saw  him  come  in  with  mamma  a  little 
while  ago." 

"No,  no,  I  prefer  not,  please.  It 
would  worry  him." 

Then  Venetia  drove  her  home,  and  left 
her  calmer,  more  herself,  but  still  cold. 
She  kissed  her,  with  a  girl's  demonstra- 
tiveness,  and  the  older  woman  burst  into 
tears. 

"  I  am  so  weak  and  so  silly  !  I  see 
things  queerly,"  she  explained,  endeavor- 
ing to  smile. 

After  the  girl  had  gone,  Helen  tried  to 
recover  her  ordinary  calm.  She  played 


The   Common  Lot. 


483 


with  the  little  Francis,  who  was  beginning 
to  venture  along  the  walls  and  chairs  of 
his  nursery,  testing  the  power  in  his  stur- 
dy legs.  This  naive  manifestation  of 
his  masculine  quality  touched  the  mother 
strangely.  She  saw  in  this  germ  of  man- 
hood the  future  of  the  boy.  What  other 
of  man's  instincts  would  he  have  ?  Would 
he,  too,  fight  for  his  share  of  the  spoil  of 
the  world  ? 

The  terrible  hour  of  her  woman's  agony 
was  fast  approaching,  when  she  should 
put  forth  another  being  into  the  struggle 
with  its  mates.  She  did  not  shrink  from 
the  pain  before  her,  although  she  began 
to  wonder  if  it  might  not  end  her  own 
life,  having  that  dark  foreboding  com- 
mon to  sensitive  women  at  this  crisis. 

If  death  came,  now,  what  had  she 
done  with  her  life  ?  She  would  leave  it 
like  a  meal  scarce  tasted,  a  task  merely 
played  with.  This  afternoon  when  she 
saw  her  husband,  so  remote  from  her, 
traveling  another  road,  a  bitter  sense  of 
the  fruitlessness  of  all  living  had  entered 
her  heart.  This  husband,  whom  she  had 
so  passionately  loved  ! 

An  hour  later,  as  the  architect  was 
taking  his  leave  of  Mrs.  Phillips,  the 
butler  brought  him  a  telephone  message 
from  his  house.  His  wife  was  suddenly 
taken  ill.  He  raced  home  through  the 
leafy  avenues  in  the  big  touring  car, 
which  fortunately  stood  ready  to  take 
him.  He  found  Helen  white  and  ex- 
hausted, her  eyes  searching  the  vacant 
horizon  of  her  bedroom. 

"Why,  Nell!  Poor  girl!"  he  ex- 
claimed, leaning  over  her,  trying  to  kiss 
her.  "  Venetia  said  you  were  there  this 
afternoon.  Why  did  n't  you  let  me 
know  ?  " 

Her  lips  were  cold  and  scarcely  closed 
to  his  caress.  She  pushed  him  gently 
from  her,  wishing  to  be  alone  in  her  trial. 
But  shortly,  purging  her  heart  of  any 
suspicion  or  jealousy,  —  still  haunted  by 
that  fear  of  death,  —  she  drew  him  again 
to  her. 


"  You  were  with  Mrs.  Phillips.  I 
did  n't  —  It 's  all  right,  Francis.  I  love 
you,  dear  !  " 

XHI. 

Rumor  had  it  that  the  Powers  Jack- 
son trust  was  about  to  be  fulfilled.  It 
had  become  known  among  the  friends  of 
the  trustees  that  during  these  prosperous 
times  the  fund  for  the  educational  pro- 
ject had  grown  apace,  and  was  now  esti- 
mated to  be  from  five  to  six  millions  of 
dollars.  It  was  understood  that  certain 
trustees  were  in  favor  of  handing  over 
this  munificent  bequest  to  a  large  local 
university,  with  the  stipulation  that  a  part 
of  the  money  should  be  devoted  to  some 
form  of  manual  training  or  technological 
school  on  the  West  Side. 

One  morning  Jackson  Hart  read  from 
the  newspaper  an  item  to  the  effect  that 
negotiations  were  under  way  with  the 
university. 

"  So  that 's  their  game !  "  he  exclaimed 
to  Helen,  seeing  an  unexpected  check  to 
his  ambition.  He  went  away  to  the  train, 
trying  to  remember  who  were  the  influ- 
ential trustees  of  the  university,  and  won- 
dering whether,  after  all,  there  would  be 
any  monumental  building.  He  scarcely 
noticed  his  wife's  disgust  over  the  news. 

She  was  stirred  unwontedly  to  think 
that  already  to  this  extent  had  the  old 
man's  design  become  blurred  ! 

"He  did  n't  care  for  universities 
or  theoretical  education,"  she  protested 
warmly  the  next  time  she  met  Judge 
Phillips  on  the  Chicago  train. 

Pemberton,  also  one  of  the  trustees, 
was  sitting  beside  the  judge.  He  listened 
gravely  to  Helen's  speech.  The  judge, 
who  preferred  to  talk  babies  or  shrubs 
with  a  pleasant  young  woman,  admitted 
that  there  had  been  some  negotiations 
with  the  university ;  but  nothing  had  been 
decided. 

"Mr.  Hollister  seems  to  be  against  it. 
You  '11  have  to  talk  to  Pemberton  here. 
It  was  his  idea !  " 


484 


The   Common  Lot. 


"  He  would  n't  have  done  it !  "  Helen 
protested,  looking  at  Pemberton.  "  We 
often  used  to  talk  over  college  education. 
He  thought  that  colleges  educated  the 
leaders,  the  masters;  and  there  would 
always  be  enough  of  that  kind  of  institu- 
tion. He  wanted  to  do  something  with 
his  money  for  'the  people  !  " 

"  Yes,  of  course,  it  must  be  a  technical 
school,"  Pemberton  replied  dryly,  "  and 
it  must  be  out  there  on  the  West  Side." 

"  But  for  the  people,  the  working  peo- 
ple," she  insisted. 

"  Naturally  !  But  we  are  all  the  '  peo- 
ple,' are  n't  we,  Mrs.  Hart  ?  I  have  n't 
much  sympathy  with  this  talk  nowadays 
about  the  '  people '  as  opposed  to  any 
other  class." 

"  That 's  the  unions  !  "  the  judge  nod- 
ded sagely.  "  We  are  all  the  '  people ' ! 
We  want  to  offer  the  best  kind  of  educa- 
tion for  the  poor  boy  or  the  rich  boy. 
What  was  Powers  himself  ?  His  school 
must  be  a  place  to  help  boys  such  as  he 
was." 

They  were  both  completely  at  sea  as  to 
the  donor's  real  intentions,  she  felt  sure, 
and  she  was  eager  to  have  them  see  the 
matter  as  she  saw  it.  Suddenly  ideas 
came  to  her,  things  she  wished  to  say, 
things  that  seemed  to  her  very  important 
to  say.  She  remembered  talks  that  she 
had  had  with  the  old  man,  and  certain  re- 
marks about  college  education  which  had 
dropped  from  him  like  sizzling  metal. 

"  But  a  technological  school  like  the 
one  in  Boston,"  —  Pemberton  had  in- 
stanced this  famous  school  as  an  exam- 
ple they  should  follow,  —  "  that 's  a  place 
to  educate  boys  out  of  their  class,  to  make 
them  ambitious,  to  push  them  ahead  of 
their  mates  into  some  higher  class." 

"  Well  ?  "  asked  Pemberton.  «  What 's 
the  matter  with  that  idea  ?  " 

"Uncle  wanted  something  so  differ- 
ent !  He  wanted  to  make  boys  good 
workmen,  to  give  them  something  to  be 
contented  with  when  they  had  just  labor 
before  them,  daily  labor,  in  the  factories 
and  mills." 


The  judge's  face  was  puckered  in 
puzzle.  He  was  of  an  older  generation, 
and  he  could  see  life  only  in  the  light  of 
competition.  Free  competition,  that  was 
his  ideal.  And  the  constant  labor  disputes 
in  Chicago  had  thickened  his  prejudices 
against  the  working  people  as  a  class. 
He  believed  that  their  one  aim  was  to  get 
somebody's  money  without  working  for  it. 

But  the  other  man  was  more  respon- 
sive. He  felt  that  this  woman  had  an 
idea,  that  she  knew  perhaps  what  the 
benefactor  really  wanted,  and  so  they 
talked  of  the  school  until  the  train 
reached  Chicago. 

"  Well,"  the  judge  said,  as  the  people 
bustled  to  leave  the  car,  "  I  hope  we  can 
get  the  thing  settled  pretty  soon,  and 
start  on  the  building.  I  want  to  see 
something  done  before  I  die." 

"  Yes,"  Helen  assented.  "  I  should 
think  you  would  want  to  see  the  school 
go  up.  I  hope  Jackson  will  have  the 
building  of  it." 

She  expressed  this  hope  very  simply, 
without  considering  how  it  might  strike 
the  trustees.  It  was  merely  a  bit  of  sen- 
timent with  her  that  her  husband,  who 
had  got  his  education  from  Powers  Jack- 
son, might,  as  a  pure  labor  of  love,  in 
gratitude,  build  this  monument  to  the  old 
man.  It  did  not  then  enter  her  mind 
that  there  would  be  a  very  large  profit  in 
the  undertaking.  She  assumed  that  the 
architect  would  do  the  work  without  pay ! 

But  Pemberton's  thin  lips  closed  cold- 
ly, and  the  judge's  reply  made  her  face 
turn  crimson  for  her  indelicacy. 

"  We  have  n't  got  that  far  yet,  Mrs. 
Hart.  It 's  probable  that  we  shall  have 
a  competition  of  designs." 

The  two  men  raised  their  hats  and  dis- 
appeared into  the  black  flood  pouring 
across  the  bridge,  while  she  got  into  an 
omnibus.  That  remark  of  hers,  she  felt, 
might  have  undone  all  the  good  of  the 
talk  they  had  had  about  the  old  man's 
plan.  Her  cheeks  burned  again  as  she 
thought  of  hinting  for  favors  to  her  hus- 
band. It  seemed  a  mean,  personal  seek- 


The   Common  Lot. 


485 


ing,  when  she  had  been  thinking  solely  of 
something  noble  and  pure. 

This  idea  distressed  her  until  she  was 
engulfed  in  that  mammoth  caravansary 
where  one  half  of  Chicago  shops  and,  in- 
cidentally, meets  its  acquaintances  and 
gossips.  She  hurried  hither  and  thither 
in  this  place  in  the  nervous  perturbation 
of  buying.  Finally,  she  had  to  mount  to 
the  third  floor  to  have  a  correction  made 
in  her  account.  There,  in  the  centre  of 
the  building,  nearly  an  acre  of  floor  space 
was  railed  off  for  the  office  force,  the 
bookkeepers  and  tally  clerks  and  cash- 
iers. Near  the  aisle  thirty  or  forty  girls 
were  engaged  in  stamping  little  yellow 
slips.  Each  had  a  computation  machine 
before  her  and  a  pile  of  slips.  Now  and 
then  some  girl  would  glance  up  listlessly 
from  her  work,  let  her  eyes  wander  va- 
cantly over  the  vast  shop,  and  perhaps 
settle  for  a  moment  on  the  face  of  the 
lady  who  was  waiting  before  the  cashier's 
window.  This  store  boasted  of  the  ex- 
cellent character  of  its  employees.  They 
were  of  a  neater,  more  intelligent,  more 
American  class  thant  those  employed  in 
other  large  retail  stores.  Even  here,  how- 
ever, they  had  the  characteristic  marks 
of  dull,  wholesale  labor. 

Helen  was  hypnotized  by  the  constant 
punch,  click,  and  clatter  of  the  compu- 
tation machines,  the  repeated  movements 
of  the  girls'  arms  as  they  stretched  out 
for  fresh  slips,  inserted  them  in  the  ma- 
chines, laid  them  aside.  This  was  the  la- 
bor of  the  great  industrial  world,  —  con- 
stant, rhythmic  as  a  machine  is  rhythmic, 
deadening  to  soul  and  body.  Standing 
there  beside  the  railing,  she  could  hear 
the  vast  clatter  of  our  complex  life,  which 
is  carried  on  by  just  such  automata  as 
these  girls !  What  was  the  best  educa- 
tion to  offer  them,  and  their  brothers  and 
fathers  and  lovers  ?  What  would  give 
them  a  little  more  sanity,  more  joy  and 
humanity  ?  —  that  was  the  one  great  ques- 
tion of  education.  Not  what  would  make 
them  and  their  fellows  into  department 
managers  or  proprietors ! 


The  receipted  bill  came,  with  a  polite 
bow.  She  stuffed  the  change  into  her 
purse  and  hurried  away,  conscious  that 
the  girl  nearest  the  railing  was  looking 
languidly  at  the  back  of  her  gown. 

Before  going  to  the  Auditorium  to 
meet  some  women  who  were  to  lunch 
with  her  there,  she  stopped  at  her  hus- 
band's office.  The  architect  had  moved 
lately  to  the  top  story  of  a  large  new 
building  on  Michigan  Avenue,  where  his 
office  had  expanded.  He  had  taken  a 
partner,  a  pleasant,  smooth-faced  young 
man,  Fred  Stewart,  who  had  excellent 
connections  in  the  city,  which  were  ex- 
pected to  bring  business  to  the  firm. 
Cook  was  still  the  head  draughtsman, 
but  there  were  three  men  and  a  steno- 
grapher under  him  now.  His  faith  in 
Hart  had  been  justified,  and  yet  at  times 
he  shook  his  head  over  some  of  the  work 
which  passed  through  the  office. 

He  recognized  Helen  when  she  en- 
tered the  outer  office,  and  opened  the 
little  wicket  gate  for  her  to  step  inside. 

"  Your  husband  's  busy  just  now,  been 
shut  up  with  a  contractor  most  all  the 
morning.  Something  important 's  on 
probably.  Shall  I  call  him  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered.  "  I  '11  wait  a 
while.  Is  this  the  new  work  ? "  She 
pointed  in  surprise  to  the  sketches  on 
the  walls  of  the  office..  "It's  so  long 
since  I  have  been  in  the  office.  I  had 
no  idea  you  had  done  so  much." 

"  More  'n  that,  too  !  There  's  some  we 
don't  hang  out  here,"  the  draughtsman 
answered.  "  We  've  kept  pretty  busy  !  " 

He  liked  his  boss's  wife.  She  had  a 
perfectly  simple,  kindly  manner  with  all 
the  world,  and  a  face  that  men  love. 
The  year  before  she  had  had  Cook  and 
his  younger  brother  in  the  country  over 
Sunday,  and  treated  them  like  "  distin- 
guished strangers,"  as  Cook  expressed  it. 

"  That 's  the  Bushfields'  house,  —  you 
know  it,  perhaps  ?  This  is  Arnold  Starr's 
residence  at  Marathon  Point,  —  Colonial 
style.  That's  an  Odd  Fellows  hall  in 
Peoria.  I  did  that  myself." 


486 


The   Common  Lot. 


Helen  said  something  pleasant  about 
the  blunt  elevation  of  the  Odd  Fellows 
hall. 

"  That  'a  the  Graveland,"  he  contin- 
ued, pointing  to  a  dingy  photograph  that 
she  recognized.  "  It  was  called  after  the 
contractor's  name.  We  did  that  the  first 
year." 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  remember,"  she  mur- 
mured. That  was  the  building  her  hus- 
band had  done  for  the  disreputable  con- 
tractor, who  had  made  it  a  mere  lath- 
and-plaster  shell. 

She  kept  on  around  the  room,  study- 
ing the  photographs  and  sketches. 
Among  the  newer  ones  there  were  sev- 
eral rows  of  semi-detached  houses  that, 
in  spite  of  the  architect's  efforts,  looked 
as  if  they  had  been  carved  out  of  the 
same  piece  of  cake.  Some  of  these  were 
so  brazen  in  their  commonplaceness  that 
she  thought  they  must  be  the  work  of  the 
Cooks.  Probably  Hart  had  got  to  that 
point  of  professional  success  where  he 
merely  "  criticised  "  a  good  many  of  the 
less  important  sketches,  leaving  the  men 
in  the  office  to  work  them  out. 

She  sat  down  to  wait,  her  interest  in 
the  office  sketches  dulled.  They  were 
like  the  products  of  the  great  emporium 
that  she  had  just  left,  —  of  all  marketable 
kinds  to  suit  all  demands.  The  architect 
worked  in  all  the  "  styles,"  —  Gothic,  ear- 
ly English,  French  chateau,  etc.  There 
was  nothing  sincere,  honest,  done  because 
the  man  could  do  it  that  way  and  no  other. 
It  was  clever  contrivance. 

Men  came  and  went  in  the  offices,  the 
little  doors  fanning  back  and  forth  in 
an  excitement  of  their  own.  The  place 
hummed  with  business ;  messengers  and 
clerks  came  in  from  the  elevators  ;  con- 
tractors exchanged  words  with  the  busy 
Cook ;  and  through  all  sounded  the  in- 
cessant call  of  the  telephone,  the  bang 
of  the  typewriter.  A  hive  of  industry  ! 
It  would  have  pleased  the  energetic  soul 
of  the  manager  of  Steele's  emporium. 

Meantime  the  wife  was  thinking, 
"  What  does  it  mean  to  him  ?  "  When 


they  began  their  married  life  in  a  flat 
on  the  North  Side,  Jackson  had  brought 
his  sketches  home  ;  they  had  kept  a  little 
closet-like  room  off  the  hall  where  he 
worked  evenings.  But  from  the  time 
they  had  moved  into  the  Loring  house 
he  had  rarely  brought  home  his  work ; 
he  was  too  tired  at  night  and  felt  the 
need  for  distraction.  Had  he  lost  his 
interest  in  the  art  side  of  his  profession  ? 
Was  he  turning  it  into  a  money-making 
business,  like  Steele's  ?  She  reproached 
herself  as  the  spender  and  enjoyer,  with 
the  children,  of  this  money,  which  came 
out  of  these  ephemeral  and  gaudy  build- 
ings, whose  pictures  dotted  the  walls. 

She  was  roused  by  the  sound  of  her 
husband's  voice.  He  was  coming  through 
the  inner  door,  and  he  spoke  loudly, 
cheerily  to  his  companion. 

"  Well,  then,  it 's  settied.  Shall  I  have 
Nelson  draw  the  papers  ? "  A  thick, 
cautious  voice  replied,  "  There  ain't  any 
hurry,  is  there  ?  What  in  hell  do  we 
want  of  paper,  anyway  ?  " 

Then  they  emerged  into  the  outer  of- 
fice. The  stranger's  square,  heavy  face, 
his  grizzled  beard,  and  thick  eyebrows 
were  not  unknown  to  her. 

"  Why  !  You  here  !  "  the  architect 
exclaimed,  when  he  caught  sight  of  his 
wife.  "  Why  did  n't  you  let  me  know  ? 
Always  tell  Miss  Fair  to  call  me." 

He  took  her  hand,  and  putting  his 
other  hand  under  her  chin  he  gave  her 
a  little  caress,  like  a  busy,  indulgent 
husband. 

"Who  was  that  man,  Francis?"  she 
asked. 

"  The  one  who  came  out  with  me  ? 
That  was  a  contractor,  a  fellow  named 
Graves." 

She  had  it  on  her  lips  to  say,  "  And 
you  promised  me  once  that  you  would 
never  have  anymore  business  with  him." 
But  she  was  wise,  and  said  simply,  "  I 
came  away  this  morning  without  enough 
money,  and  I  have  those  women  at 
luncheon,  you  know." 

"  Of  course !    Here !  "  He  rang  a  bell 


The   Common  Lot. 


487 


and  pulled  a  little  cheque  book  from  a 
mass  of  papers,  letters,  memoranda  that 
he  carried  in  his  pocket.  He  made  out 
a  cheque  quickly  with  a  fountain  pen, 
still  standing. 

"  There,  Miss  Fair  !  "  He  handed 
the  cheque  to  the  waiting  stenographer. 
"  Get  that  cashed  at  the  bank  downstairs 
and  give  the  money  to  Mrs.  Hart." 

When  the  young  woman,  with  an  im- 
personal glance  at  the  husband  and  wife, 
had  disappeared,  the  architect  turned  to 
Helen  and  pulled  out  his  watch. 

"  I  may  have  to  go  to  St.  Louis  to- 
night. If  you  don't  see  me  on  the  five 
two,  you  '11  know  I  have  gone.  I  '11  be 
back  Saturday,  anyway.  That's  when 
we  dine  with  the  Crawfords,  don't  we  ?  " 

His  mind  gave  her  only  a  superficial 
attention,  and  yet  lie  seemed  happy  in 
spite  of  the  pressure  of  his  affairs.  The 
intoxication  of  mere  activity,  the  excite- 
ment of  "  doing,"  so  potent  in  our  coun- 
try, had  got  its  grip  on  him.  In  his 
brown  eyes  there  burned  a  fire  of  restless 
thoughts,  schemes,  combinations,  which 
he  was  testing  in  his  brain  all  the  time. 
Yet  he  chatted  courteously,  while  they 
waited  for  the  stenographer  to  return. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  remarked,  "  I  tel- 
ephoned Everett  this  morning,  and  he 
says  there  's  nothing  in  that  story  about 
their  giving  the  university  the  money. 
He  says  Hollister  knows  uncle  would  n't 
have  wanted  it,  and  Hollister  is  dead  set 
against  it." 

"  Judge  Phillips  and  Mr.  Pemberton 
were  on  the  train  with  me  this  morning, 
and  they  talked  about  it.  They  don't 
seem  altogether  clear  what  the  trustees 
will  do.  I  hope  they  won't  do  that.  It 
would  be  too  bad  !  " 

"  I  should  say  so !  "  Jackson  added 
warmly. 

He  accompanied  his  wife  downstairs, 
and  bought  her  some  violets  from  the 
florist  in  the  vestibule.  They  parted  at 
the  street  corner.  She  watched  him  un- 
til he  was  swallowed  up  by  the  swift 
flowing  stream  on  the  walk,  her  heart  a 


little  sad.  He  was  admirable  toward 
her  in  every  way.  And  yet  —  and  yet  — 
she  hated  the  bustle  of  the  city  that  had 
caught  up  her  husband,  and  set  him  turn- 
ing in  its  titanic,  heartless  embrace. 
There  rose  before  her  the  memory  of 
those  precious  days  on  the  sea  when  they 
had  begun  to  love. 


XIV. 

Hart  had  lately  bought  a  couple  of 
hunters,  and  Sundays,  when  it  was  good 
weather,  they  often  went  over  to  the  club 
stables  to  see  the  horses  and  the  hounds. 
It  was  a  pleasant  spot  of  a  fine  summer 
morning.  The  close-cropped  turf  rolled 
gently  westward  to  a  large  horizon  of 
fields,  where  a  few  isolated  trees,  branch- 
ing loftily,  rose  against  a  clear  sky.  The 
stables  were  hidden  in  a  little  hollow, 
and  beyond  was  a  paddock  where  a  yelp- 
ing pack  of  hounds  was  kept.  Close  at 
hand  at  one  side  crouched  in  their  pen 
some  captive  foxes,  listening  sharp-eyed 
to  the  noisy  dogs. 

No  sports  of  any  kind  were  allowed  on 
Sundays.  The  community  was  severely 
orthodox  in  regard  to  the  observance  of 
Sunday,  as  in  other  merely  moral  mat- 
ters. But  when  the  weather  was  good 
there  were  usually  to  be  found  about  the 
stables  a  group  of  young  men  and  wo- 
men, preparing  for  tete-a-tete  rides  or 
practicing  jumps  at  the  stone  wall  beside 
the  paddock.  Later  they  would  stroll 
back  to  the  club  veranda  for  a  cool  drink, 
and  gossip  until  the  church-going  mem- 
bers returned  from  the  morning  service, 
and  it  was  time  to  dress  for  luncheon. 

Of  the  younger  set  Venetia  Phillips 
was  most  often  to  be  found  down  by  the 
stone  wall  on  a  Sunday  morning.  She 
had  come  home  from  Europe  this  last 
time,  handsome,  tall,  and  fearless,  thirsty 
for  excitement  of  all  sorts,  and  had  made 
much  talk  in  the  soberer  circles  of  subur- 
ban society.  She  was  a  great  lover  of 
dogs  and  horses,  and  went  about  followed 


488 


The   Common  Lot. 


by  a  troop  of  lolloping  dogs,  —  an  im- 
mense bull  presented  by  an  English  ad- 
mirer, and  a  wolf  hound  specially  im- 
ported, being  the  leaders  of  the  pack. 
She  was  one  of  the  young  women  who 
still  played  golf,  now  that  it  was  no 
longer  fashionable,  and  on  hot  days  she 
might  be  seen  on  the  links,  her  brown 
arms  bare  to  the  shoulders,  and  a  flood 
of  blue-black  hair  hanging  down  her 
back.  She  rode  to  all  the  hunts,  not  ex- 
cepting the  early  morning  meets  late  in 
the  season.  It  was  said,  also,  that  she 
drank  too  much  champagne  at  the  hunt 
dinners,  and  allowed  a  degree  of  famil- 
iarity to  her  admirers  that  shocked  public 
opinion  in  a  respectable  and  censorious 
society,  which  had  found  it  hard  to  tol- 
erate the  mother. 

Indeed,  Mrs.  Phillips  could  do  nothing 
with  her ;  she  even  confided  her  troubles 
to  Helen  :  "  My.  dear,  the  girl  has  had 
every  chance  over  there  abroad,  —  we 
had  the  very  best  introductions.  She 
spoiled  it  all  by  her  idiocy.  Stanwood 
is  making  a  fool  of  himself  with  a  wo- 
man, too.  Enjoy  your  children,  now, 
while  you  can  spank  them  when  they  are 
naughty !  " 

Helen,  who  had  little  enough  sympathy 
with  the  domestic  tribulations  of  the  rich, 
remembered  the  widow's  words  the  next 
time  she  met  Venetia  at  the  stone  wall 
by  the  club  stables,  watching  Lane,  who 
was  trying  a  new  hunter.  Lane's  temper 
was  notoriously  bad  ;  the  Kentucky  horse 
was  raw  and  nervous ;  he  refused  the 
jump,  almost  throwing  his  rider.  Lane, 
too  conscious  of  the  spectators,  his  vanity 
touched,  beat  the  horse  savagely  on  the 
head. 

"  Low  !  "  Venetia  grumbled  audibly, 
turning  her  back  on  the  scene.  "  Come !  " 
she  said  to  Helen,  seizing  her  arm. 
"  Have  n't  you  had  enough  of  brutes  for 
one  morning  ?  Come  up  to  the  club  and 
have  a  talk.  That 's  the  man  madame 
my  mother  thinks  I  am  going  to  marry. 
Do  you  suppose  he  'd  use  the  whip  on  his 
wife  ?  " 


They  had  the  club  veranda  to  them- 
selves at  that  mid-morning  hour.  Vene- 
tia flung  herself  into  a  chair,  and  flicked 
the  tips  of  her  boots  with  her  whip. 
The  small  Francis,  who  had  followed 
his  mother,  tumbled  on  the  grass  with 
the  terrier  Pete.  Now  and  then  Pete 
would  hobble  to  the  veranda  and  look  at 
his  mistress. 

"  You  would  n't  marry  that  person, 
would  you  ?  Well  ?  You  want  to  say 
something  disagreeable.  You  have  had 
it  on  your  conscience  for  weeks.  I  could 
see  it  in  your  eye.  Spit  it  out,  as  the 
boys  say !  " 

"  Yes,  I  have  had  something  on  my 
mind  !  Why  —  why  are  you  so  "  — 

"  You  mean,  why  do  I  smoke  ?  drink 
champagne  ?  and  let  men  kiss  me  ?  " 

She  laughed  at  the  look  of  consterna- 
tion on  Helen's  face. 

"That's  what  you  mean,  isn't  it? 
My  sporting  around  generally,  and  drink- 
ing too  much  at  that  dinner  last  fall,  and 
supplying  these  veranda  tabbies  with  so 
much  food  for  thought  ?  Why  can't  I  be 
the  nice,  sweet  young  woman  you  were 
before  you  were  married,  eh  ?  A  com- 
fort to  Mrs.  Phillips  and  an  ornament  to 
Forest  Manor !  " 

"  You  need  n't  be  all  that,  and  yet 
strike  a  pleasanter  note,"  the  older  wo- 
man laughed  back. 

"  My  dear  gray  mouse,  I'm  lots  worse 
than  that !  Do  you  know  where  I  was 
the  other  night  when  mamma  was  in  such 
a  temper  because  I  had  n't  come  home, 
and  telephoned  all  around  to  the  neigh- 
bors ?  " 

"  At  the  Bascoms'  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  all  sweetly  tucked  up  in 
bed.  Not  a  bit  of  it !  A  lot  of  us  had 
dinner,  and  went  to  see  a  show,  —  that 
was  all  on  the  square.  But  afterwards 
Teddy  Stewart  and  I  did  the  Clark 
Street  levee,  at  one  in  the  morning,  and 
quite  by  ourselves.  We  saw  lots  and 
lots,  —  it  was  very  informing  ;  I  could  tel 
you  heaps ;  and  it  went  all  right  unti 
Teddy,  like  a  little  fool,  got  into  troubl 


The   Common  Lot. 


489 


at  one  of  the  places.  Some  one  said  some- 
thing to  me  not  quite  refined,  and  Ted 
was  just  enough  elated  to  be  on  his  dig- 
nity. If  we  had  n't  had  an  awful  piece 
of  luck,  there  would  have  been  a  little 
paragraph  in  the  paper  the  next  morning. 
Would  n't  that  have  made  a  noise  ?  " 

"  You  little  fool !  "  groaned  Helen. 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  know,"  Venetia  contin- 
ued imperturbably.  "  Just  as  I  had  hold 
of  Ted  and  was  trying  to  calm  him  down, 
somebody  hit  him,  and  there  was  a  gen- 
eral scrap.  He  is  n't  so  much  of  a  fool 
when  he  is  all  sober.  Just  then  a  man 
grabbed  me,  and  I  found  myself  on  the 
street.  It  was  —  Well,  no  matter  just 
now  who  it  was.  Then  the  man  went 
back  for  Ted,  and  after  a  time  he  got 
him,  rather  the  worse  for  his  experience. 
We  had  to  send  him  to  a  hotel,  and  then 
the  man  saw  me  home  to  the  Bascoms'. 
My,  what  a  talking  he  put  up  to  me  on 
the  way  to  the  North  Side !  " 

She  waited  to  see  what  effect  she  had 
produced,  but  as  Helen  said  nothing  she 
continued,  — 

"I  suppose  you  are  thinking  I  am  a 
regular  little  red  devil.  But  you  don't 
know  what  girls  do.  I  've  seen  a  lot  of 
girls  all  over.  And  most  of  'em,  if  they 
travel  in  a  certain  class,  do  just  as  fool 
things  as  I  do.  On  the  quiet,  you  under- 
stand, and  most  of  them  don't  get  into 
trouble,  either.  They  marry  all  right  in 
the  end,  and  become  quiet  little  mammas 
like  you,  dear.  Sometimes  when  they 
are  silly,  or  weak,  or  have  bad  luck, 
there  's  trouble.  Now.  I  am  not  talking 
loose,  as  Ted  would  say.  I  've  known 
Baltimore  girls,  and  New  York  girls,  and 
Philadelphia  girls,  and  Boston  girls,  — 
they  're  the  worst  ever ! 

"  Why  should  the  women  be  so  differ- 
ent from  the  men,  anyway  ?  They  are 
the  same  flesh  and  blood  as  their  fathers 
and  brothers,  and  other  girls'  fathers  and 
brothers,  too.  .  .  .  Don't  make  that  face 
at  me !  I  'm  nice,  too,  at  least  a  little 
nice.  Did  n't  you  ever  sit  here  evenings, 
or  over  at  the  Eversley  Club,  and  watch 


the  nice  little  girls  ?  But  perhaps  you 
could  n't  tell  what  it  means.  You  ought 
to  get  a  few  points  from  me  or  some 
other  girl  who  is  next  them.  We  could 
tell  you  what  they  've  done  ever  since 
they  left  school,  day  by  day." 

The  small  Francis  was  rolling  over 
and  over  on  the  green  turf,  rejoicing  in 
the  pleasure  of  soiling  his  white  suit. 
Beyond  the  polo  field  a  couple  on  horse- 
back were  passing  slowly  along  the  curv- 
ing road  into  the  woods.  The  cicadas 
sang  their  piercing  August  song  in  the 
shrubs.  It  was  a  drowsy,  decorous  scene. 

"  It  is  n't  all  like  that,"  the  older  wo- 
man protested.  "  Most  of  the  men  and 
women  you  know,  here  in  Chicago"  — 

"  Oh  yes !  They  're  good  out  here,  most 
of  'em,  and  dull,  damn  dull.  They  're 
afraid  to  take  off  their  gloves  for  fear  it 
isn't  the  correct  thing.  A  lot  of  'em 
are  n't  used  to  their  good  clothes,  like 
that  Mrs.  Rainbow.  As  uncle  says, 
'  Our  best  people  are  religious  and  moral.' 
Chicago  is  too  new  to  be  real  naughty, 
and  too  busy,  but  wait  a  few  years. 
Meanwhile,  there  's  more  going  on  than 
you  dream  of,  gray  mouse !  " 

"  You  are  too  wise,  Venetia  !  " 

"  I  '11  tell  you  the  reason  why  we 
sport.  We  're  dull,  and  we  are  looking 
for  some  fun.  The  men  get  all  the  excite- 
ment they  need,  scrambling  for  money. 
Girls  want  to  be  sports,  too,  and  they 
can't  do  the  money  act.  So  they  sport 
—  otherwise.  That 's  the  why." 

She  rapped  the  floor  with  her  whip, 
and  laughed  at  Helen's  perplexity. 

"  I  want  to  be  a  real  sport,  and  know 
what  men  are  like,  really,  when  they  are 
off  parade,  as  you  nice  women  don't  know 
'em." 

"  Well,  what  are  they  like  ?  " 

"  Some  beasts,  some  cads,  some  good 
fellows,"  Venetia  pronounced  definitive- 
ly. "  Do  you  know  why  I  let  men  kiss 
me  sometimes  ?  To  see  if  they  will,  if 
that  sort  of  thing  is  all  they  want.  And 
most  of  'em  do  want  just  that,  married 
or  single.  When  a  man  has  the  chance, 


490 


The   Common  Lot. 


why,  he  goes  back  to  the  ape  mighty 
quick." 

She  nodded  sagely  when  Helen 
laughed  at  her  air  of  wisdom.  Then 
she  continued  serenely,  — 

"  There  are  some  of  them  now,  com- 
ing up  from  the  paddock.  They  have 
had  their  little  Sunday  stroll,  and  now 
they  want  a  drink  to  make  them  feel 
cool  and  comfy,  and  some  talk  with  the 
ladies.  We  must  trot  out  our  prettiest 
smiles  and  nicest  talk,  while  they  sit  tight 
and  are  amused." 

"And  so  you  think  this  is  all,  just 
these  women  and  men  you  see  here  and 
in  other  places  like  this?  And  the  mil- 
lions and  millions  of  others  who  are  try- 
ing to  live  decent  lives,  who  work  and 
struggle  ?  " 

"  I  talk  of  those  I  know,  dearie. 
What  are  the  rest  to  me  ?  Just  dull,  or- 
dinary people  you  never  meet  except  on 
the  street  or  in  the  train.  We  are  the  top 
of  it  all.  ...  I  don't  care  for  books  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing,  or  for  slumming 
and  playing  with  the  poor.  If  you  knew 
them,  too,  I  guess  you  'd  find  much  the 
same  little  game  going  on  down  there." 

"  What  a  horrid  world  !  " 

"  It  is  a  bit  empty,"  the  girl  yawned. 
"I 'suppose  the  only  thing,  after  you 
have  had  your  run,  is  to  marry  the  de- 
centest  man  you  can  find,  who  won't  get 
drunk,  or  spend  your  money,  or  beat 
you,  and  have  a  lot  of  children.  Yours 
are  awfully  nice  !  I  'd  like  to  have  the 
kids  without  the  husband,  —  only  that 
would  make  such  a  row !  " 

"  And  that  would  please  your  mother, 
to  have  you  married  ?  " 

"  Oh,  mother !  I  suppose  it  would 
please  her  to  have  me  marry  Mr.  Ste- 
phen Lane,"  Venetia  answered  coldly. 
"  One  does  n't  talk  about  one's  mother, 
or  I  'd  like  to  tell  you  a  thing  or  two  on 
that  head.  She  need  n't  worry  over  me. 
She  's  had  her  fun,  and  is  taking  what 
she  can  get  now." 

The  group  of  men  and  women  drew 
near  the  clubhouse.  Jackson  stopped  to 


speak  to  a  man  who  had  just  driven  up. 
Venetia  pointed  to  him. 

"  There !  See  Jackie,  your  good 
man  ?  He  's  buzzing  old  Pemberton, 
that  crusty  pillar  of  society,  because  he  's 
got  a  little  game  to  play  with  him.  You 
must  n't  look  so  haughty,  dear  wife. 
It 's  your  business,  too,  to  be  nice  to  old 
Pemberton.  I  shall  leave  you  when  he 
comes  up,  so  that  you  can  beguile  him 
with  your  sweet  ways.  It 's  money  in  thy 
husband's  purse,  mouse,  and  hence  in  thy 
children's  mouths.  Now,  if  we  women 
could  scramble  for  the  dollars,  —  why, 
we  should  n't  want  other  kinds  of  mis- 
chief. I  'd  like  to  be  a  big  broker,  like 
Rainbow,  and  handle  deals,  and  make 
the  other  fellows  pay,  pay,  pay !  " 

She  swung  the  small  Francis  over  her 
head  and  tumbled  him  in  the  grass,  to 
the  delight  of  Pete,  who  hobbled  about 
his  mistress,  yelping  with  joy. 

There  was  something  hard  and  final 
in  the  girl's  summary  of  her  experience. 
Vigorous,  hot-blooded,  and  daring,  Ve- 
iietia  would  have  battled  among  men  as 
an  equal,  and  got  from  the  fight  for  ex- 
istence health,  and  sanity,  and  joy.  As 
it  was,  she  was  rich  enough  to  be  pro- 
tected in  the  struggle  for  existence,  and 
was  tied  up  by  the  prejudices  of  her 
class.  She  was  bottled  passion  ! 

The  architect  still  held  Pemberton 
conversation  on  the  drive,  and  Venetu 
presently  returned  to  Helen,  smiling 
ly  into  her  face. 

"That  doctor  man  was   an  amusing 
chap,  was  n't  he  ?     I  mean  Dr.  Cobui 
the  one  who  mended  up  Pete  when  I  wa 
a  young  miss,  and  outraged  mamma 
sending  her  a  receipted  bill  for  two  hur 
dred  and  fifty  dollars.     He  asks  aboi 
you.     Why  did  you  drop  him  ?  " 

"  Where  have  you  seen  him  ?" 

"  Oh,  here  and  there.     Why  not  ?    Ht 
was  the  man  who  helped  me  out  of  tlu 
scrape  with  Teddy.     Would  n't  Jackie 
let  you  have  anything  to  do  with  him ! 
Jackie  is  an  awful  snob,  you  know." 


The   Common  Lot. 


491 


«  How  is  he  ?  " 

"  Just  as  always,  —  poor,  down  at  the 
heel  and  all  over,  an  out-and-out  crank." 

"  How  do  you  meet  him  ? "  Helen 
asked  pointedly. 

"Sometimes  at  his  hang-out,  as  he 
calls  it.  I  've  had  supper  there  once  or 
twice  with  Molly  Bascom.  You  need  n't 
be  alarmed.  We  talk  science,  and  he 
abuses  doctors.  He  trundled  off  to  Paris 
or  Vienna  with  that  queer  machine  of 
his,  and  got  some  encouragement.  You 
should  hear  him  talk  about  Europe ! 
Now  he  's  crazy  about  some  new  scheme. 
He  may  not  make  good,  but  he  has  a 
great  time  thinking  all  by  himself.  He  'd 
starve  himself  to  do  what  he  's  after. 
That 's  the  real  thing.  I  offered  him 
money  once !  " 

"  Venetia !  " 

"  Yes.  I  said,  '  See  here,  friend, 
I  've  more  of  this  than  I  want,'  which 
was  a  lie.  But  I  was  willing  to  sell  a 
horse  or  two.  '  Help  yourself,'  I  said. 
I  put  a  cardcase  I  had  with  me  on  the 
table,  stuffed  of  course.  He  took  it  up, 
took  out  what  was  in  it,  and  put  the  case 
back.  '  None  of  that/  he  said.  '  I  don't 
take  money  from  a  woman,'  and  he 
handed  the  money  back.  I  was  glad 
afterwards  that  he  did,  though  he  looked 
specially  hard  up.  I  suppose  I  might 
have  taken  a  nicer  way  to  do  it,  but  I 
thought  he  would  understand  and  treat 
me  like  a  little  girl,  as  he  always  has.  .  .  . 
Well,  there  comes  Jackson,  at  last." 

She  gave  the  architect  a  hand,  which 
he  shook  with  mock  impressiveness. 

"  How  do,  Jackie  !  I  Ve  been  cor- 
rupting your  angel." 

It  was  evident  that  she  and  Jackson 
understood  each  other  very  well. 


XV. 

The  Harts  were  to  dine  at  the  Stew- 
arts', and  Jackson  Hart  had  considered 
this  dinner  of  sufficient  importance  to 
bring  him  back  to  Chicago  all  the  way 


from  Indianapolis.  Elisha  Stewart  made 
his  money  many  years  ago,  when  he 
commanded  a  vessel  on  the  lakes,  by 
getting  control  of  valuable  ore  proper- 
ties. The  Elisha  Stewarts  had  lived  in 
Shoreham  for  many  years,  and  were 
much  considered,  —  very  good  people, 
indeed.  Their  rambling,  old-fashioned 
white  house,  with  a  square  cupola  pro- 
jecting from  the  roof,  was  one  of  the  vil- 
lage landmarks.  It  was  surrounded  by 
a  grove  of  firs  set  out  by  Elisha  himself 
when  he  built  the  house. 

It  was  a  large  dinner,  and  most  of  the 
guests  were  already  assembled  in  the  long 
drawing-room  when  Helen  and  Jackson 
arrived.  The  people  were  all  talking 
very  earnestly  about  a  common  topic. 

"  It 's  the  Crawfords,"  Mrs.  Stewart 
murmured  asthmatically  into  Helen's 
ear.  "  You  know  they  find  everything 
in  a  frightful  tangle.  There  won't  be 
much  left." 

"  Indeed  !  "  Jackson  exclaimed  sym- 
pathetically. 

"  He  was  n't  all  right,  not  fit  for  busi- 
ness for  more  than  a  year  before  he 
died,"  Colonel  Raymond  was  saying  to 
the  group.  "  And  he  snarled  things  up 
pretty  well  by  what  I  hear." 

"  That  slide  in  copper  last  March  must 
have  squeezed  him  !  " 

"  Squeezed  ?     I  should  say  it  did." 

"  It  was  n't  only  copper." 

"  No,  no,  it  was  n't  only  copper,"  as- 
sented several  men. 

With  the  women,  the  more  personal^ 
application  of  the  fact  was  openly  made. 

"  Poor  old  Anthony  !  It  must  have 
troubled  him  to  know  there  was  n't  one 
of  his  family  who  could  look  out  for 
himself.  Morris  was  a  pleasant  fellow, 
but  after  he  got  out  of  Harvard  he  never 
seemed  to  do  much.  It  will  come  hard 
on  Linda." 

"  What  has  the  youngest  boy  been  up 
to  lately  ?  " 

"  The  same  thing,  I  guess." 

"I  heard  he  'd  been  doing  better  since 
he  went  on  the  ranch." 


492 


The  Common  Lot. 


"  He  could  n't  do  very  much  else 
there." 

"  Is  n't  there  anything  left  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  widow  will  have  a  little. 
But  the  sons-in-law  will  have  to  hunt 
jobs.  One  is  out  in  California,  isn't 
he?" 

The  company  could  not  get  away  from 
the  topic.  After  they  went  out  to  din- 
ner, it  echoed  to  and  fro  around  the 
table. 

"  I  say  it 's  a  shame,  a  crime  !  "  Mr. 
Buchanan  pronounced.  "  A  man  with 
that  sort  of  family  has  no  right  to  en- 
gage in  speculative  enterprises  without 
settling  a  proper  sum  on  his  family  first. 
There  's  his  eldest  daughter  married  to 
an  invalid,  his  youngest  daughter  en- 
gaged to  be  married  to  a  parson,  and 
neither  of  his  sons  showing  any  business 
ability." 

"  That 's  a  fact,  Oliver,"  Mr.  Stewart 
nodded.  "  But  you  know  Anthony  al- 
ways loved  deep  water." 

"And  now  his  family  have  got  to 
swim  in  it !  " 

"He  was  a  most  generous  man," 
Pemberton  threw  into  the  conversation. 
"  I  hardly  know  of  a  man  who  's  done 
more  first  and  last  for  this  town." 

"  Seems  to  have  looked  after  other 
people's  affairs  better  'n  his  own.  It 's 
a  pity  now  the  boys  were  n't  brought  up 
to  business." 

"  That  is  n't  the  way  nowadays." 

From  time  to  time  there  were  feeble 
.efforts  to  move  the  talk  out  of  the  rut 
in  which  it  had  become  fixed.  But  the 
minds  of  most  about  the  table  were  fas- 
cinated by  the  spectacle  of  ruin  so  close- 
ly presented  to  them.  The  picture  of  a 
solid,  worldly  estate  crumbling  before 
their  eyes  stirred  their  deepest  emotions. 
For  the  moment  it  crowded  out  that 
other  great  topic  of  the  strike  in  the 
building  trades.  Everyone  at  the  table 
held  substantially  the  same  views  on  both 
these  matters,  but  the  ruin  of  the  Craw- 
ford fortune  was  more  immediately  dra- 
matic than  the  evils  of  unionism. 


"  When  are  you  fellows  going  to  st 
that  school,  judge  ?  "  some  one  asked  at 
last. 

"  Not  until  these  strikes  let  up,  and 
there  's  no  telling  when  that  will  be.  If 
these  labor  unions  only  keep  on  long 
enough,  they  will  succeed  in  killing  every 
sort  of  enterprise." 

Pemberton,  who  was  seated  next  to 
Helen,  remarked  to  her,  — 

"  You  will  be  glad  to  know,  Mrs.  Hart, 
that  the  trustees  have  decided  not  to 
hand  the  work  over  to  any  institution, 
at  least  for  the  present." 

"  I  am  so  glad  of  that ! "  she  replied. 

"  That 's  as  far  as  we  have  got !  " 

Sensitively  alive  to  her  former  blunder 
in  expressing  her  wish  that  her  husband 
might  draw  the  plans  for  the  school,  she 
took  this  as  a  hint,  and  dropped  the  sub- 
ject altogether,  although  she  had  a  dozen 
questions  to  ask  him  about  it. 

She  noticed  that  Jackson,  who  was 
seated  between  Mrs.  Stewart  and  Mrs. 
Phillips,  was  drinking  a  good  deal  of 
champagne.  She  thought  that  he  was 
finding  the  dinner  as  intolerably  dull  as 
she  found  it,  for  he  rarely  drank  cham- 
pagne. When  the  women  gathered  in  the 
drawing-room,  the  topic  of  the  Craw- 
fords'  disaster  had  reached  the  anecdotal 


"  Poor  Linda !  Do  you  remember 
how  she  hated  Chicago  ?  She  's  been 
living  at  Cannes  this  season,  has  n't  she  ? 
I  suppose  she  '11  come  straight  home  now. 
Does  she  own  that  place  in  the  Berk- 
shires  ?  " 

"  No,  everything  was  in  his  name." 
"  He  was  one  of  the  kind  who  would 
keep  everything  in  his  own  hands." 

"  Even  that  ranch  does  n't  belong  to 
Ted." 

"  My,  what  a  tragedy  it  is  !  " 
Helen  sat  limply  in  her  chair.  There 
seemed  to  be  no  end  to  the  talk  of  the 
lost  money.  The  leaden  dullness  of  the 
dinner-talk,  the  dead  propriety  and  con- 
ventionality of  the  service,  the  dishes, 
the  guests,  had  never  before  so  whelmed 


The   Common  Lot. 


493 


her  spirit  as  they  did  to-night.  These 
good  people  were  stung  into  unusual  ani- 
mation because  a  man  had  died  leaving 
his  family,  not  poor,  but  within  sight  of 
poverty,  for  poverty  is  the  deadliest  spec- 
tre to  haunt  the  bourgeois,  at  his  lying 
down  and  at  his  uprising  ! 

When  the  men  returned,  murmuring 
among  themselves  fragments  of  the  same 
topic,  she  felt  as  though  she  might  shriek 
out  or  laugh  hysterically,  and  as  soon  as 
she  could  she  clutched  her  husband  as 
he  was  sitting  down  beside  Mrs.  Pem- 
berton. 

"Take  me  away,  Francis.  It 's  awful," 
she  whispered. 

"  What  's  the  matter  ?  Don't  you  feel 
well  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  am  all  right.  But  can't 
we  get  away  ?  " 

As  they  got  into  their  carriage,  he  de- 
manded, "  What  was  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  —  just  the  awful  dullness  of 
it,  —  such  people,  —  such  talk,  talk,  talk 
about  poor  Mr.  Crawford's  money !  " 

"  I  thought  the  crowd  was  all  right," 
he  grumbled.  "  What  better  do  you 
want  ?  " 

Then  they  were  silent,  and  from  the 
heat,  fatigue,  and  champagne,  he  re- 
lapsed into  a  doze  on  the  way  home. 
But  when  they  reached  the  house  he 
woke  up  briskly  enough,  and  began  to 
talk  of  the  dinner  again  :  — 

"Nell,  Mrs.  Phillips  was  speaking  to 
me  about  Venetia.  She  's  worried  to 
death  over  the  girl.  The  men  say  pretty 
rough  things  about  her.  Little  fool ! 
She  'd  better  marry  Lane  and  keep 
quiet." 

"  Like  mother,  like  daughter,"  Helen 
replied  dryly. 

"  What  makes  you  say  that  ?  Louise 
is  all  right ;  just  likes  to  have  her  hand 
squeezed  now  and  then." 

"  Phew  !  "  Helen  exclaimed  impa- 
tiently. 

There  was  something  so  short  and 
hard  in  his  wife's  voice  that  Jackson 
looked  at  her  in  surprise.  They  went 


to  their  dressing-room  ;  now  that  he  had 
got  his  eyes  open  once  more  Jackson 
made  no  haste  to  go  to  bed.  He  lit  a 
cigarette,  and  leaned  back  against  the 
open  window,  through  which  the  night 
air  was  drawing  gently.  After  a  little 
time  he  remarked,  — 

"  The  judge  was  talking  some  about 
the  school.  They  are  getting  ready  to 
build  as  soon  as  the  strikes  let  up.  Has 
Everett  said  anything  to  you  about  it  ?  " 

"  Not  lately.  I  have  n't  seen  him 
since  we  were  at  the  Buchanans'. 
Why?" 

"  Why !  I  am  counting  on  Everett, 
and  the  last  time  I  saw  him  he  seemed 
to  me  to  be  side-stepping.  I  've  seen 
Pemberton  once  or  twice,  but  he  avoided 
the  subject.  I  asked  him  point  blank 
to-night  what  their  plans  were,  and  he 
said  the  papers  had  everything  that  had 
been  settled.  He  's  a  stiff  one !  I  saw 
you  were  talking  to  him.  Did  he  say 
anything  about  the  school  ?  " 

Helen,  who  had  been  moving  about 
the  room  here  and  there,  preparing  to 
undress,  suddenly  stood  quite  still.  The 
memory  of  her  remark  to  Pemberton 
that  morning  on  the  train  swept  over 
her  again,  coloring  her  cheeks.  She  an- 
swered the  question  after  a  moment  of 
hesitation,  — 

"  Yes,  he  spoke  about  their  not  giving 
the  money  to  the  university,  but  that  was 
all." 

"  Oh !  "  Jackson  murmured  in  a  dis- 
appointed tone.  "  You  might  have  drawn 
him  out.  He  's  likely  to  have  a  good 
deal  to  say  about  what  is  done.  The 
judge  is  down  on  me,  never  liked  me 
since  I  built  for  Louise,  —  thinks  I  stuck 
her,  I  suppose.  Was  n't  his  money, 
though  !  Hollister  is  on  the  fence  ;  he  '11 
do  what  Everett  tells  him.  It  rests  on 
Pemberton,  mostly." 

Helen  turned  toward  where  he  was 
standing  and  asked  swiftly,  "  Why  do 
you  want  them  to  give  it  to  you  so 
much  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  "     The  architect  opened  his 


494 


The   Common  Lot. 


mouth  in  astonishment.  "  Don't  you 
know  the  size  of  the  thing  ?  They  're 
going  to  spend  a  million  or  more,  put  up 
one  large  building  or  several  smaller  ones. 
It 's  a  chance  that  does  n't  come  every 
week,  to  do  a  great  public  building." 

She  had  begun  to  unhook  her  dress, 
and  her  nervous  fingers  tangled  the  lace 
about  the  hooks.  Jackson,  seeing  her 
predicament,  put  down  his  cigarette  and 
stepped  forward  to  help  her.  But  she 
swerved  away  from  him  unconsciously, 
tugging  at  the  lace  until  it  broke  loose 
from  the  hook. 

"  Francis !  "  she  exclaimed,  with  a 
kind  of  solemnity.  "  You  would  not  do 
it  for  money,  just  like  any  ordinary  build- 
ing?" 

"  And  why  not  ?  "  he  asked,  puzzled. 
"  Am  I  drawing  plans  for  fun  these 
days  ?  I  '11  tell  you  what,  Nell,  I  need 
the  money,  and  I  need  it  badly.  Some- 
thing must  turn  up  and  right  away. 
Since  the  strikes  began  there  has  n't 
been  much  new  business  coming  into  the 
office,  of  course,  and  it  costs  us  a  lot  to 
live  as  we  do.  That  's  plain  enough." 

"  We  can  live  differently." 

"  Yes,  but  I  don't  want  to.  That 's 
nonsense !  " 

They  were  silent  for  a  little  while  be- 
fore their  unfinished  thoughts.  He  broke 
the  silence  first :  — 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  I  Ve 
been  caught  in  an  —  investment,  some 
stocks  I  bought.  A  friend  of  mine  ad- 
vised me,  a  broker  who  is  in  with  Rain- 
bow. But  the  thing  went  wrong.  I 
don't  believe  those  fellows  know  as  much 
as  the  man  outside  !  Well,  instead  of 
making  a  good  thing  by  it,  I  must  find 
ten  or  fifteen  thousand  dollars  and  find 
it  mighty  quick.  Now  if  I  get  this  com- 
mission, I  can  borrow  the  money  all 
right.  I  know  who  will  let  me  have  it. 
And  then  by  the  end  of  the  year  it  will 
straighten  out.  And  the  next  time  I  go 
to  buy  stocks,  well  "  — 

"  But  that  building,  —  the  school  ?  " 
Helen  interrupted.  She  pulled  a  thin 


dressing-sacque  over  her  shoulders,  and 
sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  looking 
breathlessly  into  his  face.  What  he  had 
said  about  his  losses  in  the  stock  market 
had  made  no  impression  on  her.  "  That 
work  is  uncle  Powers's  gift,  his  legacy  to 
the  people.  You  can't  make  money  out 
of  it !  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  he  demanded  shortly, 
and  then  added,  with  a  dry  little  laugh, 
"  I  should  say  that  building  rather  than 
any  other !  I  'd  like  to  pick  up  a  few 
crumbs  from  the  old  man's  cake.  It  's 
only  common  justice,  seeing  he  did  me 
out  of  all  the  rest." 

She   stared  at  him  with  bewildert 
eyes.    Perhaps  she  was  not  a  very  quic 
woman,  if  after  five  years  of  daily  cor 
tact  with  her  husband  she  did  not  kno\ 
his  nature.    But  the  conceptions  she 
cherished  of  him  were  too  deep  to  be 
faced  at  once.     She  could  not  yet  ui 
derstand  what  he  meant. 

"  '  Did  you  out  of  all  the  rest '  ?  " 
queried  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Yes  !  "  he  exclaimed  hardily.  "  Ai 
I  think  the  trustees  should  take  it  int 
consideration  that  I  did  n't  contest  the 
will,  when  I  had  the  best  kind  of  case 
and  could  have  given  them  no  end  of 
trouble.     I  was  a  fool  to  knuckle  under 
so  quickly.     I  might  at  least  have  had 
an  agreement  with  them  about  this  mat- 
ter !  " 

"  So,"  she  said,  "  you  want  to  build 
the  school  to  make  up  what  you  think 
uncle  should  have  given  you  ?  " 

"  You  need  n't  put  it  just  like  that ! 
But  I  need  every  cent  I  can  make.  The 
bigger  the  building  the  better  for  me  ! 
And  I  can  do  it  as  well  for  them  as 
anybody.  They  're  probably  thinking  of 
having  a  competition,  and  having  in  a  lot 
of  fellows  from  New  York  and  Boston. 
They  ought  to  keep  it  in  this  city,  any- 
way, and  then  the  only  man  I  'd  hate  to 
run  up  against  would  be  Wright.  He  's 
got  some  mighty  clever  new  men  in  his 
office." 

He  talked  on   as  he  stripped  off  his 


The   Common  Lot. 


495 


coat  and  waistcoat  and  hung  them  neatly 
on  the  clothes-tree,  detailing  all  the  con- 
sideration he  had  given  to  his  chances  for 
securing  this  big  commission.  Evidently 
he  had  been  turning  it  over  and  over  in 
his  mind,  and  he  was  desperately  ner- 
vous lest  he  might  lose  what  he  had 
counted  on  all  along  ever  since  his  mar- 
riage. He  refrained  from  telling  his 
wife  that  he  felt  she  had  seconded  him 
feebly  in  this  matter  ;  for  she  knew  the 
judge,  and  Pemberton,  and  Everett,  too, 
in  a  way  better  than  he  did. 

Helen  said  nothing.  There  was  no- 
thing in  her  surprised  and  grieved  heart 
to  be  said.  For  the  first  time  she  knew 
clearly  what  manner  of  man  her  husband 
was.  She  knew  how  he  felt  about  his 
uncle.  He  was  vindictive  about  him, 
and  seemed  to  welcome  this  job  as  a 
chance  to  get  even  with  the  old  man  for 
slighting  him  in  his  will.  For  some  rea- 
son unknown  to  her  he  had  not  tried  at 
the  time  of  his  death  to  break  his  will 
and  show  his  ingratitude,  and  now  he 
was  sorry  that  he  had  displayed  so  much 
forbearance. 

This  sudden  sight  of  the  nakedness  of 
the  man  she  loved  dulled  her  heart  so 
that  she  could  not  view  the  thing  simply. 
It  was  impossible  for  her  to  see  that 
there  was  nothing  very  dreadful  in  his 
attitude,  nothing  more  than  a  little  or- 
dinary human  selfishness,  sharpened  by 
that  admirable  system  of  civilized  self- 
interest,  which  our  philosophers  and 
statesmen  take  such  delight  in  praising ! 
She  had  been  dreaming  of  her  husband's 
designing  this  great  building  as  a  testi- 
monial, a  monument  of  gratitude,  to  the 
man  who  had  succored  his  youth,  who 
had  given  him  his  education.  Her  sen- 
timent turned  rancid  in  her  heart. 

"  Now,  if  Everett  should  say  anything 
to  you,  give  you  a  chance,  you  know 
what  it  means  to  me ! "  Jackson  re- 
marked finally,  as  he  put  his  boots  out- 
side the  door  for  the  man  to  get  in  the 
morning. 

But  she  had  already  stepped  back  into 


the  dressing-room,  and  did  not  hear  him. 
When  she  returned  her  husband  was  al- 
ready in  bed,  and  his  eyelids  were  closed 
in  sleep.  She  placed  herself  beside  him 
and  turned  out  the  light. 

She  lay  there  a  long,  long  time,  her 
open  eyes  staring  upwards  into  the  dark- 
ness, her  arms  stretched  straight  beside 
her,  as  she  used  to  lie  when  she  was  a  little 
child  and  her  nurse  had  told  her  not  to 
stir.  Something  strange  had  happened 
that  day,  something  impalpable,  unnam- 
able,  yet  true,  and  of  enormous  impor- 
tance to  the  woman.  The  man  who  lay 
there  beside  her,  her  husband,  the  indi- 
visible part  of  her,  had  been  suddenly 
cut  from  her  soul,  and  was  once  more 
his  own  flesh,  —  some  alien  piece  of  clay, 
and  ever  so  to  be  ! 

She  did  not  cry  or  moan.  She  was 
stunned.  All  the  little,  petty  manifes- 
tations of  character,  unobserved  through 
those  five  years  of  marriage,  were  sud- 
denly numbered  and  revealed  to  her.  It 
was  not  a  question  of  blame.  They  de- 
clared themselves  to  her  as  finalities,  just 
as  if  she  had  suddenly  discovered  that 
her  husband  had  four  toes  instead  of 
five.  He  was  of  his  kind,  and  she  was 
of  her  kind.  Being  what  she  was,  she 
could  no  longer  worship  him,  being  what 
he  was.  And  her  nature  craved  the 
privilege  of  worship.  That  thin,  color- 
less protestantism  of  her  fathers  had 
faded  into  a  nameless  moralism.  She 
had  no  Christ  before  whom  she  could 
pour  her  adoration  and  love  !  Instead, 
she  had  taken  to  herself  a  man  ;  and 
now  the  clay  of  his  being  was  crumbling 
in  her  hands.  .  .  . 

Outside  the  room  the  lake  began  to 
clamor  on  the  sands  beneath  the  bluff. 
It  called  her  by  its  insistent  moan.  She 
left  her  bed  and  stepped  out  upon  the  lit- 
tle balcony  that  looked  eastward  from 
their  bedroom.  The  warm  night  was 
filled  with  a  damp  mist  that  swathed  the 
tree  trunks  to  their  branches,  and  cov- 
ered the  slow  moving  waves  of  the  lake. 
Through  this  earth  fog  there  was  mov- 


496 


Moral  Overstrain. 


ing  a  current  from  some  distant  point, 
touching  the  sleeping  village. 

She  held  her  arms  out  to  the  mist, 
vaguely,  blindly,  —  demanding  some 
compensation  for  living,  some  justifica- 
tion that  she  knew  not  of.  And  there  in 
the  vigil  of  the  misty  night  the  woman 
was  born.  From  a  soft,  yielding,  dream- 
ing, feminine  thing,  there  was  born  a 
new  soul,  —  definite,  hard,  and  precise 
in  its  judgment  of  men  and  life.  .  .  . 

In  the  house  behind  her  slept  her 
husband  and  her  two  boys.  Her  chil- 
dren and  his  !  But  only  in  the  words 
of  the  sentimentalists  are  children  a  suf- 
ficient joy  to  woman's  heart.  Loving 
as  she  was  by  nature,  she  asked  more  of 
life  than  her  two  boys,  whose  little  lives 
no  longer  clung  to  hers  by  the  bonds  of 


extreme  infancy.  They  were  growing 
to  become  men ;  they,  too,  like  her  hus- 
band, would  descend  into  the  market  for 
the  game  which  all  men  play.  The  fear 
of  it  gripped  her  heart ! 

And  at  last  she  wept,  miserably,  for 
the  forlorn  wreck  of  her  worship,  think- 
ing of  the  glorious  man  she  had  once 
adored. 

The  next  morning  she  said  to  her  hus- 
band, — 

"  Francis,  I  want  to  live  in  the  city 
this  winter." 

"  Well,  —  there  's  time  to  think  of  it, 
—  you  may  change  your  mind  by  the 
fall." 

She  said  no  more,  but  the  first  step 
had  been  taken. 

Robert  Herrick. 


(To  be  continued.) 


MORAL  OVERSTRAIN. 


IN  mechanics  it  is  part  of  the  engi- 
neer's profession  to  consider  carefully 
the  amount  of  physical  weight  and  pres- 
sure which  various  substances  will  bear, 
—  how  many  pounds  a  given  girder  will 
sustain ;  how  much  an  upright.  It  is 
upon  this  science  and  its  carefully  fig- 
ured mathematical  details  that  the  safety 
and  well-being  of  the  housed  communi- 
ty so  largely  depend.  Sometimes,  to  be 
sure,  even  the  most  carefully  estimated 
plans  are  spoiled  by  some  unforeseen  and 
unforeseeable  weakness  in  the  structural 
material,  and  it  gives  way  at  a  pres- 
sure or  strain  apparently  none  too  great 
for  its  endurance.  But  these  occasional 
obsessions  of  inanimate  nature  do  not 
discourage  the  engineer,  or  make  him 
abandon  his  interminable  mathematics. 
In  spite  of  them,  or  rather  on  account 
of  them,  he  continues  his  studies  so  that 
he  may  better  succeed  in  placing  on 


the  materials  which  he  uses  no  grievoi 
burden,  and  may  not  subject  them 
a  stress  or  strain  forbidden  by  nature 
law.  Collapses  of  buildings  are  less  fr 
quent,  and  community  life  becomes  safer 
as  this  expert  knowledge,  founded  or 
study  and  experience,  grows  broader  anc 
surer. 

It   is  rather  a  sad  thing,  when  one 
thinks  of  it,  that  the  field  of  this  sor 
of  mathematics  has  such  definite  limit 
tions,  and  that  we  cannot  by  mathemat 
ical  formulae  calculate  moral  stress  ar 
strain,  and   ascertain  how  far   we 
safely   go   in    placing   burdens    on 
characters  of    those  with  whom  we  dc 
business,  or  of  those  with  whom  we  ha\ 
social  intercourse.     Consider,  for  exs 
pie,    the   great    court  calendars  in  tl 
large  cities.    How   many  thousands 
those   cases,    formal  announcements 
men  at  war  with  one  another,  or  of  sc 


Moral   Overstrain. 


497 


ciety  itself  at  war  with  the  individual, 
are  really  nothing  more  or  less  than 
examples  of  the  unfortunate  results  of 
moral  overstrain.  One  man  has  placed 
too  great  a  burden  on  the  moral  strength 
of  another,  and  there  has  been  a  break  or 
a  total  collapse.  And  when  that  collapse 
comes,  note  the  difference  in  the  proced- 
ure which  follows.  As  soon  as  the  build- 
ing wall  cracks,  or  at  the  first  observable 
indication  of  insecurity  of  foundation, 
the  builder's  first  thought  is  to  preserve 
the  building,  to  relieve  the  strain  on  the 
weak  spot,  to  strengthen  its  supports, 
and  to  reinforce  its  foundation.  There 
has  been  no  corresponding  practice  yet 
devised  which  may  be  taken  when  the 
moral  crash  comes  and  a  business  man's 
character  goes  to  pieces,  or  when  a  thief 
or  murderer  is  brought  to  the  bar  of 
criminal  justice.  There  is  no  "  jacking- 
up  "  process  for  overstrained  morals  to 
be  found  in  the  law  courts. 

We  take  philosophically  enough  the 
daily  moral  breakdown  of  our  fellow 
men,  and  do  not  ordinarily  complain  to 
Providence  against  our  inability  to  as- 
certain with  mathematical  certainty  the 
extent  of  the  confidence  we  can  safely 
repose  in  the  people  with  whom  we  have 
intercourse.  It  has  always  been  so  and 
always  will  be.  We  cannot  apply  mathe- 
matics to  human  conduct.  The  Fidel- 
ity insurance  corporations  which  have 
sprung  up  within  recent  years  have,  to  be 
sure,  their  systems  based  on  experience 
for  estimating  moral  hazards  ;  and  they 
have  curious  and  exceedingly  interesting 
theories  of  moral  probabilities  by  which, 
for  example,  they  estimate  the  chances 
of  defalcation  by  an  employee  in  a  given 
employment  in  which  given  opportunities 
for  wrong-doing  are  not  counterbalanced 
by  certain  systems  of  inspection  or  super- 
vision. These  corporations  and  a  few 
large  financial  institutions  apparently 
recognize  the  necessity  of  considering 
moral  risks  somewhat  in  the  way  in 
which  the  engineer  estimates  as  to  the 
girder,  —  how  he  can  make  it  perform  its 

VOL.  xcin.  —  NO.  558.  32 


useful  functions  in  a  house  without  being 
broken  down  by  overstrain  and  bringing 
calamity  with  its  fall.  The  method  of 
the  financial  institutions  in  dealing  with 
this  question  deserves  a  study  by  itself. 
Their  method  involves,  generally,  in  its 
application  to  subordinate  employees,  a 
complex  and  carefully  studied  business 
system  filled  with  "  checks  and  bal- 
ances," with  frequent  inspections  and 
examinations,  which  are  intended  to 
reduce  the  opportunity  for  successful 
wrong-doing  to  a  minimum.  The  pay  of 
the  minor  employees  of  a  banking  house 
who  handle  fortunes  daily  is,  as  a  rule, 
pitifully  small,  showing  a  conscious  pur- 
pose in  these  institutions  of  relying  prin- 
cipally upon  a  practical  certainty  of  de- 
tection, coupled  with  a  remorseless  and 
relentless  severity  in  prosecution  and 
punishment,  as  a  relief  for  the  severe 
moral  strain  upon  employees  whose  op- 
portunities and  temptations  for  wrong- 
doing are,  from  the  nature  of  the  employ- 
ment, large. 

Outside  of  these  financial  institutions 
and  these  Fidelity  insurance  corpora- 
tions, there  seems  to  be  in  practical 
operation  no  rational  system  for  estimat- 
ing or  relieving  the  strain  upon  morals 
which  business  life  necessarily  involves. 
Outside  of  this  narrow  group  the  only 
theory  which  seems  current  is  one  based 
upon  a  generality,  the  fallacy  in  which 
receives  almost  daily  demonstration,  and 
yet  one  which  is  firmly  fixed  in  the  pub- 
lic mind.  It  is  a  theory  which  is  as  far 
as  possible  the  absolute  opposite  of  that 
upon  which  the  engineer  deals  with  the 
question  of  strain  and  stress  in  mechan- 
ics. This  theory,  curiously  enough,  has 
a  quasi-religious  origin.  It  is  based  upon 
that  duty  of  faith  concerning  which  we 
hear  so  much  in  this  generation.  We 
are  realizing  now,  as  no  previous  gen- 
eration has  realized,  the  importance  and 
power  of  the  element  of  faith,  both  to 
our  happiness  and  to  our  capacity  for 
usefulness.  The  word  itself  is  a  noble 
oue,  and  has  the  greatest  importance,  not 


498 


Moral   Overstrain. 


solely  in  its  connection  with  the  unre- 
vealed  part  of  religion,  but  with  our 
daily  work  in  business  as  well.  It  is  cer- 
tain that  we  must  have  faith  in  our  fel- 
low men.  It  is  undoubtedly  true  that 
one  of  the  worst  misfortunes,  as  well  as 
one  of  the  most  singular  marks  of  weak- 
ness and  incapacity  in  either  man  or 
woman,  is  the  absence  of  faith  and  the 
habit  of  suspicion.  As  Lord  Bacon  well 
said :  "  Suspicions  amongst  thoughts  are 
like  bats  among  birds.  They  ever 
thrive  by  twilight.  Certainly  they  are 
to  be  repressed,  or  at  least  well  guard- 
ed, for  they  crowd  the  mind,  they  lose 
friends,  and  they  check  with  business, 
whereby  business  cannot  go  on  currently 
and  constantly." 

It  is  undoubtedly  true  that  faith  itself 
is  something  essential  to  the  happiness  of 
mankind,  whether  one  considers  it  as  in- 
cluding faith  in  God,  or  in  man,  or  in 
both.  Our  great  men,  both  in  public  and 
private  life,  have  been  men  who  had 
trust  and  faith  in  their  fellows.  It  cannot 
be  too  often  repeated  that  this  element 
of  faith  is  one  of  the  strongest  and  finest 
of  those  unseen  particles  which  go  to 
build  up  the  highest  type  of  character. 
But,  as  La  Rochefoucauld  says,  "  the 
truth  has  not  done  so  much  good  in  the 
world  as  the  appearance  of  truth  has  done 
evil."  The  trouble  with  this  constant  it- 
eration in  these  days  of  the  necessity  for 
us  to  have  faith  in  our  fellows  is  that  it 
fails  to  note  the  necessary  and  logical 
limitations  of  the  doctrine.  The  engineer 
or  builder  may  have  faith  in  a  span  or 
girder  he  uses,  but  he  does  not  for  that 
reason  allow  an  unlimited  pressure  to  fall 
upon  it.  On  the  other  hand,  the  rule  of 
faith  which  is  commonly  preached  to  us 
from  the  pulpit  is  generally  based  upon 
the  assumption  that  faith  itself  has  the 
unique  quality  or  power  of  creating 
strength  where  it  puts  pressure,  and  that 
the  rules  of  natural  or  physical  law  can- 
not be  applied  in  this  regard  to  the  un- 
seen structural  materials  of  the  spiritual 
world.  How  many  times,  for  example, 


have  we  all  heard,  in  one  form  or  another, 
the  pathetic  anecdote  of  the  malefactor 
turned  from  his  projected  crime  by  some 
one  trusting  him,  or  of  the  criminal  placed 
with  a  full  opportunity  of  crime  imme- 
diately before  him,  with  escape  practical- 
ly certain,  who  has  been  deterred  from 
his  evil  purpose  simply  by  the  moral  force 
which  the  trust  and  confidence  of  another 
have  created  in  him. 

This  illustration  of  the  power  of  faith 
is  one  used  most  frequently  by  persons 
whose  understanding  of  spiritual  matters 
and  things  of  God  far  overbalances  their 
judgment  and  their  practical  insight  into 
human  character.  It  is  a  very  beautiful 
story  when  well  told,  and  we  all  have 
sentimental  sides  to  our  natures  to  which 
it  appeals.  But  while  these  occasional 
cases  may  and  undoubtedly  do  exist,  a 
theory  of  conduct  based  on  them  is 
scarcely  less  foolish  than  for  the  reader 
of  sentimental  novels  to  assume  that  in 
the  world  of  men  truth  crushed  to  earth 
always  rises  uninjured,  and  that  virtue 
always  triumphs  in  the  last  chapter. 

A  doctrine,  the  precise  opposite  to  this 
rule  of  faith,  I  heard  as  it  was  laid  down 
impressively  some  years  ago  by  a  great 
criminal  jurist.    His  long  daily  experi- 
ence on  the  bench  with  human  weakness, 
while  it  had  enlarged  his  great  natural 
insight  into  character  and  motive,  had 
neither  soured  him  nor  made  him  cyni- 
cal.   He,  certainly,  could  speak  on  the 
subject  of  moral  strain  with  the  voice  of 
authority.     It  was  in   the  old  court  of 
Oyer  and  Terminer  in  New  York,  and 
Recorder  Smyth  had  just  passed  sentence 
on  a  young  man  who  had  been  convicted 
of  robbery  in  snatching  a  watch  from 
lady  in  the  shopping  district  of    Sixtl 
Avenue.    It  was   in    the    fall  of    1892, 
when  times  were  hard,  and  the  streel 
and  park  benches  were  filled  with  gaun 
hungry-faced  creatures,  out  of  work  an< 
full  of  misery.    This  lady  had  been  shop- 
ping all  day  long  in  streets  thronged  wii 
these  people,  Avearing  a  small   jewel 
watch  attached  by  a  chatelaine  to  h 


Moral   Overstrain. 


499 


dress.  This  young  man,  who  was  scarce- 
ly more  than  a  boy,  had  seen  the  watch, 
and,  snatching  it,  had  attempted  to  escape 
in  the  crowd,  when  he  was  caught.  Af- 
ter the  Recorder  had  passed  sentence, 
sending  this  young  fellow  to  penal  servi- 
tude, he  turned  and  addressed  a  few  re- 
marks to  the  prosecutrix,  who  stood  near 
the  bar,  weeping  sympathetically,  and 
mopping  up  her  copious  tears  with  her 
handkerchief.  The  tears  were  even  more 
copious,  though  from  different  emotions, 
when  the  judge  had  finished.  "  Mad- 
am," he  said,  "  it  is  one  of  the  great  de- 
fects of  the  criminal  law  that  it  has  no 
adequate  punishment  for  those  who  incite 
their  fellows  to  crime.  If  it  were  in  my 
power  to  do  so,  I  can  assure  you  I  should 
feel  it  a  pleasanter  duty  to  impose  an  even 
severer  sentence  than  the  one  I  have  just 
rendered,  on  the  vain  woman  who  parades 
up  and  down  the  crowded  streets  of  this 
city,  filled  as  they  are  to-day  with  hun- 
gry people,  wearing  ostentatiously  on  her 
dress,  insecurely  fastened,  a  glittering 
gewgaw  like  this,  tempting  a  thousand 
hungry  men  to  wrong-doing.  There  are, 
in  my  judgment,  two  criminals  involved 
in  this  matter,  and  I  sincerely  regret  that 
the  law  permits  me  to  punish  only  one  of 
them." 

These  rather  caustic  remarks  of  the 
old  Recorder  have  a  much  broader  scope 
than  merely  an  application  to  the  women 
who  love  to  display  costly  finery.  How 
many  thousands  of  business  men  there 
are  who  manage  their  affairs  in  slipshod, 
slovenly  fashion,  and  who  complain  bit- 
terly of  the  abuse  of  the  "  perfect  confi- 
dence "  which  they  have  reposed  in  their 
employees.  My  own  notion  of  this  "  per- 
fect confidence  "  is  that  in  ninety  cases 
out  of  a  hundred  it  is  not  genuine  confi- 
dence at  all,  but  a  mere  excuse  for  busi- 
ness shif  tlessness  or  lack  of  system.  The 
law  relating  to  actions  for  personal  in- 
juries provides  that  a  man  whose  body 
has  been  injured  by  the  carelessness  of 
another  must,  in  order  to  entitle  him  to 
claim  damages,  prove  not  only  that  care- 


lessness, but  also  his  own  freedom  from 
negligence  contributing  to  or  causing  the 
injury.  If  every  business  man  who  suf- 
fers from  a  defaulting  employee  were 
obliged  to  prove  not  only  the  employee's 
crime,  but  the  absence  of  substantial  busi- 
ness carelessness  on  his  own  part,  which 
afforded  both  the  opportunity  and  the 
temptation  for  the  offense,  how  few  con- 
victions of  these  defaulters  there  would 
be  !  It  is  a  great  misfortune  that  those 
who  speak  so  eloquently  and  so  often  on 
the  duty  of  "  faith  in  man,"  and  who  ex- 
pound this  doctrine  as  though  it  had  no 
limitations  or  qualifications  whatever,  do 
not  devote  at  least  a  substantial  portion 
of  their  attention  to  expounding  earnest- 
ly the  equally  important  duty  which  each 
man  owes  his  fellow  of  not  throwing  un- 
necessary moral  stumbling-blocks  in  his 
way.  It  is  curious  that  almost  the  only 
u  temptation  "  which  receives  any  par- 
ticular attention  from  moralists,  either  in 
the  pulpit  or  elsewhere,  is  that  occasioned 
by  one  man  offering  spirituous  beverages 
to  another  who  may  be  inclined  to  in- 
dulge in  potations  to  excess.  By  some 
odd  distortion  of  moral  values  the  custom 
of  "  treating  "  has  been  singled  out  as 
though  it  were  the  greatest  or  most  im- 
portant of  those  actions  or  omissions 
by  which  we  cause  our  neighbors  or  em- 
ployees to  offend.  Whoever  heard  a  ser- 
mon or  lecture  on  the  duty  of  keeping 
reasonably  strict  oversight  on  one's  em- 
ployees, or  on  the  duty  of  having  a  busi- 
ness system  which  shall  reduce  the  op- 
portunities of  dishonesty  to  a  minimum  ? 
The  duty  of  not  putting  on  the  character 
of  another  a  greater  burden  than  it  can 
safely  bear  is  as  important  as  any  duty 
in  the  realm  of  morals,  and  the  matter  of 
temperance  is  only  one  branch  of  it,  and 
by  no  means  the  most  important.  An 
examination  of  the  daily  criminal  calen- 
dars in  the  courts  of  the  large  cities  con- 
clusively proves  this  fact.  In  early  days, 
when  property  was  mainly  in  land  or  its 
products,  and  when  business  life  moved 
more  slowly  than  it  does  in  these  flush 


500 


Invocation. 


times,  the  temptations  and  opportunities 
for  crimes  against  property  were  far  less 
frequent.  We  are  not  essentially  a  sys- 
tematic people.  Our  tendency  is  to  do 
business  on  as  large  a  scale  as  possi- 
ble, without  that  care  to  detail  which  is 
exhibited  in  the  more  cumbrous  busi- 
ness methods  of  countries  in  which  the 
margins  of  profit  are  narrower,  and 
where  commercial  transactions  are  not 
conducted  with  the  astonishing  rapidity 
which  characterizes  our  own.  To  a  large 
extent  these  defects  in  system  are  more 
or  less  necessary  and  inherent  to  these  pe- 
culiar methods  and  habits  of  our  business 
life.  They  are  nevertheless  defects,  and 
should  not  be  so  consistently  ignored  and 


overlooked  as  they  have  been  generally 
in  the  past.  We  are  paying  greater  at- 
tention yearly  to  the  physical  discom- 
forts of  the  worker,  trying  to  relieve  the 
overburdened,  and  to  lighten  the  load  of 
hard  work  which  has  fallen  so  heavily  in 
our  struggle  for  commercial  supremacy, 
particularly  on  the  women  and  children. 
This  is  all  excellent,  but  we  must  remem- 
ber that  we  have  no  more  right  to  over- 
load a  man's  morals  than  his  back,  and 
that  while  it  is  a  duty  as  well  as  a  privi- 
lege to  have  faith  in  our  fellows,  we 
should  temper  that  faith  with  common 
sense,  so  that  our  faith  may  be  to  them  a 
help  and  a  support  rather  than  a  stum- 
bling-block and  a  cause  of  offense. 

George  W.  Alger. 


INVOCATION. 

BLOWN  mist  of  rosy  grasses, 

Into  my  singing  drift ; 
Kindle  its  cloven  masses 

With  lights  that  sway  and  shift ; 
Within  its  dark  impasses 

Your  fairy  torches  lift. 

Brown  rill  through  rushes  wending, 

Where  red-wings  flash  and  dip, 
Lend  me  the  rhythm  bending 

Each  dark  reed's  yellowing  tip,  — 
The  pause,  the  swift  ascending, 

The  careless  slide  and  slip. 

Into  my  plodding  measure 

Your  least  enchantment  fling, 
Earth  of  the  winds'  wild  pleasure 

And  leaves'  soft  jargoning : 
Yield  me  but  one  hid  treasure, 

Then  listen  while  I  sing ! 

Gertrude  Buck. 


Lugging  Boat  on  iSowadnehunk. 


501 


LUGGING  BOAT  ON   SOWADNEHUNK. 


THIS  is  a  Penobscot  story. 

When  the  camp-fire  is  lighted,  and  the 
smoke  draws  straight  up  without  baffling, 
and  the  branches  overhead  move  only  as 
the  rising  current  of  heat  fans  them,  then 
if  the  talk  veers  round  to  stories  of  crack 
watermen,  and  the  guides,  speaking  more 
to  each  other  than  to  you,  declare  that 
it  was  Big  Sebattis  Mitchell  who  first  ran 
the  falls  at  Sowadnehunk,  —  though  full 
twenty  years  before  John  Ross  himself 
had  put  a  boat  over  and  come  out  right 
side  up,  —  do  not,  while  they  are  debat- 
ing whose  is  the  credit  of  being  first,  let 
slip  your  chance  to  hear  a  better  tale : 
bid  them  go  on  and  tell  you  how  it  was 
Joe  Attien,  who  was  Thoreau's  guide, 
and  his  men  who  followed  after  and  who 
failed,  that  made  the  day  memorable. 

And  if  your  guides  are  Penobscot  men 
they  will  tell  it  as  Penobscot  men  should, 
as  if  there  were  no  merit  in  the  deed  be- 
yond what  any  man  might  attain  to,  as 
if  the  least  a  man  should  do  was  to  throw 
away  his  life  on  a  reckless  dare,  and  count 
it  well  spent  when  so  lavished.  For  so 
are  these  men  made,  and  as  it  was  in 
those  days  of  the  beginning,  so  is  it  yet 
even  to  the  present  among  us. 

You  will  have  heard,  no  doubt,  of  Se- 
battis, he  who  from  his  bulk  was  called 
by  the  whites  Big  Sebat,  and  from  his 
lazy  shrewdness  was  nicknamed  by  his 
tribesmen  Ahwassus,  the  Bear.  Huge 
and  round  he  was,  like  the  beast  he  was 
named  for,  but  strong  and  wise,  and  in 
his  dark,  flat  face  and  small,  twinkling 
eyes  there  were  resources,  ambitions, 
schemes. 

And  scores  of  you  who  read  this  will 
recollect  the  place.  In  memory  you  will 
again  pass  down  the  West  Branch  in  your 
canoe,  past  Ripogenus,  past  Ambeje- 
mackomas,  past  the  Horse  Race,  into 
the  welcome  deadwater  above  Nesowad- 
nehunk.  There,  waiting  in  expectancy 


for  that  glorious  revelation  of  Katahdin 
which  bursts  upon  you  above  Abol,  that 
marvelous  picture  of  the  giant  tower- 
ing in  majestic  isolation,  with  its  white 
"  slide  "  ascending  like  a  ladder  to  the 
heavens,  you  forgot  yourself,  did  not 
hear  the  tumult  of  falling  waters,  did 
not  see  the  smooth  lip  of  the  fall  suck- 
ing down,  were  unconscious  that  just  be- 
fore you  were  the  falls  of  Sowadnehunk. 
Then,  where  the  river  veers  sharply  to 
the  right,  you  felt  the  guide  spring  on 
his  paddle  as  he  made  the  carry  by  a 
margin,  and  you  realized  what  it  would 
have  been  to  drift  unguided  over  those 
falls. 

So  it  has  always  been,  the  sharp  bend 
of  the  river  to  the  right,  blue,  smooth, 
dazzling;  the  carry  at  the  left,  bare,  broad, 
yellow-earthed.  Crossing  it  forty  rods, 
you  cut  off  the  river  again,  and  see  above 
you  to  the  right  the  straight  fall,  both 
upper  and  lower  pitches  almost  as  sheer 
as  mi  11  dams,  and  in  front  the  angry  boil  of 
a  swift  current  among  great  and  thick- 
set rocks.  So  it  always  stays  in  memory, 
—  at  one  end  the  blue  river,  smooth  and 
placid,  and  the  yellow  carry ;  at  the  other, 
the  white  hubbub  of  tossing  rapids  below 
perpendicular  falls. 

One  May  day  long  ago,  two  boats- 
crews  came  down  to  the  carry  and  lugged 
across.  They  had  lugged  three  miles  on 
Ripogenus,  and  a  half  mile  on  Ambeje 
mackomas,  besides  the  shorter  carry  past 
Chesuncook  Dam;  they  had  begun  to 
know  what  lugging  a  boat  meant.  The 
day  was  hot,  —  no  breeze,  no  shade ;  it 
was  getting  along  toward  noon,  and  they 
had  turned  out,  as  usual,  at  three  in  the 
morning.  They  were  tired, — tired,  faint, 
hot  •,  weary  with  the  fatigue  that  stiffens 
the  back  and  makes  the  feet  hang  heavy  j 
weary,  too,  with  the  monotony  of  weeks 
of  dangerous  toil  without  a  single  day 
of  rest,  the  weariness  that  gets  upon  the 


502 


Lugging  Boat  on  Sowadnehunk. 


brain  and  makes  the  eyes  go  blurry ; 
weary  because  they  were  just  where  they 
were,  and  that  old  river  would  keep  flow- 
ing on  to  Doomsday,  always  drowning 
men  and  making  them  chafe  their  shoul- 
ders lugging  heavy  boats.  There  was  not 
a  man  of  them  who  could  not  show  upon 
his  shoulder  a  great  red  spot  where  the 
pole  used  in  lugging  boat,  or  the  end  of 
an  oar  on  which  barrels  of  pork  or  flour 
had  been  slung  in  carrying  wangun,  had 
bruised  and  abraded  it.  And  now  it  was 
more  lugging,  and  ahead  were  Abol  and 
Pockwockamus  and  Debsconeag  and  Am- 
bejijis  and  Fowler's  and  —  there  are,  in- 
deed, how  many  of  them  !  The  over- 
weary always  add  to  the  present  burden 
that  mountain  of  future  toil. 

So  it  was  in  silence  that  they  took  out 
the  oars  and  seats,  the  paddles  and  pea- 
vies  and  pickaroons,  drew  the  boats  up 
and  drained  them  of  all  water,  then,  rest- 
ing a  moment,  straightened  their  backs, 
rubbed  the  sore  shoulders  that  so  soon 
must  take  up  the  burden  again,  and  ran 
their  fingers  through  their  damp  hair. 
One  or  two  swore  a  little  as  relieving 
their  minds,  and  when  they  bent  to  lift 
the  boat  one  spoke  for  all  the  others. 

"  By  jinkey-boy !  "  said  he,  creating  a 
new  and  fantastic  oath,  "  but  I  do  believe 
I  'd  rather  be  in  hell  to-day,  with  ninety 
devils  around  me,  than  sole-carting  on 
this  carry." 

That  was  the  way  they  all  felt.  It  is 
mighty  weary  business  to  lug  on  carries. 
For  a  driving  boat  is  a  heavy  lady  to 
carry.  The  great  Maynards,  wet,  weigh 
eight  to  nine  hundred  pounds,  and  they 
put  on  twelve  men,  a  double  crew,  to 
carry  one.  The  old  two-streakers  (that 
is,  boats  with  two  boards  to  a  side  where 
the  big  Maynards  had  three)  were  not 
nearly  so  heavy,  and  on  short  carries 
like  Sowadnehunk  were  lugged  by  their 
own  crews,  whether  of  four  men  or  six  ; 
but  diminishing  the  crew  left  each  man 
with  as  great  a  burden.  A  short  man 
at  the  bow,  another  at  the  stern,  with 
the  taller  ones  amidships  under  the 


curve  of  the  gunwale  if  they  were  lug- 
ging without  poles,  or  by  twos  fore,  aft, 
and  amidships  for  six  men  lugging  with 
poles,  was  the  usual  way  they  carried 
their  boats ;  and  it  was  '*  Steady,  boys, 
steady  ;  now  hoist  her !  "  —  "  Easy,  now, 
easy  ;  hold  hard  !  "  for  going  down  hill 
she  overrode  John  and  Jim  at  the  bow, 
and  going  up  a  rise  Jack  and  Joe  at  the 
stern  felt  her  crushing  their  shoulders, 
and  when  the  ground  was  uneven  with 
rocks  and  cradle-knolls,  and  she  reeled 
and  sagged,  then  the  men  at  the  sides 
caught  the  whole  weight  on  one  or  the 
other  of  them.  Nothing  on  the  drive 
speaks  so  eloquently  of  hard  work  as 
the  purple,  sweat-stained  cross  on  the 
backs  of  the  men's  red  shirts,  where 
the  suspenders  have  made  their  mark ; 
they  get  this  in  lugging  boat  on  carries. 
But  they  bent  their  backs  to  it,  wrig- 
gled the  boat  up  and  forward  to  her 
place,  each  crew  its  own  boat,  and  stag- 
gered on,  feet  bracing  out,  and  spike- 
soled  shoes  ploughing  the  dirt  and  scratch- 
ing on  the  rocks.  They  looked  like  huge 
hundred-leggers,  Brobdingnagian  insects, 
that  were  crawling  over  that  yellow  carry 
with  all  their  legs  clawing  uncertainly 
and  bracing  for  a  foothold.  The  head 
boat  crowded  Bill  Halpin  upon  a  rock 
hard  that  he  fell  and  barked  his  shins  > 
the  granite  ;  that  dropped  the  weight  sud- 
denly upon  Jerry  Durgan's  shoulder,  so 
that  a  good  two  inches  of  skin  was  rasped 
off  clean  where  it  had  been  blistered  be- 
fore ;  little  Tomah  Soc  stumbled  in  a 
hole,  and  not  letting  go  his  grip,  threw 
up  the  other  gunwale  so  that  it  half 
broke  his  partner's  jaw.  Those  boats 
took  all  the  mean  revenges  wherewith  a 
driving  boat  on  land  settles  scores  for 
the  rough  treatment  it  receives  in  the 
water. 

They  were  lugging  that  May  morning 
only  because  no  boat  could  run  those 
falls  with  any  reasonable  expectation  of 
coming  out  right  side  up.  For  those 
were  the  days  of  the  old-style  Wallace 


Lugging  Boat  on  Sowadnehunk. 


503 


boat,  built  low  and  straight  in  the  gun- 
wale, raking  only  moderately  at  the  bow 
and  low  in  the  side.  It  is  related  that 
when  the  great  high -bo  wed  Maynard 
batteaus  were  first  put  on  the  river,  short 
old  Jack  Mann,  who  wore  the  laurels  of 
senior  waterman  on  Penobscot,  and  was 
pensioned  in  his  latter  days  by  "  P.  L.  D.," 
looked  with  high  disfavor  on  the  big, 
handsome  craft,  and  then,  rushing  into 
the  boat-shop,  demanded  an  axe,  an  au- 
ger, and  a  handsaw. 

"  What 's  that  for  ?  "  asked  the  fore- 
man, suspecting  that  it  was  but  one  of 
Jack's  devices  for  unburdening  his  mind 
in  some  memorable  saying. 

"  Want  'em  to  cut  armholes  in  that 
blasted  boat,"  growled  Jack,  insinuating 
that  the  bows  were  above  the  head  of  a 
short  man  like  himself. 

But  the  old  boat,  —  you  may  yet  some- 
times see  the  bones  of  one  of  them  bleach- 
ing about  the  shores  of  inland  ponds,  or 
lying  sun-cracked  in  the  back  yards  of 
country  farms,  —  stable  and  serviceable 
as  she  was,  was  no  match  for  this  hand- 
some lady  of  to-day.  They  run  the 
Arches  of  Ripogenus  now  with  all  their 
boats,  and  have  done  it  for  years ;  but  at 
the  time  when  Sebattis  came  down  to 
Sowadnehunk,  such  water  no  man  ever 
dreamed  of  running..  It  is  likely  enough 
that  Sebattis,  just  back  from  a  sixteen 
years'  residence  at  Quoddy,did  not  know 
that  it  had  ever  been  run  successfully. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  when  Sebattis  and 
his  crew  came  down,  the  last  of  three 
boats,  and  held  their  batteau  at  the  tak- 
ing -  out  place  a  moment  before  they 
dragged  her  out  and  stripped  her  ready 
to  lug,  what  Sebattis,  as  he  sat  in  the 
stern  with  his  paddle  across  his  knees, 
said  in  Indian  to  his  bowman  was  simply 
revolutionary. 

"  Huh  ?  "  grunted  his  dark-faced  part- 
ner, turning  in  great  surprise  ;  "  you 
fought  you  wanted  run  it  dose  e'er  falls  ? 
Blenty  rabbidge  water  dose  e'er  falls  !  " 

The  bowman  had  stated  the  case  con- 
servatively. That  carry  was  there  merely 


because  men  were  not  expected  to  run 
those  falls  and  come  out  alive. 

But  the  bowman's  objection  was  not 
meant  as  a  refusal :  he  knew  Sebattis, 
that  he  was  a  good  waterman,  few  bet- 
ter. A  big,  slow  man,  of  tremendous 
momentum  when  once  in  motion,  it  was 
likely  enough  that  all  the  years  of  his 
exile  at  Quoddy  he  had  been  planning 
just  how  he  could  run  those  falls,  and  if 
he  spoke  now  it  was  because  this  was  the 
hour  striking.  In  his  own  mind  he  had 
already  performed  the  feat,  and  was  re- 
ceiving the  congratulations  of  the  crowd. 
It  was  no  small  advantage  that  he  knew 
an  audience  of  two  boats'  crews  was 
waiting  at  the  lower  carry-end  to  testify, 
however  grudgingly,  to  the  authenticity 
of  what  he  claimed  to  have  done. 

The  bowman  had  faith  in  Sebattis ; 
as  he  listened  to  the  smooth  stream  of 
soft-cadenced  Indian  that  cast  silvery 
bonds  about  his  reluctance  and  left  him 
helpless  to  refuse  (Sebattis  being  both  an 
orator  in  a  public  and  a  powerful  pleader 
in  a  private  cause),  the  bowman  caught 
the  rhythm  of  the  deed.  It  was  all  so 
easy  to  take  their  boat  out  into  mid- 
stream where  the  current  favored  them 
a  little,  to  shoot  her  bow  far  out  over 
the  fall,  and,  as  the  crews  ashore  gaped 
in  horrified  amazement,  to  make  her 
leap  clear  as  a  horse  leaps  a  hurdle. 
And  then  to  fight  their  way  through  the 
smother  of  the  whirlpool  below,  man 
against  water,  but  such  men  as  not  every 
boat  can  put  in  bow  and  stern,  such 
strong  arms  as  do  not  hold  every  paddle, 
such  great  heads  for  management,  such 
skill  in  water-craft  as  few  attain. 

This  was  the  oration,  with  its  Indian 
appeal  to  personal  glory.  It  was,  as 
Sebattis  said,  "  Beeg  t'ing"  and  he  fired 
his  bowman  with  the  desire  for  glory. 
The  Penobscot  man,  white  man  or  In- 
dian, dies  with  astonishing  alacrity  when 
he  sees  anything  worth  dying  for.  And 
the  name  of  "  crack  waterman "  is  a 
shining  mark  to  strive  for. 

Thus  at  the  upper  end  of  the  carry 


604 


Lugging  Boat  on  Sowadnehunk. 


Sebattis  and  his  bowman  talked  over  at 
their  leisure  the  chances  of  dying  within 
five  minutes.  At  the  other  end  the  two 
boats'  crews  lay  among  the  blueberry 
bushes  in  the  shade  of  shivering  birch 
saplings  and  waited  for  Sebattis.  It  did 
not  worry  them  that  he  was  long  in  com- 
ing; they  knew  the  leisurely  Indian  ways, 
and  how  unwilling,  though  he  weighed 
hard  upon  two  hundred  and  sixty,  and 
had  strength  to  correspond,  was  Big  Se- 
battis to  lug  an  extra  pound.  They  pic- 
tured him  draining  his  boat  and  sopping 
out  with  a  swab  of  bracken  the  last  dis- 
pensable ounce  of  water,  then,  tilting  her 
to  the  sun  for  a  few  minutes,  to  steam  out 
a  trifle  more  before  he  whooped  to  them 
to  come  across  and  help  him.  It  did  not 
worry  them  to  wait,  —  it  was  all  one  in 
the  end:  there  would  be  carries  to  lug 
on  long  after  they  were  dead  and  gone. 

So,  looking  at  the  logs  ricked  up  along 
the  shores  and  cross-piled  on  the  ledges, 
looking  at  the  others  drifting  past,  wal- 
lowing and  thrashing  in  the  wicked  boil 
below  the  falls,  they  lounged  and  chaffed 
one  another.  Jerry  Durgan  was  surrep- 
titiously laying  cool  birch  leaves  on  his 
abraded  shoulder,  and  Bill  Halpin  was 
attentively,  though  silently,  regarding  his 
shins :  there  had  been  none  too  much 
stocking  between  him  and  that  "  big 
gray."  The  Indians,  stretched  out  on 
their  backs,  gazed  at  the  sky  ;  nothing 
fretted  them  much.  On  one  side,  an  In- 
dian and  an  Irishman  were  having  a  pas- 
sage at  wit ;  on  the  other,  two  or  three 
were  arguing  about  the  ins  and  outs  of 
a  big  fight  up  at  'Suncook  the  winter  be- 
fore, and  a  Province  man  was  colloguing 
with  a  Yankee  on  points  of  scriptural 
interpretation.  It  was  such  talk  as  might 
be  overheard  almost  any  time  on  the 
drive  when  men  are  resting  at  their  ease. 

"  It  was  French  Joe  that  nailed  Billy  ; 
Billy  he  told  me  so,"  came  from  the 
group  under  the  birches. 

From  among  the  Indians  out  in  the 
sunlight  arose  a  persuasive  Irish  voice. 
"  Why  is  it,  Tomah,  that  when  your 


folks  are  good  Catholics,  and  our  folks 
are  good  Catholics,  you  don't  ever  name 
your  children  Patrick  and  Bridget  ?  " 

And  the  reply  came  quick  :  "  'Cause 
we  hate  it  Irish  so  bad,  you  know  !  " 

Off  at  the  right  they  were  wrangling 
about  the  construction  of  the  Ark. 

"  And  I  'd  just  like  to  have  seen  that 
bo't  when  they  got  her  done,"  said  the 
Yankee  ;  "  just  one  door  an'  one  windei-, 
an'  vent'lated  like  Harvey  Doaue's  scho'l- 
'ouse.  They  caught  him  nailin'  of  the 
winders  down.  '  How  be  ye  goin'  to 
vent'late  ?  '  says  they.  '  Oh,'  says  he, 
'  fresh  air  's  powerful  circulatin'  stuff  ;  I 
callate  they  '11  carry  the  old  air  out  in 
their  pockets,  an'  bring  enough  fresh  air 
in  in  their  caps  to  keep  'em  goin' ; '  an' 
that  was  all  they  ever  did  get  's  long  's 
he  was  school  agent.  My  scissors  !  three 
stories  an'  all  full  of  live  stock,  an'  only 
one  winder,  an'  that  all  battened  down ! 
Tell  you  what !  I  'd  'a'  hated  to  be  Mr. 
Noah's  fambly  an'  had  to  stay  in  that  ole 
Ark  ten  months  an'  a  half  before  they 
took  the  cover  off !  Fact !  I  read  it  all 
up  onct !  " 

Said  another  :  "  I  don't  seem  to  'mem- 
ber how  she  was  built  'ceptin'  the  way 
they  run  her  seams.  She  must  have  ben 
a  jim-dickey  house  with  the  pitch  all  on 
the  inside  's  well  as  on  the  outside  o'  her. 
Seems  to  me  a  bo't  ain't  bettered  none 
by  a  daub  o'  pitch  where  the'  ain't  none 
needed." 

"  'T  ain't  the  Ark  as  bothers  me  some," 
put  in  the  Province  man ;  "  I  reckon 
that  flood  business  is  pretty  nigh  straight, 
but  I  couldn't  never  cipher  out  about 
that  Tower  of  Babel  thing.  Man  ask 
for  a  hod  o'  mortar,  an'  like  enough 
they  'd  send  him  up  a  barrel  of  gaspe- 
reau  ;  that 's  "  — 

The  religious  discussion  broke  off 
abruptly. 

"Holy  Hell!— Look  a-comin'!" 
gasped  the  Yankee. 

Man !  but  that  was  a  sight  to  see ! 
They  got  up  and  devoured  it  with  their 
eyes. 


Lugging  Boat  on  Sowadnehunk. 


505 


On  the  verge  of  the  fall  hovered  the 
batteau  about  to  leap.  Big  Sebat  and  his 
bowman  crouched  to  help  her,  like  a 
rider  lifting  his  horse  to  a  leap.  And 
their  eyes  were  set  with  fierce  excite- 
ment, their  hands  cleaved  to  their  paddle 
handles,  they  felt  the  thrill  that  ran 
through  the  boat  as  they  shot  her  clear, 
and,  flying  out  beyond  the  curtain  of  the 
fall,  they  landed  her  in  the  yeasty  rapids 
below. 

Both  on  their  feet  then !  And  how 
they  bent  their  paddles  and  whipped 
them  from  side  to  side,  as  it  was  "  In  !  " 
_  «  Out  !  "  —  "  Right !  "  —  "  Left ! " 
to  avoid  the  logs  caught  on  the  ledges 
and  the  great  rocks  that  lay  beneath  the 
boils  and  snapped  at  them  with  their 
ugly  fangs  as  they  went  flying  past.  The 
spray  was  on  them ;  the  surges  crested 
over  their  gunwales  ;  they  sheered  from 
the  rock,  but  cut  the  wave  that  covered 
it  and  carried  it  inboard.  And  always 
it  was  "  Right !  "  —  "  Left !  "  —  "  In  !  " 
—  "  Out !  "  as  the  greater  danger  drove 
them  to  seek  the  less. 

But  finally  they  ran  her  out  through 
the  tail  of  the  boil,  and  fetched  her 
ashore  in  a  cove  below  the  carry-end, 
out  of  sight  of  the  men.  She  was  full  of 
water,  barely  afloat. 

Would  Sebattis  own  to  the  boys  who 
were  hurrying  down  through  the  bushes 
that  he  had  escaped  with  his  life  only  by 
the  greatest  luck  ?  Not  Sebattis  ! 

"  Now  you  bale  her  out  paddles,"  said 
he  to  his  bowman,  and  they  swept  her 
with  their  paddles  as  one  might  with  a 
broom. 

"  Now  you  drain  her  out."  command- 
ed Sebattis,  when  they  could  lift  the  re- 
maining weight,  and  they  raised  the  bow 
and  let  the  water  run  out  over  the  slant- 
ing stern,  all  but  a  few  pailf uls.  "  Better 
you  let  dat  stay,"  said  the  shrewd  Se- 
battis. 

It  was  quick  work,  but  when  the  crew 
broke  through  the  bushes,  there  stood 
Sebattis  and  his  bowman  leaning  on  their 
paddles  like  bronze  caryatids,  one  on 


either  side  of  the  boat.  They  might 
have  been  standing  thus  since  the  days 
of  the  Pharaohs,  they  were  so  at  ease. 

"  Well,  boys,  how  did  you  make  it  ?  " 
queried  the  first  to  arrive  on  the  spot. 

Sebattis  smiled  his  simple,  vacuous 
smile.  "  Oh,  ver'  good  ;  she  took  inlilT 
water  mebbe." 

"  By  gee,  that  ain't  much  water  !  Did 
she  strike  anything  ?  " 

Sebattis  helped  to  turn  her  over.  She 
had  not  a  scratch  upon  her. 

Then  the  men  all  looked  again  at  the 
boat  that  had  been  over  Sowadnehunk, 
and  they  all  trooped  back  to  the  carry- 
end  without  saying  much,  two  full  bat- 
teau crews  and  Sebattis  and  his  bowman. 
They  did  not  talk.  No  man  would  have 
gained  anything  new  by  exchanging 
thoughts  with  his  neighbor. 

And  when  they  came  to  the  two  boats 
drying  in  the  sun,  they  looked  one  an- 
other in  the  eyes  again.  It  was  a  foregone 
conclusion.  Without  a  word  they  put 
their  galled  shoulders  under  the  gunwales, 
lifted  the  heavy  batteaus  to  their  places, 
and  started  back  across  that  carry  forty 
rods  to  the  end  they  had  just  come  from. 

What  for  ?  It  was  that  in  his  own 
esteem  a  Penobscot  man  will  not  stand 
second  to  any  other  man.  They  would 
not  have  it  said  that  Sebattis  Mitchell 
was  the  only  man  of  them  who  had  tried 
to  run  Sowadnehunk  Falls. 

So  they  put  in  again,  six  men  to  a 
boat,  full  crews,  and  in  the  stern  of  one 
stood  Joe  Attien,  who  was  Thoreau's 
guide,  and  in  the  bow  Steve  Stanislaus, 
his  cousin.  That  sets  the  date,  —  that  it 
was  back  in  1870,  — for  it  became  the 
occasion  for  another  and  a  sadder  tale. 

And  they  pushed  out  with  their  two 
boats  and  ran  the  falls. 

But  the  luck  that  bore  Sebattis  safely 
through  was  not  theirs.  Both  boats  were 
swamped,  battered  on  the  rocks  into 
kindling  wood.  Twelve  men  were  thrown 
into  the  water,  and  pounded  and  swashed 
about  among  logs  and  rocks.  Some  by 
swimming,  some  by  the  aid  of  Sebattis 


506 


The  Aristocracy  of  the  Dollar. 


and  his  boat,  eleven  of  them  got  ashore, 
"  a  little  damp,"  as  no  doubt  the  least  ex- 
aggerative of  them  were  willing  to  admit. 
The  unlucky  twelfth  man  they  picked  up 
later,  quite  undeniably  drowned.  And 
the  boats  were  irretrievably  smashed. 
Indeed,  that  was  the  part  of  the  tale  that 
rankled  with  Sebattis  when  he  used  to 
tell  it. 

"  Berry  much  she  blame  it  us  "  (that 
is,  himself)  "  that  time  John  Loss." 
(Always  to  the  Indian  mind  John  Ross, 
the  head  contractor  of  the  drive,  was  the 
power  that  commanded  wind,  logs,  and. 
weather.)  "  She  don'  care  so  much 
'cause  drowned  it  man,  'cause  she  can  get 
blenty  of  it  men ;  but  dose  e'er  boats  she 
talk  'bout  berry  hard." 


That  is  how  they  look  at  such  little 
deeds  themselves.  The  man  who  led  off 
gets  the  credit  and  the  blame ;  he  is  the 
only  one  remembered.  But  to  an  out- 
sider what  wins  more  than  passing  ad- 
miration is  not  the  one  man  who  suc- 
ceeded, but  the  many  who  followed  after 
and  failed,  who  could  not  let  well  enough 
alone  when  there  was  a  possible  better  1 
be  achieved,  but,  on  the  welcome  end  of 
the  carry,  the  end  where  all  their  trou- 
bles of  galls  and  bruises  and  heavy  bui 
dens  in  the  heat  are  over,  pick  up  theii 
boats  without  a  word,  not  one  man  of 
them  falling  out,  and  lug  them  back  a 
weary  forty  rods  to  fight  another  round 
with  Death  sooner  than  own  themselves 
outdone. 

Fannie  Hardy  Eckstorm. 


PART  OF  A  MAN'S   LIFE. 

"  The  uttered  part  of  a  man's  life,  let  us  always  repeat,  bears  to  the  unuttered,  unconsciou 
part  a  small  unknown  proportion.     He  himself  never  knows  it,  much  less  do  others."  —  Carlyle's 
Essay  on  Scott. 

THE   ARISTOCRACY   OF   THE    DOLLAR. 


IT  is  much  to  be  doubted  whether  any 
marriage  contract  in  history  had  ever  a 
simpler  or  compacter  basis  than  that  be- 
tween the  celebrated  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson 
and  the  lady  who  became  his  wife.  It 
stands  recorded,  not  in  Boswell's  Life  of 
him,  but  in  the  scarcely  less  entertaining 
letters  of  his  contemporary,  Miss  Anna 
Seward.  He  told  the  object  of  his  affec- 
tions that  he  was,  in  the  first  place,  of 
mean  extraction ;  that,  in  the  second  place, 
he  had  no  money ;  and  that,  in  the  third 
place,  he  had  had  an  uncle  hanged.  Not  to 
be  outdone,  the  lady  replied  as  promptly 
that  she  valued  no  man  the  more  or  the 
less  for  his  parentage  ;  that  as  to  money, 
she  had  none  herself;  and  that,  in  re- 
gard to  his  last  point,  although  she  had 
never  had  a  near  relative  literally  and 
actually  hanged,  she  had  at  least  twenty 


who  deserved  to  be.  It  is  needless 
say  that  a  marriage  between  two  sucl 
congenial  spirits  followed,  and  that 
was,  all  things  considered,  fairly  happj 
It  is  worth  noticing,  also,  that  the  t\ 
lovers  sketched  out  unconsciously  the  sue 
cessive  phases  of  social  structure  whicl 
have  prevailed  in  the  world.  Societ 
must  always  have  some  kind  of  arist 
cracy  or  leadership,  some  standard 
social  precedence.  The  aristocracy 
birth  is  one  form  of  this  standard  ;  tha 
of  wealth  is  another ;  while  that  of  wia 
dom,  of  virtue,  and  of  never  having  li£ 
a  relative  hanged  is  still  another.  Let 
for  the  present  confine  ourselves  to  tl 
first  two  of  these  alternatives. 

We  are  living  in  a  transition  period  of 
our  social  history.  The  aristocracy  of 
birth  is  passing  away.  The  aristocracy 


The  Aristocracy  of  the  Dollar. 


507 


of  wealth  is  coming  forward.  This  in 
its  turn  may  yield  to  something  better. 
There  is  certainly  room  for  it!  But 
standing  as  we  do  at  the  deathbed  of  one 
form  of  social  organization  and  the  birth 
of  another,  it  is  worth  while  to  compare 
their  merits.  There  are  those  who  hon- 
estly believe  that  in  losing  hereditary 
aristocracy  the  world  is  losing  much,  and 
who  see  a  formidable  danger  in  the  aris- 
tocracy of  wealth.  Others  maintain,  as 
sincerely,  that  this  movement  is  a  step 
forward  and  not  backward.  It  is  a  good 
time  to  set  the  two  side  by  side  and  see 
how  far  the  world  is  likely  to  lose  or  gain 
by  the  exchange. 

In  all  Europe,  of  the  hereditary  gov- 
erning bodies  which  once  ruled  it,  there 
is  left  to-day  but  one,  the  English  House 
of  Lords.  In  one  or  two  other  countries, 
such  as  Austria  and  Prussia,  the  upper 
chamber  contains  the  hereditary  element, 
but  it  is  never  exclusive,  while  the  Eng- 
lish House  of  Lords  stands  by  itself.  It 
is,  indeed,  in  one  respect  more  aristo- 
cratic than  in  the  Middle  Ages,  because 
in  those  days  it  consisted  quite  largely  of 
an  appointive  body,  the  dignitaries  of  the 
church,  who  had  commonly  risen  from  the 
ranks  of  the  people,  and  whose  position 
was  not  hereditary.  This  life  element, 
comprising  the  bishops,  has  now  been 
reduced,  as  Gold  win  Smith  once  said, 
"  to  comparative  insignificance  in  point 
of  numbers,  and  to  almost  total  insignifi- 
cance in  point  of  influence."  This  im- 
pairing of  power  further  extends  to  the 
whole  body  of  the  House  of  Lords  from 
the  very  dignity  of  its  traditions,  and 
from  the  recent  origin  of  most  of  its  peer- 
ages. Not  only  do  very  few  of  these  date 
back  as  far  as  the  landing  of  the  Pilgrims 
in  America,  but  the  very  membership  of 
the  House,  and  consequently  its  voting 
power,  depends  at  any  moment  on  the  ac- 
tion of  the  King.  When  the  Reform  Bill 
was  carried,  June  7, 1832,  by  the  express 
promise  of  the  King  to  create  new  peers 
enough,  if  needful,  to  carry  it  through  the 


Lords,  the  Lords  became  from  that  mo- 
ment, for  practical  action,  a  wholly  sec- 
ondary body  ;  a  system  of  brakes  —  not 
of  wheels  —  for  the  car  of  state.  It  is 
becoming  filled,  accordingly,  as  Mr.  Bod- 
ley  tells  us  in  his  France,  with  "  newly 
made  peers,  who  prevail  upon  the  editors 
of  peerages  to  erase  from  their  pedigrees 
the  worthy  aldermen  who  founded  their 
fortunes,  and  accord  them  forefathers  who 
performed  feats  at  Hastings  unknown  to 
the  workers  of  the  Bayeux  tapestry  " 
(ir.  375).  We  see  the  outcome  in  the 
criticisms  of  Vanity  Fair  on  London  so- 
ciety :  "In  Rome  and  Vienna,  and  even 
in  republican  Paris,  London  society  has 
become  a  laughing  stock.  Blood,  pride 
of  race,  what  are  these  ?  Where  are 
they  nowadays  ?  Money,  above  all  the 
willingness  to  entertain,  these  are  the 
pass-keys  to  what  was  once  a  fortress  to 
be  entered  by  birth,  and  by  birth  alone." 

For  the  aristocracy  of  birth,  the  Eng- 
lish basis  was  the  law  of  primogeniture, 
which  Dr.  Johnson  maintained  to  be  a 
good  law,  because  it  made  only  one  fool 
in  each  family.  Yet  we  forget  how  few 
years  it  is  since,  in  some  of  our  older 
American  colonies,  the  traditions  of  Old 
England  were  still  upheld,  in  this  respect, 
and  hereditary  forces  ruled  the  state.  I 
remember  talking  once  with  a  Rhode 
Islander,  now  an  aged  man,  who  recalled 
the  time  when  he  had  returned  from  In- 
dia from  a  five  years'  absence,  and  who 
had  then  voted  when  but  one  day  in  port, 
because  he  was  the  oldest  son  of  his  fa- 
ther. 

Nothing,  indeed,  now  remains  in  Amer- 
ica which  so  recalls  the  feudal  system  as 
the  whole  region  of  the  Narragansett 
country  in  Rhode  Island,  where  one  still 
sees  the  remains  of  a  class  of  buildings 
differing  in  kind  from  any  now  erected. 
They  represent  great  square  houses  of 
fifty  or  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet  front, 
with  drawing-rooms  twenty  feet  square 
and  from  fourteen  to  sixteen  feet  high. 
There  were  two  stories,  with  high  gam- 
brel  attics  for  the  slaves,  who  often  occu- 


508 


The  Aristocracy  of  the  Dollar. 


pied  outbuildings,  also.  The  houses  were 
so  large  that  in  one  of  them,  the  old  Potter 
house,  there  occurred  a  house-warming 
of  three  days  and  nights,  during  which 
the  old  father  and  mother,  in  their  out- 
of-the-way  rooms,  never  learned  that  any- 
thing was  going  on.  Under  the  law  of 
primogeniture,  then  prevailing,  the  house- 
holds were  on  such  a  scale  that  one  of 
these  magnates,  Robert  Hazard,  is  said 
to  have  boasted  of  economy,  when  he 
brought  his  family  down  to  seventy  per- 
sons. He  owned  twelve  thousand  acres, 
kept  foxhounds,  four  thousand  sheep,  one 
hundred  and  fifty  cows,  and  fourteen  sad- 
dle horses.  He  employed  twelve  •  negro 
dairymaids,  each  with  a  small  girl  to  wait 
upon  her,  by  whose  joint  labors  from 
twelve  to  twenty-four  cheeses  were  made 
every  day  in  the  year  for  family  con- 
sumption ;  and,  let  us  hope,  people  took 
exercise  enough  to  digest  the  product. 
These  are,  at  any  rate,  the  still  living  tra- 
ditions of  the  Narragansett  country  as 
they  prevailed  thirty  years  ago. 

In  a  similar  way  an  almost  feudal  sys- 
tem of  proprietorship  was  tried  on  the 
Hudson,  and  went  down  in  the  "  anti-rent 
war."  In  the  catalogues  of  our  early 
colleges,  the  names  of  students  were  not 
arranged  alphabetically,  as  now,  but  ac- 
cording to  the  relative  social  position  of 
students'  families,  this  lasting  until  1767 
at  Yale,  and  until  1772  at  Harvard.  The 
Society  of  the  Cincinnati  was  undoubted- 
ly relied  upon  by  many  as  a  step  toward 
hereditary  aristocracy.  But  what  came 
of  it  ?  You  hear  of  a  few  quiet,  elderly 
gentlemen  as  eating  an  annual  dinner  to- 
gether, and  that  is  all  the  world  knows  of 
it.  Thus  easily  have  died  out  all  efforts 
to  establish  such  hereditary  classes  among 
us.  Yet  I  can  remember  when  it  was 
jocosely  said  of  some  families  of  Massa- 
chusetts that  they  claimed  to  have  had, 
in  the  time  of  Noah's  deluge,  a  boat  to 
themselves  ;  and  I  can  recall,  on  the  other 
hand,  when  a  social  aspirant  in  Boston 
asked,  "  Who  belong  to  the  really  old 
families,  grandmamma  ?  "  and  that  rela- 


tive  shook   her   weary  head   and   said, 
"  Mostly  no  one,  my  dear." 

The  advance  in  the  standard  of  wealth 
in  the  last  century  is  recognized  by  all 
as  something  formidable.  In  the  writer's 
boyhood,  John  P.  Gushing  was  the  only 
man  in  Boston,  or  its  vicinity,  who  was 
suspected  of  being  a  millionaire  ;  and 
even  in  his  case  some  regarded  such 
wealth  as  incredible.  He  was  an  essen- 
tially modest,  retiring  man,  and  said  to 
a  lady  of  my  acquaintance,  who  ventured 
to  reproach  him  for  having  holes  in  his 
shoes,  that  he  knew  no  real  advantage 
of  wealth,  except  to  be  able  to  wear  one's 
old  shoes  without  criticism.  But  what 
is  a  million  dollars  to-day  ?  To  the  eyes 
of  many  it  represents  economy,  almost 
poverty  ;  at  any  rate,  a  step  toward  the 
almshouse.  John  Jacob  Astor  was  said 
to  be  worth  twenty  millions,  and  that  was 
such  a  colossal  fortune,  people  had  again 
to  alter  their  standard  of  figures  in  arith- 
metic. After  this,  Commodore  Vander- 
bilt's  forty  millions  seemed  but  a  step, 
and  the  next  Vanderbilt's  two  hundred 
millions  were  not  so  wholly  startling.  Yet 
men  looked  with  commiseration  on  the 
division  of  this  last  fortune  by  his  pub- 
lished will.  Sixty  millions  to  each  of 
two  sons,  and  the  rest  of  the  family  cut 
off  with  ten  millions  apiece  !  Men  felt 
like  taking  up  a  contribution  in  the 
churches.  Yet  what  seemed  even  these 
wonders  compared  with  the  personal  for- 
tunes of  the  present  day ! 

Let  us  look  first  at  the  alarming  side 
of  this  rapid  growth  of  wealth.  First 
comes  its  possible  interference  with  our 
whole  system  of  local  government.  A 
successful  merchant  of  the  last  genera- 
tion in  Boston  felt  the  increasing  burden 
of  taxation  so  heavily  that  he  moved 
from  the  city  to  a  country  town  where 
his  father  had  been  a  modest  clergyman. 
Inquiring  of  the  town  officials  as  to  his 
taxation,  they  hesitated  a  little  to  reply, 
as  if  wishing  to  deal  gently  with  the 
brilliant  fish  thus  migrating  to  their  quiet 


The  Aristocracy  of  the  Dollar. 


509 


pool.  To  solve  the  problem,  he  suggested 
that  they  send  him  the  town  bills  as  pre- 
sented for  the  coming  year,  and  let  him 
try  a  financial  experiment.  He  then 
paid  them  all  in  succession,  and  thereby 
saved  twenty  thousand  dollars  on  his 
annual  tax,  as  paid  hitherto  in  Boston. 
The  selectmen,  meanwhile,  collected  of 
all  other  taxpayers  their  usual  amount, 
made  a  separate  fund  of  it,  and  spent 
that  in  securing  the  best  roads  and  sign- 
boards in  the  county.  It  was  all  very 
well  in  this  instance.  But  suppose  a 
series  of  millionaires,  migrating  to  a 
series  of  country  towns,  what  would  be 
the  result,  and  how  long  before  we 
should  have  a  new  form  of  feudalism  ? 
This  was  one  question  to  be  seriously 
raised,  and  soon  there  were  others. 

How  is  it  all  to  end,  men  asked,  this 
new  development  ?  Consider  history, 
they  said.  We  can  readily  understand 
how  the  castles  on  the  Rhine  went  down. 
The  traveler  visits  their  terrible  torture- 
chambers,  their  oubliettes,  and  then 
reads  the  tale  of  the  free  burghers,  the 
weavers  and  lace-makers  of  the  Low 
Countries  who  swept  down  that  beautiful 
valley  and  made  an  end  of  feudalism. 
No  such  easy  process  suggests  itself  amid 
the  complications  of  modern  labor ;  and 
should  a  new  race,  born  of  sudden  wealth, 
arise,  what  would  it  be  ?  How  many 
generations  would  it  take  to  secure  good 
manners,  for  instance,  in  the  new  masters 
of  the  community  ?  What  will  become 
of  the  refinements  of  life,  if  all  the  guid- 
ance of  good  society  is  to  be  transferred 
to  the  hands  of  those  who  have  spent 
the  prime  of  their  existence  in  making 
money  ? 

It  is  to  be  noticed,  moreover,  that  the 
very  men  who  repudiated  the  coat-of- 
arms  were  the  men  most  eager  to  as- 
sume it  when  they  once  had  an  excuse. 
How  rarely  do  you  find  in  society  the 
men  who  have  the  courage  to  tell  the 
exact  truth  about  their  own  antecedents  ! 
It  is  so  exceptional  that,  wherever  it  is 
done,  it  fills  us  with  admiration.  Pope 


Urban  IV  was  the  son  of  a  cobbler,  and 
had  pursued  that  vocation  himself,  and 
so,  with  proper  pride,  he  used  a  cobbler's 
tools  as  his  symbol.  Bishop  Willegis, 
who  was  brought  up  as  a  wheelwright, 
becoming  at  last  a  bishop,  and  being  en- 
titled to  a  coat-of-arms,  found,  when  he 
went  to  take  possession  of  his  palace,  that 
the  little  boys  had  been  chalking  wheels 
all  over  the  walls.  Being  a  man  of  sense, 
he  put  a  wheel  upon  his  coat-of-arms, 
and  the  little  boys  lost  their  fun,  while 
the  price  of  chalk  went  down. 

Again,  Goethe's  father  was  in  early 
life  a  blacksmith,  and  in  Frankfort,  over 
the  door  of  the  house  where  the  great 
German  poet  was  born,  may  be  seen  the 
coat-of-arms  assumed,  in  a  manner,  by 
his  father.  The  elder  Goethe  was  skilled 
in  the  manufacture  of  horseshoes,  and  he 
wished  to  put  three  horseshoes  over  his 
door  for  a  crest ;  but  his  architect,  wish- 
ing the  fact  to  appear  to  the  utmost  ad- 
vantage, wove  those  horseshoes  into  the 
shape  of  a  musical  lyre,  and  thus  uncon- 
sciously predicted  that  within  those  walls 
the  greatest  of  modern  poets  should  be 
born.  How  fine  is  all  this,  yet  how 
vainly  one  may  watch  along  the  streets 
of  any  fashionable  watering-place  for 
any  carriage  panel  that  might  have  been 
designed  by  Pope  Urban,  Bishop  Wille- 
gis, or  the  elder  Goethe  ;  and  how  many 
may  one  see  which  represent  a  dragon 
or  unicorn  or  griffin,  some  creature  out 
of  whose  hide  and  horn  no  one  ever 
made  a  living  since  the  world  began. 
Not  one  of  these  even  rivaled  the  tra- 
ditional motto  of  Senator  Philetus  Saw- 
yer, of  Michigan,  who,  having  gained  a 
fortune  by  the  honest  pursuit  his  name 
implied,  adorned  his  carriage  with  the 
Latin  word  "  Vidi,"  which,  being  trans- 
lated, signifies  "  I  saw." 

No  doubt  there  were  facts  enough  on 
which  to  base  all  this  solicitude,  yet  there 
is  another  side.  The  aristocracy  based 
on  the  dollar  has  its  own  weaknesses  and 
follies ;  yet  it  has  certain  merits.  Its  first 


510 


The  Aristocracy  of  the  Dollar. 


merit  is  that  it  belongs  to  the  present, 
not  to  the  past ;  it  represents  something 
that  is  being  done,  or  has  lately  been 
done,  whether  for  good  or  evil ;  not  some- 
thing which  has  long  gone  by.  When 
Theodore  Parker  first.visited  Cincinnati, 
at  that  time  the  recognized  leader  among 
Western  cities,  he  said  that  he  had  made 
a  great  discovery,  namely,  that  while 
the  aristocracy  of  Cincinnati  was  unques- 
tionably founded  on  pork,  it  made  a  great 
difference  whether  a  man  killed  pigs  for 
himself,  or  whether  his  father  had  killed 
them.  The  one  was  held  plebeian,  the 
other  patrician.  It  was  the  difference, 
Parker  said,  between  the  stick  'ems  and 
the  stuck  'ems  ;  and  his  own  sympathies, 
he  confessed,  were  with  the  present  tense. 
It  was,  in  other  words,  aristocracy  in  the 
making.  It  stood  for  a  race  which  had 
found  forests  to  be  cleared,  streams  to 
be  bridged,  and  roads  to  be  built ;  the 
dollar  was  not  only  behind  these  forms  of 
service,  but  it  was  the  corner-stone  of  the 
schoolhouse  and  the  church.  It  predicted 
a  civilization  which  should  belong  to  to- 
day, not  to  yesterday  ;  and  belonging  to 
to-day,  should  also  predict  to-morrow. 

Out  of  this  close  allegiance  to  the  pre- 
sent tense,  the  aristocracy  of  the  dollar  has 
derived  several  other  advantages.  It  has 
always  emerged,  within  a  generation  or 
two  at  the  farthest,  from  the  ranks  of 
the  plain  people,  and  thus  always  seems 
nearer  to  them.  It  takes  for  that  reason 
the  color  of  its  time.  It  is  not  too  per- 
manent. It  finds  sympathies  at  home,  and 
spends  its  money  there  :  in  three  quarters 
of  the  towns  in  Massachusetts,  for  ex- 
ample, you  find  a  town  hall  or  a  public 
library  that  was  presented  by  some  native 
of  the  town.  It  is  not  easily  crushed  or 
even  intimidated ;  so  that  it  is  not  un- 
common to  find  a  man  who  has  made  one 
or  two  fortunes  and  lost  them,  and  is  now 
resting  on  his  third.  It  appreciates  other 
forms  of  influence  than  its  own,  and  has 
a  secret  reverence  for  science,  for  history, 
and  even  for  literature. 

None  are  more  ready  than  rich  men 


to  recognize  that  while  one  man  makes 
money  in  business,  another  may  devote 
himself  to  intellectual  pursuits.  The 
elder  Agassiz  once  refused  a  profitable 
course  of  lectures  on  the  ground  that  he 
had  not,  just  then,  the  time  to  make 
money.  If  mere  material  wealth  is  all 
that  is  thought  of  among  business  men,  he 
would  have  been  thought  fit  for  an  in- 
sane hospital,  but  as  it  was,  he  was  all  the 
more  respected.  Those  who  say  that  our 
people  look  merely  at  wealth  take  a  very 
superficial  view.  As  a  rule,  men  do  not 
know  who  is  the  richest  man  in  the  next 
city  or  the  next  state.  Mere  wealth  has, 
after  all,  a  very  limited  reputation  com- 
pared with  that  of  intellect.  An  English 
novelist  comes  here,  and  every  town  hall 
is  open  to  him ;  a  Swedish  peasant  girl 
comes  to  sing  to  us,  and  we  pay  any  price 
to  hear.  Bring  forward  your  art  and 
your  genius,  the  community  seems  to  say, 
and  we  will  provide  the  money.  Let  an 
ordinary  millionaire  land  at  the  wharf, 
on  the  other  hand,  and  no  more  attention 
is  paid  to  him  than  if  he  were  an  ex- 
governor.  The  very  fact  that  the  pur- 
suit of  wealth  among  us  demands  rare 
talent  and  energy  seems  of  itself  to  cre- 
ate respect  for  those  same  qualities  when 
manifested  in  other  ways. 

Why  did  the  aristocracy  of  parentage 
fail  to  hold  its  own  ?  Why  did  it  die  out 
in  America  and,  practically  speaking,  in 
all  the  British  colonies  ?  It  had  every 
advantage  at  the  outset ;  it  held  the  in- 
side track.  It  failed  because  two  great 
laws  of  the  universe  were  against  it :  first, 
the  laws  of  arithmetic,  and,  secondly,  the 
laws  of  physiology.  It  violated  the  prin- 
ciples of  arithmetic  because  it  required 
that  each  individual  or  household  should 
have  a  distinct  line  of  ancestors,  and  it 
would  thus  be  discovered  in  a  few  gener 
ations  that  there  were  not  nearly  enough 
ancestors  to  go  round,  leaving  people  ii 
the  position  of  Mark  Twain,  who  declare 
that  he  had  "  no  parents  to  speak  of,  onlj 
a  father  and  mother  or  so."  It  was  con- 
trary to  the  laws  of  physiology,  as  showr 


The  Aristocracy  of  the  Dollar. 


511 


by  the  deterioration  of  one  royal  fami- 
ly after  another  in  Europe,  these  having 
come  to  resemble  those  English  race 
horses  which  have  so  much  blood  that 
there  is  very  little  horse,  and  it  must  be 
replenished  from  a  more  plebeian  stock. 

To  sum  it  all  up,  the  strength  of  hered- 
itary aristocracy  lay,  undoubtedly,  in  a 
sort  of  accumulated  self-respect  ;  the 
coats-of-arms  may  or  may  not  have  been 
given  originally  for  great  deeds,  but  mem- 
ory or  imagination  gradually  assigned 
them  to  that  origin  as  time  went  on.  As 
Marmontel  nicely  defined  it,  "  Nobility 
of  birth  is  a  letter  of  credit  given  us  on 
our  country,  upon  the  security  of  our  an- 
cestors, in  the  conviction  that  at  a  proper 
period  of  life  we  shall  acquit  ourselves 
with  honor  to  those  who  stand  engaged 
for  us."  On  the  other  hand,  the  strength 
of  the  newer  form  of  aristocracy  lies  in 
its  greater  nearness  to  the  community  at 
large,  as  being  of  more  recent  and  tan- 
gible origin,  and  as  usually  showing  some 
special  visible  gift  or  faculty  in  those  who 
represent  it.  Its  beginning  may  have 
been  never  so  humble,  yet  these  qualities 
bear  some  vague  promise  of  its  future. 

The  thing  which  most  puzzled  that 
early  traveler  in  America,  Captain  Basil 
Hall,  in  1827,  was  to  see  on  the  high- 
road a  pig-driver  wearing  spectacles  ; 
and  it  is  only  a  few  years  since  a  newly 
arrived  Englishman  mentioned  to  me,  as 
something  requiring  explanation,  that  he 
had  seen  somebody  in  a  full  suit  of  black 
broadcloth  feeding  hogs.  I  had  a  call, 
many  years  since,  from  a  young  lady, 
well-dressed,  well-bred,  and  of  Ameri- 
can birth,  who  wished  to  be  hired  to  do 
housework,  and  stipulated  that  she  should 
bring  her  own  piano.  I  met  lately  a  man 
whose  professions  were  farming,  cigar- 
making,  running  a  saw-mill,  ice-cutting, 
sailing  a  fishing  schooner,  and  peddling 
parched-corn  candy  balls.  The  average 
life  of  a  college  boy  might  furnish  mate- 
rial for  that  book  entitled  the  Romance 
of  a  Poor  Young  Man  ;  and  we  all  make 
a  living,  as  Shakespeare's  Touchstone 


threatens  to  kill  his  rival,  in  a  hundred 
and  fifty  different  ways.  No  doubt 
plenty  of  young  people  are  now  born 
rich,  but  they  are  very  rarely  people 
whose  grandparents  had  that  experience. 
The  community  watches  them  with  some 
interest  to  discover  whether  they  are  to 
furnish  new  illustrations  of  the  rural 
American  proverb  that  it  takes  but  three 
generations  to  go  from  shirt  -  sleeves  to 
shirt-sleeves. 

After  all,  the  worship  of  the  dollar  is 
but  the  foam  upon  the  advancing  wave 
of  modern  civilization.  It  breaks  into 
spray  and  vanishes,  even  while  we  gaze. 
Even  now  there  are  not  a  score  of  men. 
in  America  who  are  known  by  name 
throughout  the  land  for  their  wealth 
alone  ;  but  a  young  man  who  makes  a 
single  brilliant  speech  at  a  political  meet- 
ing, or  a  young  girl  who  writes  a  clever 
story,  may  wake  up  some  fine  morning 
and  encounter  a  fame  spread  from  Maine 
to  California,  before  either  of  them  has 
made  enough  money  out  of  it  to  pay  a 
washerwoman's  bill.  "  The  whole  in- 
terest of  history,"  says  Emerson,  "  lies  in 
the  fortunes  of  the  poor."  All  the  novels 
are  full  of  the  enjoyments  of  wealth ;  but 
who  celebrates  the  joys  of  poverty  ?  The 
pride  of  its  little  prudences,  the  joy  of 
its  wholesome  abstinences,  the  magnifi- 
cent delight  of  its  occasional  holidays  ;  — 
who  but  Dickens  ever  described  them  ? 
Who  but  his  little  Jacob  ever  knew  what 
oysters  were,  or  really  saw  a  play  ?  En- 
joyment does  not  lie  in  quantity,  but  in 
quality.  The  first  book  is  worth  the 
library ;  the  first  cheap  engraving  may 
give  more  lasting  pleasure  than  the  pic- 
ture gallery  that  follows.  How  few  really 
cheerful  faces  one  sees  in  the  carriages 
on  a  fashionable  avenue  ;  in  the  carriage, 
for  instance,  of  Mrs.  Croesus,  who  thinks 
it  her  duty  to  drive,  "  in  order  to  air  the 
horses."  But  what  unutterable  bliss  is 
the  Sunday  afternoon  drive  to  the  over- 
worked clerk  who  has  been  putting  by 
the  two  dollars  for  at  least  two  years, 


512 


The  Aristocracy  of  the  Dollar. 


and  lying  awake  at  night  to  decide  on 
the  cheapest  livery  stable  !  True,  Mrs. 
Croesus  has  the  felicity  of  being  the  more 
stared  at,  but  the  young  man  has  the  pro- 
founder  felicity  of  not  caring  whether  he 
is  stared  at  or  not,  so  long  as  he  —  and 
the  young  woman  —  enjoy  themselves. 
Thus  the  little  boy  who  was  seen  asleep 
at  the  theatre,  night  after  night,  ex- 
plained, toward  the  end  of  the  season,  to 
the  sympathetic  and  inquiring  stranger 
who  waked  him,  "  Ah,  but  you  see,  I 
have  to  come.  I  've  got  a  season  ticket !  " 
Alas  for  wealth,  which  has  season  tickets 
for  everything  and  gets  the  full  relish 
out  of  nothing ! 

If  the  general  tenor  of  this  essay  is 
thus  far  correct,  it  may  be  claimed  that 
the  aristocracy  of  the  millionaires  is  only 
a  prelude  to  the  aristocracy  of  the  mil- 
lions. We  talk  of  the  upper  ten  thousand 
now,  and  may  talk  of  the  upper  ten  mil- 
lion by  and  by,  and  so  on  toward  the 
whole  population.  As  this  advance  is 
gradually  made,  we  need  not  fear  but 
that  all  the  proprieties  of  life  will  follow, 
even  if  slowly.  It  is  really  a  greater 
step  to  have  taught  a  whole  people  to 
read  and  write  than  to  have  taught  them 
all  to  carry  themselves  politely  and  to 
use  their  forks  properly.  I  can  remem- 
ber well,  in  visiting  our  Western  states, 
fifty  years  ago,  that  one  encountered  in 
traveling  scarcely  a  person  who  did  not 
eat  with  the  knife ;  whereas  now  one 
would  think,  in  hotel  or  steamboat,  that 
every  man  was  born,  not  with  a  silver 
spoon,  but  with  a  silver  fork  in  his  mouth. 
A  friend  of  mine,  in  those  days,  using  a 
choice  phrase  at  a  Western  steamboat 
table  was  hailed  by  an  unexpected  voice  : 
"  That 's  a  very  pretty  word  you  made 
use  of,  stranger.  Would  you  have  the 
goodness  to  repeat  that  word  ?  "  That 
condition  of  things  made  the  popularity 
of  English  novels  at  that  day.  They 
were  handbooks  of  good  manners  for  a 
public  longing  to  be  taught.  Here  were 
twenty-five  million  people  eager  to  learn 


the  manners  of  duchesses.  This  spread 
the  new  fashions ;  in  older  countries, 
dress  was  a  badge  ;  the  cook  would  lose 
her  place  if  she  ventured  to  wear  a  bon- 
net like  that  of  her  mistress.  Here,  if 
the  mistress  objected  to  the  bonnet,  she 
would  lose  her  cook. 

In  all  this  process  of  gradual  develop- 
ment, wealth  naturally  takes  the  lead 
upon  a  path  which  tends,  on  the  whole, 
upward.  The  aristocracy  of  the  dollar 
may  or  may  not  prepare  the  way  for  any- 
thing better  than  its  predecessor,  but  it 
will  have  its  day.  The  aristocracy  of 
birth  yields,  though  reluctantly.  A  story 
is  told  of  an  Englishman  who,  after  a  de- 
lightful chat  with  Thackeray,  whom  he 
met  as  a  stranger  at  a  club  in  London, 
upon  being  told  that  it  was  a  famous 
author  to  whom  he  had  been  talking,  re- 
plied with  surprise,  "  Is  he  an  author  ? 
I  had  taken  him  for  a  gentleman."  So 
Dr.  Johnson,  nearly  two  centuries  ago, 
had  defined  an  English  merchant  as  "  a 
new  species  of  gentleman,"  and  Lord 
Stanhope  said,  with  undoubted  truth, 
that  the  only  trade  in  which  an  English 
gentleman  could  then  engage  was  that 
of  a  wine  merchant.  Travelers  tell  us 
of  an  instance  in  Scotland  where,  at 
dinner  party,  an  upper  servant  was  sent 
round  beforehand  to  inquire  how  many 
acres  of  land  each  guest  had  inherited, 
so  that  they  might  be  arranged  at  the 
table  in  their  proper  order.  How  child- 
ish these  discriminations  appear  in  a  land 
where,  as  the  newspapers  lately  informed 
us,  a  single  resident  of  Rochester,  New 
York,  owned  four  hundred  farms  in  dif- 
ferent states  in  the  Union,  including  tl 
ty-five  thousand  acres  in  the  state  of  Ken- 
tucky alone  ;  or  where,  as  was  stated  not 
long  since,  one  American  citizen  cor 
trolled  two  great  telegraph  lines  acre 
the  continent  and  four  out  of  the  sever 
New  York  daily  papers  ! 

That  the  new  aristocracy  will  have  it 
own  problems  to  meet  is  plain  enougt 
One  great  one  lies  already  in  the  for 
ground.  In  Mr.  Bodley's  France,  ger 


Some  Recent  Aspects  of  Darwinism. 


513 


erally  recognized  as  one  of  the  ablest 
of  modern  social  studies,  he  tells  us  that 
in  all  the  leading  modern  nations,  whether 
styled  republican  or  otherwise,  society 
is  no  longer  complex,  but  has  practical- 
ly become  divided  into  only  two  social 
classes  :  "  that  which  gains  a  livelihood 
by  manual  toil,  and  that  which  earns  a 
living  in  other  ways,  or  subsists  on  the 
interest  of  capital  "  (i.  9).  Is  this  easy 
conclusion  justified  ?  Now  that  mercan- 
tile life  has  come  to  be,  as  in  America, 
a  gentleman's  employment,  who  can  help 
seeing  that  it  only  involves  a  question 
of  time  for  mechanical  occupations  to  re- 
ceive the  same  recognition  ?  Who  can 
go  into  a  machine  shop  of  the  present  day 
without  thinking  how  much  more  of  in- 
tellect dwells  in  those  wheels  and  bands 
than  in  the  majority,  not  merely  of  count- 
ing-rooms, but  even  of  court-rooms  and 
pulpits  ?  Constant  inventive  power  is 
steadily  transforming  trades  into  arts  ; 
the  great  factory  not  only  educates  the 
man  who  runs  it,  but  every  boy  who 
tends  a  lever  or  minds  an  engine.  I  re- 
member that  once,  when  I  approached  at 
evening,  by  a  local  railway  branch,  the 


New  England  village  where  I  was  to  give 
a  lecture,  I  noticed,  as  we  drew  near  the 
station,  an  eager  interest  and  mutual  con- 
ference among  the  passengers,  joined 
with  an  air  of  evident  pride  and  exulta- 
tion. I  was  at  last  approached  by  the 
conductor,  who  had  evidently  noted  me, 
with  the  inquiry  whether  I  was  the  lec- 
turer expected.  On  my  assenting,  his 
face  lighted  up  as  he  eagerly  told  me  the 
fact  which  had  evidently  thrilled  every 
breast.  "  You  may  not  be  aware,  sir," 
he  said,  "  that  the  president  of  the  lecture 
association  has  been  called  out  of  town, 
and  that  the  vice  president  who  is  to  pre- 
sent you  to  the  audience  is  the  engineer 
of  this  very  train  !  "  When  the  time 
came,  no  President  of  the  United  States 
could  have  introduced  a  guest  with  more 
propriety  and  dignity  than  did  this  rail- 
way engineer ;  and  when  I  left  that  little 
town  at  dawn,  he  honored  me  with  a  seat 
beside  him  on  the  locomotive,  —  his  own 
lecture  platform.  I  felt  for  an  hour,  in 
the  glory  of  the  swift  motion  and  of  that 
winter  sunrise,  as  if  the  whole  problem 
of  democracy  were  solved  and  the  future 
of  the  republic  were  secure. 

Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson. 


SOME   RECENT  ASPECTS   OF  DARWINISM.1 


FOB  us  who  have  grown  up  since  1859, 
the  doctrine  of  the  Origin  of  Species 
has  become  so  far  one  of  those  things 
quod  semjjer,  quod  omnibus,  quod  ubique 
creditum  est,  that  we  waken  from  our 
dogmatic  slumbers  with  something  of  a 
start  to  find  that,  of  three  recent  books 
which  touch  upon  Darwinism,  two  are 

1  Doubts  about  Darwinism.  By  A  SEMI- 
DARWINIAN.  New  York :  Longmans,  Green 
&  Co.  1903. 

Evolution  and  Adaptation.  By  THOMAS 
HUNT  MORGAN,  Ph.  D.  New  York:  The 
Maemillan  Co.  1903. 

Variation  in  Animals  and  Plants.     By  H.  M. 

VOL.  xcin.  —  NO.  558.  33 


frankly  skeptical  as  to  the  sufficiency  of 
Natural  Selection. 

The  fact  is,  however,  that  the  Darwin- 
ian, along  with  his  other  troubles,  has 
always  had  to  face  one  serious  dilemma. 
Seeking  to  discover  why,  if  there  must 
be  living  beings  in  the  world,  there  should 
be  so  very  many  different  kinds,  he 

VERNON,  M.  A.,  M.  D.     New  York:   Henry 
Holt  &  Co.     1903. 

Mendel's  Principles  of  Heredity,  a  Defence. 
With  a  Translation  of  Mendel's  Original  Papers 
on  Hybridization.  By  W.  BATESON,  M.  A., 
F.  R.  S.  Cambridge,  at  the  University  Press. 
1902. 


514 


Some  Recent  Aspects  of  Darwinism. 


seizes  —  not  unreasonably  —  upon  the 
little  differences  as  the  starting-point  for 
the  big  ones.  He  sees  that,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  no  two  leaves  on  the  same  oak 
are  exactly  alike,  and  no  two  oaks  have 
just  the  same  average  leaf.  Almost  in- 
evitably he  imagines  that  ten  thousand 
of  these  minute  differences  have  been 
lumped  together  to  make  the  greater 
ones  which  distinguish  red  oak  leaves 
from  white.  Thus  far  the  Darwinian  is 
one  with  all  evolutionists.  He  parts 
company  with  the  others  only  on  the 
question  of  causes.  Darwin's  great  dis- 
covery was  Natural  Selection ;  a  con- 
venient short-hand  expression  —  though, 
as  experience  has  shown,  a  very  confus- 
ing one  —  for  the  interaction  of  several 
causes,  which  together  integrate  little 
differences  into  larger  ones.  The  Dar- 
winian, then,  attributes  a  great  part  of 
the  multiform  variety  of  living  beings, 
and  the  adaptation  of  each  to  its,  special 
place  in  the  world,  to  the  continued  se- 
lection of  such  small  variations  as  are 
seen  to  occur  in  nature.  But,  unfortu- 
nately for  the  logic  of  his  case,  there 
are  two  sorts  of  these  variations.  There 
are,  in  the  first  place,  those  innumerable 
slight  differences  which  hardly  serve  to 
distinguish  one  creature  from  another. 
There  are,  besides,  those  occasional  and 
greater  unlikenesses  between  parent  and 
offspring  —  such  as  the  double  paws  of 
the  house  cat —  which  it  is  now  the  fash- 
ion to  call  discontinuous  variations  or 
mutations.  If  now  the  Darwinian,  called 
upon  to  declare  which  of  these  two  kinds 
of  variation  has  furnished  the  raw  mate- 
rial for  selection,  alleges  the  commoner 
sort,  he  is  immediately  told  that  no  new 
organ  can  possibly  arise  from  these,  be- 
cause they  are  always  too  small  for  se- 
lection to  seize  upon.  Survival,  he  is 
informed,  is  a  matter  of  real  fitness,  of 
having  or  not  having  some  important 
quality,  not  a  question  of  a  little  more 
here  and  a  little  less  there.  If,  on  the 
other  hand,  he  takes  to  citing  cases  of 
greater  departures,  he  must  meet  the 


objection  that  these  are  always  so  fe\ 
that  they  are,  of  necessity,  promptlj 
swamped  by  intercrossing.  What  if  it 
portant  mutations  do  occur  once  in 
thousand  times,  who  can  find  a  trace 
any  of  them  after  ten  generations  ! 

Darwin  himself  saw  this  difficulty  quit 
as  clearly  as  anybody.     With  character 
istic  disregard  of  merely  formal  consic 
erations,  he  rested  his  case  on  the  fact 
There  are,  he  said  in  effect,  practically 
these  two  sorts  of  variation.     Gardener 
and  breeders  have  actually  used  one  kinc 
or  the  other  to  produce  all  the  countle 
varieties  of  pigeons,  dogs,  horses,  cattle 
fruits,    flowering    plants,  and    the    rest 
Whatever  man  has  done,  Nature  has  done 
also,   on   a   larger   scale,  by   the   saint 
means.     The    origin    of    any  partici 
natural  species,  or  of  any  prize-winning 
artificial  stock,  by  selection  of  one  sort  of 
variants  or  the  other,  is  a  matter  of  de 
tailed  evidence,  and  is  not  to  be  discus 
on  general  grounds.     It  was  a  case 
solvitur  ambidando,  and  on  that  basis 
Darwin    converted    the   world.     Wher 
however,  it  came   to  threshing  out  tl 
evidence  for  individual  cases,  Darwin,  ii 
general,  put  most  stress  on  the  commom 
sort  of   variation.     When   this  did  nc 
seem  to  meet  the  case,  he  fell  back  or 
the  other  kind  in  a  way  that  made  sor 
of  his  opponents  say  that  he  was  playing 
fast  and  loose  with  the  whole  questioi 
and  many  of  his  supporters  feel  that  he 
had  not,  after  all,  quite  met  the  whol 
difficulty.     When  all  has  been  said,  ar 
ficial  races  are  not  exactly  the  same 
natural  species.     Then,  too,  the  analog 
between  Nature  and  the  gardener  anc 
breeder  breaks  down  at  the  wrong  point 
since  Nature  cannot  segregate  her  single 
favored  individual  by  transplanting  it 
another  bed,  or  shutting  it  up  in  a  bos 
stall.     In  spite,  therefore,  of  a  great  deal 
of  very  ingenious  reasoning,  the  old  di- 
lemma, under  one  form  or  another,  has 
remained,  to  be  the  basis  of  pretty  much 
every  reasonable  objection  which  has  ever 
been  urged  against  Natural   Selection, 


Some  Recent  Aspects  of  Darwinism. 


515 


except  only  those  which  spring  out  of 
that  other  plague  of  the  Darwinian,  the 
too  numerous  cases  of  imperfect  adjust- 
ment to  environment. 

For  about  a  generation  following  the 
publication  of  the  Origin,  writers  on  evo- 
lution were  inclined  to  content  them- 
selves with  constructing  ingenious  theo- 
ries on  the  basis  of  Darwin's  evidence, 
piecing  out  one  untested  hypothesis  with 
another,  and,  in  general,  following  a  dia- 
lectical method  which  fairly  merited  Mr. 
Bateson's  sarcastic  paraphrase  :  "  '  If,' 
say  we  with  much  circumlocution,  '  the 
course  of  Nature  followed  the  lines  we 
have  suggested,  then,  in  short,  it  did.'  " 
As  he  put  the  case  ten  years  ago :  — 

"  So  far,  indeed,  are  the  interpreters 
of  Evolution  from  adding  to  this  [Dar- 
win's] store  of  facts,  that  in  their  hands 
the  original  stock  becomes  even  less,  un- 
til only  the  most  striking  remain.  It  is 
wearisome  to  watch  the  persistence  with 
which  these  are  revived  for  the  purpose 
of  each  new  theorist.  How  well  we  know 
the  offspring  of  Lord  Morton's  mare,  the 
bitch  Sappho,  the  Sebright  Bantams, 
the  Himalaya  Rabbit  with  pink  eyes,  the 
white  Cats  with  their  blue  eyes,  and  the 
rest !  Perhaps  the  time  has  come  when 
even  these  splendid  observations  cannot 
be  made  to  show  much  more.  Surely 
their  use  is  now  rather  to  point  the  di- 
rection in  which  we  must  go  for  new 
facts." 

The  last  decade  has  changed  all  this. 
A  few  of  the  younger  men  who  have 
come  up  since  the  days  of  ignorance  have 
turned  their  backs  upon  the  older  ques- 
tions, and  have  gone  to  work  on  the  two 
great  presuppositions  of  Darwinism,  he- 
redity and  variation,  making  them  always 
a  question  of  fact,  and  not  of  logic,  in  a 
way  that  would  have  delighted  Darwin's 
heart.  As  a  result  of  this  work,  unless 
all  signs  fail,  the  next  few  years  should 
see  an  advance  in  the  theory  of  evolution 
comparable  with  that  which  is  just  now 
making  the  physicist  the  thaumaturgist 
of  science. 


Variation  is,  therefore,  except  for  Dar- 
win's work,  almost  a  new  subject ;  so 
new,  that  important  facts  concerning  the 
commonest  animals  and  plants  are  still 
ungathered.  Indeed,  so  inconsiderable 
is  the  amount  which  has  yet  been  written 
from  the  modern  standpoint,  and  that  lit- 
tle is  so  easily  come  at,  that  almost  any 
one  who  enjoys  play  ing  with  mathematics, 
or  any  amateur  gardener  with  a  turn  for 
experimenting,  can,  with  a  few  months' 
reading,  put  himself  in  the  way  of  mak- 
ing worthy  contributions  to  science. 

Luckily,  too,  for  all  writers  on  heredi- 
ty and  variation,  and  perhaps  still  more 
fortunately  for  the  interest  of  their  read- 
ers, the  two  turn  out  to  be,  not,  as  used 
to  be  said,  two  antagonistic  principles, 
but  merely  different  aspects  of  the  same 
problem.  Nature  seems  always  to  be 
striving  to  give  to  each  creature  seed  af- 
ter its  kind.  She  never  quite  succeeds, 
and,  in  so  far  as  she  fails,  we  call  her 
failure  variation.  She  rarely  fails  seri- 
ously, and  such  measure  of  success  as 
she  attains  we  term  heredity.  A  single 
illustration  will  serve  to  show  how  close 
the  two  stand  to  each  other  and  to  every- 
day life.  It  must  be  a  matter  of  common 
observation  that  different  parts  of  the 
body  are  so  correlated  that,  for  example, 
long  arms  nearly  always  accompany  long 
legs,  and  usually  a  long  face  also.  Mod- 
ern standards  of  accuracy,  however,  de- 
mand something  more  definite  than  gen- 
eral impressions  that  certain  things  are 
apt  to  occur  together.  So  the  powerful 
mathematical  analysis,  which  is  perhaps 
the  most  distinctive  feature  of  recent 
work  in  this  field,  has  yielded,  among 
other  things,  the  index  of  correlation,  a 
convenient  numerical  measure  of  the 
strength  of  the  tie  between  the  variations 
of  any  two  organs  of  the  body.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  index  of  correlation  for 
the  same  organs  between  parent  and  off- 
spring is  a  measure  of  the  force  of  hered- 
ity. Professor  Karl  Pearson  finds  that 
this  correlation  is  least  between  mother 
and  daughter,  somewhat  greater  between 


516 


Some  Recent  Aspects  of  Darwinism. 


mother  and  son,  greater  still  between 
father  and  daughter,  and  greatest  of  all 
between  father  and  son.  Thus  it  appears 
—  and  this  is  corroborated  by  other  evi- 
dence —  that  men  not  only  transmit  more 
to  their  children  of  either  sex  than  do 
women,  but  also  inherit  more  even  from 
their  mothers ;  a  striking  justification 
of  our  immemorial  emphasis  on  inherit- 
ance in  the  male  line.  Per  contra,  if 
women  inherit  less  from  their  fathers  and 
grandfathers,  by  so  much  more  are  they 
the  daughters  of  the  race.  Professor 
Pearson's  discovery  recalls  a  piece  of  bio- 
logical speculation  —  out  of  fashion  now 
and  much  frowned  upon  in  certain  quar- 
ters —  to  the  effect  that  males  furnish 
everywhere  the  variable  and  progressive 
element  of  a  species,  while  the  great 
stream  of  racial  inheritance  flows  through 
the  females ;  a  theory  which  would  ex- 
plain the  differences  between  men  and 
women  by  supposing  that  in  the  one  Na- 
ture tries  her  little  fliers,  in  the  other,  she 
salts  down  her  gains. 

For  the  anonymous  author  of  Doubts 
about  Darwinism  the  old  dilemma  still 
offers  nothing  better  than  a  choice  of 
horns  on  which  to  spit  himself,  in  spite 
of  all  the  good  work  of  the  last  dozen 
years,  with  which,  to  be  sure,  he  shows 
no  very  striking  acquaintance.  Like  the 
worthy  clergymen  who,  a  generation  ago, 
used  to  refute  the  evolutionists  on  the 
basis  of  a  sight  acquaintance  with  the 
commoner  domestic  animals,  the  "  Semi- 
Darwinian  "  can  only  fall  back  on  a 
special  act  of  creative  energy  whenever 
he  finds  a  "  gap."  It  is  always  possible, 
of  course,  that  the  teleologist  is  right, 
though  even  his  ready-made  explanation 
has  its  own  difficulties.  Teleology,  how- 
ever, is  not  science  ;  and  there  never 
would  have  been  any  science  if  men  had 
been  contented  with  giving  the  easy  ex- 
planation, —  as  there  never  was  any  un- 
til they  stopped  giving  it. 

For  the  two  naturalists,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  way  out  of  the  old  difficulty 
lies  through  the  newer  studies  of  inher- 


itance and  variation.  But  the  two  au- 
thors tend  so  far  to  opposite  opinions  on 
most  theoretical  questions  that  they  are, 
in  a  general  way,  the  spokesmen  for  the 
somewhat  diverse  schools  into  which  stu- 
dents of  the  double  problem  are  dividec 
by  the  two  sorts  of  variation.  Dr.  Vernon 
gives  an  account  of  all  important  discov- 
eries in  variation,  heredity,  adaptation, 
and  related  subjects  since  Darwin,  with 
so  much  of  Darwin's  own  work  as 
necessary  for  a  background.  But  while 
he  treats  all  aspects  of  the  question  in 
due  proportion,  his  chief  interest  is  wit 
the  stricter  Darwinism  which  puts  moa 
stress  on  normal  variation.  Professor 
Morgan  comes  to  his  somewhat  unorthe 
dox  opinions  by  way  of  the  remarkable 
studies  in  the  regeneration  of  lost  parts, 
an  account  of  which  he  brought  out  two 
years  ago.  So  that  his  first  concern  is 
with  the  problem  of  adaptation,  where 
incidentally  he  disposes  most  effective- 
ly of  the  teleology  of  the  Semi-Darwin- 
ian. For  him  the  study  of  discontinu- 
ous variations  and  their  inheritance  has 
been  the  most  significant  aspect  of  recent 
work.  Both  authors,  therefore,  cover  a 
good  deal  the  same  ground ;  Professor 
Morgan  with  the  more  critical  attitude 
and  the  greater  interest  in  the  general 
question,  Dr.  Vernon  with  more  attention 
to  new  facts  and  methods  for  their  owi 
sake.  He  assumes  that  his  public  is 
ready  on  reading  terms  with  Darwii 
while  Professor  Morgan  begins  at  tl 
beginning,  and  devotes  half  his  space 
matters  which  the  other  takes  for  grant 
ed.  Dr.  Vernon  is,  on  the  whole,  the 
easier  reading ;  largely  because  his  col 
lection  of  facts  is  many  times  greater ;  ir 
some  degree  because,  as  a  general  rule 
English  men  of  science  write  better  tbj 
Americans.  Between  the  two,  model 
aspects  of  organic  evolution  get  pret 
well  discussed. 

But  to  return  to  our  old  dilemma 
There  is,  from  the  side  of  continuous  va 
riation,  a  great  deal  which  goes  to  she 
that,  all  theory  aside,  Natural  Selectk 


Some  Recent  Aspects  of  Darwinism. 


517 


does  seize  on  small  differences  which 
seem  to  us  of  no  great  importance,  and 
does  use  them  to  hold  one  species  to  its 
most  efficient  form,  or  to  modify  another 
to  fit  a  new  set  of  conditions.  To  take 
but  one  example  out  of  many,  Dr.  Bum- 
pus  found  that  of  136  storm-beaten  Eng- 
lish sparrows,  the  72  that  revived  differed 
appreciably  from  the  64  that  died.  In 
general,  theaberrantindividuals  perished, 
and  those  nearest  the  typical  size  and 
shape  survived.  But  besides  this,  the 
survivors  were  shorter  and  lighter  than 
the  others,  longer  of  leg  and  breast-bone, 
and  larger  of  skull.  Yet  who  would  not 
have  said  a  priori  that  half  a  gram  more 
of  average  weight  would  not  be  rather 
an  advantage  than  otherwise  when  it 
came  to  weathering  a  storm,  or  that  a 
little  inferiority  in  length  of  leg  could 
possibly  make  the  slightest  difference  one 
way  or  the  other  !  Still  more  striking, 
perhaps,  is  the  case  of  Mr.  Weldon's 
crabs,  in  which  Natural  Selection  is 
modifying  a  species  under  our  very  eyes. 
It  appears  from  measurements  of  thou- 
sands of  individuals,  and  after  all  ima- 
ginable precautions  for  avoiding  error, 
that  the  small  shore  crab  of  Plymouth 
Sound,  England,  is  growing  narrower  of 
body,  the  ratio  of  breadth  to  length  fall- 
ing off  about  two  per  cent  in  five  years. 
This  change  is  due  to  the  selective  de- 
struction of  the  broader  individuals  under 
the  rapidly  changing  conditions  of  their 
environment.  As  the  water  of  the  Sound 
becomes  dirtier  year  by  year  with  the 
growth  of  the  cities  near  by,  the  narrow- 
er crabs  are  slightly  better  able  to  filter 
it  through  their  gill-chambers,  and  have, 
therefore,  by  so  much  the  advantage  over 
the  others  in  the  struggle  for  existence. 
And  since  their  days,  on  the  average,  are 
longer  in  the  water  than  their  competi- 
tors', they  leave  more  descendants  to  in- 
herit their  advantage,  with  the  result  that 
the  race,  continually  recruited  from  the 
offspring  of  the  "  fitter  "  individuals,  is 
maintaining  itself  in  a  situation  where 
many  species  once  common  have  been 


exterminated.  The  obvious  conclusion  is 
that  here  are  the  beginnings  of  two  new 
species.  Given  time  enough,  there  should 
be  a  new  sparrow  to  fit  American  wea- 
ther, and  a  new  crab  to  fit  the  mud  of 
Plymouth  Sound.  It  is  easy  enough  for 
the  philosopher  to  say  offhand  that  the  se- 
lection of  such  little  differences  can  never 
go  beyond  the  production  of  local  races  ; 
but  how,  after  all,  does  he  know  ? 

On  the  other  hand,  from  the  side  of 
discontinuous  variation,  we  have  learned 
that  almost  any  plant  or  animal  may  sud- 
denly exhibit  new  characters.  A  perfect 
tulip  appears  with  all  its  parts  arranged 
by  fours,  when,  by  all  precedent,  they 
should  go  by  threes ;  and  we  men,  — 
who  are  sometimes  thought,  very  erro- 
neously, to  be  above  all  bodily  change, 

—  even  we  are  somewhat  given  to  hav- 
ing more  ribs  or  fewer  than  is  thought 
quite  correct,  and  six  or  seven  digits  in 
place  of  the  usual  five.     Equally  strik- 
ing facts  of  the  same  sort  were,  of  course, 
known  to  the  older  naturalists.     But  they 
missed  seeing  how  common  they  are  ;  in 
part,  no  doubt,  because  the  analysis  of 
the   idea  of   discontinuity   had   not,  in 
their  day,  shown  that  variation  may  be 
indefinitely  small  and  yet  entirely  dis- 
continuous.    Size  in  man,  for  example,  is 
one  of  the  most  variable  qualities  known, 

—  the  dime-museum  giant  is  well  up  to 
ten  times  the  weight  of  the  dwarf,  —  but 
the  variation  is  continuous,  in  the  sense 
that  all  intermediate  sizes  occur,  and  those 
nearest  the  mean  are  most  numerous. 
Eye-color,  on  the  other  hand,  though  a 
very  small  and  unimportant  matter,  is 
discontinuous.     Nearly  all  eyes  can  be 
assigned  at  a  glance  either  to  the  brown- 
black    group  or  to   the  gray-blue-green 
group.     Eyes,  therefore,  are  either  dark 
or  light,  almost  never  intermediate.    Not 
only,  therefore,  do  we  now  know  that 
abrupt  variation  is  very  much  more  com- 
mon than  used  ever  to  be  suspected,  but 
we  have,  besides,  good  reason  to  think 
that  almost  any  species,  after  plodding 
quietly  along  for  ages,  may,  all  of  a  sud- 


518 


Some  Recent  Aspects  of  Darwinism. 


den,  take  to  varying  in  the  most  unex- 
pected manner.  Once  a  species  gets  to 
kicking  over  the  traces,  the  new  forms 
are  likely  to  come  with  a  rush,  and  the 
same  mutation  to  appear  independently 
over  and  over  again.  De  Vries,  study- 
ing mutations  of  the  evening  primrose, 
found  among  50,000  plants  in  eight 
generations,  359  of  one  "  incipient  spe- 
cies," 229  of  another,  158  of  a  third, 
and  smaller  numbers  of  four  more,  all 
distinct  and  self-consistent.  Moreover, 
two  of  these  new  primroses  grew  wild, 
and  maintained  themselves  under  natural 
conditions  unswamped  by  intercrossing 
with  the  stock  from  which  they  came. 

By  all  the  rules  of  logic,  half-a-dozen 
plants  or  animals  of  a  new  variety  breed- 
ing freely  with  a  hundred  times  their 
numbers  of  the  older  sort  ought  short- 
ly to  disappear.  The  reason  why  they 
do  not  is  that  a  discontinuous  variant 
is  likely  to  transmit  its  peculiarity  com- 
pletely, or  else  not  at  all.  Though  Dar- 
win knew  this  in  a  general  way,  the  first 
accurate  statement  of  the  matter,  like 
many  another  fertile  idea,  came  from 
Mr.  Francis  Galton.  Galton  pointed  out 
long  ago  that  there  are  at  least  three 
kinds  of  heredity,  shown  conveniently 
in  the  transmission  of  coat-color  among 
horses.  If  a  pure  white  horse  is  mated 
with  a  pure  black  one,  the  colt  may  fol- 
low one  parent  to  the  exclusion  of  the 
other,  and  be  entirely  black  or  entirely 
white,  the  missing  color  remaining  la- 
tent, to  appear,  perhaps,  in  a  subsequent 
generation.  This  is  alternative  or  discon- 
tinuous inheritance.  The  latent  quality 
is  now  termed  "  recessive  ;  "  the  other 
"  dominant."  Or  the  colt  may  fuse  com- 
pletely the  parental  qualities  and  be  gray, 
—  blended  or  continuous  inheritance. 
Or  it  may  exhibit  both  colors  unblend- 
ed, as  a  black  and  white  piebald,  — 
particulate  or  mosaic  inheritance.  The 
observer  of  mankind  will  easily  recall  a 
sufficiency  of  cases  of  the  two  extreme 
sorts.  We  expect  children  to  be  blends 
of  the  diverse  qualities  of  their  parents, 


and  usually  do  find  them  a  hodgepodge 
of  ancestral  characters,  —  the  nose  of  one, 
the  temper  of  another,  on  the  average 
copying  their  forbears  in  due  propor- 
tion ;  but  as  to  separate  qualities,  the 
heirs  of  single  individuals.  Striking 
physical  peculiarities  and  unusual  mental 
gifts  are  thought  to  be  very  liable  to  en- 
tail, and  to  come  down  through  half-a- 
dozen  generations  unblended  and  unim- 
paired. Good  cases  of  mosaic  inherit- 
ance are  not  so  common.  Eye-color  is 
almost  always  a  discontinuous  heritage, 
but  once  in  a  while  an  iris  is  flecked 
with  two  colors,  or  marked  with  two  con- 
centric bands,  and,  more  rarely,  the  two 
eyes  of  a  pair  are  not  mates. 

All  these  facts  had,  of  course,  been 
known  time  out  of  mind.  Galton,  how- 
ever, analyzed  the  matter  and  provided  a 
terminology.  He  also  taught  the  world 
not  to  mix  the  evidence  for  different 
sorts  of  inheritance,  and  he  formulated 
his  Law  of  Ancestral  Heredity,  the  most 
important  contribution  to  the  theory  of 
the  subject  up  to  the  last  year  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  With  that  year  came 
the  final  discovery  which  was  to  gather 
up  and  interpret  a  thousand  scattered 
facts,  the  final  chapter  of  a  story  which 
began  a  generation  before. 

Gregor  Mendel  was  Abbot  of  Brilnn 
in  Moravia  when  Darwin  was  at  work  on 
the  Origin.  He  does  not  appear  to  have 
had  any  unusual  interest  in  the  problem 
of  evolution  ;  indeed,  his  main  concern 
was  with  an  essentially  pre-Darwinian 
question,  —  the  nature  of  plant  hybrids. 
With  this  problem  as  an  avocation  from 
his  serious  clerical  duties,  the  abbot  busied 
himself  in  the  garden  of  his  cloister ; 
a  leisurely,  clear-headed,  middle-aged 
churchman  in  whom  a  great  scientist  was 
spoiled.  For  eight  years  he  experimented 
with  varieties  of  the  common  pea,  and 
in  1865  communicated  to  the  Society  of 
Naturalists  in  Brtlnn  the  substance  of  the 
discovery  which  is  hereafter  to  be  known 
as  Mendel's  Law,  "  the  greatest  discov- 
ery in  biology  since  Darwin."  Unfortu- 


Some  Recent  Aspects  of  Darwinism. 


519 


nately,  at  that  time,  the  Brilnn  Society, 
like  the  rest  of  the  world,  had  other 
things  on  its  mind.  The  controversy 
over  Darwin  and  avolution  was  then 
merrily  under  way,  and  the  world 
promptly  forgot  the  one  thing  which  was 
needed  to  complete  Darwin's  work.  He, 
it  is  clear,  never  saw  Mendel's  paper. 
If  he  had,  a  good  many  books  would 
have  remained  unwritten.  Mendel  him- 
self appears  never  to  have  understood 
the  full  value  of  his  own  idea.  Except 
for  one  short  paper  written  in  1869  he 
made  no  effort  to  follow  the  matter  out, 
and  devoted  the  remaining  twenty  years 
of  his  life  to  theology  and  the  weather,  — 
fields  where  his  great  talent  for  experi- 
ment could  hardly  have  had  free  vent. 
He  died  in  1884  with  no  suspicion  that, 
within  twenty  years,  his  modest  paper 
would  stand  alongside  of  Animals  and 
Plants  and  Natural  Inheritance,  and  him- 
self, as  a  student  of  heredity,  with  Dais 
win  and  Gallon.  Somehow  or  other, 
Mendel's  discovery  escaped  attention  un- 
til four  years  ago,  when  De  Vries  reached 
it  independently.  Two  years  later  Mr. 
Bateson,  who  had  been  among  the  first  to 
realize  its  significance,  made  a  translation 
of  the  two  original  papers ;  this,  together 
with  his  somewhat  hasty  commentary,  is 
the  basis  of  Professor  Morgan's  excellent 
though  brief  account,  and,  in  part,  of  Dr. 
Vernon's  less  satisfactory  one.  Since 
then,  Mendel's  Law  has  been  found  to 
hold  for  a  considerable  number  of  cases, 
both  among  animals  and  plants,  but 
most  unaccountably  not  to  work  for  a  few 
others  ;  so  that,  as  yet,  no  one  knows  how 
nearly  universal  it  may  prove  to  be,  nor 
how  it  is  to  be  reconciled  with  the  older 
Law  of  Ancestral  Heredity  of  Galton. 
Its  latest  important  aspect  is  an  ingen- 
ious attempt  to  apply  it  to  the  inheritance 
of  that  commonest  and  most  obscure  of 
all  discontinuities,  —  sex. 

One  illustration  will  serve  to  make 
clear  the  practical  workings  of  Men- 
del's principle.  If  a  single  rough-coated 
guinea-pig  of  either  sex  be  introduced 


into  a  colony  of  normal  smooth-coated 
individuals,  all  its  offspring  of  the  first 
generation  will  be  rough-coated  like  it- 
self. In  the  next  generation,  if  one  of 
the  parents  is  smooth  and  the  other 
rough,  the  young  will  be  half  of  one  sort 
and  half  of  the  other,  but  if  both  parents 
are  rough,  three  quarters  will  take  the 
"  dominant "  rough  coat.  In  the  next, 
and  all  subsequent  generations,  one  half 
of  those  rough-coated  individuals  which 
had  one  smooth-coated  grandparent,  and 
one  third  of  those  which  had  two  smooth- 
coated  grandparents,  which  were  not 
mated,  will  drop  out  the  "  recessive " 
smooth-coatedness,  and  become,  in  all  re- 
spects, like  their  original  rough-coated 
progenitor,  even  to  having  only  rough- 
coated  young,  no  matter  what  their  mates 
may  have.  Thus  Mendel's  Law,  though 
by  no  means  simple,  is  very  precise. 
The  essential  part  of  his  great  discovery 
is  that  in  each  generation  of  plants  or 
animals  of  mixed  ancestry,  a  definite 
proportion  lose  one  half  of  their  mingled 
heritage,  and  revert,  in  equal  numbers, 
to  one  or  other  of  the  pure  types.  As 
a  corollary  to  this  there  is  also  the  dis- 
covery that  there  may  be,  as  among  our 
guinea-pigs,  two  sorts  of  individuals, 
alike  in  outward  appearance,  but  funda- 
mentally different  in  having  or  lacking 
a  latent  quality  which,  when  it  exists, 
becomes  patent  again  in  a  fixed  propor- 
tion of  their  offspring.  Apparently  in 
about  one  case  out  of  two  in  which  Men- 
del's Law  holds,  the  new  quality  or  organ 
of  a  mutation  is  "  dominant "  over  the 
old  one,  like  the  rough  coat  of  the  guinea- 
pig  over  the  smooth,  and  thereby  gets  a 
fair  chance  to  prove  its  fitness  for  sur- 
vival. 

If  Darwin  had  only  known  this,  how 
easily  he  would  have  disposed  of  objec- 
tions based  on  the  swamping  effects  of 
intercrossing ! 

The  reader  who  follows  out  at  length 
in  the  pages  of  our  two  authors  the  case 
which  I  have  outlined  here,  and  realizes 
that,  in  spite  of  all  logic,  common  varia- 


520 


Some  Recent  Aspects  of  Darwinism. 


tions  are  seized  upon  by  Natural  Selec- 
tion, and  uncommon  ones  not  swamped, 
should  be  convinced  that  the  horns  of  the 
old  dilemma  are  neither  so  long  nor  so 
sharp  as  they  were,  and  that  —  always 
pace  the  Semi-Darwinian  —  one  set  of 
objections  which  used  to  be  urged  against 
Darwinism  can  now  be  fairly  met.  But 
the  reader  of  Professor  Morgan  will  not 
go  very  far  before  he  discovers  that  the 
Origin  of  Species  by  means  of  Discon- 
tinuous Variation  is,  for  him,  no  part  of 
Darwinism. 

Professor  Morgan  is  always  a  formi- 
dable dialectician,  and  when  he  gets  to 
running  amuck  through  Sexual  Selection, 
Germinal  Selection,  Protective  Colora- 
tion, Mimicry,  and  the  rest,  one  comes  to 
realize  how  insecure  are  the  foundations 
of  some  parts  of  our  evolutionary  science. 
Here  is  his  unflattering  opinion  of  Sexual 
Selection :  — 

"It  is  not  shown  in  a  single  one  of 
the  instances  that  the  postulated  cause 
has  really  had  anything  to  do  with  the 
difference  in  question ;  and  the  attempt 
to  show  that  the  theory  is  probable,  by 
pointing  out  the  large  number  of  cases 
which  it  appears  to  account  for,  is  weak- 
ened to  a  very  great  degree  by  the  num- 
ber of  exceptional  cases,  for  which  an 
equally  ready  explanation  of  a  different 
kind  is  forthcoming." 

Weismann,  anent  the  Indian  butterfly, 
Kallima,  which  looks  almost  exactly  like 
a  leaf,  and  is  the  stock  case  of  Protective 
Mimicry,  gets  this  shrewd  thrust :  — 

"Thus  the  philosopher  in  his  closet 
multiplies  and  magnifies  the  difficulties 
for  which  he  is  about  to  offer  a  panacea. 
Had  the  same  amount  of  labor  been  spent 
in  testing  whether  the  life  of  this  butter- 
fly is  so  closely  dependent  on  the  exact 
imitation  of  the  leaf,  we  might  have  been 
spared  the  pains  of  this  elaborate  exor- 
dium. There  are  at  least  some  grounds 
for  suspicion  that  the  whole  case  of  Kal- 
lima is  '  made  up.'  If  this  should  prove 
true,  it  will  be  a  bad  day  for  the  Dar- 
winians, unless  they  fall  back  on  Weis- 


mann's  statement  that  their  theory  is  in- 
sufficient to  prove  a  single  case." 

Unlike  Herbert  Spencer  and  others 
for  whom  Natural  Selection  is  inade- 
quate, Professor  Morgan  does  not  accept 
the  Inheritance  of  Acquired  Characters ; 
so  that,  if  the  orthodox  Darwinians  cut 
rather  a  sorry  figure  on  his  pages,  the 
Lamarckians  and  other  heretics  will 
hardly  feel  like  grinning  at  their  discom- 
fiture. 

"  These  experiments  of  Brown  -  S&- 
quard,  and  of  those  who  have  repeated 
them,  may  appear  to  give  a  brilliant  ex- 
perimental confirmation  of  the  Lamarck- 
ian  position ;  yet  I  think,  if  I  were  a 
JLamarckian,  I  should  feel  very  uncom- 
fortable to  have  the  best  evidence  in 
support  of  the  theory  come  from  this 
source,  because  there  are  a  number  of 
facts  in  the  results  that  make  them  ap- 
pear as  though  they  might,  after  all,  be 
the  outcome  of  a  transmitted  disease,  as 
Weismann  claims,  rather  than  the  inher- 
itance of  an  acquired  character."  "  Pale- 
ontologists have  been  much  impressed 
by  the  fact  that  Evolution  has  been  along 
the  lines  which  we  might  imagine  that 
it  would  follow  if  the  effects  of  use  and 
disuse  are  inherited.  .  .  .  But,  as  has 
been  said  before,  it  is  not  this  kind  of 
evidence  that  the  theory  is  in  need  of, 
since  Lamarck  himself  gave  an  ample 
supply  of  illustrations.  What  we  need 
is  clear  evidence  that  this  sort  of  inher- 
itance is  possible.  .  .  .  Why  not  then 
spend  a  small  part  of  the  energy,  that 
has  been  used  to  expound  the  theory, 
in  demonstrating  that  such  a  thing  i 
really  possible  ?  One  of  the  chief  virtues 
of  the  Lamarckian  theory  is  that  it  is 
capable  of  experimental  verification  or 
contradiction,  and  who  can  be  expected 
to  furnish  such  proof  if  not  the  Neo-La- 
marckians  ?  " 

Now  while  much  of  this  criticism  is 
admirable,  coming  like  a  fresh  wind  of 
common  sense  and  reality  through  a  re- 
gion of  tinsel  and  gaslight,  much  of  it 
also  serves  but  to  suggest  that  in  Science, 


Notes  on  the  Scarlet  Letter. 


521 


as  in  Theology,  the  inclusive  Catholic 
doctrine  splits  up  into  the  creeds  of  war- 
ring sects,  when  one  article  or  another  is 
unduly  emphasized. 

Darwin  taught  that  species  arise  some- 
times by  the  selection  of  one  kind  of 
variation,  or  the  other,  or  both  ;  some- 
times by  the  inheritance  of  acquired 
characters ;  sometimes  by  the  direct  in- 
fluence of  environment ;  sometimes  by 
discontinuous  variation  without  selec- 
tion ;  and  was  quite  ready  to  admit  any 
other  factor  for  which  there  might  be 
evidence  in  any  particular  case.  Weis- 
mann,  Wallace,  and  the  Neo-Darwin- 
ians,  finding  that  Selection  is  a  good  ex- 
planation in  a  large  number  of  cases, 
straightway  conclude  that  it  is  the  only 
factor,  and  are  prepared  to  excommuni- 
cate everybody  who  agrees  with  Darwin. 
The  Neo-Lamarckians,on  the  other  hand, 
finding  that  the  direct  influence  of  the 
environment  and  the  inheritance  of  ac- 
quired characters  are  often  the  better 
explanations,  decide  that  selection  is  of 
no  particular  importance,  and  set  them- 
selves to  account  for  the  world  without 
it.  Finally  enter  Morgan,  De  Vries,  and 
the  believers  in  the  new  Theory  of  Mu- 
tations, —  which  is  not  so  very  new,  — 
who,  because  Nature  does  get  ahead  per 
saltum,  are  ready  to  shake  off  the  dust 
of  their  feet  at  Neo-Darwinians  and  Neo- 
Lamarckians  alike. 

However,  Professor  Morgan  is  no  very 


violent  sectary,  and,  having  once  flung 
selection  out  at  the  door,  is  quite  willing 
to  let  it  in  again  through  the  window  in 
half-a-dozen  scattered  sentences  like  this, 
which  really  concede  the  whole  case  : 
"  From  this  point  of  view  it  may  appear, 
at  first  thought,  that  the  idea  of  evolu- 
tion through  mutations  involves  a  fun- 
damentally different  view  from  that  of 
the  Darwinian  school  of  selection  ;  but 
in  so  far  as  selection  also  depends  on  the 
spontaneous  appearance  of  fluctuating 
variations,  the  same  point  of  view  is  to 
some  extent  involved,  —  only  the  steps 
are  supposed  to  be  smaller."  As  if  that, 
after  all,  were  of  any  great  consequence  ! 
I  venture,  therefore,  to  interpret  the  Mu- 
tation Theory  as  a  wholesome  reaction 
against  the  extreme  Selectionism  of  Weis- 
mann,  and  one  sign  that  the  world  is  com- 
ing back  to  the  more  moderate  and  saner 
Darwinism  of  Darwin.  Nevertheless, 
when  all  is  said,  Natural  Selection,  in 
some  form  or  other,  would  be  a  logi- 
cal necessity  if  it  were  not  a  matter  of 
fact.  Though  the  future  should  discover 
a  thousand  factors  of  organic  evolution 
Natural  Selection  would  still  be  one  of 
them,  and  Professor  Morgan,  or  any- 
body else,  who  attempts  to  account  for 
the  living  world  without  it,  will  find  that, 
like  Alice  in  the  Looking-Glass  Country, 
when  he  thinks  he  has  at  last  got  out  of 
sight  of  the  house,  he  is  just  walking  in 
at  the  front  door. 

E.  T.  Brewster. 


NOTES  ON  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 


THE  trouble  with  those  who  deny 
Shakespeare's  authorship  of  the  plays 
usually  ascribed  to  him  is  that  they  can- 
not believe  in  a  miracle.  How  can  this 
great  thing  come  out  of  Warwickshire, 

—  a  hundred  miles  away  from  London, 

—  this  son  of  a  wool-comber,  this  truant 
deer-stealer  who  never  saw  Oxford,  yet 


writing  plays  such  as  the  world  had  not 
heard  before  nor  has  heard  since?  It 
was  a  miracle  indeed,  but  of  the  kind 
that  is  all  the  while  happening  in  a  world 
that  is  greatly  in  need  of  what  a  miracle 
only  can  yield.  For  genius  is  a  mira- 
cle; that  is,  it  is  inexplicable.  Balzac,  in 
the  preface  of  Le  Pere  Goriot,  says  that 


522 


Notes  on  the  Scarlet  Letter. 


"  chance  is  the  great  romance-maker  of 
the  ages."  It  might  be  said  that  it  also 
makes  the  romancers,  for  they  appear 
as  by  chance,  —  unheralded  and  without 
apparent  cause.  Here  is  this  boy  Haw- 
thorne, born  in  Salem  a  century  ago, 
son  of  generations  of  shipmasters,  not  a 
touch  of  genius  in  ancestors  or  kindred, 
in  a  community  absorbed  in  commercial- 
ism and  at  that  time  singularly  free  from 
any  flame  at  which  genius  could  kindle 
its  torch.  At  the  age  of  fourteen  he  goes 
to  Maine  to  reside  with  an  uncle  for  a 
time  ;  returns  to  Salem  and  prepares  for 
Bowdoin  College,  where  he  has  Longfel- 
low as  a  classmate  and  Franklin  Pierce 
as  a  friend.  He  proves  to  be  an  indiffer- 
ent scholar,  and  shows  no  signs  of  genius, 
unless  it  be  an  undue  love  of  solitude  and 
a  brooding  disposition  that  might  argue 
either  dullness  or  unusual  intelligence. 
Genius  has  no  clear  signs.  Nothing  her- 
alds it,  and  it  has  no  true  authentication 
until  it  does  some  work  that  stamps  it  as 
its  own. 

The  authentication  came  late  with 
Hawthorne.  Three  years  after  gradu- 
ation in  1825,  he  published  anonymously 
a  short  novel  —  Fanshawe  —  that  had  no 
sale,  and  was  so  slightly  regarded  by  him- 
self that  he  destroyed  most  of  the  first 
edition,  with  the  result  that  not  more 
than  five  copies  are  in  existence.  It  had, 
however,  the  touch  that  is  the  peculiar 
charm  of  his  later  writings.  For  the 
next  ten  or  twelve  years  he  produced 
almost  nothing,  at  least  nothing  commen- 
surate with  the  long  period  of  time  and 
apparent  leisure.  Yet,  he  regarded  lit- 
erature as  his  vocation,  and  was  striving 
to  live  by  his  pen.  He  wrote  a  group  of 
seven  short  stories  which  he  burned,  with 
how  much  wealth  of  genius  in  them  we 
do  not  know.  That  they  were  rejected 
by  seventeen  publishers  is  no  sign  that 
they  lacked  this  subtle  quality.  Nothing 
is  so  elusive  and  so  shy  of  recognition  as 
genius,  for  the  simple  reason  that  there 
is  no  rule  by  which  it  can  be  measured. 
The  publishers  have  a  little  mathemati- 


cal machine  by  which  they  can,  in  a  mo- 
ment, tell  you  how  many  printed  pages 
will  be  required  for  your  bulky  pile  of 
manuscript ;  but  they  have  not  yet  found 
a  machine  that  will  measure  or  even  de- 
tect the  presence  of  that  imponderable 
and  unmeasurable  thing  called  genius. 
The  only  approach  to  such  a  machine  is 
some  rare  human  being  who  happens 
(and  here  the  miracle  again  comes  in) 
to  have  a  spark  of  it  —  latent  or  active 
—  in  his  own  composition.  Doubtless 
these  seven  tales  were  full  of  the  quali- 
ties that  give  priceless  value  to  the  few 
stories  that  are  left.  Nor  is  it  strange 
that  he  did  not  himself  detect  the  divine 
spark  that  glowed  within  them.  Genius 
is  like  the  eye  which  sees  all  things 
except  itself.  Hawthorne  had  a  way 
of  burning  his  productions  whenever  the 
hour  of  weakness  or  self -distrust  —  such 
as  often  visits  men  of  genius  —  came 
to  him.  Mr.  James  T.  Fields  told  the 
writer  —  in  the  sixties  —  that  Haw- 
thorne, having  got  well  into  the  Scarlet 
Letter,  invited  him  to  Salem  to  hear  it 
read.  Hawthorne  was  disposed  to  de- 
stroy it,  and  that  might  have  been  its 
fate  had  not  Mr.  Fields,  who,  better  than 
any  man  of  his  day,  knew  a  book  when 
he  saw  one,  interposed  with  a  publisher's 
authority,  and  so  saved  one  which  Mr. 
Woodberry  —  Hawthorne's  latest  bio- 
grapher —  says  is  u  a  great  and  unique 
romance,  standing  apart  by  itself  in  fic- 
tion ;  there  is  nothing  else  quite  like  it." 
There  is  but  little  to  tell  of  him  bio- 
graphically  ;  and  far  less  concerning  his 
inner  life ;  or,  this  would  be  the  case 
were  it  not  that  a  writer  who  deals  chiefly 
with  the  human  soul,  and  spreads  it  out 
in  scores  of  characters,  cannot  fail  also 
to  reveal  himself.  He  was  shy  to  the 
last  degree,  and  he  early  formed  what  he 
called  "  a  cursed  habit  of  solitude  ;  "  but 
the  accuracy  with  which  he  uncovers  the 
hidden  working  of  the  hearts  of  others 
becomes  a  mirror  in  which  his  own  heart 
is  pictured.  At  first,  one  is  inclined  to 
think  him  a  cold,  impassive  writer,  whc 


Notes  on  the  Scarlet  Letter. 


523 


holds  the  mirror  up  to  Nature,  —  himself 
simply  steadying  it  while  the  artist  looks 
through,  and  declares  what  he  sees.  But 
a  full  reading  somewhat  alters  one's 
opinion  of  him.  It  does  not  follow  that 
the  recluse  is  indifferent  to  humanity ; 
he  may  be  simply  less  gregarious,  or  he 
has  less  need  of  others,  or  finds  his  best 
development  in  solitude,  or  is  called  to 
some  task  that  requires  a  steady  gaze  at 
certain  types  of  life  without  disturbing 
them  with  spoken  words.  It  is  easy  to 
say  that  had  Hawthorne's  contact  with 
the  world  been  closer,  and  had  he  been 
reared  in  a  richer  and  more  complex  so- 
ciety, his  writings  would  have  been  less 
sombre  and  more  varied  in  their  themes. 
Mr.  Henry  James  —  his  severest  critic 
while  a  great  admirer  —  grants  that  the 
simplicity  of  his  life  was  in  his  favor ; 
"  it  helped  him  to  appear  complete  and 
homogeneous."  But  when  Mr.  James 
seems  to  limit  him  by  declaring  that  he 
is  "  intensely  and  vividly  local,"  one 
pauses  to  ask  if  local  color  hinders  uni- 
versality of  treatment.  He  had  the  in- 
dependence and  originality  of  his  own 
genius,  but  he  found  his  subjects  in  New 
England.  His  chief  theme  was  the  play 
of  conscience  under  a  sense  of  sin  and 
guilt.  Now,  nothing  is  truer  than  that 
this  theme  had  wide  illustration  in  New 
England,  and  especially  in  its  theology, 
where  it  was  an  organic  factor.  The 
reality  of  sin ;  its  destructive  effect  on 
character ;  its  doomlike  aspect ;  the  hor- 
rible certainty  of  its  result ;  the  im- 
possibility of  escape  from  it  except  by 
a  special  and  personal  decree  of  God ; 
the  haunting  misery  of  it,  fed  by  uncer- 
tainty as  to  escape  ;  the  tragedy  that  not 
seldom  sprang  out  of  it  in  every  com- 
munity, —  all  this  was  familiar  to  Haw- 
thorne ;  but  it  is  a  singular  fact  that, 
while  treating  the  generic  truth,  he  never 
seriously  touches  the  prevalent  theologi- 
cal aspects  of  it.  It  is  not  the  sin,  nor 
the  guilt,  nor  the  reprobation  of  the  New 
England  theology  exclusively  that  yields 
him  his  themes.  Had  he  established  a 


closer  relation  to  it  in  his  plots,  he  might 
almost  have  been  claimed  as  an  adherent 
or  a  critic  of  it.  But  he  cannot  be  lo- 
cated in  that  region  of  thought.  Neither 
sin,  nor  guilt,  nor  remorse,  belongs  ex- 
clusively to  the  Puritan,  nor  to  any  the- 
ology, though  wrought  into  all.  They 
belong  to  humanity  as  parts  of  its  uni- 
versal problem,  and  it  is  as  such  that 
Hawthorne  treated  them.  Thus  he  es- 
caped the  charge  of  provincialism.  It 
is  no  derogation  to  admit  that  he  was,  in 
one  sense,  provincial,  —  like  Burns  and 
Scott,  —  but  his  genius  was  adequate  to 
his  standing  in  the  broad  field  of  univer- 
sal humanity  in  company  with  the  great 
masters  of  it. 

Why  did  Hawthorne  choose  this  one 
theme,  —  sin  and  its  consequences,  — 
hardly  putting  pen  to  paper  except  to 
set  down  something  bearing  on  it  ?  He 
was  not  what  is  usually  termed  a  reli- 
gious man ;  that  note  was  not  fully  ac- 
centuated in  him ;  though  what  depths 
of  spiritual  feeling  were  hidden  in  that 
never-revealed  heart  let  no  man  attempt 
to  measure.  Nor  did  he  take  an  interest 
in  the  theological  debates  that  clustered 
about  sin.  Orthodox  and  Unitarian  were 
one  or  nothing  with  him ;  their  conten- 
tions will  pass,  —  his  remain  as  new  and 
as  old  as  humanity.  He  took  no  interest 
in  reforms,  and  held  himself  aloof  from 
every  practical  question  of  social  life  and 
activity  except  when  forced  to  it  by  the 
necessity  of  a  livelihood,  —  for  until  he 
was  forty-six  chill  penury  was  his  lot. 
Why,  then,  did  he  choose  sin  as  his  theme  ? 
For  the  same  reason  that  the  great  mas- 
ters in  literature  always  gravitate  to  it. 
The  Hebrews  put  it  into  the  first  pages 
of  their  sacred  books.  Job  chose  it,  and 
set  a  pace  often  followed  but  not  yet 
overtaken.  The  Greeks  built  their  drama 
upon  it.  Shakespeare  and  Goethe  could 
not  justify  their  genius  except  as  over 
and  over  again  they  dealt  with  it.  Dante 
put  it  under  heaven  and  hell  and  all  be- 
tween. Milton  could  find  no  theme  ade- 
quate to  his  genius  but  "  man's  first  dis- 


524 


Notes  on  the  Scarlet  Letter. 


obedience."  Shall  we  say,  then,  that  a 
great  genius  makes  sin  his  theme  because 
it  suits  his  purpose  as  an  artist  ?  Let  us 
not  so  belie  him.  He  takes  it  because  it 
is  the  greatest  theme,  and  also  because  it 
falls  in  either  with  his  convictions  as  in 
the  case  of  Milton,  or  with  his  tempera- 
ment as  in  the  case  of  Hawthorne.  And 
why  is  it  great  ?  Because  it  is  a  violation 
of  the  order  of  the  world,  and  is  the  de- 
feat of  humanity.  It  throws  human  na- 
ture wide  open  to  our  gaze ;  we  look  on 
the  ruin  and  see  man's  greatness  ;  on  his 
misery,  and  so  uncover  pity,  which  be- 
comes a  redeeming  force.  Thus  it  opens 
the  whole  wide  play  of  human  life  in  its 
highest  and  deepest  relations.  Nothing 
so  interests  men  as  their  sins  and  defeats. 
Tragedy  is  born  of  them,  and  tragedy 
fixes  evermore  the  steady  gaze  of  man- 
kind. Genius  is  its  own  interpreter  ;  it 
makes  few  mistakes.  Hawthorne  wrote 
four  novels  and  seven  or  eight  short  sto- 
ries, all  turning  on  sin,  and  he  never  errs 
in  its  analysis,  its  operation,  or  its  effect, 
—  though  he  stops  short  of  finality.  His 
characters  are  infallibly  true  to  them- 
selves. He  is  always  logical.  The  envi- 
ronment suits  the  case  down  to  slightest 
details.  Nature  conforms  to  the  tragedy, 
either  illuminating  or  darkening  the  play 
as  it  goes  on,  but  always  with  rigid  fidel- 
ity. His  entire  work  is  bathed  in  truth. 
Never  does  he  weaken  its  absoluteness 
by  introducing  his  personal  belief,  though 
occasionally,  in  his  Note-Books,  he  gives 
us  a  glimpse  of  himself,  like  this  :  "  When 
I  write  anything  that  I  know  or  suspect 
to  be  morbid,  I  feel  as  though  I  had  told 
a  lie." 

He  has  no  theory  of  his  own ;  it  is 
the  same  old  story:  eating  forbidden 
fruit ;  hiding  from  God ;  losing  Paradise ; 
tempted  of  woman  ;  tempted  of  Satan  ; 
tempted  of  Mammon ;  sowing  to  the 
flesh  and  reaping  corruption ;  a  deceived 
heart  feeding  on  ashes ;  death  the  wages 
of  sin,  —  and  no  clear  glimpse  of  a  way 
out.  If  stated  in  modern  phrase,  it  would 
be  this  :  whatever  a  man  does,  he  does  to 


himself.  There  is  no  profounder  trut 
in  morals  or  religion,  or  in  life  than  this 
The  Puritan  theology  obscured  it  in  it 
doctrine  of  sin  and  of  redemption.  Bot 
were  weakened  by  over-localization  out 
side  of  the  man  himself  —  putting  sin  it 
the  progenitor  of  the  race,  and  redemj 
tion  into  imputation  and  an  expiatoi 
process.  However  uncertainly  these  dc 
trines  are  held  to-day,  they  still  cast 
blinding  shadow  upon  ethics,  and  make 
it  difficult  to  persuade  men  that  whatsc 
ever  they  sow  they  shall  reap. 

It  is  enough  to  say  of  Hawthorne,  at 
this  point,  that  nowhere  in  literature  is 
this  truth  taught  more  clearly,  —  wit 
such  freedom  from  the  alloy  of  dogmatic 
obscuration,  with  such  absence  of  per 
sonal  prejudice,  —  one  might  almost  saj 
of  feeling,  —  with  such  solemnity,  sue 
tragic  force  and  poetic  beauty,  and,  above 
all,  such  closeness  to  life,  as  are  to 
found  in  these  four  novels  and  the  stories 

We  will  take  a  closer  look  at  the  gres 
est  of  them.     What  shall  be  said  of 
Scarlet  Letter ;  where  shall  it  be  k 
ed  in  the  realm  of  Letters  ?     It  is  not 
love  story,  nor  a  romance,  nor  an  alleg 
ry,  nor  a  parable,  nor  a  historical  novel 
though  it  has  something   of   each, 
comes  near  being  a  dogma  set  in  tei 
of  real  life,  and  made  vivid  by  inter 
action ;   but   Hawthorne  cared  nothinj 
for  dogma  of  any  sort.    What  then  si 
it  be  called  ?     It  must  go  without  cl 
fication.    It  is  a  study  of  a  certain  for 
of  sin  made  graphic  by  conditions  bes 
calculated    to    intensify    each    featu 
Mrs.   Hawthorne  said  that  during 
six  months  he  was  writing  it,  his  for 
head  wore  a  knot.    So  will  the  reader's 
if  he  reads  as  carefully  as  Hawthon 
wrote. 

It  was  published  in  1850,  when  Haw- 
thorne was  forty-six  years  of  age.    It  hz 
first  of  all,  this  distinction  :  it  is  —  as  Mr. 
James  says  —  "  the  finest  piece  of  ima 
native  writing  yet  put  forth  in  the  coi 
try."     In  the  half-century  since,  a 


Notes  on  the  Scarlet  Letter. 


525 


and  full  American  literature  has  been 
produced ;  authors  of  high  merit  have 
secured  a  lasting  place  ;  and  others  of 
less  merit  have  given  us  works  of  fiction 
that  sell  almost  by  the  million,  but  none 
that  are  worthy  to  stand  by  the  side  of  this 
short  story  of  sin  and  shame  and  remorse. 
What  is  claimed  for  it  in  this  country  is 
freely  accorded  abroad,  though,  of  course, 
no  comparisons  are  made  with  the  long 
annals  of  English  literature,  where  there 
are  names  that  defy  comparison.  It  is, 
however,  read  more  widely  there  than 
here,  and  is  held  in  steadier  estimate  than 
we  accord,  who  read  as  gregariously  as 
sheep  crop  the  grass.  We  simply  state 
the  consensus  in  which  it  is  held  in  our 
American  world  of  letters  when  we  say 
that  it  is  the  most  consummate  work  in 
literature  yet  produced  in  this  country. 

The  explanation  of  the  permanent 
high  estimate  of  the  Scarlet  Letter  — 
for  it  would  be  as  safe  to  wager  on  it  as 
on  the  Bank  of  England  —  is  the  absolute 
perfection  of  its  art  and  corresponding 
subtilty  and  correctness  of  thought,  and, 
not  least,  a  style  that  both  fascinates  and 
commands.  If  it  is  criticised  on  slight 
points,  —  as  that  it  has  too  much  sym- 
bolism, that  the  story  is  mixed  with 
parable,  and  the  like, — we  grant  or  deny 
as  we  see  fit ;  but  we  brush  all  this  aside, 
we  turn  to  the  book  again  and  close  it 
with  a  sigh,  or  something  deeper  than  a 
sigh,  —  even  thought,  and  pronounce  it 
perfect. 

It  is  a  simple  story,  told  of  a  simple 
age,  Greek  in  its  severity,  having  only 
four  characters  :  a  wife  forgetful  of  her 
vows ;  a  clergyman  forgetful  of  more 
than  his  vows  ;  a  wronged  husband,  left 
in  England,  but  brought  forward  ;  a  lit- 
tle child,  —  these  and  no  more,  save  the 
people,  individually  unimportant,  but  ne- 
cessary to  form  a  background  for  the 
tragedy.  Boston  is  not  yet  half  a  cen- 
tury old,  Puritan  to  the  core,  hot  still 
with  a  hatred  of  the  tyranny  and  sin  it 
had  crossed  the  ocean  to  escape,  governed 
by  the  letter  of  Scripture  wherein  was 


found  the  command  that  an  adulteress 
should  die.  But  some  mercy  had  begun 
to  qualify  the  Hebrew  code,  and  instead 
of  death  or  branding  with  a  hot  iron, 
Hester  Prynne  was  condemned  to  stand 
upon  the  pillory-platform,  wearing  upon 
her  breast  the  letter  A  wrought  in  scar- 
let, not  only  then,  but  ever  after.  With 
her  babe  in  her  arms  she  faces  the  peo- 
ple, and  sees  her  husband  among  them, 
—  an  old  and  learned  man,  —  who  un- 
expectedly appears  and  takes  his  place 
as  an  avenger.  The  real  history  of  the 
tragedy  begins  when  the  young  minis- 
ter, Mr.  Dimmesdale,  is  required  by  the 
magistrate  to  appeal  to  Hester  to  reveal 
the  partner  of  her  guilt.  Dimmesdale 
is  at  no  time  in  the  story  represented 
as  wholly  contemptible.  However  sin- 
ful his  characters  may  be,  Hawthorne  al- 
ways clothes  them  with  a  certain  human 
dignity.  From  the  first  he  is  the  victim 
of  his  sin, — suffering  the  tortures  of  re- 
morse to  a  degree  impossible  to  Hester, 
because  to  the  first  sin  he  added  that  of 
concealment  and  hypocrisy  by  continu- 
ing in  his  holy  office  ;  and,  heavier  than 
all,  was  the  sense  that  he  was  dragging 
the  cause,  in  both  church  and  state,  for 
which  the  colony  was  founded,  down  to 
the  level  of  his  own  degradation.  It 
was  not  for  this  that  Hester,  when  ad- 
jured by  him,  refused  to  make  the  decla- 
ration for  which  he  called,  but  for  love 
only.  The  story,  at  the  outset,  is  lifted 
out  of  all  carnality.  Shame  and  remorse 
have  burned  up  that  dross,  until  in  time 
only  the  capacity  to  suffer  is  left,  while  in 
her  heart  love  remains,  —  pure  always, 
and  made  purer  by  acquiescence  in  her 
punishment  and  the  discipline  of  mother- 
hood. The  story  moves  on,  most  human, 
but  inexorable  as  fate.  The  scarlet  let- 
ter on  Hester's  breast  almost  ceases  to 
do  its  office.  A  sense  of  desert  and  un- 
dying love  and  pity  make  her  shame 
endurable.  But  Dimmesdale  finds  no 
relief.  The  scarlet  letter  burns  itself  into 
his  flesh,  and  he  dies  in  late  confession 
for  love,  if  not  for  his  soul. 


526 


Notes  on  the  Scarlet  Letter. 


It  would  be  difficult  to  find  elsewhere 
so  close  an  analysis  of  the  play  of  the 
soul  in  the  supreme  moments  of  life 
as  that  of  the  leading  characters,  —  all 
brought  to  the  logical  conclusion  of  their 
history.  The  blending  of  spiritual  in- 
sight and  literary  art  forms  one  of  those 
triumphs  the  like  of  which  one  may  look 
for  in  vain  until  one  reaches  the  great 
masters  in  drama.  It  also  suggests  a 
problem  in  theology  that  has  vexed  the 
souls  of  men  from  the  beginning,  and 
will  continue  to  vex  them  so  long  as  sin 
and  conscience  stand  opposed  to  each 
other.  The  problem  is  that  of  forgive- 
ness :  is  it  ever  fully  won  ?  The  plot 
goes  no  further  than  their  contrasted  des- 
tiny. The  curtain  drops  when  the  chief 
actor  dies.  If  here  and  there  it  is  lifted 
for  a  moment,  or  swept  aside  by  some 
gust  of  irrepressible  grief,  it  springs 
from  hope,  not  from  the  main  purpose. 
It  is  in  Hester  that  riddance  from  sin 
comes  nearest  a  possibility.  Her  accept- 
ance and  patient  endurance  of  her  pen- 
alty, without  suffering  it  wholly  to  break 
her  heart  or  her  will,  become  a  natural 
and  real  atonement  that  yields,  if  not 
peace,  something  of  more  value.  The 
current  of  her  life  ran  on  in  its  natural 
channel  in  the  light  of  day,  before  the 
eyes  of  the  people.  The  contrast  at  the 
last  between  her  strength  and  his  weak- 
ness was  not  between  a  strong  woman 
and  a  weak  man,  —  each  such  by  na- 
ture, —  but  between  them  as  each  came 
to  be  under  the  discipline  of  the  seven 
years  of  experience  so  differently  borne. 
Dimmesdale  was  not  originally  a  weak 
man  ;  had  he  been,  the  story  would  have 
lost  point  and  emphasis,  and  would  have 
sunk  to  the  level  of  a  vulgar  scandal  of 
every-day  life.  Hawthorne  quickly  lifts 
the  narrative  out  of  that  region,  and  con- 
fines it  to  the  world  where  only  moral  and 
spiritual  forces  fill  the  stage.  But  under 
the  concealment  of  his  sin  Dimmesdale 
gave  way  at  every  point ;  all  the  sources 
of  his  strength  were  dried  up  by  the  hy- 
pocrisy in  which  he  had  wrapped  him- 


self, and  he  grew  steadily  weaker,  while 
Hester  gained  a  certain  robustness  of  wil 
without   loss  of    her  love.     Hawthorn* 
here  comes  very  near  preaching.  Indee( 
he  seldom  does  anything  else ;  it  is  the 
function  of  genius  to  preach.     Give  hir 
a  text,  put  on  him  the  Geneva  gown,  am 
you  have  a  preacher  of  universal  ortho- 
doxy fulfilling  his   calling   with   awful 
veracity. 

But  Hawthorne  will  not  allow  the 
tragedy  to  sink  into  the  hopelessness  of 
reprobation,  —  not  that  he  cared  for  the 
doctrine  one  way  or  the  other,  but,  as  an 
interpreter  of  evil  and  as  a  literary  ar 
tist,  he  could  not  leave  Dimmesdale  al 
solutely  where  his  sin  placed  him  ;  for, 
in  one  character,  he  saw  that  evil,  simply 
because  it  is  evil,  is  a  mystery,  and  as 
an  artist  he  could  not  map  out  human 
passion  in  mathematical  lines.  It  had 
stripped  Dimmesdale  of  all  that  was  best 
obscured  his  judgment,  defeated  his  love, 
blinded  him  to  the  distinction  between 
good  and  evil,  overthrown  his  will,  in- 
volved his  body  in  the  sin  of  his  soul, 
and  brought  him  to  the  verge  of  death ; 
but  something  is  left  that  revives  as  soor 
as  he  clasps  the  hand  of  his  child,  and 
—  leaning  on  Hester  —  he  mounts  the 
scaffold  where  she  at  first  had  stood  alone 
and  taken  on  herself  the  punishment  he 
should  have  shared  with  her.  Under  his 
decision  to  confess  he  revives,  and  begins 
to  move  aright.  The  scene  changes. 
Each  character  is  transformed.  Confes 
sion  begins  to  do  its  work.  A  far  step 
is  taken  in  the  next  word  :  '"Is  not  this 
better,'  murmured  he,  '  than  what  w€ 
dreamed  of  in  the  forest  ? '  "  —  meaning 
flight  together,  at  Hester's  suggestion, 
for  his  sake.  Here  he  regains  something 
of  himself ;  better  to  die  a  true  man  than 
to  flee  a  false  one.  Hester  can  see  the 
matter  in  but  one  light.  She  had  slow- 
ly worked  out  a  conscious  redemptioi 
through  "  shame,  despair,  and  solitude." 
She  had  not  sunk  to  his  depth,  and  she 
could  not  rise  to  the  height  to  whicl 
confession  was  lifting  him.  She  cannc 


Notes  on  the  Scarlet  Letter, 


527 


escape  the  constraint  of  her  love  and 
pity.  She  had  freed  herself  ;  she  thought 
she  could  free  him.  "  '  I  know  not,'  she 
replied.  '  Better  ?  yea :  so  we  may  both 
die,  and  little  Pearl  die  with  us ! ' '  In 
Hester  the  passion  of  love  dominates  ; 
let  it  be  death  if  we  can  die  together; 
but  in  him  the  passion  of  a  soul  achiev- 
ing deliverance  from  sin  in  the  only  pos- 
sible way  is  stronger,  and  he  is  ready 
to  die  even  if  it  be  alone.  He  exults  in 
the  confession  he  is  about  to  make  before 
the  people.  It  is  the  fifty-first  Psalm 
over  again.  Had  Hawthorne  read  St. 
Augustine  ?  Or  was  it  the  insight  of 
genius  brooding  in  long  silence  on  the 
way  of  a  guilty  soul  emerging  from  the 
hell  of  measureless  sin  ?  Nowhere  does 
Hawthorne  rise  so  high  in  tragic  skill 
and  power  as  in  the  confession  that  fol- 
lows when  Dimmesdale  uncovers  his 
breast  and  shows  burnt  into  his  flesh  the 
letter  Hester  had  worn  openly  upon  her 
bosom.  Here  are  the  stigmata  of  the 
early  saints,  brought  out  by  sin  instead 
of  by  self-absorption  in  the  crucified  One. 
The  final  and  only  atonement  is  made, 
and  he  sinks  upon  the  scaffold  to  die. 
Forgiving  his  tormentor  whom  he  had 
wronged,  he  turns  to  his  child  where  the 
tragedy  completes  itself. 

Pearl  is  the  one  consummate  flower  of 
Hawthorne's  genius,  —  unsurpassed  by 
himself  and  absolutely  original.  There 
is  woven  into  her  the  entire  history  of 
these  two  suffering  but  diverse  souls, 
which  she  must  fulfill  and  yet  preserve 
her  perfect  childhood.  She  sets  forth 
the  sin  of  her  parents  without  a  trace  of 
its  guilt,  yet  reflects  the  moral  chaos  in 
which  it  had  involved  her.  This  is  done 
with  matchless  art :  —  "an  elf  child,"  the 
people  called  her,  passing  from  one  mood 
to  another  as  though  a  double  nature, 
an  Undine  as  yet  without  soul,  but  rest- 
less because  it  is  withheld ;  or,  as  Mr. 
Dimmesdale  himself  had  described  her, 
having  no  "  discoverable  principle  of  be- 
ing save  the  freedom  of  a  broken  law ;  " 
and  there  is  added  a  far-reaching  word : 


"  whether  capable  of  good,  I  know  not." 
Hawthorne  does  not  here  hint  at  inher- 
itance of  natural  disposition,  but  has  in 
mind  a  possible  transmission  of  the  con- 
fusion springing  out  of  a  violation  of  the 
moral  order.  It  was  not  a  dream  of  hu- 
man love  that  passed  into  her  being,  but 
something  stronger  than  love. 

His  thought  here  runs  very  deep.  This 
child  of  guilty  passion  inherited  not  the 
passion,  but  a  protesting  conscience  that 
always  put  her  at  odds  with  herself. 
As  Chillingworth  was  the  malignant 
conscience  that  destroyed  Dimmesdale, 
Pearl  was  the  natural  conscience  that 
wholesomely  chastened  her  mother  so 
long  as  the  inevitable  penalty  lasted. 
This  ministration  is  strikingly  brought 
out  in  the  profoundest  chapter  of  the 
book,  where  Hester's  inner  life  is  dis- 
closed. One  is  tempted,  as  one  follows 
it,  to  ask  if  Hawthorne  suffered  his  own 
thoughts  to  wander  into  the  region  where 
the  question  of  woman's  place  and  rights 
in  human  society  was  undergoing  heated 
discussion.  The  din  of  it  filled  his  ears 
unless  he  closed  them,  as  he  usually  did 
when  anything  like  reform  met  them. 
But  in  this  tender  and  sympathetic  chap- 
ter he  tells  where  Hester's  thoughts  often 
led  her,  and  where  she  surely  would  have 
followed  them  had  she  been  free  to  ful- 
fill her  dreams.  It  certainly  was  where 
his  thoughts  would  not  have  gone.  But 
as  in  Tennyson's  Princess  a  child  solved 
the  problem,  so  here  Pearl  and  mother- 
hood dispelled  her  dreams  and  kept  her 
within  the  lines  of  natural  duty.  In 
every  case  Pearl  dominates  the  situation, 
whether  she  be  regarded  as  a  symbolized 
conscience  or  as  a  child.  The  story 
throughout  is  a  drama  of  the  spirit ;  the 
real  and  the  spiritual  play  back  and 
forth  with  something  more  than  met- 
aphor, for  each  is  both  real  and  spirit- 
ual. She  is  woven  with  endless  symbol- 
ism into  every  page  ;  from  the  first  wail 
in  the  prison  where  she  was  born,  the 
child  sets  the  keynote  and  keeps  it  to 
the  end.  The  brook  in  the  forest  ran 


528 


Notes  on  the  Scarlet  Letter. 


through  black  shadows  and  through  sun- 
shine, and  babbled  in  two  voices.  " '  What 
does  this  sad  little  brook  say,  mother  ?  ' 
inquired  she.  '  If  thou  hadst  a  sorrow 
of  thine  own,  the  brook  might  tell  thee 
of  it,  even  as  it  is  telling  me  of  mine.' " 
Here  is  a  sermon  in  running  brooks  deep- 
er than  the  Duke  heard,  —  the  response 
of  nature  to  the  inner  spirit  of  man. 

But  this  contradiction  that  ran  through 
the  child  passes  away  as  soon  as  the 
purpose  of  confession  enters  the  heart 
of  Dimmesdale,  whom  before  she  had 
shunned  so  long  as  he  and  her  mother 
talked  of  flight.  As  the  two  meet  upon 
the  scaffold  after  treading  their  bitter 
but  diverse  paths,  and  become  spiritually 
one  through  this  confession,  the  child 
mingles  her  life  with  theirs  through  the 
truth  that  now  invests  them,  and  proves 
that  "  she  has  a  heart  by  breaking  it." 
Here  we  have  the  purest  idealism,  Greek 
in  the  delicacy  of  its  allusions,  and  He- 
brew in  its  ethical  sincerity.  What 
Hawthorne  has  in  mind  all  along  is  that 
a  sin  involving  hypocrisy  can  in  no  way 
be  undone  or  gotten  over  except  by  con- 
fession, and  so  getting  back  into  the 
truth.  Dramatic  art  requires  that  it 
shall  involve  all  the  actors,  —  Chilling- 
worth  as  well  as  Hester.  Though  a 
wronged  husband,  he  was  fiendish  in  his 
revenge,  and  as  false  as  Dimmesdale. 
Any  other  writer  of  Romance  would 
have  hurled  him  to  a  doom  of  fire  or 
flood.  But  Hawthorne  has  other  uses 
for  him.  He  is  the  malignant  conscience 
of  Dimmesdale  as  Pearl  is  the  beneficent 
conscience  of  Hester.  All  the  dramatis 
personae  must  be  subdued  into  the  like- 
ness of  the  common  motive  ;  and  so  Haw- 
thorne places  Chillingworth  on  the  scaf- 
fold, where  the  mingled  atmosphere  of 
unconquerable  love  and  repentance  en- 
folds him.  He  calls  it  a  defeat ;  "  thou 
hast  escaped  me,"  he  said  to  Dimmes- 
dale ;  but  it  was  more  than  defeat.  Haw- 
thorne leaves  room  for  the  thought  at 
least  that  something  of  good  found  its 
way  into  his  poor  soul  and  stayed  there. 


We  must  acquit  Hawthorne  here,  and 
on  every  other  page  of  his  works,  fror 
aiming  at  mere  effect,  but  we  cannot  fail 
to  see  that  in  this  last  scene  he  come 
near  losing  himself  and  letting  his  pitj 
carry  him  beyond  the  point  where  the 
logic  of  his  story  left  Dimmesdale ;  for 
to  have  wholly  absolved  him  from  his  sir 
would  have  carried  the  writer  beyonc 
his  purpose  to  unfold  the  working  oi 
broken  law,  —  a  thing  not  to  be  tamperec 
with  by  an  over-sympathetic  pen.  Haw- 
thorne was  neither  a  skeptic,  nor  a  pes- 
simist, nor  a  cold-hearted  man ;  he  ws 
widely  the  reverse  of  each.  It  was  the 
intensity  of  his  faith  in  the  moral  laws 
and  in  the  reality  of  goodness,  and  the 
delicacy  and  strength  of  his  sympathy, 
that  made  him  capable  of  writing  in  at 
unfailing  strain  of  justice  tempered,  but 
not  set  aside,  by  pity. 

But  behind  these  qualities  was 
artistic  sense,  which  —  in  a  great  man  — 
is  one  with  his  power  and  insight,  and 
he  could  write  only  what  he  saw  and 
knew ;  for  art  is  authoritative.  Tennyson 
was  once  asked  why  he  did  not  give  In 
Memoriam  a  happier  ending,  —  a  Para- 
diso  with  its  vision  of  God  instead  of  a 
great  hope  only.  He  replied,  "  I  have 
written  what  I  have  felt  and  known,  and 
I  will  never  write  anything  else."  Haw- 
thorne could  say  the  same  of  himself ; 
and  we  might  add  that  his  sense  of  art, 
as  well  as  his  sense  of  truth,  held  him  in 
leash.  His  reserve,  however  tempera- 
mental, is  a  sign  of  his  consummate  skill 
as  a  literary  artist.  On  what  page,  ii 
what  sentence,  does  he  fall  short  ?  The 
reader  turns  over  the  last  page  and  fe 
verishly  demands  the  next  scene  in  tl 
tragedy,  but  finds  only  hints  or  nothing 
at  all ;  the  characters  sink  back  int 
the  mystery  from  which  they  emerget 
They  move  like  spirits  in  a  world  ui 
real  except  as  their  truth  makes  it  res 
Hence  their  intangibleness ;  they  haunt 
one  in  the  guise  of  the  quality  they  se 
forth,  but  beyond  that  they  do  not  exist 
They  stand  for  no  person,  but  only  fc 


Notes  on  the  Scarlet  Letter. 


529 


some  law  —  kept  or  broken  —  which 
they  symbolize.  There  is  no  Dimmes- 
dale,  nor  Hester,  nor  Pearl,  nor  Chilling- 
worth,  but  only  shadows  of  broken  law 
working  out  its  consequences  in  ways  of 
penalty  wrought  into  the  Eternal  Order. 
They  stay  but  a  moment,  and  —  like  a 
faded  pageant  —  disappear ;  but  while 
they  stay,  the  deepest  meanings  of  life 
are  set  before  us  in  forms  of  transcendent 
power,  and  become  permanent  in  our- 
selves. 

This  ready  impartation  of  ideas  is 
everywhere  a  marked  feature  of  Haw- 
thorne's works,  due  to  the  absolute  sin- 
cerity of  their  ethical  elements,  their  per- 
fection of  literary  form,  and  their  per- 
vasive humanity.  To  doubt  the  last 
factor  is  to  rob  his  genius  of  its  main- 
spring. The  severity  of  his  treatment 
grows  out  of  the  accuracy  of  his  logic. 
He  deals  with  mystery  and,  therefore, 
says  little,  only  enough  to  show  that 
whatever  a  man  does  he  does  to  himself  ; 
that  obedience  is  light,  and  disobedience 
is  darkness  in  which,  because  nothing 
can  be  seen,  there  is  nothing  to  be  said. 

Still,  Hawthorne  does  not  hold  it  to  be 
contrary  to  his  opinions  or  his  art  to  suf- 
fer gleams  of  hope  to  illumine  even  the 
darkest  of  his  pages.  With  a  masterly 
touch  at  the  very  beginning  of  the  Scar- 
let Letter,  he  expressly  states  this  to  be 
a  feature  of  the  story  he  is  about  to  tell. 
He  puts  by  the  door  of  the  prison,  where 
Hester  was  confined,  "  a  wild  rosebush," 
and  says,  "  it  may  serve,  let  us  hope,  to 
symbolize  some  sweet  moral  blossom, 
that  may  be  found  along  the  track,  or 
relieve  the  darkening  close  of  a  tale  of 
human  frailty  and  sorrow."  Therefore, 
in  the  last  scene  there  are  almost  fore- 
casts of  a  good  outcome.  "  In  the  child 
the  spell  that  drove  her  apart  from  her 
father  is  broken,  and  with  tears  she  kisses 
his  dying  lips.  Hester  raises  the  un- 
conquerable question  of  love  :  "  '  Shall 
we  not  spend  our  immortal  life  together  ? 
Thou  lookest  far  into  eternity  with  those 
bright  dying  eyes  !  Then  tell  me  what 

VOL.  xcni.  —  NO.  558.  34 


thou  seest  ?  ' '  Hester  was  mistaken. 
Her  cleansed  eyes  could  see,  but  his  could 
not  with  any  certainty  ;  he  had  lived  in 
the  dark  too  long  for  clear  vision.  And 
yet  Hawthorne  will  not  hide  the  end  be- 
hind so  dark  a  pall.  The  rose  at  the 
prison  door  blossoms  into  a  hope.  The 
moralizing  of  the  great  master  is  not  for- 
gotten :  "  There  is  some  soul  of  goodness 
in  things  evil."  Dimmesdale  remembers 
that  there  is  recovery  through  suffering, 
and  that  it  is  a  sign  of  mercy.  Having  set 
his  ignominy  before  the  people,  his  death 
becomes  triumphant,  and  he  departs  with 
words  of  praise  and  submission.  Still, 
Hawthorne  will  neither  assert  nor  deny, 
but  leaves  each  to  read  the  story  in  his 
own  way. 

It  is  not  well  to  look  for  a  doctrine  in 
this  masterly  and  carefully  balanced  pic- 
ture. Hawthorne  did  not  intend  one ; 
he  drew  from  a  broader  field  than  that 
of  dogma.  One  may  hope  where  one  can- 
not well  believe.  Belief  is  special ;  hope 
is  universal.  Dimmesdale  stated  his 
own  case  correctly,  —  a  confused  and  con- 
flicting statement,  because  having  long 
lived  a  lie  its  bewildering  confusion  im- 
pregnated all  his  thought.  In  Hester  life 
has  done  its  worst  and  its  best,  and,  brood- 
ed over  continually  by  truth,  she  emerges 
clear-eyed,  and  sees  —  shall  we  say  hea- 
ven or  hell  ?  —  She  cared  not,  so  long  as 
she  could  be  with  him.  One  is  here  re- 
minded of  Dante's  Francesca  in  the  In- 
ferno, "  swept  about  the  never  resting 
blast  "  of  hell  with  Paolo,  —  her  only 
consolation  being  that  they  would  never 
be  separated.  Mr.  Dinsmore,  who  calls 
attention  to  this  resemblance  in  his  able 
book,  the  Teachings  of  Dante,  thinks  that 
Hawthorne  —  not  having  then  learned 
Italian  —  came  to  it  alone.  It  may  well 
be  so,  for  it  is  the  quality  of  love  to  tran- 
scend all  motives  beside  its  own  ;  and  not 
seldom  does  it  cast  itself  with  loss  of  all 
that  it  has  in  time  or  eternity,  for  so  it 
chooses,  rather  than  give  up  itself,  —  not 
voluptuous  love,  but  that  spiritual  passion 
which  makes  of  two  souls  one.  They 


530 


Notes  on  the  Scarlet  Letter. 


have  no  life  if  they  are  separated.  Such 
was  Hester's  love.  Penance  had  not 
weakened,  but  rather  had  refined  it,  until 
its  spiritual  essence  only  was  left  with 
its  commanding  power.  This  Hawthorne 
sees  by  the  light  of  his  own  genius.  But 
to  unwind  the  thread  of  human  fault,  and 
hold  it  up  so  that  it  shall  shine  in  a 
brighter  color,  is  a  task  that  he  hints  at, 
but  does  not  attempt. 

Still,  he  touches  sin  with  a  firm  hand, 
and  traces  it  without  flinching  to  the 
point  where  it  culminates,  —  always  the 
same ;  it  separates  man  from  God  and 
his  fellows,  and  at  last  from  himself  ;  it 
returns  in  retribution,  and  the  evil  he  has 
done  to  others  he  does  to  himself.  A 
casual  reading  may  set  this  down  as  a 
Puritan  dogma.  It  is  Puritan,  but  it  is 
universal  before  it  is  Puritan.  Haw- 
thorne in  his  greater  works  touched  no- 
thing that  was  only  and  distinctively 
Puritan.  His  characters  wear  the  garb, 
but  underneath  is  simply  the  human  soul. 
This  distinction  is  to  be  made  because 
it  helps  to  a  right  understanding  of  the 
book,  and  redeems  both  it  and  its  author 
from  the  charge  of  provincialism,  —  a 
derogation  not  to  be  made  concerning  a 
genius  whose  province  lay  among  themes 
as  broad  and  universal  as  human  nature. 

Hawthorne  put  no  unmeaning  words 
into  the  Scarlet  Letter,  and  the  question 
may  arise  how  far  he  intended  to  include 
Chillingworth  in  the  scene  of  redemption 
on  the  scaffold,  —  for  such  it  may  be 
called.  The  answer  must  be  found  in  Chil- 
lingworth's  exclamation  :  "Thou  hast 
defeated  me  !  "  Why  did  he  say  that  ? 
Because  Dimmesdale  had  taken  himself 
out  of  the  world  of  lies,  and  put  himself 
into  the  hands  of  the  God  of  truth,  and 
thus  brought  not  only  himself,  but  all 
about  him,  under  the  redeeming  influ- 
ences that  filled  the  air,  for  even  the 
people  went  home,  as  it  were,  smiting 
their  breasts.  If  the  story  be  a  parable, 
the  harassing  conscience  must  be  set  at 
rest ;  it  is  defeated,  and  Chillingworth  no 
longer  has  a  vocation.  Dimmesdale  had 


done  what  he  had  advised  him  to  do: 
"Wouldst  thou  have  me  to  believe,  0 
wise  and  pious  friend,  that  a  false  sho 
can  be  better  —  can  be  more  for  God 
glory,  or  man's  welfare  —  than    God 
own  truth  ?  "     His  advice,  given  in 
swer  to   Dimmesdale's   specious  palte 
ing  with  an  eternal  reality,  deepened 
victim's  agony  and  so  fed  his  revenge 
but  when  acted  on,  his  patient  passed 
yond  his  reach.     He  had  gone  deep 
than  he  knew,  and  had  brought  to  t 
surface  a  spiritual  power  that  outm 
tered  his  own.     Shall  we  say  that  Ha 
thorne  did  not  intend  to  hint  that  Chi 
lingworth  came  under  this  greater  pow 
and  that,  finding  himself  a  defeated  m 
through  his  own  suggestion,  he  felt  i 
divineness  ?     He  utters  no  word  of  m 
ice,  no  confident  boast,  no  plan  of 
ther  revenge.    Instead,  what  else  is  see 
of  him  is  beneficent,  and  in  accord  with 
a  nature  originally  sound  and  high-mind- 
ed.    Along  with  others,  he  has  been  in- 
volved in  a  furious  storm  of  human  p; 
sion,  but  it  passes  by  when  truth  wi 
the  victory.     Hawthorne,  like  the  co 
summate  artist  that  he  is,  never  asse 
or  paints  in  full,  but  only  intimates  an 
leaves  the  rest  to  the  reader ;  and  so  we 
may  believe  that  the  tragedy  pauses  at 
the  door  of  Chillingworth.     At  the  close 
Hawthorne  plays  uncertainly  and  with 
jest  over  this  strange  yet  natural  charac- 
ter.   Chillingworth  is  reduced  to  nothin 
ness  and  withers  away,  —  a  logical  en 
but  he  reappears  in  a  new  light  as  enric 
ing  Hester  and  Pearl,  —  a  strange  thing 
to  do  unless  some  goodness  is  left  in  him. 
Then  the  author  jests  and  sends  him 
erally  to  the  devil  where  "  he  would  fin 
tasks  enough,"  and  receive  "his  wages 
duly."     If  Hawthorne  ever  falters  it  is 
when  he  plays  between  the  Parable  and 
the  Romance.     Here  he  drops  the  for- 
mer, and  ends  his  story  —  in  Walter  Scott 
fashion  —  with  a  word  for  each.     Evi- 
dently he  writes  with  a  weary  pen,  yet 
not  with  an  unpitying  heart.     In  the  next 
sentence  he  would  fain  be  merciful  to  "  all 


Notes  on  the  Scarlet  Letter. 


