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T  '26.1.  \ 


Harvard  CoUege 
Library 


By  Exchange 


r 


LIBEAEY  MAaXZINE 


/ 


t 

I 


VOL.  n.,  THIRD  SERIES. 

NovEMBEB,  1886~March,  1887. 


NEW  YORK: 

John  B.  Alden,  Publisher. 

1887. 


HARVMtO  C6UE6E  UBUW 
«Y  CXCHAHJaE 


LIBRARY    MAGAZINE. 

Vol.  II.— Third  Series.     , 

TABLE    OF    CONTENTS. 


PAOX 

lOnd,  Memoiy,  and  Wigntton  of  Birds.    MauricQ 

Tliompson 1 

Berolution  and  Erolution.  Part  II.    Leon  Metdi- 

nikofF 6 

Tbe  University  of  Jena.    Prof.  Philip  Schaif 14 

The  Arming  of  China.   Spectator 16 

Ascent  of  Mount  Etna.    Benjamin  Clarke 18 

Current  Thought 21 

Marriage  with  a  Deceased  Wife's  Sister.    Baroir 

Bramwell 25 

Acclimatization.    Ber.  J.  Q.  Wbod 88 

Scenes  in  Mary  Hewitt's  Later  life.  MaryHowitfe.    89 

Ramses  the  Great.  Chambera^s  JoumtU 46 

Corrent  Thought. 47 

Tbe  Recent  Volcanic  Eruption-  in  New  Zealand. 

Archibald  Geikie 49 

Egyptian  Divine  Myths.    Andrew  Lang 66 

Man-Eating  Tigers.    Rev.  J.  Q.  Wood  66 

^     A  MonthinSearch^of  Work.    A  Mechanic 68 

A  Pertinent  Question  Answered.  James  J.  Clark, 

andL.R.KIemm 69 

-II      Current  Thought 72 

Historical  Sketch  of  the  Jews  Since  the  Destruc- 

*  tion  of  Jerusalem.    Parti.    B.  Pick 78 

TUlinginLove.    Grant  Allen 78 

^     Hawthorne's  Romances.    W.  L.  Courtney 86 

2     Current  Thought 98 

The  Higher  Education  of  Woman.    Eliza  Lynn 

Linton 97 

Historical  Sketch  of  the  Jews  Since  the  Destruc- 
tion of  Jerusalem.    Part  H.    B.  Pick 105 

Thoughts  About  the  Comets.    Comhill  Magcunne  11 1 

Who  Wrote  Homer's  Iliad?    A.  H.  Sayce 117 

Current  Thought 1-19 

What  is  the  Bible?   J.  C.  F.  Grumbine 121 

Romanes    versua  Darwin.    Part    I.    Alfired  B. 

Wallace 127 

Tbe  Week  of  Seven  Days.    Bishop  of  Carlisle.  182 
Universal   Penny   Postage.     J.   Henniker-Hea- 

ton,M.P 188 

Current  Thought 143 

Romanes  ver*u8  Darwin.    Part  IL   Alfred  K 

»  WaUace 146 

Disease  in  Fiction.    Nestor  Tirard,  M.  D 151 

The  Moujiks  and  the  RuHsian  Democracy.    Step- 

niak 159 

Current  Thought 166 

The  Use  of  Higher  Education  to  Women.    Milli- 

oent  Garret  Fawcett 169 

Henry  D.  Thoreau.    H.  S.  Salt 174 

Lady  Book-Lovers.    Andrew  Lang 182 

Musical  Education.   Thomas*  Tapper,  Jr 189 


Page 

Molmen  and  MoUand.    Paul  Vindgradoff 189 

Current  Thought 190 

Longfellow.    I.  Charles  F.  Johnson 198 

The  Situation  in  the  East.  EmlledeLaveleye....  197 
Socialism  and    Landed  Property.    Prof.    Henry 

Sidgwick '. 204 

Water  or  Wine.    Maurice  Thomi)8on 207 

Prisoners  as  Witnesses.  I.  Justice  J.  F.  Stephen.  209 

Current  Thought. 215 

Longfellow.  II.  Charles  F.  Johnson 217 

The  Humors  of  Kerry.    Spectator 222 

Prisoners  as  Witnesses.  U.  Justice  J.  F.  Stephen.  228 
William  Barnes,  the  Dorset  Poet.  Coventry  Pat- 
more .' 280 

,  John  Qreenleaf  Whittier.    R.  E.  Prothero 286 

*  Francois    Joseph  Dupleiz.    Parb    I.    Sidney  J. 

Owen 241 

Metaphor  as  a  Mode  of  Abstraction.  Max  Mliller.  247 

,  Foundling  Quotations.    Chambers^ a  Jovtmal 259 

Sisters-in-Law.    John  F.  Mackamess,  Bishop  of 

Oxford 256 

Current  Thought 268 

iFrangols  Joseph  Dui^iz.    Part  U.    Sidney  J. 

Owen : 265 

A  Woman's  Story.    Alfred  H.  Guernsey 270 

Christianity  as  the  Absolute  Religion.  B.  F.  West- 

cott 272 

Buying  Niagara.    J.  Hampden  Robb 278 

Suppressing  a  Mob.    lieut.  Col.  W.  W.  KnoUys..  284 

Current  Thought 288 

Science  and  Morals.    T.  H  Huxley 280 

^Franyols  Joseph  Dupleix.    Part  HI.    Sidney  J. 

Owen 207 

The  Story  of  Dante's  "  Divine  Comedy."    Harri- 

ette  R.  Shattuck 808 

Scottish  Peasant  Poetess.    Alexander  Lament...  808 

Current  Thought 811 

The  Story  of  Dante's  "  Divine  Comedy."  Con- 
cluded.   Haniette  R.  Shattuck 818 

FrauQois  Joseph  Dupleix.    Part  IV.    Sidney  J. 

Owen 818 

"Wonderful  Walker."    Albert  Fleming 824 

Mohammedanism    in  Central    Africa.    Joseph 

Thomson 828 

What  is  a  Spook?    Saturday  Revieio 881 

Mr.  Punch's  Chronicles  of  the  Year  1860.    F.  C. 

Bumand,  and  Arthur  &  Beckett. 888 

Current  Thought 886 

Goethe  and  Philosophy.    Edward  Caird 887 

Nova  Scotia's  Cry  for  Home  Rule.    Mrs.  E.  C. 

Fellows 868 

Conformity  to  TSrpe.   HoDiy  Drummond. 36e 


IV 


TABLE   OF  CONTENTS. 


Paqk 
The  Lower  Education  of  Womeo.    Helen  Mo- 

KerUe....: 868 

Russian  Petroleum.    Chamben^a  Journal 874 

Vocal  Music  in  Public  School  Instruction.  Geoi^ge 

A.  Veazie,  Jr.. 878 

Current  Thought , 878 

Locksley  Hall  and  the  JubQee.   W.  E.  Gladstone.  881 

The  Aggressive  Weeda    Grant  Allen 894, 

The  literary  Pendulum.    Thomas   Wentworth 

H^ginson 89», 

Current  Thought 401 

Universitjr  Education  in  the  United  States.  Ptes. 

Charles  Kendall  Adams 408 

Charles  Stuart  Calverley.    Temjpie  Bar 412 

Byroniana.    Murray* BJiagtuane 418 

Current  Thought 420 

Rural  Life  in  Rusda.    Lady  F.  P.  Vemey 485 

Sea-Phrofes.    W.  Clark  Russell 486 

Current  Thought 445 

Hill-Digging  and  Uagic.  Augustus  Jessopp 447 

Ireland  Beyond  the  Pale.    Sir  Arthur  D.  Hayter.  460 

Current  Thought 467 

A  Learned  Infant.    ComhUl  Magcuine 460 

jtfoabite  and  Egyptian  History.    A.  H.  Sayoe —  478 
Is  Constantinople  Worth  Fighting  For?   An  Old 

Resident 481 

Dog-Killing  and  Hydrophobia.    Sir  Charles  War- 
ren  487 

Current  Thought 488 

Womanhood  in  Old  Greece.    Eliza  Lynn  Linton.  491 

The  Glacial  Period  in  America.    Grant  Allen 601 

Current  Thought 511 

In  the  Matter  of  Shakespearow  Maurice  Thompson.  618 
The  True  Reform  of  the  House  of  Lords.    Lord 

Brabazon 618 

The  White  Mountains.    Grant  Allen 521 

The  Unanimity  of  the  Jury.  Maximus  A.  Lester.  580 

Current  Thought 583 

Early  Explorations  of  America.  Arthur  R.  Ropes.  585 
Preservation  of  Food  and  Prevention  of  Disease. 

J.  McGregor-Robertson 540 

Mr.  Lowell's  Addresses.    Athenaum 558 

Current  Thought 556 


Paob 
The  Centennial  of  the  Constitution.    Benson  J. 

I-OBsing 567 

TheSun'sHeat    Na,twrt 668 

Perpy  Bysshe  Shelley.    BiacfciooocTs  UagoMiwt. .  BTH 

The  Indian  Btoker.    AHindoo 575 

Current  Thought 579 

Thomas  Hobbes.    BUnhwrgh  Review 579 

Greg's  Histoiy  of  the  United  States,    gpectaior.  601 

The  Fight  at  Otterbum.    The  Douglas  Book 608 

The  Works  of  John  Fiske.    8t!otti*h  Review 606 

Mr.  Paul  de  la  Saint^Victor.    Saturday  Review. .  607 

Current  Thought  600 

Earthquakes.    Prof.>G.H.  Darwin 601 

The  Canadinn  Padflc  Railway,  i^rterly  Review.  611 

A  New  Religion  for  the  Future.    Athenceum 619 

Byron's  Last  Venea.    Mtarray't  Magazine 690 

Current  Thought 621 

Theology  as  an  Acadendo  Discipline.    Part  I. 

A.  M.  Falrbahn 688 

Egypt  on  the  J>re  <fit  the  English  Invasion. 

Scottiah  Review 681 

Xjady  Ashburton.    Alfred  H.  Guernsey 638 

Cheating  the  Devil.    ComhOl  Magazine 640 

Luther's  Portrait  at  the  Wartburg.    Maiy  Har- 
rison  641 

Animal  Blasqueraders.    ComhiU  Magazine 649 

Current  Thought 644 

The  Scientific  Baals  of  Anarehy.   Prince  Kro- 

potkin 645 

About  Fiction.    H.  Rider  Haggard ...  656 

Healthy   Fiction  for   the  Toung.     Edinburgh 

Review 668 

Current  Thought 665* 

Theology  as  an  Academic  Discipline.    Part  IL 

A.  M.raJrbaim 667 

Our  Noble  Selves.    Forhiighily  Review 678 

Robert  Edward   Lee.     General    Lord    Garnet 

Wolseley 680 

Nine  Unpublished  Letters  of  Oliver  CremwelL 

C.H.  Firth 700 

The   English  Country  Parson.    Augustus  Jes- 
sopp   704 

Corrent  Thought 709 


INDEX, 


TABS 

A'BacErrc,  AsiHim.  Hr.  Tanch"*!  Gliroolcles  of 
tlie  YearlSBO Sas 

AocUmataniion.    Bev.  J. G.  Wood.. 88 

Adams»Pi«s.>(Siarles  Kendall.  Uni^iersity  Eduoa- 
tion  in  thecUaited  States 408 

Allen,  Grant    fUlinginLcyve... .,. 79 

—  The  Aggrenlve  Weeds 8M 

—  The  Glacial  Period  in  America (MM 

—  The  White  Moontaias &21 

America  at  Bind  of  S^teeuth  Century 83 

»  Early  Bzploiations  of.    Arthur  R.  Bopes. .. .  .685 

•-Intbe<lreatIoeAge 606 

American  Regard  for  the  Past 194 

Anardiy,  The  Gcientiflc  Basis  of.    Prince  £ro- 

potkin 646 

Anc^lo-Indian  Empire,  The  Fortunes  of 241 

Animal  Masqueraders.    ComhiU  Magazine 642 

Animals,  AocHmar.igw.tion  of 84 

—  Brain  Development  and  Improvement 2 

Ashburton,  lAdy.    Alfred  H.  Guernsey 038 

Australia,  Primeval 88 

AustriarHungaiy,  Policy  of 2DI 

Austro-Germaa  Alliance,  The 208 


ACTBOBS: 

A'Beckett,  Arthur, 
Adams,  Charles  Ken- 
dall, 
Allen,  Grant, 
Bramwell,  Baron, 
Bumand,  F.  C. 
Caird,  Edward, 
dark,  James  J., 
Clarke,  Benjamin, 
Courtney,  W.  L., 
Darwin,  Prof.  G.  H., 
Drummond,  Henry, 
Fairbaira,  A.  M.. 
Fawoett,  ICillicentG., 
Fellows,  Mrs.  E.  C, 
Firth,  C.  H., 
Geikie,  Archibald, 
Gladstone,  W.  E., 
Goodwin,  Harvey, 
Grumbine,  J.  C.  T.. 
Guernsey,  Alfred  H., 
Haggard,  H.  Rkler, 
Harnsoa.]lary, 
Hayter,  Sir  Arthur  D., 
Henniker-Heaton,  J^ 
Higginaon,  Thomas  w., 
Hindoo,  A. 
Howitt,  Mary, 
Hu^y,  T.  H., 
Jessopp,  Augustus, 
Johnson,  Charles  F., 
Xlemm,  L.  K., 
Knollys,     Lieut.    CoL 
Kropotkin,  Prince, 
Lamont,  Alexander, 


Lan^r,  Andrew, 
Laveleye.  Emile  de, 
Lesser,  Maximus  A., 
Linton,  Eliza  Lynn, 
Iiossing,  Benson  J., 
Mackamess.  John  F., 
Hclforlie,  Helen, 
Metchnikoff,  Leon, 
MttUer,  Max, 
Owen,  Sidney  J., 
Patmore,  Coventry, 
Pick.  B., 
Protnero^  E., 
Bobb,  J.  Hampden, 
Bopes.  Arthur  R., 
Russell,  W.  Clark, 
Salt,  H.  &, 
Sayoe,  A.  H., 
Sciiaif ,  lYof .  Philip, 
SbaUuck,  HarrietteR, 
^Sidgwick,  Prof.  Henry, 
Stephen,  Justice  J.  ir., 
Stepniak, 

Tapper,  Thomas,  Jr., 
Thompson,  Maurice, 
Thomson  Joseph, 
Tirard,  Nestor, 
Veazie,  George  A.,  Jr., 
Vemey,  Lady  F.  P., 
Vinogradoff,  Paul, 
allaoe,  Alfred  R., 
Warren,  Sir  Charles, 
Westcott,  B.  F., 
WolseleVfOeneiial  Lord 
Wood,  Rev.  J.  G. 


PAGX 

Babnes,  W&LZAic,  The  Dorset  Poet.    Coventry 

Patmore 230 

Beast-gods  of  Egsrpt... 61 

Bible,, The,  Whatis.    J. O.  F, Qrumhine 121 

Biology  Defined 8 

Bird-life,  Incklents  In 8 

Birds,  Migration  of 1 

~  Self -modification  of —     4. 

Kamarck  and  the  TViple  AUiaooe 206 

Book-Lovers,  Lady.    Andrew  Lang 182 

Bramwell,   Baron.    Marriage  with  «  Deceased 

Wife's  Sister 26 

Bulgarian  AfPairs,  Russian  Intervention 196 

Bumand,  F.  C.    Mr.  Punch's  Chronicles  of  the 

Year  1860 883 

Bujring  Niagara.    J.  Hampden  Bobb 278 

Byroniana.    Murraj/'M  Magazine 418 

Byron's  Last  Verses.    Murra^'^  Magaxime 620 

Caibd,  Edwabd.    Goethe  and  l%floeophy 886 

Calverley,  Charles  Stuart.    Temple  Bar 412 

Canadian  Pacific  Railway,     ^uarterlg  Review.  611 

Centennial  of  the  Constitution,  The 662 

Cheating  the  Devil.    CoryHuU  MasfCLzine 640 

China,  Political  Importance  of 16 

—  The  Arming  of .    Spectator 16 

Christianity  as  the  Absolute  Religion.    B.  F. 

Westcott .*....  272 

dark,  James    J.    Question  Concerning   Male 

Graduates  of  High  Schools 69 

Clarke,  Benjamin.    Ascent  of  Mount  Etna 18 

Colonist,  The  True,  Purpose  of 88 

Comets,    Thoughts  About    Cornhitt  Magazine.  Ill 

Conformity  to  Type-    Henry  Drummond 869 

Constantinople,  Is  It  Worth  Fighting  for?   An 

OldResident 481 

Constitution,  The  Centennial  of  the.    Benson  J. 

Loasing 657 

Courtney,  W.  L.    Hawthorne's  Bomances 85 

Creation,  Genesia  Account  of 186 

Cromwell,  Oliver,  Nine  UnpubBflhed  Letters  of. 

C.H.  Firth 700 

Current  Thought 21,  47,98,  119,  148, 

166,  190,  215,  268,  288,  811,  886,  978,  401,  420,  446, 

407,  488,  611,  682,  566,  676,  589,  621,  644,   667,  096 

Dantb's  "Divine  Comedy,"  The  Story  of.    Har- 
rietteR. Shattuck 808,  818 

Darwin,  Charles,  Merits  of 10 

Darwin,  Prof.  G.  H.    Earthquakes 601 

Darwin,  Romanes  verms.    Alfred  R  Wallace —  146 

DevU's  Mortgage  on  New  Buildings 640 

Disease  in  Fiction.    Nestor  Tirard 151 


VI 


INDEX. 


PAGE 

Disease,  Prevention  of BB& 

Dog-Killing    and    Hydrophobia.     Sir    Charles 

Warren 487 

Drummond,  Henry.    CJonf onnity  to  Type 859 

Dupleix,  Frangois  Joseph.     Sidney    J.    Owen 

ail,  3to,  297,  318 

1>RTH,  Convulsions,  Ancient  and  Modem 49 

£:arthquake8.    Prof .  0«  IL  Darwin 601 

—  and  Volcanoes,  Causes  of 60 

East,  The  Situation  in  the.    Emile  de  Laveleye. .  197 
Education,  Elementary,  in  Ruaaia 160 

—  Higher,  Use    to    Women.    Millicent   Garret 

Fawcett 169 

—  of  Woman,  The  Higher.    EUza  Lynn  Linton. .    97 

—  The  Lower,  of  Women.    Helen  McKerlie 888 

—  University,  in  die  United  States.  Pres.  Charles 

Kendall  Adams 403 

Eg>i>t  on  the    Eve  of  the  English  Invasion. 

Scottish  Review 631 

Egyptian  Divine  Aly ths.    Andrew  lAng 56 

England,  Plethora  of  Qeolus 678 

English  Country  Parson,  The.  Augustus  Jessopp.  7(M 

—  Invasion  of  Egypt 631 

Etna,  Mount,  Ascent  of«    Benjamin  Clarke 18 

—  Eruptions  of  ^ 19 

Europe,  The  Jews  in , 76,  107 

European  Politics,  China  in 17 

Evolution,  General  Law  of 10 

Faibbaisn,  a.  M.  Theology  as  an  Academic 
Discipline 633.  667 

Falling  in  Love.    Grant  Allen 78 

Fawoett,  Millicent  Garret.  The  Use  of  Higher 
Education  to  Women 109 

FeUows,.Hrs.  E.  C.  Nova  Scotia's  Cry  for  Home 
Rule 858 

Fiction,  About.    H.  Rider  Haggard. 650 

—  Healthy,  for  the  Young.    Edinburgh  Review,  063 

—  Mysteries  of 151 

Fick,  Prof ,  on  Odyastfy  of  Homer 117 

Firth,  C.  H.    Kino  Unpublished  Letters  of  Oliver 

CromweU 700 

Flske,  John,  The  Works  of.    Scottish  Review. ...  697 

Fleming,  Albert.    **  Wonderful  Walker. " 8^ 

Food,  Preservation  of 549 

French  Revolution,  Effect  on  Jewish  History 108 

Gjcikis,  Archibald.  The  Recent  Volcanic  Erup- 
tion in  New  Zealand 49 

Glacial  Period  in  America,  The.    Grant  Allen . .      504 
Gladstone,   W.   E.    **Locksley  Hall''  and  the 

Jubilee  881 

Goethe  and  Philosophy.    Edward  Caird 888 

Goodwin,  Harvey.    The  Week  of  Seven  Days 138 

Greek  Ideal  of  Womanhood 49S 

Greg's  History  of  the  United  States.    Spectator.  591 
Grimm,   Professor.     Latin   Dictionary  of   the 

Greek  Testament 16 

Grumbine,  J.  C.  F.    What  is  the  Bible? 121 

Guernsey,  Alfred  H.    A  Woman's  Story 270 


Guernsey,  Alfred  H.    Lady  Aahburton. , 


PA.OB 

..  688 


Haooaro,  H.  Rider.    About  Fiction 666 

Harrison,  Mary.    Luther's  Portrait  at  the  Wart- 
burg  641 

EEarvard  University,  Two  Hundred  and  Fiftieth 

Anniversary 408 

Hase,  Dr.    Compendium  of  Church  History 15 

Hawthorne's  Romances.    W.  L.  Courtney 86 

Hayter,  Sir  Arthur  D.    Ireland  Beyond  the  Pale.  460 
Henniker-Heaton,    J.  Universal  Penny  Postage.  188 

Herculaneum,  Destruction  of 60 

Higginson,  Thomas  Wentworth.    The  Literary 

Pendulum 899 

Hill-Digging  and  Magic.  Augustus  Jessopp 447 

Hindoo,  A.    Thelndian  Broker 675 

Hobbes,  Thomas.    Edinburgh  Review 679 

Homer's  Dlad,  Who  Wrote?    A.  H.  Sayce. 117 

Howitt,  Mary.    Scenes  in  Later  Life  of . .' 89 

Huxley,  T.  H.    Science  and  Morals 289 

Hydrophobia 487 

Indian  Broker,  The.    A  Hindoo 675 

Ireland  Beyond  the  Pale.    Sir  Arthur  D.  Hayter  460 

Jena,  Description  of 14 

Jews,  Historical  Sketch  of.    B.  Pick 77,  106 

Jessopp,  Augustus.    Hill-Digg^ing  and  Magic —  447 

—  The  English  Country  Parson 704 

Johnson,  Charles  F.    Longfellow 193,  217 

Jury,  The  Unanimity  of  the.  Mazimus  A.  Lesser.  680 

Kerry,  The  Humors  of.    Spectator 223 

Klemm,  L.  R.    Letters  Concerning  Male  Gradu- 
ates of  High  Schools 70 

Knollys,  Lieut.  Col.  W.  W.    Suppressing  a  Mob..  284 
Kropotkin,    Prince.     The  Scientific    Basis   of 
Anarchy 845 

Lamomt,  Alexander.  Scotland's  Peasant  Poetess.  808 
Lang,  Andrew.    Egyptian  Divine  Myths 56 

—  Lady  Book-Lovers 188 

Laveleye,  Emile  de.    The  Situation  in  the  East..  197 

Learned  Infant,  A.    ComhiU  Magazine 409 

Lee,    Robert   Edward.    General    Lord    Garnet 

Wolseley 689 

Lesser,  Maximus  A.  The  Unanimity  of 'the  Jury.  590 

Life,  Organic  and  Inorganic 8 

Lilly  on  3fa<ert€Uiam , 289 

Linton,  Eliza  Lynn.    The  Higher  Education  of 

Women >f 97 

—  Womanhood  in  Old  Greece 491 

Lipsius,  Professor.    Works  and  Teachings 15 

Literary  Pendulum,  The.    Thomas  Wentworth 

Higginson 899 

"Locksley    HaU"    and    the   JubUee.    W.    E. 

Gladstone 881 

Longfellow.    Charles  F.  Johnson *. . . .  .198,  217 

Lords,  the  House  of.  The  True  Reform  of.  Lord 

Brabazon 618 

Lossing,  Benson  J.    The  Centennial  of  the  Con- 
stitution  5W 


INDEX 


vli 


PAOS 

liove.  Selective  Process  Sdentfflcally  Considered.    70 

Lowell's,  Mr.,  Addresses.    Athenoium 658 

Luther's    Portrait    at    the    Wartbiirg.    Mary 
fiarnsoii 641 

McKeiklzb,  Hklkk.    The*  Lower  Education  of 

Women 868 

Mackomess,  John  F.,  Bishop  of  .Oxford.   Sisters- 

in-Law 266 

Ma^,  The  Arts  of 466 

]tfalthusian  Law,  Observations  upon 10 

Man£:itins  Tigers.    Rev.  J.  G.  Wood 66 

Marriogef  Various  Grounds ^.    88 

~  With    a     Deceased     Wife's    Sister.     Baron 

Bnunwell 85 

3llarsh,  Professor.    Studies  of  Ancient  Birds 2 

Mary   Ilowitt's  Later  Life,   Scenes    in.    Mary 

Howitt 89 

Metaphor   as  a  Mode    of     Abstraction.    Max 

MaUer - 847 

Metcbnikoff ,  Leon.    Revolution  and  Evolution . .      6 
Mind,  Memory,  and  Migration  of  Birds.  Maurice 

Thompson 1 

Moflkbite  and  Egyptian  History.  A.  H.  Sayce 478 

Mob,  Suppressing  a.    Ueut.  Ck)l.  W.  W.  KnoUys.  2&4 

Mohammedan  Countries,  Jews  in Ill ' 

Mohammedanism   in    Central  Africa.    Joseph 

Thomson 886 

Molmen  and  MoUand.    Paul  Vinogradoff 189 

Moujlks,  The,    and  the    Russian    Democracy. 

Stepniak 100 

lifUler,  Max.    Metaphor  as  a  mode  of  Abstrac- 
tion  247 

Music,    Vocal,   in    Public   School    Instruction. 

George  A.  Veazie,  Jr 876 

Musical  Education.    Thomas  Tapper,  Jr 167 

Myths,  Egyptian,  Chief 62 

Nbw  ZxAi^AMD,  Geyser  Districts  of ......   ^ 

Niagara,  Movement  to  Preserve 278 

Nova  Scotia's  Cry  for  Home  Rule.     Mrs.  £.  C. 
Fellows ..858 

Ottbbbubm,  The  Fight  at  DouglasBook 603 

Our  Noble  Selves.    t^orintghUtj  Review 678 

Owoi  Sidney  J.    f^angois  Joseph  Dupleix.  .241,  265, 

297,  818 

Patmobe,  CovsKTBT.  William  Bames,  the  Dorset 

Poet 880 

Feiuiy  Postage,  Universal   J.  Henniker-Heaton.  189 
Pertinent  Question  Answerad,  A.  James  J.  Clark 

andLR-Klemm 60 

Fetroleimi,  Russian.    ChambenfM  Journal 874 

Physiological  Selection,  Theory  of 148 

Pick,  B.    Historical  Sketch  of  the  Jews 77,  105 

Pompeii,  Destruction  of 61 

Postage  Bates 189 

Preservation  of  Food  and  Prevention  of  Disease. 

J.  McGregor-Robertson 649 

Prteoners  as  Witnesses.  Justice  J.F.Stei)lien.JUe,  228 


PAGE 

Frothero,  R.  £.    John  Greenleaf  Whittier 286 

Punch's,  Mr.,  Chronicles  of  the  Year  1860.    F.  C. 
Bumand  and  Arthur  A'Beckett 882 

QuoTATXoKs,  Foundling.  Chamberti'9  Journal —  258 

Rabbits,  Depredations  of 86 

Rabies,  Prevalence  of 487 

Railway  Service,  Impori»noe  to  Canada 616 

Ramses  the  Great.    Chamberti' a  Journal 46 

Religion,  A  New,  for  the  Future.    Athenaunt. . .  618 

—  Early,  Origin  and  Nature  of 56 

Religious  Sects  in  Russia 160 

Revolutioa  and  Evolution.  Part  IL    Leon  Metcb- 
nikoff   '  6 

Robbt  J.  Hampden.    Buying  Niagara 878 

Romanes  versus  Darwin.  Alfred  R.  Wallace.  .127,  145 
Ropes,    Arthur    R.     Early     Explorations     of 

America? 535 

Russell,  W.  Clark.    Sea-Phrases 436 

Russia,  Petroleum  Yield  of 873 

—PoUtical  and  Social  Crisis 161 

—  Rural  life  in.    Lady  F.  P.  Vemey 425 

Russian  Democrats 159 

Saikt-Victor,  M.  Paul  dx  la.  Saturday  Review.  697 

Salt,  H.  S.    Henry  D.  Thoreau 174 

Sayce,  A.  H.    Moabite  and  Egyptian  History 478 

—  Who  Wrote  Homer's  Iliad? 117 

Schaff,  Philip,  Prof.  The Universityof  Jena.  ...    14 
Science  and  Morals.    T.  H.  Huxley.. ^^ 280 

—  daasiflcation  of 7 

»  Debt  to  Novelists 158 

Scotland's  Peasant  Poetess:    Alexander  Lamont.  808 

Sea-Phrases.    W,  Clark  Russell 486 

Shakespeare,  In  the  Matter  of.    Maurice  Thomp- 
son  618 

Shattuck,  Harriette  R.    The  Steiy  of  Dante's 

"Divine Comedy." 808,  818 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe.   Bktckwood^^  Magazine . .  670 
Sidgwick,  Prof.  Heniy.    Socialism  and  Landed 

Propertsy • 201 

Sister84n-LAW«    J<Uu&  F>  Macharaess,  Bishop  of 

Oxford 256 

Socialism  and  Landed  Property^    Prol  Henry 

Sidgwick 204 

Socialistsof  Earlier  Part  of  Nineteenth  Century.  647 
Sparrow,    Gonsequenoes   of    Introduction  into 

America  and  New  Zealand 87 

Spook,  What  is  a?   Saturdmy  Review 831 

Stephen,    Justice   J.    F.      Prisoners    as    Wit- 
nesses  209,228 

Stepniak.    The  Moujiksand  the  Russian  Democ- 
racy   » 160 

Sun,  EJective  Powierof 116 

Sun's  Heat,  The.    Ncdwre 662 

Superstition, purieus «...  640 

Tafpkb,  Tbomab,  Jb.    Musical  Education........  167 

Tarawera  Range,  The  Eruptions  of ...    68 

Taxation  of  Foreign  Coomierce... .«.....,.  140 


TUl 


INDEX. 


PAOB 

TezmyHon  in  "  Locksley  Hall " HSH 

Testament,  New,  Place  in  the  Bible 123 

—  Old,  Classification  of  Booka  of 121 

Theology  as  an  Academic  Discipline.  A.  M.  Fair- 

baim .  ffiS,  eW7 

Thompson,  Maurice.    In  the  Matter  of  Shakes- 
peare      613 

—  Mind,  Memory,  and  Mj^n^atlon  of  Birds 1 

—  Water  or  Wine  ? 207 

Thomson,  Joseph.    Mohammedanism  in  Oentral 

Africa 820 

Thoreau,  Heniy  D.    H.S.  Salt 174 

Tirard,  Nestor.    Disease  in  Fiction 151 

Trial  by  Jury 580 

Tseng,  Marquis,  as  a  Diplomatist 17 

Untted  States,  Ck>Ilege6  of 403 

—  Greg's  History  of.    Spectator 501 

University  of  Jena,  The.    Prof.  Philip  Schaff...    14 

Vbazix,  Oborgk  a.,  Jiu   Vocal  Music  In  Public 

School  Instruction 876 

Vegetables.  Acclimatization  of 85 

Vemey,  Lady  F.  P.    Rural  Life  in  Russia 4*:26 

Vesuvius  in  the  First  Century 51 

Vinogradoff ,  Paut   Molmen  and  MoUand. 189 


PAOB 

Volcanic  Eruption  in  New  Zealand,  The  Recent. 
Archibald  Geikie 48 


Wallack,  AunucD  R.    Romanes   venug   Dar- 
win  127,146 

"  Walker,  Wonderful. "    Albert  Fleming 824 

Wallm«,  Alfred  R.    Romaner  '*^er«ti«  Darwin 146 

Warren,  Sir  Charles.    Dog-Killing  and  Hydro- 
phobia     487 

Water  or  Wine?    MaxMce  Thompson 207 

Weeds,  The  Aggressivev    Grant  Allen . .  394 

Week  of  Seven  Days,.  The.    Harvey  Goodwin, 

Bishop  of  Carlisle 132 

Westcott.  B.  Fk   Christianity  as  the  Absolute  Re- 
ligion     272 

Whito  Mountains,  The.   Grant  Allen 621 

Whlttier,  John  Greenleaf .   R.  E.  Prothero 286 

Wolseley,  General  Lord  Garnet.    Robert  Edward 

Lee...... 689 

Womanhood  in  Old  Greece.    Eliza  Lynn  Linton..  491 

Woman's  Story,  A.    Alfred  H.  Guernsey 270 

Wood,  Rev.  J.  G.   Acclimatization 33 

—  Man-Eating  Tigers 66 

Work,  A  Month  in  Search  of.    A  Mxcbanio 68 

Worldng  Classes,  Concessions  to 64B 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


MIND,  MEMORY  AND   MIGRATION 

OP   BIRDS. 

Without  preliminary  negotiations,  or  spe- 
cial preparations  of  any  kind,  I  took  possession 
of  an  old  building  which  once  had  been  a 
**gin-hou8e."  Now  bear  in  mind  that  I  do 
not  mean  gin-mill  when  I  write  gin4iouse, 
for  the  words  are  far  from  synonymous.  My 
new  abode  was  pictiu-esquely  dilapidated  and 
stood  in  the  midst  of  a  dense  growth  of  young 
pine  trees.  From  a  window  1  had  a  view, 
through  a  rift  in  the  foliage,  of  a  small  blue 
lake  and  a  wide  stretch  of  green,  rush-cov 
ered  marsh.  An  ancient  peach  and  pear  or- 
chard was  close  at  hand,  the  venerable  old 
neglected  trees  standing  knee-deep  in  a  mass 
of  scrubby  scions. 

This  gin-house,  instead  of  having  once  been 
a  place  where  intoxicating  drinks  were  con- 
cocted and  sold,  was  simply  the  wreck  of  an 
old  j^lantation  cotton -ginning  establishment; 
indeed  here  was  an  abandoned  and  overgrown 
estate  which  formerly  had  been  the  pride  of  a 
flouthem  planter  of  great  wealth  and  social 
and  political  power.  The  stately  mansion  had 
disappeared,  saving  the  fragments  and  ruins 
of  some  stuccoed  brick  columns  and  the  amor- 
phous heaps  ot  rubbish  suggestive  of  chim- 
neys and  foundation  pillars;  nor  was  there 
much  left  to  remind  one  of  the  agricultural 
ivealth,  formerly  the  largest  of  this  broad  area 
now  given  over  to  a  thrifty  growth  of  strong 
young  trees  and  to  a  wild,  musical  mob  of 
birds.  A  considerable  marsh,  once  drained  by 
a  rude  wind-mill  and  cultivated  in  sea-island 
cotton,  had  been  reclaimed  by  the  tide-water 
(which  now  crept  in  rhythmically  through 
many  breaks  in  the  little  dyke)  and  had  become 
a  home  of  the  herons  and  biKems.  Remnants, 
more  pathetic  than  picturesque,  of  the  tall 
shaft  and  pumping  apiMuratus  belonging  to 


the  mill  lay  in  a  moldering  and  rusting  heap 
beside  the  water. 

My  gin-house  was  a  poor  shelter  if  it  should 
rain,  but  I  could  supplement  it  with  my 
waterproof  blanket;  and  then  the  climate  was 
very  kind  at  worst.  How,  indeed,  could  a 
climate  be  more  tender  in  its  concessions  to 
one's  preferences?  A  breeze  from  the  gulf, 
salty  and  exhilarating,  or  a  waft  from  the 
{)ine-woods,  fragrantly  heavy  with  terebinth 
and  balm,  was  blowing  day  and  night,  and 
the  medley  of  bird  songs  was  accompanied 
with  the  effective  counterpoint  of  the  distant 
sea-moan.  There  was  romance  in  the  atmos- 
pheric perspective  on  both  water  and  land  as 
well  as  in  the  story  suggested  by  the  ruins  all 
around  me,  and  a  few  of  my  readers  will 
readily  recall  from  experience  of  their  own 
how  sweet  an  auxiliary  to  realistic  study  is 
this  influence  of  romance.  Science,  through 
which  realism  works  its  only  wonders  (for 
realism  in  fiction  is  a  fraudulent  pretence), 
science,  I  say,  is  itself  most  charming  when 
its  light  flickers  on  the  filmy  and  misty  verge 
of  Nature's  romance,  and  your  genuine  lover 
of  science  is  far  from  averse  to  making  his 
dryest  studies  under  circumstances  of  the  most 
picturesque  sort.  I  do  not  claim  that  I  chose 
my  old  cotton-gin  house  on  account  of  its 
poetical  suggestiveness;  this  quality  was  sim- 
ply a  great  charm  added  to  a  six>t  possessed 
of  many  practical  advantages  in  aid  of  my 
purpose,  which  was  a  peculiar  line  of  bird- 
study. 

On  one  side  a  fresh-water  lakelet,  on  the 
other  side  the  Gulf  of  Mexico — great  marsh 
meadows  and  reaches  of  sand-bar — dense  for- 
ests, thickets,  old  fields  given  over  to  Nature, 
orchards  left  to  the  will  of  the  mocking-birds 
and  their  friends  and  foes — everything,  in- 
deed, to  favor  my  quest  was  in  view,  with  the 
romance  and  the  beauty  thrown  in  for  good 


2 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


luiuu^ure.  So,  swinging  my  hammock  from 
thi'  heavy  1)eams  of  tlie  gin-housd  loft,  aad 
kMviiig  the  care  of  the  mule  and  the  spring* 
wagon  to  my  hired  free  man  of  color,  who 
wiks  to  be  my  factotum,  I  abandoned  myself 
to  the  study  in  hand,  feeling  that  for  once 
many  elements  had  joined  themselves  together 
to  enhance  my  physical  and  spiritual  comfort. 
Here  on  the  latest  fringe  of  Nature's  geologi- 
cal formation,  with  all  the  newest  discoveries 
of  natural  science  at  hand  in  the  shape  of 
books  and  memoranda,  and  with  fishes,  birds, 
reptiles  and  mammals,  water  of  sea,  stream 
and  lake,  woods,  marshes  and  swamps,  with 
all  the  range  of  plants  growing  in  them,  what 
more  could  I  wish? 

It  was  comforting  to  realize  what  a  differ 
ence  there  must  be  between  life  now  and  life 
some  million  or  more  years  ago;  for  there  has 
been  a  period  in  the  past  when  I  should  have 
had  to  be  content  with  sitting  upon  some 
bleak,  sandy  cretaceous  shore  and  studying 
those  mockeries  of  birds  with  which  Nature 
was  fond  of  experimenting  in  he  infancy. 

Professor  Mareh  has  carefully  studied,  de- 
scribed and  figured  the  remains  of  an  ancient 
bird  which  he  ha^  named  Hesperomis  regalis; 
and  'v^hich  in  shape  and  habits  resembled  a 
loon.  He  makes  a  striking  comparison  be- 
tween the  brain  cavity  of  the  ancient  and  that 
of  the  modern  bird,  and  draws  the  inference 
that,  as  in  the  case  of  mammals  and  reptiles, 
there  hiis  been  a  steady  increase  of  intelligence 
in  the  avian  animal  from  the  most  remote 
period  of  its  existence  down  to  the  present 
time.  Here  is  a  suggestion  arising  from  the 
fact  of  this  constant  brain-development:  may 
not  brain -improvement,  which  is  another 
phrase  for  intelliffence-developmentj  account 
in  a  large  degree  for  the  gradual  self  modify- 
ing of  species  to  suit  the  environment?  Dar- 
win's law  of  the  survival  of  the  fittest  pre- 
supposes simply  the  fittest  physically;  but  the 
film  of  vague  intelligence  primarily  planted 
in  the  animal  no  doubt  gave  the  impulse 
toward  the  proper  habitat  and  also  that  initial 
elasticity,  which  has  became  so  powerful, 
ren«lering  self -modification  to  suit  changes  in 
surroiindingB  not  only  possible  but  compara- 
ti\  cly  easy. 


Probably,  when  all  manner  of  life  was 
largely  elementary  and  weak,  the  cmuliiiot.s 
of  change  were,  almost  infinitely  mild  and  all 
the  movements  of  Nature  slow  and  gentle. 
In  those  times  little  intelligence  was  needed 
to  enable  the  fittest  to  survive.  It  may  be 
assumed  that  brain  and  nerve-centers  increased 
in  size  and  strength  as  necessity  compelled  an 
increase  of  nervous  exercise ;  but  such  an 
assumption  compasses  a  great  deal  not  di- 
rectly expressed  by  the  phrasing  of  it,  for  the 
influence  of  the  mind  upon  the  body,  even  in 
the  case  of  a  low  animal,  is  great  and  mani- 
fold. Indeed,  I  believe  that  the  whole  matter 
of  physical  modification  in  animals  brought 
about  by  the  exigencies  of  change  in  environ- 
ment, is  referable,  in  an  obscure  and  indirect 
way,  to  that  influence.  What  we  attempt  to 
express  by  the  word  de^re  is  nothing  more 
than  a  natural  (though  it  may  be  a  sadly  de- 
based) impulse  toward  another  state.  In  its 
broadest  and  freest  sense  desire  is  merely  the 
initial  effort  of  a  being  toward  a  new  experi- 
ence or  a  lost  estate,  in  other  words,  it  is  the 
consciousness  of  a  need  coupled  with  an  im- 
pulse in  the  direction  obtaining  it.  The  mind- 
cure  fraud  is  based  upon  the  efldcacy  of  desire. 
The  concentration  of  the  mind  upon  any  par- 
ticular part  of  the  body  certainly  affects  the 
part,  and  the  effect  may  be  to  produce  local 
disturbance  of  a  peculiar  kind,  or  to  destroy 
a  result  of  local  lesion,  provided  the  lesion  be 
not  more  than  a  disturbance  of  nervous  eqiu- 
librium.  From  the  point  of  view  thus  taken 
one  may  see  one's  way  clear  to  an  inference 
as  simple  as  it  is  strong:  evolution  is  the  out- 
co;ne  of  natural  desire,  and  natural  desire  has 
been  generated  by  a  disturbance  of  natural 
equilibrium.  There  is  nothing  abstruse  or 
occult  in  this  proposition;  it  is  merely  a  recog- 
nition of  the  development  of  intelligence  and 
of  the  controlling  power  of  the  brain  in  ani- 
mals. 

Professor  Marsh,  in  the  course  of  his  ad- 
mirable monograph  on  the  Odontomithes,  or 
ancient  toothed  birds,  suggests  that  certain 
wingless  species  had  become  so  by  nonvser 
of  the  organs  of  flight.  Perhaps  the  limit  of 
this  proposition  would  he  fouod  coinciding 
with  that  of  brain-influence  above  enunciated. 


3nND,  MEMORY  AND  MIGRATION  OF  BIRDS. 


8 


The  neglect  of  an  orgaa  implies  that  the  organ 
is  not  needed,  and  that  therefore  it  is  not  de- 
sired. On  the  other  hand,  if  the  need  for  an 
organ  inereas(^  the  desire  for  it  will  strengthen 
apace,  and  \he  orjan  will  be  modified  in 
accordance  with  this  natural  desire.  The 
trouble  about  fully  comprehending  this  law 
lies  ui  our  proneness  to  confining  our  idea  of 
its  operation  within  the  space  of  a  few  years, 
as  compared  with  the  almost  immeasurable 
ages  of  geologic  tim^  throughout  which  the 
law  has  operated  with  the  effects  we  now  ob- 
serve. If  we  can  force  our  minds  to  consider 
a  million  years,  for  instance,  as  the  minimum 
space  of  time  requisite  to  effect  the  elimination 
of  a  useless  organ  by  'he  operation  of  natural 
desire,  transmitted  by  heredity,  we  shall  begin 
to  feel  the  perfect  reasonableness  of  our  prop- 
osition. 

€k>ing  a  step  farther,  I  think  there  is  much 
evidence  tending  to  prove  that  birds  are  en- 
dowed with  what  may  be  called  hereditary 
memory  and  hereditary  desire.  It  seems  that 
if  ever  man  possessed  this  hereditament  he  has 
lost  it  in  the  over-development  of  his  higher 
mental  powers. 
- 1  have  noted  the  following  facts: 

A  bird,  when  reared  in  captivity  and  far 
from  any  of  its  kind,  will  utter  exactly  the 
notes  of  its  ancestors.  It  will  also  build  a  nest 
after  the  fashion  prescribed  by  ancestral  hab 
it.  It  will .  feed  its  young  in  accordance  with 
hereditary  custom.  It  will  migrate,  or  not, 
ns  ancestral  influence  directs.  It  will  capture 
its  food  after  the  style  and  by  the  same  me^s 
established  in  its  tribe  by  immemorial  usage. 
It  will  seek  the  habitat  always  haunted  by  its 
Kind. 

I  knew  a  boy  who  took  a  pair  of  unfledged 
woodpeckers  from  the  parental  nest  and  reared 
them  by  hand.  He  kept  them  in  a  cage 
nearly  a  year,  and  then  freed  them.  They 
lingered  al)Out  the  premises  and  soon  pecked  a 
hole  in  a  dead  pear  tree,  after  the  true  pictis 
pattern,  and  therein  reared  a  brood.  Nest- 
architecture  evidently  was  hereditary  with 
Ibem. 

I  have  heard  a  mocking  bird,  reared  in 
captivity  and  alone  in  a  Northern  Rtnte.  utter, 
with  absolute  precision,  the  char.-ut eristic  cry 


of  a  Southern  bird  whose  voice  it  never  had 
heard  in  its  life. 

It  will  be  evident  to  every  close  observer 
that  the  habit  of  living  in  a  cage  is  becoming 
hereditary  with  the  eanaiy  bird. 

Domestic  fowls  are  losing,  by  an  infinitesi- 
mal process,  their  wing-power.  The  need  for 
flight  is  diminishing  and  with  it  the  natural 
desire  for  wings.  The  body  and  legs  and 
brain  of  these  birds  are  rapidly  increasing  in 
weight  and  strength.  On  the  other  hand,  our 
domestic  fowls  have  largely  lost  their  ances- 
tral traits — hereditary  memory  with  them  is 
beginning  to  go  no  farther  back  than  to  the 
limit  of  this  domestic  state  of  existence. 

I  witnessed  a  striking  incident  io  bird  life 
which  was  very  suggestive :  a  wild  goose,  by 
some  accident  separated  from  its  flock  on  the 
spring  flight  northward,  circled  low  in  the  air 
utterijig  now  and  again  its  loud  cry.  A  domes*' 
estic  gander  preening  himself  beside  a  meadow 
brook,  heard  the  clanging  voice  and  lifting 
his  head  answered  it  with  emphasis.  I  could 
not  help  wondering  if  an  almost  irresistible 
wave  of  memory  had  indeed  been  started  in 
the  brain  of  the  domestic  bird  by  this  low-fly- 
ing migrant.  Dimly,  perhaps,  but  wildly, 
sweetly,  came  in  the  old  hereditary  desire  for 
.the  far  northern  water-brinks,  along  with  an 
elusive  and  tantalizing  recollection  of  a  time, 
thousands  of  years  ago,  when  he,  in  the  body 
of  a  remote  forebear,  or  ^clamorous  mal^an- 
cestor,  voyaged  the  high  thin  air  in  one  of 
those  triangular  flocks  fetched  on  the  violet 
sky  of  spring,  or  on  the  gray-bhie  heaven  of 
autumn. 

I  have  seen  a  flock  of  domestic  geese,  in 
early  spring  or  late  autumn,  rise  suddenly 
and  fly  around  in  the  air,  uttering  wild  cries 
and.  exhibiting  every  sign  of  ecstatic  impulse, 
for  which  there  appeared  no  sufiflcient  cause 
in  tlieir  surroundings  or  condition.  I  have 
not  a  doubt  that  this  is  an  almost  involuntary 
movement  toward  migration  generated  by  a 
feeble  return  of  'the  old  hereditary  natural 
desire. 

The  foregoing  facts  and  instances,  to  which 
might  he  added  many  more  of  a  Hke  charac- 
ter, all  tend  to  prove  that  birds  possess  some- 
thing like  hereditary  memory.     On  the  other 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


Land  A  few  facts  may  be  cited  tending  to  es- 
tablish tliu  propositioQ  that  wild  birds  are 
nuHlifyiug  theuibelves  in  response  to  tlie  exi- 
gencies arising  out  of  recent  changes  in  their 
surroundings. 

The  red-headed  woodpecker  is  rapidly  be- 
coming an  expert  fly  catcher,  a  pursuit  for 
.which  his  physique  does  not  especially  fit 
him,  and  he  is  already  a  grain  and  fruit-eating 
bird,  although  his  biU  and  tongue  are  made 
for  extracting  insects  from  rotten  wood. 

Chimney  swallows  have  almost  quite  aban- 
doned hollow  trees  for  their  nesting  places, 
even  in  our  most  thickly  wooded  areas,  pre- 
ferring our  chimneys. 

The  high-hole,  or  flicker,  has  become  almost 
entirely  a  ground  bird  in  its  feeding  habit, 
and  is  modifying  its  bill  from  the  ancestral 
wedge  shape  of  the  woodpecker  *s  beak,  to  that 
of  the  slender,  curved  mandibles  belonging  to 
the  thrushes  and  the  meadow-lark. 

The  house- wren  rarely  builds  its  nest  in  the 
crevices  of  cliffs  or  in*the  hollows  of  logs  and 
trees,  as  it  once  did.  It  seeks  the  habitations 
of  man  and  is  modifying  its  nest  architecture 
to  suit  the  new  situation. 

The  sap-sucker  (yellow-bellied  woodpecker) 
is  losing  the  power  to  protrude  its  tongue  far 
beyond  the  end  of  its  bill,  a  very  striking 
modification  going  on  apace  with  its  depart- 
ure from  the  true  woodpecker  habit  of  feed 
ing.  Some  of  the  woodpecker  species,  the 
hairy  woodpecker  for  instance,  can  thnist 
forward  the  tongue  more  than  two  inches 
beyond  the  point  of  the  bill,  while  the  sap- 
sucker  can  I  each  scarcely  one- third  of  an 
ineh. 

In  the  case  of  wading  birds,  those  species 
which  have  chosen  to  live  near  small  streams 
have  shorter  legs  and  neck  than  species 
which  prefer  larger  streams,  lakes  or  sea- 
borders,  and,  taking  the  little  green  heron  as 
an  example,  as  our  streams  diminish  in  vol- 
ume year  by  year,  the  bird  modifies  its  habit 
in  accordance  with  necessity,  and  in  my 
mind  there  is  no  doubt  that  its  legs  and  neck 
will  be  affected,  in  the  course  of  a  compara- 
tively short  period,  to  a  noticeable,  degree. 

The  blue  jay  is  either  a  corvine  croaker 
passmg  into  the  song-bird's  estate,  or  a  song- 


bird whose  natural  desire  for  singing  is  fading 
away,  leaving  it  to  relapse  into  the  cnn.-'s 
unmusical  condition;  for  its  voice  has  a  sln;iti 
of  genuine  melody  in  it  mixed  up,  almost 
comically,  with  the  harsh  discords  of  the  true 
crow-caw. 

It  would  seem  that  this  power  of  self -modi- 
fication serves  the  bird  in  the  same  way  that 
the  inventive  and  constructive  faculties  serve 
man.  The  instance  of  the  soundless  flight  of 
night-birds  of  prey  is  a  striking  one.  A 
hawk  in  swooping  down  upon  a  quail  at  mid- 
day makes  a  loud  roaring  with  its  wings, 
while  an  owl  falling  by  night  upon  its  quarry 
is  as  silent  as  "  snow  on  wool."  The  stillness 
of  night  has  operated  for  countless  ages  to 
create  a  natural  desire  in  owls  for  the  power 
to  strike  their  prey  in  utter  silence,  and  the 
desire,  transmitted  by  heredity,  has  finally 
so  modified  the  bird's  win^  and  plumage  as 
to  respond  perfectly  to  the  persistent  thought. 

Birds  of  the  polar  areas  of  snow  and  ice 
are  white,  those  of  the  tropics  are  vari -colored 
and  brilliant-hued.  The  condition  in  each 
instance  has  been  reached  through  a  natural 
desire  to  hide  by  blending  with  the  prevailing 
tone  of  Nature.  Thus  fhe  quail  and  the  par- 
tridge, the  meadow-lark  and  the  flicker,  the 
snipes,  the  woodcock,  the  prairie  grouse  and, 
in  fact,  nearly  all  the  ground-feeding  birds, 
resemble  one  another  in  general  color  or  plu- 
mage-tone, simply  because  their  environment 
has  induced  parallelism  of  natural  desire — the 
desire  to  blend  with  the  prevailing  brown 
tinge  of  their  feeding-places  as  the  most 
effective  protection  against  the  sharp  eyes  of 
their  enemies.  Some  of  the  game-birds  have 
even  acquired  the  power  to  withhold  their 
scent  from  foxes  and  wolves,  and  from  the 
sportsman's  dog  as  well.  There  is  a  good 
reason  why  this  desire  to  perfectly  disappear, 
so  to  speak,  in  the  color  of  the  en  dronment, 
has  been  more  persistent  and  successful  in 
the  case  of  game-birds  than  in  that  of  any 
other.  On  account  of  the  sweetness  of  Its 
flesh  the  game-bird  has  a  host  of  greedy  and 
ever-watchful  enemies,  and  therefore  its  life 
has  been  an  intensely  tragic  experience  from 
its  beginning  down  to  the  present  time. 

The  aquatic  birds,  viewed  in  the  light  of 


MIND,  MEMORY  AXD  MIGRATION  OP  BIRDS. 


paliBontologj,  have  changed  less  than  any 
others  in  their  structure  and  habit;  this  be- 
cause their  habitat  and  their  methods  of  feed- 
ing have  remained  constant  in  a  general  way. 
From  the  Ichihyorais  and  Aptomis  of  the  creta- 
ceous shores  and  seas  down  to  the  terns  of 
the  present  time,  the  seas  have  been  the  feed- 
ing places  and  the  homes  of  this  sort  of  birds, 
and  the  food  has  changed  little  in  its  charac- 
ter. Probably  the  marine  fish-eating  birds 
are  all  of  very  ancient  origin,  and  have  devel- 
oped very  slowly,  while  the  king-fishers  and 
other  freah-water  birds  are,  comparatively,  of 
recent  creation,  or  have  been  greatly  modified 
from  some  ancient  form,  because  the  condi- 
tions and  resources  of  fresh- water  bodies  have 
always  been  less  constant  than  those  of  the 
salt  oceans  and  seas.  ' 

While  my  sojourn  at  the  old  gin-house 
lasted  I  made  the  herons  and  shore-birds  and 
the  noisy  songsters  of  the  pine  wood  and  live- 
oak  swamps  my  boon  companions.  I  was  not 
ID  a  shooting  mood  most  of  the  time,  prefer- 
ring to  drift  about  in  my  boat,  or  to  walk 
stealthily  among  the  wild  things,  watching 
their  movements  and  studying  their  attitudes — 
always  with  reference  to  the  suggestions  con- 
tained in  the  foregoing  notes.  It  is  curious 
how  one's  imagination  helps  one  under  such 
circumstances,  by  lending  to  every  visible 
thing  that  coloring  which  never  was  on  sea  or 
land.  I  soon  came  to  regard  my  stately 
herons  and  wide- winged  pelicans  as  venerable 
birds,  probably  older  than  the  land  upon 
which  my  gin -house  stood.  Why  should  a 
heron  ever  die  of  old  age?  He  has  no  grief, 
no  sorrow,  no  nagging  conscience,  no  indiges- 
tion, no  tendency  toward  drunkenness  or  other 
vice.  Look  at  that  big  ash -blue  fellow  yon- 
der, as  he  stands  beside  that  wisp  of  tall 
marsh-grass,  and  tcl  me  when  and  where  he 
was  hatched:  may  it  not  have  been  ten  thou 
sand  years  ago?  Pej  haps  it  was  he  who  shed 
the  feather,  the  fine  Impression  of  which  now 
rests  somewliere  in  t  le  lowest  stratum  of  the 
quaternary!  Brave  od  fellow!  he  lived  before 
the  western  mountai  18  were  lifted  out  of  the 
sea,  nnd  while  yet  tl  e  upper  cretaceous  rooks 
were  8c»diment  held  in  suspension.  He  was 
too  wary  to  Ipave  Us  bones  beside  those  of 


He^percmU  and  IcMhyarnU!  With  his  jewel- 
like eyes  he  has  seen  every  step  of  man's 
development. 

But  the  mocking-bird  yonder,  how  old  is 
he?  How  has  he  survived  the  great  upheavals 
and  the  great  down-sinkings — the  floods  and 
the  eblK?  It  is  not  known ;  but  he  is  here, 
nevertheless,  as  young  and  fresh  and  free  ai 
he  was  when  Adam  drew  the  first  breath  of 
a  living  soul.  What  migrations  and  re-migra- 
tions he  lias  had  to  make  to  keep  on  land  and 
to  follow  the  shif tings  of  climate-centers,  dur- 
ing all  these  geologic  oscillations!  The  tima 
was,  perhaps,  when  he  sang  in  fruit-fragrant 
groves  around  the  North  pole;  for  that  was  a 
warm  and  luxuriant  spot  once,  as  is  shown 
by  the  vegetable  fossils  of  the  later  rocks. 
All  the  way  from  the  gulf -coast  northward  to 
where  the  palaeozoic  deposits  dip  under  the 
eternal  ice  and  snow  of  the  boreal  region  are 
found  traces  of  a  flora  which  grew  under 
tropical  and,  perhaps,  even  torrid  conditions 
of  climate.  The  age  of  riant  vegetation  and 
of  summer  heat  was  followed  by  the  gradual 
coming  on  of  what  is  called  the  glacial  age, 
when  vast  accumulations  of  ice,  in  the  form  of 
glaciers  swept  down  from  the  far  north  and 
destroyed  all  life  in  America,  as  far  south  at 
least  as  the  Ohio  Kiver  valley.*  During  the 
lime  this  enormous  body  of  ice  was  accumu- 
lating and  moving  down  in  the  form  of  a 
glacier,  toward  the  -gulf,  our  birds  began  to 
feel  a  desire  to  move  away  southward  before 
the  chilly  invader.  This  desire  was  not  bom 
in  a  day,  or  a  year,  or  a  century ;  it  slowly 
grew  by  hereditary  descent  and  accretion,  to 
to  say,  operating  differently  in  different  spe- 
cies. Some  birds  by  infinitesimal  degrees 
modified  their  physiques  to  conform  somewhat 
to  the  exigencies  of  the  climatic  changes; 
others.  foUow^ing  the  call  of  natural  desira, 
crept  away  in  the  direction  of  warm  sea-cur- 
rents and  genial  sunshine  until  they  were 
huddled  in  some  lost  Atlantis,  some  tropical 
giirden  of  preservation  washed  by  tepid  ocean- 
streams  over  which  the  glacial  rigor  could 
not  prevail.  Then  came  another  oscillation  of 
Nat'ire.  The  tropical  region  began  to  return 
toward  the  pole,  drawing:  the  birds  along  with 
it,  and  now  here  they  are  again  swarnr^ing  in 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


to  the  land  out  of  which  the  ice-king  drove 
them  hundreds  of  centuries  ago! 

As  I  swung  in  my  hammock  under  the 
grimy  beams  of  my  gin -house,  listening  to 
the  mocking-birds'  songs  and  to  the  mellow 
moan  of  the  sea,  I  began  to  analyze  and  com 
pare  all  the  foregoing  facts,  and  it  seefhed  to 
me  that  I  discovered  the  solutioD  of  this  mys- 
tery of  bird  migration  which  has  troubled 
naturalists  so  long. 

During  the  countless  centuries  of  the  quater- 
nary age  there  was  a  series  of  climatic  oscilla- 
tions, the  tropical  temperature  swaying  back 
and  forth  over  a  wide  area  from  north  to 
south.  The  birds  migrated  to  and  fro  imder 
the  impulse  of  a  natural  desire  to  keep  within 
an  agreeable  habitat.  These  oscillations  of 
temperature  were  on  a  large  scale;  but,  from 
the  nature  of  things,  there  were  intermediate 
disturbances  of  a  like  character,  and  of  far 
slighter  effect.  No  doubt  the  birds  resisted 
these  changes  with  stubborn  persistency,  giving 
way  before  them  only  at  the  last  moment,  and 
returning  upon  their  old  haunts  with  each 
temporary  relaxation  of  the  icy  grip,  to  be 
driven  away  again  and  again  through  a  long 
series  of  generations.  This  struggle  for  the 
old  northern  home,  kept  up  for  ages,  became 
a  hereditament  of  bird-nature,  an  instinct,  as 
we  call  it,  a  natural  desire,  indeed,  irresistible 
and  perpetual.  The  migratory  birds  are  the 
old  birds  of  the  north.  With  them  the  polar 
region  is  a  dim  and  tender  memory  transmitted 
from  a  remote  ancestral  source. 

The  non  migratory  species  are  those  birds 
whose  physiques  were  long  ago  so  modified 
that  namral  desire  for  a  lost  habitat  was  ex- 
tinguished and  equilibrium  reached. 

The  aquatic  and  semi-aquatic  birds  are 
mostly  very  distant  m  iterators,  and  yet,  appar- 
ently, they  have  the  least  need  to  migrate  at 
all.  Why,  for  instance,  should  a  Florida 
gallinule  leave  the  plashy,  lily-lined  margins 
of  the  sotithern  lakes  in  spring  and  go  far 
north  to  less  eligible  waters?  Why  do  so 
many  wood  duck,  teal,  snipe,  herons  and 
bitterns  cotoq  out  of  the  South  to  breed?  The 
fact  that  nmny,  very  many,  of  these  birds  do 
not  micTM-e  at  all  is  strons:  proof,  I  tliink, 
thftt  the  liereditar^  memory  is  growing  weaker 


year  by  year,  and  that  tbe  rime  may  come 
when  migration  will  cease.  In  many  cases 
the  need  for  migration  does  not  exist,  there- 
fore the  desire  is  merely  traditionary,  as  it 
were,  and  must  be  fading  out.  The  mocking- 
bird's habit  is  an  instance  ^f  the  imperfect 
migratory  memory.  Why  should  a  few  of 
this  species  come  as  far  north  as  the  Ohio 
valley  to  nest  when  the  great  body  of  them 
are  happy  to  remain  far  south?  Such  a  ques- 
tion nught  be  asked  regarding  many  other 
species.  The  answer  is  to  be  found  in  trans- 
mitted memory  and  hereditary  desire. — 
Maubiob  Thohfbon. 


REVOLUTION  AND  EVOLUTION. 

ra   TWO   PABTfl. — PART    H. 
V. 

The  "grand*'  Colbert,  anxigus  for  the  de- 
velopment of  commerce,  convoked  the  richest 
merchants  of  P&ris  in  order  to  take  their  ad- 
vice. "Monseigneur,"  said  a  certain  Hazon, 
a  first-class  wholesale  dealer  from  the  Rue  St. 
Denis,  "if  you  are  so  kindly  disposed  toward 
us,  pray,  let  us  alone:  commerce  certainly 
will  prosper  when  you  don't  care  a  bit  about 
it."  That  reply  of  a  Parisian  ^ros  bonnet  is 
the  very  motto  of  the  political  theory  of  Her- 
bert Spencer. 

I  need  not  remind  my  readers  of  the  re- 
markable essays  by  the  author  of  First  Prin- 
ciples, on  governmental  non-interference.  I 
merely  endeavor  to  state  that  each  of  the  three 
branches  into  which  modem  theoretical  socio- 
logy divides  itself  has  its  proper  political  pro- 
^amme  according  to  its  philosophical  prem- 
ises. Tims.  French  positivism  is  prone  to 
a 'kind  of  learned  pati  nrchy,  somewhat  like 
a  scientific  papal  is  n  or  ilie  Chinese  Tribunal 
of  Ceremonies.  Tiie  "s»rug<?le  for  life'  *  school 
puts  forth  the  KuWtrham'pf,  either  Scx^ial- 
democratic  or  Bismarck i-m;  while  Herbert 
Snenccr  revives  the  old  ^lanchester  Itn'ssez 
ftnre,  Ifiinsez  pasufv — t.  e.,  the  doctrine  nf  no 
governmental  oy  revolutionary   interference. 

I  do  not  remember  exactly  who^sas  the 


REVOLUTION   AND   EVOLUTION. 


^/ominent  man  .who  said  that  people  "have 
not'the  age  of  their  own  years,  but  that  of  the 
century  they  live  in.*'  Our  century  grows 
mature,  i.  e.,  sceptical,  and  no  reasonable 
man  in  our  days,  provided  that  his  mind  is  of 
the  average  height  of  our  century,  will  espouse 
any  one  oif  these  three  political  theories  with- 
out being  sure  wliether  it  really  rests  on  a  solid 
scientific  basis.  Hackneyed  commonplaces, 
splinters  of  worn-out  metaphysical  doctrine, 
have  lost  their  credit  with  us.  An  invincible 
impulse  draws  us  toward  the  reconstitution 
of  an  ethical  unity  which  could  reconcile  our 
mind  with  our  heart,  our  avowed  principles 
with  our  everyday  dealings:  but  that  unity 
ought  to  be  strictly  scientific.  Our  mind 
(using  Comte's  admirable  words),  consents  to 
be  the  minister  of  our  heart,  but  it  never  again 
shall  become  its  slave.  The  public  conscience 
is  tired  with  the  hypocrisy  of  so  many  years 
during  which  we  have  practiced  Malthus  six 
days  in  the  week,  sanctifying  the  8e\'enth  by 
]>reaching  Christ,  with  his  disrespectful  hints 
upon  rich  men,  camels,  and  needles.  And  no 
practical  case  of  morals  or  politics  can  be 
knowingly  settled  before  we  have  got  a  ration- 
al knowledge- of  those  general  laws  for  which 
man  has  always  been  scrutinizing  the  powers 
he  supposed  to  rule  over  Nature. 

The  nature-pervading  spirit  most  generally 
recognized  by  learned  men  in  our  days  is  the 
spirit  of  evolution,  and  Herbert  Spencer  has 
gained  to  himself  unquestionable  rights  to  our 
gratitude  for  having  shown  how  that  general 
law  mechanically  comes  from  the  still  more 
universal  law  of  permanence  of  motion.  But 
while  his  evolutionism  leads  us  directly  to  the 
longed  for  intellectual  unity  so  far  as  the  in 
ferior  branches  of  knowledge  are  concerned,  in 
far  more  important  social  matters  we  see  three 
essentially  different  political  theories,  each  of 
them  pretendins^  to  be  the  very  last  and  tfie 
most  genuine  fruit  of  the  root  of  evolution. 
Besides,  we  know  also  other  political  doctrines 
haunting  modern  minds,  and  which  are  gen- 
erally put  together  under  the  name  of  revolu- 
tionary, on  account  of  the  warlike  position 
held  by  their  adl^erents  toward  the  regularly 
constituted  political  and  social  powers  and 
agencies. 


If  we  were  to  follow  step  by  step"  the  most 
prominent  leaders  of  the  political,  tlieorles 
above  mentioned,  we  could  scarcely  get  a 
convenient  standpoint  to  settle  with  accumcy 
which  of  them  all  ought  to  be  consideixMl  as 
the  niost  authentic  progeny  of  their  common 
evolutionary  stock.  For  this  end  we  are  rather 
compelled  to  choose  an  independent  position 
from  which  we  can  survey  at  once  the  most 
unquestionable  scientific  results  of  them  all, 
and  to  trace  at  our  own  risk  and  peril  some 
narrow  path  leading  us  directly  from  the  phy- 
sical basis  to  the  sociological  summit  of  the 
evolution. 

Starting,  from  the  principle  of  unity  and 
continuity  of  life,  we  need  not  repeat  that  any 
classification  of  cosmic  phenomena  and  of 
scientific  branches  has  its  reason  not  in  the 
reality  itself,  but  only  in  the  impossibility  in- 
herent in  our  mind  of  perceiving  unity  with- 
out confusion.  A  rational  division  of  the 
scientific  organism  into  a  number  of  branches 
or  series  must  be  strictly  comformable  to  the 
series  of  natural  phenomena  for  each  of  which 
we  are  able  to  account  by  means  of  a  single 
general  law.  Thus,  returning  to  Comte's 
classification  of  science,  we  see  that  he  con- 
siders as  so  many  distinct  branches  astronomy, 
physics,  and  chemistry.  But  all  the  foncrete 
phenomena  observable  within  the  domain  of 
each  of  these  sciences  are  already  in  our  days 
explicable  by  means  of  a  single  law— that  of 
gravitation,  scientifically  expounded  by  New- 
ton. Nowadays,  we  are  not  only  authorized 
to  consider  philosophically  caloric,  liglit,. 
electricity,  and  chemical  afilnity  as  so  many 
transformations  of  mechanical  motion,  but  we 
have  learned,  too,  many  a  practical  process  of 
converting  them  into  each  other  at  our  will. 
Hence,  we  can  simplify  the  classification  of 
the  great  French  positivist  without  contradict- 
ing his  oyrxi  philosophical  method,  or  the 
fundamental  law  of  evolution,  and  thus  we 
get  the  first  term  of  a  rational  classification  of 
sciences,  which  we  may  style  anmyianolofiif. 

But  we  cannot  ascend  the  scale  of  natural 
evolution  without  meetin.s:  with  orders  of  facts 
for  which  our  mind  is  not  able  to  account  on 
the  simple  ground  of  the  Newtonian  law  of 
gravitation  :   guch,  namely,  are  the  complex 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


phenomena  of  organic  life;  aitd,  since  Charles 
Darwin's  time,  we  know  that  all  that  vast  series 
of  concrete  phenomena  can  be  reasonably 
referred  to  one  single  scientilic  principle, 
which  is  the  law  of  struggle  for  life,  with  all 
its  well-known  logical  consequences.  Thus 
we  become  able  to  range  all  the  various 
branches  of  knowledge  dealing  with  the  diiler- 
ent  stages  of  individual  organic  life  under  a 
single  dag,  bearing  the  celebrated  Darwinian 
motto — "Struggle  for  life." 

Difficile  est  communis  propria  dicei'e,  and  I 
am  well  aware  of  the  fact  that  my  readera' 
attention  would  soon  be  tired  with  this  apparent 
rehearsal  of  the  spelling-book  of  evolutionism. 
Unfortunately,  nevertheless,  I  am  compelled 
to  dwell  still  further  upon  the  connections 
really  existing  between  anorganology  and  bio 
logy*  or  rather,  between  the  concrete  pro- 
vinces proper  to  each  of  these  sciences. 

Of  course,  we  do  not  w'ant  much  perspica 
city  to  distinguish  an  ass  from  a  flower,  or 
both  from  a  stone.  But  the  more  we  enlarge 
our  knowledge  of  natural  life,  the  less  we  be- 
come able  to  fix  any  limit  between  vegetable 
and  animal  organisms,  or  between  organisms 
generally  and  mineral  bodies.  The  two  great 
orders  of  cosmic  life — the  organic  and  the  in- 
organic— are  not  superimposed,  like  geological 
strata  in  some  parts  of  the  earth's  crust,  but 
they  entwine  each  other,  ramifying  still  more 
and  more,  till  their  branches  become  infini- 
tesimal, like  capillary  arteries  and  veins  in  a 
human  body.  Still  more.  Are  we  sure  that 
the  distinction  we  make  between  inorganic 
and  organic  series  corresponds  to  different 
^provinces  really  existent,  and  is  not  merely 
due  to  the  impossibility  of  our  mind  account- 
ing for  certain  phenomena  on  the  ground  of  a 
single  law,  without  the  addition  of  a  new  one, 
more  limited?  I  do  not  know;  bu  even  if  the 
second  superstition  be  true,  still,  we  could  not 
abandon  the  distinction  between  anorganology 
and  biology,  without  cotif using  the  little  we 
know  of  reality. 

Inorganic  life  does  not  disappear  where 
organic  life  begins,  and,  under  more  than  one 
nspect,  the  most  perfect  human  bfKly  behaves 
itself  just  as  any  physical  body  would  do  in 
similar    conditions.     Every    further  step  of 


evolution  implies  all  the  former  ones  plus 
something  else  which  was  not  perceptible  be- 
fore, or,  perhaps,  did  not  even  eidst  there  ex- 
cept virtually.  Igtuinodon,  Pterodaciylus,  etc., 
may  not  live  in  our  day,  but  we  can  easily  see 
them,  duly  improved  and  corrected,  in  so 
many  animals  of  our  present  zoological  epoch. 
Individuals,  aud  even  species,  died  which 
could  not  stand  the  improvements  required  by 
the  progress  of  zoological  evolution,  but  the 
type,  instead  of  dying,  lives  with  an  intensity 
higlily  increased.  Thus,  if  we  would  search 
for  a  natural  province  where  the  law  of  gravi- 
tation abdicates  its  power  for  the  sake  of  the 
struggle  for  life,  we  certainly  should  be  at  a 
loss;  nor  could  we  point  to  any  natural  pro- 
vince where  inorganic  life  is  replaced  entirely 
by  organic  life.  Our  best  J'eason  for  stilctly 
distinguishing  biology  from  anorganology  is 
that  we  cannot  satisfactorily  account  for  or- 
ganic phenomena  by  gravitation  alone:  the 
surplus  above  mentioned  has  accumulated 
there  to  such*  a  degree  that  we  must  look  for 
a  specific  principle. 

Hence,  the  best  definition  of  anorganology 
would  be  that  science  which  accounts  for 
cosmic  phenomena  on  the  ground  of  the  New- 
tonian law  only,  whether  they  occur  in  the 
heavens  or  on  the  earth,  in  a  rock  or  in  a 
human  body.  Biology,  then,  is  that  science 
which  accounts  for  cosmic  phenomena  requir- 
ing the  addition  of  mure  specific  law — viz., 
the  Darwinian  law  of  struggle  for  life  and 
transform  ism.  Such  phenomena,  indeed,  are 
observable  only  in  individuals,  but  these  in- 
dividuals may  be  either  microscopic  plastids 
or  exccediugly  large  aggregations  of  the  most 
perfect  individuals,  styled  zoids  in  M.  Catta> 
ueo's  classification*  nevertheless,  the  phenome- 
na must  be  referred  to  the  biological  domain 
so  far  as  they  arc  explicable  on  the  ground  of 
tBe  Darwinian  law  (struggle  for  life  or  compe* 
tition),  which  is  not  a  dens  ex  machind,  but 
merely  a  synthesis  of  numberless  mechanical, 
physical,  and  chemical  agencies. 

VI. 

Returning  now  to  the  preliminary  question 
of  theoretical  sociology,  we  find  it  very  much 
simplified  by   these  summary    remarks.     In 


REVOLUTION    AND    EVOLUTION. 


9 


fact,  we  need  no  longer  care  much  about  the 
hasdly  controverted  thesis — whether  society 
is  or  is  not  an  organized  body,  and  whether 
there  exists  or  not  any  morphological  boimd- 
ary  between  individuals  and  societies.  Soci- 
eties may  be  individuals  exactly  as  the  most 
perfectly  organized  animals  are,  in  their  turn, 
mere  physical  bodies,  but  sociology  still  may 
be  a  science  just  as  really,  or  rather  rationally, 
distinct  from  biology,  as  biology  itself  is  from 
astronomy,  physics,  or  chemistry. 

At  first  sight  it  appears  that  the  organic 
theory  of  societies  is  of  capital  interests,  and 
that  when  once  we  grant  that  society  is  a  liv- 
ing bdng  and  that  it  grows,  we  thereby  settle 
beforehand  that  no  interference,  governmen- 
tal or  revolutionary,  is  desirable  with  social 
matters:  thus  we  seem  compelled  to  espouse 
Herbert  Spencer's  political  theory.  But  so  it 
seems  at  first  sight  only.  Far  more  unques- 
tionable it  is  that  potatoes  grow,  and  that  no 
crop  of  them  can  be  yielded  if  we  sow  tur 
nip4  in  their  place.  Neverthelesft,  every  agri- 
culturist knows  that  the  let-them  alone  policy 
in  such  a  case  is  by  no  means  advisable,  and 
that  the  crop  directly  depends  on  intelligent 
care  paid  to  their  thriving.  Our  boys  and 
girls  also  grow,  and  even  we  may  admit  that 
in  eight  cases  out  of  ten  it  would  be  better  to 
let  tliem  grow  alone-rnther  than  to  submit 
them  to  the  pedagogic  attention  flourishing  in 
a  good  many  of  our  public  and  private  schools. 
But  could  we  reasonably  pretend  that  no  edu- 
cation at  all  is  preferable  to  the  smallest 
amount  of  rational  education? 

It  seems  plain  that  we  ought  not  to  search 
for  any  natural  region  or  province  which  could 
be  called  sociological  throughout  and  thus 
monopolized  by  merely  sociological  studies, 
because  there  is  no  such  region  in  the  world 
which  could  be  styled  organic  in  the  absolute 
sense  of  the  word,  exclusive  of  phenomena  of 
an  inferior  inorganic  character.  The  only 
question  to  be  settled  i»— whetiier  or  not  there 
are  series  of  phenomena  not  explicable  by  the 
Newtonian  mechanical  law  supplemented  by 
the  Darwinian  biological  law  of  struggle  for 
life  or  competition?  If  there  is  none,  ihen  no 
.  iociologj*  is  required  at  all,  and  we  must  say 
|hat  scientific  organiapi  h^s  attaincJ  Its  full 


I  growth  since  anorganology  is  conpleted  by 
a  biology  based  on  such  a  rational  and  strictly 
seientitie  ground  as  is  the  specific  law  of  mo- 
dern transformism.  .  But  when  there  are  such 
series  of  phenomena,  then  it  becomes  plain 
that  the  binomial  scientific  series — anorgano- 
logy and  biology — ought  to  be  completed  by 
a  third  superorganic  term  (in  Herbert  Spen- 
cer's acceptation  of  that  word)  which  can  be 
no  other  than  sociology.  And,  whether  those 
phenomena  are  peculiar  to  human  species 
only — which  was  the  opinion  of  Comte — or 
whether  they  are  observable  in  zolds  of  an  in- 
ferior anatomical  structure— which  is  the 
opinion  of  some  prominent  modern  biologists 
—or,  still  f urtlier,  whether  we  can  meet  with 
them  all  In  the  lower  morphologic  regions 
of  colonies  and  even  of  plastids— that  is  only 
a  secondary  matter,  which  will  be  satisfac- 
torily settled  as  soon  as  (and  which  cannot 
be  reasonably  settled  before)  we  get  rid  of  the 
preliminary  question  of  the  limits,  specific 
methods,  and  of  the  very  object  of  sociology. 

Theoretically,  no  one  among  the  most  zeal- 
ous adherents  of  the  organic  school  in  socio- 
logy goes  so  far  as  to  deny  that  the  completion 
of  tl^e  binomial  scientific  series  abo^e  by  a 
thir^,  a  sociological  term,  is  highly  desirable; 
and  we  have  seen  that  M.  Jaeger  himself  mod- 
estly concedes  that  there  may  be  social  entities 
of  a  higher  order  not  included  in  his  zoologi- 
cal province.  Nevertheless,  after  the  perusal 
of  his  pages  quoted  above,  we  cannot  help  be- 
coming rather  anxious  about  what  may  be  the 
business  of  a  "Sociolog  der  Zukunft,**  since 
a  mere  figure  of  zoolo<iical  classification  is 
able  to  convince  every  reasonable  man  thut 
States  actpJtalir:,  whether  the  great  American 
Republic  or  Switzerland,  are  irrevocably, 
vom  Ilanse  aus,  sentenced  by  a  natural  law  to 
alternate  torture  between  oligarchy  and  tyran- 
ny, iniless  they  prefer  to  *'i)erish  premature- 
ly;*' while  the  unquestionable  benefits  of 
'*Kiilturkampf,"  out  of  which  there  is  no  sal- 
vation, are  greedily  monopolized  by  people 
whom  the  struggle  for  existence  has  endowed 
with  national  monarchy  based  upon  cephalic 
family,  etc. 

Nobody  has  doubted  for  many  years  that 
struggle  for  existence  is  a  very  powcff^l  agent 


10 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


of  evolution.  It  remains  only  to  settle  whether 
it  is  really  a  scientific  law  (and  as  such  it 
must  be  necessarily  limited),  or  rather  a  kind 
of  deus  ex  machind  accounting  for  all,  a  ma- 
terialistic Providence  autocratically  pervading 
the  whole  creation. 

I  must  observe  that  if  the  struggle-for-exis- 
tence  principle  could  scientifically  account  for 
social  phenomena,  then  the  high  merits  of 
Charles  Darwin  would  be  much  diminished 
in  my  eyes,  because  then  it  would  appear  that 
the  most  momentous  philosophical  work  of 
our  age  was  not  his  Origin  of  Species,  but  far 
more  the  Ksmy  an  Population,  by  Malthus. 
Indeed,  the  modem  transformism  (Alfred  K. 
Wallace  explicitly  states  it)  is  grounded  upon 
the  application  to  biology  of  that  same  law  of 
competition  which  Malthus,  as  early  as  1798, 
asserted  to  be  the  fimdamental  law  of  the  social 
life  of  man.  Thus  the  most  modern  writings  of 
the  struggle- for-existenee  sociological  school, 
far  from  being  the  seed  of  something  new  and 
productive  of  future  progress  yet  unknown, 
are  rather  mere  rehearsals  of  a  worn  out  doc- 
trine which,  after  being  unfolded  only  a  step 
further  by  Ricardo,  soon  lost  all  its  scientific 
value  with  J.  B.  Say,  and  no  sooner  recon- 
quered some  uncontested  rights  to  our  atten- 
tion than,  with  Rodbertus  and  E.  Marx,  it 
threw  itself  into  the  deep  sea  of  modern  soci- 
alism. It  seems' obvious  that  the  hackneyed 
Malthusian  axioms,  now  translated  into  the 
biological  jargon  of  organic  sociologists,  can- 
not yield  any  more  than  they  have  already 
yielded  in  their  original  shape  of  the  renowned 
"progressions''  with  their  unstatistical  ratios 
and  with  their  ethical  eouronnemeni  de  Vedijke 
of  more  or  less  morally  restrained  procreation. 

VII. 
The  shining  merit  of  Darwin  resides  especi- 
ally in  the  amazing  perspicacity  with  which 
his  genius  transformed  that  worn-out  politico - 
economical  thesis  into  the  very  principle  of  re- 
generation, not  only  for  the  biological  science 
of  our  days,  but  also  for  modern  philosophy 
altogether.  Such  a  miracle  could  be  performed 
only  by  his  clear  perception  of  the  fact  that 
the  great  law  of  competition  or  struggle  for 
life,  unduly  applied  by  the  Malthusian  politico- 


economy  to  a  series  of  phenomena  for  which 
it  cannot  account,  is  really  a  capital  principle 
pervading  the  individual  life  throughout. 
Since  the  Malthusian  law,  stating  that  the 
number  of  (competitors  always  exceeds  the 
means  of  subsistence,  is  true  with  animals,  yge 
might  logically  foresee  that  it  would  not  do 
for  human  societies;  because  the  animals,  be- 
ing far  more  prolific  than  men,  simply  con- 
sume the  food  they  find  ready  in  Nature, 
while  the  lowest  human  tribes — provided  that 
they  possess  some  social  organization — gener- 
ally produce  a  large  part  of  what  they  con- 
sume; and  slavery,  appearing  at  a  very  low 
degree  of  social  evolution,  yields  us  a  sufll- 
cient  proof  ihat,  even  in  those  destitute  condi- 
tions, men  united  into  a  society  produce  more 
food  than  is  strictly  required  for  the  subsis- 
tence of  them  all. 

Herbert  Spencer  states  with  all  the  requisite 
evidence  that  the  general  law  of  evolution  is 
the  permanence  of  force,  and  we  can  follow 
it  throughout  the  vast  dominion  of  inorganic 
stages  of  evolution  without  being  compelled 
to  apply  to  any  other  law.  It  is  only  when 
we  meet  with  the  multiplicity  of  organized 
beings  that  a  specific  law  is  required,  and  then 
Charles  Darwin  brings  in  his  struggle  for  ex- 
istence philosophically,  which  does  scientific- 
ally account  for  numberless  transformations 
of  living  individuals.  From  the  fact  that  so- 
cial life  is  the  natural  complement  of  the  indi- 
vidual life,  we  are  not  authorized  to  infer  that 
the  fundamental  law  of  both  individual  and 
social  modes  of  being  must  be  identical:  orga 
nic  life  is,  too,  merely  a  complement  of  the 
inorganic,  but  it  requires  its  specific  law. 
In  many  cases  we  can  easily  see  how  the 
struggle  for  life  impels  men,  like  animals,  to 
the  constitution  of  a  league  or  society;  but 
even  then  we  can  assert  a  piHori  that  the  laws 
of  an  alliance  are  not  the  laws  of  war.  In 
many  otlier  cases  social  action  seems  not  to 
be  imposed  on  them  by  considerations  of  per- 
sonal preservation;  but  it  is  plain  that  the 
roots  of  social  life  must  be  deeply  buried  in 
their  physiological  needs  and  wants,  egoistic, 
altruistic,  or  whatever  else  they  may  be. 
Are  not  the  roots  of  organic  life  itself  burio<l 
also  deeply  in  physical  and  chemical  pr<>|^H?v- 


REVOLUTION  AND   EVOLtTTION. 


11 


ties  of  mattet?  Besides,  we  know  also  not  a 
less  number  of  s^ch  instances  where  sociftbil- 
ity  is  not  only  indifferent  but  rather  hurtful 
and  dangerous  from  the  point  of  view  of  com- 
] volition  and  preservation  of  individuals  alone. 

I  have  no  room  to  quote  here  the  remark- 
able researches  of  Geoff roy  St.  Hilaire,  nor 
io  cite  instances  which  can  be  gathered  easily 
from  zoological  and  ethnological  works.  I 
trust  that  the  following  few  lines,  borrowed 
from  A.  Espinas's  book  about  Animal  Socie- 
ties, will  suffice.  He  says:  "So  far  as  acciden- 
tal societies  are-  concerned,  utility  {I'interet) 
seem  to  play  the  most  prominent  part  and 
sympathy  {i.  e.,  a  stimulus  not  explicable  by 
the  law  of  struggle  or  competition)  only  con- 
solidates the  ties  which  interest  had  formed. 
Among  those  who  have  an  interest  in  forming 
societies,  those  who  really  do  so  are  prone  to 
mutual  sympathy.  As  to  the  normal  societies, 
formed  by  animftls  of  the  same  species,  we 
are  induced  to  give  the  first  place  to  sympa- 
thy, admitting  the  instincts  of  preservation 
only  as  an  element  consolidating  the  unions^ 
connected  by  sympathy." 

Further,  I  have  already  mentioned  more 
than  once  that  the  first  aggregations  of  plas 
tids,  which  really  are  the  starting-point  of 
morphological  progress,  have  never  yet  been 
rationally  accounted  for  by  the  law  of  strug- 
gle for  life,  md  it  seems  rather  questionable 
whether  they  ever  can  be.  At  least  a  learned 
zoologist,  Prof.  Kessler,  of  St.  Petersburg, 
io  a  paper  read  before  the  Zoological  Society 
of  that  town  insisted  upon  the  necessity  of 
admitting  the  law  of  sociability,  or  coopera- 
tion, as  a  powerfuj  agent  of  biological  pro- 
gress. Indeed,  we  cannot  perceive  any  per- 
sonal advantage  arising  to  the  cells  or  plastids 
from  the  fact  of  their  aggrejrating  together, 
and  thus  forming  the  first  rudiment  of  a  social 
or  collective  organism,  instead  of  pursuin*? 
their  indi\idual  advancement,  as  they  "ought 
to  do,  w^ere  there  not  a  principle  quite  distin  -t 
from  struggle  pervading  throughout  the  su- 
perior degrees  of  cosmic  evolution  in  its  organic 
stasres. 

AVlierever  we  see  a  phenomenon  of  asso- 
ciation— be  it  in  tl.e  shape  of  a  vegetable  and 
animal  organism  or  In  that  of  a  more  perfect 


human  commimity— we  cannoft  fail  to  detect 
something  new,  as  essentially  distinct  from  the 
law  of  individualistic  competition  or  strug- 
gle, as  that  specific  Darwinian  law  itself  is 
distinct  from  the  Newtonian  universal  law 
of  gravitation.  That  something  is,  namely, 
the  consensus  of  a  number  of  more  or  less  in- 
dividualized forces  aiming  at  an  end,  not  per- 
sonal to  one  of  the  allies,  but  oonunon  to  them 
all.  and  that  is  what  we  call  codperaUan. 

Such  characteristic  facts,  proper  to  all  phe- 
nomena of  a  series,  are  just  what  we  call  a 
principle  or  a  scientific  law.  Thus  we  cannot 
avoid  acknowledging  a  principle  superior  to 
that  of  struggle,  and  we  are  induced  to  com- 
plete the  binomial  series  of  sciences  stated 
above  by  a  third  term— viz.,  sociology — the 
specific  law  of  which  is  eodperaiian  (as  strug- 
gle for  life  is  the  specific  law  of  biology),  and 
the  object  of  which  is  the  investigation  of  the 
natural  means  and  ways  by  which,  at  various 
stages  of  evolution,  is  obtained  that  consensus 
of  individualized  forces  aiming  at  an  end 
cammon  to  them  all.  •  The  proper  domain  of 
this  superorganic  science  includes  every  de- 
partment of  the  organized  world  (it  being  ob- 
vious that  socialization  must  imply  organiza- 
tion, and  that  no  society  can  be  found  where 
the  acting  forces  are  not  biologically  individ- 
ualized) where  cooperation  is  observable. 
The  only  criterion  of  social  science  is  thus  co- 
operation, whether  cooperating  individuals  are 
human  or  animals,  zoids  or  plastids. 

Herbert  Spencer  is  perfectly  right  in  denying 
the  character  of  society  to  a  host  of  people 
listening  to  a  lecture,  but  I  doubt  whether  the 
reason  on  which  he  bases  his  statement — viz. , 
the  non-permanence  of  such  aggregations,  is 
adequate.  We  could  easily  exemplify  many 
quite  temporary  aggregation^,  the  sociological 
character  of  which  appears  unquestionable 
since  we  see  in  them  that  convergence  of  indi- 
vidual forces  to  a  common  end  which  is  the 
only  criterion  of  a  society.  On  the  other 
hand,  aggregations  of  men,  or  other  zoTds, 
might  be  permanent  without  our  being  obliged 
o  consider  them  as  sociological  phenomena, 
3ecause  that  characteristic  of  cooperation  may 
be  wanting  altogether.  Two  men  carrying 
a  burden  may  \m  considered  as  a  sociolog- 


Id 


THE  LIBKAHT  MAOAZINS. 


ical  mdiinesit,  or  cell,  but  a  hundred  men 
lodging  in  one  house  for  their  lifetime,  or 
meeting  together  every  day  during  twenty 
years  at  the  Library  of  the  British  Museum, 
do  not  present  any  appreciable  embryo  of  so- 
ciability. A  nation  may  perhaps  be  consider- 
ed at  once  as  a  dem,  or  biological  entity,  but 
before  we  account  for  its  sociological  charac- 
ter, we  must  inquire  nfhether  there  is  any  co- 
operation, and  in  what  degree,  between  the 
individuals  forming  the  political  whole,  and 
by  what  means  that  degree  of  cooperation  is 
obtained. 

At  the  lowest  degrees  of  the  biological  evo- 
lution, individuals  of  a  very  primordial  ana- 
tomical structure  (cells  or  plastids)  cannot  form 
a  coIoBjM>r  society  without  mechanically  ad- 
hering to  each  other  or  being  connected  to- 
gether by  some  mechaniral  tic.  Step  by  step 
a  division  of  phy8ioIo;^ical  labor,  with  its  nat- 
ural consequence,  tsubordination,  begins  to  be 
observable  with  individuals  so  connected  to- 
gether by  merely  physical  ties.  Prof.  Huxley, 
in  his  polemic  against  Herbert  Spencer,  states 
quite  rightly  that  the  most  perfect  zoological 
beings  present  that  subordination  pushed  to 
the  extreme  degree.  In  the  zoXds  of  a  supe- 
rior anatomical  structure  (birds,  mammalia, 
and  men)  we  see  the  sensitiveness  so  complete- 
ly concentrated  in  a  specific  sensorium,  and 
tlie  cooperating  individuals  so  perfectly  com- 
plying with  the  interests  of  the  whole,  that 
their  physiological  personality  disappears,  and 
they  become  mere  organs.  I  must,  neverthe- 
less, observe  that  when  we  say,  it  is  hot,  that 
is  not  because  the  mercury  rises  in  the  ther- 
mometer, that  rising  being  only  an  index  of 
the  rising  temperature  around;  and  should  we 
come  under  the  point  at  which  mercury 
freezes,  or  above  the  point  at  which  it  boils, 
we  ought  to  search  for  another  criterion  of 
the  increasing  or  decreasing  temperature.  So 
the  progress  of  subordination  in  superior  bio- 
logical organisms  is  onl}'^  a  morpholotpcal 
token  of  a  greater  cooperation  obtained  than 
would  be  possible  with  a  less  degree  of  subor- 
dination or  with  a  still  more  primordial  me- 
chanical tie.  But  the  evolution  does  not  stop 
at  that  point,  and  the  superior  biological  indi- 
viduals, produced  by  guch  cooperative  agency 


of  organs  baaed  on  subordination,  in  their 
turn  unite  together  and  form  aggregations  or 
societies  of  a  superior  style,  called  dem$. 

The  ties  uniting  together  the  members  of 
these  superior  societies  greatly  vary:  they 
may  be  partly  more  or  less  mechanical,  like 
those  which  are  characteristic  of  the  lowest 
social  order,  but  their  mechanicality  never 
reaches  so  far  as  a  direct  adherence  (that  is 
what  Herbert  Spencer  means  by  the  discrete 
character  of  societies  as  opposed  to  the  con- 
crete character  of  animals),  or  as  any  vascular 
membrane  like  those  which  unite  together  the 
individuals  in  a  colony  of  molluscs ;  they 
may  be  also  partly  based  on  division  of  labor, 
but  subordination  here  never  attains  that  point 
at  which  the  physiological  autonomy  of  the 
individuals  would  disappear,  and  they  become 
mere  organs. 

But,  while  on  the  further  side  of  the  socio- 
logical evolution  mechanical  adherence  (1st 
degree),  and  subordination  (2d  degree),  are 
considerably  decreasing,  a  highly  superior 
mode  of  obtaining  cooperation  begins  here  to 
be  appreciable— viz.,  conscious  and  voluntary 
consensus  of  the  members  of  the  dem^  or  com- 
munity (8d  degree).  I  doubt  whether  a  hu- 
man or  animal  society  can  be  met  with  in 
which  that  specific 'element  of  conscious  and 
voluntary  consensus  is  wanting  altogether,  but 
it  may  intervene  in  various  degrees.  The  more 
this  superior  element  prevails  over  the  two 
inferior  ones  (viz.,  mechanical  aggregation 
and  subordination),  the  more  the  cooperation 
obtained  is  conscious  and  voluntary,  the  fur- 
ther also  a  society  is  advanced  on  its  evohi- 
tionary  way.  Hence,  whenever  we  wish  sp 
ciologically  to  account  for  a  concrete  phenom- 
enon of  .community  or  aggregation,  we  ought 
to  consider: — 

1.  The  quantity  of  cooperation  yielded. 

2.  The  means,  more  or  less  conscious  and 
voluntary,  for  obtaining  concensus  of  individ- 
ualized forces  aiming  at  an  end  not  personal 
to  one  of  the  allies. 

Examples  can  be  gjithered  in  history  and 
ethnology  of  societies  not  highly  civilized,  the 
members  of  which  enjoy  a  freedom  imknown 
in  the  most  liberal  European  monarchies  and 
republics  la  our  days:  such  were  the  commu* 


REVOLUTION    AND    EVOLUTION. 


18 


nities  of  Cosdacks  in  Soutliern  Russia  in  the 
17th  century,  and  such  cu^  if  M.  Haffray  be 
trusted,  the  Abyssinian  Shakos.  But  these 
people  content  themselyes  with  cooperation 
iu  a  degree  which  would  appear  very  meager 
from  our  civilized  point  of  view.  On  the 
other  hand,  we  see  geographical  regions— ^.  g. , 
the  Lower  Valley  of  the  Nile,  or  of  the  Yang- 
tze-Kiang  and  Hoang'ho — where  physical  con- 
ditions require  from  the  inhabitants  far  more 
cooperation  than  they  were  able  to  yield  free- 
ly and  consciously  in  their  state  of  civilization; 
and.  in  fact,  those  countries  have  always  been, 
and  are  still,  classical  for  their  despotism, 
either  political,  or  castal,  or  whatever  else  it 
may  be. 

I  sum  up  in  a  few  words: — 

1.  Mechanical  Constraint,  which  is  com- 
patible only  with  the  lowest  stages  of  the  Indi- 
vidualized (biological)  life. 

2.  Subordination  by  specialization  of  labor 
or  by  political  tyranny  (which  is  only  a  partic- 
ular case  of  the  former),  always  degrading  for 
the  larger  part  of  the  individuals  united,  if  not 
for  them  all;  and 

3.  Ckm9en»u9  more  and  more  eonscimu  and 
9olnntary. 

Such  are  the  three  stages  of  sociological  ev- 
ofntion,  and,  I  think,  the  ratio  of  that  pro- 
gres.<rion  is  so  easily  appreciable,  that  I  need 
not  dwell  more  particularly  upon  it.  It  re- 
sults that,  so  far  as  an  end  can  be  scientifical- 
ly assigned  to  social  evolution,  that  end  can  be 
but  one:  namely,  anarchy— t.  e.,  a  large  a- 
mount  of  cooperation  of  autonomous  indivi- 
duals as  perfect  as  their  biological  organiza- 
tion allows,  and  that  amount  of  cooperation 
yielded  not  by  any  mechanical  tie,  nor  by  any 
subordination,  either  by  physiological  or  poli- 
tical constraint,  but  plainly  and  completely  by 
their  own  conscious  and  free  will  in  the  mod- 
em psychological  acceptation  of  these  words. 

Whether  it  please  or  displease  the  learned 
Kulturtrdger  of  whatever  proclivities,  the  last 
word  of  the  scientific  theory  of  evolution  is 
that  very  terrifying  word,  anarchy,  so  elo- 
quently anathematized  ex  cathedrd  by  Darwin - 
izing  sociologists  and  so  many  others. 


vm. 

If  we  review  the  evolution  of  cosmic  life  in 
the  past  so  far  as  it  is  observable  by  strictly 
scientific  methods,  we  are  compelled  to  ac- 
knowledge that  a  large  amount  of  progress  has 
been  already  effected  in  the  physical,  and  even 
sociological  provinces,  without  any  apparent 
interference  of  a  conscious  human  will  with 
cosmic  matters.  Speaking  anthropomorphi- 
cally,  we  can  say  that  evolution  has  an  aim, 
that  its  aim  is  progress,  and  that  Nature  attains 
it  surely  and  practically  witliout  our  conscious 
ly  and  intentionally  caring  much  about  it. 

But  we  must  not  be  forgetful  that  progress 
in  evolution  can  be  asserted  only  so  far  as  the 
cosmic  whole  is  considered,  and  that  its  way 
is  studded  with  corpses  of  individuals,  na- 
tions, and  worlds,  fallen  because  they  could 
not  stand  the  transformations  required  by  the 
restless  progress  of  evolution. 

We  can  certainly  assert  that  the  law  of  the 
future  society  is  anarchy,  and  that  it  surely 
shall  be  attained  by  Nature  left  alone.  But 
the  further  progress  of  any  particular  society 
of  the  present  day  is  by  no  means  warranted 
by  any  immovable  natural  law  of  evolution. 
Theoretically,  it  may  be  a  consolation  for 
each  of  us  to  know  that  if  we  do  not  thrive  in 
our  life,  because  of  our  inability  to  stand  the 
changes  asked  for  by  evolution,  somebody  else 
shall  thrive  certainly;  but  practically  we  are 
all  allowed  to  wish  that  tlie  thriving  one 
should  be  ourselves. 

Dr.  Lange,  although  not  a  professional  soci- 
ologist, teaches  us  that  the  way  of  progress  in 
evolution  is  nothing  less  than  rectilinear,  and 
he  even  disrespectfully  compares  the  somuch- 
talked-of  cosmic  or  historical  Providence  to  a 
hunter  who,  in  order  to  kill  a  hare,  dis(^harges 
about  one  million  shots  in  every  direction. 
The  hare  is  thus  reached,  of  course,  but  so 
are  many  unlooked-for  people  also,  without 
reckoning  how  much  powder  burnt  in  vain. 
On  the  other  hand,  Charles  Darwin  adduces 
many  examples  of  intelligent  human  interfer- 
ence with  biological  matters  directly  arriving  at 
an  end  which  would  take  centuries  to  accom- 
plish by  the  alternate  teachings  of  natural  evo- 
lution alone.  The  only  caution  needed  for 
the  success  of  such  inteif  erences  i«  the  security 


14 


THE  UBHART  MAGAZINE. 


that  our  personal  end  does  not  ]ie  out  of  the 
way  of  evolution.  Since  we  see  that  the  re- 
sult of  natural  sociological  progression  is  an- 
archy, the  only  question  which  remains  to  be 
settled  refers  to  the  methods  and  practical 
ways  leading  most  directly  to  that  social  ideal 
of  the  future. 

But  is  not  evolution  exclusive  of  revolution 
in  this  sense,  that  it  flows  like  a  majestic  and 
peaceable  stream— that  it  aJb^wrrei  mlium — 
while  revolution  seems  to  contain  in  every  syl- 
lable of  its  terrifying  name  something  catas- 
trophic, and  is  throughout  full  of  pang  and 
conmiotion?  Ask  modem  geologists  whether 
such  revolutionary  episodes  as  the  earthquake 
of  Ischia  or  the  eruption  of  Krakatoa  are 
erased  from  the  history  of  our  earth,  now 
that  we  know  that  its  crust  is  formed  not  by 
cataclysm,  but  by  evolution.  Ask  a  mother 
whether  her  child  was  not  painfully  shaken 
and,  perhaps,  more  than  once  in  danger  of 
death,  every  time  it  crossed  one  of  those  break- 
ers of  dentition,  passage  to  puberty,  etc. ,  that 
appear  like  so  many  milestones  marking  the 
natural  way  of  our  individual  evolution? 

In  one  of  his  most  remarkable  essays,  Her- 
bert bpencer  states  that  the  very  source  from 
which  every  constituted  government  draws 
the  best  of  its  power  is  "the  accumulated  and 
organized  sentiment  of  the  past,  .  .  . 
the  gradually  formed  opinion  of  countless  pre- 
ceding generations,"  that  even  in  the  most 
Liberal  countries  of  our  days,  constituted 
powers  are  far  less  than  we  commonly  think 
controlled  **by  the  public  opinion  of  the  liv- 
ing," and  far  more  "by  the  public  opinion  of 
the  dead."  That  statement  points  out  the 
very  reason  why  our  social  atmosphere  be- 
comes so  soon  impregnated  with  deadly  mias- 
mas, emanations  from  the  tombs  of  past  gen- 
erations, when  a  refreshing  breeze  from  the 
future  does  not  purify  it,  blowing  through  a 
revolutionary  agency. — Leon  Metchnikoff, 
in  lAd  Contemporary  Review , 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OP  JENA. 

Jena  is  an  old  town  of  about  12.000  inhab- 
itants in  a  beautiful  hilly  country'  on  the  Saale, 
in    the  Grand   Duchy  of   Sachscn- Weimar. 


The  former'  fortifications  have  been  turned 
into  promenades.  There  are  many  places  of 
resort  in  the  neighborhood  (SophienhOhe, 
Felfienkeller,  etc.)  where  tlie  students  enjoy 
song  and  beer.  The  "Paradise"  is  a  fine 
alley  on  the  banks  of  the  Saale.  Vuq  town  is 
famous  for  its  University  and  for  the  disas- 
trous battle  of  Oct.  14th,  1800,  in  which 
Napoleon,  with  80,000  Frenchmen,  almost 
annihilated  the  Prussian  army  ot  40,000.  In- 
scriptions on  tlie  walls  indicate  the  former 
residences  of  Schiller,  Goethe,  Arndt,  Fichte, 
Schelling,  Hegel,  Griesbach,  Luden.  I  am 
writing  in  the  hotel  of  the  Black  Bear.  Here 
Luther  as  "Knight  George"  on  his  way  frpm 
the  Wartburg  to  Wittenberg  hnd  the  famous 
interview  -with  two  Swiss  students  on  their 
journey  to  Wittenberg.  The  interesting  story, 
as  told  by  Kessler,  one  of  the  students,  to- 
gether with  an  old  Bible  and  a  picture  of 
Luther,  are  preserved  in  the  room. 

The  University  of  Jena  was  founded  in 
1558,  and  was  for  a  long  time  the  seat  of  strict 
Lutheran  orthodoxy.  At  the  close  of  the  last 
century  and  the  beginning  of  the  present  it 
acquired  great  celebrity  through  the  heroes  of 
Oerman  poetry  and  philosophy,  who  gathered 
here  as  teachers  or  frequent  visitors.  Here 
Schiller,  as  Professr^r  of  History,  wrote  most 
of  his  dramas,  while  Herder  and  Wieland 
often  visited  Jena  from  the  neighboring 
Weimar.  Fichte,  Schelling  and  Hegel  elabo* 
rated  their  philosophical  systems  in  Uiis  place. 
Paulus  taught  here  his  Rationalism  before  he 
removed  to  Heidelberg.  Griesbach  spent  days 
and  nights  over  the  text  of  the  Greek  Testa- 
ment, and  prepared  his  critical  edition  and 
apparatus  which  made  an  epoch  in  the  history 
of  textual  criticism.  The  old  so-called  "vul- 
gar" Rationalism  of  Paulus  and  R5hr  is  dead 
long  ago,  and  Hase,  the  Church  historian, 
helped  to  kill  it  by  his  letters  against  R5hr. 
An  (esthetic  rationalism  and  a  modified  TQ- 
bingen  criticism  have  taken  its  place.  The 
Professors  are  in  sympathy  with  the  so-called 
Protestajiten  Verein. 

The  University  numbers  this  summer  655 
students,  2  from  America.  The  number  of 
theological  students  is  152.  There  are  five 
Ordinary  Professors  who  constitute  the  faculty 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  JENA. 


IS 


proper,  namely:  the  Wirkllcfae  Geheime  Rath 
D.  Carl  voD  Hase;  Gteheimer  Kirchenrath  D. 
Richard  Lipsius;  Kirchenrath  D.  Carl  Sieg- 
fried; D.  Carl  Rudolf  Seyerlen,  and  D.  Fried- 
rich  Nippold;  two  Ordentliche  Honorar-Pro- 
fcMsoren — t.  e.,  Ordinary  Professors  with  sal- 
ary, and  the  duties,  without  the  rights,  of 
Ordinary  Professors — namely,  Geh.  Kirchen- 
rath D.  Carl  Luder;  Willib.  Grimm;  and 
Kirchenrath  D.  Adolf  Hilgenfeld;  and  one 
Pfitat-doeent,  Lie.  Schmiedel.  The  stand- 
point of  the  Jena  Professors  is  characterized 
as  wisBtnchafUichfrei,  which  is  rather  indefi- 
nite, but  implies  opposition  to  traditional  and 
confessional  orthodoxy.  Jena  and  Heidelberg 
are  farther  removed  from  what  is  understood 
by  evangelical  orthodoxy  in  America  than 
any  other  University  of  Germany. 

Dr.  Hase  is  the  Nestor  of  German  Church 
historians,  being  eighty -six  years  of  age,  and 
may  yet  live  to  celebrate,  like  Leopold  von 
Ranke,  his  ninetieth  birthday.  The  study  of 
history  se  ;ms  favorable  to  long  life.  DOUin- 
ger,  the  most  learned  historian  of  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church,  is  88,  and  our  own  American 
historian,  Bancroft,  86  years  old,  and  both 
retain  their  mental  faculties  in  a  remarkable 
degree.  Hase  retired  from  active  duty  as 
lecturer,  but  continues  to  take  a  lively  interest 
in  all  the  affairs  of  the  University  and  of  the 
age.  He  has  just  finished  the  eleventh  edition 
of  his  admirable  Campendium  of  Church  His- 
^nf*'*  which  is  an  unsurpassed  masterpiece  of 
artistic  composition,  full  of  miniature  portraits 
of  great  men.  It  comes  down  to  the  Bismarck 
settlement  with  the  Pope — so  he  told  me,  for 
the  book  is  not  yet  published.  Hase  has  an 
esthetic  interest  in  all  that  is  beautiful  and 
remarkable,  and  knows  how  to  paint  it  with  a 
few  touches  as  no  other  writer.  He  has  re- 
cently issued  the  first  volume  of  his  Lectures 
on  Church  History,  which  comes  down  to 
Gregory  I.  The  second  volume  will  embrace 
the  middle  age,  and  the  third  volume  the  last 
three  centuries.  They  are  finished  in  manu- 
script, and  will  be  put  to  press  after  his  return 
from  Gastein,  where  he  spends  his  summer 
vacation.  He  told  me:  '* Gastein  has  done  me 
much  good,  and  for  this  we  must  be  grateful; 
for  life  is  beautiful  after  all "  {das  Leben  ist 


doch  sclwn).  He  may  meet  there  the  aged 
Emperor  William.  His  other  works,  UntU  rus 
Bedivivusi^  compend  of  Lutheran  dogmatics), 
the  Leben  Jesu  (very  full  in  its  literature)  and 
Vorl6sungen*iJiber  das  Leben  Jesu  (an  expansion 
of  the  former,  as  the  Lectures  on  Church  His- 
tory are  an  expansion  of  his  Compendium), 
not  to  mention  other  publications,  have  long 
been  before  the  public  in  repeated  editions, 
and  are  equally  remarkable  for  good  taste, 
condensed  ai^d  pointed  style.  I  met  him, 
among  the  few  hearers,  in  the  academic  ser- 
vice of  the  Students*  Gustavus  Adolphns 
Association.  He  kindly  invited  me  to  a  fam- 
ily dinner  with  his  children  and  grandchildren. 
It  was  aA  occasion  long  to  be  remembered. 

Professor  Lipsius  is  now  the  most  vigorous 
nnd  influential  among  the  theological  teachers 
at  Jena.  He  is  in  the  prime  of  life  (bom 
1830),  and  lectures  on  Systematic  Theology, 
Symbolics,  and  the  New  Testament.  His 
chief  works  are  a  volume  on  Dogmatics,  and 
a  critical  treatise  on  the  Apocryphal  Acts  of  the 
Apostles.  He  represents,  in  his  theology,  a 
New-Kantian  theism,  resembling  the  Ritschl 
school  in  his  sceptical  attitude  toward  meta- 
physics, but  in  other  respects  decidedly  op- 
posed to  it.  He  is  thoroughly  at  home  in  all 
questions  touching  the  apostolic  and  post- 
apostolic  age,  and  a  very  sharp  critic.  He 
contributed  several  articles  to  Smith  and 
Ware's  Dictionary  of  Christian  Biography 
(». «.,  Apocryphal  GJospels),  which  he  writes  in 
German,  and  of  which  he  revises  the  English 
translation.  He  told  me  that  the  English  was 
often  more  readable  than  the  original.  He  is 
now  preparin!*,  with  Bonnet,  of  France,  a 
new  edition  of  Tischendorf 's  Apocryphal  Acts 
of  the  Apostles. 

Professor  Grimm  is  well  known  by  his 
Latin  Dictionary  of  the  Greek  Testament.  He 
is  now  preparing  a  third  edition,  in  which,  as 
he*  informed  me.  he  makes  constant  reference 
to  Westcott  and  Hort.  Dr.  Thayer,  of  Cam- 
bridge, has  long  been  at  work  on  an  enlarged 
English  edition  of  Grimm,  which  is  eagerly 
expected  by  the  American  public.  Dr.  Grimm 
is  a  venerable  gentleman  of  nearly  eighty,  but 
still  lectures  on  New  Testament  exegesis,  this 
summer  on  the  Epistles  to  the  Corinthians. 


16 


THE  LIBKAUY  MAGAZINE. 


Professor  Nippold  was  recently  called  from 
Bern,  and  takes  the  place  of  Hase  in  Ecclesi- 
^astical  History.  He  is  a  pupil  of  Rotlie,  an 
animated,  agreeable  gentleman,  interested  es 
pecially  in  modern  Cliurcli  history,  and  in  the 
Old  Catholic  movement. 

Professor  Hilgenfeld  is,  together  with  Hol- 
sten,  in  Heidelberg,  tl  i  last  survivor  of  the 
Tubingen  School  of  Baur,  and  labors  with 
untiring  industry  in  the  reconstruction  of  the 
post-apostolic  age,  especially  the  history  of  the 
ancient  heresies.  He  edited  the  letters  of 
Clement,  Barnabas,  Poly  carp,  the  Pastor  of 
Hermas,  and  the  Didache  of  iJie  Twelve  Apostles, 
with  textual  notes;  and  wrote  a  critical  Intro- 
duction to  the  New  Testament  (1875),  and 
Ketzergeschichie  des  Urchrisieuthum  (1886). 
He  has  very  few  hearers,  but  his  quarterly 
Zettschrift  fur  wissenschaftliche  Tiieolugie  is 
widely  read  for  its  independent  critical  dis- 
cussions of  dilQcult  problems. 

Dr.  Stephens,  who  has  been  appointed 
successor  of  President  Dwight  in  the  Divinity 
School  at  New  Haven,  has  recently  passed  a 
creditable  examination  for  the  degree  of  D.D. 
at  Jena.  This  is  the  first  and  probably  the 
only  case  of  the  kind  as  far  as  American 
students  are  concerned,  and  rare  even  in  Ger- 
many. The  degree  of  Doctor  of  Philosophy 
is  usually  acquired  by  an  examination  of  dis- 
sertation, but  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Divinity 
is  generally  given  as  a  title  of  honor  in  recog- 
nition of  distinguished  literary  merit  and 
important  work.  It  is  never  given  a  second 
time  from  another  university,  as  is  sometimes 
the  case  in  England  and  America.  Once  a 
Doctor,  always  a  Doctor.  A  repetition  would 
be  regarded  as  a  lowering  of  the  value  of  the 
first  honor.  The  theological  degrees  in 
Ajnerica  nught  to  proceed  from  the  theological 
faculties  as  the  most  competent  judges,  instead 
of  the  colleges,  which  are  the  proper  judsres 
and  donors  of  other  literary  degrees.  But 
such  a  change  of  custom  would  scarcely  tend 
to  diminish  the  number  of  doctors,  of  whom 
there  are  more  in  New  York  alone  than  in 
the  whole  German  Empire — Pbop.  Phiup 
ScHAFF,  in  7%«  iTidepehdefiU, 


THE  ARMING  OP  CHINA. 

The  sudden  rise  of  China  to  a  place  among 
the  "world  powers"  is  by  far  tlie  greatest 
change  which  this  generation  has  witnessed 
in  Asiatic  politics.  It  is  scarcely  yet  six  years 
since  the  great  Empire  stood  as  much  outside 
the  politics  of  the  world,  and  especially  the 
politics  of  Europe,  as  if  she  h^d  belonged  to 
a  separate  and  distant  planet.  A  few  observers, 
it  is  true,  who  had  noticed  recent  events— the 
extirpation  of  the  Panthays,  the  erasure 
of  the  Kingdom  of  Kashgar,  and  the  deter- 
mined attitude  assumed  by  Pekin  when  de- 
manding the  retrocession  of  Kuldja  by  the 
Russians  —  had  begun  to  doubt  whether  the 
vitality  of  China  had  not  been  underrated;  but 
the  statesmen  of  Europe  paid  her  very  little 
attention.  The  dispatch  of  an  ambassador 
to  Europe  was  considered  rather  an  absurdity; 
it  was  necessary  to  protect  his  siute  from  in- 
sult in  London  by  some  rather  sharp  sentences; 
and  tlie  French  Government,. when  it  began 
its  experiments  in  Indo-Chiua,  openly  pro- 
nounced the  Chinese  Empire  to  be  une  quan- 
tite  negligeahle.  We  ourselves  delayed  carry- 
ing out  the  Treaty  of  Tientsin  with  a  certain 
indiHerent  indolence,  and  in  Central  Europe 
China  wiis  considered  an  interesting  geographi- 
cal expression. 

Within  six  years  this  indifference  has  com- 
pletely disappeared,  and  China  is  now  recog-. 
uized  by  all  diplomatists  as  a  state  of  the  first 
importance,  which  can  exercise  a  direct  and 
serious  influence  on  almost  every  great  power. 
She  stands,  in  fact,  in  direct  contact  with  the 
majority  of  them.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say 
that  the  statesmen  of  Pekin  could  overthrow 
any  French  Ministry  by  merely  increasing 
their  pressure  on  Tonquin  and  encouraging  the 
Anamese  to  attempt  an  insurrection.  That  is  to 
say,  they  could  compel  the  French  Government 
to  ask  for  men  and  money  with  which  to  de- 
fend their  Indo-Chinese  possessions  on  a  scale 
which  the  peasantry  would  assuredly  not  bear, 
and  which,  even  if  voted,  would  alienate  the 
Chamber.  The  Chinese  are  quite  aware  of 
this  fact,  and  are  even  now  striking  blows  at 
France  which  exasiierate  the  foreign  ofAcQ 
\f\  Paris  to  the  last  degree.   Pekin  has  decreed 


THE   ARMING   OF  CHINA. 


ir 


that  ihe  old  arrangement,  confirmed  by  a 
treaty  in  1859,  by  which  France  is  the  recog- 
iiized  protector  of  Catholic  Chinese  converts, 
shall  be  abrogated  ;  and  though  M.  de  Frey- 
cinet  rages,  and  threatens  both  China  and  the 
Papacy,  the  change,  under  which  the  Pope 
will  plant  a  Nuncio  in  Pekin,  has  been  al- 
ready arranged,  and  France  will  have  no 
remedy  except  an  impracticable  war. 

Th^  Chinese  could  in  Burmah  make  every- 
thing difficult  for  the  British  Government, 
which,  again,  has  every  reason  to  desire  their 
friendship,  not  only  because  the  opium  rev- 
enue depends  upon  it,  but  because,  in  any 
grand  struggle  with  Russia  the  alliance  with 
China  might  enable  us  to  effect  a  serious  di 
version,  perhaps  to  embarrass  the  government 
of  8t.  Petersburg  more  than  by  any  direct 
attack  in  the  Black  Sea.  The  Indian  Gk)vern- 
ment,  acting  in  unison  with  that  of  China, 
would  control  nearly  half  the  human  race, 
and  could  exert  a  force  in  Asia  with  which 
even  the  masses  of  soldiery  at  the  disposal  of 
the  Czar  would  be  unable  to  contend.  To 
Rossia,  indeed,  China  is  one  of  the  most  for 
midable  of  states,  because,  by  an  invasion  of 
Manchooria  or  of  the  territory  west  of  Euldja, 
the  Chinese  Emperor  can  at  discretion  compel 
St.  Petersburg  either  to  submit  to  a  defeat 
which  would  be  followed  by  insurrections 
throughout  Asiatic  Russia,  or  to  forward  an 
army  over  three  tliousand  miles  of  inhospit- 
able country  at  an  an  expense  which. would  be 
ruinous  to  any  treasury  in  tLe  world.  One 
can  hardly  imagine  a  worse  position  than  that 
of  a  Russian  Emperor  with  a  European  war 
on  hand,  yet  compelled  to  defend  his  ascend- 
ency in  Tartary  against  a  general  like  Tso. 

In  Paris,  London,  and  St.  Petersburg,  there 
fore,  the  Irlarquis  Tseng  is  one  of  the  most 
honored  and  influential  of  diplomatists ;  and 
even  in  Berlin  he  is  received  with  mnrked 
respect,  for  Prince  Bismarck  never  forgets  tliat 
Slav  and  German  may  one  day  be  compelled 
to  try  the  issue  of  war,  and  he  has  ideas  about 
"ships,  colonies,  commerce**  which  Pekin  can 
materially  aid  or  thwart.  Indeed,  the  in- 
fluence of  China  stretches  even  beyond  Asia 
and  Europe;  for  Washington  is  anions  about 
Cbineie  trade,  has  most  delicate  questions  to 


settle  about  Chinese  immigrants,  and  only  last 
week  voted  a  considerable  indemnity  to  Pekin 
in  consideration  of  outrages  suffered  by  China- 
men at  the  hands  of  roughs  upon  the  Pacific 
slope.  No  other  Asiatic  state  enjoys  any- 
tliing  approaching  to  the  same  influence,  or  is 
in  the  least  likely  to  be  recognized  or  thought 
of  as  one  of  the  efficient  Great  Powers  of  the 
world. 

Is  this  new  position  of  China  real?  We  be- 
lieve it  is.  There  is  a  theory  afloat  in  some 
quarters  that  much  of  the  new  authority  of 
China  is  due  to  the  skill  of  the  Marquis  Tseng, 
who  conducts  business  with  singular  dignity 
and  firmness,  and  there  is  also  an  idea  that  in 
the  last  resort  a  direct  blow  at  Pekin  would 
not  be  very  difficult.  In  truth,  however,  an 
ambassador  is  seldom  greater  than  his 
country,  and  the  difficulties  of  an  invasion  of 
China  have  considerably  increased.  We  all 
saw  in  the  Kuldja  affair,  in  the  defence  of  the 
Tonquin  frontier,  and  in  the  expulsion  of  the 
French  from  Hainan,  that  the  Chinese  govern- 
ment can  now  mobilize  large  bodies  of  troops 
which  are  by  no  means  easy  to  defeat,  if  only 
because,  when  defeated,  they  are  so  easily  re- 
placed, and  she  is  steadily  forming  a  regular 
force  for  the  defence  of  the  capital.  She  has 
been  improving  her  artillery  and  her  for- 
tresses for  years ;  her  navy,  commanded  by 
Germans  or  Americans,  is  no  longer  to  be  de- 
spised ;  and  a  march  on  Pekin  from  the  sea- 
board, though  not  impossible,  would  cost  any 
power  t!iat  attempted  it  a  large  army,  and  an 
expenditure  embarrassing  even  to  a  European 
bud  ,ut.  No  war  with  China  will  ever  again 
bo  mdertaken  with  a  light  heart,  and  it  is  oy 
no  means  certain  that  it  would  be  successful. 
The  Chinese  have  hitherto  resisted  General 
Gordon's  proposal  to  move  the  capital ;  but 
they  learn  fast  under  pressure,  and  if  they  re- 
solved to  move  the  court  to  a  x)oint  further 
from  the  sea,  as  they  resolved  to  give  up  their 
religious  objections  to  the  telegraph,  all  Euro- 
pean effort  might  be  baffled  by  the  impossi- 
bility of  transporting  and  maintaining  men 
enough  to  keep  up  communications  for  an  in- 
vading army.  TTie  work  could  be  done,  of 
course,  but  its  costliness  and  difficulty  vasiy 
increase  the  dislike  to  do  it,  as  also  does  tht 


18 


THE  LIBRAHY  MAGAZINE. 


tiuie  to  be  consumed.  The  European  States 
go  to  war  still  readily  enough,  but  the  Euro- 
pean peoples,  feeling  the  conficription  as  they 
do,  grow  markedly  impatient  of  what  Prince 
Bismarck  calls  "interminable"  wars,  which 
wear  down  the  strength  of  armies  in  the  hos- 
pitals and  send  home  regiments  of  specters 
and  skeletons  to  disgust  the  villages  with  com- 
pulsory service.  In  a  despotic  monarchy,  of 
course,  much  depends  upon  the  statesmen; 
but  the  foreign  office  of  Pekin  thinks  little 
of  time,  and  wliile  its  managers  remain  as 
tenacious  as  at  present,  the  strength  of  China 
is  real.  She  cannot  defeat  a  first-class  power, 
perhaps,  though  she  nearly  defeated  France ; 
but  she  can  inflict  too  much  suffering  with  too 
little  loss  for  even  a  first  class  i)ower  to  chal- 
lenge her  without  the  gravest  reason. 

Whether  the  new  position  of  China  will 
ultimately  be  Ijeneficial  to  the  world  is  a  ques- 
tion which  it  will  require  certainly  a  genera- 
^on,  and  possibly  many,  to  resolve  with  any 
conclusiveness.  There  is  a  disposition  in 
England  to  believe  that  it  will  and,  undoubt- 
edly, it  is  well  that  China  should  be  placed  be- 
yond the  danger  of  conquest.  European 
conquest  sometimes  vivifies;  but  the  popula- 
tion of  China  is  too  huge,  her  civilization  too 
complex,  her  people  too  self-confident,  to 
Icivve  much  hope,  or  any  hope,  that  they  could 
be  improved  by  subjugation.  They  would 
probably  only  lose  heart,  give  up  their  organ- 
ization, and  devote  themselves  to  the  passive 
resistance  and  adroit  evasion  of  pressure 
wliich,  even  in  Singapore  and  Hong  Eong, 
have  so  severely  taxed  our  energies,  that  Lord 
Dalliousie  once  pronounced  the  good  govern 
iiu'ut  of  Chinese  by  Europeans  practically 
impossible.  It  is  well,  therefore,  that  China 
should  feel  secure,  for  insecurity  develops 
alike  suspiciousness  and  cruelty;  but  still,  we 
cannot  completely  share  our  countrjrmen's 
pleasure  at  the  rise  of  a  grand  Pagan  State  in 
tlie  Far  East.  The  Chinese  statesmen  are 
very  ruthless,  and  think  nothing  of  extirpation 
when  extirpation  is  apparently  the  easiest 
course.  They  are  becoming  aware  that  the 
congestion  of  population  in  parts  of  China  is 
one  of  their  difficulties,  and  as  their  power 
increases,  their  love  of  seclusion  may  disap- 


pear, and  they  may  hunger  for  more  land. 
At  present,  no  doubt,  their  ruling  idea  is  a 
purely  defensive  one;  but  it  might  be  changed" 
by  circumstances,  or  the  appearance  of  an 
Emperor  with  the  old  Tartar  instinct  of  con- 
quest, which  once  carried  the  race  from  Sam- 
arcand  to  Pekin  on  one  side,  and  the  Crimea 
on  the  other. 

China  is  passive  now,  but  she  might  break 
out  some  day,  and  her  outbreak  might  be  a 
calamity  worse  for  the  human  race  than  the 
barbarian  onslaught  on  Rome.  A  power  which 
can  expend  ten  thousand  men  a  week  without 
feeling  the  loss,  which  has  an  aptitude  for 
using  mechanical  appliances,  and  which  is 
indifferent  if  it  depopulates  as  it  rolls  on,  is  a 
terrible  power  to  contemplate,  more  especially 
as  once  in  motion  it  could  only  be  checked  by 
a  slaughter  which  would  demoralize  mankind. 
China  seems  immobile  now,  but  she  has  from 
time  to  time  struck  down  most  of  the  states 
on  her  borders;  and  though  only  historians 
remember  Jenghiz  Khan,  he  conquered  .North- 
em  and  Central  Asia,  and  the  world  was  not 
the  better  for  his  career.  We  confess  to  a 
shade  of  doubt  as  to  the  ultimate  result  of  the 
reinvigoration  of  China;  but  that  must  not 
prevent  out  acknowledging  that  it  has  oc- 
curred, and  that  when  the  bulletin-writers 
record  so  carefully  the  journeys  of  the  Mar- 
quis Tseng,  they  are  not  wasting  time. — The 
Spectator. 


ASCENT  OF  MOUNT  ETNA. 

The  giant  of  volcanic  mountains  has  been 
making  himself  notorious  of  late.  In  the 
usual  way  he  is  eclipsed  by  his  more  diminu- 
tive brother  Vesuvius,  who  has  received  far 
more  attention  from  writers  and  tens  of 
thousands  more  visitors.  Nor  is  this  to  be 
wondered  at.  Vesuvius  distinguished  him- 
self once  by  extinguishing  a  great  historic 
city,  whose  exhumed  remains  constitute  one 
of  the  most  interesting  sights  of  Europe,  and 
which  draw  numberless  travelers  from  all 
'parts  of  the  world.  Then  Vesuvius  is  on  the 
highway  of  continental  tourist  travel,  and 
those  who  go  as  far  south  as  Rome  are  tempted 


ASCENT  OF  MOUNT  ETNA. 


19 


to  mike  the  journey  to  Naples,  whicb  city  Is 
now  one  of  the  ports  at  which  the  Orient  line 
of  steameis  stops.  The  railway  tempts  very 
many  to  ascend  VesVivius  who  would  not 
undergo  the  fatigue  of  climbing. 

For  these  and  other  reasons  it  is  that  Etna 
has  been  kept  comparatively  in  the  back- 
ground, and  it  is  only  now  and  again  when  he 
asserts  himself  that  he  secures  anything  like 
the  attention  his  fame  and  ^his  vastness  de- 
mand. The  recent  eruption  has  had  this  ef- 
fect, and  though  all  immediate  expectation  of 
a  huge  devastation  is  removed,  the  tide  of 
desolation  was  so  vast,  and  was  flowing  to- 
ward Nicolosi  with  such  txireatening  violence 
that  the  inhabitants  had  fled  from  their  houses, 
and  a  cordon  of  soldiers  had  been  drawn 
round  the  town  to  prevent  their  return. 

At  one  time  this  eruption  assumed  alarming 
proportions.  For  some  days  the  volcano 
showed  signs  of  unusual  activity,  rumblings 
of  thunder  were  heard  from  far  down  the 
crater,  and  these  were  followed  by  a  con- 
tinuous roar  of  Titanic  artillery.  Huge 
masses  of  flame  and  stones  were  hurled  from 
the  mouth  of  the  crater ;  but  it  was  from  the 
side  of  the  mountain  that  the  great  eruption 
came.  Here  a  stream  of  red-hot  lava  burst 
forth,  and  continued  for  days  with  more  or 
less  violence,  until,  at  its  worst,  a  river  of  red 
fire  flowed  down  the  mountain,  some  three  or 
four  miles  wide,  five  or  six  miles  long,  and 
of  a  depth  of  from  thirty  to  forty  feet.  This 
awful  stream  moved  on  in  slow  and  destruc- 
tive majesty,  and  gradually,  as  it  advanced, 
separate  itself  into  several  smaller  currents 
and  distributed  itself  over  the  vast  mountain 
side.  No  wonder  that  the  people  fled  before 
such  an  advancing  tide.  The  whole  country 
is  but  a  too  terrible  evidence  of  what  Etna  is 
capable  of  effecting,  while  the  history  of  pre- 
vious eruptions  lives  in  the  minds  of  the  in- 
habitants to  remind  them  of  the  former  deso- 
lations. 

The  first  mention  of  an  eruption  is  by 
Pythagoras,  and  the  next  is  by  Thucydides 
as  early  as  477  b.  c.  Many  other  eruptions 
have  taken  place,  but  the  earliest  of  which 
there  is  any  detailed  description  ocrurrct!  in 
1009.  of  i^hich  a  graphic  account  is  left  on 


record  by  Alfonso  Borelli.  From  It  we  learn 
on  March  Hth  iLcie  came  first  such  a  discharge 
of  lava  m»  U)  obscure  the  light  for  some  time : 
this  wais  followed  by  a  tvhirlwind  and  by  a 
series  of  earthquakes,  increasing  in  intensity 
for  three  days,  until  the  people  of  Nicolosi— 
some  fourteen  miles  down  the  mountain — 
could  not  stand.  Fissure  after  fissure  opened 
in  the  mountain  side,  each  vying  with  others 
in  the  violence  of  its  discharge,  some  throwing 
up  red-hot  stones  to  the  height  of  1,200  feet, 
until  at  length  all  the  openings  united  formed 
a  crater  or  chasm  some  2,500  feet  in  circum- 
ference. We  need  not  particularize  the  course 
of  the  desolating  torrent,  nor  indicate  the 
various  towns  and  villages  that  were  swept 
away;  suffice  it  to  say  that  the  desolating 
stream  was  quite*  two  miles  wide,  that  it  de- 
stroyed some  fourteen  towns  and  villages, 
some  of  them  buried  to  the  depth  of  40  feet, 
and  that  27,000  persons  perished. 

The  eruption  of  1693  was  even  more  violent 
and  destructive.  On  January  9th  Etna  began 
to  vomit  smoke  and  flames,  and  to  give  forth 
fearful  sounds,  as  of  a  storm  within  its -vast 
bosom.  Suddenly  there  was  a  terrific  shock,,} 
accompanied  by  an  explosion,  and  in  an  in- 
stant Catania,  some  twenty-six  miles  off,  at 
the  base  of  the  mountain,  was  in  ruins,  under* 
neath  which  lay  18,000  of  its  inhabitants.  The 
same  shock  destroyed  in  a  moment  fifty  towns 
and  villages,  some  of  them  at  even  a  greater 
distance  than  Catania,  and  the  loss  of  life  is 
computed  at  from  60,000  to  100,000  persons. 

The  last  eruption  recorded  was  in  May, 
1879,  when  the  tide  flowed  down  in  two  slug- 
gish streams,  but  did  not  continue  far  enough 
to  cause  any  serious  destruction.  A  severe 
shock  of  earthquake  occurred,  causing  some 
destruction  to  houses  and  killing  ten  persons. 
Since  then  the  giant  mountain  has  not  given 
much  cause  for  alarm  until  the  eruption  which 
has  just  occurred,  and  which  happily  seems  to 
have  stayed  its  desolating  course  before  doing 
any  damage  to  life. 

We  had  come  to  Naples  in  a  well-appointed 
steamer,  and  the  route  on  our  return  would 
be  regulated  by  the  ports  where  cargo  was 
most  easily  to  be  secured.  When,  there- 
fore, it  was  ordered  that  the  ship  should  go 


80 


THE  LTBRAnV  ^fAOAZTNE. 


to  Catania,  In  Sicily,  and  that  this  was  the 
first  port  we  should  stop  at,  we  knew  wc 
should  be  anchored  at  the  foot  of  the  terrible 
mounUiin,  and  hope  stirred  within  us  at  the 
thought  of  visiting  the  summit.  Looked  at 
from  the  harbor,  the  mountain  presents  few 
attractions,  a  solitary  cone  rising  over  11,000 
feet  from  the  base,  and  distant  some  twenty 
miles  as  the  crow  flies.  The  smoke  from  the 
summit  is  but  a  small  volume  compared  with 
that  which  issues  from  Vesuvius,  and  indeed 
from  a  distance  is  scarcely  discernible.  But 
then  there  the  monster  rises,  and  around  on 
every  hand  are  the  results  of  his  awful  devas- 
tating power ;  and  we  are  determined  to  as- 
cend. 

Four  of  us  start  in  a  carri^e  and  pair  at 
three  in  the  afternoon.  Our  destination,  in 
the  conveyance,  is  Nicolosi,  an  ascent  of 
twelve  miles.  As  we  emerge  into  the  country 
the  lava  asserts  itself  everywhere — the  houses, 
the  hedges,  the  soil  are  all  of  the  same  pre- 
dominating substance,  and  of  the  same 
gloomy,  ashy  color.  The  vegetation  springs 
up,  as  it  were,  from  boundless  fields  of  cin- 
ders, and  is  the  only  relief  to  the  dreary,  de- 
pressing scene  that  everywhere  meets  the  eye. 
After  three  hours'  ride  we  come  to  Nicolosi, 
where  the  carriage  leaves  us,  and  where  we 
enter  the  ''Novel  H5tel  de  I'Etna"  to  prepare 
for  the  ascent.  The  prospect  of  an  ascent  on 
mule-back  of  fifteen  miles  is  not  exhilarating, 
but  when  we  are  told  it  would  take  us  fully 
six  hours  we  settled  down  to  it  in  a  business- 
like fashion,  proceeding  in  Indian  file.  On 
the  left  we  pass  the  Monti  Hossi,  two  moun- 
tains between  6.000  and  7,000  feet  high, 
thrown  up  by  one  of  the  eruptions  of  Etna. 
Then  there  are  nothing  before  us  but  masses 
of  tiny  vines  some  two  or  three  feet  high.  But 
we  soon  come  to  quite  a  distinct  zone  or  belt 
of  woodland,  called  Jl  Bosco,  or  the  wood, 
which  extends  in  width  about  six  miles,  and 
is  three  miles  deep. 

The  moon  has  risen,  and  this  part  of  the 
ride  is  as  pleasant  as  it  is  picturesque.  But 
beyond  the  wood  the  dreary  waste   begins. 

After  a  little  more  than  two  hours'  ride  we 
•ome  to  the  ''Woodman's  House,"  of  which 
WV  avail  ourselves  for  a  rest  and  for  9ome 


water  for  selves  and  beasts.  Agalb  mounting, 
we  start  for  our  next  stage,  the  "English 
House,"  or  Casa  degV  Inglesi,  at  the  base  of 
the  cone  of  Etna,  where  travelers  may  rest 
and  get  a  shakedown  before  ascending  to  the 
crater.  Never  was  hostelry  more  welcome 
when  at  length,  at  half -past  twelve,  we  reach 
the  top ;  and  never  had  hostelry  less  to  offer 
to  tired  and  dispirited  wayfarers.  A  bundle 
of  straw  is  all  that  is  available  as  a  bed,  and 
from  this  two  men  have  to  be  aroused,  who 
had  gone  to  sl^p.  The  cold  is  intense,  and 
no  covering  is  provided. 

At  a  quarter  to  four  we  start  for  the  summit. 
We  hope  to  reach  the  summit  before  sun- 
rise, but  we  little  reckon  the  difiSculty  of  this 
two-mile  ascent.  At  first  our  path  lies  over 
loose  scorise  or  ashes,  into  which  our  feet  sink 
to  the  depth  of  several  inches.  By-and-by  the 
mountain-side  becomes  steeper,  and  the  path- 
way is  over  liard  lava,  in  which  the  guides 
with  their  axes  have  to  cut  niches,  in  which 
our  feet  may  find  safe  hold.  It  is  trying  work, 
for  an  insecure  foothold  means  a  precipitate 
fall.  Our  alpenstocks  gr^tly  help  us,  resting 
on  which  every  few  minutes  we  take  breath. 

Before  we  reach  the  top  the  sun  has  risen, 
but  in  a  mist,  so  that  an  earlier  start  would 
not  have  secured  the  view  desired.  But  in 
spite  of  the  mist  the  view  is  indescribably 
grand  and  extensive.  All  around  and  below 
us  are  the  undulating  sides  of  the  mountain, 
which  is  more  than  ninety  miles  in  circum- 
ference at  its  base.  Beyond,  on  every  hand, 
stretches  away  the  island  of  Sicily,  with  its 
variegated  landscapes,  fringed  with  the  blue 
sea. 

Grand  as  is  the  panorama  that  opens  up 
before  and  around  one,  the  scene  which  the 
crater  itself  affords  is  no  less  imposing  and 
unique  in  its  way.  Creeping  over  to  the 
summit,  and  lying  down,  with  covered  nose 
and  mouth,  to  protect  them  from  the  fumes 
of  sulphur  which  rise  up  from  a  thousand 
fissures,  we  peer  down  into  the  awful  abyss. 
The  sides  are  almost  perpendicular,  colored 
by  the  sulphur,  but  relieved  by  patches  of 
green  and  brown.  Every  now  and  again  we 
bnry  our  faces,  as  the  wind  blows  such  fumes 
(>f  sulphur  across  them  as  liureaten  to  blind 


r^- 


CURRKNT   THOUGHT. 


dl 


and  choke  tiA.  We  strain  onr  eyes  to  peer 
into  the  recesses  of  this  awful  gulf,  but  all  Id 
vain.  Far,  far  down  beyond  our  sight  the 
unfathomable  chasm  yawns,  and  we  cannot 
help  letting  our  fancy  picture,  aU  too  faintly, 
what  awful  eruptions  might  come  forth  from 
these  hidden  depths.  Some  idea  of  the  size 
of  the  crater  may  be  gathered  from  the  fact 
that  it  is  from  two  to  three  miles  in  circumfer- 
ence. 

Our  way  down  Is  on  the  other  side  of  the 
mountain,  over  loose  fields  ot  dndery  lava, 
into  which  the  legs  sink,  so  that  a  precipitous 
descent  is  avoided.  We  reach  the  English 
House  at  seven,  where  we  have  an  all  too 
frugal  breakfast,  but  where'  the  Alpine  Club 
has  provided  the  unexpected  but  most  to  be 
desired  of  all  commodities,  ice,  with  which  we 
refresh  ourselves,  till  our  teeth  ache 

At  eight  we  begin  our  descent  on  the  mules, 
which  step  out  more  briskly,  but  as  carefully 
as  in  -our  ascent.  At  ten  .  we  reach  the 
"Woodman's  House,"  where  we  again  rest 
and  get  some  cool  water.  At  twelve  we  reach 
Nicolosi,  glad  of  the  rest  and  thade  from  our 
four  hours'  ride  under  a  broiling  suu.^Ben- 
JAMIH  GXiABXB,  in  The  Sunday  Maganne 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 

CBRZ8T  or  MoDKBir  Art. —The  Be  v.  T.  Harwood 
Pittison  Mys,  in  the  Baptist  Quarterly  Review:— 

^*  What  are  we  to  infer  from  the  fact  that  no  aathen- 
tlc  portrait  of  onr  Lord  exists,  or,  indeed,  can  with 
any  show  of  reason  be  said  to  have  been  painted  ? 
The  intense  hatred  of  the  Jew  for  any  representation 
of  the  divine,  conpled  with  his  equally  intense  hatred 
of  any.  human  portrait,  would  be  enough  to  explain 
why  the  features  of  Jesus  were  not  preserved  on  can- 
vas or  in  marble.  The  simple  story  of  the  evangelists 
has  been  darkened,  of  tener  than  it  has  been  brightened, 
by  the  efforts  of  the  painter.  The  Sistine  Madonna  is 
indeed  the  most  wonderful  representation  m  all  art 
of  the  mingled  simj^icity  and  mystery  of  infancy,  and 
seems  to  anticipate  the  poefs  'Intimations  of  Im- 
morality *  in  the  unfathomable  beauty  of  the  wide- 
open  eyes,  and  in  the  far-reaching  expression  of  the 
countenance.  But  we  have  no  authority  for  saying 
that  Jesus  had  these  anymore  than  other  children  in 
Nazareth.  When,  however,  we  turn  from  Raphael 
and  Mnnllo  to  other  painters,  the  fallare  to  repaint 
ChrisI  becomes  more  than  a  failure.  It  is  an  actual 
proftmatlfliL   II  ww  nterred  for  thla  ceiAury  to  have 


a  Bible  illustrated  by  Giutave  T)or^  the  prince  of  cari-. 
caturists.  It  was  also  reserved  in  this  century  to  see, 
in  MunkacKy^B  *  Christ  in  the  Pretorlum,*  the  most 
shameless  attempt  of  art  to  crucify  the  Son  of  Man 
afresh.  When  we  look  at  the  sinister  fece,  capable  of 
any  crime,  with  no  gleam  even  of  fanaticism  to  relieve 
its  opaque  dullness,  the  face  of  a  man  half  knave  and 
half  fool,  we  can  readily  believe  the  story  that  it  was 
a  Polish  or  Hungarifin  Jew,  from  tbe  back  slums  of 
Pesth,  who  furnished  the  painter  with  his  model  for 
the  figure  of  Christ  The  Jew  of  to-iday,  in  his  utmost 
malignity  against  Jesus  of  Naaareth,  has  but  to  glance 
at  thia  latest  picture  of  flim,  t6  cry  '  Aha!  so  would 
we  have  HV  And  yet  this  execrable  travesty  of  one  of 
the  most  impressive  scenes  in  the  life  of  pur  Lord  ta 
to  be  fdund  in  the  houses  of  Christian  people.^* 

Mr.  Cabnboik*s  Out  to  EDrNBUROH.— Mr.  Andrew 
Carnegie,  millionaire  and  author  of  a  clever  book  en- 
titled Triumphant  Democracy^  is  a  Scotchman  by 
birth,  but  an  American  by  residence  since  early  child- 
hood. It  seems  that  he  h^  quite  recently  made  a 
munificent  proposition  to  the  city  of  Bdinburgh. 
Touching  this  The  Saturday  Review  remarks  in  its 
customary  genial  fashion : — 

"Citizen  Carnegie  has,  it  is  said,  offered  the  city  of 
Edinburgh  £EO,(IO0  (after  previously  offering  j^,OOQ> 
for  the  establishment  of  a  Free  Library!  Considering 
the  language  which  the  Citizen  has  used  respecting  a 
Queen  whom  Scotland,  and  Edinburgh  in  particular, 
is  supposed  to  regard  with  peculiar  loyalty,  it  might 
have  been  more  dignified  to  suggest  that  Mr.  Camegle'a 
money  might  perish  with  him.  But  it  Is  probably  un- 
just to  require  of  any  man,  and  especially  of  a  North 
Briton,  the  divine  virtue  of  refusing  *  siller,'  and  such 
a  pretty  sum  of  siller.  After  all,  the  fathers  of  the 
city  may  excuse  themselves  by  regarding  the  plum  aa 
a  sin-offering  and  Mr.  Andrew  Carnegie  as  a  penitent. 
Dollars  non  oient,  neither  do  books,  except  when  they 
are  bound  in  Russian  leather,  and  then  it  is  pleasant. 
Besides,  is  is  extremely  improbable  that  Her  Majesty 
has  troubled  herself  much  at  hearing,  if  she  has  heard, 
that  one  Andrew  Carnegie  considers  her  existence  an 
insult  to  the  manhood  of  her  eul^ects.  Therefore  the 
modem  Athens  may  justly  take  the  fine  gold  without 
regarding  too  narrowly  the  cleanness  of  the  hands 
from  which  It  comes,  and  may  wfthont  compunction 
expend  it  on  the  very  properly  Athenian  object  of  a 
library.  How  much  good  the  library  will  do  (when  it 
has  been  got,  and  a  statute  of  Mr.  Andrew  Cames^e 
trampling  upon  the  dragon  Monarchy  set  up  in  the 
hall  thereof)  is  of  course  quite  another  thing. '^ 

The  Tree  of  Knowledge.— Speaking  of  a  series  of 
papers  issued  by  the  authority  of  the  British  Govern- 
ment, in  one  of  which  the  Island  of  Tristan  d^Acunha 
is  most  glowingly  depicted,  the  London  Spectator 
says  :— 

**  The  late  General  Gordon  thought  he  had  discov- 
ered the  original  Garden  of  Eden  in  one  of  the  Seychel- 
les Islands,  and  he  identified  the  *Tree  of  the  Knowl- 
cdire  or  Good  and  GviP  as  the  Coco  de  Mer^  which 
tree,  hu  KUpposed,  after  performing  its  special  oflBce, 
wa«  relegated  to  the  condition  of  ordinary   trees. 


23 


THE  LIBRARY  .AIAGAZINE. 


(Specimen*  or  tiie  Coco  de  Mer  frait  may  be  seen  at 
the  £zbibitioD  by  any  who  are  carioue  to  learn  into 
what  the  apple  that  tempted  Eve  ha^  since  degener 
ated).  When  Gordon  made  this  Burmise,  he  had 
probably  not  Tisited  the  modem  Paradise  on  Tristran 
d'Acanha,  or  he  might  have  discovered  that  the  for- 
bidden tree  was  really  the  Cape  vine,  which  seems  to 
have  a  fatal  attraction  for  *  the  yoonger  and  more  am- 
bitions settlers/  " 

Son  PBi-fl]0iOBio  MxK.-43ir  J.  W.  Dawson,  the 
•minent  Canadian  scientist,  in  his  recent  work,  Egypt 
and  Syria,  treats  of  the  physical  featnres  of  those 
conntries  in  their  relation  to  Biblical  flistoxy.  We 
maintains^that  the  bone-caves  of  Northern  Syria  yield 
Indications  of  pre-historic  men  6f  two  distinct  epochs, 
the  earlier  being  contemporaneous  with  the  woolly 
rhinoceros ;  and  the  later  belonging  to  the  present 
eoologicai  era.  Of  the  latter  of  these  two  classes  be 
says:— 

**Tbe  men  of  the  rhinoceros  age  are  probably  an 
extinct  people.  Like  the  animals  on  which  they  sub- 
sisted, they  may  have  perished  in  that  great  diluvial 
cataclysm  which  closed  the  second  continental  period, 
and  which  we  are  now  beginning  to  identify  with  the 
historical  Deluge.  In  this  case,  the  country  may  have 
remained  unoccupied  for  ages,  and  when  men  returned 
to  it,  it  had  become  tenanted  by  animals  still  living 
The  new  people  also,  if  we  may  judge  from  their  iml 
lilements,  were  more  delicate  manipulators  of  flint 
than  their  predecessors,  and  probably  a  less  rugged 
antl  stalwart  race,  with  more  of  art  and  less  of  vigor 
than  the  hunters  who  slew  the  great  rhinoceros  of  the 
antediluvian  plains.  These  were  probably  the  abori- 
gines whom  the  Phoenicians  met  when  their  ships  first 
explored  the  coast  between  Berytus  and  Tripoli,  with 
whom  they  may  have  traded  or  fought  fbr  the  posses, 
slon  of  the  country,  and  whose  descendants  not  im- 
probably constitute  some  of  the  varied  tribes  inhabit- 
ing the  region  at  the  present  day.'* 

William  Wintkr's  *' Shaksfbabk's  Bmolanb.''— 
Mr.  Winter,  the  dramatic  critic  of  the  Jiew  York  TVi- 
bune^  is  moreover  a  poet— both  In  verse  and  prose. 
The  London  Saturd<»y  Review,  thus  speaks  of  his 
work,  Shakepeare^t  JSngland  ;— 

"  This  record  of  a  passionate  pilgrim  would  not  be 
out  of  place  in  the  pocket  of  many  an  Englishman  who 
is  a  stranger  In  his  own  land.  Mr.  Winter's  work  is 
already  a  favorite  companion  with  the  American  trav 
eler.  Tlie  English  reader,  however,  will  have  but 
faintly  responded  to  the  reverential  spirit  that  inspires 
these  essays  if  he  fails  to  discover  the  peculiar  dis- 
tinction of  interpretation  that  isolates  the  volume  from 
others  of  its  class.  Mr.  Winter  surpasses  the  modest 
aspiration  of  his  preface.  He  offers  something  more 
than  guidance  to  the  American  traveler.  He  is  a  con 
Tinclng  and  eloquent  iate^reter  of  the  august  mem- 
•ries  and  venerable  sanctities  of  the  old  conntry. 
Into  many  an  » odd  angle  of  the  isle,'  visited  by  few 
but  his  own  countrymen,  and  lying  apart  from  the 
famous  shrines  whither  the  multitude  go  up  unques- 
tioning, he  carries  a  divining  rod  of  curious  magnetic 
property,  and  reveals  the  shy  and  secret  presence  of  the 


genius  loci.    *The  pathos  in  human  experience,*  he 
telle  us,  'and  the  hallowing  associations  of  uu  historic 
land,'  have  mot!t  attracted  him,  and  the  result  is  the 
suggestive  reflections    that  vivify  the  minute   and 
graphic  topography  of  the  chapters  on  Stratford  and 
Warwick,  the  Tower  of  London  and  Windt»or  CasUe. 
In  these  moments  of  self -revelation  the  realizaiion  of 
the  Infinite  longing  of  the  pilgrim  is  not  altogether 
unmingled  with  the  exile's  affecting  sense  of  the  sig- 
nificance of  his  Pisgah  glimpses  Into  the  mystery  aad 
magic  of  the  past    Viewed  in  connection  with  the 
promise  of  the  future,  the  vagueness  and  grandeur  of 
the  retrospect  must  needs  exercise  the  emotions  and 
intellect  of  an  American  with  a  force  that  can  only  be 
imperfectly   apprehended   by  an  Englishman.     The 
distinction  Implied  by  the  terms   'fatherland'  and 
'mother-tongue'  has   been   ingeniously  analyzed  by 
phllologers.     Its  propriety  is  demonstrated  to  be  so 
firmly   «ased  in  national  sentiment  as  to  admit  of  no 
violation  by  transposition.     Yet  there  is  a  peculiar 
felicity  in  Mr.  Winter's  application  of  the  phrase  to 
England.    The  American  who  follows  in  tlie  steps  of 
Washington    Irving    and    Hawthorne    rn.iiies    the 
splendor  of  his  Inheritance  and  the  duality  of  his  birth- 
right.    Two  countries  claim   bis  affection,  without 
dividing  his  allegiance  by  their  fair  rivalry.    The  one 
is  the  land  of  his  birth,  the  inspiration  of  patriotism, 
his  fatherland ;  the  other  is  of  necessity  his  mother 
land,  whose  attraction  is  not  less  powerful  becauae 
more  complex  and  indefinable.    That  this  truth  Is  sug- 
gested by  Mr.  Winter,  quite  incidentally  and  without 
any  betrayal  of  self-consciousness,  is  not  the  least 
notable  characteristic  of  these  impressions  of  England. 
The  estimate  of  English  scenery  and  antiquities  is 
expressed  with  a  frankness  and  cordiality  that  evoke 
a  genial  feeling  in  the  reader.    Even  the  climate  la 
treated  In  the  friendliest  spirit,  though  we  regretfully 
remember  how  little  the  summers  of  1877  and  1888 
merited  the  traveler's  magnanimity.'* 

ParijaiiektartRowdtisx. -Alluding  to  some  recent 
scenes  in  the  House  of  Commons,  which  would  have 
been  held  disgraceful  at  a  ward-meeting  In  New  York, 
The  Saturday  Review  says  :— 

'1'he  imporUnce  of  the  Speaker's  oflSce  Increases 
with  its  diflicuity.  Until  lately  the  House  of  Com- 
mons took  pride  in  the  universal  deference  which  its 
members  paid  to  their  own  chosen  representative. 
Tact,  good  temper,  dignity  of  demeanor,  and  familiar 
acquaintance  with  the  forms  of  the  House  sufllced  for 
the  performance  of  duties  which  presented  no  extra- 
ordinary difficulty.  Mr.  Shaw  Lefevre— who  still  sur- 
vives in  honored  old  age,  and.  who  was  for  many 
years  one  of  the  ablest  occupants  of  the  Chair— can 
perhaps  scarcely  recollect  an  instance  of  collision  be- 
tween himself  and  any  Parliamentary  mutineer.  IIlv 
successor,  Mr.  Evelyn  Denison,  though  he  was  some- 
what less  successful  as  Speaker.still  enjoyed  the  benefit 
of  traditions  dating  from  a  better  Parliamentary  age 
Mr.  Brana  was  the  first  Speaker  who  found  ii  neces 
eary  to  resort  to  vigoroun  measures  for  the  preserva- 
tion of  order.  Veteran  members  had  scarcely  been 
aware  in  their  early  experience  of  ihe  value  of  voluo- 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 


38 


taiy  and  almoet  nneonsclons  obedience  to  eetablished 
rales.  •  The  Standing  Orders  and  the  unwritten  cns- 
toms  of  the  Hoase  of  Commone  had  been  sufficient  for 
their  purpose  as  long  as  they  were  universally  accepted 
in  spirit  as  in  letter.  Waste  of  time  and  interruption 
of  business  were  rendered  possible  by  the  text  of  the 
rules ;  but  abuse  of  privileges  would  have  been  gen- 
erally reprobated,  an^,  although  it  may  ha'e  been  at- 
tempted in  isolated  cases,  it  had  never  become  delib- 
erate and  systematic.  The  Speaker  could  invariably 
count  on  the  support  of  the  great  parties,  and 
especially  of  the  leaders,  if  he  found  it  necessary  to 
check  occasional  irregularity. ^\ 

Thb  Primeval  Vallet  of  the  Nile.— Sir  J.  W. 
Xlttwson,  In  his  Bgypt  and  Syria,  endeavors  to  depict 
the  aspect  of  the  Nile  Valley  before  it  had  become  the 
habitation  of  man.  He  says  :— 

**In  its  cultivated  portions  all  is  now  so  artillcial 
and  dependent  on  man  that  it  is  difficult  to 
imagine  a  natural  condition  of  the  Nile.  The  river, 
the  mud-banks,  and  the  rocks,  no  doubt,  are 
as  they  were ;  but  what  was  the  condition  of  the 
belt  of  cultivated  ground  when  the  flrst  wanderer  from 
the  cradle  of  the  human  race  looked  out  upon  it,  per- 
haps from  some  hill-top  of  the  Arabian  range,  and 
▼entnred,  with  timorous  steps,  to  explore  the  lower 
grounds  bordering  the  great  river?  The  higher  portions 
of  the  plaii^  were,  no  doubt,  occupied  with  dense  and 
tangled  forests  of  palms,  tamarisks,  acacias,  and 
sycamores,  while  the  swamps  were  filled  with  tall 
reeds  and  papyrus,  and  pools  were  gay  with 
the  beautiful  pale-blue  lotus.  This  luxuriant  vegeta- 
tion would  contrast  on  the  one  hand  with  the  arid 
desert,  and  on  the  other  with  the  verdureless  mud-flats 
recently  deserted  by  the  water.  We  may  add  to  the 
picture,  crocodiles  baetking  on  the  flats  or  sunning  in 
the  shallow^  the  unwieldy  hippopotamus  floundering 
In  the  waters,  antelopes  pasturing  on  the  meadows, 
leopards,  wolves,  aud  jackals  prowling  in  the  woods 
and  on  the  margin  of  the  desert,  swarms  of  wildfowl 
over  the  marshes  and  in  the  swamps,  and  multitudes 
of  fish  io'  the  waters.  It  must  have  appeared  on  the 
one  hand  a  solitude  terrible  in  its  luxuriance  and  its 
monsters,  and  on  the  other  a  garden  of  the  Lord  in  its 
riches  and  fertility.'" 

WoxEX  AKD^THEiR  8hoks.^A  medical  correspond- 
ent of  The  Hew  fork  Times,  who  signs  himself 
•'Kouphut,  M.  D.,"  fell,  at, a  fashionable  watering- 
place,  into  a  colloquy  with  another  medical  gentleman, 
the  general  subject  being  the  unfitness  of  American 
wives  and  mothers  to  fnlflU  the  duties  of  those  posi- 
tions. Br.  Kouphut  thus  reports  a  part  of  this  collo- 
quy: 

**  Look,''  said  my  friend,  "  at  that  beautiful  girl  now 
coming  toward  us  up  the  middle  aisle  of  the  dining- 
room.  What  a  superb  figure!  What  lovely  red  and 
white  in  those  cheeks.  She  must  be  at  least  five  feet 
eight,  and  what  a  waist!  Why,  it  would  make  three  of 
sach  a*  that  j^irl  Just  boyond  her  has/' 

*•  All  true,"  said  I;  "  bnt  oh,  my  dear  doctor,  did  you 
remark  her  constrained  gait,  and  did  you  observe  how 


exactly  her  feet,  seen  as  she  approached  ns,  looked 
like  those  of  the  animal  that  gives  milk  and  runs  like 
a  woman?  And  did  you  notice,  as  she  went  from  us, 
how  sadly  she  has  the  'Saratoga  straddle?'  It  all 
comes  from  the  present  fashion  with  fine  (and  with 
coarse)  ladies  of  wearing  high  heels  and  thin  soles, 
and  of  having  the  former  placed  under  the  distal  end 
of  the  08  calcis.  They  cannot  stand  erect  without 
having  that  bend  of  the  leg  at  the  knee-joint  which  in 
an  old  and  hard-driven  mare  is  known  as  a  *  sprnng- 
for'ad'  in  stable  talk.  All  the  weight  of  that  poor  girl's 
body  rests  on  a  line  drawn  through  the  balf  of  her 
foot.  Ere  long  It  produces  that  further  strong  likeness 
to  a  cow's  hoof— prevents  proper  walking  exercise  and 
brings  in  the  harvest  to  pedicure  and  physician.  I 
have  lectured  to  students  on  the  horrid  habit,  I  have 
written  to  medical  journals.  I  have  preached  and 
prayed  to  the  foolish  virgins  themselves  and  to  their 
mothers,  with  just  as  much  good  result  as  would  have 
come  from  telling  those  amiable  females  how  to  ex- 
tract sunbeams  from  cucumbers.  I  am  sorry,  I  ini  sad, 
I  am  mad,  and  1  am  tired!  How  I  wish  I  know  the  way 
to  have  the  infernal  evil  cured!  I  have  gone  to  sensi- 
ble shoemakers  and  explained  how  anatomy  nhould 
he  considered  in  fitting  our  lovely  country  women. 
What  has  been  the  rejoinder?  '  1  know  what  you  say, 
doctor,  to  be  perfectly  true.  1  tell  my  lady  cuistomcrs 
so;  but  if  I  don't  make  what  yon  condemn  they  leave 
me  for  some  more  complaisant  Crispin,  and  my  busi- 
ness is  mined.' 

**My  wise  confrdre  said :  *  I  know  that  girl  you  ad- 
mired so  much  just  now.  I  told  her  she  was  in  a  fair 
way  to  permanently  injure  her  health  and  usefulness. 
She  said,  **Oh,  doctor,  you  are  mistaken:  my  heels  aren't 
high;  look  here."^  So  saying  she  slipped  off  a  patent 
leather  shoe  and  handed  it  to  me..  'My  child,' 
said  I,  'your  foot  would  have  made  Cinderella  envi- 
ous. For  a  woman  of  your  stature  nothing  is  needed 
in  the  way  of  added  hel^K.  This  heel  is  nearly  two 
inches  high.  Yon  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself. 
Believe  me,  if  God  had  desired  you  to  walk  on  your 
toes  he  would  have  provided  you  with  a  two-inch 
spike  at  the  time  of  your  birth,  such  as  now  disfigures 
your  shoe  and  deforms  your  foot' " 

Shellet  AMD  THE  REVIEWERS— It  has  comc  to  be  an 
accepted  belief  that  Shelley  was  a  being  of  a  nature  so 
exalted  above  the  ordinary  level  of  humanity  that  he 
cared  little  or  nothing  about  the  low  affairs  of  this 
world.  The  following  letter  by  him,  which  is  now  for 
the  first  time  published  in  the  London  Academy,  pre- 
sents him  in  a  quite  different  light  It  is  dated  from 
Bton,  April  1, 1810,  and  is  addressed  to  £d  ward  Graham, 
of  London.  Shelley  was  then  in  his  eighteenth  year.  The 
"Harriet"  here  mentioned  was  Harriet  Westbrook, 
the  daughter  of  an  inn-keeper,  whom  Shelley  married 
some  months  after,  and  subsequently  deserted  for 
Mary  Woolstoncroft  Godwin. 

"  Mt  dear  Graham,— I  will  see  you  at  Easter.  Next 
Friday  I  shall  be  in  London,  but  for  a  very  short  time. 
Unable  to  call  on  you  till  Passion  Week.  IJobiucon 
will  take  no  trouble  abont  the  reviewers.  Let  every- 
thing proper  be  done  about  the  venal  villaiiM»,  oud  I 


$4 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


wfll  iettle  with  70a  when  we  meet  at  Eaeter.  We  will 
1^1  go  in  a  pmte  to  the  booksellers  in  Mr.  Grovels  ba- 
rouche and  four— show  them  we  are  no  Qmb  Street 
gazetteers.  But  why  Harriet  more  than  any  one  else? 
A  faint  essay,  I  see,  in  return  for  my  inquiry  for  Caro- 
line. 

**  We  will  not  be  cheaUd  agt^u.  Let  us  come  over 
York:  for  if  he  will  not  give  me  a  devil  of  a  price  for 
my  poem,  and  at  least  £W  for  my  new  Romance  in 
three  volumes,  the  dog  shall  not  have  them.  Pouch 
the  reviewers— ;C10  will  be  sufficient,  I  should  suppose; 
and  that  1  can  with  the  greatest  ease  repay  when  we 
meet  at  Passion  Week.  Send  the  reviews  in  which 
Zatftrozzi  is  mentioned  to  Field  Place.  The  British 
Review  is  the  hardest— let  that  be  pouched  weU.  My 
note  of  hand,  if  for  any  larger  sum,  is  quite  at  your 
service,  as  it  is  of  consequence  in  future  to  establish 
your  name  as  high  as  you  can  in  the  literary  lists. 
Adieu— Yours  most  devotedly,  Pkrct  Bts&he  Shellet. 

"  Let  me  hear  how  you  proceed  in  the  business  of 
reviewing." 

The  Cool  Weather  is  NewEnglakd  in  Aug.  1886.— 
Mr.  H.  Helm  Clayton  of  the  Blue  Hill  Meteorological 
Observatory,  writes  in  Scietwe:— 

*'  From  Aug.  15th  to  Aug.  23d  the  weather  in  New 
England  was  quite  cool  and  pleasant  This  cool  period 
culminated  on  the  night  of  the  22d,  when  the  tempera- 
ture at  the  Boston  signal  office  sank  as  low  as  49«.  On 
the  signal  service  weather-chart  of  the  morning  of  Aug. 
23d,  it  is  found  that  the  temperature  was  higher  all 
around  New  England  (north,  east,  south  and  v  2st)  than 
in  New  England  itself.  Over  New  England  the  sky  was 
clear,  and  the  air  was  blowing  out  from  this  region  in 
every  direction,  on  the  east  side  toward  a  storm  which 
is  central  on  the  ocean,  and  on  the  west  side  toward 
a  storm  which  is  central  in  the  lake  region.  Whence, 
then,  came  this  cool  air?  for  it  had  previously  been 
quite  warm.  It  evidently  could  not  have  been  im- 
ported from  abroad :  was  i#then,  due  to  a  descent  of 
cool  air  from  above?  This  is  hardly  possible,  since  it 
was  found,  at  11  p.m.  of  the  22d,  that  the  temperature 
on  Mount  Washington  was  61°,  while  at  the  nearest 
lower  stations  (Portland  and  Boston)  the  temperature 
was  56°,  and  on  top  of  the  Blue  Hill  51°.  At  7a.m.  of  the 
S3d  the  conditions  of  temperature  were  almost  the 
same,  except  that  the  temperature  had  risen  slightly  at 
every  station  but  Boston.  If  the  air  had  descended 
from  the  height  of  Mount  Washington,  it  is  well 
know^n  that  its  compression  would  have  heated  it  much 
higher  than  the  temperature  was  found  to  be  at  lower 
stationH,  unless  this  heating  had  been  counteracted  by 
some  other  cause.  On  top  of  Blue  Hill  the  lowcst  tem- 
perature recorded  by  a  self-registering  minimum  ther- 
mometer on  the  night  of  August  22d  was  only  50.5*  ; 
while,  at  a  base  station  four  hundred  feet  lower,  the 
temperature  fell  to  44°;  and  in  Boston  nearly  600  feet 
lower  and  ten  miles  distant,  the  temperature  fell  to 
49°.  The  thermometers  were  alike^and  exposed  in  the 
same  manner.  The  air  evidently  dracendcd  over  New 
England  from  above,  otherwise  the  wind  could  not 


have  blown  out  in  every  direction;  Imt  the  ttatlBticfl 
a  >ove  show  that  its  coolness  could  not  have  been  doe 
to  this  cause,  since  it  was  cooler  at  the  earth's  surface 
than  a  little  distance  above  it  The  air,  as  was  to  be 
expected  on  account  of  its  descent  from  above,  was 
clear  and  dry,  the  absolute  humidity  being  lower  than 
at  any  time  during  the  month  except  on  the  night  of 
Aug.  15th,  when  almost  identical  conditions  .prevailed. 
Here  we  no  doubt  find  the  cause  of  the  coolnesa. 
Tyndairs  experiments  on  the  effect  of  aqueous  vapor 
in  intercepting  radiation  from  bodies  of  low  tempexar 
tnre  like  the  earth  led  him  to  assert,  that  if  the  blanket 
of  aqueous  vapor  over  England  were  removed  for  one 
summer^  B  night,  the  whole  island  would  bymominj^ 
be  held  in  the  iron  grip  of  frost,  on  account  of.  the 
rapid  radiation  from  the  earth's  surface  which  such 
conditions  would  permit  Even  the  more  intense  in- 
eolation  by  day  at  bucb  time  would  be  counteracted  by 
the  rapid  radiation  into  space,  as  shown  at  elevated 
parts  of  the  earth's  surface.  This  serves  to  explain 
tlie  cool  period  lasting  several  days  in  New  England ; 
and  this  cool  period  seems  to  substantiate  the  view 
recently  advanced,  that  the  cold  in  anticyclones  (or 
areas  of  high  pressure)  is  due  to  radiation  from  the 
earth's  surface,  which  is  favored  by  the  clear,  dry  at- 
mosphere accompanying  these  areas.  Tyndall,  Hann, 
and  Woeikof  have  adduced  evidence  of  this  in  Europe 
and  Mr.  Dewey  in  this  country.'* 

A  Wrong  Title.— Mr.  H.  Frederick  (HiarleB,  of  Lon- 
don, has  \iTitten  and  published  a  book  ;  a  f&ct  which 
The  SpectxUoTy  a  paper  which  is  recognized  as  an 
authority  in  such  matters  tried  to  announce.  It,  how- 
ever, got  things  wrong,  and  Mr.  Charles  thus  writes  to 
the  editor  :— 

**Sir:  In  your  list  of  new  books  for  this  week, 
you  mention  one  of  mine  thus :— *  Young  (Sir 
R.)  by  11.  F.  Char  leg."*  As  I  am  naturally,  if  not  fool- 
ishly, anxious  about  the  identity  of  my  children,  per- 
haps you  will  allow  me  to  point  out  that  the  title  of 
the  book  really  is  Younff  Sir  Sichard.—l  am.  Sir,  etc." 

The  PopciiATioN  or  Medieval  Cities.— Mr.  Rich- 
mond Mayo  Smith,  in  Seimce^  says;  *^he  actual  pop- 
ulation If  the  mediaeval  cities  appears  from  scientific 
investigation  to  have  been  astonishingly  small.  Those 
Imperial  Cities,  which  ruled  themselves,  bade  defiance 
often  to  the  Emperor,  and  played  an  important  part 
not  only  in  the  industrial  but  in  the  political  life  of 
Europe,  we  are  accustomed  to  think  of  as  places  rich 
in  wealth  and  population.  In  the  fifteenth  century, 
Nuremberg,  Strasburg,  and  Dantzic,  three  very  impor- 
tant commercial  cities,  probably  contained  less  than 
90,000  people  each:  Basle  and  Frankfort,  from  10,0Q0 
to  16,000  each.  In  the  sixteenth  century  Angsbui^  and 
Dantzic  reached  possibly  60,000:  Nuremberg,  from 
40,000  to  60,000;  Breslau,  40,000;  Strasburg,  80,000: 
Leipzig,  15,000;  and  Berlin,  14,000.  These  were  by  far 
the  most  important  cities  of  the  Empire.  The  other 
so-called  cities  were  villages  and  market-places  run- 
ning down  to  from  1,900  to  1,600  people.*' 


MARRIAGE  WITH  A  DECEASED  WIFE'S  SISTER. 


95 


MARIilAGE  WITH  A  DECEASED 
WIPE'S  SISTER. 

I  propose  to  consider  this  matter  as  calmly 
and  impartially  as  I  can,  having  a  very  strong 
opinion  on  it.  I  will  try  to  fairly  state  the 
reasons  for  and  good  alleged  of  allowing  such 
marriages,  and  the  reasons  against  and  evil 
alleged  of  permitting  them. 

It  may  be  as  well  first  to  show  what  the 
English  hw  was  before  Lord  Lyndhurst's  act 
in  1835,  and  what  it  now  is  as  that  act  has 
made  it.  Before  that  act  such  marriages  and 
all  marriages  within  the  prohibited  degrees  of 
kin  or  affinity  were  valid  till,  and  not  void 
without,  a  decree  to  that  effect.  Such  a  de- 
er^ could  only  be  pronounced  in  the  lifetime 
of  both  parties,  the  reason  being  that  the  pro- 
ceedings vi^pre  pro  icUuie  animm  with  reference 
to  future  cohabitation,  which  of  course  could 
only  be  when  both  spouses  were  living.  The 
result  was  that  till  such  decree  the  marriage 
was  binding,  and  if  either  spouse  died  before 
such  decree  the  marriage  was  altogether  valid 
and  unimpeachable.  For  example,  if  one  of 
the  spouses,  before  such  decree,  the  other  liv- 
kng,  married,  the  offence  of  bigamy  was  com 
mitted.  The  husband  in  such  marriage  was 
bound  to  maintain  the  .wife.  On  the  death  of 
either  the  rights  of  the  survivor  to  dower, 
tenancy  by  courtesy,  and  otherwise  were  as 
good  as  if  the  marriage  had  been  between 
persons  having  no  relationship.  The  children 
were  legitimate  and  could  inherit.  But  if — 
living  both  spouses — the  decree  of  invalidity 
was  pronounced,  the  marriage  became  void 
ab  initio.  The  parties  could  remarry,  the 
children  were  or  became  illegitimate,  and  in 
short  the  marriage  became  null  as  much  as 
though  one  of  tlie  parties  had  had  a  spouse 
living  when  it  was  contracted.  Which  is  the 
worse  or  better  of  the  two  laws  it  is  not  neces- 
wir}'  to  determine.  On  the  one  hand,  the 
marriage  might  remain  for  ever  unimpeached : 
on  the  other,  there  must  have  been  the  tempta 
lion  to  contract  such  a  marriage  and  run  a 
ris't,  with  the  constant  dread  of  its  possible 
annulment.  It  shoiild  be  mentioned  that  the 
suit  might  l)e  promoted  by  others  than  one  of 
the  spouses. 


But,  as  I  said,  the  question  is  as  to  the  pres- 
ent  law.  Marriage  now  within  the  prohibited 
degrees  is  absolutely  void  ah  initio,  without 
any  decree  to  declare  it.  Either  spouse  may 
leave  the  other.  Their  relation  is  that  of  con- 
cubinage. Neither  has  any  legal  claim  on  or 
responsibility  for  the  other.  Either  can  marry 
another  person.  The  children  are  bastards. 
Further,  it  may  be  as  well  to  mention  that  the 
notion  tliat  this  law  can  be  obviated  by  a 
marriage  ceremony  abroad,  or  in  the  colonies 
where  such  marriages  are  valid,  is  erroneous. 
The  domiciled  Englishman  is  bound  by  the 
law  of  his  domicile. 

Now,  then,  to  consider  whether  this  law 
should  remain,  or  whether  it  should  be  altered 
—not  to  what  it  was  before  Lord  Lyndhurst's 
act;  not  whether  all  miuriages  within  the 
prohibited  degrees  should  be  valid,  but 
whether  the  particular  marriage  of  a  man 
with  his  deceased  wife's  sister  should  be  valid, 
and  b(^  unimpeachable  at  all  times. 

In  favor  of  allowing  such  marriages  are  the 
following  considerations:  A  man  and  woman, 
in  the  same  condition  of  life,  same  age,  every 
way  fit  for  marriage,  having  that  affection  for 
each  other  which  should  exist  between  per- 
sons about  to  marry,  are  desirous  of  doing  so. 
As  a  special  and  particular  reason  the  man 
has  motherless  children  who  need  a  woman's 
care,  and  the  woman  loves  them  as  the  chil- 
dren of  her  deceased  sister.  Neither  instinct 
nor  reason  forbid  it.  The  Duke  of  Argyll 
has  said,  "My  opinion  is,  on  the  subject  of 
marriage  and  the  relation  of  the  sexes  gener- 
ally, man's  reason  and  instinct  cannot  be 
trusted."  And  we  know  that  though  most 
honestly  objected  to  by  very  good  and  worthy 
l)eople,  there  is  no  feeling  of  horror  at  such  a 
marriage,  as  there  would  be  at  incest  between 
brother  and  sister.  Yet  the  law  forbids  a 
valid  marriage  between  these  two  persons  so 
fitted  for  marriage  together.  It 'overrules 
their  feeling,  denies  the  motherless  children 
the  best  guardian  they  could  have,  and  for- 
bids that  which  is  not  forbidden  by  reason  or 
instinct  and  is  earnestly  desired  by  both 
parlies.  This  is  the  case  with  thousands.  It 
is  really  sad  to  read  tiie  mournful  list  of  cases; 
the  grief,  the  pain,  the  waiting  anxiety  aadt 


26 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


hope  for  a  change  in  the  law;  the  unlawful, 
or  rather  invalid,  unions  that  are  made,  either 
with  a  knowledge  they  are  so.  or  in  the  mis 
taken  belief  that  the  marriage  abroad  is  valid. 
There  are  also  cases  of  desertion,  very  few; 
cases  of  children  deprived  of  the  provision 
made  for  them  because  the  parent,  in  intend- 
ing to  make  it,  used  the  word  "children," 
which  in  law  means  "legitimate"  children. 

But  certainly  there  is  this  to  be  said:  People 
who  make  tlie  marriages  knowing  the  conse- 
quences, have  brought  the  troubles  on  their 
own  heads  and  have  themselves  to  blame. 
When  the  man  has  tempted  the  woman  into 
such  a  marriage  he  is  most  blamable;  for  he 
has  made  her  a  false  position,  subject  to  a 
char^  of  living  in  concubinage;  which,  rightly 
or  wrongly,  is  not  an  equal  reproach  to  him. 

But  there  is  another  class  of  cases  to  which 
this  reproach  does  not  apply.  I  refer  to  those 
cases  where  the  family  has  but  one  room  and 
the  mother  dies.  There  ure  hundi*cds  of  thou- 
siiuds  of  these  in  the  United  Kingdom.  There 
a  e  27, poo  such  in  Glasgow  alone.  The  mo- 
ther dies:  the  children  must  have  a  woman  to 
care  for  Ihem,  who  must  live  in  the  room 
with  them:  the  mother's  sister  is  first  thought 
lit  We  cannot  sluit  our  eyes  to  what  must 
and  does  follow.  It  cannot  be  denied  it 
would  be  well  if  the  man  and  woman  could 
marry.  These  people  may  be  blamable  but 
the  law  drives  them  to  that  for  which  they 
are  blamed.  ^ 

It  must  be  admitted  that  I  have  shown  ob 
jections  to  the  present  state  of  4he  law;  that 
the  burden  of  proof  is  on  those  who  maintain 
it.  Let  me  say  at  the  outset  that  it  is  main 
taincd  with  most  perfect  sincerity  by  man}' 
for  whom  I  have  the  sincerest  esteem  and  re- 
spect—for their  learning,  ability,  and  truth. 

Tlie  arguments  are  theological  or  religious 
and  social.  I  will  consider  first  the  theologi- 
cal. .1  do  so  reluctantlv  because — strive  as 
one  may— it  is  impossible  to  avoid  giving 
offeuce.  An  argument  against  a  man's  relig- 
iour  opinions  is  almost  sure  to  be  resented, 
however  respectfully  it  may  l)e  stated.  First 
it  is  said  by  those  who  object  to  these  mar- 
rlii;;cs  tliat  they  are  opposed  to  the  texts  which 
bill  that  a  man  and  his  wife  are  one  f.vsh. 


The  w^ay  in  which  it  is  generally  put  is,  tha 
if  a  man's  wife  is  his  flesh  then  her  sister  is 
his  sister,  anrd  so  her  marriage  with  him  would 
be  the  marriage  of  brother  and  sister  'Sow 
the  first  remarks  to  be  made  on  this  is  that  the 
expression  is  a  metaphor.  That  it  is  not  a 
statement  of  an  absolute  or  physical  fad  is  cer- 
tain I  desire  to  avoid  anything  like  a  ludi 
crous  illustration,  but  what  of  a  marriage  be 
tween  people  of  different  color?  What  happens 
if  a  marriage  is  dissolved?  Is  there  then  more 
than  one  flesh?  It  is  impossible,  it  seems  to 
me,  to  suppose  that  a  command  not  to  do  that 
which  is  not  forbidden  by  reason  or  instinct 
can  have  been  given  by  the  use  of  this  meta- 
phor. Further,  those  who  say  it  is  are  not 
consistent.  For  if  A  by  marrjing  B  becomes 
one  flesh  with  her,  and  thereby  becomes 
brother  of  her  sister  C,  so  also  do«s  his  brother 
D  become  /?'s  and  C's  brother,  and  ought  not 
to  be  jible  to  marry  C\  yet  that  he  may  is 
allowed  on  all  handr  So  a  man  may  naarry 
his  deceased  wife's  deceased  brother's  wife. 
But,  I  repeat,  to  my  mind  it  is  impossible  to 
suppose  that,  instead  of  a  direct  and  intelligi- 
ble command,  a  divine  and  benevolent  Being 
would  express  only  by  an  uncertain  metaphor 
a  prohibition  to  do  that  which  is  contrary 
neither  to  reason  nor  instinct. 

I  now  come  to  the  argument  derived  from 
the  Old  Testament,  and  I  venture  to  say  that, 
so  far  from  prohibiting  these  marriages,  by 
implication  it  plainly  authorizes  them.  But 
first  it  may  \yti  useful  to  see  how  far,  if  at  all. 
and  on  what  grounds  the  Jewish  law  is  bind- 
ing on  Christians.  In  terms  it  is  addressed  to 
the  people  of  Israel  alone'.  "And  the  Lord 
spake  unto  Moses  and  Aaron,  Speak  unto  the 
children  of  Israel  and  say  unto  them"  {Ijenti- 
cys  V.  14-17),  and  especially  at  the  commence- 
ment of  chap,  xviii.,  on  which  the  questions 
arise  (verses  2,  3),  "Speak  unto  the  children  of 
Israel  and  say  utoto  them,  I  am  tlie  Lord  your 
God.  After  the  doings  of  the  land  of  Egypt, 
wherein  ye  dwelt,  shall  ye  not  do,  and  «fter 
the  doings  of  the  land  of  Canaan,  whither  I 
bring  you,  shall  ye  not  do."  This  looks  very 
like  a  command  to  the  particular  people  only. 
And  it  is  to  be  remembered  that  the  Jews 
were  an  exclusive  race.     I  do  not  say  that  a 


MARRIAGE  WITH  A  DECEASED  WIFE'S  SISTER 


27 


man  not  a  descendant  of  Jacob  could  not  be 
admitted , among  them,  the  rontrary  is  the 
case;  but  they  were  not  a  proselytizing  people. 
The  contemplation  of  the  lawgiver  was  that 
they  would  be  and  rcmiuii  a  separate  race 
from  the  Gentiles.     It  seems  strange  that  to 
such  a  people  a  conunand  was  given  which 
was  to  bind  the  whole  of  mankind;  which 
was  unknown  to  other  nations  than  the  small 
community  addressed,  till  the  time  of  Chris- 
tianity, and  which  is  still  unknown  to  half 
the  world.    I  know  it  is  said  that  the  com- 
mand is  not  in  itself  binding — that  it  only 
shows  what  is  the  law  of  nature.    I  will  ad- 
dress   myself    to  that  presently,  contenting 
myself  with  observing  meanwhile  that  if  these 
marriages  were  forbidden,  and  forbidden  to 
others  than  Jews,  it  would  be  hard  on  the 
mass  of  mankind  that  they  should  have  l)een 
left  with  no  guide  but  reason  and  instinct, 
which  ^prompted  rather  than  forbade  them. 
This  makes  me  approach  the  question  with  a 
strong  feeling  that  no  such  prohibition  will 
be  found  in  the  Jewish  law. 

But  let  us  suppose  that  either  as  a  direct 
command  or  as  a  model  or  warning  the  Jew- 
ish law,  or  some  part  of  it,  should  be  followed 
by  Christians.  Then  what  part?  Certainly 
not  the  ceremonial;  nor  all  which,  as  distin- 
guished from  the  ceremonial,  may  be  called  the 
moral  or  social  {Leviticus  xviii.  19,  where  a  com- 
mand is  given,  the  punishment  for  the  breach 
of  which  is  death,  xx.  18).  It  is  impossible  to 
suppose,  and  indeed  it  is  not  said,  that  the 
command  tbere  mentioned,  with  the  penalty 
for  its  disobedience,  is  binding  on  Christians. 
So  of  many  others.  I  ask  again,  then,  what 
X>art  is  binding?  Now  it  is  said,  as  I  under- 
stand, that  that  part  is  binding  on  Christians 
for  the  non-observance  of  which  the  land  of 
the  Canaanites  was  taken  from  them  and 
givej^  to  the  Jews,  and  they  were  destroyeti. 
It  is  said  that  to  have  punished  them  for  diso- 
bedience of  laws  not  revealed  to  them  would 
be  unjust  unless  the}'  khew  without  revelation 
that  they  should  act  as  though  the  law  had 
been  given  to  them  expressly —in  otlier  words 
that  reason  and  instinct  would  guide  them 
rightly  to  do  what  they  (the  Canaanites)  were 
punished  for  not  doing,  so  that  their  punish- 


ment was  for  disregarding  reason  and'instlnct. 
Be  it  so.  But  we  have  the  highest  authority 
for  saying  that  reason  and  instinct  do  not 
teach  us  that  a  man  is  not  to  marry  his  de- 
ceased wife's  sister.  Further,  Jacob  married 
two  sisters,  the  tirst  living  at  the  time  of  the 
second  mai'riage.  That  this  was  afterward 
forbidden  by  the  Mosaic  law  is  certain  during 
the  Ufe  of  the  first  wife.  But  it  Ik  (iillicult  to 
suppose  that  nature  and  iustiuct  wotild  have 
forbidden  what  the  patriarch  did  apparently 
without  reproof,  and  indeed  with  approbation, 
seeing  the  high  position  and  imi)oi'tuuce  of 
the  progeny,  Jaseph.  It  may  well  be  that  the 
pain  tikis  second  marriage  gave  to  Leah,  the 
first  wife,  caused  the  prohibition  of  the  mar- 
riage of  a  sister,  living  her  sister  as  the  first 
wife. 

One  may,  therefore,  as  I  say,  approach  the 
consideration  of  the  question  witli  a  strong 
presumption  that,  as  the  Canaanites  were 
punished  for  doing  what  reason  and  instinct 
for  b vie — and  reason  and  instinct  do  not  for- 
bid these  marriages,  especially  as  shown  by 
the  marriage  of  Jacob  with  Leali  and  Rachel— 
so  it  was  not  for  such  marriages  that  the 
Canaanites  were  punished.  Therefore  either 
such  marriages  are  not  forbidden  at  all,  even 
to  the  Jews,  or  if  at  all«  they  are  forbidden  to 
the  Jews  in  particular.  Their  prohibition  is 
not  binding  on  Christians.  Let  it  not  be  said 
that  this  reasoning  would  set  aside  the  deca- 
logue. Certainly  not  *.  reason  and  instinct 
both  go  along  with  the  last  six  of  the  com- 
mandments. Society  could  not  exist  without 
the  observance  of  what  is  ordered  and  for 
bidden  by  them. 

But  we  are  not  driven  to  speculate  what 
would  be  the  law;  we  have  it.  Let  us  exam 
ine  the  texts  and  veiy  passages  which  decide 
the  question.  Leviticus  xviii.  16  is  relied  on. 
It  says,  "Thou  shalt  not  remove  the  naked- 
ness of  thy  brother's  wife;  it  is  thy  brother's 
nakedness."  Now  it  is  said,  as  I  understand 
that  a  wife's  sister  is  as  near  in  affinity  as  a 
brother's  wife,  and  so  by  implication  such  a 
marriage  as  that  is  forbidden.  I  say,  and  I 
say  it  with  all  sincerity,  that  I  am  by  no 
means  sure  that  this  doesoiot  extend  solely  to 
the  case  of    the  brother's^  wife,  h'ving  the 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


brother.  It  is  the  natural  meaning  of  the 
words  'Mt  is  thy  brother's  nakedness."  Id 
the  case  of  a  mother  the  expression  is  indeed 
*'thy  father's  nakedness,"  but  it  proceeds 
**even  the  nakedness  of  thy  mother  shalt  thou 
not  uncover;  she  is  thy  mother."  Another 
instance  is  *'the  nakedness  of  thy  son's 
daughter  is  thine  own  nakedness. "  It  is  true 
that  adultery  generally  is  specially  prohibited. 
But  the  prohibition  is  addressed  to  the  male. 
It  must  be  remembered  that  concubinage  was 
not  prohibited  by  the  Jewish  law  except  as 
within  the  prohibited  degrees;  and  what  con- 
tirms  this  opinion  is,  that  if  a  man  died  child- 
less it  was  the  duty  of  a  brother  to  marry  the 
widow  and  raise  up  issue  to  the  deceased.  It 
lias  been  said  that  these  were  not  marriages 
between  the  widow  and  surviving  brother,  but 
it  is  manifest  they  were.  If  proof  were  want- 
ing it  would  be  found  in  the  question,  "What 
if  a  woman  marries  seven  brothers  in  succes- 
sion?" aud  in  the  answer,  not  that  the  mar- 
riages were  not  marriages  or  were  wrong,  but 
that  "in  heaven  there  is  neither  marrying  nor 
giving  in  marriage."  And  it  is  a  fact  that  at 
this  day  among  Jews  who  observe  the  law  a 
childless  widow  will  not  marry  other  than  her 
late  husband's  brother  till  that  brother  has 
formally  refused  to  many  her.  It  may  be  as 
well  to  add  that  it  does  not  follow  that  because 
marriages  were  prohibited  between  a  man  and 
his  brother's  widow  that  they  would  be  with 
a  deceased  wife's  sister 

But  let  us  assume  that  verse  16  applies  to  a 
brother's  widow.  Let  us  also  assume  that  if 
a  man  might  not  marry  his  brother's  widow 
it  would  be  a  fair  conclusion  that,  if  there  were 
no  other  consideration,  he  could  not  marry 
his  deceased  wife's  sister,  and  so  the  case 
against  their  marrying  would  be  made  out. 
But  there  is  another  and  decisive  considera 
tion ;  for  whatever  consequence  might  be 
deduced  from  verse  16,  if  it  were  not  followed 
by  verse  18,  there  is  that  latter  verse,  'Thou 
shall  Dot  take  a  woman  to  her  sister  to  l)e  a 
rival  to  her,  tQ  UDcover  her  nakedness  beside 
the  other  in  her  lifetime."  This  is  the  Re- 
vised Version.  The  Authorized  Version  is 
"to  vex  her,"  instead  of  "to  be  a  rival  to 
her."    This  is  the  text,  and  it  seems  to  me 


that  no  man,  not  merely  as  a  lawyer,  on  legal 
consideration,  can  do  otherwise  as  a  matter  of 
ordinary  reasoning  from  the  text  than  say  it 
is  a  limited  prohibition,  and  therefore  by  im- 
plication a  permission  out  of  the  limits.  Ejc- 
pressio  unius,  ececluno  cUterivs,  To  say  that 
it  shall  not  take  place  in  the  joint  lives,  is  by 
implication  to  say  that  it  may  when  both  lives 
do  no  exist  together. 

So  thoroughly  has  this  difficulty  been  felt 
that  the  greatest  efforts  have  been  made  to 
get  out  of  it.  A  venerab  le  archdeacon  of  the 
Church  of  England  has  said  that  the  text 
ought  to  have  been  translated  in  the  Author- 
ized Version,  "Neither  shalt  thou  take  one 
wife  to  another  to  vex  her,  to  uncover  her 
nakedness  beside  the  other  in  her  lifetime ;" 
but  that  out  of  deference  to  the  Septuagint, 
the  translator  in  the  Authorized  Version  gave 
this  rendering  in  the  text,  making,  however, 
amends  by  placing  the  alternative  rendering 
in  the  margin,  "which  no  doubt"  says  the 
archdeacon  "is  the  true  one."  This  really 
seems  very  strange.  It  is  a  charge  on  those 
who  arc  responsible  for  the  Authorized  Ver- 
sion that  out  of  deference  to  the  Septuagint 
they  knowingly  put  a  wrong  meaning  on  this 
all-important  text  in  the  body  of  the  book, 
contenting  themselves  with  pntting  the  right 
meaning  in  the  margin.  What  makes  this  the 
more  remarkable  is  that  ninety-nine  bibles 
out  of  a  hundred  are  without  marginal  notes. 
This,  inasmuch  as  those  books  are  printed  by 
institutions  governed  and  controlled  by  clergy- 
men, is  a  strong  imputation  on  them.  But 
having  adopted  the  translation  in  the  margin, 
the  archdeacon  had  to  give  it  an  object.  He 
says  it  was  directed  against  polygamy,  which 
is  a  breach  of  the  moral  la'w.  Is  it  possible 
that  he  can  have  forgotten  the  cases  of  David 
and  Solomon  in  particular.  It  is  incorrect  to 
say  that  polygamy  was  prohibited  to  th^Jews. 
They  recognize  its  lawfulness,  though  they 
do  not  now  practice  it.  However,  we  need 
not  trouble  ourselves  about  what  would  have 
been  the  meaning  of  tlie  text  if  translated  as 
the  archdeacon  would  have  it.  The  matter 
is  set  at  rest  Tiie  marginal,  translation  wits 
wrong,  that  in  the  text  right.  Those  who 
prepared  the  Authorized  Version  had  not  put 


MARRIAGE  WITH  A  DECEASED  WIFE'S  SISTER. 


29 


a  falsity  in  their  text.     The  Revised  Vcnsion, 
the  authority  of  which  the  archdeacon  wili 
not   dispute,  gives    the    translation  I  have 
quoted,  and  does  not  even  notice  the  other  in 
the  margin  or  otherwise.     It  ought  to  be 
conclusive.    The  archdeacon  says  it  is  strange 
that  '*a  permission  should  occur  in  a  chapter 
which  is  otherwise  wholly  concerned  with 
prohibitions."    Now  this  is  Very  remarkable. 
I  am  sure  that  the  archdeacon  is  incapable  of 
saying  anything  that  he  has  not  considered 
and  does  not  believe.    Otherwise  I  should  say 
this  was  inconsiderate  or  uncandid.    There 
are  two  answers  to  it:  one  that  there  is  no- 
where a  list  of  permissions  in  which  it  could 
find  place.     Another  and  better  answer  is 
that  it  is  not  an  express  permission,  but  one 
by  implication.    The  matter  stands  thus :  all 
marriages  are  lawful  which  are  not  prohibited 
expressly  or  by  implication  ;  this  marriage  is 
not  expressly  prohibited,  and  cannot  be  by 
implication,  as  by  implication  it  is'permitted. 
The  meaning  I  find  in  the  text  of  verse  18; 
the  implications  from  it  are  those  of  the  Jews 
themselves.    They  interpret  in  the  same  way. 
With/  them  these  marriages  are  lawful.    They 
refrain  from  them  in  England,  because  they 
know  they  are  null  by  English  law,  not  by 
their  own.    Foreign  scholars  are  universally 
of  the  same  opinion.    Indeed,  I  do  not  know 
that  since  the  Revised  Version  any  one  here  in 
England  contests  the  interpretation  it  gives  to 
verse  18.    But  in  some  way,  which,  in  all 
honesty  I  declare  I  do  not  understand,  it  is 
said  that,  though  the  particular  text  in  verse 
16  is  given  up,  yet  these  marriages  are- pro- 
hibited by  the  Old  Testament. 

But,  it  is  asked,  by  one  of  the  archdeaon's 
correspondents,  "Were  counsel  to  argue  upon 
any  other  subject  before  Lord  Braroweli,  by 
using  an  inference  of  this  kind  against  a  dis 
tindenaeiment,  what  would  he  not  say  against 
it  ?"  I  should  say  a  good  many  things.  But 
where  is  the  distinct  enactment?  The  arch- 
deacon's statement  of  it  is  this:  '* So  it  is  said  a 
man  may  not  marry"  (that  is  not  the  word) 
•  *  his  brother's  wife.  * '  "Conversely' '  (qu.  con- 
versely) "a  woman  may  not  marry  her  hus- 
band's brother,  and  analogously  a  man  may 
not  marry  his  wife's  sister. ' '    This  is  the '  *diS' 


Unci  enactment,"  conversely  and  analogously, 
every  step  beiug  questionable,  or,  as  I  think, 
wrong. 

This  brings  ine  to  another  argument.  I 
have  said,  and  repeat,  if  by  common  consent 
there  is  a  divine  command  against  these  mar- 
riages, that  command  should  be  obeyed.  But 
if  some  find  the  command,  and  others  do  not, 
and  on  the  contrary  find  a  permission,  I  say  that 
the  former  have  no  more  right  to  enforce  their 
opinions  on  the  latter  on  this  than  on  any  other 
subject.  Formerly  men  were  persecuted  for 
their  belief  or  opinion  on  transubstantiation, 
the  Trinity,  episcopacy,  and  a  variety  of 
other  subjects.  They  are  now  allowed  their 
opinions  on  these;  why  not  on  marriage  with 
a  deceased  wife's  sister,  unless  social  reasons 
are  against  it?  See  how  hard  the  law  is  on  the 
Jews:  as  they  read  their  books  these  marriages 
are  p^mitted.  The  followers,  or  some  of  the 
followers,  of  a  different  religion  read  these 
books  differently  and  forbid  the  marriage. 
To  say  nothing  of  the  probability  as  to  who  is 
right,  how  is  it  possible  to  justify  this,  except 
on  considerations  which  would  justify  pun- 
ishing the  Jews  for  holding  to  their  old  faith? 
If  it  should  be  said  that  to  forbid  such  a  mar- 
riage is  not  ])ersecution,  I  say  it  is  in  princi 
pie.  It  is  an  interference  with  another  man 
because  your  opinion  is  right,  as  you  think, 
and  his  wrong.  And  the  penalty  he  pays  he 
would  willingly  exchange  for  a  large  fine  or 
substantial  imprisonment.  But  the  law  is  no 
harder  on  the  Jew  than  on  the  Christian, 
though  its  unreasonableness  may  be  more 
glaring.  As  I  have  said,  one  Christian  be- 
lieves in  transubstantiation,  another  does  not; 
one  is  for.  episcopacy,  another  not.  They 
have  given  up  persecuting  each  other;  each  is 
allowed  his  opinion  and  to  art  on  it  as  far  as 
it  can  be  acted  on.  Why  is  not  the  same  rule 
followed  as  to  this  question,  as  far  as  religious 
considerations  are  concerned? 

The  social  I  will  now  deal  with.  First,  it  is 
said  that  as  the  law  at  present  stands  a  wife's 
sister  may  be  on  the  most  friendly  and  famil- 
iar terms  with  the  husband,  because,  as  they 
could  not  validly  marry  af'oi*  the  wife's  death, 
there  is  no  danger  of  improper  feelings  or 
conduct,  living  the  wife.    I  cannot  but  repeiil 


80 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


Uiat  this  is  to^me  shecking.  For  what  does 
it  involve?  This,  that  if  .they  could  marry 
after  the  wife's  death  there  would  be  danger 
of  improper  feelings  and  conduct  during  her, 
lif«,  is  this  true?  Is  it  true  of  English  men 
and  women?  Is  it  true  of  the  wife's  or  hus 
band's  cousin  or  other  female  friends  or 
acquaintances.  And  if  in  any  case  it  might 
happen,  is  it  to  be  supposed  that  the  man  and 
woman,  being  lost  to  every  sense  of  religion, 
morality,  and  duty,  and  having  conceived  a 
detestable  passion  for  each  other,  would  be 
deterred  from  its  gratification  by  the  con- 
sideration that  they  could  not  marry  if  the 
wifg  died?  That  future  difficulty  would  not 
deter  such  persons  from  the  present  gratifica- 
tion of  their  desires. 

Another  argument  is  this:  It  is  said  that  a 
sister  of  a  deceased  wife  can  safely  and  with- 
out scandal  live  in  the  house  of  a  widower,  be- 
cause, as  they  cannot  marry,  neither  he  nor 
she  can  be  supposed  to  entertain,  aud  will  not 
entertain,  any  desire  for  the  other  such  as 
would  lead  to  matrimony.  To  this  there  seem 
two  answers.  First,  no  prudent  parent  would 
expose  an  attractive  girl  to  Uie  danger  of 
living  in  the  same  house  with  an  attractive 
man  with  whom  a  marriage  would  on  every 
ground  be  desirable,  and  to  which  neither 
reason  nor  instinct  is  opposed.  Secondly,  as 
Archbishop  Whately  said,  the  reasoning  is 
th*e  other  way,  for  if  they  could  marry  and 
did  not,  the  legitimate  conclusion  would  l)e 
that  they  did  not  desire  it,  and  consequently 
had  not  those  feelings  for  each  other  which 
would  endanger  their  chastity.  Then  it  is 
said  that  if  such  marriages  are  permitted  there 
is  an  end  to  all  prohibitions  on  the  ground  of 
affinity.  I  deny  it.  I  say  there  is  a  permis- 
sion of  this  marriage — ti^  me  as  plain  as  though 
in  so  many  words.  I  say  that*  when  there  is 
a  prohibition  the  case  is  different.  It  may  be 
that  Christians  ought  not  to  be  bound  by  it. 
Certainly  I  think  those  ought  not  to  be  bound 
who  cannot  find  the  prohibition.  Still  let  it 
be  treated  as  binding  where  it  exists.  Let 
those  who  think  one  way  have  their  way. 
Lot  it  even  be  maintained  when  it  can  be  got 
at  "  conversely  and  analogously."  But  I  say 
there  is  no  prohibition  express  or  by  implica- 


tion of  marriage  with  a  deceased  wife's  sister^ 
none  conversely  or  analogously.  I  will  deal 
with  a  particular  cabe  urged,  tliat  the  same 
principle  that  admits  this  marriage  would  ad- 
mit  marriage  with  a  deceased  wife's  daughter. 
I  repeat,  that  is  not  permitted  expressly  or  by 
implication — nay,  it  may  be  said  to  be  "con- 
versely" prohibited.  For  a  man  may  not 
marry  his  step-mother;  so  I  interpret  verse  8. 
That  shows  that  step-parent  and  step-child 
are  not  to  marry,  and  "conversely"  therefore, 
a  man  may  not  marry  his  step-daughter. 
Further,  on  social  grounds  I  would  prohibit 
such  a  marriage;  for  men  usually  marry 
women  not  older  than  themselves,  to  that  the 
man  is  usually  old  enough  to  be  the  step-child's 
father.  That  being  so,  their  ages  are  unfit; 
and  the  law  should  protect  the  child  from 
being  forced  into  a  wrong  marriage  by  one  so 
much  older  than  herself,  and  who  is  in  loeo 
parentis  and  with  the  authority  of  one. 

Then  it  iff  said  that  the  bill  is  not  iogioal, 
that  if  right  it  ought  to  go  further.  Let 
us  try  this  logically.  No  law  should  be  made 
that  is  not  logical.  The  proposed  law  is  not 
logical;  tlierefore  it  should  not  be  made.  Is 
that  so?  Is  the  major  premiss  true?  Are  there 
no  good  laws  that  are  not  logical?  In  this 
world  of  expediency  and  compromise  are  we 
to  wait  for  improvement  till  we  are  entirely 
logical?  Really  this  is  a  practical  proposal  to 
get  rid  of  a  practical  wrong  and  mischief — 
sin,  I  should  say  if  a  man  can  be  said  to  sin 
whom  bad  laws  drive  to  the  act  called  sinful. 
Men  desire  to  marry,  and  do  marry,  their  de- 
ceased wives'  sisters.  They  do  not  desire  to 
and  do  not  marry  their  deceased  wives' 
grandmothers. 

There  is  yet  another  argument.  The  arch- 
deacon calls  it  the  ecclesiastical  objection. 
What,  it  is  asked,  is  to  be  done  by  or  with  the 
clergyman  who  respects  the  canon  law  which 
forbids  these  marriages  if  he  is  called  on  to 
celebrate  one  or  to  admit  to  the  Holy  Com- 
munion the  parties  who  have  contracted  one? 
It  might,  perhaps,  be  answered.  Let  those 
who  take  the  state's  pay  do  the  state's  work, 
for  the  doing  of  which  they  are  paid.  But  I 
would  not  insist  on  tlus,  as  some  deny  that 
the  clergy  are  state-paid;  and  whether  or  no 


MARRIAGE  WITH  A  DECEASED  WIFE'S  SISTER. 


81 


they  are,  I  think  such  a  rule  would  be  hard 
on  conacieutious  men.  It  is  better  to  let 
them  decline  to  celebra|«  such  marriages. 
The  Duke  of  St.  Albans  expressed  his  viUing- 
ness  to  have  a  clause  to  that  effect  in  the  bill 
the  House  of  Lords  has  just  rejected.  As  to 
the  Hacrament,  I  would  leave  that  to  be 
settled  by  the  law.  If  living  together  after 
such  a  marriage  disentitles  the  parties  to  par- 
take in  the  Sacrament,  so  be  it.  They  must 
put  up  with  it;  if  not,  they  would  be  entitled 
to  enforce  partaking  in  it.  I  looked  up  the 
matter  some  time  baeK.  I  have  not  the  books 
with  me,  but  my  recollection  is  that  it  is  very 
doubtful  if  there  is  a  right  to  refuse  participa- 
tion in  the  Sacrament  to  such  parties.  How^ 
can  two  thoroughly  well-conducted  persons 
having  contracted  such  a  marriage  lawfully, 
as  they  would  if  the  law  was  altered  as  de- 
sired, be  said  to  be  "notorious  evil  livers,"  so 
as  to  cause  scandal?  I  cannot  but  think  that 
reasonable  charity,  a  feeling  of  the  duty  of 
allowing  participation  in  the  Sacrament,  un- 
less for  strong  reasons,  and  a  feeling  also  that 
otherwise  the  sheep  might  stray  from  the 
flock,  would  cause  few  refusals  to  take  place 
on  this  ground. 

It  has  been  urged  that  in  the  Code  Napo- 
leon these  marriages  are  forbidden,  and  that 
it  was  so  settled  by  the  casting  vote  of  Napo- 
leon himself.  So  we  are  to  be  influenced  by 
the  opinion  of  that  most  hateful  of  men. 
Why?  He  was  not  influenced  by  religious 
considerations  and,  we  may  make  pretty  sure, 
not  by  any  love  of  his  fellow-creatures.  In 
fact,  I  believe  the  matter  was  determined  as  it 
was  mainly  on  the  ground  of  its  being  the  ex- 
isting law.  Against  it  may  be  set  the  modern 
Flench  practice.  Thousands  of  such  mar- 
riages take  place  under  some  dispensing  power. 

There  is  another  consideration  in  favor  of 
these  marriages.  They  are  lawful  in  every 
sense  in  the  va;st  majority  of  our  colonies. 
An  Australian  of  English  race  may  validly 
marry  his  deceased  wife's  sister  if  he  was 
born  in  Australia,  or  if,  though  born  in  Eng- 
land, he  has  become  domiciled  in  Australia. 
And  that  marriage  is  not  only  valid  there;  il 
is,  as  I  believe,  valid  here.  The  husband  :ind 
wife  would  have  all  the  claims  of  h. 


i '  >« 


and  wife  on  each  other;  they  wpuld  owe  all 
the  duties;  the  children  would  be  legitimate, 
and  would  succeed  certainly  to  personalty  as 
next  of  kin,  if  not  to  realty  as  heirs.  Does  it 
net  seem  a  strange  thing  that  an  English 
court  of  justice  should  have  to  inquire,  not 
whether  A  and  B  were  married  in  point  of 
form,  but  that  being  proved,  and  it  also  ap- 
pearing that  th^  woman  was  the  sister  of  the 
man's  deceased  wife,  the  court  should  have  to 
inquire  whether  at  the  time  of  the  marriage 
the  man  was  domiciled  in  the  colony  when  it 
took  place,  and  that  the  rights  and  duties  of 
the  roan  and  woman  and  those  of  their  off- 
spring depend  on  that  question?  There  is  a 
question  whether  the  offspring  could  succeed 
to  real  estate  or  title  ;  but  to  personalty  they 
could,  if  the  father  was  domiciled  in  Australia 
when  he  married  the  mother ;  or  perliaps 
when  the  grandfather  married  the  grand- 
mother. 

Of  course  this  cannot  influence  those  who 
think  these  marriages  ouglit  to  be  forbidden 
on  religious  grounds;  but  it  may  well  influ- 
ence those  wlio  object  only  on  social  grounds, 
more  especially  when  it  is  remembered  that  the 
laws  which  allow  these  marriages  have  had  the 
sanction  of  the  Crown  and  its  ministers.  And 
as  to  the  former,  one  would  have  thought  that 
these  marriages,  lawful  in  America  and  our 
colonies,  without  visible  signs  of  divine  dis- 
pleasure, would  have  prevented  such  a  won- 
derful thing  as  appears  in  a  paper  I  have 
received,  viz. ,  that  we  ought  to '  'fear  the  wrath 
of  God  on  this  country"  if  we  permit  them. 

I  have  addressed  myself  to  every  speciflo 
and  distinct  argument  pro  and  con  that  I 
know  of.  There  are  some  it  is  impossible  to 
deal  with  as  a  matter  of  reasoning — for  exam*- 
ple,  the  following:  "  A  man  and  his  wife  are 
by  God's  ordinance  one  flesh,  and  a  circle  is 
formed  around  them  of  those  in  near  intercourse 
with  whom  they  are  necessarily  thrown." 
Within  the  limits  of  this  circle,  as  was 
beautifully  ^id,  "there  is  to  be  neither  marry- 
ing nor  giving  in  marriage.  The  area  con- 
tained therein  is  to  be  as  it  were  a  sacred 
precinct,  the  purity  of  whose  air  is  to  resem- 
ble that  of  heaven."  I  dare  say  this  is  elo- 
quent.    If  se  I   distrust  it.    It  may  he  tlut^ 


82 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


what  was  said  is  beautiful,  and  my  fault  tiiat  I 
do  not  see  it ;  but  as  far  as  it  reasons,  or  is 
meant  to  do  so,  it  is  unintelligible.  A  circle 
is  formed  round  a  man  and  his  wife,  and 
within  the  circle  there  is  to  be  no  maiTying. 
How  could  there  be  when  the  only  two  per- 
sons within  it  are  married  already?  Oh,  but 
it'  means  that  those  who  form  the  circle  can't 
marry  those  who  are  wiihin  it.  Well,  then, 
say  so,  and  we  will  deal  with  it. 

Then  a  silly  story  is  told  of  a  man  who 
wanted  to  marry  his  half-sister,  their  mothers 
being  sisters.  On  his  father  objecting  that 
she  was  his  sister,  he  answered,  "She  is  my 
cousin."  Why,  if  a  man  marries  his  cousin 
the  child  is  cousin  of  both  parents  in  the  same 
sense — first  cousin  once  removed.  So  they 
young  man  gave  a  silly  reason. 

The  Church  of  Rome  takes  upon  itself  to 
grant  dispensations  for  these  marriages.  It  is 
strange.  Could  it  dispense  with  the  impedi- 
ment between  brother  and  sister,  son  and 
mother? 

Then  St.  Basil  is  cited  as  disapproving 
such  marriages  and  objecting  to  the  argument 
from  verse  18  that  it  by  implication  permits 
them.  What  claim  this  particular  saint  has 
to  be  an  authority  I  know  not.  I  should 
value  his  opinion  more  if  he  knew  that  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  families  are  living  each 
in  one  room,  in  thousands  of  which  the  sisters 
of  deceased  mothers  are  taking  care  of  their 
nephews  and  nieces,  ^vlih  the  inevitable  con- 
sequences of  cohabitation  with  or  without 
marriage  ;  and  I  should  vahie  his  opinion  more 
if  he  had  not  said  that  any  second  marriage 
should  be  visited  with  a  year's  excommunica- 
tion and  a  third  with  five  years  of  that  pen- 
alty. I  value  more  the  opinion  of  the  arch- 
deacon whose  good  faith  and  learning  I 
know,  though  he  has  not  been,  and  probably 
never  will  be,  canonized. 

On  the  question  as  to  the  interpretation  of 
Leviticus  xviii.  18,  and  particularly  as  to  the 
Interpretation  till  recent  times— that  is,  till 
about  1500  or  1600—1  refer  to  Dr.  McCaul's 
letter  to  Sir  W.  P.  Wood,  1860,  and  his  letter 
to  the  Rev.  W.  H.  Lyall,  1869.  A  wonderful 
amount  of  research  and  learning  is  shown, 
ittd  most  urgent  reasons  are  given  for  holding 


thes^  marriages  not  only  not  forbidden  but 
permitted.  The  letters  also  contain  a  lexmed 
and  laborious  examination  as  to  what  was 
the  law  on  England  anciently,  and  how  the 
table  of  prohibited  degrees  and  the  canon 
relating  to  it  came  into  existence. 

It  is  said  that  many  great  lawyers  have 
pronounced  opinions  against  these  marriages. 
If  it  were  a  matter  of  faitli  and  not  of  reason- 
ing I  might  be  inclined  to  follow  them.  Some 
are  named  in  whose  learning,  ability,  and  sin- 
cerity I  have  implicit  confidence;  but  they 
are  all  men,  shall  I  say,  ecclesiastically  given, 
and  who  would  be  likely  to  have  more  regard 
for  canons  and  ecclesiastical  opinion^  than  the 
majority  of  mankind — more,  I  think,  than 
was  felt  by  our  sturdy  old  common- law  law- 
yers, who  stopped  as  far  as  they  could  the 
meddling  of  ecclesiastial  courts. 

I  have,  as  I  have  said,  stated  the  case  pro 
and  con  as  fairly  as  I  could.  That  tlie  ex- 
isting law  causes  much  misery  cannot  be 
doubted,  nor  that  it  causes  a  mischievous 
breach  or  disregard  of  the  law  by  almost  driv- 
ing people  to  live  in  a  state  of  concubinage, 
immoral  and  smful  in  the  minds  of  those 
who  yet  uphold  the  law.  It  makes  a  great' 
and  most  important  difference  between  our- 
selves and  our  colonies,  while  it  is  on  every 
ground  desirable  that  our  institutions  should 
be  as  alike  as  possible,  that,  so  far  as  it  de- 
pends on  religious  considerations,  it  is  a  breach 
of  what  is  now  recognized  as  right — viz. ,  that 
a  man  muse  not  be  persecuted  or  hindered 
from  following  his  own  honest,  conscientious 
opinion  on  religious  matters  because  others 
think  differentlv. 

These  evils  require  a  justification.  What 
is  it?  A  metaphorir»al  expression,  mainly  in 
the  New  Testament  but  also  in  the  Old,  is 
relied  on  as  a  prohibition  of  these  marriages. 
An  argument  is  drawn  from  the  eighteenth 
chapter  of  Leviticus  to  the  same  effect,  though 
no  particular  verse  is  relied  on.  I  will  only 
refer  to  the  way  I  have  dealt  with  it,  and  add 
that  if  Christians  are  affected  by  that  eight- 
eenth chapter  it  furnishes  in  verse  18  a  mos^ 
cogent  argument  against  the  present  law. 

As  to  the  social  objection,  it  is  based  on  the 
Wtrue  and  disgraceful  argument  th^t  but  for 


ACCLIMATIZATIOIir. 


8& 


this  prohibidoD  decent  men  and  women  would 
form  and  indulge  unholy  and  loathsome  pas- 
sions for  each  other. 

I  believe  the  present  law  had  its  origin  partly 
in  asceticism,  which  delights  to  den}'  the 
pleasures,  though  innocent,,  which  nature 
would  give  us,  partly  in  the  love  of  {»oveming, 
ordering,  directing,  and  of  the  influence  and 
power  that  follow— a  characteristic  of  priests, 
but  which  is  only  more  marked  In  Ihem  than 
in  other  human  beings  because  they  have 
more  opportunity  of  indulging  it.  I  trust 
that  a  right  view  will  be  taken  ol  this  impor- 
tant matter  and  the  law  altered. —  Babon 
Bbamw£LL,  in  The  Nineteenik  Century. 


ACCLIMATIZATION. 

What  are  five  centuries  va  the  history  of  the 
world?  Five  drops  of  water  in  the  ocean. 
Yet,  not  five  centuries  ago,  the  whole  face  of 
the  earth  was,  with  a  few  exceptions,  so  un- 
like its  present  aspect,  that  to  aJl  intents  and 
puiposes  it  is  a  new  world. 

It  is  not  easy  to  realize  the  world  at  the  end 
of  the  fifteentli  century.  America,  as  yet  un-. 
known,  was  possessed-  by  the  red  men,  each 
f«mily  requiring  at  least  a  thousand  acres  for 
its  support.  Vast  forests  Xhen  existed  where 
now  the  land  is  cither  covered  with  buildings 
or  has  passed  under  the  dominion  of  th^ 
plough.  Neitlier  a  white  man  nor  a  negro 
had  set  his  foot  upon  the  domain  of  the  red 
man,  and  the  animals  were  as  diverse  a^  the 
human  inhabitants,  Not  a  sheep,  horse,  or 
cow  could  be  found  in  the  country,  and  wheat, 
rice,  and  other  cereals  were  equally  unknown. 
Where  vast  cities  now  flourish  the  bison 
ranged  in  .countless  myriads,  and  the  bear  and 
catamount  prowled  over  the  groun«l  which  is 
now  traversed  by  busy  multitudes.  It  is  true 
that  an  equal  change  has  taken  place  in  Great 
Britain,  but  it  h&s  been  slow  and  gradual, 
whereas  in  America  it  has  been  so  sudden, 
and  yet  so  complete,  that  the  mind  is  quite 
bewildered  in  trjing  to  realize  it. 

Much  the  same  may  be  said  of  Australia, 
which  is  well- nigh  equal  to  Europe  in  area* 


Not  quite  a  century  has  elapsed  since  the  first 
colony  was  established  at  Sydney,  and  even 
then  three-fourths  of  the  colonists  were  con- 
victs. Not  even  a  hut  was  to  be  found 
throughout  the  land,  and  not  a  foot  of  ground 
was  cultivated;  the  only  inhabitants  were  the 
black  tribes,  always  at  enmity  with  each  other, 
and  gaining  a  precai^ious  subsistence  by  hunt- 
ing«and  fishing.  As  to  animal  life,  the  only 
mammals  werQ  virious  marsupials — the  larg- 
est being  the  kangaioo— and  none  capable 
of  being  pressed  into  the  service  of  man. 
Then  thete  is  New  Zealand,  which,  liketae 
islands  of  the  Pacific  Archipelago,  was  even 
worse  off  as  regards  mammals,  the  largest 
being  a  rat,  but  whicfi  is  now  on^  of  our  most 
important  centers  of  commerce,  supplying  the 
mother  country  -yvitl^  food  and  tlottiing. 
These  astonisUing  ph^mgea  are  wholly  due  to 
acclimatization,  i.  e  ,  the  ftdfip^ation  of  certain 
animals  to  live  in  aliep  clitnatps-  -* 

Ancient  Rome,  when  mistress  of  Xh»  world, 
might  have  done  much  in  acclimatuaion,  and 
di4  do  a  littl^.  3ut  tlie  Koman  wits  a  soldiei 
rather  than  a  colonist,  and  aUhcm^h  a  e^.m 
mander  in-chief,  if  stationed  in  Wtain.  "di- 
vided fix)fla  the  whole  world,**  aa  Horace  hiu 
it,  would  import  certain  Italian  delicacies  (e. 
g.,  the  edible  snail  whose  deaceEhdant<^,uiil  sur- 
vive on  the  sites  of  old  Roman  garrsoiis),  thejp 
were  only  for  his  solace  aa  lon^  as  he  re- 
mained here,  and  he  was  always  looKingfoi. 
ward  to  the  day  when  he  should  recurn  to  hii 
beloved  Rome,  The  idea  of  roivintarily  abaa< 
doniqg  Rome,  and  estalUish^ug  himself  in  ii 
country  inhabited  only  by  ravages,  never  en- 
tered his  head.  Spain,  when  mistress  of  tho 
sea>  might  have  imderta^ieu  the  task,  and, 
indeed*  unwittingly  performed  a  portion  of  it, 
when  the  voyagers  were  obliged  to  take  ship 
in  haste  and  leave  some  of  fheir  horses  on 
shore.  Still  they,  like,  the  Romans,  had  no 
intention  of  settling  for  life  in  the  new  coun- 
try, and  of  cutting  themselves  loose  from  their 
native  land. 

The  true  colonist  does  not  intend  to  return-, 
to  his  mother  land,  except,  perhapsi<  on  a> 
short  visit.  He  takes  with  him  a  supply  ^-f* 
agricultural  implements,  seed,  the  nuclo  h  0 
a  flock  and  herd,  a  few  horses,  a  supj^U-  J^ 


S4 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


provisions  which  will  enable  him  to  live  until 
the  crops  are  ripe ;  and  then  settles  himself 
down,  and  is  independent.  Of  such  stuff 
were  made  the  old  American  squatters,  who 
acted  as  the  pioneers  of  civilization,  but  who 
thought  that  a  neighbor  living  at  a  distance  of 
ten  miles  was  uncomfortably  near.  Men  of  the 
same  race,  and  actuated  by  the  same  spirit, 
are  now  doing  on  a  large  scale  and  witft  ex- 
tended means  the  work  which  was  begun  on 
a  small  scale  by  their  predecessors,  who  un- 
dertook  a  more  laborious  task  with  inferior 
means. 

Thus  far  the  principle  of  acclimatization 
seems  simple  enough,  but  it  is  in  realit}'  a 
complicated  one,  and  involves  several  very 
important  questions.  There  is  the  question  of 
Success,  T)ut  there  is  also  the  opposite  question 
of  Failure,  which  is  equally  valuable,  inas- 
much as  our  greatest  achievements  are  the 
result  uf  many  failures.  There  is  the  ques- 
tion (;f  Reciprocity,  and  last,  most  unexpected, 
is  I  e  Rfflex  question.  We  sliall  have  a  few 
words  on  eacli  of  t  ese  questions,  and  will 
begin  with  the  first. 

We  have  most  successfully  acclimatized  the 
sheep.  In  America,  and  more  especially  in 
California,  the  sheep  farms  afford  wondrous 
sights  in  the  shearing  season.  The  animal  is 
valued  almost  entirely  for  its  wool,  the  meat 
being  held  in  very  slight  consideration.  Dur- 
ing the  greater  part  of  the  year  tlie  shepherds 
lead  most  lonely  lives.  But  in  the  shearing 
season  all  is  changed,  and  the  ranches  arc 
filled  with  life.  There  are  many  professional 
shearers,  mostly  natives,  none  of  whom  will 
shear  leas  than  seventy  sheep  daily,  and  some 
are  so  expert  that  they  can  shear  a  hundred 
sheep  in  a  day. 

Califomian  wool  alwavs  reminds  me  of  the 
time  when  the  gold  diggings  were  first  dis- 
covered in  California.  At  Oxford  it  used  to 
be  the  custom  at  Cliristmas  time  for  the 
butchers  to  exhibit  the  prize  sheep  which  they 
had  bred  and  pi3rchas2d.  One  witty  butcher 
procured  a  very  fine  sheep,  dyed  its  wool  pur- 
ple, gilded  its  hoofs,  and  exhibited  it  as  a  Cali- 
fomian sheep.  It  seems  hardly  credible,  but 
numbers  of  persons  went  away  in  the  firm 
belief  that  all  Califomian  sheep  had  purple 


wool  and  golden  hoofs.  It  is  clear  then  tliat 
we  have  succeeded  with  the  sheep  in  America. 
We  have  been  equally  successful  in  Australia, 
where  the  number  of  sheep,  owing  to  the  vast 
area  of  the  country,  is  simply  countless.  In 
New  Zealand,  which  is  about  as  large  as  the 
British  Isles,  we  have  some  means  of  ascer- 
taining our  success  with  the  sheep.  In  1779 
Captain  Cook  left  a  few  pigs  and  potatoes  in 
New  Zealand,  according  to  his  thoughtful 
custom,  the  pigs  being  the  largest  mammals 
that  had  ever  existed  in  the  islands.  In  1884 
there  were  more  than  13.000,000  sheep,  be- 
sides pigs,  cattle,  and  Lorses. 

Homed  cattlo  have  been  equally  sucessful. 
Australia  is  nearly  as  prolific  in  cattle-breed- 
ing as  in  sheep- rearing,  the  herds  being  so 
enormous  and  increasing  at  such  a  rate  that 
they  become  almost  as  wild  in  their  ways  as 
the  veritable  wild  cattle.  It  was  for  their 
benefit  that  the  terrible  .stock-whip  was  in- 
vented. No  ordinary  whip  Would  have  the 
least  effect  upon  a  young  Australian  bull  when 
summoned  to  the  periodical  insj^ection.  But 
tlie  stock-whip,  with  its  handle  of  a  foot  in 
length  and  its  lash  of  fifteen  feet  long,  and  as 
tliick  in  the  middle  as  a  man's  thumb  will, 
overcome  the  resolution  of  the  most  obstinate 
bull  that  ever  faced  a  stock-driver.  This 
whip  is  often  used  as  a  weapon  against  the 
*'  black-fellows,'*  a  single  blow  across  the 
stomach  killing  the  man  as  instantaneously  as 
if  it  were  a  bullet  from  a  revolver. 

With  the  horse  we  have  been  not  less  suc- 
cessful, and  in  several  parts  of  America  the 
horse,  under  the  naii^e  of  the  "mustang,"  has 
reverted  to  its  wild  state,  living  in  herds,  each 
under  the  command  of  a  single  male,  and  all 
beinc  ruled  with  the  strictest  discipline.  Many 
travelers  have  given  most  interesting  narra- 
tives of  the  behavior  of  these  h.crds,  and  es- 
pecially of  the  wonderful  manner  in  which 
they  dash  down  ravines  and  climb  precipices, 
they  being  as  sure-footed  as  goats.  As  to  the 
s^ane,  thuy  have  thriven  marvelously  in  their 
new  homes,  especially  in  New  Zealand.  I 
am  disposed  to  attribute  much  of  the  canni- 
balism which  once  prevailed  in  that  country 
to  the  absence  of  large  mammals  on  which  to 
feed.    The  infiuence  of  the  pig  on  the  Maori 


ACCLIMATIZATION. 


35 


IS  strikingly  evident  at  the  j)resent  day.  \ 
Wliec  a  great  cliicf  gives  a  feast  he  builds  a 
solid  wall  of  provisions.  In  one  of  these 
feasts  the  wall  was  five  feet  high,  five  feet 
thick,  and  more  than  a  mile  in  length.  The 
materials  of  which  it  was  composed  were 
sweet  potatoes,  dried  shark,  potatoes,  and 
l>aked  pigs,  the  two  latter  viands  being  due 
to  the  gifts  presented  by  Captain  Cook  little 
more  than  a  century  ago.  Indeed,  the  pig  is 
now  as  much  the  inmate  of  a  Maori  hut  as  of 
an  Irish  cottage. 

The  camel  affords  a  remarkable  instance  of 
successful  acclimatization.  It  is  absolutely 
uik:lc9B  in  England,  but  has  proved  invaluable 
in  Australia.  It  was  first  imported  from  India 
by  Sir  Thomas  Elder,  and  landed  at  Port 
Augusta.  It  throve  well,  and  the  breed  has 
since  been  improved  by  Mr.  H.  J.  Scott,  who 
sent  for  a  fresh  importation  from  Bikaorir,  in 
Rajputana.  It  is  especially  valuable  for  in- 
terior explorations,  as  it  not  only  possesses  the 
power  of  going  without  water  for  several  suc- 
cessive days,  but  is  capable  of  feeding  on  the 
''bush/*  from  which  no  other  animal  can 
extract  nutriment. 

The  common  barn-door  fowl  has  found  a 
third  home  in'  America,  Australia,  and  among 
the  islands  of  the  great  Pacific  Archipelago, 
having  been  first  brought  from  Asia  to  Eng- 
land, and  then  transferred  to  the  regions  gov- 
erned by  the  Southern  Cross.  The  hive-bee 
has  been  uniformly  successful  in  the  countries 
into  which  it  has  been  introduced. 

Vegetables  have  been  acclimatized  as  suc- 
cessfully as  animals,  an  example  of  which  has 
been  seen  in  the  potato  in  New  Zealand,  itself 
having  been  previously  acclimatized  in  Eng- 
land from  America.  Then  there  is  wheat. 
The  vast  supplies  which  come  to  us  annually 
from  America  are  the  produce  of  seed  origin 
ally  sent  from  England,  but  finding  a  larger 
area  and  a  more  propitious  sky  in  the  New 
World.  Rice,  again,  has  been  acclimatized 
in  America,  it  originally  being  an  Asiatic 
plant. 

Having  now  glanced  at  the  successful  side 
of  the  question,  let*  us  look  at  some  of  our 
failures. 

The  rabbit  has  been  a  most  disastrous  fail- 


ure. In  its  own  country  it  can  be  bred  with 
profit  by  those  who  understand  it.  For  ex- 
ample, in  Norfolk  there  is  a  large  warren, 
comprising  about  eight  cr  nine  hundred  acres, 
where  in  summer  evenings  the  visitors  may 
see  five  or  six  hundred  rabbits  playing  about 
their  burrows,  and  indulging  in  tlieir  merry 
gambols.  From  this  warren  the  lessee  con- 
trives to  clear  about  60(W.  annually.  He  drives 
the  rabbits  out  of  their  burrows  with  parafiln 
oil,  and  for  the  oH  and  labor  he  has  to  pay 
200?.  yearly.  Ferrets  are  not  allowed  to 
ente^^  the  burrows,  lest  they  should  injure  the 
skins.  The  owners  of  this  warren  often  send 
to  London  a  consignment  of  seventy  dozen 
rabbits.  Boys  un  the  Kentish  coast  employ 
another  plan  for  driving  rabbits  out  of  their 
holes.  They  take  a  shore-crab,  or  (as  they 
call  it)  a  ** toe-biter,"  fasten  a  short  piece  of 
lighted  candle  on  its  back,  and  put  it  into  the 
mouth  of  the  burrow.  Instinctively  the  crab 
makes  for  the  darkness  of  the  burrow,  and  so 
frightens  the  inmate  that  he  bolts  as  if  a  ferret 
were  after  him. 

Thinking  that  the  animal  would  be  profita- 
ble in  the  new  country,  some  speculator  in- 
troduced seven  rabbits  in  1860.  Since  that 
time,  they  have  increased  so  rapidly,  that  be- 
tween 1875  and  1884,  55,000,000  rabbit  skins 
were  exported,  the  supply  of  1884  being 
9,800,000  skins,  the  contribution  of  the  pre- 
vious year  having  been  about  the  same.  At 
first  sight,  these  figures  seem  to  represent  an 
enormous  profit,  but  in  reality  they  represent 
a  considerable  loss,  the  sum  paid  for  killing 
the  rabbits  and  dressing  their  skins  for  the 
market  far  exceeding  the  money  for  which 
they  are  sold.  Could  they  be  let  alone,  the 
landowners  would  be^nly  too  glad,  but  they 
continue  to  increase  to  such  an  extent,  that 
unledB  their  numbers  were  kept  down,  every 
sheep  farm  would  have  to  be  abandoned,  as 
indeed,  has  been  the  case  in  more  than  one 
instance,  many  small  farmers  having  be^n 
ruined. 

The  rabbit  is  utterly  destructive  to  pasture 
land,  not  only  eating  the  grass  close  to  the 
ground,  but  even  pulling  up  the  roots  when 
the  grass  is  fi nished.  Wire-  fence,  sunk  deeply 
into  the  ground,  affords  the  only  hope  of 


86 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


checking  the  animals,  but  after  a  while,  find 
ing  that  they  cannot  force  their  way  tlirough 
it,  they  burrow  under  it.  Miss  Gordon  Gum- 
ming mentions  that  a  well-known  sheep 
breeder,  Mr.  Campbell,  was  forced  lo  abandon 
a  "run**  of  250,000  acres.  Various  methods 
of  exterminating  the  rabbit  have  been  tried. 
In  December,  1885,  three  hundred  stoats  and 
weasels  were  sent  to  New  Zealand,  for  the 
purpose  of  being  turned  loose  into  the  ralibit 
burrows  and  destroying  the  inmates.  This 
was  the  sixth  consignment  within  two  years. 
What  success  this  importation  may  produce 
seems  rather  doubtful,  as  the  introduction  of  a 
new  animal  is  always  a  dangerous  expiTiment. 

Australia  suffers  as  much  as  New  Zealand 
from  the  depredations  of  the  rabbit.  In 
Queensland,  which  the  rabbit  has  not  as  yet 
reached,  great  efforts  are  being  made  to  keep 
it  out  of  the  province.  Tenders  have  been 
accepted  for  2,550  miles  of  fencing  wire  and 
450  miles  of  wire  netting  of  small  mesh. 

A  route  has  been  laid  out,  running  for  a 
distance  of  300  miles  to  the  intersecting  angle 
of  Queensland  and  New  South  Wales,  and 
thenceforth  northward  for  a  hundred  miles. 
The  Queensland  Government  has  voted 
50,000?.  for  this  purpose. 

In  order  to  show  the  straits  to  which  the 
Australian  colonies  have  been  reduced,  I  may 
mention  that  Professor  Watson,  of  Adelaide 
University,  was  granted  six  months'  leave  of 
absence,  in  order  to  enable  him  to  visit  Europe 
and  procure  some  rabbits  affected  with  the 
fatal  **scab."  These  were  to  be  turned  down 
among  the  burrows  in  hopes  that  they  might 
spread  the  disease,  and  so  lessen  the  numbei'S 
of  the  rodents.  The  first  batch  died  of  sun- 
stroke at  Aden,  but  another  batch  has  been 
ordered. 

It  is  sad  to  see  how  man's  greed  will  mar 
the  best  intentioned  plans.  In  South  Australia 
a  reward  is  given  for  killing  rabbits,  the 
scalps,  including  the  ears,  being  demandc.l  as 
proofs,  like  the  heads  of  the  birds  in* 'sparrow 
clubs. ' '  It  has  been  lately  discovered— so  says 
the  South  Australian  Chronicle — that  **some 
scoundrels  are  in  the  habit  of  taking  the  scalps 
from  the  does  while  still  living,  and  allowing 
them  to  run,  thus  securing  payment  for  the  rab- 


bits which  they  are  supposed  to  have  killed, 
and  providing  for  the  increase  of  the  rodents  to 
such  an  extent  as  to  still  render  their  services 
necessary.  We  all  know  that  rat-catchers  and 
mole-killers  always  leave  a  few  females  in 
order  to  keep  up  the  breed/  but  no  Govern- 
ment could  have  anticipated  such  atrocious 
cruelty. 

The  reason  for  this  overpowering  increase 
of  the  rabbit  is  simple  enough.  The  animals 
find  abundant  food,  the  native  fauna  is  so 
feeble  that  there  is  no  competition  for  exist 
ence,  and  in  New  Zealand  there  are  no  de- 
structive mammals  and  birds  which  wculd 
keep  down  their  numbers  and  maintain  the 
balance  of  Nature.  In  Australia,  althoiigh 
there  are  the  carnivorous  dtuyures  (or  "  native 
cats,"  as  the  colonists  will  persist  in  calling 
them),  they  can  exercise  but  little  influence 
upon  an  animal  which  has  its  burrow  always 
at  hand,  and  which  can  whisk  into  its  strong- 
hold in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye. 

Another  mistake  in  acclimatization  has  been 
made  with  regard  to  the  sparrow.  In  many 
parts  of  the  United  States  the  trees  are  infested 
by  two  caterpillars.  One,  which  is  popularly 
called  the  "canker-worm,"  is  a  very  near 
relative  of  our  vaporer  moth,  and  is  even 
more  destructive.  The  otlier  belongs  to  the 
GeometridcB,  and  is  called  the  "span-worm," 
or  "measurer- worm,"  on  account  of  its  habit 
of  looping  the  body  at  every  step.  Not  only 
is  it  a  destructive  creature,  Vut  it  annoys 
people  greatly  by  its  habit  of  letting  itself 
down  from  the  trees  by  silken  cables,  just  as 
is  done  by  many  of  our  leaf -roller  caterpillars. 
But  the  American  caterpillars  are  so  numer- 
ous, and  their  cables  are  so  strong,  tliat  they 
are  a  serious  pest  to  passengers. 

AjK)ut  twenty  years  ago  some  American 
naturalists  bethought  themselves  that  the 
sparrow,  which  is  in  the  habit  of  feeding  its 
young  with  grubs  and  caterpillars,  would  be 
the  very  bird  to  coj)e  with  these  two  pests. 
Accordingly,  they  sent  to  England  for  a  thou- 
sand 8pari*ows,  timing  their  arrival  so  that  the 
birds  might  have  their  nests  built  and  their 
young  hatched  just  when  the  canker-worm 
and  span  worm  were  most  troublesome.  But 
they  had  forgotten  that  tho  e^irom  is  a  bint 


ACCL::iIATIZATIOI>r. 


87 


of  the  Old  World,  and  not  accustomed  to  New 
World  insects.  Again,  the  canker-worm  was 
so  formidable  a  being,  with  its  tufts  of  long 
strai^it  bristly  h<airs,  that  no  sparrow  could 
carry  it  off,  and  much  less  could  a  young 
sparrow  swallow  it.  The  only  English  bird 
that  can  eat  this  caterpillar  is  tlic  cuckoo,  a 
fel>ecies  which  cannot  live  in  America. 

The  span-worm  is  equally  safe  from  the 
sparrow.  Among  the  leaves  it  is  so  well  hidden 
that  the  sparrow  cannot  lind  it,  the  bird  not  be- 
ing adapted  for  hunting  among  the  leaves  and 
branches.  Even  when  it  hangs  by  its  thread 
troiu  the  bough,  the  sparrow,  which  is  a 
short  winged  bird,  is  incapable  of  balancing 
itself  in  the  air  and  picking  off  a  caterpillar 
which  swings  backward  and  forward  in  tlie 
breeze,  and,  when  fearful  of- danger,  lots  itself 
drop  for  several  inches.  If  the  span-worm, 
like  the  Laccadive  rats,  would  only  descend 
to  the,  ground,  the  sparrow  would  probably 
pick  it  up.  But  as  it  prefers  to  hide  in  the 
foliage  or  to  swing  at  the  end  of  a  thread  no 
8;  arrow  can  touch  it. 

An  unexpected  result  foll9wed  the  advent 
of  the  sparrow.  Quarrelsome,  fearless,  and 
irrepressible,  the  sparroi^s  ousteil  the  native 
birds  from  their  nesting  places  and  drove 
tlicm  from  their  old  haunts. 

The  sparrow  has  now  spread  all  over  the 
states,  and,  although  it  does  feed  its  young  on 
the  small  larvae  in  the  spring,  it  has  ejected  the 
native  birds  which  would  have  performed  the 
same  duty,  while  it  does  not  touch  the  crea- 
tures for  whose  destruction  it  was  introduced. 
That,  however,  is  not  the  fault  of  the  sparrow, 
but  of  the  imperfect  knowledge  of  the  intro- 
ducers, who  ought  to, have  learned  that  the 
sparrow  could  neither  capture  the  span-worm 
nor  cope  with  the  canker-worm.  Conse- 
quently it  does  more  harm  than  good,  eating 
grain  of  all  kinds,  and  being  so  keen  after 
food  that  to  sow  a  grass-lawn  is  a  task  of  great 
difficulty,  the  sparrows  flocking  to  the  spot 
and*  eating  the  seed  almost  before  it  has 
touched  the  ground. 

A  similar  result  has  followed  the  introdnc- 
tion  of  tlie  sparrow  into  New  Zealand.  Fifty 
birds  were  imported,  and  now  their  numbers 
may  be  I'eckoned  by  the  million.    With  the 


change  to  tlic  opposite  side  of  the  glolie,  the 
alteration  of  seasons,  and  couseque.itly  the 
time  of  moulting,  the  sparrow  accommodated 
itself  to  circumstances  and  entirely  abandoned 
its  old  habits.  Perhaps  tlie  insxls  of  the  new 
country  were  not  to  its  t;.ste,  for  it  soon  aban- 
doned tliem  and  preferred  to  live  entirely  on 
grain  and  fruits.  Miss  Gordon  Gumming 
mentions  a  case  where  one  proprietor  lost  in 
ten  days  a  ton  and  a  half  of  gra^xiS  and  liad 
five  fig-trees  entirely  stripped  of  their  fruit. 

There  is  a  time  and  a  place  for  everything. 
In  its  own  country,  which  is  its  proper  place, 
the  sparrow  is, when  understood  a  most  valua- 
ble bird.  It  should  be  encouraged  to  the  ut 
most  in  the  spring  and  early  summer,  which 
is  its  proper  time.  But  as  soon  as  tbe  peas 
are  fairly  set  in  their  pods  the  sparrow's  time 
is  over,  and  it  ought  to  be  driven  away  from 
'he  garden  until  the  fruit  has  been  gathered. 
The  bird  is  not  to  DIame  for  the  harm  which 
it  does  in  countries  for  which  it  was  not  in- 
tended, though  we  can  hanily  find  fault  with 
an  aggrieved  correspondent  of  the  Neto  York 
Sun,  who  "detests  the  English  sparrow  as  a 
bird  wholly  depraved,  a  robber,  a  brigand,  a 
pirate^  and  everything  that  is  bad." 

Poison  and  traps  have  been  tried,  but  in 
vain,  as  the  sparrow  finds  fruits  quite  good 
enough  for  him  without  eating  poison,  and  is 
much  too  clever  to  be  enticed  into  a  trap. 
Australian  journals  are  studded  with  com- 
plaints of  the  bird,  from  which  I  have  selected 
a  condensed  «}xtract: — 

**  The  sparrow  in  Australia  h0«  conceived  a  new  and 
larger  scheme  of  life  than  that  uith  which  he  was  sat- 
isfied in  the  old  conntry.  Nothing  is  sacred  from  his 
devastating  bill.  His  appetite  for  grapes  is  insatiable, 
in  figs  is  his  delight  In  peaches,  nectarines,  apricots^ 
pears  and  plums  he  makes  such  havoc  as  to  cause  a 
famine  in  those  fruits,  abundantly  as  they  grow  in  the 
kindly  soil  of  Australia.  The  agriculturist  has  found 
in  him  a  foe  even  more  terrible  than  the  blight  or  the 
caterpillar.  Wheat,  barley  and  peas  are  devoured  in 
the  ear  and  pod  when  fruits  are  not  in  season.  When 
neither  grain  nor  fruit  are  to  be  got,  then  tender 
flower-buds  and  succulent  young  vegetable  shoots  aro 
laid  under  contribution.  The  fecundity  of  the  spar- 
row, great  as  it  was  at  home,  has  been  increased  many- 
fold  under  the  more  favorable  conditions  of  life  in 
Australia." 

Our  failures  in  the  acclin^atization  of  vege- 
table life  have  almost  always  been  dlie  to 


88 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


sentiment.  The  useful  plants  and  trees  have, 
as  a  rule,  flourished  admirably.  Sentiment, 
however,  has  always  been  a  deadly  foe  to  the 
colonist;  for  example,  some  thirty  years  ago 
a  Scotch  emigrant  to  Australia  took  with  him 
a  thistle  in  a  flower-pot.  Great  were  the  re- 
joicings among  the  Scotch  colonists,  a  dinner 
was  given  in  honor  of  the  national  plant,  and 
it  was  then  carefully  transferred  to  the  soil. 
Kow  it  has  rendered  whole  tracts  of  land  use- 
less. It  defies  all  attempts  at  extirpation  and 
great  sums  of  money  are  paid  yearly  in  re- 
straining the  once  welcomed  plant.  That  the 
thistle  would  probably  become  an  injurious 
plant  ought  to  have  been  anticipated,  and  the 
very  seeds  should  have  been  prohibited  as  re- 
lentlessly as  we  prohibit  the  Colorado  beetle. 
But  who  would  have  though t« that  the  sweet- 
briar  could  do  any  harm.  At  home  we  are 
only  too  glad  to  have  it  in  our  gardens,  and  a 
sweetbriar  hedge  is  a  thing  of  joy  and  an  object 
of  justifiable  pride.  No  one,  therefore,  would 
have  blamed  the  missionary  and  his  wife  who 
took  witli  Uiem  a  plant  of  sweetbriar  as  a  fra- 
grant memorial  of  their  garden  in  the  old 
country.  But  when  set  in  the  fresh  rich  soil 
of  Australia  the  plant  grew  with  'almost 
savage  fury.  It  drove  great  roots  into  the 
ground,  developed  itself  from  a  shrub  into  a 
tree,  and  spread  with  such  alarming  rapidity 
that  it  is  quite  as  troublesome  as  the  thistle. 
Tasmania,  which  is  to  the  mainland  of  Aus 
tralia  what  the  Isle  of  Wight  is  to  England, 
has  suftered  terribly  from  the  sweetbriar. 
New  Zealand  has  fared  no  better;  Mr.  Froude 
states  that  it  is  a  worse  foe  to  the  agricul- 
turist than  tlie  native  fern.  "At  home  so 
chary  of  growth,  it  cTtpands  here  into  vast 
bushes,  becomes  a  weed  and  spreads  like  a 
weed.  It  overruns  whole  fields  in  two  or 
three  seasons,  will  turn  a  cleared  ftirm  into  an 
impenetrable  thicket,  and  has  to  be  torn  out 
with  cart  ropes  and  teams  of  horses." 

Another  remarkable  point  in  the  history  of 
acclimatization  is  its  effect  upon  previously 
existing  animals.  The  Chinese  soldier,  when 
rebuked  for  running  out  of  an  assaulted  fort, 
replied  logically,  "No  two  piecy  man  can  stand 
in  one  piecy  man's  place.  If  he  will  come  I 
must  go.''    The  aphorism  is  equally  applica- 


ble to  the  ani;nals.  When  the  flocks  and  herds 
of  the  white  man  enter  upon  a  new  land  the 
previous  occupiers  must  make  way  for^liem. 
So,  in  America,  the  bison  is  disappearing  in 
exact  ratio  with  the  increase  of  sheep,  swine 
and  oxen.  Of  course  the  dt'prcdations  of  hun- 
ters have  some,  effect  on  the  bison,  but  the 
rapid  and  steady  decrease  in  it's  numbers  is 
not  due  so  much  to  the  rifie  bullet  of  the 
hunter,  whether  red  or  white,  as  to  the  con- 
tinual increase  of  sheep  and  cattle  which 
crowd  it  out  of  its  pasture  lands.  Similarly, 
in  Australia,  tlie  kangaroo  has  been  forced  to 
give  way  to  the  sheep  and  the  horned  cattle. 
No  "two  piecy"  beast  can  stand  in  "one  piecy" 
beast's  place,  and  the  inferior  must  needs  re- 
tire before  the  superior. 

Now  comes  the  question  of  Reciprocity. 

We  have  given  much  to  other  lands,  but  v*  e 
have  taken  a  little  in  exchange.  From  New. 
Zealand  and  the  Pacific  Archipelago  we  have 
received  nothing.  There  are  no  mammals 
more  than  a  few  inches  in  length,  and  the  only 
large  bird,  the  moa  o^  New  Zealand,  has  long 
disappeared  down  the  throats  of  the  natives. 
Neither  has  Australia  given  us  anything,  in- 
asmuch as  the  mammals  are  all  marsupials, 
for  which  our  climate  is  not  suited.  There 
are  certainly  a  few  gallinaceous  birds,  such  as 
the  brush  turkey,  the  jungle  fowl,  and  the 
leipoa(or  "native  pheasant"),  but  these  birds 
need  too  much  space  to  be  us^iful  in  this 
country,  where  every  yard  of  ground  has  its 
value.  From  America  we  have  received  the 
turkey,  a  bird  which  has  withstood  acclima- 
tization so  well  that,  like  the  barn-door  fowl 
(which  came  from  Asia),  it  has  long  been  con- 
sidered as  a  British  bird.  This  is  the  more 
remarkable  as  the  bird  belongs  to  a  different 
continent.  Like  most  acclimated  creatures  it 
ha?  undergone  some  changes  of  form  and 
color,  and  has  nearly  learned  to  abaiidon  its 
wild  w^ays,  such  as  straying  and  concealing 
its  nest. 

The  two  greatest  gifts,  however,  which  we 
have  received  from  America  are  the  potato 
and  tobacco.  How  tlie  latter  plant  would 
tlirive  in  this  country  it  is  impossible  to  say. 
as  the  law  prohibits  its  cultivation.  1  believe, 
however,  that  it  would  be  perfectly  sucoesaful. 


igbENES  IN  MARY  HOWITT'S  LATER  LIFE. 


S9 


and,  indeed,  the  very  fact  of  ita*  proMbition 
infers  as  much.  As  for  the  potato,  it  Is  now 
as  completely  a  British  pUnt  as  tlie  wheat  or 
the  barley,  and  as  has  already  been  mentioned, 
has  been  again  acclimatized  over  the  greater 
part  of  the  earth's  surface.  Maize  (which  in 
America  is  invariably  called  by  the  name  of 
**corn")  has  not  succeeded  in  this  country,  but 
has  beea  thoroughly  successful  in  Boiith  Af- 
rica, where  it  thrives  wonderfully  under  the 
name  of  "  mealies,"  and  now  forms  the  cliief 
nourishment  of  the  various  tribes  which  are 
called  by  the  collective  name  of  "Kaffirs." 

The  CTeat  fish  question  is  far  too  large  for 
more  tnan  a  casual  mention,  and  we  will  pro- 
ceed to  what  I  will  venture  to  call  the  Reflex 
question — t.  e.,  th«  effect  of  the  indigenous 
animals  upon  those  which  have  been  import- 
ed, and  its  reciprocal  action  on  themselves. 

We  have  seen  how  marvelously  the  sheep 
has  increased  in  New  Zealand,  where  exists 
no  carnivorous  beast  or  bird  that  could  check 
the  increase  of  the  flocks.  But  the  introduc- 
tion of  the  sheep  has  caused  the  development 
of  a  carnivorous  bird  far*  more  destructive, 
because  mo.*e  plentiful,  than  the  eagle  itself. 
This  very  unexpected  foe  is  one  of  the  long- 
beaked  parrots  peculiar  to  New  Zealand  (Nes- 
tor noialnlis),  popularly  called  the  kia,  or 
* '  moo  ntain  parrot.  '.* 

Just  as  the  sparrow  abandoned  insects  for 
fruits,  grain,  and  flowers,  the  kia  has  reversed 
the  process,  and  abandoned  its  normal  vege- 
table diet  in  order  to  become  a  sheep-killer  of 
the  most  confirmed  atrocity.  Like  other 
criminals  it  is  a  nocturnal  bird,  and  not  easily 
seen  on  account  of  its  dark-green  plumage. 

In  1868  it  was  noticed  that  the  kia  was  in 
the  habit  of  visiting  carcases  of  sheep  which 
were  huug  up  for  consumption,  and  eating 
the  fat  round  the  kidneys.  Finding  this  fat 
very  much  to  tli^ir  taste,  but  not  being  able 
to  procure  a  sufficiency  of  it,  the  birds  took  to 
attacking  the  sheep  while  living,  never  doing 
more  than  perching  on  the  backs  of  the  un- 
happy animals,  tearing  away  the  skin,  and 
digging  out  the  kidney  fat  with  their  pick- 
axes of  beaks.  In  a  few  years  this  formerly 
harmless  bird  has  become  the  curse  of  the 
aheep-run,  and  not  long  ago  out  of  three  hun- 


dred fat  sheep  two  hundred  were  killed  by 
the  kia  within  five  months.  The  natural 
consequence  is  that  war  has  been  declared 
agaiust  the  kia,  which  in  all  probability  will 
be  exterminated.  A  more  bizarre  result  of 
acclimatizatipn  could  n'iBver  have  been  antici- 
pated. 

The  part  wiiich  has  been  played  by  accli- 
matization in  the  modern  history  of  the  world 
cannot  be  overrated.  Our  vast  and  numerous 
colonies — "  Greater  Britain,"  as  they  have 
been  happily  called — would  ha^e  been  im- 
possible had  we  not  been  able  to  take  with  us 
our  beasts,  birds,  cereals,  and  fruits.  We 
cannot  imagine  Australia  or  New  Zealand 
without  cattle,  sheep,  horses,  grain,  and  fruit. 
We  have  made  some  mistakes,  but  not  so 
many  as  might  have  been  made,  and  we  can 
at  all  events  take  warning  by  th(  se  failures, 
so  as  not  to  repeat  t..em  in  the  future.  Of 
this  we  may  be  certain.  For  successful  accli- 
matization it  is  necessary  to  be  thoroughly  ac- 
quainted with  the  animal  or  plant  which  is  to 
be  transferred  to  d  new  soil.  It  is  also  neces- 
sary to  understand  the  climate  and  other  con- 
ditions of  both  countries;  and,  histly,  no  ani- 
mal or  plant  should  be  imported  which  can- 
not be  kept  within  the  control  of  the  breeder 
or  agriculturist. — Rev.  J.  G.  Wood,  in  Long 
man*i  Magazine, 


SCENES  IN  MARY  HOWITT*S  LATER 

LIFE.* 

Substantial  Ma3rr-am-Hof,  in  the  Tyrol,  so 
attractive  to  us  in  its  venerable  decay,  grew 
from  a  retreat  for  a  few  weeks  into  our  per- 
manent summer  home.  Leaving  hot  weather 
and  ripe  cherries  in  Rome,  we  have  hastened 
thither  at  the  beginning  of  May  to  find  tlie 
sparkling  snow  lying  thick  and  low  on  the 
mountains;  the  trees  leafless,  but  a  green  flush 
over  the  giant  po])lar  and  the  cherry  blossoms 
ready  t«  burst  forth.    The  fleeting  hours,  how- 

*  MAry  flowitt,  at  the  age  of  eighty-five,  has  for  eev. 
eral  monthB  farnlehed  to  Good  Words  some  *'Reini- 
niBcences  of  her  Later  Lifo,'^  portions  of  which  have 
been  given  in  The  Librart  Maoazinb.  The  conclud- 
ing paper  of  this  eerie?  appearv  in  Oood  Words  for 
September.— JB2d.  LiBBAJir  MAOAznrx. 


4% 


THE  LiBRAJiY  MAGAZINE. 


tm,  soon  brought  us  sultry  summer  heat, 
interspersed  with  heavy  thunderstorms;  then 
cahn,  cloudless  autumn  days,  when  tlie  fir- 
trees  stood  out  black  against  the  intense  blue, 
fathomless  sky,  with  here  and  there  a  moun- 
tain-ash or  a  wild  cherry  dyed  gold  or  crimson, 
but  all  other  foliage  suggestive  of  July. 
Then  came  November  with  giboray  heavens, 
withered,  scattered  lAves,  wild  winds  and 
rattling  casements,  making  us  thankful  to 
cross  the  bare,  brown  plain  to  the  railway 
station  en  route  for  benign  and  radiant  Italy 

One  of  the  main  attractions  to  my  husband 
at  Miiyr-am-Hof  was  his  gardening.  He 
carried  it  on  in  a  field  allotment,  and  in  the 
former  baronial  kitchen-giirden,  which,  neg- 
lected for  half  a  century,  was  divided  from 
the  mansion  and  farm-buildings  by  the  road 
and  a  rude  old  wall  surmounted  by  a  fence 
long  unrepaired.  It  was  a  strip  of  terrace 
garden- containing  a  primitive  shed  for  bees, 
and  some  unpruned  fruit-trees  with  strag- 
gling, naked  branches.  In  the  sloping  orchard 
l)elow,  better  specimens,  however,  lingered 
on,  and  tradition  distinguished  one  apple-tree 
as  having,  by  its  fine  growth  and  prolificuess, 
called  f  rth  the  admiration  of  the  Empress 
Maria  Theresa. 

William  indefatigably  dug  with  his^nglish 
spade — a  unique  and  expensive  tool,  in  Tyrol, 
the  land  of  clumsy  husbandry — planted,  tied 
up,  watered,  and  cut  off  dead  boughs  or  leaves. 
I  enj<Syed  sitting  near  him,  reading,  knitting, 
and  in  the  summer  of  1876  working  at  a  huge 
cabbage-net  intended  as  a  protection  against 
the  Jegions  of  butterflies.  In  the  beginning 
of  July  the  cabbage  crop  of  which  the  Ty- 
rolese,  rich  and  poor,  grow  yearly  for  their 
cattle  in  winter  and  for  their  own  use  as 
mtierkraui,  had  been  planted  out  by  acres. 
Rain  came  at  the  right  time  and  the  young 
cabba.^e  took  to  the  soil  vigorously.  Then 
unusually  hot  weather  began,  and  one  splen- 
did morning  appeared  what  might  have  been 
mistaken  for  the  beginning  of  a  snowstorm. 
The  air,  in  fact,  was  animated  with  white 
butterflies,  attracted,  as  it  seemed,  to  a  plot  of 
fine  blossoming  clover,  but  in  reality  to  some 
adjacent  acres  of  healthy  cabbage. 

A  trador  coming  from  Italy  into  Tyrol  re- 


ported that  he  had  seen  for  three  days  this 
cloud  of  white  butterflies  proceeding  from  the 
south  into  these  higher  regions;  and  our  elder 
daughter  and  son-in-law,  who  had  been  spend- 
ing part  of  the  summer  with  us,. observed  the 
same  cloud  extending  through  Tyrol  to  Mu- 
nich, and  onward  into  France.  I  have  read  a 
poem  praising  and  magnifying  the  **  lovely 
white  butterfly*'  as  an  angel  of  summer. 
Once  upon  a  time,  I  believe  that  I  too  pniiscd 
it,  but  that  was  in  my  youth  and  ignorance. 
My  husband,  instantly  i)erceiving  the  mischief 
that  must  accrile  to  the  cabbages  from  this 
livii^g  snowstorm  which  lasted  many  da^s, 
urged  the  peasants  to  catch  and  kill  the  but- 
terflies. To  set  thom  an  example  he  quickly 
captured  upward  of  a  thousand  in  a  net.  No 
effect,  however,  was  produced  on  tlie  apathetic 
peasants;  they  left  the  creatures  undistiirbc<1. 
In  a  week  or  two,  therefore,  every  cabbage- 
leaf  had  a  round  yellow  spot  upon  it,  consisting 
of  upward  of  a  hundred  minute  eggs.  No 
attempt  being  made  to  destroy  them,  they  soon 
hatched  into  ravenous  caterpillars,  the  very 
sound  of  "v^ose  feeding  might  be  heard.  The 
entire  caibbage  fields  rapidly  assumed  a  pale, 
livid  hue,  emitting  a  most,  offensive  smell 
from  the  millions  of  caterpillars.  When  the 
plants  had  become  one  mass  of  skeleton  leaves 
the  impassive  rustics  cleaced  away  the  stalks, 
and  silently  submitted  to  a  dearth  of  cabbage 
for  themselves  and  their  cattle. 

Convinced  that  the  plagtie  of  butterflies  was 
due  to  the  wanton  destruction  of  birds,  we  no 
longer  begrudged,  as  we  had  felt  inclined  to 
do  in  England,  the  tithe  taken  by  these  beau- 
tiful  and  useful  creatures,  who  with  quick 
vision  and  winged  velocity  are  made  the  in- 
defatigable enemies  of  slugs,  grubs,  cnterpiL 
lars,  mice,  and  all  the  myriad  insects  that 
attack  our  most  essential  products  in  their 
growth.  We  never  noticed,  however.  In  Ty- 
rol that  deliberate  extirpation  of  birds,  as  if 
they  were  our  worst  foes  instead  of  our  best 
friends  observable  in  Italy.  The  few  to  Ix? 
met  with  in  the  fir- woods  and  hedgerow^  were 
left  unmolested ;  and  my  husband  could  not 
help  thinking,  had  the  magpie  who  built  her 
nest  and  reared  her  brood  on  the  summit  of 
the  Mayr-am-Hof  poplar,  chosen  such  a  situa- 


SCENES  IN  MARY  HOWITT'S  LATER  LIFE. 


41 


tion  in  his  bo^'hood.  Le  should  speedily  have 
been  up  the  tree  like  a  cat  and  paid  her  the 
visit  of  a  plunderer.  Fortunately  the  sober 
Tyrolers,  whether  men  or  boys,  were  not  up 
such  pranks,  so  she  had  it  all  to  herself. 

The  venerable  poplar,  now  defaced  by  de- 
cay, raises  its  massive  trunk,  outside  the 
closed  entrance-gate,  but  mingles  its  wide- 
spreading  branches  with  those  of  two  noble 
limes  in  the  home  paddock.  This  group,  the 
only  outdoor  ornament  remaining  at  Mayr- 
am-Hof ,  casts,  by  its  leafy  shade,  cool  inviting 
shadows  on  the  mushroomy  sward,  and  is  a 
pleasant  alfresco  recess  when  the  suiTounding 
landscape  api^ars  quivering  with  heat.  A 
litUe  tawny  owl  sojourned  for  a  series  of 
summers  in  a  cavity  of  the  poplar;  it  slept  by 
day,  but  became  briskly  sociable  on  the  ap- 
.proach  of  night.  It  diligently  conversed  with 
my  husband  in  the  gloaming,  persistently  an- 
swering his  hoot  with  a  monotonous  cry  that 
had  an  alert  gravity  about  it  bordering  on  the 
ridiculous. 

When,  notwithstanding  annoying  incursions 
of  the  burrowing  mole-cricket,  the  practiced 
old  gardener  stood  still  in  perfect  amazement 
at  the  growth  of  his  redundant  New  Zealand 
spinach,  his  wide-spreading  **  Royal  Albert" 
rhubarb,  his  exuberant  tomatoes  and  towering 
spikes  of  Indian  corn,  there  came  the  hoopoe 
in  ruddy  buff,  black,  and  gray  attire,  with 
**crested  plume,  long  beak  and  sharpened  as  a 
spear,"  as  if  out  of  Ovid's  Metamorphoses, 
uttering  its  hollow  **hoop-hoop,"  and  seeking 
lis  insect  food  in  the  rotten  wood  of  the  old 
trees  or  the  spongy  soil  of  the  orchard. 

A  host  of  confiding  swallows  inhabited  the 
eaves  of  the  house,  warbling  in  the  early 
morning  on  the  iron- work  of  the  balconies, 
skimming  in  and  out  of  the  open  windows, 
and  as  the  season  advanced  bringing  their 
young  into  the  upper  corridor  to  essay  from 
the  top  of  the  old  cartoons  of  sacred  subjects, 
the  cornice  and  the  pediments,  the  art  of  flying. 

This  upper  hall  assumed  by  degrees  the 
character  of  a  plainly  furnished  ante-room, 
where  we  could  dine,  or  the  servants  sit  at 
ilieir  needlework.  Indeed,  that  portion  of  the 
house  which  we  rented  had  gained  gradually 
a  more  clothed  appearance,  from  our  bringing 


inexpensive  carpets  and  draperies  from  Rome, 
or  buying  thefn  in  Tyrol  and  engaging  a  car- 
penter  to  make  chaira,  tables,  and  cupboards 
after  our  design,  our  landlord,  the  Hofbaiier, 
giving  the  wood.  When  curtains  excluded 
the  glare  of  the  sun  from  the  three- windowed 
recess  in  the  saloon,  I  beguiled  many  hoars 
there,  in  the  attempt  faithfully  to  reproduce 
with  my  needle  on  crash  the  apple-blossom  of 
the  orchard,  the  crocus  of  the  meadow,  the 
crimson  carnation,  almost  the  national  emblem 
of  Tyrol,  or  other  flowers  of  the  locality. 

Our  quiet  industry  at  Dietenheim  was  at 
times  agreeably  diversified  by  the  visits  of 
valued  friends:  Josiah  Gilbert,  who,  with  his 
comrade  Churchill,  firsttthrcw  oixjn,  by  means 
of  their  valuable  work  on  Ihe  Dolomite  Moun- 
tains, that  sternly  grand  and  beautiful  district 
to  English  readers  and  travelers,  when  ram- 
bling about  his  favorite  old  haunts  would  ex- 
tend his  tour  to  our  little  post-town,  Bruneck, 
and  to  Mayr-am-Hof ;  >liss  Leigh  Smith,  the 
highly -gifted  youngest  sister  of  the  intrepid, 
generous  explorer  who  has  given  his  money, 
time,  and  strength  in  personally  extending 
our  knowledege  of  arctic  regions;  and  Mad- 
ame Bodichon,  tlie  masterly  landscape-painter 
and  munificent  philanthropist,  accompanied 
by  our  Sear,  mutual  friend,  Miss  Blythe,  has 
repeatedly  made  Mayt-am-Hof  a  halting-place 
on  her  way  to  Venice  or  Algiers.  Hither 
came  on  a  second  visit,  in  the  summer  of 
1878,  Miss  Freeman  Clarke,  bringing  with  her 
the  result  of  much  patient  wandering  about 
Italy  and  even  Tyrol,  in  her  collection  of  ex- 
quisite pen-and-ink  drawings  of  the  various 
scenes  of  Dante's  exile.  She  had  long  been  a 
resident  in  Rome  and  closely  associated  with 
our  life  there,  but  was  then  bound  for  a  new 
home  in  Georgia.  We  wished  her  Godspeed 
with  sorrowful  hearts,  for  we  knew  in  all 
probability  we  should  not  meet  on  earth  again. 
It  never  entered  our  minds  that  such  would 
be  the  case  with  another  welcome  guest,  who 
left  us  at  the  same  time.  This  was  the  large- 
hearted,  nobly-endowed  young  writer,  James 
Macdonell,  a  son-in-law  of  my  beloved  sister, 
Anna ;  his  lucid  .rapid  thoughts  expressed  in 
easy  polished  language  had  charmed  and  en- 
livened our  little  domestic  circle. 


43 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


Tlie  same  autumn,  attended  by  her  devoted 
friend,  Miss  Yorke,  came  on  a  passing  visit, 
Octavia  Hill,  simple,  cordial,  unaffected,  but 
little  changed  outwardly  since  her  girlhood ; 
no  one  was  ever  more  warmly  welcomed 
among  us.  Her  arduous  labors  and  duties 
had  undermined  her  liealth.  She  needed  to  be 
where  it  was  high  and  bracing,  in  silence, 
freedom,  and  s.jliiude,  and  they  si^eedily  left 
Bruneck  to  scale  during  the  winter  a  series  of 
mountain  passes.  We  next  saw  them  in  the 
spring  of  1879  at  Rome. 

I  have  always  desired  to  retain  each  precious 
thread  of  friendsliip,  never  letting  it  wholly 
slip  through  my  lingers,  although  it  may  be 
ycara  since  I  held  it  firat.  This  made  me  most 
highly  estimate  our  residence  in  Rome,  whither 
all  roads  seemed  truly  to  tand,  bringing  us  in 
tonUict  with  an  infinite  variety  of  old  friends 
and  acquaintances.  Each  season  we  felt  more 
at  home  in  the  great  center  of  learning,  art, 
and  religion,  notwithstanding  the  ruthless 
spoliation  carried  on  under  the  guise  of  ueed^ 
ful  advance;  and  in  the  annually  changing  so- 
ciety of  winte  visitors  always  found  ourselves 
meeting  earlier  associates. 

My  husband's  life-long  advocacy  of  peace 
principles  brought  us  in  contact,  in  November, 
1873.  with  Mr.  Dudley  Field,  Mr.  Richard, 
M.  P.  for  Merthyr  Tydfil,  and  other  gentle 
men  selected  to  promote  international  arbitra 
tion  instead  of  war.  Mr.  Richard  had,  I  be- 
lieve, earlier  carried  the  resolution  in  Parlia 
ment  by  an  accident,  for  had  there  been  an 
ordinary  house  it  would  have  been  negatived 
by  a  large  majority.  His  having  so  done, 
however,  and  thereupon  receiving  an  address 
in  support  of  his  views  signed  by  a  million 
working  men  of  Great  Britain,  made  a  pro- 
foimd  impression  on  the  Continent.  In  Rome, 
Mancini,  Professor  of  International  Law,  car- 
ried the  motion  unanimously  in  the  Chamber 
of  Deputies.  Mr.  Richard  and  his  colleagues 
were  conlially  welcomed  by  the  citizens,  and 
an  enterprising  milliner,  turning  the  sentiment 
of  the  moment  to  the  advantage  of  her  trade, 
introduced  the  Chnpeau  Rirhardy  or  **  Arbi- 
tration Bonnet."  It  was  of  soft  gray  silk, 
fastened  on  one  side  by  a  dove  of  oxidized 
silver,  with  an  olive-branch  in  its  beak. 


Here  I  would  record  that  the  concourse  of 
English  visitors  to  Rome  in  the  season  1878-79 
included  our  former  literary  co-worker  and 
much -esteemed  friend,  the  deservedly  popular 
author  Dr.  Samuel  Smiles,  and  his  wife,  ever 
Ids  true  helpmate.  We  also  found  among  the 
established  residents  the  Countess  Qigliucci. 
with  whom  when  Clara  Novello,  we  had  en- 
joyed traveling  many  years  earlier. 

Among  the  Americans  whom  we  met  in 
Rome  were,  in  the  season  1870-71,  the  two 
gifted  daughters  of  the  teacher  and  philoso- 
pher Amos  Bronson  Alcott.  Louisa,  whose 
Old-Fuiifiiomd  Girl  and  Little  Women  had 
already  made  her  a  celebrity,  found  time  amid 
sight-seeing  and  society  to  write  her  Little 
Men,  May  meanwhile  devoting  her  leisure  to 
landscape  painting.  Moncure  Conway,  when 
preparing  for  delivery  at  the  Royal  Institution 
his  lectures  on  The  Natural  HUtoi^ofthe  Deril, 
paid  a  flying  visit  in  the  spring  of  1872.  He 
supposed  that  Rome  must  offer  him  rich  con- 
tributions for  his  demouology,  but,  if  I  remem- 
ber rightly,  in  this  he  was  disappointed.  Emer- 
son and  his  daughter  were  in  Rome  the  fol- 
lowing December,  bound  for  Egypt.  On 
Sunday  morning,  March  2d,  1873,  they  having 
just  returned,  I  found  him  at  the  English 
Church  outside  the  Porta  del  Popolo,  drawn 
thither,  like  myself,  to  hear  Trench,  Arch- 
bishop of  Duljlin,  preach.  The  same  year 
brought  the  Bayard  Taylors;  he  changed 
since  last  we  met  from  a  handsome  young 
bachelor  of  slender  person  and  means  into  a 
powerfully-built  middle-aged  man,  evidently 
enjoying  the  good  things  of  this  life  and  that 
best  earthly  reward,  a  sensible  agreeable  wife- 
she  was  of  Gkirman  origin.  In  February,  1874, 
Mrs.  Adeline  D.  Whitney,  in  person,  manner 
and  conversation  just  what  the  author  of  The 
Gayworthys  and  other  good,  womanly  books 
ought  to  be,  stayed  with  her  husband  and 
daughter  at  the  IlOtel  de  la  Paix.  And  al- 
though we  have  never  been  granted  the  priv- 
ilege of  seeing  the  home -abiding  poet  Whittier 
face  to  face,  the  bond  of  sympathy  and  mutual 
regni-d  was  drawn  closer  in  Rome  by  kindly 
messengers  bringing  verbal  and  written  greet- 
ings. 

I  must  add  an  interview  which  I  had  at  the 


SCENES  IN  MARY  HOWITT'S  LATER  LIFE. 


48 


afternoon  reception  of  an  American  lady  in 
January,  1874.  It  was  with  a  gentleman 
wliom  I  hai  observed  seated  before  a  pretty, 
black  Japanese  screen  near  the  tire.  I  was 
wondering  who  in  the  world  he  could  be,  for 
his  face,  scored  with  lines  and  markings,  had 
a  great  play  of  expression,  and  he  exhibited  a 
oonsidcriible  expansion  of  white  shirt  front,  a 
crimson  silk  kercliief  tied  round  his  neck  and 
the  glitter  of  a  heavy  gold  chain  and  of  jew- 
elry, when  unexpectedly  he  was  Introduced 
to  me  as  • '  Mr.  Miller. ' '  *  'Joaquin  Miller, ' '  J 
instantly  replied,  understanding  at  once  the 
character  of  the  man. 

Although  I  had  risen  to  leave,  wet  saMown 
together.  He  said:  *'The  first  people  I  wanted 
to  see  in  Rome  were  Howitts ;  yes,  I  wanted 
to  see  them.  I  was  taken,  when  in  London, 
to  look  at  the  house  they  had  once  inhabited 
at  Highgatc — a  pleasant  house,  standing  apart 
from  the  road.*'  Then  he  went  on  to  tell  me 
of  a  solitary  American  lady  married  to  a 
Freuch:naa  in  Rome,  who  liad  begged  him  to 
make  her  acquainted  with  "Howitts.''  He 
had  her  address  foldeil  up  in  his  little  purse, 
and  seemed  very  anxious  to  do  her  this  ser- 
vice. We  spoke  of  his  dear  friends  the  Ros- 
settis.  "Daute,"  he  remarked,  "was  a  fine 
fellow,  a  true  Saxon. "  He  was  much  interested 
by  Rome,  altthough  he  confessed  ignorance 
of  itfi  history.  The  snovry  Apennines  as  he 
saw  them  from  various  points  charmed  him 
beyond  everything  else. 

Of  course  I  asked  where  he  was  located. 
"He  had  gone  first  to  a  hotel/'  he  replied, 
"but  it  was  so  dear  that  he,  a  poor  man,  could 
not  stand  it,  and  he  moved  off.  He  would 
not  reveal  his  whereaouts,  affirming  he  told 
no  one.  "He  lived  amoug  the  plebeians,  had 
a  room  with  a  brick  floor,  and  a  brazier  to 
warm  him.  He  cared  nothing  for  fine  furni- 
ture, but  he  loved  the  people."  "The  Ital- 
ians," I  rejoined,  "were  a  good,  kind-hearted 
race.'*  He  expressed  pleasure  in  hearing  mo 
say  so,  as  some  of  his  friends  prophesied  he 
would  be  stabbed  and  robl)ed  of  his  rinp^s  and 
gold  chaiDS.  I  suggested  it  might  be  hardly 
wise  to  e.\hibit  such  tempting  objects  to  the 
very  poor.  To  this  he  replied :  "He  had  li  ved 
aiaoag  the   poor  and  the   sj-called  wicked 


without  ever  being  robbed  of  a  cent;  the  only 
den  of  tliieves  he  knew  was  hotels;"  he  l^id 
never  locked  or  bolted  a  door  in  self-defence 
and  should  not  do  it  in  Rome."  Then  he 
expatiated  on  his  life  as  a  boy,  his  sorrows 
and  wild  adventures:  "  Poor  fatlter  who  was 
so  unfortunate,  and  mother  who  was  so  good;" 
his  being  stolen  by  Indians,  but  never  being  a 
chief  among  them  as  commonly  reported ; 
his  journeys  in  Nebraska  and  down  the  Wa- 
bash, with  much  more,  giving  me  glimpses  of 
a  romantic  existence  in  keeping  with  his  queer, 
flexible  countenance  and  crimson  neckerchief. 
Joaquin  (his'flrst  name  was  really  Cincinna- 
tus)  Miller,  I  never  saw  again. 

In  these  limits,  I  can  say  but  one. word  of 
the  very  interesting  Scandinavian  society  in 
Rome.  It  included  some  distinguished  mem- 
bers—  young  Runeberg,  chief  sculptor  of 
Finland  and  the  son  of  her  chief  poet;  Aline 
Bremer,  the  benevolent,  self-denying  cousin 
of  Fredrika  Bremer;  Jonas  Lie  and  Bjdrnson, 
the  Norwegian  autliors ;  Madame  Jerichau, 
Polish  by  birth,  the  clever  painter  of  portraits 
and  genre,  and  wife  of  the  Danish  sculptor; 
Finns,  Swedes,  Norwegians  and  Danes  econo- 
mizing together,  each  spoke  at  their  common 
clubroom  in  his  or  her  native  tongue.  They 
were  rapturous  for  Italy  and  reluctant  to 
leave,  and  at  the  same  time  they  yearned  for 
their  Northern  moors,  their  beech  and  pine 
woods,  their  mountains  and  fjords.  Once  at 
home  the  majority  grew  restless  to  return, 
and  an  old  poet  dying  in  Rome  in  the  winter 
of  1871-72,  rejoiced  that  he  drew  his  last 
breath  in  the  heavenly  clime.  How  often, 
indeed,  after  taking  sorrowful  farewells  of 
English,  A^merican  and  Scandinavian  ac- 
quaintance, did  we  find  them  back  again  the 
next  winter,  unable  to  control  that  subtle 
affection,  which  may  be  called  the  true  Roman 
fever!  • 

In  our  valued  friend,  the  mother  of  Mr. 
Osborne  Morgan,  we  l)ad  an  agreeable  link 
with  Scandinavia  and  North  Wales,  as  she 
htul  spent  many  years  of  her  youth  in  Swijden, 
and  took  a  keen  interest  in  all  pertaining 
thereto.  Mrs.  Morgan  and  her  two  daughters 
constantly  wintered  in  Rome;  and  the  Saaud- 
baches  came  one  season.   Mr.  Penry  Williams^ 


44 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


whose  fifty  years  of  residence  in  Rome  was 
festively  celebrated,  much  to  the  hero's  sur- 
prise, by  some  appreciative  friends  in  Decem- 
ber, 1876,  dwelt  at  42  Piazza  Mignanelli, 
surrounded  by  his  admirable  sketches  and 
glowing  oiKpaintings  of  Italy  and  her  conta- 
dini,  which  he  showed  in  his  accustomed 
quiet,  unobtrusive  way.  Miss  Rhoda  Brough- 
ton  may  also  be  classed  in  the  Welsh  list  from 
her  residence  in  the  Principality  with  her 
married  sister,  who  accompanied  her  to  Rome 
in  the  early  part  of  1874. 

As  to  Charles  Hemans.  a  son  of  the  poetess, 
so  enamored  of  St.  Asaph  and  its  neighbor- 
hood, nervous  and  retiring,  absorbed  in  his 
books  and  archoeology,  he  had  greatly  changed 
from  the  lively  little  boy  I  could  recall,  rush 
ing  exultantly  to  his  mother  to  bring  her  "the 
red  rose  of  glory,"  as  he  called  a  dark  crim- 
son Bengal  rose. 

In  Rome  our  connection  with  the  antipodes 
was  brought  prominently  before  us.  Austra- 
lians just  arrived  from  Naples  or  Brindisi  on 
their  way  to  England  dropped  in  to  see  us; 
while  an  accidental  visit  to  the  studio  of  a 
sculptor,  named  Summers,  made  us  acquainted 
with  the  artist  of  the  monument  erected  by 
the  Victorian  Government  to  Burke  and  Wills, 
and  which  commemorates  in  statuary  the 
part  performed  by  our  son. 

My  husband,  with  his  unworldly  nature, 
led  the  same  unsophisticated  life  in  Rome,  as 
when  cultivating  his  yegetables  in  the  quiet 
surroundings  of  Dietenheim.  In  the  morn- 
ings, when  children  of  all  nationalities,  under 
the  survdllance  of  attendants,  played  in  the 
broad  sunlit  paths  of  the  Piucian;  and  in  the 
afternoons,  when  a  gay,  fashionable  throng 
drove,  strolled  and  listened  by  hundreds  to 
the  music,  he  walked  alone  unless  joined  by 
some  sociable  acquaintance.  He  admired  the 
fan-palTns  standing  out  clear  in  the  sunshine, 
while  snow  was  still  visible  on  the  Alban  and 
Sabine  ranges;  noted  the  beds  of  roses,  bay, 
and  lauristinus  full  of  life  and  vigor;  listened 
to  thd  pleasant,  familiar  warbling  of  the  little 
tit-mice,  observed  the  arrival  of  the  chiff- 
chafE  a  month  earlier  than  in  England.  He 
spied  out  in  the  thick*  bushy  boughs  of  the 
pints,  cedars,  and  evergreens,  many   gold- 


finches, some  warblers,  and  a  grand  old  black- 
bird that  sang  in  good  English  ;  and  canaries, 
some  intensely  yellow,  others  of  a  greenish 
hue  from  mixing,  he  supposed,  with  linnets. 
To  its  death,  he  was  familiar  with  the  stealthy 
Pincian  cat.  The  last  seven  years  of  my  hus- 
band's life,  we  occupied  small  but  pleasant 
quarters  in  the  Via  Sistina,  close  to  his  favorite 
Pincio.  The  back  windows  looked  across  a 
little  garden  of  luxuriant  southern  vegetation, 
to  the  frescoed  walls  of  the  house  in  the  Via 
Qregoriana,  .once  belonging  to  our  old  friend, 
the  American  actress.  Miss  Charlotte  Cush- 
man.  Above  the  quaint  tiled  roof  and  pic- 
tures^e  loggia,  we  surveyed  the  slopes  of  the 
Janiculum,  and  rejoiced  in  those  brilliant 
sunsets  which  Claude  Lorraine  had  loved  to 
paint  from  his .  near-lying  studio  windows. 
Until,  alas!  Miss  Cushman  having  long  since 
returned  to  America,  and  her  Roman  house 
passed  into  other  hands,  it  was  transmogrified 
by  the  addition  of  two  hideous  stories  and  a 
^^t  roof,  and  supplied  with  clothes'  lines  and 
poles,  which  blocked  out  our  long  stretch  of 
summit,  dotted  with  stone  pines,  and  prom- 
inently terminated  to  the  right  by  the  mighty 
dome  of  St.  Peter's. 