531 


these  shadowy  beings,  so  long  our  near 
acquaintances,  —  as  well  Roger  Chilling- 
worth  as  his  companions  ;  "  and  finally, 
after  a  bit  of  psychological  byplay,  by  no 
means  serious,  —  on  the  possible  identity 
at  bottom  of  hatred  and  love,  —  raises  the 
question  whether  the  old  physician  and 
the  minister  may  not  find  "  their  earthly 
stock  of  hatred  and  antipathy  transmit- 
ted into  golden  love."  Thus,  though  the 
Scarlet  Letter  is  a  sad  book,  the  author 
would  not  leave  it  black  with  hopeless 
sorrow.  Even  as  an  artist  Hawthorne 
knew  better  than  to  paint  his  canvas  in 
sober  colors  only  ;  and  as  a  man  he  had 
no  right  to  bruise  the  human  heart  with 
needless  pain.  Sad  as  the  Scarlet  Let- 
ter is,  we  need  not  think  him  forgetful  of 
Madame  Necker's  saying  that "  the  novel 
should  paint  a  possible  better  world." 
But  if  better,  it  can  be  such  only  through 
truth  and  never  through  lies. 

What  renders  the  Scarlet  Letter  one 
of  the  greatest  of  books  is  the  sleuth- 
hound  thoroughness  with  which  sin  is 
traced  up  and  down  and  into  every  cor- 
ner of  the  heart  and  life,  and  even  into 
nature,  where  it  transforms  all  things. 
Shakespeare  paints  with  a  larger  brush, 
and  sets  it  in  great  tragic  happenings ; 
but  its  windings,  the  subtle  infusion  of 
itself  into  every  faculty  and  impressing 
itself  upon  outward  things,  are  left  for 
Hawthorne's  unapproachable  skill.  This 
leads  us  to  speak  of  the  criticism  of 
Mr.  Henry  James  upon  the  twelfth  chap- 
ter, where  the  story  reaches  its  climax. 
Dimmesdale  and  Hester  and  Pearl  stand 
at  night  upon  the  scaffold,  where  Hester 
had  stood  alone  with  her  babe  seven 
years  before.  His  remorse  had  reached 
its  lowest  depth  ;  its  sting  lay  in  the  fact 
that  she  wore  the  scarlet  letter  while  he 
went  clad  in  robes  of  unquestioned  sanc- 
tity. It  is  the  letter  that  torments  him, 
and  carries  the  guilt  and  shame  of  the 
whole  bitter  history.  He  has  come  into 
a  condition  where,  because  he  can  think 
of  nothing  else,  he  can  see  nothing  else. 


A  meteor  flashes  across  the  black  sky 
and  paints  upon  a  cloud  the  fatal  letter. 
A  page  of  magnificent  writing  describes 
the  objective  picture  and  the  heart  within 
which  only  it  exists.  Mr.  James  regards 
it  as  overworked,  and,  along  with  a  gen- 
eral charge  of  the  same  over-doing  here 
and  there,  intimates  that  the  author  "  is 
in  danger  of  crossing  the  line  that  sepa- 
rates the  sublime  from  its  intimate  neigh- 
bor." That  Hawthorne  should  be  termed 
ridiculous  after  being  described  as  "  a 
thin  New  Englander  with  a  miasmatic 
conscience  "  should  occasion  no  surprise. 
It  shows  how  wide  apart  are  the  realist 
and  the  idealist  ;  and  also  how  much 
nearer  the  idealist  comes  to  the  facts  of 
the  case  in  hand. 

That  Dimmesdale  should  transfer 
what  he  saw  and  felt  within  to  the  exter- 
nal world  is  a  well-known  psychological 
possibility ;  and  we  appeal  from  the  real- 
ist to  his  brother  the  psychologist,  who 
says  in  his  recent  book  that  "  it  is  one 
of  the  peculiarities  of  invasions  from  the 
sub-conscious  region  to  take  on  objective 
appearances."  It  is  needless  to  say  that 
literature,  from  the  Bible  down,  abounds 
in  this  transfer  of  inward  feeling  to  out- 
ward form.  When  Balaam  had  sold  his 
prophetic  gift  for  a  price,  it  was  not  the 
ass  that  rebuked  him,  but  his  own  smiting 
conscience.  It  was  not  the  witches,  but 
Macbeth,  who  sang,  "  Fair  is  foul,  and 
foul  is  fair,"  —  after  which  all  things 
were  inverted :  his  thoughts  became 
ghosts  and  daggers  and  a  knocking  at  the 
gate  like  thunders  of  doom.  Lady  Mac- 
beth can  see  nothing  but  blood  on  her 
white  hands.  Beckford  in  his  Vathek 
(where  possibly  Hawthorne  found  the 
suggestion  of  Dimmesdale's  habit  of  pla- 
cing his  hand  upon  his  heart)  made  the 
dwellers  in  the  Hall  of  Eblis  happy  in 
all  things  except  that  each  held  his  hand 
over  his  heart,  which  had  become  "  a 
receptacle  of  eternal  fire."  Mr.  James 
seems  to  underestimate  the  mental  con- 
dition into  which  Dimmesdale  has  fallen ; 
he  strikes  the  key  of  the  tragedy  too  low, 


532 


Notes  on  the  Scarlet  Letter. 


and  refers  what  he  regards  as  excessive 
to  Hawthorne's  Puritanism.  Now,  Puri- 
tanism is  a  capacious  thing,  but  it  cannot 
hold  all  that  is  cast  into  it ;  and  much 
is  set  down  to  its  credit  that  belongs  to 
a  false  conception  of  it.  Mr.  James,  in 
his  able  biography,  insists  on  two  things, 
to  which  we  have  already  referred,  as 
explanatory  of  Hawthorne ;  that  he  was 
provincial,  and  that  he  was  largely  in- 
fluenced by  his  Puritan  blood.  Each 
is  to  be  taken  with  due  allowance.  Of 
course,  every  man,  however  great  his 
genius,  strikes  his  roots  down  into  native 
soil  and  draws  his  life  from  such  air  as 
is  about  him.  Something  of  root  and 
air  will  enter  into  his  mental  composi- 
tion, and  in  some  measure  he  will  think 
with  or  from  his  environment,  and  his 
heart  will  throb  with  ancestral  blood. 
But  it  is  a  quality  of  genius  that  it  is  not 
subject  to  such  limitations.  Genius  be- 
longs to  the  domain  of  nature  ;  it  is  cos- 
mic, spiritual,  universal.  It  treats  these 
limitations  in  one  of  three  ways  :  it  lifts 
them  into  their  ideals ;  it  transcends 
them ;  or  it  extracts  their  thin  essence 
or  spirit.  The  last  may  be  said  of  Haw- 
thorne. Little  of  Puritanism  remained 
in  him  except  its  spirituality,  by  which 
we  mean  its  profound  sense  of  the  reality 
of  moral  law.  Much  that  is  set  down 
to  him  as  Puritan  was  a  family  idiosyn- 
crasy, —  an  individualism  that  passed  all 
the  bounds  of  early  or  later  Puritanism. 
It  favored,  however,  the  play  of  his  gen- 
ius in  its  chosen  field. 

To  regard  him  as  provincial  because 
Salem  was  provincial,  or  because  habits 
were  simple  in  Massachusetts  in  the  first 
half  of  the  century,  is  to  miss  the  source 
of  his  strongest  quality.  Hawthorne,  by 
virtue  of  his  brooding  solitude  and  the 
lofty  character  of  his  thought,  which  was 
rooted  in  his  own  peculiar  genius  and 
was  fed  by  an  imagination  that  had  no 
need  to  go  outside  of  itself  for  ideas  or 
theories,  was  shut  off  from  provincialism 
save  perhaps  in  some  matters  of  personal 
habit.  The  nearest  sign  of  it  was  an  in- 


tense love  of  New  England  and  indiffer- 
ence to  the  mother  country  where  he  had 
lived  for  years,  —  an  unweaned  child  of 
his  native  land.  There  is  more  in  him 
that  offsets  Puritanism  than  identifies 
him  with  it.  In  fact,  it  outdid  itself,  as 
has  continually  happened,  and  created  in 
Hawthorne  an  individualism  that  sepa- 
rated him  from  itself.  A  system  whose 
central  principle  is  individualism  cannot 
count  upon  holding  together  its  own  ad- 
herents. It  is  by  its  own  nature  centri- 
fugal, though  none  the  worse  for  that ; 
it  makes  man  a  denizen  of  the  heavens 
rather  than  of  this  mundane  sphere.  But 
the  way  is  long,  and  at  great  cost  is  it 
trod. 

It  is  Hawthorne's  peculiarity  that  he 
cannot  be  identified  with  any  school  of 
thought.  He  was  a  recluse  down  to  the 
last  fibre.  He  did  not  hate  men,  but  he 
would  not  mingle  with  them.  He  was 
shy,  but  in  a  lofty  way.  Any  real  alli- 
ance in  thought  or  action  with  others 
was  impossible  to  him.  His  individual- 
ism was  absolute,  but  it  was  tempera- 
mental. Socially  he  was  closely  iden- 
tified with  the  transcendental  way 
thinking,  but  it  found  no  access  to 
mind.  He  and  Emerson  were  neighbor 
but  not  intimates.  When  they  walke 
together  in  Concord  they  discussed  the 
weather  and  the  crops,  but  not  philosc 
phy,  nor  religion,  nor  politics.  Oftem 
they  were  silent,  as  great  men,  whc 
know  each  other  as  such,  can  afford 
be.  Tennyson  and  Carlyle  once  sat 
gether  of  an  evening  for  three  hour 
smoking,  and  neither  uttering  a  wor 
except  Carlyle's  good-night :  "  Come 
again,  Alfred ;  we  have  had  a  granc 
time."  This  aloofness  from  men,  anc 
at  the  same  time  this  power  of  draggii 
to  light  the  hidden  secrets  of  their  soul 
is  the  inexplicable  gift  of  genius  ;  it  has 
an  eye  of  its  own ;  one  glance,  and  it 
looks  the  man  through  and  througl 
He  mingled  frequently  with  the  Noi 
Adams  frequenters  of  the  village  tavei 


Notes  on  the  Scarlet  Letter. 


533 


but  he  was  off  on  the  mountain-side, 
among  the  limekilns,  weaving  the 
threads  of  Ethan  Brand.  He  spent  a 
year  at  Brook  Farm,  but  spoke  lightly 
of  its  socialism  and  of  his  own  part  as 
"  chambermaid  to  the  oxen,"  —  a  wasted 
year,  but  it  gave  us  the  Blithedale  Ro- 
mance, which  Mr.  James  places  at  the 
head  of  his  works.  He  hated  Socialism, 
but  Puritanism,  its  opposite,  —  being 
spiritual  and  social  individualism,  —  won 
in  him  no  following  save  as  it  furnished 
him  standing  ground  and  materials  for 
his  work.  Had  he  lived  anywhere  where 
conscience  and  law  had  full  recognition 
and  sin  was  possible,  he  would  have  writ- 
ten in  the  same  strain, — as  in  the  Marble 
Faun,  where  Donatello  serves  his  pur- 
pose as  well  as  Dimmesdaie.  The  crime 
and  its  effect  in  each  belong  to  the  gen- 
eral field  of  ethics,  where  sin  reveals  its 
nature  in  soul  experiences  that  are  com- 
mon to  all  men.  Indeed,  he  has  but 
one  deep  and  permanent  interest:  the 
play  of  conscience  under  sin.  He  is  a 
student  of  the  soul.  He  watches  its  play 
as  a  biologist  watches  an  animal  under 
varying  conditions ;  but  in  each  case  it 
is  the  study  of  a  soul,  —  not  degraded, 
but  only  wounded,  as  it  were,  and  while 
it  is  keen  to  feel,  and  while  the  good 
and  evil  in  it  are  full  of  primal  energy. 
It  is  sometimes  said,  in  halfway  dero- 
gation of  Hawthorne's  genius,  that  his 
tales  are  parables.  Why  should  they 
not  be  so  regarded  ?  It  is  not  easy  to 
escape  the  parable,  in  literature  or  in 
life.  What  are  the  world  and  humanity 
but  parables  of  the  Eternal  Mind  ?  The 
only  question  in  literature  is,  are  the 
parables  well  told  ?  If  they  are,  the 
witness  of  a  vast  company  of  great  au- 
thors in  all  ages  and  tongues  is  theirs. 
Hawthorne  was  full  of  dreams,  fantasies, 
symbols,  and  all  manner  of  spiritual  ne- 
cromancy, —  turning  nature  into  spirit 
and  spirit  back  into  nature,  but  —  how- 
ever wild  the  play  of  his  imagination  — 
the  idea  underlying  it  always  has  three 
characteristics  :  it  is  real,  and  true,  and 


moral.  Hence,  the  Scarlet  Letter,  —  de- 
void of  history  and  of  probability ;  illu- 
sive ;  nature  transformed  to  create  and 
to  receive  meanings  ;  personality  sunk 
in  ideas  and  ideas  made  personal ;  so 
far  away  that  our  hearts  do  not  reach  it 
with  sympathy,  and  it  is  read  with  un- 
wet  eyes,  but  with  thoughts  that  lie  too 
deep  for  tears  ;  —  still  it  is  one  of  the 
truest  and  most  moral  of  books,  because 
the  human  soul  that  lies  behind  it  and 
plays  through  it  is  true  to  itself  whether 
it  does  good  or  evil.  Hawthorne  knew 
evil  under  its  laws.  Neither  sentiment, 
nor  art,  nor  dogma  deflected  him  from 
seeing  the  thing  as  it  is,  and  setting 
it  down  with  relentless  accuracy.  His 
claim  to  genius  would  be  impeached  if 
it  were  not  accurate ;  and  the  reason 
why  it  stands  clear  and  unquestioned  is 
because  no  taint  of  morbidness  nor  Puri- 
tan inheritance  lessens  the  absolute  vera- 
city of  his  estimates.  Each  may  have 
had  something  to  do  with  the  selection 
of  his  subjects,  but  nothing  whatever 
with  his  own  ethical  opinions.  His  lit- 
erary art  and  execution,  faultless  as  they 
are,  would  not  alone  secure  for  him  the 
admiration  and  reverence  of  all  lovers  of 
good  literature.  For,  at  last,  it  is  truth 
alone  for  which  men  care  ;  and  truth 
only  is  strong  enough  to  win  unques- 
tioned and  universal  verdicts. 

And  yet  he  is  criticised  on  the  score 
that  the  Scarlet  Letter,  especially,  is 
sad,  and  sometimes  it  is  added  that  it  is 
pessimistic.  So  are  Lear  and  Balzac's 
Alkahest  sad,  but  neither  deserves  the 
latter  term.  Nothing  in  literature  is 
pessimistic  that  accurately  describes  a 
violation  of  the  order  of  the  world  and 
of  human  life,  if  it  be  in  the  interest 
of  truth  and  justice.  Dimmesdaie  and 
Hester  could  not  escape  the  pangs  they 
suffered ;  they  were  not  going  through 
their  parts  in  a  world  of  pessimism,  but 
in  a  world  of  order  which  they  had  vio- 
lated, and  for  which  they  were  undergo- 
ing inevitable  yet  redemptive  penalty. 
There  is  no  pessimism  so  long  as  the  just 


534 


Notes  on  the  Scarlet  Letter. 


laws  of  society  are  working  normally,  — 
the  very  point  on  which  Hawthorne  in- 
sists, —  however  hard  they  are  bearing 
on  the  individual.  Pessimism  is  an  in- 
dictment of  the  moral  order  of  the  world, 
and  is  essential  atheism.  Hawthorne 
stood  at  the  opposite  pole.  His  main 
function  in  literature  was  to  illustrate 
the  tragical  consequences  of  broken  law 
when  the  law  was  fundamental  in  char- 
acter or  in  society.  He  was  almost  slav- 
ishly logical,  —  putting  Dimmesdale  into 
the  lowest  hell  of  the  Inferno,  and  Hes- 
ter in  Purgatorio,  where  penalty  purities 
and  makes  the  sufferer  glad. 

Absolute  as  was  his  insight,  and  perfect 
as  was  his  art,  he  has  not  escaped  criti- 
cism. There  is  general  agreement  that 
his  pages  are  overcharged  with  symbol- 
ism. But  which  flower  will  you  uproot  in 
that  garden  "  of  a  thousand  hues,"  though 
"  Narcissus  that  still  weeps  in  vain  " 
blossoms  too  often  there  ? 

Graver  criticism  is  sometimes  heard,  — 
as  that  he  has  no  sympathy  with  his 
characters  in  their  suffering.  So  far  as 
it  touches  the  Scarlet  Letter  it  should  be 
sufficient  refutation  to  read  what  he  him- 
self says  in  his  English  Note-Books,  in 
comparing  Thackeray's  "  coolness  in  re- 
spect to  his  own  pathos,"  with  his  own 
emotions  when  he  read  the  last  scene  of 
the  Scarlet  Letter  to  his  wife,  just  after 
writing  it,  —  "  tried  to  read  it  rather, 
for  my  voice  swelled  and  heaved,  as  if 
I  were  tossed  up  and  down  on  an  ocean 
as  it  subsides  after  a  storm." 

It  is  not  well  to  search  an  author  too 
closely  as  to  his  feeling  over  the  creatures 
of  his  imagination.  You  may  find  no- 
thing or  everything,  according  to  tem- 
perament or  literary  sense.  The  great 
author  hides  himself  behind  his  canvas. 
Hawthorne,  the  most  reticent  of  men  and 
with  the  keenest  sense  of  literary  pro- 
priety, is  the  most  impersonal  of  writers 
in  his  greater  works.  He  tells  us  nothing 
except  what  may  be  inferred  from  char- 
acteristics constantly  recurring  through- 
out his  pages.  Now  nothing  is  more  re- 


vealing in  an  author  than  his  style ;  it 
is  almost  a  better  witness  to  his  character 
than  his  assertions.  It  is  like  the  voice 
in  conversation  that  speaks  from  the  soul 
rather  than  the  mind.  There  are 
Hawthorne's  style  four  invariable  fea- 
tures, —  reverence,  sincerity,  delicacy, 
and  humanity ;  each  is  nearly  absolute. 
Together  they  stand  for  heart.  No  mat- 
ter how  silently  it  throbs,  a  writer  who 
puts  these  qualities  into  his  pages  is  to 
be  counted  as  one  who  pities  his  fellow 
men  even  when  most  relentless  in  tracing 
their  sins.  It  may  also  be  set  down  as 
a  general  principle,  that  truth  is  akin  to 
pity,  as  pity  is  akin  to  love.  The  great 
virtues  do  not  lie  far  apart. 

The  criticism  is  of  tenest  urged  in  con- 
nection with  Hester,  who  is  both  the 
centre  of  interest  and  of  the  problem. 
Hawthorne  takes  utmost  pains  to  make 
i  clear  how  she  lived.  Whether  she  was 
happy  or  not  he  did  not  undertake  to 
say;  he  would  not  raise  so  useless  a 
question.  The  tragedy  is  pitched  at  too 
high  a  key  for  happiness.  Possibly  there 
may  be  victory  after  slow-healing  wounds, 
but  there  can  be  no  amelioration  by  cir- 
cumstance or  by  deadening  of  sensibil- 
ity. Study  the  thirteenth  chapter  —  An- 
other View  of  Hester  —  if  you  would  seek 
an  answer  to  the  question  whether  in 
her  case  the  book  gravitates  toward  de- 
spair or  points  to  recovery  and  life.1 

This  exquisite  rehearsal  of  Christian 
service  and  temper  might  well  win  for 
her  canonization.  It  is  the  picture  of  a 
saint.  The  very  things  that  Christ  made 
the  condition  of  acceptance  at  the  last 
judgment  she  fulfilled ;  and  the  graces 
that  St.  Paul  declared  to  be  the  fruit  of 
the  Spirit  were  exemplified  in  her  daily 
life.  Plainly,  this  is  not  a  picture  of 
despair,  nor  even  of  suffering,  except 
that  which  necessarily  haunts  a  true  soul 
that  has  done  evil.  God  forbid  that  it 
should  be  different  with  any  of  us ! 
Forgiveness  is  not  lethean.  To  forget 

1  Note,  particularly,  pages   194-196  of 
Riverside  Edition. 


The  New  American  Type. 


535 


our  past  would  defraud  the  soul  of  its 
heritage  in  life.  The  Scarlet  Letter 
faded  out  and  even  acquired  another 
meaning.  Her  life  came  to  blessed  uses, 
with  rewards  of  love  and  gratitude  from 
others  that  reached  even  unto  death.  The 
logic  of  this  tender  picture  of  a  saintly 
life  —  a  gospel  in  itself  —  must  not  be 
overlooked.  Hawthorne  certainly  did 
not  mean  that  the  reader  should  miss  the 
point.  How  could  recovery  from  sin  be 
better  told,  or  be  more  complete  ?  When 
Peter  had  denied  his  Lord  and  wept  bit- 
terly over  it,  all  he  was  told  to  do  was  to 
feed  his  Master's  sheep.  Hester's  for- 
giveness did  not  shape  itself  in  the  form 
of  ecstatic  visions,  but  of  service  in  the 
spirit  of  Him  who  bore  witness  to  the 
truth  ;  and  by  herself  bearing  witness  to 
it  she  won  the  reward  of  its  freedom. 

To  the  last  touch  of  his  pen  Haw- 
thorne keeps  up  the  symbolism  that  both 
hides  and  reveals  his  meaning,  and  leaves 


us  in  such  a  mood  as  when,  on  some 
autumn  day,  we  watch  mountain  and 
river  and  sky  faintly  shrouded  in  haze 
until  we  wonder  if  these  and  life  itself 
be  real,  —  an  experience  tenderly  ren- 
dered by  Longfellow  in  his  poem  on 
Hawthorne.  He  lived  in  his  dreams, 
but  his  dreams  were  as  real  as  the  earth 
and  as  true  as  life. 

Strangers  in  Boston  still  search  the 
burial  ground  of  King's  Chapel  for  the 
grave  of  Hester  Prynne  :  so  true  a  story, 
they  think,  must  be  true  in  fact.  If  it 
had  been  found  they  might  have  asked, 
What  does  the  armorial  device  mean  ? 

"  ON  A  FIELD,  SABLE,  THE  LETTER  A,  GULES." 

Does  the  scarlet  letter  stand  for  sin  or 
for  cleansing?  Is  the  epitaph  a  word 
of  despair  or  of  hope  ?  In  what  direc- 
tion did  Hawthorne  intend  to  lead  our 
thought  ?  If  asked,  he  would  have  said, 
Read  out  of  your  own  heart. 

Theodore  T.  Hunger. 


THE  NEW  AMERICAN  TYPE. 


WITHIN  a  few  months  there  has  been 
an  exhibition  of  portraits  in  New  York 
of  unusual  interest.  In  the  first  place, 
as  the  great  sign  over  the  entrance 
averred,  the  portraits  were  "  worth  mil- 
lions ;  "  in  addition  to  this  cynosural  qual- 
ity, some  of  them  were  painted  by  very 
famous  painters.  A  third  reason,  nei- 
ther practical  nor  artistic,  must  serve  as 
the  excuse  for  this  little  essay.  The  col- 
lection included  portraits  old  and  new ; 
most  of  the  old  were  of  English  men  and 
women  of  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury ;  most  of  the  new  were  present-day 
pictures  of  living  Americans,  both  men 
and  women.  No  one  who  climbed  the 
stairs  of  the  American  Art  Galleries,  and 
wandered  through  those  rambling  halls, 
intended  by  the  architect  for  an  exhibi- 
tion where  light  was  less  to  be  wished 


than  shade,  could  keep  his  thoughts  in  ar- 
tistic leash,  and  not  let  them  stray  from 
their  proper  office  of  looking  on  paint- 
ings as  paintings  only ;  no  one,  I  mean, 
of  the  noble  army  of  volunteer  critics. 
It  was  impossible  to  look  first  at  the 
group  of  portraits  painted  a  hundred 
years  ago,  and  then  at  the  group  painted 
to-day,  and  stand  undisturbed.  Every 
spectator  enacted  again  the  comic  trage- 
dy of  Rip  Van  Winkle.  An  astonishing 
change  had  taken  place  in  men  and  wo- 
men between  the  time  of  President  Wash- 
ington and  that  of  President  McKinley ; 
bodies,  faces,  thoughts,  had  all  become 
transformed.  One  short  stairway  from 
the  portraits  of  Reynolds  to  those  of 
Sargent  ushered  in  change  as  if  it  had 
stretched  from  the  first  Pharaoh  to  the 
last  Ptolemy.  Enmeshed  in  bewilder- 


536 


The,  New  American  Type. 


ment  the  spectator  rubbed  his  eyes,  and 
asked  the  guardian  at  the  desk,  if  there 
were  no  mistake,  if  this  were  really  the 
exposition  "  worth  millions,"  and  not 
rather  some  biological  hoax.  Upon  re- 
flection it  was  apparent  that  there  had 
been  no  pre-arrangement,  no  contrived 
purpose  to  confound  the  spectator ;  the 
ladies  and  gentlemen  who  got  up  the 
exhibition  had  been  bent  merely  on  giv- 
ing pleasure  to  the  eye,  instruction  to  the 
mind.  The  show  was  honest  beyond  dis- 
pute. The  first  supposition  which  oc- 
curred to  everybody  was  that  Reynolds's 
Italian-cultivated  and  old-time  craft  was 
one  aspect  of  excellence,  the  technical 
power  and  modern  craft  of  Sargent  an- 
other, and,  therefore,  that  this  extraordi- 
nary contrast  appearing  between  century 
and  century  was  in  truth  only  between 
painter  and  painter.  This  hypothesis  soon 
proved  untenable.  The  questions  how 
and  why  it  was  untenable  had  better  be 
left  to  answer  themselves,  as  I  recount 
the  way  in  which  the  facts,  with  their  in- 
evitable connotations,  were  presented  to 
the  spectator's  mind.  Naturally  where 
facts  hang  on  the  wall,  arranged  not  to 
illustrate  a  biological  truth,  but  to  econo- 
mize the  time  of  the  picture  hangers,  they 
are  seen  in  inconsequent  succession,  and 
need  some  rearrangement  in  the  mind's 
eye  before  they  express  their  real  mean- 
ing. With  some  rearrangement,  as  slight 
as  may  be,  I  shall  briefly  discuss  the  tell- 
tale portraits,  making,  as  I  go,  certain 
obvious  deductions,  which,  in  the  interest 
of  brevity,  I  substitute  for  elaborate  pic- 
torial analyses.  Of  course  I  treat  the 
pictures  not  as  works  of,  art,  but  as  bio- 
logical witnesses,  —  not  unscathed  by 
natural  shame  at  the  Philistine  effront- 
ery of  the  attempt. 

A  hundred  years  ago  a  British  type 
of  body,  face,  and  mind  prevailed  from 
Massachusetts  to  Virginia ;  there  were 
many  individuals  and  sundry  communi- 
ties of  other  bloods,  but  most  of  our  an- 
cestors of  Revolutionary  times  were  fea- 
tured and  complexioned  like  British  men. 


Of  these  men  there  were  in  the  galleries 
several  portraits  painted  by  Trumbull. 
There  was  John  Adams,  a  short,  ruddy, 
choleric  little  man,  with  the  free  bearing 
of  an  English  yeoman,  ready,  perhaps 
over-ready,  to  defend  his  curtilage  and 
cowyard,  his  ploughed  fields  and  fallow, 
against  tax-gatherers,  Cavalier  squire,  or 
even  the  lord  of  the  manor ;  an  honest, 
healthy  man,  untroubled  by  any  doubts 
as  to  possible  encroachment  by  his  boun- 
dary lines.  Near  him  hung  Alexan- 
der Hamilton,  of  more  aristocratic  type, 
open,  generous,  high-spirited,  a  sort  of 
dashing  gallant,  yet  of  steadfast  serenity ; 
his  mind  resting  solidly  on  reason  and 
principles,  an  ardent  English  gentleman. 
There  was  James  Madison,  not  over- 
imaginative,  not  noble,  with  a  touch  of 
English  bulldog  in  his  jowl,  shrewd,  sta- 
ble ;  and  hard  by,  sovra  gli  altri  com" 
aquila,  the  sober,  godly,  righteous  face 
of  Washington,  calm,  almost  severe,  a 
man  of  purpose  inwardly  sustained. 
There  was  also  Major-General  Samuel 
Osgood,  of  somewhat  Southern  aspect, 
a  hawklike  keenness  in  the  nose  and  eyes, 
woodsman  in  youth,  soldier  in  manhood, 
a  hardy,  out  -  of  -  doors  kind  of  man. 
There  were  some  Gilbert  Stuarts,  too : 
Egbert  Benson,  a  keen,  astute  person, 
eminently  a  gentleman,  dignity  blending 
with  calm  ;  Chief  Justice  Jay,  a  dreamy, 
speculative,  far-seeing  man  with  curving 
lip;  and  Van  Rensselaer,  the  Patroon, 
a  sly,  foxy  gentleman.  Both  the  French 
blood  and  the  Dutch,  as  well  as  the  Eng- 
lish, displayed  the  quiet  and  equilibrium 
which  attend  an  orderly  maintenance  of 
peace  in  the  body  and  mind  of  man. 

Neither  Stuart  nor  Trumbull  was  a 
great  painter,  but  both  were  faithful 
workmen  with  the  talents  allotted  to 
them  in  Fortune's  hugger-mugger  distri- 
bution, and  strove  to  paint  what  they  saw. 
Whatever  these  painted  faces  may  be  to 
the  artist,  to  the  common  eye  they  look 
like  clauses  from  the  Constitution,  para- 
graphs from  the  Declaration  of  Indepen- 
dence, maxims  from  Poor  Richard,  com- 


The  New  American  Type. 


537 


pendia  of  definite  beliefs  and  accepted 
principles.  There  is  no  need  further  to 
describe  their  looks  ;  everybody  knows 
them.  They  were  not  limber  -  minded 
men,  not  readily  agnostic,  not  nicely 
skeptical ;  they  were,  neither  more  nor 
less,  excepting  the  sprinkling  of  foreign 
bloods,  eighteenth-century  Englishmen. 
Of  course  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  histo- 
ry neither  framed  nor  hung ;  I  merely 
render  a  proces-verbal  of  the  testimony 
delivered  by  the  portraits  in  this  gallery. 
In  the  main  hall,  into  which  the  spec- 
tator, having  paid  his  toll,  entered  di- 
rectly, most  of  the  English  portraits  were 
hung.  There  were  Sir  Joshuas,  Gains- 
boroughs,  Hoppners,  Romneys,  and  oth- 
ers, as  well  as  a  few  Van  Dycks,  and 
two  of  that  "  right  noble  Claudio,"  sur- 
named  Coello.  The  English  painters 
must  take  our  exclusive  attention.  Rey- 
nolds, of  right,  comes  foremost.  In  the 
corner  hung  Colonel  Cussmaker,  a  hand- 
some, haughty  young  person  of  quality, 
not  without  dignity,  nez  retrousse,  mouth 
well  curved ;  he  stands  carelessly,  clad 
in  red  jacket  and  white  breeches,  by  the 
side  of  his  horse,  embodying  leisure,  — 
eminently  a  person  of  a  class  apart. 
Certainly  he  has  poise  of  mind  and  pro- 
perly balanced  physical  constitution.  The 
Reynolds  young  women  are  right-mind- 
ed, healthy,  simple  beings,  not  indiffer- 
ent to  their  own  loveliness,  with  the  nat- 
uralness of  flowers  and  somewhat  of  their 
grace  ;  all  of  them,  matron  and  maid,  of 
pleasing  mien  and  soft,  curving  lines,  all 
compact  of  serene  dignity  and  calm.  No 
man  ever  made  a  happier  comment  on 
happy  life  than  Reynolds's  soft,  sweep- 
ing, feminine  line  from  ear  to  shoulder. 
These  ladies  led  lives  unvexed  ;  natural 
affections,  a  few  brief  saws,  a  half-dozen 
principles,  kept  their  brows  smooth,  their 
cheeks  ripe,  their  lips  most  wooable. 
Even  the  coquettish  little  actress,  Miss 
Kitty  Fisher,  is  as  much  of  a  country 
girl  in  mind  as  any  of  them.  At  first 
the  admirer  takes  this  serene  loveliness, 
this  quiet  leisure,  this  simple  pensive 


pleasantness,  to  be  the  genial  nature  of 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  put  by  him  upon 
his  canvases.  If,  however,  we  take  a  step 
or  two,  and  look  at  Gainsborough's  ladies, 
at  Romney's,  or  Hoppner's,  we  find  the 
same  attributes,  in  almost  wearying  repe- 
tition, of  calm,  of  simplicity,  of  dignity, 
of  leisure ;  all  lovely  ladies  led  into  the 
ways  of  peace  and  pleasantness  by  simple 
right-mindedness,  homely  principles,  an- 
cestral precepts,  and  natural  affections. 
Inasmuch  as  I  refer  to  Reynolds's  por- 
traits as  scientific  facts,  it  may  not  be  out 
of  place  to  refer  to  Ruskin's  criticism  of 
him  :  —  "  Considered  as  a  painter  of  in- 
dividuality in  the  human  form  and  mind, 
I  think  him  .  .  .  the  prince  of  portrait 
painters.  Titian  paints  nobler  pictures, 
and  Van  Dyck  had  nobler  subjects,  but 
neither  of  them  entered  so  subtly  as  Sir 
Joshua  did  into  the  minor  varieties  of 
human  heart  and  temper." 

If  this  group  of  portraits  brought  to- 
gether in  the  American  Art  Galleries  be 
deemed  too  small  —  haphazard  though 
it  is,  and  of  most  interesting  pecuniary 
value  —  to  serve  as  the  basis  of  any  hy- 
pothesis, a  brief  visit  to  any  well-stocked 
gallery  will  bring  confirmatory  evidence. 
For  example,  in  the  Metropolitan  Muse- 
um in  New  York,  besides  several  very 
charming  Sir  Joshuas,  there  are  a  number 
of  other  English  portraits  of  that  epoch. 
There  is  a  portrait  of  Lady  Hardwick, 
by  Francis  Cotes,  a  gentle,  graceful,  tran- 
quil, happy  figure  of  feminine  leisure ; 
there  is  Mrs.  Reid,  as  Sultana,  by  Rob- 
ert Edge  Pine,  —  happy  the  seraglio  so 
presided  over,  no  envy,  no  malice,  no 
faint  praise,  no  hidden  sneer ;  there  is 
Gainsborough's  Mr.  Burroughs,  a  well- 
bred,  pleasant,  vacant-minded  gentleman ; 
there  is  Sir  William  Beechey's  portrait 
of  a  young  lady,  tranquil  as  an  Eng- 
lish landscape.  These  are  all  of  one 
placid  family,  dwellers,  as  it  were,  in 
a  garden  of  foxglove  and  honeysuckle. 
Even  the  fashionable  sprightliness  of  Sir 
Thomas  Lawrence's  sitters,  with  their 
airs  and  graces,  such  as  the  luckless  Mrs. 


538 


The  New  American   Type. 


Gibbon  floating  like  a  pantomimic  Ariel 
to  an  eternit^  chantante,  does  not  conceal 
the  fundamental  qualities  of  the  type. 
It  is  also  worth  while  to  notice  the  por- 
traits of  Johann  Zoffany,  R.  A.,  whose 
testimony  is  the  more  valuable  as  coming 
from  a  foreigner,  and  Hoppner's  paint- 
ing of  Mrs.  Bache,  Franklin's  daughter, 
steady  and  dignified,  as  was  necessary, 
being  so  fathered.  This  last  picture  and 
such  portraits  as  Copley's  serve  as  con- 
necting links,  if  any  were  needed,  be- 
tween the  eighteenth  -  century  English 
type  in  England  and  the  like  type  here. 
In  setting  forth  these  facts  there  is 
the  danger,  not  wholly  to  be  avoided,  of 
merely  cataloguing;  I  will  abridge  the 
record  as  far  as  I  can,  and  yet  I  must  re- 
fer, very  briefly,  to  a  few  French  pictures 
of  the  same  period.  In  the  American 
Galleries  was  the  portrait  of  a  notaire, 
M.  Laidequine,  by  de  Latour,  a  placid, 
round-cheeked,  amiable  man,  capped  or- 
namentally after  the  fashion  affected  by 
baldish  men,  of  a  good  digestion,  —  capon 
on  feast  days,  turbot  on  fast,  —  undis- 
turbed by  red  notarial  tape  and  the  rum- 
blings of  '89  ;  a  plump,  sleek  man,  of  pure 
French  blood,  of  plain  ideas,  of  philo- 
sophic calm.  He  is  of  the  bourgeoisie, 
but  the  next  portrait  is  of  the  blood  royal. 
M.  Nattier's  portrait  of  the  dauphin,  son 
to  Louis  Quatorze,  depicts  a  round-faced, 
rosy-cheeked,  pleasant  young  gentleman 
with  a  little  mouth  and  a  petulant  ex- 
pression, and  yet  furnished  with  that 
same  inward  gentleness,  which  —  so  it 
was  objected  —  might  proceed  from  the 
geniality  of  Reynolds,  but  in  truth  pro- 
ceeds from  a  stable  physique  and  a  well- 
ordered,  logical,  dogmatic  philosophy. 
Another  portrait,  Le  Chevalier  Eusebe 
de  Montour,  by  Vanloo,  is  a  youth  of  dig- 
nified aspect,  in  spite  of  his  snub  nose  and 
narrow  mind.  Further  on,  the  Princesse 
Lamballe  has  the  air  of  one  who  has  lived 
in  a  doll's  house,  most  of  the  time  with 
her  hair-dresser,  a  weasel-like  little  lady, 
whose  head  befitted  a  milliner's  block  bet- 
ter than  a  guillotine. 


All  these  portraits,  American,  English, 
French,  make  a  most  happy  and  attrac- 
tive picture  of  life  in  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury. They  chant  a  chorus  of  praise  for 
national  character,  for  class  distinctions, 
for  dogma  and  belief,  for  character,  for 
good  manners,  for  honor,  for  contempla- 
tion, for  vision  to  look  upon  life  as  a 
whole,  for  appreciation  that  the  world  is 
to  be  enjoyed,  for  freedom  from  demo- 
cracy, for  capacity  in  lighter  mood  to 
treat  existence  as  a  comedy  told  by  Gol- 
doni.  Such  a  self-satisfied  benedicite  ir- 
ritated the  susceptibility  of  that  nouveau 
riche,  the  nineteenth  century,  itself  not 
devoid  of  self-satisfaction,  and  drew  from 
it  a  great  deal  of  unsympathetic  and  un- 
scientific criticism;  in  fact,  the  nineteenth 
century  was  more  dependent  on  its  own 
spectacles  than  any  century  of  which  we 
have  record.  We  must  endeavor  to  steer 
between  the  self-flattery  of  the  one  centu- 
ry and  the  jeers  of  the  other,  and  briefly 
consider  the  traits  and  qualities  revealed 
by  the  portraits. 

They  portray  a  pure  national  breed, 
wherein  like  bred  with  like  in  happy 
homogeneity,  traits  paired  with  consan- 
guineous traits,  racial  habits  and  national 
predispositions  mated  after  their  kind ; 
the  physiological  and  psychological  nice- 
ties, which  sprang  from  the  differentia- 
tion of  races  and  nations,  were  protected 
from  the  disquiet  and  distress  of  cross- 
breeding, deep  affinities  herded  together, 
and  the  offspring  were  saved  from  the 
racking  strain  and  distortion  that  beset  a 
hybrid  generation.  This  physical  stabil- 
ity begot  mental  calm ;  peace  of  body 
insured  peace  of  mind.  Likewise,  but  in 
less  degree,  class  spirit,  and  smallness  of 
numbers,  aided  to  preserve  fixedness  and 
peace ;  especially  the  peasants,  kith  of 
the  cattle,  kin  of  the  corn,  laid  a  hardy 
animal  foundation,  preaching  silently  the 
great  teaching  of  Nature  that  physical 
life  shall  dominate  mental  life. 

The  abundant  praise  of  animal  life,  of 
healthy  body,  of  beauty  of  face,  shouted 
out  by  these  portraits,  does  not,  however, 


The  New  American  Type, 


539 


exceed  their  testimony  in  favor  of  health 
of  mind.  The  calm  and  quiet  of  Sir 
Joshua's  age  are  scarcely  more  physical 
than  moral.  It  is  a  period  of  the  Ten 
Commandments,  of  belief,  of  dogma,  of 
fixed  principles,  of  ethical  laws ;  to  us 
it  looks  like  a  little  world,  such  stress 
they  laid  on  simple  rules,  on  reverence, 
on  the  gradations  of  respect,  on  inherited 
morality,  on  denial  of  the  democratic 
ethics  that  one  virtue  is  as  good  as  an- 
other. It  had  the  merits  of  the  village, 
—  the  gentleman  of  the  big  house,  his 
inherited  principles  burnished  by  inter- 
course with  his  peers,  the  parson  and  the 
parson's  wife,  with  old-fashioned  Chris- 
tianity, the  circle  round  the  tavern  fire 
that  concerned  itself  with  what  Dr.  John- 
son had  pronounced,  the  group  of  critics 
in  the  store  that  threshed  out  a  rough 
garnered  morality  under  the  lead  of  the 
schoolmaster,  and  all  the  influences  which 
keep  unobstructed  the  ancient  highways 
of  thought,  principle,  and  conduct ;  — 
these  are  the  more  obvious  symbols  of 
the  conservative  forces  which  made  the 
sitters  to  Gilbert  Stuart,  to  Gainsborough, 
to  Vanloo,  what  they  were.  No  doubt 
the  prevailing  trait  in  the  portraits  cited 
is  leisure,  aristocratic  leisure ;  but  leisure 
is  the  substance,  aristocratic  hue  merely 
the  superficial  coloring.  If  these  eigh- 
teenth-century painters  had  painted  peas- 
ants, their  portraits  would  have  mani- 
fested leisure,  too.  It  is  not  leisure  in 
our  mercantile  sense  of  intervals  between 
paroxysms  of  money-getting,  —  moral 
mince  pies  at  railway  stops,  —  but  mental 
leisure,  the  "  content  surpassing  wealth, 
the  sage  in  meditation  found,"  the  con- 
templation that  brings  peace,  consequent 
upon  a  dogmatic  orderliness  of  ideas  and 
principles,  an  acceptance  of  that  condi- 
tion of  body  and  mind  to  which  it  has 
pleased  God  to  call  men,  the  leisure  that 
can  express  itself  in  poetry,  in  art,  in 
good  manners.  Those  quiet  sitters  had 
none  of  the  perplexity  and  inconsequence 
which  mark  a  generation  that  plays  its 
game  with  no  rules  ;  their  courses  of  con- 


duct were  all  meted  out  by  principle  and 
maintained  by  authority. 

My  business  was,  not  to  analyze,  but  to 
describe,  rather  merely  to  sum  up  those 
random  faces  in  general  terms ;  and  to 
give  a  composite  account  of  them,  and 
it  is  time  to  present  the  evidence  con- 
cerning our  American  bodies  and  souls. 
Naturally  enough  Mr.  Sargent's  portraits 
by  their  immense  dexterity,  their  truth- 
fulness, their  extraordinary  combination 
of  crudeness  and  refinement,  of  vigor 
and  art,  —  he  is  the  Barbarian  Conquer- 
or, the  Tamerlane,  of  painters,  —  make 
the  chief  witnesses  ;  but  their  evidence  is 
so  fully  confirmed  by  men  of  markedly 
different  qualities,  that  any  objection  to 
Sargent,  as  a  man  of  peculiar  tempera- 
ment and  genius,  would  be  hypercritical. 
He  was  born  to  depict  a  hybrid  people, 
vagabonds  of  the  mind,  to  portray  the 
strain  of  physiological  and  psychological 
transformation  in  the  evolution  of  a  new 
species.  His  talents  dovetail  with  the 
exigencies  of  our  epoch  ;  hence  his  great 
historical  importance. 

The  obvious  qualities  in  bis  portraits 
are  disquiet,  lack  of  equilibrium,  absence 
of  principle  ;  a  general  sense  of  migrat- 
ing tenants,  of  distrainer  and  replevin, 
of  a  mind  unoccupied  by  the  rightful 
heirs,  as  if  the  home  of  principle  and 
dogma  had  been  transformed  into  an  inn 
for  wayfarers.  Sargent's  women  are 
more  marked  than  his  men ;  women,  as 
physically  more  delicate,  are  the  first  to 
reveal  the  strain  of  physical  and  psychi- 
cal maladjustment.  The  thin  spirit  of 
life  shivers  pathetically  in  its  "  fleshly 
dress ;  "  in  the  intensity  of  its  eagerness 
it  is  all  unconscious  of  its  spiritual  fidget- 
ing on  finding  itself  astray,  —  no  path, 
no  blazings,  the  old  forgotten,  the  new 
not  formed.  These  are  signs  that  accom- 
pany the  physiological  development  of 
a  new  species.  Sargent's  pictures,  his 
handling  of  women,  poor  human  docu- 
ments, are  too  well  known  to  justify 
further  description. 


540 


The  New  American  Type. 


Sargent,  however,  is  not  idiosyncratic  ; 
his  testimony  is  corroborated  by  the  por- 
traits of  painters  differing  as  widely  from 
him  as  is  possible.  Take  the  portrait 
of  a  lady,  by  Mr.  Abbott  H.  Thayer, 
a  most  charming  picture  of  a  very  at- 
tractive subject,  but  still  exhibiting  the 
drowsy  insomnia  of  the  soul,  never  all 
awake,  never  all  asleep.  Take  a  por- 
trait by  Mr.  J.  W.  Alexander,  in  which 
we  see  the  indefinite,  unphysical  charm 
of  American  womanhood,  the  eager  pur- 
suit of  an  unseen  good,  the  restless  pa- 
cing in  the  body's  cage.  The  physique 
of  these  pictured  women  is  as  marked  as 
the  soul  within.  There  is  no  semblance 
of  the  simple  English  type,  like  Sir 
Joshua's  Mrs.  Arnold,  the  blending  of 
health  and  peace,  of  grace  and  ease  ; 
none  of  twilight  walks  within  a  garden's 
wall ;  the  American  woman's  body,  too 
slight  for  a  rich  animal  life,  too  frail  for 
deep  maternal  feelings,  seems  a  kind  of 
temporary  makeshift,  as  if  life  were  a 
hasty  and  probably  futile  experiment.  In 
her,  passion  fades  before  self-conscious- 
ness, and  maternal  love,  shriveled  to  a 
sentimental  duty,  hardly  suggests  the 
once  fierce  animal  instinct,  the  unloosed 
vital  bond  between  mother  and  child. 
American  mothers  are  dutiful,  but  duty 
is  a  very  experimental  prop  in  a  new  spe- 
cies, to  serve  in  place  of  instinct.  One 
should  compare  Hoppner's  Lady  Burling- 
ton and  Child,  or  Romney's  Mrs.  Carwar- 
dine  and  Child  (the  latter  I  have  only 
seen  in  copies),  with  a  Mother  and  Child 
by  Sargent.  Romney's  mother  bends 
over  her  child  ;  birth  has  caused  no  spir- 
itual separation  ;  she  and  it  are  one  crea- 
ture ;  her  arm  holds  it,  her  hand  woos  it, 
her  heart  spreads  its  wings  over  it.  In 
Sargent's  picture  the  mother  waits,  as  in 
an  antechamber,  for  a  formal  introduc- 
tion to  the  child  ;  coincidence  of  surname 
in  the  catalogue  alone  suggests  a  previous 
acquaintance. 

American  men,  as  seen  in  Sargent, 
or  in  almost  any  contemporary  painter, 
exhibit  a  definite  variability  in  this  evo- 


lutionary process.  They  have  divested 
themselves  of  the  old  English  traits, 
calm,  poise,  and  the  like,  and  show 
markedly  adaptive  characters.  What 
the  future  type  may  be,  if  it  ever  become 
fixed,  cannot  be  accurately  predicted, 
but  the  process  of  specialization  neces- 
sarily involves  a  casting  off  of  certain 
old  traits  and  the  acquisition  of  new, 
often  displaying  curious  instances  of 
correlation  of  parts.  Accompanying  the 
mental  process  must  go  a  corresponding 
physical  change,  by  which  certain  parts 
of  the  system  are  expanded,  while  other 
parts  stand  still,  or,  perhaps,  atrophy,  un- 
til the  old  systematic  affinity  is  broken 
up  and  another  formed,  much  after  the 
fashion  of  the  process  which  took  place 
when  the  unwinged  animal  put  forth 
wings,  or  the  paw  evolved  into  the  hand. 
Vivisection,  even  upon  men  of  a  different 
color,  being  prohibited  by  public  opin- 
ion, or  by  what  statesmen  deem  public 
opinion,  the  inward  physiological  changes 
can  only  be  inferred  from  the  new  traits, 
outward  indices  of  interior  processes. 
These  male  portraits  indicate  that  the 
logical,  the  intellectual,  the  imaginative, 
the  romantic  faculties,  have  been  dis- 
carded and  shaken  off,  doubtless  because 
they  did  not  tend  to  procure  the  success 
coveted  by  the  nascent  variety  ;  and,  in 
their  stead,  keen,  exceedingly  simple 
powers  of  vision  and  action  are  develop- 
ing. This  type  is  found  in  Sargen 
Frank  Holl,  Bonnat,  Chase,  Richai 
Hall.  Perhaps  the  best  example  is  tl 
portrait  of  Mr.  Daniel  Lament,  by  Zoi 
Too  great  stress  cannot  be  laid  on  thi 
impression  we  make  upon  quick-sigh 
foreigners.  This  portrait  represents 
shrewd,  prompt,  quick,  keen,  com 
man,  well,  almost  brilliantly,  equip 
for  dealing  with  the  immediate  present 
he  has  the  morale  of  the  tennis  player, 
concentration,  utter  absorption,  in  volley 
and  take.  Of  faculties  needful  to  deal 
with  the  remote  —  imagination,  logic,  in- 
tellect, faith  —  there  is  no  trace.  Craft, 
the  power  that  deals  with  a  few  facts 


The  New  American  Type. 


541 


close  at  hand,  is  depicted  in  abundance ; 
so  are  promptitude  and  vigor ;  reason, 
the  power  that  deals  with  many  facts, 
remote,  recalcitrant,  which  require  the 
mind  to  hold  many  pictured  combina- 
tions at  once  or  in  quick  succession,  is  not 
there.  The  portrait  indicates  the  usual 
American  amiability,  domestic  kindli- 
ness, and  aversion  to  cruel  sights  and 
cruel  sounds.  The  logical  faculty  which 
compels  a  man  to  reconcile  his  theories, 
to  unite  religion  and  conduct,  to  com- 
bine principle  and  policy,  to  fuse  the  va- 
rious parts  of  his  philosophy  into  one 
non-self-contradicting  whole,  is  entirely 
omitted.  The  chief  trait  in  this  typical 
portrait  is  ability  to  react  quickly  and 
effectively  to  stimuli  of  the  immediate 
present,  an  essential  quality  in  a  pros- 
pering species  ;  the  chief  lack  is  imagina- 
tion. How  such  equipment  will  serve 
in  the  future,  when  the  world  shall  have 
passed  beyond  the  colonizing  and  com- 
mercial epochs  of  history,  is  of  course 
wholly  beyond  the  scope  of  this  essay. 
There  are  a  number  of  feminine  por- 
traits of  this  type,  by  Carolus  Duran,  by 
Mr.  Benjamin  C.  Porter  (an  American 
painter),  by  Mr.  Chase,  which  have  the 
unimaginative  look,  the  terre -a- terre 
spirit,  the  self-consciousness,  of  the  male 
examples,  although  they  commonly  lack 
keenness  and  vigor. 

The  most  interesting  portrait  for  our 
purposes  in  the  whole  millionaire  expo- 
sition, as  a  masculine  example  of  that  ex- 
treme variation  which  had  seemed  pecul- 
iarly feminine,  is  a  painting  entitled  W.  A. 
Clark  (lent  by  Senator  W.  A.  Clark), 
by  M.  Besnard,  the  famous  French 
painter,  whose  method  is  sufficiently  dis- 
tinct from  that  of  the  other  painters  to 
give  peculiar  value  to  any  corroborative 
evidence  offered  by  him  to  facts  testified 
by  them.  W.  A.  Clark  (of  the  portrait) 
is  a  slim,  slight  man,  with  reddish  hair  of 
a  decided  color  and  curl,  with  beard  and 
mustache  of  like  appearance,  all  herisses, 
like  the  fur  of  a  cat  in  a  thunderstorm  ; 
there  is  no  speculation  in  the  gray-blue, 


glassy  eyes ;  they  and  the  thin,  rather 
delicate  nose  are  drawn  and  pinched  to- 
gether, chest  and  waist  are  narrow,  fin- 
gers but  skin  on  bones.  The  tightly  but- 
toned frock  coat,  never  worn  before  the 
sittings,  abetted  by  the  brand-new  silk  hat 
and  gloves,  makes  a  brave  attempt,  with 
its  blue  boutonniere,  to  suggest  the  air 
of  a  boulevardier.  From  hair  he'risse', 
pinched  face,  crooked  arm,  and  well- 
painted  sweep  of  frock  coat,  emanates 
physical  and  mental  distress,  such  as  must 
accompany  perturbations  in  Nature,  when 
she,  in  desperate  endeavor  for  a  new  type, 
hurls  her  wild  experiments  through  the 
delicate  organization  of  the  human  body, 
distorting  all  the  nice  adjustments  of 
species  and  genus.  No  dogmas  vex  this 
nervous  spirit,  no  principles  chafe  it,  no 
contemplation  dulls  it,  no  discipline  con- 
fines it ;  it  ramps  wildly  in  the  strait 
compass  of  the  present,  knowing  no  past, 
unhampered  by  reverence  or  respect, 
foreseeing  no  future,  unhindered  by  faith 
or  upliftedness.  It  is  an  extreme  ex- 
ample, but  immensely  interesting,  for 
though  it  may  be  merely  an  erratic  vari- 
ation, it  is  near  enough  other  examples 
of  the  type  to  indicate  the  characteristic 
traits  of  the  new  American  nationality ; 
or  it  may  be  an  instance  of  that  curious 
prophetic  power  of  Nature,  by  which  she 
creates  an  individual  a  whole  generation 
ahead  of  his  type.  Nevertheless,  a  more 
conservative  judgment  would  surmise 
that  Zorn's  portrait  represents  the  normal 
type  of  the  present  generation,  and  Bes- 
nard's  an  exaggerated  example  of  certain 
American  traits. 

Perhaps  the  most  vivid  of  the  impres- 
sions carried  away  from  that  picture  gal- 
lery by  the  inartistic  spectator  was  admi- 
ration for  the  adaptive  power  of  Nature. 
In  a  hundred  years,  with  simple  means, 
taking  a  vast  expanse  of  land,  metaled 
and  watered,  for  her  work-table,  with  a 
not  too  extravagant  use  of  Irish,  Ger- 
mans, Scots,  Jews,  French,  and  Poles  for 
her  tools,  she  has  by  delicate  adaptive 
processes  —  keeping  steady  eye  on  her 


542 


The  Age  Limit. 


purpose  to  create  a  mechanical,  soulless 
engine  —  produced  from  a  raw  national 
type,  —  the  Adamses  and  Hamiltons  of 


Washington's  era,  —  the  new  type  dis- 
played in  Zorn's  and  Besnard's  pictures, 
the  type  of  the  McKinley  era. 

H.  D.  Sedgwick. 


THE  AGE  LIMIT. 


MATTHEW  CTTRLEY  and  I  lounged 
on  a  pile  of  lumber  on  the  shady  side 
of  Muddy  Brook  breaker,  while  he  in- 
structed me  in  the  facts  of  the  coal- 
miners'  strike.  Although  not  without 
bias,  his  accounts  of  men  and  manners 
showed  him  laudably  fair-minded,  and 
his  anecdotes  had  a  charming  way  of 
coming  to  the  point  in  a  few  words. 
Moreover,  it  is  not  every  day  that  one 
can  get  the  stories  of  the  breaker,  the 
engine  room,  and  the  shaft  confidentially 
and  at  first  hand. 

"  There's  old  Sandy  Anderson,  now," 
said  he.  "  Maybe  you  '11  know  him  ? 
Well,  he  was  a  pious  old  fellow,  that 
was  fire-boss  in  this  mine  for  goin'  on 
forty  years,  till  six  months  ago  now. 
Didn't  talk  much;  quiet  an'  sourlike; 
great  one  he  was  about  his  church,  too, 
an'  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  an'  timp'rance  meetin's, 
an'  those  things.  He  'd  give  it  to  'em 
hot  if  a  fellow  happened  to  swear  when 
he  was  a-walkin'  down  the  gangway  an' 
heard  it ;  even  the  Hungarians  an'  Po- 
landers,  that  didn't  know  no  English 
but  swearin',  he  'd  preach  away  at  them, 
too.  He  got  the  name  o'  Deacon  with 
the  men  long  'fore  any  of  us  was  born. 
He  knew  his  business,  though,  an'  we 
liked  him  good  enough.  Sincet  the  new 
comp'ny  bought  the  mine,  though,  he  got 
treated  dirty  mean,  an'  fin'lly  they  give 
him  the  bounce  with  one  week's  notice. 
Not  for  nothin'  wrong,  nor  'xsplosions, 
nor  caves,  nor  scraps  with  the  men,  but 
just  'cause  he  'd  got  to  be  sixty  four 
years  old.  An'  him  knowin'  the  mine 
these  forty  year,  every  air-way  an'  door 
an'  slope,  as  well  as  I  know  my  shoes. 


Yes,  sir,  it 's  a  pretty  old  mine.  Forty 
years  is  pretty  old  for  a  mine,  that 's 
right ;  but  ye  see,  't  was  opened  first  by 
a  slope  by  the  hill  yonder,  an'  then  a 
shaft  this  side  the  bend  o'  the  creek,  an' 
then  this  openin'.  But 't  is  all  one  mine, 
an'  he  'd  been  in  it  right  along.  An'  him 
bein'  a  poor  man,  with  a  kind  of  spite- 
ful old  woman  to  home,  made  it  worse. 
When  he  quit  work,  he  had  n't  nowhere 
to  spend  his  time.  He  seemed  to  quit 
goin'  to  meetin's  'bout  that  time,  an' 
there  just  was  n't  nothin'  to  keep  him 
busy. 

"  Him  an'  the  engineer  was  the  great- 
est friends  ;  butties  once  when  they  was 
young,  an'  always  thought  a  lot  of  each 
other.  Day  after  he  quit,  old  Sandy 
did  n't  show  his  head  out  o'  doors  ;  but 
the  next  day  I  s'pose  things  got  hot  at 
home.  Anyhow,  down  he  comes,  partly 
sneakin'  along,  an'  sits  in  the  engine 
room  all  that  day  an'  the  next,  too.  The 
fireman  told  me  afterwards  the  old 
Deacon  just  sat  there  an'  mostly  did  n't 
open  his  mouth  for  a  word,  an'  now  an' 
then  he  'd  be  sittin'  up  there  cryin'  kind 
of  slow  and  stupid-like,  an'  not  seemin' 
rightly  to  know  it  at  all. 

"One  time  he  heard  him  say  to  Jim 
that  old  men  was  no  use  in  the  world 
after  the  first  o'  May.  '  Why,  Jim,' 
says  he,  talkin'  awful  Scotchy,  '  I  'm 
verra  strong  man  yet.  Sure,  I  'm  bet- 
ter at  my  wor-r-r-k  than  the  young  chap 
they  have  given  it  to,  who  is  a  fearful 
venturesome  young  man,  and  a  profane 
swearer  besides,  to  my  own  knowledge. 
Hark  ye,  Jim,'  says  he,  '  I  have  served 
them  faithful  now  for  forty  year,  good 


The  Age  Limit. 


543 


times  and  calamities  an'  all,  an'  now 
they  put  me  to  shame ! '  Then  he  sighed 
something  awful. 

"  Pretty  soon  the  bell  rang  from  down 
the  shaft  for  Jim  to  hoist  away,  an' 
when  the  engines  started  it  seemed  to 
make  him  feel  worse  again,  an'  the  tears 
run  down  his  beard  somethin'  pitiful. 
Soon  's  he  stopped  the  engines,  Jim 
went  over  to  him  and  tried  to  cheer  him 
up,  but  he  did  n't  really  pay  no  attention. 

"  '  Mrs.  Anderson  takes  it  verra  hard,' 
says  he,  scared-like.  '  She  's  verra  wor- 
ried an'  verra  much  put  about  in  the 
matter.  She  says  that  the  man  who  pro- 
videth  not  for  those  of  his  own  household 
is  worse  than  a  thief.  We  must  go  to 
the  poorhouse  in  our  old  age,'  says  he. 
'  Business  is  that  dull  I  cannot  get  me 
another  place,'  says  he." 

Here  Curley  paused  to  recline  at  ease 
along  the  boards.  I  scarcely  dared  stir, 
for  fear  of  disconnecting  the  links  of  the 
story.  Pen  cannot  do  justice,  unfortu- 
nately, to  the  composite  dialect  which  dis- 
tinguished the  quotations. 

"  But  presently,  all  along  o'  a  little 
matter  o'  dockage,  the  men  struck,  an' 
the  pump-runners  an'  firemen  struck  with 
them  to  be  in  the  fashion.  So  the  fans 
was  stopped  an'  the  pumps  was  stopped, 
an'  gas  an'  water  gathered  in  the  work- 
in's  unbeknownst,  because  there  was  n't 
no  men  down  that  week  to  take  notice 
of  it.  'T  was  a  dry  weather  spell,  an'  had 
been  for  a  long  time,  an'  the  mines  were 
pretty  dry,  so  the  comp'ny's  Super'ntin- 
dent  said  he  could  wait  for  'em  two 
weeks  to  start  the  pumps,  an'  the  mines 
not  take  no  harm  from  it. 

"  Well,  there  come  along  a  rain,  an'  a 
cloudburst,  an'  a  flood,  an'  a  runaway 
creek  got  down  the  shaft  overnight,  an' 
things  was  in  an  awful  way.  The  water 
was  anywhere  an'  everywhere.  The  new 
boss,  he  went  down  with  a  gang  o'  six 
men  an'  did  n't  dare  to  go  away  from  the 
foot  of  the  shaft,  'cause  they  heard  the 
pillars  goin'  whit-wheet,  chippin'  some- 
thing awful,  an'  the  chunks  o'  top-rock 


splashin'  down  into  the  water,  way  off 
down  the  gangway.  There  wasn't  no 
use  runnin'  round  the  mine,  when  she 
was  actin'  up  that  way,  just  on  an  excur- 
sion-like. When  she 's  working  as  we 
says,  excursions  is  no  use,  an'  ye  want 
to  send  down  props  by  the  hunderds,  an' 
do  yer  explorin'  afterwards.  So  the  new 
boss,  he  comes  up  an'  he  sends  down  all 
the  props  there  was  on  hand,  an'  he 
telyphones  the  office  for  five  hunderd 
more,  —  which  was  n't  specially  conven- 
ient, them  bein'  stood  up  in  piles  of 
fifties  in  the  comp'ny's  lumber  yard  ten 
miles  away,  'cause  the  Super'ntindent 
was  such  a  partic'lar  man  'bout  '  system 
an'  nateness.'  The  worse  luck  was,  the 
Old  Man  himself  was  on  hand  in  th' 
office,  an'  he  telyphones  back  that  the 
props  'ud  come  down  on  a  special  train 
soon  's  they  could  be  loaded,  an'  himself 
'ud  come  down  on  a  special  engine  ahead 
o'  the  props,  to  help  'em.  Till  he  got 
there,  they  was  to  presarve  the  comp'ny's  • 
property,  so  he  said.  But  the  property 
was  that  water-soaked  by  that  time,  the 
rocks  was  just  saggin'  in,  an'  the  pillars 
was  chippin'  to  nothin'  with  bearin'  up 
all  that  extra  heft  o'  water.  An'  as  for 
gas,  the  fans  had  been  stopped  eleven 
days  an'  nights,  so  there  was  a  plenty ; 
an'  nobody  could  n't  tell  where  it  had 
gathered,  'cause  there  was  all  the  water 
shovin'  it  round  out  o'  its  proper  places. 

"  Afore  he  mounted  up  on  his  special 
engine,  though,  the  Old  Man  had  a  spell 
o'  workin'  the  telyphone  lively  with  or- 
ders. He  always  was  a  great  hand  to 
get  giving  orders,  anyhow.  'Bout  the 
time  he  got  there,  he  had  engineers,  an* 
pumpmen,  an'  fire-bosses,  an'  carpenters, 
an'  inside  bosses,  an'  miners,  an'  tools,  an' 
lumber,  an'  powder,  an'  oil,  an'  Davy 
lamps,  by  the  dozens  an'  carloads  from 
all  the  comp'ny's  other  mines  near  by, 
an'  even  some  men  an'  lamps  borrowed 
from  other  comp'nies'  works  along  the 
creek. 

"  The  firemen  an'  engineers  an'  pump- 
runners  was  set  to  work  firin'  up  an' 


544 


The  Age  Limit. 


settin'  the  fans  goin'  all  they  could  stand, 
to  get  up  some  o'  the  gas  outen  the  work- 
in's.  The  Old  Man  ran  around  shoutin' 
out  orders,  an'  prisently  he  had  engineers 
at  the  fires,  an'  firemen  outside  nailin'  up 
lumber  for  brattices,  an'  fire-bosses  run- 
nin'  errands,  an'  sweatin'  over  the  tely- 
phone,  an'  carpenters  fillin'  an'  cleanin' 
the  safety-lamps,  an'  every  Jack  of  us 
doin'  some  other  man's  work.  The  Old 
Man  always  loves  to  see  things  hum  that 
way,  an'  the  strikers  just  stood  round  an' 
laughed  at  the  show.  It  was  pourin'  rain, 
too,  an'  had  been  for  three  days  an' 
nights. 

"  In  about  two  or  three  hours,  the 
young  feller,  the  fire-boss  old  Sandy  said 
was  so  venturesome,  had  got  all  his  props 
used,  an'  the  new  ones  had  n't  come  yet. 
Some  o'  the  men,  Dagos,  come  out  after 
that,  and  would  n't  go  back  in  again,  be- 
cause she  was  a-workin'  something  awful, 
an'  the  chips  o'  coal  shootin'-off  the  pil- 
lars every  minute,  an'  the  roof  crackin', 
an'  water  drippin'  where  water  never 
dripped  when  the  mine  was  right,  an' 
two  rows  of  props  round  the  pillars  did 
n't  seem  to  do  no  good,  and  they  was 
scared.  But  the  boss  kept  right  on. 
When  the  props  was  gone,  he  left  the 
men  up  by  the  shaft  an'  went  lookin' 
round  the  mine  a  bit  by  himself.  He 
always  was  one  o'  those  you  could  n't 
kill.  Nobody  else  was  anxious  to  go. 

"  Pretty  soon  he  comes  back  to  them, 
an'  says  he,  'Anybody  here  that  knows 
the  air-ways  of  the  old  Rat-hole  Slope  ? 
'Cause  our  air-way  on  Five  Gangway  is 
got  a  fall  o'  clay  an'  top-rock  to  spoil  its 
beauty,'  says  he,  '  so,  unless  we  can  open 
into  Rat-hole  an'  back  again  into  ours 
under  the  fan,  we  can't  get  air  into  this 
gangway  at  all,  nor  get  rid  of  the  gas.' 

"  But  there  was  n't  a  man  there  with 
him  old  enough  to  look  back  to  the  last 
days  o'  Rat-hole  Slope.  So  up  comes  the 
boss  an'  the  men,  an'  the  boss  begins  to 
hunt  for  a  man  what  knew  the  Rat-hole 
air-ways. 

"  Well,  they  told  him  old  Sandy  An- 


derson was  the  only  man,  an'  just  then 
the  Super'ntindent  came  buzzin'  by  an' 
heard  it.  '  Then  get  him  ! '  he  snaps. 
'  Send  for  him  ! ' 

"  '  He  's  over  in  the  engine  room,'  said 
somebody. 

"  '  He  won't  go,'  says  the  new  fire-boss, 
'  not  for  nobody,  nor  if  the  whole  mine 
fell  in.  You  don't  know  old  Sandy  An- 
derson.' 

"  '  He  will  too ! '  yelled  the  Super'n- 
tindent, beginnin'  to  scold  an'  swear,  an' 
makin'a  bee-line  acrost  the  yard  towards 
the  engine  house.  Everybody  that  heard 
what  was  up  began  to  run  for  the  engine 
house,  too.  Time  I  got  there,  there  was 
old  Sandy  standin'  in  the  doorway,  glarin' 
down  at  the  Super'ntindent  an'  talkin' 
solemn-like. 

"  '  Ye  discharged  me  the  first  o'  May,' 
says  he.  '  Now  ye  may  attend  person- 
ally to  yer  own  mines.'  An'  with  that 
he  turns  his  back  to  go  in,  an'  all  the 
crowd  sets  up  a  cheerin'. 

"  Then  the  Super'ntindent  began  to 
swear  somethin'  surpassing  standin' 
there  an'  shootin'  off  his  words  through 
the  door.  After  a  minute,  Sandy  comes 
to  the  window  an'  looks  out  at  him. 

"  '  Man  ! '  says  he,  '  stop  yer  blas- 
phemin' !  Ye  're  on  in  life  now,  and  ye  've 
enough  to  reckon  for  if  ye  should  be 
called  this  night  to  yer  account.  Besides, 
it  riles  my  temper.' 

" '  Will  ye  go  down  in  the  mine  an' 
help  open  up  the  old  air-way,  then,  ye 
stubborn  old  fool  ? '  yelled  the  Old  Ma 
letting  off  another  string. 

" '  Ye  discharged  me  the  first  o' 
month.     And  I  do  not  like  to  be  swoi 
at.     I  can  have  ye  arrested,'  says  he. 

"  '  Discharged  you,  did  I  ?    High  time 
too,  I  guess  ! '  yells  the  Old  Man.     '  An' 
now  I  need  ye,  an'  I  '11  hire  ye  again. 
Get  back  to  your  work,  an'  quit  shirkin' ! ' 

"  '  I  don't  know  if  I  just  want  the  job,' 
says  old  Sandy ;  an'  the  crowd  cheere 
him  again. 

"  Then  the  Super'ntindent  saw  't  ws 
no  use,  an'  he  changed  his  tone.  '  Look 


The  Age  Limit. 


545 


here,  Anderson,  you  're  the  only  man 
that 's  here  now  that  knows  the  old  Rat- 
hole  air-ways.  We  've  got  to  open  that 
air-way,  and  you  're  the  only  one  can  man- 
age it.  Name  yer  own  terms,'  says  he. 

"  Old  Sandy  just  grunted  an'  looked 
out  the  window,  an'  did  n't  seem  to  hear 
the  jawin'  that  was  bein'  done  on  his  ac- 
count. '  It  ain't  a  very  nice  job,'  says 
he,  squintin'  his  eye.  '  But  yet,  a  man 
cannot  be  too  partic'lar  if  he  's  out  of  a 
job.' 

"  He  waited  awhile,  an'  then  says  he, 
'  If  you  '11  promise  afore  these  here  wit- 
nesses to  pay  me  fifteen  dollars  a  month 
the  rest  o'  my  lifetime  if  I  don't  get 
killed,  or  thirty  dollars  a  month  to  Mrs. 
Anderson  for  her  lifetime  if  I  do,  I  '11  go 
down.' 

"  Gee  !  I  thought  the  Super'ntindent 
would  bust  or  blow  up  afore  he  could  let 
out  his  feelings  on  the  Deacon !  An'  yet 
it  was  n't  such  an  awful  nervy  offer  as  it 
looked,  seein'  how  Sandy  had  worked  for 
them  forty  year. 

"  '  Then  attend  to  it  yerself,'  said  old 
Sandy,  an'  went  an'  sat  down  in  the  cor- 
ner by  the  fly-wheel. 

"  Well,  the  men  went  down  an'  the 
props  went  down,  an'  they  did  the  best 
they  could,  an'  did  n't  accomplish  nothin'. 
Pretty  soon,  in  about  two  hours,  there 
come  a  jolt,  an'  the  fans  was  blown  clean 
out  o'  the  air-shaft.  'T  was  the  gas  ex- 
ploded. The  engineer  sent  down  the 
cage  double-quick,  in  case  anybody  should 
be  down  there  to  get  on.  After  a  couple 
o'  minutes  the  bell  rang  to  hoist  away. 
There  was  another  jolt  afore  he  got  them 
to  the  top,  an'  this  time  't  was  the  mine 
cavin'  after  th'  explosion  had  shook  it. 
There  's  likely  to  be  some  cavin'  after  a 
'splosion,  specially  if  the  mine  had  been 
workin'  some  beforehand. 

"  There  was  three  men  on,  two  o'  them 
burned  something  awful  to  look  at.  The 
other  was  an  Italian ;  he  was  shakin'  an' 
silly,  though  he  was  n't  hurt  much.  His 
English  was  clean  jarred  out  o'  him,  an' 
he  could  n't  tell  nothin'. 

VOL.  xciii.  —  NO.  558.  35 


"  We  took  the  two  fellows  to  the  en- 
gine room,  against  the  ambulance  should 
come.  —  Funny  how  a  man  that 's  burnt 
bad  gen'lly  feels  the  cold,  ain't  it?  — 
They  was  just  awful  lookin'.  Old  man 
Shea,  he  walked  in  of  himself,  an'  fell 
down,  and  says  he,  '  Boys,  you  want  to 
get  the  rest  of  'em  damn  quick.  Drownd- 
in'  an'  gas  an'  cavin'  an'  top-rock,'  says 
he,  an'  went  oft'  in  a  dead  faint.  His 
eyes  was  about  all  of  him  that  was  n't 
burnt,  being  how  he  could  n't  lie  down 
flat  in  the  gangway  for  the  water  that 
was  knee-deep,  an'  so  he  just  covered  'em 
with  his  hands  an'  let  the  rest  of  himself 
go  to  cinders. 

"  The  other  fellow  was  n't  hurt  all 
over,  but  he  was  blinded,  an'  we  had  to 
carry  him  across  to  the  engine  room.  He 
hollered  an'  cried  when  we  touched  him, 
an'  begged  us  for  God's  sake  throw  him 
back  down  the  shaft  to  be  out  o'  his  pain. 
The  skin  o'  his  one  arm  come  off  in  my 
hand  when  I  touched  him.  It 's  an  aw- 
ful thing  to  see  a  man  burnt  like  that." 
Curley  stared  off  at  a  gleam  of  blue  river, 
and  seemed  to  lose  interest  in  his  own 
story. 

"  Were  the  rest  all  dead  ?  "  I  asked, 
after  an  interval. 

"  No.  Not  but  we  thought  they  were, 
though,  then.  We  got  him  in  'longside 
o'  old  man  Shea,  an'  give  him  some  whis- 
key, and  asked  him  did  he  know  if  any 
other  o'  the  boys  was  alive  down  there, 
and  where  was  they.  Jim  stood  there, 
listenin',  listenin',  to  hoist  away  the  min- 
ute he  got  the  signal,  so  's  there  was 
anybody  down  there  to  give  it. 

"  Old  Sandy  Anderson  was  there,  too, 
a-shakin'  all  over,  an'  kind  of  chokin' 
when  he  'd  try  to  speak  out,  an'  sayin' 
over  to  himself  :  '  The  young  fool !  The 
venturesome,  foolish  young  man  !  Thret- 
ty  men's  lives,  because  of  a  fool  and  hia 
folly  !  Thretty  lives  !  Myself,  I  'd  not 
'a'  had  them  inside  this  day.' 

"  But  when  the  fellow  that  was  hurted 
began  tellin'  as  how  the  boss  an*  nine 
men  was  just  leavin'  the  shaft  after  th' 


546 


The  Age  Limit. 


explosion,  an'  ought  to  be  near  the  foot 
somewheres,  he  quit  talkin'  an'  listened. 
In  a  minute  he  had  his  white  shirt  an' 
collar  off,  an'  was  strippin'  to  the  waist. 
'  Gimme  your  shirt,  Jim  ! '  says  he,  '  an' 
somebody  gimme  another.  Two  's  none 
too  many  when  we  don't  know  where  the 
gas  is.' 

" '  Delany,'  says  he  to  a  man  standin' 
in  the  doorway,  '  get  me  eight  men  to  go 
down  an'  get  the  boss,  the  young  fool ! ' 
says  he.  '  And  be  parteecular  to  wear 
two  shirts,'  says  he. 

"  So  there  was  a  great  strippin'  all 
round  out  in  the  yard,  'count  of  lots  of 
us  bein'  on  strike  an'  dressed  up  good, 
an'  not  a  stitch  of  a  woolen  shirt  on  lots 
of  us.  Them  as  had  on  a  thick  wool 
Bhirt  was  tryin'  to  get  another,  an'  other 
men  tryin'  to  pull  that  offen  them  in- 
stead. And  not  a  man  would  Delany 
hear  to  that  wore  a  bit  of  cotton  on  him, 
nor  a  thin  shirt,  because  a  thick  wool 
shirt  has  saved  many  a  man's  life  from 
fire,  an'  he  knew  it.  Myself,  I  had  to 
wear  old  Sandy's  shirt  through  the  streets 
that  night  till  I  could  get  home  ;  an'  took 
it  over  to  Mis'  Anderson  after  dark. 

"  When  Delany  had  got  his  eight  men, 
he  come  to  the  door  an'  told  Sandy. 

"  '  Who  Ve  ye  got  ?  '  says  Sandy  ;  and 
Delany,  he  told  him.  They  was  all  men 
that  knew  Sandy,  and  that  'ud  worked  in 
the  mines  twenty  years  an'  over. 

" '  Man ! '  says  Sandy.  '  Don't  ye  know 
they  're  all  out  on  strike  ?  ' 

" '  Strike  be  damned  !  '  says  Delany. 
1  That  don't  cut  no  ice  now.  It 's  the 
men  we  're  after.  My  own  cousin 's 
down  there  now.' 

"  '  So 's  my  son,'  says  a  man  with  a  red 
shirt  on  over  a  black  one  ;  and  I  seen  it 
was  the  young  boss's  father,  that  had  n't 
spoke  to  the  young  fellow  for  a  month  on 
account  of  his  not  strikin'  with  the  rest. 
Old  Sandy  finished  talkin'  with  Jim  just 
as  some  o'  the  boys  come  runnin'  up  with 
the  tools  an'  four  safeties.  He  was  just 
turnin'  around  when  into  the  door  came 
the  old  Super'ntindent,  half  crazy. 


"  '  Sandy  Anderson  ! '  says  he,  with  no 
swearin'  at  all,  '  I  want  volunteers  to  go 
down  with  me.  My  men  are  down  there. 
I  sent  'em,  but  you  must  help  me  get  'em 
out!' 

"  Sandy,  he  hardly  looked  at  the  Old 
Man  ;  he  just  went  on  towards  the  door. 

"  Then  the  Super'ntindent  he  talked 
faster  an'  worse  'n  I  ever  heard  him  be- 
fore, an'  he  ends  up  a-sayin',  — 

"  '  I  '11  take  your  blame,  mud-suckin', 
money-lickin'  offer,  you  cold-blooded  old 
penny-pinchin'  mongrel ! '  —  an'  other 
decorations.  —  '  Ye  shall  grow  fat  doin' 
nothin',  an'  cut  your  false  teeth  on  your 
pension  money  the  rest  of  your  life,  you 
slow  old  skunk  ! '  He  was  goin'  on  to 
say  more  when  Sandy  stopped  him. 

"  '  Verra  weel,'  says  he,  lookin'  round. 
'  It 's  a  contract  between  us,  an'  these  per- 
sons are  my  weetnesses.  Jim,  I  name 
you  my  executor,  to  see  to  it  for  Mrs. 
Anderson  if  I  do  not  come  out.' 

"  The  Old  Man  began  again,  but  he 
did  n't  say  two  words. 

"  '  Hold  that  jaw  ! '  says  Sandy.  '  I  '11 
maybe  be  face  to  face  wi'  my  Maker  in 
half  an  hour,  an'  I  will  not  go  to  Him  wi' 
my  ears  full  o'  your  profane  oaths.  An' 
as  for  the  love  o'  money,  —  good  God, 
man,  I  'm  goin'  for  the  lives  o'  thretty 
men  !  I  was  goin',  anyhow.  —  Get  out 
o'  my  road ! '  Then  he  just  shoved  the 
Old  Man  one  side  an'  ran  out,  sayin'  over 
his  shoulder,  '  The  Lord  forgive  ye,  ye 
have  made  me  begin  to  swear  myself ! ' 

"  The  Super'ntindent  ran  out  too,  but 
bein'  fat  an'  old  he  did  n't  get  to  the  shaft 
till  the  cage  with  Sandy  an'  the  men  was 
started  down.  But  we  heard  Sandy  call 
up, '  There  was  competent  weetnesses '  — 

"  '  The  damned  Scotchman  ! '  says  the 
Old  Man,  an'  went  back  an'  began  tely- 
phoning  for  all  the  ambulances  from  the 
other  mines,  besides  the  hospital." 

"  Did  they  need  them  all  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  They  did,"  said  Curley.  "  Thouj 
when  Sandy's  gang  went  down  we  reallj 
did  n't  think  anybody  'd  come  up  agair 
nor  even  need  the  undertaker.  There  wa 


The  Age  Limit. 


547 


another  cave  that  night ;  but  before  that, 
Sandy  had  sent  up  twelve  men  alive  an' 
four  bodies,  an'  Delany  an'  the  eight  men 
got  up  just  in  time. 

"  Sandy  did  n't  come,  nor  the  young 
boss,  neither.  The  last  cavin'  jammed 
the  cage  in  the  shaft,  some  way,  part 
way  down,  as  Jim  was  lowerin'  it,  so 
there  was  n't  nothin'  more  we  could  do 
for  him. 

"  Jim  was  feelin*  awful  bad,  an'  he 
would  n't  even  leave  the  engine  house 
though  the  night-shift  man  had  come  on  ; 
but  he  hung  round  an'  waited,  though  he 
did  n't  know  what  for.  An'  sure  enough, 
'bout  eleven  o'clock,  in  came  old  Sandy, 
dirty  and  tired,  but  not  hurted. 

"  '  Jim,'  says  he,  just  as  plain  an'  nat- 
ural as  anything,  '  I  've  not  had  time 
to  get  any  supper  yet.  It  's  late  now, 
an'  Mrs.  Anderson  is  very  prompt  to  put 
away  the  supper  at  seven  o'clock.  Have 
you  or  Harry  a  bit  o'  some  thin'  in  your 
pails  that  I  could  stay  my  stomach  on 
before  I  go  away  home  ?  I  'm  a  verra 
strong  man  yet,  but  I  'm  sixty-four  years 
old,  an'  I  'm  free  to  say  I  am  just  faint 
wi'  hunger.' 

"  So  they  got  the  watchman's  pail,  an' 
the  fireman's,  and  they  come  in  too,  and 
while  he  ate  up  all  their  three  pails  he 
told  'em  how  he  'd  found  the  young  fire- 
boss  wedged  behind  a  timber,  an'  got 
him  out,  an'  both  come  out  by  some  o' 
the  old  workin's  beyond  Rat-hole.  He 
had  n't  lost  no  appetite,  neither,  nor  got 
so  much  as  a  scratch  on  him." 

Curley  stood  up,  stretched,  and 
climbed  down  from  the  pile  of  timbers, 
as  much  as  to  say  that  he  had  finished 
the  story.  I  followed  with  a  question. 

"  What  became  of  the  old  man  ?  Two 


people  cannot  live  on  fifteen  dollars  a 
month." 

He  eyed  me  with  a  peculiar  smile. 
"  It  's  been  done,  afore  now,  to  my 
knowledge,"  said  he.  "  But  he  did  n't 
have  to.  Jim,  he  rung  up  the  tely phone 
exchange  an'  told  them,  while  Sandy 
was  eatin'  the  fireman's  cold  pie  ;  an' 
then  he  rung  up  the  comp'ny's  office  an' 
told  them  ;  an'  the  telyphone  girls,  they 
must  've  told  a  thousand  people  an  hour, 
'cause  the  whole  town  was  crazy  to  get 
news.  Anyhow,  the  next  day,  the  Su- 
per'ntindent  comes  round,  an'  'bout  noon 
he  posts  a  notice  at  the  breaker  that 
Sandy  Anderson  is  made  '  consultin'  fire- 
boss,'  with  his  old  salary  back  again." 

"  What  is  a  consulting  fire-boss  ?  "  I 
asked. 

"  There  ain't  no  such  thing,  but  they 
called  him  that  because  he  was  over  the 
age  limit.  He  don't  have  nothing  to  do 
unless  they  send  for  him  to  come  to  one 
of  the  collieries  ;  there  's  weeks  when  he 
don't  do  a  thing;  then  there  's  weeks 
when  he  works  as  hard  as  ever." 

"  So  he  did  n't  get  his  pension,"  I  re- 
marked, as  we  strolled  past  the  chutes 
of  the  breaker. 

"  You  bet  he  did  !  "  responded  my  in- 
formant with  vigor.  "  First  pay  -  day, 
he  got  just  his  sixty  dollars,  and  he  told 
them  he  'd  sue  for  the  fifteen  if  they 
did  n't  give  it  to  him  peaceable.  Why, 
the  Union  even  made  him  an  honorary 
member,  I  b'lieve,  the  ways  they  could 
push  the  thing  through  if  he  needed 
them.  But  he  gets  it,  all  right.  They 
know  a  corporation  has  no  show  before 
a  jury,  now'days ;  and  then  Sandy  has 
his  witnesses.  Oh,  he  's  fixed  fine,  I  tell 
you!" 

E.  S-  Johnson. 


548 


An   Odd  Sort  of  Popular  Book. 


AN   ODD  SORT  OF  POPULAR  BOOK. 


MULTIPLICITY  of  editions  does  uot 
make  a  book  a  classic.  Otherwise  Wor- 
cester's Dictionary  and  Mrs.  Lincoln's 
Cook  -  Book  might  almost  rival  Shake- 
speare. Nevertheless,  when  a  work 
which  has  little  but  its  literary  quality  to 
recommend  it  achieves  sudden  and  per- 
manent popularity,  it  is  safe  to  assume 
that  there  is  something  about  it  which  will 
repay  curious  consideration.  As  to  the 
popularity  of  The  Anatomy  of  Melancho- 
ly there  can  be  no  dispute.  "  Scarce  any 
book  of  philology  in  our  land  hath,  in 
so  short  a  time,  passed  through  so  many 
editions,"  says  old  Fuller  ;  though  why 
"  philology  "  ?  The  first  of  these  edi- 
tions appeared  in  1621.  It  was  followed 
by  four  others  during  the  few  years  pre- 
ceding the  author's  death  in  1640.  Three 
more  editions  were  published  at  different 
times  in  the  seventeenth  century.  The 
eighteenth  century  was  apparently  con- 
tented to  read  Burton  in  the  folios ;  but 
the  book  was  reprinted  in  the  year  1800, 
and  since  then  it  has  been  issued  in  vari- 
ous forms  at  least  as  many  as  forty  times, 
though  never  as  yet  with  what  might  be 
called  thorough  editing. 

Quantity  of  approval  is  in  this  case  well 
supported  by  quality.  Milton  showed 
his  admiration,  as  usual,  by  imitation. 
Sterne  conveyed  passage  after  passage 
almost  bodily  into  Tristram  Shandy. 
Southey's  odd  book,  The  Doctor,  follows 
Burton  closely  in  manner  and  often  in 
matter.  Dr.  Johnson  said  that  The 
Anatomy  of  Melancholy  was  the  only 
book  that  ever  took  him  out  of  bed  two 
hours  sooner  than  he  wished  to  rise  ;  large 
commendation  surely,  and  I  have  never 
found  any  other,  even  of  the  most  de- 
vout Burtonians,  quite  ready  to  echo  it. 
Lamb  was  a  reader,  adorer,  and  imitator ; 
Keats,  the  first  two,  at  any  rate.  Finally, 
Mr.  Saintsbury  assures  us  that  "  for 
reading  either  continuous  or  desultory, 


either  grave  or  gay,  at  all  times  of  life 
and  in  all  moods  of  temper,  there  are 
few  authors  who  stand  the  test  of  practice 
so  well  as  the  author  of  The  Anatomy 
of  Melancholy."  For  all  that,  I  would 
not  advise  the  general  reader  to  buy  a 
copy  in  too  great  haste.  He  will,  per- 
haps, find  it  easier  to  read  about  the  book 
than  to  read  it. 

What  we  know  of  the  life  of  Robert 
Burton  is  a  very  small  matter,  as  is  the 
case  with  so  many  of  his  greater  con- 
temporaries. He  was  born  at  Lindley 
in  Leicestershire  in  1577,  thirteen  years 
after  Shakespeare,  four  years  after  Ben 
Jonson.  He  was  at  school  at  Sutton- 
Coldfield  in  Warwickshire  and  at  Nun- 
eaton  till  he  was  seventeen.  He  the: 
went  to  Brasenose  College.  In  1599  h 
was  elected  student  of  Christ  Church. 
In  1614  he  received  the  degree  of  B.  D., 
and  in  1616  he  became  vicar  of  St. 
Thomas  in  the  west  suburb  of  Oxford. 
About  1630  he  added  to  this  cure  the 
rectory  of  Segrave  in  Leicestershire. 
Besides  the  Anatomy  he  wrote  a  Latin 
comedy,  Philosophaster,  unusually  clev- 
er and  brilliant  in  its  kind.  He  died  in 
1640,  and  was  buried  in  the  choir  o: 
Christ  Church  Cathedral.  The  little  bi 
of  gossip  narrated  by  Wood  is  amusingly 
illustrative  of  the  mythical  character  so 
apt  to  attach  itself  to  the  solitary  scholar. 
It  seems  that  Burton's  death  occurred  at 
or  very  near  the  time  which  had  been 
foretold  by  himself  from  the  calculation 
of  his  own  nativity  ;  in  consequence  of 
which  "  several  of  the  students  did  not 
forbear  to  whisper  among  themselves 
that,  rather  than  there  should  be  a  mis- 
take in  the  calculation,  he  sent  up  his  soul 
to  heaven  through  a  slip»about  his  neck." 
With  the  exception  of  a  few  other  bits 
of  doubtful  gossip  and  of  the  full  text 
of  his  will,  this  is  all  of  importance  that 
has  come  down  to  us  about  the  author  of 


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549 


the  Anatomy.  It  is  rather  brief,  cer- 
tainly, when  one  realizes  that,  if  he  had 
lived  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  later, 
he  would  probably  have  been  honored 
with  two  solid  volumes  of  so-called  bio- 
graphy, like  many  another  much  less 
worthy  of  it. 

Far  more  than  most  great  writers, 
however,  Burton  left  the  reflection  of  his 
life  and  character  in  his  work,  and  The 
Anatomy  of  Melancholy  may  be  called 
one  of  the>  most  intensely  personal  books 
that  were  ever  written.  To  be  sure,  the 
author  does  not  constantly  and  directly 
refer  to  himself  and  his  own  affairs. 
Nevertheless,  the  impress  of  his  spirit  is 
felt  on  every  page. 

Several  of  the  biographical  facts  above 
mentioned  are  derived  from  casual  re- 
marks dropped  here  and  there  through- 
out the  book.  Of  his  mother,  Mistress 
Dorothy  Burton,  he  says  that  she  had 
"  excellent  skill  in  chirurgery,  sore  eyes, 
aches,  etc.,"  and  that  she  had  "  done  many 
famous  and  good  cures  upon  divers  poor 
folks  that  were  otherwise  destitute  of 
help."  He  gives  us  a  reminiscence  of 
his  boyhood  :  "  They  think  no  slavery  in 
the  world  (as  once  I  did  myself)  like  to 
that  of  a  grammar  scholar."  He  speaks 
with  a  grain  of  bitterness  of  a  younger 
brother's  lot :  "  I  do  much  respect  and 
honor  true  gentry  and  nobility ;  I  was 
born  of  worshipful  parents  myself,  in 
an  ancient  family  ;  but  I  am  a  younger 
brother,  it  concerns  me  not." 

He  gives  U3  many  glimpses  of  his 
lonely  scholar's  life.  In  his  youth  he 
was  ambitious :  "  I  was  once  so  mad  to 
bussell  abroad  and  seek  about  for  pre- 
ferment, tyre  myself,  and  trouble  all  my 
friends."  But  the  world  is  cold,  friend- 
ship formal  and  touches  not  the  heart : 
"  I  have  had  some  such  noble  friends, 
acquaintance,  and  scholars,  but  most  pr.rt 
they  and  I  parted  as  we  met ;  they  gave 
me  as  much  as  I  requested  and  that 
was  — ."  His  habits  are  those  of  the 
recluse  and  ascetic  :  "  I  am  a  bachelor 
myself  and  lead  a  monastic  life  in  a  col- 


lege." "I  am  aquce  potor,  drink  no 
wine  at  all."  Yet  he  loves  the  sweet  of 
nature  too,  if  the  bitter  thirst  of  know- 
ledge would  permit :  "  No  man  ever 
took  more  delight  in  springs,  woods, 
groves,  gardens,  walks,  fishponds,  rivers, 
etc."  Force  of  circumstance,  lack  of 
opportunity,  younger  brotherhood,  timid- 
ity, have  kept  him  secluded  within  the 
wrJIs  of  great  libraries,  have  piled  huge 
dusty  tomes  on  the  human  beating  of  his 
heart.  "  I  have  lived  a  silent,  sedentary, 
solitary,  private  life  in  the  University, 
as  long  almost  as  Xenocrates  in  Athens, 
to  learn  wisdom  as  he  did,  penned  up 
most  part  in  my  study."  Yet  if  the 
Fates  had  willed  otherwise,  the  man 
would  have  been  consenting.  Let  us 
note  right  here  that  this  is  the  whole 
charm  of  Burton  and  his  great  book.  It 
is  no  dry  treatise  of  a  gray-haired  pedant, 
thumbing  contentedly  forever  dull  vol- 
umes of  mouldy  tradition.  For  all  its 
quaint  garb  and  thorny  aspect,  it  is  a 
great  human  document,  the  work  of  a 
man  whose  bodily  life  was  passed  in  his 
study,  but  whose  senses  were  all  keenly, 
pantingly  alert  to  catch  the  motion  of 
the  wide  world  beyond.  Beauty  —  he 
adores  beauty.  "  This  amazing,  con- 
founding, admirable  beauty  ;  't  is  na- 
ture's crown,  gold,  and  glory."  Love  — 
Oh,  how  he  could  have  loved  !  "  I  con- 
fess I  am  but  a  novice,  a  contemplator 
only,"  he  writes  of  it ;  "  yet  homo  sum, 
I  am  a  man,  and  not  altogether  inex- 
pert in  this  subject."  Like  Flaubert,  he 
doubtless  leaned  forth  from  his  study 
window  on  many  a  moonlit  night,  and 
heard  a  company  of  revelers  with  merry 
song  and  pleasant  jest,  and  caught  the 
dim  flutter  of  a  white  gown,  and  found 
all  his  books  and  learning  mere  dust  be- 
side the  laughter  and  the  passion  of  the 
world. 

And  so  he  grew  melancholy,  as  often 
happens  in  such  cases.  When  a  man  gets 
these  fits  on  him,  he  may  either  rush  out 
into  active  life  for  the  sake  of  contrast, 
he  may  marry,  or  go  into  politics,  or  do 


550 


An   Odd  Sort  of  Popular  Book. 


something  even  more  rash  and  criminal ; 
or  he  may  cut  his  throat ;  or  he  may  write 
a  book.  On  the  whole,  the  last  method 
is  the  most  to  be  recommended.  Burton 
adopted  it ;  and,  with  homoeopathic  in- 
genuity, he  wrote  a  book  on  melancholy 
itself.  "  I  write  against  melancholy,  by 
being  busy,  to  avoid  melancholy.  .  .  . 
Shall  I  say,  my  mistress  melancholy,  my 
Egeria,  or  my  evil  genius  ?  " 

The  loose  and  literary  sense  in  which 
Burton  uses  the  word  melancholy  is  char- 
acteristic of  the  tone  of  his  book.  With- 
out really  attempting  any  precise  defini- 
tion, or,  rather,  having  confused  the 
reader  with  a  multitude  of  definitions 
taken  from  all  the  authors  under  the  sun, 
he  proceeds  to  include  every  form  of  ner- 
vous depression,  from  a  mere  temporary 
fit  of  the  blues  to  acute  or  chronic  mania 
and  insanity.  At  the  same  time,  being  a 
man  of  a  logical  and  systematic  turn  of 
mind,  he  imposes  on  others,  and  perhaps 
on  himself,  with  a  great  show  of  formal 
and  scientific  treatment.  The  work  is 
mapped  out  into  divisions,  partitions,  sec- 
tions, members,  subsections,  arranged  in 
as  awful  order  of  deduction  as  Euclid  or 
the  Ethics  of  Spinoza.  But  let  no  one  be 
alarmed.  This  is  pure  matter  of  form. 
The  author  speaks  of  what  he  likes,  when 
he  likes.  Occasionally  he  takes  the  pains 
to  recognize  that  he  is  digressing,  as  in 
the  delicious  chapters  entitled  A  Digres- 
sion of  Spirits,  A  Digression  of  Air. 
And  then,  with  a  sigh,  he  tries  to  call 
himself  back  to  the  work  in  hand . 
"But  my  melancholy  spaniels  quest,  my 
game  is  sprung,  and  I  must  suddenly 
come  down  and  follow."  The  game  leads 
him  into  strange  places,  however.  The 
vast  and  checkered  meadow  of  the  hu- 
man heart  is  his  hunting-ground.  Mel- 
ancholy is  the  skeleton  in  the  closet,  al- 
ways popping  out  at  odd  times  and  in 
unexpected  corners ;  but  he  keeps  it 
wreathed  with  bright  flowers,  and  made 
sweet  with  strange  and  subtle  savors,  and 
brilliant  and  sparkling  with  jewels  of 
quaint  wit  and  wandering  fancy.  Never- 


theless, when  he  does  discuss  his  subject 
itself,  he  has  bits  of  sound  common  sense, 
useful  to-day  and  always,  like  his  re- 
commendation of  "  the  three  Salernitan 
Doctors,  D.  Merryman,  D.  Diet,  and 
D.  Quiet,  which  cure  all  diseases." 

Some  one  may  object  that  this  saying 
is  quoted  and  not  Burton's  own  invention. 
Certainly,  Burton  is  the  greatest  quoter 
in  literature,  far  surpassing  even  Mon- 
taigne. His  mind  was  full  of  the  thoughts 
of  others,  and  he  poured  them  forth  to- 
gether with  his  own  in  inextricable  mix- 
ture. He  was  a  man  drenched,  drowned 
in  learning,  not  learning  of  the  quick, 
smart,  practical,  modern  type,  which  en- 
ables its  possessor  to  give  interviews  on 
the  inhabitants  of  Mars  and  testify  on 
poisons  at  a  murder  trial,  but  mediaeval 
learning,  drowsy,  strange,  unprofitable, 
and  altogether  lovely.  In  the  discussion 
of  these  melancholy  matters  all  preced- 
ing literature  is  laid  under  contribution, 
not  only  the  classics,  but  countless  writ- 
ers of  the  Middle  Ages,  doubtless  re- 
spectable in  their  own  day  and  possibly 
in  Burton's,  but  now  so  dead  that  the 
reader  stares  and  gasps  at  them  and 
wonders  whether  his  author  is  not  in- 
venting references,  like  the  Oracle  in 
the  Innocents  Abroad.  Melanelius,  Ruf- 
fus,  Aetius  describe  melancholy  "to  be 
a  bad  and  pievish  disease."  Hercules 
de  Saxonia  approves  this  opinion,  as 
do  Fuchsius,  Arnoldus,  Guianerius,  and 
others  —  not  unnaturally.  Paulus  takes 
a  different  view,  and  Halyabbas  still  an- 
other. Aretseus  calls  it  "  a  perpetual  an- 
guish of  the  soul,  fastened  on  one  thing, 
without  an  ague."  In  this  brilliant  but 
hazy  statement  the  absence  of  ague  is  at 
least  a  comfort.  It  is  disquieting,  in- 
deed, to  find  that  "  this  definition  of  his 
Merrialis  taxeth  ;  "  but  we  are  reassured 
by  the  solid  support  of  ^lianus  Montal- 
tus.  And  so  on. 

Pure  pedantry,  you  will  say.  Well, 
yes.  It  would  be,  if  Burton  were  not 
saved  from  the  extreme  of  pedantry  by 
a  touch  of  humor,  which  makes  you 


An   Odd  Sort  of  Popular  Book. 


551 


somehow  feel  that  he  does  not  take  all 
this  quite  seriously  himself.  Yet  it  is 
very  hard  for  him  to  look  at  anything 
except  through  the  eyes  of  some  remote 
authority.  We  have  heard  him  speak 
of  his  mother's  excellent  cures.  It  seems 
that  one  of  her  favorite  remedies  was  "  an 
amulet  of  a  spider  in  a  nutshell  lapped 
in  silk,"  super-sovereign  for  the  ague. 
Burton  finds  it  hard  to  swallow  this ;  it 
was  "  most  absurd  and  ridiculous  ;  for 
what  has  a  spider  to  do  with  a  fever  ?  " 
Ah,  but  one  day  "  rambling  amongst 
authors  (as  often  I  do)  I  found  this  very 
medicine  in  Dioscorides,  approved  by 
Matthiolus,  repeated  by  Aldrovandus. 
...  I  began  to  have  a  better  opinion 
of  it,  and  to  give  more  credit  to  amu- 
lets." I  can  see  from  here  Mistress 
Dorothy  Burton's  lovely  scorn  at  being 
confirmed  by  Dioscorides.  What  did 
she  care  for  Dioscorides  ?  Did  she  not 
have  the  recipe  from  her  great-aunt,  and 
has  she  not  proved  it  a  dozen  times  her- 
self? 

This  trick  of  constant  quoting  has  led 
some  shallow  people  to  set  Burton  down 
as  a  mere  quoter  and  nothing  else.  There 
could  be  no  greater  mistake.  It  is  the 
activity  and  independence  of  his  own 
mind  which  make  him  so  eager  to  watch 
and  compare  the  minds  of  others ;  and 
while  he  profited  by  their  thinking,  he 
was  abundantly  able  to  do  his  own,  as 
every  page  of  his  book  shows.  One  need 
ask  no  better  specimen,  of  strong,  shrewd, 
satirical  reflection  than  the  sketch  of  a 
Utopian  commonwealth  in  the  introduc- 
tion which  purports  to  be  by  Democritus 
Junior ;  and  of  many  other  passages  we 
may  say  the  same. 

Nor  was  our  author  lacking  in  deep, 
human  sympathy,  although  his  solitary 
life  and  keen  intellect  disposed  him  to 
be  a  trifle  cynical.  The  celebrated  bit 
with  the  refrain  "  Ride  on  !  "  —  so  bril- 
liantly imitated  by  Sterne  —  shows  a  pit- 
iful appreciation  of  sorrow  and  misery, 
which,  indeed,  are  abundantly  recognized 
everywhere  in  the  Anatomy. 


But  perhaps  the  most  characteristic 
illustration  of  Burton's  intense  appetite 
for  humanity  is  his  frequent  reference 
to  common  daily  life  and  manners. 
M.  Anatole  France  tells  us  that  the  author 
of  The  Imitation  must  certainly  have 
been  a  man  of  the  world  before  he  betook 
himself  to  his  lonely  cell  and  pious  med- 
itation. If  Bui'ton  never  was  a  man  of 
the  world,  he  would  certainly  have  liked 
to  be  one.  He  peers  out  from  behind 
the  bars  of  his  cell  and  catches  every 
possible  glimpse  of  the  curious  things 
which  are  shut  away  from  him.  Shreds 
of  fashion,  hints  of  frivolity,  quips  of 
courtiers,  the  flash  of  swords  and  glitter- 
ing of  jewels,  —  he  will  find  a  place  for 
them.  Woman  fascinates  him  especially, 
—  that  singular  creature  who  apparently 
cares  nothing  for  books  and  study,  laughs, 
weeps,  scolds,  caresses,  without  any  rea- 
sonable cause  whatever.  Certainly  no 
philosopher  should  take  any  notice  of 
her,  —  yet  they  all  do.  And  he  exhausts 
himself  in  cunning  heaps  of  observation, 
vain  interrogations  of  mysterious  bou- 
doirs :  "  Why  do  they  make  such  glorious 
shows  with  their  scarfs,  feathers,  fans, 
masks,  furs,  laces,  tiffanies,  ruffs,  falls, 
calls,  cuffs,  damasks,  velvets,  tinsel,  cloth 
of  gold,  silver,  tissue  ?  With  colors  of 
heavens,  stars,  planets ;  the  strength  of 
metals,  stones,  odors,flowers,birds,  beasts, 
fishes,  and  whatsoever  Africk,  Asia, 
America,  sea,  land,  art  and  industry  of 
man  can  afford  ?  why  do  they  use  such 
novelty  of  inventions  ;  such  new-fangled 
tires;  and  spend  such  inestimable  sums 
on  them  ?  .  .  .  Why  is  it  but,  as  a  day- 
net  catcheth  larks,  to  make  young  men 
stoop  unto  them  ?  "  And  old  philoso- 
phers also,  he  might  have  added. 

I  have  taken  this  passage  from  the 
section  on  Love  Melancholy ;  for  Bur- 
ton devotes  a  large  portion  of  his  work 
to  that  delightful  subject.  He  feels  it 
necessary  to  make  some  apology  for  en- 
tering upon  it.  Some  persons  will  think 
it  hardly  becoming  in  so  grave,  reverend, 
and  dignified  a  gentleman,  —  a  clergy- 


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An   Odd  Sort  of  Popular  Book. 


man  too.  But  he  has  good  authors  on 
his  side :  "  I  excuse  myself  with  Peter 
Godefridus,  Valleriola,  Ficinus,  Langius, 
Cadmus  Milesius,  who  writ  fourteen 
books  of  love."  Surely,  he  would  be 
very  critical  who  should  ask  more  than 
this. 

The  apology  once  made,  with  what 
gusto  he  sets  forth,  how  he  luxuriates 
in  golden  tidbits  from  love's  delicate 
revels  !  "  A  little  soft  hand,  pretty  little 
mouth,  small,  fine,  long  fingers,  't  is  that 
which  Apollo  did  admire  in  Daphne." 
"  Of  all  eyes  (by  the  way)  black  are 
most  amiable,  enticing,  and  fair."  "  Oh, 
that  pretty  tone,  her  divine  and  lovely 
looks,  her  everything  lovely,  sweet,  ami- 
able, and  pretty,  pretty,  pretty."  Is  it 
not  the  mere  ecstasy  of  amorous  frenzy  ? 
Again,  he  gives  us  a  very  banquet,  a  rosy 
wreath  of  old,  simple  English  names,  a 
perfect  old-fashioned  garden  :  "  Modest 
Matilda,  pretty,  pleasing  Peg,  sweet,  sing- 
ing Susan,  mincing,  merry  Moll,  dainty, 
dancing  Doll,  neat  Nancy,  jolly  Jone, 
nimble  Nell,  kissing  Kate,  bouncing  Bess 
with  black  eyes,  fair  Phillis,  with  fine 
white  hands,  fiddling  Frank,  tall  Tib, 
slender  Sib,  etc."  Do  you  not  hear  their 
merry  laughter,  as  he  heard  it  in  his  dim 
study,  a  dream  of  fair  faces  and  bright 
forms  twisting,  and  turning,  and  flash- 
ing back  and  forth  under  the  harvest 
moon? 

Yet,  after  all,  love  is  a  tyrant  and  a 
traitor,  a  meteor  rushing  with  blind  fury 
among  the  placid  orbs  of  life.  What  is 
a  man  to  make  of  these  wild  contrasts 
and  tragical  transitions  ?  At  one  mo- 
ment the  lover  seems  to  be  on  the  pin- 
nacle of  felicity,  "  his  soul  sowced,  im- 
paradised,  imprisoned  in  his  lady ;  he 
can  do  nothing,  think  of  nothing  but  her  ; 
she  is  his  cynosure,  Hesperus,  and  Ves- 
per, his  morning  and  evening  star,  his 
goddess,  his  mistress,  his  life,  his  soul, 
his  everything ;  dreaming,  waking,  she 
is  always  in  his  mouth  ;  his  heart,  eyes, 
ears,  and  all  his  thoughts  are  full  of  her." 
But  then  something  goes  wrong  and  the 


note  is  altogether  changed.  "  When  this 
young  gallant  is  crossed  in  his  love,  he 
laments,  and  cries,  and  roars  downright. 
k  The  virgin 's  gone  and  I  am  gone, 
she  's  gone,  she  's  gone,  and  what  sha 
I  do  ?  Where  shall  I  find  her  ?  whom 
shall  I  ask  ?  what  will  become  of  me  ? 
I  am  weary  of  this  life,  sick,  mad,  am 
desperate.'  ' 

It  becomes  the  sage,  then,  to  be  clear 
of  these  toys.     If  he  is  to    write    aboi 
Love  Melancholy,  let  him  cure  it.     Let 
him  hold  up  a  warning  to  the  unwary. 
What  is  the  use  of  days  and  nights  spent 
in    toiling    over   learned  authors,  if  the 
young  and  foolish  are  not  to  have  the 
benefit  of  one's  experience  ?     If  only  the 
young  and  foolish  would  profit !     If  onlj 
the    unwary  would    beware  !      Still    we 
must  do  our  part.     Let  us  remind  thei 
that   beauty  fades.     It  is  a  rather  well- 
known  fact,  but  youth  is  so  prone  to  for- 
get  it.     "  Suppose    thou    beholdest  hei 
in  a  frosty  morning,  in  cold  weather, 
some  passion  or  perturbation  of   mine 
weeping,  chafing,  etc.,  riveled   and    ill 
favored  to  behold.  .  .  .  Let  her  use 
helps  art  and  nature  can  yield ;  be  likt 
her,  and  her,  and  whom  thou  wilt,  or 
these  in  one ;  a  little  sickness,  a  fever, 
small-pox,  wound,  scar,  loss  of  an  eye  or 
limb,  a  violent  passion,  mars  all  in 
instant,  disfigures  all."     Then  let  us  ex- 
alt the  charms  of  a  bachelor's  life.     It 
has  its  weak  points,  as  I    feel,  writing 
here  alone  in  the  dust  and  chill,  with  nc 
thing  but  books  about  me,  no  prattle  of 
children,  no  merry  chatter  of  busy  we 
men.     But  what   then  ?     It  is  quieter, 
after  all.     "  Consider  how  contentedly, 
quietly,  neatly,  plentifully,  sweetly,  anc 
how  merrily  he  lives  !     He  hath  no  mar 
to  care  for  but  himself,  none  to  please 
no  charge,  none  to  control  him,  is  tied 
no  residence,  no  cure  to  serve,  may 
and  come  when,  whither,  live  where 
will,  his  own  master,  and    do  what 
list  himself."     Nevertheless,  it  all  soum 
a  little  hollow,  and  as  I  sit  here  in  tl 
winter    midnight    with    my    old  pipe, 


An   Odd  Sort  of  Popular  Book. 


553 


wonder  if  it  might  not  have  been  other- 
wise. 

I  have  made  my  quotations  with  very 
little  skill,  if  the  ingenious  reader  does 
not  by  this  time  feel  that  Burton  was  in 
his  way  a  great  master  of  style.  His 
skill  and  power  as  a  writer,  more  than 
anything  else,  show  that  he  was  not  a 
mere  pedant  or  Dryasdust.  It  is  true, 
he  himself  disclaims  any  such  futile  pre- 
occupation. He  lias  not  "  amended  the 
style,  which  now  flows  I'emissly,  as  it 
was  first  conceived."  His  book  is  "  writ 
with  as  small  deliberation  as  I  do  or- 
dinarily speak,  without  all  affectation 
of  big  words,  fustian  phrases,  jingling 
terms."  But  the  facts  belie  him,  and  one 
shudders  to  think  what  must  have  been 
his  idea  of  the  big  words  he  does  not 
use. .  A  careful  collation  of  the  first  edi- 
tion of  the  Anatomy  with  the  last  pub- 
lished in  the  author's  lifetime  not  only 
shows  a  great  number  of  additions  and 
alterations,  but  proves  conclusively  that 
these  changes  were  made,  in  many  cases, 
with  a  view  to  style  and  to  style  only. 
Take  a  single  instance.  In  the  first  edi- 
tion Burton  wrote  :  "  If  it  be  so  that  the 
earth  is  a  moon,  then  are  we  all  lunatic 
within."  Later  he  amplified  this  as  fol- 
lows, with  obvious  gain  in  the  beauty  of 
the  phrase  :  "  If  it  be  so  that  the  earth 
is  a  moon,  then  are  we  also  giddy,  ver- 
tiginous, and  lunatic  within  this  sublu- 
nary maze."  Amended,  I  think,  but 
oh,  for  the  "  big  words,  fustian  phrases, 
jingling  terms  " ! 

Yes,  Burton  was  a  master  of  style. 
He  could  bend  language  to  his  ends  and 
do  as  he  willed  with  it.  If  lie  is  often 
rough,  harsh,  wanton  in  expression,  it 
is  simply  because,  like  Donne,  he  chose 
to  be  so.  Does  he  wish  to  tell  a  plain 
story  ?  Who  can  do  it  more  lightly,  sim- 
ply, briefly  ?  "  An  ass  and  a  mule  went 
laden  over  a  brook,  the  one  with  salt,  the 
other  with  wool ;  the  mule's  pack  was  wet 
by  chance  ;  the  salt  melted,  his  burden 
the  lighter ;  and  he  thereby  much  eased. 
He  told  the  ass,  who,  thinking  to  speed 


as  well,  wet  his  pack  likewise  at  the  next 
water ;  but  it  was  much  the  heavier,  he 
quite  tired." 

Does  he  wish  to  paint  the  foul  and 
horrible  ?  I  know  of  nothing  in  Swift 
or  Zola  more  replete  with  the  luxury 
of  hideousness  than  the  unquotable  de- 
scription of  the  defects  which  infatuated 
love  will  overlook,  —  a  description  which 
Keats  tells  a  correspondent  he  would  give 
his  favorite  leg  to  have  written.  Here, 
as  in  so  many  passages  I  have  quoted, 
Burton  piles  up  epithet  after  epithet,  till 
it  seems  as  if  the  dictionary  would  be 
exhausted,  — a  trick  which,  by  the  bye, 
he  may  have  caught  from  Rabelais,  and 
which  would  become  very  monotonous, 
if  it  were  not  applied  with  such  wonder- 
ful variety  and  fertility. 

Then,  at  his  will,  the  magician  can 
turn  with  ease  from  the  bitter  to  the 
sweet.  When  he  touches  love  or  beauty, 
all  his  ruggedness  is  gone.  His  words 
become  full  of  grace,  of  suave,  vague 
richness,  of  delicacy,  of  mystery,  as  in 
the  phrase  which  Southey  quotes  in  The 
Doctor  :  "  For  peregrination  charms  our 
senses  with  such  unspeakable  and  sweet 
variety  that  some  count  him  unhappy 
that  never  traveled,  a  kind  of  prisoner, 
and  pity  his  case,  that  from  his  cradle  to 
his  old  age  beholds  the  same  still ;  still, 
still  the  same,  the  same."  Or,  to  take  a 
more  elaborate  picture,  see  this,  which 
might  be  a  Tintoretto  or  a  Spenser : 
"  Witty  Lucian,  in  that  pathetical  love- 
passage  or  pleasant  description  of  Jupi- 
ter's stealing  of  Europa  and  swimming 
from  Phoanicia  to  Crete,  makes  the  sea 
calm,  the  winds  hush,  Neptune  and  Am- 
phitrite  riding  in  their  chariot  to  break 
the  waves  before  them,  the  Tritons  dan- 
cing round  about  with  every  one  a  torch  ; 
the  sea-nymphs,  half-naked,  keeping  time 
on  dolphins'  backs  and  singing  Hyme- 
naeus ;  Cupid  nimbly  tripping  on  the  top 
of  the  waters  ;  and  Venus  herself  coming 
after  in  a  shell,  strawing  roses  and  flow- 
ers on  their  heads." 

I  have  dwelt  thus  long  on  Burton's 


554 


Content. 


style  because  it  is  absolutely  characteris- 
tic, and  because  it  proves  by  its  eminent 
artistic  qualities  that  he  was  not  simply 
a  compiler  and  quoter,  but  a  thinking 
and  feeling  man,  a  strong,  shrewd,  pas- 
sionate temperament,  gazing  with  in- 
tense interest  out  of  his  scholastic  win- 
dows at  the  strange  and  moving  spectacle 
of  life.  In  his  fullness  and  abundance 
he,  more  than  any  other  English  author, 
recalls  Montaigne,  whom  he  quotes  so 
frequently  :  he  has  less  fluidity,  more 
conventional  prejudice,  but  also  more  sin- 
cerity, more  robust  moral  force'.  Again, 
he  in  a  certain  sense  resembles  a  greater 
than  Montaigne,  his  own  greatest  con- 
temporary, Shakespeare,  whom  he  also 
quotes  enough  to  show  that  he  knew  and 
loved  his  writings,  at  any  rate,  if  not 
himself.  Shakespeare's  work  is  like  a  glo- 
rious piece  of  tapestry,  a  world  of  rich 
and  splendid  hues,  woven  into  a  thou- 
sand shapes  of  curious  life.  Burton's 
is  like  the  reverse  side  of  the  same  :  all 
the  bewildering  wealth  of  color,  but 
rough,  crude,  misshapen,  undigested. 

One  of  the  characteristic  oddities  of 
Burton's  style  is  his  perpetual  use  of  the 
phrase  etc.  When  his  quick  and  fluent 
pen  has  heaped  together  all  the  nouns  or 
adjectives  in  heaven  and  in  earth,  and 
in  the  waters  under  the  earth,  he  com- 
pletes the  picture  with  the  vast,  vague 


gesture  of  an  etc.  Take  an  often-quoted 
passage  in  the  introduction,  in  which  he 
describes  his  own  life  as  an  observer  and 
contemplator :  "  Now  come  tidings  of 
weddings,  maskings,  mummeries,  enter- 
tainments, jubilees,  embassies,  tilts  and 
tournaments,  trophies,  triumphs,  revels, 
sports,  plays ;  then  again,  as  in  a  new- 
shifted  scene,  treasons,  cheating  tricks, 
robberies,  enormous  villanies  in  all  kinds, 
funerals,  burials,  death  of  princes,  new 
discoveries,  expeditions,  now  comical, 
then  tragical  matters ;  to-day  we  hear  of 
new  lords  and  officers  created,  to-mor- 
row of  some  great  men  deposed,  and 
again  of  fresh  honors  conferred  ;  one  is 
let  loose,  another  imprisoned ;  one  pur- 
chaseth,  another  breaketh ;  he  thrives, 
his  neighbor  turns  bankrupt ;  now  plenty, 
then  again  dearth  and  famine  ;  one  runs, 
another  rides,  wrangles,  laughs,  weeps, 
etc." 

So  we  may  sum  up  The  Anatomy  of 
Melancholy  in  an  etc.   The  general  tone 
of  the  book,  with  its  infinite  multiplicity, 
reminds  one  of  nothing  more  than  of  the 
quaint  blending  of  mirth,  mystery,  and 
spiritual  awe  so  deliciously  expressed  in 
Stevenson's  baby  couplet,  — 
"  The  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  things, 
I  'm  sure  we  should  all  be  as  happy  as  kings." 

Only  Burton  would  have  laid  a  mischiev- 
ous and  melancholy  emphasis  on  should. 
Gamaliel  Bradford,  Jr. 


CONTENT. 

WHEN  of  this  flurry  thou  shalt  have  thy  fill, 
The  thing  thou  seekest,  it  will  seek  thee  then : 
The  heavens  repeat  themselves  in  waters  still 
And  in  the  faces  of  contented  men. 

John  Vance  Cheney. 


When  I  Practised  Medicine. 


555 


WHEN  I  PRACTISED  MEDICINE. 


THE  manner  of  my  initiation  was  this. 
There  was  living  in  the  town  of  Wheat- 
land  an  old  man  who  knew  everybody  in 
the  county,  for  indeed  he  had  helped  a 
good  part  of  the  inhabitants  into  this  vale 
of  tears,  and,  to  speak  truly,  I  fear  had 
hastened  the  departure  from  it  of  not  a 
few.  This  was  the  celebrated  Dr.  John 
Claggett,  the  greatest  story-teller,  the  best 
companion  with  whom  to  share  a  mint 
julep,  the  welcome  guest  at  every  wed- 
ding, the  friend  of  every  child,  the  good 
physician,  whose  presence  was  worth  a 
moderate  sickness.  For  he  brought  the 
latest  news  from  the  farthest  borders  of 
the  county  ;  he  had  stories  new  as  well 
as  old  ;  he  played  practical  jokes  in,  as  it 
seemed,  the  presence  of  death  itself,  and 
drove  pain  off  with  hearty  human  laugh- 
ter. Perhaps  the  wit  was  rather  too 
Elizabethan  for  the  taste  of  to-day.  Here 
was  one  that  the  country  people  liked 
more  than  the  aroma  of  humor;  they 
wanted  to  taste  it,  and  thought  that  a 
joke,  like  whiskey,  improved  with  age. 
Mother,  and  then  daughter,  had  listened 
to  it  without  shame.  It  is  a  wedding,  — 
not  complete  without  the  Doctor.  Two, 
three,  perhaps  more,  glasses  of  apple-jack 
have  been  drunk ;  it 's  time  to  break 
up,  but  first  the  Doctor  must  salute  the 
bride.  This  he  does,  and  adds,  with  a 
meaning  look,  "  I  '11  see  you  later,"  an- 
swered by  a  push  and  a  "  La,  Doctor  !  " 
from  the  buxom  bride,  and  a  fatuous 
giggle  from  the  embarrassed  groom.  I 
fear  we  were  not  a  refined  people,  but 
then,  on  the  other  hand,  we  were  not 
divorced  and  married  again  the  same 
day ! 

It  came  to  pass,  then,  that  this  man  — 
now,  as  I  say,  growing  old  —  saw  one 
day  in  the  village  street  a  child  whom  he 
did  not  know.  And  as  that  was  a  most 
remarkable  thing,  he  stopped  him  and 
easily  learned  that  he  had  not  long  been 


there,  and  that  he  lived  on  the  Hill  next 
to  the  Academy.  Whereupon,  Dr.  Clag- 
gett remembered  that  he  was  on  his  way 
to  that  very  house  to  see  a  lady  there,  — 
which  was  strange,  for  he  was  going  in 
an  opposite  direction  when  the  child  met 
him.  However,  they  returned  to  the 
house,  the  child  about  seven,  and  the  man 
nearly  ten  times  as  old. 

What  talk  went  on  behind  the  Vene- 
tian blinds  in  the  parlor  the  little  boy 
—  swinging  on  the  gate  until  the  reap- 
pearance of  his  new  friend  —  did  not 
learn  till  years  after,  but  when  the  Doc- 
tor reappeared  he  heard,  "  No  books  nor 
school,  — give  him  to  me  and  he  '11  live, 
and  I  '11  make  a  man  of  him." 

Next  morning  at  nine  o'clock  I  stood 
before  the  Doctor's  house,  —  red  brick, 
with  a  high  stoop  built  along  the  front. 
An  alleyway,  arched  over,  gave  protec- 
tion to  a  little  brown  mare,  hitched  to  a 
staple  in  the  wall,  and  kept  the  rain  from 
a  buggy  that  was  splashed  to  the  top  with 
cakes  of  yellow  mud  that  had  dried  and 
made  the  whole  vehicle  almost  invisible 
at  a  distance,  so  near  was  it  to  the  color 
of  the  crossroads.  In  this  vehicle  I  was 
destined  to  ride  for  the  next  two  years, 
every  day  save  Sunday,  as  the  compan- 
ion, the  friend,  and,  as  he  said,  the  col- 
league of  the  man  who  had  the  largest 
practice  in  the  county.  In  that  way  I 
began  to  practise  medicine. 

The  little  brown  mare,  named  Lucy, 
turned  to  the  right,  and,  passing  through 
the  square,  turned  to  the  right  again  on 
the  Sharpesburg  pike,  then  to  the  left, 
and  stretched  herself  comfortably  east- 
ward on  the  Frederick  road  toward  the 
blue  mountains,  shining  like  a  long  tur- 
quoise in  the  early  winter  sun. 

"  Do  you  know  where  you  are  going  ?  " 
said  my  new,  indeed  my  first  friend. 

"  No,  sir." 


556 


When  I  Practised  Medicine. 


"  Well,  you  are  going  to  Jerusalem 
across  the  river  Jordan." 

Oh,  the  terror  of  that  drive  !  It  must 
be  death,  or  at  least  endless  exile,  that 
affronted  me.  "  Jerusalem  and  Jor- 
dan "  —  I  knew  the  names.  Indeed, 
they  represented  all  I  knew  of  geo- 
graphy. They  were  far  away,  I  knew. 
Could  I  ever  return  ?  I  think  here  I 
should  have  wept  had  I  not  been  roused 
from  my  sad  forebodings  by  Lucy's  stop- 
ping at  the  toll  gate.  A  wonderful  place, 
that !  What  authority  resided  here ! 
Why,  even  the  tow-headed  boy  sitting 
on  the  fence  could  swing  that  bar  to, 
and  all  the  traffic  would  cease.  "  There 
wa'n't  nobody  dasen't  go  through  when 
the  bar  was  swung  in."  I  did  not  know 
that  then,  but  I  learned  it  later  from 
the  same  tow-headed  boy,  when  he  be- 
came my  friend.  The  toll  keeper  was  a 
shoemaker,  too,  and  well-mannered  peo- 
ple drove  close  to  the  step,  so  that  he  had 
only  to  reach  out  a  hand  to  take  the  fare. 
A  woman  came  through  the  orchard, 
where  she  had  been  feeding  hens,  to  have 
a  chat  with  the  old  Doctor. 

"  Why,  my  sakes,  Doctor,  where  did 
you  get  that  child  ?  He  ain't  one  o' 
yourn,  be  he  ?  " 

"  No  sir-ree,"  was  the  emphatic  an- 
swer. "  This  is  a  celebrated  doctor  from 
Virginia,  and  he  's  going  to  practise  med- 
icine with  me  from  the  Blue  Ridge  to 
the  Connococheague,  and  to-day  we  are 
bound  'cross  the  Jordan  to  Jerusalem." 

They  all  laughed,  and  I  whispered  pit- 
eously  to  the  woman,  — 

"  Is  it  far  ?  " 

"No,  honey,  't ain't  no  ways  now. 
And  don't  you  mind  the  old  Doctor.  He 
ain't  happy  'less  he  's  foolin'  somebody." 

Here  the  Doctor  laughed,  too,  and 
clucked  to  Lucy,  and  we  climbed  the  long 
bill,  from  the  top  of  which  are  seen,  di- 
rectly below,  the  sluggish  yellow  waters 
of  the  Antietam,  spanned  by  a  single  arch 
of  blue  limestone,  the  wooden  covering 
of  the  bridge's  wall  painted  bright  red. 
The  sycamore  trees  growing  on  the 


banks  touched  their  outmost  branches  a 
midstream,  and  the  old  red  brick  flo 
mill  shook  with  the  whirl  of  the  wheel, 
the  yellow  stream  became  white  and 
creamy  as  it  fell  over  the  fall,  and  beyond 
the  mill  lay  Funkstown,  a  hamlet  with- 
out a  comely  building,  and  yet  made 
beautiful  by  stately  silver  poplars  which 
bordered  the  street,  and  gardens  sur- 
rounding every  house. 

"There  !  This  is  Jerusalem, and  that 
is  the  river  Jordan,  that  we  've  crossed ; 
and,  yes,  there  they  are,  —  in  that  win- 
dow, bull's  eyes,  —  two  for  a  penny,  — 
and  soon  we  shall  be  going  home." 

Oh,  how  proud  the  child  was  that  he 
had  not  cried  !  He  laughed,  too,  with  a 
new  sensation.  He  had  become  conscious 
of  thought !  This  wise  old  man  had 
taken  a  child,  who  needed  rousing  and 
an  interest  to  make  it  seem  worth  while 
to  life  to  keep  in  its  delicate  frame, 
and  plunged  it  into  the  cold  water  of 
apprehension,  and  now  it  was  tingling 
with  the  reaction  of  satisfaction.  Like 
many  puzzles,  the  explanation  was  simple. 
The  Dunkers  had  a  yearly  baptism  in 
the  Antietam,  hence  the  Antietam  be- 
came Jordan,  and  Funkstown,  Jerusalem. 
A  parable,  if  you  will,  of  the  power  of 
faith.  For,  as  the  early  Italian  painters 
dressed  the  Magi  and  the  Holy  Family 
in  the  gorgeous  robes  of  Venice  or  Ve- 
rona, and  saw  no  incongruity,  so  these 
simple-minded  peasants,  —  for  they  were 
little  more,  —  in  the  illustration  of  the 
great  experience,  saw  the  insignificant 
stream  changed  to  the  river  that  cleansed 
Naaman,  and  the  mean  little  village  into 
the  city  of  the  great  King. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  an  edu 
tion,  impossible  in  school,  of  course,  b 
most  important.  I  mean  the  education 
of  teasing.  It  is  like  teaching  a  puppy 
to  jump  by  holding  the  dainty  a  little 
higher  than  he  can  reach.  It  is  a  sort 
of  mental  tickling,  that  may  indeed  be- 
come cruel,  but  is,  in  kindly  hands,  a 
delicious  experience.  And  I  think,  in  all 
the  pharmacopoeia  of  that  day  there  was 


11  to 

:: 

ion 


When  I  Practised  Medicine. 


557 


no  better  medicine  than  that  of  which  I 
learned  in  my  first  day's  practice. 

This  day  was  typical  of  hundreds  of 
days,  when  we  drove  briskly,  for  five  or 
six  miles,  over  the  well-kept  pikes,  and 
then  turned  to  some  "  dirt  road,"  to  fol- 
low it  perhaps  for  three  or  four  miles, 
sometimes  fairly  good  in  dry  weather, 
until  the  red  dust  choked  us,  then  deep 
in  mud,  when  the  frost  broke  up  the 
ground.  I  can  hear  it  now,  the  slow 
suck  of  the  wheel  out  of  the  mud,  the 
splash,  the  jar,  as  we  sank  to  the  hub  in 
some  deep  hole.  No  better  trade  could 
be  followed  than  that  of  blacksmith  and 
wheelwright.  Wheels  would  go  down 
into  that  mud  and  come  out  crumpled 
like  paper.  Slowly,  on  three  wheels  and 
a  rail  under  the  axle,  taken  from  the 
snake  fence,  we  would  crawl  back  to  the 
pike,  where  we  would  find  some  sort  of 
wheel  to  take  us  home. 

But  if  the  roads  were  bad,  they  were 
beautiful.  Deep  groves  of  hickory,  up 
and  down  which  scampered  gray  squir- 
rels, while  their  poor  relations,  the  chip- 
munks, flashed  along  the  rail  fences,  and 
in  a  twinkling  were  gone.  In  wide  woods 
of  oak  and  chestnut  the  jay  birds  would 
scream  and  show  their  colors,  like  an  an- 
gry woman  shaking  a  petticoat ;  the  cat- 
bird would  sing  from  the  walnut  tree, 
while  off  in  the  field  would  be  heard  the 
red  -  headed  woodpecker,  tapping,  tap- 
ping with  insistent  stroke. 

I  was  shown,  too,  the  great  buzzard,  the 
filthy  scavenger,  —  which  whoever  killed 
would  be  fined  five  dollars,  —  resting  as 
securely  on  the  air  as  a  duck  on  the 
water,  motionless  as  a  cloud. 

The  Doctor  would  whistle  "  Bob 
White,"  until  the  partridges,  as  we  called 
them,  answering  from  the  stubble  field, 
showed  where  the  covies  were  hid. 

But  we  must  not  linger  on  the  road. 
The  farmhouse  to  which  we  are  bound 
is  across  the  stream.  Bridges  span  it 
on  every  pike,  but  the  dirt  roads  run  to 
the  ford  and  stop.  I  soon  thought  no- 
thing of  driving  into  the  stream  when 


the  water  was  so  deep  as  to  cover  the 
floor  of  the  buggy,  when  I  had  to  sit 
on  my  feet,  and  the  Doctor  placed  his 
on  the  dashboard.  Then  would  come  a 
queer  feeling  as  the  jar  of  the  horse's  mo- 
tion suddenly  ceased,  and  it  was  swim- 
ming. 

I  saw  a  vast  deal  of  practice,  I  assure 
you.  Beside  children's  diseases,  we  had 
quinsy  sore  throats  and  congestion  of  the 
lungs,  as  well  as  pneumonia,  and  what 
I  wrongly  pronounced  "  Chilson  fever." 
But  generally  we  diagnosed  the  case  as 
liver  trouble,  and  treated  accordingly. 
Sometimes  we  gave  calomel  in  pills,  but 
we  thought  we  got  better  effects  from 
powders  ;  the  pills  were  so  large  and 
were  so  unevenly  covered  with  a  bitter 
powder,  —  and,  though  I  became  expert 
in  rolling  them,  still  they  would  bulge 
and  stick  and  gag  the  people,  who  either 
could  not  swallow  them,  or  else  had  later 
accidents,  —  that,  as  I  say,  we  thought 
best  of  powders.  And  when  I  say  pow- 
ders, have  you  in  mind  a  dainty  paper 
with  a  pinch  of  salt,  as  it  were,  within 
its  ingenious  folds  ?  Go  to !  Do  you 
think  we  were  mere  homoeopathists  ? 
We  gave  it  in  a  teaspoon  filled  from  a 
frequently  replenished  bottle  carried  in 
the  Doctor's  capacious  side  pocket ! 

This  was  the  favorite  medicine  with 
patient  and  physician.  No  more  grate- 
ful compliment  carne  to  the  professional 
ear  than  the  familiar  "  I  tell  you,  Doctor, 
that  last  dose  took  hold  right  smart,"  re- 
ceived with  the  complacent  "  Well,  I 
reckoned  it  would."  When  salivation 
ensued,  and  the  poor  wretch  had  not  a 
yellow  tooth  that  did  not  rattle  as  he 
praised  our  skill,  and  the  rebellious 
stomach  refused  to  assimilate  juicy  spare 
ribs  and  the  hot  Sally  Lunn,  we  gave  him 
bumpers  of  bicarbonate  of  soda  mixed 
with  Brown's  Essence  of  Jamaica  Ginger. 
He  was  taught  that  the  disease  was  work- 
ing out  of  the  system,  and  that  the  ghastly 
symptoms  were  the  inevitable  sequelae 
of  a  mysterious  dispensation,  which  they 
probably  were  ! 


558 


When  I  Practised  Medicine. 


Calomel  was  our  favorite,  I  must  ad- 
mit; but  we  had  others.  I  think  jalap 
stood  next  highest  in  our  estimation.  We 
gave  it  once  with  curious  results.  As  I 
have  retired  from  practice,  I  am  happy 
to  share  the  results  of  my  experience  with 
my  confreres. 

We  were  called  to  see  a  little  boy 
suffering  with  inflammatory  rheumatism. 
Poor  little  chap,  when  asked  what  the 
trouble  was,  he  said  he  had  "  a  short  leg." 
We  cut  long  strips  of  linen,  and  having 
steeped  them  in  a  cold  solution  of  bicar- 
bonate of  soda,  wrapped  the  limb  firmly, 
and  gave  directions  to  have  them  changed 
frequently.  I  dare  say  we  left  a  little 
paregoric  to  ease  the  pain  at  night,  and 
started  to  go.  But  before  we  reached 
the  door,  the  Doctor  paused  and  rubbed 
his  chin  thoughtfully.  It  was  unusual, 
for,  as  a  rule,  he  was  quick  in  his  deci- 
sions. Then  he  drew  forth  a  bottle  of 
jalap  and  returned  to  the  bed.  "  Which 
do  you  like  best,  scraped  apple  or  currant 
jelly?" 

"  I  hate  'em  both ! "  cried  the  poor 
little  mite,  who  knew  what  was  coming. 
Perhaps  we  decided  on  scraped  apple. 
This  was  my  department.  I  scraped  out 
a  little  and  spread  it  in  a  spoon,  then 
the  powder  was  poured  on,  and  after  that 
there  was  a  covering  of  apple,  but  the 
weight  would  cause  the  powder  to  ooze 
out  on  the  sides,  so  that  an  idiot  would 
not  have  been  deceived.  The  child, 
small  blame,  would  not  open  his  mouth. 
The  Doctor  held  the  nose,  compressing 
the  nostrils  so  that  the  lips  must  open 
to  gasp,  then  the  spoon  was  slipped  in, 
and  being  deftly  turned  upside  down  and 
slowly  withdrawn,  not  a  particle  of  this 
precious  dose  was  lost. 

When  we  paid  our  next  morning 
visit,  the  child  looked  to  me  as  one  dead, 
but  the  Doctor  felt  his  pulse  and  skin 
and  said  he  was  better.  But  the  mother 
was  angry.  She  said  suddenly :  "  That 
child  liked  to  died  in  the  night.  He 
nigh  had  a  spasm.  He  was  that  sick  to 
his  stomach  he  could  n't  speak,  and  I 


don't  hold  with  givin'  no  such  doses  to 
no  child,  —  so  there  !  " 

"  Well,"  said  the  Doctor  slowly,  "  I  've 
seen  a  heap  of  rheumatism  in  my  time, 
and  the  best  thing  for  it  is  exercise. 
That  child  couldn't  exercise,  and  that 
little  jalap  just  stretched  all  his  muscles 
a  bit  when  it  was  acting,  and  now  he 's 
going  to  get  well.  He  don't  need  any 
more  medicine,  but  keep  those  wet  band- 
ages on  his  leg." 

We  gave  bushels  of  quinine,  in  tea  to 
women,  in  whiskey,  more  plentiful  than 
tea,  to  the  men.  I  have  spoken  of  cal- 
omel as  the  trump  card  which  we  played 
in  the  game  with  death,  but  I  am  not 
sure  that  we  did  not  oftener  take  the 
trick  with  the  lancet.  We  were  ham- 
pered by  no  modern  septicaemic  fears. 
The  little  instrument,  arranged  with  an 
ingenious  spring  to  prevent  its  opening, 
was  carried  in  the  vest  pocket  along 
with  a  plug  of  tobacco,  a  toothpick,  and 
odds  and  ends  of  every  sort.  I  doubt  if 
there  was  a  day  we  did  not  find  use  for 
it.  We  bled  for  headaches  and  fevers ; 
we  bled  for  congestion  of  the  lungs ;  we 
bled  the  negroes  for  their  ills,  generally 
designated  by  the  generic  term  "  misery." 

The  first  day  there  was  bloodletting 
I  was  given  a  basin,  and  told  if  I  dropped 
it  I  should  be  bled.  I  did  not  drop  it, 
but  had  I  been  bled,  I  doubt  if  blood 
could  have  been  found  in  my  scared 
little  body !  Once  we  bled  a  negro  woman 
who  must  have  weighed  nearly  three 
hundred  pounds.  I  can  see  now  her 
great  arm  like  polished  ebony !  The 
Doctor  asked  me  if  I  knew  what  blue 
blood  was.  I  said  I  did. 

"  I  suppose  you  think  you  have  it  ?  " 

With  dignity,  I  answered,  "  Yes." 

He  laughed  and  said,  "Well,  I'm 
going  to  show  you  real  blue  blood."  And 
he  did ! 

I    squatted  on  the   floor,  caught  the 
blood  in  a  yellow  earthen  dish,  while  the 
Doctor  —  his  back  to  the  patient  —  bt 
gan  one  of  his  marvelous  stories  to  an 
admiring  group  collected    on   the   back 


When  I  Practised  Medicine. 


559 


porch.  I  caught,  "  We  've  got  the  clear- 
est air  in  the  world  right  here  in  this 
county.  Why,  last  October  I  was  on  the 
Blue  Ridge,  and,  standing  on  Black  Rock, 
I  looked  to  the  town,  ten  miles  away  as 
the  crow  flies,  and  on  the  roof  of  the  Lu- 
theran Church  I  saw  two  pigeons,  and 
the  air  was  so  clear  I  could  make  out 
which  was  white  and  which  was  purple !  " 
—  A  delighted  murmur  of  "Oh,  Doc- 
tor !  "  —  "  It 's  the  truth  ;  I  '11  explain 
it."  But  he  never  did. 

The  poor  soul  I  was  watching  had 
by  this  time  lost  so  much  blood  that  the 
ebony  had  become  like  ashes,  her  head 
lolled  from  side  to  side,  and  I  heard  her 
murmur,  "  I  'se  going,  honey,  for  shore." 
I  burst  into  tears,  the  Doctor  turned 
quickly,  called  for  whiskey,  bound  up 
the  arm,  and  the  danger  was  over.  May 
I  never  come  so  near  to  murder  again. 

It  was  a  strenuous  life  the  old  man 
led.  I  shared  only  the  forenoon  practice, 
but  often  I  saw  him  pale  and  heavy-eyed 
in  the  morning,  and  learned  that  he  had 
driven  twenty  miles  in  the  night.  Yet 
he  was  always  cheerful. 

He  was  fond  of  betting,  and  he  intro- 
duced me  to  that  fascinating  pastime.  I 
only  remember  my  first  bet,  —  but  it  was 
a  sample  of  them  all.  We  saw  a  field  of 
potatoes  which  the  farmer  had  gathered 
in  heaps,  and  the  Doctor  said,  — 

"  I  suppose  nothing  sees  so  much  as  a 
potato." 

"  Why,  Doctor,  a  potato  can't  see." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  It  has  no  eyes." 

"Why,  it  has  more  eyes  than  you 
have,  and  if  you  don't  believe  me,  I  '11 
bet  you  a  '  fip  and  a  bit,'  and  leave  it  to 
your  mother." 

This  seemed  easy.  My  mother  looked 
startled,  but  made  no  criticism,  and  the 
fascinating  sport  continued  till  I  owed 
sixty-five  cents.  I  saved  with  great  diffi- 
culty seventeen  cents,  and  was  then  com- 
pelled by  my  mother  to  offer  it  as  an 
installment.  The  dear  old  man  looked  at 
me  a  moment  with  shining  eyes,  and  said, 


"  Tell  your  mother  the  reason  I  'm 
rich  is  because  I  never  receive  partial 
payments." 

I  repeated  the  message,  not  under- 
standing one  word  of  it,  but  it  was  the 
end  of  my  career  as  a  gambler ! 

Of  course  we  talked  politics,  and  I 
understood  the  Doctor  to  say  that  he  was 
an  old  "  Lion  Whig."  So  that  I  soon 
announced  that  I,  too,  belonged  to  that 
royal  party.  When  the  great  election  — 
the  most  momentous  of  all  elections  — 
was  held,  I  repaired  to  the  stable  of  the 
Washington  House,  where  the  embryonic 
statesmen,  from  ten  years  old  to  fifteen, 
had  decided  to  vote.  There  was  only  one 
question  asked  by  the  tellers  :  — 

"  Breckinridge  or  Douglas  ?  " 

I  answered,  "  Bell  and  Everett." 

"  Are  you  crazy  or  sassy?  "  they  cried. 

"  I  'm  an  old  Lion  Whig  !  "  I  roared. 

"  Oh,  you  are,  are  you  ?  Well,  we  '11 
Lion  Whig  you."  And  they  did  ! 

When  I  recounted  with  tears  my  ex- 
perience to  the  Doctor,  he  shook  his 
head. 

"  I  reckon,  sonny,  now  they  've  elected 
that  Black  Republican  Abe  Lincoln,  you 
and  I  are  the  last  of  the  'old  Lion 
Whigs.'  "  And  as  usual  he  was  right. 

Soon  after  this  there  was  a  bitter 
storm  of  sleet,  and  there  was  a  case  that 
kept  us  till  late  in  the  afternoon.  We 
had  dinner  at  the  farmhouse.  I  was 
kept  in  the  kitchen  with  the  men,  while 
the  women  and  the  Doctor  stayed  up- 
stairs. All  was  very  still,  and  later 
moaning  and  words  of  cheer,  —  then,  a 
great  cry  that  made  my  heart  stand 
still.  Finally  the  Doctor  came. 

"Is  it  over ? "  said  a  man  who  had 
not  spoken  all  day. 

"  Yes,  she  '11  pull  through.  It  was 
twins,  and  the  chloroform  gave  out." 

But  there  was  no  buoyancy  in  his 
voice,  and  as  he  drove  home  he  shivered 
more  than  once.  The  next  morning  he 
was  too  ill  to  move,  and  Lucy  was  led 
back  to  the  stable. 

It  was  etiquette  with  us  that  when  a 


560 


Books  New  and   Old. 


doctor  fell  ill,  the  oldest  physician  in  the 
town  should  have  charge  of  the  case,  while 
all  the  others  came  in  in  consultation. 
There  were  thirteen  in  this  town  of  less 
than  three  thousand  inhabitants,  and  they 
all  went  through  that  sickroom,  follow- 
ing Dr.  Ireland,  the  dean,  and  looked 
wise.  Then  the  Doctor  sent  for  me.  He 
said  there  was  no  luck  in  odd  numbers, 
and,  more  than  that,  I  understood  his 
constitution  !  I  spent  many  hours  with 
him,  and  we  talked  of  everything  except 
medicine. 

But  he  did  not  get  well. 

"  I  think  some  men  have  to  get  sick 
to  get  rested,"  he  said  one  day,  when  my 
face  must  have  showed  what  I  feared,  — 
for  indeed  I  feared  greatly,  most  of  all 
because  he  took  no  medicine.  So  at  last 
I  spoke. 

"  Doctor,"  I  said,  "  would  calomel  or 
jalap  do  ?  Or,  I  know  how  to  bleed." 


All  the  old  fun  flushed  his  face  as  he 
said,  — 

"Doctor,  it  wouldn't  be  etiquette 
without  Dr.  Ireland.  Besides,  dear  little 
boy,  burnt  brandy  would  n't  help  me 
now."  The  next  day  he  died. 

The  town  was  as  full  of  spring  carts 
and  bug-gies  and  saddle  horses  the  day 
he  was  buried  as  if  it  had  been  the  day 
of  the  county  fair.  The  negroes,  break- 
ing the  bonds  of  their  Protestantism, 
prayed  aloud  in  the  streets  for  his  soul, 
—  and  the  clergyman  said  :  — 

"  This  man  sought  neither  riches  nor 
honor,  but  gave  himself  for  others. 
Fifty  years  from  now  his  name  may  be 
a  faint  memory,  but  I  think  he  was  one 
of  those  whom  God  depends  upon  to 
keep  the  world  good,  and  to  bless  little 
children  by  his  gentleness  and  purity 
and  cheerfulness." 

And  all  the  people  said,  "  Amen." 
Leighton  Parks. 


BOOKS  NEW  AND  OLD. 

BYWAYS   OF   LITERATURE. 


MB.  HENRY  JAMES  once  said  of 
Thoreau,  "He  was  more  than  provin- 
cial ;  he  was  parochial. "  The  remark 
has  so  much  the  air  of  finality,  it  is 
so  obviously  a  statement  of  fact,  that 
one's  first  instinct  is  to  bolt  it  without 
ado.  Presently,  it  may  be,  that  mild 
inward  monitor  which  does  so  much  to 
conserve  the  eupeptic  mind  suggests 
that  fact  is  not  truth,  and  that  the 
morsel  will  bear  reconsideration.  What 
is  it  to  be  provincial  ?  and  what  is  it 
supposed  to  do  or  undo  for  a  man  or 
his  work?  One  has  heard  it  said  that 
London  itself  is  provincial.  Certainly 
Mr.  James's  cosmopolitanism  has  not 
kept  him  from  dwelling  among  and 
upon  a  class  of  Londoners  whose  local 
preoccupation,  if  this  were  the  point  at 


issue,  is  quite  equal  to  that  of  a  New 
England  villager.  But  local  preoccu- 
pation is  not  the  point;  to  be  provin- 
cial is  to  be  in  a  sense  unpresentable, 
to  hail  patently,  as  we  may  fancy  Mr. 
James  saying,  from  an  ineligible  some- 
where. 

The  cosmopolitan  idea  has  apparentlj 
given  us  a  new  standard  of  eligibility. 
People  used  to  take  the  grand  tour  for 
their  souls'  good;  but  they  "draggec 
at  each  remove  a  lengthening  chain.' 
They  traveled  to  become  more  worthy 
of  staying  at  home.  They  did  not 
dream  that  absenteeism  would  come 
be  held  actually  a  state  of  grace.  Tht 
would  hardly  have  seen  the  point  ot 
that  witty  comment  upon  Mr.  Jame 
"To  be  truly  cosmopolitan  a  man  mus 


Books  New  and  Old. 


561 


be  at  home  even  in  his  own  country." 
It  is  something,  after  all,  to  be  indige- 
nous. Thoreau  had  his  own  simple  phi- 
losophy as  to  home-staying.  "There  is 
no  more  tempting  novelty,"  he  writes, 
"than  this  new  November.  No  going 
to  Europe  or  to  another  world  is  to  be 
named  with  it.  Give  me  the  old  fa- 
miliar walk,  post-office  and  all,  with 
this  ever  new  self,  with  this  infinite  ex- 
pectation and  faith  which  does  not  know 
when  it  is  beaten.  We  '11  go  nutting 
once  more.  We  '11  pluck  the  nut  of 
the  world  and  crack  it  in  the  winter 
evenings.  Theatres  and  all  other  sight- 
seeing are  puppet-shows  in  comparison. 
I  will  take  another  walk  to  the  cliff, 
another  row  on  the  river,  another  skate 
on  the  meadow,  be  out  in  the  first  snow, 
and  associate  with  the  winter  birds." 


i. 

It  is  surprising  how  many  books 
which  the  world  preserves  are  built 
upon  local  observation  and  anecdote. 
Natural  historians  have  not  a  few  to 
their  credit;  there  seems  to  be  some 
property  in  this  gentle  trade  which 
gives  especial  kindliness  to  the  pen. 
The  printed  word  of  a  Thoreau,  a  Jef- 
feries,  a  John  Muir,  has  a  richness 
and  mellowness  which  seem  to  come 
direct  from  soil  and  sun.  Even  when 
a  naturalist's  facts  are  discredited  by 
later  authority,  his  writing  is  likely 
to  be  cherished  as  literature.  Gilbert 
White  was  one  of  the  few  careful  ob- 
servers of  his  time,  and  is  still  much 
more  than  a  name  to  naturalists,  his 
swallow  speculations  to  the  contrary. 
Nevertheless,  the  editor  of  the  latest 
reprint  l  puts  the  case  for  White  in  a 
way  which  can  hardly  be  disputed : 
"Tis  as  a  literary  monument,  there- 
fore, I  hold,  that  we  ought  above  all 
things  to  regard  these  rambling  and 

1  The  Natural  History  of  Selborne.  By  GIL- 
BERT WHITE.  Edited  by  GRANT  ALLEN,  and 
illustrated  by  W.  H.  NEW.  London  and  New 
York :  John  Lane.  1903. 

VOL.  xcin.  —  NO.  558.  36 


amiable  Letters.  They  enshrine  for 
us  in  miniature  the  daily  life  of  an 
amateur  naturalist  in  the  days  when 
the  positions  of  parson,  sportsman, 
country  gentleman  and  man  of  science 
were  not  yet  incongruous."  Mr.  Al- 
len has  treated  the  text  successfully 
from  this  point  of  view,  marking  here 
and  there  a  point  of  error,  but  for  the 
most  part  confining  his  notes  to  the 
suggestion  of  additional  facts  about  the 
man  or  the  place. 

Richard  Jefferies  was  White's  most 
notable  English  successor.  His  work 
has  not  the  background  of  a  serene  ex- 
istence like  White's.  It  is  more  tense, 
more  imaginative,  more  consciously  en- 
dowed with  the  quality  of  literature. 
Wild  Life  in  a  Southern  County,  one 
of  the  best  of  Jefferies's  books,  has  just 
been  reprinted  in  Boston,  — with  an 
unfortunate  change  of  title.2  As  a 
study  of  the  author's  native  habitat  it 
bears  some  analogy  to  Thoreau 's  Wai- 
den.  Its  range  of  subject  is  broader, 
however,  for  Jefferies  was  as  keen  an 
observer  of  rustic  human  types  and 
manners  as  of  the  objects  more  com- 
monly admitted  to  be  within  the  pro- 
vince of  the  natural  historian.  He 
was  the  son  of  a  Wiltshire  farmer; 
early  proved  himself  unfit  for  farm 
life,  read  much,  became  a  journalist, 
and  wrote  a  series  of  worthless  novels ; 
at  last,  as  if  by  chance,  hit  upon  his 
right  vein,  produced  the  five  or  six 
books  upon  which  his  reputation  rests, 
and  died  at  thirty-nine.  His  distin- 
guishing trait  is  a  sort  of  brooding 
quietude,  a  gentle  poignancy  of  attitude 
toward  the  visible  world  and  its  crea- 
tures. He  is,  it  seems,  never  very  far 
from  the  elegiac  mood:  "Just  outside 
the  trench,  almost  within  reach,  there 
lies  a  small  white  something,  half  hid- 
den by  the  grass.  It  is  the  skull  of  a 
hare,  bleached  by  the  winds  and  the 

2  An  English  Village.  By  RICHARD  JEF- 
FERIES. With  Illustrations  by  CLIFTON  JOHN- 
SON, and  an  Introduction  by  HAMILTON  W. 
MABIE.  Boston :  Little,  Brown  &  Co.  1903. 


562 


Books  New  and  Old. 


dew  and  the  heat  of  the  summer  sun. 
The  skeleton  has  disappeared,  nothing 
but  the  bony  casing  of  the  head  remains, 
with  its  dim  suggestiveness  of  life,  pol- 
ished and  smooth  from  the  friction  of 
the  elements.  Holding  it  in  the  hand, 
the  shadow  falls  into  and  darkens  the 
cavities  once  filled  by  the  wistful  eyes 
which  whilom  glanced  down  from  the 
summit  here  upon  the  sweet  clover- 
fields  beneath.  Beasts  of  prey  and 
wandering  dogs  have  carried  away  the 
bones  of  the  skeleton,  dropping  them 
far  apart ;  the  crows  and  the  ants  doubt- 
less had  their  share  of  the  carcass." 
Alas,  poor  Yorick!  Just  here  the 
mourning  note  is  obvious ;  elsewhere  it 
is  a  mere  over-tone,  as  in  this  impres- 
sion of  a  moment  in  an  old  village  bel- 
fry: "Against  the  wall  up  here  are 
iron  clamps  to  strengthen  the  ancient 
fabric,  settling  somewhat  in  its  latter 
days ;  and,  opening  the  worm-eaten 
door  of  the  clock-case  —  the  key  stands 
in  it  —  you  may  study  the  works  of  the 
old  clock  for  a  full  hour,  if  so  it  please 
you;  for  the  clerk  is  away  laboring  in 
the  field,  and  his  aged  wife,  who  pro- 
duced the  key  of  the  church  and  pointed 
the  way  across  the  nearest  meadow,  has 
gone  to  the  spring.  The  ancient  build- 
ing, standing  lonely  on  the  hill,  is  ut- 
terly deserted ;  the  creak  of  the  boards 
under  foot  or  the  grate  of  the  rusty 
hinge  sounds  hollow  and  gloomy.  But 
a  streak  of  sunlight  enters  from  the  ar- 
row-slit, a  bee  comes  in  through  the 
larger  open  windows  with  a  low  inquir- 
ing buzz ;  there  is  a  chattering  of  spar- 
rows, the  peculiar  shrill  screech  of  the 
swifts,  and  a  '  jack-daw-jack-daw  '-ing 
outside.  The  sweet  scent  of  clover  and 
of  mown  grass  comes  upon  the  light 
breeze  —  mayhap  the  laughter  of  hay- 
makers passing  through  the  churchyard 
underneath  to  their  work,  and  idling 
by  the  way  as  haymakers  can  idle." 

Another  characteristic  of  Jefferies  is 
his  strongly  developed  sense  of  color, 
which  leads  him  to  dwell  often  upon 
the  purely  pictorial  quality  of  the 


smaller  landscape  which  he  knows  best. 
It  may  be  the  mosaic  of  an  orchard 
with  its  many-tinted  fruits ;  or  the 
simpler  chromatic  scale  of  a  ripen- 
ing meadow :  "All  the  summer  through 
fresh  beauties,  indeed,  wait  upon  the 
owner's  footsteps.  In  the  spring  the 
mowing-grass  rises  thick,  strong,  and 
richly  green,  or  hidden  by  the  cloth- 
of-gold  thrown  over  it  by  the  butter- 
cups. He  knows  when  it  is  ready  for 
the  scythe  without  reference  to  the 
almanac,  because  of  the  brown  tint 
which  spreads  over  it  from  the  ripening 
seeds,  sometimes  tinged  with  a  dull 
red,  when  the  stems  of  the  sorrel  are 
plentiful.  At  first  the  aftermath  has 
a  trace  of  yellow,  as  if  it  were  fading ; 
but  a  shower  falls,  and  fresh  green 
blades  shoot  up. " 

It  is  impossible,  in  short,  to  read 
this  book  without  being  conscious  of 
impact  with  a  nature  singularly  suscep- 
tible to  impression  and  rich  in  expres- 
sion. It  is  to  be  hoped  that  many 
American  readers  who  may  have  re- 
mained ignorant  of  Jefferies  will  make 
use  of  this  volume  to  scrape  acquain- 
tance with  him. 


il. 

Within  recent  years  several  books 
have  been  produced  in  America  which 
have  done  for  one  or  another  country- 
side much  what  Jefferies  did  for  Wilt- 
shire and  Thoreau  for  Walden.  Mr. 
Burroughs's  A  Year  in  the  Fields,1  so 
often  reprinted,  has  been  given  another 
form.  It  is  a  record  of  what  the  sea- 
sons bring  to  an  acute  and  genial  ob- 
server on  the  Hudson.  The  book  has 
the  qualities  of  wholesomeness  and  sim- 
plicity which  are  so  common  in  provin- 
cial writing,  and  which  are  not  a  little 
diverting  to  cosmopolitan  critics.  The 
reader,  if  he  gives  himself  a  chance, 
carries  away  a  grateful  sense  of  con- 

1  A   Year  in  the  Fields.     By  JOHN   BUB- 
ROUGHS.     Boston  and  New  York :   Houghton 
Mifflin  &  Co.     1903. 


Books  New  and   Old. 


563 


tact  with  air  and  soil,  of  having  given 
the  slip,  for  the  moment  at  least,  to 
everything  silly  and  morbid  and  insin- 
cere. 

Mr.  Torrey's  1  natural  laboratory  lies 
farther  east,  and  his  field  is  suburban 
rather  than  rural.  The  present  note- 
book is  frankly  and  agreeably  Bostonian 
in  flavor.  Dr.  Holmes  would  have 
delighted  in  it,  not  only  for  its  neigh- 
borhood lore,  but  for  its  suave  and  un- 
obtrusive humor,  its  irrepressible  un- 
dercurrent of  (shall  we  say)  Waltonian 
moralizing.  The  present  commentator 
has  had  some  acquaintance  with  Mr. 
Torrey's  work  for  a  long  time,  but  he 
has  never  been  so  much  impressed  with 
its  mellowness  and  individuality  as  in 
reading  this  volume.  He  confesses  to 
having  proceeded  from  cover  to  cover 
at  one  sitting,  —  not  a  fair  way  to  treat 
a  book,  but  not  a  bad  tribute  to  it. 
This  series  of  papers  is  a  record  not 
only  of  natural  things  seen,  but  of  a 
natural  flow  of  thought  and  feeling. 
The  author's  habit  of  ruminative  dis- 
cursus  accounts  largely  for  his  charm; 
and  the  New  England  reader,  at  least, 
will  find  nothing  to  balk  at  even  in 
serious  passages  like  this :  — 

"A  strange  thing  it  is,  an  astonish- 
ing impertinence,  that  a  man  should 
assume  to  own  a  piece  of  the  earth; 
himself  no  better  than  a  wayfarer  upon 
it ;  alighting  for  a  moment  only ;  com- 
ing he  knows  not  whence,  going  he 
knows  not  whither.  Yet  convention 
allows  the  claim.  Men  have  agreed 
to  foster  one  another's  illusions  in  this 
regard,  as  in  so  many  others.  They 
knew,  blindly,  before  any  one  had  the 
wit  to  say  it  in  so  many  words,  that 
'  life  is  the  art  of  being  well  deceived. ' 
And  so  they  have  made  you  owner  of 
this  acre  or  two  of  woodland.  All  the 
power  of  the  State  would  be  at  your 
service,  if  necessary,  in  maintaining 
the  title." 

1  The  Clerk  of  the  Woods.  By  BRADFORD 
TORREY.  Boston  and  New  York :  Honghton, 
Mifflin  &  Co.  1903. 


This  would  be  dull  enough  —  one 
would  have  the  right  to  be  resentful  — 
if  it  were  a  text  for  some  socialistic 
propaganda.  But  as  a  purely  sponta- 
neous speculation  it  has  its  effective 
value.  The  suggestion  is  made  and 
dropped;  it  is  a  thought,  not  a  theory. 
Mr.  Torrey,  in  short,  has  several  of  the 
rarer  qualifications  of  that  rare  person, 
the  essayist. 

Next  to  the  Ground  2  is  another  book 
which  should  have  a  fair  chance  of  sur- 
vival among  books  of  this  order.  It 
gives  a  remarkably  minute  description 
of  life,  both  natural  and  human,  upon 
a  large  country  place  in  Tennessee. 
It  deals  in  an  orderly  but  not  me- 
chanical way  with  methods  of  farming, 
with  the  habits  of  wild  and  domestic 
animals,  with  hunting,  with  trees  and 
flowers,  insects,  local  sounds  and  odors, 
with  types  of  negro,  poor  white,  and 
country  gentleman.  The  author  seems, 
indeed,  the  complete  chronicler  of  the 
conditions  of  country  life  upon  a  large 
Tennessee  estate.  Her  book,  like  all 
faithful  studies  of  this  sort  which  are 
fortunate  enough  to  possess  that  right- 
ness  of  expression  which  is  called  liter- 
ary, is  likely  to  appeal  not  less  to  out- 
siders than  to  Tennesseeans.  Of  natural 
history  proper  the  chronicle  contains 
not  a  little.  It  is  all  presented  in 
a  vigorous  idiomatic  style,  —  a  style 
full  of  local  flavor,  and  embellished 
here  and  there  with  delightful  provin- 
cialisms, or  rather  (for  most  of  them 
are  as  old  as  Shakespeare)  archaisms. 
Here  is  an  interesting  bit  of  wood- lore ; 
the  passage  may  serve  as  a  fair  exam- 

i  O  «/ 

pie  of  the  author's  matter  and  man- 
ner: — 

"Trees  felled  as  the  new  wood  is 
hardening  give  the  very  best  timber, 
provided  the  trunks  are  at  once  lopped 
of  boughs  and  branches.  Should  they 
lie  as  they  fall,  with  all  their  leaves 
and  twigs,  the  wood  becomes  brash  and 

2  Next  to  the  Ground.  By  MARTHA  Mo- 
CULLOCH  WILLIAMS.  New  York  :  McClure, 
Phillips  &  Co.  1902. 


564 


Books  New  and   Old. 


lifeless.  .  .  .  Whether  wind  -  felled, 
or  ax-felled,  the  timber  lasts  twice  as 
long  as  that  cut  in  May  or  June.  Big 
trees  do  not  sprout  after  August  cut- 
ting, and  even  tenacious  shrubs  like 
sassafras  often  die  of  it.  Indeed, 
there  is  a  short  period  in  the  month 
when  woody  things  die  almost  at  a 
touch.  The  stroke  of  an  ax,  a  wheel 
jolting  roughly  over  an  exposed  root, 
the  wrenching  of  a  branch,  or  a  slight 
wound  to  the  bark  may  be  fatal  then 
to  the  tallest,  sturdiest  oak.  Greenly 
alive  to-day,  to-morrow  it  may  be  with- 
ered to  the  tip,  and  next  week  dry  and 
dead. " 

The  American  desert  has  had  more 
than  one  chronicler  of  late.  Mrs.  Aus- 
tin does  more  than  any  one  else  has 
done  to  make  us  feel  the  personality 
of  this  Land  of  Little  Rain,1  this  Coun- 
try of  Lost  Borders.  Fiction  has  told 
us  enough  and  more  than  enough  of  the 
mere  horrors  of  desert  experience.  On 
the  other  hand,  Professor  John  Van 
Dyke  not  long  ago  constituted  himself 
a  sort  of  champion  of  the  desert.  He 
wished  to  make  us  understand,  more 
than  anything  else,  the  physical  beauty 
of  these  waste  places.  He  spoke,  how- 
ever, rather  as  an  enthusiastic  visitor 
than  as  one  who  knew  his  subject  from 
long  and  intimate  experience.  He  had 
an  jesthetic  appreciation  of  desert  land- 
scape, and  an  intellectual  appreciation 
of  the  grandeur  of  the  wilderness  as 
a  symbol.  Mrs.  Austin  unmistakably 
loves  it  for  its  own  sake;  it  is  part 
of  her  life.  It  has,  no  doubt,  colored 
her  way  of  thought  and  feeling;  there 
is  a  touch  of  grimness  in  both,  not 
coming  quite  to  pessimism,  not  quite 
to  stoicism,  but  suggesting  them.  A 
morbid  impulse  well  under  control,  yet 
not  without  its  reactions  upon  a  style 
almost  too  fine,  almost  too  tense :  some- 
thing like  this,  whether  or  not  her 
theme  is  responsible  for  it,  one  cannot 

1  The  Land  of  Little  Bain.  By  MARY  AUS- 
TIN. Boston  and  New  York  :  Houghton,  Mif- 
flin  &  Co.  1903. 


help  feeling  in  Mrs.  Austin's  work. 
Several  of  these  intimate  interpreta- 
tions (of  which  more  than  one  origi- 
nally appeared  in  the  pages  of  the  At- 
lantic) have  to  do  with  human  life  on 
the  desert  frontier.  There  is  no  at- 
tempt to  make  mannerly,  or  even  to 
make  picturesque,  the  rude  conditions 
which  the  writer  has  to  portray;  but 
she  does  not  find  the  life  unintelligible : 
"  It  is  pure  Greek  in  that  it  represents 
the  courage  to  shear  off  what  is  not 
worth  while.  .  .  .  Here  you  have  the 
repose  of  the  perfectly  accepted  in- 
stinct which  includes  passion  and  death 
in  its  perquisites.  I  suppose  that  the 
end  of  all  our  hammering  and  yawping 
will  be  something  like  the  point  of  view 
of  Jimville.  The  only  difference  will 
be  in  the  decorations." 

m. 

Footprints  of  Former  Men  in  Far 
Cornwall 2  is  a  book  of  pure  description 
and  anecdote,  and  one  of  the  most  de- 
lightful among  masterpieces  of  paro- 
chial literature.  It  was  first  published 
some  thirty  years  ago.  Its  author, 
R.  S.  Hawker,  was  for  a  long  time 
vicar  of  Morwenstow  in  Cornwall,  a 
zealous  local  antiquary,  who  had,  be- 
fore turning  his  hand  to  prose,  gained 
some  repute  as  a  ballad-writer.  The 
combination  of  functions  is  significant, 
for  in  the  present  papers  it  is  hard  to 
say  whether  piety  or  fancy  plays  the 
greater  part.  By  the  confession  of  his 
editor,  indeed,  the  Hawkerian  fancy 
does  not  scruple  now  and  then  to  assume 
the  garb  of  fact.  However,  the  point 
of  fact  is  not  the  important  one.  The 
sketches  are  no  doubt  faithful  enough 
to  the  detail  of  local  color  to  which  we 
moderns  attach  so  much  importance. 
For  the  rest,  they  possess  a  style  so 
forcible,  so  quaint,  so  engaging,  as  to 
make  one  content  to  waive  all  possible 

2  Footprints  of  Former  Men  in  Far  Cornwall. 
By  R.  S.  HAWKEB.  London  and  New  York  : 
John  Lane.  1903. 


Books  New  and  Old. 


565 


questions  of  authenticity.  The  Rev- 
erend Mr.  Hawker's  professed  purpose 
was  to  arrange  and  set  down  the  le- 
gends about  certain  ancient  Cornish 
worthies,  which  he  found  still  current 
in  his  neighborhood.  Many  of  them 
have  to  do  with  wrecks  or  castaways 
hurled  upon  the  wild  Cornish  coast. 
There,  for  example,  is  the  story  of 
Cruel  Coppinger,  skipper  of  a  Danish 
vessel  driven  ashore  during  a  famous 
tempest.  Never  was  there  a  more 
dramatic  entrance  for  a  villain:  "A 
crowd  of  people  had  gathered  from  the 
land,  on  horseback  and  on  foot,  women 
as  well  as  men,  drawn  together  by 
the  tidings  of  a  probable  wreck.  Into 
their  midst,  and  to  their  astonished  dis- 
may, rushed  the  dripping  stranger:  he 
snatched  from  a  terrified  old  dame  her 
red  Welsh  cloak,  cast  it  loosely  around 
him,  and  bounded  suddenly  upon  the 
crupper  of  a  young  damsel,  who  had 
ridden  her  father's  horse  down  to  the 
beach  to  see  the  sight.  He  grasped 
her  bridle,  and,  shouting  aloud  in  some 
foreign  language,  urged  on  the  double- 
laden  animal  into  full  speed,  and  the 
horse  naturally  took  his  homeward 
way. "  Cruel  Coppinger  appropriately 
marries  the  damsel,  maltreats  her  and 
everybody  else,  his  name  becomes  a  by- 
word throughout  the  countryside,  and 
he  finally  disappears  to  a  satisfactory 
accompaniment  of  thunder  and  light- 
ning. The  book  is  not  all  in  this  vein, 
be  it  understood.  There  are  passages 
of  measured  description,  records  of 
personal  experience,  the  varied  annals 
of  an  ancient  and  in  the  main  a  quiet 
neighborhood. 

Highways  and  Byways  in  South 
Wales  1  is  a  book  of  a  different  kind, 
but  of  equal  interest  and  charm.  It 
is  founded  on  local  observation  upon  a 
larger  scale ;  it  covers  a  considerable 
sweep  of  country,  and  studies  the  per- 
sonalities of  ancient  villages  and  streams 

1  Highways  and  Byways  in  South  Wales.  By 
W.  C.  BRADLEY.  New  York :  The  Macmillan 
Co.  1903. 


as  well  as  of  ancient  men.  The  author 
has  produced  similar  volumes  on  North 
Wales  and  the  Lake  District,  which 
have  been  extremely  popular  in  Eng- 
land. The  writer  comes  to  his  present 
task,  therefore,  not  as  an  amateur  ob- 
server, but  as  a  trained  and  tested  pro- 
fessional guide.  We  might  expect  the 
result  to  be  equally  edifying  and  tire- 
some, a  heavy  drag  of  text  brightened 
here  and  there  by  a  facetious  anecdote, 
or  a  sally  of  guidebook  sprightliness. 
But  Mr.  Bradley  has  an  unusual  en- 
dowment of  virtues,  the  greatest  of 
which  is  an  unaffected  love  for  his 
theme.  He  has  not  gotten  it  up  in  a 
few  months  because  there  happened  to 
be  a  market  for  the  get-up.  He  is  a 
student  of  Welsh  topography,  history, 
legends,  literature,  manners,  and  fish, 
of  many  years'  standing;  and  he  draws 
upon  his  various  stores  of  learning  with 
well-bred  ease,  never  in  the  least  em- 
phasizing a  point  of  erudition  for  the 
sake  of  display.  "These  pages,"  he 
says,  "are  intended  for  the  armchair 
as  well  as  for  the  traveler,"  a  conces- 
sion to  the  sedentary  person  which  may 
relieve  him  of  unnecessary  shame  in 
never  having  beheld  South  Wales  or 
wished  to  behold  it.  He  will  get  from 
this  book  all  that  other  men's  eyes  can 
give  him ;  for  to  the  vivid  descriptions 
of  the  text  are  added  some  illustrations 
by  Mr.  F.  L.  Griggs,  which,  for  their 
suggestion  of  mass  and  color- value,  and 
for  their  expression  of  light,  are  very 
remarkable. 

Mr.  Bradley 's  style  is  urbane,  idio- 
matic, leisurely,  now  and  then  falling 
into  a  pleasant  garrulousness.  He 
never  seems  to  have  exhausted  his  sub- 
ject; yet  he  knows  when  it  is  time  to 
leave  off.  One  has  no  sense  of  his 
being  busy  over  his  itinerary ;  it  is  easy 
traveling  with  him  from  first  to  last. 
It  does  not  matter  that  the  pages  bris- 
tle with  Welsh  proper  names  which 
offer  some  obstruction  to  the  Western 
eye.  Bare  feet  can  make  a  tolerable 
episode  of  a  stubble  field  if  they  do  not 


566 


Books  New  and  Old. 


go  too  gingerly.  Llwynderw,  Gwrth- 
reynion,  nay,  Portrhydfendigaiad,  —if 
one  marches  boldly  with  his  head  up 
and  thinks  of  clover,  it  is  soon  by. 
We  are,  at  all  events,  in  excellent 
company,  and  shall  have,  in  the  main, 
excellent  "going:  "  "Here,  too  .  .  . 
the  Welsh  border  seems  marked  by  a 
sudden  growth  in  stature  and  boldness 
of  the  hills  and  a  louder  note  in  the 
music  of  the  streams.  For  the  Black 
Mountains  on  the  further  or  Southern 
side  of  the  valley  begin  here  to  loom 
up  into  the  imposing  shapes  and  alti- 
tudes their  name  and  reputation  seem  to 
demand.  We  on  our  sides  are  again 
in  Radnorshire,  skirting  its  southern 
bound,  and  indeed  a  road  hereabouts 
comes  plunging  down  to  our  smooth 
highway,  which  has  struggled  painfully 
from  Kington,  but  eight  miles  distant, 
over  the  rugged  semi-civilized  ridges 
of  Brilley  Mountain. "  So  goes  the  way- 
side talk ;  the  passage  is  taken  quite 
at  random.  Here  are  a  few  sentences 
which  perhaps  illustrate  better  the 
quaint  fluency  of  Mr.  Bradley 's  speech: 
"It  is  a  trite  saying  that  a  mountain- 
bred  pony  will  keep  himself  and  his 
rider  out  of  trouble  in  a  bog.  But  a 
dry  summer  will  sometimes  make  both 
the  mountaineer  and  his  pony  a  little 
over-confident  on  doubtful  ground ;  and 
again  the  horseman  on  a  strange  moun- 
tain may  get  himself  into  a  labyrinth  of 
morass,  and  in  casting  about  for  an  out- 
let, lose  touch  with  the  route  he  came  in 
by  and  spend  a  grievous  time,  only  trust- 
ing that  the  sun  may  not  go  down  on 
his  endeavors,  if  the  day  should  by  any 
chance  be  far  spent." 

The  present  reviewer  does  not  know 
how  it  may  have  been  with  others,  but 
for  him  four  hundred  pages  of  this  kind 
of  discourse,  on  a  subject  of  which  he 
knew  nothing  and  in  which  he  had  no 
especial  interest,  have  not  been  too 
many.  It  has  been  one  of  those  ex- 
periences which  feelingly  assure  him 

1  Home  Life  under  the  Stuarts,  1603-1649. 
By  ELIZABETH  GODFREY.  New  York  :  E.  P. 


that,  dim  as  the  beacon  of  literature 
may  now  burn  upon  the  high  places, 
there  are  yet  a  hundred  torches,  tipped 
with  the  true  fire,  glowing  steadily  here 
and  there  among  the  byways  of  a  busy 
world. 

H.  W.  Boynton. 

THE   history  of  State  and  Church, 
Home  Life  in  Letters  and  Philosophy,  dur- 

tJe'ntKra-  in£  the  first  half  of  the  sev- 
tnry.  enteenth  century,  in  a  coun- 

try which  was  Shakespeare's  England 
when  those  years  began,  and  Milton's 
England  when  they  ended,  has  contin- 
uously employed  the  pens  of  innumer- 
able ready  writers,  some  of  whom  are 
known  of  all  men.  Unknown  of  many, 
even  of  those  from  whom  better  things 
might  be  hoped,  are  the  private  chron- 
icles of  a  time  peculiarly  rich  in  such 
memorials.  From  these,  —  autobio- 
graphies, memoirs,  and  intimate  family 
correspondence,  —  Elizabeth  Godfrey 
has  most  skillfully  and  happily  com- 
piled a  delightful  volume,1  giving  a 
graphic  description  of  the  home  life  of 
English  people  of  condition  (for  they 
alone  left  these  records)  in  those  mo- 
mentous years  which  witnessed  the  pass- 
ing of  the  old  order  and  the  stormy  be- 
ginning of  the  new.  It  need  hardly  be 
said  that  to  most  of  the  American  read- 
ers likely  to  be  attracted  by  the  book, 
that  England  is  the  one  nearest  to  them 
by  kindred  ties,  the  England  which  nur- 
tured the  adventurers  for  Virginia,  and 
the  men  and  women  who  made  New 
England. 

The  author  naturally  begins  her  sur- 
vey with  the  nursery,  not  so  easy  a 
matter  to  treat  as  may  be  supposed, 
for  the  child  (not  yet  The  Child)  was 
far  from  being  a  centre  of  interest, 
and  even  in  the  letters  of  affectionate 
mothers  was  taken  very  much  fc 
granted.  Still,  we  are  given  interest- 
ing glimpses  of  baby  life  and  of  earl) 
education,  which  began  betimes  with 

Button  &  Co.;  London:  Grant  Richards. 
1903. 


Books  New  and  Old. 


567 


hornbook  and  sampler  in  the  years 
which  we  should  consider  infantile. 
There  is  no  difficulty  in  following  the 
boy  to  the  public  school  and  later  to 
the  university,  — he  was  but  a  boy 
when  he  went  there,  —  and  more  than 
one  of  his  sisters  has  left  a  description 
of  her  education,  all  very  like  Anne 
Murray's,  whose  mother  "had  masters 
for  teaching  my  sister  and  me  to  write, 
speak  French,  play  on  the  lute  and 
virginals,  and  dance,  and  kept  a  gentle- 
woman to  teach  us  all  kinds  of  needle- 
work. .  .  .  We  were  instructed  never 
to  neglect  to  begin  and  end  the  day 
with  prayer,  and  orderly  every  morn- 
ing to  read  the  Bible,  and  ever  to  keep 
the  church  as  often  as  there  was  occa- 
sion to  meet  there  either  for  prayers 
or  preaching. "  This  last  scarcely  needs 
to  be  quoted,  for  it  was  an  age  of  in- 
tense religious  feeling  in  both  parties 
in  the  Church,  and  religious  instruc- 
tion was  of  paramount  importance  in 
all  education,  public  and  private.  And 
England  was  still  the  musical  country  it 
had  been  in  the  Queen's  days,  — music 
was  a  necessary  part  of  the  training  of 
boys  as  well  as  girls.  Says  one  of  the 
pupils  at  Merchant  Taylors' :  "I  was 
well  instructed  in  the  Hebrew,  Greek 
and  Latin  tongues.  [My  master's] 
care  was  also  to  encrease  my  skill  in 
musique,  in  which  I  was  brought  up 
by  daily  exercise  in  it,  as  in  singing 
and  playing  upon  instruments."  But 
boyhood  and  girlhood  were  soon  over. 
Very  youthful  marriages  were  the  rule, 
usually  matters  of  parental  arrange- 
ment, though  the  children  generally 
acquiesced  readily  enough.  Occasion- 
ally there  were  those  who  chose  for 
themselves,  like  Dorothy  Osborne  of 
adorable  memory;  and  of  both  kinds 
of  union  the  book  gives,  we  had  almost 
said,  modern  instances,  so  full  of  liv- 
ing, breathing  life  are  the  records  left, 
often  by  women,  —  many  of  whom  were 
veritable,  and  most  unconscious,  hero- 
ines when  the  days  of  trial  came. 
But  there  was  a  very  real  heroism. 


long  before  the  years  of  war,  which  is 
not  noticed  here.  The  author  explains 
that  the  comparatively  small  attention 
given  to  Puritan  life  comes  only  from 
lack  of  material.  It  is  to  be  regretted 
that  the  letters  of  John  and  Margaret 
Winthrop,  and  such  other  memorials 
as  remain  of  the  family  at  Groton,  do 
not  seem  to  have  fallen  in  her  way. 
To  be  sure,  these  letters  give  few  do- 
mestic details,  but  they  show  very 
vividly  the  spirit  which  animated  one 
Puritan  gentleman's  household,  and 
the  high  level  in  thought  and  life,  and 
the  mutual  trust  and  devotion  of  a 
husband  and  wife,  who  in  middle  age 
were  self-exiled  from  the  pleasant 
places  that  had  known  them  to  a  pain- 
ful wilderness.  It  should  be  said  that 
Miss  Godfrey  does  not  carry  the  con- 
tests of  the  time  into  her  story  of  its 
home  life,  and  she  strives  bravely  to 
write  impartially,  —  "at  least  as  far  as 
she  is  able."  Recognizing  this  effort, 
even  the  reader,  who  in  no  wise  shares 
her  sentiment  regarding  "  the  murdered 
king, "  loiters  over  the  book  with  great 
content;  for  throughout  it  is  marked 
by  good  taste  and  sympathetic  insight, 
and  informed  by  the  historic  sense. 
The  volume  is  attractive  in  make-up, 
and  the  illustrations  are  well  selected. 
But  though  the  temptation  to  use  the 
portrait  of  the  little  Arabella  Stuart 
as  a  frontispiece  was  doubtless  strong, 
it  should  have  been  resisted.  Long 
after  the  child  had  ceased  to  play  with 
her  doll,  England,  including  her  hap- 
less self,  was  emphatically  under  a 
Tudor.  S.  M.  F. 

THE  orators  and  literary  historians 


Biographi- 
cal. 


who  must  soon  look  to  the 
sources  of  preparation  for 
the  Hawthorne  centenary  will  be  con- 
fronted with  no  embarrassment  but  that 
of  riches.  To  all  the  autobiography  of 
his  own  volumes  the  members  of  Haw- 
thorne's immediate  family  and  his  clos- 
est friends  have  steadily  added  what 
they  could.  In  Hawthorne  and  His 


568 


Books  New  and  Old. 


Circle  *  Mr.  Julian  Hawthorne  appears 
for  the  second  time  as  his  father's  bio- 
grapher. Hawthorne  Abroad  would 
have  been  a  little  more  accurate  title 
for  the  volume,  since  four  fifths  of  it 
has  to  do  with  the  years  of  the  Liv- 
erpool consulship  and  foreign  travel. 
These,  for  the  author  of  the  present 
volume,  were  the  years  between  seven 
and  fourteen.  The  remembered  obser- 
vations of  a  youth  of  this  age  would  of 
course  have  scanty  value ;  but  one  need 
not  read  far  to  learn  that  the  boy's 
memory  has  been  abundantly  rein- 
forced by  the  man's  study  of  his  fa- 
ther's Note-Books  and  other  important 
memorials  of  the  period.  It  cannot, 
then,  be  said  that  the  book  contains 
much  that  is  at  once  new  and  impor- 
tant. The  story  of  Hawthorne  climb- 
ing the  nut  tree  at  Lenox  produces,  for 
example,  a  vivid  sense  of  the  fellowship 
between  the  father  and  his  children ; 
but  the  same  sense  has  already  been 
produced  by  the  same  anecdote  in  Mr. 
Julian  Hawthorne's  Nathaniel  Haw- 
thorne and  his  Wife.  There  are  such 
occasional  traces  of  carelessness  as  the 
unhappy  conversion  of  Bennoch  into 
Bannoch  in  the  name  beneath  a  good 
man's  portrait,  and  the  grave  omission 
of  an  index.  It  is  to  be  feared  also 
that  Mr.  Hawthorne  is  careless  in  say- 
ing (page  52)  that  the  manuscript  of 
The  Scarlet  Letter  was  destroyed  by 
James  T.  Fields's  printers.  There  is, 
on  the  contrary,  excellent  authority  for 
the  statement  that  when  Hawthorne,  who 
gave  Mrs.  Fields  the  manuscript  of  an- 
other novel,  was  asked  what  had  become 
of  The  Scarlet  Letter,  he  said,  "Oh, 
I  put  that  up  the  chimney,  and  now  I 
wish  I  had  n't."  But  these  —  in  any 
larger  view  of  the  book  —  are  trivial 
matters.  Taking  it  for  precisely  what 
it  is,  —  the  embellished  remembrances 
of  the  first  fourteen  years  in  the  life  of 
a  great  writer's  son,  — it  has  its  own 

1  Hawthorne  and  His  Circle.  By  JUIJAN 
HAWTHORNE.  New  York  and  London :  Har- 
per &  Brothers.  1903. 


distinct  value,  together  with  an  individ- 
ual and  positive  interest.  It  confirms 
for  those  who  are  familiar  with  existing 
records  many  delightful  impressions  of 
Hawthorne  through  an  important  period 
of  his  life.  To  others  it  will  clearly 
bring  these  impressions  for  the  first 
time.  The  lapses  from  good  taste  are 
infrequent,  and  the  book  as  a  whole  is 
eminently  readable. 

It  needs  no  approaching  centenary 
to  give  a  quality  of  timeliness  to  Gen- 
eral Gordon's  Reminiscences,2  for  it 
seems  only  yesterday  that  the  illus- 
trated papers  were  helping  the  country 
at  large  to  realize  how  solemnly  the 
state  of  Georgia  mourned  one  of  her 
foremost  soldiers  and  legislators.  If 
one's  knowledge  of  later  American 
history  had  no  deeper  background  than 
that  which  General  Gordon's  own  book 
provides,  it  would  still  be  possible  to 
understand  his  holding  so  secure  a  place 
in  the  affections  of  the  South;  for  in 
his  own  portrait  he  cannot  help  draw- 
ing a  lovable  man.  Relate  him,  how- 
ever, —  merely  through  a  list  of  the 
great  military  events  in  which  he  bore 
a  part,  — to  the  history  of  the  cause 
for  which  he  fought,  and  the  deeper 
significance  of  his  life  stands  clearly 
forth.  But  it  is  less  for  any  of  the 
momentous  facts  which  he  records  than 
for  the  temper  of  his  record  that  his 
volume  is  exceptional.  It  has  become 
the  custom  to  ascribe  every  manifesta- 
tion of  a  national  spirit  in  a  Confeder- 
ate soldier  to  the  Spanish  war,  and  to 
detect  even  in  the  color  of  khaki  a 
blending  of  blue  and  gray.  The  spirit 
of  General  Gordon's  Reminiscences 
bears  the  marks  of  a  slower  growth. 
It  is  not  an  acquired  generosity  toward 
a  foe  which  his  pages  reveal,  but  some- 
thing of  sympathy  and  understanding 
which  were  a  part  of  the  man  at  the 
very  time  when  the  martial  virtues 
might  have  been  forgiven  for  blotting 

2  Reminiscences  of  the  Civil  War.  By  Gen- 
eral JOHN  B.  GORDON  of  the  Confederate  Army. 
New  York :  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  1903. 


Books  New  and  Old. 


569 


out  all  others.  He  displays  a  rarely 
human  quality  in  recognizing  the  same 
weaknesses  and  strengths  in  the  sol- 
diers, high  and  low,  of  both  armies. 
For  all  the  inherence  of  this  unusual 
temper,  it  may  be  doubted  whether  any 
one  could  have  written  just  such  a  book 
twenty -five  years  ago.  At  that  time 
it  might  have  done  incalculable  good. 
Yet  the  day  of  its  usefulness  is'  by  no 
means  past.  It  is  precisely  through 
such  utterances  of  a  common  feeling 
that  the  new  South  and  North  must 
come  to  understand  each  other  better. 
It  is  not  often  that  one  who  deserves 
so  full  and  satisfactory  a  biography  as 
The  Life  of  Horace  Binney *  is  left 
so  long  with  the  biography  unwritten. 
Mr.  Binney  died  in  1875,  ninety -five 
years  old.  The  story  of  his  active  life 
might  have  been  written  some  years 
before  that  time.  He  had  long  held 
in  Philadelphia  the  place,  as  it  were, 
of  an  historic  figure.  His  triumphs  at 
the  bar  — •  notably  in  the  defense  of 
Stephen  Girard's  will  —  had  won  him 
the  highest  distinction  in  his  profes- 
sion. He  was  not  of  the  class  which 
established  for  the  "Philadelphia  law- 
yer "  that  reputation  for  "smartness  " 
which,  in  its  accepted  sense,  was  not 
wholly  flattering.  He  represented  ra- 
ther the  dignity,  the  scholarship,  the 
high  tradition  of  the  legal  calling. 
His  Federalist  dislike  for  Jefferson 
found  its  utterance  in  a  declaration 
which  also  reveals  a  fine  jealousy  for 
the  law :  "  He  has  been  the  steady,  un- 
deviating,  and  but  for  his  recent  death 
I  would  say  insidious  enemy  of  my 
profession  in  its  highest  walks,  the 
bench,  the  judiciary."  When  the 
Federal  party  disintegrated,  Horace 
Binney  joined  himself  to  no  other,  but, 

1  The  Life  of  Horace  Binney.     With  Selec- 
tions from  his  Letters.     By  CHARLES  CHAUN- 
CEY  BINNEY.    Philadelphia  and  London :  J.  B. 
Lippincott  Co.     1903. 

2  Fanny  Burney.    By  AUSTIN  DOBSON.   Eng- 
lish Men  of  Letters  Series.     New  York :  The 
Macmillan  Co.     1903. 


with  a  rare  independence  through  a 
long  period  of  keen  partisanship,  held 
himself  free  —  like  the  Mugwump  of 
a  later  day  —  to  vote  as  he  might 
choose.  Sympathizing  the  more  fre- 
quently with  the  Republican  party,  af- 
ter its  formation,  he  could  yet,  at  the 
age  of  ninety  -  four,  stand  up  against 
the  unworthy  candidates  of  the  local 
"machine."  As  his  biographer  well 
says :  "  The  sight  of  an  aged  Federal- 
ist in  a  Republican  stronghold,  braving 
the  chill  of  a  wintry  day  to  vote  the 
Democratic  ticket  for  lack  of  a  better, 
was  a  striking  lesson  in  non-partisan- 
ship. "  In  the  last  analysis  is  not  such 
independence  the  peculiar  attribute  of 
the  gentleman,  —  the  man  whose  stan- 
dards are  carefully  chosen  and  do  not 
admit  of  compromise?  The  portrait 
of  Horace  Binney  which  his  grandson 
has  drawn  in  this  volume  is  preemi- 
nently the  portrait  of  a  gentleman.  It 
is  drawn  with  the  reserve  and  sense  of 
proportion  which  the  subject  demands. 
It  shows  him  in  the  various  departments 
of  life,  professional,  domestic,  religious, 
intellectual,  patriotic,  which  the  well- 
rounded  men  of  the  nineteenth  century 
impartially  adorned ;  and  the  total  im- 
pression is  that  of  a  type  which  our 
civilization  should  be  loath  to  leave  be- 
hind. M.  A.  DeW.  H. 

OF  the  three  biographical  studies  2  upon 
Three  Eng-  which  we  are  to  venture  some 
llsh  Writers.  brief  comment,  Mr.  Dobson's 
Fanny  Burney  is,  on  all  counts,  the  most 
important.  For  one  thing,  his  subject 
lies  toward  the  hither  boundary  of  the 
period  of  which  he  has  so  curious  a 
knowledge,  and  which  he  has  been  able  to 
invest  with  charm  for  many  persons  who 
might,  lacking  his  offices,  have  remained 

Crabbe.  By  ALFRED  AINGEB.  English  Men 
of  Letters  Series.  New  York :  The  Macmillan 
Co.  1903. 

Thackeray.  By  CHARLES  WHIBLEY.  Modern 
English  Writers  Series.  New  York :  Dodd, 
Mead  &  Co.  1903. 


570 


Books  New  and  Old. 


perfectly  indifferent  to  it.  Nobody  is 
more  punctilious  in  erudition,  or  more 
genially  human  in  interpretation,  than 
Mr.  Dobsoii.  One  comes  to  have  a  weak- 
ness for  his  footnotes,  and  more  than  tol- 
eration for  his  amiable  foible  for  dates. 
Indeed,  his  dates,  like  Milton's  proper 
names,  take  on  a  sort  of  talismanic  value  ; 
in  the  end,  one  is  not  able  to  see  how  the 
text  could  get  on  properly  without  them  : 
"  On  the  6th  of  July.  1786,  the  Public 
Advertiser  announced  that  — '  Miss  Bur- 
ney,  daughter  of  Dr.  Burney,  is  appoint- 
ed Dresser  to  the  Queen,  in  the  room 
of  Mrs.  Hoggadore,  gone  to  Germany.' 
The  last  three  words  were  premature,  for 
further  notifications,  with  much  pleasing 
and  ingenious  variation  of  Mrs.  Hagger- 
dorn's  name,  made  it  clear  that  the  lady 
in  question  only  took  leave  of  the  Queen 
on  the  13th,  and  retired  to  her  native 
Mecklenburg  on  the  17th."  The  date  of 
Mrs.  Haggerdorn's  departure  cannot  be 
said  to  be  in  itself  of  very  great  impor- 
tance to  the  narrative  ;  but  somehow  the 
little  pedantry,  if  such  it  be,  is  rather  en- 
gaging than  otherwise. 

Mr.  Dobson's  manner  as  a  biographer 
is  a  model  of  literary  breeding.  He 
never  allows  himself  to  be  merely  clever 
or  witty,  though  wit  and  cleverness  are, 
as  we  have  abundant  reason  for  knowing, 
very  much  at  his  disposal.  He  takes  it 
for  granted  that  his  readers  are  inter- 
ested in  his  subject,  and  not  in  himself. 
The  calm  audacity  of  Mr.  Birrell  and  the 
brilliant  effrontery  of  Mr.  Chesterton  are 
equally  remote  from  his  method.  He 
chooses  to  throw  a  steady  beam  upon  his 
subject  rather  than  a  series  of  flashes. 
Yet  the  good  rule  holds :  by  losing  him- 
self he  comes  to  his  own.  It  is  his  per- 
sonality, after  all,  which  gives  his  work 
its  effectiveness. 

To  write  a  new  life  of  Fanny  Burney 
was  a  task  of  delicacy  and  importance. 
Most  persons  who  remember  her  at  all 
probably  remember  her  by  way  of  Ma- 
caulay,  if  not  directly  from  him.  That 
spirited  but  not  altogether  reliable  Edin- 


burgh essay  stands  a  little  between  us 
and  a  direct  view  of  the  object.  We  see 
the  young  Fanny  the  least  trifle  more 
charming  and  ingenuous  than  she  was, 
and  watch  with  dismay  her  metamorpho- 
sis into  the  prim  and  Johnsonian  Madame 
D'Arblay.  We  harbor,  perhaps,  an  un- 
warrantably violent  grudge  against  the 
well-meaning  queen  and  her  stupid  Hag. 
gerdorn.  We  feel  some  resentment  to- 
ward the  altogether  admirable  M.  D'Ar- 
blay, and  can  hardly  forgive  his  wife  for 
having  been  merely  happy  with  him  for 
a  quarter  of  a  century.  There  is  no  de- 
nying that  Miss  Burney 's  work  was  done 
before  she  reached  middle  life.  So  was 
Miss  Austen's ;  yet  who  can  forbear  the 
wish  that  she,  too,  might  have  had  twenty- 
five  years  more  of  life  to  throw  away 
upon  some  man  as  good  as  M.  D'Arblay  ? 

Mr.  Dobson  employs  frequent  quota- 
tions from  the  Diary  in  the  course  of  his 
narrative.  What  he  has  to  say  about  it 
specifically  is  very  brief  ;  is  to  be  found, 
indeed,  in  his  final  paragraph.  His  main 
contention  is  indisputable :  that  Miss 
Burney's  fame  must  rest  upon  the  Diary 
rather  than  upon  the  two  novels  which 
made  her  a  great  figure  in  her  own  day. 
"  It  has  all  the  graphic  picturesqueness, 
all  the  dramatic  interest,  all  the  objec- 
tive characterization,  all  the  happy  fac- 
ulty of  '  making  her  descriptions  alive,' 
—  which  constitute  the  charm  of  the  best 
passages  in  Evelina.  But  it  has  the 
further  advantage  that  it  is  true ;  and 
that  it  deals  with  real  people."  The 
short  of  the  matter  is  that  your  true  diar- 
ist has  a  very  different  method  from  that 
of  the  novelist;  he  makes  use  of  actua 
events  and  persons  as  material  for  his 
kind  of  creative  writing.  There  is  ne 
doubt  that  Miss  Burney  found  her  proper 
literary  strength  in  the  intimate  lett 
and  the  still  more  intimate  journal; 
while  Miss  Austen,  whose  letters  serve 
mainly  to  endear  her  to  us  as  a  worm 
found  it  in  fiction. 

Mr.    Ainger's    Crabbe,   in    the  sat 
series,  is  another  admirable  example  of 


Books  New  and  Old. 


571 


condensed  critical  biography.  Crabbe's 
life  was  of  the  quietest,  and  there  have 
been  no  new  data  of  importance  for  the 
present  biographer  to  unearth.  His 
facts,  almost  without  exception,  have 
been  derived  from  the  life  written  by 
FitzGerald's  friend,  the  younger  Crabbe, 
and  prefixed  to  the  first  collected  edition 
of  the  poet's  work,  which  was  published 
shortly  after  his  death.  That  was  a  bi- 
ography both  filial  and  judicial ;  it  con- 
tained, perhaps,  a  single  conscious  sup- 
pression, —  the  word  misrepresentation 
could  not  be  used.  This  is  of  so  inter- 
esting a  nature  that  Mr.  Ainger  is  justi- 
fied in  discussing  it  somewhat  at  length. 
Crabbe  wrote  three  or  four  poems  which, 
though  powerful,  are  altogether  unlike 
the  work  which  gave  him  his  audience. 
Mr.  Ainger  gives  good  reasons  for  his 
surmise  that  their  source  was  like  that 
of  the  Dream-Fugue  and  Kubla  Khan. 
The  younger  Crabbe  admits  that  for 
many  years  his  father  used  opium,  "  and 
to  a  constant  but  slightly  increasing  dose 
of  it,"  he  says,  "  may  be  attributed  his 
long  and  generally  healthy  life."  A 
marginal  note  against  this  passage  in 
FitzGerald's  copy  suggests  that  the 
opium  "  probably  influenced  his  dreams, 
for  better  or  worse,"  and  adds,  "  See  also 
the  World  of  Dreams  and  Sir  Eustace 
Grey."  Mr.  Ainger  draws  an  interest- 
ing parallel  between  the  imagery  of  Sir 
Eustace  Grey  and  that  of  certain  pas- 
sages in  the  De  Quincey  Confessions. 
He  might  also  have  called  attention  to 
the  striking  resemblance  to  that  other 
famous  opium-eater  in  the  sound  and 
savor  of  such  passages  as  this  :  — 

They  placed  me  where  those  streamers  play, 

Those  nimble  beams  of  brilliant  light ; 
It  would  the  stoutest  heart  dismay, 

To  see,  to  feel,  that  dreadful  sight : 
So  swift,  so  pure,  so  cold,  so  bright, 

They  pierced  my  frame  with  icy  wound  ; 
And  all  that  half-year's  polar  night, 

Those  dancing  streamers  wrapp'd  me  round. 

Of  course  this  is  a  matter  of  inferi- 
or moment.  The  substance  of  Crabbe's 
work,  his  most  characteristic  poetry,  was 


in  a  vein  altogether  different  from  that 
of  any  of  his  contemporaries  ;  though  in 
its  inequality  of  workmanship  it  bore  a 
certain  analogy  to  the  poetry  of  Byron 
and  Wordsworth. 

There  are  curious  points  of  contrast  in 
Crabbe's  life  and  work  which  would  have 
been  fair  game  for  Macaulay  if  the  Edin- 
burgh commission  had  fallen  to  him  in- 
stead of  Jeffrey.  (Macaulay  admired 
Crabbe,  but  mentions  him  only  once  in 
the  essays,  and  then  merely  by  way  of 
throwing  the  villainous  literary  figure  of 
a  luckless  Mr.  Robert  Montgomery  into 
blacker  relief.)  There  never  was  a  bet- 
ter chance  for  paradox.  His  verse  is 
monotonous  and  slipshod,  his  knowledge 
of  human  types  is  varied  and  exact.  He 
judges  women  like  an  Ecclesiastes,  and 
describes  them  like  a  Torn  Moore.  He 
is  a  sentimental  pessimist ;  an  opium-eat- 
ing realist ;  a  stern  critic  of  clerical  short- 
comings, and  an  absentee  pluralist :  and 
so  on.  The  really  important  fact  is  that 
with  much  of  provinciality  in  the  sub- 
stance of  his  work,  and  much  of  imperfec- 
tion in  its  form,  he  did  somehow  succeed 
in  producing  poetry  of  permanent  value. 
The  Parish  Register  is  a  record  not  only 
of  local  events,  but  of  universal  experi- 
ence ;  the  Borough  and  the  Tales  make 
up  a  picture  of  universal  society.  Sir 
Leslie  Stephen's  remark  may  fairly  be 
taken  as  the  world's  verdict  thus  far : 
"  With  all  its  short-  and  long-comings, 
Crabbe's  better  work  leaves  its  mark  on 
the  reader's  mind  and  memory  as  only 
the  work  of  genius  can." 

Of  Mr.  Whibley's  Thackeray  one 
must  speak  with  a  good  deal  of  qualifi- 
cation. It  is  not  without  vigor,  it  is  not 
without  discernment,  but  it  seems  by  this 
or  by  that  to  lack  roundness  and  sound- 
ness. The  critical  biographer  is  probably 
more  open  to  error  than  others  of  the 
critical  trade  ;  for  it  is  harder  to  be  im- 
partial in  interpreting  a  man  than  in  in- 
terpreting a  work  of  art.  One  has  no 
quarrel  with  Mr.  Whibley  for  having  de- 
cided opinions  about  Thackeray,  and  for 


572 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


stating  them  frankly.  A  critic  will  not 
escape  the  charge  of  folly  by  being  too 
fearful  in  treading  his  ground.  He  must, 
quite  as  much  as  a  "  creative "  artist, 
give  himself  away ;  he  must  offer  his 
strength  and  his  weakness  for  inspection. 
If  he  is  strong  enough  to  command  the 
serious  attention  of  his  audience,  whether 
it  agrees  with  him  or  not,  he  will  have 
exposed  himself  not  altogether  vainly ; 
but  the  best  criticism  is  not  only  frank, 
it  is  true.  Mr.  Whibley  does  not  quite 
convince  us  that  truth  is  ready  to  his 
call. 

His  method  is  not  simple  enough ;  he 
is  too  clever  by  half.  He  says  a  good 
many  brilliant  things,  and  not  a  few 
witty  ones.  He  has  a  pretty  turn  for 
epigram.  He  "  illuminates  "  his  subject 
with  a  capable  arrangement  of  artificial 
lights.  The  method  has  its  value  in 
reaching  toward  a  just  estimate  of  some 
writer  so  recent  that  the  question  of  his 
greatness  or  mere  prominence  can  be 
determined  only  by  time.  We  have  had 
half  a  century  for  making  up  our  minds 
about  Thackeray ;  and  we  have  come 
to  a  pretty  general  understanding  of  his 
limitations.  But  the  trial  is  not  finished 
for  Mr.  Whibley  :  he  here  undertakes  to 
sum  up  the  case  against  Thackeray,  and 


to  recommend  a  verdict  of  guilty  with 
extenuating  circumstances.  Here  are 
some  of  the  counts  in  the  indictment : 
(1)  Thackeray  is  "  a  gentlemanly  Phi- 
listine, who  esteems  ton  higher  than 
truth ; "  (2)  he  is  a  sentimentalist, 
"  who  unto  the  end  of  his  career  delight- 
ed somewhat  naively  in  the  obvious  emo- 
tions ;  "  (3)  "  he  is  too  often  a  man  and 
a  brother ;  he  forgets  the  impartiality  of 
the  artist,  and  goes  about  babbling  with 
his  own  puppets  ;  "  (4)  "  his  style  lacks 
distinction,  though  it  gives  a  general  im- 
pression of  gentlemanly  ease."  There 
is  nothing  really  novel  in  the  substance 
of  these  charges  ;  but  they  have  hardly 
been  given  heretofore  such  a  hard  glit- 
tering surface.  Every  centuiy  contrib- 
utes a  few  great  personalities  to  the 
world's  cherished  store.  Thackeray  was 
one  of  these  ;  and  the  breath  of  him  is 
not  to  be  found  in  the  ingenious  mani- 
kin which  Mr.  Whibley  has  constructed, 
and  which  he  neatly  anatomizes  for  us. 
The  disjecta  membra  look  much  like 
those  of  a  Christian  or  an  ordinary  man. 
Thackeray  himself,  —  the  big,  worldly, 
warm-hearted  gentleman  whom  FitzGer- 
ald  and  Tennyson  and  Carlyle  loved,  — 
the  great  artist  in  the  intimate  style,  — 
does  not  appear. 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB. 


FIFTY  years  ago  writers  were  literary 

New  Condi-  men  and  women,  those  espe- 
tionsln  .  ..  .  ,  !  . ,  r  , 

Reading.       daily  interested  in  ideas  and 

their  fitting  garb  of  expression,  and  read- 
ers were  people  of  their  own  kind,  in 
whom  the  literary  impulse  reached  to 
the  leaf  of  appreciation,  though  unable 
to  flower  in  creation;  they,  too,  cared 
for  ideas,  and  found  a  joy  in  the  suitable 
garment  of  word  and  phrase.  To-day, 
the  readers  are  the  people,  the  masses, 
and  writers  are  in  the  main  those  who 


supply  them  with  what  they  want.     Stu 
pendous  change!    What  does  it  mean? 
Whither  are  we  tending  ? 

As  a  result  of  the  rapid  development 
of  wealth  and  general  but  scanty  edu- 
cation, an  immense  reading  public  has 
sprung  into  being.  They  are  not  the 
least  bit  literary  ;  they  want  to  read  be- 
cause they  know  how,  have  found  it  a 
way  of  escape  from  being  alone  and  dull ; 
because  they  have  the  time  to  read  and 
the  money  to  buy  reading  matter.  As 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


573 


to  the  kind  of  reading,  they  don't  anx- 
iously consult  the  experts  on  that  point. 
They  read  what  appeals  to  them,  —  what 
they  can  grasp  without  laborious  effort, 
what  amuses,  takes  them  out  of  the  ruts 
of  daily  life,  or  makes  that  life  more  in- 
teresting. Men  like  to  learn  useful  facts, 
to  hear  what  is  going  on  in  the  world, 
what  has  to  do  with  their  own  and  their 
neighbors'  business,  to  get  in  a  nutshell, 
in  easy  readable  form,  the  results  of  sci- 
entific research,  travel,  and  exploration, 
and  to  know  something  of  popular  inter- 
est about  famous  people  in  various  lines. 
Some  women  like  these  things,  too,  but 
more  prefer  to  be  ushered  into  a  world 
where  faculties  in  themselves,  to  which 
their  prosy  lives  give  little  play,  may 
get  a  sort  of  exercise  ;  their  hunger  for 
the  romantic,  the  sentimental,  and  thrill- 
ing feeds  upon  novels  and  romances 
beyond  number.  And  all  the  tribe  of 
young  folks  from  school  like  much  the 
same  sort  of  thing,  only  writ  larger,  — 
both  parents  and  children  manifesting 
the  natural,  untutored  taste,  untroubled 
by  literary  verdicts  or  standards.  0 
hard  fate  of  a  classic,  to  fall  into  such 
hands  as  these !  No  halo  around  the 
head,  no  laurel  wreath  crowning  the 
brow,  no  medals  of  honor  on  the  breast, 
no  silver  locks  of  age,  make  the  slight- 
est difference  to  its  judges,  and  it  must 
stand  with  the  rabble  and  be  put  to  the 
test.  Is  the  author's  style  difficult? 
Then  he  is  dismissed  without  a  hearing. 
Has  it  delicate  beauties  ?  They  go  for 
nothing ;  they  are  not  perceived.  Has 
he  treasures  of  deep  thought?  These 
things  are  too  remote  ;  life  is  too  hur- 
ried. Can  he  tell  a  good  story  ?  Then 
he  will  pass  ;  but  he  must  expect  to  find 
himself  with  strange  bedfellows  in  his 
reader's  approval,  and  often  be  forced 
to  take  a  seat  below  some  scribbler  at 
whose  name  his  gorge  has  ever  risen. 
Can  he  say  shrewd,  sensible  things  about 
life,  real  life,  and  put  them  in  terse,  tell- 
ing shape  ?  Then  he  will  pass  ;  but  here 
again  he  will  find  himself  in  company 


with  solemn -faced  venders  of  musty 
platitudes,  soul-wearying  commonplaces, 
without  one  redeeming  touch  of  grace 
in  the  utterance.  For  a  discriminating 
taste  is  the  product  of  slow  growth,  of 
hereditary  influences,  home  environment 
through  many  a  year,  reading  and  wise 
teaching,  and  study  long  continued, — 
except  in  the  few  cases  of  people  born, 
it  would  seem,  with  a  natural  literary 
bent.  Would  that  we  could  believe  that 
an  essential  soundness  of  taste  dwells 
among  the  masses,  and  that  in  due  time, 
having  educated  themselves  out  of  their 
crude  preference  for  poor  stuff,  they  will 
emerge  from  their  chrysalis  a  glorious 
literary  constituency !  But  while  the 
light  of  civilization  is  destined  to  shine 
farther  and  farther  down  the  sides  of 
the  pyramid  of  humanity,  the  base  is 
ever  enlarging.  While  a  few  chosen 
ones  are  emerging  from  the  mass  with 
tastes  purged,  innumerable  recruits  are 
swelling  the  density  below,  necessarily 
children  in  taste  and  judgment.  No, 
we  must  face  the  fact  that  hereafter  the 
literary  class  will  form  only  a  small  part 
of  the  great  reading  public,  the  people 
who  demand  the  "popular."  We  are  not 
at  the  end,  but  at  the  beginning  of  the 
era.  The  people  have  arrived,  and  they 
have  come  to  stay. 

And  now,  turning  from  the  realm  of 
demand  to  the  realm  of  supply,  another 
set  of  facts  is  patent.  Writers  have 
arisen  to  match  the  readers,  —  writers 
who  knew  not  Joseph.  Their  aim  is 
simple,  —  to  make  books  to  supply  the 
market  demand.  Their  ears  have  been 
trained  to  keenness  to  detect  what  there 
is  a  call  for,  since  great  are  the  prizes  to 
him  who  best  succeeds  in  pleasing.  And 
what  they  produce  their  publishers  have 
learned  how  to  sell  to  the  best  advantage 
of  writer  and  seller.  The  advertisement 
of  books  has  become  a  business  for  the 
expert.  Book  reviews  seem  to  exist 
mainly,  not  to  guard  the  reader  from 
what  is  not  good  literature,  but  to  help 
the  writer  sell  his  book.  The  foremost 


574 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


of  principles  is  to  convince  that  "  every- 
body is  reading  "  a  certain  book.  Our 
non-literary  reading  class  are  eager  to 
read  what  the  many  like;  for  the  one 
word  that  describes  their  taste  is  popu- 
lar. 

Who  knows  but  this  arrival  in  the 
field  of  a  great  untutored  natural  hun- 
ger, and  this  eager  pressure  to  supply  it, 
may  eventually  reinforce  our  literary  life 
with  fresh  blood,  and  usher  in  an  Eliza- 
bethan era  of  rich  and  vigorous  life,  a 
creative  period  ? 

But  though  literature  may  be  in  the 
end  the  gainer,  time  and  the  world- 
forces,  the  great  processes  of  evolution, 
will  settle  that.  For  us  as  individuals, 
here  and  now,  hasty  selection  and  cheap 
admiration  are  the  great  overhanging 
dangers  to  be  faced  and  fought.  We 
must  be  on  the  defensive,  in  a  condition 
of  things  fraught  with  danger  to  reading 
and  writing  habits. 

Let  the  lovers  of  good  reading  dare 
to  go  counter  to  the  crowd;  let  them 
support  one  another  in  the  resolve  to 
be  unfashionable,  to  plead  ignorance  of 
much  that  is  being  talked  of.  In  read- 
ing, as  in  material  possessions,  there  is 
a  wholesome  poverty  that  develops  char- 
acter, —  the  reading  of  the  very  best  that 
man  has  written,  with  reflection  there- 
upon ;  and  there  is  an  enervating  wealth, 

—  hurried,    unthinking,    indiscriminate 
reading,  the  mere  tickling  of  the  intel- 
lectual palate,  that  becomes  a  matter  of 
habit  and  a  craving. 

THERE  is  a  certain  clock-tick  that  is 
Clock-Ticks,  as  religious  as  a  church  bell, 

—  more  religious  than  some  church  bells. 
It  goes  with  a  big,  sunny  room,  where  it 
is  always  afternoon,  with  a  rag  carpet  on 
the  floor,  and  chairs  set  carefully  against 
the  wall.     The  clock  stands  high  on  a 
shelf,  —  at  the  end  of  the  long  mantel 
across  the  chimney,  —  and  there  it  ticks 
away  the  sleepy  time.  .  .  .  Tock-tock, 
tock-tock,    comfortable    and    slow.     No 
need  for  hurry.    The  family  are  all  away. 
You  are  alone  in  the  house,  —  except  for 


the  gray  cat,  purring  by  the  stove, — alone 
in  the  world,  —  alone  in  time.  .  .  .  Tock- 
tock,  tock-tock,  slow  and  sure.  The  sun 
pours  in  at  the  windows  and  bars  the 
carpet.  It  shifts,  silently  as  the  still- 
ness. And  the  slow,  swinging  tocks  lift 
your  soul  out  of  space,  out  of  time,  and 
lay  it  gently  back  upon  the  infinite. 
Tock-tock.  It  soothes  you  like  a  dream 

—  and  a  promise.   Home-home,  rest-rest, 
home-home.  .  .  .  Time  was  not  made  to 
do  things  in,  but   for  being.     Is  there 
anything  you  could  do,  by  chance,  that 
would  amount  to  as  much  as  this  slow, 
sleepy  afternoon,  with  its  touch  on  the 
soul  and  its   long,  unnumbered   tocks  ? 
They  hold  one  deep  through  the  years 
and  come  creeping  back,  at  unawares. 
Above  the  roar  of  the  street  and  the  toss 
of  the  wind  —  listen,  you  can  hear  them 
now.  .  .  .  The  house  sinks  silent  about 
you,  and  the  long  afternoon  holds  you. 
You  did  not  guess  how  deep  it  was,  nor 
how  true.     The   place  was   not   home, 

—  some  farmhouse,  perhaps,  where  you 
passed  the  days  and  waited  for  life.    And 
now  you  understand  that  you  have  never 
lived,  except  in  a  few  still  hours,  —  care- 
less, full-fraught  moments  lifted  out  of  the 
days  and  nights  and  set  forever  in  a  sunny 
place. 

It  is  a  very  common  room  where  the 
old  clock  ticks.  Four  chairs  and  a  sofa 
and  table.  No  pillows,  no  rugs,  and  no 
hangings  to  smother  the  sound  ;  and  no 
pictures  and  bricabrac  to  shatter  it  to 
bits.  Have  you  heard,  perhaps,  a  modern 
French  clock  —  Clackety-clack,  clackety- 
click,  Push-push-push  ?  There  are  al- 
ways ornaments  on  the  shelf  where  it 
stands,  and  ornaments  on  the  table,  and 
on  the  floor.  It  has  gilt  on  its  face  and 
jewels  on  its  hands,  and  it  lives  very  fast, 

—  sixty  minutes  to  the  hour  and  twenty- 
four  hours  to  the  day,  —  hurried  hours, 
breathless  minutes,  crammed  to  the  brim 
with   excitement.   .  .  .  Clackety-clack, 
clackety-click,  Push  -  push  -  push,  Quick- 
quick-quick  !     When  I  find  one  in  the 
chamber  where  I  am  to  sleep,  I  always 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


575 


look  carefully  about  for  some  safe  hole 
in  which  to  bestow  it.  If  no  other  offers, 
my  traveling-bag  will  at  least  muffle  its 
strenuous  voice  till  the  coming  of  the 
morn.  But  alas,  if  the  clock  be  small 
and  round  and  easily  hidden  from  sight 
in  stray  corners  of  the  bag !  Twice 
have  I  borne  away  the  timepiece  offered 
for  my  delectation.  Twice  has  it  fallen 
to  my  lot  to  explain  to  an  energetic 
hostess  my  peculiar  conduct.  Now  I  al- 
ways put  it  under  the  mattress.  If  I  go 
away  and  forget  it,  I  am  only  regarded 
as  a  little  crazy,  which  is  surely  better 
than  rolling  up  a  reputation  for  klepto- 
mania. 

Not  till  all  the  clocks  of  modern  times 
are  drowned  in  the  depths  of  the  sea 
shall  we  recover  peace  and  serenity. 
Clackety-clack,  on  a  thousand  walls  they 
beat,  —  filled  with  alarms  and  strikes 
and  whirs,  breaking  your  sleep  snap  in 
twain,  with  dreams  half  done.  In  our 
ears  they  click,  day  and  night.  On  our 
souls  they  dance ;  and  their  tune  is  the 
tune  of  death. 

I  swing  back  into  the  past.  I  catch 
its  rhythm,  slow  and  sure.  There  is  no 
hurry  but  the  hurry  of  the  heart  that 
runs  to  meet  its  own,  and  no  power  to 
compel  us  but  the  power  of  love. 

RECENT  discussion  on  the  ancient 
Quotation  subject  of  quotation  seems 
and  Allu-  to  me  a  little  reckless,  as 
likely  to  make  people  lose 
sight  of  the  fact  that  the  world  is  still 
in  danger  of  pedantry  even  in  these 
quick  times.  In  certain  quarters  the 
old  tradition  lingers  that  quotations  or 
bookish  allusions  will  give  the  look  of 
literature  to  any  printed  page.  Per- 
haps it  is  on  the  chance  that  scraps 
from  the  works  of  better  writers  may 
somehow  tide  the  reader  over  when  the 
man's  own  thought  gives  out.  Some- 
times it  is  to  show  that  he  is  a  man  of 
varied  reading,  each  quotation  serving 
as  an  apothecary's  diploma  that  none 
may  deny  that  he  has  graduated  from 
the  book.  At  all  events,  it  often  has 


the  air  of  deliberation,  as  if  the  quota- 
tion had  not  come  to  the  man,  but  the 
man  had  gone  to  the  quotation.  In 
the  old  days  there  were  some  involun- 
tary quoters,  to  wit,  Burton,  in  the 
Anatomy,  who  could  not  help  bubbling 
over  with  queer,  outlandish  sayings 
that  he  had  picked  up  just  for  fun. 
But  the  typical  quoter  was  a  university 
man,  who,  before  he  wrote  a  paragraph, 
went  on  a  pot-hunt  among  the  Latin 
poets  in  order  that  he  might  cite  tri- 
umphantly twenty-four  lines  of  Virgil- 
ian  metaphor  beginning,  "Not  other- 
wise a  Nubian  lion  with  his  tawny 
mane. "  They  multiplied  like  Austra- 
lian rabbits,  and  it  was  not  till  the 
middle  of  the  last  century  that  English 
literature  began  to  drive  them  out. 
Nowadays  we  are  comparatively  safe 
from  them,  and  no  writer  with  any 
natural  spring  of  mind  ekes  out  his 
thought  with  other  people's  phrases. 
The  rule  of  to-day  is  neither  to  shun 
nor  to  seek. 

But  here  and  there  the  tawdry  old 
precedent  is  still  followed,  and  only 
the  other  day  we  read  in  a  newspaper 
article,  "If  a  thing  is  right,  it  ought 
to  be  done,  said  Cobden, "  recalling  the 
old  gibe  that  water  was  wet  on  the  au- 
thority of  Beza.  We  have  noted  the 
same  bit  of  Latin  nine  times  in  one 
newspaper,  and  each  time  could  see  the 
paragraph  writhing  to  get  it  in.  The 
Vicar  of  Wakefield's  friend,  with  his 
two  stock  phrases  from  the  classics, 
seems  almost  a  burlesque,  but  he  was 
not,  and  he  is  not  even  to-day.  There 
are  men  now  living  who  will  use  a 
French  word  when  there  is  an  exact 
English  equivalent,  and  then  add  the 
equivalent  in  parenthesis.  There  is  a 
per  contra  man,  and  an  ad  hoc  man, 
and  a  wretch  who  will  quote  you  Pascal 
for  the  sentiment  that  truth  will  pre- 
vail. "Corrupt  politics  are  not  good 
politics,"  says  Burke,  and  "Life  is  a 
struggle, "  says  Seneca,  and  "  Dare  to 
do  right,"  says  Cobden,  and  "Law  is 
the  bulwark  of  liberty,"  as  the  Lord 


576 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


Chief  Justice  of  England  once  re- 
marked. The  hardened  quoter  cares 
only  for  the  name,  and  when  pressed 
for  time,  will  often  forge  it.  That 
is  why  you  see  so  many  dull  sayings 
with  great  names  attached,  —  poverty- 
stricken  minds  displaying  a  bogus  in- 
dorsement from  the  well-to-do.  But 
many,  of  course,  are  genuine,  and  toil- 
somely gathered  for  use  on  the  day  of 
literary  deficit,  when  the  style  needs 
a  ringlet  from  Longfellow,  or  a  boost 
from  Samuel  Johnson,  or  an  orotund 
boom  from  Burke.  Often  the  sentence 
quoted  is  one  of  the  great  man's  worst. 
When  young  and  helpless  I  once 
fell  in  with  a  terrible  family  that  lived 
by  the  bad  old  rule.  They  made  it  a 
daily  duty  to  study  up  things  to  quote, 
and  every  Sunday  morning  at  break- 
fast each  would  recite  a  passage  mem- 
orized during  the  week.  The  steam 
from  the  coffee  vanished  into  literary 
air,  and  the  muffins,  when  we  had  at- 
tained them,  seemed  to  be  bound  in 
calf.  They  said  it  helped  to  fix  the 
thing  in  mind,  and  though  they  had  no 
present  use  for  it,  they  thought  some- 
thing might  happen  to  make  it  apropos. 
And  they  saw  to  it  that  something  did 
happen,  and  out  it  came  to  the  end. 
They  lived  in  a  sort  of  vicious  watch- 
fulness. On  wet  days  they  conned  over 
their  rain  verse  in  order  to  whip  out  a 
stanza  in  the  midst  of  weather  talk, 
and  if  they  drove  through  the  country 


they  saw  nothing  for  constantly  mum- 
bling what  Wordsworth  would  have 
said.  They  would  graciously  say  the 
passage  was  doubtless  familiar,  but  re- 
lentlessly repeat  every  word.  Large 
blocks  of  poetry  would  suddenly  fall 
athwart  the  conversation,  no  one  knew 
whence,  while  with  bowed  head  the 
startled  Philistine  would  wait  for  the 
seizure  to  pass.  So  busy  were  they 
remembering,  they  never  had  time  to 
think,  and  life  was  a  book  of  clippings, 
and  nature  a  table  of  contents,  and 
friendship  their  opportunity,  till  the 
friend  found  means  to  escape.  There 
was  nothing  in  that  family  that  you 
could  not  somewhere  read,  and  the  peo- 
ple who  once  knew  them  now  either 
visit  the  libraries  or  turn  to  an  album 
of  song.  To  be  sure  it  was  somewhat 
unusual,  but  it  shows  there  is  life  in 
the  old  temptation,  and  what  havoc 
it  still  may  work.  And  the  belief  is 
by  no  means  unusual  that  the  literary 
quality  is  a  thing  to  be  pitchforked  in, 
that  the  fruit  of  reading  is  its  samples, 
that  the  proof  of  a  mind's  adventures 
is  a  list  of  the  things  that  it  ate. 
Hence  many  a  thought  goes  zigzag  to 
take  in  a  well-authored  phrase,  and 
many  a  man  stops  thinking  for  the 
sake  of  a  learned  look ;  and  that  which 
would  be  delightful  if  it  came  of  its 
own  accord  gives  the  painful  impres- 
sion of  being  brought  in  with  a  scuffle 
to  serve  on  the  witness  stand. 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY: 
#riaga$ine  of  Literature^  ^>ctence,  art,  ana 

VOL.  XCIIL  —  MA  Y,  1904.  —  No.  DLIX. 


LETTERS   OF  JOHN  RUSKIN.1 


1855-1857. 

IN  October,  1855,  I  was  on  the  way 
to  Europe.  One  of  my  fellow  passengers 
was  Mr.  James  Jackson  Jarves  of  Boston, 
then  well  known  as  a  writer  upon  art  and 
as  the  owner  of  a  highly  interesting  col- 
lection of  pictures  made  by  him  during 
a  residence  of  several  years  in  Italy.  He 
was  acquainted  with  Mr.  Raskin,  and 
kindly  offered  me  a  letter  of  introduction 
to  him.  I  declined  a  letter  that  should 
make  any  personal  claim,  but  gratefully 
accepted  a  note  asking  Mr.  Ruskin  to 
allow  me  at  his  convenience  the  privilege 
of  seeing  the  pictures  and  drawings  by 
Turner  which  might  be  open  to  inspection 
on  his  walls.  On  my  arrival  in  London 
I  inclosed  this  note  to  Mr.  Ruskin,  and 
received  the  following  gracious  reply :  — 

DENMARK  HILL,  31  October,  1855. 
MY  DEAR  SIB,  —  On  Friday,  Mon- 
day or  Tuesday  next,  I  should  be  most 
happy  to  see  you  at  any  hour  after  one, 
and  before  four.  I  do  not  know  what 
work  I  may  have  to  do,  and  I  may  not 
be  able  to  have  more  than  a  little  chat. 
But  the  pictures  should  be  at  your  com- 
mand. 

Very  truly  yours, 

J.    RUSKIN. 
CHARLES  ELIOT  NORTON,  Esq. 

When,  in  accordance  with  this  note,  I 
went  to  Denmark  Hill,  he  received  me 
with  unaffected  kindliness,  as  if  eager 


to  give  pleasure,  took  me  through  din- 
ing-room and  drawing-room,  and  up- 
stairs into  his  workroom,  to  show  me 
his  pictures,  talking  about  them  with 
lively  animation,  and  when  I  thanked 
him  in  taking  my  leave,  he  assured  me 
that  I  should  be  welcome  to  repeat  my 
visit.  He  had  not  given  to  me  (I  doubt 
if  he  gave  it  to  any  one)  any  indication  of 
his  sense  of  "  the  infinite  waste  of  time," 
noted  in  his  Praeterita,  "  in  saying  the 
same  things  over  and  over  to  the  people 
who  came  to  see  our  Turners." 

He  was  at  this  time  thirty-six  years  old. 
The  second  volume  of  Modern  Painters 
had  been  published  ten  years  before  ; 
he  had  meanwhile  published  the  Seven 
Lamps  of  Architecture  and  the  Stones  of 
Venice,  and  he  was  busy  this  year  in 
writing  the  third  and  fourth  volumes  of 
Modern  Painters.  His  abundant  light- 
brown  hair,  his  blue  eyes,  and  his  fresh 
complexion  gave  him  a  young  look  for 
his  age  ;  he  was  a  little  above  middle 
height,  his  figure  was  slight,  his  move- 
ments were  quick  and  alert,  and  his  whole 
air  and  manner  had  a  definite  and  attrac- 
tive individuality.  There  was  nothing 
in  him  of  the  common  English  reserve 
and  stiffness,  and  no  self-consciousness 
or  sign  of  consideration  of  himself  as  a 
man  of  distinction,  but  rather,  on  the 
contrary,  a  seeming  self-forgetfulness 
and  an  almost  feminine  sensitiveness 
and  readiness  of  sympathy.  His  fea- 
tures were  irregular,  but  the  lack  of 
beauty  in  his  countenance  was  made  up 


1  Copyright,  1904,  by  CHARLES  ELIOT  NORTON. 


578 


Letters  of  John  Raskin. 


for  by  the  kindness  of  his  look,  and  the 
expressiveness  of  his  full  and  mobile  lips. 