But  this  was  a  small  trial.  In  the  spring  of 
1877  we  had  the  uus^Deakable  joy  of  welcoming 
to  Rome  our  faithful  friend,  Margaret  Gillies. 
How  I  delighted  in  her  sojourn,  and  when  she 
rented  the  studio  of  Romako,  an  Austrian 
painter — in  the  little  walk  thither,  the  knock- 
ing at  the  door,  which  at  first  was  cautiously 
opened,  just  sufllcient  for  a  Idnd,  sunny  face 
to  smile  on  me  a  welcome!  I  rememter  with 
peculiar  tenderness  each  picture  she  painted 
there,  or  at  Albano.  She,  Margaret  Foley, 
and  we  occupied  some  half -desolate  but  com- 
modious rooms  in  the  Casa  Bruti  at  that  little 
town.  It  was  gladsome  May  weather,  the 
bright  air  fresh  with  the  breath  of  the  moun- 
tains, and  the  nightingales  singing  in  the  blos- 
soming apple-trees  and  bosky  groves  of  the 
adjacent  Franciscan  monastery.  It -was  a 
time  of  exquisite  enjoyment  mingled  with 
pain.  Our  beloved  and  gifted  friend  Mar- 
garet Foley  was  already  treading  the  Valley 
of  the  Shadow  of  Death,  in  sickness,  weari- 
ness, and  agony,  which  were  merely  to  cod 


SCENES  IN  MARY  HOWITT'S  LATER  LIFE. 


45 


the  following?  December  at  Meran ;  whither 
from  Dietenheim  we  had  accompanied 
her. 

Some  most  beloved  friends  had  been  given 
as  a  great  blessing  lo  the  poor  sufferer  and 
ourselves.  They  cast  a  golden  effulgence 
oter  my  husband  *s  closing  hours.  He  delighted 
to  wander  with  them  in  familiar  converse 
alx>ut  llie  extensive  grounds  of  their  beautiful 
home.  It  possessed  the  grandest  view  of  Rome 
that  I  can  recall,  embracing  much  of  the 
imperial  city,  St.  Peter's  cupola,  the  vast 
Campagna  with  its  engirdling  mountains,  a 
landscape  scattered  over  far  and  wide  with 
ancient  aqueducts,  dull  red  and  ivied  walls, 
niins,  temples,  churches,  monasteries,  present- 
ing an  epitome  as  it  were  of  classic  and  Chris- 
tian Rome.  Old  box-hedges,  or  rather  walls, 
neatly  clipped,  bound  the  garden  alleys  and 
approaches  to  the  mansion,  and  sent  forth  in 
the  sun  their  peculiar  odor.  Ancient  statu  3s 
of  old  Romans,  broken  friezes,  torsos,  and 
sarcophagi,  all  genuinely  pagan  and  character- 
istic spoils  of  the  soil,  flanked  the  sunny  ter 
races  and  the  dark  avenue  of  wide-spreading 
ilexes,  while  an  old  stone  seat,  embowered  in 
luxuriant  foliage,  and  facing  Munte  Cavo, 
marked  the  spot  where,  according  to  the  in- 
scription, the  Apostle  of  Rome,  kind  St. 
Philip  Ncri,  "conversed  with  his  disciples  on 
the  things  of  God." 

Scenes  of  beauty  and  of  plenty,  nay,  more, 
-of  awe-inspiring  devotion.  On  this  self-same 
Coelian  Hill,  the  very  pearl  of  Rome  to  Eng- 
lish Christians,  St.  Gregory,  from  his  home 
and  monastery  sent  to  our  heathen  forefa- 
thers, tl^ugh  his  most  willing  missionaries, 
headed  by  St.  Augustine,  faith,  baptism,  and 
Holy  Writ.  Here,  in  other  hallowed  pre- 
cincts, hearts  have'  bled  and  prayed,  Hands 
have  w*orked  for  Britain.  It  is  a  locality 
once  possessing  the  house  of  the  Christian 
lady,  Cyriaca,  in  wjiose  portico  the  deacon 
Lawrence  distributed  alms;  and  still  possess- 
ing the  rude  retreat  of  the  great  abolitionist  of 
slavery,  St.  John  de  Matha.  A  locality,  in 
fact,  where  from  the  time  the  sacred  grove  of 
the  Came  nee  skirted  the  hill,  saints  have  left 
their  Impress.  As  I  think  of  this,  my  soul 
echoes  the  melodious  verses  of   my  friend 


Madame  Belloc.  when  Bessie  Rayner  Parkes, 
commemorative  of  the  Cwlian  Hill. 

The  last  visit  my  husband  ever  paid  was  to 
his  favorite  associates  on  tlie  Coelian  in  Janu- 
ary, 1879.  He  appeared  quite  w^ell  up  to  the 
middle  of  the  month,  when  he  caught  a  cold 
that  brought  on  bronchitis.  He  hud  however, 
unconsciously,  to  himself  and  others,  been 
suffering  for  some  months  from  a  valvular 
disease  of  the  heart,  which  the  bronchial  at- 
tack revealed.  Hemorrhage  came  on  as  the 
bronchial  symptoms  lessened.  His  critical 
condition  brought  our  children  Annie  and  her 
husband  to  his  side  in  the  middle  of  Ji'ebruary. 
He  welcomed  them  in  the  dining-room,  seated 
in  his  favorite  arm-chair,  propped  up  with 
pillow  8.  He  was  attired  in  his  crimson  lined, 
dark  blue  dressing-gown,  and  small  black 
silk  skull  cap,  looking  in  person  but  little 
changed  his  face  only  a  shade  thinner  and 
paler. 

During  the  fortnight  he  was  still  spared  our 
hearts  and  souls  were  blended  in  a  crucible  of 
love  and  suffering;  yet  what  consolation,  what 
golden  memories  were  granted  us!  He  was 
meekness,  patience,  atid  affection  personified; 
we  wonderfully  calm  and  sustained.  Our 
friends,  especially  those  most  beloved  on  the 
Coelian  Hill,  ministered  in  a  thousand  tender 
ways.  A  very  cloud  of  prayers,  like  ever- 
ascending  incense,  went  up  night  and  day 
from  many  Roman  hearths  and  altars,  bringing 
down  benedictions  too  sacred  for  words.  In 
submission  to  his  Redeemer  and  in  love  to  all 
mankind,  he  passed  away,  at  half-past  three, 
on  Monday  afternoon,  March  8d,  1879. 

Most  singularly,  on  the  self-same  day  and 
hour  likewise  passed  away,  in  the  old  parental 
home  in  Derbyshire,  his  last  surviving  brother, 
Francis  Howitt.  My  beloved  husband  was 
wont  to  say:  ".There  was  no  cause  to  lament 
such  exits.  The  ripe  fruit  must  drop,  and 
now  then  a  night's  frost  severs  the  young 
fruit  too  from  the  tree."  Most  true!  for  on 
the  preceding  day,  our  much  prized  young 
kinsman,  James  Macdonell,  was  snatched 
away  by  death,  at  the  commencement  of  a 
most  promising  literary  career. 

Death  renders  love  stronger  and  grander; 
but  only  when  we  eater  behind  the  veil  shall 


46 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


we  see  how  jsclorious  she  has  become  through 
trial  and  pain.  Deatii  shows  us  even  here, 
the  goodness,  the  spontaneous  kindness  of  our 
neighbor.  When  my  husband  was  no  more, 
Mr,  Augustus  Hare,  now  so  indelibly  associ- 
ated in  literatuie  with  Rome — attended,  with 
other  sympathizers  and  friends,  his  mortal 
remains  to  their  last  resting-place.  It  is  near 
the  grave  of  Gibson,  in  one  of  the  sunniest 
spots  of  the  cypress-shaded  Campo  Santo;  the 
strangers*  burial-gound,  guarded  within  the 
circle  of  mighty  Rome,  bf  the  ancient  tower- 
crested  wall  of  Aurelian  and  the  blackened 
wliit£  marble  pyramid  of  Cestius. 

The  old  Romans,  amid  the  funeral  games 
of  gladiators,  solemnly  bore  with  inverted 
torches,  the  ashes  of  their  beloved  to  sepulture 
on  the  Appian  Way^  It  seems  to  me  I  have 
in  these  pages  led  the  reader  stage  by  stage  to 
the  tombs  of  my  departed.  It  must  be  so  in 
the  reminiscences  of  a  very  old  woman,  who 
has  survived  the  majority  of  her  kindred  and 
contemporaries.  Yet  is  not  the  life  of  each 
on%of  us  a  Via  Appia  from  tlie  cradle  to  the 
grave?  Well  for  us  when  we  have  not  to  ask, 
as  Peter  hud  of  Him  he  met  on  that  sacred 
way:  Domine  quo  vddii^ 

At  the  tomb  of  my  husband,  I  would  stay 
and  hold  my  peace;  and  yet  one  more  sacred 
grave  malies  me  utter  a  concluding  word.  In 
the  summer  of  1884,  my  beloved  daughter 
Annie,  unknowing  it,  came  to  Dietenheim  to 
die.  With  no  revelation  of  the  approaching 
parting  she  and  I  were  wont  to  sit,  at  her 
iavorite  hour  of  sunset,  on  the  upper  baloony 
of  >Iayj-am  Hof ;  where  she  read  to  me  The 
Idylls  of  the  King  or  The  Holy  Grail,  and  The 
Passing  of  Arthur, .9x16.  ^nished  her  water- 
color  sketch  of  the  quiet  village  street.  It 
was  a  fair  and  familiar  seene,  through  which, 
a  few  evenings  later,  the  mourning  inhabi- 
tants carried  her  to  her  final  resting-plaoe. 
They  bore  her  under  the  quaint  old  archway 
of  tlie  village  church  to  her  grave  in  God's 
Acre,  when,  in  the  hush  of  nature,  the  even- 
ing glow  illumined  the  mountain  tops,  and 
twilight  gently  spread  over  the  valley  and 
lower  slopes. 

On  the  summit  of  the  common  above  the 
churchyard  and  ]yiayrram-Hof«  .near  the  odd 


crucifix  where  we  have  all  so  often  sat  to  en-' 
joy  the  sunset,  a  granite  seat  for  wayfarers 
had  been  erected.  It  was  often  visited  b}"^  her 
in  the  beautiful  closing  hour  of  her  pure  and 
devoted  life.  It  was  a  memento  to  her  be- 
loved father,  from  a  generous  friend,  also 
gone  to  his  rest  and  reward;  tlie  indefatigable 
projector  of  most  valuable  chemical  discover- 
ies, Walter  Weldon,  F.R.S. — Mabt  Howitt. 


RAMSES  THE  GREAT. 

Ramses  II. — the  Sesostris  of  the  Greeks — 
was  the  third  king  of  the  nineteenth  dynasty. 
He  bears  the  name  of  A-naktu,  the  Conqueror; 
and  in  the  rolls  of  the  papyri  he  is  also  called 
Ses,  Sestura,  "Sethosis  —  who  is  called 
Ramses*'  —  and  Setesu.  He  was  a  great 
builder,  and  a  warrior  as  well.  The  land  is 
filled  with  his  buildings  and  with  gigantic 
statues  of  himself  and  his  family ;  and  the 
walls  of  the  temples  are  covered  all  over  with 
vivid  pictures  of  his  bat  les  and  victories.  Not 
only  in  Egypt  are  these  lo  be  found,  but  also 
engraven  upon  the  rock  tablets  at  Berytus,  in 
Syria,  are  records  of  his  victories  in  Asia.  He 
dees  not,  however,  api^ear  to  have  allowed  his 
architectural  plans  and  his  warlike  expeditions 
wholly  to  engross  his  attention,  for  we  find 
him  dividing  the  land  mio  names  or  provinces, 
and  setting  governors  over  them.  He  seems* 
to  have  employed  the  prisoners  of  war  in 
making^canals  for  the  use  of  those  who  lived 
at  a  distance  from  the  river.  He  also  rear- 
ranged the  scale  of  rents  for  land,  ^d  made 
the  canal  from  the  Nile  to  the  Red  Sea.  In 
the  fifth  year  of  his  reign  we  find  him  'at 
Kadesh  on-Orontes,  a  fortified  Syrian  town : 
war  had  broken  out  with  the  Khita,  or  Hittites, 
a  Semitic  tribe,  who  had  one  of  their  strong* 
holds  there.  After  a  desperate  struggle, 
Ramses  appears  to  have  been  victorious,  and 
ratified  his  treaty  with  the  conquered  people 
by  marrying  their  king's  daughter.  We  find 
him  afterward  waging  war  in  Palestine ;  .imd 
it  is  certain  that  he  conquered  Askelon.  He 
transferred  his  court  tp  S^  or  Zoan,  oa  -the 
Tanitic  arm  of  the  .Nil^^  and  Irom  tiienoe- 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 


47 


forth  Pi-Ramses  became  the  seat  of  govern- 
ment. By  many,  Ramses  II.  is  thought  to  be 
the  Pharaoh  of  the  oppression,  for  whom  the 
children  of  Israel  built  the  treasure-cities  of 
Pithom  and  Ramses.  Certain  it  is  that  dur- 
ing this  i-eign  the  literature  and  langflUge  of 
Egypt  became  impregnated  with  words  bor- 
rowed from  Semitic  sources. 

The  chief  buildings  of  Ramses  II.  are  the 
Ramesseum  or  Memnonium  ;  a  Temple  of 
Victory  at  Old  Qurnah,  dedicated  to  the  god 
Am  on  ;  the  rock-temple  of  Ipsamboul,  dedi- 
cated to  the  chief  gods  of  Egypt ;,  the  <^om- 
pletion  of  the  Temple  of  Amon  at  Luxor, 
which  was  left  unfinished  by  Amenhotep  III. ; 
and  the  great  liall  in  the  Temple  of  Karnak. 
He  erected  two.  giant  statues  of  himself  and 
twobcafltiful  olx^Iisks,  one  of  which  is  in  Paris. 

The  king  enjoyed  a  refgn  of  sixty-seven 
years ;  part  of  which  time  he  was  associated 
with  his  father,  lie  iiust  hava  been  nearly 
one  hundred  yearc  old  when  he  died ;  and 
from  the  temple  walls  at  Abydos  we  letfn  that 
he  had  sixty  sons  and  fifty-nine  daughters. 

Now  for  his  ])crsona1  appearance,  in  so  far 
as  we  can  judge  of  it  after  its  long  repose  in 
spices  and  linen  bandages.  For  the  sake  of 
those  whose  faith  may  not  be  vjery  strong,  let 
us  add  that  the  mummy  was  opened  by  Mas 
pero  and  Brugsch — two  of  our  greatest  Egypt- 
ologists— in  presence  of  a  largpe  number  of 
people,  English  as  well  as  Egyptian,  who  ^seri- 
fied  the  otficial  statement  nftide  by  the  high 
priest  Finotem  on  the  eoifin  lid,  and  on  the 
outer  winding-sheet  of  the  mummy,  IhM  this 
was  in  truth  the  body  of  Ramses  II.  The  head 
is  long,  and  small  in  proportion  to  the  size  of 
the  bcxly  ;  the  top  of  it  is  bald,  but  otherwise 
the  hair  is  thick.  At  the  time  of  <ieath  it  was 
probably  wliite ;  but  the  spices  used  in  the 
embalmment  have  turned  it  a  yellowish  color. 
The  eyebrows,  too,  are  white  and  thick ;  the 
eyes  small  and  close  together :  the  temples  are 
sunkefi  ;  and  the  nose,  long,  thin,  and  hooked, 
is  also  depressed  at  the  tip.  The  tightness  of 
the  bandaging  probably  aocounte  for  this.  The 
chin  is  prominent,  and  the  jawbone  massive, 
giving  a  look  of  determination  to  the  face, 
which  is  covered  with  a  t^iin  beard  and  mous- 
tache.    The  skin  is  of  a  brown  iiue,  witii 


black  marks  on  it,  possibly  owing  to  the  bitu- 
minous matter  used  in  embalming.  The  hands 
which  arc  crossed  over  the  breast,  are  small, 
and  dyed  with  henna ;  the  legs  and  thighs 
fleshless ;  the  feet  long,  slender,  and  although 
somewhat  flat-soled,  are  well-shaped.  They 
also  are  stained  with  henna.  The  body  is  in  a 
good  state  of  preservation  ;  and  the  corpse, 
which  is  that  of  a  very  old  man,  is  also  that 
of  a  strongly  built  and  vigorous  old  man. 
The  examination  over,  Professor  Maspero  re- 
turned the  mummy  to  its  glass  case,  where, 
with  face  uncovered,  it  may  be  seen,  with  the 
mummies  of  Pinotem  and  the  priest  N^hsouni. 
— C/iaf niters' s  Jtnimal. 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 

AmriFiGtAl  BcTBXEs.— Mr.  G90.  F.  Kunz  fiimidi«B  to 
Seienei  a  paper  presented  bj  him  at  a  meeting  of  the 
New  York  Acaderajr  ot  Science,  held  October  4th,  1888. 
We  present  some  of  the  main  points  in  this  paper. 

**  Early  this  sammer  th«  Syndicate  des  DiamanU  at 
Pierret  Precieuses  were  informed  tt]|U;  certain  stones 
which  had  been  sold  as  tubies  from  a  new  locality 
were  saspeoted  to  be  of  artificial  origin.  They  were 
put  apon  the  market  by  a  Geneva  house ;  and  it  was 
sntmised  that  they  were  obtained  by  the  fusion  of 
large  numbers  oX  sidall  rubies,  worth  at'  the  most  a 
few  dollars  a  carat,  into  one  fine  gem  worth  from 
j|l,(We  to  {8,609  a  carat. '' 

Specimens  of  these  utlflclal  stones  were  snbmittei 
to  the  examinaiklon  of  Mr.  Kunz,  who  goes  on  to  say: — 

"  The  hardness  of  these  stones  I  found  to  be  about 
the  same  as  that  of  .the  true  ruby,  ^.8  or  a  trifle  less 
than  fi,  the«only  difference  being  that  the  artificial 

atones  were  a  Mde  more  brittle The  specific 

gravis  of  these  stones  I  found  to  be  8.08  and  -3.^ 
The  trae  rnby  ranging  from  8.98  to  4.01,  it  will  be  sees 
that  the  difference  is  very  slight,  and  due  doubtless  to 
the  presence  of  the  incinded  babbles  in*  the  artificial 
stones,  which  would  elightly  decrease  the  density. . . . 
The  color  of  all  the  stones  examined  was  good;  but 
not  one  was  so  brilliant  as  a  very  fine  ruby.  They  did 
not  differ  much  in  color,  however,  and  were  evidently 
made  by  one  exact  process  or  at  one  time.*'' 

Mr.  Kunz  proceeds  to  state  what  he  believes  to  be 
the  process  employed  in  the  fabrication  of  these  artifi- 
cial rabies;  i.  «.,  **by  fusing  an  aluminate  of  lead  in 
connection  with  silica  in  a  siliceous  crucible,  the 
silica  uniting  with  the  lead  to  form  a  lead  glass,  and 
liberating  the  alumina,  -which  crystalizes  out  in  the 
form  of  corundum  in  hexagonal  plates.^' 

The  matter  was -referred  by  the  syndicate  to  Mr. 
Friedel,  who  made  a  report,  the  consequence  of  which 
was  ^  that  *^tiie  syndicate  decided  that  all  oorbochon 


48 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


or  cot  stones-  of  this  kind  shall  be  sold  as  arti/teial^ 
and  not  precious  gems.  Unless  consignments  are  so 
markedf  the  sales  will  be  considered  fraudalent, 
and  the  misdemeanor  punishable  under  the   penal 

**The  action  taken  by  the  syndicate,"  says  Mr. 
Kunz,  in  conclusion,  "has  fully  settled  the  position 
which  this  production  will  take  among  gem-dealers, 
and  there  ii*  little  reason  to  fear  tjiat  the  true  ruby 
will  ever  lo«te  the  place  it  has  occupied  for  so  many 
centuries.  These  stones  show  the  triumphs  of  modern 
Bciencc  in  chemistry,  it  is  true;  and  all'iongh  some 
may  be  willing  to  have  the  easily  attainable,  there  are 
others  who  will  almost  want— what  the  true  ruby  is 
becoming  to-day— the  unattainable.  One  will  be  na- 
tureV  gem,  and  the  other  the  gem  made  by  man." 

'•  SowiNo  Wild  Oats."— Dr.  Howard  Crosby  says, 
in  the  Church  Union:— 

''A  phra(*c  has  been  long  in  common  use  which  has 
wrought  great  evil.  It  is  that  of  'sowing  wild  oats.'' 
It  implies  ihat  youth  must  have  a  time  of  wickedness, 
the  defying  of  authority  and  the  abuse  of  opportunity, 
after  which  all  will  come  right  Never  was  there  a 
more  diabolic  lie.  That  which  yon  sow  you  shall  reap; 
if  you  BOW  wild  oats  yon  shall  reap  wild  oats.  Not 
one  instance  can  be  found  in  all  humanify  where  the 
evils  indulged  in  in  youth  did  not  mar  and  scar  the 
soul  through  life.  . .  .  There's  a  penetrability  and  per- 
manency in  the  virus  of  indulgance  that  defies  every 
remedy  for  rcm'oval  while  we  are  in  the  flesh. .  . .  The 
indulgence  in  sin  is  directly  contrary  to  the  aspiration 
for  manliness  which  is  so  conspicuous  in  youth,  and 
which  we  desire  to  make  enduring;  and  hence,  in 
order  to  meet  this  difficulty,  we  arc  apt  in  onr  youth 
to  modify  our  notion  of  manliness,  to  eliminate  from 
its  definition  many  of  its  most* important  elements, 
and  so  to  reduce  it  that  it  will  allow  the  otherwise 
prohn)ited  indulgences.  We  hold  on,  for  example,  to 
the  doctrine  that  manliness  forbids  lying— it  wonld  be 
a  disgrace  to  us  to  bo  foond  stating  what  wap  not  so— 
but  we  permit  the  lo  k  or  thj  silence  that  is  the  same 
as  a  lie.  We  hold  on  to  Vie  doctrino  that  it  is  unmanly 
to  harm  the  honr  r  of  w^man,  bnt  wo  pernit  the  low 
Jest  and  the  vile  st  >ry '.  j  be  circulated  in  onr  company. 
We  hold  on  to  1  ..'  doctrine  tb  .t  any  man's  person  is 
sacred,  but  we  count  it  manly  to  sti^tcc  the  blow  of 
revenge  or  to  varnish  over  the  vcngc:;nce  by  a  chal- 
lenge to  mortal  combat,  and  so  we  narrow  more  and 
more  our  definition  of  manliness,  until  at  length  we 
get  It  so  narrow,  that  it  will  not  be  in  our  way  when  a 
temptation  to  sin  calls  us." 

A  KoKANCE  OF  To-DAT.— Mr.  James  Payn,  the  Lon- 
don correspondent  of  The  Independent,  tells  the  fol- 
lowing story,  which  we  suggest  to  the  serious  consid- 
eration of  novelists  who  are  on  the  lookont  for  a  fresh 
plot  for  a  story  ;— 

**  A  surgeon  applied  the  other  day  to  the  Conrt  of 
Bankrr.ptcy  for  the  administration  of  his  aflFairs,  which 
had  got  beyond  or  below  his  own  powers  of  manage- 
ment He  had  no  practice  and  no  assets  only  a  *  lot 
of  pawn  tickets.^  The  learned  commissioner  natur- 
ally inquired  how,  under  these  circumstances,  he  had 


contrived  nntii  lately  to  live  in  apparent  affluence. 
*  Well,  the  fact  is,  1  have  been  in  the  enjoyment  ot 
£SBO  a  year,  whL^h  a  gentleman  gave  me  for  being  en- 
gaged to  his  niece,  ^  was  the  astounding  reply.  Flo 
would  give  no  explanation  of  this  phenomenon  except 
that  the  engagement  bad  been  *  unhappy  all  alon^ ' 
and  that  he  had  thrown  it  up  and  married  somebouy 
elne  without  a  penny.  What  a  romance  could  this 
gentleman  tell  if  he  pleased,  and  ho^7 1  r!iould  like  to 
hear  it.  Was  even  a  stage  uncle  ever  before  heard  of 
who  has  given  such  a  splendid  sum  for  such  a  dii^in- 
tcrefcled  purpose  ?  People  talk  of  the  cvila  of  '  a  long 
engagement :'  bnt  this  was  snrely  u  cape  where,  the 
longer  the  tender  relation  could  be  prctracted — so  far. 
at  least,  as  the  gentleman  is  concerned— the  better. 
What  a  vieta  of  pose^ibilities  it  seems  to  open  to  th« 
bachelor  world  !  It  would  not  of  course,  be  honor- 
able—but it  wonld  not  be  illegal— to  be  engaged  to 
half  a  dozen  nieces  (of  different  nnclce)  at  once  with 
jQWO  a  year  a  piece.  Even  If  the  lady  in  question  has 
been  ever  so  *  Incompatible  ^  to  him  as  the  phrase  goes 
—a  blackamoor  or  a  '  two-headed  nightinpalc '  without 
the  gift  of  song— it  would  have  signified  ^nothing, 
since  he  had  only  to  be  engaged  to  her ;  and  yet  he 
gave  up  this  treasure,  with  ;^lMiO  per  annum,  all -for 
love  and  ^  a  lot  of  pawn  tickets.'  No  such  »arriflce  has 
been  recorded  In  the  court  of  Cupid,  or  in  that  of  the 
city  of  London,  where  the  above  story  was  revealed. '' 

'  Nsccaarrr  op  ths  Cukssics.- At  the  recent  anniver- 
sary of  the  Johns  Hopkins  Univerfity  at  Baltimore, 
Prof.  Glldersleevo  said  :— 

"I  live  In  the  abiding  assurance  that  what  is  in- 
wrought in  the  structure  of  our  history  and  our  litera- 
ture must  survive  so  long  as  the  history  of  our  race  and 
the  history  of  onr  language  survive.  To  disentwine 
the  warp  of  the  classics  from  the  woof  of  bur  life  is 
simply  Impossible.  One  medieval  writer  every  one 
must  know,  and  measured  by  modem  standards  Dante 
was  not  a  classical  scholar  of  the  first  rank.  His  perspec- 
tive of  antiquity  was  false,  his  estimates  of  the  poets  of 
the  past  was  far  fro^  being  just  and  yet  what  is  Dante 
if  you  loosen  his  hold  on  the  classic  time?  I  will  not 
speak  of  Milton,  steeped  in  classic  lore.  I  will  speak 
of  Shakaspeare.  None  but  those  who  have  read 
Shakespeare  with  the  eye  of  a  classical  scholar  know 
how  much  the  understanding  of  Shakespeare  is  de- 
pendent on  training  in  the  classics ;  and  more  than 
once  when  I  have  hesitated  as  to  whether  it  was 
pedantry  or  not  to  use  a  Greek  word  in  my  English 
discourse,  I  have  turned  to  Shakespeare.  Scarcely 
had  1  set  down  those  words  when  the  following  pas- 
sage fell  under  my  eye.  It  is  to  be  found  in  the  recent 
introductory  letter  of  the  professor  of  poetry  in  the 
University  of  Oxford.  *The  thorough  study  of 
English  literature,  as  such— literature,  I  mean,  as  an 
art  indeed  the  finest  of  fine  arts — is  hopeless  unlcES 
based  on  an  equally  thorough  study  of  the  literatures 
of  Greece  and  Home.  When  so  based  adequate  study 
will  not  be  fonnd  exacting  either  of  time  or  of  labor. 

To  know  Shakespeare  and  Milton  is  the  pleasant  and 
crowning  consummation  of  knowing  Homer  and 
/Eschylus,  Catullus,  and  Virgil.  And  upon  no  other 
terms  can  we  obtain  it '  ^^ 


THE  RECENT  VOLCANIC  ERUPTION  IN  NEW  ZEALAND. 


49 


THE  RECENT  VOLCANIC  ERUPTION 
IN  N5W  ZEALAND. 

For  some  considerable  time  past  a  noticeable 
feature  in  the  columns  of  the  daily  newspa 
pers  has  been  the  frequency  of  ihe  reports  of 
earthquakes  and  volcanic  eruptions  fiom  all 
quarters  of  the  globe.  After  due  allowance 
has  been  made  for  the  increasing  attention 
which  these  phenomena  now  receive,  and  for 
the  rapidity  and  facility  with  which  their  dc 
tails  are  made  known  no  matter  how  remote 
may  be  their  locality,  we  shall  probably  not 
be  wrong  if  we  conclude  that  never  within 
recorded  hnr.ian  experience  has  there  been 
more  terrestrial  disturbance  than  during  the 
last  few  years.  Not  merely  have  the  move- 
ments lieen  frequent;  they  have  been  not  less 
remarkable  for  the  wide  region  over  which, 
one  after  another,  they  have  been  displayed, 
and  for  the  magnitude  of  their  effects.  They 
have  occurred  in  districts  often  previously 
affected  by  similar  visitations;  but  they  have 
also  appeared  in  tracts  that  had  never  been 
known  to  be  subject  to  them  before.  They 
have  often,  indeed,  been  so  slight  as  to  furnldi 
only  material  for  the  current  gossip  of  the 
day,  but  among  them  are  included  some  of 
the  most  stupendous  catastrophes  of  historic 
times.  And  even  where  no  movement  may 
be  x)erceplible  to  the  senses,  delicate  instru- 
ments have  made  known  the  striking  fact  that 
the  ground  jander  our  feet  is  in  a  perpetual 
state  of  tremor.  The  solid  earth  which  has 
served  mankind  as  a  type  of  steady  immobility 
turns  out  to  be  Itself  singularly  unstable. 

Some  philosophers  have  written  of  the  in- 
creasing -senility  of  Mother  Earth.  They 
have  contrasted  what  they  take  to  be  the 
feebleness  of  her  old  age  with  the  titanic 
vigor  which  they  suppose  to  have  marked 
convulsions  of  her  early  youth,  It  is  doubt- 
less true  that  when  the  young  planet  first  left 
its  parent  sun  and  began  its  own  independent 
course  through  the  heavens,  it  must  have  been 
endowed  with  a  vast  store  of  potential  energy. 
All  through  the  long  ages,  which  have  since 
passed  away,  that  store  has  been  imceasingly 
growing  less.  If,  therefore,  the  outward 
manifestations  of  terr^strifd.  onorgy  depended. 


directly  upon  the  total  quantity  of  energy 
i-etained  by  the  planet,  they  should  undoubt- 
edly become  progressively  feebler.  The  most 
gigantic  volcanic  explosions  and  earthquakes 
of  modem  times  must  in  that  case  be  but  in 
significant  representatives  of  the  earth  throes 
of  primeval  ages.  There  is  good  reason,  how- 
ever, to  believe  that  this  inference  is  not  well 
founded.  If  we  may  judge  of  the  displays  of 
subterranean  activity  from  the  amount  of  vol- 
canic material  ejected  to  the  surface,  and 
from  the  extent  of  the  crumblings  and  frac- 
tures of  the  solid  crust  involved  in  mountain- 
structure,  then  we  may  rather  conclude  that 
the  later  disturbances. have  considerably  ex- 
ceeded the  older  in  magnitude.  Hodem  vol- 
canoes and  volcanic  plateaux  cover  a  wider 
area,  and  includes  proportionately  larger  bulk 
of  lava  and  ashes,  than  those  of  older  geologic 
cal  date.  And  even  when  every  reasonable 
allowance  has  been  made  for  tlie  extent  which 
the  older  topographiea.  of  the  earth's  surface 
have  been  worn  awa^*^  and  covered  up,  i^ 
equivalent  among  the  older  records  can  l^i4^ 
ly  be  found  to  the  stupendous  disturb^n^^  by 
which  modern  mountain-chaiDs  have  b^^i  up« 
heaved. 

It  ha#  been  plausibly  suggested  titot  the 
gradual  increase,  in  the  thickness  of  the  cool 
outer  crust  haa  offered  continually  augment- 
ing resistance  to  the  movements  til  the  still 
hot  interior,  and  hence  that  eartb^wkes  and 
volcanic  eruptiona  ought  now  to  W  less  con* 
stant,  but  more  violent,  than  in  tlit<okler  time. 
The  earth  has  been  compared  in  »■  Homely  way 
to  a  pot  of  porridge,  which,  aftsr  thorough 
boiling,  has  been  taken  off  the^  fire.  During 
the  procesa  of  boiMng/the  esoape  of  steam 
keeps  thQ  porridge,  in  constant  ebullition  and 
eruption.  But  when  cootin^  sot  in  and  leads 
to  the  f  onnatioi^  of  a  crust  «i}skiki  on  the  sur- 
face, the  steam,  which:  cannot  then  so  readily 
escape,  finda  its  way  out  lai  inteimdttent  puffs. 
As  the  skin  tbickens,  ttm-  resistance  it  .offers 
propontionately  increases.;  the  steam-puffs  be- 
come fewer,  but  laogerv  andi  the- last  spurts  oi 
porridge  ejected  sre  sMoetimescbiggeEland  are  «' 
thrown  out  fArtb^i;  tban  any  that;  preoedj[?d  i 
them. 

^fithoiU  enlQ^p^hera  u^at£|^  th^oiXj^^G.,^  j{ ' 

f: 


50 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


questions  we  may  take  for  granted  that  cer- 
tainly within  the  memory  of  man  there  has 
been  no  appreciable  diminution  in  the  intensity 
of  tliose  subterranean  operations  which  mani- 
fest themselves  at  the  surface  as  earthquakes 
and  volcanic  eruptions.  Three  years  ago  the 
world  was  startled  by  the  great  eruptions  of 
Krakatau,  in  the  Sunda  Strait — the  most 
gigantic  explosion  within  human  experience 
Before  its  fine  dust  had  cleared  from  the  air, 
other  volcanoes  renewed  their  activity.  Both 
Etna  and  Vesuvius  have  been  in  eruption, 
and  from  the  antipodes  comes  the  news  of  the 
sudden  and- altogether  unlooked-for  calamity 
which  has  spread  such  destruction  over  the 
lake  district  of  New  Zealand.  Earthquakes, 
too,  have  followed  hard  upon  each  other,  not 
only  in  volcanic  districts,  but  in  regions  far  re- 
moved from  active  volcanoes.  Six  years  ago 
the  country  around  Agram  was  convulsed, 
with  great  loss  of  life  and  property.  Then 
came  the  shock  that  carried  death  and  ruin 
far  and  wide  through  the  South  of  Spain. 
Witliiu  the  last  few  weeks  some  hundreds  of 
square  miles  in  Greece  have  been  shaken, 
with  great  destructiun  to  houses  and  consid- 
erable loss  of  life;  while  almost  at  the  same 
instant  the  Eastern  States  of  the  American 
Union  were  visited  by  the  earthquake  which 
has  laid  the  city  of  Charleston  in  rnins.  If 
we  are  still  profoundly  ignorant  of  the  causes 
that  produce  earthquakes  and  volcanoes,  we 
cannot  plead  in  justification  that  the  phenom- 
ena themselves  are  either  infrequent  or  ob- 
scure. But  as  observers  are  multiplying  in 
all  parts  of  the  world,  and  as  more  precise 
methods  of  observation  are  being  perfected, 
tlicrc  is  good  reason  to  hope  that  some  part  at 
least  of  the  mystery  which  still  shrouds  from 
us  the  interior  of  our  globe  may  ere  long  be 
liftod. 

There  are  two  phases  of  volcanic  activity  of 
which  some  admirable  illustrations  have  re- 
cently been  furnished.  In  one  of  these  the 
volcano  continues  in  a  state  of  comparatively 
gentle  eruptivity,  discharging  showers  of 
stones,  clouds  of  steam,  and  even  occasionally 
streams  of  lava,  but  without  any  violent  deto- 
nations which  affect  the  districts  beyond  the 
mountain  itself.    Vesuvius  is  at  present  in 


this  condition;  some  photographs  taken  upon 
it  in  August  last  by  Dr.  Jolmston  Lavis  show 
well  tlie  sharp  explosions  of  vapor  and  the 
ejection  of  stones  and  ashes  witliin  the  crater. 
The  other  phase  is  less  frequent,  but  in  some 
respects  more  interesting.  With  little  or  no 
warning,  the  volcano  is  convulsed,  and  a  large 
part  of  it  is  suddenly,  blown  into  the  air,  vast 
quantities  of  stones  and  ashes  are  discharged, 
the  country  for  perhups  several  thous^ind 
square  miles  around  is  covered  with  detritus, 
and  the  air  is  so  loaded  with  fine  dust  tliat 
day  becomes  darker  Xhtiu  night. 

It  is  obviously  much  less  easy  to  study  tliese 
great  volcanic  paroxysms  than  the  ordinary 
and  gentler  kind  of  activity  with  which  the 
tourist  to  Vesuvius  and  Etna  is  familiar. 
Though  they  have  occniTed  at  intervals  dur- 
ing human  history,  imd  have  been  described 
with  varying  minuteness  and  accuracy,  we 
are  still  singularly  ignorant  regarding  some 
parts  of  the  phenomena,  so  that  every  new 
example  of  them  deserves  to  be  carefully  ex- 
amined and  recorded.  Even  before  the  times 
of  authentic  history  we  know  that  man  wit- 
nessed some  of  these  more  stupendous  mani- 
festations of  volcanic  energy.  The  half-sub- 
merged volcano  of  Santorin,  in  -the  Greek 
Archipelago,  for  instance,  seems  to  have  been 
blown  up  by  an  explosion  at  a  time  when  a 
human  population  had  already  settled  on  the 
island,  for  remains  of  buildings,  vases,  and 
pottery  have  been  foninl  under  t&e  piles  of 
volcanic  ejections.  'I'lie  catastrophe  was  no 
doubt  sudden,  and  sceUiS  to  have  entirely  de- 
stroyed the  iuhubiluiiis  of  the  island.  It  would 
be  interesting  to  know  whether  any  possible 
survival  of  the  tradition  of  it  could  be  recog- 
nized in  old  Greek  story.  The  earliest  volca- 
nic explosion  of  which  any  contemporary 
account  has  survived  is  that  of  Vesuvius  in 
the  year  79,  whereby  the  towns  of  Herculane- 
um,  Pompeii,  and  Stabioe  were  destroyed. 
For  the  main  facts  of  this  meniorable  event 
we  are  indebted  to  the  two  well-known  letters 
of  the  younger  Pliny  to  Tacitus,  and  to  an 
examination  of  the  ruins  themselves  and  of  the 
volcanic  materials  under  which  they  have  been 
buried.  But  tlie  details  may  be  more  vividly 
appreciated  from  the  accounts  of  similar  re- 


THE  RECENT  VOLCANIC  ERUPTION  IN  NEW  ZEALAND. 


51 


csent  cakmltfes.  The  graphic  narratives  of  the 
eye-witnesses  and  survivors  of  the  New  Zea- 
laml  eruption  of  last  June  are  especially  inter 
esting  from  this  point  of  view,  for  there  is  a 
close  analogy  between  the  phenomena  of  that 
enip  ion  and  those  which  must  have  charac- 
terized the  famous  outburst  of  Vesuvius.  It 
is  worth  while  making  a  comparison  between 
the  two  widely  separated  catastrophes. 

In  the  first  century  of  our  era,  and  doubt- 
less for  many  previous  generations,  Vesuvius 
was  what  would  now  be  called  an  extinct  vol- 
cano. Rising  some  three  thousand  feet  above 
the  sea,  it  formed  a  notable  landmark  in  one 
of  the  fali-est  landscapes  of  the  Roman  cm 
pire.  Its  slopes  were  richly  cultivated,  save 
around  the  summit,  where  the  loose  volcanic 
cinders  had  not  yet  been  covered  by  the  man- 
tle of  vegetation  that  during  the  previous  cen- 
turies had  gradually  been  creeping  up  the 
mountain.  The  barren  crest  surrounded  a 
deep  crater,  whose  rugged  walls,  tapestried 
with  wild  vines,  enclosed  the  level  space  in 
which  Spartacus  and  his  three  thousand  com- 
panions encamped.  Intelligent  observers  had 
noticed  the  probable  volcanic  on^n  of  the 
mountain,  and  tradition  spoke  of  its  having 
formerly  emitted  fire.  But  to  the  surround- 
ing inhabitants  it  gave  no  sense  of  insecurity. 
The  peasants  planted  their  vines  up  its  slopes, 
and  the  wealthier  Romans  traveled  to  bathe 
in  the  warm  springs  that  still  issue  not  far 
from  its  roots,  and  to  enjoy  the  i)almy  climate 
of  that  favored  region.  At  last  a  succession 
of  earthquakes,  some  of  them  of  considerable 
violence,  continued  divring  a  period  of  sixteen 
years  to  shake  the  Vesuvian  Campania.  Some 
of  the  towns  around  the  mountain  were  con- 
siderably damaged.  A  Pompeian  inscription 
records  that  the  temple  of  Isis  in  that  town 
had  to  be  rebuilt  from  the  very  foundations. 
The  subterranean  commotion  culminated  in 
the  great  explosion  which  in  the  year  79  blew 
out  the  Boathem  half  of  the  upper  part  of  the 
cone  of  Vesuvius.  Seen  from  the  west  side 
of  the  Bay  of  Naples  in  the  early  hours  of  the 
eruption ,  the  cloud' of  steam  and  fragmentary 
materials  that  issued  form  the  mountain  rose 
in  a  huge  column,  which  sprend  out  at  the  top 
like  ili6  branchea  of  an  Italian  pine-tree.    In 


the  immediate  neighborhood  of  the  volcano, 
cinders  and  pieces  of  **  burning  rock"  fell  in 
a  continuous  shower,  gradually  filling  up  the 
streets  and  open  spaces  of  the  town,  crushing 
in  the  roofs  and  driving  the  inhabitants  to  the 
fields.  Violent  earthquakes  accompanying 
the  successive  volcanic  discharges  shook  and 
shattered  Uie  houses  and  kept  the  se^  in  com- 
motion. So  vast  was  the  quantity  of  ashes 
and  stones  thrown  out  that  the  country  for 
miles  around  was  covered  with  debris.  For 
three  days  the  air  continued  so  loaded  with 
fine  dust  that  a  darkness  as  of  night  over- 
spread the  landscape.  When  daylight  re- 
turned, the  fields  and  gardens  had  disappeared 
under  a  deep  covering  of  white  ashes  that  lay 
on  the  ground  like  snow. 

The  main  portion  of  the  volcanic  detritus 
was  no  doiibt  ejected  in  the  earlier  stages  of 
the  eruption,  as  may  be  inferred  from  tJie  fact 
that  the  body  of  the  eldei  Pliny  (who,  after 
the  courtyard  of  the  house  in  which  he  had 
been  sleeping  was  nearly  choked  up  with 
fallen  ashe»  and  stones,  had  retreated  to  the 
fields)  was  found,  three  days  after,  lying 
where  he  had  fallen,  and  not  concealed  by 
the  dust  that  had  settled  down  in  the  interval! 
There  is  no  evidence  that  any  lava  was  emitted 
during  the  eruption.  But  the  red-hot  stones, 
and  the  glare  from  the  crater  upon  the  over- 
hanging pall  of  cloud,  probably  show  that 
molten  lava  rose  to  the  surface  in  the  vent  of 
the  volcano,  while  much  of  the  impalpable 
dust  that  filled  the  air  was  no  doubt  due  to 
the  explosions  of  superheated  vapors  by  which 
successive  portions  of  the  rising  column  of 
lava  were  blown  out.  Though  the  ill-fated 
region  was  spared  the  destruction  which 
would  have  been  caused  by  the  outflow  of 
streams  of  lava,  it  was  in  some  places  near 
the  base  of  Vesuvius  invaded  by  rivers  of  a 
thick  pasty  mud  produced  by  the  condensa- 
tion of  the  dense  clouds  of  vapor  and  the 
mingling  of  the  water  with  the  fine  vol- 
canic ashes.  These  mud  torrents  swept 
over  Herculaneum,  burying  it  to  a  depth 
of  fifty  feet  or  more.  At  Pompeii,  also, 
the  heavy  rain  seems  to  have  formed  a 
similar  mud,  which  ran  down  into  the  base- 
ments of  the  houses  and  quickly  enveloped 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


0 

the  human  victims  who  had  taken  refuge 
there. 

The  events  in  the  recent  New  Zealand 
eruption  run  closely  parallel  to  those  of  this 
historical  outbreak  of  Vesuvius.  In  both 
cases  the  explosion  occurs  at  an  extinct,  or  at 
least  long  dormant,  volcano,  with  little  or  no 
learning,  and  with  paroxysmal  violence. 
The  convtilsive  tremors  of  the  ground,  the 
dense,  far- extended  shower  of  ashes  and  hot 
stones,  the  lurid  glare  from  the  volcano  by 
night  and  the  darkness  by  day,  the  pasty  mud, 
the  crushing  in  of  houses,  the  burying  of 
fields  and  gardens,  and  the  destruction  of  life 
are  to  be  noticed  in  striking  similarity  in  each 
eruption.  The  only  contemporary  chronicler 
of  the  Vesuvius  calamity  was  Pliny,  a  young 
man  of  eighteen,  who,  though  invited  by  his 
scientific  uncle  to  go  with  him  and  investigate 
the  singular  phenomenon,  preferred  to  remain 
with  his  book  at  a  safe  distance.  Fortunate- 
ly, the  late  New  Zealand  explosion  was  wit- 
nessed by  numerous  hardy  and  intelligent 
observers,  who  were  soon  interviewed  by  en- 
terprising newspaper  correspondents,  so  that 
the  general  succession  of  events,  in  so  far  at 
least  as  they  affected  the  human  population 
of  the  ^district,  was  speedily  made  known. 
The  Qevemment  of  the  colony  also  immedi- 
ately dispatched  the  accomplished  director  of 
the  Geological  Survey  of  New  Zealand,  who 
gathered  all  the  scientific  facts  which  could  at 
the  time  be  obtained.  A  more  detailed  exam- 
ination of  the  ground  is  to  be  made  as  the 
spring  advances  and  the  volcanic  excitement 
has  sufficiently  abate  1.  Meanwhile,  the  sali- 
ent features  of  the  eruption  are  tolcrablj'  clear. 
A  region  of  geysirs  and  boiling  springs  is  one 
of  the  strangest  and  weirdest  on  the  face  of 
the  globe.  From  a  distance,  the  curiosity  of 
the  traveler  is  aroused  by  the  clouds  of  steam 
.  which  rise  here  and  there  from  among  the 
trees,  or  from  the  bare  sinter-covered  slopes. 
His  previous  experience  of  steam-clouds  has 
probably  been  in  association  with  factories  and 
locomotives,  and  hence  the  white  puffs  that 
float  away  and  disappear  seem  in  strange  con- 
trast with  the  utter  loneliness  of  the  scenery. 
As  he  approaches  the  center  of  activity,  he 
passes  an  occasional  white  mound  of  crumb- 


ling sinter,  where  a  geysir  once  has  been,  and 
quiet  x)ools  of  steaming  water,  of  exquisitely 
green  and  blue  tints,  enclosed  in  alabaster  like 
basins  of  white  and  pink  sinter.  The  ground 
sounds  hollow  as  he  walks  upon  it.  Treach- 
erous holes  open  on  all  sides,  some  of  tliem 
filled  with  boiling  water,  others  opening  down 
into  hot,  dark,  vaporous  caverns.  It  seems 
as  if  he  were  treading  on  a  thin  crust  cover- 
ing a  honeycombed  mass  of  hot  rock  within, 
beneath  which  lie  vast  reservoirs  of  boiling 
water,  and  as  if  this  crust  might  at  any  spot 
give  way  and  precipitate  him  into  the  hideous 
gulfs  beneath.  But  his  attention  is  perhaps 
arrested  by  a  loud  hissing  roar  like  that  of  a 
large  engine  blowing  off  its  steam.  Turning 
to  the  quarter  whence  the  sound  comes,  he 
sees  a  geysir  in  eruption,  hurling  its  column 
of  water  and  steam  high  into  the  air.  Farther 
on  he  comes  to  a  sputtering  caldron  of  gray, 
green,  or  red  mud,  on  tlie  surface  of  which 
large  blister-like  domes  rise  up  and  burst, 
scattering  the  mud  around,  nnd  building  up 
miniature  volcanic  cones  roimd  the  vents  from 
which  tlie  steam  escapes.  And  so  on  all 
through  this  strange  region  he  Is  surroimded 
with  evidences  of  the  nether  fires  such  as  his 
fancy  had  never  pictured.  The  heat  of  the 
earth's  interior  is  now  no  longer  with  him  a 
mere  matter  of  scientific  belief.  It  is  such  an 
appalling  reality  that  he  is  perhaps  inclined  to 
regard  with  astonishment  the  general  belief  of 
geologists  that  geysirs  and  boiling  springs 
mark  a  waning  condition  of  volcanic  excite* 
ment. 

Of  the  three  great  geysir  districts  of  the 
globe,  Iceland,  Montana,  and  New  Zealand, 
the  last-named  far  surpassed  its  rivals  in  the 
supreme  beauty  of  its  sinter-terraces.  Those 
of  the  Yellowstone  are  exquisite  in  their  vari- 
ety of  form  and  coloring.  But  for  magnitude, 
regularity,  and  brilliance,  the  Pink  and  White 
Terraces  of  Rotomahana  stood  unrivaled. 
To  the  east  of  the  geysirs  and  hot  mud  springs 
of  that  locality,  rises  (he  great  ridge  of  Tara- 
wera,  upward  of  8,600  feet  in  height,  with  its 
truncated  cones,  marking  the  sites  of  their 
extinct  craters.  Its  barren  summit  had  for 
ages  been  sacred  groimd  to  the  Maoris,  who 
carried  up  their  dead  to  that  lonely  spot  foi 


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68 


burial.  The  volcanic  fires,  elsewhere  still 
active,  seemed  there  to  have  burnt  out,  and 
the  hot  springs  remained  as  apparently  the 
last  relic  of  them.  It  was  hardly  possible  to 
select  a  better  illustration  of  what  geologists 
have  regarded  as  the  closing  manifestation  of 
volcanic  activity. 

Nothing  unusual  had  occurred  to  afford  any 
warning  of  the  approach  of  the  catastrophe 
which  has  this  summer  befallen  the  "wonder- 
land" of  the  North  Island.  Slight  earth- 
quakes had  disturbed  the  water  of  Lake  Tara- 
wera,  but  had  not  attracted  much  attention. 
The  terraces  of  Rotomaliana  had  been  visited 
a  day  or  two  before  by  tourists,  who  found 
them  in  their  usual  condition.  Suddenly, 
however,  early  in  the  morning  of  the  lOtJi  of 
June,  the  inhabitants  on  the  shore  of  Lake 
Tarawera  were  roused  by  earthquake  shocks 
followed  by  a  loud  roaring  sound.  On  look- 
ing toward  the  mountain,  they  saw  that  its 
most  northerly  peak  was  in  eruption.  Soon 
afterward  the  middle  peak  burst  out  more 
violently.  Then  the  volcanic  energy,  travel- 
ing still  southward,  found  vent  in  a  stupen- 
dous explosion,  whereby  part  of  the  south 
side  of  3Iount  Tarawera  was  blown  into  the 
air.  Finally,  a  grand  outburst  of  steam  rose 
still  farther  southward  from  the  Lake  of 
Hotomahana,  bearing  up  enormous  quantities 
of  volcanic  dust  and  pieces  of  rqck.  The 
noise  of  this  explosion  was  heard  at  great  dis- 
tances, and  the  cloud  of  fine  dust  produced  by 
it  was  hurled  for  thousands  of  feet  into  the 
air,  where  it  spread  out  as  a  thick  curtain, 
and,  1  ierced  by  vivid  fiashes  of  lightning, 
completely  cut  off  the  light  of  the  morning. 
Accompanying  the  outbreak,  a  gale  of  wind 
blew  with  great  violence,  stripping  the  leaves 
from  the  trees,  and  bearing  the  black  dust- 
cloud  away  to  the  north.  In  somewhere 
about  four  hours  the  volcanic  paroxysm  was 
over,  though  immense  volumes  of  steam  con- 
tinued to  rise  from  the  vents  that  had  been 
torn  open. 

The  first  narratives  of  the  survivors  of  the 
catastrophe  gave  a  graphic  picture  of  the  ter- 
rors of  that  dreadful  night,  but,  of  course 
they  afforded  no  very  clear  idea  of  the  char- 
acter and  successive  stages  of  the  eruption. 


From  Dr.  Hector's  report,  however,  in  which 
the  statements  of  the  survivors  are  embodied, 
together  with  the  results  of  his  own  exploration 
of  the  district  immediately  after  the  eruption, 
the  main  facts  can  be  satisfactorily  followed. 
The  outbreak  appears  to  have  consisted  of  two 
distinct  phases;  the  first  of  these  culminated 
in  the  grand  explosion  which  tore  open  a  vast 
chasm  on  the  southern  slopes  of  Tarawera 
mountain;  the  second  manifested  itself  in  the 
discharges  of  steam  that  blew  out  Lake  Ro- 
tomahana  and  destroyed  its  famous  Terraces. 

A  chain  of  erui)tive  points  was  established 
along  tl:e  crest  of  tiie  Tarawera  range  and 
south  westward  to  near  Lake  Okaro,  a  total 
distance  of  some  ten  miles.  What  changes  have 
been  wrought  on  the  mountain  summits  has 
not  yet  been  definitely  ascertained.  But  from  a 
distance  the  crest  of  the  ridge  is  seen  to  have 
lost  its  old  characteristic  outline.  No  fewer 
than  seven  distinct  flattened  conical  peaks  rise 
along  the  edge  of  the  range,  each  of  them  giv- 
ing off  at  intervals  large  discharges  of  steam 
and  fragmentary  materials.  So  great  has 
been  the  bulk  of  ashes  and  dust  thrown  out 
from  these  vents  that  the  rough  craggy  slopes 
of  the  mountain  Jiave  been  in  great  measure 
buried  under  the  thick  gray  accumulations. 
A  large  fissure  has  been  opened  along  the 
eastern  flank  to  the  range,  and  emits  wreaths 
of  steam.  But  the  most  remarkable  and  im- 
portant of  all  the  orifices  produced  during  the 
eruption  are  to  be  observed  on  the  southern 
declivities  of  the  range,  and  thence  into  the 
lower  country  to  the  south-west. 

On  the  southern  slopes  of  Mount  Tarawera, 
a  large  chasm  has  been  torn  out  2,000  feet 
long,  500  feet  broad  and  800  feet  deep.  This 
appears  not  to  have  been  a  mere  rent  caused 
by  the  opening  of  the  ground,  but  to  have 
been  actually  blown  out  by  the  explosion  that 
convulsed  the  mountain  and  concluded  the 
first  phase  of  the  eruption.  From  this  great 
chasm  a  yawning  rent  is  prolonged  for  several 
miles  toward  the  south-west,  passing  across 
the  site  of  Lake  Rotomahana.  Between  its 
precipitous  walls  great  wreaths  of  steam  are 
continually  ascending  and,  as  these  are  blown 
aside,  glimpses  can  be  obtained  of  the  bottom, 
which  appears  to  be  mostly  filled  with  seeth-' 


54 


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Ing  and  boiling  mud.  Seven  powerful  geysirs 
rise  along  its  course  and  throw  tbeir  columns 
of  boiling  water,  steam,  stones,  and  mud  to  a 
height  of  600  or  800  fvet.  Such  is  the  vigor 
of  these  discharges  that  the  western  walls  of 
the  chasm  are  being  continually  undermined. 
It  is  sad  to  learn  that  the  largest  of  tlie  mud 
fountains  has  broken  through  the  site  of  the 
Pink  Terrace.  Another  has  found  its  way  to 
the  surface  on  the  high  ground  fvest  of  the 
fissure,  and  has  already  built  up  a  cone  several 
hundred  feet  high. 

The  sounds  accompanying  the  eruption 
were  of  the  most  appalling  kind,  and  were 
heard  at  vast  distances.  From  the  black  can- 
opy of  dust  and  steam  that  rose  above  the 
volcano  and  spread  northward  over  the  coun- 
try came  a  continuous  rattle  of  thunder-peals. 
The  steam  issued  from  the  newly  opened  vents 
with  a  deafening  roar.  The  earthquake 
shocks  were  propagated  through  the  ground 
with  a  growling  sound  like  the  rolling  of 
heavy  wagons,  while,  to  complete  the  horrors 
of  the  night,  a  hurricane  of  wind  howled  round 
tlie  tDttering  houses  and  swept  across  the 
woodlands.  The  reverberation  of  the  explo- 
sion is  said  to  have  been  perceptible  at  Christ 
Church,  a  distance  of  300  miles. 

Every  account  of  Ihe  eruption  bears  witness 
to  .the  prominent  part  taken  by  steam  all 
through  the  paroxysm,  and  also  since  compara- 
tive quiet  returned.  From  every  vent,  whether 
old  or  new,  volumes  of  steam  are  constantly 
rising,  either  in  «t  continuous  stream  or  in 
intermittent  discharges,  and  sometimes  with 
explosive  violence.  The  ^andest  mass  of 
vaiK)r  is  that  which  overhangs  the  geysirs  that 
play  where  the  Lake  Rotomahana  once  stood. 
It  is  described  as  about  the  eighth  of  a  mile  in 
diameter,  and  towers  not  less  than  12,000  feet 
into  the  air — a  vast  pillar  of  cloud,  catching 
up  the  tints  of  early  morning  and  of  evening, 
and  shining  at  noon  with  the  whiteness  of 
snow. 

No  attempt  has  been  made  to  compute  the 
amount  of  solid  material  ejected  from  the  va  i- 
ous  eruptive  vents.  It  must  have  been  enor- 
mous. Owing  to  the  direction  of  the  wind  at  the 
time,  most  of  this  material  was  home  away 
northward.      It   accumulated    most  thickly 


around  tlie  active  vents,  but  the  fln«  parts 
were  carried  to  great  distances.  Ships  at  sea. 
130  miles  away  from  the  scene  of  disturbance, 
had  their  decks  strewn  with  dust  The  finer 
particles  remained  suspended  in  the  air  for 
several  days.  Dr.  Hector  found  a  yellow  fog. 
charged  with  pungent  acid  vapor  and  dust, 
as  he  crossed  the  Bay  of  Plenty,  more  than 
two  days  after  the  eruption. 

By  the  earlier  explosions  that  opened  out 
the  vents  on  the  Tarawera  range,  vast  quanti- 
ties of  blocks  of  lava  were  hurled  into  the  air, 
and  fell  back  ui>on  the  slopes  of  the  mountaio. 
Some  of  these  stones,  however,  were  projecrted 
to  a  distance  of  Afteen  or  twenty  miles  to  the 
east  and  south-east,  while  in  the  opposite  di- 
rection they  did  not  reach  farther  than  six 
miles.    No  doubt,  most  of  these  stones  were 
fragment  sof  the  solid  mass  of  rock  which  was 
blown  to  pieces  by  the  volcanic  explosiooj 
that  cleared  out  the  vents.    But  the  eye-wit- 
nesses of  the  catastrophe  all  agree  in  speaking 
of  * 'fire-balls,"  or  glowing  pieces  of  rock, 
that  fell  in  showers  with  the  other  debris,  and 
even  set  fire  to  the  trees.    That  much  of  the 
ejected  material  had  at  first  a  high  tempera- 
ture seems  quite  certain  from  the  obscT\ation 
of  Dr.  Hector  that  the  fallen  sand,  though 
cool  on  the  surface,  was  still  quite  hot  a  foot 
or  so  beneath  it  six  days  after  the  eruption. 
There  is  also  a  general  agreement  that  in  the 
first  phase  of  the  eruption,  when  the  vents  of 
the  Tarawera   range   successively  exploded, 
what  is  called  a  * 'pillar  of  fire"  shot  up  into 
the  air.    It  is  dillicult  to  understand  that  this 
illumination  could  be  produced  merely  by  the 
electrical  discharges  from  the  dust  column. 
Lightning  flashes  were    also  observed,  aod 
were  distinguished  from   tlie  glare  that  rose 
from  the  crest  of  the  ridge.    From  the  ac- 
counts of  the  survivors,  it  seems  more  proba- 
ble that  a  column  of  incandescent  lava  actu- 
ally rose  up  within  the  mountain,  and  tliatthe 
so-called  fire  was  produced  by  the  glow  ol 
this  white-hot  mass  upon  the  volumes  of  steam 
that   escaped    from    it.     This    inference  is 
strengthened  by  the  character  of  the  finer 
material  that  accompanied  and  foUowed  the 
ejection  of  the  stones  and  blocks  of  rock. 
Enormous  quantities  of  what  is  descnbed  as 


RECENT  VOLCANIC  ERUPTION  IN  NEW  ZEALAND. 


65 


pumice^saxid  were  blown  out  of  Mount  Tara- 
wera,  and  fell  over  a  tract  twenty  miles  long 
toward  the  north.  This  sand  as  it  fell  was 
hot— so  hot,  indeed,  as  to  scorch  and  even  set 
file  to  the  trees,  the  burning  stumps  of  which 
were  seen  by  Dr.  Hector  in  many  places.  If 
its  temperature  was  still  so  high  after  its  flight 
through  the  air,  it  must  have  been  at  a  red  or 
even  white  heat  inside  the  mountain.  We 
may  perhaps  not  unreasonably  look  upon  this 
sand  as  due  to  the  explosion  of  the  molten 
lava  as  it  rose  within  the  vent  saturated  with 
superheated  steam.  It  is  true  that  the  Gk>v- 
ernment  geologist  watched  during  two.  clear 
nights  in  the  week  after  the  eruption,  and 
failed  to  detect  any  illumination  of  tbe  steam 
that  still  issued  from  the  vex\Ji  along  the  sum- 
mit of  the  range.  But  tlie  top  pf  the  incan- 
descent column  might  have  been  reduced  so 
much  in  height  by  the  successive  explosions 
as  not  to  throw  its  glare  beyond  the  throat  of 
the  volcano. 

Among  the  solid  material  ejected  during 

tlie  eruption  most  attention  has  been  given  to 

the  gray  mud  which  played  such  an  important 

part  in  the  destruction  of -^life  and  property. 

As  hot  mud  springs  have  long  been  known  in 

the  district,  and  as  the  atte  of  Lake  Rotoma- 

hana  has  been  invaded  by  a  group  of  active 

mud-geysirs,   it  was  natiu*ally  enough  con- 

clude(l  that  the  mud  wliich  crushed  in  the 

houses  at  Wairoa  and  prostrated  the  trees  was 

vomited  forth  from  some  of  the  vents  of  tbe 

neighborhood.    Dr.   Hector    however,  gives 

anotl)erand  more  probable  explanation.     He 

supposes  that  the  cool  south-westerly  gale, 

meeting  the  great  cloud  of  vapor  and  dust, 

drove  it  away  toward  the  sea  and  condensed 

its  vapor,  which  mingled  with  the  fine  dust, 

and  fell  to  the  ground  as  mud.    He  shows 

that  the  mud  is  absent  around  the  region  of 

the  mud  geysirs,  where  the  ground  is  covered 

witli  dry  sand,  and  that  it  is  traceable  north 

ward  for  a  distance  of  nearly  forty  miles  to 

tiic  Bay  of  Plenty  in  the  pathway  of  the  wind. 

It  attained  a  thickness  of  about  one  foot  on 

flat  ground  at  Wairoa,  gradually  Uiinning 

away  northward.     But  where  it  has  fallen 

on  sIo])e8  it  is  readily  softened  by  rain,  and 

tiiides  down  into  lower  ground.    Photographs 


of  the  ruined  hamlet  of  Wairoa  show  the 
leafless  trunks  of  the  trees  protruding  out  of 
the  mud  which  half  fills  the  roofless  houses. 
It  will  be  long  before  these  deep  accumula- 
tions of  volcanic  mud  can  be  turned  again 
into  fertile  fields,  and  before  the  sylvan  beauty 
of  the  Wairoa  woodland  can  be  restored. 
Where,  however,  the  covering  of  detritus  is 
thin,  it  will  no  doubt  soon  lie  ploughed  into 
the  soil,  and  all  trace  of  the  eruption  will  then 
vanish,  save  in  the  eftect  that  .may  be  pro- 
duced upon  cultivation.  Analyses  ^f  the 
various  kinds  of  sand',  dust,  and  mnd  are  be- 
ing made,  that  the  farmers  may  know  what 
they  may  have  to  hope  or  fear  from  the  visi- 
tation of  this  summer. 

Lava  is  not  known  to  have  issued  from  any 
of  the  vents  or  fissures  of  the  district  during 
this  eruption.  The  flanks  of  the  Tarawera 
volcano,  however,  have  still  to  be  examined, 
and  possibly  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  range 
some  trace  of  outflowing  lava  may  be  found. 
If  this  should  prove  to  he  the  case,  it  would 
be  a  notable  exception  to  what  has  lieen  re- 
garded as  the  rule,  for  it  would  show  the  re- 
sumption of  full  volcanic  activity  after  the 
geyshr  stage  toward  extinction  had  been 
reached.  There  are  so  many  features  in  com- 
mon between  the  New  Zealand  eniption  and 
the  earliest  recorded  one  of  Vesuvius  that  we 
are  tempted  to  speculate  on  a  possible  future 
for  Mount  Tarawera  like  that  which  h  is  char- 
acterized the  Neapolitan  volcano  during  tbe 
last  eighteen  hundred  years.  But,  even  should 
such  a  conjecture  prove  to  be  true,  the  pres- 
ence of  another  active  volcano  in  the  North 
Island  would  probably  not  sensibly  affect  the 
prosperity  even  of  the  district  in  the  midst  of 
which  the  mountain  stands.  Successive  erup- 
tions of  varying  intensity  might  from  time  to 
time  bring  with  them  some  loss  of  life  and 
damage  to  property.  But  the  crumbling 
lavas  and  ashes  would  by  degrees  yield  soil 
well  fitted  for  cultivation.  Farms  and  gar 
dens  would  creep  up  the  volcanic  slopes  as 
they  have  for  so  many  centuries  done  upon 
Vesuvius.  The  mountain  might  become  one 
of  the  great  sights  of  New  Zealand,  nnd  even 
the  object  of  pilgrimages  to  the  Southern 
Hemisphere. 


56 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGA2INE. 


Meanwhile,  tlie  colony  is  poorer  by  the  loss 


of  its  famous  terraces.     Lakes  of  seething,  ^near  or  probable;  but  it  is  certainly  not  one 


spattering  mud,  and  geysirs  casting  forth 
torrents  of  hot  water  and  steam,  are  by  no 
means  adequate  equivalents  of  the  sinter  stair- 
cases of  Te  Tarata  which  have  been  so  utterly 
effaced.  It  will  be  interesting  to  discover 
whether,  after  all  the  commotion  of  last  June, 
any  sinter-bearing  springs  have  been  left  in 
such  a  position  as  to  begin  again  the  forma- 
tion of  a  new  set  of  terraces.  But,  even  if 
this  process  were  to  re-commence  at  once, 
many  a  generation  must  pass  away  before 
anything  can  be  built  up  at  all  resembling  in 
'  extent  and  beauty  what  has  been  destroyed. 
From  the  outburst  of  the  long  silent  Taia- 
wera  volcano,  one  passes  by  a  natural  transi- 
tion of  thought  to  the  story  of  the  old  volca- 
noes of  Britain ;  and  the  question  arises 
whether  there  is  any  probability  or  possibility 
that,  in  the  revolutions  of  the  future,  the  vol- 
canic tii'es  may  once  more  be  kindled  beneath 
this  country.  Probably  no  area  of  equal  ex- 
tent on  the  surface  of  the  globe  can  show  the 
records  of  so  long  a  succession  of  volcanic 
eruptions  as  are  chronicled  within  the  rocky 
substructure  of  the  British  Islands.  Again 
and  again,  after  prolonged  intervals  when  not 
only  luid  volcanic  action  ceased,  but  when  the 
very  sites  of  tbe  volcanoes  had  been  buried 
out  of  sight  under  deep  piles  of  sand  and  mud, 
renewed  outbreaks  have  poured  forth  fresh 
currents  of  lava  and  cast  out  showers  of  ashes 
where  now  and  for  long  centuries  past  fields 
have  been  reaped  and  towns  have  grown. 
What  has  been  may  be  again.  And  it  is  wor- 
thy of  remark  that,  so  far  as  we  can  judge  of 
the  lapse  of  time  in  the  far  past,  the  interval 
which  separates  the  last  volcanic  episode  in 
the  geological  history  of  Britain  from  our  ovim 
day  has  been  immensely  shorter  than  that 
which  separated  it  from  the  immediately  pre- 
ceding volcanic  period.  We  cannot  therefore, 
say  that  a  renewal  of  volcanic  activity  within 
our  borders  is  impossible.  When  we  have 
discovered  the  causes  that  led  to  the  repeated 
re-appearance  of  that  activity  during  the  re- 
mote past,  we  may  be  able  to  predict  with 
more  confidence  for  the  future.    The  contin- 


any  reasonable  geologist  would  consider  to  be 


which  he  would  be  disposed  to  dismiss  as  im- 
possible.—-Arch.  Geikie,  in  TJ\Jd  Contempo- 
rary Remew, 


EGYPTIAN  DIVINE  MYTHS. 

Ancient  Egypt  is  one  of  the  battle  groundi) 
in  the  long  quarrel  as  to  the  origin  and  the 
nature  of  early  religion.  Did  religion  arise 
from  an  instinctive  tendency  of  human  nature, 
from  an  innate  yearning  after  the  Infinite, 
and  were  its  primal  forms  comparatively  pure, 
though  later  corrupted  into  animal  worship, 
fetichism,  and  ^he  cult  of  ghosts?  Or  did  re^ 
ligion  arise  from  certain  inevitable  mistakes  of 
the  undeveloped  intellect—did  it  spring  from 
ghost  worship,  magic,  and  totemism,  that  is, 
the  adoration  of  certain  objects  and  animals 
believed  to  be  related  to  each  separate  stock 
or  blood-kindred  of  human  beings?  These, 
roughly,  are  the  main  questions  in  the  contro- 
versy; and  perhaps  they  cannot  be  answered, 
or  at  le&st  they  cannot  be  answered  by  a  sim- 
ple "yes"  or  *'no."  Complete  historical  evi- 
dence is  out  of  the  question.  We  are  ac- 
quainted with  no  race  of  men  who  were  not 
more  or  l38s  religious  long  before  we  first  en- 
counter them  in  actual  experience  or  in  his- 
tory. Probably  a  close  examination  would 
prove  that  in  even  the  most  backward  peoples 
religion  contains  a  pure  and  spiritual  element, 
as  well  as  an  element  of  unrc:ison,  of  magic, 
of  wild  superstition.  Which  clement  is  the 
earlier,  or  may  they  not  have  coexisted  from 
the  first?  In  the  absence  of  historical  evidence, 
we  can  only  try  to  keep  the  two  factors  in 
myth  and  religion  distinct,  and  examine  them 
as  they  occur  in  different  stages  of  civilization 
When  we  look  at  the  religion  and  myths  of 
Egypt,  we  find  both  elements,  as  will  be 
shown,  co-existing,*  and  both  full  of  force  and 
vitality.  The  problem  is  to  determine  whether, 
on  the  whole,  the  monstr  us  beast -worsliips 
are  old  or  comparatively  late;  whether  they 
date  from  the  delusions  of  savagery,  or  are 


the  result  of  a  system  of  symbols  invented  by 
gency  of  renewed  eruptions  is  not  one  which  I  the  priesthoods.    Again,  as  to  the  rational 


EGYPTIAN  DIVINE  MYTHS. 


67 


element  of  Egyptian  religion,  is  ihat,  on  the 
whole,  the  result  of  late  philosophical  specula- 
tion, or  is  it  an  original  and  primitive  feature 
of  Egyptian  theology? 

In  Uie  following  sketch  the  attempt  is  made 
to  show  that,  whatever  myth  and  religion  may 
have  been  in  their  undiscovered  origins,  the 
purer  factor  in  Egyptian  creeds  is,  to  some 
extent,  late  and  philosophical,  while  the  wild 
irrational  factor  is,  on  the  whole,  the  bequest 
of  an  indefinitely  remote  age  of  barbaric 
usages  and  institutions.  The  Fathers  of  the 
Christian  Church  were  decidedly  of  this  opin- 
ion. They  had  no  doubt  that  the  heathen 
were  polytheists  and  tbat  their  polytheism 
was  either  due  to  the  wiles  of  the  devil,  or  to 
survival  of  ancestor  worship,  or  simply  to  the 
darkness  and  folly  of  fallen  man  in  his  early 
barbarism.  Mr.  Le  Page  Renouf  (in  his 
Hibbert  Lectures),  Dr.  Brugsch,  M.  Pierret, 
and  the  late  Vicomte  de  Rouge  (an  illustrious 
authority)  maintain,  against  the  Fathers  and 
against  M.  Maspero  and  Professor  Lieblein,  of 
Cbristiania,  the  hypothesis  that  the  bestial 
gods  and  absurd  mytlis  of  Egypt  are  dcgrada- 
lions.  In  this  essay  we  naturally  side  with 
Professor  Lieblein  and  M.  Maspero.  We 
think  that  the  worship  of  beasts  was,  in  the 
majority  of  cases,  a  direct  animal  worship, 
and  a  continuation  of  familiar  and  worldwide 
savage  practices.  Mr.  Le  Pdge  Kenouf  and 
M.  Pierret,  on  the  other  hand,  hold  that  this 
cult  was  a  symbolical  adoration  of  certain  at- 
tributes of  divinity,  a  theory  maintained  by 
the  later  Egyptians,  and  by  foreign  observers, 
such  as  Plutarch  and  Porphyry.  It  is  not 
denied  on  one  side  that  many  and  multifariuus 
gods  were  adored,  nor,  on  the  other  side,  that 
monotlteistic  and  pantheistic  beliefs  prevailed 
to  some  extent  at  a  very  remote  period.  But 
the  question  is.  Are  the  many  and  multifarious 
gods  degradations  of  a  pure  monotheistic 
conception?  or  does  the  pure  monotheistic 
conception  represent  the  thought  of  a  later 
period  than  that  which  saw  the  rise  of  gods 
in  the  form  of  beasts? 

Here  it  is  perhaps  impossible  to  give  at  once 
a  decided  .and  definite  answer.  M".  Maspero 
Bays: 

lliere  is  nothing  to  tell  as  what  the  godB  were  at 


their  debut,  nor  whether  the  I^ptians  bronght  them 
from  their  original  seats,  or  saw  their  birth  by  Nile 
Bide.  When  we  firat  nieet  them  their  ahapea  have 
been  profoundly  modified  in  the  coarse  of  ages,  and 
do  not  present  all  the  featares  of  their  original  condi- 
tion. 

Among  the  most  backward  peoples  now  on 
earth  there  are  traces  of  a  religious  belief  in  a 
moral  ruler  of  the  world.  That  belief,  how- 
ever, is  buried  under  a  raythology  in  which, 
according  the  laws  of  savage  fancy,  animals 
take  the  leading  roles.  In  the  same  way  the 
religious  speculation  of  early  Egypt  was  ac- 
quainted with  "a  Power  without  a  name  or 

y  mythological  characteristic. ' *  '  'For  some 
olzcure  reason  monotheistic  ideas  made  way 
very  early  to  Egypt."  ,At  the  same  time, 
the  worship  of  Egypt  and  the  mytlis  of  Egypt 
were  ear»y  directed  to,  and  were  peopled  by, 
a  wilderuess  of  monkeys,  jackals,  bulls,  geese, 
rams,  and  beasts  in  general.  Now  it  may  bo, 
"^nd  probably  is,  impossible  for  us  to  say 
whether  the  conception  of  an  invisible  being 
who  punishes  wickedness  and  answers  prayers 
(a  conception  held  even  by  the  forlorn  Fuegi- 
ans  and  Bushmen)  is  earlier  or  later  than  to- 
temism  and  the  myths  of  animals.  In  the 
same  way,  it  is  impossible  to  say  whether  the 
Egyptian,  belief  in  an  all-creating  and  survey* 
ing  power — Osiris,  or  Ra,  or  Horus — is  in  some 
form  or  other,  prior  to,  or  posterior  to,  the 
cult  of  bulls  and  rams  and  crocodiles.  But  it 
is  not  impossible  for  us  to  discern  and  divide 
those  portions  of  myth  and  cult  which  the 
Egyptians  had  in  common  with  Australian 
and  American  and  Polynesian  and  African 
tribes,  from  those  litanies  of  a  purer  and 
nobler  style  which  are  only  found  among 
civilized  and  reflective  peoples.  Having  once 
made  this  division,  it  will  be  natural  and 
plausible  to  hold  that  the  animal  gods  and 
wild  myths  are  survivals  of  the  fancies  of 
savagery,  to  which  they  exactly  correspond, 
rather  than  priestly  symbolisms  and  modes  of 
worshipping  pure  attributes  of  the  divine  na- 
ture, though  it  was  in  this  light  that  they 
were  regarded  by  the  schools  of  esoteric  the- 
ology in  Egypt. 

Tlie  peculiarity  of  Egypt,  in  religion  and 
myth  as  in  every  other  institution,  is  the  re- 
tention of  the  very  rudest  and  most  barbarous 


88 


THE  LIBIURY  MAGAZD^E. 


things,  side  by  side  with  the  last  refinements 
of  civilization.  The  existence  of  tills  con- 
Bervatism  (by  which  we  profess  to  explain  the 
Egyptian  myths  and  worship)  is  illustrated,  in 
another  field,  by  the  arts  of  everyday  life.  and. 
by  the  testimony  of  the  sepulchres  of  Thebes. 
M.  Paasalacqua.  in  some  excavations  at  Quoar 
nah,  struck  ou  .the  common  cemetery  of  the 
ancient  city  of  Thebes.  Here  he  found  **the 
mummy  of  a  hunter,  with  a  wooden  bow  and 
twelve  arrows,  the  shaft  made  of  reed,  the 
points  of  hardened  wood  tipped  with  odged 
flints.  Hard  by  lay  jewels  belonging  to  tlie 
mummy  of  a  youDg  woman,  pins  with  orna 
meural  heads,  necklaces  of  gold  and  lapis 
lazuli,  gold  earrings,  scarabs  of  gold,  bracelets 
of  gold,"  and  so  forth.  The  refined  art  of 
the  gold- worker  wps  contemporary,  and  this 
t  a  late  period,  with  the  use  of  flint-headed 
arrows,  the  weapons  commonly  found  all  over 
the  world  in  places  where  the  metals  have 
never  penetrated.  Again,  a  razor-shaped  knife 
of  flint  has  been  unearthed;  it  is  Inscribed  in 
hieroglyphics  with  the  words,  "The  great 
Sam,  son  of  Ptah,  chief  of  artists."  The  Sams 
were  members  of  the  priestly  class,  who  ful- 
filled certain  mystic  duties  at  funerals.  It  is 
reported,  by  Herodotus,  that  the  embalmers 
opened  the  bodies  of  the  dead  with  a  knife  of 
stone ;  and  the  discovery  of  such  a  knife, 
though  it  had  not  belonged  to  an  embalmer, 
proves  that  in  Egypt  the  stone  age  did  not 
disappear,  but  co-existed  throughout  with  the 
arts  of  metal-working.  It  is  certain  that  fiint 
chisels  and  stone  hammers  were  used  by  the 
workers  of  the  mines  in  Sinid,  even  under 
Dynasties  XII.,  XIX.  The  soil  of  Egypt, 
when  excavated,  constantly  shows  that  the 
Egyptians,  who  in  the  remote  age  of  the 
pyramid  builders  were  already  acquainted 
with  bronze,  and  even  with  iron,  did  not  there- 
fore relinquish  the  use  of  fiint  knives  and 
arrow-heads,  when  such  implements  became 
cheaper  than  tools  of  metal,  or  when  they 
were  associated  with  religion.  Precisely  in 
the  same  way  did  the  Egyptians,  who,  in  the 
remotest  known  times,  had  imposing  religious 
ideas,  decline  to  relinquish  the  totems,  and 
beast-gods,  and  absurd  or  blasphemous 
myths   which   (like   flint   axes   and   arrow- 


heads) are  everywhere  characteristic  of  savages. 
Our  business,  then,  is  to  disceru  and  exhibit 
apart,  so  to  speak,  the  metal  age  and  the 
stone  age,  the  savage  and  the  cultivated  prac- 
tices and  ideas,  which  make  up  the  pell-meu 
of  Egyptian  mythology.  As  a  preliminary  to 
this  task,  we  must  rapidly  survey  the  history 
of  Egypt,  as  far  as  it  affected  the  religious 
development. 

The  ancient  Egyptians  appear  to  be  con- 
nected by  race  with  the  peoples  of  Western 
Asia,  and  are  styled,  correctly  or  not.  "Proto- 
Semitic.  When  they  first  invaded  Egypt,  at 
some  period  quite  dim  and  inconceivably  dis- 
tant, they  are  said  to  have  driven  an  earlier 
stock  into  the  interior.  The  new  comers,  the 
ancestors  of  the  Eygptians,  were  in  the  tribal 
state  of  society,  and  the  various  tribes  estab- 
lished tliemselves  in  local  and  independent 
settlements,  which  (as  the  original  villages  of 
Greece  were  collected  into  city  states)  were 
finally  gathered  together  (under  Menes,  a  real 
or  mythical  hero)  as  portions,  styled  names, 
of  an  empire.  Each  tribal  state  retained  its 
peculiar  religion,  a  point  of  great  importance 
in  this  discussion.  In  the  em]  lire  thus  formed, 
different  towns,  at  different  times,  reached  the 
rank  of  secular,  and,  to  some  extent  of  spirit- 
ual capitals.  Thebes,  for  example,  was  so 
ancient  that  it  was  regarded  as  the  native  land 
of  Osiris,  the  great  mythical  figure  of  Egypt. 
More  ancient  as  a  capital  was  This,  or  Abydos, 
the  Holy  City  par  excellence.  Memphis, 
again,  was,  in  religion,  the  metropolis  of  the 
god  Ptah,  as  Thebes  was  of  tlie  god  Ammon. 
Each  sacred  metropolis,  as  it  came  to  power, 
united  in  a  kind  uf  pantheon  the  gods  of  the 
various  nom/es  (that  is,  the  old  tribal  deities), 
while  the  god  of  the  metropolis  itself  was  a 
sort  of  Bretwalda  among  them,  and  even  ab- 
sorbed into  himself  their  powers  and  peculi- 
arities. Similar  examples  of  aggregates  of 
village  or  tribal  religions  in  a  state  religion 
are  familiar  in  Peru,  and  meet  us  in  Greece. 

Of  what  of  nature,  then,  were  the  gods  of  ' 
the  Twnies,  the  old  tribal  gods?  On  this  ques- 
tion we  have  evidence  of  two  sorts:  first,  we 
have  the*  evidence  of  monuments  and  inscrip- 
tions from  many  of  the  periods;  next  we  have 
the  evidence,  in  much  more  minute  detail,  of 


EGYPTIAN  DIVINB  MY1;B8. 


(»0 


foreign  obflervers,  from  Herodotus  to  Plutaich 
and  Porphyry  Let  us  first  see  what  the 
monuments  have  to  sa;^  about  the  tribal  gods, 
and  the  diyine  groups  of  the  various  towns 
and  of  each  metropolis.  Summaries  may  be 
borrowed  from  M.  Maspero,  head  of  the 
Egyptian  Museums,  and  from  Mr.  Flinders 
Petrie,  the  discoverer  of  Naucratis.  Accord- 
ing to  these  authorities,  the  early  shapes  of 
gods  among  the  Egyptians,  as  among  Bush- 
men and  Australians  and  Algonkins,  are  bes- 
tM.    M.  Maspero  writes* — 

**Tlie  esMsntial  fact  in  the  religion  of  JBjgypt  is  the 
existence  of  a  con«iderable  namber  of  divine  person- 
ages of  different  shapes  and  different  names.  M.. 
Pierret  may  call  this  *■  an  apparent  polytheism.  *  I  call 
It  a  polytheism  extremely  well  marked.  .  .  . 
The  bestial  shapes  in  which  the  gods  were  clad  had  no 
allegorical  character,  they  denote  that  straightforward 
worship  of  the  lower  animals  which  is  found  in  many 
religions,  ancient  and  modem.  ....  It  is  possible, 
nay  it  is  certain,  that  daring  the  second  Theban  Em- 
pire (1700-1800  B.C.)  the  learned  priests  may  have 
tboBght  it  well  to  attribute  a  symbolical  sense  to  cer- 
tain bestial  deities.  Bot  whatever  they  may  have 
worshipped  in  Thoth-Ibis,  it  was  a  bird,  and  not  a 
hieroglyph,  that  the  first  worshippers  of  the  ibis  adored. 
The  bull  Hapi  was  a  god-boll  long  before  be  became  a 
bull  which  was  the  symbol  of  a  god,  and  it  wonld  not 
surprise  me  if  the  onion-god  that  the  Roman  satirists 
mocked  at  really  existed. " 

M.  Maspero  goes  on  to  remark  that  so  far 
as  it  is  possible  to  speak  of  one  god  in  ancient 
Egypt,  that  god  was,  in  each  case,  "nothing 
but  the  god  of  each  nome  or  town."  M. 
Meyer  is  resolute  in  the  same  opinion 
*'  These  sentiments  (of  reverence  for  beasts) 
are  naturally  no  expression  of  a  dim  feeling 
of  the  unity  of  godhead,  uf  a  'primitive  beno 
theism,'  as  has  so  often  been  asserted,  but  of 
the  exact  opposite.  '*  The  same  view  is  taken 
by  30I.  Chipicz  and  Perrol.  * 'Later  theology 
has  succeeded  in  giving  more  or  less  plausible 
explanations  of  the  animbl  gods.  Each  of 
them  has  Ixsen  assigned  as  a  symbol  or  attri 
bute  to  one  of  the  greater  deities.  As  for  our- 
selves, we  have  no  doubt  that  these  objects  of 
popular  devotion  were  no  more  than  ancient 
fetiches.'*  Meanwhile  it  is  universally  ac- 
knowledged, it  is  asserted  by  Mr.  Le  Page 
Kenouf,  as  well  as  by  M.  Maspero,  that  "the 
Egyptian  religion  comprehends  a  quantity  of 
loqal  worship." 


M.  Maspero  nozt  describes  the  earliest  ve- 

ligious  texts  and  testimonies. 

^'Daring  the  Ancient  Empire  I  only  find  monuments 
at  four  points— at  Memphis,  at  Abydos,  and  in  some 
parts  of  Middle  ^ypt,  at  Siual,  and  in  the  valley  of 
Hammamat  The  divine  names  appear  but  occasion- 
ally, in  certain  unvaried  formnlse.  Under  dynasties 
XL  and  XIL  Lower  iCgypt  comes  on  the  scene ;  the 
formuls  are  more  explicit,  but  the  religious  monu- 
ments rare.  From  the  eighteenth  century  onward,  we 
have  representations  of  all  the  deities  [previously  only 
named,  not  pictured],  accompanied  by  legends,  more 
or  less  developed,  and  we  b^in  to  discover  books  of 
ritual,  hymns,  amulets,  and  other  materials.^* 

What,  then,  are  the  earliest  gods  of  the  menu* 
ments,  the  gods  which  were  local,  and  had 
once  probably  been  tribal  gods.  Mr.  FUnders 
Petrie  observes  that  Egyptian  art  is  first  na- 
tive, then  Semitic,  then  renascence  or  revival. 
In  the  earliest  period,  till  Dynasty  XII.  na- 
tive art  prevails,  and  in  this  earliest  art  the 
gods  are  invariably  portrayed  as  beasts. 
"The  gods,  when  mentioned,  are  always  rep- 
resented by  their  animals"  (M.  Maspero  says 
that  the  animals  were  the  gods)  "  or  with  the 
name  spelt  out  in  hieroglyphs,  often  beside 
the  beast  or  bird.  Th«y  jackal  stands  foi 
Anup"  (M  Maspero  would  apparently  say 
that  Anup  is  the  jackal),  "the  frog  for  Hekt, 
the  baboon  for  Tahuti;  .  it  is  not  till  aftei 
Semitic  influence  had  begun  to  work  in  thi 
country  that  any  figures  of  gods  are  found  *' 
Under  Dynasty  XII  the  gods  that  had  pre 
viously  been,  represented  in  art  as  beasts 
appear  in  their  later  shapes,  often  half  anthro 
pomorphic,  half  zoomorphic,  dog-headed,  cat- 
headed,  hawk  headed,  bull-headed  men  and 
women  These  figures  are  probably  derived 
from  those  of  the  priests,  half  draped  in  the 
hides  of  the  animals  to  which  they  ministered. 
Compare  the  Aztec  pictures. 

It  is  now  set  forth,  first,  that  the  earliest 
gods  capable  of  being  represented  in  art  were 
local  (tliat  is  originally  tribal),  and,  second, 
that  these  gods  were  beasts  How,  then,  is 
this  phenomenon  to  be  explained?  MM.  Pier- 
ret  and  Le  Page  Renouf.  as  we  have  seen, 
take  the  old  view  of  tlie  Egyptian  priests  that 
the  beast-gods  are  mere  symbols  of  the  attri- 
butes of  divinity  MM.  Chipiez  and  Perrot 
regard  tlie  beast- gods  &s  fetishes,  and  suppose 
that  the  domestic  animals  were,  origmally 


60 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


worshiped  out  of  gratitude.    But  who  could 

he  grateful  to  a  frog  or  a  jackalP    As  to  the 

f<ict^  their  opinion  is  explicit;  "The  worship 

of.  the  hawk,  the  vulture,  and  the  ibis  had 

preceded  by  many  centuries  that  of  the  gods 

who  correspond    to    tbe  personages  of  the 

Hellenic  pantheon/'  such  as  Dionysus  and 

Apollo.     **The  doctrines  of  emanation  and 

incarnation  permitted  theology  to  explain  and 

accept  these  tilings."    Our  own  explanation 

will  have  been  anticipated.    The  totems,  or 

ancestral  sacred  plants  and  animals  of  groups 

of  the  original  savage  kindredtt,  have  survived 

in  religion  as  the  sacred  plants  (garlic,  for 

example)  and  animals  of  Egyptian  towns  and 

nomes. 

Here  we  are  fortunate  enough  to  have  the 

support  of  Professor  Sayce     He  remarks : — 

*^heee  animal  forms,  in  which  a  later  mj'th  saw  the 
Bhapea  aeaumed  hy  the  affrighted  gods  daring  the 
great  war  between  Horns  and  Typlion,  take  as  back  to 
a  remote  prehistoric  age,  when  the  religious  caeed  of 
Egypt  was  still  totemism.  They  are  survivals  l^m  a 
long-forgotten  past,  and  prove  that  Egyptian  civiliza- 
tion was  of  slow  and  independent  growth,  the  latest 
stage  only  of  which vs  revealed  to  jis  by  the  monu- 
ments. Apis  of  Memphis,  Mnevis  of  Hcliopolis,  and 
Pacis  of  Ilcrmonthis,  are  all  links  that  bind  together 
the  Egypt  of  the  Pharaohs  and  tRe  Egypt  of  the  stone 
age.  They  were  the  sacred  animals  of  the  clans  which 
first  settled  In  these  localties,  and  their  identiflcation 
with  the  deities  of  the  official  religion  most  have  been 
a  slow  process,  never  fnlly  carried  out,  in  fact,  in  the 
minds  of  the  lower  classes.?' 

Thus  it  appears  that,  after  all,  even  on 
philological  showing,  the  religions  and  myths 
of  civilized  people  may  be  illustrated  by  the 
religions  and  myths  of  savages.  It  is  purely 
through  study  of  savage  totemism  that  an 
explanation  has  been  found  of  the  singular 
Eg^rplian  practices  which  puzzled  the  Greeks 
and  Romans,  and  the  Egyptians  themselves 
The  inhabitants  of  each  district  worshiped  a 
particular  sacred  animal, and  abstained  from  its 
flesh  (except  on  rare  occasions  of  ritual  solem- 
nity), while  each  set  of  people  ate  without  scru 
pie  the  animal  or  vegetable  gods  of  their 
neighbors.  Thus  the  people  of  Mendes  sacri- 
ficed sheep  and  abstained  from  goats,  while  the 
Thebans  sjicrificed  goats  and  abstained  from 
sheep  To  explain  this,  Herodotus  repeats  a 
"sacred  chapter"  of  peculiar  folly.  Ammon 
once  clad  himself  in  a  ram's  skin,  and  so  re 


vealed  himself  to  Heracles,  therefore  rams  are 
sacred.  But  on  one  day  of  the  year  the  The- 
bans sacrifice  a  ram,  and  clothe  the  statue  of 
Ammon  in  its  hide,  thereby  making  the  god 
simulate  the  beast,  as  in  the  totem  dances  of 
the  lied  Indians.  They  then  lament  for  the 
ram,  and  bury  his  body  in  a  S8ci*ed  sepulcher. 
In  the  same  way  the  crocodile  was  worshiped 
at  Ombus  (just  as  it  is  by  the  "men  of  tbe 
crocodile,"  or  **men  of  the  cayman,**  atnong 
Bonis  in  South  America  and  Bechuanas  in 
South  Africa),  but  was  destroyed  elsewhere. 
The  yearly  sacrifice  and  lamentation  for  the 
i-am  is  well  illustrated  by  the  practice  of  the 
Calif ornian  Indians,  who  adore  the  buzzard, 
but  sacrifice  a  buzzard  with  sorrow  and 
groanings  once  a  year.  In  tlie  same  way  the 
Egyptians  sacrificed  a  sow  to  Osiiis  once  a 
year,  and  tasted  pork  on  that  occasion  only. 
Thus  it  -seem^  scarcely  possible  t.o  deny  the 
early  and  prolonged  existence  of  totemistic 
practices  in  Egyptian  religion.  We  have  not 
yet  seen,  however,  that  tlie  people  who  would 
not  eat  this  or  that  animal  actually  claimed  to 
be  of  the  stock  or  lineage  of  the  animal.  But 
Dr.  Birch  points  out  that  **the  Theban  kings 
were  called  s(;us  of  Amen,  of  the  blood  or 
substance  of  the  god,  and  were  supposed  to 
be  the  direct  descendants  of  that  deity,"  who 
was,  more  or  less,  a  ram.  Thus  it  seems  that 
the  Theban  royal  house  were  originally  of  the 
blood  of  the  sheep  and  claimed  dcRccnt  from 
the  animal  Other  evidence  as  to  the  totem- 
ism of  Egypt  may  be  found  in  Plutarch, 
Athenseus,  Juvenal,  and  generally  in  ancient 
literature  Thi  s  it  remains  certain,  however, 
and  whenevc  the  practice  was  introduced, 
that  tlie  cat,  the  goat,  the  wolf,  the  sheep,  the 
crocodile,  were  worshiped  by  local  commun- 
ities in  Egypt,  and  tliat,  in  each  district  the 
fiesh  of  the  local  sacred  animal  might  not  be 
eaten  by  his  fellow -townsmen  If,  then,  we 
find  animals  so  powerful  in  Egyptian  religion 
and  m3'th,  we  need  not  look  further,  but  may 
explain  the  whole  set  of  beliefs  and  ritefr— the 
local  beast-gods,  not  eaten  by  their  worship 
ers,  but  eaten  by  the  people  of  other  nomes — 
as  a  survival  of  totemism  Or  will  it  be 
maintained  that  totemism  among  the  lowest 
races  of  Australia,  America,  Asia,  and  Africa, 


EGYPTIAN  DIVINE  MYTHS. 


61 


sprang  from  a  priestly  habit  of  worshiping 
the  attributes  of  God  under  bestial  dis- 
guises? Among  other  defects,  this  theory 
does  not  account  for  the  local  or  tribal  char-, 
acter  of  the  creed  If  the  sheep  typifies  di- 
Tine.longsuffering,  and  the  wolf  divine  justice, 
why  were  people  of  one  nome  so  fiercely  at- 
tached to  justice,  and  so  Violently  opposed  to 
mercy? 

The  beast-gods  of  Egypt  were  the  laughing- 
stock of  Greeks,  Romans,  and  Christians  like 
Clemens  of  Alexandria  and  Amobius.  Their 
prevalence  proves  that  a  savage  element  en- 
tered into  Egyptian  religion.  But  the  savage 
element  in  its  rudest  form  is  only  part,  though 
perhaps  the  most  striking  part,  of  the  creeds 
of  Egypt.  Anthropomorphic  and  monotheistic 
conceptions  are  also  present,  forces  and  phe- 
nomena of  nature  are  adored  and  looked  on 
as  persons,  while  the  dead  are  gods,  in  a  sense, 
and  receive  offerings  and  sacrifice.  It  is  true 
that  all  these  factors  are  so  blended  in  the 
witch's  caldron  of  fable  that  the  anthropo- 
morphic gods  are  constantly  said  to  assume 
animal  shape:  that  the  deity,  at  any  moment 
addressed  as  one  and  supreme,  is  at  next 
shown  to  be  but  an  individual  in  a  divine 
multitude;  while  the  very  powers  and  phe- 
nomena of  nature  are  often  held  to  be  bestial 
or  human  in  their  shapes.  Various  historical 
influences  are  at  work  in  the  growth  of  all  this 
body  of  myth  and  observance.  It  is  certain 
that  many  even  of  the  lowest  races  retain^  side 
by  side  with  the  most  insane  fables,  a  sense  of 
a  moral  Being,  who  watches  men,  and  "makes 
for  righteousness. "  This  sense  is  not  lacking 
in  Egyptian  religion,  and  expresses  itself  in 
the  hymns  and  prayers  for  moral  help  and  for 
the  pardon  of  sin  and  in  the  Myth  of  the  De- 
struction of  Mankind  by  the  wrath  of  Ra. 
Once  more,  as  a  feeling  of  national  unity 
grew  up,  the  common  features  of  the  various 
tribal  deities  were  blended  in  one  divine  con- 
ception, and  various  one  xods  were  recog- 
nized, just  as  in  Samoa  one  god  is  incarnate 
in  many  beasts.  We  have  the  sun-crocodile, 
Sebek-Ba,  the  sun-ram,  Ammon-Ra,  just  as 
in  Samoa  we  have  the  war-god  owl,  the  war- 
god  rail  bird,  the  war-god  mullet,  and  so  forth. 
The  worship  of  the  PharacTh  of  the  day  was 


also  a  cult  in  which  all  could  unite.  The 
learned  fancy  of  priests  and  tlieologians  was 
busy  at  the  task,  of  reconciling  creeds  appar- 
ently diverse  or  opposed. 

In  the  complex  mass  of  official  and  depart* 
mental  gods  three  main  classes  may  be  more 
or  less  clearly  discerned,  though  even  these 
classes  constantly  overlap  and  merge  in  each 
other.  Adopting  the  system  of  M.  Maspero, 
we  distinguish:  1.  The  Gods  of  Death  and 
the  Dead;— 2.  The  Elemental  Gods;— 3.  The 
Solar  Go<ls.  But  though  for  practical  purposes 
we  may  take  this  division,  it  must  be  remem- 
bered that,  from  the  religion  of  the  Eighteenth 
and  later  Dynasties  dbwn  to  the  Greek  period, 
any  god  may,  at  any  moment,  appear  in  any 
one  of  the  three  categories,  as  theological 
dogma,  or  local  usage,  or  poetic  predilection 
may  determine. 

The  fact  js  that  the  Egyptian  mind,  when 
turned  tp  divine  matters,  was  constantly 
working  on,  and  working  over,  the  primeval 
stufi"  of  all  mythologies,  the  belief  in '  'a  strange 
and  powerful  race,  supposed  to  have  been 
busy  on  earth  before  the  making,  or  the  evo- 
lution, or  the  emergence  of  man.*'  The 
Egyptians  inherited  a  number  of  legends  of 
extra-natural  heroes  like  the  savage  Qat,  Cagn, 
Yehl,  Pundjel,  loskeha,  and  Quahteaht,  like 
the  Maori  Tutenganahau  and  the  South  Sea 
Tangaroa.  Some  of  these  were  elemental 
forces  personified  in  human  or  bestial  guise; 
some  were  merely  ideaUzed  medicine-men,  or 
even  actual  men  credited  with  magical  gifts 
and  powers.  Their  "wanderings,  rapes,  and 
manslaughters,  and  mutilations,"  as  Plutarch 
says,  remained  permanently  in  legend.  When 
these  beings,  in  the  advance  of  thought,  had  ob- 
tained divine  attributes,  and  when  the  concep- 
tion of  abstract  divinity  had  l)ecome  pure  and 
lofty,  the  old  legends  became  so  many  stumb- 
ling blocks  to  the  faithful.  They  were  ex- 
plained away  as  allegories  (every  student  hav- 
ing his  own  allegorical  system),  or  the  extra- 
natural  beings  were  taken  (  as  by  Plutarch)  to 
be  demons,  not  gods. "  A  brief  and  summary 
account  of  the  chief  figures  in  the  Egyptian 
pantheon  will  make  it  sufficiently  plain  that 
this  is  the  true  account  of  the  gods  of  Egypt, 
and  the  true  interpretation  of  their  adventures. 


03 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


Returning  to  the  classification  proposed  by 
M.  Maspero,  and  remembering  the  limitations 
under  which  it  holds  good,  we  find  that — 

(1)  The  Gods  of  Death  and  the  Dead  were 
Sokari,  Isis  and  Osiris,  the  young  Ilorus,  and 
Nepthys; — (2)  The  Elemental  Gods  were  Seb 
and  Nut.  of  whom  Seb  is  the  earth,  and  Nut 
the  heavens.  These  two,  h'ke  heaven  and  earth 
in  almost  all  mythologies,  are  represented 
as  the  parents  of  many  of  the  gods.  The 
01  her  elemental  dieties  are  but  obscurely 
known;— (8)  Among  solar  deities  are  recog- 
ni/.cd  Ra,  Ammon,  and  others,  but  there  was  a 
strong  tendency  to  identify'  each  of  the  gods 
with  the  sun  especially  to  identify  Osiris  with 
the  sun  in  his  nightly  absence  Each  god, 
again,  was  apt  to  be  blended  with  one  or 
more  of  the  sacred  animals.  "  Ra,  in  his 
transformations,  ajssumed  the  form  of  the  lion, 
cat,  and  hawk.  In  different  nomes  and 
towns,  it  either  happened  that  the  same  gods 
had  different  names,  or  that  analogies  were 
recognized  between  different  local  gods,  in 
wJiich  case  the.  names  were  often  combined, 
4is  in  Ammon-Ra,  Souk-Ra,  Ptah,  Sokar, 
Osiris,  and  so  forth. 

Athwart  all  these  categories  and  compounds 
of  gods,  and  athwart  the  theological  attempt 
at  constructing  a  monotheism  out  of  contra 
dictory  materials,  came  that  ancient  idea  of 
dualism  which  exists  in  the  myths  of  the  most 
backward  peoples.  As  Pundjel  in  Australia 
bad  his  enemy,  the  crow,  as  in  America  Yehl 
Lad  his  Klianukh,  as  loskeha  had  his  Tawis- 
cara — so  the  gods  of  Egypt,  and  especially 
Osiris,  have  their  Set  or  TyP^"°»  the  spirit 
who  constantly  resists  and  destroys. 

The  great  Egyptian  myth,  the  myth  of 
Osiris,  turns  on  the  antagonism  of  Osiris  and 
Set,  and  the  persistence  of  the  blood-feud  be- 
tween Set  and  the  kindred  of  Osiris.  To 
narrate,  and  as  far  as  possible  elucidate,  this 
m}'th  is  the  chief  task  of  the  student  of  Egyp- 
tian mythology. 

Though  the  Osiris  myth,  according  to  Mr. 
Le  Page  Rcnouf,  is  "as  old  as  Egyptian  civil- 
ization," and  though  M.  Maspero  finds  the 
Osiris  myth  in  all  its  details  under  the  first 
dynasties,  our  accounts  of  it  are  by  no  means 
80  early.    They  are  mainly  ^usive;  without 


any  connected  narrative.  Fortunately  tho 
narrative,  as  related  by  the  priests  of  his  own 
time,  is  given  by  Phitarch,  and  is  confirmed 
both  by  the  Eg}'ptian  texts  and  the  mysterious 
hints  of  the  pious  Herodotus.  Here  we  follow 
the  m3rth  as  reported  by  Plutarch  and  illus- 
trated by  the  monuments. 

The  reader  must,  for  the  moment,  clear  his 
mind  of  all  the  many  theories  of  the  meaning 
of  the  niytli,  and  must  forget  the  lofty,  divine, 
and  in\'Ktical  functions  attributed  by  Egyptian 
tlietilogians  uiid  Egyptian  sacred  usage  to  Osi- 
ris He  must  read  the  story  simpl}'  as  a  story 
and  he  will  be  struck  with  its  amazing  resem- 
blances to  the  legends  about  their  culture 
heroes  which  are  current  among  the  lowest 
races  of  America  and  Africa.  Seb  and  Nut 
— earth  and  heaven — were  husband  and  wife, 
or,  as  Plutarch  put  it,  the  Sun  detected  them 
in  adultery.  In  Plutarch's  version  the  Sun 
cursed  Nut  that  she  should  have  no  child  in 
month  or  3  ear;  but,  thanks  to  the  cleverness 
of  a  new  divine  co-respondent,  five  days  were 
added  to  the  calendar.  This  is  clearly  a  later 
addition  to  the  fable.  On  the  first  of  those 
days  Osiris  was  born,  then  Typhon,  or  Set, 
"neither  in.  due  time,  nor  in  the  right  place, 
but  breaking  through  with  a  blow,  he  leaped 
out  from  his  mother's  side. "  Isis  and  Nepthys 
were  later- bom  sisters. 

The  Plutarchian  myth  next  describes  tlie 
conduct  of  Osiris  as  a  "culture  hero."  He 
instituted  laws,  taught  agriculture,  instructed 
the  Eg>T)tians  in  the  ritual  of  worship,  and 
won  them  from  "tlieir  destitute  and  bestial 
mode  of  living."  After  civilizing  Egypt,  he 
traveled  over  flie  world,  like  the  Greek  Di- 
onysus, whom  he  so  closely  resembles  in  some 
portions  of  hi^  legend  that  Herodotus  sup- 
posed the  Dionysian  myth  to  have  been  im- 
ported from  Egypt.  In  the  absence  of  Osiris, 
his  evil  brother,  Typhon,  kept  quiet.  But, 
on  tlie  hero's  return,  Typhon  laid  an  ambush 
against  him,  like  ^Egistheus  against  Menelaus. 
He  had  a  decorated  coffer  (mummy  case?) 
made  of  the  exact  length  of  Osiris,  and  offered 
this  as  a  present  to  any  one  whom  it  would 
fit.  At  a  banquet  all  the  guests  tried  it;  but 
when  Osiris  lay  down  In  it  the  lid  was  closed, 
and  fastened  with  nails  and  melted  lead.    The 


EGYPTIAN  DIVIKE  MYTHS. 


68 


coffer,  Osiris  and  all,  was  then  thrown  into 
the  Nile.  Isia,  arrayed  in  mourning  robes 
li&e  the  wandering  Demeter,  sought  Osiris 
everywhere  lamenting,  and  found  the  chest  at 
laqt  in  an  eriea  tree  that  entirely  covered  it. 
After  an  adventure  like  that  of  Demeter  with 
Triptolcmus,  Isis  obtained  the  chest.  Dur- 
ing her  absence  Typhon  lighted  on  it  as  he 
was  banting  by  moonlight;  he  tore  the  corpse 
of  Osiris  into  fourteen  pieces,  and  scattered 
tliem  abroad.  Isis  sought  for  the  mangled 
remnants,  and,  whenever  sh^  found'  one, 
buried  it,  each  tomb  being  thenceforth  recog- 
nized as  *'a  grave  of  Osiris." 

It  is  a  plausible  suggestion  that,  if  graves 
of  Osiris  nrere  once  as  common  in  Eygpt  as 
cairns  of  Heitsi  Eibib  are  in  Namaqualand  to- 
day, the  existence  of  many  tombs  of  one  being 
may  be  exi^lained  as  tombs  of  his  scattered 
members,  and  the  myth  of  the  dismembering 
may  have  no  other  foundation.  On  the  other 
hand  it  must  be  noticed  that  a  swine  was  sac- 
rificed to  Osiris  at  the  full  moon,  and  it  was 
ID  the  form  of  a  black  swine  that  Typhon 
assailed  Horus,  the  son  of  Osiris,  whose  myth 
is  a  doublure  or  replica,  in  some  respects,  of 
the  Osirian  myth  itself.  We  may  conjecture, 
then,  that  the  fourteen  portions  into  which  the 
body  of  Osiris  was  rent  may  stand  for  the 
fourteen  day  of  tlie  waning  moon.  It  is  well 
known  that  the  phases  of  the  moon  and  lunar 
eclipses  are  almost  invariably  accounted  for 
in  savage  science  by  the  attacks  of  a  beast — 
<io>C,  pig.  dragon,  or  what  not — on  the  hea- 
venly body.  Either  of  these  hypotheses  (the 
Egyptians  adopted  the  latter)  is  consistent 
with  the  character  of  early  myth,  but  both 
are  merely  tentative  suggestions.  The  phallus 
of  Osiris  was  not  recoverd,  and  the  tofcemistic 
habit  which  made  the  people  of  three  differ- 
ent districts  abstain  from  three  different  fish — 
lepidolus,  pTiagrus,  and  0Tyrhyncu9^y99A  ac- 
counted for  by  the  legend  that  these  fish  had  de- 
voured the  missing  portion  of  the  hero's  body. 

So  far  the  power  of  evil,  the  black  swine 
Typhon,  had  been  triumphant.  But  the 
blood-feud  was  handed  on  to  Horus,  son  of 
IbIs  and  Osiris.  To  qmr  Horus  on  to  battle, 
Osiris  returned  from  the  dead,  like  Hamlet's 
father    But  as  is  usual  with  the  ghosts  of 


savage  myth,  Osiris  returned,  not  in  human 
but  in  tlie  bestial  form,  as  a  wolf.  Horus  was 
victorious  iu  the  war  which  followed,  and 
handed  Typhon  over  bound  in  chains  to  Isis. 
Unluckily  Isis  let  him  go  free,  whereon  Horus 
pushed  off  her  crown  and  placed  a  bull's  skull 
on  her  head.  There  Plutarch  ends,  but  he 
expressly  declines  to  tell  the  more  blasphe- 
mous parts  of  the  story,  such  as  "the  dis- 
memberment of  Horus  and  the  beheading  ol 
Isis."  Why  these  myths  should  be  consid- 
ered '*  more  blasphemous"  than  the  rest  does 
not  appear. 

It  will  probably  be  admitted  that  nothing 
in  this  sacred  story  would  seem  out  of  place 
if  we  found  it  in  the  legends  of  Pundjel,  or 
Cagn,  or  Yehl,  among  Austrnlians,  Bushmen, 
or  Utes,  whose  own  **  culture  hero,"  like  the 
ghost  of  Osiris,  was  a  wolf.  The  dismember- 
ing of  Osiris  in  particular  resembles  the  dis- 
membering of  many  other  heroes  in  American 
mjrth;  for  example,  of  Chokanipok,  out  of 
whom  were  made  vines  and  flint-stoiies.  Ob- 
jects in  the  mineral  and  vegetable  world' were 
explained  in  Egypt  as  transformed  parts,  or 
humors,  of  Osiris,  Typhon,  and  other  heroes. 

Once  more,  though  the  Egyptian  gods  are 
buried  here,  and  are  ioimortal  iu  heaven,  they 
have  also,  like  the  heroes  of  Eskimo  and 
Australians,  and  Indians  of  the  Amazon,  been 
transformed  into  stars,  and  the  priests  could 
tell  which  star  was  Osiris,  which  was  Isis,  and 
which  was  Typhon.  Such  are  tlie  wild  incon- 
sistencies which  Eg3'ptian  religion  shares  with 
the  fables  of  the  lower  races.  In  view  df 
these  facts  it  is  diificult  to  agree  with  Brugsch 
that  "from  the  root  and  trunk  of  a  pure  con- 
ception of  diety  spring  the  bough  and  twigs 
of  a  tree  of  mytJi,  whose  leaves  spread  into  a 
rank  impenetrable  luxuriance."  Stories  like 
the  Osiris  myth,  stories  found  all  over  the 
whole  world,  spring  from  no  pure  religiouB 
source,  but  embody  the  delusions  and  fantastic 
dreams  of  the  lowest  and  least  developed 
human  fancy  and  human  speculation. 

The  references  to  the  myth  in  papyri  and 
on  the  monuments,  though  ol)scure  and  frag- 
mentary, confirm  the  narrative  of  Plutarch. 
The  coffer  in  which  Osiris  foolishly  ventured 
himself  seems  to  be  alluded  to  in  the  Hairis 


64 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


Magical  Papyms.  "Get  made  for  me  a  shrine 
of  eight  cubits.  Then  it  was  told  to  thee, 
O  man  of  seven  cubits,  how  canst  thou  enter 
it?  And  it  has  been  made  for  thee,  and  thou 
has  reposed  in  it."  Here,  too,  Isis  magical- 
ly stops  the  mouths  of  the  Nile,  perhaps  to 
prevent  the  coffer  from  floating  out  to  sea. 
More  to  the  point  is  one  of  tlie  original  "Osirian 
hymns"  mentioned  by  Plutarch.  The  hymn  is 
on  a  stele,  and  is  attributed  by  M.  Chabas,  the 
translator,  to  the  seventeenth  century.  Osiris 
is  addressed  as  the  ioy  and  glory  of  his 
parents,  Seb  and  Nou,  who  overcomes  his 
enemy.  His  sister,  Isis,  accords  to  him  due 
funeral  rites  after  his  death,  and  routs  his 
foes.  Without  ceasing,  without  resting,  she 
sought  his  dead  body,  and  wailing  did  she 
wander  round  the  world,  nor  stopped  till  she 
found  him.  Light  flashed  from  her  feathers. 
He  rus,  her  son,  is  king  of  the  world. 

Such  is  a  precis  of  the  mythical  part  of  the 
hymn.  The  rest  regards  Osiris  in  his  religious 
capacity  as  a  sovereign  of  nature,  and  is  the 
guide  and  protector  of  the  dead.  The  hymn 
corrobates,  as  far  as  it  goes,  the  narrative  of 
Plutarch,  two  thousand  years  later.  Similar 
confirmation  is  given  by  **The  Lamentations  of 
Isis  and  Nepthys,"  a  papyrus  found  within  a 
the  statue  of  Osiris,  in  Thebes.  The  sisters 
.  wail  for  the  dead  hero,  and  implore  him  to 
'  'come  to  his  own  abode. "  The  theory  of  the 
birth  of  Horus,  here,  is  that  he  was  formed 
out  of  the  scattered  members  of  Osiris,  an 
hypothesis,  cf  course,  inconsistent  with  the 
other  myths  (especially  with  the  myih  that  he 
dived  for  the  members  of  Osiris,  in  the  shape 
of  a  crocodile),  and,  therefore,,  all  the  more 
mythical.  On  the  sarcophagus  of  Seti  the 
First  (now  in  the  Soane  Museum),  among  pic- 
tures and  legends  descriptive  of  the  soul's 
voyage  after  death,  there  is  a  design  of  a 
mummy.  Behind  it  comes  a  boat  manned  by 
a  monkey,  who  drives  away  a  pig  called  "the 
devourer  of  the  body,"  referring  to  Typhon  as 
a  swine,  and  to  the  disemberment  of  Osiris 
and  Horus.  The  "Book  of  Respirations," 
finally,  contains  the  magical  songs  by  which 
Isis  was  feigned  to  have  restored  breath  and 
life  to  Osiris.  In  the  representations  of  the 
▼engeaace  and  triumph  of   Horus,  on  the 


temple  walls  of  Edfou,  in  the  Ptolemaic 
period,  Horus,  accompanied  by  Isis,  not  only 
chains  up  and  pierces  the  red  hippopotamus 
(or  pig  in  some  designs),  who  is  Set,  but,  ex- 
ercising reprisals,  cuts  him  into  pieces  as  Set 
cut  Osiris.  Isis  instructs  Osiris  as  to  the  jwr- 
tion  which  properly  falls  lo  each  of  nine  gods. 
Isis  reserves  his  head  and  "saddle,"  Osiris 
gets  the  thigh,  the  bones  are  given  to  the  cats. 
As  each  god  bad  his  local  habitation  in  a  givcB 
town,  there  is  doubtless  reference  to  local 
myths.  At  Edfou  also  the  animal  of  Set  is 
sacrificed  symbolically,  in  his  image  made  of 
paste,  a  common  practice  in  ancient  Mexico. 
Many  of  these  myths,  as  M.  Naville  remarks, 
are  doubtless  seHological — the  priests,  as  in 
the  Brahmanas,  told  them  to  account  for  pe- 
culiar parts  of  the  ritual,  and  to  explain 
strange  local  names.  Thus  the  names  of  many 
places  are  explained  by  myths  setting  forth 
that  they  commemorate  some  event  in  the  cam  - 
paign  of  Horus  against  Set.  In  precisely  the 
same  way  the  local  superstitions,  originally 
totemic,  about  various  animals,  were  explained 
by  myths  attaching  these  animal  to  the  legends 
of  the  gods.  If  the  myth  has  any  historical 
significance  it  may  refer  to  the  triumph  of  the 
religion  of  Horus  over  Semitic  belief  in  Set. 

Explanations  of  the  Osiris  myth,  thus  hand- 
ed down  to  us,  were  common  among  the  an 
cient  students  of  religion.  Plutarch  reports 
many  of  them  in  his  tract  De  Iside  et  Osiride. 
They  are  all  the  interpretations  of  civilized 
men,  whose  method  is  to  ask  themselves  "Now, 
if  /had  told  such  a  tale  as  this, for  m vented  such 
a  mystery  play  of  divine  misadventures,  what 
meaning  could  /have  intended  to  convey  in 
what  is  apparently  blasphemous  nonsense?" 
There  were  moral,  solar,  lunar,  cosmical, 
tellurian,  and  other  methods  of  accounting 
for  a  myth  which,  in  its  origin,  appears  to  be 
one  of  the  world  wide  early  legends  of  the 
strife  between  a  fabulous  good  being  and  Lis 
brother,  a  fabulous  evil  being.  Most  proba- 
bly gome  incidents  from  a  moon -myth  have 
also  crept  into,  or  from  the  first  made  part  of. 
the  tale  of  Osiris.  The  enmity  of  Typhon  to 
the  eyes  of  Horus,  which  he  extinguishes,  and 
which  are  restored,  haa  much  the  air  of  au 
early  mythical  attempt  to  explain  the  pheno 


EGYPTIAN  DIVINE  MYTHS. 


65 


mena  of  eclipses,  or  even  of  sunset.  We  can 
plainly  see  how  local  and  tribal  superstitions, 
according  to  which  this  or  that  beast,  fish,  or 
tree  was  held  sacred,  came  to  be  tagged  to  the 
general  body  of  the  myth.  This  or  that  lish 
was  not  to  be  eaten,  this  or  that  tree  was  holy; 
and  men  who  had  lost  the  true  explanation  of 
these  superstitions  explained  them  by  saying 
tliat  the  fish  had  tasted,  or  the  tree  had  shel- 
tered, the  mutilated  Osiris. 

Tills  view  ot  the  myth,  while  it  does  not  pre 
tend  to  account  for  every  detail,  refers  it  to  a 
larger  class  of  similar  narratives,  to  the  barbar- 
ous dualistic  legends  about  the  original  good 
and  bad  extra- natural  beings,  which  are  still 
found  current  among  contemporary  savages. 
Those  tales  are  the  natural  expression  of  the 
savage  fancy,  and  we  presume  that  the  myth 
survived  in  Egypt,  just  as  the  use  of  flint-head- 
ed arrows  and  flint  knives  survived  during  mil- 
lenniums in  which  bronze  and  iron  were  per- 
fectly familiar.  Tlic  cause  assigned  is  ade- 
quate, and  tbe  process  of  survival  is  verified. 

Whether  this  be  the  correct  theory  of  the 
fundamental  facts  of  the  myth  or  not,  it  is 
certain  that  the  myth  received  vast  practical 
and  religious  developments. .  Osiris  did  not 
remain  tbe  mere  culture-hero  of  whom  we 
have  read  the  story,  wounded  in  the  house  Of 
his  friends,  dismembered,  restored,  and  buri- 
ed, reappearing  as  a  wolf  or  bull,  or  translat- 
ed to  a  star.  His  worship  pervaded  the  whole 
of  Egypt,  and  his  name  grew  into  a  kind  of 
hieroglyph  for  all  that  is  divine. 

• 

"  The  Odrian  type.  In  its  long  evolntion,  ended  in 
being  the  eymbol  of  the  whole  deified  universe — under- 
world And  world  of  earth,  the  waters  above  and  the 
waters  below ;  it  is  Osiris  that  floods  I^ypt  in  the  Nile, 
and  that  clothes  her  with  the  growing  grain.  His  are 
Uie  sacred  eyes,  the  sun  that  is  bora  daily  and  meets  a 
daily  death,  the  moon  that  every  month  is  yonng  and 
waxes  old.  Osiris  is  the  soul  that  animates  these,  the 
■oal  that  vivifies  all  things,  and  all  things  are  but  his 
body.  He  is,  like  Ba  of  the  royal  tombs,  the  Sarth  and 
the  San,  the  Creator  and  the  Created.'' 

Such  is  the  splendid  sacred  vestment  which 
Egyptian  theology  wove  for  the  mangled  and 
massacred  hero  of  the  myth.  All  forces,  all 
powers,  were  finally  recognized  in  him;  he 
was  snn  and  moon*  and  the  Maker  of  all 
things;  he  was  the  Truth  and  the  Life,  in  him 


all  men  were  justified.  His  functions  as  a 
king  over  death  and  the  dead  find  their  scien- 
tific place  among  other  myths  of  the  homes  of 
the  departed.  M.  Lef  ebure  recognizes  in  the 
name  Osiris  the  meaning  of  **t]ie  infernal 
abode,"  or  *^the  nocturnal  residence  of  the 
sacred  eye,"  for,  in  the  duel  of  Set  and  Horus, 
he  sees  a  mythical  account  of  the  daily  setting 
of  the  sun.  "Orisis  himself,  the  sun  at  his 
setting,  became  a  center  round  which  the  other 
incidents  of  the  war  of  the  gods  gradually 
crystallized."  Osiris  is  also  the  earth.  It 
would  be  difficult  either  to  prove  or  disprove 
this  contention,  and  the  usual  divergency  of 
opuiion  as  to  the  meaning  and  etymology  of 
the  word  * 'Osiris"  has  always  prevailed. 
Plutarch  identifies  Osiris  with  Hades;  "both," 
says  M.  Lef  ebure,  "originally  meant  the  dwell- 
ings— and  came  to  mean  the  god—  of  the  deatl. " 
In  the  same  spirit  Anubis,  the  jackal  (a  beast 
still  degraded  as  s  ghost  by  the  Egyptians),  is 
explained  as  "the  circle  of  the  horizon." 
or  "the  portal  of  the  land  of  darkness,"  the 
gate  kept,  as  Homer  would  say,  by  Hades,  the 
mighty  warden.  Whether  it  is  more  natural 
that  men  should  represent  the  circle  of  the 
horizon  as  a  jackal,  or  tliat  a  jackal  totem 
should  siurvive  as  a  god,  mythologists  will 
decide  for  themselves.  The  jackal,  by  a  myth 
that  cannot  be  called  pious,  was  said  to  have 
eaten  his  father,  Osiris.  Thus,  throughout  the 
whole  realm  of  Egyptian  myths,  when  we  find 
bSists-gods,  blasphemous  fables,  apparent 
nature-myths,  such  ajs  are  familiar  in  Aus- 
tralia, South  Africa,  or  amon  j  the  Eskimo, 
we  may  suppose  that  thes''.  are  survivals,  or 
we  may  imagine  that  they  are  the  sjrmbols  of 
nobler  ideas  deemed  appropriate  by  priestly 
fancy.  Thus  the  hieroglyphic  nam6  of  Ptah, 
for  examples,  show  a  little  figure  carrying 
something  heavy  on  his  head,  and  this  denotes 
"him  who  raised  the  heaven  above  the  earth. " 
But  is  this  image  derived  from  un  paint  de 
vae  philo9ophiqu€,  or  is  it  borrowed  from  a  . 
tale  like  that  of  the  Maori  Tutenganaltau,  who 
first  severed  heaven  and  earth?  The  most  . 
enthusiastic  anthropologist  must  admit  that, 
among  a  race  wihch  constantly  used  a  kind  oi  : 


66 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


picture- writing,  symbols  of  noble  ideas  might 
be  represented  in  the  coarsest  concrete  forms, 
as  of  animals  and  monsters.  The  most  devoted 
believer  in  symbolism,  on  the  other  hand, 
ought  to  be  aware  that  most  of  the  phenomena 
which  he  explains  as  symbolic  are  plain  mat- 
ters of  fact,  or  supposed  fetct,  among  hundreds 
of  the  lower  peoples.  However,  Egyptolo- 
gists are  seldom  students  of  the  lower  races 
and  their  religions. 

The  hypothesis  maintained  hcrie  is  that  most 
of  the  Egyptian  gods  (theriomorphic  in  their 
earliest  shapes),  and  that  certain  of  the  myths 
about  these  gods,  are  a  heritage  derived  from 
the  savage  condition.  It  is  beyond  doubt  that 
the  Egyj)  ian  gods,  whom  Plutarch  would 
not  call  gods;  but  demons,  do  strangely 
resemble  the  extra-natural  beings  of  Hotten- 
tots, Iroquois,  Austral i&ns,  and  Bushmen. 
Isifi,  Osiris,  Anubis  do  assuihe  animal  shapes  at 
will,  or  are  actually  animals  sans  phra9e.  They 
do  deal  in  magical  powers.  They  do  herd 
with  ghosts.  They  are  wounded,  and  man- 
gled, and  die,  and  commit  adulteries,  rapes, 
incests,  fratricides,  muniers;  and  are  changed 
into  stars.  These  coincidences  l)etween  Cah- 
roc  and  Thlinkeet  and  Piute  faiths  on  one  side, 
and  Egyptian  on  the  other,  cannot  be  blinked. 
Tiiey  must  spring  from  one  identical  mental 
condition.  Now,  either  the  points  in  Egyp- 
tian myth  which  wo  hive  just  mentioned  are 
derived  from  mental  condition  like  that  %f 
Piiitcs.  Thlinkeets,  and  Calirocs,  or  the  myths 
of  Thlinkeets,  Cahrocs,  or  Piutcs  are  derived 
from  a  mental  condition  like  that  of  the 
Egyptians.  But  where  is  the  proof  that  the 
lower  races  ever  possessed  "the  wisdom  of  the 
Egyptians,"  and  their  spendld  and  durable 
civilization? — Andre^  Las^q,  in  The  Isine- 
teenifi  Century. 


MAN-EATING  TIGERS. 

Were  it  not  for  the  presence  of  civilized 
man,  with  his  flocks  and  herds,  a  tiger  could 
never  reach  old  age.  Its  stiffening  or  rather 
failing  limbs  would  no  longer  enable  it  to 
captuxe  the  deer  and  other  active  animals 


which  are  its  natural  prey,  nor  could  its 
blunted  teeth  tear  the  dead  carcass  in  piecea. 
It  would  become  more  and  more  feeble,  and 
in  the  course  of  nature  would  creep  to  soDie 
retired  spot,  and  there  breathe  its  last.  But 
;  the  presence  of  civilized  man  gives  it  a  longer 
lease  of  life.  For  some  time  it  can  haunt  the 
outskirts  of  the  villages,  picking  up  a  stray 
ox  or  goat,  and  so  sustaining  life.  As  the 
infirmities  of  age  make  themselves  felt,  even 
so  shght  an  exertion  becomes  too  burdensome, 
and  the  animal  finds  that  an  old  woman  or  a 
child  that  has  strayed  from  the  shelter  of  the 
house  is  a  still  easier  prey.  When  once  estab- 
lished in  either  of  these  stages  of  artificial  life, 
the  tiger  becomes  the  most  terrible  foe  that 
the  mind  of  man  can  conceive.  In  the  graphic 
language  of  Colonel  W.  Campbell:  . 

**A  confirmed  man-^atcr  always  larks  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  villages,  or  close  to  some  well-frequented 
road,  and  rarely  preys  upon  any  other  animal  bnt  man. 
When  a  tiger  thuB  quarters  himself  almost  at  the 
doors  of  the  inhabitants  a  curse  has  indeed  faUen 
upon  them.  '  The  ryots  cannot  cultivate  their  fields 
but  at  the  risk  of  their  lives.  The  women  dare  not 
fetch  water  from  the  well.  The  pcnecuted  laborers, 
returning  at  sunset  from  their  daily  toil,  may  be  ceen 
hurrying  along  with  headlong  t>pred,  and  uttering  lond 
yells  in  hope  of  scaring  tlieir  hidden  foe.  Peace  and 
security  are  banished  from  that  devoted  village.  Day 
after  day  some  member  of  the  little  community  disap- 
pears—the land  is  filled  with  mourning,  and  the  death- 
lament  comes  siwelling  on  the  evening  breeze,  instead 
of  the  gay  notes  of  the  zittar  and  the  merry  laugh  of 
light-hearted  maidens.  The  destroying  fiend  revels  in 
blood,  and  becomes  daily  more  open  in  his  attacks."' 

In  one  district  only,  that  of  Kandeish,  the 
officer  in  command  reported  that  during  his 
four  years'  tenure  of  the  post  the  tigers  killed 
annually  an  average  of  ninety  human  beings 
and  six  thousand  cattle.  An  old  man-eater 
develops  an  amount  of  cunning  which  is  sim- 
ply appalling.  It  never  remains  for  any 
length  of  time  in  one  place,  but  incessantly 
travels  from  one  village  to  another,  conceal- 
ing itself  with  the  utmost  art,  carrying  off 
one  c^  the  inhabitants,  and  immediately 
making  its  way  to  some  distant  spot.  A 
single  tiger  has  been  known  to  paralyze  a  tri- 
angular district  of  some  forty  miles  in  extent. 

The -natives. feel  themselves  powerless,  and 
■all  that  they  can  thlak  of  is  to  offer  rice  to 
their  numerous  divinities.    Thdr  only  real 


MAN-EATING  TIGERS. 


67 


hope  Iks  in  the  European,  whom  they  despise 
and  abhor  as  an  unbeliever,  but  respect  for 
his  powers.-  Mounted  on  trained  elephants, 
and  guided  by  native  trackers,  mostly  belong- 
ing to  the  Bheel  tribe,  the  English  hunters 
first  discover  the  beast  in  its  hi^ang-place,  and 
then  destroy  it. 

A  remarkable  instance  of  the  cunning  of  an 
old  man-eater  is  narrated  by  Colonel  W. 
Campbell  in  his  Indian  Journal,  A  man-eat- 
ing tigress  had  been  tracked  for  four  days  by 
the  Bheels,  and  at  last  "harbored,"  as  stag- 
hunter  say,  in  a  small  thicket.  As  the  party 
approached  the  tigress  charged  them,  and 
then  retreated  to  the  thicket.  The  elephant 
was  taken  through  the  cover,  but  tlie  tigress 
had  slipped  out.  Guided  by  a  Bheel,  who 
walked  by  the  elephant's  side,  the  track  was 
followed  for  some  distance.  Making  a  circuit, 
it  led  back  to  the  thicket,  but  again  the  cover 
was  empty.  On  making  a  "cast"  to  discover 
tbe  lost  track,  a  fresh  footprint  of  a  tiger  was 
seen  over  that  of  the  olephant.  Again  a  cir- 
cuit was  made,  and  with  the  same  result. 
Completely  puzzled,  the  Bheel  was  about  to 
start  off  on  foot  in  search  of  the  track,  when 
one  of  the  hunters  happened  to  look  bock  and 
saw  the  tiger  crouching  behind  tlie  elephant, 
and  scarcely  visible.  The  crafty  animal 
had  been  creeping  after  the  elephant,  waiting 
for  an  opportunity  of  pouncing  on  the  Bheel 
as  soon  as  he  left  his  shelter.  Had  it  not  been 
for  the  casual  glance  by  which  the  position 
of  the  animal  was  detected  the  device  would 
have  been  successful.  As  it  was  the  hunter 
placed  a  bullet  between  her  eyes  as  she  was 
watching  the  Bheel,  whom  she  instinctively 
knew  to  be  the  real  element  of  danger  to  her. 

Comedy  and  tragedy  go  hand  in  hand  in 
these  hunts.  An  amusing  example  of  the 
former  is  given  by  the  same  traveler.  A 
tiger  had  been  wounded,  but  although  one  of 
its  hind  legs  was  broken  it  made  its  way  into 
a  patch  of  high  grass,  and  hid  there.  Guided 
by  the  Bheels,  the  elephant  entered  the  grass 
patdi  for  the  purpose  of  driving  out  the  tiger. 
The  cunning  animal  allowed  the  party  to 
pass,  and  then  sprang  at  one  of  the  Bheels,  "a 
little,  hairy,  bandy-legged  man,  more  like  a 
fiatyr  than  a  human    being."     The  Bheel 


dashed  at  the  nearest  tree,  and,  owing  to  the 
broken  leg  of  the  tiger,  was  able  climb  out  of 
reach.  Finding  himself  safe,  the  Bheel  *  'com- 
menced a  philippic  against  the  father,  mother, 
sisters,  aunts,  niec^,  and  children  of  his  help- 
less enemy,  who  sat  with  glaring  eyeballs  fixed 
on  his  contemptible  little  enemy,  and  roaring 
as  if  his  heart  would  break  with  rage. 

"Ab  the  excited  orator  warmed  by  his  own  eloquence 
he  began  skipping  from  branch  to  branch,  grinning 
and  chattering  with  the  emphasis  of  an  enraged 
baboon ;  poaring  ont  a  torrent  of  the  most  foul  abuse, 
and  attributing  to  the  tiger's  family  in  general,  and 
his  female  relatives  in  particular,  every  crime  and  atro- 
city that  ever  was  or  will  b<'  committj^.  Occasionally 
be  varied  his  insults  by  roaring  in  imitation  of  the 
tiger;  and  at  last  when  fairly  exhausted,  he  leaned 
forward  till  he  appeared  to  be  within  the  grasp  of  the 
enraged  animal,  and  ended  this  inimitable  scene  by 
spitting  in  his  face.*' 

Sometimes  the  tragic  element  prevails.  In 
one  of  these  too  numerous  instances  a  man- 
eater,  which  for  six  mouths  had  been  the 
terror  of  the  neighborhood,  had  been  •  traced 
down,  and  was  seen  to  creep  into  a  ravine. 
The  beaters  were  at  once  ordered  off,  as  they 
could  not  be  of  service,  and  might  be  charged 
by  the  tiger,  which  had  already  been  rendered 
furious  by  a  wound.  Unfortunately  these 
men  are  in  the  habit  of  half  intoxicating  them- 
selves with  opium  before  driving  the  tiger 
from  his  refuge,  and  one  of  them  who  hsfil 
taken  too  large  a  dose  refused  to  escape,  and 
challenged  the  tiger,  drawing  his  sword  and 
waving  it  defiantly.  In  a  moment  the  animal 
sprang  upon  him,  dashed  him  to  the  ground 
with  a  blow  of  his  paw,  and  turned  to  bay. 
After  a  series  of  desperate  charges  he  was 
killed.  The  hunters  then  weut  to  the  assist- 
ance of  the  wounded  man,  but  found  that  he 
was  past  all  aid;  the  lower  part  of  his  face,  in- 
cluding both  jaws,  having  been  carried  away 
as  if  by  a  cannon-ball. 

Theterrific  effect  of  the  single  blow  indi- 
cates the  power  of  the  limb  which  struck  it. 
Had  the  blow  taken  effect  a  few  inches  higher 
the  whole  of  the  head  would  have  been  carried 
away.  By  a  similar  blow  a  tiger  has  been 
known  to  crush  the  skull  of  an  ox  so  com- 
pletely, that  when  handled  the  broken  bones 
felt  as  if  they  were  loose  in  a  bag.  The  won- 
I  der  at  this  terrific  strength  diminishes  when 


e8 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


the  limb  is  measured.'  The  tiger  which  killed 
the  foolhardy  man  was  by  no  means  a  large 
one,  measuring  nine  feet  five  inches  from  the 
nose  to  the  tip  of  the  tail;  yet  the  girth  of  the 
forearm  was  ttoo  feet  seven  inches.  The  cor- 
responding limb  of  a  very  powerful  man 
scarcely  exceeds  a  foot  in  circumference. 

Not  until  it  becomes  a  man-eater  is  the  tiger 
much  dreaded,  especially  in  the  case  of  those 
natives  who  do  not  possess  flocks  or  herds. 
Indeed,  when  an  Englishman  has  offered  to 
kill  a  tiger  whose  lair  was  well  known,  he  has 
been  requested  not  to  do  so,  as  the  tiger  did 
no  harm,  and  killed  so  many  deer  that  it  sup- 
plied the  neighbors  with  meat.  The  tigress  is 
much  more  to  be  dreaded  as  a  man-eater  than 
the  male  animal.  Should  she  happen  to  have 
cubs  it  is  necessary  to  kill  the  entire  family, 
as  the  young  ones  have  been  accustomed 
from  the  first  to  feed  on  human  flesh,  and 
begin,  instead  of  ending,  by  being  man-eaters. 
—Rev.  J.  G>WooD,  in  Good  Words. 


A  MONTH  IN  SEARCH  OF  WORK. 

Atig.  9,  1886.— I  left  London  and  walked  to 
to  Luton,  thirty  miles. 

Aug.  10. — Inquired  at  foundries  next  morn 
ing,  but  was  told  that  they  had  no  work  for 
their  own  men,  and  then  walked  on  to  Bed- 
ford and  received  the  same  answer  as  at  Luton, 
and  being  very  short  of  money  began  to  think 
of  returning,  but  was  told  I  might  get  work  at 
Northampton,  so  walked  on  to  Northampton, 
and  found  on  arriving  there  that  my  funds 
amounted  to  10^.,  after  having  only  one  meal 
that  day. 

Aug.  11. — Inquired  at  the  foundry  next 
morning,  but  found  that  they  did  not  want 
any  hands,  so  I  determined  to  walk  on  to  Bir- 
mingham, and  having  no  money  walked  on  all 
night. 

Aiig.  12. — Arriving  in  Birmingham  quite 
wet.  I  went  to  the  Free  Library  to  see  the 
papers,  but  found  no  places  vacant,  that  would 
suit  me,  so  made  inquiries  in  town  as  to  trade, 
but  was  told  that  trade  was  as  bad  as  it  had 
been  for  the  last  three  years,  and  now  that  my 


money  was  all  gone,  and  having  no  food  all 
day,  I  began  to  look  around  for  the  means  of 
a  night  shelter,  but  could  only  raise  2^.,  so  I 
slept  in  an  unfinished  building  till  morning. 

Aug.  1&-17. — Being  determined  to  find  work 
if  possible  I  stayed  in  the  town  for  five  days, 
being  without  food  for  two  days,  and  sleeping 
in  an  outhouse  three  nights,  living  during  tliat 
time  on  a  few  pieces  of  bread  that  I  begged. 