I  did  not  expect  to  see  Mr.  Ruskin 
again,  but  it  happened  on  a  beautiful 
morning  in  the  next  July  that  we  met 
in  the  cabin  of  the  steamer  going  down 
the  Lake  of  Geneva  from  Vevay  to  Ge- 
neva. Ruskin  was  there,  reading  aloud, 
but  in  a  low  tone,  to  his  mother,  one  of. 
Marmontel's  tales.  My  mother  and  two 
sisters  were  with  me.  He  glanced  at 
us,  but  I  saw  that  he  did  not  recognize 
me.  In  a  pause  of  his  reading  I  ven- 
tured to  recall  myself  to  his  memory. 
He  begged  my  pardon  pleasantly  for 
having  failed  to  recognize  me,  and  then 
we  fell  into  conversation  which  lasted 
till  we  reached  Geneva.  When  we  part- 
ed at  the  quay  it  was  with  a  promise 
that  I  would  come  in  the  evening  to  see 
him  and  his  parents.  Ruskin  has  re- 
corded this  meeting  in  Praeterita,  with 
a  friendly  exaggeration  which  is  thor- 
oughly characteristic  of  his  generous  dis- 
position to  exalt  the  merits  of  his  friends, 
and  of  his  instinctive  habit,  manifest  as 
well  in  personal  relations  as  in  his  writ- 
ings, of  magnifying  the  interest,  the  im- 
portance, or  the  charm  of  whatever  might 
for  the  moment  engage  his  attention  and 
regard.1 

In  the  evening  I  carried  with  me  a 
volume  of  the  poems  of  Lowell,  concern- 
ing whom  we  had  spoken,  and  I  left  the 
volume  with  him.  He  was  going  on  the 
next  day  to  Chamouni.  In  the  morn- 
ing I  received  the  following  note  from 
him  :  — 

[GENEVA,  18  July,  1856.] 
I  am  truly  obliged  to  you  for  showing 
me  this  book.  Lowell  must  be  a  noble 
fellow.  The  Fable  for  Critics  in  animal 
spirit  and  fervor  is  almost  beyond  any- 
thing I  know,  and  it  is  very  interesting 
to  see,  in  the  rest,  the  stern  seriousness 

1  Prceterita,  iii.  ch.  2. 

2  This  -was   the   Hotel   du   Hont  Blanc   of 
which    Ruskin   has   written: — "to 


me,   cer- 


of  a  man  so  little  soured  —  so  fresh  and 
young  at  heart. 

I  hope  you  have  enjoyed  yourselves. 
Can  you  send  me  a  line  to  Union  Hotel, 
Chamouni,  to  say  you  have  ? 

Pray  come  to  see  me  if  you  can  be- 
fore leaving  England. 

Truly  yours, 

J.  RUSKIN. 

Two  or  three  days  later  we  met  again, 
at  the  little  inn  2  at  St.  Martin.  He  has 
told  of  our  early  morning  walk.8  The 
friendship  had  begun  which  was  to  last 
till  the  end  of  life. 

In  the  autumn,  my  mother  and  sis- 
ters having  returned  to  America,  I  was 
in  London,  staying  at  Fenton's  Hotel  in 
St.  James's  Street,  much  out  of  health. 
I  had  promised  to  let  Ruskin  know  of 
my  coming  to  London,  and  on  hearing 
of  it,  he  at  once  came  to  see  me,  and 
while  I  remained  there,  few  days  passed 
in  which  he  did  not  send  me  a  note  like 
the  following,  or  come  to  my  parlor,  laden 
with  books  and  drawings  for  my  amuse- 
ment, or  carry  me  off  in  his  brougham 
for  an  hour  or  two  at  Denmark  Hill. 

Saturday  Morning  [October,  1856]. 
DEAR    MB.    NORTON,  —  In    case   I 
don't  find  you  to-day  (and  I  can't  be  at 
home   this   afternoon),  could   you  dine 
with  us  to-morrow  at  ^  past  four  —  or  if 
not  able  to  do  that,  come  in  at  any  hour 
you  like  to  tea  in  the  evening  ? 
Yours  affectionately, 

J.  RUSKIN. 

Of  course  you  will  only  find  my  fa- 
ther and  mother  and  me,  and  perhaps 
an  old  family  friend. 

DENMARK  HILL  [October,  1856]. 
DEAR  NORTON,  —  Most  unwillingly  I 
am  forced  —  I  '11  tell  you  how  when  we 
meet  —  to  give  up  my  walk  this  after- 

tainly,  of  all  my  inn  homes,  the  most  eventful, 
pathetic,  and  sacred."     Prceterita,  ii.  ch.  11. 
3  Praeterita,  iii.  ch.  3. 


Letters  of  John  Ruskin. 


579 


noon,  but  I  '11  come  and  take  tea  with 
you  at  eight  if  I  may. 

Ever  affectionately  yours, 

J.  R. 

Wednesday,  28th  [October,  1856]. 

DEAR  NORTON,  —  I  do  hope  you  have 
faith  enough  in  me  to  understand  how 
much  I  am  vexed  at  not  being  able  to 
come  and  see  you.  Of  course  I  could 
run  upstairs  and  down  again  at  Fenton's 
sometimes,  but  what  would  be  the  use  of 
that.  Could  you  come  out  to  see  me  to- 
morrow, Thursday,  about  ^  past  two ; 
if  not,  I  can  come  into  town  on  Friday, 
about  two. 

Please,  if  you  can't  come  to-morrow, 
send  me  a  line  to  say  if  you  can  be  at 
home  on  Friday. 

Yours  affectionately, 

J.  RUSKIN. 

Denmark  Hill  is  on  the  Surrey  side  of 
the  Thames,  in  the  Camberwell  district 
of  London,  and  in  those  days  had  a  plea- 
sant suburban  character.  The  house  in 
which  Ruskin  lived  with  his  father  and 
mother  stood  not  far  from  the  top  of  the 
hill,  walled  from  the  street,  and  set  back 
in  grounds  of  its  own  of  some  six  or 
seven  acres,  with  space  enough  for  old 
trees  and  large  gardens,  and  with  a  mea- 
dow, rather  than  lawn,  behind  it,  over 
which,  so  open  was  the  region  then,  lay 
a  pleasant  vista  toward  the  east.  There 
was  a  lodge  at  the  gate,  from  which  a 
short  avenue  led  to  the  house.  The  house 
itself  was  of  brick,  ample,  solid,  of  no 
architectural  pretensions,  but  not  with- 
out a  modest  suburban  and  somewhat 
heavy  dignity  of  aspect  which  gave  the 
assurance  of  a  home  of  comfort  and  of 
tranquil  ease.  "  The  house  itself,"  says 
Mr.  Ruskin,  "  had  no  specialty,  either  of 
comfort  or  inconvenience,  to  endear  it ; 
the  breakfast-room,  opening  on  the  lawn 
and  the  farther  field,  was  extremely 
pretty  when  its  walls  were  mostly  cov- 
ered with  lakes  by  Turner  and  doves  by 
William  Hunt ;  the  dining  and  drawing- 


rooms  were  spacious  enough  for  our 
grandest  receptions  .  .  .  and  had  deco- 
ration enough  in  our  Northcote  portraits, 
Turner's  Slave-ship  and,  in  later  years, 
his  Rialto,  with  our  John  Lewis,  two 
Copley  Fieldings,  and  every  now  and 
then  a  new  Turner  drawing."  l 

Ruskin's  father  and  mother  received 
me  at  Denmark  Hill,  as  their  son's  new 
acquaintance,  with  unquestioning  kind- 
ness. Of  both  of  them  Ruskin  has  writ- 
ten much  in  delightful  pages  of  Fors  and 
of  Praeterita. 

His  father  was  now  a  man  of  seventy 
years  of  age,  looking  perhaps  younger 
than  his  years,  somewhat  reserved  in 
manner,  of  rugged  Scotch  features,  but 
of  refined  and  pleasant  expression.  His 
mother,  some  years  older,  was  plainly 
the  ruling  influence  in  their  domestic  life. 
She  was  a  personage  who  seemed  rather 
a  contemporary  of  Miss  Austen's  charac- 
ters than  of  the  actual  generation.  Her 
air  was  that  of  one  accustomed  to  defer- 
ence from  those  about  her.  Her  eyes 
were  keen,  and  her  speech  decisive.  She 
was  one  of  those  English  matrons,  now 
become  rare,  of  an  individuality  indepen- 
dent of  changes  in  fashion  and  conven- 
tion, not  bending  to  others,  but  expecting 
others  to  accept  her  ways  and  adapt  them- 
selves to  them.  Her  image,  as  I  recall  it, 
was  that  of  a  vigorous  old  lady  of  some- 
what commanding  aspect,  whose  dress 
betokened  her  feminine  taste  for  soft- 
colored  silks,  for  abundance  of  old  lace, 
and  for  the  heavy  ornaments  of  English 
jewelry.  The  manners  toward  her  of  her 
husband  and  son  were  always  deferential, 
though  her  son  ventured  occasionally  to 
be  playful  with  her  with  a  lively  humor 
which  occasionally  ruffled  her,  but  which, 
on  the  whole,  she  did  not  dislike.  Her 
regard  for  him  seemed  to  be  still  that 
of  a  watchful  mother  for  a  child  who, 
though  he  has  escaped  her  control  in  mat- 
ters outside  of  an  immediate  personal  re- 
lation, has  not  yet  reached  the  years  of 
discretion.  There  was  less  intimacy  of 
1  Praterita,  ii.  ch.  8. 


580 


Letters  of  John  Huskin. 


sympathy  between  them  than  between 
Ruskin  and  his  father.  But  even  with 
his  father,  sympathies  were  limited  on 
both  sides,  not  so  much  by  incompatibili- 
ties of  taste  and  judgment,  for  in  many 
respects  these  were  much  alike  in  both, 
as  by  the  peculiar  manner  in  which  Rus- 
kin had  been  brought  up  and  been  taught 
to  regard  his  parents,  and  by  the  separa- 
tion wrought  by  the  position  in  the  world 
which  his  genius  had  created  for  him. 
The  feeling  of  his  parents  for  him  was  a 
compound  of  pride  with  affection,  and 
his  feeling  for  them  was  one  in  which 
the  sense  of  duty,  reverence,  and  obedi- 
ence was  perhaps  a  larger  element  than 
natural  affection. 

In  describing  his  early  years,  he 
says : l  "  I  had  nothing  to  love.  My 
parents  were  —  in  a  sort  —  visible  pow- 
ers of  nature  to  me,  no  more  loved  than 
the  sun  and  the  moon.  ...  I  had  no 
companions  to  quarrel  with,  neither ;  no- 
body to  assist,  and  nobody  to  thank.  .  .  . 
I  had  nothing  to  endure.  .  .  .  Lastly, 
and  chief  of  evils,  my  judgment  of  right 
and  wrong  and  powers  of  independent 
action  were  left  entirely  undeveloped ; 
because  the  bridle  and  blinkers  were 
never  taken  off  me.  .  .  .  The  ceaseless 
authority  exercised  over  my  youth  left 
me,  when  cast  out  at  last  into  the  world, 
unable  for  some  time  to  do  more  than 
drift  with  its  vortices." 

The  results  of  these  conditions  were 
all  the  more  disastrous  because  of  the 
exceptional  sensitiveness  of  his  nature, 
his  extreme  susceptibility  to  immediate 
impressions,  the  affectionateness  and  gen- 
erosity of  his  disposition,  and  the  peculiar 
constitution  of  his  genius.  No  child  ever 
needed  more  a  discipline  which  should 
develop  his  power  of  self-control,  and  no 
child  ever  was  more  trained  to  depend 
on  external  authority.  This  authority  he 
was  taught  to  obey  without  question,  but 
the  lesson  of  self-restraint  was  omitted. 

In  a  letter  to  Rossetti  written  not  long 
1  Prceterita,  i.  ch.  2. 


before  this  time,  he  said  of  himself,  "  I 
am  exceedingly  fond  of  making  peo- 
ple happy,"  and  of  this  I  soon  had  full 
experience.  He  was  unwearied  in  his 
kindnesses  and  generosities.  But  in  the 
same  letter  he  said  :  "  It  is  a  very  great, 
in  the  long-run  the  greatest,  misfortune 
of  my  life  that,  on  the  whole,  my  rela- 
tions, cousins  and  so  forth,  are  persons 
with  whom  I  can  have  no  sympathy,  and 
that  circumstances  have  always  somehow 
or  another  kept  me  out  of  the  way  of 
people  of  whom  I  could  have  made 
friends.  So  that  I  have  no  friendships 
and  no  loves."  2  The  barrenness  of  his 
life  in  this  respect,  and  the  greatness  of 
the  misfortune  to  him,  soon  became  plain 
to  me.  Of  all  men  he  needed  friends, 
and  in  their  place  he  had  admirers  and 
dependents.  The  manner  of  his  educa- 
tion, his  genius,  and  his  early  acquired 
celebrity  had  all  contributed  to  prevent 
him  in  his  youth  from  associating  on 
even  terms  with  his  fellows,  while  the 
circumstances  and  occupations  of  his  life 
since  leaving  Oxford  had  tended  to  limit 
his  intercourse  with  the  world.  He  had 
little  knowledge  of  men,  little  keenness 
of  discernment  of  character,  and  little 
practical  acquaintance  with  affairs.  Ex- 
perience had  not  taught  him  the  lesson, 
which  it  compels  the  common  run  of 
men  to  learn,  of  reconciling  into  a  gen- 
eral if  imperfect  harmony  the  conflicting 
traits  of  his  own  disposition  ;  and  he  con- 
sequently often  was,  and  still  oftener 
seemed,  inconsistent  in  conduct  and  in 
conviction.  From  his  earliest  childhood 
he  had  been  unhappily  trained  to  self- 
occupation  and  self-interest,  and  with  a 
nature  of  extreme  generosity  and  capa- 
ble of  self-forgetful  sacrifice,  the  gratifi- 
cation of  his  generous  impulses  became 
often  a  form  of  self-indulgence. 

It  was,  of  course,  only  gradually  and 
slowly  that  I  came  to  a  knowledge  of  the 
peculiar  influences  by  which  his  life  had 
been  shaped  and  his  character  formed. 

2  Buskin:  Bossetti :  PreBaphaelitism.  By 
W.  M.  ROSSETTI.  London,  1899.  Pp.  71,  72. 


Letters  of  John  Huskin. 


581 


When  I  first  knew  him,  he  had  a  most 
engaging  personality.  He  was  in  the 
very  heyday  of  distinction.  But  his  repu- 
tation sat  lightly  on  him ;  his  manners 
were  marked  by  absence  of  all  preten- 
sion, and  by  a  sweet  gentleness  and  ex- 
ceptional consideration  for  the  feelings 
of  others.  The  tone  of  dogmatism  and 
of  arbitrary  assertion  too  often  manifest 
in  his  writing  was  entirely  absent  from 
his  talk.  In  spite  of  all  that  he  had  gone 
through  of  suffering,  in  spite  of  the  bur- 
den of  his  thought,  and  the  weight  of  his 
renown,  he  had  often  an  almost  boyish 
gayety  of  spirit  and  liveliness  of  humor, 
and  always  a  quick  interest  in  whatever 
might  be  the  subject  of  the  moment. 
He  never  quarreled  with  a  difference  of 
opinion,  and  was  apt  to  attribute  only  too 
much  value  to  a  judgment  that  did  not 
coincide  with  his  own.  I  have  not  a 
memory  of  these  days  in  which  I  recall 
him  except  as  one  of  the  pleasantest, 
gentlest,  kindest,  and  most  interesting  of 
men.  He  seemed  to  me  cheerful  rather 
than  happy.  The  deepest  currents  of  his 
life  ran  out  of  sight,  but  it  was  plain  that 
they  did  not  run  calmly,  and  their  trou- 
bled course  became  manifest  now  and 
then  in  extravagances  of  action  and  para- 
doxes of  opinion. 

Ruskin's  father,  as  one  saw  him  at  his 
own  house,  had  not  much  of  the  air  of  a 
man  of  business,  but  rather  that  of  a  cul- 
tivated English  gentleman,  with  an  ex- 
cellent acquaintance  with  the  masters  of 
English  literature  and  a  genuine  fond- 
ness for  them,  and  with  unusual  interest 
and  taste  in  matters  pertaining  to  the 
arts.  He  was  an  agreeable  host,  unaffect- 
ed and  considerate  in  manner,  and  well 
able  to  bear  his  part  in  good  talk.  The 
intimate  friend  of  the  house,  and  the  one 
most  often  found  at  the  modest  dinners, 
to  which  three  or  four  guests  might  be 
invited,  was  Mr.  W.  H.  Harrison,  of 
whom  Ruskin  has  given  a  genial  sketch  in 
an  autobiographical  reminiscence  called 
My  First  Editor.1  He  had,  indeed,  good 
reason  for  gratitude  to  this  mild,  good- 


humored,  secondary  man  of  letters,  ed- 
itor of  Friendship's  Offering  and  the  like, 
and  for  many  years  registrar  of  the  Lit- 
erary Fund.  Mr.  Harrison  had  practical 
sense  and  kindly  discretion,  he  was  skilled 
in  the  technical  elements  of  literature, 
and  he  devoted  unwearied  pains  to  the 
revision  of  his  friend's  hasty  literary 
work.  "  Not  a  book  of  mine  for  good 
thirty  years,"  wrote  Ruskin,  "but  went 
every  word  of  it  under  his  careful  eyes 
twice  over."  "  The  friendship  between 
Mr.  Harrison,  my  father,  and  mother  and 
me  attained  almost  the  character  of  a 
family  relationship  which  remained  faith- 
ful and  loving,  more  and  more  conducive 
to  every  sort  of  happiness  among  us,  to 
the  day  of  my  father's  death." 

One  evening  at  dinner,  when  the  cloth 
was  drawn,  Mr.  Ruskin,  senior,  in  special 
honor  of  the  occasion,  had  set  before  him 
a  decanter  of  sherry  from  the  cask  which 
had  been  on  board  the  Victory  for  Nel- 
son's use  in  the  last  months  of  his  life. 
Mr.  Ruskin  was  always  proud  of  his 
sherry,  but  this  wine,  of  supreme  excel- 
lence in  itself,  not  only  pleased  his  fine 
palate,  but  touched  his  romantic  fancy. 
It  had  been  ripened  on  a  fateful  voyage, 
it  had  rocked  to  the  thunder  of  the  guns 
of  Trafalgar,  a  glass  of  it  might  have 
moistened  Nelson's  dying  lips.  The  old 
wine-merchant's  appreciation  of  the  as- 
sociations which  it  evoked  was  a  pleasant 
exhibition  of  his  suppressed  poetic  sensi- 
bilities. The  talk  suggested  by  the  wine 
ran  back  to  the  early  years  of  the  cen- 
tury, and  the  two  elder  men  recalled 
some  of  the  incidents  of  the  time  when 
they  were  youths  beginning  their  way  in 
London,  and  especially  of  its  literary  in- 
terests. Both  of  them  had  been  mem- 
bers of  the  scanty  audience  which  had 
gathered  in  the  winter  of  1811-12  in 
a  big  ugly  room,  in  a  court  off  Fleet 
Street,  to  listen  to  Coleridge's  lectures 
on  Shakespeare  and  Milton.  Mr.  J.  P. 
Collier's  reports  of  these  lectures  had  just 

1  To  be  found  in  the  first  volume  of  On  the 
Old  Road. 


582 


Letters  of  John  Ruskin. 


been  published,  and  Mr.  Harrison  was 
able  to  set  right  from  memory  Collier's 
account  of  Coleridge's  classification  of 
readers.1 

They  both  had  been  greatly  interested 
in  the  lectures,  and  had  found  in  them 
a  general  intellectual  stimulus  of  a  high 
order,  as  well  as  specific  criticisms  which 
they  had  learned  to  value  as  years  went 
on.  Raskin  thought  Coleridge  had  been 
vastly  overrated  as  a  philosopher,  and 
that  his  best  poems  were  feverish.  An- 
other topic  of  the  after-dinner  talk  was 
Emerson's  English  Traits,  which  was 
then  a  new  book.  All  praised  it.  "  How 
did  he  come  to  find  out  so  much  about 
us?"  said  the  elder  Mr.  Ruskin,  "es- 
pecially as  regards  matters  on  which 
we  keep  quiet  and  reserved  among  our- 
selves." That  was  the  voice  of  the  gen- 
eration to  which  Mr.  Ruskin  belonged. 
His  son,  speaking  for  himself  and  for 
his  generation,  would  hardly  have  used 
the  like  terms.  One  of  the  great  changes 
in  England  during  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury was  the  breaking  down  of  many  of 
the  old  style  walls  within  which  the  shy 
Englishman  was  wont  to  entrench  him- 
self, and  no  English  writer  ever  opened 
himself  and  his  life  to  the  public  with 
more  complete  and  indiscreet  unreserve 
than  Ruskin.  His  father  would  have 
been  horrified  could  he  in  the  days  of 
which  I  am  writing  have  foreseen  the 
revelations  of  Fors  and  Prseterita.  They 
do,  indeed,  form  a  contrast  which  is  both 
humorous  and  pathetic  to  the  close  re- 
serves of  Denmark  Hill,  and  to  the  strict 
Anglican  conventions,  at  their  best  so 
pleasant  and  so  worthy  of  respect,  in  ac- 

1  Mr.  Harrison  was  good  enough  to  write  down 
for  me  the  next  day  what  he  had  told  at  dinner, 
and  since  Collier's  is  the  only  known  report  of 
this  course  of  lectures,  Mr.  Harrison's  correc- 
tion of  it  has  perhaps  interest  enough  to  justify 
its  preservation.  "Coleridge  gave  four  types 
of  readers,  one  of  which  I  have  forgotten :  — 
1st,  Those  whose  minds  are  like  an  hour-glass ; 
what  they  read  runs  in  and  runs  out  like  the 
sand  and  not  a  grain  is  retained.  2nd,  Those 
who  are  like  sponges,  which  suck  up  everything 


cordance  to  which  life  there  was  con- 
ducted. 

The  difference  in  age  between  Ruskin 
and  myself  (I  was  nine  years  the  young- 
er), no  less  than  other  greater  differences 
between  us,  which  might  well  have  pre- 
vented our  intercourse  from  becoming 
anything  more  than  a  passing  acquain- 
tance, seemed  not  to  present  themselves 
to  Ruskin's  mind.  His  kindness  had  its 
roots  in  the  essential  sweetness  of  his 
nature.  Everything  in  life  had  conspired 
to  spoil  him.  He  was  often  willful  and 
wayward  and  extravagant,  but  the  better 
elements  of  his  being  prevailed  over 
those  which,  to  his  harm,  were  to  gain 
power  when  he  was  released  from  the 
controlling  influence  of  his  father's  good 
sense  and  his  mother's  authority.  The 
extraordinary  keenness  of  his  perceptions 
of  external  things,  the  vivacity  of  his 
intelligence,  the  ardor  of  his  tempera- 
ment, the  immense  variety  of  his  interests 
and  occupations,  and  the  restless  energy 
and  industry  with  which  he  pursued 
them,  made  him  one  of  the  most  inter- 
esting of  men.  And  combined  as  they 
were  with  deep  poetic  and  deeper  moral 
sentiment,  as  well  as  with  a  native  desire 
to  give  pleasure,  they  gave  to  intercourse 
with  him  a  charm  which  increased  as  ac- 
quaintance grew  into  affectionate  friend- 
ship. His  mind  was,  indeed,  at  this 
time  in  a  state  of  ferment.  He  was  still 
mainly  busy  with  those  topics  of  art  and 
nature  to  which  his  writings  had  hitherto 
been  devoted.  But  his  work  in  that 
field  had  led  him  into  other  regions  of 
inquiry,  which  stretched  wide  and  dark 
before  him,  through  which  no  clear 

and  give  it  out  again  in  much  the  same  state, 
hut  a  little  dirtied.  3rd,"  [Forgotten.  Accord- 
ing to  Collier,  "  Strain  hags  who  retain  merely 
the  dregs."]  "  4th,  The  readers  who  are  like 
the  slaves  in  the  mines  of  Golconda,  they  cast 
aside  the  dirt  and  dross,  and  preserve  only  the 
jewels."  Collier's  plainly  incorrect  report  of 
this  fourth  class  is  as  follows:  "Mogul  dia- 
monds, equally  rare  and  valuable,  who  profit 
hy  what  they  read,  and  enable  others  to  profit 
by  it  also." 


Letters  of  John  Ruskin. 


583 


paths  were  visible,  and  into  which  he 
was  entering  not  without  hope  of  opening 
a  way.  Henceforth  his  chief  mission  was 
tHat,  not  of  the  guide  in  matters  of  art, 
but  of  the  social  reformer.  And  it  was 
at  the  moment  —  a  moment  of  perplexity 
and  trouble  —  when  he  was  becoming 
conscious  of  the  new  direction  to  be  given 
to  his  life  that  our  acquaintance  began. 

When,  after  a  month  in  which  our  re- 
lations grew  constantly  more  familiar, 
and  in  our  long  talks  he  had  instructed 
me  in  many  things,  I  left  England  to 
spend  the  winter  of  1856-57  in  Rome,  I 
felt  myself  already  under  a  lifelong  debt 
of  gratitude  to  him.  His  first  letter  to 
me  after  my  departure  was  the  follow- 
ing:— 

[LONDON]  28th  December,  1856. 

DEAR  NORTON,  —  Railways  are  good 
for  letters,  assuredly  ;  it  seems  very  won- 
derful, and  is  very  pleasant,  to  hear  from 
you  in  Rome  only  a  week  ago  ;  for  I  got 
your  letter  yesterday,  and  should  have 
had  it  the  day  before,  but  that  I  was 
staying  in  town  for  a  few  days.  And  I 
hope  the  enjoyment  of  that  damp  and 
discordant  city ;  and  that  desolate  and 
diseaseful  Campagna,  of  which  your  let- 
ter assures  me,  may  be  received  as  a 
proof  of  your  own  improved  health,  and 
brightness  of  heart  and  imagination. 

I  think,  perhaps,  I  abuse  Rome  more 
because  it  is  as  sour  grapes  to  me.  When 
I  was  there  l  I  was  a  sickly  and  very  ig- 
norant youth ;  and  I  should  be  very  glad, 
now,  if  I  could  revisit  what  I  passed  in 
weariness  or  contempt ;  and  I  do  envy 
you  (sitting  as  I  am  just  now  in  the 
Great  Western  hotel  at  Paddington,  look- 
ing out  upon  a  large  number  of  panes 
of  gray  glass,  some  iron  spikes,  and  a 
brick  wall)  that  walk  in  sight  of  Sabine 
hills.  Still,  reasoning  with  myself  in  the 
severest  way,  and  checking  whatever 
malice  against  the  things  I  have  injured, 

1  He  was  there  in  bad  health  in  the  winter  of 
1840-41.  See  Prceterita,  ii.  ch.  2,  for  the  ac- 
count of  his  stay  there. 


or  envy  of  you,  there  may  be  in  the  feel- 
ings with  which  I  now  think  of  Rome, 
these  appear  to  me  incontrovertible  and 
accurate  conclusions,  —  that  the  streets 
are  damp  and  mouldy  where  they  are  not 
burning ;  that  the  modern  architecture 
is  fit  only  to  put  on  a  Twelfth  cake  in 
sugar  (e.  g.  the  churches  at  the  Quattro 
Fontane)  ;  that  the  old  architecture  con- 
sists chiefly  of  heaps  of  tufo  and  bricks  ; 
that  the  Tiber  is  muddy  ;  that  the  Foun- 
tains are  Fantastic ;  that  the  Castle  of 
St.  Angelo  is  too  round  ;  that  the  Capitol 
is  too  square  ;  that  St.  Peter's  is  too  big ; 
that  all  the  other  churches  are  too  little  ; 
that  the  Jews'  quarter  is  uncomfortable ; 
that  the  English  quarter  is  un  pictur- 
esque ;  that  Michael  Angelo's  Moses  is 
a  monster ;  that  his  Last  Judgment  is  a 
mistake  ;  that  Raphael's  Transfiguration 
is  a  failure ;  that  the  Apollo  Belvidere 
is  a  public  nuisance ;  that  the  bills  are 
high ;  the  malaria  strong ;  the  dissipation 
shameful ;  the  bad  company  numerous  ; 
the  Sirocco  depressing ;  the  Tramontana 
chilling ;  the  Levante  parching ;  the  Po- 
nente  pelting ;  the  ground  unsafe ;  the 
politics  perilous,  and  the  religion  perni- 
cious. I  do  think,  that  in  all  candour 
and  reflective  charity,  I  may  assert  this 
much. 

Still,  I  can  quite  understand  how,  com- 
ing from  a  fresh,  pure  and  very  ugly 
country  like  America,  there  may  be  a 
kind  of  thirst  upon  you  for  ruins  and 
shadows  which  nothing  can  easily  as- 
suage ;  that  after  the  scraped  cleanliness 
and  business  and  fussiness  of  it  (Amer- 
ica), mildew  and  mould  may  be  meat  and 
drink  to  you,  and  languor  the  best  sort 
of  life,  and  weeds  a  bewitchment  (I 
mean  the  unnatural  sort  of  weed  that 
only  grows  on  old  bricks  and  mortar  and 
out  of  cracks  in  mosaic ;  all  the  Cam- 
pagna used  to  look  to  me  as  if  its  grass 
were  grown  over  a  floor)  ;  and  the  very 
sense  of  despair  which  there  is  about 
Rome  must  be  helpful  and  balmy,  after 
the  over-hopefulness  and  getting-on-ness 
of  America  ;  and  the  very  sense  that  no- 


584 


Letters  of  John  Ruskin. 


body  about  you  is  taking  account  of  any- 
thing, but  that  all  is  going  on  into  an 
unspelt,  unsummed,  undistinguished  heap 
of  helplessness,  must  be  a  relief  to  you, 
coming  out  of  that  atmosphere  of  Calcu- 
lation. I  can't  otherwise  account  for 
your  staying  at  Rome. 

You  may  wonder  at  my  impertinence 
in  calling  America  an  ugly  country.  But 
I  have  just  been  seeing  a  number  of 
landscapes  by  an  American  painter  of 
some  repute ;  and  the  ugliness  of  them 
is  Wonderful.  I  see  that  they  are  true 
studies,  and  that  the  ugliness  of  the 
country  must  be  Unfathomable.  And  a 
young  American  lady  has  been  drawing 
under  my  directions  in  Wales  this  sum- 
mer, and  when  she  came  back  I  was  en- 
tirely silenced  and  paralyzed  by  the  sense 
of  a  sort  of  helplessness  in  her  that  I 
could  n't  get  at ;  an  entire  want  of  per- 
ception of  what  an  English  painter  would 
mean  by  beauty  or  interest  in  a  subject ; 
her  eyes  had  been  so  accustomed  to  ugli- 
ness that  she  caught  at  it  wherever  she 
could  find  it,  and  in  the  midst  of  beauti- 
ful stony  cottages  and  rugged  rocks  and 
wild  foliage,  would  take  this  kind  of 
thing l  for  her  main  subject ;  or,  if  she 
had  to  draw  a  mountain  pass,  she  would 
select  this  turn  in  the  road,2  just  where 
the  liberally-minded  proprietor  had  re- 
cently mended  it  and  put  a  new  planta- 
tion on  the  hill  opposite. 

In  her,  the  contrary  instinct  of  deliv- 
erance is  not  yet  awake,  and  I  don't 
know  how  to  awake  it.  In  you,  it  is  in 
its  fullest  energy,  and  so  you  like  weeds, 
and  the  old,  tumbled-to-pieces  things  at 
Rome.  .  .  . 

I  shall  be  writing  again  soon,  as  I 
shall  have  to  tell  you  either  the  positive 
or  negative  result  of  some  correspon- 
dence which  the  Trustees  of  the  National 
Gallery  have  done  me  the  honour  to 
open  with  me  (of  their  own  accord) 

1  Ruskin  here  inserts  a  playful  sketch  of  a 
wooden  tenement  house. 

'2  This  sentence  is  also  illustrated  by  a  whim- 
sical drawing  of  the  pass  and  the  road. 


which,  for  the  present,  has  arrived  at  a 
turn  in  the  Circumlocution  road,  much 
resembling  in  its  promising  aspect  that 
delineated  above,  —  but  which  may 
nevertheless  lead  to  something,  and 
whether  it  does  or  not,  I  accept  with  too 
much  pleasure  the  friendship  you  give 
me,  not  to  tell  you  what  is  uppermost  in 
my  own  mind  and  plans  at  the  moment, 
even  though  it  should  come  to  nothing 
(and  lest  it  should,  as  is  too  probable, 
don't  speak  of  it  to  any  one).  Meantime 
I  am  writing  some  notes  on  the  Turner 
pictures  already  exhibited,  of  which  I 
shall  carefully  keep  a  copy  for  you ;  I 
think  they  will  amuse  you,  and  I  have 
got  a  copy  of  the  first  notes  on  the  Acad- 
emy, which  you  asked  me  for,  and  which 
I  duly  looked  for,  but  could  n't  find  to 
my  much  surprise ;  the  copy  I  have  got 
is  second-hand.  You  have  n't,  of  course, 
read  Mrs.  Browning's  Aurora  Leigh,  or 
you  would  have  spoken  in  your  letter  of 
nothing  else.  I  only  speak  of  it  at  the 
end  of  my  letter,  not  to  allow  myself 
time  to  tell  you  anything  about  it  except 
to  get  it ;  and  to  get  it  while  you  are 
still  in  Italy. 

This  will  not  reach  you  in  time  for 
the  New  Year,  but  it  will,  I  hope,  be- 
fore Twelfth  day ;  not  too  late  to  wish 
you  all  happiness  and  good  leading  by 
kindliest  stars,  in  the  year  that  is  open- 
ing. My  Father  and  Mother  send  their 
sincerest  regards  to  you,  and  do  not 
cease  to  congratulate  me  on  having  gained 
such  a  friend.  Believe  me, 

Affectionately  yours, 
J.  RUSKIN. 

You  never  saw  your  vignette 8  framed ; 
it  looks  lovely. 

After  the  winter  in  Rome  I  went  to 
Venice,  and  there  received  the  following 
letter :  — 

3  Turner's  water-color  drawing  of  Scott's 
house,  Castle  Street,  Edinburgh. 


Letters  of  John  Huskin. 


585 


[Undated,  but  May,  1857.] 
DEAR  NORTON,  * —  Very  good  it  is 
of  you  to  write  to  me  again ;  and  to 
think  of  me  before  the  snowy  mountains, 
in  spite  of  my  unsympathizing  answer  to 
your  first  letter,  and  my  no  answer  to 
your  second ;  which,  nevertheless,  I  was 
grateful  for.  And  so  you  are  going  to 
Venice,  and  this  letter  will,  I  hope,  be 
read  by  you  by  the  little  square  sliding 
pane  of  the  gondola  window.  For  I  hope 
you  hold  to  the  true  Gondola,  with  Black 
Felze,  eschewing  all  French  and  Eng- 
lish substitutions  of  pleasure-boat  and 
awning.  I  have  no  doubt,  one  day,  that 
the  gondolas  will  be  white  instead  of 
black,  at  the  rate  they  carry  on  their 
reforms  at  Venice. 

I  went  through  so  much  hard-dry, 
mechanical  toil  there,  that  I  quite  lost, 
before  I  left  it,  the  charm  of  the  place. 
Analysis  is  an  abominable  business;  I 
am  quite  sure  that  people  who  work 
out  subjects  thoroughly  are  disagreeable 
wretches.  One  only  feels  as  one  should 
when  one  does  n't  know  much  about  the 
matter.  If  I  could  give  you,  for  a  few 
minutes,  just  as  you  are  floating  up  the 
canal  just  now,  the  kind  of  feeling  I  had 
when  I  had  just  done  my  work,  when 
Venice  presented  itself  to  me  merely  as 
so  many  "  mouldings,"  and  I  had  few 
associations  with  any  building  but  those 
of  more  or  less  pain  and  puzzle  and  pro- 
vocation. Pain  of  frost-bitten  fingers 
and  chilled  throat  as  I  examined  or  drew 
the  window  -  sills  in  the  wintry  air ; 
puzzlement  from  said  window-sills  which 
did  n't  agree  with  the  doorsteps  —  or 
back  of  house,  which  would  n't  agree 
with  front ;  and  provocation,  from  every 
sort  of  soul  or  thing  in  Venice  at  once ; 
from  my  gondoliers,  who  were  always 
wanting  to  go  home,  and  thought  it 
stupid  to  be  tied  to  a  post  in  the  Grand 
Canal  all  day  long,  and  disagreeable  to 
have  to  row  to  Lido  afterwards ;  from 

1  The  greater  part  of  this  letter  was  printed 
in  my  introduction  to  the  Brantwood  edition  of 
the  Stones  of  Venice,  1886. 


my  cook,  who  was  always  trying  to  catch 
lobsters  on  the  doorsteps,  and  never 
caught  any ;  from  my  valet  de  place,  who 
was  always  taking  me  to  see  nothing ; 
and  waiting  by  appointment  —  at  the 
wrong  place  ;  from  my  English  servant, 
whom  I  caught  smoking  genteelly  on 
St.  Mark's  Place,  and  expected  to  bring 
home  to  his  mother  quite  an  abandoned 
character ;  from  my  tame  fish,  who 
splashed  the  water  all  over  my  room, 
and  spoiled  my  drawings  ;  from  my  little 
sea-horses,  who  would  n't  coil  their  tails 
about  sticks  when  I  asked  them ;  from  a 
fisherman  outside  my  window,  who  used 
to  pound  his  crabs  alive  for  bait  every 
morning  just  when  I  wanted  to  study 
morning  light  on  the  Madonna  della 
Salute ;  from  the  sacristans  of  all  the 
churches,  who  used  never  to  be  at  home 
when  I  wanted  them ;  from  the  bells  of 
all  the  churches,  which  used  always  to 
ring  most  when  I  was  at  work  in  the 
steeples  ;  from  the  tides,  which  never 
were  up,  or  down,  at  the  hour  they  ought 
to  have  been ;  from  the  wind,  which 
used  to  blow  my  sketches  into  the  canal, 
and  one  day  blew  my  gondolier  after 
them ;  from  the  rain,  which  came 
through  the  roof  of  the  Scuola  di  San 
Rocco  ;  from  the  sun,  which  blistered 
Tintoret's  Bacchus  and  Ariadne  every 
afternoon,  at  the  Ducal  palace,  —  and 
from  the  Ducal  palace  itself,  worst  of  all, 
which  would  n't  be  found  out,  nor  tell 
me  how  it  was  built  (I  believe  this  sen- 
tence had  a  beginning  somewhere,  which 
wants  an  end  some  other  where,  but  I 
have  n't  any  end  for  it,  so  it  must  go  as 
it  is;)  but  apropos  of  fish,  mind  you  get 
a  fisherman  to  bring  you  two  or  three 
cavalli  di  mare,  and  put  them  in  a  basin 
in  your  room,  and  see  them  swim.  But 
don't  keep  them  more  than  a  day,  or 
they  '11  die ;  put  them  into  the  canal  again. 
There  was  only  one  place  in  Venice 
which  I  never  lost  the  feeling  of  joy  in ; 
at  least  the  pleasure  which  is  better  than 
joy ;  and  that  was  just  halfway  between 
the  end  of  the  Giudecca  and  St.  George 


586 


Letters  of  John  Ruskin. 


of  the  Seaweed  at  sunset.  If  you  tie 
your  boat  to  one  of  the  posts  there,  you 
can  see  at  once  the  Euganeans,  where 
the  sun  goes  down,  and  all  the  Alps,  and 
Venice  behind  you  by  this  rosy  sunlight ; 
there  is  no  other  spot  so  beautiful.  Near 
the  Armenian  convent  is  however  very 
good  also  ;  the  city  is  handsomer,  but  the 
place  is  not  so  simple  and  lonely. 

I  have  got  all  the  right  feeling  back, 
now,  however ;  and  hope  to  write  a 
word  or  two  about  Venice  yet,  when  I 
have  got  the  mouldings  well  out  of  my 
head  —  and  the  mud ;  for  the  fact  is, 
with  reverence  be  it  spoken,  that  whereas 
Rogers  says,  "  there  is  a  glorious  city  in 
the  Sea,"  a  truthful  person  must  say, 
"  There  is  a  glorious  city  in  the  Mud." 
It  is  startling  at  first  to  say  so,  but  it  goes 
well  enough  with  marble  —  "  Oh  Queen, 
of  marble  and  of  Mud." 

Well,  I  suppose  that  you  will  look  at 
my '  Venetian  index  in  the  Stones  of 
Venice,  which  is  in  St.  Mark's  library, 
so  that  I  need  not  tell  you  what  pictures 
I  should  like  you  to  see,  —  so  now  I  will 
tell  you  a  little  about  myself  here.  First, 
I  am  not  quite  sure  I  shall  be  at  home 
at  the  middle  of  June  —  but  I  shall  not 
be  on  the  Continent.  You  will,  of  course, 
see  the  exhibition  of  Manchester,  and  if 
not  at  home,  I  shall  be  somewhere  in  the 
North,  and  my  father  and  mother  will 
certainly  be  at  home  and  know  where  I 
am,  in  case  we  could  plan  a  meeting. 
And  I  shall  leave  your  vignette  in  my 
father's  care.  Secondly,  you  will  be 
glad  to  hear  that  the  National  Gallery 
people  have  entrusted  me  to  frame  a 
hundred  Turners  at  their  expense  in  my 
own  way  ;  leaving  it  wholly  in  my  hands. 
This  has  given  me  much  thought,  for  had 
I  done  the  thing  at  my  own  cost,  I  could 
have  mended  it  afterward  if  it  had  gone 
wrong  in  any  way ;  but  now  I  must,  if 
possible,  get  it  all  perfect  at  first,  or  the 
Trustees  won't  be  pleased.  It  will  all 
be  done  by  the  time  you  come.  Third- 
ly, I  have  been  very  well  all  the  winter, 
and  have  not  overworked  in  any  way, 


tn 
eh 

, 

at 


and  I  am  angry  with  you  for  not  saying 
how  you  are.  Fourthly,  my  drawing, 
school  goes  on  nicely,  and  the  Marlbor- 
ough  House  people  are  fraternizing  with 
me.  Fifthly,  I  have  written  a  nice  lit- 
tle book  for  beginners  in  drawing,  whic 
I  intend  to  be  mightily  useful ;  and  so 
that  is  all  my  news  about  myself,  but 
hope  to  tell  you  more,  and  hear  a  great 
deal  more  when  you  come. 

My  father  and  mother  beg  their  sin- 
cere regards  to  you.  Mine,  if  you  please, 
to  your  mother  and  sisters  when  you 
write. 

Please  write  me  a  line  from  Venice, 
if  you  are  not,  as  I  used  to  be,  out  so 
late  in  St.  Mark's  Place  or  on  the  la- 
goons, that  you  can't  do  anything  when 
you  come  in.  I  used  to  be  very  fond 
of  night  rowings  between  Venice  and 
Murano  —  and  then  the  crossing  back 
through  the  town  at  midnight  —  we  used 
to  come  out  always  at  the  Bridge  of 
Sighs,  because  I  lived  either  at  Danieli's 
or  at  a  house  nearly  opposite  the  Church 
of  the  Salute. 

Well,  good-bye,  I  can't  write  more  to- 
night, though  I  want  to.  Ever,  my  dear 
Norton,  affectionately  yours, 

J.  RUSKIN. 

Monday  morning.  I  was  half  asleej 
when  I  wrote  that  last  page,  or  I  would 
n't  have  said  anything  about  night  ex- 
cursions, which  are  n't  good  for  you. 
Go  to  bed.  Moonlight 's  quite  a  mis- 
take ;  it  is  nothing  when  you  are  used  to 
it.  The  moon  is  really  very  like  a  silver 
salver,  no,  —  more  like  a  plated  one  half 
worn  out  and  coppery  at  the  edges.  It 
is  of  no  use  to  sit  up  to  see  that. 

If  you  know  Mr.  Brown,  please  give 
him  my  kind  love  ;  and  say  I  shall  have 
written  to  him  by  the  time  you  get  this. 

Mind  you  leave  yourself  time  enougl 
for  Verona.  People  always  give  too 
little  time  to  Verona ;  it  is  my  dearest 
place  in  Italy.  If  you  are  vindictive, 
and  want  to  take  vengeance  on  me  for 
despising  Rome,  write  me  a  letter  of 


Letters  of  John  Ruskin. 


587 


abuse  of  Verona.  But  be  sure  to  do  it 
before  you  have  seen  it ;  you  can't  after- 
wards. You  have  seen  it,  I  believe,  but 
give  it  time  and  quiet  walks,  now. 

The  evening  school  referred  to  in  the 
preceding  letter  was  that  which  Ruskin 
had  now  for  three  years  conducted  at 
the  Workingmen's  College  in  Great  Or- 
niond  Street.  This  college  was  founded 
by  Frederick  Denison  Maurice,  with  the 
aid  of  such  men  as  Dr.  Furnivall,  Tom 
Hughes,  and  Charles  Kingsley,  with  the 
intention  of  offering  "  to  workingmen 
and  others,  who  could  not  take  advan- 
tage of  the  higher  education  open  to  the 
weal  thy ,  as  much  of  the  best  academic 
training  as  could  be  given  in  evening 
classes,  and  to  combine  this  teaching 
with  a  real  esprit  de  corps,  based  on  the 
fellowship  of  citizens  and  the  union  of  so- 
cial orders."  Ruskin  enlisted  readily  in 
this  effort,  for  already  his  thoughts  were 
turned  to  those  social  questions  which 
were  gradually  to  become  the  chief  ob- 
jects of  his  interest  during  his  later 
years.  The  classes  at  the  drawing- 
school,  to  which  he  gave  instruction  on 
Thursday  evenings  through  a  great  part 
of  the  year,  were  mainly  composed  of 
young  men  who  were  earning  their  liv- 
ing, but  were  not*  in  the  ranks  of  the 
very  poor.  He  gained  from  acquain- 
tance with  them  a  knowledge  of  actual 
social  conditions  which  tested  his  theo- 
ries and  stood  him  in  good  stead  in  later 
years  His  sympathy,  his  patience,  his 
concern  for  their  interests  quickened 
into  affection  the  admiration  which  his 
varied  powers,  exerted  for  the  benefit  of 
his  pupils,  naturally  excited  in  them,  and 
the  indirect  lessons  which  they  received 
from  him  were  perhaps  of  even  more 
importance  to  them  than  his  direct  in- 
struction. His  interest  and  enthusiasm 
in  the  work  were  contagious,  and  in  the 
course  of  the  four  or  five  years  in  which 
he  gave  regular  instruction  at  the  school, 

1  The  story  may  be  found  in  an  article  in  the 
Atlantic  Monthly  for  June,  1889,  entitled  Raw- 


he  enlisted,  as  his  associates  in  teaching, 
Rossetti,  and  for  a  time  William  Morris 
and  Burne-Jones.  The  woi'k  was  one 
to  engage  the  sympathies  of  young  ideal- 
ists desirous  to  elevate  and  beautify  the 
life  of  England.  Marlborough  House, 
to  which  Ruskin  refers  in  his  letter,  was 
then  the  headquarters  of  the  govern- 
ment Department  of  Science  and  Art, 
removed  not  long  afterwards  to  South 
Kensington. 

It  was  not  for  students  under  his 
direction  or  that  of  his  assistants  at  the 
Workingmen's  College  that  he  wrote  the 
"  nice  little  book  "  referred  to  in  the  let- 
ter, —  The  Elements  of  Drawing,  —  but 
for  the  many  who  might  wish  to  learn  to 
draw  and  had  no  master  to  instruct  them. 
The  chief  aim  and  bent  of  its  system  was 
discipline  of  the  hand  and  the  eye  by  a 
patient  and  delicate  method  of  work, 
such  as  to  insure  a  true  sight  and  a  cor- 
rect representation  of  the  object  seen. 
The  little  book  did  good  service,  and 
though  Ruskin  became  dissatisfied  with 
some  portions  of  it,  and  intended  to 
supei'sede  it  by  the  Laws  of  Fe'sole,  it 
still  remains  in  many  respects  an  excel- 
lent manual  for  the  solitary  student  of 
drawing  dependent  on  his  own  efforts. 

The  "  Mr.  Brown "  mentioned  near 
the  end  of  this  letter  was  Ruskin's  "  old 
and  tried  friend,"  Mr.  Rawdon  Brown. 
I  did  not  then  know  this  admirable  and 
unique  man.  More  than  ten  years  later 
I  had  the  good  fortune  of  coming  into 
friendly  relations  with  him.  He  had 
lived  in  Venice  since,  as  a  youth,  just 
out  of  Oxford,  in  1833,  he  went  there  on 
a  romantic  quest.1  To  the  fine  qualities 
of  a  high-bred  Englishman  and  old- 
fashioned  Tory  he  added  a  passionate 
love  of  Venice,  and  an  acquaintance  with 
her  historic  life  in  all  its  aspects,  such  as 
few  of  her  own  sons  ever  possessed.  His 
days  were  given  to  the  study  of  her  rec- 
ords and  to  the  rescue  of  precious  scraps 
from  Time's  wallet.  He  died  in  1884 

don  Brown  and  the  Gravestone  of  "  Banished 
Norfolk." 


588 


"Intensely  ffuman" 


where  he  had  lived  for  more  than  fifty 
years,  and  where  he  desired  to  die. 

I  spent  the  month  of  July  in  England, 
and  was  again  at  Denmark  Hill,  where 
I  was  more  than  ever  impressed  with 
Raskin's  submissiveness  to  his  mother, 
who  took  manifest  pride  in  "John,"  but 
combated  his  opinions  and  lectured  him 
publicly,  in  spite  of  which  he  preserved 
unruffled  sweetness  of  manner  toward 
her.  She  had  lived  in  a  narrow  circle  of 
strong  interests,  and  knew  little  of  the 
world  outside  of  it.  Accustomed  as  I 
have  said  to  deference  from  her  husband 
and  her  son,  she  had  acquired  conviction 
of  her  own  infallibility,  and  her  opinions 
were  expressed  with  decision  and  as  if 
admitting  of  no  question.  Raskin  him- 
self was  delightful.  His  heart  had  not 
yet  become  overburdened,  nor  his  mind 
overstrained.  I  wrote  at  the  time  :  "  He 
is  quite  unspoiled  by  praise  and  by  abuse, 
of  both  of  which  he  has  received  enough 
to  ruin  a  common  man.  His  heart  is  still 
fresh.  It  is  pleasant  to  hear  his  friends 
speak  of  him,  —  the  Brownings,  Rossetti, 
Mrs.  Gaskell :  they  all  are  warm  in 
speaking  of  his  kindness,  generosity  and 
faithfulness.  Few  men  are  so  lovable." 

The  summer  of  1857  was  that  of  the 
great  Fine  Arts  Exhibition  at  Man- 
chester. Ruskin  had  undertaken  to  give 


two  lectures  there  in  the  course  of  the 
month  of  July.  In  order  to  secure  un- 
interrupted quiet  for  writing  them  he 
proposed  to  spend  a  week  or  two  at  a 
farmhouse  near  the  picturesque  little 
village  of  Cowley,  not  far  from  Oxford, 
and  as  I  was  to  visit  friends  at  Oxford 
it  was  arranged  that  we  should  be  there 
at  the  same  time.  We  were  much  to- 
gether. He  read  to  me  from  his  lectures 
as  he  wrote  them,  and  the  reading  led 
to  long  discussion.  The  lectures  were 
the  first  clear  manifesto  of  the  change 
in  the  main  interests  of  his  life.  They 
were  soon  published  under  the  title  of 
The  Political  Economy  of  Art,  and  when 
reprinted,  more  than  twenty  years  after- 
ward, Ruskin  gave  them  the  name  of  "  A 
Joy  Forever l  (and  its  price  in  the  mar- 
ket)." In  the  preface  to  this  edition  of 
1880,  he  wrote,  "  The  exposition  of  the 
truths  to  which  I  have  given  the  chief 
elegy  of  my  life  will  be  found  in  the 
following  pages,  first  undertaken  system- 
atically and  then  in  logical  sequence." 
It  will  easily  be  understood  how  inter- 
esting and  how  fruitful  to  me  were  the 
talks  we  had  while  he  was  writing  this 
introduction  to  the  thought  and  life  of 
his  later  years. 

Before  the  end  of  the  summer  I 
turned  to  America. 

Charles  Eliot  Norton. 


PART  OF  A  MAN'S  LIFE. 

"  The  uttered  part  of  a  man's  life,  let  us  always  repeat,  bears  to  the  unu tiered,  unconscious 
part  a  small  unknown  proportion.  He  himself  never  knows  it,  much  less  do  others." —  Carlyle\ 
Essay  on  Scott. 

"INTENSELY   HUMAN." 


WHEN  Major-General  Rufus  Saxton, 
then  military  governor  of  South  Caro- 
lina, was  solving  triumphantly  the  ori- 
ginal problem  of  the  emancipated  slaves, 
he  was  frequently  interrupted  by  long 
lists  of  questions  from  Northern  philan- 


thropists as  to  the  progress  of  his  en- 
terprise. They  inquired  especially 
to  the  peculiar  tastes,  temptations,  anc 
perils  of  the  newly  emancipated  race. 

1  These  words  had  been  written  in  gold  or 
the  cornice  of  the  great  exhibition. 


'•'•Intensely  Human" 


589 


After  receiving  one  unusually  elaborate 
catechism  of  this  kind,  he  said  rather 
impatiently  to  his  secretary,  "Draw  a 
line  across  that  whole  list  of  questions 
about  the  freedmen,  and  write  at  the 
bottom,  '  They  are  intensely  human, '  ' 
which  was  done.  In  those  four  words 
is  given,  in  my  opinion,  the  whole  key 
to  that  problem  perennially  reviving, 
—  the  so-called  "negro  question." 

There  prevailed,  nearly  sixty  years 
ago,  at  the  outset  of  the  anti-slavery 
movement,  a  curious  impression  that 
the  only  people  who  understood  the 
negro  were  those  who  had  seen  him  in 
a  state  of  subjection,  and  that  those  who 
advocated  his  cause  at  the  North  knew 
nothing  about  him.  A  similar  delusion 
prevails  at  the  present  day,  and  not 
alone  among  those  born  and  bred  in  the 
Southern  states.  I  find  in  a  book,  other- 
wise admirable,  — •  the  Life  of  Whittier, 
by  Professor  G.  R.  Carpenter  of  Colum- 
bia College,  ~  that  the  biographer  not 
only  speaks  of  the  original  anti-slavery 
movement  as  "extravagant  and  ill-in- 
formed "  (page  173),  but  says  of  Whit- 
tier  and  his  associates,  "Of  the  real 
negro,  his  capacities  and  limitations, 
he  had,  like  his  fellows,  only  a  dim 
idea,  based  largely  on  theoretic  specu- 
lation "  (page  179).  But,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  the  whole  movement  originated 
with  men  who  had  learned  by  personal 
observation  that  the  negro  was  intensely 
human,  and  found  all  necessary  know- 
ledge to  be  included  in  that  fact.  They 
were  men  and  women  who  had  been  born 
in  the  slave  country,  or  had  personally 
resided  there,  perhaps  for  years.  Ben- 
jamin Lundy  in  Virginia,  Rankin  in 
Tennessee,  Garrison  in  Maryland,  Bir- 
ney  in  Alabama,  Channing  in  Vir- 
ginia again,  and  the  Grimke'  sisters  in 
South  Carolina,  had  gained  on  the  spot 
that  knowledge  of  slavery  and  slaves 
which  made  them  Abolitionists.  They 
had  made  observations,  and  some  of 
them  —  acting  on  the  poet  Gray's  max- 
im that  memory  is  ten  times  worse  than 
a  lead  pencil  —  had  written  them  down. 


Added  to  this,  they  were  constantly 
in  communication  with  those  who  had 
escaped  from  slavery,  and  the  very 
closeness  of  contact  into  which  the  two 
classes  were  thrown  gave  them  added 
knowledge  of  each  other.  Indeed,  the 
very  first  anti-slavery  book  which  at- 
tained wide  attention,  known  as  Walk- 
er's Appeal,  published  in  1829,  was 
not  written  by  a  Northern  man,  but  by 
one  born  in  Wilmington,  South  Caro- 
lina, of  a  free  mother  and  a  slave  father, 
a  man  who  had  traveled  widely  through 
the  South,  expressly  to  study  the  degra- 
dation of  his  race,  and  had  read  what 
books  of  history  he  could  procure  bear- 
ing upon  the  subject.  His  book  went 
through  three  editions ;  it  advocated 
insurrection  more  and  more  directly. 
But  it  was  based  absolutely  on  the 
Declaration  of  Independence  and  on 
the  theory  that  the  negro  was  a  man. 

It  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  there 
never  yet  was  an  oppressed  race  which 
was  not  assumed  by  its  oppressors  to 
be  incapable  of  freedom.  In  a  late 
volume  of  diplomatic  correspondence 
compiled  from  letters  of  an  English- 
man (Anthony  B.  North  Peat),  written 
in  1864—69  during  the  sway  of  Louis 
Napoleon,  the  letter- writer  lays  it  down 
as  a  rule  (page  38)  that  "A  Frenchman 
is  not  fit  to  be  trusted  with  liberty. 
...  A  Frenchman  is,  more  or  less, 
born  to  be  rode  roughshod  over,  and  he 
himself  is  positively  happier  when  ruled 
with  a  rod  of  iron."  Forty  years  have 
now  passed  since  this  was  written,  and 
who  now  predicts  the  extinction  of  the 
French  Republic?  It  turned  out  just 
the  same  with  those  who  predicted  that 
the  colored  race  in  America  was  fitted 
only  for  slavery  and  would  never  attain 
freedom. 

If  I  may  refer  to  my  own  experience 
as  one  of  the  younger  Abolitionists,  I 
can  truly  say  that  my  discovery  of  the 
negro's  essential  manhood  first  came, 
long  before  I  had  heard  of  the  anti- 
slavery  agitation,  from  a  single  remark 
of  a  slave  made  to  my  mother  when  she 


590 


"'Intensely  Human."" 


was  traveling  in  Virginia  in  my  child- 
hood. After  some  efforts  on  her  part 
to  convince  him  that  he  was  well  off,  he 
only  replied,  "  Ah !  Missis,  free  breath 
is  good!  "  There  spoke,  even  to  my 
childish  ear,  the  instinctive  demand  of 
the  human  heing.  To  this  were  after- 
wards added  my  own  observations  when 
visiting  in  the  same  state  during  a  col- 
lege vacation,  at  the  age  of  seventeen, 
and  observing  the  actual  slaves  on  a 
plantation ;  which  experience  was  after- 
wards followed  by  years  of  intimate  ac- 
quaintance with  fugitive  slaves  in  Mas- 
sachusetts. It  was  the  natural  result  of 
all  this  that,  when  called  upon  in  ma- 
turer  life  to  take  military  command  of 
freed  slaves,  it  never  occurred  to  me  to 
doubt  that  they  would  fight  like  any 
other  men  for  their  liberty,  and  so  it 
proved.  Yet  I  scarcely  ever  met  a 
man  or  woman  of  Southern  birth,  during 
all  that  interval,  who  would  not  have 
laughed  at  the  very  thought  of  making 
them  soldiers.  They  were  feared  as 
midnight  plotters,  as  insurrectionists, 
disciples  of  Nat  Turner,  whose  outbreak 
in  1831  filled  the  South  with  terror; 
but  it  was  never  believed,  for  a  mo- 
ment, that  they  would  stand  fire  in  the 
open  field  like  men.  Yet  they  proved 
themselves  intensely  human  and  did  it. 
Nor  was  their  humanity  recognized 
by  the  general  public  sentiment,  even 
at  the  North,  in  earlier  days.  .Even 
in  Massachusetts,  law  or  custom  not 
only  forbade  any -merchant  or  respect- 
able mechanic  to  take  a  colored  appren- 
tice, but  any  common  carrier  by  land  or 
sea  was  expected  to  eject  from  his  con- 
veyance any  negro  on  complaint  of  any 
white  passenger;  and  I  can  myself  re- 
member when  a  case  of  this  occurred 
in  Cambridge  in  my  childhood,  within 
sight  of  the  Washington  Elm.  Churches 
still  had  negro  pews,  these  being  some- 
times boarded  up  in  front,  so  that  the 
occupants  could  only  look  out  through 
peepholes,  as  was  once  done  in  the  old 
Baptist  meeting-house  at  Hartford, 
Connecticut,  where  a  negro  had  bought 


a  pew  and  refused  to  leave  it.  Or  the 
owner  might  be  ejected  by  a  constable, 
as  happened  in  Park  Street  Church, 
Boston ;  or  the  floor  cut  from  under  the 
negro's  pew  by  the  church  authorities, 
as  happened  in  Stoughton,  Massachu- 
setts. Even  in  places  like  the  Quaker 
town  of  New  Bedford,  where  pupils  of 
both  colors  were  admitted  to  the  public 
schools,  the  black  boys  were  seated  by 
themselves,  and  white  offenders  were 
punished  by  being  obliged  to  sit  with 
them.  So  far  was  this  carried,  that  it 
excited  the  indignation  of  the  European 
world,  in  so  much  that  Heine  in  his  let- 
ters from  Heligoland  (July  1,  1830) 
gives  it  as  an  argument  against  emi- 
grating to  the  United  States,  as  Lieber 
and  Follen  had  done :  "  Die  eigentliche 
Sklaverei,  die  in  den  meisten  nord- 
amerikanischen  Provinzen  abgeschafft, 
emport  mich  nicht  so  sehr  wie  die 
Brutalitat  womit  die  freien  Schwarzen 
und  die  Mulatten  behandelt  werden." 
The  negro  was  still  regarded,  both  in 
the  Northern  and  in  the  Southern 
states,  as  being  something  imperfectly 
human.  It  was  only  the  Abolitionists 
who  saw  him  as  he  was.  They  never 
doubted  that  he  would  have  human 
temptations  —  to  idleness,  folly,  waste- 
fulness, even  sensuality.  They  knew 
that  he  would  need,  like  any  abused 
and  neglected  race,  education,  moral 
instruction,  and,  above  all,  high  exam- 
ple. They  knew,  in  short,  all  that  we 
know  about  him  now.  They  could 
have  predicted  the  outcome  of  such 
half -freedom  as  has  been  given'  him,  — 
a  freedom  tempered  by  chain-gangs, 
lynching,  and  the  lash. 

It  may  be  assumed,  therefore, 
there  is  no  charge  more  unfounded  ths 
that  frequently  made  to  the  effect  that 
the  negro  was  best  understood  by  his 
former   masters.      This   principle  maj 
be  justly  borne  in  mind  in  forming 
opinion  upon  the  very  severest  charge 
still    brought    against    him.      Thus 
Southern  negro  has  only  to  be  suspecte 
of  any  attempt  at  assault  on  a  whit 


"Intensely  Human" 


591 


woman,  and  the  chances  are  that  he 
will  be  put  to  death  without  trial,  and 
perhaps  with  fiendish  torture.  Yet  dur- 
ing my  two  years'  service  with  col- 
ored troops,  only  one  charge  of  such  as- 
sault was  brought  against  any  soldier, 
and  that  was  withdrawn  in  the  end  and 
admitted  to  be  false  by  the  very  man 
who  made  the  assertion;  and  this  in  a 
captured  town.  But  even  supposing 
him  to  have  a  tendency  to  such  an  of- 
fense, does  any  one  suppose  for  a  mo- 
ment that  the  mob  which  burns  him  on 
suspicion  of  such  crime  is  doing  it  in 
defense  of  chastity  ?  Not  at  all ;  it  is 
in  defense  of  caste.  To  decide  its  real 
character  we  need  only  ask  what  would 
happen  if  the  facts  proved  to  be  the 
reverse  of  those  at  first  assumed,  —  if 
the  woman  proved  to  have,  after  all, 
the  slightest  tinge  of  negro  blood,  and 
the  offending  man  turned  out  to  be  a 
white  man.  Does  anybody  doubt  that 
the  case  would  be  dismissed  by  accla- 
mation in  an  instant,  that  the  criminal 
would  go  free,  and  the  victim  be  forgot- 
ten? If  I  err,  then  the  books  of  evi- 
dence are  all  wrong,  the  tales  of  fugi- 
tives in  the  old  days  are  all  false.  Was 
any  white  man  ever  lynched,  either  be- 
fore or  since  emancipation,  for  insulting 
the  modesty  of  a  colored  girl  ?  Look  in 
the  autobiographies  of  slaves,  dozens  of 
which  are  in  our  public  libraries !  Look 
in  the  ante-bellum  newspapers,  or  search 
the  memories  of  those  who,  like  the 
present  writer,  were  employed  on  vigi- 
lance committees  and  underground  rail- 
ways before  most  of  the  present  lynch- 
ers  were  born! 

There  were,  again  and  again,  women 
known  to  us  who  had  fled  to  save  their 
honor,  —  women  so  white  that,  like 
Ellen  Craft,  they  passed  in  traveling  for 
Caucasian.  One  such  woman  was  under 
my  observation  for  a  whole  winter  in 
Worcester,  who  brought  away  with  her 
the  two  children  of  her  young  master, 
whose  mistress  she  had  been,  in  spite  of 
herself,  and  who  was  believed  by  many  to 
have  been  her  half-brother.  So  nearly 


white  were  she  and  her  children  that 
they  were  escorted  up  from  Boston  by  a 
Worcester  merchant,  himself  pro-slav- 
ery in  sympathy,  under  whose  escort 
they  had  been  skillfully  put  at  the  Bos- 
ton station  by  the  agent  of  the  under- 
ground railway.  They  finally  passed 
into  the  charge  of  an  honorable  man,  a 
white  mechanic,  who  married  her  with 
the  full  approval  of  the  ladies  who  had 
her  in  charge.  I  never  knew  or  wished 
to  know  his  name,  thinking  it  better  that 
she  and  her  children  should  disappear, 
as  they  easily  could,  in  the  white  ranks. 
Another  slave  child,  habitually  passing 
for  white,  was  known  to  the  public  as 
"  Ida  May, "  and  was  exhibited  to  au- 
diences as  a  curiosity  by  Governor  An- 
drew and  others,  until  that  injudicious 
practice  was  stopped.  She,  too,  was  un- 
der my  care  for  a  time,  went  to  school, 
became  clerk  in  a  public  office,  and  I 
willingly  lost  sight  of  her  also  for  a  sim- 
ilar reason.  It  must  never  be  forgotten 
that  every  instance  of  slaves  almost 
white,  in  those  days,  was  not  the  outcome 
of  legal  marriage,  but  of  the  ungoverned 
passions  of  some  white  man.  The  evil 
was  also  self -multiplying,  since  the  fair- 
er the  complexion  of  every  half-breed 
girl  the  greater  was  her  attraction  and 
her  perils.  Those  who  have  read  that 
remarkable  volume  of  Southern  stories, 
written  in  New  Orleans  by  Grace  King, 
under  the  inexpressive  title  of  Tales  of 
a  Time  and  Place,  will  remember  the 
striking  scene  where  a  mob,  which  had 
utterly  disregarded  the  danger  run  by 
a  young  girl  who  had  passed  for  a  mere 
octoroon,  is  lashed  instantly  into  over- 
powering tumult  when  evidence  is  sud- 
denly advanced  at  the  last  moment  that 
she  is  not  octoroon,  but  white. 

Supposing,  for  the  sake  of  argument, 
that  there  is  to  be  found  in  the  colored 
race,  especially  in  the  former  slave 
states,  a  lower  standard  of  chastity  than 
among  whites,  it  is  hard  to  imagine  any 
reasoning  more  grotesque  than  that 
which  often  comes  from  those  who  claim 
to  represent  the  white  race  there.  One 


592 


"Intensely  Human''' 


recent  writer  from  New  Orleans  in  the 
Boston  Herald  describes  the  black  race 
as  being  "in  great  part  immoral  in  its 
sexual  relations,  whether  from  centu- 
ries of  savagery  or  from  nature,  as  some 
of  the  travelers  insisted."  This  needs 
only  to  be  compared  with  the  testimony 
of  another  Southern  witness  to  show  its 
folly.  In  a  little  book  entitled  Two 
Addresses  on  Negro  Education  in  the 
South,  Mr.  A.  A.  Gunby,  of  the  Louis- 
iana bar,  makes  this  simple  statement : 
"  Miscegenation  in  the  South  has  always 
been  and  will  always  be  confined  to  con- 
verse between  white  men  and  colored 
women,  and  the  number  of  mulattoes 
in  the  future  will  depend  absolutely  on 
the  extent  to  which  white  men  restrain 
their  immoral  dealings  with  negro  fe- 
males." This  same  writer  goes  on  to 
say,  what  would  seem  to  be  the  obvious 
common  sense  of  the  matter,  that  "  edu- 
cation is  the  best  possible  means  to  for- 
tify negro  women  against  the  approaches 
of  libertines." 

For  my  own  part,  I  have  been  for 
many  years  in  the  position  to  know  the 
truth,  even  on  its  worst  side,  upon  this 
subject.  Apart  from  the  knowledge 
derived  in  college  days  from  Southern 
students,  then  very  numerous  at  Har- 
vard, with  whom  I  happened  to  be  much 
thrown  through  a  Southern  relative,  my 
classmate,  I  have  evidence  much  beyond 
this.  I  have  in  my  hands  written  evi- 
dence, unfit  for  publication,  but  discov- 
ered in  a  captured  town  during  the  civil 
war,  —  evidence  to  show  that  Rome  in 
its  decline  was  not  more  utterly  de- 
graded, as  to  the  relation  between  the 
sexes,  than  was  the  intercourse  often  ex- 
isting between  white  men  and  colored 
women  on  American  slave  plantations. 
How  could  it  be  otherwise  where  one  sex 
had  all  the  power  and  the  other  had  no 
means  of  escape?  Rufus  Choate,  one 
of  the  most  conservative  Northern  men 
of  the  time  as  to  the  slavery  question, 
is  said  to  have  expressed  the  opinion, 
as  the  result  of  careful  study,  that  he 
had  no  reason  to  think  that  the  indus- 


trial  condition  of  the  slave,  all  things 
considered,  was  worse  than  that  of  the 
laboring  population  in  most  European 
countries,  but  that  for  the  colored  wo- 
man the  condition  of  slavery  was  "sim- 
ply hell."  The  race  of  mixed  blood  in 
America  is  the  outcome  of  that  condi- 
tion; and  that  the  colored  race  has 
emerged  from  such  subjugation  into  the 
comparatively  decent  moral  condition 
which  it  now  holds  proves  conclusively 
that  it  is  human  in  its  virtues  as  well  as 
in  its  sins.  This  I  say  as  one  who  has 
been  for  nearly  ten  years  trustee  of  a 
school  for  freedmen  in  the  heart  of  the 
black  district.  The  simple  fact,  ad- 
mitted by  all  candid  men  and  women, 
that  no  charges  of  immorality  are  ever 
brought  against  the  graduates  of  these 
schools,  and  that,  wherever  they  go, 
they  are  the  centre  of  a  healthy  influ- 
ence, is  sufficient  proof  that  what  the 
whole  nation  needs  is  to  deal  with  the 
negro  race  no  longer  as  outcasts,  but 
simply  as  men  and  women. 

If  thus  dealt  with,  why  should  the 
very  existence  of  such  a  race  be  regarded 
as  an  insuperable  evil  ?  The  answer  is 
that  the  tradition  lies  solely  in  the  as- 
sociations of  slavery.  Outside  of  this 
country,  such  insuperable  aversion  plain- 
ly does  not  exist;  not  even  is  it  to  be 
found  in  the  land  nearest  to  us  in  kin- 
dred, England.  A  relative  of  mine,  a 
Boston  lady  distinguished  in  the  last 
generation  for  beauty  and  bearing,  was 
staying  in  London  with  her  husband,  fif- 
ty years  ago,  when  they  received  a  call  at 
breakfast  time  from  a  mulatto  of  fine  ap- 
pearance, named  Prince  Sanders,  whom 
they  had  known  well  as  a  steward,  or 
head  waiter,  in  Boston.  She  felt  that 
she  ought  to  ask  him,  as  a  fellow  coun- 
tryman, to  sit  down  at  table  with  them, 
but  she  shrank  from  doing  it  until  he 
rose  to  go ;  and  then,  in  a  cowardly  man- 
ner, as  she  frankly  admitted,  stammered 
out  the  invitation.  To  which  his  reply 
was,  "Thank  you,  madam,  but  I  am 
engaged  to  breakfast  with  a  duke,  this 
morning, "  which  turned  out  to  be  true. 


"Intensely  Human" 


593 


No  one  can  watch  the  carriages  in  Hyde 
Park,  still  less  in  Continental  capitals, 
without  recognizing  the  merely  local 
quality  of  all  extreme  social  antagonism 
between  races.  In  a  letter  to  the  Bos- 
ton Herald,  dated  September  17,  1903, 
the  writer,  Bishop  Douet  of  Jamaica, 
testifies  that  there  is  a  large  class  of 
colored  people  who  there  fill  important 
positions  as  ministers  of  religion,  doc- 
tors, and  lawyers.  He  says :"  This  ele- 
ment in  our  society  that  I  have  alluded 
to  is  the  result  of  miscegenation,  which 
the  writers  from  the  South  seem  to  look 
upon  with  so  much  horror.  We  have 
not  found  that  the  mixing  of  the  races 
has  produced  such  dire  results.  I  num- 
ber among  my  friends  many  of  this 
mixed  race  who  are  as  accomplished 
and  intelligent  ladies  and  gentlemen 
as  you  can  find  in  any  society  in  Bos- 
ton or  the  other  great  cities  of  Amer- 
ica." 

In  connection  with  this,  Bishop 
Douet  claims  that  the  masses  of  the 
colored  population  in  all  parts  of  the 
island  are  absolutely  orderly,  and  that 
a  white  woman  may  travel  from  one  end 
of  the  land  to  the  other  with  perfect 
safety.  All  traces  of  the  terrible  pe- 
riod of  the  Maroon  wars  seem  to  have 
vanished,  wars  which  lasted  for  nine 
years,  during  which  martial  law  pre- 
vailed throughout  the  whole  island,  and 
high  military  authorities  said  of  the 
Maroons  that  "their  subjugation  was 
more  difficult  than  to  obtain  a  victory 
over  any  army  in  Europe. "  These  reb- 
els, or  their  descendants,  are  the  people 
who  now  live  in  a  condition  of  entire 
peace  and  order,  in  spite  of  all  the  pre- 
dicted perils  of  freedom.  One  of  these 
perils,  as  we  know,  was  supposed  to  be 
that  of  a  mixture  of  blood  between  the 
races,  but  even  that  is  found  no  longer 
a  source  of  evil,  this  witness  thinks, 
when  concubinage  has  been  replaced  by 
legal  marriage. 

Among  the  ways  in  which  the  col- 
ored race  shows  itself  intensely  human 
are  some  faults  which  it  certainly  shares 

VOL.  xcm.  —  NO.  559.  38 


with  the  white  race,  besides  the  mere- 
ly animal  temptations.  There  is  the 
love  of  fine  clothes,  for  instance;  the 
partiality  for  multiplying  sects  in  reli- 
gion, and  secret  societies  in  secular  life ; 
the  tendency  toward  weakening  forces 
by  too  much  subdivision ;  the  intolerance 
shown  toward  free  individual  action.  It 
is  only  the  last  which  takes  just  now  a 
somewhat  serious  form.  It  is  a  positive 
calamity  that  a  few  indiscretions  and 
exaggerations  on  each  side  have  devel- 
oped into  a  bitter  hostility  to  Booker 
Washington  on  the  part  of  some  of  the 
most  intelligent  and  even  cultivated  of 
his  race.  Internal  feuds  among  philan- 
thropists are,  alas,  no  new  story,  and 
few  bodies  of  reformers  have  escaped 
this  peril.  When  we  consider  the  bit- 
ter contest  fought  by  Charles  Sumner 
and  his  opponents  in  the  Prison  Disci- 
pline Society ;  the  conflicts  in  the  early 
temperance  meetings  between  Total  Ab- 
stainers and  Teetotalers;  those  in  the 
Woman  Suffrage  Movement  between 
Mrs.  Woodhull  and  her  opponents,  and 
in  the  anti-slavery  movement  itself  be- 
tween the  voting  and  non-voting  Aboli- 
tionists, we  must  not  censure  the  war- 
ring negro  reformer  too  severely.  Nay, 
consider  the  subdivisions  of  the  Garrison 
Abolitionists  themselves,  after  slavery 
itself  was  abolished,  at  a  period  when  I 
remember  to  have  seen  Edmund  Quincy 
walk  halfway  up  a  stairway,  and  turn 
suddenly  round  to  descend,  merely  to 
avoid  Wendell  Phillips,  who  was  coming 
downstairs.  Having  worked  side  by 
side  together  through  storm  and  through 
calm,  denounced,  threatened,  and  even 
mobbed  side  by  side,  the  two  men  had 
yet  separated  in  bitterness  on  the  mere 
interpretation  of  a  will  made  by  a  fel- 
low laborer,  Francis  Jackson.  When 
we  look,  moreover,  beyond  the  circle  of 
moral  reformers,  and  consider  simply 
the  feuds  of  science,  we  see  the  same 
thing :  Dr.  Gould,  the  eminent  astrono- 
mer, locking  his  own  observatory  against 
his  own  trustees  to  avoid  interference; 
and  Agassiz,  in  the  height  of  the  Dar- 


594 


"Intensely  Human." 


winian  controversy,  denying  that  there 
was  any  division  on  the  subject  among 
scientific  men,  on  the  ground  that  any 
man  who  accepted  the  doctrine  of  evolu- 
tion ceased  thereby  to  be  a  man  of  sci- 
ence. If  questions  merely  intellectual 
thus  divide  the  leaders  of  thought,  how 
can  we  expect  points  dividing  men  on 
the  basis  of  conscience  and  moral  service 
to  be  less  potent  in  their  influence  ?  In 
the  present  case,  as  in  most  cases,  the 
trouble  seems  chiefly  due  to  the  diffi- 
culty found  by  every  energetic  and  en- 
thusiastic person,  absorbed  in  his  own 
pursuits,  in  fully  appreciating  the  equal- 
ly important  pursuits  of  others.  Mr. 
Washington,  in  urging  the  development 
of  the  industrial  pursuits  he  represents, 
has  surely  gone  no  farther  than  Freder- 
ick Douglass,  the  acknowledged  leader 
of  his  people,  who  said,  "  Every  colored 
mechanic  is  by  virtue  of  circumstances 
an  elevator  of  his  race."  On  the  other 
hand,  the  critics  of  Mr.  Washington  are 
wholly  right  in  holding  that  it  is  as 
important  for  this  race  to  produce  its 
own  physicians,  lawyers^  preachers,  and, 
above  all,  teachers,  as  to  rear  mechanics. 
It  is  infinitely  to  be  regretted  that  every- 
body cannot  look  at  every  matter  all 
round,  but  this,  unhappily,  is  a  form 
of  human  weakness  in  which  there  is 
no  distinction  of  color. 

It  must  always  be  remembered  that 
all  forward  movements  have  their  ex- 
perimental stage.  In  looking  over,  at 
this  distance  of  time,  the  letters  and 
printed  editorials  brought  out  by  the 
original  enterprise  of  arming  the  blacks 
in  our  civil  war,  I  find  that  it  was  re- 
garded by  most  people  as  a  mere  ex- 
periment. It  now  seems  scarcely  credi- 
ble that  I  should  have  received,  as  I 
did,  one  letter  from  a  well-meaning 
sympathizer  in  Boston,  recalling  to  my 
memory  that  Roman  tradition  of  a  body 
of  rebellious  slaves  who  were  brought 
back  to  subjection,  even  after  taking 
up  arms,  by  the  advance  of  a  body  of 
men  armed  with  whips  only.  This  cor- 
respondent anxiously  warned  me  that 


the  same  method  might  be  repeated. 
Yet  it  seems  scarcely  more  credible  that 
the  young  hero,  Colonel  Shaw  himself, 
when  I  rode  out  to  meet  him,  on  his 
arrival  with  his  regiment,  seriously 
asked  me  whether  I  felt  perfectly  sure 
that  the  negroes  would  stand  fire  in  line 
of  battle,  and  suggested  that,  at  the 
worst,  it  would  at  least  be  possible  to 
drive  them  forward  by  having  a  line  of 
white  soldiers  advance  in  their  rear,  so 
that  they  would  be  between  two  fires. 
He  admitted  the  mere  matter  of  indi- 
vidual courage  to  have  been  already  set- 
tled in  their  case,  and  only  doubted 
whether  they  would  do  as  well  in  line 
of  battle  as  in  skirmishing  and  on  guard 
duty.  Nor  do  I  intend  to  imply  that 
he  had  any  serious  doubt  beyond  this, 
but  simply  that  the  question  had  passed 
through  his  mind.  He  did  not  suffi- 
ciently consider  that  in  this,  as  at  all 
other  points,  they  were  simply  men. 

We  must  also  remember  that  a  com- 
mon humanity  does  not  by  any  means 
exclude  individual  variety,  but  rather 
protects  it.  At  first  glance,  in  a  black 
regiment,  the  men  usually  looked  to  a 
newly  arrived  officer  just  alike,  but  it 
proved  after  a  little  experience  that  they 
varied  as  much  in  face  as  any  soldiers. 
It  was  the  same  as  to  character.  Yet  at 
the  same  time  they  were  on  the  whole 
more  gregarious  and  cohesive  than  the 
whites ;  they  preferred  organization, 
whereas  nothing  pleased  white  American 
troops  so  much  as  to  be  out  skirmishing, 
each  on  his  own  responsibility,  without 
being  bothered  with  officers.  There 
was  also  a  certain  tropical  element  in 
black  troops,  a  sort  of  fiery  utterance 
when  roused,  which  seemed  more  Celtic 
than  Anglo  -  Saxon.  The  only  point 
where  I  was  doubtful,  though  I  never 
had  occasion  to  test  it,  was  that  they 
might  show  less  endurance  under  pro- 
longed and  hopeless  resistance,  like  Na- 
poleon's men  when  during  the  retreat 
from  Russia  they  simply  drooped  and 
died. 

As  to  the  general  facts  of  courage  and 


'•'•Intensely  Human" 


595 


reliability,  I  think  that  no  officer  in  our 
camp  ever  thought  of  there  being  any 
essential  difference  between  black  and 
white ;  and  surely  the  judgment  »f  these 
officers,  who  were  risking  their  lives  at 
every  moment,  month  after  month,  on 
the  fidelity  of  their  men,  was  worth  more 
than  the  opinion  of  the  world  besides. 
As  the  negroes  were  intensely  human 
at  these  points,  they  were  equally  so  in 
pointing  out  that  they  had  more  to  fight 
for  than  the  white  soldier.  They  loved 
the  United  States  flag,  and  I  remember 
one  zealous  corporal,  a  man  of  natural 
eloquence,  pointing  to  it  during  a  meet- 
ing on  the  Fourth  of  July,  and  saying 
with  more  zeal  than  statistical  accuracy, 
"Dar's  dat  flag,  we  hab  lib  under  it 
for  eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-two 
years,  and  we  '11  lib  and  die  for  it  now." 
But  they  could  never  forget  that,  besides 
the  flag  and  the  Union,  they  had  home 
and  wife  and  child  to  fight  for.  War 
was  a  very  serious  matter  to  them. 
They  took  a  grim  satisfaction  when 
orders  were  issued  that  the  officers  of 
colored  troops  should  be  put  to  death 
on  capture.  It  helped  their  esprit  de 
corps  immensely.  Their  officers,  like 
themselves,  were  henceforward  to  fight 
with  ropes  around  their  necks.  Even 
when  the  new  black  regiments  began  to 
come  down  from  the  North,  the  Southern 
blacks  pointed  out  this  difference,  that 
in  case  of  ultimate  defeat,  the  Northern 
troops,  black  or  white,  must  sooner  or 
later  be  exchanged  and  returned  to 
their  homes,  whereas,  they  themselves 
must  fight  it  out  or  be  reenslaved.  All 
this  was  absolutely  correct  reasoning, 
and  showed  them  human. 

As  all  individuals  differ,  even  in  the 
same  family,  so  there  must  doubtless 
be  variations  between  different  races. 
It  is  only  that  these  differences  balance 
one  another  so  that  all  are  human  at 
last.  Each  race,  like  each  individual, 
may  have  its  strong  point.  Compare, 
for  instance,  the  negroes  and  the  Irish- 
Americans.  So  universal  among  ne- 
groes is  the  possession  of  a  musical  ear 


that  I  frequently  had  reason  to  be  grate- 
ful for  it  as  a  blessing,  were  it  only  for 
the  fact  that  those  who  saw  colored 
soldiers  for  the  first  time  always  noticed 
it  and  exaggerated  its  importance.  Be- 
cause the  negroes  kept  a  better  step, 
after  forty-eight  hours'  training,  than 
did  most  white  regiments  after  three 
or  four  months,  these  observers  ex- 
pressed the  conviction  that  the  blacks 
would  fight  well ;  which  seemed  to  me, 
perhaps,  a  hasty  inference.  As  to  the 
Irish- Americans,  I  could  say  truly  that 
a  single  recruit  of  that  race  in  my  ori- 
ginal white  company  had  cost  me  more 
trouble  in  training  him  to  keep  step 
than  all  my  black  soldiers  put  together. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  was  generally 
agreed  that  it  was  impossible  to  conceive 
of  an  Irish  coward;  the  Irish  being, 
perhaps,  as  universally  brave  as  any 
race  existing.  Now,  I  am  not  pre- 
pared to  say  that  in  the  colored  race 
cowardice  would  be  totally  impossible, 
nor  could  that  be  claimed,  absolutely, 
for  the  Anglo-Saxon  race.  On  the 
other  hand,  to  extend  the  comparison, 
it  would  not  have  been  conceivable  to 
me  that  a  black  soldier  should  be  a 
traitor  to  his  own  side,  and  it  is  unques- 
tionable that  there  were  sometimes  Irish 
deserters.  All  this  variety  is  accord- 
ing to  the  order  of  nature.  The  world 
would  be  very  monotonous  if  all  human 
beings  had  precisely  the  same  combi- 
nation of  strong  and  weak  points.  It 
is  enough  that  they  should  all  be  hu- 
man. 

In  the  element  of  affectionateness 
and  even  demonstrativeness,  the  negroes 
and  the  Irish  have  much  in  common,  and 
it  is  an  attribute  which  makes  them 
both  attractive.  The  same  may  be  held 
true  of  the  religious  element.  No  mat- 
ter how  reckless  in  bearing  they  might 
be,  those  negroes  were  almost  fatalists 
in  their  confidence  that  God  would 
watch  over  them ;  and  if  they  died,  it 
would  be  because  their  time  had  come. 
"  If  each  one  of  us  was  a  praying  man, " 
said  one  of  my  corporals  in  a  speech, 


596 


'•'•Intensely  Human" 


"it  appears  to  me  that  we  could  fight 
as  well  with  prayers  as  with  bullets,  for 
the  Lord  has  said  that  if  you  have  faith 
even  as  a  grain  of  mustard  seed  cut  into 
four  parts,  you  can  say  to  the  sycamore 
tree  'Arise,'  and  it  will  come  up." 
And  though  Corporal  Long's  botany 
may  have  got  a  little  confused,  his  faith 
proved  itself  by  works,  for  he  volun- 
teered to  go  many  miles  on  a  solitary 
scouting  expedition  into  the  enemy's 
country  in  Florida,  and  got  back  safe 
after  he  had  been  given  up  for  lost.  On 
the  whole,  it  may  be  said  that  the 
colored  and  the  Irish  soldiers  were  a 
little  nearer  to  one  another  than  to  the 
white  American  -  born  type ;  and  that 
both  were  nearer  to  the  Western  re- 
cruits, among  Americans,  than  to  the 
more  reticent  and  self -controlled  New 
England  men.  Each  type  had  its  char- 
acteristics, and  all  were  intensely  hu- 
man. 

All  these  judgments,  formed  in  war, 
have  thus  far  sustained  themselves  in 
peace.  The  enfranchisement  of  the 
negroes,  once  established,  will  of  course 
never  be  undone.  They  have  learned 
the  art,  if  not  of  political  self-defense, 
at  least  of  migration  from  place  to  place, 
and  those  states  which  are  most  unjust 
to  them  will  in  time  learn  to  prize  their 
presence  and  regret  their  absence.  The 
chances  are  that  the  mingling  of  races 
will  diminish,  but  whether  this  is  or  is 
not  the  outcome,  it  is,  of  course,  better 
for  all  that  this  result  should  be  legal 
and  not  voluntary,  rather  than  illegal 
and  perhaps  forced.  As  the  memories 
of  the  slave  period  fade  away,  the  mere 
fetich  of  color-phobia  will  cease  to  con- 
trol our  society ;  and  marriage  may  come 
to  be  founded,  not  on  the  color  of  the 
skin,  but  upon  the  common  courtesies 
of  life,  and  upon  genuine  sympathies  of 
heart  and  mind.  To  show  how  high 
these  sympathies  might  reach  even  in 
slavery,  I  turn  back  to  a  letter  received 
by  one  of  my  soldiers  from  his  wife,  — 
a  letter  which  I  have  just  unearthed 
from  a  chaos  of  army  papers  where  it 


has  lain  untouched  for  forty  years.  It 
is  still  inclosed  in  a  quaint  envelope  of 
a  pattern  devised  in  Philadelphia  at 
that  day,  and  greatly  in  demand  among 
the  negroes.  It  shows  a  colored  print 
of  the  tree  of  liberty  bearing  in  the 
place  of  leaves  little  United  States  flags, 
each  labeled  with  the  name  of  some 
state,  while  the  tree  bears  the  date 
"1776  "  at  its  roots.  The  letter  is  ad- 
dressed to  "  Solomon  Steward  Company 
H.,  1st  S.  C.  Vols.,  Beaufort,  S.  C.," 
this  being  the  name  of  a  soldier  in  my 
regiment  who  showed  the  letter  to  me 
and  allowed  me  to  keep  it.  He  was 
one  of  the  Florida  men,  who  were,  as  a 
rule,  better  taught  and  more  intelligent 
than  the  South  Carolina  negroes.  They 
were  therefore  coveted  as  recruits  by  all 
my  captains ;  and  they  had  commonly 
been  obliged  on  enlistment  to  leave  their 
families  behind  them  in  Florida,  not 
nearly  so  well  cared  for  as  those  under 
General  Saxton's  immediate  charge. 
The  pay  of  my  regiment  being,  more- 
over, for  a  long  time  delayed,  these 
families  often  suffered  in  spite  of  all 
our  efforts.  I  give  the  letter  verbatim, 
and  it  requires  no  further  explana- 
tion :  — 

FERNANDINA,  FLORIDA,  Feb.  the  8  [1864]. 
MY  DEAR  HUSBAND,  —  This  Hoi 
I  Sit  Me  Down  To  write  you  In  a  Lit- 
tle world  of  sweet  sounds  The  Choir 
The  Chapel  near  Here  are  Chanting  at 
The  organ  and  Thair  Morning  Hymi 
across  The  street  are  sounding  and  The 
Dear  Little  birds  are  joining  Thair 
voices  In  Tones  sweet  and  pure  as  an- 
gels whispers,  but  My  Dear  all  The 
songs  of  The  birds  sounds  sweet  In  My 
Ear  but  a  sweeter  song  Than  That 
now  Hear  and  That  Is  The  song  of 
administing  angel  Has  Come  and  borm 
My  Dear  Little  babe  To  Join  In  Tone 
with  Them  sweet  and  pure  as  angel 
whispers.  My  babe  only  Live  one  daj 
It  was  a  Little  Girl.  Her  name  Is  alice 
Gurtrude  steward  I  am  now  sick  In  bed 
and  have  Got  nothing  To  Live  on  The 


The  Bachelors  of  Braggy. 


597 


Rashion  That  They  Give  for  six  days  I 
Can  Make  It  Last  but  2  days  They 
dont  send  Me  any  wood  They  send  The 
others  wood  and  I  Cant  Get  any  I  dont 
Get  any  Light  at  all  You  Must  see  To 
That  as  soon  as  possible  for  I  am  In 
in  want  of  some  Thing  To  Eat 

I  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  you 


but  Give  my  Regards  to  all  the  friends 
all  the  family  send  thair  love  to  you 
no  more  at  pressant 

EMMA  STEWAKD 

Does  it  need  any  further  commen- 
tary to  prove  that  the  writer  of  a  letter 
like  this  was  intensely  human? 

Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson. 


THE  BACHELORS  OF  BRAGGY. 


WHILST  their  old  mother  lived,  of 
course,  the  idea  of  bringing  any  other 
woman  into  the  house  was  as  far  from 
them  as  the  far-lands  of  Brenter.  For 
they  had  all  the  nearness  and  lack  of 
sentiment  that  their  Scotch  ancestors 
brought  over  (their  only  belongings)  to 
Ireland. 

When  the  neighbors,  on  a  rare  oc- 
casion, caught  the  Bachelors  of  Braggy 
at  a  wake  or  festivity,  they,  in  a  wag- 
gish mood,  must  match-make  for  them. 

"Arrah,  Pether  Lowry,  isn't  it  the 
shame  for  yerself,  and  for  Paul,  and 
for  Richard,  there  beside  ye,  that  wan 
of  yous  hasn't  yet  put  the  word  to  a 
woman !  " 

Peter  and  Paul  and  Richard  would 
all  hissle  in  their  chairs  from  the  un- 
comfortableness  of  the  topic.  But  all 
eyes  in  the  wakehouse  were  now  on 
them  quizzically,  so  Peter  would  make 
answer  snarlingly :  — 

"  What  the  divil  do  we  want  with  a 
woman  ?  " 

"Ay!"  from  Paul.  And  "Ay!" 
from  Richard. 

"Well,  ye  know,  it 's  a  wee  waik- 
ness  some  men  has,  —  to  be  fond  of 
the  girls." 

"Well,  we  aren't  fond  o'  them; 
an'  would  n't  give  a  barleycorn  if  there 
wasn't  a  girl  atween  here  an'  Haly- 
fax." 

"  Yis !  "  "  Yis !  "  from  Richard  and 
Paul. 


"But  ye  know,  yerself,  Pether,  an' 
can't  deny,  a  woman  's  an  oncommon 
handy  thing  about  a  house." 

"  Handy  ?  Ay !  as  a  conthrairy  pig 
(not  mainin'  any  comparishon),  that 
'ill  go  every  way  but  the  way  ye  want 
it.  Besides,  have  n't  we  our  ouF  mo- 
ther?" 

"Right,  Pether!"  "Right,  Pe- 
ther !  "  quoth  the  other  brothers. 

u  Stillandall,  a  mother,  ye  know,  is 
n't  everything  till  a  man!  " 

"If  a  man  depends  on  any  one  else 
nor  himself  to  be  the  remaindher, 
he  '11  depend  on  a  rotten  rush.  An' 
a  wife  an'  a  mother  in  the  wan  house 
'ud  be  as  pleasant  company  as  spittin' 
cats." 

"But  the  wife  'ill  be  with  a  man, 
Pether,  when  the  mother  's  gone." 

"Then  God  help  the  man!  " 

"  God  help  him !  "  from  Paul,  and 
"God  help  him!  "  from  Richard. 

"Now  there 's  Marg'et  McClane 
above  in  Altidoo,  and  she  'd  jump  at 
the  offer  of  any  wan  of  the  three  of 
yous." 

"It 's  thankful  we  are  to  both  yer- 
self and  Marg'et;  but,  as  ye  seem  to 
have  an  inth'rest  in  her,  better  not  let 
her  jump,  for  feerd  she  might  miss." 

"  For  feerd  she  might  miss,  —  y is !  " 
choired  Richard  and  Paul. 

"A  fine,  stout,  sthrappin'  girl, on  the 
aisy  side  of  fifty -five ;  an'  a  fine  hand  at 
beetlin'  praties,  an'  carin'  calves." 


598 


The  Bachelors  of  JBraggy. 


But  poor  Peter's  temper  would,  de- 
spite desperate  efforts,  give  out :  — 

"Och,  to  the  divil  with  Marg'et 
McClane  an'  her  calves!  We  don't 
want  her !  We  don't  want  no  woman ! 
An'  if  we  did  want  wan,  we  would  n't 
ax  you  to  make  her  for  us !  " 

"Right  ye  are,  Pether!  "  "Right 
ye  are,  Pether!  "  quoth  the  brothers. 

Then  a  deal  of  half-smothered  chuck- 
ling would  sweep  around  the  four  walls ; 
and  Peter's  tormentor  would,  with  a 
look  of  injured  innocence,  turn  on  his 
chair,  and  make  general  complaint  that 
he  never  yet  could  try  to  do  a  neighbor 
—  because  he  was  a  neighbor  —  a  good 
turn,  but  he  contrived  to  have  the  nose 
cut  off  him.  In  response  to  which 
Richard  and  Paul  —  Peter  was  too  full 
for  speech  —  would  mutter  something 
about  "  imperent  people  "  poking  their 
noses  into  places  where  they  were  not 
wanted.  And  then  the  doubly  injured 
one  sought  consolation  in  the  reeking 
pipe  which  a  compassionate  neighbor 
passed  him. 

And  as  insistent  friends  had  often 
assured  them,  the  old  woman  did  die 
one  day:  and  she  was  waked  and  laid 
away  with  all  the  economy  known  to 
the  three  brothers,  —  an  economy  that, 
they  flattered  themselves,  would  be  more 
gratifying  to  the  woman  who  was  gone, 
if  she  only  could  realize  it,  than  to  any 
one  else.  And  then  it  was  voted  that 
Richard,  who  was  the  youngest  and 
least  useful,  should  henceforth  fill  their 
mother's  place  in  the  house,  — milk, 
and  wash,  and  cook,  and  make  the  but- 
ter. 

Though  Richard  undertook  the  duties 
with  ardor,  he  grumbled  ere  a  month, 
and  said  that,  after  all,  the  neighbors 
remarked  rightly  that  a  woman  was  a 
"mortial  handy,  convenient  thing  about 
a  house. "  Both  Peter  and  Paul  gasped 
for  breath  when  first  he  sprang  this 
sedition  upon  them ;  and  then  they 
frowned  upon  him  with  awful  severity, 
and  hoped  (in  their  bitterest  tones)  that 
he  would  never  let  the  like  of  that  split 


his  lips  again.  And  Richard  did  not 
let  it  split  his  lips  again  for  two  days. 
Peter  and  Paul  were  sorely  distressed, 
however,  when,  as  they  sat  round  the  fire 
and  passed  the  pipe,  in  their  usual  after- 
supper  deliberation,  on  the  third  night 
following,  Richard  again  brought  up  the 
subject  of  a  woman's  want,  and  held 
forth  thereupon  at  much  length.  They 
were  so  sorely  distressed  that  they  spake 
not;  only  let  Richard  ramble  on. 

And  so  often  again  did  Richard  press 
home  the  subject,  that  Peter  and  Paul, 
after  many  secret  consultations,  con- 
sented that,  even  at  the  cost  of  their 
peace  of  mind,  Richard  must  be  hu- 
mored. So  they  said  to  Richard, 
"It 's  a  poor  thing  that  we  must  fetch 
in  any  man's  daughter  to  support  her." 

"No  man's  daughter  comes  in  here, " 
Richard  said,  "onless  she  fetches  her 
support  with  her." 

"  Hum !  Then  fire  away,  Richard, 
since  ye  must  have  yer  way.  Where  are 
ye  goin'  to  rise  yer  woman?  " 

" My  woman?  Faith,  it  's  not  me  's 
goin'  to  take  her,  but  wan  of  yerselves. 
/  don't  want  her." 

"Faith,  and  I  'm  very  sure  it  's  not 
me  that  'ill  take  her,"  said  Peter. 

"An'  I  '11  give  ye  me  'davy  it  is  n't 
me,"  quoth  Paul. 

So  Richard  made  the  whistling  sound 
of  a  man  who  has  found  a  cul-de-sac 
where  he  was  certain  of  a  free  passage. 

"An'  what  then?  "  said  Richard. 

"Richard,  astoir,it  's  oftenyeheerd 
our  poor  mother  (God  rest  her!)  say, 
'  Let  him  calls  for  the  tune  pay  the 
piper.'" 

"I'm  young  an'  green,  boys" 
(Richard  would  be  forty-seven  by  Hal- 
lowmas night),  "an'  I  'm  noways  suited 
to  manage  a  woman,"  he  said  plead - 


"  Well,  there  ye  are !  "  For  neither 
Peter  nor  Paul  was  anxious  to  help  him 
out  of  a  dilemma  into  which  stubborn- 
ness had  led  him.  • 

"But,  boys"  — 

"  'As  ye  make  yer  bed  ye  must 


The  Bachelors  of  Braggy. 


599 


on  it, '  "  said  they,  quoting  again  from 
their  mother's  store  of  saws. 

There  was  nothing  left  to  Kichard 
but  to  accept  the  inevitable ;  and  he 
reluctantly  resolved  to  bear  it,  for  the 
benefit  of  the  house,  with  what  grace 
he  could. 

As  the  next  step  was  to  find  a  suit- 
able woman  for  Richard,  the  brothers 
agreed  to  take  counsel  with  the  Bacach 
Gasta  (the  swift-footed  beggar-man). 
So,  on  the  next  night  when  the  Bacach 
Gasta,  coming  that  way,  dropped  his 
wallets  in  Lowrys'  for  his  usual  night's 
sojourn,  he  was  taken  into  confidence 
after  supper,  and  asked  to  procure  a 
good  wife  for  Richard.  And  the  re- 
quirements were  catalogued  for  him. 

"The  notion  o'  marry  in'  is  on  Rich- 
ard," Paul  informed  the  Bacach. 

He  looked  Richard  up  and  down,  and 
then  said,  — 

"  Well,  that 's  neither  shame  nor 
blame.  He 's  come  to  the  time  o' 
day." 

"In  throth,  it 's  wan  of  ourselves  he 
wanted  to  take  the  woman." 

"Which  wasn't  wan  bit  fair,"  said 
the  beggar-man.  "The  young  heart 
always  for  the  big  burden." 

"In  your  thravels  do  ye  think  ye 
could  pick  up  a  suitable  wife  for  us  ?  " 

"I  have  no  doubt  of  it." 

"Ye  know  just  the  kind  of  a  wife 
we  want  for  him  ?  " 

"I  have  a  brave  guess." 

"A  fine,  sthrong,  sthrappin',  agri- 
cultural woman,"  said  Peter. 

"Ay." 

"No  frills  or  foldherols, "  said  Paul. 

"No  figgery-foys  whatsomiver, "  said 
Peter. 

"She  must  be  'holsome  "  (whole- 
some), said  Richard. 

"An'  as  hardy  as  a  harrow-pin," 
said  Peter. 

"No  objection  if  the  countenance  is 
well-favored,"  said  Richard. 

"Bacach,"  said  Peter,  with  indig- 
nant warmth,  "she  may  be  as  ill- 
lookin'  as  the  divil's  gran 'mother." 


"Don't  send  any  chiny  doll  here," 
said  Paul. 

Said  Richard,  "  I  mean,  for  ins'ance, 
Bacach,  if  ye  are  in  swithers  about  two 
weemen,  both  equally  good  in  every 
other  way,  but  wan  of  them  havin'  the 
advantage  of  the  other  in  looks  "  — 

"Then,"  said  Peter,  "sen*  us  the 
ugliest  o'  the  two,  by  all  manner  o' 
mains." 

"The  uglier  the  woman,  the  better 
housekeeper,"  Paul  added. 

"An'  the  more  savin' ;  an'  the  less 
she  '11  throw  out  upon  fine  clothes, " 
quoth  Peter. 

Richard  was  silent. 

"The  woman  ye  pick  must  have 
money,  —  a  good  penny  of  it, "  said 
Peter. 

"Or  Ian',"  said  Paul. 

"Or  Ian',  of  course,"  Peter  added. 

"She  must  be  come  to  years  of  dis- 
cretion, "  said  Paul. 

"An'  have  the  most  of  a  couple  of 
score  years  of  work  in  her  still, "  said 
Peter. 

"She  must  be  able  an'  willin'  to 
work,"  said  Paul. 

"To  work  like  a  nigger, "  said  Peter. 

"If  she  's  a  bit  youngish,  she  '11  be 
the  companionabler, "  said  Richard. 

"A  bit  ouldish,  Bacach,  an'  she  '11 
be  the  sensibler, "  said  Peter  tartly. 

The  Bacach  Gasta  was  nodding  as- 
sent to  all. 

"She  must  be  as  wise  as  a  fox." 

"An'  as  close  as  a  meal-chist." 

"She  must  understand  all  about 
bringin'  up  young  calves  an'  pigs, "  said 
Peter. 

"An'  about  doctorin'  sick  cattle," 
said  Paul. 

"She  can't  be  too  sthrong,"  Peter 
added. 

"  Sthrong  enough  to  toss  a  bull, " 
said  Paul. 

"An'  kindly,"  interpolated  poor 
Richard. 

"  Kindly !     Phew !  "  said  Paul. 

"Sevair  enough  to  sour  crame,  if  ye 
like, "  said  Peter. 


600 


The  Bachelors  of  Braggy. 


"Now,  do  ye  know  what  we  want?  " 
said  Paul. 

"  Yis,  to  the  nail  on  her  little  finger, " 
said  the  Bacach  Gasta,  passing  the  pipe 
to  Peter. 

"Well,  keep  yer  eyes  open,  then," 
said  Peter,  "when  ye  're  up  in  the 
Dhrimholme  parish.  Out  of  there 
comes  the  best  scantlin'  of  weemen  I 
know. " 

"They  're  better  down  the  shore  side 
of  the  parish,"  said  Richard. 

"They  're  hardier  hack  the  moun- 
tain way, "  said  Paul. 

"The  worst  woman  in  Dhrimholme 
is  worth  her  ma  it, "  said  the  Bacach. 
"This  is  Chewsda.  I  '11  be  up  there 
again'  Sathurda.  I  have  a  likely  cou- 
ple or  three  in  me  eye,  an'  I  '11  see  if 
I  can't  fix  yous  up  in  wan." 

Eight  days  later  the  Bacach  Gasta 
was  back  with  word  that  he  had  a 
likely  woman,  —  a  girl  who  had  got 
the  better  of  her  fortieth  year,  and  still 
remained  unmarried,  though  she  had  a 
valuable  farm  on  hand,  and  lived  by  her- 
self on  it.  He  guaranteed,  moreover, 
that,  in  his  opinion,  she  was  everything 
they  desired. 

Peter  proposed  then  that  she  should 
be  invited  down  till  they  would  satisfy 
themselves  that  she  answered  the  in- 
voice. But  Richard  said  that  would 
be  too  much  to  expect.  And  the  Ba- 
cach, as  her  diplomat,  —  which  he  now 
was,  — would  not  agree  to  the  propo- 
sition :  they  must  go  to  see  her.  More- 
over, failing  the  brothers'  approval  of 
her,  he  informed  them  he  had  two 
other  wise  and  well-circumstanced  wo- 
men whom  he  wished  to  show  them. 

On  the  first  day  after,  which  was  too 
wet  for  any  more  profitable  work, 
Peter  and  Paul  took  the  road  with 
Richard,  and  tramped  to  Dhrimholme, 
and  to  Hannah  Jack's  house, — Han- 
nah Jack  was  her  name,  —  in  pursu- 
ance of  the  beggar-man's  detailed  di- 
rections. They  went  in  and  introduced 
themselves. 

"The  Bacach  Gasta,  as  ye  know," 


Peter  said  to  her,  "  has  advised  us  that 
he  b'lieves  ye  'd  make  a  suitable  wo- 
man for  us  "  — 

"  For  yous  ?  "  said  Hannah,  empha- 
sizing the  plural. 

"Well,  for  young  Richard  here. 
But  it 's  all  the  same." 

"Oh!" 

"An'  so,"  Peter  continued,  "we  've 
come  to  see  for  ourselves." 

Whilst,  then,  Hannah  Jack  busied 
herself  preparing  tea  for  them,  Peter 
and  Paul  and  Richard  scanned  her, 
and  followed  every  move  of  her,  and 
did  not  leave  the  arrangements  of  the 
house  unnoticed,  either.  Over  the  tea 
they,  in  an  incidental  sort  of  way,  put 
various  questions  to  her  regarding  her 
farm  and  farm-stock,  —  and,  in  a 
quiet  way,  satisfied  their  thirst  for 
knowledge  in  that  direction.  And 
when  tea  was  finished,  they  pulled 
around  the  fire,  Hannah  in  the  middle, 
and  came  to  business  bluntly,  putting 
Hannah  through  a  catechism  that  dis- 
covered to  them  her  virtues  and  her 
failings  and  her  worldly  worth. 

"Now,  you  '11  excuse  us  for  just  a 
few  minutes  till  we  have  a  word  to- 
gether,"  Peter  said  to  her,  as  he  rose, 
and  beckoned  his  brothers  to  follow 
him  toward  the  door. 

They  went  without,  and,  after  in- 
specting the  calves  and  pigs,  they  pro- 
ceeded around  to  the  gable  of  the  house, 
and  held  serious  deliberation  upon  Han- 
nah's suitability.  On  the  whole,  Rich- 
ard thought,  he  might  go  farther  and 
fare  worse.  So  he  gave  his  vote  for 
Hannah.  But,  unfortunately,  Peter 
was  prejudiced  because,  when  she  had 
taken  down  the  teapot,  she  extrava- 
gantly cast  the  old  tea  leaves  into  the 
pit.  "An'  that  tay  she  uses  is  too  good 
for  such  exthravagance ;  it  would  take 
a  lovely  grip  of  the  second  wather." 

And  during  tea,  Paul  taking  advan- 
tage of  Hannah's  temporary  absence, 
had  peeped  into  a  bandbox,  and  ob- 
served that  she  owned  a  hat  with  fea- 
thers. "An'  both  of  yous  know  as  well 


The  Bachelors  of  Braggy. 


601 


as  I  do,  "  Paul  said,  "what  that  mains, 
—  that  she  'd  let  consait  fly  away  with 
her  cash."  "So,"  said  Peter,  "all 
things  bein'  consithered,  I  think  it 's 
wiser  laive  Hannah  Jack  to  be  fortuned 
on  foolisher  fellas." 

"That's  my  opinion  exactly,"  said 
Paul. 

Richard  whistled  to  himself  a  min- 
ute, and  then  said,  "Well,  yous  have 
better  tell  her  the  vardict,  an'  lose  no 
more  valuable  time." 

"Richard,"  said  they,  "just  tell  her 
yerself .  If  ye  are  n't  too  good  to  do 
yer  own  business." 

Richard  could  not  confess  he  was. 
So  he  had  to  command  his  soul  grimly, 
and  go  within,  alone. 

"No,  thank  you,  Hannah  Jack,"  he 
said,  "I  '11  not  be  taking  a  seat  again. 
It 's  wearin'  late,  an'  we  're  frettin' 
to  be  on  the  move.  Me  brothers  de- 
sires me  to  say,  Hannah  Jack,  that  we 
have  consithered  ye,  an'  ye  're  an  on- 
common  fine  woman  that  any  man  may 
think  himself  lucky  to  get;  but  we 
consither  ye  '11  not  do  us.  Good-even- 
in'  to  ye,  and  thanky  for  yer  oncom- 
mon  kindness." 

Two  other  suitable  women  in  the 
same  tract  had  been  approved  of  by  the 
Bacach  Gasta,  'Liza  Jane  Bohunnan, 
and  Sarah  Bell  Baskin.  So  to  them, 
also,  they  went  in  turn.  'Liza  Jane 
met  their  rigid  requirements  in  every 
way,  — only,  at  the  last  moment,  be- 
fore they  retired  to  exchange  opinions, 
she  said  that,  as  she  had  been  used  to, 
she  would  require  a  drop  of  good  tay 
to  be  brought  to  her  in  bed  in  the 
mornin'  to  rise  her  heart,  and  give  her 
courage  to  get  up.  That  decided  the 
matter.  Any  woman  that  needed  a 
lever  in  the  shape  of  strong  tea  in  the 
mornings  was  better  left  alone.  So 
they  decided.  And  Richard  had,  once 
again,  to  translate  their  decision  into 
palatable  phrase,  and  deliver  it. 

Sarah  Bell  Baskin  ingratiated  her- 
self with  them ;  for  she  carried  pots, 
and  fed  pigs  and  cows,  and  carded 


wool,  and  brought  in  a  creel  of  turf 
whilst  they  interviewed  her  in  snatches. 
And  she  kneaded  bread  at  one  end  of 
the  table,  chatting  them,  whilst  they 
drank  tea  at  the  other.  So,  upon  a 
short  consultation,  Sarah  Bell,  with  her 
hundred-pound  fortune,  was  accepted. 

Of  course,  Richard  had  objected  that 
she  did  not  look  as  "quate  "  (quiet)  as 
should  the  ideal  he  sought.  But  Peter 
and  Paul  frowned  him  down.  "She  '11 
be  quate  enough  in  throth,  after  we  've 
taken  twelve  months'  work  out  of  her, " 
Paul  assured  him. 

"We've  consented  to  have  a  wife 
to  humor  ye,  an'  taken  the  divil's  own 
throuble  to  pick  her  for  ye.  If  ye 
don't  take  Sarah  Bell  Baskin,"  Peter 
said,  "the  sorra  a  wife  ever  ye  '11  see, 
by  our  consent,  if  there  was  a  hurry- 
cane  of  them  blown  like  hailstones 
again'  the  doore." 

"Oh,  if  she  plaises  you,  she  '11 
plaise  me,"  said  Richard. 

And  so  she  should,  after  all.  For 
when  the  marriage  license  was  procured 
by  the  three,  and  brought  home  by  the 
three,  Jemmy  Managhan  discovered 
that  'twas  Peter's  name  was  therein 
recorded:  for  Peter,  having  acted  as 
spokesman,  his  name  was  asked,  and 
given  without  thought,  and  entered. 
"This  is  a  nice  how-d'-ye-do, "  said 
Peter. 

"Well,  we  can't  be  goin'  back  an- 
other seven  mile  journey,  an'  then,  as 
likely  as  not,  pay  for  a  new  license," 
said  Paul  resignedly. 

"Sure,  it 's  all  the  same,"  said  the 
magnanimous  Richard. 

And  Peter  heaved  a  sigh,  resolved 
to  abide  by  his  own  blunder.  And 
Sarah  Bell,  for  her  part,  did  not  mind. 
She  was  marrying  into  "a  good  sittin' 
down. " 

Though,  on  the  wedding-day,  people 
said  the  Lowrys  had  never  been  known 
to  go  to  church  before,  they  said  what 
was  untrue.  For  they  had  been  to 
church  on  the  day  they  were  christened. 
And  Paul,  moreover,  had  gone  in  one 


602 


The  Humors  of  Advertising. 


day  when  Sam  Coulter,  the  sexton,  had 
it  opened,  in  hope  of  raising  sport  with 
his  rat-terrier. 

As,  whilst  they  were  in  the  vestry 
consulting,  and  getting  instructed  for 
the  ordeal,  it  was  found  a  crowd  of 
the  unregenerate  ones  of  Knockagar 
had  assembled  outside  the  church,  with 
the  certain  intention  of  giving  the 
Bachelors  of  Braggy  a  warm  reception 
when  they  should  emerge,  one  bachelor 
less,  the  minister  advised  that  the  wed- 
ding be  postponed  for  an  hour  for  peace' 
sake  and  theirs.  Sarah  Bell  Baskin 
agreed  to  the  wisdom  of  this. 

But  Peter  was  in  no  amiable  mood. 
"I  tell  ye  what  it  is,  Sarah  Bell  Bas- 
kin," said  he;  "either  this  merriage  is 
to  be  now  or  niver.  If  it 's  to  be  now, 
it  '11  be  now  ;  an'  if  it 's  to  be  niver, 
it  '11  be  NIVER!  "  Then  he  paused  for 
her  decision. 

"Then  let  it  be  now,"  said  Sarah 
Bell  Baskin. 

And  by  taking  across  the  fields  with 
his  bride,  the  strategical  Peter  disap- 
pointed the  rascals  who,  for  a  full  hour 
after,  were  keeping  a  reception  warm 
outside  the  church  gate. 

Richard  had  read  Sarah  Bell  aright 
when  he  said  he  did  not  consider  her 
"quate "  enough  for  him.  Richard 
proved  this  experimentally.  Paul  dis- 
covered it.  Peter,  alas,  discovered  it. 
It  took  three  days  to  bring  it  home  to 
them  with  force.  Sarah  Bell  herself, 


with  the  material  aid  of  a  three-legged 
stool,  supplied  the  necessary  force.  In 
a  week  the  peace  of  the  Lowry  house- 
hold was  irretrievably  wrecked,  and 
most  of  the  crockery  ware,  and  the 
more  portable  articles  of  furniture 
also,  and  Richard's  right  arm,  and 
Paul's  dental  assortment,  and  poor 
Peter's  head. 

In  three  weeks  Sarah  Bell  Baskin, 
leaving  them  her  left-handed  blessing, 
took  her  hundred  pounds  and  her  de- 
parture, and  returned  to  the  house  of 
her  father. 

On  the  night  after  she  left,  the  three 
brothers  sat  around  the  fire,  smoking 
in  turn.  And  after  a  long  silence  Pe- 
ter spoke.  He  was  severely  looking  at 
Richard,  who  cowered.  Peter  said,  — 

"Now,  that  chapture  's  over  an' 
done  with  (from  the  depth  o'  me  sowl 
God  be  thankit!);  an'  let  us  hope — • 
let  us  hope  we  '11  niver  again  hear  an- 
other such  schame." 

"Niver!"  said  Paul  emphatically. 
"  Niver,  we  hope !  "  and  he  gazed  at 
Richard  with  a  sidelong  look  of  scath- 
ing rebuke. 

Poor  Richard  looked  into  the  fire 
and  heaved  a  sigh. 

Uncomplainingly  he  again  took  up 
his  household  duties  next  morning. 
And  though,  henceforth,  one  of  them 
was  a  grass  widower,  they  still  carried 
their  old  title  of  the  Bachelors  of 
Braggy. 

Seumas  MacManus. 


THE  HUMORS  OF  ADVERTISING. 


MY  friend,  Antonio  Ciccone,  the  emi- 
nent confettatore  of  Little  Italy,  used  of- 
ten to  invite  me  to  put  his  picture  in  the 
paper.  "  You  put  peech  in  pape,"  he 
would  cry.  "  Beega  peech !  Senda  man, 
beega  machine.  You  say,  '  Antonio 
Ciccone,  molto  religiose,  molto  caritate- 
vole,  besta  man.'  "  And  by  this  I  know 


Antonio  for  a  very  perfect  advertiser 
—  of  that  grandest  type,  the  Homeric. 
He  had  the  splendid  Greek  conception 
of  the  route  to  reputation  ;  instead  of 
suffering  the  world  to  pronounce  upon 
his  merits,  he  would  pronounce  upon 
them  himself.  He  no  more  craved  to 
see  himself  as  others  saw  him  than  did 


The  Humors  of  Advertising. 


603 


Achilles ;  like  Achilles,  he  desired  only 
that  others  might  see  him  somewhat  as 
he  saw  himself. 

Now  I  confess  that  I  have  loved  An- 
tonio for  the  boasts  he  has  made.  Many 
a  man,  finding  himself  no  whit  less  great 
than  that  charming  modern  ancient  of 
Little  Italy,  is  nevertheless  so  grievously 
hemmed  in  by  the  caution  of  his  convic- 
tions, that  he  garbs  his  pride  in  the  staid 
habiliments  of  modesty.  Such  may  be 
dear  good  souls,  and  fit  for  a  thousand 
things,  but  they  will  play  an  ill  hand  at 
advertising.  Let  them  learn  from  Cic- 
cone ;  also  from  my  gifted  fellow  towns- 
man, Mr.  Joe  Chappie,  who,  frank  and 
unafraid,  thus  buoyantly  declares  him- 
self in  the  public  prints  :  — 

"  Do  you  know  Joe  Chappie,  —  the  boy 
who  came  out  of  the  West  almost  penni- 
less, and  has  built  up  a  National  maga- 
zine ?  Do  you  know  Joe  Chappie,  —  the 
man  who  gained  his  knowledge  of  human 
nature  on  the  bumpers  of  freight  trains  ; 
trading  an  old  gray  horse  for  his  first 
printing-press ;  a  printer's  devil  at  twelve, 
an  editor  at  sixteen,  —  through  all  phases 
of  social  life,  up  to  an  invited  guest  on 
presidential  trains,  and  as  special  repre- 
sentative at  the  Coronation  in  Westmin- 
ster Abbey?  Presidents,  Members  of 
the  Cabinet,  Supreme  Court  Judges,  Dip- 
lomats, United  States  Senators,  Congress- 
men, and  Governors  know  Joe  Chappie. 
They  speak  of  his  work, — and  they  write 
for  his  magazine  when  no  other  publica- 
tion on  earth  can  entice  them.  It  is  n't 
because  Chappie  is  brilliant  that  he  has 
won  this  national  reputation  for  himself 
and  his  magazine,  —  it 's  his  quaint  origi- 
nality, his  homelike,  wholesome  good- 
nature that  permeates  all  he  writes. 
There  's  nothing  published  to-day  like 
The  National  Magazine  —  because  there 
is  no  one  just  like  Joe  Chappie." 

Over  and  over  I  have  conned  that  ra- 
diant advertisement,  and  my  merriment, 
I  own,  has  been  not  unmingled  with 
envy.  I  have,  perhaps,  rather  more  dis- 
cretion than  Mr.  Joe  Chappie,  but  less 


than  a  tithe  of  his  valor.  Himself  he 
sings,  myself  I  dare  not  sing.  And  again 
I  am  put  to  shame  by  the  illustrious 
English  confectioner,  who,  having  trod- 
den the  summits  of  conscious  success,  ex- 
claims, "  I  am  the  Toffee  King  !  I  have 
given  to  England  a  great  national  candy, 
and  I  am  now  offering  to  America  the 
same  Toffee  that  has  made  me  so  fa- 
mous abroad.  Does  America  propose  to 
welcome  me,  —  to  welcome  a  candy  that 
is  so  pure  that  any  mother  can  recom- 
mend it  to  her  child  ?  The  answer  is, 
'  Yes,  by  all  means !  "  As  further, 
though  scarce  clearer,  evidence  of  the 
Homeric  temper,  both  Mr.  Chappie  and 
the  Toffee  King  have  achieved  the  glow- 
ing ideal  of  Antonio  Ciccone  :  they  have 
"  peech  in  pape." 

Yet  I  would  not  be  misunderstood; 
I  bring  no  slenderest  charge  of  vanity 
against  those  valiant  modern  Hellenes. 
Pasteur  accepted  learned  degrees  and 
decorations,  not  as  honors  to  himself, 
but  as  tributes  to  his  beloved  France ; 
and  thus  devotedly,  beyond  doubt,  do 
Mr.  Chappie  and  the  Toffee  King  lay 
their  laurels  upon  the  respective  altars 
of  their  very  worthy  enterprises.  For 
what  work  comes  to  its  fullest  and  best 
in  this  faithless  world  of  ours,  if  it  be 
not  haloed  round  with  the  splendor  of  a 
commanding  personality  ?  The  worker 
is  —  or  so  men  fancy  —  the  measure  and 
the  limit  of  the  work.  Magnify  the 
worker,  and  in  so  doing  you  magnify 
the  work.  Look  where  you  will,  you 
shall  find  the  producer  acquiring  what 
luminosity  he  can,  that  the  product  may 
thence  take  profit.  Does  he  paint  ?  He 
capriciously  dyes  his  white  hair  black, 
save  one  lock  only,  which  he  ties  with  a 
jaunty  ribbon ;  he  hales  unappreciative 
critics  to  court ;  seeing  a  picture  called 
Carnation,  Lily  —  Lily,  Rose,  he  ex- 
claims, "  Darnation  silly,  silly  pose,"  — 
a  quotable  saying,  if  you  stop  to  think 
of  it ;  and  the  fame  of  that  painter,  go- 
ing out  through  all  the  earth,  adds  to 
high  art  the  fine  resonance  of  personal 


604 


The  Humors  of  Advertising. 


notoriety.  Men  laugh,  but  they  buy. 
Has  he  a  realm  to  rule,  —  a  realm  made 
up  of  many  petty  kingdoms,  each  vain 
in  its  own  conceit?  He  declaims  the 
mediaeval  doctrine  of  "  divine  right," 
claps  scoffers  in  jail,  and  —  thanks  to  a 
long-drawn  process  of  audacious  and  fan- 
tastic meddling  with  literature,  art,  mu- 
sic, the  drama,  surgery,  yachting,  and 
theology  —  quite  dims  the  effulgence  of 
local  princelings  by  becoming  incompa- 
rably the  most  talked-of  individual  in  all 
his  empire.  Men  laugh,  but  they  yield. 
Has  he  books  to  sell?  Assuming  the 
cast  mantle  of  a  famous  craftsman,  the 
name  of  a  jovial  monk,  the  unshorn  locks 
of  a  poet,  and  the  tripod  of  an  oracle,  he 
preaches  a  new  and  strange  gospel,  and 
with  unquestionable  good  taste  permits 
the  portrait  of  his  son,  "food,  princi- 
pally grape-nuts,"  to  be  printed  as  an 
advertisement,  which,  of  course,  is  just 
what  Fra  Pandolf,  or  the  elder  Kean, 
or  the  Cumsean  Sibyl,  or  the  lamented 
William  Morris  himself  would  have  done. 
Men  laugh,  but  they  buy.  There 's  money 
in  personality,  be  it  never  so  whimsical, 
and  to  that  blazing  star  the  commercial 
go-cart  may  very  prudently  be  hitched. 
Madame  Yale,  the  brilliant  lecturer;  Max 
Rdgis,  the  bold,  bad  duelist ;  John  Alex- 
ander Dowie,  the  reincarnated  prophet, 
—  these  and  a  thousand  others  have 
grasped  the  blessed  truth  that  personal 
publicity  can  be  minted,  with  only  the 
slightest  difficulty,  into  pecuniary  suc- 
cess. "  Peech  in  pape  "  is  pelf  in  purse. 

And  yet,  for  obvious  reasons,  the  most 
delicious  type  of  personal  advertising,  the 
matrimonial,  unfortunately  denies  the 
"  pape  "  the  "  peech."  Oh,  for  a  single 
photographic  glimpse  of  the  little  lady  of 
Yokohama  who  thus  lyrically  declares 
herself :  — 

"  I  am  a  beautiful  woman.  My  abun- 
dant, undulating  hair  envelopes  me  as  a 
cloud.  Supple  as  a  willow  is  my  waist. 
Soft  and  brilliant  is  my  visage  as  the 
satin  of  the  flowers.  I  am  endowed  with 
wealth  sufficient  to  saunter  through  life 


hand  in  hand  with  my  beloved.  Were  I 
to  meet  a  gracious  lord,  kindly,  intelli- 
gent, well  educated,  and  of  good  taste,  I 
would  unite  myself  with  him  for  life, 
and  later  share  with  him  the  pleasure  of 
being  laid  to  rest  eternal  in  a  tomb  of 
pink  marble." 

But  methinks  —  and  this  I  say  be- 
cause I  have  seen  the  hill-town  folk  of 
New  England  elaborately  gulled  through 
nibbling  at  matrimonial  advertisements 
—  the  almond-eyed  enchantress  was  per- 
haps a  wee  trifle  less  charming  in  person 
than  in  pretense.  Great  Homer  nods,  at 
times ;  also  the  Homeric  advertiser. 

But  to  brandish  testimonials,  with  por- 
traits of  important  witnesses,  and  thus  to 
"  let  another  praise  thee  and  not  thine 
own  mouth,"  is  ingeniously  to  remove 
the  discussion  from  the  Homeric,  or  po- 
etic, to  the  Aristotelian,  or  logical,  realm. 
One's  "  loving  friends  "  —  for,  and  in 
consideration  of,  value  received  —  stand 
forth  as  witnesses.  When  Mr.  W.  T. 
Stead,  fresh  from  his  advocacy  of  Mr. 
Wilde  the  astrologer,  proclaims  Mr.  Pel- 
man,  the  mender  of  memories,  a  noble 
"  benefactor  of  the  human  race,"  or  when 
a  "  cousin  of  Wm.  J.  Bryan  "  proves,  by 
the  healthful  lustre  of  his  photograph, 
that  Tierney's  Tiny  Tablets  have  made 
him  whole,  the  great  purpose  is  quite  sat- 
isfactorily attained,  and  meanwhile  Citi- 
zens Pelman,  Wilde,  and  Tierney  have 
lost  nothing  of  their  reputation  for  modest 
stillness  and  humility.  This  ingenious 
cat's-paw  device  plucks  many  a  precious 
chestnut  out  of  the  fire  ;  to  quote  a  single 
commodity,  the  sale  of  proprietary  medi- 
cines is  directly  proportionate  to  the 
quantity  and  blatancy  of  the  advertising 
they  get,  which  proves  the  effectiveness 
of  testimonials  to  a  nicety.  Moreover  — 
and  this,  I  grieve  to  say,  is  a  point  most 
advertisers  overlook  —  the  testimonial 
admits  of  almost  infinite  adaptation.  For 
instance,  when  President  Harper,  in  an 
admirably  sane  and  tempered  address, 
observes  that  students  successfully  pre- 
pared for  college  by  correspondence  in- 


The  Humors  of  Advertising. 


605 


stitutes  are  invariably  possessed  of  cour- 
age and  application,  that  deliverance  of 
his  is  jubilantly  pounced  upon  by  a  dozen 
correspondence  schools  of  the  baser  sort 
(imagine  an  institution,  which,  in  crying 
up  its  course  in  the  art  of  conversation, 
says,  "You  admire  the  party  who  you 
hear  spoken  of  as  '  Don't  he  use  elegant 
language  ?  '  "),  and,  by  a  skillful  derange- 
ment of  context,  the  original  dictum  be- 
comes President  Harper's  avowal  that 
nothing  short  of  pedagogical  absent  treat- 
ment can  possibly  inculcate  courage  and 
application !  And  when  an  insatiable 
moral  reformer  once  so  far  divested  him- 
self of  prudence  as  to  call  a  certain 
vaudeville  theatre  "  absolutely  above  re- 
proach, —  clean,  wholesome,  uplifting," 
the  theatrical  proprietor,  with  a  delicate 
appreciation  of  commercial  values,  had 
the  reformer's  benediction  quite  exqui- 
sitely engrossed  and  framed  and  hung  up 
in  the  foyer  of  his  theatre ;  and  from 
that  very  day  diverged  from  the  paths 
of  rectitude.  Truly  a  blithe  situation : 
within,  a  jubilee  of  vanities,  —  without,  a 
certificate  of  ethical  impeccability !  And 
again,  I  have  seen  a  reverend  apostle  of 
temperance  mischievously  trapped  into 
indorsing  a  patent  medicine  chiefly  com- 
pounded of  spirits  of  wine.  Indeed,  this 
whole  business  of  sponsoring  other  men's 
goods  should  be  carefully  marked  with 
bell-buoys,  which  night  and  day  should 
cry,  "  Shoal  —  'ware  shoal !  " 

But  I  find  that  a  piinted  testimonial, 
even  when  got  by  fair  means  and  em- 
ployed with  good  conscience,  neverthe- 
less lacks  the  convincing  fervor  of  viva 
voce  pleadings.  And  the  spoken  word, 
to  persuade,  need  not  fully  convince.  I 
think  it  was  Sainte-Beuve  who  said  of 
Lacordaire's  preaching,  "  Though  it  fails 
to  convince,  it  does  a  better  thing ;  it 
charms."  And  the  Lacordaire  of  adver- 
tising is  the  sweetly  persuasive  "barker." 
When  such  an  one  cries,  "  Right  inside, 
gepmen  —  see  the  royal  Bengal  tiger  — 
fifteen  feet  from  the  tip  of  his  nose  to  the 
tip  of  his  tail  —  fifteen  feet  from  the  tip 


of  his  tail  to  the  tip  of  his  nose  —  mak- 
ing in  all  the  e-normious  length  of  forty 
feet  —  only  ten  cents,  gepmen,  the  tenth 
part  of  a  dollar,"  I  tarry  not  long  at  the 
gate.  But  when,  on  the  other  hand,  a  uni- 
formed Ethiopian  —  barking  not  gently, 
as  befits  so  tender  a  matter,  but  brazenly, 
bluntly,  and  without  joy  in  his  barking 
—  hales  me  into  Black's  Dental  Parlors, 
I  cannot  overmaster  a  certain  vague 
shrinking  of  spirit.  The  appeal  lacks 
charm,  whereas  even  forceps  and  rubber 
dam  may,  by  a  subtler  and  more  delicate 
order  of  barking,  be  made  absolutely 
alluring.  In  England,  where  this  deli- 
cate art  has  come  to  its  finest  flower,  a 
dentist  secretly  hires  a  viscount  to  com- 
mend him  to  his  friends,  thus  adorning 
the  abhorred  service  with  the  dignity  of 
illustrious  patronage  and  the  seductive- 
ness of  sympathetic  suggestion  ;  for  a 
viscount  will  bark  you  as  gently  as  any 
sucking  dove. 

Sometimes,  however,  you  may  drive 
squarely  at  the  point,  and,  without  re- 
course to  self-laudation  or  purchased 
praises,  offer  the  susceptible  public  a 
tempting  taste  of  your  wares.  This,  the 
empirical  method,  jumps  with  the  modern 
scientific  tendency.  Ethically,  also,  it  un- 
failingly commends  itself,  for  "  Sample 
bottle  free  "  bespeaks  plain  dealing.  Nor 
is  this  all.  The  open  cages  of  the  circus 
parade  will  most  exquisitely  tantalize  the 
zoological  passions ;  and  appetizing  ex- 
tracts, gratuitously  published,  whet  in- 
terest in  a  forthcoming  work  of  humor. 
Thus  I  read,  "  '  We  're  an  honest  people,' 
said  Mr.  Hennessy.  '  We  are,'  said  Mr. 
Dooley,  '  but  we  don't  know  it ; '  "  or 
again,  "  Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a 
Brilliant  but  Unappreciated  Chap  who 
was  such  a  Thorough  Bohemian  that 
Strangers  usually  mistook  him  for  a 
Tramp.  Every  Evening  he  ate  an  imi- 
tation Dinner,  at  a  forty-cent  Table 
d'Hote,  with  a  Bottle  of  Writing  Fluid 
thrown  in,"  —  and  two  new  volumes 
(without  which  no  gentleman's  library  is 
complete)  appear  forthwith  upon  my 


606 


The  Humors  of  Advertising. 


bookshelf.  When  Artemus  Ward,  then 
wholly  unknown,  papered  Boston  with 
handbills,  which,  without  mention  of  time 
or  place,  said  simply,  "A.  Ward  Will 
Speak  a  Piece,"  and  when,  later  in  his  ca- 
reer, his  poster  proclaimed  "  A.  WARD 
HAS  LECTURED  BEFORE  THE 
CROWNED  HEADS  OF  EUROPE 

ever  thought  of  lecturing,"  he   gave,  SO  to  Speak, 

an  earnest  of  levity.  Out  in  Cleveland, 
the  curator  of  an  historical  museum,  call- 
ing my  attention  to  an  antiquated  desk 
and  chair,  said,  "  Those  pieces  of  fur- 
niture, sir,  once  belonged  to  Charles 
Browne,  known  to  the  world  as  Artemus 
Ward.  Lacked  balance  !  "  So  he  did  — 
thank  God  !  —  but  not  as  an  advertiser. 
Now  from  the  ridiculous  to  the  sub- 
lime 't  is  many  a  step,  and  it  is  not  with- 
out a  momentary  shock  to  my  finer  sen- 
sibilities that  I  find  the  solemn  and  awful 
melodrama  of  "  Red-Handed  Bill,  the 
Hair  Lifter  of  the  Far  South- West " 
adapting  to  its  blood-curdling  purposes 
the  frivolous  advertising  methods  in- 
vented by  an  "  exhibitor  of  fine  wax- 
works and  3  moral  bears."  The  pro- 
moter of  melodrama  publishes  a  synopsis 
of  the  impending  "  sensational  represen- 
tation," thus  scattering,  as  it  were,  a 
largess  of  shudders,  which,  for  generos- 
ity at  least,  fully  equals  Ward's  largess 
of  laughter.  Read  here  the  synopsis, 
and  tremble !  "  Act  I.  A  Mountain 
Pass  in  the  Rockies.  In  pursuit.  Kate 
saved  by  the  Cattle  King.  The  assault 
of  Red-Handed  Bill  and  his  Brazen  Ban- 
dits. '  Avaunt !  This  lady  is  under  my 
protection.'  Act  II.  Golden  Gulch  and 
exterior  of  the  Bucket  of  Blood  Saloon. 
The  rustic  lover.  Bob  accused  of  horse 
stealing.  The  struggle  and  capture  of 
the  Cattle  King.  '  Coward,  I  '11  do 
for  you  yet ! '  Act  III.  A  Mountain 
Gorge.  The  captives.  Preparing  for 
death.  The  equine  friend  to  the  rescue 
of  his  master.  '  Saved  ! '  Act  IV. 
Scene  1.  Don  Pedro's  Ranch.  Red- 
Handed  Bill's  Visit.  The  attack. 
Scene  2.  Bob  and  the  Irishman.  '  An 


eye  for  an  eye.'  Scene  3.  Interior  of 
the  Bucket  of  Blood»  Saloon.  Playing 
for  high  stakes.  '  Come  and  take  them 
if  you  dare  !  '  Act  V.  Scene  1.  Inte- 
rior of  Don  Pedro's  Ranch,  Red-Handed 
Bill  and  Barney.  Scene  2.  Heart  of 
the  Rockies.  The  marriage  ceremony. 
Terrific  knife  fight  on  horseback  be- 
tween Red-Handed  Bill  and  Nebraska 
Jim.  «  At  last !  '  Act  VI.  Parlor  in 
Don  Pedro's  Ranch.  The  threat.  Time- 
ly arrival  of  the  Cattle  King.  Carlot- 
ta's  confession.  Bob  and  Kate  happy." 
And,  as  if  this  were  not  enough,  the  pro- 
moter of  melodramas  declares  that  "  the 
breakage  of  costly  bricabrac  during  the 
fight  in  the  Bucket  of  Blood  Saloon 
makes  a  weekly  expense  equal  to  the  en- 
tire salary  list  of  some  companies." 

In  advertising  wild  animal  shows, 
where  one's  animals  are  too  few  to  per- 
mit the  open-cage  extravagance,  and  the 
admission  fee  outweighs  a  barker's  per- 
suasiveness, still  creepier  pronunciamen- 
tos  are  desirable.  You  remember  Mr. 
Janvier's  story,  A  Consolate  Giantess, 
and  how  the  lady  —  widowed,  again 
widowed,  and  then  widowed  twice  more, 
and  for  the  fourth  time  remarried  — 
cried,  "  Ah,  if  our  Neron  would  again 
eat  a  man ! "  When  at  last  the  good 
Giantess  could  announce  "  the  terrible 
man-eating  lion,  Neron,  who  has  de- 
voured five  men,"  all  was  indeed  well. 
In  fact,  in  enterprises  of  this  character, 
no  other  sort  of  advertising  will  long 
serve.  When  Bostock's  animal  show 
first  came  to  the  Pan-American  Exposi- 
tion, its  passionate  press  agent  inserted 
a  "  want "  in  the  Buffalo  papers,  shriek- 
ing for  "fifty  mules,  quick,  to  feed  the 
lions."  This  drew  its  thousands.  Where- 
upon the  press  agent,  quite  losing  his 
head,  advertised  for  "  fifty  tons  of  rags 
to  feed  the  elephants,"  and  was  there- 
upon discharged.  Which  teaches  us 
how  perilous  is  any  departure  from  the 
classic,  which  is  the  sanguinary,  or 
pseudo-sanguinary,  method  of  crying  up 
menageries. 


The  Humors  of  Advertising. 


607 


But,  however  effectual  the  sample  bot- 
tle, the  sample  joke,  and  the  sample 
shudder,  I  can  show  you  a  yet  more  ex- 
cellent device.  Depreciate  your  wares. 
Learn  from  the  Tennessee  innkeeper 
who  described  his  establishment  as  "  not 
the  largest  hotel  in  the  burg  ;  not  newly 
furnished  throughout ;  no  free  'bus  to 
trains  ;  not  the  best  grub  the  market  af- 
fords ;  but  simply  clean  beds  and  good 
food.  25  cents  a  sleep,  25  cents  an  eat. 
Toothpicks  and  ice  water  thrown  in. 
Try  us  !  Pay  up !  And  if  not  satisfied 
keep  mum."  Or  emulate  the  New  Jer- 
sey husbandman  who  declared,  "  Owing 
to  ill  health,  I  will  sell  one  blush  rasp- 
berry cow,  aged  eight  years.  She  is  of 
undaunted  courage  and  gives  milk  freely. 
To  a  man  who  does  not  fear  death  in 
any  form,  she  would  be  a  great  boon. 
I  would  rather  sell  her  to  a  non-resident 
of  the  county."  Or  again,  wisely  imi- 
tate the  New  York  tapster  who  set  above 
his  door  the  superscription,  "  Road  to 
Hell."  By  thus  quietly  assuming  that 
success  can  in  no  wise  be  scared  off  the 
premises,  you  shall  certainly  outvie  your 
loud-boasting  competitors.  Besides,  you 
will  deal  exclusively  with  men  of  valor, 
which,  in  these  soft  times,  is  a  rare 
enough  privilege. 

Do  you  lack  the  fortitude  to  denounce 
your  wares  ?  There  are  those  who  will 
cheerfully  relieve  you  of  that  responsi- 
bility. Forbid  them  not.  Detraction 
has  proved  a  Golconda  to  Mr.  Richard 
Harding  Davis.  "  Near-food  "  sells  fast- 
er, and. the  "Dope-Lovers'  Library" 
gains  new  subscribers,  as  a  result  of  Mr. 
Dooley's  merry  jibes.  Life,  condemning 
the  automobile  in  a  hundred  cartoons, 
becomes  an  incomparable  advertising 
medium  for  the  most  homicidal  of  motor- 
vehicles.  Many  a  public  man  would  give 
his  weight  in  radium  for  a  "  roast "  in 
the  New  York  Sun.  To  be  talked  about, 
—  that  is  the  requisite,  —  and  it  matters 
little  whether  the  talk  be  kind  or  cruel. 
P.  T.  Barnum  appreciated  this  when, 
without  the  faintest  intention  of  carrying 


out  the  fearful  threat,  he  let  it  be  whis- 
pered that  he  was  about  to  buy  Shake- 
speare's house  and  bundle  it  off  to  Amer- 
ica. "  Shameless  desecration  !  "  howled 
the  press,  —  which  was  precisely  what 
Barnum  wanted.  Without  spending  a 
dollar,  he  secured  hundreds  of  "  reading 
notices,"  in  "first-class  position,"  and 
focused  the  lively  attention  of  every  Eng- 
lish or  American  reader  upon  himself 
and  his  business. 

And  if  it  takes  grit  to  invite  abuse, 
why,  bless  you,  so  does  all  good  adver- 
tising. Only  an  unconquerable  soul  will 
write  upon  his  finished  product.  "  I  con- 
sider this  magazine  absolutely  perfect ; 
had  I  spent  a  million  dollars,  I  could 
not  have  achieved  anything  more  splen- 
did." For  we  have  here,  you  see,  the 
didactic  *'  ad,"  in  which  the  advertiser, 
fearlessly  exalting  himself  above  his  pub- 
lic, tells  it  what 's  what.  Thus  the  ven- 
der of  "  near-food  "  declares,  "  What 
you  eat,  you  are.  Be  wise  in  time." 
And  many  a  self-appointed  arbiter  of 
taste  announces  a  full  line  of  "  art " 
chairs,  "  art "  glass,  "  art "  bicycles,  and 
I  know  not  what  other  objets  d'art,  — 
"  art "  catalogue  free  on  application. 
Nor  could  Ruskin,  even  in  his  most  au- 
tocratic mood,  have  rivaled  the  proprie- 
tor of  the  frying-pan  clock,  who  pro- 
nounces, with  an  air  of  sublime  finality, 
"  The  keynote  of  modern  interior  deco- 
ration is  simplicity  —  be  sure  you  strike 
it  when  you  furnish  your  '  den.'  One  of 
the  most  pleasing  and  interesting  adorn- 
ments for  your  '  den  '  is  our  Frying-Pan 
Clock.  Made  from  a  real  frying-pan. 
Bow  of  ribbon,  any  color."  Here,  I 
observe,  is  a  very  brave  man,  and  the 
brave,  you  will  find,  have  ever  at  their 
heels  a  train  of  timid  folk,  who  relish 
commands.  It  is  sweet  to  obey,  sweet 
to  obey  without  question.  Dogma,  tra- 
dition, authority,  —  upon  these  founda- 
tions men  have  built  religions,  philoso- 
phies, and  governments ;  what  wonder, 
then,  that  when  the  valiant  didactic  ad- 
vertiser essays  to  lead  the  world  by  the 


608 


The  Humors  of  Advertising. 


nose,  space  bristles  with  willing  noses ! 
And  yet  I  can  show  you  another  law, 
the  law  called  protest,  which,  though 
rarer,  plays  a  part  not  less  significant 
than  that  taken  by  obedience.  Rome 
has  its  Luther,  philosophy  its  Hume,  gov- 
ernment its  Emma  Goldman,  the  didac- 
tic "  ad  "  its  brood  of  unconvinced  re- 
calcitrants. Problem  :  to  wheedle  such. 
Now  a  well-pleased  man  yields  soon- 
est to  coaxing.  And  it  happens  that 
pleasure  awakened  by  an  utterly  irrele- 
vant matter  sheds  its  radiance  over  the 
business  in  hand.  Many  a  wight  gets 
monstrously  cheated  by  sealing  a  bar- 
gain at  dinner.  Indeed,  I  remember  a 
charming  Bohemian  caf  6  where  I  myself 
was  once  thus  undone.  The  soft  glow 
of  the  lights,  the  scores  of  merry  faces, 
the  tinkle  of  a  tiny  orchestra,  and  the 
courses  of  dainties  on  dainties,  —  these 
argued  nothing,  yet  argued  all.  To  con- 
quer the  unconvinced  recalcitrant,  mel- 
low his  mood.  And  in  the  rural  districts 
a  show  does  as  well  as  a  dinner.  Hence 
the  "medicine  company,"  with  its  in- 
genious employment  of  music  and  the 
drama  to  create  an  atmosphere  in  which 
proprietary  remedies,  heartily  eulogized 
by  a  lecturer,  will  sell  to  advantage. 
They  say  the  medicine  company  has 
seen  its  day.  Believe  them  not.  The 
New  York  Clipper  still  chronicles  its  tri- 
umphs :  witness  this  cheerful  report  by 
Dr.  Wood  Leigh.  "I  opened  my  Win- 
ter Medicine  Show  in  Illinois,  Oct.  3, 
carrying  five  people,  and  the  show  is 
taking  big.  Dick  Doble,  in  song  and 
dance,  is  a  success  ;  Mme.  Leigh,  in  ser- 
pentine dances,  was  a  strong  feature. 
Had  to  stop  taking  money  at  the  door 
at  7.40  on  her  night.  Walter  Whitley 
in  contortion,  rings  and  traps,  hit  them 
right ;  Will  May,  descriptive  singer  and 
monologue,  was  excellent."  Also  the 
following :  "  Roster  and  Notes  from  the 
German  Medicine  Co. — Joe  Sower,  man- 
ager ;  William  Herbert,  black  face  come- 
dian, marionettes  and  magic ;  Lew  Ro- 
sare,  contortionist ;  Prof.  F.  E.  Miller, 


spirit  cabinet,  handcuff  act  and  silly  kid 
piano  player;  Joe  Sower,  Irish  and 
Dutch  act ;  Mrs.  Sower,  treasurer,  and 
Baby  Pauline,  ballads.  We  play  to 
S.  R.  O.  nightly."  Here,  then,  you  be- 
hold the  Muses  Nine  conspiring  with 
.ZEsculapius  in  a  device  known  to  ethical 
philosophers  as  the  Little  Game. 

Failing  dinners  and  shows  —  which, 
alas,  come  high!  —  the  Little  Game 
takes  the  less  costly  form  of  humor. 
And,  from  the  economic  viewpoint,  it 
waives  the  implied  paradox  and  takes 
its  humor  seriously.  A  joke  may  find 
him  who  a  sermon  flies  ;  for  the  mirthful 
advertisement  outflanks  logic  by  creating 
a  milieu  hypnotically  conducive  to  com- 
mercial exchange.  Truly,  were  Sunny 
Jim  to  convert  the  nine  gowned  justices, 
stern  reasoners  though  they  be,  into  regu- 
lar purchasers  of  Force,  I  should  not  so 
much  as  blink  ;  for  Force  is  a  jovial  name. 
Uneeda  Biscuit  become  only  the  more 
negotiable  under  so  whimsical  a  sobri- 
quet ;  and  "  Prof.  Lawrence,  tonsorial  ar- 
tist, cranial  manipulator,  and  capillature 
abridger,"  gets  trade  in  plenty.  So  does 
the  London  publican,  who  calls  his  inn 
"  The  Swallow."  There  's  a  mischievous 
winsomeness,  too,  in  the  Preacher  Cigar, 
the  Three  Nuns  Cigarettes,  and  —  save 
the  mark !  —  St.  Mary's  Distillery.  So 
it  comes  about  that  whoso  hits  on  a 
clever  name  sits  exalted  among  the  gods 
of  his  personal  Pantheon.  But  a  most 
obliging  divinity  I  find  him,  and  ever 
ready  to  disclose  the  intellectual  pro- 
cesses whereby  he  achieved  his  triumph. 
Poe  has  told  how  he  wrote  The  Raven, 
Kipling,  how  he  composed  his  Reces- 
sional; and  with  equal  appropriateness 
the  rat-poison  man  consents  to  lay  bare 
his  heart.  Having  traced  the  conception 
and  realization  of  a  great  hope,  he  comes 
at  last  to  the  question  of  nomenclature. 
"  That  was  the  rub.  I  wrestled  with 
that  problem  for  several  days  and  nights. 
One  night,  after  working  over  it  till  well- 
nigh  morning,  I  got  tired  and  gave  it  up. 
But  I  said  aloud  to  myself, '  Well,  what 


The  Humors  of  Advertising. 


609 


ever  I  call  it  in  the  end,  it  certainly  is 
"  Rough  on  Rats."  '  It  struck  me  like  a 
flash  —  that  this  expression  was  the  win- 
ning name,  and  in  ten  minutes  I  was 
out  on  the  floor,  executing  a  war  dance 
to  the  refrain,  '  Rats,  Rats,  Rough  on 
Rats,  Hang  Your  Dogs,  and  Drown  Your 
Cats.' "  Dear,  good  Mother  Eddy,  it 
seems,  had  a  somewhat  similar  experi- 
ence. "  Six  weeks,"  she  declares,  "  I 
waited  on  God  to  suggest  a  name  for  the 
book  I  had  been  writing.  Its  title,  Sci- 
ence and  Health,  came  to  me  in  the 
silence  of  the  night,  when  the  steadfast 
stars  watched  over  the  world —  when 
slumber  had  fled  —  and  I  rose  and  re- 
corded the  hallowed  suggestion.  The 
following  day  I  showed  it  to  my  literary 
friends,  who  advised  me  to  drop  both 
the  book  and  the  title.  To  this,  how- 
ever, I  gave  no  heed." 

Thus  it  befalls  that  a  rather  dismal  joke 
becomes  little  short  of  the  magnificent 
when  viewed  from  the  standpoint  of  its 
author.  And,  after  all,  the  jester  should 
of  right  be  merrier  than  his  merriest 
jests,  —  or,  at  least,  when  one  comes  to 
think  of  it,  such  is  generally  the  case,  — 
and  a  defenseless  world  must  learn  to 
make  the  best  of  it.  To  subject  a  humor- 
ous advertisement  to  cold  criticism  is  to 
spoil  the  fun.  The  real  jocularity  is  not 
in  the  advertisement,  but  in  the  adver- 
tiser. The  photographer  who  exclaims, 
"  Bring  on  your  dear  little  babies ;  if 
they  don't  sit  still  I  won't  get  mad,  for 
I  was  a  baby  once  myself,"  is  funnier 
than  his  advertisement.  When  I  read, 

Save  your  time  and  save  your  pelf, 
Save  your  temper,  shave  yourself, 

I  chuckle.  Is  the  rhyme,  then,  so  clever  ? 
No,  I  can  quote  you  a  whole  anthology 
of  infinitely  wittier  jingles.  But  a  razor, 
which  none  but  the  bearded  contemplate 
without  a  shudder,  or  handle  without 
grave  solicitude,  suggests  a  train  of 
thought  moving,  let  us  say,  from  north 
to  south.  And  a  razor-monger  of  so 
poetical  a  temper  as  that  here  manifest 
suggests  a  train  of  thought  moving,  let 
VOL.  xcm.  —  NO.  559.  39 


us  say,  from  south  to  north.  Presto, 
collision !  And  I  laugh,  not  because  the 
two  trains  meet,  to  the  well-deserved 
damage  of  their  dignity,  but  rather  be- 
cause the  smash  is  transparently  pre- 
meditated ;  which  bespeaks  jocularity 
where  least  expected.  Likewise  I  trea- 
sure the  spirited  lines  :  - — 

Mary  had  a  little  lamb ; 

Its  fleece  was  white  as  snow, 
For  every  morning  with  Truth  Soap 

She  washed  him,  don't  you  know  ? 

Now  Mary  never  boiled  the  lamb. 

She  merely  let  him  soak 
In  soap  and  water  over  night, 

And  rinsed  him  when  he  woke. 

This,  I  have  sometimes  dared  think, 
almost  equals  the  German  professor's 
prescription  of  an  infallible  test  for  the 
temperature  of  the  baby's  bath :  "  Put 
the  baby  in  the  water ;  if  he  turns  red, 
it 's  too  warm  ;  if  he  turns  blue,  it 's  too 
cold."  For  the  notion  of  a  woolly  little 
lamb  put  sorrowfully  to  bed  in  a  wash- 
tub  appeals  quite  powerfully  to  one's 
sense  of  the  pathetic,  and  pathos  adds 
ever  a  certain  wicked  zest  to  the  humor- 
ous. And  yet  the  fine  flavor  of  this 
quaint  advertisement  lies  chiefly,  I 
think,  in  the  unexpected  oddity  where- 
with a  most  respectable  nursery  rhyme 
is  perverted  and  elaborated  to  suit  the 
exigencies  of  the  soap  trade.  Twist  and 
distort  the  familiar,  till  art-for-art's-sake 
becomes  art-for-advertising's-sake,  and 
you  perpetrate  a  highly  jovial  crime. 
Thus  a  facsimile  of  the  cover  design  of 
Confessions  of  a  Wife  attracts  my 
vagrant  eye  to  what  looks  for  all  the 
world  like  an  extract  from  that  most 
delirious  of  novels  :  "  To-morrow  is  our 
wedding  day,  and  I  have  a  surprise  for 
Dana.  ...  I  can  see  him  sometimes 
looking  wistfully  at  his  soiled  left  hand. 
.  .  .  Dana  has  grown  so  patient  and 
gentle  that  it  frightens  me.  .  .  .  When 
he  swears  and  throws  the  soap  around 
the  room  my  spirits  are  quite  good  —  it  is 
not  natural  for  Dana  to  be  patient.  .  .  . 
Cleanliness  has  its  price  as  well  as  love, 


610 


The  Humors  of  Advertising. 


and  it  seems  as  if  in  this  struggle  with 
common  soaps  he  paid  the  cost  of  his 
cleanliness  from  the  treasury  of  his  life. 
...  I  have  got  a  cake  of  Hand  Sapolio 
for  Dana." 

These  charming  parodies  seem  to  me 
so  ingratiating,  and  their  gratuitous  pub- 
lication indicates  so  fine  a  geniality,  that 
I  find  myself  quite  amiably  disposed 
toward  the  advertisers  who  have  put 
them  forth.  This  is  what  the  advertisers 
wanted,  and  I  perceive,  not  without  a 
modicum  of  personal  satisfaction,  that 
verily  they  have  their  reward.  They  de- 
serve it.  For  art  is  long,  and  successful 
humor  the  longest  and  toughest  of  arts. 
I  have  known  many  jokers,  but  few 
jokes.  And  so  I  am  hardly  surprised  to 
find  a  distinguished  authority  counseling 
advertisers  to  walk  wide  of  the  jocose 
advertisement.  Says  he,  "  The  man  who 
has  no  sense  of  humor  can  never  see  the 
point  of  a  humorous  ad,  while  there  is 
every  reason  for  believing  that  the  man 
who  has  a  sense  of  humor  is  connoisseur 
enough  to  select  choicer  food  for  it  than 
that  afforded  in  the  humorous  ad."  But 
jocosity  will  out,  and  the  comic  adver- 
tisement has  come  to  stay.  And  as 
humor  is  rare,  especially  in  America 
(for  what  other  nation  in  Christendom 
would  relish  Mrs.  Wiggs  of  the  Cab- 
bage Patch?),  the  advertiser  accord- 
ingly addresses  himself,  with  notorious 
success  and  unquestioned  profit,  to  the 
humor  of  the  humorless.  Watch  the 
passengers  in  the  trolley  car.  They  are 
delightedly  absorbing  its  frieze  of  obvi- 
ous comicalities,  and  with  my  hand  on 
my  heart  I  declare  there  never  were 
more  fatuous  jingles,  never  more  vapid 
absurdities,  never  more  limping  attempts 
at  wit.  This  is  just  as  it  should  be.  For 
a  single  disgruntled  beholder  —  like 
yourself,  gentle  reader  —  there  are  thou- 
sands on  thousands  who  proudly  imagine 
themselves  amused. 

"  Humor,"  says  Mr.  Crothers,  "  is  the 
frank  enjoyment  of  the  imperfect."  Yes, 
but  not  of  imperfect  fun.  And  I  find 


the  advertiser  most  deliciously  amusing 
when  he  least  aspires  to  be ;  I  frankly 
enjoy  his  laughterless  and  unconscious 
imperfections.  "  Miss  Ellen  Terry  will 
positively  appear  in  three  pieces,"  writes 
he  ;  or  "  Try  our  patent  lamp-chimney 
and  save  half  your  light ; "  or  even, 
"  Our  fish  cannot  be  approached."  A 
correspondence  school  of  advertising 
declares  in  its  enthusiastic  prospectus, 
"  You  will  never  see  the  ad  writer  play 
the  wall-flower  in  society ; "  and,  good 
lack,  why  should  he  ?  I  will  pledge  my 
all  to  find  admirers  for  any  author  of 
unwittingly  humorous  advertisements. 
Indeed,  I  dare  say  Mr.  Crothers  himself 
would  be  proud  to  fellowship  with  such 
an  one,  and  "  frankly  enjoy  his  imper- 
fections," though  methinks  he  would  per- 
haps reserve  the  right  to  order  his  own 
affairs  without  assistance  from  so  devi- 
ous and  humorless  an  intellect.  I  recall 
a  noted  clergyman  who,  when  promoting 
the  American  lectures  of  a  touring  Brit- 
ish dean,  sought  counsel  of  a  professional 
advertiser.  "  Get  a  strong  list  of  patron- 
esses," said  his  confident  Mentor,  "  and 
I  '11  do  the  rest."  So  the  churchman 
spent  some  seven  laborious  days  ringing 
just  the  right  doorbells,  and  thus  secured 
the  sponsorship  of  the  good  and  great. 
The  advertiser  spent  seven  days,  also, 
contriving  a  suitable  sensation.  Without 
waiting  on  clerical  approval  —  for  what 
do  the  clergy  know  of  these  mundane 
matters  ?  —  he  posted  ten  thousand  cir- 
culars, each  bearing  the  impressive  ros- 
ter of  fashionable  patronesses,  and  each 
superscribed  in  monstrous  letters  (as  be- 
fitted the  intellectual  dimensions  of  the 
reverend  lecturer)  — 

COME  and  HEAR  a 

RARE  EN&?SH  DEAN! 

The  touring  dean,  like  the  king  in  the 
ancient  chronicle,  waxed  "  wonderly 
wroth  ;  "  so  did  the  fashionable  patron- 
esses ;  so,  in  consequence,  did  the  trust 
ful  clergyman,  who  for  many  a  day  had 
to  bide  his  light  under  a  bushel.  But  the 


The  Humors  of  Advertising. 


611 


advertising  specialist  stood  by  his  guns. 
He  had  brought  the  dean's  lecture  to 
a  happy  issue,  packed  the  auditorium, 
minted  a  snug  and  glittering  little  for- 
tune. For  his  well-aimed  gaucherie  had 
set  the  whole  town  babbling,  and  the 
social  cataclysm  and  its  resultant  uproar 
had  converted  the  hideous  proclamation 
into  that  best  of  advertisements,  the 
self-repeater. 

When  I  turn  advertiser,  I  shall  ven- 
ture on  nothing  but  self-repeaters.  I 
shall  uniformly  advertise  my  deans  after 
that  perilous  but  remunerative  fashion  ; 
indeed,  I  shall  even  emulate  the  Girl 
with  the  Auburn  Hair,  from  whom  I 
one  day  received  a  very  pretty  missive, 
which,  written  in  a  delicate  feminine 
hand,  on  irreproachable  note-paper,  thus 
tactfully  invited  consideration  :  — 

DEAR  MR.  HARTT,  —  As  I  never 
asked  a  favor  of  you  before  in  all  my 
life,  I  feel  free  to  ask  one  now.  Please 
have  the  goodness  to  meet  me  at  the 
stage  entrance  of  Shea's  Garden  Theatre 
at  eight  o'clock  any  evening  next  week. 
Wear  a  pink  carnation  in  your  button- 
hole, so  I  shall  know  you.  Don't  tell 
any  one  except  your  wife  and  family. 

Sincerely  yours, 
THE  GIRL  WITH  THE  AUBURN  HAIR. 

As  every  man  in  town,  or  at  least 
every  man  in  the  address  book,  had  been 
honored  with  a  similar  brochure,  just 
imagine  the  hubbub  !  I  am  not  aware 
that  innumerable  multitudes  assembled, 
carnation-bedecked,  at  the  stage  entrance 
of  Shea's  Garden  Theatre,  but  I  have  it 
for  truth  that  the  Girl  with  the  Auburn 
Hair  sang  to  vast  and  highly  expectant 
audiences.  She  had  made  every  man  of 
us  her  herald. 

And  so  it  chances  that  many  a  com- 
mercial proclamation  leaps  from  the  ad- 
vertising column  to  the  realm  of  popu- 
lar humor,  and  is  there  repeated  free  of 
cost.  A  proletarian  vaudeville  audience 
will  laugh  at  the  merest  mention  of 


Heinz's  pickles  or  Dr.  Munyon's  inhaler. 
In  A  Chinese  Honeymoon,  Miss  Toby 
Claude,  with  a  marvelous  horizontal  pig- 
tail, becomes,  in  the  lines  assigned  to  the 
leading  comedian,  "  Sunny  Jim's  sister," 
—  and  the  joke,  so  profitable  to  the  man- 
ufacturers of  Force,  brings  a  burst  of 
uncontrollable  merriment.  A  newspa- 
per jokesmith  contrives  that  Mrs.  Mc- 
Bride  shall  say,  "  I  can't  cokx  my  hus- 
band to  eat  any  breakfast ;  "  to  which 
Mrs.  Oldwife  rejoins,  "  Have  you  tried 
Force  ?  "  Whereupon  Mrs.  McBride 
exclaims,  "  Madam,  you  don't  know  my 
husband  !  "  All  my  advertisements,  I 
have  determined,  must  thus  reverber- 
ate. 

Better  yet,  I  am  fixed  upon  it  that 
whenever  possible,  they  shall  go  capped 
and  gowned  in  academic  dignity.  I  re- 
member a  little  affair  that  occurred  some 
years  ago  at  a  venerable  New  England 
College.  It  was  Commencement  Day. 
A  brilliant  audience  had  assembled.  On 
the  platform  sat  the  distinguished  Facul- 
ty and  trustees  of  that  ancient  institution 
of  learning.  Several  youthful  orators 
had  successively  striven  for  appreciation, 
till  at  last  appeared  the  putative  candi- 
date for  the  prize  "  for  the  best  appear- 
ance on  the  Commencement  stage."  A 
handsome  lad  he  was,  and  a  really  im- 
pressive figure  as  he  strode  across  the 
platform  in  his  flowing  Oxford  gown. 
He  bowed  smilingly,  and  then  said  with 
radiant  amiability,  "  Good  -  morning ! 
Have  you  used  Pears'  Soap  ?  "  With 
that  he  paused  —  seconds,  but  hours  it 
seemed  —  while  a  shudder  of  scandal- 
ized horror  ran  through  us  all.  I  could 
have  sunk  into  the  very  depths  of  the 
earth.  The  learned  Faculty  were  beside 
themselves  with  mingled  rage  and  mor- 
tification. The  audience  gasped.  But 
after  the  dreadful  pause  came  the  ring- 
ing exclamation,  "  This  is  the  advertise- 
ment that  stares  us  in  the  face,  turn 
where  we  will !  Do  you  read  the  adver- 
tisements in  the  daily  papers  ?  You 
ought  to."  And  then  followed  an  elo- 


612 


The  Humors  of  Advertising. 


quent  address  on  the  Economics  of  Ad- 
vertising, —  an  address  so  vigorous  and 
sane  and  convincing,  and  delivered  with 
such  ardor  and  measure,  that  the  terrible 
youth  covered  himself  with  honor,  and 
triumphantly  bore  away  the  prize.  There 
you  had  a  self -repeater  worth  talking 
about. 

Such,  then,  as  I  view  these  pleasant 
interests,  are  the  humors  of  advertising. 
I  am  advised,  however,  that  some, 
Charles  Dickens  among  them,  prescribe 
an  attitude  less  frivolous  than  mine  to- 
ward so  solemn  a  thing  as  the  printed 
advertisement.  Says  Dickens,  "  The 
advertisements  which  appear  in  a  public 
journal  take  rank  among  the  most  signi- 
ficant indications  of  the  state  of  socie- 
ty of  that  time  and  place."  Which  is 
literally  true  of  this  singular  brochure 
in  the  Dyersburg,  Tennessee,  Gazette  : 
"  LOST  —  A  HOUSE. 

"  On  Tuesday,  March  16,  my  dwell- 
ing-house, thirteen  miles  above  Caruth- 
ersville,  was  washed  from  its  foundation 
and  floated  down  the  Mississippi  River. 
It  is  a  new  two-story  frame,  painted 
white  and  built  in  T  shape,  with  a  hall 
in  the  centre,  and  a  two-story  front  porch 
all  the  way  across  the  building.  It  con- 
tained all  my  household  and  kitchen 
furniture,  including  an  organ  with  J.  C. 
engraved  on  the  plate.  The  cook  stove 
is  an  old-fashion  No.  8  range.  A  Mar- 
lin  rifle,  sixteen-shot,  38-calibre,  was  also 
in  the  house.  Any  one  knowing  the 
whereabouts  of  this  house  will  be  re- 
warded by  informing  me  at  this  place." 

Here,  beyond  doubt,  you  have  an  accu- 
rate picture  of  life  in  Dyersburg,  Tennes- 
see. The  advertisement  thus  becomes 
material  for  the  sociologist,  and  if  this 
be  sociology  let  us  make  the  most  of  it ! 
"  The  most  truthful  part  of  a  newspa- 
per," says  Thomas  Jefferson,  "  is  the 


advertisements."  When,  therefore,  I 
read,  "  Come  and  see  the  Human  Suicide : 
he  kills  himself  every  fifteen  minutes," 
or  "  A  bottle  of  Italian  air  (price  one 
dollar)  will  make  you  sing  like  Patti  in 
her  early  days,"  I  have  doubtless  enlarged 
my  personal  sapiency  by  peacefully  an- 
nexing an  indisputable  fact.  Neverthe- 
less, so  ill-poised  is  my  solemnity  that, 
even  when  thus  handsomely  enriched,  I 
laugh  in  the  face  of  my  new  acquisition. 
Yet  a  kindly  laugh  it  is,  —  with  charity 
for  all,  and  with  malice  toward  none. 

Indeed,  he  were  a  sad  sort  of  Chris- 
tian, who,  stalking  abroad  through  the 
sunny  realna  of  public  advertising,  could 
fail  to  be  warmed  by  its  humors.  For, 
despite  their  conscious  or  unconscious 
grotesquerie,  they  bespeak  the  Pauline 
virtues  of  faith,  hope,  and  love  :  faith  in 
the  omnipotence  of  the  advertisement ; 
hope  writ  large  in  a  splendid  commercial 
optimism  ;  love,  singing  ever  of  noble 
disinterestedness.  And  the  greatest  of 
these  is  love.  Fortunes  in  mining 
stocks,  health  and  long  life  in  unfailing 
pills  and  potions,  wisdom  by  mail  or  in 
packages  of  breakfast  food,  the  trap- 
pings of  splendor  for  only  a  tithe  of 
their  value,  —  these,  and  a  hundred  other 
precious  things,  are  fairly  pelted  at  a  be- 
loved public,  to  the  apparent  ruin  of  its 
benefactors.  Even  the  advertising  of 
this  vast  and  profoundly  altruistic  sacri- 
fice costs  millions  of  dollars.  And  the 
pretty  point  of  it  is,  the  advertisers,  such 
is  the  joy  with  which  an  approving  Pro- 
vidence beholds  their  self-forgetfulness, 
get  rich  in  the  process.  Moreover,  it  is 
sweet  to  know  that,  in  the  last  analysis, 
it  is  my  money  and  yours  that  they  fat- 
ten on,  and,  by  virtue  of  increased  prices, 
my  money  and  yours  that  pays  for  their 
extravagant  advertising  —  which,  me- 
thinks,  is  the  best  joke  of  all. 

Rollin  Lynde  Hartt. 


Whippoorwill  Time.  613 


WHIPPOORWILL  TIME. 

LET  down  the  bars ;  drive  in  the  cows  ; 

The  west  is  dyed  with  burning  rose : 
Unhitch  the  horses  from  the  ploughs, 

And  from  the  cart  the  ox  that  lows, 
And  light  the  lamp  within  the  house. 
The  whippoorwill  is  calling, 

"  Whip-poor-will ;  whip-poor-will," 
Where  the  locust  blooms  are  falling 

On  the  hill: 

The  sunset's  rose  is  dying, 
And  the  whippoorwill  is  crying, 

"  Whip-poor-will ;  whip-poor-will ;  " 

Soft,  now  shrill, 
The  whippoorwill  is  crying 
"  Whip-poor-will." 

Unloose  the  watch-dog  from  his  chain  : 

The  first  stars  wink  their  drowsy  eyes 
A  sheep-bell  tinkles  in  the  lane, 

And  where  the  shadow  deepest  lies 
A  lamp  makes  bright  the  kitchen  pane. 
The  whippoorwill  is  calling, 

"  Whip-poor-will ;  whip-poor-will," 
Where  the  berry-blooms  are  falling 

On  the  rill: 

The  first  faint  stars  are  springing, 
And  the  whippoorwill  is  singing, 

"  Whip-poor-will ;  whip-poor-will ;  " 

Softly  still 

The  whippoorwill  is  singing, 
"  Whip-poor-will." 

The  cows  are  milked  ;  the  cattle  fed  ; 

The  last  far  streaks  of  evening  fade : 
The  farm-hand  whistles  in  the  shed, 

And  in  the  house  the  table  's  laid  ; 
The  lamp  streams  on  the  garden-bed. 
The  whippoorwill  is  calling, 

"  Whip-poor-will ;  whip-poor-will," 
Where  the  dog-wood  blooms  are  falling 

On  the  hill: 

The  afterglow  is  waning, 
And  the  whippoorwill 's  complaining, 
"  Whip-poor-will ;  whip-poor-will ;  " 

Wild  and  shrill, 

The  whippoorwill  's  complaining, 
"  Whip-poor-will." 


614 


The   Work  of  the   Woman's   Club. 

The  moon  blooms  out,  a  great  white  rose : 

The  stars  wheel  onward  towards  the  west : 
The  barnyard  cock  wakes  once  and  crows  : 

The  farm  is  wrapped  in  peaceful  rest : 
The  cricket  chirs :  the  firefly  glows. 
The  whippoorwill  is  calling, 

"  Whip-poor-will ;  whip-poor-will," 
Where  the  bramble-blooms  are  falling 

On  the  rill: 

The  moon  her  watch  is  keeping, 
And  the  whippoorwill  is  weeping, 

"  Whip-poor-will ;  whip-poor-will ;  " 

Lonely  still, 

The  whippoorwill  is  weeping, 
"  Whip-poor-will." 


Madison  Cawein. 


THE  WORK  OF  THE  WOMAN'S   CLUB. 


IT  would  be  interesting  to  know  if  the 
impulse  to  organize  that  first  resulted  in 
a  Woman's  Club  in  1868  had  its  basis 
in  any  fundamental  and  common  need 
of  the  women  of  that  period.  That  two 
clubs,  the  New  England  Women's  Club 
of  Boston,  and  Sorosis  of  New  York, 
were  formed  almost  simultaneously, 
would  point  toward  such  a  conclusion. 
That  some  of  the  leaders  in  the  move- 
ment were  suffragists,  that  the  individual 
members  were  women  who  had  been 
intellectually  quickened  and  trained  in 
practical  experience  by  the  events  of  the 
civil  war,  and  that  the  time  to  enjoy  the 
results  of  such  organization  had  been 
gained  by  the  improved  domestic  econ- 
omy, will  suggest  some  basis  for  specu- 
lation as  to  the  underlying  causes.  The 
superficial  and  stated  reason  for  being, 
in  the  constitutions  of  those  early  clubs, 
was  unanimously  "for  mutual,  or  gen- 
eral, improvement,  and  to  promote  social 
enjoyment." 

With  this  simple  and  egoistic  plat- 
form, the  club  idea  gained  adherents 
very  rapidly  in  New  England  and  the 
Middle  States.  Study  clubs  were  formed 


in  large  cities  and  remote  villages,  each 
with  its  encumbering  constitution,  and 
rules  of  order  that  seemed  specially  de- 
signed to  retard  the  business  of  the  day. 
Outwardly,  for  twenty  years,  the  wo- 
man's club  remained  an  institution  for 
the  culture  and  pleasure  of  its  members  ; 
but  within,  the  desire  for  a  larger  oppor- 
tunity was  gradually  strengthening.  Par- 
liamentary practice  gave  women  confi- 
dence in  their  ability  to  lead  larger  issues 
to  a  successful  conclusion.  The  inherent 
longing  for  power,  coupled  with  confi- 
dence in  the  wisdom  and  beneficence  of 
whatever  woman  should  do,  brought  the 
leaders  of  the  club  movement  to  a  con- 
ception of  social  service.  To  effect  this, 
further  organization  was  necessary.  It 
was  then,  in  1890,  that  a  union  of  indi- 
vidual clubs  was  formed  into  a  chartered 
body,  known  as  the  General  Federation 
of  Women's  Clubs.  Closely  following 
this  culmination,  the  women  of  Maine 
formed  the  first  union  of  the  clubs  of 
that  state  into  a  state  federation.  Other 
states  joined  in  the  movement,  each  state 
federation  as  it  organized  becoming  a 
unit  of  the  General  Federation.  There 


The,   Work  of  the    Woman's   Club. 


615 


are  now  represented  in  this  body  thirty- 
nine  states  and  territories  and  five  for- 
eign countries,  with  3288  clubs  having 
a  membership  of  about  275,000  women. 

The  organization  of  the  General  Fed- 
eration is  complete,  making  it  possible, 
given  the  responsible  person  in  office,  to 
get  immediately  into  touch  with  every 
individual  member.  Its  character  is 
unique ;  racially  heterogeneous,  section- 
ally  widespread,  theoretically  of  no  poli- 
tics, it  is  pledged  to  work  for  the  im- 
provement of  its  members  in  every  line 
of  human  culture  and  for  all  wise  mea- 
sures relating  to  human  progress. 

To  be  a  member  of  such  an  organi- 
zation must  stimulate  the  imagination, 
deepen  the  sympathies,  and  go  a  long 
way  toward  overcoming  that  provincial- 
ism of  mind  with  which  our  country  has 
constantly  to  reckon.  This  subjective 
work  was  the  early  endeavor  of  the  fed- 
erations ;  but  for  eight  years,  since  the 
Biennial  held  in  Milwaukee,  and  also 
since  the  state  federations  found  their 
social  consciences,  the  effort  has  been 
toward  the  concrete  issue.  "  Something 
must  be  done  to  justify  our  existence," 
has  been  the  constant  cry  of  officers, 
federation  bulletins,  and  committee  re- 
ports. To  see  the  general  preparedness 
to  do  passing  on  to  an  active  doing  may 
well  cause  a  certain  dismay  in  the  mind 
of  the  onlooker. 

The  amused  toleration  that  has  for 
long  characterized  the  thought  of  those 
unfortunates  who  were  outside  the  club 
movement  is  changing  to  a  somewhat 
anxious  curiosity,  and  not  without  cause. 
It  makes  little  difference  to  the  com- 
munity that  the  club  has  set  aside  the 
colored  lithograph  in  favor  of  a  Prera- 
phaelite  photograph  in  carbon,  or  that 
it  studiously  regards  the  possibilities 
of  Hamlet's  madness.  Even  vacation 
schools  and  college  scholarships  as  an 
issue  fail  to  arouse  serious  comment. 
But  when  the  clubs  begin  to  appear 
in  legislative  committee  rooms,  bearing 
yards  of  signatures,  and  when  they  ques- 


tion why  the  employees  of  bakeshops 
are  permitted  to  work  seventy  or  eighty 
hours  a  week,  their  potential  power  be- 
comes a  factor  to  be  seriously  consid- 
ered. 

The  spectacle  of  275,000  women  splen- 
didly organized,  armed  with  leisure  and 
opportunity,  and  animated  by  a  passion 
for  reform,  assumes  the  distinction  of  a 
"  social  force."  Forces  must  be  reck- 
oned with,  and  the  work  and  the  worth  of 
the  woman's  club  movement  are  becom- 
ing important  public  interests. 

The  work  of  the  woman's  club  is 
threefold  :  to  educate  its  members,  men- 
tally and  morally ;  to  create  public  opin- 
ion ;  to  secure  better  conditions  of  life. 
Its  worth,  personal  and  social,  is  in  pro- 
portion to  its  effectiveness  in  securing 
these  ends. 

The  first  clubs  were  study  clubs ;  all 
clubs  are  in  some  degree  study  clubs,  the 
culture  idea  having  been  the  most  tena- 
cious. The  early  club,  and  the  parlor 
club  of  to-day,  would  frequently  devote 
a  season  to  the  study  of  one  book,  or  one 
author,  or  some  theory  of  economics  or 
epoch  in  history.  Their  study  may  not 
have  been  either  profound  or  judiciously 
chosen,  but  the  woman  herself  really  be- 
lieved in  it,  and  was  being  as  studious  as 
she  could  easily  be. 

The  members  took  great  interest  in 
naming  their  clubs.  The  heroines  of 
antiquity,  the  modern  literary  celebrities, 
Greek  words  that  look  so  simple  but 
mean  so  much,  flowers  of  the  field,  all 
were  pressed  into  the  significant  service 
of  this  organization. 

The  club  members  of  long  ago  did  not 
bring  ponderous  dignity  with  them  to 
their  meetings.  They  were  gay,  girlish, 
and,  it  may  be,  frivolous.  Their  pro- 
grammes and  calendars  reveal  a  school- 
girl's indifference  to  the  decorous  habits 
of  an  older  society.  Happily  there  are  still 
sections  of  our  country  where  the  presi- 
dent appears  in  the  Year  Book  as  "  Mrs. 
Bob,"  or  "  Mrs.  Mayme,"  and  where  the 
Recording  Secretary  naively  writes  her- 


616 


The    Work  of  the    Woman's   Club. 


self  "Mrs.  Katie;"  where  the  "Clio 
Club"  devotes  the  season  to  the  study 
of  "  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  and  of  Na- 
ture ;  "  where  "  Browning  Clubs  "  read 
"  Shakespeare  and  the  Magazines,"  and 
where  a  "  Current  Events  Class  "  studies 
"The  Bible." 

The  simple  club,  with  its  accessories  of 
tea  and  poetry,  has  given  way  to,  or  been 
absorbed  in,  the  Department  Club,  a  club 
that  needs  no  distinguishing  title,  but  is, 
par  excellence,  the  Woman's  Club. 

The  department  club  has  taken  unto 
itself  the  sphere  of  human  knowledge,  or, 
to  be  specific,  and  according  to  the  re- 
cords of  1902,  it  devotes  itself  in  general 
to  nine  named  lines  of  work :  Literature, 
Music,  Art,  Education,  Current  Topics, 
Finance,  Philanthropy,  Household  Eco- 
nomics, and  Social  Economics.  The  aver- 
age scope  of  endeavor  of  all  the  clubs  of 
the  country  is  six  departments  to  each 
club,  the  majority  undertaking  five  sub- 
jects, and  a  goodly  number  being  un- 
daunted by  the  nine. 

The  theory  that  underlies  the  depart- 
ment club  is,  that  the  members  will  natu- 
rally gather  around  the  standing  com- 
mittee with  whose  work  they  are  in 
especial  sympathy,  study  groups  being 
thus  formed ;  while  from  time  to  time 
each  committee  will  introduce  some  emi- 
nent person  to  speak  to  the  whole  club  of 
his  specialty.  Practical  work  will  be  as- 
signed to  the  group  to  which  it  belongs, 
and  so  all  possible  interests  of  society 
will  have  their  hospitable  centre  from 
which  community  betterment  will  ra- 
diate. That  the  theory  is  workable  has 
been  proven  by  the  efficient  practice  of 
such  clubs  as  the  Cantabrigia  in  Massa- 
chusetts, the  Chicago  Woman's  Club,  and 
the  Woman's  Club  of  Denver.  The  com- 
mon practice  is  far  from  the  ideal.  The 
individual  members  do  not  cumulate,  nor 
does  the  standing  committee  radiate. 
The  season's  work  consists,  instead,  of 
an  expensive  programme  in  which  the 
amusement  idea  is  overlaid  by  the  serious 
character  of  the  subjects  presented.  Few 


groups  of  study  are  formed,  and  these  are 
likely  to  be  on  culture  subjects.  The 
concrete  work  of  the  club  is  spasmodic, 
and  dependent  for  its  performance  al- 
most entirely  on  the  personnel  of  the 
standing  committee,  which  is  annually 
changing.  The  one  permanent  feature 
is  the  lecture ;  that  cannot  be  escaped, 
nor  can  it  be  related. 

A  succession  of  lectures  on  widely  di- 
vergent subjects  has  the  effect  merely  of 
awakening  a  transient  emotion,  buried 
by  the  keener  emotion  of  the  next  intel- 
lectual opportunity.  There  can  be  no 
valid  objection  to  listening  to  lectures 
when  one  is  a  mere  listener;  but  the 
woman's  club  listener  has  added  to  her 
receptiveness  a  vague  feeling  that  she, 
by  virtue  of  her  position,  must  do  some- 
thing about  it.  Her  passivity  is  aroused 
into  convulsive  but  feeble  volition ;  but 
before  she  has  time  to  respond  to  the 
present  claim,  another  blow  has  been 
struck  and  another  purpose  presented, 
to  be  vanquished  in  its  turn  by  another 
claimant.  The  indefinite  process  of  stim- 
ulation and  exhaustion,  without  accom- 
panying activity,  goes  on  until  the  desper- 
ate club  woman  listens  to  all  causes  with 
equal  stoicism  and  with  mechanical  in- 
terest. 

Quite  aside  from  the  ethical  import  of 
the  modern  club  lecture  is  its  intellec- 
tual appeal.  Unquestionably  certain  lec- 
tures arouse  an  eager  desire  to  follow  out 
lines  of  thought.  I  have  frequently 
watched  with  interest  the  connection  be- 
tween the  reading  habit  of  a  community, 
as  evinced  in  the  call  for  books  at  the 
public  library,  and  the  train  of  thought 
inspired  by  the  last  lecturer.  One  day 
in  the  poets'  alcove  I  missed  the  copies 
of  the  Odyssey  and  the  Iliad.  Their 
places  had  not  been  vacant  before.  I 
hurriedly  went  to  the  alcove  where  Phi- 
losophy reposed.  Thomas  a  Kempis  was 
not  there.  The  last  lecture  at  the  club 
had  had  to  do  with  "  literature  and 
life."  The  books  were  back  in  a  day  or 
two  in  their  accustomed  places.  I 


The   Work  of  the   Woman  s   Club. 


617 


fancied  I  perceived  in  them  a  certain  de- 
jection, as  though  they  had  failed  to  meet 
the  expectations  aroused  by  their  eloquent 
expositor.  Then  I  remembered  the  Au- 
dubon  lecture  of  yesterday.  Quickly  I 
sought  Natural  Science.  Every  book  of 
ornithology  had  disappeared.  "  It  may 
be  butterflies  to-morrow,  but  that  is  too 
nearly  related,"  I  reflected;  "it  is  more 
likely  to  be  '  Man's  Duty  to  his  Neigh- 
bor.' " 

The  dubiety  of  thought  that  results 
from  the  mixed  club  programme  is  further 
complicated  by  the  occasional  mistiness 
of  the  club  vocabulary.  For  instance, 
there  is  the  term  Social  Economics.  In 
1902  thirty  state  federations  and  369 
clubs  announced  this  science  to  be  one 
branch  of  their  work.  Investigation  does 
not  reveal  that  the  term  means  to  any 
club  a  particular  science.  On  the  con- 
trary, it  seems  to  be  a  nebulous  term 
covering  a  diversity  of  interests  more  or 
less  misunderstood.  A  certain  blunting 
of  mental  sensitiveness  will  result  from 
such  inaccuracy,  even  if  clubs  escape  the 
criticism  of  intellectual  dishonesty. 

In  a  suburban  car  some  years  ago  I 
became  interested  in  two  ladies,  in  whom 
I  soon  recognized  those  well-known  peo- 
ple, Mrs.  Arrived  and  Mrs.  Arriving. 
Their  conversation  was  an  interesting 
commentary  on  the  direct  intellectual 
and  ethical  value  of  the  woman's  club. 
Mrs.  Arriving  was  directly  opposite  me, 
and  her  staccato,  penetrating  voice  com- 
pelled me  in  this  instance  to  be  a  willing 
listener. 

"  Were  you  at  the  club  yesterday  ?  " 
she  asked  with  a  certain  eagerness,  as  if 
to  bring  the  important  subject  forward 
before  it  should  be  conversationally  side- 
tracked to  make  way  for  the  regular 
traffic  of  servants  and  gowns. 

"  No,  I  was  too  busy  at  home  to  think 
of  going,"  answered  Mrs.  Arrived. 

"  Oh,  it 's  too  bad  to  let  trivial  things 
keep  you  away.  We  had  such  an  elevat- 
ing lecture.  Really,  it  gave  me  such  an 
uplift!" 


"Indeed!  I  remember  you  were  to 
have  Mr.  O .  What  was  his  sub- 
ject ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Arrived  in  an  indul- 
gent tone. 

"  It  was  Lowell.  You  know,  the  one 
every  one  was  talking  about  last  spring. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  every  person  I 
met  asked  me  to  put  down  my  name  for 
a  small  subscription.  Somebody  wanted 
to  build  a  monument  or  do  something 
for  him  in  Cambridge.  If  I  had  heard 

Mr.  O then,  I  believe  I  should  have 

given  something.  But  it  is  probably  just 

as  well.  Mr.  O did  not  say  anything 

about  its  having  been  done." 

"What  did  Mr.  0 say! 


Mrs. 
'Did 


Arrived's  tone  was  still  indulgent, 
he  speak  of  Lowell's  poetry  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  —  at  least  not  much.  He 
talked  about,  —  let  me  see,  I  can  tell 
you  in  a  minute  just  what  his  subject 
was,  —  Lowell,  the  man,  the  American, 
and  the  historian,"  answered  Mrs.  Ar- 
riving triumphantly. 

"  But  Lowell  was  not  an  historian," 
interrupted  the  other  lady. 

"  Oh,  was  n't  he  ?  How  foolish !  Now 
I  remember.  It  was  Lowell,  the  man, 
the  American,  and  the  essayist.  But  he 
said  a  lot  about  the  civil  war,  that 's 
where  I  got  mixed  up  about  history," 
and  Mrs.  Arriving's  tone  indicated  no 
confusion. 

"  I  am  very  fond  of  Lowell's  poetry," 
said  Mrs.  Arrived  reflectively.  "  The 
Commemoration  Ode  seems  to  me  among 
the  noblest  poetry  we  have  produced." 

"  You  have  read  it,  then  !   Mr.  O 

said  something  about  it,  and  advised  us 
all  to  read  it.  I  made  up  my  mind  that 
I  should  just  as  soon  as  I  could  get  it 
from  the  library.  It 's  such  a  bother  to 
get  a  thing  at  once.  Every  one  is  sure  to 
rush  for  it.  By  the  time  I  can  get  hold 
of  the  book  I  have  usually  forgotten 
what  I  wanted  to  read." 

"  Why  don't  you  buy  it,  then  ?  " 

"  I  buy  books  !  My  goodness,  my  last 
dressmaker's  bill  was  three  hundred  dol- 
lars. I  guess  I  shan't  waste  any  money 


618 


The   Work  of  the   Woman's   Club. 


on  books  as  long  as  the  public  supports 
a  good  library." 

There  was  an  eloquent  pause,  finally 
broken  by  Mrs.  Arrived,  who  asked, 

"Did  Mr.  O refer  to  any  other 

poem,  or  recommend  any  other  to  your 
notice  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  said  by  all  means  to  read  the 
Fable  for  Critics.  He  read  some  screech- 
ingly  funny  passages  from  that ;  and  he 
wanted  us  not  to  neglect  Ulysses." 

"  Ulysses !  Lowell  did  not  write  Ulys- 
ses ;  that  is  Tennyson's."  Mrs.  Arrived 
was  evidently  annoyed. 

"Now  I  remember.  I  do  get  so 
mixed  up.  It  was  Columbus !  But  Mrs. 

R ,  you  know,  the  one  whose  husband 

writes  poetry,  she  said,  when  we  were 
going  home,  that  whenever  she  read 
Columbus,  her  husband  made  her  read 
Ulysses  as  an  antidote.  Was  n't  that  a 
funny  thing  to  say  ?  That 's  the  way  I 
got  them  mixed  up."  Mrs.  Arriving  con- 
tinued placidly,  "  I  don't  wonder  that 
I  do,  there  is  so  much  to  think  about. 
Now  there  's  the  topics  of  the  day.  You 
don't  go  to  Miss  Informed's  Current 
Events  Class,  do  you  ?  " 

"  No,  do  you  ?  "  Mrs.  Arrived  ques- 
tioned curtly. 

"  I  could  n't  get  on  without  it,"  an- 
swered Mrs.  Arriving.  "You  see,  it 
takes  only  an  hour  and  a  half  once  a 
week.  And  she  tells  us  everything 
that 's  going  on,  so  I  never  look  into  a 
paper,  except  for  the  deaths  and  teas. 
I  just  came  from  there  this  morning. 
Such  an  interesting  morning,  too  !  You 
know  she  talked  about  the  necessity  of 
having  a  Society  for  the  Protection  of 
the  Motor  Men  from  the  Severe  Wea- 
ther. Yes,  I  joined.  I  think  it  is  too 
cruel  that  they  should  be  so  exposed  to 
the  cold.  I  shall  use  all  my  influence, 
and  make  my  husband  use  his,  to  have 
the  cars  vestibuled.  Well,  how  I  have 
talked!  Now  I  must  get  off  on  this 
next  block.  You  know  I  have  to  look 
up  a  new  coachman.  Ours  won't  stay. 
He  got  perfectly  furious  yesterday  be- 


cause he  had  to  wait  for  me  for  an 
hour." 

"  Well,  it  must  have  been  rather  hard 
to  sit  in  that  storm  for  an  hour,  unpro- 
tected," interposed  Mrs.  Arrived. 

"  What  does  one  keep  a  coachman  for  ? 
I  guess  he  could  stand  it  if  the  horses 
could.  Really,  servants  are  getting  so 
delicate  one  hardly  knows  what  to  do. 
Here  's  my  street.  Good-by,  dear,  I  '11 
come  and  see  you  if  ever  I  get  a  coach- 
man who  can  stand  the  weather.  Oh, 
I  do  hope  you  '11  help  about  the  motor 
men.  Good-by."  Her  last  sentence  was 
wafted  back  from  the  platform  of  the 
car. 

I  glanced  involuntarily  toward  the 
lady  who  remained.  Our  eyes  met 
understandingly.  "The  club  leaves  us 
where  it  finds  us,"  I  said  to  her. 

And  she,  perhaps  mistakenly,  an- 
swered, "No,  it  carries  us  into  an  un- 
certain knowledge  that  is  worse  than 
ignorance." 

To  stimulate  and  direct  public  opin- 
ion is  a  natural  function  of  the  woman's 
club.  Its  members  are  curious  about 
local  conditions,  and  directly  interested 
in  the  administration  of  civic  affairs. 
They  have  experienced  in  some  measure 
the  power  of  organized  and  directed  ef- 
fort, and  believe  in  the  inherent  right- 
ness  of  their  own  theories.  Lacking  the 
means  of  direct  authority,  they  seek  to 
gain,  by  influence  and  persuasiveness,  a 
determining  voice  in  the  conduct  of  pub- 
lic affairs.  On  the  other  hand,  the  fact 
that  there  is  a  woman's  club  at  all  gives 
evidence  to  the  community  that  women 
have  time  to  give  that  special  attention 
to  civic  problems  which  is  denied  to 
most  men.  Our  domestic  life  has  ap- 
proximated the  ideal  of  the  ambitious 
husband  in  Miss  Jewett's  story,  —  the 
one  who  had  realized  his  keenest  desire, 
that  his  wife  "  could  set  in  her  rocking- 
chair  all  the  afternoon  and  read  a  novel." 
Because  American  women  have  this  lei- 
sure, the  community  looks  to  them,  more 
and  more,  to  hold  the  sensitive  plate  of 


The   Work  of  the   Woman's   Club. 


619 


public  welfare,  and  to  be  responsible  for 
the  initiation  of  better  methods  and  man- 
ners in  civic  life.  Women's  clubs  ne- 
cessarily, then,  find  their  chief  scope  of 
altruistic  work  in  creating  public  opinion. 

It  is  of  singular  importance  that  this 
should  be  a  wise  public  opinion.  The 
leaders  of  the  club  movement  are  recog- 
nizing this  necessity,  —  a  fact  evinced 
by  the  precautionary  advice  with  which 
they  surround  their  plans  for  work.  The 
elimination  of  the  tramp  is  the  special 
object  of  the  Social  Service  committee  of 
a  prominent  state  federation.  Once  he 
might  have  been  eliminated  viva  voce, 
or  by  withholding  his  morning  coffee. 
But  the  new  intelligence  of  organized 
women  demands  that  the  case  shall  be 
studied.  Individual  clubs  are  asked  to 
collect  local  data.  They  are  urged  to 
undertake  no  public  action  without  con- 
sultation with  the  committee.  The  help 
of  able  sociologists  is  invited,  and  the 
•soOperation  of  organizations  that  make 
a  special  study  of  the  "  Tramp  Evil "  is 
secured.  By  these  means  the  committee 
undertakes  to  prevent  any  hasty  or  un- 
wise action,  and  to  supply  to  each  com- 
munity some  fundamental  knowledge  on 
which  wise  public  opinion  may  be  based. 
As  a  sign  of  the  times  in  the  club  world, 
this  is  a  significant  incident.  Nor  is  the 
action  of  this  committee  isolated ;  in- 
stead, the  same  method  is  coming  to  be 
adopted  for  each  remedial  measure  au- 
thorized by  the  federations.  It  is  yet 
too  early  to  see  definite,  quotable  results 
of  this  plan  of  work  in  individual  clubs. 
Past  constructive  work  has  been  too 
often  due  to  the  quiescent  acceptance  of 
whatever  measures  might  be  proposed, 
rather  than  to  their  intelligent  consider- 
ation. Should  the  new  leaven  work,  the 
worth  of  the  woman's  club  to  a  commu- 
nity would  be  tremendously  increased. 
Its  habits  of  study  would  be  revolution- 
ized. Its  claim  to  be  a  "  promoter  of 
the  public  welfare "  would  be  estab- 
lished. 

But   even   without   the  personal  en- 


lightenment that  counts  for  so  much, 
women's  clubs  have  been  a  potent  factor 
in  determining  public  opinion.  As  or- 
ganizations, they  have  realized  that  "  in 
public  opinion  we  are  all  legislators  by 
our  birthright."  And  in  practice,  they 
have  found  that  they  could  actually  legis- 
late by  means  of  this  power.  Legislative 
work  is  undertaken  by  all  the  state  fed- 
erations, in  urging  and  securing  the 
passage  of  laws  that  deal  with  the  con- 
ditions of  women  and  children.  In  Mas- 
sachusetts, Connecticut,  and  Illinois,  the 
state  federations  have  promoted  the  pas- 
sage of  a  bill  giving  joint  and  equal 
parental  guardianship  to  minor  children. 
The  Juvenile  Court  Law  has  been  se- 
cured in  California,  Illinois,  Maryland, 
and  Nebraska.  The  Louisiana  Federa- 
tion has  worked  successfully  for  the  Pro- 
bationary Law,  and  in  Texas  an  indus- 
trial school  has  been  established.  Laws 
to  raise  the  standard  of  public  morality, 
to  segregate  and  classify  defective  and 
delinquent  classes,  to  secure  the  services 
of  women  as  factory  inspectors,  police 
matrons,  and  on  boards  of  control,  are 
other  measures  for  which  women's  clubs 
have  successfully  worked. 

While  it  is  difficult  to  determine  the 
degree  of  women's  participation  in  this 
large  body  of  corrective  legislation,  care- 
ful investigation  proves  that  they  were, 
at  least,  an  important  single  factor.  In 
some  instances,  the  officers  of  the  state 
federation  framed  the  bill  and  secured 
the  necessary  guidance  at  every  step  of 
its  passage ;  in  others,  petitions  and  pub- 
lic agitation  were  the  agencies  employed. 
An  inland  newspaper  in  describing  the 
passage  of  a  bill,  whose  sponsors  had 
been  the  women's  clubs,  said,  "  It  was 
passed  in  a  rush  of  gallantry  in  which 
gush,  good  sense,  and  sentimentalism 
were  combined." 

The  reporter  perceived  a  number  of 
the  elements  that  have  entered  into  the 
support  given  by  men  to  women's  mea- 
sures. And  while  a  more  elegant  exposi- 
tion might  be  made  of  underlying  mo- 


620 


The    Work  of  the    Woman's   Club. 


tives,  it  is  hardly  possible  to  give  one 
more  discriminating.  Whatever  the 
psychical  basis  of  their  legislative  influ- 
ence may  be,  their  success  demonstrates 
the  fact  that  politics  is  possible  to  a  non- 
political  body  ;  that  a  third  party,  with- 
out vote  or  direct  participation,  may 
come,  in  a  democracy,  to  have  a  de- 
termining authority  in  corrective  legis- 
lation. 

Securing  the  passage  of  laws  is  the 
extreme  instance  of  what  organized  wo- 
men have  accomplished  through  the 
medium  of  public  opinion.  Many  other 
concrete  illustrations  drawn  from  local 
conditions  might  be  given ;  but  they 
would  all  serve  to  illustrate  that  the 
woman's  club  is  determining  the  mind 
of  the  community  in  its  relation  to  many 
educational,  philanthropic,  and  reform- 
atory questions.  How  important,  then, 
becomes  right  thinking  in  the  club, — 
not  solemn,  arrogating,  feminine,  self- 
inclusive  thinking,  but  gay,  self-forget- 
ful, reflective,  human  thinking. 

A  club  to  which  I  belong  at  one  time 
concentrated  its  very  serious  efforts  to 
prevent  the  further  destruction  of  song 
birds.  We  interested  the  children  in  the 
public  schools.  We  argued  with  the 
husbands  and  fathers,  and  particularly 
with  the  bachelor  sportsmen.  We  wrote 
columns  in  the  local  paper,  and  succeeded 
in  arousing  much  public  sympathy  for 
the  songsters.  Soon  after  we  bought  and 
appeared  in  our  new  millinery.  An  ir- 
reverent joker  counted  fifty  aigrettes 
floating  from  fifty  new  bonnets,  and 
proposed  to  our  president  that  he  come 
to  do  a  little  missionary  work  in  the  club 
in  behalf  of  birds.  It  was  fortunate  for 
our  club  that  its  president  had  a  sense  of 
humor,  else  we  might  be  still  wearing 
aigrettes  and  distributing  pamphlets  for 
the  protection  of  song  birds. 

The  federation  of  one  of  the  more  en- 
lightened states  has  recently  undertaken 
to  enter  the  field  of  direct  politics.  I 
quote  the  advice  it  gives  to  its  constitu- 
ents :  — 


"  Before  senators  and  representatives 
are  even  nominated,  it  is  very  essential 
that  club  women  look  up  the  record  of 
the  various  candidates  in  their  districts, 
and  satisfy  themselves  as  to  their  posi- 
tion regarding  women  upon  boards  of 
control  of  state  institutions.  Find  out 
how  they  voted  last  year.  Information 
will  be  gladly  furnished  by  members  of 
this  committee.  Then  strive  to  create  a 
sufficient  public  sentiment  in  your  own 
locality  to  defeat,  at  the  party  caucus, 
any  nominee  known  to  oppose  women 
representatives  upon  Boards  of  Control." 
It  is  this  partial,  local,  and  partisan  type 
of  mind  that  the  woman's  club  sup- 
posedly tries  to  correct.  That  it  has  not 
succeeded,  as  yet,  in  doing  this,  may  be 
due  to  the  greater  attention  given  to 
objective  causes  than  to  subjective  con- 
ditions, or  it  may  be  an  expression  of  the 
mere  femininity  of  the  movement. 

The  field  for  constructive  work  in  the 
women's  clubs  —  work  in  which  they 
have  direct  and  controlling  authority  — 
is  limited.  To  create  better  conditions  of 
life  means  for  them  commonly  to  use  the 
indirect  agencies  we  have  been  consider- 
ing. In  philanthropy' and  public  educa- 
tion, they  have  found  their  chief  oppor- 
tunity for  responsible  effort,  and  in  both 
fields  women's  clubs  have  been  of  con- 
spicuous service.  They  have  been  hos- 
pitable to  all  forms  of  philanthropy, 
creating,  by  their  aggregation  of  non- 
sectarian  people,  a  new  centre  of  public 
beneficence.  They  have  added  fre- 
quently to  the  educational  equipment  of 
a  community,  the  kindergarten,  manual 
training,  and  domestic  science  ;  and  this 
not  always  by  persuasion,  but  through 
the  establishment  and  support  of  these 
branches  of  education,  until  such  time 
as  the  community  should  be  convinced 
of  their  usefulness  and  voluntarily  as- 
sume their  responsibilities.  More  than 
in  any  other  way,  the  women's  clubs 
have  benefited  the  schools  by  creating 
better  hygienic  and  aesthetic  conditions 
in  school  buildings  and  grounds.  They 


The,   Work  of  the    Woman's   Club. 


621 


have  made  it  possible  for  the  children 
to  become  familiar  with  good  art,  with 
the  beauty  of  cleanliness,  and  with  the 
charm  of  a  growing  vine  or  flower. 

But  it  is  in  the  work  for  the  exten- 
sion of  libraries  that  women's  clubs  have 
most  fully  demonstrated  their  ability  to 
further  an  educational  project.  Many 
states  in  the  Union  have  made  no  pro- 
vision for  the  establishment  of  free 
libraries,  and  in  others,  where  there  is 
the  necessary  legislation,  local  conditions 
prevent  their  adequate  establishment. 
Realizing  keenly  what  a  dearth  of  books 
means  to  a  community,  women's  clubs 
have  promptly  initiated  in  many  states 
systems  of  traveling  libraries  to  satisfy 
the  needs  of  the  people  until  free  libra- 
ries could  be  established  on  a  permanent 
basis.  In  Oklahoma  and  Indian  Terri- 
tory the  federation  collected  one  thou- 
sand volumes.  These  were  classified 
and  divided  into  fifty  libraries,  and  each 
was  sent  on  its  enlightening  pilgrimage. 
Kansas  is  sending  to  its  district  schools 
and  remote  communities  10,000  books 
divided  into  suitable  libraries.  The  wo- 
men of  Ohio  circulate  900  libraries ; 
Kentucky  is  sending  sixty-four  to  its 
mountaineers.  In  Maine  the  traveling 
library  has  become  a  prized  educational 
opportunity.  Its  success  has  secured 
the  appointment  of  a  Library  Commis- 
sion and  the  enactment  of  suitable  li- 
brary legislation.  This  movement  is 
extensive  ;  and  as  an  indication  of  what 
organized  women  can  do,  when  the  issue 
is  concrete  and  appealing,  it  is  signifi- 
cant. At  a  recent  federation  meeting 
in  Massachusetts,  no  orator  of  the  day 
made  so  eloquent  an  appeal  as  did  the 
neat  and  convenient  case  of  good  books 
that  invited  our  inspection  before  it 
should  be  sent  to  a  remote  community 
in  the  Tennessee  Mountains. 

Except  in  the  two  lines  of  work  we 
have  just  considered,  women's  clubs  are 
not  zealous  in  undertaking  to  create  bet- 
ter conditions  of  life  by  direct  and  au- 
thoritative measures.  To  many  causes 


they  give  tacit  assent.  A  veteran  club 
officer  said  to  me  recently,  "  I  am 
ashamed  to  bring  a  petition  before  my 
club  ;  the  members  will  sign  anything." 

"  But  do  they  do  everything  ?  "  I 
asked. 

"No,"  5 he  answered,  "they  seem  to 
think  that  to  sign  a  petition  is  tanta- 
mount to  securing  the  end  desired. 
Having  signed,  the  matter  is  closed  so 
far  as  they  personally  are  concerned." 

An  instance  which  will  illustrate  this 
curious  personal  apathy  toward  causes 
that  are  furthered  by  the  federations, 
and  to  which  the  club  members  abstractly 
assent,  is  found  in  the  history  of  their 
relation  to  industrial  conditions.  Six 
years  ago  the  General  Federation  un- 
dertook to  help  the  solution  of  certain 
industrial  problems,  notably  to  further 
organization  among  working-women  ;  to 
secure  and  enforce  child  labor  legisla- 
tion where  needed ;  to  further  atten- 
dance at  school ;  and  to  secure  humane 
conditions  under  which  labor  is  per- 
formed. State  federations  have  acted 
in  accordance  with  the  General  Federa- 
tion's plans  to  appoint  standing  indus- 
trial committees,  procure  investigations, 
circulate  literature,  and  create  a  pub- 
lic sentiment  in  favor  of  these  causes. 
In  Illinois  this  indirect  power  was  of 
much  aid  in  securing  a  Child  Labor 
Law.  In  other  communities  something 
has  been  accomplished  by  way  of  enact- 
ing new  laws  or  enforcing  existing  ones, 
showing  that  organized  women  readily 
avail  themselves  of  the  chance  for  indi- 
rect service  in  promoting  the  intelligent 
efforts  of  the  federations. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  are  three 
opportunities  by  means  of  which  women's 
clubs  and  their  members  can  directly 
effect  in  a  limited  and  local  sense  that 
industrial  amelioration  for  which  as 
federations  they  work  so  zealously.  The 
first  is  found  in  the  industrial  conditions 
of  the  South,  where  it  has  been  proved 
that  the  establishment  of  schools  that 
offer  manual  training  combined  with 


622 


The    Work  of  the   Woman's   Club. 


some  study  of  books,  and  with  practical 
work  in  gardens  and  kitchens,  will  offset 
the  attraction  the  factory  has  had  for  the 
children  in  its  vicinity.  These  schools 
are  called  "  Model  Schools,"  and  have 
been  successfully  inaugurated  in  Georgia. 
Their  need  is  financial,  and  Southern 
women  have  brought  the  nature  and 
needs  of  this  work,  which  is,  in  a  broad 
sense,  an  industrial  reform,  to  the  notice 
of  women's  clubs  in  the  North.  In  1903 
the  clubs  of  Massachusetts  established 
their  first  school  at  Cass,  Georgia,  and 
assured  its  maintenance  for  two  years. 
But  there  is  no  other  evidence  that  this 
significant  opportunity  for  industrial 
amelioration  has  received  that  prompt 
and  direct  support  that  might  warrant- 
ably  have  been  expected. 

The  Child  Labor  Committee  of  the 
General  Federation  has  furnished  indi- 
vidual clubs  with  a  second  direct  oppor- 
tunity. This  committee  finds  that  the 
argument  most  frequently  encountered 
while  attempting  to  enact  Child  Labor 
legislation  has  been  that  the  earnings  of 
little  children  are  needed  to  support 
widowed  mothers.  Therefore  the  com- 
mittee requests  clubs  to  investigate  local 
conditions,  and  whenever  an  apparent 
case  of  this  nature  is  found,  "  to  per- 
suade the  children  thus  employed  to 
return  to  school,  undertaking  to  pay  the 
amount  of  the  weekly  wage,  which  the 
child  formerly  earned,  to  his  widowed 
mother."  This  money  is  to  be  called 
and  regarded  as  a  scholarship.  The  plan 
resembles  one  that  has  been  carried  on 
successfully  by  the  state  authorities  in 
Switzerland  for  twenty-five  years  ;  there- 
fore it  is  neither  a  visionary  nor  imprac- 
ticable scheme,  but  one  in  which  women 
could  realize  their  traditional  responsi- 
bilities toward  the  children  of  the  com- 
munity, and  in  which  women's  clubs 
could  find  a  beneficent  opportunity  for 
direct  and  constructive  work  toward  in- 
dustrial amelioration.  Eight  such  schol- 
arships have  been  established  in  Chicago. 
There  is  no  further  evidence  that  any 


woman's  club  has  undertaken  to  carry 
out  this  plan. 

The  third  instance  is  comprised  in  the 
unique  opportunity  for  individual,  as  well 
as  united,  service  offered  to  women  by 
the  Consumers'  League.  This  is  the 
case  of  the  individual  purchaser,  and  of 
the  product  in  one  line  of  manufactured 
goods.  For  some  years  the  Consumers' 
League  has  urged  upon  the  community 
the  righteousness  of  buying  only  such 
goods  as  have  been  produced  under  hu- 
mane conditions,  believing  that  the  final 
determiner  of  these  conditions  is  the 
purchaser.  But  the  claims  of  the  Con- 
sumers' League  are  well  known,  and  it 
is  also  known  to  all  women  that  "  white 
goods  "  bearing  the  League's  significant 
label  can  be  bought  in  open  market  for 
prices  that  are  entirely  fair.  Many  state 
federations  and  the  General  Federation 
are  pledged  to  further  the  work  of  the 
League.  Single  clubs  give  exhibitions 
of  white  goods,  and  form  small  local 
groups  of  membership.  But  the  next 
step,  the  step  that  concerns  the  individual 
and  makes  the  275,000  members  of  wo- 
men's clubs  consistent  purchasers  of  these 
goods,  is  not  taken.  The  "  bargain  coun- 
ter "  is  the  same  scene  of  conflict  as  of 
yore  ;  and  the  woman  who  belongs  to  an 
organization  pledged  to  industrial  reform 
is  a  lively  participant  in  this  warfare  of 
questionable  economy. 

The  weakness  of  the  club  movement 
is  this  lack  of  real  contact  of  ideals  be- 
tween the  federations  and  the  single 
club.  The  latter  is  satisfied,  selfish,  ab- 
sorbed in  its  own  local  concerns ;  the 
federation  appeals  are  a  disquieting  in- 
terruption to  its  orderly  programme ; 
while  the  federations,  counting  on  their 
numerical  strength,  and  believing  in  the 
ultimate  awakening  of  the  club,  flatter 
it  into  an  acquiescence  that  is  mistak- 
en for  cooperation.  In  undertaking  to 
awaken  interest  in  so  many  lines  of 
work,  the  federations  jeopardize  all  in- 
terests, and  minimize  the  value  of  each. 
If  the  women's  clubs  of  1904  could  come 


The  Law  of  the  Soul. 


623 


together  on  the  platform  of  some  com- 
mon and  fundamental  social  need,  as  did 
their  progenitors,  the  club  writ  large  in 
its  federations  would  no  longer  be  an 
elaborate  organization  for  the  dissemi- 
nation of  propaganda,  but  would  at  once 
become  that  which  it  now  may  seem  to 
be,  —  a  social  force.  Its  incoherences 
would  be  explained,  its  complex  methods 
and  motives  would  be  simplified,  and  its 
institutional  rank  might  be  assigned. 

I  asked  my  grocer  recently  what  he 
thought  of  our  woman's  club.  And  he, 
with  careful  precision,  answered  me,  "  I 
think  your  lady's  club  is  very  dressy." 
While  I  was  still  revolving  the  grocer's 


answer,  I  chanced  to  see  these  words  of 
an  eminent  educator :  "  When  the  his- 
tory of  this  period  comes  to  be  written, 
it  will  be  recognized  that  from  1870  to 
1900  was  a  period  of  greater  significance 
than  any  former  two  hundred  years  ;  and 
out  of  that  whole  time  of  thirty  years, 
that  which  will  be  recognized  as  the  most 
significant,  as  the  most  far-reaching,  will 
be  the  movement  that  is  represented  by 
the  women's  clubs." 

The  adjudication  of  the  two  points  of 
view  —  the  club  woman  and  the  club 
movement  —  may  still  furnish  scope  for 
the  altruistic  endeavor  of  the  Woman's 
Club. 

Martha  E.  D.  White. 


THE  LAW  OF  THE  SOUL. 


SHE  fitted  the  piece  of  board  over 
the  broken  step,  sawing  it  off  and  nail- 
ing it  down  with  a  practiced  hand. 
When  it  was  finished  she  did  not  stand 
off,  with  head  on  one  side,  eyeing  it 
complacently,  as  amateurs  in  the  arts 
and  trades  are  apt  to  do,  but  picked 
up  her  tools,  and  putting  them  away 
in  a  shed  near  by,  walked  off  to  the 
next  duty  with  a  dull  deliberateness 
of  action  which  spoke  more  of  habit 
than  of  interest.  She  was  a  tall,  thin 
woman,  with  a  figure  which  might  have 
been  graceful  if  more  becomingly  clad 
than  in  an  ill-fitting  calico  gown.  Her 
face  was  lined  and  roughened  by  wea- 
ther, and  her  hair,  drawn  tightly  back, 
had  grown  white  on  the  temples.  To 
her  neighbors  Mrs.  Allen  was  only  an 
every-day  woman,  aging  fast,  unsocia- 
ble and  taciturn ;  but  to  one  who  read 
beyond  the  pothooks  of  observation,  her 
features  were  notably  clear-cut  and  del- 
icate, and  the  refinement  of  her  voice 
and  speech,  when  she  did  speak,  was  in 
striking  contrast  to  the  slipshod  dialect 
of  her  neighbors. 


Eight  years  before,  husband  and 
wife,  with  their  few  belongings,  com- 
ing from  no  one  knew  where,  moved 
into  the  little  two-room,  weather-beat- 
en gray  house  in  the  pine  clearing, 
and  settled  down  to  the  monotonous 
existence  of  country  solitude.  They 
made  no  reference  to  their  past,  nor 
ever  spoke  of  the  future  beyond  the 
moment,  their  few  and  scattered  neigh- 
bors accepting  them  on  their  merits,  and 
forgetting,  as  time  went  by,  that  there 
had  ever  been  a  period  when  they  had 
not  known  the  Aliens.  If  the  women 
complained  of  Mrs.  Allen's  lack  of  so- 
ciability, the  men  could  not  find  fault 
with  Mr.  Allen  on  the  same  score. 
He  not  only  never  shunned  society,  but 
sought  it  with  a  shambling  alacrity  and 
perseverance  which,  if  put  into  any 
kind  of  work,  would  have  achieved 
some  remarkable  results.  The  women 
pronounced  him  "tur'ble  shif'less, " 
but  the  men  always  grumblingly  took 
his  part. 

"  Women, "  they  contended,  "  were 
allus  hard  on  er  man  ef  he  did  n't  wu'k 


624 


The  Law  of  the  Soul. 


from  the  firs'  wink  of  the  sun  to  his'n 
las',  an'  never  made  no  'lowunce  for 
er  man's  er-gittin'  ti'ahed." 

"Women,"  said  one  philosopher, 
passing  a  black  bottle  to  Mr.  Allen 
behind  a  screen  of  blackberry  bushes, 
"women  is  mighty  good  comfut  'roun' 
er  stove  whar  there  's  vittles  to  cook, 
but  they  's  col'  tarnachun  w'en  they 
gits  to  pokin'  their  noses  out'n  doors. 
Yessir.  Ye  gits  ez  much  comfut  out'n 
them  ez  ye  git  er-settin'  down  on  er 
palmetter  clump.  Yessir." 

Mr.  Allen  agreed  with  him,  show- 
ing his  tobacco-stained  teeth  in  an  art- 
less smile  as  he  accepted  the  hospital- 
ity of  the  bottle,  drinking  from  it  with 
an  avidity  that  was  a  striking,  if  word- 
less, explanation  of  what  was  otherwise 
inexplicable  in  his  situation. 

After  finishing  the  step,  Mrs.  Allen 
moved  about  the  back  yard,  making 
ready  for  the  night.  The  chickens 
and  ducks  gathered  around  her,  cluck- 
ing and  quacking  with  garrulous  famil- 
iarity, she  answering  them  with  tender 
diminutives,  like  an  affectionate  inter- 
change of  thought.  When  she  had 
given  them  their  supper  she  let  in  the 
cow  from  the  woods,  tied  her,  and 
placed  everything  ready  for  the  milk- 
ing. Then,  going  to  the  rails  dividing 
the  yard  from  an  adjoining  field,  she 
called,  "Henry!  " 

A  man  came  slouching  toward  her 
across  the  furrows  of  sweet  potatoes, 
white  with  bloom.  He  was  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  and  carried  a  bucket  in 
one  hand,  a  hoe  in  the  other.  He 
dropped  them  both  as  he  climbed  stiffly 
over  the  rails  forming  the  fence. 

"Didn't  git  any  potatoes,"  he 
drawled;  "soon  as  I  begun  to  hoe,  my 
arms  got  so  tired  I  jus'  had  to  give 
up,  an'  I  'vebeen  sittin'  there  restin'." 

In  spite  of  the  slouchiness  of  his 
speech  a  certain  timbre  —  intangible 
—  betrayed  the  better  things  of  long 
ago.  He  dropped  down  on  the  box 
his  wife  had  placed  by  the  cow  for  his 
convenience  in  milking,  as  though  there 


was  not,  a  muscle  in  his  body  firmly 
jointed,  and  his  backbone  nothing  but 
a  strip  of  rag.  He  took  off  his  soft 
hat,  let  it  fall  to  the  ground,  and 
slowly  rolled  up  his  sleeves.  His  face 
was  remarkable  for  its  peculiar  pallor, 
looking  as  though  it  had  been  bleached 
of  every  drop  of  blood ;  his  eyes,  faded 
and  weak,  never  rested  directly  on  any 
object,  but  only  glanced  furtively  at  it 
from  the  corners ;  his  hair  and  beard 
were  in  the  colorless  transition  stage 
of  passing  from  blond  to  white,  and 
his  stooping  figure  gave  him  the  false 
appearance  of  old  age. 

"My  arms  are  so  weak  I  don't  know 
as  I  can  do  much  milkin',"  he  said, 
still  dallying. 

His  wife  sighed.  "Let  me  do  it, 
then,"  she  replied,  a  note  of  weary 
resignation  in  her  voice. 

"Never  mind;  I  reck'n  I  kin  git 
'nough  for  supper ;  I  '11  try,  at  any 
rate."  His  mouth  had  a  habit  of 
twitching  when  he  finished  speaking, 
as  if  the  word  still  trembled  on  his 
tongue  in  dumb  speech.  There  was  an 
odd  look  of  elation  on  his  flaccid  face 
which  his  wife  could  not  but  notice,  and 
it  caused  her  to  observe  him  more  close- 
ly with  a  suspicion  he  was  quick  to  note. 

"Think  I've  been  drinkin',"  he 
said,  eyeing  her  covertly,  with  a  weak 
smile  of  triumph  at  his  penetration. 
"I  ain't  had  a  drop;  ain't  seen  no- 
body to  drink  with ;  no  men  lef '  'round 
here  to-day,  —  all  of  them  off  beatin' 
the  woods  for  that  feller." 

"What  fellow?'" 

"The  feller  that  —  that  killed  ol' 
woman  Barton.  I  tell  'em  they  'd 
better  save  their  legs  an'  their  horses; 
he  ain't  fool  'nough  to  stay  'round 
where  they  'd  lynch  him ;  by  this  time 
he  's  safe  somewheres  in  the  city ;  "  and 
he  chuckled  feebly. 

The  cow  looked  back  and  lowed,  as 
if  asking  why  matters  did  not  proceed. 
He  took  the  hint,  and  dropping  his  fore- 
head against  her  flank,  inertly  began  to 
draw  a  thin  stream  of  milk  into  the  pail. 


The  Law  of  the  Soul. 


625 


"You  needn't  wait,"  he  mumbled 
from  his  resting-place.  "I  '11  put  her 
up." 

She  turned  away  with  what  sounded 
like  a  sigh  of  relief.  Going  to  the 
tool  -  shed  she  took  up  a  trowel  and 
passed  to  the  front  of  the  house.  The 
distance  from  the  house  to  the  road 
was  very  short.  On  each  side  of  the 
walk  leading  to  the  rickety  gate,  and 
against  the  house  itself,  were  flower- 
beds bright  with  salvias  and  chrysan- 
themums, and  the  roses  were  blooming 
in  the  waxen  perfection  of  their  fall 
loveliness.  She  knew,  as  we  all  know 
and  count  the  treasures  that  we  cannot 
have,  that  her  flowers  would  be  the 
handsomer  and  more  abundant  for  more 
care  and  culture,  but  she  put  the  thought 
away,  trying  to  lay  all  burdens  out  of 
sight,  for  the  few  minutes  snatched 
from  her  busy  day  were  the  bright 
beads  in  her  rosary  of  cares.  She  went 
to  work,  digging  about  the  roots,  sift- 
ing the  soil  with  her  fingers,  and  pat- 
ting it  down  again  with  affectionate 
care.  If  she  had  been  a  demonstra- 
tive woman  she  would  have  pressed 
the  roses  to  her  cheek,  or  dropped  a 
kiss  upon  their  petals.  She  loved  her 
flowers  with  passionate  tenderness  as 
the  one  refinement  and  luxury  left  her 
in  the  shipwreck  of  her  life. 

While  she  was  busy  with  her  plea- 
sant task  a  cow  came  galloping  down 
the  road  with  the  ungainly  energy  of 
her  ungraceful  kind.  A  rope  was 
around  her  neck,  and  hanging  on  to 
the  other  end  of  the  rope  was  a  much 
heated  and  exasperated  boy.  Follow- 
ing more  leisurely  in  their  wake,  a 
switch  in  one  hand,  a  sunbonnet  in  the 
other,  was  a  stout,  middle-aged  wo- 
man, somewhat  out  of  breath.  At 
sight  of  Mrs.  Allen  she  readily  halted, 
resting  her  arms  on  the  top  rail  of  the 
worm  fence. 

"Been  up  to  the  woods,  a-huntin' 
my  cow,"  she  volunteered,  when  they 
had  exchanged  greetings;  "she 's  like 
some  folks,  —  got  to  switch  her  inter 

VOL.  xcin.  —  NO.  559.  40 


the  notion  of  er-goin'  home;  but  onct 
she  gits  er-started,  there  's  no  a-holdin' 
her  back.  Reck'n  Johnny's  arms  '11 
be  mos'  pulled  out'r  their  sockets 
'fore  he  gits  through  with  her.  Heerd 
the  news,  o'  course?  "  — the  tone  was 
strongly  suggestive  of  the  hope  that  it 
was  yet  to  be  told. 

Mrs.  Allen  very  briefly  said  she  had 
not. 

"Well,  they  've  done  ketched  the 
nigger  ez  kilt  ol'  Mis'  Bartin,  —  found 
him  up  in  the  Pine  Ridge  thicket,  er- 
livin'  off'n  the  po'  soul's  chickings. 
He  's  er  short,  chunky  nigger,  black  ez 
er  coal,  they  sez,  an'  pow'ful  strong. 
Co'se  he  sez  he  never  done  it,  'dares 
he  's  jes'  er-trampin'  it  to  the  city,  an' 
bein'  mos'  starved,  jes'  gathered  up 
the  chickings  he  foun'  er-runnun'  loose 
in  the  woods.  Nobody  don't  b'lieve 
him,  an'  they  've  got  him  locked  up 
in  jail  down  to  town,"  nodding  her 
head  toward  the  west.  Then  she 
leaned  farther  over  the  fence  and 
lowered  her  voice  impressively :  "  Mark 
my  words,  Mis'  Allen,  'fore  mornin' 
there  '11  be  mo'  than  nuts  er-hangin' 
to  the  pecan  tree  by  ol'  Mis'  Bart  in 's 
gate." 

Mrs.  Allen  met  her  significant  gaze 
in  silence.  Then  instinctively  both 
women  looked  up  the  pine-sentineled 
road  toward  the  east  where,  nearly  a 
mile  farther  on,  at  a  turn  in  the  road 
toward  the  south,  a  small  house  faced 
them,  its  tightly  closed  doors  and 
blinds  almost  hidden  from  sight  by  the 
great  pecan  tree  growing  on  one  side 
of  the  gate.  The  setting  sun  had  dyed 
its  branches  a  moist  crimson. 

Forty  years  ago  this  same  tree  had 
bravely  put  forth  from  the  ground. 
For  forty  years  it  had  shaded  the  joys 
and  sorrows  of  the  house's  inmates, 
tossing  down  its  nuts  into  the  eager- 
ly upraised  hands  of  happy  children, 
dropping  its  leaves  on  the  pine  coffins 
as,  one  by  one,  husband  and  children 
had  been  carried  to  the  grave ;  and 
now  it  had  been  the  sole  witness  of 


626 


The  Law  of  the  Soul. 


the  violent  close  of  the  last  life. 
Henceforth  house  and  tree  would  stand 
isolated,  debarred  from  human  con- 
tact, the  prey  of  bat  and  squirrel,  for 
Murder  had  set  its  red  seal  on  the 
gate. 

Mrs.  Allen  turned  her  gaze  away 
with  a  sigh.  "Why  don't  they  let 
the  law  deal  with  him  ?  "  she  said 
dully,  in  response  to  Mrs.  Bilbo's  in- 
sinuation. "He  may  be  truly  inno- 
cent." 

Mrs.  Bilbo  shook  her  head  with 
stout  conviction.  "He's  the  right 
man,  sho'.  It  was  a  real  nigger  ac'. 
There  ain't  no  w'ite  man  in  these  here 
parts  ez  would  choke  er  po'  ol'  woman 
to  death  for  her  little  savin's,  and  all 
the  niggers  'bout  here  is  bonus'  an' 
frien'ly.  You  kin  sot  yo'  min'  to  it 
that  this  strange  nigger  war'n't  prowl- 
in'  'bout  here  fo'  no  good  puppose, 
an'  I  reck'n  they  '11  send  him  out'n 
this  worF  ez  quick  ez  he  sent  her." 

Mrs.  Allen  shuddered.  "It's  hor- 
rible !  "  she  murmured,  almost  acutely. 

Mrs.  Bilbo  stared  at  her;  there 
were  shades  of  feeling  that  her  mind's 
eye  had  never  read.  "It  ain't  any 
worse  'n  what  he  done,"  she  said  re- 
sentfully, "an'  it  '11  learn  other  fo'ks 
to  be  mo'  keerful  of  their  ac's." 

Mrs.  Allen  made  no  further  remark, 
crumbling  a  dead  rose  leaf  in  her  hand 
with  her  usual  stony  air  of  emotion- 
less lethargy.  Mrs.  Bilbo  continued 
to  discourse  on  the  all-absorbing  topic, 
but,  eliciting  no  other  expression  of 
interest,  she  took  her  arms  from  the 
fence  as  the  first  move  toward  de- 
parture. 

"Well,"  she  said,  and  the  exclama- 
tion had  the  nettled  ring  of  the  dis- 
appointed raconteur,  "I  mus'  be  git- 
tin'  on.  But  don't  forgit,  if  you 
hears  any  oncommon  noise  down  this 
road  to-night,  that  I  give  you  warnin' 
of  it.  I  mus'  hurry  to  git  home  'fore 
dark.  Good-night  to  you, "  and  Mrs. 
Bilbo  went  down  the  road  toward  the 
west,  where  the  crimsoned  clouds  fast 


darkened  to  purple,  mentally  conclud- 
ing that  she  would  "sooner  talk  to  er 
gatepos'  'n  some  fo'ks,  'cause  you 
don't  look  fo'  nothin'  from  a  gatepos', 
but  you  do  from  fo'ks,  'specially  w'en 
you  've  got  sunthin'  more  'n  common  to 
tell  'em."  Life  to  Mrs.  Bilbo  had  no 
greater  burden  than  its  inevitable  in- 
terruptions to  conversation. 

The  November  night  was  frosty  and 
still  and  clear.  Mrs.  Allen  shivered, 
but  not  with  cold ;  she  could  scarcely 
have  said  with  what.  Her  scant  time 
of  recreation  had  been  cut  short;  it 
was  now  too  dark  to  see.  She  went 
slowly,  it  might  be  reluctantly,  to  the 
door,  casting  a  lingering  look  back  at 
her  flowers.  The  roses  gleamed  palely 
in  the  fast  falling  night  like  a  mystic 
lifting  of  white  hands,  and  the  jasmine 
and  honeysuckle  breathed  their  essence 
in  her  face.  If  there  was  a  frost  be- 
fore morning  the  jasmine  would  be 
killed.  Jasmine,  like  happiness,  lives 
only  in  the  garden  of  the  sun. 

She  turned  into  the  room  with  a 
sigh.  Lighting  a  lamp,  she  placed  it 
on  the  white  pine  table  standing  in 
the  centre  of  the  room.  In  front  of 
the  big  open  fireplace  was  a  stove,  the 
pipe  running  into  the  chimney.  The 
walls  were  the  upright  boards  of  the 
house,  rudely  whitewashed,  the  cook- 
ing utensils  hanging  on  them,  with  two 
or  three  colored  prints,  a  rasher  of 
baeon,  and  strings  of  dried  peppers. 
There  was  but  one  other  room,  the 
bedroom,  which  opened  into  it.  The 
other  openings  were  a  window  in  the 
side,  and  the  front  and  back  doors,  di- 
rectly opposite  each  other.  Starting 
a  fire  in  the  stove,  she  put  on  some 
coffee  to  heat  and  a  square  of  corn  bread 
in  the  oven  to  re- warm.  Then  she 
set  the  table  with  two  heavy  stone 
china  plates,  but  the  cup  she  put  at 
her  husband's  place  was  of  delicate  old 
china,  and  —  strange  anomaly  in  their 
rude  surroundings  —  the  napkins  were 
in  silver  rings.  She  did  her  work  with 
the  same  mechanical  precision  with 


The  Law  of  the  Soul. 


627 


which  she  had  mended  the  step,  and 
her  hands,  coming  under  the  light, 
were  a  pathetic  history  of  hard  work, 
with  their  worn  disfigurement  of  scars 
and  broken  nails. 

When  she  had  put  some  bacon  on 
the  stove  to  fry,  she  went  to  the  back 
door  and  peered  out  into  the  yard. 
The  moon  had  not  yet  risen,  and  the 
darkness  seemed  doubly  great  awaiting 
its  coming.  The  frostiness  in  the  air 
lent  additional  brilliancy  to  the  stars, 
and  against  the  glittering  background 
the  crowded  tops  of  the  forest  pines 
were  densely  outlined. 

"I  wonder  what's  keeping  him," 
she  murmured.  "He  can't  be  milk- 
ing all  this  time.  This  is  the  second 
night  he  has  stayed  out  so  long." 

She  seemed  about  to  call,  but,  check- 
ing the  impulse,  stepped  down  into  the 
yard  and  went  out  to  the  cow-shed. 
He  was  not  there,  but  the  cow  was  in 
her  stall,  comfortably  munching  hay, 
and  recognizing  her  mistress's  step, 
gave  a  soft  low  of  welcome ;  the  chick- 
ens rustled  in  the  trees,  and  the  air 
was  so  still  and  clear  that  the  falling 
of  a  leaf  almost  created  an  echo,  and 
the  distant  barking  of  a  dog  traveled 
on  indefinitely. 

Passing  around  a  clump  of  orange 
trees  growing  by  a  shed,  she  came  to 
a  lean-to,  thatched  with  pine  boughs, 
where  the  firewood  was  corded  up  to 
within  a  foot  of  the  top.  In  the  open- 
ing, coming  from  the  narrow  space 
back  of  the  wood,  was  the  dim  reflec- 
tion of  a  light,  evidently  shaded  from 
casting  its  rays  too  strongly  upward. 
The  unusualness  of  it,  the  absence  of 
her  husband,  coupled  with  the  recent 
tragedy  in  the  neighborhood,  filled  her 
with  a  sudden  fear  that  caused  her  to 
hesitate  in  dread  of  she  knew  not  what. 
But  gathering  her  courage  together, 
she  went  forward  with  unconscious 
caution,  and  sought  to  peer  through  a 
crack  in  the  end  of  the  lean-to.  Here 
was  another  surprise,  for  old  bagging 
had  been  stretched  across  the  crack 


with  evident  intention.  She  knew 
that  there  had  never  been  anything 
between  the  wood  and  the  back  of  the 
lean-to  but  some  broken  barrels  and 
boxes,  and  this  evidence  of  mystery  in 
so  innocent  a  place  set  her  heart  to  throb- 
bing in  breathless  anxiety.  She  was 
about  to  turn  away  to  go  to  the  other 
end  when  a  ray  of  light,  falling  through 
a  knothole  near  the  ground,  caught 
her  attention.  With  a  horrible  dread 
holding  her  heart  almost  pulseless  in 
its  grip,  she  knelt  down  and  put  her 
eye  to  the  hole.  She  saw  a  bit  of 
candle  stuck  in  the  ground,  a  box 
propped  over  it  like  a  bird  trap  to 
screen  the  light  from  shooting  upward ; 
half  crouched  by  it,  on  his  heels,  was 
her  husband ;  before  him  on  the  ground 
were  five  little  heaps  of  coin,  —  dol- 
lars, halves,  quarters,  dimes,  and  nick- 
els. His  long  forefinger,  the  chalky  skin 
tightly  shriveled  over  the  bones,  trav- 
eled rapidly  over  the  piles,  —  one, 
two,  three,  four,  five ;  then  back  again, 

—  one,  two,  three,  four,  five.      Then 
it  climbed  up  each  heap,  touching  sepa- 
rately the  edge  of  every  coin  with  ca- 
ressing exactitude  as  he  bent  over  them 
as  though  he  could  have  kissed  them 
in  his  sordid   passion.      But  his  wife 
saw  nothing  of  his  face ;   she  had  eyes 
only  for  a  small  calico  bag  lying  over 
one  knee.      She  had  seen  that  bag  once 
before  when  old  Mrs.  Barton  had  drawn 
it  from  its  hiding-place  between    the 
mattresses  to   give   her   some  change. 
She  had  noticed  it  then  only  casually; 
now  its  big  red  flowers  flared  in  her 
face  like  a  mob  of  mouths  shrieking 
the  secret  of  the  crime!      She  did  not 
cry  out  nor  faint,  but  knelt  motionless, 
paralyzed  by  the  horror  of  the  shock. 

The  man,  as  he  sat  gloating  over 
his  pitiful  treasure,  was  oblivious  for 
the  moment  of  any  fear  of  detection, 
seemingly  unconscious  to  any  thought 
but  that  the  money  was  his,  —  his  alone, 

—  to  finger,   to  hoard,  to  spend,  just 
as  it  suited  his  pleasure,  and  she  watched 
him  with  a  sickened,  dead  fascination, 


628 


The  Law  of  the  Soul. 


precluding  every  thought  of  danger  to 
herself  if  discovered. 

Presently  he  opened  the  little  bag, 
and  slowly,  reluctantly,  piece  by  piece, 
returned  the  money  to  it,  lastly  put- 
ting in  some  bills  which  had  been  ly- 
ing across  the  other  knee;  then  he 
placed  it  in  a  hole  in  the  ground,  cov- 
ering it  with  earth,  over  which  he 
placed  a  box  full  of  straw,  scattering 
straw  about,  making  it  appear  like  a 
looted  hen's  nest.  His  next  move- 
ment, to  take  up  the  bit  of  candle  and 
blow  it  out,  roused  her  from  her  torpor, 
and  she  fled  to  the  house  as  one  flies 
with  a  nameless  terror  at  his  heels. 

The  kitchen  was  filled  with  the  odor 
of  burning  bacon.  She  did  not  notice 
it,  but  stood  with  the  stove  between 
her  and  the  door,  her  wide-stretched, 
horror-stricken  eyes  fixed  on  the  square 
of  night  it  framed.  She  had  not  long 
to  wait  before  a  booted  foot  struck  the 
step,  and  her  husband's  face  appeared 
in  the  doorway,  more  ghastly  than  ever 
in  its  pallor  with  the  night  as  back- 
ground. 

"Smells  like  the  bacon  's  burnin'  to 
cinders,"  he  drawled.  "Fry  in '-pan 
upset?" 

The  woman  mechanically  looked  at 
the  stove,  and,  more  by  instinct  than  rea- 
son, removed  the  pan  and  replaced  the 
burned  bacon  with  fresh.  Her  husband 
put  down  the  pail  and  shut  the  door. 

"Gittin'  chilly  outside,"  he  re- 
marked, with  a  little  shiver.  "Should 
n't  wonder  if  we  had  frost  'fore  morn- 
in'."  He  took  down  his  coat  from  a 
nail  in  the  wall,  and,  putting  it  on, 
shambled  over  to  the  table  and  took 
his  seat.  "Didn't  git  more  'n  'nough 
milk  for  supper,"  he  continued;  "my 
arms  give  out  'fore  I  was  half  through. 
Think  I  '11  hire  a  boy  to  milk.  I  need 
res'.  Fellers  as  ain't  born  to  work 
can't  thrive  on  it  same  as  fellers  that 
are,  an'  I  'm  all  broke  up."  He  was 
evidently  used  to  having  his  remarks 
pass  unnoticed,  as  he  seemed  to  accept 
his  wife's  silence  as  a  matter  of  course. 


"Coffee  ain't  done  yet?  "  he  in- 
quired in  a  tone  of  latent  irritation, 
after  vainly  waiting  to  be  served. 

As  she  brought  the  coffee  to  the 
table  and  poured  it  out,  she  did  not 
look  at  him;  and  instead  of  handing 
him  his  cup,  as  usual,  pushed  it  so 
slightly  toward  him  that  he  had  to 
reach  across  the  table  and  take  it  for 
himself. 

"What  're  you  lookin'  at  my  hands 
for  ?  "  he  demanded,  with  querulous 
protest.  "I  washed  'em  at  the  pump 
'fore  I  come  in;  no  need  to  wash  'em 
over  again  jes'  to  please  you,  is  there  ?  " 

She  turned  away  without  reply,  and 
made  a  pretense  of  stirring  the  fire. 

"Ain't  you  goin'  to  eat  any  sup- 
per? "  he  asked  more  genially,  when 
the  coffee  had  warmed  him  up. 

Her  lips  parted  to  reply,  but  her 
voice  failed,  until,  with  great  effort, 
she  finally  answered  in  a  low  tone, 
"I  'm  not  hungry." 

"Reck'n  nobody's  hungry,"  he 
gibed,  with  puerile  irritation;  "with 
no  thin'  to  eat  mornin',  noon,  an'  night 
but  corn  bread,  molasses,  and  bacon, 

—  it's  a  wonder  one  half  of  us  ain't 
a  bag  of  meal    an'    the  other   half  a 
porker.      I  'in  tired  of    this  picayune 
bus'niss.      What  're  we    made  human 
for  if  we  don't  feed  better  'n  animals? 
I  can't  stand  it  any  longer.      I  'm  go- 
in'  to  take  the  livin'  in  my  own  hands 
an'  buy  some  decent  food,  —  somethin' 
one  kin  eat  an'   enjoy,    an'   not  have 
the  thought  of  it  afterwards  turn  one 
sick   at    the    stomach.     You   needn't 
think    you  '11    have    to    dole    out    the 
money, "  —  as    a    quick,    irrepressible 
gesture  of  his  wife's  caught  his  shift- 
ing glance,  —  "I  '11  attend  to  that.      I 
was  n't  born  a  miser,  thank  the  Lord !  " 

—  and   he  chuckled  with  a  sickening 
air    of    self-satisfaction.      "Look    at 
me, "  he  continued,  spreading  his  hands 
on  the    table;    "I  don't  b'lieve  I've 
got  'nough  blood  in  my  body  to  fill  a 
saucer;   it 's  time  I  was  thinkin'  some- 
thin'    of    myself;     unselfishness     kills 


The  Law  of  the  Soul. 


629 


more  people  'n  disease."  He  raised 
his  cup  and  drained  it  to  the  last  drop, 
then  set  it  down  with  a  hand  that 
trembled  as  if  from  palsy  or  extreme 
old  age. 

His  supper  finished,  he  dragged  his 
chair  over  to  the  stove,  and,  sitting 
down,  stretched  out  his  legs  well  under 
it  to  get  the  full  benefit  of  the  heat, 
and,  leaning  back,  folded  his  hands 
in  his  lap,  and  half  closed  his  eyes, 
like  a  cat  that  lies  at  ease,  while  his 
wife  washed  the  tea  things,  putting 
them  away  in  a  small  cupboard  against 
the  wall.  It  must  have  been  a  heavy 
task,  from  the  close  and  concentrated 
attention  she  gave  it. 

The  heat  seemed  to  produce  a  more 
genial  mood  in  Mr.  Allen  as  he  began 
a  dribble  of  talk,  chiefly  relating  to 
his  boyhood  and  the  excellent  cooking 
of  a  certain  Aunt  Sally  who  had  enun- 
ciated the  truism,  "I  does  de  cookin' 
an'  Marsa  Henry  de  eatinV  He  was 
too  absorbed  to  see  the  glances  his  wife 
sent  in  his  direction,  —  shrinking,  de- 
spairing, yet  now  and  then  doubting, 
as  if  they  strove  to  grip  the  truth  of 
what  the  tongue  refused  to  question. 
When  she  opened  the  back  door  to 
throw  out  the  crumbs,  a  black  cat  came 
running  in  out  of  the  darkness,  mew- 
ing piteously,  its  eyes  gleaming  like 
diamonds  in  the  opposing  light.  It 
rubbed  itself  confidingly  against  her 
skirt,  looking  pleadingly  up  in  her 
face,  evidently,  from  its  leanness,  ask- 
ing for  food.  She  drew  it  in,  shut 
the  door,  and,  getting  a  saucer,  gave 
it  milk,  which  it  lapped  ravenously. 
The  man's  babble  stopped  abruptly, 
his  half-shut  eyes  centring  on  the  cat 
with  curious  intentness. 

"Where  'd  that  thing  come  from?  " 
he  demanded  sharply.  His  wife  was 
apparently  too  absorbed  in  the  cat's 
comfort  to  hear.  "Where  'd  that  cat 
come  from  ?  "  he  repeated. 

Her  answer  came  with  evident  diffi- 
culty. "It's  old  —  it's  one  of  the 
neighbors'  cats." 


"What'd  you  let  it  in  for?"  he 
asked  with  restless  insistence  and 
shrinking.  "You  know  I  hate  cats. 
Turn  it  out  and  let  it  starve." 

She  rubbed  the  animal  gently. 
"When  it  's  had  enough  to  eat  I  '11 
turn  it  out,"  she  replied  quietly. 

His  face  twitched.  "Curse  it!  — 
if  I  didn't  hate  to  touch  'em  I  'd  take 
it  by  its  tail  and  pitch  it  out  myself. 
The  sight  of  'em  always  makes  me 
nervous.  I  feel  now  like  the  infernal 
thing  had  its  claws  in  my  heart! 
Turn  it  out,  an'  don't  you  let  it  come 
sneakin'  back  to  stay  in  here  all  night. 
I  'd  know  it  in  my  sleep."  He  moved 
his  hand  restlessly.  "It  's  a  witch,  — 
all  those  black  cats  are  witches ;  it 
ought  to  be  drowned  'stead  of  bein' 
pampered  an'  fed!  Don't  you  fail 
to  turn  it  out !  " 

Suddenly,  as  she  bent  protectingly 
over  the  poor  animal,  she  became  aware 
of  a  vibration  rather  than  a  sound  in 
the  atmosphere  outside,  a  distinct  wave 
of  motion ;  like  a  rustle  of  wind-stirred 
leaves  viewed  through  a  closed  window 
it  touched  the  mind  rather  than  the 
ear.  Involuntarily  she  raised  her  head 
and  listened.  Her  husband  caught  the 
action  with  covert  sharpness,  and  imi- 
tated it  with  an  alertness  that  was 
startling. 

More  distinct  the  vibration  grew 
through  the  stillness,  coming  nearer 
and  nearer,  shaping  itself  at  last  into 
the  grim  distinctness  of  the  marching 
of  many  feet,  the  terrible  reality  of 
men  moving  through  the  night  with 
sinister  purpose  as  guide.  The  woman 
sprang  to  her  feet,  her  eyes  wide  with 
despair. 

"Lynchers!" 

The  word  seemed  to  form  of  itself 
and  ring  through  the  room  with  un- 
ending reverberation .  The  man  dropped 
back  in  his  chair  as  though  struck  a 
palpable  blow.  His  hands  twitched 
and  jerked,  his  lips  gibbered  as  he 
tried  to  articulate.  Raising  a  shaking 
forefinger  he  pointed  to  the  door. 


630 


The  Law  of  the  Soul. 


"Bolt  it!  "  he  gasped  in  a  whisper. 
"Blow  out  the  light!  " 

As  she  did  not  move,  he  made  an 
effort  to  rise,  but  his  legs  refused  to 
uphold  him.  "Curse  it!  "  he  stuttered 
desperately,  "don't  you  see  I  can't 
walk  ?  Help  me !  —  open  the  back  door 
so  I  can  get  out.  Blow  out  the  light 
an'  they  can't  see  us  move!  Blow  it 
out,  I  say !  blow  it  out,  quick !  " 

As  she  still  stood  motionless,  he 
writhed  in  his  impotence.  "You  want 
'em  to  come!"  he  panted;  "you're 
showing  'em  the  way!  If  I  could  get 
up  from  this  chair  I  'd  kill  you!  Come 
an'  help  me, — you!  " 

She  looked  at  him,  and  he  was  so 
horrible  to  see  in  his  abject,  conscience- 
smitten  terror  she  let  her  glance  fall 
quickly  away.  "They  "  —  she  gasped 
for  breath.  "They  —  have  the  man 
—  they  believe  —  to  be  the  "  —  But 
the  word  would  not  be  said. 

He  caught  at  her  meaning  with  eager 
hope.  "They  have  him?"  he  whis- 
pered. "They're  goin'  to  —  hang 
him?  Are  you  sure?  Who  told 
you?" 

"Mrs.  Bilbo,  "  —  her  voice  was  tone- 
less. "It's  —  a  negro." 

The  effect  was  electrical,  life-giv- 
ing. He  sat  up  and  drew  a  long 
breath. 

"So  they  got  him  after  all,  did 
they?  "  he  said,  with  a  sickening  ef- 
fort at  ease.  "Well,  —  they  '11  make 
short  work  of  him." 

He  got  up  and  steadied  himself 
shakily  on  his  feet.  "Ib'lieve"  —  with 
a  quavering  laugh —  "I  '11  go  an'  help 
'em." 

"Henry!  "  The  cry  was  anguished. 

He  shrugged  himself,  giving  her  a 
quick,  shifting  glance,  and  laughed 
again.  "Maybe  they  've  got  'nough 
without  me,"  and  he  still  tried  to 
stand  firmly  on  his  feet.  "Sounds 
like  it,  at  any  rate." 

There  was  now  but  the  few  feet  of 
garden  between  them  and  the  mur- 
dered woman's  avengers;  they  could 


hear  the  tread  of  horses  among  that 
of  men,  and  the  clinking  of  bits  and 
stirrups. 

He  stood  with  twitching  lips,  in- 
tently listening,  scarcely  breathing, 
until  the  crowd  had  passed.  Unno- 
ticed, the  cat  had  coiled  itself  up 
under  the  stove,  but  disturbed  by  the 
voices,  it  crept  out  and  rubbed  itself 
against  the  man's  legs.  He  looked 
down  at  the  touch,  but  shrank  back 
with  a  mumbled  cry;  then,  with  a 
spasm  of  fury  or  fear,  gave  it  a  kick 
that  sent  it,  crying  and  spitting, 
against  the  wall,  where  it  crouched, 
eyeing  him  malevolently. 

The  woman  pressed  her  hands  against 
her  breast  as  if  suffocating.  "Henry," 
she  gasped,  "there  must  be  some  way 
of  stopping  them!  " 

"Stoppin'  them?  "  he  jeered.  "Stop 
the  Mississippi !  " 

"My  God!— Why  don't  they  let 
the  law  deal  with  him  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  with  furtive  sharp- 
ness. "What's  it  to  you,"  he  de- 
manded, "if  they  hang  every  thievin' 
nigger  in  the  land  ?  " 

"But  if  he  's  innocent!  "  she  urged. 

"Innocent!  "  he  snarled.  "What 
makes  you  keep  on  harpin'  'bout  his 
innocence?  What  do  you  know  'bout 
it?" 

Their  eyes  met. 

The  strained  misery  of  her  face  was 
intensified  by  the  shadows  cast  upward 
by  the  light  as  she  stood  by  the  ta- 
ble. 

With  head  bent  forward  he  kept  his 
eyes  fixed  on  her  face  with  demandant, 
threatening  rigidity.  "  Well  ?  "  he 
sneered.  " 'Fraid  to  talk?"  His 
hands  stealthily  clinched  and  un- 
clinched  as  they  hung  by  his  sides. 

"  I  "  —  she  looked  away  from  him, 
her  words  so  halting  and  low  they 
were  scarcely  audible,  —  "I  —  saw. " 

"What?" 

She  could  not  speak;  she  raised  her 
hand  and  pointed  out  toward  the  yard . 

With  the  silent  swiftness  of  a  cat 


The  Law  of  the  Soul. 


631 


he  sprang  at  her,  his  fingers  on  her 
throat.  He  forced  her  back  against 
the  wall,  his  fingers  tightening  in  their 
grip,  his  under  lip  clutched  between 
his  teeth,  his  twitching  muscles  turned 
to  steel,  the  nerve  of  a  brute  in  every 
strained  and  swelling  sinew.  She  did 
not  struggle  or  even  raise  her  hands  to 
thrust  him  back,  her  spirit  living  only 
in  her  eyes,  staring  out  with  agonized 
despair.  The  cat,  terrified  beyond 
measure,  bounded  about  the  room, 
blindly  seeking  an  exit,  springing  over 
the  table  and  -chairs,  and  finally  hurl- 
ing itself  through  the  window  pane. 

The  crash  shocked  the  man  into  look- 
ing around;  unconsciously  he  loosened 
his  hold,  and,  in  a  pulse  beat,  the  re- 
action caught  him,  his  strength  col- 
lapsed, he  staggered,  threw  out  his 
arms,  and  fell  to  the  floor,  writhing, 
his  face  livid  and  distorted. 

The  woman  leaned  against  the  wall, 
faint,  catching  her  breath  in  labored 
strains.  For  the  moment  life  and 
memory  were  a  blank;  then,  her  eyes 
focusing  on  the  wretch  on  the  floor, 
both  came  back  like  a  vital  stab.  Im- 
pulsively she  moved  to  him  with  the 
instinct  of  help,  then  checked  herself 
and  hurriedly  turned  to  the  door. 
With  her  hand  on  the  bolt  she  looked 
back.  "  Christ  help  me !" 

Throwing  open  the  door,  she  ran  out 
and  up  the  road,  face  to  face  with  the 
rising  moon,  and  before  her,  like  a 
flying  shadow,  sped  the  cat.  Behind 
her,  the  growing  moonlight  spread  its 
silver  veil  over  her  garden  where  the 
flowers,  like  the  disciples  in  that  other 
Garden  long  ago,  drooped  their  heads 
in  sleep  while  the  spirit  which  had  fed 
their  lives  and  sowed  their  resurrection 
cried  out,  unheeded,  in  its  agonized  re- 
nunciation. 

It  was  a  strange  sight  the  old  pecan 
tree  saw  as  the  moon  rose.  Blocking 
the  road  and  overflowing  into  the  yard 
were  men  armed  with  rifles  or  pistols, 
a  few  with  cudgels.  Some  were  on 


horseback,  the  majority  on  foot,  and 
there  was  little  or  no  attempt  at  dis- 
guise beyond  deeply  slouched  hats  and 
turned  up  coat  collars.  One  man  had 
climbed  the  tree,  and,  sitting  astride 
of  the  heaviest  limb  branching  out  over 
the  road,  was  knotting  around  it  a 
rope,  the  other  end  of  which  dangled 
loosely  down,  transformed  by  the  moon- 
light into  a  silver  cable.  Directly 
under  it,  in  a  small  space  ringed  by 
the  crowd,  was  a  short,  thickset  negro 
in  his  shirt-sleeves,  and  bareheaded. 
Not  a  muscle  of  his  face  moved,  but 
the  moonlight  revealed  the  sullen  fire 
of  his  eyes.  A  man  stepped  out  from 
the  crowd  and  faced  him. 

"You  have  three  minutes  to  con- 
fess, "  he  said  commandingly .  "  Were 
you  alone  when  you  did  it  ?  " 

"I  ain't  got  nuthin'  to  confess," 
was  the  dogged  reply.  "I  don't  know 
nuthin'  'bout  it." 

"It 's  no  use  your  lying.  Once  for 
all,  were  you  alone,  and  where  is  the 
money  ?  "  No  answer.  "  Two  min- 
utes gone;  in  one  more  you '11  swing 
from  that  tree,  your  body  riddled  with 
bullets.  Confess!  " 

The  smothered  fire  broke  forth. 
"I  ain't  got  nuthin'  to  confess;  I  toP 
you  I  ain't  done  it,  an'  don't  know 
nuthin'  'bout  who  done  it.  You  're 
jes'  er-murd'rin'  me,  you  w'ite  men! 
The  Lord  knows  I  'm  innurcunt,  an* 
you  '11  pay  fo'  dis  night's  wu'k  'fore 
yo'  Maker." 

"Swing  him!" 

Ready  hands  seized  and  thrust  him 
on  a  horse  brought  forward  for  the  pur- 
pose and  stationed  under  the  rope.  As 
they  passed  the  noose  over  his  head 
he  cried,  "Glory!  Glory  hallelujah! 
Lord,  take  me  home!  " 

As  the  whip  was  about  to  fall  on  the 
horse's  flank  a  voice  came  from  the 
distance:  "Stop!  Stop!" 

Every  face  turned  in  the  direction 
from  whence  it  came.  Up  the  road, 
braided  with  moonlight  and  shadow,  a 
woman  was  running  at  full  speed. 


632 


The  Law  of  the  Soul. 


Through  the  dewy  stillness  they  could 
distinctly  hear  each  labored  breath. 
"Stop!  "  she  repeated  as  she  reached 
them.  "Let  him  go!  —  I  did  it,  — 
nobody  but  I !  " 

Bewildered,  stunned,  the  crowd 
looked  at  one  another,  helpless.  Theirs 
was  a  simple  creed  of  honor,  with  wo- 
man as  its  foundation  stone,  —  woman 
the  weak,  the  loving,  the  merciful. 
No  wonder  they  stared  at  her  in  hor- 
rified surprise !  No  wonder  they  shrank 
from  her  as  from  a  thing  accursed! 

"Cut  the  rope!  "  some  one  found 
voice  to  command.  When  it  was  done 
they  melted  away  as  before  a  poisonous 
breath,  and  she  stood  alone  in  the  road, 
not  even  the  creature  whose  life  she 
had  saved  pausing  to  give  her  thanks. 

"I  d'clare, "  Mrs.  Bilbo  proclaimed 
to  a  circle  of  absorbed  feminine  friends, 
"w'en  I  heerd  it  you  could  have 
knocked  me  down  with  a  pindar  shell ! 
An'  I  a-talkin'  to  her  that  very  even- 
in'  with  jes'  the  fence  between  us! 
Wen  Bill  Evans  went  'bout  daylight 
to  git  her,  thar  she  were  a-settin'  on 
ol'  Mis'  Bartin's  do 'step,  narry  bun- 
nit  or  shawl  on,  jes'  like  she  'd  been 
a-settin'  thar  all  night.  W'en  she 
seen  Bill  a-comin'  she  riz  up  an'  come 
to  meet  him,  an'  sez,  jes'  ez  cool  ez 
you  please,  sez  she,  '  You  've  come  to 
fetch  me,'  an'  she  j'ined  him,  an'  they 
come  erlong  the  road  tergether,  pass 
her  own  do',  an'  she  would  n't  stop  for 
nuthin',  jes'  sez,  er-noddin'  t'ards  the 
house,  '  You  '11  see  to  some  one  a-takin' 
keer  of  him,  won't  you?  He  's  sick.' 
An'  then  she  sez,  '  You  '11  fin'  two 
picters  in  my  room, '  sez  she.  '  I 


want  you  to  burn  'em  up,  an'  not  let 
anybody  else  tech  'em.'  An'  Bill's 
thet  sof '-hearted  he  did  jes'  as  she  axes 
him,  an'  Bill  sez  they  were  a-mighty 
high-minded,  genteel  lookin'  couple, 
them  picters,  an'  he  reck'ns  they  were 
her  ma  an'  pa.  Arter  she  'd  tol'  whar 
the  money  was  hid  she  ain't  opened 
her  mouth  ergin,  not  even  to  pray  with 
the  preacher;  sez  ez  she  's  done  pray- 
in',  ez  God  knows  all  thar  is  to  know. 
An'  it  jes'  shows  how  cool  she  is, 
a-takin'  the  Lord's  name  in  vain,  w'en 
she  has  blood  on  her  soul !  Co'se  they  '11 
sentence  her  to  hang,  though  mos'  fo'ks 
thinks  the  Gov'nur'll  make  it  'priso'- 
mint  fo'  life,  ez  they  ain't  never 
hanged  er  woman  in  this  yer  state,  an' 
he  ain't  the  man  ez  'd  keer  to  start  it. 
Ez  fo'  thet  po'  husbun'  of  hern,  he  's 
thet  childish  an'  silly  they  've  done  put 
him  at  the  'sylum,  an'  they  tells  me  he 
jes'  sets  'bout  all  day  er-diggin'  holes 
in  the  ground,  an'  fillin'  'em  up  ergin 
mighty  quick  w'en  any  one  looks  his 
way,  —  er-grinnin'  an'  er-jabberin' 
like  er  chil'  or  er  monkey.  The  shock 
of  findin'  out  thet  he  was  er-married  to 
a  murd'ress  jes'  natchully  throwed  him 
inter  er  fit,  an'  w'en  he  come  out  of  it 
the  leetle  min'  he  had  was  plum'  gone. 
An'  he  ain't  never  goin'  to  git  it  back 
ergin,  neither,  they  sez.  I  allus  did  feel 
sorry  fo'  him,  he  so  sociabul  an'  free 
talkin',  er-married  to  thet  unsociabul 
an'  close-tongued  woman,  an'  now  my 
heart  jes'  feels  fit  to  bus'  w'en  I  thinks 
of  his  sorrerful  state.  Po',  po'  soul!  " 
And  her  audience,  with  fullest  ac- 
cord of  sympathy  in  heart  and  voice, 
echoed  Mrs.  Bilbo's  commiserative  ex- 


pressions. 


Isabel  Bowman  Finley. 


The   Common  Lot. 


THE  COMMON  LOT.1 


XVI. 


EVERETT  WHEELER  could  hardly  be 
reckoned  as  a  man  of  sentiment.  Yet 
in  the  matter  of  selecting  an  architect 
for  the  new  school  he  stood  out  persis- 
tently against  the  wishes  of  Pemberton 
and  Judge  Phillips,  with  but  one  sen- 
timental argument,  —  the  Powers  Jack- 
son trustees  must  give  the  commission 
for  building  the  great  school  to  the 
nephew  of  the  founder,  without  holding 
a  competitive  trial  of  any  sort. 

"It's  only  square,"  he  insisted. 
"Jackson  was  disappointed  about  the 
will.  He  had  some  grounds  for  feeling 
badly  used,  too.  He  might  have  made 
us  a  good  deal  of  trouble  at  the  time, 
and  he  did  n't." 

"I  suppose  Powers  would  think  it 
queer  to  pass  him  by, "  Hollister  admit- 
ted, "seeing  he  gave  the  boy  a  first- 
class  education  to  be  an  architect.  And 
he  's  a  hustling,  progressive  fellow  from 
all  I  hear.  I  must  say  I  admire  the 
way  he  's  settled  into  the  collar  since 
his  uncle  died!  " 

This  occurred  at  one  of  the  many 
informal  meetings  of  the  trustees,  now 
that  the  plans  for  the  school  were  shap- 
ing themselves  toward  action.  Pem- 
berton, with  whom  the  others  happened 
to  be  taking  their  luncheon,  glanced 
sharply  at  Wheeler.  Although  not 
given  to  suspecting  his  neighbors  of  in- 
direct motives,  Pemberton  understood 
Wheeler  well  enough  to  know  that  when 
the  lawyer  fell  back  upon  sentiment 
there  must  be  another  motive  in  the 
background.  He  had  not  forgotten 
Mrs.  Hart's  sudden  interest  in  this 
question,  which  he  had  attributed  to  an 
unwise  zeal  in  behalf  of  her  husband. 
It  occurred  to  him  now  that  he  had 
once  heard  in  past  years  of  Everett 
Wheeler's  devotion  to  Nellie  Spellman. 


"I  can't  see  that  it  follows  that  we 
should  put  this  plum  into  his  mouth!  " 
the  judge  exclaimed  testily.  "If  Pow- 
ers had  wanted  to  give  the  chap  any 
more  money,  he  would  have  left  it  to 
him.  Frankly,  I  don't  like  the  fellow. 
He  's  too  smooth,  too  easy  with  all  the 
world." 

"We  know  why  you  are  down  on 
him, "  Wheeler  remarked,  with  a  smile. 
"He  did  let  your  sister-in-law  in  for  a 
good  deal." 

"Well,  it  is  n't  just  that!  Of  course 
he  was  beginning  then,  and  wanted  to 
make  his  first  job  as  big  as  possible,  — 
that  's  natural  enough.  And  I  guess 
Louise  —  Well  it  's  her  affair !  She 
manages  her  own  property,  and  I 
would  n't  let  her  spend  any  of  the  chil- 
dren's money.  But  I  don't  like  Hart's 
methods.  Raymond  was  telling  me  the 
other  day  how  he  worked  him  for  that 
railroad  job,  —  through  —  through  a 
woman.  I  suppose  it  's  all  right;  the 
man  must  get  business  where  he  can. 
It  's  hard  for  youngsters  to  make  a  liv- 
ing these  days.  But  to  get  a  woman 
to  pull  off  a  thing  like  that  for  you! 
And  Raymond  told  me  they  had  to  drop 
him,  too,  — he  didn't  do  the  work 
economically,  or  something  of  the  sort. " 

"I  guess  there  's  another  story  to 
that, "  Wheeler  answered  patiently. 
"Jack  was  n't  willing  to  let  Bushfield 
make  all  he  wanted  to  off  the  contracts. 
I  happen  to  know  that.  And.  I  don't 
see  why  you  should  have  it  in  for  him 
because  he  got  a  lady  to  say  a  good 
word  for  him  with  Raymond.  You 
know  well  enough  that  pretty  nearly 
all  the  big  commissions  for  public  build- 
ings in  this  city  have  gone  by  favor,  — 
family  or  social  or  political  pull.  It  's 
got  to  be  so.  You  're  bound  to  think 
that  the  man  you  know  is  bigger  than 
the  other  fellow  you  don't  know!  " 


1  Copyright,  1903,  by  ROBERT  HERRICK. 


634 


The   Common  Lot. 


"The  proper  way  in  the  case  of  all 
public  buildings  is  to  hold  an  open  com- 
petition,"  Pemberton  remarked  stiffly. 

"Well,  we  won't  argue  that  question. 
But  this  is  a  special  case.  Hart  knows 
more  of  our  plans  than  any  other  ar- 
chitect, naturally,  and  he  can  give  us 
pretty  much  all  his  attention.  He  '11 
push  the  work  faster." 

"We  can  wait,"  Pemberton  object- 
ed. "There  is  no  need  for  undue 
haste." 

"No,  no,  John!"  Judge  Phillips 
protested.  "I  am  getting  to  be  an  old 
man.  I  want  to  see  the  school  started 
and  feel  that  my  duty  's  done.  We  've 
thrashed  this  out  long  enough.  Let  us 
take  Hart  and  be  done  with  it." 

Pemberton  had  been  added  to  their 
number  at  the  suggestion  of  the  judge, 
because  of  his  well-known  public  spirit 
and  his  interest  in  educational  and  phil- 
anthropic enterprises.  He  had  under- 
taken his  duties  with  his  accustomed 
energy  and  conscientiousness,  and  at 
times  wearied  even  the  judge  with  his 
scruples.  The  others  had  rather  hazy 
ideas  as  to  the  exact  form,  educational- 
ly, that  the  large  fund  in  their  charge 
should  assume.  Wheeler  concerned  him- 
self mainly  with  the  financial  side  of 
the  trust.  Hollister,  who  had  got  his 
education  in  a  country  school ,  and  Judge 
Phillips,  who  was  a  graduate  of  a  small 
college,  merely  insisted  that  the  school 
should  be  "practical,"  with  "no  non- 
sense." After  they  had  rejected  the 
plan  of  handing  over  the  bequest  to  a 
university,  Pemberton  had  formed  the 
idea  of  founding  a  technological  school, 
modeled  after  certain  famous  eastern 
institutions.  This  conception  Helen 
had  disturbed  by  her  talk  with  him,  in 
which  she  had  vigorously  presented  the 
founder's  ideas  on  education. 

In  his  perplexity  Pemberton  had 
gone  east  to  see  the  president  of  a 
university,  of  which  he  was  one  of  the 
trustees,  and  there  he  had  met  one  of 
the  professors  in  the  scientific  depart- 
ment, one  Dr.  Everest,  a  clever  organ- 


izer of  educational  enterprises.  Dr. 
Everest  did  not  find  it  difficult  to  con- 
vince Mr.  Pemberton  that  his  dilemma 
was  an  imaginary  one,  that  all  warring 
ideals  of  education  might  be  easily 
"harmonized"  by  a  little  judicious 
"adjustment."  There  should  be  some 
domestic  science  for  the  girls,  manual 
training  combined  with  technical  and 
commercial  courses  for  the  boys,  and 
all  would  be  right,  especially  if  the 
proper  man  were  employed  to  mix  these 
ingredients.  In  brief,  the  doctor  came 
to  Chicago  at  the  invitation  of  the  trus- 
tees, looked  over  the  ground,  and  spoke 
at  several  public  dinners  on  the  "  ideals 
of  modern  education."  His  eloquent 
denunciation  of  a  "mediaeval "  educa- 
tion, his  plea  for  a  business  education 
for  a  business  people,  his  alert  air  and 
urbane  manners  convinced  the  trustees 
that  they  had  found  a  treasure.  Dr. 
Everest  was  invited  to  become  the  head 
of  the  new  school,  which  was  to  be  called 
the  JACKSON  INDUSTRIAL  INSTITUTE. 

When  Everett  Wheeler  had  finally 
obtained  the  consent  of  his  associates 
to  ask  the  architect  to  meet  the  trustees 
and  the  new  director  and  discuss  plans 
for  the  building,  the  lawyer  was  so 
pleased  that  he  broke  an  engagement 
for  dinner,  and  took  the  train  to  Forest 
Park  instead.  He  might  have  tele- 
phoned the  architect,  but,  sluggish  as  he 
was  temperamentally,  he  had  long  pro- 
mised himself  the  pleasure  of  telling 
Helen  personally  the  good  news.  Of 
late  she  had  not  seemed  wholly  happy, 
and  he  supposed  that  there  were  money 
troubles,  which  would  now  be  relieved. 

He  found  a  number  of  people  on  tt 
veranda  of  the  Harts'  house,  and 
down  patiently  to  wait.  It  had  bee 
a  warm  day,  and  the  men  and  wome 
were  lounging  comfortably  on  the  grass 
mats,  gossiping  and  enjoying  the  cool 
air  from  the  lake.  Jackson  was  in  high 
spirits,  telling  Irish  stories,  a  social 
gift  which  he  had  cultivated.  Wheeler 
found  himself  near  Venetia  Phillips, 


The  Common  Lot. 


635 


who  was  nursing  a  sprained  elbow,  the 
result  of  being  pitched  against  a  fence 
by  a  vicious  horse. 

"Why  don't  you  try  your  charms  on 
Helen?  "  she  asked  Wheeler  peevishly. 
"She  's  been  out  of  sorts  all  this  sum- 
mer. When  you  see  the  solemn  way 
good  married  women  take  their  hap- 
piness, it  does  n't  encourage  you  to  try 
your  luck.  I  wonder  if  she  and  Jackie 
scrap.  She  looks  as  if  she  had  a  very 
dull  life." 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"I  can't  make  out  exactly.  Unsat- 
isfied aspirations,  or  something  of  the 
sort.  I  should  guess  that  our  Jackson 
does  n't  come  up  to  specifications.  She 
sighs  for  the  larger  world.  Did  you 
ever  meet  a  chap  who  used  to  give  les- 
sons in  binding  paper  books?  That 
was  a  couple  of  years  ago,  when  we  were 
all  trying  to  do  something  with  our 
hands,  reviving  the  arts  and  crafts. 
His  name  was  Vleck.  He  was  a  poor, 
thin  little  man,  with  a  wife  dying  from 
consumption  or  something  of  the  sort. 
He  had  hard  luck  written  all  up  and 
down  him.  I  have  always  thought 
Helen  wanted  to  run  away  with  Mr. 
Vleck,  but  could  n't  get  up  her  courage. 
They  used  to  talk  socialism  and  anarchy 
and  strikes  until  the  air  was  red.  It 
was  the  biggest  fun  to  see  him  and 
Jackson  get  together.  Jack  would  of- 
fer him  a  cigar,  —  the  bad  kind  he 
keeps  for  the  foremen  on  his  buildings. 
Vleck  would  turn  him  down,  and  then 
Helen  would  ask  the  bookbinder  to 
luncheon  or  dinner,  and  that  would 
give  Jack  a  fit.  But  Vleck  would  n't 
stay.  He  had  ideas  about  the  masses 
not  mixing  with  the  classes  until  the 
millennium  comes.  Helen  would  argue 
with  him,  but  it  was  no  use.  He 
thought  nothing  was  on  the  square. 
Well,  one  day  he  got  huffy  about  some- 
thing Jack  said,  and  went  off  and  never 
turned  up  again.  Helen  tried  to  find 
him;  I  don't  think  she  ever  got  over 
it.  I  believe  that  Vleck  was  the  man 
for  her.  She  is  an  unsatisfied  soul! 


I  am  going,  and  you  had  better  try  to 
cheer  her  up." 

It  was  beyond  the  lawyer's  power, 
however,  to  penetrate  Helen's  mood. 
She  seemed  curiously  removed  from  the 
scene.  The  banter  and  talk  of  the  peo- 
ple on  the  veranda  passed  over  her  un- 
heeded; her  eyes  rested  dreamily  on 
the  trees,  among  which  the  summer 
twilight  was  stealing.  To  rouse  her 
attention  Wheeler  brought  forth  his 
news. 

"I  came  out  here  to  tell  you  some- 
thing, Nell, "  he  said. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  indiffer- 
ently. 

"Jack  is  going  to  build  the  school!  " 

He  looked  at  her  closely.  She  gave 
a  little  start,  as  though  his  words 
brought  her  back  to  the  present,  but 
she  said  nothing. 

"I  've  just  argued  them  into  it. 
They  wanted  a  public  competition,  or 
something  of  the  kind." 

"Why  don't  they  have  a  competi- 
tion? "  she  asked  quickly. 

The  lawyer  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Why  should  they?  Is  n't  Jack  the 
old  man's  nephew?  " 

She  made  no  reply,  and  he  said  no- 
thing more,  dampened  by  the  way  she 
took  his  splendid  news.  In  a  little 
while  the  others  left,  and  they  had  din- 
ner. Wheeler  expected  Helen  would 
tell  her  husband  of  the  decision,  but  she 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  it.  So,  final- 
ly, he  was  forced  to  repeat  his  news. 
He  dropped  it  casually  and  coldly :  — 

"Well,  Jack,  we  're  getting  that 
school  business  cleared  up.  Can  you 
meet  the  trustees  and  the  doctor  at  my 
office  some  day  this  week  ?  " 

Jackson  bubbled  over  with  glee. 

"Hoorah!"  he  shouted.  "Good 
for  you,  Everett.  We  must  have  up 
some  champagne." 

The  lawyer,  watching  Helen's  im- 
passive face,  felt  inclined  to  moderate 
Jackson's  enthusiasm. 

"Of  course,  nothing  's  settled  as  to 
the  commission.  You  '11  be  asked  to 


636 


The   Common  Lot. 


prepare  sketches  after  you  have  con- 
sulted with  Dr.  Everest.  That  's  all." 

That  was  enough  for  the  architect. 
He  thought  that  he  could  satisfy  the 
director,  and  if  he  succeeded  with  him 
the  rest  of  the  way  was  clear.  When 
the  champagne  came,  he  pressed  his 
thanks  on  his  cousin. 

"It 's  awfully  good  of  you,  Everett, 
all  the  trouble  you  have  taken  for  me 
in  this.  You  '11  have  to  let  me  build 
that  camp  in  the  Adirondacks  this  fall. 
My  heavens,"  he  went  on,  too  excited 
to  be  cautious,  "you  don't  know  what 
a  load  it  takes  off  my  shoulders !  I  can 
feel  myself  free  once  more.  It  's  a  big 
thing,  the  first  big  thing  that  's  come 
my  way  since  I  began.  How  much  do 
the  trustees  mean  to  put  into  the  build- 
ing?" 

"That  depends,"  the  lawyer  an- 
swered cautiously.  "It  will  be  over 
half  a  million,  anyway,  I  should  sup- 
pose." 

"It  's  a  great  opportunity!  "  the 
architect  exclaimed,  conscious  that  the 
more  elevated  and  ideal  aspects  of  the 
subject  were  slipping  out  of  sight.  "It 
does  n't  come  every  day,  the  chance  to 
build  a  monument  like  the  school!  " 

"You're  quite  right,"  Wheeler 
assented. 

In  his  excitement,  Hart  left  his  seat 
and  began  to  pace  the  floor,  his  hands 
twisting  his  napkin  nervously.  Helen 
was  watching  the  bubbles  break  in  her 
champagne  glass .  Her  face  had  remained 
utterly  blank,  although  she  seemed  to 
be  listening  to  her  husband.  Perhaps, 
thought  the  lawyer,  she  did  not  realize 
what  this  meant.  So  he  remarked  de- 
liberately :  — 

"It 's  a  big  commission,  fast  enough, 
if  you  get  it.  I  don't  know  of  another 
young  fellow  in  your  business  in  this 
city  who  's  had  the  same  chance  to  make 
his  reputation." 

Even  this  did  not  rouse  the  wife  to 
speech.  A  flush  stole  over  her  face, 
but  her  eyes  remained  buried  in  the 
champagne  -  glass,  which  she  twirled 


gently  between  her  fingers,  thus  keep- 
ing up  the  effervescence.  Jackson  was 
jubilant  enough  for  two. 

"Dr.  Everest  and  I  were  talking 
about  the  site  the  other  day, "  he  said. 
"You  have  only  two  blocks.  There 
should  be  four,  at  least.  You  must  give 
dignity  to  the  main  building  by  some 
kind  of  approach.  It  should  be  done 
in  stone,  if  possible.  But  if  that  's  too 
costly,  we  might  try  white  terra  cotta. 
You  can  get  very  good  effects  in  that." 

"You  may  find  the  judge  and  Pem- 
berton  pretty  stubborn  on  matters  of 
detail, "  Wheeler  remarked  cautiously. 

But  the  architect  flirted  his  napkin 
buoyantly.  He  had  dealt  with  building 
committees  before,  and  he  had  found 
that  trustees  usually  took  their  duties 
lightly. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it, 
Nell?  "  the  lawyer  asked  finally. 

"Oh!  I?  "  She  looked  up  blankly 
from  the  glass  of  wine.  "It  is  a  great 
chance,  of  course." 

Soon  after  this  the  lawyer  left  to  get 
his  train  for  the  city,  and  Jackson 
walked  to  the  station  with  him.  When 
he  returned  he  found  Helen  still  sitting 
at  the  empty  table.  His  eyes  were 
aflame  with  the  golden  light  of  oppor- 
tunity. He  put  his  hand  over  his  wife's 
shoulder  and  pressed  her  cheek  affec- 
tionately. 

"It's  great,  isn't  it,  Nell?"  he 
said. 

She  looked  into  his  face  with  a  wist- 
ful smile.  The  good  news  had  changed 
him  wonderfully  in  this  brief  hour, 
erasing  already  some  lines  from  his  face. 
She  divined,  then,  that  his  nature  was 
not  one  that  grew  in  the  storms  of 
life,  but  needed,  rather,  the  warmth  of 
prosperity. 

"It  's  great,  is  n't  it?  "  he  repeated, 
desiring  to  savor  the  good  fortune  with 
her. 

"Yes,  Francis,"  she  replied,  and 
added  almost  pleadingly,  "and  you 
must  do  it  greatly !  " 

"Of  course!  "  he  assented  cheerily. 


The   Common  Lot. 


637 


XVII. 

About  six  miles  from  the  centre  of 
the  city  on  the  South  Side,  not  far  from 
the  lake,  might  be  seen  the  foundations 
and  first  two  stories  of  a  considerable 
building  that  had  been  abandoned  for 
several  years.  It  was  to  have  been  a 
hotel,  but  its  promoters,  who  were  small 
capitalists  from  another  state,  had  been 
caught  in  the  real  estate  disasters  of 
'93.  Litigation  ensuing  among  them- 
selves, nothing  had  ever  been  done  with 
the  property.  The  unfinished  walls, 
standing  at  the  corner  of  one  of  the 
boulevards  and  overlooking  a  large  park, 
were  a  landmark  in  the  neighborhood. 
A  thick  growth  of  weeds  partially  cov- 
ered the  loose  piles  of  brick  and  stone 
that  littered  the  ground  and  filled  the 
hollow  shell.  Desolate,  speedily  dis- 
integrating, the  ruin  stood  there,  four 
windowless  walls,  a  figure  of  unsubstan- 
tial and  abortive  enterprise! 

Hart  had  often  passed  the  ruin  when 
his  business  called  him  to  that  part  of 
the  city.  One  day  this  summer,  as  he 
was  driving  through  the  park  with 
Graves  on  his  way  to  inspect  the  last 
string  of  cheap  stone  houses  that  the 
contractor  had  built,  Graves  called  his 
attention  to  the  place. 

"That  pile  must  be  pretty  well  cov- 
ered with  tax-liens, "  the  contractor  ob- 
served, as  they  turned  into  the  boule- 
vard, and  approached  the  ruin.  "It  's 
a  sightly  piece  of  property,  too,  and 
the  right  spot  for  a  family  hotel." 

"Who  are  the  owners?  "  Hart  asked. 

"A  lot  of  little  fellers  out  in  Omaha ; 
they  got  to  fightin'  among  themselves. 
It  might  be  had  cheap.  Let  's  go  over 
and  take  a  look  at  the  place." 

He  hitched  his  horse  to  a  tree  in 
front  of  the  ruin,  and  the  two  men 
pushed  their  way  through  the  weeds 
and  rubbish  into  the  cellar. 

"  Pretty  solid  foundations, "  the  con- 
tractor observed,  picking  at  a  piece  of 
mortar  with  the  blade  of  his  clasp  knife. 


"There  's  most  enough  stone  lying 
around  here  to  trim  the  whole  building. 
What  do  you  think  of  the  walls  ?  Has 
the  frost  eat  into  'em  much?  " 

They  scrambled  in  and  out  among  the 
piers  and  first  story  walls,  testing  the 
mortar,  scraping  away  the  weeds  here 
and  there  to  get  a  closer  view  of  the 
joints.  The  upper  courses  of  the  brick 
had  been  left  exposed  to  the  weather 
and  were  obviously  crumbling.  The 
architect  thought  that  the  outer  walls 
might  have  to  be  rebuilt  from  the 
foundations.  But  the  contractor  ob- 
served that  it  would  be  sufficient  to  rip 
off  half  a  dozen  courses  of  the  masonry. 

"Those  fellers  thought  they  were 
going  to  have  a  jim-dandy  Waldorf, 
judging  from  the  amount  of  stone  they 
were  putting  in!  "  the  contractor  re- 
marked, as  they  climbed  into  the  buggy 
and  resumed  their  way  to  the  city.  "  I 
guess  it  would  n't  take  much  to  buy  up 
the  tax -rights.  The  land  and  material 
would  be  worth  it." 

"I  should  say  so,"  the  architect  as- 
sented, seeing  how  the  matter  was  shap- 
ing itself  in  his  companion's  mind. 

"Those  foundations  would  take  a 
pretty  big  building,  eight  or  ten  sto- 
ries." 

"Easily." 

They  talked  it  over  on  their  way  back 
to  the  city.  The  contractor  had  al- 
ready formed  a  plan  for  utilizing  the 
property.  He  had  in  mind  the  organ- 
ization of  a  construction  company,  which 
would  pay  him  for  building  the  hotel 
with  its  bonds,  and  give  him  a  large 
bonus  of  stock  besides.  The  architect 
was  familiar  with  that  method  of  oper- 
ation. The  hotel  when  finished  would 
be  rented  to  another  company  for  oper- 
ation, and  by  that  time  the  contractor 
and  his  friends  would  have  disposed  of 
their  stock  and  bonds. 

"  You  must  let  me  in  on  this, "  the 
architect  said  boldly,  as  they  neared 
the  city.  "I  'm  getting  sick  of  play- 
ing your  man  Friday,  and  taking  what 
you  give  me,  Graves!  " 


638 


The    Common  Lot. 


"There  's  no  reason  why  you  should 
n't  make  something,  too,"  the  contrac- 
tor answered  readily.  "You  might 
interest  some  of  your  rich  friends  in 
the  scheme,  and  get  a  block  of  stock  for 
yourself." 

Hart  had  a  pressing  need  of  ready 
money  rather  than  such  dubious  pro- 
moter's profits.  Rainbow  and  Harris 
had  not  pushed  him  to  pay  the  balance 
against  him  on  their  books,  but  their 
leniency  would  not  extend  beyond  the 
first  of  the  month.  Then,  if  he  could 
not  get  the  money  in  some  other  way, 
he  should  have  to  go  to  his  mother,  or 
take  the  little  legacy  that  his  uncle  had 
left  Helen.  That  very  day  he  had  had 
it  in  mind  to  ask  the  contractor  to  let 
him  have  twelve  thousand  dollars  on  his 
note,  which  would  get  him  out  of  his 
immediate  difficulties.  He  could  pay 
it  with  the  first  return  from  the  school 
commission,  on  which  he  was  reckoning. 

But  when  the  contractor  described 
the  hotel  project,  he  resolved  to  wait  a 
little  longer,  in  the  hope  that  somehow 
he  might  make  more  than  enough  to  pay 
his  debts.  What  he  needed  was  some 
capital.  It  was  to  get  capital  that 
he  had  ventured  with  the  broker.  Why 
had  he  not  had  the  wit  to  see  the  chance 
that  lay  in  that  old  ruin  ?  For  the  last 
five  years  many  men  that  he  knew  had 
been  making  fortunes,  while  he  was 
working  hard  for  precarious  wages.  No 
matter  what  he  might  earn  in  his  pro- 
fession, he  could  never  feel  at  ease,  have 
enough  for  his  ambitions.  He  must 
have  capital,  —  money  that  would  breed 
money  independently  of  his  exertions. 
Latterly  his  mind  had  turned  much 
about  this  one  desire. 

"You  '11  want  me  to  draw  the  plans 
for  the  hotel,  I  suppose?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  you  might  get  up  some  sketches 
for  a  ten-story  building  right  away, — 
something  to  show  the  men  I  want  to 
interest  in  the  scheme,"  Graves  an- 
swered quickly.  "When  you  have  it 
ready,  come  around  and  we  '11  see  if  we 
can't  fix  up  some  kind  of  deal." 


It  was  evident  that  the  contractor 
had  gone  much  farther  in  the  hotel 
matter  than  he  had  told  Hart. 

Then  came  the  word  from  Everett 
that  the  trustees  were  ready  to  ask  him 
for  preliminary  sketches  for  the  school, 
and  almost  at  the  same  time  he  received 
a  polite  note  from  the  brokers  calling 
his  attention  to  his  debt.  He  went  at 
once  to  Graves 's  office,  and  asked  the 
contractor  for  the  loan,  saying  that  he 
was  to  have  the  school  and  should  be 
put  to  extraordinary  expenses  in  his 
office  for  the  next  few  months.  The 
contractor  let  him  have  the  money  read- 
ily enough  on  his  personal  note.  Graves 
did  not  speak  of  the  hotel,  and  for  the 
time  the  school  had  driven  all  else  from 
the  architect's  mind.  He  was  kept 
busy  these  weeks  by  consultations  with 
the  trustees  and  the  director  of  the 
school,  getting  their  ideas  about  the 
building.  One  morning  the  newspapers 
had  an  item,  saying  that  "F.  J.  Hart, 
the  prominent  young  architect,  had  re- 
ceived the  commission  for  building  the 
Jackson  Institute,  and  was  engaged  in 
drawing  plans  for  a  magnificent  struc- 
ture, which  in  luxury  and  completeness 
would  outrank  any  similar  institution 
in  the  country."  Before  noon  Hart 
received  a  curt  command  from  Judge 
Phillips  to  call  at  his  office,  and  fore- 
seeing trouble  with  the  trustees  about 
the  newspaper  paragraph,  he  went 
scowling  into  the  draught  ing-room. 

"Some  of  you  boys  must  have  been 
talking  loose  about  what  's  going  on  in 
this  office,"  he  said  accusingly. 

"The  Tribune  man  had  the  story 
straight  enough  when  he  came  in  here, " 
Cook  replied  in  defense.  "He  must 
have  got  it  from  some  one  who  knew 
what  he  was  talking  about." 

Hart  went  over  to  the  judge's  office 
and  tried  to  explain  matters  to  the  old 
gentleman,  who,  beside  having  a  great 
dislike  of  "newspaper  talk,"  felt  that 
the  trustees  were  being  deliberately 
coerced  into  giving  their  commission  to 


The   Common  Lot. 


639 


this  pushing  young  man.  The  architect 
was  forced  to  swallow  some  peppery 
remarks  about  indelicate  methods  of 
securing  business.  When  he  left  the 
judge,  who  was  only  half  convinced  of 
his  sincerity,  he  went  to  see  Graves,  and 
vented  his  irritation  on  the  contractor. 

"You  let  things  leak  out  of  this 
office.  You  got  me  into  hot  water  by 
giving  out  that  story  about  the  school." 

"How  so?  It  's  straight,  ain't  it? 
You  've  got  the  building?  You  said 
so  the  other  day  when  you  came  in  here 
to  borrow  that  money." 

"Well,  it  hasn't  been  formally  set- 
tled. They  are  touchy  enough  about 
their  old  job.  They  've  asked  me  to 
prepare  the  first  sketches,  —  that  's  all 
so  far." 

"Oh!  That  's  all,  is  it?  "  the  con- 
tractor remarked  coldly.  "I  thought 
you  had  the  job  in  your  inside  pocket 
from  the  way  you  talked  the  other  day." 

Hart's  face  reddened  as  he  stam- 
mered, — 

"It 'sail  right.  They  are  sure  to  take 
me,  only  they  are  a  little  slow,  and  I 
don't  want  to  seem  to  force  them." 

Graves  continued  to  examine  the  man 
before  him  with  his  shrewd  little  eyes, 
and  Hart  realized  that  the  contractor 
had  given  the  news  to  the  papers  for 
the  precise  purpose  of  finding  out  where 
the  trustees  stood. 

"Well,  when  you  get  ready  to  build, 
I  expect  we  shall  be  doing  a  good  deal 
of  business  together, "  Graves  remarked 
tentatively. 

The  architect  moved  nervously  in  his 
chair. 

"We  shall  want  you  to  bid,  of  course. 
I  don't  know  yet  whether  the  trustees 
mean  to  let  the  contracts  as  a  whole." 

"They  '11  do  pretty  much  what  you 
say,  won't  they?  Ain't  one  of  them 
your  cousin  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I  want  that  contract.  Can't 
you  fix  it  so  's  I  can  get  it  ?  " 

Hart  knew  altogether  too  well  what 
the  contractor  meant.  An  architect 


has  it  in  his  power  to  draw  his  specifi- 
cations in  such  a  manner  that  only  a  few 
favored  contractors  will  dare  to  bid.  If 
outsiders  venture  to  bid  for  the  work, 
they  cannot  with  safety  go  low  enough 
to  get  the  contract.  In  the  case  of  a 
large  building  this  is  a  more  difficult 
manoauvre  to  manage  than  with  less 
important  work.  Yet  even  with  a  build- 
ing like  the  school,  contractors  would 
be  chary  of  bidding  against  a  man  who 
was  as  closely  identified  with  the  ar- 
chitect as  Graves  was  with  Hart. 

"They  say  now,"  Hart  protested, 
"that  nobody  else  gets  a  show  in  my 
office." 

"I  don't  believe  you  see  what  there 
might  be  in  this  for  you,  Mr.  Hart !  " 
the  contractor  persisted. 

A  stenographer  interrupted  them  at 
that  point,  and  the  architect  had  a  few 
moments  to  think.  He  knew  better 
than  any  one  else  the  devious  methods 
of  the  contractor,  and  it  occurred  to 
him  that  this  would  be  a  good  time  to 
sever  his  close  connection  with  the 
Graves  Construction  Company.  He 
would,  of  course,  allow  Graves  to  bid 
on  the  school  contracts,  but  would  show 
him  no  favors.  Yet  the  contractor's 
last  words  made  him  reflect.  There 
was  the  hotel  with  its  unknown  possi- 
bilities of  large  returns.  Moreover,  the 
Graves  Construction  Company  was  no 
longer  the  weak  enterprise  that  it  had 
been  five  years  before.  Graves  had 
made  a  great  deal  of  money  these  last 
prosperous  years,  and  his  "corporation  " 
was  one  of  the  largest  of  its  kind  in 
the  city.  It  would  be  stupid  to  break 
with  the  man  altogether. 

"Come,  this  ain't  quiet  enough  here ! 
Let  's  step  over  to  Burke's  and  talk  it 
out,"  the  contractor  suggested,  looking 
up  from  the  papers  the  stenographer 
had  brought  in. 

So  the  two  men  went  across  the  street 
to  Burke's,  which  was  a  quiet  sort  of 
drinking-place,  frequented  by  the  bet- 
ter class  of  sporting  men.  In  the  rear 
there  were  a  number  of  little  rooms, 


640 


The   Common  Lot. 


where  whispered  conversations  intended 
for  but  two  pairs  of  ears  were  often 
held.  When  the  negro  attendant  had 
wiped  the  mahogany  tahle  and  brought 
them  their  whiskey,  Graves  began :  — 
*  "Mr.  Hart,  I  'm  going  to  give  you 
the  chance  of  your  life  to  make  a  lump 
of  money,  sure  and  quick,  and  no  gold- 
brick  proposition,  either." 

Graves  poured  himself  a  drink,  and 
meditatively  twirled  the  small  glass 
between  his  fat  fingers. 

"You  do  the  right  thing  by  me  in 
this  school  job,  and  I  '11  see  that  you 
are  properly  fixed  on  the  hotel  scheme. " 

The  details  of  the  plan  came  cau- 
tiously and  slowly  from  the  contractor, 
while  Hart  listened  in  a  non-committal 
frame  of  mind.  The  thing  proposed 
was  really  very  simple.  The  architect 
was  to  draw  the  school  specifications  so 
that  only  a  few  firms  would  bid,  and  of 
these  only  one  or  two  would  be  genuine 
competitors.  The  contractor  would  see 
to  it  that  there  were  enough  bidders  at 
approximately  his  own  figure  to  prevent 
suspicion  on  the  part  of  the  trustees. 
In  return  for  this  favor,  Graves  offered 
a  large  block  of  stock  in  the  hotel  com- 
pany, "for  the  plans  of  the  hotel," 
which  he  was  ready  to  guarantee  would 
be  worth  a  certain  sum. 

Of  course  there  was  an  unspecified 
item  in  the  transaction,  which  was  per- 
fectly obvious  to  the  architect.  If  the 
contractor  was  ready  to  make  these 
terms  in  order  to  obtain  the  school, 
there  must  be  enough  in  the  job  above 
the  legitimate  profit  on  the  contract  to 
make  it  well  worth  his  while.  The 
architect  saw,  less  sharply,  that  this 
extra  profit  would  be  made  with  his 
professional  connivance.  It  would  be 
impossible  to  get  the  trustees  to  accept 
bids  so  high  that  the  contractor  could 
reap  his  profit  and  still  do  the  work  up 
to  the  specifications.  It  would  be  ne- 
cessary to  specify  needlessly  elaborate 
steelwork,  cut  stone,  and  interior  finish, 
with  the  understanding  that  the  Graves 
Company  would  not  be  forced  to  live  up 


to  these  gilt-edged  specifications.  It 
might  be  necessary,  even,  to  prepa 
two  sets  of  specifications  for  the  mor 
important  parts  of  the  contract,  —  one 
for  the  bidding,  and  one  for  the  use  of 
the  sub-contractors. 

Hart  smoked  and  listened,  whil 
Graves,  having  finished  the  outline  of  his 
plan,  spoke  of  the  profit  to  the  architect 

"If  you  want,  I  '11  agree  to  take  the 
hotel  stock  off  your  hands  at  par  fror 
time  to  time  as  the  two  buildings 
up.  You  can  figure  out  now  wha 
you  '11  make !  It  will  not  be  far  froi 
seventy  thousand  dollars,  what  with  yoi 
commissions  and  the  stock.  And  I 
guarantee,  Hart,  that  you  '11  have 
trouble.  That  drunken  Dutchman  a 
work  over  any  details  that  have  to 
fixed,  — my  own  expense.  Nothing 
need  go  through  your  office  that  ain't 
first-class  and  regular." 

The  plan  seemed   perfectly  simpl 
and  the  architect's  imagination  fastene 
on  the  big  bait  which   the  contract 
held  out.     Graves  repeated  slowly 
his  thick  tones :  — 

"A  year,   or  say  eighteen  montl: 
from  now,  you  '11  have  about  seventy- 
five  thousand  dollars  in  the  bank." 

That  would  be  capital!    The  lack 
capital  had  tripped  him  at  every  ti 
With  that  amount  of  money,  he  coi 
plant  his  feet  firmly  on  the  earth 
prepare  to  spring  still  higher. 

"Of     course,"     Graves     continuec 
"you  'd  stand  by  me,  —  help  me  01 
with    the    trustees    if    there   was 
kick." 

In  other  words,  for  the  term  of 
year  or  eighteen  months,  he  would  be 
this  contractor's  creature.  But  the 
architect  was  thinking  of  something 
else.  .  .  . 

The  line  between  what  is  honest  and 
dishonest  in  business  is  a  difficult  one 
to  plot.  From  generation  to  generation 
our  standards  alter  in  the  business  world 
as  elsewhere,  and  to-day  men  will  do 
unblushingly,  and  with  the  approval  of 
their  fellows,  that  which  in  another  gei 


The   Common  Lot. 


641 


eration  will,  doubtless,  be  a  penitentiary 
offense.  Business  is  warfare,  and  what- 
ever men  may  say  on  Sundays,  the  hardy 
man  of  business  will  condone  a  thrifty 
sin  of  competition  sooner  than  any 
other  sin.  Every  one  of  the  fighters 
in  the  battle  knows  how  hard  it  is  to 
make  a  dollar  honestly  or  dishonestly, 
and  he  prefers  to  call  certain  acts  "in- 
delicate "  or  "  unprofessional, "  rather 
than  dishonest. 

Of  such  "unprofessional "  conduct 
Hart  had  been  guilty  a  number  of  times, 
and  the  matter  had  not  troubled  him 
greatly.  But  this  arrangement,  which 
the  contractor  was  urging,  was  of  more 
positive  stripe.  It  involved  outright 
rascality,  which,  if  it  became  known  in 
the  community,  might  ruin  his  profes- 
sional standing  for  life.  He  would  be 
taking  a  great  risk  to  grasp  that  pro- 
mised lump  of  money.  While  Graves 
talked  in  his  thick,  guttural  tones, 
Hart  was  weighing  this  risk.  The 
whiskey  that  he  had  been  drinking  had 
not  obscured  his  vision  in  the  least,  al- 
though it  shed  a  rosier  glow  over  the 
desired  capital.  It  must  be  admitted 
that  the  architect  gave  little  thought  to 
the  trustees  or  to  his  uncle's  bequest. 
It  would  have  pleased  him,  if  he  had 
considered  it  at  all,  to  make  a  good 
round  hole  in  his  uncle's  millions,  of 
which  the  old  man  had  deprived  him. 
And  as  for  the  trustees,  they  were 
shrewd  men  of  the  world,  quite  able  to 
take  care  of  themselves. 

But,  instinctively,  he  recoiled  from 
the  act.  He  would  much  prefer  a  clean, 
honorable,  "high-class  "  career.  If  he 
could  have  secured  money  enough  to 
satisfy  his  ambitions  without  resort  to 
such  knavery  as  this,  it  would  have  been 
much  pleasanter.  But  in  one  way  or 
another  he  must  make  money,  and  make 
it  more  rapidly  and  more  abundantly 
than  he  had  been  doing.  That  was 
success!  When  he  had  come  to  this 
point,  he  had  already  consented  with 
himself.  .  .  . 

They  had  been  sitting  there  nearly 

VOL.  xcm.  —  NO.  559.  41 


two  hours,  but  latterly  little  had  been 
said.  The  contractor  was  patient  and 
diplomatic.  Finally  he  asked,  "Well, 
Hart,  what  do  you  say  ?  " 

Hart  lighted  another  cigar  before 
replying,  and  then  replied  deliberately, 
"I  will  think  over  what  you  say.  I 
understand  that  the  stock  is  given  me 
for  my  commission  on  the  hotel,  and 
will  be  worth  a  fixed  sum  ?  " 

"That 'sit!" 

Then  they  went  out  into  the  street 
without  further  words.  Hart  returned 
to  his  office,  examined  his  mail,  wrapped 
up  his  first  sketches  for  the  school,  and 
set  out  for  the  train.  The  deal  with 
Graves  unconsciously  filled  his  thoughts 
and  made  him  feel  strange  to  himself. 
He  thought  less  of  the  practical  detail 
of  the  transaction  than  of  certain  spe- 
cious considerations  concerning  the  mo- 
rality of  what  he  was  going  to  do. 

Business  was  war,  he  said  to  himself 
again  and  again,  and  in  this  war  only 
the  little  fellows  had  to  be  strictly 
honest.  The  big  ones,  those  that  gov- 
erned the  world,  stole,  lied,  cheated 
their  fellows  openly  in  the  market. 
The  Bushfields  took  their  rake-off;  the 
Rainbows  were  the  financial  pimps,  who 
fattened  on  the  -vices  of  the  great 
industrial  leaders.  Colonel  Raymond 
might  discharge  a  man  on  the  C.  R.  &  N. 
who  stole  fifty  cents  or  was  seen  to  enter 
a  bucket  shop,  but  in  the  reorganization 
of  the  Michigan  Northern  ten  years  pre- 
viously, he  and  his  friends  had  pocketed 
several  millions  of  dollars,  and  had  won 
the  lawsuits  brought  against  them  by 
the  defrauded  stockholders. 

It  was  a  world  of  graft,  the  architect 
judged  cynically.  Old  Powers  Jack- 
son, it  was  said  in  Chicago,  would  cheat 
the  glass  eye  out  of  his  best  friend  in 
a  deal.  He,  too,  would  follow  in  the 
path  of  the  strong,  and  take  what  was 
within  his  reach.  He  would  climb 
hardily  to  the  top,  and  then  who  cared  ? 
That  gospel  of  strenuous  effort,  which 
our  statesmen  and  orators  are  so  fond 
of  shouting  forth,  has  its  followers  in 


642 


The   Common  Lot. 


the  little  Jackson  Harts.  Only,  in  put- 
ting forth  their  strong  right  arms,  they 
often  thrust  them  into  their  neighbors' 
pockets!  And  the  irresponsible  great 
ones,  who  have  emerged  beyond  the 
reign  of  law,  have  their  disciples  in  all 
the  strata  of  society,  —  down,  down  to 
the  boy  who  plays  the  races  with  the 
cash  in  his  employer's  till. 

The  architect  went  home  to  his  wife 
and  children  with  the  honest  love  that 
he  bore  them.  If  they  had  entered  his 
mind  in  connection  with  this  day's  ex- 
perience, he  would  have  believed  that 
largely  for  their  sakes,  for  their  ad- 
vancement in  the  social  scheme  of  things, 
he  had  engaged  upon  a  toilsome  and 
disagreeable  task.  For  he  did  not  like 
slippery  ways. 


XVIII. 

Hart's  design  for  the  school  had 
been  accepted  by  the  trustees,  and  the 
plans  were  placed  on  exhibition  in  the 
Art  Institute.  Little  knots  of  people 
—  students,  draughtsmen,  and  young 
architects  —  gathered  in  the  room  on 
the  second  floor  where  the  elevations 
had  been  hung,  and  had  their  say  about 
the  plans.  Occasionally  a  few  older  men 
and  women,  interested  in  the  nobler 
parts  of  civic  life,  drifted  into  the  room, 
having  stolen  some  moments  from  a 
busy  day  to  see  what  the  architect  had 
done  with  his  great  opportunity. 

"Gee!  Ain't  it  a  hummer,  now!" 
exclaimed  one  of  Wright's  men,  who 
had  known  Hart  in  the  old  days.  "He 
let  himself  out  this  time,  sure.  It  will 
cover  most  two  blocks." 

"The  main  part  of  the  design  is 
straight  from  the  Hotel  de  Ville,"  one 
of  the  young  architects  objected  dis- 
dainfully. He  and  his  friends  thought 
there  were  many  better  architects  in  the 
city  than  F.  Jackson  Hart,  and  grum- 
bled accordingly.  "I  bet  I  could  find 
every  line  in  the  design  from  some 


French  thing  or  other.  Hart 's  an  awful 
thief:  he  can't  think  for  himself." 

"Where  is  the  purpose  of  the  struc- 
ture expressed  ?  "  another  demanded. 
"It  would  do  just  as  well  for  the  ad- 
ministration building  of  a  fair  as  for  a 
school!"  .  .  . 

"A  voluptuous  and  ornamental  de- 
sign ;  the  space  is  wickedly  wasted  in 
mere  display.  The  money  that  ought 
to  go  into  the  school  itself  will  be  eaten 
up  in  this  great,  flaunting  building  that 
will  cover  all  the  land."  .  .  . 

"What  have  I  been  telling  you? 
Chicago  ain't  a  village  any  more.  A 
few  buildings  like  this  and  the  univer- 
sity ones,  and  the  world  will  begin  to 
see  what  we  are  doing  out  here!  " 

"What  's  the  dome  for?  "   .   .   . 

"I  say  the  people  should  have  the 
best  there  is."  .  .  . 

"Pull,  pull,  —  that  's  what 's  writ- 
ten all  over  this  plan !  " 

Even  Wright,  who  happened  to  be  in 
the  city,  stepped  into  the  Institute  to 
look  at  the  plans.  He  studied  them 
closely  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then, 
with  a  smile  on  his  face,  moved  off. 

Hart  had,  indeed,  "let  himself  out." 
It  was  to  be  a  master  work,  and  put 
the  architect  into  the  higher  ranks  of 
his  profession.  For  the  first  time  he 
had  felt  perfectly  free  to  create.  As 
often  happens,  when  the  artist  comes 
to  this  desired  point  and  looks  into  his 
soul,  he  finds  nothing  there.  The  de- 
sign was  splendid,  in  a  sense,  — very 
large  and  imposing:  an  imperial  flight 
of  steps,  which  fastened  the  spectator's 
eye ;  a  lofty  dome ;  and  two  sweeping 
wings  to  support  the  central  mass. 
Nevertheless,  the  architect  had  not  es- 
caped from  his  training :  it  was  another 
one  of  the  Beaux  Arts  exercises  that 
Wright  used  to  "trim."  Years  hence 
the  expert  would  assign  it  to  its  proper 
place  in  the  imitative  period  of  our  arts 
as  surely  as  the  literary  expert  has  al- 
ready placed  there  the  poet  Longfellow. 
Though  Hart  had  learned  much  in  the 


The   Common  Lot. 


643 


past  six  years,  it  had  been  chiefly  in 
the  mechanics  of  his  art:  he  was  a 
cleverer  architect,  but  a  more  wooden 
artist.  The  years  he  had  spent  in  the 
workshop  of  the  great  city  had  dead- 
ened his  sense  of  beauty.  The  clamor 
and  excitement  and  gross  delight  of 
living  had  numbed  his  sense  of  the  fine, 
the  noble,  the  restrained.  He  had 
never  had  time  to  think,  only  to  con- 
trive, and  facility  had  supplied  the 
want  of  ideas.  Thus  he  had  forgotten 
Beauty,  and  managed  to  live  without 
that  constant  inner  vision  of  her  which 
deadens  bodily  hunger  and  feeds  the 
soul  of  the  artist. 

So  Wright  read  the  dead  soul  in  the 
ambitious  design. 

Mrs.  Phillips  came  rustling  in  with 
friends,  to  whom  she  exhibited  the  plans 
with  an  air  of  ownership  in  the  architect. 

"It  's  the  cleverest  thing  that  has 
been  done  in  this  city;  every  one  says 
so.  I  tell  Harrison  that  he  has  me  to 
thank  for  this.  It  was  a  case  of  poetic 
justice,  too.  You  know  the  story? 
One  forgets  so  easily  here;  it 's  hard  to 
remember  who  died  last  month !  Why, 
the  old  man  Jackson  left  pretty  nearly 
every  cent  of  his  money  to  found  this 
school.  I  think  he  was  crazy,  and  I 
should  have  fought  the  will  if  I  had 
been  a  relative.  At  any  rate,  it  was 
a  nasty  joke  on  this  Mr.  Hart,  who 
was  his  nephew,  and  every  one  thought 
would  be  his  heir. 

"But  he  has  made  such  a  plucky 
fight,  got  the  respect  of  every  one,  gone 
right  along  and  made  a  splendid  suc- 
cess in  his  profession.  He  married 
foolishly,  too.  Poor  girl,  not  a  cent, 
and  not  the  kind  to  help  him  one  bit, 
you  know,  —  no  style,  can't  say  a  word 
for  herself.  She  's  done  a  good  deal 
to  keep  him  back,  but  he  has  managed 
to  survive  that.  I  wonder  he  has  n't 
broken  with  her.  I  do,  really!  They 
have  n't  a  thing  in  common.  They  had 
a  pleasant  home  out  in  the  Park,  you 
know,  and  a  good  position,  —  every  one 


knew  them  there.  And  what  do  you 
think  ?  She  made  him  give  up  his  house 
and  come  into  town  to  live !  The  Park 
was  too  far  away  from  her  friends,  or 
something  of  the  sort.  Wanted  to 
educate  her  children  in  the  city.  I 
believe  it  was  jealousy  of  him.  He  was 
popular  and  she  was  n't.  No  woman 
will  stand  that  sort  of  thing,  of  course. 

"  So  now  they  have  taken  a  house  on 
Scott  Street,  —  a  little,  uncomfortable 
box,  the  kind  of  place  that  is  all  hall 
and  dining-room.  Of  course  they  don't 
have  to  live  like  that;  he  's  making 
money.  But  she  says  she  does  n't  want 
to  be  bothered,  —  has  ideas  about  sim- 
ple living.  The  trouble  is,  she  has  n't 
any  ambition,  and  he  's  brimful  of  it. 
He  could  get  anywhere,  if  it  weren't 
for  her.  It 's  a  shame !  I  don't  believe 
she  half  appreciates  even  this.  Is  n't 
it  splendid  ?  He  has  such  large  ideas ! 

"  Venetia  is  thick  with  her,  of  course. 
You  might  know  she  would  be !  It  's 
through  Mrs.  Hart  she  meets  those 
queer,  tacky  people.  I  tell  you,  the 
woman  counts  much  more  than  the  man 
when  it  comes  to  making  your  way  in 
the  world;  don't  you  think  so?  "  .  .  . 

And  with  further  words  of  praise  for 
the  plans  and  commiseration  for  the 
architect,  the  widow  wandered  into  the 
next  room  with  her  friends,  then  de- 
scended to  her  carriage,  dismissing  art 
and  life  together. 

Helen  made  a  point  of  taking  the 
boys  to  see  their  father's  work,  and 
explained  carefully  to  them  what  it  all 
meant.  They  followed  her  open-eyed, 
tracing  with  their  little  fingers  the  main 
features  of  the  design  as  she  pointed 
them  out,  and  saying  over  the  hard 
names.  It  was  there  Venetia  Phillips 
found  her,  seated  before  the  large  sketch 
of  the  south  elevation,  dreaming,  while 
the  boys,  their  lesson  finished,  had 
slipped  into  the  next  room  to  look  at 
the  pictures. 

"Have  you  seen  my  mother?  "  she 
asked,  seating  herself  beside  Helen. 


644 


The    Common  Lot. 


.  .  .  "Well,  well,  our  Jackie  has  done 
himself  proud  this  time,  hasn't  he? 
He  's  a  little  given  to  the  splurge,  don't 
you  think  ?  " 

Helen  did  not  answer.  She  did  not 
like  to  admit  even  to  herself  that  her 
,  husband's  greatest  effort  was  a  failure. 
Yet  she  was  a  terribly  honest  woman, 
and  there  was  no  glow  in  her  heart. 
Indeed,  the  school  and  all  about  it  had 
become  unpleasant  to  her,  covered  as 
it  was  with  sordid  memories  of  her  hus- 
band's efforts  to  get  the  work.  Lat- 
terly there  had  been  added  to  these  the 
almost  daily  bickerings  with  the  trus- 
tees, which  her  husband  reported.  The 
plans  had  not  been  accepted  easily! 

"  All  the  same,  Jack  's  got  some  good 
advertising  out  of  it, "  Venetia  con- 
tinued, noticing  Helen's  silence.  "The 
newspapers  are  throwing  him  polite  re- 
marks, I  see.  But  I  want  to  talk  to 
you  about  something  else.  Mamma  has 
been  losing  a  lot  of  money ;  bad  invest- 
ments made  in  boom  times ;  sure  things, 
you  know,  like  copper  and  steel.  She  's 
very  much  pressed,  and  she  wants  to 
put  my  money  in  to  save  some  of  the 
things.  Uncle  Harry  is  raging,  and 
asks  me  to  promise  him  not  to  let  her 
have  a  cent.  Stanwood  has  come  home, 
—  there  doesn't  seem  to  be  anything 
else  for  him !  It  's  all  rather  nasty. 
I  don't  know  what  to  do:  it  seems  low 
to  hold  your  mother  up  in  her  second 
youth.  And  yet  the  pace  Mrs.  Phillips 
keeps  would  finish  my  money  pretty 
soon.  It  's  a  pity  Mrs.  Raymond  won't 
die  and  give  mother  a  chance  to  make 
a  good  finish!  " 

"Venetia!" 

"What  's  the  harm  in  my  saying 
what  all  the  world  that  knows  us  is  say- 
ing? It  's  been  a  ten  years'  piece  of 
gossip.  I  feel  sorry  for  her,  too.  It 
must  be  rough  to  get  along  in  life  and 
see  you  have  muckered  your  game.  .  .  . 
Do  you  know,  I  am  terribly  tempted  to 
let  her  have  the  money,  all  of  it,  and 
skip  out.  Perhaps  some  of  these  days 
you  '11  read  a  little  paragraph  in  the 


morning  paper,  —  '  Mysterious  Disap- 
pearance of  a  Weil-Known  Young  So- 
ciety Woman !  '  Would  n't  that  be  real 
sport  ?  Just  to  drop  out  of  everything, 
and  take  to  the  road !  " 

"What  would  you  do?" 

"Anything,  everything, — make  a 
living.  Don't  you  think  I  could  do 
that?  "  She  embroidered  this  theme 
fancifully  for  a  time,  and  then  lapsed 
into  silence.  Finally  she  burst  forth 
again,  "Good  Lord,  why  can't  we  get 
hold  of  life  before  it 's  too  late?  It's 
going  on  all  around  us,  —  big,  and  rich, 
and  full  of  blood.  And  folks  like  me 
sit  on  the  bank,  eating  a  picnic  lunch. " 

"  Perhaps, "  mused  Helen,  "  it  would 
be  different  if  one  had  to  earn  the 
lunch. " 

"Who  knows?  Will  you  try  it? 
Will  you  cut  loose  from  Jackie  ?  " 

As  they  descended  the  broad  flight 
of  steps  to  the  street,  Venetia  laid  her 
hand  on  the  older  woman's  arm. 

"Tell  Jackie  we  are  all  proud  of 
him.  Mamma  brags  of  him  daily.  .  .  . 
And  look  out  for  the  paragraph  in  the 
paper.  They  'd  give  me  a  paragraph, 
don't  you  think?" 

The  winter  twilight  had  descended 
upon  the  murky  city,  filling  the  long 
vistas  of  the  cross  streets  with  a  veil  of 
mystery.  The  roar  of  the  place  mount- 
ed to  the  clouds  above,  which  seemed 
to  reverberate  with  the  respirations  of 
the  Titan  beneath.  Here  in  the  heart  of 
the  city,  life  clamored  with  a  more  di- 
rect note  than  in  any  other  city  of  the 
world.  Men  were  struggling  fiercely 
for  their  desires,  and  their  cries  ascend- 
ed to  the  dull  heavens. 

Helen  walked  home  with  the  boys, 
soothed  by  the  human  contact  of  the 
streets.  There  was  something  exhil- 
arating to  her  in  the  jostle  of  the 
throng,  the  men  and  women  leaving 
their  labors,  bent  homewards  for  the 
night.  Her  heart  expanded  near  them, 
those  who  won  their  daily  bread  by  the 
toil  of  the  day. 


The   Common  Lot. 


645 


It  was  quite  true,  what  the  widow 
had  said.  It  was  she  who  had  willed 
to  return  to  the  city  from  the  pleasant 
niche  where  she  had  spent  her  married 
life,  desiring  in  the  emptiness  of  her 
heart  to  get  closer  to  the  vast  life  of  a 
human  people,  to  feel  once  more  the 
common  lot  of  man.  So  she  had  taken 
the  little  house  on  Scott  Street,  and  re- 
duced their  living  to  the  simplest  scale, 
declaring  that  she  wanted  her  time  for 
herself  and  her  children.  Her  husband 
was  so  busy  that  he  hardly  noticed  any 
change  in  her  as  yet.  They  went  out 
less  than  they  had  gone  in  previous 
years,  and  sometimes  he  thought  the 
people  he  found  calling  on  his  wife  were 
"queer."  Her  interest  in  a  new  kind 
of  education  for  the  children  bored  him. 
She  seemed  to  be  going  her  own  way 
without  thought  of  him,  and  now  and 
then  he  wondered  what  it  meant.  He 
did  not  like  aggressive,  faddish  women ; 
he  wanted  women  to  be  personal  and 
sympathetic,  with  a  touch  of  "style," 
social  tact,  and  a  little  dash.  • .  .  . 

To-night  he  had  come  from  his  office 
early,  and  while  he  waited  for  Helen 
he  looked  about  the  little  drawing-room 
disapprovingly,  with  a  sense  of  ag- 
grieved discomfort.  Helen  was  taking 
to  economy  and  simplicity  too  serious- 
ly. He  looked  at  his  wife  closely  when 
she  came  in  with  the  boys.  She  seemed 
older,  more  severe  in  face  than  he  had 
thought,  than  her  photograph  on  his 
office  desk  said.  When  this  school 
business  was  done  with,  they  must  run 
over  to  Europe  for  a  few  months'  vaca- 
tion, and  then  live  differently  on  their 
return.  .  .  . 

"  Nell, "  he  said  when  they  were  alone, 
"it  's  settled  at  last.  We  let  the  con- 
tracts to-day !  " 

"  For  the  school  ?  "  she  asked .  "  You 
must  be  glad  of  that !  " 

Her  lips,  which  curved  so  tenderly, 
had  grown  strangely  firm.  He  put  his 
arm  over  her  shoulder  and  drew  her 
toward  him. 

"Yes,   it 's  a  great  relief!      When 


the  building  is  finished  we  must  have  a 
spree,  and  get  to  be  lovers  once  more. " 

"Yes,  dear.  .  .  .  I  've  been  to  the 
Institute  with  the  boys  to  have  them 
see  the  plans." 

"They  are  well  spoken  of.  I  saw 
Wright  to-day  for  a  moment.  He 
stopped  to  congratulate  me,  but  I 
could  n't  tell  what  he  really  thought. 
Well,  after  all  the  trouble  with  them, 
I  got  pretty  much  what  I  wanted, 
thanks  to  Everett  and  the  doctor.  Ev- 
erett 's  been  a  good  friend  all  through. 
The  idea  of  the  others  kicking  so  hard 
because  the  thing  was  going  to  cost  a 
little  more  than  they  had  made  up  their 
minds  to  spend  on  the  building!  Pem- 
berton  thinks  he  knows  all  about  archi- 
tecture. It  's  a  pity  he  could  n't  have 
drawn  the  plans  himself!  " 

"But  you  saved  your  design." 

"Yes,  I  've  won  the  second  round 
all  right!  " 

In  his  joy  over  the  thought  he  put 
his  strong  arms  about  his  wife  and 
lifted  her  bodily  from  the  floor,  as  he 
had  often  done,  boyishly,  in  the  years 
before.  Holding  her  close  to  him  he 
kissed  her  lips  and  neck.  She  returned 
his  kisses,  but  the  touch  of  her  lips  was 
cool.  She  seemed  limp  in  his  arms, 
and  he  felt  vaguely  the  want  of  some- 
thing. She  was  less  loving,  less  pas- 
sionate than  ever  before.  He  missed 
the  abandon,  the  utter  self-forgetful- 
ness,  the  rush  of  ecstatic  emotion,  which 
from  the  first  moment  of  their  love  had 
made  her  for  him  all  woman,  the  woman 
of  women.  .  .  .  He  let  her  slip  from 
his  embrace  and  looked  at  her.  Was 
it  age?  Was  it  the  penalty  of  living, 
which  dampens  the  fire  of  passion  and 
dulls  desire?  He  was  troubled,  dis- 
tressed for  the  loss  of  something  pre- 
cious that  was  get  ting  beyond  his  reach, 
perhaps  had  gone  forever. 

"Oh!"  he  exclaimed.  "It's  bad 
to  be  always  on  the  dead  push.  Come ! 
Let  's  go  somewhere  and  have  dinner 
and  a  bottle  of  champagne  the  way  we 
used  to !  " 


646 


The   Common  Lot. 


She  hesitated  a  moment,  unwilling 
to  disappoint  him. 

"I  can't  very  well  to-night,  Francis. 
I  promised  Morton  Carr  I  should  be 
home  this  evening.  He  wants  me  to 
help  raise  some  money  for  his  new 
building. " 

"Oh!  "  he  said,  strangely  wounded 
in  his  egotism.  "I  remember  you  said 
something  about  it." 


XIX. 

Late  in  March  the  corner  stone  for 
the  Jackson  Institute  was  laid.  It  was 
a  desolate  winterish  day,  and  the  prai- 
rie wind  chilled  to  the  bone  the  little 
group  of  interested  people  seated  on 
the  platform  erected  for  the  occasion. 
There  were  brief  speeches  by  Judge 
Phillips  and  Dr.  Everest,  and  an  ad- 
dress by  a  celebrated  college  president 
on  the  "new  education."  To  Helen, 
who  sat  just  behind  him,  in  sight  of 
the  piles  of  excavated  sand,  and  the 
dirty  brick  walls  of  the  neighboring 
stores,  the  scene  was  scarcely  in  har- 
mony with  the  orator's  glowing  gener- 
alizations. "The  mighty  energies  of 
this  industrial  cosmopolis  are  answer- 
ing to  the  call  of  man's  ideals."  .  .  . 
Cook,  who  was  standing  by  the  mason's 
windlass,  caught  her  eye  and  smiled. 
He  looked  brisk  and  happy,  and  she 
could  fancy  him  calling  out,  "Hey! 
Ain't  this  the  best  yet?  F.  J.  Hart 
is  all  right." 

The  architect,  smartly  dressed  for 
the  occasion  in  a  new  frock  coat  and 
shining  silk  hat,  stepped  forward, 
dusted  the  upper  surface  of  the  great 
stone  with  a  brush,  and  handed  the 
judge  a  silver  trowel.  Cook  pushed  up 
to  them  a  bucket  of  mortar,  into  which 
the  old  man  thrust  the  trowel,  and 
tremblingly  bespattered  the  stone.  The 
windlass  creaked,  and  down  came  the 
massive  block  of  Indiana  sandstone,  cov- 
ering the  recess  into  which  had  been 
stuffed  some  records  of  the  present  day. 


Then  the  architect  and  Cook  busied 
themselves  adjusting  the  block,  while 
the  judge  stepped  backward  to  his  seat, 
a  look  of  relief  coming  over  his  red  face, 
as  if  he  felt  that  he  had  virtually  ex- 
ecuted the  trust  left  him  by  his  old 
friend. 

As  the  gathering  dispersed,  Helen's 
eye  fell  upon  a  great  wooden  sign  sur- 
mounting the  workmen's  shed:  THE 
GRAVES  CONSTRUCTION  COMPANY  — 
GENERAL  CONTRACTORS  —  CHICAGO 
AND  NEW  YORK. 

This  was  the  company  that  had  final- 
ly secured  the  general  contract  for  the 
building.  As  Helen  knew,  there  had 
been  vexatious  delays  over  the  bids. 
The  first  figures  had  been  very  much  in 
excess  of  the  sum  the  trustees  had 
agreed  to  spend  upon  the  building. 
They  had  forced  the  architect  to  modi- 
fy his  plans  somewhat,  and  to  ask  for 
bids  again.  Pemberton  had  been  espe- 
cially obstinate,  and  Hart  had  grum- 
bled about  him,  —  "Why  does  the  old 
duffer  chew  the  rag  over  a  couple  of 
hundred  thousand,  when  they  have  over 
three  millions  anyway?  It  does  n't 
come  out  of  his  pocket!  "  At  last, 
after  some  wrangling,  the  trustees  had 
accepted  the  lowest  bid,  though  it  was 
still  considerably  beyond  the  figure  they 
had  set.  Hart  regarded  it  as  a  tri- 
umph: he  had  saved  substantially  the 
integrity  of  his  design,  and  the  Graves 
Company  got  the  contract. 

Now  all  was  serene.  From  the  hour 
that  the  contract  was  signed,  the  build- 
ing rose  from  nothingness  by  leaps  and 
bounds.  Graves  was  always  rapid  in 
his  operations,  and  for  this  building  he 
seemed  to  have  made  every  preparation 
beforehand.  The  labor  situation,  which 
was  still  unsettled,  caused  him  no  de- 
lay. His  rivals  said  that  he  had  the 
heads  of  the  unions  on  his  pay  rolls,  and 
could  build  when  other  contractors  were 
tied  up  by  strikes.  Other  firms  could 
not  get  their  steel  from  the  mills  for 
months,  but  Graves  had  some  mysteri- 


The   Common  Lot. 


647 


cms  way  of  securing  his  material  when 
he  wanted  it.  The  day  after  the  cor- 
ner stone  was  laid  he  had  an  army  of 
men  at  work;  early  in  June  the  walls 
were  up  to  the  roof  trusses ;  by  the  end 
of  July  the  great  edifice  was  complete- 
ly roofed  in,  and  the  plasterers  were  at 
work. 

The  contracts  once  signed,  the  judge 
and  Wheeler  seemed  to  regard  their 
responsibilities  as  over.  Hollister,  who 
had  been  in  poor  health  latterly,  left 
everything  to  the  others.  But  Pem- 
berton  was  the  bane  of  the  architect's 
life.  He  visited  Hart's  office  almost 
daily,  looked  carefully  at  every  voucher 
before  ordering  it  paid,  and  spent  long 
afternoons  at  the  works.  He  examined 
the  building  from  foundation  to  roof 
with  his  thrifty  New  England  eye,  and 
let  no  detail  escape  him,  stickling  over 
unimportant  trifles,  and  delaying  the 
orders  for  extras  or  alterations.  The 
whole  operation  of  modern  building  was 
an  unknown  language  to  him.  He  knew 
that  he  was  ignorant  of  what  was  going 
on  before  his  eyes,  and  his  helplessness 
made  him  improperly  suspicious  of  the 
architect  and  the  contractor.  Many 
a  time  he  strained  Hart's  habitual  tact. 
They  nearly  came  to  blows  over  some 
window-frames,  which  the  architect  had 
seen  fit  to  alter  without  consulting  the 
building  committee. 

One  morning  Hart  found  the  trustee 
at  the  school  in  company  with  a  stranger, 
who  made  notes  in  a  little  memorandum 
book.  Pemberton  nodded  curtly  to  the 
architect,  and,  as  he  was  preparing  to 
leave,  remarked  casually :  — 

"This  is  Mr.  Trimble,  Mr.  Hart. 
Mr.  Trimble  is  an  engineer,  who  has 
done  work  for  me  from  time  to  time. 
He  will  look  through  the  works  and 
make  a  report.  Mr.  Trimble  will  not 
interfere  with  you  in  any  way,  Mr. 
Hart.  He  will  report  to  me." 

The  architect's  face  grew  white  with 
suppressed  rage,  and  his  lips  trembled 
as  he  answered :  — 

"What  is  your  reason  for  taking  this 


step,  Mr.  Pemberton?  When  I  was 
given  the  commission,  nothing  was  said 
about  having  a  superintendent.  If 
there  is  to  be  one,  he  should  report  to 
me.  As  you  know  quite  well,  I  have 
devoted  my  entire  time  to  this  building, 
and  given  up  other  work  in  order  that 
I  might  be  out  here  every  day.  I  shall 
speak  to  the  other  trustees  about  this, 
and  I  '11  not  stand  the  insult,  Mr. 
Pemberton !  " 

"Tut,  tut,  no  insult,  Mr.  Hart. 
You  must  know  that  it  's  quite  usual 
in  work  of  this  magnitude  for  the  own- 
ers to  have  their  representative  on  the 
works.  There  will  be  no  interference 
with  you  or  the  contractor,  if  the  work 
goes  right." 

The  architect  swallowed  his  anger 
for  the  time,  answering  sulkily,  "Mr. 
Graves  will  take  no  orders  except  from 
me,  of  course.  The  contracts  are  so 
drawn." 

"Eh!"  Pemberton  exclaimed.  "I 
hope  there  will  be  no  occasion  to  alter 
that  arrangement." 

The  architect  bowed  and  left  the 
building. 

"Snarling,  prying  old  fogy,"  he 
spluttered  to  his  wife,  who  was  waiting 
outside  in  the  automobile.  "Let  him 
put  in  his  superintendent.  I  guess  we 
can  give  him  a  run  for  his  money." 

The  woman's  heart  sank.  Somehow 
this  school,  this  bit  of  great-hearted 
idealism  on  the  part  of  the  old  man  she 
loved,  had  thus  far  stirred  up  a  deal  of 
mud. 

Pemberton  did  not  think  it  necessary 
to  discuss  with  the  architect  his  reasons 
for  engaging  Mr.  Trimble  as  superin- 
tendent. After  the  contract  had  been 
let,  the  trustees  had  received  a  num- 
ber of  anonymous  letters,  which  made 
charges  that  all  had  not  been  square  in 
getting  the  bids  for  the  building.  These 
letters  had  gone  into  the  waste-basket, 
as  mere  cowardly  attacks  from  some 
disgruntled  contractor.  Then,  one  day 
while  the  building  was  still  in  the 


648 


The   Common  Lot. 


rough,  and  the  tile  was  going  in,  Pem- 
berton  overheard  one  of  the  laborers 
say  to  his  mate, — 

"Look  at  that  stuff,  now.  It  ain't 
no  good  at  all,"  and  he  gave  the  big 
yellow  tile  a  kick  with  his  foot;  "it  's 
nothin'  but  dust.  Them  's  rotten  bad 
tiles,  I  tell  yer." 

And  the  other  Paddy  answered  re- 
flectively, scratching  his  elbow  the 
while,  — 

"It  '11  go  all  the  same.  Sure,  it  's 
more  money  in  his  pocket.  Ain't  that 
so,  boss  ?  " 

He  appealed  to  Pemberton,  whom  he 
took  for  one  of  the  passers-by  gaping 
idly  at  the  building. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  Pemberton 
demanded  sharply. 

"  Mane  ?  The  less  you  pay  the  more 
you  git." 

"  Hist,  you  fule, "  the  other  one 
warned,  twisting  his  head  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  boss  mason. 

Pemberton  was  not  the  man  to  take 
much  thought  of  a  laborer's  talk.  But 
the  words  remained  in  his  mind,  and,  a 
few  weeks  later,  happening  to  meet  the 
superintendent  of  a  large  construction 
company  in  the  smoking  -  car  of  the 
Forest  Park  train,  he  asked  the  man 
some  questions  about  fireproof  building. 

"Why  did  your  people  refuse  to  bid 
the  second  time  ?  "  he  inquired  finally. 

"They  saw  it  was  just  a  waste  of 
time  and  money, "  the  man  replied 
frankly. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?  " 

"  Why,  the  job  was  slated  for  Graves, 
• —  that  was  all.  It  was  clear  enough 
to  us.  There  's  mighty  little  that  goes 
out  of  that  office  except  to  Graves." 

"Is  that  so?  I  asked  Mr.  Hart 
particularly  to  have  your  company  bid 
on  the  contracts." 

Then  the  man  became  confidential, 
and  explained  how  a  certain  ambigui- 
ty in  the  wording  of  the  specifications 
made  it  risky  for  a  contractor  to  bid 
unless  he  knew  just  how  the  architect 
would  treat  him;  for  the  contractor 


might  easily  "get  stuck "  for  much 
more  than  the  possible  profits,  though 
bidding  in  perfect  good  faith.  The  man 
was  willing  enough  to  talk,  once  started 
on  the  subject,  and  in  the  course  of  half 
an  hour  he  explained  to  the  layman 
some  of  the  chicanery  of  the  building 
business. 

"So  you  see,  Mr.  Pemberton,  the 
contractor,  to  protect  himself  when  he 
does  n't  know  his  man,  bids  pretty  high, 
and  then  the  favored  contractor  can 
safely  go  a  good  bit  lower.  He  has  an 
understanding  with  the  architect,  may- 
be, and  it  all  depends  on  how  the  speci- 
fications are  going  to  be  interpreted." 

And  he  told  other  things,  —  how  some 
of  the  firms  who  had  bid  had  since  got 
parts  of  the  general  contract  from  the 
Graves  Company,  but  on  a  new  set  of 
specifications. 

"It  's  queer,"  he  ended  finally. 
"We  can't  see  how  they  '11  make  a  cent 
on  the  contract,  unless  Graves  is  going 
to  rot  it  clear  through." 

He  explained  what  he  meant  by  "rot- 
ting "  it,  —  the  use  of  cheap  grades  of 
materials  and  inferior  labor,  from  the 
foundation  stones  to  the  cornice.  In 
other  words,  the  building  would  be  a 
"job." 

"For  those  specifications  called  for 
a  first-class  building,  awful  heavy  steel 
work  and  cabinet  finish,  and  all  that. 
If  it  's  built  according  to  specifications, 
you  're  going  to  have  a  first-class  school 
all  right !  " 

The  result  of  this  chance  conversa- 
tion was  that  after  consultation  with 
Judge  Phillips,  Pemberton  sent  to  Bos- 
ton for  the  engineer  Trimble,  whom  he 
knew  to  be  absolutely  honest  and  capa- 
ble. 

When  Hart  left  Pemberton,  he  went 
directly  to  Wheeler's  office  and  ex- 
ploded to  his  cousin.  On  his  way  to 
the  city  his  anger  at  the  affront  offered 
to  him  had  entirely  hidden  the  thought 
of  the  disagreeable  complications  that 
might  follow.  He  took  a  high  stand 


The   Common  Lot. 


649 


with  Wheeler.  But  the  cool  lawyer, 
after  hearing  his  remonstrances,  said 
placidly,  — 

"If  Pemberton  wants  this  man  to 
go  over  the  building,  I  don't  see  how 
you  can  prevent  it.  And  I  don't  see 
the  harm  in  it,  myself.  I  suppose 
everything  is  all  right.  See  that  it  is, 
—  that's  your  business.  Pemberton 
would  be  a  bad  man  to  deal  with,  if  he 
found  any  crooked  work.  You  'd  bet- 
ter look  sharp  after  that  fellow  Graves. " 

The  architect  assured  his  cousin  that 
there  was  no  need  to  worry  on  that 
score.  But  he  began  to  foresee  the 
dangers  ahead,  and  felt  a  degree  of  com- 
fort in  the  fact  that  Graves  had  only 
that  week  paid  him  in  cash  for  the 
second  block  of  his  Glenmore  hotel 
"stock."  With  the  previous  payment, 
he  had  now  thirty-five  thousand  dollars 
lying  in  his  bank,  and  a  large  payment 
on  the  commission  for  the  school  would 
soon  be  due  him. 

Trouble  was  not  long  in  coming! 
Trimble,  who  was  a  quiet  little  man, 
and  looked  like  a  bookseller's  clerk, 
was  waiting  for  Hart  one  morning  at 
the  office  of  the  works.  He  made  some 
pointed  inquiries  about  the  plumbing 
specifications.  There  seemed  to  be  im- 
portant discrepancies  between  the  copy 
of  the  specifications  at  the  works  and 
the  copy  which  Pemberton  had  given 
him  from  the  office  of  the  trustees. 

"Yes,  a  good  many  changes  were 
authorized.  There  were  good  reasons 
for  making  them,"  Hart  responded 
gruffly. 

The  little  man  made  no  remarks ;  he 
seemed  to  have  inquired  out  of  curios- 
ity. Then  he  asked  questions  about 
some  blue  prints  which  did  not  corre- 
spond with  the  written  specifications, 
explaining  that  he  had  gone  to  the 
mill  where  the  interior  finish  was  being 
turned  out,  and  had  found  other  discrep- 
ancies in  the  blue  prints  of  the  wood- 
work. Hart  answered  indifferently  that 
he  would  find  a  good  many  such  changes, 
as  was  customary  in  all  buildings.  At 


this  point  Graves  arrived ;  he  came  into 
the  little  shanty  and  looked  Trimble 
over  without  speaking.  After  the  en- 
gineer had  left,  Graves  turned  to  the 
architect,  an  ugly  frown  on  his  heavy 
face,  — 

"  Say,  is  that  little  cuss  goin'  to  make 
trouble  here?  " 

Hart  explained  briefly  what  had  hap- 
pened. 

"  Do  you  think  we  could  fix  him  ?  " 
the  contractor  asked  without  further 
comment. 

The  architect  noticed  the  "we  "  and 
sulked. 

"I  guess  you  'd  better  not  try.  He 
does  n't  look  like  the  kind  you  could 
fix.  It  's  just  as  well  that  most  of  the 
work  is  done,  for  it  seems  to  me  he 
means  trouble." 

"All  the  finish  and  decoratin'  is 
comin',  ain't  it? "  the  contractor 
growled.  "I  tell  you  what,  if  he  holds 
up  the  mill  work,  there  '11  be  all  kinds 
of  trouble.  I  won't  stand  no  nonsense 
from  your  damned  trustees."  He  swore 
out  his  disgust,  and  fumed,  until  Hart 
said :  — 

"Well,  you  '11  have  to  do  the  best 
you  can !  " 

The  Glenmore  hotel  was  going  up 
rapidly,  and  he  thought  of  the  twenty 
thousand  dollars  which  would  be  com- 
ing to  him  on  the  completion  of  that 
building,  —  if  all  went  well.  But  if 
there  were  a  row,  there  would  be  no  fur- 
ther profits  for  him  on  the  hotel. 

"The  best  I  can!"  Graves  broke 
forth.  "I  guess  you  '11  have  to  take 
care  of  them.  You  'd  better  see  your 
cousin  and  get  him  to  call  this  feller 
off,  or  there  '11  be  trouble." 

"  I  have  seen  Wheeler, "  the  archi- 
tect admitted. 

"Well,"  the  contractor  blustered, 
"if  they  want  a  fight,  let  'em  come  on. 
There  '11  be  a  strike  on  this  building 
in  twenty-four  hours,  I  can  tell  you,  and 
it  '11  be  two  years  before  they  can  get 
their  school  opened  !  " 

With  this  threat,  the  contractor  left 


650 


The   Common  Lot. 


the  office,  and  Hart  went  over  to  the 
great  building,  which  had  become  a 
thorn  in  his  flesh  these  last  weeks.  It 
was  not  a  bad  piece  of  work,  after  all, 
as  Chicago  building  goes,  he  reflected. 
Even  if  Graves  had  cut  the  work  in 
places,  and  had  made  too  much  money 
on  the  steel,  the  stone,  and  here  and 
there  all  over,  the  edifice  would  an- 
swer its  purpose  well  enough,  and  he 
had  no  special  interest  in  the  everlast- 
ing qualities  of  his  structures.  No- 
thing was  built  to  stand  in  this  city. 
Life  moved  too  swiftly  for  that! 

For  several  weeks,  as  the  end  of 
August  came  near,  there  was  a  lull, 
while  Pemberton  was  in  the  East  on  his 
vacation.  The  work  on  the  school  went 
forward  as  before;  even  the  irritation 
of  seeing  Trimble's  face  was  removed, 
for  he  had  ceased  to  visit  the  works. 
Then,  the  first  week  in  September,  the 
storm  burst.  There  came  to  the  archi- 
tect's office  a  peremptory  summons  to 
meet  the  trustees  the  next  afternoon. 


XX. 

Powers  Jackson  had  given  the  old 
Jackson  homestead  and  farm  in  Vernon 
Falls  to  Helen,  and  with  it  a  small  leg- 
acy of  twelve  thousand  dollars  "as  a 
maintenance  fund. "  She  had  opened  the 
house  but  once  or  twice  since  her  mar- 
riage because  Jackson  was  always  too 
busy  to  take  a  long  vacation,  and  she  did 
not  like  to  leave  him.  Latterly  she 
had  thought  about  the  old  man's  gift 
a  good  deal,  and  there  had  been  some 
talk  of  her  spending  the  summer  in 
Vernon  Falls  with  the  children  and 
her  mother.  Instead  of  this,  they  had 
gone  to  the  Shoreham  Club  for  a  few 
weeks,  putting  off  the  journey  east  till 
the  fall. 

She  had  never  touched  the  legacy, 
leaving  it  in  Everett  Wheeler's  hands, 
securely  invested,  and  had  paid  what 
was  needed  to  maintain  the  old  place 
from  her  allowance.  Now,  however,  a 


number  of  repairs  had  accumulated,  and 
it  occurred  to  her  one  day,  when  she 
was  in  the  city,  to  find  out  from 
Wheeler  how  much  surplus  she  had  at 
her  disposal.  They  had  joked  a  good 
deal  about  her  estate,  and  the  lawyer 
had  scolded  her  for  not  coming  to  his 
office  to  examine  the  papers  and  see 
what  he  was  doing  with  her  money. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  she 
had  finished  other,  more  urgent  errands, 
and,  turning  into  the  lofty  La  Salle 
Street  building,  was  whirled  up  to  the 
twelfth  floor.  The  middle-aged  ste- 
nographer in  Wheeler's  office  looked  up 
on  her  entrance,  and  said  that  the  law- 
yer had  not  left,  but  was  engaged  with 
some  gentlemen.  Would  she  wait? 
She  sat  down  in  the  quiet,  carpeted 
outer  office.  From  this  radiated  several 
small  offices,  the  doors  of  which  were 
open.  One  door  only  was  closed,  and 
through  the  ground-glass  panel  in  this 
she  could  see  the  dark  forms  of  sev* 
eral  men.  Presently  the  stenographer 
pushed  her  papers  into  the  drawer  of 
her  desk,  and  fetched  her  hat  and 
coat. 

"  I  think  they  must  be  most  through, " 
she  remarked  pleasantly.  "You  go 
right  in  when  they  come  out." 

Then  she  gathered  up  her  gloves  and 
left.  Little  noise  came  from  the  hall. 
The  vast  hive  seemed  to  be  deserted  at 
this  hour,  and  few  places  in  the  city 
were  so  quiet  and  lonesome  as  this  sober 
law  office.  The  murmur  of  voices  in  the 
inner  room  was  the  only  sound  of  life. 
Gradually  the  voices  grew  louder,  but 
Helen  paid  no  attention  to  them  until  a 
man's  voice,  clear  and  shrill  with  exas- 
peration, penetrated  distinctly  to  whet 
she  sat. 

"No,    Wheeler!  "    the  man   almc 
shouted.     "We  won't  compromise  this. 
I  won't    have   it  covered  up,    white 
washed.   We  '11  go  to  the  bottom,  her 
and  now.    Let  us  find  out  what  all  this 
double-dealing  means.      Let  us  know, 
now,  whether  the  work  on  that  build- 
ing is  being  done  honestly  or  not,  ar 


The   Common  Lot. 


651 


whether  our  architect  is  working  for  us 
or  for  the  contractor  against  us." 

It  was  Pemberton's  voice,  and  Helen 
recognized  it.  From  the  first  words  she 
had  grasped  the  arms  of  her  chair,  — 
a  sudden  clutch  at  her  heart.  She  held 
herself  rigid,  while  behind  the  door  a 
confused  murmur  of  men  all  talking  at 
once  drowned  Pemberton's  voice.  She 
tried  to  think  whether  she  should  leave 
the  office,  but  her  strength  had  gone. 
She  trembled  in  her  chair.  Present- 
ly Pemberton's  high  voice  rang  out 
again :  — 

"No,  sir!  We  've  given  you  this 
opportunity  to  explain  your  conduct  and 
clear  yourself.  You  have  n't  done  it, 
sir!  You  try  to  bluster  it  through. 
There  's  something  wrong  in  this  busi- 
ness, and  we  shall  find  out  what  it  is. 
Not  another  dollar  will  be  paid  out  on 
your  vouchers  until  our  experts  have 
gone  through  all  the  papers  and  exam- 
ined every  foot  of  the  construction  so 
far  done.  No,  Wheeler,  I  will  resign 
if  you  like.  You  asked  me  to  join  you. 
I  was  glad  to  do  so.  I  considered  it  an 
honor  and  a  duty,  and  I  have  made  sac- 
rifices for  this  work.  But  if  I  stay  on 
the  board  this  thing  must  be  cleared 
up!" 

Another  high  and  angry  voice  an- 
swered this  time :  — 

"You  'd  better  not  make  loose 
charges,  Mr.  Pemberton,  until  you  are 
in  a  position  to  prove  what  you  say.  I 
won't  stand  your  talk;  I  'm  going!  " 

Helen  recognized  her  husband's  voice, 
and  she  got  to  her  feet,  still  clutching 
the  chair.  Then  she  moved  forward 
unsteadily  toward  the  inner  office.  The 


handle  of  the  door  moved  a  little,  and 
against  the  glass  panel  the  form  of  a 
man  stood  out  sharply. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ? 
Sue  Graves?  Or  sue  me?  You  can 
discharge  me  if  you  like.  But  I  am 
your  agent,  and  have  full  powers.  Re- 
member that !  That 's  the  way  the  con- 
tract is  drawn.  And  if  I  back  up 
Graves,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about 
it?  He  's  got  your  agent's  signature 
for  what  he  's  done.  .  .  .  You  'd  better 
hold  your  temper  and  talk  sense."  .  .  . 

"Don't  threaten  me,  sir!  "  Pember- 
ton retorted.  "I  have  all  the  proof 
I  want  that  you  are  a  rascal,  that  you 
have  entered  into  a  conspiracy  with  this 
man  Graves  to  swindle."  .  .  . 

There  were  sounds  of  a  scuffle  within 
the  office,  —  the  noise  of  falling  chairs, 
the  voices  of  excited  men.  Above  all 
the  clamor  rose  the  cool  tones  of 
Wheeler,  — 

"Come,  come,  gentlemen!  This  is 
not  business." 

As  he  spoke,  a  weight  seemed  to  fall 
against  the  door  from  the  outside.  The 
man  nearest  the  outer  office,  who  hap- 
pened to  be  Judge  Phillips,  opened  the 
door,  and  Helen  fell,  rather  than  walked, 
into  the  office,  her  face  white,  her  hands 
stretched  before  her. 

"Francis!   Francis!  "  she  called. 

It  was  not  her  husband,  however, 
who  sprang  to  her  aid.  He  was  too 
startled  to  move.  Wheeler,  who  was 
leaning  against  his  desk,  leaped  forward, 
caught  her,  and  carried  her  from  the 
room. 

"Nell,  Nell!  "  he  muttered.  "Any- 
thing, rather  than  this !  " 

Robert  Herrick. 


(To  be  continued.) 


652 


The  Year  In  France. 


THE    YEAR  IN   FRANCE. 


ENGLAND  and  France  have  as  many 
reasons  to  be  polite  to  each  other  as 
they  have  few  reasons  to  love  each  other. 
Their  commercial  relations  are  so  inti- 
mate and  colossal  that  they  can  ill  afford, 
prudentially  speaking,  to  be  at  odds. 
Their  natural  and  manufactured  pro- 
ducts seldom  come  into  direct  competi- 
tion ;  on  the  contrary,  these  products  are 
complementary  to  a  remarkable  degree. 
England  depends  largely  on  the  farms, 
dairies,  and  vineyards  of  France  for  the 
daily  supplies  of  her  market  and  table 
(for  butter,  eggs,  vegetables,  fruits,  and 
wines),  and  on  the  industries  of  France 
for  various  highly  pi-ized  articles  of  lux- 
ury ;  while  France,  conversely,  depends 
on  the  mines  and  factories  of  England 
for  such  staples  as  cotton,  woolen,  and 
rubber  goods,  iron,  and  coal.  The  trade 
between  the  two  countries  amounts  in  an 
average  year  to  a  round  2,000,000,000 
francs,  with  a  balance  of  upwards  of 
500,000,000  francs  in  France's  favor. 

The  interchange  of  visits,  last  summer, 
between  Edward  VII  and  President  Lou- 
bet,  and  between  members  of  the  French 
and  English  parliaments  and  chambers 
of  commerce,  and  the  arbitration  treaty 
resulting  therefrom  indicate  that  "  the 
powers  that  be  "  in  politics  and  finance 
recognize  this  mutual  economic  depen- 
dence, and  are  disposed  to  prevent,  by 
keeping  the  question  of  commercial  ad- 
vantage constantly  to  the  fore,  —  alas, 
that  no  higher  motive  can  be  appealed 
to  !  —  gratuitous  bickerings  and  useless 
displays  of  bad  blood.  They  indicate 
further  that  these  same  powers  have  suc- 
ceeded in  rendering  acceptable  to  a  ma- 
jority of  their  respective  compatriots  this 
eminently  practical  point  of  view.  They 
do  not  indicate  that  either  nation  has 
experienced  a  radical  change  of  mind  or 
heart.  The  two  peoples  continue  to  mis- 
understand and  misjudge  each  other  as 


they  have  for  centuries.  They  hate  each 
other  out  of  sheer  atavism,  naturally, 
normally,  —  I  had  almost  said  righteous- 
ly, —  and  will  continue  to  hate  each  oth- 
er, in  all  human  probability,  to  the  end 
of  time.  They  have  merely  acquiesced 
provisionally  (in  the  absence  of  any  im- 
mediate subject  of  disagreement)  in  the 
official  attitude  of  politeness,  without 
committing  themselves  to  too  close  an 
intimacy  thereby ;  very  much  as  two 
clever  and  ambitious  women  of  the  world 
hold  each  other  at  a  respectful  distance, 
while  reiterating  the  most  amiable  com- 
monplaces and  lavishing  the  most  en- 
gaging smiles.  Nothing  has  been  par- 
doned or  forgotten  ;  and  it  will  take  very 
little  to  engender  a  dangerous  irritation, 
to  stir  the  ancient  rancors,  and  destroy 
an  entente  which  is  by  no  means  an  en- 
tente cordiale. 

The  warm  reception  accorded  King 
Edward  by  Paris  should  be  assigned  no 
special  political  significance.  It  was  an 
illustration  of  French  good  nature,  first 
of  all,  and,  even  so,  was  intended  less 
for  Edward,  King  of  England,  than  for 
Edward,  "  the  royal  good  fellow,"  — who 
is  a  prodigious  favorite  with  the  Parisians 
because  they  know  he  is  genuinely  fond 
of  Paris,  and  because  they  have  the 
pleasantest  recollections  of  the  escapades 
of  his  much  prolonged  salad  days.  The 
bulk  of  the  Nationalists  held  aloof  from 
this  reception ;  indeed,  one  of  the  Na- 
tionalist organs  went  to  the  length  of 
issuing  just  before  his  visit  a  special 
number  devoted  entirely  to  an  indignant 
exposition  of  the  reasons  why  this  visit 
should  be  resented  by  the  French  people. 

The  arbitration  treaty  is  a  Platonic 
affair,  full  of  loopholes,  a  sort  of  toy, 
child's-play  treaty,  not  to  be  mentioned 
in  the  same  breath,  for  instance,  wit 
the  arbitration  treaties  in  force  betweer 
certain  South  American  states.  Its  adoj 


The   Year  In  France. 


653 


tion  was  disapproved  in  France  by  a 
number  of  eminent  citizens,  not  chauvin- 
ists, on  tbe  ground  that  a  treaty  of  so 
little  binding  force  was  calculated  to 
create  a  feeling  of  false  security  in  the 
public  mind. 

At  a  time  when  every  great  power  is 
playing  the  bully  in  one  part  of  the  world 
or  another ;  when  Russia  and  Japan  are 
at  war  in  the  Orient  (for  the  possession 
—  or  control  —  of  territory  which  be- 
longs, in  equity,  to  neither)  ;  and  when 
their  respective  allies,  France  and  Eng- 
land, are  liable  to  be  drawn  into  the 
fight  at  any  moment,  the  temptation  to 
dwell  on  the  value  of  arbitration  treaties 
in  general,  and  of  the  Anglo  -  French 
arbitration  treaty  in  particular,  is  not 
strong.  Rather  the  temptation  is  to  belit- 
tle both  unduly.  It  is  just  possible,  how- 
ever, that  the  restriction  thus  far  of  the 
Eastern  conflict  to  the  two  original  bel- 
ligerents has  been  directly  due  to  the 
existence  of  this  Anglo-French  treaty, 
jthe  courteous  restraint  it  has  entailed 
having  just  sufficed  to  check  precipitate 
action  and  allow  time  for  the  sober  sec- 
ond thought.  If  this  is  really  the  case, 
its  adoption  is  an  achievement  not  to  be 
treated  flippantly  even  though  the  war 
pressure  ultimately  becomes  too  strong 
for  it.  Certain  it  is  that  the  immediate 
intervention  of  both  France  and  England 
in  a  Russo-Japanese  war  would  have 
been  well-nigh  unavoidable  had  such  a 
war  broken  out  six  months  before  this 
interchange  of  courtesies  had  occurred. 

The  visit  of  the  King  and  Queen  of 
Italy  to  Paris  in  October,  and  the  con- 
clusion between  Italy  and  France  of  an 
arbitration  treaty  identical  with  the  An- 
glo-French treaty,  were  the  culmination 
of  a  series  of  friendly  acts  extending 
over  a  term  of  years.  For  this  reason, 
and  because  it  is  based  on  sentiment  as 
well  as  business  interest,  and  is  rather  an 
occasion  for  expansion  than  for  restraint, 
the  Franco-Italian  reconciliation  offers 
more  serious  guarantees  of  stability  than 
the  reconciliation  between  England  and 


France.  The  French  and  Italian  peo- 
ples were  intended  by  nature  to  be 
friends.  They  are  not  constitutionally 
antipathetic,  as  are  the  French  and 
English,  and,  unlike  the  French  and 
English,  they  have  more  reasons  (in 
spite  of  several  definite  past  sins  of 
omission  and  commission)  to  love  than 
to  hate  each  other. 

The  salient  fact  of  the  past  year  in 
French  domestic  politics  has  been  the 
persistence  of  the  Combes  ministry  in 
the  Anti-clerical  campaign  inaugurated 
by  the  Waldeck-Rousseau  ministry,  its 
predecessor. 

The  avowed  ultimate  aim  of  the  Anti- 
clerical party  led  by  M.  Combes  is  no- 
thing less  than  a  complete  monopoly  of 
education  by  the  state,  —  a  condition 
which  would  make  it  as  illegal  for  any 
other  agency  than  the  government  to 
fabricate  scholars  as  it  is  for  any  other 
agency  than  the  government  to  fabri- 
cate matches  and  coins. 

The  Anti-clerical  party  proposes  to 
create,  by  the  "  laicization "  of  all 
instruction,  "  a  laical  spirit,"  "  a  laical 
conscience," — to  borrow  some  of  its  pet 
catchwords, — that  will  "  restore  the  in- 
tellectual and  moral  unity  of  France." 
To  this  end,  it  classes  the  monastic 
orders  as  "  pure  anachronisms,"  and 
holds  the  monks  up  to  abhorrence  or 
ridicule  because  they  have  "  deliberately 
repudiated  their  social  obligations  and 
the  responsibilities  of  marriage,  thereby 
cutting  themselves  off  from  the  family 
and  society."  It  represents  the  Catholic 
Church  as  necessarily  "incompatible  with 
progress,"  as  an  intolerant  and  fanatical 
"  adversary  of  liberty,  of  democracy,  and 
of  civilization  ;  "  refers  deprecatingly  to 
its  "  gross  superstitions  "  and  ominously 
to  its  "  dark  conspiracies  ;  "  character- 
izes its  doctrines  as  "  corrupting  and  per- 
nicious, calculated  to  deform  the  intelli- 
gence of  youth  and  pervert  the  French 
spirit;"  and  accuses  it  of  being,  in 
France,  a  troublesome  and  dangerous 


654 


The  Year  in  France. 


foreign  substance  in  the  body  politic, 
"a  state  within  a  state,"  "a  Roman 
state  in  the  French  state,"  "  a  theocratic 
state  in  the  democratic  state." 

In  contradistinction,  the  Anti-clerical 
party  presents  itself  as  "an  evangelist 
of  enlightenment,"  "  a  defender  of  phil- 
osophic truth,"  "  a  liberator  of  intelli- 
gence," "  an  emancipator  from  the  slav- 
ery of  superstition  and  from  the  murk  of 
obscurantism,"  "  a  protector  of  the  child 
and  of  the  people,"  "  a  savior  of  the 
rising  generation  "  from  "  the  contagion 
of  error,"  "  the  inaugurator  of  the  reign 
of  Reason  and  Humanity "  (capital  R 
and  capital  H) ;  as  "  the  lineal  descen- 
dant and  vindicator  of  the  Revolution," 
"the  sole  conservator  of  the  true  national 
tradition,"  "  the  sole  guardian  of  the  na- 
tional interest,"  "  the  only  sure  friend  of 
the  Republic,"  "  the  bulwark  of  the  cause 
of  liberty,  justice,  and  the  Patrie  against 
the  clerical  domination,"  "  the  champion 
predestined  to  set  France  free  from  the 
yoke  of  Rome,"  and  "  the  sponsor  of  the 
France  of  the  future." 

All  this  is  very  fine  in  leading  arti- 
cles and  parliamentary  eloquence.  The 
theory  of  the  "Laical  State"  (I'tftat 
La/ique)  is  not  without  a  certain  gran- 
deur as  a  theory  of  political  and  social 
unity.  It  is  one  of  those  large  "  general 
ideas  "  which  have  always  possessed  a 
peculiar  fascination  for  Frenchmen,  and 
which  have  been  from  time  immemorial 
at  once  the  glory  and  the  bane  of  France ; 
a  fresh  illustration  of  that  French  passion 
for  unity  and  system  which  has  produced 
a  Louis  XI,  a  Richelieu,  a  Mazarin,  a 
Napoleon,  a  Revolution,  a  Commune,  a 
Calvin,  and  an  Auguste  Comte.  But, 
unfortunately  for  the  practical  applica- 
tion of  this  theory,  and  unfortunately  for 
tho  public  peace,  unity,  on  one  basis  or 
another,  is  also  the  ideal  of  the  most 
antagonistic  elements  in  French  politics, 
superstitious  veneration  for  abstract  ideas 
being  common  to  them  all.  All  the  ag- 
gressive political  groups  (the  Royalists, 
the  Imperialists,  the  Radicals,  the  So- 


cialists, and  the  Nationalists)  clamor  for 
unity  in  the  name  of,  and  along  the  lines 
of,  their  mutually  exclusive  creeds,  and 
are  straining  toward  it  in  the  measure 
of  their  respective  forces.  All  expound 
their  claims  to  superiority  as  a  unifying 
agency  with  similar,  almost  identical, 
high-sounding  phrases,  and  support  their 
positions  with  similar,  almost  identical, 
arguments.  All  pretend  to  be  the  only 
representatives  of  the  genuine  French 
tradition  and  the  saviors  of  the  Patrie. 
All  would  run  the  minds  of  all  their 
compatriots  in  their  own  particular 
moulds,  and  all,  if  they  could  have 
their  way,  would  expel  or  disfranchise, 
in  the  name  of  their  particular  unity, 
all  those  who  proved  recalcitrant  to  the 
moulding  process. 

Carried  away  by  their  excessive  desire 
to  make  the  heterogeneous  homogene- 
ous, the  Anti-clericals  show  themselves 
curiously  blind  to  the  facts  of  French 
history  and  contemporary  life,  as  well 
as  curiously  lacking  in  the  sense  of  pro- 
portion, in  asserting  that  modern  France 
is  the  daughter  of  Free  Thought  and  the 
Revolution,  and  has  no  kinship  whatever 
with  the  church  and  the  ancient  regime  ; 
curiously  wanting  in  discrimination  in 
not  distinguishing  more  carefully  than 
they  do  between  unity  and  uniformity, 
between  hostility  to  a  ministry  and  hos- 
tility to  the  Republic,  and  between  Cleri- 
calism that  endeavors  to  undermine  the 
state  and  the  religious  devotion  that 
occupies  itself  logically  and  legitimately 
with  the  training  of  Christian  citizens ; 
curiously  obtuse  in  not  sensing  the  hi 
in  or  of  making  a  parliament  a  judge 
philosophic  truth  and  error ;  curiously 
narrow,  not  to  say  naive,  in  assuming 
that  the  work  of  religion  is  done  in  the 
world,  and  that  the  era  of  pure  reason 
has  arrived ;  in  considering  the  moral 
unity  of  a  people  dependent  on  its  re- 
ligious unity  ;  above  all,  in  fancying  that, 
in  our  complex  and  groping  modern 
civilization,  any  moral  unity  is  possible 
—  or  desirable  —  which  does  not  admit 


The   Year  in  France. 


655 


diversity  of  intellect  and  temperament, 
and  which  does  not  make  ample  allow- 
ance for  the  relativity,  the  vanity  even, 
of  knowledge.  And  were  such  a  doc- 
trinaire moral  unity  possible,  —  and  de- 
sirable, —  a  thousand  times  possible  and 
desirable,  —  the  Anti-clerical  party,  or 
any  other  party,  would  still  be  embark- 
ing in  a  dubious  adventure  in  undertak- 
ing to  establish  it  by  force.  The  Pro- 
crustean method  of  securing  conformity 
succeeds  only  by  mutilating  or  destroy- 
ing life. 

In  setting  up  an  "  orthodoxy  of  the 
state  "  and  an  official  standard  of  pro- 
gress, in  utilizing  the  finances  and  the 
functionaries  of  the  state  for  the  propa- 
gation of  its  dogmas,  and  in  appealing 
to  the  authority  of  the  law  to  silence  its 
antagonists,  Anti-clericalism  renders  it- 
self guilty  of  the  very  sins  which  it  lays 
to  the  charge  of  Clericalism.  Employed 
to-day  by  the  Anti-clericals  against  the 
Catholics,  such  a  procedure  may  logically 
be  employed  by  others,  to-morrow,  against 
the  Socialists,  against  the  Jews,  against 
trade-unions,  against  benefit  orders  and 
cooperative  groups,  against  the  Freema- 
sons, against  social  settlements,  against 
literary,  philanthropic,  and  charitable 
societies,  against  women's  clubs  (imagine 
it!),  against  any  race  or  sect,  group  or 
coterie  whatsoever,  no  matter  how  color- 
less, that  is  suspected  (with  or  without 
reason)  of  taking  the  slightest  interest 
in  public  affairs. 

The  Combes  ministry,  which  came  into 
power  in  June,  1902,  has  so  far  outdone 
the  Waldeck-Rousseau  ministry  in  radi- 
calism and  sectarianism,  —  and  this  is 
saying  a  great  deal,  —  that  the  latter 
appears  a  ministry  of  conservatism  and 
tolerance  in  comparison.  M.  Combes 
has  been  so  arbitrary  in  the  interpreta- 
tion, and  so  needlessly  harsh  and  hasty 
in  the  execution,  of  the  Waldeck-Rous- 
seau law  of  1901  against  the  Congrega- 
tions, that  M.  Waldeck-Rousseau  him- 
self —  here  we  should  have  the  height 


of  the  humorous  if  the  situation  were 
not  an  extremely  grave  one  —  has  felt 
obliged  to  protest.  M.  Waldeck-Rous- 
seau openly  accuses  his  successor  of 
"  seeking  to  obtain  from  the  law  of  1901 
results  for  which  it  was  in  no  way  in- 
tended," and  of  transforming,  without 
warrant,  what  was  designed  simply  as 
"  a  law  of  control "  into  a  "  law  of  ex- 
clusion ; "  and  he  entreats  him  to  be 
more  respectful  of  legal  forms  if  he 
would  not  compromise  hopelessly  the 
results  already  obtained. 

M.  Combes  and  his  lieutenants  have, 
in  truth,  shown  scant  respect  for  legality 
in  their  enterprise  of  laicization.  They 
have  resorted  to  summary  arrests,  to  the 
violation  of  property  rights,  to  encroach- 
ments on  the  prerogatives  of  the  com- 
munes, to  the  invalidation  of  elections, 
to  dictatorial  decrees  and  ordinances,  to 
the  stifling  of  free  parliamentary  exami- 
nation and  discussion,  to  the  distorting 
of  texts,  and  to  the  exhumation  of  obso- 
lete statutes  dating  from  the  imperial 
regime.  They  have  stooped  to  unworthy 
subterfuges,  undignified  quibbles,  dis- 
courteous personalities,  and  petty  perse- 
cutions. They  have  been  guilty  of  bad 
faith.  They  have  proposed  and,  when 
possible,  passed  retroactive  laws  and 
laws  of  exception,  laws  of  confiscation 
and  proscription,  and  laws  putting  out- 
side the  pale  of  the  common  law  whole 
classes  of  citizens,  by  the  creation  of  civil 
and  political  disabilities  and  personal 
incapacities.  They  have  exerted  official 
pressure  amounting  to  intimidation  on 
the  employees  of  the  civil  service  and 
even  on  the  magistracy. 

Three  extraordinary  things  are  to  be 
noted  in  this  connection  :  — 

1.  That  concrete  liberties  —  all  the 
so-called  fundamental  liberties,  in  fact, 
with  the  possible  exception  of  that  of 
the  press  —  are  violated  in  the  name  of 
Liberty  in  the  abstract ;  as  if  absolutism 
were  any  less  absolutism  when  exercised 
in  the  interests  of  "  moral  unity  "  than 
when  exercised  in  the  interests  of  a  sov- 


656 


The  Year  in  France. 


ereign,  and  as  if  persecution  were  any 
less  persecution  when  practiced  in  the 
name  of  Infallible  Reason  than  when 
practiced  in  the  name  of  an  Infallible 
Church ! 

2.  That  tolerance  is  abrogated  in  the 
name  of  "  the  modern  spirit,"  when,  in 
reality,  tolerance  is  the  very  essence  of 
the  modern   spirit.     The    theory  upon 
which  French  Anti-clericalism  proceeds, 
that  error  has  no  rights  which  truth  is 
bound  to  respect,  is  not  a  modern  doc- 
trine, but  a  doctrine  of   the  autocratic 
regimes  of  the  past,  which  never  hesi- 
tated, "  '  for  the  good  of  their  souls  and 
the  good  of  the  Kingdom,'  to  tear  the 
children  of  Protestants  and  Jews  away 
from  their  parents,  to  be  educated  in  the 
faith  of  the  monarch,"  or  to  exclude  the 
professors  of  "  the  so-called  Reformed 
Religion  "   from   office  -  holding    privi- 
leges. 

3.  That  the  sentiments  of  a  vast  ma- 
jority of  the  people  are  outraged,  and 
their  wishes  overruled,  by  the  vigorous 
and  united  action  of  a  perfervid  minor- 
ity.    "  Neither  art  nor  science  is  need- 
ed,"   says    La   Bruyere,    "  to    practice 
tyranny."     Had  the  author  of  the  Car- 
acteres    known    M.    Combes    and    the 
Third  Republic,  he  would  have  modified 
his  dictum,  for  the  tyranny  of  M.  Combes 
presupposes  a  phenomenal  quantity  and 
quality    of    both    "  art    and    science." 
Should  M.  Combes  ever  retire  from  of- 
fice, —  a  supposition  which  seems  at  the 
present  moment  highly  improbable,  —  he 
will  make    no  mistake   in  devoting  his 
hard-earned  leisure  to  writing  his  con- 
fessions.    The  volume,  which  might  well 
take  for  its  title-page 

M.  COMBES,  THE  PERFECT  TYRANT 
or 

THE  CURIOUS  APATHY  OP  A  GREAT  PEOPLE 

An  Autobiographical  Study 

Treating  of  the 
TYRAJfNY   OF   DEMOCRACY 

by  an 

BX-TYBANT 


would  be  an  invaluable  contribution  to 
the  literature  of  democracy,  and  would 
stand  every  chance  of  becoming  in  good 
time  as  much  of  a  classic,  in  its  kind,  as 
Machiavelli's  Prince. 

The  immediate  consequences  of  the 
Draconian  regime  of  M.  Combes  (what- 
ever fine  and  fair  thing  the  ultimate  re- 
sult may  prove  to  be)  are  nearly  all  de- 
plorable. 

It  has  provoked  scenes  of  disorder  in 
the  Chamber  of  Deputies  that  would  in- 
cline a  person  unfamiliar  with  the  idio- 
syncrasies of  French  politicians  to  be- 
lieve that  the  end  of  all  things  had 
come  ;  and  rioting  accompanied  by  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  bloodshed  in  Paris  and 
in  a  number  of  the  Departments.  It 
has  equipped  the  Anti-Semites,  the  Anti- 
Protestants,  and  the  Nationalists  with 
new  and  formidable  weapons  by  fur- 
nishing them  with  real  grievances,  and 
fulfilling  their  gloomiest  forebodings 
and  prophecies.  It  has  exasperated  the 
devout  Catholics  to  the  last  degree,  and 
has  produced  in  many  of  the  hitherto 
lukewarm  Catholics  the  very  devoutness 
which  it  deplores  and  aims  to  destroy. 
It  has  impelled  the  more  far-seeing  Pro- 
testants to  make  common  cause  with 
the  Catholics  against  the  Free  Thought 
which  would  allow  no  freedom  to  reli- 
gion if  left  unopposed.  It  has  weak- 
ened the  authority  of  France  in  several 
of  her  colonies,  and  complicated  her  di- 
plomacy with  European  and  Asiatic 
countries  and  with  the  Vatican  by  rea- 
son of  her  role  of  protector  of  the  Cat 
olic  missions  in  the  Orient,  and  has  pi 
her  in  an  unfavorable  light  with  Catho- 
lic populations  all  over  the  world.  It 
has  diminished  the  national  wealth,  and 
will  involve,  unavoidably,  increased  tax- 
ation. 

But  the  worst  result  is  the  discredit- 
ing of  the  Republic,  as  such,  in  the  very 
quarters  where  it  is  the  most  important 
it  should  retain  or  conciliate  respect. 

Royalist   Brittany,    which    was    just 


The   Year  in  France. 


657 


ceasing  to  sulk,  after  years  of  pictur- 
esque allegiance  to  its  "  lost  cause  "  of 
royalty,  and  was  just  beginning  to  feel 
itself  an  organic  part  of  Republican 
France,  has  been  thrown  violently  back 
to  where  it  was  a  generation  ago  —  or 
nearly  that  —  by  the  fussiness,  sacrile- 
giousness,  and  ferocity  of  the  ministerial 
persecution  to  which  it  has  been  subject- 
ed during  the  past  three  years  ;  and  the 
same  is  true  in  a  greater  or  less  degree 
of  other  half-reconciled  provinces  with 
royalist  leanings.  Alsace-Lorraine  (by 
whose  secret  loyalty  to  France  French- 
men set  such  store),  at  any  rate  the  Cath- 
olic part  of  it,  has  been  given  good  cause 
at  last  to  congratulate  itself  on  its  forcible 
separation  from  the  mother  country,  since 
it  escapes  thereby  an  irritating  religious 
oppression.  The  neutrals  in  French  poli- 
tics, who  are  indifferent  as  to  whether 
the  government  is  republican  or  mo- 
narchic in  form,  so  that  it  governs  liber- 
ally and  well,  are  being  rapidly  alienat- 
ed from  the  present  republican  govern- 
ment by  reason  of  the  cavalier  fashion 
in  which  it  has  latterly  conducted  itself. 
Finally,  not  a  few  veteran  Republicans 
to  whom  the  Republic  represented  at  its 
founding  "  the  reign  of  virtue,  of  justice, 
of  liberty,  of  equality,  of  fraternity," 
have  been  sadly  disillusionized  by  the 
turn  events  have  taken,  and  are  beginning 
to  query  whether  a  republic  that,  after 
thirty  years  of  existence,  can  only  be 
maintained  by  the  destruction  of  the  lib- 
erties for  which  a  republic  is  supposed 
to  stand,  is  really  worth  maintaining. 

If  the  upshot  of  it  all  should  be  the 
complete  separation  of  church  and  state 
in  France,  as  some  predict,  the  unlove- 
ly mediaeval  intolerance  of  the  present 
hour  would  almost  have  redeemed  itself. 
"  Separation  "  alone  seems  capable  of 
putting  an  end  to  the  "bloodless  civil 
war  "  (la  guerre  civile  morale)  that  is 
sapping  the  vitality  and  dissipating  the 
energy  of  the  nation.  Permanent  reli- 
gious and  social  peace  can  never  be  had 
under  the  present  hybrid  system  of  sub- 

VOL.  xcm.  —  NO.  559.  42 


sidized  churches  (Catholic,  Protestant, 
and  Jewish)  subject  to  partial  state  con- 
trol, and  the  only  remaining  alternatives 
of  a  State  Religion  and  a  State  Irreligion 
are  alike  abominable  and  despotic,  and 
are  not  to  be  considered. 

The  separation  idea  was  given  a  more 
than  respectable  vote  in  the  Chamber, 
last  June,  and  several  separation  pro- 
jects are  now  in  the  hands  of  a  special 
parliamentary  commission.  The  Cath- 
olic bishops  are  almost  unanimously  op- 
posed to  separation  because  they  fear 
that  without  the  protection  afforded  by 
the  Concordat,  the  regular  clergy  would 
be  dealt  with  in  the  same  high-handed 
fashion  as  the  members  of  the  religious 
orders,  and  because  it  would  take  from 
the  church  its  principal  financial  sup- 
port ;  and,  for  the  latter  reason,  a  ma- 
jority of  the  Protestant  consistories  like- 
wise disapprove  it.  A  goodly  number 
of  the  Anti-clericals  regard  it  askance 
because  it  would  deprive  them,  at  one 
and  the  same  time,  of  an  exquisite  plea- 
sure (that  of  bullying  and  disciplining 
the  clergy)  and  of  their  principal  politi- 
cal capital.  The  moderates  are  inclined 
to  distrust  it  as  they  do  every  measure 
of  bold  initiative.  Nevertheless,  the 
separatist  movement  is  making  rapid 
headway  in  all  the  political  camps. 
There  are  signs  that  M.  Combes,  who, 
though  favorable  to  separation  in  prin- 
ciple, has  so  far  scrupulously  avoided 
taking  an  irrevocable  position  on  the 
question  as  a  ministerial  policy,  has  a 
separation  project  up  his  sleeve,  so  to 
speak,  and  will  one  of  these  days  annex 
it  to  his  official  programme.  In  this 
case,  since  M.  Combes  succeeds  (by 
hook  or  by  crook)  in  doing  what  he  sets 
out  to  do,  separation  will  be  assured. 

We  shall  see  what  we  shall  see,  but 
time  must  be  reckoned  with;  for,  as 
M.  Combes  himself  has  more  than  once 
sagaciously  pointed  out,  the  severance  of 
the  church  from  the  state  in  a  country  as 
old  as  France  is  too  gigantic  an  under- 
taking to  be  accomplished  in  a  day. 


658 


The   Year  in  France. 


It  should  be  explained  in  fairness 
(and  the  writer  has  not  the  shadow  of 
a  motive  to  be  other  than  fair)  that  the 
Anti-clericalism  of  the  period  is  not  en- 
tirely gratuitous,  not  absolutely  without 
provocation.  Unquestionably  the  Anti- 
clerical lends  too  ready  an  ear  to  cal- 
umnies against  the  church,  and  exagger- 
ates, by  giving  his  fancy  too  free  a 
reiu,  the  machinations  of  the  clergy ; 
but  he  is  not  fighting  a  purely  imaginary 
adversary,  a  simple  man  of  straw.  Cler- 
icalism, that  is  to  say  a  movement  "  that 
trespasses,  in  the  name  of  the  Christian 
faith,  on  the  domain  of  politics,  and  that, 
under  the  cover  of  religion,  menaces 
the  tranquillity  of  the  state,"  does  exist. 
It  is  not  a  myth.  Monks,  priests,  and 
prelates  are  to  be  found  in  every  part  of 
France  who  have  cast  in  their  lot,  in 
spite  of  the  sage  counsels  of  Leo  XIII, 
with  reactionary  policies  and  politics. 

It  is  quite  possible  that  the  monastic 
orders,  especially  the  commercial  ones, 
have  been  acquiring  a  disproportionate 
part  of  the  national  fortune,  —  though 
the  figures  adduced  to  prove  it  are  not 
very  convincing,  —  and  that  their  riches 
have  been  turned  systematically  into  the 
election  coffers  of  the  Reaction.  It  is 
quite  possible,  also,  that  unworthy  priests, 
who  have  taken  shameful  advantage  of 
their  pious  garb  and  their  confidential 
offices  to  commit  gross  immoralities  and 
even  common  law  crimes,  have  escaped 
punishment  through  their  affiliations  with 
reactionary  politicians. 

It  is  probably  true  that  the  army 
officers  who  received  their  early  educa- 
tion in  the  church  schools  have  been  ad- 
vanced more  rapidly  than  those  who 
received  their  early  education  elsewhere, 
while  the  flat  refusal  of  at  least  two  of 
them  to  participate  in  the  execution  of 
the  Congregations'  Law  lends  color  to 
the  current  charges  of  collusion  between 
the  church  and  the  army. 

It  is  certain  that  a  portion  of  the 
clergy  engaged  more  actively  in  the  Anti- 
Dreyfus  agitation  than  was  strictly  con- 


sistent with  their  priestly  obligations  and 
functions ;  that  a  number  of  journals, 
Catholic  at  least  in  name  (notably  La 
Croix,  one  of  the  yellowest  of  yellow 
sheets),  have  been  aggressively  Anti- 
Republican,  and  that  so  many  zealous 
Catholics  have  either  participated  in  or 
condoned  the  excesses  of  Anti-Semitism, 
Anti  -  Protestantism,  and  Nationalism, 
that  these  disturbing  crusades  have  come 
to  be  classed  as,  primarily,  Catholic  move- 
ments. 

Furthermore,  an  ill-advised  minority 
of  the  unauthorized  Congregations  re- 
fused to  apply  for  the  legal  authoriza- 
tion which,  for  the  matter  of  that,  the 
ministry  had  determined  in  advance 
should  not  be  granted.  A  relatively 
small  proportion  of  the  monks  and  nuns 
resisted  the  application  of  the  law  of 
1901  and  the  decrees  and  ordinances 
issued  to  supplement  it;  others,  there  is 
much  reason  to  believe,  evaded  it  by 
fraudulent  secularizations.  A  few  pre- 
lates, indignant  at  the  high  -  handed 
fashion  in  which  this  law  was  enforced, 
manifested  publicly  their  hostility  to  the 
ministerial  policy,  and  exhorted  the 
priests  and  laymen  of  their  jurisdictions 
to  throw  themselves  into  anti-ministerial 
politics,  —  which  they  did  in  a  highly 
offensive  manner  during  the  campaign 
preceding  the  last  general  election.  The 
Bishop  of  La  Rochelle  counseled  a  boy- 
cott of  the  traders  friendly  to  the  min- 
istry, and  the  Bishop  of  Tre'guier  made 
a  narrow  and  stupid  protest  against  the 
erection  of  a  statue  to  Renan  in  his 
diocese.  A  few  priests  joined  the  non- 
resistance  movement  of  Edouard  Dru- 
mont,  to  the  extent  of  urging  their  pa- 
rishioners to  refuse  to  pay  their  taxes, 
and  the  priests  of  Brittany  paid  none 
too  much  heed  to  the  extraordinary  order 
forbidding  them  to  teach  the  Catechism 
in  the  Breton  language.  The  secularized 
monks  who  preached  the  Lenten  courses 
last  spring,  in  defiance  of  a  ministerial 
prohibition,  were,  in  many  cases,  more 
intent  on  berating  the  ministry  than  on 


The  Year  in  France. 


659 


inculcating  the  observance  of  the  Lenten 
season. 

Do  such  facts  seriously  threaten  the 
Republic  ?  It  hardly  seems  so  to  the 
unprejudiced  observer,  especially  as  most 
of  them  can  be  traced  directly  to  a  nat- 
ural, if  unphilosophic,  anger  under  the 
stress  of  persecution.  The  Anti-clericals, 
however,  believe  (or  pretend  to  believe) 
that  they  do  threaten  it.  One  more  can- 
did than  his  fellows  will  occasionally  be 
found  who  confesses  that  the  conduct  of 
the  Anti-clerical  ministry  has  been  arbi- 
trary and  despotic,  but  even  he  justifies 
it  on  the  ground  that  the  very  existence 
of  the  Republic  is  at  stake.  According 
to  him  the  ministerial  persecution,  so- 
called,  is  a  gesture  not  of  aggression,  but 
of  simple  defense.  It  is  a  lif e-and-death 
matter,  he  swears,  and  summary  pro- 
cedure is  absolutely  necessary  to  save 
the  state.  The  law  of  self-defense  over- 
rides every  other  consideration,  of  course, 
in  public  as  in  private  matters,  and  to 
such  an  asseveration  no  answer  can  be 
made. 

In  this  lofty  character  of  defender  of 
the  Public  Safety  the  Anti-clerical  is  un- 
assailable, no  doubt.  Still,  it  is  difficult 
to  repress  a  smile  when  one  counts  up 
the  number  of  times  within  the  last 
thirty-five  years  the  Republic  has  been 
"  saved  "  (the  incorrigible  back-slider !) 
by  different  parties  and  coalitions  of 
parties,  if  their  own  word  is  to  be  taken. 
It  is  impossible  to  forget  that  this  law  of 
Public  Safety  has  often  been  made  polit- 
ical capital  of  (by  at  least  two  highly 
dissimilar  ministries,  for  instance,  during 
the  course  of  the  Dreyfus  Affair),  that 
it  has  been  invoked  again  and  again  to 
pass  a  pet  measure,  to  keep  a  minis- 
try in  power,  or  to  banish  or  imprison 
troublesome  political  adversaries  about 
whose  essential  patriotism  there  was  not 
the  shadow  of  a  doubt ;  and  that  it  is  in 
the  name  of  this  same  Public  Safety,  to 
put  the  case  even  more  strongly,  that 
most  of  the  great  public  crimes  of  French 
history  have  been  committed. 


The  present  fierce  outburst  of  Anti- 
clericalism  is,  in  one  sense,  a  reprisal  for 
an  antecedent  Clericalism  that  partici- 
pated in  the  fanatical  violence  of  Na- 
tionalism, Anti-Semitism,  and  Anti-Pro- 
testantism ;  but  this  antecedent  Clerical- 
ism was  also,  in  one  sense,  a  reprisal  for 
a  still  earlier  Anti  -  clericalism,  and  so 
on,  back  to  the  Revolution  and  beyond. 
No  one  can  say  with  certainty  which  of 
the  two  hostile  forces  now  face  to  face 
committed  the  first  wrong.  Nor  does  it 
much  matter.  In  this  respect,  the  situa- 
tion is  as  broad  as  it  is  long.  If  it  is 
probable  that,  without  the  Clericalism 
of  yesterday,  France  would  not  be  suf- 
fering to-day  from  the  insolent  triumph 
of  Anti-clericalism,  it  is  equally  prob- 
able that,  without  the  Anti  -  clericalism 
of  day  before  yesterday,  she  would  not 
have  suffered  yesterday  from  the  ex- 
treme manifestations  of  clerical  Nation- 
alism, Anti-Semitism,  and  Anti-Protes- 
tantism. 

Clericalism  and  Jacobinism  are,  alas, 
perennial  in  France,  and  those  who  see 
in  the  war  against  the  Congregations  a 
simple  corollary  to  the  Dreyfus  Affair 
have  read  history  to  little  purpose.  The 
passions  roused  by  that  affair  may  be 
the  immediate  occasion  of  the  dramatic 
out-cropping  of  Jacobinism  at  this  par- 
ticular time.  But  the  Dreyfus  Affair 
itself  was  only  a  phase  of  the  venerable 
and  irrepressible  conflict  between  in- 
tolerant religion  and  equally  intolerant 
Free  Thought,  between  Clericalism  and 
Jacobinism,  between  the  dogmatically  re- 
actionary and  the  dogmatically  radical 
elements  of  the  nation,  each  determined 
to  impose  an  artificial  unity  by  making 
society  over  in  its  own  image.  The  phe- 
nomenal virulence  of  the  Dreyfus  Af- 
fair was  the  sum  of  the  rancors  accumu- 
lated in  ancestral  struggles. 

"  We  are  an  old  nation,"  said  M.  Wal- 
deck-Rousseau  in  his  all  too  tardy  plea 
for  patience  and  moderation  ;  "  we  have 
a  long  history ;  we  are  attached  to  the 
past  by  the  deepest  roots,  and  even  those 


660 


The  Year  in  France. 


roots  which  we  have  reason  to  suppose 
dried  up  still  retain  a  sensibility  which 
the  slightest  wound  revives,  and  which 
communicates  itself  to  the  entire  organ- 
ism." This  should  be  constantly  borne 
in  mind  by  every  student  of  the  Anti- 
clerical agitation,  and  had  M.  Waldeck- 
Rousseau  himself  not  temporarily  for- 
gotten it,  it  is  doubtful  whether  he  would 
have  assumed  the  awful  responsibility  of 
inflicting  a  "  wound."  It  is  only  in  the 
light  of  the  history  of  many  centuries 
that  the  renascence  of  Jacobinism  in  the 
France  of  the  twentieth  century  can  be 
even  approximately  comprehended,  and 
it  is  in  the  light  of  history  yet  to  be  made 
that  it  must  be  finally  judged. 

Under  almost  any  other  circumstances 
than  those  created  by  the  application  and 
perfection  of  the  Congregations'  legisla- 
tion, two  such  sensational,  if  grotesque, 
events  as  the  trial  of  the  Humberts  and 
the  filibustering  expedition  of  Jacques  I, 
Emperor  of  the  Sahara,  would  have  cre- 
ated no  small  public  commotion  ;  thanks 
to  the  aggressiveness  of  Anti-clericalism, 
they  passed  relatively  unnoticed.  Thanks 
to  it,  also  (as  well  as  to  a  sort  of  apathy 
in  the  public  Dreyfus-ward,  induced  by 
extreme  fatigue),  the  reopening  and  sec- 
ond revision  of  the  Dreyfus  Affair  have 
caused  scarcely  a  ripple  of  excitement ; 
nor  are  they  likely  to  if  the  Affair  can  be 
kept  in  the  courts,  —  where  it  always  be- 
longed, —  and  out  of  the  Chamber,  — 
where  it  should  never  have  been  allowed 
to  enter. 

Under  other  circumstances,  likewise, 
the  public  would  have  shown  more 
interest  than  it  has  in  the  expulsion 
from  the  Socialist  organization  of  the 
Socialist  leader,  Millerand,  because  of 
his  impenitent  opportunism ;  in  the  in- 
troduction into  the  Chamber  of  a  reso- 
lution in  favor  of  disarmament ;  and  in 
the  discussions  of  the  projects  of  law 
for  the  pensioning  of  old  age,  for  the 
reduction  of  the  term  of  military  ser- 
vice from  three  years  to  two  years,  and 


for  the  purchase  of  the  railways  by  the 
state. 

The  Anti-clerical  legislation  has  not 
only  overshadowed  all  other  legislation, 
but  it  has  served  in  more  than  one  in- 
stance—  wherein  lies  its  true  subtlety, 
perhaps  —  to  prevent  it  or  delay  it,  to 
"head  it  off,"  as  we  say  in  New  Eng- 
land ;  and  for  this  it  is  entitled  to  the 
gratitude  of  some  of  its  bitterest  adversa- 
ries. "  It  is  a  sure  and  ancient  policy," 
says  La  Bruyere,  "  to  let  the  people  fall 
asleep  in  fetes,  in  spectacles,  in  luxury, 
in  pomps,  in  pleasures,  in  vanity ;  to  let 
it  fill  itself  with  emptiness  and  savor 
bagatelles."  The  modern  policy  as  prac- 
ticed by  M.  Combes  (and  M.  Waldeck- 
Rousseau  before  him)  toward  the  So- 
cialists, upon  whom  his  tenure  of  office 
depends,  is  analogous  to  this  ancient  one. 
It  consists  in  keeping  them  so  gorged 
—  and  drowsy  —  with  Anti-clericalism, 
which  is  one  of  their  casual  prejudices 
rather  than  one  of  their  essential  prin- 
ciples, that  they  neglect  to  insist  on  the 
application  of  these  essential  principles. 
M.  Combes  has  practiced  this  policy  with 
such  consummate  cunning  that  he  has 
succeeded  not  only  in  refusing  them  with 
impunity  the  measures  called  for  by 
their  doctrines,  but  also  in  forcing  them 
to  vote  more  than  one  measure  in  direct 
violation  of  their  doctrines.  In  the  ab- 
sence of  proof  to  the  contrary,  he  should 
be  given  credit  for  sincerity  in  his  work 
of  reform  ;  but  if  his  motives  were  purely 
political,  and  he  had  no  higher  ambition 
than  to  maintain  himself  in  power,  he 
could  not  have  adopted  a  surer  method. 
And  just  as  long  as  the  supply  of  Anti- 
clerical sops  holds  out  the  method  is 
bound  to  work. 

Nearly  every  department  of  the  com- 
munity life  has  been  more  or  less  influ- 
enced by  the  general  preoccupation  with 
the  issues  of  Anti-clericalism,  as  it  was  a 
few  years  ago  by  the  general  preoccupa- 
tion with  the  issues  of  the  Dreyfus  Affair. 
In  the  field  of  letters  this  influence  has 


The   Year  in  France. 


661 


been  especially  pronounced.  Jules  Le- 
maitre  and  Anatole  France,  both  masters 
of  gentle  irony,  amiable  mockery,  and 
polite  skepticism,  the  two  most  typical 
dilettanti  authors  of  their  time,  perhaps, 
have  both  abjured  this  distinguished  dil- 
ettanteism  (the  former  in  the  interests 
of  Nationalism,  the  latter  in  the  interests 
of  Anti-clericalism)  for  vulgar  political 
polemics  and  pamphleteering.  Fra^ois 
CoppeVs  naive,  unctuous  participation 
in  Edouard  Drumont's  anti-tax-paying 
crusade  a  couple  of  seasons  back  made 
him  the  laughing-stock  of  France.  Cop- 
pde  has  not  counted  in  a  literary  way, 
has  been  a  very  literary  zero  without  a 
rim,  in  fact,  since  he  has  taken  to  ha- 
ranguing the  multitude  in  the  name  of 
the  church. 

Paul  Bourget,  having  exhausted  the 
psychology  of  the  alcove,  has  also  be- 
come an  apostle  of  the  church  —  with 
not  altogether  unhappy  results.  Maurice 
Barres  has  found  in  Nationalism  a  new 
domain  for  his  shadowy  ego  to  cavort  in, 
and  in  the  cult  of  "  the  soil  and  the 
dead"  (la  terre  et  les  morts)  the  new 
formula  which  he  must  have  periodical- 
ly, or  perish.  His  sombre,  foggy  talent 
could  hardly,  for  the  moment,  be  better 
employed.  Charles  Maurras,  who  pro- 
mised to  become  one  of  the  virile,  crea- 
tive artists  of  his  generation,  has  dropped 
into  the  category  of  the  incisive  pam- 
phleteers since  he  went  over  body  and 
soul  to  the  Reaction.  Laurent  Tailhade, 
who  used  to  delight  in  chiseling  exquisite 
verses,  now  finds  his  chief  delight  in  in- 
sulting the  brave  souls  of  Brittany.  Henri 
Be'renger  and  Victor  Charbonnel,  both 
able  scholars  and  thinkers,  and  both 
leaders  in  the  movement  for  the  estab- 
lishment of  Universites  Populaires, 
seem  to  have  lost  their  heads  com- 
pletely. Not  content  with  exerting  them- 
selves against  Clericalism  through  the 
columns  of  their  journals,  La  Raison 
and  L' Action,  they  have  led  Anti-cler- 
ical mobs  in  assaults  upon  religious  pro- 
cessions and  in  the  invasion  and  desecra- 


tion of  churches  during  the  celebration 
of  the  mass. 

The  unveiling  of  the  statue  of  Renan 
at  Trdguier,  which  should  have  been  a 
purely  literary  event,  was  made  to  serve 
the  politics  of  persecution,  whereby  un- 
pardonable violence  was  done  to  the 
memory  of  the  sweet-tempered  philoso- 
pher who  was  nothing  if  not  an  apostle 
of  tolerance. 

The  election  to  the  Academy  of  Rene* 
Bazin,  author  of  a  number  of  strong  and 
pure  romances  of  provincial  life,  was 
generally  sneered  at  by  the  Anti-clerical 
press,  because  Bazin  chances  to  be  a 
professor  in  a  Catholic  university  ;  and 
the  proposed  appointment  of  Ferdinand 
Brunetiere  to  the  chair  of  literature  at 
the  College  de  France,  as  successor  of 
Emile  Deschanel,  is  being  fiercely  op- 
posed because,  forsooth,  M.  Brunetiere 
is  an  apologist  of  the  church. 

The  books  of  the  year  which  have 
caused  the  most  talk  are  books  not  pro- 
per to  literature  that  have  some  bearing, 
direct  or  indirect,  on  the  political  situa- 
tion. Such  are  M.  Combes'  Campagne 
Laique  (Introduction  by  Anatole  France) 
and  Jules  Payot's  Cours  de  Morale,  an- 
nounced as  "  a  handbook  of  laical  moral- 
ity, containing  a  system  of  morals  solidly 
based  on  the  general  results  of  contem- 
porary science,  and  indispensable  to  a 
purely  rational  moral  education."  The 
political  situation  has  inspired  a  number 
of  calm,  dignified,  and  scholarly  works 
on  the  relations  of  modern  science  to 
morality,  the  most  notable  of  which  is 
M.  Gabriel  Seailles'  Les  Affirmations 
de  la  Conscience  Moderne  ;  also  several 
scholarly  studies  of  ecclesiastical  history 
and  temperate  considerations  of  the  prob- 
lems involved  in  the  separation  of  church 
and  state. 

Fiction,  contrary  to  the  general  im- 
pression outside  of  France,  forms  a 
much  smaller  proportion  of  the  publish- 
ing output  of  France  than  of  England 
or  America.  In  history  and  the  philos- 
ophy of  history,  in  philosophy,  in  ethics, 


662 


The   Tear  in  France. 


in  biography,  in  aesthetics,  in  archaeology, 
in  anthropology,  in  sociology  and  social 
geography,  in  political  economy,  in  phi- 
lology, in  criticism,  and  in  the  specialized 
sciences,  many  works  have  appeared  the 
past  year,  as  every  year,  that  would  de- 
serve extended  notice  did  the  scope  of 
this  article  permit.  In  poetry  and  in 
fiction,  also,  the  year  has  been,  all  things 
considered,  an  average  one. 

A  curious  tendency  of  the  literary 
year  has  been  the  widespread  interest 
taken  in  the  French  translations  of  the 
works  of  President  Roosevelt  and  An- 
drew Carnegie,  and  in  several  other 
books  on  America  by  Americans  and 
Frenchmen.  French  curiosity  regard- 
ing American  life  is  almost  limitless  at 
the  present  moment.  America  is  dis- 
tinctly the  mode  to-day,  as  England  was 
at  the  time  when  Edmond  Demolins 
published  his  Anglo-Saxon  Superiority. 
This  admiration  for  the  American  way 
of  doing  things,  particulai-ly  in  indus- 
try and  commerce,  corresponds  with  an 
effort  for  the  rehabilitation  of  France 
commercially  and  industrially.  Evi- 
dently the  campaign  carried  on  these 
latter  years  by  the  so-called  Professors 
of  Energy  in  France  has  accomplished 
something. 

The  most  noteworthy  feature  of  the 
theatrical  year  (in  the  regrettable  ab- 
sence of  any  new  dramatic  form  or  tran- 
scendent drama)  has  been  a  sudden  and 
striking  acceleration  of  the  movement 
for  giving  French  and  foreign  classics 
and  the  successes  of  the  fashionable 
theatres  to  the  dwellers  in  the  working 
districts.  The  announcements  of  an  aver- 
age week  of  the  busy  season  in  Paris 
show  fourteen  theatres  giving  twenty- 
four  pieces  that  may  be  rated  without 
over-indulgence  as  literature.  The  num- 
ber of  working-faubourg  theatres  giving 
high-class  literary  drama  has  increased 
amazingly  within  a  single  twelvemonth ; 
while  various  organizations  have  devoted 
themselves  assiduously  to  the  work  of 
carrying  dramatic  art  to  the  people. 


Through  the  agency  of  the  Trente  Ans 
de  Theatre,  for  example,  the  company 
of  the  Come'die  Frangaise  has  given  per- 
formances of  Racine,  Moliere,  etc.  (ac- 
companied by  explanatory  lectures),  to 
wildly  enthusiastic  houses  in  all  the  in- 
dustrial quarters  of  Paris,  and  the  annual 
report  of  the  society  reveals  the  signifi- 
cant fact  that  the  attendance  on  the 
classic  performances  of  the  troupe  in  the 
home  theatre  has  been  increased  thereby 
instead  of  diminished,  as  it  was  feared 
would  be  the  case. 

The  opening  of  an  Autumn  Salon,  Le 
Salon  d'Automne,  was  the  distinguishing 
event  of  the  year  1903  in  art.  This 
Salon,  which  has  been  long  needed  and 
long  promised,  is  designed  to  create  a 
second  art  season  in  the  year ;  in  other 
words,  to  do  for  the  art  work  of  the  sum- 
mer what  the  spring  Salons  do  for  that 
of  the  winter.  It  is  a  logical  and  neces- 
sary result  of  the  increase  of  the  habit 
of  painting  pictures  to  their  finish  in  the 
open  air,  as  distinguished  from  the  old 
studio  method  of  painting.  It  will  wel- 
come for  a  time,  probably,  a  good  many 
of  the  younger  and  more  daring  men 
who  have  been  prevented  from  exposing 
in  either  of  the  spring  Salons  by  the 
extreme  academicism  of  the  one  and 
the  close-corporation  spirit  of  the  other. 
It  is  not,  however,  a  salon  of  revolt 
in  the  sense  in  which  the  Champ  de 
Mars  and  the  Salon  des  Inddpendants 
were  salons  of  revolt  in  their  origins. 
Most  of  its  charter  members  have  been 
in  the  habit  of  exhibiting,  and  will  con- 
tinue to  exhibit,  in  the  old  Salons  which 
the  new  Salon  is  intended  to  supplement 
rather  than  antagonize.  The  art  colony 
of  Paris  is  forced  to  seek  incessantly 
fresh  outlets  for  its  enormous  overpro- 
duction, much  as  the  crowded  nations  of 
Europe  are  forced  to  seek  incessantly 
fresh  outlets  for  the  surplus  products  of 
their  workshops.  Such  an  outlet  the 
artists  of  Paris  find  in  the  Autumn 
Salon.  Since  it  comes  at  a  season  when 


An  Hour  with  our  Prejudices. 


663 


there  is  a  distinct  dearth  of  art  events  in 
Paris,  the  public  seems  inclined  to  take 
kindly  to  it.  Its  first  exhibition  (judged 
as  a  first  exhibition)  was  highly  credit- 
able in  almost  every  respect. 

The  splendid  scientific  activity  of 
France  has  been  more  than  ordinari- 
ly fruitful  the  past  year  in  tangible  re- 
sults. The  awarding  of  the  Nobel  Prize 
in  physics  to  M.  and  Mme.  Curie  and 
M.  Becquerel  (for  their  researches  re- 
garding radium)  called  attention  to  a 
series  of  discoveries  which  seem  destined 
to  revolutionize  what  have  been  consid- 
ered the  fundamental  laws  of  matter  up 
to  the  present.  The  entire  civilized  world 
was  dazzled  thereby,  and  in  France  for 
a  few  short  days  every  other  public  in- 
terest, even  Anti-clericalism,  was  thrust 
into  the  background.  Latterly,  M.  Curie 
has  proved  that  helium  can  be  produced 
from  radium,  M.  d'Arsonval  has  re- 
corded a  number  of  interesting  obser- 
vations regarding  radio  -  activity,  and 
M.  Darier  has  presented  to  the  Academy 
of  Medicine  a  suggestive  if  inconclusive 
report  upon  radium  as  an  alleviator  of 
pain. 

M.  Blondlot  of  Nancy  has  announced 
to  the  Academy  of  Sciences  the  discov- 
ery of  a  new  species  of  radio-activity,  to 
the  manifestations  of  which  he  has  given 
the  name  of  N-rays  (les  Rayons  N), 
and  M.  Charpentier,  also  of  Nancy, 


claims  to  have  established  that  these 
N-rays  are  emitted  by  man  and  by  ani- 
mals. 

The  original  work  of  M.  Edouard 
Branly  in  connection  with  wireless  tele- 
graphy is  none  the  less  valuable  intrinsi- 
cally for  being  eclipsed  by  that  of  Signor 
Marconi  upon  the  same  subject,  and  this 
fact  has  been  fittingly  recognized  by  di- 
viding between  him  and  Mme.  Curie  the 
Osiris  Prize. 

In  applied  science  the  year  has  been 
marked  by  a  decided  increase  in  the  in- 
dustrial utilization  of  alcohol  and  acety- 
lene, and  by  sensible  advances,  along  the 
lines  of  the  three  principal  theories  of 
aerostation,  toward  the  solution  of  the 
problem  of  aerial  navigation,  M.  Le- 
baudy  in  particular,  with  his  famous 
airship  Le  Jaune,  having  proven  himself 
a  worthy  rival  of  M.  Santos-Dumont. 

The  brilliant  achievements  of  the  re- 
markable group  of  bacteriologists  at  the 
Pasteur  Institute  have  been  materially 
increased,  particularly  by  the  demonstra- 
tions of  MM.  Roux  and  Metchnikoff. 
M.  Marmorek  (the  discoverer  —  in  1893 
—  of  a  valuable  anti-streptococcic  se- 
rum) has  conducted  experiments  that 
have  revealed  important  new  facts  re- 
garding the  nature  and  action  of  the 
germ  of  tuberculosis,  and  has  succeeded 
in  preparing  an  anti-tuberculosis  serum 
from  which  he  has  obtained  positive  if 
not  as  yet  absolutely  decisive  results. 
Alvan  F.  Sanborn. 


AN  HOUR  WITH   OUR  PREJUDICES. 


WE  may  compare  the  human  mind  to 
a  city.  It  has  its  streets,  its  places  of 
business  and  amusement,  its  citizens  of 
every  degree.  When  one  person  is  intro- 
duced to  another  it  is  as  if  the  warder 
drew  back  the  bolts,  and  the  gates  were 
thrown  open.  If  he  comes  well  recom- 
mended he  is  given  the  freedom  of  the 


city.  In  the  exercise  of  this  freedom, 
however,  the  stranger  should  show  due 
caution. 

There  is  usually  a  new  quarter.  Here 
the  streets  are  well  lighted  and  policed, 
the  crowds  are  cosmopolitan,  and  the 
tourist  who  wanders  about  looking  in  the 
shop  windows  is  sure  of  a  civil  reply  to 


664 


An  Hour  with  our  Prejudices. 


his  questions.  There  is  no  danger  of 
highway  robbers,  though  of  course  one 
may  be  taken  in  by  confidence  men. 
But  if  he  be  of  an  inquiring  mind  and 
a  lover  of  the  picturesque,  he  is  not 
satisfied  with  this.  After  all,  the  new 
quarters  are  very  much  alike,  and  one 
tires  after  a  while  of  shop  windows. 
The  visitor  longs  to  explore  the  old  town, 
with  its  winding  ways,  with  its  over- 
hanging houses,  and  its  mild  suggestions 
of  decay. 

But  in  the  mental  city  the  lover  of 
the  picturesque  must  remember  that  he 
carries  his  life  in  his  hands.  It  is  not 
safe  to  say  to  a  casual  acquaintance, 
"  Now  I  have  a  fair  idea  of  that  part  of 
your  mind  which  is  like  that  of  any 
other  decently  educated  person.  I  have 
seen  all  the  spick  and  span  show  places, 
and  admired  all  the  modern  improve- 
ments. Where  are  your  ruins  ?  I  should 
like  to  poke  around  a  while  in  the  more 
dilapidated  section  of  your  intellect." 

Ah,  but  that  is  the  Forbidden  City. 
It  is  inhabited,  not  by  orderly  citizens 
under  the  rule  of  Right  Reason,  but  by 
a  lawless  crowd  known  as  the  Preju- 
dices. They  are  of  all  sorts  and  condi- 
tions. Some  are-of  aristocratic  lineage. 
They  come  from  a  long  line  of  heredi- 
tary chiefs,  who,  as  their  henchmen  have 
deserted  them,  have  retreated  into  their 
crumbling  strongholds.  Some  are  bold, 
roistering  blades  who  will  not  stand  a 
question;  dangerous  fellows,  these,  to 
meet  in  the  dark!  The  majority,  per- 
haps, are  harmless  folk,  against  whom  the 
worst  that  can  be  said  is  that  they  have 
a  knack  of  living  without  visible  means 
of  support. 

A  knowledge  of  human  nature,  as  dis- 
tinguished from  a  knowledge  of  moral 
philosophy,  is  a  perception  of  the  im- 
portant part  played  by  instinctive  likes 
and  dislikes,  by  perverse  antipathies,  by 
odd  ends  of  thought,  by  conclusions 
which  have  got  helplessly  detached  from 
their  premises,  if  they  ever  had  any. 
The  formal  philosopher,  judging  others 


by  himself,  works  on  the  assumption 
that  man  is  naturally  a  reasoning  an- 
imal, whereas  experience  teaches  that 
the  craving  for  the  reasonable  is  an  ac- 
quired taste. 

Of  course  we  all  have  reasons  for  our 
opinions,  —  plenty  of  them  !  But  in  the 
majority  of  cases  they  stand  not  as  an- 
tecedents, but  as  consequents.  There  is 
a  reversal  of  the  rational  order  like  that 
involved  in  Dr.  Bale's  pleasant  conceit 
of  the  young  people  who  adopted  a 
grandmother.  In  spite  of  what  intel- 
lectual persons  say,  I  do  not  see  how 
we  can  get  along  without  prejudices.  A 
prejudice  is  defined  as  "  an  opinion  or 
decision  formed  without  due  examina- 
tion of  the  facts  or  arguments  which  are 
necessary  to  a  just  and  impartial  deter- 
mination." Now,  it  takes  a  good  deal  of 
time  to  make  a  due  examination  of  facts 
and  arguments,  even  in  regard  to  a 
small  matter.  In  the  meantime  our 
minds  would  be  sadly  unfurnished.  If 
we  are  to  make  a  fair  show  in  the  world, 
we  must  get  our  mental  furniture  when 
we  set  up  housekeeping,  and  pay  for  it 
on  the  installment  plan. 

Instead  of  taking  a  pharisaic  attitude 
toward  our  neighbor's  prejudices,  it  is 
better  to  cultivate  a  wise  tolerance, 
knowing  that  human  intercourse  is  de- 
pendent on  the  art  of  making  allowances. 
This  is  consistent  with  perfect  honesty. 
There  is  always  something  to  admire  if 
the  critic  is  sufficiently  discriminating. 
When  you  are  shown  a  bit  of  picturesque 
dilapidation,  it  is  quite  possible  to  enjoy 
it.  Said  the  Hebrew  sage  :  "  I  went  by 
the  field  of  the  slothful,  and  by  the  vine- 
yard of  the  man  void  of  understanding ; 
and,  lo,  it  was  all  grown  over  with 
thorns,  and  nettles  had  covered  the  face 
thereof,  and  the  stone  wall  thereof  was 
broken  down.  Then  I  saw,  and  consid- 
ered it  well :  I  looked  upon  it,  and  re- 
ceived instruction." 

His  point  of  view  was  that  of  a  moral- 
ist. Had  he  also  been  a  bit  of  an  artist 
the  sight  of  the  old  wall  with  its  tangle 


An  Hour  with  our  Prejudices. 


665 


of  flowering  briers  would  have  had  still 
further  interest. 

When  one's  intellectually  slothful 
neighbor  points  with  pride  to  portions 
of  his  untilled  fields,  we  must  not  be  too 
hard  upon  him.  We  also  have  patches 
of  our  own  that  are  more  picturesque 
than  useful.  Even  if  we  ourselves  are 
diligent  husbandmen,  making  ceaseless 
war  on  weeds  and  vermin,  there  are 
times  of  relenting.  Have  you  never  felt 
a  tenderness  when  the  ploughshare  of 
criticism  turned  up  a  prejudice  of  your 
own  ?  You  had  no  heart  to  harm  the 

Wee  sleekit,  cow'rin',  tim'rous  beastie. 

It  could  not  give  a  good  account  of  it- 
self. It  had  been  so  long  snugly  en- 
sconced that  it  blinked  helplessly  in  the 
garish  light.  Its 

wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruins ! 
Its  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin' ! 
And  naething  now  to  big  a  new  ane. 

You  would  have  been  very  angry  if  any 
one  had  trampled  upon  it. 

This  is  the  peculiarity  about  a  preju- 
dice. It  is  very  appealing  to  the  person 
who  holds  it.  A  man  is  seldom  offended 
by  an  attack  on  his  reasoned  judgments. 
They  are  supported  by  evidence  and  can 
shift  for  themselves.  Not  so  with  a 
prejudice.  It  belongs  not  to  the  uni- 
versal order  ;  it  is  his  very  own.  All  the 
chivalry  of  his  nature  is  enlisted  in  its 
behalf.  He  is,  perhaps,  its  only  defense 
against  the  facts  of  an  unfriendly  world. 

We  cannot  get  along  without  making 
allowances  for  these  idiosyncrasies  of 
judgment.  Conversation  is  impossible 
where  each  person  insists  on  going  back, 
all  the  time,  to  first  principles,  and  test- 
ing everything  by  an  absolute  stan- 
dard. With  a  person  who  is  incapable 
of  changing  his  point  of  view  we  cannot 
converse  ;  we  can  only  listen  and  protest. 
We  are  in  the  position  of  one  who,  con- 
scious of  the  justice  of  his  cause,  attempts 
to  carry  on  a  discussion  over  the  tele- 
phone with  "  Central."  He  only  hears 
an  inhuman  buzzing  sound  indicating 


that  the  line  is  busy.     There  is  nothing 
to  do  but  to  "  hang  up  the  'phone." 

When  a  disputed  question  is  intro- 
duced, one  may  determine  the  true  con- 
versationalist by  applying  the  method  of 
Solomon.  Let  it  be  proposed  to  divide 
the  subject  so  that  each  may  have  his 
own.  Your  eager  disputant  will  be  satis- 
fied, your  genial  talker  is  aghast  at  the 
proposition,  for  he  realizes  that  it  would 
kill  the  conversation.  Instead  of  hold- 
ing his  own,  he  awaits  developments. 
He  is  in  a  mood  which  can  be  satisfied 
with  something  less  than  a  final  judg- 
ment. It  is  not  necessary  that  his 
friend's  opinions  should  be  just ;  it  is 
sufficient  that  they  are  characteristic. 
Whatever  turn  the  talk  may  take,  he  pre- 
serves an  easy  temper.  He  is  a  heresy 
hunter, — not  the  grim  kind  who  go  hunt- 
ing with  a  gun  ;  he  carries  only  a  camera. 
If  he  stirs  up  a  strange  doctrine  he  does 
not  care  to  destroy  it.  When  he  gets  a 
snap-shot  at  human  nature  he  says,  — 

Those  things  do  best  please  me 
That  befall  preposterously. 

An  English  gentleman  relates  a  con- 
versation he  had  with  Prince  Bismarck. 
The  prince  was  inclined  to  take  a  pessi- 
mistic view  of  the  English  people.  He 
thought  that  there  was  a  degeneration  in 
the  race,  which  he  attributed  to  the  grow- 
ing habit  of  drinking  water.  "  Not  that 
he  believed  that  there  was  any  particu- 
lar virtue  per  se  inherent  in  alcoholic 
drink ;  but  he  was  sorry  to  hear  that  the 
old  '  three  bottle  men '  were  dying  out 
and  leaving  no  successors.  He  had  a 
suspicion  that  it  meant  shrinkage  in 
those  qualities  of  the  English  which  had 
made  them  what  they  were  in  the  past, 
and  for  which  he  had  always  felt  a  sin- 
cere admiration." 

It  would  have  been  very  easy  to  drift 
into  debate  over  this  proposition.  The 
English  gentleman,  however,  defended 
his  countrymen  more  diplomatically. 
"  I  replied  that  with  regard  to  the  water- 
drinking  proclivities  of  my  countrymen 
there  was  a  good  deal  of  calumny  con- 


666 


An  Hour  with  our  Prejudices. 


nected  with  the  story.  It  is  true  that  a 
certain  section  of  English  society  has  in- 
deed taken  to  water  as  a  beverage.  But 
to  argue  therefrom  that  the  English  peo- 
ple have  become  addicted  to  water  would 
be  to  draw  premature  conclusions  from 
insufficient  data.  In  this  way  I  was 
able  to  calm  Prince  Bismarck's  fears  in 
regard  to  what  the  future  might  bring 
forth,  and  our  conversation  reverted  to 
Royalty." 

Each  nation  has  its  own  set  of  precon- 
ceptions. We  must  take  them  altogeth- 
er, or  not  at  all.  They  are  as  compact 
and  as  natural  a  growth  as  the  concen- 
tric layers  of  an  onion.  Here  is  a  sen- 
tence from  Max  Mtiller's  Autobiogra- 
phy, thrown  out  quite  incidentally.  He 
has  been  telling  how  strange  it  seemed, 
when  first  coming  to  Oxford,  to  find  that 
the  students  got  along  without  dueling. 
Fighting  with  swords  seemed  to  him  the 
normal  method  of  developing  manliness, 
though  he  adds  that  in  the  German  uni- 
versities "  pistol  duels  are  generally  pre- 
ferred by  theological  students  because 
they  cannot  easily  get  a  living  if  the 
face  is  scarred  all  over." 

This  remark  must  be  taken  as  one 
would  take  a  slice  of  the  national  onion. 
One  assumption  fits  into  another.  To 
an  Englishman  or  an  American  there  is 
an  incongruity  that  approaches  the  gro- 
tesque, —  because  our  prejudices  are  dif- 
ferent. It  all  becomes  a  matter-of-fact 
statement  when  we  make  the  proper  as- 
sumptions in  regard  to  dueling  in  gen- 
eral and  theological  duels  in  particular. 
Assuming  that  it  is  necessary  for  theo- 
logical students  to  fight  duels,  and  that 
the  congregations  are  prejudiced  against 
ministers  whose  faces  have  been  slashed 
by  swords,  what  is  left  for  the  poor  theo- 
logues  but  pistols  ?  Their  method  may 
seem  more  dangerous  than  that  adopted 
by  laymen,  but  Max  Miiller  explains  that 
the  danger  is  chiefly  to  the  seconds. 

Individual  peculiarities  must  be  taken 
into  account  in  the  same  way.  Prince 
Bismarck,  in  dining  with  the  Emperor, 


inquired  the  name  of  the  brand  of  cham- 
pagne, which  proved  to  be  a  cheap  Ger- 
man article.  "  The  Emperor  explained, 
'  I  drink  it  from  motives  of  economy,  as 
I  have  a  large  family  ;  then  again  I  drink 
it  from  patriotic  motives.'  Thereupon 
I  said  to  the  Emperor,  '  With  me,  your 
Majesty,  patriotism  stops  short  in  the 
region  of  my  stomach.'  " 

It  is  evident  that  here  was  a  differ- 
ence not  to  be  arbitrated  by  reason.  If 
the  Emperor  could  not  understand  the 
gastronomic  limitations  to  the  Chancel- 
lor's patriotism,  neither  could  the  Chan- 
cellor enter  into  the  Emperor's  anxieties, 
as  he  economized  for  the  sake  of  his  large 
family. 

One  cannot  but  wonder  at  the  temer- 
ity of  a  person  who  plunges  into  con- 
versation with  a  stranger  without  any 
preliminary  scouting  or  making  sure  of 
a  line  of  retreat.  Ordinary  prudence 
would  suggest  that  the  first  advances 
should  be  only  in  the  nature  of  a  recon- 
noissance  in  force.  You  may  have  very 
decided  prejudices  of  your  own,  but  it  is 
not  certain  that  they  will  fraternize  with 
those  of  your  new  acquaintance.  There 
is  danger  of  falling  into  an  ambush. 
There  are  painful  occasions  when  we 
remember  the  wisdom  of  the  Son  of  Si- 
rach,  —  "  Many  have  fallen  by  the  edge 
of  the  sword,  but  not  so  many  as  have 
fallen  by  the  tongue."  The  mischief  of 
it  is  that  the  most  kindly  intent  will  not 
save  us.  The  path  of  the  lover  of  man- 
kind is  beset  by  difficulties  for  which  he 
is  not  prepared.  There  are  so  many 
antagonisms  that  are  unpredictable. 

When  Nehemiah  came  to  rebuild  the 
walls  of  Jerusalem  he  remarked  grimly, 
"  When  Sanballat  the  Horonite,  and  To- 
biah  the  servant,  the  Ammonite,  heard  of 
it,  it  grieved  them  exceedingly  that  there 
was  come  a  man  to  seek  the  welfare 
the  children  of  Israel ;  "  and  the  trouble 
was  that  a  large  number  of  the  children 
of  Israel  themselves  seem  to  have 
sented  the  interference  with  their  habit 
ual  misfortunes.  The  experience  of  Ne 


An  Hour  with  our  Prejudices. 


667 


hemiah  is  that  of  most  reformers.  One 
would  suppose  that  the  person  who  aims 
at  the  greatest  good  for  the  greatest 
number  would  be  greeted  with  instant 
applause.  The  difficulty  is  that  the 
greatest  good  is  just  what  the  greatest 
number  will  not  tolerate.  One  does  not 
need  to  believe  in  human  depravity  to 
recognize  the  prejudice  which  most  per- 
sons have  against  anything  which  is  pro- 
posed as  good  for  them.  The  most  suc- 
cessful philanthropists  are  those  who 
most  skillfully  conceal  their  benevolent 
intent. 

In  Coleman's  Life  of  Charles  Reade 
there  is  a  paragraph  which  gives  us  a 
glimpse  of  a  prejudice  that  has  resisted 
the  efforts  of  the  most  learned  men  to 
eradicate  it.  An  incident  is  there  re- 
corded that  took  place  when  Reade  was 
a  fellow  in  Magdalen  College.  "  Just  as 
I  was  about  to  terminate  my  term  of  of- 
fice (I  hope  with  credit  to  myself  and  the 
'Varsity)  an  untoward  incident  occurred 
which  embittered  my  relations  for  life 
with  two  very  distinguished  men.  Pro- 
fessor Goldwin  Smith  and  his  friend  John 
Conington,  who  belonged  to  us,  had  at- 
tempted to  inaugurate  a  debating  society. 
A  handful  of  unmannerly  young  cubs, 
resenting  the  attempt  to  teach  them  po- 
litical economy,  ducked  poor  Conington 
under  the  college  pump." 

"  Resenting  the  attempt  to  teach  them 
political  economy !  "  —  What  is  the 
source  of  that  resentment  ?  What  psy- 
chologist has  fathomed  the  abyss  of  the 
dark  prejudice  which  the  natural  man 
has  against  those  who  would  improve 
his  mind  ?  It  is  a  feud  which  reaches 
back  into  hoar  antiquity.  Doubtless  the 
accumulated  grievances  of  generations 
of  schoolboys  have  intensified  the  feud, 
but  no  amelioration  of  educational  meth- 
ods has  put  an  end  to  it.  In  the  most 
successful  teacher  you  may  detect  a 
nervous  strain  like  that  which  the  trainer 
of  wild  beasts  in  the  arena  undergoes.  His 
is  a  perilous  position,  and  every  faculty 
must  be  on  the  alert  to  hold  the  momen- 


tary ascendency.  A  single  false  motion, 
and  the  unmannerly  young  cubs  would 
be  upon  their  victim. 

Must  we  not  confess  that  this  irra- 
tional resentment  against  our  intellectual 
benefactors  survives,  in  spite  of  all  disci- 
pline, into  mature  life  ?  We  may  enlarge 
the  area  of  our  teachableness,  but  there 
are  certain  subjects  in  regard  to  which 
we  do  not  care  to  be  set  right.  The 
polite  conventionality  according  to  which 
a  person  is  supposed  to  know  his  own 
business  is  an  evidence  of  his  sensitive- 
ness. Of  course  the  assumption  is  not 
justified  by  facts.  A  man's  own  busi- 
ness is  just  the  thing  he  is  conscious  of 
not  knowing,  and  he  would  give  any- 
thing in  a  quiet  way  to  find  out.  Yet 
when  a  candid  friend  ventures  to  instruct 
him,  the  old  irrational  resentment  flashes 
out.  What  we  call  tact  is  the  ability  to 
find  before  it  is  too  late  what  it  is  that 
our  friends  do  not  desire  to  learn  from 
us.  It  is  the  art  of  withholding,  on  pro- 
per occasions,  information  which  we  are 
quite  sure  would  be  good  for  them. 

The  prejudice  against  our  intellectual 
superiors,  which  leads  us  to  take  their 
well-meant  endeavors  in  our  behalf  as 
of  the  nature  of  personal  insults,  is 
matched  by  the  equally  irrational  repul- 
sion which  many  superior  people  have 
for  their  inferiors.  Nothing  can  be  more 
illogical  than  the  attitude  of  these  gifted 
ones  who  use  their  gifts  as  bludgeons 
with  which  to  belabor  the  rest  of  us. 
When  we  read  the  writings  of  men  who 
have  a  stimulating  sense  of  their  own 
genius,  we  are  struck  by  their  nervous 
irritability  whenever  they  mention  "  me- 
diocrity." The  greater  number  of  the 
quarrels  of  the  authors,  which  the  elder 
Disraeli  chronicled,  arose  from  the  fact 
that  the  authors  had  the  habit  of  accus- 
ing one  another  of  this  vice.  One  would 
suppose  mediocrity  to  be  the  sum  of  all 
villainies,  and  that  the  mediocre  man  was 
continually  plotting  in  the  night  watches 
against  the  innocent  man  of  genius  ;  and 
yet  what  has  the  mediocre  man  done  to 


668 


An  Hour  with  our  Prejudices. 


deserve  this  detestation  ?  Poor  fellow,  he 
has  no  malice  in  him !  His  mediocrity 
is  only  an  afterthought.  He  has  done 
his  level  best ;  his  misfortune  is  that  sev- 
eral million  of  his  fellow  men  have  done 
as  well. 

The  superior  man,  especially  if  his 
eminence  be  accidental,  is  likely  to  get 
a  false  notion  of  those  who  stand  on  the 
level  below  him.  The  biographer  of  an 
English  dignitary  says  that  the  subject 
of  his  memoir  was  not  really  haughty, 
but  "  he  was  apt  to  be  prejudiced  against 
any  one  who  seemed  to  be  afraid  of  him." 
This  is  a  not  uncommon  kind  of  preju- 
dice ;  and  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  it  is 
unfounded.  The  great  man  should  re- 
member that  most  of  those  whose  man- 
ners  seem  unduly  respectful  mean  nothing 
personal. 

As  great  Pompey  passes  through  the 
streets  of  Rome,  he  may  be  pardoned  for 
thinking  meanly  of  the  people.  They 
appear  to  be  a  subservient  lot,  with  no 
proper  interests  of  their  own,  their  hap- 
piness dependent  on  his  passing  smile,  — 
and  he  knows  how  little  that  is  worth. 
He  sees  them  at  a  disadvantage.  Let 
him  leave  his  triumphal  chariot,  and,  in 
the  guise  of  Third  Citizen,  fall  into 
friendly  chat  with  First  Citizen  and 
Second  Citizen,  and  his  prejudices  will 
be  corrected.  He  will  find  that  these 
worthy  men  have  a  much  more  indepen- 
dent and  self-respecting  point  of  view 
than  he  had  thought  possible.  They  are 
out  for  a  holiday ;  they  are  critics  of  a 
spectacle,  easily  pleased,  they  will  admit ; 
but  if  no  one  except  Pompey  is  to  be 
seen  to-day,  why  not  make  the  most  of 
him  ?  Pompey  or  Caesar,  it  matters  not ; 
"the  play  's  the  thing." 

The  origin  of  some  of  our  prejudices 
must  be  sought  in  the  childhood  of  the 
race.  There  are  certain  opinions  which 
have  come  down  from  the  cave  dwellers 
without  revision.  They  probably  at  one 
time  had  reasons  to  justify  them,  though 
we  have  no  idea  what  they  were.  There 


are  others,  which  seem  equally  ancient, 
which  originated  in  the  forgotten  experi- 
ences of  our  own  childhood.  The  pre- 
historic age  of  myth  and  fable  does  not 
lie  far  behind  any  one  of  us.  It  is  as  if 
Gulliver  had  been  educated  in  Lilliput, 
and,  while  he  had  grown  in  stature,  had 
never  quite  emancipated  himself  from 
the  Lilliputian  point  of  view.  The  great 
hulking  fellow  is  always  awkwardly  try- 
ing to  look  up  at  things  which  he  has  ac- 
tually outgrown.  He  tries  to  make  him- 
self believe  that  his  early  world  was  as 
big  as  it  seemed.  Sometimes  he  suc- 
ceeds in  his  endeavors,  and  the  result  is 
a  curious  inversion  of  values. 

Mr.  Morley,  in  speaking  of  Lord  Palm- 
erston's  foreign  policy,  says  :  "  The  Sul- 
tan's ability  to  speak  French  was  one  of 
the  odd  reasons  why  Lord  Palmerston 
was  sanguine  of  Turkish  civilization." 
This  association  of  ideas  in  the  mind  of 
the  Prune  Minister  does  seem  odd  till  we 
remember  that  before  Lord  Palmerston 
was  in  the  cabinet  he  was  in  the  nursery. 
The  fugitive  impressions  of  early  child- 
hood reappear  in  many  curious  shapes. 
Who  would  be  so  hard-hearted  as  to  exor- 
cise these  guiltless  ghosts. 

.  Sometimes,  in  reopening  an  old  book 
over  which  long  ago  we  had  dreamed,  we 
come  upon  the  innocent  source  of  some  of 
our  long-cherished  opinions.  Such  dis- 
covery I  made  in  the  old  Family  Bible 
when  opening  at  the  pages  inserted  by 
the  publisher  between  the  Old  Testament 
and  the  Apocrypha.  On  many  a  Sunday 
afternoon  my  stated  hour  of  Bible  read- 
ing was  diversified  by  excursions  into 
these  uncanonical  pages.  There  was  a 
sense  of  stolen  pleasure  in  the  heap  of 
miscellaneous  secularities.  It  was  like 
finding  under  the  church  roof  a  garret  in 
which  one  might  rummage  at  will.  Here 
were  tables  of  weights  and  measures,  ex- 
planations about  shekels,  suggestions  in 
regard  to  the  probable  length  of  a  cubit, 
curious  calculations  as  to  the  number  of 
times  the  word  "  and  "  occurred  in  the 
Bible.  Here,  also,  was  a  mysterious 


An  Hour  with  our  Prejudices. 


669 


"  Table  of  Offices  and  Conditions  of 
Men." 

I  am  sure  that  my  scheme  of  admi- 
rations, my  conception  of  the  different 
varieties  of  human  grandeur,  has  been 
colored  by  that  Table  of  Offices  and 
Conditions  of  Men.  It  was  my  Social 
Register  and  Burke's  Peerage  and 
Who  's  Who  ?  all  in  one.  It  was  a  for- 
midable list,  beginning  with  the  patri- 
archs, and  ending  with  the  deacons.  The 
dignity  of  the  deacon  I  already  knew,  for 
my  uncle  was  one,  but  his  function  was 
vastly  exalted  when  I  thought  of  him  in 
connection  with  the  mysterious  person- 
ages who  went  before.  There  was  the 
"  Tirshatha,  a  governor  appointed  by  the 
kings  of  Assyria,"  —  evidently  a  very 
great  man.  Then  there  were  the  "  Neth- 
inims,  whose  duty  it  was  to  draw  water 
and  to  cleave  wood."  When  I  was  called 
upon  to  perform  similar  services  I  ven- 
tured to  think  that  I  myself,  had  I  lived 
in  better  days,  might  have  been  recog- 
nized as  a  sort  of  Nethinim. 

Here,  also,  I  learned  the  exact  age  of 
the  world,  not  announced  arbitrarily,  but 
with  the  several  items  all  set  down,  so 
that  I  might  have  verified  them  for  my- 
self, had  I  been  mathematically  gifted. 
"  The  whole  sum  and  number  of  years 
from  the  beginning  of  the  world  unto  the 
present  year  of  our  Lord  1815  is  5789 
years,  six  months,  and  the  said  odd  ten 
days."  I  have  no  prejudice  in  favor  of 
retaining  that  chronology  as  far  as  the 
thousands  are  concerned.  Five  thousand 
years  is  one  way  of  saying  it  was  a 
very  long  time.  If  the  geologists  prefer 
to  convey  the  same  idea  by  calling  it 
millions,  I  am  content ;  but  I  should 
hate  to  give  up  the  "  odd  ten  days." 

From  the  same  Table  of  Offices  and 
Conditions  I  imbibed  my  earliest  philo- 
sophical prejudices  ;  for  there  I  learned 
the  difference  between  the  Stoics  and 
Epicureans. 

The  Stoics  were  described  succinct- 
ly as  a  those  who  denied  the  liberty  of 
the  will."  Just  what  this  might  mean 


was  not  clear,  but  it  had  an  ugly  sound. 
The  Stoics  were  evidently  contentious 
persons.  On  the  other  hand,  all  that  was 
revealed  concerning  the  Epicureans  was 
that  they  "  placed  all  happiness  in  plea- 
sure." This  seemed  an  eminently  sensi- 
ble idea.  I  could  not  but  be  favorably 
disposed  toward  people  who  managed  to 
get  happiness  out  of  their  pleasures. 

To  the  excessive  brevity  of  these  defi- 
nitions I  doubtless  owe  an  erroneous  im- 
pression concerning  that  ancient,  and 
now  almost  extinct,  people,  the  Samar- 
itans. The  name  has  had  to  me  a  sug- 
gestion of  a  sinister  kind  of  scholarship  ; 
as  if  the  Samaritans  had  been  connect- 
ed with  some  of  the  black  arts.  Yet  I 
know  nothing  in  their  history  to  justify 
this  impression.  The  source  of  the  error 
was  revealed  when  I  turned  again  to 
the  Table  of  Offices  and  Conditions  of 
Men  and  read  once  more,  "  Samaritans, 
mongrel  professors,  half  heathen  and 
half  Jew."  How  was  I  to  know  that  the 
reference  was  to  professors  of  religion, 
and  not  to  professors  of  the  arts  and 
sciences  ? 

As  there  are  prejudices  which  begin 
in  verbal  misunderstandings,  so  there  are 
those  which  are  nourished  by  the  acci- 
dental collocation  of  words.  A  noun  is 
known  by  the  adjectives  it  keeps.  When 
we  hear  of  dull  conservatism,  rabid 
radicalism,  selfish  culture,  timid  piety, 
smug  respectability,  we  receive  unfavor- 
able impressions.  We  do  not  always 
stop  to  consider  that  all  that  is  objec- 
tionable really  inheres  in  the  qualifying 
words.  In  a  well-regulated  mind,  after 
every  such  verbal  turn  there  should  be  a 
call  to  change  partners.  Let  every  noun 
take  a  new  adjective,  and  every  verb  a 
new  adverb. 

Clever  Bohemians,  having  heard  so 
much  of  smug  respectability,  take  a  dis- 
like to  respectability.  But  some  of  the 
smuggest  persons  are  not  respectable  at 
all,  —  far  from  it !  Serenely  satisfied 
with  their  own  irresponsibility,  they  look 


670 


An  Hour  with  our  Prejudices. 


patronizingly  upon  the  struggling  world 
that  owes  them  a  living.  I  remember 
a  visit  from  one  of  these  gentry.  He 
called  to  indicate  his  willingness  to  grat- 
ify my  charitable  impulses  by  accepting 
from  me  a  small  loan.  If  I  did  not  be- 
lieve the  story  of  his  frequent  incarcera- 
tions I  might  consult  the  chaplain  of  the 
House  of  Correction.  He  evidently  con- 
sidered that  he  had  a  mission.  He  went 
about  offering  his  hard  and  impenitent 
heart  as  a  stone  on  which  the  philanthro- 
pists might  whet  their  zeal.  Smug  re- 
spectability, forsooth ! 

From  force  of  habit  we  speak  of  the 
"  earnest  "  reformer,  and  we  are  apt  to 
be  intolerant  of  his  lighter  moods.  Wil- 
berforce  encountered  this  prejudice  when 
he  enlivened  one  of  his  speeches  with  a 
little  mirth.  His  opponent  seized  the  op- 
portunity to  speak  scornfully  of  the  hon- 
orable gentleman's  "  religious  facetious- 
ness."  Wilberforce  replied  very  justly 
that  "  a  religious  man  might  sometimes 
be  facetious,  seeing  that  the  irreligious 
did  not  always  escape  being  dull." 

An  instance  of  the  growth  of  a  verbal 
prejudice  is  that  which  in  certain  circles 
resulted  in  the  preaching  against  what 
was  called  "  mere  morality."  What  the 
preachers  had  in  mind  was  true  enough. 
They  objected  to  mere  morality,  as  one 
might  say,  "  Mere  life  is  not  enough  to 
satisfy  us,  we  must  have  something  to 
live  on."  They  would  have  more  than  a 
bare  morality.  It  should  be  clothed  with 
befitting  spiritual  raiment.  But  the  par- 
son's zeal  tended  to  outrun  his  discretion, 
and  forgetting  that  the  true  object  of  his 
attack  was  the  mereness  and  not  the 
morality,  he  gave  the  impression  that  the 
Moral  Man  was  the  great  enemy  of  the 
faith.  At  last  the  parishioner  would 
turn  upon  his  accuser.  "  You  need  not 
point  the  finger  of  scorn  at  me.  What  if 
I  have  done  my  duty  to  the  best  of  my 
ability  !  You  should  not  twit  on  facts. 
If  it  comes  to  that,  you  are  not  in  a  posi- 
tion to  throw  stones.  If  I  am  a  moral 
man,  you  're  another." 


There  are  prejudices  which  are  the 
result  of  excessive  fluency  of  speech. 
The  flood  of  words  sweeps  away  all  the 
natural  distinctions  of  thought.  All 
things  are  conceived  of  under  two  cate- 
gories, —  the  Good  and  the  Bad.  If  one 
ill  is  admitted,  it  is  assumed  that  all  the 
rest  follow  in  its  train.  There  are  per- 
sons who  cannot  mention  "the  poor" 
without  adding,  "the  weak,  the  wretched, 
the  oppressed,  the  downtrodden,  the  suf- 
fering, the  sick,  the  sinful,  the  erring," 
and  so  on  to  the  end  of  the  catalogue. 
This  is  very  disconcerting  to  a  young 
fellow  who,  while  in  the  best  of  health 
and  spirits,  is  conscious  that  he  is  rather 
poor.  He  would  willingly  admit  his 
poverty  were  it  not  for  the  fear  of  being 
smothered  under  the  wet  blanket  of  uni- 
versal commiseration. 

When  the  category  of  the  Good  is 
adopted  with  the  same  undiscriminating 
ardor  the  results  are  equally  unfortunate. 
We  are  prejudiced  against  certain  per- 
sons whom  we  have  never  met.  We  have 
heard  nothing  but  good  of  them ;  and 
we  have  heard  altogether  too  much  of 
that.  Their  characters  have  been  painted 
in  glowing  virtues  that  swear  at  one  an- 
other. We  are  sure  that  we  should  not 
like  such  a  combination  of  unmitigated 
excellencies  ;  for  human  nature  abhors 
a  paragon.  And  yet  the  too  highly  com- 
mended person  may,  in  reality,  not  be  a 
paragon  at  all,  but  a  very  decent  fellow. 
He  would  quickly  rise  in  our  regard  were 
it  not  for  the  eulogies  which  hang  like  a 
millstone  around  his  neck. 

It  is  no  easy  thing  to  praise  another 
in  such  a  way  as  to  leave  a  good  impres- 
sion on  the  mind  of  the  hearer.  A  vir- 
tue is  not  for  all  times.  When  a  writer 
is  too  highly  commended  for  being  labo- 
rious and  conscientious  we  are  not  in- 
clined to  buy  his  book.  His  conscience 
doth  make  cowards  of  us  all.  It  may 
be  proper  to  recommend  a  candidate  for 
a  vacant  pulpit  as  indefatigable  in  his 
pastoral  labors  ;  but  were  you  to  add,  in 
the  goodness  of  your  heart,  that  he  was 


An  Hour  with  our  Prejudices. 


671 


equally  indefatigable  as  a  preacher,  he 
would  say,  "  An  enemy  hath  done  this." 
For  the  congregation  would  suspect  that 
his  freedom  from  fatigue  in  the  pulpit 
was  likely  to  be  gained  at  their  expense. 

The  prejudices  which  arise  from  ver- 
bal association  are  potent  in  preventing 
any  impartial  judgment  of  men  whose 
names  have  become  household  words. 
The  man  whose  name  has  become  the 
designation  of  a  party  or  a  theory  is  the 
helpless  victim  of  his  own  reputation. 
Who  takes  th°i  trouble  to  pry  into  the 
personal  opinions  of  John  Calvin  ?  Of 
course  they  were  Calvinistic.  When  we 
hear  of  the  Malthusian  doctrine  about 
population,  we  picture  its  author  as  a 
cold  -  blooded,  economical  Herod,  who 
would  gladly  have  ordered  a  massacre 
of  the  innocents.  Let  no  one  tell  us  that 
the  Reverend  Richard  Malthus  was  an 
amiable  clergyman,  who  was  greatly  be- 
loved by  the  small  parish  to  which  he 
ministered.  In  spite  of  all  his  church 
wardens  might  say,  we  would  not  trust 
our  children  in  the  hands  of  a  man  who 
had  suggested  that  there  might  be  too 
many  people  in  the  world.  But  in  such 
cases  we  should  remember  that  a  man's 
theories  do  not  always  throw  light  upon 
his  character.  When  a  distinguished 
physician  has  a  disease  named  after 
him,  it  is  understood  that  the  disease 
is  the  one  he  discovered,  and  not  the  one 
he  died  of. 

When  the  Darwinian  hypothesis  star- 
tled the  world,  many  pious  imaginations 
conceived  definite  pictures  of  the  author 
of  it.  These  pictures  had  but  one  thing 
in  common,  — their  striking  unlikeness  to 
the  quiet  gentleman  who  had  made  all 
this  stir.  By  the  way,  Darwin  was  the 
innocent  victim  of  two  totally  discon- 
nected lines  of  prejudice.  After  he  had 
outlived  the  disfavor  of  the  theologians, 
he  incurred  the  contempt  of  the  apostles 
of  culture ;  all  because  of  his  modest 
confession  that  he  did  not  enjoy  poetry 
as  much  as  he  once  did.  Unfortunately, 
his  scientific  habit  of  mind  led  him  to 


say  that  he  suspected  that  he  might  be 
suffering  from  atrophy  of  the  imagina- 
tive faculty.  Instantly  every  literal- 
minded  reader  and  reviewer  exclaimed, 
"  How  dreadful !  What  a  judgment  on 
him !  "  Yet,  when  we  stop  to  think 
about  it,  the  affliction  is  not  so  uncom- 
mon as  to  call  for  astonishment.  Many 
persons  suffer  from  it  who  are  not  ad- 
dicted to  science. 

After  all,  these  are  harmless  preju- 
dices. They  are  content  with  their  own 
little  spheres,  they  ask  only  to  live  and 
let  live.  There  are  others,  however,  that 
are  militantly  imperialistic.  They  are 
ambitious  to  become  world  powers.  Such 
are  those  which  grow  out  of  differences 
in  politics,  in  religion,  and  in  race. 

Political  animosities  have  doubtless 
been  mitigated  by  freer  social  inter- 
course, which  gives  more  opportunities 
for  meeting  on  neutral  ground.  It  is 
only  during  a  heated  campaign  that  we 
think  of  all  of  the  opposing  party  as  ras- 
cals. There  is  time  between  elections 
to  make  the  necessary  exceptions.  It  is 
customary  to  make  allowance  for  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  partisan  bias,  just  as  the 
college  faculty  allows  a  student  a  certain 
number  of  "  cuts."  It  is  a  just  recog- 
nition of  human  weakness.  Our  British 
cousins  go  farther,  and  provide  means 
for  the  harmless  gratification  of  natural 
prejudices.  There  are  certain  questions 
on  which  persons  are  expected  to  ex- 
press themselves  with  considerable  fer- 
vor, and  without  troubling  themselves  as 
to  the  reasonableness  of  their  contention. 

In  a  volume  of  published  letters  I  was 
pleased  to  read  one  from  a  member  of 
the  aristocracy.  He  had  been  indulging 
in  trivial  personalities,  when  suddenly 
he  broke  off  with :  "  Now  I  must  go  to 
work  on  the  Wife's  Sister's  Question  ;  I 
intend  to  make  a  good  stout  protest 
against  that  rascally  bill !  "  There  is  no 
such  exercise  for  the  moral  nature  as  a 
good  stout  protest.  We  Americans  take 
our  exercise  spasmodically.  Instead  of 


672 


An  Hour  with  our  Prejudices. 


going  about  it  regularly,  we  wait  for  some 
extraordinary  occasion.  We  make  it  a 
point  of  sportsmanship  to  shoot  our  griev- 
ance on  the  wing,  and  we  are  nervously 
anxious  lest  it  get  out  of  range  before 
we  have  time  to  take  aim. 

Not  so  the  protesting  Briton.  He  ap- 
proves of  the  answer  of  Jonah  when  he 
was  asked,  "  Doest  thou  well  to  be  angry 
for  the  gourd  ?  "  Jonah,  without  any 
waste  of  words,  replied,  "I  do  well  to 
be  angry."  When  the  Englishman  feels 
that  it  is  well  for  him  to  be  angry,  he  finds 
constitutional  means  provided.  Parlia- 
ment furnishes  a  number  of  permanent 
objects  for  his  disapproval.  Whenever 
he  feels  disposed  he  can  make  a  good 
stout  protest,  feeling  assured  that  his  in- 
dignation is  well  bestowed.  He  has  such 
satisfaction  as  that  which  came  to  Mr. 
Micawber  in  reading  his  protest  against 
the  villainies  of  Uriah  Heep:  "Much 
affected  but  still  intensely  enjoying  him- 
self, Mr.  Micawber  folded  up  the  letter 
and  handed  it  with  a  bow  to  my  aunt,  as 
something  she  might  like  to  keep." 

These  stout  -  hearted  people  have 
learned  not  only  how  to  take  their  plea- 
sures sadly,  but,  what  is  more  to  the  pur- 
pose, how  to  take  their  sadnesses  plea- 
santly. We  Americans  have,  here,  some- 
thing to  learn.  We  should  get  along 
better  if  we  had  a  number  of  argument- 
proof  questions  like  that  in  regard  to 
marriage  with  the  deceased  wife's  sister 
which  could  be  warranted  to  recur  at 
regular  intervals.  They  could  be  set 
apart  as  a  sort  of  public  playground  for 
the  prejudices.  It  would  at  least  keep 
the  prejudices  out  of  mischief. 

Religious  prejudice  has  an  air  of  sin- 
gularity. The  singular  thing  is  that 
there  should  be  such  a  variety.  If  we 
identify  religion  with  the  wisdom  that  is 
from  above,  and  which  is  "  first  pure, 
then  peaceable,  easy  to  be  entreated,  with- 
out partiality,"  it  is  hard  to  see  where 
the  prejudice  comes  in.  Religious  preju- 
dice is  a  compound  of  religion  and  sev- 
eral decidedly  earthly  passions.  The 


combination  produces  a  peculiarly  dan- 
gerous explosive.  The  religious  element 
has  the  same  part  in  it  that  the  innocent 
glycerine  has  in  nitro-glycerine.  This 
latter,  we  are  told,  is  "  a  compound  pro- 
duced by  the  action  of  a  mixture  of 
strong  nitric  and  sulphuric  acids  on  gly- 
cerin at  low  temperatures."  It  is  ob- 
servable that  in  the  making  of  religious 
prejudice  the  religion  is  kept  at  a  very 
low  temperature,  indeed. 

We  are  at  present  in  an  era  of  good 
feeling.  Not  only  is  there  an  inter- 
change of  kindly  offices  between  mem- 
bers of  different  churches,  but  one  may 
detect  a  tendency  to  extend  the  same 
tolerance  to  the  opposing  party  in  the 
same  church.  This  is  a  real  advance, 
for  it  is  always  more  difficult  to  do  jus- 
tice to  those  who  differ  from  us  slightly 
than  to  those  whose  divergence  is  funda- 
mental. To  love  our  friends  is  a  work 
of  nature,  to  love  our  enemies  is  a  work 
of  grace  ;  the  troublesome  thing  is  to  get 
on  with  those  who  are  "  betwixt  and  be- 
tween." In  such  a  case  we  are  likely  to 
fall  between  nature  and  grace  as  between 
two  stools.  Almost  any  one  can  be  mag- 
nanimous in  great  affairs,  but  to  be 
magnanimous  in  trifles  is  like  trying  to 
use  a  large  screw-driver  to  turn  a  small 
screw. 

In  a  recently  published  correspondence 
between  dignitaries  of  the  Church  of 
England  I  find  many  encouraging  symp- 
toms. The  writers  exhibit  a  desire  to 
do  justice  not  only  to  the  moral,  but  also 
to  the  intellectual,  gifts  of  those  who 
differ  from  them  even  slightly.  There 
is,  of  course,  enough  of  the  old  Adam 
remaining  to  make  their  judgments  on 
one  another  interesting  reading.  It  is 
pleasant  to  see  brethren  dwelling  together 
in  unity,  —  a  pleasure  seldom  prolonged 
to  the  point  of  satiety.  Thus  the  Dean 
of  Norwich  writes  to  the  Dean  of  Dur- 
ham in  regard  to  Dean  Stanley.  Allud- 
ing to  an  opinion,  in  a  previous  letter,  in 
regard  to  Archbishop  Tait,  the  writer 
says :  "  I  confess  I  should  n't  have  ranked 


An  Hour  with  our  Prejudices. 


673 


him  among  the  great  men  of  the  day.  Of 
our  contemporaries  I  should  have  as- 
signed that  rank,  without  hesitation,  to 
little  Stan,  though  I  quite  think  he  did 
more  mischief  in  our  church  and  to  reli- 
gion than  most  men  have  it  in  them  to 
do.  Still  I  should  say  that  little  Stan 
was  a  great  man  in  his  way."  There 
you  may  see  a  mind  that  has,  with  con- 
siderable difficulty,  uprooted  a  prejudice, 
though  you  may  still  perceive  the  place 
where  the  prejudice  used  to  be. 

While  the  methods  of  the  exact  sci- 
ences have  had  a  discouraging  effect  on 
partisan  and  sectarian  prejudices,  they 
seem,  for  the  moment,  to  have  given  new 
strength  to  those  which  are  the  result 
of  differences  in  race.  Time  was  when 
Anti-Semitism  derived  its  power  from 
religious  rancor.  The  cradle  hymn 
which  the  Puritan  mother  sang  began 
sweetly,  — 

Hush,  my  dear,  lie  still  and  slumber ! 
Holy  angels  guard  thy  bed ! 

But  after  a  while  the  mother  thinks  of 
the  wickedness  of  the  Jews  :  — 

Yet  to  read  the  shameful  story 
How  the  Jews  abused  their  King, 

How  they  served  the  Lord  of  Glory, 
Makes  me  angry  while  I  sing. 

In  these  days,  the  Anti-Semites  are 
not  so  likely  to  be  angry  while  they  sing, 
as  while  they  cast  up  their  accounts. 

The  natural  sciences  discriminate  be- 
tween classes  rather  than  between  indi- 
viduals. Sociology  deals  with  groups, 
and  not  with  persons.  Anthropology 
acquaints  us  with  the  aboriginal  and  un- 
moralized  man.  It  emphasizes  the  soli- 
darity of  the  clan  and  the  persistence 
of  the  cult.  Experimental  psychology  is 
at  present  interested  in  the  sub-conscious 
and  instinctive  life.  For  its  purpose  it 
treats  a  man  as  a  series  of  nervous  reac- 
tions. Human  history  is  being  rewritten 
as  a  branch  of  Natural  History.  Elim- 
inating the  part  played  by  personal  will, 
it  exhibits  an  age-long  warfare  between 
nations  and  races. 

VOL.  XGIII.  —  NO.  559.  43 


This  is  all  very  well  so  long  as  we  re- 
member what  it  is  that  we  are  studying. 
Races,  cults,  and  social  groups  exist  and 
have  their  history.  There  is  no  harm  in 
defining  the  salient  characteristics  of  a 
race,  and  saying  that,  on  the  whole,  one 
race  is  inferior  to  another.  The  diffi- 
culty comes  when  this  rough  average  is 
made  the  dead  line  beyond  which  an  in- 
dividual is  not  allowed  to  pass. 

In  our  Comedy  of  Errors,  which  is 
always  slipping  into  tragedy,  there  are 
two  Dromios  on  the  stage,  —  the  Race 
and  the  Individual.  The  Race  is  an  ab- 
straction which  can  bear  any  amount  of 
punishment  without  flinching.  You  may 
say  anything  you  please  about  it  and  not 
go  far  wrong.  It  is  like  criticising  a 
composite  photograph.  There  is  nothing 
personal  about  it.  Who  is  offended  at 
the  caricatures  of  Brother  Jonathan  or 
of  John  Bull?  We  recognize  certain 
persistent  national  traits,  but  we  also 
recognize  the  element  of  good-humored 
exaggeration.  The  Jew,  the  Slav,  the 
Celt,  the  Anglo-Saxon,  have  existed  for 
ages.  Each  has  admired  himself,  and 
been  correspondingly  disliked  by  others. 
Even  the  Negro  as  a  racial  abstraction 
is  not  sensitive.  You  may,  if  you  will, 
take  up  the  text,  so  much  quoted  a  gen- 
eration ago,  "  Cursed  be  Canaan  ;  a  ser- 
vant of  servants  shall  he  be.  .  .  .  God 
shall  enlarge  Japheth,  and  he  shall  dwell 
in  the  tents  of  Shem  ;  and  Canaan  shall 
be  his  servant."  Dromio  Africanus  lis- 
tens unmoved  to  the  exegesis  of  Petro- 
leum V.  Nasby  and  his  compeers  at  the 
Crossroads :  "  God  cust  Canaan,  and  sed 
he  shood  be  a  servant  forever.  Did  he 
mean  us  to  pay  him  wages  ?  Not  eny  : 
for  ef  he  bed  he  wood  hev  ordered  our 
tastes  and  habits  so  es  we  shood  hev  hed 
the  wherewithal  to  do  it." 

The  impassive  Genius  of  Africa  an- 
swers the  Anglo-Saxon :  "  If  it  pleases 
you  to  think  that  your  prejudice  against 
me  came  out  of  the  Ark,  so  be  it.  If 
you  find  it  agreeable  to  identify  your- 
self with  Japheth  who  shall  providen- 


674 


Dust  to  Dust. 


tially  be  enlarged,  I  may  as  well  be  Ca- 
naan." 

So  long  as  the  doctrinaires  of  the 
Crossroads  are  dealing  only  with  highly 
generalized  conceptions  no  harm  is  done. 
But  now  another  Dromio  appears.  He 
is  not  a  race ;  he  is  a  person.  He  has 
never  come  that  way  before,  and  he  is 
bewildered  by  what  he  sees  and  hears. 
Immediately  he  is  beset  by  those  who 
accuse  him  of  crimes  which  some  one 
who  looks  like  him  has  committed.  He 
is  beaten  because  he  does  not  know  his 
place ;  how  can  he  know  it,  stumbling 
as  he  does  upon  a  situation  for  which  he 
is  altogether  unprepared  ?  It  is  an  awk- 
ward predicament,  this  of  being  born  into 
the  world  as  a  living  soul.  Under  the 
most  favorable  conditions  it  is  hard  for 
the  new  arrival  to  find  himself,  and  ad- 
just himself  to  his  environment.  But 
this  victim  of  mistaken  identity  finds 
that  he  has  been  judged  and  condemned 
already.  When  he  innocently  tries  to 
make  the  most  of  himself  a  great  uproar 
is  created.  What  right  has  he  to  inter- 


fere with  the  preconceived  opinions  of 
his  betters  ?  They  understand  him,  for 
have  they  not  known  him  for  many 
generations  ? 

Poor  man  Dromio  !  Whether  he  have 
a  black  skin  or  a  yellow,  and  whatever 
be  the  racial  type  which  his  features 
suggest,  the  trouble  is  the  same.  He  is 
sacrificed  on  the  altar  of  our  stupidity. 
He  suffers  because  of  our  mental  color- 
blindness, which  prevents  our  distinguish- 
ing persons.  We  see  only  groups,  and 
pride  ourselves  on  our  defective  vision. 
By  and  by  we  may  learn  to  be  a  little 
ashamed  of  our  crudely  ambitious  gen- 
eralizations. A  finer  gift  is  the  ability 
to  know  a  man  when  we  see  him.  It 
may  be  that  Nature  is  "  careful  of  the 
type,"  and  "  careless  of  the  single  life." 
If  that  be  so,  it  may  be  the  part  of 
wisdom  for  us  to  give  up  our  anxieties 
about  the  type,  knowing  that  Nature 
will  take  care  of  that.  Such  relief  from 
cosmic  responsibility  will  give  us  much 
more  time  for  our  proper  work,  which 
is  to  deal  justly  with  each  single  life. 
Samuel  Me  Chord  Crothers. 


DUST  TO  DUST. 

How  dark,  how  rich  and  full  the  summer  nights, 
What  warmth  about  them  brooded,  while  the  sea 
Murmured  low  song,  and  passion  throbbed  to  peace ! 
The  soft  airs  curled  around  them,  the  great  boughs 
Swayed  slowly  with  long  rhythms  of  delight, 
And  sleep  was  but  unconsciousness  of  joy. 

Like  fragile  bubbles  soaring  sky  o'er  sky 

How  buoyantly  the  mornings  rose  and  broke, 

As  if  the  world  were  made  afresh  each  dawn,  — 

The  forest  folded  in  a  fleece  of  mist, 

The  dim  green  wood  a  shimmer  of  the  dew! 

The  winds  were  up  and  singing,  far  away 

The  foam-wreaths  caught  the  sun  and  skimmed  to  shore 

A  shoal  of  sea-nymphs.     Then,  a  rose  of  dreams 

Her  velvet  cheek,  he  crushed  her  in  strong  arms, 

Sprang  for  his  spear  and  took  him  to  the  chase. 


Dust  to  Dust.  675 

One  eve  no  hounds  made  music  in  the  wood, 
No  hurrying  echoes  followed  on  a  horn, 
No  mighty  hunter  loomed  upon  the  hill. 
"  Theseus  !  Where  art  thou,  Theseus !  Love,  my  love !  " 
She  cried.     And  all  the  cliffs  of  Naxos  mocked. 
Bitter  and  salt  as  the  salt  bitter  sea 
Her  tears,  where  prone  she  lay,  all  soul  and  sense 
Drowned  deep  in  seas  of  bottomless  despair. 

Then,  sphered  in  light,  at  last  the  great  god  came,  — 
The  god  who  gives  the  sweet  o'  the  year  to  earth, 
Who  guards  the  world-wide  curve  of  lovely  lines, 
Ripens  the  white  wheat,  pulps  the  purple  grape, 
God  of  the  sacramental  bread  and  wine. 
The  leopard-skin  upon  his  shoulders  hung, 
The  ivy  twined  his  yellow  locks,  and  like 
The  sunshine  splintering  on  a  spear  his  eye, 
And  like  the  sunshine  on  the  heart  of  a  flower 
His  smile.     As  beautiful  as  dawn  he  stood, 
And  called  with  strange  compelling  melody 
This  woman  cast  aside  of  dust  that  dies. 
And  lingeringly,  like  one  in  dream,  she  came 
And  found  his  arms  a  fastness.     Lifted  then 
She  lay  within  the  heaven  of  his  heart, 
Suffused  with  all  the  godship  of  his  love. 
The  winds  less  free  throughout  the  courts  of  space, 
Far  from  the  doors  of  death  he  went  with  her, 
Filled  her  with  essence  of  immortal  life, 
And  crowned  her  with  a  crown  of  seven  great  stars. 
Yet  in  the  tenderest  moment  of  his  care, 
Though  fragrant  fire  ran  through  her  with  his  touch, 
Earth  in  her  trembled  to  the  pulse  of  earth. 
Old  thoughts,  old  memories  stirred  the  soul  that  bore 
The  pearl's  dim  flaw,  the  clay  in  the  opal's  grain. 
And  as  black  lightnings  rive  some  growing  thing 
She  shuddered  back  among  her  clods  once  more, 
Sighing  through  silent  hollows  of  her  heart, 
"  Theseus  !  Where  art  thou,  Theseus  !  Love,  my  love !  " 

Harriet  Prescott  Spofford. 


676 


The  Diplomatic   Contest  for  the  Mississippi    Valley. 


THE  DIPLOMATIC  CONTEST  FOR  THE  MISSISSIPPI  VALLEY. 


THE  importance  of  the  Louisiana  Pur- 
chase in  the  history  of  the  United  States 
has  become  increasingly  clear  in  the  cen- 
tury that  has  just  elapsed,  and  as  the 
nation  goes  on  to  fulfill  its  destiny  on 
the  Pacific  and  in  South  America  it  will 
turn  to  this  event  with  growing  appre- 
ciation of  the  significance  of  the  march 
across  the  Mississippi,  and  the  acquisi- 
tion of  the  strategic  point  where  the 
great  river  enters  the  Gulf  of  Mexico. 
If  the  Declaration  of  Independence 
marks  our  separation  from  the  colonial 
system  of  the  Old  World,  the  Louisiana 
Purchase  was  the  turning-point  in  the 
events  that  fixed  our  position  as  the 
arbiter  of  the  New  World. 

It  is  the  purpose  of  these  papers  to 
show  that  this  important  event  was  no 
sudden  or  unrelated  episode  in  our  his- 
tory. It  was  the  dramatic  culmination 
of  a  long  struggle  that  began  with  the 
rivalry  of  Spain,  France,  and  England 
for  the  Mississippi  Valley  in  the  colo- 
nial era,  continued  during  the  American 
Revolution,  and  brought  grave  problems 
before  the  first  three  Presidents  of  the 
United  States  in  the  period  when  Europe 
was  engaged  in  the  contests  of  the  French 
Revolution. 

Although  the  revisions  of  the  map  of 
Europe,  in  that  era,  largely  occupied  the 
European  diplomats,  their  archives  re- 
veal the  fact  that  the  future  of  the  Mis- 
sissippi Valley  received  serious  attention, 
and  constituted  an  important  element  in 
their  policy.  When  we  consider  the 
power  which  the  interior  of  the  United 
States  now  exerts  over  the  economic  and 
political  welfare  of  the  world,  we  realize 
that  the  diplomatic  intrigues  for  the  pos- 
session of  the  Mississippi,  the  Ohio,  and 
the  Great  Lakes  were  of  higher  signifi- 
cance in  world  history  than  many  of  the 


European  incidents  which  have  received 
more  attention. 

Not  simply  Louisiana  was  at  stake : 
the  whole  Mississippi  Valley,  —  the  land 
between  the  Alleghanies  and  the  Missis- 
sippi, as  well  as  the  territory  across  the 
river,  —  with  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  at  one 
end  and  the  Great  Lakes  at  the  other, 
was  the  prize  of  the  diplomatic  game. 
Indeed,  all  South  America  became  in- 
volved in  the  designs  of  the  European 
rivals.  For  the  United  States  the  mat- 
ter was  a  vital  one.  The  acquisition  of 
these  regions  laid  the  physical  foundation 
for  our  national  greatness,  furnished  the 
base  from  which  to  extend  our  power 
to  the  Pacific  Ocean,  and  gave  us  a  domi- 
nating strategic  position  in  reference  to 
Spanish  America.  More  immediately  it 
put  an  end  to  the  plans  to  which  France 
and  England  had  given  their  attention 
for  forming  an  interior  dependency  in 
the  Mississippi  Valley,  whose  sea  power 
should  control  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  and, 
by  consequence,  preside  over  the  division 
of  the  decaying  empire  of  Spain  in  the 
New  World.  The  Monroe  Doctrine 
would  have  been  impossible  if  the  de- 
signs of  either  France,  Spain,  or  Eng- 
land, during  the  decade  that  followed 
Washington's  inauguration,  could  have 
been  carried  out. 