Aug.  18. — Seeing  that  there  was  no  work  to 
be  had  in  Birmingham,  I  then  went  to  Burton- 
on -Trent,  and  there  I  Ijad  a  shilling  given  to 
me  by  some  men  at  the  foundry,  and  one  of 
them  took  me  to  a  house  and  paid  for  my  bed, 
so  tiiat  I  had  a  good  supper  and  brcakfnst. 

Aug.  19. — I  then  walked  to  Derby,  but  found 
that  they  were  as  short  of  work  there  as  any- 
where else. 

Atig.  20. — I  spent  the  last  fourpence  for  a 
bed,  and  got  up  at  five  o'clock  the  next  morn- 
ing and  walked  to  Shefiield,  tliirty-six  miles. 
I  arrived  at  Sheffield  tired  and  wet,  for  it  rain- 
ed nearly  all  day.  I  went  to  a  mechanic  that 
I  knew,  and  he  gave  me  something  to  eat  and 
sixpence  for  my  lodgings. 

Aug.  21. — The  next  day  I  was  all  over  the 
town  looking  for  work,  but  could  not  succeed. 
I  had  nothing  to  eat  that  day.  I  then  went 
into  several  public-houses  and  begged  enough 
money  for  my  lodgings. 

Aug.  22-25. — I  stayed  in  Sheffield  four  days, 
and  went  all  around  the  district^  Rotherham, 
Parkgate,  and  Masborough.  I  was  then  sent 
to  a  large  colliery  owner,  and  he  gave  me  a 
letter  to  a  large  engine  works,  but  the  answer 
I  got  was  that  there  were  not  half  their  own 
men  at  work ;  but  the  manager  kindly  gave 
me  a  shilling,  which  found  me  two  good  meals 
and  a  bed. 

Aug.  26. — Seeing  that  I  could  not  ^t  work 
in  Sheffield  I  went  on  to  Nottingham — thirty- 
eight  miles— having  made  my  mind  up  to  come 
back  to  London.  After  walking  twelve  mile.s 
to  Chesterfield,  I  began  to  feel  very  hungry-. 
I  wcDt  into  a  field  about  two  miles  out  of  the 
town,  and  took  two  small  turnips  and  ate  them, 
and  then  went  on  to  Nottingham. 

Au^.  27-30. -Arriving  in  Nottingham,  I  went 
to  a  minister  that  I  knew  previously  in  Lon- 
don, and  he  very  kindly  gave  me  a  letter  to  a 


A  PERTINENT  QUESTION  ANSAVERED. 


69 


coffee  house  for  food  and  bed  for  two  days. 
Having  worked  in  Nottingham,  I  knew  the 
town  very  well,  and  I  asked  at  nearly  at  all 
tne  works,  hut  there  was  no  work  for  no  one. 
At  one  factory  where  I  had  work  at  before 
there  had  used  to  be  from  eighty  to  a  hundred 
bauds  employed,  but  now  there  aie  ouly 
scveu,  and  they  are  making  about  twenty 
sevp.u  hours  a  week.  I  thftn  stayed  in  the  town 
to  days  longer  but  could  get  nothing  to  do,  and 
hud  only  6fd.  for  the  hist  two  days. 

Aii{j,  31. — I  thought  I  would  try  Leicester.  I 
reached  ther-i  abcnit  eight  o'clock;  and  being 
regularly  worn  out  I  did  not  ktrow  where  to 
<^>,  .so' I  rested  myself  outside  the  town  and 
then  went  and  slept  under  a  hayrick  till  morn- 
ing, and  theii  walked  back  into  town,  after 
trying  hard  all  day  to  get  work.  I  saw  a  load 
of  coals  that  wanted  putting  into  a  cellar.  I 
went  and  asked  for  the  job,  and  was  offered 
8^.  to  put  them  down  the  cellar,  which  I  ac- 
cepted, and  so  I  had  something  to  eat  and  an- 
other night's  shelter. 

Sept.  1. — ^Next  morning,  seeing^  there  was 
no  chance  of  work  in  Leicester,  I  walked  to 
Coventry,  eating  on  the  road  a  few  blackber- 
ries from  the  hedges.  I  got  to  Coventry  about 
seven  o'clock,  and  sold  two  pairs  of  socks  and 
a  shirt  for  ninepence,  and  went  to  bed  "with 
threepence  in  my  pocket.  The  next  morning 
went  to  all  the  bicycle  works,  but  found  that 
they  were  more  likely  to  discharge  the  work- 
men than  take  any  more  hands  on.  Having 
spent  the  threepence  left  from  morning,  I  was 
compelled  to  beg  again,  and,  having  got  a  few 
pence,  I  walked  on  to  Rugby  and  slept  there. 

Sept.  2. — I  then  walked  to  Northampton 
again,  andthcre  sold  my  waist  coat  for  a  shil- 
ling; after  getting  tea  and  bread  and  IJutter  1 
went  to  bed. 

Sept.  8. — I  tried  the  trwn  again  for  work,  but 
could  get  none,  so  I  started  on  my  way  for 
London,  which  I  reached  after  walking  two 
days  and  two  nights  without  having  anything 
but  water  and  blackberries.  And'  I  can 
only  say  that  my  experiences  tell  me  that 
there  are  fully  six-tenths  of  the  working 
classes  out  of  employment  in  England.  I  have 
only  to  say  that  I  should  be  glad  to  get  work 
at  ;£!  a  week,  although  I  should  be  cbndemn- 


ed  by  my  fellow-workmen  if  they  knew  it. — 
A  Mech  r:Kic,  in  The  Pall  Mall  Gazette, 


A  PERTINENT  QUESTION  ANSWERED. 

The  following  correspondence  xvill  speak 
for  itself: 

I.   INQUrRT. 

Canton,  Ohio,  Oct.  11th,  1886. 

Bear  Sir: — It  is  a  general  complaint  that 
very  few  of  our  young  men  graduate  frum  our 
public  High  Schools — very  few  in  compaiison 
with  the  number  of  young  ladies  who  graduate. 
It  is  believed  that  the  proportion  is  not  alx)ve 
one  to  four  throughout  the  state.  Demand 
for  explanation  is  usually  met  by  a  statement 
that  the  worldly  circumstances  of  parents  re- 
quire the  personal  services  and  earnings  of  their 
boys  a  an  early  age.  But  the  fact  is,  that  very 
few  of  the  boys  of  professional  men,  merchants 
and  others  in  favorable  and  easy  circumstaucea 
remain  to  graduate,  while  the  sons  of  poor 
men  frequently  do  so.  Inquiry  among  parents 
whose  boys  have  left  school  before  graduation 
leads  to  the  belief  that  in  most  cases  the  discon 
tinuancc  has  been  against  the  wishes  of  the 
parents  and  notwitlistanding  the  cai'nest  desire 
of  the  parents,  that  they  should  remain  and 
graduate.  The  worldly  circumstarfces  of  the 
parents  cannot  be  relied  on  as  the  true  reason 
for  this  condition  of  affairs. 

Another  reason  has  been  given,.  It  is,  that 
the  boy  has  taken  an  aversion  to  school  and 
school  work  from  the  sting  of  ignominy  inflict- 
ed on  him,  from  the  age  of  from  ten  to  four- 
teen years,  by  cruel  corporal  punishments  in- 
flicted on  him.  It  is  believed  by  some  who  have 
given  this  subject  thought,  that  great  harm  is 
being  done  to  our  educational  system  by  the 
toleration  of  excessive  coqDoral  punishments 
on  boys  in  school;  that  the  practice  is  an  evil 
one,  and  has  an  inherent  tendency  to  abuse; 
that  by  its  imposition  the  teachers  become 
cruel  and  heartless,  and  the  boys  sidlen  and 
revengeful;  that  it  breaks  down  their  self- 
respect,  stultifies  their  budding  manhood,  and 
mids:es  the  school  where  it  is  inflicted  distaste- 


70 


THE  LIBRAKY  MAGAZINE. 


f ul,  if  not  hateful  to  them,  and  they  seek 
every  excuse  to  be  free  from  its  disgraceful 
thraldom. 

Has  this  thought  ever  occurred  to  you  in 
connection  with  your  school  work?  You  are 
aware  that  as  men  we  consider  a  blow  as  a 
deep  indignity.  One  of  the  marked  distiuc 
tions  for  centuries  between  freemen  and 
slaves  has  been  that  a  freeman  may  not  be 
beaten  as  a  punishment.  The  more  refined 
and  advanced  the  state  of  civilization,  the 
deeper  and  more  humiliating  the  sense  of  in- 
dignity felt  from  the  infliction  of  blows.  May 
not  our  boys  have  feelings  and  sentiments  akin 
to  our  own?  Nay,  may  it  not  be,  that  many 
parents,  sympathizing  with  the  developing 
manhood  of  their  boys,  withdraw  them  trom 
schools  where  cruel  corporal  punishments  are 
tolerated?  A  desire  for  education  may  be  very 
strong  in  the  human  mind,  but  it  is  not  a 
moving  instinct  like  the  desire  to  satisfy  hun- 
ger. Wild  animals  will  seek  places  where 
foo  \  is  abundant;  but  tliey  will  shun,  if  they 
starve,  places  where  they  know  there  is  per- 
sonal danger,  though  food  there  may  be  ever 
so  abundant  and  desirable.  Are  our  boys 
driven  from  school  before  graduation  by  the 
ignominy,  or  the  dread  of  the  ignominy,  of 
personal  violence  at  the  hands  of  their  teach 
ers? 

May  I  hope  that  this  subject  will  receive 
careful  consideration,  and  that  I  may  have  at 
the  earliest  practicable  moment  your  views 
as  fully  as  possible?    A  waiting  which  I  am, 

Very  respectfully  yours, 

James  J.  Clakk, 

Member  of  Canton  School  Board. 


J  n.  REPLY. 

Hamilton,  O.,  Oct.  15th,  1886. 

Dear  Sir: — In  answer  to  your  courteous  let 
ter  of  inquiry  I  wish  to  state  that  the  fact, 
the  causes  of  which  you  desire  to  investigate, 
is  correct.  Though  we  find  that  the  number 
of  boy  graduates  as  compared  with  that  of  the 
girls  in  our  city  is  more  than  one-third,  this 
does  not  materially  alter  the  aspect  of  the  case. 
I  agree  with  you  that  the  argument  concerning 


the  worldly  circumstances  of  parents  cannot 
stand,  inasmuch  ar.  it  is  not  upheld  by  facts 
sufficient  in  number  to  make  them  of  weight. 
Again  I  agree,  that  abridgment  of  the  course 
by  voluntary  "quituation"  is  hardly  ever  in  ac- 
cord with  the  parents'  desires.  Certainly  there 
must  be  other  reasons  for  the  undue  pro- 
portion of  female  graduates  over  male  gradu- 
ates. 

Now  you  attribute  the  above  fact  to  the 
toleration  or  let  me  say,  to  the  application  of 
cruel  corporal  punishment  at  the  hands  of  Uio 
teachers  in  the  age  from  ten  to  fourteen  years. 
You  reason  well,  you  reason  admirably,  and 
I  agree  that  this  explains,  if  not  many,  cer- 
tainly some,  cases  of  early  withdrawal  from 
school;  but  permit  me  to  say  in  all  candor  that 
you  a  e  playing  on  a  harp  with  one  string.  In 
the  first  place,  corporal  punishment  is  not  prev- 
alent enough,  as  far  as  my  extended  expe- 
rience goes,  to  be  so  potent  a  factor  in  the  case 
under  discussion.  Moreover,  boys  who  man- 
age to  get  cruelly  beaten  (I  am  speaking  ad- 
visedly just  now,  and,  as  I  believe,  with  the 
proper  choice  of  terms)  are  of  a  type  who  nevei 
enter  a  high  school  and  certainly  never  gradu 
ate.  But,  sir,  your  argument  as  to  the  de- 
grading influence  of  corporal  punishment, 
both  upon  pupils  and  teachers,  is  heartily 
commendable. 

Personally  and  in  my  ofilcial  capacity  I 
regard  only  two  offences  corporally  punisha- 
ble. According  to  tlie  educational  rule  that 
punishment  should  be  in  strict  accordance 
with  the  offence  I  believ^e  corporal  punishment 
in  place,  where  a  flagrant  case  of  cruelty, 
either  to  animals  or  schoolmates,  etc.,  is  to 
be  dealt  with,  because  bodily  pain  is  the 
proper  remedy  in  that  case;  and  secondly,  in 
the  case  of  open  and  violent  resistance  to  au- 
thority, for  we  must  ^:>u  forget,  that  the 
school  is  not  a  repub*ic.  and  that  the  teacher 
is  to  be  queen  of  the  hive,  or  leader  of  the 
class.  For  every  other  offence,  be  it  against 
truth,  order,  honesty,  decency,  or  whatever 
else,  corporal  punishment  is  improper;  more- 
over, since  it  acts  like  opium,  if  indulged  in  a 
few  times  it  causes  a  craving  for  more;  j^ople 
become  accustomed  to  it  and  make  its  appli- 
cation a  habit. 


A  PERTINENT  QUESTION  ANSWERED. 


Now,  whether  my  limitation  of  corporal 
puniahinent  as  stated  finds  approval  or  not, 
this  much  will  be  granted  by  every  right 
thinking  person,  namely^  that  the  less  cor 
pora)  punishment  is  inflicted  the  higher  will 
be  the  type  of  the  school^  morally  and  Intel 
lectually;  also  that  in  some  cases,  as  you  most 
conrincingly  state  it.  boys  are  driven  from 
school  before  graduation  by  the  ignominy  of 
personal  violence  at  the  hands  of  the  teacher, 
or  even  by  the  dread  of  such  ignominy 

Permit  me  to  recapitulate:  first,  I  grant,  that 
in  a  few  cases  the  worldly  circiunstances 
cause  an  early  withdrawal  of  the  boys  from 
school.  And  second,  that  in  a  greater  num- 
ber of  cases  the  application  of  corporal  pun- 
ishment has  the  same  effect,  but  that  does  not 
adequately  explain  the  great  falling  off  in  the 
number  of  boys  who  try  to  acquire  a  higher 
education.  The  following  causes  will,  in  my 
humble  jtidgment,  explain  the  fact  under 
'discussion  better  than  the  two  contained  in 
your  letter  of  inquiry. 

I.  I  remind  you,  dear  sir,  of  the  fact  that 
in  this  country  manifold  opportunities  are 
(^ered  to  boys  at  an  early  age  to  earn,  if  not  a 
livelihood,  certainly  a  considerable  amount  of 
spending  and  pocket  money.  This  is  a 
temptation  which  is  not  held  out  in  many 
European  countries — a  temptation  to  which 
many  a  tolerably  good  boy  in  this  coimtry 
succumbs. 

II.  I  remind  you  of  this  other  fact,  that  the 
worship  of  the  self-made  man  in  this  country, 
though  deplorable  it  be,  tempts  the  bov  to  de*. 
spise,  as  his  father  is  likely  to  do,  systematic 
higher  education,  and  to  try  and  carve  out  his 
own  future.  In  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  a 
hundred  the  boy  fails,  and  speedily  anks  to 
the  bottom,  never  reaches  the  fame  of  the 
great  selt-made  man  and  Is  finally  found  on  a 
level  with  men  of  whom  thirteen  do  not  even 
makeaidozen.  But  the  fact  remains,  that  it 
is  a  {great  temptation.  College  bred  men  are 
quoted  below  par  in  this  country.  The  river 
cannot  rise  higher  than  its  source,  why  should 
the  boy  think  higher  education  necessary,  or 
even  desirable,  when  at  the  fireside,  in  the 
pi  ess,  from  the  pulpit  or  the  lecture- rostrum, 
on  the  stump,  at  the  bar,  in  fact  everywhere 


in  this  country,  the  fame  of  the  self  mnd?  man 
is  pi  Dclaimed. 

III.  Permit  me  to  call  your  attention  to  a 
third  fact  not  generally  known,  and  where 
known  not  infrequently  denied  for  reasons 
too  obvious  to  mention  and  too  coutcmptible 
to  combat.  It  is  this,  that  tlie  course  of  study, 
the  methods  of  teaching  and  the  mode  of 
training  in  the  higher  grades  of  tne  inter  medi- 
ate school,  as  well  as  in  the  high  school,  are 
designed  for  and  shaped  according  to  the 
needs  and  wants  of  the  girls  and  not  tlie  boys. 
While  I  grant  readily  and  cheerfully  that  the 
girls  have  the  right  to  the  same  amount  of 
education  which  the  boys  claim,  and  that  it  is 
our  solemn  duty  to  grant  it  to  them,  I  claim 
most  emphatically  (fully  aware  of  the  oppo- 
sition which  I  shall  call  forth  by  the  state- 
ment) that  the  two  sexes  from  twelve  years 
upward  need  a  different  method, of  acquiring 
that  amount,  or  in  other  word^,  need  a  differ 
ent  training.  I  cannot  go  into  details,  but  i 
should  covet  an  opportunity  to  ao  so  Sufilce 
it  to  say,  that  we  measure  the  steps  in  oui 
instruction  and  the  methods  of  procedure  by 
the  peculiar  combination  of  faculties  in  the 
girls,  just  as  a  father  measures  hi's  steps  by 
those  of  his  child  whom  he  takes  out  waL.ing. 
There  is  a  strong  desire  for  exertion  au.l  ap 
plication  of  his  powei?)  in  the  boy  which  is 
not  complied  with  at  this  age  in.  the  schools  as 
they  are  He  is  repressed*  aad  made  to  pro 
gress  as.the  :girU  da  He  sits  side  by  side 
with  them,  they- are  held  up  to  him  as  exam 
pies  whose  frailty  he  in  his  physically  robust 
nature  despises  Moreover  in  many  cases  he 
Jias  not  even  a  male  example  in  his  teacher* 
if  be  is  a  weak  ^character  he  becomes  effemi 
nate,  if  he  is  a  strong-  character  he  is  soon 
fined  with  disgust  and  quits  school  to  find  a 
better  opportunity  for  exertion  of  those  pow- 
ers which  find  no  satisfaction  in  a  girl»'  school. 
I  know,  dear  sir,  this  will  be  considered  rank 
heres}/^  among  ..many  educational  leaders  in 
this  counUy;  but  it  is  my  convictioA.  and  I 
have  the  courage  of  my  convictioni  V>  utter  it. 
Do^  not  be  deceived  by  the  tlitnsy  argument 
that  the  girls  are  making  more  rapid  progress 
[  than  the  boys;  they  are  merely  passive  recipi- 
ents x)f  knjc>.wledg^,:  while  &  bo^  can  argue 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


himself  into  knowledge  when  he  has  a  male 
teacher  who  is  ready  to  indiilge  him  in  that. 
Tlie  very  presence  of  girls,  however,  debars 
him  from  that  iu  a  girls'  school,  for  that  is 
what  most  of  our  high  schools  are.  Where 
boys  and  girls  arc  separated  in  different  build 
iugs  usually  a  greater  number  of  boys  gradu- 
ate annually.  This  confirms  the  cause  afore- 
said. 

IV  As  I  stated  above,  the  undue  propor- 
tion of  female  teachers  over  male  teachers  is 
to  be  counted  in,  when  we  look  for  the  causes 
of  the  early  withdrawal  from  school  on  the 
part  of  the  boys.  Boys  must  have  examples 
of  manliness,  of  man's  thoughts,  of  man's 
ways  of  acting,  of  man's  motives,  of  man's 
will  power  and  general  conduct  at  the  critical 
age  of  fourteen  to  eighteen;  and  instinctively 
feeling  this,  they  seek  it  outside  of  school. 
But  1  have  sufficiently  emphasized  this  under 
HI.  not  to  dwell' upon  it  at  length. 

Pardon  the  voluminousness  of  this  reply, 
but  of  what  the  heart  is  full  the  mouth  will 
flow  over. 

Yours  very  respectfully, 

L.  R.  KiiEMM, 
Supt.  of  Public  Schools. 


.     CURRENT  THOUGHT. 

Wa«hinoton'8  SiONATUiiB.— "Dr.  Pcrelfor  Frajcer,'* 
1^8  Science^  ''reccDtly  pablifiihed  in  the  proceedings  of 
the  American  Philosophical  Society  a  paper  on  Com- 
posite Photography  as  applied  to  handwriting.  George 
Washington's  signature  was  one  of  the  first  to  suggest 
itself  for  the  purpose,  becanse  many  persons  were 
familiar  with  it,  and  there  are  numerous  well-authen- 
ticated documents  in  existence  which  bear  it-^As  in 
every  thing  else,  Washington  was  deliberate,  pains- 
taking, and  uniform  in  his  method  of  writing  his  sig- 
nature, and  the  consequence  is  that  it  makes  an  ex- 
cellent composite  for  illustration. 

"In  writing  his  signature,  Washington  put  pen  to 

the  paper  five  times.    First  he  ^rote  the  G  FT  in  one 

connected  line.  Second,  he  raised  his  hand  and  made 

the  small  o  betwjcn  the  upper  part  of  the  O  and  TT, 

.and  the  two  dots.    Third,  his  hand  and  arm  were 

.placed  in  position  to  write  -a»king-,  these  six  letters  oc 

<  copying  a  breath  of  almoet  exactly  1^  inches.    This  is 

■  &bont  as  much  of  the  arc  of  a  circle  (of  which  tbe  cen- 

r  ter  » tJie  elbow  pivoted  on  the  table)  as  one  with  a 

forearm  mi  average  length  can  caaee  to  coincide  with 

the  tangent,  or  the  straight  line  across  the  paper 

which  the  lower  parts  of  the  lettere  follow,  unless 

wuuoAl  ^rtCort   lie  made,  and  a  great   deal  mcie 


movement  be  given  to  the  fingers.  The  g 
end««  in  a  curved  flotirlsh,  of  which  the  convex 
side  is  turned  upward  below  the  right  center  of  tbe 
name.  Fourth,  he  wrote,  tbe  final  -ton.  Fifth,  he  added 
the  very  peculiar  flourish  above  the  right  center  of  Ihe 
name,  with  the  object  of  dotting  the  i  and  crossing  the 
t  at  the  same  stroke. 

**It  is  hardly  possible  that  any  one,  during  the  period 
of  Bixteen  years  which  these  signatures  represent,  or 
from  1776  to  17S2,  should  have  so  schooled  his  hand  to 
write  a  long  name  that  the  first  inch  or  so  of  the  writ- 
ing should  always  occupy  the  same  relative  position  to 
the  body  of  the  signature.  It  would  take  at  least  that 
much  action  for  the  hand  and  arm  and  pen  to  be 
brought  into  normal  signature-writing  conditiOD  :  and 
e8];)ecially  is  this  so  when  this  part  of  the  wi  iring  is  ac- 
companied by  flourishes,  as  il  is  in  tbe  cape  we  are  con 
sidering.  The  O  >r,  and  the  little  o,.Bnd  the  dots  at 
the  top,  were  the  prelude,  after  which  the  arm  was 
moved  into  position  to  write  the  main  body  of  the  sig- 
nature, or  the  -ashing.  This  latter  is  the  part  of  the 
name  which  one  would  have  expected  to  exhibit  the 
greatest  amount  of  uniformityftat'  in  point  of  fact  it 
does,  with  the  exception  of  its  termihai  ^,  which  shows 
more  variation  than  any  of  the  other  letters,  becanse 
at  this  point  the  limit  of  coincidence  bctneen  the 
tangent  line  of  the  writing  and  tbe  curve,  of  which  the 
right  fore-arm  was  the  radius,  had  been  passed,  and  a 
freer  movement  of  the  fingers  was  compensating  for 
the  increasing  divergence.  It  is  likely  thnt  Washington 
sometimes^ raised  the  hand  between  the  end  of  the  long 
s  and  the  beginning  of  A,  but  he  does  not  appear  to 
have  moved  the  elbow.  Tlie  fourth  separate  act  of 
the  penman  was  the  formation  of  the  ton  after  a  aaove- 
ment  of  the  arm.  The  breadth  of  the  space  occupied 
by  these  three  letters  is  from  %  io  %  of  an  inch,  or 
considerably  within  the  range  of  coiucideuce  of  the 
curve  and  straight  line  before  referred  to. 

*'The  fifth  and  last  movement  was  the  flourish  which 
dots  the^  and  crosses  the  t  by  one  stroke.  This  was 
done  in  tbe  freest  of  free  hands ;  often,  as  it  seems 
probable,  without  resting  hand  or  arm  on  the  table  at 
all." 

Edgar  Pawcett.— Of  Mr.  Fawcett's  new  volume  of 
poems,  Romance  and  Severy^  the  Loudon  Athenatun 
says  :— 

**Mr.  Bdgar  Fawcctt  is  undoubtedly  one  of  the  mosi 
promising  of  the  younger  school  of  American  poets, 
and  his  latest  volume  is  comparatively  free  from  those 
affectations  and  eccentricities  which  seriously  inter 
fered  with  mnch  that  was  good  m  his  previous  works. 
The  most  important  poem  in  the  present  collection  is 
Tht  Magic  Flower.  The  story,  which  has  atftnities 
with  the  Holy  Grail,  is,  on  the  whole,  an  excellent 
piece  of  narration,  and  contains  passages  of  genuine 
imagination.  The  other  poems  in  the  volume,  though 
not  destitute  of  poetic  merit,  are  in  the  main  chiefly 
noticeable  for  their  grace  of  feeling,  while  at  the  same 
time  they  show  a  lack  of  any  sincere  passion  of  utter- 
ance. Mr.  Fawcett  seems  to  have  concentrated  h«s 
energies  on  his  Magk  Flower^  an  achievemeiil  ivi^b 
whicL  he  may  well  rest  contenL*^ 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  JEWS. 


7» 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  JEWS. 

SINCE  TUB  DESTRUCTION  OP  JERUSALEM.* 
IN  TWO  PARTS.— PART  I. 

Judaea  was  a  waste,  Jerusalem  was  a  heap  of 
ruins.      The  temple  had  been  consumed  by 
flames,  and  the  third  exile — the  European — 
began.     Directly  after  the  triumph  of  Titus, 
the  great  Council  of  the  Israelitish  Rabbins  was 
established  at  Tiberias,  in  Galilee.    The  school 
of  Scribes,  instituted  in  that  city,  soon  took  the 
place  of  that  temple,  whose  restoration  has 
never  ceased  to  be  the  object  of  their  hopes  and 
prayers.     The  celebrated  revolt  of  Bar-Cochba 
and  Aklba  sprung,  in  great  measure,  from 
thence.  Tiberiiis  had  become  a  kind  of  Jerusa- 
lem, vherc  the  so-called  Oral  Law  was  framed. 
The  first    idea   of   such   an  undertaking  is 
thought  by  many  to  have  originated  with  Rabbi 
Akiba,  who    was  flayed  alive  in  the    Bar- 
Cochba  revolt,  in  135.     But  universal  tradition 
attributes  lioth  the  plan  ana  its  accomplish- 
ment to  Uabbi  Judah,  the  Holy,  styled  also  the 
Xasi,  or  Prince,  tliat  is  to  say,  spiritual  head 
of  the  synagogues  in  that  country.     About  the 
year  a.  d.  190  he  completed  a  collection  of  all 
the  oral  or  traditional  laws,  called  the  Mishna. 
The  later  Kabbias  have  exhausted  their  in- 
genuity in   making  commentaries  upon,  and 
additions  to,  this  work.    The  whole  collection 
of    these   commentaries   is  named   Oemara. 
With  the  Mhhna,  its  text-book,  it  forms  the 
Talmuds.     Of  iheae  the  Jerusalem  Talmud  is 
prior  in  date,  having  been  completed  toward 
the  end    of  the  third    centurv   in    Palestine; 
while  the  Babylonian  Talmud,  compiled  in 
the  schools  of  Babylon  and  Persia,  takes  its 
date  from  the  year  500.    The  Talmud  is  not 
the  only  national  work  of  which  the  Jews,  dur- 
ing their  present  captivity,  can  boast.    Prom 
the  very  first  we  find  ranked  with  it  two  other 
works  of  tradition — the  MoMorah  or  fixing  the 
text  of  the  Bible,  and  Cabbala  or  "Theosophy.  * ' 
The  dispersed  Jews,  even  before  the  fall  of 
Jerusalem,  had  classed  themselves  under  three 
different  designations.     The  Rabbins  under- 
stand by  the  "Captivity  of  the  East,*'  the  re- 
nuuns  of  the  ten  tribes;  by  that  **of  Egypt/* 

^  Oopjnrlght,  1666^  by  Jobv  Bw  Aldes. 


the  Jews  under  the  dominion  of  the  Ptole- 
mies, particularly  those  of  Alexandria;  by  that 
•*of  the  West"  the  Jews  dispersed  over  every 
part  of  the  Roman  Empire.  In  the  following 
sketch  we  shall  speak  only  of  the  Jews  in  the 
East,  and  in  the  West,  in  Asia  and  in  Europe, 
since  with  the  history  of  the  Jews  in  those  coun- 
tries are  connected  the  annals  of  their  wander- 
mg  and  suffering  in  all  parts  of  the  world. 

In  the  Roman  Empire,  after  the  reign  of  Ves- 
pasian and  Adrian,  the  condition  of  the  Jews 
was  not  only  tolerable,  but  in  many  respects 
prosperous.    But  a  complete  reverse  took  place 
when  the  Emperor  of  Rome  knelt  before  the 
Cross,  and  the  Empire  became  a  Christian 
state.     From  this  epoch  we  may  date  the  first 
period  of  humiliation.     The  second  marked 
period  in  their  stat^  of   moral  and  political 
degradation  extends  from  the  commencement 
of  the  middle  ages  to  the  death  of  Charlemagne 
and  the  incursions  of  the  Normans  in  Europe. 
This  period,  which  closes  with  the  discovery 
of  America,  the  reign  of  Charles  V. ,  and  the 
Reformation,  was  for  the  Jews  everywhere, 
with  the  exception  of  those  in  Spain  and  Por- 
tugal, a  time  of  the  deepest  misery,  oppression, 
and  decay.    Thus  the  period  (^f  cruel  oppres- 
sion of  the  Jews  in  the  West  began  with  the 
triumi^  of  Christianity  over  Paganism,  Just 
as  in  the  East,  three  centuries  later,  it  may  be 
dated  from  the  rise  and  triumph  of  the  Cres- 
cent.   As  has  already  been  stated,  the  humilia- 
tion of  the  Jews  commenced  under  Constan- 
tino.   A  gleam  of  hope  shone  upon  them  in 
the  days  of  Julian  the  Apostate,  but  they  were 
more  ill-treated  under  his  Christian   succes- 
sors.    Till  the   reign  of  Theodosius,  in  the 
fourth  century,  however,  their  position  in  the 
Empire  was  tolenible.     Different,  however,  it 
was  in  the  fifth  century.     The  Roman  Empire 
had,  from  the  year  895,  been  divided  into  the 
Eastern  or  Qreek  Empire,  of  which  Constan- 
tinople was  the  capital:  and  the  Western  Em- 
pire, of  which  Rome  and  Italy  still  formed  the 
center.     In  both  these  divisions,  the  position 
and  treatment  of  the  Jews  became  worse  and 
worse.    In  the  West,  even  under  Honorius, 
its  first  emperor,  oppressive  laws  began  to  be 
enacted  against  the  Jews.  In  the  East,  t.  «.,  in 
the  eastern  part  of  the  Roman  Empire,  soon 


74 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINB. 


after  called  the  Empire  of  Greece,  or  Byzan- 
tium, tUc  position  of  the  Jews  became  particu- 
larly unfavorable.  The  government  of  the 
Emperor  Justin,  and  the  code  of  Justinian, 
soon  permanently  fixed  the  social  relations  of 
the  Jews  in  the  Byzantine  Empire.  Justin 
(A.  D.  523)  excluded  all  non-Christians  from 
holding  any  office  or  dignity  in  the  state.  In 
the  reign  of  Justinian  the  enactments  against 
the  Jews  were  made  more  oneious.  No  won- 
der that  during  his  reign  many  rebellions 
broke  out  among  the  Jews. 

From  the  reign  of  Justinian,  the  position  of 
the  Jews  in  the  Greek  Empire  became  such  as 
to  prevent  their  possessing  any  degree  of  polit- 
ical importance.  True,  they  carried  od  theo- 
logical studies  in  the  country  of  their  fathers, 
especially  at  Tiberias.  Bflt  even  here  the  last 
surviving  gleam  of  their  ancient  glory  was  soon 
extinguished.  The  dignity  of  Patriarch  bad 
ceased  to  exist  with  the  year  429,  and  the  link 
connecting  the  different  synagogues  of  the 
Eastern  Empire  was  broken.  Many  Jews 
quitted  Palestine  and  the  Byzantine  empire  to 
seek  refuge  in  Persia  and  Babylonia,  where 
they  were  more  favored.  When  in  1455  Con- 
stantinople was  taken  by  the  Turks,  some  of 
the  Jewish  exiles  from  Spain  and  Portugal 
took  refuge  in  the  ancient  capital  of  the 
Eastem  Empire,  where  the  number  of  their 
descendants  is  now  considerable. 

In  tlie  far  East,  beyond  the  boundaries  of 
the  Grecian  Empire,  the  Jews  continued  in  a 
comparatively  prosperous  condition  until  the 
triumph  of  the  Islam  was  complete.  The 
Jews  in  Babylonia  were  governed  by  the  Eesh- 

Ulvthay  or  Prince  of  the  Captivity.  Since  the 
Babylonian  exile  a  great  many  Jews  had  settled 
here,  who  w^ere  joined  by  several  f  esh  colon- 
ies even  before  the  destruction  of  Jerusalem 
by  Titus,  and  by  many  more  after  that  epoch. 
The  Prince  of  the  Captivity  mediated  between 
the  heads  of  the  synagogue  and  the  Persian  or 
Parthian  kmgs.  The  dignity  itself  took  its 
rise  while  the  Parthians  reigned  in  Persia,  and 
continued  under  the  new  dynasty  of  the  Sas- 
sanides,  and  only  came  to  an  end  in  the 
middle  of  the  eleventh  century,  imder  the 
dominion  of  the  caliphs.    The  feeling  existing 

between  the  Pmrthion  kings  and  the  Jews  was 


of  a  very  friendly  nature,  and  whenever  the 
Parthians  undertook  a  war  against  the^  Ro- 
mans, the  common  foe  of  both  Jews  and 
Parthians,  the  former  always  assisted  the  lat- 
ter. Thus  when  Chosroes  I.,  surnamed  the 
Great,  declared  war  against  the  Byzantine 
Empire  in  531,  the  Jews  lent  their  assistance. 
And  although  their  hopes  were  for  the  present 
crushed  by  the  brilliant  victory  gained  by  the 
Romans,  yet  under  Chosroes  II.,  grandson  of 
the  former,  25,000  Jews  assisted  in  the  war 
against  Heraclius,  which  resulted  in  the  capture 
of  Jerusalem  (a.  d.  625),  which  was,  however, 
retaken  by  Heraclius  four  years  later.  Under 
the  caliphs,  the  Jews  met  by  turns  with  good 
and  ill  treatment.  The  downfall  of  the  caliphs 
brought  no  favorable  change  to  the  Jews.  On 
the  contrary,  their  troubles  increased  and  their 
celebrated  schools  at  Pumboditha  ahd  Sora 
at  length  entirely  disappeared,  and  the  succcs 
sion  of  their  learned  men  was  continued  hence- 
forth in  Spain.  Thus  the  rise  of  the  Moham- 
medan power  in  Asia  gave  the  signal  that  the 
time  for  their  greatest  oppression  and  degrada- 
tion in  the  East  also  had  come. 

In  the  Peninsula  of  Arabia  the  Jews  had 
dwelt  from  time  immemorial.  They  date 
their  establishment  there,  according  to  some, 
from  the  visit  of  the  Queen  of  Sheba  to  Sol- 
omon. Before  the  time  of  Mohammed  the 
Jews  were  very  prosperous  there,  and  even  a 
Jewish  kingdom  iiuder  Jewish  kings  should 
have  had  existed  there.  When  Mohammed 
made  his  appearance,  he  found  the  Jews  in 
general  favorably  disposed  toward  him. 
Several  of  the  Jewish  tribes  became  even  his 
open  partisans.  But  when  his  principles  and 
plans  became  more  thoroughly  known,  and  the 
Jews  rejected  him,  Mohanuned  at  once  com- 
menced a  war  of  extermination  against  them. 
His  first  attack  was  against  the  clan  of  the 
Beni-Kinouka,  who  dwelt  in  Medina,  and  waa 
overcome  by  the  warrior-prophet.  The  same 
fate  awaited  the  other  tribes,  one  after  the 
other.  From  the  moment  that  the  Jews  de- 
clared themselves  against  Mohammed,  they 
l)ecame  the  especial  object  of  his  hatred,  and 
since  that  time  a  feeling  of  enmity  has  ever 
existed  between  the  Mussulman  and  the  Jew 
Crescent  and  Cross  shared  equally  in  the  con- 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH  OP  THE  JEWS. 


75 


tempt  and  hatred  of  tlie  Jew,  and  as  in 
Christian  Europe  so  in  Mohammedan  Asia  and 
Africa,  the  Jew  was  compelled  to  bear  a  dis- 
tinctive mark  in  his  gaxmenVi—here  the  yellow 
bat,  there  the  black  turban; 

Be^'ond  the  boundaries  of  either  the  old 
Roman  or  the  Byzantine  Empire,  Jews  have, 
in  early  times,  been  met  with,  both  in  the 
most  remote  parts  of  the  interior  of  Asia,  and 
upon  the  coast  of  Malabar.  In  the  latter  place 
tbey  probably  arrived  in  the  fifth  century  in 
consequence  of  a  persecution  raised  in  Persia. 
In  the  seven  teen  til  century  a  Jewish  colony 
was  met  with  in  China.  When  the  Jews 
emigrated  there  is  dilllcult  to  ascertain. 

But  to  return  to  the  West.  It  has  already 
been  stated  that  with  the  conversion  of  the 
Roman  Empire  to  Christianity  evil  days  came 
upon  the  Jews.  In  the  Western  Empire  this 
unfavorable  change  commenced  in  t]ie  days 
of  Honorius,  and  would  have  continued  so; 
but  the  storm  that  burst  over  Home  toward 
the  end  of  the  fifth  century  changed  in  a 
degree  the  position  of  the  Jews.  The  North- 
ern nations,  as  long  as  they  professed  Arianism 
in  preference  to  the  Catholic  faith,  showed 
themselves  merciful  to  their  Jewish  subjects. 
This  was  especially  the  case  with  the  Goths. 
When  the  dominion  of  the  Ostrogoths,  under 
their  king  Theodoric,  succeeded  that  of 
Odoacer  and  the  Heruli  in  Italy  and  the  West, 
the  Jews  had  every  reason  to  be  satisfied  with 
their  new  sovereign.  The  consequence  was 
that  the  Goths  in  the  West,  like  the  Persians 
Id.  the  East,  found  faithful  allies  in  the  Jews 
of  that  period.  When  Justinian,  by  his  gen- 
eral, Narses,  conquered  Italy  from  the  Ostro- 
goths (a.d.  555),  the  Jews,  especially  those 
at  Xaplcs,  assisted  him,  only  to  be  heavily 
punished  afterward. 

The  Visigoths  also,  in  their  defence  of 
Aries  in  Provence,  against  the  Franks  under 
Clovis.  were  assisted  by  the  Jews.  In  Spain, 
the  kings  of  the  Visigoths  treated  them  with 
faver,  till  about  the  year  600,  their  king 
Recared,  having  embraced  Catholicism.  In- 
augurated that  peculiar  system  of  conduct 
toward  the  Jews,  which  finally  resulted  in 
their  total  expulsion  from  the  Peninsula.  The 
Franks  were  at  the  beginning  less  merciful 


to  the  Jews  than  the  Goths.  The  Merovin- 
gians treated  them  with  peculiar  rigor.  Thus 
in  540,  King  Childebert  forbade  the  Jews  to 
appear  in  the  streets  if  Paris,  during  the 
Easter  week.  Clotau'e  II.  deprived  them  of 
the  power  of  holding  ofilce.  King  Dagobert 
compelled  them  either  to  receive  baptism  or 
to  leave  the  country.  Under  the  Carlovingians 
in  France,  the  Jews  of  the  eighth  and  ninth 
centuries  enjoyed  a  great  degree  of  prosperity, 
so  that  the  Romish  bishops  took  alarm. 
Under  Pepin  le  Bref,  they  enjoyed  many 
privileges,  and  so  likewise  under  his  son  Char- 
lemagne, and  under  his  successor  and  son 
Louis  Ic  Debonnaire.  The  latter  even  freed 
them,  from  the  grinding  taxes  imposed  upon 
them,  and  confirmed  to  them  these  immunities 
in  the  year  830.  And  all  exertions  of  the 
priesthood,  especially  of  Agobard,  bishop  of 
Lyons,  to  injure  the  Jew^s,  were  utterly  useless. 
The  position  of  the  Jews  underwent  un  en- 
tire change  at  the  downfall  of  the  Carlovhigian 
dynasty,  which  began  to  decay  after  the  death 
of  Louis  le  Debonnaire,  The  invasion  of  the 
Normans  was  partly  the  cause,  and  partly  the 
signal  for  a  complete  change  of  kings  in 
Europe.  An  age  of  barbarism  spread  over  the 
whole  face  of  Christianity,  the  feudal  system 
developed  itself,  in  every  way  injurious  to  the 
Jews.  But  one  of  the  srreatest  evils  which 
they  were  compelled  to  endure,  was  the  prev- 
alence of  the  crusading  spirit.  During  the 
first  crusade  (1096-1099),  Treves,  Spires, 
Worms,  Mayence,  Cologne,  and  Regensburg 
were  the  seat  of  oppression,  murders,  and  bod- 
ily tortures,  inflicted  upon  the  Jews.  During 
the  second  crusade  (1147-1149),  Rudolph,  a 
fanatical  monk,  traveling  throagh  central  Eu- 
rope, stirred  up  the  populace  to  take  venj^eance 
on  all  unbelievers.  Theory  '*Hepl  hepi"  was 
sufiicient  to  bring  terror  to  the  heart  of  every 
Jew.  But  King  Conrad  III.  and  such  men  as 
Bernard  of  Clair vaux  protected  them,  and 
thus  tlie  sufferings  of  the  Jews  were  less, 
compared  with  tlie  intemperate  zeal  of  Ru- 
dolph. During  the  middle  ages,  the  Jews 
were  not  only  persecuted,  but,  where  they 
were  tolerated,  they  became  also  tbe  Pariahs 
of  the  West.  But  to  resume  the  thi-ead  of 
events. 


76 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


In  France,  formerly  so  signally  patronized 
by  the  Carlovingians,  the  Jews  experienced  a 
difFereut  treatment  after  the  extinction  of  that 
dynasty.  Toward  the  end  of  the  eleventh 
century  they  were  banished  and  afterward 
recalled  by  Philip  I.  In  1182  they  were  at 
first  banished  by  Philip  Augustus,  but  re- 
admitted upon  certain  conditions,  one  of 
wliich  was  the  obligation  to  wear  a  little  wheel 
upon  their  dress  as  a  mark.  Louis  VII. 
(a.  d.  1223)  treated  them  all  as  his  serfs,  and 
with  one  stroke  of  his  pen  remitted  to  his 
Christian  subjects  all  their  debts  to  the  Jews. 
Louis  IX.  (St.  Louis),  being  anxious  to  con- 
vert tliem,  commanded  that  the  Talmud  be 
destroyed  by  fire,  and  twenty-four  uarts-full 
of  the  Talmud  were  publicly  burned  in  Paris 
(1244).  Philip  the  Fair,  after  robbing  them 
repeatedly,  expelled  the  Jews  from  France  in 
1306.  Under  Louis  X.  they  were  treated  un 
favorably,  while  Philip  V.,  the  Long,  favored 
and  protected  them.  In  1341  the  usual  accusa- 
tions of  treason,  poisoning  the  wells,  etc.,  were 
brought  agaiust  them,  and  many  were  burned, 
massacred,  banished,  or  condemned  to  heavy 
fines.  Under  John  II.  thoy  enjoyed  a  little 
rest,  and  so  also  under  Charles  V.  But  in 
1870  they  were  again  banished,  but  soon  re- 
called under  Cbarles  VI.  In  spite  of  the  many 
vicissitudes,  Jewish  learning  flourished  in 
France,  especially  in  the  south.  Men  like 
David  Kimchi  nnd  Rashihave  become  house- 
hold names  in  Jewish  as  well  as  in  Christian 
theology. 

In  England  the  Jews  date  their  first  resi- 
dence from  the  time  of  the  Heptarchy.  In 
the  twelftli  century,  under  Henry  II.  and  his 
son,  the  cruel  treatment  and  plundering  of  the 
Jews  reached  its  height.  On  the  coronation 
day  of  King  Richard  I.  (1189),  when  they  came 
to  pay  their  homage,  the  population  plundered 
and  murdered  them  a  whole  day  and  night  in 
London.  This  sad  example  of  London  was 
followed  at  Stamford,  Norwich,  and  more 
especially  at  York.  Under  King  John  (a.  d. 
1199)  all  kinds  of  liberties  and  privileges  were 
granted  to  the  Jews,  but  he  soon  showed  that 
he  cared  more  for  their  money  than  for 
their  persons.  Henry  HI.  (1217-1272)  followed 
the  same  policy,  and  when  the  Jews  petitioned 


the  king  to  allow  them  to  leave  the  country, 
he  would  not  grant  that  request.  Under 
Edward  I.  they  were  banished  in  1290,  and 
some  sixteen  thousand  are  said  to  have  left 
the  country. 

In  Grermany,  Jews  were  found  already  in 
the  fourth  century,  especially  at  Cologne, 
where  they  soon  became  numerous  and  pros- 
perous. But  the  commencement  of  the  middle 
ages  in  Germany,  as  elsewhere,  put  an  end  to 
their  favorable  position.  It  is  true  that  the 
Emperor  of  Germany  regarded  the  Jews  as  his 
Kammerkneehie,  or  "Servants  of  the  Imperial 
Chamber,"  and  as  such  they  enjo3'^ed  the 
emperor's  protection,  but  the  scores  of  violent 
deeds,  which  are  recorded,  only  show  that 
even  the  protection  of  the  emperor  could  not 
prevent  the  popular  rage  from  breaking  cut 
and  marking  its  course  by  bloodshed  and  deso- 
lation. The  least  cause  was  sufficient  to  mas- 
sacre the  Jews.  When  in  13^48  an  epidemic  mal- 
ady, known  as  the  BlacJc  Death,  visited  half  of 
Europe,  the  Jews  were  blar?.ed  for  it  because 
they  were  said  to  have  poisoned  the  wells  and 
rivers.  A  general  massacre  took  place,  in 
spite  of  the  demonstrations  of  prinr cs,  magis- 
trates, bishops,  and  the  Pope  himself.  In  the 
south  of  Germany  and  in  Switzerland,  the 
persecution  raged  with  most  violence.  From 
Switzerland  to  Silesia,  the  land  was  drenched 
with  innocent  blood,  and  in  some  places  their 
residence  was  forbidden. 

In  the  Netherlands,  the  history  of  the  Jews 
during  the  middle  ages  was  much  like  that 
of  Crermany  and  the  north  of  France.  In 
Flanders  thef  were  already  living  at  the  time 
of  the  Crusaders.  In  the  twelfth  century 
they  were  driven  out,  but  were  found  there 
again  in  the  fourteenth.  In  1370  they  were 
accused  of  having  pierced  the  holy  wafer,  an 
accusation  which  had  brought  many  to  the 
stake.  *In  Utrecht  the  Jews  resided  till  the 
year  1444.  In  Holland,  Zealand,  and  Fries- 
land,  many  Jews  had  sought  refuge  after 
their  banishment  from  France  by  Philip  the 
Fair. 

Before  the  end  of  the  tenth  century,  Jews 
are  already  found  at  Prague.  Boleslaus  I. 
favored  them,  and  permitted  them  to  build 
a  synagogue.     In  Poland  they  existed  very 


raSTORICAL  SKETCH  OP  THE  JEWS. 


77 


eariy.  Under  BolesUiiis  V.,  Dulte  of  Po- 
land (1264),  they  enjoyed  many  privileges. 
His  great-grandson,  King  Oasimer,  showed 
them  still  greater  favor,  out  of  lovc»  it  is  said, 
for  Esther,  a  beautiful  Jewess.  Synagogues, 
academies,  and  rabbinical  schools  have  always 
abounded  in  Poland. 

In  Italy,   where  Jews  have  resided  from 
early  times  in  their  ghetton,  the  Popes  geuerally 
appeared  kindly  toward  them.  Gregory  I.,  the 
Great,  in  the  seventh  century,  proved  himself 
the  friend  of  the  Jews,  but  Gregory  VII.,  in 
the  tenth  ce^^ry,  was  their  enemy.     In  other 
great  towns  of  Italy,  the  position  of  the  Jews 
varied.     At  Leghorn  and  Venice  they  met 
with  favor,  and  so  also  witli  a  less  degree  in 
ITlorence,  but  at  Genoa  they  were  looked  upon 
with  enmity.     In  the  kingdom  of  Naples, 
where  they  settled  about  the  year  1200.  perse- 
cutions took  place  from  time  to  time.    Italy  is 
ttie  home  of  some  Jewish  poets  and  expositors. 
In  Spain  the  Jews  must  have  settled  at  a 
very  early  time,  for  tlie  Council  of  Elvira, 
assembled  in  805,  made  enactments  against 
them,  which  proves  that  they  had  already 
become  numerous  there.     Under  llecared,  the 
first  Catholic  sovereign  of  the  Gothic  race,  the 
long-continued  and  relentless  work  of  perse- 
cution began.    His  successor  Sisebul  (612-617) 
ordered  all  his  Jewish  subjects  to  renounce 
tlieir  faith  or   quit  his  dominions.     Under 
Sisenard,  the  fourth  Council  of  Toledo,  in 
the  year  631.  mitigated  these  measures  of  com- 
pulsion, without  rescinding  any  of  the  penal- 
ties  which    had    been   previously   enacted. 
Chintilla,  in  626,  exiled  the  Jews,  but  they 
still  remained  in  great  numbers  under  Wamba 
(672).    In  698.  Erwig  persecuted  them,  while 
Eglza  banished  them  upon  the  accusation  of 
having  entered  into  league  with  the  Saracens 
of  Africa.     Witzia  (in  700)  recalled    them. 
Under  his  successor  Bodrigo,  the  Saracens 
imraded  Spain  after   the  famous  hattle    of 
Xeres  dc  la    Frontera   in   711.    The   Jews 
greeted  the  Arabs  as  tlieir  deliverers,  wlio 
again  treated  them  kindly.    In  the  reign  of 
Abderahman  III.  (912-061),  Cordova  became 
eminent  for  industry  and  learning,  and  the 
Jews  shared  largely  in  the  splendor  and  pros- 
perity of  the  Arafis.    Less  peaceful  times. 


however,  enjoyed  the  Jews  in  the  Cvhristian 
states  of  tUxe  Peninsula. 

From  the  southern  part  of  Spain  the  Jews 
had  emigrated  to  Castile  in  the  eleventh  and 
twelfth  centuries,  where  they  soon  became 
very  prosperous.  Their  synagogues  and 
schools  increased,  and  as  formerly  in  the  East 
by  the  Beth  GluUui,  so  were  they  now  gov- 
erned by  the  Kabbin  mayor,  an  Israel ite^ 
usually  in  favor  at  court,  and  appointed  by 
the  king.  Every  kind  of  office  whs  open  to 
them,  and  they  often  served  in  the  army. 
But  soon  the  populace,  stirred  up  by  the  in- 
ferior clergy,  gave  vent  to  envy,  which  man- 
ifested  itself  first  by  the  usual  accusations  of 
sacrilege  and  the  murder  of  Christian  children, 
but  soon  broke  out  into  open  rage  and  acts  of 
violence.  Amid  the  general  prosperity  (>f  the 
Jewifili  nation,  a  massacre  took  plac^e  at  To- 
ledo in  1212,  and  in  1213  the  Council  of 
Zamora,  in  Leon,  vehemently  demanded  the 
revival  and  enforcement  of  the  ancient  law 
against  the  Jews.  In  general  we  may  say, 
that  the  kings  of  Castil  and  Aragon,  with 
very  few  exceptions,  eminently  befriended 
the  Jews  during  the  four  centuries  which 
elapsed  between  tlie  reign  of  Ferdinard  I.  and 
the  Catholic  sovereigns,  Ferdinand  and  Isa- 
bella. Ferdinand  I.  was  almost  the  only  one 
who  showed  enmity  to  the  Jews.  Alphonso 
VL  (who  conquered  Toledo  from  the  Sara- 
cens) granted  many  valuable  privileges  to  the 
Jews.  Alphonso  IX.,  of  Castile  (a.  d.  1158- 
1196),  showed  tliem  still  greater  favor,  because 
of  his  love  for  the  fair  Jewess  Rachel.  The 
prosperity  of  the  Jews  in  Cr.sti]e  and  their 
influence  reache^l  its  greatest  height  in  the 
reigns  of  Alphonso  XL  (1812-1350)  and  his 
son,  Peter  the  Cruel  (1850-1369).  All  this 
grandeur  and  these  privileges  were,  neverthe- 
less, not  unfrequently  accompanied  by  vio- 
lent acts  on  the  part  of  the  populace,  and 
complaints  and  protestations  from  the  Councils 
and  the  Cortes,  which  had  little  or  no  effect 
upon  the  kings. 

More  perilous  times,  however,  commenced 
for  the  Jews  of  Castile  and  the  rest  of  Spain 
under  John  I.  (1879-80).  This  king  found 
occasion  to  deprive  them  of  ihe  jurisdiction 
they  had  hitherto  possessed.    Under  Henry 


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THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE.  ^ 


in.,  tumults  took  place  at  Seville  in  ISdO  and 
1391  and  the  Jewisli  quarter  was  attacked  and 
buroed  to  ashes.  This  fearful  example  spread, 
as  by  contagion,  to  Cordova,  Madrid,  Toledo, 
over  the  whole  of  Catalonia,  and  even  to  the 
isle  of  Majorca.  In  the  first  years  of  the  reign 
of  John  II. ,  a  royal  mandate,  dated  Valladolid, 
1412,  was  issued,  which  contained  the  most 
oppressive  measures  which  had  ever  been  pro- 
mulgated against  the  Jews  since  the  time  of 
the  hilcf  Visigotbic  kings.  Among  other  en- 
actments, ibey  were  ordered  to  wear  a  pecu 
liar  dress.  In  consequence  of  these  severe 
enactments,  many  joined  the  Church,  who 
were  styled  Conversos,  or  "New  Christians.*' 

The  glorious  period  during  which  Isa- 
bella, the  sister  of  Henry  IV.,  with  her  hus- 
band, Don  Ferdinand  of  Aragon,  governed 
Castile,  brought  a  complete  diange  over  the 
whole  face  of  the  country,  and  became  to  the 
Jews,  and  also  to  the  New  Christians,  the 
time  of  a  most  striking  crisis. 

But  before  speaking  of  this  period,  let  us 
glanoe  at  some  of  the  most  famous  literary 
men  of  tlie  Jews  during  their  residence  in 
that  country,  before  the  close  of  the  mid- 
dle ages.  We  mention  Menahem  ben  Saruk  (d. 
-970),  author  of  a  biblical  dictionary;  Jehudah 
Ibn  Cha}ug  <in  Arabic  Aboulwalid),  the  chief 
-of  Hebrew  grammarians  (about  1050);  Ibn 
<}anach(d.  1050),  the  grammarian;  Ibn  Oabirol 
^<the  Avicebron  among  the  Schoolmen),  philos- 
opher, grammarian,  and  commentator  (d.l070); 
Ibn  Pakuda  the  moralist  (1050-1100) ;  Ibn 
'Giath,  the  cosmographer,  astronomer,  and  phi- 
losopher; Ibn  Gikatilla  thegrammarian  (1070- 
1100;)  Ibn  Balaam,  commentator  aM  philolo- 
gist (d.  1100);  Mosee  ibn  Ezra,  the  hymnlst 
•{d.  1189);  Jehuda  Ha-Levi,  the  philosopher 
^nd  poet  (d.  1141);  Ibn  T)aud,  the  historian^. 
1180);  Abraham  ibn  Ezra,  commentator,  phi- 
iosopher,  and  poet  (d.  1167);  Jehuda  Alcharizi, 
the  Horace  of  Jewish  poetry  in  Spain  (d.  1280); 
Benjamin  Tudela,  the  traveler;  Jehuda  Tib- 
bon,  the  prince  of  translators  (d.  1190);  Isaac 
AlTasi  (d.l089);  Moses  Maimonides,  tlie  greatest 
ot  all  mediaeval  rabbis  (d.  1204);  Moses 
Cterundensis,  or  Nachmanides  (d.  1270);  Abra- 
ham Abulal3a.  the  cabbaltst  (d.  1292);  Moses 
ben  Shem-^Tob-de  Leon— '^te-author  of  the 


Sohar  (d.  1305);  Jedaja  Bedarchi,  or  Penini 
(d.  1340);  Abner,  of  Burgos,  better  known  by 
his  Christian  name  Ayo7uio  Burgerms  lU  Val- 
ladolid (d.  1346);  Jacob  ben  Asheri;  Ibn  Caspi 
(d.  1340);  Gersonides,  or  R^ilbuj  among  the 
Jews,  famous  as  philosopher  and  commentator 
^d.  1345).  Solomon  Levi  of  Burgos  better  known 
by  his  Christian  name  Paul  us  Burgensis  or  c!c 
Santa  Maria,  bishop  of  Burgos  (d.  1435);  Josef 
Albo  (d.l444);  Simon  Duran,  the  polemic 
(d.  1444);  Ibn  Vc  rga,  tl  e  historian,  who  died  in 
the  dungeon  of  the  Inquisition;  Abravanel, 
the  theologian  and  comment^r,  who  was 
exiled  with  his  co-religionists  from  Spain  (d. 
1515).— B.  Pick,  Ph.  D. ,  Alleghany,  Penn. 

[to  be  concluded.] 


FALLING  m  LOVE. 

An  ancient  and  famous  human  institution  is 
in  pressing  danger.  Sir  George  Campbell  has 
set  his  face  against  tlie  time-honored  practice 
of  Falling  in  Love.  Parents  innumerable,  it 
is  true,  have  set  their  faces  against  it  already 
from  immemorial  antiquity ;  but  then  they 
only  attacked  tlie  particular  instance,  without 
venturing  to  impugn  the  institution  itself  on 
general  principles.  An  old  Indian  adminis- 
trator, however,  goes  to  work  in  all  things  on 
a  diileroQt  pattern,  lie  would  always  like  to 
regulate  luiman  life  generally  as  a  department 
of  the  India  Office;  and  fio  Sir  George  Camp- 
bell would  fain  have  husbands  and  wives 
selected  for  one  another  (perhaps  on  Dr. 
Johnson's  principle,  by  the  Lord  Chancellor) 
with  a  view  to  the  future  devlopment  of  the 
race.  In  the  process  which  he  not  very  felici- 
tously or  elegantly  describes  as  *'  man-breed- 
ing." '* Probably,"  he  sa} s,  as  4«ported  in 
Nature,  **  we  have  enough  physiological 
knowledge  to  eflFect  a  vast  improvement  in  the 
pairing  of  individuals  of  the  same  or  allied 
races  If  we  could  only  apply  that  knowledge 
to  make  fitting  marriages,  instead  of  giving 
way  ta  foolish  ideas  about  love  and  the  tastes 
of  young  people,  whom  we  can  hardly  trust 
to  choose  their  own  bonnets,  much  less  'to 
xhoose  in-  a  graver  matter  -in-^^icfa  they  «re 


FALLING  IN  LOVE. 


79 


most  likely  to  be  influenced  by  frivolous  pre- 
judices.*' He  wants  us,  in  other  words,  to 
discard  the  deep-seated  inner  physiological 
promptings  of  inherited  instinct,  and  to  sub- 
stitute for  them  some  calm  and  dispassionate 
but  artilicial  selection  of  a  fitting  partner  as 
tlie  father  or  mother  of  future  generations. 

Now  this  IS  of  course  a  serious  subject,  and 
it  ought  to  be  treated  seriously  and  reverently. 
But,  it  seems  to  me,  Sir  George  Campbell's 
conclusion  is  exactly  the  opposite  one  from 
the  conclusion  now  being  forced  upon  men  of 
science    by  a  study  of    the  biological    and 
psychological  elements  in  this  very  complex 
problem  of  heredity.     So  far  from  considering 
love  as  a  •*  foolish  idea,"  opposed  to  the  best 
interests  of  the  race,  I  believe  most  competent 
pUysiologLsts    and    psychologists,    especially 
those  of    the    modern    evolutionary  school, 
would  regard  it  rather  as  an  essentially  bene- 
ficent  and   conservative    instinct,  developed 
and  maintained  in  us  by  natural  causes,  for 
the  ver>'  purpose  of  insuring  just  those  precise 
a  Wantages    and    improvements    which    Sir 
George  Campbell  tliinks    he  could  himself 
effect  by  a  conscious  and  deliberate  process  of 
selection.     !More  than  that,  1  believe,  for  my 
own  part  (and  I  feel  sure  most  evolutionists 
would    cordially  agree  with  me),  that  this 
beneficent  inherited  instinct  of  Palling  in  Love 
effects  the  object  it  has  !n  view  far  more  ad- 
mirably, subtly,   and    satisfactorily,   on  the 
average  of  instances,  than  any  clumsy  human 
selective  substitute  could  possibly  effect  it. 
In  short,  my  doctrine  is  simply  the  old-fash- 
ioned and  confiding  belief  that  marriages  are 
made  in  heaven :  with  the  further  corollary 
that  heaven  manages  them,  one  time  ^vith 
another,  a  great  deal  better  than  Sir  George 
Campbell. 

Let  us  first  look  how  Falling  In  Love  affects 
the  standard  of  human  efficiency:  and  then 
let  us  consider  what  would  be  tiie  probable 
result  of  any  definite  conscious  attempt  to 
substitute  for  it  some  more  deliberate  external 
agency. 

Falling  in  love,  as  modem  bielogy  teaches 
US  to  believe,  is  nothing  more  than  the  latest, 
highest,  and  most  involved  exemplification;  in 
the  human  race,  of  thai  almost  universal  selec- 


tive process  which  Mr.  Darwin  has  enabled  us 
to  recognize  throughout  the  whole  long  series 
of  the  animal  kingdom.  The  butterfly  that 
circles  and  eddies  in  his  aerial  dance  around 
liis  observant  mate  is  endeavoring  to  charm 
her  by  the  delicacy  of  his  coloring,  and  to 
overcome  her  coyness  by  the  display  of  his 
skill.  The  peacock  that  struts  about  in  impe- 
rial pride  under  the  eyes  of  his  attentive  hens 
is  really  contributing  to  the  future  beauty  and 
strength  of  his  race  by  collecting  to  himself  a 
harem  through  whom  he  hands  down  to  pos- 
terity the  valuable  qualities  which  have  gained 
the  admiration  of  his  mates  in  his  own  person. 
Mr.  Wallace  has  shown  that  to  be  beautiful  is 
it  to  be  efficient:  and  sexual  selectioLi  is  thus,  as 
were,  a  mere  lateral  form  of  natural  selection 
—a  survival  of  the  fittest  in  the  guise  of  mu- 
tual attractiveness  and  mutual  adaptability, 
producing  on  the  average  a  maximum  of  the 
best  properties  of  the  race  in  the  residting  off- 
spring. I  need  not  dwell  here  upon  this 
aspect  of  the  case,  because  it  is  one  with 
which,  since  the  publication  of  the  Descent  of 
Maiiy  all  the  world  has  been  sufficiently  fa- 
miliar. 

In  our  own  species,  the  selective  process  is 
marked  by  all  the  features  common  to  selec- 
tion throughout  the  whole  animal  kingdom: 
but  it  is  also,  as  might  be  expected,  far  more 
specialized,  far  more  individualized,  far  more 
cognizant  of  personal  traits  and  minor  pecirii 
arities.  It  is  furthermore  exerted  to  a  far 
greater  extent  upon  mental  aud  moral  as  well 
as  physical  peculiarities  in  the  Individual. 
We  cannot  fall  in  love  with  everybody  alike. 
Some  of  us  fall  in  love  with  one  person,  some 
with  another.  This  instinctive  and  tleep  seated 
differential  feeling  we  may  regard  as  the  out- 
come Of  complementary  features,  mental, 
moral,  or  physical,  in  the  two  persons  con- 
cerned :  and  experience  shows  us  that,  in 
nine  cases  out  of  ten,  it  Is  a  reciprocal  affec- 
tion, that  is  to  say,  in  other  words,  an  affection 
roused  in  unison  by  varying  qualities  in  t2ie 
respective  individuals. 

Of  its  eminently  censervative  and  even  up- 
ward tendency,  very  little  doubt  can  be  rea- 
sonably entertained.  We  do  fall  in  love, 
taking  us-in-th^  lump,  with^the  yotxnf,  tiie 


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beautiful,  the  strong,  and  the  healthy;  we  do 
not  fall  in  love,  taking  us  in  the  lump,  with 
the  aged,  the  ugly,  the  feeble,  and  the  sickly. 
The  prohibition  of  the  Church  is  scarcely 
needed  to  prevent  a  man  from  martyiug  his 
grandmother.  Moi-allstfi  have  always  borne  a 
special  grudge  to  pretty  faces;  but  as  Mr.  Her- 
bert Spc.  cer  admirably  put  it  (long  before  the 
appearance  of  Darwin's  selective  theory;, 
"the  saying  that  beauty  is  but  skin-deep  is 
it«elf  but  a  skin-d  ep  saying."  In  reality, 
beauty  is  one  of  tlie  v^ry  best  guides  we  can 
po.ssil)ly  have  to  the  desirability,  so  far  as 
race-preservation  is  concerned,  of  any  man  or 
any  woniaii  as  a  partner  in  marriage.  A  fine 
furm,  a  good  figure,  a  beautiful  bust,  a  round 
arm  and  neck,  a  fresh  complexion,  a  lovely 
face,  are  all  outward  and  visible  signs  of  the 
physical  qualities  that  on  the  whole  conspire 
to  make  up  a  healthy  and  vigorous  wife  and 
mother;  they  imply  soundness,  fertility,  a 
gocxl  circulation,  a  good  digestion.  Con- 
versely, sallowness,  and  paleness  are  roughly 
indicative  of  dyspepsia  and  anaemia;  a  flat 
chest  is  a  symptum  of  deficient  maternity;  and 
what  we  call  a  bad  figure  is  really  in  one  way 
or  another  an  unhealthy  departure  from  the 
central  norma  and  standard  of  the  race. 
Good  teeth  mean  good  deglutition;  a  clear 
eye  means  an  active  liver;  scrubbiness  and 
undorsizedness  mean  feeble  virtility.  Nor 
are  indications  of  mental  and  moral  efficiency 
by  any  means  wanting  ds  recognized  elements 
in  personal  beauty.  A  good  humored  face  is 
in  itself  almost  pretty.  A  pleasant  smile  half 
redeems  unattractive  features.  Low,  reced- 
ing foreheads  strike  us  unfavorably.  Heavy, 
stolid,  httlf- idiotic  countenances  can  never  be 
beauKful,  however  regular  their  lines  and 
contours.  Intelligence  and  goodness  are 
alm(  st  as  necessary  as  health  and  vigor  in 
order  to  make  up  our  perfect  ideal  of  a  beauti- 
ful face  and  figure.  The  Apollo  Belvidere  is 
no  fool;  the  murderers  in  the  Chamber  of 
Horrors  at  Madame  Tussaud's  are  for  the 
most  part  no  beauties. 

What  we  all  fall  in  love  with,  then,  as  a 
race,  is  in  most  cases  efficiency  and  ability. 
Wliat  we  each  fall  in  love  with  individually 
b,  I  believe,  our  moral,  mental,  and  physical 


complement.  Not  our  like,  not  our  counter- 
part; quite  the  contrary;  within  healthy  lim- 
its, our  unlike  and  our  opposite.  That  this  is 
so  has  long  been  more  or  less  a  commonplace 
of  ordinary  conversation;  that  it  is  scientifically 
true,  one  time  with  another,  when  we  take  an 
extended  range  of  cases,  may,  I  think,  be 
almost  demonstrated  by  sure  and  certain  war- 
ranty of  human  nature. 

Brothers  and  sisters  have  more  in  common, 
mentally  and  physically,  than  any  other  mem- 
bers of  the  same  race  can  possibly  have  with 
one  another.  B14  nobody  falls  in  love  with 
his  slbtcr.  A  profound  instinct  has  taught 
even  the  lower  races  of  men  (for  the  most  part) 
to  avoid  such  union  of  all-but-identical.  In 
the  higher  races  the  idea  never  so  much  sta 
occurs  to  us.  Even  cousins  seldom  fall  in 
love— seldom,  that  is  to  say,  in  comparison 
with  the  frequent  opportunities  of  inter- 
course they  enjoy,  relatively  to  tiie  remainder 
of  general  society.  When  they  do,  and  when 
they  carry  out  their  perilous  choice  effecti'^ely 
by  marriage,  natural  selection  soon  avenges 
Nature  upon  the  offspring  by  cutting  off  the 
idiots,  the  consumptives,  the  weaklings,  and 
the  cripples,  who  often  result  irom  such 
consanguineous  marriages.  In  narrow  com- 
munities, where  breeding  in- and  in  becomes  al- 
most inevitable,  natural  selection  has  similarly 
to  exert  itself  upon  a  crowd  of  cretins  and 
other  hapless  incapables.  But  in  wide  and 
open  champaign  countries,  where  individual 
choice  has  free  room  for  exercise,  men  and 
women  as  a  rule  (if  not  constrained  by  parents 
and  moralists)  marry  for  love,  and  marry  on 
the  whole  their  natural  complements.  They 
prefer  outsiders,  fresh  blood,  somebody  who 
comes  from  beyond  the  community,  to  the 
people  of  their  own  immediate  surrounding. 
In  many  men,  the  dislike  to  marrying  amonsr 
the  folks  with  whom  they  have  been  brought 
up  amounts  almost  to  a  positive  instinct;  they 
feel  it  as  impossible  to  fall  in  love  with  a 
fellow -townswoman  as  to  fall  in  love  with 
their  own  first  cousins.  Among  exogamous 
tribes  such  an  instinct  (aided,  of  course,  by 
other  extraneous  causes)  has  hardened  into 
custom;  and  there  is  reason  to  believe  (from 
the  universal  traces  among  the  higher  ciTlIiza* 


PALLING  IN  LOVE. 


81 


dons  of  marriage  by  capture),  that  all  the 
leading  races  of  the  world  are  ultimately  de- 
rived from  exogamous  ancestors,  possessing 
this  healthy  and  excellent  sentiment. 

In  minor  matters,  it  is  of  course  universally 
admitted  that  short  men,  as  a  rule,  prefer  toll 
women,  while  tall  men  admire  little  women. 
Dark  pairs  by  preference  with  fair;  the  com- 
monplace   often    runs    after    the    original. 
People  have  long  noticed  that  this  attraction 
toward  one's  opposite  tends  to  keep  true  the 
standard  of  the  race;  they  have  not,  perhaps, 
90  generally  observed  that  it  also  indicates 
roughly  the  existence  in  either  individual  of  a 
desire  for  its  own  natural  complement.     It  is 
difficult  here  to  give  definite  examples,  but 
everybody  knows  how,  in  the  subtle  psychol 
ogy  of  Falling  in  Love,  there  are  involved 
innumerable  minor    elements,   physical  and 
mental,  which  strike  us  exactly  because  of 
theur  absolute  adaptation  to  form  with  our- 
selves an  adequate  union.     Of  course  we  do 
not  definitely  seek  out  and    discover  such 
qualities;  instinct  works  far  more  intuitively 
than  that;  but  we  find  at  last,  by  subsequent 
observation,  how  true  and  how  trustworthy 
were  its  immediate  indications.    That  is  to 
say,  those  men  do  so  who  were  wise  enough  or 
fortunate  enough  to  follow  the  earliest  prompt- 
ings of   their  own    hearts,  and  not   to  bo 
ashamed  of  that  divinest  and  deepest  of  hu- 
man intuitions,  love  at  first  sight. 

How  very  subtle  this  intuition  is,  we  can 

only  guess  in  part  by  the  apparent  capricious- 

ness  and  incomprehensibility  of  its  occasional 

action.    "We  know  that  some  men  and  women 

fall  in  love  easily,  while  others  are  only  moved 

to  love  by  some  very  special  and  singulai 

combination  of  peculiarities.     We  know  that 

one  man  is  readily  stirred  by  every  pretty 

face  he  sees,  while  another  man  can  only  be 

roused  by  intellectual  qualities  or  by  moral 

beauty.    We  know  that  sometimes  we  meet 

people   possessing    every  virtue    and   grace 

wider  heaven,  and  yet  for  some  unknown  and 

incomprehensible  reason  we  could  no  more  fall 

in  love  with  them  than  we  could  fall  In  love 

^th  the  Ten  Commandments.    I  don't,  of 

course,  for  a  moment  accept  the  silly  romantic 

notion  that  men  and  women  fall  in  love  only 


once  in  their  lives,  or  thai  each  one  of  us  has 
somewhere  on  earth  his  or  her  exact  Afi&nity, 
whom  we  must  sooner  or  later  meet,  or  else 
die  unsatisfied.  Almost  ^very  bealUiy  normal 
man  or  woman  has  probably  fallen  in  love 
over  and  over  again  in  the  course  of  a  lifetime 
(except  in  case  of  very  early  marriage),  and 
could  easily  find  dozens  of  persons  wMi 
whom  they  would  be  capable  of  falling  in 
love  again  if  due  occasion  offered.  We  are 
not  all  created  in  pairs,  like  the  Excho'^uez 
tallies,  exactly  intended  to  fit  into  one  an- 
other's minor  idiosyncrasies.  Men  and  worn* 
en  as  a  rule  very  sensibly  fall  in  love  with  one 
another  in  the  particular  places  and  the  par- 
ticular societies  they  happen  to  be  cast  among. 
A  man  at  Ashby-de  la-Zouch  does  not  hunt  the 
world  over  to  find  his  preSstabliahed  harmony 
at  Paray-le-Monial  or  at  Denver,  Colorado. 
But  among  the  women  be  actually  mee  ts,  a 
vast  number  are  purely  indifferent  to  him: 
only  one  or  two,  here  ana  there,  strike  him 
in  the  light  of  possible  wives,  and  only  one  in 
the  last  resort  (outside  8alt  Lake  City)  ap- 
proves herself  to  his  inmost  nature  as  tlie 
actual  wife  of  his  final  selection. 

Now  this  very  indifference  to  the  vast  mass 
of  our  fellow-countrymen  or  fellow-country- 
women, this  extreme  pitch  of  selective  prefer^ 
ence  in  the  human  species,  is  just  one  mark 
of  our  extraordinary  specialization,  one  stamp 
and  token  of  our. high  supremacy.  Th« 
brutes  do  not  so  pick  and  choose.  ThougJi 
even  there,  as  Darwin  has  shown,  selecUoik 
plays  a  large  part  (for  the  very  bmterfiies  are 
coy,  and  must  be  wooed  ami  won),  it  is  only 
in  the  human  race  itself  that  selection  de- 
scends into  such  minute,  such  subtle,  such 
indefinable  discriminations.  Why  should  a 
imiversal  and  cummon  impulse  have  in  our 
c&se  these  special  limits?  Why  sliuuld  we  be 
by  nature  so  fastidious  and  so  diversely 
affected?  Surely  for  some  good  and  8ufi3cient^ 
purpose.  No  deep-seated  want  of  our  com«f. 
plex  life  wouli  be  so  narrowly  restricted 
without  a  law  and  a  meaning.  Sometimes^ 
we  can  in  part  explain  its  conditions.  Hcfe, 
we  see  that  beauty  plays  a  great  role;  theori*, 
we  recognize  the  importanoe  of  strength. /^f 
Quumer,  of  grace,  of  moral  fipalitiew.    Yivao- 


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THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


Ity,  as  Mr.  Galtoir  justly  remarks,  is  one  of 
the  most  powerful  am#ng  human  attractions, 
and  often  accounts  for  what  might  otherwise 
seem  imaccountabI«  preferences.  But  after 
all  is  said  and  done,  there  remains  a  vast  mass 
of  instinctive  and  inexplicable  elements:  a 
power  deeper  and  more  marvelous,  in  its  in- 
scrutable ramifications  than  consciousness. 
"  What  on  earth,"  we  say,  **  could  So-and-so 
see  in  So-and-so  to  fall  in  love  with?"  This 
very  inexplicability  I  take  to  be  the  sign  and 
seal  of  a  profound  importance.  .An  instinct 
so  conditioned,  so  curious,  so  vague,  so  un- 
fatliopiabie,  as  we  may  guess  by  analogy  with 
all  other  instincts,  must  be  nature's  guiding 
voice  within  us,  shaking  for  the  good  of  the 
human  race  in  all  future  generations. 

On  the  other  hand,  let  us  suppose  for  a 
moment  (impossible  supposition!)  that  man- 
kind could  conceivably  divest  itself  of  "  these 
foolish  ideas  about  love  and  the  tastes  of 
younjj  people,"  and  could  hand  over  tlic 
choice  of  partners  for  life  to  a  committee  of 
anthropologists,  presided  over  by  Sir  George 
Campbell.  Would  the  committee  manage 
things,  I  wonder,  very  much  better  than  the 
Creator  has  managed  them?  Where  would 
they  obtain  that  intimate  knowledge  of  indi- 
vidual structures  and  functions  and  differences 
which  would  enable  them  to  join  together  in 
holy  matrimony  fitting  and  complementary 
idiosyncrasies?  Is  a  living  man,  with  all  his 
orgnns,  and  powers,  and  faculties,  and  dis- 
positions, so  simple  and  easy  a  problem  to 
read  tliat  anybody  else  can  readily  undertake 
to  pick  out  off-hand  a  help  meet  for  him?  I 
trow  not!  A  man  is  not  a  horse  or  a  terrier. 
You  cannot  discern  his  "points"  by  simple  in- 
spection. You  cannot  see  d priori  why  a  Hano- 
verian bandsman  and  his  heavy,  ignorant,  un- 
cultured wife,  should  conspire  to  produce  a 
Sir  William  Herschel.  If  you  tried  to  im- 
prove the  breed  artificially,  either  by  choice 
from  outside,  or  by  the  creation  of  an  inde- 
pendent moral  sentiment,  irrespective  of  that 
instinctive  preference  which  we  call  Palling 
in  Love,  I  believe  that  so  far  from  improving 
man,  you  would  only  do  one  of  two  things — 
either  spoil  his  constitution,  or  produce  a  tame 
Stereotyped  patftt^  of    amiable  imbecility. 


You  would  crush  out  all  initiative,  all  sjpou- 
taneity,  all  diversity,  all  originality ;  you 
would  get  an  animated  moral  code  instead  of 
living  men  and  women. 

Look  at  the  analogy  of  domestic  aninnals. 
That  is  the  analogy  to  which  breeding  re- 
formers always  point  with  special  pride:  but 
what  does  it  really  teach  us?  That  you  can*t 
improve  the  efficiency  of  animals  in  any  one 
point  to  any  high  degree,  without  upsetting 
the  general  balance  of  their  constitution.  The 
race -horse  can  run  a  mile  on  a  particular  day 
at  a  particular  place,  bar  accidents,  with  won- 
derful speed :  but  that  is  about  all  he  is  good 
for.  His  health  as  a  whole  is  so  surprisingly 
feeble  that  he  has  to  be  treated  with  as  much 
care  as  a  delicate  exotic.  **  In  regard  to  ani- 
mals and  plants,"  says  Sir  George  Campbell, 
"we  have  very  largely  mastered  the  principles 
of  heredity  and  culture,  and.  the  modes  by 
which  good  qualities  may  be  maximized,  bad 
qualities  minimized."  True,  so  far  as  con- 
cerns a  few  points  prized  by  ourselves  for  our 
own  purposes.  But  in  doing  this,  we  have  so 
lowered  the  general  constitutional  vigor  of 
the  plants  or  animals  that  our  vines  fall  an 
easy  prey  to  oidium  and  phylloxera,  our  po- 
tatoes to  the  potato  disease  and  the  Colorado 
beetle ;  our  sheep  are  stupid,  our  rabbits 
idiotic,  our  domestic  breeds  generally  threat- 
ened with  dangers  to  life  and  limb  unknown 
to  tlieir  wiry  ancestors  in  the  wild  state.  And 
when  one  comes  to  deal  with  tlie  infinitely 
more  complex  individuaUty  of  man,  what 
hope  would  there  be  of  our  improving  the 
breed  by  deliberate  selection?  If  we  developed 
the  intellect,  we  would  probably  stimt  the 
physique  or  the  moral  nature;  if  we  aimed  at 
a  general  culture  of  all  faculties  alike,  we 
would  probably  end  by  a  Chinese  uniformity 
of  mediocre  dead  level. 

The  balance  of  organs  and  fifculties  in  a 
race  is  a  very  delicate  organic  equilibrium. 
How  delicate  we  now  know  from  thousands 
of  examples,  from  the  correlations  of  seem- 
ingly unlike  parts,  from  the  wide^read 
effects  of  small  conditions,  from  the  utter  dy- 
ing out  of  races  like  the  Tasmanians  or  the 
Paraguay  Indians  under  circumstances  differ- 
ent &om  those  with  which  their  ancestoxB 


FALLING  IN  LOVE. 


S5 


vere  familiar.  What  folly  to  int€rfere  with 
a  marvelous  instinct  which  now  preserves 
this  balance  intact,  in  favor  of  an  untried 
artificial  system  which  would  probably  wreck 
it,  as  helplessly  as  the  modern  system  of 
higher  education  for  women  is  wrecking  the 
maternal  powers  of  the  best  class  in  our  Eng- 
lish community. 

Indeed,  within  the  race  itself,  as  it  now 
exists,  free  choice,  aided  by  natural  selection, 
is  actually  improving  every  good  point,  and  is 
for  ever  weeding  out  all  the  occasional  failures 
and  shortcomings  of  nature.  For  weakly 
children,  feeble  children,  stupid  children, 
heavy  children,  are  undoubtedly  born  under 
this  very  regime  of  falling  in  love,  whose 
average  results  I  believe  to  be  so  highly  bene- 
ficial. How  is  this!  Well,  one  has  to  take 
into  consideration  two  points  in  seeking  for 
the  solution  of  that  obvious  problem. 

In  the  fisrt  place,  no  instinct  is  Absolutely 
perfect.     All  of  them  necessarily  fail  at  some 
points.    If  on  the  average  they  do  good,  they 
are  sufficiently  justified.    Now  the  material 
with  which  you  have  to  start  in  this  case  is 
not   perfect.     Each    man  marries,  even  in 
favorable  circumstances,  not  the  abstractly 
best  adapted  woman  in  the  world  to  supple- 
ment or  counteract  his  individual  peculiarities, 
but  the  best  woman  then  and  there  obtainable 
for  him.    The  result  is  frequently  far  from 
perfect;  all  I  claim  is  that  it  would  be  as  bad 
or  a  good  deal  worse  if  somebody  else  made 
the  choice  for  him,  or  if  he  made  the  choice 
himself  on  abstract  biological  and  **  eugenic" 
principles.    And,  indeed,  the  very  existence 
of  better  and  worse  in  the  world  is  a  condition 
precedent  of  all  upward  evolution.     Without 
an  overstocked  world,  with  individual  varia 
tions,  some  progressive,  some  retrograde,  there 
could  be  no  natural  selection,  no  survival  of  tl:e 
fittest.    That  is  the  chief  besetting  danger  of 
cut-and-dried  doctrinaire  views.     Malthus  was 
a  very  great  man;  but  if  his  principles  of  pru- 
dential resUnint  were  fully  carried  out,  the 
pnident  woirid  oeaee  to  reproduoe  their  like, 
and  the  world  would  be  peopled  in  a  few  gen- 
•era  tions  by  the  hereditary  reckless  and  dissolute 
and  imprudent.   Even  so,  if  eugenic  principles 
«tere  umvefsaUy  adopted,  the  chance  of  exoep- 


tional  and  elevated  natures  would  be  largely 
reduced,  and  natural  selection  would  be  in  so 
much  interfered  with  or  sensibly  retarded. 

In  the  second  place,  again,  it  must  not  be 
forgotten  that  Falling  in  Love  has  never  yet, 
among  civilized  men  at  least,  had  a  fair  field 
and  no  favor.     Many  marriages  are  arranged 
on  very  different  grounds — grounds  of  con- 
venience,  grounds  of  cupidity,  grounds  of 
religion,  grounds  of  snobbishness.    In  many 
cases  it  is  clearly  demonstrable  that  such  mar- 
liag^  are  productive  in  the  highest  degree  ot 
evil  consequences.     Take  the  case  of  heiresses. 
An  heiress  is  almost  by  necessity  the  one  last 
feeble  and    flickering    felic  of  a  mor/ound 
stock — often  of  a  stock  reduced  by  the  sordid 
pursuit  of  ill-gotten  wealth  almost  to  the  very 
verge  of  actual  insanity.    But  let  her  be  ever 
so  ugly,  ever  so  unhealthy,  ever  so  hysterical, 
ever  so  mad,  somebody  or  other  will  be  ready 
and  eager  to  marry  her  on  any  terms.     Con- 
siderations of  this  sort  have  helped  to  stock 
the  world  with  many  feeble  and  unhealthy 
peraonsw    Among  the  middle  and  upper  classes 
it  may  be  safely  said  only  a  very  small  per- 
centage of  marriages  is  everdue  to  love  alone ; 
in  otlier  words,  to  instinctive  feeling.    The 
remainder  have  been  influenced  by  various 
side  advantages,  and  nature  has  taken  her 
vengeance  accordingly  on  the  unhappy  off- 
pring.     Parents  and  moralists  are  ever  ready 
to  drown  her  voice,  and  to  counsel  marriage 
within  one's  own  class,  among  nice  people, 
with  a  really  religious  girl,  and  so  forth  ad 
infinitum.    By    many  well-meaning    young 
people  these  deadly  interferences  with  natural 
impulse  are  accepted  as  part  of  a  higher  and 
nobler  law  of  conduct.    The  wretched  belief 
that  one  should  subordinate  the  promptings  df 
one's  own  soul  to  the  dictates  of  a  miscalcula- 
ting and  misdirecting  prudence  has  been  in- 
stilled into  the  minds  of  gills  especially,  until 
at  last  many  of  them  have  almost  come  to  look 
upon  their  natural  instincts  as  wrong,  and  the 
immoral    race-destructive    counsels  of  their 
seniors  or  advisers  as  the  truest  and  purest 
earthly  vtisdom.    Among  certain  small  relig- 
ious sects,  again,  such  as  the  Quakers,  the 
duty  of  "  manying  in"  has  been  strenuous]^ 
inculcated,  and  only  the  stronger-minded  aa0 


84 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


more  individualistic  members  have  had  cour- 
age and  initiative  enough  to  disregard  preoe- 
dent,  and  follow  4he  internal  divine  monitor,  as 
against  tiie  estemally-imposed  law  of  their 
particular  community.  Even  among  wider 
bodies  it  is  commonly  held  that  Catholics 
must  not  marry  Protestants ;  and  the  admira- 
ble results  obtained  by  the  mixture  of  Jewish 
with  European  blood  have  almost  all  been 
reached  by  male  Jews  having  the  temerity  to 
marry  *' Christian"  women  in  the  face  of 
opposition  and  persecution  from  their  co-na- 
tionalists. It  is  very  rarely  indeed  that  a 
•Jewess  will  accept  a  European  for  a  husband. 
In  so  many  ways,  and  on  so  many  grounds, 
does  convention  interfere  with  the  plain  and 
evident  dictates  of  nature. 

Against  all  such  evil  parental  promptings, 
however,  a  great  safeguard  is  afforded  to 
society  by  the  wholesome  and  essentially 
philosophical  teaching  of  romance  and  poetry. 
I  do  not  approve  of  novels.  They  are  for  the 
most  part  a  futile  and  unprofitable  form  of 
literature;  and  it  may  profoijndly  be  regretted 
that  the  mere  blind  laws  of  supply  and  de- 
mand should  have  diverted  such  an  immense 
number  of  the  ablest  minds  in  England, 
France,  and  America,  from  more  serious  sub- 
jects to  the  production  of  such  very  frivolous 
and,  on  the  whole,  ephemeral  works  of  art. 
But  the  novel  has  this  one  great  coimterpoise 
of  undoubted  good  to  set  against  all  the  mani- 
fold disadvantages  and  shortcomings  of  ro- 
mantic literature — that  it  always  appeals  to 
the  true  internal  promptings  of  inlierited  in- 
stinct, and  opposes  the  foolish  and  selfish 
suggestions  of  interested  outsiders.  It  is  the 
perpetual  protest  of  poor  banished  human  na- 
ture against  the  expelling  pitchfork  of  calcula- 
ting expediency  in  the  matrimonial  market. 
While  parents  and  moralists  are  forever  say- 
ing, '* Don't  many  for  beauty;  dont  marry 
for  inclination;  don't  marry  for  love:  marry 
for  money,  marry  for  social  position,  marry 
for  advancement,  marry  for  our  convenience, 
not  for  your  own,"  the  romance-writer  is  for- 
ever urging,  on  the  other  hand,  "Marry  for 
love,  and  for  love  only. "  His  great  theme  in 
all  ages  has  been  the  opposition  between 
pttraatal  m  other  external  wtsheB  and  the  true 


promptings  of  the  young  and  unsophisticated 
human  heart.  He  has  been  the  chief  atly  of 
sentiment  and  of  nature.  He  nas  filled  the 
heads  of  all  our  girls  with  what  Sir  George 
Campbell  describes  off-hand  as  **  foolish  ide:\s 
about  love."  He  has  preserved  us  from  the 
hateful  conventions  of  civilization.  He  has 
exalted  the  claims  of  personal  attraction,  of 
the  mysterious  native  yearning  of  heart  for 
heart,  of  the  indefinite  and  indescribable  ele- 
ment of  mutual  selection;  and  in  so  doing,  he 
has  unconsciously  proved  himself  the  l)est 
friend  of  human  improvement  and  the  dead- 
liest enemy  of  all  those  hideous  "social  lies 
which  warp  us  from  the  living  truth.'*  His 
mission  is  to  deliver  the  world  from  Dr. 
Johnson  and  Sir  George  Campbell. 

For,  strange  to  say,  it  is  the  moralists  and 
the  doctrinaires  who  arc  always  in  the  wrong: 
it  is  the  sentimentalists  and  the  rebels  who  are 
always  in  the  right  in  this  matter.  If  the 
common  moral  maxims  of  society  conld  have 
had  their  way — if  we  had  all  chosen  our  wives 
and  our  hysbands,  not  for  their  beauty  or 
their  manliness,  not  for  their  eyes  or  their 
moustaches,  not  for  their  attractiveness  or 
their  vivacity,  but  for  their  "sterling  qualities 
of  mind  and  character,"  we  should  now  doubt- 
less be  a  miserable  race  of  prigs  and  book- 
worms, of  martinets  an  I  puritans,  of  nervous 
invalids  and  feeble  idiots.  It  is  because  our 
nyong  men  and  maidens  will  not  hearken  to 
these  penny-wise  apophthegms  of  shallow 
sophistry — because  they  often  prefer  Borneo 
and  Juliet  to  the  "Whole  Duty  of  Man,"  and  a 
beautiful  face  to  a  round  balance  at  Coutts's — 
that  wo  still  preserve  some  vitality  and  some 
individual  features,  in  spite  of  our  grinding 
and  crushing  civilization.  The  men  who 
marry  balances,  as  Mr.  Gtilton  has  shown, 
happily  die  out.  leaving  none  to  represent 
them:  the  men  who  marry  women  they  have 
been  weak  enough  and  silly  enough  to  fall  in 
love  with,  recruit  the  race  with  fine  nnd  vig- 
orous and  intelligent  children,  fortunately 
compounded  of  the  complementaiy  traits 
derived  from  two  fairly  contrasted  and  mutu- 
ally reinforcing  individualities. 

I  have  spoken  tliroughout,  for  argument's 
sake,  as  though  the  only  interest  to  be  oon- 


HAWTHORNE'S   ROMANCES. 


85 


sidered  in  the  married  relation  were  the  inter- 
ests of  the  offspring,  and  so  ultimately  of  the 
race  at  large,  rather  than  of  the  persons  them< 
selves  who  enter  into  it.  But  I  do  not  quite 
see  why  each  generation  sliould  thua  be  sacri- 
ficed to  the  welfare  of  the  generations  that 
afterward  succeed  it.  Now  it  is  one  of  the 
strongest  points  in  favor  of  the  system  of 
Falling  in  Love  that  it  dees,  b/  common 
experience  in  the  vast  majority  of  instances, 
assort  together  persons  wha  subseqnently 
prove  themselves  thoroughly  congenial  and 
helpful  to  one  another.  And  this  resuii  I  look 
ui)on  as  one  great  proof  of  the  real  value  and 
importance  of  the  instinct.  Most  men  and 
women  select  for  themselves  partners  for  life 
at  an  age  when  they  know  but  little  of  the 
world,  when  they  judge  but  superScially  of 
characters  and  motives,  when  they  still  make 
maaj  mistakes  in  the  ^^onduct  of  life  and  in 
the  estimation  of  chances.  Yet  most  of  them 
fiud  in  after  days  that  they  have  really  chosen 
out  of  all  the  world  one  of  the  persons  best 
adapted  by  native  idiosyncrasy  to  make  their 
joint  lives  enjoyable  and  useful.  I  make 
every  allowance  for  the  effects  of  habit,  for 
the  growth  of  sentiment,  for  the  gradual 
approximation  of  tastes  and  sympathies;  but 
surely,  even  so,  it  is  common  consciousness 
with  every  one  of  us  who  has  been  long  mar- 
ried, that  we  could  hardly  conceivably  have 
made  ourselves  happy  with  any  of  the  part- 
ners whom  others  have  chosen;  and  that  we 
have  actually  made  ourselves  so  with  the  part- 
ners we  choae  for  ourselves  under  the  guid- 
ance of  an  almost  unerring  native  instinct. 
Yet  adaptation  between  husband  and  wife,  so 
far  as  their  own  happiness  is  concerned,  can 
hive  had  comparatively  little  to  do  with  the 
evolution  of  the  instinct,  as  compared  with 
adaptation  for  the  joint  production  of  vigorous 
and  successful  offspring.  Natural  selection 
lays  almost  all  the  stress  on  the  last  point  and 
hardly  any  at  all  upon  the  first  one.  If,  then, 
the  instinct  is  found  on  the  whole  so  trust- 
worthy hi  the  minor  matter,  for  which  it  has 
not  specially  been  fashioned,  how  far  more 
trustworthy  and  valuable  must  it  probably 
prove  in  the  greater  matter— greater,  I  mean, 
as  regards  the  intereats  of  the  iaoe— f  or  which 


it  has  been  mainly  or  almost  solely  developed! 
I  do  not  doubt  that,  as  the  world  goes  on,  a 
deeper  sense  of  moral  reaponsibility  in  the 
matter  of  marriage  will  grow  up  among  us. 
But  it  will  not  take  the  false  direction  of 
ignoring  these  our  profoundest  and  holiest 
instincts.  Marriage  for  money  may  go;  mar- 
riage for  rank  moiy  go;  marriage  for  position 
may  go;  but  marriage  for  love,  I  believe  and 
trust,  will  last  forever.  Men  in  the  future 
will  probably  feel  that  a  union  wit!\  their 
cousin  or  near  relation  is  positively  wicked; 
that  a  union  with  those  too  like  them  in  per- 
son or  disposition  is  at  least  undesirable;  that 
a  union  based  upon  considerations  of  wealth 
or  any  other  consideration  save  considerations 
of  immediate  natural  impulse,  is  base  and  dis- 
graceful. But  to  the  end  of  time  they  will 
continue  to  feel,  in  spite  of  doctrinaifts,  that 
the  voice  of  nature  is  better  far  than  the  voice 
of  the  Lord  Chancellor  or  the  Royal  Society; 
and  that  the  instinctive  desire  for  a  particular 
helpmate  is  a  surer  guide  for  the  ultimate 
happiness,  both  of  the  race  and  of  the  individ- 
ual, than  any  amount  of  deliberate  consulta- 
tion. It  is  not  the  foolish  fancies  of  youth 
that  will  have  to  be  got  rid  of,  but  the  foolish^ 
wicked,  and  mischievous  interference  of  par- 
ents or  outsiders. — Grant  Allen,  ia  ,Ths 
FortnighUy  Review, 


HAWTHORNE'S  ROMANCES. 

"Nevertheless  It  involved  a  charm,  on  which,  a  de- 
voted epicnreof  my  own  emotions,  I  resolved  to  pans* 
and  enjoy  the  moral  sillabub  until  quite  dissolved 
away."— £?afr^Aor»€>  BiUhedale  Bomance. 

A  sentence  of  Emerson  on  the  character 
of  the  American  genius,  that  "it  has  a  certain 
grace  without  grandeur,  and  is  itself  not  new 
but  derivative,  is  only  partially  true  as  applied 
to  Hawthorne.  For  the  special  qualities 
which  distinguish  his  writings  form  an  almost 
unique  phenomenon  in  literature,  partly  owing 
to  their  impalpable  and  imponderable  charm, 
partly  l>ecause  of  the  complete  fusion  which 
they  exhibit  of  somewhat  contradictory  in- 
gredients. For  Hawthorne  is  conspicuously 
American,  and  yet  he  is  by  no  means  "pro- 


86 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


yincial;  he  ia  a  Puritan,  and  yet  an  artist;  a 
moralist,  and  yet  not  devoid  of  a  refined  and 
exquisite  cynicism.  An  American  assuredly, 
for  he  wrote  Our  Old  Home;  and  born  of  a 
stock  of  Puritans  and  Calvinists,  because  bis 
stories  are  full  of  the  problems  of  sin  and 
evil,  and  overwegbted  by  the  obstinately 
recurrent  feeling  of  something  like  an  original 
doom;  and  yet,  by  virtue  of  his  higher  efforts, 
a  poetic  genius,  a  consummate  artist,  a  cos- 
mopolitan writer  Of  the  three  main  ele- 
ments of  his  nature  there  is  only  one  which, 
so  far  as  we  know,  was  individually  bis  own. 
His  inquisitorial  liabits,  and  his  predilection 
for  **cases  of  conscience,"  were  hid  heritage 
f.om  the  Judge  Hawthorne  who  condemned 
tlie  Salem  witches;  his  idealistic  dreaminess, 
and  his  questionings  of  sense  and  outward 
things,  we  can  attribute  perhaps  more  doubt- 
fully to  tlie  influence  oT  Emerson  and  the 
Transcendeutalists.  There  remains  his  aes- 
thetic taste,  his  * 'squeamish  love  of  the  beau- 
tiful, and  his  general  artistic  sense,  which  we 
cannot  father  on  either  ancestors  or  contem- 
poraries, but  without  which  he  would  have 
remained  as  much  "provincial"  as  Alcott,  and 
Clmnning,  and  Thoreau.  But  this  individual 
element  cannot  be  torn  out  from  its  intimate 
relationship  with  New  England  characteristics. 
The  fibers  which  connect  Hawthorne  with 
his  native  soil  and  his  grim  old  forefathers 
are  too  close  and  intricate  for  such  rude 
surgery  and  it  is  the  manner  in  which  his 
supreme  artistic  genius  is  interpenetrated  by 
Puritanical  moods  and  transcendental  dreams 
which  gives  it  its  unique  importance  in  mod- 
em literature. 

The  prefaces  which  Hawthorne  prefixes  to 
his  books  a  c  all  charming  and  generally  irrel- 
evant. None,  however,  is  more  charming  or 
more  irrelevant  than  the  chapter  on  the  Cus- 
tom House  which  opens  the  romance  of  the 
Scarlet  Letter,  In  it  he  refers  to  his  ancestry 
— those  grave,  bearded,  sable-cloaked,  and 
steeple-crowned  progenitors,  who  made  Salem 
famous  or  infamous  with  their  martial  swords 
and  still  more  martial  Bibles.  They  had  the 
Puritanic  traits,  both  good  and  evil:  thay 
were  soldiers,  legislators,  judges  and  rulers  in 
the  ChHr^,  and  they  were  bitter  persecutors 


of  witches  and  Quakers.  Hawthorne  pictures 
them  as  undergoing  a  dreary  retribution  for 
their  cruelties  in  having  so  degenerate  an  ofl> 
spring  as  himself,  a  writer  of  story-books, 
who,  from  tiieir  point  of  view,  might  as  well 
have  been  a  fiddler.  '  'Yet , "  he  remarks,  *  iel 
them* scorn  me  as  they  will,  strong  traits  of 
their  nature  have  intertwined  themselves  with 
mine." 

In  this,  as  often  in  his  self-criticism,  Haw- 
thorne was  entirely  in  the  right.  He  is  haunt- 
ed by  the  same  problems,  though  to  him  they 
are  matters  for  his  imagination  rather  for  his 
faith;  to  him,  too,  as  well  as  to  them,  the 
di-eary  consciousness  of  sin  weigiis  like  an 
ancestral  and  immitigable  burden  on  men's 
souls.  The  point  of  view  is,  however,  changed 
by  his  artistic  instinct.  No  longer  are  present 
sin  and  future  damnation.  Divine  predestina- 
tion to  evil  and  human  r^ssponsibility  for  trans- 
gression, facts  of  awful  moral  import,  wliich 
are  to  color  the  practice  and  darken  ihe  sym- 
pathies of  every  individual  soul;  but  only 
l>sychological  problems,  full  of  speculative 
interest,  themes  for  imaginative  treatment, 
colors  merely  of  somber  hue  which  the  artist 
iceeps  on  his  palette,  whereby  to  heighten  the 
elfect  of  his  dramatic  pictures.  It  is  as 
though  a  man  in  middle  age  were  to  meet 
again  in  dream  the  bogeys  which  liauntcd  his 
childish  nightmares,  and  change  them  from 
tyrannical  masters  into  servile  sprites  and 
obedient  Ariels.  So  purely  as  playthings  for 
his  art  does  Hawthorne  treat  tlie  witches' 
sabbaths  and  the  midnight  frolics  in  the  for- 
est, a  nd  all  the  kindred  notions  of  demonic 
possession.  Nay,  he  extends  tlie  same  treat- 
ment even  to  hereditary  curses  and  legendary 
sins,  to  mesmeric  influences  and  occult  phe* 
nomena  of  magic.  Like  the  Motlier  Kigby  of 
his  tale,  he  lets  his  familiar  Dickon  light  his 
pipe,  and  constructs  one  or  two  imaginary 
Feathertops  to  delude  the  too  seriously  practi- 
cal or  too  crudely  realistic  portion  of  his  au- 
dience. Only  the  thing  is  managed  so  grace- 
fully that  we  are  willingly  deluded;  the  artistic 
touch  is  80  sure  and  so  fine,  that  we  foel  a 
delicate  eesthetic  relish  in  such  funereal 
themes.  It  is  not,  as  he  says,  "the  devil  him- 
self who  gets  into  his  inkstand, ' '  when  he  fills 


HAWTHORNE'S   ROMANCES. 


87 


his  pen,  but  rather  a  humorous  Mephistoph- 
eles  with  a  poetic  taste  for  the  graceful  and 
the  picturesque. 

To  this  we  have  to  add,  a  seemingly  real 
belief  in  philosophical  idealism— perhaps  due 
to  contact  with  Emerson' and  Alcott:  that  the 
so-called  facts  which  surround  us  are  not  real 
but  phenomenal;  that  man's  life  is  but  a 
dream,  that  our  truest  life  is  not  the  external 
one,  but  the  internal  warmth  of  emotion  and 
feeling  which  gives  us  an  instinctive  insight 
into  truth;  these  things  seem  to  have  been 
part  of  Emerson's  creed.  "'Indeed  we  are 
Imt  shadows:  we  are  not  endowed  wfth  real 
life,  and  all  that  seems  most  real  about  us  }s 
but  the  thinnest  substance  of  a  dream  till  the 
heart  be  touched.  That  touch  creates  us, 
then  we  begin  to  be,  thereby  we  are  beings  of 
reality  and  inheritors  of  eternity/'  Such  a 
sentence  seems  obviously  to  bear  the  Emer- 
sonian impress.  The  same  sentiment  is  more 
comically  expressed  in  the  followmg  sentences, 
which  relate  to  Hawthorne's  life  in  the  Brook 
Farm  experiment. 

**  It  already  looks  like  a  dream  behind  me.  The  real 
Me  waa  never  an  aeeoclate  of  the  common ity;  there 
has  been  a  spectral  Appearance  there,  eoundini^  the 
horn  at  daybreak,  and  milking  the  cowa  and  hoeing 
potatoes,  and  raking  hay,  toiling  in  the  sun,  and  doing 
mc  the  honor  to  aeeame  my  name.  But  the  specter 
was  not  myself.  Nevertheless,  it  Is  somewhat  remark- 
able that  my  hands  have,  daring  the  past  sammer, 
grown  very  brown  and  rough,  ins<>mach  that  many 
people  persist  in  believing  that  I,  after  aU,  waa  the 
aforesaid  spectral  horn-sonnder,  cow-milker,  potato- 
hoer,  and  bay-raker.  Bat  sneh  people  do  not  know  a< 
reatitj  from  a  ahadow.  *^ 

No,  indeed,  for  Hawthorne's  real'  self  was 
not  at  Brook  Farm,  except  in  the  shape  of 
Miles  Coverdale;  nor  anywhere  else,  except 
somewhere  haunting  the  region  which  divides 
the  natural  from  the  supcrnntural,  the  thin 
borderland  which  separates  the  dream  life 
from  the  actual  and  the  palpable.  It  can 
easily  be  seen  how  such  idealistic  tendencies 
increased  the  effect  of  his  writings.  It  gave 
his  characters  some  of  the  effect  ofdis  embodied 
creations,  with  regard  to  whom  we  have  not 
to  apply  the  usual  canons  of  credibility.  It 
rendered  his  Donatello  a  plausible  fancy,  and, 
bestowed  a  kind  of  verisimilitude  oa  such 
**moonshiny"  romances- as  7^4m^rmaiiofi 


"The  cursed  habits  of  solitude,"  to  which 
Hawthorne  refers,  the  dislike  of  comcrsaiiun 
and  society,  the  shyness  of  his  ordiuary  de- 
meanor and  Ids  customary  sclf-coucciitration 
were  doubtless  answerable  for  many  of  the 
characteristics  of  his  writing.  Here,  for  in- 
stance, is  a  picture  of  the  man  as  drawn  by 
his  friend  G.  W.  Curtis,  which  will  explain 
much  of  his  idiosyncrasy: — 

"^  During  Hawthorne's  first  year  of  residence  in  Con- 
cord, I  liad  driven  up  with  some  friends  to  an  fe&thetic 
tea  at  !Mc.  Emerson 'a^  It  was  in  the  winter,  and  a 
great  wood  fire  blazed  upon  the  hospitable  hearth. 
There  were  various  men  and  women  of  note  assembled, 
and  If  who  lieitened  attentively  to  all  the  fine  things 
that  were  said,  was  for  some  time  scarcely  aware  of  a 
man,  who  sat  upon  the  edge  of  the  circle,  a  little  with- 
drawn, hia  heaid  slightly  thrown  forward  upon  hia 
bceaat,  and  hia  black  eyes  clearly  burning  under  his 
black  brow.  As  I  drifted  down  the  btream  of  talk, 
this  person,  who  sat  silent  as  a  shadow,  looked  at  me 
aa  Webster  might  have  looked  had  he  been  a  poet  —a 
kind  of  poetic  Webster.  He  rose  and  walked  to  the 
window,  and  stood  there  qnietly  for  a  long  time  watch- 
ing the  dead  white  landscape.  No  appeal  was  made 
to  him ;  nobody  looked  rfter  him ;  the  conversation 
flowed  steadily  on,  as  if  every  one  understood  that  his 
silence  was  to  be  respected.  It  was  the  same  thing  at 
table.  In  vain  the  silent  man  imbibed  aesthetic  tea. 
Whatever  fancies  it  inspired  did  not  flower  at  bis  lips. 
But  there  was  a  light  in  his  eye  which,  assured  me  that 
nothing  was  lost  So  supreme  was  his  silence  that  It 
presently  engrossed  me  to  theezclnaion  of  everythioi; 
else.  There  waa  verj^  briUiant  difscourhc,  but  this 
silence  was  much. more  poetic  and  fasciua^ng.  Fine 
things  were  said  by  the  philosophers,  but  much  finer 
things  were  implied  by  the  dumbnew  of  this  gentle- 
man with  heavy  brows  and  black  hair.  When  he  pres* 
ently  rose  and  went,  Igmerson,  .wUh  the  slow,  wise 
smile  that  breaks  over  hia  face  like  day  over  the  sky, 
said,  ''Hawthorne  rides  well  his  horse  of  the  night-''  '* 

The  happily  descriptive  remark  of  Kniersou, 
though  il  accentuates  the  crepuscular  habit  of 
mind,  equally  explains  two  other  mental  traits 
of  Hawtliorne^  the  tendency  to  abstraction 
and  the  power  of  introspection.  Surely  but 
few  writers  have  had  such  a  genius  for  self- 
criticism  as  Hawthopne.  Psychological  anal 
ysis  was.  Indeeii,  a  familiar  sport  for  his 
mind,  and  formed  the  modern  substitute  for 
the  ancient  inquisitorial  instincts  of  his  pro- 
genitors. He  was  so  cool,  so  disengaged,  so 
puvely  negative  toward  his  creations,  that  he 
could  not  only  analyze  the  prejudices  and  in- 
tuitions of  others,  but  subject  himself  to  the 
same  process.     He  exactly  hits   the  point*. 


88 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


when  he  calls  TVantformatum  a  moonshiny 
romance;  he  is  equally  felicitous  in  what  he 
says  in  the  preface  to  Ticice-Told  Tales  as  to 
the  quality  of  his  shorter  stories.  '*The  book, 
if  you  would  see  anything  in  it,  requires  to 
be  read  in  the  clear,  brown,  twilight  atmos- 
phere in  which  it  was  written;  if  opened  in 
the  sunshine,  it  is  apt  to  look  exceedingly  like 
a  volume  of  blank  pages."  In  Miles  Cover- 
dale  in  the  Blitfiedale  Homance,  he  left  what 
appears  to  be  a  picture  of  himself  in  the  midst 
of  the  Brook  Farm  enthusiasts.  Certainly 
Hawthorne  had  no  particular  business  to  be 
among  the  sentimental  young  ladies,  heavy- 
footed  disciples  of  socialism,  staid  devotees 
of  the  rights  of  equal  division  of  property, 
and  calm  philosophic  thinkers,  who  together 
constituted  that  most  picturesque  and  most 
visionary  of  modern  Arcadias.  Miles  Cover- 
dale,  too,  is  not  especially  enthusiastic.  "As 
Hollingsworth  once  told  me,  I  lack  a  purpose. 
How  slrangul  He  was  ruined  morally  by  an 
overplus  of  the  same  ingredient,  the  want  of 
which  I  occasionally  suspect  has  rendered  my 
life  all  an  emptiness,"  Or  again,  "No  saga- 
cious man  will  long  retain  his  sagacity,  if  he 
lives  expressly  among  reformers,  without 
periodical  return  to  the  settled  system  oi 
things  to  correct  himself  by  a  new  observation 
from  the  old  standpoint." 

One  can  sec  that  Hawthorne  clearly  recog- 
nized how  little  sympathy  is  to  be  got  out  of 
mental  analysis,*  and  how  far  a  cool  and 
somewhat  self-interested  common-sense  falls 
short  of  being  the  stuff  of  which  great  histor- 
ical movements  are  made.  Coverdale,  how- 
ever, if  a  critic,  is  at  least  an  amiable  one 
and  represents  Hawthorne  at  his  best.  Haw- 
thorne at  his  worst  is  represented,  possibly, 
by  the  darker  phantom  of  Gervayse  Hastings 
iin  the  short  story  called  the  Lhristm<M  Banqu4t 
— a  man  whose  cold  curiosity  in  the  region  of 
•emotion  has  left  him  absolutely  incapable  of 
•experiencing  it  in  his  own  person.  Be  this  as 
\X  may,  Hawthorne  possesses  in  singular 
:measure  the  power  of  dividing  his  mind  into 
two  departments,  one  of  which  adopts  the 
.position  of  critic  toward  the  other.  He  re- 
minds one  of  the  Doppel-Odnger  in  Schu- 
anann'«  4ong,  i>rhere  »  man  is  wati^hing  with 


intense  interest  a  figure  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  street.  It  has  the  same  tricks  as  he  is 
conscious  of  possessing,  and  exercises  the 
peculiar  fascination  over  him  of  a  sort  of  a 
objective  presentation  of  his  own  most  in- 
timate qualities.  The  figure  suddenly  turns 
and  he  sees  the  face:  with  a  shriek,  he  recog- 
nizes that  it  is  his  owb. 

The  other  characteristic — the  tendency  to 
abstraction  which  so  solitary  a  mind  inevitably 
possesises — manifests  itself  partly  in  the  blood- 
lessness  of  tlie  i)erBonages  whom  he  deplete, 
partly  in  the  love  of  allegory,  partly  «gain  in 
the  eerie  quality  of  his  romances.  It  is  the 
^ft  of  the  higher  forms  of  literature  to  pos- 
sess a  distinct  atmosphere  of  their  own,  the 
influence  of  which  we  instinctively  recognize 
as  we  read.  There  is  the  atnK)sphere,  for 
instance,  which  surrounds  Mr.  Morris's 
Earthly  Paradise,  the  heavy,  seni^uoufl  air  of 
some  island  of  the  Sirens  where  reigns  the 
indolent  and  delicious  passivity  of  an  eternity 
of  the  lotus-flower.  Or  there  is  the  eager 
and  nipping  air  which  surrounds  much  of  the 
work  of  Carlyle,  an  air  which  bites  shrewdly 
apd  which  can  only  be  inhaled  in  gasps.  Or 
there  is  the  quiet,  summerlike,  peaceful 
atmosphere  which  Emerson  distils,  the  air  of 
complacent  optimism,  when  we  feci  that  it  is 
good  to  havo  been  born,  and  that  all  things 
work  together  for  good  to  those  who  love 
GKxi.  Far  otherwise  is  the  atmosphere  which 
surrounds  the  work  of  Hawthorne,  and  no 
one  who  has  once  breathed  it  can  forget  its 
peculiar  quality.  In  whatever  time,  place,  or 
circumstance  his  tales  are  i)erused,  instantly 
there  rises  the  suggestion  of  a  chilly  and  spec- 
tral air.  the  air  of  some  gleaming  moonlight, 
when  all  the  shadows  seem  to  have  gathered 
an  added  intensity,  when  ordinary  flesh  and 
blood  has  lost  color,  and  to  both  eye  anil  car 
are  borne  ever  and  anon  the  visions  of  fljing 
wraiths,  and  the  echoes  of  a  supernatural 
melody.  The  touch  of  the  artist  here  is  in- 
communicable  and  indescribable,  and  is  the 
unique  possession  of  his  singular  genius.  The 
machinery  by  which  the  effect  is  worked 
differs,  but  the  result  is  the  same.  Some- 
times it  is  witchcraft,  together  with  all  the 
gloomy  terrors  of  the  forest  at  midnight,  u 


HAWTHORNE'S   ROMANCES. 


8& 


when  young  Goodman  Brown  feels  himself 
impelled  to  desert  the  common  paths  of  recti- 
tude and  juin  the  witches'  revel.  Sometimes 
it  is  an  inherited  curse,  as  when  Judge  Pyn- 
chcon,  in  the  House  of  the  Seven  Gables,  dies 
in  the  same  chair  as  his  blood-stained  ances- 
tor, and  the  author  bids  us  watch  for  hours 
at  his  side  while  he  taunts  him  with  all  his 
uDfulfilled  engagements.  Sometimes,  it  is  the 
consciousness  of  sin,  as  when  Arthur  Dim- 
mesdale,  in  The  Scarlet  Letter,  places  himself 
on  the  scaffold  where  the  partner  of  his  guilt 
had  been  pilloried  and  stands  in  the  place  of 
shame  throughout  the  summer  night.  Some- 
limes  it  is  merely  the  consciousness  of  the 
secrecy  of  the  human  heart,  as  when  Mr. 
Ht)oper  scares  his  congregation  by  appearing 
before  them  with  a  black  veil  over  his  face. 
Sometimes,  again  it  is  the  morbid  fancy  of 
the  highest  and  most  exquisite  beauty  as 
springing  from  a  being  nurtured  by  the  most 
virulent  poisons,  as  in  that  short  masterpiece 
entitled  RapjxiccinVs  Daughter.  Or,  once  more, 
it  is  the  violent  conjunction  and  contrast  of 
opi)osite  and  discordant  emotions,  as  when 
^liriam  and  Donatello  in  Transformation,  in 
the  intoxication  of  a  crime  committed  in  com- 
mon, walk  feverislily  and  happily  ecstatic 
through  the  blood-stained  streets  of  Rome. 
However  managed,  the  supernaturid  eJBfect  is 
the  same. 

Supernatural,  indeed,  is  not  the  right  word 
to  employ:  for  the  essence  of  Hawthorne's 
art  is  to  make  it  seem  supremely  natural,  as 
though  by  some  magic  touch  tlie  extraordin- 
ary could  iKJCome  ordinary,  or  as  though  the 
realities  of  the  world  were  but  the  shadows 
of  those  deeper  truths  which  are  wrongly 
named  fantastic  and  imaginary.  The  fascina- 
tion of  the  mystical  may  be  difflQ\dt  to  anal- 
yze* certainly,  if  it  ever  touches  the  margin 
of  the  vulgar  or  the  riduculous,  it  becomes 
repulsive:  but  when  it  is  kept  in  conttol  by 
an  exquisite  artistic  sense,  it  affects  us  with  a 
strange  and  almost  immeasurable  force.  But 
if  there  is  one  writer  more  than  another  who 
makes  us  dispute  the  obstinate  reality  of  the 
things  of  our  work-a-day  life,  who  Uiaches  us 
^  he  sceptical  of  such  ordinary  foundations 
of  a  materialistic  creed  as  matter  and  tune  and 


space,  it  is  Hawthorne,  with  his  romantic 
idealism,  who  in  this  respect,  though  from 
quite  another  side  and  animated  by  a  different 
motive,  preaches  the  same  lesson  as  his  com- 
patriot Emerson,  and  helps  us  to  banish  the 
vulgar  forms  of  realism,  as  possible  modes  of 
art. 

3Ieanwhile  the  characters  in  such  talcs 
undoubtedly  suffer,  and  sometimes  the  talcs 
themselves  become  too  obivously  didactic  or 
allegorical.  *  'Instead  of  passion, ' '  Hawthorne 
with  rare  frankness  confesses,  "there  is  senti- 
ment; and  even  in  what  purport  to  be  pictures 
of  actual  life  we  have  allegory,  not  always 
so  warmly  dressed  in  its  habiliments  of  flesh 
and  blood  as  to  be  taken  into  the  reader's 
mind  without  a  shiver.  Whether  from  lack 
of  power,  or  an  unconquerable  i*eserve,  the 
author's  touches  have  often  an  effect  of  tame 
ness;  the  merriest  man  can  hardly  contrive  to 
laugh  at  his  broadest  humor;  the  tenderest 
woman,  one  would  suppose,  will  hardly  shod 
warm  tears  at  his  deepest  pathos."  Though 
overstated,  there  is  an  element  of  truth  in  this 
self-criticism;  yet  those  who  think  that  Haw- 
thorue  was  always  cold  and  impassive  should 
remember  the  passage  in  the  En^liah  Note- 
books (September  14,  1885),  where  he  says  he 
wonders  at  Thackeray's  coolness  in  respect  to 
his  own  pathos,  and  compares  it  with  hia  own 
emotion  when  he  read  the  last  scene  of  TKs 
Scarlet  Letter  to  his  wife,  just  after  writing  it 
— tried  to  read  it  rather,  for  his  voice  swelled 
and  heaved,  as  if  he  were  tossed  up  and  down 
on  an  ocean  as  it  subsides  after  a  storm.  As 
to  the  fondness  for  allegory,  Edgar  Poe 
def*lares  in  a  contemporary  criticism  that  he  is 
infinitely  too  fond  of  it,  and  that  he  can  never 
hope  for  popularity  so  long  as  he  persists  in 
it.  "Indeed,  his  spirit  of  metaphor  run  mad 
is  clearly  imbibed  trom  the  pTialanstery  at- 
mosphere in  which  he  has  been  so  long  strug- 
gling for  truth.  Let  him  mend  his  pen,  get  a 
bottle  of  visible  ink,  come  out  from  the  Old 
Manse,  cut  Mr.  Alcott,  hang  (if  possible)  the 
editor  of  the  Dial,  and  throw  out  of  the  win- 
dow to  the  pigs  all  his  odd  numbers  of  the 
North  American  Bveiew.**  This  is  of  course 
pitched  in   a  tone  of  absord  exaggeration. 


90 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


The  truth  is,  however,  that  the  love  of 
abstraction  and  allegory  was  a  mood  against 
which  Hawthorne  was  often  struggling,  and 
98  he  himself  says,  making  attempts  to  open 
an  intercourse  with  the  world.  The  result  is 
that  a  progressive  tendency  from  the  abstract 
to  the  amcrcte  can  be  traced  through  much 
of  his  work,  and  that  his  last  work,  Trantfor- 
ination,  so  little  represents  the  culmination  of 
his  powers  that  it  is  in  certain  aspects  a  dis- 
tinct retrogression. 

It  appears  that  during  or  immediately  after 
his  college-days  at  Bowdoin,  Hawtliorne  pub- 
lished anonymously  a  slight  romance  with  the 
motto  from  Soulhey,  "Wilt  thou  go  with  me?'* 
He  was  afterward  disgusted  with  this  early 
work,  aDd  never  acknowledged  its  authorsliip. 
But  it  possessed  in  a  crude  form  many  of  the 
subsequent  quiflities  of  his  ,style.  It  was  a 
dim  dreamy  tale,  full  of  the  weird  and  the 
uncanuy,  and  its  characters  were  not  so  much 
persons  as  embodied  passions,  emotions,  spir- 
itual speculations.  Here  at  the  outset  of  his 
career,  we  find  both  allegory  and  abstract 
characterization.  It  is  the  same  with  many 
of  his  earlier  tales.  He  appears,  if  not  anx- 
ious to  express  a  moral,  at  lea^t  unable  to  give 
his  creations  anything  but  the  most  shadowy 
and  anaemic  personality.  They  move  across 
the  pages  with  a  stilted  imitation  of  life,  they 
arc  endowed  with  names  as  though  they  were 
really  |>ersons,  but  we  inatinctively  feel  that 
they  have  not  the  same  flesh  and  bone  as  our- 
selves, and  that  they  d  aw  their  breath  from 
airs  which  never  enter  our  lungs. 

Enormous  is  the  interval  which  separates 
the  best  of  the  shorter  tales  from  Tfie  Scarlet 
LeUer  with  its^clear  enunciation  of  practical 
moral  problems  and  its  terrible  revelation  of 
the  anguish  of  a  burdened  conscience.  After 
Tft^  Scdrlet  Letter  was  published,  we  are  told 
tliat  Hawthorne  received  many  confessions 
from  men  and  women  who  had  either  com- 
mitted or  fancied  that  they  had  committed 
some  great  sin,  a  sufficient  proof  of  the  reality 
and  concreteness  of  its  main  theme.  A 
Quaker  once  wrote  to  the  author  to  tell  him 
that  he  knew  him  better  than  his  best  friend. 
Yet  there  was  truth  in  Hawthorne's  comment 
that  his  correspondent  considerably  ovei^es- 


timated  the  extent  of  his  intimacy  with  hizn. 
For,  indeed,  even  in  T?ie  Scarlet  Letter  there 
is  much,  as  Mr.  Henry  James  remarks,  of 
*  'spheres  and  influences. ' '  Arthur  Dimmesdale 
is  real  enough,  but  what  are  we  to  say  of 
Roger  ChilUngworth,  the  aggrieved  husband, 
who  exercises  so  great  an  influence  over  the 
denouement  of  the  tale,  and  yet  hovers  only 
on  the  verge  of  actuality  as  an  impalpable  and 
ghostly  Nemesis?  Hawtliorne  is  fond  of  mak- 
ing the  tragic  action  of  his  characters  depend 
on  such  shadowy  personalities,  and  Chilling- 
worth  plays  an  identical  part  with  the  myste- 
rious ligure  of  the  catacombs  who  persecutes 
Miriam  in  Tranrformatton,  and  Professor 
Westervelt,  who  wields  such  an  occult  power 
over  Zenobia  in  the  BlUhedaXe  llomanee. 
Hester  Prynne  herself  does  not  affect  us  like 
a  woman  who  has  loved  and  suffered  for  her 
love,  because  Hawthorne  intentionally  separ- 
ates the  present  conjuncture  which  it  is  his 
object  to  analyze  from  the  past,  whence  it 
sprang,  and  which  alone  could  give  it  causal 
justification.  The  effect  on  the  mind  is  like 
that  of  Stesichorus's  Helen,  who  did  not  go  to 
Troy  at  all,  but  only  went  there  in  the  shape 
of  a  pale  and  bodiless  phantom.  The  triumph 
of  this  fanciful  semi-morbid  psychology  is  the 
elfin  child,  little  Pearl,  veritably  a  triumph, 
for  she  is  so  clearly  the  offspring  of  ah  im- 
moral alliance,  but  for  that  very  reason  she  is 
hardly  a  child  at  all,  but  the  embodied  moral 
of  a  wholesome  sermon.  Yet  even  here  how 
wonderfully  sure  is  the  artistic  touch  of  Haw 
thorne!  What  a  morbid  piece  of  imagination 
it  is  to  make  the  child  so  fond  of  the  letter  of 
shame  that  she  will  not  go  to  her  mother  un- 
less she  is  wearing  it  on  her  bosom!  How 
morbid  and  yet  how  striking  I  Hawthorne  is 
full  of  such  touches,  sometimes  insisting  on 
them  with  Un  almost  painful  emphasis,  but 
rarely  exceeding  the  artistic  requirements  of 
his  picture. 

A  year  after  the  publication  of  The  Scarlet 
Lfitier,  Hawthorne  has  added  to  the  concrete- 
ness of  his  personages  in  T?ie  House  of  the 
Seven  Gables.  The  shadowy  ChilUngworth 
has  now  become  a  firm-set,  tyrannical  reality 
in  .the  shape,  of  ludge  Pyncheon;  and  the 
author  has  found  a  way  of  making  his  fexoale 


HAWTHORNE'S   ROMANCES. 


91 


characters  more  actual  by  the  contrast  betn^een 
an  elder  and  a  younger,  the  younger  to  be  the 
essence  of  sweetness  and  tenderness,  and  the 
elder  to  have  harder  lineaments,  produced 
either  by  age  or  mental  strength.  PhGebe 
Pyncheon,  too,  has,  besides  her  tenderness,  a 
beneficent  store  of  practical  activity,  and  poor 
old  Heplizibah  commences  her  troubles  by  a 
crisis  of  pathetic  reality  when  she  degrades 
her  lineage  by  opening  a  shop.  Holgrave  is 
thrown  in  to  add  to  this  effect  as  the  represen- 
tative of  the  pushing,  indefatigable  Yankee, 
who  has  nothing  but  his  wits  to  make  his  way 
within  the  world.  Clifford  remains  as  the  rep- 
resentative of  the  shadows,  and  there  is  a  half- 
intimated  background  of  ancestral  feud  and 
mesmeric  influence  to  keep  the  story  wit]iin 
the  limits  prescribed  by  the  author's  peculiar 
genius. 

In  the  BtWiecUUe  Homanoe  we  move  to  yet 
newer  ground.    Here  is  a  basis  of  actual  fact 
io  the  experiences  of  Hawthorne  in  the  Brook 
Farm  community,  and  Blithedale  becomes  no 
imaginary  region,  but  a  phenomenon  which 
bistory  has  recognized.    Of  all  the  novels,  this, 
though  perhaps  slightest  in  texture,  has  most  of 
sunniness,  most  of  humorous  enjoyment,  as 
though  for  once  the  haunting  devU  had,  for 
some  two  hundred  pages  at  least,  left  Haw- 
thorne's elbow.    Co verdaJ e  is  concrete  enough ; 
so,  too,  in  ample  measure  in  HoUingsworth; 
80.  too,  above  all,  is  S-enobia.    The  same  ex- 
pedient is  used  for  contrasting  an  elder  stronger 
woman  with  a  younger  weaker  one;  and,  in- 
deed, the  relations  of  Zenobia  to  Priscilla  are 
afterward  repeated  in  those  of  Miriam  and 
Hilda  in  TranffformaHon.    But  there  can  be 
DO  qnestion  that  of  all  the  female  characters 
Zenobia  is  the  one  that  has  the  firmest  outlines 
and  the  most   insistent  personality.     In  all 
dramatic  characterization,  it  is  women  especi- 
ally who  suffer  by  being  made  too  shadowy 
and  bloodless.     All  their  modes  of  sell-mani- 
festation, all  the  outlets  of  their  influence,  are 
80  essentially  bound  up  with  their  corporeal  or- 
ganization, the  whole  impress  of  their  person- 
ality, at  least  to  a  masculine  imagination,  is  so 
intimately  connected  with  their  bodily  form 
and  feature,  that  if  they  fail  to  be  flesh  and 
)^ood,  we  begin  to  be  sceptical  of  their  actual- 


ity. As  has  been  already  noticed,  some  of 
Hawthorne's  women  seem  to  shrink  from 
crossing  the  borders  of  shadowlaud;  but  Ze- 
nobia at  least  is  imperiousl}^  human  in  her  sen- 
suous beauty,  in  her  passionate  attachment, 
in  her  terrilde  despair.  Rarely  has  Hawthorne 
allowed  himself  such  touches  as  those  by 
which  he  conveys  to  his  reader  the  idea  of  the 
Blithedale  heroine. .  See  how  she  affects  Miles 
Coverdale: — 

"Zenobia  was  traly  a  magnlflcent  woman.  The 
homely  simpUcity  of  her  dress  could  not  conceal,  nor 
scarcely  dimluiaht  the  qoeenliness  of  her  preseuce.— I 
know  not  well  how  to  expreea.  that  the  native  glow  of 
coloring  in  her  cheeks,  and  even  the  flveh-warmth  over 
her  roand  anna  and  what  was  visible  of  her  full  bast, 
in  a  word,  her  womanliness  incarnated,  compelled  me 
sometimes  to  close  my  eyes,  as  if  it  were  not  quite 
the  privilege  of  modesty  to  gaze  at  her.*^ 

AVhen  we  turn  to  Transformation,  we  are 
struck  by  many  differences  in  relation  to  the 
earlier  romances.  The  scene,  to  begin  with, 
is  changed,  and  New  England  has  been  de- 
serted for  Italy.  It  is  a  curious  proof  of  the 
many  invisible  ties  which  serve  to  connect 
Hawthorne  with  his  native  country  that  with 
the  loss  of  the  familiar  background  of  Salem 
and  Concord  and  the  forest,  there  appears,  to 
be  a  corresponding  loss  of  power.  The  many 
allusions  to  Italian  scenery  and  the  descrip- 
tions of  notorious  spots  in  Rome,*  however  ad- 
mirably they  may  fulfill  the  purposes  of  a 
superior  guide-book,  and  however  graceful 
they  may  be  in  themselves,  hardly  make'  up 
for  the  deficiency  of  the  natural  local  colors. 
Sometimes  they  strike  the  reader  at  irritating 
interruptions,  and  indeed  the  story  itself,  aB 
Mr.  Henry  James  has  remarked,  has  a  tend- 
ency to  lose  itself  m  by  ways  and  straggle  al 
most  painfully  in  inconsecutive  paragrapha. 
The  characters  again  have  become  more  shad- 
owy. Miriam,  is  not  wholly  a  satisfactory 
creation,  owing  to  the  intentional  obscurity  in 
which  the  author  has  left  both  her  p.  st  and 
her  future;  Kenyon  is  not  especially  life-hhe; 
and  Donatello,  Uiougfa  at  times  he  strikes  one 
as  a  happy  fiction  of  poesy,  at  other  times  ob- 
trudes too  much  his  alien  nature.  The  novel, 
lastly,  has  an  obvious  purpose,  and  the  lesson 
of  the  educative  power  of  sin,  whether  it  be 
considered  as  a  moral  one  or  no,  interferes  to 


93 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINB. 


some  extent  with  the  artistic'  x:haracfter  of  the 
word.-  Yet  such  criticisms  do  not  touch  tlie 
main  value  of  the  book,  and  it  is  hardly  matter 
for  surprise  that  to  many  readers  Transforma- 
tion, appears  as  Hawthorne's  masterpiece.  The 
genius  for  style  is  as  clearly  there— perhaps 
more  clearly  there — than  in  his  other  works, 
and  the  impalpable  charm  of  distinction  and 
refinement  rests  on  many  pages  of  admirable 
writing.  Still,  we  are  not  altogether  surprised 
to  find  that  the  next  step  carries  the  author 
wholly  back  to  the  abstract  and  allegorical: 
and  however  little  we  may  have  a  right  to 
judge  the  unfinished  Septimius  Felton,  it  is 
easy  to  see  that  it  would  under  no  circnm- 
Btances  have  reached  the  level  of  former  pro- 
ductions. 

Dramatist  or  no  dramatist,  there  can  be  no 
question  that  Hawthorne  was  a  consummate 
artist.  His  characters  may  often  be  wanting 
in  opaqueness  and  solidity,  but  nothing  can 
interfere  with  the  extraordinary  felicity  and 
power  of  his  scenes.  The  personages  do  not 
always  stand  out  with  distinctness,  but  the 
management  of  the  incidents,  the  grouping  of 
the  accessories,  the  natural  background  of 
color  and  lone  and  scenery,  and  all  the  *'  stag- 
ing," so  to  speak,  of  the  piece  are  alike  ad- 
mirable. Further  than  this,  the  insight  into 
emotion  and  the  perception  of  the  contrasts  of 
passion,  though  they  often  appear  arbitrary 
and  unnatural,  strike  the  imagination  with 
rare  force,and  mastery.  It  will  be  better  to 
select  some  of  the  finest  passages  for  compar- 
ison, in  order  to  observe  the  manner  in  which 
Hawthorne  produces  his  effects.  Take  the 
scene  in  T/ie  Scarlet  Letter  in  which  Artliur 
Dimmesdale  returns  from  his  interview  with 
Hester  Prynne  in  the  forest.  The  minister, 
after  meeting  once  more  the  companion  of  his 
ancient  sin,  finds  that  his  moral  nature  is  tem- 
porarily perverted.  He  longs  to  utter  to  his 
deacon  blasphemous  suggestions  about  the 
obmmunion  supper.  He  is  on  the  point  of 
whispering  to  an  elderly  Ttame  who  has  lost 
her  husband  and  children  some  argument 
against  the  immortality  of  the  soul.  He  is 
tempted  to  make  some  impure  remark  and 
give  some  wicked  look  to  one  of  the  purest 
maidftns  in  his  flock,  and  to  join  a  drunken 


seaman  in  a  volley  of  "good,  round,  solid, 
satisfactory  and  heaven- defying  oaths." 
There  is  a  horrible  truth  in  this  wonderful 
scene.  Hawthorne  has  merely  analysed  tiie 
power  of  mental  reaction  after  some  unusual 
strain  of  feeling  and  excitement — a  comnnoa 
experience,  but  one  which  hit>  genius  lias  trans- 
figured with  unearthly  light.  Or,  again,  there 
is  the  long  chapter  in  the  House  of  l/ie  Seven 
Gables,  where  Judge  Pyncheon  is  described  as 
lying  dead  in  his  chair.  Here  the  effect  is  due 
to  the  contrast  between  liie  cold  lifeless  corpse, 
rigid  on  its  chair,  and  the  string  ot  humorous 
taunts  conveyed  iu  the  enumeration  of  the 
Judge's  mar.ifold  worldly  engagements  for  the 
day.  Take  another  scone.  In  the  Blithedale 
Rofnance,  HoUings  worth,  Coverdale  and 
Foster  drag  the  midnight  river  for  the  boily  of 
Zenobia,  who  has  committed  suicide.  What 
is  it  that  makes  the  scene  so  powerfully  tragic? 
It  is  partly  the  presence  of  Silas  Foster  with 
his  utterly  coarse  and  rustic  imaginings,  as  an 
effectual  contrast  to  the  spiritual  agony  of  the 
other  characters. 

"  It  puts  me  in  mind  of  my  young  days,  remarked 
Silac,  when  I  ufscd  to  8teal  out  of  bed  to  go  bobbing  for 
hornpoutsand  eels.  Ileigh-ho !  Well ;  life  and  death 
tof^ether  make  sad  work  for  as  all !  Then  I  was  a  boy, 
bobbing  for  fieh ;  and  now  Tm  getting  to  be  an  old  fel- 
low, and  here  I  be,  groping  for  a  dead  body !  I  tell 
you  what,  ladB,  if  I  thonght  anything  had  really  hap- 
{)ened  to  Zenobia,  I  should  feel  kind  o^  eorrowfol.^^ 

What  a  wonderful  touch  that  is  1  Hawthorne 
knows  the  value  of  sudden  contrasts  of  the 
humorous  and  the  grave,  and  when  Zenobia's 
body  is  found,  he  does  not  hesitate  to  suggest 
tliat  if  she  had  only  k^own  the  ugly  circum- 
stances of  death  and  how  ill  it  became  her,  she 
woyld  no  more  have  committed  the  dreadful 
act  tlian  have  exhibited  herself  to  a  public  as- 
sembly in  a  badly- fitting  garment.  Another 
powerful  scene  has  before  been  referred  to. 
It  is  that  of  the  murder  of  the  tormentor  of 
Miriam  by  Donatello  in  Ti^ansformaiion, 
Here  the  strength  of  the  situation  is  not  de- 
pendent on  the  reaUsm  by  which  the  act  itself 
is  described,  but,  as  usual  in  Hawthorne,  on 
the  indication  of  the  after-effects.  The  sense 
of  a  sin  in  which  both  have  participat43d  leads 
at  first  to  an  ecstasy  of  joy.    Miriam  and  Dona 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 


98 


tello  go  hand  in  hand  as  though  the  murder 
had  not  only  made  them  irrevocably  one,  but 
enduringly  happy.  Perhaps,  after  all,  the 
finest  single  scene  of  all  is  the  night-vigil  of 
the  hero  of  The  Scarlet  Letter  on  the  scaffold; 
but  ia  that  the  effect  depends  more  on  the  im- 
aginative vividness  with  which  tlie  picture  is 
drawn  tliaa  on  the  subtle  suggestion  of  con- 
trasted feelings,  on  which  Hawthorne  princi- 
pally relies. 

It  is  needless  to  hold  up  Hawthorne  to  ob- 
lotiuy,  as  Mr.  Hutton  has  done,  for  not  seeing 
the  rights  and  wrongs  of  slave  emancipation. 
It  was  reprehensible,  no  doubt,  for  our  author 
to  have  suggested  that  a  noble  movement  had 
some  of  "the  mistiness  of  a  philanthropic 
theory."  But  it  must  be  remembered  that 
Hawtbome  was  a  Democrat,  not  a  Republican, 
ud  that  he  had  a  warm  attachment  for  Qen- 
erai  Pierce,  who  had  identified  himself  with 
the  party  who  desired  above  all  to  preserve  the^ 
Union.  The  real  defence,  however,  is  that  it 
was  impossible  for  a  man  of  Hawthorne's  or- 
ganization to  feel  any  deep  interest  in  con- 
leraporary  politics.  He  had  an  instinctive  dis- 
like of  politicians  and  philanthropists. 