At  the  close  of  the  war  for  indepen- 
dence the  United  States  held  hardly  more 
than  the  Atlantic  coast.  Beyond  the 
Alleghanies  an  advance  column  of  pio- 
neers had  pushed  a  wedge  of  sparse 
settlement  along  the  southern  tributaries 
of  the  Ohio  into  Kentucky  and  Tennes- 
see. Ambitious  to  conquer  though  they 
were,  their  hold  was  a  precarious  one. 
On  their  right  flank  lay  the  basin  of  the 
Great  Lakes,  occupied  by  warlike  In- 
dians held  under  control  by  the  posts  of 
England  at  Detroit  and  at  other  strate- 
gic points  on  the  lakes.  In  spite  of  the 


The  Diplomatic   Contest  for  the  Mississippi   Valley.  677 


treaty  of  1783,  Great  Britain  retained 
these  posts,  the  centres  of  Indian  trade 
and  influence,  alleging  the  failure  of  the 
United  States  to  carry  out  certain  pro- 
visions of  the  treaty,  and  expecting  that 
a  speedy  dissolution  of  the  feeble  con- 
federation would  leave  to  her  the  control 
of  the  Great  Lakes  and  the  upper  Mis- 
sissippi ;  nor  did  she  forget  her  former 
possessions  on  the  Gulf  of  Mexico. 

On  the  left  flank,  controlling  the  basin 
of  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  were  the  four 
powerful  tribes  of  the  Southern  Indians. 
Spain  held  the  mouth  of  the  Mississippi 
at  New  Orleans,  and  from  Mobile,  St. 
Marks  and  Pensacola  furnished  these 
tribes  with  goods,  arms,  and  ammuni- 
tion. In  the  spring  of  1784  the  gov- 
ernor of  Louisiana,  acting  on  the  theory 
that  the  savages  were  independent  na- 
tions, made  treaties  which  bound  them 
to  accept  Spanish  protection,  and,  in 
return,  promised  to  secure  them  in  the 
possession  of  their  lands.  Nor  did  Spain 
stop  with  insuring  her  predominance 
among  the  Indians.  She  avoided  a 
treaty  with  the  United  States  at  the 
close  of  the  Revolution.  Refusing  to 
be  bound  by  England's  cession  to  the 
United  States,  she  set  up  the  claim  that 
her  victories  over  Great  Britain  in  the 
Revolution  had  given  her  the  right  to 
Florida  with  the  most  extensive  boun- 
dary which  England  had  given  to  West 
Florida  during  her  occupation.  She  also 
contended  that  the  eastern  bank  of  the 
Mississippi  was  hers,  finding  justification 
for  this  in  the  fact  that  England,  by  the 
Proclamation  of  1763,  had  made  crown 
lands  of  the  colonial  territory  beyond 
the  Alleghanies,  and  had  forbidden  the 
colonists  to  settle  there.  Thus,  she  ar- 
gued, her  victories  over  England  on  the 
Mississippi  and  in  Florida  gave  her  a 
sphere  of  influence  in  the  lands  between 
the  Gulf,  the  Mississippi,  and  the  Alle- 
ghanies, at  least  as  far  north  as  the 
mouth  of  the  Ohio.  She  further  as- 
serted, as  the  fundamental  element  in 
her  policy,  the  exclusive  .control  of  the 


navigation  of  the  Mississippi,  which  Eng- 
land had  promised  us  by  the  treaty. 

All  the  "  Western  World,"  as  the  set- 
tlers loved  to  call  the  land  beyond  the 
mountains,  depended  on  the  Mississippi 
for  an  outlet  for  the  crops.  The  dwell- 
ers on  the  Ohio,  the  Tennessee,  the 
Cumberland,  and  all  the  western  waters, 
shut  off  by  the  Alleghanies  from  the 
coast,  could  only  find  a  market  for 
their  crops  through  New  Orleans.  Ob- 
viously the  very  strength  of  Spain's  po- 
sition also  constituted  a  menace  to  her- 
self, in  view  of  the  feeble  garrisons  by 
which  she  blocked  the  river.  To  meet 
this  situation,  in  1786  she  entered  into 
negotiations  for  a  treaty  by  which  we 
should  forgo  our  claim  to  the  naviga- 
tion of  the  Mississippi  for  twenty-five 
years  in  return  for  concessions  to  our 
commerce  in  her  European  possessions. 
This  proposal  met  the  approval  not  only 
of  some  of  the  most  important  statesmen 
from  the  northeastern  commercial  sec- 
tions, like  Jay  and  King,  but  also  of 
Washington,  who  believed  that  the  West 
stood  upon  a  pivot,  — "  the  touch  of  a 
feather  would  turn  it  any  way."  Fear- 
ing that  the  ease  of  navigating  the  Mis- 
sissippi would  menace  the  connection  of 
the  West  with  the  Union,  Washington 
desired  first  to  bind  the  West  to  the 
East  by  ties  of  interest,  opening  commu- 
nication by  canals  and  roads.  But  many 
Southern  men,  particularly  Monroe  and 
Patrick  Henry,  saw  in  the  proposal  to 
relinquish  the  navigation  of  the  Missis- 
sippi the  sacrifice  of  the  agricultural  in- 
terests to  those  of  the  maritime  section, 
and  foretold  a  dissolution  of  the  Union. 
In  the  outcome,  sufficient  votes  could  not 
be  obtained  to  carry  the  treaty  ;  but  the 
West  was  deeply  stirred  by  the  attempt. 

Another  device  of  Spain  to  check  the 
American  advance  was  the  use  of  the 
Southern  Indians.  Carondelet,  the  gov- 
ernor of  Louisiana,  afterwards  expressed 
the  Spanish  policy  when  he  declared 
that  there  was  no  American  force  which 
could  protect  the  two  hundred  leagues 


678  The  Diplomatic   Contest  for  the  Mississippi    Valley. 


and  more  of  frontier  from  the  devasta- 
tions of  fifteen  thousand  well-armed  sav- 
ages, nor  any  which  would  venture  to  de- 
scend the  Mississippi,  leaving  their  com- 
munications to  be  cut  off  by  a  swarm  of 
savages.  "  Not  only  will  Spain  always 
make  the  American  settlements  tremble 
by  threatening  them  with  the  Indians, 
but  she  has  no  other  means  of  molesting 
them."  Well  might  Spain  base  her  hopes 
on  the  unsubstantial  protection  afforded 
by  her  Indian  allies,  for,  at  the  time,  she 
had  but  a  single  regiment,  distributed  in 
twenty-one  detachments,  to  guard  nearly 
two  thousand  miles  of  river  front. 

Under  these  circumstances,  the  Span 
ish  authorities  also  tried  to  detach  the 
West  from  the  Union  by  promising  free 
navigation  in  return  for  the  acceptance 
of  Spanish  sovereignty  by  Kentucky 
and  the  Tennessee  and  Cumberland  set- 
tlements. In  the  disturbed  conditions 
of  the  period,  this,  for  a  time,  seemed  a 
possible  solution  of  the  difficulty,  for 
the  Westerners  were  deeply  impressed 
by  the  effectiveness  of  the  mountain 
barrier  in  dividing  them  from  the  states 
of  the  coast,  and  they  had  slight  respect 
for  the  type  of  social  life  on  the  sea- 
board, or  for  the  feeble  government, 
which,  at  the  close  of  the  Confederation, 
afforded  them  protection  against  neither 
the  Indians  nor  the  Spaniards.  The 
Westerners  as  a  whole  preferred  the 
Union  ;  but  its  value  to  them  depended 
on  the  efficiency  with  which  it  dealt  with 
the  problem  of  the  Indians  and  the  navi- 
gation of  the  Mississippi,  and  they  were 
determined  to  secure  local  self-govern- 
ment independent  of  the  coastwise  states 
whose  chartered  limits  overspread  their 
territory,  and  whose  governments  dis- 
posed of  their  land,  although  they  were 
impotent  to  defend  the  settlers.  When 
the  old  Confederation  was  going  to 
pieces  in  1788-89,  the  Kentucky  and 
Tennessee  settlements  were  engaged  in 
a  struggle  for  separate  statehood,  and 
the  more  radical  and  best  known  lead- 
ers of  these  communities  at  the  same 


time  entered  into  correspondence  with 
the  governor  of  Louisiana  with  a  view  to 
securing  Spanish  concessions  in  the  event 
of  declaring  independence.  Inasmuch  as 
the  thirteen  states  were  considering  the 
question  of  ratification  of  the  Constitu- 
tion as  sovereign  bodies,  the  western 
settlements,  not  unnaturally,  were  dis- 
posed to  decide  their  own  allegiance  at 
the  same  time.  Men  like  Wilkinson,  of 
Kentucky,  later  the  commander  in  chief 
of  the  American  army,  and  the  promi- 
nent Judge  Sebastian  went  so  far  as  to 
accept  pensions  from  Spain  as  the  price 
of  supporting  her  designs.  General 
George  Rogers  Clark,  the  most  famous 
military  figure  in  the  West  since  his 
conquest  of  the  Illinois  country,  offered 
to  become  a  Spanish  subject,  and  to 
transfer  from  the  weak  authority  of  the 
United  States  a  numerous  colony  if  he 
could  receive  a  land  grant  west  of  the 
Mississippi.  Sevier  and  Robertson,  the 
founders  of  Tennessee,  also  corresponded 
with  the  Spanish  authorities,  with  simi- 
lar ideas  of  saving  themselves  and  their 
communities  in  the  midst  of  the  general 
confusion.  But  some  of  the  more  con- 
servative and  far-sighted  Kentucky  lead- 
ers imposed  a  successful  opposition  to 
precipitate  action,  and  demanded  that 
further  time  be  given  to  the  United 
States  to  secure  from  Spain  the  western 
demands.  The  Spanish  inti'igue  for  se- 
ducing the  West  from  the  Union  met 
defeat  (although  Spain  did  not  realize 
the  fact  for  some  years)  when  the  new 
Constitution  was  ratified  and  a  stronger 
national  government  was  established. 

Another  device  of  Spain  was  to  attract 
western  settlers  into  her  own  territo- 
ry by  offering  vast  land  grants  to  the 
American  frontiersmen.  But  Spain  her- 
self finally  became  alarmed  at  the  idea 
of  taking  such  warlike  colonies  into  her 
bosom,  and  these  measures  were  super- 
seded by  a  regulation  which  gave  tem- 
porary relief  to  the  settlers  by  opening 
the  river  to  their  trade  under  a  fifteen 
per  cent  duty.  Nevertheless,  this  mea- 


The  Diplomatic   Contest  for  the  Mississippi    Valley.  679 


sure  was  permissive  only,  and  Spain  con- 
tinued to  control  the  navigation. 

While  Spain  intrigued  to  dominate 
both  banks  of  the  Mississippi,  Great 
Britain  sought  to  attach  the  frontiersmen 
to  her  interests.  Decided  apprehension 
was  felt  by  Madison  and  other  congress- 
men that  the  refusal  to  open  the  river 
would  throw  the  West  into  the  arms  of 
England.  Nor  were  these  fears  ground- 
less, for  in  the  fall  of  1788  Dr.  Connolly, 
an  agent  of  the  Canadian  government, 
came  to  Kentucky,  at  the  time  when  its 
relation  to  the  United  States  was  doubt- 
ful, in  order  to  sound  the  disaffected  as 
to  an  English  connection.  Lord  Dor- 
chester, the  governor  of  Canada,  re- 
ported to  his  government  that  private 
councils  in  Kentucky  favored  declaring 
independence,  seizing  New  Orleans,  and 
looking  to  England  for  such  assistance  as 
might  enable  them  to  accomplish  these 
designs.  He  sent  to  the  British  author- 
ities a  memorial  by  a  gentleman  of  Ken- 
tucky (there  is  reason  for  believing  that 
Wilkinson  wrote  it)  which  declared  that 
"the  Atlantic  states  of  America  must 
sink  as  the  western  settlements  rise. 
Nature  has  interposed  obstacles  and  es- 
tablished barriers  between  these  regions 
which  forbid  their  connection  on  prin- 
ciples of  reciprocal  interests,  and  the 
flimsy  texture  of  republican  government 
is  insufficient  to  hold  in  the  same  polit- 
ical bonds  a  people  detached  and  scat- 
tered over  such  an  expanse  of  territory, 
whose  views  and  interests  are  discordant. 
Those  local  causes,  irresistible  in  their 
nature,  must  produce  a  secession  of  the 
western  settlements  from  the  Atlantic 
states,  and  the  period  is  not  very  distant. 
But  these  people  must  for  ages  continue 
agriculture ;  by  consequence,  foreign  pro- 
tection will  be  expedient  for  their  hap- 
piness, and  this  protection  must  neces- 
sarily comprehend  the  right  of  navigat- 
ing the  Mississippi  with  a  marine  to 
protect  its  commerce.  That  power  which 
commands  the  navigation  of  the  Missis- 
sippi as  completely  commands  the  whole 


country  traversed  by  its  waters  as  the 
key  does  the  lock  or  the  citadel  the  out- 
works. The  politics  of  the  western  coun- 
try are  fast  verging  to  a  crisis,  and  must 
speedily  eventuate  in  an  appeal  to  the 
patronage  of  Spain  or  Britain." 

In  the  fall  of  1789  the  English  gov- 
ernment instructed  Dorchester  that  it 
was  desirable  that  the  western  settle- 
ments should  be  kept  distinct  from  the 
United  States,  with  a  British  connection. 
This  policy  was  more  fully  explicated  in 
the  report  of  the  Lords  of  Trade  that  it 
would  be  for  England's  interest  "  to  pre- 
vent Vermont  and  Kentucke,  and  all 
other  settlements  now  forming  in  the 
Interior  parts  of  the  great  Continent  of 
North  America,  from  becoming  depen- 
dent on  the  Government  of  the  United 
States,  or  of  any  other  Foreign  Country, 
and  to  preserve  them  on  the  contrary  in 
a  State  of  Independence  and  to  induce 
them  to  form  Treaties  of  Commerce  and 
Friendship  with  Great  Britain." 

It  is  clear,  therefore,  that  while  Eng- 
land supported  the  Indians  in  their  re- 
fusal to  permit  American  settlements 
north  of  the  Ohio,  she  also  endeavored 
to  control  the  settlements  on  the  south 
of  that  river.  In  short,  Spain  and  Eng- 
land were  playing  analogous  parts,  on 
our  unstable  frontier,  in  this  period  of 
disintegration,  although  England  was  the 
more  cautious,  and  not  so  unscrupulous  in 
her  intrigue. 

France  also,  which  had  viewed  the  loss 
of  Canada  and  Louisiana  with  keen  re- 
gret ever  since  the  last  French  and  In- 
dian war,  and  had  kept  in  view  the  pos- 
sibility of  regaining  the  West  during  the 
American  Revolution,  was  awake  to  the 
opportunity.  De  Moustier,  the  French 
Minister  to  the  United  States,  sent  to  his 
government  memorials  pointing  out  the 
advantages  of  Louisiana  and  its  impor- 
tance to  France,  and  before  the  close  of 
his  career,  in  1787,  Vergennes,  Prime 
Minister  of  France,  is  said  to  have  made 
offers  to  Spain  for  the  purchase  of  Louis- 
iana, but  was  deterred  by  a  lack  of  funds. 


680  The  Diplomatic   Contest  for  the  Mississippi    Valley. 


Thus  Washington  began  his  adminis- 
tration with  a  critical  situation  on  our 
frontiers.  On  either  flank  were  power- 
ful Indian  confederacies,  controlled  re- 
spectively by  England  and  Spain,  threat- 
ening our  advance.  At  the  same  time 
the  new  and  experimental  government 
was  unable  to  obtain  for  the  inhabitants 
of  the  Mississippi  Valley  the  navigation 
of  their  great  river,  and  it  continually 
opposed  their  attempts  to  make  war  upon 
the  Indians.  In  the  state  of  unstable 
equilibrium  of  the  whole  western  coun- 
try, these  conditions  constituted  a  grave 
menace  to  the  future  control  of  the  inte- 
rior by  the  Union.  It  is  easy  to  believe 
that,  in  the  long  run,  Americans  would 
have  settled  the  Mississippi  Valley  ;  but 
it  is  by  no  means  so  certain  that  these 
Americans  would,  of  necessity,  have  been 
under  the  flag  of  the  United  States.  In 
these  early  years  an  independent  con- 
federacy under  the  protection  of  some 
European  flag  was  entirely  within  the 
realm  of  possibility,  if.  not  of  probability, 
as  the  history  of  Canada  illustrates. 

The  first  important  diplomatic  prob- 
lem with  which  the  new  American  gov- 
ernment had  to  grapple  arose  in  connec- 
tion* with  the  so-called  Nootka  Sound 
affair.  In  the  autumn  of  1789  Spain 
seized  certain  English  ships  on  their  way 
to  establish  a  trading-post  at  Nootka 
Sound  on  the  Pacific.  During  the  spring 
and  summer  of  1790  active  preparations 
for  war  were  made  by  both  nations. 
There  was  every  reason  to  believe  that 
England  would  strike  Spain  in  her  vul- 
nerable American  empire,  for  from  the 
days  of  Drake,  England  had  sought  the 
commerce  of  the  Spanish  colonies.  In 
such  an  event,  Florida  and  New  Or- 
leans were  likely  to  be  seized,  and  in  the 
operations  against  Louisiana  it  was  prob- 
able that  an  army  would  descend  the 
Mississippi,  crossing  from  the  English 
posts  on  the  Great  Lakes.  In  fact,  at 
this  crisis  England  instructed  the  gov- 
ernor of  Canada  to  ascertain  if  the  Ken- 
tuckians  would  cooperate,  using  the  ar- 


gument that  freedom  of  navigation  of 
the  Mississippi  would  be  more  important 
to  them  than  an  attempt  to  recover  the 
Great  Lake  posts  by  a  Spanish  alliance. 
But  the  plans  considered  by  Pitt  were 
more  far-reaching  than  the  acquisition  of 
Florida  and  Louisiana.  At  this  point 
one  of  the  most  interesting  figures  in  the 
history  of  the  period  appears  upon  the 
scene,  —  Francesco  Miranda,  the  Vene- 
zuelan revolutionist,  whose  life  was  an 
epic  of  diplomatic  intrigue  and  adven- 
ture. Shortly  after  the  American  Revo- 
lution, Miranda  visited  the  United  States, 
fired  with  the  design  of  liberating  Span- 
ish America.  He  made  the  acquain- 
tance of  prominent  officers  like  Hamilton 
and  Knox,  and  he  afterward  alleged  that 
he  had  received  assurances  from  them 
that  New  England  would  furnish  troops 
for  a  revolution  in  Spanish  America  if 
Great  Britain  assisted  with  her  navy. 
Miranda  then  went  to  Europe  to  plead 
his  cause,  visiting  almost  all  the  leading 
countries  of  the  Continent,  and,  at  the 
news  of  approaching  hostilities  between 
Spain  and  Great  Britain,  he  turned  for 
aid  to  the  latter  country.  In  February, 
1790,  in  an  interview  with  Pitt,  he  un- 
folded to  him  his  plans  for  breaking  the 
Spanish  yoke  in  America  by  the  aid  of 
English  arms.  His  design  contemplated 
the  formation  of  an  independent  consti- 
tutional empire  of  the  Spanish  colonies, 
including  within  its  limits  the  vast  ter- 
ritory between  the  Mississippi  and  the 
Pacific  as  far  north  as  the  forty-fifth  de- 
gree, and  all  of  Central  and  South  Amer- 
ica, except  Brazil  and  Guiana.  Cuba  was 
to  be  included,  "  since  the  port  of  Havana 
is  the  key  to  the  Gulf  of  Mexico ; "  but 
the  other  West  Indian  islands,  together 
with*  Florida,  were  apparently  to  be  the 
reward  of  England.  In  addition  a  lib- 
eral commercial  arrangement  was  to  be 
made,  which  should  open  to  her  the  trade 
of  this  great  domain.  Miranda  also  fur- 
nished Pitt  with  reports  on  the  military 
conditions  in  Spanish  America,  and  the 
minister  agreed  that  in  the  event  of  war 


The  Diplomatic   Contest  for  the  Mississippi    Valley.  681 


he  would  take  up  the  project.  If  hos- 
tilities had  begun,  two  expeditions  were 
to  be  sent  to  Spanish  America,  with 
cooperation  from  India.  New  Orleans 
was  to  be  captured,  and  a  plan  for  an 
overland  march  from  that  city  against 
Mexico  was  considered. 

While  Miranda  urged  his  far-reaching 
schemes  in  London,  another  interesting 
adventurer,  William  Augustus  Bowles, 
was  fostering  British  interests  among 
the  Southwestern  Indians.  In  the  course 
of  his  wanderings,  Bowles  visited  the 
Bahamas,  where  he  won  the  patronage 
of  Lord  Dunmore,  by  whose  connivance 
he  secured  stores  of  English  arms  and 
goods  for  the  Gulf  Indians,  and  was  thus 
made  independent  of  the  Spanish  trad- 
ing-posts. Becoming  one  of  the  principal 
chiefs  of  the  Lower  Creeks,  he  conceived 
the  project  of  building  up  an  indepen- 
dent Indian  nation,  and  at  length  he  was 
emboldened  to  ask  of  Spain  two  ports 
on  the  coast  of  Florida.  Failing  to  re- 
ceive a  favorable  response,  he  deter- 
mined to  seek  British  assistance  and  to 
march  his  Indians  into  Florida  against 
the  Spanish  posts,  take  New  Orleans, 
and  thence  advance  against  Mexico.  In 
1790  Bowles  sailed  for  England,  with 
a  delegation  of  Creeks  and  Cherokees, 
where  in  January,  1791,  he  memorialized 
the  king  in  behalf  of  his  plans.  Utterly 
absurd  as  his  proposal  seems,  at  first 
sight,  it  was  not  without  some  prospect 
of  success,  particularly  since  he  intended 
to  call  upon  the  Cumberland  settlers  for 
aid,  and  to  secure  supplies  from  England. 
He  found  additional  arguments  for  Eng- 
lish assistance  in  the  prospect  that  the 
United  States  would  destroy  the  North- 
ern Indians,  while,  on  the  other  hand,  a 
general  Indian  confederacy,  North  and 
South,  under  the  leadership  of  the  Creeks 
and  the  Cherokees,  would  greatly  in- 
crease English  influence. 

These  proposals  were  made  too  late 
to  affect  English  plans  in  the  Nootka 
Sound  affair  ;  but  they  are  significant 
illustrations  of  the  far-reaching  influence 


which  England  exercised  upon  our  bor- 
ders, by  means  of  men  whose  actions  she 
could  utilize  or  disavow  as  best  suited  the 
circumstances  ;  and  Pitt  was  at  this  time 
receiving  regular  reports  from  his  secret 
agents  in  the  United  States  in  reference 
to  Florida,  which  he  called  his  "  South- 
ern Farms."  While  the  English  govern- 
ment did  not  encourage  Bowles  in  his 
plans  of  active  hostility  against  the  Unit- 
ed States,  it  conceded  him  the  free  ports 
which  he  asked  in  the  West  Indies.  On 
his  return  to  the  Southwest  he  achieved  a 
dominant  influence  among  the  Indians, 
arousing  the  apprehensions  both  of  Spain 
and  the  United  States,  until,  in  1792,  the 
Spaniards  decoyed  him  on  board  one  of 
their  vessels  and  carried  him  off  a  pris- 
oner. 

It  was  in  connection  with  the  Nootka 
Sound  affair  that  the  United  States  first 
seriously  considered  her  destiny  as  a  na- 
tion in  respect  to  the  possession  of  New 
Orleans.  Many  considerations  favored 
an  alliance  between  the  United  States  and 
England  against  Spain.  A  war  between 
Spain  and  the  United  States  seemed  al- 
most certain,  if  the  Creeks  under  the 
leadership  of  their  half-breed  chief,  Alex- 
ander McGillivray,  continued  to  resist 
the  drawing  of  a  boundary  line  on  the 
Georgia  side  satisfactory  to  the  United 
States ;  for  in  the  operations  against  them, 
as  General  Knox,  the  Secretary  of  War, 
pointed  out,  our  troops  would  invade  ter- 
ritories claimed  by  Spain. 

Washington  decided  in  favor  of  neu- 
trality, however,  and  in  the  summer  of 
1790  he  made  strenuous  efforts  to  ad- 
just our  affairs  on  the  frontier.  He  en- 
gaged McGillivray  in  a  treaty  at  New 
York,  whereby  our  difficulties  with  the 
Creek  Indians  were  temporarily  tided 
over;  he  issued  a  proclamation  against 
the  Yazoo  Company's  filibustering  expe- 
dition, of  which  George  Rogers  Clark  was 
said  to  be  the  military  leader,  and  he 
took  pains  at  the  same  time  to  quiet  the 
apprehensions  of  the  authorities  of  Can- 
ada by  assuring  them  that  Harmar's 


682  The  Diplomatic   Contest  for  the  Mississippi    Valley. 


army,  which  was  preparing  to  strike  the 
Northwestern  Indians,  was  not  destined 
to  attack  the  posts  which  England  re- 
tained on  the  Great  Lakes. 

The  most  serious  question  before  the 
government,  however,  was  what  attitude 
to  take  in  case  England  occupied  Louis- 
iana and  Florida,  and,  particularly,  what 
to  do  in  case  she  asked  a  passage  for  her 
troops  from  Canada  and  the  Great  Lakes 
across  our  Northwestern  territory  to  the 
Mississippi.  As  early  as  July  an  agent 
of  England  was  in  New  York,  then  the 
seat  of  our  government,  watching  our 
policy,  and  sounding  the  leading  mem- 
bers of  the  government  on  the  possibil- 
ity of  a  connection  between  the  United 
States  and  England  in  the  war,  and  on 
our  probable  attitude  if  she  attacked 
Louisiana.  The  views  of  Congressman 
Scott  from  western  Pennsylvania,  al- 
though they  were  doubtless  extreme,  il- 
lustrate the  possibilities  of  the  situation. 
He  said  to  the  agent,  "  If  Great  Britain 
had  possession  of  the  opening  of  the 
Mississippi,  her  commercial  enterprise 
would  give  us  a  fair  and  liberal  market 
for  our  various  exports,  which  is  not  now 
the  case;  it  would  tend  to  people  our 
country,  in  consequence  to  give  us  more 
weight  in  the  general  scale."  "  In  these 
ideas,"  he  said,  "  all  the  people  upon  the 
western  waters  are  united."  He  fur- 
ther suggested  that  Great  Britain  ought 
to  capture  New  Orleans,  aided  by  opera- 
tions on  the  upper  Mississippi  by  Ameri- 
can troops  under  General  Knox,  and, 
after  effecting  this,  "  to  conduct  an  army 
to  be  formed  in  the  Western  country  by 
land  from  thence  into  Spanish  America." 
However,  the  English  agent  did  not  meet 
with  equally  warm  responses  from  the 
members  of  the  cabinet.  When  he  hinted 
to  Alexander  Hamilton  that  England's 
arms  would  be  turned  against  Spanish 
America,  Hamilton,  much  as  he  approved 
a  closer  English  connection,  warned  him 
that  the  United  States  must  possess  New 
Orleans,  and  expressed  our  repugnance 
to  an  English  enterprise  against  it. 


It  is  the  attitude  of  Thomas  Jefferson, 
then  Secretary  of  State,  that  is  particu- 
larly interesting,  however,  not  only  be- 
cause he  had  the  immediate  charge  of 
the  diplomacy  of  the  situation,  but  be- 
cause here  he  first  officially  grappled  with 
the  question,  who  should  possess  the  Mis- 
sissippi Valley,  —  a  question  which  he, 
as  President,  a  little  over  a  decade  later, 
was  so  triumphantly  to  answer.  On  the 
news  of  the  impending  war,  Jefferson 
did  not  hesitate  to  express  his  alarm  at 
the  prospective  conquest  by  Great  Britain 
of  Louisiana  and  the  Floridas.  "  Em- 
braced from  the  St.  Croix  to  the  St. 
Mary's  on  the  one  side  by  their  posses- 
sions, on  the  other  by  their  fleet,"  he 
wrote  to  Monroe,  "  we  need  not  hesitate 
to  say  that  they  would  soon  find  means 
to  unite  to  them  all  the  territory  covered 
by  the  ramifications  of  the  Mississippi." 
Thus,  he  declared,  in  the  notes  which  he 
drew  up  for  his  own  guidance,  England 
would  have  possessions  double  the  size 
of  ours,  as  good  in  soil  and  climate,  and, 
instead  of  two  neighbors  balancing  each 
other,  we  should  have  one  with  more  than 
the  strength  of  both.  It  would  be  hope- 
less, he  thought,  to  make  war  against 
England  without  securing  France  as  an 
ally,  and  he  characteristically  decided 
that  our  wisest  policy  was  to  delay  and 
watch  our  opportunity  to  obtain  from  the 
allies  a  price  for  our  assistance.  Such  a 
price  might  be  found  in  the  independence 
of  Louisiana  and  the  Floridas.  He  there- 
fore determined  to  secure  the  good  of- 
fices of  France  to  induce  Spain  to  cede 
us  the  island  of  New  Orleans.  Realizing, 
however,  that  this  proposal  would  at  first 
seem  extreme  to  the  French  Minister, 
he  advised  our  representative  to  France 
to  urge  that  country  simply  to  recommend 
to  Spain  the  cession  in  general  terms  of 
"  a  port  near  the  mouth  of  the  river  with 
a  circumadjacent  territory  sufficient  for 
its  support,  well  defined  and  extra-terri- 
torial to  Spain,  leaving  the  idea  to  future 
growth."  This  was  the  idea  that  grew 
until  the  "circumadjacent  territory" 


The  Diplomatic   Contest  for  the  Mississippi    Valley.  683 


broadened  into  the  vast  prairies  and 
plains  between  the  Rocky  Mountains 
and  the  Mississippi  River.  Jefferson  was 
not  without  doubts  of  the  intentions  of 
France  herself,  for  he  warned  our  re- 
presentative that  her  recent  minister  had 
conceived  the  project  of  again  "  engag- 
ing France  in  a  colony  "  upon  our  conti- 
nent ;  but  with  a  cheerful  optimism  that 
casts  light  upon  his  later  actions,  he 
added  that  he  suspected  France  the  less 
since  her  National  Assembly  had  consti- 
tutionally excluded  conquest  from  the  ef- 
fort of  their  government ! 

To  our  representative  at  Madrid  he 
gave  directions  to  point  out  that  more 
than  half  the  American  territory  and 
forty  thousand  fighting  men  were  within 
the  Mississippi  basin.  If  Spain  would 
not  concede  the  right  of  navigation,  either 
we  must  lose  the  West,  which  would  seek 
other  alliances,  or  we  must  wrest  what 
we  wanted  from  Spain.  He  was  there- 
fore to  suggest  the  cession  of  New  Or- 
leans and  Florida,  and  to  argue  that  thus 
we  could  protect  for  Spain  what  lay  be- 
yond the  Mississippi.  In  the  light  of 
subsequent  events,  Jefferson's  argument 
on  this  point  is  amusing.  It  would  be 
safer  for  Spain  that  we  should  be  her 
neighbor  rather  than  England,  he  rea- 
soned, since  conquest  is  not  in  our  prin- 
ciples, and  is  inconsistent  with  our  gov- 
ernment ;  and  he  added  that  it  would 
not  be  to  our  interest  to  cross  the  Missis- 
sippi for  ages,  and  would  never  be  to 
our  interest  to  remain  united  with  those 
who  do. 

In  his  instructions  to  our  agent  in 
England,  he  pointed  out  the  consequences 
of  that  nation's  acquiring  Louisiana  and 
Florida,  and  required  him  to  intimate 
to  the  English  government  that  "  a  due 
balance  on  our  borders  is  not  less  desir- 
able to  us  than  a  balance  of  power  in  Eu- 
rope has  always  appeared  to  them."  He 
offered  neutrality  conditioned  on  Eng- 
land's executing  the  treaty  of  1783  fair- 
ly and  attempting  no  conquests  adjoin- 
ing us. 


Thus  we  see  Jefferson's  Louisiana 
system  fully  unfolded  as  early  as  1790. 
There  is  the  characteristic  passion  for 
peace,  which  leads  him  to  determine  to 
await  events  in  spite  of  his  vigorous  dip- 
lomatic representations,  and  there  is  a 
naive  confidence  in  the  unwillingness  of 
France  to  conquer,  and  of  the  United 
States  to  expand  by  war ;  but  there  is  at 
the  same  time  a  firm  grasp  of  the  impor- 
tance of  the  Mississippi  and  the  Gulf  to 
the  future  of  the  United  States,  and  a  far- 
sighted  vision  of  our  need  of  a  doctrine 
of  balance  of  power  in  the  New  World, 
—  a  germ  of  the  Monroe  Doctrine. 

The  correspondence  of  Washington's 
cabinet  officers  reveals  the  fact  that 
England  would  have  met  no  forcible 
resistance  had  she  sent  an  army  from 
the  Great  Lakes  down  the  Mississippi  to 
take  possession  of  New  Orleans.  Once 
there,  a  liberal  policy  toward  the  west- 
ern settlers,  and  an  efficient  defense  by 
her  fleet,  would  have  placed  her  in  a  po- 
sition difficult  of  attack. 

This  first  diplomatic  discussion  of  the 
future  of  the  Mississippi  Valley  by  the 
new  government  of  the  United  States 
served  its  purpose  by  turning  the  vision 
of  American  statesmen  to  this  horizon 
line  of  our  future,  rather  than  by  result- 
ing in  immediate  action.  France,  then 
in  the  beginnings  of  her  revolution,  broke 
away  from  her  Spanish  alliance  by  de- 
claring the  family  compact  between  the 
two  courts  inapplicable  to  the  new  state 
of  affairs.  Thus  isolated,  Spain  was 
obliged  to  sign  a  convention  with  Eng- 
land in  1790,  which  terminated  the  pros- 
pect of  war  between  the  two  powers. 

Spain's  first  movements  after  this  epi- 
sode were  to  give  definite  orders  to  per- 
mit no  American  settlements  on  the  Mis- 
sissippi below  the  mouth  of  the  Ohio,  and 
to  send  an  agent  to  reside  among  the 
Creek  Indians  in  order  to  prevent  the 
running  of  the  boundary  line  between 
them  and  Georgia,  which  had  been 
agreed  upon  by  the  New  York  treaty. 
In  response,  the  United  States  sent  an 


684  The  Diplomatic   Contest  for  the  Mississippi   Valley. 


agent  of  its  own  with  instructions  to  su- 
persede McGillivray,  and  become  him- 
self the  chief  of  the  Creeks. 

Thus,  both  in  the  Southwest  and  the 
Northwest,  a  situation  existed  similar  to 
that  which  has  been  seen  in  Afghanistan, 
and  other  buffer  states,  where  in  recent 
times  Russia  and  England  have  contend- 
ed for  dominant  influence.  The  storm 
centre  rested  among  the  savages,  and  in 
the  Southwest,  as  in  the  Northwest,  a 
chance  spark  might  have  produced  a  war. 
Negotiations  were  transferred  to  Madrid, 
where  the  American  representatives  were 
cleverly  amused  by  the  Spanish  diplo- 
mats for  several  years.  By  the  close  of 
1792,  England  was  still  persistent  in  her 
support  of  the  Northwestern  Indians  by 
advice  of  resident  agents,  by  equipment 
in  arms,  and  by  her  retention  of  the  posts, 
and  Spain  was  as  impervious  as  ever  in 
the  Southwest.  The  conditions  aroused 
the  fears  of  the  government  that  these 
two  nations  had  a  common  understanding 
against  the  United  States. 

These  circumstances,  together  with  the 
uncertain  state  of  affairs  in  Europe, 
where  England  and  Spain  were  joining 
in  opposition  to  France,  led  Hamilton  in 
the  fall  of  1792  to  advocate  an  alliance 
with  England,  but  Washington  declared 
this  remedy  worse  than  the  disease.  Be- 
fore the  close  of  the  year,  however,  even 
Washington  came  reluctantly  to  the  con- 
clusion that  an  ally  might  be  needed, 
and  he  broached  to  Jefferson  the  idea  of 
a  closer  connection  with  France.  This 
met  with  eager  sympathy  from  the  Sec- 
retary of  State,  who  avowed  that  a  French 
alliance  was  his  polar  star.  It  is  hardly 
necessary  to  point  out  that  an  alliance 
with  any  European  power  at  this  juncture 
in  European  events  would  have  plunged 
us  in  the  state  system  of  the  Old  World, 
and  would  have  opened  the  Mississippi 
Valley  to  conquest  by  one  or  the  other 
of  these  powers.  Washington,  in  fact, 
adhered  to  neutrality,  which  was,  un- 
doubtedly, our  true  policy,  for  in  little 
more  than  a  decade  the  western  settlers 


became  strong  enough  to  insure  our  pos- 
session of  the  interior. 

While  the  American  government  con- 
sidered the  question  of  European  alli- 
ances, the  results  of  the  breaking  of  the 
family  compact  between  France  and 
Spain  were  making  themselves  manifest. 
It  is  a  significant  illustration  of  the  im- 
portance of  Spanish  America  in  the  di- 
plomacy of  the  period  of  the  French 
Revolution  that  one  of  the  early  efforts 
of  France  to  prevent  the  coalition  against 
her  was  an  attempt  to  detach  England 
by  an  offer  to  join  with  her  in  breaking 
the  power  of  Spain  in  the  New  World. 
The  rupture  of  the  family  compact  had 
left  France  free  to  prey  upon  the  spoils 
of  her  late  ally,  and  in  the  spring  and 
early  fall  of  1792  she  sent  two  successive 
missions  to  London,  in  which  Talleyrand 
served,  to  win  British  alliance  by  the 
offer  of  a  joint  attack  upon  the  colonial 
possessions  of  Spain.  The  emancipation 
of  these  colonies  would  give  their  com- 
merce to  England,  and  the  fact  that 
Miranda,  now  high  in  favor  in  France, 
had  already  furnished  Pitt  with  infor- 
mation that  Spanish  America  was  ripe 
for  revolt  must  have  added  temptation 
to  the  bait.  But  England,  alarmed  by 
the  fall  of  the  royal  power  in  France, 
was  in  no  mood  to  accept  that  nation  as 
a  partner  in  this  plan  of  exploitation,  and 
France  was  thrown  back  upon  the  United 
States.  Brissot  dominated  the  foreign 
policy  of  France  at  this  time.  He  had 
recently  traveled  in  the  United  States, 
was  acquainted  with  the  disaffection  in 
the  West,  believed  the  Alleghanies  a 
natural  boundary  to  the  United  States, 
and  knew  that  the  frontiersmen  were 
keenly  ready  to  attack  the  Spaniards  at 
the  mouth  of  their  great  river.  He 
reckoned  also  on  the  ability  of  France  to 
recall  to  their  old  allegiance  the  French 
population  of  Louisiana  and  Canada. 
The  French  leaders  seem  first  to  have 
determined  to  send  Miranda  as  governor 
to  San  Domingo,  whence  he  could  organ- 


The  Diplomatic   Contest  for  the  Mississippi    Valley.  685 


ize  an  expedition  against  Spanish  Amer- 
ica. "Once  masters  of  the  Dutch  ma- 
rine," wrote  Dumouriez,  "  we  shall  be 
able  to  crush  England,  particularly  by 
interesting  the  United  States  in  the  sup- 
port of  our  colonies,  and  in  executing  a 
supei'b  project  of  General  Miranda."  It 
was  indeed  a  vast  project,  combining  in 
a  single  system  the  movements  to  unite 
the  French  and  Dutch  fleets,  and  thus  to 
make  possible  a  sea  power  that  should 
enable  France,  aided  by  American  fron- 
tiersmen, to  attack  Spain's  colonial  em- 
pire, using  the  French  West  Indies  as  a 
base. 

If  the  United  States  would  cooperate 
in  freeing  Canada,  Louisiana,  and  Flor- 
ida, our  alliance  was  to  be  sought.  It 
was  hoped  that  at  the  worst  only  a  nomi- 
nal neutrality  would  be  declared,  and 
that  events  on  our  distant  frontier  would 
not  be  checked  by  the  government  of  the 
United  States.  The  French  ministers 
informed  Colonel  Smith,  the  son-in-law 
of  Vice  President  Adams,  that  they  in- 
tended to  begin  the  attack  at  the  mouth 
of  the  Mississippi,  and  to  sweep  along 
the  Bay  of  Mexico  southwardly,  and  that 
they  would  have  no  objection  to  our  in- 
corporating the  two  Floridas. 

Under  these  circumstances  France  de- 
termined to  send  Genet  as  minister  to 
this  country.  This  interesting  character 
had  represented  the  French  government 
in  Russia  with  so  much  enthusiasm  in 
the  opening  of  the  Revolution  that  the 
Empress  Catherine  dubbed  him  "un 
demagogue  enrage,"  and  in  the  summer 
of  1792  he  was  forced  to  leave  that  coun- 
try. His  instructions  required  him  to 
negotiate  a  new  treaty  with  the  United 
States,  which  should  consolidate  the  com- 
mercial and  political  interests  of  the  two 
nations,  and  establish  a  close  connection 
for  extending  the  empire  of  liberty.  Such 
a  compact,  it  was  stated,  "  would  conduce 
rapidly  to  freeing  Spanish  America,  to 
opening  the  navigation  of  the  Mississippi 
to  the  inhabitants  of  Kentucky,  to  de- 
livering our  ancient  brothers  of  Louis- 


iana from  the  tyrannical  yoke  of  Spain, 
and  perhaps  to  uniting  the  fair  star  of 
Canada  to  the  American  constellation." 
Genet  was  required  to  devote  himself  to 
convincing  the  Americans  of  the  feasi- 
bility of  these  vast  designs.  But  if  the 
United  States  should  take  a  wavering 
and  timid  course,  while  waiting  for  the 
government  to  make  common  cause  with 
France,  he  was  to  take  all  measures 
which  comported  with  his  position  to 
arouse  in  Louisiana,  and  in  the  other 
provinces  of  America  adjacent  to  the 
United  States,  the  principles  of  liberty 
and  independence.  Kentucky,  it  was 
pointed  out,  would  probably  second  his 
efforts,  without  compromising  Congress, 
and  he  was  authorized  to  send  agents 
there  and  to  Louisiana,  where  the  fires 
of  revolution  were  ready  to  break  out 
among  the  French  population. 

This  programme  of  revolutionary  pro- 
paganda was  reiterated  in  an  additional 
set  of  instructions,  when  the  approaching 
rupture  with  England  and  Spain  became 
evident.  Thus  the  French  government 
imposed  upon  Genet  the  duty  of  intrigue 
in  Kentucky  and  the  conquest  of  Louis- 
iana, not  as  a  minor  element  in  his  mis- 
sion, but  as  one  of  its  main  purposes,  — 
a  fact  which  has  been  ignored  in  the 
treatment  of  his  career  by  most  histo- 
rians. 

Hardly  had  this  new  representative 
of  France  reached  Charleston  early  in 
April,  1793,  when  he  began  his  negotia- 
tions for  the  proposed  expedition  against 
Florida  and  Louisiana.  He  found  Gov- 
ernor Moultrie  of  South  Carolina  friend- 
ly, for  this  state,  as  well  as  Georgia,  was 
suffering  from  the  hostility  of  the  Chero- 
kees  and  the  Creeks  on  her  frontiers, 
and  would  gladly  have  seen  the  Span- 
iards driven  from  the  Gulf  states  by  an 
alliance  with  France. 

Without  difficulty  Mangourit,  the 
French  consul  at  Charleston,  enlisted  the 
services  of  important  leaders.  In  order 
to  rally  the  Georgia  frontiersmen,  he  pro- 
cured the  cooperation  of  Samuel  Ham- 


686  The  Diplomatic   Contest  for  the  Mississippi    Valley. 


mond,  a  well-known  Georgian,  who  had 
taken  part  in  the  Revolution  as  a  colonel 
of  cavalry,  and  had  been  surveyor-gen- 
eral at  Savannah.  His  importance  is 
shown  by  the  fact  that  he  was  later  a 
member  of  Congress,  and  after  the  ac- 
quisition of  Louisiana  was  made  military 
and  civil  commandant  of  Upper  Louis- 
iana from  1805  to  1824.  While  Ham- 
mond was  to  gather  the  forces  of  interior 
Georgia  for  a  descent  upon  St.  Augus- 
tine, another  frontiersman,  William  Tate, 
who  afterwards  figured  in  a  French  ex- 
pedition to  Ireland,  was  to  organize  the 
backwoodsmen  of  the  Carolinas  for  a 
descent  upon  New  Orleans  by  way  of  the 
Tennessee  River  and  the  Mississippi. 

From  Charleston  Genet  proceeded  to 
Philadelphia,  where  he  found  himself 
the  hero  of  the  hour.  In  spite  of  Wash- 
ington's proclamation  of  neutrality,  is- 
sued on  the  22d  of  April,  the  masses  of 
the  American  people  were  strongly  in 
sympathy  with  the  young  French  Repub- 
lic, to  which  they  seemed  to  be  bound 
not  only  by  ties  of  gratitude,  but  also  by 
treaty  obligations,  and  by  the  bond  of 
sympathy  existing  between  sister  repub- 
lics. Jefferson  himself  regarded  the 
proclamation  as  pusillanimous.  Carried 
away  by  the  popular  enthusiasm  for  the 
French  cause,  Genet  quickly  determined 
to  proceed  with  high  hand,  being  confi- 
dent of  his  ability  to  secure  a  reversal 
of  the  majority  in  Congress  in  case  the 
administration  opposed  his  plans.  In 
Philadelphia  he  was  handed  by  his  pre- 
decessor a  letter  from  General  George 
Rogers  Clark  of  Kentucky,  written  at 
Louisville  early  in  February,  1793.  Clark 
had  fallen  into  intemperate  habits  at  this 
time.  He  had  previously  involved  him- 
self in  plans  for  a  filibustering  attack 
upon  the  Yazoo,  Virginia  had  rejected 
his  claims  for  Revolutionary  expenses, 
and  he  felt  that  the  United  States  had 
been  ungrateful  for  his  services  :  so  he 
offered  his  sword  to  France.  He  de- 
clared that  he  could  raise  fifteen  hundred 
men,  and  he  believed  that  the  French 


at  St.  Louis  and  throughout  the  rest  of 
Louisiana,  together  with  the  American 
subjects  at  the  Natchez,  would  flock  to 
his  standard.  With  the  first  fifteen  hun- 
dred, he  declared  that  he  could  take  all 
of  Louisiana  for  France,  beginning  at 
St.  Louis,  and  with  the  assistance  of  two 
or  three  frigates  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Mississippi,  he  would  engage  to  subdue 
New  Orleans  and  the  rest  of  Louisiana. 
"  If  farther  aided,"  said  he,  "  I  would 
capture  Pensacola ;  and  if  Santa  Fee 
and  the  rest  of  New  Mexico  were  ob- 
jects —  I  know  their  strength  and  every 
avenue  leading  to  them."  "  When  any 
opportunity  offered,  I  had  it  uniformly 
in  view,  to  give  a  vital  blow  to  the  Span- 
iards in  this  quarter."  Such,  in  brief, 
was  the  proposal,  apt  for  his  purposes, 
which  Genet  found  as  he  took  up  his 
work  in  Philadelphia  in  May. 

He  was  met  by  the  refusal  of  the  gov- 
ernment to  afford  him  funds  by  making 
an  advance  payment  on  our  debt  to 
France.  Finding  Washington  —  "  the 
old  Washington,"  as  he  called  him  —  in- 
flexible in  his  policy  of  strict  neutrality, 
Genet  turned  eagerly  to  the  programme 
of  revolution.  By  the  middle  of  June  he 
wrote  home  that  he  was  arming  Kentucky, 
and  preparing  a  general  insurrection  in 
the  provinces  adjoining  the  United  States. 
For  the  Kentucky  enterprise  he  selected, 
as  his  secret  agent,  Michaux,  a  French 
botanist,  whose  researches  in  tins'  field 
have  made  him  well  known.  Michaux 
had  been  picked  out  by  Jefferson  at  the 
beginning  of  this  year  to  lead  an  expe- 
dition across  the  continent  to  discover  a 
practicable  means  of  reaching  the  Pacific 
by  way  of  the  Missouri.  This  exploring 
expedition  now  served  as  a  useful  cloak 
for  Genet's  design.  Toward  the  close 
of  June  he  drew  up  instructions  for  Mi- 
chaux which  required  him  to  point  out  the 
probable  failure  of  the  negotiations  at- 
tempted between  Spain  and  the  United 
States  for  the  opening  of  the  Mississippi, 
and  the  desire  of  France  to  promote  the 
prosperity  of  Kentucky  by  giving  to  it 


The  Diplomatic   Contest  for  the  Mississippi   Valley.  687 


the  freedom  of  navigation  of  that  river. 
To  this  end  he  was  to  concert  plans  with 
General  Clark,  and  with  General  Benja- 
min Logan,  another  of  the  famous  pio- 
neer leaders  of  Kentucky.  Genet  had 
the  audacity  to  read  these  instructions 
to  Secretary  Jefferson  in  an  interview 
which  took  place  some  time  before  the 
5th  of  July,  1793.  He  gave  Jefferson 
the  impression  that  the  purpose  of  France 
was  to  establish  Louisiana  and  Florida 
as  free  republics,  commercially  allied 
with  both  the  United  States  and  France. 
Jefferson  called  his  attention  to  the  fact 
that  an  attempt  to  raise  an  army  of  citi- 
zens of  the  United  States  within  our  bor- 
ders would  violate  our  neutrality,  and 
would  result  in  the  punishment  of  the  of- 
fenders, but  he  added  that  if  this  diffi- 
culty were  avoided,  he  did  not  care  what 
insurrections  were  incited  in  New  Or- 
leans. Indeed,  Genet  in  his  own  account 
of  this  interview  declares  that  the  secre- 
tary went  further,  and  added  that  a  little 
spontaneous  invasion  would  promote  the 
interests  of  the  United  States.  This  was 
a  remarkable  conversation.  In  1790, 
Jefferson,  alarmed  at  the  prospect  of  an 
English  possession  of  New  Orleans,  had 
expressed  sentiments  which  showed  full 
realization  of  the  danger  to  American 
power  if  this  city  should  fall  into  the 
hands  of  a  strong  nation  ;  and  again, 
when  he  learned  in  1802  that  Louisiana 
had  been  ceded  to  Napoleon,  he  made  his 
famous  statement,  "  There  is  on  the  globe 
one  single  spot,  the  possessor  of  which  is 
our  natural  and  habitual  enemy.  It  is 
New  Orleans.  .  .  .  The  day  that  France 
takes  possession  of  New  Orleans  fixes  the 
sentence  that  is  to  restrain  her  within  her 
low  water  mark.  .  .  .  From  that  mo- 
ment we  must  marry  ourselves  to  the 
British  fleet  and  nation  .  .  .  holding 
the  two  continents  of  America  in  seques- 
tration for  the  common  purposes  of  the 
United  British  and  American  nations." 
How  happened  it  that  Jefferson,  so 
fierce  in  his  insistence  upon  the  impor- 
tance of  New  Orleans  to  the  United  States 


in  1802,  should  have  been  willing  to  see 
the  city  taken  by  an  expedition  of  Ameri- 
can frontiersmen  under  the  flag  of  France  ? 
In  answer  it  must  be  said  that  as  yet 
Jefferson  had  not  learned  to  distrust  the 
purposes  of  the  French  Republic.  He 
still  was  in  sympathy  with  its  fundamen- 
tal ideas,  and  believed  in  the  disinter- 
estedness of  its  crusade  in  behalf  of  lib- 
erty. In  the  second  place,  Genet  had 
put  the  proposition  before  him  as  that  of 
an  attempt  to  create  an  independent  re- 
public, not  to  make  a  French  acquisition. 
Moreover,  war  between  the  United  States 
and  Spain  seemed  inevitable  at  this  time. 
In  June  the  protests  of  the  Spanish 
agents  to  the  American  government  over 
its  attitude  were  so  vehement  that  it 
seemed  clear  that  war  upon  the  Creeks 
would  precipitate  hostilities  with  Spain, 
and  yet  their  depredations  upon  our  bor- 
der, and  the  need  of  supporting  the 
friendly  Chickasaws,  made  such  a  war  al- 
most a  necessity.  To  meet  the  exigency 
Washington  sent  a  special  messenger  in 
July  to  Madrid  to  explain  the  situation, 
and  to  secure  a  categorical  answer  from 
Spain  in  regard  to  her  pretensions  among 
the  Indians  within  our  limits,  and  as  to 
whether  she  would  regard  an  attack  upon 
the  Creeks  as  hostility  against  herself. 
Spain  evaded  an  answer,  and  the  Louis- 
iana authorities  redoubled  their  efforts 
to  consolidate  the  Indians  against  the 
United  States.  The  attitude  of  England 
in  the  Northwest,  as  we  have  seen,  gave 
strong  grounds  for  suspecting  that  she 
was  following  a  joint  policy  with  Spain. 
Acting  on  the  hint  already  received,  that 
France  might  consent  to  our  incorporat- 
ing the  Floridas,  Jefferson,  with  the  ap- 
proval of  Washington,  had,  in  the  spring 
of  this  year,  revised  his  original  proposi- 
tions, and  instructed  our  representative 
at  Madrid  not  to  give  a  guarantee  of  the 
Spanish  possessions  across  the  Missis- 
sippi in  return  for  the  cession  of  those 
on  the  eastern  side.  It  is  clear  that  he 
had  reached  the  conclusion  that  it  would 
be  for  the  interest  of  the  United  States 


688  The  Diplomatic  Contest  for  the  Mississip2)i   Valley. 


to  make  an  ally  of  France  in  the  expected 
war  against  Spain.  The  terms  of  the 
alliance  might  be  adjusted  later,  and  he 
doubtless  believed  that  if  once  the  Ameri- 
can frontiersmen  were  in  possession  of 
New  Orleans,  the  interests  of  the  United 
States  were  not  likely  to  suffer.  Jeffer- 
son therefore  committed  himself  to  the 
extent  of  giving  to  Michaux  a  letter  of 
introduction  to  the  governor  of  Ken- 
tucky, in  which  he  mentioned  that  Mi- 
chaux had  the  confidence  of  the  French 
Minister. 

After  this  interview,  Genet  pushed  his 
preparations  rapidly  forward.  He  sent 
to  George  Rogers  Clark  a  letter  accept- 
ing his  proposals  and  authorizing  him  to 
take  the  title  of  major-general  and  com- 
mander in  chief  of  the  independent  and 
revolutionary  legion  of  the  Mississippi, 
promising  him  further  to  use  his  influ- 
ence to  obtain  for  him  the  grade  of  field 
marshal  of  France.  On  July  12,  he 
defied  the  orders  of  the  United  States, 
and  allowed  the  Little  Democrat,  a  re- 
cently captured  vessel  whose  status  was 
in  dispute,  to  drop  down  the  Delaware 
and  go  to  sea.  In  this  action  he  was  the 
more  urgent  because  he  proposed  to  use 
her  to  blockade  the  Mississippi  in  sup- 
port of  Clark's  descent  of  the  river  upon 
New  Orleans.  Three  days  later  Michaux 
departed  to  initiate  the  expedition  in 
Kentucky. 

Genet's  high-handed  proceedings  and 
his  utterances,  which  were  construed  to 
threaten  an  appeal  from  Washington  to 
the  people,  made  the  Little  Democrat 
episode  the  turning-point  in  his  mission. 
He  lost  his  influential  friends,  and  the 
popular  sentiment  gradually  swung  away 
from  him.  But  his  activity  in  organizing 
his  secret  expedition  continued.  Shortly 
after  the  affair  of  the  Little  Democrat 
he  learned  of  the  arrival  of  a  French 
squadron  at  New  York,  and  determined 
to  use  this  naval  force  against  New- 
foundland, to  recapture  St.  Pierre  and 
Miquelon,  burn  Halifax,  then  feebly 
defended,  and  on  its  return,  to  send  it, 


after  the  October  winds  were  over, 
against  New  Orleans.  This  plan  was 
quickly  disclosed  both  to  the  Spanish  and 
English  authorities.  On  receiving  in- 
formation from  the  Spanish  representa- 
tives, Secretary  Jefferson  wrote  to  the 
governor  of  Kentucky  to  prevent  the 
expedition,  informing  him  that  it  was 
against  Kentucky's  real  interest  to  permit 
it.  The  preparations  in  Kentucky  dur- 
ing the  rest  of  the  year  were  hampered 
by  lack  of  money,  although  Clark  was 
collecting  supplies  and  boats,  and  offering 
inducements  to  volunteers.  In  October, 
Genet  prepared  to  hasten  the  departure 
of  the  fleet  in  two  divisions :  one  to  Can- 
ada, whither  he  was  sending  his  emis- 
saries to  stir  up  the  French  people,  and 
the  other  to  take  on  board  the  Georgia 
troops  for  the  conquest  of  Florida.  At 
the  same  time  he  sent  a  delegation  of 
Frenchmen  to  Kentucky  to  arouse  the 
democratic  societies  in  the  West,  and 
to  assist  in  organizing  the  Mississippi 
expedition.  One  of  these  Frenchmen 
proved  a  traitor,  and  divulged  this  phase 
of  the  scheme  to  the  Spanish  agents. 
The  United  States  made  prompt  pro- 
visions to  restrain  it,  ordering  the  use 
of  force  if  necessary.  Governor  Shelby 
of  Kentucky,  however,  anxious  to  stim- 
ulate the  interest  of  the  government  in 
securing  the  freedom  of  the  river,  alarmed 
the  Federal  authorities  by  replying  that 
he  doubted  his  legal  right  to  prevent 
men  from  emigrating  from  Kentucky 
with  arms  in  their  hands,  and  the  west- 
ern societies  drew  up  vigorous  memorials 
denouncing  the  indifference  of  the  gov- 
ernment to  their  rights. 

Carondelet  was  in  despair.  He  warned 
his  government  that  upper  Louisiana 
would  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy 
under  Clark,  and  if  an  attack  on  New 
Orleans  by  the  fleet  occurred,  all  Louis- 
iana would  succumb  with  the  greatest 
ease  and  rapidity.  The  total  force  avail- 
able for  the  defense  of  the  colony  amount- 
ed to  only  1620  men,  stretched  out  over 
600  leagues  of  river  navigation.  The 


The  Diplomatic   Contest  for  the  Mississippi    Valley.  689 


New  Orleans  Frenchmen  were  ready  to 
join  the  invaders,  and  if  Walnut  Hills 
(Vicksburg)  and  Natchez  were  taken,  he 
declared,  "  I  shall  have  no  other  re- 
source than  an  honorable  surrender,  or 
to  perish  in  defense  of  the  redout  of  San 
Carlos  with  my  regular  troops."  He 
added  that  he  did  not  doubt  the  success 
of  the  enemy  in  marching  upon  Santa  F^. 
Sending  urgent  demands  to  Spain  for  re- 
inforcements, in  desperation  he  also  wrote 
to  the  English  in  Canada  asking  succor. 

On  February  10,  1794,  the  Canadian 
governor,  Lord  Dorchester,  believing 
war  between  England  and  the  United 
States  at  hand,  had  issued  his  proclama- 
tion to  the  Indians,  telling  them  that  he 
expected  that  the  boundary  between  them 
and  the  United  States  would  have  to 
be  drawn  by  the  warriors.  Carondelet's 
letter  begging  English  aid  reached  Lieu- 
tenant-Governor  Simcoe  at  Miami  Rapids 
in  April,  whither  the  latter  had  advanced 
his  forces  to  meet  the  expected  attack 
by  General  Wayne.  To  the  overtures  of 
the  Spanish  officer  Simcoe  gave  a  sym- 
pathetic answer,  regretting  that  his  own 
situation  prevented  him  from  detaching 
troops  for  the  support  of  St.  Louis,  but 
inclosing  Dorchester's  speech  as  evidence 
of  England's  attitude. 

Finding  difficulty  in  using  the  French 
fleet,  Genet  had  postponed  the  attack 
until  spring.  As  yet  George  Rogers 
Clark  had  not  brought  an  army  into  the 
field,  excepting  a  company  which  guarded 
the  mouth  of  the  Ohio,  but  later  he  re- 
ported that  he  could  have  gotten  as  many 
men  as  he  chose.  In  the  Charleston  re- 
gion recruiting  had  been  checked  by  the 
resolutions  of  the  South  Carolina  As- 
sembly in  December  against  the  expedi- 
tion (the  Southern  planters  were  alarmed 
by  the  French  incitement  of  negro  in- 
surrection in  San  Domingo),  but  Tate 
professed  himself  ready  to  move  in  the 
spring  down  the  Tennessee  with  2000 
Carolina  frontiersmen,  and  Hammond 
expected  1500  Georgians  to  rendezvous 
for  the  capture  of  St.  Augustine  in  con- 

VOL.  xciu.  —  NO.  559.  44 


cert  with  the  French  fleet  in  the  middle 
of  March.  The  French  agents  were  also 
negotiating  treaties  with  the  Creeks  and 
Cherokees,  the  ancient  allies  of  France. 
Making  liberal  allowances  for  the  exag- 
geration of  the  frontier  leaders,  success 
seemed  possible  in  the  southern  region. 
But,  at  the  moment  of  hope,  Genet's 
career  was  cut  short,  and  the  affair  ter- 
minated by  the  arrival  of  a  new  minister, 
Fauchet,  with  instructions  to  terminate 
the  expedition.  This  he  did  by  his  pro- 
clamation, issued  March  6,  1794. 

In  order  to  understand  this  turn  in 
events,  we  must  briefly  recall  the  situa- 
tion in  France.  Hardly  had  Genet 
reached  Philadelphia  at  the  beginning 
of  his  mission,  when  his  friends,  the 
Girondist  party,  fell,  and  the  reign  of 
terror  under  the  Mountain  began.  That 
awful  summer,  with  civil  war,  military 
reverses,  and  a  dozen  countries  in  arms 
against  France,  was  no  time  for  conquest 
in  another  hemisphere,  even  if  the  Jaco- 
bins had  desired  to  support  the  minister. 
But  Genet  was  denounced  by  Robespierre 
as  one  of  the  Girondists,  and  France  lent 
a  ready  ear  to  the  demands  of  Washing- 
ton for  his  recall.  Genet's  arrest  was 
therefore  ordered,  and  instructions  given 
to  terminate  the  expedition. 

By  conniving  at  the  designs  of  France, 
Washington  could  have  made  the  expe- 
dition a  success,  but  his  consistent  policy 
of  neutrality,  which  constituted  a  land- 
mark in  the  history  of  international  law 
on  this  subject,  had  saved  the  nation 
from  war  under  French  leadership,  and 
from  the  loss  of  the  Mississippi  Valley. 

Hardly  had  the  French  danger  passed, 
when  we  were  on  the  eve  of  a  conflict 
with  England.  The  threatening  attitude 
of  that  country  in  the  Northwest,  while 
Wayne's  preparations  against  the  Indi- 
ans were  in  progress,  has  already  been 
referred  to.  Suspecting  that  we  were  to 
unite  with  France,  the  English  officials 
prepared  to  resist  an  attack.  As  soon 
as  the  American  government  learned 


690  The  Diplomatic   Contest  for  the  Mississippi   Valley. 


of  Simcoe's  threatening  advance  toward 
Wayne's  forces,  the  Secretary  of  State 
informed  the  British  representative  that 
his  act  was  hostility  itself.  At  the  same 
time,  England's  aggressions  on  our  neu- 
tral commerce  had  become  intolerable. 
Preparations  were  hurriedly  made  for 
war;  Congress  passed  laws  calling  out 
troops,  laid  an  embargo  on  English 
goods,  and  provided  for  the  fortification 
of  American  harbors.  In  the  summer 
of  1794,  General  Wayne  faced  the  sav- 
ages under  the  guns  of  the  British  fort 
at  Miami  Rapids,  and  in  the  decisive 
battle  of  Fallen  Timbers  he  crushed  the 
Indian  power  of  the  Northwest.  The 
British  commander  promptly  addressed 
an  inquiry  to  General  Wayne,  demand- 
ing to  know  his  purpose  in  making  such 
near  approaches  to  the  garrison,  and  the 
taunting  reply  of  "  Mad  Anthony  "  was 
that  "  the  most  full  and  satisfactory  an- 
swer was  announced  from  the  muzzles 
of  my  small  arms  yesterday  morning  in 
the  action  against  the  heard  of  Savages 
in  the  vicinity  of  your  Post ;  which  ter- 
minated gloriously  to  the  American  arms 
—  but  had  it  continued  until  the  Indians, 
etc.,  were  drove  under  the  influence  of 
the  Post  and  Guns  you  mention  —  they 
would  not  much  have  impeded  the  pro- 
gress of  the  Victorious  army  under  my 
control."  To  this  fiery  challenge  the 
commander  of  the  British  wrote  a  mod- 
erate letter  avowing  his  anxiety  to  pre- 
vent a  war  which  might  be  approved  by 
neither  of  the  governments.  He  re- 
fused to  abandon  the  post,  and  declared 
that  a  further  approach  within  reach  of 
his  cannon  was  impossible  "  without  ex- 
pecting the  consequences  attending  it." 
Wayne  reconnoitred  the  fort  in  all 
points,  quite  in  sight,  covered  by  his 
light  infantry  and  riflemen,  and  the 
British  commander  wrote  to  his  govern- 
ment :  "  It  was  extremely  insolent,  but 
he  will  never  do  it  again  with  impunity." 
Finally,  failing  to  precipitate  hostilities 
by  the  British,  Wayne  withdrew  his 
troops.  Thus  narrowly  was  war  averted 


at  this  critical  time  when  it  needed  but 
a  spark  applied  to  the  cannon  of  this 
fort  to  precipitate  a  conflict  which  would 
have  involved  the  Mississippi  Valley. 
But  Washington  had  before  this  deter- 
mined upon  a  final  effort  to  preserve  the 
peace,  and  had  sent  Chief  Justice  Jay  to 
make  a  treaty  with  England.  The  close 
of  1794  (November  19)  was  marked  by 
the  success  of  Jay's  mission.  The  Brit- 
ish agreed  to  evacuate  the  posts,  and,  in 
1795,  Wayne  forced  the  Northwestern 
Indians  to  a  treaty  by  which  they  yielded 
the  larger  portion  of  the  present  state 
of  Ohio,  and  abandoned  their  effort  to 
make  the  Ohio  River  a  barrier  to  the 
advance  of  civilization.  Thus  matters 
were  in  train  for  our  acquisition  of  the 
Northwest. 

In  the  Southwest,  also,  the  sudden  con- 
cession of  our  rights  by  Spain  after  a  de- 
cade of  steadfast  refusal  was  as  dramatic 
as  it  was  significant.  Godoy,  the  Prime 
Minister,  had  for  the  past  two  years  been 
reading  the  alarming  dispatches  of  Ca- 
rondelet,  exhibiting  the  weakness  of  Lou- 
isiana, the  danger  of  the  advance  of 
American  settlement,  and  the  menace  of 
French  invasion.  Writing  of  the  settle- 
ment of  the  lands  beyond  the  Alleghany 
Mountains,  Carondelet  declared  :  — 

"This  vast  and  restless  population, 
progressively  driving  the  Indian  tribes 
before  them  and  upon  us,  seek  to  pos- 
sess themselves  of  all  the  extensive  re- 
gions which  the  Indians  occupy  between 
the  Ohio  and  Mississippi  rivers,  the 
Gulf  of  Mexico,  and  the  Appalachian 
Mountains,  thus  becoming  our  neighbors, 
at  the  same  time  that  they  menacingly 
ask  for  the  free  navigation  of  the  Missis- 
sippi. If  they  achieve  their  object,  their 
ambitions  would  not  be  confined  to  this 
side  of  the  Mississippi.  Their  writings, 
public  papers,  and  speeches,  all  turn  on 
this  point,  the  free  navigation  of  the 
Gulf  by  the  rivers  .  .  .  which  empty 
into  it,  the  rich  fur-trade  of  the  Missouri, 
and  in  time  the  possession  of  the  rich 
mines  of  the  interior  provinces  of  the 


The  Diplomatic   Contest  for  the  Mississippi    Valley.  691 


very  Kingdom  of  Mexico.  Their  mode 
of  growth  and  their  policy  are  as  for- 
midable for  Spain  as  their  armies.  .  .  . 
Their  roving  spirit  and  the  readiness 
with  which  they  procure  sustenance  and 
shelter  facilitate  rapid  settlement.  A 
rifle  and  a  little  corn  meal  in  a  bag  are 
enough  for  an  American  wandering 
alone  in  the  woods  for  a  month.  .  .  . 
With  logs  crossed  upon  each  other  he 
makes  a  house,  and  even  an  impregna- 
ble fort  against  the  Indians.  .  .  .  Cold 
does  not  terrify  him,  and  when  a  family 
wearies  of  one  place,  it  moves  to  another 
and  settles  there  with  the  same  ease. 

"  If  such  men  come  to  occupy  the 
banks  of  the  Mississippi  and  Missouri, 
or  secure  their  navigation,  doubtless  no- 
thing will  prevent  them  from  crossing 
and  penetrating  into  our  provinces  on 
the  other  side,  which,  being  to  a  great 
extent  unoccupied,  can  oppose  no  re- 
sistance. But  even  if  this  were  not  the 
case,  who  could  warrant  that  the  few 
inhabitants  would  not  unite  with  joy 
and  eagerness  with  the  men  who  offered 
them  aid  and  protection  in  securing  in- 
dependence, self-government,  and  self- 
taxation,  and  who  flatter  them  with  the 
spirit  of  liberty,  the  hope  of  free,  exten- 
sive, and  lucrative  commerce,  etc.  In  my 
opinion,  a  general  revolution  in  America 
threatens  Spain  unless  the  remedy  be  ap- 
plied promptly." 

Convinced  that  Spain  must  have  peace, 
Godoy,  in  the  summer  of  1795,  made  the 
treaty  of  Bale  with  France,  which  gained 
for  him  the  title  of  Prince  of  Peace. 
This  brought  Spain  under  the  influence 
of  France  during  the  rest  of  the  period 
which  we  are  to  consider.  When  Thomas 
Pinckney  arrived  as  minister  from  the 
United  States,  Godoy  suggested  to  him 
the  desirability  of  an  alliance  between 
Spain,  France,  and  the  United  States ; 
but  Pinckney  was  not  diverted  from  the 


main  theme.  While  the  negotiations 
went  on,  the  news  of  the  successful  ter- 
mination of  Jay's  mission  to  England 
reached  Spain.  After  submitting  to  the 
delays  as  long  as  he  deemed  it  profita- 
ble, Pinckney  suddenly  announced  that 
he  was  about  to  leave  Madrid  for  Lon- 
don, and  asked  Godoy  if  he  had  any 
commissions  for  him.  This  veiled  threat 
was  interpreted  as  implying  an  offensive 
arrangement  between  England  and  the 
United  States,  leveled  against  Spain's 
colonies.  Godoy  had  no  desire  to  place 
Spain  at  the  mercy  of  France  with  two 
such  enemies  on  the  borders  of  Louisi- 
ana. Within  three  days  he  agreed  to 
the  treaty  of  San  Lorenzo,  October  27, 
1795,  whereby  Spain  conceded  our  south- 
western boundaries  and  the  freedom  of 
navigation  of  the  Mississippi,  and  agreed 
to  evacuate  the  ports  within  our  limits  on 
the  eastern  bank  of  the  river. 

Thus,  toward  the  close  of  Washing- 
ton's administration,  changed  conditions 
brought  about  new  combinations  and  in- 
trigues among  the  European  nations  for 
controlling  the  destiny  of  the  Mississippi 
Valley.  In  appearance  the  United  States 
had  gained  control  of  the  river.  But 
the  victorious  French  Republic  tried  to 
dominate  the  policy  of  its  dependent 
Spanish  ally  after  1795,  and  under  the 
plea  of  protecting  her  remaining  Amer- 
ican empire  against  the  expanding  forces 
of  the  United  States,  demanded  of  Spain 
the  cession  of  Louisiana  and  the  Flor- 
idas.  Convinced  that  the  United  States 
had  fallen  under  English  control,  France 
considered  a  war  with  the  United  States 
as  not  unlikely,  and  laid  plans  for  acquir- 
ing the  lands  between  the  Alleghanies 
and  the  Mississippi,  as  well  as  Louisiana 
and  the  Floridas.  The  development  of 
these  forces  until  they  result  in  the  Louis- 
iana Purchase  will  be  the  subject  of  a 
second  paper. 

Frederick  J.  Turner. 


(To  be  continued.) 


692 


The  Judge. 


THE  JUDGE. 


THE  Judge  rode  slowly  up  the  valley 
of  the  Kennebec  on  his  way  to  County 
Court  at  Norridgewock.  There  were 
not  wanting  stagecoaches  between  the 
state  capital  and  his  destination,  and 
in  the  stable  of  his  sumptuous  home, 
in  the  suburbs  of  Maine's  largest  city, 
were  coach  and  pair  far  more  in  keep- 
ing with  the  judicial  dignity  than  the 
sturdy  bay  beneath  him  and  the  worn 
saddlebags  which  formed  a  part  of  his 
modest  equipment.  Legal  gentlemen 
whom  the  Judge  encountered  in  his 
journey  surveyed  him  with  surprise  not 
unmingled  with  disapproval.  Had  he 
not  been  chosen  from  among  themselves 
to  uphold  with  dignity  the  legal  majesty 
and  honor  of  the  whole  state?  Yet 
here  he  was,  traveling  like  a  country 
lawyer,  without  attendant,  and  in  mud- 
spattered  raiment. 

The  Judge,  unconscious  of  criticism, 
rode  on  in  humility  of  spirit  such  as  he 
had  not  known  in  the  three  years  he  had 
sat  upon  the  judicial  bench.  Not  politi- 
cal preference,  but  personal  integrity 
joined  with  brilliancy  of  mind,  had  won 
for  him  the  highest  honors  in  his  state's 
bestowal,  and  Judge  Preston  had  ac- 
cepted them  as  a  call  to  higher  duties, 
yet  with  unbiased  recognition  of  his 
own  worth.  To-day,  riding  leisurely 
along  the  fragrant  valley,  with  the  wide 
river  glistening  upon  his  right,  and 
rounded  hills  of  pasture,  field,  and  wood- 
land rising  above  him  on  the  left,  he 
questioned  for  the  first  time  his  fitness 
for  the  high  position.  The  Judge  was 
on  his  way  to  hold  court  for  the  first 
time  in  his  native  county.  He  glanced 
downward  at  himself,  as  the  bay  horse, 
with  drooping  head,  climbed  the  long 
hill,  from  the  summit  of  which  the  vil- 
lage of  Bloomfield  would  be  visible,  and 
hastily  removed  his  riding  gloves,  while 
the  reins  lay  loosely  upon  the  horse's 
neck.  "I  should  n't  want  them  to  feel 


I  had  grown  stuck  up, "  the  Judge  as- 
sured himself,  falling  unconsciously  into 
the  vernacular  of  his  younger  days.  He 
put  the  gloves  on  again  in  a  moment; 
for  the  white  hand,  with  its  finger  ring 
of  gold,  bore  no  resemblance  to  the 
sturdy  brown  fist  which  had  been  wont 
to  hold  the  plough  or  hoe  handle  for 
hours  of  each  summer  morning,  before 
its  owner  walked  cheerily  along  this 
same  road  to  study  at  Bloomfield  Acad- 
emy. Indeed,  the  hand  emphasized 
far  more  forcibly  than  did  the  glove 
the  change  which  years  had  brought. 
The  Judge  sighed,  but  lifted  his  head  a 
moment  later  to  recall,  with  boyish  en- 
thusiasm long  unknown,  a  woodchuck 
hole  in  yonder  wall,  and  hastily  repelled 
an  inclination  to  dismount.  His  eyes, 
grown  keen  in  long  study  of  human 
faces,  rested  upon  the  blossoming  or- 
chard beyond  the  wall,  passing  over  the 
"cider  apple  trees  "  nearest  the  road  to 
the  well-remembered  "summer  sweet- 
ings "  farther  on.  The  Judge's  mouth 
watered.  "I  wish  it  was  three  months 
later, "  he  declared  to  his  bay  horse  with 
unjudicial  fervor. 

He  drew  rein  for  a  moment  on  the 
summit.  The  village  had  grown  half- 
way up  the  hills ;  one  church  spire  was 
missing  from  the  old  common,  while 
two,  which  were  strangers  to  the  Judge, 
pointed  heavenward  from  the  Island. 
Columns  of  smoke  marked  the  enter- 
prises which  had  changed  the  quiet 
country  village  of  his  remembrance  to 
a  bustling  manufacturing  town.  The 
Judge  remembered,  with  a  homesick 
pang,  that  old  Bloomfield  was  Bloom- 
field  no  longer,  but  had  become  merged 
in  one  with  its  sister  town  across  the 
river,  under  another  name.  "I  won't 
stop  here  an  hour,"  he  determined  with 
resentment  quite  foreign  to  the  calm 
brain,  whose  freedom  from  emotional 
qualities  was  believed  by  his  colleagues 


The  Judge. 


693 


to  be  the  secret  of  Judge  Preston's  un- 
erring judgment.  Stiffly  erect  he  rode 
down  the  long  hill  into  the  village,  but 
resentment  softened  into  retrospection 
as  he  went. 

There  was  the  old  mill  by  Courrier 
Brook,  where  a  barefoot  boy  upon  a 
gaunt  white  horse  had  gone  with  grist ; 
and  beyond  it  the  shady  river  bank, 
where  a  student  had  sat  with  lunch  and 
books  through  the  sunny  hour  of  noon. 
He  stopped  his  horse  before  a  square 
building,  the  second  story  of  which  had 
once  been  the  public  hall.  From  its  cob- 
webbed  windows  notes  from  long  past 
singing-schools  seemed  to  echo.  The 
Judge  looked  slowly  up  to  its  roof  in 
some  disappointment.  "  I  thought  it 
was  higher, "  he  said  in  a  puzzled  tone. 

A  low  room  over  the  village  cobbler's 
shop  had  been  his  first  law  office.  The 
whole  building,  it  appeared,  was  now  oc- 
cupied as  a  dwelling,  and  a  pile  of  bed- 
ding protruded  from  the  window,  behind 
which  he  had  sat  in  delicious  idleness, 
all  unappreciated  in  those  days,  wait- 
ing for  clients. 

Faces  from  open  doorways  and  upon 
the  street  surveyed  the  traveler  with 
mild  curiosity,  but  without  sign  of  re- 
cognition. Upon  some  of  them  the 
Judge  thoughtfully  traced  family  re- 
semblances to  former  townsmen,  and 
struggled  with  his  mental  arithmetic 
to  determine  whether  they  might  be 
acquaintances  of  his  youth  or  another 
generation  who  knew  him  not.  He 
stopped  suddenly  before  a  low  brown 
house  where  a  gray-haired  man  was 
sawing  wood  in  a  spiritless  manner. 
"That's  Hiram  Jennings!"  decided 
the  Judge  without  hesitation.  "  I 
should  have  known  him  anywhere." 
But  when  the  sawyer,  with  an  air  of  one 
quite  willing  to  delay  his  work,  came 
toward  the  gate,  the  Judge,  embarrassed, 
turned  his  head  aside,  and  humbly  in- 
quired the  way  to  Norridgewock,  over  a 
road  which  he  and  Hiram  Jennings  had 
traveled  side  by  side  upon  many  a  youth- 
ful excursion.  He  rode  on  thoughtfully. 


The  wood  sawyer  had  been  the  only 
pupil  who  outranked  himself  at  the 
Academy,  whose  brick  walls  shone 
through  the  foliage  on  yonder  hill. 
"  He  seems  satisfied  enough, "  the  Judge 
assured  himself.  "  Maybe  he  's  never 
realized  any  difference,  and  I  should  n't 
want  to  be  the  one  to  remind  him  of  it 
now  that  it  's  years  too  late." 

The  village  was  behind  him  now,  and 
spires  of  the  county  seat  five  miles  be- 
yond rose  among  the  hills.  The  Judge 
stopped  by  a  watering-trough  in  the 
cool  shadow  of  the  woodland  and  looked 
absently  about  him.  A  moment  later 
he  dismounted  with  a  half-guilty  air; 
there  was  no  one  in  sight,  —  even  the 
bay  horse,  with  nose  buried  deeply  in  the 
clear  water,  was  intent  upon  his  own 
refreshment.  Judge  Preston  sat  upon 
a  mossy  knoll  while  his  white  fingers 
searched  eagerly  among  the  leaves,  and 
forgot  for  a  moment  all  his  hardly 
acquired  stores  of  legal  knowledge  as 
he  tasted  "young  iv'ries  "  for  the  first 
time  in  thirty  years.  There  was  a 
crimson  Benjamin  in  the  buttonhole  of 
his  coat  as  he  rose  to  mount  his  horse 
again.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  he 
heard  the  sound  of  voices  at  a  little  dis- 
tance, and  caught,  behind  a  screen  of 
birch  trees,  the  flutter  of  a  muslin  dress. 
A  tall  young  man  approached  him  bash- 
fully, drawing  with  him  a  seemingly 
reluctant  maiden,  whose  cheeks  rivaled 
the  pink  roses  in  her  summer  bonnet. 

"  I  did  n't  know  but  what  you  might 
be  a  lawyer, "  the  young  man  explained. 

Judge  Preston  assented.  "Why, 
yes,  I  suppose  I  am  —  a  kind  of  law- 
yer,"  he  said. 

"Lawyer  enough  to  marry  folks?  " 
persisted  the  youth  eagerly,  while  the 
girl's  color  deepened. 

"Oh  yes, "  the  Judge  responded  read- 
ily. It  was  exactly  a  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury since  he  first  performed  a  marriage 
ceremony  in  the  low-ceiled  office  down 
yonder,  but  it  seemed  like  yesterday  as 
he  recalled  it.  The  girl  had  had 
pink  cheeks  and  a  summer  dress  like 


694 


The  Judge. 


this  one.  Looking  closer,  he  observed 
that  this  one,  too,  had  been  crying,  and 
wondered  if  it  were  an  emotion  com- 
mon to  brides.  The  Judge  himself  had 
never  married. 

"You  see,"  the  bridegroom  said  in 
a  confidential  tone,  "we  walked  out  to 
the  Falls  this  afternoon  to  get  the  thing 
fixed  up.  But  Elder  Hook  was  down 
with  measles,  which  we  ain't  neither  of 
us  ever  had,  and  the  Baptist  minister  'd 
gone  to  Augusty  to  tend  a  funeral, — 
some  connection  of  his,  I  understood. 
Wa'n't  it,  Miny?" 

"His  wife's  cousin,"  supplemented 
the  bride.  "He  died  with  fever  real 
sudden  they  said." 

"I  wish't  he  'd  waited,"  declared 
the  young  man  regretfully.  "We 
thought  of  goin'  to  Squire  Clark,  but 
he  tried  a  lawsuit  against  Miny's  fa- 
ther once,  and  besides,  havin'  made  up 
our  minds  to  a  religious  weddin',  we 
could  n't  seem  to  bring  'em  down  to 
a  legal  one." 

"I  see,"  said  the  Judge  thought- 
fully. The  maiden  wiped  her  eyes. 

"She's  all  tired  out,"  the  bride- 
groom explained.  "  We  ought  to  rode, 
but  my  gray  colt  was  lame,  and  both 
our  folks  was  ploughin'.  Miny  would 
n't  minded  the  walk  commonly,  but  she 
set  up  late  last  night  to  finish  her  dress, 
and  stood  to  the  cake-board  all  the 
mornin'  rollin'  pie-crust  and  mixin' 
dough  for  a  little  kind  of  house  warm- 
in'  we  was  goin'  to  have  to-night.  The 
fuss  and  furbelows  that  goes  with  gettin' 
married  nowadays  is  terrible  wearin'  on 
womenfolks.  Well,  we  got  back  here, 
and  she  was  so  tired  what  with  the  dis- 
appointment and  all,  we  stopped  to  rest. 
And  it  kind  of  come  over  us  that  here 
we  'd  had  all  that  walk  for  nothin',  and 
notellin'  when  it  could  come  off,  for  they 
said  Elder  Tyler  might  stop  over  to 
visit  a  spell;  and  here  we  wa'n't  mar- 
ried after  all,  and  all  that  stuff  cooked 
up,  and  the  folks  invited,  to  say  nothin' 
of  a  grass  stain  on  Miny's  dress,  which 
could  n't  never  be  bran  span  new  again. 


'T  wa'n't  any  wonder  she  could  n't  help 
but  cry,  and  though  she  wa'n't  blamin' 
me,  you  know  how  it  is,  Squire,  when 
a  woman  cries,  —  a  man  feels  as  if  he 
was  all  to  blame.  We  was  both  wish- 
in'  we  'd  let  Lawyer  Clark  have  the 
job  in  spite  of  the  lawsuit.  Then  you 
come.  You  looked  so  kind  of  human 
settin'  there  eatin'  young  iv'ries  that 
I  says  to  Miny,  says  I,  '  That  's  our 
chance.  He  's  a  lawyer  on  his  way  to 
court,  which  sets  to-morrow,'  says  I." 
He  drew  a  folded  paper  from  his  pocket. 
"  Will  you  marry  us,  Squire  ?  " 

The  Judge  considered,  running  his 
eyes  over  the  document,  which  assured 
him  that  no  impediment  existed  to  a 
union  between  John  Strong  and  Elmina 
Foster. 

"The  lack  of  witnesses  seems  to  be 
the  only  objection,"  he  said. 

The  bridegroom's  face  fell.  "  I 
forgot  that,"  he  said.  "Tom  Hicks 
and  Luella  Savage  went  with  us,  but 
when  they  found  it  wa'n't  comin'  off 
they  did  n't  feel  like  wastin'  the  whole 
afternoon,  so  they  went  off  pleasurin'  on 
their  own  account  with  peanuts  and 
lemonade  for  treat.  Well,  that  spoils 
it  all,  and  I  guess  we  might  's  well  give 
up  for  this  time." 

Elmina  put  away  her  handkerchief, 
smoothed  down  her  dress,  and  adjusted 
the  lace  ties  of  her  bonnet.  "Nimrod 
Weston  and  his  brother  was  pullin' 
stumps  in  the  next  field  when  we  come 
down,"  she  suggested  shyly. 

They  walked  along  the  smooth  wood- 
land road,  the  Judge  following  the  pair 
with  the  bay  horse's  bridle  across  his 
arm. 

"It  won't  be  a  religious  weddin', 
after  all, "  John  Strong  suggested  doubt- 
fully. "You  're  sure  you  ain't  goin'  to 
mind  that  when  it  's  too  late,  Miny?  " 

Miny  cast  an  appealing  look  toward 
the  Judge.  "You  don't  ever  make  a 
prayer  when  you  —  marry  folks  —  do 
you  ?  "  she  asked. 

Judge  Preston  hesitated;  the  legal 
world  would  not  have  called  him  a 


The  Judge. 


695 


praying  man,  and  the  substantial  check 
he  gave  each  year  to  the  support  of 
a  city  church  was  believed  to  throw 
all  burden  of  his  spiritual  development 
upon  his  pastor.  Still,  he  reflected,  he 
had  never  yet  joined  two  undying  souls 
in  the  bonds  of  matrimony  without 
feeling  himself  an  humble  instrument 
in  the  hands  of  the  Almighty.  "We  '11 
see,"  he  said  whimsically.  "Out  here 
in  the  Temple  of  Nature  it  may  be  the 
Creator  is  near  enough  to  hear  even  a 
lawyer's  prayer."  He  stopped  in  the 
road  a  moment  later,  as  vigorous  shouts 
indicated  that  the  witnesses  they  sought 
were  near  at  hand.  Habitual  reserve 
suddenly  overcame  Judge  Preston. 
"We  need  not  detain  your  neighbors 
from  their  work  for  that  part  of  it," 
he  explained.  "  Let  us  have  the  prayer 
first. 

"0 Lord, "he  prayed,  standing  bare- 
headed in  the  shadow  of  an  aged  pine 
tree,  "bless  this  couple  waiting  now 
before  thy  judgment  seat.  May  they 
live  their  earthly  life  in  unselfish  de- 
votion one  to  the  other,  training  their 
descendants  to  righteous  living  and  good 
citizenship,  at  peace  with  their  neigh- 
bors, and  in  fear  of  Thee.  Let  the  union 
about  to  be  consummated  be  not  for 
time,  but  for  eternity.  Amen." 

The  Weston  brothers  cheerfully  left 
their  ropes  and  oxen  to  lean  blackened 
hands  upon  the  stone  wall.  Nimrod's 
admiring  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Elmina's 
face  as  she  stood  by  the  roadside  beneath 
a  wild  cherry  tree  in  full  bloom,  but 
the  brother,  with  increasing  respect, 
studied  Judge  Preston's  face.  It  was 
not  until  the  ceremony  was  over,  and  the 
Judge,  having  received  the  proffered  fee 
only  to  slip  it  into  the  bride's  hand 
with  a  gold  piece  from  his  own  pocket, 
had  ridden  on  his  way,  that  the  elder 
Weston  turned  to  the  newly  married 
pair. 

"You  're  a  modest  couple,  you 
two,"  he  said  derisively.  "The  best 
ain't  none  too  good  for  yer.  That  was 
Judge  Preston,  that  was.  I  saw  him 


oncet  when  I  was  workin'  in  a  saw  mill 
down  to  Bangor,  and  a  feller  that  got 
killed  sued  for  damages,  — leastways 
his  folks  did,  —  and  I  '11  stump  any 
man  that 's  seen  Judge  Preston  oncet 
not  to  know  him  again." 

John  Strong  looked  after  the  cloud 
of  dust  with  crestfallen  face.  "  I  guess 
he  thinks  we  're  cheeky,"  he  said. 

Elmina  serenely  polished  the  gold 
piece  with  her  handkerchief.  "There 
has  n't  any  of  the  girls  I  know  ever 
been  married  by  a  judge,"  she  said 
with  satisfaction.  "And  nobody  can 
say  it  was  n't  a  religious  weddin', 
either,  for  there  is  n't  a  minister  in 
Somerset  County  could  have  made  a 
better  prayer." 

The  Judge  rode  on.  Long  afternoon 
shadows  were  beginning  to  rest  upon  the 
landscape,  bringing  the  traveler  plea- 
sant reminder  that  the  end  of  his  jour- 
ney was  near  at  hand.  His  wandering 
attention  fixed  itself  again  upon  mat- 
ters professional,  as  he  wondered  just 
what  work  awaited  him  in  the  old  court- 
house across  the  river  where  he  had  tried 
and  won  his  first  case.  The  bay  horse 
shied  suddenly,  and  the  Judge  looked 
down  at  a  small  boy  industriously  dig- 
ging by  the  wayside.  "Dandelion 
greens, "  he  remarked  with  inspired  re- 
collection. "I  believe  I  should  like 
some  for  supper." 

Ten  cents  for  the  greens  and  twenty- 
five  for  the  pail  which  held  them  effect- 
ed a  purchase,  and  a  little  later  the  law- 
yers of  the  county,  who  had  already 
arrived  at  the  Norridgewock  Hotel, 
stared  in  amazement  as  the  travel- 
stained  Judge  rode  up  to  the  door,  bear- 
ing his  supper  upon  the  saddle  before 
him. 

"You  needn't  have  brought  provi- 
sions, "  the  offended  landlady  remarked. 
"There  's  stewed  chicken  and  pound 
cake  for  supper,  and  roasts  in  plenty  for 
to-morrow. " 

The  Judge  looked  penitent.  "  Mad- 
am," he  said,  "the  fame  of  your  house 


696 


The  Judge. 


is  too  widespread  to  allow  a  doubt  of 
its  abundance.  But  I  have  n't  tasted 
dandelion  greens  for  twenty  years." 

It  was,  perhaps,  a  fortunate  circum- 
stance for  Judge  Preston  that  the  first 
cases  brought  before  him  were  suits 
which  included  some  intricate  problems 
of  legal  rights  and  demanded  his  close 
attention,  for  he  found  himself,  even 
while  losing  no  word  of  testimony  or 
plea,  absently  assigning  the  jury  to  va- 
rious families  of  the  region.  And  the 
prosecuting  attorney  conceived  a  life- 
long prejudice  when  the  Judge  smiled 
broadly  in  the  midst  of  his  most  elo- 
quent plea,  never  dreaming  that  the 
smile  was  occasioned  by  the  memory  of 
a  practical  joke  which  the  "boys  "  of 
Bloomfield  had  once  played  upon  the 
maternal  grandfather  of  the  jury's  fore- 
man. 

When  the  first  criminal  trial  began, 
the  Judge  awoke  from  absent-minded 
retrospection  to  vivid  interest  in  the 
proceedings.  His  keen  eyes  missed  no 
varying  expression  upon  the  face  of  wit- 
ness or  attorney,  and  the  prisoner,  a 
young  man  of  twenty,  became  the  object 
of  his  thoughtful  scrutiny.  More  than 
once  he  interrupted  a  witness  with  an 
irrelevant  personal  inquiry  as  to  his  an- 
cestry or  family  connection. 

The  prisoner,  on  the  testimony  of  two 
eyewitnesses,  was  easily  proved  guilty 
of  repeated  thefts  from  a  neighbor's 
granary ;  his  attorney  made  a  weak  and 
faltering  defense,  which  did  as  much  to 
convict  his  client  as  the  opposing  law- 
yer's triumphant  prosecution. 

Judge  Preston  arose  to  give  his 
charge  to  the  jury,  his  eyes  resting 
thoughtfully  upon  the  prisoner.  "  Young 
man,"  he  asked,  "was  n't  your  father 
Ezekiel  Meecham  who  married  Maria 
Comstock?  " 

The  prisoner  nodded  sullenly. 

"Gentlemen  of  the  jury,"  contin- 
ued the  Judge,  "you  know  the  prisoner's 
ancestry.  You  know  the  Comstocks 
were  honest  enough,  but  too  shiftless  to 
cook  the  food  the  neighbors  gave  them, 


and  you  know  that  the  Meechams  as  a 
family  possessed  an  unusual  and  most 
singular  combination  of  qualities  which 
would  lead  them  to  steal  anything  they 
could  get  their  hands  on,  while  at  the 
same  time  they  would  n't  tell  a  lie  to 
save  their  lives." 

The  audience  looked  interested. 
There  were  emphatic  nods  of  agree- 
ment throughout  the  room.  The  Judge 
turned  to  the  prisoner. 

"Young  man,"  he  said  again,  "you 
have  pleaded  not  guilty  as  a  legal  tech- 
nicality and  by  advice  of  your  counsel. 
Now  tell  me  the  truth.  Did  you  com- 
mit these  thefts,  or  did  you  not  ?  " 

The  prisoner  hesitated.  "I  took  some 
popcorn  —  once, "  he  admitted,  with  an 
anxiou sglancetowardhis counsel .  "We 
was  havin'  a  bonfire  on  the  Island,  and 
't  was  too  fur  to  go  home.  But  I  never 
went  again,  nor  took  another  thing,  I 
don't  care  what  they  say." 

"I  believe  you,"  replied  Judge  Pres- 
ton, adding,  as  the  boy  took  his  seat, 
"Of  course,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  I 
do  not  advise  you  to  acquit  the  prisoner 
of  later  charges  upon  his  own  testimony. 
Neither  do  I  expect  that  you  will  con- 
vict him  on  the  testimony  we  have  heard, 
without  taking  into  consideration  the 
well-known  fact  that  Charles  M.  Fin- 
ley's  grandfather  was  a  great  man  to 
jump  at  conclusions,  and  the  Gateses  as 
a  family  were  so  near  of  sight  that  they 
could  n't  be  depended  upon  to  tell  a 
colt  from  a  calf  at  ten  rods'  distance 
in  broad  daylight,  not  to  mention  moon- 
light. The  charge  against  the  prisoner 
is  for  breaking  and  entering,  which  of- 
fense he  has  by  his  own  confession  once 
committed.  It  is  your  manifest  duty 
to  find  him  guilty,  remembering,  while 
you  do  not  countenance  the  practice, 
that  the  boys  of  Somerset  County  have 
been  accustomed  to  make  free  with 
their  neighbors'  popcorn  and  sweet  ap- 
ples from  the  time  we  ourselves  were 
boys." 

Fifteen  minutes  later  the  foreman  of 
the  jury  arose  to  give  the  verdict.  "We 


The  Judge. 


697 


find  the  prisoner  guilty  of  the  popcorn 
just  as  he  says, "  he  announced,  "but 
not  of  the  oats  and  corn  that  was  missed 
afterwards.  We  figure  that  a  family 
that  never  owned  a  hoss  would  n't  have 
no  use  for  oats,  and  the  Judge's  charge 
was  n't  necessary  to  remind  us  that  no 
descendant  of  the  Comstocks  was  n't 
likely  to  steal  corn  which  had  got  to  be 
shelled." 

The  Judge  beamed  with  approval 
upon  the  jury,  then  addressed  himself 
to  the  audience. 

"I  suppose  you  are  all  thinking," 
he  said  slowly,  "that  there  isn't  much 
hope  for  a  young  man  made  up  of  Corn- 
stock  and  Meecham  in  equal  parts,  and 
he  might  as  well  be  in  jail  where  he 
can't  steal  as  out  of  jail  where  he  's  li- 
able to.  You  may  be  right.  But  you 
will  remember,  as  I  do,  that  Ezekiel 
Meecham 's  maternal  gtandfather  was 
an  honorable  and  God-fearing  man,  and 
as  I  have  watched  the  prisoner  these 
last  two  days  his  resemblance  to  that 
ancestor  has  grown  upon  me.  I  believe 
there  's  the  making  of  a  good  citizen 
in  him,  and  the  state  can't  afford  to  lose 
it  by  fixing  the  jail-mark  upon  him  at 
his  age.  Therefore,  instead  of  senten- 
cing him  to  a  term  of  imprisonment,  I 
condemn  him  to  pay  one  hundred  dol- 
lars fine  and  the  costs  of  this  trial,  and 
to  be  committed  to  jail  until  such  fine 
is  paid." 

"It  practically  amounts  to  imprison- 
ment for  life,"  the  sheriff  declared, 
lingering  in  the  room  after  court  ad- 
journed for  the  day.  "No  Meecham 
livin'  ever  saw  a  hundred  dollars  all  to 
once."  But  the  Judge,  standing  erect 
and  dignified  by  the  clerk's  desk,  was 
counting  crisp  bills  from  a  well-filled 
pocketbook. 

"I  have  paid  your  fine, "  he  explained 
a  moment  later  to  the  embarrassed  but 
grateful  prisoner.  "One  hundred  and 
thirty-eight  dollars  in  all.  You  can 
repay  me  at  your  leisure." 

Ruel  Meecham  flushed  angrily  at  the 
laugh  which  arose.  "I  hope  to  die  if 


I  don't  pay  it,"  he  declared.      "You 
fellows  just  wait  and  see." 

There  was  no  lack  of  dignity  upon 
Judge  Preston's  part  as  he  sat  in  the 
judicial  seat  listening  to  the  last  case 
of  the  term.  The  fragrance  of  lilacs 
and  early  roses  floated  through  the  open 
window,  and  the  blue  river,  only  a  few 
yards  distant,  was  filled  with  a  surging 
mass  of  brown  logs,  which  indicated  that 
"  the  drive  "  had  reached  Norridgewock. 
But  neither  beauty  of  nature  nor  the 
skillful  gymnastics  of  red-shirted  river 
drivers  had  power  to  distract  the  Judge's 
attention  from  his  work.  The  court- 
room was  crowded,  for  the  case  of  Deb- 
orah B.  Gilman  against  Lysander  R. 
Gilman  had  attracted  wide  attention, 
and  the  sympathy  of  the  whole  county 
round  about  was  divided  between  the 
nervous  little  woman  suing  for  divorce, 
after  a  quarter  century  of  married  life, 
and  the  bluff,  hard-handed  farmer  who 
admitted  in  aggrieved  tone  that  he 
shared  his  wife's  desire  for  separation, 
but  "did  n't  want  it  made  to  look  as 
if  he  was  the  only  one  to  blame." 

It  was  an  old  story.  Judge  Preston 
in  his  legal  career  had  heard  it  many 
times  before.  An  overworked,  colorless 
life  for  the  woman,  ending  in  irritated 
nerves  and  fretful  complaining,  which 
aroused  the  man  to  indignant  retalia- 
tion. "Incompatibility  of  tempera- 
ment "  was  the  plea  advanced  by  the 
youthful  attorney  of  the  wife.  The 
jury  had  been  dismissed,  and  their  places 
were  crowded  with  interested  spectators. 
The  wife's  relatives  upon  one  side  of 
the  room  glared  at  the  husband's  fam- 
ily connections  upon  the  other.  Judge 
Preston  listened  without  question  or 
comment  to  long  examinations  and  cross- 
examinations  of  neighbors,  relatives, 
and  friends.  Deborah  Gilman,  it  ap- 
peared from  the  testimony  her  counsel 
introduced,  had  turned  her  dresses  and 
re-trimmed  her  bonnets,  growing  shab- 
bier each  year ;  had  discontinued  neigh- 
borly visits  because  "  the  team  "  was 
always  needed  for  farm  work ;  had 


698 


The  Judge. 


cheerfully  donated  butter  and  egg 
money  to  the  purchase  of  new  farming- 
tools,  and  performed  her  housework  all 
"by  hand,"  while  her  husband  rejoiced 
in  labor-saving  implements  for  out-of- 
door  work.  The  principal  witness  in 
her  behalf  was  the  hired  man,  a  loqua- 
cious individual,  with  oiled  hair  and  a 
red  necktie. 

"  I  never  see  a  woman  have  a  harder 
time,"  Seth  Jackson  declared.  "He 
wa'n't  never  willin'  for  her  to  go  no- 
where nor  have  no  thin '. "  When  pressed 
for  more  specific  information  Seth's  tes- 
timony was  largely  interspersed  with  "I 
told  hers  "  and  "said  she  to  mes." 

Lysander  Oilman  sat  with  crimson 
face,  and  eyes  fixed  upon  the  floor,  dur- 
ing the  long  recital  of  his  wife's  wrongs. 
The  plaintiff  sobbed  hysterically.  "  It  '& 
worse  'n  I  thought  come  to  tell  it  out 
in  court,"  she  declared. 

When  the  defense  opened  Lysander 
Oilman  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief, 
and  as  it  proceeded  his  head  became 
more  erect.  "Lysander  never  had  new 
clothes,  neither,"  a  neighbor  declared. 
"Lots  of  times  he  coaxed  her  to  go  to 
the  Grange,  and  she  would  n't,  because 
she  'd  rather  stay  to  home  and  hook 
rugs.  She  was  hookin'  from  mornin' 
till  night  when  she  could  get  a  minute, 
and  a  good  part  of  the  egg  money  she 
spent  for  colorin'  stuff.  All  the  money 
they  saved  was  put  in  the  bank  in  her 
name.  Mebbe  they  ain't  lived  very 
peaceful  together,  but  Deborah  's  just 
as  much  to  blame  as  Lysander." 

Judge  Preston  offered  no  comment 
when,  as  principal  witness  for  the  de- 
fense, Seth  Jackson  was  called.  Seth, 
bent  upon  doing  his  full  duty  in  every 
relation  of  life,  made  quite  as  strong 
a  witness  for  the  defendant's  cause  as 
he  had  for  the  plaintiff. 

"She  never  give  him  a  pleasant 
word  from  mornin'  till  night,"  he  as- 
serted. "Naggin'  and  twittin',  which 
is  worse  'n  downright  scoldin'.  Many  's 
the  time  I  've  said  to  him,  'I  would  n't 
stand  it,'  says  I." 


The  late  afternoon  sun  streamed 
through  elm  branches  into  the  dusty 
courtroom  as,  testimony  and  pleas  con- 
cluded, Judge  Preston  rose  in  his  place. 

"You  may  have  shown,"  he  said 
addressing  the  two  counsel,  "  abundant 
reason  why  the  law  should  grant  divorce 
to  the  two  petitioners  now  before  this 
tribunal.  But  it  is  an  impossible  peti- 
tion for  this  Court  to  grant.  I  married 
this  couple  myself  down  in  Bloomfield 
just  twenty-five  years  ago.  I  married 
them  good  and  strong  in  the  fear  of  the 
Lord,  and  in  the  presence  of  two  relia- 
ble witnesses,  both  of  whom  are  here 
present  to-day.  I  did  n't  marry  them 
for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  or  a  half  of 
a  century,  but  for  whatsoever  time  of 
mortal  life  should  be  given,  until  death 
did  them  part.  What  God  and  Eben- 
ezer  Preston  have  joined  together,  Eb- 
enezer  Preston,  alone  and  single-hand- 
ed, is  n't  going  to  put  asunder. 

"Lysander  Oilman  and  Deborah  Gil- 
man  stand  up, "  the  Judge  demanded. 
The  two  rose  uncertainly  in  their 
places ;  neither  looked  toward  the 
other.  "Join  hands,"  the  Judge  con- 
tinued sternly.  There  was  a  moment's 
hesitation,  then  the  two  came  nearer 
together,  and  Deborah's  thin  fingers 
slipped  nervously  into  Lysander 's  sun- 
burned palm.  "I  sentence  you  both," 
declared  the  Judge,  "to  go  back  to 
your  home  and  live  the  remainder  of 
your  lives  in  peace  and  affection  one 
towards  the  other.  Lysander,  as  you 
go  through  Bloomfield  village,  you  stop 
and  buy  your  wife  a  white  bonnet  with 
pink  roses.  It  may  not  be  the  height 
of  fashion  for  women  of  her  age  to-day, 
but  it  's  what  she  needs.  And  then  you 
buy  a  pound  of  peppermints  such  as  you 
had  in  your  pocket  on  your  wedding 
day,  and  you  two  eat  every  one  of  them 
on  the  way  out  home.  Deborah,  you  go 
home  and  make  hot  biscuit  for  supper, 
and  to-morrow  morning  you  put  away 
that  rug-hook  forevermore.  Hereafter, 
when  your  housework  is  done,  and 
there  's  nowhere  to  go,  you  sit  out  un- 


Fishing  with  a    Worm. 


699 


der  the  trees  and  read,  or  work  in  the 
flower-garden.  But,  first  of  all,  and 
before  you  leave  this  room,  Lysander, 
you  discharge  that  hired  man." 

The  Judge  rode  down  the  valley  next 
morning  in  the  same  humility  of  spirit 
in  which  he  had  come.  His  eyes  rested 
thoughtfully  on  the  low  windows  of  his 
first  office  as  he  passed  swiftly  through 
his  native  town. 


"They  think  that  earthly  prominence 
means  increase  of  power, "  he  mused. 
"  But  I  have  lived  to  learn  that  it  means 
only  increased  responsibility.  Well, 
Hiram  Jennings  has  finished  that  wood- 
pile. I  wonder  which  of  us  finds  the 
greater  satisfaction  in  the  completion 
of  his  task.  I  should  n't  wonder  if  it 
were  he  —  that  wood  is  well  worked 
up." 

Harriet  A.  Nash. 


FISHING   WITH  A  WORM. 


"  The  last  fish  I  caught  was  with  a  worm." 
—  IZAAK  WALTON. 

A  DEFECTIVE  logic  is  the  born  fisher- 
man's portion.  He  is  a  pattern  of  in- 
consistency. He  does  the  things  which 
he  ought  not  to  do,  and  he  leaves  undone 
the  things  which  other  people  think  he 
ought  to  do.  He  observes  the  wind 
when  he  should  be  sowing,  and  he  re- 
gards the  clouds,  with  temptation  tug- 
ging familiarly  at  his  heartstrings,  when 
he  might  be  grasping  the  useful  sickle. 
It  is  a  wonder  that  there  is  so  much 
health  in  him.  A  sorrowing  political 
economist  remarked  to  me  in  early  boy- 
hood, as  a  jolly  red-bearded  neighbor, 
followed  by  an  abnormally  fat  dog, 
sauntered  past  us  for  his  nooning  : 
"  That  man  is  the  best  carpenter  in 
town,  but  he  will  leave  the  most  impor- 
tant job  whenever  he  wants  to  go  fish- 
ing." I  stared  at  the  sinful  carpenter, 
who  swung  along  leisurely  in  the  May 
sunshine,  keeping  just  ahead  of  his  dog. 
To  leave  one's  job  in  order  to  go  fishing ! 
How  illogical ! 

Years  bring  the  reconciling  mind. 
The  world  grows  big  enough  to  include 
within  its  scheme  both  the  instructive 
political  economist  and  the  truant  me- 
chanic. But  that  trick  of  truly  logical 
behavior  seems  harder  to  the  man  than 
to  the  child.  For  example,  I  climbed 


up  to  my  den  under  the  eaves  last  night 
—  a  sour,  black  sea-fog  lying  all  about, 
and  the  December  sleet  crackling  against 
the  window-panes  —  in  order  to  varnish 
a  certain  fly-rod.  Now  rods  ought  to  be 
put  in  order  in  September,  when  the 
fishing  closes,  or  else  in  April,  when  it 
opens.  To  varnish  a  rod  in  December 
proves  that  one  possesses  either  a  dila- 
tory or  a  childishly  anticipatory  mind. 
But  before  uncorking  the  varnish  bottle, 
it  occurred  to  me  to  examine  a  dog- 
eared, water-stained  fly-book,  to  guard 
against  the  ravages  of  possible  moths. 
This  interlude  proved  fatal  to  the  var- 
nishing. A  half  hour  went  happily  by 
in  rearranging  the  flies.  Then,  with  a 
fisherman's  lack  of  sequence,  as  I  picked 
out  here  and  there  a  plain  snell-hook 
from  the  gaudy  feathered  ones,  I  said 
to  myself  with  a  generous  glow  at  the 
heart :  "  Fly-fishing  has  had  enough  sa- 
cred poets  celebrating  it  already.  Is  n't 
there  a  good  deal  to  be  said,  after  all, 
for  fishing  with  a  worm  ?  " 

Could  there  be  a  more  illogical  pro- 
ceeding ?  And  here  follows  the  trea- 
tise, —  a  Defense  of  Results,  an  Apology 
for  Opportunism,  —  conceived  in  agree- 
able procrastination,  devoted  to  the 
praise  of  the  inconsequential  angleworm, 
and  dedicated  to  a  childish  memory  of  a 
whistling  carpenter  and  his  fat  dog. 


700 


Fishing  with  a    Worm. 


Let  us  face  the  worst  at  the  very  be- 
ginning. It  shall  be  a  shameless  exam- 
ple of  fishing  under  conditions  that  make 
the  fly  a  mockery.  Take  the  Taylor 
Brook,  "  between  the  roads,"  on  the 
headwaters  of  the  Lamoille.  The  place 
is  a  jungle.  The  swamp  maples  and 
cedars  were  felled  a  generation  ago,  and 
the  tops  were  trimmed  into  the  brook. 
The  alders  and  moosewood  are  higher 
than  your  head  ;  on  every  tiny  knoll  the 
fir  balsams  have  gained  a  footing,  and 
creep  down,  impenetrable,  to  the  edge  of 
the  water.  In  the  open  spaces  the  Joe- 
Pye  weed  swarms.  In  two  minutes  after 
leaving  the  upper  road  you  have  scared 
a  mink  or  a  rabbit,  and  you  have  prob- 
ably lost  the  brook.  Listen !  It  is  only 
a  gurgle  here,  droning  along,  smooth 
and  dark,  under  the  tangle  of  cedar-tops 
and  the  shadow  of  the  balsams.  Fol- 
low the  sound  cautiously.  There,  be- 
yond the  Joe-Pye  weed,  and  between  the 
stump  and  the  cedar-top,  is  a  hand's- 
breadth  of  black  water.  Fly-casting  is 
impossible  in  this  maze  of  dead  and  liv- 
ing branches.  Shorten  your  line  to  two 
feet,  or  even  less,  bait  your  hook  with  a 
worm,  and  drop  it  gingerly  into  that 
gurgling  crevice  of  water.  Before  it 
has  sunk  six  inches,  if  there  is  not  one 
of  those  black-backed,  orange-bellied, 
Taylor  Brook  trout  fighting  with  it, 
something  is  wrong  with  your  worm  or 
with  you.  For  the  trout  are  always 
there,  sheltered  by  the  brushwood  that 
makes  this  half  mile  of  fishing  "not 
worth  while."  Below  the  lower  road 
the  Taylor  Brook  becomes  uncertain 
water.  For  half  a  mile  it  yields  only 
fingerlings,  for  no  explainable  reason  ; 
then  there  are  two  miles  of  clean  fishing 
through  the  deep  woods,  where  the 
branches  are  so  high  that  you  can  cast 
a  fly  again  if  you  like,  and  there  are 
long  pools,  where  now  and  then  a  heavy 
fish  will  rise ;  then  comes  a  final  half 
mile  through  the  alders,  where  you  must 
wade,  knee  to  waist  deep,  before  you 
come  to  the  bridge  and  the  river.  Glo- 


rious fishing  is  sometimes  to  be  had 
here,  —  especially  if  you  work  down  the 
gorge  at  twilight,  casting  a  white  miller 
until  it  is  too  dark  to  see.  But  alas, 
there  is  a  well-worn  path  along  the 
brook,  and  often  enough  there  are  the 
very  footprints  of  the  "  fellow  ahead  of 
you,"  signs  as  disheartening  to  the  fish- 
erman as  ever  were  the  footprints  on 
the  sand  to  Robinson  Crusoe. 

But  "  between  the  roads  "  it  is  "  too 
much  trouble  to  fish  ;  "  and  there  lies 
the  salvation  of  the  humble  fisherman 
who  disdains  not  to  use  the  crawling 
worm,  nor,  for  that  matter,  to  crawl  him- 
self, if  need  be,  in  order  to  sneak  under 
the  boughs  of  some  overhanging  cedar 
that  casts  a  perpetual  shadow  upon  the 
sleepy  brook.  Lying  here  at  full  length, 
with  no  elbow-room  to  manage  the  rod, 
you  must  occasionally  even  unjoint  your 
tip,  and  fish  with  that,  using  but  a  dozen 
inches  of  line,  and  not  letting  so  much  as 
your  eyebrows  show  above  the  bank. 
Is  it  a  becoming  attitude  for  a  middle- 
aged  citizen  of  the  world  ?  That  de- 
pends upon  how  the  fish  are  biting. 
Holing  a  put  looks  rather  ridiculous  also, 
to  the  mere  observer,  but  it  requires, 
like  brook-fishing  with  a  tip  only,  a  very 
delicate  wrist,  perfect  tactile  sense,  and 
a  fine  disregard  of  appearances. 

There  are  some  fishermen  who  always 
fish  as  if  they  were  being  photographed. 
The  Taylor  Brook  "  between  the  roads  " 
is  not  for  them.  To  fish  it  at  all  is  back- 
breaking,  trouser-tearing  work ;  to  see  it 
thoroughly  fished  is  to  learn  new  lessons 
in  the  art  of  angling.  To  watch  R.,  for  ex- 
ample, steadily  filling  his  six-pound  creel 
from  that  unlikely  stream  is  like  watching 
Sargent  paint  a  portrait.  R.  weighs  two 
hundred  and  ten.  Twenty  years  ago  he 
was  a  famous  amateur  pitcher,  and  among 
his  present  avocations  are  violin  playing, 
which  is  good  for  the  wrist,  taxidermy, 
which  is  good  for  the  eye,  and  shooting 
woodcock,  which  before  the  days  of  the 
new  Nature  Study  used  to  be  thought 
good  for  the  whole  man.  R.  began  as  a 


Fishing  with  a    Worm. 


701 


fly-fisherman,  but  by  dint  of  passing  his 
summers  near  brooks  where  fly-fishing  is 
impossible,  he  has  become  a  stout-hearted 
apologist  for  the  worm.  His  apparatus 
is  most  singular.  It  consists  of  a  very 
long,  cheap  rod,  stout  enough  to  smash 
through  bushes,  and  with  the  stiffest  tip 
obtainable.  The  lower  end  of  the  butt, 
below  the  reel,  fits  into  the  socket  of  a 
huge  extra  butt  of  bamboo,  which  R. 
carries  unconcernedly.  To  reach  a  dis- 
tant hole,  or  to  fish  the  lower  end  of  a 
ripple,  R.  simply  locks  his  reel,  slips  on 
the  extra  butt,  and  there  is  a  fourteen- 
foot  rod  ready  for  action.  He  fishes  with 
a  line  unbelievably  short,  and  a  Kendal 
hook  far  too  big ;  and  when  a  trout  jumps 
for  that  hook,  R.  wastes  no  time  in  ma- 
noeuvring for  position.  The  unlucky  fish 
is  simply  "  derricked,"  —  to  borrow  a 
word  from  Theodore,  most  saturnine  and 
profane  of  Moosehead  guides. 

"  Shall  I  play  him  awhile  ?  "  shouted 
an  excited  sportsman  to  Theodore,  after 
hooking  his  first  big  trout. 

" no !  "  growled  Theodore  in  dis- 
gust. "Just  derrick  him  right  into  the 
canoe ! "  A  heroic  method,  surely  ; 
though  it  once  cost  me  the  best  square- 
tail  I  ever  hooked,  for  Theodore  had 
forgotten  the  landing-net,  and  the  gut 
broke  in  his  fingers  as  he  tried  to  swing 
the  fish  aboard.  But  with  these  lively 
quarter-pounders  of  the  Taylor  Brook, 
derricking  is  a  safer  procedure.  Indeed, 
I  have  sat  dejectedly  on  the  far  end  of  a 
log,  after  fishing  the  hole  under  it  in 
vain,  and  seen  the  mighty  R.  wade  down- 
stream close  behind  me,  adjust  that  com- 
ical extra  butt,  and  jerk  a  couple  of  half- 
pound  trout  from  under  the  very  log  on 
which  I  was  sitting.  His  device  on 
this  occasion,  as  I  well  remember,  was 
to  pass  his  hook  but  once  through  the 
middle  of  a  big  worm,  let  the  worm  sink 
to  the  bottom,  and  crawl  along  it  at  his 
leisure.  The  trout  could  not  resist. 

Once,  and  once  only,  have  I  come 
near  equaling  R.'s  record,  and  the  way 
he  beat  me  then  is  the  justification  for  a 


whole  philosophy  of  worm-fishing.  We 
were  on  this  very  Taylor  Brook,  and  at 
five  in  the  afternoon  both  baskets  were 
two  thirds  full.  By  count  I  had  just  one 
more  fish  than  he.  It  was  raining  hard. 
"  You  fish  down  through  the  alders," 
said  R.  magnanimously.  "I '11  cut  across 
and  wait  for  you  at  the  saw  mill.  I 
don't  want  to  get  any  wetter,  on  account 
of  my  rheumatism." 

This  was  rather  barefaced  kindness, 
—  for  whose  rheumatism  was  ever  the 
worse  for  another  hour's  fishing  ?  But 
I  weakly  accepted  it.  I  coveted  three 
or  four  good  trout  to  top  off  with,  — 
that  was  all.  So  I  tied  on  a  couple  of 
flies,  and  began  to  fish  the  alders,  wad- 
ing waist  deep  in  the  rapidly  rising  wa- 
ter, down  the  long  green  tunnel  under 
the  curving  boughs.  The  brook  fairly 
smoked  with  the  rain,  by  this  time,  but 
when  did  one  fail  to  get  at  least  three  or 
four  trout  out  of  this  best  half  mile  of 
the  lower  brook  ?  Yet  I  had  no  luck. 
I  tried  one  fly  after  another,  and  then, 
as  a  forlorn  hope,  —  though  it  sometimes 
has  a  magic  of  its  own,  —  I  combined  a 
brown  hackle  for  the  tail  fly  with  a  twist- 
ing worm  on  the  dropper.  Not  a  rise ! 
I  thought  of  R.  sitting  patiently  in  the 
saw  mill,  and  I  fished  more  conscientious- 
ly than  ever. 

Venture  as  warily,  use  the  same  skill, 

Do  your  best,  whether  winning  or  losing  it, 

If  you  choose  to  play !  —  is  my  principle. 

Even  those  lines,  which  by  some  subtle 
telepathy  of  the  trout  brook  murmur 
themselves  over  and  over  to  me  in  the 
waning  hours  of  an  unlucky  day,  brought 
now  no  consolation.  There  was  simply 
not  one  fish  to  be  had,  to  any  fly  in  the 
book,  out  of  that  long,  drenching,  dark- 
ening tunnel.  At  last  I  climbed  out  of 
the  brook,  by  the  bridge.  R.  was  sit- 
ting on  the  fence,  his  neck  and  ears  care- 
fully turtled  under  his  coat  collar,  the 
smoke  rising  and  the  rain  dripping  from 
the  inverted  bowl  of  his  pipe.  He  did 
not  seem  to  be  worrying  about  his  rheu- 
matism. 


702 


Fishing  with  a    Woiin. 


«'  What  luck  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  None  at  all,"  I  answered  morosely. 
"  Sorry  to  keep  you  waiting." 

"  That 's  all  right,"  remarked  R. 
"  What  do  you  think  I  've  been  doing  ? 
I've  been  fishing  out  of  the  saw-mill 
window  just  to  kill  time.  There  was  a 
patch  of  floating  sawdust  there,  —  kind 
of  unlikely  place  for»trout,  anyway,  — but 
I  thought  I  'd  put  on  a  worm  and  let  him 
crawl  around  a  little."  He  opened  his 
creel  as  he  spoke. 

"  But  I  did  n't  look  for  a  pair  of  'em," 
he  added.  And  there,  on  top  of  his  small- 
er fish,  were  as  pretty  a  pair  of  three- 
quarter-pound  brook  trout  as  were  ever 
basketed. 

"  I  'm  afraid  you  got  pretty  wet,"  said 
E.  kindly. 

"I  don't  mind  that,"  I  replied.  And 
I  did  n't.  What  I  minded  was  the 
thought  of  an  hour's  vain  wading  in  that 
roaring  stream,  whipping  it  with  fly 
after  fly,  while  R.,  the  fore-ordained 
fisherman,  was  sitting  comfortably  in  a 
saw  mill,  and  derricking  that  pair  of 
three-quarter-pounders  in  through  the 
window  !  I  had  ventured  more  warily 
than  he,  and  used,  if  not  the  same  skill, 
at  least  the  best  skill  at  my  command. 
My  conscience  was  clear,  but  so  was  his  ; 
and  he  had  had  the  drier  skin  and  the 
greater  magnanimity  and  the  biggest 
fish  besides.  There  is  much  to  be  said, 
in  a  world  like  ours,  for  taking  the  world 
as  you  find  it  and  for  fishing  with  a 
worm. 

One's  memories  of  such  fishing,  how- 
ever agreeable  they  may  be,  are  not  to 
be  identified  with  a  defense  of  the  prac- 
tice. Yet,  after  all,  the  most  effective 
defense  of  worm-fishing  is  the  concrete 
recollection  of  some  brook  that  could  be 
fished  best  or  only  in  that  way,  or  the 
image  of  a  particular  trout  that  yielded 
to  the  temptation  of  an  angleworm  af- 
ter you  had  flicked  fly  after  fly  over  him 
in  vain.  Indeed,  half  the  zest  of  brook 
fishing  is  in  your  campaign  for  "  indi- 


viduals," —  as  the  Salvation  Army  work- 
ers say,  —  not  merely  for  a  basketful  of 
fish  qua  fish,  but  for  a  series  of  individ- 
ual trout  which  your  instinct  tells  you 
ought  to  lurk  under  that  log  or  be  hov- 
ering in  that  ripple.  How  to  get  him, 
by  some  sportsmanlike  process,  is  the 
question.  If  he  will  rise  to  some  fly  in 
your  book,  few  fishermen  will  deny  that 
the  fly  is  the  more  pleasurable  weapon. 
Dainty,  luring,  beautiful  toy,  light  as 
thistle-down,  falling  where  you  will  it  to 
fall,  holding  when  the  leader  tightens 
and  sings  like  the  string  of  a  violin,  the 
artificial  fly  represents  the  poetry  of  an- 
gling. Given  the  gleam  of  early  morn- 
ing on  some  wide  water,  a  heavy  trout 
breaking  the  surface  as  he  curves  and 
plunges,  with  the  fly  holding  well,  with 
the  right  sort  of  rod  in  your  fingers,  and 
the  right  man  in  the  other  end  of  the 
canoe,  and  you  perceive  how  easy  is 
that  Emersonian  trick  of  making  the 
pomp  of  emperors  ridiculous. 

But  angling's  honest  prose,  as  repre- 
sented by  the  lowly  worm,  has  also  its 
exalted  moments.  "  The  last  fish  I 
caught  was  with  a  worm,"  says  the  hon- 
est Walton,  and  so  say  I.  It  was  the 
last  evening  of  last  August.  The  dusk 
was  settling  deep  upon  a  tiny  meadow, 
scarcely  ten  rods  from  end  to  end.  The 
rank  bog  grass,  already  drenched  with 
dew,  bent  over  the  narrow,  deep  little 
brook  so  closely  that  it  could  not  be 
fished  except  with  a  double  -  shotted, 
baited  hook,  dropped  delicately  between 
the  heads  of  the  long  grasses.  Under- 
neath this  canopy  the  trout  were  feeding, 
taking  the  hook  with  a  straight  down- 
ward tug,  as  they  made  for  the  hidden 
bank.  It  was  already  twilight  when  I 
began,  and  before  I  reached  the  black 
belt  of  woods  that  separated  the  meadow 
from  the  lake,  the  swift  darkness  of  the 
North  Country  made  it  impossible  to  see 
the  hook.  A  short  half  hour's  fishing 
only,  and  behold  nearly  twenty  good 
trout  derricked  into  a  basket  until  then 
sadly  empty.  Your  rigorous  fly-fisher- 


Fishing  with  a    Worm. 


703 


man  would  have  passed  that  grass-hid- 
den brook  in  disdain,  but  it  proved  a 
treasure  for  the  humble. 

Here,  indeed,  there  was  no  question 
of  individually  minded  fish,  but  simply 
a  neglected  brook,  full  of  trout  which 
could  be  reached  with  the  baited  hook 
only.  In  more  open  brook-fishing  it  is 
always  a  fascinating  problem  to  decide 
how  to  fish  a  favorite  pool  or  ripple,  for 
much  depends  upon  the  hour  of  the  day, 
the  light,  the  height  of  water,  the  precise 
period  of  the  spring  or  summer.  But 
after  one  has  decided  upon  the  best  theo- 
retical procedure,  how  often  the  stupid 
trout  prefers  some  other  plan  !  And 
when  you  have  missed  a  fish  that  you 
counted  upon  landing,  what  solid  satis- 
faction is  still  possible  for  you,  if  you 
are  philosopher  enough  to  sit  down  then 
and  there,  eat  your  lunch,  smoke  a  medi- 
tative pipe,  and  devise  a  new  campaign 
against  that  particular  fish!  To  get 
another  rise  from  him  after  lunch  is  a 
triumph  of  diplomacy;  to  land  him  is 
nothing  short  of  statesmanship.  For 
sometimes  he  will  jump  furiously  at  a 
fly,  for  very  devilishness,  without  ever 
meaning  to  take  it,  and  then,  wearying 
suddenly  of  his  gymnastics,  he  will 
snatch  sulkily  at  a  grasshopper,  beetle, 
or  worm.  Trout  feed  upon  an  extraor- 
dinary variety  of  crawling  things,  as  all 
fishermen  know  who  practice  the  useful 
habit  of  opening  the  first  two  or  three 
fish  they  catch,  to  see  what  food  is  that 
day  the  favorite.  But  here,  as  elsewhere 
in  this  world,  the  best  things  lie  nearest, 
and  there  is  no  bait  so  killing,  week  in 
and  week  out,  as  your  plain  garden  or 
golf-green  angleworm. 

Walton's  list  of  possible  worms  is  im- 
pressive, and  his  directions  for  placing 
them  upon  the  hook  have  the  placid 
completeness  that  belonged  to  his  char- 
acter. Yet  in  such  matters  a  little  non- 
conformity may  be  encouraged.  No  two 
men  or  boys  dig  bait  in  quite  the  same 
way,  though  all  share,  no  doubt,  the 
singular  elation  which  gilds  that  grimy 


occupation  with  the  spirit  of  romance. 
The  mind  is  really  occupied,  not  with 
the  wriggling  red  creatures  in  the  lumps 
of  earth,  but  with  the  stout  fish  which 
each  worm  may  capture,  just  as  a  saint 
might  rejoice  in  the  squalor  of  this  world 
as  a  preparation  for  the  glories  of  the 
world  to  come.  Nor  do  any  two  expe- 
rienced fishermen  hold  quite  the  same 
theory  as  to  the  best  mode  of  baiting  the 
hook.  There  are  a  hundred  ways,  each 
of  them  good.  As  to  the  best  hook  for 
worm-fishing,  you  will  find  dicta  in  every 
catalogue  of  fishing  tackle,  but  size  and 
shape  and  tempering  are  qualities  that 
should  vary  with  the  brook,  the  season, 
and  the  fisherman.  Should  one  use  a 
three-foot  leader,  or  none  at  all  ?  Whose 
rods  are  best  for  bait-fishing,  granted 
that  all  of  them  should  be  stiff  enough  in 
the  tip  to  lift  a  good  fish  by  dead  strain 
from  a  tangle  of  brush  or  logs  ?  Such 
questions,  like  those  pertaining  to  the 
boots  or  coat  which  one  should  wear,  the 
style  of  bait-box  one  should  carry,  or  the 
brand  of  tobacco  best  suited  for  smoking 
in  the  wind,  are  topics  for  unending  dis- 
cussion among  the  serious  minded  around 
the  camp-fire.  Much  edification  is  in 
them,  and  yet  they  are  but  prudential 
maxims  after  all.  They  are  mere  mo- 
ralities of  the  Franklin  or  Chesterfield 
variety,  counsels  of  worldly  wisdom,  but 
they  leave  the  soul  untouched.  A  man 
may  have  them  at  his  fingers'  ends  and 
be  no  better  fisherman  at  bottom ;  or  he 
may,  like  R.,  ignore  most  of  the  admit- 
ted rules  and  come  home  with  a  full 
basket.  It  is  a  sufficient  defense  of 
fishing  with  a  worm  to  pronounce  the 
truism  that  no  man  is  a  complete  angler 
until  he  has  mastered  all  the  modes  of 
angling.  Lovely  streams,  lonely  and 
enticing,  but  impossible  to  fish  with  a 
fly,  await  the  fisherman  who  is  not  too 
proud  to  use,  with  a  man's  skill,  the 
same  unpretentious  tackle  which  he  be- 
gan with  as  a  boy. 

But  ah,  to  fish  with  a  worm,  and  then 


704 


Fishing  with  a    Worm, 


not  catch  your  fish  !  To  fail  with  a  fly 
is  no  disgrace  :  your  art  may  have  been 
impeccable,  your  patience  faultless  to  the 
end.  But  the  philosophy  of  worm-fish- 
ing is  that  of  Results,  of  having  some- 
thing tangible  in  your  basket  when  the 
day's  work  is  done.  It  is  a  plea  for 
Compromise,  for  cutting  the  coat  accord- 
ing to  the  cloth,  for  taking  the  world  as 
it  actually  is.  The  fly-fisherman  is  a 
natural  Foe  of  Compromise.  He  throws 
to  the  trout  a  certain  kind  of  lure  ;  an 
they  will  take  it,  so  ;  if  not,  adieu.  He 
knows  no  middle  path. 

This  high  man,  aiming  at  a  million, 
Misses  an  unit. 

The  raptures  and  the  tragedies  of 
consistency  are  his.  He  is  a  scorner  of 
the  ground.  All  honor  to  him  !  When 
he  comes  back  at  nightfall  and  says 
happily,  "  I  have  never  cast  a  line  more 
perfectly  than  I  have  to-day,"  it  is  al- 
most indecent  to  peek  into  his  creel.  It 
is  like  rating  Colonel  Newcome  by  his 
bank  account. 

But  the  worm-fisherman  is  no  such 
proud  and  isolated  soul.  He  is  a  "  low 
man  "  rather  than  a  high  one  ;  he  hon- 
estly cares  what  his  friends  will  think 
when  they  look  into  his  basket  to  see 
what  he  has  to  show  for  his  day's  sport. 
He  watches  the  Foe  of  Compromise  men 
go  stumbling  forward  and  superbly  fall- 
ing, while  he,  with  less  inflexible  cour- 
age, manages  to  keep  his  feet.  He 
wants  to  score,  and  not  merely  to  give  a 
pretty  exhibition  of  base-running.  At 
the  Harvard-Yale  football  game  of  1903 
the  Harvard  team  showed  superior 
strength  in  rushing  the  ball ;  they  car- 
ried it  almost  to  the  Yale  goal  line  re- 
peatedly, but  they  could  not,  for  some 
reason,  take  it  over.  In  the  instant  of 
absolute  need,  the  Yale  line  held,  and 
when  the  Yale  team  had  to  score  in  order 
to  win,  they  scored.  As  the  crowd 
streamed  out  of  the  Stadium,  a  veteran 
Harvard  alumnus  said  :  "  This  news  will 
cause  great  sorrow  in  one  home  I  know 
of,  until  they  learn  by  to-morrow's  papers 


that  the  Harvard  team  acquitted  itself 
creditably."  Exactly.  Given  one  team 
bent  upon  acquitting  itself  creditably, 
and  another  team  determined  to  win, 
which  will  be  victorious  ?  The  stay-at- 
homes  on  the  Yale  campus  that  day  were 
not  curious  to  know  whether  their  team 
was  acquitting  itself  creditably,  but 
whether  it  was  winning  the  game. 
Every  other  question  than  that  was  to 
those  young  Philistines  merely  a  fine- 
spun irrelevance.  They  took  the  Cash 
and  let  the  Credit  go. 

There  is  much  to  be  said,  no  doubt, 
for  the  Harvard  veteran's  point  of  view. 
The  proper  kind  of  credit  may  be  a  bet- 
ter asset  for  eleven  boys  than  any  cham- 
pionship ;  and  to  fish  a  bit  of  water 
consistently  and  skillfully,  with  your  best 
flies  and  in  your  best  manner,  is  perhaps 
achievement  enough.  So  says  the  Foe 
of  Compromise,  at  least.  But  the  Yale 
spirit  will  be  prying  into  the  basket  in 
search  of  fish  ;  it  prefers  concrete  results. 
If  all  men  are  by  nature  either  Platonists 
or  Aristotelians,  fly-fishermen  or  worm- 
fishermen,  how  difficult  it  is  for  us  to  do 
one  another  justice  !  Differing  in  mind, 
in  aim  and  method,  how  shall  we  say 
infallibly  that  this  man  or  that  is  wrong  ? 
To  fail  with  Plato  for  companion  may 
be  better  than  to  succeed  with  Aristotle. 
But  one  thing  is  perfectly  clear :  there 
is  no  warrant  for  Compromise  but  in 
Success.  Use  a  worm  if  you  will,  but 
you  must  have  fish  to  show  for  it,  if  you 
would  escape  the  finger  of  scorn.  If 
you  find  yourself  camping  by  an  unknown 
brook,  and  are  deputed  to  catch  the  ne- 
cessary trout  for  breakfast,  it  is  wiser  to 
choose  the  surest  bait.  The  crackle  of 
the  fish  in  the  frying-pan  will  atone  for 
any  theoretical  defect  in  your  method. 
But  to  choose  the  surest  bait,  and  then 
to  bring  back  no  fish,  is  unforgivable. 
Forsake  Plato  if  you  must,  —  but  you 
may  do  so  only  at  the  price  of  justifying 
yourself  in  the  terms  of  Aristotelian 
arithmetic.  The  college  president  who 
abandoned  his  college  in  order  to  run  a 


Fishing  with  a    Worm. 


705 


cotton  mill  was  free  to  make  his  own 
choice  of  a  calling ;  but  he  was  never 
pardoned  for  bankrupting  the  mill.  If 
one  is  bound  to  be  a  low  man  rather  than 
an  impractical  idealist,  he  should  at  least 
make  sure  of  his  vulgar  success. 

Is  all  this  but  a  disguised  defense  of 
pot-hunting?  No.  There  is  no  possible 
defense  of  pot-hunting,  whether  it  be 
upon  a  trout  brook  or  in  the  stock  market. 
Against  fish  or  men,  one  should  play  the 
game  fairly.  Yet  for  that  matter  some 
of  the  most  skillful  fly-fishermen  I  have 
known  were  pot-hunters  at  heart,  and 
some  of  the  most  prosaic  -  looking  mer- 
chants were  idealists  compared  to  whom 
Shelley  was  but  a  dreaming  boy.  All 
depends  upon  the  spirit  with  which  one 
makes  his  venture.  I  recall  a  boy  of  five 
who  gravely  watched  his  father  tramp 
off  after  rabbits,  —  gun  on  shoulder  and 
beagle  in  leash.  Thereupon  he  shoul- 
dered a  wooden  sword,  and  dragging  his 
reluctant  black  kitten  by  a  string,  sallied 
forth  upon  the  dusty  Vermont  road  "  to 
get  a  lion  for  breakfast."  That  is  the 
true  sporting  temper !  Let  there  be  but 
a  fine  idealism  in  the  quest,  and  the  par- 
ticular object  is  unessential.  "  A  true 
fisherman's  happiness,"  says  Mr.  Cleve- 
land, "  is  not  dependent  upon  his  luck." 
It  depends  upon  his  heart. 

No  doubt  all  amateur  fishing  is  but 
"  play,"  —  as  the  psychologists  soberly 
term  it:  not  a  necessary,  but  a  freely 
assumed  activity,  born  of  surplusage  of 
vitality.  Nobody,  not  even  a  carpen- 
ter wearied  of  his  job,  has  to  go  fish- 
ing unless  he  wants  to.  He  may  indeed 
find  himself  breakfastless  in  camp,  and 
obliged  to  betake  himself  to  the  brook,  — 
but  then  he  need  not  have  gone  into  the 
woods  at  all.  Yet  if  he  does  decide  to 
fish,  let  him 

Venture  as  warily,  use  the  same  skill, 
Do  his  best,  .  .  . 

whatever  variety  of  tackle  he  may  choose. 
He  can  be  a  whole-souled  sportsman 


VOL.  xcni.  —  NO.  559. 


45 


with  the  poorest  equipment,  or  a  mean 
"  trout-hog  "  with  the  most  elaborate. 

Only,  in  the  name  of  gentle  Izaak 
himself,  let  him  be  a  complete  angler; 
and  let  the  man  be  a  passionate  amateur 
of  all  the  arts  of  life,  despising  none  of 
them,  and  using  all  of  them  for  his  soul's 
good  and  for  the  joy  of  his  fellows.  If 
he  be,  so  to  speak,  but  a  worm-fisher- 
man, —  a  follower  of  humble  occupa- 
tions, and  pledged  to  unromantic  duties, 
—  let  him  still  thrill  with  the  pleasures 
of  the  true  sportsman.  To  make  the 
most  of  dull  hours,  to  make  the  best  of 
dull  people,  to  like  a  poor  jest  better 
than  none,  to  wear  the  threadbare  coat 
like  a  gentleman,  to  be  outvoted  with  a 
smile,  to  hitch  your  wagon  to  the  old 
horse  if  no  star  is  handy,  —  this  is  the 
wholesome  philosophy  taught  by  fishing 
with  a  worm.  The  fun  of  it  depends 
upon  the  heart.  There  may  be  as  much 
zest  in  saving  as  in  spending,  in  working 
for  small  wages  as  for  great,  in  avoiding 
the  snap-shots  of  publicity  as  in  being 
invariably  first  "  among  those  present." 
But  a  man  should  be  honest.  If  he 
catches  most  of  his  fish  with  a  worm, 
secures  the  larger  portion  of  his  success 
by  commonplace  industry,  let  him  glory 
in  it,  for  this,  too,  is  part  of  the  great 
game.  Yet  he  ought  not  in  that  case  to 
pose  as  a  fly-fisherman  only,  —  to  carry 
himself  as  one  aware  of  the  immortaliz- 
ing camera,  —  to  pretend  that  life  is  easy, 
if  one  but  knows  how  to  drop  a  fly  into 
the  right  ripple.  For  life  is  not  easy, 
after  all  is  said.  It  is  a  long  brook  to 
fish,  and  it  needs  a  stout  heart  and  a 
wise  patience.  All  the  flies  there  are  in 
the  book,  and  all  the  bait  that  can  be 
carried  in  the  box,  are  likely  to  be 
needed  ere  the  day  is  over.  But,  like 
the  Psalmist's  "  river  of  God,"  this  brook 
is  "  full  of  water,"  and  there  is  plenty 
of  good  fishing  to  be  had  in  it  if  one  is 
neither  afraid  nor  ashamed  of  fishing 
sometimes  with  a  worm. 

Bliss  Perry. 


706  Paul  Lenthier's  Feeshin '-Pole. 


PAUL  LENTHIER'S  FEESHIN'-POLE. 

ALL  his  neighbors  grew  richer  than 
Old  Paul  Lenthier,  trout-fisherman. 

Yet  what  man  in  the  settlement 
Possessed  his  soul  in  more  content? 
Those  days  he  paddled  to  some  clear  pool 
Where  trout  lay  deep  in  waters  cool, 
Those  days  he  sat  with  pole  and  line 
Drinking  the  air  that  was  like  good  wine, 
Watching  the  duck-brood  learn  to  dive, 
Glad  like  them  to  be  there  and  alive. 
He  sang,  and  taught  little  Jeanne  to  fish, 
To  go  with  him  was  Jeanne's  first  wish ;  — 
"  Rich  Joe  Bruseau  he  make  charcoal, 

On  de  lake  he  cannot  go ;  — 
We,  Jeanne,  have   only  de  feeshin'-pole, 

But  we  *re  richer  dan  rich  Joe !  " 

Jeanne  grew  fair  as  that  white  birch  there, 
Bruseau's  Marie  and  she  were  a  pair; 
But  Bruseau's  Marie  had  money  to  buy 
Finery  for  a  French  girl's  eye ; 
Jeanne  almost  cried  her  bright  eyes  out, 
"  Dere  comes  no  money  from  feeshin'  trout !  " 
Paul  heard,  and  sadly  stole  away 
To  fish  alone  the  whole  of  a  day  ; 
That  night  he  hung  up  his  pole  and  net 
Slowly,  with  just  a  sigh  of  regret; 
Then  whistled  as  gay  as  blackbirds  can 
And  bargained  to  be  Joe  Bruseau's  man, 
Vowing  so  stoutly  that  he  was  fit, 
Joe  gave  him  work  in  the  charcoal  pit. 
And  now  Jeanne  laughs,  she  's  covered  o'er 
With  ribbons  from  the  notion-store  ; 
Old  Paul  laughs  too,  through  dust  of  the  coal,  — 
And  tries  to  forget  his  fishing-pole. 

But  in  the  bays,  spruce-darkened,  dim, 
The  splashing  duck-brood  watch  for  him  : 

"  Come  back !  come  back  !  "  they  make  their  cry, 

"  Come  back  to  lake  and  wood  ; 
Quick  back,  old  Paul,  you  soon  must  die ; 
Come  back  where  life  is  good !  " 

Francis  Sterne  Palmer. 


Books  New  and  Old. 


707 


BOOKS  NEW  AND  OLD. 


SOME   BIOGRAPHICAL   STUDIES. 


IT  was  Matthew  Arnold's  stated  wish 
that  he  should  not  be  made  the  subject 
of  a  biography,  and  occasion  for  totally 
disregarding  his  preference  has  not  yet 
arisen.  Sensitive  men  naturally  shrink 
from  the  possibility  of  post-mortem  ex- 
posure. They  do  not  make  a  point  of 
being  thrust  into  the  ground  and  forgot- 
ten ;  but  they  wish  to  be  disposed  of  de- 
cently, and,  so  far  as  private  life  is 
concerned,  to  be  disposed  of  wholly.  It 
is  good  to  be  immortal  in  one's  great- 
ness, but  it  is  not  good  that  one's  frail 
mortality,  however  comely,  should  lie 
embalmed  under  the  general  eye.  Yet 
the  curiosity  of  the  world  in  these  mat- 
ters is  not  altogether  idle ;  it  is  founded 
on  a  sturdy  belief,  favorably  reported 
upon  by  experience,  that  the  facts  of 
private  life  do  really  throw  light  upon 
the  facts  of  public  achievement.  A  great 
man  cannot  quite  will  himself  away  pri- 
vately, for  the  world  knows  itself  to  be 
his  rightful  legatee,  and  is  pretty  sure  to 
come  to  its  own  sooner  or  later.  We 
may  yet  be  given  the  last  detail  about 
Arnold. 

I. 

His  published  letters  were  deprived 
of  their  more  intimate  touches  under  the 
strict  censorship  of  his  family.  Their 
editor,  deploring  the  fact  that  such  treat- 
ment of  them  seemed  necessary,  yet  con- 
siders them  "  the  nearest  approach  to  a 
narrative  of  Arnold's  life  which  can, 
consistently  with  his  wishes,  be  given  to 
the  world."  In  his  present  book  l  Mr. 
Russell  makes  no  attempt  to  supplement 
the  personal  information  which  the  let- 
ters afforded.  Nor  is  it  his  purpose  to 
offer  a  fresh  estimate  of  Arnold's  work 

1  Matthew  Arnold.  By  G.  W.  E.  ROSSELI,. 
Literary  Lives.  New  York :  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons.  1904. 


from  the  purely  literary  point  of  view. 
"  I  do  not  aim,"  he  prefaces,  "  at  a 
criticism  of  the  verbal  medium  through 
which  a  great  master  uttered  his  heart 
and  mind,  but  rather  at  a  survey  of  the 
effect  which  he  produced  on  the  thought 
and  action  of  his  age."  The  ensuing 
study  is  admirable  for  its  scrupulous 
moderation,  its  breadth,  its  directness, 
—  its  fitness  to  be  called  criticism  in  Ar- 
nold's sense  of  the  word.  Its  historical 
method  is  consistent  with  the  adopted 
attitude  toward  Arnold  as  a  man  of  the 
hour.  It  considers  the  kind  and  the  ex- 
tent of  authority  which  Arnold  came  to 
exercise  as  a  critic  of  national  life.  It 
does  not  claim  infallibility  for  his  specific 
judgments.  On  the  contrary,  Mr.  Rus- 
sell is  careful  to  suggest  the  fallacy  or 
incompletion  of  many  of  the  critic's  theo- 
ries. He  notes  that  Arnold's  politics 
were  "rather  fantastic;"  that  his  theo- 
ries of  educational  reform  stopped  short 
of  the  public  school  and  the  university ; 
and  that  his  objections  to  generally  re- 
ceived dogmas  were,  for  the  most  part, 
based  upon  dogmas  of  his  own.  But 
these,  we  are  shown,  are  matters  of  com- 
paratively little  moment.  Arnold's  ser- 
vice was  to  present  to  his  generation 
certain  ideals  of  culture,  certain  princi- 
ples of  conduct.  He  suggested  a  point 
of  view  from  which  others  in  common 
with  him  might  have,  not  a  certainty, 
but  a  fairest  possible  chance,  of  discern- 
ment. There  is  hardly  a  more  invidious 
office  than  that  of  the  critic  of  national 
life.  He  must  find  some  ideal  ground 
of  vantage  ;  he  must  keep  aloof  upon  it ; 
he  must  be  meek  and  fearless ;  and  for 
reward  the  majority  will  charge  him 
with  bias,  or  fastidiousness,  or  addiction 
to  theory.  What,  in  the  face  of  such 
difficulties,  Arnold  accomplished  as  ad- 


708 


Books  New  and   Old. 


vocate  of  conduct  through  culture  is 
Mr.  Russell's  theme.  Belief  in  the  per- 
fectibility of  human  conduct  is,  indeed, 
the  first  article  in  Arnold's  creed.  For 
his  own  generation,  culture  was  the  spe- 
cific instrument  which  he  found  it  well 
to  recommend,  but  he  never  ceased  to 
declare  that  conduct  was  three  fourths 
of  life.  It  is  accordingly  in  the  chapters 
on  Society  and  Conduct  that  we  find  the 
best  substance  of  the  present  study. 

In  the  end  Mr.  Russell  does  not  resist 
the  impulse  to  insert  a  sketch  of  Arnold's 
intimate  personality ;  a  sketch  worth  the 
attention  of  those  who,  puzzled  by  Ar- 
nold's ironies  or  niceties,  imagine  him 
to  have  been  a  cold  or  supercilious  per- 
son :  "  '  Never,'  as  Mr.  John  Morley 
said,  '  shall  we  know  again  so  blithe  and 
friendly  a  spirit.'  As  we  think  of  him, 
the  endearing  traits  come  crowding  on 
the  memory,  —  his  gracious  presence, 
his  joy  in  fresh  air  and  bodily  exercise, 
his  merry  interest  in  his  friends'  con- 
cerns, his  love  of  children,  his  kindness 
to  animals,  his  absolute  freedom  from 
bitterness,  rancor,  or  envy  ;  his  unstinted 
admiration  of  beauty  or  cleverness."  .  .  . 

It  chances  that  another  study  of  Ar- 
nold has  just  appeared,1  which  is  under- 
taken in  a  similar  spirit.  It  has,  that 
is,  more  to  say  of  the  public  censor  than 
of  the  man  or  the  man  of  letters.  Mr. 
Dawson,  however,  is  concerned  with 
what  Arnold  means  to  the  present  and 
the  future  rather  than  to  the  past.  He 
wishes,  moreover,  "  to  give  unity  to  Ar- 
nold's ideas  and  theories,  to  his  admoni- 
tions and  warnings.  For  the  Voice  still 
cries,  and  it  cries  in  the  wilderness." 
The  author's  treatment  of  this  theme  pos- 
sesses unity,  but  not  proportion.  More 
than  half  his  space  is  given  to  the  dis- 
cussion of  Arnold's  theological  writings, 
though  the  critic  expressly  states  his  be- 
lief that  they  are  "  on  the  whole  the 
least  necessary  and  the  least  serviceable 
part  of  his  literary  work."  These  chap- 

1  Matthew  Arnold  and  His  Relation  to  the 
Thought  of  Our  Time.  By  WILLIAM  HARBUTT 


ters  might  well  have  made  a  book  by 
themselves ;  they  bulk  too  large  in  a 
study  of  Arnold's  total  effectiveness. 
Mr.  Dawson's  style  is  not  obscure,  but 
stiff  and  unwieldy.  His  habit  of  very 
full  quotation  makes  of  the  book  a  kind 
of  ordered  thesaurus  of  Arnold's  best 
passages.  But  it  is  more  than  this,  for 
if  the  writer  has  no  novel  interpretation 
to  offer,  he  has  a  serviceable  one.  "  If," 
he  says,  "  one  were  to  attempt  to  sum- 
marize in  a  single  phrase  the  ideal  which 
Arnold  sought  to  realize,  and  in  a  rare 
degree  succeeded  in  realizing,  that  phrase 
would  be  '  the  balance  of  life.'  .  .  .  The 
man  who  confessed  that  the  best  his  in- 
tellect knew  was  drawn  from  the  thought 
of  pagan  antiquity,  yet  nursed  in  his 
breast  a  moral  code  as  stern  and  austere 
as  that  of  Hebrew  prophet." 

n. 

What  Arnold  was  to  the  prophecy  of 
conduct,  Newman  was  to  the  prophecy 
of  faith.  To  Arnold  religion  was  "  mo- 
rality touched  by  emotion ;  "  to  New- 
man it  was  "  an  assertion  of  what  we 
are  to  believe  ...  a  message,  a  history, 
or  a  vision."  Moreover,  by  Newman's 
creed,  conduct  "  flows  not  from  infer- 
ences, but  from  impressions,  —  not  from 
reasonings,  but  from  Faith."  In  his 
Oxford  days,  Arnold  himself  came  un- 
der the  influence  of  the  great  mystic, 
and  remembered  the  experience  with 
tenderness,  as  the  well-known  passage  in 
the  address  on  Emerson  attests  :  "  Who 
could  resist  the  charm  of  that  spiritual 
apparition,  gliding  in  the  dim  afternoon 
light  through  the  aisles  of  St.  Mary's, 
rising  into  the  pulpit,  and  then,  in  the 
most  entrancing  of  voices,  breaking  the 
silence  with  words  and  thoughts  which 
were  a  religious  music  —  subtle,  sweet, 
"mournful  ?  I  seem  to  hear  him  still." 
But  Arnold  had  no  sympathy  with  the 
step  which  gave  supreme  expression  to 
Newman's  inner  life  :  "  He  has  adopted 

DAWSON.  New  York  and  London  :  G.  P.  Put- 
nam's Sons.  1904. 


Books  New  and  Old. 


709 


for  the  doubts  and  difficulties  which  be- 
set men's  minds  to-day  a  solution  which, 
to  speak  frankly,  is  impossible." 

Newman's  present  biographer  is  not 
inclined  to  dispose  so  summarily  of  that 
career.  His  interpretation  of  it l  is  an 
achievement  of  rare  sympathy  and  skill. 
He  discerns  at  the  base  of  Newman's 
character  "  a  marvelous  sensibility,  with- 
out which  he  could  never  have  thrown 
himself  into  minds  unlike  his  own,  or 
have  acquired  the  exquisite  delicacy  of 
touch  that  renders  thought  as  if  it  were 
the  painter's  landscape  spread  out  be- 
fore him  in  light  and  shade.  .  .  .  Im- 
agination, with  Newman,  was  reason,  as 
with  Carlyle,  Wordsworth,  Goethe,  and 
Shakespeare,  —  not  the  bare  mechanical 
process  that  grinds  out  conclusions  from 
letters  of  the  alphabet,  in  what  is  at  best 
a  luminous  void,  but  the  swift,  sudden 
grasp  of  an  explorer,  making  his  way 
from  crag  to  crag,  under  him  the  raging 
sea,  above  him  sure  ground  and  deliver- 
ance." To  such  a  sense  Culture,  with 
all  its  claims,  could  not  offer  a  straight 
road  toward  perfection  ;  the  only  safety 
lay  in  the  message  of  Revelation.  It  is 
plain  that  Arnold  could  not  quite  for- 
give the  cardinal's  indifference  to  "  the 
Zeitgeist,"  that  object  of  his  own  almost 
superstitious  reverence.  Newman's  rev- 
erence was  for  the  Eternal  Spirit,  and 
for  the  institution  which  he  took  to  be  its 
earthly  embodiment.  Dr.  Barry's  book 
reinforces  one's  conviction  that  Newman 
was  not  only  the  purest  product  of  a  re- 
markable reactionary  movement,  but  a 
true  prophet  of  the  immemorial  and  the 
unseen. 

One  notes  that  in  literary  theory  and 
practice  these  two  sons  of  Oxford  had 
not  a  little  in  common.  Both,  regarding 
literature  as  a  means  rather  than  an  end, 
worked  through  it,  not  for  it.  "  People 
think  I  can  teach  them  style,"  said  Ar- 
nold. "What  stuff  it  all  is!  Have 

1  Cardinal  Newman.  By  WILLIAM  BARRY, 
D.  D.  Literary  Lives.  New  York :  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons.  1904. 


something  to  say,  and  say  it  as  clearly 
as  you  can.  That  is  the  only  secret  of 
style."  —  "  Can  they  really  think,"  writes 
Newman,  "  that  Homer,  or  Pindar,  or 
Shakespeare,  or  Dryden,  or  Walter  Scott 
were  accustomed  to  aim  at  style  for  its 
own  sake,  instead  of  being  inspired  with 
their  subject,  and  pouring  forth  beauti- 
ful words  because  they  had  beautiful 
thoughts  ?  This  is  surely  too  great  a 
paradox  to  be  borne.  .  .  .  The  artist 
has  his  great  or  rich  visions  before  him ; 
and  his  only  aim  is  to  bring  out  what  he 
thinks  or  what  he  feels  in  a  way  ade- 
quate to  the  thing  spoken  of,  and  appro- 
priate to  the  speaker." 

It  promises  much  that  the  two  books 
by  Mr.  Russell  and  Dr.  Barry  should 
be  the  first  numbers  of  a  new  biographi- 
cal series.  The  scale  is  a  trifle  larger 
than  that  of  the  English  Men  of  Let- 
ters Series,  and  the  volumes  are  consid- 
erably larger.  The  numerous  portraits 
inserted  do  not  appear  to  augment  sen- 
sibly the  value  of  the  text. 

in. 

The  nineteenth  century  underwent 
much  stern  discipline  at  the  hands  of  its 
great  men.  There  was  Newman's  sword 
of  the  spirit  for  its  infidelity,  Arnold's 
intellectual  rapier  for  its  Philistinism, 
and  Carlyle's  inspired  cudgel  for  its  ma- 
terialism. Perhaps  the  cudgel-play  was 
relished  least  of  all ;  the  offender  has 
certainly  been  sufficiently  maltreated  in 
effigy  since  the  period  of  his  offense. 
The  ill-savor  of  the  Froude  affair  seems 
to  have  lingered  in  the  public  nostril 
quite  long  enough.  We  may  be  grate- 
ful that  the  newly  published  letters  2  are 
not  made  an  occasion  of  further  contro- 
versy. These  volumes  are  by  way  of 
sequel  to  Professor  Norton's  collection  ; 
and  a  large  part  of  the  letters  here 
printed  were  chosen  by  him.  One  un- 
derstands that  a  considerable  mass  of 

2  New  Letters  of  Thomas  Carlyle.  Edited  and 
Annotated  by  ALEXANDER  CARLYLE.  2  vols. 
London  and  New  York  :  John  Lane.  1904. 


710 


Books  New  and  Old. 


correspondence  still  remains,  from  which, 
doubtless,  a  further  gleaning  may  some 
time  be  made.  The  quality  of  the  pre- 
sent selection  indicates  no  thinning  of  the 
strain,  though  it  serves  to  confirm  rather 
than  to  modify  our  impression  of  the  writ- 
er. The  continued  flow  of  valetudinary 
data  (hardly  to  be  equaled  unless  in  Mrs. 
Carlyle's  letters)  we  might  be  happier 
without ;  it  would  be  pleasant  to  think 
of  that  strong  spirit  as  not  always  on 
the  rack  of  physical  anguish.  But  this 
is  a  price  we  must  pay  for  our  admission 
into  the  most  intimate  relations  with 
him.  A  very  large  proportion  of  these 
letters  are  addressed  to  his  wife,  his 
mother,  or  his  brother.  Of  the  detailed 
chat  about  his  plans  and  his  work  there 
is  much,  and  none  too  much.  Of  gen- 
eral matter,  as  purely  literary,  as  purely 
the  fruit  of  his  genius  as  anything  which 
he  wrote  to  be  printed,  there  is  a  great 
deal.  There  are  passages  of  unmerciful 
self-criticism,  —  a  series  of  them,  apropos 
of  the  French  Revolution,  might  easily 
be  collected.  "  Heigho !  "  he  sighs 
when  his  task  is  half  done.  "  It  seems 
as  if  I  were  enchanted  [enchained  ?]  to 
this  sad  Book :  peace  in  the  world  there 
will  be  none  for  me  till  I  have  it  done. 
And  then  very  generally,  it  seems  the 
miserablest  mooncalf  of  a  book  ;  full  of 
Ziererei,  affectation  (do  what  I  will)  ; 
tumbling  headforemost  through  all  man- 
ner of  established  rules.  And  no  money 
to  be  had  for  it ;  and  no  value  that  I 
can  count  on  of  any  kind :  simply  the 
blessedness  of  being  done  with  it !  "  As 
it  is  going  through  the  press  he  says  yet 
more  sternly :  "I  find  '  on  a  general 
view '  that  the  Book  is  one  of  the  sav- 
agest  written  for  several  centuries  :  it  is 
a  Book  written  by  a  wild  man,  a  man 
disunited  from  the  fellowship  of  the 
world  he  lives  in  ;  looking  King  and 
beggar  in  the  face  with  an  indifference 
of  brotherhood,  an  indifference  of  con- 
tempt, —  that  is  really  very  extraor- 
dinary in  a  respectable  country.  ...  A 
wild  man ;  —  pray  God  only  it  be  a 


man  !  And  then  buff  away  ;  smite  and 
spare  not :  the  thing  you  can  kill,  I  say 
always,  deserves  not  to  live." 

The  letters  yield  many  notable  ad- 
ditions to  the  gallery  of  portraits  which 
the  world  owes  to  Carlyle.  Here  is  a 
sketch  at  first  sight  of  the  poet  Rogers, 
of  whom  Carlyle  later  makes  more  than 
one  gentle  mention  :  "  A  half -frozen  old 
sardonic  Whig-Gentleman  :  no  hair  at  all, 
but  one  of  the  whitest  bare  scalps,  blue 
eyes,  shrewd,  sad  and  cruel ;  toothless 
horse-shoe  mouth  drawn  up  to  the  very 
nose  ;  slow  -  croaking,  sarcastic  insight, 
perfect  breeding  ;  state-rooms  where  you 
are  welcomed  even  with  flummery  ;  in- 
ternally a  Bluebeard's  chamber,  where 
none  but  the  proprietor  enters  !  "  And 
here  is  "  American  Webster  :  "  "A  ter- 
rible, beetle-browed,  mastiff  -  mouthed, 
yellow  -  skinned,  broad  -  bottomed,  grim- 
taciturn  individual ;  with  a  pair  of  dull- 
cruel-looking  black  eyes,  and  as  much 
Parliamentary  intellect  and  silent-rage 
in  him,  I  think,  as  I  have  ever  seen  in 
any  man." 

There  are,  moreover,  innumerable  pas- 
sages expressing  that  mood  of  passionate 
quandary  which  characterizes  so  much 
of  Carlyle's  work.  "  Curious :  there 
is  a  work  which  we  here  and  now  could 
best  of  all  do  ;  that  were  the  thing  of 
things  for  us  to  set  about  doing.  But 
alas,  what  is  it  ?  A  advises  one  thing, 
B  another  thing,  C,  still  more  resolutely, 
a  third  thing  !  The  whole  Human  Spe- 
cies actually  or  virtually  advise  all  man- 
ner of  things  ;  and  our  own  vote,  which 
were  the  soul  of  all  votes,  the  word 
where  all  else  are  hearsays,  lies  deep- 
buried,  drowned  in  outer  noises,  too 
difficult  to  come  at !  "  On  the  whole, 
the  earlier  letters  are  of  the  greater  in- 
terest, but  readers  who  have  really  ex- 
perienced Carlyle  will  value  all  of  them. 

IV. 

These  letters  complete  what  their  edi- 
tor calls  the  "  Epistolary  Autobiogra- 
phy "  of  Carlyle.  Mr.  Brown's  life  of 


Books  New  and  Old. 


711 


John  Addington  Symonds,  which  has  re- 
cently been  reprinted,1  was  prepared  by 
a  modification  of  this  method.  Symonds's 
Autobiography,  like  Carlyle's  Reminis- 
cences, is  tinged  with  the  sombreness 
inherent  in  the  recollections  of  most  men 
who  have  passed  their  prime.  Symonds 
himself  said,  "  No  autobiographical  re- 
sumption of  facts,  after  the  lapse  of 
twenty-five  years,  is  equal  in  veracity  to 
contemporary  records."  Mr.  Brown, 
sharing  this  opinion,  e.ffected  a  skillful 
composition  of  materials  drawn  from  the 
autobiography,  letters,  diaries,  and  note- 
books which  on  Symonds's  death  came 
into  his  hands.  Compilation  is  altogether 
too  modest  a  word  for  the  result,  as  the 
editor's  interpolated  fragments  of  nar- 
rative and  comment  are  by  no  means  the 
least  valuable  parts  of  the  whole.  Sy- 
monds perhaps  represented  quite  as  dis- 
tinct a  type  of  Oxford  culture  as  either 
Arnold  or  Newman.  He  had  something 
of  Arnold's  intellectual  curiosity  without 
his  power  of  coming  to  conclusions,  some- 
thing of  Newman's  religious  aspiration 
without  his  faith.  His  ample  means,  his 
ill-health,  his  extreme  impressionable- 
ness,  united  in  exposing  him  to  dilettante- 
ism,  but  he  weathered  the  exposure. 
He  was  not  a  genius,  but  his  talent  was 
of  the  first  order,  and  he  made  the  most 
of  it,  in  the  face  of  his  various  disabili- 
ties. He  was  painfully  aware  of  his 
shortcomings  of  temperament  and  en- 
dowment ;  the  victim  of  an  emotional 
skepticism  which  he  looked  upon  with 
loathing,  of  a  creative  impotence  which 
caused  him  the  keenest  chagrin  :  "  Why 
do  I  say,  '  Lord,  Lord,'  and  do  not  ? 
Here  is  my  essential  weakness.  I  wish 
and  cannot  will.  I  feel  intensely,  I  per- 
ceive quickly,  sympathize  with  all  I  see, 
or  hear,  or  read.  To  emulate  things  no- 
bler than  myself  is  my  desire.  But  I  can- 

1  John  Addington  Symonds :  A  Biography 
Compiled  from  His  Papers  and  Correspondence. 
By  HORATIO  F.  BROWN.  London :  Smith, 
Elder  &  Co. ;  New  York :  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons.  1903. 


not  get  beyond  —  create,  originate,  win 
Heaven  by  prayers  and  faith,  have  trust 
in  God,  and  concentrate  myself  upon  an 
end  of  action.  Skepticism  is  my  spirit." 
A  frock-coated  Hamlet !  one  might  ex- 
claim, taking  such  passages  as  this  over- 
seriously.  They  represent  Symonds  at 
his  worst ;  what  he  was  at  his  best,  the 
record  of  his  friendships,  of  his  joys,  of 
his  labors  abundantly  shows :  not  a  great 
man,  but  certainly  not  an  ineffectual 
man. 

Another  striking  figure  of  the  near  past 
has  been  thrown  into  the  foreground, 
for  American  readers,  at  least,  by  a  bi- 
ography of  the  hour.2  General  Arm- 
strong stood  for  much  that  was  best  in 
our  mid-century  phase,  and  it  is  good  to 
have  so  careful  a  study  of  him  as  the 
present  book  affords.  His  was  a  char- 
acter at  quite  the  opposite  pole  from 
that  of  Symonds.  He  was  essentially  a 
man  of  action,  alert,  resolute,  direct. 
He  possessed  abounding  vitality,  a  re- 
liable instinct  for  duty,  a  preference  for 
rough  tasks.  His  brief  academic  ex- 
perience was  interrupted  by  the  war. 
Thenceforth  it  was  his  business  to  act,  not 
to  study.  His  mind  did  not  lack  soil 
for  intellectual  cultivation,  but  it  was 
destined  for  a  ruder  tillage.  From  boy- 
hood his  impulse  was  to  cast  himself  into 
the  first  breach,  and,  once  in,  to  stay  till 
there  was  no  more  work  for  him  to  do 
there.  "  Missionary  or  pirate  "  was  his 
own  boyish  prophecy,  and  a  missionary 
he  turned  out  to  be.  He  was  not  a  man 
of  one  idea,  but  he  was  a  man  of  one 
aim.  To  edit  a  Hawaiian  newspaper, 
to  lead  his  black  regiment  in  a  desperate 
charge  at  Gettysburg,  to  put  up  a  new 
building  at  Hampton,  —  any  one  of  these 
activities  was  capable  of  absorbing  all 
his  powers.  Life  was  a  struggle  which 
he  thoroughly  enjoyed,  and  he  was  never 

2  Samuel  Chapman  Armstrong :  A  Biograph- 
ical Study.  By  EDITH  ARMSTRONG  TAL- 
BOT.  New  York :  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. 
1904. 


712 


Books  New  and   Old. 


beaten.  Here  is  a  brief  expression  of 
his  creed,  uttered  at  the  very  inception 
of  the  Hampton  enterprise.  He  does 
not  minimize  the  difficulties  before  him, 
but  declines  to  take  the  possibility  of 
failure  into  consideration  :  "  The  enter- 
prise is  as  full  of  bad  possibilities  as  of 
good  ones ;  most  embarrassing  condi- 
tions will  occur  from  time  to  time  ;  all 
is  experiment,  but  all  is  hopeful.  .  .  . 
What  can  resist  steady  energetic  pres- 
sure, the  force  of  a  single  right  idea 
pushed  mouth  after  month  in  its  natural 
development?  .  .  .  Few  men  compre- 
hend the  deep  philosophy  of  one-man 
power." 

General  Armstrong  had  a  natural  love 
of  literature,  and  his  small  opportunity 
for  reading  caused  him  sincere  regret. 
But  he  could  .not  by  any  possibility  have 
been  satisfied  with  the  life  of  a  literary 
man.  To  stand  aside  and  comment  would 
have  been  the  most  irksome  of  tasks  for 
him ;  nor,  to  say  truth,  would  his  criti- 
cism have  been  worth  much.  His  own 
path  he  knew.  At  thirty  he  writes  cheer- 
fully from  Boston :  "  I  have  been  over 
the  '  Athens,'  but  would  n't  live  here  for 
anything.  I  am  glad  I  'm  on  the  out- 
posts doing  frontier  duty  and  pioneer 
work,  for  the  South  is  a  heathen  land, 
and  Hampton  is  on  the  borders  thereof. 
I  see  my  whole  nature  calls  me  to  the 
work  that  is  done  there  —  to  lay  founda- 
tions strong,  and  not  do  frescoes  and 
fancy  work."  In  this  spirit  his  lifework 
was  done ;  he  had  no  sense  of  personal 
virtue  in  it.  "  Few  men  have  had  the 
chance  that  I  have  had,"  he  wrote  to- 
ward the  end.  "  I  never  gave  up  or 
sacrificed  anything  in  my  life  —  have 
been,  seemingly,  guided  in  everything." 

The  present  biographical  sketch  of 
this  strong  man's  life  is  written  by  one 
of  his  daughters,  with  much  simplicity 
and  modesty ;  the  record  of  a  personal- 
ity and  a  career  well  worth  summarizing 
in  print,  though  they  have  written  thetn- 

1  The  Hour-Glass  and  Other  Plays :  Being 
Volume  Two  of  Plays  for  an  Irish  Theatre. 


selves  most  effectively  otherwise  than  in 
words. 

H.  W.  Boynton. 

WHATEVER    trepidation   may   attend 

Three  Dra-    the    opening  of  Mr.  Yeats's 

matic  Stud- 

ies.  second  volume  of  Plays  for  an 

Irish  Theatre  *  will  be  happily  dispatched 
by  a  glance.  One  may  be  equally  grate- 
ful for  what  these  little  plays  are  not  and 
for  what  they  are.  They  contain  none 
of  the  air-drawn. pseudo-Maeterlinckian 
fantasy  which  made  so  puzzling  an  affair 
of  Where  There  is  Nothing,  the  first  play 
in  the  series.  It  may  be  that  a  symbol 
now  and  then  shows  its  head,  but  it  is 
not  encouraged  to  occupy  the  foreground. 
Indeed,  Mr.  Yeats  seems  here  to  have 
deliberately  betaken  himself  to  allegory, 
which  in  one  of  his  prose  essays  he  so 
sharply  distinguishes  from  symbolism ; 
"  dramatic  fables  "  is  the  phrase  he  uses 
for  these  plays  in  his  Dedication.  They 
are  written  in  simple  prose,  Irish  in  fibre 
rather  than  in  dress.  The  Hour-Glass 
is  a  Morality  which  superficially  reminds 
one  of  Everyman.  "  The  Wise  Man  "  is 
suddenly  warned  of  approaching  death. 
He  perceives  that  his  wisdom  has  been 
folly,  but  his  repentance  comes  too  late. 
The  best  bargain  he  can  make  with  the 
Angel  of  Death  is  the  promise  of  eventual 
salvation  if  in  the  hour  that  remains  he 
can  find  one  who  believes.  His  wife  and 
children,  his  pupils  and  neighbors  fail 
him  ;  they  have  learned  their  lesson  from 
him  far  too  well.  At  last,  as  the  final 
grains  drop  from  the  hour-glass,  the  Fool, 
of  whom  nothing  is  expected,  proves  the 
wisest  of  all,  and  the  Wise  Man  is  saved : 
"  I  understand  it  all  now.  One  sinks  in 
on  God ;  we  do  not  see  the  truth ;  God 
sees  the  truth  in  us."  .  .  .  All  this  ap- 
pears to  suggest  not  only  a  universal 
truth,  but  a  specific  condition.  It  is  a 
vindication  of  faith  as  against  reason, 
and  of  Irish  priestcraft  as  against  Irish 
skepticism. 

By  W.  B.  YEATS.   New  York :  The  Macmillan 
Co.     1904. 


Books  New  and   Old. 


713 


Cathleen  ni  Hoolihan  makes  a  direct 
appeal  to  the  devotion  of  Young  Ireland 
for  Old  Ireland ;  not  in  the  name  of  the 
shillalah,  but  gently,  with  much  pathos 
and  much  simplicity.  "  One  night," 
reads  the  Dedication,  "I  had  a  dream, 
almost  as  distinct  as  a  vision,  of  a  cottage 
where  there  was  well-being  and  firelight 
and  talk  of  a  marriage,  and  into  the 
midst  of  that  cottage  there  came  an  old 
woman  in  a  long  cloak.  She  was  Ire- 
land herself,  that  Cathleen  ni  Hoolihan, 
for  whom  so  many  songs  have  been  sung 
and  about  whom  so  many  stories  have 
been  told  and  for  whose  sake  so  many 
have  gone  to  their  death."  She  takes 
the  bridegroom  with  her  when  she  goes  ; 
there  is  work  for  him  to  do :  — 

"  BRIDGET  [laying  her  hand  on  Pat- 
rick's arm\.  Did  you  see  an  old  woman 
going  down  the  path  ? 

"  PATRICK.  I  did  not,  but  I  saw  a 
young  girl,  and  she  had  the  walk  of  a 
queen." 

The  third  sketch  seems  to  be  pure 
kindly  satire  upon  Irish  simplicity,  upon 
Irish  cunning. 

In  the  Dedication  Mr.  Yeats  expresses 
gratitude  to  a  friend  who  has  helped  him 
"down  out  of  that  high  window  of  dra- 
matic verse,"  to  a  renewed  acquaintance 
with  "  the  country  speech."  The  result- 
ing "  dramatic  fables "  have  been  suc- 
cessfully produced  in  Dublin  and  Lon- 
don. They  would  be  a  boon  to  our  stage, 
upon  which  the  Irishman  has  roared  in 
farce  quite  long  enough. 

Meanwhile  the  "  high  window  of  dra- 
matic verse  "  continues  to  be  occupied, 
not  always  happily.  Mr.  Hardy's  pre- 
sent volume,  we  note  with  concern,  is 
only  the  first  installment  of  a  work  of 
imposing  proportions.1  Several  hundred 
speaking  human  characters  are  promised 
for  the  whole  Drama,  not  to  speak  of  an 
Ancient  Spirit  of  the  Years,  a  Spirit  of 
the  Pities,  Spirits  Sinister  and  Ironic,  etc. 

1  The  Dynasts :  A  Drama  of  the  Napoleonic 
Wars,  in  Three  Parts,  Nineteen  Acts,  and  One 
Hundred  and  Thirty  Scenes.  Part  First.  By 


Obviously  this  is  not  to  be  a  drama  of 
the  practical  sort.  In  his  Preface  the 
author  goes  so  far  as  to  speculate  "whe- 
ther mental  performance  alone  may  not 
eventually  be  the  fate  of  all  drama  other 
than  that  of  contemporary  or  frivolous 
life."  He  admits,  however,  that  this 
work  is  rather  a  "  panoramic  show " 
than  in  any  strict  sense  a  drama.  A 
panoramic  show,  one  supposes  somewhat 
vaguely,  ought  to  possess  lucidity,  mo- 
bility, the  color  and  the  flow  of  life  in 
the  mass.  The  multitudinous  scenes  in 
the  present  effort  are  full  of  information, 
comment,  and  proper  names ;  they  are 
empty  of  persons  and  of  poetry.  They 
have  logical  continuity,  but  no  creative 
unity  whatever.  They  do  not  flow  into 
one  another ;  they  are  stuck  up  side  by 
side,  like  photographs  on  a  wall.  They 
are,  in  short,  the  work  of  a  master  of 
realistic  fiction  in  a  field  altogether  alien 
to  his  powers.  Mr.  Hardy  has  never 
proved  himself  a  poet  in  a  small  way ; 
he  here  scores  a  failure  in  the  colossal 
style.  His  verse  is  for  the  most  part  an 
achievement  of  elaborate  mischance  :  — 
A  verbiage  marked  by  nothing  more  of  weight 
Than  ignorant  irregularity, 

as  he  makes  Sheridan  say  in  the  course 
of  a  remarkable  versified    report  of  a 
parliamentary  debate.    The  Spirits  have 
a  particularly  crabbed  and  toplofty  habit 
of  speech.     It  is  the  Ancient  Spirit  of 
the  Years  (and  not  Ancient  Pistol)  who 
emits  this  extraordinary  couplet :  — 
So  may  ye  judge  Earth's  jackaclocks  to  be 
Not  fugled  by  one  Will,  but  function-free. 

Mr.  Hardy  has,  one  discovers  after  some 
exercise  of  patience,  succeeded  in  throw- 
ing emphasis  upon  England's  part  in  the 
Napoleonic  struggle,  and  in  expressing 
a  healthy  British  scorn  for  Napoleon 
and  other  foreign  persons. 

Mr.  William  Vaughn  Moody  has  a 
true  instinct  not  only  for  poetry  but 
for  dramatic  poetry,  as  readers  of  his 

THOMAS  HARDY.  New  York :  The  Macmillan 
Co.  1904. 


714 


Books  New  and  Old. 


Masque  of  Judgment  have  cause  to  know. 
That  is  to  stand,  it  appears,  as  the  sec- 
ond number  of  a  dramatic  trilogy,  in 
which  The  Fire-Bringer J  is  to  hold  first 
place.  No  more  promising,  no  more  ex- 
acting theme  than  the  Promethean  myth 
could  be  chosen  for  such  a  sequence.  No 
American  poet  of  the  present  generation 
is  better  qualified  to  deal  with  it  than 
Mr.  Moody.  The  present  dramatic  study 
is  in  no  way  inferior  to  that  which  ante- 
dated it  in  publication ;  and  this  is  high 
praise.  Mr.  Moody's  versification  is  al- 
together free  from  meretriciousness.  It 
is  of  classical  directness  and  purity.  The 
same  qualities  belong  to  the  larger  treat- 
ment of  his  theme.  An  occasional  chorus 
of  irregular  metre  suggests  the  Greek 
dramatic  habit ;  but  only  suggests  it. 

The  opening  dialogue  between  Deuka- 
lion  and  Pyrrha  acquaints  the  imagined 
auditor  with  the  situation.  The  aged 
pair,  preserved  by  the  warning  of  Pro- 
metheus from  the  flood  by  which  Zeus 
had  determined  to  destroy  the  race  of 
men,  have  from  stones  and  earth  magi- 
cally created  a  new  but  helpless  and  hope- 
less race,  lacking  the  boon  of  human  love, 
of  which,  with  the  boon  of  fire,  Zeus  has 
bereft  the  world.  Their  only  gleam  of 
cheer  is  in  the  lyrical  presence  of  Pan- 
dora, their  only  hope  in  the  continued 
magnanimity  of  Prometheus.  The  spe- 
cific action  concerns  that  prodigious  theft 
of  fire,  brought  "  secretly  in  a  fennel- 
stalk,"  and  the  consequent  restoration  of 
happiness  to  the  world.  There  are  many 
passages  which  one  would  like  to  quote, 
—  that  description  of  Pandora  singing  to 
the  Stone  Men  and  the  Earth  Women : 

There  by  the  pool  they  sat,  with  faces  lift 
And  brows  of  harsh  attention ;  in  their  midst 
Pandora  bowed,  and  sang  a  doubtful  song, 
Its  meaning  faint  or  none,  but  mingled  up 
Of  all  that  nests  and  housekeeps  in  the  heart, 
Or  puts  out  in  lone  passion  toward  the  vast 
And  cannot  choose  but  go. 

1  The  Fire-Bringer.  By  WILLIAM  VAUGHN 
MOODY.  Boston  and  New  York :  Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Co.  1904. 


Or  that  first  entrance  of  Prometheus  :  — 
Pyrrha. 

0  swift-comer,  it  is  thou  ! 
None  other,  thou,  wind-ranger,  bringer-in ! 
Child,  be  awake  !  Prometheus  ! 

Prometheus  (entering,  lifts  Pyrrha). 

Do  not  so ; 

These  hands  come  poor  ;  these  feet  bring  no- 
thing back. 

Pyrrha. 
Thy  hands  come  filled  with  thee,  thy  feet  from 

thence 
Have  brought  thee  hither ;  it  is  gifts  enough. 

Or  the  Fire-Bringer's  account  of  his  first 
attempt  at  the  mighty  theft :  — 

Soft  as  light  I  passed 

The  perilous  gates  that  are  acquainted  forth, 
The  walls  of  starry  safety  and  alarm, 
The  pillars  and  the  awful  roofs  of  song, 
The  stairs  and  colonnades  whose  marble  work 
Is  spirit,  and  the  joinings  spirit  also,  — 
And  from  the  well-brink  of  his  central  court 
Dipped  vital  fire  of  fire,  flooding  my  vase, 
Glutting  it  arm-deep  in  the  keen  element. 
Then  backward  swifter  than  the  osprey  dips 
Down  the  green  slide  of  the  sea.  .  .  . 

At  the  end  the  punishment  of  Prome- 
theus is  hardly  more  than  presaged  ;  the 
third  member  of  the  trilogy,  therefore, 
is  to  deal  with  that  part  of  the  myth 
which  has  been  turned  oftenest  into  poe- 
try. We  are  promised  it  in  the  course 
of  a  year  or  two,  and  have  reason  for 
looking  forward  to  its  appearance  with 
lively  interest,  and  with  not  a  little  con- 
fidence. 

IT  is  to  be  hoped  that  to  not  a  few 

Warwick       of  the  American  visitors  who 

Castle  and      ,  .  . 

its  Earls.       form  so  large  an  element  in 

that  never  -  ending  procession  of  sight- 
seers which  passes  through  Warwick 
Castle,  the  sumptuous  volumes  in  which 
Lady  Warwick  has  recorded  its  history  2 
may  serve  as  a  permanent  memorial  of 
a  pleasure,  to  some  almost  painfully 
keen,  because  perforce  so  brief.  The 
Castle,  indeed,  is  in  many  ways  chief 
among  those  historic  houses  which  in 

2  Warwick  Castle  and  its  Earls,  from  Saxon 
Times  to  the  Present  Day.  By  the  COUNTESS  OF 
WARWICK.  New  York  :  E.  P.  Dutton  &  Co. ; 
London  :  Hutchinson  &  Co.  1903. 


Books  New  and  Old. 


715 


their  beauty,  as  much  as  in  their  gran- 
deur, are  the  peculiar  glory  of  England. 
Its  story  and  that  of  its  masters  must 
of  necessity  include  an  epitome  of  Eng- 
lish history  during  a  thousand  years, 
and  as  to  legend  and  romance,  one  can 
go  back  into  the  wonderland  of  a  dim 
past  with  John  Rous,  the  worthy  fif- 
teenth-century Warwickshire  antiquary, 
who  asserts  that  Warwick  was  founded 
about  the  time  of  "  the  birth  of  King 
Alexander  the  Greek  conqueror."  Lady 
Warwick  writes  in  a  straightforward, 
unaffected  style,  and  her  work  being  in 
its  nature  largely  that  of  a  compiler, 
she  selects  and  uses  her  material  with 
excellent  judgment  and  a  due  sense  of 
proportion.  She  gives  space  enough, 
and  not  too  much,  to  a  consideration  of 
the  legendary  chronicles,  and  the  au- 
thentic but  rather  scanty  records  of  the 
Saxon  and  Norman  earls.  The  first 
figures  that  can  really  be  vitalized  are 
of  the  house  of  Beauchamp,  especially 
its  greatest  son,  Richard,  of  whom  the 
Emperor  Sigismund  declared  that  he 
had  not  his  equal  in  Christendom  "  for 
Wisdom,  Nurture,  and  Manhood,  —  if 
all  Courtesie  were  lost,  it  might  be  found 
in  him  again ;  "  and  whose  noble  monu- 
ment in  the  centre  of  the  beautiful 
chapel  he  founded  has  kept  him  in  re- 
membrance even  to  this  day.  The  ca- 
reer of  this  all  -  accomplished  knight's 
more  famous  son-in-law,  the  king-maker, 
is  clearly  and  well  described,  and  with 
him  the  old  order  passes,  his  hapless 
grandson,  the  Plantagenet  earl,  being 
the  most  pitiful  victim  of  the  new  rule. 
The  outlines,  at  least,  of  the  history 
of  one  of  the  most  notorious  instru- 
ments of  that  new  rule,  Edmund  Dud- 
ley, and  of  his  son  and  grandsons,  are 
tolerably  well  known  to  most  readers. 
Lady  Warwick,  in  a  very  good  summing- 
up  of  the  characteristics  of  the  most 
conspicuous  members  of  the  family  that 
held  the  earldom  under  the  Tudors, 
says  :  "  Their  ambition  was  overween- 
ing and  outran  their  talents.  .  .  .  But 


they  figured  impressively  on  the  stage, 
and  realized  the  pageant  of  life  better 
than  any  of  their  contemporaries."  By 
the  aid  of  The  Black  Book  of  Warwick 
she  is  able  to  revivify  some  of  this  splen- 
dor of  life,  and  the  whole  varied  story  of 
the  house  of  Dudley  is  well  told.  But 
why  is  the  little  son  and  heir  of  Leices- 
ter —  the  child  of  the  Countess  Lettice 
—  passed  over  in  the  narrative,  and  his 
identity  confounded  with  that  of  his 
elder  half-brother  ?  All  visitors  in  the 
Beauchamp  Chapel  linger  at  the  tomb 
of  "  the  noble  imp,"  and  one  can  im- 
agine the  hopeless  perplexity  of  the  ear- 
nest tourist  when  he  finds  this  childish 
designation,  and  even  the  boy's  monu- 
ment, given  to  Sir  Robert  Dudley,  who 
died  and  was  buried  in  Tuscany  more 
than  threescore  years  after  the  effigy  of 
his  small  brother  had  been  placed  in  the 
Lady  Chapel.  There  is  no  lack  of  in- 
terest in  the  annals  of  the  house  of  Rich, 
or  of  contrasts  in  character ;  —  witness 
that  altogether  evil  man,  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor ;  his  grandson,  for  no  personal 
merit  made  Earl  of  Warwick,  and  of 
whom  "  Stella  "  was  the  unwilling  bride ; 
their  son,  the  sturdy  Puritan  admiral, 
whose  saintly  daughter  -  in  -  law,  Mary 
Boyle,  is  sketched  at  full  length,  a  most 
living  picture  with  her  little  foibles  and 
great  virtues.  Then,  in  the  eighteenth 
century,  the  family  obscurely  ending,  the 
earldom  came  to  the  house  of  Greville, 
who  had  possessed  the  Castle  since  the 
passing  of  the  Dudleys. 

"  Fulke  Greville,  servant  to  Queen 
Elizabeth,  councillor  to  King  James,  and 
friend  to  Sir  Philip  Sidney,"  —  thus  he 
wrote  his  epitaph,  —  made  future  gen- 
erations his  debtor  by  his  admirable  res- 
toration and  enlargement  of  the  half- 
ruined  Castle,  which  he  also  "  beautified 
with  the  most  pleasant  gardens."  Two 
hundred  years  later,  George  Greville, 
the  second  earl  of  his  house,  restored 
and  supplemented  his  predecessor's  work, 
and  gathered  from  far  and  near  those 
treasures  of  art  with  which  the  world  is 


716 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


familiar.  A  word  of  appreciation  must 
be  given  to  the  author's  spirited  and 
sympathetic  sketch  of  that  Lord  Brooke, 
the  Parliamentary  leader,  who  was  slain 
at  Lichfield,  and  was  in  his  short  life  an 
exemplar  of  all  that  was  best  in  the  Lib- 
eralism of  his  time.  One  regrets  that 
more  space  could  not  have  been  given  to 
descriptions  of  the  Castle  and  St.  Mary's 
Church  as  well.  Architecture  in  such  a 
connection  is  by  no  means  so  "  dull "  a 
subject  as  the  writer  fears  it  to  be.  Space 
fails  to  do  justice  to  the  illustrations 
which  are  given  in  lavish  abundance  and 
are  excellently  well  selected.  There  are 


portraits,  from  the  illuminations  of  the 
Rous  Roll  to  the  photographs  of  to-day, 
relics  of  every  kind,  and  views  without 
number  of  the  Castle  and  its  surround- 
ings, indicating,  so  far  as  pencil  and 
camera  may,  not  only  the  "  grey  magni- 
ficence," but  something  of  the  dream- 
like charm  of  the  place.  In  a  few  well- 
chosen  closing  words,  the  author  shows 
how  she  and  Lord  Warwick  have  striven 
to  blend  the  old  and  the  new,  and  to 
fulfill  in  various  ways  the  duties  of  their 
stewardship.  Surely  one  of  these  duties 
has  been  fulfilled  in  the  preparation  of 
these  chronicles. 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB. 


OKE  summer  Sunday  morning,  a  num- 

The  Mouth  ber  of  vears  ag°>  I  dropped 
ol  the  Mime.  jn  at  the  FrenCh  Protestant 

Church  on  Washington  Square,  New 
York.  It  was  a  little  late  and  the 
preacher  had  begun  his  discourse.  He 
was  a  man  of  commanding  presence,  and 
possessed  of  one  of  the  most  fortunate 
voices,  for  his  calling,  that  I  had  ever 
listened  to.  I  do  not  at  all  remember 
what  he  said,  but  I  was  curiously  at- 
tracted by  the  way  in  which  he  said  it, 
by  the  purity  and  flexibility  of  his  enun- 
ciation, and  by  the  subtle  play  of  ex- 
pression with  which  it  was  accompanied, 
and  particularly  by  the  art  —  delicate 
and  unobtrusive  and  effective,  but  clearly 
the  art  —  with  which  he  used  his  lips. 
I  was  conscious  of  a  haunting  suggestion 
of  some  other  mouth  that  I  had  seen 
betraying  the  like  skill,  employed  with 
equal  mastery,  in  quite  different  sur- 
roundings. It  was  only  at  the  close  of 
the  service,  when  the  preacher  recited 
the  Lord's  Prayer  with  peculiar  fervor 
and  solemnity,  that  I  recognized  that  the 
suggested  parallel  was  with  Coquelin 
aine,  whom  I  had  heard  recently,  and 


as  I  passed  out  I  learned  by  inquiry 
that  the  accomplished  orator  to  whom  I 
had  been  listening  was  the  then  famous 
M.  Loyson,  the  Pere  Hyacinthe  whose 
eloquence  had  once  enthralled  the  audi- 
ences of  Notre  Dame. 

The  incident  set  me  upon  one  of  those 
desultory  studies  which  engage  most  of  us 
more  fascinatingly  than  our  regular  pur- 
suits ;  from  time  to  time  I  seized  every 
opportunity  that  presented  itself  to  com- 
pare the  mouths  of  orators  and  actors, 
and  I  came  to  think,  with  considerable 
reason,  that  I  could  recognize  a  man  of 
either  profession  at  sight  by  that  sole 
indicium,  especially,  as  not  infrequently 
happened,  if  the  case  observed  was  that 
of  a  really  successful  practitioner  of 
either.  Naturally  the  comparison  was 
easiest  between  the  actors  and  the  pul- 
pit speakers,  since  in  our  land  of  many 
sects  and  scant  ceremonial  the  latter 
are  as  numerous  as  the  former.  The 
analogy,  however,  was  as  evident  among 
secular  speakers,  —  Mr.  Curtis,  ColoneJ 
Ingersoll,  Mr.  Bryan,  and  Mr.  Bourke 
Cockran,  among  political  speakers  ;  while 
my  memory  ran  back  to  Phillips  and 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


Ill 


Sumner.  One  condition,  it  must  be 
noted,  was  practically  essential.  The 
mouths  of  all  my  subjects  of  study  were 
unhidden  by  beards,  and  it  is  worth  not- 
ing that,  while  this  is  the  rule  in  the 
Roman  Catholic  Church,  and  the  pretty 
general  practice  in  others,  nearly  all  the 
most  successful  orators  I  have  known 
have  kept  the  lips  shaven,  as  actors,  al- 
most of  necessity,  do.  The  distinguish- 
ing characteristics  of  the  mouth  common 
to  the  stage,  the  pulpit,  and  the  platform 
are  more  easily  recognized  than  de- 
scribed. It  is  generally  large,  larger 
than  other  mouths,  and  rather  out  of 
proportion  to  the  rest  of  the  features. 
Possibly  this  is  an  accompaniment  of  the 
temperament  that  leads  to  the  callings 
noted.  Possibly,  also,  the  greater  and 
more  frequent  use  of  the  voice  in  circum- 
stances requiring  unusual  effort  may  tend 
to  the  development  of  the  lips.  But  the 
most  marked  characteristic  of  the  mouth 
I  am  discussing  is  the  impression  it  al- 
ways conveys  to  me  of  a  certain  con- 
sciousness of  it  on  the  part  of  its  owner. 
It  is  not  artificiality  ;  that  is  a  crude 
and  offensive  word  by  which  to  denote 
its  peculiarity  ;  but  one  feels  that  such 
a  mouth  does  not  work,  as  the  heart  beats 
or  the  eyes  wink,  without  much  conscious- 
ness, and  wholly  without  control  from 
the  possessor.  With  the  actor  there  is  a 
more  or  less  definite  training  of  the  lips 
and  an  acquired  art  in  using  them.  Is 
a  like  result  attained  in  the  other  pro- 
fessions as  the  consequence  of  using  the 
mouth  in  public,  under  the  gaze  of  mul- 
titudes whom  the  speaker  aims  to  move  ? 
As  the  speaker  inevitably  asks  himself 
how  his  speech  affects  his  hearers,  and 
how  his  voice  sounds  to  them,  does  he, 
from  the  same  natural  impulse,  question 
the  effect  produced  by  his  countenance 
and  by  the  mouth,  perhaps  the  most  ex- 
pressive feature  ?  And  does  this  faint 
habit  of  half  -  intended  self  -  contempla- 
tion induce  the  corresponding  habit  of 
attempted  control?  If  so,  there  is  no 
harm  in  it.  He  who  seeks  to  move  his 


fellows  by  speech  is  entitled  to  employ 
all  the  resources  of  his  nature  to  that 
end ;  and  if  thereby  he  lose  a  little  of 
the  candid,  the  unforced,  the  revealing 
expression  proper  to  the  mouths  of  most 
other  men  and  nearly  all  women,  it  may 
be  that  the  loss  is  amply  made  up. 
I  AM  afraid  I  am  old-fashioned.  I 

I  Take  My  always  have  mildly  suspected 
Niece  to  LJTT  •  T  *  i 

Parsifal.        as    much,    but    since    1    took 

Miss  Dolly  to  Parsifal,  and  she  told  me 
so  quite  frankly  and  brutally,  my  suspi- 
cion has  mounted  to  positive  fear.  I 
did  misbehave  myself  outrageously  at 
Parsifal,  I  must  admit.  Not  that  I 
whispered  to  Dolly  the  amusing  things 
I  thought  —  or  not  many  of  them  ;  but 
I  went  fast  asleep  during  the  second  act, 
just  at  the  moment  (one  of  Wagner's  long 
moments)  when  the  ascetic  hero  was  in 
most  danger  of  becoming  humanized. 
And  when  the  Festival  Play  was  over  I 
asked  Dolly  if  she  were  quite  sure  that 
it  was  time  to  go  home.  We  had 
reached  the  opera  house  at  five.  It  was 
then  eleven-forty.  Miss  Dolly  smothered 
a  yawn,  and  replied  that  I  was  a  brute. 
Miss  Dolly's  mother,  who  has  known  me 
longer  than  Dolly  has,  had  a  warm  sup- 
per ready  for  us  when  we  did  get  home, 
and  a  smile  of  sympathy.  Dolly  said, 
as  she  sipped  her  chocolate,  that  she 
considered  it  a  "  perfect  shame "  for 
any  one  to  produce  Parsifal  in  English, 
to  dramatize  it,  to  put  it  on  the  stage 
here,  there,  and  everywhere,  with  any 
sort  of  singers  in  the  cast,  as  is  going  to 
be  done. 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  I,  "  I  heart- 
ily approve." 

"You  do?"  cried  Dolly.  "Well, 
I  'd  like  to  know  why !  " 

"  Because,"  I  answered,  "  the  more  it 
is  produced  the  less  there  will  be  writ- 
ten about  it.  Besides,  if  enough  people 
see  it  the  humbug  will  be  exposed.  You 
can't  fool  all  of  the  people,  you  know, 
all"  — 

But  Miss  Dolly  was  gone,  in  a  fine 
temper. 


718 


The    Contributors'    Club. 


I  am  quite  prepared  to  admit,  of 
course,  that  Miss  Dolly  was  profoundly 
moved  by  Parsifal,  as  by  all  of  Wag- 
ner's works.  Indeed,  she  accepts  the 
master  with  much  more  liberality  than 
some  other  people  I  know.  She  has 
confided  to  me  that  she  never  sees 
Lohengrin  without  weeping,  though  I 
believe  it  is  the  fashion  of  the  advanced, 
or  ritualistic,  Wagnerites  to  look  with 
little  favor  on  that  earlier  opera.  Nor 
am  I  questioning  her  perfect  right  to  do 
so.  If  she  chooses  to  weep  at  Lohengrin, 
—  bless  her  dear  eyes  and  the  tender 
heart  that  speaks  behind  them  !  —  why 
should  I  wish  to  prevent?  I  would  even 
permit  her  to  be  thrilled  by  the  dragon 
in  Siegfried,  a  piece  of  mechanism  which 
would  not  be  tolerated  seriously  on  the 
dramatic  stage,  even  in  a  Drury  Lane 
extravaganza.  I  am  sorry  that  I  ever 
read  her  Tolstoy's  sprightly  description 
of  the  performance  of  Siegfried  he  wit- 
nessed ;  she  tried  so  hard  not  to  smile ! 
All  I  ask  is  that  she  and  her  fellow  Wag- 
nerites shall  not  ask  me  to  weep,  or  be 
thrilled,  or  follow  them  in  their  enthu- 
siasm, —  or  go  with  them  again  to  Par- 
sifal ! 

And  yet  I  love  opera ;  even  Miss  Dolly 
will  back  me  up  in  that.  I  am,  as  she 
says,  old  -  fashioned,  though,  and  the 
opera  I  love  was  not  written  by  Wagner. 
I  also  love  Tom  Jones  and  the  novels 
of  Miss  Austen,  and  the  songs  Herrick 
wrote  and  Burns,  and  I  do  not  much 
care  for  the  "  modern  "  poetry  of  some 
of  Wagner's  French  contemporaries  and 
friends,  nor  for  the  "  problem  story  "  of 
to-day.  .  I  fear  my  old-fashion  edness  is 
fundamental  and  complete.  I  wish  a 
tune,  like  a  story,  to  begin  at  the  begin- 
ning and  advance  bravely  to  a  middle, 
and  then  flow  smoothly  to  an  end,  and 
I  don't  object  if  it  takes  its  own  time 
about  it.  I  wish  it,  also,  to  take  me 
along  with  it,  to  possess  sufficient  buoy- 
ancy to  float  the  perhaps  too,  too  solid 
bulk  of  my  emotional  nature.  Give  me 
the  opera,  grave  or  gay,  that  was  writ- 


ten by  one  of  the  great  masters  of  mu- 
sical narration,  and  that  sings  for  the 
pure  love  of  singing,  with  old-fashioned 
confidence  in  the  creed  of  melody.  Then 
I  sit  back  in  my  seat  and  ask  no  ques- 
tions of  the  composer's  purpose,  as  he 
flaunts  no  purpose  in  my  face,  but  am 
simply  and  unaffectedly  happy,  full  of 
the  good  wine  of  song. 

Something  of  this  I  expressed  to  Miss 
Dolly  one  evening,  between  acts  of  The 
Marriage  of  Figaro.  Even  Miss  Dolly 
has  to  admit  that  she  enjoys  The  Mar- 
riage of  Figaro.  "And  my  old-fash- 
ioned Mozart  did  just  what  you  say 
your  modern  Wagner  does,  and  did  it 
better,"  I  added. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Dolly. 

"  There  is  vivid  and  unfailing  char- 
acterization in  Mozart's  orchestral  score 
throughout,"  said  I,  "  that  never  fails  to 
make  its  point.  But  it  never  interrupts 
the  flow  of  the  narrative,  never  ceases 
to  be  truly  dramatic.  Wagner's  '  mo- 
tifs '  are  episodic  and  mechanical,  hence 
undramatic.  You  see,  Miss  Dolly,  the 
difference  was  here  :  Mozart,  wrapped 
up  in  his  story,  poured  out  his  music 
heedlessly,  and  it  fitted  each  character 
because  Mozart  was  one  of  those  old- 
fashioned  things  called  a  genius ;  he 
could  n't  help  it  But  Wagner  fitted  a 
theme  to  a  character  (or  a  character  to 
a  theme),  and  the  next  time  that  char- 
acter appeared  I  always  imagine  the 
composer  scratching  his  head  and  say- 
ing, '  Now,  which  motif  was  it  went 
with  this  chap  ?  ' ' 

"  Well,  he  always  got  it  right,  any- 
how," said  Miss  Dolly  triumphantly. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  he  did,"  I  admitted, 
as  the  lights  on  the  stage  flared  up  and 
the  champagne  of  Mozart's  music  began 
to  sparkle. 

Presently  I  saw  Miss  Dolly's  head  nod- 
ding to  a  contagious  rhythm,  and  her  lips 
parted  with  the  pleasure  that  filled  all  her 
pretty  person.  "  The  world  would  be  a 
dreary  place  without  the  old-fashioned 
things,  even  the  operas,"  I  reflected. 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


719 


And  then  I  whispered  to  her,  "  You 
like  this,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  But  I  can  like  Wagner,  too,"  she 
said.  "  Oh,  why  can't  you  ?  " 

"  Alas,"  said  I,  "  I  am  not  so  young  as 
you  are ! " 

I  BELONG  to  that  old  New  England 

A  Plea  for  stock,  Puritan  to  the  marrow, 
Patent  AHec-  ,  .  '  ,  „. 

tton.  which  has  ever  suttered  ne- 

cessary and  unnecessary  things  for  con- 
science' sake,  and  which,  since  its  first 
cry  of  being,  has  read  the  Atlantic  in- 
stead of  picture  magazines. 

They  were  a  worthy,  God-fearing  lot, 
these  forbears  of  mine,  having  all  the 
depth  of  character  and  soul  that  one  could 
reasonably  ask  for  in  one's  precursors. 
And  yet  at  times,  —  presumably  more 
often  than  others,  when  I  am  attending 
a  meeting  of  Colonial  Dames,  —  in  the 
course  of  a  recountal  of  doughty  deeds 
of  divers  great-greats,  I  am  seized  with 
a  violent  mental  attack  which  I  am  afraid 
will  make  its  way  through  the  decorous 
lines  of  my  Colonial  visage,  so  stringent 
is  its  grasp  upon  me,  this  grasp  of  a  dia- 
bolic desire  to  have  been  the  descendant 
of  a  Milwaukee  beer-brewer,  sans  soul, 
sans  blood  (blue  blood,  I  mean),  sans 
conscience,  sans  everything  but  a  phleg- 
matic temperament  tempered  by  the  dif- 
fuse affectionateness  of  the  Teuton,  —  a 
bit  frothy,  and  on  the  top,  perhaps,  like 
the  beer  he  brewed,  but  also  giving  its 
soft,  warm  rotundity  to  the  famished 
form  of  family  life. 

And  in  the  midst  of  this  wandering 
down  a  path,  too  mellow  in  its  softened 
lights  of  color  and  chiaroscuro  for  one 
destined  by  fate  for  the  sterner  Puritan 
path,  I  am  dragged  forcibly  back  by  the- 
strenuous  tones  of  one  whose  eight  great- 
greats  all  perished  at  their  post  of  duty, 
and  whose  spirits  of  sacrifice  and  con- 
tained emotion  have  so  descended  to  her, 
their  worthy  posterity,  that  one  knows 
by  the  ring  in  her  voice  she  would  cheer- 
fully relinquish  eight  more,  were  they  at 
hand,  and  recite  with  equal  ardor  their 
fervent  demises. 


With  a  sense  of  shame  I  pull  myself 
together  to  listen  how,  in  the  last  battle 
for  noble  principle,  her  only  remaining 
great-great  tore  himself  away  from  a 
dying  wife  ;  fleeing  his  potato  patch  the 
instant  duty  called ;  stifling  his  love  in 
his  heart  as  a  weak  and  unworthy  emo- 
tion ;  and  running  full  speed  to  the  for- 
tress on  the  hill.  Yes,  brave  he  was,  — 
but  why  did  n't  he  kiss  her  good-by,  my 
Milwaukee  ego  insists,  —  it  would  n't 
have  taken  a  minute ;  would  have  made 
him  no  less  a  hero ;  and  she  might  have 
died  serenely,  —  sure  of  his  love  as  well 
as  his  zeal. 

The  beer-brewer  would  have  done  it! 
And  again  my  Colonial  countenance  feels 
the  red  blood  coursing  through  its  blue- 
blooded  veins  as  the  New  England  heart 
lets  loose  pulses  and  throbs  in  an  abandon 
of  joyous  emotion  over  the  vision  of  that 
open  human  love  which  may  be  the 
greater  part  of  life. 

Reverting  from  the  Puritan  past  to 
our  present-day  America  in  its  more  gra- 
cious garb  of  daily  living,  is  it  not  still 
true  that  albeit  the  affection  is  there, 
quite  as  surely  as  in  the  hearts  of  our 
Teuton  and  Romance  cousins,  it  is,  never- 
theless, latent  instead  of  patent?  We 
seem  to  fear  showing  our  feelings  as  if 
there  were  something  ill-bred  or  not  quite 
modest  about  their  being  brought  to  the 
surface. 

Take  the  typical  college  man  who  in- 
wardly burns  to  let  a  classmate  know  his 
sympathy  in  a  time  of  sadness.  How 
does  he  show  it  ?  Is  n't  he,  in  his  inherited 
tendency  to  avoid  seeming  weakly  de- 
monstrative, more  likely  to  seek  relief  of 
expression  in  some  off-hand  remark,  with 
a  friendly  clap  on  the  shoulder  ?  "  And 
what  is  the  difference,"  you  say,  "  if  the 
feeling  is  there  ?  The  other  man  realizes 
it.  He,  too,  has  inherited  the  penetra- 
tion of  the  Yankee."  Very  possibly  that 
is  true.  But  why  not  let  the  laws  which 
govern  art  and  music  —  which,  beyond 
all  other  things,  convey  human  longings 
and  sympathies  and  aspirations  to  hu- 


720 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


man  souls  —  apply  similarly  to  human 
intercourse,  which  strives,  haltingly,  to 
attain  the  same  goal  ?  Why  use  symbols 
which  are  inharmonious  expressions  of 
the  thing  signified  ;  which  are  inartistic, 
incongruous,  almost  brutal  sometimes  in 
their  ineptness  ? 

My  plea,  then,  is  not  for  unseemly 
effusiveness,  for  unrestrained  gushings 
from  the  font  of  fondness,  but  for  the 
natural  expression  in  sane  and  congruous 
symbols  of  a  real  affection ;  the  scat- 
tering of  rosebuds  while  we  may  along 
the  none-too-rosy  path  of  human  life. 

FELLOW  TBAVELEBS  are  proverbial- 
On  Travel-  ^v  conndential>  I  believe ;  and 

lag,  Again :   when  the  genial  globe-trot- 
The  "  Do- 
posit  "Sys-    ters     of     the     January    and 

March  Contributors'  Club 
took  us  into  their  confidence,  we  were 
at  once  minded  to  reciprocate. 

We  are  dwellers  in  a  little  Western 
college  town,  Joan  and  I.  From  the 
eastern  rim,  where  the  sun  peeps  up  o' 
mornings,  to  the  western  edge,  "where 
the  quiet  coloured  end  of  evening 
smiles, "  there  is  no  hint  that  the  world 
is  anything  else  but  prairie.  The  very 
vastness  of  the  distances  shuts  us  in 
the  more  effectually.  A  mountain  we 
could  climb,  with  faith  that  some  Pa- 
cific would  yield  us  the  tramontane 
vision  granted  to  Cortes  of  old  time. 
But  the  prairie  is  no  respecter  of  pe- 
destrians, and  a  day's  journey  leaves 
the  rim  of  the  cup  as  far  away  as  ever. 

And  down  here,  in  the  centre  of  this 
unlimited  nothingness,  we  caught,  not 
so  long  ago,  the  bacillus  of  the  Grand 
Tour.  Perhaps  it  was  a  nonchalant 
comment  on  Paris  bookshops,  made 
by  one  of  our  traveled  college  friends, 
that  introduced  the  germ  into  our  sys- 
tem. Perhaps  it  was  a  passing  refer- 
ence to  a  tramp  in  Switzerland  that  set 
the  minute  particle  in  motion.  But 
certain  it  is  that  a  letter  from  a  friend 
of  our  youth,  whom  fate  had  just  taken 


on  a  trip  through  the  Riviera,  aroused 
the  bacillus  of  the  G.  T.  to  feverish 
activity. 

"  Darby, "  said  Joan  to  me  when  the 
letter  came,  "let  us  go  to  Europe." 

"Done, "  said  I.  And  the  very  next 
day  a  deposit  went  into  the  savings 
bank,  —  a  deposit  between  the  lines  of 
which  we  could  read,  "Ticket  to  New 
York." 

Hardly  had  the  deposit  slip  been 
made  out  before  the  smooth  prairie  rose 
into  a  serrated  line  of  buildings,  and 
we  were  walking  down  Broadway. 
"How  easy  it  was,"  quoth  Joan,  to 
whom  Pullman  cars  are  bugbears  inde- 
scribable. "Shall  we  not  stay  in  New 
York  awhile  ?  "  And  stay  we  did  for 
two  months,  until  "Passage  to  Liver- 
pool "  followed  "  New  York  "  through 
the  cashier's  window.  What  did  it 
matter  that  off  there,  on  the  wintry  At- 
lantic coast,  the  Noordland  was  stag- 
gering in  with  ice-covered  rigging  and 
broken  steering  gear  ?  We  had  made 
the  voyage  without  turning  a  hair,  and 
the  hand  of  the  customs  officer  was  as 
powerless  to  delay  us  at  Liverpool  as 
the  hand  of  Providence  had  been  on 
the  voyage. 

We  are  in  London  now,  —  just  at 
present  happily  ensconced  in  the  library 
of  the  British  Museum.  "Paris  "  has 
not  yet  been  deposited  with  the  cashier ; 
"Switzerland"  is  still  a  little  hazy; 
and  as  for  "Italy  "  — well,  we  content 
ourselves  with  opening  our  Browning 
at  De  Gustibus.  But  in  due  time 
Italy,  too,  will  pass  into  the  custody 
of  the  guardian  of  our  travels,  and  our 
itinerary  will  be  complete. 

And  then  —  let  me  whisper  it  in 
your  ear  —  we  shall  probably  settle 
down  to  such  a  pleasant  satisfaction  in 
our  journeyings  that  the  prairies  will 
blossom  anew  to  our  eyes,  and  Joan 
will  say  contentedly,  "  Darby,  shall  we 
stay  at  home  and  send  the  boy  ?  " 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY: 
jftaga?ine  of  literature,  Science,  art,  ana  $olitic& 

VOL.  XCIIL  —  JUNE,  1904.  — No.  DLX. 


THE   GREAT   DELUSION   OF  OUR  TIME. 


IT  would  be  but  human  if  this  age  were 
a  trifle  supercilious,  not  to  say  deluded, 
concerning  its  own  powers.  Great  things 
have  been  said  of  it,  nor  can  it  be  denied 
that  it  has  fallen  heir  to  great  things. 
At  least  it  has  enjoyed  and  tested  be- 
yond all  other  ages  the  fruit  of  the  tree 
of  knowledge.  "  It  is  an  epoch,"  says 
John  Fiske,  "  the  grandeur  of  which 
dwarfs  all  others  that  can  be  named  since 
the  beginning  of  the  historic  period,  if 
not  since  man  first  became  distinctively 
human.  In  their  mental  habits,  in  their 
methods  of  inquiry,  and  in  the  data  at 
their  command,  the  men  of  the  present 
day  who  have  fully  kept  pace  with  the 
scientific  movement  are  separated  from 
the  men  whose  education  ended  in  eigh- 
teen hundred  and  thirty  by  an  immea- 
surably wider  gulf  than  has  ever  before 
divided  one  progressive  generation  of 
men  from  their  predecessors.  The  in- 
tellectual development  of  the  human 
race  has  been  suddenly,  almost  abrupt- 
ly, raised  to  a  higher  plane  than  that 
upon  which  it  had  proceeded  from  the 
days  of  the  primitive  troglodyte  to  the 
days  of  our  great-grandfathers." 

This  statement  is  so  far  true  that  it  is 
dangerous.  Doubtless  there  are  a  great 
many  people,  possibly  a  majority  of  so- 
called  educated  men,  who  would,  without 
considering  the  limitations  of  scientific 
knowledge,  accept  these  words  literally, 
who  have  formed  the  habit  of  thinking 
that  the  light  which  we  possess  to-day  is, 
compared  with  that  possessed  by  Luther 
or  George  Washington  or  Socrates,  as 


sunlight  to  starlight.  Their  view  is  not 
only  that  we  know  infinitely  more  than 
George  Washington  knew,  but  that  we 
alone  possess  the  final  criteria  of  know- 
ledge. Socrates  and  Washington  knew  a 
good  deal,  but  they  knew  vaguely ;  they 
could  not  distinguish  accurately  between 
fact  and  delusion.  Our  supreme  advan- 
tage is  supposed  to  be  not  only  that  we 
know,  but  that  we  know  we  know.  This 
egotistic  cast  or  vogue  of  thought  en- 
velops the  mind  of  the  age.  It  is  more 
authoritative  than  Kaiser  or  Pope,  than 
dogma  or  creed.  It  percolates  through 
all  classes,  it  penetrates  our  literature,  it 
colors  our  judgment.  It  predetermines 
our  view,  shapes  the  outline  of  our  facts, 
and  is  interwoven  with  the  texture  of  our 
thought.  In  a  considerable  proportion 
of  our  typical  men  it  has  bred  a  sense 
of  supreme  judicial  qualification.  In  the 
presence  of  a  magisterial  equipment  so 
vast  and  complete,  men  of  previous  ages 
appear  dwarfed ;  their  efforts  seem  in- 
fantile. Even  Jesus  appears  to  grope. 
Our  Scientific  Judiciary  does  indeed  rev- 
erence the  purity  of  his  spirit,  but  when 
it  comes  to  his  authority,  or  his  views 
about  God,  they  tenderly  but  firmly  put 
him  out  of  court. 

Now  this  sovereign  attitude  of  the  hu- 
man mind  has  in  the  course  of  history 
proved  intoxicating,  and  therefore  peril- 
ous. There  was  a  man  once  who  said, 
"  Is  not  this  great  Babylon,  that  I  have 
built  ?  "  Too  much  magistracy  had  be- 
gun to  impair  the  finer  workings  of  his 
mind.  His  next  step  was  to  eat  straw 


722 


The   Great  Delusion  of  our  Time. 


like  an  ox.  He  lost  sight  somehow  of 
organic  relations.  This  suggests  a  vital 
question.  Does  our  age  actually  possess 
the  equipment  for  a  magisterial  attitude  ? 
Let  us  apply  a  test.  How  does  this 
equipment  work  practically  ?  Light  is 
a  thing  the  main  value  of  which  is  prac- 
tical. If  it  be  really  clear  and  strong  it 
should  be  able  to  guide  our  steps.  If 
the  light  of  our  time  is  to  that  of  other 
ages  as  sunlight  to  starlight,  then  it  ought 
to  show  us  with  a  clearness  never  vouch- 
safed to  Socrates  or  to  Jesus  just  what 
the  battle  of  life  is,  and  how  to  meet  it. 
Above  all,  there  is  one  point  at  which  it 
ought  to  show  the  path  of  progressive 
evolution,  from  which  it  ought  to  chase 
the  thicker  shadows  of  the  past,  the 
darker  traces  of  atavism,  the  ferocious 
reminiscence  of  the  brute.  I  refer  to 
the  social  problem.  Let  us  look  at  the 
facts;  let  us  turn  to  the  views  that  are 
prevailing  to-day ;  let  us  take  those  writ- 
ers who  most  thoroughly  represent  the 
magisterial  attitude  of  our  times  ;  let  us 
see  what  light  they  throw  on  the  social 
problem,  what  that  radiance  is  which 
has  caused  the  glory  of  Socrates  and  of 
Jesus  to  grow  pale,  and  has  made  the 
intellectual  distance  between  Washing- 
ton and  ourselves  so  vast  that  we  can 
hardly  see  him.  I  quote  from  an  article 
by  Brooks  Adams  in  the  Atlantic  Month- 
ly for  last  November.  Let  me  ask  you 
to  notice  that  Mr.  Adams  speaks  not 
only  from  the  vantage  ground  of  a  care- 
ful student  and  an  eyewitness  of  the  so- 
cial movement,  but  as  one  having  final 
authority  in  regard  to  the  laws  of  the 
cosmos. 

"  From  the  humblest  peasant  to  the 
mightiest  empire  humanity  is  waging  a 
ceaseless  and  pitiless  struggle  for  exist- 
ence in  which  the  unfit  perish.  This 
struggle  is  maintained  with  every  wea- 
pon and  by  every  artifice,  and  success 
is  attained  not  only  by  endurance  and 
sagacity,  but  by  cunning  and  ferocity. 
Chief,  however,  among  the  faculties 
which  have  given  superiority,  must  rank 


the  martial  quality,  for  history  teaches 
us  that  nothing  can  compensate  a  com- 
munity for  defeat  in  battle.  War  is 
competition  in  its  fiercest  form."  "  Hu- 
man destiny  has  been  wrought  out 
through  war."  "  The  first  settlers  slew 
the  Indians,  or  were  themselves  slain. .  .  . 
To  consolidate  an  homogeneous  empire 
we  crushed  the  social  system  of  the  South, 
and  lastly  we  cast  forth  Spain.  The 
story  is  written  in  blood,  and  common 
sense  teaches  us  that  as  the  past  has  been, 
so  will  be  the  future." 

Applying  this  pitiless  principle  to  our 
commercial  relations,  Mr.  Adams  argues 
that  our  only  salvation  is  to  maintain  it 
to  the  bitter  end.  There  is  no  hope  of 
improvement ;  the  human  organism  must 
fight  or  die.  "  The  evolution  of  human 
society,  like  that  of  the  brute,  must  be 
along  lines  of  pitiless  warfare."  Notice 
in  this  quotation  what  the  light  of  to-day 
is,  according  to  Mr.  Adams  ;  it  is  the 
doctrine  of  Natural  Selection.  By  its 
pure  white  light  he  discerns  without  any 
illusions  the  pathway  of  society.  "  Hu- 
man destiny  has  been  wrought  out 
through  war."  "  Dreams  of  peace  have 
always  allured  mankind  to  their  undo- 
ing." "  Nature  has  decreed  that  animals 
shall  compete  for  life,  in  other  words,  de- 
stroy or  be  destroyed.  We  can  hope  for 
no  exemption  from  the  common  lot." 
Surely  nothing  could  be  more  logical 
than  this.  It  ought  to  come  with  a  shock 
to  those  who  have  never  thought  out  in 
their  own  minds  the  unlimited  applica- 
tion of  this  modern  scientific  theory  to 
human  life.  It  has  been  said  by  the 
highest  authority,  "  Natural  Selection 
works  through  death."  As  Mr.  Adams 
has  put  it,  war  is  Nature's  decree,  not 
human  brotherhood.  The  latter,  alas, 
is  an  illusion,  a  tradition  handed  down 
from  the  vague  and  inconsequential  ages. 
Nature's  real  decree  for  mankind  is  war 
to  the  knife. 

In  the  Atlantic  Monthly  for  January, 
1904,  is  a  powerfully  written  article  by 
Mr.  London  on  the  Scab,  in  which  the 


The   Great  Delusion  of  our  Time. 


723 


same  view  is  maintained.  I  quote  the 
following  :  — 

"  In  a  competitive  society,  where  men 
struggle  with  one  another  for  food  and 
shelter,  what  is  more  natural  than  that 
generosity,  when  it  diminishes  the  food 
and  shelter  of  men  other  than  he  who 
is  generous,  should  be  held  an  accursed 
thing  ?  .  .  .  To  strike  at  a  man's  food 
and  shelter  is  to  strike  at  his  life,  and 
in  a  society  organized  on  a  tooth-and- 
nail  basis,  such  an  act,  performed  though 
it  may  be  under  the  guise  of  generos- 
ity, is  none  the  less  menacing  and  terri- 
ble. 

"  It  is  for  this  reason  that  a  laborer 
is  so  fiercely  hostile  to  another  laborer 
who  offers  to  work  for  less  pay  or  longer 
hours.  .  .  . 

"  Thus,  the  generous  laborer,  giving 
more  of  a  day's  work  for  less  return, .  .  . 
threatens  the  life  of  his  less  generous 
brother  laborer,  and,  at  the  best,  if  he 
does  not  destroy  that  life,  he  diminishes 
it.  Whereupon  the  less  generous  laborer 
looks  upon  him  as  an  enemy,  and,  as  men 
are  inclined  to  do  in  a  tooth-and-nail  so- 
ciety, he  tries  to  kill  the  man  who  is  try- 
ing to  kill  him. 

"  When  a  striker  kills  with  a  brick  the 
man  who  has  taken  his  place,  he  has  no 
sense  of  wrong-doing.  In  the  deepest 
holds  of  his  being,  though  he  does  not 
reason  the  impulse,  he  has  an  ethical 
sanction.  He  feels  dimly  that  he  has 
justification,  just  as  the  home-defending 
Boer  felt,  though  more  sharply,  with  each 
bullet  he  fired  at  the  invading  English. 
Behind  every  brick  thrown  by  a  striker 
is  the  selfish  '  will  to  live  '  of  himself  and 
the  slightly  altruistic  will  to  live  of  his 
family.  The  family-group  came  into  the 
world  before  the  state-group,  and  society 
being  still  on  the  primitive  basis  of  tooth 
and  nail,  the  will  to  live  of  the  state  is 
not  so  compelling  to  the  striker  as  the 
will  to  live  of  his  family  and  himself." 

Mr.  London  scientifically  clears  up 
the  moral  character  of  the  Scab,  gener- 
jusly  including  most  of  us  in  his  diagno- 


sis. He  shows  that,  however  we  may 
appear  to  the  casual  observer,  we  are  all 
Scabs  by  turn,  and  that,  though  out- 
wardly we  often  seem  to  be  generous, 
we  are  really  true  at  heart  to  the  prin- 
ciple of  Natural  Selection.  Concerning 
each  one  of  us,  he  remarks,  "  He  does 
not  scab  because  he  wants  to  scab.  No 
whim  of  the  spirit,  no  burgeoning  of  the 
heart,  leads  him  to  give  more  of  his  labor- 
power  than  they  for  a  certain  sum. 

"It  is  because  he  cannot  get  work  on 
the  same  terms  as  they  that  he  is  a  Scab. 
.  .  .  Nobody  desires  to  scab,  to  give  most 
for  least.  The  ambition  of  every  indi- 
vidual is  quite  the  opposite." 

I  pass  over  the  argument  by  which 
Mr.  London  goes  on  to  show  that  every- 
body, except  King  Edward  and  a  few 
people  whom  hereditary  advantage  has 
rescued  from  the  real  struggle  of  life,  is 
at  times  a  Scab,  —  the  laborer,  the  cap- 
italist, the  merchant,  the  minister  of  the 
gospel,  the  American  nation,  the  English 
nation,  —  in  short,  every  human  organ- 
ism which  is  in  this  competitive  war- 
fare plays  by  turn  the  part  of  Scab,  ac- 
cording as  the  strategy  of  its  situation 
requires.  We  work  for  less  pay  to  get 
control  of  the  situation,  but  having  once 
got  control  of  the  situation  we  use  it  to 
crush  the  Scab,  reduce  competition,  and 
secure  larger  returns. 

Now  I  have  quoted  these  two  writers 
because  they  are  representative.  Not 
only  have  they  carefully  studied  the  or- 
ganization of  society,  but  they  clearly 
reflect  the  illumination  of  that  philoso- 
phy which,  more  than  any  other,  is  the 
distinguishing  and  magisterial  equip- 
ment of  our  day.  It  is  by  the  light  of 
Evolution  that  we  feel  qualified  to  test' 
the  Bible,  Christianity,  and,  in  fact,  every 
human  belief  or  moral  position.  For 
Evolution  is  to  the  popular  scientific 
mind  so  absolutely  established  as  to  seem 
approximately  identical  with  the  cosmos 
itself.  It  is  therefore  a  final  and  author- 
itative test.  It  is  evident  at  a  glance 
that  both  these  writers  have  studied  our 


724 


The   Great  Delusion  of  our  Time. 


social  problems  by  the  light  of  Natural 
Selection,  and  that  this  is  to  their  minds 
the  only  light  worth  considering.  This 
fact  classifies  them  as  distinctively  men 
of  the  type  referred  to  by  John  Fiske. 
They  are,  according  to  him,  separated 
from  the  men  whose  education  ended  in 
eighteen  hundred  and  thirty  by  an  im- 
mensely wider  gulf  than  has  ever  before 
divided  one  progressive  generation  of 
men  from  their  predecessors.  For  Nat- 
ural Selection  is  the  authoritative  type 
of  Evolution  so  far  as  living  organisms 
are  concerned,  and  Evolution  is  our  dis- 
tinctive magisterial  equipment.  Scien- 
tific observation  existed  before  our  time, 
but  it  is  our  peculiar  glory  to  have  dis- 
covered the  scientific  philosophy  which 
appears  to  coordinate,  account  for,  and 
interpret  all  known  facts  past  and  pre- 
sent, and  which  has  therefore  suggested 
the  idea  of  an  apparently  absolute  yet 
purely  intellectual  criterion  of  truth  and 
test  of  reality. 

Moreover,  these  writers  are  consistent ; 
they  follow  their  logic  to  the  bitter  end. 
They  do  not  mix  things  up.  Natural 
Selection,  which  works  through  death,  fig- 
ures in  their  scheme  as  the  sole  law  of 
human  development.  It  is  Nature's  de- 
cree. "  Dreams  of  peace  are  an  illu- 
sion." —  "  Human  destiny  has  been 
wrought  out  through  blood."  —  "  Com- 
mon sense  teaches  us  that  as  has  been  the 
past  so  will  be  the  future."  —  That  con- 
demns The  Hague  Tribunal  to  the  Limbo 
of  hopeless  phantasms.  It  exposes  the 
folly  of  our  modern  attempts  to  mitigate 
the  ferocity  of  war.  We  are  but  trifling 
with  an  irresistible  force  ;  ferocity  and 
murderous  cunning  are  always  Nature's 
tools,  by  which  she  shapes  not  only  our 
physical,  but  our  ethical  manhood. 

This,  then,  is  the  way  in  which  the 
magisterial  doctrine  solves  -our  social 
problems,  and  this  is  the  present  social 
status  of  the  age  which  has  basked  in  its 
light,  which  "  has  been  suddenly,  almost 
abruptly,  raised  to  a  higher  plane  than 
that  upon  which  the  race  had  proceeded 


from  the  days  of  the  primitive  troglodyte 
to  the  days  of  our  great-grandfathers." 
Let  us  take  account  of  stock.  We  have 
society  actually  organized  to-day  on  a 
primitive  tooth-and-nail  basis.  "  From 
the  humblest  peasant  to  the  mightiest  em- 
pire humanity  is  waging  a  ceaseless  and 
pitiless  struggle  for  existence  in  which  the 
unfit  perish,"  a  struggle  in  which  "  suc- 
cess is  attained  not  only  by  endurance  and 
sagacity,  but  by  cunning  and  ferocity." 
In  fact,  we  are,  according  to  Mr.  Lon- 
don's article,  already  passing  some  im- 
portant milestones  on  the  backward  road 
toward  the  moral  status  of  the  primitive 
troglodyte.  "  When  a  striker  kills  with 
a  brick  the  man  who  has  taken  his  place, 
he  has  no  sense  of  wrong-doing.  .  .  .  He 
has  an  ethical  sanction.  .  .  .  The  fam- 
ily-group came  into  the  world  before  the 
state-group,  and  society  being  still  on  the 
primitive  basis  of  tooth  and  nail,  the  will 
to  live  of  the  state  is  not  so  compelling  to 
the  striker  as  the  will  to  live  of  his  fam- 
ily and  himself."  Now,  as  Mr.  Adams 
would  say,  common  sense  teaches  us 
whither  this  points.  If  the  family-group 
existed  before  the  state-group,  then  fam- 
ily needs  existed  before  state  or  reli- 
gious ordinances.  "  Thou  shalt  not  steal." 
"  Thou  shalt  not  kill."  What  are  these 
belated  requirements  of  social  conven- 
tion compared  to  the  necessities  of  the 
family  development !  If  a  brother  clergy- 
man draws  away  your  congregation,  re- 
duces your  salary,  and  so  compels  your 
children  to  go  barefoot,  why  not  knock 
him  on  the  head  !  This  is  troglodytism, 
if  the  present  writer  understands  the 
word,  and  he  thinks  that  he  does.  It 
solves  the  social  question  by  disintegrat- 
ing society,  and  the  singular  fact  is  that 
Natural  Selection,  which  is  supposed  to 
be  the  principle  operating  in  moral  de- 
velopment, which  is,  in  fact,  identical  with 
the  cosmic  order,  should  have  led  us  back 
in  a  kind  of  blind-man's  waltz,  till  we 
have,  according  to  these  writers,  actually 
reached  the  primitive  tooth-and-nail  basis, 
from  which,  according  to  modern  science, 


The   Great  Delusion  of  our  Time. 