"I  detest, ""•  he  writes  In  the  flret  volume  of  his  Amer- 
ican Note-books,  "all  offices— all,  at  least,  that  are 
held  upon  a  political  tennre,  and  I  want  nothing  to  do 
with  politicians.  Their  hearts  wither  away  and  die 
ont  of  their  bodies.  Their  consciences  are  tamed  to 
india-rubber,  or  to  some  substance  as  black  as  that, 
and  which  will  stretch  as  much.  One  thing,  if  no 
moTv,  I  have  gained  by  my  Cnetom-honse  experience 
—to  know  a  politician.  It  is  a  knowledge  which  no 
prerious  tboaght  or  power  of  sympathy  conld  have 
taoght  me:  because  the  animal,  or  the  machine  rather, 
is  not  in  natore. ' 

Or  again,  on  the  subject  of  philanthropists, 

in  reference  to  HolUngsworth: —  , 

**They  have  no  heart,  no  sympathy,  no  reason,  no 
conscience.  They  will  keep  no  friend,  nnless  he 
make  himself  a  mirror  of  their  purpose;  they  will 
nuite  and  slay  you,  and  trample  your  dead  corpse  un- 
der foot,  all  the  more  readily  if  yon  tnka  the  first  step 
with  them,  and  cannot  take  the  second  and  the  third, 
and  every  other  step  of  their  terribly  straight  path. 
They  have  an  idol,  to  which  they  consecrate  them- 
•elves  high-priest  and  deem  It  holy  work  to  offer  sac- 
rifices of  whatever  is  most  precious,  and  never  once 
Mem  to  snapect,  so  cunning  has  the  devil  been  with 
them,  that  this  false  deity.  In  whose  iron  features,  im- 
mitigable to  all  the  rest  of  mankind,  they  see  only 
benignity  and  love.  Is  bnt  a  spectmrn  of  the  very  prieet 
bhnaelf,  projected  upon  the  torroanding  darkness.  ^^ 


It  is  on  this  side,  perhaps,  that  we  can  see 
more  clearly  than  on  any  other  what  his  French 
critic,  in  the  Betme  des  Deux  Mondes,  M.  Emile 
Montegut,  means  by  calling  Hawthorne  "un 
romancier  pessimiste."  He  certainly  had  his 
pessimistic  moments.  "Let  us  acknowledge 
it  wiser,  if  not  more  sagacious,  to  follow  out 
one's  day-dream  to  its  natural  consummation, 
altliough,  if  the  vision  have  been  worth  the 
having,  it  is  certain  never  to  be  consummated 
otherwise  than  by  a  failure. "  Or  again,  "We 
contemplated  our  existence  as  hopefully  as  if 
the  soil  beneath  our  feet  had  not  been  fathom- 
deep  with  the  dust  of  deluded  generations,  on 
every  one  of  which,  as  on  ourselves,  the  world 
had  imposed  itself  as  a  hitherlo  uu wedded 
bride;*'  a  noticeable  passage,  because  seeming- 
ly framed  in  reference  to  Emerson's  optimism, 
who  had  told  t/te  American  scfiolar  that  he  gave 
him  "the  universe  a  virgin  to-day."  But  in 
reality  Hawthorne  had  too  much  humor  to  be 
either  a  Leopardi  or  a  Schopenhauer.  His  in- 
quisitorial coldness  and  his  perfectly  neutral 
analysis  of  character  give  him  a  certain  airy 
scepticism  and  a  kind  of  cynical  aloofness; 
but  such  a  temper  stimds  at  the  opposite  pole 
to  pessimism,  which  is  dogmatically  and  sav* 
agely  in  earnest.  He  describes  himself  with 
felicitous  exactness*  in  the  attitude  of  Miles 
Coverdale.  He  was  a  devoted  epicure  of 
emotions,  and  on  sucli  moods  as  robl)ed  the 
actual  world  of  its  solidity  he  was  resolved  t© 
pause,  and  enjoy  the  moral  sillabub  until  quite 
dissolved  away.— W.  L.  Courtney,  in  2%d 
Fortnightly  Beview. 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 

Education  in  thx  JSmftrk  of  thk  Yncas.— Prof .  B. 
C.  White,  llead  Master  at  the  American  College  at 
Callao,  Pefn,  furnishes  to  the  Boston  Education  an  in- 
teresting paper,  of  which  the  following  is  an  abridg- 
ment :— 

"Prescott  has  erroneously  applied  the  name  *Ynca' 
to  all  the  people  of  the  Ynca's  empire.  The  word 
Tne€Lt  in  the  Qtiechua  language,  means  Mord^  or  *king* 
and  was  applied  only  to  members  of  the  royal  family. 
The  proper  name  of  the  empire,  THahvantinsuyo,  la 
also  applicable  to  the  people  as  a  whole.  These  people 
vied  with  the  progreaeive  peoplea  of  the  nineteenth 


u 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


centnry  !n  many  departmepts  of  education,  especially 
in  the  indat<irial  Kicncuf^. 

"Their  8y«tera  of  irrigation,  extending  over  an  area 
of  nearly  1000  nquare  mi  let),  coneieted  of  aquedactfr 
GonBtruct^d  of  flag-tstonen,  so  closely  jointed,  witlioui 
the  use  of  cciueut,  a«»  to  conduct  water  over  rivers  and 
ravines  without  any  waste.  In  many  places  the  eleva- 
tion of  the  UuneswouH  not  admit  of  irrigation;  and 
here  they  excavate<l  the  sand  to  a  sufficient  depth  to 
insure  moisture  enough  for  the  growing  of  plants 
These  dug-out  gardens  sometimes  contained  an  acre 
of  ground  ainl  were  surrounded  with  walls  of  sun-dried 
bricks.  To  fertilize  these  irrigated  lands  they  used  a 
small  fish  which  was  very  abundant  along  the  sea 
chore,  or  guano, 

♦'Thev-t  tndi(Ml  the  rotation  of  crops,  the  proper  time 
for  seeding;  and  the  character  of  the  climate  and  s^oil 
B/ery  toot  of  ground  was  utilized.  Not  only  did  they 
reclaim  the  desert  of  the  coast,  but  by  a  system  of  ter- 
racing they  re-cnltivated  the  rocky  sides  of  the  moun- 
tains from  the  base  io  the  snowline.  These  ierraces 
iOT  andrenes,  from  which  the  mountain  range  derives 
the  name  'Andes'),  rise  before  the  traveler  similar  to 
the  mighty  pyramids  of  £^ypt.  and  were  tilled  in  with 
fertile  soil  brought  up  from  the  valleys  at  (he  baae  of 
.the  mountains  The  products  of  the  soil  consisted  of 
maize;  ninna,  a  kind  of  grain  similar  to  rice:  cool,  a 
narcotic  plant,  the  leaves  of  which  they  mixed  with 
lime^  and  chewed  when  their  power  of  endurance  was 
called  into  actiou;  cotton;  egu  a  kind  of  pepper, 
potatoes:  cawote^  a  kind  of  sweet  potato:  oca,  utluws^ 
And  many  tropical  fruits. 

^In  manufacturing  they  produced  cotton  and -wool- 
en cloth  having  more  than  sixty  threads  to  the  inch 
of  wool,  dyed  in  all  colors,  and  containing  manj 
beautiful  designs,  as  found  to-day  in  their  tombs.  In 
the  workiDg  of  gold,  silver  and  copper  ornaments,  and 
moulding  and  hardening  copper  by  .alloying  it  with 
«llica,  they  surpassed  the  Artisan  of  to  day.  Their 
4^otter>  and  other  manufactures  also  show  louch  skill 
And  deciign. 

-"  Besides  their  respective  occupations,  sthe  commoa 
people  were  tanght  their  duty  to  the  government, 
religions  rites,  elementary  arithmetic,  and  the  Que- 
chua  language.  Tlic  Yncae  and  the  aristocracy  were 
trained  in  the  rachahuascicuHa  (NationalUniversitlee) 
in  liturgy,  military  tactics,  architecture,  the  history 
of  the  empire,  the  biography  of  the  Jungs  and  other 
eminent  men,  aatrononur,  geometcy,  the  geography  ot 
their  country,  medicine,  surgery,  elementary  arithme- 
tic,, the  use  of  the  qvfjms,  or  knotted  cords  used  for 
memorizing  events  and  numbers,  the  grammar  and 
rhetoric  of  the  Quechaa  language,  dramatic  exhibi- 
tions, eloquence,  poetry,  and  song.  The  principles  of 
.geometry  were  carefully  studied,  and  mastered,  as  the 
^pplicatiou  of  the  same  \»  seen  in  their  mins  to-day. 
They  applied  these  principles  in  drafting  maps  of  the 
empire,  in  the  distribntion  of  their  lands,  as  well  as  In 
■their  admirable  architecture— aolving  very  difBcult 
problems  with  great  exactness. 

'*  In  astronomy  they  were  Inferior  to  the  Aztecs,  as 
thqy  determined  the  solstices .&nd  equinoxes  by  means 


of  mechanical  contrivances  instead  of  mathematicai 
calculations.  Nevertheless  they  observed  the  course 
of  Venus  and  of  some  other  planets.  When  eclipses 
occurred,  they  became  greatly  frightened,  believiue 
that  the  heavenly  tidies  were  threatening  to  cdoie 
down  and  dci*troy  the  earth.  To  avert  thi^  they  brokt 
out  into  loud  cries,  beating  musical  instruments,  and 
ihc  like.  This  was  kept  up  until  the  heavenly  bodu** 
were,  as  believed,  driven  back  to  their  proper  placet*. 
The  phases  of  the  moon  {quilla)  were  explaimed  liy  the 
condition  of  the  health  of  that  luminary.  They  called 
the  new  moon,  ah  we  do  ;  when  at  the  full  it  was  ;/?/«« 
quilla,  *  red  moon : '  when  declining,  it  wa«  Jivafrne 
quilla.,  'dying  moon;'  when  dark,  it  was  quiUa 
hnuiiuy.,  'dead  uuioa.'  They  had  a  lunar  year,  begin- 
ning on  the  l«?t  of  December,  and  a  solar  year,  com- 
mencing at  the  vernal  equinox.  This  solar  year  con- 
tained 805^  days,  and  was  divided  into  four  seasons, 
as  with  n«. 

*'  The  adopted  language  of  the  whole  em])ire  was  the 
Quechua,  every  conquered  tribe  t)eing  compeited  to 
learn  it  ats  soon  as  possible.  This  language  is  the 
richest  and  most  systematic  of  all  the  Indian  tongaes. 
it  forms  all  its  conjugations,  declensions,  and  plurals 
with  more  regularity  than  do  the  Latin  and  Greek.  It 
is  a  complete  systematized  language,  ranking  with  the 
beet  developed  languages  which  have  ever  exieted. 
Mnch— probably  most—of  the  literature  of  the  Tiahuan- 
tiusuyos  has  been  lost  through  the  Spanish  conquest . 
but  t^erei»till  remain  frugmcnti^of  considerable  value. 
The  drama  Ollant  a  and  Cf/si-Kei/ytfor.,  consists  of 
three  acts,  and  is  well  composed.  Their  poetry,  most- 
ly in  rhyme,  was«nng  at  festivals,  and  chanted  in  the 
fields.  The  favorite  piece  was  the  following,  address- 
ed to  the  Tkiua,  a  bird  which  robbed  Xhe  corn-fields  :— 

I.    . 
Ama  piscQ.micuyehu  O  bird  !  di)  not  eat 

Nustallipa  chdcrantd  The  crops  of  my -princes*. 

MdnanMnd  f-uctiichu  Bo  not  then  rob 

HWaeundn  sdrdn  ia.  The  maize  that  is  her  food : 

-  Tuy allay !    Tnyallay !        TuyaliayJ    TugcUlay  I 

n. 
Panneadtfmi  rurvnd  The  grain  i»  white, 

Ancha/xoni  munifpd  And  the  leaves  are  tender: 

Nvcrminaocmi  ucctard  As  yet  they  are  delicate : 

LMhmgcmi  raphinpd         I  iear  your  perching  on 

Tuyallay  1    Tnyallay  I  them. 

•  Tuyallcy!  Tuyallay! 

m. 
Phvrantdtdc  moBoarty         Your  wings  shall  be  cot. 
Cuckusaccmi  silltda  Your  nails  shall  be  torn; 

Puppmceayqnin  ccdniapat  And  yon  shall  be  captured 
Happiscdyqyin    ccdntapcts.  And  closely  engaged. 

Tuyallay !    Tuyallay !  Tuyallay!  TuyaUajfi 

IV. 

Hinagccaian  ri<^ti^pii  This  shall  he  done  to  yoo 

ITiJC  runtnid  eapchacctln.     When  you  eat  a  gtain : 
BtnaefaeenA  riwngvi  This  shall  be  done  to  you 

Bvc  llallapas  cMneaectin.  When  a  grain»is  stolen. 
Tuyallay !    Tuyallay.         Tuyallay  !  Tuyallay  J 

TBI AKOLO-BoTTTUNB.'^Tbe  Sc^ittrday JRtvieufihVif 


CURRENT   THOUGHT. 


^ 


cbsracteHzM  what  appears    to    be    a  recently  de- 
veloped apecies  of  the  genus  homo:— 

*Tbc  Bingnlar  adaptability  of  the  English  character 
to  the  exigencies  of  circumstances  in  which  the  Britons 
may  be  placed  is  nowhere  better  evidenced  than  in 
i^pt  When  we  say  that  £gypt  is  the  land  of  the 
lazy,  and  that  the  Angio-£^ptiana  are  learning  to 
laze  with  signal  saccess,  we  do  not  wish  to  impute  any 
evil.  There  are  various  forms  of  laziness  which  are  not 
Bloth,  and  these  varieties  are  not  always  entirely  rep- 
rehensible. There  are  many  energetic  workers 
among  the  colonists, and  these  are  not  the  least  lazy  of 
the  race.  They  consume  but  little  midnight  oil,  but 
many  cigarettes  and  peculiar  drinks.  Just  as  the 
AnglO'Sgyptian  has  taken  with  ease  and  grace  to  the 
wearing  of  the  official  fez  and  Stamboulino  coat,  so 
has  he  fallen  into  the  habits  of  afternoon  siestas  and 
patronage  of  street  carriages  (or  his  own)  for  covering 
a  couple  of  hundred  yards.  Among  the  peculiarities 
of  the  Egyptian  climate  is  the  dread  it  inspires  of 
weariDg  out  shoe-leather.  It  may  be  that  shoes  in 
Etijpi  are  costly  and  poor,  or  it  may  be  that  the  roads 
are  badly  kept  and  not  tempting  for  pedestrian  effort. 
Jkit,  whatever  the  real  reason  of  the  abuse  of  carriage 
exercise,  it  is  always  put  down  to  the  weather.  The 
climate  is  reeponsiblo  for  so  many  derelictions 
from  old  English  notions  that  it  may  well  bear  the 
onus  for  this  also.  Yet  no  one  attempts  to  flgfat  against 
it  .IS  in  India.  The  Anglo-Egyptian  groans  aoder  the 
sun,  bnt  sets  up  no  punkahs  or  tatties ;  he  shivers  at 
the  cold,  but  seldom  has  more  than  the  kitchen  stove 
in  his  house.  He  is  only  hnman,  after  all,  and  must 
have  something  to  grumble  at  Everything  else  is 
80  delightfully  smooth  and  easy  for  him  that  he  falls 
greodiiy  npon  the  ill  mate  grievance.  Once  upon  a 
time  the  nanghtincss  of  heart  of  Pashas  and  the 
intrigues  of  colleagues  and  subordinates  helped  him  a 
little  but  he  has  pretty  well  destroyed  all  these  now, and 
to  reduced  to  the  weather.  If  he  had  only  a  respecta- 
ble climate,  he  would  be  bonnd  to  work  eight  hours  a 
day  and  forego  his  annual  three  mouths'  leave.  80 
he  cherishes  its  inflictions  with  an  exceeding  great  af- 
fection. 'If  be  has  spoken  harshly,  it  but  proved  how 
much  he  loves  if ' 

Thk  ARonrrrv b  Pass,  OafLoiu90.-4lpeakiDg  of  4he 
recent  Teachers'  Convention  at  Topeka,  the  editor  of 
the  Boston  Magazine,  JMueatiatt,  says  :— 

**  One  of  tho  most  important  hutWlMf  advantagee 
which  arose  from  the  great  gathering  of  teachers  was 
the  opportunity  it  gave  for  so  many  te  visit  the  Rocky 
Mountains.  Hondrods  from  all  parts  of  the  coantry 
prolonged  their  Journey,  either  direet  to  Denver  by 
way  of  the  Union  Pacific,  or  by-tha  Sante  F^roote, 
south-westerly  to  the  great  bend  of  the  Arkanaas  River, 
along  the  route  of  the  old  Spanish  trail  from  St  Looia 
to  Santa  F6;  tbenoe  along  the  Atkanaae  to  Pueblo ; 
thence  through  the  Grand  Oaflon  of  the  Arkansas  and 
over  Marshall  Pass  to  Qunnison ;  or,  from  Paeblo, 
northward,  to  Colorado  Springs  and  Maniton,  the 
Garden  of  the  Gods,  and  Pike's  Peak ;  then  to. Denver. 
Manjr  of  thoae  who  went  to  Bcnver  j^vageA  into  the 


heart  of  the  Rockie?,  by  way  of  the  Central  Colorado 
narrowogauge  railroad,  through  Clear  <3reek  Ca&on  to 
Georgetown,  and  over  the  Loup  to  Silver  Plume  and 
Gray's  Peak;  or,  by  carriage-road  to  the  Argentine 
Pass.  All  of  these  mountain-roads  take  one  through 
the  grandest  scenery  of  this  or  any  other  country. 
The  Argentine  Pass  is  reached  by  a  carrii^^e-road  tea 
miles  from  Georgetown.  Georgetown  i«  ^500  feet 
above  the  sea ;  but  this  road  rises  4,600  feet  higher ;  so 
that  the  paaa  is  13,100  feet  above  the  sea  level.  This  is 
the  highest  pass  in  the  Rocky  Mountains,  and  the  road 
the  highest  carriage-road  In  the  world.  Colorado  Uha 
no  mountain  peak  16^000  feet  high,  but  it  has  more  than 
sixty  over  14,000  feet,  more  than  one  hundred  and  sixty 
over  18,000  feet,  and  more  than  two  hundred  over 
12,000  feet  At  the  top  of  the  Argei^ine  Pass  you  are 
within  two  or  three  miles  of  the  summit  of  Oray's 
Peak,  which  rises  1,800  feet  higher  than  the  pass ;  and 
on  the  north,  the  south,  the  east,  and  the  weit  are 
are  mo^untain-peaks— peak  upon  peak,  by  scores  and 
by  fifties— rising  from  12,000  to  14,000  feet  high.  Thia 
little  stream  at  the  east  of  you,  whose  sound  yon  now 
plainly  hear,  rushes  away  throagh  Leavenworth  Cailon 
to  the  Clear  Creek,  and  then  through  Clear  C^reek  Caflon 
to  the  Platte ;  and  so  down  the  Missouri  and  Missis- 
sippi to  the  torrid  golf ;  while  this  little  brook  at  your 
feet  npon  the  west,  murmuring  along  its  rocky  bod, 
flows  into  the  Snake  River,  the  Blue,  the  Grand,  the 
Colorado,  and  so  into  the  western  gulf  and  the  west- 
em  ocean.  Yon  are  upon  the  crest  of  ihe  continent*' 
FiGTioii  Which  GiiiLS  Read.— The  Saturday  JtevUui 
says  that  *'of  1,069  young  ladies  whom  Mr.  Charles 
Welsh  has  been  at  tie  pains  to  examine  as  to  who  i« 
their  *  favorite  writer  of  fiction,'  390  have  replied  that 
theurs  is  Charles  Dickens,  826  have  confessed  to  aeecret 
passion  for  Walter  Scout,  while  only  6  are  enamored 
of  Mr.  William  Block^and  not  more  than  11  are  dar- 
ing and  candid  enough  to  prefer  Miss  Braddou.  The 
worshipers  of  Canon  ^arrar  make  a  '  graceful  troupe 
of  22' ;  Thackeray  has  but  16  followers ;  Carlyle,  Mr. 
Raskin,  and  Misa  Haveif^al  are  esteemed  above  ail 
others  by  only  6;  while  Marryat,  Charlotte  Brontfi, 
Mrs.  Gaskell,  and  Mrs.  Uemans  anK)iig  the  dead,  and 
Mrs.  Marshall,  *Lewis  Carroll,'  and  Messrs.  Anstey 
and  Ballantyne  among  the  living,  connt  bat  h  devoted 
followers  apieoe.  Mesers.  Steveneon  and  Haggard  am 
not  placed  ;  no  more  is  the  gorgeous,  the  pasaionato, 
the  <aoul-fiubduing.  Ouida ;  no  more  are  Miss  Bhoda 
Bronghton,  Miss  Helen  Mathers,  Miss  Florence 
Marryat,  Miss  Mary  Hay*  and  the  author  ot^CalUd 
£aek.  For  which  reaaon  (and  others)  it  is  safe  to  con- 
clude that  the  testimony  of  this  particnlar  thonaand 
yonng  ladiee  leavea  the  matter  as  mysterions  and  ob> 
score  as  ever." 

Joel  Baklow.— The  aothor  of  TheColumHad  and  of 
Hasttf  .Pudding  has  at  last  found  in  Mr.  Charles  Boor 
Todd  a  moat  adnaidng  biographer.  Indeed,  if  we  majr 
aeoept  Mr.  Todd's  estimate  of  the  man,  Joel  Darlow 
waa  the  greatest  American  of  his  time.  "He  alone, '^ 
saya  his  enthusiastic  biographer,  "excelled  in  at  least 
tbne  .groat  dapartmanta  of  human  efloit-4ii  states- 


96 


rn 


THE  JilBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


manship,  letters,  and  phlloBophj,  and  whose  practical 
talents  were  perKaps  greater  than  those  of  any  of  his 
contemporaridlB.  .  .  .  His  verse  first  gave  American 
poetry  a  standing  abroad.  His  prose  i\'riting  contrih. 
ated  largely  to  the  trlamph  of  Republicanism  in  1800. 
He  was  the  flrrt  American  cosmopolite.  ...  He  was 
the  godfather  of  the  steamboat  and  canal,  and  sponsor, 
with  Jefferson,  of  our  present  magnificent  system  of 
internal  improvements,  while,  had  he  been  permitted 
to  carry  out  his  prnnd  ideas  of  a  national  nnirerslty, 
It  IS  safe  to  say  that  American  art,  letters,  science 
and  mechanics  would  now  be  on  a  much  more  ad> 
vauced  and  satisfactory  footing.^' 

Aitsr  Criticis}!.— Mr.  Andrew  Lang  thus  disconrses  in 
LongmarC*  Magazine  :— 

"The  truth  about  ordinary  art  criticism  as  practiced 
In  the  newspapers  is  that  it  scarcely  pretends  to  be 
criticUni  at  all.  The  very  conditions  of  its  existence 
make  genuine  criticism  impossible.  Two  thousand 
works  of  art  cannot  be  appraised  in  ten  columns  of  a 
newspaper.  They  can  only  be  "noticed."  No  human 
being  would  call  similar  notice  of  two  thousand  poems, 
novels,  and  histories  ^'criticism.'*  A  column  or  more  is 
devoted  to  a  new  book  of  merit,  but  half  the  Grosvenor 
Gallery  is  disposed  of  in  the  same  space.  The  art 
critic  of  the  newspapers  is  really  rather  busy  with  de- 
scription than  with  solemn  verdicts.  Uis  modest 
function  is  to  supply  newjt^  to  impress  the  public  as 
to  what  they  will  find  in  the  galleriea  He  may  also 
offer  a  causerie  suggested  by  the  subjects  and  treat- 
ment of  the  paintings  and  sculptures.  But  he  does 
not,  or  should  not,  pretend  much  to  dogmatize. 
He  is  not,  as  a  rule,  the  voice  of  profes- 
sional opinion.  He  merely  expresses  the  views  of  the 
educated  public,  of  the  public  which  cares  for  literature 
and  art,  and  which  is  tolerably  well  versed  in  what 
men  have  done  with  tolor,  and  clay,  and  marble.  This 
may  be  a  humble  function,  but  if  honorably  discharged 
it  is  harmless,  and  may  be  even  amusing.  Spectators 
may  be  led  to  smile  at  the  pictures  most  worthy  of 
their  attention  in  the  vast  crowd  of  the  galleries.  The 
artists,  too,  are  enabled  to  hear  what  a  certain  section 
of  the  public  thinks  about  their  performances.  They 
can  listen  and  attend  or  not,  as  they  think  fit;  the 
proper  attitude  of  the  artist  toward  reviewers  Is  a 
topic  too  long  to  be  treated  of  here.  It  is  certain  that 
arc  critics,  like  reviewers  of  novels  and  poetry,  reach 
a  queer  diversity  of  conclosions.  But  the  diversity 
would  not  be  less  bewildering  if  no  man  was  allowed 
to  write  on  art  who  was  not  an  artist  On  the  whole 
it  is  plain  that  if  the  critic  does  not  dogmatize,  nor 
venture  into  the  hidden  things  of  technique,  he  can  do 
little  harm.  His  business  is  not  with  means  and  pro- 
cesses, but  with  results.  To  describe,  to  chronicle  im- 
pressions, not  to  lay  down  the  law  and  deliver  impos- 
ing dooms  and  verdicts,  in  his  proper  bosiness-Huid 


dlflScnlt  enough.  It  will  become  infinitely  more  diiB, 
cult,  if  the  critic  is  a  professional  painter  or  scnlpto^ 
a  member  of  a  certain  school  or  set,  with  the  exclnfirt 
prepossessions  of  a  school" 

The  CoNwiruTioy  of  th*  JSabtb. -Apropos  of  the 
recent  address  of  the  President  of  the  British  A!«ocU 
ation  for  the  advancement  of  science,  Gen.  M.  C.  Mtiga 
writes  in  Sdence : — 

''It  seems  to  me  that,  in  discussing  the  geology  of 
the  Atlantic  and  the.  Constitution  of  the  £arth,  too 
much  is  ordinarily  attributed  to  original  action  of 
sedimentary  deposition.  If  we  suppose  a  five-Inch 
globe  of  terra-cotta  (red  and  well-burned  clay)  to  be 
dipped  for  a  few  moments  into  a  muddy  ditch,  when 
it  comes  out  with  a  film  of  water  adhering  to  its  sur- 
face, this  thinnest  film  filled  with  animalcules,  adher- 
ing but  so  quickly  evaporating,  will,  on  this  scale,  rep- 
resent all  the  wat«r  contained  in  all  the  oceans  and 
lakes ;  and  the  small  quantity  which  the  slightly 
porous  terra-cotta  globe  has  absorbed  will  represent  a 
greater  quantity  of  water  than  all  that  is  contained  or 
ever  bAs  been  contained,  in  the  depths  and  caverns  and 
fissures  of  the  earth  itself. 

The  microscopic  Desmidlacese,  pleurosigmie,  wrig- 
gling vibriones  and  bacilli,  so  well  known  to  modem 
science,  and  playing  snch  important  parts  in  life  and 
death  of  man,  will,  swimming  in  the  adherent  film,  be 
greatly  magnified  representations  of  the  huge  monsters 
which  crawled  In  the  slime  of  morasses,  and  swam  in 
the  oceans  of  primeval  chaos,  wh^n  the  earth  first  took 
form,  and  ceased  to  be  void.  The  almost  infinitesimal 
film  of  water  will  represent  all  the  water  that  ever  con- 
stituted a  part  of  this  world  in  which  we  live ;  for 
science  tells  us  that  no  violence  has  ever  been  able  to 
project  a  stone  beyond  tha  sphere  of  the  earth's  at- 
traction, and  that  no  vapor  of  water,  no  gas,  can  float 
in  the  thin  ether  wi^  ch  surrounds  or  penetrates  our 
fifty  miles  of  atmospheric  depth.  What  part,  then,  in 
the  constitution  and  formation  and  chaises  of  the 
matter  forming  the  depths  of  the  earth  can  this  very 
small  proportion  of  water's  sedimentary  deposits  play 
in  the  general  construction  of  the  globe?  To  us  iu- 
flnltesimal  bodies,  the  surrounding  rocks  are  immense. 
Seen  from  the  planet  Mara  in  connection  with  the 
whole  mass  of  the  earth,  what  are  they?  A  skin,  an 
envelope,  thinner  than  the  model^s  adhering  watery 
film.  Certainly  we  are  more  directly  interested  in  the 
superficial  strata  which  we  can  see  and  feel  than  in 
the  deep  masses  of  which  we  can  learn  so  litUe  that 
we  specnlate  as  to  whether  they  ar»  solid  or  fluid  with* 
out  reaching  certainty.  But  the  depths  in  the  general 
plan  and  constitution  of  matter  far  outweigh  the  snr 
face  formations.  And  Are  (for  they  are  certainly  hot) 
has  had  much  more  to  do  in  moulding  the  earth  than 
water  and  its  sediments.  ^^ 


THE  HIGHER  EDUCATION  OF  WOMAN. 


0? 


THE  HIGHER  EDUCATION  OP 
WOMAN. 

Od  all  sides  tUe  woman  question  bristles 
with  difficulties,  and  the  Higher  Education  is 
one  of  them.    The  excess  in  Great  Britain  of 
women  over  men — reaching  to  not  far  from 
a  million— makes  it  impossible  for  all  to  be 
married— Mormonism  not  being  our  way  out 
of  the  wood.    At  the  same  time,  this  paucity  of 
husbands  necessitates  the  power  of  self-sup- 
port  for   those  women  of   the  unendowed 
classes  who  are  left  penniless  on  the  death  of 
the  bread-winner,  and  who  m\ist  work  if  they 
would  eat.    This  power  of  self-support,  again, 
must  be  based  on  broad  and  honorable  lines, 
and  must  include  something  that  the  world 
really  wants  and  is  content  to  pay  for.    It 
must  not  be  a  kind  of  well-masked  charity  if 
it  is  to  serve  the  daughters  of  the  professional 
class— women  who  are  emphatically  gentle, 
not^nly  by  birth,  but  by  that  refinement  of 
habit  and  delicacy  of  sentiment  which  give 
the  ouly  true  claim    to  the  comprehensive 
term  of  lady.    These  women  must  be  able  to 
do  something  which    shall  not  lower  their 
social  status  and  which  shall  give  them  a  de- 
cent income.    They  must  keep  in  line  with 
their  fathers  and  brothers  and  be  as  well- 
considered  as  they.     Certainly,    they   have 
always  had  the  office  of  teachers;  but  all  can- 
not be  schoolmistresses  or  governesses,  and 
the  continual  addition  made  to  the  number  of 
candidates  for  work  demands,  and  has  already 
opened,  other  avenues  and  fresh  careers.    And 
— bnt  on  this  no  one  can  help  save  women 
themselves — ^as  teachers  and  governesses  they 
are  not  generally  treated  as  on  an  equality 
with  tlieir  employers,  and  are  made  to  feel  that 
to  gain  money,  even  by  their  brains,  lowers 
their  social  status  and  reduces  them  perilously 
near  to  the  level  of  the  servants.    As  author- 
esses or  artists  they  may  hold  their  own;  the 
glamour  of  *  'fame' '  and  *  'genius' '  gilding  over 
the  fact  that  they  make  their  incomes  and  do 
not  draw  them,  and  have  nothing  capitalized 
—not  even  their  own  reputations. 

Of  late  years  this  question  of  woman's 
work  has  passed  into  another  phase,  and  the 
crux  now  is,  not  so  much  how  they  can  be 


provided  with  work  adequately  remunerated, 
but  how  they  can  fit  themselves  for  doing  it 
without  damage  to  their  health  and  those  in- 
terests of  the  race  and  society  which  are 
bound  up  with  their  well-being.  This  is  the 
real  difficulty,  both  of  the  Higher  Education 
and  of  the  general  circumstances  surrounding 
the  self-support  of  women.  For  the  strain  is 
severe,  and  must  be,  if  they  are  to  successfully 
compete  with  men — ^undeniably  the  stronger, 
both  in  mind  and  body,  in  intellectual  grasp 
and  staying  power,  in  the  faculty  of  origina- 
tion, the  capacity  for  sustained  effort,  and  in 
patient  perseverance  under  arduous  and  it 
may  be  distasteful  labor.  But  the  dream  and 
the  chief  endeavor  of  women  now  is  to  do 
the  same  work  as  men  alone  have  hitlierto 
done; — ^which  means  that  the  weaker  shall 
come  into  direct  competition  with  the  stronger 
— the  result  being  surely  a  foregone  conclu- 
sion. This  is  the  natural  consequence  of  the 
degradation  by  women  themselves  of  their 
own  more  fitting  work;  so  that  a  female 
doctor,  for  the  present,  holds  a  higher  social 
position  than  does  the  resident  governess, 
while  a  telegraph-girl  may  be  a  lady,  but  a 
shop-girl  cannot. 

For  well-paid  intellectual  work  a  good  edu- 
cation is  naturally  of  the  first  necessity,  anO 
the  base  on  which  all  tlie  rest  is  founded. 
Therefore,  the  Higher.  Education  has  beet 
organized  more  as  a  practical  equipment  than 
as  an  outcome  of  the  purely  intellectual  desire 
of  women  to  learn  where  they  have  nothing 
to  gain  by  it  For  all  this,  many  girls  go  to 
Girton  and  Newnham  who  do  cot  mean  to 
practically  profit  by  their  education — ^girls 
who  want  to  escape  from  the  narrow  limits  of 
the  home,  and  who  yearr  after  the  quasi-in- 
dependenoe  of  college  life — girls  to  whom  the 
unknown  is  emphatically  the  magnificent,  and 
who  desire  novelty  before  all  things:  with  the 
remnant  of  the  purely  studious — those  who 
love  learning  for  its  own  sake  only,  independ^ 
ent  of  gain,  kfudo$,  freedom  or  novelty.  But 
these  are  the  womei^  who  would  have  studied 
as  ardently,  and  with  lesss  strain  in  their  own 
homes;  who  would  have  taken  a  longer  ti.ue 
over  their  education,  and  would  m .  have 
hurt  their  health  and  drained  their  vital  eii% 


98 


IT 


rHE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


ergies  by  doing  in  two  or  three  years  what 
should  have  taken  five  or  six;  who  would 
have  gathered  with  more  deliberation,  not 
spurred  by  emulation  nor  driven  by  compe 
tition;  and  who,  with  energy  superadded  to 
their  love  of  knowledge,  would  have  made  the 
3irB.  Somervilles  or  Caroline  Herschells,  the 
Miss  Burneys  or  Harriet  Martineaus,  of  his- 
tory. But  such  women  are  not  many;  vol- 
untary devotion,  irrespective  of  self-interest, 
to  art,  literature,  science,  philosophy,  being 
one  of  the  rarest  accidents  in  the  history 
of  women — as,  indeed,  must  needs  be  if  they 
are  to  fulfill  the  natural  functions  of  their  sex. 

Three  important  points  come  into  this  ques- 
tion of  the  Higher  Education  of  women. 
These  are  (1)  the  wisdom  or  unwisdom  for  a 
father  of  limited  means  and  un capitalized 
income  to  send  to  college,  at  great  expense, 
girls  who  may  marry,  and  so  render  the  whole 
outlay  uf  no  avail ;  (2)  the  effect  which  this 
Higher  Education  has  on  the  woman  and  the 
individual ;  (3)  the  physical  results  on  her 
heaitli  and  strength,  especially  in  relation  to 
her  probable  maternity. 

To  give  a  good  education  to  a  boy  is  to  lay 
the  foundations,  not  only  for  a  successful 
individual  life,  but  also  those  for  a  well-con- 
ditioned family.  It  is  the  only  thing  a  man 
can  do  who  has  no  fortune  to  leave  his  son, 
and  is,  in  fact,  a  fortune  under  another  form. 
Witli  a  good  education,  and  brains  to  profit 
by  it,  nothing  is  impossible.  Prom  the  Prime 
Minister  to  the  Lord  Chancellor,  from  the 
Archbishop  of  York  to  tlie  leader  of  the 
House  of  Commons,  a  clever  lad,  well  edu- 
cated, has  all  professional  possibilities  before 
him^as  the  French  private  has  the  marshal's 
bdion  in  his  knapsack.  But  to  go  to  the  like 
expense  for  the  education  of  a  daughter  is  by 
no  means  the  same  investment,  nor  can  it  be 
made  to  produce  the  same  return.  Where 
the  man's  education  enables  him  to  provide 
for  his  family,  a  woman's  may  be  entirely 
thrown  away  for  all  remunerative  results  to 
herself  and  others.  Indeed,'  it  may  be  hurtful 
rather  than  beneficial.  At  the  best— taking 
things  by  their  rule  and  not  by  their  excep- 
tions— it  is  helpful  to  herself  only :  for  the 
women  of  the  professional  class*  like  those  of 


the  laboring,  support  only  themselves.  For 
which  cause,  we  may  say  parenthetically,  they 
are  able  to  undercut  the  men,  and  can  afford 
to  work  for  less  than  can  those  who  have 
wives  and  children  to  support.  And  this  is 
the  reason — again  parenthetically-^why  men 
try  to  keep  them  out  of  certain  trades ;  seeing 
in  them  not  so  much  honest  competitors  for 
so  much  work,  as  the  ultimate  destroyers  of 
the  home  and  the  family  itself.  In  the  edu- 
cation, too,  of  his  sons  a  father  dLscriminates 
and  determines  according  to  their  future. 
The  boy  intended  for  commerce  he  does  not 
usually  send  to  college;  nor  is  stress  laid  on 
Latin  or  Qreek  or  art  or  literature  at  school. 
For  the  one  destined  to  the  law  or  the  church 
he  stipulates  for  a  sound  classical  training, 
and  ultimately  sends  him  to  the  university. 
For  the  artist  he  does  not  demand  science: 
for  the  engineer  he  does  not  demand  music— 
and  so  on.  Almost  all  boys  who  have  their 
own  way  to  make  are  educated  with  a  diftinct 
reference  to  their  future  work ;  and  wise  men 
agree  on  the  folly  of  wasting  time  aud  force 
on  useless  acquirements,  with  corresponding 
neglect  of  those  which  are  useful, 

But  how  can  girls  be  educated  in  this 
special  manner?  What  professions  are  open 
to  them  as  to  men?  The  medical  alone  of 
the  three  learned,  public  opinion  not  yet 
being  ripe  for  barristers  in  petticoats  or  for 
women  preachers  regularly  ordained  and 
beneficed;  while  the  army  and  navy  are  still 
more  closely  shut  a'raiust  those  ambitious  • 
amazons  who  think  tiicre  should  be  no  barri- 
ers against  them  in  the  barrack-yard  or  on 
the  quarter-deck,  and  that  what  any  indi- 
vidual woman  can  do  she  should  lie  allowed 
to  do,  general  rules  of  prohibition  notwith- 
standing. The  Higher  Education  gives  n» 
better  teachers,  more  accurate  writers,  and  our 
scantling  of  medical  women.  But  if  a  girl  is 
not  to  be  one  of  these  three  things,  the  money 
spent  on  her  college  career  will  be  emphati- 
cally wasted,  so  far  as  relates  to  the  wise  em 
ployment  of  funds  in  reference  to  a  remuner- 
ative future. 

And  then  there  \b  alwa3's  that  chance  of 
marriage,  which  knocks  the  whole  thing  to 
pieces;  -save  in  those  exceptional  cases  where 


f. 


THE  HIGHER  EDUCATION  OF  WOMAN. 


two  students  unite  their  brains  as  well  as  their 
fortunes,  and  the  masculine  M.  A.  marries 
the  feminine,  for  the  better  perfecting  of 
philosophic  literature.  Even  in  this  rare  in- 
stance the  fact  of  marriage  nullifies  the  good 
of  a  education;  and,  after  a  father  has  spent 
on  his  daughter's  education  the  same  amount 
of  money  as  would  have  secured  the  fortune 
of  a  capable  son,  it  cannot  give  him  retro- 
spective satisfaction  to  see  her  married  to  some 
one  who  will  make  her  the  moUier  of  a 
family,  where  nothing  that  she  has  gained  at 
90  much  cost  will  tell.  Her  knowledge  of 
Greek  and  German  will  not  help  her  to  under- 
stand the  management  of  a  nursery;  nor  will 
her  ability  to  solve  all  the  problems  of  Euclid 
teach  her  to  solve  that  ass's  bridge  of  domes- 
tic economy — the  co5rdination  of  expenditure 
with  means,  and  the  best  way  of  extracting 
the  square  root  of  refinement  out  of  that  ap- 
palling X  of  sufficiency. 

To  justify  the  cost  of  her  education  a 
woman  ought  to  devote  herself  to  its  use^  else 
does  H  come  under  the  head  of  waste;  and  to 
devote  herself  to  its  use  she  ought  to  make 
herself  celibate  by  philosophy  and  for  the 
utilization  of  her  material,  as  nuns  are  celibate 
by  religion  and  for  the  saving  of  their  souls. 
As  things  are,  it  is  a  running  with  the  hare  of 
self -8«f  port  and  hunting  wUh  the  hounds  of 
matrimony — a  kind  of  trusting  to  chance  and 
waiting  on  the  Chapter  of  accidents,  which 
deprives  this  Higher  Education  of  anything 
like  noble  «tability  in  lesults,  making  it  a 
mere  cast  of  the  die  which  may  draw  a  prize 
or  throw  blank.  But  very  few  women  would 
elect  to  renounce  their  hope  of  marriage  and 
maternity  for  the  sake  of  utilizing  their  edu- 
cation, or  would  vduntary  subordinate  their 
individual  desire  to  that  vague  thing,  the 
good  of  society.  On  this  point  I  shall  have 
something  to  say  further  on.  Yet  this  self • 
dedication  would  be  the  best  answer  to  those 
who  object;  to  the  Higher  Education  for  the 
daughters  of  struggling  professional  men, 
because  of  the  large  chance  there  is  of  its 
ultimate  uselessness.  I  would  give,  too,  a 
social  purpose,  a  moral  dignity,  a  philosophic 
purity,  and  a  personid  earnestness  to  the  whole 
•scheme  which  would  make  it  solid  and  or-. 


ganic, ,  instead  of,  as  now,  loose  and  acci- 
dental 

So  far  as  we  have  yet  gone,  has  this  Higher 
Education  had  a  supremely  beneficial  effect  on 
the  character  of  women  themselves?  As  in- 
telligences, yes;  as  women,  doubtful.  We 
are  not  now  taking  the  individual  women 
who  have  been  to  Girton  or  Newnham,  but  the 
whole  class  of  the  quite  modem  advanced 
women.  These  are  the  direct  product  of  the 
movement  which  has  not  only  given  us  fe- 
male doctors  and  superior  teachers,  but  female 
orators,  female  politicians,  and  female  cen- 
sors all  round — women  who  claim  fur  them- 
selves the  leadership  of  life  on  the  ground  of 
a  superior  morality  and  clearer  insight  than 
have  men. 

In  dealing  with  the  woman  question,  we 
can  never  forget  the  prominent  characteristics 
of  tlfC  sex—  their  moral  vanity',  coupled  with 
their  love  of  domination.  The  great  mass  of 
women  think  they  know  better  than  they  can 
be  taught;  and  on  all  moral  questions  claim 
the  highest  direction  and  the  noblest  spiritual 
enlightenment.  Judging  from  sentiment  and 
feeling,  they  refuse  the  testimony  of  facts; 
the  logic  of  history  has  no  lesson  for  them, 
nor  has  any  unwelcome  science  its  rights  or 
its  truths.  They  are  Anglo- Israelites,  but  not 
the  products  of  evolution  ;  and  ghosts  are  real 
where  germs  are  imaginary.  This  sentiment, 
this  feeling,  is  like  some  other  things,  a  good 
servant  but  a  bad  master.  When  backed  by 
religious  faith  it  stops  at  no  superstition; 
when  backed  by  moral  conviction,  it  is  a 
tyranny  under  which  the  free  energies  of  life 
are  rendered  impossible ;  when  backed  by  a 
little  knowledge,  it  assumes  infallibility. 
Scarcely  a  week  passes  without  some  letter 
in  the  papers,  wherein  an  imperfectly -edu- 
cated woman  attacks  a  master  in  his  profes- 
sion, on  the  ground  of  her  sentiment  as  su- 
perior to  his  facts — ^her  spiritual  enlighten- 
ment the  Aaron's  rod  which  swallows  up  his 
inferior  little  serpents  of  scientific  truths. 
This  restless  desire  to  shoot  with  all  bows — 
Ulysses's,  Nestor's,  whose  one  will — may  be, 
and  probably  is,  the  first  effervescence  of  a 
ferment  which  will  work  itself  clear  by  time 
and  use.    It  is  to  be  hoped  so;  for  the  preton* 


100 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAglNE. 


sions  to  supremacy,  by  reason  of  their  superi- 
ority, of  women  in  these  later  times  is  not  one 
of  the  most  satisfactory  results  of  the  eman- 
cipation movement.  And  they  cannot  be  too 
often  reminded  that  the  Higher  Education, 
with  all  that  this  includes,  is  not  meant  to 
supersede  their  beautiful  qualities,  but  only 
to  strengthen  their  weak  intellectual  places 
and  supply  iheir  mental  deficiencies. 

It  would  not  be  for  the  good  of  the  world 
were  the  sentiment  and  tenderness  of  women 
to  be  lost  in  their  philosophic  cahnneaa.  But 
as  little  is  it  for  tlie  advantage  of  society 
when  that  sentiment  rules  rather  than  influ- 
ences, shapes  rather  than  modifies.  That  old 
adage  nbout  two  riding  on  horseback  together, 
when  one  must  ride  behind,  is  getting  a  new 
illustration.  Hitherto  the  man  was  in  front. 
It  was  thought  that  he  was  the  better  fitted  to 
both  discern  the  dangers  ahead  and  receive 
the  first  brunt  of  such  blows  as  might  be 
fibout,  while  the  woman  crouched  behind  the 
shield  of  his  broad  body;  and  in  return  for 
that  protection  left  the  reins  in  his  hands  and 
did  not  meddle  with  the  whip— or  if  she  did, 
then  was  she  censured  while  he  was  ridiculed. 
Isow,  things  are  changing ;  and  on  all  sides 
women  are  seeking  to  dispossess  the  men  of 
their  places  to  take  them  for  themselves.  In 
the  home  and  out  of  the  home  woman's  main 
desire  is  for  recognized  leadership,  so  that 
man  shall  live  by  their  rule.  The  bed  of 
Procrustes  was  no  myth;  we  have  it  in  full 
working  activity  at  this  present  time. 

We  come  now  to  the  third  and  most  im- 
portant point,  the  physical  results  of  the  edu- 
cational strain  in  relation  to  maternity.  On 
this  head  we  will  take  Dr.  Withers-Moore  as 
our  guide,  in  his  speech  made  at  the  British 
Association  on  the  11th  of  August.  The  pith 
of  his  position  is  in  this  sentence,  "  Bacon's 
mother  (intellectual  as  she  was)  could  not  have 
produced  the  NovUm  Organum,  but  she,  per- 
haps she  alone,  could  and  did  produce  Bacon. " 
The  same  may  be  said  of  Goethe's  mother. 
She  could  not  have  written  Faust,  but  she 
formed  and  moulded  and  influenced  the  man 
who  did.  In  almost  all  the  histories  of  great 
men  it  is  the  mother,  not  the  falher,  whose 
influence  and  teaching  aie  directly  traceable; 


and  It  is  a  remark  as  trite  as  the  thing  is  com- 
mon, that  great  men  do  not  often  produce 
great  sons,  but  almost  all  great  men  have  had 
notable  mothers.  As  the  "Oxford  tutor," 
quoted  by  Dr.  Withers-Moore,  said  :  **  A 
man*s  fate  depends  on  the  nursing— on  the 
mother,  not  the  father.  The  father  has  com- 
monly little  to  do^with  the  boy  till  the  bent  is 
given  and  the  foundation  of  character  laid. 
All  depends  on  the  mother. "  And  this  means 
not  only  her  moral  influence,  but  the  actual 
shaping  and  moulding  force  of  her  ph3'sical 
condition  reacting  on  his.  Following  this  are 
the  opinions  of  experts  and  philosophers  who 
have  given  time  and  thought  to  the  subject; 
and  in  all  the  authorities  quoted — fourteen  in 
number — there  is  the  same  note  of  warning 
against  over-study  in  girls  who  are  one  day 
to  be  mothers.  It  is  an  unwelcome  doctrine 
to  those  who  desire  above  all  things  to  be  put 
on  an  absolute  equality  with  men;  who  desire 
to  do  man's  special  work,  while  leaving  un- 
done their  own;  who  will  not  recognize  the 
limitations  of  sex  nor  the  barriers  of  nature; 
who  shut  their  eyes  to  the  good  of  society  and 
the  evil  which  may  be  done  by  individuals; 
and  who  believe  that  all  who  would  arrest  a 
movement  fraught  with  danger  to  the  whole, 
are  actuated  by  private  motives  of  a  base 
kind,  and  are  to  be  treated  as  enemies  willfully 
seeking  to  injure,  rather  than  as  friends  earn- 
estly desirous  of  averting  injury.  Dr.  With- 
ers-Moore's summary  of  the  whole  question 
bearing  on  the  physical  condition  of  women 
as  mothers  is  this : — 

"Excessive  work,  especially  in  youth,  is  ralnons  to 
health,  both  of  mind  and  body ;  excessive  brain-work 
more  snrely  so  than  any  other.  From  the  eagerness  of 
woman ^8  nature,  competitive  brain-work  among  gifted 
girls  can  hardly  bot  be  excessive,  especially  if  the 
competition  be  against  the  superior  brain  weight  and 
brain  strength  of  man.  The  resulting  ruin  can  be 
averted— if  it  be  averted  at  all— only  by  drawing  so 
largely  upon  the  woman's  whole  capital  stock  of  vital 
force  and  energy  as  to  leave  a  remainder  quite  inade- 
quate for  maternity.  The  Laureate's  *sweet  girl  gradu- 
ate in  her  golden  hair'  will  not  have  in  her  the  fulfill- 
ment of  his  later  aspiration— 

^May  we  see,  as  ages  run, 

The  mother  featured  in  the  son.^ 

The  human  race  will  have  loat  those  who  ahonld 
have  been  her  sons.  Bacon,  for  want  of  a  mother, 
will  not  be  bom.     She  who  should  have  been  his 


THE  HIGHER  EDUCATION  OP  WOMAN. 


101 


mother  wll)  perhfti*  be  a  Tery  dlsttngalBhed  collegian. 
That  one  tnUam  aays  it  all—women  are  made  and 
meant  to  be,  not  men,  but  mothers  of  men.  A  noble 
mother,  a  noble  wife— are  not  tbeae  the  deaignatione 
in  which  we  find  the  highest  ideal  of  noble  woman- 
hood ?  Woman  was  formed  to  be  man's  helpmate,  not 
hii  riral ;  heaft,  not  head ;  snstainer,  not  leader.''^ 

The  ideal  mother  is  undoubtedly  a  woman 
more  placid  than  nervous  in  temperament, 
more  energetic  than  rc;slleaB  in  habits,  and 
Willi  more  strength  of  character  and  general 
good  sense  than  specialized  intellectual  ac- 
quirements. Strong  emotions,  strained  nerves, 
excitement,  anxiety,  alinorption,  are  all  hurt- 
ful to  the  unborn  child.  They  tend  to  bring 
on  premature  birth;  and  if  not  this,  then  they 
create  sickly  offspring,  whom  the  mother 
cannot  nourish  when  they  are  born.  Ana, 
Bpeaking  of  this,  I  may  as  well  state  here  that 
the  number  of  women  who  cannot  nurse  their 
own  children  is  yearly  increasing  in  the  edu- 
cated and  well-conditioned  classes;  and  that 
coincident  with  this  special  failure  is  the  in- 
crease of  uterine  disease.  This  I  have  from 
one  of  our  most  famous  specialists.  The 
mental  worries  and  the  strain  of  attention 
inseparable  from  professional  life,  make  the 
worst  possible  conditions  f»r  satisfactory 
child-bearing;  while  the  anxiety  bound  up 
with  the  interruption  to  her  work,  consequent 
on  her  health  and  changed  condition,  must 
tell  heavily  on  the  nerves  and  mind  of  the 
woman  whose  professional  income  counts  in 
the  family.  Her  physical  troubles,  of  them- 
selves quite  enough  to  bear,  have  thus  extra 
weight;  and  mind,  nerves,  work,  and  condi- 
tion act  and  react  in  a  vicious  circle  all  round. 
Even  where  her  profession  is  one  that  does 
not  ta'ie  her  out  of  doors,  and  does  not  involve 
any  great  personal  fatigue— as  literature  or 
art— the  anxiety  of  her  work  and  the  inter- 
ruption which  must  needs  result  from  her 
state  are  more  disastrous  to  the  unborn  than 
to  herself;  and  the  child  suffers  as  much  from 
the  relaxation  as  from  the  strain.  As  one  of 
the  wisest  and  best-trained  women  I  know 
said  to  me  the  other  day:  "  How  much  of  all 
the  grand  force  and  nervous  power,  the  steadi- 
ness and  courage  of  Englishmen,  may  not  be 
owing  to  the  fact  of  the  home  life  and  pro- 
tection of  women ;  and  how  much  shall  we  I 


not  lose  when  the  mothers  of  the  race  are 
rendered  nervous,  irritable,  and  overstiained 
by  the  exciting  stimulus  of  education  carried 
to  excess,  and  the  exhausting  anxieties  of  pro- 
fessional competition!" 

This  does  not  say  that  only  the  *' stupid 
women"  are  therefore  to  be  wives  and  mo- 
thers. Specialized  education  does  not  neces- 
sarily create  companionable  nor  even  seusible 
women;  else,  by  parity  of  reasoning,  would 
all  professional  men  be  personally  charming 
and  delightful,  which  undoubtedly  they  all 
are  not.  A  girl  may  be  a  sound  Grecian,  a 
brilliant  mathematician,  a  sharp  critic,  a 
faultless  grammarian,  yet  be  wanting  in  all 
that  personal  tact  and  temper,  clear  observa- 
tion, ready  sympathy,  and  noble  self -con  rol 
which  make  a  companionable  wife  and  a 
valuable  mother.  Nor  is  unprofessional  or 
unspecialized  instruction  necessarily  synony- 
mous with  idleness  and  ignorance ;  while  a 
good  all-round  education  is  likely  to  prove 
more  serviceable  in  tlie  home  and  in  society 
than  one  or  two  supreme  accomplishments. 
Many  of  us  make  the  mistake  of  confoundirg 
education  with  acquirements,  and  of  running 
together  mental  development  and  Intellectual 
specialization.  The  women  of  whom  we  are 
most  proud  in  our  own  history  were  not  re- 
markable for  special  intellectual  acquirements 
so  much  as  for  general  character  and  the 
harmonious  working  of  will  and  morality. 
The  Lady  Fanshawes  and  Elizabeth  Frys,  the 
Mary  Carpenters  and  Florence  Nightingales, 
whose  names  are  practically  immortal,  were 
not  noted  for  their  learning,  but  they  were 
none  the  less  women  whose  mark  in  history 
is  indelible,  and  the  good  they  did  lives  after 
them,  and  will  never  die.  And  taking  one  of 
the,  at  least,  partially  learned  ladies  of  the 
past— is  it  her  Latinity  and  her  bookishness 
that  we  admire  so  much  in  Lady  Jane  Gray? 
or  is  it  her  modesty,  her  gentleness,  her 
saintly  patience,  her  devotion?— in  a  word,  is 
it  her  education  or  her  character?— the  intel- 
lectiml  philosopher,  or  the  sweet  and  lovely 
and  noble  woman? 

Modern  men  want  intelligent  companions 
in  their  wives.  But  the  race  demands  in  its 
turn   healthy,  wise,  and   noble  mothers  of 


103 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


ylgorouB  children.  Only  a  few  of  the  less 
worthy  men  desire  simply  an  upper  servant 
for  domestic  use,  or  a  mistress  fur  personal 
pleasure,  or  both  in  one,  with  whom  they, 
the  husbands,  feel  no  true  comradeship.  But 
do  the  mass  of  men  want  the  specialized 
companionship  of  a  like  education?  Does 
not  human  nature  rather  desire  a  change  ~ 
the  relaxation  of  differencesY— and  do  special- 
ists want  to  be  always  talking  to  their  wives 
of  literature,  art,  science,  medicine,  law — 
whatever  may  be  tlieir  own  assigned  work? 
Would  they  not  rather  forget  tbe  shop,  even 
though  that  shop  be  the  library  or  the  studio, 
and  pass  into  a  fresh  intellectual  atmosphere 
when  they  lay  aside  their  manuscripts  or  fling 
down  tlieir  brushes?  We  must  always  re- 
member too.  that  the  conduct  and  manage- 
ment of  the  house  and  family  belong  to 
women  ;  and  that  if  the  wife  and  mother  does 
not  actively  superintend  those  departments 
which  the  titness  of  things  has  apportioned  to 
her,  subordinates  must— subordinates  who 
will  not  put  into  their  work  either  the  love  or 
the  conscience  of  the  wife,  whose  interests  are 
identical  with  her  husband's — of  the  mother, 
with  whom  reason  and  instinct,  education  and 
affection,  create  that  half -divine  power  to 
which  most  great  men  have  owed  the  chief 
part  of  their  greatness. 

Not  going  all  the  length  of  the  Turkish  idea 
that  women  are  born  into  the  world  only  to 
be  the  wives  and  mothers  of  men — as  mothers 
of  women  simply  keeping  up  tlie  supply;  and 
that  for  themselves  they  are  of  no  account 
outside  their  usefulness  1o,  and  relations  with, 
men — it  is  yet  undeniably  better  that  they 
should  be  unnoted  as  individuals  and  perfect  as 
mothers,  rather  than  famous  in  their  own 
persons  and  the  mothers  of  abortive  and  un- 
satisfactory children.  In  this  lies  the  soul  of 
the  controversy ;  for  Uie  whole  question  is 
contained  in  the  relative  importance  of  in- 
dividual rights  and  social  duties— freedom  for 
self-development  in  such  direction  as  may 
suit  ourselves,  or  subordinating  our  personal 
desires  to  the  general  and  unindividualized 
good. 

We  are  in  the  midst  of  one  of  the  great 
xerolutions  of  the  world.    The  old  faiths  are 


losing  their  hold  and  the  new  are  not  yet 
rooted ;  the  old  organization  of   society  is 
crumbling   to  pieces  and  we  have  not  even 
founded,  still  less  created,  the  new.     In  this 
revolution,  naturally  one  of  the  most  promi- 
nent facts  is  the  universal  claim  for  individual 
freedom,  outside  the  elemental  laws  which 
hold  the  foundations  together,  made  by  eveiy 
one  alike.    We  preach  the  doctrine  of  rights 
everywhere,  that  of  duties  straggles  in  where 
it  can;  and  the  one  crying  need  of  tbe  world 
at  this  moment  is  for  some  wise  and  powerful 
organizer  who  shall  recombine  these  scattered 
elements  and  reconstruct  the  shattered  edifice. 
Women,  who  always  outstrip  their  leaders, 
are  more  disorganized,  because  at  this  time 
they  are  even  more  individualized  than  are 
men.    Scarcely  one  among  them  takes  into 
account  the  general  good.     Even  in  those 
questions  where  they  have  made  themselves 
the  leaders,  individual  victories  are  of  greater 
value  than  general  policy,  and  they  would 
always  subordinate  the  practical  welfare  of 
the  majority  to  the  sentimental  rights  of  the 
minority.    An  individual  sorrow  moves  them 
where  the  massed  results  of  a  general  Uw 
leaves  them  cold.    This  characteristic  is  per- 
fectly sound  and  righteous  in  those  to  whom 
have  been  confided  the  care  of  the  family  and 
the  arrangement  of  details.    Women  ought  to 
be  individual,  not   for   themselves  but  for 
others ;  and  in  that  individualism  there  ought 
to  be  the  injustice  inseparable  from  devotion. 
An  altruistic  mother  who  would  sacrifice  her 
one  child  for  the  sake  of  her  neighbor's  two. 
does  not  exactly  fulfill  our  ideas  of  maternal 
care;  on  the  other  hand,  a  mother  who  would 
rather  her  son  was  disgraced  as  a  coward  than 
that  he  should  run  the  dangers  of  courage— 
or  the  pdrtisan  of  her  own  sex  who  would 
sacrifice  twenty  men  to  save  one  woman  io 
convenience  or  displeasure,  is  asjittle  fit  to  be 
the  leader  of  large  movements  involving  muny 
and  varied  interests,  as  is  that  other  to  be  a 
mother.    In  their  own  persons  women  carry 
out  to  a  very  remarkable  degree  this  principle 
of  individuklism,  the  general  good  notwith- 
standing.   Speak  to  an  ordind^  woman  of 
the  evil  economic  effects  of  her  actions,  and 
you.  speak  a  foreign  language.    She  sees  only 


THE  HIGHER  EDUCATION  OF  WOIOJ^. 


im 


the  individnal  loss  or  gain  of  the  transactioii, 
and  a  public  ur  social  duty  to  creatures  un- 
known and  unseen  does  not  count.  In  the 
cruel  vicissitudes  of  fashion  and  the  ruin  of 
thotuands  brought  about  by  simple  change  of 
material — in  the  selfish  greed  for  bargains,  no 
matter  at  whose  cost  obtained — in  the  com- 
plete ignoring  of  and  indifference  to  all  the 
results  to  others  of  her  own  example,  a  woman 
of  the  ordinary  type  is  essential  individual 
and  unsocial.  In  America? — whence,  how- 
ever, we  have  received  so  many  grand  and 
noble  impulses — this  female  individualism, 
with  its  corresponding  indifference  to  the 
public  good  or  to  public  duty,  is  even  more 
pronounced'  than  here ;  and  the  right  of 
woman  to  her  own  development,  though  that 
should  include  what  is  called  "the  painless 
extinction  of  man,"  is  the  very  heart  and  soul 
of  the  new  creed. 

Women,  seeking  to  rule,  have  forgotten 
how  to  obey.  Wishing  to  reorganize  society 
according  to  their  own  desires,  they  have  at 
the  same  time  thrown  off  all  sense  of  discipline 
in  their  own  lives;  and  the  former  feminine 
virtues  of  devotion,  patience,  self^suppression, 
and  obedience  are  flung  aside  as  so  much 
tarnished  finery  of  a  decayed  and  dishonored 
idol.  The  ordinary  woman  cannot  be  got  to 
see  that  she  is  not  only  hevself  but  also  a 
member  of  society  and  part  of  an  organiza- 
tion; and  that  she  owes,  as  a  duty  to  the 
community,  the  subordination  of  her  Individ- 
uaUim  to  that  organization.  She  understands 
this  only  in  religious  communities,  where  she 
obc3rB  her  dn-ector  as  one  divinely  commis- 
sioned. Outside  religious  discipline  she  re- 
fuses obedience  to  general  principles.  Societ}' 
has  grown  so  large  and  its  disorganization  is 
so  complete,  that,  she  says  to  herself,  her  own 
example  does  not  count.  She  is  but  a  frac- 
tional part  of  a  grain  added  to  a  ton  weight ; 
and  by  the  law  of  psycho-dynamics  she  is 
undiscemed  and  without  influence.  It  was 
all  very  well  in  small  communities,  like  those 
of  Greece,  for  instance,  or  when  the  one  grand 
lady  of  the  village  was  the  mirror  for  all  to 
dress  by.  Th.n,  the  individual  example  was 
ol  value :  but  now — who  cares  for  one  of  the 
tens  of  thousands  crowded  in  London?  and 


what  duty  has  she  to  the  community  com- 
parable to  that  which  she  owes  herself? 

And  this  brings  us  round  once  more  to  the 
subject-matter  of  this  paper — the  effect  on 
the  community  of  the  Higher  Education  of 
Women,  in. its  good  and  evil  results  on 
mothers  and  their  offspring,  and  theu:  oii^n 
indifference  to  these  results. 

It  is  impossible  not  to  sympataize  with  a 
bright  girl  anxious  to  go  on  with  her  educa- 
tion, and  petitioning  -for  leave  to  study  higher, 
matters  than  have  been  taught  her  at  her 
school.  It  is  as  impossible  not  to  feel  a  sense 
of  indignation  at  the  injustice  when  parents 
say  frankly,  the  education  of  their  girls  does 
not  count  with  them ;  and,  so  long  as  these 
know  how  to  read  and  write  and  can  play  the 
piano  and  are  able  to  dance  and  perhaps  to 
sew,  there  is  nothing  more  necessary.  We 
do  battle  tlien  for  the  right  of  the  individual 
to  know,  to  learn,  to  perfect  itself  to  the  ut- 
most of  its  ability,  irrespective  of  sex.  But  if 
we  are  wise  we  stop  short  of  such  stnun  as 
would  hurt  the  health  and  damage  the  re- 
productive energies,  if  marriage  is  to  come 
into  one  of  the  chances  of  the  future.  A  girl 
is  something  more  than  an  individual ;  she  is 
the  potential  mother  of  a  race ;  and  the  last  is 
greater  and  more  important  than  the  first. 
Let  her  learn  by  all  means.  Let  her  store  her 
mind  and  add  to  her  knowledge,  but  always 
with  quietness  and  self- control — always  under 
restrictions  bounded  by  her  sex  and  its  future 
possible  function.  Or,  if  she  disregards  these 
restrictions,  and  goes  in  for  competitive  ex- 
aminations, with  their  exhausting  strain  and 
feverish  excitement — if  she  takes  up  a  pro- 
fession where  she  will  have  to  compete  with 
men  and  suffer  all  the  pain  and  anxiety  of  an 
unequal  struggle — let  her  then  dedicate  her- 
self from  the  beginning  as  the  Vestal  of 
Knowledge,  and  forego  the  exercise  of  that 
function  the  perfection  of  which  her  own 
self -improvement  has  destroyed.  We  cannot 
combine  opposites  nor  reconcile  conflicting 
conditions.  If  the  mental  strain  consequent 
on  this  higher  education  does  waste  the 
physical  energies,  and  if  the  gain  of  the  indi- 
vidual is  loss  to  the  race,  then  must  that  gain 
be  sacrificed  or  isolated. 


104 


THE  UBRART  MAGAZINE. 


Of  coarse  It  all  depends  on  that  If;  and  of 
this  experts  are  the  only  trustworthy  judges. 
We  must  be  guided  by  the  better  knowledge 
of  specialists  and  those  who  have  studied  in 
all  its  bearings  a  subject  of  which  we  know 
only  one  side,  and  that  side  the  one  turned  to 
our  own  desire.  If  one  examiner  reports: 
"That  of  the  boys  29  per  cent.,  and  of  the 
girls  41  per  cent. ,  were  found  to  be  in  a  sickly 
state  of  health  ;*'  if  another,  in  confirmation 
says,  **That  11.6  per  cent,  of  boys  and  girls  in 
the  St.  Petersburg  schools  suffer  from  head- 
ache," we  must  sui^x)6e  there  is  something  to 
be  taken  note  of  in  the  opposition  of  most 
medical  men  to  this  Higher  Education  of 
Women.  For  we  must  put  out  of  court,  as 
unworthy  of  serious  consideration,  that  old 
well-worn  accusation  of  man's  opposition  to 
woman's  advancement  from  jealousy, tyranny, 
the  desire  of  domination,  and  the  preference 
of  slaves  and  mistresses  over  companions  and 
wives.  We  must  accept  it  as  part  of  all  sane 
argument  that  people  desire  the  best — ideas  as 
to  what  is  the  b.  st  differing  according  to  the 
point  of  view ;  as  now  in  this  vexy  question 
under  consideration,  where  the  individual 
gain  clash ^  with  the  good  of  the  community, 
Bnd  the  perBonil  advantage  of  the  woman 
hurts  her  usefulness  as  a  mother.  We  must 
acknowledge,  too,  that  experts  know  better 
than  the  unlearned ;  and  that  in  matters  of 
health  and  tbc  wisest  rules  for  physical  well- 
being,  medical  men  are  safer  guides  than  girls 
ambitious  for  their  own  distinction,  or  women 
ambitious  for  their  sex— holders  too,  of  the 
doctrine  of  absolute  equality  in  mental  strength 
with  men,  and  of  free  trvde  in  all  employ- 
ment and  careers. 

A  great  deal  of  the  difficulty  surrounding 
the  question  of  woman's  employment  could 
be  got  over  by  women  themselves.  If,  instead 
of  degrading  their  own  more  natural  work 
by  tlie  social  ostracism  of  the  workers,  they 
would  raise  it  by  respect  and  honor,  large 
-field  of  productive  usefulness  would  be  opened 
jind  much  cause  for  heart- burning  would 
^^ease.  The  greater  democracy  of  the  present 
age  makes  it  possible  for  great  ladies  to  earn 
'money.  Even  a  queen  throws  her  books  into 
the  maricet,  and  sells  them  all  the  same  as 


others.  A  generation  or  so  ago  no  lady  could 
have  made  money,  save  by  the  two  methods 
of  painting  and  writing — ^both  done  within 
the  sacred  seclusion  of  the  four  waDs  of  home. 
Actresses  were  what  we  call  m  the  north 
"cliancey."  Some  were  thoroughly  respect- 
able and  came  to  good  ends  and  high 
positions ;  but  the  bulk  were  best  left  alone 
by  women  who  wished  to  keep  alive  any 
thing  like  veneration  for  virtue.  Now,  how- 
ever, we  have  opened  all  gateways,  and  made 
it  possible  for  ladies  of  condition,  repute,  and 
birth  to  do  what  they  will  in  the  way  of 
money-making  and  still  retain  both  character 
and  position.  A  princess  opens  a  milliner's 
shop ;  a  lady  of  rank  is  a  cowkeeper  and 
profits  by  her  dairy-farm ;  women  of  title  go 
on  the  stage;  ladies  of  gentle  birth  and  breed- 
ing are  storekeepers  and  horse-breeders.  I^ut 
as  yet  these  are  only  the  sliowy — we  had 
almost  said  theatrical — and  quasi-romantic 
vanguard ;  and  what  we  want  is  a  stable  con- 
dition of  self-support  for  women  whose  in- 
herited position  is  not  of  that  high  class  which 
no  work  can  degrade,  but  who,  ladies  as  they 
are,  stand  or  fall  according  to  the  arbitrary 
estimation  of  their  work. 

In  this,  we  repeat,  no  one  can  help  women 
save  women.  Certain  tailors  and  certain 
sliopkeepers  are  received  in  London  society  as 
among  its  favorite  and  most  honored  guests. 
Do  we  meet  with  a  milliner,  a  lady  shop- 
keeper? Do  we  not  all  know  milliners  and 
dressmakers  who  are  well-educated,  pleasant- 
mannered,  honorable  ladies;  yet  would  the 
countesses  and  dames  for  whom  they  devise 
their  dainty  costumes  agree  to  meet  them  on 
equal  terms  at  balls  imd  dinners?  Why  not? 
Surely  it  cannot  be  on  the  ground  of  making 
their  own  money.  The  highest  ladies  in  the 
land  do  not  disdain  to  turn  an  honest  penny 
if  they  can;  and  where,  pi^Jf  ^  the  essential 
difference  between  the  clergyman's  daughter 
who  sells  mantles  or  laces  in  a  shop  for  her 
living,  and  the  young  duchess  who  sells  pin- 
cushions and  button- holes  at  a  bazaar  for  her 
vanity,  masked  as  charity?  Here,  if  we  will, 
the  principle  of  individualism  wjuld  work 
with  advantage.  If  we  could  get  rid  of  all 
caste  feeling,  and  judge  of  people  by  them* 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  JEWS. 


105 


fielves  and  not  by  their  work — if  we  would 
allow  that  a  miUiner  could  be  a  lady,  and  a 
ahop-girl  on  a  level  with  her  sister  the  gov- 
erness, and  both  on  an  equality  with  their 
brother  the  clergyman  and  their  aunt  the 
physician's  wife — we  should  have  done  more 
for  the  question  of  the  employment  of  women 
than  we  have  done  by  the  establishment  of 
colleges  and  the  creation  of  educational  stand- 
ards, the  attainments  of  which  are  inimical  to 
the  best  interests  of  society  because  hurtful  to 
women  themselves.  Wc  must  do  what  we 
can  in  this  life,  not  always  what  we  would ; 
and  the  general  interests  of  society  are  to  be 
considered  before  those  of  a  special  section, 
by  whose  advancement  will  come -about  the 
corresponding  degeneracy  of  the  majority. 

In  these  two  propositions,  then,  we  think 
the  whole  thing  lies — ^in  voluntary  celibacy 
for  those  who  overtax  their  vital  energies  by 
intellectual  strain  that  hurts  the  offspring; 
and  in  the  honoring  of  those  lighter  and  easier 
methods  of  making  money  which  have  hith- 
erto condemned  a  woman  to  social  ostracism, 
and  denied  her  the  status  she  deserves  and 
has  inherited. — ^Eliza  Ltnn  Linton,  in  The 
FortnighUy  Beview. 


HISTOMCAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  JEWS,* 

SINCE  THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  JERUSALEM. 
IN  TWO  PARTS. — PART  II. 

The  great  prosperity  of  the  Jews  In  Spain 
proved  their  ruin.  The  ignorant  populace, 
instigated  by  the  priests,  could  not  brook  the 
happy  condition  of  the  Jews,  and  wherever 
they  were  to  be  found,  they  were  from  time 
to  tune  pounced  upon;  numbers  of  them  were 
slain,  while  others,  to  save  their  lives,  sub- 
mitted to  baptism.  Thus  the  Spanish  Church 
contained,  besides  a  body  of  real  Jewish  con- 
verts, whose  names  are  known  by  their  ex- 
cellent writings,  a  large  number  of  nominal 
Christians  who,  by  sentiment,  remained  Jews. 
Soon  popular  suspicion  was  aroused  against 
these  latter,  the  so-called  "New  Christians;" 
and  at  last  the  Inquisition  was  set  in  motion  to 
find  those  out  who  while  outwardly  conform- 
*  Oopyxlgbt,  1898,  by  John  B.  Aldkh. 


ing  to  the  Church,  secretly  lived  according  to 
the  rules  of  the  Synagogue.  Horrible  are  the 
details  of  what  the  Inquisition  wrought  at 
that  time  in  Spain;  but,  curiously  enough,  all 
to  no  purpose.  Cruel  as  was  the  old  Inquisi- 
tion, it  was  to  be  surpassed  by  the  new  In- 
quisition, established  by  Ferdinand  and  Isa- 
bella, and  which  cast  so  dark  a  shadow  over 
their  reign.  While  the  old  Inquisition  was  of 
a  limited  power,  and  its  influence  of  little 
importance,  the  powers  of  the  *'  New  Inquisi- 
tion" or  "Holy  Tribunal"  were  enlarged  and 
extended,  and  under  Torquemada,  the  first 
Inquisitor- General,  it  became  one  of  the 
most  formidable  engines  of  destruction  which 
ever  existed.  Isabella  at  first  felt  great  re- 
pugnance to  the  establishment  of  this  institu- 
tion, and  some  of  the  most  eminent  men 
opposed  it.  But  the  Dominicans  had  set  their 
heart  upon  it,  and  were  determined  to  obtain 
it.  What  finally  determined  the  queen  to 
adopt  it  was  a  vow  she  had  made  when  a 
young  infanta,  in  the  presence  of  Thomas  of 
Torquemada,  then  her  confessor,  that  if  ever 
she  came  to  the  throne  she  would  maintain 
the  Catholic  faith  with  all  her  power,  and  ex- 
tirpate heresy  to  the  very  root;  and  thus  it 
was  that  she  became  instrumental  in  the 
perpetration  of  the  most  horrible  cruelties 
which  blacken  and  deform  the  history  of  men. 
The  New  Inquisition  reached  it8  climax  in  the 
year  1492,  when  an  edict  was  published  order- 
ing all  Jews  who  would  not  embrace  Christi- 
anity to  leave  the  country  within  four  months. 
The  news  of  this  edict  came  upon  the  Jews 
like  a  thunder-clap.  Every  appeal  to  the 
compassion  of  the  king  and  queen  was  de- 
feated by  the  opposition  of  Torquemada. 
The  Jews  offered  immense  sums  of  money  as 
a  price  for  remaining  in  a  country  where  they 
had  already  been  established  for  centuries. 
But  the  merciless  Torquemada  presented  him- 
self before  the  king,  with  a  crucifix  in  his 
hand,  and  asked,  for  how  many  pieces  of  silver 
more  than  Judas  he  would  sell  his  Saviour  to 
the  Jews?  Over  300,000  Jews  left  Spain,  and 
emigrated  to  Africa.  Italy,  and  Turkey  Most 
of  them  went  to  Portugal,  where  they  en- 
joyed a  few  years  of  rest.  In  1497,  however, 
they  were  again  left  to  the  choice,  cither  to 


106 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


receive  baptism  or  leave  the  country  forever 
Many  abandoned  forever  the  soil  of  Portugal; 
others,  not  few  in  number,  embraced  or  feigned 
to  embrace  the  Roman  Catholic  faith.  Under 
Don  Emanuel  and  his  son  Jolm  III.,  the 
"New  Christians"  enjoyed  the  protection  of 
the  state  in  every  way  in  Portugal. 

Following  the  Spanish  exiles,  a  short  time 
after  the  edicts  of  1493  and  1497,  Jews  and 
New  Christians  were  to  be  met  witli  in  the 
newly-discovered  territories  of  America  and 
in  Brazil.  In  Africa,  Asia,  and  the  Turkish 
Empire,  their  families  and  synagogues  have 
been  established,  and  have  continued  to  this 
day.  In  great  numbers  the  exiled  Jews  set- 
tled in  the  western  parts  of  Africa,  especially 
in  the  states  of  Morocco.  At  Tripoli,  Tunis, 
Algiers,  Orau,  and  Fez,  Jews  soon  felt  them- 
sehes  at  home.  In  the  Turkish  Empire, 
soon  after  the  taking  of  Constantinople  by 
the  Turks,  in  1453,  the  Jews  became  a  promi- 
nent part  of  the  population,  and  when  the 
Spanish  exiles  came  here,  they  found  numer- 
ous synagogues  and  schools  of  learning.  And 
although  they  belonged  to  one  nation,  yet 
they  kept  distinct  from  their  co-religionists, 
preserving  not  only  their  own  liturgy,  but 
also  their  language,  and  were  distinguished 
here  as  everywhere  from  their  other  co-relig 
ionists  by  the  name  of  Sepfuwdin  or  Span- 
iards. In  Italy  also  they  were  welcomed, 
with  the  exception  of  Naples,  where  they  were 
not  allowed  to  remain.  In  the  Ecclesiastical 
States,  and  especially  at  Rome,  the  exiles  were 
but  little  persecuted,  and  the  New  Christians 
lived  in  far  greater  security  in  the  Papal  States 
tliau  in  Spain  and  Portugal.  The  Jews  es- 
tablished in  Italy  printing  establishments;  the 
most  celebrated  was  that  at  Ferrara,  where 
the  famous  Spanish  version  of  the  Old  Testa- 
ment was  printed.  That  there  were  also 
many  learned  men  among  the  Jews  of  Italy 
is  but  natural. 

Shortly  after  the  passing  of  the  edicts  in  1492 
and  1497,  many  Jewisli  emigrants  sought 
reluge  on  the  northern  side  of  the  Pyrenees, 
where  they  enjoyed  many  privileges.  Early 
in  the  seventeenth  century,  Portuguese  Jews 
were  settled  and  flourishing  in  the  Danish 
States.    At  Hamburg,  which  was  soon  hon- 


ored with  the  appellation  of  ''  Little  Jerusa 
lem,"  the  Jews  enjoyed  a  very  great  social 
prosperity.  The  country,  however,  which  has 
shown  the  greatest  favor  and  afforded  the 
warmest  hospitality  to  the  exiled  Spanish 
Jews  since  the  close  of  the  sixteenth  ccntuiy, 
was  the  Low  Countries  of  the  Netherlands. 
When  the  first  Jews,  or  New  Christians,  from 
Spain,  made  their  appearance  in  the  Low 
Countries,  there  \ias  not  a  vestige  of  those 
French  and  German  Jews  whose'  troubles  we 
have  before  related.  The  first  indication  of 
this  reCstahlishment  of  the  Jews  in  the  south- 
ern part  of  the  United  Provinces  is  found  in 
the  year  1516.  At  that  time  some  refugees 
from  Spain  petitioned  Charles  V.  to  be  al- 
lowed to  reside  in  his  dominions.  Their  appeal 
was  unheeded,  and  severe  edicts  entirel}'  ex- 
cluded New  Christians  from  Holland.  And 
yet,  notwithstanding  these  edicts,  many  Jews 
were  to  be  found  in  these  provinces  before 
and  after  their  separation  from  Spain.  Their 
religion  had  long  ceased  to  be  tolerated,  but 
they  practiced  it  with  the  greatest  secrecy, 
and  lived  and  prospered  under  Spanish  names. 
At  Antwerp,  also,  the  concealed  Jews  wer« 
very  numerous,  and  had  established  acade- 
mies for  the  study  of  Hebrew  and  Spanish 
literature.  Most  of  these  Spanish  and  Portu- 
guese Jewish  families  established  themselves 
shortly  afterward  in  the  Protestant  Low 
Countries,  to  seek  there  complete  freedom  for 
the  exercise  of  their  own  religion.  Their  first 
settlement  at  Amsterdam  was  made  on  the 
side  of  East  Friesland.  It  was  from  Emb- 
den,  that,  in  tlie  year  1594,  ten  individuals 
of  the  Portuguese  families  of  Lopes,  Homen, 
and  Pereira  came  to  Amsterdam,  where  they 
soon  resumed  their  original  Jewish  name  of 
Abendana,  and  in  the  year  1596  the  Qreat 
Day  of  Atonement  was  celebrated  by  a  small 
conmiunity  of  Portuguese  ^cws  at  Amster- 
dam. In  1598  they  built  the. first  synagogue 
in  that  capital,  and  in  1618  the  third.  In  the 
meantime  the  German  and  Polish  Jewsliad 
also  established  their  synagogues  in  the  capi- 
tal of  Holland ;  and  Amsterdam,  like  Hamburg, 
was  a  "Little  Jerusalem."  Of  the  authors 
and  learned  men  brought  up  in  the  synagogues 
of  Holland,  we  mention  Rabbi  Menasseh  Ben 


justorical  sketch  op  the  jews. 


107 


Israel,  who  pleaded  the  cause  of  his  brethren 
before  Oliver  Cromwell.  Contemporary  with 
him  was  the  well  known  Uriel  da  Costa.  To 
the  j^eneration  which  succeeded  that  of  Uriel 
da  Costa,  belongs  Benedict  Spinoza.  At  the 
Hague  too,  the  Portuguese  Jews  enjoyed  great 
prosperity  and  esteem,  and  their  synagogue 
is  situated  in  one  of  \^e  finest  quarters  of  the 
town. 

Almost  immediately  after  the  discovery  of 
the  New  World,  the  Jews  from  the  Peninsula 
established  themselves  in  America.  The  first 
Jewish  colony  was  established  in  Brazil,  in 
1624,  when  the  Dutch  took  possession  of  that 
country.  The  nucleus  formed  by  the  Jewish 
settlers  from  Holland  was  greatly  strengthened 
by  the  progress  of  the  Dutch  in  Brazil,  under 
William  of  Nassau,  about  1640,  wnen  some 
600  Jews  sailed  from  Amsterdam  to  Brazil  in 
1641,  but  who  were  obliged  to  leave  again  in 
consequence  of  the  downfall  of  the  Dutch  rule 
in  Brazil,  in  1654.  In  the  meantime,  the 
settlement  founded  in  French  Guiana  in- 
creased  at  a  rapid  rate,  where  the  Jews  en- 
joyed special  priviies^es.  During  the  wars 
between  France  and  England  in  the  reign  of 
Louis  XIV.,  the  Jews  in  Eastern  Guiana 
suffered  severely,  in  consequence  of  which 
they  settled  at  Surinam.  Their  privileges 
were  confirmed  under  King  Charles  II.,  by 
Jx>rd  Willoughby  (1662).  and  the  Dutch  and 
West  Indian  Company.  Of  those  parts  of  the 
West  Indies  where  Jewish  settlements  are 
to  be  found,  the  British  colony  of  Jamaica 
deserves  special  mention.  Here  a  large  He- 
brew congregation  has  been  in  existence  since 
the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century. 

As  regards  the  Jews  in  the  United  States  and 
North  America  at  large.  Prof.  Cassel  (in  his 
firticle  Juden  in  Ersch  and  Gruber 's  AUgetneine 
Eneyldifpddie)  disposes  of  those  of  North 
America  in  the  following  pithy  words  : — 

^To  the  JewB  emigrated  to  America,  especially  to  the 
United  etatee,  that  continent  representa  tbe  land  of 
the  ifidependence  the  settler  obtains  by  the  very  fact 
of  setting  his  foot  on  Its  riiore.  The  Jews  of  North 
America  have  no  history  of  their  own;  theirs  is  the 
history  of  the  freedom  of  that  continent  American 
Jews  are  none,  bat  only  Jews  from  all  parts  of  Europe 
who  emigrated  here,  formed  congregations  and  were 
free  and  independent    In  the  seventeenth  century, 


Jews  went  to  North  and  South  America  with  the 
English  and  Portuguese;  in  the  eighteenth  century  they 
Joined  in  the  struggle  of  the  American  colonies  for 
their  independence;  and  in  the  nineteenth  America 
is  the  great  commonwealth,  where  the  Jewish  portion 
of  the  population  of  Europe,  being  sick  of  Europe— 
some  impelled  by  the  spirit  of  adventure,  others  by 
rank  despair— seek  and  find  a  harbor  of  refuse/* 

In  England,  as  we  have  seen.  Menasseh 
Ben  Israel  of  Amsterdam  pleaded  the  cause 
of  his  co-religionists  before  Cromwell.  Al- 
though this  effort  was  then  in  vain,  yet  in 
1606,  under  Charles  II.,  permission  to  resi  e 
and  practice  their  religion  was  granted  to  the 
Jewa,  Since  that  time  Jews  have  become 
very  numerous  in  England,  which  was  and  \» 
to  them  a  real  home. 

The  Reformation  opened  a  new  and  bettet 
era  to  tbe  Jews.  Not .  that  the  Reforme  s, 
personally,  were  much  more  tolerant  to  them 
than  the  Romish  Hierarchy,  but  the  very  fact 
that  the  boasted  Unity  of  the  Church  had 
received  a  serious  blow,  made  people  vxom 
ihclined  to  toleration.  •  Besides,  since  the  in- 
vention of  tlie  printing-machine,  the  Jews  had 
been  engaged  in  publishing  beautiful  copies 
of  the  Hebrew  Bible  and  of  the  Talmud. 
This  brought  their  learning  into  prominence, 
and  some  of  the  leaders  of  public  opinion 
were  more  friendly  to  them.  Reuchlin,  for 
instance,  stood  manfully  up  for  the  preserva*- 
tion  of  the  Talmud.  Luther,  too,  owed  much 
to  the  Jews,  for  it  was  chiefly  with  the  help 
of  a  Latin  translation  of  Rashi's  Commentary 
to  the  Old  Testament  made  by  Nicholas  de 
Lyra,  that  he  wa  enabled  to  translate  the  Old 
Testament  from  the  original  Hebrew. 

The  fury  of  persecution  formerly  directed 
against  the  Jews  was  now  directed  against 
heretics  in  the  bosom  of  Christianity  itself, 
and  while  the  Jews  were  left  alone,  yet  the 
anathema  of  public  contempt,  humiliation, 
and  exclusion  from  every  public  or  private 
connection,  still  all  lay  heavily  upon  them. 
Thus  the  period  of  270  years,  which  inter- 
vened between  the  Reformation  and  the 
French  Revolution,  was  of  a  monotonous 
character  to  the  Jews,  with  the  exception  of  a 
few  instances,  which  attracted  public  atten- 
tion. Thus  in  1677  tlie  pseudo-Messiah,  Sab- 
bathai  L^vl  '(born  at  Smyrna  in  1625),  died  at 


108 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


Belgrade  as  a  MohammedaD.  Notwithstand- 
ing the  apostacy  of  this  pretender  there  were 
some  who  upheld  his  chiims  even  after  his 
death,  and  asserted  that  he  was  still  the  true 
Messiah,  and  that  he  was  translated  to  heaven. 
Some  even  of  his  most  inveterate  foes  while 
living,  espoused  his  cause  after  his  death.  A 
few  years  later  this  heresy  appeared  under  a 
new  form,  and  under  the  guidance  of  two 
Polish  rabbis,  who  traveled  extensively  to 
propagate  ^'Sabbathaism,*'  which  had  its  fol- 
lowers from  Smyrna  to  Amsterdam,  and  even 
in  Poland.  In  1722  the  whole  sect  was  sol- 
emnly excommunicated  in  all  the  synagogues 
of  Europe.  In  the  year  1750,  Jacob  Frank,  a 
native  of  Poland,  made  his  appearance,  who 
caused  a  schism  in  the  synagogues  of  his 
native  country,  and  founded  the  sect  of  the 
"Prankists." 

The  most  extraorrlinary  movement  which 
occurred. among  the  Jews  In  the  eighteenth 
century  was  that  of  the  sect  uirmed  the  ChaM- 
din,  or  hyper-orthodox  Jews.  Contemporary 
with  the  rise  and  progress  of  this  sect  there 
lived  in  Germany  the  famous  Moses  Mendels- 
sohn, bom  in  1729  at  Dessau,  a  man  whose 
remarkable  talents  and  writings  constituted 
an  era  in  the  history  of  the  modem  Jews. 
The  influence  produced  by  the  writings  of 
Mendelssohn  was  to  destroy  all  respect  for  the 
Talmud  and  the  Rabbinical  writers  among 
the  Jews  who  approved  his  opinions.  Men- 
delssohn died  in  1786. 

Six  years  before  Mendelssohn's  death,  Jo- 
seph II.  had  ascended  the  Austrian  throne, 
and  one  of  his  first  measures  was  an  edict 
intended  to  ameliorate  the  cunditTon  of  the 
Jews.  In  Austria  Proper  from  the  first  es- 
tablishment of  the  duchy  in  1267,  they  were 
regarded  as  belonging  to  the  sovereign  of  the 
country.  In  1420  and  1460  persecutions  broke 
out  against  them  in  Vienna.  In  1553,  Fer- 
dinand I.  had  granted  them  the  right  to  re- 
side in  the  Austrian  capital,  but  at  a  later  date 
he  expelled  them.  Maximilian  II.  recalled 
them,  and  Ferdinand  II.  permitted  them, 
about  the  year  1620,  to  erect  a  synagogue  in 
Vienna.  In  1688  an  edict  appeared  signifying 
the  wish  that  they  leave  Vienna  and  the 
Duchy  of  Austria  entirely;  but   in  1697  we 


find  that  the  Jews  had  gradually  returned  in 
large  numbers.  After  the  accession  of  iLe 
Empress  Maria  Theresa  their  condition  im- 
proved, and  under  Joseph  II.  they  enjoyed 
equal  rights  and  privileges  with  otber  sub- 
jects. They  enjoyed  these  advantages  nntil 
after  the  death  of  Joseph  II.  The  reaction- 
ary spirit  then  prevailed  in  Austria,  and  many 
privileges  were  withdrawn. 

As  in  Catholic  Austria,   so    in  Protestant 
Prussia,  an  amendment  in  the  condition  of 
the  Jews  began  to  appear  and  to  develop  it- 
self as  early  as  the  eighteenth  century.     Under 
the  Elector  of  Brandenburgh,  Frederick  Wil- 
liam (1640-1688),  the  Jews  had  again  an  asyl- 
um and  a  safe  abode  in  Prussia.     During  the 
reign  of  King  Frederick  I.  the  synagogue  at 
Berlin  was  built.     Frederick  William,    the 
father  of  Frederick   the  Great,  was  equally 
favorable  to  the  Jews,  although  Frederick  the 
Great  is  thought  not  to  have  looked  favorably 
upon  them.    He  did   not   persecute   tbem, 
but,  on  the  whole,  thty  were  treated  as  inferior 
to  the  other  inhabitants  of  the  country,  and 
the  whole  community  was  considered  resxx>n- 
sible  for  the  crimes  of  its  individual  members. 
The  successor  of  Frederick  the  Great  endeav- 
ored by  new  laws  to  effect  a  salutary  change  for 
the  Jews  ;   the  result  was,  that  some  of  them 
attained  to  considerable  wealth,  but  the  ma- 
jority of  them  retained  a  degraded  and  depend- 
ent position,  which  continued  till  toward  tl  e 
close  Of  tlie  eighteenth  century.     MendeJs* 
sohn,  it  is  true,  tried  to  elevate  his  people,  and 
to  bring  about  this  task  he  was  assisted  by 
such  men  as  Hartwig,  Wessely,  Isaac  Enchel. 
David  Friedlander    and    others.      But    the 
effect  produced  by  his  writings  was  precisely 
the  same  as  that  occasioned  by  the  writings 
of  Maimondes  six  centuries  earlier— to  render 
the  Jews  dissatisfied  with  their  religion,  and  to 
drive  them  either  to  the  adoption  of  total  in- 
fidelity on  the  one  hand,  or  of  Christianity  on 
the  other.    The  latter  was  the  case  with  his 
children. 

The  French  Kevolution  marked  a  new  era 
in  the  history  of  the  Jews.  Not  only  the 
Jews,  but  also  the  Christian,  or,  more  properly 
speaking,  the  civilized  world,  had  become 
intoxicated  with  the  idea  of  refonning  eveiy* 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH  OP  THE  JEWS. 


109 


thing.  Several  writers,  as  Dobni  and  Gregoire, 
advocated  the  regeneration  of  the  Jew8»  and  ihe 
French  revolution  famished  an  opportunity 
of  realizing  some  of  their  ideas.  The  Jews 
had  been  much  neglected  or  cruelly  oppressed, 
but  DOW  a  new  system  of  legislation  com- 
menceid.  On  September  27,  1791,  the 
French  National  Assembly  declared  them 
citizens  of  France.  On  Septembei^2,  1796, 
a  similar  decree  was  passed  in  Holland. 

Napoleon,  when  in  the  zenith  of  his  power, 
perceiving  the  spirit  that  was  stirring  in  the 
Jewish  mind,  conceived  the  idea  of  turning  it 
to  bis  own  advantage.  He  thought  that  the 
Jesvs,  existing  in  considerable  numbers  in 
mogt'  parts  of  the  world,  understanding  all 
languages,  possesdng  great  wealth  and  en- 
dowed wjitli  talents,  might  prove  useful  allies 
in  bis  plaa  of.  universal  empire.  He  under- 
took the  vast  project  of  giving  these  scattered 
fragments  a  center  of  unity  iti  their  long-lost, 
but  never  forgntten,  national  council — ^the 
Sanhedrin.  His  idea^  was  that  all  Jews  in 
tbe  world  would  obey  the-  Sanhedrin,  and 
that  this  body,  with  its  seat  at  Paris  snd  ap- 
pointed by  himself,  would  be  governed  by 
him.  He  clearly  saw  that  with  the  old  fash- 
ioned Jews  he  could  effect  nothing.  The 
land  of  their  love  was  Palestine,  their  hope 
the  Messiah,  and  God  their  legislator.  He 
blew  that  to  them  their  religion  was  every- 
thing, and  his  decoratiana  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor  vyorse  than  nothing,  yea,  an  abomina- 
tion. To  iPake  use  of  the  Jews  it  was  ne- 
cessary to  refdjm  them,  and  he  perceived  in 
the  nation  a  large  party,  ready  and  willing, 
though  upon  diifereiSt  principles,  to  be  the 
Agents  in  effecting  this  iTiorm.  And  though 
Napoleon's  intention  was  to  make  the  decis- 
wns  of  the  Sanhadrin  the  religi^ous  law  of  all 
the  Jews  in  the  world;  y«t  be  fci.t  the  inde- 
cency of  legislating  /^r  a  religious  ^ody  to 
^hich  he  did  not  belong.  He  therefore 
thouglrt  it  necessary,  at  least  to  preserve  ad 
ftppearanoe  of  permitting  this  body  to  reform 
itself.  On  July  28,  ISOd,  the  French  SABhe* 
<lriu  began  to  sit,  and  nominated  as  prealdenC, 
Aliralmm  Furtado,  a  Portuguese  of  Bor- 
<lesuz.  After  the  meetings  w«re  fully  oonfltt- 
tuted,  and  were  prepared  for  the  tnuuactioa 


of  business,  Napoleon  appointed  commission- 
ers to  wait  upon  them,  and  to  present  to  them 
twelve  questions,  to  answer  which  was  to  be 
the  first  and  principal  occupation  of  the  San- 
hedrin. The  answers  given  by  this  body 
were  satisfactory  to  Napoleon,  who  convened 
another  great  Sanhedrin  in  1807.  To  this 
assembly  the  Kabbis  from  various  other  coim- 
tries,  especially  from  Holland,  were  invited, 
in  order  tliat  the  principles  promulgated  by 
the  body  might  acquire  general  authority 
among  the  Jews.  The  Jews  throughout 
France  were  at  first  highly  pleased  at  the  in- 
terest taken  by  the  emperor  in  their  affairs. 
But  their  joy  was  soon  afterward  diminished 
by  an  edict  which  he  issued  in  those  provinces 
which  bordered  on  tTie  Rhine,  and  which  re- 
stricted the  Jews  in  their  commercial  affairs. 
Nevertheless,  in  Westphalia,  Napoleon  ex- 
erted a  favorable  influence  by  suppoiting  the 
reformatory  endeavors  of  Israel  Jacobeohn, 
who  devoted  himself  k>  the  diffusion  of  edu- 
cation among  his  brethren  by  establishing 
schools  and  a  seminary  for  the  proper  instruc- 
tion of  teachers  among  them.  The  same 
Jacobsohn  also  undeHook  a  reform  in  the 
public  worship.  The  temple  which  he  built 
at  his  own  expense  at  Seesen,  he  furnished 
with  an  organ,  a  choir  of  the  school  children, 
and  commenced  regular  preaching  in  German. 
This  was  the  first  instance  since  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  Temple  that  instrumental  music 
was  introduced  into  Jewish  worship.  The 
Rabbinic  Jews  regarded  the  playing  upon 
instruments  as  a  labor,  and  therefore  a  dese- 
cration of  tlie  Sabbath.  But  the  reformed 
Jews  cared  little  for  Rabbinic  principles,  and 
hailed  this  change  with  enthusiasm.  Subse- 
quently temples  were  built  at  Berlin,  Ham- 
burg, Leipsic,  and  everywhere. 

Beyond  the  borders  of  France,  tlie  princi- 
ples set  forth  by  the  Sanhedrin  found  but  a 
faint  echo,  and  soon  met  with  positive  <^- 
position,  especially  in  Germany  and  Holland, 
it  is  true,  that  the  French  armies  at  their 
invajBion  of  the  Netherlands  in  1795,  effected 
the  producing  by  degrees  a  complete  eman- 
elpa(tj<Mi  of  the  Jews.  Yet,  strange  as  it 
may  amiar,  the  emancipation  was  received 
and  e9l9^IPW!l^  ^^^7  differently  by  the  Jews  of 


110 


THE  LIBRARY  MAG^VZINE. 


Holland  than  by  those  of  France.  With  a 
few  exceptions,  the  Jews  of  Spain  and  Portu- 
gal, who  were  lovers  of  monarchy  and  aris- 
tocracy upon  principle,  and  devotedly  attached 
to  the  House  of  Orange,  cared  not  for  a  so- 
ealled  emancipation,  which  accorded  very 
little  with  their  political  attachments  and 
their  religious  opinions.  Even  the  Jews  of 
tlie  German  and  Polish  synagogues  of  Holland 
were  little  disposed  to  «zcliange  their  ancient 
Israel itish  nationality,  for  the  new  political 
chanicter  offered  to  them  by  the  Revolution. 
Only  a  small  number,  following  the  spirit  of 
the  age,  formed  a  kind  of  political  association 
under  the  title  of  Felix  Libertaie,  which  gave 
rise  to  a  schism  in  the  synagogue,  which 
lasted  till  the  reign  of  William  I.  From 
this  association,  the  Felix  Lib&rtate,  which 
liad  founded  an  independent  synagogue, 
three  deputies  were  sent  to  the  Sanhedrin  at 
'Paris. 

In  the  new  Batavian  Republic,  founded  in 
1795,  the  opinions  concerning  tlie  political 
-equality  of  the  Jews  were  divided.    There 
were  many  admirers  of  the  Revolution  of 
1789  in  France,  and  that  of  1795  in  Holland, 
yet  they  were  Testrained  by  scruples  of  con- 
•  science  from  washing  for  a  complete  natmnl- 
.ization  of  the  Jews.    Finally,  however,  the 
^contrary  opinion  prevailed,  and  the  cliange  was 
"Diade.     Under  the  government,  first  of  Louie 
Napoleon,  and  then  of  the  House  of  Orange, 
'the  Jews  of  Holland  became  reconciled  by 
-degrees  to  thek  new  political  rights..   After 
-the  restoration  of  the  House  of  Orange  to  the 
government  of  Holland,  the  principle  of  abso- 
lute equality  among.  ^11  the  inhabitants  also 
^remained  im altered. 

In  Belgium  also,  the  Jews  enjoyed- equality 

in  the  sight  of  the  law.    In  spite  of  the  new 

'politieal  position  of  the  Jews  in  Envope,  con- 

'  stitnting  as  it  does  a  new  epoch  in  history, 

tire  '*ncient  barriers  between  the  Jews  And 

</'hristians  could  not  be  broken  down..  "In 

OermsBy,  for  instance,  the  eivtire  emancipa- 

*tion  of  the  Jews,  which  in  France  had  b^en 

'€6tablished,  as  it  were,  in  a  moment,  bad  (o 

•etniggle  for  more  than  thirty  years  longer. 

Already  before  the  Revolution  of  1789,  in  the 

juincijia]  states  of  Germanj  meaanres  jfere 


taken  to  secure  to  the  Jews  some  rights,  and 
to  amend  their  condition.  The  French  Rev 
olution.  and  the  influence  of  the  French  Im 
perial  Government,  considerably  aided  the 
cause  of  the  Jews  throughout  a  great  part  of 
.Germany,  especially  in  Westphalia,  with  its 
capital,  Frankfort-on-the-Maine,  and  in  Prus- 
sia. The  reign  of  King  Frederick  William 
ni.  assured  to  the  Jews,  by  the  edict  pub- 
lished March  11,  1812,  the  right  and  title  of 
Prussian  citizens,  with  some  restrictions  and 
conditions. 

When  the  Congress  of  Vienna,  in  1815,  set- 
tled the  affairs  of  Europe,  the  sixteenth  article 
iiR posed  upon  the  Diet  an  obligation  to  take 
the  necessary  measures  for  advancing  the 
social  improvement  of  the  Jews,  and  to  obtain 
for,  and  to  secure  to  them  the  enjoyment  of 
all  civil  rights,  on  condition  of  their  fulfilling 
the  duties  connected  with  them.  This  pro- 
posal met  with  intense  opposition  from  many 
quarters.  The'  prejudices  against  the  Jevrf 
seemed  to  be  Intense,  var}ing  in  their  nature 
and  dfjgree  according  to  the  different  circum- 
stances of  the  thirty-eight  states  into  which 
tlie  Germanic  body  was  divided.  In  tlie  end 
the  Congress  decided  to  leave  the  decision  of 
the  matter  to  the  legislation  of  the  respective 
-states  representing  the  confederation.  Wben 
this  subject  came  up  subsequently  for  discus 
•aion  in  the  legislative  bodies  of  the  several 
states  it  was  found  that  three  distinct  parties 
•existed,  who  might  be  termed  the  .Conserva- 
tive, the  Historical,  and  the  Revolutionary. 
The  Conservative  party  wished. to  leave  things 
in  statu  quo;  the  Historieal, appealed  to  his- 
tory,/and  insisted  upon  making  progress  and 
improvements  in  hanuony  with  the  necessities 
of  the  age.  The  BevolutioBary  party,  caring 
for  neither  histery  nor  religion,  insisted  upon 
.an  entire  iwolutions  oX.  thinga,  in  which, 
amid  the  cry  of  universal  equality,  lihert}:, 
and  fratemitj,  the  Jew,  should  secure  bis 
equal- rights.  The  most  famous  of  the  Revo- 
Intionary  party  was  Bruno  Bau^,  who  openly 
deckred  he  wished  not  for  th«emancipatioD  of 
the  Jews,  but  for  their. entire  destruction  and 
•extinction.  The  King  of  Prussia,  an  the 
spirit  of  the  historical  party,  published  at 
cedipt^  accQiding.  .tox  nrhich*  equaUty  ^of  rfghts 


THOUGHTS  ABOUT  THE  COMETS. 


Ill 


and  duties  wan  secured  to  the  Jews,  with  some 
exceptions.  Tlie  year  1848,  with  its  revolu- 
tionary principles,  effected  the  full  emancipa- 
tion of  the  Jews  in  Germany,  and  ever  since 
tbey  are  found  in  parliament  as  well  as  in 
aniversities,  in  schools  as  well  as  in  courts, 
etc.  Of  late  a  reaction  has  taken  place 
against  the  Jews  of  Prussia,  the  end  of  which 
cannot  yet  be  foreseen. 

In  England,  Parliament  passed  in  1758  a 
bill  for  the  naturalization  of  the  Jews;  but  in 
the  following  year  the  bill  wfls  rescinded.  But 
in  1847  their  equality  before  the  law  was  de- 
clared. In  the  Scandinavian  countries  the 
Jews  enjoy  many  liberties,  but  not  their  ab- 
solute emancipation.  In  Russia  the  Jewish 
population  have  experienced,  at  different 
times,  various  kinds  of  treatment,  and  up  to 
this  day  Ihey  undergo  many  vexations. — As 
ID  Russia,  the  Jews  experienced  a  diversified 
fate  in  the  territories  of  the  Pontiff,  varying 
according  to  the  peculiar  dispoi?ition  and 
prejudices  of  the  successive  ^opes.  Under 
Pius  VII.  (1816-1825)  tjiey  enjoyed  ample 
protection  and  equal  franchises;  different, 
however,  it  was  under  Leo  XII.,  who  reGn- 
forccd  old  and  obsolete  bulls.  Under  Pius 
IX.,  the  Ghetto  of  the  Jews  at  Home  was  sol- 
emnly and  publicly  opened,  and  thus  the  wall 
of  distinction  and  separation  between  Jews 
and  Christians  was  removed.  The  Pope's  ex- 
ample was  followed  by  Charles  Albert  in 
1848,  who  proclaimed  perfect  quality  •of 
political  rights  to  the  Jews. 

In  Mohammedan  couxitries — Asiatic  and  Af- 
rican—the relation  between  the  Jews  on  the  one 
hand,  and  the  government  and  people  on  the 
other,  has  progressed  in  exact  proportion  that 
the  influence  of  Christianity  and  the  growth  of 
civilization  have  exercised  on  those  countries. 
Still  great,  however,  is  the  contempt  in  which 
Je^vs  and  Christians,  and  more  particularly 
the  former,  are  held  by  Mohammedan  popu- 
lations. But  on  the  part  of  the  governnuint 
of  the  Viceroy  of  Eygpt  and  of  the  Sultan  of 
CorstanHnople,  a  gradually  increasing  favor 
has  been  exhibited  to  the  Jews.  At  one  time 
only,  in  1840,  an  accusal  ion  was  leveled  against 
the  Jews  in  Syria»  for  having  assassinated 
Father  Thomas,  who  ior  thirty  ^ears  had 


piacticeil  medicine  at  Damascus,  aud  who,  as 
had  been  reported,  was  last  seen  in  the  Jewish 
quarter.  A  persecution  against  the  Jews  took 
place,  scenes  of  barbarity  occurred,  till  at  last 
the  representations  of  the  European  govern- 
ments made  an  end  to  the  cruelties. 

Wherever  Jews  are  to  be  found  at  present, 
they  enjoy  liberties  and  privileges.  Looking 
at  tiieir  religious  state  in  Europe  and  America, 
we  find  the  Jews  divided  into  three  parties: 
the  strict  orthodox,  conservative,  and  re- 
fonned,  or  liberal.  In  Europe  the  synagogue 
has  produced  a  number  of  learued  men,  who 
have  enriched  oriental  literature  and  other 
sciences.  In  America,  the  land  of  liberty, 
the  Jews  have  been  less  productive. 

In  our  rapid  survey  we  have  glanced  at  the 
past  and  present  of  the  Jews.  There  «xist  at 
this  day  about  seven  million  Jews,  scattered 
all  over  the  globe.  ''The  destinies  of  this 
wonderful  people,  as  of  all  mankind,*'  says 
Dean  Milmau«  *'ane  in  tlie  hands  of  the  All- 
wise  Ruler  of  the  Universe.  His  decrees  will 
be  accomplished,  his  truth,  his  goodness,  and 
his  wisdom  vindicated."— B.  Pick,  Ph..D., 
AlleghoMy^  Pen%. 


THOUGHTS  ABOCT  THE  COMETS. 

In  the  ^era  preocding  that  in  which  man 
first  appeared  upon  this  earth,  immense  volca- 
noes on  the  western  shores  of  Greenlai^ 
poured  from  their  craters  vast  masses  of  ba- 
saltic lava.  But  tlie  eruptive  powers  Of  these 
mighty  yolcanoee  were  capable  of  ejecting 
more  than  mere  streams  of  glowing  lavia. 
Great  masses  of  rock  were  flung  to  enormous 
heights,  and,  falling,fiank  deeply  into  the  still 
plastic  streams  of  lava  on  the  volcano 's-slopes. 
These  rock  masses-came  from  deeper  down  in 
the-carth*s  bowels  than  the  basaltic  lava,  and 
were  hurled  to  heights  of  many  miles,  or  they 
would  not  have  sunk  so  deeply  as  they  did  in 
the  basaltic  lava  currents.  Perhaps  the  reader 
may  think  that  the  title  o&fhis  article  has  some- 
how been  misplaoed.  What  connection,  he 
may  well  ask,  can  there  conceivably  be  be- 
tween-the  v^lcanoaa^of  millioDs  oi  yeais  Mgo 


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THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


and  two  comets  now  visible  in  our  skies.  Our 
object  here  is  to  show  that  a  very  close  connec- 
tion may  be  traced,  though  it  niay  not  perhaps 
admit  of  being  absolutely  proved  to  exist,  be- 
tween these  seemingly  so  diverse  subjects — the 
comets  of  to-day  and  the  terrestrial  volcanoes 
of  long-past  ages. 

The  great  masses  of  matter  which  had  been 
flun<;  forth  from  the  volcano  of  Ovifak,  on  the 
western  shores  of  Greenland,  remained  for 
ages  b.'.ried  beneath  vast  heaps  of  ashes  and 
dust  poured  forth  from  a  volcanic  fissure.  But 
later  ages  undid  the  work  of  burial.  The 
wearing  action  of  rain  and  wind  and  storm 
gradually  cleared  away  the  masses  of  debi-is 
under  which  the  rocks  had  lain,  and  left  them 
on  a  shore-line,  to  be  beaten  by  the  sea- waves 
and  swept  by  the  fierce  storms  ^hich  rage  up- 
on that  dreary  coast.  At  length  it  so  chancel 
that  a  well-known  scientific  traveler — Nor- 
denskjold — cast  his  scientific  eye  upon  them. 
He  recognized  in  them  meteoric  masses  which 
had  fallen  upon  our  earth  from  interplanetary 
space,  and,  moved  by  this  mistaken  idea,  he 
determined  to  convey  them  to  some  museum, 
where  they  would  be  regarded  as  among  the 
most  remarkable  of  those  bodies  which  come 
to  our  earth  from  without.  This  was  done; 
and  for  a  long  time  "Nordenskjold's  meteor- 
ite," as  it  was  called,  did  duty  for  an  aerolite. 
It  precisely  resembled  the  iron  meteorites  in 
structure  and  at  first  in  appearance.  It  rusted 
and  crumbled  away  more  rapidly  than  they 
do,  but  that  was  by  many  ascribed  to  its  long 
residence  on  the  shores  of  Greenland,  and  tlie 
consequent  injury  which  its  constitution  had 
sustained.  It  was  unhesitatingly  held  to  be  a 
meteorite.  Photographs  of  its  vast  mass,  with 
Nordenskjold  beside  it,  to  show  what  a  mon- 
ster It  really  is,  did  duty  in  books  and  lectures 
as  illustrating  the  importance  of  the  bodies 
cheerfully  described  by  Humboldt  as  "extra- 
telluric  masses,  telling  us  of  the  constitution  of 
outside  matter,  and  enabling  us  to  touch  and 
liandle  what  must  be  regarded  as  pocket- 
planets." 

But  at  last  suspfbion  began  to  be  so  far 
roused  that  inquiry  was  made  at  the  spot 
where  the  great  "meteorite  *'  had  been  found. 
The  basaltic  lava  in  the  midst  of  whii^h  it  had 


been  imbedded  was  examined.  The  nnilt 
was  unpleasant  for  those  who  had  in  some  de- 
gree pinned  their  faith  on  the  extra-terrestrial 
character  of  Nordenskjold's  treasure-trove. 
The  supposed  meteorite  was  found  to  be  of 
the  same  structure  as  the  basaltic  mass— only 
rather  more  so.  The  basaltic  lava  of  Ovifak 
is  remarkable  among  volcanic  ejections  for 
the  large  amount  of  iron  present  in  it;  the 
Nordenskjold  mass  is  simply  the  same  lava 
with  a  little  more  iron — precisely  the  differ- 
ence we  should  expect  to  find  between  lava 
poured  forth  from  deep  beneath  the  vent  of  a 
crater  and  volcanic  masses  ejected  from  deep- 
er down  yet.  • 

Since  then,  no  one  has  doubted  that  the 
mass  brought  to  Europe  by  Nordenskjold  is  a 
product  of  volcanic  eruption.  If  Vesuvius 
even  now  can  eject  matter  to  a  height  of  four 
miles  in  her  more  violent  throes,  as  instan- 
taneous photographs  taken  during  the  great 
eruption  of  1872  show,  we  need  not  greatly 
wonder  if  the  <much  mightier  eruptions  of  the 
Tertiary  era  ejected  larger  masses  to  much 
greater  heights.  But  this  has  naturally  sug- 
gested the  idea  that  other  bodies  supposed  to 
be  meteorites  may  really  have  come  originally 
from  the  interior  of  the  earth,  having  been 
ejected  during  long-past  volcanic  throes;  for 
the  identity  of  structure  noticed  in  the  Green- 
land basaltic  mass  and  a  class  of  iron  meteorites 
remains  as  a  striking  and  noteworthy  fact, 
even  though  that  mass  has  been  rejected  from 
among  meteorites. 

Once  started,  this  idea  has  been  found  fruit- 
ful in  associated  suggestions.  At  first  it 
seemed  contradicted  by  the  observed  fact  that 
multitudes  of  meteoric  visitors  have  certainly 
not  been  ejected  from  any  such  volcanoes  as 
we  have  now  upon  the  earth,  for  they  have 
fallen  with  velocities  such  as  no  eruptive  ener- 
gies known  to  us  could  have  imparted.  But 
then  there  is  no  reason  for  regarding  the  vol- 
canic forces  of  the  earth,  now  in  staid  middle 
life,  or  even  those  which  she  possessed  millions 
of  years  ago,  when  life  was  as  yet  only  begin- 
ning on  her  surface,  as  comparable  with  the 
expulsive  energies  she  may  have  possessed 
when  in  the  vigor  of  youth.  Still  less  can  we 
compare  the  forces  now  existing  with  those 


THOUGHTS  ABOUT  THE  COMETS. 


118 


Ab  earth  hAd  wken  she  was  in  that  sunlike 
stage  through  which  every  large  mass  within 
the  flolar  system  must  have  passed.  If  Vesu- 
vius can  expel  matter  to  a  height  of  four  or 
five  miles,  and  the  great  volcanoes  of  the  Ter> 
tiary  era  could  eject  matter  twice  or  thrice  as 
higti,  to  what  heights  may  not  the  Secondary, 
the  Primary,  the  Archaean  volcanoes  have 
propelled  volcanic  bomhs  in  the  mighty  throes 
of  the  earth*s  fiery  youth?  And  long  before 
the  Archsean  crust  was  formed,  which  geolo- 
gists regard  as  the  oldest  stratum  of  the  earth's 
outer  shell,  our  globe  possessed  energiei  still 
more  tremendous. 

Along  q  .ite  a  different  line  Stanislas  Meu- 
nier,  in  France,  and  Tschermak,  in  Russia,  had 
been  led  to  the  same  idea  respecting  meteoric 
masses.  They  saw  that,  regarding  meteorites 
AS  merely  casual  visitors  from  outer  space,  the 
number  of  these  bodies  must  be  inconceivably 
large.  Our  earth  travding  round  the  sun 
may  be  compared  to  a  marble  circling  round 
the  dome  of  St.  Paul's,  ten  or  twelve  ndles 
away.  Tlie  region  actually  swept  by  the 
earth's  globe  in  her  circuit  is  the  merest  thread 
of  spac!e  compared  with  the  vast  volume  of 
a  globe  which  should  enclose  tne  whole 
aolar  system.  If  across  this  mere  threadlike 
ring  so  many  myriads  of  meteorites  have  come, 
what  must  be  the  number  within  the  whole 
domain  of  the  sun,  extending  far  beyond  the 
region  where  cold  Neptune  pursues  his  gloomy 
course? 

But  perhaps  the  reader  may  ask  how  the 
ejection  of  the  meteors  from  the  eartli  in  past 
ages — ^millions  of  years  ago— would  help  in 
this  dilQculty:  the  earth  camiot  be  supposed 
to  have  supplied  all  the  mUiions  of  millions, 
or  rather  the  billions  of  billions  of  meteorites 
which  at  any  rate  exist—account  for  them  how 
we  may.  That,  however,  is  just  the  idea 
which  the  earth-ejection  theory  would  allow 
us  to  reject.  If  In  old  times  the  earth  pos- 
sessed power  enough  to  eject  bodies  hvm  her 
interior  with  such  velocities  that  they  pussed 
beyond  her  control,  all  the  bodies  so  ejected 
would  forever  thereafter  cross  that  fine  ring 
of  space  along  which  the  earth  in  her  course 
around  the  sun  sweeps  year  by  year.  The 
trouble  before  htA  been  that  not  one  meteor 


out  of  millions  of  millions  would  have  a  track 
crossing  the  earth's,  so  that  she  would  not 
have  even  a  cliance  of  encountering  one  meteor 
out  of  nuUions  of  millions  actually  existing. 
Of  those  expelled  from  her  own  interior  in  re- 
mote times,  there  would  not  be  one  which  she 
would  not  have  a  chance  of  picking  up  again. 
Nay,  one  may  say  that  in  the  long  run  she 
would  be  bound  to  pick  up  every  one  of  them, 
though  that  long  run  might  mean  millions,  or 
even  tens  or  hundreds  of  millions  of  years. 

For  this  reason  the  theory  of  Meunier  and 
Tschermak  found  favor  in  the  eyes  of  astron- 
omers. 

But  if  we  are  to  recognize  in  our  earth  a 
power  of  ejecting  meteoric  masses  in  far-off 
times  into  far-off  space,  in  such  sort  in  fact 
that,  but  for  the  help  of  the  sum,  the  earth 
would  never  have  been  able  to  draw  t..ese  chil- 
dren of  hers  back  again,  we  must  recognize  a 
similar  power  in  other  worlds  also.  In  partio- 
ular  the  giant  planets  must  have  possessed 
corresponding  ejective  energies.  What  is 
sauce  for  the  terrene  goose  should  be  sauce 
also  for  the  Jovian  or  Saturnian  gander.  Of 
course,  a  volcano  in  Jupiter  or  Saturn  in  the 
old  sunlike  stage  of  each  planet's  career  would 
have  had  to  be  far  more  energetic  to  get  away 
with  a  flight  of  ejected  bodies  that  they  should 
not  at  once  fall  back  again,  than  the  terrestrial 
volcanoes  recognized  l^  Tschermak  and  Meu- 
nier. To  bring  the  matter  down  to  flgures,  a 
terrestrial  volcano  would  have  had  to  start  its 
bombs  with  a  velocity  of  at  least  seven  miles 
per  second — ^probably  ten  miles  per  second  to 
get  over  the  effects  of  friction  in  the  air;  while* 
on  the  other  hand«  Jupiter's  volcanoes  would 
have  had  to  give  a  velocity  of  f6rty  mites  a 
second  without  counting  the  effects  of  friction, 
and  perhaps  fifty  mile)  per  seoond,  taking 
those  effects  into  account  But  there  is  no 
difficulty  here.  One  might  as  reasonably  a)-- 
gue  that  a  lion  could  not  be  expected  to  walk 
as  the  dog  does,  because  he  weighs  so  muoh 
more.  If  Ju]iiter  and  Saturn  neaded  more 
strength  for  their  volcanic  work,,  they  had 
more  strengih.  All  the  voleaaic  encfgies  of  a 
planet  are  due  to  the  attractive  penrer  of  the  . 
planet'^  mass,  workiag  on  the  cniet,  crump- i| 
fittg  it  up,  oontordng,  diskioaitiBg,.  ufheaving J 


114 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


(by  down-drawing),  and  generating  heat  by  all 
this  mechanical  action.  The  earth  seems 
strong  at  such  work  when  we  look  at  the  great 
mountain  ranges  on  her  surface,  and  consider 
the  work  of  her  volcanoes  now  and  still  more 
in  post  ages.  But  Jupiter  is  three  hundred 
times  as  strong,  and  Saturn  one  hundred  times. 
If  there  is  any  truth  in  the  theory  that  our 
earth  was  able  to  eject  bodies  beyond  her  own 
control,  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  Jupiter 
and  Saturn — nay,  every  planet  lar^  or  small 
within  the  solar  system — possessed  similar 
power  during  the  same  fiery  stages  of  their 
respective  careers. 

Whether  tltis  be  so  or  nbt,  it  is  ceitiin  that 
there  are  meteor  streams  which  cross  or  ap- 
proach the  paths  of  the  giant  plancits,  just  as 
certain  meteer  streams  cross  or  approach  the 
path  of  our  earth;  for  some  of  the  meteor 
streams  which  are  Ihus  associated  with  the 
giants  of  the  solar  system  cross  also  the  track 
of  our  earth.  This  can  only  be  regarded,  of 
course,  as  a  mere  coincidence;  for,  however 
ingeniously  the  astronomer  may  strive  to  ex- 
plain the  existencre  of  a  meteor  stream  crossing 
one  planet's  track,  he  cannot  possibly  explain 
how  (otherwise  than  by  chance  medley,  so  to 
speak)  a  flight  of  meteors  came  to  crbss^  the 
tracks  of  two  planets.  Apy  theory  associating 
a  meteor  stream  with  one  planet  must  of  ne- 
cessity show  that  the  origin  of  the  stream  was 
independent  of  every  other  planet.  Vesuvius 
and  Etna  may  each  be  in  eruption,  and  a  vol- 
canic bomb  shot  out  from  Vesuvius  might,  if 
it  were  shot  far  enough,  fall  upon  Etna;  but 
assure<lly  any  explanation  of  the  course  of 
that  missile  which  assigned  Vesuvius  as  its 
parent  would  clear  Etna  of  all  suspicion  of 
having  had  anything  to  do  with  it,  except  as 
hiving  been  casually  saluted  by  it. 

But  this  illustration  will  serve  also  to  illus- 
trate the  next  step  in  our  reasoning.  If,  while 
Vesuvius  was  in  eruption,  and  Etna  at  rest, 
many  volcanic  missiles  fell  on  Etna,  an  ob- 
server stationed  on  this  mountain  would  learn 
that  Vesuvius  was  very  busily  at  work  indeed, 
for  he  would  perceive  that  immense  numbers 
of  missiles  must  be  ejected  from  Vesuvius,  to 
give  even  one  a  fair  chance  of  falling  on  Etna. 
And  in  like  manner,  unoe  several  meteor 


streams  which  eross  our  earth's  track  are  un- 
doubtedly associated  in  some  way  or  othe^ 
with  the  giant  planets,  and  as  to  give  even  one 
a  fair  chance  of  thus  crossing  the  earth's  track 
there  must  be  millions  of  the  kind,  we  learn 
that  there  are  millions  of  meteor  streams  cross- 
ing or  passing  very  near  to  the  tracks  of  Nep- 
tune, Uranus,  Saturn,  and  Jupiter. 

AiVc  have  tlien  precisely  the  same  reason  ftr 
judging  that  the  giant  planets  once  ejected 
many  millions  of  meteor  flights,  as  we  have 
found  for  recognizing  a  volcanic  power  of  the 
same  e£Eecti^«  kind  in  otir  own  earth. 

But  this  brings  us  nearer  to  the  subject  of 
«aur  essay,  at  least  as  indicated  by  its  title,  than 
we  have  hitherto  been;  for  all  those  meteor 
streams  which,  crossing  our  earth's  track,  are 
really  associated  with  the  giant  planets,  are 
associated  also  with  oomets.  We  may  indeed 
say  that  tliey  4ire  comets.  A  comet  has  been 
shown  t0  be  in  TOaHty  a  flight  of  meteors,  a<^ 
grcgated  somewhat  closely  together,  and  trav- 
eling around  the  sun  on  nearly  the  same  paths. 
Slight  differences  in  the  rate  at  which  these 
bodies  travel  cause  some  to  lag  slightly  behind 
the  main  body,  while  otlicrs  (this  is  too  often 
'Overlooked)  ^t  in  advance.  Thus  there  is  a 
trailing  «ut  both  ways;  and  in  the  coursf^  of 
time— a  lew  hundreds  of  thousands,  or  it  may 
be  a  few  millions  of  yi^ars,  or  some  trifle  of 
that  sort — the  meteoric  deserters  may  b« 
fottDd  all  roQfld  tl)e  orbit  of  the  leading  troop: 
or,  slightly  to  alter  the  metaphor,  the  meteoric 
truanrts  may  be  folind  sflr  round  the  patk  of 
their  parent  comet.  W«  must  not  confound 
this  train  of  meter^c  attendants  and  avant- 
cduviert  vdth  the  comet's  tail.  One  might  as 
TeaeonfCt)ly  mistake  a  royal  person's  train-bear- 
ers for  the  train  itself.  The  tail  of  a  comet 
lies  iiKjuite  a  different  direction,  and  is  mani 
festlya'body  (if  body,  indeed,  it  can  he  called) 
of  quite  another  kind.  A  comet's  tail  alwuyi 
makes  an  angle,  sometimes  even  a  right  angle 
with  the  comet's  track;  the  metecH*  stieam  is 
always  on  that  traok. 

It  begins  to  look,  then,  as  thou^,  in  saying 
that  the  giant  comets  once  ejected  in  a  volca- 
nic fashion  jneteoric  flights,  w^  were  In  reality 
•saying  that  they  had  once  ejected  comets! 
And  wiiat  w«  ha^ie  thus  said -about  Jupiter  and 


THOUGHTS  ABOUT  THE  COMETS. 


115 


his  feilowB  we  may  be  said  to  have  asserted 
also  of  the  earth,  and  therefore  of  her  fellows, 
Mars,  Mercury,  and  Venus  (only  Venus  may 
not,  perhaps,  be  properly  called  a  fellow). 
Are  the  meteoric  bodies  through  which  the 
earth  passes  the  remains  of'  long  departed 
comets,  terrestrial  in  origin,  and  periiaps  very 
small  affairs,  but  still  comets?  It  will  go  near 
to  be  thought  so  shortly.  After  all,  it  is  only 
a  question  of  degree.  -  To  giant  planets  we 
may  assign  large  and  long- lasting  comets,  to 
the  earth  and  the  other  terrestrial  planets  small 
comets,  which  were  very  soon  dissipated  by 
the  divellent  action  of  the  sun. 

But  indeed,  even  the  comets  associated  with 
the  giant  planets  do  not  belong  to  the  premier 
rank,  either  for  size  or  for  durability.  They 
are  mostly  but  of  moderate  splendor,  and 
while  most  of  them  look  as  if  Ihey  had  under- 
gone many  vicissitudes,  one  at  least  has  actu 
ally  been  torn  apart  and  dissipated  under  the 
Tery  eyes  of  astronomers.  We  must  find,  it 
would  seem,  another  explanation  for  those 
splendid  comets  which,  like  Donati's  in  1868, 
and  the  great  comet  of  1811,  have  spread  their 
glorious  trains  athwart  the  heavens  in  such  sort 
as  to  excite  awe  and  terror  among  the  na- 
tions. These  cannot  have  been  ejected  from 
planets  even  of  the  giaat  sort.  Indeed,  we 
need  not  reason  about  the  qoestioa  of  possibil- 
ity. It  is  certain  ihat  these  have  not  been 
ejected  from  any  of  the  planets  in  our  solar 
system,  or  in  any  other  system.  For  if  they 
had  been  ejected  from  Jupiter,  Saturn,  or  any 
other  of  our  sun's  family,  tlieir  paths  would 
still  cross,  or  closely  approach  the  path  of  the 
parent  phinet,  which  is  not  the  case.  If,  on 
the  other  hand,  they  had  been  shot  out  from 
flontt  planet  attending  on  a  distant  sim,  they 
would  not  have  been  able  to  leave  the  domain 
cf  that  remote  sun,  but  would  still  be  traveling 
in  attendance  upon  it,  with  such  subordinate 
fealty  to  the  parent  planet  as  is  shown  by  the 
xnembers  of  the  various  comet  families  of  the 
^ant  planets  to  thdr  respective  progenitors. 

Yet,  if  there  is  any  validity  in  the  theory  to 
which  we  seem  to  have  been  led  in  the  case  of 
the  meteor  streams  through  which  our  earth 
^iTinfpes  eaeh  year,  and  of  the  comets  which 
.stfllxrosB  oro^jooacb  the  tracks  of  the  giant 


))lanets,  that  theory  ought  to  apply  in  some 
way,  or  in  some  degree,  to  the  long-tailed  and 
resplendent  comets  which  from  time  to  time 
visit  our  solar  system.  If  our  earth  gave  birth 
to  small  and  short-lived  comets,  and  the  giant 
planets  gave  birth  to  larger  and  longer-lived 
comets,  must  we  not  seek  for  the  parents  of 
the  largest  and  most  glorious  comets  in  orbs 
larger  by  far  and  fuller  of  energy  and  vitality 
even  than  the  giants,  Jupiter  and  Saturn  ? 

We  need  not  be  at  a  loss  to  find  such  oihs. 
There  are  thousands  within  our  ken,  visible 
each  night  in  our  skies.  The  smallest  tele- 
scopes used  by  astronomers  reveal  hundreds  of 
thousands.  The  giant  telescopes  used  by  the 
Herschels  feveal  many  millions,  and  the  great 
telescope  of  Lord  Rosse.  with  its  fine  6-feet 
mirror  (imagine  nn  eye  six  feet  in  diameter), 
would  show  many  hundreds  of  millions  if  it 
could  l)e  directed  to  every  part  of  the  heavens 
in  succession.  The  stars  or  suns  are  the  orbs 
we  are  to  look  to  as  the  pn^bable  parents  of 
the  great  comets  which  kings  and  rulers  in 
old  times  regarded  as  special  messengers  to 
warn  them  of  war  or  rebellion,  fire  or  flood, 
plague,  pestilence,  or  famine. 

Of  course,  if  an  drb  like  the  sun  ejects  from 
its  interior  the  materials  for  forming  a  first- 
class  comet,  it  must  send  forth  that  flight  of 
meteors  in  good  style,  or  else  the  cometic 
progeny  will  return  to  the  bosom  of  its  solar 
parent  "like  the  prodigious  son" — as  Launce- 
lot  has  it — ^a  disappointment  and  a  failure. 
The  rejected  matter  must  start  forth  at  the 
rate  of  a  few  hundreds  of  miles  per  seooud. 
In  our  sun's  case  880  miles  per  second  would 
sufi9ce.  A  noteworthy  effort  must  be  made, 
even  by  such  a  giant  as  a  sun,  to  effect  this 
lively  ejection.  But  that  a  sun  is  capable  of 
it,  no  one  who  considers  the  liiight  of  our  own 
sun  can  for  a  moment  question.  He  is  826,- 
000  times  as  strong  as  this  little  earth  on  whi<^ 
we  live.  His  vitality  is  shown  by  his  luster, 
which  is  about  equal  to  the  light  which  would 
come  from  two  millions  of  millions  of  millions 
of  millions  of  electric  burners.  It  is  shown  also 
by  his  tremendous  emission  of  heat,  equal  to 
what  would  result  from  burning  each  second 
a  mass  of  ooal  (of  the  best  quality  be  it  under- 
stood) dOO  miles  broad,  900  miles  long,  and 


116 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


aOO  miles  high— that  is,  eight  miilion  cubic 
miles  of  coal.  This  would  be  about  12,000 
miUioDS  of  millions  of  tons  per  second  (the 
whole  output  of  our  exceptioually  coal-pro* 
ducing  coimtiy  is  but  about  160  millions  of 
tons  per  annum). 

The  sun,  then,  and  doubtless  every  one  of 
his  fellow-suns,  the  stars,  has  undoubtedly  the 
requisite  power,  if  only  it  had  the  will,  to  eject 
matter  in  th6  required  manner.  Now,  of 
course,  our  own  sun  is  not  often  engaged  up- 
on such  work  as  this.  Although  most  active 
and  vigorous,  the  source,  indeed  (directly  or 
indirectly),  of  all  life  and  energy  within  his 
system,  he  works  steadily,  not  fitfully.  Yet 
every  now  and  then  he  spurts  into  sudden 
though  local  activity  of  the  most  amazing  kind. 
In  one  of  these  fits  he  shot  out  a  flight  of  bodies 
whose  swift  motion  through  the  hydrogen 
atmosphere  which  enwraps  the  sun  was  meas- 
ured at  200  miles  per  second,  and  indicated  (as 
was  shown  by  mathematical  computation)  a 
velocity  of  450  miles  per  second,  as  the  mis- 
siles left  the  sun's  surface.  Since  the  time 
(1872)  when  the  sun  was  first  caught  in  tlie  act 
of  thus  ejecting  matter  away  from  his  own  in- 
terior forever  (because  he  can  never  bring  back 
matter  which  leaves  him  with  a  velocity  of 
more  than  880  miles  per  second)  he  had  been 
detected  four  or  five  times  at  the  same  lively 
hu»ness.  There  can  be  no  doubt,  then,  either 
about  the  sun's  power  to  eject  matter  from  his 
interior  as  the  giant  planets  and  our  own  earth 
seem  to  have  done,  or  about  his  exerting  that 
power  from  time  to  time. 

And  what  the  sun  can  do  bis  fellow^suns 
can  do  likewise.  In  fact,  just  as  our  earth 
is  a  sample  planet,  so  the  sun  is  a  sample  star. 
Now  supposing  there  are  10,000  millions  of 
stars  in  our  galaxy — a  most  moderate  cakula- 
tiott — ^that  each  one  of  them  has  been  in  the 
sun-like  state  for  ten  milUions  of  years  (our 
earth  actually  tdU  us  by  her  crust  that  the  sun 
has  been  at  work  as  now  for  100  millions  of 
years),  and  that  in  ten  years  on  the  average 
only  0^9  ejection  such  as  we  are  considering 
has  taken  place,  then  there  would  be  10,000,- 
OaO»QOO,000,000  sur-ejected  meteor  flights  or 
%  comets  traveling  about  the  interstellar  spaces. 
V^ith  so  goodly  a  probable  supply  we  need  not 


wonder  if  our  solar  system  is  from  time  to 
time  visited  by  larger  comets,  such  as  these 
ejections  might  be  supposed  to  have  given 
birth  to  in  the  past. 

But  a  few  of  the  comets  which  from  time 
to  time  visit  our  sun  may  be  regarded  as  hia 
own  children  returned  to  him — not  to  stay,  only 
to  pay  a  sort  of  flying  visit.  The  greater 
number  of  the  comets  ejected  by  him  and  re- 
turning—for want  of  sufficient  velocity  at 
starting — to  their  old  home,  would  come 
straight  to  the  warm  bosom  of  tlieir  parent^ 
and  there  rest 

libBorbed  in  ncTer-ending  glory 
In  the  heart  of  the  great  ruling  snn. 

But  although  this  would  be  the  usual  end  of 
such  bodies,  and  though  those  parad  oxers  err 
who  imagine  that  bodies  shot  out  from  the  sun 

I  could  ever  circle  around  him  as  the  planets  do, 
yet  it  might  easily  happen  that  one  of  these 
returning  comets  might  miss  its  aim,  if  we 
may  so  speak.  Very  moderate  perturbation, 
siidi  as  the  giant  planets  are  well  able  to  pro- 
duce, would  so  affect  the  movements  of  the 
comet  that  on  its  return  to  the  sim  it  wotrld  steer 
clear  of  his  globe,  and  go  back  into  the  depths 
from  which  it  had  returned.  In  the  case  of 
those  large  colKets,  like  Newton's  in  1680,  and 
the  comets  of  1665,  1848,  1880,  and  1882, 
whose  orbits  pass  very  near  to  the  sun's  globe, 
we  may  fairly  imagine  (his  to  be  the  true  in- 
terpretation. We  should  in  that  case  have 
this  interesting  result — ^tbat  while  the  sun,  by 
his  overmastering  attraction,  prevents  these 
comets  which  were  expelled  by  the  giant  plan- 
ets f  dm  passing  out  of  the  solar^system.  the 
giant  planets  have  in  some  cases  prevented 
these  comets  which  were  expelled  (hundreds 
of  thousands  of  years,  probably,  a^)  by  Hic 
sun  from  returning  to  his  parent  orb,  and  have 
so  compiled  them  to  remain  members  of  his 
family.  If  the  comet  families  of  the  giant 
planets  are  now  chiefly  ruled  by  the  sun,  those 
comet  children  of  the  sun  which  still  belong 
to  the  solar  family  owe  their  |K)sition  partly 
to  the  giant  planet. 

The  perplexity  with  which  astronomers  have 
viewed  the  comets  of  1665, 1848, 1880,  and  1882 

I  may  be  partly  removed  by  this  explanation  of 


WHO  WROTE  HOMER'S  ILIAD? 


117 


he  origin  of  all  th^e  bodies.  What  made 
them  80  mysterious  was  that  they  travel  on 
paths  whicdi,  near  the  sun,  are  practically 
identical ;  so  that,  until  the  close  of  1882,  the 
idea  was  commonly  entertained  that  they  were 
one  and  the  same  body  which  had  come  back, 
after  gradually  diminishing  circuits,  in  1848 
after  178  years'  absence,  in  1880  after  37  years' 
absence,  and  in  1882  after  only  2^  years'  ab- 
sence, and  might  be  expected  to  return  in  a 
few  mouths,  and  perhaps  to  lash  the  surface 
of  tlie  sun  to  intense  splendor  and  heat,  de- 
stroying thereby  all  life  within  the  solar  sys- 
tem. But  the  comet  of  18H^  passed  away  on 
suck  a  patli  that  it  could  be  well  watched,  and 
we  know  now  certainly  that  it  will  not  return 
for  several  himdreds  of  years.  Now  if  we 
suppose  that  long,  long  ago  the  sun  shot  out 
a  flight  of  meteors  forming  presently  a  comet, 
which  (ifterward  came  to  travel  on  a  path 
pauing  very  close,  almost  grazingly,  by  the 
sud's  globe,  we  see  that  this  comet  might  wiry 
well  at  one  of  its  returns  be  broken  up  by  the 
sun's  action,  as  Biela's  comet  actually  was 
broken  up  in  1845.  Very  slight  differences  in 
the  velocities  of  these  comets,  when  near  the 
suii,  would  oause  differences  of  several  years 
io  their  periods  of  circuit.  One  of  the  comet 
fragments  came  back,  if  this  exphuiation  is 
right,  in  ia65.  another  in  1848,  another  in  1880, 
and  yet  another  in  1883.  There  may  be  more 
yet  to  come. — ComhiU  Hdffoeine. 


WHO  WROTE  HOMER'S  ILIAD? 