725 


we  started  hundreds  of  thousands  of  years 
ago ;  and  that  we  should  have  reached 
the  lowest  point  thus  far  under  the  guid- 
ance of  an  age  whose  intellectual  gran- 
deur dwarfs  all  others. 

No  doubt  every  optimist  in  the  country 
will  declare  that  this  is  a  stalwart  mis- 
representation of  the  present  facts,  but 
if  a  sober-minded  man  considers  the  pre- 
sent aspect  of  the  labor  question,  the  po- 
litical situation  in  New  York,  Chicago, 
St.  Louis,  and  our  other  great  cities,  the 
enormous  development  of  graft,  the  thiev- 
ish character  of  our  new  methods  of 
finance,  the  fact  that  the  small  investor 
is  to-day,  like  the  man  of  scriptural 
times  who  traveled  between  Jerusalem 
and  Jericho,  sure  to  fall  among  thieves 
unless  personally  conducted  ;  if  he  re- 
flects on  the  Standard  Oil  operations  and 
the  Turkish  situation  and  the  impotency 
of  our  modern  civilization  to  put  a  stop 
to  lynching,  or  to  prevent  such  a  fearful 
catastrophe  as  war  between  Japan  and 
Russia,  he  is  forced  to  confess  that  there 
is,  after  all,  too  much  truth  in  this  dark 
picture,  and  that  our  conduct  is  quite  often 
on  the  tooth-and-nail  basis. 

But  there  is  nothing  new  about  this  ; 
it  is  the  old  story  of  a  wicked  world 
which  always  moves  in  a  circle,  which 
needs  salvation,  which  cannot  save  itself 
because  it  cannot  make  steady  moral  ad- 
vancement, which  builds  empires  only 
that  they  may  perish  under  the  weight 
of  their  moral  corruption.  It  is  the  old 
humanum  est  errare,  out  of  which  grew 
that  conviction  of  sin,  that  cry  to  Hea- 
ven for  help,  which  since  the  time  of 
the  Vedas  has  echoed  out  of  every  quar- 
ter of  the  globe,  from  the  heart  of  bur- 
dened humanity.  The  Troglodyte  we 
have  always  with  us ;  like  the  Wan- 
dering Jew,  he  never  dies.  His  charac- 
teristics are  always  the  same ;  he  takes 
a  few  steps  forward,  and  then  turns  back 
toward  the  tiger  and  the  ape.  But  he 
never  becomes  either  tiger  or  ape.  He 
becomes  what  we  call  a  fiend,  or,  in 
modern  day  parlance,  a  degenerate.  He 


is  always  arguing  plausibly  for  the  tooth- 
and-nail  ethics,  always  ignoring  its  limi- 
tations, always  confounding  the  lines  at 
which  a  higher  principle  should  take  con- 
trol. He  is  always  putting  the  struggle 
for  a  livelihood  before  honor  and  right. 
How  many  there  are  of  him  we  never 
know,  though  we  always  try  to  find  out 
before  election  day.  Often  he  lives  in 
high  places,  and  very  often  he  succeeds 
in  organizing  society.  He  always  con- 
trols a  great  many  votes.  He  has  a 
kind  of  primitive  logic  which  takes  hold 
of  men  with  a  sort  of  cosmic  force.  Be- 
hind him  is  the  stern  fact  that  man  has 
an  animal  nature,  that  this  animal  nature 
is  without  doubt  engaged  in  a  severe 
struggle  for  physical  existence,  that  Nat- 
ural Selection,  like  Gravitation,  really 
has  a  grip  on  him.  In  short,  it  is  the  old 
story  of  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the 
devil,  apparently,  though  not  really, 
backed  up  by  the  cosmos  itself.  It  is 
the  same  world  which  Socrates  faced, 
and  Jesus,  and  Paul.  Righteous  men 
have  faced  it  in  all  ages  and  feared  not. 
Often  it  has  quailed  before  their  rebuke. 
It  has  recognized  an  authority  higher 
than  intellect,  greater  than  that  of  phys- 
ical nature,  and  has  cried  out,  "  We 
have  sinned  !  "  The  only  difference  in 
our  own  time  is  that  we  have  noble- 
hearted  and  high-minded  men,  not  at  all 
troglodytes  as  to  their  personal  conduct 
or  ideals,  who,  writing  with  the  magis- 
terial authority  vaguely  supposed  to  be 
possessed  by  our  modern  science,  delib- 
erately acquit  the  wicked  world.  True, 
it  is  cruel,  it  is  brutal  ;  they  would  be 
ashamed,  as  high-minded  gentlemen,  to 
act  on  such  principles,  yet  they  declare 
with  the  finality  of  absolute  truth  that 
the  world  cannot  act  otherwise  ;  it  is 
simply  carrying  out  Nature's  decree. 

The  peculiar  feature,  then,  of  our  times 
is,  not  that  the  world  is  on  a  primitive 
tooth-and-nail  basis,  but  that  it  stands 
acquitted,  nay,  justified,  by  a  verdict  ap- 
parently based  upon  the  doctrine  of  Evo- 
lution, and  that  conscience  is  discrecl- 


726 


The   Great  Delusion  of  our  Time. 


ited  and  put  out  of  court  by  the  apparent 
authority  of  those  standards  which  have 
given  us  a  supreme  and  magisterial  posi- 
tion among  the  ages.  The  Troglodyte 
now  has  an  unassailable  backer  in  the 
scholar  who  sits  on  a  judgment  seat 
higher  than  that  of  Moses,  and  who  says 
to  the  world,  "  You  have  no  grounds 
for  crying,  'peccavij'  you  have  not 
sinned ;  you  are  doing  just  right ;  you 
are  debtor  to  the  flesh  to  live  after  the 
flesh.  It  is  Nature's  decree,  not  that 
you  should  be  a  brother  to  your  neigh- 
bor, but  that  you  should  rob  him  and 
fight  him  for  a  livelihood." 

Words  would  fail  to  tell  how,  from 
the  time  when  Darwin's  and  Spencer's 
philosophies  were  published,  this  magis- 
terial tendency  has  proceeded  to  assist 
the  Troglodyte  in  cheapening  character, 
by  its  judicial  decisions  based  on  the 
evolutionary  hypothesis.  It  has  not  only 
enabled  our  primitive  friend  to  throw 
bricks  with  greater  cheerfulness,  but  it 
has  made  his  creed  impregnable ;  nay, 
it  has  enabled  him  to  make  all  other 
creeds  look  foolish.  The  Troglodyte  al- 
ways believed  that  preachers  of  right- 
eousness retained  the  claw-foot  under 
their  shoes  and  stockings.  He  knew 
that  prophets  and  apostles  only  waited 
for  a  chance  to  show  their  teeth.  His 
intuition  told  him  that  generous  people 
were  really  scabbing  when  they  went 
about  doing  good.  He  saw  by  a  kind 
of  cosmic  light  that  those  great  ideals 
upon  which  our  higher  morality  fed  were 
silly  dreams.  His  reason  told  him  that 
the  power  which  makes  for  righteousness 
was  a  sun-god,  or  a  highly  developed 
form  of  ghost  worship,  or  a  fetish,  due 
to  the  effect  of  environment.  He  always 
understood  that  the  moral  nature  itself 
was  a  product  of  circumstance  without 
the  least  atom  of  final  authority,  a  kind 
of  vermiform  appendix  which  were  best 
removed,  since  its  place  has  been  super- 
seded by  the  exact  knowledge  of  the  cos- 
mic law.  Why  should  a  man  longer  be 
punched  by  conscience  when  he  has  risen 


to  an  understanding  of  Nature's  decree  ? 
What  do  we  want  of  morals  when  reason 
has  become  supreme  ?  All  this  the  Trog- 
lodyte knew  in  his  heart,  but  he  was  a 
little  shy  of  telling  it  because  the  stal- 
wart moralists  had  the  ear  of  public 
opinion.  Now,  behold  a  Daniel  come  to 
judgment,  who  has  not  only  confirmed 
his  suspicions,  proved  his  creed,  and 
made  him  a  prophet  of  the  cosmos,  but 
has  made  the  stalwart  moralists  them- 
selves give  up  the  validity  of  their  moral 
perceptions,  while  they  try  to  explain  that 
their  opinions  were  really  based  on  Evo- 
lution. 

If  our  primitive  friend  has  any  sense 
of  humor,  his  sides  must  shake  over  this 
last  performance,  for  it  has  made  him 
look  not  only  honest,  but  authoritative. 
It  has  stimulated  a  natural  passion  for 
his  primitive  ideals,  and  it  has  taken  the 
wind  out  of  some  of  his  opponents. 
Their  voice  is  not  as  clear,  nor  their  pre- 
sence as  distinguishable,  nor  is  the  mass 
of  people  as  much  interested  in  them. 
In  fact,  the  popular  interest  leans  toward 
animalism  ;  the  animal  cuts  more  figure 
than  the  spiritual.  The  scientific  moral- 
ists are  thinking  their  case  over  ;  many 
of  them  are  still  trying  to  patch  it  up 
with  Evolution.  They  have  not  yet 
dreamed  of  falling  back  upon  the  valid- 
ity of  the  moral  perception  itself.  And 
there  are  a  great  many  people  who  want 
to  be  good,  but  have  lost  faith  in  their 
moral  ideals,  and  are  humbly  looking  to 
the  scientists  and  the  philosophers  for 
their  moral  nutriment.  As  to  the  pro- 
phets and  apostles,  their  voice  is  still 
and  small  in  the  ear  of  a  moral  nature 
whose  main  study  it  is  to  supply  practi- 
cal ethics  enough  to  make  business  pros- 
perous and  the  governing  party  secure. 

Now  Mr.  Huxley  long  ago  discovered 
the  blunder  that  had  been  made  in  ap- 
plying the  theory  of  Natural  Selection  to 
Social  Evolution.    He  saw  that  the  c 
mic  light  had  failed  at  this  point,  an 
he   introduced   a   variation   as  follows : 
"There  is  another  fallacy  which  seems 


The   Great  Delusion  of  our  Time. 


727 


to  me  to  pervade  the  so-called  '  Ethics 
of  Evolution.'  It  is  the  notion  that,  be- 
cause, on  the  whole,  animals  and  plants 
have  advanced  in  perfection  of  organi- 
zation by  means  of  the  struggle  for  ex- 
istence and  the  consequent  survival  of 
the  fittest,  therefore  men  in  society,  men 
as  ethical  beings,  must  look  to  the  same 
process  to  help  them  toward  perfection. 
Social  progress  means  a  checking  of  the 
cosmic  process  at  every  step,  and  the 
substitution  for  it  of  another  which  may 
be  called  the  ethical  process.  What  we 
call  goodness  or  virtue  involves  a  course 
of  conduct  which  in  all  respects  is  op- 
posed to  that  which  leads  to  success  in 
the  cosmic  struggle  for  existence.  In 
place  of  ruthless  self-assertion  it  demands 
self-restraint,  in  place  of  thrusting  aside 
or  treading  down  all  competitors  it  re- 
quires that  the  individual  shall  not  merely 
respect,  but  shall  help  his  fellows.  Its 
influence  is  directed  not  so  much  to  the 
survival  of  the  fittest,  as  to  the  fitting 
of  as  many  as  possible  to  survive.  It  re- 
pudiates what  we  call  the  gladiatorial 
theory  of  existence.  Laws  and  moral 
precepts  are  directed  to  the  end  of  curb- 
ing the  cosmic  process  and  reminding 
the  individual  of  his  duty  to  the  com- 
munity, to  the  protection  and  interest  of 
which  he  owes,  if  not  existence  itself,  at 
least  the  life  of  something  better  than  a 
brutal  savage." 

Mr.  Huxley  made  this  discovery  just 
as  any  one  of  us  might,  by  a  simple 
common-sense  observation  of  human  na- 
ture as  it  works  practically.  He  did  not, 
however,  sympathetically  observe  all  the 
phenomena  involved,  and  he  excluded 
some  of  them  for  this  reason.  So  that 
his  theory  of  Social  Evolution  never 
could  claim  magisterial  authority,  simply 
because  it  is  incomplete.  It  is  no  doubt 
a  profound  discovery  that  the  altruistic 
principle  conserves  and  builds  up  human 
society,  while  antagonism  disintegrates 
it ;  that  love  conquers,  overrules,  and 
fructifies  the  lower  competitive  forces,  as 
animal  life  conquers,  overrules,  and  fruc- 


tifies chemical  affinity  or  gravitation  in 
organic  development.  But  it  was  not 
original  with  Mr.  Huxley  ;  thousands  of 
people  had  seen  and  applied  it  before  he 
was  born.  Jesus  was  the  real  discoverer  ; 
He  first  mastered  the  social  or  ethical 
principle.  He  found  it  to  be  universal  good 
neighborhood  or  brotherhood,  traced  it 

to  its  source  in  God's  fatherhood,  flooded 
i 

it  with  the  Divine  affection,  put  it  into 
his  own  self-sacrificing  life,  and  showed 
us  how  we  might  practically  attain  to  it 
through  his  help.  Since  then  the  idea  has 
been  symbolized  by  the  Cross  of  Christ, 
and  has  for  eighteen  centuries  been  re- 
garded as  the  Christian  solution,  though 
Christendom  has  too  often  been  antago- 
nistic to  it. 

Mr.  Huxley  asserted  that  this  ethical 
process  must  be  substituted  for  the  cos- 
mic process.  Jesus  and  Paul  declared 
it  to  be  the  supreme  force  in  the  cosmic 
process  itself.  Mr.  Huxley's  trouble 
was  that  he,  too,  fell  under  the  great  de- 
lusion of  fancying  that  this  philosophic 
form  of  truth  was  the  final  and  ultimate 
one,  and,  therefore,  he  identified  Natu- 
ral Selection  with  the  cosmic  process  it- 
self ;  but  when  he  followed  his  new  light 
he  lost  his  magisterial  authority  over 
the  high  church  evolutionists  ;  and  they 
are,  to-day,  barking  at  the  same  old  tree 
up  which  they  suppose  their  truth  has 
climbed,  though  it  has  gone  out  of  sight. 

But,  whichever  theory  is  correct,  could 
there  be  a  greater  delusion  than  this 
sense  of  magistracy  ?  Have  we  anything 
to  back  it  up?  Have  we  any  theory  on 
any  subject  which  is  universally  accept- 
ed or  can  be  reckoned  as  a  final  and 
absolute  form  of  knowledge  ?  Philoso- 
phy is  surely  an  enormous  help  to  both 
intellectual  and  moral  perception,  but  is  it 
possible  to  have  a  philosophy  that  can  take 
the  place  of  perception  ?  And  if  it  were 
possible,  what  would  become  of  percep- 
tion, and  of  individuality,  and  of  genius, 
and  of  inventive  discovery  under  such  a 
predetermining  influence  ?  I  would  not 
be  understood  for  a  moment  as  holding 


728 


The  Great  Delusion  of  our  Time. 


these  writers  whom  I  have  quoted  as  re- 
sponsible for  this  tendency.  We  are  all 
infected.  We  all  take  turns  at  it.  Let 
us  say  that  it  is  the  Zeitgeist  that  has 
done  it,  and  shake  hands  all  around.  It 
was  Count  Ito  who  said  that  when  he 
was  preparing  the  Japanese  Constitution 
he  tried  to  think  how  Buddha  would 
look  at  the  matter,  (and  he  added,  "  I 
think  that  I  did  succeed  fairly  well  in 
getting  into  his  skin."  It  might  be  worth 
while  if  some  of  us  would  occasionally 
try  to  get  outside  the  epidermis  of  our 
so-called  modern  thought,  and  take  a 
straight  look  at  the  age  from  an  exterior 
point  of  view ;  it  need  not  be  so  far  off 
as  Buddha,  but  sufficiently  remote  to  af- 
ford a  good  perspective.  It  is  quite  pos- 
sible that  from  such  a  clear,  cool  height 
of  vision  our  generation  might  seem  to 
be,  like  Nebuchadnezzar,  a  little  touched 
in  the  head.  I  have  selected  these  writers 
because  they  are  strictly  logical,  and,  un- 
like some  of  us,  they  do  not  straddle. 
They  take  the  most  authoritative  type  of 
Evolution,  the  one  which  most  deserves 
to  be  regarded  as  Nature's  decree,  the 
one  which  Mr.  Huxley  styles  the  cosmic 
process,  the  only  type  of  philosophy  which 
could  at  the  present  day  by  any  possi- 
bility be  exalted  to  the  rank  of  a  final 
standard,  and  they  think  it  out  to  the 
bitter  end.  If  we  have  any  clear  cosmic 
torch,  this  is  the  one.  They  hold  it  high 
and  wave  it  wide.  By  its  illumination 
we  see  the  column  of  humanity  with  re- 
versed arms  turning  its  back  on  all  the 
great  ideals  toward  which  it  has  crawled 
upward  in  the  space  of  a  hundred  thou- 
sand years  or  so,  cheapening  the  moral 
nature,  and  marching  back  without  con- 
viction of  sin  toward  the  original  homun- 
culus.  This  is  a  dark  picture,  certainly. 
True,  if  we  remove  this  cosmic  torch 
things  do  not  look  so  dark.  There  are 
at  least  as  many  people  to-day  as  ever 
working  for  the  interests  of  righteous- 
ness and  peace  and  human  brotherhood. 
They  make  fewer  practical  blunders, 
they  keep  the  issues  clearer,  they  utilize 


the  results  of  science,  they  bring  to  the 
task  a  broader  scientific  knowledge,  a 
profounder  sympathy  for  human  condi- 
tions, a  greater  willingness  to  look  at  all 
sides.  Witness  President  Eliot's  noble 
contribution  to  a  better  understanding 
between  labor  and  capital.  These  peo- 
ple are  putting  up  a  stout  fight  for  the 
moral  nature,  and  they  meet  with  much 
success  among  plain  folk.  They  vitalize 
character,  for  the  moral  nature  feeds  upon 
revelations  and  ideals  as  the  body  feeds 
upon  bread.  But  the  great  difficulty 
with  these  people  is  that  they  are  all 
fools.  This  does  not  mean  that  they  are 
obliged  to  have  guardians  appointed  over 
them ;  in  reality,  many  of  them  are  guar- 
dians of  the  commonwealth  or  commu- 
nity to  which  they  belong.  They  are  not 
dull  in  practical  affairs ;  their  foolish- 
ness consists  in  the  fact  that  all  their 
high  ideals  and  inspirations  rest  upon  a 
so-called  semi  -  mythical  or  subliminal 
basis  which  they  cannot  prove  before  this 
infallible  tribunal  that  has  indorsed  our 
friend  the  Troglodyte.  They  cannot 
make  their  articles  of  faith  square  with 
any  specific  type  of  evolutionary  doctrine, 
or  prove  their  revelations  to  the  latest 
type  of  scholarship.  Our  magisterial  au- 
thorities are  withholding  a  verdict  on 
their  case  until  the  Society  of  Psychical 
Research  has  finished  its  investigations. 
This  lack  of  intellectual  status  gives 
them  a  phantasmal  appearance,  which 
probably  caused  Mr.  London  and  Mr. 
Adams  to  overlook  them  altogether.  In- 
deed, one  frequently  hears  in  intellectual 
circles  the  statement  that  no  one  to-day 
believes  in  such  articles  of  faith.  But 
it  is  the  fools  who  bring  practical  light 
to  the  social  question.  They  do  not  stop 
to  square  things  with  Evolution,  they  do 
not  wait  for  the  Society  of  Psychical 
Research,  they  do  not  ask  how  things 
originated.  They  simply  look  at  the 
problem  in  hand.  They  have  one  su- 
preme authority,  —  it  is  moral  perception 
assisted  by  science.  It  is  made  keen  by 
practical  use,  and  clear  by  walking  in  the 


The  Great  Delusion  of  our  Time. 


729 


light  of  the  highest  ideals.  They  and 
they  alone  see  the  value  of  the  moral 
organism  ;  they  see  that  its  supreme  or- 
ganic law  is  love.  They  see  that  there 
is  a  power  behind  it,  a  power  which 
makes  for  righteousness,  and  that  it  has 
its  supreme  embodiment  in  the  Gospel  of 
Christ.  They  see  the  importance  of  the 
struggle  for  bread.  Their  heart  goes  out 
with  sympathy  for  those  who  are  in  that 
struggle  ;  they  themselves  are  in  it,  and 
they  know  what  it  means.  They  know 
the  sinister  outlook  of  the  cosmic  order ; 
they  have  felt  its  dread  temptation. 
They  know  the  bitterness  of  defeat  in 
battle.  Through  long  ages  they  have 
maintained  this  fight,  not  for  a  system  of 
ethics,  but  for  the  worth  and  deliverance 
of  the  moral  nature  itself.  Often  they 
have  felt  the  tooth  and  nail,  ay,  the  beak 
and  the  claw  of  a  degenerate  civilization. 
Often  they  have  been  brought  before 
magistrates,  robbed  of  their  goods,  deliv- 
ered unto  death.  Always  they  have  ap- 
peared to  be  opposing  the  cosmic  or- 
der, always  they  have  been  called  fools 
for  their  exaggerated  valuation  of  the 
moral  nature.  And  yet  to  them  it  has 
always  appeared  to  be  the  one  great  re- 
ality of  this  life,  the  soul  of  humanity,  the 
offspring  of  the  gods,  the  heir  of  a  life 
beyond  the  grave,  the  bond  of  a  human 
brotherhood.  For  all  human  suffering 
there  seemed  to  be  compensation  if  only 
this  higher  manhood  were  not  debased, 
but  for  moral  defeat  there  was  no  com- 
pensation. Therefore,  to  deliver  this 
moral  nature  they  have  dared  the  worst. 
Often  single-handed,  poor,  friendless, 
struggling  for  daily  bread  against  mighty 
odds,  they  have  yet  found  courage  to  go 
forward,  chanting,  as  they  marched,  their 
battle  hymn  :  — 

Let  goods  and  kindred  go, 
This  mortal  life  also. 
The  body  they  may  kill, 
God's  truth  abideth  still. 
His  kingdom  is  forever. 

There  is  something  in  this  estimate  that 
awakens   a   response  in    humanity ;    it 


touches  a  lost  chord.  It  is  no  vague  in- 
tuition ;  it  is  the  testimony  of  the  moral 
constitution  itself,  and  it  appeals  to  the 
moral  consciousness  in  every  one  of  us.  It 
is  backed  up  by  the  logic  of  life.  It  is 
like  the  testimony  of  the  elm  tree  when 
it  tells  us  that  it  must  have  sunlight  and 
air  for  its  top,  and  moisture  and  earth  for 
its  roots.  It  is  by  this  authority  that  the 
fools  speak  and  act.  Not  always  have 
they  understood ;  often  they  have  been 
beguiled  into  thinking  that  their  real  au- 
thority was  a  dogma  or  a  theology.  Then 
they  have  ceased  to  be  fools  ;  they  have 
become  magisterial,  and  have  crushed 
their  religious  geniuses  and  killed  their 
prophets.  Often  they  have  fancied  that 
they  have  eliminated  the  element  of  mys- 
tery from  ethics,  and  established  morals 
on  a  basis  of  scientific  logic  ;  and  then 
they  have  lost  their  dynamic  force.  Now 
and  then  there  has  been  a  fool  who  has 
understood,  and  his  voice  has  shaken  the 
world.  For  every  great  leader  of  men, 
whose  trumpet  note  has  rallied  the  army 
of  righteousness,  and  led  it  to  victory, 
has  been  face  to  face  with  the  power 
that  makes  for  righteousness,  so  that  he 
could  say  with  one  of  old,  "  I  have  heard 
of  thee  by  the  hearing  of  the  ear :  but 
now  mine  eye  seeth  thee." 

In  his  Social  Evolution  Mr.  Kidd  at- 
tributes all  our  upward  march  to  the 
fools.  He  has,  however,  an  euphemism 
for  them  ;  he  calls  their  ideals  and  inspi- 
rations supra-rational.  If  he  is  correct, 
history  actually  resolves  itself  into  one 
supreme  battlefield.  It  is  the  fight  of 
the  moral  nature,  first  for  survival,  then 
for  conquest,  through  the  power  of  its 
supra-rational  ideals.  But  whether  or  not 
Mr.  Kidd  be  right  concerning  the  past, 
there  is  surely  but  one  battle  to-day.  On 
its  outcome  hangs  the  fate  of  all  our  in- 
stitutions and  of  our  individual  souls.  It 
is  the  battle  of  the  fools.  And  there  is 
but  one  great  question  to-day,  namely, 
whether  we  will  cling  to  our  magisterial 
tendency,  or  join  the  fools  and  accept  the 
validity  of  the  moral  perceptions. 

John  H.  Denison. 


730 


Trolley   Competition  with  the  Railroads. 


TROLLEY  COMPETITION  WITH  THE  RAILROADS. 


IT  is  barely  eight  years  since  street 
railroads  have  outgrown  the  horse-car 
period,  and  have  required  the  use  of 
the  word  "  interurban  "  to  describe  the 
enlargement  of  their  field  of  traffic . 
The  electric  installations  of  the  early 
nineties  served  their  purpose  in  a  mea- 
sure, and  were  in  many  cases  attended 
by  extensions  of  the  local  traction  lines, 
but  their  competition  with  steam  rail- 
roads was  entirely  negligible  until  after 
1895.  The  year  1895  is  a  landmark 
in  the  history  of  electric  roads ;  prior 
to  that  time  it  may  be  broadly  said  that 
the  street  railroad  system  of  each  city 
was  an  independent  unit,  organized 
•with  the  sole  object  of  carrying  pas- 
sengers from  one  part  of  town  to  an- 
other, and  with  a  remote  interest,  if 
any  interest  at  all,  in  traffic  centring 
outside  the  city  limits.  The  possibil- 
ities to  be  achieved  by  running  electric 
cars  at  moderately  high  speed  along 
ten  or  fifteen  mile  stretches  of  country 
roads,  deriving  both  a  local  and  a  spe- 
cies of  through  business  by  coupling 
up  adjacent  cities  and  towns,  came,  as 
a  result  of  improvements  in  the  art, 
suddenly  into  view,  and  a  series  of  ex- 
tensive additions  to  existing  lines  were 
planned  or  begun,  radiating  out  far  and 
wide  from  the  original  confines  of  the 
city  limits  and  the  adjacent  suburbs. 

It  may  perhaps  be  questioned  whe- 
ther the  steam  railroads  were  really  as 
slow  as  they  appeared  to  be  in  realiz- 
ing that  in  this  interurban  development 
they  would  shortly  have  to  face  novel 
and  strongly  fortified  competition.  The 
electric  roads  were  spreading,  and  there 
was  no  obvious  way  to  prevent  them 
from  doing  so.  Early  attempts  at  com- 
petition were  treated  as  isolated  cases, 
and  it  is  only  since  1898  that  the  elec- 
tric roads  have  demanded  recognition 
in  the  field  of  short-haul  passenger 
traffic. 


From  1898  through  1901  the  char- 
acteristic of  interurban  road  develop- 
ment was  exceedingly  rapid  extension, 
and  during  1902  and  1903  there  have 
been  considerable  reorganization  and 
adjustment,  the  loose  ends  have  been 
coupled  up,  and  extension  has  been 
somewhat  more  moderate  and  perhaps 
better  directed  than  previously.  The 
government  census  report  on  electric 
railroads  for  1902  estimated  the  total 
length  of  main  track  on  June  30  of  that 
year  as  16, 648  miles,  as  against  a  street 
railroad  mileage  of  5783  in  1890. 
During  the  twelve  years,  according  to 
the  report,  mileage  worked  by  animal 
power  decreased  95  per  cent ;  by  cable 
power,  51  per  cent,  and  by  steam  power, 
76  per  cent,  while  electric  working  in- 
creased 1637  per  cent. 

In  spite  of  the  construction  and  con- 
nection of  interurban  electric  lines  to 
form  through  routes  fifty  miles  or  more 
in  length,  their  profitable  territory  still 
lies  about  a  series  of  centres,  and  it  is 
worthy  of  note  that  these  centres  are  not 
cities  of  the  first  magnitude,  and  doubt- 
less never  will  be.  The  interurban 
traffic  about  New  York  is  carried  by  the 
steam  roads,  because  the  congestion  in 
the  streets  is  too  great  to  permit  any 
extended  use  of  cars  that  must  thread 
their  way  through  eight  or  ten  miles  of 
city  streets  before  reaching  open  coun- 
try. Similarly,  in  Chicago,  the  Illinois 
Central  runs  a  lucrative  suburban  ser- 
vice with  cars  of  special  type,  and  re- 
ports that  it  does  not  feel  the  compe- 
tition of  the  street  cars,  which  nominally 
compete  in  the  service  to  most  of  the 
suburban  points  reached,  but  have  not 
the  advantage  of  a  private  right  of  way, 
and  cannot  furnish  rapid  transit  in  its 
true  meaning.  It  is  a  primary  neces- 
sity in  the  suburban  traffic  of  a  great  city 
that  rapidly  moving  cars  shall  not  oc- 
cupy the  same  thoroughfare  with  slow 


Trolley   Competition  with  the  Railroads. 


731 


moving  cars  and  vehicles,  and  the  cost 
of  securing  suitable  terminals  and  en- 
trances into  such  a  city  effectively  shuts 
out  any  sporadic  competition.  Rail- 
roads such  as  the  proposed  New  York 
&  Portchester,  which  is  endeavoring 
to  build  a  twenty-four  mile  suburban 
line  out  of  New  York  city,  electrically 
equipped,  connecting  with  the  Rapid 
Transit  Subway,  scarcely  come  within 
the  scope  of  the  present  study,  but  are 
rather  to  be  classed  with  the  elevated 
and  underground  lines  of  great  cities  as 
portions  of  a  purely  local  system,  dif- 
fering from  interurban  roads  in  general 
in  the  vital  characteristic  that  they  do 
not  enter  the  city  at  grade,  or  receive 
and  discharge  passengers  in  the  streets 
at  street  level. 

The  maximum  effect  of  electric  com- 
petition at  the  present  period  is  felt  in 
localities  where  there  are  groups  of 
prosperous  cities  and  towns  within  a 
radius  of  from  ten  to  forty  miles  of  one 
another ;  and  this  competition  is  in  some 
cases  so  successful  that  the  steam  rail- 
roads have  lost  practically  their  entire 
local  short-haul  traffic,  while  the  elec- 
tric roads  have  created  for  themselves 
a  business  not  merely  greater  than  the 
entire  traffic  that  previously  existed, 
but  many  times  greater.  In  1895  the 
Lake  Shore  &  Michigan  Southern  car- 
ried 104,426  westbound  and  98,588 
eastbound  passengers  between  Cleve- 
land and  Oberlin,  Ohio,  thirty-four 
miles  west,  and  intermediate  points. 
The  competition  of  the  electric  roads, 
which  at  this  time  had  commenced  build- 
ing a  network  of  lines  around  Cleveland, 
was  so  severe,  that  in  1896  the  steam 
road  carried  68,000  passengers  less, 
between  the  points  named,  and  in  1902 
carried  a  total  of  91,761,  as  against 
203, 014,  seven  years  before.  Between 
Cleveland  and  Painesville,  twenty-nine 
miles,  and  intermediate  points,  the  Lake 
Shore  &  Michigan  Southern  carried  a 
total  of  199,292,  or  an  average  of  16,- 
608  a  month  in  1895,  and  28, 708,  or  an 
average  of  2392  a  month,  in  1902. 


In  other  words,  the  steam  road  carried 
more  passengers  in  two  months,  during 
the  formative  period  of  the  electric  lines, 
than  it  did  in  a  year,  after  they  were 
completed  and  had  developed  their  traf- 
fic between  the  competitive  points. 

The  following  table  summarizes  these 
results,  showing  the  surprising  traffic 
losses  which  the  steam  roads  have  sus- 
tained. The  lower  average  fare  on  the 
New  York,  Chicago  &  St.  Louis  indi- 
cates the  effort  made  by  that  company 
to  compete  with  the  electric  road  for 
the  business,  but  the  falling  off  in  num- 
ber of  passengers  carried  shows  how 
futile  this  effort  has  been. 

LAKE  SHORE  &  MICHIGAN  SOUTHERN. 

PASSENGERS    CARRIED    BETWEEN    CLEVELAND 
AND  OBEKLXN,  AND  INTERMEDIATE  POINTS. 

Average 
Westbound.    Eastbound.      Total.      per  month. 

1895  104,426    98,588  203,014   16,918 
1902   46,328    45,433   91,761    7,647 

PASSENGERS    CARRIED    BETWEEN   CLEVELAND 
AND   PAINESVILLE   AND   INTERME- 
DIATE  POINTS. 

Average 
Westbound.    Eastbound.      Total.       per  month. 


1895 
1902 


97,460 
13,106 


101,832 
15,602 


199,292 

28,708 


16,608 
2,392 


NEW  YORK,  CHICAGO  &  ST.  LOUIS. 

PASSENGERS  CARRIED  BETWEEN  CLEVELAND 
AND  LORAIN. 

Average 


Total  Passengers. 
1895  42,526 

1902  9,795 


Revenue.        Revenue. 
$25,523         60  c. 
4,379         44  c. 


It  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  electric 
lines  do  not  keep  their  records  in  such 
a  shape  that  an  exact  parallel  can  be 
drawn,  comparing  their  gains  with  the 
losses  of  the  steam  roads.  The  Cleve- 
land, Elyria  &  Western  kept  such  rec- 
ords for  a  time  with  considerable  care, 
but  discontinued  the  practice  because  it 
involved  too  much  bookkeeping.  Hence 
it  is  only  possible  to  show  the  traffic 
over  the  entire  system,  which  goes  be- 
yond Oberlin  to  Norwalk  and  other 
points,  reaching  practically  the  same 
cities  and  towns  that  the  Lake  Shore 
&  Michigan  Southern  reaches,  together 


732 


Trolley   Competition  with  the  Railroads. 


with  some  additional  ones.  In  1902, 
the  electric  road  carried  approximate- 
ly three  million  passengers ;  well  over 
three  times  as  many  as  were  carried  in 
1899,  while  the  steam  road,  recovering 
from  its  low-water  mark  of.  71,755, 
carried  91,761.  Although  the  com- 
parison is  only  approximate,  on  account 
of  the  additional  points  reached  by  the 
electric  road,  it  at  least  serves  to  show 
what  has  become  of  the  short-haul  traf- 
fic. 

The  really  significant  part  of  such 
figures  is  not  the  traffic  lost  by  the  steam 
roads,  but  the  entirely  new  traffic  cre- 
ated by  the  electric  lines,  seemingly  out 
of  nothing.  The  results  which  followed 
the  opening  of  the  Detroit,  Ypsilanti, 
Ann  Arbor  &  Jackson  electric  road  be- 
tween Detroit  and  Ann  Arbor  furnish  a 
striking  example  of  this.  Ann  Arbor 
is  forty  miles  from  Detroit,  on  the  line 
of  the  Michigan  Central  Railroad,  and 
had  at  the  last  census  a  population  of 
less  than  15,000,  exclusive  of  the  large 
transient  residence  at  the  University 
of  Michigan.  Before  the  electric  road 
was  built,  the  purely  local  business  of 
the  Michigan  Central  between  Detroit 
and  Ann  Arbor  was  estimated  at  about 
two  hundred  passengers  a  day.  During 
the  first  summer  after  it  was  opened,  the 
electric  road  averaged  approximately 
four  thousand  passengers  a  day  between 
the  same  points,  and  although  some  part 
of  this  travel  was  doubtless  due  to  nov- 
elty, the  steady  winter  and  summer  busi- 
ness of  the  electric  line  has  been  run- 
ning from  ten  to  twenty  times  as  great 
as  the  maximum  traffic  ever  enjoyed  by 
the  Michigan  Central. 

These  surprising  increases  in  what 
may  be  called  the  visible  business  of 
a  locality  are  due  in  part  to  the  exten- 
sion of  the  suburban  residential  terri- 
tory of  each  city,  following  improved 
means  of  getting  "there  and  back." 
But  the  entirely  new  feature  which  the 
intemrban  roads  have  introduced  into 
the  traffic  situation  is  the  promotion  of 
what  may  be  called  the  traveling  habit. 


There  are  citizens  of  New  England  to- 
day who  can  remember  when  prayers 
were  offered  in  the  churches  for  the 
hardy  traveler  of  Boston  who  proposed 
to  undertake  a  trip  to  New  York ;  steam 
communication  has  lessened  tenfold  the 
minimum  amount  of  urgency  which 
would  induce  a  trip  of  a  hundred  miles, 
but  it  has  remained  for  the  electric  road 
to  keep  people  constantly  traveling  short 
distances,  impelled  by  motives  which 
would  not  have  been  sufficient  to  start 
them,  even  five  years  ago.  A  twenty- 
mile  journey  on  a  steam  railroad  re- 
quires as  much  preparation  as  a  two- 
hundred-mile  journey,  but  the  interur- 
ban  car,  leisurely  traversing  the  streets 
of  the  town  to  collect  its  passengers,  at 
frequent  intervals,  is  such  a  convenient, 
lazy  way  of  getting  around  that  it  seems 
not  to  require  much  in  the  way  of  plans 
or  of  packing.  To  choose  between  the 
morning  train  at  8. 13  and  the  afternoon 
train  at  3.57  required  decision,  to  catch 
the  train  required  forethought;  while 
nowadays, if  at  10  A.  M.  it  seems  casu- 
ally advisable  to  go  to  Jonesport,  all 
that  is  necessary  is  to  wait  for  the 
hourly  interurban  car  to  pass  the  door. 
It  has  been  proved  repeatedly  that 
these  elements  of  convenient  access  and 
frequent  service  are  more  of  an  attrac- 
tion than  the  lower  rate  of  fare,  al- 
though in  some  localities  where  local 
railroad  rates  had  been  high,  the  con- 
siderable reductions  made  by  the  elec- 
tric roads  have  seemed  to  the  commu- 
nity to  constitute  a  bargain  in  transpor- 
tation, so  that  people  traveled  frequently 
and  perhaps  needlessly,  through  a  feel- 
ing that  they  were  saving  money.  Fares 
on  the  interurban  lines  are  seldom  in 
excess  of  two  cents  a  mile,  and  usual- 
ly amount  to  about  a  cent  and  a  half, 
for  round  trip  tickets,  where  local  rail- 
road rates  ranged,  before  the  opening 
of  the  competition,  from  two  and  a  half 
to  four  cents  a  mile. 

The  steam  railroads  vary  greatly  in 
their  attitude  toward  electric  competi- 
tion, but  it  has  been  almost  the  uniform 


Trolley   Competition  with  the  Railroads. 


733 


experience  of  railroad  managers,  East 
and  West,  that  rate  cuts  to  meet  electric 
competition  are  quite  futile.  Electric 
transportation  handles  traffic  in  small 
units.  The  power  house  is  the  locomo- 
tive, and  it  can  haul  ten  single  cars  as  • 
easily  as  it  can  a  train  of  ten  cars 
coupled  together,  — more  easily,  in  fact. 
But  in  steam  service,  to  reverse  the  fig- 
ure of  speech,  each  transportation  unit 
must  have  its  own  power  house.  Dis- 
regarding technical  refinements,  it  may 
be  said  that  it  would  cost  a  steam  rail- 
road five  times  as  much  to  run  an  hour- 
ly, single-car  train  during  a  fifteen-hour 
day  as  it  would  to  run  three  five-car 
trains.  That  is  the  primary  reason  on 
the  side  of  absolute  cost  which  makes 
it  impossible  for  a  steam  road  to  com- 
pete with  an  electric  road  for  light  short- 
haul  traffic. 

But  the  peculiar  difference  in  the 
legal  status  of  the  two  kinds  of  trans- 
portation gives  the  electric  roads  an 
advantage  far  greater.  The  charter  of 
a  steam  railroad  requires  private  right 
of  way,  fenced  in,  with  a  problem  to  be 
met  in  the  ultimate  disposition  of  every 
town  or  city  grade  crossing.  The  elec- 
tric road  buys,  begs,  or  steals  a  fran- 
chise which  permits  it  to  run  on  the 
side  of  the  highway,  except  where  it 
better  suits  its  convenience  to  go  across 
lots,  and  then  by  a  sort  of  Jekyll  and 
Hyde  transformation,  the  car  that  just 
now  dashed  across  the  country  in  the 
guise  of  a  locomotive,  proceeds  sleepily 
down  the  main  street  in  the  character 
of  a  street  car.  No  steam  railroad  can 
build  a  terminal  to  compete  with  service 
of  this  character,  in  the  inducements 
it  offers  to  a  public  which  is  willing  to 
travel,  but  does  not  have  to. 

What,  then,  should  be  the  attitude 
of  a  steam  road  toward  its  electric 
competitors  ?  The  best  opinion  seems 
to  be  that  it  should  leave  them  alone, 
so  far  as  direct  competition  is  concerned. 
The  traveling  habit  that  the  electric 
roads  further  does  not  confine  itself  to 
their  own  lines,  and  the  steam  roads 


find  that  their  alert  rivals  are  coming 
more  and  more  to  act  as  feeders  for 
long-haul  business,  which  is  the  natural 
and  profitable  traffic  of  a  steam  railroad. 
The  interurban  car  which  collects  pas- 
sengers in  country  hamlets,  and  marshals 
them  at  the  larger  stations  of  the  steam 
railroad,  performs  a  service  similar  to 
that  of  a  local  car  line  within  a  city.  An 
officer  of  one  of  the  large  Eastern  rail- 
roads much  subject  to  the  competition 
of  electric  roads  estimates  that  although 
his  company  loses  about  sixty-five  per 
cent  of  its  local  short-haul  business  as 
soon  as  the  interurban  competition  be- 
comes active,  the  lost  earnings  all  come 
back  again  in  the  form  of  new  through 
business.  This  statement,  however, 
applies  only  to  main  line  competition ; 
the  effect  of  an  electric  parallel  on  a 
branch  line  must  be  considered  sepa- 
rately. 

The  passenger  earnings  and  economic 
services  of  a  branch  line  arise  in  part 
from  short-haul  local  business  originat- 
ing and  terminating  on  the  branch,  and 
in  part  from  the  services  of  the  branch 
as  a  feeder  for  the  main  line.  The 
interurban  line  is  certain  to  take  the 
short-haul  business,  or  at  least  the  pro- 
fit of  it,  and  itself  performs  the  other 
part  of  the  work,  that  of  a  main  line 
feeder.  Hence  much  of  the  most  bit- 
ter competition  has  been  in  branch  line 
territory,  as,  for  example,  along  the  shore 
of  Lake  Ontario,  east  of  Rochester, 
where  the  Rome,  Watertown  &  Ogdens- 
burg  branch  of  the  New  York  Central 
has  made  an  ineffectual  effort  to  keep  its 
passenger  business  away  from  the  Roch- 
ester &  Sodus  Bay  electric  line,  with- 
in the  forty-mile  competitive  radius. 
The  steam  road  runs  from  half  to  three 
quarters  of  a  mile  from  the  centre  of 
the  towns  along  the  route ;  the  electric 
road  uses  the  highway  for  the  greater 
part  of  the  distance,  and  runs  down  the 
main  streets.  The  cars  have  a  baggage 
compartment,  and  make  a  special  feature 
of  delivering  the  trunks  of  commercial 
travelers  at  the  doors  of  the  local  hotels, 


734 


Trolley   Competition  with  the  Hailroads. 


saving  the  cost  of  transfer,  and  al- 
though the  electric  road  charges  slight- 
ly higher  fares  than  the  steam  road,  it 
gets  prohably  ninety  per  cent  of  the 
business. 

The  only  apparent  way  for  steam  rail- 
roads to  manage  electric  competition  is 
through  control,  or  partial  control,  of 
the  territory.  The  New  York,  New 
Haven  &  Hartford,  with  a  local  business 
unique  in  its  importance  when  the  ex- 
tent of  the  system  is  considered,  has 
done  some  pioneer  work  in  this  direction, 
working  in  general  to  secure  links  which 
will  prevent  the  welding  together  of  the 
diversified  electric  lines  in  New  England 
into  competing  parallels.  Electrifica- 
tion of  portions  of  the  steam  roadbed  has 
also  been  tried  on  the  New  Haven  road, 
and  is  just  now  being  quite  extensively 
experimented  with  in  England,  where 
it  might  almost  be  said  that  all  the  pas- 
senger traffic  is  local,  in  view  of  its  con- 
trolling importance.  The  line  of  the 
Mersey  Company,  converted  from  steam 
to  electric  traction  last  May,  was  the 
first  instance  of  this  in  Great  Britain; 
on  September  27  last,  the  first  electric 
train  was  run  over  one  of  the  Newcastle' 
lines  of  the  North  Eastern,  and  electri- 
fication of  the  Lancashire  &  Yorkshire 
between  Liverpool  and  Southport  is  now 
in  progress. 

But  although  transportation  can  be 
economically  conducted  in  small  units, 
on  an  electrified  steam  railroad,  the 
tremendous  advantage  possessed  by  elec- 
tric roads  through  their  terminal  facil- 
ities in  the  city  streets  is  not  affected, 
and  still  leaves  the  interurban  roads  in 
a  competitive  position  which  is  almost 
unassailable.  The  alternative  method 
of  setting  a  rogue  to  catch  a  rogue, 
and  building  independent  electric  lines 
where  needed  to  take  care  of  competi- 
tors in  the  same  field,  and  to  act  as  main 
line  feeders  at  the  same  time,  seems 
more  promising.  Such  lines,  besides 
building  up  the  territory,  bringing 
business  to  the  steam  railroad,  and  con- 
stituting a  defense,  should  be  able,  in 


most  cases,  to  take  care  of  themselves 
and  earn  an  independent  profit. 

The  freight  and  express  business  done 
by  interurban  roads  has  been  a  separate 
growth,  starting  somewhat  later  than 
the  passenger  business.  There  is  still 
a  wide  divergence  of  opinion  among 
electric  railroad  managers  as  to  the  ex- 
pediency of  trying  to  develop  anything 
more  than  a  limited  package  service. 
The  Rochester  &  Sodus  Bay  road  main- 
tains a  regular  freight  service,  handling 
such  bulky  articles  as  coal  and  lumber 
in  five-car  trains,  and  believes  in  it, 
while  the  Detroit  United  lines,  aggre- 
gating some  three  hundred  miles  of  in- 
terurban trackage,  hold  the  opposite 
view,  and  take  only  a  slight  interest  in 
light  package  business,  refusing  to  haul 
heavy  freight  at  all.  The  most  ration- 
al point  of  view  is  probably  that  ex- 
pressed by  the  president  of  the  Detroit, 
Ypsilanti,  Ann  Arbor  &  Jackson  road, 
who  believes  that  interurban  lines  have 
a  useful  and  legitimate  field  in  collect- 
ing and  delivering  all  kinds  of  package 
freight,  and  even  garden  truck  and 
milk,  in  the  rural  districts,  but  that 
freight  business  ceases  to  be  profitable 
to  an  electric  road  as  soon  as  it  begins 
in  any  way  to  retard  or  interfere  with 
passenger  traffic.  Even  apart  from  the 
matter  of  interference  with  the  steady 
business  of  the  road,  a  trolley  line  is  as 
ill  adapted  to  move  freight  trains  in 
large  units  as  a  steam  railroad  is  for 
handling  light  local  passenger  traffic  in 
small  units.  But  certain  electric  roads, 
such  as  the  Hudson  Valley,  running 
north  from  Troy,  the  Cleveland  lines, 
and  others,  have  been  very  aggressive  in 
their  package  freight  business,  running 
express  cars  several  times  daily,  and 
instituting  a  system  of  free  collection 
and  delivery  in  wagons.  Here  again, 
by  the  combined  elements  of  low  rate, 
frequent  service,  and  flexibility  in  the 
place  and  manner  of  collection  and  de- 
livery, the  electric  roads  have  in  many 
cases  been  able  to  secure  almost  the 
entire  business  of  a  locality,  and  to 


Trolley   Competition  with  the  Railroads. 


735 


build  up  noteworthy  increases  in  it  as 
well. 

The  aggressiveness  of  electric  rail- 
road managers  in  solving  new  problems 
rapidly,  without  precedents  to  guide 
them,  has  led  to  great  divergences  in 
the  practice  of  different  localities,  and 
to  certain  "freak  "  developments.  The 
term  is  used  in  the  naturalistic  sense, 
and  not  as  implying  ridicule,  for  while 
some  of  the  efforts  have  doubtless  been 
ill  considered,  others  are  valuable  pi- 
oneer work  in  the  field  of  experimenta- 
tion. Among  such  developments,  be- 
sides the  electric  freight  trains  in  north- 
ern New  York  state  may  be  mentioned 
the  sleeping-car  service  out  of  Indianap- 
olis, and  the  fast  specials  from  Detroit. 
Sleeping-cars  have  been  ordered  at  In- 
dianapolis, to  be  run  over  the  electric 
roads  to  Columbus,  181  miles  away,  on 
the  theory  that  they  will  secure  traf- 
fic by  offering  to  passengers  a  full 
night's  sleep  between  these  points,  and 
relative  freedom  from  noise  and  dirt. 
The  company  believes,  perhaps  right- 
ly, that  it  has  thus  solved  the  problem 
of  how  to  travel  comfortably  between 
cities  too  far  apart  to  permit  a  business 
man  to  take  time  for  the  journey  by  day, 
and  yet  so  near  together  that  the  pas- 
senger traveling  in  the  sleeping-car  on 
a  steam  railroad  must  either  go  to  bed 
very  late  or  get  up  very  early.  The 
electric  cars  will  take  all  night  for  the 
trip,  and  there  will  be  no  cinders  to 
drift  in  at  open  windows,  in  the  sum- 
mer time. 

The  Detroit  specials  are  interesting 
as  an  experiment  in  high  speed  along 
the  highway,  where  there  is  no  protec- 
tion against  stray  dogs  or  cattle  on  the 
track,  and  no  safeguarding  of  grade 
crossings.  Between  Detroit  and  Port 
Huron,  seventy-four  miles,  two  specials 
run  daily  in  each  direction,  stopping  at 
only  six  intervening  points,  and  making 
the  distance  in  two  hours  and  thirty- 
seven  minutes.  The  average  running 
time  of  these  specials  is  thus  nearly 
thirty  miles  an  hour;  accommodation 


trains  on  the  New  Haven  road  between 
New  York  and  New  Haven  take  practi- 
cally the  same  time  in  running  an  iden- 
tical distance.  A  similar  service  is 
maintained  to  Flint,  sixty-eight  miles, 
in  two  hours  and  a  half.  On  portions 
of  the  run,  between  stops,  the  cars  reach 
a  speed  of  upwards  of  forty  miles  an 
hour.  Rates  on  the  specials  are  some- 
what lower  than  by  the  steam  railroad ; 
the  service  is  popular,  and  has  been  free 
from  accidents,  although  the  speed  is 
fully  as  great  as  that  of  most  express 
trains  of  a  few  decades  ago. 

Perhaps  the  most  serious  difficulty 
which  now  confronts  the  interurban 
roads  of  the  country  is  the  prevalent 
over-capitalization.  In  view  of  the 
rapid  gains  in  traffic  following  every 
move  in  extension,  inflation  has  been 
easy,  and  new  business  has  for  the  time 
covered  up  unsound  financial  methods. 
In  Massachusetts,  where  the  railroad 
commission  has  full  powers,  and  has 
done  excellent  work  for  a  number  of 
years,  the  capitalization  of  these  pro- 
perties is  restricted  to  what  the  com- 
mission calls  the  fair  value  of  replace- 
ment, and  now  stands  at  $48,621,  stock 
and  funded  debt  outstanding,  per  mile 
of  line.  This  figure  is  illuminating 
when  compared  with  the  average  capi- 
talization of  all  the  street  railroads  in 
the  country,  which  was  $128,881  per 
mile,  for  the  year  ending  June  30, 
1902,  according  to  the  report  of  the 
Census  Bureau.  The  subject  is  a  broad 
one,  and  discussion  of  it  does  not  pro- 
perly belong  in  an  article  on  the  com- 
petitive conditions  existing  between 
steam  and  electric  roads,  except  in  so 
far  as  the  stability  of  the  latter  is 
threatened  by  the  inflation.  But  it  is 
probably  a  safe  statement  that  at  least 
half  of  the  total  average  capitalization 
of  the  electric  railroads  of  the  country 
at  the  present  time  represents  nothing 
more  than  promoters' profits.  Theroad- 
bed  and  equipment  of  these  properties 
are  still  new,  so  that  there  is  strong  like- 
lihood that  the  necessity  of  making  a 


736 


The  Death  of  Thoreau's   Guide. 


considerable  number  of  simultaneous  re- 
newals will  sooner  or  later  arise.  The 
allowances  out  of  earnings  for  main- 
tenance and  depreciation  have  undoubt- 
edly been  too  small ;  net  earnings  have 
been  kept  as  large  as  possible,  and  it  is 
to  be  feared  that  nothing  short  of  ex- 
traordinary traffic  gains  and  unusually 
careful  management,  during  the  next 
four  or  five  years,  will  keep  many  elec- 
tric properties  from  urgent  need  of  new 
capital  at  a  time  when  it  will  be  exceed- 
ingly hard  to  find. 

The    interurban    roads    have    grave 


problems  to  face.  They  are  likely  soon 
to  feel  the  restraint  of  the  complex 
legislation,  both  wise  and  unwise,  which 
hedges  about  the  steam  roads ;  they  are 
certain  to  undergo  a  period  of  foreclo- 
sure and  reorganization  during  the  next 
decade.  But  it  seems  wholly  logical  to 
expect  that  at  the  termination  of  read- 
justments, and  after  extensive  develop- 
ment of  the  field  and  methods  of  elec- 
tric transportation,  which  is  still  in  an 
elementary  stage,  they  will  become  the 
natural  and  profitable  short-haul  pas- 
senger carriers  of  the  country. 

Bay  Morris. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THOREAU'S   GUIDE. 


THE  strangest  monument  a  man  ever 
had  in  sacred  memory,  —  a  pair  of  old 
boots.  For  a  token  of  respect  and  admi- 
ration, love  and  lasting  grief,  —  just  a 
pair  of  old  river-driver's  boots  hung  on 
the  pin-knot  of  a  pine.  Big  and  buckled  ; 
bristling  all  over  the  soles  with  wrought 
steel  calks ;  gashed  at  the  toes  to  let  the 
water  out ;  slashed  about  the  tops  into 
fringes  with  the  tally  of  his  season's 
work,  less  only  the  day  which  saw  him 
die ;  reddened  by  water ;  cracked  by 
the  sun,  —  worn-out,  weather-rotting  old 
boots,  hanging  for  years  on  the  pine  tree, 
disturbed  by  no  one.  The  river-drivers 
tramped  back  and  forth  beneath  them,  a 
red-shirted  multitude  ;  they  boated  along 
the  pond  in  front  and  drove  their  logs 
past,  year  after  year  ;  they  looked  at  the 
tree  with  the  big  cross  cut  deep  in  its 
scaly  bark,  and  always  left  the  boots 
hanging  on  the  limb.  They  were  the 
Governor's  boots,  Joe  Attien's  boots ; 
they  belonged  to  Thoreau's  guide.1 

The  pine  tree  had  seen  the  whole.  It 
was  old  and  it  was  tall.  Its  head  stretched 

1  Thoreau  spells  the  name  "  Aitteon  ;  "  I  have 
preferred  the  form  found  on  his  tombstone, 
"  Attien,"  because  it  indicates  both  the  pronun- 


up  so  high  that  it  could  look  over  the  crest 
of  Grand  Pitch,  tremendous  fall  though 
it  is,  right  up  where  Grand  Falls  come 
churning  down  to  their  final  leap  into 
Shad  Pond.  It  had  been  looking  up  the 
river  in  the  sunshine  of  that  summer 
morning,  and  had  seen  the  whole,  —  the 
over-loaded  boat  that  set  out  to  run  the 
falls,  the  wreck  in  the  rapids,  the  panic 
of  the  crew,  the  men  struggling  among 
logs  and  rocks,  the  brave  attempt  at  res- 
cue, and  the  dead,  drowned  bulk,  which 
had  once  been  the  Governor,  as  it  was 
tumbled  down  over  the  Grand  Pitch  into 
the  pond  below.  The  pine  tree  had  stood 
guard  over  it  for  days,  and  when,  after 
four  days  in  the  grave  of  the  waters,  it 
rose  again,  the  pine  tree  still  kept  watch 
over  it,  until,  on  the  sixth  morning,  the 
searchers  found  it  there.  "  And  when 
they  found  his  body,  they  cut  a  cross 
into  a  tree  by  the  side  of  the  Pond,  and 
they  hung  up  his  boots  in  the  tree,  and 
they  stayed  there  always,  because  every- 
body knew  that  they  was  the  Governor's 
boots." 

elation  and  the  derivation.  For  it  is  not  Indian, 
but  the  French  Etienne,  or  Stephen. 


The  Death  of  Thoreau's   Guide. 


737 


If  ever  Henry  David  Thoreau  showed 
himself  lacking  in  penetration  it  was 
when  he  failed  to  get  the  measure  of  Jo- 
seph Attien.  True,  Joe  was  young  then, 
—  he  never  lived  to  be  old ;  yet  a  man 
who,  dying  at  forty-one,  is  so  long  remem- 
bered must  have  shown  some  signs  of 
promise  at  twenty-four.1  But  Thoreau 
hired  an  Indian  to  be  aboriginal.  One 
who  said  "  By  George  !  "  and  made  re- 
marks with  a  Yankee  flavor,  was  contra- 
ry to  his  hypothesis  of  what  a  barbarian 
ought  to  be.  It  did  not  matter  that  this 
was  the  sort  of  man  who  gave  up  his  in- 
side seat  and  rode  sixty  miles  on  the  top 
of  the  stage  in  the  rain,  that  a  woman 
might  be  sheltered  ;  —  all  the  cardinal 
virtues  without  aboriginality  would  not 
have  sufficed  Mr.  Thoreau  for  a  text. 
And  so  he  missed  his  opportunity  to  tell 
us  what  manner  of  man  this  was.  Joe 
Attien's  best  chance  of  being  remembered 
lies,  not  in  having  been  Henry  Thoreau's 
guide  on  a  brief  excursion,  but  in  being 
just  brave,  honest,  upright  Joseph  Attien, 
a  man  who  was  loved  and  lamented  be- 
cause he  had  the  quality  of  goodness. 
"  His  death  just  used  the  men  all  up," 
said  a  white  river-man  years  afterward ; 
"  after  that  some  of  the  best  men  wa'n't 
good  for  anything  all  the  rest  of  the 
drive." 

I  could  give,  as  I  have  gleaned  it  here 
and  there,  the  testimony  to  his  worth,  the 
statements  of  one  and  another  that  he  was 
not  only  brave  but  good,  an  open-heart- 
ed, patient,  forbearing  sort  of  a  man,  re- 
nowned for  his  courage  and  skill  in  han- 
dling a  boat,  but  loved  for  his  mild  just- 
ness. "  He  was  just  like  a  father  to  us," 
said  a  white  man  who  had  been  in  his 

1  The   newspapers  said  he  was  thirty -five 
when  he  died,   but  his  gravestone  says  plain- 
ly "  forty  years  and  seven  months."     It  is  in- 
teresting to  learn  that  one  who  lived  so  well 
and  died  so  generously  was  born  on  Christmas 
Day. 

2  His  epitaph  is  wrong  in  asserting  that  he 
inherited  the  title  of  governor.     The  office  had 
been   a   life   office,  hereditary   in   the  Attien 
family,  who  were  chiefs ;  but  at  Joseph's  f a- 

VOL.  xcin.  —  NO.  560.  47 


boat.  Thirty-three  years  after  his  death 
I  heard  a  head  lumberman,  who  also 
had  served  two  years  in  his  boat,  a  very 
silent  man,  break  out  into  voluble  remi- 
niscence at  merely  seeing  Joe  Attien's 
picture.  But  there  is  a  story,  indispu- 
tably authentic,  which  shows,  better  than 
anything  else,  the  largeness  of  the  man. 
He  had  been  slandered  by  a  white  man, 
whom  he  had  thought  his  friend,  in  a  way 
which  not  only  caused  him  distress  of 
mind,  but  was  calculated  to  interfere  ma- 
terially with  his  election  to  the  office  of 
tribal  governor,  the  most  coveted  honor 
within  an  Indian's  grasp,  and  that  year 
elective  for  the  first  time.2  The  incident 
occurred  just  before  his  first  election  in 
1862,  —  for  he  was  governor  seven  times. 
Hurt  to  the  quick,  he  avoided  his  former 
friend,  yet  said  nothing.  But  as  soon 
as  he  discovered  that  the  false  accusa- 
tion had  arisen  from  a  wholly  innocent 
and  most  natural  mistake,  without  a  word 
in  his  own  justification,  leaving  the  charge 
to  stand  undenied,  he  renewed  the  old 
friendship,  and  his  friend  never  knew 
what  just  cause  he  had  given  for  resent- 
ment till,  years  after  Joe's  death,  it  was 
accidentally  revealed  by  one  who  had 
heard  the  misunderstanding  explained. 
Such  was  the  man. 

If  you  ask  the  men  who  were  there  at 
the  time  how  Joseph  Attien  died,  they 
will  never  suggest  that  it  was  accident 
or  the  hand  of  God.  More  or  less  em- 
phatically, according  to  their  natures 
and  the  vividness  of  their  recollection, 
they  will  say  right  out,  "  Dingbat  Prouty 
did  it ;  it  was  Dingbat  Prouty  drownded 
Joe  Attien."  They  will  cheerfully  admit 

ther's  death  it  was  made  annual  and  elective. 
Joseph  Attien  won  his  elections  by  popular  vote 
against  great  opposition,  and  he  carried  seven 
out  of  the  eight  elections  held  up  to  the  time 
of  his  death.  The  eighth  —  by  the  intervention 
of  the  so-called  "  Special  Law,"  passed  by  the 
state  to  reduce  the  friction  between  the  parties 
—  was  the  New  Party's  first  election,  none  of 
Joseph  Attien's  friends,  the  Old  Party,  or  Con- 
servatives, voting  that  year. 


738 


The  Death  of  Thoreau's  Guide. 


that  this  is  not  a  man  to  be  spoken  of 
slightingly,  because  he  is  a  great  water- 
man ;  but  upon  this  point  there  is 
only  one  opinion,  —  that  he  forced  Joe 
Attien  to  run  a  bad  place  against  his 
better  judgment,  for  the  mere  sake  of 
showing  off.  "  He  pushed  himself  in." 
—  "  He  had  n't  no  business  in  that  boat 
at  all." —  "  Prouty  drownded  Joe  Attien, 
everybody  who  was  there  says  so."  — 
"  He  had  n't  no  business  in  that  boat, 
and  did  n't  belong  there  anyway,  but  he 
said  he  was  going  to  run  them  falls,  and 
he  did  run  'em." 

It  is  very  hard  to  tell  a  true  story, 
and  the  more  one  knows  about  the  facts 
the  harder  it  is  to  make  a  story  of  them. 
Here  was  a  simple  tale  of  how  the  inor- 
dinate ambition  of  one  man  to  win  a 
name  for  himself  brought  grief  upon 
the  whole  drive.  But  the  next  turn  of 
the  kaleidoscope  gave  a  wholly  different 
combination.  For  I  took  what  I  had 
gathered  to  John  Ross  himself.  "  Is  this 
straight  ?  "  And  he  said  :  "  No ;  you  are 
all  wrong  there.  Prouty  belonged  in 
that  boat;  he  had  been  bowman  of  it 
about  two  days.  It  was  my  orders  for 
them  to  go  down  and  pick  a  jam  on  the 
Heater,  and  they  were  going.  I  was 
right  there  and  saw  the  whole  of  it,  and 
I  never  blamed  Prouty." 

But  why  then  should  the  men  have 
blamed  him  ?  No  exculpation  could  be 
more  complete.  There  is  no  appeal  from 
what  John  Ross  says  he  ordered  and  saw 
executed.  Why  do  not  the  men  know 
this?  Instead  of  telling  a  simple  tale, 
are  we  undertaking  to  square  the  mental 
circle?  For,  with  nearly  two  hundred 
men  close  at  hand,  it  seems  preposterous 
that  the  facts  should  not  have  become 
generally  known ;  it  is  still  more  incredi- 
ble to  suppose  that,  thinking  indepen- 
dently, they  could  all  have  reached  the 
same  false  conclusion  ;  but  that,  having 
been  cross-examined  in  all  sorts  of  ways 
for  four -and -thirty  years,  they  should 
never  have  varied  from  their  first  error 
is  inconceivable.  Why  do  the  men  still 


hold  Charles  Prouty  responsible  if  he  was 
not  to  blame  ? 

From  being  a  study  of  facts,  the  story 
turns  into  a  question  of  psychology. 
Why  is  it  that  when  one  has  been  look- 
ing at  red  too  long  he  sees  green,  and 
keeps  on  seeing  green,  even  when  there 
is  no  green  there  ?  —  that  is  the  clue. 
A  man  does  not  get  a  name  like  "  Ding- 
bat "  and  keep  it  all  his  life  for  nothing. 
Therefore,  after  the  men  had  gazed  fix- 
edly upon  the  commanding  excellence 
of  Joseph  Attien ;  after  they  had  seen 
him  pass  beyond  their  ken,  "  all  the 
trumpets,"  as  it  were,  "  sounding  for  him 
on  the  other  side  ;  "  when  they  turned 
away  and  looked  at  the  man  whom  fate 
had  elected  to  stand  beside  him  that  day, 
what  would  one  expect  them  to  see  by  con- 
trast ?  Green !  Very  green !  And  to  keep 
right  on  seeing  —  green  !  Having  af- 
firmed the  worth  of  Joseph  Attien  and 
the  warm  esteem  in  which  all  held  him, 
it  remains  to  show  how,  because  he  was 
placed  in  too  sharp  a  contrast  with  such 
a  man,  Charles  Prouty  incurred  a  blame 
which  his  chief  says  was  none  of  his. 

We  come  now  to  the  story.  Chance 
gave  to  it  a  fitting  frame,  —  grand  scen- 
ery, bright  sunshine,  a  date  of  distinction, 
the  eye  of  the  Master.  You  are  never 
to  forget  that  up  on  a  log-jam,  just 
below  where  this  happened,  stood  Him- 
self, —  John  Ross.  He  ordered  the  boat 
down;  he  saw  it  go;  he  sent  another 
to  the  rescue ;  he  reported  this  to  me ; 
it  stands  authenticated.  But  what  the 
men  saw  and  felt,  that  which  is  unoffi- 
cial, that  which  represents  the  current 
of  the  story,  and  carries  us  on  to  the 
ending  of  it,  I  gathered  for  myself 
among  them. 

On  the  drive  there  is  no  distinction  of 
days.  Holidays  or  Sundays,  the  drivers 
know  no  difference ;  one  week's  end 
and  the  next  one's  beginning  are  all  the 
same  to  them.  The  Fourth  of  July  now 
is  marked  for  them  by  no  other  suitable 


The  Death  of  Thoreau's   Guide. 


739 


recognition  than  extremely  early  ris- 
ing. 

But  it  used  not  so  to  be.  In  the  old 
days,  when  it  was  a  point  of  pride  to  have 
the  logs  in  boom  by  the  last  of  June, 
the  men  were  free  to  celebrate  on  the 
Fourth.  To  them  the  Fourth  of  July 
was  the  greatest  day  of  all  the  year. 
Like  boys  just  out  of  school,  they  were 
free  from  work,  free  from  restraint, 
free  to  make  just  as  much  noise  as  they 
pleased  ;  and,  having  plenty  of  money  in 
their  pockets  wherewith  to  purchase  all 
sorts  of  a  good  time,  they  enjoyed  a 
glorious  liberty.  The  Fourth  was  never 
a  quiet  day  in  Bangorif  the  drives  were 
in  the  boom. 

However,  the  year  of  our  Lord  1870 
is  distinctly  chronicled  as  one  of  the 
most  uneventful  ever  known,  nothing  at 
all  going  on  but  a  church  levee  across  the 
river  in  Brewer,  so  that  the  police  loafed 
out  the  Fourth  in  weary  and  unwonted 
idleness.  The  drives  were  late  that  year, 
so  very  late  that,  though  the  head  of 
the  West  Branch  drive  was  some  miles 
downstream,  the  rear  of  it  rested  on  the 
Grand  Falls  of  the  Indian  Purchase. 
The  hands  had  been  leaving  the  day  be- 
fore, so  as  to  get  home  for  the  Fourth ; 
the  water  was  falling ;  the  whole  drive 
was  belated  and  short-handed ;  the  head 
men  were  worrying ;  no  one  had  any  time 
to  remember  that  it  was  a  legal  holiday. 

That  is,  no  one  remembered  it  except 
the  Chronic  Shirk.  His  rights  had  been 
assailed,  and,  having  found  a  Temporary 
Cripple,  who  could  not  escape  by  flight 
from  his  unwelcome  company,  he  in- 
sisted on  arguing  the  case,  and  volleyed 
back  his  opinions  of  working  on  a  legal 
holiday  with  an  explosiveness  which  re- 
minded one  of  the  reports  of  a  bunch  of 
firecrackers. 

It  was  "  Rip  —  rip  —  rip  —  bang  ! 
but  he  did  n't  like  this  workin'  on  a 
Fourth  er  July !  The  Declaration  of 
Independuns  had  said  —  that  it  was  a 
man's  right  —  on  the  Fourth  er  July  — 
to  git  as  tight  as  Lewey's  cow  —  and  he 


did  rip  —  rip  —  rip — object  —  to  bein' 
defrauded  out  of  his  constitoot'nal 
rights!" 

He  was  a  sun-baked,  stubble-faced 
fellow,  less  troubled  with  clothes  than 
with  the  want  of  patches,  but  with  shirt 
and  skin  about  one  color  where  the  sun 
had  toned  them  to  each  other  around 
the  more  ancient  rents ;  and  he  sat  in  a 
niche  in  the  log-jam,  expectorating  to- 
bacco forcibly  and  to  great  distances, 
and  swore  voluminously  about  his  ill- 
luck  in  not  being  somewhere  else.  Just 
then  he  had  nothing  to  do.  He  was  an 
expert  at  picking  out  jobs  where  there 
was  nothing  to  do.  This  time  he  was 
waiting  for  his  mate,  who  had  gone  for 
an  axe,  and  not  a  stroke  of  work  had  he 
done  since  his  mate  left  him.  There  it 
was,  a  bright  sunny  morning  about  seven 
o'clock,  a  good  time  to  work,  and  the 
logs  ricked  up  like  jack-straws  on  both 
sides  of  the  falls,  the  whole  river  in 
that  confusion  which  the  rear  has  to 
clean  up  and  leave  tidy  ;  plenty  of  work 
for  this  fellow  to  do  with  his  peavey  in 
picking  off  singles  and  rolling  in  little 
handfuls  caught  along  the  edges,  and 
helping  to  do  his  share  of  the  setting  to 
rights  ;  but,  instead,  he  sat  on  a  log-jam 
in  the  sun,  and  spat  more  vigorously  and 
swore  more  violently,  as  it  grew  upon 
him  how  ill  the  world  was  using  him  in 
making  him  work  on  the  Fourth  of  July. 

The  Cripple,  unable  to  escape,  tried  to 
divert  him  from  his  melancholy. 

"  Well,  Tobias  Johnson's  boat  got 
down  all  right,"  he  remarked. 

Tobias  Johnson  and  his  crew  had  but 
just  run  the  Blue  Rock  Pitch.  It  was  to 
see  the  boats  go  down  that  the  Cripple  had 
crawled  out  upon  the  logs.  The  water 
being  very  bad  that  morning,  what  To- 
bias Johnson  had  done  was  bound  to  be 
a  topic  of  conversation  all  that  hot  day 
among  little  groups  of  men  working  on 
the  logs.  Even  the  Shirk  ought  to  have 
whirled  at  such  a  glittering  conversation- 
al lure.  Instead  he  sulked. 

"  I  'd  be  rip  —  rip  —  ripped  —  if  / 


740 


The  Death  of  Thoreaus   Guide. 


was  seen  runnin'  these  here  falls  to-day. 
It 's  a  damned  shame  to  have  to  work  on 
the  Fourth  er  July  anyway.  Head  men 
that  knowed  beans  from  bed-bugs  would 
ha'  had  the  whole  jim-bang  drive  in 
long  ago  ;  "  —  and  he  exploded  a  whole 
bunch  of  crackers  on  the  heads  of  the 
offending  contractors  of  the  drive. 
"  Here  we  be  a-swillin'  sow-belly  an' 
Y.  E.  B's,1  an'  down  to  Bangor,  don't  I 
know  jes'  's  well  as  can  be,  Deacon 
Spooner  has  brought  up  a  thousand 
pounds  o'  salmon  to  Low's  Market,  an' 
is  reportin'  all  about  the  sunstroke  to 
the  schoolhouse  an'  the  camp-meetin' 
they  are  gettin'  up  down  to  Whisgig  on 
Shoo-Fly,  an'  salmon  enough  for  all 
hands  an'  the  cook."  (Deacon  Spoouer 
was  a  sort  of  summer  Santa  Glaus,  who 
purveyed  imaginary  information  and  real 
Penobscot  River  salmon.  He  was  held 
in  high  local  esteem,  but  he  went  out  of 
print  about  this  time,  and  the  great  vol- 
ley of  oaths  which  the  Shirk  shot  off  at 
the  merry  and  inoffensive  deacon,  though 
they  may  not  account  for  his  disappear- 
ance, would  provide  good  reason  for  look- 
ing for  him  among  the  damned.) 

The  Cripple  tried  to  get  away,  but 
he  was  too  closely  followed.  Then,  de- 
ciding that  talking  was  better  than  lis- 
tening, he  took  the  reins  of  conversation. 
"  Bi  must  have  found  it  awful  rough 
water,"  said  he  ;  "  don't  believe  there  '11 
be  not  another  bo't  attempt  it  to-day 
with  the  water  slacking  so.  Say,  did 
you  hear  that  yisterday  Joe  Attien  tried 
to  git  Con  Murphy  to  leave  Tobias's  crew 
an'  come  into  his  boat  ?  An'  Con  said  he 
liked  his  own  crew,  an'  did  n't  want  to 
change,  not  even  to  be  in  Joe's  bo't.  I 
heerd  that  he  got  Ed  Conley  out  of  Lewey 
Ketchum's  bo't  now  Lewey  's  left  the 
drive.  Speaks  pretty  well  for  Tobias 
though,  don't  it  ?  " 

The  Discontented  One  turned  impar- 
tially from  Deacon  Spooner  and  damned 
Tobias. 

1  That  is,  yellow-eyed  beans.  Pork  and 
beans  are  the  river-driver's  staple  of  diet  as 


"Jim  Hill!  "  said  the  Cripple,  "  how 
them  logs  has  took  to  runnin' !  They  're 
goin'  it  high,  wide  an'  lively.  That  stops 
all  bo't  capers  for  one  while.  Any  bo't 
that  had  it  in  mind  to  rival  Bi  Johnson 
had  better  think  twice  about  it  before  they 
git  out  into  this  mix-up  on  slack  water. 
Guess  our  fun  's  up,  an'  I  mought  's  well 
be  crawlin'  back  to  camp." 

"  Guess  I  mought 's  well  stay  right 
here  where  I  be,"  said  the  Shirk  ;  "  John 
Ross  is  up  there  on  that  dry  jam  east 
side,  an'  I  'd  jes'  's  soon  be  where  I  can 
keep  an  eye  on  him." 

The  Cripple  made  a  few  painful,  hob- 
bling steps  over  the  logs,  and  had  reached 
the  crest  of  the  jam,  when  he  turned,  with 
his  hand  shading  his  eyes,  and  looked 
down  toward  the  Blue  Rock  Pitch,  where 
a  boat  was  drawn  up  on  the  shore,  and 
the  crew  stood  waiting. 

"  Say,  though,"  he  shouted  to  the 
Shirk,  trying  to  make  himself  heard 
above  the  water,  "  looks  like  they  was 
talkin'  about  runnin'  after  all !  Who  is 
it  ?  Make  'em  out  ?  " 

The  Grumbler  put  up  his  head  cau- 
tiously, to  make  sure  that  John  Ross  was 
attending  to  his  own  business,  before  he 
ran  briskly  to  the  peak  of  the  jam,  and 
announced  that  it  was  that  ding-ding- 
danged  Injun,  Joe  Attien  ;  could  tell  him 
by  his  bigness. 

"  Hain't  he  the  perfect  figure  of  a  man, 
though !  "  broke  in  the  other  in  admira- 
tion ;  "  pity  his  heft  keeps  him  from  his 
rightful  place  in  the  bow."  Joe  Attien 
weighed  two  hundred  and  twenty-five, 
and,  because  of  his  great  weight  and 
strength,  always  captained  his  boat  from 
the  stern,  although  in  running  quick 
water  the  bow  is  the  place  of  honor. 

The  Leisurely  One,  having  made  sure 
that  he  was  getting  the  right  man,  pro- 
ceeded to  curse  Joe  Attien  and  all  his 
forbears.  Then  he  sat  down  upon  the 
logs  and  resumed  his  original  lamenta- 
tion. "Now  down  Bangor  way  to-day 

well  as  the  lumberman's,  and  not  as  much  rel- 
ished iu  midsummer  as  in  the  colder  season. 


The  Death  of  Thoreau's   Guide. 


741 


they  'd  be  doin'  somp'n  wuth  lookin'  at 
—  Loss  races  an'  bo't  races  an'  "  — 

"  Joe  'd  be  in  the  canoe  race,  sure,"  in- 
terrupted the  other. 

"  Not  by  a  long  chalk !  "  said  the 
Grumbler  ;  "  don't  you  see  he  's  govern- 
or agin  ?  Don't  you  rec'lect  that  last 
time,  when  they  made  him  a  ding-danged, 
no-good  judge,  an'  him  one  of  the  best 
paddles  in  the  tribe,  a  rip  —  rip  —  rip  — 
splitting  good  man  on  a  paddle,  all  be- 
cause he  was  a  ding-dang-donged  gov- 
ernor ?  " 

The  other  man  admitted  the  cogency 
of  the  argument.  "  But  say,"  said  he, 
"  that 's  the  real  thing  there.  Ain't  that 
Dingbat  talkin'  up  to  Joe  ?  " 

They  watched  the  rapid,  incisive  move- 
ments of  a  slender,  agile  young  fellow, 
outlined  against  Joe's  bulk.  "  Dinged 
little  weasel,"  muttered  the  Grumbler, 
identifying  him,  "  so  durn  spry  't  he 
don't  cast  no  shadder  !  " 

Then  he  relapsed  once  more  into  his  re- 
flective mood.  "  Now  down  Bangor  way 
now,  you  bet  —  oh,  hoss  races  an'  bo't 
races  an'  canoe  races,  an'  '  Torrent '  and 
4  Delooge  '  a-squirtin'  out  in  the  Square, 
an'  cirkiss,  an'  greased  pig,  an'  tub  races, 
an'  velocerpede  races  —  there  '11  be 
somp'n  down  there  to-day  wuth  lookin' 
at,  an'  up  here  nothin'  but  this  dod- 
blasted  ol'  river  an'  a  ding-dang  passel 
o'  logs ! " 

"  Say,"  said  the  other,  "  I  can't  quite 
make  that  out  yet.  I  ain't  a-catchin'  on 
to  that  performance.  There  's  McCaus- 
land,  an'  Tomer,  an'  Joe  Solomon,  an' 
Curran,  an'  Conley,  they  all  belong, — 
but  where  's  Steve  Stanislaus  ?  An'  that 
little  Dingbat,  —  what  's  he  doin'  with 
a  paddle  there  ?  " 

"  Wants  Joe  to  run  the  falls." 

"  Well,  but  he  ain't  in  Joe's  bo't !  " 

"Course  not,  little  rum  scullion !  That's 
it !  He  's  failed  to  get  his  own  crew  in 
most  like,  an'  now  he  's  stumpin'  Joe  to 
take  him  along  o'  his  crew.  You  watch 
an'  see  him  do  it.  He  ain't  a-goin'  to 
let  Bi  Johnson  have  the  name  of  bein* 


the  only  man  that  dares  to  run  these  falls 
to-day,  not  if  he  can  help  it.  He  '11  shake 
the  rafters  o'  heaven,  but  he  '11  show  us 
that  he  's  every  bit  as  good  a  waterman 
as  Tobias  Johnson." 

"  What  makes  him  light  on  Joe  ?  and 
where  's  Steve  ?  " 

The  man  did  not  know  as  yet  that  the 
day  before,  when  the  crews  reorganized 
at  the  Lower  Lakes,  Steve  Stanislaus, 
who  was  Joe  Attien's  friend  and  cousin 
and  physical  counterpart,  had  left  Joe's 
boat.  But  all  sorts  of  low  cunning  being 
readable  to  the  Shirk,  he  was  not  at  a 
loss  for  an  explanation. 

"  Well,  don't  you  see,  he  's  cut  Steve 
out  some  ways.  Joe  handlin'  stern,  that 
gives  him  a  chance  to  go  in  the  bow,  and 
that 's  right  on  the  way  to  a  bo't  of  his 
own,  and  what  he  could  n't  get  with  no 
other  man.  He  don't  ship  to  be  no  mid- 
shipman in  the  maulin'  they  are  goin'  to 
git.  He  's  figgerin'  how  to  put  hisself  at 
a  premum  as  a  crack  man." 

"Reel  Dingbat  trick,"  muttered  the 
Cripple.  "  Joe  knows  that  this  ain't  no 
runnin'  water  to-day  ;  just  wicked  to  try 
to  run  here  the  way  things  is  now." 

"  Don't  want  to,  don't  have  to,"  re- 
torted the  Swearer,  for  once  omitting  the 
garnish  of  his  speech.  And  it  was  more 
true  than  most  epigrams.  Joe's  orders 
to  go  down  with  a  boat  did  not  imply 
that  he  was  to  run  the  Blue  Rock  Pitch 
against  his  judgment.  A  waterman  of 
his  reputation  could  dare  to  be  prudent, 
and  all  the  spectators  thought  that  he  in- 
tended to  take  out  above  the  pitch  and 
carry  by  and  put  in  below.  Then  they 
saw  him  pick  up  his  long  paddle. 

The  Shirk  pricked  up  his  ears  and  be- 
gan to  be  more  cheerful.  "  Looks  like 
somp'n  was  goin'  to  happen  now  !  "  he 
chippered.  "  There  they  are  a-gettin'  of 
her  ready.  Now  they  're  runnin'  her 
out.  There 's  Dingbat  takin'  bow. 
Wonder  what  they  are  goin'  to  do  with 
that  spare  man  ?  Which  one  of  them 
rip  —  rip  —  rippin'  galoots  do  you  s'pose 
Joe  '11  be  leavin'  behind  ?  " 


742 


The  Death  of  Thoreau's   Guide. 


That  seventh  man  in  the  boat  was  what 
the  men  never  understood,  and  it  gave 
the  color  to  the  accusation  that  Prouty 
pushed  himself  in.  Seven  men  is  a 
boat's  crew  when  working  on  logs,  but 
in  running  dangerous  places  they  carry 
but  six,  or  even  four  men.  It  would 
seem  as  if,  planning  not  to  run,  Joe  had 
his  log-working  crew,  and  then,  changing 
his  mind  suddenly,  forgot  to  leave  be- 
hind the  extra  man. 

"  Gosh !  how  rough  the  water  is  !  " 
said  the  Cripple;  "all  choked  up  with 
jams  both  sides,  and  the  logs  running  to 
beat  hell.  They  don't  stand  one  chance, 
not  in  —  My  soul !  — tbut  he  's  putting 
that  spare  man  in  on  the  lazy  seat !  — 
Well,  what  you  must  do  you  will  do." 
It  was  the  inbred  fatalism  of  his  class, 
which  makes  them  stoical. 

Simultaneously  the  Grumbler  fired  off 
a  volley  of  curses  which  made  the  air 
smoke.  "  Rip  —  rip  —  rip  —  bang !  — 
bang!  If  that  Go-douged  Injun  ain't 
a-shippin'  a  Maddywamkeag  crew  !  " 
(In  the  cant  of  the  river  a  "  Mattawam- 
keag  crew "  means  all  the  men  a  boat 
will  hold.) 

The  Shirk  was  fully  alive  now.  He 
jumped  up  and  took  his  peavey  from  the 
log  beside  him.  "  Guess  I  '11  be  mosey- 
in'  right  along  down  now,"  he  chirped. 
Then  he  set  out  running  over  the  logs  at 
a  lively  pace,  trailing  his  peavey  behind 
him.  He  anticipated  seeing  something 
fully  equal  to  greased  pig  and  velocipede 
races. 

But  there  was  not  much  to  see  that 
time.  The  catastrophe  came  at  once, 
before  they  were  fairly  started.  The 
water  was  very  rough  that  morning,  — 
on  a  falling  driving-pitch  it  is  always 
roughest.  There  was  that  crowning  cur- 
rent, heaped  up  in  the  middle,  that  would 
push  a  boat  upon  the  shore  ;  there  were 
the  log-jams  making  the  channels  nar- 
row and  crooked  ;  there  were  the  loose 
logs  running  free,  that  would  elbow  and 
ram  a  boat  and  crowd  her  off  when  she 


tried  to  avoid  them ;  there  were  the 
doubtful,  treacherous  channels,  creatures 
of  the  log-jams  along  the  banks  and  of 
the  fickle  current,  new  with  every  differ- 
ing condition,  never  to  be  fully  memo- 
rized ;  there  were  the  rocks,  not  less 
cruel  because  cushioned  with  great  boils 
of  water ;  and  there  were  the  boat's  own 
weight  and  tremendous  momentum.  No 
thoroughbred  waterman  will  ever  under- 
take to  say  how  fast  a  boat  can  run  in  a 
rapid,  for  he  does  not  know  himself. 
He  says,  "  Very  fast,"  and  turns  the 
topic  to  all-day  records. 

Still  the  great  sharp-nosed  boat  had  as 
little  cause  to  apprehend  disaster  as  any 
boat  could  have  had.  She  bore  a  picked 
crew ;  she  obeyed  Joe  Attien ;  and  she 
was  a  stanch  and  trusty  boat,  very  wise 
about  all  the  ways  of  water.  She  knew 
all  kinds  and  how  to  take  them.  There 
were  the  huge  boils,  those  frightful, 
brandy-colored  boils,  streaked  full  of 
yellow  foam-threads  spinning  from  a 
hissing  centre ;  and  there  were  the 
slicks,  where  a  great  rock  betrayed  his 
lurking-place  only  by  the  tail  of  glassy  cur- 
rent below,  —  safe  are  such  places,  for  the 
rock  lies  above  them ;  and  there  were 
the  ridgy  manes  of  white  water-curls, 
where  the  slopes  of  two  great  rocks 
met  and  rolled  the  water  backward; 
— but  she  knew  how  to  take  them  all ; 
she  was  prepared  for  perils  on  all  sides, 
danger  unintermittent,  whether  she  took 
it  slick,  or  bit  into  the  foam  with  her 
long  beak,  or  caught  it  raw  and  crosswise 
beneath  her  flaring  gunwales.  What 
she  did  not  expect  was  that  her  peril 
would  come  before  she  had  caught  the 
set  of  the  current  at  all ;  no  one  looked 
for  that,  not  even  the  Shirk,  who  was 
running  fast  so  as  to  be  right  on  hand 
when  she  swamped,  and  was  addressing 
to  them  various  select  remarks  not  in- 
tended to  be  heard  above  the  roar  of  the 
water,  such  as,  "  Guess  you  got  your  bel- 
lyful this  time,  old  fellow  ;  "  and,  "  Go 
it,  boys,  you'll  get  plumb  to  hell  this 
trip,"  It  was  nothing  to  one  of  his  kind 


The  Death  of  Thoreau's  Guide. 


743 


that  seven  men  stood  in  deadly  peril,  and 
the  show  of  the  moment  he  was  craftily 
neglecting  that  he  might  the  better  wit- 
ness the  closing  spectacle.  But  he  never 
dreamed  that  it  would  come  as  it  did. 

It  was  a  very  simple  accident ;  the 
dragon  fly,  with  bulging  eyes,  rustling  in 
zigzag  flight  along  the  river's  brink, 
might  have  reported  what  he  saw  as  well 
as  could  a  man.  There  was  the  long, 
lean  boat,  blue  without  and  painted  white 
within,  lying  with  pointed  stern  and 
longer,  tapering  snout,  steeving  sharply, 
like  a  huge  fish  half  out  of  water  ;  within 
her  the  line  of  red-shirted  men,  their 
finny  oars  fringing  her  battered  sides,  the 
stripling  Prouty  high  up  in  the  bow,  too 
eager  to  snatch  the  honors  of  which  he 
has  won  so  many  fairly  since ;  then  the 
row  of  seated  men,  —  ragged  red  shirts, 
sorely  weathered ;  hard  red  knuckles, 
tense  on  the  oar-butts  ;  sunburned  faces 
under  torn  brims,  or  hatless ;  sun- 
scorched  eyes,  winking  through  sun- 
bleached  lashes ;  all,  Yankee  and  Irish- 
man and  Province  man,  black-eyed  In- 
dian and  blue-eyed  Indian,  waiting  on 
big  Joe  Attien,  towering  in  the  stern, 
confident  that  what  he  did  would  be 
done  right.  Seven  men,  and  four  were 
looking  backward  to  the  shore,  and  three 
were  facing  forward  toward  the  water, 
four  one  way  and  three  the  other,  as  if 
emblematic  of  the  coming  moment  when 
they  should  be  divided  by  three  and  by 
four,  for  life,  for  death.  What  they 
thought  and  how  they  felt,  who  could 
tell  now ;  but  out  of  all  those  there  the 
man's  heart  which  would  have  been  best 
worth  reading  was  that  spare  man's  on 
the  lazy  seat,  who  knew  rough  water, 
and  could  see  ahead,  and  who  had  no- 
thing at  all  to  do.  If  he  unbuckled  his 
stout,  calked  brogans,  and  slipped  them 
off  his  feet,  who  could  say  whether  it  was 
done  from  fear  or  from  foresight  ? 

Then  the  poles  dip,  the  long,  spruce, 
iron-shod  poles  at  bow  and  stern,  the 
oars  sweep  shallow  water,  and,  splash- 
ing and  gritting  gravel  as  they  push  off, 


the  poles  dipping  one  side  and  the  other, 
abreast  and  backward,  like  the  long  legs 
of  an  uncertain-minded  crane-fly,  they 
shove  her  out. 

And  then  was  their  black  fate  close 
upon  them  :  she  did  not  swing  to  the 
current ;  she  was  too  heavy,  the  crew 
were  raw  to  one  another  and  to  the  boat, 
bow  and  stern  did  not  respond  as  they 
always  had  done  when  Steve  Stanislaus 
and  Joe  handled  boat,  as  their  old  crews 
still  say,  "  just  like  one  man."  Logy  and 
bewildered,  instead  of  turning  promptly 
to  the  current,  the  old  boat  let  the  water 
catch  her  underneath  her  side.  It  shot 
her  straight  across  the  channel,  right 
among  the  ugly  rocks  on  the  other  shore, 
close  above  the  Blue  Rock  Pitch.  And 
then,  before  she  could  be  straightened, 
the  River  took  her  in  his  giant  hands, 
and  smashed  her  side  against  a  rock, 
smote  her  down  with  such  a  crash  that 
the  men  along  the  banks  who  saw  and 
heard  it  cannot  be  convinced  that  she 
was  not  wrecked  ;  and  some  who  saw  her 
fill  so  suddenly  still  declare  that  her 
whole  bottom  was  torn  off  as  you  rip  the 
peel  from  a  mandarin  orange.  That  is 
not  true  ;  she  was  not  much  hurt.  But 
eighteen  hundred  pounds  of  boat  and 
men  were  hurled  upon  that  sunken  rock 
with  the  full  force  of  the  River.  The 
port  side  buckled  fearfully;  the  ribs 
groaned  and  gave ;  the  nails  screamed 
as  the  sharp  rock  sheared  off  their  heads, 
and  a  long  yellow  shaving,  ploughed  out 
of  her  side,  went  writhing  down  the 
foaming  current.  Down  to  the  water's 
edge  dipped  the  up-stream  gunwale  ;  in 
poured  the  water  in  a  flood,  and  before 
she  settled  squarely,  the  lifted  port  side 
showed  that  long  and  ugly  scar.  What 
of  the  shock  that  sent  the  man  upon  the 
lazy  seat  reeling  backward,  that  tumbled 
the  men  at  the  oars  forward  upon  their 
faces,  that  wrenched  their  oars  from  their 
hands  and  threw  the  batteau  seats  from 
the  cleats,  and  sent  the  spare  man's  driv- 
ing shoes  adrift  among  the  litter  of  un- 
shipped seats  and  useless  men  ?  Un- 


744 


The  Death  of  Thoreau's   Guide. 


manned,  unmanageable,  full  to  the  lips 
of  water,  and  just  on  the  brink  of  the 
Blue  Rock  Pitch,  what  could  the  old 
boat  do  ?  Joe  dropped  his  useless  pole 
and  took  his  paddle,  but  she  could  not 
answer  to  it,  and  bow-heavy  with  the 
weight  of  water  running  forward  as  she 
felt  the  incline  of  the  fall,  her  stern  reel- 
ing high  in  air,  her  crew,  disarmed  and 
helpless,  crowding  on  the  bowman,  she 
wallowed  down  that  wicked  water  among 
rocks  and  logs. 

So  much  is  fairly  certain,  but  beyond 
this  no  one  seems  quite  sure  ;  for  I  can 
find  no  one  who  saw  it.  Tobias  John- 
son's crew  could  not,  not  having  eyes  in 
the  backs  of  their  heads,  for  they  had 
sprung  at  once  to  the  rescue  in  their  own 
boat.  And  the  Shirk,  who  would  have 
been  glad  to  see,  was  out  of  the  running. 
In  his  haste  to  be  on  hand,  he  had  tripped 
himself  on  his  peavey,  and  had  been 
plunged  headforemost  into  a  hole  in  the 
jam,  where,  kicking  and  clawing,  he 
went  off  like  Mother  Hoyt's  powder- 
horn.  (Cursing  his  own  awkwardness  ? 
No,  not  a  bit !  Damning  the  men  who 
were  struggling  in  the  water,  because 
they  had  tripped  him  up,  and  had  not 
given  him  a  fair  chance  to  see  them  die !) 

Nor  did  John  Ross  on  his  log-jam  see 
it,  though  he  was  so  near.  "  I  was  on 
a  dry  jam  right  there,  but  I  had  kept 
Levi  Hathorn's  boat  with  me  in  case  any 
one  should  tumble  in  or  anything  should 
happen,  and  I  sent  it  down  to  them,  — 
and  I  don't  know  any  more.  I  saw  that 
they  were  going  to  have  a  hard  time,  and 

—  and  I  turned  and  looked  the  other 
way."    (Ladies  and  gentlemen  —  tender- 
hearted ladies,  high-minded   gentlemen 

—  pause  and  consider  whether,  standing 
there,  yours  would  have  been  the  tran- 
scendent grace  that  "  turned  and  looked 
the  other  way  "  !) 

But  one  thing  everybody  knows,  — 
there  were  men  in  that  boat  who  could 
not  swim  ;  there  are  such  in  every  boat. 
The  others  leaped  and  swam  ;  these  clung 
to  the  boat.  And  Joe  Attien  stayed 


with  them,  —  not  clinging  as  they  did, 
buried  in  water,  not  crouching  and  ab- 
ject, waiting  for  the  death  that  faced 
him,  —  not  a  coward,  now,  never,  but 
paddle  in  hand,  because  the  water  ran 
too  deep  for  pole-hold,  standing  astride 
his  sunken  boat,  a  big,  calked  foot  upon 
either  gunwale,  working  to  the  last  ounce 
that  was  in  him  to  drive  the  sunken 
wreck  and  the  men  clinging  to  it  into 
some  eddy  or  cleft  of  the  log-jams  before 
they  were  carried  down  over  the  Heater 
and  that  thundering  fall  of  the  Grand 
Pitch.  It  is  the  last  one  sees  of  Joe  At- 
tien ;  no  one  has  reported  anything  after 
that ;  one  remembers  him  always  as 
standing  high  in  the  stern  of  his  boat, 
dying  with  and  for  his  men. 

The  Humane  Society  gives  no  medals 
for  rescues  made  along  the  river;  our 
men  have  nothing  to  show  for  anything 
they  have  done  ;  but  when  all  the  paeans 
of  brave  deeds  are  chanted,  let  some  one 
remember  to  sing  the  praises  of  Tobias 
Johnson's  crew.  We  do  not  speak  of 
them,  —  this  is  not  their  day.  Enough 
that  when  they  saw  Joe  Attien's  boat 
swamp  they  all  leaped  into  their  places 
and  swept  out  to  the  rescue.  Man  after 
man  they  pulled  in,  heedless  of  their 
own  safety.  The  last  one  they  caught 
when  they  were  just  on  the  verge  of  the 
Heater,  and  then  somehow,  overloaded 
as  they  were,  on  the  brink  of  sure  death, 
they  swung  in  and  crept  back  to  the 
landing-place. 

Ashore  they  looked  over  the  saved  and 
called  the  names  of  the  dead.  They  had 
three.  Joe  Attien  was  gone,  and  Stephen 
Tomer,  an  Indian  lad,  and  Edward  Con- 
ley  of  Woodstock,  and  Dingbat  Prouty. 
They  still  hoped  for  these,  —  hope  dies 
hard,  and  they  knew  how  difficult  it  is  to 
drown  a  man  who  resolutely  prefers  to  try 
his  chances  of  being  hanged.  So  they  and 
all  who  had  flocked  in  to  them  at  the  fly- 
ing rumor  of  disaster  took  up  pick-poles, 
pickaroons,  peavies,  whatever  might  be 
used  to  save  a  living  man  or  to  recover 


The  Death  of  Thorearfs   Guide. 


745 


the  body  of  a  drowned  one,  and  set  off 
down  the  drivers'  path  which  skirts  the 
falls. 

There  was  little  hope  of  finding  Joe. 
When  they  saw  him  go  they  all  under- 
stood that,  dead  or  alive,  they  would  find 
him  with  his  men.  But  Dingbat  had 
been  seen  swimming  strongly.  If  the 
logs  had  not  crushed  him,  nor  the  rocks 
broken  him,  he  might  yet  be  picked  up 
in  some  inshore  cove  where  the  eddy 
played,  clinging  to  the  alders,  too  for- 
done to  pull  himself  out,  but  still  alive. 

They  searched  well  and  they  searched 
some  time  before  they  found  him,  —  for 
I  had  it  from  one  who  was  there,  —  and 
when  they  did  discover  him,  it  was  the 
rescuers  who  were  scant  of  breath. 

"  Ga-w-d !  but  don't  he  seem  to  be 
takin'  it  easy  !  "  said  one. 

For  a  man  who  had  just  been  through 
what  he  had  been  through,  he  certainly 
was  taking  it  very  easy.  He  was  sitting 
on  a  log  out  in  an  eddy,  a  great  hulling- 
machine  log,  peeled  by  the  rocks  in  rap- 
ids, with  tatters  of  bark  hanging  to  its 
scarred  sides,  bitten  to  the  quick  by  the 
ledges,  broomed  at  the  ends  by  being 
tumbled  over  falls.  There  in  the  eddy 
it  was  drifting  because  it  was  too  big  to 
be  dislodged  until  some  driver  prodded 
it  out  and  over  the  Grand  Pitch.  Un- 
able to  escape,  it  went  sailing  round  and 
round,  sometimes  butting  other  logs  and 
ramming  the  weaker  ones  out  into  the 
rapids,  sometimes  nosing  up  against  the 
line  of  the  current,  and  always  drawing 
back  again  into  its  quiet  haven,  swimming 
slowly,  but  swinging  often,  ever  a  little 
beyond  the  line  of  the  bushes,  ever  a 
little  inside  the  line  of  the  current.  The 
falls-spume  gathered  in  clots  against  the 
side  farthest  from  the  eddy's  vortex,  and 
the  torrent,  as  it  rushed  past,  threw  up 
wavelets  that  lapped  its  flanks.  And 
there  in  the  warm  morning  sunshine,  wet 
as  a  drowned  rat,  his  hair  plastered  over 
his  sharp-cut  face,  and  the  wrinkles  round 
his  nose  showing  more  plainly  than  com- 
mon, sat  the  missing  bowman,  dripping 


from  every  edge  and  elbow,  but  stolidly 
sucking  his  pipe. 

"  Well,  I  call  that  nerve  !  "  remarked 
one  of  the  rescuers,  viewing  him  from  be- 
hind a  screen  of  bushes.  He  appreciated 
the  self-command  it  took  for  a  man  con- 
siderably more  than  half  drowned  and 
entirely  soaked  to  get  out  his  old  pipe, 
dig  her  clean,  and  clamp  her  under  his 
spiked  shoe  to  dry  while  he  peeled  his 
wet  tobacco  down  to  the  solid  heart,  got 
out  his  matches  from  his  water-tight  vial, 
and  filled  and  lit  her  up.  They  admired 
his  young  bravado,  and  waited  a  moment 
watching  him,  as,  theatrically  unconscious 
of  their  presence,  which  he  well  enough 
observed,  he  drew  at  his  pipe,  and  swung 
with  the  eddy,  his  shadow  now  falling  to 
the  front,  now  to  the  rear. 

"  Ain't  he  a  James  Dickey-bird ! " 
said  another  beneath  his  breath. 

Then  Dingbat  overdid  the  matter. 

"  Where  's  that  damned  Injun  ?  "  he 
demanded,  suddenly  acknowledging  their 
presence. 

The  ichor  of  swift  resentment  coursed 
through  their  veins ;  already  it  was  set- 
tled in  their  minds  who  was  responsi- 
ble for  this  disaster.  Here  he  was,  safe 
enough,  having  saved  himself  ;  Joe  At- 
tien  was  dead  trying  to  save  his  crew. 
As  the  lightning  flash  sometimes  photo- 
graphs indelibly  the  objects  nearest 
where  it  strikes,  so  on  the  minds  of  these 
men  that  unfeeling  question  branded  for- 
evermore  the  pictures  that  stood  for  those 
two  lives,  —  Dingbat  floating  at  his  ease 
in  the  eddy,  having  looked  out  for  him- 
self, Joe  Attien  drowned  and  battered 
and  lost  among  logs  and  ledges,  willing 
to  lose  himself  if  he  might  save  his  crew. 
They  have  never  forgotten,  never  will 
forget,  that  difference.  To  this  day  when 
you  ask  one  of  them  who  was  there  at 
the  time  how  Joe  Attien  died,  this  con- 
trast leaps  before  him,  and  he  says  that 
Dingbat  Prouty  did  it. 

The  rapids  give  place  to  river  mea- 
dows, the  meadows  grow  into  salt  shore- 


746 


Butterflies  in  Poetry. 


marshes,  the  marshes  lose  themselves  at 
the  verge  of  ocean,  and  a  mist  creeps  up 
out  of  the  sea.  Time  levels  and  softens 
all,  and  draws  a  veil  of  haze  across  to  hide 
what  is  unpleasantly  harsh.  So  be  it ! 
Let  all  that  is  unworthy,  low  or  mean,  be 
blotted  out,  provided  that  the  lights  we 
steer  by,  the  beacons  across  the  wide  waste 
waters,  be  not  dimmed  ;  —  leave  us,  O 
Time,  the  memory  of  men  like  this  ! 

I  was  a  tiny  child  when  Joe  Attien 
died.  He  had  been  a  familiar  friend,  and 
often,  no  doubt,  he  fondled  me  as  he  did 
his  own  babies.  But  I  do  not  remember 
him.  Instead  I  recall  —  not  clearly, 
though  I  somehow  know  that  it  was  they 
—  the  delegation  of  Indians  who  came 
down  to  ask  my  father  where  they  should 
go  to  look  for  his  body.  They  were  tall, 
and  I  looked  through  their  legs  as  be- 
tween tree-trunks,  and  the  shadow  of 
grief  on  their  dark  faces  made  them  like 
the  heavy  tops  of  the  pine  trees,  trees  of 
mournfulness  and  sighing. 

"  Spos'n  Gov'nor  could  got  pole-holt 
she  could  saved  'em." 

And,  "  She  could  saved  it  herself,  Gov- 
'nor, 'cause  she  strong  man  and  could 


swim,  but  she  want  to  preservation  crew." 
So  my  father  pondered  the  problem 
and  told  them  where  to  look  for  the  body. 
"  A  brick  would  swim  in  that  water,  it  is 
so  strong,"  said  he.  "  The  Governor  was 
a  heavy  man,  but  unless  he  is  jammed 
under  logs  or  wedged  between  rocks,  he 
will  be  carried  right  down  over  Grand 
Pitch.  As  soon  as  the  current  slackens 
it  will  drop  him,  and  he  will  sink  in  shal- 
low water  at  the  inlet  to  the  pond.  It  is 
hot  weather  now,  and,  the  water  being 
shoal  there,  by  the  time  you  can  get  up 
river  the  body  will  have  risen  ;  you  will 
find  it  in  the  upper  end  of  Shad  Pond." 
It  all  came  out  as  he  had  predicted. 
The  body  of  Edward  Conley  had  been 
picked  up  above  the  falls  several  days  be- 
fore, but  the  two  Indians  they  found  to- 
gether in  Shad  Pond  on  Sunday,  the  sixth 
day.  They  took  both  the  bodies  ashore, 
and  where  they  landed  they  cut  a  deep 
cross  into  a  tree  ;  and  because  they  could 
not  treat  lightly  anything  which  had  be- 
longed to  so  brave  a  man,  Joe  Attien's 
boots  they  hung  upon  a  limb  of  the  tree. 
There  the  river-drivers  left  them  till  they 
wasted  away,  a  strange  but  sincere  me- 
morial of  a  good  man. 

Fannie  Hardy  Eckstorm. 


PART  OF  A  MAN'S  LIFE. 

"  The  uttered  part  of  a  man's  life,  let  us  always  repeat,  bears  to  the  unuttered,  unconscious 
part  a  small  unknown  proportion.  He  himself  never  knows  it,  much  less  do  others."  —  Carlyle's 
Essay  on  Scott. 

BUTTERFLIES   IN   POETRY. 


IT  was  one  of  the  proudest  moments 
of  my  college  life  when  I  was  deputed 
by  Dr.  Harris  —  the  foremost  naturalist 
then  to  be  found  in  Harvard  University, 
if  not  in  the  nation  —  to  report  upon 
the  credentials  of  a  foreign  prince,  and, 
if  these  proved  authentic,  to  introduce 
him  to  academical  society.  That  prince 
was  and  is  —  for  his  posterity  still  re- 


mains among  us  —  the  most  superb 
among  such  potentates  who  had  ever 
visited  this  region ;  for  he  was  the  Pa- 
pilio  philenor  (now  Laertias  philenor), 
a  tropical  butterfly  then  first  seen  in  Cam- 
bridge, and  the  largest  ever  found  so  far 
North,  in  America,  bringing,  moreover, 
an  unwonted  luxuriance  in  form  and  col- 
or. This  butterfly  was  personally  rear 


Butterflies  in  Poetry. 


747 


by  Dr.  Harris  from  a  caterpillar  found 
on  a  tropical  plant  at  the  Cambridge  Bo- 
tanic Garden  ;  and  its  posterity  may  well 
be  called  "  large  and  magnificent "  by 
Mr.  Samuel  H.  Scudder,  the  present  suc- 
cessor of  Dr.  Harris  as  dean  of  Ameri- 
can entomology.  It  is  akin  to  the  great 
butterflies  of  the  East  Indies  or  of  South 
America  ;  its  color  is  a  deep  purple,  with 
glossy  tints  of  green  and  steel-color,  and 
large  greenish  spots  passing  into  straw- 
color  and  orange.  Such  was  the  emi- 
nent foreigner  arriving  at  Cambridge,  in 
temporary  disguise,  in  July,  1840,  but 
destined  to  be  the  parent  of  a  race  now 
permanently  acclimated  there,  and  spread 
in  a  similar  manner  from  the  Atlantic 
to  the  Pacific.  This  gorgeous  visitant  I 
had  the  honor  to  receive ;  and  I  wrote 
thereon  a  report  which  may  still  perhaps 
survive  among  the  documents  of  the  Har- 
vard Natural  History  Society. 

In  looking  through  an  outdoor  note- 
book of  twenty  years  later  I  find  that  I 
was  at  that  period  reintroduced  to  my 
early  prince. 

«  July  3  [1861].  —  The  eternal  youth- 
fulness  of  Nature  answers  to  my  own 
feeling  of  youth  and  preserves  it.  As  I 
turn  from  these  men  and  women  around 
me,  whom  I  watch  gradually  submerged 
under  the  tide  of  gray  hairs  —  it  seems 
a  bliss  I  have  never  earned,  to  find  bird, 
insect  and  flower  renewing  itself  each 
year  in  fresh  eternal  beauty,  the  same 
as  in  my  earliest  childhood.  The  little 
red  butterflies  have  not  changed  a  streak 
of  black  on  their  busy  wings,  nor  the 
azure  dragonflies  lost  or  gained  a  shade 
of  color,  since  we  Cambridge  children 
caught  them  in  our  childish  hands.  Yes- 
terday by  a  lonely  oak  grove  there  flut- 
tered out  a  great  purple  butterfly,  almost 
fresh  from  the  chrysalis,  and  alighted 
just  before  me,  waving  its  lustrous  wings. 
It  was  the  beautiful  Papilio  philenor, 
which  Dr.  Harris  showed  us  in  college, 
as  having  just  been  found,  an  entire  nov- 
elty, in  the  Botanic  Garden.  I  had  not 
seen  it  for  twenty  years,  and  here  it  was, 


the  same  brilliant  tropical  creature,  pro- 
pagated through  a  series  of  unwatched 
generations,  perhaps  unnoticed  till  it 
reached  this  lonely  grove.  With  a  col- 
lector's instinct  I  put  my  hat  over  it,  but 
it  got  away  and  I  was  hardly  sorry.  It 
had  come  to  link  me  with  those  vanished 
years." 

Looking  back  on  those  early  days,  it 
would  seem  that  the  butterfly  world  might 
have  drawn  from  my  banished  prince 
something  of  its  peculiar  charm.  Cer- 
tainly this  winged  race  has  long  been 
familiar  with  royal  family  titles  ;  at  least, 
ever  since  Linnaeus  drew  its  scientific 
names  from  the  Greek  mythology,  and 
later  European  entomologists  from  the 
Scandinavian,  and  our  own  native  natu- 
ralists from  the  American  Indian.  Even 
these  names  are  constantly  changing, 
with  new  subdivisions  and  shifting  con- 
nections ;  while  the  simpler  English  word, 
drawn  obviously,  like  "  butterfly,"  from 
the  yellow  colors  predominating  in  the 
meadows  at  midsummer,  has  yet  been 
brought  under  a  new  interpretation,  since 
a  poet's  daughter,  Sarah  Coleridge, 
stoutly  maintains  that  the  word  simply 
originated  in  the  phrase  "  better  fly." 

After  all,  the  chief  charm  of  this  race 
of  winged  flowers  does  not  lie  in  their 
varied  and  brilliant  beauty,  nor  yet  in 
their  wonderful  series  of  transformations, 
—  their  long  and  sordid  caterpillar  life, 
their  long  slumber  in  the  chrysalis,  or  the 
very  brief  period  which  comprises  their 
beauty,  their  love-making,  their  paren- 
tage, and  their  death.  Nor  does  it  lie  in 
the  fact  that  we  do  not  yet  certainly 
know  whether  they  have  in  the  caterpil- 
lar shape  the  faculty  of  sight,  or  not,  and 
do  not  even  know  the  precise  use  of  their 
most  conspicuous  organ  in  maturity,  the 
antennae.  Nor  does  it  consist  in  this,  that 
they  of  all  created  things  have  furnished 
man  with  the  symbol  of  his  own  immor- 
tality. It  rather  lies  in  the  fact  that,  with 
all  their  varied  life  and  activity,  they 
represent  an  absolutely  silent  existence. 


748 


Butterflies  in  Poetry. 


Victor  Hugo  has  indeed  somewhere 
pronounced  the  whole  insect  world  to  be, 
with  hardly  an  exception,  a  world  of  si- 
lence. We  feel,  he  says,  as  if  life  in- 
volved noise,  but  the  most  multitudinous 
portion  of  the  race  of  living  things  — 
fishes  and  insects  —  is  almost  absolutely 
still.  The  few  that  buzz  or  murmur  are 
as  nothing  compared  to  the  vast  majority 
which  are  born  and  die  soundless.  If 
this  is  true  of  insects  as  a  whole,  it  is  of 
butterflies  that  it  is  eminently  truest.  All 
the  vast  array  of  modern  knowledge  has 
found  no  butterfly  which  murmurs  with 
an  audible  voice,  and  only  a  very  few 
species  which  can  even  audibly  click  or 
rustle  with  their  wings ;  Darwin  first 
observing  these  in  South  America,  and 
others  recording  them  at  long  intervals 
of  years  in  Europe,  and,  finally,  in  the 
United  States.  Mr.  Scudder  has  not  only 
detected  a  soft  sound  in  one  or  two  cases, 
proceeding  from  the  wings,  and  sounding 
like  the  faint  rustling  of  sandpaper,  but 
he  hazards  the  opinion  that  many  of  the 
quivering  or  waving  motions  of  the  wings 
of  these  bright  creatures,  although  in- 
audible to  us,  may  be  accompanied  by 
sounds  which  the  butterflies  themselves 
or  their  kindred  might  hear. 

If  they  can  be  thus  heard  without 
sound,  why  do  we  not  at  least  hear  more 
of  them  by  fame  in  literature?  They 
contribute  much  of  the  summer  grace  of 
the  universe :  they  are  of  all  beings  the 
most  picturesque  in  their  lives,  having 
three  different  phases  of  existence,  each 
peculiar,  and  all  frequently  gorgeous, 
—  the  caterpillar,  the  chrysalis,  and  the 
imago,  or  fully  developed  creature.  They 
are  incomparably  more  numerous  and 
more  varied  than  birds,  —  the  number  of 
species  far  larger,  and  the  swarms  incom- 
parably greater,  where  swarming  is  their 
practice ;  when  they  enter  poetry  they 
do  it  with  yet  more  grace  ;  but  fewer  au- 
thors describe  them,  and  those  few  more 
charily.  Thoreau,  for  instance,  rarely 
mentions  them,  and  in  some  ways  seems 
singularly  ignorant  of  them.  Thus  in 


his  MS.  diary  (1853-54,  page  395)  he  de- 
scribes himself  as  bringing  home  from 
the  marshy  meadows  the  great  paper  co- 
coon of  the  gray  sphinx  moth  (Attacus 
cecropia) ,  and  as  carrying  it  unrecog- 
nized to  Dr.  Harris,  to  learn  about  it,  — 
an  object  which  every  schoolboy  knows, 
one  would  suppose,  and  which  is  at  least 
of  kindred  to  the  butterflies. 

The  butterflies  being  thus  silent,  it  is 
not,  perhaps,  strange  that  we  do  not  inter- 
pret them  better,  but  that  each  observer 
finds  his  own  interpretation,  or  his  own 
sympathetic  response,  varying,  it  may 
be,  from  any  other.  Thus  Austin  Dob- 
son,  writing  poetry  on  a  fan  that  had  be- 
longed to  the  Marquise  de  Pompadour, 
finds  delineated  upon  it,  "Courtiers  as 
butterflies  bright ;  "  while  Bryant  in  his 
June  finds  the  creatures  quite  too  indo- 
lent to  be  approved  as  courtiers  :  — 

The  idle  butterfly 
Should  rest  him  there. 

Edmund  Gosse,  meanwhile,  finds  in  their 
mien,  as  he  views  them  while  lying  in 
the  grass,  no  trace  of  idleness,  but  rather 
the  fatigue  due  to  arduous  labor :  — 

The  weary  butterflies  that  droop  their  wings. 

Percy  Mackaye  in  his  blithe  book,  The 
Canterbury  Pilgrims,  complicates  the 
matter  by  obliging  the  butterfly  to  keep 
off  the  attentions  of  the  moth-miller :  — 

Mealy  miller,  moth-miller, 

Fly  away ! 

If  Dame  Butterfly  doth  say  thee  nay, 
Go  and  court  a  caterpillar ! 

And  Keats,  always  the  closest  of  ob- 
servers, acquits  his  winged  creatures  of 
all  care  when  he  says  of  Endymion, 

His  eyelids 

Widened  a  little,  as  when  Zephyr  bids 
A  little  breeze  to  creep  between  the  fans 
Of  careless  butterflies. 

But  when  we  turn  to  that  marvelous- 
ly  gifted  family  into  which  so  much  of 
the  descriptive  power  of  Keats  has  passed, 
we  find  Charles  Tennyson  weaving  the 
butterfly's  wing  and  the  human  heart's 
love  into  a  cadence  so  exquisitely  deli- 


Butterflies  in  Poetry. 


749 


cate  that  his  laureate  brother  never  sur- 
it:  — 

SONNET 

To On  Accidentally  Rubbing  the  Dust  from 

a  Butterfly's  Wing. 

The  light-set  lustre  of  this  insect's  mail 
Hath  bloom 'd  my  gentlest  touch  —  This  first  of 

May 

Has  seen  me  sweep  the  shallow  tints  away 
From  half  his  pinion,  drooping  now  and  pale ! 
Look  hither,  coy  and  timid  Isabel ! 
Fair  Lady,  look  into  my  eyes,  and  say, 
Why  thou  dost  aye  refuse  thy  heart  to  stay 
On  mine,  that  is  so  fond  and  loves  so  well  ? 
Is  beauty  trusted  to  the  morning  dews, 
And  to  the  butterfly's  mischanceful  wing, 
To  the  dissolving  cloud  in  rainbow  hues, 
To  the  frail  tenure  of  an  early  spring, 
In  blossoms,  and  in  dyes  ?  and  must  I  lose 
Claim  to  such  trust,  all  Nature's  underling  ? 

Mrs.  Piatt,  our  American  poet,  reached 
a  prof  ounder,  if  less  exquisite,  touch  when 
she  thus  reproved  her  adventurous  boy 
for  reversing  the  usual  insect  develop- 
ment by  removing  the  wings  of  a  butter- 

%:- 

AFTER  WINGS. 

This  was  your  butterfly,  you  see,  — 
His  fine  wings  made  him  vain  : 

The  caterpillars  crawl,  but  he 

Passed  them  in  rich  disdain.  — 

My  pretty  boy  says,  "  Let  him  be 
Only  a  worm  again !  " 

0  child,  when  things  have  learned  to  wear 
Wings  once,  they  must  be  fain 

To  keep  them  always  high  and  fair : 
Think  of  the  creeping  pain 

Which  even  a  butterfly  must  bear 
To  be  a  worm  again  ! 

And  elsewhere  she  moralizes,  as  is  her 
wont :  — 

Between  the  falling  leaf  and  rose-bud's  breath ; 

The  bird's  forsaken  nest  and  her  new  song 
(And  this  is  all  the  time  there  is  for  Death)  ; 

The  worm  and  butterfly  —  it  is  not  long ! 

More  thoughtful  still,  and  in  the  end 
more  uplifted,  is  this  fine  poem  by  Mary 
Emily  Bradley,  a  poet  from  farther 
West :  — 

A  CHRYSALIS. 

My  little  Madchen  found  one  day 
A  curious  something  in  her  play, 
That  was  not  fruit,  nor  flower,  nor  seed  ; 


It  was  not  anything  that  grew, 
Or  crept,  or  climbed,  or  swam,  or  flew  ; 
Had  neither  legs  nor  wings,  indeed ; 
And  yet  she  was  not  sure,  she  said, 
Whether  it  was  alive  or  dead. 

She  brought  it  in  her  tiny  hand 
To  see  if  I  would  understand, 
And  wondered  when  I  made  reply, 

"  You  've  found  a  baby  butterfly." 

"  A  butterfly  is  not  like  this," 
With  doubtful  look  she  answered  me. 
So  then  I  told  her  what  would  be 
Some  day  within  the  chrysalis ; 
How,  slowly,  in  the  dull  brown  thing 
Now  still  as  death,  a  spotted  wing, 
And  then  another,  would  unfold, 
Till  from  the  empty  shell  would  fly 
A  pretty  creature,  by  and  by, 
All  radiant  in  blue  and  gold. 

"  And  will  it,  truly  ?  "  questioned  she  — 
Her  laughing  lips  and  eager  eyes 
All  in  a  sparkle  of  surprise  — 
"  And  shall  your  little  Madchen  see  ?  " 
"  She  shall !  "  I  said.     How  could  I  tell 
That  ere  the  worm  within  its  shell 
Its  gauzy,  splendid  wings  had  spread, 
My  little  Madchen  would  be  dead  ? 

To-day  the  butterfly  has  flown,  — 
She  was  not  here  to  see  it  fly,  — 
And  sorrowing  I  wonder  why 
The  empty  shell  is  mine  alone. 
Perhaps  the  secret  lies  in  this : 
I  too  had  found  a  chrysalis, 
And  Death  that  robbed  me  of  delight 
Was  but  the  radiant  creature's  flight ! 

The  extraordinary  gifts  of  the  butter- 
fly race  have  always  excited  the  wonder 
not  only  of  naturalists,  but  of  the  most 
ignorant  observers.  Note  their  silent  and 
unseen  changes  ;  the  instinct  by  which 
they  distinguish  their  favorite  plant-food, 
as,  for  instance,  among  the  scarcely  dif- 
fering species  of  the  complex  race  of 
asters,  where  they  show  themselves,  as 
Professor  Asa  Gray  said,  "  better  bot- 
anists than  many  of  us  ;  "  their  skill  in  de- 
positing their  eggs  unerringly  on  or  near 
the  precise  plant  on  which  the  f  orthcom- 
ingcaterpillars  are  fitted  to  feed,  although 
they  as  butterflies  have  never  tasted  it. 
To  these  should  be  added  their  luxurious 
spread  of  wings,  giving  opportunities  for 
those  curious  resemblances  of  color  which 
protect  them  during  the  few  days  of  their 


750 


Butterflies  in  Poetry. 


winged  state  ;  and,  finally,  the  brief  time 
when,  if  ever,  their  eggs  must  be  laid 
and  the  continuance  of  the  race  made 
sure.  The  whole  realm  of  animal  "  mim- 
icry," as  it  is  now  termed,  reaches  its 
highest  point  in  them,  and  leads  to  some 
extreme  cases  ;  as  in  the  fact  that,  while 
butterflies  are  ordinarily  monogamous, 
there  is  yet  one  species  in  Africa  which 
has  departed  so  widely  from  this  rule 
that  the  male  has  not  one  mate  only,  but 
actually  three  different  wives,  each  so 
utterly  unlike  him  in  appearance  as  to 
have  long  been  taken  for  wholly  differ- 
ent species. 

Even  in  winter,  Agassiz  tells  us,  the 
changes  in  the  eggs  of  insects  go  on 
through  the  season,  protected  by  the 
shell,  and  this  is  still  more  true  of  the 
chrysalis.  Living  butterflies  prepare 
for  spring  freedom  by  nestling  away  in 
great  numbers  during  the  previous  au- 
tumn. This  is  especially  true  of  the  early 
"  Mourning  Cloak "  (Euvanessa  antir 
opa),  called  in  England  the  "  Camber- 
well  Beauty,"  which  has  been  recorded 
in  every  month  of  the  year  in  our  North- 
ern states.  No  one  really  knows  where 
these  butterflies  may  go,  but  they  may 
be  seen  by  scores  around  favorite  win- 
dows, following  their  instinct  of  retreat. 
One  of  them  lived  all  winter  in  the  cel- 
lar of  a  house  near  mine  in  Cambridge, 
Massachusetts,  changing  its  position  half- 
a-dozen  times  during  that  period.  Yet 
butterflies  of  the  same  or  kindred  species 
have  been  known  to  spend  all  of  two  win- 
ters in  the  chrysalis,  leaving  the  inter- 
mediate summer  also  a  blank.  This  is 
one  of  the  few  butterflies  which  lay  their 
eggs  in  extremely  methodical  clusters, 
usually  on  the  under  side  of  a  leaf  ;  and 
sometimes  a  hundred  may  thus  be  hatched 
side  by  side,  bending  down  the  branches. 

Let  me  turn  again  to  my  early  outdoor 
journal  (1861)  for  this  brief  meditation 
on  a  box  containing  chrysalids.  "  There 
is  something  infinitely  touching  in  the 
thought  that  these  creatures  which  have 
been  leading  a  life  so  free,  even  if  low 


and  sordid,  have  now  utterly  suspended 
all  the  ceaseless  action  and  gone  to  sleep 
in  this  little  box  of  mine,  each  inclosed 
in  a  yet  smaller  self-made  tomb,  pa- 
tiently awaiting  resurrection  to  an  utterly 
new  life.  When  I  think  of  the  complete 
suspension  of  their  active  existence  dur- 
ing this  dark  time,  and  of  the  quiet  in- 
variable way  in  which  all  the  generations 
of  insect  life  have  gone  through  the  same 
slumber  and  transfiguration  ever  since 
the  universe  began,  it  makes  our  human 
birth  and  death  seem  greater  mysteries 
than  ever." 

Reverting  again  to  my  old  notebook, 
I  read  this  confession  which  I  still  can- 
not retract :  "  I  find  that  to  me  works 
of  art  do  not  last  like  those  of  nature. 
I  grow  tired  of  pictures  —  never  of  a 
butterfly."  There  is  doubtless  among 
these  airy  creatures  something  akin  to 
the  mind's  visions,  else  why  in  various  na- 
tions and  under  varying  religions  should 
the  same  insect  have  represented  immor- 
tality ;  or  why,  when  the  most  gifted  of 
recent  French  writers  of  fiction  lost  con- 
trol of  his  mind  and  said  perpetually, 
"  Oil  sont  mes  idees  ?  "  should  he  have 
fancied  that  he  found  them  in  butterflies  ? 
Or  how  else  can  we  explain  so  fine  a 
strain  of  profound  thought  as  in  this  son- 
net by  an  else  unknown  English  poet, 
Thomas  Wade,  writing  in  1839  :  — 

THE  BURIED  BUTTERFLY. 

What  lovely  things  are  dead  within  the  sky, 
By  our  corporeal  vision  undiscern'd  — 
Extinguished  suns,  that  once  in  glory  burn'd  ; 
And  blighted  planets  mouldering  gloomily 
Beyond  the  girdle  of  the  galaxy  ; 
And  faded  essences,  in  light  inurn'd, 
Of  creatures  spiritual,  to  that  Deep  return'd 
From  whence  they  sprang,  in  far  Eternity  — 
This  e'er  to  know  is  unto  us  forbidden  ; 
But  much  thereto  concerning  may  we  deem, 
By  inference  from  fact  familiar : 
Beneath  those  radiant  flowers  and  bright  grass 

hidden 

Withers  a  thing  once  golden  as  a  star 
And  seeming  unsubstantial  as  a  dream. 

In  passing  from  the  transformations 
of  the  butterfly  to  its  higher  affinities  and 


Butterflies  in  Poetry. 


751 


analogies,  we  find  them  suggested  well 
in  this  finely  touched  poem  by  Miss  Ina 
Coolbrith  of  California :  — 

THE  MARIPOSA  LILY. 

Insect  or  blossom  ?     Fragile,  fairy  thing, 

Poised  upon  slender  tip,  and  quivering 

To  flight !  a  flower  of  the  fields  of  air ; 

A  jewelled  moth ;  a  butterfly,  with  rare 

And  tender  tints  upon  his  downy  wing, 

A  moment  resting  in  our  happy  sight ; 

A  flower  held  captive  by  a  thread  so  slight 

Its  petal-wings  of  broidered  gossamer 

Are,  light  as  the  wind,  with  every  wind  astir,  — 

Wafting  sweet  odor,  faint  and  exquisite. 

O  dainty  nursling  of  the  field  and  sky, 

What  fairer  thing  looks  up  to  heaven's  blue 

And  drinks  the  noontide  sun,  the  dawning's 

dew? 
Thou  winged  bloom !  thou  blossom-butterfly ! 

A  similar  range  of  affinities  is  touched 
less  profoundly,  yet -with  finished  grace, 
by  Mrs.  Louise  Chandler  Moulton :  — 

A  PAINTED  FAN. 

Roses  and  butterflies  snared  on  a  fan, 
All  that  is  left  of  a  summer  gone  by  ; 

Of  swift,  bright  wings  that  flashed  in  the  sun, 
And  loveliest  blossoms  that  bloomed  to  die ! 

By  what  subtle  spell  did  you  lure  them  here, 
Fixing  a  beauty  that  will  not  change,  — 

Roses  whose  petals  never  will  fall, 

Bright,  swift  wings  that  never  will  range  ? 

Had  you  owned  but  the  skill  to  snare  as  well 
The  swift-winged  hours  that  came  and  went, 

To  prison  the  words  that  in  music  died, 
And  fix  with  a  spell  the  heart's  content, 

Then  had  you  been  of  magicians  the  chief; 

And  loved  and  lovers  should  bless  your  art, 
If  you  could  but  have  painted  the  soul  of  the 
thing,  — 

Not  the  rose  alone,  but  the  rose's  heart ! 

Flown  are  those  days  with  their  winged  de- 
lights, 

As  the  odor  is  gone  from  the  summer  rose  ; 
Yet  still,  whenever  I  wave  my  fan, 

The  soft,  south  wind  of  memory  blows. 

We  should  not  overlook,  moreover,  the 
fact  that  our  most  wayward  American 
poet,  reverting  for  once  unequivocally  to 
the  prose  form,  has  given  the  best  and 
the  most  graphic  butterfly-picture  easily 


to  be  found  in  that  shape.  The  many 
critics  of  Whitman,  who  have  expressed 
the  opinion  that  he  marred  and  perhaps 
shortened  his  fame  by  choosing  an  ha- 
bitual measure  neither  prose  nor  verse  — 
as  did  the  once  admired  author  of  Pro- 
verbial Philosophy  before  him  —  may 
find  their  conviction  strengthened,  per- 
haps, by  the  peculiar  attractiveness  of 
this  outdoor  reverie  in  prose. 

"Aug.  4  [1880].  — A  pretty  sight! 
Where  I  sit  in  the  shade  —  a  warm  day, 
the  sun  shining  from  cloudless  skies,  the 
forenoon  well  advanc'd  —  I  look  over  a 
ten-acre  field  of  luxuriant  clover-hay, 
(the  second  crop)  —  the  livid  ripe  red 
blossoms  and  dabs  of  August  brown 
thickly  spotting  the  prevailing  dark- 
green.  Over  all  flutter  myriads  of  light- 
yellow  butterflies,  mostly  skimming  along 
the  surface,  dipping  and  oscillating,  giv- 
ing a  curious  animation  to  the  scene. 
The  beautiful  spiritual  insects !  straw- 
color'd  Psyches !  Occasionally  one  of 
them  leaves  his  mates,  and  mounts,  per- 
haps spirally,  perhaps  in  a  straight  line 
in  the  air,  fluttering  up,  up,  till  literally 
out  of  sight.  In  the  lane  as  I  came 
along  just  now  I  noticed  one  spot,  ten 
feet  square  or  so,  where  more  than  a 
hundred  had  collected,  holding  a  revel, 
a  gyration-dance,  or  butterfly  good-time, 
winding  and  circling,  down  and  across, 
but  always  keeping  within  the  limits. 
The  little  creatures  have  come  out  all  of 
a  sudden  the  last  few  days,  and  are  now 
very  plentiful.  As  I  sit  outdoors,  or 
walk,  I  hardly  look  around  without  some- 
where seeing  two  (always  two)  fluttering 
through  the  air  in  amorous  dalliance. 
Then  their  inimitable  color,  their  fragili- 
ty, peculiar  motion  —  and  that  strange, 
frequent  way  of  one  leaving  the  crowd 
and  mounting  up,  up  in  the  free  ether, 
and  apparently  never  returning.  As  I 
look  over  the  field,  these  yellow-wings 
everywhere  mildly  sparkling,  many 
snowy  blossoms  of  the  wild  carrot  grace- 
fully bending  on  their  tall  and  taper  stems 
—  while  for  sounds,  the  distant  guttural 


752 


Butterflies  in  Poetry. 


screech  of  a  flock  of  guinea-hens  comes 
shrilly  yet  somehow  musically  to  my  ears. 
And  now  a  faint  growl  of  heat-thunder 
in  the  north  —  and  ever  the  low  rising 
and  falling  wind-purr  from  the  tops  of 
the  maples  and  willows. 

"  Aug.  20.  —  Butterflies  and  butter- 
flies (taking  the  place  of  the  bumble- 
bees of  three  months  since,  who  have 
quite  disappeared)  continue  to  flit  to  and 
fro,  all  sorts,  white,  yellow,  brown,  pur- 
ple—  now  and  then  some  gorgeous  yel- 
low flashing  lazily  by  on  wings  like 
artists'  palettes  dabb'd  with  every  color. 
Over  the  breast  of  the  pond  I  notice 
many  white  ones,  crossing,  pursuing  their 
idle  capricious  flight.  Near  where  I  sit 
grows  a  tall-stemm'd  weed  topt  with  a 
profusion  of  rich  scarlet  blossoms,  on 
which  the  snowy  insects  alight  and  dally, 
sometimes  four  or  five  of  them  at  a  time. 
By-and-by  a  humming  -  bird  visits  the 
same,  and  I  watch  him  coming  and  go- 
ing, daintily  balancing  and  shimmering 
about.  These  white  butterflies  give  new 
beautiful  contrasts  to  the  pure  greens  of 
the  August  foliage  (we  have  had  some 
copious  rains  lately),  and  over  the  glis- 
tening bronze  of  the  pond-surface.  You 
can  tame  even  such  insects ;  I  have  one 
big  and  handsome  moth  down  here,  knows 
and  comes  to  me,  likes  me  to  hold  him 
upon  my  extended  hand. 

"  Another  Day,  later.  —  A  grand 
twelve-acre  field  of  ripe  cabbages  with 
their  prevailing  hue  of  malachite  green, 
and  floating-flying  over  and  among  them 
in  all  directions  myriads  of  these  same 
white  butterflies.  As  I  came  up  the  lane 
to-day  I  saw  a  living  globe  of  the  same, 
two  or  three  feet  in  diameter,  many  scores 
cluster'd  together  and  rolling  along  in  the 
air,  adhering  to  their  ball-shape,  six  or 
eight  feet  above  the  ground." 

This  white  butterfly  described  is 
doubtless  the  cabbage  butterfly  (Pieris 
rapce)  already  mentioned.  It  was  too 
early  in  the  season  for  its  full  practice  of 
that  swarming  propensity  in  which  it  sur- 
passes all  others,  and  which  a  poet  thus 


puts  on  record  ;  but  Mr.  Scudder  tells  us 
of  an  occasion  when  Dr.  Schultze  found 
himself  in  a  dead  calm  in  the  Baltic  Sea, 
and  "  steamed  for  three  hours  and  a  dis- 
tance of  thirty  miles  through  a  continuous 
flock  of  the  Cabbage  butterfly,  from  ten 
to  thirty  miles  from  the  main  land,  and 
only  five  miles  less  than  that  from  the 
nearest  island ;  afterward  the  shore  was 
found  strewn  with  their  dead  bodies." 

If  only  to  show  that  others,  twenty 
years  before  Whitman,  had  written  for 
their  own  pleasure  some  outdoor  records 
of  butterflies,  I  will  venture  to  print 
from  my  old  notebook  the  memoranda 
of  a  walk  in  Princeton,  Massachusetts,  a 
mountain  village  which  I  have  never  seen 
surpassed  as  a  nursery  of  butterflies  and 
birds. 

"  July  16  [1862].  —  In  the  morning 

went  to  visit  Miss 's  school.  Often 

as  I  have  dreamed  of  a  more  abundant 
world  of  insects  than  any  ever  seen,  I 
never  enjoyed  it  more  vividly  than  in 
walking  along  the  breezy  upland  road, 
lined  with  a  continuous  row  of  milkweed 
blossoms  and  white  flowering  alder,  all 
ablaze  with  butterflies.  I  might  have 
picked  off  hundreds  of  Aphrodites  by 
hand,  so  absorbed  were  they  in  their  pret- 
ty pursuit ;  and  all  the  interspaces  be- 
tween their  broader  wings  seemed  filled 
with  little  skipper  butterflies,  and  pretty 
painted-ladies  (Pharos)  and  an  occasion- 
al Comma.  The  rarer  Idalia  and  Hun- 
tera  sometimes  visit  them  also  and  a  host 
of  dipterous,  hymenopterous  and  hemip- 
terous  things.  The  beautiful  mountain 
breeze  played  forever  over  them  and  it 
seemed  a  busy  and  a  blissful  world." 

These  names  have  all  doubtless  suf- 
fered what  may  be  called  a  land-change, 
in  the  more  than  half  century  since  their 
bestowal,  —  so  constant  are  the  shiftings 
of  insect  family  names  in  the  hands  of 
the  scientists,  —  but  they  bring  back,  to 
one  person  at  least,  very  pleasant  memo- 
ries of  summer  friends. 

It  is  a  curious  fact,  yet  perhaps  not 
wholly  inappropriate  to  our  broad  and 


Butterflies  in  Poetry. 


753 


sunny  American  continent,  that  while 
England  far  exceeds  us  in  the  thorough 
and  patient  study  of  the  habits  of  the 
insect  world,  yet  butterflies  figure  less, 
on  the  whole,  in  English  poetry  than  in 
American.  Looking  somewhat  carefully, 
for  instance,  through  the  nearly  six  hun- 
dred pages  of  Sir  M.  E.  Grant-Duff's 
recent  Anthology  of  Victorian  Poetry 
I  find  but  one  allusion  of  this  kind, 
namely,  in  Mrs.  Norton's  couplet,  taken 
from  The  Lady  of  La  Garaye  :  — 

The  butterfly  its  tiny  mate  pursues 
With  rapid  fluttering  of  its  painted  hues. 

Yet  Mr.  Stedman  in  his  volume  of 
American  poetry  —  a  book  of  about  the 
same  size  — has  a  number  of  poems  on 
this  precise  subject,  several  of  which  have 
here  been  quoted  ;  while  other  fine  pas- 
sages he  omits,  as  that  in  which  Alfred 
Street  speaks  of 

the  last  butterfly, 

Like  a  wing'd  violet,  floating  in  the  meek, 
Pink-color'd  sunshine,  sinks  his  velvet  feet 
Within  the  pillar'd  mullein's  delicate  down, 
And  shuts  and  opens  his  unruffled  fans. 

Does  this  difference  come  from  our  more 
varied  landscape,  or  from  our  brighter 
sunshine,  lending  a  more  brilliant  tint  to 
the  waving  wings  ?  Of  course  this  com- 
parison may  be  regarded  as  accidental, 
since  no  butterfly  allusion  is  more  famil- 
iar than  that  of  Wordsworth,  — 

My  sister  Emmeline  and  I 
Together  chased  the  butterfly ; 

although  in  this,  undoubtedly,  the  human 
interest  is  predominant,  and  the  insect 
furnishes  only  an  excuse  for  it.  Bayly's 
"  I  'd  be  a  butterfly  "  is  hardly  worth 
mentioning,  or  Rogers's  too  didactic 
"  Child  of  the  sun  !  "  but  no  four  lines 
present  this  winged  world  with  more 
solemn  impressiveness  than  where  Lord 
de  Tabley  in  his  Circe  writes,  — 

And  the  great  goblin  moth,  who  bears 
Between  his  wings  the  ruin'd  eyes  of  death ; 
And  the  enamell'd  sails 
Of  butterflies,  who  watch  the  morning's  breath. 

Yet  this  is  only  a  single  stanza,  and  I 
know  of  no  sustained  poem  on  the  butter- 
VOL.  xcin.  —  NO.  560.  48 


fly  so  full  of  deep  thought  and  imagina- 
tion —  despite  some  technical  defects  — 
as  this,  by  an  author  less  known  than  she 
should  be,  Mrs.  Alice  Archer  James,  of 
Urbana,  Ohio.  With  it  this  series  of 
quotations  and  reminiscences  may  well 
enough  end,  the  writer  fearing  lest  he 
may,  after  all,  have  only  called  down 
upon  himself  the  reproach  of  Chaucer,  — 

Swiche  talkying  is  nat  worth  a  boterflie. 

THE  BUTTERFLY. 

I  am  not  what  I  was  yesterday, 

God  knows  my  name. 
I  am  made  in  a  smooth  and  beautiful  way, 

And  full  of  flame. 

The  color  of  corn  are  my  pretty  wings, 

My  flower  is  blue. 
I  kiss  its  topmost  pearl,  it  swings 

And  I  swing  too. 

I  dance  above  the  tawny  grass 

In  the  sunny  air, 
So  tantalized  to  have  to  pass 

Love  everywhere. 

0  Earth,  O  Sky,  you  are  mine  to  roam 

In  liberty. 

1  am  the  soul  and  I  have  no  home,  — 

Take  care  of  me. 

For  double  I  drift  through  a  double  world 

Of  spirit  and  sense  ; 
I  and  my  symbol  together  whirled 

From  who  knows  whence  ? 

There  's  a  tiny  weed,  God  knows  what  good,  — 

It  sits  in  the  moss. 
Its  wings  are  heavy  and  spotted  with  blood 

Across  and  across. 

I  sometimes  settle  a  moment  there, 

And  I  am  so  sweet, 
That  what  it  lacks  of  the  glad  and  fair 

I  fill  complete. 

The  little  white  moon  was  once  like  me  ; 

But  her  wings  are  one. 
Or  perhaps  they  closed  together  be 

As  she  swings  in  the  sun. 

When  the  clovers  close  their  three  green  wings 

Just  as  I  do, 
I  creep  to  the  primrose  heart  of  things, 

And  close  mine,  too. 


754 


The   Common  Lot. 


And  then  wide  opens  the  candid  night, 

Serene  and  intense  ; 
For  she  has,  instead  of  love  and  light, 

God's  confidence. 

And  I  watch  that  other  butterfly, 

The  one-winged  moon, 
Till,  drunk  with  sweets  in  which  I  lie, 

I  dream  and  swoon. 


And  then  when  I  to  three  days  grow, 

I  find  out  pain. 
For  swift  there  comes  an  ache,  —  I  know 

That  I  am  twain. 

And  nevermore  can  I  be  one 

In  liberty. 
O  Earth,  0  Sky,  your  use  is  done, 

Take  care  of  me. 

Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson. 


THE  COMMON   LOT.1 


XXI. 

HUSBAND  and  wife  did  not  speak  while 
they  were  being  driven  across  the  city  to 
their  home.  That  which  lay  between 
them  was  too  heavy  to  be  touched  upon 
at  once  in  words.  Several  times  the 
architect  glanced  fearfully  at  his  wife. 
She  rested  limply  on  the  carriage  cush- 
ion, with  closed  eyes,  and  occasionally 
a  convulsive  tremor  twitched  her  body. 
The  summer  heat,  which  had  raged  un- 
tempered  for  weeks,  had  already  sapped 
her  usual  strength,  and  now  her  face  had 
a  bloodless  pallor  that  made  the  man 
wince  miserably.  When  their  cab  stopped 
at  the  North  Side  Bridge,  a  burly  ves- 
sel was  being  pulled  through  the  draw. 
Helen  opened  her  eyes  languidly ;  once 
or  twice  she  sought  her  husband's  face, 
which  was  turned  blankly  toward  the 
crowded  street.  Her  lips  moved,  and 
then  she  closed  her  eyes  again.  As  they 
got  out  of  the  cab,  a  neighbor  who  was 
passing  spoke  to  them  and  made  a  little 
joke,  to  which  Hart  replied  pleasantly, 
with  perfect  self-control.  The  woman 
leaning  on  his  arm  shivered,  as  if  a  fresh 
chill  had  seized  her. 

The  children  were  spending  a  month 
in  Wisconsin  with  Jackson's  mother, 
and  so  the  two  sat  down  to  a  silent  din- 
ner. When  the  maid  had  come  and  gone 
for  the  last  time,  Hart  looked  furtively 


across  the  table  to  his  wife,  and   said 
gently,  — 

"  Won't  you  go  upstairs,  Nell  ?  You 
don't  look  able  to  sit  up." 

She  shook  her  head  and  tried  to  speak, 
but  her  voice  was  gone.  Finally  she 
whispered,  — 

"  Francis,  you  must  tell  me  all  about 
it,  —  everything !  " 

He  frowned  and  said  nothing,  until 
she  repeated,  "  Everything,  you  must 
tell  me  !  "  and  then  he  said,  — 

"  See  here,  Nell,  we  'd  better  drop 
this  thing  and  not  think  of  it  again. 
That  man  Pemberton,  who  has  pestered 
the  life  out  of  me  all  along,  has  made  a 
row.  That 's  all !  And  he  '11  repent  it, 
too !  He  can't  do  anything  to  me.  It 's 
a  business  quarrel,  and  I  don't  want  you 
to  worry  over  it." 

He  was  cool  and  assured,  and  spoke 
with  the  kindly  authority  of  a  husband. 

"  No,  Francis  !  "  She  shook  her  head 
wearily.  "  That  can't  be.  I  must  know, 
—  I  must  help  you !  " 

"  You  can't  help  me,"  he  replied 
calmly.  "  I  have  told  you  enough.  They 
can't  do  anything.  I  don't  want  to  go 
any  further  into  that  business." 

"  I  must  know  !  "  she  cried. 

He  was  startled  at  the  new  force 
her  voice,  the  sign  of  a  will  erecting 
self  with  its  own  authority  against '. 

"  Know  what  ?  What  that  fool  Per 


Copyright,  1903,  by  ROBERT  HKHRICK. 


The   Common  Lot. 


755 


berton  thinks  of  me  ?  You  heard  enough 
of  that,  I  guess  !  " 

"  Don't  put  me  off !  Don't  put  me 
away  from  you,  Francis !  If  we  are  to 
love  each  other,  if  we  are  to  live  to- 
gether, I  must  know  you,  all  of  you.  I 
am  in  a  fog.  There  is  something  wrong 
all  about  me,  and  it  gets  between  us  and 
kills  our  love.  I  cannot  —  bear  —  it !  " 

Her  voice  broke  into  pleading,  and 
ended  in  a  sob.  But  controlling  herself 
quickly,  she  added,  — 

"Mr.  Pemberton  is  a  fair  man,  a  just 
man.  But  if  he 's  wrong,  I  want  to 
know  that,  too.  I  want  to  hate  him  for 
what  he  said  to  you." 

"You  would  like  to  judge  me,  to 
judge  your  husband !  "  he  retorted  coldly. 
"  That  is  not  the  way  to  love.  I  thought 
you  would  believe  in  me,  all  through  to 
the  end." 

"  So  I  shall  —  if  you  will  tell  me  all 
the  truth !  I  would  go  with  you  any- 
where, to  prison  if  need  be,  if  you  would 
be  open  with  me  !  " 

"  We  need  n't  talk  of  going  to  prison 
yet !  "  he  exclaimed  in  exasperation. 

He  went  to  the  sideboard,  and  pour- 
ing himself  a  glass  of  whiskey,  set  the 
decanter  on  the  table. 

"  They  can't  do  anything  but  talk  !  " 
he  repeated.  Then,  warmed  by  the  liquor, 
he  began  to  be  more  insolent,  to  speak  de- 
fiantly. 

"  Pemberton  's  been  after  me  from  the 
start.  He  wanted  Wright  to  get  the  work, 
and  he  's  tried  to  put  every  obstacle  he 
could  in  my  way.  It  was  first  one  thing 
and  then  another.  He  has  made  life  un- 
endurable with  his  prying  and  his  suspi- 
cions. But  I  won't  stand  it  another  day. 
I  'm  going  to  Everett  to-morrow  and  tell 
him  that  I  shall  get  out  if  Pemberton  is 
to  interfere  with  my  orders.  And  they 
can't  lay  a  finger  on  me,  I  tell  you.  Pem- 
berton can  just  talk  !  " 

Helen  had  put  her  head  between  her 
hands,  and  she  was  sobbing.  Every  hot 
word  that  he  spoke  drove  conviction 
against  him  into  her  heart.  At  last  she 


raised  her  tear-stained  face  and  cried  out 
with  a  new  access  of  power,  — 

"Stop!  Stop!" 

Then  she  rose,  took  the  decanter  of 
whiskey,  replaced  it  on  the  sideboard, 
and  seated  herself  by  his  side,  putting  her 
hand  on  his  arm. 

"  Francis,  if  you  care  for  me,  if  you 
want  us  ever  to  love  each  other  again, 
answer  me  honestly !  Have  you  and 
that  contractor  done  anything  wrong 
about  the  school  ?  " 

"  You  can't  understand  !  "  he  replied 
roughly,  drawing  his  arm  from  her  touch. 
"  You  are  making  a  great  deal  out  of 
your  own  imagination." 

"  Answer  me  !  "  she  said,  in  the  same 
tense  tone  of  pure  will.  "  Have  you  let 
that  man  Graves  cheat,  —  do  anything 
dishonest,  —  and  shut  your  eyes  to  it  ?  " 

"  Pemberton  claims  he  has  n't  lived  up 
to  the  specifications,"  the  architect  ad- 
mitted sullenly. 

"  And  you  knew  it  ?  " 

"So  he  says." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  between 
them,  while  the  vision  of  this  fraud  filled 
their  minds.  She  seemed  to  hesitate  be- 
fore the  evil  thing  which  she  had  raised, 
and  then  she  asked  again,  — 

"  Have  you  —  did  you  make  any 
money  from  it  ?  " 

He  did  not  reply. 

"  Tell  me,  Francis ! "  she  persisted. 
"  Did  this  man  give  you  anything  for 
letting  him  —  cheat  the  trustees  ?  Tell 
me!" 

He  was  cold  and  careless  now.  This 
new  will  in  his  wife,  unexpected,  unlike 
her  gentle,  yielding  nature,  compelled 
him  to  reveal  some  part  of  the  truth.  In 
this  last  resort  her  will  was  the  stronger. 
He  said  slowly  :  — 

"  If  he  made  a  good  sum  from  the 
school  contract,  there  was  an  understand- 
ing that  he  was  to  give  me  some  stock. 
It  was  involved  with  other  business." 

"  He  was  to  give  you  stock  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  stock  in  a  hotel  that  he  's  been 
building,  —  another  piece  of  work." 


756 


The   Common  Lot. 


"  And  he  has  given  you  this  stock  ?  " 

"  Some  of  it." 

"  What  have  you  done  with  it  ?  " 

«  Sold  it." 

"  You  have  sold  it  ?  " 

"  Yes !  It  was  a  kind  of  bonus  he  gave 
me  for  getting  him  the  contract  and  for 
doing  the  hotel,  too." 

Further  than  that  he  would  not  go. 
They  left  the  subject  late  at  night.  He 
was  sullen  and  hard,  and  resented  her 
new  tone  of  authority  to  him ;  for  he  had 
always  counted  on  her  acquiescence  and 
tenderness  as  his  immutable  rights. 

In  the  morning  this  feeling  of  resent- 
ment was  more  firmly  fixed.  He  re- 
gretted that  in  a  moment  of  weakness 
be  had  told  her  what  he  had  the  night 
before.  When  she  came  to  him  as  he 
was  preparing  to  leave  the  house,  and, 
putting  her  hands  on  his  arms,  begged 
him  to  talk  with  her  again  before  going, 
he  listened  moodily  and  said  that  he  was 
pressed  for  time. 

"  Won't  you  go  to  them,  to  the  trus- 
tees, to  Everett  anyway,  and  tell  them 
everything  you  know  ?  And  give  them 
that  money,  the  money  you  got  from  the 
stock ! " 

"  That 's  a  woman's  plan !  That  would 
make  a  nice  mess,  would  n't  it  ?  I  told 
you  I  got  that  as  a  bonus.  It  's  often 
done,  something  like  that.  You  'd  like 
to  see  me  get  into  trouble,  —  be  disgraced 
for  good  and  all  ?  " 

"  That  cannot  be  helped  now,"  she 
answered  quietly.  "  The  disgrace  can- 
not be  helped !  " 

"  What  rot !  "  he  sneered.  "  You  make 
me  out  a  thief  at  once.  Suppose  you 
look  at  what  some  of  your  acquaintances 
do,  —  the  good,  rich  people  in  this  town, 
—  and  see  how  they  make  their  money ! 
Ask  people  how  Silas  Stewart  gets  his 
rebates  from  the  railroads.  Ask  any 
one  about  the  way  Strauss  grades  his 
wheat."  .  .  . 

"  I  don't  want  to  know.  That  has  no- 
thing to  do  with  this  matter." 

He  left  her  impatiently.      They  did 


not  reopen  the  matter  that  evening,  nor 
the  next  day.  Her  face  was  set  and 
stern,  with  a  kind  of  dreary  purpose  in 
it,  which  made  him  unhappy.  He  went 
out  of  the  city  on  business,  and  did  not 
return  for  several  days.  When  he  came 
home  no  mention  was  made  of  his  ab- 
sence, and  for  another  week  they  lived 
silently.  The  night  before  the  children 
were  to  return  from  their  vacation  with 
their  grandmother,  while  husband  and 
wife  lay  awake,  each  troubled  by  the  com- 
mon thought,  she  spoke  again. 

"  Francis,"  she  said  firmly,  "  we  can't 
go  on  like  this.  The  boys  are  coming 
to-morrow.  They  must  n't  see  us  living 
this  way.  And  it 's  bad  for  you,  Fran- 
cis, and  I  can't  stand  it !  I  have  been 
thinking  it  over.  I  must  go  away  with 
the  boys.  I  shall  go  to  uncle  Powers's 
house  in  Vernon  Falls." 

"  You  are  going  to  leave  me,  and  take 
the  children  with  you,  because  you  think 
I  am  in  trouble,"  he  said  accusingly. 

"  You  know  that  is  n't  true  !  If  you 
will  only  meet  it  honorably,  like  the  man 
I  loved  and  married,  I  will  stay,  and  be 
with  you  always,  no  matter  what  comes. 
Will  you  ?  " 

"  So  you  want  to  make  conditions !  " 

"  Just  one  !  " 

"  You  had  better  go,  then." 

The  next  day  she  telephoned  her  mo- 
ther to  come  to  her,  and  when  Mrs. 
Spellman  arrived  she  said  quietly,  — 

"  Mother,  I  am  going  to  Vermont,  to 
the  farm.  It  may  be  for  a  long  time. 
Will  you  come  with  me  ?  " 

Mrs.  Spellman,  who  was  a  wise  wo- 
man, took  her  daughter's  face  between 
her  hands  and  kissed  her 

"  Of  course  !  "  she  answered  simply. 

That  day  they  made  the  necessary  pre- 
parations for  themselves  and  the  chil- 
dren. When  the  architect  returned  from 
his  office  and  saw  what  was  going  for- 
ward, he  said  to  his  wife,  — 

"So  you  are  determined  to  leave 
me?  " 


The   Common  Lot. 


757 


"  Yes,  I  must  go." 

"  I  have  seen  Everett.  They  are  n't 
going  to  do  anything.  I  told  you  it  was 
all  bluff  on  Pemberton's  part." 

She  hesitated,  uncertain  what  to  think, 
and  then  she  asked  searchingly,  — 

"  Why  are  n't  they  going  to  do  any- 
thing ?  What  does  it  mean  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  guess  the  others  have  brought 
Pemberton  to  his  senses,"  he  replied 
evasively. 

"  No,  Francis !  It  is  n't  made  right 
yet.  You  would  be  different  if  it  were. 
Somehow,  from  the  beginning,  when  there 
first  was  talk  of  this  school,  it  has  been 
wrong.  I  hate  it !  I  hate  it !  And  it 
goes  back  of  that,  too.  It  starts  from  the 
very  beginning,  when  we  were  married, 
and  began  to  live  together.  We  have 
always  done  as  the  others  do  all  around 
us,  and  it  is  all  wrong.  I  see  it  now  !  We 
can  never  go  on  the  same  way  "  — 

"  What  way  ?  I  don't  understand 
you,"  he  interrupted. 

"  Why,  earning  and  spending  money, 
trying  to  get  more  and  more,  trying  to 
get  things.  It 's  spoiled  your  work ;  it  'a 
spoiled  you  ;  and  I  have  been  blind  and 
weak,  to  let  us  drift  on  like  the  others, 
getting  and  spending,  struggling  to  get 
ahead,  until  it  has  come  to  this,  to  this,  — 
something  dreadful  that  you  will  not  tell 
me.  Something  you  have  done  to  make 
money.  Oh,  how  low  and  mean  it  is ! 
How  mean  it  makes  men  and  women !  " 

"  That 's  life  !  "  he  retorted  neatly. 

"  No,  no,  never  !  That  was  n't  what 
you  and  I  thought  on  the  steamer  when 
we  were  coming  home  from  Europe.  I 
wish  you  were  a  clerk,  a  laborer,  a  farm- 
hand, —  anything,  so  that  we  could  be 
honest,  and  think  of  something  besides 
ambition.  Let  us  begin  again,  from  the 
very  beginning,  and  live  like  the  common 
people,  and  live  for  your  work,  for  the 
thing  you  do  !  Then  we  should  be  happy. 
Never  this  way,  not  if  you  make  millions, 
millions !  " 

"Well,  I  can't  see  why  you  are  leav- 
ing," the  architect  answered,  content  to 


see  her  mind  turn  from  the  practical 
question. 

"  Tell  me !  "  she  exclaimed  passion- 
ately. "  Tell  me  !  Are  you  honest  ? 
Are  you  an  honest  man  ?  Is  it  all  right 
with  that  building  ?  With  that  contrac- 
tor ?  Tell  me,  and  I  will  believe  you." 

"  I  have  said  all  that  I  am  going  to  say 
about  that,"  he  answered. 

"  Then,  Francis,  I  go  !  " 

The  next  afternoon  the  architect  met 
them  at  the  train  and  saw  them  start, 
punctiliously  doing  all  the  little  things 
that  might  make  their  journey  pleasant. 
He  referred  to  their  going  as  a  short  va- 
cation trip,  and  joked  with  the  boys.  Just 
before  the  train  started,  while  Mrs.  Spell- 
man  settled  the  children  in  their  section, 
Helen  walked  up  and  down  the  platform 
with  him.  As  the  signal  for  starting  was 
given,  she  raised  her  veil,  revealing  the 
tears  in  her  eyes,  and  leaning  toward 
him,  kissed  him.  She  put  into  his  hands 
a  little  card,  which  she  had  been  holding 
clasped  in  her  palm.  He  raised  his  hat 
and  stood  on  the  platform  until  the  long 
train  had  pulled  out  of  the  shed.  Then 
he  glanced  at  the  card  in  his  hand  and 
read :  — 

"  You  know  that  I  shall  come  to  you 
when  you  really  want  me.  H." 

He  crushed  the  card  in  his  fist  and 
threw  it  into  the  roadbed. 


xxn. 

As  the  architect  had  said  to  his  wife,  the 
trustees  did  nothing.  In  the  end  Everett 
Wheeler  settled  the  matter.  After  the 
first  gust  of  passion  it  was  clear  enough 
that  the  trustees  could  not  have  a  scandal 
about  the  building.  If  the  contractor 
were  prosecuted,  the  architect,  the  do- 
nor's nephew,  would  be  involved  ;  and, 
besides,  it  was  plain  that  Wheeler  could 
not  continue  as  trustee  and  assist  in  ruin- 
ing his  cousin.  When  it  came  to  this 
point,  Pemberton,  not  wishing  to  embar- 
rass his  associates,  resigned. 


758 


The   Common  Lot. 


Hart  was  to  continue  nominally  as 
the  architect,  but  Trimble  was  to  have 
charge  of  the  building  henceforth,  with 
orders  to  complete  the  work  as  soon  as 
possible  according  to  the  original  speci- 
fications. At  first  Graves  had  blustered 
and  threatened  to  sue  if  certain  vouch- 
ers issued  by  Hart  were  not  paid,  but 
Wheeler  "  read  the  riot  act "  to  him, 
and  he  emerged  from  the  lawyer's  office 
a  subdued  and  fearful  man.  The  calm 
lawyer  had  a  long  arm,  which  reached 
far  into  the  city,  and  he  frightened  the 
contractor.  So  Graves  was  allowed  to 
complete  the  contract.  Whatever  parts 
of  his  work  had  been  done  crookedly, 
he  was  to  rectify  as  far  as  was  possible, 
and  Trimble  was  to  see  that  the  con- 
struction which  remained  to  be  done 
came  up  to  specification.  As  for  the 
irrevocable,  the  bad  work  already  accept- 
ed and  paid  for,  the  lawyer  said  nothing. 

Thus  the  man  of  the  world,  the  per- 
fectly cynical  lawyer,  had  his  way, 
which  was,  on  the  whole,  the  least  trouble- 
some way  for  all  concerned,  and  avoided 
scandal.  He  was  the  calm  one  of  the 
men  involved  :  it  was  his  business  to 
make  arrangements  with  human  weak- 
ness and  frailty  and  to  "  avoid  scandal." 
That,  at  all  costs  ! 

He  made  his  cousin  no  reproaches. 

"  We  've  nipped  your  claws,  young 
man  !  "  he  admonished  him. 

He  was  disappointed  in  Jackson. 
Privately  he  considered  him  a  dun- 
derheaded  ass,  who  had  weakly  given 
himself  as  a  tool  to  the  contractor.  In 
his  dealings  with  men,  he  had  known 
many  rascals,  more  than  the  public  was 
aware  were  rascals,  and  he  respected 
some  of  them.  But  they  were  the  men, 
who,  once  having  committed  themselves 
to  devious  ways,  used  other  men  as 
their  tools.  For  little,  foolish  rascals,  who 
got  befogged  and  "  lost  their  nerve,"  he 
had  only  contempt. 

"  How  's  your  wife  ?  "  he  asked 
brusquely.  "  That  was  a  dirty  blow  she 
got,  —  straight  between  the  eyes  !  I 


never  thought  she  'd  come  here  that  af- 
ternoon." 

"  Helen  has  gone  east  with  the  boys 
and  her  mother,  —  to  that  place  in 
Vermont.  She  needs  the  rest." 

"  Oh,  um,  I  see,"  the  lawyer  com- 
mented, comprehending  what  this  jour- 
ney meant.  He  was  surprised  that 
Helen  should  desert  her  husband  at  this 
crisis.  It  was  the  part  of  a  woman 
who  had  character  to  "  back  her  hus- 
band," no  matter  what  he  might  do,  so 
long  as  he  was  faithful  to  his  marriage 
oath.  Jackson  had  been  a  fool,  like  so 
many  men  ;  there  was  trouble  in  the  air, 
and  she  had  run  away !  He  would  not 
have  thought  it  of  her. 

Hart  swallowed  his  humiliation  be- 
fore his  cousin.  He  was  much  relieved 
at  the  outcome  of  the  affair ;  it  released 
him  from  further  responsibility  for  the 
school,  which  had  become  hateful  to 
him.  He  was  chiefly  concerned,  now, 
lest  the  difficulty  with  the  trustees 
should  become  known  and  hurt  his  repu- 
tation ;  especially,  lest  the  men  in  his 
office,  to  whom  he  was  an  autocrat  and 
a  genius,  should  suspect  something.  He 
began  at  once  to  push  the  work  on  the 
last  details  for  the  hotel,  with  the  hope  of 
forcing  Graves  to  deliver  another  block 
of  the  "  stock,"  which  he  argued  was 
due  him  for  commission. 

Now  that  the  matter  had  been  quietly 
adjusted  without  scandal,  he  was  in- 
clined to  feel  more  aggrieved  than  ever 
over  his  wife's  departure.  "  She  might 
have  waited  to  see  how  it  turned  out," 
he  repeated  to  himself,  obstinately  re- 
fusing her  the  right  to  judge  himself 
except  where  his  acts  affected  her  di- 
rectly. For  some  time  he  kept  up  with 
acquaintances  the  fiction  of  Helen's 
"  visit  in  the  east ;  "  he  even  took  a  room 
at  the  Shoreham  Club  for  the  hunting 
season.  But  he  soon  fancied  that  the 
people  at  the  club  were  cool  to  him ; 
fewer  engagements  came  his  way  ;  no 
one  referred  to  the  great  building,  which 


The   Common  Lot. 


759 


had  given  him  reputation ;  the  men  he 
had  known  best  seemed  embarrassed 
when  he  joined  them,  —  men,  too,  who 
would  not  have  winked  an  eye  at  a 
"  big  coup"  The  women  soon  ceased 
to  ask  about  Helen ;  it  was  getting  abroad 
that  there  was  something  wrong  with 
the  Jackson  Harts.  For  it  had  leaked, 
more  or  less :  such  matters  always  will 
leak.  One  man  drops  a  word  to  his 
neighbor,  and  the  neighbor's  wife  pieces 
that  to  something  she  has  heard  or  sur- 
mised. 

So  Hart  gave  up  his  room  at  the 
club,  where  his  raw  self-consciousness 
was  too  often  bruised.  Then,  finding 
his  empty  house  in  the  city  insupport- 
able, he  went  to  live  with  his  mother  in 
his  uncle's  old  home.  There  was  a  lull 
in  building  at  this  time,  due  to  the  in- 
terminable strikes,  but  fortunately  he 
could  keep  himself  busy  with  the  hotel 
and  a  large  country  house  in  the  centre 
of  the  state",  which  took  him  often  away 
from  the  city. 

Helen  wrote  to  him  from  time  to  time, 
filling  her  letters  with  details  about  the 
boys.  She  suggested  that  they  should 
return  to  the  city  to  visit  their  grand- 
mother during  the  Christmas  holidays. 
She  never  referred  to  their  own  situation, 
apparently  considering  that  he  had  it  in 
his  power  to  end  it  when  he  would.  He 
was  minded  often  when  he  received  these 
letters  to  write  her  sternly  in  reply,  set- 
ting forth  the  wrong  which  in  her  obsti- 
nacy she  was  doing  to  herself  and  their 
children.  He  went  over  these  imaginary 
letters  in  his  idle  moments,  working  out 
their  phrases  with  great  care  :  they  had 
a  fine,  dignified  ring  to  them,  the  toler- 
ant and  condoning  note.  But  when  he 
tried  to  write  he  did  not  get  very  far 
with  them.  Sometimes  he  thought  of 
writing  simply :  "  I  love  you  very  much, 
Nell ;  I  want  you  back  ;  can  you  not  for- 
give me  ?  "  But  he  knew  well  that  he 
could  not  merely  say,  "  I  have  done 
wrong,  forgive  me,"  if  he  would  affect 
that  new  will  in  his  wife,  so  gently  stern  ! 


Even  if  he  could  bring  himself  to  con- 
fess his  dishonesty,  that  would  not  suffice. 
There  was  another  and  deeper  gulf  be- 
tween them,  one  that  he  could  not  clearly 
fathom.  "  From  the  very  beginning  we 
have  lived  wrongly,"  she  had  cried  that 
last  time.  "  We  can  never  go  on  the  same 
way."  .  .  .  No,  he  was  not  ready  to  accept 
her  judgment  of  him  ! 

Thus  the  winter  wore  away,  forlornly, 
and  early  in  April  the  first  hint  of  spring 
came  into  the  dirty  city.  On  a  Sunday 
afternoon  the  architect  went  to  call  on 
his  old  friend  Mrs.  Phillips,  who  was  one 
of  the  few  persons  who  gave  him  any 
comfort  these  days.  He  found  her  cut- 
ting the  leaves  of  an  art  journal. 

"There's  an  article  here  about  that 
German,  you  know,  the  one  we  are  all 
trying  to  help,"  she  said,  giving  him  a 
hand.  "I  have  taken  to  patronizing  the 
arts :  it 's  pleasanter  than  charities.  I 
have  graduated  from  philanthropy.  And 
you  have  to  do  something  nowadays,  if 
you  want  to  keep  up." 

She  spoke  with  her  usual  bluntness, 
and  then  added  a  little  cant  in  a  conven- 
tional tone :  — 

"And  I  think  we  who  have  the  time 
and  the  position  should  do  something  to 
help  these  poor  artists,  who  are  strug- 
gling here  in  this  commercial  city.  Peo- 
ple won't  buy  their  pictures !  ,  .  .  But 
what  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  You  look 
as  if  you  had  come  to  the  end  of  every- 
thing. I  suppose  it 's  the  old  story.  That 
cold  Puritan  wife  of  yours  has  gone  for 
good.  It 's  no  use  pretending  to  me :  I 
knew  from  the  start  how  it  would  be !  " 

"  But  I  don't  know  whether  she  has 
gone  for  good,"  he  muttered. 

"You  might  as  well  make  up  your 
mind  to  it.  Two  people  like  you  two 
can't  get  along  together !  " 

"  It  is  n't  that,"  he  protested. 

"  Well,  don't  mope,  whatever  you  do. 
Either  go  and  eat  your  humble  pie,  or 
arrange  for  a  divorce.  You  can't  go  on 
this  way.  Oh,  I  know  all  your  troubles, 


760 


The   Common  Lot. 


of  course.  Has  n't  that  pleasant  brother- 
in-law  of  mine  been  in  here  rehearsing 
that  story  about  the  school,  —  well,  what 
do  you  call  it  ?  And  he  seems  to  hold 
me  responsible  for  the  mess,  because  I 
liked  you,  and  gave  you  your  first  work. 
I  did  n't  corrupt  you,  did  I  ?  " 

The  architect  moved  uneasily.  The 
widow's  levity  displeased  him,  and  roused 
his  anger  afresh  against  the  trustees. 

"  I  don't  know  what  rot  Judge  Phil- 
lips has  been  telling  you,  but  "  — 

"  Come !  "  she  interrupted  him  in  his 
defense  ;  "sit  down  here  by  me  and  let 
me  talk  to  you.  You  know  me  well 
enough  to  see  that  I  don't  care  what 
the  judge  says.  But  I  have  something 
to  say  to  you" 

She  made  a  place  for  him  on  the  lounge, 
and  tossed  him  a  pillow  to  make  him 
comfortable.  Then,  dropping  her  review 
on  the  floor,  she  locked  her  fingers  be- 
hind her  head,  and  looked  searchingly  at 
the  man. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  have  been  up 
to,  and  I  don't  care.  Harrison  always 
said  I  had  n't  any  moral  sense,  and  I 
suppose  I  have  n't,  of  his  sort.  You 
should  have  had  your  uncle's  money,  or 
a  part  at  any  rate,  and  it 's  natural  that 
you  should  try  to  get  all  you  can  of  it,  I 
say.  But  you  must  have  been  stupid  to 
let  that  old  square-toes  Pemberton  get  in 
your  way  !  " 

This  cynical  analysis  of  the  situation 
was  not  precisely  salve  to  the  architect's 
wound.  He  was  not  ready  to  go  as  far 
as  the  woman  lightly  sketched.  But  he 
listened,  for  the  sake  of  her  sympathy, 
if  for  no  other  reason. 

"  Now,  as  I  said,  there 's  no  use  mop- 
ing around  here.  Pick  right  up  and  get 
out  for  a  few  months.  When  you  come 
back,  people  won't  remember  what  was 
the  matter.  Or,  if  you  still  find  it  chilly, 
you  can  go  to  New  York  and  start  there. 
It's  no  use  fighting  things  out!  Bury 
them." 

She  paused  to  give  emphasis  to  her 
suggestion. 


"  Let  your  wife  play  by  herself  for  a 
while  :  it  will  do  her  good.  When  she 
hears  that  you  are  in  Europe,  having  a 
good  time,  she  '11  begin  to  think  she  's 
been  silly.  ...  I  am  going  over.  I  've 
got  to  rent  Forest  Manor  this  summer. 
That  Harris  man  went  wrong  the  last 
time  he  advised  me,  and  got  me  into  all 
sorts  of  trouble,  —  industrials.  Venetia 
pensions  me  !  She  won't  go  abroad,  but 
she  kindly  gives  me  what  she  thinks  I 
ought  to  spend.  I  sail  on  the  Kronprinz, 
the  20th  of  next  month  !  " 

The  invitation  to  him  was  implied  in 
the  pause  that  followed.  The  gleam  in 
Hart's  eyes  showed  his  interest  in  her 
suggestion,  but  he  said  nothing. 

"  There  's  nothing  to  do  in  your  busi- 
ness, as  you  said,  and  you  should  give 
these  good  people  a  chance  to  forget ! 
We  could  have  a  good  time  over  there. 
You  could  buy  things  and  sell  them  here, 
and  make  your  expenses  that  way,  easily. 
You  know  all  the  nice  little'places,  and 
if  Maida  and  her  husband  come  over  we 
could  take  an  auto  and  do  them.  Think 
of  Italy  in  May  !  " 

She  unclasped  her  hands  and  leaned 
forward,  resting  one  arm  on  the  cush- 
ioned back  of  the  lounge,  and  thus  re- 
vealing a  very  pretty  forearm  and  wrist. 
Two  little  red  spots  of  enthusiasm  glowed 
in  her  cheeks.  What  life  and  vitality 
at  forty-three  !  the  man  thought,  smiling 
appreciatively  into  her  face.  For  the 
first  time  she  moved  him  emotionally. 
He  was  lonely,  miserable,  and  thoroughly 
susceptible  to  such  charm  as  she  had. 

"  It  would  be  awfully  pleasant,"  he  re- 
plied, leaning  toward  her,  "  to  get  away 
from  this  place,  with  you  !  "  .  .  . 

His  hand  slipped  to  her  beautiful  arm. 
At  that  moment  Venetia  came  into  the 
room,  unnoticed  by  the  two  on  the 
lounge.  She  stood  for  a  little  while 
watching  them,  and  then,  with  a  smile 
on  her  expressive  lips,  noiselessly  with- 
drew. 

"  Well,  wire  for  a  passage  to-morrow," 
Mrs.  Phillips  murmured. 


The   Common  Lot. 


761 


There  was  nothing  more,  nothing  that 
would  have  offended  the  most  scrupulous, 
for  the  architect  was  essentially  healthy- 
minded.  In  a  lonely  moment  he  might 
satisfy  the  male  need  for  sympathy  by 
philandering  with  a  pretty  woman,  who 
soothed  his  bruised  egotism.  But  he  did 
not  have  that  kind  of  weakness,  the  wo- 
man weakness.  A  few  minutes  later  he 
was  leaving  the  room,  saying  as  he  looked 
into  Louise  Phillips's  brown  eyes,  — 

"  I  think  you  are  right.  I  need  to 
get  away  from  this  town  and  rest  my 
nerves." 

"  When  you  come  back  people  will  be 
only  too  glad  to  see  you.  They  don't 
remember  their  scruples  long." 

"  There  is  n't  anything  for  them  to 
worry  over!  " 

"  The  Kronprinz,  then !  " 

In  the  hall  he  met  Venetia,  who  was 
slowly  coming  down  the  stairs,  wrapped 
in  a  long  cloak.  She  hesitated  a  mo- 
ment, then  continued  to  descend. 

"Hello,  Venetia!  "  Hart  called  out. 

She  swept  down  the  remaining  steps 
without  replying,  her  eyes  shining  hotly. 
As  she  passed  him,  she  turned  and  shot 
one  word  full  in  his  face,  —  "  Cad !  " 


XXIII. 

The  girl's  word  was  like  a  blow  in  the 
face.  It  toppled  over  any  self-compla- 
cency that  had  survived  these  last  disin- 
tegrating months.  Was  he  as  mean  a 
thing  as  that  ?  So  little  that  a  girl  whom 
he  had  always  treated  with  jovial  conde- 
scension might  insult  him,  unprovoked  ? 
Probably  others,  all  those  people  whose 
acquaintance  he  valued,  had  a  like  con- 
tempt for  him.  At  first  he  did  not  resent 
their  judgment ;  he  was  too  much  dazed. 

In  this  plight  he  walked  south  on  the 
avenue,  without  minding  where  he  was 
going,  and  then  turned  west,  automati- 
cally, at  Twenty-Second  Street,  walking 
until  he  came  to  the  region  of  dance-halls 
and  flashy  saloons.  In  this  unfamiliar 


neighborhood  there  was  a  glare  of  light 
from  the  great  electric  signs  which  deco- 
rated the  various  places  of  resort.  The 
street  was  crowded  with  men  and  women 
loitering  about  the  saloons  and  dance- 
halls,  enjoying  the  fitful  mildness  of  the 
April  evening.  At  this  early  hour  there 
were  more  women  than  men  on  the  street, 
and  their  dresses  of  garish  spring  col- 
ors, their  loud,  careless  voices,  and  air 
of  reckless  ease,  reminded  the  architect 
faintly,  very  faintly,  of  the  boulevards 
he  had  loved  in  his  happy  student  years. 
In  this  spot  of  the  broad  city  there  flour- 
ished coarse  license,  and  the  one  necessity 
was  the  price  of  pleasure.  The  scene 
distracted  his  mind  from  the  sting  of  the 
girl's  contempt. 

He  entered  one  of  the  larger  saloons 
on  the  corner  of  an  avenue,  and  sat  down 
at  a  small  table.  When  the  waiter  dart- 
ed to  him,  and,  impudently  leering  into 
his  face  across  the  table,  asked,  "  What's 
yours,  gent  ? "  he  answered  quickly, 
"  Champagne  !  Bring  me  a  bottle  and 
ice."  His  heavy  heart  craved  the  amber 
wine,  which,  in  association  at  least,  heart- 
ens man.  At  the  tables  all  about  him 
sat  the  women  of  the  neighborhood, 
large-boned  and  heavy  creatures,  drink- 
ing beer  by  themselves,  or  taking  cham- 
pagne with  stupid-looking,  rough  men, 
probably  buyers  and  sellers  of  stock  at 
the  Yards,  which  were  not  far  away. 
The  women  had  the  blanched  faces  of 
country  girls  over  whom  the  city  has 
passed  like  the  plates  of  a  mighty  roller. 
The  men  had  the  tan  of  the  distant  prai- 
ries, from  which  they  had  come  with  their 
stock.  They  had  set  themselves  to  de- 
liberate debauch  that  should  last  for  days, 
—  as  long  as  the  "  wad  "  held  out  and 
the  brute  lust  in  their  bodies  remained 
unquenched. 

Presently  the  waiter  returned  with  the 
heavy  bottle  and  slopped  some  of  the 
wine  into  a  glass.  The  architect  raised 
it  and  drank.  It  was  execrable,  sweetened 
stuff,  but  he  drank  the  glass  at  a  draught, 
and  poured  another  and  drank  it.  The 


762 


The   Common  Lot. 


girl's  inexplicable  insult  swept  over  him 
afresh  in  a  wave  of  anger.  He  should 
find  a  way  to  call  her  to  account.  .  .  . 

"  Say,  Mister,  you  don't  want  to  drink 
all  that  wine  by  yourself,  do  you  ?  " 

A  woman  at  the  next  table,  who  was 
sitting  by  herself  before  an  empty  beer- 
glass,  and  smoking  a  cigarette,  had 
spoken  to  him  in  a  furtive  voice. 

"  Come  over,  then  !  "  he  answered, 
roughly  pushing  a  chair  to  the  table. 
"  Here,  waiter,  bring  another  glass." 

The  woman  slid,  rather  than  walked, 
to  the  chair  by  his  side,  and  drank  the 
champagne  like  a  parched  animal.  He 
ordered  another  bottle. 

"  Enjoying  yourself  ?  "  she  inquired 
politely,  having  satisfied  her  first  thirst. 
"  Been  in  the  city  long  ?  I  ain't  seen 
you  here  at  Dove's  before." 

He  looked  at  her  with  languid  curios- 
ity. She  recalled  to  him  the  memory  of 
her  Paris  sisters,  with  whom  he  had  shared 
many  a  consommation  in  those  blessed 
days  that  he  had  almost  forgotten.  But 
she  had  none  of  the  sparkle,  the  human 
charm  of  her  Latin  sisters.  She  was  a 
mere  coarse  vessel,  and  he  wondered  at 
the  men  who  sought  joy  in  her. 

"  Where  do  you  come  from  ?  "  he  de- 
manded. 

"  Out  on  the  coast.  San  Diego  's  my 
home.  But  I  was  in  Philadelphia  last 
winter.  I  guess  I  shall  go  back  to  the 
East  pretty  soon.  I  don't  like  Chicago 
much,  —  it 's  too  rough  out  here  to  suit 
me." 

She  found  Chicago  inferior !  He 
laughed  with  the  humor  of  the  idea.  It 
was  a  joke  he  should  like  to  share  with 
his  respectable  friends.  They  drank  and 
talked  while  the  evening  sped,  and  he 
plied  her  with  many  questions  in  idle 
curiosity,  touched  with  that  interest  in 
women  of  her  class  which  most  men 
have  somewhere  in  the  dregs  of  their 
natures.  She  chattered  volubly,  willing 
enough  to  pay  for  her  entertainment. 

As  he  listened  to  her,  this  creature  of 
the  swift  instants,  whose  only  perception 


was  the  moment's  sensation,  he  grew 
philosophical.  The  other  world,  his 
proper  world  of  care  and  painful  fore- 
thought, faded  from  his  vision.  Here 
in  Dove's  place  he  was  a  thousand  miles 
from  the  respectabilities  in  which  he  had 
his  being.  Here  alone  in  the  city  one 
might  forget  them  :  nothing  mattered,  — 
his  troubles,  his  wife's  judgment  of  him, 
the  girl's  contempt. 

He  had  loosened  that  troublesome  coil 
of  things,  which  lately  had  weighed  him 
down.  It  seemed  easy  enough  to  cut 
himself  free  from  it  and  walk  the  earth 
once  more  unhampered,  like  these,  the 
flotsam  of  the  city. 

"  Come !  Let 's  go  over  to  Grinsky's 
hall,"  the  woman  suggested,  noticing  the 
architect's  silence,  and  seeing  no  imme- 
diate prospect  of  another  bottle  of  wine. 
"  We  '11  find  something  doing  over  there, 
sure ! " 

But  he  was  already  tired  of  the 
woman  ;  she  offended  his  cultivated  sen- 
sibilities. So  he  shook  his  head,  paid 
for  the  wine,  said  good-evening  to  her, 
and  started  to  leave  the  place.  She  fol- 
lowed him,  talking  volubly,  and  when 
they  reached  the  street  she  took  his  arm, 
clinging  to  him  with  all  the  weight  of  her 
dragging  will. 

"  You  don't  want  to  go  home  yet," 
she  coaxed.  "  You  're  a  nice  gentleman ! 
Come  in  here  to  Grinsky's  and  give  me 
a  dance." 

Her  entreaties  disgusted  him.  People 
on  the  street  looked  and  smiled.  At  the 
bottom  he  was  a  thoroughly  clean-minded 
American :  he  could  not  even  coquette 
with  debauch  without  shame  and  timid- 
ity. She  and  her  class  were  nauseating 
to  him,  like  evil-smelling  rooms  and  foul 
sights.  That  was  not  his  vice  ! 

He  paid  for  her  admission  to  the  dance- 
hall,  dropped  a  dollar  in  her  hand,  and 
left  her.  Then  where  to  go  ?  How  to 
pass  the  hours  ?  He  was  at  an  utter  loss 
what  to  do  with  himself,  like  all  proper- 
ly married,  respectable  American  men, 
when  the  domestic  pattern  of  their  lives 


The   Common  Lot. 


763 


is  disturbed  for  any  reason.  He  began 
to  stroll  east  in  the  direction  of  the  lake, 
taking  off  his  hat  to  let  the  night  wind 
cool  his  head.  He  found  walking  plea- 
sant in  the  mild  spring  air,  and  when 
he  came  to  the  end  of  the  street  he 
turned  south  into  a  deserted  avenue  that 
was  starred  in  the  dark  night  by  a  line 
of  arc  lamps.  It  was  a  dull,  respectable, 
middle-class  district,  quite  unfamiliar  to 
him,  and  he  stared  inquiringly  at  the 
monotonous  blocks  of  brick  houses  and 
cheap  apartment  buildings.  Here  was 
the  ugly,  comfortable  housing  of  the 
modern  city,  where  lived  a  mass  of  good 
citizens,  —  clerks  and  small  business  men. 
He  wondered  vaguely  if  this  was  what 
his  wife  would  have  them  come  to,  this 
dreary  monotony  of  small  homes,  each 
one  like  its  neighbor,  where  the  two  main 
facts  of  existence  were  shelter  and  food  ! 
A  wave  of  self-pity  swept  over  him, 
and  his  thoughts  returned  to  his  old 
grievance :  if  his  wife  had  stayed  by 
him  all  would  have  been  well.  He 
wanted  his  children ;  he  wanted  his 
home,  his  wife,  his  neighbors,  his  little 
accustomed  world  of  human  relation- 
ships, —  all  as  it  had  been  before.  And 
he  blamed  her  for  destroying  this,  shut- 
ting his  mind  obstinately  to  any  other 
consideration,  unwilling  to  admit  even  to 
his  secret  self  that  his  greed,  his  thirsty 
ambition,  had  aught  to  do  with  the  case. 
He  had  striven  with  all  his  might,  even 
as  the  bread-winners  in  these  houses 
strove  daily,  to  get  a  point  of  vantage  in 
the  universal  struggle.  They  doubtless 
had  their  modicum  of  content,  while  he 
had  missed  his  reward.  That  heavy 
weight  of  depression,  which  the  wine 
had  dissipated  temporarily,  returned  to 
oppress  his  spirits. 

He  must  have  walked  many  blocks 
on  this  avenue  between  the  monotonous 
small  houses.  In  the  distance  beyond 
him  to  the  south,  he  saw  a  fiery  glow  in 
the  soft  heavens,  which  he  took  to  be  the 
nightly  reflection  from  the  great  blast 


furnaces  of  the  steel  works  in  South 
Chicago.  Presently  he  emerged  upon 
a  populous  cross  street,  and  the  light 
seemed  nearer,  and,  unlike  the  soft  efful- 
gence from  the  blast  furnaces,  the  red 
sky  was  streaked  with  black.  On  the  cor- 
ners of  the  street  there  was  an  unwonted 
excitement,  —  men  gaping  upwards  at 
the  fiery  cloud,  then  running  eastward, 
in  the  direction  of  the  lake.  From  the 
west  there  sounded  the  harsh  gong  of  a 
fire-engine,  which  was  pounding  rapidly 
down  the  car  tracks.  It  came,  rocking 
in  a  whirlwind  of  galloping  horses  and 
swaying  men.  The  crowd  on  the  street 
broke  into  a  run,  streaming  along  the 
sidewalks  in  the  wake  of  the  engine. 

The  architect  woke  from  his  dead 
thoughts  and  ran  with  the  crowd.  Two, 
three,  four  blocks,  they  sped  toward 
the  lake,  which  curves  eastward  at  this 
point,  and  as  he  ran,  the  street  became 
strangely  familiar  to  him.  The  crowd 
turned  south  along  a  broad  avenue  that 
led  to  the  park.  Some  one  cried,  "  There 
it  is  !  It 's  the  hotel !  "  A  moment  more, 
and  the  architect  found  himself  at  the 
corner  of  the  park  opposite  the  lofty 
hotel,  out  of  whose  upper  stories  b^oad 
billows  of  smoke,  broken  by  sheets  of 
flame,  were  pouring. 

There,  in  the  corner  made  by  the  bou- 
levard and  the  park,  where  formerly  was 
the  weedy  ruin,  rose  the  great  building, 
which  Graves  had  finished  late  in  the 
winter,  and  had  turned  over  to  the  hotel 
company.  Its  eight  stories  towered  loft- 
ily above  the  houses  and  apartments  in 
the  neighborhood.  The  countless  win- 
dows along  the  broad  front  gleamed 
portentously  with  the  reflection  from  the 
flames  above.  At  the  west  corner,  over- 
looking the  park,  above  a  steep  ascent  of 
flaunting  bay  windows,  there  floated  a 
light  blue  pennon,  bearing  a  name  in 
black  letters,  —  THE  GLENMORE. 

At  first  the  architect  scarcely  realized 
that  this  building,  which  was  burning, 
was  Graves's  hotel,  his  hotel.  Already 
the  police  had  roped  off  the  street  be- 


764 


The   Common  Lot. 


neath  the  fire,  in  which  the  crowd  was 
thickening  rapidly.  All  about  the  place, 
for  a  space  of  two  blocks,  could  be  heard 
the  throbbing  engines,  and  the  shrill  whis- 
tling with  which  they  answered  one  an- 
other. The  fire  burned  quietly  aloft  in 
the  sky  above  their  heads,  while  below 
there  was  the  clamor  of  excited  men  and 
screeching  engines.  The  dense  crowd 
packed  ever  closer,  and  surged  solidly 
toward  the  fire  lines,  bearing  the  archi- 
tect in  the  current. 

"  They  've  pulled  the  third  alarm,"  one 
man  said,  chewing  excitedly  on  a  piece 
of  gum.  "  There  's  fifty  people  in  there 
yet." 

"  They  say  the  elevators  are  going !  " 
another  one  exclaimed. 

"  Where  's  the  fire-escapes  ?  " 

"  Must  be  on  the  rear  or  over  by  the 
alley.  There  ain't  none  this  side  sure 
enough." 

"  Yes,  they  're  in  back,"  the  architect 
said  authoritatively. 

He  tried  to  think  just  where  they  were 
and  where  they  opened  in  the  building, 
but  could  not  remember.  A  voice  wailed 
dismally  through  a  megaphone,  — 

"  Look  out,  boys  !  Back  !  " 

On  the  edge  of  the  cornice  appeared 
three  little  figures  with  a  line  of  hose. 
At  that  height  they  looked  like  willing 
gnomes  on  the  crust  of  a  flaming  world. 

"  Gee !  Look  at  that  roof  !  Look  at 
it!" 

The  cry  from  the  megaphone  had  come 
too  late.  Suddenly,  without  warning, 
the  top  of  the  hotel  rose  straight  into  the 
air,  and  in  the  sky  above  there  was  a 
great  report,  like  the  detonation  of  a  can- 
non at  close  range.  The  roof  had  blown 
up.  For  an  instant  darkness  followed,  as 
if  the  flame  had  been  smothered,  snuffed 
out.  Then,  with  a  mighty  roar,  the  pent- 
up  gases  that  had  caused  the  explo'sion 
ignited,  and  burst  forth  in  a  broad  sheet 
of  beautiful  blue  flame,  covering  the 
doomed  building  with  a  crown  of  fire. 

Hart  looked  for  the  men  with  the  hose. 
One  had  caught  on  the  sloping  roof  of 


a  line  of  bay  windows,  and  clung  there 
seven  stories  above  the  ground. 

"  He  's  a  goner  !  "  some  one  groaned. 

Large  strips  of  burning  tar  paper  be- 
gan to  float  above  the  heads  of  the  crowd, 
causing  a  stampede.  In  the  rush.  Hart 
got  nearer  the  fire  lines,  more  immedi- 
ately in  front  of  the  hotel,  which  irre- 
sistibly drew  him  closer.  Now  he  could 
hear  the  roar  of  the  flame  as  it  swept 
through  the  upper  stories  and  streamed 
out  into  the  dark  night.  The  fierce  light 
illumined  the  silk  streamer,  which  still 
waved  from  the  pole  at  the  corner  of  the 
building,  untouched  by  the  explosion. 
Across  the  east  wall,  under  the  cornice, 
was  painted  the  sign :  THE  GLENMORE 
FAMILY  HOTEL  ;  and  beneath,  in  letters 
of  boastful  size,  FIREPROOF  BUILDING. 

The  policeman  at  the  line  pointed  de- 
risively to  the  legend  with  his  billy. 

"  Now  ain't  that  fireproof !  " 

"  Burns  like  rotten  timber !  "  a  man 
answered. 

It  was  going  frightfully  fast !  The 
flames  were  now  galloping  through  the 
upper  stories,  sweeping  the  lofty  struc- 
ture from  end  to  end,  and  smoke  had  be- 
gun to  pour  from  many  points  in  the 
lower  stories,  showing  that  the  fount  of 
flame  had  its  roots  far  down  in  the  heart 
of  the  building.  Vague  reports  circu- 
lated through  the  crowd  :  —  A  hundred 
people  or  more  were  still  in  the  hotel. 
All  were  out.  Thirty  were  penned  in 
the  rear  rooms  of  the  sixth  floor.  One 
elevator  was  still  running.  It  had  been 
caught  at  the  time  of  the  explosion,  etc. 
For  the  moment  the  firemen  were  making 
their  fight  in  the  rear,  and  the  north  front 
was  left  in  a  splendid  peace  of  silent  flame 
and  smoke,  —  a  spectacle  for  the  crowd 
in  the  street. 

Within  the  massive  structure,  the 
architect  realized  vaguely,  there  was  be- 
ing enacted  one  of  those  modern  trage- 
dies which  mock  the  pride  and  vanity 
of  man.  In  that  furnace  human  be- 
ings were  fighting  for  their  lives,  or, 
penned  in,  cut  off  by  the  swift  flames, 


The   Common  Lot. 


765 


were  waiting  in  delirious  fear  for  aid 
that  was  beyond  the  power  of  men  to 
give  them.  A  terrible  horror  clutched 
him.  It  was  his  building  which  was 
being  eaten  up  like  grass  before  the  flame. 
He  dodged  beneath  the  fire  line  and  be- 
gan to  run  toward  the  east  end,  with  an 
idea  that  in  some  way  he  could  help.  It 
was  his  building ;  he  knew  it  from  cor- 
nice to  foundation ;  he  might  know  how 
to  get  at  those  within !  A  policeman 
seized  him  roughly  and  thrust  him  back 
behind  the  line.  He  fought  his  way  to 
the  front  again,  while  the  dense  crowd  el- 
bowed and  cursed  him.  He  lost  his  hat ; 
his  coat  was  torn  from  his  shoulders. 
But  he  struggled  frantically  forward. 

"You  here,  Hart!  What  are  you 
after  ?  " 

Some  one  stretched  out  a  detaining 
hand  and  drew  him  out  of  the  press.  It 
was  Cook,  his  draughtsman.  Cook  was 
chewing  gum,  his  jaws  working  nervous- 
ly, grinding  and  biting  viciously  in  his 
excitement.  The  fierce  glare  revealed 
the  deep  lines  of  the  man's  face. 

"  You  can't  get  out  that  way.  It 's 
packed  solid  !  "  Cook  bellowed  into  his 
ear.  "  God  alive,  how  fast  it 's  going ! 
That 's  your  steel  frame,  tile  partition, 
fireproof  construction,  is  it  ?  To  hell 
with  it ! " 

Suddenly  he  clutched  the  architect's 
arm  again  and  shouted,  — 

"  Where  are  the  east-side  fire-escapes  ? 
I  can't  see  nothing  up  that  wall,  can 

you?" 

The  architect  peered  through  the 
wreaths  of  smoke.  There  should  have 
been  an  iron  ladder  between  each  tier  of 
bays  on  this  side  of  the  building. 

"  They  are  all  in  back,"  he  answered, 
remembering  now  that  the  contractor  had 
cut  out  those  on  the  east  wall  as  a  "  dis- 
figurement." "  Let 's  get  around  to  the 
rear,"  he  shouted  to  the  draughtsman, 
his  anxiety  whipping  him  once  more. 

After  a  time  they  managed  to  reach 
an  alley  at  the  southwest  angle  of  the 
hotel,  where  two  engines  were  pumping 


from  a  hydrant.  Here  they  could  see 
the  reach  of  the  south  wall,  up  which 
stretched  the  spidery  lines  of  a  solitary 
fire-escape.  Cook  pointed  to  it  in  mute 
wonder  and  disgust. 

"  It 's  just  a  question  if  the  beams  will 
hold  into  the  walls  until  they  can  get  all 
the  folks  out,"  he  shouted.  "  I  heard 
that  one  elevator  boy  was  still  running 
his  machine  and  taking  'em  out.  As 
long  as  the  floors  hold  together  he  can 
run  his  elevator.  But  don't  talk  to  me 
about  your  fireproof  hotels  !  Why,  the 
bloody  thing  ain't  been  burning  twenty 
minutes,  and  look  at  it !  " 

As  he  spoke  there  was  a  shrill  whistle 
from  the  fire  marshal,  and  then  a  wrench- 
ing, crashing,  plunging  noise,  like  the 
sound  of  an  avalanche.  The  upper  part 
of  the  east  wall  had  gone,  toppling  out- 
ward into  the  alley,  like  the  side  of  a  rot- 
ten box.  In  another  moment  followed  a 
lesser  crash.  The  upper  floors  had  col- 
lapsed, slipping  down  into  the  inner  gulf 
of  the  building.  There  was  a  time  of 
silence  and  awful  quiet ;  but  almost  im- 
mediately the  blue  flames,  shot  with  or- 
ange, leaped  upwards  once  more.  From 
the  precipitous  wall  above,  along  the  line 
of  the  fire-escape,  came  horrid  human 
cries,  and  through  the  smoke  and  flame 
could  be  seen  a  dozen  figures  clinging 
here  and  there  like  insects  to  the  window 
frames. 

Cook  swayed  against  the  architect  like 
a  man  with  nausea. 

"  They  're  done  for  now,  sure,  all  that 
ain't  out.  And  I  guess  there  ain't  many 
out.  It  just  slumped,  just  slumped,"  he 
repeated  with  a  nervous  quiver  of  the 
mouth.  Suddenly  he  turned  his  pale 
face  to  the  architect  and  glared  into  his 
eyes. 

"  Damn  you !  you — !  "he  stammered, 
shaking  his  fist  at  him.  "  There  were  n't 
any  steel  in  the  thing !  It  was  rotten 
cheese.  That 's  you,  you,  you !  "  He 
turned  and  ran  toward  the  burning  mass, 
distracted,  shouting,  as  he  ran,  "  Rotten 
cheese !  Just  rotten  cheese !  " 


766 


The   Common  Lot. 


But  the  architect  stayed  there  in  the 
alley,  rooted  in  horror,  stupefied.  High 
above  him,  in  a  window  of  the  south  wall, 
which  was  still  untouched  by  the  fire,  he 
saw  a  woman  standing  on  the  narrow 
ledge  of  the  brick  sill.  She  clung  with 
one  hand  to  an  awning  rope  and  put  the 
other  before  her  eyes.  He  shouted  some- 
thing to  her,  but  he  could  not  hear  the 
sound  of  his  own  voice.  She  swayed  back 
and  forth,  and  then  as  a  swirl  of  flame 
shot  up  in  the  room  behind  her,  she  fell 
forward  into  the  abyss  of  the  night.  .  .  . 
A  boy's  face  appeared  at  one  of  the  lower 
windows.  He  was  trying  to  break  the 
pane  of  heavy  glass.  Finally  he  smashed 
a  hole  with  his  fist,  and  stood  there,  dazed, 
staring  down  into  the  alley ;  then  he 
dropped  backwards  into  the  room,  and  a 
jet  of  smoke  poured  from  the  vent  he 
had  made. 

In  front  of  the  hotel  there  were  fresh 
shouts :  they  were  using  the  nets.  The 
architect  covered  his  face  with  his  hands, 
and,  moaning  to  himself,  began  to  run,  to 
flee  from  the  horrible  spot.  But  a  cry 
arrested  him,  a  wail  of  multitudinous 
voices,  which  rose  above  the  throb  of  the 
engines,  the  crackle  of  the  fire,  the  clam- 
or of  the  catastrophe.  He  looked  up  once 
more  to  the  fire-eaten  ruin.  The  lofty 
south  wall,  hitherto  intact,  had  begun  to 
waver  along  the  east  edge.  It  tottered, 
hung,  then  slid  backwards,  shaking  off 
the  figures  on  the  fire-escape  as  if  they 
had  been  frozen  flies.  ...  In  the  avenue 
he  heard  the  crowd  groaning  with  rage 
and  pity.  As  he  ran  he  saw  beside  the 
park  a  line  of  ambulances  and  patrol  wag- 
ons ready  for  their  burdens. 

How  long  he  ran,  or  in  what  direction, 
he  never  knew.  He  had  a  dim  memory 
of  himself,  sitting  in  some  place  with  a 
bottle  of  whiskey  before  him.  The  liq- 
uor seemed  to  make  no  impression  on  his 
brain.  His  hand  still  shook  with  the  pa- 
ralysis of  fear.  He  remembered  his  ef- 
forts to  pour  the  whiskey  into  the  glass. 
After  a  time  a  face,  vaguely  familiar,  en- 


tered his  nightmare,  and  the  man,  who 
carried  a  little  black  bag,  such  as  doctors 
use,  sat  down  beside  him  and  shouted  at 
him :  — 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  What 
do  you  want  with  that  whiskey  ?  Give 
it  to  me.  You  have  had  all  the  booze 
that 's  good  for  you,  I  guess." 

And  in  his  stupor  he  said  to  the  man 
tearfully :  — 

"  Don't  take  it  away,  doctor !  For 
heaven's  sake,  don't  take  the  whiskey 
away  !  I  tell  you,  I  have  killed  people 
to-night.  Eight,  ten,  forty,  —  no,  I  killed 
eight  people.  Yes,  eight  men  and  wo- 
men. I  see  'em  dying  now.  Give  me 
the  whiskey !  " 

"  You  're  off  your  nut,  man  !  "  the  doc- 
tor replied  impatiently.  "  You  have  n't 
killed  any  one.  You  have  been  boozing, 
and  you  '11  kill  yourself,  if  you  don't 
quit.  Here,  give  me  that !  " 

He  remembered  rising  to  his  feet  obe- 
diently and  saying  very  solemnly :  — 

"  Very  well,  my  friend,  I  won't  drink 
any  more  if  you  say  so.  But  listen  to 
me !  I  killed  a  lot  of  people,  eight  of 
'em,  and  I  don't  know  how  many  more 
beside.  Over  there  in  a  great  fire.  I 
saw  'em  dying,  like  flies,  like  flies.  Now 
give  me  one  more  drink !  " 

"  All  right,  you  killed  'em,  if  you  say 
so!" 

"  Don't  leave  me,  doctor !  It 's  a  ter- 
rible thing  to  kill  so  many  people,  all  at 
once,  like  flies,  like  flies !  " 

And  he  burst  into  tears,  sobbing  and 
shaking  with  the  awful  visions  of  his 
brain,  his  head  buried  in  his  arms. 


XXIV. 

The  next  morning  Hart  found  himself 
on  a  sofa  in  a  bare,  dusty  room  that 
looked  as  if  it  was  a  doctor's  office.  He 
sat  up  and  tried  to  think  what  had  hap- 
pened to  him  overnight.  Suddenly  the 
picture  of  the  burning  hotel  swept  across 
his  mind,  and  he  groaned  with  a  fresh 


The   Common  Lot. 


767 


sense  of  the  sharp  pain.  Some  one  was 
whistling  in  the  next  room,  and  presently 
the  door  opened,  and  Dr.  Coburn  ap- 
peared in  trousers  and  undershirt,  mop- 
ping his  face  with  a  towel. 

"  Hello,  Jack  Hart !  "  he  called  out 
boisterously.  "  How  are  you  feeling  ? 
Kind  of  dopey  ?  My,  but  you  were  full 
of  booze  last  night!  I  had  to  jam  a 
hypodermic  into  you  to  keep  you  quiet, 
when  I  got  you  over  here.  Do  you  get 
that  way  often  ?  " 

"  Was  I  drunk  ?  "  the  architect  asked 
dully. 

"  Well,  I  rather  think !  Don't  you 
feel  it  this  morning  ?  " 

He  grinned  at  the  disheveled  figure  on 
the  sofa,  and  continued  to  mop  his  face. 

"You  were  talking  dotty,  too,  about 
killing  folks.  I  thought  maybe  you  might 
have  a  gun  on  you.  But  I  could  n't  find 
anything.  What  have  you  been  do- 
ing?" 

"  It  was  the  fire,"  Hart  answered 
slowly,  "  a  terrible  fire !  People  were 
killed,  —  I  saw  them.  My  God !  it  was 
awful !  " 

He  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and 
shuddered. 

"  Shook  you  up  considerable,  did  it  ? 
Here,  wait  a  minute  !  I  '11  fix  you  some- 
thing." 

The  doctor  went  back  into  the  inner 
room,  and  returned  with  a  small  glass. 

"  Drink  this.  It  will  give  you  some 
nerve." 

The  architect  took  the  stimulant  and 
lay  down  once  more  with  his  face  to  the 
wall.  Presently  he  pulled  himself  to- 
gether and  drank  a  cup  of  coffee  which 
the  doctor  had  prepared.  Then  he  took 
himself  off,  saying  that  he  must  get  to 
his  office  at  once.  He  went  away  in  a 
daze,  barely  thanking  the  doctor  for  his 
kindness.  When  he  had  left,  Coburn  be- 
gan to  whistle  again,  thinking,  "  There 's 
something  more  'n  drink  or  that  fire  the 
matter  with  him  !  " 

Hart  bought  a  newspaper  at  the  first 


stand.  It  was  swelled  with  pages  of 
coarse  cuts  and  "stories  "  of  the  "  Glen- 
niore  Hotel  Tragedy."  On  the  elevated 
train,  which  he  took  to  reach  the  city, 
the  passengers  were  buried  in  the  volu- 
minous sheets  of  their  newspapers,  avidly 
sucking  in  the  details  of  the  disaster. 
For  a  time  he  stared  at  the  great  cut  on 
the  first  page  of  his  paper,  which  pur- 
ported to  represent  the  scene  at  the  fire 
when  the  south  wall  fell  in.  But  in  its 
place  he  saw  the  sheer  stretch  of  the  piti- 
less wall,  the  miserable  figures  on  the  iron 
ladder  being  swept  into  the  flames.  Then 
he  read  the  headlines  of  the  account  of 
the  fire.  Seventeen  persons  known  to 
have  been  in  the  hotel  were  missing ;  the 
bodies  of  ten  had  been  found.  Had  it 
not  been  for  the  heroism  of  a  colored 
elevator  boy,  Morris  by  name,  who  ran 
his  car  up  and  down  seven  times  through 
the  burning  shaft,  the  death  list  would 
have  been  far  longer.  On  the  second 
trip,  so  the  account  ran,  the  elevator  had 
been  caught  by  a  broken  gate  on  the  third 
floor.  Morris  had  coolly  run  the  car  up 
to  the  top,  then  opened  his  lever  to  full 
speed,  and  crashed  his  way  triumphantly 
through  the  obstacle.  It  was  one  of  those 
acts  of  unexpected  intelligence,  daring, 
and  devotion  to  duty,  which  bring  tears 
to  the  eyes  of  thousands  all  over  the  land. 
The  brave  fellow  had  been  caught  in  the 
collapse  of  the  upper  floors,  and  his  body 
had  not  yet  been  found.  It  was  buried 
under  tons  of  brick  and  iron  in  the 
wrecked  building. 

The  newspaper  account  wandered  on, 
column  after  column,  repeating  itself 
again  and  again,  confused,  endlessly  pro- 
lix, but  in  the  waste  of  irrelevancy  a  few 
facts  slowly  emerged.  The  Glenmore, 
fortunately,  had  been  by  no  means  full. 
It  had  been  opened  only  six  weeks  before 
as  a  family  hotel,  —  one  of  those  shoddy 
places  where  flock  young  married  people, 
with  the  intention  of  avoiding  the  cares 
of  children  and  the  trials  of  housekeeping 
in  modest  homes ;  where  there  is  music 
twice  a  week  and  dancing  on  Saturdays ; 


768 


The   Common  Lot. 


where  the  lower  windows  are  curtained 
by  cheap  lace  bearing  large  monograms, 
and  electric  candles  and  carnations  are 
provided  for  each  table  in  the  dining- 
room.  Another  year  from  this  time  there 
would  have  been  three  hundred  people 
in  the  burning  tinder-box. 

The  fire  had  started  somewhere  in  the 
rear  of  the  second  floor,  from  defective 
electric  wiring,  it  was  supposed,  and  had 
shot  up  the  rear  elevator  shaft,  which  had 
no  pretense  of  fireproof  protection.  The 
east  wall  had  bulged  almost  at  once,  pull- 
ing out  the  supports  for  the  upper  three 
floors.  It  was  to  be  doubted  whether  the 
beams,  bearing-walls,  and  main  partitions 
were  of  fireproof  materials.  The  charred 
remains  of  Georgia  pine  and  northern 
spruce  seemed  to 'indicate  that  they  were 
not.  At  any  rate,  the  incredible  rapidity 
with  which  the  fire  had  spread,  and  the 
dense  smoke,  showed  that  the  "  fireproof- 
ing"  was  of  the  flimsiest  description. 
And,  to  cap  all,  there  was  but  one  small 
fire-escape  on  the  rear  wall,  difficult  of 
access  !  "  The  Glenmore,"  so  the  Chi- 
cago Thunderer  pronounced,  "  was  no- 
thing but  an  ornamental  coffin." 

Editorially,  the  Thunderer  had  al- 
ready begun  its  denunciation  of  the  build- 
ing department  for  permitting  a  contrac- 
tor to  erect  such  an  obvious  "  fire-trap," 
and  for  giving  the  lessees  a  license  to 
open  it  as  a  hotel.  There  had  been  too 
many  similar  horrors  of  late,  —  the  lodg- 
ing-house on  West  Polk  Street,  where  five 
persons  had  lost  their  lives,  the  private 
hospital  on  the  North  Side,  where  four- 
teen men  and  women  had  been  burned, 
etc.  In  all  these  cases  it  was  known  that 
the  building  ordinances  had  been  most 
flagrantly  violated.  There  was  the  usual 
clamor  for  "  investigation,"  for  "  locating 
the  blame,"  and  "  bringing  the  real  cul- 
prits before  the  Grand  Jury."  It  should 
be  said  that  the  Thunderer  was  opposed 
politically  to  the  City  Hall. 

In  the  architect's  office  there  was  an 
air  of  subdued  excitement.  No  work  was 


in  progress  when  Hart  let  himself  into  his 
private  room  from  the  hall.  Instead,  the 
men  were  poring  over  the  broad  sheets 
of  the  newspapers  spread  out  on  the  ta- 
bles. When  he  stepped  into  the  draught- 
ing-room,  they  began  awkwardly  to  fold 
up  the  papers  and  start  their  work.  Cook, 
Hart  noticed,  was  not  there.  The  steno- 
grapher came  in  from  the  outer  office  and 
announced  curtly,  — 

"  The  'phone 's  been  ringing  every 
minute,  Mr.  Hart."  She  looked  at  the 
architect  with  mingled  aloofness  and 
curiosity.  "  They  were  mostly  calls  from 
the  papers,  and  some  of  the  reporters  are 
in  there  now,  waiting.  What  shall  I  say 
to  'em  ?  " 

"  Say  I  am  out  of  town,"  Hart  ordered, 
giving  the  usual  formula  when  reporters 
called  at  the  office.  Then  he  went  back 
to  his  private  room  and  shut  the  door. 
He  put  the  bulky  newspaper  on  his  desk 
and  tried  to  think  what  he  should  do. 
There  were  some  memoranda  on  the  desk 
of  alterations  which  he  was  to  make  in 
a  country  house,  and  these  he  took  up 
to  examine.  Soon  his  desk  telephone 
rang,  and  when  he  put  the  receiver  to 
his  ear,  Graves's  familiar  tones  came 
whispering  over  the  line.  The  contractor 
talked  through  the  telephone  in  a  subdued 
tone,  as  if  he  thought  to  escape  eavesdrop- 
ping at  the  central  office  by  lowering  his 
voice. 

"  Is  that  you,  Hart  ?  Where  have 
you  been  ?  I  've  been  trying  to  get  you 
all  the  morning !  Say,  can't  you  come 
over  here  quick  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  the  architect 
demanded  sharply.  The  sound  of  the 
man's  voice  irritated  him. 

"  Well,  I  want  a  good  many  things," 
Graves  replied  coldly.  "  I  guess  we  had 
better  get  together  on  this  business  pretty 
soon." 

"  You  can  find  me  over  here  the  rest 
of  the  morning,"  Hart  answered  curtly. 

There  was  a  pause  of  several  seconds, 
and  then  the  contractor  telephoned  cau- 
tiously :  — 


The   Common  Lot. 


769 


"Say,  I  can't  leave.  That  Dutch- 
man 's  in  here  pretty  drunk,  and  I  don't 
want  him  to  get  loose.  Come  over, 
quick  !  " 

"All  right,"  the  architect  muttered 
dully,  hanging  up  his  telephone.  He  was 
minded  to  refuse,  but  he  realized  that  it 
would  he  best  to  see  what  was  the  matter. 
Van  Meyer  was  one  of  the  officers  and 
directors  of  the  Glenmore  Hotel  Corpo- 
ration. The  architect  and  a  couple  of 
clerks  in  the  contractor's  office  were  the 
other  dummies  in  this  corporation,  which 
had  been  organized  solely  to  create  bonds 
and  stock,  and  to  escape  personal  liability. 

Hart  gathered  up  the  memoranda  on 
his  desk,  and,  telling  the  stenographer 
that  he  was  going  out  to  Eversley  to  see 
the  Dixon  house,  he  left  the  office.  As 
he  stepped  into  the  hall,  he  met  Cook, 
who  had  just  come  from  the  elevator. 
He  nodded  to  the  draughtsman,  and 
hailed  a  descending  car. 

"  Say,  Hart,"  Cook  said  in  a  quiet 
voice,  "  can  I  have  a  word  with  you  ?  " 

Hart  stepped  back  into  the  hall  and 
waited  to  hear  what  the  draughtsman 
had  to  say. 

"  I  must  have  been  pretty  near  crazed 
last  night,  I  guess,"  Cook  began,  turning 
his  face  away  from  the  architect,  "  and 
I  said  things  I  had  no  call  to  say." 

"  Come  in,"  Hart  said,  unlocking  the 
door  to  his  private  office. 

"  Of  course,  it  was  n't  my  business  any- 
way," Cook  continued,  "  to  accuse  you, 
no  matter  what  happened.  But  I  saw  a 
friend  of  mine  this  morning,  a  man  on 
the  Thunderer,  and  he  had  just  come 
from  the  city  hall,  where  he  'd  been  to 
see  the  Glenmore  plans.  He  says  they  're 
all  right !  Same  as  ours  in  the  office. 
I  can't  understand  what  happened  to  the 
old  thing,  unless  Graves  —  Well,  that 's 
not  our  business." 

There  was  a  pause,  while  the  two  men 
stood  and  looked  at  each  other.  Final- 
ly, Cook  said, — 

"  So  I  wanted  to  tell  you  I  was  wrong, 
—  I  had  no  call  to  talk  that  way !  " 

VOL.  xcm.  —  NO.  560.  49 


"  That 's  all  right,  Cook,"  the  archi- 
tect replied  slowly.  Somehow  the  man's 
apology  hurt  him  more  than  his  curses. 
They  still  stood  waiting.  Suddenly 
Hart  said,  — 

"  You  need  n't  apologize,  man  !  The 
plans  are  all  right.  But  that  does  n't  let 
me  out.  I  knew  what  Graves  was  going 
to  do  with  'em.  I  knew  it  from  the 
start." 

"  What  do  you  say  ?  "  the  draughts- 
man exclaimed,  bewildered. 

"  The  hotel  was  a  job  from  the  start," 
Hart  repeated. 

There  was  another  pause,  which  was 
broken  by  Cook. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  after  this  you  won't 
want  me  any  more  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  not,"  Hart  answered  in  a 
colorless  tone. 

"  All  right ;  I  '11  go  to-day  if  you  say 
so." 

"  As  you  please." 

And  they  parted.  Cook  was  an  hon- 
est, whole-souled  man.  It  was  best  that 
they  should  part,  Hart  reflected,  as  he 
went  down  in  the  elevator,  best  for  Cook 
and  for  him,  too.  The  draughtsman's 
admiration  for  him  had  been  his  daily 
incense,  and  he  could  not  bear  having 
him  about  with  this  matter  between  them, 
even  if  Cook  would  stay. 

Hart  found  Graves  in  his  inner  office, 
while  a  clerk  held  at  bay  a  roomful  of 
men  who  wanted  to  get  at  the  contractor. 
Graves  looked  serious,  but  undisturbed, 
manifesting  no  more  emotion  than  if  he 
had  come  from  the  funeral  of  a  distant 
relative. 

"  It 's  a  pretty  bad  mess,  ain't  it  ?  " 
he  said  to  the  architect,  offering  him  a 
cigar.  "  I  guess  you  were  right.  Those 
first  story  walls  weren't  solid.  They 
bulged,  and  that  must  have  pulled  the 
whole  business  down.  ...  Of  course 
the  papers  are  hot.  They  always  yap 
considerable  when  anything  happens. 
They'll  spit  fire  a  week  or  so,  and 
then  forget  all  about  it  Everything  is 
straight  over  at  the  city  hall.  There  '11 


770 


The   Common  Lot. 


be  the  coroner's  inquest,  of  course.  But 
he  won't  find  much  !  The  only  bad  point 
is  this  cuss  Van  Meyer.  He  's  been  on  a 
spree,  and  if  they  get  hold  of  him,  and 
ask  him  questions  at  the  inquest,  he 's 
liable  to  tell  all  he  knows,  and  more  too. 
What  I  want  you  to  do  is  to  take  care 
of  the  Dutchman." 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  do  ?  "  Hart 
asked  abruptly. 

"  Do  ?  Well,  the  best  thing  for  all  of 
us  who  are  connected  with  the  Glenmore 
is  to  be  called  out  of  town  for  two  or 
three  weeks,  or  so.  I  have  got  to  go  to 
Philadelphia  to-night.  Gotz  will  be  here 
to  go  on  the  stand  if  they  want  to  get 
after  the  hotel  corporation.  They  won't 
make  much  out  of  him  !  Now,  if  you  can 
take  care  of  the  Dutchman  "  —  < 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

Graves  looked  at  the  architect  criti- 
cally before  answering. 

"  Don't  lose  your  nerve,  Hart.  It  '11 
come  out  all  right.  I  've  seen  my  law- 
yer this  morning,  and  I  know  just  what 
they  can  do  with  us,  and  it  ain't  much. 
They  can  get  after  the  building  depart- 
ment, but  they  're  used  to  that !  And 
they  can  bring  suit  against  the  corpora- 
tion, which  will  do  no  harm.  You  keep 
out  of  the  way  for  a  while,  and  you  won't 
get  hurt  a  particle.  Take  the  Dutchman 
up  to  Milwaukee  and  drown  him.  Keep 
him  drunk,  —  he  's  two  thirds  full  now. 
Lucky  he  came  here  instead  of  blabbing 
to  one  of  those  newspaper  fellers !  Keep 
him  drunk,  and  ship  him  up  north  on 
the  lakes.  By  the  time  he  finds  his  way 
back,  his  story  won't  be  worth  telling." 

Hart  looked  at  the  big  mass  of  a  man 
before  him,  and  loathed  him  with  all  his 
being.  He  wanted  to  take  him  by  one 
of  his  furry  ears  and  shake  the  flesh  from 
his  bones.  The  same  impulse  that  had 
prompted  him  to  admit  his  guilt  to  Cook, 


the  impulse  to  cut  loose  from  the  whole 
business,  cost  what  it  might,  was  stirring 
within  him. 

"  Well  ?  "  Graves  inquired. 

"I  am  going  to  quit,"  the  architect 
said,  almost  involuntarily.  "  I  'm  sick 
of  the  business,  and  I  shan't  run  away. 
You  can  look  after  Van  Meyer  your- 
self "  — 

"  Perhaps  you  're  looking  for  some 
money  ?  "  the  contractor  sneered. 

"  No  more  of  yours,  I  know  that !  " 
Hart  answered,  rising  from  his  chair  and 
taking  his  hat.  "  I  'm  sick  of  the  whole 
dirty  job,  and  if  they  want  me  to,  I  '11 
talk,  too,  I  suppose." 

"  You  damned,  white-livered  sneak  ! 
Ain't  you  got  enough  gut  in  you  to  sit 
tight?  You"  — 

But  the  contractor  was  swearing  at  the 
blank  wall  of  his  office. 

When  the  architect  reached  the  street 
he  hesitated.  Instead  of  taking  the 
train  for  Eversley,  as  he  had  intended  to 
do,  he  got  on  an  electric  car  that  ran  far 
out  into  the  northern  suburbs.  He  kept 
saying  to  himself  that  he  wanted  time  to 
think,  that  he  must  "  think  it  out "  before 
he  returned  to  his  office.  For  he  was 
not  sure  that  it  would  be  best  to  stay  and 
bear  the  brunt  of  the  investigation  which 
would  surely  come,  as  he  had  said  to  the 
contractor.  He  was  not  clear  what  good 
that  would  do. 

But  he  did  not  think.  Instead,  he 
brooded  over  the  vision  of  the  past  night, 
which  beset  him.  When  the  car  stopped 
he  got  out  and  walked  north  along  the 
lake  shore,  meaning  to  reach  Eversley  in 
that  way.  He  was  still  trying  to  think, 
but  saw  nothing  clearly  ;  nothing  but  that 
terrible  picture  of  the  burning  hotel,  the 
dying  men  and  women.  Thus  he  walked 
on  and  on,  still  trying  to  think,  to  find 
himself.  .  .  . 

Robert  Herrick. 


(To  be  continued.) 


At  the  Grave  of  Samuel  Adams.  771 

AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  SAMUEL  ADAMS. 

OLD   GRANARY   BUKYING-GROUND,  BOSTON. 

THEY  knew  the  patriot  rebel's  soul, 
Who  set  his  grave  upon  the  verge 
Of  Boston's  busy  street,  where  roll 
The  vans  of  traffic  and  the  surge 
Of  hasting  footsteps :  not  for  him 
A  cedar'd  churchyard's  blank  repose, 
Nor  tomb  in  some  cathedral  dim 
Where  no  bird  flies  nor  free  wind  blows. 

Sam  Adams  never  ask'd  to  rest : 
I  cannot  think  he  slumbers  here, 
But  watches  with  unjaded  zest 
The  stream  rush  on  and  disappear ; 
He  longs  to  rise  and  join  the  strife, 
As  in  the  seasons  when  his  breath 
Kindled  a  nation  into  life  ; 
He  scorns  the  palsying  sloth  of  death. 

Fain  would  he  hear  which  faction  rules, 
What  men  precede  in  town  and  state, 
And  if  we  guard  our  public  schools, 
And  keep  our  courts  inviolate. 
He  whispers,  "  We  for  Freedom  fought, 
Have  you  the  love  of  Freedom  still  ? 
Has  Wealth  not  pauperiz'd  your  thought, 
Nor  Power  bred  the  wolfish  will  ? 

"  You  hurry  by  —  what  errands  call  ? 
Service  to  heart,  or  head,  or  purse  ? 
Shed  you  a  freeman's  boon  on  all, 
Or  shape  a  subtler  tyrant's  curse? 
We  number'd  but  a  little  clan 
Beside  your  million-teeming  press, 
Yet  wrought  the  general  good  of  Man,  — 
Woe  be  your  meed,  if  you  do  less !  " 

William  Roscoe  Thayer. 


772 


The  Ethics  of  Taxation. 


THE  ETHICS  OF  TAXATION. 


THE  remark  that  Goldsmith  in  one  of 
his  essays  lets  drop  apropos  of  the  his- 
tory of  a  tavern  is  essentially  true  of  the 
history  of  taxation,  —  it  "is  a  true  pic- 
ture of  human  infirmity,"  in  which  "  we 
see  every  age  equally  absurd  and  equally 
vicious."  If  this  seem  too  disparaging  to 
the  present  age,  consider  for  a  moment 
the  most  obtrusive  features  of  taxation 
in  the  world  of  to-day,  or,  rather,  the 
most  obtrusive  features  of  the  tax  systems 
of  the  most  progressive  nations.  For, 
despite  its  historical  identity  with  early 
taxation,  we  may  no  longer  designate  as 
taxation  the  habit  of  the  Orient,  where 
taxes  are  indistinguishable  from  black- 
mail, and  where  the  rich  disguise  them- 
selves in  rags  to  escape  the  exaction  of 
the  publican.  Nor  may  we  longer  account 
as  taxation  the  archaic  methods  in  vogue 
in  the  land  of  the  Grand  Llama,  where 
the  tax-collector,  happening  upon  the 
wayfarer,  accosts  him  with  complaints  of 
the  cruel  rigor  of  the  winter,  and,  after  a 
minatory  flourish  of  his  matchlock,  re- 
marks, "Thy  cloak,  venerable  brother." 
Process  like  this  is  rendered  unnecessary 
in  civilized  lands  by  the  proper  extension 
of  indirect  taxes. 

Instead  of  allowing  the  sovereign  to 
blackmail  the  subject,  we  graciously  per- 
mit the  owner  of  personal  property  to 
determine  the  amount  of  his  contribu- 
tion to  the  public  treasury,  much  as  he 
might  fix  upon  the  gratuity  to  his  waiter 
in  a  restaurant. 

Seriously  considered,  the  justification 
offered  for  indirect  taxes  is  a  most  curi- 
ous commentary  upon  our  system  of  self- 
government.  In  the  United  States,  for 
example,  not  far  from  half  of  the  gov- 
ernment's total  revenue  is  obtained  by 
disguising  taxes  in  the  prices  of  mer- 
chandise, either  duty-paid  imports,  or 
liquors  and  tobacco  freighted  with  the 
weight  of  the  internal  revenue.  Despite 


the  incidental  advantages  such  taxes  af- 
ford in  consulting  the  convenience  of  the 
payer  as  to  the  time  and  the  amounts  of 
particular  payments,  the  great  reason  for 
the  existence  of  these  taxes  in  every  coun- 
try is  their  power  to  conceal  from  the 
governed  the  real  cost  of  supporting  the 
government.  The  people,  in  whose  in- 
terest the  government  supposedly  is  con- 
ducted, must  be  induced  to  pay  their 
taxes  in  an  unconscious  condition,  "  lest  at 
any  time  they  should  see  with  their  eyes, 
and  hear  with  their  ears,  and  should  un- 
derstand with  their  heart,  and  should  be 
converted "  to  a  belief  in  another  than 
the  dominant  programme  of  expenditure. 

If,  on  the  other  hand,  we  look  away 
from  our  Federal  taxes  to  our  system  of 
state  and  local  taxation,  the  crying  in- 
equalities of  the  latter  are  only  too  well 
known.  The  millionaire  Emigre  too  fre- 
quently escapes  his  just  contribution, 
while  the  widow's  mite  and  the  orphan's 
crust  pay  the  very  uttermost  farthing. 
Had  the  Lord  questioned  Mephistopheles 
upon  the  subject  of  taxation  exclusive- 
ly, the  verdict  of  "  herzlich  schlecht " 
would  have  needed  but  little  qualifica- 
tion. Adam  Smith,  the  sagacious  father 
of  political  economy,  saw  the  situation  in 
his  day,  and  was  sad,  but  the  consolation 
that  he  offered  then  is  about  all  we  have 
to-day.  "  If  a  nation,"  said  he,  "  could 
not  prosper  without  the  enjoyment  of 
perfect  liberty  and  perfect  justice,  there 
is  not  in  the  world  a  nation  which  could 
have  prospered.  In  the  political  body, 
however,  the  wisdom  of  nature  has  for- 
tunately made  ample  provision  for  rem- 
edying many  of  the  bad  effects  of  the 
folly  and  injustice  of  man ;  in  the  same 
manner  as  it  has  done  in  the  natural  body 
for  remedying  those  of  his  sloth  and  in- 
temperance." 

Whatever  the  causes  for  the  persistence 
of  injustice  and  double  dealing  in  finan- 


The  JEthics  of  Taxation. 


773 


cial  administration,  one  thing  is  certain, 
—  that  these  evils  are  not  due  to  the  ab- 
sence of  enlightened  inquiry  into  the  na- 
ture of  fiscal  problems.  One  might  in 
this  connection  almost  echo  the  remark 
made  of  the  mediaeval  Italian  cities,  that 
nothing  could  surpass  the  excellence  of 
their  treatises  on  money,  or  the  wretch- 
edness of  their  actual  currency.  Of  the 
extreme  thoroughness  with  which  the  di- 
agnosis of  the  financial  status  of  the  body 
politic  has  been  made,  one  is  reminded 
by  the  appearence  of  Dr.  Weston's  re- 
cent volume.1  This  work  does  not  im- 
port into  the  discussion  any  new  practi- 
cal plan  for  securing  equity  in  taxation, 
for  substantial  agreement  upon  the  prac- 
tical ethics  of  taxation  had  long  ago  been 
reached.  That  taxes  cannot  properly 
be  regarded  as  an  insurance  premium 
paid  to  the  state  for  protection  received, 
nor  as  a  commercial  equivalent  for  bene- 
fits enjoyed  (except  in  case  of  special 
assessments  levied  to  pay  for  public  im- 
provements to  private  property),  —  upon 
these  points  there  has  been  for  a  long 
time  substantial  agreement  among  seri- 
ous students.  And,  apart  from  those 
obsessed  with  the  idea  that  society  has 
no  claim  upon  its  members  to  take  aught 
in  taxes  except  what  society  is  first  al- 
leged to  have  created  in  the  rental  values 
of  land,  universal  homage  has  been  paid 
to  the  dictum  that  contributions  to  pub- 
lic needs  should  be  determined  by  the  con- 
tributor's ability.  This  canon  of  ability 
has  hitherto  been  treated  as  sufficiently 
explicit  as  to  the  matter  of  justice  in 
taxation.  Indeed,  the  ingenuity  of  the 
text-writers  has  been  mainly  bestowed 
upon  finding  concrete  indicia  of  ability, 
— such  as  income,  property,  expenditure, 
and  the  like,  —  and  upon  judging  extant 
tax-laws  by  their  conformity  to  such 
criteria.  Very  different  is  Dr.  Wes- 
ton's inquiry.  He  has  undertaken  rather 
to  show  how  the  principle  of  justice  in 

1  Principles  of  Justice  in  Taxation.  By  STE- 
PHEN F.  WESTON,  Ph.D.  New  York:  The 
Macmillan  Co.  1903. 


taxation  stands  related  to  what  might  be 
called  the  metaphysics  of  finance,  and 
how  the  implicates  of  the  science  of 
finance  involve  the  fundamental  theory 
of  the  state  and  the  problem  of  human 
personality.  To  the  economist  and  doc- 
trinaire financiers,  accustomed  to  grovel 
here  below  in  the  sordid  realm  of  mate- 
rial wealth,  and  all  the  while  disturbed 
by  the  brawling  of  the  market-place,  this 
aerial  flight  will  prove  a  much  needed 
boon.  Their  lungs  need  expansion  in  a 
rarefied  atmosphere.  They  need  to  rub 
their  eyes  and  sit  up  and  read  that 
"  taxes  are  in  fact  voluntarily  paid,  even 
though  the  attempt  is  almost  universally 
made  to  evade  a  part  of  them,  or  a  pro- 
test is  made  against  their  amount." 
They  need  to  learn  that  in  a  broad  way 
conscious  membership  in  a  state  implies 
acquiescent  cooperation  in  supplying  its 
needs,  and  that,  therefore,  it  is  proper  to 
say  that  taxes  are  voluntarily  paid,  in  the 
Hegelian  sense  previously  referred  to  in 
Dr.  Weston's  essay,  according  to  which 
"  the  criminal  wills  his  own  punishment." 
There  is  here  a  striking  coincidence,  one 
would  think,  between  the  Hegelian  and 
Pickwickian  senses  in  which  propositions 
may  be  understood. 

It  will  doubtless  stir  the  cynic  devil  in 
the  blood  of  the  typical  economist  to 
read  at  the  end  of  sixty-seven  pages 
of  idealistic  philosophy  Dr.  Weston's 
triumphant  contention  that  he  has  de- 
monstrated the  intimate  metaphysical 
relationship  between  Economics  and 
Ethics.  But  this  again  is  precisely  what 
the  vast  majority  of  economists  need,  — 
to  have  the  truth  seared  upon  their  con- 
sciousness that  the  scientific  method  of 
measuring  the  utility  of  wealth,  where 
previous  abstraction  has  been  made  of 
the  moral  character  of  its  constituents, 
can  afford  no  fundamental  basis  of  pub- 
lic policy,  and  can  issue  no  imperative 
word  of  political  guidance.  In  the  face 
of  the  supreme  questions  the  oracles  of 
expediency  are  dumb. 

But  fully  to  fathom  the  iniquities  that 


774 


The  Ethics  of  Taxation. 


attach  to  taxation  we  must  leave  the 
financial  experts  to  their  own  devices, 
and  condescend  to  men  of  low  estate. 
It  may  be  that  the  matter  will  become 
somewhat  clearer  if  we  consider  the 
average  taxpayer,  first  as  an  exponent 
of  conservative  class  prejudice,  and  sec- 
ond as  an  example  of  individual  frailty. 
The  first  will  explain  why  unsparing  re- 
form of  our  system  of  direct  taxation  is 
so  unlikely ;  the  second  will  make  clear 
why  our  system  of  direct  taxation  is  so 
bad. 

The  taxpayer  is  above  all  things  a 
conservative  animal.  Before  his  name 
appeared  on  the  assessor's  roll,  he  was, 
like  Stevenson's  bachelor,  "  fit  for  hero- 
ism or  crime ;  "  but  taxes,  like  conscience 
and  matrimony,  make  cowards  of  us  all. 
Let  the  average  citizen  interrogate  his 
own  consciousness  and  ask,  "  Am  I 
willing  to  risk  a  radical  change  in  our 
system  of  taxation,  by  which  doomage 
shall  supersede  self -assessment,  and  per- 
sonal property  in  the  hands  of  the  holder 
be  exempted  altogether,  —  this  in  order 
to  secure  a  thoroughgoing  reform  ?  "  — 
and  the  answer  will  almost  infallibly  be 
in  the  negative.  We  are  determined  at 
all  hazards  not  "  to  fly  to  evils  that  we 
know  not  of."  We  must  be  dragged  to 
them,  if  we  ever  reach  them  at  all. 

In  a  way,  it  is  really  remarkable  how 
certain  parables  of  caution  have  become 
incorporated  in  the  canons  of  our  politi- 
cal scriptures.  One  cannot  propose  the 
smallest  innovation,  except  in  accentu- 
ating our  truculent  policy  of  foreign 
aggression,  but  that  our  political  doc- 
tors take  us  to  task  by  recounting  to  us 
the  fable  of  the  Dog  and  the  Bone,  and 
beseech  us  not  to  sacrifice  the  reality  for 
the  shadow.  They  never  seem  to  reflect 
that  a  plunge  in  a  clear  shining  stream 
may  often  be  worth  the  sacrifice  of  a 
dry  bone.  They  are  continually  exhort- 
ing us 

"  To  take  the  Cash  and  let  the  Credit  go," 
forgetful  of  the  fact  that  we  really  have 


little  of  either,  and  that  normally  both 
cash  and  credit  go  together.  It  is  posi- 
tively humiliating  to  think  of  the  number 
of  political  geese  that  have  purchased 
lifelong  immunity  from  the  knife  by 
constantly  cackling  in  our  ears  the  story 
of  their  mythical  ancestor  who  laid  the 
golden  egg.  It  seems  to  be  forgotten 
that,  as  the  late  Mr.  Whistler  would 
say,  there  is  only  one  goose  on  record 
that  ever  did  lay  a  golden  egg,  and  that 
the  day  of  miracles  is  past. 

So  it  comes  that  first  of  all  the  fear- 
some conservatism  of  the  taxpayer  is 
responsible  for  the  fact  that  "  not  one  of 
the  American  states  has  ever  adopted 
the  recommendations  of  its  various  ex- 
pert Tax  Commissions."  The  farmer 
fumes  at  the  proposed  exemption  of 
credits,  and  the  city  man  is  suspicious 
of  all  far-reaching  changes  proposed  in 
taxation. 

This  reluctance  to  reconstitute  the  tax- 
machinery  is  the  more  singular  from  the 
fact  that  those  who  are  unwilling  to  risk 
a  substitute  grumble  over  the  imperfec- 
tions of  the  present  system  as  loudly  as 
the  reformer  who  is  bent  on  radical  re- 
adjustment. The  typical  yeoman  and 
the  well-to-do  citizen  of  the  lower  mid- 
dle classes,  both  of  whom  through  their 
frugality  own  a  modest  homestead,  but 
little  beyond,  will  bitterly  oppose  the  ex- 
emption of  any  form  of  personal  prop- 
erty. And  yet  individually  they  will 
often  assent  to  the  dictum  of  the  West 
Virginia  Tax  Commission,  —  a  veritable 
locus  classicus  in  the  literature  of  tax- 
ation, —  which  declared  that  "  the  pay- 
ment of  the  tax  on  personalty  is  almost 
as  voluntary,  and  is  considered  pretty 
much  in  the  same  light  as  donations  to 
the  neighborhood  church  or  Sunday- 
school." 

So  far  as  taxation  is  concerned,  our 
electorate  presents  the  incongruous  spec- 
tacle of  radical  prepossessions  coupled 
with  a  paralyzing  distrust  of  all  efforts 
at  amendment.  The  doctrine  of  pro- 
gressive taxation,  that  the  percentage  of 


The  Ethics  of  Taxation. 


775 


taxes  should  rise  as  property  or  income 
is  greater,  is  to  the  man  in  the  street  an 
axiom.  That  a  man's  ability  to  contrib- 
ute to  the  public  chest  is  more  than 
doubled  when  his  income  is  doubled  — 
a  proposition  to  the  classical  economist 
a  stumbling-block,  and  to  the  hard-headed 
logician  foolishness  —  has  to  the  ordinary 
voter  of  reflective  turn  of  mind  the  stamp 
of  self-evident  truth.  The  Philistine  as- 
sesses lightly  the  sacrifice  of  what  he 
designates  superfluous  luxuries,  which, 
under  progressive  taxation,  the  well-con- 
ditioned classes  would  have  to  submit  to. 
The  man  of  common  clay  has  little  ink- 
ling of  the  real  pathos  of  Motley's  cry, 
"Give  us  the  luxuries  of  life  and  we 
will  dispense  with  the  necessities."  He 
finds  it  not  a  bitter,  but  an  easy  thing 
to  look  into  the  sacrifice  of  happiness 
through  another  man's  eyes.  But  de- 
spite his  radical  convictions,  extreme  and 
indefensible  as  they  often  are,  he  shakes 
his  head  at  any  proposed  change  in  our 
system  either  of  direct  or  indirect  taxes, 
both  of  which  notoriously  impose  the 
heavier  relative  burdens  upon  the  weaker 
shoulders. 

But  the  average  taxpayer  represents 
not  only  the  conservative  apathy  of  his 
social  class,  but  another  constituency  as 
well,  essentially  a  pocket-borough,  to  wit, 
himself.  Despite  the  fact  that,  under  the 
usual  process  of  assessing  real  estate, 
the  taxpayer  has  comparatively  little 
power  over  his  assessment,  when  it  comes 
to  the  declaration  of  personal  property,  he 
has  almost  unlimited  liberty  of  "writing 
himself  down,"  not  an  ass,  but  a  pauper. 
In  a  sense  there  is  no  more  curious  prob- 
lem in  social  psychology  than  the  way  in 
which  the  ordinary  taxpayer  interprets, 
and  the  degree  in  which  he  discharges, 
the  duty  that  rests  upon  him,  of  contrib- 
uting to  the  expenses  of  the  government. 
The  elements  in  the  situation,  so  far  as 
the  taxation  of  personal  property  is  con- 
cerned, are  these :  the  individual  is  con- 
fronted with  his  duty  to  an  abstract  per- 
sonality, the  government ;  he  is  required 


to  fill  out  an  inventory  of  all  kinds  of 
personal  property,  itemized  so  minutely 
that  through  its  meshes  absolutely  no 
chattel  or  credit  can  escape.  He  is  fre- 
quently, if  not  generally,  required  to  de- 
clare over  his  own  signature,  and  not 
uncommonly  upon  oath,  that  the  list  re- 
turned is  complete  and  literally  correct. 
Under  these  circumstances  the  taxpayer 
almost  universally  commits  deliberate 
perjury,  and  omits,  or  knowingly  under- 
values, what  personal  property  he  pos- 
sesses ;  and  —  moral  paradox  that  it  is 
—  thinks  none  the  worse  of  himself  for 
it.  It  has  long  been  a  truism  among 
students  of  American  finance  that  the 
tax  on  personalty,  as  various  official  re- 
ports have  it,  "  has  in  effect  become  a 
tax  upon  ignorance  and  honesty,"  "  a 
school  of  perjury  promoted  by  law,"  "  a 
premium  on  perjury  and  a  penalty  on 
integrity ; "  and  that,  when  the  tax- 
payer's conscience  is  tender,  "virtue  is 
perforce  its  own  reward." 

There  is  little  use  in  drawing  a  long 
face  over  this  situation,  or  of  saying  of 
all  men  at  our  leisure  what  the  Psalmist 
said  of  them  in  his  haste.  The  truth  is 
that  what  we  really  need  is  a  new  code 
or  digest  of  what  might  be  called  Deca- 
logical  Limitations.  The  leading  case, 
so  far  as  the  commandment  of  veracity 
is  concerned,  has  already  been  decided 
by  a  learned  judge  who  refused  to  admit 
as  proper  evidence  of  a  witness's  general 
reputation  for  veracity  the  tax-duplicate 
which  said  witness  had  returned  under 
oath.  The  common  sense  of  mankind 
will  support  this  decision.  "  In  lapidary 
inscriptions,"  as  Dr.  Johnson  has  de- 
clared, "  a  man  is  not  upon  oath." 
Nor,  we  may  add,  is  a  fisherman  when 
questioned  as  to  his  catch  ;  nor  a  woman, 
if  one  is  graceless  enough  to  ask  her 
age  ;  nor,  of  course,  a  God-fearing  bur- 
gess when  he  fills  out  his  tax-bill.  Must 
one  always  squat  in  the  dead  centre  of 
verity,  and  "  never  hover  upon  the  con- 
fines of  truth  ?  "  Does  not  Jove  him- 
self laugh  at  lovers'  vows?  Why  all 


776 


The  Ethics  of  Taxation. 


this  simulated  concern  over  taxpayers' 
oaths  ?  If  "  charity  is  a  demand  for 
beggars,"  self-assessment  is  a  demand 
for  perjury.  That  the  supply  of  either 
should  fail  to  be  forthcoming  would  be 
an  anomaly  indeed. 

Nor  let  it  be  fancied  that  this  vice  is 
wholly  a  masculine  peccadillo.  If  one 
would  see  what  Lombroso,  the  Italian 
criminologist,  calls  the  Female  Offender, 
let  him  but  visit  the  custom  house.  The 
exemplary  mother  of  a  family  is  return- 
ing from  abroad,  and  with  a  ferocity 
which  quite  overpowers  the  protest  of 
her  husband's  "  struggling,  tasked  moral- 
ity," she  delights  to  outwit  the  ferret- 
faced  inspector  on  the  dock,  at  the  cost 
of  asseverations  which  would  have  put 
St.  Sapphira  herself  to  the  blush. 

The  conclusion  is  plain.  The  law,  as 
some  one  has  well  put  it,  is  such  a  frag- 
ile thing,  that  when  men  take  it  into 
their  own  hands,  it  is  almost  sure  to  get 
broken.  If  we  want  to  continue  to  have 
our  tax-laws  broken  at  the  expense  of 
individual  veracity,  all  we  have  to  do 
is  to  continue  the  present  arrangement 
of  self-assessment  or  declaration  of  per- 
sonal property. 

If  it  be  asked  what  is  the  prospect  of 
an  intelligent  reform  of  taxation,  the  an- 
swer must  be  that  the  effective  impulse 
will  probably  come  only  from  a  sensibly 
increased  pinch  of  taxation.  Peaceful 
reforms,  like  warlike  revolutions,  crawl 
upon  their  belly.  Jeshurun  may  have 
"waxed  fat  and  kicked,"  but  modern 
peoples  generally  reverse  the  scriptural 
order.  The  Revolution  in  France  and 
Chartism  in  England  were  the  signifi- 
cant precursors  of  the  two  greatest  tax 
reforms  of  modern  times.  This  tendency 
of  social  unrest  to  unsettle  social  injus- 
tice long  antedates  our  modern  demo- 
cracies. As  far  back  as  the  fourteenth 
century  in  England,  the  author  of  Piers 
Plowman  was  enough  of  a  political  phi- 
losopher to  observe  that,  when  the  fluc- 
tuating tide  of  prosperity  is  once  past, 
Demos  becomes  restless. 


"  And  thanne  curseth  he  the  kynge  and  all  his 

conseille  after, 

Suche  lawes  to  loke  [enforce]  laboreres  to 
greve." 

Fortunate  is  it  for  us  that  the  lines  upon 
which  the  reform  of  direct  taxes  must 
proceed  have  been  so  clearly  marked  out, 
and  that  some  of  our  commonwealths 
have  already  taken  pronounced  steps  in 
the  right  direction.  The  taxation  of  real 
estate  by  and  for  the  local  governments 
exclusively,  the  practical  exemption  of 
credits  and  chattels  in  individual  hands, 
and  the  relegation  both  of  the  adminis- 
tration and  the  proceeds  of  corporate 
taxation  to  the  state  governments,  fore- 
shadow the  financial  reform  to  which  we 
may  some  time  attain. 

But  if  the  vision  of  an  equitable  sys- 
tem of  direct  taxation  seems  not  im- 
possible of  realization  in  the  proximate 
future,  the  prospect  for  a  similar  adjust- 
ment of  Federal  imposts  is  as  yet  be- 
clouded and  dim.  The  craft  of  state 
finance  and  local  finance  ply  the  shel- 
tered channels  of  fairly  stable  and  cal- 
culable expenditure ;  the  national  ship 
of  state  has  to  breast  the  uncharted 
waters  of  international  politics  and  en- 
counter the  storms  of  war.  When  to  the 
difficult  task  of  providing  sums  whose 
aggregate  must  vary  greatly  from  year 
to  year,  there  is  added  the  additional 
task  of  giving  through  taxation  a  con- 
stant protective  stimulus  to  certain  indus- 
tries, the  double  and  often  conflicting  de- 
mands made  upon  our  Federal  financiers 
are  obvious.  Were  the  protective  func- 
tion of  our  Federal  taxes  done  away  with, 
while  there  would  still  remain  perplexi- 
ties great  enough  in  all  conscience,  one 
of  the  unknown  and  baffling  factors  in 
the  problem  would  be  eliminated. 

For  over  a  generation  many  unselfish 
and  thoughtful  American  citizens  have 
cherished  the  hope  and  the  aspiration 
that  the  intrinsic  injustice  of  our  na- 
tional system  of  taxation  might  be  ex- 
tirpated, not  at  the  unreasoning  anger  of 
the  victims  of  its  oppression,  but  at  the 


Song -Forms  of  the  Thrush. 


dictate  of  an  enlightened  national  con- 
science aggrieved  at  the  spoliation  too 
long  perpetuated  by  law.  Difficult  it  is, 
of  course, 

"  To  canvass  with  official  breath 
The  future  and  the  -viewless  things ;  " 

but,  looking  at  the  present  situation  with- 
out bias,  one  is  bound  to  admit  that  these 


hopes  of  revenue  reform  seem,  if  any- 
thing, farther  from  realization  to-day 
than  they  were  twenty  years  ago.  If 
peace  has  "  her  victories  no  less  re- 
nowned than  war,"  peace  has  also  her 
disappointments  and  her  sacrifices,  —  of 
disenchantment,  of  disillusion,  of  hope 
deferred,  —  and  this  is  one  of  them. 
Winthrop  More  Daniels. 


SONG-FORMS   OF  THE  THRUSH. 


SEVERAI/  years  ago,  while  reading  in 
an  old  number  of  the  Atlantic  Month- 
ly an  admirable  description  by  Wilson 
Flagg  of  the  song  of  the  hermit  thrush, 
I  came  upon  the  following  sentence :  "  I 
have  not  been  able  to  detect  any  order 
in  the  succession  of  these  strains,  though 
some  order  undoubtedly  exists  and  might 
be  discovered  by  long-continued  observa- 
tion." This  suggested  §a  question  :  Had 
any  one  ever  attempted  to  solve  the  old 
naturalist's  problem  ?  So  far  as  I  could 
remember,  no  one  among  the  hundreds 
of  observers  who  had  exhausted  their  vo- 
cabularies in  descriptions  of  thrush  songs 
had  made  the  effort,  not  even  Solomon 
Cheney  in  his  delightful  Wood  Notes 
Wild,  nor  Schuyler  Mathews,  whose 
musical  notations  of  thrush  songs  were 
so  accurate  and  so  sympathetic.  The 
thought  flashed  upon  me  that  here  was 
an  unoccupied  field,  a  territory  into  which 
perhaps  only  the  most  sanguine  would 
dare  to  venture,  but  still  a  region  unex- 
plored and  alluring  in  possibilities.  Such 
a  temptation  was  irresistible,  and  when 
spring  brought  once  more  the  liquid 
sound  of  wood  thrush  notes,  with  the 
rarer  whispered  songs  of  migrating  her- 
mits, olive  backs,  and  veeries,  I  began 
my  task,  not  without  some  misgivings  as 
to  my  success,  but  sure  of  one  thing,  — 
that,  even  if  the  problem  proved  insolu- 
ble, the  search  itself  would  be  a  delight- 
ful occupation. 


Spring  and  summer,  then,  I  listened 
to  thrushes  in  Ohio,  New  England,  and 
Canada ;  tramping  beside  sluggish  west- 
ern streams  or  along  ravines  carved  out 
of  the  Ohio  plains,  scrambling  through 
New  England  woods  and  pastures,  climb- 
ing mountains  in  Canada,  or  rowing 
along  the  rocky  shores  of  northern  lakes. 
At  the  outset  I  encountered  a  difficulty, 
that  I  never  could  wholly  overcome,  in 
the  problem  of  determining  the  form  of 
the  phrases  I  heard.  I  had  to  learn  to 
ignore  all  sorts  of  conflicting  sounds,  from 
the  notes  of  rival  singers  to  locomotive 
whistles,  to  adjust  a  pitch- pipe  to  match 
a  tone  held  in  the  memory  while  the 
bird  himself  was  uttering  a  different 
one,  and  to  accustom  myself  to  the  occa- 
sional sudden  introduction  by  any  singer 
of  new  variations  in  his  song.  But  the 
thrushes'  delivery  was  slow,  their  phrases 
were  repeated  continually,  and  the  tones 
themselves  were  so  clear  that  before  long 
the  matter  of  recording  became  some- 
what less  perplexing,  although  never 
very  easy. 

But  in  the  process  of  learning  to  iden- 
tify the  songs  by  the  pitch-pipe  a  new 
difficulty  appeared  in  the  absence  of 
any  recognized  way  of  representing  the 
sounds  actually  uttered  by  the  thrushes. 
The  birds'  pitch  was  of  course  entirely 
free,  whereas  the  musical  staff  provided 
for  only  a  conventional  series  of  tones 
differing  by  fixed  intervals ;  and  when 


778 


Song -Forms  of  the  Thrush. 


the  pitch-pipe  faithfully  recorded  inter- 
mediate quarter  or  eighth  tones  —  that 
is,  a  trifle  sharp  or  flat  —  there  was  no 
way  of  representing  them.  I  experi- 
mented for  a  while  with  various  devices, 
hoping  that  I  might  discover  some  way 
to  record  the  actual  sounds,  but  I  finally 
abandoned  the  problem  as  practically  in- 
soluble. As  the  study  of  the  birds'  song- 
forms  progressed  I  came,  however,  to 
console  myself  for  the  lack  of  exactitude 
by  the  discovery  that  thrushes  tended 
steadily  to  approximate  the  intervals  of 
the  human  scale.  They  were  rarely  just 
on  the  key,  but  they  were  generally  close 
to  it,  never  failing  to  suggest  the  conven- 
tional pitch. 

Having  determined,  then,  while  recog- 
nizing the  imperfections  of  my  method 
of  recording,  to  use  it  as  a  fairly  satis- 
factory one,  I  amassed  a  great  number 
of  thrush  song-forms,  and  from  these  I 
derived  the  following  facts^  noted  from 
wood  thrushes  in  Ohio,  Massachusetts, 
and  Quebec.  From  the  beginning,  I  was 
greatly  surprised  to  discover  how  few 
really  distinct  phrases  the  wood  thrushes 
used.  Very  many  had  no  more  than 
three,  the  great  majority  used  but  four, 
and  only  a  few  had  as  many  as  five  or 
six.  The  finest  singers  I  heard  were 


usually  those  with  only  four  phrases, 
which  they  uttered  with  such  beauty  of 
modulation,  and  such  deliberate  excel- 
lence, as  to  suggest  the  thought  expressed 
by  Thoreau  :  "  He  confines  himself  to 
his  few  notes,  in  which  he  is  unrivaled, 
as  if  his  kind  had  learned  this  and  no 
more  anciently." 

These  phrases,  whether  in  the  eastern 
or  western  parts  of  the  wood  thrush 
range,  were  all  very  much  alike.  I  have 
not  recorded  over  twenty  different  forms, 
yet  only  once  did  I  hear  precisely  the 
same  set  used  by  two  birds.  In  this  case 
they  were  near  neighbors  along  the  river 
bank,  father  and  son,  perhaps,  I  thought. 
All  the  other  sets  of  phrases  which  I  re- 
corded were  individual  and  unmistak- 
able, often  coinciding  in  two  phrases  or 
three,  only  to  differ  sharply  in  one  or 
two  others. 

Here  is  a  typical  example  of  a  thrush 
song  with  four  phrases.  Of  course  it 
does  not  pretend  to  give  the  actual  sounds, 
or  to  enable  one  unfamiliar  with  the  bird 
to  reproduce  the  song,  for  the  timbre,  the 
unique,  individual  wood  thrush  voice,  is 
not  to  be  hinted  at  by  such  means.  All 
it  does  is  to  symbolize  roughly  the  tones 
of  the  musical  scale,  to  which  the  thrush 
approximated. 


THE   RAVINE  WOOD  THRUSH. 

igr 


mf 

PP                 PP    P  ^. 

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'  Jfti                fc      Sj  1  J     1    1  "* 

K.         •    I         "' 

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f 

•1            N       _          «i            N       •             ~ 

Is    if 

*                *      I               9            \ 

\. 

J  *  Lri  —  

* 

It  will  be  seen  that  these  four  phrases 
were  assignable  without  undue  stretch- 
ing of  the  truth  to  the  key  of  G  natural. 
Each  began  with  two  or  three  softly  ut- 
tered grace  notes,  continued  with  three  or 
more  loud  tones,  and  concluded  with  one 
or  more  soft  staccato  notes,  sometimes 


tinkling  or  buzzing,  and  either  much 
higher  or  much  lower  than  the  loud  ones 
preceding.  The  sotto  voce  part  of  the 
song  was  inaudible  except  at  close  range, 
but  on  a  few  occasions  I  heard  it  devel- 
oped into  a  whisper  song  decidedly  unlike 
the  well-known  flute  notes. 


Song -Forms  of  the  Thrush. 


779 


It  will  also  be  observed  that  these  four 
phrases  seemed  to  form  part  of  a  broken 
melody.  The  first  was  introductory  in 
character,  uttered  with  the  bird's  richest 
tones,  round  and  liquid,  with  an  organ 
tremolo  or  pulsation  on  the  last  note  quite 
unmatched  for  vibrant  beauty  by  any 
other  bird  of  the  region.  The  next 
phrases  seemed  to  continue  the  musical 
progress,  the  second  being  a  cadence 
into  the  key  of  D,  the  third  an  arpeggio 
leading  back  into  G  again  ;  and  each  of 
these  was  sharper  and  more  metallic  in 
quality  than  the  first  one,  the  third  being 
especially  rapid  and  brilliant,  equal  in 
dexterity  to  any  of  the  brown  thrasher's 
roulades,  and  far  finer  in  tone.  The 
last  phrase,  which  was  thin  and  reedy, 
seemed  to  be  a  sort  of  conclusion  to  the 
song. 

With  much  the  same  words  the  songs 
of  all  the  other  forty  odd  wood  thrushes 
I  studied  might  be  described;  for  whether 


they  consisted  of  three  themes  only,  or 
as  many  as  six  or  seven,  they  always  had 
one  or  more  phrases  corresponding  in 
musical  character  to  those  shown  above, 
and  the  vocal  quality  was  adjusted  after 
the  same  manner.  The  introductory 
phrases  were  always  rich,  full,  and  round, 
the  continuing  ones  were  less  steady  in 
tone,  more  brilliant,  but  liable  to  contain 
squeaky  notes,  and  the  final  one  was 
generally  soft  and  reedy.  The  thrushes 
did  not  always  hold  so  clearly  to  the  key 
as  did  the  "ravine"  wood  thrush,  for 
now  and  then  one  would  introduce  acci- 
dental notes,  and  occasionally  one  would 
sing  persistently  off  the  pitch ;  but  the 
tendency  was  to  adhere  to  some  one 
key. 

Here  are  some  other  examples,  begin- 
ning with  a  thrush  who,  during  months 
of  observation,  never  used  more  than 
three  phrases.  For  convenience  we  will 
call  him 


THE   KIVERBANK   WOOD   THRUSH. 
mf  pp 


PP 


PP™ 


In  this  simplest  of  songs  the  same  ele- 
ments may  be  seen  as  in  the  one  pre- 
viously recorded :  introductory,  suspend- 
ing, and  final. 


Here  is  another  singer,  with  four 
phrases,  who  signalized  himself  by  intro- 
ducing flats,  thereby  making  a  modula- 
tion into  the  minor  of  his  original  key. 


PP 


THE  POOL  WOOD  THRUSH. 
3    PP 


Following  are  the  songs  of  two  per-  troduced  a  phrase  in  an  entirely  unrelat- 
formers,  each  with  five  phrases,  one  of  ed  key,  a  daring  performance  for  one  of 
whom,  the  "  pasture  "  wood  thrush,  in-  his  kind. 


780 


Song -Forms  of  the  Thrush. 
THE   KOADWAY   WOOD   THRUSH. 


PPP 


THE   PASTURE   WOOD   THRUSH. 

:/:.?•  PP 

^3E*- 


But  what  of  the  order  in  which  these 
thrushes  sang  ?  That  problem  proved 
relatively  simple,  once  the  phrase-forms 
had  been  identified,  for  the  slowness  and 
precision  of  the  thrushes  made  it  easy 
to  record  long  series.  I  collected  many 
such,  running  into  the  hundreds  for  some 
birds,  taken  at  various  times  and  under 
all  sorts  of  conditions  ;  and  from  a  study 
of  these  it  appeared  that  the  wood 


thrushes,  while  singing  with  free  choice, 
tended  to  use  their  themes  so  as  to  pro- 
duce as  much  variety  as  possible  without 
violating  the  musical  character  of  the 
phrases  themselves.  Further,  each  one 
had  a  favorite  order,  or  set  of  orders, 
from  which  he  would  vary,  but  to  which 
he  would  return  unfailingly.  Here,  for 
instance,  is  the  phrase  sequence  of  a 
thrush  noticeable  for  his  regularity. 


THE   SWAMP  WOOD   THRUSH. 


J 


PP    ^ 


PPP 


PPP 


PPP 


I     •*  -«••*•  W»  r  •  i  -TJ   -JT  -«  •*•  •»  ^  ^>k  Ti     \i  •*-  «  V  J  .* 

fa^Sf^Wf^^^a^^fir^rij^^ 

±5y  n^zEEEEg^         -^=^F^p=^Mq 

^          |?  ^3  -|=^-    ^ 

>-^TT  r  •)  ^  ^    '—  «i  \j~\j  \j~  \          i    *i 
g^ ^^_i^^^ 


This  "  swamp  "  thrush  had  no  low  in- 
troductory phrase,  and  his  whole  song 
was  rather  higher  pitched  than  usual; 
and  this,  together  with  his  sharp  ring- 
ing utterance,  made  his  song  sequence  a 
striking  one.  Now  and  then  he  would 
interject  a  phrase  out  of  place,  but  he 
would  immediately  return  to  his  alterna- 
tion, — 1,2,3 ;  1,2,4  ;  1,2,3 ;  1,2,4.  The 
other  thrushes  whose  songs  are  shown 


above  were  not  quite  so  regular,  but  each 
had  his  favorite  sequence. 

The  "ravine "thrush  sang  1,2,3;  1,2,4, 
much  like  the  "  swamp  "  thrush.  The 
"  pool "  thrush  used  his  four  phrases  a 
little  more  freely,  seeming  to  begin  each 
new  series  with  the  first  phrase,  but  using 
the  others  in  varied  combinations,  as  fol- 
lows  :  1,2,4,3 ;  1,4,2  ;  1,4,2 ;  1,2,3  ;  1,2,3  ; 
1,2,3,4. 


Song -Forms  of  the   Thrush. 


781 


The  "  riverbank  "  thrush,  with  only 
three  phrases,  used  them  after  the  follow- 
ing manner :  1,2,3  ;  1,2,3  ;  1,3  ;  1,2,3 ; 
1,2,3;  1,2,3;  1,3,2;  1,3,2;  1,3,2,3. 

The  "  roadway  "  thrush  used  his  five 
phrases  in  varying  orders,  always  seeming 
to  lead  off  with  the  low  phrase,  but  using 
his  fifth  or  conclusion  phrase  very  little, 
as  follows:  1,2,4,3,4 ;  1,2,4,3 ;  1,2,4,3,4; 
1,2,3,4,3 ;  1,2 ;  1,4,2 ;  1,4,2,3,2 ;  1,2,3,4,5. 

The  "  pasture  "  thrush  used  his  five 
phrases  more  equally,  but  seemed  to 
have  certain  favorite  orders,  as  follows : 
1,2,3,4 ;  1,5,2,3,4 ;  1,4 ;  1,2,3,4 ;  1,5,2,3,4. 
Examples  might  be  furnished  of  an  in- 
definite number  of  these  song  orders.  A 
thrush  would  often  sing  apparently  at 
random  for  a  moment,  but  soon  one  of 
the  familiar  sequences  would  reappear, 
the  one  thing  never  done  by  thrushes  in 
full  song  being  to  repeat  the  same  phrase 
twice  in  succession. 

It  was  contrast  which  lent  its  great 
charm  to  the  wood  thrush  song  as  com- 
pared with  the  far  more  elaborate  strains 
of  sparrows  or  bobolinks,  —  contrast  of 
tone  and  timbre  as  well  as  in  the  suc- 
cession of  phrases.  Only  the  catbird 
and  brown  thrasher  offered  anything 
similar,  and  their  delivery  was  so  jerky 
and  their  tone  quality  at  best  so  inferior 
that  in  emotional  effect  the  simpler  wood 
thrush  far  surpassed. 

Take  the  song  of  a  fine  singer,  such 
as  the  "  lagoon  "  thrush,  neighbor  of  the 
"  riverbank  "  and  "  pool  "  thrushes,  but 
distinctly  superior.  With  deliberation  he 
uttered  a  sudden  clear,  round,  vibratory 
phrase,  the  little  staccato  notes  following 
"  like  the  jingling  of  steel,"  as  Thoreau 
says. 

8     PPP 


and  tinkling  in  timbre,  apparently  at  the 
other  end  of  the  gamut  from  its  prede- 
cessor. 


PPP 


Then  followed  a  pause,  not  indicated  in 
the  foregoing  notations,  but  always  to  be 
understood  between  any  two  wood  thrush 
phrases,  and  after  it  another  phrase,  thin 


Another  pause,  and  there  was  heard  a 
sudden  modulation  into  the  key  of  the 
dominant,  in  a  ringing,  brilliant,  rather 
reedy  voice. 


After  that  came  the  low  rich  phrase,  then 
the  second,  and  then,  in  place  of  the  third 
one,  a  new  figure  in  a  clear  mellow  flute 
tone  in  the  middle  of  the  bird's  register, 
the  little  tinkling  grace  notes  after  it 
seeming  to  shoot  up  like  sparks. 


PP+ 


Then  would  come  the  first  again,  then 
the  third,  and  so  on,  the  four  phrases 
being  employed  so  as  to  produce  contin- 
ual variety  and  contrast. 

Is  there  any  apparent  reason  for  the 
order  relations  which  the  birds  seemed 
to  prefer  ?  Yes  and  no.  The  singers 
did  not  hesitate  to  leave  progressions  un- 
finished, and  did  not  feel  bound  to  abstain 
from  any  particular  successions,  but  still 
they  seemed  to  prefer  to  use  their  phrases 
in  a  way  comporting  with  their  charac- 
ter. They  did  not  sing  them  at  random, 
nor  did  they  use  the  conclusion  phrase  to 
begin  combinations ;  but  seemed,  as  the 
above  examples  have  shown,  to  prefer 
such  successions  and  variations  as  an  or- 
chestral composer  would  employ.  It  was 
this  apparent  deliberate  choice  which 
marked  off  the  wood  thrush  from  such 
singers  as  the  bobolinks,  the  orioles,  the 
sparrows,  or  finches,  which  repeated  like 
an  involuntary  expression  of  joy  the  same 


782 


Song -Forms  of  the  Thrush. 


melody  the  day  through.  The  wood 
thrush  with  his  few  figures  used  them, 
and  them  only,  not  inventing  recklessly, 
but  employing  his  well-learned  themes 
with  apparent  purpose. 

When  I  turned  from  the  wood  thrush 
to  study  the  song  of  his  smaller  cousin, 
the  hermit  thrush,  I  found  a  far  harder 
task  confronting  me.  Hermit  thrushes 
sang  with  untiring  persistence,  some- 
times for  an  hour  or  more  at  a  stretch, 
and  at  all  times  of  the  day,  but  they 
were  generally  much  shyer  than  the  wood 
thrushes,  harder  to  approach,  and  more 
restless,  often  changing  from  tree  to  tree 
while  in  song.  Then,  too,  they  were 
seldom  at  all  gregarious,  being  found  at 
considerable  distances  one  from  another, 
whereas  wood  thrushes  seemed  to  prefer 
to  nest  in  little  colonies ;  so  I  had  to 
tramp  through  wide  stretches  of  New 
England  and  Canadian  pastures  and 
forests,  and  row  many  miles  along  the 
shores  of  Canadian  lakes,  in  order  to 
learn  to  know  even  a  few  of  these  singers 
very  well.  Only  on  very  rare  occasions 
did  I  succeed  in  taking  notes  from  a  few 
yards ;  as  a  rule,  my  studies  were  neces- 
sarily carried  on  at  a  respectful  distance 
from  the  invisible  performers,  as  they 
perched  in  the  thick  green  of  hemlocks  or 
spruces,  or  among  the  foliage  of  great 
sugar  maples. 

Each  thrush,  it  appeared,  had  from 
eight  to  eleven  separate  phrases,  and 
these,  unlike  the  figures  of  the  wood 
thrush,  were  in  several  different  keys, 
and  were  all  approximately  of  the  same 
form.  This  typical  hermit  thrush  theme 
consisted  of  a  long  opening  note,  followed 
by  two  or  more  groups  of  rapid  notes 
higher  on  the  scale,  as  in  the  following 
example :  — 


be  similar  to  the  foregoing,  and  each 
would  generally  begin  on  a  different  note, 
which,  as  it  was  deliberate,  loud,  and  pen- 
etrating, was  not  difficult  to  determine 
with  the  pitch-pipe.  The  rapid  figures, 
however,  were  altogether  too  lively  to 
be  analyzed  in  this  way,  and  had  to  be 
guessed  at  from  their  apparent  intervals. 
It  was  my  impression,  not  ventured  as 
an  unqualified  statement,  that  the  song- 
forms  adhered  rather  closely  to  the  ma- 
jor or  minor  scale  ;  at  all  events,  after  lis- 
tening to  scores  of  birds  and  taking  volu- 
minous notes  upon  two  or  three  singers, 
that  was  the  way  it  appeared.  Of  course 
the  birds  sang  off  the  pitch  with  freedom, 
just  as  did  the  wood  thrushes  ;  but  never- 
theless, the  impression  produced  was  of 
an  approximation  to  the  conventional 
scale. 

Assuming  that  such  was  the  case,  it 
followed  that  each  phrase  was  in  a  key 
of  its  own,  which  was  determined  gen- 
erally by  the  opening  note ;  and  from  a 
mass  of  observations  the  fact  soon  ap- 
peared that  the  opening  notes  of  these 
phrases  formed  part  of  a  definite  scale. 
A  certain  bird,  for  instance,  as  in  the 
case  to  be  noted  below,  had  nine  phrases, 
and  these  were  always  in  the  following 
keys : — 


Each  of  the  eight  or  more  phrases  would 


Others  were  in  sharps,  but,  however 
arranged,  these  opening  notes  always 
formed  some  scale.  No  doubt  the  ac- 
tual sounds  did  not  conform  entirely ; 
some  were  a  shade  too  low,  others  too 
high,  but  the  pitch-pipe  never  failed  to  re- 
cord a  series  surprisingly  close  to  some 
conventional  scale.  This  meant  that  all 
of  the  hermit  thrush  utterances  were 
related  in  a  much  more  elaborate  man- 
ner than  were  any  of  the  wood  thrush 
phrases.  In  some  cases  it  followed  that 
the  bird  sang  in  just  those  keys  marked 
by  the  opening  notes.  Here  is  an  ex- 
ample of  this  sort :  — 


Song -Forms  of  the  Thrush. 
CAMP   HERMIT   THRUSH. 


783 


The  contrast  in  form  between  this  and 
the  wood  thrush's  song  is  obvious.  In- 
stead  of  from  three  to  five  unlike  phrases 
forming  part  of  a  broken  melody,  there 
were  nine  phrases,  all  similar  in  form, 
not  melodic,  but  thematic  in  character, 
That  songs  so  unlike  in  form  should  be 
confused  seems  scarcely  comprehensible, 

By  no  means  all  hermit  thrushes  ex- 


hibited  the  regularity  of  the  singer  fig- 
ured  above.  A  neighbor  of  the  "  camp  " 
thrush,  whose  voice  often  rang  out  with 
his  in  response  or  in  rivalry,  had  a  more 
complicated  system,  fascinating  in  its  va- 
riety.  Following  out  the  system  of  no- 
menclature  which  I  have  used  for  pur- 
poses  of  identification,  I  will  call  him  the 
"  sugar  woods  "  thrush. 


SUGAR  WOODS  THRUSH. 


f ; -• B— | 9-*— t- > 

~T      v   ^^  "^5" 


f  k   3          v          vpp 


784 


Song -Forms  of  the  Thrush. 


Here  there  were  ten  phrases  in  six  keys,     phrases  were  so  long  as  almost  to  merit 
of  which  two  were  minor,  and  in  four     the  name  of  melodies.     A  striking  fea- 
ture of  them  was  their  frequent  syncopa- 
tion, and  the  fact  that  in  one  case  the 
A  still  more  elaborate  variety  was  that     long  opening  note  was  omitted,  —  an  un- 
of  a  Canadian  thrush,  some  of   whose     usual  occurrence. 

LAKE  THRUSH. 


cases  the  opening  note  was  not  the  key- 
note. 


Just  what  Burroughs  meant  when  he 
wrote  years  ago  that  the  hermit  thrush's 
song  was  "  interspersed  with  the  finest 
trills  and  the  most  delicate  preludes,"  is 
not  clear  to  me.  I  have  heard  the  birds 
sing  at  such  short  range  that  their  loud 
notes  fairly  pierced,  yet  I  have  never  de- 
tected any  soft  notes  like  those  of  the 
wood  thrush,  to  which,  indeed,  the  fore- 
going description  seems  to  apply.  Pos- 
sibly it  may  refer  to  the  hermit's  whisper 
song,  which  consists  of  the  bird's  highest 
phrases  at  the  top  of  his  register,  —  sung 
sotto  voce  in  a  rather  hurried  manner, 
with  occasional  hints  at  one  of  the  lower 
figures.  But  when  the  bird  was  in  full 
song,  these  high  phrases  played  a  limited 
part  only. 

The  order  of  the  hermit  thrush's  song 


I  found  much  harder  to  determine  than 
that  of  the  wood  thrush,  since  there  were 
more  phrases,  all  of  which  were  similar 
in  form,  and  some  of  which  differed  by 
only  a  half  tone.  The  ear  could  not  be 
relied  upon  with  certainty  to  distinguish 
in  all  cases  between  a  C  natural  or  a 
D  flat  phrase,  and  it  was  hard  to  adjust 
a  pitch-pipe  rapidly  enough.  Still,  by 
unending  patience,  a  good  many  records 
were  obtained,  and  these  when  studied 
showed  a  similar  result  to  that  found  in 
the  records  of  the  wood  thrush.  The 
hermit  thrush,  while  bound  to  no  order, 
tended  to  use  certain  favorite  sequences 
and  to  avoid  others.  With  the  "  camp  " 
thrush  this  was  not  very  obvious,  but  in 
the  long  run  it  appeared  that  the  bird 
adhered  to  successions  like  that  in  the 


Song -Forms  of  the  Thrush. 


785 


notation,  liking  to  jump  by  fifths  and 
octaves,  and  seeming  to  avoid  with  great 
care  the  utterance  of  successive  phrases 
at  or  near  the  same  pitch. 

The  "  sugar  woods  "  thrush,  however, 
surpassed  the  "  camp  "  thrush  in  the  in- 
terest of  his  song  order,  for  he  had  certain 
definitely  marked  preferences.  After  the 
first  phrase  in  B  flat  major  he  sang  the 
octave  phrase  more  than  half  the  time, 
and  the  E  flat  phrase  most  of  the  re- 
mainder ;  after  the  phrase  in  D  major, 
he  sang  the  phrase  beginning  with  A,  the 
eighth  in  the  notation,  the  phrase  in 
B  flatmajor,the  phrase  inE  minor  begin- 
ning on  G, —  the  sixth  in  the  notation,  — 
and  no  others.  So  each  might  be  taken 
in  succession,  and  it  would  be  found  that 
the  bird  had  a  certain  favorite  order, 
with  a  limited  range  of  variation.  Now 
and  then  he  would  sing  his  ten  phrases 
in  succession,  but  far  oftener  his  choice 
of  alternatives  prevented  such  a  conclu- 
sion and  led  to  repetitions.  The  notation 
above  represents,  however,  an  actual  se- 
quence. The  matter  may  be  summed 
up  by  saying  that  beneath  an  apparently 
haphazard  utterance,  clear  signs  were 
found  of  permanent  preferences  in  each 
bird.  Like  the  wood  thrush,  the  hermit 
tried  to  produce  continual  variety,  with- 
out repetition  of  phrases  near  the  same 
pitch,  and  without  violent  contrasts.  It 
will  be  seen  that  most  of  the  sequences 
are  in  related  keys  ;  and  when  the  bird 
varies  from  flats  to  sharps  the  change  is 
made  easy  by  the  form.  See,  for  instance, 
how  the  "  sugar  woods  "  thrush,  having 
sung  a  minor  phrase  beginning  with  B 
flat,  —  the  fifth,  —  follows  it  with  one  be- 
ginning with  G  natural,  which  is  a  rather 
harsh  sequence  in  itself,  but  rendered  in- 
conspicuous here  by  the  fact  that  it  is  a 
precise  echo  of  the  B  flat  phrase. 

The  contrasts  of  pitch  were  aided  by 
those  of  timbre.  The  lowest  phrases  were 
generally  round  and  hollow,  not  very 
loud,  but  exquisitely  finished  in  delivery, 
uttered  with  deliberation  and  spirit,  clear 
and  rich,  after  pauses  even  longer  than 

VOL.  xcin.  —  NO.  560.  50 


the  wood  thrush's.  Here  is  an  example 
from  a  Massachusetts  bird,  the  "  pas- 
ture "  hermit  thrush,  neighbor  of  the 
"  pasture  "  wood  thrush  before  described  : 
mf- 

y. 


After  this  first  phrase  would  come  a 
pause,  then,  in  a  far  more  penetrating 
voice,  a  middle  phrase,  brilliant  and  me- 
tallic, but  sometimes,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, reedy  to  the  point  of  harshness. 


Following  that  would  come  another  low 
phrase,  round  in  the  opening  note,  ring- 
ing in  the  rapid  figures. 


Then,  after  the  usual  pause,  would  break 
out  a  phrase  an  octave  higher,  in  a  thin, 
metallic  utterance,  contrasting  sharply 
with  the  preceding  one,  and  by  its  change 
in  timbre  suggesting  a  jump  of  two  oc- 
taves rather  than  one. 


PPP 


Then  down  would  come  the  bird  again 
to  a  middle  phrase,  this  one  clear  and 
penetrating,  the  opening  note  swelling 
a  little,  the  rapid  triplets  falling  like 
tongued  flute  notes. 


After   that   a  pause,  and  then  a  high 
phrase  in  metallic  tones. 
P 


And  finally  a  high  C,  thin  and  tinkling, 


786 


Song -Forms  of  the  Thrush. 


a  "  spray  "  of  notes,  as  Bradford  Torrey 
calls  it  somewhere. 


P 


And  so  it  would  go  on,  a  half  hour  at 
a  stretch,  continual  contrast  in  pitch  and 
timbre,  continual  progression,  continual 
variation  in  the  order,  piquing  the  inter- 
est with  never-failing  change,  long  after 
a  sparrow  or  a  bobolink  would  have  be- 
come utterly  familiar. 

Why  the  hermit  thrushes  should  use 
sets  of  musical  themes  whose  initial  notes 
fall  into  a  scale,  why  they  should  employ 
these  themes  so  as  to  secure  pleasing 
contrast,  or  why  they  should  prefer  cer- 
tain sequences  to  others,  does  not  appear. 
Whatever  the  true  explanation  may  be, 
the  effect  upon  the  listener  is  that  of  per- 
sonality ;  every  one  of  the  little  olive  and 
russet  singers  seems  to  be  exercising  aes- 
thetic judgment. 

A  few  times  during  this  search  it  was 
my  good  fortune  to  hear  these  two 
thrushes  simultaneously,  —  twice  on  a 
mountain  side  in  Canada,  and  several 
times  in  the  brook  valleys  of  the  Berk- 
shire hills  in  Massachusetts.  On  one 
memorable  occasion  fine  singers  of  the 
two  species,  those  called  here  the  "  pas- 
ture "  wood  thrush  and  the  "  pasture  " 
hermit  thrush,  sang  in  full  voice  not  over 
fifty  yards  apart ;  and  while  I  drank  in 
the  sounds,  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  su- 
perior beauty  of  the  wood  thrush's  best 
tones  was  undeniable.  There  was  a  liquid 
fullness,  and  that  pulsation  like  an  organ 
tremolo  on  the  final  note  of  the  first  two 
phrases,  which  was  not  equaled  by  his  ri- 
val. The  hermit's  low  phrases  were  clear 
and  ringing,  but  lacked  the  color  of  the 
larger  bird's.  In  the  middle  and  upper 
registers  the  two  were  more  nearly  on 
an  equality,  and,  in  fact,  could  scarcely 
be  distinguished  except  for  the  form  ; 
but  here,  also,  it  seemed  to  me  that  the 
wood  thrush  was  rather  sweeter  and 


more  flowing.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
hermit's  voice  was  more  penetrating, 
more  vibrant  with  overtones  ;  its  sweet- 
ness was  piercing  instead  of  liquid,  and 
at  any  distance  it  rang  with  a  silvery 
chime ;  while  the  wood  thrush's  short 
phrases  sounded,  by  comparison,  muffled 
and  dull. 

Although  birds  differ  very  much  in 
vocal  quality,  and  some  hermits  are  vastly 
superior,  not  only  in  penetration  but  in 
sweetness,  to  a  great  many  wood  thrushes, 
yet  on  the  whole  the  contrast  of  these 
two  birds  seemed  typical ;  and  were  it 
a  question  of  vocal  sweetness  alone,  the 
hermit  thrush  would  have  to  be  ranked 
below  his  larger  cousin.  But  in  song- 
form,  in  execution,  and  in  general  effect, 
the  contrast  was  undeniably,  it  seemed 
to  me,  in  favor  of  the  hermit  thrush. 
The  wood  thrush  had  a  clear,  liquid  mod- 
ulation, sudden  and  striking,  and  a  bril- 
liant arpeggio,  but  the  hermit  had  a 
more  elaborate  figure,  greater  delicacy 
of  utterance,  and  a  manner  of  delivery 
which  no  wood  thrush  equaled.  His 
long  opening  note  in  each  phrase  swelled 
gradually,  the  first  group  of  rapid  notes 
came  louder,  like  a  sparkling  shower, 
and  the  next  one  diminished,  fading 
away  into  a  silvery  whisper.  When  the 
two  sang  together,  the  wood  thrush's 
phrases  seemed  beautiful,  but  fragmen- 
tary, the  hermit  thrush's  a  finished  per- 
formance. He  did  not  sing  louder  than 
the  wood  thrush,  but  his  voice  and  de- 
livery marked  him  out  amid  the  full 
chorus  of  early  summer,  which  at  that 
time  made  the  fields  and  woods  vocal. 
Over  the  chirping  of  sparrows  or  war- 
blers, the  tinkle  of  wrens,  the  bubble  and 
sparkle  of  bobolinks,  the  flowing  warble 
of  robins  or  grosbeaks,  through  the  chim- 
ing of  veeries,  even  through  the  liquid 
notes  of  the  wood  thrush,  the  steady, 
swinging  phrases  of  the  hermit  thrush 
pierced  their  way,  now  high  and  clear, 
now  low  and  ringing,  always  individual, 
strong,  delicate,  and  aspiring.  He  was 
the  master  artist  of  the  Northern  woods. 
Theodore  Clarke  Smith. 


The  Stage   Coach. 


787 


THE  STAGE  COACH. 


AT  the  very  threshold  of  life  Julian 
Grabo  met  with  an  Obstacle.  It  filled 
the  doorway.  He  could  not  pass  nor 
see  beyond  it. 

"  By  Jove,  what  a  nuisance  !  "  he  had 
cried  when  the  doctor  told  him  he  had 
not  more  than  six  months  to  live. 

"  But  perhaps,"  said  the  physician,  "  if 
you  '11  go  into  the  arid  country,  you  '11 
make  the  six  months  into  a  year." 

"  I  could  put  in  a  year  excellently," 
mused  Grabo.  "  I  believe  I  '11  go." 

He  could  hardly  realize  that  he  was  in 
danger.  He  did  not  feel  depleted  nor 
weakened.  He  was  full  of  excitable  life, 
and  interested  in  everything,  —  men,  wo- 
men, animals,  poetry,  history,  and  possi- 
bilities. 

"  You  could  put  me  anywhere  and  I  'd 
amuse  myself,"  he  said  to  a  friend.  "  I 
never  yet  complained  about  anything,  — 
not  even  my  coffee.  It  seems  such  a 
waste  of  good  nature  for  ME  to  go  off !" 

His  friends  were  incredulous,  —  the 
men  swore  and  the  women  wept.  But 
Grabo,  who  had  once  bellowed  like  a 
calf  when  his  football  team  had  been 
beaten  by  a  rival  college,  now  shed  no 
tear.  He  sent  out  his  farewell  cards, 
packed  up  his  portable  possessions,  and 
set  off  post  haste  for  a  sheep  ranch  in 
Colorado,  which  was  kept  by  a  young 
Englishman  he  had  met  on  his  travels. 

On  the  cars  he  tried  to  think  things 
over,  but  his  mind  would  not  concen- 
trate. All  he  could  think  of  was  Steven- 
son's epitaph,  which  the  rails  rattled  off 
at  a  brisk  tempo  :  — 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky, 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie. 
Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die, 
And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 

This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me  : 
Here  he  lies  where  he  longed  to  be  ; 
Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  the  sea, 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill. 


"But  the  real  trouble  with  all  that 
is,"  he  said  to  the  rails,  "  that  this  hun- 
ter has  not  yet  been  to  the  hill,  nor  this 
sailor  to  the  sea." 

The  rails  kept  up  an  idiot-iteration, 
however :  — 

Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die. 
Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die ! 

He  grew  more  and  more  dejected  as 
he  went  westward.  He  resented  the 
vigor  of  the  engineer  who  stuck  his 
grimy  face  out  of  the  cab  to  nod  to 
Grabo  as  he  paced  the  platform  ;  he  was 
angry  with  the  brunette  young  woman 
who  was  on  her  way  to  Los  Angeles  and 
expected  to  find  it  gay  ;  he  detested  the 
hale  old  man  who  told  stories  in  the 
smoking  compartment.  He  grew  bitter 
at  the  inequalities  of  fate.  By  degrees 
he  reached  despair,  then  abjection.  He 
sank  into  a  sodden  reverie,  forgot  to  eat, 
slept  as  if  he  were  drugged,  and  awoke 
with  a  semi-prostration  upon  him.  This 
made  him  exaggerate  his  symptoms. 

"  It  will  not  be  even  three  months," 
his  frightened  spirit  shrieked  out  to  his 
trembling  body. 

At  Upper  Mesa  he  was  to  take  a  stage 
coach,  and  he  loathed  the  idea,  for  it 
meant  that  he  was  to  have  companions. 
And,  truly  enough,  he  found  himself  in 
intimate  proximity  to  them.  He  would 
have  liked  to  shut  them  out  of  his  con- 
sciousness, but  so  far  from  being  able  to 
do  that,  he  was  forced  into  a  minute  yet 
distasteful  observation  of  them. 

As  a  man  doomed  to  die  before  sun- 
down will  watch  the  progress  of  a  fly 
on  the  wall,  or  count  the  tiles  on  the 
floor  of  his  cell,  so  Julian  observed  his 
companions,  though  they  were  to  him 
as  negligible  as  tiles  or  flies. 

There  were  five  passengers  within  the 
coach  and  one  outside  with  the  driver. 
To  begin  with,  there  was  Grabo,  the 
doomed  and  unreconciled.  Then  there 


788 


The  Stage  Coach. 


was  an  old  man,  a  woman  of  forty,  a 
woman  of  seventy-five,  and  a  child  —  a 
girl  —  of  seven.  Outside  were  Tuttle 
Underwood,  a  miner,  and  Henry  Victor, 
the  owner  and  driver  of  the  stage  coach. 
These  two  men  had  introduced  them- 
selves to  Grabo.  Victor  measured  six 
feet  three,  and  he  handled  the  ribbons  of 
his  four-in-hand  with  happy  nonchalance. 
The  Rockies  have  a  breed  of  their  own, 
and  Victor  was  a  Rocky  Mountain  man. 
His  hands,  face,  and  beard  were  the  color 
of  well-seasoned  sandstone,  and  he  affect- 
ed the  same  color  in  his  clothes.  Never 
did  a  human  being  fit  more  unobtrusive- 
ly into  a  landscape.  His  voice  had  an 
agreeable  monotone  which  accorded  with 
the  minor,  undulating  harmonies  of  wind, 
water,  and  trees  which  soughed  in  the 
canons.  If  some  over-musician,  reflect- 
ed Grabo,  could  find  the  keynote  to  the 
Rockies,  that  would  be  the  keynote  to 
Henry  Victor,  too. 

As  for  his  four  bays,  they  were  moun- 
tain horses  as  surely  as  their  driver  was 
a  mountain  man,  and  no  one  of  them 
was  rendered  in  the  least  nervous  by  the 
fact  that  the  rear  wheels  of  the  coach 
were  flirting  over  the  precipice  as  the 
vehicle  flung  around  the  buttressed  rock. 

Underwood,  the  miner,  was  as  lean  as 
a  coyote.  His  iron-gray  hair  was  shaggy, 
his  eyes  in  perfect  focus,  his  hand  good 
for  the  exigeant  shot.  He  wore  a  dust- 
colored  hat,  a  blue  flannel  shirt,  a  faded 
coat,  trousers  of  the  same  sad  fabric 
tucked  in  handsome  boots,  and  he  was 
belted  and  armed.  He  looked  to  Grabo 
as  if  he  would  probably  live  forever. 

As  for  the  people  within  the  coach, 
each  one  was  alone.  None  had  known 
any  other  member  of  the  company  till 
that  hour.  Even  the  child  was  alone, 
her  only  companion  being  an  ugly  doll. 

"You  are  my  little  girl,"  she  was 
heard  to  babble.  "  Really  and  truly  you 
are,  though  I  have  n't  seen  you  since 
ever.  You  've  been  living  away  off  with 
your  grandmother  for  years  'n'  years, 
and  now  you  're  coming  home  to  your 


own  mamma.  You  'd  better  look  nice, 
or  she  won't  like  you,  so  there  !  " 

She  found  a  bit  of  string  in  the  bottom 
of  the  coach  and  tied  it  around  the  doll's 
neck. 

"  There !  "  she  said  in  satisfied  accents, 
"  now  you  've  got  a  tag  on,  telling  just 
who  you  are  and  where  you  're  going, 
and  there  would  n't  be  any  sense  in  your 
getting  lost.  You  just  go  up  to  anybody, 
man  or  woman,  and  show  'em  that  tag, 
and  they  '11  help  you  on.  Folks  is  always 
good  to  a  child." 

This  optimistic  remark  was  followed 
by  a  sigh  on  the  part  of  the  child,  and 
seemed  to  be  more  of  a  creed  than  a 
conviction.  It  created  a  mild  sensation. 
The  old  man  looked  appealingly  at  the 
women.  The  old  woman  felt  in  her  bag 
for  treasures  which  she  did  not  find. 
The  woman  of  forty  started  up  from  a 
reverie,  regarded  the  child  in  a  puzzled 
and  somewhat  embarrassed  fashion,  and 
then  seated  herself  by  her. 

"  I  hope  you  're  not  getting  tired,"  she 
said.  There  was  a  minor  cadence  to  the 
voice,  which  was  rather  deep  and  serious. 

"  I  don't  think  I  'm  tired,"  said  the 
child,  turning  eyes  of  heavenly  blue  upon 
the  woman,  "  but  it 's  dreadful  when  no 
one  says  a  word  !  " 

"  Oh,  well,  you  see,"  said  the  woman 
apologetically,  letting  a  smile  creep  into 
her  rather  bitter  face,  "  we  don't  know 
each  other." 

"  Except  you  and  me,"  cried  the  child, 
with  a  laugh  which  revealed  two  rows  of 
minute  and  pearly  teeth.  "  We  got  ac- 
quainted quick,  did  n't  we  ?  " 

"Very,"  said  the  woman  with  flatter- 
ing gravity. 

"  I  Ve  come  a  long  way,"  continued 
the  little  one,  "  and  my  grandma  cried 
when  I  left  her.  Here,  read  this ! " 
She  tugged  at  a  string  which  ran  about 
her  neck,  and  drew  out  a  tag.  The 
woman  read  from  it :  — 

"  Margaret  Samsom,  Arline,  Colo- 
rado." 

"  That 's  my  name  and  where  I  'm  go- 


The  Stage   Coach. 


789 


ing,"  announced  the-  child.  "  And  my 
mamma's  name  is  just  the  same  as  mine. 
She  '11  be  waiting  for  me  when  I  get  out 
of  the  coach." 

Her  penetrating  treble  reached  the 
men  on  the  front  seat,  and  Underwood 
nudged  Victor. 

"  D'  yeh  hear  that  ?  "  he  whispered. 
"  She  's  th'  daughter  of  Red  Mag !  " 

They  turned  in  their  seats  and  re- 
garded the  child  with  curiosity  and  some- 
thing akin  to  horror.  She  had  a  face 
as  tender  as  a  flower.  Her  blue  eyes 
were  beaming  with  excitement,  brown 
ringlets  clustered  about  her  low,  blue- 
veined  temples,  her  teeth  were  like  little 
grains  of  rice,  and  her  parted  lips  were 
exquisitely  arched.  As  her  soft  glowing 
neck  crept  away  between  the  clean  ruf- 
fles of  her  gingham  frock,  it  conveyed 
an  idea  of  delicacy  and  loveliness  of  per- 
son. She  beamed  at  the  miner  as  he 
regarded  her  with  frowning  anxiety. 

"  Peter  's  eye  !  "  he  said,  and  spat 
twice  in  the  road.  At  intervals  he  ejacu- 
lated with  disgust,  "  Red  Mag !  "  And 
once  he  said,  "  The  only  decent  thing 
for  you  to  do,  Hank,  is  to  run  this  here 
stage  over  the  gulch,  and  end  it  for  her 
before  she  meets  her  '  mamma.'  " 

"  Have  you  a  tag  around  your  neck  ?  " 
little  Margaret  asked  of  the  bitter-faced 
woman. 

«  No,  dear." 

"  What  am  I  going  to  call  you  when 
I  want  to  speak  to  you  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Ellery  —  no,  aunt  Anna." 

The  horses  were  toiling  up  the  slope. 
They  were  in  the  midst  of  a  great  gorge. 
The  world  about  them  was  vast  and 
dead,  —  its  fires  burned  out,  its  floods 
spent,  its  tumult  stilled.  As  they  climbed 
up  and  up,  the  very  old  woman  began  to 
move  her  head  from  side  to  side  curi- 
ously, and  several  times  she  put  her 
hand  to  her  throat. 

"There  's  a  dreadful  noise  in  my  ears," 
she  complained. 

"  Never  bin  up  as  high  as  this  before, 
I  reckon  ?  "  said  Victor  interrogatively. 


"  Who  —  me  ?  "  piped  the  old  woman. 
"No ;  I  've  always  lived  at  Morgansport. 
That  ain't  a  hilly  place." 

"  Going  to  live  out  this-a-way  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes,  I  bethought  myself  to," 
responded  the  old  lady  in  a  neighborly 
tone.  "  My  sister  Marthy,  that  I  've  bin 
livin'  with,  is  twenty  years  younger  than 
me,  and  a  very  spry  person.  I  got  under 
foot.  I  could  see  it.  She  did  n't  like 
me  f  ussin'  about  her  kitchen,  nur  weedin' 
in  the  garden,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that 
I  had  to  burn  a  most  uncommon  amount 
of  wood  to  keep  warm.  I  kin  see  as 
plain  as  anything  how  it  struck  Marthy. 
I  did  n't  want  her  grudgin'  me  my  days, 
and  I  took  matters  in  my  own  hands, 
and  lit  right  out  for  my  son  James's.  I 
knew  Jim  would  want  me !  "  She  put 
her  head  on  one  side,  exhibiting  that 
last  form  of  coquetry  —  that  of  a  mother 
for  a  well-loved  son. 

"  Does  your  son  live  at  Ar  line,  ma'am  ?" 
inquired  Victor. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  smiling  till  her 
toothless  gums  were  fully  revealed. 
"  James  Farnam.  Maybe  you  know 
him  ?  He  was  always  great  for  makin' 
friends." 

Grabo  saw  the  men  on  the  front  seat 
exchange  one  swift  and  frightened  look. 

"  Now  I  will  drive  the  blamed  old 
stage  over  the  rim ! "  swore  Victor  to 
Underwood.  They  smiled  at  each  other 
grimly. 

"  What 's  to  pay  ?  "  wondered  Grabo. 

The  day  wore  on  pleasantly  enough. 
Grabo  forgot  himself  a  little.  Or,  rather, 
the  mysticism  which  was  his  inheritance 
from  a  line  of  dreamers  began  to  anaes- 
thetize him.  The  vastness  of  the  world 
about  him,  the  endurability  of  those 
mountain  ranges,  the  clarity  of  the  sap- 
phire heavens,  the  swing  of  the  high  sun, 
the  obvious  fret  and  fume  of  man's  little 
life  as  indicated  in  the  group  there  in  the 
coach,  all  reconciled  him  somewhat  to 
his  grief.  The  old,  old  woman  swayed 
feebly  in  her  seat,  yet  still  smiled  on, 
thinking  of  "  Jim."  The  little  child  grew 


790 


The  Stage   Coach. 


fretful,  and  the  bitter-faced  woman  com- 
forted her  with  infinite  tenderness.  The 
two  men  on  the  front  seat  were  telling 
tales  to  each  other  to  pass  away  the  time. 
Only  the  old  man  and  Grabo  sat  silent. 
There  seemed  to  be  something  hunted  in 
the  old  man's  face. 

"  What 's  his  trouble  ?  "  wondered 
Grabo,  "  and  how  long  before  oblivion 
will  overtake  him  ?  The  trouble  with  me 
is,  I  have  no  trouble.  I  'm  in  fit  shape 
for  life,  and  not  attaining  it."  He  remem- 
bered with  sudden  self-pity  that  he  had 
not  even  kissed  a  woman  as  men  kiss  the 
women  they  love.  This  made  him  turn 
the  eye  of  masculine  appraisement  on  the 
bitter-faced  person  near  him.  He  no- 
ticed that  her  eyes  were  gray,  half-closed, 
as  if  from  instinctive  reserve  of  soul; 
that  her  lips  were  softly  compressed,  that 
they  were  shapely  and  mournful.  Her 
complexion  was  that  of  a  woman  who  has 
lost  anticipation,  and  in  whose  veins  the 
blood  moves  wearily.  A  plume  of  gray 
hair  showed  above  her  brow  in  the  midst 
of  the  brown.  She  was  costumed  with 
conspicuous  neatness  in  black,  and  about 
her  neck  gear  was  just  a  touch  of  bright- 
ness, as  if,  after  long  denial,  she  had 
awakened  to  the  joys  of  decoration. 

"  She 's  beginning  over,"  mused  Grabo. 
"  She  has  seen  a  mirage  on  the  desert, 
and  she 's  making  for  it." 

Silence  seemed  to  lie  on  Grabo  like  a 
spell.  The  fundamental  silence  of  the 
abyss,  of  the  vault,  of  the  everlasting 
hills,  had  come  up  and  seized  him  by 
the  throat.  It  became  a  pain  at  last,  — 
for  Grabo  had  always  been  loquacious 
till  he  met  the  Obstacle.  He  made  up 
his  mind  to  speak,  and  he  turned  to  the 
old  man. 

"  You  are  going  west  for  the  first  time, 
sir  ? "  He  spoke  out  of  a  dry  throat, 
and  the  trifling  inquiry  represented  a 
triumph  of  will. 

"  Me  ?  "  said  the  old  man  pleasantly, 
with  a  kind  of  timid  neighborliness. 
"  Yes  —  the  first  time.  I  've  lived  in 
Ohio  all  my  life." 


"  Quite  a  break-up  —  coming  away 
out  here,"  said  Grabo. 

"  Yes,  yes.  Well,  I  've  been  living 
with  my  son's  wife.  My  son  died  three 
years  ago,  and  Lucy  set  out  to  do  her 
duty  by  me.  It  was  hard  for  her  —  and 
harder  for  me  !  "  he  gave  a  sardonic  little 
twist  to  his  lips,  which  were  loose  and 
pitiful  and  discouraged-looking.  "  A 
while  ago  I  could  see  she  was  taking  in- 
terest in  a  man  down  street,  —  a  good 
man,  too.  I  sold  some  things  I  had. 
'  Lucy,'  says  I,  '  I  'm  going  to  take  my- 
self off.'  — '  How  '11  you  live,  father  ?  ' 
says  she.  —  '  There  's  my  pension,'  says 
I,  '  and  there 's  old  Luke  Bailey.  He 
was  in  my  regiment,  you  see,  and  he 
baches  it  out  in  Red  Butte.  He  's  often 
written  urging  me  to  come  out.'  —  '  But 
father,'  says  Lucy,  '  I  always  wanted  to 
be  with  you  in  your  last  hours.'  She 
was  still  thinking  of  her  duty.  That 's 
Lucy's  style.  —  '  Lucy,'  says  I,  '  spare 
yourself  the  pleasure.  You  're  a  good 
girl,  and  that 's  why  I  'm  getting  out  of 
your  way.' " 

His  faded  eyes  watered,  and  he  sat 
staring  at  the  wall  of  rock  beside  which 
the  coach  was  running. 

"  There  ain't  nothing  so  satisfying  as 
being  out  from  under  foot,"  observed 
Underwood,  who  had  been  listening. 

"  It  ain't  just  what  I  pictured  for  my- 
self," said  the  old  man.  "  I  've  had  good 
homes,  and  a  good  wife  and  children, 
and  responsibility  in  my  community. 
They  're  all  gone.  Sometimes  I  think  I 
never  had  them,  —  that  it  was  a  kind  o' 
dream.  Anyhow,  now  I  'm  going  on  to 
a  new  place.  It  took  sixty-five  years  for 
my  roots  to  strike  in,  and  then  I  tore 
'em  up." 

"  What's  your  name,  sir?  "  asked  Grabo 
respectfully.  His  heart  warmed  genially 
toward  this  man  who  had  built  up  the 
structure  of  life  and  seen  it  tumble  about 
his  feet. 

"John  Siller,"  responded  the  man, 
with  a  ring  in  his  voice,  as  if  the  name 
had  its  significance.  Grabo  was  sure  it 


The  Stage   Coach. 


791 


was  a  name  which  had  counted  here  and 
there,  —  perhaps  at  town  meetings,  per- 
haps at  local  elections,  maybe  in  abolition 
gatherings,  certainly  on  the  roster  of  a 
volunteer  regiment. 

"You've  walked  a  long  road,"  said 
Grabo  gently. 

"Eh?  Oh  yes!  Walked  a  long  road ! 
Well,  you  'd  think  so  if  you  'd  walked  it 
with  me.  The  people  that  have  passed  — 
they  'd  make  a  cityf ul !  But  walking  a 
long  road  ain't  the  only  thing,  young 
man." 

He  looked  at  Grabo  with  a  penetrating 
glance. 

"  He  sees  I  'm  doomed,"  thought  the 
young  man. 

"Walking  a  road,  and  not  being  driven 
along  it,  is  the  thing,"  said  Anna  Ellery. 
There  was  an  accent  of  wrath  and  sor- 
row in  her  voice.  "  My  idea  is  to  walk 
it  and  set  my  own  pace." 

It  had  the  gusto  of  a  fresh  declaration 
of  independence. 

"Evidently,"  thought  Grabo,  "she 
found  the  path  too  narrow  for  two." 

It  came  lunch  time,  and  being  in  a 
grove  of  pines,  they  all  seated  themselves 
on  the  ground  and  ate  together.  Mrs. 
Ellery  made  coffee  ;  Grabo  looked  after 
the  child,  who  was  fastidious,  and  did  not 
take  well  to  the  cold  food.  Mrs.  Farnam, 
the  old  woman,  could  not  eat  at  all,  and 
the  coffee  she  drank  intoxicated  her. 

"  If  it  wa'n't  for  the  thought  of  Jim," 
she  gasped  again  and  again,  "  I  don't 
know  how  I  could  git  up  spirit  to  go  on." 

"  There  ain't  nothing  to  do,  ma'am,  but 
git  on,"  said  Victor  cheerily.  "  You  '11 
come  out  all  right,  ma'am." 

But  as  the  afternoon  wore  on  she 
became  more  and  more  distressed.  Mrs. 
Ellery  noted  how  the  breath  fluttered 
in  the  poor  old  throat.  Grabo,  who 
watched  her  with  fascinated  eyes,  and 
who  —  so  strange  was  his  mood  —  ap- 
peared to  feel  the  winds  of  Destiny 
blowing  continually  upon  this  party  of 
stragglers  in  search  of  happiness,  saw  a 
peculiar  pallor  spreading  over  her  face. 


He  was  not  surprised  when  the  poor 
little  figure  toppled  forward.  He  caught 
it  in  his  arms,  and  called  to  Victor  to 
rein  in.  The  brakes  clamped  the  wheels, 
and  Grabo  got  out  with  the  old  woman 
in  his  arms.  She  was  no  heavier  than 
a  child,  but  repulsive  with  the  repulsion 
of  wasted  flesh,  sunken  eyes,  and  inert 
limbs.  Her  cheeks  began  to  puff  out 
curiously,  and  her  eyes  to  roll.  The 
coach  was,  fortunately,  at  a  small  level 
semicircle  of  honest  horizontal  earth. 
The  soil  had  washed  down  here,  and 
pinon  trees  —  seven  in  number  —  stood 
together  in  a  confidential  and  frightened 
group.  Grabo  put  the  old  soul  there. 
Nay  —  the  soul,  which  may  have  been 
young  or  old,  had  escaped,  but  whether 
it  was  in  the  purple  and  solemn  valley 
beneath  them,  or  in  the  sweet  clarity  of 
daffodil  sky  above,  no  man  ventured  to 
surmise.  All  looked  at  the  pitiful  body, 
which,  bereft  of  that  which  gave  it  its 
trifling  significance,  lay  supine. 

There  being  neither  prayers  nor  tears 
at  hand,  the  bitter-faced  woman,  who 
had  been  supporting  the  dead  woman, 
kissed  her  on  the  forehead. 

"  Good-by,  mother,"  she  said  gently. 
Grabo  felt  the  tears  leap  to  his  eyes. 

"  I  did  n't  know  women  were  so 
sweet,"  he  thought. 

"  You  heard  her  say  she  was  goin'  to 
Arline  to  visit  her  darlin'  son,  did  n't 
yeh  ?  "  asked  Underwood  with  emotion. 

Grabo  nodded. 

"  Well,"  said  Underwood,  "  she  would 
n't  hev  seen  him.  He  tried  to  knife  Bill 
Upton  in  Garey's  place  three  weeks  back, 
and  got  shot  between  the  eyes." 

"  Dead  ?  "  asked  Anna  Ellery. 

"  You  bet,  ma'am,"  said  Underwood 
devoutly. 

"  Poor  mother  ! "  said  Anna  Ellery 
once  more. 

The  panting  beasts  stood  at  rest.  The 
old  man,  Siller,  was  hanging  on  to  the 
child,  lest  she  should  go  too  near  the 
precipice.  A  rigor  began  to  creep  over 
the  dead  woman. 


792 


The  Stage   Coach. 


"  Shall  we  take  her  to  Arline  ?  "  asked 
Victor. 

Grabo  turned  sick  at  the  idea.  The 
old  man  shivered.  Anna  Ellery  shook 
her  head. 

"  It 's  no  good,"  she  said.  "  Whom 
would  we  take  her  to  ?  This  is  a  beau- 
tiful place  for  a  —  for  a  grave." 

"And  handy  to  heaven,"  muttered 
Underwood. 

"  How  about  gettin'  through  to  our 
journey's  end  ?  "  asked  John  Siller. 

"  We  '11  have  to  camp  here  to-night," 
Victor  said.  "  The  Rattlesnake  River, 
three  miles  from  here,  has  been  doing  its 
best  lately.  I  wouldn't  take  anybody 
through  it  in  the  dark  that  I  was  any- 
ways responsible  for  —  not  to  mention 
the  hosses."  He  looked  affectionately  at 
his  beasts. 

"It  would  be  too  bad  to  risk  the 
horses,"  smiled  Grabo.  He  was  think- 
ing the  others  might  take  the  Long  Voy- 
age merrily  enough.  Yet  who  could  tell ! 
There  is  a  saying  that  the  young  are 
prodigal  with  life,  but  the  old  economi- 
cal of  it.  Perhaps  old  man  Siller  wanted 
to  live  ! 

"  You  think,  then,"  said  Victor,  "  that 
we  'd  best  plant  the  old  soul  right  here  ?  " 
He  spoke  almost  tenderly. 

"  Not  till  the  child 's  asleep,"  whis- 
pered Anna  Ellery. 

Victor  took  command,  sending  Under- 
wood to  chop  wood,  and  Grabo  to  get 
the  victuals  from  the  coach,  while  he 
himself  looked  after  the  horses. 

Anna  led  the  child  back  among  the 
rocks. 

"  See,"  she  said,  "  you  can  have  a 
little  playhouse  here."  She  made  a 
miniature  pantry  for  her  with  pebbles 
and  bits  of  mica  for  the  dishes.  Then 
she  returned  to  the  "  poor  mother." 
She  combed  her  straggling  locks,  made 
her  decent,  covered  her  face  with  a  clean 
handkerchief  and  the  whole  body  with  a 
horse  blanket.  By  this  time  the  men 
had  a  fire,  and  a  repast  with  hot  coffee. 
A  good  deal  of  time  had  been  consumed, 


and  already  the  shadows  were  groping 
their  way  far  down  the  gorge,  —  troop- 
ing down  like  blind  men  bound  on  some 
grim  and  final  errand.  In  the  inlet  of 
land  —  for  the  blue  ether  of  space  ran 
about  them  like  a  fluid  sea  —  the  day 
began  to  gloom.  Anna  called  the  child 
to  her,  and  they  all  sat  about  the  fire 
and  ate.  It  grew  chilly,  and  she  wrapped 
the  child  in  her  cape.  When  the  little  one 
began  to  fret  Anna  held  her  close  till 
she  fell  asleep,  and  then  carried  her  over 
to  the  shelter  of  the  rocks,  and  wrapped 
her  well.  When  she  came  back  the 
men  had  already  begun  to  dig  the  grave 
with  whatever  implements  they  had  at 
hand.  There  was  one  shovel,  an  axe, 
and  three  knives  in  the  party.  They 
were  all  utilized  for  the  task,  and  in  a 
little  while  the  shallow  grave  was  dug. 
Victor  and  Grabo  laid  the  old  woman  in 
her  comfortable  bed.  They  covered 
her  over  without  the  "  dust  to  dust." 
No  one  prayed.  No  one  sang.  But 
Mrs.  Ellery  had  found  the  dead  woman's 
full  name  on  a  letter  within  her  pocket, 
and  Grabo  graved  the  name  on  the  rock. 

MARY  FARNAM.      DATE   AND   PLACE   OF  BIRTH 

UNKNOWN. 

DIED  ON  THE  ROAD,  AND  BURIED  BY  HER  FEL- 
LOW TRAVELERS. 

He  put  the  date  last.  They  all  watched 
him,  and  stirred  the  fire  from  time  to 
time  to  give  him  light.  After  it  was 
over,  Anna  went  to  look  at  the  child. 
She  was  sleeping  delicately,  and  when 
Anna  stooped  close  to  her  she  noticed 
that  her  breath  was  like  that  of  a  young 
calf.  She  came  back  to  the  fire  and 
seated  herself  among  the  men.  Her  eyes 
were  shining,  her  mouth  tender,  all  her 
aspect  sisterly. 

"  Pretty  fine  little  gal,  ma'am,"  said 
Underwood,  pointing  over  his  shoulder 
with  his  thumb. 

"  Oh !  "  said  Anna,  unable  to  articu- 
late her  appreciation  of  the  child. 

"  You  want  to  know  the  kindest  thing 
you  kin  do  to  her  ?  "  persisted  Under- 
wood. Anna's  silent  gesture  answered. 


The  Stage  Coach. 


793 


"  Well,  throw  her  over  this  here  gorge 
while  she  sleeps.  She  '11  never  know 
nothin'  after  that." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  You  ain't  acquainted  in  Arline, 
ma'am,  but  if  you  wus,  you  'd  know 
Red  Mag.  Every  man  there  knows  'er. 
Every  woman  runs  from  'er.  She  lives 
in  a  filthy  hut,  and  talks  filthier  than 
she  looks.  That 's  the  young  un's  ma." 

"  But  I  won't  have  it !  "  Mrs.  Ellery 
cried,  clasping  her  hands.  "  I  won't 
have  her  go  to  a  woman  like  that !  " 

She  appeared  to  be  shaken  by  some 
strange  passion.  Grabo  listened  to  the 
wind  wailing  through  the  gorge,  but  he 
smiled  to  himself,  and  said  that  of  course 
it  was  the  windage  of  Destiny's  wings. 
For  surely  this  night  Her  presence  was 
felt.  He  turned  gleaming  eyes  upon 
Anna.  "  Maternity  has  come  to  her," 
he  reflected,  "  without  birth  pangs."  He 
was  convinced  that  she  would  never  let 
the  child  go  to  its  mother. 

"  I  like  an  intelligent  breaker  of  the 
law,"  he  mused.  He  threw  himself  back 
on  the  ground,  his  hands  under  his  head. 
He  was  happy.  He  liked  his  compan- 
ions. They  seemed  to  him  more  alive 
than  any  persons  he  had  previously  met. 

"  The  stars  are  more  neighborly  than 
I  had  supposed,"  he  said,  conscious  that 
his  calm  remark  was  out  of  key  with 
Anna's  emotion,  but  willing  to  take  the 
attention  from  her. 

"  They  do  look  that  way  out  here," 
admitted  Underwood.  "  I  suppose  it 's 
because  they  're  the  only  neighbors  you 
kin  get." 

"  I  like  the  way  they  mind  their  own 
business,"  observed  Victor.  "  You  'd 
think,  to  look  at  'em,  that  they  was  thicker 
than  snakes  at  Slaney's  Pocket,  but  they 
never  git  mixed  up." 

Grabo  was  cheerfully  misquoting  some 
lines  of  Tennyson's.  Underwood  caught 
the  last  couplet :  — 

—  "  yet  -with  power  to  burn  and  brand 
His  nothingness  into  man." 

He  debated  the  point. 


"  I  don't  know  about  nothingness !  "  he 
said.  "  When  I  see  the  way  men  come 
it  over  these  hulking,  ugly  brutes  of 
mountains,  and  git  their  livings  out  of 
'em,  and  pick  and  peck  at  'em,  and  tun- 
nel and  bridge  'em,  I  don't  know  about 
nothingness.  I  ain't  the  man  to  take  a 
back  seat  fur  a  star  or  a  mountain." 

The  stars  seemed  to  grow  in  brilliancy. 
The  blackness  deepened.  It  was  im- 
penetrable, chill,  yet  with  streams  of 
warmth  flowing  through  it  like  currents 
of  charity  through  a  censorious  world. 
The  precipice  yawned  a  few  feet  distant. 
The  little  company  rested  at  ease  on  a 
narrow  shelf  midway  between  earth  and 
heaven.  They  were  bound  together  by 
the  torrent,  which  impeded  their  jour- 
ney, by  the  night  which  encompassed  yet 
could  not  extinguish  them,  by  the  new- 
made  grave  of  their  fellow  traveler,  by 
the  sleeping  child,  and  by  the  fire. 

"It's  odd,"  said  old  John  Siller, 
lighting  his  pipe,  "  but  I  don't  know 
when  I  've  felt  so  at  home." 

Julian  Grabo  let  his  hand  fall  so  that, 
in  the  darkness,  it  touched  Anna  Ellery 's 
dress.  He  held  the  fabric  between  his 
fingers,  as  he  used  to  hold  his  mother's 
gown  when  he  was  a  child. 

They  all  talked  together  softly,  often 
with  a  friendly  incoherence.  Anna  had 
a  sense  of  being  watched  over.  The 
men  smiled  at  her  brother-wise.  Final- 
ly Grabo  urged  her  to  sleep,  and  she 
went  once  more  to  see  to  the  covering  of 
the  child  ;  then  she  stood  for  a  space  by 
Mary  Farnam's  grave.  Grabo  joined 
her. 

"  She  is  well  covered,"  he  said. 

"  I  've  been  saying  a  prayer,"  con- 
fessed Anna,  "  and  I  'd  almost  forgot- 
ten how." 

"  Were  you  praying  for  the  living  or 
the  dead  ?  "  asked  Grabo. 

"  I  hardly  know,"  smiled  Anna.  "  To- 
night I  could  easily  imagine  that  we  are 
all  dead." 

Their  eyes  met.  A  shiver  of  sympa- 
thy shook  them,  and  then,  with  decision, 


794 


The  Stage  Coach. 


they  withdrew  their  gaze.  It  is  the  fash- 
ion —  world  old  —  for  souls  thus  to  sa- 
lute each  other.  These,  having  saluted, 
bade  each  other  farewell.  Anna  lay 
down  beside  the  child  and  slept  a  little 
while.  It  was  dawn  when  she  awoke,  and 
shafts  of  marvelous  purple  light  were 
streaming  into  the  uttermost  recess  of 
the  gorge.  Some  far  mountains  were 
bathed  in  rose.  The  world  was  glorious 
as  a  Transfiguration.  Anna  rose  up  as 
one  who  comes  into  a  new  life.  The  child 
awoke,  too,  and  laughed  at  her,  dewy- 
fresh.  They  kissed,  and  while  the  men 
were  getting  ready  the  horses  Anna 
bathed  the  little  one's  face  and  hands, 
and  combed  her  curls.  Then  she  made 
herself  tidy,  and  had  time,  before  all  was 
in  readiness,  to  cover  the  grave  of  the 
"  fellow  traveler  "  with  pinon  boughs. 

Grabo  helped  her  and  Margaret  into 
the  coach.  Siller  sat  with  Grabo.  Under- 
wood and  Victor  mounted  in  front.  The 
horses  had  had  their  breakfast,  though 
the  people  had  not,  and  they  started  on 
their  way  with  careful  speed.  The  ford 
was  reached,  and  they  plunged  among 
foaming  waters  and  hidden  rocks.  Lit- 
tle Margaret  threw  her  arms  about  Mrs. 
Ellery's  neck  with  a  cry  of  alarm.  Old 
Siller  grasped  Grabo's  arm. 

"  I  believe  we  're  going  down,"  Siller 
whimpered. 

"  I  think  not,"  soothed  Julian.  "  Our 
friends  the  horses  would  be  ashamed  to 
let  us,  you  know." 

Once  more  the  eyes  of  Anna  and  Ju- 
lian met.  They  were  wondering  the  same 
thing,  —  whether  it  would  be  a  better 
matter  if  the  torrent  should  overcome 
them. 

"Life  is  too  sardonic  for  that,"  re- 
flected Grabo.  "  That  innocent  baby 
will  live  to  grow  up  under  the  tutelage  of 
her  mother,  Red  Mag ;  Mrs.  Ellery,  in 
her  search  for  liberty,  will  find  some  new 
form  of  slavery ;  old  Siller  will  not  per- 
ish till  senility  has  disintegrated  him  ; 
as  for  me,  I  shall  exist  to  watch  death 
creeping  on  me  like  a  tide ;  as  for  the 


fellows  on  the  front  seat,  they  would  n't 
ruin  their  reputations  by  dying  in  so  in- 
nocent a  manner ! " 

They  emerged  upon  a  fine  mesa,  and 
sped  on  swiftly  to  the  place  of  relay  of 
horses  and  breakfast.  At  the  meal  they 
felt  the  hour  of  parting  hanging  over 
them  heavily. 

"  I  git  tired,  sometimes,"  said  Under- 
wood in  an  outburst,  "  of  livin'  up  a 
gulch.  Strikin'  a  pile  ain't  the  only  thing 
in  life.  It 's  about  time  I  took  a  little 
comfort,  seems  to  me,  and  got  a  family 
about  me."  His  eyes  rested  on  Margaret, 
who  had  gone  into  semi-eclipse  behind  a 
bowl  of  milk.  Her  soft  curls,  her  pink 
chin,  and  her  dimpled  hands  only  were 
visible. 

"  Yes,"  said  old  Siller,  who  was  mum- 
bling his  food  after  the  fashion  of  the 
toothless,  "  family  life 's  the  thing.  If 
only  my  son  "  —  He  did  not  finish,  but 
fixed  a  wistful  gaze  on  Grabo. 

Julian  was,  indeed,  a  good  sight  to  look 
upon  this  morning.  He  held  his  head 
high,  his  eyes  were  clear  and  blue,  his 
complexion  like  a  girl's,  his  figure  ele- 
gant, his  garments  a  perfect  fit.  He 
looked  as  carefully  attired  as  if  he  had 
come  newly  from  his  chamber.  There 
was  something  poignant  in  the  glance 
Anna  turned  upon  him. 

"  If  such  a  man  had  been  my  lover" — 
she  thought  brokenly,  and  then  sank  into 
heavy  reminiscence. 

"  Well,"  said  Victor  aloud,  "  I  some- 
times think  I  'd  like  to  settle  down,  too. 
I  git  tired  of  drivin'  people  around." 

He  regarded  Anna  with  frank  admi- 
ration. Underwood  followed  his  gaze, 
and  for  the  first  time  a  personal  specu- 
lation took  possession  of  him.  Both  of 
them  estimated  the  woman's  excellent 
physique,  her  kind  yet  sad  eyes,  the  ef- 
ficiency of  her  manner,  the  modest  yet 
striking  fashion  of  her  dress. 

When  the  time  came  to  resume  their 
journey  with  fresh  horses,  they  had  about 
them  that  stalwart  interest  which  follows 
the  eating  of  a  good  meal.  The  very 


The  Stage   Coach. 


795 


pangs  of  parting  diverted  them.  Siller, 
particularly,  was  alert. 

"  I  wonder  what  old  Luke  Bailey  will 
think  when  he  sees  me  loomin'  up,"  he 
mused,  chuckling  with  anticipatory  glee. 
"  I  mean  to  keep  my  settin'-room  always 
spic  up  for  company,"  he  announced. 
It  was  intended  for  a  general  invita- 
tion. 

"  So  shall  I,"  said  Anna  in  her  minor, 
vibratory  voice.  "  I  shall  make  friends 
of  my  own  choosing.  I  shall  go  to  church 
with  good  people.  I  mean  to  be  useful. 
I  am  going  to  have  some  new  dresses. 
After  a  little  while  I  'm  going  to  inrite 
people  to  supper."  She  looked  demure, 
and  evidently  saw  the  pitifulness  of  her 
spoken  aspirations.  "  You  see,"  she 
said  by  way  of  explanation,  "  it 's  years 
since  —  he  —  let  me  hold  up  my  head." 

The  words  were  almost  whispered,  but 
every  one  heard  them.  A  sympathetic 
silence  fell.  No  one  asked  a  question, 
but  all  four  men  wondered  as  to  the  legal 
status  of  her  liberty.  Margaret  was 
playing  with  some  little  tassels  on  Anna's 
jacket.  She  looked  up  in  Anna's  face 
with  sudden  winsomeness. 

"  I  like  you,"  she  said,  and  hung  her 
head.  Anna  snatched  her  close. 

"  I  like  you  !  "  she  declared  fiercely. 

Victor  turned  in  his  seat. 

"  In  a  little  while  we  '11  be  at  Arline." 
The  words  were  significant,  —  even  om- 
inous. 

Anna  Ellery  must  have  heard  them, 
but  she  gave  no  sign.  She  fixed  her 
eyes  upon  the  landscape,  and  a  pecul- 
iar smile  fastened  itself  upon  her  face. 
Margaret  began  to  yawn,  showing  those 
ricelike  teeth,  and  Anna  lifted  her  up 
into  her  lap,  and  absently  soothed  her  till 
she  fell  asleep.  The  curious  smile  never 
left  her  face. 

A  few  straggling  cabins  came  into 
view,  and  then  the  raw  streets  of  a  min- 
ing town. 

"  We  're  here,"  announced  Underwood 
gloomily. 

There  was  a  gathering  in  front  of  the 


general  store,  —  ranchers,  loafers,  Mexi- 
cans, Chinese,  Indians,  Negroes.  The 
coach  stopped,  and  Victor  threw  off  the 
mail  bag  and  handed  out  packages. 

Down  the  street  came  a  large  woman, 
her  arm  locked  in  that  of  a  male  com- 
panion. Both  were  staggering  and  vo- 
ciferous. Grabo  guessed  the  truth  in- 
stantly. This  was  Red  Mag,  —  this  was 
Margaret's  mother  !  He  tried  once  more 
to  think  philosophically  of  the  wings  of 
Destiny,  but  he  was  in  hot  revolt.  His 
hands  clenched  involuntarily.  Old  Sil- 
ler was  trembling,  and  his  jaw  worked 
up  and  down. 

"  Mag 's  celebratin',"  Grabo  heard  one 
of  the  crowd  remark. 

"  Expectin'  her  daughter,"  said  a  sar- 
donic voice. 

Anna  patted  the  sleeping  child,  and 
stared  straight  ahead. 

A  silence  spread  through  the  crowd  as 
Mag  came  staggering  on.  Grabo  looked 
at  the  bloated  face,  the  dare-devil  eyes, 
the  frowzy  red  hair,  the  slovenly  gown, 
and  then  at  the  woman  who  treasured 
the  child  in  her  arms. 

"  I  'm  going  to  see  an  event,"  he  re- 
flected. 

Red  Mag  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
temporarily  what  she  had  come  for. 
Then,  with  an  oath,  she  remembered. 
She  stuck  her  head  in  the  coach. 

"  That 's  my  gal !  "  she  declared. 

Underwood  and  Victor  kept  their  eyes 
on  Anna,  as  men  in  an  orchestra  fasten 
their  gaze  upon  the  conductor.  Grabo 
noticed  that  each  sat  with  a  hand  clapped 
to  his  pistol  pocket. 

"  I  'm  lookin'  fur  my  gal,"  Mag  said 
defiantly.  Her  companion  came  forward 
pugnaciously. 

u  Where 's  that  there  young  un  that 
took  passage  with  you,  Hank  Victor  ?  " 
he  demanded. 

"  There  's  no  child  here  but  my  daugh- 
ter," said  Anna  Ellery  in  her  penetrating 
voice. 

It  was  the  lift  of  the  baton,  and  the 
orchestra  responded. 


796 


The  Stage  Coach. 


"  Git  out  of  the  way,  there !  "  com- 
manded Victor.  He  raised  his  whip. 
Mag  began  to  pour  forth  oaths  fluently. 
But  the  whip  fell.  The  horses  leaped 
from  the  watering  trough,  their  check 
reins  hanging. 

A  mile  out  of  town,  Grabo  leaned 
forward,  lifted  one  of  Anna  Ellery's 
hands  where  it  still  clasped  the  sleeping 
child,  and  put  it  to  his  lips.  Old  Siller 
was  weeping.  Underwood  and  Victor 
sat  close  together  on  the  front  seat  and 
seemed  to  be  enjoying  themselves. 

In  an  hour  they  reached  Grabo's 
place.  It  was  the  cross-roads  on  a  high 
and  sunny  plain,  where  the  pungent 
smell  of  sage-brush  perfumed  the  air. 
Grabo  looked  about  him,  in  the  spirit  of 
reconnaissance.  He  had  a  sense  that  he 
was  to  be  left  in  space.  But  he  liked  it. 

There  was  an  open  wagon  and  a  pair 
of  mules  waiting  for  him,  and  they  were 
driven  by  an  alert  boy  with  freckles. 

"  I  came  down  yisterday,"  he  said  to 
Grabo,  "  expectin'  you.  When  you 
did  n't  come,  I  camped.  Mr.  Memory 
is  awful  anxious  to  see  ye,  sir.  He  's  laid 
up  with  a  twisted  knee.  Got  throwed 
off  his  bronc." 

"  You  see  I  'm  wanted,"  Grabo  smiled 
at  SiUer.  «  And  I  think  you  '11  be  !  " 

He  shook  hands  with  all  the  men,  and 
they  slapped  him  on  the  shoulder.  He 
and  Anna  looked  once  more  in  each 
other's  eyes.  For  a  second  or  two  they 
were  motionless.  Then  he  removed  a 
curious  little  pin  from  the  inside  of  his 
coat,  regarded  its  cabalistic  insignia  af- 
fectionately, and  pinned  it  on  her  dress. 

"  It 's  a  decoration  for  distinguished 
conduct,"  he  said  with  such  nonchalance 
as  he  had  at  command. 

He  kissed  Margaret  on  her  moist 
forehead. 

"  She  '11  grow  up  a  good  woman," 
he  prophesied.  "  She  '11  be  a  comfort 


to  you.  In  a  day  or  two  I  shall  send 
her  a  gift.  Once  in  three  months  it  will 
be  repeated.  Perhaps  you  '11  write  me 
how  she  gets  on." 

He  was,  indeed,  laying  plans  for  the 
child  even  as  he  talked.  The  freckled 
boy  transferred  Julian's  belongings  to 
the  wagon. 

"  Sometimes  when  you  drive  by  I  '11 
be  here  at  the  cross-roads  to  yell  at  you," 
Grabo  told  Victor. 

He  got  in  the  wagon,  and  both  vehicles 
started  on  their  ways. 

For  a  few  moments  Grabo  sat  tense, 
throbbing  with  curious  emotions. 

Then  twelve  shots  rent  the  air,  — 
the  parting  salute  of  his  fellow  travelers. 
He  stood  up  in  the  wagon  and  waved 
his  adieux.  He  could  see  Anna  waving, 
and  little  Margaret,  whom  the  shooting 
had  awakened,  and  he  recognized  Siller's 
bandana.  When  he  sat  down  the  freckled 
boy  said,  — 

"  You  '11  git  jest  as  hearty  a  hullo 
when  ye  reach  Amber  Ranch." 

"  Shall  I  ?  "  cried  Grabo.  "  And  who 
are  you,  friend  ?  " 

"  Me  ?  Biff  Hathaway.  I  'm  herdin' 
f'r  Mr.  Memory.  I  come  out  here  to 
die.  The  doctor  giv  me  a  month." 

"  How  long  ago  was  that  ?  "  asked 
Grabo. 

"  Four  year,"  grinned  the  freckled 
boy. 

Grabo  straightened  his  shoulders.  He 
took  in  the  flowing  spacious  plain,  the 
perfect  arch  of  the  cloudless  vault,  the 
windings  of  the  persistent  road. 

"  Does  n't  it  seem  to  you  we  're  taking 
it  a  little  too  easy  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  freckle-faced  boy  snapped  his 
whip,  and  the  tawny  mules  leaped  for- 
ward. Julian  sat  straining  his  eyes  into 
the  distance.  Miraculously,  the  common 
dust  of  the  highway  had  been  transmu- 
ted into  gold. 

Elia  W.  Peattie. 


Letters  of  John  JRuskin. 


797 


LETTERS  OF  JOHN   RUSKIN. 


II. 

1857-1859. 

IN  the  preface  to  the  fifth  and  last  vol- 
ume of  Modern  Painters  Ruskin  gives 
a  brief  statement  of  "  matters  which  had 
employed  or  interrupted  "  him  between 
1855  and  1860.  The  great  variety  of 
these  matters  shows  the  extent  of  his 
intellectual  interests,  ranging  from  the 
Elements  of  Drawing  to  theories  of  Po- 
litical Economy. 

Through  the  autumn  and  winter  of 
1857-58  he  was  occupied  in  caring  for 
and  arranging  the  immense  mass  of  the 
Turner  drawings  in  the  National  Gallery. 
In  May,  1858,  exhausted  by  the  hard  la- 
bor, the  exciting  interest,  and  the  heavy 
responsibility  of  this  work,  he  went  to 
Switzerland  to  rest,  and  to  make  studies 
in  several  of  the  old  towns  in  order  to 
illustrate  some  of  Turner's  compositions. 

In  August  he  went  on  into  Italy  and 
stopped  at  Turin.  Almost  twenty  years 
afterwards  he  wrote  of  his  experience 
there  :  "I  was  still  in  the  bonds  of  my 
old  Evangelical  faith,  and,  in  1858,  it 
was  with  me  Protestantism  or  nothing : 
the  crisis  of  the  whole  turn  of  my 
thoughts  being  one  Sunday  morning,  at 
Turin,  when,  from  before  Paul  Vero- 
nese's Queen  of  Sheba,  and  under  a  quite 
overwhelmed  sense  of  his  God  -  given 
power,  I  went  away  to  a  Waldensian 
chapel,  where  a  little  squeaking  idiot 
was  preaching  to  an  audience  of  seven- 
teen old  women  and  three  louts,  that 

1  Fors  Clavigera,  letter  Ixxvi,  March,  1877. 
Ruskin  gives  a  somewhat  different  account  of 
this  critical  incident  in  the  first  chapter  of  the 
third  volume  of  Prceterita,  1888. 

2  I  venture  to  call  the  reader's  attention  to 
the  fact  that  much  in  these  letters  is  written 
in  a  humorous  vein,  the  humor  often,  indeed, 


they  were  the  only  children  of  God  in 
Turin ;  and  that  all  the  people  in  Turin 
outside  the  chapel,  and  all  the  people  in 
the  world  out  of  sight  of  Monte  Viso, 
would  be  damned.  I  came  out  of  the 
chapel,  in  sum  of  twenty  years  of 
thought,  a  conclusively  un  -  converted 
man.  .  .  .  Thus  then  it  went  with  me 
till  1874,  when  I  had  lived  sixteen  full 
years  with  '  the  religion  of  Humanity ' 
for  rough  and  strong  and  sure  founda- 
tion of  everything."  1 

Ruskin  returned  to  England  to  spend 
the  winter  of  1859  at  home,  very  hard  at 
work,  which  was  by  no  means  concen- 
trated on  Modern  Painters.  In  the  spring 
he  went  to  Berlin,  to  Dresden,  and  to 
Munich,  in  order  to  study  the  Venetian 
pictures  in  the  galleries  of  those  cities. 
After  his  return  home,  he  set  himself  to 
his  task  steadily,  and  with  his  accustomed 
industry,  and  in  the  spring  of  1860,  seven- 
teen years  after  the  publication  of  the 
first  volume,  the  fifth  and  last  volume  of 
Modern  Painters  was  completed  and  pub- 
lished. The  following  letters  illustrate 
this  period,  which  proved  as  time  went 
on.  to  have  been  practically  the  turning- 
point  of  his  life.2 

PENRITH,  CUMBERLAND, 

24th  September,  '57. 

DEAR  NORTON,  —  I  was  very  thank- 
ful to  know  you  had  arrived  safely, 
and  without  getting  any  blue  put  on 
your  wings  by  that  Atlantic,  and  I  am 
trying  to  conceive  you  as  very  happy  in 
the  neighborhood  of  those  rattlesnakes, 

being1  grim  enough.  I  should  not  thus  call  in 
question  the  reader's  intelligence,  were  it  not 
that  some  humorous  passages  in  the  first  in- 
stallment of  the  letters  have  been  taken  as 
quite  serious  expressions  of  opinion  by  one  or 
more  of  their  critics. 


Copyright,  1904,  by  CHARLES  ELIOT  NORTON. 


798 


Letters  of  John  Ruskin. 


bears,  etc.,  though  it  seems  to  me  much 
the  sort  of  happiness  (compared  with 
ours  at  home  here)  that  a  poor  little 
chimney-sweeper  is  enjoying  helow  on 
the  doorstep,  to  whom  I  have  just  im- 
parted what  consolation  there  is  in  six- 
pence for  the  untowardness  of  his  fate, 
his  mother  having  declared  that  if  "  he 
didna  get  a  job,  he  would  stop  oot  all 
day."  You  have  plenty  "  jobs,"  of 
course,  in  your  fine  new  country  ;  but 
you  seem  to  me,  nevertheless,  "  stop- 
ping out  all  day."  I  envy  your  power 
of  enjoyment,  however,  and  respect  it, 
and,  so  far,  understand  it ;  for  truly  it 
must  be  a  grand  thing  to  be  in  a  country 
that  one  has  good  hope  of,  and  which  is 
always  improving,  instead  of,  as  I  am,  in 
the  position  of  the  wicked  man  in  one 
of  the  old  paraphrases  my  mother  used 
to  teach  me  :  — 

Fixed  on  his  house  he  leans ;  —  his  house 
And  all  its  props  decay, 
He  holds  it  fast ;  but,  while  he  holds, 
The  tottering  frame  gives  way. 

And  yet,  I  should  n't  say  that,  neither, 
for  in  all  I  am  doing,  or  trying  to  do,  I 
assume  the  infancy  of  my  country,  and 
look  forward  to  a  state  of  things  which 
everybody  mocks  at,  as  ridiculous  and 
unpopular,  and  which  holds  the  same  re- 
lation to  our  present  condition  that  the 
said  condition  does  to  aboriginal  Briton- 
ship.  Still,  one  may  look  triumphantly 
to  the  advance  of  one's  country  from  its 
long  clothes  to  its  jacket,  and  yet  grudge 
the  loss  of  the  pretty  lace  on  the  baby 
caps.  Not,  by  the  way,  that  baby  caps 
ever  should  have  any  lace  (vide,  passim, 
my  political  economy).  Truly,  however, 
it  does  look  like  a  sunset  in  the  east,  to- 
day ;  and  my  baby  may  die  of  croup  be- 
fore it  gets  its  jacket ;  but  I  know  what 
kind  of  omen  it  is  for  your  American 
art,  —  whatever  else  may  flourish  among 
the  rattlesnakes,  that  the  first  studies  of 
nature  which  I  get  sent  me  here  by  way 
of  present  are  of  Dead  leaves,  —  studies 
of  hectic  red  and  "flying  gold  of  the 
ruined  woodlands,"  by  a  young  lady.  I 


have  accepted  them  gratefully,  but  send 
her  back  word  that  she  had  better  draw 
"  buds  "  henceforward. 

I  am  just  returning  through  Manches- 
ter to  London  to  set  to  work  on  the  Tur- 
ner sketches,  which  are  going  finally  to 
be  entrusted  to  me,  altogether ;  and  a 
pretty  piece  of  work  I  shall  have  of  them  ; 
pretty,  I  hope  to  make  it  at  last,  in  the 
most  literal  sense. 

We  have  had  a  wonderfully  fine  sum- 
mer, and  the  harvest  of  oats  in  Scotland 
is  quite  as  pretty  as  any  vintage,  prettier, 
I  think,  for  a  vintage  is  a  great  mess, 
and  I  always  think  it  such  a  pity  the 
grapes  should  be  squeezed.  Much  more 
when  it  comes  to  dancing  among  the 
grapes  with  bare  feet,  —  and  other  such 
arcana  of  Bacchanalian  craft.  Besides 
there  is,  so  far  as  I  know,  no  instrument 
employed  on  vines,  either  for  pruning  or 
cutting,  half  so  graceful  or  metaphori- 
cal as  the  sickle.  I  don't  know  what 
they  used  in  Palestine  for  the  clusters 
of  the  "  Vine  of  the  earth,"  but  as  far 
as  I  remember  vintages,  it  is  hand  work. 
I  have  never  seen  a  maize  or  rice  harvest 
(have  you?),  and,  for  the  present,  think 
there  is  nothing  like  oats  ;  —  why  I  should 
continue  to  write  it  in  that  pedantic  man- 
ner I  know  not;  the  Scotch  word  being 
"  aits  "  and  the  English  "  whuts  "  —  the 
h  very  mute,  and  the  u  full.  It  has  been 
such  fine  weather,  too,  that  all  our  little 
rivers  are  dried  up.  You  never  told  me 
enough  about  what  Americans  feel  when 
first  they  see  one  of  our  "  celebrated  " 
rivers  ;  Yarrow,  or  Tweed,  or  Teviot,  or 
such  like ;  consisting,  in  all  probability, 
of  as  much  water  as  usually  is  obtained 
by  a  mischievous  boy  from  the  parish 
pump,  circling  round  a  small  stone  with 
a  water  wagtail  on  it. 

I  have  not  often  been  more  surprised 
than  I  was  by  hearing  of  Mrs.  Stowe  at 
Durham.  She  had  an  introduction  to 
the  librarian,  of  course,  and  there  are 
very  notable  manuscripts  at  Durham  as 
you  probably  know  ;  and  the  librarian  is 
very  proud  of  them,  and  was  much  an- 


Letters  of  John  Ruskln. 


799 


noyed  when  Mrs.  Stowe  preferred  "  go- 
ing in  a  boat  on  the  river."  This  pre- 
ference would  have  seemed,  even  to 
me,  a  great  manuscript  hunter,  quite  jus- 
tifiable in  a  novelist ;  but  it  puzzled  me 
to  account  for  Mrs.  Stowe's  conceding 
the  title  of  "  River "  to  the  water  at 
Durham,  or  conceiving  the  idea  of  its 
floating  a  boat,  seeing  that  it  must,  in 
relation  to  an  American  river,  bear  much 
the  aspect  of  a  not  very  large  town 
drain. 

I  shall  write  you  again  when  I  get  some 
notion  of  my  work  for  winter ;  I  hope  in 
time  for  the  letter  to  get  over  the  water 
by  the  16th  November ;  I  have  put  it 
down  16th  in  my  diary  ;  and  yet  in  my 
memory  it  always  seemed  to  me  you  said 
the  17th.  I  can't  make  out  why.  I  am 
very  glad  that  you  found  all  well.  Pre- 
sent my  sincerest  regards  to  Mrs.  Nor- 
ton and  your  sisters.  My  father  and 
mother  unite  in  kind  and  grateful  re- 
membrances to  yourself. 

Ever  affectionately  yours, 

J.  RUSKIN. 

DENMARK  HILL,  5th  December,  1857. 
DEAR  NORTON,  —  I  am  now  begin- 
ning to  be  seriously   anxious  lest  you 
should  not  have  got  either  of  my  letters 

—  and   if  not,  what  you  are   thinking 
of  me  by  this  time  I  cannot  guess  — 
kindly  and  merciful  as  I  know  your  judg- 
ment always  is.     I  sent  you  one  letter 
from  Manchester,  not  a  long  one,  but 
still  a  "  letter  ;  "    then  a  "  salutation  " 
rather  than  letter,  posted  as  I  thought 
very  cleverly,  so  as  to  get  over  the  water 
just  in  time  for  your  birthday,  about  ten 
days  afterwards.    Just  about  then —  No, 
it  must  have  been  later,  perhaps  five 
days  after  the  16th,  I  got  your  letter  of 
the  30th  October  ;  but  I  supposed  at  all 
events   my  birthday  letter  would  have 
reached  you  and  explained  matters.    My 

1  I  was  spending  the  winter  in  Newport. 

2  The  first  number  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly, 

—  that  for  November. 

8  Ruskin  gave  a  full  and  interesting  account 


letters  were  directed  Cambridge,  near 
Boston.  I  knew  nothing  of  Rhode  Island 
or  Newport,1  nor  do  I  know  more  now, 
but  this  line  must  take  its  chance. 

I  was  delighted  with  the  magazine 2 
and  all  that  was  in  it  —  but  I  won't  write 
more  just  now,  for  I  feel  doubtful  even 
of  your  Rhode  Island  address  and  in 
despair  lest  I  should  never  catch  you  with 
a  letter  in  that  fearful  American  Wilder- 
ness, from  which  you  will  shoot  barbed 
arrows  at  me,  or  poisoned  ones  of  si- 
lence. 

Ever  affectionately  yours, 

J.  RUSKIN. 

I  see  you  are  to  stay  at  Rhode  Island 
some  months,  so  I  may  risk  a  little  bit 
more  chat  —  not  that  I  can  chat  at  pre- 
sent, for  my  head  and  hands  are  full  to 
choking  and  perpetual  slipping  through 
thoughts  and  fingers.  I  've  got  all  the 
Turner  sketches  in  the  National  Gallery 
to  arrange,  —  19,000 :  of  these  some 
15,000  I  had  never  seen  before,  and 
though  most  of  them  quite  slight  and  to 
other  people  unintelligible,  to  me  they 
are  all  intelligible  and  weary  me  by  the 
quantity  of  their  telling  —  hundreds  of 
new  questions  beyond  what  they  tell  be- 
ing suggested  every  hour.  Besides  this 
I  have  to  plan  frames  —  measure  — 
mount  —  catalogue  —  all  with  single 
head  and  double  hands  only :  and  under 
the  necessity  of  pleasing  other  people  no 
less  than  of  satisfying  myself  —  and  I  've 
enough  to  do.8  (I  didn't  know  there 
was  anything  graphic  on  this  side  of  the 
paper.4) 

I  'm  very  grateful  for  your  faith  in  me 
through  all  this  unhappy  accident  of  si- 
lence. 

Ever  affectionately  yours, 

J.  RUSKIN. 

What  a  glorious  thing  of  Lowell's  that 

of  the  condition  in  which  he  found  these  draw- 
ings, and  of  his  work  on  them  in  the  preface  to 
the  fifth  volume  of  Modern  Painters. 
*  Two  fragments  of  drawing. 


800 


Letters  of  John  Ruslcin. 


is  *  —  but  it 's  too  bad  to  quiz  Pallas,  I 
can  stand  it  about  anybody  but  her. 

[February  28,  1858.] 

MY  DEAR  NORTON,  —  Your  letter  for 
my  birthday  and  the  two  little  volumes 
of  Lowell  reached  me  as  nearly  as  pos- 
sible together  —  the  letter  on  the  ninth 
of  February  3  —  so  truly  had  you  calcu- 
lated. I  know  you  will  have  any  pa- 
tience with  me,  so  here  is  the  last  day 
of  the  month,  and  no  thanks  sent  yet. 

To  show  you  a  little  what  kind  of  state 
my  mind  is  in,  I  have  facsimiled  for  you 
as  nearly  as  I  could  one  of  the  19,000 
sketches.  It,  like  most  of  them,  is  not 
a  sketch,  but  a  group  of  sketches,  made 
on  both  sides  of  the  leaf  of  the  notebook. 
The  size  of  the  leaf  is  indicated  by  the 
red  line,  —  on  the  opposite  leaf  of  the 
note-paper  is  the  sketch  on  the  other  side 
of  the  leaf  in  the  original.  The  note- 
books vary  in  contents  from  60  to  90 
leaves ;  there  are  about  two  hundred 
books  of  the  kind  (300  and  odd,  of 
notebooks  in  all),  and  each  leaf  has 
on  an  average  this  quantity  of  work,  a 
great  many  leaves  being  slighter,  some 
blank,  but  a  great  many  also  elaborate 
in  the  highest  degree,  some  containing 
ten  exquisite  compositions  on  each  side 
of  the  leaf  —  thus  —  each  no  bigger  than 
this  8  —  and  with  about  that  quantity  of 
work  in  each  —  but  every  touch  of  it  in- 
estimable, done  with  his  whole  soul  in  it. 
Generally  the  slighter  sketches  are  writ- 
ten over  everywhere,  as  in  the  example 
enclosed,  every  incident  being  noted  that 
was  going  on  at  the  moment  of  the  sketch. 
The  legends  on  one  side,  you  will  see, 
"  Old  wall,  Mill,  Wall,  Koad,  Linen  dry- 
ing." Another  subject,  scrawled  through 
the  big  one  afterwards,  inscribed, "  Lauen- 
stein  [?]."  The  words  under  "  Children 
playing  at  a  well "  I  can't  read.  The 
little  thing  in  the  sky  of  the  one  below 
is  the  machicolation  of  the  tower. 

1  The  Origin  of  Didactic  Poetry,  in  the  At- 
lantic. 

2  Raskin's  birthday  was  February  8. 


Fancy  all  this  coming  upon  me  in  an 
avalanche  —  all  in  the  most  fearful  dis- 
order —  and  you  will  understand  that  I 
really  can  hardly  understand  anything 
else,  or  think  about  anything  else. 

Thank  you,  however,  at  least  for  all 
that  I  can't  think  about.  Certainly  I 
can't  write  anything  just  now  for  the 
magazine.  Thank  you  for  your  notice 
of  my  mistake  about  freno  in  Dante  — 
I  have  no  doubt  of  your  being  quite 
right.  .  .  . 

I  've  been  reading  Froissart  lately, 
and  certainly,  if  we  ever  advance  as 
much  from  our  own  times  as  we  have 
advanced  from  those  of  Edward  III,  we 
shall  have  a  very  pretty  free  country  of 
it  Chivalry,  in  Froissart,  really  seems 
to  consist  chiefly  in  burning  of  towns  and 
murdering  women  and  children. 

Well  —  no  more  at  present  —  from  — 
as  our  English  clowns  say  at  the  ends  of 
their  letters.  I  assure  you  this  is  a  longer 
letter  than  I  've  written  to  anybody  this 
four  months.  Sincerest  regards  to  your 
mother  and  sisters. 

Ever  affectionately  yours, 

J.  RUSKIN. 

FROM  JOHN  JAMES   RUSKIN. 

LONDON,  31  May,  1858. 

MY  DEAR  SIR,  —  Being  authorized 
to  open  Letters  addressed  to  my  Son 
Mr.  J.  Ruskin  during  his  absence  (a 
privilege  not  always  accorded  to  Fa- 
thers), I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  perus- 
ing your  Letter  of  17  May,  and  a  part 
of  it  requiring  immediate  reply  will  ac- 
count for  my  intruding  my  Correspon- 
dence upon  you. 

I  beg  of  you  to  detain  the  Drawing 
of  the  Block  of  Gneiss,  being  quite  cer- 
tain my  son  would  so  wish.  He  will 
tell  you  himself  when  he  wants  it  — 
your  Letter  will  go  to  him  to-morrow,  at 
Lucerne. 

He  has  spent  seven  months,  nearly, 

8  Ruskin  here  draws  an  oblong  figure  about 
two  inches  by  one. 


Letters  of  John  Ruskin. 


801 


in  reducing  to  something  of  Order  a 
Chaos  of  19,000  Drawings  and  Sketches 
by  Turner,  now  National  property  — 
getting  mounted  or  framed  a  few  hun- 
dred of  such  Drawings  as  he  considered 
might  be  useful  or  interesting  to  young 
Artists  or  the  public.  These  are  at 
Marlborough  House,  and  he  is  gone  to 
make  his  own  Sketches  of  any  Buildings 
about  the  Rhine  or  Switzerland  or  north 
of  Italy  in  danger  of  falling  or  of  being 
restored.  His  seven-month  work,  though 
a  work  of  Love,  was  still  work,  and 
though  sorry  to  have  him  away  I  was 
glad  to  get  him  away  to  fields  and  pas- 
tures new.  It  may  be  the  end  of  Octo- 
ber before  he  returns  D.  V.  to  London. 
I  conclude  you  have  seen  his  Notes  on 
Exhibitions  or  I  would  send  one.  The 
public  seem  to  take  more  interest  in  the 
Pictures  as  Artists  take  more  pains  — 
It  is  long  since  I  have  bought  a  Picture 
(my  Son  going  sufficiently  deep  into  the 
Luxury),  but  I  was  tempted  by  3  Small 
ones  at  the  first  glance,  —  Plassan's 
Music  Lesson,  French  Exhn. ;  Lewis's 
Inmate  of  the  Harem,  Rl.  Academy ; 
Lewis's  Lilies  &  Roses,  Constantino- 
ple, Rl.  Ac'y.  I  did  not  tell  my  Son  I 
had  bought  the  first  till  bis  Notes  were 
printed  —  not  that  it  could  bias  him, 
but  it  might  have  cramped  his  Cri- 
tique. When  his  Notes  were  out  I  told 
him  the  picture  was  his,  and  I  was  glad 
he  had  spoken,  say  written,  so  well  of 
it.1  As  the  Times  calls  the  Inmate  of 
the  Harem  a  Masterpiece  of  Master- 
pieces, and  the  Spectator  stiles  it  a  mar- 
velous Gem,  it  is  a  pretty  safe  pur- 
chase. I  had  it  at  home  before  the  pub- 
lic saw  it. 

I  forward  to  my  Son  your  Photograph 
of  the  Giorgione,  and  I  cut  out  and  send 
Stillman's  Lecture,  as  the  present  Post 
Master  of  France,  Nap'n  3rd,  is  not  to 
be  trusted  with  a  newspaper.  You  are 

1  Ruskin  had  written  of  this  picture  as  fol- 
lows :  ' '  Exquisite  in  touch  of  pencil,  and  in 
appreciation  of  delicate  character,  both  in  fea- 
tures and  gesture.  .  .  .  On  the  whole  it  seems 

VOL.  xcni.  —  NO.  560.  51 


fortunate  in  possessing  a  picture  of  Gains- 
borough —  neither  spot  nor  blot  of  him 
ever  appear  for  sale  here. 

If  I  have  used  a  fi'eedom  in  my  mode 
of  addressing  you  at  the  commencement 
of  this  Letter,  you  have  yourself  occa- 
sioned it.  In  the  too  few  visits  you 
made  to  us  here  you  almost  endeared 
yourself  to  Mrs.  Ruskin  and  me  as  you 
had  already  done  to  my  Son.  We  beg 
to  offer  our  united  Regards  and  best 
wishes  for  your  Health. 

I  am,  my  dear  Sir, 
Yours  very  truly, 
JOHN  JAMES  RUSKIN. 

CHAS.  E.  NORTON,  Esqr. 

Will  you  present  our  Kind  Remem- 
brances to  your  Mother  and  Sisters.  I 
send  a  copy  of  Notes  to  make  sure. 

DENMARK  HILL,  24th  October,  '58. 
DEAR  NORTON,  —  At  last  I  begin  to 
write  letters  again.  I  have  been  tired, 
ill,  almost,  and  much  out  of  heart  during 
the  summer ;  not  fit  to  write  to  you,  per- 
haps chiefly  owing  to  the  reaction  from 
the  intense  excitement  of  the  Turner 
work ;  partly  because  at  39  one  begins 
to  feel  a  life  of  sensation  rather  too  much 
for  one.  I  believe  I  want  either  to  take 
up  mathematics  for  a  couple  of  years,  or 
to  go  into  my  father's  counting  house  and 
sell  sherry  for  the  same  time  —  for  other- 
wise, there  seems  to  me  a  chance  of  my 
getting  into  perfect  Dryasdust.  I  actu- 
ally found  the  top  of  St.  Gothard  "  dull " 
this  year.  Besides  this  feeling  of  weari- 
ness, I  have  more  tiresome  interruption 
than  I  can  bear ;  questions  —  begging 
for  opinions  on  pictures,  etc.  —  all  which 
I  must  put  a  stop  to,  but  don't  yet  see  my 
way  clearly  to  the  desired  result :  —  the 
upshot  of  the  matter  being  that  I  am  get- 
ting every  day  more  cold  and  sulky  — 
and  dislike  writing  letters  even  to  my 

to  me  the  hest  piece  of  quiet  painting  in  the 
room  "  [of  the  French  Exhibition  in  London]. 
These  words  must  have  pleased  his  father  as  & 
confirmation  of  his  own  judgment. 


802 


Letters  of  John  Ruskin. 


best  friends ;  I  merely  send  this  because 
I  want  to  know  how  you  are. 

I  went  away  to  Switzerland  this  year 
the  moment  Academy  was  over ;  and  ex- 
amined with  a  view  to  history  Habsburg, 
Zug,  Morgarten,  Grutli,  Altorf,  Btlrglen, 
and  Bellinzona  —  sketching  a  little  ;  but 
generally  disgusted  by  finding  all  tradi- 
tions about  buildings  and  places  untrace- 
able  to  any  good  foundation ;  the  field 
of  Morgarten  excepted,  which  is  clear 
enough.  Tell's  birthplace,  Bilrglen,  is 
very  beautiful.  But  somehow,  I  tired 
of  the  hills  for  the  first  time  in  my  life, 
and  went  away  —  where  do  you  think  ? 
—  to  Turin,  where  I  studied  Paul  Vero- 
nese in  the  morning  and  went  to  the  opera 
at  night  for  six  weeks.  And  I  Ve  found 
out  a  good  deal,  —  more  than  I  can  put 
in  a  letter,  —  in  that  six  weeks,  the  main 
thing  in  the  way  of  discovery  being  that 
painting  —  to  be  a  first-rate  painter  — 
you  must  n't  be  pious ;  but  a  little  wicked, 
and  entirely  a  man  of  the  world.  I  had 
been  inclining  to  this  opinion  for  some 
years  ;  but  I  clinched  it  at  Turin. 

Then  from  Turin  I  came  nearly 
straight  home,  walking  over  the  Cenis, 
and  paying  a  forenoon  visit  to  my  friends 
at  Chamouni,  walking  over  the  Forclaz 
to  them  from  St.  Gervais  and  back  by 
the  road  —  and  I  think  I  enjoyed  that 
day  as  if  it  had  been  a  concentrated 
month  :  —  but  yet  —  the  mountains  are 
not  what  they  were  to  me.  A  curious 
mathematical  question  keeps  whispering 
itself  to  me  every  now  and  then,  Why 
is  ground  at  an  angle  of  40,  anything 
better  than  ground  at  an  angle  of  30  — 
or  of  20  —  or  of  10  —  or  of  nothing  at 
all  ?  It  is  but  ground,  after  all. 

Apropos  of  St.  Gervais  and  St.  Mar- 
tin's—  you  may  keep  that  block  of  gneiss 
altogether  if  you  like  it ;  I  wish  the  trees 
had  been  either  in  the  sky,  or  out  of  it. 

Please  a  line  to  say  how  you  are. 
Kindest  regards  to  your  Mother  and  Sis- 

1  Writing  of  this  picture  in  the  preface  to 
the  fifth  volume  of  Modern  Painters  (1860) 
Ruskin  says :  "  With  much  consternation  but 


ters.  My  Father  and  mother  are  well 
and  beg  kindest  regards  to  you. 

I  have  written  your  initials  and  mine 
in  the  two  volumes  of  Lowell  (how  de- 
lightful the  new  prefaces  to  the  Fable). 
He  does  me  more  good  in  my  dull  fits 
than  anybody,  and  makes  me  hopeful 
again.  What  a  beautiful  face  he  has. 
Ever  affectionately  yours, 

J.  RUSKIN. 

29th  November  [1858]. 
DEAR  NORTON,  —  I  'm  so  intensely 
obliged  to  you  for  your  letter  and  conso- 
lations about  Paolo  Veronese  and  Titian 
and  Turner  and  Correggio  and  Tinto- 
retto. Paolo  and  Titian  are  much 
deeper  however  than  you  know  yet, 
immensely  deeper  than  I  had  the  least 
idea  of  till  this  last  summer.  Paolo  's 
as  full  of  mischief  as  an  egg  's  full  of 
meat  —  always  up  to  some  dodge  or 
other  —  just  like  Tintoretto.  In  his  Solo- 
mon receiving  Queen  of  Sheba,  one  of 
the  golden  lions  of  the  Throne  is  put 
into  full  light,  and  a  falconer  underneath 
holds  a  white  falcon,  as  white  as  snow, 
just  under  the  lion,  so  as  to  carry  Solo- 
mon on  the  lion  and  eagle,  —  and  one 
of  the  elders  has  got  a  jewel  in  his  hand 
with  which  he  is  pointing  to  Solomon, 
of  the  form  of  a  Cross ;  the  Queen  's 
fainting  —  but  her  Dog  is  n't,  —  a  little 
King  Charles  Spaniel, about  seven  inches 
high,  —  thinks  it  shocking  his  mistress 
should  faint,  stands  in  front  of  her  on 
all  his  four  legs  apart,  snarling  at  Solo- 
mon with  all  his  might  —  Solomon  all 
but  drops  his  sceptre  stooping  forward 
eagerly  to  get  the  Queen  helped  up  — 
such  a  beautiful  fellow,  all  crisped  gold- 
en short  hair  over  his  head  and  the  fine 
Arabian  arched  brow  —  and  I  believe  af- 
ter all  you  '11  find  the  subtlest  and  grand- 
est expression  going  is  hidden  under  the 
gold  and  purple  of  those  vagabonds  of 
Venetians.1 

more  delight  I  found  that  I  had  never  got  to 
the  roots  of  the  moral  power  of  the  Venetians, 
and  that  they  needed  still  another  and  a  very 


Letters  of  John  Kuskin. 


803 


Yes,  I  should  have  been  the  better 
of  you  —  a  good  deal.  I  can  get  on 
splendidly  by  myself  if  I  can  work  or 
walk  all  day  long  —  but  I  could  n't  work, 
and  got  low  because  I  could  n't. 

I  can't  write  more  to-day  —  but  I 
thought  you  'd  like  this  better  than 
nothing. 

I  'in  better  now,  a  little,  but  doubt- 
ful and  puzzled  about  many  things. 
Lowell  does  me  more  good  than  any- 
body, what  between  encouraging  me  and 
making  me  laugh.  Mr.  Knott 1  makes 
me  laugh  more  than  anything  I  know 
in  the  world  —  the  punning  is  so  rapid 
and  rich,  there 's  nothing  near  it  but 
Hood,  and  Hood  is  so  awful  under  his 
fun  that  one  never  can  laugh. 

Questi  poveri  —  what  are  we  to  do 
with  them  ?  You  don't  mean  to  ask  me 
that  seriously  ?  Make  pets  of  them  to 
be  sure  —  they  were  sent  to  be  our  dolls, 
like  the  little  girls'  wax  ones  —  only  we 
can't  pet  them  until  we  get  good  flog- 
gings for  some  people,  as  well. 

Always  yours  affectionately, 
J.  RUSKIN. 

DENMARK  HILL,  28th  December,  1858. 

DEAR  NORTON,  —  I  am  sadly  afraid 
you  have  not  got  my  answer  to  your  kind 
letter  written  on  your  birthday.  The 
answer  was  short  —  but  instant  —  and 
you  must  rightly  have  thought  me  un- 
feeling when  you  received  none  —  it  is 
doubly  kind  of  you  to  send  me  this  poem 
of  Lowell's  and  your  good  wishes. 

Indeed,  I  rather  want  good  wishes 
just  now,  for  I  am  tormented  by  what  I 
cannot  get  said,  nor  done.  I  want  to 
get  all  the  Titians,  Tintorets,  Paul 
Vei-oneses,  Turners,  and  Sir  Joshuas 
in  the  world  —  into  one  great  fireproof 
Gothic  gallery  of  marble  and  serpentine. 
I  want  to  get  them  all  perfectly  engraved. 
I  want  to  go  and  draw  all  the  subjects 
of  Turner's  19,000  sketches  in  Switzer- 

stern  course  of  study."  In  the  third  chapter 
of  Part  ix  in  this  volume  is  a  vivid  description 
of  the  picture. 


land  and  Italy,  elaborated  by  myself.  I 
want  to  get  everybody  a  dinner  who 
has  n't  got  one.  I  want  to  macadamize 
some  new  roads  to  Heaven  with  broken 
fools'-heads ;  I  want  to  hang  up  some 
knaves  out  of  the  way,  not  that  I  've 
any  dislike  to  them,  but  I  think  it  would 
be  wholesome  for  them,  and  for  other 
people,  and  that  they  would  make  good 
crow's  meat.  I  want  to  play  all  day 
long  and  arrange  my  cabinet  of  minerals 
with  new  white  wool ;  I  want  somebody 
to  amuse  me  when  I  'm  tired ;  I  want 
Turner's  pictures  not  to  fade ;  I  want 
to  be  able  to  draw  clouds,  and  to  under- 
stand how  they  go  —  and  I  can't  make 
them  stand  still,  nor  understand  them  — 
they  all  go  sideways,  •n-A.aytai  (what  a 
fellow  that  Aristophanes  was  !  and  yet 
to  be  always  in  the  wrong  in  the  main, 
except  in  his  love  for  ,/Eschylus  and  the 
country.  Did  ever  a  worthy  man  do  so 
much  mischief  on  the  face  of  the  Earth  ?  ) 
Farther,  I  want  to  make  the  Italians  in- 
dustrious, the  Americans  quiet,  the  Swiss 
romantic,  the  Roman  Catholics  ration- 
al, and  the  English  Parliament  honest 
—  and  I  can't  do  anything  and  don't 
understand  what  I  was  born  for.  I  get 
melancholy  —  overeat  myself,  oversleep 
myself  —  get  pains  in  the  back  —  don't 
know  what  to  do  in  anywise.  What  with 
that  infernal  invention  of  steam,  and  gun- 
powder, I  think  the  fools  may  be  a  puff 
or  barrel  or  two  too  many  for  us.  Never- 
theless, the  gunpowder  has  been  doing 
some  work  in  China  and  India. 

Meantime,  thank  you  for  Lowell.  It 
is  very  beautiful,  but  not,  I  think,  up  to 
his  work.  Don't  let  him  turn  out  any 
but  perfect  work  (except  in  fun).  I  don't 
quite  understand  this  —  where  is  "  God- 
minster  "  ?  How  many  hostile  forms  of 
prayer  are  in  the  bells  of  the  place  that 
woke  him  —  or  where  was  it  ?  "  Oint- 
ment from  her  eyes  "  is  fine,  read  in  the 
temper  it  was  written  in  ;  but  the  first 

1  Lowell's  rollicking  poem,  The  Unhappy 
Lot  of  Mr.  Knott. 


804 


Letters  of  John  Ruskin. 


touch  of  it  on  the  ear  is  disagreeable  — 
too  much  of  "  Eyesalye  "  in  the  notion. 
I  've   ordered   all  I  've  been  writing 
lately  to  be  sent  to  you  in  a  parcel. 

Thank  you  always  for  what  you  send 
me. 

Our  sincerest  regards  to  you  all. 
Ever  affectionately  yours, 

J.  RUSKIN. 

P.  S.  I  want  also  to  give  lectures  in  all 
the  manufacturing  towns,  and  to  write  an 
essay  on  poetry,  and  to  teach  some  mas- 
ters of  schools  to  draw  ;  and  I  want  to  be 
perfectly  quiet  and  undisturbed  and  not 
to  think,  and  to  draw,  myself,  all  day 
long,  till  I  can  draw  better ;  and  I  want 
to  make  a  dear  High  Church  fi-iend  of 
mine  sit  under  Mr.  Spurgeon. 

SCHAFFHAUSEN,  31st  July,  '59. 

MY  DEAR  NORTON,  —  I  have  been  too 
unwell  or  sick  at  heart  lately  to  write  to 
my  friends  —  but  I  don't  think  there  's 
another  of  them  who  has  been  so  good  as 
you,  and  believed  still  in  my  affection 
for  them.  As  I  grow  older,  the  evil 
about  us  takes  more  definite  and  over- 
whelming form  in  my  eyes,  and  I  have 
no  one  near  me  to  help  me  or  soothe  me, 
so  that  I  am  obliged  often  to  give  up 
thinking  and  take  to  walking  and  draw- 
ing in  a  desperate  way,  as  mechanical 
opiates,  but  I  can't  write  letters.  My 
hand  is  very  shaky  to-day  (as  I  was  up 
at  three  to  watch  the  dawn  on  the  spray 
of  the  fall,  and  it  is  hot  now  and  I  am 
tired),  —  but  I  must  write  you  a  word  or 
two.  The  dastardly  conduct  of  England 
in  this  Italian  war  has  affected  me  quite 
unspeakably  —  even  to  entire  despair  — 
so  that  I  do  not  care  to  write  any  more 
or  do  anything  more  that  does  not  bear 
directly  on  poor  people's  bellies  —  to  fill 
starved  people's  bellies  is  the  only  thing 
a  man  can  do  in  this  generation,  I  begin 
to  perceive. 

It  has  not  been  my  fault  that  the  Ros- 
setti  portrait  was  not  done.  I  told  him, 
whenever  he  was  ready,  I  could  come. 


But  when  I  go  now,  I  will  see  to  it  my- 
self and  have  it  done.  I  broke  my  pro- 
mise to  you  about  sending  books  —  there 
was  always  one  lost  or  to  be  got  or  some- 
thing —  and  it  was  put  off  and  off.  Well, 
I  hope  if  they  'd  been  anybody  else's 
books,  or  if  I  really  had  thought  that  my 
books  would  do  you  any  good,  I  'd  not 
have  put  it  off.  But  you  feel  all  I  want 
people  to  feel,  and  know  as  much  as  any- 
body need  know  about  art,  and  you  don't 
want  my  books.  Nevertheless,  when  the 
last  volume  of  M.  P.  comes  out,  I  '11  have 
'em  all  bound  and  sent  to  you.  I  am  at 
work  upon  it,  in  a  careless,  listless  way 
—  but  it  won't  be  the  worse  for  the 
different  tempers  it  will  be  written  in. 
There  will  be  little  or  no  bombast  in  it, 
I  hope,  and  some  deeper  truths  than  I 
knew  —  even  a  year  ago. 

The  Italian  campaign,  with  its  broken 
faith,  has,  as  I  said,  put  the  top  to  all 
my  ill  humor,  but  the  bottom  of  it  de- 
pends on  my  own  business.  I  see  so 
clearly  the  entire  impossibility  of  any 
salvation  for  art  among  the  modern 
European  public.  Nearly  every  old 
building  in  Europe,  France  and  Ger- 
many is  now  destroyed  by  restoration, 
and  the  pictures  are  fast  following.  The 
Correggios  of  Dresden  are  mere  wrecks  ; 
the  modern  Germans  (chiefly  at  Mu- 
nich) are  in,  without  exception,  the  most 
vile  development  of  human  arrogance 
and  ignorance  I  have  ever  seen  or  read 
of.  I  have  no  words  to  speak  about 
them  in.  The  English  are  making  pro- 
gress —  which  in  about  fifty  years  might 
possibly  lead  to  something  —  but  as  yet 
they  know  nothing  and  can  know  no- 
thing, and  long  before  they  gain  any 
sense  Europe  is  likely  to  be  as  bare  of 
art  as  America.  You  have  hope  in  be- 
ginning again.  I  don't  see  any  way  to 
it  clearly. 

I  want  to  be  as  sure  as  I  can  of  a  let- 
ter reaching  you  just  now.  I  shall  send 
this  with  my  London  packet  to-day,  and 
the  next  sheet  with  the  next  packet  next 
week,  so  as  to  have  two  chances.  My 


Letters  of  John  Ruskin. 


805 


health  is  well  enough.  I  draw  a  great 
deal,  thinking  I  may  do  more  good  by 
copying  and  engraving  things  that  are 
passing  away. 

Sincere  regards  to  your  Mother  and 
Sisters.     Ever,  dear  Norton, 

Affectionately  and  gratefully  yours, 
J.  RUSKIN. 

THUK,  15th  August  [1859]. 
DEAR  NORTON,  —  Scrap  No.  2  is 
long  in  coming  —  if  it  had  n't  been  for 
the  steamers  here,  which  keep  putting 
me  in  mind,  morning  and  evening,  of 
the  steamer  on  lake  of  Geneva,1  I  don't 
know  when  it  would  have  corne.  It  'a 
very  odd  I  don't  keep  writing  to  you 
continually,  for  you  are  almost  the  only 
friend  I  have  left.  I  mean  the  only 
friend  who  understands  or  feels  with 
me.  I  've  a  good  many  radical  half 
friends,  but  I  'm  not  a  radical  and  they 
quarrel  with  me  —  by  the  way,  so  do 
you  a  little  —  about  my  governing 
schemes.  Then  all  my  Tory  friends 
think  me  worse  than  Robespierre. 
Rossetti  and  the  P  R  B  2  are  all  gone 
crazy  about  the  Morte  d' Arthur.  I 
don't  believe  in  Evangelicalism  —  and 
my  Evangelical  (once)  friends  now  look 
upon  me  with  as  much  horror  as  on  one 
of  the  possessed  Gennesaret  pigs.  Nor 
do  I  believe  in  the  Pope  —  and  some 
Roman  Catholic  friends,  who  had  great 
hopes  of  me,  think  I  ought  to  be  burned. 
Domestically,  I  am  supposed  worse  than 
Blue  Beard ;  Artistically,  I  am  consid- 
ered a  mere  packet  of  quibs  and  crack- 
ers. I  rather  count  upon  Lowell  as  a 
friend,  though  1  've  never  seen  him. 
He  and  the  Brownings  and  you.  Four 

—  well  —  it 's  a  good  deal  to  have  —  of 
such,  and  I  won't  grumble  —  but  then 
you  're  in  America,  and  no  good  to  me 

—  except  that  I  'm  in  a  perfect  state  of 

1  On  which  we  had  met  in  July,  1856. 

2  The   Pre  -  Raphaelite    Brethren.      Morris, 
Burne  -  Jones,  and  others  had   been   painting 
scenes  from  the  Morte  d'Arthur  on  the  walls  of 
the  Oxford  Union,  and  Morris  had  been  writing 


gnawing  remorse  about  not  writing  to 
you,  and  the  Brownings  are  in  Italy, 
and  I  'm  as  alone  as  a  stone  on  a  high 
glacier,  dropped  the  wrong  way  —  in- 
stead of  among  the  moi-aine.  Some 
day,  ^when  I  've  quite  made  up  my  mind 
what  to  fight  for,  or  whom  to  fight,  I 
shall  do  well  enough,  if  I  live,  but  I 
have  n't  made  up  my  mind  what  to  fight 
for  —  whether,  for  instance,  people  ought 
to  live  in  Swiss  cottages  and  sit  on  three- 
legged  or  one  -  legged  stools  ;  whether 
people  ought  to  dress  well  or  ill ;  whether 
ladies  ought  to  tie  their  hair  in  beautiful 
knots ;  whether  Commerce  or  Business 
of  any  kind  be  an  invention  of  the  Devil 
or  not ;  whether  Art  is  a  Crime  or  only 
an  Absurdity  ;  whether  Clergymen  ought 
to  be  multiplied,  or  exterminated  by  ar- 
senic, like  rats ;  whether  in  general  we 
are  getting  on,  and  if  so  where  we  are 
going  to ;  whether  it  is  worth  while  to 
ascertain  any  of  these  things ;  whether 
one's  tongue  was  ever  made  to  talk 
with  or  only  to  taste  with.  (Send  to  Mr. 
Knott's  house  and  get  me  some  raps  if 
you  can.) 

Meantime,  I  'm  copying  Titian  as  well 
as  I  can,  that  being  the  only  work  I  see 
my  way  to  at  all  clearly,  and  if  I  can  ever 
succeed  in  painting  a  bit  of  flesh,  or  a  coil 
of  hair,  I  '11  begin  thinking  "  what  next." 

I  '11  send  you  another  scrap  soon.  I  'm 
a  little  happier  to-day  than  I  've  been  for 
some  time  at  the  steady  look  and  set  of 
Tuscany  and  Modena.  It  looks  like  grey 
of  dawn,  don't  it  ?  Sincerest  regards  to 
your  Mother  and  Sisters. 

Ever  affectionately  yours, 

J.  RUSKIN. 

DENMARK  HILL,  10th  December,  1859. 
MY  DEAR  NORTON,  —  The  first  thing 
I  did  when  I  got  home  was  to  go  to  Ros- 
setti to  see  about  the  portrait.     I  found 

tales  imbued  with  its  spirit  in  the  short-lived 
Oxford  and  'Cambridge  Magazine.  The  single 
volume  of  this  magazine  contains  much  writing 
by  Morris  and  Burne-Jones  full  of  the  poetic 
imagination  of  their  fervent  youth. 


806 


A   Quatrain. 


him  deep  in  work  —  but,  which  was 
worse,  I  found  your  commission  was  not 
for  a  little  drawing  like  Browning's,  but 
for  a  grand  finished,  delicate  oil — which 
R.  spoke  quite  coolly  of  taking  three  or 
four  weeks  about,  wanting  I  don't  know 
how  many  sittings.  I  had  to  go  into  the 
country  for  a  fortnight,  and  have  been  ill 
since  I  came  back  with  cold  and  such 
like,  and  I  don't  like  the  looks  of  myself 

—  however,  I  'm  going  to  see  R.  about  it 
again  immediately ; *  but  I  'm  now  wor- 
ried about  another  matter.     The  draw- 
ing he  has  done  for  you  is,  I  think,  almost 
the  worst  thing  he  has  ever  done,  and  will 
not  only  bitterly  disappoint  you,  but  put 
an  end  to  all  chance  of  R's  reputation 
ever    beginning    in    America.       Under 
which  circumstances,  the  only  thing  to 
be  done,  it  seems  to  me,  is  to  send  you 
the  said  drawing  indeed,  but  with  it  I 
will  send  one  he  did  for  me,  which  at  all 
events  has  some  of  his  power  in  it.    I  am 
not  sure  what  it  will  be,  for  I  don't  quite 
like  some  bits  in  the  largest  I  have,  and 
in  the  best  I  have  the  color  is  changing 

—  he  having  by  an  unlucky  accident  used 
red  lead  for  vermilion.   So  I  shall  try  and 
change  the  largest  with  him  for  a  more 


perfect  small  one,  and  send  whatever  it 
is  for  a  New  Year's  token.  I  shall  put 
a  little  pencil  sketch  of  R's  in  with  it  — 
the  Virgin  Mary  in  the  house  of  St.  John 

—  not  much  —  yet  a  Thing  —  such  as 
none  but  R.  could  do. 

I  have  your  kind  letter  with  Lowell's 

—  both  quite  aboundingly  helpful  to  me. 
Please  take  charge  of  enclosed  answer  to 
Lowell. 

I  am  finishing  5th  vol.,2  and  find  it  is 
only  to  be  done  at  all  by  working  at  it  to 
the  exclusion  of  everything  else.  But 

—  that  way  —  I  heartily  trust  in  getting 
it  done  in  spring  and  having  my  hands 
and  soul  so  far  free. 

I  had  heard  nothing  of  that  terrible 
slave  affair,8  till  your  letter  came.  I  can 
understand  the  effect  it  may  have  —  but 
here  in  Europe  many  and  many  a  mar- 
tyrdom must  come  before  we  shall  over- 
throw our  slavery. 

I  hope  to  write  you  another  line  with 
drawings  —  meantime  love  and  all  good 
wishes  for  your  Christmas  time,  and  with 
sincerest  regards  to  your  Mother  and 
Sisters, 

Ever  affectionately  yours, 

J.    RUSKIN. 

Charles  Eliot  Norton. 


1  The  commission  was  never  executed. 

2  Of  Modern  Painters. 

(To  be  continued.) 


8  John  Brown's  raid. 


A  QUATRAIN. 

A  FLAWLESS  cup :  how  delicate  and  fine 
The  flowing  curve  of  every  jeweled  line ! 

Look,  turn  it  up  or  down,  't  is  perfect  still,  — 
But  holds  no  drop  of  life's  heart-warming  wine. 

Henry  van  Dyke. 


The  Diplomatic   Contest  for  the  Mississippi   Valley.          807 


THE  DIPLOMATIC  CONTEST  FOR  THE  MISSISSIPPI  VALLEY. 


II. 


AFTER  Jay's  treaty  with  England, 
in  November,  1794,  the  whole  diplomatic 
situation  in  respect  to  the  Mississippi 
Valley  changed.  It  is  necessary  to  ob- 
serve how  the  United  States  sacrificed 
the  friendship  of  France  in  gaining  that 
of  England ;  how  Spain,  irate  at  the 
conduct  of  her  English  ally,  made  the 
peace  of  BSle  with  France,  thus  restor- 
ing a  concert  between  these  two  powers 
for  the  first  time  since  the  rupture  of 
the  Family  Compact ;  and  how  France, 
seeking  for  means  to  injure  England  and 
to  render  the  United  States  more  sub- 
servient to  French  policy,  turned  her  at- 
tention again  to  the  acquisition  of  Louis- 
iana. 

The  representative  of  France  in  the 
United  States  at  that  time  was  Fauchet. 
As  the  successor  of  Genet,  he  was  char- 
acterized by  Alexander  Hamilton  as 
"  a  meteor  following  a  comet ; "  but 
he  appreciated  the  profound  significance 
of  the  new  relations  of  this  country  with 
England,  and  as  soon  as  he  was  fairly 
well  informed  of  the  purport  of  Jay's 
treaty,  in  February,  1795,  he  proposed  a 
radical  programme  for  meeting  the  situ- 
ation. He  reminded  his  government 
that  at  the  commencement  of  his  mis- 
sion the  pressing  need  of  France,  then 
threatened  with  famine,  was  American 
provisions,  and  that  political  interests 
were  subordinated  to  the  single  consid- 
eration of  keeping  this  country  from  al- 
liance with  other  powers  while  it  served 
as  the  granary  for  France  and  her  is- 
lands. He  had  energetically  protested 
against  our  failure  to  enforce  the  rights 
of  neutral  commerce  vigorously  against 
England ;  but  now  Jay's  treaty  threat- 
ened even  more  unfavorable  conditions 
by  its  concessions  to  Great  Britain  in 
the  matter  of  neutral  rights,  and  the 


alliance  of  1778  was  worse  than  use- 
less. Yet,  as  he  pointed  out,  France 
had  no  means  of  intimidating  the  United 
States.  The  ocean  separated  the  two 
powers,  and  the  French  West  Indies,  far 
from  threatening  the  United  States,  were 
actually  in  danger  of  starvation  in  time 
of  war  if  American  trade  were  cut  off. 
He  quoted  Jefferson's  remark  :  "  France 
enjoys  their  sovereignty  and  we  their 
profit."  A  war  to  compel  the  Union  to 
follow  French  policy  would  deprive  the 
Republic  of  the  indispensable  trade  of 
America.  Some  other  means  must  be 
found,  and  the  solution  of  the  problem, 
in  Fauchet's  opinion,  was  the  acquisi- 
tion of  a  continental  colony  in  America  : 
"  Louisiana  opens  her  arms  to  us."  This 
province  would  furnish  France  the  best 
entrepot  in  North  America  for  her  com- 
merce, raw  material,  and  a  market  for 
her  manufactures,  a  monopoly  of  the 
products  of  the  American  states  on  the 
Mississippi,  and  a  means  of  pressure  upon 
the  United  States.  He  predicted  that, 
unless  a  revolution  occurred  in  Spanish 
policy,  the  force  of  events  would  unite 
Louisiana  to  the  United  States,  and  in 
the  course  of  time  would  bring  about  a 
new  confederation  between  this  province 
and  the  Western  states,  which  would 
not  remain  within  the  United  States 
fifty  years.  In  this  new  union  the  supe- 
rior institutions  and  power  of  the  Amer- 
ican element  would  give  to  it  the  sover- 
eignty. But  if  France  or  any  power 
less  feeble  than  Spain  possessed  Louisi- 
ana, it  would  establish  there  the  sover- 
eignty over  all  the  countries  on  the 
Mississippi.  If  a  nation  with  adequate 
resources,  said  he,  understood  how  to 
manage  the  control  of  the  river,  it  could 
hold  in  dependence  the  Western  states 
of  America,  and  might  at  pleasure  ad- 
vance or  retard  the  rate  of  their  growth. 
What,  then,  he  asks,  might  not  France 


808  The  Diplomatic   Contest  for  the  Mississippi   Valley. 


do  with  so  many  warm  friends  among 
the  Western  settlers  ?  The  leaven  of 
insurrection  had  been  recently  mani- 
fested in  the  whiskey  rebellion  ;  it  would 
depend  upon  France  to  decide  the  ques- 
tion of  dismemberment.  In  this  way, 
by  pressure  on  our  borders,  she  could 
bend  the  United  States  to  her  will,  or 
in  the  possession  of  the  Mississippi  Val- 
ley find  a  means  of  freeing  herself  and 
her  islands  from  their  economic  depen- 
dence upon  the  United  States.  Such  was 
the  line  of  thought  presented  by  Fauchet 
to  the  French  authorities ;  he  preferred 
diplomatic  negotiation  to  war  or  the  fili- 
bustering system  of  Genet. 

The  possibility  of  a  secession  of  the 
people  beyond  the  Alleghanies  from  the 
Union  was  no  new  conception :  settlers 
had  threatened  it ;  Federalists  had  calcu- 
lated the  value  and  the  feasibility  of  the 
union  between  the  interior  and  the  coast, 
and  after  the  acquisition  of  Louisiana 
the  leaders  of  New  England  threatened 
secession  ;  travelers  like  Brissot  had  fore- 
told the  withdrawal  of  the  West ;  Wash- 
ington had  feared  it;  Western  leaders 
like  Wilkinson,  Sevier,  and  Robertson 
had  been  ready  to  bring  it  about ;  and 
Spain  and  England,  as  we  have  seen,  had 
initiated  negotiations  to  this  end.  There 
can  be  little  doubt  that  if  the  United  States 
had  proved  unwilling  or  unable  to  secure 
free  navigation  for  the  West,  it  would 
have  withdrawn,  and  by  reason  of  the  lack 
of  sea  power  to  defend  its  commerce  pass- 
ing from  the  mouth  of  the  Mississippi 
through  the  Gulf,  it  must  have  sought 
protection  from  a  foreign  state.  Fauchet 
cited  a  dispatch  by  De  Moustier,  the 
French  minister  to  this  country  at  the 
close  of  the  Confederation,  in  which  he 
reached  conclusions  similar  to  his  own. 

But  properly  to  appreciate  how  deeply 
rooted  was  the  desire  of  France  for  the 
whole  Mississippi  Valley,  it  must  be  un- 
derstood that  she  had  made  the  recovery 

1  Me'moire  historique  et  politique  sur  la  Lou- 
isiane  par  M.  de  Vergennes  (Paris,  1802) ; 
found,  as  its  editor  states,  among  the  minister's 


of  this  province  a  cardinal  point  in  her 
connections  with  the  United  States  dur- 
ing our  Revolutionary  War.  If  we  may 
accept  as  authentic  a  memoir  1  attribut- 
ed to  him,  Vergennes,  who  conducted 
French  foreign  relations  at  that  time, 
apprehended  that  when  the  United  States 
obtained  its  independence  it  would  prove 
able  to  give  the  law  to  France  and  Spain 
in  America.  In  this  memoir,  written 
prior  to  the  alliance  of  1778,  he  consid- 
ered means  for  averting  this  outcome,  and 
advised  the  king  to  insist,  in  the  treaty 
which  France  expected  to  dictate  to  Eng- 
land at  the  conclusion  of  the  war,  upon  the 
recovery  of  the  territory  beyond  the  Alle- 
ghanies. He  regarded  much  of  this  ter- 
ritory as  rightly  a  part  of  the  old  French 
Louisiana,  and  did  not  accept  the  view  of 
the  Americans  that  it  was  a  part  of  their 
chartered  possessions.  He  even  drafted 
a  treaty  providing  in  detail  for  the  ces- 
sion of  this  western  region  by  England 
to  France,  and  for  such  a  division  of 
Canada  as  would  prevent  an  English  at- 
tack upon  Louisiana  by  way  of  the  Great 
Lakes.  He  further  proposed  to  procure 
the  retrocession  of  Louisiana  from  Spain, 
and  to  restore  it  to  its  old  French  lim- 
its, with  the  Alleghanies  as  the  eastern 
boundary.  He  pointed  out  to  the  king 
that  if  the  United  States  passed  from  the 
colonial  condition  and  secured  a  place 
among  independent  nations,  having 
fought  to  defend  its  hearth  fires,  it  would 
next  desire  to  extend  itself  over  Louisi- 
ana, Florida,  and  Mexico  in  order  to 
master  all  the  approaches  to  the  sea. 
France,  on  the  other  hand,  by  possess- 
ing the  Mississippi  Valley,  the  Great 
Lakes,  and  the  entrance  to  the  St.  Law- 
rence, and  by  allying  herself  with  the 
Indians  of  the  interior,  could  restrain 
the  ambitions  of  the  Americans.  By 
the  treaty  of  1778,  however,  France  re- 
nounced the  possession  of  territories  in 
North  America  that  had  belonged  to 

papers  after  his  death,  with  his  coat  of  arms  at 
the  head  of  the  document. 


The  Diplomatic   Contest  for  the  Mississippi   Valley.  809 


England,  but  Vergennes  supported  the 
Spanish  contention  that  our  own  rights 
stopped  with  the  Alleghanies,  and  he 
tried  to  acquire  Louisiana  from  Spain. 
He  could  evade  the  renunciation  of  ter- 
ritory by  making  the  region  between  the 
Alleghanies  and  the  Mississippi  Indian 
country.  Instructing  his  minister  to  the 
United  States  that  France  did  not  intend 
to  raise  this  nation  to  a  position  where 
she  would  be  independent  of  French  sup- 
port, he  made  earnest  efforts  to  dissuade 
the  Americans  from  insisting  on  the  Mis- 
sissippi as  their  boundary  in  the  terms 
of  peace.  Indeed,  so  successful  was  he, 
that  in  the  dark  days  of  1781  Congress 
voted  to  rescind  its  ultimatum,  and  in- 
structed its  representatives  to  be  guided 
by  the  advice  of  France.  Fortunately, 
the  commissioners  broke  their  instruc- 
tions. We  know  what  this  advice  would 
have  been  from  a  plan  which  Vergennes' 
confidential  secretary  showed  to  Jay. 
This  provided  that  the  land  south  of  the 
Ohio,  between  the  Alleghanies  and  the 
Mississippi,  should  be  Indian  country,  di- 
vided by  the  Cumberland  River  into  two 
spheres  of  influence,  —  the  northern  to 
fall  to  the  United  States,  and  the  south- 
ern to  Spain.  Vergennes'  effort  to  induce 
Spain  to  cede  Louisiana  to  France  would 
have  succeeded,  if  the  latter  power  could 
have  furnished  the  funds  to  reimburse 
Spain  for  the  expenses  incurred  in  de- 
fending and  administering  that  province. 

The  apprehensions  of  the  far-sighted 
French  statesman  were  now  proving  only 
too  well-founded.  France  had  lost  the 
fruits  of  the  war  which  she  had  waged 
as  our  ally,  England  was  once  more  in 
favor,  and  Louisiana  was  in  danger.  It 
was  with  energy,  therefore,  that  France 
recurred  to  the  policy  of  recovering  her 
former  province. 

In  May,  1795,  the  French  government 
instructed  Barthe*lemy,  her  negotiator 
with  Spain  at  Bale,  to  demand  cessions 
as  the  price  of  peace.  The  Spanish  por- 
tion of  San  Domingo,  the  Basque  pro- 
vince of  Guipuscoa,  and  Louisiana  were 


desired,  but  upon  Louisiana  he  was  or- 
dered to  insist ;  "  the  rest  would  be  easy." 
In  support  of  her  demand,  France  argued 
that  it  would  be  a  great  gain  to  Spain  to 
place  a  strong  power  between  her  Ameri- 
can possessions  and  those  of  the  United 
States,  particularly  since  England  had 
by  Jay's  treaty  guaranteed  to  the  United 
States  the  freedom  of  navigation  of  the 
Mississippi,  and  it  was  to  be  feared  that 
these  new  allies  would  seize  Louisiana. 

At  this  juncture  Godoy,  the  Duke  of 
Alcudia,  was  in  control  of  the  foreign 
policy  of  Spain.  Alarmed  by  conditions 
in  Europe,  and  chagrined  at  England's 
arrangements  with  the  United  States  at  a 
moment  when  Spain  trembled  for  the  fate 
of  Louisiana,  he  made  peace  with  France 
at  Bale  (July,  1795)  ;  but  he  refused  to 
yield  Louisiana,  preferring  to  abandon 
the  Spanish  portion  of  San  Domingo. 
This  only  rendered  France  the  more  de- 
termined to  secure  the  continental  colony 
needed  to  support  her  West  Indian  pos- 
sessions ;  and  in  the  negotiations  later 
over  the  terms  of  alliance,  she  pressed 
hard  for  the  additional  cession.  It  is  this 
situation  which  explains  the  treaty  that 
Godoy  made  with  the  United  States  not 
long  after. 

He  was  most  reluctant  to  give  up 
Louisiana,  but  France  demanded  it  as  a 
condition  of  her  alliance.  Threatened 
thus  with  isolation,  and  confronted  by 
the  prospect  of  a  war  with  England,  he 
was  disposed  to  conciliate  the  United 
States,  lest  she  join  England  and  take 
Louisiana  by  force.  When,  therefore, 
Pinckney's  threat  to  leave  for  London 
was  made,  Godoy  quickly  came  to  terms, 
and  in  the  treaty  of  San  Lorenzo  (Octo- 
ber 27,  1795)  conceded  the  navigation 
of  the  Mississippi,  and  our  boundary  on 
that  river,  and  agreed  to  give  up  the 
Spanish  posts  north  of  New  Orleans 
within  the  disputed  territory.  Thus  re- 
lieved of  the  danger  of  an  American  in- 
vasion, Godoy  was  in  a  better  position  to 
resist  the  efforts  of  France  to  force  him 
to  cede  Louisiana. 


810  The  Diplomatic   Contest  for  the  Mississippi   Valley. 


In  the  spring  of  1796,  the  Directors 
sent  General  Perignon  to  Madrid  to  ar- 
range terms  of  a  formal  alliance.  He 
was  instructed  to  warn  Spain  that  French 
influence  in  America  was  nearing  its  end. 
War  with  the  United  States  promised 
France  no  satisfactory  results,  and  to 
punish  the  Americans  by  restrictions  on 
their  commerce  would  deprive  France 
of  a  resource  which  the  European  wars 
rendered  necessary  to  her.  These,  how- 
ever, were  merely  temporary  difficulties. 
"  Who,"  asked  the  Directors,  "  can  an- 
swer that  England  and  the  United  States 
together  will  not  divide  up  the  northern 
part  of  the  New  World  ?  What  prevents 
them  ?  "  The  instructions  went  on  to 
give  a  forceful  presentation  of  the  rapid- 
ity with  which  settlers  were  pouring  into 
Kentucky  and  Tennessee,  and  of  the  dan- 
ger to  Louisiana  from  filibustering  ex- 
peditions. Conceding  the  navigation  of 
the  Mississippi,  in  the  opinion  of  France, 
only  prepared  the  ruin  and  invasion  of 
Louisiana  whenever  the  Federal  gov- 
ernment, in  concert  with  Great  Britain, 
should  "  give  the  reins  to  those  fierce 
inhabitants  of  the  West."  The  Eng- 
lish-speaking people  would  then  overrun 
Mexico  and  all  North  America,  and  the 
commerce  of  the  islands  of  the  Gulf  would 
be  dependent  upon  this  Anglo-American 
power.  Only  France,  in  alliance  with 
Spain,  argued  the  Directors,  can  oppose 
a  counterpoise  by  the  use  of  her  old  in- 
fluence among  the  Indians.  "  We  alone 
can  trace  with  strong  and  respected  hand 
the  bounds  of  the  power  of  the  United 
States  and  the  limits  of  their  territory." 
All  that  France  demanded  was  Louis- 
iana, a  province  that,  so  far  from  serving 
the  purpose  of  its  original  cession  as  a  bar- 
rier against  England,  was  now  a  danger- 
ous possession  to  Spain,  ever  ready  to 
join  with  her  neighbors.  It  had  remained 
in  a  condition  of  infancy  while  the  United 
States  had  acquired  irresistible  strength 
on  its  borders.  This  country  was  now 
daily  preparing  the  subjects  of  Spain  for 
insurrection  by  intrigues  and  by  the  spec- 


tacle of  its  prosperity.  "  On  the  other 
hand,"  continued  the  Directors,  "  if  this 
possession  were  once  in  our  hands,  it 
would  be  beyond  insult  by  Great  Britain, 
to  whom  we  can  oppose  not  only  the 
Western  settlements  of  the  United  States, 
who  are  as  friendly  to  us  as  they  could 
possibly  be,  but  also  the  inhabitants  of 
Louisiana,  who  have  given  clear  evidence 
.  of  their  indestructible  attachment  to  their 
former  mother  country.  It  gives  us  the 
means  to  balance  the  marked  predilec- 
tion of  the  Federal  government  for  our 
enemy,  and  to  retain  it  in  the  line  of  duty 
by  the  fear  of  dismemberment  which  we 
can  bring  about."  "  We  shall  affright 
England  by  the  sudden  development  of 
an  actual  power  in  the  New  World,  and 
shall  be  in  a  position  to  oppose  a  per- 
fect harmony  to  her  attacks  and  her  in- 
trigues." They  therefore  urged  Spain 
to  act  at  once,  in  order  that  the  political 
and  military  campaigns  might  begin  in 
America  that  very  year. 

As  we  shall  presently  see,  the  appre- 
hension that  England  contemplated  an 
attack  upon  Louisiana  was  well  found- 
ed. But  Godoy  resolutely  refused  to  give 
up  Louisiana,  and  Perignon  was  obliged 
to  content  himself  with  a  treaty  of  alli- 
ance without  this  important  concession. 
France  thereupon  recalled  him,  and  sent 
a  successor  with  the  particular  purpose 
of  persuading  Spain  to  yield  Louisiana 
by  the  offer  to  join  her  in  the  conquest 
of  Portugal ;  but  the  Prince  of  Peace  re- 
mained immovable  ;  nor  did  he  consent 
even  when,  in  1797,  after  Napoleon's 
victories  in  Italy  had  given  the  Papal 
legations  to  France,  she  offered  them  to 
the  royal  house  of  Spain  as  an  equivalent 
for  Louisiana.  Had  religious  scruples 
not  prevented,  however,  Spain  would 
probably  have  accepted  this  proposition. 

While  France  negotiated  with  Spain, 
she  prepared  the  ground  in  America. 
In  the  winter  of  1795,  Colonel  Fulton, 
one  of  George  Rogers  Clark's  officers  in 
the  Genet  expedition,  was  sent  to  con- 
ciliate the  Southwestern  Indians,  and  at 


The  Diplomatic   Contest  for  the  Mississippi    Valley.  811 


the  same  time  information  regarding 
these  Indians  was  procured  from  Milfort, 
a  French  adventurer  who,  after  passing 
twenty  years  among  the  Creeks  as  an 
agent  of  Spain,  went  to  offer  his  services 
to  France.  He  had  married  a  sister  of 
McGillivray,  and  claimed  to  be  the  prin- 
cipal war  chief  of  the  Creeks.  His  Me- 
moire  ou  coup  d'oeil  rapide  sur  tries  dif- 
ferens  voyages  et  mon  sejour  dans  la  na- 
tion Creek  is  one  of  the  sources  for  our 
knowledge  of  these  Indians  ;  but  he  was 
a  hopeless  liar,  one  of  his  most  interest- 
ing concoctions  being  a  statement  to  the 
French  government  that  he  had  defeat- 
ed 10,000  regulars  under  George  Rog- 
ers Clark  near  Detroit  by  a  force  of 
6000  Northern  Indians  under  his  com- 
mand. Nevertheless,  the  French  lis- 
tened with  respect  to  his  assertions  that 
he  could  bring  about  the  cession  of  a  large 
portion  of  Creek  territory  to  France,  that 
the  Creeks  would  form  an  independent 
nation  in  alliance  with  that  power,  and 
that  10,000  men  would  suffice  for  the 
occupation  of  Louisiana.  He  was  made 
general  of  brigade  in  the  spring  of  1796, 
and  his  plans  were  later  taken  up  by  Tal- 
leyrand. 

Before  a  final  breach  with  the  United 
States,  France  determined  to  send  a  new 
minister  to  effect  a  change  in  our  policy. 
Mangourit,  the  former  consul  at  Charles- 
ton, who  had  been  recalled  because  of  the 
fact  that  he  had  organized  the  frontiers- 
men of  the  Carolinas  and  Georgia  to  co- 
operate with  Genet's  proposed  attack  on 
Louisiana  and  Florida,  was  picked  out 
as  the  representative.  He  was  an  apt 
choice,  if  France  expected  to  tamper 
with  the  West ;  but  the  protests  of  Mon- 
roe resulted  in  the  decision  of  the  Direc- 
tors to  withhold  him,  and  to  break  off  all 
diplomatic  connection  with  the  United 
States.  In  August,  1796,  Monroe  re- 
ported from  Paris  that  it  was  rumored 
that  France  was  to  make  an  attempt 
upon  Canada,  which  was  to  be  united 
with  Louisiana  and  Florida,  taking  in 
such  parts  of  our  Western  people  as  were 


willing  to  unite.  A  little  later,  Fulton, 
who  had  recently  returned  from  the 
United  States,  was  furnishing  the  Di- 
rectors information  as  to  the  best  time 
for  occupying  Louisiana,  and  was  assur- 
ing them  that  Clark's  old  soldiers  were 
loyal  to  France,  and  asked  only  arms, 
ammunition,  and  uniforms,  and  "  their 
country  will  find  itself  in  the  vast  re- 
gions which  the  Republic  will  possess." 
Toward  the  end  of  the  year,  France 
sent  a  new  commission  to  George  Rogers 
Clark,  as  brigadier-general,  on  the  the- 
ory (as  Delacroix,  the  Minister  of  For- 
eign Relations,  declared)  that  it  was  to 
the  interest  of  France  to  foster  a  favor- 
able disposition  among  the  Westerners. 
"  In  case  we  shall  be  put  in  possession 
of  Louisiana,"  he  wrote,  "  the  affection  of 
those  regions  will  serve  us  in  our  polit- 
ical plans  toward  the  United  States." 

In  the  meantime  Adet,  the  French 
minister  to  the  United  States,  exerted 
every  effort  to  prevent  Congress  from 
voting  the  appropriations  to  carry  out 
Jay's  treaty.  In  fact,  as  it  turned  out, 
the  vote  was  a  close  one,  but  Adet,  fore- 
seeing defeat,  and  acting  in  accordance 
with  the  desire  of  his  government,  in 
March,  1796,  commissioned  General  Vic- 
tor Collot,  formerly  governor  of  Guade- 
loupe, to  travel  in  the  West,  and  to  make 
a  military  survey  of  the  defenses  and 
lines  of  communication  west  of  the  Alle- 
ghanies,  along  the  Ohio  and  the  Missis- 
sippi. Collot  was  gone  about  ten  months, 
and  as  he  passed  down  the  rivers,  he 
pointed  out  to  men  whom  he  trusted  the 
advantages  of  accepting  French  jurisdic- 
tion. He  made  detailed  and  accurate 
plans  of  the  river  courses  and  the  Span- 
ish posts,  which  may  still  be  seen  in  the 
atlas  that  accompanies  his  Journey  in 
America,  published  long  afterwards.  As 
the  military  expert  on  whose  judgment 
the  French  government  had  to.  rely,  his 
conclusions  have  a  peculiar  interest,  and 
may  be  given  in  his  own  words :  — 

"  All  the  positions  on  the  left  bank  of 
the  river  [Mississippi],  in  whatever 


812  The  Diplomatic,   Contest  for  the  Mississippi    Valley. 


point  of  view  they  may  be  considered, 
or  in  whatever  mode  they  may  be  occu- 
pied, without  the  alliance  of  the  Western 
states  are  far  from  covering  Louisiana : 
they  are,  on  the  contrary,  highly  injuri- 
ous to  this  colony  ;  and  the  money  and 
men  which  might  be  employed  for  this 
purpose  would  be  ineffectual."  In  other 
words,  a  Louisiana  bounded  by  the  Mis- 
sissippi could  not  be  protected  against  the 
neighboring  settlements  of  the  United 
States.  He  emphasizes  the  same  idea,  in 
another  connection,  as  follows  :  "  When 
two  nations  possess,  one  the  coasts  and 
the  other  the  plains,  the  former  must 
inevitably  embark  or  submit.  From 
thence  I  conclude  that  the  Western 
states  of  the  North  American  republic 
must  unite  themselves  with  Louisiana 
and  form  in  the  future  one  single  com- 
pact nation  ;  else  that  colony,  to  what- 
ever power  it  shall  belong,  will  be  con- 
quered or  devoured."  As  the  logical 
accompaniment  of  this  conclusion  that 
Louisiana  must  embrace  the  Western 
states,  Collot  drew  up  a  plan  for  the 
defense  of  the  passes  of  the  Alleghanies, 
which  were  to  constitute  the  frontier  of 
this  interior  dependency  of  France  to 
protect  it  against  the  United  States. 
The  Louisiana  that  Collot  contemplated, 
therefore,  stretched  from  the  Alleghanies 
to  the  Rockies.  The  importance  of  his 
report  is  made  clearer  by  the  facts  that 
the  minister  Adet,  and  the  consul-general 
who  remained  after  he  left,  continually 
refer  to  Collot's  work  as  the  basis  for 
their  views  on  Louisiana,  and  that  Liv- 
ingston reported  in  1802  that  it  was  ex- 
pected that  Napoleon  would  make  Collot 
second  in  command  in  the  province  of 
Louisiana,  and  that  Adet  was  to  be  pre- 
fect. 

In  view  of  these  designs,  there  is  a 
peculiar  significance  in  the  Farewell  Ad- 
dress which  Washington  issued  while 
Collot  was  making  his  investigations. 
Washington  informed  the  West  that  "  it 
must  of  necessity  owe  the  secure  enjoy- 
ment of  the  indispensable  outlets  for  its 


own  productions  to  the  weight,  influence, 
and  the  future  maritime  strength  of  the 
Atlantic  side  of  the  Union,  directed  by 
an  indissoluble  community  of  interests 
as  one  nation.  Any  other  tenure  by 
which  the  West  can  hold  this  essential 
advantage,  whether  derived  from  its  own 
separate  strength,  or  from  an  apostate 
and  unnatural  connection  with  any  for- 
eign power,  must  be  intrinsically  preca- 
rious." He  added  that  the  treaties  with 
Spain  and  England  had  given  the  West- 
ern people  all  that  they  could  desire  in 
respect  to  foreign  relations,  and  asked  : 
"  Will  it  not  be  their  wisdom  to  rely  for 
the  preservation  of  these  advantages  on 
the  Union  by  which  they  were  procured  ? 
Will  they  not  henceforth  be  deaf  to 
those  advisers,  if  such  there  are,  who 
would  sever  them  from  their  brethren 
and  connect  them  with  aliens  ?  " 

As  he  descended  the  Mississippi,  Col- 
lot learned  of  a  plot  for  an  attack  under 
the  English  flag  upon  the  Spanish  de- 
pendencies, and  on  his  return,  early  in 
1797,  he  notified  the  Spanish  minister 
to  the  United  States,  who  promptly  in- 
formed the  Secretary  of  State.  In  the 
investigation  that  followed,  it  was  ascer- 
tained that  the  British  minister  had  been 
privy  to  the  plans,  and  United  States  Sen- 
ator Blount,  of  Tennessee,  lost  his  seat  as 
a  result  of  the  revelations,  which  involved 
him.  The  incident  revealed  how  wide- 
spread were  the  forces  of  intrigue  for  the 
Mississippi  Valley,  and  it  gave  grounds 
for  the  refusal  of  the  Spanish  authorities 
to  carry  out  the  agreement  to  yield  their 
posts  on  the  right  bank  of  the  river 
while  New  Orleans  was  threatened  by 
an  attack  down  the  Mississippi. 

It  is  possible  to  trace  the  outlines  of 
this  affair,  although  it  is  difficult  to  fix 
the  exact  measure  of  England's  connec- 
tion with  it.  On  October  25,  1795,  the 
English  government  had  charged  Lieu- 
tenant-Governor  Simcoe,  of  Canada,  to 
cultivate  such  intercourse  with  the  lead- 
ing men  of  the  Western  settlements  of 


The  Diplomatic   Contest  for  the  Mississippi    Valley.          813 


the  United  States  as  would  enable  Eng- 
land to  utilize  the  services  of  the  fron- 
tiersmen against  the  Spanish  settlements, 
if  war  broke  out  between  England  and 
Spain,  and  to  report  what  assistance 
might  be  afforded  by  the  Southern  and 
Western  Indians  in  such  an  event.  In- 
formation was  also  desired  with  regard 
to  the  communications  between  Lake 
Michigan  and  the  Mississippi,  with  the 
evident  idea  of  using  Canadian  forces  in 
the  operations.  These  "  most  private 
and  secret "  instructions  cast  light  upon 
England's  policy  at  this  time ;  and  the 
explicit  injunctions  of  caution,  lest  the 
government  should  be  compromised  with 
Spain  and  the  United  States  while  mat- 
ters were  preparing,  help  us  to  under- 
stand that  whatever  was  to  be  done 
must  be  managed  secretly. 

War  was  declared  by  Spain  against 
England  in  the  fall  of  1796.  The  rumors 
that  France  was  to  acquire  Louisiana 
alarmed  land  speculators  on  the  west- 
ern waters,  who  feared  the  effect  of  the 
power  of  France  to  close  the  river,  and 
even  to  secure  the  territory  along  its 
eastern  bank.  Among  these  men  was 
Senator  Blount,  who  owned  some  73,000 
acres.  He  was  the  most  important  figure 
in  his  own  section,  having  held  the  posi- 
tion of  governor  of  the  Southwest  terri- 
tory, and  the  management  of  Indian  af- 
fairs in  that  quarter.  Thus  his  influence 
extended  among  all  the  Indian  agents 
and  traders  of  that  turbulent  region. 
The  loyalists  at  Natchez  also  were  struck 
with  alarm  at  the  prospect  of  French 
sovereignty.  In  the  course  of  the  fall 
and  winter  of  1796—97,  a  plan  was  con- 
certed between  Blount,  Dr.  Romayne,  a 
land  speculator,  who  had  just  returned 
from  Great  Britain,  Captain  Chisholm 
(who  had  served  Blount  in  Tennessee, 
and  who  was  in  Philadelphia  in  the  in- 
terests of  the  Natchez  Tories),  and  In- 
dians and  British  Indian  agents  from 
New  York  and  Canada.  The  plan  was 
submitted  to  the  English  minister  by 
Chisholm,  for  Blount  did  not  deal  di- 


rectly with  Liston,  and,  indeed,  the  min- 
ister assured  his  government  later  that, 
while  he  was  aware  that  important  men 
in  the  West  would  be  concerned  in  the 
expedition,  he  did  not  know  that  Blount 
himself  was  involved  in  it. 

The  outlines  of  the  proposition  were 
as  follows :  a  force  of  Pennsylvania 
and  New  York  frontiersmen,  with  Brant 
and  his  Indians,  was  to  attack  New 
Madrid  on  the  Mississippi,  and  proceed 
by  the  head  of  the  Red  River  to  the 
Spanish  silver  mines.  Tennessee,  Ken- 
tucky, and  Natchez  settlers,  with  the 
Choctaw  Indians,  led  by  Blount,  were  to 
capture  New  Orleans  ;  while  the  Chero- 
kees,  Creeks,  and  white  settlers  in  Flor- 
ida, under  the  direction  of  Chisholm, 
were  to  take  West  Florida.  Great  Britain 
was  to  furnish  a  fleet  to  block  the  mouth 
of  the  Mississippi  while  the  attack  was 
in  progress,  and  was  to  become  the  mis- 
tress of  Louisiana  and  Florida. 

The  British  minister  was  sanguine 
enough  to  believe  that  the  United  States 
itself  would  be  glad  to  see  this  plan  car- 
ried into  execution,  if  it  could  be  effected 
with  rapid  success.  He  corresponded 
with  the  Governor  of  Canada,  to  ascer- 
tain the  practicability  of  furnishing  sup- 
plies from  that  quarter,  and  in  the  spring 
of  1797  he  paid  the  passage  money  of 
Chisholm  to  England,  in  order  to  allow 
the  government  to  pass  upon  the  project. 
At  the  same  time  George  Rogers  Clark 
wrote  to  his  friends  in  France  that  Eng- 
lish agents  from  Canada  were  enrolling 
volunteers  in  Kentucky  for  the  conquest 
of  Louisiana  and  Santa  Fd,  and  asserted 
that  he  had  received  propositions  from 
the  Governor  of  Canada  to  march  at 
the  head  of  2000  men  against  New  Mex- 
ico, —  an  offer  which  he  says  he  de- 
clined because  of  his  loyalty  to  French 
interests.  General  Elijah  Clarke,  of 
Georgia,  the  seasoned  filibusterer  of  the 
Oconee  River  and  Amelia  Island,  also 
came  forward  with  allegations  of  Eng- 
lish attempts  to  buy  his  services.  Cer- 
tain it  is  that  the  frontier  was  in  ferment. 


814  The  Diplomatic   Contest  for  the  Mississippi   Valley. 


But  the  exposure  came  when,  in  July, 
President  Adams  submitted  to  Congress 
evidence  that  Senator  Blount  had  made 
efforts  to  engage  the  Indian  agents  of  the 
United  States  in  the  Southwest  in  his  un- 
lawful schemes.  He  was  expelled  from 
the  Senate,  and  the  investigation,  which 
Liston  vainly  endeavored  to  prevent,  gave 
such  publicity  to  the  plot  that,  if  the  Eng- 
lish government  ever  had  actively  en- 
gaged in  it,  it  was  obliged  to  abandon  the 
project.  Liston  made  denial  for  his  gov- 
ernment of  complicity,  although  he  ad- 
mitted accepting  and  transmitting  infor- 
mation. Indeed,  he  went  farther,  and 
denied  that  England  intended,  or  had 
intended,  any  attack  upon  Upper  Louisi- 
ana, adding,  on  the  authority  of  his 
government,  that  the  impropriety  of  vio- 
lating our  neutral  territory,  and  the  in- 
humanity of  the  use  of  Indians,  would 
induce  the  king's  ministers  to  reject  any 
such  plan.  These  assertions  are  interest- 
ing in  view  of  the  instructions  previously 
given  to  Simcoe. 

It  is  only  fair  to  assume  that  the  ac- 
tivity of  the  individuals  engaged  in  pro- 
moting the  undertaking  may  have  given 
reason  to  the  frontier  leaders  to  believe 
that  the  men  who  made  propositions  to 
them  acted  with  a  direct  authority  which 
they  did  not  possess ;  but  the  policy  of 
the  British  government  permitted  the  use 
or  disavowal  of  just  such  attempts  accord- 
ing as  they  met  its  needs. 

From  the  point  of  view  of  the  larger 
diplomatic  problem,  the  most  tangible 
result  of  the  affair  was  the  retention  of 
Natchez  and  the  other  posts  east  of  the 
Mississippi  by  Spain,  under  the  sincere 
apprehension  that  if  they  were  evacuated, 
in  accordance  with  the  treaty  of  1795, 
a  clear  road  would  be  opened  for  the 
British  into  Louisiana.  Not  until  the 
spring  of  1798  did  Spain  actually  evacu- 
ate these  forts. 

After  the  rupture  of  diplomatic  rela- 
tions with  France  the  Federalists  pro- 
ceeded in  the  early  summer  of  1797  to 
enact  laws  for  raising  an  army  and  pro- 


viding a  fleet,  and  for  the  necessary  loans 
and  taxes  in  preparation  for  war  with 
the  Republic.  But,  less  radical  than 
some  of  his  advisers,  and  ready  to  make 
another  effort  to  adjust  our  affairs  with 
France,  President  Adams  sent  a  com- 
mission to  reopen  negotiations,  in  spite 
of  his  chagrin  that  the  previous  minis- 
ter, C.  C.  Pinckney,  had  been  summa- 
rily refused  and  ordered  out  of  France. 
When  this  commission  sailed,  Talley- 
rand had  just  become  the  master  of  the 
foreign  policy  of  his  country.  He  had 
returned  from  his  sojourn  in  the  United 
States,  convinced  that  Americans  were 
hopelessly  attached  to  England,  and  that 
France  must  have  Louisiana.  In  a  me- 
moir to  the  Institute  he  pointed  out  that 
Louisiana  would  serve  the  commercial 
needs  of  France,  would  prove  a  granary 
for  a  great  West  Indian  colonial  power, 
and  would  be  a  useful  outlet  for  the  dis- 
contented revolutionists,  who  could  find 
room  for  their  energies  in  building  up  the 
New  World.  It  was  his  policy  to  play 
with  the  American  representatives,  re- 
fusing to  deal  with  them  except  informal- 
ly through  agents,  and  while  detaining 
them,  to  negotiate  with  Spain  for  Louisi- 
ana. These  so-called  X.  Y.  Z.  negotia- 
tions extended  till  the  spring  of  1798, 
when  Marshall  and  Pinckney,  outraged 
by  demands  for  bribes,  and  hopeless  of  re- 
sults, left  Paris.  Gerry,  deluded  by  Tal- 
leyrand, remained  to  keep  the  peace,  and 
while  the  adroit  diplomat  deceived  Gerry, 
he  instructed  Guillemardet,  his  minister 
at  Madrid,  to  make  Spain  realize  that  that 
government  had  been  blind  to  its  inter- 
ests in  putting  the  United  States  into 
possession  of  the  Mississippi  forts  ;  they 
meant,  he  declared,  to  rule  alone '  in 
America,  and  to  influence  Europe.  .  No 
other  means  existed  for  putting  an  end 
to  their  ambition  than  that  of  "  shutting 
them  up  within  the  limits  which  nature 
seems  to  have  traced  for  them."  There 
can  be  little  doubt  that  Talleyrand  intend- 
ed the  Alleghanies  by  this  expression. 
France,  he  argued,  if  placed  in  possession 


The  Diplomatic   Contest  for  the  Mississippi   Valley.  815 


of  Louisiana  and  Florida,  would  be  a 
"  wall  of  brass  forever  impenetrable  to 
the  combined  efforts  of  England  and 
America." 

Foreseeing  the  tendency  of  France  to 
carry  her  influence  over  Spain  to  the 
point  of  absolute  domination,  Godoy  had 
resigned  in  March,  1798,  after  a  vain 
effort  to  induce  the  king  to  break  with 
France.  But  although  the  latter  power 
greatly  gained  in  influence  after  Godoy's 
retirement,  Spain  was  not  yet  weak 
enough  to  yield  Louisiana,  and  France 
was  forced  to  wait  for  the  energy  of  Na- 
poleon to  wring  this  province  from  its 
reluctant  owner. 

In  the  meantime  the  publication  of  the 
X.  Y.  Z.  correspondence  brought  the 
United  States  to  the  verge  of  declaring 
war  against  France.  Indeed,  hostilities 
were  authorized  at  sea,  the  aged  Wash- 
ington was  made  titular  head  of  the  army, 
while  Hamilton  and  Knox  were  rivals  for 
the  position  of  second  in  command. 

Here  was  an  opportunity  made  to  hand 
for  Miranda,  the  old-time  friend  and  cor- 
respondent of  these  men.  Alarmed  lest 
Spain  should  drift  completely  under 
French  domination  and  yield  her  empire 
in  the  New  World,  in  the  beginning  of 
1798  Pitt  summoned  Miranda  to  Lon- 
don, and  discussed  with  him  the  project 
of  revolutionizing  Spanish  America. 
Miranda  proposed  an  alliance  between 
England,  the  United  States,  and  South 
America,  which  should  give  indepen- 
dence to  Spanish  America  and  open  its 
commerce.  The  passage  of  the  Isthmus 
of  Panama  was  to  be  "  forthwith  com- 
pleted," and  the  control  of  the  waterway 
to  be  given  to  England  for  a  certain  num- 
ber of  years.  There  were  to  be  mutual 
arrangements  with  regard  to  division  of 
territory.  In  return,  England  was  to 
furnish  8000  foot  and  2000  horse,  to- 
gether with  her  Pacific  squadron  ;  while 
from  the  United  States  were  expected 
5000  woodsmen  who  understood  new 
countries,  officered  by  Revolutionary  vet- 
erans. 


These  proposals  Pitt  held  under  ad- 
visement. If  the  Spanish  government 
were  overthrown  and  the  resources  and 
colonies  of  Spain  placed  at  the  disposal 
of  France,  England  was  prepared  to  set 
Spanish  America  free,  and  would  nego- 
tiate for  joint  action  to  this  end  with  the 
United  States.  Ruf  us  King,  our  minister 
in  England,  eagerly  accepted  this  idea 
of  cooperation,  and  by  January,  1799, 
he  was  urging  upon  Hamilton  that  the 
time  had  come  to  settle  the  system  of  the 
American  nations,  while  England  was 
ready  to  assist  us  in  accomplishing  in 
South  America  what  we  had  accom- 
plished in  North  America.  "  For  God's 
sake  give  attention  to  it,"  he  begged. 

Hamilton  was  not  averse  to  engaging 
in  the  enterprise,  but  he  believed  that 
the  United  States  should  furnish  the  en- 
tire land  forces.  This  would  have  given 
to  him  the  military  leadership.  But 
President  Adams,  hard-headed  and  de- 
void of  dreams  of  conquests  in  the  South, 
saw  that  in  such  an  alliance  England 
would  be  the  gainer.  He  regarded  Mi- 
randa's plan  as  absurd,  and  rightly  be- 
lieved he  had  no  effective  force  in 
America.  Doubting  whether  Pitt  had 
been  bewitched  by  this  Venezuelan  agi- 
tator, or  whether  he  was  trying  to  dupe 
us  into  war  with  France,  the  President 
firmly  declined  to  answer  Miranda's  let- 
ters, or  to  open  negotiations  for  the 
proposed  conquest  of  Spanish  America. 
As  soon  as  Napoleon's  overtures  paved 
the  way  he  sent  a  new  embassy  to  Paris, 
and  on  September  30,  1800,  a  treaty 
was  made  which  restored  France  and 
America  to  friendly  relations.  The  next 
day  the  subtle  and  forceful  Corsican  se- 
cured the  secret  retrocession  of  Louisiana 
to  France.  His  material  power,  and  the 
tempting  offer  of  the  beautiful  land  of 
Tuscany,  rich  in  art  and  literature,  to  the 
royal  house  of  Spain,  proved  effective. 

The  rest  of  the  story  is  a  familiar  one. 
Napoleon  made  the  peace  of  Amiens 
with  England,  and  in  the  lull  prepared 
to  erect  a  colonial  empire  in  America. 


816  The  Diplomatic   Contest  for  the  Mississippi    Valley. 


His  army  would  first  occupy  San  Do- 
mingo, and  then  Louisiana,  the  continen- 
tal feeder  to  the  West  Indies.  He  would 
acquire  the  Floridas,  and  in  time  make 
of  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  a  French  lake. 
His  agents  should  establish  friendly  rela- 
tions among  the  settlers  beyond  the  Alle- 
ghanies,  while  alliances  with  the  South- 
western Indians  within  our  borders  should 
serve  to  defend  Louisiana  and  Florida 
from  attack.  There  can  be  no  doubt 
that  once  in  control  of  the  Mississippi 
and  the  Gulf  he  would  have  set  himself  to 
the  task  of  extending  his  province  to  the 
Alleghanies.  Lord  Hawkesbury,  the  Brit- 
ish Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs,  warned 
Rufus  King  in  1801  that  "  the  acquisi- 
tion might  enable  France  to  extend  her 
influence  and  perhaps  her  dominion  up 
the  Mississippi  and  through  the  Great 
Lakes,  even  to  Canada.  This  would  be 
realizing  the  plan,  to  prevent  the  accom- 
plishment of  which  the  Seven  Years' 
War  took  place." 

But  before  he  occupied  Louisiana, 
Napoleon  undertook  to  subdue  the  negro 
insurrection  in  San  Domingo,  and  fever 
and  slaughter  ruined  his  armies  of  occu- 
pation. He  had  founded  his  system  on 
restoring  this  island  to  its  once  proud 
position  as  the  centre  of  West  Indian 
commerce,  and  he  delayed  taking  posses- 
sion of  Louisiana  until  the  interval  of 
peace  was  at  an  end.  But  the  strength 
of  English  sea  power,  and  the  danger  of 
a  union  of  the  forces  of  England  and  the 
United  States  in  time  of  war,  would  make 
the  transfer  of  a  large  army  to  occupy 
Louisiana  under  hostile  conditions  a  haz- 
ardous enterprise.  Was  it,  after  all,  worth 
the  cost,  since  its  value  was  not  so  much 
immediate,  as  in  that  remote  future 
which  lay  before  the  power  that  domi- 
nated the  Mississippi  ? 

If  considerations  like  these  engaged 
Napoleon's  thought,  the  vigorous  repre- 
sentations of  Jefferson  would  have  rein- 
forced them.  When  it  became  clear  that 
Louisiana  had  passed  to  France,  he  wrote 
our  minister,  Livingston,  a  letter,  in- 


tended also  for  the  perusal  of  Napoleon, 
which  showed  that  the  lessons  of  the  long 
and  tortuous  intrigues  for  the  possession 
of  the  mouth  of  the  Mississippi  had  sunk 
deeply  into  his  mind.  Confronted  with 
the  danger  of  French  occupation  of  the 
mouth  of  the  Mississippi,  he  saw  that  he 
must  throw  aside  his  old  antipathy  to 
England,  navies,  alliances,  and  conquests, 
and  grasp  at  that  policy  of  an  English 
alliance  for  the  domination  of  North  and 
.  South  America,  which  so  vigorous  a 
Federalist  as  John  Adams  had  rejected. 
"  The  day  that  France  takes  possession 
of  New  Orleans,"  he  wrote,  "  fixes  the 
sentence  which  is  to  restrain  her  forever 
within  her  low-water  mark.  It  seals 
the  union  of  two  nations  who,  in  con- 
junction, can  maintain  exclusive  posses- 
sion of  the  ocean.  From  that  moment 
we  must  marry  ourselves  to  the  British 
fleet  and  nation.  We  must  turn  all  our 
attention  to  a  maritime  force,  for  which 
our  resources  place  us  on  very  high 
ground  ;  and  having  formed  and  con- 
nected together  a  power  which  may  ren- 
der reenforcement  of  her  settlements 
here  impossible  to  France,  make  the 
first  cannon  which  shall  be  fired  in  Eu- 
rope the  signal  for  the  tearing  up  of  any 
settlement  she  may  have  made,  and  for 
holding  the  two  continents  of  America 
in  sequestration  for  the  common  pur- 
poses of  the  united  British  and  Ameri- 
can nations."  Jefferson  perceived  clear- 
ly that  European  possession  of  the  mouth 
of  the  Mississippi  would  necessarily  in- 
volve North  America  in  the  system  of 
the  Old  World. 

When  the  French  minister  Adet  was 
striving  to  secure  the  election  of  Jeffer- 
son to  the  Presidency  in  1796,  he  re- 
ported to  his  government  an  estimate  of 
the  great  Virginian's  character  which 
strikingly  illustrates  this  letter.  He  said : 
"  I  do  not  know  whether,  as  I  am  told, 
we  will  always  find  in  him  a  man  entirely 
devoted  to  our  interests.  Mr.  Jefferson 
likes  us  because  he  detests  England  ;  he 
seeks  to  unite  with  us  because  he  sus- 


Training  in  Taste. 


817 


pects  us  less  than  Great  Britain,  but  he 
would  change  his  sentiments  toward  us 
to-morrow,  perhaps,  if  to-morrow  Great 
Britain  ceased  to  inspire  him  with  fear. 
Jefferson,  although  a  friend  of  liberty 
and  the  sciences,  although  an  admirer  of 
the  efforts  which  we  have  made  to  break 
our  chains  and  dissipate  the  cloud  of 
ignorance  which  weighs  upon  mankind, 
Jefferson,  I  say,  is  an  American,  and,  by 
that  title,  it  is  impossible  for  him  to  be 
sincerely  our  friend.  An  American  is 
the  born  enemy  of  European  peoples." 

But  with  his  passion  for  peace,  Jeffer- 
son was  in  no  haste  to  apply  the  rigorous 
programme  of  hostility.  He  preferred 
to  put  off  the  day  of  contention  till  our 
population  in  the  valley  increased  so  that 
"  it  could  do  its  own  business."  In  the 
instructions  which  he  gave  to  Monroe  in 
March,  1803,  on  sending  him  as  a  special 
envoy  to  France,  he  set  the  maximum  de- 
sire of  the  United  States  at  New  Orleans 
and  the  Floridas.  To  secure  them  he 
was  even  ready  to  give  to  France  an  ab- 
solute guarantee  of  the  west  bank  of  the 


Mississippi.  But  his  minimum  demand 
was  simply  for  the  continuation  of  the 
right  of  deposit,  to  insure  the  freedom  of 
navigation  of  the  river.  It  was  the  "  bar- 
ren sand, .  .  .  formed  by  the  Gulf  Stream 
in  its  circular  course  round  the  Mexican 
Gulf,"  and  lying  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Mississippi,  that  he  coveted,  for  it  con- 
trolled the  destiny  of  the  Great  Valley. 
Impetuous  and  swift  in  his  decisions, 
Napoleon,  while  Monroe  was  still  at  sea, 
abandoned  his  hopes  of  a  great  colonial 
empire  on  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  resolved 
on  war  with  England,  and  ordered  that 
all  of  Louisiana  should  be  offered  to  the 
Union.  On  April  30,  1803,  the  treaty 
was  dated  which  brought  to  an  end  these 
years  of  intrigue  between  European  pow- 
ers for  the  control  over  the  interior  of 
North  America,  and  for  the  domination 
of  the  desintegrating  empire  of  Spain. 
From  that  cession  dates  the  emancipation 
of  North  America  from  the  state  systems 
of  Europe,  and  the  rise  of  the  United 
States  into  the  position  of  a  world  power, 
the  arbiter  of  America. 

Frederick  J.  Turner. 


TRAINING  IN  TASTE. 


THE  desire  to  have  good  taste  must  be 
almost  universal,  for  its  possession  im- 
plies so  much  that  is  honorable.  It  is 
an  interesting  question,  whether  good 
taste  may  be  acquired  or  communicated, 
and,  if  so,  to  what  degree.  Assuredly 
few  persons  set  out  consciously  upon  a 
quest  for  it.  It  is  generally  felt  that  it 
is  a  gift  rather  than  an  accomplishment, 
being  chiefly  a  matter  of  temperament 
and  instinct.  Education  may  have  much 
to  do  with  its  development ;  culture, 
which  Matthew  Arnold  defines  as  "  the 
acquainting  ourselves  with  the  best  that 
has  been  known  and  said  in  the  world," 
still  more ;  but  experience,  life  itself,  is 
the  only  school  in  which  the  man  of  taste 

VOL.  xcin.  —  NO.  560.  52 


can  take  his  final  degree.  Learning  and 
taste  do  not  always  run  together,  for  we 
all  know  that  there  are  educated  persons 
who  have  very  little  taste,  and,  on  the 
other  hand,  we  know  that  there  are  illit- 
erate persons  who  possess  a  "  general 
susceptibility  to  truth  and  nobleness," 
which  is  Carlyle's  definition  of  taste.  In- 
deed, the  difference  between  knowledge 
and  culture  is  as  wide  as  that  between 
knowledge  and  wisdom.  Almost  every 
one  may  acquire  a  certain  degree  of  edu- 
cation, but  as  for  really  "  acquainting 
ourselves  "  with  the  best  things  in  the 
world,  that  is  something  which,  with  the 
best  will  imaginable,  will  never  come  at 
the  beck  of  mere  intellect.  We  are  so 


818 


Training  in  Taste. 


made  that  we  cannot  know  the  things 
that  we  do  not  love,  even  as  we  cannot 
love  the  things  we  do  not  know. 

Thus  a  prosaic  and  unimaginative  na- 
ture can  never  get  into  real  contact  with 
the  classics  ;  for  the  sensitiveness  to  fine 
impressions,  which  is  a  necessary  condi- 
tion of  creative  work  of  a  high  type,  is 
equally  requisite  for  the  complete  appre- 
ciation of  that  work.  Although  it  is  not 
necessary  for  a  man  to  be  a  Dante  in 
order  to  understand  and  relish  the  Di- 
vine Comedy,  he  must  have  some  mental 
affinity  to  the  author,  —  a  similar  vein 
of  potential  poetry  in  his  nature.  There 
must  be  that  in  him  which  vibrates  in 
response  to  the  call  of  genius.  Intellect 
and  culture  are  not  enough  ;  there  must 
be  the  heart  to  feel  as  well  as  the  mind 
to  grasp  the  meaning. 

Scientific  criticism  may  be  useful  in 
its  way,  but  there  is  a  higher  kind  of 
criticism,  which  employs  sympathy  more 
than  naked  facts  of  history  in  order  to  in- 
terpret the  spirit  of  work.  It  deals  with 
results  more  than  with  methods.  No 
analysis,  no  laboratory  test,  for  Titian's 
color,  for  Milton's  diction  !  That  way  pe- 
dantry lies.  Yet  "  the  acquainting  our- 
selves with  the  best  that  has  been  known 
and  said  in  the  world  "  is  not  a  passive 
achievement.  Sublime  revelations  of 
truth  and  beauty  await  our  coming  to 
them ;  but  we  must  meet  them  halfway. 
All  your  life  you  have  heard  of  Rem- 
brandt,—  clarum  et  venerabile  nomen! 
—  and  have  taken  him,  as  it  were,  upon 
faith  ;  but  some  bright  morning,  while 
you  loiter  in  a  gallery  of  engravings,  you 
have  perhaps  come  upon  a  little  etching 
of  a  New  Testament  scene,  drawn  with 
a  curiously  awkward  yet  impassioned 
touch,  and  giving  forth  such  poignant 
expression,  such  a  full  tide  of  emotional 
life,  that  all  the  unspeakable,  tragic  gran- 
deur of  the  history  of  the  Man  of  Sor- 
rows seems  compacted  in  that  diminutive 
bit  of  scratched  copper. 

In  respect  to  works  of  art  of  all 
classes,  from  music  and  poetry  to  archi- 


tecture and  sculpture,  it  is  not  so  much 
perfection  that  we  are  to  expect  and  de- 
sire, as  a  certain  combination  of  traits, 
which,  by  the  laws  of  our  individual 
temperaments,  are  peculiarly  adapted  to 
arouse  in  us  sympathetic  enthusiasm. 
This  is  why  we  choose  our  friends, 
sweethearts,  wives,  politics,  religions,  to 
suit  ourselves,  not  to  conform  to  some 
general  or  ideal  standard,  still  less  to 
suit  the  neighbors.  Let  us  be  loyal  to 
our  preferences,  and  have  the  courage 
of  our  prejudices.  If  a  man  can  see 
nothing  that  is  good  in  Botticelli,  Burne- 
Jones,  or  Claude  Monet,  let  him  say  so 
candidly ;  there  is  a  reason  for  it ;  and 
even  if  that  reason  be  somewhat  unrea- 
sonable, it  is  imperative  to  be  honest. 
The  keystone  of  the  arch  of  art  is  ex- 
pressed in  Polonius's  counsel  to  Laertes, 
"  To  thine  own  self  be  true." 

Nor  does  a  negative  attitude  of  mind 
with  reference  to  the  works  of  certain 
authors  convey  any  imputation  of  their 
inferiority.  We  may  be  simply  indif- 
ferent at  present ;  it  does  not  follow  that 
we  shall  be  so  always ;  we  are  open  to 
conviction,  and  therefore  shall  not  miss 
much  that  is  good  ;  every  free  man  has 
the  right  to  change  his  mind  when  he 
receives  new  light.  To  suppose  that 
there  is  any  sort  of  moral  obligation  to 
understand,  approve,  and  enjoy  all  the 
good  books,  pictures,  music,  and  monu- 
ments in  existence,  would  be  to  suppose 
an  aesthetic  impossibility.  No  one  can 
eat  all  the  dishes  named  in  the  bill  of 
fare.  We  must  economize  our  appetites, 
partaking  of  that  food  only  which  we 
can  relish  and  assimilate.  The  maxim 
de  gustibus  non  est  disputandum  is 
neither  wholly  true  nor  wholly  false.  It 
is  certain  that  the  free  exercise  of  indi- 
vidual taste  is  perfectly  allowable,  more 
than  that,  is  perfectly  desirable,  and  this 
will  inevitably  lead  to  some  differences 
of  opinion ;  yet  it  is  as  certain  that  there 
are  fundamental  principles  of  choice, 
common  to  all  the  arts,  and  as  a  corol- 
lary there  is  a  standard  of  excellence 


Training  in  Taste. 


819 


which  in  due  time  is  recognized  by  all 
good  authorities. 

If  the  charm,  nobility,  and  beauty  of 
simple  honesty  in  the  realm  of  taste 
were  only  realized,  mere  differences  of 
opinion  would  count  for  little.  It  is  of 
no  avail  to  learn  things  by  rote,  after 
the  manner  of  the  multiplication  tables. 
In  the  aesthetic  world  we  must  be  ad- 
venturous, hardy,  and  independent,  use 
our  own  eyes  and  minds,  discover  new 
continents  for  ourselves,  experience  the 
sensations  of  explorers,  finding  our  own 
way.  It  is  of  little  use  to  believe  that 
two  and  two  make  four  because  some 
one  has  said  so.  We  must  project  the 
fact  in  our  imaginations,  realize  it,  and 
be  convinced  of  it  by  our  own  reason. 

Nevertheless,  when  there  is  a  virtually 
unanimous  consensus  of  expert  opinion 
as  to  the  merits  of  any  work,  would  it 
not  be  an  absurd  display  of  egotism  to 
set  up  a  dissenting  judgment  ?  A  wait- 
ing attitude  is  the  wiser  part,  neither 
scornful  nor  obsequious.  Questions  of 
taste  are  not  settled  by  universal  suf- 
frage, nor  by  personal  whims,  but  by  the 
edicts  of  the  intellectual  elite  in  all  ages 
and  generations  of  men.  So,  while  we 
are  at  liberty  to  reserve  our  opinions 
in  those  instances  where  the  accumulat- 
ed testimony  of  authoritative  criticism 
points  one  way,  it  is  at  least  probable 
that  it  is  sound.  With  all  the  allow- 
ances that  must  be  made  for  individual- 
ity, there  is,  after  all,  a  standard  of  taste 
on  which  all  competent  judges  may  unite. 
Though  they  may  differ  about  minor 
matters,  they  agree  finally  as  to  the  es- 
sentials. 

A  thoughtful  person  is  in  no  danger 
of  remaining  neutral  for  long  with  re- 
gard to  any  important  issue.  Frank  dis- 
cussion is  useful,  but  controversy  and  con- 
tention seldom  lead  to  any  valuable  con- 
clusions. As  in  ethics,  so  in  aesthetics ; 
unless  the  mind  is  busied  with  good 
thoughts,  it  will  gravitate  toward  bad 
ones,  for  it  cannot  remain  empty.  Con- 
tact with  good  literature,  since  this  is 


an  age  of  reading,  is  doubtless  the  most 
effectual  formative  condition  for  the  cul- 
tivation of  taste  ;  and  when  this  may 
be  supplemented  by  contact  with  good 
architecture,  sculpture,  and  pictures,  the 
whole  trend  of  mental  development 
should  be  upward.  The  growth  of  taste, 
however,  will  vary  in  rapidity  and 
thoroughness  in  strict  accordance  with 
each  individual  temperament ;  in  no  case 
is  it  possible  for  it  to  outrun  the  in- 
nate "  susceptibility  to  truth  and  noble- 
ness." 

The  influence  of  personal  example  is 
worth  any  amount  of  didacticism.  I  had 
a  friend,  who,  without  much  education, 
and  without  any  of  the  advantages  of 
travel,  possessed  the  finest  native  in- 
stinct for  all  things  in  nature  and  art 
that  are  fine  and  true.  Association  with 
him  amounted  to  a  liberal,  though  un- 
academic,  education  in  art  appreciation. 
His  intellect,  undisciplined  by  bookish 
studies,  was  singularly  alert,  keen,  and 
vigorous.  His  conversation  was  more 
picturesque  and  pithy  than  lettered,  but 
his  intuitive  wisdom  was  seldom  at  fault, 
as  is  sometimes  the  way  with  those  who 
have  studied  men  and  things  more  than 
textbooks.  He  could  not  have  told  you 
what  school  Mantegna  belonged  to,  per- 
haps ;  but  his  nature  was  stirred  to  its 
depths  by  any  and  every  manifestation 
of  a  passion  for  beauty,  whether  in  life 
or  art.  I  think  he  could  be  called,  in 
the  fullest  sense  of  the  word,  a  connois- 
seur; for  he  knew.  But  his  knowledge 
came  from  within.  He  obeyed  the  in- 
ner light.  His  example  taught  me  to 
observe  things ;  my  eyes  were  opened  to 
the  humble  and  casual  revelations  of 
every-day  beauty,  grandeur,  and  signifi- 
cance, all  about,  which  we  have  but  to 
look  for  in  order  to  find.  When  I  think 
of  this  great-hearted  friend,  who  could 
derive  more  exquisite  emotion  from  the 
contemplation  of  a  wild  flower  in  the 
woods  than  most  people  are  capable  of 
feeling  in  front  of  a  Raphael  or  on  the 
first  sight  of  Mont  Blanc,  I  have  little 


820 


Training  in  Taste. 


patience  with  the  prattle  of  so-called 
artists  about  their  dependence  upon  an 
"art  atmosphere."  "  Coelum  non  ani- 
inani  mutant,  qui  trans  mare  currunt." 

So  far  as  a  philosophy  of  taste  exists, 
its  teachings  ought  to  be  affirmative 
rather  than  negative.  It  is  more  im- 
portant to  know  what  to  attain  than  to 
know  what  to  avoid.  The  mind  of  the 
civilized  man  is  open  to  impressions,  and 
the  first  condition  of  aesthetic  culture  is 
mental  hospitality.  The  terms  most  fre- 
quently used  in  the  philosophy  of  ethics 
occur  with  equal  pertinence  in  the  field 
of  aesthetics,  —  integrity,  purity,  eleva- 
tion, dignity,  elegance,  finish,  reposeful- 
ness,  balance,  poise,  and  the  like.  A 
sense  of  humor  is  of  great  usefulness 
in  counteracting  the  opposite  tendencies 
toward  pedantiy,  conventionality,  and 
priggishness.  But  one  should  know  when 
to  be  serious.  The  habit  of  perpetual 
banter  is  pernicious.  A  normal  and 
wholesome  degree  of  sensuousness  is  also 
an  important  factor  in  the  development  of 
taste.  Without  it  no  vital  art  is  possible. 
The  safeguard  against  its  abuse  is  not 
asceticism,  but  moral  enthusiasm,  —  the 
passion  for  righteousness,  —  which  is  the 
supreme  thing  in  English  literature,  for 
instance. 

In  the  presence  of  a  new  work  of  art, 
many  persons  stand  on  guard,  defiant, 
suspicious,  timid,  as  if  afraid  of  being 
tricked  into  undue  admiration  or  enjoy- 
ment. Those  who  are  on  the  watch  for 
flaws  can  always  find  some.  All  criti- 
cism is  a  confession,  in  which  the  critic 
lays  bare  his  own  limitations.  What  we 
need  in  criticism,  an  old  painter  once  said 
to  me,  is  a  nourishing,  and  not  a  destruc- 
tive system.  The  reflex  effect  of  the 
censorious  habit  is  very  belittling.  Sar- 
casm is  a  two-edged  weapon,  and  must 
be  handled  with  vast  discretion.  Yet  we 
do  not  care  to  learn  the  opinions  of  his- 
torians who  are  so  excessively  good-na- 
tured, catholic,  and  charitable  that  they 
love  everything. 

I  do  not  like  to  hear  people  speak  of 


their  preferences  in  an  apologetic  tone. 
Affectation  is  the  only  unpardonable  sin 
in  the  realm  of  taste,  so  none  of  us  need 
be  ashamed  of  liking  certain  things  that 
are  not  strictly  first-rate.  It  is  so  tire- 
some to  hear  opinions  put  forth  with  a 
preface  excusing  their  inadequacy,  that 
one  sometimes  welcomes  heartily  the 
blunt  declaration  of  the  man  who  pro- 
claims Ouida  or  the  Duchess  the  greatest 
of  novelists,  and  believes  that  John  G. 
Brown's  pictures  are  truer  to  life  than 
those  of  John  La  Farge. 

A  little  taste  is  a  dangerous  thing.  A 
large  class  of  would-be  aesthetes  partake 
of  the  characteristics  of  poor  Mr.  Winkle, 
who  was  constantly  getting  into  dreadful 
scrapes  because  he  hated  to  acknowledge 
that  he  did  not  know.  It  is  this  ambi- 
tious but  vulnerable  class  which  is  for- 
ever engaged  in  a  still  hunt  for  the  latest 
and  costliest  fashion  in  apparel,  furni- 
ture, fiction,  philosophy,  food,  sport,  — 
I  had  almost  said  religion.  Each  new 
style,  or  fad,  is  passed  along  in  some 
occult,  wireless  way,  with  marvelous 
promptitude,  and  makes  its  presence  felt 
with  the  agility  of  the  most  recent  mi- 
crobe. There  are  those  whose  conver- 
sation is  ingeniously  made  to  convey  the 
information  that  the  speaker  is  in  touch 
with  the  only  correct  line  of  contempo- 
rary thought  on  all  the  things  I  have 
named. 

The  reason  for  the  inextricable  rela- 
tion which  exists  between  ethics  and 
aesthetics  is  that  the  only  durable  kind 
of  beauty  is  spiritual  or  moral  beauty, 
of  which  material  beauty  is  but  the  ex- 
terior symbol.  I  can  exemplify  this  in 
no  simpler  way  than  by  taking  the  art 
of  Velasquez  as  a  concrete  illustration. 
This  painter  stands,  in  an  exceptionally 
perfect  manner,  for  all  that  is  noble, 
dignified,  lucid,  and  refined.  The  chief 
attributes  of  civilization  —  character, 
intellect,  culture,  gentleness  of  demeanor 
and  conduct  —  are  his  constant  theme 
and  inspiration.  By  his  supreme  integ- 


The  Cry  of  the  Old  House.  821 

rity,  and  the  lofty  and  pure  style  which  cracy,  the  aristocracy  of  merit,  where 
results  from  it,  he  lends  to  civilization  a  all  forms  of  meanness  and  vulgarity  are 
new  lustre.  It  may  be  said  that  to  know  out  of  the  question.  Never  were  style 
Velasquez  is  a  liberal  education  in  taste,  and  the  man  more  completely  identical. 
His  severity  and  reserve  are  among  his  The  moral  superiority  of  Velasquez  is 
high  merits,  for  they  belong  to  an  art  so  natural,  so  easy,  so  much  a  matter  of 
in  which  self  -  respect  is  a  conspicuous  course,  that  the  perfection  of  his  style, 
element.  His  work  is  measured,  poised,  growing  out  of  it,  becomes  a  sort  of  moral 
sober,  never  florid,  nor  rhetorical.  In  excellence  in  itself.  Such  painting  is  an 
contemplating  his  pictures  we  are  enter-  act  of  high  morality,  —  a  luminous  em- 
ing  a  natural  atmosphere  of  real  aristo-  bodiment  of  virtue. 

William  Howe  Downes. 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE. 

COME  back ! 

My  little  lads,  come  back! 

My  little  maids,  with  starched  frocks ; 

My  lads,  my  maids,  come  back  ! 

The  poplar  trees  are  black 

Against  the  keen,  lone,  throbbing  sky; 

The  tang  of  the  old  box 

Fills  the  clear  dusk  from  wall  to  wall, 

And  the  dews  fall. 

Come  back ! 

I  watch,  I  cry : 

Leave  the  rude  wharf,  the  mart ; 

Come  back ! 

Else  shall  I  break  my  heart. 

Am  I  forgot ; 

My  days  as  they  were  not  ?  — 

The  warm,  sweet,  crooning  tunes ; 

The  Sunday  afternoons, 

Wrought  but  for  you  ; 

The  larkspurs  growing  tall, 

You  wreathed  in  pink  and  blue, 

Within  your  prayer-books  small ; 

The  cupboards  carved  both  in  and  out, 

With  curious,  prickly  vine, 

And  smelling  far  and  fine  ; 

The  pictures  in  a  row, 

Of  folk  you  did  not  know ; 

The  toys,  the  games,  the  shrill,  gay  rout; 

The  lanterns,  that  at  hour  for  bed, 

A  charmed,  but  homely  red, 

Went  flickering  from  shed  to  shed ; 


822  The   Cry  of  the   Old  House. 

The  fagots  crumbling,  spicy,  good, 
Brought  in  from  the  great  wood ; 
The  Dark  that  held  you  all  about  ; 
The  Wind  that  would  not  go  ?  — 
Come  back,  my  women  and  my  men, 
And  take  them  all  again! 

Not  yet,  not  yet, 

Can  you  forget  — 

For  you  that  are  a  man, 

You  battle  not  or  reap,  you  dream  nor  plan  ; 

And  you,  so  gray  of  look, 

You  cannot  pluck  a  rose,  or  read  a  book, 

Do  aught  for  faith,  or  fame,  or  tears, 

But  I  am  there  with  all  my  years. 

Oh,  one  and  all, 

When  at  the  evenfall, 

Your  slim  girls  sing  out  on  the  stair, 

Lo,  I  am  there  ! 

When  blow  the  cherry  boughs  so  fair 

Athwart  your  slender  town  yards  far  away, 

Lo,  all  at  once  you  have  no  word  to  say ; 

For  at  your  throat  a  sharp,  strange  thing  — 

An  old  house  set  in  an  old  spring! 

Come  back! 

Come  up  the  still,  accustomed,  wistful  lands, 

The  poplar-haunted  lands. 

You  need  not  call, 

For  I  shall  know, 

And  light  the  candles  tall, 

Set  wine  and  loaf  a-row. 

Come  back ! 

Unlatch  the  door, 

And  fall  upon  my  heart  once  more. 

For  I  shall  comfort  you,  oh  lad ; 

Oh,  daughter,  I  shall  make  you  wholly  glad! 

The  wreck,  the  wrong, 

The  unavailing  throng, 

The  sting,  the  smart, 

Shall  be  as  they  were  not, 

Forgot,  forgot ! 

Come  back, 

And  fall  upon  my  heart! 

Lizette  Woodworth  Reese. 


Baxter's  Procrustes. 


823 


BAXTER'S  PROCRUSTES. 


BAXTER'S  Procrustes  is  one  of  the 
publications  of  the  Bodleian  Club.  The 
Bodleian  Club  is  composed  of  gentlemen 
of  culture,  who  are  interested  in  books 
and  book-collecting.  It  was  named,  very 
obviously,  after  the  famous  library  of  the 
same  name,  and  not  only  became  in  our 
city  a  sort  of  shrine  for  local  worshipers 
of  fine  bindings  and  rare  editions,  but 
was  visited  occasionally  by  pilgrims  from 
afar.  The  Bodleian  has  entertained 
Mark  Twain,  Joseph  Jefferson,  and  other 
literary  and  histrionic  celebrities.  It  pos- 
sesses quite  a  collection  of  personal  me- 
mentos of  distinguished  authors,  among 
them  a  paperweight  which  once  belonged 
to  Goethe,  a  lead  pencil  used  by  Emerson, 
an  autograph  letter  of  Matthew  Arnold, 
and  a  chip  from  a  tree  felled  by  Mr. 
Gladstone.  Its  library  contains  a  num- 
ber of  rare  books,  including  a  fine  collec- 
tion on  chess,  of  which  game  several  of 
the  members  are  enthusiastic  devotees. 

The  activities  of  the  club  are  not,  how- 
ever, confined  entirely  to  books.  We 
have  a  very  handsome  clubhouse,  and 
much  taste  and  discrimination  have  been 
exercised  in  its  adornment.  There  are 
many  good  paintings,  including  portraits 
of  the  various  presidents  of  the  club, 
which  adorn  the  entrance  hall.  After 
books,  perhaps  the  most  distinctive  fea- 
ture of  the  club  is  our  collection  of  pipes. 
In  a  large  rack  in  the  smoking-room  — 
really  a  superfluity,  since  smoking  is 
permitted  all  over  the  house  — is  as  com- 
plete an  assortment  of  pipes  as  perhaps 
exists  in  the  civilized  world.  Indeed,  it 
is  an  unwritten  rule  of  the  club  that  no 
one  is  eligible  for  membership  who  can- 
not produce  a  new  variety  of  pipe,  which 
is  filed  with  his  application  for  member- 
ship, and,  if  he  passes,  deposited  with  the 
club  collection,  he,  however,  retaining 
the  title  in  himself.  Once  a  year,  upon 
.the  anniversary  of  the  death  of  Sir  Wal- 


ter Raleigh,  who,  it  will  be  remembered, 
first  introduced  tobacco  into  England, 
the  full  membership  of  the  club,  as  a 
rule,  turns  out.  A  large  supply  of  the 
very  best  smoking  mixture  is  laid  in. 
At  nine  o'clock  sharp  each  member  takes 
his  pipe  from  the  rack,  fills  it  with  to- 
bacco, and  then  the  whole  club,  with  the 
president  at  the  head,  all  smoking  furi- 
ously, march  in  solemn  procession  from 
room  to  room,  upstairs  and  downstairs, 
making  the  tour  of  the  clubhouse  and 
returning  to  the  smoking-room.  The 
president  then  delivers  an  address,  and 
each  member  is  called  upon  to  say  some- 
thing, either  by  way  of  a  quotation  or  an 
original  sentiment,  in  praise  of  the  vir- 
tues of  nicotine.  This  ceremony  —  face- 
tiously known  as  "  hitting  the  pipe  "  — 
being  thus  concluded,  the  membership 
pipes  are  carefully  cleaned  out  and  re- 
placed in  the  club  rack. 

As  I  have  said,  however,  the  raison 
d'etre  of  the  club,  and  the  feature  upon 
which  its  fame  chiefly  rests,  is  its  collec- 
tion of  rare  books,  and  of  these  by  far 
the  most  interesting  are  its  own  publica- 
tions. Even  its  catalogues  are  works 
of  art,  published  in  numbered  editions, 
and  sought  by  libraries  and  book-collec- 
tors. Early  in  its  history  it  began  the 
occasional  publication  of  books  which 
should  meet  the  club  standard,  —  books 
in  which  emphasis  should  be  laid  upon 
the  qualities  that  make  a  book  valuable 
in  the  eyes  of  collectors.  Of  these,  age 
could  not,  of  course,  be  imparted,  but  in 
the  matter  of  fine  and  curious  bindings, 
of  hand-made  linen  papers,  of  uncut  or 
deckle  edges,  of  wide  margins  and  limited 
editions,  the  club  could  control  its  own 
publications.  The  matter  of  contents 
was,  it  must  be  confessed,  a  less  impor- 
tant consideration.  At  first  it  was  felt 
by  the  publishing  committee  that  nothing 
but  the  finest  products  of  the  human 


824 


Baxter's  Procrustes. 


mind  should  be  selected  for  enshrinement 
in  the  beautiful  volumes  which  the  club 
should  issue.  The  length  of  the  work 
was  an  important  consideration,  —  long 
things  were  not  compatible  with  wide 
margins  and  graceful  slenderness.  For 
instance,  we  brought  out  Coleridge's  An- 
cient Mariner,  an  essay  by  Emerson,  and 
another  by  Thoreau.  Our  Rubaiyai  of 
Omar  Khayyam  was  Heron  -  Allen's 
translation  of  the  original  MS.  in  the  Bod- 
leian Library  at  Oxford,  which,  though 
less  poetical  than  FitzGerald's,  was  not 
so  common.  Several  years  ago  we  began 
to  publish  the  works  of  our  own  mem- 
bers. Bascom's  Essay  on  Pipes  was  a 
very  creditable  performance.  It  was  pub- 
lished in  a  limited  edition  of  one  hundred 
copies,  and  since  it  had  not  previously 
appeared  elsewhere  and  was  copyrighted 
by  the  club,  it  was  sufficiently  rare  to  be 
valuable  for  that  reason.  The  second 
publication  of  local  origin  was  Baxter's 
Procrustes. 

I  have  omitted  to  say  that  once  or 
twice  a  year,  at  a  meeting  of  which  no- 
tice has  been  given,  an  auction  is  held  at 
the  Bodleian.  The  members  "of  the  club 
send  in  their  duplicate  copies,  or  books 
they  for  any  reason  wish  to  dispose  of, 
which  are  auctioned  off  to  the  highest 
bidder.  At  these  sales,  which  are  well 
attended,  the  club's  publications  have  of 
recent  years  formed  the  leading  feature. 
Three  years  ago,  number  three  of  Bas- 
com's Essay  on  Pipes  sold  for  fifteen  dol- 
lars ;  —  the  original  cost  of  publication 
was  one  dollar  and  seventy-five  cents. 
Later  in  the  evening  an  uncut  copy  of  the 
same  brought  thirty  dollars.  At  the  next 
auction  the  price  of  the  cut  copy  was  run 
up  to  twenty-five  dollars,  while  the  un- 
cut copy  was  knocked  down  at  seventy- 
five  dollars.  The  club  had  always  appre- 
ciated the  value  of  uncut  copies,  but  this 
financial  indorsement  enhanced  their  de- 
sirability immensely.  This  rise  in  the 
Essay  on  Pipes  was  not  without  a  sym- 
pathetic effect  upon  all  the  club  publica- 
tions. The  Emerson  essay  rose  from 


three  dollars  to  seventeen,  and  the  Tho- 
reau, being  by  an  author  less  widely  read, 
and  by  his  own  confession  commercially 
unsuccessful,  brought  a  somewhat  higher 
figure.  The  prices,  thus  inflated,  were 
not  permitted  to  come  down  appreciably. 
Since  every  member  of  the  club  pos- 
sessed one  or  more  of  these  valuable 
editions,  they  were  all  manifestly  inter- 
ested in  keeping  up  the  price.  The  pub- 
lication, however,  which  brought  the 
highest  prices,  and,  but  for  the  sober 
second  thought,  might  have  wrecked  the 
whole  system,  was  Baxter's  Procrustes. 

Baxter  was,  perhaps,  the  most  schol- 
arly member  of  the  club.  A  graduate 
of  Harvard,  he  had  traveled  extensively, 
had  read  widely,  and  while  not  so  en- 
thusiastic a  collector  as  some  of  us,  pos- 
sessed as  fine  a  private  library  as  any 
man  of  his  age  in  the  city.  He  was 
about  thirty-five  when  he  joined  the 
club,  and  apparently  some  bitter  experi- 
ence—  some  disappointment  in  love  or 
ambition  —  had  left  its  mark  upon  his 
character.  With  light,  curly  hair,  fair 
complexion,  and  gray  eyes,  one  would 
have  expected  Baxter  to  be  genial  of 
temper,  with  a  tendency  toward  wordi- 
ness of  speech.  But  though  he  had  oc- 
casional flashes  of  humor,  his  ordinary 
demeanor  was  characterized  by  a  mild 
cynicism,  which,  with  his  gloomy  pessi- 
mistic philosophy,  so  foreign  to  the 
temperament  that  should  accompany  his 
physical  type,  could  only  be  accounted 
for  upon  the  hypothesis  of  some  secret 
sorrow  such  as  I  have  suggested.  What 
it  might  be  no  one  knew.  He  had  means 
and  social  position,  and  was  an  uncom- 
monly handsome  man.  The  fact  that  he 
remained  unmarried  at  thirty-five  fur- 
nished some  support  for  the  theory  of  a 
disappointment  in  love,  though  this  the 
several  intimates  of  Baxter  who  belonged 
to  the  club  were  not  able  to  verify. 

It  had  occurred  to  me,  in  a  vague 
way,  that  perhaps  Baxter  might  be  an 
unsuccessful  author.  That  he  was  a 
poet  we  knew  very  well,  and  typewritten 


Baxter's  Procrustes. 


825 


copies  of  his  verses  had  occasionally  cir- 
culated among  us.  But  Baxter  had  al- 
ways expressed  such  a  profound  con- 
tempt for  modern  literature,  had  always 
spoken  in  terms  of  such  unmeasured  pity 
for  the  slaves  of  the  pen,  who  were  de- 
pendent upon  the  whim  of  an  undis- 
criminating  public  for  recognition  and  a 
livelihood,  that  no  one  of  us  had  ever  sus- 
pected him  of  aspirations  toward  publi- 
cation, until,  as  I  have  said,  it  occurred 
to  me  one  day  that  Baxter's  attitude  with 
regard  to  publication  might  be  viewed 
in  the  light  of  effect  as  well  as  of  cause, 
—  that  his  scorn  of  publicity  might  as 
easily  arise  from  failure  to  achieve  it, 
as  his  never  having  published  might  be 
due  to  his  preconceived  disdain  of  the 
vulgar  popularity  which  one  must  share 
with  the  pugilist  or  balloonist  of  the  hour. 
The  notion  of  publishing  Baxter's 
Procrustes  did  not  emanate  from  Bax- 
ter, —  I  must  do  him  the  justice  to  say 
this.  But  he  had  spoken  to  several  of 
the  fellows  about  the  theme  of  his  poem, 
until  the  notion  that  Baxter  was  at 
work  upon  something  fine  had  become 
pretty  well  disseminated  throughout  our 
membership.  He  would  occasionally 
read  brief  passages  to  a  small  coterie  of 
friends  in  the  sitting-room  or  library,  — 
never  more  than  ten  lines  at  once,  or  to 
more  than  five  people  at  a  time,  —  and 
these  excerpts  gave  at  least  a  few  of  us 
a  pretty  fair  idea  of  the  motive  and 
scope  of  the  poem.  As  I,  for  one,  ga- 
thered, it  was  quite  along  the  line  of 
Baxter's  philosophy.  Society  was  the 
Procrustes  which,  like  the  Greek  bandit 
of  old,  caught  every  man  born  into  the 
world,  and  endeavored  to  fit  him  to  some 
preconceived  standard,  generally  to  the 
one  for  which  he  was  least  adapted. 
The  world  was  full  of  men  and  women 
who  were  merely  square  pegs  in  round 
holes,  and  vice  versa.  Most  marriages 
were  unhappy  because  the  contracting 
parties  were  not  properly  mated.  Re- 
ligion was  mostly  superstition,  science 
for  the  most  part  sciolism,  popular  edu- 


cation merely  a  means  of  forcing  the 
stupid  and  repressing  the  bright,  so  that 
all  the  youth  of  the  rising  generation 
might  conform  to  the  same  dull,  dead 
level  of  democratic  mediocrity.  Life 
would  soon  become  so  monotonously  uni- 
form and  so  uniformly  monotonous  as  to 
be  scarce  worth  the  living. 