Two  y^rs  ago  I  drew  attention  to  Prot 
Fick's  important,  not  to  say  revolutionary, 
work  on  the  Odyuey  of  Homer.  I  expressed 
my  belief  in  the  subsl  xntlak  success  of  his 
endeavor  to  restore  the  original  Aeolic  text 
of  the  Homeric  poems/  and  to  traeo  their 
passage  into  their  present  form.  For  the 
first  time  his  critical  skill  and  philological 
attamments  have  enabled  us  to  get  back  be- 
yond the  existing  text,  which  is  not  older  than 
the  introduction  of  the  Eukleidean  alphabet 
in  B.  c.  408,  and  to  realize  what  that  archaic 
Homer  was  actujdly  like  about  which  classi- 


cal scholars  havd  talked  so  much  but  have 
known  so  little.  Such  a  task  could  have 
been,  successfully  performed  only  by  one 
who,  like  Prof.  Fick,  combines  sdentifie 
philology  with  an  unrivaled  knowledge  of  the 
ancient  Greek  dialects.  He  has  shown  that 
certain  portions  of  the  Odyney  can  be  re- 
clothed  in^  their  original  Aeolic  dress  without 
difficulty,  while  other  portions  resist  the  at- 
tempt. In  these  latter  he  sees  the  addittons 
of  the  Ionic  redactor,  whom  be  has  identified 
with  Kynaithos,  the  author  of  the  Homeric 
hymn  to  tne  i^elian  Apollo. 

In  my  review  I  defended  the  traditional 
date  (b.o.  504)  assigned  to  Kynaithos  against 
Prof.  Fick's  opinion  that  it  was  too  recent. 
Fick  now  accepts  my  view,  and  adds  some 
further  arguments  in  sQpport  of  it.  We 
may,  therefore,  regard  the  period  « of  the 
Ionic  revolt  as  that  in  which  the  Ionic  Homer 
first  took  ahapo— a  fact  which  will  explain 
many  of  the  allusions  and  a  good  deal  of 
the  sfMrit  which  we  find  in  the  poems. 
Among  the  linguistio  evidence  bearing  upon 
this  date,  may  be  mentioned  a  fact  which 
Fick  has  been  the  first  to  bring  to  light.  The 
older  ionic  poets,  such  as  ArkhUoldios,  Si-* 
nfonides,  or  Hipponax,  show  no  acquaintance 
with  those  AeoUsnui  ot  Home  *,  which  differ 
metrically  from  the  corresponding  Ionic  terms; 
on  the  contrary,  these  Aeoiisms  are  imitated 
by  tlie  younger  poets  from  b.  c.  640  down- 
ward--^ an  indication  that  while  the  older 
poets  knew  of  Homer  only  in  a  form  which 
could  exercise  no  influence  on  their  diction, 
the  younger  poeto  possessed  the  Homeric 
poems  in  their  present  shape,  honeycombed, 
that  is  to  say,  with  Aeoiisms  which  the  ne- 
cessities of  the  meter  required  to  be  left. 

What  Prof.  Fick  has  done  in  the  case  of 
the  OdysBey  he  has  now  followed  up  m  the 
case  of  the  lUad.  Here  he  marks  out  two 
original  poems,  each  of  considerable  length, 
and  distinct  from  (me  another— the  first  re- 
counting the  Wraih  4f  AMilles,  the  secoud 
the  Doom  of  llion.  The  author  ot  the  first  he 
holds  to  be  a  Smyrniote,  whose  name  he  in- 
geniously restores  as  MelMgente,  and  bahind 
whom  lay  a  school  of  Pierian  poets  from 
Thxaoe;  the  author  of  the  second  is  yoeaiblj 


118 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


a  native  of  Myrina.  The  Menis,  or  WrcUh  of 
AkhilUs,  underwent  considerable  enlarge- 
ment, at  the  hands  probably  of  a  Lesbian  ; 
and  the  Doom  of  llicn  was  eventually  incor- 
porated into  it,  with  numerous  alterations  and 
additions,  either  by  a  series  of  rhapsodists  or 
by  a  single  member  of  the  Kyprian  school. 
•  It  will  be  seen  from  this  that  Fick  accepts 
tiie  theory  of  Grote  and  Dlintzer,  though  he 
brings  fresh  arguments  to  its  support  and  gives 
it  a  modification  of  his  own.  His  arguments, 
urged  as  they  are  with  an  originally,  a  free- 
dom from  prejudice,  and  above  all  an  appreci- 
ation of  scientific  evidence  which  is  unfortu- 
nately rare  in  Homeric  controversialists,  have 
quite  convinced  me.  The  composition  of  the  Il- 
iad does  not  differ  from  that  of  the  Odyucy; 
both  poems  alike  consist  of  earlier  epics  which 
have  been  welded  together.  If,  moreover, 
Fiek  is  right  in  ascribing  the  last  book  to  the 
amplifier  of  the  tMSnu,  the  references  in  it 
to  Lesbos  and  the  ''Kiobd  "  of  Mount  Sipylos 
indicate  the  locality  from  which  he  must  have 
come. 

Naturally  there  is  a  good  deal  of  detail,  both 
hi  the  linguistic  and  in  the  critical  portion  of 
Prof.  Pick's  work  which  future  research  will 
modify.  This  must  always  be  the  case  with 
first  attempts  in  a  new  direction,  and  Prof. 
Fick  himself  fully  recognizes  the  fact.  He 
has,  indeed,  ehans^eil  some  of  his  opinions  be- 
tween the  publication  of  his  Odyuey  and  that 
of  his  lliad^  a  really  scientific  investigator  is 
always  read  and  always  certain  to  do  this  as 
fiesh  evidence  comes-  before  him.  But  the 
main  part  of  his  contention  will,  I  believe, 
standi  the  test  of  future  criticism.  Homeric 
inquiry  has  been  planted  by  him  in  a  new  post 
of  advance,  from  which  it  can  never  recede. 
There  is  only  one  point  which  affects  some- 
thing more  than  individual  lines  and  forms  of 
words  with  which  I  find  myself  wholly  unable 
to  agree.  This  is  the  early  age  to  which,  as  I 
gather,  ne  would  ascribe  the  composition  of 
the  Doom  of  Dion, 

He  has  pointed  out  with  great  f^rce  and 
lucidity  the  structure  and  characteristics  of 
this  poem.  The  author  was  not  only  a  man 
of  genius;  he  was  also  able  to  plan  a  long 
poem  of  a  highly  artificial  kind.    The  Doom 


ff  llion  is  but  a  pretext  for  exhibiting  the 
divine  government  of  the  world.  Behind  and 
above  the  human  combatants  on  the  Trojan 
pain  are  the  gods  upon  whom  their  sucoms  or 
defeat  depend,  and  the  higher  law  of  destiny 
which  even  the  gods  themselves  must  obey. 
The  poet,  too,  was  *'  an  idealist  in  every  sense, 
knowing  only  good  and  bad,  and  dividing 
these  sharply  from  one  another.  'DiomMfists 
for  him  a  cavalier  8an»  peur  ei  ians  reproehe, 
who  continues  the  fight  even  when  wounded, 
while  the  Diom6a^  of  the  Mhm,  like  the 
other  heroes,  leaves  the  field  when  stricken. 
Hektdr  is  a  purely  ideal  figure,  in  whom  the 
hero  is  blended  with  the  purest  and  fairest 
humanity.  On  the  contrary  side  stand  Tliend- 
tfis  and  Paris  in  all  their  moral  deformity. 

.  .  .  Over  against  the  ideal  wife  Andro- 
maklid,  Helen  touches  close  upon  the  common 
coquette."  The  poet,  moreover,  lived  in  a 
period  when  the  struggle  between  the  pcofde 
and  their  lords,  between  the  democ.atic  agora 
a  id  the  aristocratic  council,  had  already  begun; 
like  Theognis  he  was  "  a  strong  royalist,  who 
sees  in  the  attitude  of  the  popular  leaders  only 
jealousy,  in  that  of  the  people  only  cowardice 
and  folly." 

Now  I  cannot  conceive  that  a  poem  of  this 
description  can  liave  been  composed  at  an 
early  period.  Its  artificial  character  refers  us 
to  an  age  of  literature,  while  tlie  conception 
of  the  divine  government  of  the  world  which 
underlies  it  reminds  us  of  Aeskbylos.  The 
political  views  of  its  author,  like  those  of 
Theognis,  belong  to  the  period  of  the  tyrants, 
when  the  struggle  between  the  populace  and 
the  old  aristocracies  was  going  on.  It  is,  too, 
to  this  poem  that  the  tone  of  light  mockery  in 
regard  to  the  gods  mainly  belongs.  Like  the 
conception  of  the  divine  government  of  the 
world  it  seems  to  me  inconsistent  with  an  age 
which  believed  the  woman  PhyS  to  be  tlie 
goddess  Athena,  or  placed  the  walls  of  £phe80S 
under  divine  protection  by  stretching  a  rope 
from  them  to  the  shrine  of  Artemis.  As  the 
Greek  colonists  of  Asia  Minor  developed 
earlier  than  their  kinsfolk  on  the  mainland,  it 
is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  the  mental  con- 
dition of  the  Athenians  when  Phy^  appeared 
among  them  represented  the  mental  condition 


CURRBSNT   THOUGHT. 


110 


of  the  Oreeks  of  Asia  Minor  a  geDeration  be- 
fore.  I  should,  therefore,  assign  the  composi- 
tion of  the  Doom  of  Ilion  to  about  B.C.  550 ; 
in  this  case  the  Kypria  would  be  older  than 
the  "Kyprian  redaction"  of  the  Doom  and  its 
amalgamation  with  the  MenU.  It  is  only  in 
the  Aeolic  MhiU  that  we  have  to  look  for  the 
really  archaic  portion  of  our  present  lUad. 

It  is  obvious  that  all  attempts  to  oonstruct  a 
harmonious  picture  of  Homeric  times,  or  of 
BQch  things  as  **thc  Homeric  house/'  "the 
Homeric  polity,"  and  the  like,  must  be  as 
futile  as  similar  attempts  to  construct  harmo- 
nious pictures  out  of  the  supposed  earliest 
records  of  other  ancient  natious  which  modem 
criticiam  has  shown'  to  belong  to  different 
epochs,  and  in  their  present  form  to  be  com- 
paratively late.  I  have  long  maintained  tfaiat 
until  we  con  get  behind  our  present  text,  and 
determine  what  are  really  the  archaic  elements 
in  the  Homeric  poems,  it  is  idle  to  appeal  to 
them  as  authorities  ^or  the  -  heroic  age  of 
Greece,  unless  their  statements  are  supported 
by  other  evidence.  We  can  never  be  sure  that 
the  paaaage  we  are  using  does  not  reflect  the 
ideas  of  the  time  when  the  poems  assumed 
their  existing  shape;  and  how  late  this  was 
has,  I  believe^  been  pointed  out  by  Mr.  Paley 
and  myself.  Fick  has  changed  all  the  con- 
ditions of  (he  problem.  We  now  know  ap- 
proximately what  the  poems  were  like  before 
the  date  of  the  oldest  MSS.  employed  by  the 
Alexandrine  critics,  as  well  as  the  -elements  out 
of  which  they  were  formed.  The  first  stage 
in  the  history  of  Homeric  criticism,  which  is 
characterized  by  the  names  of  Wolf  and  Lach- 
mann,  has  thus  made  way  for  a  second 

In  conclusion,  I  would  observe  thatr  the- 
theory  of  a  European  origin  of  the  poems,  such 
as  has  recently  been  advocated  by  Mr.  Monro, 
is  absolutely  incompatible  with  the  acceptance- 
of  Prof.  Pick's  results:  I  should  not  have 
thought  it  necessary  to  note  tills  had  I  not 
found  so  careful  and^learnad  a  Homeric  scholar 
as  Mr.  Leaf,  in  the  preface  to  his  book  on  the 
J^d,  apparently  wfoiittiog  both  views  at  one 
&nd  the  same  time.  Ot  couise  it  is  possible  to 
maintain  that  the  poems  as  we  now  have  them 
ha^e  undergone  an  Attic  recension,  and  thus 
contain  lefesences  to  the  European  aide  of  the 


Aegean;  but  this  is  not  the  same  as  their  Euro- 
pean origin. — A.  H.  Satob,  in  Tke  Acaddmy. 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 

Tm  S1CAXXS8T  CoinrrRT  nr  1&i7iiopB.>-The  Paris 
rorreepondetit  of  Belencs  thus  writes:— 

**The  smallest  ooantry  in  Borope  is  not  the  state  of 
Monaco  (area  6  sq.  m.,  pop.  8»900)  nor  the  republic  of 
San  Marino  (area  23  eq.  m.,  pop.  8,000),  nor  Andorre 
(area  000  sq.  m.,  pop.  7,000).  It  is  a  yet  smaller  terrl' 
tory,  whose  name  is  hardly  known  ootslde  of  its  nar- 
row limits*  and  compared  to  which  the  above-men- 
tioned states  asaame  a  gigantic  appearance.  The 
territory  of  Moresnet  is  about  halfway  between 
Verviers  and  Aachen,  between  Belginm  and  Germany. 
It  comprises  8^ ^  Bq.  m.,  and  8,000  inhabitants,  and  it 
situated  in  a  very  pretty  valley.  It  is  completely  in- 
dependent Its  wealth  consists  mainly  in  tin  ore.  In 
1815,  after  the  Napoleonic  wars,  a  committee  was 
appointed  to  eetablish  the  frontier  between  Germany 
and  Belgium.  All  went  right  till  Moreanet  was  ap- 
proached. Here  the  delegates  disagreed.  Each  wanted 
Moresnet  for  his  country,. on  account  of  the  riches 
under  ground.  As  no  understanding  could  be  arrived 
at,  it  was  agreed  thatthis  strip  of  land  should  remain 
independent,  and  belong  to  neither  country.  At  that 
time  Moresnet  was  a  beggarly  collection  of  some  SO 
huts:  at  present,  although  still  a  very  yonns  Htate,  it  is 
in  a  prosperous  condition,  and  comprises  more  than 
80O  houses.  Agricultural  and  i^idustrlal  parsofts  are 
carried  on  to  a  considerable  extent.  It  is  governed 
by  a  major,  or  burgomaster,  cliose&  by  two  delegates 
— one  German,  and  one  BelgiaiL  This  Imposing 
official — a  prosperous  and  hearty  fan»ei^-has  a  sec- 
ond, an  old  doctor,  anid  preetdM  over  an  assembly  of 
ten,  chosen  by  himsakf.  This  assembly  does  111  the 
business  onder  his  superHslon.  Nobody  votes  In 
Moresnet  There  te  no  military  service,  and  only  six 
francs  taxes.  The  re^'onne  amounts  to  about  13,000 
francs,  and  ts  qaite  enough  to  pay  for  the  roads, 
schoote,  and  the  military  force,  which  oomprises  one 
man  Oif  vndisflned  grade.  It  would  seem  that  the 
mayor  ought  to  be  satisfied  with  the  state  of  things. 
Not  so,  however:  this  ambitions  man  wants  to  find 
mtoerat  waters  in  his  territory.  But  none  are  to  ba 
found  yet,  So  he  consoles  himself  by  mannfactvrtag 
soda-water.  Anolher  of  his  ambitions  is  that  Morea- 
Aat  should  stamp  its  own  stamps,  and  have  lus  effigy 
on  them.  But  the  delegates  from  OermAa;  and  Bel- 
glum  do  not  see  the  use  of  the  thing." 

Clbbkb AiTD ABnaAMB.— The:44wtfon  Spteiatorihtu 
disconrsea  :— 

'*  Nothing  is  more  natural:  or-  viere  common  than  to 
see  sympathy  asked  for  aoA  bestowed  upon  the  clerk 
who  wprks  hard  with  his  pe^fbr  forty  years,  and  yet 
never  eamsmore  than  ;(10<ft  a  year.    It  seems  to  many.,, 
people  utterly  nnjusti  ,t^ayiA  clenoal  work  should  noi. 


r20 


THB  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


iomehow  or  other  be  able  to  command  a  greater 
■hare  of  the  good  things  of  life  than  it  in  fact 
doea  command.  While  other  forms  of  labor  are 
not  regarded  as  underpaid  so  long  as  the  compe- 
tition of  the  mjupket  leaves  those  engaged  in  them 
at  least,  enough  to  aapport  life,  the  clerk  with;^  a 
week  is  looked  on  as  an  object  of  compassioa  by 
all  classes.  Yet,  in  trath,  the  feeling  is  chiefly  a  sen- 
timental one.  In  a  country  where  education  has  be- 
come universal,  mere  clerk^s  work  is  not  skilled  labor; 
and  the  man  who  nses  the  pen  bas»  in  the  mature  of 
things,  no  better  right  to  expect  high  pay  than  has  he 
who  nses  the  chisel  or  trowel.  So  strong  is  the  sym- 
pathy for  what  is  supposed  to  be  the  more  intellectual 
form  of  labor— though,  as  a  maUcr  of  fact,  mere  writ- 
ing or  book-keeping  is  far  less  intellectual  than  car- 
pentering or  bricklaying— that  to  say  this  sounds  un- 
feeling, almost  brutal.  We  have  not  the  slightest 
Intention  to  use  harsh  words  or  to  tell  the  clerk  with 
£B0  or  i^lOO  a  year  that  he  is  not  worth  more,  and  that 
therefore  he  has  no  grievance ;  but  only  to  point  out 
how  the  spread  of  education,  by  increasing  a  hundred 
or  a  thousandfold  the  number  of  persons  qualified  for 
Clerical  labor  has  changed  his  position.  In  the  Middle 
Ages— when  learning  was  so  much  rarer— to  be  able  to 
read,  write,  and  cipher  meant  the  attainment  of  an 
exceptional  position,  to  which  all  men  were  willing  to 
pay  respect  and  honor.  Thus  it  happens  that  clerical 
labor  has  come  by  tradition  to  be  looked  on  as  some- 
thing valuable  and  good  in  itself,  and  deaerving  of  spe- 
cial consideration.  That  this  view  must  now,  owing  to 
tiie  force  of  circumstances,  be  changed,  is  only  too  evi- 
dent What  the  results  of  increased  competition  aris- 
ing from  the  spread  of  education  are  likely  to  be  in 
the  future  in  England  may  in  some  measure  be  calcu- 
lated from  its  elEects  in  Germany  and  America.  Every 
one  knows  how  in  Qermany  not  -ouly  can  clerks  be 
got  to  work  for  laborer's  wages,  but  how,  even  in  the 
learned  professions,  the  salaries  are  reduced  to  an  in- 
credibly low  scale.  Qermany,  however,  is  aland  of  low 
prices :  and  something  must  therefore  be  in  its  case 
attributed  to  causes  other  than  those  connected  with 
Increased  education.  In  America,  however,  the  result 
la  shown  stiU  more  clearly.  The  whole  population  has 
a  good  commercial  or  profesaional  education  within 
its  reach,  and  the  conseqjuence  is  that  not  only  do  the 
Wages  of  the  clerks  suffer,  but  the  ministers  of  the  re- 
ligions sects  get  about  half  what  they  do  England,  and 
many  doct'>rs  at  Uie  very  top  of  their  profession  only 
im«ke;Cl«600ayear." 

Tbt.  Dkcpest  FRB8H'irATXK  Lakm  ih  AMxaK>a.>-Mr. 
:L.  W.  Bailey,  of  Frederickton,  New  Branawick,  aaya 
:in  Science:-^ 

^l.ake  Temisconata,  In  the  Province  of  Quebec,  is 
:«itnated  very  near  the  axis  of  the  divide  between  the 
■waters  of  the  St  Lawrence  and  those  of  the  Bt  John, 
ittr  (Mith^t  by  the  Xadawaska  River  forming  one  of  the 
•main  tribatsrfes  of  the  latter  stream.  Its  total  length 
lif .«  miles,  aboai  16  of  this  having  a  general  direction 


a  little  east  of  tooCh ;  while  the  remainder,  foraiing 
the  more  northerly  position,  trends  to  the  north-east 
nearly  at  a  right  angle  with  the  former.    The  breadth 
varies  from  one  to  three  miles.    Throughout  its  length 
and  on  both  sides,  the  land  is  usually  high,  forming 
nnmerons  ridges  and  promoatoties  projectiag  Imto  the 
lake,  but  jnst  at  the  angle  referred  to  one  of  these, 
known  as  Mount  Wissick  or  Mount  Essex,  rises  almost 
precipitously ^o  a  height  of  550  feet,  while  the  opposite 
shore  is  here  quite  low.    The  height  of  the  lake  above 
ttde«water  is.  by  aneroid,  about  400  feet ;  the  distance 
of  the  upper  end  from  the  St  Lawrence  being  80  miiee, 
while  the  length  of  its  actual  discharge,  by  the  way  of 
the  Madawaska  and  St  John  to  the  Bay  of  Fandy,  is 
388  lilies.    HsAing  had  occasion  to  spend  some  time 
about  the  lake  daring  the  last  summer  in  connection 
with  the  work  of  the  Canadian  geological  surrey,  and 
having  heard  incredible  stories  as  to  its  depth,  means 
were  taken  to  ascertain  the  truth  by  a  number  of 
soundings  at  points  which  seemed  to  promise  the  best 
reaolta.    Of  these,  three,  taken  near  the  foot  of  the 
lake,  gave  a  depth  varying  from  216  to  285   feet; 
farther  north  a  depth  of  410  feet  was  reached  ;  and 
midway  between  Mount  Wissick  and  old  Fort  Ingalls, 
600  feet.    It  seems  probable,  however,  from  the  state- 
ments of  reliable  parties,  that  even  tills  deptlt  ia  at 
some  places  considerably  exceeded.     In  the  case  of 
Crater  Lake,  if  one  may  judge  from  its  nsme,  its  depth 
is  no  more  than  one  might  expect  from  the  conditions 
of  its  origin ;  but  in  the  case  of  Lake  Temieconata 
there  is  absolutely  nothing  of  a  volcanic  character, 
and  the  whole  depression  is  evidently  the  resolt  of 
simple  erosion.    That  that  erosion  should  have  occur- 
red to  a  depth  fully  100  feet  below  tide-level  and  that, 
too,  directly  along  the  line  of  the  great  Appalachian 
axis,  is  certainly  remarkable,    it  is  further  singoJar,. 
that  while  the  ledges  along  the  shores  of  the  lake  aie.. 
covered  with  glacial  striae,  corresponding  generally 
with  the  course  of  the  depression  at  the  point  where 
they  occur,  the  transportation  of  boulders  has  been 
largely  to  the  north,  blocks  of  fossiliferous  limestone 
from  the  beds  of  Mount  Wissick  being  sbundantly 
scattered  about  the  upper  end  of  the  lake,  but  not  to 
the  southward.    The  country  between  the  bead  of  the 
lake  and  the  St  Lawrence  has  not  yet  been  examined, 
hut  along  certain  lines  is  believed  to  be  low.  The  Mad- 
awaska, on  the  other  hand,  flowing  almost  due  sonih, 
eecupies  adrift-flUed  valley, bordered  by  high  snd  st<*ep 
hills  similar  to  those  of  the  lake,  and  probably  marks 
its  former  extension  in  this  direction.    ii>  «couid  seem 
af -if  dahe  and  river  formed  together  a  great  transverse 
channdlof  erosion,  the  result  of  snb-aerial  action,  from 
the  St  Lawrence  to  the  St.  John,  at  a  time  when  the 
entire  region  stood  several  hundred  feet  higher  than 
now,  and  that  the  movement  of  the  Ice  was  In  the  di- 
rection of  the  former.    Tbe^fact  that  the  direct  north* 
ward  esAenaion  of  this  depression-  -is  coincident  with 
the  faraons  gorge  of  the  Saguenay  gives  additional  in- 
terest  to  the  observationB  mentioned:^^ 


«  % 

1 


WHAT  IS  THB  BIBLB7 


121 


WHAT  IS  THE  BIBLE? 

It  may  seem  rather  impertiDent  to  add 
an  audience  in  this  age  on  ao  geoerai  and 
common  a  subject,  but  the  very  cincumstances 
and  things  of  life  are  found  oftentimes  to 
contain  truth  and  mystery  which  have  escaped 
us,  and  relations  of  ^^ch  we  never  thought. 
A  book  alleged  to  be  the  repository  of  a 
revelation  and  the  best  thought  of  the  Hebrew 
and  Aramaic  people  (a  consideration  which 
has  but  recently  been  accepted  by  biblical 
rtudents) — containing  not  only  their  law  and 
habit,  but  also  their  trying  experiences  and 
^orts  to  fathom  the  ''depth  of  the  riches 
both  of  the  wisdom  and  the  knowledge  of 
God" — ^handed  down  from  age  to  age,  with 
camionary  qualifications,  and  with  a  dignity 
of  truthfulness  unequaled  in  the  history  of 
literature — might  well  be  received  with  little 
question  by  a  people  unschooled  in  the  ele- 
ments of  science,  or  uninformed  about  the 
evidences  of  revealed  and  natural  religion. 

And  when  we  add  to  all  this  the  fact  that 
every  people  of  an  advanced  state  of  civiliza- 
tion in  Europe,  America,  and  in  somd  por- 
tions of  Asia  and  Africa,  have  crowded  about 
it  many  superstitions,  and  hallowed  it  by  a 
reverence  and  fear  almost  equal  to  the  awe  of 
the  barbarian  and  savage;  when  it  is  known 
that  the  Church  of  Rome  and  many  Protest- 
ant institutions  have  tried  to  make  it  the  very 
dictionary  and  guide  of  social,  political,  and 
religious  Iffe;  when  we  contemplate  the  mar- 
tyrdom and  cruelty  coupled  with  the  indirect 
progress  and  civilization  which  have  remilted 
from  the  teaching  of  theoretic  Ohristiaoity, 
we  approach  the  Bible  with  a  curiosity  tem- 
pered by  prudence,  and  seek  to  know  the 
essential  cause  and  contents  of  ao  popular  a 
book. 

We  shall  not  busy  ourselves  with  pielimin- 
vies.  The  points  here  to  be  considered  are 
briefly  these : — 

I.  What  Is  the  origin  of  the  Bible? 

n.  How  came  it  to  be  tiie  moral  code  of 
^e  people? 

■  in.  What  should  be  the  relation  of  society 
toward  it? 

L  What  is  the  orighi  of  the  Bible?  maybe 


a  question  easier  to  ask  than  to  answer- 
What  do  we  mean  when  we  say  '*  Bible?" 
Surely  not  what  we  think  we  mean.  For  by 
study  we  shall  discover  that  our  theories  are 
of  little  value  if  tkey  are  not  grounded  in  fact. 
The  race  has  been  busy  in  building  the  scaf- 
fold of  the  true  idea  of  Qod,  and  yet,  notwith- 
standing the  fact  that  Moses,  Plato,  and  Jesus 
declared  a  conception  of  deity  almost  identi- 
cal with  the  present  teachings  of  science; 
although  in  every  age  some  philosopher  like 
Spinoza  and  Descartes  in  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury, Kant  in  the  eighteenth  century,  and  Sir 
William  Hamilton  and  Herbert  Spencer  in 
the  nineteenth  century,  have  acknowledged 
their  belief  in  a  Supreme  Governor  of  the 
Universe,  humanity  is  still  busy  in  tearing 
down  and  building  up  "gods,"  and  cannot 
arrive  at  an  absolute  definition.  We  may 
liken  society  to  the  earnest  people  of  Western 
Asia,  who  in  their  ignorance  built  a  tower  in 
order  tliat  they  might  have  a  peep  at  deity ; 
but  found,  after  much  labor,  that  every  human 
effort  would  be  baffled,  and  that  to  define  is  to 
confine,  and  oftentimes  express  an  absurdity. 

It  would  not  be  imprudent  to  observe  that 
the  word  "  Bible"  is  not  found  in  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  literature,  but  obtains  in  Greek  and 
Latin  literature.  The  words  used  to  express 
the  scriptures  of  the  Old  Testament  are 
4  ypof^i^,  «i  yfiu^,  and  ^«^Aior,  and  it  may  be 
well  to  note  that  these  terms  are  found  in  the 
New  Testament.  It  is  with  the  Bible  of  the 
Western  World  that  we  have  to  deal. 

A  subject  of  such  magnitude  cannot  here 
be  treated  in  particular.  The  bulk  of  evi- 
dence in  and  oiit  of  the  Bible  proves  that  the 
writers  of  the  law  had  little  expectation  that 
their  works  woal<i  help  to  make  a  book  which 
would  come  to  be  the  most  marvelous  pro- 
duct of  the  ages.  The  question  of  authorship 
is  hard  to  answer.  The  recent  efforts  of 
biblical  scholars  have  thrown  much  light 
upon  our  knowledge  of  the  authenticity,  gen- 
uineness, and  authorship  of  many  books  of 
the  Bible.  And  although  exegesis  has  almost 
settled  all  the  above  questions  still  there  is 
something  to  doubt  and  much  to  reconsider. 
The  books  of  the  Old  Testament-may  be  thus 
classed: 


122 


THE  LIBRAKT  MAGAZmC. 


1.  Tab  Pentateuch:  Genesis,  Exodus, 
Leviticus,  Numbers,  Deuteronomy. 

2.  Tub  Puofuets;  (a)  The  EaHier:  Joshua, 
Judges,  1st  and  2d  Samuel,  Ist  and  2d  Kings ; 
(b)  The  Later:  Isaiah,  Jeremiah,  Ezekiel,  and 
tli^  twelve  minor  prophets. 

8.  The  Hagiogbapha  (*  'Sacred  Writings"): 
(a)  Psalms,  Proverbs,  Job ;  (b\  Song  of  Songs, 
Ruth,  Lamentations;  (e)  Daniel,  Ezza»  Neho- 
miah,  nnd  1st  and  2d  Chronicles. 

The  Septuagint  gives  many  differences  ;^-~ 
but  in  substauce  agrees  with  this  arrangement. 
It  must  be  constantly  remembered  that  Ju- 
daism covers  an  immense  amount  of  territory 
and-  that  it  may  be  divided  into  two  periods 
already  adopted  by  the  best  authority — the 
first  extending  to  the  close  of  the  collection  of 
oral  laws  530  b.c. — 600  a.d.,  and  the  second 
up  to  Uid  present  time,  ending  virtually  with 
the  destruction  of  Jerusalem  by  Titus  a^d. 
70.  An  examination  of  the  variety  of  books 
in  the  Old  Testament  will  reveal  the  fact 
that  they  are  human.  Bloek  admits  that 
although  the  Bible  may  be  regarded  from 
two  points  of  view — tlie  religious  and  the 
literary — he  yet  asserts  that  the  one  oftentimes 
explains  the  other,  and  that  true  criticism  must 
not  be  wantonly  despised  when  brought  to  bear 
upon  the  history  and  character  of  the  books 
themselves.  Taking  the  booka  as  they  are, 
accepting  the  results  of  recent  learning  we 
must  conclude  that  the  Bible  is  a  peculiar 
book — peculiar  to  the  Hebrew  race  and  the 
times  in  which  it  was  composed.  It  grew  as 
the  race  it  represents,  being  endowed  with  a 
fettility  of  thought,  a  warmth  of  sentiment, 
and  a  simple  rhetoric.  Although  we  cannot 
take  the  Bible  sa  we  could  any  histoiy*— as 
that  of  England  by  Qreen  or  of  Rome  by 
Gibbon — and  trace  a  rational  arrangement  and 
order  of  narrative,  yet  we  can  see  signs  of  an 
intelligent  growth. 

The  history  of  the  Hebrew  race  is  natural 
and  quite  similar  to  the  history  uf  other  na- 
tions. The  Jews  passed  through  the  experi- 
ences  common  to  all.  They  differ  from  all 
the  nations  of  the  earth  inasmuch  as  they 
possessed  a  higher  religious  consciousness. 
What  is  their  social  history?  They  were 
nomadio — ^wandering   from  field  to  Mil.  and 


from  sunrise  to  sunset,  with  their  flocks,  dwell- 
ing for  the  time  peacefully  together.  Then 
they  developed  into  tribes.  Their  tribes  took 
on  a  government ;  the  government  became  a 
theocracy — the  king  being  subservient  to  Uie 
priest,  and  both  to  Gkn].  This  mode  of  legis- 
lation lasted  for  centuries,  until  within  recent 
years  we  find  the  modem  Jew  modifying  his 
law  to  meet  the  demands  of  the  nineteenth 
century. 

Their  intellectual  history  is  quite  similar. 
If  we  give  Charles  Darwin  tlie  credit  of 
being  a  discoverer,  we  must  admit  that  man 
has  been  patiently  trying  to  solve  the  problem 
of  existence;  and  his  present  apprehension  of 
moral  law,  his  preeminent  mental  power, 
his  advanced  social  condition,  all  bear  upon 
the  law  of  progress.  The  Hebrew  nation 
likewise  struggled  through  many  disciplines, 
growing  stronger  as  it  understood  its  life  as 
related  to  the  environment,  and  makinjf  such 
prudent  advancement  from  barbarism  into 
civilization,  that,  like  the  Greeks,  they  have 
preserved  for  us  a  literature  the  purest  and 
the  most  complete  of  any  langmige  now  ex- 
tant. Showing  indeed  how  quickly  and  how 
perfectly  a  people  could  grow  from  a  simple 
shepherd  life  into  the  cosmopolitxuv»  changing^ 
not  only  the  common  habits  of  life,  but  also 
the  style  of  religious  thought ;  making  tents 
and  living  in  them  in  one  generation,  and 
building  substantial  houses  and  temples  in  the 
next. 

like  every  civilized  or  semi-civilirod  people 
we  find  the  Hebrew  nation  attempting  a 
theory  of  the  origin  of  the  world  as  a  ban- 
ning of  their  history,  a  foundation  upon  which 
to  rest  the  structure  of  a  more  extensive  in- 
(puTj  and  complete  knowledge.  The  reader 
may  form  the  notion  that  the  Bible  is  very 
much  like  the  Ilicult  or  the  Divina  Commedia 
of  Dante,  or  some  story  of  Dickens,  wliSch 
can  be  studied  for  its  plot,  and  perused  chap- 
ter by  chapter  for  the  descriptive  narrative. 
Or  he  may  compare  it  to  a  published  edition 
of  essays  which,  although  they  may  be  com- 
plete in  themselves,  yet  have  sometimes  a  con- 
necting fink  or  tie  of  rolation. 

The  Bible  is  not  such  a  book.  And  when  we 
say  that  the  cosmogony  of  the  OBiverse  ia  a 


WHAT  IS  THE  BIBLE? 


128 


basia  for  the  histoiy  of  the  Hebrew  race,  I 
would  say  that  the  hif  ereno^  is  d  priori.  The 
Pentateuch  may  have  been  written  by  Moees; 
or  it  may  have  been  compiled  by  one  who 
had  in  mind,  or  before  him,  two  graphic 
accounts  of  the  early  history  of  his  own  race. 
But  Ihe  Bible  as  rcpreseuied  in  the  Old  Testa- 
ment—including,  as  we  all  know,  the  Penta- 
teuch, the  Prophets,  and  all  the  minor  works, 
such  as  the  Psalms  and  Proverbs,  Job, 
Daniel,  Ezra,  Nebemiah,  and  Chronicles— is 
incomplete  in  completeness,  and  fragmentary 
in  many  of  its  parts.  I  would  like  to  show 
how  the  law  of  evolution  applies  with  equal 
potency  to  the  Old  Testament;  and  that  when 
the  books  are  considered  in  their  order  of 
composition,  we  shall  find  a  growth  from 
ignorance  into  wisdom;  from  mystery  into 
fldence;  from  tradition  into  history;  from 
moral  and  intellectual  weakness  and  degrada- 
tion into  high  spiritual  consciousness  and 
mental  culture.  We  may  follow  the  streams 
of  Hebrew  civilization  until  they  narrow  into 
the  three  families  Which,  accordmg  to  tradi- 
tion, have  peopled  the  globe,  and  we  shall 
find  indications,  not  of  perfection  in  any  sense 
of  the  word,  but  of  savagery;  and  that  far 
into  the  interior  of  Jewish  history  we  may 
trace  evidences  of  a  state  of  existence  similar 
to  the  history  of  the  negro  or  the  Chinese. 
The  cradle  of  man  may  have  rested  between 
tlie  Tigris  and  the  Euphrates  rivers,  and  have 
been  rocked  by  the  fair  sweet  Indian  winds 
which  swept  over  that  land  in  which  it  is  said 
our  innocent  parents  defied  onmipotence,  and 
lived  according  to  natural  law.  But,  be  this 
as  it  may,  the  Bible  hints,  at  a  progress  which 
is  correlative  with  the  growth  of  man.  In  a 
period  of  human  civilization  when  every 
phenomenon  startled  the  mind  and  every 
spirit,  by  virtue  of  its  birth,  was  steeped  in  a 
life  of  figures,  metaphors,  flowers,  and  poetry, 
why  should  we  not  expect  men  to  see  God  in 
the  burning  bush,  walking  with  men,  or  glit- 
tering in  the  heavens,  or  thundering  com- 
mandments from  Mount  Sinai  ?  So  that  the 
question  of  authority  and  revelation,  as  ap- 
plied to  the  Old  Testament^  is,  after  all,  but 
a  question  of  what  is  truth. 
With  our  limited  resources  it  is  impossible 


for  us  to  explain  every  question  which  may 
arise  in  the  examination  of  the  text.  But 
when  once  it  is  admitted — as  we  have  tried  to 
show — that  the  Hebrew  race  evolved,  as  did 
eveiy  other  people,  from  a  state  of  weakness 
into  one  of  exceptional  strength,  we  may  then 
Lave  a  key  which  will  help  to  unlock  every 
mystery.  So  that  when  it  is  known,  as  it  now 
is,  that  the  law  which  was  said  to  have  been 
revealed  to  Moses  is  but  the  thought  of  many 
people,  'grown  into  axioms  and  proverbs  re- 
ceiving the  unanimous  verdict  of  the  reason 
and  the'  moral  nature,  we  place  more  empha- 
sis upon  the  human  mind  as  an  eeer-growing, 
ever-improving  test  of  all  moral  law. 

The  Old  Testament  having  its  origin  among 
the  Hebrew  race,  and  being  "an  abstract 
chronicle"  of  their  history,  will  lose  none  of  its 
authority  As  a  history.  But  as  a  book  of 
morals,  as  a  guide  to  conduct,  as  a  test  for 
every  moral  problem,  it  will  receive  the  rev- 
erence of  every  student.  And  whatever  in  it 
is  rational  and  natural  will  forever  remain  in 
the  nobler  book  which  is  unwritten,  in  thai 
book  of  immortal  thought  to  guid<rus  in  tho 
conduct  of  life.  The  Commandments,  which 
are  divine  because  they  are  so  much  truth* 
will  continue  with  us  long  after  the  concep- 
tion of  the  Bible  as  an  immaculate  and  in- 
spired book  has  been  forgotten,  and  the  future 
generations  will  think  of  the  race  of  Levi— 
the  children  of  Israel — ^as  a  people  who  at- 
tained in  but  a  few  generations  a  civilizatioQ 
which  in  a  moral  sense  may  never  have  a 
parallel. 

Following  the  same  line  of  argument,  we 
are  forced  to  ask  "What  place  does  the  New 
Testament  take  in  the  Bible."  Can  it  be 
conceded  that  it  is  the  evolution  of  the  Old, 
or  the  fulfillment  of  any  Old  Testament 
prophecy?  The  law  of  heredity  may  throw 
somo  light  upon  this  theme.  The  Hebrew 
race  was  in  every  sense  of  the  word  religious. 
The  law  which  crushes  a  vicious  spirit  does 
so  only  to  elevate  the  society  it  represents. 
In  the  progress  of  the  Hebrew  nation  we  meet 
with  "wanderers  from  truth** — men  who 
drove,  as  a  modem  writer  would  have  it,  "a 
coach  and  six  tlirough  the  Ten  Command- 
ments;"  and  who  lived  tho  life  of  a  libertiaei 


1^ 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINEL 


Ab  a  sunbeam  vibrating  unseou  in  the  cold 
ether  ailecls  and  modiiies  material  objects,  so 
every  noble  thought,  every  pure  sentiment,  by 
magic  power  courses  through  the  intellectual 
and  moral  nature  of  man,  and,like  a  shuttle  in 
a  loom„  it  makes  the  fiber  of,  characterizes 
and  adorns  the  race.  The  prominent  feature 
of  the  Hebrew  nation  was'  so  ingrafted  and 
incorporated  in  their  blood  tliat  Jesus  came 
forth  as  the  Apollo  born  from  sacred  Delos — 
the  noblest  type  of  Jewish  civilization.  .  Here, 
then,  we  have  a  fulfillment  not  of  a  written 
prophecy — not  even  the  realization  of  a  senti- 
mental hope — but  the  natural  result  of  a 
growth  and  culture  on  the  very  line  of  he- 
redity. Here  may  be  the  e:splanation  of  the 
most  startling  fact  that  has  agitated  man- 
kind. Here  we  have  a  natural  view  of  one 
who  lived  in  the  valley  as  he  tauglit  in  the 
mountain;  who  has  changed  the  course  of 
history,  and  whose  life  and  morality  have  been 
the  means  of  elevating  the  world.  The  Gos- 
pels are  the  product  of  his  mind  ;  and,  as  in 
every  religious  composition  much  allowance 
must  be  made  for  the  personality,  habit  of 
life,  early  education,  both  of  the  composer 
and  editors,  so  we  overlook  things  which  tai 
our  credulity. 

I  could  discuss  at  length  the  questions  uf 
his  birth,  divinity,  trinity,  and  miracles,  but 
the  age  has  come  when  even  these  things 
"Which  have  been  the  means  of  deluging  the 
continent  of  £urop€  with  blood,  and  causing 
mck  rife  antipathies  among  men,  will  either 
admit  of  a  natural  explanation  or  be  rejected 
as  rank  imposture,  fanaticism,  and  error. 
Says  Laing : — 

**  The  time  is  long  pa«t  when  the  facts  had  to  be  test- 
ed by  their  cerrespondence  with  the  theory  of  an  in- 
spired revelation;  now  !t  is  the  theory  which  has  to 
be  tested  by  its  correspondence  with  the  facts.  The 
conserrative  pulpit  has  exhausted  its  resources  in  the 
vain  endeavor  to  bolster  np  its  atnnrd  theology,  and, 
when  it  is  known  that  there  can  be  no  higher  test  of 
truth,  no  grander,  more  accurate  and  more  just  tribunal 
than  reason,  wc  shall  then  feel  that  in  all  the  past  years 
men  have  been  battling  their  friends  and  tvylng  to  de- 
stroy the  laborers  who  were  ballding  oar  civilisation 
«pon  foundation  stones  which  could  never  be  re 
moved.  ^ 

II.  How  came  the  Bible  to  be  the  moral 
*-- of  the  people? 


First,  we  shall  emphasize  the  traditionsSk 
authority ;  second,  the  intrinsic  value  ;  third, 
proselytism. 

The  infiuenCe  of  the  Jewish  theocracy,  the 
imperative    demands   of   the   prophets   and 
priests,  the  universal  power  of  tlie  Cburch  on 
questions  of  civil  law  and  the  management 
of  the  kingdom,  gave  the  Bible  an  autliority 
among  the  Jewish  people  which  cculd  not  be 
questioned.     We  have  reason  to  believe  that 
the  average  Jew  of  1000  b.c.  was,  in  many 
respects,  in  a  low  state  of  civilization ;  able  to 
read  and  write,  some  historians  would  admit, 
yet  fluctuating  and  passionate.      His  spirit, 
unlike  his  life,  was  not  nomadic ;  yet  it  was 
simple,  natural,  but  abiding.    It  longed  for 
"green  pastures  and  still  waters,"  and  sighed 
for  Edens  perhaps  never  to  come.    Like  the 
desert  it  was  unlovely,  but  many  .a  cherished 
oasis  lay  beautifully  in  its  waste.    Take  God 
from  the  Jewish  people,   and    their    purest 
aspirations,  tlieir  happiest  dreams  are  but  in 
vain.       In    Babylonian    captivity  among    a 
foreign  nation,  they  longed  for  tlieir  temple 
and  their  ritual;  and  himg  their  harps  on  the 
willows,  and  mingled  their  tears   with  the 
Euphrates,  because  of  loneliness  and  despair. 
They  could  not  separate  themselves  from  their 
religion,  and  hence  to  defend  and  protect  the 
Church  was  their  dearest  wish  and  constant 
care.      The  influence  of    such  a  life  upon 
adjacent  nations  and  tribes  would  result  in 
jealousy  and  war.    Hence  we  find  that  the 
Jews  were  precipitated  into  national  Strife, 
and  were  constantly  in  fear  of  invasions  by 
conquerors  or  hostile  Arabs.     Aside  from  the 
love  which  the  Jew  had  for  tbe  religious 
traditions  and  works  of  his  own  people  the 
Old  Testament  was  absolutely  emphasized  as 
the  receptacle  of  a  revelation  to  the  chosen 
people  of  Gk)d.    This  doctrine  was  held  br 
the  ofd  and  new  Church,  and  is  taught  by  tha 
more  conservative  churches  to-day.    This  tra- 
ditional authority,  very  much  like  our  early 
training,  went  far  to  make  the  Jew  partisan, 
narrow,  and  seclusiye,  and  make  his  ambi- 
tion bend  toward  self-aggrandizement.    But 
it  had  this  excellent  and  redeeming  quality: 
it  preserved  for  us  a  literature  which  is  un* 
equaled  for  its  simplicity,  power,  and  beauty; 


WH/LT  IS  THE  BIBLE? 


HUS 


and  gave  us,  above  all,  an  Instght  into  the 
struggles  of  a  people  who  indeed  excelled  all 
others  in  tneir  spiritual  apprehension. 

This  leads  me,  in  the  second  place,  to  speak 
briefly  upon  the  intrinsic  value  of  the  Bible 
as  a  whole.    Tradition  obtained  in  the  early 
historical  development  of  the  Bible.    Author- 
ity based  upon    tradition    is   unsubstantial, 
and  in  many  cases  misleading.    But  when  a 
work  is  popular,  or  the  standard  of  morality, 
because  of  an  intrinsic  viflue,  it  has  a  merit 
which  will  not  be  denied.    Throughout  the 
Bible  we  find  a  lofty  moral  purpose,  and 
hence   a  decided  moral  environment.      Al- 
though many  instances  of  a  contntry  character 
could  be  cited  showing  the  depravity  of  cer- 
tain kings  and  rulers,  yet  the  bulk  of  inci- 
dental experiences  proves   tliat  the   law  of 
righteousness,  as  Matthew  Arnold  has  stated, 
was  the  center  about  which  all  other  things 
gravitated.     AUowmg  that  the  Bible  is  but  a 
history  of  man*s  development — a  story  of  his 
moral  vicissitudes — running  over  but  a  brief 
psriod  of  time  and  including  but  one  people, 
yet,  from  a  purely  literary  view,  it  is  an  ex- 
ceptional book.     It   has  given   mankind  a 
standard  of  literature  worthy  of  imitation. 
Ita  comparisons   and  metaphors— indeed  its 
whole  rhetoric — is  lofty  and  clear.    It  con- 
tains incidental  contradictions,  but  these  re- 
sult from  no  dishonest  purpose  of  the  writer. 
Then,  again,  the  emphasis  which  the  Gospel 
of  Jesus  gives  to  the  virtues  which  found 
nations  and  make  them  progressive  and  eter- 
nal—the sanction  it  gives  to  purity  of  life — 
the  loyalty  and  modesty  of  the  Great  Teacher 
lihnself— his  beautiful  yet  plain  and  useful 
life— his   manner  of  dealbig  with  the  crim- 
inal, the   prodigal,  and   the   hypocrite — his 
honest  way  of  treating  social,  political,  and 
dvU  questions — all  these  give  the  Bible  an 
importjince  not  to  be  lightly  treated  or  im- 
prudently regarded. 

Then,  in  the  third  place,  the  effect  of  pros- 
elytism  was*  a  means  of  bringing  the  truths  of 
Christianity  especially  among  the  most  illiter- 
ate classes  of  society,  and  the  preaching  of 
tl^e  early  missionariis,  unequaled  for  fts 
power  and  fanaticism,  startled  the  world  and 
made  many  converts  to  this  new  and  pre- 


eminent religion.  Pftul,  the  best  defender  of 
Christianity,  spread  the  Gospel  over  the  cities 
by  the  Mediterranean  8ea;  and  classic  Greece, 
in  her  days  of  degeneration,  under  thepreach- 
ing  of  Paul,  felt  a  revolution  in  the  air  whick 
was  soon  to  destroy  her  polytheism  and  es- 
tablish the  faith  of  the  people  upon  the  very 
essentials  of  human  life.  This  missionary 
spirit,  begun  by  Paul  and  the  early  disciples 
and  believers,  grew  as  the  ages  came  and 
went;  and  In  the  middle  ages  we  find  monks 
of  nearly  every  order  piercing  the  haunts  of 
the  Gauls,  the  Vandals,  the  Gk)ths,  ai^d  tha 
Huns;  extending  the  power  of  the  Church  ot 
Rome,  and  converting  these  barbarous  people, 
to  theoretic  Christianity. 

It  might  be  well  to  add  that  nothing  has  so 
successfully  brought  the  Bible  into  public 
favor  as  the  versatile  treatment  of  the  facts  of 
Christianity.  The  unchallenged  position 
which  the  Bible  held  in  society  made  it  at 
least  a  book  which  ought  to  command  atten- 
tion ;  and  the  universal  support  which  the 
Romish  Church  obtained  from  every  source 
on  questions  of  religion  overawed  in  many 
respects  the  heretic  or  liber  1  thinker,  and 
compelled  him  to  pursue  methods  of  religious 
life  not  opposed  to  the  simple  and  austera 
habits  of  a  Christian.  The  rise  of  Protestant* 
ism  had  the  effect  to  open  a  way  for  inde* 
pendent  inquiry  and  to  revolutionize  the 
world,  and  at  the  same  time  to  centralize  the 
forces  of  Europe;  and  give  a  powerful  push  to 
the  arts  and  sciences.  New  methods  of  teach* 
ing  the  old  doctrine,  and  new  ideas  of  the 
doctrine  itself,  multiplied  the  churches,  but 
failed  to  direct  the  mind  to  absolute  truth. 
The  liberties  of  our  modem  civilization 
arrested  the  world  from  their  fanaticism  and 
blind  fear,  their  ignorance  and  slavery,  and 
gave  the  thinkers  of  the  world  an  opportunity 
to  search  for  the  light,  to  penetrate  every 
undiscovered  land,  gaze  inquiringly  upon  the 
resources  of  human  nature,  study  the  growth 
and  history  of  man,  follow  the  whole  range 
of  information,  dip  the  plummet  of  knowl- 
edge into  every  sea,  until  at  fast  humanity 
could  know  the  whole  truth  and  nothing  bat 
the  truth. 

m.    Finally,  what  should  ba  the  ivlaliOa 


ts» 


TH£  IlBRART  MAGAZINE. 


of  aociety  toward  it  f    In  this  advanced  age 

we  may  approach  such  a  question  with  some 

freedom.    Basoom  admits  Uiat 

'*tlie  freedom  of  handling  and  nse,  even,  of  revelation, 
belongs  to  man,  becaose  only  thns  can  indiyidaal  life 
be  maintained.  The  aathoritative  Interpretation  to 
which  the  reason  is  called  to  submit  Is  the  rendering 

•f  another The  religious  life  of  the  individ- 

nal  can  be  won  and  maintained  on  no  easier  grounds 
than  this,  of  faithful,  cogent,  independent  activity. 
....  We  mast  ourselves  inquire,  or  we  bring 
our  ears,  sooner  or  later  to  the  door-post  of  amaater.''^ 

And  David  Swing,  touching  indirectly  upon 
Ihe  same  thing  says: — 

*'  So  far  as  yon  are  concerned,  a  theory  of  inspiration 
will  be  good  enough  that  shall  make  Jesus  Christ  the 

fltandard    of  moral    excellence The 

scientific  statements  of  the  Bible  were  all  human;  and 
If  yoa  will  compare  all  of  the  old  morals  with  that  of 
Jesus  you  will'  find  what  was  temporary  and  what 
eternal  lu  the  laws  of  sacred  antiquity.  Christ  is  thus 
a  meaouring  line  for  all  of  that  old  ocean;  a  guiding 
(Btar  in  that  rather  stormy  sea.  ^ 

The  relation  of  society  toward  the  Bible  k 
ihal  of  A  tl&nker  toward  thought,  of  a 
j)hiloBoplier  toward  philosophy,  of  a  moralist 
•loward  morality.  He  should  study  the  Bible 
:fis  he  reads  and  ponders  -other  less  importajit 
works;  and  with  the  exegete  he  should  exam- 
,ine  mth  painful  diligence ^aU  of  tlie  contents. 
The^uthority  of  the  Bible  sliould  be  indicated 
,on  the  ground  of  its  reasonableness  and 
jiaturalness;  and  w,hatevQr  may  not  be  defined 
.or  explained  shouid  be  considered  by  the 
wiser  generations  which  are  yet  io  come. 
The  pride  which  grows  x)ut  of.  the  conserva- 
..tive  positions  we  Jiold  in  tfociety,  in  the 
X)hurch,  should  not  modify  our  eonWctlons 
Aor  make  us  accept  simple  faith  as  the  rule 
«by  which,  all  things  should^  measured. 

I  liold  that  these  is  material  in  Uxe  Bible 
•for  the  profoundest  thinker,  and  that  an 
jktlieist  or  an  agnostic  is  quite  unwise  who 
^fuses  to  a££ept^the  truth  ^and  reject  the  er- 
ror, but  who  ignores  the  whole.  When  sci- 
«enoe  shall  have^one  herrfull  circle  and  shall 
iiave  revealed  to  us  the  hidden  treasures  of 
ihe  earth,  the  grand  laws  which  circumscribe 
rihe  univecse,  tiie  noarvelous  wonders  which 
•ileem  in  tlie  oceans  of  space,  the  truths  which 
at  present  are  beyond  human  apprehension, 
Jve  shall  then  admit. with  Shakespeare  thftt 


**  There  are  more  thlags  in  beSTen  and  earth 
Than  are  dreamrt  of  in  your  philoeophy.** 

It  was  the  false  interpretation  of  tlie  Bible- 
its  absolute  misrepresentation,  a  failure  to 
make  reason  and  science  the  imalterable  tests 
of  a  religion—which  led  the  nations  into 
foolish  controversy  and  made  the  nineteenth 
century  one  almost  of  religious  reconstruction. 
First  feel  tlic  conviction  that  the  way  of  truth 
is  the  wuy  of  reason,  and  then  onward  and 
upward  wc  shall  i|scend  into  supreme  knowl- 
edge. A  greater  and  more  accursed  slavery 
than  that  of  intellectual  servitude  cannot  be 
conceived:  and  until  mankind  breaks  from  its 
ignorance,  its  superstition,  and  its  caste,  we 
shall  not  look  for  the  dawn  of  tliat  golden 
age  when  the  nations  of  the  eartli  will  dwell 
peaceably  together,  weaving  with  unbroken 
harmony  of  aim  and  friendship  the  web  of 
universal  civilization.  There,  indeed,  along 
the  lines  of  rational  inquiry  and  truth,  shall 
we  expect  to  see  the  multitude  reaching  oat 
for  Ood,  and  there  shall  we  hope  to  see  that 
sincere  and  pure  teacher  of  Nazareth  arise 
like  a  star  from  the  darkness,  superstition, 
and  sin  into  which  he  haq  been  emerged. 
His  revelation  is  the  revelation  of  truth.  As 
Emerson  asserts — 

"Her  saw  wiUi  open  eye  the  onystery  of  the  soul. 
Drawn  by  its  sievere  harmony,  ravished  with  its  beauty, 
he  lived  in  it,  and  had  his  being  there.  AJone  in  all 
hiatory  he  estimated  the  greatnesa  of  man.  One  man 
was  true  to  what  is  in  you  and  .jne.  He  aaw  that  God 
incarnates  himself  in  map,  and  jsvermore  goes  forth 
anew  to  take  possession  of  his  wcurld.  Be  said,  in  this 
jubilee  of  snblime  emotimi,  *1  em-divliie.^  Through  me 
God  AOti;  throBgh  me  speal»  .Would  yon  see  Ood, 
aeftone ;  oe,  aee,theci,  when  than  Also  thlnkest  as  I  now 
think.'' 

No  man  was  great  save  as  he  lifted  himself 
up  into  benevolence  and  love.  Live  for  others, 
in.  that  wiU.you  find  joy«  was  his  axiom.  His 
life  therefore  was  sweetly  .natural— one  with 
the  singing  bird  and  ^be-blossomiqg  rose.  He 
beheld  nature  forever  dependent  upon  God. 
Arrogant  nan.  alone  essayed  to  criticise  deity, 
leap  over  the  walls  of  natural  and  spiritual 
Jaws  and.  steal  forbidden  fruit 

This  revelaHon  of  truth,  which  Hmquesdoo- 
ably  the  Bible  contains,  runs  -like  a  stream  of 
pure  wateC'  through  the  ages  of  the  world. 
jMoi^g  ihe  banks jof  ihat  nyjQc  the  xoillions  of 


ROMANES  VJBB8U8  DARWIN. 


127 


Uie  earth  slake  their  spiritual  thirst  and  drown 
Iheir  soirows,  aud«  like  the  famous  Lethe  in 
Hades,  it  puts  a  new  aong  upon  ibeir  lips  and 
they  forget  their  crimes  and  ains.  Under  the 
powerful  infiueaq^  of  Christianity  as  a  law  c£ 
righteousness  we  can  expect  -.salutary  relief 
from  the  vices  which  precipitate  our  states 
and  nations  into  national  bahkruptcy.  The 
serpent  which  has  dragged  her  slimy  coils 
jiU  over  the  pages  of  human  history,  oerrupt- 
ing  ehildhood  and  sapping  the  fountains  of 
manhood  and  womanhood,  will  peiash,  and 
«ocietjr  will  put  on  its  royal  purple,  its  robe 
of  purity,  and  proclaim  the  .day  of  holiness 
and  happiness.  One  by  <one  the  -evils  of  the 
world  are  passing  away.  The  idols  crumble 
into  dust.  AimI  ^the  few  which  defy  the 
forces  of  time  yet  sadly  write  the  destiny  of 
barbarism  and  mythology.  The  Sphinx,  in 
afasohite  repose,  watching  the  years  roll  across 
Che  sands  of  Egypt — the  Sphinx  -which  had 
stood  for  thousands  of  years — ^beloie  that  day 
at  whose  dawn  cieatioa  was  said  to  have 
s;>rttng  into  existeuoe — which  has  seen  the 
empires  of  Babyloa,  Assyria,  Macedou,  fade 
away,  which  has  watched  Athens  perish  with 
her  Parthenon,  which  has  «een  Carthage  and 
Rome  wasted  by  the  sea,  and  -obeeipned  the 
dawn  of  the  western  natiom— it  will  yet  Abide 
to  point  us  to  the  fact  that  man  and  all  .things 
diangs  hut  God  is  ever -the  same.  As  the 
bureau  at  Washington  can  almost  to  ja  oer- 
tainty  tell  the  state  of  the  weather-  by  the 
condition  of  the<baremetar  and  tfaermomeier  in 
any  portion  of  the  globe,  rso  the  religious 
teacher  may  pcophecy,  as  he  studios  the 
growth  and  culture  oi  man,  that  the  time  is 
not  far  distant  when  the  Bible  wiU  no  longer 
be  the  superstitious  •furaitureot  ^e  Church, 
but  a  book  in  which  we  shall  read  o\xr  destiny 
in  the  experienoe.and  stvivings  an4  aspirations 
of  the  Hebrew  laee,  and  know  indeed  our 
aidvation  in  the  iacttiiat  Jesus  is  the  noblest 
advocate  of  the  spirit  and  God;  masmuch  as 
he  taught  a  system  of  ethies  which  could  be 
turned  into  bu8ines8,>empha8i9ed  tiie  euUime 
possibilities  and  attainments  of  man  by  IAa 
own  self-sacrifice,  love,  and  benevc^aoe.— 
J.  C.  F.  GmcBiHS,  Syfoam,  Jf.  X 


ROMANES  VERSlfB  DARWIN. 


AK   EraoOB   IK  TBB   HISTORY  OF   TUB  BVQ- 
LUTIOW  THEORY. 

[nr  TWO  PARTS.— PART  I.]     ' 

The  JmLmai  of  the  Linnean  Society  (No.  11$, 
ioology,  July  33, 1886}  is  occupied  by  a  very 
elaborate  and  lengthy  paper  by  Dr.  G.  J. 
Romanes,  F.  R.  S.,  entitJed  "Physiological 
Selection:  an  Additional  Suggestion  on  the 
Origin  of  Species,  *'  in  which  ho  seeks  toahow 
that  natural  selection  is  not,  strictly  speakings 
a  theory  of  the  origin  of  species  at  all,  because 
it  does  not  account  for  what  he  maintains  i» 
the  primary  and  characteristic  feature  of 
species,  namely,  their  invariable  infertility, 
more  or  less  pronounced,  when  crossed  with 
allied -species.  Dr.  Romanes  is  well  known  as 
an  authority  on  some  branches  of  animal  phy- 
siology and  psychology,  and  is  also  an  ear- 
nest student  as  well  as  a  great  admirer  of  Mr. 
Darwin'js  works;  while,  as  he  informs  us,  he 
had  for  maiiy  years  "the  privilege  of  discuss- 
ing the  whole  philosophy  of  evolution  with 
Mr.  Darwin  himself. ' '  His  conclusions  on  this 
subject  are  therefore  likely  to  be  widely  ad- 
opted, mofe  especially  as  the  •question  is  a  very 
difficult  one,  and  4he  value  of  the  arguments 
adduced  can  hardly  be  estimated  by  persons 
who  are  not  voell  acquainted  with  tlve  copious 
literature  of  the  subject.  Th^fe  can  be  bo 
doubt,  however,  that  the  theory  of  natunfl 
aeleotiQn,as  Darwin  left  it,  does  present  the 
weak  points  which  are  here  attacked,  and  it  is 
therefore  -a  question  of  great  interest  toBScer- 
tain  whether  Dr.'  Romanes  has  really  f  umish^ 
.ed  us^with-a^subfltantial  addition  to  the  theory, 
.and  has  isuccessfully  grappled  with  the  admit- 
4ed  difficulties  presented  by  the  phenomena  of 
'the  sterility  of  crosses  betrtieen  distinct  species. 
After  a  careful  study  of  his  paper  I  have  come 
to  the  ^cendusistn  that,  althouglLit  eontaias 
many  valuable  suggestions,  it -dees  not  solve 
•the  problem  'Which  he  presents  for  sohitSoiL 
It  also  contains  many  statements  and  assuml)- 
<tioQS  which  appear -to  be  erroneous,  and  in 
correcting  these  some  facts  will  he  adduced 
•which  must  be  taken  aoeount  of  in  any  attempt 

C'-^  deal  with  this  very  difficiilt  question.    I 
ropoae,  .theief ore,\lo  i^ve.a  hdef tsmnmaxy  ol 


198 


THE  LIBRATtT  MAGAZmE. 


Mr.  Romanes'  arguments,  and  to  point  out 
several  important  facts  and  weighty  consider- 
ations which  he  has  omitted  to  take  account 
of,  an^  which  seem  to  me  to  render  his  theory 
altogether  unworkable.  I  shall  conclude  by 
submitting  an  alternative  hypothesis  which 
seems  to  me  to  meet  the  chief  difficulties  of  the 
case  in  a  very  simple  manner. 

Mr.  Romanes  urges  that  there  are  three  car- 
dinal difficulties  in  the  way  of  natural  selection, 
considered  as  a  theory  of  the  origin  of  species. 
These  are  (1)  the  fact  tliat  all  our  domestic 
animals  and  cultivated  plants  are  mutually 
fertile  when  crosSied,  although  they  often  differ 
in  external  characters  much  more  than  do  dis- 
tinct species;  yet  natural  species,  though  some- 
times differing  very  little  from  each  other,  are 
nearly  always  more  or  less  sterile  when  inter- 
crossed,—<2)  the  swamping  effects  of  free  in- 
tercrossing upon  any  individual  variation,  pre- 
venting its  ever  becoming  increased  and  in- 
tensified by  natural  selection  so  as  to  consti- 
tute species;— (3)  the  inutili^  of  a  large  pro- 
portion of  specific  distinctions,  which  consist 
of  small  and  trivial  differences  of  form  and 
color,  or  of  meaningless  details  of  structure, 
which,  being  of  no  service  to  the  plants  or 
animals  presenting  them,  cannot  have  arisen 
through  the  agency  of  natural  selection.  Mr. 
Romanes  quotes  many  passages  from  Darwin's 
writings  admitting  the  force  of  these  objec- 
tions, and  he  shows,  more  or  less  successfully, 
that  the  explanations  Darwin  offered  are  in  no 
case  sufficient. 

Mr.  Romanes  proceeds  to  argue  that,  ad- 
mitting these  objections,  natural  selection  is 
not,  properly  speaking,  a  theory  of'  the  origin 
of  species,  but  that  it  is  a  theory  of  the  origin 
— or  rather  of  the  cumulative  development — 
of  adaptations.  These,  he  submits,  are  very 
diffc.ent  things,  because  each  useful  adapta- 
tion usually  characterizes  a  whole  group  of 
species,  often  a  whole  genus  or  a  whole  family, 
while  the  individual  species  are  distinguished 
from  each  other,  not  by  adaptive,  but  usually 
by  trivial,  superficial,  and  altogether  useless 
characters.  To  account  for  these  facts  Darrrin 
and  his  followers  have  called  in  the  aid  cf  cer- 
tain additionfikl  causes,  such  as  use  and  disuse, 
•ezoal  selection,  ooitelatad  variabiliQr,  Modi 


most  important  of  all,  the  prevention  of  inter- 
crossing with  parent  forms.  This  last  cause 
is  brought  into  action  by  the  isolation  of  va- 
rieties in  distinct  areas,  and  its  effects  are  w«!I 
seen  in  the  distinct  but  closely  allied  species 
that  so  often  diaracterize  oceanic  islands. 
This  is  thought  to  prove  that,  whenever  inter- 
crossing is  prevented,  independent  variability 
is  a  sufficient  cause  for  the  evolution  of  new 
species,  which  will  always  tend  to  arise  under 
such  conditions,  and  will  be  usually  distin- 
guished  by  characters  which  are  not  useful  fo 
them,  and  have  therefore  not  been  preserved 
by  the  agency  of  natural  selection. 

But,  it  is  argued,  such  species  can  never 
arise  without  isolation,  because  intercrossing 
will  continually  extinguish  all  such  indepen- 
dent variations  of  an  unuseful  kind,  and  even 
all  such  as  are  useful;  unless  they  occur  in 
considerable  numbers  together. .  Except  in 
the  case  of  complete  isolation  in  islands  ar  by 
great  geographical  changes  in  continents, 
species  must  have  originated  in  the  midst  of  a 
parent  form,  and  unless  the  mutual  sterili^ 
we  find  to  be  a  general  characteristic  of  spe- 
cies had  appeared  at  the  very  beginning  to  pre- 
vent the  extinction  of  all  incipient  variations 
by  intercrossing,  it  does  not  seem  possible  for 
these  variations  ever  to  have  been  preserved 
and  accumulated  so  as  to  form  distinct  new 
species.  Mr.  Darwin's  suggested  explanation 
of  the  wl^ole  difficulty  is,  that  a  number  of 
similar  favoieble  variations  occurring  together 
will  afford  materials  for  natural  selection  to 
act  upon,  and  will  then  rapidly  increase;  while, 
as  to  the  cause  of  infertility  between  the  new 
form  and  the  parent  stock,  ho  suggests  that 
varieties  occurring  under  nature  will  have  been 
exposed  during  long  periods  of  time  to  more 
uniform  conditions  than  have  domesticated 
varieties,  and  this  may  well  make  a  wide  dif- 
ference in  the  result  This  view  is  supported 
by  the  opinion  of  many  independent  observen, 
that  domesticatioi^  tends  to  enhance  fertility; 
while  it  is  a  well  known  fact  that  in  wild 
species  the  nproductlve  system  is  so  delicate- 
if  balanced  that  th^y  often  become  sterile, 
even  with  theit  own  kind,  when  in  confine 
ment 

Dr.  Romanes,  however,  objects  that  this 


ROMANES  VSR8U8  DARWIN. 


129 


BOggestion  is  too  vague  and  too  little  support- 
ed by  kDown  facts  to  explain  sudi  a  funda- 
meotal  and  almost  uniyeraal  difference  as  ex- 
ists between  varieties  and  species  in  regard  to 
their  mutual  fertility,  and  he  therefore  puts 
forth  his  theory  of  physiological  selection. 
Briefly  stated,  this  theory  is,  that  Individual 
variations  in  the  degree  of  fertility  with  the 
parent  form  often  occur  quite  independently 
of  any  change  in  external  characters.  This 
mode  of  variation  maybe  either  indirect  or 
dixeet  In  the  former  kind  the  season  of  flow- 
ering or  of  pairing  may  be  advanced  or  retard- 
ed, and  in  either  case  the  individuals  so  vary- 
ing can  oaly  cross  with  each  other,  not  with 
tne  parent  form.  In  the  latter  irind  the  new 
Tsriety  is  such  that  when  crossed  with  the  par- 
ent form  it  produces  very  few  offering,  and 
those  offspring  are  usually  sterile;  while 
mmong  themselves  these  physiological  varieties 
are  perfectly  fertile  as  are  their  offspring. 
"Onoe  formed  as  such,"  he  says,  ''the  new 
natufal  variety,  even  though  living  ujx)n  tlie 
same  area  as  its  parent  species,  will  begin  an 
independent  course  of  history,  and,  as  in  the 
now  analogous  case  of  isolated  varieties,  will 
tend  to  increase  its  morphological  distance  from 
the  parent  form,  until  it  eventually  becomes  a 
tmo  species. 

Mr.  liomanes  then  goes  on  to  argue  that,  as 
a  role,  these  physiological  variations  are  those 
which  occur  first,  and  form  the  starting-point 
of  new  species.  He  admits  that  in  some  cases 
sterility  may  be  a  secondary  character,  due 
perhaps  to  the  constitutional  change  indicated 
by  the  external  variation;  but  even  in  that  case 
physiological  selection  plays  an  equally  im- 
portant part,  because,  if  it  does  not  arise,  either 
ooincidentally  with  the  ordinary  external  va- 
riation or  as  a  consequence  of  it,  then  that  va- 
riation will  not  be  preserved,  but  will  rapidly 
be  exting^hed  by  intercrossing  with  the  par- 
ent type. 

Having  now  set  forth  very  briefly,  but  I  be- 
lieve quite  sufficiently  and  often  in  its  author's 
own  words,  what  the  theory  of  physiological 
seisctioa  is.  let  us  turn  back  and  see  how  far 
the  facts  of  variation  on  which  it  is  founded 
are  adequately  and  correctly  stated;  and  also 
to  asoert^^  -  with  some  precision 


what  would  happen  to  the  physiologisal  varie- 
ties arising  independently  in  the  midst  oi^a 
species,  as  Mr.  Romanes  supposes  Ifaem  to  do, 
and  whether  they  could  possibly  form  the 
usual  starting-point  of  new  species.  In  dis- 
cussing the  "three  great  obstructions  in  the 
road  of  natural  selection,"  which  Mr.  Romanes 
believes  to  be  insuperable  by  natural  selection 
alone,  it  will  be  convenient  to  take  them  in  the 
inverse  order,  leaving  the  important  question 
of  sterility  between  species  to  be  dealt  with 
after  the  road  has  been  cleared  of  the  two  less 
important  obstructions. 

(1.)  Inutility  of  Specific  Ckamctert,—  This 
fprms  an  essential  part  of  Mr.  Romanes'  argu- 
ment as  to  the  necessity  for  physiological 
selection  to  account  for  the  origin  of  species, 
but  it  is  only  proved  to  exist  by  general  state- 
ments quite  unsupported  by  evidence.  He 
tells  us,  for  example,  that  an  "enormous 
number"  of  specific  peculiarities  are  of  no 
use,  giving  as  instances  the  callosities  on  the 
hind  legs  of  horses,  or  the  habit  of  covering 
their  excrement  by  some  of  the  cat  tribe. 
In  the  latter  case,  however,*  it  is  surely  not 
difficult  to  see  a  very  probable  use,  for  as  the 
excrements  in  question  are  exceptionally  of- 
fensive, their  exposure  on  the  surface  of  the 
ground  might  warn  such  creatures  as  are 
preyed  upon  by  them  from  approaching  the 
haunts  of  these  animals.  But  this  argument 
from  our  ignorance  is  a  very  bad  one  when 
we  consider  how  recently  whole  groups  of 
specific  differences,  formerly  looked  upon  as 
usel^jss,  have  been  brought  under  the  law  of 
utility.  The  innumerable  fantastic  diversities 
in  the  size,  form,  color,  and  markings  of 
flowers  would  have  been  formerly  thus  classed ;^ 
but  these  have  now  in  so  great  a  number  of 
cases  been  shown  to  be  purposive  modiflca*^ 
tions  for  aiding  in  fertilisation,  that  few 
naturalists  will  doubt  that  all  or  almoei  all 
similar  distinctive  characters  have  had  a  sim- 
ilar origin.  So  the  various  kinds  of  spines 
and  prickles,  of  hairs  or  down,  of  stinging 
organs  or  of  sticky  exudations,  onee  nnintel- 
ligible,  have  now  been  proved  serviceable  in 
keeping  away  "unbidden  guests"  from  t)iQ 
flowers. 

The  life  histories  of  animals  in  a  state  ol 


180 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


Dature  have  been  so  much  less  studied  than 
those  of  plants  that  wc  are  quite  unable  to 
determine  the  use  of  many  of  the  slighter 
fpecilic  characters  which  distinguish  them. 
But  here,  too,  progress  is  being  made,  and 
many  peculiarities  can  now  be  shown  to  be 
Qsefui  which  a  few  years  ago  would  have 
been  classed  as  of  no  possible  utility  to  the 
species.  This  especialUy  applies  to  the  colors 
and  markings  of  animals;  .and  having  paid 
much  attention  to  this  question  I  will  make  a 
few  remarks  upon  it.  It  is  a  very  striking 
•fact,  the  full  importance  of  which  has  not 
been  appreciated,  that  almost  all  animals, 
when  domesticated,  produce  varieties  of  color 
and  markings,  often  exhibiting  great  diversity 
in  this  respect,  whereas  the  wild  species  from 
which  they  have  been  derived  have  each  a 
constant  type  of  color  and  marking,  and 
although  they,  not  unfrequently  produce  vari- 
ties,  such  as  white  or  pied  swallows,  black- 
birds, etc,  these  never  increase  in  numbe  s  as 
they  do  under  domestication.  This  implies 
that  the  variation  is  prejudicial  to  the  species, 
and  that  the  general  constancy  of  coloration 
we  observe  in  each  wild  species  is  a  useful 
character.  A  long  consideration  of  this  sub- 
ject has  convinced  me  that  tlie  usefulness  of 
color  and  marking  to  wild  animals  arises  in 
many  different  ways.  The  moHt  general  of 
all  the  uses  of  color  is  to  serve  as  a  protection 
to  the  species  from  its  enemies  or  to  aid  in 
concealing  it  from  its  prey;  hence  the  very 
wide  prevalence  of  protective  coloration  as 
instanced,  broadly,  in  the  white  arctic  and 
sand-colored  desert  animals,  in  the  numerous 
green  birds  of  tropical  forests,  and,  more 
especially,  in  the  countless  insects  resemblmg 
green  or  dead  leaves,  bark,  birds*  dung,  moss, 
stones,  or  other  natural  objects  among  which 
they  live.  The  protective  character  of  many 
nf  these  markings  can  rarely  be  understood 
till  the  creature  is  seen  in  its  natural  attitude 
and  among  its  natural  surroundings,  so  that 
hundreds  of  species  preserved  in  our  museums 
and  cabinets  seem  to  have  colors  which  are 
altogether  unmeaning  and  useless,  owing  to 
our  ignorance  of  their  habits  and  life  history. 

Another  kind  of  coloration  wan  long  quite 
unintelligible,  that  of  creatures  which  «re 


very  conspicuous  and  often  so  gaudily  colored 
as  to  attract  attention;  but  it  is  now  found 
that  many  groups  of  species  thus  colored 
have  a  totally  different  kind  of  protection  in 
being  endowed  with  such  an  offensive  odor 
and  taste  as  to  be  inedible.  Whole  families 
of  butterflies,  moths,  beetles,  and  other  insects, 
are  now  known  by  actual  experiment  to  be  so 
protected,  and  these  in  every  case  possess  con- 
spicuous colors,  or  at  all  events  are  entirely 
wanting  in  those  protective  hues  which  char- 
acterize most  creatures  which  serve  as  food 
to  others.  Another  class  of  animals  possess 
deadly  weapons,  like  the  stings  of  wasps  and 
the  poison  fangs  of  snakes,  and  these  often 
exhibit  conspicuous  colors  or  some  other 
means  of  warning  their  enemies  that  they 
donnot  be  attacked  with  impunity.  As  illus- 
trations of  these  forms  nf  useful  chnracters  I 
may  mention  4he  glow-worm  and  fire-flies, 
which  belong  io  inedible  groups^  but  being 
nocturnal  and  soft-bodied  would  be  liable  to 
be  seized  and  injured,  if  not  devoured,  without 
the  warning  light  which  tells  all  insect -eating 
creatures  (after  one  experience)  that  they  are 
uneatable.  This  interpretation  of  the  use  of 
the  light  was  sugc^ested  by  Mr.  Belt  and  has 
been  adopted  by  Mr.  Darwin.  The  case  of 
the  poisonous  snakes  is  still  more  curious. 
Most  of  tiiese  are.j:ather  protectively  colored 
in  order  that  their  prey  may  approach  them 
sufficiently  near  to  be  seized,  but  they  are 
usually  characterized  by  a  broad  triangular 
head  and  short  tail  which  sufficiently  marks 
out  thcr  tribe  of  vipcrlne  poisonous  snakes  to 
rep  till  vorous  birds  and  mammals.  In  a  few 
<;ases,  however,  they  possess  a  more  special 
Vaming.  The  rattle  of  the  rattle-snake  and 
the  dilated  hood  of  the  Indian  and  African 
cobras  lu-e  of  this  character,  and  it  is  inter- 
esting to  note  that  the  cobras  do  not  belong 
to  the  viper  tribe,  but  have  heads  and  tails  of 
similar  form  to  harmless  snakes.  In  South 
Anuirica  rthere  are  poisonous  snakes  of  the 
same  family  which  get  protection  not  by  a 
hood  or  rattle  but  by  a « style  of  coloration  in 
altamate  rings  of  black,  red,  and  yellow,  quite 
unlike  tliat  of  any  otlier  snakes  in  America  or 
in  the  rest  of  the  world.  They  are  distin- 
guished among  othersnakes  just  as  the  brighUj 


ROMANES  VERSUS  DXRYf IS. 


181 


colored    inedible   insects    are   distinguished 
among  Uicir  edible  allies,  and  for  the  same 
parpose  of  warning  enemies  not  to  attack  them. 
The  several  cases  now  referred  to  cover  a 
great  deal  of  ground,  but  there  remains  one 
of  the  most  important.    It  may  be  said,  you 
have  shown  the  use  of  certain  classes  or  styles 
of  coloration,  but  these  would  apply  to  a 
^eat  number  of  species  equally  well.     Why, 
theiL,  is  each  species  usually  different  in  color- 
ation from  all  others?     The   reply  to   this 
objection  I  believe  to  be,  that  easy  recognition 
is  important  to  all  animals,  and  especially  to 
tiioee  which  are  gregarious  and  whose  safety 
largely  depends  upon  their  keeping  together. 
Hy  attention  was  first  called  to  this  subject 
by  a  remark  of  Mr.  Darwin's  that  the  prin- 
ciple of  protective  coloring  fails  in  the  rabbit, 
''for  when  running  to  its  burrow  it  is  made 
oonapicuons  to  the  sportsman,  and  no  doubt 
to  all  beasts  of  jMrey,  by  its  upturned  white 
talL*'    Not  believing  that  any  animal  could 
have  acquired  a  diameter  actually  hurtful  to 
it  without  some  more  than  counterbalancing 
advantages,  it  occurred  to  me  that,  when  feed- 
ing in  the  dusk,  rabbits  run  to  their  burrows 
on  the  least  alarm,  and  that  it  would  be  very 
important  for  those  who  were  farthest  off, 
and  especially  for  the  young,  to  be  able  to 
follow  the  others  without  any  hesitation  in  a 
straight  line.    The  upturned  white  tail  thus 
serves  as  a  useful  guide.     On  looking  for 
other  cases  of  analogous  coloring,  I  was  struck 
by  the  remarkable  fact  that  a  large  number 
of  antelopes,  which  are  usually  protectively 
colored  with  sandy  or  earth  colored  tints,. are 
nevertheless  rendiered  conspicuous  by  large 
white  patches,  usually  behind  or  on  the  flanks, 
and  oflten    accompanied  by   peculiar  white 
marks  on  the  face,  but  always  different  in  each 
species.    Mr.  Darwin  imputes  all  these  mark- 
ings to  the  effects  of  sexual  selection,  having 
been  first  acquired  by  the  males  and  then 
transmitted  wholly  or  partially  to  the  other 
sex.    It  seems  to  me,  however,  much  more 
probable   that   these   markings   have   been 
acquired  lor  the   purpose  of  enabling  any 
stray^ed  member  of  the  herd  to  recognize  his 
fellows,  and  to  be  recogized  by  them.    Most 
of  thflse  animals  depend  for  safety  on  keeping 


together,  when  they  can  defend  themselves 
against  most  beasts  of  prey;  and  as  each  kind 
will  not  usually  allow  animals  of  another 
species  to  join  them,  it  becomes  doubly 
important  that  every  spebies  should  have  a 
distinctive  marki  ig,  especially  with  desert 
animals,  which  are  obliged  to  roam  far  in 
search  of  food  and  water,  and  still  more 
when  there  are  many  allied  species  of  tlie 
same  general  form  inhabiting  the  same  country. 
It  seems  not  improbable  that  the  many 
curious  differences  in  the  shape,  direction, 
and  curvature  of  the  horns  of  antelopes  may 
have  arisen  from  a  similar  cause,  as  when 
these  alone  were  visible  they  would  often 
serve  the  purpose  of  recognition  at  a  great 
distance.  This  same  idea  has  occurred  to 
Mrs.  Barber,  an  excellent  observer  of  natuso 
in  Cape  Colony.    She  says: — 

"Land  birds  are  for  the  most  part  €<flored  to  matOh 
the  coontry  they  inhabit  Some  of  them,  hcmeyef, 
poBsesa  conspicnoos  markings,  which  are  of  j^at  B0r> 
vice  to  them  in  their  flight,  enabling  them,  if  disturbod 
(especially  daring  the  night),  to  keep  together.  ](f, 
however,  they  are  not  in  possession  of  indicati^ 
colors  (sQch  m  white  beneath  the  wings,  ele^),'  they 
will  probably  utter  some  peculiar  note  or  frequent  cry, 
which  will  answer  the  same  purpose,  like  thin  of  the 
fern  owl,  for  instance.''^ 

This  need  of  easy  recognition  by  each 
species  of  its  own  kind  and  of  the  sexes  by 
each  other,  will  probably  explain  at  once 
those  slight  diversities  of  color  and  marking, 
which,  more  commonly  than  any  other  char- 
acter distinguish  closely  allied  species  from 
each  other,  and  also  the  constancy  and  bi- 
lateral sjrmmetry  of  the  coloration  of  wild 
animaU.  For  if  the  same  species  varied  in 
color  beyond  definite  limits,  and  especially  if 
they  became  piebald  or  irregularly  colored, 
great  confusion  would  arise;  and  it  is  probable 
that  such  irregularities,  when  they  do  occur, 
soon  die  -out,  because  the  normal-colored 
individuals  refuse  to  pair  with  them. 

I  think  I  have  now  shown  that  in  a  great 
number  of  cases  the  trivial  characters  that 
distinguish  species  from  species  are,  in  all 
probability,  useful  to  them,  and  may  therefoie 
have  been  increased  and  fixed  by  natural 
selection.  This  is  the  more  probable  if  we 
remember  the  extraordinarily  rigid  charaetac 


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THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


of  the  selection  that  Is  always  going  on 
among  wild  animanls,  from  tliree  to  ten  or  a 
hundred  times  the  minimiim  population  being 
weeded  out  every  year,  so  that  the  very  slight- 
est characters,  if  even  at  rare  intervals  affect- 
ing the  safety  of  the  individual,  will  be 
almost  sure  to  be  preserved.  We  must  also 
remember  that  many  slight  characters  may 
be  the  atrophied  or  rudimentary  remains  of 
more  important  characters  which  were  useful 
in  some  ancestral  form,  but  which,  being  now 
so  very  trivial,  have  not  been  completely  lost 
by  disuse;  while  sufficient  importance  has 
not  been  given  to  the  constant  state  of  flux 
and  reflux  of  all  organic  forms,  development 
and  degeneration  going  on  alternately,  and 
having  been  many  times  repeated,  so  that 
characters  may  be  partially  lost,  and  then 
under  a  change  of  conditions  utilized  by  a 
fresh  development  in  a  different  direction, 
thus  leading  to  those  singular  complexities  of 
fo.*m  and  structure,"  serve  purposes  which 
might  apparently  have  been  reached  in  a 
much  simpler  and  more  direct  manner. — 
Alfred  R.  Walulcs,  in  The  FortnighUp 
Rmew, 

[to  be  concludbd.] 


THE  WEEK  OP  SEVEN  DAYS. 

If  a  being  from  another  world,  suddenly 
placed  among  us,  should  examine  terrestrial 
Institutions  he  could  scarcely  fail  to  inquire 
why  it  is  that  in  so  large  a  portion  of  the  earth 
time  is  measured  by  periods  of  seven  days.  To 
a  large  number  of  persons  among  ourselves 
such  inquiry  is  practically  superseded  by  the 
consideration  that  the  Bible  opens  with  the 
recognition  of  the  week:  whatever  discussion 
may  be  raised,  and  whatever  may  be  the  de- 
mands of  science  with  reference  to  the  inter- 
pretation of  the  commencement  of  the  book 
of  Genesis,  the  fact  remains,  that  it  is  asserted 
that  in  six  days  God  created  the  heaven  and 
the  earth  and  all  things  in  them,  and  rested 
on  the  seventh  day.  The  same  assertion  is 
renewed  by  tlie  fourth  commandment,  which 
enjoins  the  keeping  holy  of  the  Sabbath  day. 
And  when  we  remember  hew  thoroughly  the 


sanctification  of  one  day  in  seven  hns  been 
adopted  and  enforced  by  the  practice  of  ibe 
Christian  Church,  and  how  the  first  day  Las 
been  marked,  as  emphatically  tlie  L^rd'n  J)ay^ 
we  cannot  be  surprised  to  find  that  with  most 
persons  any  speculation  which  transcends  the 
limits  of  the  facts  just  noticed  is  likely  to 
meet  with  small  encouragement. 

Nevertheless,  when  we  observe  the  necee- 
sarily  hyper-historical  character  (if  I  may 
coin  such  a  phrase)  of  the  Mosaic  cosmogony, 
as  it  is  sometimes  called,  when  we  perceive 
the  impossibility  of  interpreting  the  sacred 
narrative  without  some  reference  to  the  knowl- 
edge already  possessed  by  those  to  whom  it 
was  given,  we  shall  probably  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  the  reference  to  the  creative  work 
and  the  seventh  day's  rest  of  Gk)d  does  not  ex- 
haust the  question  of  the  existence  of  a  seven 
days'  week.  Therefore,  as  it  is  manifestly 
impossible  to  detach  the  ordinary  week  of  a 
large  portion  of  the  world  from  the  history 
contained  in  Genesis  and  as  it  is  equally  im- 
possible to  find  in  that  liistory  a  complete  ex- 
planation of  the  phenomenon,  I  have  thought 
it  might  be  interesting  to  examine  the  subject 
a  Uttle  more  closely,  and  see  what  light  can 
be  thrown  upon  it. 

I  begin  my  investigation  with  a  few  re- 
marks upon  what  may  be  descritwd  nAfatoriU 
numbert.  There  are  certain  numbers,  with 
which  we  ir.eet  more  frequently  than  others, 
and  of  which  we  make  more  use  in  dealing 
with  Gonunon  things.  The  most  favorite  m^ 
perhaps  be  said  to  be  ten,  ttoehe,  and  aeeen. 

The  reason  why  ten  ib  &  favorite — perhaps 
the  most  favorite — number  is  obvious  enough, 
namely,  that  we  have  teii  fingers.  When  we 
begin  to  count  we  almost  of  necessity  do  so 
with  our  fingers;  if  we  have  a  large  number  of 
things  to  count,  we  instinctively  divide  them 
into  fttTM,  or  perhaps  into  Mora;  if  the  num- 
ber of  things  be  very  large,  the  collection  of 
tens  are  naturally  grouped  again  by  tens,  and 
so  we  have  hundreds,  A  further  grouping  of 
hundreds  leads  to  thousands,  and  so  forth. 
Thus  we  get  the  ordinary  system  of  numera- 
tion, and  there  can  be  no  manner  of  doubt 
that  man's  ten  fingers  are  the  root  of  it. 

Nevertheless  twelve  has  its  turn  as  a  favor- 


THE  WEEK  OP  SEVEN  DAYS. 


188 


ite  number;  we  often  cofunt  by  dozens,  and 
the  reason  probably  is  that  twelve  admits  of 
being  quartered  as  well  as  halved;  which  in 
many  cases  is  an  advantage.  Take  the  case 
of  wine ;  a  dozen  bottles  is  a  convenient 
quantity  to  take  as  a  standard,  because  a  cus- 
tomer can  or'cr  half  the  standard  number, 
or,  if  he  need  a  small  quantity,  the  quarter  of 
the  same;  in  fact,  twelve  admits  of  being 
divided  not  only  by  two  wad  four,  but  also  by 
three  and  «>,  which  for  many  purposes  give 
it  a  great  advantage  over  ten,  which  can  be 
divided  only  by  two  and  five,  the  latter  division 
PBTcly  being  of  any  use.  Hence  the  great 
divisibility  of  twelve  is  suffldent  to  mark  it  as 
a  favorite  number 

I  now  pa«  on  to  the  consideration  of  the  n lim- 
ber ssten.  It  has  no  su  ch  obvious  suggestion  as 
ten,  and  no  such  recommendation  of  practical 
convenience  as  twelve;  nevertheless  it  is  quite 
as  truly  a  favorite  number  as  either,  perhaps 
in  some  sense  It  is  more  so.  Its  early  occur 
rence  in  the  book  of  Genesis  might  be  adopted 
at  once  as  an  explanation  of  its  prominence 
among  numl)ers;  this  course  of  treatment, 
however,  would  not  fall  in  with  the  intention 
of  this  essay;  and  I  shall  therefore,  in  the 
first  place,  treat  the  subject  in  the  most  gen- 
eral numner  possible,  putting  out  of  mind  for 
the  moment  all  thought  of  the  references  to 
the  institution  of  the  week  which  can  be 
found  in  the  Bible. 

Adopting  this  course,  wc  have  to  deal  with 
the  fact  that  Ae  division  of  days  by  seven  is 
both  ancient  and  widespread.  If,  as  has  been 
held  by  good  authorities,  the  miethod  be  of 
Chaldseaii  origin,  the  notion  that  the  numl3er 
$er>en  is  connected  with  the  heavenly  bodies  at 
once  present  itself  to  our  minds  as  probable; 
in  fact,  when  we  remember  that  to  the  early 
observers  of  the  heavens  the  planets  were 
seven  in  number — namely  the  Sun,  the  Moon, 
Mercur/,  Venus,  Mars,  Jtipiter,  Saturn — and 
that  the  names  of  these  planets  were  in  divers 
countries  connected  with  the  several  days  of 
the  week,  the  conclusion  that  the  measuring 
of  days  by  sevens  tooK  its  rise  from  the  physi- 
cal fact  that  seven  planetaTj  bodies  are  visi- 
ble to  the  naked  eye  must  seem  to  be  almost 
irresistible. 


The  reader  may  be  referred  upon  this  sub- 
ject to  a  lucid  article,  "  Week,"  in  Smith*8 
Dictionary  of  the  Bible,    The  writer  says : — 

**Whether  the  week  gare  ita  Mcredness  to  the 
number  eeven,  or  whether  the  aacendency  of  that  nam- 
ber  helped  to  determine  the  dlmeneions  of  the  week, 
it  is  Impouible  to  say.  The  latter  fact— the  ancient 
ascendency  of  the  nomuer  seven — might  rest  open 
divers  grounds.  The  planets,  according  to  the  astron- 
omy of  those  times,  were  seven  in  nnmber ;  so  are  the 
notes  of  the  diatonic  scale ;  so  also  many  other  things 
natarally  attracting  observatioa.  ...  So  far  then,  the 
week  being  a  division  of  time  without  ground  in 
Nature,  there  was  much  to  recommend  Its  adoption. 
When  the  days  were  named  from  planetary  deities,  as 
among  first  the  Aasyflans  and  Chaldeee,  and  then  the 
Egyptians,  then,  of  course,  each  period  of  seven  days 
would  constitute  a  whole,  and  that  whole  might  come 
to  be  recognized  by  nations  that  disregarded  or  re- 
jected the  practice  which  had  s^ped  and  determined 
it.  But  further,  the  week  is  a  most  natural  and  nearly 
exact  qnadri-partition  of  the  month,  so  .that  the 
quarters  of  the  moon  may  easily  have  suggested  it.'^ 

It  is  not  necessary  to  refuse  all  sanction  to 
the  notion  that  the  happy  fact,  that  4 x 7— '28, 
or  that  four  weekh,  each  of  seven  days,  rough- 
ly constitute  a  month,  and  that  so,  the  arti- 
ficial division  of  weeks  had  a  convenient  rela- 
tion to  the  natural  division  of  months,  has 
something  to  do  witA  the  stamping  of  the  num- 
ber Hven  as  the  basis  for  the  coctoting  ef  days. 
Nor  would  it,  perhaps,  be  possible  to  entirely 
deny  the  position  of  one  who  should  argue, 
that  this  convenient  quadri-partition  of  the 
month  was  first  in  order  of  time,  and  that  th« 
dedication  of  the  even  days  of  the  week  to 
the  seven  heavenly  bodies  followed  afterward. 
I  do  not  suspect  that  this  actulaly  was  so;  yet 
if  it  were  asserted  to  be  the  more  probable 
course  of  things,  I  do  not  know  that  the  asser- 
tion could  be  positively  disproved.  But  which- 
ever may  have  been  the  aetual  onier  of  pro- 
ceeding,  what  I  desire  now  to  enforce  is 
equaUy  true,  namely,  that  the  two  astronomi- 
cal considerations,  namely,  the  number  of 
planetary  bodies  known  to  the  ancients  and 
the  period  of  the  moon,  may  be  regarded  as  co- 
Operative,  and  as  tending  together  to  fix  more 
distinctly  the  number  of  days  in  the  week. 

Having  thus  far  dealt  with  the  week  on 
general  grounds,  I  now  pass  un  to  make  some 
remarks  upon  it  in  connection  with  Holy 
Scripture. 


184 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


In  the  first  place,  as  has  been  remarked  by 
the  commentators,  and  as  is  apparent  to 
careful  readers,  it  would  seem  that  some  no- 
tion of  the  week  of  seven  days  was  current 
among  the  people  whose  hislory  is  recorded 
in  very  early  times,  that  is  to  say,  at  a  date 
long  preceding  Moses  or  any  of  the  books 
written  by  him.  The  proof  of  this  is  to  be 
found  in  such  passages  as  the  following: 
GeneMs  xxix.  27,  where  Jacob  is  desired  by 
La  ban  to  "fulfill  her  week,''  that  is,  Leah's 
week,  in  order  that  he  might  also  receive 
Rachel.  The  week  appears  to  express  the 
time  given  up  to  nuptial  festivities.  So 
afterward  in  Judges  xiv.,  where  Samson  speaks 
of  "the  seven  days  of  the  feast."  So  also  on 
occasion  of  the  death  of  Jacob,  Joseph  "made 
a  mourning  for  his  father  seven  days*'  (Gen.  1. 
10).  But  neither  of  these  instances,  any 
more  than  Noam's  procedure  in  the  ark,  go 
further  llian  showing  the  custom  of  observing 
a  term  of  seven  days  for  any  observance  of 
importance.  They  do  not  prove  that  the 
whole  year,  or  the  whole  month,  was  thus 
divided  at  all  times,  and  without  regard  to 
remarkable  events."  They  do  not  indeed 
prove  this,  but  they  suggest  the  division  as 
common  and  familiar,  and  in  some  early 
period  recognized  as  an  institution. 
.  When  therefore  the  children  of  Israel  went 
down  to  Egypt  for  what  proved  to  lie  a  very 
long  sojourn  in  that  country,  they  possibly 
were  familiar  with  the  practice  of  dividing 
time  by  weeks,  and  at  all  events  the  notion  of 
seven  days  as  a  convenient  portion  of  time  for 
the  affairs  of  life  would  not  seem  altogether 
strange  to  them.  It  is  exceedingly  probable 
that  on  arriving  in  Egypt  they  found  the 
week  established  by  the  practice  of  the  coun- 
try. It  w  11  be  observed  that  U  was  in  Egypt 
that  Joseph  mourned  seven  days  for  Jacob ; 
and  it  is  possible,  that  in  so  doing  he  was 
conforming  to  the  custom  of  the  country,  as 
he  did  with  regard  to  the  embalming  and 
chesting  of  his  father's  remains.  But  Inde- 
pendently of  any  such  consideration,  it  would 
seem  highly  probable  that  the  Israelites  found 
themselves  in  Egypt  among  a  people  who 
divided  the  time  by  weeks  of  seven  days. 
We  know  that  they  did  so  at  a  later  period; 


why  might  they  not  have  commenced  as  early 
as  before  the  sojourn  of  the  Israelites? 

And  as  regards  the  Israelites,  it  may  be 
observed  that  the  period  of  seven  days  is  intro- 
duced into  the  most  solenm  event  of  their 
Egyptian  sojourn,  namely,  the  ordinance  of 
the  Passover. 

**Seven  daye  shall  ye  eat  nnleaveocd  bread ;  even 
the  first  day  ye  shall  pnt  away  leaven  out  of  your 
honaee:  for  whosoever  eateth  learened  bread  fren 
the  first  day  anUl  the  seventh  day,  that  soul  shall  be 
cut  off  from  braeL  And  in  the  first  day  there  shall  be 
an  holy  convocation;  and  in  the  seventh  day  there 
shall  be  an  holy  convocation  to  yon ;  no  manner  of 
work  shall  be  done  in  them,  saTe  that  which  every 
man  must  eat,  that  only  shall  be  done  of  yoa^*  {Exod. 
xil.  16, 16). 

And  a  little  further  on,  there  is  an  apx^arent 
reference  to  the  division  of  the  month  into 
four  weeks,  as  the  recognized  method  of  di- 
vision. '  'In  the  first  mouth,  on  the  fourteenili 
day  of  the  month  at  even,  ye  shall  eat  un- 
leavened bread,  until  the  one  and  twentieth 
day  of  the  month  at  even.  Seven  days  shall 
there  be  no  leaven  found  in  your  houses." 
Here  we  have  seven  mentioned  as  well  as  its 
multiples :  seven,  fourteen,  twenty-one,  and 
the  month  or  twenty-eight  days.  It  is  diffi- 
cult not  to  believe  tltat  either  in  conseqi.ence 
of  Egyptian  custom,  or  their  old  Sj-rian 
tradition,  or  both  combined,  the  Israelites 
were  at  this  time  familiar  with  the  notion  of 
a  week  of  seven  days. 

But  there  is  evidence  that  not  only  was  tlie 
week  known  to  the  Israelites,  but  also  the 
ordinance  of  the  Sabbath,  early  in  their  wan- 
derings. The  Sabbath  does  not  appear  to 
have  been  ordained  for  the  first  time  when 
promulgated  from  Sinai.  In  Kxodue  xxi.,  we 
read  concerning  the  manna, 

"To-morrow  is  the  rest  of  the  holy  sabbath  onto  the 
Lord." If  OSes  said,  Eat  that  tonlay ;  for  to- 
day is  a  sabbath  onto  the  Lord:  to-day  ye  shall  not 
find  it  in  the  field,  six  days  ye  Bhall  gather  it ;  bnt  on 
the  seventh  day,  which  Is  the  sabbsth,  in  It  there  phali 

be  none "See,  too,  that  the  Lord  hath  given 

yon  the  sabbath,  therefore  He  giveth  you  on  the  sixth 
day  the  bread  of  two  days ;  abide  yo  every  man  in  his 
place,  let  no  man  go  oat  of  his  place  on  the  seventh 
day.    So  the  people  rested  on  the  seventh  day.*^ 

Thus  the  promulgation  from  Sinai  was  only 
the  republication,  and  confirming  by  more 
solemn  sanction,  of  that  which  existed  '-Iready. 


THE  WEEK  OF  SEVEN  DAYS. 


135 


It  should  be  observed,  however,  that  the  ap 
pointment  of  the  Sabbath  and  the  institution 
of  the  week  are  two  different  things;  the  week 
might  be,  and  perhaps  originally  was,  a 
merely  secular  division  of  time,  like  the  month 
and  the  year;  what  was  done  by  the  teaching 
connected  wilh  the  manna,  and  subsequently 
more  explicitly  by  the  fourth  commandment, 
was  to  take  one  day  out  of  the  seven  and  im- 
press a  peculiar  character  upon  it  Man,  so 
to  speak,  made  the  week,  but  Qod  made  the 
Sabbath:  the  week  was  secular,  the  Sabbath 
was  religious.  If  I  may  venture  so  to  express 
myself,  the  task  of  Moses  in  forming  his 
horde  of  Egyptian  slaves  into  "  a  holy  nation, 
a  peculiar  people,"  was  a  good  deal  facilitated 
by  this  course  of  proceeding;  if  the  people 
when,  in  God*s  providence,  he  first  took  them 
in  hand  had  been  simple  barbarians,  having 
DO  measure  of  time  but  the  phases  of  the 
moon,  it  would  manifestly  have  been  less  easy 
to  secure  for  rest  and  for  religious  purposes 
each  seventh  day.  Why  each  seventh  day  ? 
Why  not  tbe  fourth  or  the  fourteenth?  But 
if  the  people  had  their  almanac  ready  made, 
and  if  they  had  beeo  accustomed  in  Egypt  to 
measure  the  time  by  weeks  and  to  find  each 
day  of  the  week  as  weary  as  the  rest  under 
their  crud  taskmasters,  they  would  readily 
accept  and  rejoice  in  a  law,  which  made  the 
concluding  day  of  each  week  a  day  of  rest 
and  rejoicing.  And  in  fact  we  find  in  the 
Deuteronomy  veision  of  the  fourth  command- 
ment this  pertinent  exhortation :  *'  Remember 
that  thou  wast  a  servant  m  the  land  of  Egypt, 
and  the  Lord  thy  Qod  brought  thee  out  thence 
through  a  mighty  hand,  and  by  a  stretched 
out  arm :  therefore  the  Lord  thy  God  com 
maoded  thee  to  keep  the  sabbath  day"  (IMut 
V.  15). 

Let  us  now  turn  for  a  moment  to  this  same 
commandment  as  we  find  it  in  the  twentieth 
chapter  of  Exodus,  and  as  it  is  commonly 
cited.  The  most  remarkable  feature  in  the 
commandment,  as  here  given,  is  the  reference 
to  the  six  days'  work  and  the  seventh  day  rest 
of  the  Almighty  Creator.  Upon  this  work  of 
the  creative  week  I  shall  have  more  to  say 
liereafter;  but  at  present  let  me  observe  that 
the  f ovm  of  the  commandment,  beginning 


"Remember  the  Sabbath  dayio  keep  it  holy,"" 
seems  to  imply  that  previous  knowledge  of 
the  week  and  the  Sabbath,  of  which  we  bave 
already  found  evidence.  It  is  very  unlikely 
that  the  notion  of  a  seventh  day  Sabbath 
would  have  been  announced  for  the  first  time 
in  such  fashion ;  in  fact,  we  have  already  met 
with  distinct  teaching  on  the  subject.  Let  it 
be  added,  however^  that  it  has  been  supp^^sed 
— and  the  supposition  is  reasonable — ^that  the 
argument  for  keeping  holy  the  Sabbath  day, 
founded  upon  the  history  of  the  Creation, 
which  appears  in  the  twentieth  chapter  of 
Exodus,  does  not  belong  to  the  original  form 
of  the  commandment.  The  fact  of  its  omis- 
sion in  Deuteronomy,  and  the  addition  in  that 
version  of  the  commandments  of  an  ap;  endix 
to  the  law  of  the  Sal^ath  day,  which  docs  not 
appear  in  Exodus,  seems  to  set  us  free  to 
suppose  that  both  the  one  addition  and  the 
other  were  made  subsequently  and  did  not 
belong  to  the  commandment  when  criveu  from 
Sinai.  Indeed,. tliere  is  much  intern ;il  proba* 
bility  to  recommend  the  suggestion  of  Ewald, 
that  tlie  ten  commandments  were  originally 
given  in  the  following  terse  form: — 

1.  Tbon  Bhalt  hare  noae  other  God  before  me.— > 

2.  Thoa  ehalt  not  make  to  tbee  any  graven  image.— 
&  Thon  Shalt  not  take  the  name  of  Jehovah  thy 

Qod  tn  rain.— 

4.  Thon  Shalt  remember  the  Sabbath  day  to  keep 
it  holy.— 

6.  Thon  ^alt  honor  thy  father  and  thy  mQtJt)ij^im 

5.  Thon  Shalt  not  kill.— 

7.  Thon  sbalt  not  commit  adnltery.— 

8.  Tliou  ehi^t  not  steal.— 

9.  'Fhwt  ahalt  not  bear  f als^  irtlWHa.-* 
la  Thou  ahalt  not  covet,. 

Certainly  so  far  aft  ^o  fbxnrth  ectounand- 
ment  is  concerned  it  is  highly  improbable  that 
in  its  origittal  pvemulgattoa  It  should  bave 
been  enforced  by  an  arguiaeol  depending^ 
upon  a  koK^wledge  of  the  creative  week,  con?^ 
tained.i)»  a  book,  of  the  existenee  and  pubU; 
cation  of  whiboh  at  that  tixae  there  is  no  kiqdl 
ofavidlKice. 

I  l^y  stress  vipon  this  point,  because  I  ,l|^. 
tieve  that  the  actual  hi^iy  of  the  week .  sjivAi 
of  the  Sabbath  Is  by  no  means  that  which' >t]c^. 
mere  reading  of  the  Bible,  commencing  TiEHhi 
the  llist  Ghaptw  of  Q&^ngk,  might  9Ugges|i]t«b. 


las 


THE  LIBRABT  KAGAZINE. 


our  minds.  The  book  of  Genesia  describes 
the  first  coDdition  of  things,  and  speaks  of  the 
Creator  as  having  spent  six  days  in  making 
the  universe  and  as  having  then  rested  on  the 
seventh  day  and  having  hallowed  il:  from 
which  description  it  might  seem  natural  to 
infer,  that  we  have  here  the  history  of  the 
institution  of  the  week  and  of  the  Sabbath  as 
the  close  of  it;  and  there  are  in  fact  writers, 
who  suggest  that  this  institution  was  delivered 
to  Adam  and  came  down  from  him  by  tradi- 
tion to  subsequent  generations  of  men.  Thus 
in  the  Speaker*^  Commentary,  on  the  words  of 
Genesis  ii.  1,  "  God  blessed  the  seventh  day/' 
Bishop  Harold  Browne  remarks,  **The  natural 
interpretation  of  these  words,  is  that  the  bless- 
ing of  the  Sabbath  was  immediately  conse- 
quent on  that  first  creation  of  man,  for  whom 
the  Sabbath  was  made.**'  This  may  be  so; 
but  when  we  endeavor  to  realize  what  is 
meant  by  the  creation  of  man  and  the  insti- 
tution of  the  Sabbath  being  coeval,  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  express  the  meaning  in  intelligible 
language.  The  keeping  of  the  seventh  day 
as  a  day  of  rest  involves  the  counting  of  six 
days,  and  tlien  the  dealing  with  the  seventh 
day  in  some  manner  diiTerent  from  that  in 
which  the  first  six  have  been  dealt  with.  Can 
we  quite  conceive  of  such  a  course  in  the  case 
of  the  first  man?  Supposing  him  to  have 
come  into  instantaneous  existence  in  all  the 
perfection  of  his  human  intelligence — a  sup- 
position which  is  beset  with  difidculties  and  is 
opposed  to  the  belief  of  almost  all  who  have 
studied  the  subject — is  it  possible  to  conceive 
of  the  newly  formed  man  as  at  once  compre- 
hending the  division  of  da}^  into  w«eks  and 
the  consecration  of  one  day  above  another?  or 
Is  it  possible  to  conceive  of  him  as  cafMble  •f 
receiving  a  revelation  which  should  convey 
this  knowledge  to  his  mind?  If — as  all  the 
phenomena  of  history  and  of  science  iudicat 
— the  growth  of  man  in  knowledge  of  all 
kinds  has  been  slow  smd  gradual,  then  it  must 
be  reckoned  as  incredible  that  so  refined  and 

<  comparatively  complicated  arrangement  as  the 

<  division  of  time  by  weeks  and  the  keeping  of 
:a  sabbath  should  ha¥e  been  the  property  of 
I  the  earliest  representative  of  our  race. 

-  So  far  aj  Holy  ScrlptuM  itoelf  is  ooocemed. 


it  will  be  observed  that  it  is  nowhere  hinted 
that  Adam  had  the  knowledge  imputed  t« 
him.  The  hints  of  something  resembling  the 
knowledge  in  patriarchal  times  have  been 
already  notiopd,  but  these  may  very  well  be 
explained  by  reference  to  the  natural  growth 
of  human  knowledge,  r.-ther  than  to  the 
hypothesis  of  a  primieval  tradition. 

Having  laid  the  fountains  which  arc  to  lie 
found  in  the  previous  part  of  this  paper,  I 
now  address  myself  to  tlie  consideration  i  i 
the  week  as  we  find  it  in  the  opening  «.i 
the  book  of  Genesis. 

I  propose  to  argue  that  tlie  week  did  net 
take  its  rise  from  the  sacred  histoiy,  but  tli:;t 
contrari'v^ise,  the  form  in  which  that  histoiy 
was  cast  depended  upon  the  knowledge  pos- 
sessed by  the  writer  of  the  division  of  time 
by  weeks,  and  of  the  institution  of  the  Sab 
bath. 

It  will  probably  be  admitted  by  all,  that  tlie 
accoimt  of  the  creation  given  in  the  book  of 
Genesis  was  not  the  result  of  scientific  in- 
vestigation. I  am  not  wishing  to  raise  the  old 
question  how  far  the  account  is  conmstent 
with  sdentific  truth — this  question  does  not 
now  concern  us^but  am  only  asserting  that 
th«  creative  history  cannot  be  regarded  in  tbo 
same  manner  as  that  in  which  we  regard  a 
scientific  treatise.  It  is  either  a  speculation, 
or  a  poetical  picture,  or  the  record  of  a  vision 
accorded  to  some  gifted  seer  Whichever  it 
be,  when' the  author  of  the  written  dooumeat 
which  we  possess  came  to  put  dawn  in  words 
his  speculation,  or  his  poem,  or  his  vision,  he 
would  have  to  consider,  or  rather  he  would 
instinctively  know,  what  kind  of  frameworli 
he  should  adopt  in  order  to  ^convey  hia 
thoughts  to  others.  Compare  the  case  of 
Moses,  or  the  author  of  the  original  document 
which  Moses  used,  with  that  of  St.  John  the 
Divine.  In  the  Apocalypse  St.  John  speaks 
of  things  which  he  saw  in  his  vision :  there 
were  candlesticks,  and  thrones,  and  choirs 
clothed  in  white  garments,  and  the  city  of 
Jerusalem,  and  so  forth ;  all  thoae  were  things 
with  which  he  was  familiar,  and  so  his 
vision  adapted  itself  to  and  formed  itself  up 
on  these  familiar  things.  No  one  will  for 
one  moment  maintain  the  objective  existeooo 


THE  WBEK  OF  8EYEN  DATS. 


18t 


of  thete  earthly  thiegs  in  that  heayeo,  into 
which  St.  John  was  permitted  to  peep  through 
the  open  door  :  the  vision  was  in  fact  of  ne 
oessity  to  a  great  extent  subjective ;  it  is  of  the 
very  nature  of  visions  that  this  should,  be  so. 
If,  therefore,  a  vision  of  so  absolutely  tran- 
Bcendeutal  an  event  as  the  creation  of  the  uni- 
verse be  permitted  to  the  mental  eye  of  mortal 
man,  that  vision,  when  imparted  to  others, 
must  clothe  itself  in  such  knowledge  as  the 
man  himself  possesses.  And  as  the  man, 
when  he  comes  to  record  his  vision,  will 
totiiiatively  use  his  own  language — Hebrew, 
Greek,  Latin,  whatever  it  may  be— to  express 
himself,  so  also  all  other  furniture  «of  his 
mind  will  be  naturally  put  into  requisition  in 
order  to  describe  what  he  has  seen. 

This  being  conceded,  let  us  suppose  Moses 
himself  to  have  been  the  speculator,  poet,  or 
fleer,  to  whom  the  vision  of  creation  was  for 
the  first  time  vouchsafed,  and  let  us  suppose 
that  the  division  of  time  by  Weeks  was  a 
matter  of  familiar  knowledge  to  Ho  es. 
Then,  this  being  so,  it  is  quite  intelligible 
that  the  successive  works  of  creation,  begin- 
ning with  light  and  culminating  in  man, 
should  fit  themselveJB,  as  it  were,  into  the 
framework  which  the  division  of  the  week 
snpplied.  Some  framework  would  mani- 
festly be  required,  and  thU  framework  would 
be  readv  made. 

There  would  be  an  adTantage  in  this  pre- 
sentation of  the  week,  which  would  be  anal- 
ogous to  that  which  belonged  to  the  whole 
Mosaic  cosmogony,  as  a  testimony  against 
idolatry.  The  tendency,  to  which  the  nations 
almost  universally  fell  victims,  was  to  wor- 
ship the  heavenly  bodies;  but  the  story  of 
crMdoo,  as  given  to  the  ancient  <d)urch,  dis- 
tinctly asserted  the  creature  character  of  ihese 
bodies,  and  with  great  and  emphatic  disdnct- 
iveness  man's  superiority  to  them  all;  the  first 
chapter  of  Genesis  was  an  eloquent  protest 
against  the  worship  of  the  host  of  heaven; 
and  flo,  if  there  was  a  tendency  to  connect  the 
days  of  &e  week  with  this  same  kind  of  false 
wonhip,  b^  giving  one  day  to  the  sun,  an- 
other to  the  moon,  and  so  on,  nothing  could 
more  effectually  core  this  error  than  the  ap- 
propriation of  tte  days  as  representative  of 


the  stages  of  operation  in  the  creative  work 
of  the  one  supreme  God.  The  days  did  not 
belong  to  the  planets,  owed  no  allegiance  to 
them,  and  were  not  influenced  by  them, 
however  it  might  be  true  that  the  method  of 
reckoning  them  was  due  to  the  number  of 
these  bodies;  they  were  simply  the  first,  sec- 
ond, third  ....  days ;  all  were  alike  except 
the  seventh,  upon  which  a  special  character 
was  impressed.  And  it  may  be  remarked  in 
this  connection,  that  the  Israelites  never 
adopted  the  heathen  practice,  almost  if  not 
quite  universal,  of  designating  the  days  of 
the  week  by  the  names  of  the  planets  or  of 
deities;  to  an  Israelite  Sunday  was  the  first 
day  of  the  week,  and  nothing  more ;  the 
seventh  day  was  the  Sabbath,  and  the  sixth 
was  the  day  of  Preparation,  but  no  taint  could 
Jtie  found  the  whole  week  through  of  anything 
which  could  be  twisted  or  perverted  to  idola- 
trous ends.  The  Christian  Church  has  not 
thought  it  necessary  to  take  so  much  precau- 
tion; bearing  in  mind  that  through  her  Lord 
tlie  idols  have  been  '*  utterly  abolished,"  she 
has  not  feared  to  suffer  to  remain  in  her 
nomenclature  some  of  the  relics  of  the  heathen 
past.  When  the  Society  of  Friends  endea- 
vored to  substitute  the  Jewish  system  for  that 
which  is  current  in  Christendom,  it  was  felt  that 
the  effort  was  unnecessary  and  unprofitable, 
and  it  has  consequently  failed  outside  their 
own  body.  The  mongrel  method  of  denoting 
the  days  of  the  week,  which  prevails  through- 
out Europe,  varying  from  one  country  t«»  an* 
other,  but  mongrel  in  all,  cannot  be  defended 
upon  any  except  antiquarian  principles,  but 
may  be  acknowledged  to  be  free  in  common 
use  from  all  taint  of  suxierstition  or  any 
danger  of  bringing  in  idolatry. 

I  shall  be  quite  prepared  to  find  that  the 
view  which  has  been  taken  in  this  essay  of 
the  relation  of  the  seven  days  of  Genesis  to 
the  seven  ancient  planets  will  by  some  be  re- 
garded as  objectionable,  on  the  groimd  that  it 
appears  to  conflict  with  what  appears  to  such 
persons  to  be  the  literal  interpretation  of  Holy 
Scripture.  It  may  be  said  that  the  sacred 
writer  plainly  informs  us  that  God  created  the 
universe,  the  planets  included,  in  six  days, 
and  rested  on  the  seventh,  and  that  the  num- 


188 


rr 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


ber  of  these  dayB  can,  fherefore,  haye  no 
dependence  on  the  heayenly  bodies  which 
were  created  upon  one  of  the  days.  And  I 
quite  admit  that  this  kind  of  difficulty  is 
pnmd  fade  very  plausible ;  I  have  felt  it 
strongly  myself;  I  do  not  wonder  that  others 
should  feel  it.  But  it  may  be  observed  that 
when  we  speak  of  the  **  literal  interpretation" 
of  this  portion  of  Holy  Scripture,  we  are  using 
language  which,  when  examined,  has  no  defi 
nite  meaning.  The  whole  history  of  creation 
Is  necessariUy  supra- literal.  "The  Spirit  of 
God  moved  upon  the  face  of  the  waters." 
What  literal  meaning  is  there  here?  *'God 
said,  Let  there  be  light,  and  there  was  light. " 
How  can  this  grand  description  be  taken  lii- 
eraUyf  "  God  said,  Let  us  make  man  in  our 
image,  after  our  likeness."  How  can  we 
assign  to  such  transcendental  language  any 
sense  which  can  properly  be  called  literal^ 
And  so  on  tliroughout  the  whole  creative  his- 
tory. 

Consequently  the  literal  theory  must  be 
simply  and  completely  given  up,  as  in  the 
very  nature  of  things  impossible;  and  the 
question  arises  what  shall  we  put  in  its  place. 
The  answer  seems  to  be,  that  such  a  picture  or 
sketch  of  the  origin  of  things  was  accorded  to 
the  sacred  writer,  and  placed  at  the  head  of 
Holy  Scripture,  as  was  fitted  to  the  compre- 
hension of  man,  and  fitted  to  introduce  the 
subsequent  portions  of  the  Word  of  Qod. 
The  tenacity  with  which  a  large  number  of 
persons  adhere  to  what  they  regard  as  the 
"literal  meaning"  of  the  first  chapter  of 
Genesis,  proves  with  what  wonderful  skill  the 
chapter  has  been  written;  but  when  we  come 
to  consider  what  the  literal  meaning  of  the 
phrase  **  literal  meaning"  is,  we  find  that  the 
words  are  in  their  nature  totally  inapplicable 
to  such  a  composition  as  tliat  with  which  we 
are  dealitig;  and  having  realized  this  fact,  we 
may  perhaps  find  that  there  is  another  mode 
of  interpretation  which  is  more  reasonable, 
more  free  from  difficulties,  and  which  yet 
deprives  the  sacred  narrative  of  no  particle  of 
its  meaning.  To  supply  such  a  mode  of  in- 
terpretation \s  the  purpose  of  this  essay :  if 
any  of  those  who  read  it  find  that  it  has 
thrown  light  upon  a  dark  subject,  and 


them  to  flee  their  way  through  a  difficulty 
connected  with  Holy  Scripture,  my  purpose 
in  writing  it  will  have  been  abuDdantly  ac- 
compished. — Harvey  Goodwin.  Bishop  of 
Carlisle,  in  The  Contemporary  Betieto. 


UNIVERSAL  PENNY  POSTAQR 

It  is  diverting  in  tlie  extreme  to  read  now- 
adays an  account  of  the  wof  ul  prophecies  made 
by  Rowland  Hill's  contemporaries  respocting 
that  g^nd  idea  to  which,  after  steam,  the 
world  is  chiefiy  indebted  for  the  marvelonfl 
material  and  intellectual  progress  accomplished 
during  the  last-  two  generations.  He  waa  told 
that  a  reduction  of  rates  would  bring  about 
financial  ^disaster,  that  it  would  be  used  for 
the  worst  purposes^  and'was,  in  fact,  '*iiediiioB 
made  easy."  We  know  bow  how  wrong  the 
prophets  -were,  and  •  that  by  the  supply  of  a 
cheap,  rapid^  and  trustworthy  meana  of  com- 
munication not  only  have  our  people,  high  and 
low,  enjoyed  continuous  intercourse  and  fel- 
lowship witb  absent  friends,  not  only  have 
works  of  charity  been  facilitated,  symiMthieB 
enlarged,  and  unity  of  national  feeling  pro- 
moted, but,  in  addition,  an  incalculable  admu- 
luB  has  been  given  to  trade  and  industry. 

These  advantages,  however,  are  practically 
bounded  by  the  seas  that  wash  our  eoasts.  A 
heavy  Impost  is  laid  on  all  correspondenco  with 
the  thousand  millions  of  our  fellow-ereatures 
beyond  these  shores.  Every  firm  engaged  in 
foreign  trade  has  to  make  annually  a  large  de- 
duction frem  its  inargin  of  profit  to  meet  the 
cost  of  postage.  Every  poor  man  who  has  a 
son  or  ^vother  across  the  ocean  is  compelled  to 
restrict  ^\e  exchange  of  affection  with  the  ab- 
sent one.  The  impost  in  question,  I  maintain, 
is  both  in^politic  and  unnecessary,  and  my  ob- 
ject is  to  reduce  it  to  a  reastMiable  figure^ 

The  agitation  which  those  associated  with 
me  are  conducting  is  directed  primarily  to  the 
institution  of  an  international  and  univenal 
penny  post  Secondly,  we  aim  at  securing  a 
similar  system  for  the  inhabitania  of  her  nutj- 
esty's  empire,  from  the  Orkneys  to  Tasmania, 


XJNIVEMAL  PENNY  POSTAGE. 


189 


and  from  Calcutta  to  Yancouver.    The'second- 
object,  it  will  be  observed,  \b  included  in  the 
first,  but  there  are  many  of  \is  who  believe 
that  it  will,  in  point  of  time,  be  first  secured. 
Let  it  be  distinctly  understood,  however,  that 
in  our  view  the  inestimable  blessings  of  a  post- 
age rale  within  the  reach  of  all  should  not  be 
confined  to  Englishmen,  Scotchmen,  Irishmen, 
and   Welshmen.    So  lon^^  as  there  are  vast 
tracts  of  the  earth's  surface  separated  from 
each  other  by  a  barrier  as  efiPecUve  as  oceans 
and  mountains,  in  the  sliape  of  prohibitory 
postage  rates,  so  long  shall  we  agitate  for  the 
removal  of  this  barrier.    There  are  many  of 
us  who  would  fain  see  the  provision  of  a 
cheaper  submarine  telegraph  service,  and  of  a 
cheaper  newspaper  postage;  but  these  objects, 
although  regarded  with  sympathy  and  favor, 
are  not  upon  our  programme. 

It  should  here  be  remarked  that  in  our  opin- 
ion the  state  has  no  moral  right  to  make  a 
thumping  profit  out  of  the  post  office.  The 
Poet  Office  is  not  a  branch  of  the  revenue.  It 
is,  or  should  be,  regarded  as  a  great  socialistic 
institution,  carried  on  for  the  general  benefit 
of  the  communi^.  Since  Charles  I.  establisli- 
edit,  this  vast  monopoly  has  had  the  exclusive 
right  of  carrying  our  correspondence,  and  we 
are  compelled  by  law  to  submit  to  any  exaction 
which  it  may  enforce.  Now  it  is  easy  to  show 
that  the  taxation  raised  by  means  of  this  insti- 
tutton  is  of  a  character  utterly  opposed  to 
economical  science,  and  even  to  common  Jus 
tice.  A  large  part  of  the  business  of  life  is 
now  entirely  dependent  on  the  postman's 
agency.  There  are  hosts  of  great  undertak- 
ings, each  employing  hundreds,  or  even  thou- 
sands, of  men,  which  could  not  be  continued 
for  a  week  without  his  assistance.  Probably 
one  half  of  the  documents  dispatched  through 
the  postr-^certainly  throu^  the  post  to  foreign 
countries — consist  of  business  letters.  An- 
other large  proportion  is  sent  by  persons  of 
small  means,  who  have  many  stern  induce- 
ments to  save  their  pence.  In  other  words, 
one  half  of  our  postal  revenue  is  derived  from 
a  tax  on  trade,  and  another  large  portion  from 
a  fine  on  the  expression  of  natural  affection 
among  the  poorest  classes  of  the  community. 
It  is  obvious  that  for  ten  letters  exchanged  be- 


tween friends  and  relatives  of  the  well-to-do 
classes  ninety  at  least  will  be  exchangedamong 
the  classes  who  have  to  count  their  pence.  We 
therefore  insist  that  the  state  is  not  justified  in 
levying  more  money  through  the  post  office 
than  is  necessary  for  the  efficient  working  of 
the  concern. 

The  true  principle,  we  maintain,  is  for  the 
state  to  encourage  those  operations  of  com- 
merce which  result  in  the  receipt  of  large  or* 
ders  from  the  foreigner  for  British  goods,  and 
consequentlyin  the  furnishing  of  employment 
to  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  of  British 
workmen.  We  further  hold  that  the  post 
office  should  be  regarded  as  a  homogeneous 
entity,  having  but  one  end,  to  facilitate  the 
intercommunication  of  the  citizens;  benefiting 
the  community  as  a  whole,  and  paid  for  by 
the  conmiunity  as  a  whole.  It  follows  that 
profits  made  in  one  direction  may  fairly  be  set 
off  against  losses  sustained  in  another.  Thus 
the  profit  on.  London  letters  may  be  applied  to 
meet  the  expenditure  on  the  telegraph,  the 
parcels,  or  the  foreign  postal  service. 

It  is  objected  that  such  a  contribution  would 
practically  come  out  of  the  taxpayer's  pocket, 
and  that  it  would  be  in  the  nature  of  a  bounty 
on  our  trade  with  foreign  or  colonial  customers. 
Well,  I  never  could  see  much  harm  in  the 
system  of  bounties  to  itssist  struggling  indus- 
tries. It  is  adopted  with  success  in  several 
countries  with  which  I  am  acquainted.  But 
granted  that  a  bounty  is  wrong,  why  i^  it 
wrong?  Because,  says  the  political  economist, 
it  is  a  tax  on  the  community  to  support  a  small 
section  of  workers,  and  enable  that  section  to 
charge  the  community  more  for  its  goods  than 
a  foreign  producer  would  take.  But  a  con- 
tribution to  the  cost  of  the  foreign  and  colon- 
ial postage  benefits  the  entire  community,  in 
so  far  as  it  consists  of  letter- writers;  and  as 
regards  the  effect  on  prices,  it  must  be  re- 
membered that  the  goods  in  question  are  pur- 
chased abroad  from  our  merchants.  The  re- 
sult is,  therefore,  to  enable  the  British  mer- 
chants to  compete  successfully  abroad  for 
work  to  be  done  by  British  workmen  at  home. 
No  English  consumer  would  pay  a  farthing 
more  for  his  goods. 

Furthermore,  the  initial  stages  of  industry 


140 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


deserve  and  require  tender  treatment;  any- 
tiling  like  repressive  taxation  is  ruinous.  If 
our  foreign  commerce  is  to  be  taxed,  let  us  tax 
the  export  of  tlic  finished  article,  not  the  in- 
fant sproutings  of  that  commerce.  Foreign 
nations  arc  quite  alive  to  tlie  necessity  of  en- 
couraging their  foreign  trade,  and  even  in  this 
very  fashion.  On  an  average  a  foreign  mer- 
chant is  charged  by  his  government  for  a  let- 
ter to  the  East  just  half  what  our  government 
exacts.  Germany  has  started  a  line  of  packets 
to  Australia,  and  pays  £200,000  per  annum  as 
subsidy.  The  French  Government  is  about  to 
increase  its  large,  annual  subventions  to  tlie 
trans- oceanic  line?.  A  Grerman  letter  to  the 
English  colony  of  Australia  costs  2yL.;  an 
English  one  of  the  salne  weight  6d.  Now,  ii 
it  be  worth  the  while  of  France  and  Germany 
to  make  sacrifices  for  the  sake  of  the  trade 
with  the  refuse  of  the  earth  which  our 
settlers  have  left  for  them  to  colonize,  what 
shall  be  said  of  England's  obligations,  4vith 
whole  continents  for  settlement  and  300,000,- 
000  of  possible  corresppndents  through  the 
post? 

The  immense  importance  to  this  country  of 
our  Australasian  trade  will  hardly  at  this  date 
be  disputed.  But  it  may  be  well  to  recall  the 
fact  tliat  of  late  years  our  trade  with  foreign 
nations  has  steadily  declined,  owing  to  the  de- 
velopment of  their  manufacturing  power,  and 
that  our  trade  returns  must  have  ishown  an 
Immense  deficiency  but  for  one  fact.  That 
fact  is  the  encouraging  increase  in  our  trade 
with  our  colonies,  which  has  more  than  cov- 
ered the  deficiency  all uded  to.  Our  legislators 
have  small  personal  interest  in  this  matter. 
The  millions  of  poor  emigrants  living  in  the 
colonies  are  drawn  from  other  and  poorer 
classes  than  those  which  supply  members  to 
the  two  houses;  and  with  few  exceptions  the 
legislator  has  no  business  connection  with  the 
colonies.  It  is  therefore  difficult  for  Parlia- 
ment to  realize  the  hardship  and  obstruction 
to  business,  and  the  misery  to  the  relatives 
of  emigrants,  caused  by  the  prevailing  rates 
of  postage.  It  is  a  x)OBitive  scandal  that  in 
this  nineteenth  century  a  poor  citizen  who 
moves  from  one  part  of  this  mighty  empire  to 
another  is  almost  as  hopelessly  divided  from 


his  family  as  a  legionary  of  Cffisar*s  army  was 
from  Rome  one  thousand  nine  himdred  years 
ago. 

In  1889  (before  Sir  Rowland  Hill's  penny 
postage  was  instituted)  82,000,000  letters  were 
carried  in  the  United  Kingdom.  In  1840 
(after  the  adoption  of  that  system)  the  number 
flew  up  to  160,000,000.  Last  year  more  than 
1,000,000,000  letters  were  delivered,  170,000.- 
000  post-cards,  800.000,000  packets,  etc.,  ond 
100,000,000  of  newspapers.  Last  year  Aus- 
tralia sent  and  received  from  England  6.000,- 
000  letters,  8,000.000  newspapers,  and  1,500,- 
000  packets.  This  represents  an  average  of 
two  letters  per  head  of  the  Australian  popu- 
lation; a  miserably  small  correspondence,  if 
we  remember  that  the  average  number  of  let- 
ters exchanged  among  tliemselves  by  the  Aus- 
tralians is  the  highest  recorded  by  the  nations 
of  the  earth.  When  we  remember,  too,  that 
every  child  now  receives  a  fair  education,  and 
that  the  means  of  locomotion  over  the  globe 
ate  growing  cheaper  and  more  rapid,  it  is  easy 
to  foresee  that  the  army  of  letter-writers  will 
soon  include  thcentiVe  population.  But  to  re- 
turn to  our  figures : — The  profit  of  the  post 
office  amounted  last  year  to  £8,000.000.  This 
revenue  is  growing  at  'the  rate  of  £40,000  a 
year.  In  other  words,  the  estimated  cost  of 
the  penny  post  proposed  by  me  would  be  cov- 
ered within  a  decade,  even  supposing  that  not 
one  single  person  wrote  a  single  letter  in  con- 
sequence of  the  lowering  of  the  Rite  from  6d 
told. 

Let  us  further  consider  a  few  of  the  anoma- 
lies and  inequalities  under  the  preTailing 
system.  To  the  West  Indies,  West  Africa, 
and  the  Manritius  the  post  office  charges  4d. 
for  every  half  ounce,  while  otlier  countries  in 
Europe  send  letters  to  be  carried  by  English 
steamers  at  2id  To  India  we  pay  6d.  for 
every  half  ounce,  and  l^<f.  for  every  news- 
paper of  four  oimces;  and  the  other  European 
countries  can  send  their  correspondence  for 
just  half  what  we  pay.  We  pay  2^4.  to  post 
to  Ispahan  rid  Russia,  and  5d.  irid  ^e  Persian 
Gulf,  that  is,  by  our  own  route.  Australian 
postage  is  similarly  punished.  Why  should  a 
letter  to  Tahiti  cost  2^.  and  one  to  Mel- 
bourne  6(1.?  Some  firms  already  find  it  dieaper 


UNIVERBAL  PENNY  POSTAGE. 


141 


xo  send  a  clerk  to  post  their  letters  in  Belgium 
or  France. 

Letters  can  be  sent  vid  Russia  to  Japan  for 
2^.,  for  a  great  distance  orerland ;  while  we 
are  charged  6d.  for  a  letter  to  the  not  distant 
colony  at  the  Cape,  the  letter  being  carried 
the  whole  way  by  water.  The  French  Gov- 
ernment already  carries  a  post-card  to  New 
Caledonia,  one  thousand  miles  beyond  Aus- 
tralia, for  Id.  We  charge  2^.  for  carrying  a 
letter  by  water  from  Folkestone  to  Boulogne, 
or  32  miles;  and  Id,  for  carrying  one  by  rail 
to  tlie  Orkneys,  over  700  miles.  For  com- 
mercial papers  posted  here  to  the  East  we  pay 
Hd.,  while  on  the  Continent,  the  charge  is 
only  2^1.  The  charge  for  sample  packets 
Bent  from  England  is  three  times  what  it  is 
from  the  Continent. 

In  several  colonies  there  is  no  charge  for 
the  conveyance  of  newspapers;  and  in  many 
European  countries  the  charge  is  a  farthing, 
or  even  one -tenth  of  a  penny.  It  is  argued 
by  tlie  officials  that  we  belong  to  the  Postal 
Fnicm,  and  must  abide  by  our  baigain.  The 
terms  of  the  Union  are  that  the  charge  for 
foreign  postage  is  to  be  2|<f.,  with  power  to 
charge  an  extra  2^.  for  the  ocean*  service. 
England  is  the  only  country  that  takes  advan- 
tage of  tbis  power,  so  that  we  pay  2^.  mor  > 
for  a  letter  to  India  than  if  wo  were  to  send  it 
from  a  foreign  country.  The  argument  of 
the  post  office  is  that  we  must  carry  for  mem- 
bers of  the  Union  at  these  low  rates,  under 
the  provisions  of  the  convention,  as  the  price 
will  pay  for  countervailing  advantages,  on 
the  continent  and  elsewhere.  But  they  say 
loss  accrues  on  this  branch  of  the  service,  and 
we  have  no  obligation  to  treat  our  country- 
men as  well  as  we  treat  the  foreigner.  This 
precious  argument,  stated  nakedly,  is  this : 
"  We  will  lax  Englishmen  by  means  of  heavy 
rates,  in  order  to  enable  business  men  of  the 
Continent  to  cut  out  English  trade  in  the 
East  and  in  the  English  colonies.*'  So  even 
the  post  office  surplus  does  not  all  go  to  pay 
the  expense  of  our  little  wars  and  tl\(3  cost  of 
our  administration  ;  it  is  partly  paid  over  as  a 
sabsidy  to  our  foreign  commercial  competi- 
tors. « 

Now  we  propose  that  as  a  beginning  an 


ocean  postage  should  be  established,  convey- 
ing letters  by  rapid  steamers  from  our  shores 
to  our  colonies  and  to  foreign  countries  separ- 
ated from  us  by  water.  If  it  be  thought 
proper,  let  a  committee  be  appointed  first  to 
inquire  into  the  feasibili^  of  this  scheme. 
Let  the  contracts  for  carriage  of  letters  be 
thrown  open  to  public  corai)etition.  We 
should  thus  save  the  enormous  charges  levied 
by  the  French  and  Italians  on  our  corre- 
spondence for  railway  carriage  from  Calais  to. 
Brindisi,  and  instead  of  the  loss  foretold  by 
the  post  office,  we*  should  be  able,  I  think, 
to  diarge  one  penny  per  letter,  and  out  of 
that  penny  defray  the  entire  cost  of  carriage. 

Of  course  it  would  be  necessary  before 
dealing  with  the  countries  belonging  to  tlie 
Union  to  call  a  conference,  and  obtain  their 
permission.  This  I  belieye  would  be  readily 
granted.  But  to  deal  with  oiu*  colonies  no 
such  preliminaries  are  re  quired. 

At  present  the  price  charged  for  the  con- 
veyance of  letters  to  Australia  is  6t2.  per 
letter  of  half  an  ounce  in  weight,  or  no  less 
than  £1,792  per  ton.  Now  a  newspaper 
weighing  four  ounces  can  be  sent  to  the  end 
of  the  earth  for  Id.  A  letter  of  the  same 
weight  would  cost  4«.  We  might  send  eight 
letters  for  Id.,  but  we  offer  the  Government 
Sd.  for  the  eijiht  letters.  The  cost  of  carriage 
of  goods  by  a  first-class  steamship  is  only  408, 
per  ton,  or  four  pounds  and  two  thirds  of  a 
pound  for  a  penny,  to  Australia.  The  postal 
authorities  might  pay  the  steamship  owners 
U.  per  pound.  At  Id.  per  letter  thirty- two 
letters  would  cost  the  public  2s.  Sd.  The 
postal  authorities  would  then  have  1«.  8d.  for 
the  cost  of  delivery.  As  pointcjd  out  by  ont 
of  my  warmest  supporters,  we  are  now  com- 
pelled to  pay  £5  postage  to  send  two  hundred 
letters  to  Australia.  If  permitted  we  rould 
send  the  parcel  for  Ss.  M. ,  or  one-fifth  of  a 
penny  per  letter,  leaving  four-fifths  for  cost 
of  delivery.  It  is  well  to  remember  that  there 
is  a  clause  in  a  well-known  post  office  statute 
compelling  steamers  to  convey  letters  if  re- 
quired at  the  rate  of  one  penny  per  letter 
from  England  to  any  port  in  the  empire. 

What  are  the  objections  to  the  proposal? 
*'Some  people,"  it  has  been  observed,  "would 


142 


THE  LIBIIART  MAGAZINE. 


be  afraid  that  their  relatives  abroad  would 
want  them  to  write  more  frequently."  But 
this  objection  is  perhaps  a  kind  of  joke»  difi9- 
cult  of  (perception  by  an  Austial  an,  who  has 
experienced  of  ttimes  the  pleasure  of  receiving 
a  letter  from  home. 

A  more  serious  cry  is  that  our  system  would 
involve  a  loss  of  revenue,  reckoned  by  the 
post  office  at  £400,000  at  least.  It  is  aston- 
ishini^  how  blind  men  can  be  to  the  lessons  of 
the  inland  penny  post.  The  cheapening  of 
the  transit  of  goods  or  letters  inevitably  brings 
its  reward  in  the  shape  of  .increased  business. 
What  is  the  lesson  of  170,000,000  post-cards 
sent  last  year?  Why,  tliat  the  supply  of  the 
clieaper  missives  had  developed  that  immense 
body  of  correspondents,  for  the  number  of 
letters  is  as  great  *  as  ever.  We  in  short 
blankly  deny  the  possibility  of  loss.  Of  the 
deficit  of  £360,000  a  year  the  Australian  ser 
vice  is  not  responsible  for  one  penny.  Two 
thirds  of  the  loss  are  incurred  in  respect  of 
thQ,,  Indian  and  Chinese  service.  The  Aus- 
tralian corr^pondenee  was  carried  last  year 
for  £270,000.  With  this  enormous  subsidy 
we  could  have  a  first-class  mail  service.  The 
Australasian  Governments  are  paying  sub- 
sidies to  half-a-dozen  lines,  whereas  by  eom- 
bination  one  first-rate  service  could  be  had  at 
a  vast  reduction.  The  subsidies  paid  by  the 
post  office  are  bi  many  cases  inordinate,  and 
unconscionable. 

But  it  is  said  the  public  demands  speed  In 
the  transmission  of  its  correspondence.  This 
Is  true  only  of  a  small  section  ef  the  writing 
public.  Take  one  i3lass  of  correspondents 
— men  of  business.  -It  is  notorious  that  all 
urgent  matters  are.  settled  by  the  use  of  the 
telegraph  and  cipher  codes.  As  to  the  re- 
maiDiug  class  of  wriUirs  to  the  colonies  and 
foreign  countries,  ■  wIm  deal  with  private  mat- 
ters of  fanoily  andl  individusd  interest^  they 
would  be  thaokful^  for.  a  reduction  of  five 
siztlis  in  the  cost  of  postage,  -at  the  prioe  of  a 
delay  of, 'Say,  ooe-fixteenth  in  the  time  of 
ttansmissioiL  The  gt«at  use  made  of  post- 
cards shows  this.  Bemember  that -steamers 
are  being  bulU  able  to  eonvey  letters  to  Aus- 
tralia in  !^  days.  At  present  the  time  cxm;u- 
|>ied  by  way  of  BrindiBi..is  A5>.di^.    The 


machinery  is  ready  to  our  hand.  Not  an 
extra  train  or  ship  would  be  required.  As 
it  is,  the  American  mails  are  on  Tuesday, 
Thursday,  and  Saturday,  but  the  packets  all 
enter  New  York  on  Saturday  and  Sunday, 
making  the  arrangement  practically  but  one 
mail.  But  if  this  objection  as  to  speed  of 
transmission  be  seriously  urged,  I  hereby  offer 
to  construct  three  first-class  telegraph  cable 
lines  to  India  and  Australia,  and  to  convey 
messages  over  them  free  of  cost  for  a  subsidy 
of  £300,000,  or  the  sum  now  lost  on  the 
foreign  and  colonial  post 

I  have  considered  in  the  foregoing^  remarks 
chiefly  the  branch  of  our  object  described  as 
imperial  penny  postage.    But  I  am  anxious 
not  to  lose  sight  of  the  wider,  grander  vision 
of  a  world -post  at  the  same  low  rate,  to  which 
the  success  of  the  lesser  scheme  should  lead. 
I  believe  that  the  surest  way  to  cement  exist- 
ing international  friendships,  to  wipe  out  the 
recollection  of  past  strife,  to  develop  intelli- 
gent sympathy  in  the  affairs  of  other  races,  to 
foster  trade,  on  which  the  prosperity  of  the 
w.ealthiest  and  mightiest  peoples  hangs,  to 
make  war  tmpossiUe,  and  to  reap  the  full 
fruit  of  Christian  civilization,  is  to  adopt  this 
view  in  its  entirety.    We  should  not  lack  the 
eager  coiVperation  of  other  governments.    I 
have  already  received    letters  from  official 
nepnesentatLves   of    Austria    and    Denmark, 
warmly.  4ipproving  of  the  idea  which  I  advo- 
cate.   We  have,  I  believe,  in  the  present  post- 
master-general a  man  worthy  of  the  occasion, 
alive  to  the  teaching  c^  .postal  history,  con- 
scious of  001^  reaporndbiU;^,  .both.as  an  im- 
perial powers  the  first  order«  and  as  leoog-' 
nized    leaded   in  the    path  of  ^economical 
progiess.  and  deeply  penetrated  with  the  con- 
viction that  we  must  at  this  critical  nnmient 
put  forth  .our  utmost  efforts  to  maintain  our 
place  in  the  great  markets  of-  the  ^orld.    Is 
it  presumptuous  to  express  a  hope  that  he 
will,  in  boQor  of  this  jubilse  year  of  her 
majesty's  reigm  complete^e  beaeflceat  work 
»of  Sir  Rowland  Hill,  «nd  win.  everlasting  re- 
nown idt  itimself ,  by  making  communication 
between  the  natiooajof  the  earth  "as  easy  as 
speech,  as  free  as  air?*'— J.  Hbnkikeb-Hjba- 


CURIiENT   THOUQHT. 


148 


CfURRENT  THOUGHT. 

Thb  KaBOPEAS  "Bajlanok  or  Powbb.^^— *'One  re- 
Wiilt,**  myp  the  Saturday  Jieview,  ^'of  the  collective 
•ttpremacy  of  the  Fire  Powers  ie  the  exemption  of  the 
minor  GoTemmente  from  all  responsibility  for  the 
condition  of  Europe.  The  petty  German  and  Italian 
States,  indeed,  are  now  constituent  parts  of  great 
moaarefaies;  bat  such  countries  as  Belgium,  Holland, 
and  Portngal,  and  even  Spain,  though  they  maintain 
eonaiderable  armies,  are  supposed  to  have  nothing  to 
do  with  the  balance,  of  power  or  the  maintenance  of 
European  police.  Their  security  might  be  impaired  if 
a  geseral  w^r  wereio  break  out  Both  Belgium  and 
.  Holjand  were  threatened  with  the  hostility  of  .one  or 
both  belligerents  in  the  war  of  1870;  but  their  inde- 
pendence has  not  been  actually  assailed.  If  they 
could  be  assured  of  perpetual  neutrality,  their  condi- 
tion might  be  considered  enviable.  Norway  and 
Sweden  and  the  two  Peninsular  kingdoms  may  be 
considered  as  beyond  the  reach  of  aggrenslon.  At  the 
other  extremity  of  the  Continent  the  liberated  Tnrkish 
provinces  have  purchased  tneir  freedom  at  the  cost  of 
being  exceptionally  exposed  to  the  danger  of  war. 
Boumania  was  forced  io  follow  Bnssia  Into  an  unpro- 
voked attack  upon  Turkey,  Servia  having  in  the 
previous  year  been  induced  by  the  same  Power  to 
prepare  the  way  for  an  attack  on  the  Ottoman  Empire. 
1fontene<;To,  Servia,  Bulgaria,  and  Ronmania  are  al- 
ways liable  to  be  dragged  into  war  as  subordinate 
allies  of  Austria  or  Russia.  There  is  no  reason  to 
suppose  that  either  together  or  separately  they  will  at 
any  future  time  have  the  means  of  pursuing  a  policy 
of  their  own.  The  old  English  plan  of  supporting 
Turkey  against  Russia  was  founded  on  conildence  In 
the  military  resources  of  the  former.  It  was  known 
that  the  Turks  were  almost  unequaled  as  soldiers*  and 
that  the  numeroas  attempts  of  Russia  to  gain  posses- 
sion of  Constantinople  and  tbe  narrow  seas  had  been 
successfully  baffled.  It  was  foreseen  that,  as  th^  re- 
sult has»howxL,  any  provinces  which  might  be  detached 
from  the  Ottoman  Empire  would  become  auxiliaries  of 
Russia.  It  is  doubtful  whether  the  efforts  of  General 
Kaulbarsand  his jnaster  wiD  have  effected  the  result 
of  permanently  alienating  even  the  Bulgarians.*^ 

Tbs  CHABaom  mp  Bnnmf.-Jolm  Raskin  Is  one  of 
the  greatest  of  living  men,  and  Ms  greatest  of  living 
literary  masters.  The'*tbonghts  of  •^is  fertile  «nd 
generous  mind,  bathed  in  the  glow*  of  his  imperial  Im- 
agination, have  found  abiding  reoord  in  o«r  literature, 
asDd  furnish  no  small  part  of  its^cichertreasurM.  And 
bow  remarkable  is  ihe  vossaUIity.  of  Mr.  Buskin's  gen- 
ius which  has  not  only  explored  and  illumined  ^the 
Wide  area  of  nature,  and  art,  and  science,  but  has  Also 
shed  its  light  on  the  greatest  social  proWemsof^e 
agtt  as  well  as  on  the  deepest  i^aettiens  of  moraUty 
and  religipn.  And  he  is  so  taoder^aod  aompassionate 
wlthaJ,  carrying  mto  all  the  varied  subjects  which  he 
treata  the  spirit  of  the  pitying  ^viour  of  thO' -world, 
fiis  works  are  nchly  tinctved  with  the  blood  of  hl« 
ovu  iiimoet  life;  lie«peaka'>to^tta  nmtiprqftsdonaUy 
but  Awnon/y,  and  ever  beneath  the  iaaight  •!<  (ha 


poet,  and  the  penetration  of  the  philosopher,  we  trace 
the  beating  of  a  great,  loving  heart.  The  sacredneaa 
of  individual,  human  life ;  the  solemnity  of  the  living, 
acting,  present  aathe  foundation  and  the  germ  of  the 
far-reaching  future ;  the  passing  strength  of  the  body; 
the  powers  of  the  mind ;  the  susceptibilities  of  tl^ 
heart ;  the  sanctity  of  the  will ;  the  inestimable  value 
of  honest  work,  however  lowly  or  even  mean  it  may 
appear :  the  inseparablenessof  privilege  from  service, 
and  the  identification  of  the  blessings  of  life  with  its 
duties ;  the  glory  of  freedom.  And  4he  strength  of 
freedom^s  battle ;  the  •cheapness  of  the  purest,  truest 
happiness ;  the  fixed  relation  of  art  to  truth  and  to 
reality:  the  joy  whicb  nature  gives  to  all  who  love 
her ;  the  beauty  of  purity,  and  the  shame  of  the  un- 
clean ;  the  blessedness  of  the  righteous,  and  the  curse 
which  cleaves  to  wrong-doing,  whether  individual  or 
national ;  how  God  gives  His  grace  to  the  humble.  His 
love  to  the  obedient,  His  favor  to  the  faithful  and  His 
spirit  to  those  who  seek  it  and  do  His  commands ; 
these  are  the  themes  of  which  John  Ruskin  treats, 
adorning  everything  he  touches.  Like  all  truly  great 
men,  he  has  his  detractors,  and  there  are  some  in 
whom  the  vision  is  dim,  becau^  the  life  is  mean,  who 
contemn  his  high  i;eachlngs  as  mere  matters  of  senti- 
ment and  poetic  fancy,  but  these  we  will  dismiss  in 
his  own  noble  words  where  he  says :— ''Because  I  have 
passed  my  life  in  almsgiving,  not  in  fortune-hunting.; 
becsnse  I  have  labored  always  for  the  honor  of  others, 
not  my  own  ;  and  have  chosen  rather  to  make  men 
look  to  Turner  and  Luinl,  than  to  form  or  exhibit  the 
skill  of  my  own  hand ;  because  I  have  lowered  my 
rents  and  assured  the  comfortable  lives  of  my  poor 
tenants,  instead  of  taking  from  them  all  I  could  force 
for  the  roofs  they  needed;  because  I  love  a  wood  walk 
better  than  a  London  street,  and  would  rather  wat(Si 
a  sea-gull  fly  than  shoot  it,  and  rather  hear  a  thrush 
sing  than  eat  it ;  finally,  because  I  never  disobegred  my 
mothei;  and  becanse  I  have  honored  all  women  with 
solemn  worship,  and  have  been  kind  to  the  unthankful 
and  the  evU ;  therefore  the  hacks  of  English  art  and 
literature  wag  their  heads  at  me,  and  the  poor  wretch 
who  pawns  the  dirty  iinea  of  his  soul  daily  for  a  bot- 
tle of  sour  winfi  and  a  cigar  talks  of  the  effiBmlnate 
sentimentality  of  Ruskin.''— Queri/«. 

SuBOPSAN  War  '  Bu*jiiiDrriniiBB.— The^London  jfljpes- 
Mor  says:-~ 

"There  seems-  to  lie  na  limit  t»  the  expendttuse  on 
war.  Europe  will  spend  In.  this  year  and  the  two 
following  at  least  £10^000.000  tipoD  the  new  rifle,  and 
BOW  the  French  Minister  of  Marine  Ims  Introduced  a 
bHl  demanding  ,£0,080,000,  -wlfiofa  will  probably  be 
doubled,  for  the  complete  reorganisation  of  the 
^ench  fleet  'Bb  daes  not  -believe,  it  appears,  ta 
great  ironelada,  and  desiies  swifter  and  smaller  ves- 
sels. It  should  be  observed,' too,  that  all  this  outlay 
in  pteparation  for  war  does  not  make  war  Itself  any 
Cheaper.  General  Skobeleff  is  reported  to  have  said 
thattheTartar  eonqneror^iUd  not  raise  lotos;  but  as 
a-matter  of  fact,  modem  nittions  begin- war  wtthhuge 
borrawlngv.  Even  Bossia  Issues  quantities  of  paper, 
mbkth.  Is  ■fttMng  batttr  tkana  losoed  Joan,  -anbaeribed 


U4 


THB  UBRABT  MAGAZINE. 


by  every  peaaaot  and  trader  in  the  conatry.  The  Be- 
poblice  epend  as  mach  as  the  deapote;  and  onr  own 
mixed  monarchy— which  is  so  free  alike  from  self-will 
and  tnrbnlence— spends  more  than  anybody,  the  total 
at  home  and  in  India  being  equal  to  the  creation  of  a 
new  national  debt  every  twenty«five  years.  And 
thonj^h  the  world  is  supposed  to  be  growing  wiser 
every  day,  there  is  not  the  slightest  prospect  of  any 
redaction,  or  of  the  establishment  of  any  international 
tribunal  strong  enough  to  compel  obedience  to  its 
decrees.  The  only  tribunal  at  this  moment  is  Prince 
Bismarck;  and  he  refuses  to  act.^* 

On  "Second  Sight."— "It  was  a  very  wet  after- 
noon,*' writes  Andrew  Lang,  in  Lonffman'^t  Magaztne, 
"and  I  was  walking  along  in  conversation  with  a 
charming  old  Highlander.  He  carried  my  rod  and 
creel  (empty),  but  his  conversation  was  as  good  as  any 
one  is  likely  to  find  anywhere.  He  spoke  of  Mont- 
rose's wars,  and  was  not  on  the  side  of  the  Argyles. 
He  spoke  of  the  Taishiaragfi  (I  think  he  called  it)  or 
second  sight.  *£very  man  sees  three  sights  in  his  life- 
time they  say,'  he  remarked,  and  confessed  that  he 
had  not  even  seen  one  ^sight'  yet  *Bat  there  is  a  man 
at  Fort  William  who  sees  everything  that  is  going  to 
happen.'  I  suggested  that  this  gentleman  might  make 
a  rapid  fortune  if  he  would  turn  his  inspired  gaze  on 
the  British  turf,  but  at  that  moment  we  noticed  a  great 
brown  smoke  hanging  in  the  wet  air.  It  was  an  eviction. 
The  'sight'  was  not  of  the  supernatural  kind  which  the 
gillie  spoke  of,  but  it  was  fit  to  make  a  mark  on  the 
memory.  Beyond  the  river  there  was  a  high,  wooded 
hill,  all  bine  in  the  rain.  Against  this  the  smoke  arose 
white,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  clear  red  flame  the  black 
gables  of  the  burning  cottage  stood  out  clear.  There 
were  some  sappy,  green  bunches  of  tre^s  by  the  gable; 
on  the  grass  near  the  roadside  a  woman  was  trying  to 
cover  her  property— chairs,  table,  and  an  old  delf  din 
ner  service,  aJl  very  decent  furniture.  The  old  gillte 
was  very  much  excited,  and  full  of  anger  and  pity. 
The  pony  saw  it,'  he  said,  'this  is  what  the  pony  sa^r.' 
He  referred  to  a  misdemeanor  of  our  pony,  which 
had  shied  violently  as  we  drove  down  the  road  in  the 
morning.  To  me  it  seemed  that  the  horse  was  alarmed 
by  a  big  sheep  which  bad  bounced  np  under  its  nose, 
but  my  friend  credited  the  pony  with  the  TaUhtaragh. 
The  beasts  see  things  we  cant  see,'  he  told  me.  This 
gift  is  very  interesting,  bnt  it  would  not  comfort  me 
to  have  my  neck  broken  by  a  prophetic  qnadrnped,  be- 
cause a  farmer  I  did  not  know  waa  going  to  be  evicted. 
The  case  of  the  farmer,  If  It  was  correctly  reported, 
seemed  to  illustrate  the  Titanic  Celtic  temper  very 
well.  He  had  not  paid  a  penny  of  rent  for  four  years. 
The  rent  may  have  been  high,  but  he  sorely  mlghdfaave 
paid  some  of  it.  Yet,  thoogh  he  had  economized  in 
rent,  he  was  unable  to  pay  his  other  creditors,  and  his 
stock  and  cattle  had  bdsn  sold  np.  An  Englishman 
wonld  have  perhaps  thonght  it  well  to  leave  a  farm 
which  he  conld  not  maka  profitable,  when  he  had 
monagr  and  stock.  Bnt  the  Celtic  tenant  simply  de- 
clined to  leave,  in  spite  of  many  requests  and  warn- 
lDgs»  Tte  bnmlng  af  his  houses  it  was  stid,  waa  an 
asuapla  of  trap  tU  aUi  on  the  pari  of  the  meateagBr 


at  arms,  who  exceeded  his  inatmetions.  It  waa  cer> 
tainly  a  miserable  and  ill-advised  action.  But,  as  we 
slowly  climbed  the  hill,  and  saw  the  smoke  clinging  to 
the  valley,  and  saw  the  blackened  beama  of  an  old 
family  home,  we  seemed  to  discern  the  dUrarences  be- 
tween our  race  and  the  Celtic  peoples.  We  have  lost 
the  old  poetical  beliefs,  the  Tdishtaragh  and  the  rest 
of  it  No  Bnglish  beater  nor  nnder-keeper  (except 
Kingsley's  poet  of  gamekeeping  life)  conld  have 
talked  as  that  old  gillie  talked,  an  unschooled  man,  to 
whom  Bnglish  was  a  foreign  tongne,  half  learned. 
History  was  tradition  to  him.  a  living  oral  legend.  Bat 
we  can  recognize  th^  nature  and  pressure  of  facts, 
without  which  sad  knowledge  society  would  revert 
into  barbarism  in  a  fortnight" 

Good  LirxiUTirRB  in  Canada.— Mr.  G.  Mercer  Adaa 
thus  writes  in  the  Toronto,  Canada,  Week: — 

"  Carlyle  has  told  us,  with  his  usual  imprcssiveneaa, 
that  *  books,  like  men's  souls,  are  divided  into  sheep 
and  goats ;'  and  accepting  the  dictum  it  behooves  tboee 
who  would  keep  themselves  unspotted  f|>cm  the  world 
to  know  and  choose  tbeir  company.    Wtlbin  the  allot- 
ted span  of  life,  it  is  given  to  no  man  to  know  every- 
thing.   Even  the  omnivorous  reader,  not  compelled  to 
be  economical  of  time,  would  be  hard  put  to  it  to  separ- 
ate a  tithe  of  the  literature  of  the  day  into  the  diverse 
folds  of  the  sheep  and  the  goats.    In  these  days  it  is 
not  the  fault  of  publlsl^rs  If  the  present  generation  is 
not  omniscient.    Good  books  were  never  more  cheap 
or  abundant    A  modest  sum  nowadays  would  buy  al- 
most the  whole  realm  of  English  literature.    One  may 
purchase  Bunyan's  immortal  allegory  for  a  penny,  ail 
of  Shakespeare's  plays  for  sixpence;  while  a  set  of 
Buskin,  which  not  long  ago  was  In  England  held  at 
five  hundred  dollars,  may  be  bought  on  this  aide  for  u 
many  cents.    The  wave  of  cheap  literature,  which  for 
many  years  past  has  flung  its  rich  wreckage  on  the 
shores  of  this  continent,  and  swept  up  its  waterw^'S 
with  fertilizing  power,  has  now  crossed  the  Atlantic, 
and  is  beating  with  marked  Impress  on  the  white  elifb 
of  Albion.    There,  to-day,  thanks  to  the  enterprise  of 
the  publishers  and  the  limitations  of  copyright,  a  few 
pence  will  buy  the  most  treasured  of  English  classics. 
The  sale  of  these  popnlar  editions  on  this  side  is,  we 
learn,  unhappily  limited.    This,  we  dare  say.  Is  owing 
partly  to  the  fact  that  the  *  standard  authors,'  till  now^ 
in  the  main,  high>prlced  in  England,  have  long  been 
accessible  to  all  classes  of  readers  In  this  country. 
But  is  not  the  limited  sale  acconnted  for  by  the  aggres- 
sions of  contemporary   anthocs— chiefly  aensattonal 
novelists—whose  productions  have  all  bnt  swamped 
those  of  the  older  writers,  and  the  reading  of  which 
has  in  some  measure  perverted  the  taste  necessary  for 
their  enjoyment?  Nevertheless,  the  sale  on  this  side  of 
the  Atlantic  is  not  small  of  the  works  of  what  ars 
termed  *onr  best  authors :'  and  though  the  aewspapei 
and  the  illustrated  periodical  are  the  chief  reading  of 
the  masses,  a  large  and  ever-4nereaaing  oonstitaenry 
seeks  to  be  famihar  with  the  maaterpiecea  of  the  Isii 
gnage  whlcfa  bava  long  bean  onr  inatraetlo&  and  '(^ 
light" 


ROMANES  VERSUS  DARWIN. 


145 


ROMANES  FER^ra  DARWIN. 

AN  EPI80DJS  IN   THE  HI8TOKT   OF    THE  EVO* 
LUTION  THSORT. 

[m  TWO  PARTS. — PART  H.] 

I  believe  that  the  alleged  ''inutility  of 
specific  characters/'  claimed  by  Mr.  Romanes 
as  one  of  the  foundations  of  his  new  theory, 
has  DO  other  foundation  than  our  extreme 
ignorance,  in  the  great  majority  of  cases,  of 
the  habits  and  life-histories  of  the  several 
allied  species,  the  use  of  whose  minute  but 
often  numerous  differential  characters  we  are 
therefore  unable  to  comprehend. 

(2.)  Svt'Xiapiiig EffecUijf  InUreromng. — Mr. 
Darwin's  remarks  on  this  subject  are  as  fol- 
lows : — 

**XMt  animals  and  plants  keep  to  their  proper 
homes,  and  do  not  needlessly  wander  about  We  see 
thU  with  migratory  birds,  which  almost  always  retarn 
to  the  same  spot  Consequently,  each  newly  formed 
Tariety  would  generally  be  at  first  local,  as  seems  to  be 
the  common  mle  with  varieties  in  a  state  of  nature;  so 
that  similarly  modified  individuals  would  soon  exist 
In  a  small  body  together,  and  would  often  breed  to- 
gether. If  tlie  new  variety  were  successful  in  its  bat- 
tle for  life,  it  would  slowly  spread  from  a  central  dis- 
trict, competing  with  and  conquering  the  unchanged 
mdiriduals  on  the  margin  of  an  ever-increasing 
circle."'  • 

After  quoting  this  ^passage,  Mr.  Romanes 
objects  that  a  very  large  assumption  is  made 
when  the  newly  formed  variety  is  spoken  of 
as  represented  by  similarly  modified  individ- 
uals—the assumption,  namely,  '*that  the  same 
variation  occurs  simultaneously  in  a  number 
of  individuals  inhabiting  the  same  area;"  and 
be  adds,  "  Of  course,  if  this  assumption  were 
granted  there  would  be  an  end  of  the  present 
difficulty;*'  and  then  he  goes  on  to  give  "rea- 
sons*' why  such  simultaneous  variations  are 
not  likely  to  occur.     But  that  which  Mr. 
Romanes  regards  as  "a  very  large  assump- 
tion'* is,  I  maintain,  a  very  general  fact,  and, 
at  the  present  time,  one  of  the  best-established 
facts  in  natural  history.    A  brief  summary  of 
these  facts  is  given  in  my  Island  Life,  and  I 
possess  in  M8S.  a  considerable  collection  of 
additional  facts,  showing  that  simultaneous 
variation  is  a  general  phenomenon  among  the 
best-known  species  of   animals  and  plants. 
Unfortunately,  very  few  naturalists  pay  at- 


tention to  individual  variations.  They  are 
usually  satisfied  with  describing  typical  or 
mean  specimens,  sometimes  noting  the 
amount  of  variation  of  size  they  have  met 
with,  but  hardly  ever  taking  the  trouble  to 
compare  and  measure  scores  or  hundreds  of 
specimens  of  tbe  same  sex  and  age,  and  col- 
lected in  the  same  locality,  so  as  to  furnish  us 
with  direct  evidence  of  the  general  amount 
and  kind  of  variation  that  occuA  in  nature. 
One  American  naturalist,  however,  has  done 
this;  and  to  Mr.  J.  A.  Allen  we  owe  a  debt 
of  gratitude  for  having  furnished  us,  in  his 
Mammals  and  Winter  Birds  of  Florida,  with  a 
complete  demonstration  of  individual  and 
simultaneous  variability  by  a  series  of  minute 
comparisons  and  measurements  of  a  large 
number  of  common  North  American  birds. 
We  have  no  longer  any  occasion  to  reason  as  to 
what  kind  or  amount  of  variation  is  probable, 
since  we  have  accurate  knowledge  of  what  it 
is.  The  following  is  a  brief  summary  of  Mr» 
Allen's  facts.  ^ 

After    comparing    and    measuring    from 
twenty  to  sixty  or  more  specimens  of  each  of 
a  great  number  of  species,  not  only  as  to  their 
general  size,  but  9^  as  regards  every  ex- 
ternal  part    and   organ    capable    of    being 
measured,  he  says : — "  The  facts  of  the  case 
show  that  a  variation  of  from  15  to  20  per 
cent,  in  general  size,  and  an  equal  degree  of 
variation  in  the  relative  size  of  different  parts, 
may  be  ordinarily  expected  among  specimens 
of  the  same  species  and  sex,  taken  at  the  same 
locality. "    He  then  goes  on  to  show  that  each 
part  varies  to  a  considerable  extent  independ- 
ently of  the  other  parts.    The  wing  and  tail, 
for  example,  besides  varying  in  length,  vary  in  * 
the   proportionate   length   of    each  feather,  ^ 
which  causes  their  outline  to  vary  consider-  ■ 
ably  in  shape.      The   bill  varies  in   length,- 
width,  depth,    and   curvature.     The  tarsus 
varies  in  length,  as  does  each  toe  separately* 
and  independently;  and  all  this  not  to  a  mi-' 
nutc  degree,  not  "inflnitesimally,"  as^usttally 
stated,  but  to  an  amount  that  can- be < easily 
seen  without  any  measurement,  asrit  averages 
one-sixth   of  the  whole  mean  length;  and 
not  unfrequently  reaches  one-fourth. 

In  order  to  ascertain  the  amount,  of  inde^ 


146 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


pendent  variability  of  the  different  parts,  I 
constructed  a  series  of  diagrams  from  Mr. 
Allen's  tables  of  measurementd,  so  as  to  show, 
by  the  amount  and  direction  of  the  curvatures 
of  lines,  the  variability  of  each  part  in  a  num- 
ber of  specimens  of  the  same  species.  The 
comparative  lengths  of  the  wing,  tail,  bill, 
tarsus  and  each  of  the  toes  wore  thus  shown 
for,  say,  twenty  specimens  of  the  same  bird; 
and  it  was  most  interesting  to  note  how  inde- 
pendent is  the  variation  of  each  part,  so  that 
we  may  choose  either  a  long  wing  with  a 
short  tail,  or  the  reverse,  or  both  long  or  both 
sliort;  a  long  bill  or  a  short  bill  with  a  long 
leg,  or  again  the  reverse;  and  so  with  every 
external  character  there  seems  to  be  no  fixed 
correlation  (though  a  tendency  to  it  is  in  some 
cases  shown),  but  each  part  appears  to  vary 
independently  of  all  the  rest. 

Mr.  Allen  also  gives  full  details  as  to  the 
variution  of  color  and  marking,  showing  that 
these  are  not  less  striking  than  those  of  size 
and  proportions ;  but  the  most  important 
thing  for  us  in  regard  to  the  question  we  are 
disciissing  is  the  amount  of  simultaneous 
variation  of  the  same  kind  that  is  constantly 
occurring.  To  determine  this  I  formed  dia- 
grams, in  which  each  individual  was  repre- 
sented by  a  spot  placed  on  a  horizontal  line 
at  a  point  determined  by  its  actual  dimensions. 
It  would  have  been  antecedently  expected  that 
the  great  bulk  of  the  spots  would  be  crowded 
together  about  a  point  representing  the  mean 
dimensions  of  the  species,  but  this  was  by 
no  means  the  case.  Often  the  central  point 
was  not  at  all  crowded  with  dots,  but  they 
were  grouped  with  rough  uniformity  for  a 
considerable  distance  on  each  side  of  the 
center,  with  a  few  isolated  at  greater  distances 
representing  the  extremes  of  variation.  Hence 
a  species  could  usually  be  divided  into  two 
]X)rtions,  with  a  considerable  number  of 
specimens  in  each  showing  divergence  from 
the  mean  condition  —the  very  **  simultaneous 
variation*'  which  Mr.  Romanes  regards  as 
"  a  very  large  assumption."  And  this  result 
appears  more  or  leas  prominently  whatever 
characters  are  compared,  so  that  whether  we 
require  modification  of  wing  or  tail,  of  beak, 
leg,  or  toes,  we  cUwajfa  find  a  oonsiderable 


number,  say  from  ten  to  twenty  per  cent,  of 
the  whole,  varying  simultaneously,  and  to  a 
considerable  amount,  on  either  side  of  the  mean 
value. 

Now,. we  must  remember  that  these  results 
have  been  obtained  from  the  comparison  of 
from  twenty  to  sixty  specimens  only,  usually 
collected  at  one  time  and  place,  while  nature 
deals  with  millions  and  hundreds  of  millions 
of  each  species,  reproduced  afresh  every  few 
years,  with  probabilities  of  variation  far  be- 
yond those  which  occut  in  the  very  restricted 
range  of  one  observer.  We  must  also  re 
member  that  at  least  90  or  95  per  cent,  of  the 
offspring  produced  each  year  are  weeded  out 
by  natural  selection  (because  birds  live  many 
years  and  produce  many  young  each  year),  so 
that,  during  any  change  of  conditions  necessi- 
tating readjustment  to  the  environment,  an 
ample  supply  of  * 'simultaneously  favorable 
variations"  would  occur  calculated  to  bring 
about  that  readjustment.  And  since  we  have 
every  reason  to  believe  (as  I  have  shown  in 
the  preceding  section)  that  the  slight  specific 
differences  of  which  these  variations  are  the 
initial  steps  are  in  most  cases  utilitarian  in 
character,  we  may  feel  sure  that  all  useful 
variations,  occurring  so  frequently,  would  be 
preserved  and  rapidly  increased  without  any 
danger  from  the  swamping  elTects  of  inter- 
crossing." 

Having  now  shown  that  two  of  the  "great 
obstructions  in  the  road  of  natural  selection*' 
set  forth  by  Mr.  Romnnes  do  not  in  fact  exist 
at  all,  we  are  in  a  position  to  consider  the  effect 
of  the  undoubtedly  real  and  important  diffi- 
culty of  the  difference  between  species  and 
varieties  in  the  matter  of  fertility  when  inter- 
crossed. 

(8.)  Sterility  bettteen  Species.  —  In  discuss 
ing  this  question  Mr.  Romanes  assumes  that 
it  is  almost  a  universal  rule  for  natural  species 
to  be  more  or  less  infertile  with  each  other, 
while  domesticated  varieties,  on  the  other 
hand,  are  almost  always  perfectly  fertile,  and 
sometimes  exceptionally  so.  Supposing  this 
to  be  a  fair  statement  of  the  facts,  he  very 
naturally  objects  to  Mr.  Darwin's  explanation 
of  them— that  species  have  been  subjected  to 
uniform  condlttona  f or  long  periods— as  quite 


ROMANES  VERSUS  DAB,W1N. 


147 


inadequate,  urging  the  great  "antecedent  im- 
probability, tliat  in  all  these  millions  and 
millions  of  cases  the  reproductive  system 
should  happen  to  have  been  affected  in  this 
peculiar  way,  by  the  mere  negative  condition 
of  uniformity;"  and  further,  '*that,  at  the 
time  when  a  variety  is  first  forming,  this  con- 
dition of  prolonged  exposure  to  uniform  con- 
ditions must  necessarily  be  absent  as  regards 
that  variety :  yet  this  is  just  the  time  when 
we  must  suppose  that  the  infertility  with  the 
parent  form  arose.** 

Now  let  us  sec  whether  there  is  any  reason 
for  believing  ^that  species  which  arc  very 
closely  allied,  that  is,  which  have  recently 
been  specialized  the  one  from  the  other  or 
both  from  a  common  ancestor,  as  well  as  those 
natural  varieties  which  may  be  classed  as 
incipient  species,  agree  in  being  always  in- 
fertile with  each  other  or  in  producing  infer- 
tile offspring.  It  is  important  to  remark  that 
hybridizers  usually  experiment  with  very  dis- 
tinct species,  and  often  with  distinct  genera, 
and  even  such  crosses  as  these  not  unfre- 
quently  produce  offspring;  while  in  the  cases 
of  close  allies  being  quite  fertile  the  conclu- 
sion is  arrived  at  that  they  are  really  the  same 
species.  Dean  Herbert's  experiments  are 
most  instructive  in  this  respect,  since  they 
show  that  in  a  considerable  number  of  large 
genera  hybrids  are  perfectly  fertile,  and  not 
un frequently  more  fertile  tiian  the  parents, 
while  in  many  cases  they  produce  quite  fertile 
offspring;  and  he  concludes,  '*that  the  sterility 
or  fertility  of  the  offspring  does  not  depend 
upon  original  diversity  of  stock;  and  that,  if 
two  species  are  to  be  united  in  a  scientific 
arrangement  on  account  of  a  fertile  issue,  the 
botanist  must  give  up  his  specific  distinctions 
generally,  and  entrench  himself  within  gen- 
era." He  showed  that  many  very  distinct 
species  of  crinum,  hippeastrum,  gladiolus,  pe- 
largonium, calceolaria,  and  many  other  genera 
were  quite  fertile  when  crossed,  and  often 
produced  offspring  which  could  be  propagated 
indefinitely  and  have  thus  formed  valuable  gar- 
den flowers ;  while  other  species,  more  alike 
externally,  either  could  not  be  crossed  at  all  or 
produced  offspring  which  were  sterile;  and  he 
thence  concludes,  '*  that  the  fertility  of  the 


hybrid  or  mixed  offspring  depends  more  upon 
the  constitutional  than  the  closer  botanical 
aflSnitfes  of  the  parents." 

The  popular  ideas  as  to  the  sterility  of 
hybrids  are  derived  from  crosses  between 
certain  domestic  animals  by  no  means  closely 
allied,  such  as  the  horse  and  ass,  the  canary 
and  goldfinch,  or  the  domestic  fowl  and  the 
pheasant.  To  arrive  at  the  common  ancestor 
of  either  of  these  pairs  we  should  probably 
have  to  go  back  far  into  the  tertiary  period 
and  trace  their  diverging  progeny  through 
many  successive  distinct  species,  so  that  there 
is  no  fair  comparison  between  such  crosses 
and  those  between  domestic  varieties,  which, 
however  different  externally,  have  all  origin- 
ated with  a  few  thousand  years.  Really  close 
species  which  have  probably  originated  by 
one  remove  from  a  common  ancestor  have 
never  yet  been  crossed  in  large  numbers  and 
for  several  generations,  under  appfroximately 
natural  conditions,  so  as  to  afford  any  reliable 
data.  The  mere  fact  that  not  only  animals 
of  distinct  genera,  but  even  those  classed  in 
distinct  families — as  the  pheasant  and  the 
black  grouse — sometimes  produfee  hybrid  off- 
spring in  a  state  of  nature,  is  itself  an  argu- 
ment against  there  being  any  constant  infertil- 
ity between  the  most  closely  allied  species, 
since  it  that  were  the  case  we  should  expect 
the  infertility  to  increase  steadily  with  remote- 
ness of  descent  till  when  we  came  to  family 
distinctions  absolute  sterility  should  be  invari- 
able. 

I  quite  agree  with  Mr.  Romanes  that  on 
this  point  experiments  are  required,  and  some 
of  those  which  he  has  suggested  at  the  con- 
clusion of  his  paper  are  well  fitted  to  test  the 
question  whether  infertility  is  a  cause  or  a 
consequence  of  specific  distinction  or  merely 
a  correlative  phenomenon.  The  most  direct 
and  easy  experiments  would  be  those  with 
plants.  We  possess  a  considerable  number 
of  native  plants  which  by  one  school  of  bot- 
anists are  classed  as  species,  while  by  another 
school  they  are  considered  to  be  only  sub- 
species in  process  of  segregation  from  a  parent 
form.  It  would  be  tolerably  easy  to  determine 
whether  these  pairs  of  allied  forms  present 
any  definite  amount  ef  infertility,  which  they 


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THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


should  do  in  almost  every  case  to  support  Mr. 
Romanes'  theory.  We  have,  however,  first 
to  consider  whether,  even  if  such  general 
infertility  exists,  it  can  possibly  have  been 
brought  about  in  the  way  he  suggests. 

The  Theory  of  Physiological  JSeleetion. — 
While  fully  admitting  that  variations  in  fer- 
tility are  highly  probable,  and  also  that  there 
is  evidence  to  show  that  individual  varieties 
occur  which,  while  infertile  with  some  mem- 
bers of  the  same  species  are  fertile  with  others, 
it  yet  seems  to  be  quite  impo^ible  that  such 
variations  should  produce  the  results  claimed 
for  them  by  Mr.  Romanes.  He  says,  **  If  the 
variation  be  such  that  the  reproductive  sys- 
tem, while  showing  some  degree  of  sterility 
with  the  parent  form,  continues  to  be  fertile 
within  tlie  limits  of  the  varietal  form,  in  this 
case  the  variation  would  neither  be  swamped 
by  intercrossing,  nor  would  it  die  out  on  ac- 
count of  sterility.  On  the  contrary,  the  vari- 
ation would  be  perpetuated  with  more  cer- 
tainty than  could  a  variation  of  any  other 
kind.  For  in  virtue  of  increased  sterility 
with  the  parent  form,  the  variation  wc^ild  not 
be  exposed  to  extinction  by  intercrossing; 
while  in  virtue  of  continued  fertility  Within 
the  varietal  form  the  variation  would  perpetu- 
ate itself  by  heredity,  just  as  in  the  case  of 
variations  generally  when  not  reabsorbed  by 
intercrossing."  He  then  goes  on  to  show 
how,  by  these  means,  a  species  becomes 
divided  into  two  portions,  each  free  to  develop 
independent  histories  without  mutual  inter- 
crossing. 

This  statement^  with  the  results  deduced 
from  it,  sounds  feasible  Vhen  not  closely  ex- 
amined ;  but  it  really  slurs  over  insuperable 
difficulties,  and  when  viewed  in  the  light  of 
the  known  facts  of  variation  and  natural 
selection  it  will  be  seen  that  the  supposed 
results  could  not  follow.  Mr.  Romanes 
speaks  of  this  physiological  variation  as  if  it 
were  a  simple  instead  of  a  highly  complex 
form' of  variation,  and  as  if  it  might  occur 
sporadically  within  the  limits  of  a  species  like 
some  change  of  color  or  modification  of  form. 
In  order  to  test  this  and  ascertain  what  would 
really  happen,  we  must  follow  the  variety 
step  by  step  under  varied  conditions.    Let  us 


then  suppose  that  in  a  large  species  some  one 
individual  is  produced  that  is  infertile  with 
the  bulk  of  the  species,  but  fertile  with  some 
few  individuals  of  the  opposite  sex  who  hap- 
pen to  be  what  may  be  termed  the  physiolog 
ical  complements  of  the  first-named  individ- 
ual. But  it  will  evidently  be  in  the  highest 
degree  improbable  that  these  complementary 
pairs  should  acx^iden tally  meet,  as,  by  the 
hypothesis,  there  is  no  external  common  char- 
acter distinguishing  them  from  the  rest  of  the 
species,  and  if  all  are  sterile  with  other  than 
their  **  complements"  then  all  are  doomed  to 
almost  certain  extinction.  Now  let  us  suppose 
that,  not  one  only,  but  a  dozen  or  a  score  or 
even  a  hundred  of  such  physiological  varieties 
occur  at  the  same  time  scattered  throughout 
the  area  occupied  by  the  species,  and  that 
each  one  has  some  few  complementary  mates 
with  whom  alune  it  will  be  fertile.  In  this  case 
the  chances  against  the  right  pairs  meeting 
will  be  almost  as  great  as  before,  unless  we 
make  the  assumption  that  the  individuals 
which  vary  in  the  direction  of  sterility  with 
the  bulk  of  the  species  all  agree  in  being 
fertile  with  any  one  of  the  same  set  of  indi- 
viduals of  the  opposite  sex.  This,  however, 
seems  to  me  so  highly  improbable  an  assump- 
tion that  we  cannot  possibly  accept  it  without 
direct  and  cogent  proof,  since  the  fact  that 
the  different  physiological  varieties  arose  in 
different  parts  of  the  area,  from  distinct 
parents,  and  under  slightly  different  condi- 
tions, renders  it  almost  certain  that  each  one 
would  require  for  its  complement  an  individ- 
ual which  would  not  be  the  complement  of 
any  other.  This  difficulty  is  so  great  that  I 
cannot  conceive  the  possibility  of  such  physi- 
ological variations  arising  sporadically  at 
several  distinct  points  within  the  area  of 
species. 

There  is,  however,  one  other  way — and  it 
seems  to  me  the  only  possible  way — in  which 
such  varieties  could  arise.  The  entire  off- 
spring of  a  single  pair  might,  conceivably,  be 
so  constituted  as  to  be  fertile  inter  se  while 
sterile  with  all  the  rest  of  the  species,  and,  if 
they  kept  together,  might  form  the  nucleus  of 
a  **  physiological  variety."  But  tliere  would 
evidently  be  enormous  odds  against  them. 


ROMANES  VEBSU8  1>AIIWIN, 


149 


For  it  must  be  remembered  that  the  weeding- 
out  by  the  struggle  for  existence  is  so  terribly 
severe  thst  only  in  very  rare  cases  can  more 
than  one  or  two  offspring  of  tjie  same  parents 
arrive  at  maturity  and  when  this  rare  event 
iiappens  it  will  be  essential  that  the}*  comprise 
at  least  one  pair  of  opposite  sexes.  Then  this 
pair,  or  pair  and  a  half,  after  all  the  chances 
and  changes  of  early  life,  after  enduring  the 
fierce  struggle  for  existence  for  several  months 
or  for  a  year,  and  after  each  of  them  has  es- 
caped countless  perils,  and  has  been  driven 
hither  and  thither  by  the  need  of  food,  by  the 
inclemency  of  the  seasons,  or  by  the  pursuit 
of  enemies,  must  nevertheless,  just  at  the 
right  time,  come  together — or  become  extinct. 
It  must  be  remembered,  too,  that  there  is 
nothing  whatever  but  chance  to  bring  them 
together;  for  there  is,  by  the  assumption,  •  o 
diierence  of  form,  or  color,  pr  habit,  or  in- 
stinct, nothing  but  the  one  fact — which  they 
themselves  cannot  possibly  know — that  unless 
they  happen  to  meet  and  pair  their  particular 
race  vriU  be  doomed  to  extinction.  Surely  a 
phenomenon  so  widespread  as  the  existence 
of  some  degree  of  sterility  between  species 
cannot  possibly  have  originated  in  n  mode  of 
variation,  which,  whenever  it  occurs,  is  almost 
certain  to  die  out  immediately. 

I  have  now  shown,  by  considering  carefully 
the  results  of  the  variations  suggested  by  Mr. 
Romanes,  that  they  could  not  possibly  pro- 
duce the  effects  he  attributes  to  them.    Yet 
he  has  arrived  at  a  diametrically  opposite 
conclusion;  for  he  claims  as  the  special  fea- 
ture of   these  variations  that  "they  cannot 
escape  the  preserving  agency  of  physiological 
selection.    Hence,  even  if  it  be  granted  that 
the  variation  which  affects  the  reproductive 
system  in  this  particular  way  is  a  variation  of 
comparatively  rare  occurrence,  still,  as  it  must 
always  be  preserved  whenever  it  does  occur, 
its  influence  in  the  manufacture  of  specific 
t^'pes  must  be  cumulative,  and,  therefore,  in 
the  course  of  geological  time  probably  im- 
mense."   This  most  extraordinary  statement, 
which  I  have  just  shown  to  be  the  very  op- 
posite of  what  would  really  happen,  seems  to 
tne  to  have  been  reached  by  ignoring  alto- 
gether the  cardinal  fact  of  the  tremendous 


struggle  for  existence,  and  tlf^  survival  in 
each  generation  of  only  a  small  percentage  of 
the '  'fittest. ' '  Mr.  Romanes'  argument  almost 
everywhere  tacitly  assumes  that  his  *'  physi- 
ological variations' *  are  the  fittest,  and  that 
tliey  always  survive!  With  such  an  assump- 
tion it  would  not  be  difficult  to  prove  any 
theory  of  the  origin  of  species. 

My  readers  may  now  reasonably  ask 
t^hether,  having  rejected  Mr.  Romanes'  solu- 
tion of  the  problem  of  the  general  sterility  of 
species  as  opposed  to  the  equally  general  fer- 
tility of  varieties,  I  have  myself  any  sugges- 
tion to  make  as  to  how  the  admitted  difficulty 
may  be  overcome.  I  have  already  stated  that 
some  of  the  more  important  data  for  a  complete 
solution  are  wanting,  owing  to  the  very  imper- 
fect character  of  hybridization  experiments 
from  this  point  of  view  ;  but  the  reconsidera- 
tion of  the  whole  question  to  which  1  have  been 
led  by  Mr.  Romanes'  paj^  (and  for  which 
therefore  I  am  much  indebted  tD  him)  has 
cleared  up  some  difficulties  in  my  own  mind, 
and  has  resulted  in  a  provisional  explanation 
which  seems  to  me  to  be  in  harmony  with 
most  of  the  facts,  Thid  I  will  now  endeavor 
to  explain. 

Mr.  Darwin,  in  his  invaluable  work  on 
Animals  and  Plants  under  Domestication,  has 
collected  a  body  of  curious  facts  proving  a  re- 
markable correlation  between  physiological 
peculiarities  and  color,  both  in  plants  and 
animals,  the  bearing  of  which  on  liiis  question 
he  appears  to  have  himself  overlooked.  Deal 
ing  first  with  geneml  physiological  correla- 
tions, we  have  the  following  facts.  In  Hol- 
land rcrf-^olored  hyacinths  were  injured  by 
frost  more  than  plants  of  any  other  color; 
purple  plums  are  affected  by  a  disease  from 
which  green  or  yellow-fruitoi  kinds  are  free; 
in  Mauritius  white  sugar-canes  suffer  from 
disease  so  severely  that  they  have  been  largely 
given  up  for  red  canes,  which  do  not  sufl'er; 
in  France  a  very  fine  ^^hite  onion  was  found 
to  be  especially  liable  to  fungus;  in  Malaga 
green  grapes  had  the  vine  disease  severely, 
while  red  and  black  sorts  did  not  suffei  at  all. 

Analogous  facts  in  animals  are  that  ichite 
terriers  suffer  most  from  distemper;  white  or 
white-spotted  horses  are  poisoned  by  eating 


150 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


mildewed  vetches,  which  did  not  injure  brown 
or  black  horses ;  in  the  Tarentino  black  sheep 
are  kept  because  white  sheep  arc  poisoned  by 
eating  the  Hypericum  crispum  which  .1  bounds 
there;  in  Virginia  black  pigs  alone  are  kept, 
because  they  alone  are  not  injured  by  the 
poisonous  paint-root;  white  chickens  are  found 
to  be  most  subject  to  the  gapes ;  while  in 
France  tlie  yeltow-oocoowe^  silkworms  have 
fungus  disease  much  more  than  the  white- 
cocooned  varieties. 

Here  we  have  a  very  remarkable  series  of 
cases  showing  that  the  whole  constitution  of 
animals  and  plants  is  often  profoundly  modi- 
fied in  correlation  with  changes  of  color, 
while  no  such  constitutional  changes  have  been 
observed  to  accompany  such  modifications  of 
form  and  structure  as  are  usually  met  with  in 
varieties  or  allied  species.  We  are  taught  by 
these  facts  that  color  is  an  important  charac- 
ter, pbysiajogicaliy ;  and  as  we  know  it  to  be 
so  frequently  modified  for  protective  or  other 
utilitarian  purposes,  we  can  see  what  a  pow- 
erful bclective  agency  it  mAy  become,  es- 
pecially as  we  may  be  sure  that  numbers  of 
less  obtrusive  correlations  than  those  which 
seriously  affect  health  and  life  must  have  re- 
mained unnoticed. 

But  in  the  sumo  work  Mr.  Darwin  fur- 
nishes us  with  another  set  of  correlations,  in 
which  infertility  or  complete  sterility  is  di- 
rectly correlated  with  diversity  v)t*  color,  ^he 
red  and  the  yellow  varieties  of  maize  were 
found  by  Gartner  to  Ixj  almost  completely 
sterile  when  crossed,  the  yellow  and  the  white 
varieties  of  mullein  will  not  cross,  although 
many  distinct  species,  if  both  yellow  or  both 
white,  are  perfectly  fertile  when  crossed ;  the 
differently  colored  v&rietics  of  the  hollyhock 
are  raised  by  nurserymen  in  rows  close  to- 
gether, and  never  hybridize,  each  sort  keeping 
distinct,  although  they  are  visited  by  bees; 
and,  lastly  the  blue  and  the  red  pimpernels, 
considered  by  most  botanists  to  be  the  same 
species  since  they  present  no  differences  of 
form  or  structure,  are  yet  completely  sterile 
when  crossed. 

Among  animals  no  experiments  have  been 
made  to  show  how  color  affects  the  sterility 
of  crosses,  but  there  is  ample  evidence  that  the 


same  result  is  brought  about  by  the  disinclina- 
tion of  differently  colored  races  to  pair  to- 
gether. In  Paraguay'  and  in  Circassia  it  has 
been  noticed  that  feral  horses  of  the  same 
color  and  size  usually  breed  together;  in  the 
Far5e  Islands  the  black  and  the  white  sheep 
keep  in  separate  flocks;  in  ihe  Forest  of  Dean 
and  in  the  New  Forest  dark  and  pale  herds  of 
deer  do  not^mingle  together;  while  pigeon- 
fanciers  agi'ee  that  if  pigeons  were  allowed 
freedom  of  choice  they  would  pair  with  their 
own  sort  exclusively. 

Many  of  the  facts  here  *  summarized  rest 
upon  the  testimony  of  more  than  one  good 
oljserver,  while  in  several  cases  they  were 
confirmed  by  Mr.  Darwin's  own  ol)servat!ons; 
and  they  certainly  demonstrate  the  great  im- 
portance of  color,  both  as  a  physiological 
selective  agency  in  certain  localities,  and  as 
correlated  with  varied  constitutional  differ- 
ences, with  disinclination  to  pair  togetlier  in 
animals,  and  with  actual  mutual  sterility  in 
plants.  But  it  is  a  matter  of  common  knowl- 
edge to  naturalists  that  differences  of  color  or 
markings  form  the  very  commonest  of  tlie 
distinctive  characters  between  closely  allied 
species,  while  they  also  frequently  character- 
ize the  varieties  of  the  same  species.  From  a 
utilitarian  standpoint  color  is,  as  I  have 
shown,  one  of  the  most  important  of  specific 
characters,  serving  in  infinitely  varied  ways 
the  several  purposes  of  concealment,  of  warn- 
ing, and  of  recognition ;  and,  therefore,  a 
difference  of  color  is  almost  sure  to  arise 
whenever,  by  natural  selection,  a  species  is 
becoming  adapted  to  any  change  in  its  en- 
vironment. 

Now  taking  into  consideration  the  remark- 
able facts  above  enumerated,  it  is  surely  a  not 
improbable  supposition  that  change  of  color 
is  vmuiUy  accompanied  by  some  amount  of 
sterility,  and  of  disinclination  to  pair  in  the 
case  of  animals;  and  that  it  thus  furnishes  the 
required  starting-point  of  that  physiological 
distinction  which  becomes  more  marked  when, 
by  successive  variations  and  adaptations,  the 
original  varieties  of  one  parent  form  have 
become  changed  into  distinct  and  well-marked 
species.  The  extreme  generality  of  color  as 
a  specific  distinction,  is  in  perfect  accord  with 


IHBSME  IS  FICTION. 


15i 


the  gencraliiy  of  some  amount  of  sterility 
between  dUtinct  species;  and  we  thus  have  a 
wra  causa  coextensive  with  the  effect  pro- 
duced. 

In  conclusion,  I  do  not  deny  that  varieties 
which  exhibit  no  other  distinctive  character 
than  sterilit}'  with  the  bulk  of  the  parent 
species  nuiy  arise,  but  1  claim  to  have  shown 
that  such  varieties  are  at  an  immense  disad- 
vantage, and  could  hardly  by  any  possibility 
be  preserved  and  increased  till  they  were  re- 
quired to  form  the  nucleus  of  a  new  species. 
On  tlie  other  hand,  I  have  shown  that  ster- 
ility or  infertility  is  actually,  in  many  cases, 
correlated  with  color- variations,  while  ihis 
very  character  of  color- variation  is  the  most 
frequent  mark  of  closely-allied  species  or  sub- 
species. It  is.  therefore,  by  means  of  a  study 
of  this  class  of  facts  tliat  I  believe  the  true 
solution  of  the  problem  of  the  sterility  of 
hybrids  will  be  discovered. — Alfbed  R.  Wal- 
lace, in  The  FarinighUy  BevUw. 


DISEASE  IN  FICTION. 

Two  successful  workers  in  the  art  of  Action 
have  written  articles  endeavoring  to  explain 
to  the  public  what  they  understand  to  be  the 
mysteries  of  their  art.  Both  admit  that  in- 
dividuality must  play  a  large  part,  but  from 
this  common  starting-point  they  diverge.  3Ir. 
Waller  Bcsant  dwells  on  the  importance  of 
keeping  note-book  records  of  passing  events^ 
aiid  seems  to  say  that  these  must  furnish  <the 
material  to  be  worked  in  here  or  there  as: 
required..  Mr.  Henry  James  appears  to  take 
a  broader  view  to  allow  a  wider  field  for  the 
play  of  imagination,  regarding  every  item  of 
fact  as  a  germ  which  is  to  go  thmugh&pro 
cess  of  evolution  in  the  author's  mind,  not 
necessarily  following  any  law  of  progressive 
or  retrograde  metamorphosis,  but  simply 
becoming  stampeiib  -with  the  impress  of  the 
working  bnun  through  which  it  has  passed. 
Both  principles  are  useful,  both. have  been 
employed,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  by 
both  authors,  but  the  first  method  only  is 
truly  applicable  to  many  instances  made  use 


of  by  novelistSp  and  this  is  seen  most  striking- 
ly if  we  consider  the  medical  machinery  so 
frequently  introduced  to  clear  the  stage  of  su- 
perfluous characters  or  to  take  the  place  of  a 
plot. 

Both  our  writers  dwell  on  the  importance 
of  drawing  from  the  liferof  making  every  fact 
play  its  part  in  the  development  of  story  or 
character.  We  are  reminded  how  often  a  novel- 
ist has  to  teach  some  lesson  to  an  indolent,  apa- 
thetic public.  Scientifio  text-books  are  rarely 
pleasant  reading,  and  so  do  not  enter  the 
sphere  of  the  great  majority.  The  works  of 
Arabella  Buckley,  Grant  Allen,  Huxley^and 
others  spread  knowledge;  but,  however  atti-attyw 
tively  arranged,  the  scope  of  M»^rf**«opulur  sci- 
entific article  seldom  trav^depia)nd  some 
simple  questions  of  biology;  xS^^ffi^  not  enu- 
brace,  or  but  rarely  embraces,  atiy  facft»«of 
disease.  Here,  then,  where  the  popul^-  scien- 
tific writer  stops,  the  novelist  steps  in  as  the 
public  instructor.  If  his  novel  extends  over 
any  great  length  of  time,  chanefeliaiiustpass 
out  of  it;  and  that  this  weeding  out  should  be 
effected  in  the  most  interesting  way,  the 
author  should  draw  from  experience,  or  from 
actual  knowledge  of  no  uncertain  character. 
He  may  perhaps  be  fortunate  enough  not  to 
have  personal  remiliiscences  to  supply  his 
waotSf  or  have-  been  too  ill  to  remember 
enough  of  his>.  symptoms  and  surroundings  to 
turn*  them  into  eopy»  or  he  may  feel  that 
there  is  something  inartistic,  trivial,  ridicu- 
lousi  in  giving  to  a  light  ailment,  such  a^  a 
biliousjieadache,  its  true  position  as  a  cause 
affecting  the  future  of  the  puppets  of  his 
play.  Should  he  ol  necessity  have  drawn  his 
knowledge  of  pathokiigy  from  medical  works, 
certain  broad  IdE^as  will  be  found  to  have 
guided,  him  io:  his  selection,  these  ideas  evi- 
dently arising  partly  from  the  way  in  which 
special  diseases  seem  to  attract  attention,  partly 
from  the  limits  imposed  by  good  taste-. 

The^  illness  introduced  must  have  some 
striking  character,  samething  remarkable  in 
the  mod<»  el  onset  or  termination,  and  the 
symptoms  okust  not  be  repulsive.  The  prac- 
tical value  of  a  real  disease  to  a  novelist 
depends^  very  largely  on  the  presence  or 
absence  &f  ajmptoioft  calculated  to  produce  &. 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


shiver  of  disgust.  We  Can  tolerate  paralysis 
from  accidents  in  the  hunting-field  or  from 
overstrain  of  business  worry,  but  we  do  not 
relish  in  fiction  any  accident  involving  ampu- 
tation. Dickens  deprived  Joe  Willett  of  an 
arm  in  battle;  but,  in  spite  of  the  eloquence 
of  its  fellow,  (very  one  sympathizes  with  poor 
willful  Dolly  Varden  for  having  to  be  content 
with  the  remnant.  In  the  same  way  public 
feeling  requires  a  peculiar  sense  of  fitness  to 
be  observed  in  the  deaths  chosen  by  novelists. 
A  hero  may  be  allowed  to  die  in  great  agonies 
from  accidental  injuries,  but  he  must  not  be 
maue  to  sujffer  prolonged  medical  pain;  his 
^  l»ody  may  bi«.  racked  with  fever  or  ague,  but 
these  wiU,^*'^*mn8ient  in  a  novel,  so  we  care 
not;  but  t^^9t  not,  he  cannot  be  permitted 
.Johave  any^Wfes  lesion  like  cirrhosis,  Bright's 
disease,  or  carcinoma — ^thtse  involve  structural 
changes  suggestive  of  museum  specimens,  and 
cannot  be  toierated.  He  may  act  as  a  host 
for  micr^^^btit  the  hero  must  go  no  further. 

With^Hw&tations  the  medical  path  of  a 
conscientious  novelist  is  by  no  means  an  easy 
one.  Sometimes  he  finds  it  convenient  to 
clear  the  ground  rapidly,  and  then  is  hard 
pressed  to  call  up  a  suitable  disease  which 
shall  have  been  lurking  about  without  any  sign 
until  the  right  moment:  the  various  forms  of 
heart-disease,  aneurism,  and  apoplexy  have 
thus  all  been  drawn  in  When  it  is  desirable 
to  give  time  for  death-bed  repentances  or 
revelations,  or  when  it  is  wished  to  tinge  and 
alter  the  whole  hfe  and  character  by  some 
slower  form  of  disease,  the  difficulty  becomes 
extreme*  and  the  novelist  requires  careful 
study  or  guidance.  He  feels  that  precision 
and  accurnry  are  of  as  much  importance  in 
this  as  in  the  legal  terms  of  a  will  or  contract. 
It  is  not  necessary  to  name  the  disease  referred 
to,  still  less  to  give  all  its  details:  but  it  must 
be  a  real  disease  la  tlie author's  mind:  it  must 
mot  be  an  imaginarj  eooglomeration  of  vague 
ssymptoms. 

The  school  represented  by  Harrison  Ains- 

worth  and  G.  P.  R.  James  evaded  study  and 

criticism    by   adopting    a    rough-and-ready 

met^iod.      Their  chaTactere    are   frequently 

:  aifflioted  with  a  peculiar  Inrtability  of  life  and 

iMmJtf.^ji  tendency  to  '*ro}}iog  corpses  on  the 


plain,"  and  thus  dispensing  with  surgical  aid. 
In  more  recent  times  Ve  can  almost  trace  the 
growth  of  knowledge  in  the  pages  of  'fiction. 
Every  disease  when  first  discovered  iias  its 
picturesque  aspect,  but  the  progress  of  ^ezice 
gradually  robs   it  of  this,  and  destroys  its 
artistic  value.    Typhus  and  typhoid  were  once 
favorites,  but  now  the  widespread  knowledge 
of  their  causes,  and   the  great  increase  of 
eitcntion  bestowed  on  sanitary  matters,  make 
it  almost  impossible  for  them  to  l)e  utilized. 
We  all  know  too  much  about  them;  they  are 
derived  of  all  romance;  an  indulgent  public 
cannot  be  expected  to  be  sympathetic  when 
feeling  that,  because  the  drainage  was  hnpcr* 
feet  or  the  water  impure,  the  hero  or  heroine 
is  consigned  to  the  grave  prepared   by  the 
author  for  the  favored  few  allowed  to  rest- 
When   we   remember   too   that,   medically, 
typhus  is  almost  synonymous  with  filth  and 
famine,  it  is  easy  to  see  that  it  is  now  practi- 
cally useless,  in  spite  of  the  glorious  con- 
venience of  rapid  onset  and  rapid  decline, 
separated  by  a  period  of  high  fever  and  delir- 
ium— a  period  valuable  to  the  novelist  for 
involuntary  revelations.     The  same  is  true  of 
consumption;  once  a  favorite,  it  is  now  being 
neglected.      The   glittering    eye.  the   hectic 
flush,  the  uncertainty  of  its  lingering  course, 
have  been  depicted   again  and  again;  but  a 
wider  knowledge  has  led    to  the  universal 
recognition  of  such  prosaic  facts  as  its  hered- 
itary character,  and  its  destruction  of  lung 
tissue,   and    all    tlie  Symptoms  are  so  well 
known  at  present  that  the  subject  is  painful, 
if  not  actually  of  no  value. 

Injuries  to  the  head,  allowing  the  surgeon's 
instruments  to  make  a  very  inferior  person  a 
valuable  member  of  society,  have  frequently 
been  turned  to  account.  Spinal  injuries,  too, 
have  long  found  favor  with  authors.  The 
disease  technically  known  as  paraplegia  gives 
abundant  fncilities  for  confining  the  most 
truculent  hero  or  villain  to  his  bed,  and  has 
the  advantage  of  leaving  him  with  an  un- 
clouded intellect  to  go  through  a  salutary 
process  of  forgiveness  or  repentance.  It  cnn 
be  brought  on  the  scene  in  a  moment,  and  it 
often  aflords  an  opportunity  of  describing  a 
hunting-field,  a  race,  or  any  other  piece  of 


DISEASE  IN  FICTION. 


158 


brisk  movement  by  which  to  lead  up  eftec- 
tirely  to  the  contrast  of  the  strong  man 
humbled — a  most  valuable  piece  of  light  and 
shade,  of  which,  for  instance,  the  author  of 
Guy  Living&tone  has  availed  himself. 

These  simpler  diseases  and  injuries  have 
now  almost  come  to  the  limit  of  their  employ- 
ment, and  new  topics  must  be  found.  The 
search  for  material  is  endless,  and  when  seri- 
ously undertaiien  with  a  full  sense  of  respon- 
sibliity,  it  keeps  pace  with  the  progress  of 
science.  No  new  disease  passes  unnoticed; 
wonderful  symptoms  and  wonderful  cures 
are  equally  laid  under  contribution.  Aphasia, 
a  disease  of  comparatively  recent  separation 
from  its  associates,  has  abready  been  worked 
into  the  Golden  BuUerfiy,  the  sudden  onset 
and  bizarre  alteration  of  the  mental  atmos- 
phere rendering  it,  for  the  present,  a  pecu- 
liarly suitable  subject.  Even  the  modem 
treatment  of  baths  and  waters  for  rheumatism 
and  gout  has  led  to  the  scenes  in  some  novels 
being  laid  at  fashionable  resorts:  witness  the 
excellent  picture  of  Aiz  and  of  the  type  of 
many  of  its  invalids,  drawn  so  faithfully  by 
Mrs.  Oliphant  in  her  new  novel  Madam. 
Forensic  medicine  forms  a  valuable  storehouse 
of  material ;  already  we  have  gone  through  the 
detection  of  crime  by  such  technical  details 
as  the  recognition  of  an  assassin's  instrument 
by  the  examination  of  a  wound,  the  estima- 
tion of  the  precise  position  of  the  person 
firing  a  pisrol,  as  in. the  Leaventoorth  Case, 
and  the  whole  question  of  homicide  or  suicide. 
It  has  supplied  an  almost  dangerous  knowl- 
edge of  poisons  and  their  actions,  sometimes 
following  the  suggestions  afforded  by  actual 
crime,  or,  as  in  Bret  Harte's  Aflies,  introducing 
a  reference  to  a  particular  poison  (aconite), 
before  the  enormity  which  subsequently 
rendered  it  notorious.  All  this  store  of  wealth 
is  readily  at  hand  in  the  reports  of  eauses 
eH^tree  in  the  daily  press,  or  is  to  be  had 
from  ten  minutes'  reading  of  any  medico- 
legal book. 

The  attitude  of  different  novelists  with 
regard  to  medical  matters  varies  in  the  most 
remarkable  way;  the  study  may  be  conscien- 
tiottsly  prosecuted,  and  we  then  get  perhaps  a 
•pamful  but  true  picture  of  some  particular 


illness,  not  including  every  detail;  but  enough 
to  make  a  fair  addition  to  the  facts  and 
interests  of  the  book.  It  may  be  briefly 
sketched,  or  n  master- hand  may  deal  with  it 
tolerably  fully,  and  even  call  to  his  aid  *. 
chronic  disease  and  make  it  run  through  two 
or  tliree  volumes.  Sometimes,  on  the  other 
hand,  such  an  account  is  given  as  might  have 
been  gathered  from  the  chatter  of  the  sick* 
room,  the  gossip  of  the  nurses  and  neighbors, 
and  this  is  replete  with  errors  of  etiology, 
diagnosis,  and  even  symptoms.  It  may  be  of 
interest  to  show  by  a  few  examples  the  appli- 
cation of  these  statements.  Charles  Kingsley, 
whose  object  in  his  novels  was  to  preach  san* 
itation,  shoUId  be  placed  at  the  head  of  the 
list  of  those  who  have  vividly  depicted  well- 
known  diseases.  In  his  Ttoo  Years  Ago  hp 
gives  at  least  three  accurate  studies  of  morbid 
phenomena.  His  account  of  a  cholera  epi- 
demic is  well  worthy  of  being  placed  as  an 
appendix  to  a  chapter  on  this  disease  in  any 
medical  text-book.  Delirium  tremens  is  also 
drawn  with  the  hand  of  a  master,  although 
not  with  the  full  repugnance  and  significance 
which  we  find  in  Zola's  Aseommoir,  or  in  the 
tkeTUsof  Clerical  Life,  while  his  careful  study 
of  the  gradual  development  of  suicidal  mania 
reads  like  a  clinical  record  of  an  anecdotal 
character. 

Next  to  Kingsley,  and  indeed  treading 
closely  in  his  steps  in  this  particular  groove, 
comes  George  Eliot,  with  the  truly  marvel' 
ous  picture  of  catalepsy  in  Silas.  Mamer, 
As  in  the  preceding  case  with  cholera,  so 
here  we  would  venture  to  sav  that  any  stud^ 
of  nervous  diseases  would  be  incomplete  i) 
this  were  not  included. 

Thackeray  is  sure  to  be  always  popular 
with  medical  men;  he  understands  them,  he 
sympathizes  with  them,  he  speaks  genially  of 
their  work  and  liberality;  he  was  evidently 
on  the  best  of  terms  with  some  practitioner 
whom  he  impressed  into  his  service  as  that 
most  excellent,  gruffly  good-humored  Dr. 
Qoodcnough,  and  he  very  justly  puts  into  his 
hands  most  of  the  well-merited  invective  and 
sarcasm  which  he  launches  against  the  petty 
pretences  of  a  fashionable  quack.  On  medi- 
cal matters,  although  he  uses  his  knowledge 


154 


THB  JWRART  llAGAZmE.* 


q>ariiigly,  Thackeray  knows  precisely  what 
he  is  talking  about,  aad  he  knows,  too,  what 
to  tell  and  what  to  omit.  His  death-bed 
scenes  are  always  truthful  without  repulsive- 
ness;  the  deaths  of  Colonel  Newcome  and  of 
General  Baynes  of  course  owe  their  .interest 
less  to  the  actual  diseases  concerned  than  to 
the  attendant  circumstances,  but  in  both 
there  is 'notliing  unnatural  to  vex  a  medical 
mind.  We  can  follow  the  symptoms  easily, 
and  yet  the  pathos  of  the  deaths  is  too  great 
to  allow  the  most  fastidious  of  the  laity  to  be 
offended  by  any  details.  One  of  the  i;uost 
interesting  "cases"  medically  is  the  illness  of 
Arthur  Pendennis  in  his  rooms  in  the 
Temple.  Tliere  am  be  no  doubt  that  this  is 
intended  for  typhoid  fever.  The  facts  given 
us  are  briefly  the  following: — An  illness  of  a 
week  or  so  before  total  incapacity  for  work; 
"one  night  he  went  to  bed  ill,  and  the  next 
day  awoke  worse ;  * '  * '  his  exertions  to  complete 
his  work  rendered  his  fever  greater:'.'  then  a 
gradual  increase  of  fever  for  two  days  and 
we  come  to  Captain  Costigan's  visit,  tho 
patient  being  "  in  a  very  fevered  state,"  yet 
greatly  pleased  to  see  Mm,  his  pulse  beating 
very  fiercely,  his  face  haggard  and  hot,  his 
eyes  bloodshot  and  gloomy.  Matters  are 
protracted  for  a  week,  and  then  he  is  delirious 
and  is  bled,  and  two  days  later  the  selfish  old 
Major  and  the  mother  and  Laura  are  sum- 
moned to  town.  Antiphlogistic  remedies  are 
employed,  and  the  lapse  of  time  is  left  doubt- 
ful, but  spoken  of  later  as  a  few  weeks,  until 
we  are  informed  that  the  fever  had  left  the 
young  man,  or  "only  returned  at  intervals  of 
feeble  intermittence;"  reference  is  made  to 
the  recovery  of  his  wandering  senses,  to  his 
lean  shrunken  hands,  his  hollow  eyes  and 
voice,  mid  then  our  hero  "sank  into  a  fine 
sleep,  which  lasted  for  about  sixteen  hours, 
Li  the  end  of  which  period  he  awoke,  calling 
out  that  he  was  very  hungry."  After  about 
ten  days  of  convalescence  in  chambers,  tLe 
patient  is  moved  out  of  town,  and  later  taken 
abroad.  In  all  this  there  can  be  no  reason 
for  hesitation  in  arriving  at  a  diagnosis;  the 
onset  is  too  gradual,  the  duration  too  long  for 
typhus;  and,  moreover,  Thackeray  is  too  fine 
an  artist  to  allow  his  reader  to  form  a  mental 


picture  of  the  hero  spotted  tike  tbe  pard. 
We  may  question  Dr.  Groodenough's  treat- 
ment of  blisters,  bleeding,  and  antiphlogistics, 
wiilch  would  have  been  more  suitable  for  a 
case  of  pneumonia,  but  the  hunger  is  too  true 
a  touch  to  be  mistaken,  as  all  who  have  bad 
typhoid  fever  would  at  once  realize. 

Compared  with  this  careful  study  the  death 
of  Mrs.  Pendennis  appears  medically  feeble, 
it  is  strictly  analogous  to  a  similar  death  from 
heart  disease  in  tlic  Sea  Queen  of  Clark 
Russell  In  both  we  have  a  sliort  ix;roid  of 
intense  mental  anxiety  followed  by  a  time  of 
rest  and  peace  from  which  the  fatal  termina- 
tion rouses  us  with  an  unpleasant  shock,  but 
the  details  are  meager,  and  the  effect  pro- 
duced is  purely  that  attending  any  sudden 
catastrophe.  Thackeray's  chronic  invalids, 
Miss  Crawley,  Jos  Bedley,  Major  Pendennis 
and  others,  are  all  stamped  with  that  assiduous 
care  for  their  own  health,  that  selfish  disregard 
for  others,  which  so  often  results  from  the 
concentration  of  the  mind  on  the  physical 
condition  of  the  individual;  he  tells  us  plainly 
when  they  have  been  overheating  or  indulging 
in  too  much  punch ;  he  does  not  spare  them, 
he  holds  them  up  to  ridicule  and  scorn. 
Thus  in  all  his  dealings  with*medical  topics 
we  feel  he  is  treadlikg  on  sure  ground,  and 
that  he  never  forgets  that  as  an  artist  it  is 
impossible  for  him  to  write  in  a  loose  way,  as 
though  it  did  not  matter  what  diseases  his 
characters  die  of,  provided  only  that  they  die. 
He  makes  us  believe*  fully  in  his  work ;  all 
removed  from  his  pages  pass  out  naturally; 
for  though  he  may  not  trouble  to  tell  us  of  the 
disease,  in  one  way  or  another  he  has  led  up 
to  the  death,  so  that  little  surprise  is  excited. 

At  the  risk  of  treading  in  well  worn  paths, 
it  is  natural  U>  turn  from  Thackeray  to 
Dickens,  and  the  change  is  not  gratifying. 
He  can  scarcely  be  civil  about  doctors,  he 
appears  to  have  had  some  grudge  against  the 
medical  profession,  which  he  worked  off  by 
installments  whenever  his  pages  required  men- 
tion of  a  doctor ;  exceptions,  perhaps,  being 
made  in  favor  of  the  shadowy  Allan  Wood* 
court,  and  of  tliat  meek  and  mild  Mr.  Chillip 
who  superintended  David  Copperfleld's  en< 
trance  into  the  world»  and  who  endured  Mis^ 


DISEASE  IN  FICTION. 


165 


Betsy  Trotwood's  wrath.     Otherwise,  from 
Ben  AUeu  and  Bob  Sawyer  onward,  he  has 
waged  pitiless  warfare.    With  this  unfortunate 
bias,  tliis  moral  twist,  he  cannot  be  expected 
to  trouble  himself  with  medical  lore;  he  did 
not  believe  in  it  sufficiently  to  appreciate  the 
importance  of  being  correct,  and  as  a  conse- 
quence we  find  that  the  lines  become  more 
hazy  and  indefinite,  the  deaths  and  cures  more 
incomprehensible.     When  disease  of  a  chronic 
form  is  introduced,  however,  Dickens  may 
mostly  be  trusted,  especially  when  the  char- 
acter is  influenced  by  it.    The  demoralizing 
effect  of  one  class  of  sick-  room  work  is  drawn 
from  the  life  by  him  in  the  immortal  Mrs. 
Gamp— the  mind  of  a  woman  originally  grasp- 
ing and  of  :i  low  type  getting  throughly  sub- 
oidinated  to  professional  aims.    On  her  par- 
ti'calar  topic  she  is  as  never-ending  and  trouble- 
some as  any  fanatic  wheh  once  started  on  his 
hobby,  and  yet  the  picture  is  faithfully  drawn, 
its  truth  arrests  attention,  and  even  if  a  little 
shocked,  we  cannot  but  be  amused  with  her 
rebuke  to  i)Oor  Pecksniff  for  terrifying  the 
neighborhood.    The  various  forms  of  mental 
aberration  appear  to  have  been  a  favorite  study 
with  this  novelist.    Mr.  Dick  stands  out  clear- 
ly wltli  his  simplicity,  his  childishness,  his 
times  of  being  lifted  out  of  himself,  his  hope- 
less confusion   and   entanglement   with  his 
memorial  and  the  head  of  Charles  I.    Mr. 
F.'s  aunt  is  another  instance,  with  her  malev- 
olent gaze,  her  strange  antipathies,  her  extra- 
ordinary, startling,    disjointed   ejaculations; 
Bamaby  Rudge,  with  his  love  for  his  raven, 
for  flowers,  for  wandering  from  place  to  place, 
and  with  the  innocence  with  which  he  gets 
»  drawn  into  the  (Gordon  riots;  Harold  Skimpole, 
with  his  inability  and  craftiness;  Miss  Flite, 
with  her  birds  and  flowers;  Mrs.  Nickleby's 
lover,  with  his  shower  of  cucumbers — ^these 
and  many  more  show  the  strange  fascination  of 
the  grotesque  aspect  ot  mental  derangement, 
and  in   this   particular  line    our  author  is 
inimitable,  though  Stockton's  amiable  luna 
tics  m  Rudder  Orange  are,  perhaps,  the  near- 
est approach  to  these  familar  creations. 

Wckeus  is  not  so  easy  to  follow  at  all 
times,  even  when  the  symptoms  appear  to  he 
given  m  full  detail.    In  the  Old  Guriosity 


Shop  we  have  a  fair  example  of  difficulty. 
These  are  the  facts  connected  will:  the  illness 
of  Dick  Swiveller.  First  the  predisposing 
cause,  "the  spiritual  excitement  of  the  last 
fortnight  working  upon  a  system  affected  in 
no  slight  degree  by  the  spirituous  excitement 
of  some  years,  proved  a  little  too  much  for 
him."  This  might  serve  as  a  prelude  for  an 
attack  of  delirium  tremens,  but  the  symptoms 
of  this  disease  will  not  harmonize  with  what 
follows  "That  very  night  Mr.  Richard  was 
seizerl  with  an  alarming  illness,  and  in  twenty- 
four  hours  was  stricken  wit]i  a  raging  fever. " 
Then  come  "tossing  to  and  fro,"  "fierce 
thirst,"  "rambling,"  "dull eternal  weariness," 
"  weary  wanderings  of  his  mind,"  "wasting 
and  consuming  inch  by  inch,"  "a  deep  sleep, 
and  he  awoke  with  a  sensation  of  most  blissful 
rest."  Then  we  learn  from  the  Marchioness 
that  he  has  been  ill  "three  weeks  lo- morrow," 
that  his  hands  and  forehead  are  now  quite 
cool,  and  he  is  fed  with  a  great  basin  of  weak 
tea  and  some  toast.  The  next  day  Dick  was 
"perfectly  ravenous,"  but  is  still  kept  on  toast 
and  tea,  and  later  in  the  morning  he  takes 
.*  •  two  oranges  and  a  little  jelly. ' *  Some  pages 
further  on  we  are  told  of  Mr.  Swiveller 
recovering  very  slowly  from  his  illness. 
Now  for  summing  up.  Clearly  not  delir- 
ium tremens,  not  pneumonia — the  illness  is  too 
long — not  any  of  the  commoner  eruptive 
fevers,  for  the  same  reason;  but  either  typhus 
or  typhoid,  or  ]>oth  hopelessly  jumbled  to- 
gether. The  onset  belongs  to  typhus,  the 
duration  to  typhoid;  the  wanderings  would 
do  for  either,  so  would  wasting  delirium  and 
protracted  convalescence.  The  two  oranges 
were  injudicious,  to  say  the  least,  for  typhoid, 
but  they  were  given,  as  is  commonly  the  case, 
by  a  well-meaning  friend.  Yet  we  hear  ol 
no  relapse,  no  return  of  the  fever,  and  the 
conclusion  to  be  arrived  at  is  that  Dickens, 
perhaps  unconsciously,  had  mixed  up  the  two 
diseases,  merely  intent  on  producing  a  quaint, 
humorous  picture,  in  which  he  has  undoubt- 
edly succeeded. 

Of  all  the  victims  of  this  novelist,  perhaps 
the  most  puzzling  cases  occur  among  the 
legion  of  children  destroyed  by  him.  The 
school-master's  little  pupil,  in  the  Old  OuHo9' 


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ity  Shop,  would,  in  a  modem  novel,  have 
died  from  tubercular  meningitis,  caused  by 
educational  pressure.  He  is  allowed  to  be 
delirious  at  one  time  but,  instead  of  expiring 
in  a  state  of  coma  and  collapse,  he  enjoys  the 
privilege  accorded  to  most  of  Dickens'  pets, 
the  power  of  reviving  to  a  strange  brightness, 
to  make  touching  and  improving  deithbcd 
utterances,  separated  by  the  briefest  possible 
interval  from  the  final  termination.  Little 
Nell,  we  presume,  dies  of  consumption, 
hastened  by  exposure,  and  the  same  ending 
is  probably  a  safe  guess  for  Little  Dombey,  as 
well  as  for  the  poor  chivied  outcast  Jo.  who  had 
recently  had  smallpox;  but  in  all  these  cases 
we  cannot  help  thinking  that  the  author  was 
not  in  the  least  disposed  to  be  hampered  by 
any  scientific  accuracy;  the  time  had  come 
for  the  slaughter  of  the  innocents,  and  accord- 
ingly he  snuffed  them  out  without  troubling 
himself  about  certificates  of  deatli.  They 
died  for  sentimental  purposes,  and  it  seems 
almost  like  sacrilege  to  inquire  into  their 
83'mptoms  too  closely. 

Anthony  Trollope,  as  Mr.  Henry  James  has 
said,  did  not  believe  sufficiently  in  the  vitality 
of  his  characters  even  for  art;  hence  it  is  not 
surprising  to  find  disease  conspicuous  by  its 
absence  in  most  of  his  novels.  His  men  and 
women  were  too  genteel  to  suffer  from  illness; 
the}'  had  not  reached  the  stage  when  it  is 
right  to  have  somi;  fashionable  complaint. 
Charles  Reade  does  not  make  medicine  play 
an  important  part,  generally  contenting  him- 
self with  mere  passing  references,  not  ent-ering 
into  symptoms  in  any  detail;  thus,  when  he 
kills  with  spinal  injury,  he  just  mentions  the 
paralysis  of  motion  and  sensation,  and  gives  a 
fatal  prognosis;  when  a  character  dies  with 
plague  she  is  filled  with  forebodings  of  the 
possibility  of  ghastly  changes  in  her  appear- 
ance after  death.  With  his  omnivorous  read- 
ing he  amas.sed  in  his  commonplace  book 
curiosities  of  any  striking  nature;  we  are 
not  startled,  then,  at  finding  him  giving  a 
careful  description  of  the  mode  of  applying 
the  wet-pack;  but  it  %8  startling  to  find  it  used 
for  a  case  of  jaundice. 

Some  of  the  modem  novelists  bestow  care 
on  medical  detail.    Clark  Russell's  Sea  Qy^n 


treats  a  broken  leg  with  skill  sufficient  to 
avoid  shortening  or  other  deformity,  but  we 
are  not  told  quite  enough  about  the  accident 
to  make  us  certain  that  the  case  was  not  what 
is  termed  technically  an  impacted  fracture, 
which  would  considerably  diminish  the  mar- 
vel. Yellow  fever  is  drawn  into  the  same 
book  to  account  for  a  vessel  in  sound  condi^ 
tion  wandering  on  the  ocean  without  a  crew^. 
In  Christie  Murray's  Vol  Strange  occurs  a 
good  picture  of  paralysis  following  severe 
anxiety  and  overwork;  the  premonitory  symp- 
toms and  the  slow  restoration,  with  enfec- 
blement  of  intellect  being  well  portrayed. 
Henry  James  makes  use  of  Roman  fever  to 
kill  his  wayward  heroine  Daisy  Miller;  and 
in  the  Madonna  6f  Vve  Future  brain  fever  is 
just  indicated  with  similar  skillful  touches. 

Other  write  s   slip  along    carelessly  in  a 
vague  way,  appearing  to  mean  something  or 
nothing,  medically,  according  to  the  knoAvl- 
edge  of  the  reader.    The  illness  and  death  of 
Mr.  Dimmesdale,  in  the  Scarlet  Letter,  would 
be  veiy  difficult  to  explain  on  a  scientific 
basis.     Robbed  of  all  its  glamour  of  sorrow, 
and  looked  at  seriously,  we  feel  the  need  of  a 
new  nomenclature,  a  new  classification  of  dis- 
ease to  include  a  group  which  might  be  headed 
"Killed  by  an  acute  attack  of  conscience." 
Hawthorne  has  failed  scientifically,  but  we 
cannot  help  admitting  that  he  has  * 'exquis- 
itely failed. '  *  The  ending  is  evidently  intended 
to  be  dramatic  rather    than  truthful;   it  is 
almost  impossible  not  to  feel  that  the  man 
could  get  up  and  die  again— every  gesture, 
every  word,  every  gf«p  being  so  studied,  and 
the   full  stop  coming  with  such  admirable 
precision  at  the  right  time.    Howells  gives  us 
an  instance  of  loose  writing  in  the  fever  of 
Don  Ippolito  in  the  Foregone  Conclusion.    It 
is  impossible  to  be  certain  of  its  nature— 
tj^hus,  typhoid,  meningitis,  pneumonia,  or 
acute  rheumatism — we  feel  it  is  all  one  to  the 
author;  he  does  not  wish  to  give  us  a  cUnical 
record  of  the  case  any  more  than  he  does  of 
the  illness  of  the  Pythoness  of  the  Undis- 
covered Country.     This   last  might  well  be 
acute  rheumatism,  especially  when  taken  in 
conjunction  with   the   illness  of  her  father, 
attributed  to  an  obscure  affection  of  the  heart; 


DISEASE  IN  FICTION. 


157 


but  he  leaves  it  an  open  question,  not  filling 
in  Uie  pictuie  with  tike  same  firm  touch  which 
he  uses  with  the  weakness  and  fainting  fits, 
the  general  sleepiness  and  apathy  of  Mrs. 
Vervain  of  the  Faregone  Conclusion,  This  is 
an  accurate  study  of  disease;  the  others  are 
but  vaffiie  sketches  with  blurred  outlines. 

Wlien  all   scientific  iQSMk,^9^6  and  beat 
against    that   dead  wall   wttii^  separates  the 
known    from   the  unknown,   and    are  ever 
striving  to  break  down  the  boundary,  or,  by 
changing  its  position,  to  annex  part  of  the 
realm  beyond,  it  is  hardly  to  be  wondered  at 
tliat  the  novelist,  who  regards  science  as  mate- 
rial for  copy,  should  refuse  to  be  bound  by 
the  same  limits  of  knowledge,  that  he  should 
occasionally  make  his  characters  a  new  order 
of   beings,  governed    by  laws  untaught  by 
me<Hcine,   and  capable   of   recovering  from 
diseases  commonly  regarded  as  incurable;  or 
even  that  he  should  evolve  from  his  inner 
consciousness  new  diseases  or  new  mysterious 
combinations  of    nervous  Hymptoms.      Fre- 
quently   we    find    that,    starting    from   the 
boundary  line,  the  novelist  goes  on  to  explain 
phenomena  incapable  of  explanation,  allowing 
his  fancy  free  play,   taking  up  tne  thread 
where  science  has  left  it  for  the  present,  and 
endeavoring  to  assume  the  part  of  a  prophet, 
foretelling  the  cures,  the  marvels  which  may 
perhaps  l»e  looming  in  a  nebulous  form  in  the 
distance.     To  enjoy  books  of  this  nature  we 
must  be  content  to  accept  them  as  true,  to  set 
aside  our  knowledge  and  understanding  for  a 
while,  and  allow  ourselves  to  be  carried  away 
from  the  landmarks  of  prosaic  fact  by  the 
current  of  plausible  reasoning  and  assertion  in 
which  we   are   involved.      Such  books  are 
beyond  the  reach  of  serious  medical  criticism, 
which  would  lead  us  to  apply  to  them  a  rude, 
unpleasant    monosyllabic    term    which    has 
already  caused  mischief  enough  in  the  world. 
Provided  however  that  we  do  not  inquire  too 
closely  into  probabilities,  they  may  be  read 
with  the  same  keen  interest  which  is  excited 
by   books   of   travel   over   virgin    soils,  or 
descriptions  of  the  habits  of  newly -discovered 
races  or  animals — ^an   interest  akin  to  that 
with  which  we  have  devoured  the  Arabian 
Nights  or    OalUver^  Travels.    It  must   be 


granted  that  we  are  not  seeking  facts  by 
which  to  guide  our  lives,  that  wc^  do  not  Wish 
to  trammel  our  author  with  historical  pre- 
cision, that  we  read  his  book  only  for  the 
amusement  or  amazement  it  affords. 

Called  Back  probably  largely  owed  its 
phenomenal  popularity  to  the  skill  with  which 
the  impossible  was  demonstrated  as  fact.  The 
author  seized  upon  and  made  his  own  a  large 
number  of  subjects  of  current  controversy. 
He  gave  us  what  professed  to  be  a  truthful 
version  of  experiences  akin  to  thought-reading, 
mental  states  of  consciousness  being  declared 
to  be  interchangeable  by  the  mere  contact  of 
the  hands,  and  brain-waves  passing  from  one 
individual  to  another;  we  get  curious  deduc- 
tions concerning  localization  and  inhibition  of 
nerve  force,  or,  to  speak  less  technically,  we  are 
asked  to  believe  that,  after  a  sudden  shock, 
memory  can  be  lost  entirely  until  a  recurrence 
of  the  shock  brings  it  back  a^in,  calling  to 
mind  the  man  and  the  quickset  hedge  of  our 
youth,  a  repetition  of  the  same  course  of  treat- 
ment producing  diametrically  opposite  results, 
as  in  the  last  act  of  Martha  and  some  other 
operas.  Through  the  whole  book  the  secret 
of  success  may  be  traced  to  a  combination  of 
causes,  foremost  among  them  being  a  judi- 
cious pandering  to  popular  weakness,  to  ere- 
duUty,  to  the  love  for  the  marvelous,  and  even 
to  Kussophobia.  *'An  author  must  believe 
his  own  story,"  says  Mr.  Besant,  but  the 
author  of  Called  Back  was  surely  too  clever  for 
that.  This  mode  of  utilizing  current  ideas,  of 
touching  upon  strings  which  are  already  vi- 
brating, determines  to  a  large  extent  the  suc- 
cess or  failure  of  no^^ls  of  this  description. 
Paul  Vargas,  a  sketch  by  the  same  hand, 
merely  excited  ridicule;  the  secret  of  perpetual 
life  is  too  much  out  of  date  to  interest;  the 
illness  of  the  hero  of  too  mysterious  a  nature 
to  delude  into  belief. 

It  is  curious  to  find  that  many  novelists 
who,  as  a  rule,  are  to  be  commended  for 
the  fidelity  of  their  medical  data,  seem  some- 
times weary  of  this  world  which  they  know, 
and  cross  the  boundary  line  into  the  unknown 
land  of  the  imaginative  or  ignorant.  They 
seek  relaxation  by  change  of  style  of  work< 
manship,  just  as  an  artist  occasionally  draws 


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THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


caricatures;  or  perhaps  they  intend  to  point 
a  moral  frou  these  airy  flights,  preaching 
contentment  by  awful  examples.  That  weird 
ly  unpleasant  Lifted  Veil  of  George  Eliot's  is 
a  typical  instance  of  this  class  professing  to 
be  the  autobiography  of  a  man  conscious  of 
the  precise  date  and  hour  of  his  doom,  and  of 
all  tlie  attendant  circumstances,  capable  of 
reading  the  unspoken  thoughts  of  those  about 
him,  showing  in  their  full  horror  the  result  of 
the  possession  of  powers  for  which  many 
have  longed  in  a  vague  way.  It  matters  little 
that  symptoms  of  a  true  disease,  angina 
pectoris,  should  herald  the  death,  when  all 
those  preceding  are  exaggerations  and  fictions. 
So  too  with  the  Ten  Years*  Tenant  of  Besant 
and  Rice,  the  possible  discomforts  and  shifts 
arising  from  the  possession  of  immunity  from 
death  by  disease  form  the  mainspring  of  a 
story  in  which  the  leading  character  is  sup- 
posed to  live  through  over  two  and  a  half 
centuries. 

While  medical  men  puzzle  and  theorize 
over  the  limits  to  be  assigned  to  the  influence  of 
heredity,  the  novelist  is  not  troubled  by  more 
doubts  than  those  of  the  monthly  nurse,  whose 
confidence  is  so  great  in  the  matter  of  mater- 
nal impressions.  The  modes  of  thought,  the 
vicious  habits,  the  same  likes  and  dislikes, 
have  often  been  drawn,  but  the  oddest  of  all 
-developments  of  this  subject  is  the  curious 
background  it  affords  Wendell  Holmes  in  the 
fate  of  Elsie  Yenner,  whose  snakelike  pro 
pensities  are  in  this  way  accounted  for  by  a 
doctor  in  this  book. 

In  like  way  it  would  be  amusing,  were  it 
not  for  the  grain  of  truth  which  lies  hidden 
like  a  sting,  to  note  how  often  novelists  shift 
responsibility  for  strange  statements  to  the 
shoulders  of  medical  men.  Ouida,  in  one  of 
Uie  BimM  stories,  makes  a  doctor  speak  of  a 
case  as  meningitis,  and  after  gloomy  prognos- 
tications she  cures  it  with  the  bark  of  a  long- 
lost  dog.  Dickens  also,  having  stumbled 
a^oss  the  notion  of  destruction  by  spontaneous 
combustion,  proceeded  to  quote  authorities 
without  estimating  th«r  scientific  value.  A 
reference  to  Taylor's  Medical  Jurisprudence 
will  at  once  set  this  matter  in  its  true  light. 

Further  we  find  novelists  gravely  predlicting 


the  future  of  medicine.  An  American 
writer  in  Dr.-  Heidenhoff^s  Process  recently 
started  with  three  separate  ideas — the  doctrine 
of  inhibition,  the  localization  of  motor  and 
sensory  areas  in  the  brain,  the  assumption  of 
similar  localization  of  memory.  With  these 
materials  he  proceeded  to  development  of  an 
imaginative  nature  in  the  form  of  a  dream 
following  closely  after  a  talk  on  mental  phys- 
iology, a  dose  of  morphia,  and  a  dry  book  on 
electricity — a  dream  occupying  a  large  portion 
of  the  book — we  are  lead  to  believe  ^vith  the 
author  that  it  will  be  possible  in  the  future  to 
"Throw  physic  to  the  dogs,"  and  to  answer 
in  the  afllrmative  Macbeth 's  questions- — 

Canst  thou  not  minister  to  a  mind  diseased, 
Plack  from  the  memory  a  rooted  sorrow. 
Raze  out  the  written  tronbles  of  the  brain  ? 

In  fact,  in  this  dream  a  lady  goes  through 
this  process  of  mental  obliteration,  and  is 
totally  relieved  of  all  inconvenient  recollec- 
tions of  some  unpleasant  episodes  in  her  life; 
indeed,  the  working  of  our  future  is  repre 
sented  as  being  as  easy  as  that  of  an  automatic 
printing  machine:  name  the  memory  you 
wish  to  dispose  of,  place  the  electrodes  over 
one  particular  spot  of  the  brain,  press  the 
knobs,  a  local  area  of  nerve-cells  neatly  cir- 
cumscribed becomes  sterilized,  and  the  patient 
goes  on  his  way  rejoicing. 

But,  setting  aside  such  trifling,  the  bonds 
linking  together  science  and  fiction  are  already 
strong.  Science  owes  to  our  novelists  much 
of  its  interest,  much  of  its  publicity.  The 
scientist  slowly  and  laboriously  hammers  out 
some  new  discovery,  some  recognition  of  the 
individuality  of  a  certain  group  of  s^-mptoms 
which  had  been  previously  lost  in  the  crowd; 
wearied  with  his  work  he  too  often  launches 
this  discovery  with  all  the  ugliness  of  techni- 
cality hanging,  ground  it  like  a  convict's  dress, 
betokening  the  hard  labor  through  which  it 
has  passed;  and  then  some  good  Samaritan  of 
a  novelist  turns  out  of  his  way  to  take  pity  on 
it,  to  lavish  care  upon  it,  to  clothe  it  anew,  to 
attract  to  it  the  attention  of  the  public,  and 
thus  to  save  it  from  death  from  neglect.  It 
is  introduced  into  good  society,  and  it  thrives, 
and  perhaps  hecomes  a  leading  topic  of  con- 
versation for  ashprttoie. 


THE  MOUJIKS  AND  THE  RUSSIAN  DEMOCRACY. 


160 


But  if  the  scientidt  has  reason  to  be  grateful, 
t6  also  has  the  novelist.  New  facts  have 
been  given  to  him,  new  marvels  to  dilate  upon 
and  make  his  own;  he  has  been  supplied  with 
new  modes  of  escape  from  the  web  of  intri- 
eacies  with  which  he  has  entangled  his  char- 
acters, and  thus  the  advantage  is  mutual. 
For  tlie  continuance  of  this  good-fellowship 
there  is  reason  to  be  hopeful.  Medical  science 
has  never  perhaps  been  more  active  than  at 
the  present  time.  The  new  diseases  and  the 
new  methods  of  treatment^ which  have  not 
been  utilized  in  novels  are  already  forming  a 
portentous  crowd  clamoring  for  recognition 
in  story.  Neurasthenia,  and  its  cure  by  the 
Weir  Mitchell  process  of  massage,  has  not,  to 
my  knowledge,  yet  been  drawn  in,  although 
the  marvelous  cures  of  bedridden  individuals 
would  seem  to  furnish  ^scope  for  an  enterpris- 
ing worker.  Thte  antiseptic  process  also  has 
its  picturesque  side;  the  saving  of  life  and 
limb  on  the  battlefield,  as  furnished  by  the 
medical  records  of  the  last  Egyptian  campaign, 
gives  ample  opportunity  for  surprises  of  the 
most  telling  character. 

The  recognition  of  hitherto  unrealized 
disease  by  means  of  the  ophthalmoscope,  and 
the  prognostic  value  of  the  signs,  might  also 
be  described.  Locomotor  ataxy  has  already 
played  a  part  in  an  Agnostic  dialogue  in  a 
contemporary,  but  there  is  yet  room  for  its 
furtlier  development  in  the  pages  of  fiction. 
Metallo-therapy  is  too  much  discredited  now 
to  find  favor,  but  the  prophylactic  action  of 
copper  against  cholera  was  until  recently 
sufficiently  unproven  to  allow  of  its  being 
swept  Into  the  vortex  of  fiction,  for  the  in- 
struction of  those  who  do  not  follow  the  med- 
ical journals  assiduously. 

It  is  impossible  to  lay  down  rules  or  to 
point  out  aU  the  lines  which  might  be 
followed.  The  aim  of  this  article  is  to'  show 
from  the  past  what  has  been  worthily  accom- 
plished, what  has  been  recklessly  undertaken, 
as  well  as  ihe  mistakes  of  (hose  attempting  to 
foretell  the  future  of  medicine,  in  the  hope 
that,  while  affording  interest  to  the  public,  it 
may  also  help  novelists,  wbo^  with  the  Mate- 
rialist of  a  recent  Doet— 


Would  lean  with  tlie  boldest  to  think, 
Would  grapple  with  things  that  perplex^ 
Would  stand  ou  the  verge  and  the  brink 
Where  the  seen  and  the  unseen  are  met 

— Nbstob TraABD,  M.  D.,  in  The  Mneteenth 
Century. 


THE  MOUJIKS  AND   THE  RUSSIAN 
'  DEMOCRACY. 

When,  about  a  score  of  years  before  the 
emancipation,  the  Russian  democrats  for  the 
fir  t  time  came  in  close  contact  with  the 
peasants,  with  the  view  of  knowing  better 
their  down-trodden  brothers,  they  were 
amazed  by  their  discoveries.  The  moujikf 
proved  to  be  an  entirely  different  race  from 
what  pitying  people  among  their  **  elder 
brothers"  expected  them  to  be.  Par  from 
being  degraded  and  brutalized  by  slavery,  the 
peasants,  united  in  their  semi-patriarchal, 
semi-republicau  village  communes,  exhibited 
a  great  share  of  self  respect,  and  even  capaci- 
ty to  stand  boldly  by  their  rights  when  the 
whole  of  the  commime  was  concerned.  Diffi- 
dent in  their  dealings  with  strangers,  they 
showed  a  remarkable  truthfulness  and  frank- 
ness in  their  dealings  among  themselves,  and 
a  sense  of  duty  and  loyalty  and  unselfish 
devotion  to  their  little  communes,  which  con- 
trasted strikingly  with  the  shameful  corrup* 
tioB  and  depravity  of  the  ofTlcial  classes. 
They  had  not  the  fdigfatest  notion  of  the  pro- 
gress made  by  the  sciences,  and  belfeved  th<it 
the  earth  rested  on  three  whales,  swimming 
on  the  river  called  "ocean;"  but  in  their 
traditional  morality  they  showed  sometimes 
sueh  a  deep  humanity  and  wisdom  as  struck  , 
with  wonder  and  admiration  their  educated 
observecs. 

These  democrats  of  the- first  hour,  men  of 
great  talent  and  enormous  erudition,  such 
as  Yakushkin,  Dal,  Ktreevsky.  in  propagaU 
ing  among  the  bulk  of  the  reading  public  the 
results  of  thefr  long  years  of  study,  laid  the 
base  of  that  democratic  feeling  which  has  not 
died  outJn  Russia.  Since  that  time  the 
momentous  nufti  of  ibe  educated  people 
"among  the  peasants,^  and  the  study  of  th« 
various  sides  ^  peasant  Hfe,  has  gone  on  ooa- 


160 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


stantly  increacsing.  No  country  possesses  such 
a  literature  on  the  subject  as  Russia;  but  the 
tone  of  the  writers  of  these  latter  times — men 
of  the  same  stamp  as  Yakushkin  and  Kireev- 
sky — is  no  longer  one  of  unmixed  admira- 
tioa.  Whether  you  embark  on  the  sea  of 
statistical  and  ethnographical  lore  collected 
for  posterity  by  the  untiring  zeal  of  the  late 
Orloff  and  his  followers,  or  whether  you  are 
deep  in  admiration  of  the  artistic  sketches  of 
peasant  life  drawn  by  Uspensky,  or  whether 
yoi;  ate  perusing  the  works  of  no  less  trust- 
w  rtliy  though  less  gifted  essayists  of  the 
same  school,  such  as  Zlatovratsky  and  Zasso- 
dimsky,  you  will  invariably  come  to  recognize 
a  great  breaking  up  of  the  traditional  ground- 
work of  the  social  and  moral  life  of  our 
peasantry.  Something  harsh,  cruel,  cynically 
egotistical,  is  worming  itself  into  the  hearts 
of  the  Russian  agricultural  population,  where 
formerly  all  was  simplicity,  peace,  and  good- 
will unto  men.  Thus  the  gray-  bearded  grand- 
fathers are  not  alone  in  modern  Russia  in 
lamenting  the  good  old  times.  Some  of  our 
young  and  popular  writers  are,  strangely  en- 
ough, striking  the  same  wailing  chords.  It  is 
evident  that  in  the  terrible  strait  through 
which  our  people  are  passing,  not  only  their 
material  condition  but  their  souls  have  suf- 
fered grave  injuries. 

Yet  not  all  is  lamenting  about  bygones  in 
the  tidings  which  reach  us  from  our  villages. 
The  good  produced  by  the  progress  of  culture 
is,  in  spite  of  its  drawbacks,  according  to  our 
modest  opinion,  full  compensation  for  the 
impairing  of  the  almost  unconscious  virtues 
of  the  old  patriarchal  period.  Freed  from 
the  yoke  of  serfdom  and  put  before  the  tri- 
bunals on  equal  footing  with  other  citizens, 
their  former  masters  included,  tlie  peasants, 
too,  are  beginning  to  feel  themselves  citizens. 
A  new  generation,  which  has  not  known 
slavery,  has  had  time  to  grow  up.  Their 
aspiration  after  Independence  has  not  as  yet 
directed  itself  against  political  despotism,  save 
in  isolated  cases ;  but  in  the  meantime  it  has 
almost  triumphed  in  the  struggle  against  the 
more  intimate  and  trying  domestic  despotism 
of  the  holshak,  the  head  of  the  household. 
A  very  importtmt  aod  thoroughgoing  change 


has  taken  place  in  the  f  amUy  relalioiis  of  the 
great  Russian  rural  population  The  children, 
as  soon  as  tliey  are  grown  up  and  have  mar- 
ried, won't  submit  any  more  to  the  boMals^i 
whimsical  rule.  They  rebel,  and  if  imposed 
upon,  separate  and  found  new  honseholds, 
where  they  become  masters  of  tlieir  acts. 
These  separations  have  grown  so  frequent 
that  the  number  of  independent  boujseholds  in 
the  period  of  1858-1881  has  increased  from 
thirty-two  per  cent,  to  seventy-one  per  cent 
of  the  whole  provincial  population.  It  is 
worth  noticing"  that  the  rebellion  aincng  the 
educated  classes  began  also  in  the  circle  of 
domestic  life,  before  stepping  into  the  larger 
one  of  political  action. 

Elementary  education,  however  hampered 
and  obstructed  by  the  Government,  is  spread- 
ing among  the  rural  classes.  In.  1868,  of  a 
hundred  recruits  of  peasanPorigin,  there  were 
only  eight  who  could  read  and  write.  In 
1882  the  proportion  of  literate  people  among 
the  same  number  was  twenty.  This  is  little 
compared  with  what  might  have  been  dene, 
but  it  is  a  great  success  if  we  remember  the 
hindrances  the  peasant  has  had  to  overcome. 
Reading,  which  a  score  of  years  ago  was  an 
exclusive  attribute  of  the  superior  classes,  is 
spreading  now  among  the  moujiks.  Popular 
literature  of  all  kinds  has  received  an  unheard 
of  development  in  the  last  ten  or  fifteen  years. 
Popular  books  bear  dozens  of  republications, 
and  are  selling  by  scores  of  thousands  of 
copies. 

Religion  is  the  language  in  which  the  hu- 
man spirit  is  lisping  its  first  conceptions  and 
giving  vent  to  its  first  aspirations.  The 
awakening  of  the  popular  intelligence  and 
moral  consciousness  has  found  its  expression 
in  dozens  of  new  religious  sects,  a  remarkable 
and  suggestive  phenomena  of  modem  popular 
life  in  Russia.  Differing  entirely  from  the 
old  ritualistic  sectarianism,  which  was  more 
of  a  rebellion  against  ecclesiastical  arrange- 
ments than  against  orthodoxy,  these  dcw 
sects  of  rationalistic  and  Protestant  type  have 
acquired  in  about  ten  or  twelve  years  hundreds 
of  thousands,  millions,  of  proselytes.  This 
movement  of  thought  both  by  its  exaltations 
and  the  general  tendency  of  its  doctrines  can 


THE  MOUJIKS  AND  THE  RUSSIAN  DEMOCRACY. 


161 


be  compaTed  with  the  great  Protestant  move- 
ment of  the  sudeenth  century.  The  only 
difference  consists  in  its  being  confined  in 
Russia  exclusively  to  the  rural  and  working 
class,  without  being  in  the  least  shared  by  the 
educated  people.  The  sources  of  religious  en  • 
tfausiasm  are  dried  up,  we  think  forever,  in 
the  Russian  intellectual  classes,  their  enthusi- 
asm and  exaltation  having  found  quite  ano 
ther  channel.  For  nobody  can  take  in  earnest 
the  few  drawing-room  attempts'  at  founding 
some  new  creed,  of  which  we  hear  now  and 
then  of  late.  But  it  is  beyond  doubt  that  the 
genuine  and  earnest  development  of  religious 
thoughts  and  feelings,  which  we  are  witness- 
ing amoD^  our  masses,  will  play  an  important 
part  in  our  people's  near  future. 

In  whatevei^  direction  we  look,  everything 
proves  that  under  the  apparent  calm  there  is 
a  great  movement  in  the  minds  of  our  rural 
masses.  The  great  social  and  political  crisis, 
through  which  Russia  is  passing,  is  not  con- 
fined to  the  upper  classes  alone.  The  process 
of  demolition,  slower  but  vaster,  is  going  on 
among  the  rural  masses  too.  All  is  tottering 
there— orthodoxy,  custom,  traditional  forms 
of  life.  The  European  public  takes  notice 
only  of  the  upper  part  of  that  crisis,  that 
which  is  going  on  among  the  educated,  be- 
cause of  its  dramatic  manifestations;  but  the 
crisis  among  our  rural  masses,  wrought  by  the 
combined  efforts  of  civilization  on  the  one 
band  and  of  economical  ruin  on  the  other, 
is  no  less  real  and  certainly  no  less  interesting 
and  worth  studying  than  the  former. 

In  what  does  this  crisis  consist.  How  far 
and  in  what  direction  have  gone  the  changes 
iq  the  social  and  ethical  ideals,  the  traditional 
morality  and  the  character  of  the  moujik,  the 
tiller  and  guardian  of  our  native  land?  It 
would  seem  presumption  to  answer,  or  even 
to  attempt  to  answer,  in  the  space  of  a  few 
pages  such  questions  in  reference  to  an  enor- 
mous rural  population  like  the  Russian.  We 
hasten,  tiierefore,  to  mention  one  thing  which 
renders  such  an  attempt — ^partial  at  least- 
justifiable.  A  Russian  moujik  presents  of 
course  as  many  varieties  as  there  are  tribes 
and  regions  in  the  vast  empire.  There  is  a 
wide  difference  between  the  eminently  socia- 


ble, open-hearted  Great  Russian  peasant, 
brisk  in  mind  and  speech,  quick  in  attachment 
and  in  forgetfulness,  and  the  dreamy  and 
reserved  Ruthenian;  or  between  the  practical, 
extremely  versatile  and  independent  Siberian, 
who  never  knew  slavery,  and  the  timid  Be- 
loruss(**  White  Russian  ")  who  has  borne  three 
yokes  But  through  all  the  varieties  of  types, 
tribes,  and  past  history' the  millions  of  our 
rural  population  present  a'  remarkable  uni- 
formity in  those  higher  general,  ethical,  and 
social  conceptions  which  the  educated  draw 
from  social  and  political  sciences,  and  the 
uneducated  from  their  traditions,  which  are 
the  depositories  of  the  collective  wisdom  of 
past  generations. 

This  seemingly  strange  uniformity  of  our 
peasants*  moral  physiognomy  is  to  be  ao- 
counted  for  by  two  causes :  the  perfect 
identity  of  our  people's  daily  occupation, 
which  is  almost  exclusively  pure  husbandry, 
and  the  great  similitude  of  those  peculiar  self- 
governing  associations,  village  communes,  in 
which  the  whole  of  our  rural  population,  with- 
out distinction  of  tribe  or  pla^e,  have  lived 
from  time  immemorial.  No  occupation  is 
fitter  to  develop  a  morally  as  well  as  physi- 
cally healthy  race  than  husbandry.  We  mean 
tlie  genuine  husbandry,  where  the  tiller  of  the 
soil  is  at  the  same  time  its  owner.  We  need 
not  dwell  on  the  proofs.  Poets,  historian, 
and  philosophers  alike  have  done  their  best  to 
bring  home  to  us,  corrupted  children  of  the 
towns,  the  charms  of  the  simple  virtues  of  the 
populations  of  stanch  ploughmen. 

In  Russia,  until  the  "economic  progi-ess," 
of  the  last  twenty -five  years  turned  twenty 
millions  of  our  peasants  into  landless  prole- 
tarians, they  were  all  landowners.    Even  the  c 
scourge  of  serfdom  could  not  depose  them 
from  that   dignity.     The  serfs,   who   tilled-: 
gratuitously  the  manorial  land,  had  each  of 
them  pieces  of  freehold  land  which  they  cul- 
tivated on  their  own  account.    Nominally  it 
was  the  property  of  the  landlords.    But  so 
strong  was-  tradition    and    custom  that  the 
landlords  themselves   had  almost  forgotten* . 
that  they  had  a  right  to  it.     So  much  so,  that. 
Professor  Engelhardt  {Letters  from  a  ViVitg:^ . 
tells  us  that  many  of  the  former  seigcc^^ 


X63 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


learned  only  from  the  Act  of  Emancipation  of 
1861  tbat  the  land  on  which  tlie  peasants  were 
sitting,  was  also  their  property.  Qleb  Us- 
pensky,  in  discussing  the  causes  of  the  won 
derful  preservation  of  the  purity  of  the  moral 
character  of  the  Russian  people  through  such 
a  terrible  ordeal  as  the  three  centuries  of 
slavery,  which  passed  over  without  grafting  in 
it  any  vice  of  the  slave,  finds  no  other  explana 
tion  than  this:  the  peasant  was  never  separated 
from  the  furrow,  from  the  all-absorbing  cares 
and  the  poetry  of  agricultural  work. 

Our  peasants  could,  however,  do  something 
more  than  individually  preserve  themselves. 
They  could  give  a  more  lasting  assertion  and 
definition  to  tbeir  collective  dispositions  and 
aspirations.  A  Russian  village  has  never  been 
a  mere  aggregation  of  individuals,  but  a  very 
intimate  association,  having  much  work  and 
life  in  common.  These  associations  are  called 
Mirs  among  the  Great  and  White  Russians, 
Uromadas  among  the  Ruthenians.  Up  to  the 
present  time  the  laws  allow  them  a  consider- 
able amount  of  self-government.  They  are 
free  to  manage  in  common  all  their  economical 
concerns.  The  land,  if  they  hold  it  as  com- 
mon property — which  is  the  case  everywhere 
save  in  the  Ruthenian  provinces — the  forests, 
the  fisheries,  renting  of  public-houses  standing 
on  their  territory,  etc.,  they  distribute  among 
themselves  as  they  choose,  the  taxes  falling  to 
the  share  of  the  commune  according  to  the 
Government  tables.  They  elect  the  rural 
executive  administration— 5terM<  and  8tar- 
shiiKUt — who  are  (nominally  at  least)  under 
their  permanent  control.  A  very  important 
privilege  too:  they,  the  village  communes  com- 
posing the  Volosi,  in  general  meeting  assem- 
bled, elect  the  ten  judges  of  the  Volost.  All 
these  must  be  peasants,  members  of  some  vil- 
lage commune.  The  peasants*  tribunal's  Juris- 
diction is  very  extensive;  all  the  civil,  and  a 
good  many  ciiminal  offences  (save  the  capital 
ones),  in  which  one  of  the  parties,  at  least,  is  a 
peasant  of  the  district,  are  amenable  to  this 
tribunal.  The  peasants  sitting  as  judges  are 
not  bound  to  abide  in  their  verdicts  by  the 
ofilcial  code  of  law.  They  administer  justice 
according  to  the  customary  laws  and  tradi- 
tions of  the  local  peasantry. 


The  records  of  these  tribunals,  published  by 
an  official  commission,  afford  us  at  onoe  an 
insight  into  the  peasants'  original  notions  as 
to  juridical  questions.  We  pass  orer  the 
verdicts  illustrating  the  popular  idea  as  to 
land  tenure,  which  is  more  or  less  known. 
We  will  rather  try  to  elicit  the  other  side  of 
the  question:  the  peasants'  views  oo  movable 
property,  the  right  of  bequest,  of  inheritance, 
and  their  civil  code  in  general,  which  presents 
some  curiouET  and  unexpected  peculiarities. 
The  fact  which  strikes  us  in  it,  is  tbat  among 
the  peasants  where  the  patriarchal  principle 
IS  as  yet  so  strong  and  the  ties  of  blood  are 
held  so  sacred,  kinship  gives  no  right  to- pro- 
perty. The  only  rightful  claim  to  it  is  given 
by  work  alone.  Whenever  the  two  come  into 
conflict  it  is  to  the  right  of  labor  that  the 
popular  conscience  gives  the  preference.  The 
feUier  cannot  disinherit  one  son  or  diminish 
his  share  for  the  benefit  of  his  favorite.  Not- 
withstanding the  religious  respect  in  which 
the  last  will  of  a  dying  man  is  held,  both  the 
Mir  and  the  tribunal  will  annul  it  at  the  com- 
plaint of  the  wronged  young  man.  if  the  latter 
is  known  to  be  a  good  and  diligent  worker. 
The  fathers  themselves  know  this  well. 
Whenever  they  attempt  to  prejudice  in  their 
wills  one  of  the  children,  they  always  adduce 
as  motive  that  he  has  been  a  ^uggard  or  a 
spendthrift  who  has  already  dissipated  his 
share.  The  favorite,  on  the  other  hand,  is 
mentioned  as  "having  worked  hard  for  the 
family."  Kinship  has  no  influence  whatever 
in  the  distribution  :md  proportioning  of 
shares  at  any  division  of  property.  It  is  de- 
termined by  the  quantity  of  work  each  has 
given  to  the  family.  A  brother  who  has  lived 
and  worked  with  the  family  for  a  longer  time 
will  receive  more,  no  natter  whether  he  is  the 
elder  or  the  younger.  He  will  be  excluded 
from  the  inheritance  altogether  if  he  has  been 
living  somewhere  else  and  has  not  contributed 
in  some  way  to  the  common  expenses.  The 
same  principle  is  observed  in  settling  the 
differences  between  the  other  grades  of  kins- 
folk. The  cases  of  sons-in-law,  step-sons, 
and  adopted  children,  are  very  characteristic. 
If  they  have  remained  a  sufficient  time — ten 
or  more  years— with  the  family  they  receive, 


THE  M0UJIK8  AND  THE  RUSSIAN  DEMOCRACY. 


168 


though  Btrangen,  all  the  righta  of  legitimate 
children,  while  the  legitimate  son  is  excluded 
if  he  has  not  taken  part  in  the  common  work. 
This  is  in  flagrant  contradiction  with  the  ciyil 
code  of  Russia  as  well  as  of  other  European 
countries.  The  same  contradiction  is  obser- 
vable in  the  question  of  women's  rights  The 
Russian  law  entitles  womco — legitimate  wives 
and  daughters — to  one  fourteenth  only  of  the 
family  Inheritance.  The  peasants*  customary 
law  requires  no  such  limitation.  The  women 
are  in  all  respects  dealt  with  like  the  men. 
They  share  in  the  property  in  proportion  to 
their  share  in  the  work.  The  sisters,  as  a 
rule,  do  not  inherit  from  the  brothers,  because 
in  marryiog  they  go  to  another  family,  and 
take  with  them  as  dowry  the  reward  of  their 
domestic  work.  But  a  spinster  sister,  or  a 
^dow  who  returns  to  live  with  her  brothers, 
will  always  receive  or  obtain  from  the  tri- 
bunal her  share.  The  right  to  inheritance 
being  founded  on  work  alone,  no  distinction 
is  made  by  the  peasants'  customary  law  be- 
tween legitimate  wives  and  concubines.  It  is 
interesting  to  note  that  the  husband,  too,  in- 
herits the  wife's  property  (if  she  has  brought 
him  any)  only  when  they  have  lived  together 
BufHciently  long— above  ten  years ;  otherwise 
the  deceased  wife's  property  is  returned  to 
her  parents. 

The  principle  ruling  the  order  of  inheri- 
tance is  to  be  detected  as  the  basis  for  the 
verdicts  in  all  sorts  of  litigation.  Labor  is 
always  recognized  as  giving  an  indefeasible 
right  to  property.  According  to  common 
jurisprudence,  if  one  man  has  sown  the  field 
belonging  to  another^especially  if  he  has 
done  it  knowingly — the  court  of  justice  wiil 
certainly  deny  the  offender  any  right  to  the 
eventual  product.  Our  peasants  are  as  strict 
observers  of  boundaries,  when  once  traced,  as 
any  agricultural  folk.  But  labor  has  its  im- 
prescriptible rights.  The  customary  law  pre- 
scribes a  remuneration  for  the  work  executed 
in  both  of  the  above  mentioned  cases — in  the 
case  of  unintentional  as  well  as  in  the  case  of 
premeditated  violation  of  property.  Only, 
in  the  first  instance,  the  offender,  who  retains 
all  the  product,  is  simply  compelled  to  pay  to 
the  owner  the  jrent  of  Uie  piece  of  land  he  has- 


sown,  according  to  current  prices,  with  some 
additional  trifling  present;  while  in  the  case 
of  a  violation  made  knowingly,  the  product  is 
left  to  the  owner  of  the  land,  who  is  bound, 
nevertheless,  to  return  to  the  offender  the 
seed,  and  to  pay  him  the  hired  laborers' 
wages  for  the  work  he  has  done.  If  a  peas- 
ant has  cut  wood  in  a  forest  belonging  to 
another  peasant,  the  tribunal  settles  the  mat- 
ter in  a  similar  way.  In  all  these  cases  the 
common  law  would  have  been  wholly  against 
the  offender,  the  abstract  right  of  property 
reigning  supreme. 

In  the  vast  ptactice  of  the  many  thousands 
of  peasants'  tribunals,  there  are  certainly  in- 
stances of  verdicts  being  given  on  other  prin- 
ciples than  this,  or  contrary  to  any  principle 
whatever.  Remembering  the  very  numerous 
influences  to  which  the  modern  village  is  sub- 
jected in  these  critical  times,  it  would  have 
been  surprising  if  it  were  otherwise.  More- 
over, the  peasants'  tribunal  has  by  its  side 
the  pimr,  the  commimal  clerk,  a  strange)*  to 
the  village  and  its  customs.  This  important 
person  is  the  champion  and  propagator  of  the 
official  views  and  of  the  official  code.  His 
influence  on  the  decisions  of  the  peasants' 
courts  is  considerable,  as  is  well  known.  The 
rarity  of  the  exceptions,  however,  makes  the 
rule  the  more  salient. 

The  peasants  have  applied  their  collective 
intelligence  not  to  material  questions  alone  or 
within  the  domain  apportioned  to  them  by 
law.  The  Mir  recognizes  no  i%straint  to  its 
autonomy.  In  the  conception  of  the  peasants 
themselves,  the  Mir's  authority  embraces,  in- 
deed, all  domains  and  branches  of  peasant 
life.  Unless  the  police  and  the  local  officers 
are  at  hand  to  prevent  what  is  considered  an 
abuse  of  power,  the  peasants'  Hir  is  always 
likely  to  exceed  its  competency.  Here  is  a 
curious  illustration.  In  the  autumn  of  1884, 
according  to  the  Russian  Courier  of  the  12th 
November,  1884,  a  peasants'  Mir  in  the  dis 
trict  of  Radomysl  had  to  pronounce  upon  the 
following  delicate  petition :  one  of  their  fel- 
low-villagers, Theodor  P.,  whose  wife  ran 
away  from  him  several  years  before,  and  was 
living  as  housemaid  in  some  private  house, 
wanted   to  marry  another  woman   from  a 


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THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE 


neighboring  village.  He  accordingly  asked 
the  IVIir  to  accept  his  bride  as  a  female  mem- 
ber of  their  commune.  Having  heard  and 
discussed  this  original  demand,  the  Mir  passed 
unanimously  the  following  resolution:  *'  Tak- 
ing into  consideration  that  the  peasant  Theo- 
dor  P.,  living  for  several  years  without  his 
legitimate  wife  by  the  fault  of  the  latter,  is 
now  in  great  need  of  awoman(!),  his  marriage 
with  the  former  wife  is  dissolved.  In  accord- 
ance with  which,  after  being  thrice  ques- 
tioned by  the  elder  (mayor)  of  our  village  as 
to  whether  we  permit  to  Theodor  P.  to  re- 
ceive in  his  house  as  wife  the  peasant  woman 

N ,  we  give  our  full  consent.    And  if, 

moreover,  Theodor  P.  shall  have  children  by 
his  second  wife,  we  recognize  them  as  legiti- 
mate and  as  heirs  to  their  father's  property, 
the  freehold  and  the  communal  land  includ- 
ed." This  resolution,  duly  put  on  the  paper 
and  signed. by  all  the  householders,  and  by 
the  t»Jder  of  the  village,  was  delivered  as  cer- 
tificate of  legitimacy  to  the  happy  couple,  no 
one  suspecting  that  the  3Iir  had  overstepped 
its  power. 

In  the  old  time,  as  late  as  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury, it  was  the  Mir  who  elected  the  parson 
(as  the  sectarian  villages  are  doing  nowadays), 
the  bishops  only  imx)osing  hands  on  the  Mir*s 
nominees.  The  orthodox  peasants  have  quite 
forgotten  that  historical  right  of  theirs;  but 
the  natural  right  of  the  Mir  allows  it  to  deal 
even  with  subjects  referring  to  religion. 

The  conversion  to  sectarianism  of  whole 
villages  in  lump  is  of  very  common  occurrence 
in  the  history  of  modem  sects.  A  sectarian 
apostle  comes  to  a  village  arid  makes  a  few 
converts.  For  a  time  they  zealously  preach 
their  doctrines  to  their  fellow- villagers.  Then 
when  they  consider  the  harvest  ripe,  they 
bring  the  matter  before  the  Mir,  and  often 
that  assembly,  after  discussing  the  question, 
passes  a  resolution  in  favor  of  the  acceptance 
of  the  new  creed.  The  whole  village  turns 
"shaloput"  or  "evangelical,"  changing  creeds 
as  small  states  did  in  the  Reformation  time. 
To  a  Russian  peasant  it  seems  the  most 
natural  thing  that  the  Mir  should  do  this 
whenever  it  chooses.  In  my  wanderings 
among  the  peasants,  I  remember  having  met 


near  Riazan  with  a  peasant  who  amused  me 
much  by  telling  how  they,  succeeded  in  put- 
ting a  check  on  the  cupidity  and  extortion  of 
the  pop  of  their  village.  "  When  we  could 
not  beai*  it  we  assembled  and  said  to  him, 
*  Take  care,  batka  (father) ;  if  you  won't  be 
reasonable,  we,  all  the  Mir,  will  give  up  or- 
thodoxy altogether,  and  will  elect  a  pop  from 
among  ourselves. ' ' '  And  the  pop  tlien  became 
"tender  as  silk,"  for  he  knew  his  flock  would 
not  hesitate  in  putting  their  resolve  into  effect. 

The  Mir  is  indeed  a  microcosm,  a  small 
world  of  its  own.  Tlie  people  living  in  it 
have  to  exert  their  judgment  on  everything, 
on  the  moral  side  of  man's  life  as  on  the 
jnaterial,  shaping  it  so  as  to  afiford  to  their 
small  associations  as  much  peace  and  happi- 
ness as  is  possible  in  their  very  arduous  cir- 
cumstances. 

Were  these  uneducated  people  able  to 
achieve  anything  in  the  high  domain  of  public 
morality?  Yes!  they  were,  though  w^hat  they 
did  cannot  be  registered  in  volumes  like  the 
verdicts  of  their  tribunals.  They  have  main- 
tained through  centuries  and  improved  the 
old  Russian  principle  of  governing  without 
oppression;  the  settling  of  all  public  questions 
by  unanimity  of  vote,  never  by  majority,  is  a 
wise  rule,  for  a  body  of  people  living  on  such 
close  terms.  This  system,  however,  could  be 
rendered  practicable  with  all  sorts  of  people 
only  by  a  high  development  of  the  sentiments 
of  justice,  equanimity,  and  conciliation.  They 
made  the  devotion  of  the  individual  to.  the 
Mir  the  keynote  of  morals.  They  learned  to 
exercise  it  in  petty  everyday  concessions  and 
services  to  the  Mir.  They,  raised  it  to  the 
sublimity  of  heroism  in  the  acts  of  self-sacri- 
fice for  the  good  of  the  Mir,  examples  of 
which  are  so  frequent  among  our  peasantry. 
To  "  suffer  for  the  Mir,"  to  be  put  in  chains 
and  thrown  in  prison  as  the  Mir's  khodoh  or 
messenger,  "sent  to  the  Tzar"  with  the  Mir's 
grievances  ;  to  be  beaten,  exiled  to  Siberia  or 
to  the  mines  for  having  stood  up  boldly  for 
the  Mir's  rights  against  some  powerfiJ  op- 
pressor, that  is  the  form  of  heroism  to  which 
an  enthusiastic  peasant  aspires,  and  which  the 
people  extol. 

The  orthodox  church  has  no  hold  oyot  the 


THE  MOUJIKS  AND  THE  RUSSIAN  DEMOCRACY. 


166 


souls  of  the  masses.  The  pop  or  priest  is  but 
an  official  of  the  bureaucracy  and  depredator 
of  the  commune.  But  the  high  ethics  of 
Christianity,  the  appeal  to  brotherly  love,  to 
forgireness,  to  self-sacrifice  for  the  good  of 
otliers,  have  always  found  au  echo  in  our 
people's  hearts.  **The  type  of  a  saint  as  con- 
ceived by  our  peasants,"  says  Uspensky,  **is 
uot  that  of  an  anchorite,  timidly  secluded 
from  the  world,  lest  some  part  of  the  treasury 
be  is  accumulating  in  heaven  might  get  dam- 
aged. Our  popular  saint  is  a  man  of  the  Mir, 
a  man  of  practical  piety,  a  teacher  and  bene- 
factor of  the  people.'*  In  Athanasieft's  col- 
lection of  popular  legends  we  find  an  illus- 
tration of  this  idea.  Two  saints— St.  Cassian 
and  St.  Nicolas— have  come  before  the  face 
of  the  Lord. 

**  What  bast  thou  seen  on  the  earth  ?^  asks  the  Lord 
of  St.  Cassian,  who  first  approached.  "I  have  seen  a 
monjik  foundering  with  his  carlo  a  marsh  by  the  way- 
Bide." 

^  Why  hast  thou  not  helped  him  ?  ^^  "  Because  I  was 
coming  into  Thy  presence,  and  was  afraid  of  spoiling 
my  bright  clothes.'' 

The  turn  of  St.  Nicolas  comes,  who  ap- 
proaches with  his  dress  all  besmeau'ed. 

"  Why  comest  thon  so  dirty  into  my  presence  ? "  asks 
the  Lord.  **  Because  I  was  following  St.  Cassian,  and 
eeeiug  the  monjik  of  whom  he  just  spoke,  I  have 
helped  him  out  of  the  marsh.'*^ 

"Well/^  said  the  Lord,  *' because  thou,  Cassian, 
hut  cared  so  much  about  thy  dress  and  so  little  about 
thy  brother,  1  will  give  thee  thy  name's  day  only  once 
in  four  years.  And  to  thee,  Nicolas,  for  having  acted 
M  thon  didst,  I  will  give  four  name's  days  each  year." 

That  is  why  St.  Cassian 's  Day  falls  on  the 
29th  of  February,  in  leap  year,  and  St.  Nico- 
las has  a  name's  day  each  quarter.  Such  is 
the  peasants'  interpretation  of  Christian  mo- 
rality. And  is  it  not  suggestive  that  the 
greatest  novelist  of  our  time,  and  a  man  of 
such  vast  intelligence  as  Count  Leo  Tolstoi, 
In  making  his  attempt  to  found  a  purely 
ethical  religion,  formulates  his  views  by  re- 
ferring the  educated  classes  to  the  Gospel  as  it 
is  understood  by  the  moujik? 

Since  we  do  not  in  the  least  presume  to 
sketch  anything  like  a  full  picture  of  our 
people's  moral  physiognomy  we  shall  stop 
Iwre.    Our  sole  object  has  been  to  show  that 


our  peasantry  on  the  whole,  as  it  came  to 
political  life  and  freedom  after  centuries  of 
internal  growth,  present  a  race  with  highly 
developed  social  instincts  and  many  elements 
promising  further  progress;  and  that  the  feel- 
ings of  deep  respect,  sometimes  of  enthusiastic 
admiration,  which  the  Russian  democrats  have 
for  the  peasantry,  are  not  devoid  of  founda 
tion.  These  feelings  may  often  have  been 
exaggerated,  especially  of  old,  when  the  two 
classes  came  for  the  first  time  into  close  con- 
tact. But  excess  of  idealization  and  senti- 
mentality have  become  matt^*of  history. 
They  were  destroyed  by  the  rough  touch  of 
reality;  and  the  mighty  figure  of  the  hero  of 
the  plough  has  not  lost  by  being  stripped  of 
tinsel.  Hewn,  in  unpolished  stone,  he  looks 
better  that  when  robed  in  marble.  The 
charm  of  his  force,  dauntless  courage,  and 
endurance  is  strengthened  by  the  thrilling 
voice  of  pity  for  the  overwhelming,  the  inde- 
scribable sufferings  of  this  childlike  giant.  A 
passion  for  Equality  and  Fraternity  is  and 
will  ever  be  the  strongest,  we  may  say  the 
only  strong  social  feeling  in  Russia.  It  is  by 
no  means  the  privilege  of  '*  Nihilists,"  or 
advanced  parties  of  any  kind;  it  is  shared  by 
the  enormous  majority  of  our  educated  class. 
Man  is  a  sociable  being.  He  yearns  to  at- 
tach himself  to  something  vaster  than  a 
family,  having  a  longer  existence  than  his 
immediate  surroundings.  The  feeling  in 
which  this  yearning  finds  its  commonest  and 
easiest  expression  is  patriotism,  Embracing  the 
whole  of  the  nation,  the  state  and  the  people 
being  blended  into  one.  For  us  Russians,  no 
such  blending  is  possible.  The  crimes,  the 
cruelties,  equaled  only  by  the  fo'ly,  of  those 
who  are  representing  Russia  as  a  state,  are 
there  to  prevent  it.  Who,  being  a  Russian 
and  au  honest  man,  can  help  blushing  at  the 
shameless  doings  of  the  Russian  Government 
in  Bulgaria?  Who  can  help  feeling  the  warm- 
est sympathy  with  the  courageous  little  people 
defending  its  freedom  against  a  new  tyranny? 
Quoting  the  words  of  a  few  scribes  who  are 
always  at  the  beck  of  the  Gk)vei'nment,  pro- 
vided they  are  allowed  to  practice  their  trade, 
while  their  betters  are  silenced,  the  English 
press  has  inflicted  on  Russian  society  at  large 


166 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


the  cruel  insult  of  assumkig  that  it  is  hostile 
to  .Bulgarian  independence,  that  it  shares  the 
Emperor's  personal  hatred  of  Prince  Alex- 
ander, and  desires  a  military  occupation. 
Why?  Are  the  Russians  such*  a  mean  people? 
How  can  doings,  feelings,  words,  which  seem 
base  and  disgusting  to  ordinary  educated 
men  of  any  nationality,  English,  or  French,  or 
German,  be  thought  fair  and  praiseworthy  by 
an  ordinary  educated  Russian?  AVhy  should 
a  Russian  wish  Bulgarian  liberty  to  be  tram- 
pled down  by  a  Kaulbars?  Is  it  to  enable 
hundreds  o^  generals  like  Kaulbars,  just  us 
brutal  and* foolish  as  he  is,  to  strengthen  their 
position  at  home?  One  need  not  be  a  Socialist 
to  dislike  a  Kaulbars'  rule. 

N^  a  Russian  can  never  wish  godspeed  to 
the  Government  of  his  country.  And  yet  we 
Russians  are  most  ardent  patriots.  We  have 
no  attachment  to  our  birthplace  or  any  par- 
ticular locality.  But  we  love  our  people,  our 
race  us  intensely  and  organically  as  the  Jews. 
And  we  are  almost  as  incapable  of  getting 
thorouv;hly  acclimatized  to  any  other  nation. 
In  describing  Russians  real  and  not  fictitious 
glories,  in  speaking  when  in  an  expansive 
mood  about  his  country's  probable  future  and 
the  service  she  is  likely  to  render  to  mankind, 
a  Russian  can  startle  a  Chauviniste  of  the 
grande  nation.  Yes,  we  are  certainly  patri- 
otic. Only  our  patriotism  runs  entirely  to- 
ward the  realization  of  the  demorratic  ideal. 
The  idea  of  country  is  embodied  for  us  not  in 
our  state  but  in  our  people,  in  the  moujiks 
and  in  those  various  elements  which  make 
the  moujiks'  cause  their  own.  Our  hopes, 
our  devotion,  our  love,  and  that  irresistible 
idealism  which  stimulates  to  great  labor,  all 
that  constitutes  the  essence  of  patriotism, 
with  us  is  democratic. — Stefniak,  in  The 
Fortnightly  Beview. 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 

Hartabd  Ooixvqv.  —On  Koyeint>er  8tb  HarvArd 
College  commemorated  its  two  hundred  and  fiftieth 
anmvereary.  Mr.  James  Rassell  Ix»well  delivered  an 
appreciative  addrera;  which  h  printed  at  length  in  The 
AiUuMe UmUhly.    Heaoid:^ 


**  The  chief  service,  aa  it  waa  the  chief  offlce,  of  the 
college  during  its  early  years  was  to  maintain  and  hand 
down  the  traditions  of  bow  excellent  a  thing  learning 
was,  even  if  the  teaching  were  not  always  adequate  by 
way  of  Illustration.  And  yet,  so  far  as  that  teaching 
went,  It  was  wise  in  this,  that  it  gave  the  pupils  some 
tincture  of  letters  as  distinguished  from  mere  scholar 
ship.  It  aimed  to  teach  them  the  classic  authors— 
that  is,  the  few  great  one^ ;  and  to  teach  them  in  f>och 
a  way  as  to  enable  the  pupil  to  assimilate  somewhat  of 
their  thought,  sentiment  and  style,  rather  than  to  ma«- 
ter  the  minuter  niceties  of  the  language  in  which  they 
wrote.'  It  strtack  for  their  matter,  as  Montaigne  ad- 
vised, who  would  have  men  taught  to  love  virtae  m 
stead  of  learning  to  decline  virtus.  It  set  more  store  bj 
the  marrow  than  by  the  bone  that  encased  it.  It  made  | 
language,  as  it  should  be,  a  ladder  to  literature,  and  i 
not  literature  a  ladder  to  language.  How  many  a  boy 
has  hated,  and  rightly  hated.  Homer  and  Horace*  the 
pedagogues  and  grammarians,  who  would  have  loved 
Homer  and  Horace,  the  poets,  had  he  been  allowed 
to  make  their  acquaintance.  The  old  method  of  in- 
struction had  the  prime  merit  of  enabling  its  pupils 
to  conceive  that  there  is  neither  ancient  nor  modern 
on  the  narrow  shelves  of  what  Is  truly  literature. 
We  owe  a  great  debt  to  the  Germans,  no  one  is  more 
indebted  to  them  than  I,  but  is  there  not  danger  of 
misleading  us  into  pedantry?  ....  Educa- 
tion, we  are  often  told,  is  a  drawing-out  of  the  facol. 
ties.  May  they  not  oe  drawn  too  thin  f  I  am  not  un- 
dervaluing philology  or  accuracy  of  scholarship.  Both 
are  excellent  and  admirable  in  their  places.  Bat 
philology  is  less  beautiful  tome  than  pj^losopfay  as 
Milton  understood  the  word,  and  mere  accuracy  is  to 
truth  as  a  i(^laster-caBt  to  the  marble  statue:  it  gives 
the  facts,  but  not  their  meaning.  If  I  mu^t  choose,  I 
had  rather  a  young  man  should  be  intimate  with  the 
genius  of  the  Greek  dramatic  poets  than  the  roeteni  of 
their  choruses,  though  I  should  be  glad  to  have  him 
on  easy  terms  with  both. 