It  was  Smith,  I  think,  who  first  pro- 
posed that  the  club  publish  Baxter's 
Procrustes.  The  poet  himself  did  not 
seem  enthusiastic  when  the  subject  was 
broached ;  he  demurred  for  some  little 
time,  protesting  that  the  poem  was  not 
worthy  of  publication.  But  when  it  was 
proposed  that  the  edition  be  limited  to 
fifty  copies  he  agreed  to  consider  the 
proposition.  When  I  suggested,  having 
in  mind  my  secret  theory  of  Baxter's 
failure  in  authorship,  that  the  edition 
would  at  least  be  in  the  hands  of  friends, 
that  it  would  be  difficult  for  a  hostile 
critic  to  secure  a  copy,  and  that  if  it 
should  not  achieve  success  from  a  literary 
point  of  view,  the  extent  of  the  failure 
would  be  limited  to  the  size  of  the  edition, 
Baxter  was  visibly  impressed.  When 
the  literary  committee  at  length  decided 
to  request  formally  of  Baxter  the  privi- 
lege of  publishing  his  Procrustes,  he  con- 
sented, with  evident  reluctance,  upon 
condition  that  he  should  supervise  the 
printing,  binding,  and  delivery  of  the 
books,  merely  submitting  to  the  com- 
mittee, in  advance,  the  manuscript,  and 
taking  their  views  in  regard  to  the  book- 
making. 

The  manuscript  was  duly  presented  to 
the  literary  committee.  Baxter  having 
expressed  the  desire  that  the  poem  be 
not  read  aloud  at  a  meeting  of  the  club, 
as  was  the  custom,  since  he  wished  it  to 
be  given  to  the  world  clad  in  suitable 
garb,  the  committee  went  even  farther. 
Having  entire  confidence  in  Baxter's 
taste  and  scholarship,  they,  with  great 
delicacy,  refrained  from  even  reading  the 
manuscript,  contenting  themselves  with 
Baxter's  statement  of  the  general  theme 
and  the  topics  grouped  under  it.  The 


826 


Baxter's  Procrustes. 


details  of  the  bookmaking,  however,  were 
gone  into  thoroughly.  The  paper  was 
to  be  of  hand-made  linen,  from  the  Kelm- 
scott  Mills ;  the  type  black-letter,  with 
rubricated  initials.  The  cover,  which 
was  Baxter's  own  selection,  was  to  be  of 
dark  green  morocco,  with  a  cap-and-bells 
border  in  red  inlays,  and  doublures  of 
maroon  morocco  with  a  blind-tooled  de- 
sign. Baxter  was  authorized  to  contract 
with  the  printer  and  superintend  the  pub- 
lication. The  whole  edition  of  fifty  num- 
bered copies  was  to  be  disposed  of  at 
auction,  in  advance,  to  the  highest  bid- 
der, only  one  copy  to  each,  the  proceeds 
to  be  devoted  to  paying  for  the  printing 
and  binding,  the  remainder,  if  any,  to 
go  into  the  club  treasury,  and  Baxter 
himself  to  receive  one  copy  by  way  of 
remuneration.  Baxter  was  inclined  to 
protest  at  this,  on  the  ground  that  his 
copy  would  probably  be  worth  more  than 
the  royalties  on  the  edition,  at  the  usual 
ten  per  cent,  would  amount  to,  but  was 
finally  prevailed  upon  to  accept  an  au- 
thor's copy. 

While  the  Procrustes  was  under  con- 
sideration, some  one  read,  at  one  of  our 
meetings,  a  note  from  some  magazine, 
which  stated  that  a  sealed  copy  of  a  new 
translation  of  Campanella's  Sonnets,  pub- 
lished by  the  Grolier  Club,  had  been 
sold  for  three  hundred  dollars.  This 
impressed  the  members  greatly.  It  was 
a  novel  idea.  A  new  work  might  thus 
be  enshrined  in  a  sort  of  holy  of  holies, 
which,  if  the  collector  so  desired,  could 
be  forever  sacred  from  the  profanation 
of  any  vulgar  or  unappreciative  eye.  The 
possessor  of  such  a  treasure  could  en- 
joy it  by  the  eye  of  imagination,  having 
at  the  same  time  the  exaltation  of  grasp- 
ing what  was  for  others  the  unattainable. 
The  literary  committee  were  so  impressed 
with  this  idea  that  they  presented  it 
to  Baxter  in  regard  to  the  Procrustes. 
Baxter  making  no  objection,  the  sub- 
scribers who  might  wish  their  copies  de- 
livered sealed  were  directed  to  notify  the 
author.  I  sent  in  my  name.  A  fine 


book,  after  all,  was  an  investment,  and 
if  there  was  any  way  of  enhancing  its 
rarity,  and  therefore  its  value,  I  was  quite 
willing  to  enjoy  such  an  advantage. 

When  the  Procrustes  was  ready  for 
distribution,  each  subscriber  received  his 
copy  by  mail,  in  a  neat  pasteboard  box. 
Each  number  was  wrapped  in  a  thin 
and  transparent  but  very  strong  paper, 
through  which  the  cover  design  and  tool- 
ing were  clearly  visible.  The  number 
of  the  copy  was  indorsed  upon  the  wrap- 
per, the  folds  of  which  were  securely 
fastened  at  each  end  with  sealing-wax, 
upon  which  was  impressed,  as  a  guaranty 
of  its  inviolateness,  the  monogram  of  the 
club. 

At  the  next  meeting  of  the  Bodleian 
a  great  deal  was  said  about  the  Procrus- 
tes, and  it  was  unanimously  agreed  that 
no  finer  specimen  of  bookmaking  had 
ever  been  published  by  the  club.  By  a 
curious  coincidence,  no  one  had  brought 
his  copy  with  him,  and  the  two  club 
copies  had  not  yet  been  received  from 
the  binder,  who,  Baxter  had  reported, 
was  retaining  them-  for  some  extra  fine 
work.  Upon  resolution,  offered  by  a 
member  who  had  not  subscribed  for  the 
volume,  a  committee  of  three  was  ap- 
pointed to  review  the  Procrustes  at  the 
next  literary  meeting  of  the  club.  Of 
this  committee  it  was  my  doubtful  for- 
tune to  constitute  one. 

In  pursuance  of  my  duty  in  the  pre- 
mises, it  of  course  became  necessary  for 
me  to  read  the  Procrustes.  In  all  prob- 
ability I  should  have  cut  my  own  copy 
for  this  purpose,  had  not  one  of  the  club 
auctions  intervened  between  my  appoint- 
ment and  the  date  set  for  the  discussion 
of  the  Procrustes.  At  this  meeting  a 
copy  of  the  book,  still  sealed,  was  offered 
for  sale,  and  bought  by  a  non-subscriber 
for  the  unprecedented  price  of  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  dollars.  After  this  a  pro- 
per regard  for  my  own  interests  would 
not  permit  me  to  spoil  my  copy  by  open- 
ing it,  and  I  was  therefore  compelled  to 
procure  my  information  concerning  the 


Baxter's  Procrustes. 


827 


poein  from  some  other  source.  As  I 
had  no  desire  to  appear  mercenary,  I 
said  nothing  about  my  own  copy,  and 
made  no  attempt  to  borrow.  I  did,  how- 
ever, casually  remark  to  Baxter  that  I 
should  like  to  look  at  his  copy  of  the 
proof  sheets,  since  I  wished  to  make  some 
extended  quotations  for  my  review,  and 
would  rather  not  trust  my  copy  to  a  typ- 
ist for  that  purpose.  Baxter  assured 
me,  with  every  evidence  of  regret,  that 
he  had  considered  them  of  so  little  im- 
portance that  he  had  thrown  them  into 
the  fire.  This  indifference  of  Baxter  to 
literary  values  struck  me  as  just  a  little 
overdone.  The  proof  sheets  of  Hamlet, 
corrected  in  Shakespeare's  own  hand, 
would  be  well-nigh  priceless. 

At  the  next  meeting  of  the  club  I  ob- 
served that  Thompson  and  Davis,  who 
were  with  me  on  the  reviewing  commit- 
tee, very  soon  brought  up  the  question 
of  the  Procrustes  in  conversation  in  the 
smoking-room,  and  seemed  anxious  to 
get  from  the  members  their  views  con- 
cerning Baxter's  production,  I  supposed 
upon  the  theory  that  the  appreciation  of 
any  book  review  would  depend  more  or 
less  upon  the  degree  to  which  it  reflected 
the  opinion  of  those  to  whom  the  review 
should  be  presented.  I  presumed,  of 
course,  that  Thompson  and  Davis  had 
each  read  the  book,  —  they  were  among 
the  subscribers,  —  and  I  was  desirous  of 
getting  their  point  of  view. 

"  What  do  you  think,"  I  inquired,  "  of 
the  passage  on  Social  Systems  ?  "  I 
have  forgotten  to  say  that  the  poem  was 
in  blank  verse,  and  divided  into  parts, 
each  with  an  appropriate  title. 

"  Well,"  replied  Davis,  it  seemed  to 
me  a  little  cautiously,  "  it  is  not  exactly 
Spencerian,  although  it  squints  at  the 
Spencerian  view,  with  a  slight  deflection 
toward  Hegelianism.  I  should  consider 
it  an  harmonious  fusion  of  the  best  views 
of  all  the  modern  philosophers,  with  a 
strong  Baxterian  flavor." 

"  Yes,"  said  Thompson,  "  the  charm  of 
the  chapter  lies  in  this  very  quality.  The 


style  is  an  emanation  from  Baxter's  own 
intellect,  —  he  has  written  himself  into 
the  poem.  By  knowing  Baxter  we  are 
able  to  appreciate  the  book,  and  after  hav- 
ing read  the  book  we  feel  that  we  are 
so  much  the  more  intimately  acquainted 
with  Baxter,  —  the  real  Baxter." 

Baxter  had  come  in  during  this  collo- 
quy, and  was  standing  by  the  fireplace 
smoking  a  pipe.  I  was  not  exactly  sure 
whether  the  faint  smile  which  marked 
his  face  was  a  token  of  pleasure  or  cyni- 
cism ;  it  was  Baxterian,  however,  and  I 
had  already  learned  that  Baxter's  opin- 
ions upon  any  subject  were  not  to  be 
gathered  always  from  his  facial  expres- 
sion. For  instance,  when  the  club  por- 
ter's crippled  child  died  Baxter  re- 
marked, it  seemed  to  me  unfeelingly,  that 
the  poor  little  devil  was  doubtless  better 
off,  and  that  the  porter  himself  had  cer- 
tainly been  relieved  of  a  burden ;  and 
only  a  week  later  the  porter  told  me  in 
confidence  that  Baxter  had  paid  for  an 
expensive  operation,  undertaken  in  the 
hope  of  prolonging  the  child's  life.  I 
therefore  drew  no  conclusions  from  Bax- 
ter's somewhat  enigmatical  smile.  He 
left  the  room  at  this  point  in  the  con- 
versation, somewhat  to  my  relief. 

"  By  the  way,  Jones,"  said  Davis,  ad- 
dressing me,  "  are  you  impressed  by 
Baxter's  views  on  Degeneration  ?  " 

Having  often  heard  Baxter  express 
himself  upon  the  general  downward  ten- 
dency of  modern  civilization,  I  felt  safe 
in  discussing  his  views  in  a  broad  and 
general  manner. 

"  I  think,"  I  replied,  "  that  they  are 
in  harmony  with  those  of  Schopenhauer, 
without  his  bitterness  ;  with  those  of  Nor- 
dau,  without  his  flippancy.  His  materi- 
alism is  Haeckel's,  presented  with  some- 
thing of  the  charm  of  Omar  Khayya'm." 

"  Yes,"  chimed  in  Davis,  "  it  answers 
the  strenuous  demand  of  our  day,  —  dis- 
satisfaction with  an  unjustified  optimism, 
—  and  voices  for  us  the  courage  of  hu- 
man philosophy  facing  the  unknown." 

I  had  a  vague  recollection  of  having 


828 


Baxter's  Procrustes. 


read  something  like  this  somewhere,  but 
so  much  has  been  written,  that  one  can 
scarcely  discuss  any  subject  of  impor- 
tance without  unconsciously  borrowing, 
now  and  then,  the  thoughts  or  the  lan- 
guage of  others.  Quotation,  like  imita- 
tion, is  a  superior  grade  of  flattery. 

"  The  Procrustes,"  said  Thompson,  to 
whom  the  metrical  review  had  been  ap- 
portioned, "  is  couched  in  sonorous  lines, 
of  haunting  melody  and  charm ;  and  yet 
so  closely  inter-related  as  to  be  scarcely 
quotable  with  justice  to  the  author.  To 
be  appreciated  the  poem  should  be  read 
as  a  whole,  —  I  shall  say  as  much  in  my 
review.  What  shall  you  say  of  the  let- 
ter-press ?  "  he  concluded,  addressing  me. 
I  was  supposed  to  discuss  the  technical 
excellence  of  the  volume  from  the  con- 
noisseur's viewpoint. 

"  The  setting,"  I  replied  judicially, 
"  is  worthy  of  the  gem.  The  dark  green 
cover,  elaborately  tooled,  the  old  English 
lettering,  the  heavy  linen  paper,  mark 
this  as  one  of  our  very  choicest  publica- 
tions. The  letter-press  is  of  course  De 
Vinne's  best,  —  there  is  nothing  better 
on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic.  The  text  is 
a  beautiful,  slender  stream,  meandering 
gracefully  through  a  wide  meadow  of 
margin." 

For  some  reason  I  left  the  room  for  a 
minute.  As  I  stepped  into  the  hall,  I 
almost  ran  into  Baxter,  who  was  stand- 
ing near  the  door,  facing  a  hunting  print 
of  a  somewhat  humorous  character,  hung 
upon  the  wall,  and  smiling  with  an  im- 
mensely pleased  expression. 

"  What  a  ridiculous  scene  !  "  he  re- 
marked. "  Look  at  that  fat  old  squire 
on  that  tall  hunter !  I  '11  wager  dollars 
to  doughnuts  that  he  won't  get  over  the 
first  fence ! " 

It  was  a  very  good  bluff,  but  did  not 
deceive  me.  Under  his  mask  of  uncon- 
cern, Baxter  was  anxious  to  learn  what 
we  thought  of  his  poem,  and  had  sta- 
tioned himself  in  the  hall  that  he  might 
overhear  our  discussion  without  embar- 
rassing us  by  his  presence.  He  had  cov- 


ered up  his  delight  at  our  appreciation 
by  this  simulated  interest  in  the  hunting 
print. 

When  the  night  came  for  the  review 
of  the  Procrustes  there  was  a  large  at- 
tendance of  members,  and  several  visi- 
tors, among  them  a  young  English  cousin 
of  one  of  the  members,  on  his  first  visit 
to  the  United  States  ;  some  of  us  had  met 
him  at  other  clubs,  and  in  society,  and 
had  found  him  a  very  jolly  boy,  with 
a  youthful  exuberance  of  spirits  and  a 
naive  ignorance  of  things  American,  that 
made  his  views  refreshing  and,  at  times, 
amusing. 

The  critical  essays  were  well  consid- 
ered, if  a  trifle  vague.  Baxter  received 
credit  for  poetic  skill  of  a  high  order. 

"  Our  brother  Baxter,"  said  Thomp- 
son, "  should  no  longer  bury  his  talent 
in  a  napkin.  This  gem,  of  course,  be- 
longs to  the  club,  but  the  same  brain  from 
which  issued  this  exquisite  emanation  can 
produce  others  to  inspire  and  charm  an 
appreciative  world." 

"The  author's  view  of  life,"  said  Davis, 
"  as  expressed  in  these  beautiful  lines, 
will  help  us  to  fit  our  shoulders  for  the 
heavy  burden  of  life,  by  bringing  to  our 
realization  those  profound  truths  of  phi- 
losophy which  find  hope  in  despair  and 
pleasure  in  pain.  When  he  shall  see  fit 
to  give  to  the  wider  world,  in  fuller  form, 
the  thoughts  of  which  we  have  been 
vouchsafed  this  foretaste,  let  us  hope 
that  some  little  ray  of  his  fame  may  rest 
upon  the  Bodleian,  from  which  can  never 
be  taken  away  the  proud  privilege  of 
saying  that  he  was  one  of  its  members." 

I  then  pointed  out  the  beauties  of  the 
volume  as  a  piece  of  bookmaking.  I 
knew,  from  conversation  with  the  publi- 
cation committee,  the  style  of  type  and 
rubrication,  and  could  see  the  cover 
through  the  wrapper  of  my  sealed  copy. 
The  dark  green  morocco,  I  said,  in  sum- 
ming up,  typified  the  author's  serious 
view  of  life,  as  a  thing  to  be  endured  as 
patiently  as  might  be.  The  cap-and-bells 


Baxter's  Procrustes. 


829 


border  was  significant  of  the  shams  by 
which  the  optimist  sought  to  delude  him- 
self into  the  view  that  life  was  a  desirable 
thing.  The  intricate  blind-tooling  of  the 
doublure  shadowed  forth  the  blind  fate 
which  left  us  in  ignorance  of  our  future 
and  our  past,  or  of  even  what  the  day  it- 
self might  bring  forth.  The  black-letter 
type,  with  rubricated  initials,  signified  a 
philosophic  pessimism  enlightened  by  the 
conviction  that  in  duty  one  might  find, 
after  all,  an  excuse  for  life  and  a  hope 
for  humanity.  Applying  this  test  to  the 
club,  this  work,  which  might  be  said  to 
represent  all  that  the  Bodleian  stood 
for,  was  in  itself  sufficient  to  justify  the 
club's  existence.  If  the  Bodleian  had 
done  nothing  else,  if  it  should  do  nothing 
more,  it  had  produced  a  masterpiece. 

There  was  a  sealed  copy  of  the  Pro- 
crustes, belonging,  I  believe,  to  one  of 
the  committee,  lying  on  the  table  by 
which  I  stood,  and  I  had  picked  it  up 
and  held  it  in  my  hand  for  a  moment, 
to  emphasize  one  of  my  periods,  but  had 
laid  it  down  immediately.  I  noted,  as 
I  sat  down,  that  young  Hunkin,  our 
English  visitor,  who  sat  on  the  other 
side  of  the  table,  had  picked  up  the  vol- 
ume and  was  examining  it  with  interest. 
When  the  last  review  was  read,  and  the 
generous  applause  had  subsided,  there 
were  cries  for  Baxter. 

"  Baxter  !  Baxter !  Author !  Author !  " 

Baxter  had  been  sitting  over  in  a  cor- 
ner during  the  reading  of  the  reviews, 
and  had  succeeded  remarkably  well,  it 
seemed  to  me,  in  concealing,  under  his 
mask  of  cynical  indifference,  the  exulta- 
tion which  I  was  sure  he  must  feel.  But 
this  outburst  of  enthusiasm  was  too  much 
even  for  Baxter,  and  it  was  clear  that 
he  was  struggling  with  strong  emotion 
when  he  rose  to  speak. 

"  Gentlemen,  and  fellow  members  of 
the  Bodleian,  it  gives  me  unaffected 
pleasure  —  sincere  pleasure  —  some  day 
you  may  know  how  much  pleasure  —  I 
cannot  trust  myself  to  say  it  now  —  to 
see  the  evident  care  with  which  your 


committee  have  read  my  poor  verses, 
and  the  responsive  sympathy  with  which 
my  friends  have  entered  into  my  views 
of  life  and  conduct.  I  thank  you  again, 
and  again,  and  when  I  say  that  I  am  too 
full  for  utterance,  —  I  'm  sure  you  will 
excuse  me  from  saying  any  more." 

Baxter  took  his  seat,  and  the  applause 
had  begun  again  when  it  was  broken  by 
a  sudden  exclamation. 

"  By  Jove !  "  exclaimed  our  English 
visitor,  who  still  sat  behind  the  table, 
"  what  an  extraordinary  book !  " 

Every  one  gathered  around  him. 

"  You  see,"  he  exclaimed,  holding  up 
the  volume,  "you  fellows  said  so  much 
about  the  bally  book  that  I  wanted  to 
see  what  it  was  like  ;  so  I  untied  the  rib- 
bon, and  cut  the  leaves  with  the  paper 
knife  lying  here,  and  found  —  and  found 
that  there  was  n't  a  single  line  in  it, 
don't  you  know !  " 

Blank  consternation  followed  this  an- 
nouncement, which  proved  only  too  true. 
Every  one  knew  instinctively,  without 
further  investigation,  that  the  club  had 
been  badly  sold.  In  the  resulting  con- 
fusion Baxter  escaped,  but  later  was 
waited  upon  by  a  committee,  to  whom 
he  made  the  rather  lame  excuse  that  he 
had  always  regarded  uncut  and  sealed 
books  as  tommy-rot,  and  that  he  had 
merely  been  curious  to  see  how  far  the 
thing  could  go  ;  and  that  the  result  had 
justified  his  belief  that  a  book  with  no- 
thing in  it  was  just  as  useful  to  a  book- 
collector  as  one  embodying  a  work  of 
genius.  He  offered  to  pay  all  the  bills 
for  the  sham  Procrustes,  or  to  replace 
the  blank  copies  with  the  real  thing,  as 
we  might  choose.  Of  course,  after  such 
an  insult,  the  club  did  not  care  for  the 
poem.  He  was  permitted  to  pay  the  ex- 
pense, however,  and  it  was  more  than 
hinted  to  him  that  his  resignation  from 
the  club  would  be  favorably  acted  upon. 
He  never  sent  it  in,  and,  as  he  went  to 
Europe  shortly  afterwards,  the  affair  had 
time  to  blow  over. 

In  our  first  disgust  at  Baxter's  dupli- 


830 


The   Quiet  Man. 


city,  most  of  us  cut  our  copies  of  the  Pro- 
crustes, some  of  us  mailed  them  to  Bax- 
ter with  cutting  notes,  and  others  threw 
them  into  the  fire.  A  few  wiser  spirits 
held  on  to  theirs,  and  this  fact  leaking 
out,  it  began  to  dawn  upon  the  minds  of 
the  real  collectors  among  us  that  the 
volume  was  something  unique  in  the  way 
of  a  publication. 

"Baxter,"  said  our  president  one 
evening  to  a  select  few  of  us  who  sat 
around  the  fireplace,  "  was  wiser  than 
we  knew,  or  than  he  perhaps  appreciated. 
His  Procrustes,  from  the  collector's  point 
of  view,  is  entirely  logical,  and  might  be 
considered  as  the  acme  of  bookmaking. 
To  the  true  collector,  a  book  is  a  work 
of  art,  of  which  the  contents  are  no  more 
important  than  the  words  of  an  opera. 


Fine  binding  is  a  desideratum,  and,  for 
its  cost,  that  of  the  Procrustes  could  not 
be  improved  upon.  The  paper  is  above 
criticism.  The  true  collector  loves  wide 
margins,  and  the  Procrustes,  being  all 
margin,  merely  touches  the  vanishing 
point  of  the  perspective.  The  smaller  the 
edition,  the  greater  the  collector's  eager- 
ness to  acquire  a  copy.  There  are  but  six 
uncut  copies  left,  I  am  told,  of  the  Pro- 
crustes, and  three  sealed  copies,  of  one 
of  which  I  am  the  fortunate  possessor." 
After  this  deliverance,  it  is  not  sur- 
prising that,  at  our  next  auction,  a  sealed 
copy  of  Baxter's  Procrustes  was  knocked 
down,  after  spirited  bidding,  for  two 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  the  highest 
price  ever  brought  by  a  single  volume 
published  by  the  club. 

Charles  W.  Chesnutt. 


THE  QUIET  MAN. 


AT  college  it  was  always  easy  to 
create  a  prepossession  in  favor  of  a 
man  by  recommending  him  as  a  "nice, 
quiet  sort  of  fellow."  In  the  case  of 
the  athlete  who  had  demonstrated  his 
vitality  and  manly  qualities,  the  rea- 
son for  this  prepossession  was  clear; 
the  declaration  of  his  friends  was  an 
assurance  that  his  head  had  not  been 
turned  by  his  achievements,  and  that 
he  was  modest  and  unassertive.  But 
it  always  seemed  to  me  singular  that 
so  negative  a  statement  should  so  gen- 
erally have  guaranteed  the  worth  of 
one  of  whom  little  else  was  known. 
Even  in  the  larger  world  outside  of 
college,  the  same  guarantee  holds  good ; 
let  a  stranger  in  a  city  have  but  one 
friend  who  makes  it  known  that  he  is 
a  "nice,  quiet  sort  of  fellow,"  and  he 
will  not  lack  for  a  welcome. 

Yet  many  of  the  primary  and  obvi- 
ous reasons  for  quietness  in  a  man  are 
not  prepossessing.  It  may  be  that  he 


is  a  weakling;  bullied  because  of  his 
lack  of  strength  in  the  Spartan  age  of 
boyhood,  he  has  had  fixed  upon  him 
the  habit  of  timidity  and  self-efface- 
ment. Or  he  may  be  stupid,  yet  with 
just  enough  intelligence  to  perceive  his 
dullness  and  so  to  be  dumb.  Or  he 
may  by  nature  be  one  of  those  passion- 
less, unenthusiastic,  indifferent  crea- 
tures who  find  sufficient  occupation  in 
buttoning  on  their  clothes  in  the  morn- 
ing and  unbuttoning  them  at  night, 
eating  their  three  meals,  and  going 
through  the  daily  routine  work  or  rou- 
tine idleness  to  which  necessity  or  cir- 
cumstance has  accustomed  them.  The 
classification  is  incomplete;  there  are 
quiet  men  who  are  not  weaklings,  who 
are  not  stupid,  who  are  enthusiastic, 
men  of  firm  will  and  steadfast  purpose. 
But  if  we  pass  over  these  for  the  pre- 
sent, it  will  appear  that  the  self-con- 
trol practiced  by  quiet  persons  had 
oftentimes  better  give  place  to  self- 


The  Quiet  Man. 


831 


abandon,  and  that  many  a  man  is  re- 
spected for  his  restraint  when  he  should 
be  pitied  for  his  diffidence.  There  is, 
for  instance,  the  case  of  one  whose 
quiet  ways  have  resulted  from  a  sense 
of  physical  inferiority  in  boyhood. 

No  matter  what  victories  may  be 
attained  in  the  development  of  charac- 
ter, the  point  of  view  and  the  manner 
that  were  fixed  in  the  early  formative 
years  are  never  quite  discarded.  The 
boy  who  has  less  strength  than  his  fel- 
lows, less  athletic  skill,  and  yet  ad- 
mires and  longs  for  these  possessions, 
invites  only  too  often  demonstrations 
upon  himself  of  the  vigor  and  prowess 
that  he  covets.  A  boy  likes  above  all 
things  to  show  his  power  over  another 
boy;  and  the  most  instant  method  is 
by  putting  him  down  and  sitting  on 
him,  or  by  seizing  his  wrist  and  twist- 
ing it  till  he  howls,  or  by  gripping  the 
back  of  his  neck  and  forcing  him  to 
march  whither  the  tyrant  wills.  Once 
the  unlucky  weakling  is  discovered  and 
his  susceptibility  to  teasing  exposed, 
he  becomes  the  plaything  of  his  stronger 
mates.  The  amusement  is  the  greater 
if  he  resents  it  with  spirit,  the  keener 
if  he  has  a  sensitiveness  which  is  hurt 
by  the  abuse,  the  more  frequently  in- 
vited if  he  has  the  fatal  admiration 
for  deeds  of  strength,  and  haunts,  in 
spite  of  its  terrors,  the  society  of  those 
who  can  perform  them.  His  spirit  is 
not  crushed,  but  it  learns  discretion; 
his  sensitiveness  grows  into  a  shy  and 
morbid  pride ;  he  likes  to  look  on  at 
better  men,  and  to  know  them,  but  he 
finds  it  wise  to  be  inconspicuous,  inas- 
much as  to  draw  attention  to  himself 
usually  means  to  suffer  from  a  display 
of  the  very  abilities  which  he  admires. 

And  out  of  this  what  results?  He 
acquires  the  habit  of  looking  on  and 
being  socially  inconspicuous.  He  may 
have  energies  that  in  the  end  win  for 
him  eminence,  but  he  will  probably  be 
to  the  end  a  shy  and  quiet  man.  It 
is  not  necessary  that  a  boy  should  be 
a  weakling  to  arrive  at  this  develop- 


ment ;  some  trifling  peculiarity,  a  cu- 
rious quality  of  voice,  or  a  nervous 
and  easily  mimicked  laugh,  or  an  alien 
accent  may  suffice  to  create  in  him  an 
undue  tendency  to  hold  his  tongue.  I 
know  one  man  who  attributes  his 
"  cursed  quietness  "  to  an  ailment  of 
the  throat  that  he  had  when  a  boy,  and 
that  made  his  speech  husky  and  often 
liable  to  break  down.  Another  thinks 
he  is  quiet  because  he  never  could  sing ; 
nearly  always,  in  any  gathering  in 
which  he  found  himself,  there  was 
singing,  and  he,  utterly  without  the 
musical  sense,  sat  and  contributed  no- 
thing. This  inability  in  expression 
extended  even  to  his  speech ;  he  could 
not  manage  his  voice  to  tell  a  story 
effectively,  and  though  no  one  has  a 
keener  appreciation  of  the  humorous  or 
dramatic,  no  one  is  less  able  than  he 
to  realize  it  in  his  talk. 

Then  there  are  the  humble-minded 
people  who  fancy  themselves  too  dull  or 
too  uninformed  to  be  interesting,  and 
who  cut  themselves  off  from  sharing 
freely  with  others  their  thoughts  and 
opinions.  Often  they  do  themselves 
scant  justice  in  their  modesty,  and  win 
all  the  more  on  that  account  the  regard 
of  the  few  who  come  near  enough  to 
know  them.  But  they  are  always  un- 
derstood of  but  few,  and  they  are  bot- 
tled-up  people,  a  nervous,  self -conscious, 
timorous  folk,  of  pleasant  dispositions 
and  much  sentiment,  who  seldom  cut 
any  large  figure  in  the  world. 

The  others,  who  really  are  dull  and 
without  being  oppressed  by  the  know- 
ledge preserve  a  befitting  retirement, 
constitute  perhaps  a  majority  of  the 
quiet  men.  To  be  dull  is  certainly 
not  to  be  disliked  ;  and  yet  I  question 
if  any  one  of  this  numerous,  agreeable, 
and  necessary  company  quite  fills  out 
the  original  mental  picture  summoned 
by  the  recommendation,  —  "a  nice, 
quiet  sort  of  fellow."  For  the  phrase 
suggests  a  man  who  has  reserves  of 
thought  or  knowledge  or  moral  force. 
Indeed,  we  often  follow  up  the  desig' 


832 


The  Quiet  Man. 


nation,  as  thus:  "A nice,  quiet  sort  of 
fellow,  with  a  lot  to  him."  On  closer 
acquaintance,  we  are  likely  to  find  that 
his  quietness  proceeds  from  lack  of 
strong  convictions  rather  than  from 
moral  force,  or  from  mere  empty- 
headedness  rather  than  from  thoughts 
too  deep  to  share.  We  come  to  think 
him  a  man  with  a  receptive  habit  but 
little  assimilative  power.  He  listens 
but  does  not  learn.  It  seems  to  be  a 
sort  of  mental  and  moral  dyspepsia 
from  which  he  suffers. 

Let  us  suppose,  however,  that  it  is 
neither  lack  of  ideas  nor  ill  digestion 
of  ideas  which  renders  him  a  quiet 
man,  but  that  he  is  indeed  a  person 
"with  a  lot  to  him."  Then,  usually, 
he  is  the  man  of  one  idea.  It  is  rare 
that  he  has  versatility.  He  is  the 
small  inventor  or  the  mechanician, 
whose  mind  on  being  diverted  from 
the  study  of  wheels  and  cogs  can  in 
no  other  sense  be  diverted;  it  is  cold 
alike  to  Shakespeare  and  to  baseball. 
He  is  the  young  poet  of  good  impulses 
and  a  little  talent,  toying  with  his 
lyric  and  indifferent  to  the  science  of 
the  stars,  of  the  green  and  growing 
things  about  him,  and  to  the  business 
and  endeavors  of  his  active  fellow 
men.  He  is  the  lawyer  who  makes  a 
career  out  of  ingenuity  in  splitting 
hairs ;  he  is  the  business  man  who  car- 
ries his  ledgers  home  with  him  at 
night;  he  is  any  man  who,  by  his  de- 
votion to  an  abstract  principle  or  prob- 
lem, or  to  a  material  fact,  neglects  his 
relations  with  nature  and  with  men. 
If  the  principle  is  important  and  ap- 
peals to  a  missionary  and  reforming 
conscience,  and  if  the  man  has  power, 
he  is  not  admitted  to  fellowship  among 
the  quiet,  but  according  to  one's  point 
of  view  is  hailed  as  a  hero  or  denounced 
as  a  crank,  a  nuisance,  or  a  fool. 

Of  the  many  small  people  involved 
in  their  struggle  with  one  idea,  and 
abandoned  to  their  solitary  interest, 
Emerson  has  supplied  a  phrase  that 
may  be  appropriated  for  definition. 


They  are  Mere  Thinkers,  as  contrasted 
with  Man  Thinking.  In  them  the  hu- 
man element  is  deficient.  They  may 
have  an  absorbed  interest  in  their  one 
pursuit,  perhaps  even  a  kind  of  dry 
and  laudable  enthusiasm ;  in  their  nar- 
row range  their  souls  may  have  conflicts 
with  the  devil  and  issue  worthily;  but 
they  are  not  the  men  of  rich  and  gen- 
erous nature,  whose  ideas  take  form 
in  action,  and  who  in  action  strike  out 
fresh  ideas.  Man  Thinking  is  man 
alert,  versatile,  living,  — which  is  to 
say,  finding  constantly  new  interest  in 
the  things  and  beings  about  him,  and 
developing  himself  more  and  more  by 
the  contact.  From  the  ranks  of  Man 
Thinking  emerge  most  of  the  strong 
and  virile,  the  men  of  burly  laughter, 
observing  and  remembering  eye,  and 
careless,  wide  -  ranging  talk ;  the  un- 
hoarded,  chance  -  flung  anecdote,  the 
unconsciously  graphic  phrase,  the  crisp 
expression  of  a  truth  shrewdly  seen 
drop  from  the  lips  of  Man  Thinking, 
not  from  those  of  Mere  Thinker.  One 
Mere  Thinker  in  a  million  may  some 
time  evolve  by  mathematical  and  intel- 
lectual processes  a  machine  of  more 
than  mathematical,  even  of  human 
value ;  yet  even  then  it  is  Man  Think- 
ing who  will  perfect  it,  and  manufacture 
it,  and  advertise  it,  and  sell  it,  and 
secure  to  the  world  at  large  —  and 
to  Man  Thinking  in  particular  —  its 
benefits.  So  Man  Thinking  is  never 
quiet;  he  is  bustling,  urging,  cajoling, 
threatening,  flinging  his  arms  about,  or 
battering  with  heavy,  hostile  fists ;  and 
in  his  leisure  moments  pouring  out 
prodigally,  for  whoever  may  pass,  his 
amazed  or  delighted  or  pained  impres- 
sions, —  just  like  an  earnest,  excited 
child. 

And  meanwhile  the  quiet  man,  — 
Mere  Thinker.  Hear  Emerson:  "Meek 
young  men  grow  up  in  libraries,  be- 
lieving it  their  duty  to  accept  the  views 
which  Cicero,  which  Locke,  which  Ba- 
con have  given,  forgetful  that  Cicero, 
Locke,  and  Bacon  were  only  young  men 


The   Quiet  Man. 


833 


in  libraries  when  they  wrote  these  books. 
Hence,  instead  of  Man  Thinking,  we 
have  the  bookworm.  Hence,  the  book- 
learned  class,  who  value  books  as  such. 
.  .  .  Hence,  the  restorers  of  readings, 
the  emendators,  the  bibliomaniacs  of 
all  degrees." 

The  narrowness  and  inertia  of  the 
quiet  man  are  frequently  moral  as  well 
as  mental.  He  is  firm  on  the  point  of 
certain  things  which  he  will  not  do, 
but  his  virtue  is  too  likely  to  be  of 
this  negative  quality;  and  while  his 
noisy  and  active  brother  is  blundering 
about,  learning  what  life  is,  perhaps 
heaping  up  sins  and  offenses,  yet  also 
building  himself  in  his  heedless,  casual 
way  monuments  of  good,  Mere  Thinker, 
with  eyes  upon  the  ground,  treads  the 
barren  path  of  the  dull  precisian.  Since 
he  is  quiet,  he  receives  credit  for  vir- 
tues if  he  does  not  exhibit  boldly  their 
antithetic  vices.  Loyalty  and  stead- 
fastness and  a  good  domestic  nature 
are  the  excellent  qualities  most  often 
attributed  to  him.  Yet  as  to  the  first 
of  these,  can  any  one  doubt  the  truth 
of  Stevenson's  words:  "A  man  may 
have  sat  in  a  room  for  hours  and  not 
opened  his  teeth,  and  yet  come  out  of 
that  room  a  disloyal  friend  or  a  vile 
calumniator  "  ?  The  quiet  friend  may 
be  as  faithful  as  the  vociferous,  but 
there  should  be  no  presumption  in  his 
favor,  for  his  very  habit  of  life  is  in- 
sidious, and  tends  to  breed  the  germs 
of  doubt  if  not  disloyalty.  The  look- 
er-on is  usually  the  man  dissatisfied 
with  idleness  and  critical  of  the  activ- 
ity of  others.  Because  it  might  draw 
upon  him  comparison  to  his  disadvan- 
tage, he  does  not  utter  freely  his  carp- 
ing criticism  of  the  active;  but  he 
bears  in  mind  h.ow  much  better  he 
himself  would  do  this  or  that  if  it 
were  not  for  some  forbidding  circum- 
stance. And  this  habit  of  comparing 
himself  with  others,  which  is  one  of 
the  common  recreations  of  the  quiet 
man,  sometimes,  no  doubt,  begets  the 
envy  which  makes  it  easy  to  betray. 

VOL.  xcin.  —  NO.  560.  53 


Even  his  unquestioned  domesticity 
may  not  be  so  comprehensive  a  virtue. 
To  support  some  one  besides  himself  in 
decency  and  honor  is  not  all  that  a 
man  should  strive  to  do,  though  it  is 
much.  He  should  also  feel  the  obli- 
gation to  bring  gayety  into  the  lives  of 
those  whom  he  loves.  It  is  possible 
for  some  men  by  sheer  earning  power 
to  provide  their  families  with  oppor- 
tunities for  travel  and  amusement  and 
adventure.  But  the  earning  pov/er  of 
the  majority  is  limited  in  these  mat- 
ters ;  and  all  the  more  is  it  necessary 
then  for  the  man  to  bring  variety  and 
a  cheerful  activity  and  liveliness  into 
his  house.  The  fact  that  the  routine 
of  the  day  has  been  dull  does  not  ex- 
cuse him  for  being  glum  and  silent  at 
his  evening  meal.  And  too  much  of 
the  quietness  in  the  world  is  but  the 
habit  of  a  listless  and  brooding  selfish- 
ness. 

It  would  be  wanton  to  make  these  ex- 
posures and  not  offer  a  remedy.  Here 
is  a  suggestion  for  the  quiet  man: 
"Learn  to  make  a  noise." 

It  is  not  enough  that  he  should  cele- 
brate the  Fourth  of  July  each  year  in 
the  customary  manner,  —  though  he 
may  find  even  that  barbarous  observ- 
ance beneficial.  Taking  an  active  part 
in  the  romps  and  play  of  children  is  a 
resource  that  if  open  to  him  he  should 
embrace.  Probably  he  has  so  schooled 
himself  to  inexpressiveness  that  he  can- 
not at  once  emerge  out  of  the  second- 
ary place  into  which  he  is  relegated  at 
social  gatherings;  but  three  or  four 
times  a  year  he  should,  at  whatever 
cost  of  courage,  insist  upon  being  heard. 
The  advice  to  make  a  noise  need  not 
be  taken  literally,  —  though  such  in- 
terpretation would  lead  few  quiet  men 
into  serious  error.  It  may  serve  the 
purpose  if  the  man  develops  a  strong 
outdoor  enthusiasm,  or  a  keen  spirit  of 
rivalry  in  games,  for  either  of  these 
will  introduce  into  his  existence  that 
element  of  life  that  he  most  needs.  If 
he  can  acquire  some  undignified  accom- 


834 


The   Quiet  Man. 


plishment,  —  if  he  can  learn  to  sing  a 
"coon  song, "  or  to  play  upon  the  mouth 
organ,  or  to  dance  a  clog,  or  to  recite 
"Casey  at  the  Bat,"  — he  will  have 
made  an  advance  in  the  art  of  living 
such  as  none  but  a  constitutionally  shy 
and  quiet  person  can  understand.  Per- 
haps, with  the  best  will  in  the  world, 
he  can  attain  to  none  of  these  things ; 
he  may  then  find  a  means  of  grace  in 
the  occasional  revels  and  merry-makings 
that  are  not  denied  even  the  most  quiet. 
Failing  all  else,  and  being  quite  out  of 
conceit  with  himself,  let  him  go  tramp- 
ing in  search  of  adventure,  —  in  the 
city  by-streets  at  night,  or  through  the 
countryside.  But  there,  again,  does  the 
quiet  man  become  aware  of  his  misfor- 
tune ;  adventure  evades  him  ;  and  while 
his  assertive,  unappreciative  brother,  on 
going  down  town  in  the  morning,  may 
have  a  romantic  encounter  with  a  run- 
away automobile  occupied  by  a  beauti- 
ful lady,  or  with  a  tiger  strayed  from 
a  circus,  he  may  roam  the  world  and 
meet  with  no  runaway  automobile,  no 
tiger,  and,  alas  and  alack!  no  beauti- 
ful lady.  Even  so,  let  him  persevere ; 
preparing  himself  for  adventure,  he 
may  almost  attain  the  habit  of  mind 
of  the  adventurous. 

But  never,  I  fear,  will  he  fully  at- 
tain it.  There  will  always  be  the  hor- 
rid, harassing  doubt  —  never  shared  by 
the  truly  adventurous  —  as  to  whether 
he  would,  indeed,  bear  himself  heroic- 
ally. To  illustrate  the  point,  I  must 
make  a  confession ;  I  am  a  quiet  man. 
Although  I  have  often  prepared  myself 
in  mind,  I  have  not  yet  set  out  upon 
my  quest  of  adventure.  But  no  longer 
ago  than  yesterday,  one  of  my  direct, 
unquestioning  friends  plunged  into  it; 
and  ever  since  I  have  been  miserably 
torn  with  inquiry  as  to  whether  in  his 
place  I  should  have  been  so  prompt. 
Kid  ing  on  his  bicycle  along  a  village 
street,  he  was  aware  that  a  wagon  over- 
took and  passed  him  at  unusual  speed, 
but  he  thought  nothing  of  this.  He  had 
dismounted,  and  was  entering  a  gate- 


way when  he  heard  a  great  hubbub  be- 
hind him ;  and  looking  round  he  saw 
men  running,  with  cries  of  "  Stop  him ! 
Stop  him !  "  and  in  front  of  them  a  man 
speeding  along  on  a  bicycle.  My  friend 
stepped  out  into  the  street  and  opposed 
a  threatening  front;  still  the  fleeing 
rider  came  on.  And  then,  just  as  he 
was  about  to  whiz  by,  my  friend  hurled 
his  bicycle  into  the  rider's  path;  the 
two  machines  went  down  with  a  crash, 
and  the  hero  flung  himself  valiantly  upon 
the  groaning  wretch,  who  lay  crumpled 
amid  the  wreckage.  "I  've  got  him !  " 
cried  the  hero  to  the  breathless,  gather- 
ing throng.  "  Got  him !  "  they  an- 
swered, with  here  and  there  a  sneering 
accent  of  profanity.  "We  yelled  at 
you  to  stop  the  fellow  in  the  wagon." 
"Yes,  the  fellow  I  was  chasing, "  added 
the  unfortunate  captive.  And,  indeed, 
it  appeared  that  the  driver  was  the 
miscreant,  having  knocked  down  a  wo- 
man and  made  off;  and  the  bicyclist 
had  merely  been  one  of  a  humane  and 
inquisitive  mob. 

Now,  my  agitating  question  has 
been,  Should  I,  too,  thus  boldly,  per- 
emptorily, and  efficiently  have  hurled 
my  bicycle?  For  the  life  of  me  I 
cannot  tell.  So  many  reasons  why  I 
might  have  done  so  occur  to  me,  and 
then  again  so  many  considerations 
which  might  have  stayed  my  hand.  A 
fleeing  criminal  —  one's  public  duty 

—  and  yet  on  such  uncertain  grounds 

—  to  wreck  him  so  utterly,  to  damage 
him  perhaps  so  irreparably !      All  I  am 
sure  of  is  that  I  should  have  opposed 
a  threatening  front. 

And  this,  I  imagine,  is  the  chief 
affliction,  the  shame  of  many  a  quiet 
man,  —  the  dread  of  finding  in  some 
important  moment  that  the  reflective 
habit  has  produced  paralysis.  Even  if 
he  breaks  through  the  net  of  qualifying 
considerations  and  acts  efficiently,  he 
has  the  humiliated  feeling  that  he  has 
made  a  great  mental  to-do  over  a  mat- 
ter that  some  one  else  would  have  gone 
about  without  debate.  Moreover,  he 


The   Quiet  Man, 


835 


shrinks  from  using  his  faculties  in  un- 
conventional ways ;  again  I  must  serve 
as  corpus  vile  for  purposes  of  illustra- 
tion. A  man  who  had  been  my  guest 
overnight  decided  the  next  morning, 
which  happened  to  be  Sunday,  that  he 
desired  a  cab.  From  the  back  win- 
dow of  my  lodgings,  which  are  on  the 
fourth  floor  of  the  house,  he  descried 
a  livery  stable,  and  opening  the  win- 
dow he  shouted  lustily  in  the  Sabbath 
stillness  the  name  of  the  proprietor. 
Now,  although  we  have  in  our  rear  a 
livery  stable,  our  neighborhood  is  prim 
and  even  fastidious ;  the  houses  in  our 
block  are  occupied  by  families  with 
highly  conventional  notions  of  propri- 
ety. In  some  dismay  I  pulled  my 
guest's  coat  tails,  whispering  that  I 
would  send  out  for  a  cab;  withdraw- 
ing his  head  for  a  moment,  he  replied, 
"  This  is  quicker, "  and  then  again 
thrusting  it  forth,  continued  to  bawl. 
At  last  a  stable  boy  answered  him ;  he 
gave  his  order,  specifying  the  number 
of  the  house  with  painful  distinctness ; 
after  which  he  turned  to  me  and  com- 
plimented me  on  the  convenience  of 
my  situation  and  the  needlessness  of 
a  jingling  telephone.  In  my  scheme 
of  life,  a  cab  is  the  last  of  all  extrava- 
gances; yet  even  if  it  were  not,  or  if 
I  had  found  myself  in  the  direst  need 
of  one,  I  am  sure  it  would  never  have 
occurred  to  me  to  employ  this  simple, 
primitive  method  of  securing  it.  Quiet- 
ness tends  to  unfit  one  for  the  use  of 
rudimentary  instruments. 

It  is  time,  after  these  frank  confes- 
sions, to  rehearse  some  merits  of  the 
quiet  man,  and  particularly  to  dwell 
upon  the  admirable  qualities  of  some 
quiet  men.  It  is  hardly  necessary  to 
summon  up  here  the  kindly  and  per- 
haps not  more  than  three-quarters  fal- 
lacious banality  about  the  constant  need 
of  good  listeners.  We  must  persuade 
ourselves  of  some  less  negative  excuse 
for  our  existence.  I  dismiss  from  con- 
sideration also  the  splendid  quiet  hero 
of  romance,  the  Imperturbable ;  when- 


ever I  have  discovered  an  air  of  the 
imperturbable  in  a  man,  I  have  also 
discovered  an  offensive  self-compla- 
cency, and  I  am  unable  to  do  justice 
to  this  particular  flower  of  the  species. 

Perhaps  the  most  worthy  office  that 
the  quiet  man  performs  is  that  of  the 
comforter,  or  at  least  the  sympathetic 
confidant  of  grief.  He  who  is  stricken 
in  spirit,  and  must  utter  his  sorrow, 
turns  less  readily  to  the  exuberant  than 
to  the  silent  friend,  whose  speech  is 
apter  with  eyes  than  with  lips.  It 
matters  not  very  much  if  such  a  man 
has  the  weaknesses  that  must  so  often 
be  imputed;  let  him  be  but  a  true 
friend  and  a  quiet  one,  and  the  sore  in 
heart  will  take  some  comfort  in  him. 
If  he  has  not  the  weaknesses,  but  is 
stanch  and  strong,  a  walk  with  him  in 
the  open  air,  whether  in  the  biting  winds 
of  March  or  over  the  sunlit  fields  of 
May,  or  a  talk  with  him  before  the  win- 
ter fire,  may  put  vigor,  as  well  as  the 
first  sense  of  peace,  into  the  soul. 

As  such  a  friend  is  a  resource  in 
time  of  sadness,  so,  on  happier  occa- 
sions, he  need  never  be  a  kill-joy. 
No  merriment  was  ever  stifled  because 
one  of  those  bidden  to  share  it  could 
contribute  nothing  but  appreciation. 
That  quality  the  quiet  man  must  have. 
It  is  the  noisy  or  the  active  one  who, 
even  while  giving  life  to  happy  gather- 
ings, is  most  dangerous.  Some  blurt- 
ed truth,  some  reckless  jest,  some  too 
searching  inquiry,  or  too  downright, 
blunt  debate,  may  strike  dead  the  gay 
laughter,  and  transform  cheerful,  open- 
hearted  contentment  into  a  suffering 
desire  to  escape.  Quiet  men  may 
rarely  be  charged  with  breaches  of 
tact,  careless  and  inconsiderate  speech, 
the  little  slights  that  gall  the  sensitive, 
the  little  failures  to  be  diplomatic 
where  diplomacy  were  honest  as  well 
as  kind.  Quiet  men  are  not  the  busy- 
bodies  ;  quiet  men  were  not,  I  am  con- 
vinced, the  comforters  of  Job. 

And  the  best  of  them  are  deserving 
of  nearly  the  best  that  we  can  say. 


836 


Indianapolis  :  a   City  of  Homes. 


Not  quite  the  best;  one  can  hardly  be- 
lieve that  the  great  Elizabethans,  for  in- 
stance, were  quiet  men.  But  out  of  our 
own  acquaintance  let  us  pick  the  few 
who,  without  an  impressive  show  of  en- 
ergy and  activity,  perform  in  the  most 
truly  workmanlike  way  work  that  they 
seem  willing  to  let  pass  unnoticed.  They 
do  not  spend  a  great  portion  of  their 
lives  in  efforts  to  attract  attention  to 
their  achievements,  to  their  skill;  they 
do  not  despise  popular  appreciation,  but 
they  find  the  courting  of  it  unimpor- 
tant and  unworthy ;  therefore  they  move 
upon  the  performance  of  their  tasks, 
unfretful  if  they  are  neglected,  keep- 


ing to  themselves  the  trials  and  per- 
plexities that  they  encounter,  patiently 
overcoming  and  accomplishing.  They 
may  not  win  so  many  or  so  varied  ex- 
periences and  gifts  from  life  as  the 
reckless  and  ranging  adventurer ;  theirs 
is  not  often  the  genius  that  builds  the 
greatest  and  most  enduring  monuments ; 
yet  nearly  all  that  has  the  charm  of  fine 
and  perfect  workmanship,  nearly  all  that 
is  subtly  and  beautifully  conceived  and 
exquisitely  wrought,  in  manufactures, 
in  machinery,  in  painting  and  music  and 
literature,  bears  testimony  to  the  serene 
vision,  the  unremitting  toil  of  the  quiet 
man. 

Arthur  Stanwood  Pier. 


INDIANAPOLIS:   A  CITY  OF   HOMES. 


THE  Hoosier  is  not  so  deeply  wounded 
by  the  assumption  in  Eastern  quarters 
that  he  is  a  wild  man  of  the  woods,  as 
by  the  amiable  condescension  of  acquain- 
tances at  the  seaboard,  who  tell  him,  when 
he  mildly  remonstrates,  that  his  abnormal 
sensitiveness  is  provincial.  This  is,  in- 
deed, the  hardest  lot,  to  be  called  a  mud- 
sill and  then  rebuked  for  talking  back ! 
There  are,  however,  several  special  insults 
to  which  the  citizen  of  Indianapolis  is  sub- 
jected, and  these  he  resents  with  all  the 
strength  of  his  being.  First  among  them 
is  the  proneness  of  many  to  confuse 
Indianapolis  and  Minneapolis.  To  the 
citizen  of  the  Hoosier  capital  Minneapo- 
lis seems  a  remote  place,  that  can  be 
reached  only  by  passing  through  Chicago. 
Still  another  source  of  intense  annoyance 
is  the  persistent  fallacy  that  Indianapolis 
is  situated  on  the  Wabash  River.  There 
seems  to  be  something  funny  about  the 
name  of  this  pleasant  stream,  which  a 
large  percentage  of  the  people  of  Indian- 
apolis have  never  seen,  unless  from  the  car 
window.  East  of  Pittsburg  the  wanderer 
from  Hoosier  land  expects  to  be  asked 


how  things  are  on  the  Way-bosh,  —  a 
pronunciation  which,  by  the  way,  is  never 
heard  at  home.  Still  another  grievance 
that  has  embittered  the  lives  of  Indian- 
apolitans  is  the  annoying  mispronuncia- 
tion of  the  name  of  the  town  by  benighted 
outsiders.  Rural  Hoosiers,  in  fact,  offend 
the  ears  of  their  city  cousins  with  Indi- 
anopolis  ;  but  it  is  left  usually  for  the 
Yankee  visitor  to  say  Injunapolis,  with  a 
stress  on  Injun  which  points  rather  un- 
necessarily to  the  day  of  the  war-whoop 
and  scalp  dance. 

Indianapolis  —  like  Jerusalem,  "  a  city 
at  unity  with  itself,  "  where  the  tribes  as- 
semble, and  where  the  seat  of  judgment 
is  established  —  is  in  every  sense  the  capi- 
tal of  all  the  Hoosiers.  With  the  excep- 
tion of  Boston  and  Providence,  it  is  the 
largest  state  capital  in  the  country ;  and 
no  other  American  city  without  water 
communication  is  as  large.  It  is  dis- 
tinguished primarily  by  the  essentially 
American  character  of  its  people.  The 
total  foreign-born  population  of  Indian- 
apolis at  the  last  census  was  only  17,000  ; 
whereas  Hartford,  which  is  only  half  the 


Indianapolis :  a   City  of  Homes. 


837 


size  of  Indianapolis,  returned  23,000, 
Rochester,  with  7000  fewer  people,  re- 
turned 40,000 ;  and  Worcester,  in  a 
total  of  118,000,  reported  37,000  as 
foreign-born.  A  considerable  body  of 
Germans  and  German-Americans  have 
contributed  much  to  the  making  of  the 
city ;  but  the  town  has  been  passed  over 
by  the  Swedes,  Poles,  and  Bohemians  that 
are  to  be  reckoned  with  in  many  Amer- 
ican cities.  There  are,  however,  5000 
negro  voters  in  the  city.  Indianapolis 
is  marked  again  by  the  stability  of  its 
population.  A  large  percentage  of  the 
householders  own  their  homes ;  and  a 
substantial  body  of  labor  is  thus  assured 
to  the  community. 

Indiana  was  admitted  as  a  state  in 
1816,  and  the  General  Assembly,  sitting 
at  Corydon  in  1821,  designated  Indian- 
apolis, then  a  settlement  of  straggling 
cabins,  as  the  state  capital.  The  name 
of  the  new  town  was  not  adopted  without 
a  struggle,  Tecumseh,  Suwarro,  and  Con- 
cord being  proposed  and  supported,  while 
the  name  finally  chosen  was  opposed  for 
reasons  not  wholly  academic.  It  is  of 
record  that  the  first  mention  of  the  name 
Indianapolis  in  the  legislature  caused 
great  merriment.  The  town  was  laid  out 
in  broad  streets,  which  were  quickly 
adorned  with  shade  trees  that  are  an 
abiding  testimony  to  the  foresight  of  the 
founders.  Alexander  Ralston,  one  of 
the  engineers  employed  in  the  first  sur- 
vey, had  served  in  a  similar  capacity  at 
Washington,  and  the  diagonal  avenues, 
the  generous  breadth  of  the  streets,  and 
the  circular  plaza  at  the  monument  are 
suggestive  of  the  national  capital.  The 
urban  landscape  lacks  variety :  the  town 
is  perfectly  flat,  and  in  old  times  the  mud 
was  intolerable,  but  the  trees  are  a  con- 
tinuing glory. 

Central  Indiana  was  not,  in  1820,  when 
the  first  cabin  was  built,  a  region  of  un- 
alloyed delight.  The  land  was  rich,  but 
it  was  covered  with  heavy  woods,  and 
much  of  it  was  under  water.  Indians 
still  roamed  the  forests,  and  the  builder 


of  the  first  cabin  was  killed  by  them. 
There  were  no  roads,  and  White  River, 
on  whose  eastern  shore  the  town  was 
built,  was  navigable  only  by  the  smallest 
craft.  Mrs.  Beecher,  in  From  Dawn  to 
Daylight,  described  the  region  as  it  ap- 
peared in  the  forties  :  "  It  is  a  level  stretch 
of  land  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  look- 
ing as  if  one  good,  thorough  rain  would 
transform  it  into  an  impassable  morass. 
How  the  inhabitants  contrive  to  get  about 
in  rainy  weather,  I  can't  imagine,  unless 
they  use  stilts.  The  city  itself  has  been 
redeemed  from  this  slough,  and  presents 
quite  a  thriving  appearance,  being  very 
prettily  laid  out,  with  a  number  of  fine 
buildings."  Dr.  Eggleston,  writing  in 
his  novel  Roxy  of  the  same  period,  lays 
stress  on  the  saffron  hue  of  the  commu- 
nity, the  yellow  mud  seeming  to  cover 
all  things  animate  and  inanimate. 

But  the  founders  possessed  faith,  cour- 
age, and  hardihood.  Too  great  stress  can. 
not  be  laid  on  their  work.  They  sacri- 
ficed personal  ambition  for  the  good  of 
the  community.  Their  patriotism  even 
was  touched  with  the  zeal  of  their  reli- 
gion. For  many  years  before  the  civil 
war  a  parade  of  the  Sunday-school  chil- 
dren of  the  city  was  the  chief  feature  of 
every  Fourth  of  July  celebration.  The 
founders  appreciated  their  opportunity, 
and  labored  from  the  first  in  the  interest 
of  morality  and  enlightenment.  The 
young  capital  was  a  converging  point  for  a 
slender  stream  of  population  that  bore  in 
from  New  England,  and  a  broader  cur- 
rent that  swept  westward  from  the  Middle 
and  Southeastern  states.  There  was  no 
sectional  feeling  in  those  days.  Many 
of  the  prominent  settlers  from  Kentucky 
were  Whigs,  but  a  newcomer's  church 
affiliation  was  of  far  more  importance 
than  his  political  belief.  Indianapolis 
was  charged  in  later  years  with  a  lack  of 
public  spirit,  but  with  reference  only  to 
commercial  matters.  There  has  never 
been  a  time  when  a  hearing  could  not 
be  had  for  any  undertaking  of  philan- 
thropy or  public  education. 


838 


Indianapolis :  a   City  of  Homes. 


The  effect  of  the  civil  war  upon  In- 
dianapolis was  immediate  and  far-reach- 
ing. It  emphasized  through  the  central- 
izing there  of  the  state's  military  energy 
the  fact  that  it  was  the  capital  city,  — 
a  fact  which  until  that  time  had  been 
accepted  languidly  by  the  average  Hoo- 
sier  countryman.  The  presence  within 
the  state  of  an  aggressive  body  of  sym- 
pathizers with  Southern  ideas  directed 
attention  throughout  the  country  to  the 
energy  and  resourcefulness  of  Morton, 
the  war  governor,  who  pursued  the 
Hoosier  Copperheads  relentlessly,  while 
raising  a  great  army  to  send  to  the  seat 
of  war.  Again,  the  intense  political 
bitterness  engendered  by  the  war  did  not 
end  with  peace,  or  with  the  restoration 
of  good  feeling  in  neighboring  states, 
but  continued  for  twenty-five  years  more 
to  be  a  source  of  political,  and,  markedly 
at  Indianapolis,  a  cause  of  social  irrita- 
tion. In  the  minds  of  many,  a  Democrat 
was  a  Copperhead,  and  a  Copperhead 
was  an  evil  and  odious  thing.  Refer- 
ring to  the  slow  death  of  this  feeling,  a 
veteran  observer  of  affairs  who  had, 
moreover,  supported  Mr.  Cleveland's 
candidacy  twice,  recently  said  that  he 
had  never  been  able  wholly  to  free  him- 
self from  this  prejudice.  But  the  end 
really  came  in  1884,  with  the  reaction 
against  Blaine,  which  was  nowhere  more 
significant  of  a  growth  of  independence 
than  at  Indianapolis. 

Following  the  formative  period,  which 
may  be  said  to  have  ended  with  the  civil 
war,  came  an  era  of  prosperity  in  busi- 
ness, and  even  of  splendor  in  social 
matters.  Some  handsome  habitations 
had  been  built  in  the  ante-bellum  days, 
but  they  were  at  once  surpassed  by  the 
homes  which  many  citizens  reared  for 
themselves  in  the  seventies.  These  re- 
main, as  a  group,  the  handsomest  resi- 
dences that  have  ever  been  built  at  any 
period  in  the  history  of  the  city.  Life 
had  been  earnest  in  the  early  days,  but 
it  now  became  picturesque.  The  terms 
"aristocrats  "  and  "first  families  "  were 


heard  in  the  community,  and  something 
of  traditional  Southern  ampleness  and 
generosity  crept  into  the  way  of  life. 
No  one  said  nouveau  riche  in  those  days  ; 
the  first  families  were  the  real  thing. 
No  one  denied  it,  and  misfortune  could 
not  shake  or  destroy  them. 

A  panic  is  a  great  teacher  of  humility, 
and  the  financial  depression  that  fell  upon 
the  country  in  1873  drove  the  lesson  home 
remorselessly  at  Indianapolis.  There 
had  been  nothing  equivocal  about  the 
boom.  Western  speculators  had  not  al- 
ways had  a  fifty-year-old  town  to  operate 
in,  —  the  capital  of  a  state,  a  natural  rail- 
way centre,  —  no  arid  village  in  a  hot 
prairie,  but  a  real  forest  city  that  thun- 
dered mightily  in  the  prospectus.  There 
was  no  sudden  collapse  ;  a  brave  effort 
was  made  to  ward  off  the  day  of  reckon- 
ing ;  but  this  only  prolonged  the  agony. 
Among  the  victims  there  was  little 
whimpering.  A  thoroughbred  has  not 
proved  his  mettle  until  he  has  held  up 
his  head  in  defeat,  and  the  Hoosier  aris- 
tocrat went  down  with  his  flag  flying. 
A  young  man  of  this  regime  was  reduced 
to  accepting  employment  as  a  railroad 
brakeman,  and  he  bought  a  silver- 
mounted  lantern  with  his  first  month's 
wages.  Those  that  had  suffered  the 
proud  man's  contumely  then  came  forth 
to  sneer.  An  old-fashioned  butternut 
Democrat  remarked  of  a  banker  who 
failed,  that  "  no  wonder  Blank  busted 
when  he  drove  to  business  in  a  carriage 
behind  a  nigger  in  uniform."  The 
memory  of  the  hard  times  lingered  long 
at  home  and  abroad.  A  town  where 
credit  could  be  so  shaken  was  not,  the 
Eastern  investor  declared,  a  safe  place 
for  further  investments ;  and  in  many 
quarters  Indianapolis  was  not  forgiven 
until  an  honest,  substantial  growth  had 
carried  the  lines  of  the  city  beyond  the 
terra  incognita  of  the  boom. 

Many  of  the  striking  characteristics 
of  the  people  are  attributable  to  those 
days,  when  the  city's  bounds  were  moved 
far  couutryward,  to  the  end  that  the 


Indianapolis :  a   City  of  Homes. 


839 


greatest  possible  number  of  investors 
might  enjoy  the  ownership  of  town  lots. 
The  signal  effect  of  this  dark  time  was 
to  stimulate  thrift  and  bring  a  new  era 
of  caution  and  conservatism  ;  for  there 
is  a  good  deal  of  Scotch-Irish  in  the  Hoo- 
sier,  and  he  cannot  be  fooled  twice  with 
the  same  bait.  During  the  period  of 
depression  the  town  lost  its  zest  for 
gayety.  It  took  its  pleasures  a  little 
soberly  ;  it  was  notorious  as  a  town  that 
welcomed  theatrical  attractions  grudg- 
ingly, though  this  attitude  must  be  re- 
ferred back  also  to  the  religious  preju- 
dices of  the  early  comers.  Your  In- 
dianapolitan  who  has  personal  knowledge 
of  the  panic,  or  who  has  listened  to  the 
story  of  it  from  one  who  weathered  the 
storm,  has  never  forgotten  the  discipline 
of  the  seventies  :  though  he  has  reached 
the  promised  land  he  still  remembers  the 
lash  of  Pharaoh.  So  conservatism  be- 
came the  city's  rule  of  life.  The  panic 
of  1893  caused  scarcely  a  ripple,  and 
the  typical  Indianapolis  business  man  to 
this  day  is  one  who  minds  his  barometer 
carefully. 

Indianapolis  was  a  town  that  became 
a  city  rather  against  its  will.  It  liked 
its  own  way,  and  its  way  was  slow ;  but 
when  the  calamity  could  no  longer  be 
averted,  it  had  its  trousers  creased  and 
its  shoes  polished,  and  accepted  with 
good  grace  the  fact  that  its  population 
was  approximately  two  hundred  thou- 
sand, and  that  it  had  crept  to  a  place 
comfortably  near  the  top  in  the  list  of 
bank  clearances.  A  man  who  left  In- 
dianapolis in  1880,  returned  in  1900  — 
the  Indianapolitan,  like  the  cat  in  the 
ballad,  always  goes  back  ;  he  cannot  suc- 
cessfully be  transplanted  —  to  find  him- 
self a  stranger  in  a  strange  city.  Once 
he  knew  all  the  people  who  rode  in 
chaises  ;  but  on  his  return  he  found  new 
people  abroad  in  smart  vehicles ;  once 
he  had  been  able  to  converse  on  topics 
of  the  day  with  a  passing  friend  in  the 
middle  of  Washington  Street ;  now  he 
must  duck  and  dive,  and  keep  an  eye  on 


the  policeman  if  he  would  make  a  safe 
crossing.  He  was  asked  to  luncheon  at 
a]  club ;  in  the  old  days  there  were  no 
clubs,  or  they  were  looked  on  as  iniqui- 
tous things  ;  he  was  taken  to  look  at 
factories  which  were  the  largest  of  their 
kind  in  the  world.  At  the  railroad 
yards  he  saw  machinery  being  loaded 
for  shipment  to  Russia  and  Chili ;  he 
was  told  that  books  published  at  Indian- 
apolis were  sold  in  New  York  and  Bos- 
ton, Toronto  and  London,  and  he  was 
driven  over  asphalt  streets  to  parks  that 
had  not  been  dreamed  of  before  his  term 
of  exile. 

Manufacturing  is  the  great  business 
of  the  city.  There  are  nearly  two  thou- 
sand establishments  within  its  limits 
where  manufacturing  in  some  form  is 
carried  on.  Many  of  these  rose  in  the 
day  of  natural  gas,  and  it  was  predicted 
that  when  the  gas  had  been  exhausted 
the  city  would  lose  them  ;  but  the  num- 
ber has  increased  steadily  despite  the 
failure  of  the  gas  supply.  There  are 
abundant  coal-fields  south  and  southwest 
of  the  city,  so  that  the  question  of  fuel 
will  not  soon  vex  manufacturers.  The 
city  enjoys,  besides,  the  benefits  to  be 
derived  from  the  numerous  manufacto- 
ries in  other  towns  of  central  Indiana, 
many  of  which  maintain  administrative 
offices  there.  It  is  not  only  a  good  place 
in  which  to  make  things,  but  a  point 
from  which  many  things  may  be  sold  to 
advantage.  Jobbing  flourished  before 
manufacturing  became  a  serious  factor. 
The  jobbers  have  given  the  city  an  en- 
viable reputation  for  enterprise  and  fair 
dealing.  When  you  ask  an  Indianapolis 
jobber  whether  the  propinquity  of  St. 
Louis,  Cincinnati,  Chicago,  and  Cleve- 
land is  not  against  him,  he  answers  that 
he  meets  his  competitors  every  day  in 
many  parts  of  the  country  and  is  not 
afraid  of  them. 

Indianapolis  is  not  like  other  cities  of 
approximately  the  same  size.  It  is  not 
the  native  who  says  so,  but  the  visitor 
from  abroad,  who  is  puzzled  by  a  differ- 


840 


Indianapolis :  a   City  of  Homes. 


ence  between  the  Hoosier  capital  and 
Kansas  City,  Omaha,  and  Denver,  or 
Minneapolis  and  St.  Paul.  It  has  per- 
haps more  kinship  with  Cincinnati  than 
with  any  other  Western  city.  Most 
Western  towns  try  to  catch  the  step  of 
Chicago,  but  Indianapolis  has  never  suf- 
fered from  any  such  ambition ;  so  the 
Kansas  City  man  and  the  Minneapolis 
man  visit  Indianapolis  and  find  it  slow, 
while  the  Baltimore  or  Washington  or 
Hartford  visitor  wonders  what  there  is 
about  the  Hoosier  capital  that  reminds 
him  of  his  own  city. 

Indianapolis  is  a  place  of  industry, 
thrift,  and  comfort,  and  not  of  luxury. 
Its  social  entertainments  were  long  of 
the  simplest  sort,  and  the  change  in  this 
respect  has  come  only  within  a  few 
years,  —  with  the  great  wave  of  growth 
and  prosperity  that  has  wrought  a  new 
Indianapolis  from  the  old.  If  left  to  it- 
self, the  old  Indianapolis  would  never 
have  known  a  horse  show  or  a  carnival, 
—  would  never  have  strewn  itself  with 
confetti ;  but  the  invading  time-spirit  is 
fast  destroying  the  walls  of  the  city  of 
tradition.  Business  men  no  longer  go 
home  to  dinner  at  twelve  o'clock  and 
take  a  nap  before  returning  to  work ; 
and  the  old  amiable  habit  of  visiting  for 
an  hour  in  an  office  where  ten  minutes 
of  business  was  to  be  transacted  has 
passed.  A  town  is  at  last  a  city  when 
sociability  has  been  squeezed  out  of  busi- 
ness and  appointments  are  arranged  a 
day  in  advance  by  telephone. 

The  distinguishing  quality  of  Indian- 
apolis is  its  simple  domesticity.  The 
people  are  home-loving  and  home-keep- 
ing. In  the  early  days,  when  the  town 
was  a  rude  capital  in  the  woods,  the  peo- 
ple stayed  at  home  perforce  ;  and  when 
the  railroad  reached  them  they  did  not 
take  readily  to  travel.  A  trip  to  New 
York  is  still  a  much  more  serious  event, 
considered  from  Indianapolis,  than  from 
Denver  or  Kansas  City.  It  was  an 
Omaha  young  man  who  was  so  little  ap- 
palled by  distance  that,  having  an  ex- 


press frank,  he  formed  the  habit  of 
sending  his  laundry  work  to  New  York, 
to  assure  a  certain  finish  to  his  linen  that 
was  unattainable  at  home.  The  more 
the  Hoosier  travels,  the  more  he  likes  his 
own  town.  Only  a  little  while  ago  an 
Indianapolis  man  who  had  been  in  New 
York  for  a  week  went  to  the  theatre  and 
saw  there  a  fellow  townsman  who  had 
just  arrived.  He  hurried  around  to 
greet  him  at  the  end  of  the  first  act. 
"  Tell  me,"  he  exclaimed,  "  how  is  every- 
thing in  old  Indianapolis  ?  "  This  tri- 
fling incident  is  more  illuminative  of  the 
characteristic  qualities  of  the  Hoosier 
capital  than  many  pages  of  historical 
narrative. 

The  Hoosiers  assemble  at  Indianapo- 
lis in  great  throngs  with  slight  excuse. 
In  addition  to  the  sixteen  railroads  that 
touch  there,  newly  constructed  interur- 
ban  traction  lines  have  lately  knit  new 
communities  into  sympathetic  relation- 
ship with  the  capital.  You  may  stand 
in  Washington  Street  and  read  the  names 
of  all  the  surrounding  towns  on  the  big 
interurban  cars  that  mingle  with  the  local 
traction  traffic.  They  bring  men  whose 
errand  is  to  buy  or  sell,  or  who  come  to 
play  golf  on  the  free  course  at  Riverside 
Park,  or  on  the  private  grounds  of  the 
Country  Club.  These  cars  carry  freight, 
too,  and  while  they  disfigure  the  streets, 
no  one  has  made  any  serious  protest,  for 
are  not  the  Hoosiers  welcome  to  their 
capital,  no  matter  how  and  when  they 
visit  it ;  and  is  not  this  free  intercourse, 
as  the  phrase  has  it,  "  a  good  thing  for 
Indianapolis  "  ?  This  contact  between 
town  and  country  tends  to  keep  alive  a 
state  feeling,  and  as  the  capital  grows,  — 
as,  let  us  say,  it  takes  on  more  and  more 
a  metropolitan  spirit,  —  the  value  of  this 
intimacy  will  have  an  increasing  value, 
making  a  neighborhood  of  a  large  area. 
The  rural  free  delivery  of  mail  is  another 
factor  to  be  suggested  in  indicating  the 
peculiar  position  occupied  by  Indianapo- 
lis as  the  centre  of  state  life.  A  central 
Indiana  farmer's  wife  may  take  a  news- 


Indianapolis :  a   City  of  Homes. 


841 


paper  from  the  country  carrier  at  her 
own  door,  read  the  advertisement  of  an 
entertainment  or  bargain  sale  at  Indian- 
apolis, and  within  an  hour  or  so  she  can 
he  set  down  in  Washington  Street.  The 
economic  bearing  of  these  changes  on  the 
country  merchant  is  a  serious  matter  that 
need  only  be  mentioned  here. 

Unlike  many  other  American  cities, 
Indianapolis  has  never  been  dominated 
by  a  few  rich  men.  The  rich  boss  has 
never  ruled  it ;  the  men  of  wealth  there 
have  usually  possessed  character  as  well. 
And  when,  in  this  frugal,  cautious  capi- 
tal, a  rich  man  is  indicated,  the  term  is 
relative  in  a  purely  local  sense.  It  is 
probably  fair  to  say  that  there  are  more 
large  fortunes  in  the  much  smaller  towns 
of  Dayton  or  Columbus,  Ohio,  than  in 
Indianapolis,  where  a  quarter  of  a  mil- 
lion dollars  is  enough  to  make  a  man 
conspicuously  rich. 

There  is  something  neighborly  and 
cosy  about  Indianapolis.  The  man  across 
the  street  or  next  door  will  share  any 
good  thing  he  has  with  you,  whether  it 
be  a  cure  for  rheumatism,  a  new  book, 
or  the  garden  hose.  It  is  a  town  where 
doing  as  one  likes  is  not  a  mere  possi- 
bility, but  an  inherent  right.  The  only 
thing  that  is  insisted  on  is  respectability, 
—  a  black  alpaca,  Sunday-afternoon  kind 
of  respectability.  You  may,  in  short,  be 
forgiven  for  being  rich  and  making  a 
display ;  but  you  must  be  good. 

The  typical  citizen  is  still  one  who  is 
well  satisfied  with  his  own  hearth,  — 
who  takes  his  business  seriously  on  week 
days,  and  goes  to  church  on  Sundays, 
that  he  may  gain  grace  by  which  to  view 
tolerantly  his  profane  neighbor  of  the 
new  order  who  spends  Sunday  at  the 
Country  Club.  The  woman  of  Indian- 
apolis is  not  afraid  to  venture  abroad 
with  her  market  basket,  albeit  she  may 
ride  in  a  carriage.  The  public  market 
at  Indianapolis  is  an  ancient  and  honor- 
able institution,  and  there  is  no  shame 
and  much  honor  in  being  seen  there  in 
conversation  with  the  farmer  and  the 


gardener  or  the  seller  of  herbs,  in  the 
early  hours  of  the  morning.  The  mar- 
ket is  so  thoroughly  established  in  pub- 
lic affection  that  the  society  reporter 
walks  its  aisles  in  pursuit  of  news.  The 
true  Indianapolis  housewife  goes  to  mar- 
ket ;  the  mere  resident  of  the  city  orders 
by  telephone,  and  takes  what  the  grocer 
has  to  offer ;  and  herein  lies  a  difference 
that  is  not  half  so  superficial  as  it  may 
sound,  for  at  heart  the  people  who  are 
related  to  the  history  and  tradition  of 
Indianapolis  are  simple  and  frugal,  and 
if  they  read  Emerson  and  Browning  by 
the  evening  lamp,  they  know  no  reason 
why  they  should  not  distinguish,  the  next 
morning,  between  the  yellow  -  legged 
chicken  offered  by  the  farmer's  wife  at 
the  market  and  frozen  fowls  of  doubtful 
authenticity  that  have  been  held  for  a 
season  in  cold  storage. 

The  narrow  margin  between  the  great 
parties  in  Indiana  has  made  the  capital 
a  centre  of  incessant  political  activity. 
The  geographical  position  of  the  city 
has  also  contributed  to  this,  the  state 
leaders  and  managers  being  constant 
visitors.  Every  second  man  you  meet  is 
a  statesman  ;  every  third  man  is  an  ora- 
tor. The  largest  social  club  in  Indian- 
apolis exacts  a  promise  of  fidelity  to  the 
Republican  party,  and  within  its  portals 
chances  and  changes  of  men  and  mea- 
sures are  discussed  tirelessly.  And  the 
pilgrim  from  abroad  is  not  bored  with 
talk  of  local  affairs  ;  not  a  bit  of  it !  The 
nation's  future  is  at  once  disclosed  to 
him.  If,  however,  he  wishes  to  obtain 
a  Godkinian  forecast,  he  can  be  accom- 
modated at  the  University  Club  grill- 
room, where  a  court  of  destructive  critics 
meets  daily  at  high  noon.  The  presence 
in  the  city,  through  many  years,  of  men 
of  national  prominence  —  Morton,  Har- 
rison, Hendricks,  McDonald,  English, 
Gresham  —  further  helped  to  make  Indi- 
anapolis a  political  centre.  Geography 
plays  a  chief  part  in  the  distribution  of 
favors  by  state  nominating  conventions. 
Rivalry  between  the  smaller  towns  is  not 


842 


Indianapolis :  a   City  of  Homes. 


so  marked  as  their  united  stand  against 
the  capital.  The  city  has  had,  at  least 
twice,  both  United  States  Senators ;  but 
governors  have  usually  been  summoned 
from  the  country.  Harrison  was  defeated 
for  governor  by  a  farmer  (1876),  in  a 
heated  campaign,  in  which  "  Kid-Gloved 
Harrison "  was  held  up  to  derision  by 
the  adherents  of  "  Blue  Jeans  Williams." 
And  again,  in  1880,  a  similar  situation 
was  presented  in  the  contest  for  the  same 
office  between  Albert  G.  Porter  and 
Franklin  Landers,  both  of  Indianapo- 
lis, though  Landers  stood  for  the  rural 
"  Blue  Jeans  "  idea. 

The  high  tide  of  political  interest  was 
reached  in  the  summer  and  fall  of  1888, 
when  Harrison  made  his  campaign  for 
the  presidency,  largely  from  his  own 
doorstep.  For  a  man  who  was  reckoned 
cold  by  acquaintances,  his  candidacy 
evoked  an  enthusiasm  at  home  that  was 
a  marked  tribute  to  Mr.  Harrison's  dis- 
tinguished ability  as  a  lawyer  and  states- 
man. The  people  of  Indiana  did  not  love 
him,  perhaps,  but  they  had  an  immense 
admiration  for  his  talents.  Morton  was 
a  masterful  and  dominating  leader ;  Hen- 
dricks  was  gracious  and  amiable ;  while 
Gresham  waa  singularly  magnetic  and 
more  independent  in  his  opinions  than 
his  contemporaries.  William  H.  English 
had  been  a  member  of  Congress  from  a 
southern  Indiana  district  before  remov- 
ing to  Indianapolis,  and  an  influential 
member  of  the  constitutional  convention 
of  1850.  He  was  throughout  his  life 
a  painstaking  student  of  public  affairs. 
When  he  became  his  party's  candidate  for 
Vice  President  on  the  ticket  with  Han- 
cock in  1880,  much  abuse  and  ridicule 
were  directed  against  him  on  account  of 
his  wealth  ;  but  he  was  a  man  of  rugged 
native  force,  who  stood  stubbornly  for 
old-fashioned  principles  of  government, 
and  labored  to  uphold  them.  Harrison 
was  the  most  intellectual  of  the  group, 
and  he  had,  as  few  Americans  have  ever 
had,  the  gift  of  vigorous  and  polished 
speech.  He  did  not  win  men  by  ease  of 


intercourse,  or  drive  them  by  force  of  per- 
sonality, but  he  instructed  and  convinced 
them,  through  an  appeal  to  reason  and 
without  the  lure  of  specious  oratory.  He 
stood  finely  as  a  type  of  what  was  best 
in  the  old  and  vanishing  Indianapolis,  — 
for  the  domestic  and  home-loving  ele- 
ment that  dominated  the  city  from  its 
beginning  practically  to  the  end  of  the 
last  century. 

The  spirit  of  independence  that 
gained  a  footing  in  the  Elaine  campaign 
of  1884  came  to  stay.  Marion  Coun- 
ty, of  which  Indianapolis  is  the  seat,  was 
for  many  years  Republican  ;  but  neither 
county  nor  city  has  for  a  decade  been 
"  safely "  Democratic  or  Republican. 
There  is  a  considerable  body  of  inde- 
pendent voters,  and  they  have  rebuked 
incompetence,  indifference,  and  vice  re- 
peatedly and  drastically  ;  and  they  have 
resented  the  effort  often  made  to  intro- 
duce national  issues  into  local  affairs. 
At  the  city  election  held  in  October, 
1903,  a  Democrat  was  elected  mayor 
over  a  Republican  candidate  who  had 
been  renominated  in  a  "  snap  "  conven- 
tion, in  the  face  of  aggressive  opposition 
within  his  party.  The  issue  was  tautly 
drawn  between  corruption  and  vice  on 
the  one  hand  and  law  and  order  on  the 
other.  An  independent  candidate,  who 
had  also  the  Prohibition  support,  re- 
ceived over  5000  votes.  In  this  connec- 
tion it  may  be  said  that  the  Indianapolis 
public  schools  owe  their  marked  excel- 
lence and  efficiency  to  their  complete  di- 
vorcement from  political  influence.  This 
has  not  only  assured  the  public  an  intel- 
ligent and  honest  expenditure  of  school 
funds,  —  and  the  provision  is  generous, 

—  but  it  has  created  a  corps  spirit  among 
the  city's  750  teachers,  admirable  in  it- 
self, and  tending  to  cumulative  benefits 
not  yet  realized.     A  supervising  teacher 

—  a  woman  —  was  lately  offered  a  like 
position  in  another  city  at  double  the 
salary  paid  her  at  Indianapolis,  and  she 
declined  merely  because  of  the  security 
of  her  tenure.     The  superintendent  of 


Indianapolis :  a   City  of  Homes. 


843 


schools  has  absolute  power  of  appoint- 
ment, and  he  is  accountable  only  to  the 
commissioners,  and  they  in  turn  are  en- 
tirely independent  of  the  mayor  and 
other  city  officers.  Positions  on  the 
school  board  are  not  sought  by  politi- 
cians. The  incumbents  serve  without 
pay,  and  the  public  evince  a  disposition 
to  find  good  men  and  keep  them  in  office. 
The  soldiers'  monument  at  Indianapo- 
lis, which  testifies  to  the  patriotism  and 
sacrifice  of  the  Indiana  soldier  and 
sailor,  is  a  testimony  also  to  the  deep 
impression  made  by  the  civil  war  on  the 
people  of  the  state.  The  monument  is 
to  Indianapolis  what  the  Washington 
Monument  is  to  the  national  capital.  The 
incoming  traveler  sees  it  afar,  and  within 
the  city  it  is  almost  an  inescapable  thing. 
It  stands  in  a  circular  plaza  that  was 
originally  a  park  known  as  the  Govern- 
or's Circle.  This  was  long  ago  aban- 
doned as  a  site  for  the  governor's  man- 
sion, but  it  offered  an  ideal  spot  for  a 
monument  to  Indiana  soldiers,  when,  in 
1887,  the  General  Assembly  authorized 
its  construction.  The  height  of  the  mon- 
ument from  the  street  level  is  284  feet, 
and  it  stands  on  a  stone  terrace  110  feet 
in  diameter.  The  shaft  is  crowned  by 
a  statue  of  Victory  thirty-eight  feet 
high.  It  is  built  throughout  of  Indiana 
limestone.  The  fountains  at  the  base, 
the  heroic  sculptured  groups  "  War  "  and 
"  Peace,"  and  the  bronze  astragals  re- 
presenting the  army  and  navy,  are  ad- 
mirable in  design  and  execution.  The 
whole  effect  is  one  of  poetic  beauty  and 
power.  There  is  nothing  cheap,  tawdry, 
or  commonplace  in  this  magnificent  trib- 
ute of  Indiana  to  her  soldiers.  The 
monument  is  a  memorial  of  the  soldiers 
of  all  the  wars  in  which  Indiana  has  par- 
ticipated. The  veterans  of  the  civil  war 
protested  against  this,  and  the  contro- 
versy was  long  and  bitter  ;  but  the  cap- 
ture of  Vincennes  from  the  British  in 
1779  is  made  to  link  Indiana  to  the  war 
of  the  Revolution ;  and  the  battle  of 
Tippecanoe,  to  the  war  of  1812.  The 


five  Indiana  regiments  contributed  to 
the  American  army  in  the  war  with 
Mexico,  and  7400  men  enlisted  for  the 
Spanish  war  are  remembered.  It  is, 
however,  the  war  of  the  Rebellion, 
whose  effect  on  the  social  and  political 
life  of  Indiana  was  so  tremendous,  that 
gives  the  monument  its  great  cause  for 
being.  The  population  of  Indiana  in 
1860  was  1,350,000;  the  total  enlist- 
ment of  soldiers  and  sailors  during  the 
ensuing  years  of  war  was  210,497  ;  and 
the  names  of  these  men  lie  safe  for  pos- 
terity in  the  base  of  the  gray  shaft. 

A  good  deal  of  humor  has  in  recent 
years  been  directed  toward  Indiana  as  a 
literary  centre,  but  Indianapolis  as  a  vil- 
lage boasted  writers  of  at  least  local 
reputation,  and  Coggeshall's  Poets  and 
Poetry  of  the  West  (1867)  attributes 
half-a-dozen  poets  to  the  Hoosier  capital. 
The  Indianapolis  press  has  been  distin- 
guished always  by  enterprise  and  de- 
cency, and  in  several  instances  by  vigor- 
ous independence.  The  literary  quality 
of  the  city's  newspapers  was  high,  even 
in  the  early  days,  and  the  standard  has 
not  been  lowered.  Poets  with  cloaks 
and  canes  were,  in  the  eighties,  pretty 
prevalent  in  Market  Street  near  the  Post 
Office,  the  habitat  then  of  most  of  the 
newspapers.  The  poets  read  their  verses 
to  one  another  and  cursed  the  magazines. 
A  reporter  on  one  of  the  papers,  who 
had  scored  the  triumph  of  a  poem  in 
the  Atlantic,  was  a  man  of  mark  among 
the  guild  for  years.  The  local  wits 
stabbed  the  fledgeling  bards  with  their 
gentle  ironies.  A  young  woman  of  social 
prominence  printed  some  verses  in  an 
Indianapolis  newspaper,  and  one  of  her 
acquaintances,  when  asked  for  his  opin- 
ion of  them,  said  they  were  creditable 
and  ought  to  be  set  to  music,  —  and 
played  as  an  instrumental  piece !  The 
wide  popularity  attained  by  Mr.  James 
Whitcomb  Riley  quickened  the  literary 
impulse,  and  the  fame  of  his  elders  and 
predecessors  suffered  severely  from  the 
fact  that  he  did  not  belong  to  the  cloaked 


844 


Indianapolis :  a  City  of  Homes. 


brigade.     General  Lew.  Wallace  never 

D 

lived  at  Indianapolis  save  for  a  few  years 
in  boyhood,  while  his  father  was  govern- 
or, though  he  has  in  recent  years  spent 
his  winters  there.  Maurice  Thompson's 
muse  scorned  "  paven  ground,"  and  he 
was  little  known  at  the  capital  even  dur- 
ing his  term  of  office  as  state  geologist, 
when 'he  came  to  town  frequently  from 
Crawfordsville,  the  home  of  General 
Wallace  also.  Mr.  Booth  Tarkington, 
a  native  of  the  city,  has  lifted  the  banner 
anew  for  a  younger  generation. 

If  you  do  not  meet  an  author  at  every 
corner,  you  are  at  least  never  safe  from 
the  man  that  reads  books.  In  a  Mis- 
souri River  town,  a  stranger  must  listen 
to  the  old  wail  against  the  railroads  ;  at 
Indianapolis  he  must  listen  to  politics, 
and  possibly  some  one  will  ask  his  opin- 
ion of  a  sonnet,  just  as  though  it  were  a 
cigar.  A  judge  of  the  United  States 
Court,  sitting  at  Indianapolis,  was  for- 
ever locking  the  door  of  his  private  of- 
fice, to  the  end  that  some  attorney,  call- 
ing on  business,  might  listen  to  an  Hora- 
tian  ode.  There  was  indeed  a  time  — 
consule  Planco  —  when  most  of  the 
Federal  office-holders  at  Indianapolis 
were  bookish  men.  Three  successive 
clerks  of  the  Federal  courts  were  schol- 
ars ;  the  pension  agent  was  an  enthusi- 
astic Shakespearean ;  the  district  attorney 
was  a  poet,  and  the  master  of  chancery 
a  man  of  varied  learning,  who  was  so 
good  a  talker  that,  when  he  met  Lord 
Chief  Justice  Coleridge  abroad,  the  Eng- 
lish jurist  took  the  Hoosier  with  him  on 
circuit,  and  wrote  to  the  justice  of  the 
American  Supreme  Court  who  had  intro- 
duced them,  to  "  send  me  another  man 
as  good." 

It  is  possible  for  a  community  which 
may  otherwise  lack  a  true  local  spirit  to 
be  unified  through  the  possession  of  a 
sense  of  humor ;  and  even  in  periods  of 
financial  depression  the  town  has  always 
enjoyed  the  saving  grace  of  a  cheerful, 
centralized  intelligence.  The  first  tav- 
ern philosophers  stood  for  this,  and  the 


courts  of  the  early  times  were  touched 
with  it,  —  as  witness  all  western  chroni- 
cles. The  middle  western  people  are  pre- 
eminently humorous,  particularly  those 
of  the  Southern  strain  from  which  Lin- 
coln sprang.  During  all  the  years  that 
the  Hoosier  suffered  the  reproach  of  the 
outside  world,  the  citizen  of  the  capital 
never  failed  to  appreciate  the  joke  when 
it  was  on  himself ;  and,  looking  forth 
from  the  wicket  of  the  city  gate,  he  was 
still  more  keenly  appreciative  when  it 
was  on  his  neighbors.  The  Hoosier  is 
a  natural  story-teller ;  he  relishes  a  joke, 
and  to  talk  is  his  ideal  of  social  enjoy- 
ment. This  was  true  of  the  early  Hoo- 
sier, and  it  is  true  to-day  of  his  successor 
at  the  capital.  The  Monday  night  meet- 
ings of  the  Indianapolis  Literary  Club 

—  organized  in  1877  and  with  a  contin- 
uous existence  to  this  time  —  have  been 
marked   by  bright  talk.     The  original 
members  are  nearly  all  gone;  but  the 
sayings  of  a  group  of  them  —  the  stiletto 
thrusts    of    Fishback,   the   lawyer;    the 
droll  inadvertences  of  Livingston  How- 
land,  the  judge ;  and  the  inimitable  an- 
ecdotes  of    Myron   Reed,   soldier   and 
preacher  —  crept  beyond  the  club's  walls 
and  became  town  property.     This  club 
is  old  and  well  seasoned.    It  is  exclusive, 

—  so  much  so  that  one  of  its  luminaries 
remarked   that   if   all   of   its  members 
should  be  expelled  for  any  reason,  none 
could  hope  to  be  readmitted.     It  has 
entertained  but  four  pilgrims  from  the 
outer  world, — Matthew  Arnold,  Dean 
Farrar,  Joseph  Parker,  and  John  Fiske. 

The  Hoosier  capital  has  always  been 
susceptible  to  the  charms  of  oratory. 
Most  of  the  great  lecturers  in  the  gold- 
en age  of  the  American  lyceum  were 
welcomed  cordially  at  Indianapolis.  The 
Indianapolis  pulpit  has  been  served  by 
many  able  men,  and  great  store  is  still 
set  by  preaching.  When  Henry  Ward 
Beecher  ministered  to  the  congregation 
of  the  Second  Presbyterian  Church 
(1838-46),  his  superior  talents  were  re- 
cognized and  appreciated.  He  gave  a 


The  Literary  Aspect  of  Journalism. 


845 


series  of  seven  lectures  to  the  young  men 
of  the  city  during  the  winter  of  1843-44, 
on  such  subjects  as  Industry,  Gamblers 
and  Gambling,  Popular  Amusements, 
etc.,  which  were  published  at  Indianapo- 
lis immediately,  in  response  to  an  urgent 
request  signed  by  thirteen  prominent 
men  of  the.  city  and  state. 

The  women  of  Indianapolis  have  aided 
greatly  in  fashioning  the  city  into  an  en- 
lightened community.  The  wives  and 
daughters  of  the  founders  were  often  wo- 
men of  cultivation,  and  much  in  the  char- 
acter of  the  city  to-day  is  plainly  trace- 
able to  their  work  and  example.  Dur- 
ing the  civil  war  they  did  valiant  service 
in  caring  for  the  Indiana  soldier.  The 
Indiana  Sanitary  Commission  was  the 
first  organization  of  its  kind  in  the 
United  States.  The  women  of  Indian- 
apolis built  for  themselves  in  1888  a 
building — thePropylaeum — wheremany 
clubs  meet ;  and  they  have  been  the 
mainstay  of  the  Indianapolis  Art  Asso- 
ciation, which,  by  a  generous  and  unex- 
pected bequest  a  few  years  ago,  is  now 
able  to  build  a  permanent  museum  and 
school  on  the  charming  site  of  an  old 
homestead.  It  is  worth  remembering 


that  the  first  woman's  club  in  the  West, 
at  least,  was  organized  on  Hoosier  soil 
—  at  Robert  Owen's  New  Harmony  — 
in  1859.  The  Indianapolis  Woman's 
Club  is  thirty  years  old. 

The  citizens  like  their  Indianapolis, 
and  with  reason.  It  is  a  place  of  charm 
and  vigor,  —  the  charm  and  ease  of  con- 
tentment dating  from  the  old  days,  min- 
gled with  the  earnest  challenge  and  ro- 
bust faith  of  to-day.  Here  you  have  an 
admirable  instance  of  the  secure  building 
of  an  American  city  with  remarkably 
little  alien  influence,  —  a  city  of  sound 
credit  abroad,  which  offers  on  its  com- 
mercial and  industrial  sides  a  remarkable 
variety  of  opportunities.  It  is  a  city  that 
brags  less  of  its  freight  tonnage  than  of 
its  public  schools  ;  but  it  is  proud  of  both. 
At  no  time  in  its  history  has  it  been  in- 
different to  the  best  thought  and  achieve- 
ment of  the  world ;  and  what.it  has  found 
good  it  has  secured  for  its  own.  A  kind- 
ly, generous,  hospitable  people  are  these 
of  this  Western  capital,  finely  representa- 
tive of  the  product  of  democracy  as  de- 
mocracy has  exerted  its  many  forces 
and  disciplines  in  the  broad,  rich  Ohio 
Valley. 

Meredith  Nicholson, 


THE  LITERARY  ASPECT  OF  JOURNALISM. 


IT  is  a  pity  that  we  cannot  get  on 
without  definitions,  but  there  is  too  much 
convenience  in  them,  too  much  safety. 
They  accoutre  us,  they  marshal  us  the 
way  that  we  are  going,  they  help  us 
along  the  difficult  middle  path  of  argu- 
ment, they  comfort  our  declining  pe- 
riods. Poor  relations,  to  be  sure,  and 
not  to  be  made  too  much  of ;  but,  at  least, 
one  ought  not  to  be  ashamed  of  them 
in  company.  If  there  are  abstract 
terms  which  can  safely  be  employed  off- 
hand, the  terms  of  literary,  criticism  are 
hardly  among  them.  What  wonder  ? 


If  political  economists  find  it  hard  to 
determine  the  meaning  of  words  like 
"  money  "  and  "  property,"  how  shall 
critics  agree  in  defining  such  imponder- 
able objects  as  genius,  art,  literature  ? 
Is  literature  broadly  "  the  printed  word," 
the  whole  body  of  recorded  speech  ?  Or 
is  it  the  product  of  a  conscious  and  reg- 
ulated, but  not  inspired,  art  ?  Or  is  it, 
with  other  products  of  art,  due  to  that 
expression  of  personality  through  crafts- 
manship which  we  call  genius  ?  To  the 
last  put  question  I  should  say  yes  ;  con- 
fessing faith  in  personal  inspiration  as 


846 


The  Literary  Aspect  of  Journalism. 


the  essential  force  in  literature,  and  in 
the  relative  rather  than  absolute  charac- 
ter of  such  personal  inspiration,  or  gen- 
ius. I  think  of  literature  not  as  ceas- 
ing to  exist  beyond  the  confines  of  poetry 
and  belles-lettres,  but  as  embracing  what- 
ever of  the  printed  word  presents,  in 
any  degree,  a  personal  interpretation  of 
life.  What  he  is  and  has,  —  some  touch 
of  genius,  some  property  of  wisdom,- 
some  hold  (however  partial  and  uncon- 
scious) upon  the  principles  of  literary 
art,  —  these  things  enable  a  writer  for 
interpretative  or  "  creative  "  work. 


From  this  point  of  view  journalism 
has,  strictly,  no  literary  aspect;  it  has 
certain  contacts  with  literature,  and  that 
is  all.  The  real  business  of  journalism  is 
to  record  or  to  comment,  not  to  create  or 
to  interpret.  In  its  exercise  of  the  record- 
ing function  it  is  a  useful  trade,  and  in 
its  commenting  office  it  takes  rank  as  a 
profession  ;  but  it  is  never  an  art.  As 
a  trade  it  may  apply  rules,  as  a  profes- 
sion it  may  enforce  conventions  ;  it  can- 
not embody  principles  of  universal  truth 
and  beauty  as  art  embodies  them.  It  is 
essentially  impersonal,  in  spirit  and  in 
method.  A  journalist  cannot,  as  a  jour- 
nalist, speak  wholly  for  himself ;  he 
would  be  like  the  occasional  private  cit- 
izen who  nominates  himself  for  office. 
A  creator  of  literature  is  his  own  can- 
didate, his  own  caucus,  his  own  argu- 
ment, and  his  own  elector.  It  is  aut 
Ccesar  aut  nullus  with  him,  as  with  the 
aspirant  in  any  other  form  of  art.  This 
is  why  an  unsuccessful  author  is  so  much 
more  conspicuous  an  object  of  ridicule 
than  other  failures.  He  has  proposed 
himself  for  a  sort  of  eminence,  and 
has  proved  to  be  no  better  than  a  Chris- 
tian or  an  ordinary  man.  He  might, 
perhaps,  have  been  useful  in  some  more 
practical  way,  —  for  instance,  in  journal- 
ism, which  offers  a  respectable  mainte- 
nance, at  least,  to  the  possessor  of  verbal 
talent.  Its  ex  parte  impersonality  af- 


fords him  a  surer  foothold  at  the  outset. 
Pure  journalism  has  no  need  of  genius  ; 
it  is  an  enterprise,  not  an  emprise.  It 
records  fact,  and  on  the  basis  of  such 
fact  utters  the  opinion  of  partisan  con- 
sensus, of  editorial  policy,  or,  at  its  point 
of  nearest  approach  to  literature,  of  in- 
dividual intelligence. 

But  it  happens  that  pure  journalism 
is  hardly  more  common  than  pure  liter- 
ature. The  "  spark  of  genius  "  is,  one 
must  think,  more  than  a  metaphor.  If 
it  did  not  often  appear  in  writers  whose 
principal  conscious  effort  is  given  to  the 
utilization  of  talent,  there  would  be  no 
question  of  anything  more  than  contrast 
between  literature  and  journalism. 
There  is  a  mood  in  which  every  thought- 
ful reader  or  writer  is  sure  to  sympa- 
thize with  a  favorite  speculation  of  the 
late  Sir  Leslie  Stephen's.  "  I  rather 
doubt,"  he  expressed  it  not  long  ago  in 
the  pages  of  the  Atlantic,  "  whether  the 
familiar  condemnation  of  mediocre  poet- 
ry should  not  be  extended  to  medioc- 
rity in  every  branch  of  literature.  .  .  . 
The  world  is  the  better,  no  doubt,  even 
for  an  honest  crossing-sweeper.  But  I 
often  think  that  the  value  of  second-rate 
literature  is  —  not  small,  but  —  simply 
zero.  ...  If  one  does  not  profess  to  be 
a  genius,  is  it  not  best  to  console  one's 
self  with  the  doctrine  that  silence  is 
golden,  and  take,  if  possible,  to  the  spade 
or  the  pickaxe,  leaving  the  pen  to  one's 
betters  ?  " 

One's  betters,  —  it  is,  after  all,  an  in- 
definite phrase.  Are  they  only  the  best  ? 
Attempts  to  establish  an  accurate  rank- 
ing of  genius  have  proved  idle  enough. 
It  is  not  altogether  agreed  whether  the 
greatest  names  can  be  counted  on  the  fin- 
gers of  one  hand  or  of  two ;  it  is  fairly 
well  understood  that  they  are  worth  all 
the  other  names  "  put  together."  But 
does  it  follow  that  all  the  other  names 
are,  therefore,  worth  nothing  ?  The  foot- 
hills have  never  been  quite  put  to  shame 
by  the  loftiest  summits.  I  do  not  see 
that  it  is  altogether  admirable,  this  in- 


The  Literary  Aspect  of  Journalism. 


847 


stinct  which  makes  men  querulous  for 
the  best.  One  may  be  reasonably  cred- 
ulous as  to  the  average  of  human  ability 
without  perceiving  anything  mediocre  in 
the  next  best,  or  in  the  next  to  that. 
Surely  there  is  nothing  trivial  in  the 
employment  of  the  least  creative  faculty, 
if  it  does  not  interfere  with  more  impor- 
tant functions.  That  primum  mobile, 
the  question  of  the  major  utility,  is  an 
ancient  battleground  upon  which  we 
shall  hardly  venture  to  set  foot.  Here 
are  still  fought  over  the  eternal  issues 
between  commerce  and  the  arts,  science 
and  the  classics,  the  practical  and  the 
ideal.  It  is  for  us  only  to  skirt  the  edge 
of  conflict  with  the  admission  that  a  great 
talent  may  be  more  effective,  even  more 
permanently  effective,  than  a  small  gen- 
ius ;  as  a  Jeffrey  has  proved  to  be  more 
effective  than  a  Samuel  Rogers.  It  is, 
for  whatever  the  fact  may  be  worth,  the 
man  of  affairs,  the  man  of  opinions,  rather 
than  the  seer  or  the  poet,  who  determines 
what  the  next  step  of  the  infant  world 
shall  be. 

The  fact  of  Sir  Leslie  Stephen's  career 
yields  a  sufficient  gloss  upon  the  letter  of 
his  theory,  —  if  theory  is  not  too  serious 
a  word  for  his  half-ironical  speculation. 
He  had,  by  his  own  account,  no  natural 
impulse  toward  production  in  the  forms 
which  are  commonly  called  creative.  He 
was  prevented  from  becoming  a  poet  (as 
he  admits  with  his  usual  engaging  frank- 
ness) by  his  inability  to  write  verse  ;  and 
his  instinct  did  not  lead  him  toward  fic- 
tion. His  only  path  to  literature  lay 
through  a  superior  kind  of  journalism. 
Among  his  staff  colleagues  upon  the 
Saturday  Review,  the  Pall  Mall  Ga- 
zette, and  elsewhere,  were  Mill,  Ven- 
ables,  Mark  Pattison,  Froude,  Freeman, 
Thackeray,  and  John  Morley.  He  does 
not  think  too  highly  of  the  profession  in 
which  such  men  were,  at  least  tempo- 
rarily, engaged.  He  records,  not  with- 
out malice,  the  fact  that  Jeffrey,  a 
prince  among  journalists,  complained 
of  Carlyle's  being  "  so  desperately  in 


earnest."  He  speaks  with  admiration 
of  Carlyle's  having  himself  been  suc- 
cessful in  resisting  "the  temptations 
that  most  easily  beset  those  who  have 
to  make  a  living  by  the  trade."  He 
permits  himself  an  ironical  comment 
upon  Mill's  comparison  of  the  modern 
newspaper  press  and  the  Hebrew  pro- 
phets. "  There  are  not  many  modern 
journalists,"  he  remarks  with  misleading 
mildness,  "  who  impress  one  by  their 
likeness  to  a  Jeremiah  or  a  John  the  Bap- 
tist. The  man  who  comes  to  denounce 
the  world  is  not  likely  to  find  favor  with 
the  class  which  lives  by  pleasing  it."  Fi- 
nally, he  thinks  it  proper  to  say  yet  more 
sharply,  "To  be  on  the  right  side  is  an 
irrelevant  question  in  journalism."  Sir 
Leslie's  personality  was  not  of  the  sub- 
duable  kind,  and  presently  found  its 
proper  expression  in  the  varied  labors  of 
a  man  of  letters.  His  journalistic  expe- 
rience could  be  only  a  temporary  phase. 

II. 

Those  who  have  approached  literature 
through  journalism  are  legion,  but  they 
are  only  indirectly  connected  with  our 
present  theme.  More  to  our  purpose  are 
the  many  writers  of  power  whose  per- 
manent and  absorbing  task  is  journalism, 
but  whose  work  is  so  unmistakably  in- 
formed with  personality,  so  pure  in 
method  and  in  contour,  as  to  outrank  in 
literary  quality  the  product  of  many  a  lit- 
erary workshop.  Such  writers  may  have 
been  capable  of  attaining  a  real,  though 
not  a  great,  success  in  more  purely  liter- 
ary forms ;  yet  their  achievement  leaves 
us  no  room  for  regret.  Their  business 
has  been  to  record  and  to  estimate  facts 
and  conditions  of  the  moment ;  their  in- 
stinct has  led  them  to  offer  a  personal 
interpretation  of  these  facts  and  condi- 
tions. Our  only  cause  of  embarrassment 
lies  in  the  resultant  character  of  the  given 
product.  It  is  not  a  little  difficult  to 
reduce  to  a  category  such  men  as  Chris- 
topher North,  Jeffrey,  Steevens,  or  God- 
kin.  Journalism  is  concerned  with  im- 


848 


The  Literary  Aspect  of  Journalism. 


mediate  phenomena.  Talent,  for  its 
empirical  method  of  dealing  with  the  data 
afforded  by  such  phenomena,  finds  a  safe- 
guard in  the  impersonal  or  partisan  atti- 
tude ;  it  is  enabled,  at  least,  to  generalize 
by  code  to  a  practical  end.  A  journalist 
whose  impersonal  talent,  let  us  say,  is 
unable  to  subdue  his  personal  genius, 
feels  the  inadequacy  of  this  method.  He 
has  a  hankering  for  self-expression.  He 
is  dissatisfied  with  this  hasty  summariz- 
ing of  facts,  this  rapid  postulating  of 
inferences.  He  insensibly  extends  his 
function,  reinforces  analysis  with  insight: 
and  produces  literature.  He  has  not  been 
able  to  confine  himself  to  telling  or  saying 
something  appropriate  to  the  moment; 
he  has  merely  taken  his  cue  from  the  mo- 
ment, and  busied  himself  with  saying 
what  is  appropriate  to  himself  and  to  the 
truth  as  he  knows  it.  He  has,  in  short, 
ceased  to  be  a  machine  or  a  mouthpiece, 
and  become  a  "creative  "  writer. 

Of  course  the  same  thing  happens  in 
other  arts,  and  in  other  forms  of  the 
printed  word.  In  history,  in  private  or 
public  correspondence,  in  the  gravest 
scientific  writing,  even,  one  often  per- 
ceives a  sort  of  "  literature  of  inadver- 
tence," a  literature  in  effect,  though  not 
in  primary  intent.  There  is,  indeed,  no 
form  of  writing  except  what  baldly  re- 
cords, mechanically  compiles,  or  conven- 
tionally comments,  which  may  not  give 
expression,  however  incidental  or  imper- 
fect, to  personality,  to  the  power  of  inter- 
pretation as  contrasted  with  the  power  of 
communication. 

ill. 

We  may  consider  a  little  in  detail  the 
two  functions  of  pure  journalism,  and 
note  how  easily  they  transform  into  the 
literary  or  interpretative  function.  It  is 
plain  that  little  distinction  can  be  made 
between  a  piece  of  journalism  and  a  piece 
of  literature  on  the  ground  of  external 
subject-matter  alone.  A  squalid  slum 
incident,  a  fashionable  wedding,  the  es- 
cape of  a  prisoner,  the  detection  of  a 
forgery,  may  afford  material  either  for 


journalism  or  for  the  literary  art.  In 
one  instance  the  product  will  be  interest- 
ing as  news,  in  the  other  because  it  bears 
upon  some  universal  principle  or  emotion 
of  human  life.  So  it  not  seldom  happens 
that  a  reporter  develops  extra-journalistic 
skill  in  the  portrayal  of  experience  or 
character.  Writers  of  fiction  are  spawned 
almost  daily  by  the  humbler  press.  The 
journalistic  use  of  the  word  "  story  "  in- 
dicates the  ease  of  a  transition  which  is 
not  a  wandering  from  fact  to  falsity,  but 
an  upward  shift  from  the  plane  of  simple 
registry  to  the  plane  of  interpretation. 
Mr.  Kipling  happens  to  be  the  most  con- 
spicuous modern  instance  of  the  report- 
ing journalist  turned  story-writer.  It 
seems  that  his  genius  has  led  him  to  the 
instinctive  development  of  an  art  based 
upon  principles  to  which  he  professes  a 
certain  indifference.  There  are  an  in- 
definite number  of  ways  of  inditing  tribal 
lays,  he  assures  us,  and  every  single  one 
of  them  is  right.  The  speculation  has 
its  merits  as  a  tribute  to  personality ;  it 
has  decided  demerits  in  seeming  to  lay 
stress  upon  the  virtue  of  mere  oddity  or 
inventive  power.  Mr.  Kipling  will  even- 
tually rank  with  a  class  of  writers  sepa- 
rated by  a  whole  limbo  from  the  greatest 
creative  spirits ;  one  need  not  in  the  least 
grudge  them  their  immediate  effective- 
ness. Greater  writers  than  Mr.  Kipling 
have  been  skeptical  as  to  the  value  of 
those  lesser  forms  of  art  which  suggest 
mere  artifice.  Carlyle  expressed  doubt 
as  to  the  permanent  effectiveness  of  what 
the  Germans  call  "  Kunst :  "  the  con- 
scious application  of  artistic  theories  or 
methods  to  the  expression  of  truth.  In- 
deed, to  take  it  seriously  at  all,  one  must 
take  art  to  be  the  expression  of  a  per- 
sonal creative  faculty  as  distinguished 
from  that  of  an  impersonal  producing 
faculty ;  the  result  of  a  true  conscious- 
ness of  principles,  not  a  mere  being  aware 
of  them.  So  far  as  a  record  of  immedi- 
ate events  manifests  such  a  conscious- 
ness, it  asserts  its  right  to  be  considered 
not  as  journalism,  but  as  literature. 


The  Literary  Aspect  of  Journalism. 


849 


Nor,  further,  can  any  fortune  of  pub- 
lication establish  a  distinction  of  quality 
between  these  two  forms  of  the  printed 
word.  Not  long  ago  a  popular  Ameri- 
can writer  ventured  so  far  as  to  advance 
the  theory  that  it  is  largely  a  matter  of 
luck  whether  a  given  bit  of  writing  will 
turn  out  to  be  literature  or  not ;  unless, 
indeed,  the  act  of  putting  it  within  cloth 
covers  be  the  final  guaranty  of  its  quality. 
The  remark  was,  we  may  suppose,  not 
intended  to  be  taken  very  seriously.  It 
is  pathetically  true  that  the  quality  of 
minor  literature  is  not  determined  by  the 
accident  of  its  disappearance  or  of  its 
preservation  in  book  form.  Fortunately, 
the  research  of  special  students  and  the 
enthusiasm  of  amateur  explorers  do  suc- 
ceed in  rescuing  much  of  desert  from  the 
diluvial  flotsam  of  the  past.  Much  is 
undoubtedly  lost.  Its  vitality  has  proved 
insufficient,  over-shadowed  in  its  own 
day,  perhaps,  by  superior  vitalities.  Such 
is  the  fate  also  of  canvases,  of  statues, 
of  beautiful  buildings.  Works  of  art  are 
not  ephemeral  because  they  fail  to  live 
forever ;  we  must  not  be  unreasonable 
in  demanding  long  life  for  all  that  de- 
serves the  name  of  literature.  Granted 
that  the  literature  of  the  newspaper  re- 
port has  less  chance  of  permanence 
than  the  literature  of  the  magazine  or  of 
the  publisher's  venture :  it  nevertheless 
serves  its  purpose ;  and  perhaps  makes 
itself  felt  more  than  the  generality  sus- 
pect. It  may  happen  that  a  brief 
sketch  of  some  apparently  trivial  scene 
or  incident,  printed  in  an  obscure  jour- 
nal, actually  excels  in  pure  literary  qual- 
ity the  more  elaborate  structures  of  fic- 
tion, with  all  the  dignity  that  may  attend 
their  publication,  whether  serially  or  be- 
tween covers  of  their  own. 

It  is  evident,  moreover,  that  our  defi- 
nition of  journalism  applies  to  several 
large  classes  of  books.  There  are,  for 
example,  books  on  exploration,  physical 
or  other ;  on  anthropological  or  sociolo- 
gical experiment ;  books  recording  spe- 
cial conditions,  or  commenting  imper- 

VOL.  xcin.  —  NO.  560.  54 


son  ally  on  special  events,  of  the  day. 
The  usefulness  of  such  books  is  obvious  ; 
they  could  not  well  be  dispensed  with. 
Yet  it  is  only  in  the  hands  of  a  Carlyle 
or  an  Arnold  or  a  Ruskin  that  this  kind 
of  material  becomes  literature,  —  an  ex- 
pression of  universal  truth  in  terms  of 
present  fact.  Wherever  in  a  journal 
personality  emerges  and  fully  expresses 
itself,  literature  emerges.  Wherever  in 
literary  forms  the  occasional,  the  conven- 
tional, the  partisan,  the  indecisive  per- 
sonality, are  felt,  journalism  is  present. 

IV. 

There  is  another  modification  of  the 
recording  function  which  has  assumed 
great  importance  in  the  popular  periodi- 
cals of  the  day.  The  "  special  article  " 
represents  a  development,  rather  than  a 
transformation,  of  the  newspaper  report 
as  it  deals  with  conditions.  A  descrip- 
tion of  proposed  buildings  for  a  new 
World's  Fair  ;  a  sketch  of  the  relations 
between  Japan  and  Korea  before  the 
outbreak  of  the  Russian  war ;  an  account 
of  recent  movements  in  municipal  or 
national  politics ;  a  study  of  a  commer- 
cial trust :  with  such  articles  our  maga- 
zines are  filled.  They  are  a  legitimate 
and  useful  product  of  journalism  ;  one 
should  only  take  care  to  distinguish 
them  from  that  personal  creative  form, 
the  essay.  The  public  demand  for  such 
work  has  given  birth  to  a  new  race  of 
special  reporters,  among  whom  the  pop- 
ular idol  appears  to  be  that  picturesque 
adventurer,  the  war  correspondent.  Such 
men  do  excellent  service.  They  write 
with  vivacity  and  with  a  kind  of  indi- 
viduality ;  but  their  work  is  unlikely  to 
possess  the  qualities  which  give  perma- 
nence. It  is  a  brilliant  hazard  of  de- 
scription and  comment ;  it  does  all  that 
talent  and  special  aptitude  can  do  with 
the  material  in  hand.  Almost  inevitably, 
it  lacks  the  repose,  the  finality,  the 
beauty,  which  may  eventually  belong  to 
a  personal  or  literary  treatment  of  the 
same  material.  This  is  true  even  of  the 


850 


The  Literary  Aspect  of  Journalism. 


product  of  so  vigorous  and  effective  a 
writer  as  the  late  G.  W.  Steevens.  He 
was  somewhat  too  closely  involved  in  the 
condition  of  the  moment  "  to  see  life 
steadily  and  to  see  it  whole."  Such  men 
are  bound  to  take  sides,  and  are  conse- 
quently doomed  to  half-express  them- 
selves in  wholly  uttering  a  point  of  view 
or  a  phase.  Their  work  will  possess 
individual  unction,  but  hardly  the  force 
of  personal  inspiration.  It  is  naturally 
overestimated  by  the  public,  which  is 
convinced  that  talent  and  energy  rule 
the  world  now,  no  matter  what  may  be 
true  in  the  long  run  ;  and  that  to  rule 
the  world  now  is  the  most  important  of 
possible  achievements.  But,  indeed,  the 
value  of  such  work  is  not  small.  One 
cannot  doubt  that  it  is  more  meritorious 
for  a  person  of  moderate  ability  to  fling 
himself  into  the  press,  and  to  make  sure 
of  doing  one  kind  of  man's  work,  than 
to  sit  down  in  a  corner  and  murmur, 
"  Go  to :  I  am  about  to  be  a  .genius." 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  most  great  writers 
have  been  active  in  affairs,  in  one  way 
or  other.  The  Divine  Comedy,  Hamlet, 
Paradise  Lost,  Faust,  show  clear  traces 
of  activities  far  enough  from  the  prac- 
tice of  letters.  Nevertheless,  Milton's 
criticism  of  life  is  to  be  found  in  his 
poetry  rather  than  in  his  controversial 
prose,  and  Dante's  in  his  celebration  of 
Beatrice  rather  than  in  his  recorded  ser- 
vices to  Florence.  The  product  of  such 
energy  is  calculable,  the  influence  of 
such  genius  altogether  incalculable. 

Between  literature  and  "  the  higher 
journalism "  the  partition  is  extremely 
thin.  If  I  understand  the  term,  the 
higher  journalism  means  the  function 
of  impersonal  comment  employed  at 
its  utmost  of  breadth  and  dignity.  It 
gives  utterance  to  individual  judgment 
rather  than  personal  interpretation.  It 
aims  to  inform  and  to  convince  rather 
than  to  express.  It  displays  real  eru- 
dition, it  urges  admirable  specifics,  it 
produces,  in  fact,  printed  lectures  on  prac- 
tical themes  addressed  to  the  practical 


intelligence.  One  perceives  a  close  ana- 
logy between  the  functions  of  the  higher 
journalist  and  those  of  the  preacher,  the 
lawyer,  and  the  politician.  An  exparte 
impersonality  is  all  that  can  be  demanded 
of  any  of  them,  —  intellectual  indepen- 
dence being  a  desirable  asset,  but  the  thing 
said  being  largely  determined  by  a  policy, 
a  creed,  a  precedent,  or  a  platform.  In 
any  of  these  professions  will  appear  from 
time  to  time  the  literary  artist,  —  the 
man  escaping  from  preoccupation  with 
specific  methods  or  ends,  and  expressing 
his  personality  by  some  larger  interpreta- 
tion of  life.  Hence  come  our  Newmans, 
our  Burkes,  and  our  Macaulays. 

So  from  the  "  article  "  of  higher  jour- 
nalism literature  frequently  emerges. 
The  given  composition  ceases  to  be  a 
something  "  written  up  "  for  a  purpose, 
and  becomes  a  something  written  out  of 
the  nature  of  a  man.  It  is  not  merely  an 
arrangement  of  data  and  opinions ;  it  stirs 
with  life,  it  reaches  toward  a  farther  end 
than  immediate  utility.  Under  such  con- 
ditions the  journalist  does  honor  to  his 
craft  by  proving  himself  superior  to  it. 
He  has  dedicated  his  powers  to  a  prac- 
tical service ;  but  he  has  not  been  false 
to  his  duty  in  transcending  it. 

Nevertheless,  his  simple  duty  remains 
the  same  ;  all  that  his  office  demands  of 
him  is  official  speech.  More  than  talent 
and  conformity  belongs  to  the  few  who 
direct  the  course  of  journalism  ;  but  even 
their  admitted  powers  are  rather  for 
administration  than  for  expression.  A 
man  of  this  kind  is  content  to  embody  a 
theory  in  an  organ  or  a  group  of  organs, 
to  determine  an  editorial  policy,  and  to 
influence  public  opinion.  The  genius  of 
a  writer  like  Godkin  cannot  be  denied ; 
it  still  presides  over  the  admirable  jour- 
nal which  owes  its  prestige  to  him.  But 
it  was  a  genius  allied  with  a  moral  sense 
somewhat  too  readily  moved  to  indigna- 
tion. His  was  a  singular  instance  of  the 
nature  which  prefers  the  ardor  of  prompt 
service  to  the  ardor  of  self-utterance. 
His  work  lay,  accordingly,  upon  the  bor- 


Weeds  and  flowers. 


851 


der  regions  between  literature  and  jour- 
nalism. 

v. 

There  seems  to  be  no  need  of  serious- 
ly discussing  the  question  of  superiority 
between  the  two  forms  of  verbal  activ- 
ity. Creation  is  always  superior  to  pro- 
duction, but  that  is  not  a  fact  which 
ought  to  trouble  honest  producers.  A 
journalist  is  contemptible  only  when  by 
some  falsetto  method  he  attempts  to  lead 
the  public  into  fancying  that  it  is  get- 
ting literature  of  him.  Otherwise  he  de- 
serves, no  more  than  the  lawyer  or  the 
clergyman,  to  be  held  in  disesteem  by 
men  of  letters.  Some  discredit  has  doubt- 
less been  cast  upon  the  profession  by  the 
existence  of  that  forlorn  army  of  writ- 
ers who  would  have  liked  to  illumine 
the  world,  but  have  to  make  the  best  of 
amusing  it,  or  even  to  put  up  with  pro- 
viding it  with  information.  Since  jour- 
nalism is  a  trade,  a  person  of  reasonable 
endowment  may  have  better  hope  of 
achieving  moderate  success  in  it  than  in 
literature.  But  one  does  not  fit  himself 
for  journalism  by  failing  in  literature,  any 
more  than  one  fits  himself  for  literature 
by  failing  in  journalism.  To  have  one's 
weak  verse  or  tolerable  fiction  printed 
in  a  newspaper  does  not  make  one  a 
journalist ;  nor  does  it  turn  the  newspa- 


per into  a  literary  publication.  Literary 
graces  !  There  are  few  articles  so  un- 
promising of  any  good,  in  the  great 
journalistic  department  shop  on  which 
the  numei'ical  world  now  depends  for 
most  of  its  wants. 

The  popularity  of  journalism  in 
America  has,  we  have  noted  before,  re- 
acted upon  most  of  our  magazines  so 
strongly  that  they  are  distinguished  from 
the  better  daily  journals  by  exclusion  of 
detail  and  modification  of  method  rather 
than  by  essential  contrast  in  quality. 
Upon  the  character  of  the  daily  press,  that 
is,  depends  the  character  of  our  entire 
periodical  product ;  and  this  means,  in 
large  measure,  the  character  of  the  public 
taste.  To  afford  a  vast  miscellaneous 
population  like  ours  its  only  chance  of 
contact  with  literature  entails  a  responsi- 
bility which  may  well  appall  even  the 
ready  and  intrepid  champions  of  the  daily 
press.  While,  however,  the  night-fear  of 
the  yellow  journal  is  disturbing  enough 
to  those  who  watch  for  the  morning,  they 
will  have  pleasanter  visions,  even  now  not 
altogether  unrealized,  of  a  journalism 
more  responsible,  more  just,  more  firmly 
pursuant  of  that  fine  enthusiasm  for  ab- 
solute fitness,  for  the  steady  application 
of  worthy  means  to  worthy  ends,  which 
is  the  birthright  of  literature. 

H.  W.  Boynton. 


WEEDS   AND   FLOWERS. 

THE  flowers  are  loved,  the  weeds  are  spurned, 
But  for  them  both  the  suns  are  burned ; 
And  when,  at  last,  they  fail  the  day, 
The  long  night  folds  them  all  away. 

John  Vance  Cheney. 


852 


Books  New  and  Old. 


BOOKS  NEW  AND  OLD. 


A   FEW   SPRING   NOVELS. 


THE  flood  of  spring  fiction,1  like  other 
spring  floods,  has  been  formidable  in  pro- 
portion to  the  length  and  severity  of  the 
winter ;  but  the  river  in  which  we  stagger 
will  at  least  not  ignite. 

Out  of  a  score  or  more  of  smartly  at- 
tired volumes  the  most  important  among 
the  native  American  products  is  the 
Deliverance,  by  Miss  Ellen  Glasgow,  — 
and  even  this  is  hardly  up  to  the  high 
level  of  the  author's  previous  work.  It 
is  neither  as  broad  and  sane,  nor  as 
masterly  in  its  grasp  of  complex  and 
chaotic  social  conditions,  as  the  Voice  of 
the  People ;  nor  has  it  all  the  solemn 
unity  and  concentrated  pathos  of  the 
Battle  Ground.  Nevertheless,  it  is  a 
searching  and  a  striking  book ;  and,  like 
its  predecessors,  it  is  especially  interest- 
ing for  the  strong  light  it  sheds  on  what, 
after  a  lapse  of  forty  years,  is  only  now 
beginning  dimly  to  be  perceived  as  one 
of  the  most  momentous  consequences  to 
our  whole  country  of  the  war  of  seces- 
sion, —  the  death,  namely,  and  by  vio- 
lence, —  or,  at  least,  the  mortal  hurt, — 
of  a  comparatively  ripe  white  civilization 
in  the  Southern  United  States. 

The  scene  of  the  Deliverance  is  laid 
in  Virginia.  The  time  is  about  twenty 
years  after  the  close  of  the  civil  war. 

1  The  Deliverance.  By  ELLEN  GLASGOW. 
New  York :  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.  1904. 

Henderson.  By  ROSE  E  YOUNG.  Boston 
and  New  York  :  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  1904. 

An  Evans  of  Suffolk.  By  ANNA  FARQUHAR. 
Boston :  L.  C.  Page  &  Co.  1904. 

The  Adventures  of  Elizabeth  in  Riigen.  Lon- 
don and  New  York :  The  Macmillan  Co. 
1904. 

Violett :  a  Chronicle.  By  the  BARONESS 
VON  HUTTEN.  Boston  and  New  York :  Hough- 
ton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  1904. 

The  Day  before  Yesterday.  By  SARA  ANDREW 
SHAFFER.  New  York:  The  Macmillan  Co. 
1904. 


The  pitiful  relics  of  the  proud  old  race 
which  had  reigned  for  generations  at 
Blake  Hall,  going  their  ways  of  careless 
magnificence,  and  adored,  in  the  main, 
by  the  ever  increasing  swarms  of  their 
childish  dependents,  are  now  reduced  to 
dire  penury,  and  living  a  life  of  grinding 
toil,  on  the  produce  of  a  small  fragment 
of  the  ancestral  tobacco  fields,  in  the 
house  which  was  once  the  overseer's ; 
while  the  overseer,  Bill  Fletcher,  a  hoary 
reprobate,  who  had  stolen,  bit  by  bit,  all 
that  was  left  of  the  Blake  possessions 
after  the  fall  of  the  Confederacy,  is  in- 
stalled in  their  place  at  the  Hall. 

The  hero  of  the  tale  is  Christopher 
Blake,  the  youngest  child  of  the  fallen 
family,  and  the  intrigue  turns  upon  the 
conflict  in  his  warped  mind  between  a 
steadfast  purpose  of  revenge  upon  the 
usurper  and  his  love  for  the  usurper's 
granddaughter.  The  details  of  the  story 
are  necessarily  painful.  The  father  of 
the  Blake  children  had  fallen  early  in 
the  war.  The  mother,  blind,  paralyzed, 
and. with  memory  much  impaired,  but 
stately  and  overbearing  still,  is  actually 
kept  in  ignorance,  through  the  pious  men- 
dacity of  her  children  and  one  or  two 
devoted  old  servants,  of  the  fact  that  they 
are  no  longer  living  at  the  Hall,  and  even 

Kwaidan.  By  LAFCADIO  HEARN.  Boston 
and  New  York  :  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  1904. 

Cap'n  Eri.  By  JOSEPH  C.  LINCOLN.  New 
York :  A.  S.  Barnes  &  Co.  1904. 

Mrs.  M'Ltrie.  By  J.  J.  BELL.  New  York: 
The  Century  Co.  1904. 

Running  the  River.  By  GEORGE  CART  EG- 
GLESTON.  New  York :  A.  S.  Barnes  &  Co. 
1904. 

Said  the  Fisherman.  By  MARMADUKE  PICK- 
THALL.  New  York :  McClure,  Phillips  &  Co. 
1904. 

The  Great  Adventurer.  By  ROBERT  SHACKLE- 
FORD.  New  York:  Douhleday,  Page  &  Co. 
1904. 


Books  New  and  Old. 


853 


that  the  Southern  Confederacy  is  no  more. 
If  this  deluded  lady,  and  her  brother, — 
a  ruined  Confederate  officer,  —  horribly 
maimed  and  mutilated,  but  of  an  exceed- 
ing sweet  and  gallant  spirit,  and,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  coarse  monster  installed 
at  Blake  Hall,  seem  collectively  a  trifle 
overdrawn,  it  cannot  be  said  that  either 
is  an  impossible,  or  even  an  improbable 
figure :  while  that  is  indeed  a  keen  ob- 
server, and  a  skilled  artist  as  well,  who 
can  thus  draw  the  hero  of  the  Deliver- 
ance as  he  first  appeared  to  Fletcher's 
lawyer,  when  the  latter  came  to  Christo- 
pher as  the  bearer  of  a  peculiarly  insult- 
ing proposition  :  — 

"  He  perceived,  at  once,  a  certain 
coarseness  of  finish  which,  despite  the 
deep-seated  veneration  for  an  idle  ances- 
try, isfound  most  often  in  the  descendants 
of  a  long  line  of  generous  livers.  A  mo- 
ment later,  he  weighed  the  keen  gray 
flash  of  the  eyes,  beneath  the  thick  fair 
hair,  the  coating  of  dust  and  sweat  over 
the  high-bred  curve  from  brow  to  nose, 
and  the  fullness  of  the  jaw,  which  bore, 
with  a  suggestion  of  sheer  brutality,  upon 
the  general  impression  of  a  fine,  racial 
type.  Taken  from  the  mouth  up,  the 
face  might  have  passed  as  a  pure,  fleshly 
copy  of  the  antique  ideal ;  seen  down- 
ward, it  became  almost  repelling  in  its 
massive  power." 

The  plan  of  reprisals  over  which 
Christopher  Blake  brooded  throughout 
his  growing  years  was  a  ruthless,  not.  to 
say  a  revolting  one.  How  he  achieved 
his  grim  purpose,  and  then,  when  sud- 
denly awakened  to  a  sense  of  its  moral 
enormity,  what  he  voluntai-ily  under- 
went by  way  of  expiation,  may  best  be 
read  in  the  book  itself.  The  title  of  the 
tale  foreshadows  a  hopeful  conclusion, 
and  we  gladly  accept  its  augury.  Never- 
theless, it  is,  as  I  have  said,  the  haunting 
thought  of  a  civilization  untimely  slain, 
which  the  Deliverance,  no  less  than  the 
Battle  Ground,  leaves  uppermost  in  our 
minds. 

A  civilization  —  any  civilization  —  is 


a  blossom  of  time,  long  prepared,  and 
slowly  perfected.  A  revolution  tears  the 
flower  from  its  delicate  stem,  and  grinds 
it  into  the  dust.  The  revolution  may 
have  been,  by  all  historic  law,  a  right- 
eous one  ;  the  flower  not  worth,  upon  the 
whole,  the  lavish  cost,  to  humanity,  of  its 
culture.  The  doomed  order  may  have 
served  its  purpose,  and  deserved  its 
fate.  That  is  not  now  the  point ;  but 
simply  the  fact  that  something  fair  must 
needs  perish  even  in  a  so-called  holy 
war,  —  which  it  will  take  uncounted 
years  of  peace  to  recreate. 

One  of  the  most  memorable  passages 
in  that  very  stimulating  and  instructive 
book,  Trevelyan's  History  of  the  Ameri- 
can Revolution,  is  that  in  which  the  au- 
thor turns  aside  from  his  lively  narra- 
tive of  the  sequence  of  events  in  1776, 
to  describe  the  modest  affluence  and  quiet 
beauty  which  had,  by  that  time,  come 
to  characterize  a  good  many  of  the  rural 
homes  in  New  York  and  New  Jersey,  so 
soon  to  be  laid  waste  by  the  hireling  troops 
of  his  most  sapient  Majesty  George  III. 
The  Whig  historian  paints  a  wistful  and 
beguiling  picture  of  what  the  mere  out- 
ward aspect  of  life  on  the  Atlantic  sea- 
board might  have  been  by  this  time  if 
the  American  Revolution  had  never  taken 
place.  It  is  the  race-ideal  of  the  English 
home  :  "  All  things  in  order  stored.  A 
haunt  of  ancient  peace,"  —  a  vision  of 
mild  manners,  healthful  growth,  mod- 
erate standards,  and  mellow  surround- 
ings. He  can  hardly  be  consoled  for 
those  lost  amenities,  and  neither,  for  the 
moment,  can  I.  Yet  even  there,  —  in 
what  used,  in  those  far  days,  to  be  called 
the  Middle  States,  —  and  though  that 
favored  region  was,  and  remained  until 
the  long  conflict  was  over,  a  chief  theatre 
of  military  operations,  the  decivilizing 
consequences,  to  a  young  community, 
of  seven  years  of  war  were  hardly  as 
marked  as  in  the  North,  where  manu- 
factures were  completely  paralyzed,  and 
exhausted  men  had  to  wring  their  scant 
living  out  of  a  -harder  soil  and  under  less 


854 


Books  New  and  Old. 


kindly  skies.  I  myself  can  perfectly  re- 
member, as  a  child,  hearing  very  old 
people  describe  the  harrowing  poverty, 
and  profound  depression  among  the 
farming  population  of  New  England,  of 
the  years  immediately  following  the  war 
of  Independence.  The  men  of  the  Revo- 
lution had  indeed  won,  while  the  men  of 
the  Confederacy  had  lost ;  but  there  are 
moments  in  the  history,  both  of  individ- 
uals and  nations,  when  victory,  if  less 
galling,  seems  almost  more  barren  and 
disappointing  than  defeat.  And  so  we 
come  back  to  Miss  Glasgow,  and  her 
Southerners  of  the  old  social  order,  and 
the  good  things  which  undeniably  passed 
away  with  them. 

One  of  the  best  of  these  I  take  to 
have  been  the  most  beautiful  use  of  our 
mother  tongue,  in  every-day  speech,  that 
America  has  yet  known.  From  father 
to  son,  for  generations,  the  well-born 
Virginian  or  Marylander  went  to  Wil- 
liam and  Mary  College,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  and  lightly  forgot,  in  his  after 
life  of  landed  proprietor  and  sportsman, 
a  good  deal  of  what  he  learned  there  ; 
but  seldom  the  trick  of  that  sub-scholarly 
English,  easy,  racy,  and  felicitous,  which 
was  so  much  more  excellent  than  the 
speaker  himself  knew.  The  wives  and 
daughters  of  these  men  used  their  lan- 
guage instinctively,  but  with  a  touch  of 
added  refinement,  which  enhanced  its 
charm.  Happily  there  are  localities  and 
there  are  clans  in  which  the  tradition 
of  that  pure  speech  and  the  soft  intona- 
tions that  accompanied  it  yet  live,  and 
many  a  fondly  guarded  chest  of  old  let- 
ters ad  Familiares  to  attest  the  truth 
of  what  I  say.  When  a  Southerner  of 
the  ancient  type  stood  up,  of  fell  purpose, 
to  make  a  speech,  or  sat  down  to  write  a 
book,  he  frequently  became  stilted  and 
self-conscious ;  but  his  unstudied  utter- 
ance was  both  noble  and  simple ;  and 
most  admirable  of  all  in  that  it  was  un- 
studied. The  unconscious  use  of  gram- 
matical niceties  is  one  of  the  most  infal- 
lible marks  of  race.  I  Jiave  known  a 


white-haired  Tuscan  woman,  bearing  the 
suggestive  name  of  Massima,  who  went 
out  charring  at  two  lire  a  day,  and  who 
gracefully  apologized  for  pointing  out  to 
her  employer  that  the  latter  had  used 
an  expression  which  was  not  Dantesque. 
And  a  very  dear  old  Parisienne  —  who 
had  herself  come  down  to  taking pension- 
naires  for  practice  in  French,  said  once 
to  me :  "  Ma  belle-mere  etait  toute  grande 
dame.  She  used  the  past  subjunctive 
without  thinking"  Now  the  best  of  us 
in  New  England,  and  especially  in  Bos- 
ton, can  use  with  precision  our  equivalent 
of  the  past  subjunctive  ;  but  I  fear  we 
seldom  do  it  without  a  lurking  conscious- 
ness of  literary  merit,  and  a  modest  an- 
ticipation of  applause. 

There  is,  however,  great  danger  that 
what  we  typify  by  the  past  subjunctive 
may  soon  become  more  completely  a 
thing  of  the  past  among  us  than  even  its 
name  implies  ;  and  one  of  its  worst  foes  is 
the  lavish,  not  to  say  shameless,  employ- 
ment in  print  of  that  rude,  shapeless,  in- 
choate utterance  which  can  be  represented 
to  the  eye  only  by  bad  spelling  and  worse 
grammar,  and  which  has  no  legitimate 
claim  whatsoever  to  the  honorable  name 
of  dialect.  Even  Miss  Glasgow's  pages 
are  disfigured  by  too  much  of  what  that 
fine  purist,  Theodore  Winthrop,  used  to 
call  "  black  babble."  But  her  own  Eng- 
lish is  very  nearly  impeccable,  —  which 
is  more  than  can  be  said  for  the  unques- 
tionably clever  author  of  Henderson,  or 
the  unterrified  author  of  An  Evans  of 
Suffolk. 

Yet  it  is  hardly  fair  to  bracket  these 
two  books,  for  Henderson  is  a  great  deal 
the  better  performance  of  the  two,  and 
a  decided  advance  upon  its  predecessor, 
Sally  of  Missouri.  The  author  can  in' 
deed  use  that  as  a  qualifying  adverb, 
make  the  nicest  of  her  people  preface 
their  most  serious  remarks  by  some  such 
simian  aggregation  of  consonants  as 
"  mh-hm,"  and  write  nonsense,  in  her  own 
person,  about  "  the  dying  day,  trailing 
off  in  a  shining  halation"  and  the  "  sud- 


Books  New  and   Old. 


855 


den  break  "  in  a  woman's  "  plastic 
strength."  Nevertheless,  her  tale  is 
tersely  and  dramatically  told.  The  young 
surgeon  who  figures  as  its  hero  is  an  un- 
commonly fine  fellow,  who  passionately 
does  his  professional  best  to  save  the 
husband  of  the  woman  whom  he  loves ; 
and  may  be  said  to  deserve,  in  a  general 
way,  and  under  the  code  prevailing  in 
fiction,  that  a  big  oak  tree,  uprooted  by 
a  Missouri  hurricane,  should  fall  upon 
the  patient  he  has  loyally  healed,  in  the 
last  chapter  of  the  book  but  one. 

Miss  Young,  it  appears,  has  herself 
been  a  medical  student,  and  a  brilliant 
one.  "  There  's  only  one  little  mistake 
in  that  whole  thing !  "  was  the  admiring 
comment  of  a  successful  surgeon  on  the 
strong  chapter  entitled  the  Life  on  the 
Table,  which  first  appeared,  I  think,  in 
this  magazine.  But  let  her  make  her 
next  story  a  little  less  pathological.  A 
romance  ought  not  to  reek  of  chloroform. 

Miss  Anna  Farquhar,  having  previ- 
ously tried  her  hand  at  social  satire  in 
Her  Boston  Experiences,  and  Her  Wash- 
ington Experiences,  returns  to  the  attack 
of  the  former  city  in  An  Evans  of  Suf- 
folk, but  can  hardly  be  said  to  have 
effected  a  serious  breach  in  its  venerable 
defenses.  This  book  is  clever  too,  > —  in 
a  vain,  jaunty,  trivial  sort  of  way,  with 
a  cleverness  that  might  be  better  em- 
ployed. We  can  hardly  be  expected  seri- 
ously to  believe  that  a  respectable  Bos- 
tonian,  returning  to  his  native  town 
after  a  long  sojourn  in  Paris,  and  being 
gravely  reminded  by  somebody's  maiden 
aunt  that  her  ancestors  commanded  his 
at  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill,  is  so  pros- 
trated by  amusement  at  the  idea  as  to 
drop  upon  the  main  stairway  of  a  Bea- 
con Street  house,  in  the  midst  of  an 
evening  reception,  and  laugh  until  a 
lady's  maid  has  to  be  summoned  to  re- 
place his  missing  buttons !  As  a  bit  of 
burlesque,  upon  the  other  hand,  this  in- 
cident fails  to  amuse.  It  would  appear 
that,  after  all,  and  for  whatever  reason, 
the  ways  of  old  Boston  are  not  easy  to 


burlesque.  Surely  there  is,  even  yet, 
and  though  we  live,  as  one  may  say, 
after  the  deluge,  a  character  and  a  cachet 
about  society  there,  as  marked  as  in  that 
of  the  old-time  South  ;  yet  I  cannot  at 
this  moment  recall  a  single  really  good 
Boston  novel.  The  Bostonians  of  Mr. 
Henry  James  was  written  a  long  while 
ago  ;  and  though  the  author  had,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  full  knowledge  of  his 
theme,  and  could  never  have  committed 
those  violations  of  probability  and  sins 
against  good  taste  into  which  most  of  his 
followers  have  fallen,  his  purpose  was  a 
little  too  obviously  and  exclusively  one 
of  persiflage.  The  Rev.  Bolton  King,  in 
Let  Not  Man  Put  Asunder,  caught  a  bet- 
ter likeness,  but  was  not  quite  fair,  upon 
the  whole,  to  the  morals  of  the  Puritan 
city ;  while  Alice  Brown,  in  her  able  and 
thoughtful  story  of  Margaret  Warrener, 
did  not  pretend  to  go  outside  the  circum- 
scribed limits  of  Boston's  rather  colorless 
Bohemia.  The  true  comedy  —  and  it 
should  be  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  term 
high  comedy  —  of  the  three  hills,  and 
the  westward  flats,  and  the  reclaimed 
fens,  is  yet  to  be  written. 

The  Anglo-Germans  are  also  here,  — 
bearing  what  the  department  stores  call 
their  "  Easter  gifts."  The  tricksy  but 
ever  fascinating  Elizabeth,  who,  though 
still  reveling  in  the  joy  of  a  semi-trans- 
parent incognita,  takes  unquestioned  pre- 
cedence both  by  social  and  literary  law, 
is  at  her  best  and  brightest  in  the  new 
book,  —  a  narrative  of  the  adventures, 
comic  and  sad,  that  befell  her  in  the 
Baltic  island  of  Rtlgen.  She  would 
seem  to  have  discharged,  once  for  all,  — 
in  that  rather  caustic  tale,  the  Bene- 
factress, —  all  her  accumulated  spleen 
against  the  petty  ways  of  the  German 
female,  and  the  oppressive  ways  of  the 
German  official,  and  she  now  offers  her- 
self most  amiably  to  be  the  reader's 
guide  upon  an  entirely  novel  kind  of 
summer  tour.  Her  temper  is,  for  the 
moment,  perfectly  sunny  ;  her  wit  spon- 
taneous, unflagging,  irresistible.  Under 


856 


Books  New  and  Old. 


the  spell  of  her  careless  and  yet 
graphic  word-painting,  we  behold  great 
breadths  of  dancing  waves  and  the  sol- 
emn glory  of  ancient  beech  woods  ;  we 
see  acres  of  salt  meadow  all  silvery  with 
plumed  cotton-grass,  and  fairly  scent  the 
exhilarating  breeze  that  blows  across 
them.  And  then,  the  attendants  who 
minister  to  my  lady's  whims,  —  and  the 
few  other  tourists  whom  she  meets  upon 
her  eccentric  way,  —  Cousin  Charlotte, 
the  feministe,  and  her  ineffable  spouse  ; 
Mrs.  Harvey-Brown,  the  bishop's  lady 
from  England,  with  her  simple-minded 
son  "  Brosy,"  —  how  demurely,  how  in- 
imitably, with  what  infectious  and  yet  not 
unkindly  gayety  all  these  are  depicted  ! 

"  '  Why  Brosy  ?  '  I  took  courage  to  in- 
quire. 

" '  It  is  short  for  Ambrose,'  he  an- 
swered. 

"  '  He  was  christened  after  Ambrose,' 
said  his  mother,  '  one  of  the  Early  Fa- 
thers, as  no  doubt  you  know.' 

"  But  I  did  not  know,  because  she 
spoke  in  German,  for  the  sake,  I  suppose, 
of  making  things  easier  for  me,  and  she 
called  the  Early  Fathers  frilhseitige  Va- 
ter,  so  how  could  I  know  ?  '  Fruhzeitige 
Vater,'  I  repeated  dully.  '  Who  are 
they?' 

"  The  bishop's  wife  took  the  kindest 
view  of  it.  '  Perhaps  you  do  not  have 
them  in  the  Lutheran  Church,'  she  said  ; 
but  she  did  not  speak  to  me  again  at  all, 
turning  her  back  on  me,  quite,  this  time, 
and  wholly  concentrating  her  attention 
upon  Charlotte. 

"  '  My  mother,'  Ambrose  explained  in 
subdued  tones,  'meant  to  say  Kirchen- 
vater.' " 

Later  on  in  their  acquaintance,  Mrs. 
Harvey-Brown  confesses  that  she  had 
been  much  disappointed  in  the  Germans. 

" '  How  sensible  English  people  are 
compared  to  them  ! ' 

"  '  Do  you  think  so  ? ' 

"  '  Why,  of  course  !  In  everything.' 

"  '  But  are  you  not  judging  the  whole 
nation  by  a  few  ?  ' 


"  '  Oh,  one  can  always  tell.  What 
could  be  more  supremely  senseless,  for 
instance,'  —  and  she  waved  a  hand  over 
the  bay,  — '  than  calling  the  Baltic  the 
Ostsee  ? ' 

"  '  Well,  but  why  should  n't  they,  if 
they  want  to  ?  ' 

"  '  But,  dear  Frau  X.,  it  is  so  foolish. 
East  sea  ?  Of  what  is  it  the  east  ?  One 
is  always  east  of  something,  but  one 
does  n't  talk  about  it !  The  name  has  no 
meaning  whatever.  Now  Baltic  exactly 
describes  it.' " 

On  another  occasion,  when  Mrs.  Har- 
vey-Brown sniffs  insolence  in  a  waiter, 
she  inquires  of  the  long-suffering  Am- 
brose whether  he  does  not  think  they  had 
better  "  tell  him  who  father  is  ;  "  and 
this  parochial  use  of  the  word  father 
gives  the  reader  a  momentary  pause. 
Not  for  the  first  time  since  the  auspicious 
beginning  of  our  acquaintance  with  Eliza- 
beth do  we  catch,  amid  her  Teutonic  ac- 
cessories and  her  studied  Anglican  allu- 
sions, the  strangely  familiar  gleam  of  an 
echter Americanism.  "  Besides,"  observes 
the  inimitable  Charlotte,  when  explaining 
how  she,  too,  happened  to  be  in  remote 
Riigen,  "  I  was  run  down."  He  who 
can  tell  us  why  she  did  not  say  "  pulled 
down "  will  prove,  by  the  same  token, 
that  he  "  knows  what  Rameses  knows." 

In  Violett,  by  the  Baroness  von  Hut- 
ten  (Violett  is  a  boy's  name,  with  a  pre- 
sumable accent  on  the  final  syllable),  we 
have  a  pathetic  and  original  donnee,  and 
much  of  the  peculiar  grace  of  narration 
which  characterized  Our  Lady  of  the 
Beeches.  The  new  book  is  a  musical 
novel,  and  not  exempt  from  the  touch  of 
morbid  sentimentalism  which  no  musical 
novel  wholly  escapes.  But  the  profes- 
sional people,  in  particular,  who  figure  in 
its  pages,  are  drawn  with  a  vigor  and  veri- 
similitude which  argue  personal  acquain- 
tance ;  —  the  rather  cruel  Bohemia  where 
they  play  their  parts  is  invested  with  no 
false  glamour  ;  and  the  tragic  end  of  the 
sad  little  story  is  too  inevitable  and  too 
simply  told  to  appear  melodramatic. 


Books  New  and  Old. 


857 


As  though  to  reprove  all  puling  pes- 
simism and  warn  the  good  American 
never  to  despair  even  of  his  rude  prov- 
ince in  the  republic  of  letters,  there  comes 
quietly  to  us,  from  somewhere  in  the 
Middle  West,  a  very  modest  and  attrac- 
tive little  book,  aptly  entitled  the  Day 
before  Yesterday.  It  is  not  so  much  a 
child's  book  —  though  the  right  sort  of 
child  would  revel  in  it  —  as  a  book  about 
children,  —  a  family  chronicle,  humorous 
and  yet  reverent,  written  in  sweetest  Eng- 
lish and  with  flawless  taste.  And  what 
a  family  life  it  is  which  these  fond  recol- 
lections reflect !  —  simple,  refined,  hon- 
orable, and  pious  ;  —  the  life  of  plain  but 
thoroughbred  village  folk,  with  brave  tra- 
ditions in  this  world  and  stout  hope  for 
the  next ;  —  infinitely  amusing,  infinitely 
affecting !  The  locality  is  not  very  ex- 
actly defined.  We  only  know  that  it  was 
west  of  Ohio,  east  of  the  Mississippi,  and 
within  easy  reach  of  the  great  prairies, 
that  this  immaculate  race,  with  ancestors 
in  Virginian  churchyards,  and  cousins  in 
New  England  colleges,  had  laid  already, 
in  the  first  half  of  the  last  century,  the 
foundations  of  a  home,  the  very  moral  of 
what  Sir  George  Trevelyan  dreamed  the 
American  home  might  have  been  —  if 
only  it  had  remained  English ;  the  type 
—  thank  God  !  for  it  is  more  to  the  pur- 
pose now  —  of  many  in  that  vast  mid- 
land, which  has  come,  in  the  course  of 
human  events,  to  hold  the  balance  of  our 
national  destinies. 

Thus  far,  our  novelists  of  the  vernal 
season  have  all  been  women.  The  sex 
is  doing  its  level  best  to  monopolize  the 
great  industry  of  fiction-spinning,  and 
has  less  to  dread  this  year  than  usual, 
it  may  be,  from  its  male  competitors. 
We  find  no  very  distinguished  name 
among  these  last  except  that  of  Lafcadio 
Hearn,  who  has  collected  in  Kwaidan : 
or  Stories  and  Studies  of  Strange  Things, 
a  series  of  Japanese  ghost  stories,  dainty, 
wistful,  beautiful ;  —  all  softly  permeated 
by  that  amiable  view  of  death  which  we 
must  go  to  the  far  East  to  find  in  its  per- 


fection ;  and  rendered  into  English  with 
all  the  sympathetic  insight  and  airy  light- 
ness of  diction  of  which  the  Lecturer  on 
English  Literature  in  the  Imperial  Uni- 
versity of  Tokyo  has,  many  times  before, 
given  us  admirable  examples.  After  the 
ghost  stories  proper  come  three  Insect 
Studies,  from  Japanese  and  Chinese 
sources :  on  Butterflies,  on  Mosquitoes, 
and  on  Ants.  The  first  of  these  contains 
a  few  exquisite  English  versions  of  Jap- 
anese hokku,  or  seventeen-syllable  poems. 
The  last,  in  gravely  calling  our  attention 
to  that  very  complete  solution  of  some  of 
the  more  perplexing  of  our  social  and 
sexual  problems,  which  was  long  since 
reached  in  the  formic  societies,  furnishes 
one  of  the  most  delicate  and  delightful 
pieces  of  satire  one  has  met  for  many  a 
day.  And  we  may  profess  and  proclaim 
what  we  will  touching  the  theoretic  obli- 
gation of  national  neutrality,  —  there  is 
no  disguising  the  quickened  throb  of  sym- 
pathy which  we  all  feel,  just  now,  with 
the  gallant  little  David  of  the  farthest 
Orient,  and  the  good  fight  he  has  made, 
so  far,  against  the  Russian  Goliath. 

For  the  rest,  we  have  the  inevitable 
deluge  of  dialect,  falsely  so-called  :  —  the 
genial  crudities  of  a  nautical  Yankee 
commonly  called  Cap'n  Eri ;  a  regret- 
table attempt  to  repeat,  in  the  depress- 
ing memorials  of  one  Mrs.  M'Lerie,  the 
fortuitous  triumphs  of  Wee  Macgreegor ; 
a  number  of  dark  and  bloody  studies 
in  socialistic  fiction,  a  la  Tolstoi,  and 
a  la  Gorki ;  a  book  for  boys,  by  George 
Gary  Eggleston,  entitled  Running  the 
River,  brisk  and,  presumably,  whole- 
some, of  which  the  moral  is,  frankly, 
that  the  young  American  should  be  up 
and  making  money  ere  he  loses  the  dew 
of  his  youth. 

Finally,  we  have  two  books  by  men 
not  yet  widely  known,  but  from  whom 
we  are  led,  by  their  present  performance, 
to  look  for  something  excellent  in  the 
future.  These  are,  Said  the  Fisherman, 
by  Marmaduke  Pickthall,  and  the  Great 
Adventurer,  by  Robert  Shackleford. 


858 


Books  New  and  Old. 


The  story  of  Said,  comprising,  first 
the  Book  of  his  Luck,  and  second,  the 
Book  of  his  Fate,  is  an  Arabian  tale,  and, 
considered  merely  as  a  literary  essay,  it 
is  already  a  work  of  remarkable  matu- 
rity and  finish.  Its  inspiration  is,  of 
course,  drawn  from  the  same  inexhausti- 
ble source  as  that  of  Vathek,  and  Hadji 
Baba,  and  the  Shaving  of  Shagpat.  The 
Thousand  and  One  Nights  can  still  sup- 
ply material  for  endless  wonder-tales; 
but  while  those  which  I  have  named  are 
all  classics,  in  their  way,  the  story  of 
Said,  which  is  neither  an  intentional  sa- 
tire like  the  histories  of  Shagpat  and 
Hadji,  nor  a  mere  opium-fed  fantasia, 
like  Beckford's  famous  novel,  is  perhaps 
more  intimately  and  entirely  Oriental 
than  either.  It  is  more  so  even  than 
Kim,  because  it  is  more  purely  objective, 
and  the  author  effaces  his  own  personal- 
ity, as  Kipling  never  can.  Said  is  a 
drama  of  modern  life,  introducing  recent 
and  well-known  historic  incidents.  The 
spirit,  the  motive,  and  the  moral  of  it  — 
for  it  has  a  very  distinct  moral  —  are  all 
purely  and  simply  Mohammedan  ;  while 
the  scenery  of  the  ever  picturesque  East 
is  laid  in  by  the  hand  of  a  rare  artist. 
One  may  open  the  book  at  random,  and 
find  upon  almost  any  page  a  tiny  vignette, 
as  accurately  drawn,  as  gemlike  in  the 
brilliancy  of  its  color,  as  this  :  — 

"  It  was  the  fourth  hour  of  the  day, 
and  not  until  the  flush  of  evening  have 
men  leisure  to  go  forth  and  drink  the 
sweet  air  of  the  garden.  A  stone  bridge 
of  a  single  lofty  arch,  which  bestrode 
the  wady  lower  down,  looked  at  frag- 
ments of  its  likeness  in  the  eddies  and 
seemed  nodding  to  sleep.  The  vast  blue 
cope  of  the  firmament  paled  everywhere 
toward  the  horizon  in  pearly  haze. 
Abundance  of  leafage  compassed  the 
place  on  every  side,  but  at  one  point, 
through  a  gap  in  the  branches,  the  old 
wall  of  the  city  was  visible,  the  white 
cube  of  an  upper  chamber  peeping  over 
it,  with  a  bulging  lattice  and  a  single 
minaret  cleaving  the  soft  distance." 


It  would  be  unreasonable  to  expect 
Mr.  Marmaduke  Pickthall  ever  to  write 
much  better  than  he  has  done  in  Said ; 
but  one  must  earnestly  hope  that  he  will 
soon  —  and  yet  not  too  soon  !  —  write 
more. 

Precisely  as  far  as  the  typical  West 
from  the  traditional  East  is  the  scene  of 
the  Great  Adventurer  removed  from  that 
of  Said  the  Fisherman.  The  Adventurer 
also  may  be  described  —  in  the  journal- 
istic sense  —  as  an  "  inspired  "  book  ;  in- 
spired in  this  instance  by  the  fiery  exam- 
ple of  the  late  lamented  Frank  Norris. 
It  was  inevitable  that  the  daring  author 
of  the  Octopus  and  the  Pit  should  find 
followers  ;  and  Mr.  Shackleford  seems  an 
earnest,  virile,  and  not  altogether  unwor- 
thy one.  His  Adventurer  —  Newbury 
Linn  —  is  the  founder  of  a  stupendous 
trust,  or,  rather,  a  combination  of  many 
trusts,  aiming  at  nothing  less  than  the 
commercial  sovereignty  of  the  civilized 
world.  The  story  is  developed  with  a  cer- 
tain hard  strength.  The  author  betrays 
a  curious  apparent  indifference  to  what 
may  be  called  —  by  comparison  at  least 
with  the  colossal  iniquity  which  he  aims  to 
signalize  —  the  minor  morals.  We  miss 
altogether  from  his  dry  pages  the  poetry, 
the  passion,  the  strong  lift  of  humanistic 
enthusiasm,  which  redeemed  and  digni- 
fied the  very  meanest  episodes  in  Mr. 
Norris's  unfinished  tragedy.  Yet  the  in- 
veterate idealism  of  the  American  asserts 
itself  at  the  last,  bringing  the  too  trite 
story  of  Newbury  Linn  to  a  novel  and 
impressive  end.  The  failure  of  his  great 
scheme,  when  on  the  very  brink  of  suc- 
cess, is  due,  not  so  much  to  the  coun- 
ter-combination which  was  desperately 
planned  for  its  defeat,  as  to  a  species  of 
moral  arrest,  —  the  sudden,  but  decisive 
recoil  of  a  curiously  belated  conscience 
in  the  breast  of  the  Adventurer  himself. 
Then  resolutely,  deliberately,  of  his  own 
free  act  and  purpose,  he  undertakes  to 
dissolve  the  vast  alliance  which  had  been 
consolidated  by  his  own  Satanic  ingenu- 
ity. He  demolishes  what  he  had  reared, 


Books  New  and  Old. 


859 


undoes  the  work  of  his  life,  and  releases, 
by  his  own  fiat,  the  myriad  spirits  con- 
fined in  the  prison  of  his  tyranny.  Prosit. 
H.  W.  P. 

MUSICAL  criticism  that  is  at  once  sug- 

Mr.  Hune-      gestive    and    simple,  original 

ker's  Musi-     '    ,     ,     .          .  . 

cal  Essays,     and  obvious,  is  rare  in  these 

days  of  democracy  in  art.  The  great 
mass  of  writing  on  musical  topics  is  for 
popular  perusal,  with  little  or  nothing  to 
commend  it  to  music  lovers  who  have 
more  than  a  rudimentary  knowledge  of 
the  subject.  But  once  in  a  while  there 
appears  a  writer  who  addresses  himself 
to  the  musical  thinker,  and  whose  ideas 
are  expressed  in  such  striking  literary 
language  as  to  render  the  most  recondite 
of  them  persuasively  clear.  Such  a 
writer  is  James  Huneker,  whose  latest 
volume  *  of  essays  has  just  been  pub- 
lished. The  collection  embraces  some 
essays  that  are  not  strictly  musical. 
There  is  one  on  Nietzsche,  one  on  Flau- 
bert, the  "  Beethoven  of  Prose  "  as  he  is 
denominated,  and  one  on  Literary  Men 
Who  Loved  Music.  Several  of  them 
have  appeared  in  the  magazines,  and  are 
republished  in  amplified  and  otherwise 
altered  form.  All  are  fascinating  read- 
ing. The  volume  is  inscribed  to  Richard 
Strauss,  the  "  Anarch  of  Art,"  who  is 
the  subject  of  the  first  essay. 

Mr.  Huneker  has  written  a  brilliant 
and  comprehensive  study  of  Strauss. 
Even  allowing  for  the  natural  lean  to- 
ward his  subject  of  the  moment,  it  is 
plain  that  Mr.  Huneker  pins  his  faith 
strongly  on  the  new  anarch  of  art.  He 
finds  that  Strauss  has  restored  to  instru- 
mental music  its  rightful  sovereignty, 
threatened  by  the  Wagnerian  cohorts, 
that  he  has  revolutionized  symphonic 
music  by  breaking  down  its  formal  bar- 
riers, and  has  filled  his  tone-poems  with 
a  new  and  diverse  content.  Big  words 
these.  But  Huneker  goes  farther.  He 

1  Overtones :  A  Book  of  Temperaments.  By 
JAMES  HUNEKER.  New  York :  Charles  Scrib- 
ner's  Sons.  1904. 


does  not  hesitate  to  pit  Strauss  against 
the  master  minds  of  music  and  to  award 
him  the  palm.  "  Berlioz  never  dared, 
Liszt  never  invented,  such  miracles  of 
polyphony,  a  polyphony  beside  which 
Wagner's  is  child's  play  and  Bach's  is 
outrivaled."  One  may  protest  that  all 
this  is  extravagant,  and  that  prudence 
would  dictate  a  little  more  reserve  in 
eulogizing  the  work  of  a  man  of  forty, 
still  in  his  storm  and  stress  period ;  but 
one  must  admit  that  Huneker  has  the 
courage  of  his  convictions,  and  very  firm 
convictions  they  seem  to  be.  The  other 
side  of  the  picture,  —  Strauss's  over- 
emphasis of  color  schemes  and  mere 
size,  and  his  apparent  neglect  of  musical 
values  except  as  tested  by  programmatic 
expressiveness  —  Mr.  Huneker  ignores. 
He  concedes  that  his  musical  themes,  qua 
themes,  are  not  to  be  matched  with  Bee- 
thoven's, but  the  drift  of  his  argument 
seems  to  be  that  the  hypnotic  power  of 
Strauss's  music  prevents  the  absence  of 
that  melodic  invention,  which  calm,  crit- 
ical judgment  would  demand,  from  being 
noticed.  Or,  putting  it  in  another  way, 
Strauss's  music  may  sound  better  than 
it  is  ;  and  so  long  as  the  fact  is  disguised, 
and  no  one  the  wiser,  it  is  not  to  be  de- 
precated. However,  this  is  not  the  place 
to  discuss  Strauss,  but  Huneker ;  and  he 
has  written  an  interesting,  though  ex- 
treme, "  appreciation  "  of  the  composer 
who  to-day  is  unquestionably  the  great- 
est figure  on  the  musical  horizon. 

The  essay  on  Parsifal  is  more  or  less 
a  protest  against  the  sudden  and  exagger- 
ated wave  of  popular  enthusiasm  started 
by  the  recent  production  of  the  opera  in 
New  York.  As  such,  it  may  be  taken 
with  the  proverbial  grain  of  salt.  There 
is  something  fascinating  in  the  very  ex- 
travagance of  Mr.  Huneker's  critical  ob- 
jurgations. Of  the  book  he  says :  "  It  is 
a  farrago  of  odds  and  ends,  the  very  dust- 
bin of  his  philosophies,  beliefs,  vegeta- 
rian, anti-vivisection,  and  other  fads. 
You  see  unfold  before  you  a  nightmare 
of  characters  and  events.  Without  sim- 


860 


Books  New  and   Old. 


plicity,  without  lucidity,  without  natural- 
ness —  Wagner  is  the  great  anti-natural- 
ist among  composers — this  book,  through 
which  has  been  sieved  Judaism,  Bud- 
dhism, Christianity,  Schopenhauerism, 
astounds  one  by  its  puerility,  its  vapidity." 
He  adds  that  "  Wagner  spread  his  mu- 
sic thin  over  a  wide  surface,"  and  sums 
it  all  up  with  the  remark  that  Parsifal 
is  the  weakest  composition  its  creator 
ever  planned.  But  if  Mr.  Huneker's 
thesis  finds  few  supporters,  it  is  by  no 
means  untenable,  as  his  able  brief 
proves. 

Of  Nietzsche,  Mr.  Huneker  has  many 
acceptable  things  to  say,  and  he  gossips 
entertainingly  of  Turgenieff,  Balzac, 
Daudet,  and  George  Moore,  and  their 
attitude  toward  music.  He  has  a  fine 
and  contagious  enthusiasm  for  the  later 
Verdi,  the  turning-point  in  whose  career 
he  attributes  to  his  acquaintance  with 
Boito. 

The  essay  entitled  After  Wagner  — 
What  ?  promises  more  than  it  gives- 
Mr.  Huneker  answers  the  interrogation 
with  another :  "  Why  cannot  we  have 
the  Athenian  gladness  and  simplicity  of 
Mozart,  with  the  added  richness  of  Rich- 
ard Strauss  ?  "  And  again  another : 
11  Why  cannot  we  accept  music  without 
striving  to  extort  from  it  metaphysical 
meanings  ?  "  To  neither  question  vouch- 
safes he  an  answer.  And  so,  as  Strauss 
ends  his  tone-poem  Zarathustra  with 
the  world-riddle  unsolved,  does  Mr. 
Huneker  close  his  latest  volume  with  a 
question  unanswered  —  and  unanswer- 
able. 

Mr.  Huneker  as  a  critic  of  music  has 
the  faculty  of  giving  one  his  impressions 
with  unequivocal  directness  :  and  his  im- 
pressions are  always  worth  having.  He 
is  a  suggestive  writer,  and  in  his  point  of 
view  often  original.  His  command  of  a 
facile  pen  and  his  feeling  for  vigorous 
and  picturesque  words  make  his  criti- 
cism forceful  and  convincing.  Even  while 
one  is  quite  sure  that  he  does  not  agree 
with  a  certain  extravagant  statement,  he 


finds  himself  doubting  and,  under  the 
stress  of  the  brilliant  phrasing,  almost 
persuaded.  The  work  of  so  individual 
a  writer  is  always  welcome.  But  Mr. 
Huneker  should  guard  against  a  dash  of 
cynicism  which  now  and  then  evinces  it- 
self. Sweetness  and  light  are  of  co- 
equal importance  in  a  critic,  —  especially 
a  musical  critic.  Without  the  former 
quality  his  work  must  fail  of  perma- 
nence. Lewis  M.  Isaacs. 

Two   rather    bitter    and    pessimistic 

A  History  of  letters  from  the  composer 
American  _  .  r 

Music.          MacUowell,  recently  given  to 

the  public,  have  directed  attention  to 
the  quality  and  status  of  the  music  pro- 
duced in  this  country.  In  one  Mr. 
MacDowell  resigned  the  professorship 
of  music  which  he  had  held  at  Columbia, 
declaring  that  the  limitations  of  the  cur- 
riculum precluded  any  adequate  or  dig- 
nified development  of  the  study  of  music, 
but  adding  that  all  the  arts  were  treated 
equally  ill,  and  that  the  graduates  of  the 
university  were  little  other  than  barbari- 
ans in  their  knowledge  or  appreciation 
of  aesthetics.  In  the  other  he  asked  with- 
drawal of  a  composition  of  his  from  a 
concert  devoted  to  American  music,  on 
the  ground  that  to  put  forward  by  them- 
selves musical  works  written  by  Ameri- 
cans was  an  indignity  and  an  injustice, 
inasmuch  as  it  implied  that  they  were 
unworthy  to  be  presented  on  an  equality 
with  the  writings  of  other  composers  as 
integral  portions  of  an  impartial  pro- 
gramme. Without  pausing  to  discuss 
whether  this  last  point  be  well  taken,  or 
whether  it  might  not  be  as  forcibly 
pressed  against  a  concert  of  Flemish, 
Russian,  or  English  music,  it  is  depress- 
ing to  find  a  man  of  Mr.  MacDowelPs 
talent  and  authority  maintaining  ur- 
gently such  extreme  views  ;  and  yet  one 
doubts  whether  America  be,  after  all,  a 
musical  Nazareth  from  which  no  real 
good  is  to  come. 

But  one  feels  relieved  and   cheered 
after  examining  Mr.  Louis  C.  Elson's 


Books  New  and  Old. 


861 


volume,1  many  of  whose  statements  of 
fact,  incident,  and  personality  reassure, 
and  whose  deductions  and  prognostica- 
tions encourage.  It  should,  however,  be 
called  rather  an  essay  toward  a  history 
than  a  history  ;  for  the  materials,  which 
have  been  gathered  carefully,  and  no 
doubt  laboriously,  are  not  so  well  coordi- 
nated as  to  afford  due  proportion  and 
perspective.  So  far  as  there  is  any  com- 
plete conspectus  of  musical  progress  in 
this  country,  it  is  quite  closely  confined 
to  New  England,  although  the  early  ex- 
istence of  transplanted  English  music  in 
the  southern  colonies,  the  life  of  opera  in 
the  French  dependencies,  the  establish- 
ment of  the  Philharmonic  Society  in  New 
York,  and  the  desire  for  conservatories 
and  orchestras  throughout  the  country 
are  recognized  fully  and  fairly.  Mr. 
Elson  rightly  places  religious  music  first 
in  the  order  of  influence  and  develop- 
ment of  the  science  and  art  in  America, 
admitting  that  the  real  point  of  departure 
was  from  New  England.  Prayer  and 
praise  were  associated  in  the  minds  of 
the  early  settlers,  in  spite  of  their  many 
grim  beliefs  and  the  severe  rigidity  of 
their  psalmody,  so  that  the  first  efforts 
toward  formal  expression  of  native  musi- 
cal feeling  naturally  took  the  shape  of 
religious  songs  and  tunes,  some  of  which 
have  maintained  themselves  to  the  pre- 
sent time  as  exemplary  and  still  availa- 
ble for  public  services. 

The  expansion  of  private  gatherings 
for  practice  of  such  vocal  music  —  as 
later  for  the  social  study  of  instrumental 
compositions,  beginning  in  Boston  near 
the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century  —  into 
strong  and  permanent  societies  is  con- 
sidered justly  as  leading  to  that  diffusion 
of  musical  understanding  and  interest 
which  caused  the  formation  of  educa- 
tional institutions,  orchestras,  choruses, 
and  chamber-music  companies. 

The  large  and  ever  mooted  questions  of 

1  The  History  of  American  Music.  By  Louis 
C.  ELSON.  New  York:  The  Macmillan  Co. 
1904. 


folk-songs  and  a  distinctively  American 
musical  style  or  school  receive  chapters 
to  themselves  ;  but  the  discussion  ends 
nearly  where  it  began,  —  that  the  abori- 
ginal Indian  music  is  difficult  of  preser- 
vation and  virtually  impossible  of  assimi- 
lation into  modern  composition  because 
of  its  fluctuating  tonality  and  abnormal 
progression ;  and  that  a  national  fashion 
of  song  is  to  be  sought,  if  anywhere,  in 
the  plantation  melodies  and  "  spirituals," 
which  rudely  and  yet  tenderly  try  to 
press  the  emotional  fervor  and  pathos  of 
the  negro  nature  into  forms  borrowed  or 
adapted  from  general  vocalism.  Extreme 
value  seems  here  to  be  set  upon  the  work  of 
Stephen  C.  Foster,  who,  after  all,  merely 
created  a  species  of  song  better  and  more 
faithful  in  giving  a  graceful,  lovable  form 
to  the  sentiments  of  slave  life  than  did 
others  belonging  to  the  same  genus  and 
epoch. 

Some  divisions  of  the  book  are  devoted 
to  composers  and  directors  of  orchestral 
and  vocal  music,  to  the  spread  of  the 
opera,  to  the  participation  of  women  in 
composition,  to  the  present  conditions 
of  musical  education  and  criticism,  and 
to  the  right  and  wrong  tendencies  of  the 
American  musical  disposition,  the  latter 
deriving  chiefly  from  the  national  dis- 
inclination to  be  serious,  to  move  slowly, 
and  to  consider  intrinsic  worth  before 
superficial  brilliancy  and  material  profit. 
But  that  America  has  made  music  that 
Europe  has  welcomed  and  esteemed  is 
proclaimed  plainly  and  stoutly  as  a  cheer- 
ing fact. 

As  has  been  implied,  the  only  symmet- 
rically developed  portions  of  the  book 
relate  to  Boston  and  its  derivatives.  Yet 
this  is  probably  not  due  to  partiality, 
for  the  author  has  evidently  striven  to  be 
equitable,  but  rather  to  the  difficulty  of 
finding  and  collating  material  elsewhere. 
A  kindly  temper  prevails,  comparisons 
are  avoided,  and  gentle  judgments  are 
the  rule.  The  style  is  alert,  fluent,  and 
interesting,  but  qualified  sometimes  by  a 
lenity  that  would  suit  better  with  an 


862 


Books  New  and   Old. 


ephemeral  chronicle  than  a  permanent 
history. 

The  book  itself  is,  as  Holmes  once 
wrote,  "  a  very  heavy  quarto,"  bulky  and 
fatiguing  to  hold,  but  handsome  and 
legible  in  type,  liberally  and  relevantly 
illustrated,  and  has  a  bibliography,  to- 
gether with  an  ample  and  excellent 
index.  Howard  M.  Ticknor. 

IT  would  be  small  praise  to  say  that 
The  Moorish  Mr.  Scott's  books 1  contain  the 
Europe.  best  account  in  English  of  the 
rise  and  fall  of  Muhammadan  dominion 
in  southwestern  Europe  ;  for  these  three 
well-made  volumes,  the  result  of  twenty 
years  of  study,  will  find  few  and  poor 
competitors  in  English.  This  is  the  more 
remarkable  when  the  importance  of  Arab 
empire  in  Spain  and  Sicily  is  properly 
estimated  and  the  degree  of  influence 
exercised  on  Mediaeval  Europe  by  Islamic 
civilization  is  adequately  measured.  Un- 
fortunately, many  writers  have  still  to 
realize  that  the  influence  of  Asia  on  Eu- 
rope has  been  greater  than  that  of  Europe 
on  Asia.  Indeed,  speaking  in  the  broad- 
est sense,  the  history  of  the  world  has 
been  chiefly  the  history  of  the  inter- 
course —  religious,  intellectual,  political, 
and  economic  —  between  the  two  conti- 
nents. The  most  interesting,  perhaps  the 
most  important,  period  of  this  intercourse 
is  marked  by  the  rise  of  Islam,  the 
double  attack  on  Christendom  by  Muslim 
kingdoms  at  both  ends  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean, and  the  continued  existence  in 
Europe  of  a  Muhammadan  empire  which, 
in  the  domain  of  arts  and  sciences,  and 
in  material  civilization,  was  long  the  su- 
perior of  any  state  in  western  Europe. 
The  problems  arising  from  the  intimate 
contact  of  Latin  and  Semitic  institutions, 
and  the  variety  of  matters  in  which  Eu- 
rope was  debtor  to  the  Arab,  will  lead  the 
student  far  afield. 

The  whole  story  of    that  contact  in 

1  History  of  the  Moorish  Empire  in  Europe. 
By  S.  P.  SCOTT.  3  vols.  Philadelphia:  J.  B. 
Lippincott  Co.  1904. 


war  and  peace  is  presented  by  Mr.  Scott 
with  panoramic  effect ;  and  though  the 
method  is  discursive  and  the  style  at 
times  diffuse,  the  results  are  interesting. 
After  warning  the  reader  that  Muham- 
mad has  endured  varied  and  for  the  most 
part  unjust  treatment  at  the  hands  of 
biographers,  he  concludes :  "  If  the  ob- 
ject of  religion  be  the  inculcation  of 
morals,  the  diminution  of  evil,  the  pro- 
motion of  human  happiness,  the  expan- 
sion of  the  human  intellect ;  if  the  per- 
formance of  good  works  will  avail  in 
that  great  day  when  mankind  shall  be 
summoned  to  its  final  reckoning,  it  is 
neither  irreverent  nor  unreasonable  to 
admit  that  Muhammad  was  indeed  an 
Apostle  of  God."  Side  by  side  with 
such  praise  should  be  set  a  reiterated 
prejudice  against  Roman  Christianity  in 
the  Middle  Ages.  Arab  culture  needs 
for  its  defense  and  praise  no  such  con- 
trast as  is  presented  by  an  unmeasured 
condemnation  of  the  whole  course  of 
European  civilization  from  the  eighth  to 
the  sixteenth  century.  Indeed,  the  de- 
sire to  secure  dramatic  effect  has  in  some 
respects  impaired  Mr.  Scott's  accuracy. 
For  this,  however,  the  reader  is  partially 
prepared  by  an  examination  of  the  elabo- 
rate but  poorly  arranged  bibliography. 
Much  of  the  best  in  original  and  sec- 
ondary sources  is  to  be  noted,  but  sur- 
prising omissions  as  well  as  curious 
inclusions  are  apparent.  Macaulay  knew 
much,  but  his  History  of  England  can 
scarcely  rank  as  an  authority  on  Moor- 
ish Spain.  These  facts  are  indicative  of 
what  becomes  certain  as  doubtful  ques- 
tions are  examined.  Matters  long  se- 
riously disputed  are  treated  with  such 
confidence  and  such  obliviousness  to  the 
difficulties  which  have  taxed  the  ablest 
scholars  that  hesitation  instinctively 
arises  on  the  part  of  those  who  are  asked 
to  accept  some  of  the  author's  conclu- 
sions. Yet,  when  all  is  said  and  done, 
this  interesting  and  ardent  if  somewhat 
uncritical  presentation  deals  with  events 
and  conditions  too  long  neglected  by 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


863 


English  and  American  students.  The 
ultra-Teutonic  tendency  of  many  of  our 
histories  is  perhaps  partly  responsible 
for  this  neglect.  We  need,  in  fact,  to 


be  told  more  frequently  that  Europe  has 
not  always  fronted  to  the  Atlantic.  This 
Mr.  Scott  does  most  successfully. 

A.  L.  P.  D. 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB. 


WHAT  queer  variety  of  things  we  some- 

Things          times  come    across  in    books 

Found  In 

Books.  long     undisturbed  —  besides 

what  the  authors  and  the  printers  put 
there  !  I  have  just  opened  that  delightful 
book,  Murray  on  the  Origin  and  Growth 
of  the  Psalms,  and  there  stares  me  in  the 
face  a  number  of  blue  prints  taken  by  one 
of  my  sons  on  the  gulf -side  and  on  the  bay- 
side  of  Galveston  Island,  —  pictures  that 
bring  back  many  reminiscences.  Lovely 
sea-and-cloud  views  some  of  them  are, 
with  the  clumps  of  tamarisk  in  the  fore- 
ground, and  the  beach,  below  the  sand- 
dunes  on  which  these  grow,  stretching 
down  to  the  surf.  These  call  to  mind  a 
breeze-blown  summer  spent  partly  in  that 
fatal  Lucas  Terrace,  in  whose  ruins  the 
storm  of  1900  buried  so  many,  and  partly 
in  a  tent  close  beside  one  of  those  jungles 
of  salt-cedar.  Ah !  those  days  and  nights ! 
The  bay-side  sketches  are  of  Bremen 
steamers  and  Galveston  wharves,  and 
speak  not  so  strongly  to  the  memory. 

Another  book,  opened  at  random,  will 
reveal  a  leaf  or  flower  pressed  long  ago, 
"  in  the  time  of  the  Barmecides,"  after 
a  tramp  in  the  woods  near  Oxford,  Mis- 
sissippi, or  along  the  banks  of  the  Con- 
garee  in  South  Carolina,  or  beside  the 
Kinchatoonee  in  Georgia.  One  calls  up 
a  black  sluggish  stream,  in  the  reedy 
thicknesses  of  whose  margin  shone  forth 
suddenly  a  gemlike  flower,  a  full  reward 
for  heated  cheeks  and  dusty  feet,  help- 
ing the  dense  shade  of  the  woods  to  bring 
coolness  and  rest  to  the  youngest  of  the 
wanderers.  Another  takes  us  back  to 
the  fern-covered  bank,  to  which  we  so 


often  turned  our  steps  to  search  for  the 
earliest  anemones,  or  to  gather  in  the 
tiny  glen  near  it  our  richest  treasure  of 
golden  lady-slippers.  Still  another  trib- 
ute of  our  travels  recalls  the  slow  voyage 
in  fairy  waters  on  tlhe  gulf-coast  of  Flor- 
ida and  the  wonderful  seaweed  forms 
fished  up  from  a  coral  sea-bottom. 

Take  in  hand  that  bulky  volume,  so 
seldom  lifted  from  its  shelf,  and  it  will 
open  of  itself  at  the  place  where  was 
thrust  long  ago  the  wedding  invitation 
of  our  lively  and  charming  friend  who 
helped  to  make  a  Shakespeare  Club  in 
Cuthbert,  Georgia,  so  interesting.  But 
the  puccoon  flower  we  showed  her,  as  the 
earliest  transport  of  spring  in  the  woods 
beside  the  mill-pond,  will  be  found  in  an- 
other book,  —  perchance  in  that  Brown- 
ing our  eldest  used  to  pore  over  with 
such  zest. 

It  is  a  bad  plan  to  hide  away  precious 
things  thus,  for  our  old  loves  so  often 
cease  to  draw  us  to  their  pages.  Long 
years  have  passed  since  I  opened  a  vol- 
ume of  my  once  beloved  Noctes  Ambro- 
siaiue.  Shall  I  try  the  experiment  now  ? 
Henry  Rogers  in  the  Eclipse  of  Faith 
mentions  the  curious  circumstance  of  a 
large  sum  of  money  in  bank  bills  being 
found  in  a  family  Bible  where  they  had 
been  hidden  under  the  conviction  that 
that  book  would  be  unlikely  ever  to  be 
opened  by  any  one  but  the  secret  depos- 
itor. Let  me  not  be  so  fond  as  to  ima- 
gine treasure  in  these  lucubrations  of  Kit 
North.  There  will  be  no  twenty-dollar 
bill  found  there,  I  warrant  you  :  never 
was  there  one  of  us  so  insensate  as  to  slip 


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The   Contributors'    Club. 


money  into  a  book,  — we  spend  all  we  get 
too  fast  for  that.  But,  hey !  this  is  a 
photograph,  long  forgotten.  Can  it  be 
anybody's  sweetheart  ?  I  would  fain 
hope  not,  —  no,  not  even  a  cousin  or  a 
friend,  let  us  trust !  Indeed,  it  is  hard 
to  remember  for  whom  it  is  meant. 

Is  it  my  Greek  books  you  are  looking 
at  ?  It  is  ages  since  I  have  touched  them. 
Scholarship  is  out  of  fashion  nowadays. 
There  must  come  a  need  for  a  new  Re- 
naissance before  Hellenic  studies  will 
come  into  vogue  again.  But  do  you  ima- 
gine that  anything  striking  will  be  found 
in  these  ?  Let  me  turn  the  pages  of 
this  Antigone  and  try  a  new  kind  of 
"  Sortes  Vergilianae?'  Sure  enough ! 
there  is  a  flutter  of  falling  paper,  —  a 
cutting  from  an  old  Times-Democrat,  I 
opine.  It  is  one  of  the  most  imaginative 
of  Mrs.  Margaret  J.  Preston's  lyrics. 
My  daughter  must  have  put  it  there, 
besides  recording  the  verses  in  her  mem- 
ory, for  I  have  heard  her  repeat  them 
often.  But  why  put  them  into  the  An- 
tigone ?  It  was  the  nearest  book  at  hand, 
no  doubt,  and  it  was  the  merest  chance 
that  laid  our  poet's  pretty  fancies  side  by 
side  with  the  tragic  lines  of  Sophocles. 

As  yet  I  have  said  nothing  of  the  mar- 
ginal notes,  the  multitudinous  scribblings, 
which  now  disfigure  and  now  illuminate 
books.  Who  is  not  familiar  with  them  ? 
And  with  what  different  emotions  do  we 
come  upon  the  different  sorts  ! 

When  they  are  the  notes  of  scholars, 
we  welcome  them  as  noteworthy,  possi- 
bly precious  commentaries  on  the  text.  I 
well  remember  a  fine  copy  of  Horace, 
once  in  my  possession,  which  had  be- 
longed to  that  eminent  scholar  and  es- 
sayist, Hugh  Swinton  Legare',  and  was 
thickly  strewn  with  notes  in  his  hand- 
writing. Alas,  it  is  now  no  more,  hav- 
ing perished  in  that  Galveston  storm 
already  mentioned.  I  had  given  it  to 
an  appreciative  scholar,  whose  life  went 
out  with  the  downfall  of  Lucas  Terrace  ; 
and  all  his  possessions  were  buried  under 
its  ruins. 


But,  when  the  inscriptions  on  margin 
or  blank  page  of  the  book  you  have  in 
hand  are  the  merest  rubbish,  the  silly 
outpourings  of  a  fool's  too  ample  leisure, 
you  fume  with  unuttered  execrations  on 
his  memory,  or  laugh  loudly  at  his  idiocy, 
as  the  mood  of  the  moment  may  move 
you. 

I  have  an  old  French  Bible,  printed 
at  Basle  in  1760,  which  has  some  inter- 
esting matter  inscribed  on  the  blank  pages 
of  front  and  back.  One  of  these  inscrip- 
tions runs  thus,  —  I  give  the  spelling  of 
the  original,  — 

"Cette  petite  Bible  est  a  moi  Jean 
Bert  Si  je  la  viens  a  perdre  Celui  qui  la 
Trouvera  qui  aije  la  bonte'  de  me  la  Ren- 
dre  je  lui  donneray  une  Raisonable  Trou- 
viere'  [evidently  a  provincial  word  sig- 
nifying '  finder's  reward,'  perhaps  ori- 
ginally trouveure]  car  c'est  un  Livre  pour 
me  conssoller  et  pour  m'aprandre  a  quiter 
le  vice  et  m'atacher  a  la  vertti  Cesser  de 
mal  faire  apprandre  a  bien  faire  fuir  le 
mal  et  m  atacher  au  bien  quiter  lidolatrie 
du  monde  pour  m'atacher  au  pur  Service 
de  Dieu." 

At  the  back  of  the  book  in  another 
hand  and  in  paler  ink,  now  almost  illegi- 
ble, are  rhymed  verses  that  constitute  a 
confession  of  faith,  the  first  line  being: — 

"  J'abjure  de  bon  coeur  le  Pape  et  son  Empire," 

showing  the  writer  to  have  been  as 
sound  a  Huguenot  as  Jean  Bert,  the 
first  owner  of  the  book. 

Sometimes  one  has  surprises.  In  the 
textbook  of  one  of  my  students  I  once 
hit  upon  a  capital  caricature  of  myself. 

A  BRILLIANT  Irishman  of  Boston  says 

Educated  that  New  Yorkers  accuse  him 
Mlspronnn-  ,  ,  .  .,,  ,  .  , 

ciatlons.        of  speaking  with  an  "  educated 

mispronunciation."  The  phrase  char- 
acterizes excellently  a  kind  of  error  of 
speech  which  is  different  from  vulgar 
error  in  that  it  is  proud  of  itself  :  vulgar 
error  does  not  recognize  itself  as  error, 
and  when  it  does  arrive  at  self-conscious- 
ness it  is  heartily  ashamed. 

No  one  objects  to  the  mistakes  of  an 


The   Contributors'    Club. 


865 


educated  person  ;  they  do  much  to  make 
him  human.  Often,  too,  the  cultivated 
person  wears  his  mistakes  with  a  kind  of 
distinction,  just  as  a  well-bred  body  car- 
ries with  grace  an  ill-fitting  garment. 
But  most  odious  is  the  cultivated  error 
that  sets  itself  up  —  in  print  —  as  crite- 
rion for  the  mob.  What  intellectual  snob- 
bery !  What  narrow  provincial  urban- 
ity !  Some  months  ago  I  read  a  paper 
in  one  of  the  magazines  by  a  cultivated 
English  lady  on  what  she  called,  with  irri- 
tating assumption,  "  the  trick  of  educa- 
tion." Her  underlying  thought  was  that 
between  two  forms  equally  correct,  the 
educated  person  chooses  the  better.  That 
is  an  old  and  obvious  idea  which  I  have 
read  in  about  fifteen  textbooks  on  rhet- 
oric. And  because  it  is  old  and  obvious 
and  still  remembered,  it  is  a  good  idea. 
My  regards  to  the  lady  for  her  nice  plea 
for  fine  distinctions  !  But,  alas,  she  falls 
into  the  pitfall  which  was  digged,  by 
what  Thomas  Hardy  would  call  the 
Spirit  of  Irony,  for  the  aloof  and  high- 
stepping  few.  Why  should  she  crystal- 
lize as  correct  and  preferable  downright 
blunders,  of  which  her  particular  social 
class  happens  to  be  uniformly  guilty  ? 

With  easy  assurance  she  informs  us 
that "  girl "  does  not  rhyme  with  "  whirl " 
and  "  pearl "  and  "  curl."  She  is  a  poet, 
and  she  ought  to  know  better.  But  no, 
she  expects  us  to  give  up  our  beautiful 
lyric  about  the  little  girl  who  did  not  dress 
her  hair  in  pompadour.  How,  then,  are 
we  to  pronounce  "  girl "  ?  Listen  !  "  He 
who  says  '  girl '  to  rhyme  with  '  pearl ' 
has  less  the  trick  of  education  than  he 
who  says  '  girl '  with  the  vowel  of 
'  care.'  "  "  The  trick  of  education  seems 
indeed  to  be  fond  of  this  vowel  —  the 
vowel  of  '  care '  and  '  girl.'  "  It  must 
be  a  low-down  trick.  The  vowel  of 
"  girl  "  and  "  care,"  a  long  "  a,"  is  pro- 
nounced like  the  long  "  o  "  in  "  teeth," 
and  only  a  few  English  people  can  get  it. 

A  little  more  education  (say,  in  a  good 
university)  and  a  little  less  "  trick  of  edu- 
cation "  would  tell  this  lady  that  the  "  ir  " 


in  "  whirl  "  and  the  "  ir  "  in  "  girl  "  are 
the  same.  A  better  ear  for  language, 
and  some  study  of  the  physiology  of 
phonetics,  would  show  her  that  as  a  plain 
physical  fact  of  vocal  utterance  the  weak 
vowels  become  identical  before  "  r." 
"  R  "  is  a  sort  of  cotton  fibre  sound  which 
muffles  distinctions.  Assertion  for  asser- 
tion, by  the  facts  of  phonetics,  by  the  in- 
eluctable physics  of  sound,  "  girl  "  must 
rhyme  with  "  whirl  "  and  "  pearl  "  and 
"  curl."  And  so  it  does  in  all  the  poets. 

If  there  is  a  possible  better  pronuncia- 
tion of  "  girl,"  it  is  that  which  I  have 
heard  from  the  strong  throats  of  Scots- 
men, who  say  the  word  exactly  as  it  is 
spelled,  "  girl."  It  is  difficult  to  manage ; 
you  begin  as  if  you  were  to  speak  of  the 
gill  of  a  fish,  and  then  stuff  in  between 
the  "  i  "  and  the  "  1 "  a  good  hoarse  "  r." 
This  pronunciation  is  historical ;  it  will 
show  you  how  to  pronounce  the  word 
"  girles  "  in  Chaucer.  But  here,  again, 
though  we  have  a  more  reasonable  "  pre- 
ference," the  natural  physiology  of  sound 
forbids. 

The  same  lady  prefers  "  inerrplicable," 
"  inc&ssoluble,"  "inacceptable,"  to  "  in- 
expfo'cable,"  "  indissoluble,"  and  "  unac- 
ceptable." In  the  first  two  cases  she  is 
right,  except  that  it  is  not  a  question  of 
preference.  The  ordy  correct  pronun- 
ciation is  "  inexplicable  "  and  "  indisso- 
luble." In  the  third  case  she  is  em- 
balming two  errors.  In  the  first  place, 
the  word  "  inacceptable  "  does  not  ex- 
ist ;  she  means  "  unacceptable."  In  the 
second  place,  it  is  accented  only  on  the 
antepenult,  and  no  other  accentuation  is 
correct.  So  she  is  preferring  something 
which  is  quite  wrong. 

Cultivated  people  are  delightful  when 
they  mispronounce  ;  they  give  humbler 
folk  a  comforting  sense  of  equality. 
When,  however,  persons  of  culture  insist 
on  their  errors,  they  are  irritating.  One 
of  the  best  readers  and  speakers  I  know 
prides  himself  on  saying  "  middiff  "  for 
"  midwife."  He  fancies  that  the  least 
usual  thing  is  the  best,  and  he  is  beauti- 


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The   Contributors'    Club. 


fully  misled  in  this  case  by  "  housewife," 
which  may  be  pronounced  "  hussiff  "  if 
one  prefers.  The  pronunciation  "  mid- 
diff  "  does  not  exist.  I  have  no  quarrel 
with  his  error.  My  quarrel  is  with  his 
persisting  that  the  only  right  way  to 
pronounce  the  word  is  less  preferable. 
In  the  same  way  he  prefers  "  cumred  " 
to  "  commr&d."  He  has  a  right  to  his 
preference ;  but  once  he  cried  out  in 
alarm  because  I  said  "  commrad,"  which 
is  also  correct.  His  error  in  setting 
down  as  wrong  what  he  does  not  prefer 
is  pernicious. 

Another  critic  and  philosopher  of  my 
acquaintance  is  irritated  by  the  flat  "  a  " 
of  the  Westerner,  which  sounds  like  the 
slap  of  a  shingle  against  a  picket  fence. 
Swinging  to  the  other  extreme,  my  friend 
carefully  pronounces  "  man  "  like  the 
German  "  mann."  Oh,  blunderer  !  Oh, 
earless  one  !  To  talk  like  that  and  pre- 
tend to  give  lectures  on  poetry  ! 

The  comic  papers  have  already  made 
ridiculous  the  man  who  speaks  of 
"  chawming  weathah."  And  even  cul- 
tivated people  would  pronounce  "  r  "  if 
they  could.  In  the  east  of  America,  the 
letter  is  obsolete  before  consonants  and 
at  the  end  of  a  word.  In  the  west  it  is 
multiplied  to  the  vibrations  of  a  thou- 
sand telegraph  wires.  Who  is  left  in  the 
land  that  can  pronounce  "  carthorse  "  ? 

Well,  no  matter  about  that ;  it  is  be- 
side my  theme.  My  protest  is  aimed  at 
the  chests  of  persons  who  call  themselves 
educated,  and  boast  their  blunders  as 
part  of  their  education.  Consider  the 
lilies  !  Listen  to  the  mocking-baird  ! 
Oh,  temporary  morals  !  "  The  little 
gayrl  refused  the  unACceptable  mann." 
Would  not  that  make  even  a  Bostonian 
go  west  of  Worcester  and  rejoice  in  the 
shrill  purring  of  the  Chicago  "  r "  ? 
Would  not  that  sentence  render  even 
tolerable  the  New  Yorker's  "  little  goil 
who  oiled  hoy  coils  with  hair-oil,  and 
watched  the  little  boid  sitting  on  the 
coib-stone  "  ? 

Let  us  cleave  to  our  preferences,  but 


let  us  not  prefer  anything  that  is  posi- 
tively incorrect.  Above  all,  let  us  not 
try  to  reduce  our  preferences  for  what  is 
wrong  into  law  and  prophecy  for  the 
Common  People. 

NoTHiNGbut  that  awful  inductive  habit 

Disagreeable   W°uld  6V6r  have   led  me  to 
People  I  have  furnish  such  a  title  as  this. 
Known  Who    r^,       •     •>      .. 
have  Loved     J-he  inductive  process  is  not 

natural  to  me,  and  I  always 
feel  a  little  mean  after  using  it.  I  would 
much  prefer  to  go  on  the  rest  of  my 
days  in  my  early,  easy-going,  and  naive 
theory  that  all  who  love  plants  must  be 
lovely,  and  to  say  of  each  exception  to 
the  rule  that  it  did  not  count.  But  of 
late  the  exceptions  have  become  so  tur- 
bulent and  numerous  that  they  must  be 
reckoned  with  and  brought  into  some 
sort  of  order.  Having  for  some  time 
been  applying  a  process  of  induction, 
severe  induction,  to  my  earlier  creed,  I 
now  venture  forth  my  growing  doubts, 
in  the  hope  —  probably  entertained  by 
most  skeptics  —  that  some  one  will  prove 
them  unfounded. 

I  own  up  that,  though  I  have  gone  on 
assuming  the  loveliness  of  plant-lovers,  I 
have  always  stood  a  little  in  awe  of  peo- 
ple who  were  specially  successful  with 
plants.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  say,  rather, 
that  I  always  supposed  it  to  be  awe,  for 
of  late  I  have  come  to  feel  it  rather  a 
subtle  instinct  of  self-preservation  which 
warned  me  off  their  borders.  I  set  down 
also  the  fact  that  of  the  half-dozen  plant 
experts  who  immediately  occur  to  my 
mind  there  is  not  one  in  whose  presence 
I  could  ever  become  what  you  would  call 
rollicking,  though  I  do  not  know  that  I 
ever  put  it  to  myself  in  just  that  way 
before.  For  years  my  first  and  conven- 
tional mental  reaction  on  seeing  a  win- 
dow full  of  geraniums  in  our  village 
would  be  that  some  choice  soul  dwelt 
behind  them.  Yet  there  was  a  strange 
joylessness  about  the  discovery,  which  I 
now  realize  to  have  been  due  mainly  to 
a  subconscious  association  of  the  best  ge- 
ranium windows  with  the  largest  amount 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


867 


of  gossip.  To  this  day,  a  window  of  ge- 
raniums will  give  me  an  unpleasant  feel- 
ing of  being  watched. 

My  facts  are  not  all  in  yet,  but  from 
such  as  come  to  me  I  form  the  conclusion 
that  those  who  get  on  best  with  plants 
find  it,  as  a  rule,  rather  difficult  to  keep 
on  good  terms  with  the  highest  forms  of 
organic  matter.  You  can  snip  geraniums 
and  they  will  not  protest,  but  human 
beings  on  the  whole,  while  confessing 
many  useless  elements  in  themselves,  pre- 
fer to  part  with  them  in  a  manner  less 
peremptory  than  would  satisfy  your  flow- 
er expert.  Is  it  just  possible  that  some 
folks  take  to  plants  as  the  only  living 
thing  that  never  seems  to  answer  back  ? 

Something  of  tartness  certainly  flavors 
the  communion  of  the  average  horticul- 
turist with  his  kind.  A  boy  falls  enrap- 
tured of  all  kinds  of  people,  —  hostlers, 
sailors,  carpenters,  or  tramps,  —  but  I  re- 
call only  one  instance  of  a  boy  forming  an 
intimacy  with  a  gardener,  while  even  that 
instance  now  lies  so  dimly  in  my  mind 
that  I  cannot  vouch  for  it.  I  recall  that 
in  my  boyhood  the  citizens  of  our  neigh- 
borhood who  had  gardens,  and  worked 
in  them  evenings,  were  always  connected 
in  my  mind  with  something  acrid  and 
suspicious.  In  all  this  I  am  not  unmind- 
ful of  Professor  Child  and  his  roses,  and 
I  still  celebrate  in  my  soul  the  memory 
of  one  plant-lover  in  our  village,  whose 
gift  to  our  household  was  always  that  of 
heliotrope  and  cream,  a  gift  the  remem- 
brance of  which  softens  all  my  reflections 
of  plant  experts,  making  me  still  hopeful 
of  them  no  matter  how  much  I  may  suffer 
from  them.  But  these  are  exceptions. 

If  I  were  to  put  in  a  general  law  the 
result  of  my  experiences,  I  could  not  do 
so  better  than  by  imitating  Charles 
Kingsley's  famous  summing  up  of  John 
Henry  Newman's  attitude  toward  truth, 
and  saying  "  that  amiability  is  not  and 
on  the  whole  ought  not  to  be  a  prime 
requisite  of  people  who  are  devoted  to 
flowers." 

Of  all  people,  I  should  have  looked  to 


garden  folks  as  those  from  whom  a  gen- 
ial and  encouraging  humanity  was  most 
to  be  expected.  But  all  this  belongs 
back  in  my  deductive  days.  Now  I 
might  approach  the  office  of  a  capitalist 
with  reasonable  expectations  of  a  natural 
and  human  half-hour,  or  the  sanctum  of 
a  scholar  or  high  ecclesiastic  without 
undue  awe,  or  even  the  neighborhood  of 
a  statesman  and  yet  feel  calmly  about 
it,  as  if  he  were  nothing  but  a  human  be- 
ing raised  to  a  slightly  higher  power ; 
but  I  should  keep  an  appointment  with 
one  who  had  had  success  with  small  fruits 
or  hardy  plants  (and  written  a  book 
about  it)  with  most  of  my  natural  emo- 
tions in  full  retreat  inward.  Not  even 
the  scientific  expert  would  produce  in 
me  the  same  dread.  True,  he  knows 
enough  to  overwhelm  me  ;  but  there  is 
usually  something  so  delightfully  dun- 
derheaded  about  the  scientific  expert !  I 
feel  as  a  rule  so  sorry  for  him  to  think 
that,  with  so  much  greater  materials  at 
hand  than  I  ever  have,  he  can  draw  such 
limited  conclusions  from  it  all !  Though 
he  would  love  to  make  a  great  broad- 
chested  affirmation  he  never  quite  does 
it,  and  thus  he  appeals  to  my  sympathy. 
I  sort  of  love  him  and  like  to  be  with 
him. 

Perhaps  these  doubts  are  corroding 
my  moral  nature  in  thus  making  me 
skeptical  toward  the  goodness  which  once 
I  was  so  willing  to  take  on  trust.  Once 
you  get  started  with  distrust,  it  reaches 
out  into  regions  where  you  never  dreamed 
it  would  go,  for  here  am  I  after  years 
of  familiarity  with  the  Soliloquy  in  a 
Spanish  Cloister,  —  in  which  it  never  oc- 
curred to  me  to  feel  anything  but  disgust 
at  that  brute  of  a  monk  who  went  about 
snipping  the  blooms  from  Brother  Law- 
rence's plants,  —  here  am  I  trying  to  find 
excuses  for  the  irate  brother,  and  asking 
myself  whether  it  was  not  just  possible 
that  plants  were  only  Brother  Lawrence's 
way  of  being  disagreeable  in  the  cloister. 

Let  no  one  suppose  that  I  hate  plants. 
I  am  trying  my  best  to  dare  to  love 


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them.  What  I  rebel  against  is  the  hope- 
less feeling  of  inferiority  begotten  in  me 
by  these  minor  nature-lovers  in  connec- 
tion with  the  very  things  which  I  hoped 
would  make  me  feel  equal  and  open  and 
genial.  A  little  crabbed  by  nature,  I 
had  looked  toward  gardens  and  garden 
books  as  a  freeing  influence,  perhaps  the 
last  one  left  to  me,  and  I  am  disap- 
pointed. I  do  not  carry  a  chip  on  my 
shoulder  in  this  world,  but  have  been 
willing  to  be  inferior  in  a  hundred  dif- 
ferent ways.  The  capitalist  does  but 
represent  to  me  the  doctrine  of  election 
in  a  way  to  which  I  am  accustomed,  and 
I  never  complain  of  unequal  wealth. 
The  four  hundred  rather  interest  me 
than  otherwise.  But  when  any  one  tries 
to  make  me  feel  inferior  by  means  of 
mignonette  and  roses  and  lilacs,  I  rise 
up  in  indignation.  There 's  Elizabeth, 
to  wit,  and  her  German  Garden.  When 
have  I  ever  felt  so  much  like  a  worm 
and  no  man,  so  scornfully  rejected  as 
unfit  for  the  fellowship  of  flowers,  — and 
pretty  nearly  everything  else,  —  as  after 
reading  that?  I  could  readily  believe 
that  part  of  her  story  in  which  her  gar- 
dener himself  appeared  one  day  on  the 
scene,  gone  stark  mad,  and  I  thought  of 
what  a  well-known  historical  scholar  had 
told  me  of  the  French  Revolution,  that 
it  was  not  so  much  poverty  and  taxes  as 
it  was  scorn  which  brought  on  the  final 
disaster.  A  thousand  minor  French 
Revolutions  burned  in  my  breast.  Sup- 
posing, in  a  general  way,  that  I  had  some 
affinity  for  flowers,  here  was  my  right 
called  in  question  by  the  One  Only 
Lover  of  Plants  and  Gardens.  Between 
the  temptation  to  assert  my  rights  and 
the  inclination  to  turn  a  floral  anarchist, 
and  never  again  to  believe  in  any  one 
who  loved  plants,  my  being  was  divided 
against  itself.  For  sheer  supercilious- 
ness, the  kind  that  brought  on  the  French 
Revolution,  commend  me  not  to  the  plu- 
tocrat, nor  the  critic,  nor  the  four  hun- 
dred, but  to  the  lover  of  plants. 

Much  of  this  ardor  for  flowers  seems 


to  me  of  the  sort  spoken  of  by  Amiel 
when,  describing  some  delight,  he  says, 
"  when  once  the  taste  for  it  is  set  up  the 
mind  takes  a  special  and  keen  delight 
in  it,  for  one  finds  in  it 

Son  bien  premifcrement,  puis  le  d^dain  d'autrui, 

and  it  is  pleasant  to  one's  vanity  not  to 
be  of  the  same  opinion  as  the  common 
herd." 

But  my  earlier  assumption  comes  back 
to  me.  The  lovers  of  gardens  ought  to 
be  lovely,  and  perhaps  there  is  a  way, 
after  all.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that  on 
those  evenings  when  we  as  a  family  feel 
particularly  superior  to  the  rest  of  the 
world  we  always  select  for  reading  aloud 
one  of  the  recent  volumes  on  gardens,  I 
say  to  myself  that  the  soul  of  man  —  and 
woman  —  has  a  long  time  to  run,  and 
may  yet  grow  so  accustomed  to  the  glory 
of  the  plant  as  to  dare  to  become  more 
agreeable  about  it.  Then,  with  a  new 
tenderness  running  through  my  soul  I 
say  also,  "  Who  knows  what  has  driven 
these  people  to  horticulture  ?  If  we  knew 
all  we  might  forgive  all."  Mr.  Birrell 
has  told  us  how  despair  of  ever  settling 
such  difficult  matters  as  Apostolical  Suc- 
cession and  the  influence  of  Newman  have 
driven  some  men  to  collecting  butterflies 
and  beetles.  If  we  but  knew  what  un- 
kindlier  and  more  difficult  issues  they  had 
fled  from  we  might  forgive  all  to  these 
caustic  brothers  and  sisters  who  own 
gardens  and  have  had  success  with  small 
fruits.  Let  us  lift  up  our  heads,  then,  all 
of  us  who  have  for  the  past  five  years 
felt  so  inferior  just  because  we  could 
boast  of  nothing  but  an  old-fashioned, 
easy-going  love  for  plants,  or  could  say 
nothing  of  Wild  Animals  Who  Have 
Helped  Us.  Let  us  be  grateful  that 
life  has  been  so  normal  with  us  that  we 
have  never  been  driven  to  such  devices 
as  these. 

THE  tribulations  of  the  woman  lecturer 

Confessions  are  many ;  and  the  first  is 
of  a  Woman  ,  .  Tirr,  ,  .,  , 

Lecturer.        her  pursuit.      VY  ny  should  she 

speak  in  public,  if  she  dislikes  the  occu- 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


869 


pation  ?  asks  the  Sensible  Reader.  Sen- 
sible Reader,  the  answer  would  carry  us 
far  afield  into  psychological  mysteries. 
Suffice  it  to  say  that  even  a  woman  may 
be  so  interested  in  the  subjects  of  her  love 
that  she  cannot  refrain  from  telling  other 
people  about  them.  Moreover,  so  extraor- 
dinarily prevalent  in  this  queer  country 
of  ours  is  the  desire  of  being  lectured 
to,  that  the  many  women  beset  by  appeals 
to  speak  may  almost  say,  in  the  immortal 
words  of  Lady  Laura  Etchingham,  "It 
is  expected  of  us."  Be  these  things  as 
they  may,  one  may  shudder,  yet  accept ; 
one  may  long  for  the  Ingle  and  the 
Stocking,  yet  be  fated  to  the  Platform, 
the  Glass  of  Water,  the  Floral  Tribute, 
and  the  Attentive  Throng. 

Dim  reports  I  have  indeed  heard  from 
regions  afar  of  "  platform  women  "  who 
gloried  in  their  shame.  There  are  other 
women,  perhaps  a  number  of  them,  who 
yearn  toward  platform  and  publicity  as 
toward  an  unattained  Paradise.  One 
such  I  met  once,  —  a  large  lady,  of  so- 
norous voice.  "  I  know,"  she  said  to 
me,  with  resonant  emphasis,  "  that  my 
proper  sphere  would  be  the  Platform. 
Why  else  did  the  Lord  give  me  such  an 
organ  ?  I  could  fill  a  hall  of  ten  thousand 
people  with  this  organ.  The  only  trouble 
with  me  is  "  —  she  sighed  with  deep  re- 
gret —  "I think  and  I  think,  and  I  can- 
not seem  to  find  anything  in  particular 
that  I  could  say."  "  Would  that  all  pub- 
lic speakers,  men  and  women,  were  so 
dowered  with  self  -  knowledge  !  "  I  ex- 
claimed inwardly ;  but  I  mused  in  sadness 
on  the  perversity  of  the  little  imps  who 
withheld  the  longed  -  for  joy  from  this 
deep-throated  lady,  while  they  forced 
my  shrinking  self  before  the  footlights  ! 

One,  at  least,  of  these  feminine  vic- 
tims —  or  tyrants  —  of  the  public,  — 
whichever  you  choose  to  consider  them, 
—  suffers  unspeakable  things  when  she 
lectures,  from  the  constant  presence  of 
a  certain  Auditor.  Whether  she  face  a 
Woman's  Club  or  a  College  audience,  a 
Charity  Conference,  or  a  University  Ex- 


tension meeting,  this  Auditor  is  there. 
He  is  a  burly  man,  of  not  ungenial  aspect, 
in  brown  coat  of  antiquated  cut,  and  a 
snuffy,  crooked  wig.  At  one  point  or 
another  of  the  address  she  catches  sight 
of  him ;  terribly  often  it  is  when  an 
emotional  climax  has  been  reached,  and 
the  flushed  lecturer,  pausing  in  her  flow 
of  words,  feels  a  little  tingle  return  upon 
her  from  the  hushed,  vibrating  audience. 
At  such  a  sweet  moment  as  this  —  for 
that  the  Woman  Lecturer  has  her  sweet 
moments  I  attempt  not  to  deny  —  that 
Auditor  rises  ;  his  gruff  if  ghostly  tones 
break  in  familiar  words  upon  the  silence  : 
"  Sir,"  —  he  always  remarks,  —  though 
sometimes  no  Sirs  are  present,  —  "  Sir, 
a  woman  speaking  in  public  is  like  a  dog 
standing  upon  its  hind  legs ;  the  thing 
is  very  badly  done,  but  the  wonder  is 
that  it  is  done  at  all."  Shall  I  confess 
further  ?  I  am  tormented  on  the  plat- 
form —  doubtless  from  the  hypnotic  sug- 
gestion conveyed  in  these  words  —  by 
the  phantom  presence  of  the  little  dog  to 
whom  my  Auditor  refers.  He  is  always 
a  black  and  tan,  with  one  yellow  ear. 
The  inevitable  desk  and  frequent  floral 
decorations  conceal  him  from  the  audi- 
ence ;  but  I  see  him.  He  presses  close 
to  my  skirts,  he  rears  his  tiny  figure 
with  mincing  grace,  he  dances  precari- 
ously about,  accenting  my  periods,  and 
occasionally  when  my  eloquence  flags  I 
behold  him  with  horror  dropping  crest- 
fallen upon  his  hind  feet.  Worst  of  all, 
miserable  and  disconcerting  fact,  his 
little  red  jaws  follow  the  motions  of  my 
own.  Tell  me,  O  my  sister  lecturers,  are 
you  similarly  afflicted  ?  Tell  me,  O  Sen- 
sible Reader,  may  not  this  be  called  a 
tribulation  ? 

In  the  presence  of  this  ghostly  accom- 
paniment all  minor  inconveniences  fade 
away.  Yet  they  are  many.  Would  you 
learn  to  know  human  nature,  O  ye  who 
do  not  lecture,  put  yourselves  as  speakers 
at  the  disposal  of  a  Cause.  Not  that  the 
knowledge  you  acquire  will  be  wholly 
unpleasant.  Kindly  arrangements  will 


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often  be  made  for  your  comfort;  you 
will  even,  I  admit,  gain  as  lecturer  a 
hidden  joy  in  a  singularly  happy  sense 
of  fellowship  with  your  brother  men.  Yet, 
if  I  mistake  not,  you  will  have  occasion 
greatly  to  marvel  at  the  expectations  of 
the  public.  Hold  yourself  ready  to  at- 
tend a  Federation  five  hundred  miles 
away,  —  expenses  paid  one  way,  no  other 
perquisites,  —  for  the  privilege  of  occu- 
pying fifteen  minutes  in  presenting  your 
world-wide  theme,  —  I  have  even  known 
the  limit  to  be  ten.  "  In  order  to  secure 
variety,"  says  the  note  of  invitation,  "the 
other  addresses  of  the  evening  will  be 
upon  the  Theory  of  Mental  Healing,  and 
the  Best  Novels  of  the  Past  Six  Weeks." 
—  Or,  it  may  be,  you  will  be  asked  to 
betake  yourself  in  midwinter  to  a  distant 
village  on  the  Northern  seacoast,  where 
a  Woman's  Club  has  just  been  formed : 
"  The  Club  is  not  able  to  offer  any  fees, 
but  the  ladies  do  so  much  want  to  hear 
you.  They  wonder  if  the  offer  of  a 
week's  board  at  Mrs.  Brown's  would 
not  be  acceptable  to  you  ?  That  would 
be  a  very  nice  arrangement  for  them,  as 
the  lecture  has  sometimes  to  be  deferred 
two  or  three  days,  since  the  Club  does 
not  try  to  meet  in  stormy  weather." 

But  why  continue  ?  Many  a  tribula- 
tion turns  into  joy  when  one  has  a  sense 
of  humor.  And  then,  there  are  the 
compensating  Tributes  !  Space  forbids 
me  to  cull  from  my  choice  collection 
more  than  two :  "  I  don't  know  how  to 
thank  you  for  your  lecture,"  said  an  ef- 
fusive hearer  to  me  once.  "  It  was 
simply  the  most  eloquent  mosaic  I  ever 
listened  to."  Better  than  this,  best  and 
most  heartening  of  all,  was  my  experi- 
ence with  a  Lady  who  lives  forever  in 
the  family  annals  as  my  Disciple  from 
Nebraska.  She  was  portly  and  of  ma- 
jestic mien,  and  throughout  my  talk  she 
fixed  me  with  her  eye.  The  lecture 
over,  —  I  remember  that  it  was  a  lec- 
ture on  Shelley,  —  she  made  her  im- 
pressive way  through  the  circle  of  sym- 
pathetic people  who  always  press  up  to 


the  speaker  with  comment  and  question. 
The  circle  opened  before  her  ;  with  large 
gesture  she  clasped  my  hand,  and  gazed 
on  me  in  silence.  A  tear  welled  up  in 
her  eye.  I  returned  her  gaze,  spell- 
bound ;  the  others  waited ;  would  she  - 
never  speak?  At  last  the  words  came, 
slow  and  loud  :  — 

"  In  the  name  of  your  suffering  sis- 
ters of  Nebraska,  I  give  you  thanks," 
she  said. 

I  gasped.  I  know  now  that  I  might 
have  said,  "  Thank  Shelley,"  but  at  the 
time  this  did  not  occur  to  me.  Beside, 
she  was  going  on. 

"  And  now,"  she  continued  with  fer- 
vor, "  still  in  the  name  of  your  sisters, 
I  ask  you  a  further  favor.  I  ask  you 
for  data." 

The  lecturer  is  accustomed  to  be 
asked  for  anything  and  everything  in 
the  way  of  intellectual  wares  :  "  I  shall 
be  happy  if  I  have  any  that  can  be  of 
service,"  I  replied  obligingly.  "  Data 
on  what  ?  " 

My  Disciple  paused,  glancing  at  the 
listening  group :  — 

"  Data  on  any  subject  which  you  can 
give  will  be  a  boon,  indeed,  to  your  sis- 
ters in  Nebraska." 

I  caught  a  twinkle  in  the  eye  of  a 
friend,  and  was  lost.  Hastily  composing 
my  features,  I  gave  the  lady  from  Ne- 
braska an  appointment,  —  she  would  n't 
go  without  one,  —  and  escaped. 

The  next  morning,  when  she  was  an- 
nounced, I  went  down  to  find  her  stand- 
ing, arms  on  hips,  gravely  scrutinizing 
an  engraving  of  Mona  Lisa.  She  turned 
to  me,  the  light  of  appreciation  in  her 
eyes. 

"I  call  her  plain"  she  remarked, 
with  cheery  accent.  "  Now,  how  about 
those  data?" 

I  gave  them  to  her.  I  do  not  remem- 
ber what  they  were,  but  I  recall  that 
she  went  away  in  deep  content,  the  dusty 
reports  of  fifteen  reform  movements 
clasped  ardently,  among  other  matter, 
to  her  capacious  bosom.  I  have  not 


The   Contributors'   Club. 


871 


heard  from  her  since,  and  she  sent  me 
no  copy  of  the  paper,  which,  as  I  dis- 
covered, she  was  proposing  to  edit  for 
the  benefit  of  the  women  of  her  native 
state. 

EVEN  chemistry,  I  am  told,  is  not  so 
Contempora-  exact  a  science  as  to  exclude 
neousness.  myStery.  Does  it  not  teach 
that  certain  widely  different  compounds 
are  products,  in  the  last  analysis,  of  the 
same  elements,  combined  in  the  same 
proportions  ?  The  process  of  combina- 
tion, —  the  electric  affinities  of  atoms,  — 
there  is  the  riddle  ! 

I  was  reminded  of  these  strange  con- 
tradictions by  reading,  in  a  recent  At- 
lantic, a  review  of  certain  books  of  verse ; 
or,  rather,  by  reading  certain  generaliz- 
ations  to  which  the  critic's  subject  leads 
him.  With  all  the  world's  masterpieces 
of  poetry  to  work  with,  that  reviewer's 
mind  evolves  a  conclusion  which  satisfies 
him  as  logical  and  just;  and  here  is  my 
humbly  anonymous  intellect  producing, 
with  exactly  the  same  materials,  a  dia- 
metrically opposite  result. 

He  has  been  dealing  with  certain  "  con- 
trasting experiments  in  poetic  drama." 
The  theme  of  one  of  these  dramas,  he 
says,  "  has  the  inestimable  advantage  of 
possessing  already  a  hold  upon  the  im- 
agination of  the  general ;  an  advantage 
which  great  dramatic  poets  from  .3£schy- 
lus  to  Shakespeare  have  sedulously  pur- 
sued, and  which  the  best  of  their  suc- 
cessors down  to  Mr.  Stephen  Phillips 
have  continued  to  pursue ;  "  whereas  the 
author  of  the  other  play  "  is  actually  try- 
ing to  interpret  the  present  moment  in 
blank  verse,"  —  an  effort  which  compels 
the  bewildered  critic  "  to  think  there  is 
a  real  incongruity  between  their  sub- 
stance and  their  form."  And  at  last  we 
find  him  laying  down  the  law  thus :  — 

"  No  great  dramatic  poetry,  no  great 
epical  poetry,  has  ever  dealt  with  con- 
temporary conditions.  Only  the  austere 
processes  of  time  can  precipitate  the 
multitude  of  immediate  facts  into  the 
priceless  residuum  of  universal  truth. 


The  great  dramatists  have  turned  to  the 
past  for  their  materials,  not  of  choice, 
but  of  necessity.  Here  and  there  in  the 
dark  backward  and  abysm  of  time,  some 
human  figure,  some  human  episode,  is 
seen  to  have  weathered  the  years,  and  to 
have  taken  on  certain  mysterious  attri- 
butes of  truth ;  and  upon  this  foundation 
the  massive  structure  of  heroic  poetry 
is  builded." 

But  surely  the  contemporaneousness  of 
all  great  art  is  a  truth  too  important  to  be 
at  the  mercy  of  any  one's  experiments. 
The  masterpieces  of  every  art  —  I  ven- 
ture to  generalize  even  more  broadly 
than  the  reviewer  —  have  been  the  com- 
plete, the  ultimate  expression  of  the  age 
which  produced  them,  never  in  any  sense 
an  echo  of  any  other.  They  express  the 
universal  truth  through  the  medium  of 
the  thought,  the  feeling  of  their  own  time, 
and  they  owe  nothing  to  the  past  except 
the  basic  materials,  —  the  stones  and 
mortar,  the  words  and  the  singing  voice, 
the  vast  background  of  nature  and  hu- 
man nature,  the  dreams,  the  faith,  the 
aspirations,  which  belong  to  all  the  ages, 
though  they  take  widely  varying  forms 
in  their  progress  through  the  centuries. 

Of  course,  his  protest  is  obvious: 
"  However  expressive  of  its  age  the  mas- 
terpiece may  be,"  he  will  say,  "it  turns 
to  the  past  for  its  themes."  I  answer 
that  in  a  restricted  and  superficial  sense 
it  does  sometimes,  and  sometimes  not, 
but  that  in  a  larger  and  deeper  sense  it 
never  does.  He  will  confront  me  then 
with  instances :  What  of  Hamlet,  Mac- 
beth, Lear  ?  What  of  GEdipus,  the  Pro- 
metheus Bound,  Faust?  What  of  Par- 
adise Lost,  yea,  of  the  Iliad  itself,  whose 
heroes  lived  and  fought  centuries  before 
Homer  sang? 

But  in  eveiy  one  of  these  instances,  I 
contend,  the  theme  was  strictly  contem- 
poraneous, and  the  characters  were  the 
imaginative  embodiments  of  the  feeling 
of  the  poet's  time.  Milton's  theme  was 
the  Puritan  faith,  and  his  God,  Satan, 
Adam  and  Eve  were  most  wonderfully 


872 


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his  neighbors.  Homer  was  the  creator 
of  Achilles,  Agamemnon,  Hector,  —  yes, 
of  the  Trojan  war  itself ;  he  made  the 
whole  epic  history  out  of  a  contest  less 
poetically  promising  than  the  present 
Russo-Japanese  campaign,  and  in  doing 
it  he  made  use  of  all  the  religious  im- 
agery and  significance  with  which  his 
high-reaching  imagination,  and  that  of 
his  compatriots,  enriched  the  bareness  of 
the  theme  ;  in  short,  he  "  dealt  with  con- 
temporary conditions."  Would  the  re- 
viewer contend  that  Shakespeare  found 
in  Hamlet  or  in  Lear  a  human  figure 
which  had  "  weathered  the  years  and 
taken  on  certain  mysterious  attributes 
of  truth  "  ?  If  he  does,  let  him  strip  his 
mind  completely  of  these  great  tragedies, 
and  look  up  the  childish  old  wives'  tales 
which  served  as  the  poet's  point  of  de- 
parture. Shakespeare  took  a  hint  from 
some  foolish  ditty ;  from  that  point  he 
changed  plot  and  characters  to  suit  the 
convenience  of  his  strictly  modern  pur- 
pose, to  make  his  work  express  his  own 
feeling,  his  own  time. 

I  might  ask  him  about  certain  other 
masterpieces  of  art  in.  which  the  mate- 
rials, as  well  as  the  general  theme  and 
spirit,  are  of  the  most  absolute  contem- 
poraneousness. What,  for  example,  of 
the  Book  of  Job  and  the  Hebrew  proph- 
ecies? What  of  the  Parthenon,  of  the 
Hermes  of  Praxiteles?  What  of  the 
Gothic  cathedrals,  of  Don  Quixote,  of 
Moliere's  comedies,  of  Velasquez'  por- 
traits ?  What  of  Dante,  whose  Beatrice 
and  Francesca  he  did  not  find  in  that 
"dark  backward  and  abysm  of  time" 
where  our  critic  —  and  so  many  others, 
alas !  —  would  locate  the  treasury  of  art  ? 
For  us,  but  not  for  the  mighty  Floren- 
tine, these  ladies,  and  other  people,  his 
contemporaries,  have  "  weathered  the 
years  and  taken  on  certain  mysterious 
attributes  of  truth."  But  it  was  Dante 
who  gave  them  to  time  and  men's  hearts, 


and  all  that  has  been  said  about  them 
since  —  even  to  the  well-meaning  efforts 
of  Mr.  Stephen  Phillips  himself  —  has 
been  but  echoes  of  echoes. 

Never,  with  any  great  poet,  was  his 
theme  "  remote  "  and  "  aloof  "  from  his 
own  time.  Never  has  he  dealt  with  any- 
thing else  but  "  contemporary  condi- 
tions." It  is  only  the  minor  poet  who 
declares  himself  "  the  idle  singer  of  an 
empty  day,"  who  finds  his  age  prosaic, 
and  delves  forever  in  the  past  of  old  ro- 
mance, and  so  necessarily  becomes  more 
and  more  remote,  more  and  more  atten- 
uated, in  his  art.  Many  a  clever  and 
promising  poet  has  gone  that  way  :  Mr. 
Yeats  is  rapidly  taking  it ;  even  Mr. 
Moody  is  in  danger,  —  may  the  kind 
fates  turn  him  back  into  higher,  if 
rougher,  paths !  Mr.  Phillips  has  never 
given  evidence  of  an  original  or  modern 
mind,  but  he  does  not  keep  his  gait  along 
the  flowery,  artificial  path  of  his  choice, 
—  his  strut  becomes  more  and  more 
stilted,  and  his  instrument  gets  out  of 
tune. 

The  academic  temperament  which 
speaks  in  this  reviewer  and  in  many 
another  critic  strikes  at  the  vitality  of 
modern  art.  True,  such  strokes  cannot 
quite  be  fatal,  because  no  great  poet  will 
stop  for  any  critic.  But  the  poet  may 
be  cruelly  hampered,  heavily  impeded, 
by  such  misdirected  efforts  of  his  con- 
temporaries ;  he  may  be  compelled  to 
spend  much  of  his  time  and  energy  in 
warding  off  blows.  His  joyousness  may 
be  baffled  and  whipped  into  melancholy  ; 
his  clear  vision  may  be  clouded  with  bit- 
terness. It  is  much  easier  for  an  artist 
to  pluck  flowers  along  the  wayside  than 
to  labor  in  the  vineyard,  especially  when 
a  thousand  voices  are  pleading  for  the 
flowers.  But  the  flowers  wither  in  his 
hands,  and  only  the  grapes  produce  the 
wine  of  life.  Where  should  our  poets 
be? 


AP 
2 

A8 
v.93 


The  Atlantic  monthly 


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