*'For  more  than  900  years,  in  its  discipline  and 
courses  of  study,  the  college  followed  mainly  the  iioes 
traced  by  its  founders.  The  influence  of  its  first  h&lf 
centnry  did  more  than  any  other,  perhaps  more  than 
all  others,  to  make  New  England  what  tt  la.  During 
the  140  years  preceding  our  war  of  Independence  it  had 
supplied  the  schools  of  the  greater  part  of  Kew  England 
with  teachers.  What  was  even  more  important,  it  had 
sent  to  every  parish  in  Massachusetts  one  man— the 
clergymaa— with  a  certain  amount  of  acholarship,  a 
belief  in  culture,  and  generally  pretty  sore  to  bring 
with  him  or  to  gather  u  considerable  collection  of 
books,  by  no  means  wholly  theological.  Simple  and 
godly  men  were  they,  the  truest  modem  antitypes  of 
Chaucer's  good  parson,  receiving  much,  sometimes 
all,  of  their  scanty  salary  in  kind,  and  eking  it  out  by 
the  drudgery  of  a  cross-grained  farm  where  the  soil 
seems  all  backbone.  If  there  waa  no  regular  practi- 
tioner, they  practiced  without  fee  a  grandmotherly 
sort  of  medicine,  probably  not  much  more  harmful 
((?,  dura  metsorum  Uia)^  than  the  heroic  treatment  of 
the  day.    They  contrived  to  save  enough  to  send  their 


CURRENT   THOUGHT. 


167 


tfona  through  college,  to  portion  their  daaghters,  de- 
cently tiklned  in  Bnglish  literttnre  of  the  more  eeriou« 
kind,  and  perfect  in  the  duties  of  hoaaehold  and  dairy, 
and  to  make  modest  provisions  for  the  widow  if  they 
should  leare  one. 

**With  all  this  they  gave  their  two  sermons  eveiy 
Sunday  of  the  year  and  of  avieasure  that  would  seem 
ruinoncily  liberal  to  these  less  stalwart  days  when 
scarce  ten  parsons  together  could  lift  the  stones  of 
Diomed,  which  they  hurled  at  Satan  with  the  easy 
precision  of  life-long  practice.  And  if  they  tumedtheir 
barrel  of  discourses  at  the  end  of  the  Uoratian  ninth 
year,  which  of  their  parishioners  was  the  wiser  for  it? 
Their  one  great  holiday  was  ^Commencement,*  which 
they  punctually  attended.  They  shared  the  many  toils 
and  the  rare  festivals,  the  joys  and  the  sorrows  of  their 
townsmen,  as  bone  of  their  bone  and  flesh  of  their 
flceh,  for  all  were  of  one  blood  and  of  one  faith. 
Tliey  dwelt  on  the  same  brotherly  level  with'^  them  as 
men,  yet  set  apart  from  and  above  them  by  their 
etcred  office.  Preaching  the  most  terrible  of  doctrines, 
a;  meet  of  them  did,  they  were  humane  and  cheerful 
men,  and  when  they  came  down  from  the  pulpit, 
ieemed  to  have  been  merely  twisting  their  ^cast-iron 
Jogic^of  despair,  as  Coleridge  said  of  Donne,  Mnto 
trne-love  knots. ^ .  Men  of  authority,  wise  in  council, 
independent — for  their  settlement  was  a  life  tenure— ^ 
they  were  living  lessons  of  piety,'  induBtry,  frugality 
snd  temperance,  and,  with  the  magistrates,  were  a 
recognized  aristocracy.  Surely  never  was  an  aristoc- 
racy so  simple,  so  harmless,  so  exemplary,  and  so  fit 
to  rule.  I  remember  a  few  lingering  survivors  of 
them  in  my  early  boyhood,  relics  of  a  serious  but  not 
•nllen  past,  of  a  community  for  which,  in  civic  virtne, 
intelligence  and  general  efficacy,  I  seek  a  parallel  in 
vain. 

*^I  know  too  well  the  deductions  to  be  made.  It 
was  a  community  without  charm,  or  with  a  homely 
charm  at  best,  and  the  life  It  led  was  visited  by  no 
ua»e,  even  in  dream.  But  it  waa  the  stuff  out  .of 
which  fortunate  ancestors  are  made,  and  twenty -41ve 
jrears  ago  their  sons  showed  in  no  diminislied  measure 
the  qualities  of  the  breed.  In  every  household  some 
brave  boy  was  saying  to  his  mother,  as  Iphigenia  to 
hers:  Thou  borest  me  for  all  the  Greeks,  not  for 
thyself  alone.'  This  hall  commemorates  them,  but 
their  story  is  written  in  headstones  all  over  the  land 
they  saved." 

A  REXiNtscimcB  OF  A.  T.  Stewart.— The  Eer. 
John  Miller  writes,  in  Tlu  Independent  ;— 

"  In  June,  ISTO,  I  handed  the  card  of  a  distinguished 
lady  to  Mr.  Brown,  the  floor-manager  at  Broadway  and 
Ninth  street,*  and  asked  to  see  Mr.  A.  T.  Stewart  He 
had  not  arrived ;  and  Mr.  Brown,  putting  the  card  In 
his  pocket,  advised  me  to  spend  the  interval  In  inspect- 
ing the  different  floors,  and  that  he  would  tell  me 
when  Mr.  Stewart  came  in.  Some  hours  after,  I  saw 
a  man  entering  from  the  street,  tall,  grave,  ezceeding- 
ingly  neat  in  his  dress,  pale  and  with  light  complexion 
snd  hair,  who,  by  his  quick  glance  and  keen,  intent 
look  into  every  part  of  the  place,  I  made  up  ray  mind 
was  the  great  merchant    fle  greeted  me  most  cordially 


when  I  introduced  myself  and  mentioned  th^  card  in 
his  manager's  pocket  And  when  I  told  him  that  the 
lady,  who  was  often  at  his  store,  had  advised  lue  to  see 
it,  but  that  I  had  preferred  to  see  the  store-Av^p^,  he 
laughed  and  told  me  that  he  was  designed  fur  my  pro- 
fession; that  what  Greek  and  Latin  he  knew  was  for 
that  purpose;  that  his  early  manhood  had  no  other  end 
in  view ;  but  that  an  old  uncle  had  told  him  that  a 
**tfa/f '*  was  necessary,  and  had  described  it  in  such  a 
way  that  he  recognized  no  such  thing,  and  felt  driven 
to  the  choice  of  the  humbler  and  lees  interesting  work 
of  a  professional  school-teacher.  This  it  was  that 
brought  him  to  the  States.  His  merchant's  life  was  an 
afterthought  And  not  from  him  at  the  time,  but  from 
another  merchant,  I  learned  how  this  came.  He  ^ad 
a  small  pittance  above  his  expense.  He  lent  it  to  a 
passenger.  That  young  man,  whom  he  had  known  in 
Ireland,  was  to  be  a  merchant  Stewart's  loan  of  78 
dollars  helped  to  set  him  up.  And,  in  a  small  shop  of 
the  city  of  that  day,  he  found  that  he  was  about  to  fail, 
and  persuaded  his  young  comrade  to  quit  bis  Mhool- 
teaching  and  take  the  shop,  as  the  only  means  of  mak' 
ing  sure  his  money.  It  was  in  this  way,  so  my  friend 
told  me,  that  Stewart  made  the  discovery  of  his  gift  as 
a  bom  merchant" 

Caote  in  Churches.— a  National  Council  of  the  Con- 
gregational Churches  was  held  at  Chicago,  October  IS; 
at  which  the  Rev.  Br.  Pentecost,  Oif  Brooklyn,  N.  Y., 
read  an  elabocate  paper  on  *'  Th#  Elation  of  the  Con 
gregational.Oh«rphes  to  the  Work  of  Evangelization.^* 
One  paragraph  of  this  ad4reaa  is  the  following  :— 

*^We  moat  break  th^  caste  which  prevails  in  our 
churches,  esp^ially  in  the  laiger  and  wealthier  ones. 
ThecB  are  churches  in  our  large  cities  In  which  there 
cfukflcaaB«ly  ba  found  a  single  workingman  or  woman. 
Th«re  is  literally  no  place  for  the  poor  in  them.  They 
have  flrst  been  moved  away  from  the  proximity  of  the 
poor,  and  so  entirely  parceled  out  to  the  well -to-do  and 
the  rich  that  there  is  no  place  for  the  poor  with ia  their 
palaces.  We  are  a  democratic  country,  where  the  rich 
and  poor  are  supposed  to  stand  on  ihe  same  footing  of 
equality  as  to  citizenship;  butXhe  equality  of  the  poor 
citizen  of  the  heavenly  country-with  the  rich  is  only 
recognized  in  theory  or  in  Heaven  itself.  In  political 
assemblies  the  wealthy  merchant  and  the  poor  labor- 
ing man  stand  or  sit  side  by  side  and  participate  in  the 
matter  of  Interest  to  which  their  attention  has  been 
called..  But  in  the  house  of  God,  the  oaste  that  obtains 
on  account  of  riches  and  social  position  prevents  .the 
artisan  and  workingman  from  feeling  free  to  come. 
In  this  BesfKCt  the  division  between  the  classes  is 
sharper  with  us  than  in  tlie  monarchical  and  aristo- 
cratic countrie*  of  Europe ;  and  these  divisions  are 
sharper  ta-day,  Mid  the  galf  that  divides  deeper  than 
ever  .before.  The  Chucch  has  gone  after  the  rlch.to 
neglect  of  the  poor,  and  thus  we  have  lost  our  holdrpn 
the  workingman  mid  the  poor  in  general.  Unless,  we 
take  prompt  measnres  to  recover  our  hold  upon  them, , 
they  wlllbe  permapently  alienated  from  the  Church,.. 
If  they  are  not  so  already,  so  far  as  the  present  genera* 
tion  is  concerned.  We  most  win  them  hack.  Themis 


iGd 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


si  on  chapel  which  we  occasionally  f)aild  for  the  poor 
whom  \7e  have  left  (to  go  in  pareuit  of  the  rich),  and 
which  we  fling  to  them  as  a  spiritual  charity,  much  as 
the  old  Barons  used  to  fling  the  bones  of  their  feasts  to 
the  dogs  ander  their  tables,  does  not  meet  the  emer- 
gency. For  the  most  part,  mission  chapels  are  resent- 
ed by  the  working  people,  especially  by  workingmen. 
If  it  is  answered  that  the  chnrches  are  open  to  all  and 
that  there  are  hundreds  of  them  where  the  poor  would 
be  welcome,  we  reply  that  this  is  not  the  case  in  the 
larger  and  leading  churches  in  our  cities;  and  these 
give  the  impression  of  the  whole  spirit  of  the  Church 
to  the  poor.  If  it  is  argued  that  it  is  the  poor  themselves 
who  indulge  a  diffidence,  and  give  way  to  a  false  pride 
which  prevents  them  from  coming  to  the  churches 
where  their  wealthy,  well-to-do  brethren  worship,  and 
the  best  preachers  are  to  be  heard,  and  that  it  is  not 
the  rich  who  will  not  welcome  them,  we  reply  that  the 
facts  are  against  such  a  theory.  The  artisan,  the  work- 
ingman,  and  the  poor  will  come  to  hear  the  Gospel 
gladly  when  the  conditions  are  such  that  they  may 
come.  They  are  not  opposed  to  the  Gospel ;  the  quar- 
rel of  the  workingman  is  not  against  Christianity,  but 
against  the  church  which  gives  him  the  cold  shoulder.*' 

Stbkbt  Nuisancxs  ih  London.— Mr.  Charles  Hervey, 
In  London  So<^ty^  enumerates  several  species  of  in- 
dividuals belonging  to  this  general  order  of  humanity, 
the  counterparts  of  whom  are  by  no  means  strangers 
to  us,  although  they  are  for  the  most  part  importations 
from  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic  :— 

^'Street  prowlers  of  the  male  sex  may  be  classed  in 
two  distinct  categories,  the  pertinacious  and  the 
quietly  respectful.  To  the  former  belong  the  hulking 
young  fellow  with  a  bunch  of  groundsel  in  his  hand, 
by  way  of  protest  against  being  ^mn  in'  by  an  over- 
officious  *bobby  r  and  the  seedy  individual  who  sidles 
myslerioufily  up  to  you  with  the  request  that  you  will 
'spare  a  copper  for  a  poor  man,'  keeping  pace  with 
you  for  a  hundred  yards  or  so,  and  bestowing  iivers 
uncomplimentary  epithets  on  your  hardheartedness  In 
the  event  of  a  refusal.  The  latter  class  includes  the 
appar«n{ly  bewildered  'stranger  in  London,' who  stops 
you  to  Mk  the  nearest  way  to  Putney  or  Barnct,  as  the 
case  m^V  ibtv.  and  the  decently-dressed  but  apocryphal 
mcchai^c,  w4io  has  either  Just  come  out  of  a  hospital 
or  solicits  y<oitr  Influence  with  the  authorities  to  get 
into  one..  "TIiqr.  there  is  the  portly  Frenchman,  who 
ma^  Ji>e  met  vw.i|h  any  day  In  the  vicinity  of  Charing 
Cross«  and  wi¥)  has  been  wounded  at  Gravelottc  or 
tak^  prisoner  at  Sedan:  aud  the  old  crone,  a  fixture 
in  <ftm;rlck  street  from  four  to  seven  in  the  afternoon, 
wh«  ilevies  black  mail  on  every  woll-dressed  pedes- 
trian^ and  only  wants  the  crutch  to  sit  for  the  portrait 
of|fhP:malevalen(bag  issuing  nightly  from  the  chest 
of  itih«}incrchaot  Abodab:  nor  must  the  pseudo-cabman 
outtoif  «vork  be  forgotten,  whom  yon  never  saw  be- 
fore tin  .your  life,  but  who  distinctly  remembers  hav- 
ing'drisv'  your  honor  lOftoy  and  many  a  time,  and 
,  modesty  suggests  that  the  )oan  of  half-a-crown  would 
<|Uite  «ot!kim  up  again.  I  have  lost  sight  for  the  last 
3t0Ar<or'twf*  of  the  little  Frenchwoman,  whose  ostensi- 
ble JOftUx^  in  addr^Bsin^  people  w««  to  inquire  the 


way  to  Flnsbury  Circoa,  and  who,  11  Impmdently  en- 
couraged, favbred  them  with  a  tale  of  woe  as  long  a« 
the  catalogue  of  Leporello.  As,however,  her  assumed 
ignorance  of  metropolitan  topography  has  already  in- 
spired more  than  one  not  altogether  sympathetic  al 
lusion  in  the  public  prints,  it  is  possible  that  she  may 
have  deemed  it  advisable  to  drop  Finsbnry  Circae, 
and  adopt  some  other  less  hazardous  method  of  *spoll. 
ing  the  S^ptians/  '^ 

OoxjMMiTB'B  ^*TiXL  Cuvp.  ^^—Ifr.  John  Scott  thns 
writes  in  the  London  .^Icodsmy  ;— 

*' Goldsmith's  lines  in  Jlu  De$€rUd  ViUagt  have 
been  much  admired : 

"  As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 
Swells  tiom  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm. 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread. 
Sternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

'*In  an  edition  of  Goldsmith's  poems,  dated,  I  think, 
19ilS,  this  note  is  appended  to  the  passage  in  qncstion : 
*The  description  here  introdnced,  and  the  manner  in 
which  it  is  employed,  have  I  'n  described  as  constitut- 
ing, perhaps,  the  sublimest  simile  that  English  poetry 
can  boast.*  Glancing  lately  at  Gantier's  Lt*  Grotettq^itM, 
I  came  across  an  ode  addressed  by  Chapelain  to  fiicho- 
lieu,  the  conclusion  of  which  Is  as  follows : 

**  Dans  un  paisible  mouvenient 
Ta  t'61^ves  au  firmament 
Bt  laisses  contre  toi  mnrrourer  cette  terre ; 

Ainsi  le  haut  Olympe,  ^  son  pied  sablonneox, 
Lalsse  f umer  la  foudre  et  gronder  le  tonuerre, 
£t  garde  son  sommct  tranquille  et  Inminenx. 

"  Well  may  Gautier  say,  CeUe  chute  est  d^une  fprande 
beauU.  How  strange  that  our  well-loved  poet  should 
owe  his  finest  simile  to  a  man  who  wrecked  his  poei* 
tion  as  the  foremost  lUUrcUeur  of  lYance  by  the  pab- 
lication  of  an  epic,  Xa  PuctlU^  to  which  he  had  given 
the  labors  of  thirty  years  1 " 

John  Bhvn  Cooks.— In  a  letter  written  to  a  friend  a 
few  weeks  befbre  his  death,  Mr.  Cooke  says :— "  I  still 
write  stories  for  such  periodicals  as  are  inclined  to  ac- 
cept romance,  but  whether  any  more  of  my  work  in 
that  field  will  appear  in  book  form  is  uncertain.  Mr. 
Howells  and  the  other  realists  have  crowded  me  out  of 
popular  regard  as  a  novelist,  and  have  brought  the 
kind  of  fiction  I  write  into  general  disfavor.  I  do  not 
complain  of  that,  for  they  are  right  They  see,  as  I 
do,  that  fiction  should  faithfully  reflect  life,  and  they 
obey  the  law,  while  I  cannot.  I  was  born  too  soon, 
and  am  now  too  old  [he  had  readied  the  age  of  fifty- 
six]  to  learn  my  trade  anew.  But  in  literature,  as  in 
everything  else,  advance  should  be  the  law,  and  he 
who  stands  still  has  no  right  to  complain  if  he  is  left 
behind.  Besides,  the  flres  of  ambition  are  burnt  out 
of  me,  and  I  am  serenely  happy.  My  wheat  fields  are 
green  as  I  look  out  from  the  porch  of  The  Briars, 
the  com  rustles  in  the  wind,  and  the  great  trees  give 
me  shade  upon  the  lawn.     My  three  children  are 

growing  up  in  such  nurture  and  admonition  as  their 
race  has  always  deemed  fit,  and  I  am  not  only  content, 
but  very  happy  and  much  too  lazy  to  entertain  sny 
other  feeling  toward  my  victors  than  one  of  warm 
friendship  and  sincere  approvaL'* 


THE  USE  OF  HIGHER  EDUCATION  TO  WOMEN. 


169 


THE  USB    OF   HIGHER    EDUCATION 

TO  WOMEN.* 

All  of  us  who  are  here  are  t)robab1y  famil- 
iar with  the  routine  of  a  student's  life.  We 
know,  elLher  from  our  own  experience  or 
from  watching  it  in  others,  the  sort  of  disci- 
pline it  affords — the  patience,  the  daily  and 
hourly  repeated  effort,  the  tenacity  of  pur- 
pose, without  which  success  cannot  be  en- 
sured We  have  either  felt  ourselves  or  have 
seen  in  others  the  anxious  anticipation  of  the 
inevitable  examination,  the  delights  of  suc- 
cess, the  anguish  of  failure— success  that  only 
leads  to  fresh  efforts,  and  failure  that  leads, 
let  us  hope,  to  a  cheery  determination  to  try 
agaiu.  All  this  series  of  events  and  emotions 
makes  a  student's  life  a  very  a  happy  one ; 
there  is  no  dullness  in  it,  there  is  always  an 
immediate  definite  object  in  view  to  work 
for;  there  is  a  reason  on  each  day  and  almost 
on  every  hour  of  iach  day  of  work  which 
calls  out  the  strength  of  developing  faculties 
and  powers,  and  this  is  a  source  of  happiness 
in  itself  and  proves  its  own  reward.  But. this 
state  of  feeling  cannot  last  forever.  However 
eager  the  student  may  be  in  her  work,  the 
time  will  almost  surely  come  when  the  ques- 
tion will  force  itself  upon  the  mind:  "What 
is  the  good  of  all  this,  when  the  pursuit  of 
knowledge  for  its  own  sake,  engrossingly  de- 
lightful as  it  once  was,  fails  to  satisfy?" 
The  subject  is  a  very  familiar  one;  it  has  been 
portrayed  in  €k>ethe*8  Fatist;  it  is  traced  in 
the  words  of  St.  Paul,  "If  I  speak  with  the 
tongues  of  noen  and  of  angels,  and  have  not 
charity,  I  am  become  as  sounding  brass,  or  a 
tinkling  cymbal." 

It  is  one  of  those  old-world  problems  that 

*  TliU  paper  wm  originally  delivered  as  an  Address 
to  the  Stadentaof  Bedford  College.  The  anthor  (born 
In  1847)  waa  in  1867  married  to  Mr.  Edgar  Fawcett,  the 
famoos  blind  professor  at  Cambridge,  Member  of  Par- 
liament, who  became  Postmaster-General  in  1880.  Mrs. 
Fawcett  has  been  the  associate  of  her  husband  in  all  his 
literary  and  political  labors,  and  in  conjunction  with 
bim  pat  foi^.  In  1872,  a  volume  of  essays  on  political 
and  economical  subjects.  She  is  also  the  author  of  sev- 
eral separate  works.  She  has  taken  an  active  part  in 
advocating  the  extension  of  parliamentary  suffrage  to 
women  who  fulfill  the  qualifications  of  property  and 
residence  required  of  the  male  elector.— So.  Lm.  Mao. 


are  always  new,  and  are  continually  receiving 
fresh  embodiment.  And  I  think,  if  I  am  not 
mistaken,  there  are  evidences  of  its  being 
felt  among  the  girl  students  of  to-day  as 
keenly  as  it  has  been  felt  by  their  brothers  in 
times  gone  by.  I  have  noticed  at  Cambridge, 
at  University  College  and  at  other  educational 
centers  where  girls'  debating  societies  exist, 
that  they  trouble  themselves  a  good  deal 
about  the  supposed  effect  on  the  character  of 
women  of  higher  education.  There  is  hardly 
a  women *s  college  at  which  it  hasjiot  been 
seriously  debated  whether  or  not  higher  edu- 
cation tends  to  make  women  seltish.  We 
laugh  when  the  subject  is  presented  to  us  in 
this  form ;  but  it  really  is,  I  cannot  help 
thinking,  a  healthy  symptom  that  girls,  even 
in  the  midst  of  the  engrossing  excitements  of 
student  life,  do  not  take  for  granted  that  the 
acquisition  of  knowledge  is  the  be-all  and 
end-all  of  life.  They  are  looking  out  to  see 
which  way  the  road  tends  that  they  are  upon, 
and  will  approve  or  condemn  it  according  as 
its  ultimate  goal  is  or  is  not  a  worthy  object 
of  pursuit.  The  question  expands  itself  into 
another  and  a  wider  one.  ''What  are  the 
really  worthy  objects  of  lifeV  If  that  ques- 
tion can  be  answered,  then  all  secondary 
things,  such  as  learning,  health  and  wealth, 
fall  naturally  into  tlieir  right  positions  and 
proportions ;  they  are  blessings  indeed,  and 
are  rightly  valued  as  such; 'but  their  value  is 
to  be  measured  by  the  degree  to  which  they 
help  one  in  the  pursuit  of  the  real  object  of 
one*s  life  ;  they  can  never  take  the  place  of 
that  object. 

Dr.  Witfiers  Moore,  at  a  recent  meeting  of 
the  British  Medical  Association,  has  lately 
made  an  endeavor  to  popularize  the  old  fal- 
lacy that  tUe  only  proper  object  in  life  for 
women  is  to  become  wives  and  mothers. 
This  object  certainly  has  the  recommendation 
of  being  attainable  with  moderate  ease;  but, 
after  all,  it  cannot  be  considered  satisfactory 
as  an  object  in  itself.  Jezebel  was  a  wife  and 
a  mother,  so  was  Lucrezia  Borgia.  Rather 
should  we  look  back  to  an  older  teacher  than 
Dr.  Withers  Moore,  whom  I  have  already 
cited,  and  ask  whether  that  charity  or  love 
which  St.  Paul  speaks  of  is  not,  in  the  Ywi* 


170 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


ons  embodimeDts  given  to  it  by  individual  char- 
acter, tlie  tiling  which  every  one  of  us  should 
endeavor  to  aim  at.  We  have  been  so  long 
accustomed  to  the  words  that  there  is  danger 
of  their  losing  some  of  their  significance;  but 
when  we  think  of  their  inner  meaning — love 
to  our  fellow-men  and  women,  self  sacrifice 
and  devotion  as  a  necessary  consequence  of 
that  love— the  vagueness  disappears,  and  we 
see  before  us  a  deflniie  task,  so  to  order  our 
lives  that  others,  who  live  with  us,  and  will 
live  after  us,  may  have  their  chances  of  liv 
ing  happily  increased  by  our  work  in  the 
world.  This  has  been  the  life's  work  of  every 
great  man  and  woman  whom  the  world  has 
produced ;  and  every  one,  great  and  small, 
may  each  according  to  her  own  capacity  pur- 
sue the  same  high  end. 

To  women  especially  it  seems  to  me  that  at 
the  present  time  it  is  eas}'  to  make  this  object 
in  life  very  definite  and  practical.  Carlyie 
spoke,  in  his  rather  exaggerated  way,  in  one 
of  his  early  letters,  of  his  wife's  work  in  life 
being  to  lift  up  the  lives  of  women  to  a  higher 
level: — *'I  tell  her  many  times,"  he  writes, 
'•there  is  much  for  her  to  do,  if  she  were  trained 
to  it;  her  whole  sex  to  deliver  from  the  bond- 
age of  frivolity,  doUhood  and  imbecility  into 
the  freedom  of  valor  and  w omanhood.  * '  There 
is,  perliaps,  not  much  chance  of  lifting  people 
up  if  you  proceed  on  the  assumption  that 
they  are  sunk  in  dollhood  and  imbecility. 
An  imbecile  doll  will  never  make  a  valiant 
woman.  But,  making  allowance  for  the 
characteristic  over-dose  of  contemptuousness, 
is  there  not  enough  life's  work  before  every 
young  woman  at  the  present  moment  in  the 
task  of  building  up  the  self-respect  of  women, 
of  clearing  away  the  artificial  obstructions  to 
the  development  of  the  faculties  -of  their 
minds,  of  giving  them  the  blessings  of  civil 
liberty,  and  bringing  about  a  more  generous 
view  of  their  rights  and  duties? 

If  we  leave  out  the  vain  and  misleading 
contempt  from  Carlyle's  sentence  we  may 
lessen  its  litera  y  force,  but  we  add,  I  think, 
to  its  practical  value  May  we  not  in  this 
form  regard  it  as  a  message  to  the  young 
women  of  the  prft<<ent  day?  '^I  tell  you  many 
times  there  is  much  for  you  to  do  \f  you  are 


trained  to  it;  youi  whole  sex  to  lift  up  into 
the  freedom  of  valpr  and  woaiaiibood/' 
Those  of  you  who  have  the  will  to  take  this 
as  your  life's  work,  may,  if  you  cbooee,  get 
the  training  for  it,  in  part  at  least,  from  jour 
student  life.  You  will  learn  that  DOthing 
can  be  done  without  pa  lent  and  unwearying 
endeavor;  you  will  learn  the  value  of  taking 
pains,  the  value  of  accuracy,  and  the  necessity 
for  patience  in  waiting  for  any  definite  tangible 
result.  You  vrill  know  that  there  is  do  roval 
road  to  the  things  you  are  striving  for,  Init 
that  everything  worth  gaining  must  be  gained 
by  humble,  laborious,  self-denying  elTort, 
daily  and  hourly  repeated. 

Voltaire,  speaking  of  Montesquieu,  said  thai 
"Humanity  had  lost  its  title-deeds,  and  he 
had    recovered  them."     The   title- deeds  of 
half  the  human  i-ace  have  yet  to  be  engrossed; 
the  task  of  writing  them  will,  I  hope,  be  the 
life's  work  of  many  among  the  rising  genera- 
tion of  women.     Look  what  an  infinite  num- 
ber of  bmnches  of  work  the  task  presents. 
There  must  be  some  one  part  of  it  to  suit 
almost  every  capacity.    The  greatest  progress 
we  can  at  present  show  is  in  the  field  of 
education ;  but  the  women  who  benefit  by 
higher  education  are  numbered  by  hundreds 
where  they  ought  to  be  numbered  by  thou- 
sands.   Mrs.  Lynn  Linton,  in  a  recent  article, 
appears  to  judge  of  the  value  of  education 
too  exclusively  by  its  pecuniary  results,  and 
assumes  that  the  money  spent  on  a  girl's  col- 
lege training  is  thrown  away  if  it  does  not 
result  in  an  increase  in  her  power  of  earning 
money.    There  are  people  who  will  always 
take  Uiis  view  of  education.     It  is  not  a  very 
high  one.    In  many  respects  it  is  an  essen- 
tially false  one;  but  do  not  let  us  waste  our 
strength  in  getting  angry  about  it.    We  will 
not  of  course,  in  our  own  minds,  for  an  in- 
stant, yield  to  the  notion  that  the  value  nf 
education  is  to  be  tested  by  its  results  in  £  *.  d. — 
that,  to  cite  Mrs.  Lynn  Linton  again,  money 
spent  on  a  girl's  education  is  "of  no  avail"  if 
she  marries.     I  cannot  refrain  from  quoting 
here  what  Hood  has  said  about  his  own  self- 
education  among  his  hooks : — 

*' Infirm  health  and  a  natural  love  of  reading/' ha 
wrote,  ^*  threw  me  into  the  society  of  poeta^  phi  lose* 


THE  USE  OF  mGHER  EDUCATION  TO  WOJiIEN.      ^ 


m 


phen  and  saj^ee,  to  me  good  angels  and  miniatera  of 
grace.  From  thcae  tilent  inatructorB,  who  often  do 
more  than  fathere,  and  always  more  than  godfathers, 
for  our  temporal  and  spiritnal  Interests :  from  these 
mild  monitors,  delightful  associates,  I  learned  some- 
thing of  the  Divine  and  more  of  the  human  religion. 
Tbey  were  my  interpreters  in  the  House  Beautiful  of 
God,  and  my  guides  among  t|ie  Delectable  Mountains. 
These  reformed  my  prejudices,  chastened  my  passions, 
tempered  my  heart,  purified  my  taste,  elevated  my 

mind,  and  directed  my  aspirations ThoSe 

bright  Intelligences  called  my  mental  world  out  of 
darkness  and  gave  it  two  great  lights — hope  and  mem- 
ory—the past  for  a  moon,  the  future  for  a  sun.''* 

Glib  nonsense  about  '*the  ultimate  useless- 
ness"  of  education  to  a  maiTied  woman  sinks 
to  its  proper  level  by  contrast  with  this  utter- 
ance from  a  generous  and  pure-minded  na 
ture. 

The  objection  to  women's  education  on  the 
economical  j>;round  might,  however,  be  use- 
fully met  by  opening  a  greater  variety  of 
well-paid  professional  careers  to  women.  It 
might  also  be  in  some  degree  met  by  lessening 
the  cost  of  women's  higher  education  in  the 
same  way  as  the  cost  of  men's  higher  educa- 
tion has  been  lessened,  by  annual  grants  made 
by  Parliament.  At  present  there  is  no  public 
recognition  in  the  shape  of  a  grant  from  the 
exchequer,  or  in  any  other  form,  of  the  na- 
tionri  importanca  of  higher  education  for 
women.  One  only  of  our  great  universities 
has  opened  its  degrees  to  women.  Two 
women,  the  other  day  at  (Cambridge,  were  a 
first  class  by  themselves  in  the  modem  lan- 
guages tripoi,  no  men  sharing  the  honor  with 
them ;  but  while  the  men,  who  were  second 
and  third  class,  are  admitted  to  the  honor  of  a 
degree,  the  women,  who  wore  first  class,  are 
still  excluded. 

In  the  matter  of  medical  education  much 
has  been  done,  but  much  yet  remains  to  do. 
It  is  true  that  there  is  a  medical  sphool  for 
women  in  Ivondnn,  and  that  the  degrees  in 
medicine  of  the  University  of  London  have 
been  thrown  open  to  them.  But  look  round 
at  the  goodly  array  of  the  London  hospitals, 
and  the  immense  advantages  for  study  and 
practice  which  they  afford  to  medical  students 
who  do  not  happen  to  be  women.  In  nearly 
all  of  them  women  are  jealotisly  excluded, 
and  in  none  more  rigorously  than  in  those 


which  are  specially  devoted  to  the  diseases  of 
women  and  children. 

Then,  if  we  look  at  the  industrial  position 
of  women,  we  see  much  that  ne^ds  redress. 
We  all  heard  last  winter,  through  the  report 
of  the  Mansion  House  Committee,  of  the  very 
low  wages  earned  b/seamstresses  in  the  Ea^t 
of  London,  of  women  earning,  f  r  instance, 
5i<l.  a  dozen  for  making  lawn -tennis  aprons, 
elaborately  frilled ;  and  more  recently  it  was 
stated  at  the  British  Association,  in  a  paper 
read  by  Mr.  Westgarth,  that  the  ordinary 
wages  of  a  seamstress  in  East  London  were 
only  d«.  a  week.  If  this  is  true,  it  is  not  easy 
to  exaggerate  the  terrible  misery  which  it 
implies,  nor  the  degradation  both  to  body 
and  soul.  The  direction  in  which  the  remedy 
should  be  sought  is  in  opening  a  larger  num- 
ber of  employments  to  women,  in  paying 
greater  attention  to  their  industrial  training, 
and  in  developing  the  principles  of  coopera- 
tion, both  as  regards  production  and  con- 
siunption.  At  present,  iiowever,  we  are  con- 
tent to  think  we  have  scored  a  victory,  not 
when  we  have  opened  a  fresh  avenue  of  em- 
ployment for  women  but  when  we  have  been 
able  to  prevent  the  €k)vernment  of  the  day 
closing  an  industry  against  them.  The  pit- 
brow  women,  to  the  number  of  something 
like  5,000,  were  last  summer  only  saved  by  the 
skin  of  their  teeth  from  having  tlieir  daily 
bread  taken  from  them  by  a  Liberal  Govern- 
ment. Women  have  now  been  employed  for 
many  years  in  large  numbers,  and  with  mark- 
ed success,  in  various  branches  of  the  Postal 
Service.  They  make  excellent  civil  servants, 
and  their  salaries  are  only  about  one  third  of 
what  is  paid  to  men  who  do  the  same  work. 
The  posts  are  competed  for  with  painful 
eagerness.  On  a  recent  occasion,  when  145 
additional  women  were  needed,  2,500  candi- 
dates presented  themselves.  Yet.  notwith- 
standing the  success  of  the  Post  Office  expeti- 
ment,  and  the  saving  which  the  employment 
of  women  would  cause  to  the  public,  no 
movement  has  ever  been  made  to  open  other 
branches  of  the  public  service  to  them. 

I  do  not  wish  to  introduce  here  anything 
that  savors  of  disputed  political  questions;  but 
I  think  it  is  rather  a  curious  commentary  on 


173 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGA^mE. 


the  doctrine  of  Dr.  Withers  Moore  that  the 
end  and  aim  of  every  woman's  existence  is  to 
be  a  wife  and  a  mother,  that  the  legal  posi- 
tion of  the  wife  and  mother  is  still  so  far  from 
what  it  ought  to  be.  The  ideal  is  that  the 
wife  is  the  friend  and  sympathizing  compan- 
ion of  her  husband,  the  watchful  and  tender 
guardian  of  her  children;  but  the  law  recog- 
nizes no  equality  in  the  relationship  between 
husband  and  wife,  and  gives  the  mother  ab- 
solutely no  rights  to  the  guardianship  and 
protection  of  her  children  during  her  hus- 
band's life.  If  a  husband  happens  to  be  a 
mechanical  genius,  and  wishes  to  try  the  effl 
cacy  of  his  newly  invented  flying  machine  on 
tlie  person  of  his  little  boy  of  eight  years  old, 
the  moiher  has  no  more  power  in  law  than 
any  stranger  in  the  street  to  prevent  the  father 
from  carrving  out  his  dangerous  whim. 

If  we  look  abroad  to  the  position  of  our 
fellow-subjects  the  women  of  India,  we  shall 
find  much  work  for  women  to  do  in  helping 
tliem  up  to  a  higher  social  and  legal  status. 
Over  a  great  part  of  India  the  barbarous  cus- 
tom of  infant  marriage  is  sanctioned  by  the 
law  and  practiced  by  the  people.  Little  girls 
of  five  and  six  years  of  age  are  thus  married, 
sometimes  to  lads  only  a  little  older  than 
themselves,  and  sometimes  to  men  old  enough 
to  be  tlieir  grandfathers.  A  case  of  this  kind 
has  lately  l)een  before  the  Bombay  courts. 
The  girl  in  the  interval  between  the  marriage 
ceremony  and  the  time  when  she  was  ex- 
pected to  live  with  her  husband  had  been  well 
educated ;  the  husband  had  been  allowed  to 
grow  up  entirely  without  education.  He  has 
been  described  in  the  Tim^  as  little  better 
than  a  coolie,  ignorant  and  uncultivated. 
When  her  husband  claimed  her  she  refused 
to  recognize  the  marriage  as  valid;  her  case 
has  been  heard  before  three  courts,  one  of 
which  has  given  judgment  in  her  favor,  and 
two  against  her.  She  has  one  more  appeal, 
on  the  success  of  which  the  whole  of  her 
future  hangs.  She  writes  pathetically  to  an 
English  lady:  "As  things  are  standing  now, 
there  is  very  little  hope  of  my  success.  It  is 
very  hard  indeed  for  roe  to  suffer  here  in 
India,  where  nearly  all  the  native  peoples  are 
against  the  rights  of  women.    Is  it  not  strange 


that  our  law-givers  should  grant  privileges  to 
men  to  marry  any  number  of  wives,  at  a  time 
when  they  will  not  allow  women  to  get  only 
separation  on  proper  grounds?"  Who  can 
picture  the  misery  that  lies  before  this  poor 
woman  if  her  final  appeal  is  unsuccessful? 
She  will  be  bound  for  life  to  a  man  who 
claims  her  as  a  slave,  and  between  whom  and 
herself  the  strongest  personal  repugnance 
must  exist.  I  could  dwell  at  much  greater 
length  on  other  very  melancholy  features  of 
the  lot  of  Indian  women;  the  one  I  have  cited 
is  merely  a  specimen  of  many  others.  It  is 
sometimes  said  that  the  philanthropy  of  the 
English  people,  especially  of  English  ladies,  is 
never  called  into  genuine  abtivity  unless  the 
people  on  whose  behalf  it  is  invoked,  are  black 
— that  the  inhabitants  of  Boorioboolagha  can 
win  sympathy  and  succor  where  the  inhabi 
tants  of  Whitechapel  would  find  us  as  haixl 
as  fiints.  If  this  sarcasm  has  any  root  of 
truth  in  it,  those  who  plead  in  vain  for  the 
rights  of  women  in  England  will  plead  with 
greater  success  the  cause  of  poor  Indian 
women,  the  victims  of  laws  and  customs  of 
singular  hardship  and  cruelty.* 

I  have  mentioned  many  particulars  in  which 
law  and  custom  are  unjust  to  women ;  but  I 
hope  I  have  not  done  so  in  a  spirit  of  bitter- 
ness. In  the  evolution  of  society  the  position 
of  women  has  changed,  and  is  changing.  The 
laws  and  customs  we  most  complain  of  are 
survivals  from  a  state  of  society  which  has 
passed  away.  But  the  necessary  change  can- 
not be  made  without  patient  laborious  effort 
and  self-devotion^  It  is  this  task  of  improv- 
ing the  lot  of  women,  both  as  regards  law 
and  custom,  so  as  to  bring  it  into  accord  with 
the  needs  of  the  present  time,  that  I  invite 
you  to  devote  yourselves  to.  If  you  will  take 
this  for  your  aim  in  life,  all  your  student  life 

•A  special  correspondent  of  the  Times^  referring 
lately  to  Infant  marriage  and  the  treatment  of  child- 
widows  In  India,  boa  said  that  these  "are  two  of  the 
most  cruel  of  the  old-world  practices  which  ever  af- 
flicted and  insulted  womanhood. ^^  The  same  paper, 
commenting  on  this,  doubts  whether  the  abolition  ot 
suttee  and  the  suppression  of  female  infanticide  hae 
not  decreased  rather  than  increased  the  sum  of  Hin 
doo  happiness  and  morality.  A  speedy  death  hae  been 
exchanged  for  a  life  of  torture  or  of  Aenae.—Times, 
October  14, 1886. 


THE  USE  OF  HIGHER  EDUCATION  TO  WOMEN. 


178 


and  all  your  home  life,  even  down  to  most 
tri\ial  details,  will  receive  a  new  meaning 
and  a  higher  Talae.  You  will  be  relieved  at 
once  from  the  pettiness  of  personal  ambition. 
All  your  successes  will  be  consecrated  to  the 
cause  you  have  devoted  yourselves  to.  You 
will  value  what  you  acquire  in  tlie  way  of 
learning  or  of  strength  of  purpose  chiefly 
because  It  is  a  good  preparation  for  the  work 
you  have  undertaken.  To  almost  every  one 
in  tlie  course  of  her  life  comes,  in  some  form 
or  auother,  the  message  which  came  to  Baruch 
— **  Seekest  thou  great  things  for  thyself. 
Seek  them  not.  *'  How  happy  and  blessed  are 
they  to  whom  this  message  is  not  borne  by 
Uie  whirlwind  of  personal  misfortune  or  by 
the  downfall  of  personal  ambition,  but  who, 
from  the  very  outset  of  life,  have  deliberately 
ehoseo  the  better  path  of  devoting  themselves 
to  objects  which  are  not  personal,  but  which 
aim  at  lifting  up  and  making  fuller  and  hap- 
pier the  lives  of  others;  who,  like  Words- 
worth's '*  Happy  Warrior*'— 

**  With  8  toward  or  nntoward  lot, 
Profperoiu  or  advene,  to  his  wish  or  not. 
Plays  in  the  many  games  of  life  that  one 
Where  what  he  most  doth  value  mnst  be  won.^^ 

Those  of  you  who  have  already  in  silent 
resolution  devoted  yourselves  to  the  task  I 
have  endeavored  to  indicate,  will  know  quite 
well  what  I  mean  when  I  speak  of  the  interest 
which  it  imparts  even  to  trifles.    The  cause 
you  are  working  for  will  be,  by  your  im- 
mediate surroundings,  judged  of  in  your  per- 
sons.   "I  suppose  they  are  geniuses ;  at  least, 
they  have  holes  in  their  pinafores,''  wrote  a 
little  girl  once  of  a  family  with  whom  she 
was  sent  to  stay.    You  must  never  (meta- 
phorically) have  holes  in  your  pinafores ;  and 
above  all,  while  seeking  to  enlarge  the  inter- 
ests of  women's  lives,  and  to  a  certain  extent 
to  change  the  type  of  the  ideal  woman,  let  us 
be  very  careful  to  "Hold  fast  that  which  is 
good"  in  the  old  ideal  of  womanhood.    Do 
not  let  pity  and  gentleness,  purity  and  com- 
passion, be  ousted  from  their  throne.    They 
are  not  inconsistent  with  courage  and  deter- 
mination.    Let  your  ideal  be,  in  Garlyle's 
words— "The  freedom  and  valor  of  woman- 
hood."   Indeed,  strength  is  never  so  strong 


as  when  it  is*  united  with  gentleness  and 
purity.  The  poet  laureate  has  taught  us 
this  in  the  words  of  Sir  Qalaliad: — 

**  My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 
Because  my  heart  is  pure." 

One  sometimes,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  hears  of 
women  joining  shooting  parties,  watching  a 
battue,  and  even  stalking  deer.  Leave  the 
slaughter  of  animals  for  amusement  to  those 
who  have  been  condemned  to  it  by  tradition 
and  education.  Imitate  manly  virtues  as 
much  as  you  like;  there  will  never  be  too 
much  courage,  honor  and  diligence  in  the 
world.  But  avoid  all  foolish  imitations  of 
men  in  mere  externals,  and  worse  than  foolish 
imitations  of  men ^  in  what  is  least  to  be  ad- 
mired  in  them.  And  next,  if  you  would 
truly  serve  the  women's  cause,  appreciate  at 
their  high  value  all  the  duties  that  from  time 
immemorial  have  always,  in  our  own  country 
at  least,  been  regarded  as  women's  special 
work — the  direction  of  the  household,  the 
care  of  the  young  and  the  sick.  Let  all  that 
falls  to  your  lot  in  these  'directions  be  done 
zealously,  conscientiously  and  well.  The  days 
are  happily  over  when  it  was  supposed  that  if 
a  woman  had  learned  mathematics  she  would 
not  love  her  children,  or  that  if  she  could 
read  Qreek  she  would  not  be  able  to  distin- 
guish between  packthread  and  silk.  It  is 
true  that  Mrs.  Lynn  Linton  says  that  women » 
who,  in  few  years,  will  speak  as  voters  to 
their  fellow-electors,  will  be  indifferent  to 
their  children's  ailments.  I  have  not  beard 
that  this  result  of  women's  suffrage  has  been 
noticed,  after  six  years'  experience  of  it,  in 
the  Isle  of  Man.  "There's  a  deal  of  human 
nature  in  man" — and  in  woman,  too— and  a 
mother's  love  is  not  such  a  weak  and  precari- 
ous growth  as  Mrs.  Lynn  Linton  has  appar- 
ently imagined  it  to  be.  It  is  time  that  it  was 
understood  that  in  these  matters  we  intend  to 
run  witli  the  hare  and  hunt  with  the  hounds 
—to  keep  up  all  the  best  of  our  old  interests 
and  occupations,  although  we  have  the  op- 
portunity of  acquiring  new  ones. 

While  you  are  students,  concentrate  your- 
selves in  profiting  to  the  full  by  the  discipline 
of  the  student's  life.     Continued,    patient. 


174 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


unwearied  effort  is  what  a  student  learns  if 
she.  really  learns  anything.  But  I  think  there 
is  no  necessit}'^  to  impress  this;  my  experience 
of  girl  students  is  that  there  is  no  danger  of 
their  not  applying  themselves ;  the  danger  is 
all  the  other  way,  in  the  direction  of  over- 
work. Like  high-mettled  horses,  they  need 
the  curb  rather  than  the  spur.  Over- work  is 
a  real  snare  and  danger  at  the  present  time, 
and  not  bin  1?  gives  the  enemy  so  much  occa- 
6\on  to  blaspheme  as  a  case  of  breakdown 
from  overwork.  The  students  who  really 
wisb,  more  than  for  any  personal  success,  to 
help  tlie  women's  cause,  must  anxiously 
avoid  overwork;  they  must  pay  due  attention 
to  the  claims  of  health,  they  must  rest  and 
play  and  amuse  themselves  as  well  as  work 
with  a  will  while  they  are  at  their  work  I 
know  how  easy  it  is  to  talk,  and  have  excel- 
lent intentions,  and  lay  down  exemplary  niles 
(especially  for  the  guidance  of  some  one  else), 
and  how  hard  it  is  in  practice  to  take  exactly 
the  right  course  between  ihe  too  much  and 
the  too  little.  But  ^health,  though  not  a  ne- 
cessary condition  of  good  work  in  the  world 
—as  witness  the  splendid  work  done  by  per- 
manent invalids  such  as  Charles  Darwin  and 
Florence  Nightingale — yet  is  an  enormous 
advantage  to  one  who  means  to  work.  To 
Uirow  away  tliis  advantage  by  a  foolish  dis- 
regard of  tl)e  rest  and  recreation  every  student 
requires  is  a  wanton  waste,  which  I  hope 
none  among  you  will  be  guilty  of. 

As  to  the  question  how  and  in  what  definite 
practical  way  the  work  of  lifting  up  the  lot 
of  women  is  to  be  approached,  tliat  is  a  prob- 
lem to  which  there  is  no  ready-made  answer 
to  suit  all  applicants.  Each  one  must  find 
the  answer  to  it  herself,  and  be  guided  in  the 
search  for  it  by  her  own  special  circumstances, 
opportunities  and  duties.  Quiet  work  in  a 
private  circle  often  has  as  high  a  value  as 
efforts  of  a  more  pretentious  nature.  I  think 
opportunities  to  serve  always  come  to  those 
who  earnestly  seek  them.  If  you  can  do 
Bothing  more,  you  can  testify  the  faith  and 
hope  t&at  is  in  you.  But  do  not  be  discour- 
aged if  no  sphere  of  active  work  imn^ediat«ly 
piiesents  itself.  "  Those  also  serve  who  only 
stand  and  wait.'"    But  do  not  "stand  aad 


wait"  when  you  see  work  that  yen  can  do  v 
an  effort  that  you  can  make.     Remember  that 
it  was  not  till  after  his  blindness  that  Milton 
learned  to  stand  and  wait,  and  that  it  was  dur 
ing  this  period  of  so-called  standing  and  wait 
ing  he  accomplished  the  greatest  work  of  his 
life.     Remember,  too,  how  he  Consoled  him 
self  for  his  blindness  by  the  thought  that  he 
had  lost  his  sight  "overplied  in  Liberty's  de 
fence,  my  noble  task."    Is  it  not  an  inspirit 
ing  thought  that  this  same  "noble  task/*  in 
another  ticid  of  it,  may  be  ours;  that,  bow 
ever  humbly  and  imiwrfectly,  we  may  work 
for  the  same  cause  that  he  worked  for?    For 
all  efforts  to  free  the  human  spirit  from  the 
bondage  of  superstition  and   ignorance    are- 
nothing  else  than  a  continuation  ot  the  great 
struggle  for  civil  and  religious  lilxjrty  which 
has  marked  the  course  of  English  history.     It 
we  would  be  wortliy  of  our  name  and  i*acG, 
we  must  carry  on*  the  great  traditione   thai 
have  been  handed  down  to  us  from  the  past. 
— MiLLicENT   Garrktt  Fawcktt,    In   TU 
Contemporary  Review. 


HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 

"  Mr.  Thoreaa  dined  vf\\h  as.  He  U  a  singular  cha- 
racter—a yonng  man  with  mach  of  wild,  original  na 
ture  Btill  remaining  id  him :  and  so  lar  as  he  is  «ophifl 
ticated,  it  is  in  a  way  and  method  of  his  own.  Me  is 
as  agly  as  ein,  long  nosed,  qacermoathed,  and  wiih 
onooath  and  somewhat  rustic,  though  courteooa,  man 
nera,  corresponding  very  well  with  aach  an  exterior. 
But  his  aglinesa  ia  of  an  honest  and  agreeable  fashion, 
and  becomes  him  mach  b^ex:-  than  beaaty.^' 

This  extract  from  Nathaniel  Hawthorne's 
Diary  in  1842  describes  Thoreau  as  he  ap- 
peared, three  years  before  his  retirement  to 
Walden,  to  one  who  was  scarcely  likely  to  do 
full  juadoe  to  a  genius  so  widely  dissimilar  to 
his  own.  The  gifted  inhabitant  of  the  Old 
Manse,  whose  recent  experiences  at  Brook 
Farm  had  led  him  to  look-with  suspicion  on 
all  that  savored  of  enthusiasm  for  sodal  re 
form,  and  to  view  everything  from  a  purdy 
literary  and  artistic  standpoint,  could  scarcely 
be  expected  to  appreciate  very  warmly  the 
character  of  .a  young  enthusiast  who  had  de 


HENRY  D.  THOEEAU. 


171 


Glared  open  war  against  custom  and  society 
and  was  preaching  u  crusade  against  every 
sort  of  luxury  and  self-indulgence.  Still  less 
could  the  ordinary  American  citizen  under- 
stand that  novel  gospel  which  bid  him  dis- 
pense with  most  of  those  things  which  he  had 
been  brought  up  to  regard  as  tlie  necessary 
comforts  of  life.  Accordingly  we  are  not  sur- 
prised to  find  that  Thoreau's  dcx^trines  ob- 
tained but  little  recognition  during  his  life- 
time;  he  was  regarded  with  profound  respect 
by  a  few  select  friends,  Emerson  among  the 
number;  but  to  the  many  he  appeared  merely 
eccentric  and  quixotic,  his  sojourn  at  Walden 
gaining  him  the  reputation  of  a  hermit  and 
misanthrope.  Even  now,  nearly  a  quarter  of 
a  century  after  his  death,  he  is' not  known  as 
he  deserves  to  be  cither  in  America  or  this 
country ;  most  readers  ignore  or  misunder- 
stand him ;  and  it  is  left  to  a  small  but  in- 
creasiug  number  of  admirers,  to  do  justice  to 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  and  original 
characters  that  America  has  yet  produced. 
Thorcau  was  preeminently  the  apostle  of 
"plain  living  and  bigh  thinking;"  and  to  those 
who  are  indifferent  to  this  doctrine  he  must 
ever  ap])eal  in  vain  ;  on  the  other  band,  those 
who  have  realized  the  blessings  of  a  simple 
and  healthful  life  can  never  feel  sufficient  gra- 
titude or  admiration  for  such  a  book  as  Walden, 
which  is  rightly  regarded  as  the  masterpiece 
of  Tboreau's  genius. 

One  of  the  causes  that  have  contributed  to 
the  general  lack  of  interest  in  Thoreau's 
writings  is  the  want  of  a  good  memoir  of  his 
life.  Emerson's  account  of  him  is  excellent 
as  far  as  it  goes,  but  it  isi  very  short  and  cur- 
sor}'; while  the  other  lives,  though  each  is  not 
without  some  merit  of  its  own,  are  hardly  sat- 
isfactory enough  to  become  really  popular. 

He  was  bom  in  1817  in  Concord,  Mas- 
eachusetts,  his  father  being  a  manufacturer  of 
lead  pencils  in  that  place.  He  was  educated 
at  Harvard  College,  and  after  leaving  the  uni- 
versity taught  for  a  short  time  in,  a  .private 
school,  but  soon  becoming  weary  of  the  educa- 
tional profession  he  devoted  himself  to  his 
father's  trade  till  he  had  completely  maa^red 
H  in  all  its  details.  Then,  finding  that  the 
tnie  aim  and  object  of  his  ambition  was  to 


live  a  simple,  natural,  open-air  life,  he  became, 
as  he  himself  has  humorously  recorded,  *'self- 
appointed  inspector  of  snow-storms  and  rain- 
storms,"  and  gave  himself  up  to  that  intimate 
communion  witli  nature  from  which  he  seemed 
to  derive  all  his  intellectual  strength.  In  1845 
he  built  himself  a  hut  on  the  shores  of  Walden 
Pond,  a  short  distance  from  Concord,  and 
there  lived  for  over  two  years.  After  this  so- 
journ in  the  woods  he  returned  to  Concord, 
and  the  quiet  tenor  of  his  life  was  afterward 
only  intemipted  by  occasional  visits  to  the 
Maine  Woods,  Canada,  Cape  Cod,  and  other 
places  of  interest,  of  which  journeys  he  has 
left  an  account  in  his  books.  He  died  in  1863 
from  a  disease  of  the  lungs,  the  result  of  a 
severe  cold  taken  through  unwise  exposure  in 
winter.  His  best  known  works  are  Walden, 
the  Week  on  the  Concord  and  Merrimack 
Bivers,  Anti-JSlaterff  and  Btform  Papere,  and 
the  Diaries, 

It  has  been  remarked  by  some  critics,  who 
take  an  unfavorable  view  of  Thoreau's  philos- 
ophy, that  his  life  was  strikingly  devoid  of 
those  wide  experiences  and  opportunities  of 
studying  mankind,  which  alone  can  justify  an 
individual  in  arraigning,  as  Thoreau  did,  the 
whole  system  of  modern  society.  It  sliould  be 
remembered,  however,  that  he  possessed  that 
keen  native  wisdom  and  inractical  insight, 
which,  combined  with  fearless  self -inspection, 
are  often  a  better  form  of  education  than  the 
more  approved  methods.  Like  all  other  en- 
thusiasts, Thoreau  sometimes  taught  a  half- 
truth  rather  than  a  wiiole  one ;  but  that  does 
not  alter  the  fact  that  his  teaching  was  true 
aslar.as  it  went.  In  liis  life-protest  against 
the  Uixury  and  aelf-indulgenoe  which  he  saw 
everywhere  around  Mm,  he  no  doubt  occa- 
sionally over-stated  his  own  case,  and  ignored 
some  objections  which  noight  reasonably  have 
been  raised  against  hia  .doctrines ;  but  in  the 
main  hisxx>nclusions  are  generally  sound  and 
unimpeachable.  8elf-taught,  time-saving,  and 
laconic,  he  struck  by  a  sort  of  unerring  in- 
stinct at  the  very  root  of  the  question  which  he 
chanced  tOtbe  diBeussing,  not  pausing  to  weigh 
objections/  or  allowing  any  difficulties  to  divert 
him  from  hia  aim.  We  may  now  proceed  to 
consider  JJie  chief  laaturaaof  his  philosophy. 


176 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


Thoreau  has  been  called  a  Stoic  ;  and  there 
is  undoubtedly  much  in  his  philosophy  that  is 
akin  to  the  spirit  of  ancient  Stoicism.  With 
him,  as  with  Epictetus,  conformity  to  nature 
is  the  basis  of  his  teaching,  and  he  has  been 
finely  called  by  Emerson  the  "Bachelor  of 
Nature,"  a  term  which  might  well  have  been 
applied  to  many  of  the  old  Greek  and  Roman 
Stoics.  It  is  a  remarkable  fact  that  there  is 
rarely  any  mention  of  love  in  his  writings,  but 
friendship,  as  with  the  Stoics,  is  a  common 
theme,  this  subject  being  treated  of  at  con- 
siderable length  in  the  Week.  His  main  point 
of  similarity,  however,  to  the  Stoic  philoso- 
phers is  to  be  found  in  his  ceaseless  protest 
against  all  kinds  of  luxury  and  superfluous 
comforts.  Like  Socrates,  he  could  truly  say, 
on  seeing  the  abundance  of  other  people's  pos- 
sessions. "How  many  things  are  there  that  I 
do  not  desire !"  and  every  page  of  Walden 
bears  testimony  to  the  sincerity  of  this  feeling. 
The  keynote  of  the  book  is  the  sentiment  ex- 
pressed in  Goldsmith's  words,  *'Man  wants 
but  little  here  below,"  with  the  difference  that 
Thoreau  did  not  merely  talk  of  Arcadian  sim- 
plicity, in  tlie  manner  that  was  so  conmion 
with  literary  men  a  century  ago,  but  carried 
his  theories  into  practical  effect.  When  asked 
at  table  what  dish  he  preferred,  he  answered 
*'the  nearest,"  and  he  was  surprised  at  the 
anxiety  which  people  usually  manifest  to  have 
new  and  uupatched  clothes  rather  than  a  sound 
conscience.  In  short,  his  utterances  on  this 
subject  of  superfluous  comforts  were  such  as 
would  have  made  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson's  hair 
stand  on  end  with  amazement  and  indignation 
had  they  been  promulgated  on  one  of  the 
many  occasions  when  the  Doctor  used  to  de- 
monstrate to  his  audience  the  beneficial  results 
of  luxury,  in  the  full  confidence  that  he  was 
teaching  a  great  economic  truth !  Freedom, 
from  artificial  wants,  and  a  life  in  harmony 
with  nature,  are  again  and  again  insisted  upon 
by  Thoreau  as  the  basis  of  all  true  happiness ; 
and  these  he  certainly  pursued  with  unfalter- 
ing consistency  through  his  own  singular 
career.  In  this  sense  he  was  a  true  Stoic  phi- 
losopher. But  there  are  also  important  dif- 
ferences. Thoreau  was  free  from  that  cold- 
ness of  heart  which  was  too  often  a  character- 


istic of  the  Stoics  of  old,  and  was  animated 
by  a  far  wider  and  nobler  spirit  of  humanity. 
He  had  been  influenced^  far  too  deeply  by  the 
teaching  of  Channing,  Emerson,  and  the 
transcendental  school,  to  permit  of  his  being 
classed  as  a  mere  cynic  or  misanthrope. 

*'  Simplify,  simplify,"  was  the  cry  that  was 
forever  on  Thoreau's  lips,  in  his  life-protest 
against  the  increasing  luxury  and  extravagance 
and  hypocrisy  of  the  age.  The  lesson  taught 
us  by  Walden  is  that  there  are  two  ways  of 
becoming  rich  ;  one  —  the  method  usually 
adopted — by  conforming  to  the  conventional 
laws  of  society,  and  amassing  sufficient  money 
to  enable  one  to  purchase  all  the  "comforts" 
of  which  men  think  they  have  need;  the  other 
— a  simpler  and  more  expeditious  process — by 
limiting  one's  desires  to  those  things  whi<ji 
are  really  necessary;  in  Thoreau *s  own  words, 
"A  man  is  rich  in  proportion  to  the  number 
of  things  which  he  can  afford  to  let  alone." 
Every  one  may  add  to  his  own  riches,  and 
may  lessen  his  own  labor,  and  that  of  others, 
in  the  treadmill  of  competitive  existence,  by 
the  simple  expedient  of  living  less  artificially. 
Thoreau  discovered  by  his  own  experiment, 
that  by  working  about  six  weeks  in  the  year, 
he  could  meet  all  the  expenses  of  living,  and 
have  free  for  study  the  whole  of  his  winters 
as  well  as  most  of  his  summers — a  discovery 
which  may  throw  considerable  light  on  the 
solution  of  certain  social  problems  in  our  own 
country.  Even  if  we  allow  an  ample  margin 
for  the  peculiarity  of  his  case,  and  the  favor 
able  conditions  under  which  he  made  his  ex- 
periment, the  conclusion  seems  to  be  unavoid- 
able that  tlie  burden  of  labor  which  falls  on  the 
maJQrity  of  the  human  race  is  not  only  very 
unfairly  distributed,  but  in  itself  unnecessarily 
heavy. 

Thoreau  cannot  be  called  a  Socialist;  he  was 
rather  an  Individualist  of  the  most  uncom- 
promisftig  type.  One  of  his  most  striking 
characteristics  was  his  strong  contempt  for  the 
orthodox  social  virtues  of  "charity"  and 
"philanthropy,"  which  lead  men — so  he 
thought — to  attempt  a  cheap  method  of  im- 
proving their  fellow-creatures  without  any 
real  sacrifice  or  reform  on  their  own  side.  In 
no  pan  of  Walden  is  the  writing  more  vigor- 


HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 


177 


ous  and  trenchant  than  when  Thoreau  is  dis 
cussing  the  ''philanthropic  enterprises"  in 
which  some  of  his  fellow  townsmen  reproach- 
fully invited  him  to  join.  "Doing  good,'*  he 
declares,  is  one  of  the  professions  that  are  full ; 
and  if  he  knew  for  a  certainty  that  a  man  was 
coming  to  his  house  with  the  design  of  doing 
bim  good,  he  Should  run  for  his  life,  for  he 
would  rather  suffer  evil  the  natural  way.  So 
too  with  charity : 

*'  It  may  l>e  that  he  who  bestowe  the  largest  amoant 
of  time  and  money  on  the  needy,  fa  doing  the  ntmoet 
by  hie  mode  of  life  to  produce  that  misery  which  he 
ttrives  in  vain  to  relieve.  Some  show  their  kindness 
to  the  poor  by  employing  them  in  their  kitchens. 
Woold  they  not  be  kinder  if  they  employed  themselves 
there*"  > 

)Lny  are  his  strictures  on  the  monstrous 
ugliness  of  recent  American  architecture,  and 
his  meditations  on  the  sacred  delight  of  a  man 
building  his  own  dwelling,  as  he  himself  did 
at  Walden,  and  lingering  lovingly  o^er  foun- 
dation, doors,  windows,  heartii,  and  every 
other  detail.  When  he  considers  how  flimsily 
modem  houses  are  in  general  huilt,  paid  for 
or  not  paid  for,  as  the  case  may  be,  ho  ex- 
presses his  wonder  that  ''the  floor  does  not 
give  way  under  the  visitor  while  he  is  admir- 
ing the  gewgaws  upon  the  mantlepiece,  and 
let  him  through  to  the  cellar,  to  some  solid 
andhouest,  though  earthy,  foundation." 

Like  Huskin,  Thoreau  declines  to  yield 
homage,  to  the  supremacy  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  even  on  the  score  of  such  boasted 
modem  inventions  as  the  Telegraph  and  Post 
Office,  for  he  insists  that  he  only  received  one 
or  two  letters  in  all  his  life  that  were  worth 
the  postage,  and  that  the  Telegraph  cannot 
greatly  benefit  those  who,  it  may  be,  have 
nothing  important  to  communicate.  For 
newspapers  also,  and  all  the  trivialities  of 
newspaper  goesip,.  he  had  a  profound  con- 
tempt, caring  nothing  to  read  of  men  robbed 
or  murdered,  houses  blown  up,  vessels 
wrecked,  or  cows  run  over  on  the  railroad,  be 
cause  he  could  discover  nothing  memorable  in 
this.  Even  books  were  not  always  found  to 
be  desirable :  there  being  times  when  he 
"could  not  afford  to  sacrifice  the  bloom  of  the 
present  moment  to   any  work."       In  like 


manner  Thoreau  was  in  no  way  interested  in 
the  ordinary  conversation  of  "  society ;  "  for, 
as  he  characteristically  observes,  "a  goose  is 
a  goose  still,  dress  it  as  you  will."  The  author 
of  Fors  Clatigera  has  there  put  it  on  record 
that  he  could  never  contemplate  a  visit  to  a 
country  which  has  no  castles ;  if  however  he 
had  visited  America  during  Thoreau 's  lifetime, 
I  think  he  might  have  found  a  compensation 
even  for  this  great  disadvantage.  At  any  rate, 
he  might  have  met  one  kindred  spirit  across 
tlie  Atlantic,  dne  man  who  c  red  so  little  for 
party  politics  that  he  never  voted,  and  who, 
amid  all  the  hurry  and  fluster  of  his  enter- 
prising country  men,  preferred  traveling  on 
foot  to  being  jerked  along  on  a  railroad. 

Of  his  detestation  of  the  system  of  slavery  I 
shall  have  occasion  to  speak  farther  on.  But 
Thoreau  went  much  farther  than  this;  his 
humanity  was  shown  not  only  in  his  relations 
to  men,  but  also  in  his  dealings  with  the  lower 
animals.  Emerson  tells  us  that,  though  a  na- 
turalist, Thoreau  used  neither  trap  nor  gun — 
a  fact  which  must  have  been  independently 
noticed  by  all  readers  of  Walden  or  the  diaries. 
It  was  his  habit  to  eat  no  flesh  ;  though  with 
characteristic  frankness  he  confesses  to  having 
once  slaughtered  and  devoured  a  woodchuck 
which  ravaged  his  bean-fi6ld.  He  laughs  at 
the  farmer  who  tells  him  it  is  not  possible  to 
live  on  vegetable  food  alone,  walking  at  that 
very  time  behind  the  oxen,  "which,  with  vege- 
table-made bones,  jerk  him  and  his  lumbering 
plough  along  in  spite  of  every  obstacle."  Yet 
at  the  same  timo,  it  must  be  admitted  that  he 
was  not  a  c^rvsistc^t  vegetarian,  for  we  find 
constant  n  'mticr  r  his  fishing  in  Walden 
Pond,  and  h?  dinner  was  sometimes  composed 
of  *  'a  mess  ot  fish. ' '  This  apparent  contradic- 
tion in  Thoreau 's  dietetic  philosophy  is  ex- 
plained in  that  chapter  of  Walden  which  is 
headed  "Higher  Laws,"  where  we  find  the 
fullest  statement  of  his  views  on  the  human- 
itarian question.  He  begins  by  remarking 
that  he  finds  in  himself  two  instincts— one  to- 
ward a  higher  and  more  spiritual  life ;  the 
other,  the  hunting-instinct,  toward  a  primi* 
tive  and  savage  state.  He  reverences  both  of 
these  instincts,  being  of  opinion  that  there  la 
"  a  period  in  the  history  of  individuals,  ^    f 


\ 


178 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


the  race,  when  the  hunters  are  the  best  men." 
It  is  natural,  he  thinks,  that  boys  and  youths 
should  wish  to  shoulder  a  fowling-piece  and 
betake  themselves  to  the  woods;  but  (and  here 
is  the  essence  of  Thoreau's  teaching  on  this 
subject)  •*  at  last,  if  he  has  the  seeds  of  a  better 
life  in  him,  he  distinguishes  his  proper  objects, 
BS  a  poet  or  naturalist  it  may  be,  and  leaves 
the  gun  and  fish-pole  behind.  '*  Thoreau  him- 
self had  sold  his  gun  long  before  his  sojourn 
at  Walden,  and  though  he  did  not  feel  the 
same  scruple  about  fishing,  he  nevertheless 
confesses  that  he  could  not  fish  **  without  fall- 
ing off  a  little  in  self-respect.  * '  This  leads  him 
to  dwell  on  the  whole  question  of  food,  and 
he  states  his  own  opinion  as  being  very  strong- 
ly in  favor  of  a  purely  vegetarian  diet  as  be- 
ing at  once  more  cleanly,  more  economical, 
and  more  moral  than  the  usual  system  of  flesh- 
food.  *  *  Whatever  my  own  practice  may  be, " 
he  adds,  *'  I  have  no  doubt  that  it  is  a  part  of 
the  destiny  of  the  human  race,  in  its  gradual 
improvement,  to  leave  off  eating  animals,  as 
sur<»ly  as  the  savage  tribes  have  left  off  eating 
each  other  when  they  came  in  contact  with  the 
more  civilized." 

The  last  point  connected*  with  Thoreau's 
teaching  on  which  it  will  be  necessary  to  enter, 
is  the  subject  of  politics.  And  here  one  might 
be  templed  to  state  briefly,  and  once  for  all, 
tbnt  Thoreau  had  nothing  to  do  with  politics; 
and  thus  follow  the  example  of  that  writer  on 
natural  history,  who,  after  heading  a  chapter 
wita  the  words  *'  Concerning  the  Snakes  of 
Iceland,"  pnweeded  to  remark.  **  There  are  no 
snakes  in  Iceland. ' *  But  ^.lough  Thoreau  was 
no  politician  in  the  ordiMaty  jse  c  the  word, 
and  never  voted  in  his  life,  ye' ,  in  another 
sense,  he  took  a  good  deal  of  interest  in  Amer 
ican  state-affairs,  especially  during  the  latter 
years  of  his  life,  and  left  several  pamphlets 
and  lectures  of  the  highest  pos^blc  merit.  In 
his  essay  on  **  Civil  Disobedience,"  he  gives 
expression  to  that  strong  feeling  of  individual- 
ism which  caused  him  to  resent  the  meddling 
and  muddling  propensities,  as  they  seemed  to 
him,  of  American  government,  as  seen  in  the 
Mexican  war  abroad,  and  slavery  at  home. 
*'  Must  the  citizen,"  he  asl^s,  "  resign  his  con- 
sderce  to  the  legialatorT"    In  oneway  he 


felt  he  could  make  a  vigorous  protest ,  and  that 
was  on  the  occasion  when  he  confronted  the 
Government  in  the  perstin  of  its  tax-collectcr. 
Ue  refused  to  pay  the  poll-tax,  and  ivas  on 
this  account  once  put  into  prison,  the  true 
place,  as  he  says,  for  a  just  man,   "under  a 
Grovernment  that  imprisons  any   unjustly." 
His  own  account  of  his  incarceration,  and  the 
night  he  sxHJnt  in  prison,  may  be  found,  told 
in  his  best  and  most  incisive  style,  in  this  same 
essay  on   '*  Civil  Disobedience."      The  two 
main  causes  of  this  withdrawal  of  his  allegiance 
to  the  state  were,  as  I  have  already  said,  the 
aggressive  war   waged  on    Mexico   and   the 
maintenance  of  slavery  in  Massachusetts;  he 
did  not  care  "  to  trace  the  course  of  his  doUar, '' 
paid  in* taxes  to  the  state,  **  till  it  buys  a  man, 
or  a  musket  to  shoot  one  with."    On  the  sub- 
ject of  slavery  he  was  strongly  and  profound- 
ly moved.    No  more  powerful  and  eloquent 
indictment  of  the  inquities  of  that  unho/y 
trafi9c  was  ever  published  than  in  his  three 
papers  on  "Slavery  in  Massachusetts,"    *'A 
Plea  for  Captain  John   Brown,"  and  '^The 
Last  Days  of  John  Brown . ' '    Those  who  have 
hitherto  imagined  Thoreau  to  have  been  a 
mere  recluse,  interesting  only  as  a  hermit  in 
an  age  when  hermits  are  somewhat  out  of  date, 
will  be  obliged  to  reconsider  their  opinion,  if 
they  take  into  consideration  these  splendid 
essays,  so  full  of  sound  common-sense,  tren- 
chant satire,  and  noble  enthusiasm  for  human- 
ity. 

But  it  is  time  now  to  bid  farewell  io  Thoreau 
in  his  character  of  p'lilosopher  and  moralist, 
and  to  view  him  awhile  in  another  light.  He 
has  been  well  called  by  William  Ellery  Chan 
ning  the  "  Poet -Naturalist ; "  for  to  the  ordin- 
ary qualifications  of  the  naturalist — patience, 
watchfulness,  and  precision — he  added  in  a 
rare  degree  the  geniils  and  inspiration  of  the 
poet.  He  may  be  described  as  standing  mid- 
way between  old  Gilbert  White  of  Selbome, 
the  naturalist  par  excellence y  and  Michelet,  the 
impassioned  writer  of  that  wonderful  l)ook 
U  Oiseau.  He  had  all  that  amazing  knowledge 
of  the  country,  its  Fauna  and  Flora,  which 
characterized  Gilbert  White,  his  familiarity 
with  every  bird,  beast,  insect,  fish,  reptile, 
and  planl,  being  something  little  less  miraoa- 


HENfeY  D.  THOREAU. 


179 


lo!:s  to  the  ordinary  unobservant  townsman. 
Very  S' ingest  ive  of  Sclborne,  too,  was  that 
pocket-diaiy  of  Thoreau's,  in  which  were 
entered  the  names  of  all  the  native  Concord 
plants,  and  the  date  of  the  day  on  which  each 
would  bloom.  "  His  power  of  observation," 
Emerson  tells  us,  "seemed  to  indicate  addi- 
tional senses. ' '  On  the  other  hand ,  he  equaled 
Michelet — and  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  give 
him  greater  praise  than  this — ^in  that  still  high- 
er creative  power,  which  can  draw  from  a 
scientific  fact  of  natural  history  a  poetical 
thought  or  image  to  be  applied  to  the  life  of 
man.  Ab  Michelet  could  see  in  the  heron  the 
type  of  fallen  grandeur,  the  dispossessed  mon 
arch  still  haunting  the  scenes  of  his  former 
glory ;  or  if^the  woodpecker  the  sturdy  solitary 
workman  of  the  forest,  neither  gay  nor  sad  in 
mood,  but  happy  in  the  performance  of  his 
ceaseless  task ;  so  Thoreau  delighted  in  ideal- 
izing and  moralizing  on  the  facts  which  he 
noted  in  his  daily  rambles  by  forest,  river,  or 
pond.  He  sees  the  pincushion  galls  on  the 
young  white  oaks  in  early  summer,  the  most 
beautiful  object  of  the  woods,  though  but  a 
disease  and  excrescence,  "beautiful  scarlet 
sins,  they  may  be."  "Through  our  tempta- 
tions," he  adds,  "  ay,  and  our  falls,  our  virtues 
appear." 

Countless  instances  of  this  kind  of  thought 
could  be  picked  out  frbm  his  diaries  and  the 
pages  of  Walden ;  in  fact,  Thoreau  has  been 
blamed,  and  not  altogether  without  reason, 
for  carrying  this  moralizing  tendency  to  ex- 
cess— ^a  fault  whick  he  perhaps  acquired 
tlirough  the  Influence  of  the  Transcendental 
movement.  In  1  o  ve  of  birds  he  certainly  yield- 
ed no  whit  to  Michelet  himself;  and  he  is 
never  weary  of  recording  his  encounters  with 
the  bob-o'-Jinks,  cat-birds,  whip-poor-wills, 
chickadees,  and  numerous  other  species.  His 
paper  on  the  "  Natural  History  of  Massachu- 
setts **  gives  a  short  and  pithy  summary  of  his 
experiences  In  this  subject ;  but  he  had  usually 
a  strange  dislike  of  writing  detached  memoirs, 
preferring  to  let  the  whole  subject  rest  undi- 
rided  in  his  mind.  His  studies  as  naturalist 
were  too  much  a  part  of  his  whole  character 
to  )k  kept  separate  from  the  rest,  and  must 
fherefore  be  sought  for  throaghout  the  whole 


j  body  of  his  works.  This  intense  love  of  wood- 
craft, together  with  his  taste  for  all  Indian  lore, 
and  all  hunting  adventure,  give  a  wild  and 
I  racy  charm  to  Thoreau 's  books  which  often 
reminds  one  of  Defoe  and  other  earlv  writers. 

On  the  subject  of  fishing  not  even  Izaak 
WhUou  himself  could  write  as  Thoreau  has 
done,  though  one  is  somewhat  reminded  of 
the  father  of  the  "gentle  craft"  in  reading 
passages  such  as  the  following :  *  *  Who  knows 
what  admirable  virtue  of  fishes  may  be  below 
low- water  mark,  bearing  up  against  a  hard 
destiny  ?  Thou  shalt  ere  long  have  thy  way 
up  all  the  rivers,  if  I  am  not  mistaken.  Yea, 
even  thy  dull  watery  dream  shall  be  more  than 
realized.  Keep  a  stiff  fin  then,  and  stem  all 
the  tides  thou  mayst  meet."  Still  more  won- 
derful are  the  descriptions  of  the  weird  and 
mysterious  characteristics  of  fishing — the  cork 
that  goes  dancing  down  the  stream  when  sud- 
denly "emerges  this  fabulous  inhabitant  of 
another  element,  a  thing  heard  of  but  not  seen, 
as  if  it  were  the  creation  of  an  eddy,  a  true 
product  of  the  running  stream,"  or,  still  more 
memorable,  the  midnight  fishing  on  Walden 
Pond  when  the  angler,  anchored  in  forty  feet 
of  water,  "  communicated  with  a  long  flaxen 
line  with  mysterious  nocturnal  fishes  "  below, 
now  and  then  feeling  a  vibration  along  the 
line  "indicative  of  some  life  prowling  about 
Its  extremity,  some  dull  uncertain  blunderinjg 
purpose." 

If  Thoreau  could  thu5  sjrmpathize  with  the 
mysteries  of  fish -life,  we  arc  the  better  able  to 
believe  what  his  biographers  more  than  once 
tell  us,  that  fishes  often  swam  into  his  hand 
and  would  allow  him  to  lift  them  out  of  the 
water,  to  the  unspeakable  aniazement  of  lAs 
companions  in  the  boat.  His  influence  over 
animals  seems  indeed  to  have  been  little  less 
than  miraculous,  and  recalls  many  of  the  le- 
gends of  the  anchorites  in  the  Middle  Ages  and 
of  St.  Francis  d'Assisi.  As  Kingsley  has 
pointed  out  in  his  Hermits,  the  power  of  at- 
tracting wild  animalfl  was  doubtless  in  large 
measure  due  to  the  hermits'  habil  of  sitting 
motionless  for  hours,  and  their  perfect  freedom 
from  anger  or  excitement,  so  that  there  is  noth- 
ing absurd  or  improbable  in  such  stories  as 
those  of  the  swallows  sitting  and  staging  on 


180 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


the  knees  of  St.  Guthlac,  or  the  robin  building 
ita  nest  in  St.  Karilef  s  bood.  Much  the  same 
is  recorded  of  Thoreau's  habitual  patience  and 
immobility.  Emerson  tells  us  that  **  he  knew 
how  to  sit  immovable,  a  part  of  ihe  rock  he 
rested  on,  until  the  bird,  the  reptile,  the  fish, 
which  had  retired  from  him,  should  come  back 
and  resume  its  habits,  nay,  moved  by  curios- 
ity, should  come  to  him  and  watch  him.  **  Of 
all  such  stories  of  strange  sympatiiy  between 
men  and  the  lower  animals  none  are  so  beau- 
tiful as  those  recorded  in  the  life  of  St.  Francis; 
but  certainly  Thoreau  may  claim  the  honor  of 
having  approached  nearest  in  modem  times  to 
that  sense  of  perfect  brotherhood  and  sympathy 
with  all  innocent  creatures.  There  is  a  singu- 
lar resemblance  between  the  legend  of  the 
tench  which  followed  the  boat  in  which  St. 
Francis  was  praying  and  some  of  the  anecdotes 
told  about  Thoreau. 

Thoreau  *s  retirement  to  Walden  has  natur- 
ally led  many  people  to  consider  him  as  a 
sort  of  modern  hermit,  and  the  attraction  he 
exercised  over  the  inhabitants  of  the  woods 
and  waters^was  only  one  of  many  points  of 
resemblance.  There  was  the  same  recogni 
tion  of  tlie  universal  brotherhood  of  men,  the 
same  scorn  of  the  selfish  luxury  and  childish 
amusements  of  society,  and  the  same  impa- 
tience of  the  farce  which  men  call  "politics,*' 
the  same  desire  of  self -concentration  and  un- 
disturbed thought.  Thoreau  also  possessed, 
in  a  marked  degree,  that  power  of  suddenly 
and  strongly  influencing  those  who  conversed 
with  him,  whicli  was  so  charact  ristic  of  the 
hermits.  Young  men  who  visited  him  were 
often  converted  in  a  moment  to  the  belief 
*'that  this  was  the  man  they  were  in  search  of, 
the  man  of  men,  who  could  tell  them  all  they 
should  do  "  But  it  would  be  a  grievous 
wrong  to  Thoreau  to  allow  this  comparison,  a 
Just  one  up  to  a  certain  point,  to  be  drawn 
out  l)eyond  its  fair  limits.  He  was  something 
more  than  a  solitary.  He  had  higher  aims 
than  the  anchorites  of  old.  He  went  to  the 
woods,  as  he  himself  has  told  us,  because  he 
wished  **to  live  deliberately,  to  front  only  the 
essential  facts  of  life."  So  far  he  was  like 
the  hermit  of  the  East.  But  it  was  only  a 
two-y ears'  sojourn,  not  a  life- visit  that  he 


made  to  Walden;  his  object  was  not  merely 
to  retire,  but  to  fit  himself  for  a  UiOre  perfect 
life.  He  left  the  woods  "for  as  good  reason 
as  he  went  there,"  feeling  that  he  had  sev- 
eral more  lives  to  live,  and  could  not  spare 
more  time  for  that  one.  Even  while  he  lived 
at  Walden-  he  visited  his  family  and  friends 
at  Concord  every  two  or  three  days;  indeed, 
one  of  his  biographers  asserts  that  he  "bivou- 
acked" at  Walden  rather  than  actually  lived 
there,  though  this  is  hardly  the  impression 
conveyed  by  Thoreau  himself  or  other  au- 
thorities. 

Very  different  also  was  Tlioreau  in  his  com- 
plete freedom  from  the  noorbid  asceticism  and 
unhealthy  habit  of  body  which  too  often  dis 
tinguislied  the  hermits.  His  frugality  was 
deliberate  and  rational,  based  on'  the  belief 
that  the  truest  health  and  happiness  must  be 
sought  in  wise  and  unvarying  moderation; 
but  there  was  no  trace  of  any  unreasoning 
asceticism;  his  object  being  to  vivify,  not 
mortify,  the  flesh.  His  nature  was  essentially 
simple  and  vigorous;  he  records  in  his  diary 
that  he  thought  bathing  one  of  the  necessaries 
of  life,  and  wonders  what  kind  of  religion 
could  be  that  of  a  certain  New  England  farm« 
er,  who  told  him  he  had  not  had  a  bath  fot 
fifteen  years.  Now  we  read  of  St.  Antony— 
and  the  same  is  told  of  most  other  hermit^-^ 
that  he  never  washed  his  body  with  water, 
and  could  not  endiure  even  to  wet  his  feel, 
dirtiness  therefore  must  be  considered  a  iiTie 
qud  non  in  the  character  of  a  true  hermit,  and 
this  would  entirely  disqualify  Thoreau  for 
being  ranked  in  that  class.  It  is  at  once 
pleasanter  and  more  correct,  if  we  must  make 
any  comparisons  at  all,  to  compare  him  to  the 
philosopher  Epictetus,  wbo  lived  in  the  vicin- 
ity of  Rome  in  a  little  hut  which  had  not  so 
much  as  a  door,  his  only  attendant  being  an 
old  servant- mai4»  and  his  property  consistiog 
of  little  more  tlian  an  earthen  lamp.  Thoreau 
had  the  advantage  over  the  Stoic  in  having 
no  servant-maid  at  Walden;  but  as  he  in- 
dulged himself  in  a  door,  we  may  fairly  set 
one  luxury  against  the  other,  and  the  two 
philosophers  may  he  classed  on  the  whole  as 
equally  praiseworthy  examples  of  a  consistent 
simplicity  and  hardihood. 


HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 


181 


Thoreaii*8  diaries  afford  mucli  delightful 
reading,  and  give  ua  a  good  insight  into  his 
character  and  mode  of  life.  They  abound  in 
notes  of  his  observations  on  Natural  History, 
with  here  and  there  some  poetical  thought  or 
moral  reflection  attached;  sometimes  there  is 
an  account  of  a  voyage  up  the  Assabet  River, 
or  a  walking  tour  to  Monadnock,  or  some 
other  neighboring  mountain. 

Thoreau^s  poems   are  'certainly    the  least 
successful  part  of  his  work.    They  were  pub- 
lislied  in  various  American  magazines,  and  he  is 
fond  of  interpolating  parts  of  them  in  his  books. 
But  it  must  be  confessed  that  though  Thoreau 
had  a  truly  poetical  mind,  and  though  he  may 
justiy  be  styled  the  "Poet-Natiunlist,'*  he  had 
not  that  power  of  expression  in  verse  which  is 
a  necessary  attribute  of  the  true  poet     Prose- 
poet  let  us  call  him,  as  we  call  De  Quincey  or 
Ruskin,  or  Hawthorne :  bu    poet  in  the  or- 
dinary sense  he  was  not.     He  was  a  clear- 
headed, fearless  thinker,  whose  force  of  native 
shrewdness  and  penetration  led  him  to  test 
the  value  of  all  that  is  regarded  as  indispensa- 
ble in  artificial  life,  and  to  reject  much  of  it 
as  unsound;  he  was  gifted  also  with  an  en- 
thusiastic love  of  nature,  and  with  literary 
powers,  which,  if  not  of  a  wide  and  extensive 
range,  were   peculiarly    appropriate — in   an 
almost  un^valed  degree — to  the  performance 
of  that  life-duty  which  he  set  before  him  as 
his  ideal.    He  was  in  the  truest  sense  an  orig- 
inal writer ;  his  work  is  absolutely  unique. 
Walden  alone  is  sufficient  to  win 'him  a  place 
among  the  inunortals,  for  it  is  incomparable 
alike  in  matter  and  in  style,  and  deserves  to 
be  a  sacred  book  in  the  library  of  every  cul- 
tured and  thoughtfid  man.    Nevpr  was  there 
written  a  book  more  simple,  more  manly, 
more  beautiful,  more  pure;  it  is,  as  Thoreau 
himself  describes   the  pond  from  which  it 
derives  its  name,  "a  gem  of  the  first  water 
which  Ck>ncord  wears  in  her  coronet."    Con- 
cord is  indeed  rich  in  literary  associations  and 
reminiscences  of  great  men.    Emerson — Haw- 
th(»iie— Thoreau;  these  are  mighty  names,  a 
trinity  of  illustrious  writers,  almost  sufficient 
in  themselves  to  represent  a  national  litera- 
ture.   It  is  not  the  least  of  Thoreau's  honors 


that  he  has  won  ^  place  hi  this  literary 
brotherhood;  but  perhaps  his  greatest  claim 
to  immortality  will  be  found  in  the  fact  that 
there  is  a  natural  affinity  and  fellowship  be- 
tween his  genius  and  that  of  Walt  Whitman, 
the  great  poet  prophet  of  the  large-hearted 
democracy  that  is  to  be. 

We  see  in  Walt  Whitman  the  very  incarna- 
tion of  all  that  is  free,  healthy,  natural,  sin- 
cere. A  leviathan  amobg  modern  writers,  he 
proclaims  with  titanic  and  oceanic  strengtli 
the  advent  of  the  golden  age  of  Liberty  and 
Nature.  He  proclaims;  but  he  will  not  pause 
to  teach  or  rebuke;  he  leaves  it  to  others  to 
explain  by  what  means  this  glorious  democ- 
racy, this  "love  of  comrades"  may  be  realized, 
and  contents  himself  with  a  mighty  and  irre- 
sistible expression  of  the  fact.  Thoreau, 
though  less  catholic  and  sanguine  in  tone,  but 
rather  an  iconoclast,  a  prophet  of  warning 
and  remonstrance,  and,  as  such,  narrower 
and  intenser  in  scope,  nevertheless  shares  to 
the  full  all  Walt  Whitman's  enthu.^asm  for 
hardihood  and  sincerity.  He  sets  himself  to 
apply  this  same  new  doctrine  of  simplicity  to 
the  facts  of  everyday  life,  and  by  his  practice 
and  example  teaches  how  the  individual  may 
realize  that  freedom  of  which  the  poet  sings. 
While  America  produces  such  writers  as  these, 
there  seems  nothing  exaggerated  or  improba- 
ble in  the  most  sanguine  forecast  of  the  great 
future  that  awaits  American  ,  literature,  a 
future  to  which  Thoreau,  liimsclf  American 
to  the  backbone,  looked  forward  with  earnest 
and  trustful  anticipation. 

"If  the  heavens  of  America,''  he  eaye,  '* appear  in- 
finitely higher,  and  the  stars  brighter,  I  traet  that  these 
facts  are  symbolical  of  the  height  to  which  the  phi- 
losophy, and  poetry,  and  religion  of  her  inhabitants 
may  one  day  soar.  At  length,  perchance,  the  immate- 
rial heaven  will  appear  as  much  higher  to  the  Amer- 
can  mind,  and  the  intimations  that  star  it  as  mnch 
brighter." 

Certain  it  is  that  of  all  philosophers,  whether 
in  the  old  world  or  the  new,  few  have  read 
the  mysteries  of  this  immaterial  heaven  and 
its  starry  intimations  more  truthfully  and 
faithfully  than  Thoreau.— H.  S.  Salt,  in 
Temple  Bar. 


182 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


LADY  BOOK-LOVERS. 

The  biographer  of  Mrs.  Aphra  Behn  ref  ales 
the  vulgar. error  that  "a  Dutchman  cannot 
love. '  *  Whether  or  not  a  lady  can  love  books 
is  a  question  that  may  not  be  so  readily  set- 
tled. M.  ErE^st  Quentin  Bauchart  has  just 
contributed  to  the  discussion  of  this  problem 
by  publishing  a  bibliography,  in  two  quarto 
volumes,  of  books  which  have  been  in  the 
libraries  of  famous  beauties  of  old,  queens 
and  princesses  of  France.  There  can  be  no 
doubt  that  these  ladies  were  possessors  of  ex- 
quisite printed  books  and  manuscripts  won- 
derfully bound,  but  it  remains  uncertain 
whether  the  owners,  as  a  rule,  were  biblio- 
philes; whether  their  hearts  were  with  their 
treasures.  Incredible  as  it  may  seem  to  us 
now,  literature  was  highly  respected  in  the 
past,  and  was  even  fashionable.  Poets  were 
in  favor  at  court,  and  fashion  decided  that 
the  great  must  possess  books,  and  not  only 
books,  but  books  produced  in  the  utmost  per- 
fection of  art,  and  boimd  with  all  the  skill  at 
th&  disposal  of  Clovis  Eve,  and  Padeloup, 
and  Duseuil.  Therefore,  as  fashion  gave  her 
commands,  we  cannot  hastily  affirm  that  the 
ladies  who  obeyed  were  really  book-lovers. 
In  our  more  polite  age,  fashion  has  decreed 
that'  ladies  shall  smoke,  and  bet,  and  romp, 
but  it  would  be  prcruature  to  assert  that  all 
ladies  who  do  their  duty  in  these  matters  are 
bom  romps,  or  have  an  unaffected  liking  for 
cigarettes.  History,  however,  maintains  that 
many  of  the  renowned  dames  whose  books 
are  now  the  most  treasured  of  literary  relics 
were  actually  incl  ned  to  study  as  well  as  to 
pleasure;  like  Marguerite  de  Yalois  and  the 
Comtesse  de  Vcrrue,  and  even  Madame  de 
Pompadour.  Probably  books  and  arts  were 
more  to  this  lady's  liking  than  the  diversions 
by  which  she  beguiled  the  tedium  of  Louis 
XV. ;  and  many  a  time  she  w^ould  rather  have 
been  quiet  with  the  plays  and  novels  than 
engaged  in  conscientiously-conducted  but  dis- 
tasteful revels. 

Like  a  true  Frenchman,  M.  Bauchart  has 
only  written  about  French  lady  book-lovers, 
or  about  women  who,  like  Mary  Stuart,  were 
more  than  half  French.    Nor  would  it  be 


easy  for  an  English  author  to  name,  outside 
the  ranks  of  crowned  heads,  like  Eiizabetli, 
any  Englisli women  of  distinction  who  had  a 
passion  for  the  material  side  of  literature,  for 
binding,  and  first  editions,  and  large  paper 
and  engravings  in  early  *'  states. "  The  prac- 
tical sex,  when  studious,  is  like  the  same  sex 
when  fond  of  equestrian  exercise.  *'  A  lady 
says,  'My  heyes,  he's  an  'orse,  and  he  must 
go,'  "  according  to  Leech's  groom.  In  the 
same  way,  a  studious  girl  or  matron  says, 
*'This  is  a  book,"  and  reads  it,  if  read  she 
does,  without  caring  about  the  date,  or  the 
state,  or  the  publisher's  name,  or  even  very 
often  about  the  author's.  I  remember,  before 
the  publication  of  a  novel  now  celebrated,  see- 
ing a  privately-printed  vellum-bound  copv  of 
it  on  large  paper  in  the  hands  of  a  literary 
lady.  She  was  holding  it  over  the  fire,  and 
had  already  made  the  vellum  covers  curl 
wide  open  like  tlie  shells  of  an  afflicted  oyster. 
When  I  asked  what  the  volume  was,  she  ex- 
plained that  "It  is  a  book  whicli  a  poor  man 
has  written,  and  he's  had  it  printed  to  see 
whether  some  one  won't  be  kind  enough  to 
publish  it. ' '  I  ventured ,  perhaps  pedan tical  ly . 
to  point  out  that  tlie  poor  man  could  not  be 
so  very  poor,  or  he  would  not  have  made  so 
costly  an  experiment  on  Dutch  paper.  But 
the  lady  said  she  did  not  know^ow  that 
might  be,  and  she  "went  on  toasting  the  ex- 
periment. 

In  all  this  there  is  a  fine  contempt  for  eveiy- 
thing  but  the  spiritual  aspect  of  literature; 
there  in  an  aversion  to  the  mere  coquetry  and 
display  of  morocco  and  red  letters,  and  the 
toys  which  amuse  the  minds  of  men. 

Where  ladies  have  caught  *'the  Biblioma- 
nia," I  fnncy  they  have  taken  this  pretty  fever 
fiom  the  other  sex.  But  it  must  be  owned 
that  the  books  they  have  possessed,  heing 
rarer  and  more  romantic,  are  even  more 
highly  prized  by  amateurs  than  examples 
from  tlie  libraries  of  Grolier,  and  Longepierre. 
and  d'Hoym.  M.  Bauchart *s  book  is  a  com 
plete  guide  to  the  collector  of  these  expensive 
relics.  He  begins  his  dream  of  fair  women 
who  have  owned  books  with  the  pearl  of  the 
Valoift,  Marguerite  d'Angouldme,  the  lister 
of  Francis  I.    The  remains  of  her  library  are 


LADY  BOOK-LOVERS. 


183 


chiefly  devotional  manuscripts.  Indeed,  it  is 
to  be  noted  that  all  these  ladies,  however 
frivolous,  possessed  the  most  devout  and  pious 
books,  and  whole  collections  of  prayers  cop- 
ied out  by  the  pen,  and  decorated  with  min- 
iaturefl.  Marguerite's  library  was  bound  id 
morocco,  stamped  with  a  crowned  M  in 
interlace  sown  with  daisies,  or,  at  least,  with 
conventional  flowers  which  may  have  been 
meant  for  daisies^  If  one  could  choose,  per- 
haps the  most  desirable-  of  the  specimens 
extant  is  Le  Premier  Litre  du  Prince  dee 
I^tee,  Mom^re,  in  Salel's  translation.  For 
this  translation  Ronsard  writes  a  prologue, 
addressed  to  the  mariee  of  Salel,  in  which  he 
complains  that  he  is  ridiculed  for  his  poetry. 
He  draws  a  characteristic  picture  of  Homer 
and  Salel  in  Elysium,  among  the  learned 
lovers — 

**qai  parmi  lee  fleore  deylsent 
Aa  giron  de  leur  dame.^* 

Marguerite's  manuscript  copy  of  the  First 
Book  of  the  Iliad  is  a  small  quarto,  adorned 
with  daisies,  fleurs-de-lis,  and  the  crowned 
M,    It  is  in  the  Due  d'Aumale's  collection  at 
Chantilly.    The  books  of  Diane  de  Poitiers 
are  more  numerous  and  more  famous.    When 
first  a  widow  she  stamped  her  volumes  with  a 
laurel  springing  from  a  tomb,  and  the  motto 
Sola  vivit  in  iUo,    But  when  she  consoled  her- 
self with  Henri  II.  she  suppressed  the  tomb, 
and  made  the  motto  meaningless.    Her  cres- 
cent shone  not  only  on  her  books,  but  on  the 
palace  walls  of  France,  in  the  Louvre,  Fon- 
tainebleau.and  Anet  and  her  inttial  D.  is  inex- 
tricably  interlaced  with  the  M,  of  her  royal 
lover.     Indeed,  Henri  added  the  jD  to  his  own 
cipher,  and  this  must  have  been  so  embar- 
rassing for  his  wife  Catherine,  that  people 
have  good-naturedly  tried  to  read  .the  curves 
of  the  2>'8  as  C7*s.    The  i>'8,  and  the  crescents, 
and  the  bows  of  his  Diana  are  impressed  even 
on  the  covers   of  Henri's  Book  of  Hours. 
Catherine's  own  cipher  is  a  double  G  enlaced 
with  an  i7,  or  double  JC&  (Katherine)  com- 
bined in  the  same  manner.    These,  unlike 
the  D.  H.^  are  surmounted  with  a  crown-rthe 
one  advantage  which  the  wife  possessed  over 
the  faverite.    Anong  Diana's  books  »re  vari- 


ous treatises  on  medicines  and  on  surgery,  and 
plenty  of  poetry  and  Italian  novels.  Among 
the  books  exhibited  at  the  British  Museum  in 
glass  cases  is  Diana's  copy  of  Bembo's  Uietory 
of  Venice,  An  American  collector,  Mr.  Bar- 
low, of  New  York,  is  happy  enough  to  pos- 
sess her  Si'ngvXaritez  de  la  Prance  Antarctieque 
(Antwerp,  1558). 

Catherine  de  Medicls  got  a  splendid  library 
on  very  easy  terms :  she  stole  them.  The  ' 
Marshal  Strozzi,  dying  in  the  French  service, 
left  a  noble  collection,  on  which  Catherine 
laid  her  hands.  Brantdme  says  that  Strozzi 's 
son  often  expressed  to  him  a  candid  opinion  * 
about  this  transaction.  What  with  her  own 
collection  and  what  with  the  marshal's,  Cath- 
erine possessed  about  four  thousand  volumes. 
On  her  death  they  were  in  peril  of  being 
seized  by  her  creditors,  but  1  er  almoner 
carried  them  to  his  own  house,  and  De  Thou 
had  them  placed  in  the  royal  library.  Un- 
luckily it  was  thought  wiser  to  strip  the  books 
of  the  coats  with  Catherine's  compromising 
device,  lest  her  creditors  should  single  them 
out,  and  take  them  away  in  their  pockets. 
Hence,  books  with  her  arms  and  cipher  arc 
exceedingly  rare.  At  the  sale  of  the  collec- 
tions of  the  Duchesse  de  Berry,  a  Book  of 
Hours  of  Catherine's  was  sold  for  £2,400. 

Mary  Stuart  of  Scotland  w^as  one  of  the 
lady  book-lovers  whose  taste  was  more  than  a 
mere*  following  of  the  fashion.     Some  of  her 
books,  like  one  of  Marie  Antoinette's,  were 
the  companions  of  her  captivity,  and  still  bear 
the  sad  complaints  which  she  intrusted  to 
these  last  friends  of  fallen  royalty.     Her  note- 
book, in  which  she  wrote  h^  Latin  prose 
exercises  when  a  girl,  yet  survives,  bound  in 
red  morocoo.  with  the  arms  of  France.     In  a 
Book  of  Houre,  now  the  property  of  the  Czar, 
may  be  partly  deciphered  the  quatrains  which 
she  composed  in  her  sorrowful  times»  but  many 
of  them  are  mutilated  by  the  binder's  sheers. 
The  Queen  used  the  volume  as  a  kind  of; 
album;     i%  contains  the   signatures  of   the,> 
'^Countess  of  Schrewsbury"  (as  M.  Bauchar^i 
has  it),  of  Walsingham,  of  the  Earl  of  Susse?;^. 
and  of  Charles  Howard.  Earl  of  Nottingh^jp^, 
There  is  also  the  signature,  "  Your  mostriu-. 
fortunat—ArabeUa  Seymour ;"  and  "fyrBav 


IW 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


n 


con."  This  remarkable  manuacript  was  pur- 
chased in  Paris,  during  the  Revolution,  by 
Peter  Dubrowsky,  who  carried  it  to  Russia. 
Another  Book  of  Hours  of  the  Queen's  bears 
this  inscription,  in  a  sixteenth-century  hand: 
"Ce  sont  les  lieures  de  Marie  Setuart  Renne. 
Marguerite  de  Blacudd  de  Rosay/'  In  De 
Biacuod  it  is  not  very  easy  to  recognize  "Black- 
wood. "Marguerite  was  probably  the  daughter 
of  Adam  Blackwood,  who  wrote  a  Volume  on 
Mary  Stuart's  sufferings  (1587)* 

The  famous  Marguerite  de  Yalois,  the  wife 
of  Henri  IV.,  had  certainly  a  noble  library, 
and  many  beautifully  bound  books  stamped 
with  daisies  are  attributed  to  her  collection. 
They  bear  the  motto,  Expectata  non  eludU, 
which  appears  to  refer,  first  to  the  daisy 
("Margarita"),  which  is  punctual  in  the 
spring,  or  rather  is  "the  constellated  flower 
that  never  sets,"  and  next,  to  the  lady,  who 
wil  1  *  *  keep  tryst. "  But  is  the  lady  Margu  erite 
de  Yalois?  Though  the  books  have  been 
sold  at  very  high  prices  as  relics  of  the  leman 
of  La  Mole,  it  sfi^ms  impossible  to  demon- 
strate that  they  were  ever  on  her  shelves,  or 
that  they  were  bound  by  Clovis  Eve  from  her 
own  design.  "No  mention  is  made  of  them 
in  any  contemporary  document,  and  the  judi- 
cious are  reduced  to  conjectures."  Yet  they 
form  a  most  important  collection,  systemati 
cally  bound,  science  and  philosophy  in  citron 
morocco,  the  poets  in  green,  and  history  and 
theology  in  red.  In.  any  case  it  is  absurd  to 
explain  Expectata  noH  dudet  as  a  refei*ence  to 
the  lily  of  tbc  royal ;'acms,  which  appears  on 
Ute  center  of  the  daisy-pied  volumes.  The 
motto,  in  that  case,  wOtild  run.  Expectata  (lilia) 
non  eluderU.  As  it  stands^  the  feminine  ad- 
jective, expectata^  in  thb  singular,  must  apply 
either  to  the  lady  who  owned  ithe  volumes,  or 
to  Ihe ^'Margarita,"  her  emblem^  or  to  both. 
Yet  .the  ungranunatical  rendering  \  is  that 
whith  M.  Bauchart  suggests.  Many  < of.  the 
books — Marguerite '&  or-,  not — ^were-  sold'  at 
priQeB(aver  £100  ia  London,  in  1683  and  4684. 
TJie  ManrobiuSi  ^md.  Theocritus,  and  Homer 
ase  ib  the  Ccaohesede  collection  at  the  British 
Mtisentm.  l^he  Ronsard  (Paris,  Buon.  1007) 
vf&sA  fOT£480.at..the'Beckford  sale.  These 
asniofis  vill^ikGQhably^nerer'be  reached  again. 


If  Anne  of  Austria,  the  mother-  of  Louis 
XIY.,  was  a  bibliophile,  she  may  be  suspected 
of  acting  on  the  motive,  "Love  me,  love  my 
books."    About   her  affection  for   Cardinal 
Mazarin  there  seems  to  be  no  doubt:    tlie  Car- 
dinal had  a  famous  library,  and  his   royal 
friend  probably  imitated  his  tastes.      In  her 
time,  and  ou  her  volumes,  the  originality  and 
taste  of  the  skilled  binder,  Le  Gascon,  begin 
to  declare  themselves.    The  fashionable  pas- 
sion for  lace,  to  wliich  La  Fontaine    made 
such  sacrifices,  affected  the  art  of  book  deco- 
rations, and  Le  Gascon's  beautiful  patfcrns  of 
gold  points  and  dots  are  copies  of  the    pro- 
ductions   of  Yenice.     The    Queen -Mother's 
books  include  many  devotional  treatises,  for, 
whatever  other  fashions  might  come  and  ^o, 
piety  was  always  constant  before  the  devolu- 
tion.   Anne  of  Austria  seems  to  been    par- 
ticularly fond  of  the  lives  and  works  of  Saint 
Theresa,  and  Saint  Francois  de  Sales,  and 
John  of  the  Cross.    But  she  was  not  unread 
in  the  old  French  poets,  such  as  Coquillart: 
she  condescended  to  Ariosto;  she  had  that 
dubious    character,    Theophile    de    Viaud, 
beautifully  bound;  she  owned  the  Rabelais  of 
1558;  and,  what  is  particularly  interesting, 
M.  De   Lignerolles   possesses    her  copy  of 
*'L'£kcMe  des  Femmes,  ComMie  par  J.    B. 
P.   Molidre.    Paris:   Guillaume  de  Luynes, 
1668. ' '    In  12mo,  red  morocco,  gilt  ed^es,  and 
the  Queen's  arms  on  the  covers.    This  relic 
is  especially  valuable  when  we  remember  that 
UEcole  dea  Femmes  and  Arnolphe's  sermon 
to  Agu^s,  and  his  comic  thre  ts  of  future 
punishment,  first  made  envy  take  the  form 
of  religious  persecution.    The  devout  Queen - 
Mother  was  often  appealed  to  by  the  enemies 
of  Moli^re,  yet  Anne  of  Austria  had  not  only 
seen  his  comedy,  but  possessed  this  l)eautif ul 
example  of  the  first  edition.    M.  Paul  Lacroix 
supposes  that  this  copy  was  offered  to  the 
Queen-Mother  by  Molidre  himself.    The  fron- 
tispiece (Arnolphe   preaching  to  Agnds)    is 
thought  to  be  a  protrait  of  Moli^re,  but  in  the 
reproduction  in  M .  Louis  Lacour's  edition  it 
is  not  easy  to  see  any  resemblance.    Appar- 
ently Anne  did  not  share  the  views,   even 
in  her  later  years,  of  the  eonverted  Prince 
de  Coaty,  fsr  several  oosedies  and   nov* 


LADY  BOOK-LOVERS. 


185 


els    lemaixi  stamped   with    aer    arms  and 
device. 

Tlie  learned  Marquifie  de  RambouiUet,  the 
parent  of  all  the  l*r€eietAseSf  must  have  owned 
a  good  library,  but  nothing  is  chronicled  save 
lier  celebrated  book  of  prayers  and  medita- 
tions, written  out  and  decorated  by  Jarry. 
It  is  bound  in  red  morocco,  daidde  with 
green,  and  covered  with  Vb  in  gold.  The 
Marquise  composed  the  prayers  for  her  own 
use,  and  Jarry  was  so  much  struck  with  their 
beauty  that  he  asked  leave  to  introduce  them 
into  the  BookofM^urs  which  he  had  to  copy, 
"for  the  prayers  are  often  so  silly/'  said  he, 
"that  I  am  asiiamed  to  write  them  out." 
The  daughter  of  the  Marquise,  the  fair  Julie, 
heroine  of  that  *'long  courting"  by  M.  de 
Hontausier,  survives  in  those  records  as  the 
posaeflBor  of  La  Quirlands  de  JuHe,  the  manu- 
script book  of  poems  by  eminent  hands.  But 
this  nuinuscript  seems  to  have  been  all  she 
library  of  Julie;  therein  she  could  constantly 
read  of  her  own  perfections.  To  be  sure  she 
liad  also  UHitioirede  Otutave  Adolphe,  a  hero 
for  whom,  like  Major  Dugald  Dalgetty,  she 
cherished  a  supreme  devotion.  In  the  Ouir- 
lande  Chapelain's  verses  turn  on  the  pleasing 
fancy  that  the  Protestant  Lion  of  the  North, 
changed  into  a  flower  Qike  Paul  Limajnac  in 
M.  Banville's  ode),  requests  Julie  to  take  pity 
on  his  forlorn  estate: — 


«t« 


*Sois  pitoyable  it  ma  langnenr; 

£t  Bi  i«  n'ay  place  en  ton  coenr 

Que  je  Paye  an  moina  snr  ta  teate.*^  ^ 

These  verses  were  reckoned  consummate. 
The  Ouirlande  is  still,  with  happier  fate  than 
attends  most  books,  in  the  hands  of  the  suc- 
cessois  of  the  Due  and  DuchesBe  de  Montau- 
sier. 

Like  Julie,  Madame  de  Haintenon  was  a 
precietue,,  but  she  never  had  time  to  form  a 
regular  library.  Her  books,  however,  were 
bound  by  Duseuil,  a  binder  immortal  in'  the 
vene  of  Pope;  or  it  might  be  more  correct  to 
say  that  Madame  de  Maintenon*8  own  books 
are  seldom  distinguishable  from  those  of  her 
favorite  foundation,  St.  Oyr.  The  most  in- 
teresting is  a  copy  of  the  first  edition  of 
Etther,  in  quarto  (1689),  bound  in  red  moroc- 
co, and  bearing,  in  Hactne's  hand,  **A  Mad- 


OfiM  la  Marquise  die  Mainienon,  offerf  aoee  re- 
epeet, — Racine."  Doubtless  Racine  had  the 
book  bound  before  he  presented  it  "People 
are  discontented/'  writes  his  son  Louis,  "if 
you  offer  them  a  book  in  a  simple  marbled 
paper  cover."  I  could  wish  that  this  worthy 
custom  were  restored,  for  the  sake  of  the  art 
of  binding,  and  also  because  amateur  poets 
would  be  more  chary  of  their  presentation 
copies.  It  is,  no  doubt,  wise  to  turn  these 
gifts  with  their  sides  against  the  inner  walls 
of  bookcases,  to  be  bulwarks  against  the 
damp,  but  the  trouble  of  ackuuwledging 
worthiest  presents  from  strangers  is  con- 
siderable. Another  interesting  eicample  of 
Madame  de  Maintenon's  collection  is  Dacier's 
Bemarques  Oritiquee  »ur  lee  (Eavres  d' Horace, 
bearing  the  arms  of  Louis  XIV.,  but  witn  his 
wife's  signature  on  the  fly-leaf  (1681). 

Of  Madame  de  Montespan,  ousted  from  the 
royal  arms  by  Madame  de  Main  tenon,  who 
"married  into  the  family  where  she  had  been 
governess,"  there  survives  one  bookish  relic 
of  interest  This  is  (Eu/eres  Divereee  par  un 
auteur  de  eept  an$,  in  quarto,  red  morocco, 
printed  on  vellum,  and  with  the  arms  of  the 
mother  of  the  little  Due  du  Maine  (1678): 
when  Madame  de  Maintenon  was  still  playing 
mother  to  the  children  of  the  king  and  of 
Madame  de  Montespan,  she  printed  those 
"works"'  of  her  eldest  pupil. 

These  ladi*3e  were  only  bibliophiles  by  aor^i- 
dent,  and  were  devoted,  in  the  first  place,  to 
pleasure,  piety,  or  amlMtion.  With  the  Com- 
tesse  de  Verrue,  whose  epitaph  will  be  found 
on  an  earlier  page,  we  come  to  a  genuine  and 
even  fanatical  collector.  Madame  de  Yerrue 
(1670-1786)  got  every  kind  of  diversion  out 
of  life,  and  when  she  ceased  to  be  young  and 
fair,  she  turned  to  the  joys  of  "shopping." 
In  early  years,  pktThe  de  ecsur,  elle  le  donna 
mns  eomptee.  In  later  life,  she  purchased,  or 
obtained  on  credit,  everything  that  caught  her 
fancy,  also  etme  eompiee,  "My  aunt."  says 
the  Due  de  Luynes,  "was  always  buying,  and 
never  balked  her  fancy  "  Pictures,  books, 
coins,  jewels,  engravings,'  gems  (over  8,000), 
tapestries,  and  furniture  were  all  alike  pre- 
cious to  Madame  de  Yerrue.  Her  snuff  boxes 
defied  commutation;  she^  had  them  in  gold,  in 


186 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


tortoise-shell,  in  porcelain,  in  lacquer,  and  in 
Jasper,  and  she  enjoyed  the  delicate  fragrance 
of  sixty  diflferent  sorts  of  snuff.  Without 
applauding  the  smoking  of  cigarettes  in  draw- 
ing rooms,  we  may  admit  that  it  is  Jess  re^ 
pulsive  tban  steady  applications  to  tobacco  in 
Madame  de  Verrue's  favorite  manner. 

The  countess  had  a  noble  library,  for  old 
tastes  survived  in  her  commodious  heart,  and 
new  'tastes  she  anticipated.  She  possessed 
The  Romance  of  the  Rose,  and  VilUm,  in  edi- 
tions of  Galliot  du  Pre  (1529-1538)  undeterred 
by  the  satire  of  Boileau.  She  had  examples 
of  the  Plelade,  though  they  were  not 'admired 
iu  France  til)  1830.  She  was  also  in  the  most 
modern  fashions  of  to-day,  for  she'  had  the 
beautiful  quarto  of  La  Fontaine's  (Jontes,  and 
Boucher's  illustrated  Moli^re  (large  paper). 
And,  what  I  envy  her  more,  she  had  Per- 
rault's  Fairy  I'cUes,  in  blue  morocco— the 
blue  rose  of  the  folk-lorist  who  is  also  a  book- 
hunter.  It  must  also  be  confessed  that  Mad- 
ame de  Verrue  hail  a  large  number  of  books 
such  as  are  usually  k<^t  under  lock  and  key, 
and  which  her  heirs  did  not  care  to  expose  at 
the  sale  of  hei*  library.  Once  I  myself  (moi 
ehetif)  owned  a  novel  in  blue  morocco,  which 
had  been  in  Uic  collection  of  Madame  de 
Verrue.  In  her  old  age  this  exemplary  wom- 
an invented  a  peculiarly  comfortable  arm- 
chair, which,  like  her  novels,  was  covered 
with  citron  and  violet  morocco;  the  nails 
were  of  silver.  If  3Iadame  de  Verrue  has 
met  the  Baroness  Bernstein,  their  conversation 
in  the  Elysian  Fields  must  be  of  the  most 
gallant  and  interesting  description. 

Another  literary  lady  of  pleasure,  Madame 
de  Pompadour,  can  only  be  spoken  of  with 
modified  approval.  Her  great  fault  was  that 
she  did  not  check  the  decadence  of  taste  and 
sense  in  the  art  of  bookbindng.  In  her  time 
came  iu  the  habit  of  binding  books  (if  binding 
it  can  be  called)  with  flat  backs,  without  the 
nerves  anc  sinews  that  are  of  the  very  essence 
of  book-covers.  Without  these  no  binding 
jan  be  permanent,  none  can  secure  tlie  lasting 
existence  of  a  volume.  It  is  very  deeply  to 
be  deplored  by  that  by  far  the  most  accom- 
plished living  English  artist  in  bookbinding 
has  reverted  to  this  old  and  most  dangerous 


heresy.  The  most  original  ana  graceful  tool 
ing  is  of  much  less  real  value  than  permanence, 
and  a  book  bound  with  a  flat  back,  without 
7i,eTft,  might  almost  fA  well  not  be  boimd  at 
all.  The  practice  was  the  herald  of  the  French 
and  may  open  the  way  for  the  English  Revo- 
lution. Of  what  avail  were  tlie  ingenious 
mosaics  of  Derome  to  stem  the  tide  of  change, 
when  the  books  whose  sides  they  adorned 
were  not  really  hour^  at  all?  Madame  de 
Pompadour's  books  were  of  all  sorts,  from 
the  inevitable  works  of  devotions  to  devotions 
of  another  sort,  and  the  Hcurs  of  Brydna 
Ridens.  One  of  her  treasures  had  singular 
fortunes,  a  copy  of  Daphnis  and  Gkloe,  with 
the  Regent's  illustratibns,  and  those  of  Cochin 
and  EiseB' (Paris,  quarto,  1757>  red  morocco). 
The  covers  are  adorned  with  billing  and  coo- 
ing doves-,  with  the  arrows  of  Eros,  with 
burning  hearts,  and  sheep  and  shepherds. 
Eighteen  years  ago  this  volume  was  bought 
for  ten  f^ncs  in  a-  village  in  Hungary.  A 
bookseller  gave  £8  for  it  in  Paris.  M. 
Bauchart  paid  for  it  £150,  and  as  it  has  left 
his  shelves;  probably  he  too  made  no  bad 
bargain.  Madame  de  Pompadour's  Apology 
for  Herodotus  (La  Haye,  1735)  has  also  its 
legend.  It  belonged  to  M.  Paillet,  who  cov- 
eted a  glorified  copy  of  the  Pastissier  Fran- 
^cis,  in  M.  Bauchart's  collection.  M.  Paillet 
swopped  it,  with  a  number  of  others,  for  the 
Bouttisn&r: — 

"J'avais  VApologie 
Bottr  ffirSdote^  en  relinre  ancienne,  amour 
De  llvre  provenant  de  chez  la  PompAdoor; 
n  me  le  eoutira!^^ 

Of  Marie  Antoinette,  with  whom  our  lafij 
book-lovers  of  the  old  regime  must  close, 
there  survive  many  books.  She  had  a  library 
in  the  Tuileries,  as  well  as  at  le  petit  Trianon. 
Of  all  her  great  and  varied  collections,  none 
is  now  so  valued  as  her  little  book  of  prayers, 
which  was  her  consolation  in  the  worst  of  all 
her  evil  days,  in  the  Temple,  and  the  Con- 
ciergerie.  The  book  is  Office  de  la  IHtine 
Providence  (Paris,  1757,  green  morocco).  On 
the  fly-leaf'  the  Queen  wrote,  some  hours  be 
fore  her  death  these  touching  linest— "C5?  16 
Octobre,  d  4  A.  I  dti  matin.  Mon  Dieuf  ayes 
pitie  de  fihoil    Mes  yeium  n*on4plus  de  lormes 


MUSICAL  EDUCATION. 


187 


p0ur  prier  ^pour  wnu,  me$  pauvres  mfants. 
Adieu,  adieu/ — Mabib  Antoinettb."  There 
can  be  no  sadder  relic  of  a  greater  sorrow, 
and  Ihe  last  consolation  of  the  queen  did  not 
escape  the  French  popular  genius  for  cruelty 
and  insult.  The  arms  on  the  covers  of  the 
prayer-book  have  been  cut  out  by  some  fan- 
atic of  Equality  and  Fraternity. — Andrew 
Lano,  in  The  Fortnightly  Beview. 


MUSICAL  EDUCATION. 

As  a  more  general  interest  is  manifested  for 
the  study  of  music,  and  as  the  number  of 
students  who  devote  themselves  entirely  to 
this  art  becomes  greater  year  by  year,  it 
becomes  a  question  of  ever-increasing  impor- 
tance how  most  logically  to  reduce  to  their 
simplest  and  at  the  same  tipie  most  effective 
form  the  laws  which  govern  musical  educa- 
tion. 

There  are  certain  fundamental  principles  of 
education  that  hold  true  to  whatever  study 
we  apply  them  ;  and,  if  these  prove  capable 
of  being  arranged  and  carried  out  more 
systematically  in  one  case,  the  same  wOl  hold 
true  in  all  others.  First  of  all,  it  is  necessary 
to  know  that  education  progresses  most  logi- 
cally and  rapidly  when  all  things  pertaining 
thereto  have  been  simplified  as  much  as 
possible.  Those  who  have  struggled  with  a 
text-book  written  in  ambiguous  language 
know  how  great  an  amount  of  mental  energy 
would  have  been  saved  had  the  author  pos- 
sessed the  faculty  of  writing  his  mother- 
tongue  with  clearness  and  simplicity.  The 
same  conditions  and  results  are  applicable  to 
verbal  instruction.  If  perspicuity  is  wanting 
in  explanation,  the  student's  perplexity  in- 
creases proportionally. 

In  the  study  of  music,  very  many  apply 
tliemselves  for  a  time,  that  they  may  learn 
something  to  teach;  yet  but  very  few  think 
of  learning  bow  to  teach  it  when  once  they 
have  possessed  it  themselves.  There  is  much 
time  wasted,  and  at  the  expense  of  both 
student  and  instructor,  by  reason  of  the  fact 
that  the  latter  hftving'  but  one  "  method  "  to 


use,  must  necessarily  thrust  that  into  the 
brain  of  every  one  who  comes  under  his  care; 
and,  though  a  few  may  do  fairly  .well  under 
the  treatment  they  receive,  the  miajority  not 
only  tirc^f  their  work,  but  become  thoroughly 
disgusted  with  it.  Now,  to  take  the  case  of 
the  education  of  children  as  an  illustration, 
we  find  that,  Ihe  more  interesting  their 
studies  are  made,  the  more  readily  and 
thoroughly  do  they  learn.  They  are  active 
when  their  work  has  a  charm  for  them  and 
inactive  when  it  prov^  dull  and  uninteresting. 
Fellenburg  has  written,  "Experience  has 
taught  me  that  indolence  in  young  persons  is 
so  directly  opposite  to  their  natural  disposition 
to  activity,  that  unless  it  is  the  consequence 
of  bad  education,  it  almost  invariably  is  con- 
nected with  some  constitutional  defect. '  *  The 
attractiveness  of  a  study  makes  it  easier  and 
more  pleasurable,  not  only  to  children,  but  to 
every  one. 

From  this,  then,  we  draw  what  the  first 
qualification  of  a  teacher  should  be.  He 
should  know  that  no  one  learns  well  until 
there  is  sometliing  in  common  between  that 
one's  mind  and  the  nature  of  the  study  upon 
which  he  is  engaged.  It  is  the  forcible 
thrusting  of  foreign  subjects  into  the  mind 
that  retards  true  education.  One  must  be 
prepared  by  degrees  for  what  he  is  about  to 
receive.  Text-books,  for  example— even  the 
very  best — ^prove  too  much  for  the  majority 
when  verbal  explanation  cannot  be  obtained. 
A  conversation  on  the  text  with  one  who 
thoroughly  understands  it  should  precede  the 
pupil's  study  of  the  subject  in  the  book.  If 
or  not  this  method  of  procedure  is  philosoph- 
ical is  proved  when  we  think  that  no  book  or 
any  part  of  one  proves  of  any  great  use  to  us 
until  there  is  something  in  common  between 
our  knowledge  already  possessed  and  that 
contained  in  it.  And  not  until  this  condition 
of  things  is  brought  about  can  any  great 
benefit  result  from  the  continuous  use  of  a 
manual.  Some  do  not  read  works  on  qunii 
tative  analysis  because  they  know  nothing  of 
chemistry,  nor  works  on  the  quality  of  Latin 
accent  because  they  know  nothing  of  the 
language — that  is,  because  there  is  nothing 
in  common  between  what  is  contained  in  these 


188 


THE  LIBRABY  HAGAZINE. 


works  and  what  they  already  Jcnow ;  yet 
pupils  are  expected  to  master  chapter  after 
chapter  of  matter  in  books  more  or  less  scieu- 
tifie,  and  tfiey  get  no  explanation  unless  they 
ask  for  one.  It  is  true  that  excessive  explan- 
ation of  every  new  difficulty  proves  as  per- 
nicious to  one's  thorough  comprehension  of  a 
subject  03  the  other  extreme  proves  perplex- 
ing. The  faculty  of  guiding  students  through 
their  studies  cannot  be  acquired  too  well. 
They  must  be  led  to  make  as  many  discover- 
ies as  they  can.  The  conditions  having  been 
placed  before  them,  they  must  be  allowed  to 
^raw  their  own  inferences.  Then  they  are 
not  imitators,  but  intelligent  and  successful 
discoverers. 

As  a  necessary  part  of  all  instrumental 
study,  students  of  music  are  supposed  to 
master  a  certain  amount  of  theory  as  a  voucher 
for  their  thoroughness ;  and  the  slight  atten- 
tion usually  paid  to  this  study,  while  the 
other  receives  tenfold  consideration,  leads 
one  to  inquire  the  reason.  Theory  of  music 
usually  is  supposed  by  the  pupil  to  be  some- 
thing indefinite,  uninteresting  to  study,  and 
capable  of  yielding  little  return  for  the  time 
spent  upon  it.  When  such  a  pupil  falls  into 
the  hands  of  an  instructor  who  deems  it  his 
duty  to  correct  exercises,  and  who  regards 
the  book  as  containing  all  the  necessary  in- 
fomtiation  requisite  to  one's  advancement,  it 
soon  happens  that  the  uncommunicative 
teacher  and  the  immanageable  book  produce 
confusion  in  the  mind  of  the  young  theorist. 
He  manifests  his  inability  to  understand  tlie 
subject,  and  wliat  is  generally  the  result? 
Another  obscurely  written  manual  is  thrust 
into  his  hands ;  and,  having  deepened  his 
perplexity,  the  result  is  taken  at  once  as  a 
reason  for  its  continuance.  Text  books  are 
indispensable,  it  is  true :  but  I  venture  to  say 
that  no  page  of  one  should  be  given  to  a  pupil 
for  study  until  he  lias  pieviously  been  made 
familiar  with  its  most  obscure  details.  Per- 
plexity ariRes  from  continued  misconception 
or  the  inability  to  understand.  Then  should 
the  first  lesson  in  harmony  be  without  pri- 
mary reference  to  books  ?  or  should  the  teacher 
Bay,  "  Qo  home,  and  learn  the  first  chapter  of 
Biclitor?"    It  is  another  version  of  the  old 


story  of  making  pupils  master  the  gram- 
matical rules  of  a  foreign  language  before 
they  know  a  dozen  words  to  whicli  they  may 
be  applied.  There  are  too  many  teachers  like 
the  Swedish  schoolmaster,  who  regularly  fell 
asleep  while  his  &fty  pupils  droned  out  their 
reading  lesson,  and  who  .always  awoke  ia 
time  to  say,  *'  Take  another  one." 

All  branches  of  educ^ition  merge  more  or 
less  into  others.^  "Each  kind  of  knowledge 
presupposes  many  necessary  things  learned  in 
other  sciences,  and  known  beforehand."  To 
perform  well  upon  a  musical  instrument  re- 
quires, not  only  technique,  but  an  under- 
standing of  musical  form,  of  hannonic  con- 
strucUou,  and  of  the  elements  of  musical 
expression.  It  would  l)e  difficult  indeed  to 
draw  the  line  at  any  point  as  a  limit  to  what 
a  teacher's  qualification  sliould  be.  It  should 
be  in  his  power  to  trace  out  a  line  of  study 
for  his  pupil  of  such  nature  that,  after  his 
student-days,  he  can  carry  on«  with  under- 
standing and  ability,  that  most  imi^ortant  pari 
of  all  education — ^sclf -culture. 

A  musician  who  deserves  to  be  called  a  true 
artist  and  instructor,  should  possess  the  ability 
to  do  in  music  just  what  his  prototype  does  in 
literature.  Reading — the  biie  noir  of  so  many 
musicians— should  be  an  act  so  natural  that 
he  does  it  with  no  apparent  thought.  Uepro- 
ducmg  what  he  reads — if  he  be  an  executive 
artist — should  be  by  a  process  of  articulation 
as  perfect  as  that  which  results  in  speech. 
He  should  at  once  grasp  the  general  meaning 
of  the  author ;  its  grammatical  construction 
should  at  once  be  perceived,  ai^  be  compre- 
hended so  quickly  that  all  concentration  of 
thought  may  be  upon  the  inner  meaning  of 
the  work.  After  a  consideration  of  the 
mechanical  structure  of  a  work  conies  that  of 
the  thought-content ;  and,  when  a  performer's 
ability  is  unequal  to  the  former,  his  interpre- 
tation is  faulty  as  regards  both.  One  should 
be  able  to  draw  conclusions  from  musical 
works  just  as  we  do  from  literary  productions : 
to  analyze  them,  and  ntentally  to  compare 
them  with  the  writings  of  another  author. 

He  is  not  well  educated  who  straggles  over 
words  of  which  he  knows  not  the  meaning, 
content  to  hear  them,  and  too  idle  to  seeich 


MOLMEK  AND  HOLLAND. 


m 


out  the  full  extent  of  their  power.  He -is  no 
scbolar  who  learns,  at  the  cost  of  much  time 
&nd  money,  to  repeat  four  or  five  selections 
from  literary  works,  written  in  a  langua^  of 
^wliich  he  knows  not  enough  to  enable  him  to 
tliink  in  it,  or  read  it,  or  to  judge  of  its  beauty 
as  it  is  crystalized  into  masterpieoea  Tet 
tliis  is  what  the  average  performer  is.  He 
can  give  a  version  of  a  work  on  condition  that 
at  least  half  of  his  attention  may  be  giren  to 
the  mechaaical,  technical  part,  a  considerable 
part  to  reading,  and  a  little  to  the  meaning 
of  the  author. 

Self- education  provides  us  with  the  only 
knowledge  that  really  belongs  to  us.  Johann 
Sebastian  Bach  said  that "  no  one  should  learn 
to  play  who  could  not  think  musically. "  Let 
us  take  as  an  illustration  the  education 
acquired  by  the  average  music  student  of  to- 
day. If  he  plays,  he  is  rarely  a  virtuoso.  If 
a  theoretical  course  has  been  taken,  he  dares 
venture  no  opinion  save  that  of  his  books.  If 
he  should  be  deprived  of  all  but  what  his  own 
thought  has  given  him.  he  would  be  without 
sufficient  means  for  professional  identification.' 
What  is  creditable  in  the  pupil  is  unworthy 
of  one  who  would  be  an  educational  leader. 
Music  is  many-sided,  and  he  who  desires  to  be- 
come intelligently  educated  in  this  art  can  only 
learn  from  experience  how  much  of  its  many 
phases  he  must  know.  Education  must  have 
a  quantity :  a  trifle  too  much  or  too  little  of 
one  thing  may  corrupt  the  whole  compound. 
Specialists  must  follow  one  method  in  learn- 
ing, and  those  desirous  of  general  enlighten- 
ment must  take  others;  but  the  former,  as 
educators,  must  not  fail  to  know  how  to 
explain  in  detail  such  things  as  appear  trivial 
to  them,  nor  must  the  latter  be  so  intellectu- 
ally nomadic  as  to  possess  nothing  that  can 
be  systematized.  A  definite  purpose,  and  a 
conscientious  fulfillment  of  it,  will  make  the 
true  scholar.— Thomas  Tapfbb,  jB.,in  The 
Folio. 


MOLMEN  AND  MOLLAND. 

Speaking  of  the  late  survivals  of  shifting 
ewaenhip  in  arable  land,  IkLr.  Elton  remaiics: 


"  The  arable  in  the  common  fields  of  a  msnor 
near  London  was  formerly  described  as  terra 
lottaMlie  ;  and  there  are  traces  in  several  parts 
of  the  country  of  the  tenancies  called  mal- 
manni  and  molemen,  and  of  fields  called  mol- 
land,  which  must  have  some  connection  with 
the  Dutch  malen  or  partible  arable  lauds,  dis- 
tributed until  lately  among  ti)e  maalmannen 
by  lot  "  Documents  in  the  nature  of  inquisi- 
tions and  custumaU,  which  become  so  very 
numerous  and  instructive  from'  the  thirteenth 
century  onward,  sometimes  mention  a  specie^ 
of  tenure  called  "moUand.**  Tenants  called 
"molmen"  occur  even  more  ofte.i,  and  almost 
always  in  some  opposition  to  the  peasantry 
holding  by  cu  tomary  services  on  one  hand, 
to  the  free  tenants  on  the  other.  In  an  in- 
quisition of  5  £dw.  I  for  the  manor  of  Hall- 
ingbury,  Essex,  we  have  first  lilkfre  tenentei. 
Then  come  "molmen." 

The  fact  of  **  molmen'*  being  classified  as  a 
kind  of  intermediate  class  between  free  and 
customary  tenants  makes  it  improbable,  at 
first  sight,  that  thecharactiristic  point  in  their 
position  should  be  one  connected  not  with 
difference  of  rank  in  society  and  relation  to 
the  lord,  but  with  a  peculiarity  in  the  occu- 
pation of  the  arable.  The  constitution  of 
their  services  makes  it  more  than  probable, 
on  the  other  hand,  that  we  have  to  do  with 
men  holding  in  viUenage  and  sharing  some  of 
the  incidents  of  servile  tenure,  and  at  the 
same  time  paying  rent  instead  of  rendering 
services.  The  few  customary  obligations 
which  are  still  hanging  on  to  them  do  not 
alter  their  main  position,  as  they  would  not 
have  altered  that  of  tenants  absolutely  free. 
What  is  a  matter  of  inference  here  can  be 
made  out  with  certitude  in  other  instances. 
To  begin  with,  the  characteristic  part  of  the 
terms  under  discussion,  mal  or  mol,  is  often 
found  standing  by  itself  in  the  meaning  of 
*'rent."  The  cartulary  of  Christ  Church, 
Canterbury,  in  the  British  Museum  always 
gives  the  rents  under  the  two  chief  heads  of 
Q(tfol  or  OaHe  and  Mal,  Another  document, 
the  Black  Book  of  St.  Augustine,  the  early 
part  of  which  was  compiled  about  1261,  goes 
to  explain  the  last  of  these  terms-  Be  quolibd 
9uUung  (ploughland)  20  $oUda§  de  mala  ad 


100 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


qtuUuar  Umiinos  quos  anteeeswreB  nostri  de- 
derunt  pro  omnibus  irUusUs  et  incauMcionibus 
(sic)  qiui8  nobis  ore  plenius  exponemus.  There 
can  be  do  doubt  as  to  the  meaning;  mala 
meam  rent  paid  in  commutation  of  services 
and  servile  customs,  and  in  this  way  it  is 
cert a'nly  a  counterpart  of  gafol  paid  as  an  in- 
dependeut  rent  io  addition  to  services.  McU 
meant  "rent"  in  ij^n^o-Saxon.  Mail-inaniBSL 
farmer  Compare  the  term  "Blackmail." 
From  various  documents  we  see  how  the  mere 
fact  of  commuting  the  services,  although  it 
d'l  not  legally  amount  to  an  enfranchisemeot 
of  the  bolding,  gave  the  molmen  a  position 
which  distiuguished  them  from  mere  villains, 
and  necessitated  express  action  on  the  part  of 
the  lord  in  order  to  hold  down  their  preten- 
sions. This  clue  is  important  because  it  ex- 
plains the  uncertain  way  in  which  molmen 
are  treated  in  our  sources  as  to  status. 

It  is  well  known  that  Borough  English  was 
very  widely  held  in  medieval  England  to  im- 
ply servile  occupation  of  land,  and  the  priv- 
ilege enjoyed  by  molmen  in  the  case  shows 
that  the  (^lass  was  actually  rising  above  the 
general  condition  of  villenage,  th«  economical 
peculiarities  of  its  position  affording  j&  step- 
ping-stone, as  it  were,  toward  .the  improve 
ment  of  its  legal  status.  A  most  interesting 
attempt  at  jin  accurate  classification  of  this 
and  other  kinds  of  tenantry  is  presented. by. 
an  inquisition  of  10  Edward  J.,  preserved.  a<t 
the  Record  .  Offloe.  The  following .  subdivi- 
sions are  enumerated  thene : 

JLlbeii  tenente4,pQr  carta^. 
Liben.  tenentes  qni  vocaQtur^fx^efloJSfemQo, 
SokemannI  qai  vocaQtar  molmen. 
Castnmarii  qai  voeantar  werkmen. 
ConBuetodinarii  teBei^»4  acrae  terw. 
ConsaetudinariiiteneiiteaS  acras-teiTe. 

The  difference  between -molmeR'  and  wock- 
men  lies,  of  course,  in  the  fact  that  the  first 
pay  rent  «nd  the  second .  do  week  work. 
But,  what  is  more,  the  tenure  •of  the  molmen 
appears  distinguished  not  only  by  t^e  nature 
of  its  services,  but.  also  by  its  certainty,  which 
26,  after  all.  the  one  di8crimiButing\ feature  in 
the  division  of  tenuis  as  to-  freedom  and  aer- 
xrility.  The  denomination  of  sokemen  could' 
tiot  be  applied  to  tbe  class  if  it  had  not  .ac- 
quirad  vthat  oertainty.of  ,,teau7Q  jmd  eervioe. 


The  fluctuation  in  the  legal  standing  of  the 
class  is  perhaps  the  most  striking  feature  in 
its  history.  We  can  see  how  the  commutation 
of  services  for  money  rents  was  leading  grad- 
ually, without  any  perceptible  action  of  the 
common  law,  to  the  enfranchisement  of  a 
tenure  and  the  liberation  of  a  class.  I  need 
hardly  call  attention  to  the  analogy  between 
that  process,  and  the  well-known  course  of 
development  of  copyhold  tenure  generally ; 
here,  as  there,  ultinmte  legal  results  were  ob- 
tained by  the  slow  iuroiBd  of  custom  into  the 
dominion  of  the  law.  And  it  would  not  be 
right  to  say,  thut  the  history  of  molmen  ten- 
antry is  too  insignificant  and  special  a  fact  to 
compare  with  tbe  all-important  recognition  of 
copyholds  as  defensible  at  law.  ''Molmen" 
is  only  one  name  for  a  very  widely  spread 
and  important  class  of  medieval  tenantry.  We 
find  the  same  people  under  the  name  of 
••gavelmen"  because  the  original  distinction 
of  gqfol  and  mal  gets  blurred  very  soon.  We 
find  them  still  more  frequently  as  cenmarii, 
and  as  to  these  last  the  Same  fiuctualions 
could  be  traced  which  we  have  been  follow- 
ing out  in  respect  of  **  molmen."  The  treat- 
ment of  these  matters  must  be  left,  however, 
for  another  occasion. — Paul  Vmoo&ADOFF, 
io  The  EngUsh  mstorical  J^view. 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 

]^oax  CAia.ri.B  Lcttsrs.— Mr.  William  Wallace,  in 
the  London  Academy^  thus  speaks  of  the  two  volumes 
of  the  JBaWy  fjedere  of  Thomas 'iJarlyU,  edited  by 
Prof.  Charles  Bitot  Norton,  of  Harvard.  CoUegv:— 

**  The  spirit  in  which  Prof.  Norton  epeaks^f  Carljle, 
and ->  this  is  .much  more  important  —  In  which  he 
allows  Carlyle  to  speak  for  himself.  Is  the  moct  nnta- 
1>le  thing  in  connection  with  the  ^two  interesting 
volnmes  lie  has  Just  pabUsbed.  -It  encourages  the 
hop ;  that,  in  f otore,  ^^tbe*  Carlyle  controversy  will  t)e 
conducted  with. something  like  amenity.  It  is  evideot 
that  Prof.  Norton  holds  a  brief  for  certainof  Carlyle's 
relatives  against  Mr.  Fronde.  Bnt  he  does  not  abnee 
Mr.  Fronde ;  and  If  he  adheres  to  the  diabolic  view  of 
the  motives  which  led  to  the  publication  of  the  Carlyle 
biographycal  yteratnc^  in  its, existing  XoinQ,  he  does 
not  obtn^e  it.  *  Prof:  Norton,- in  fact,  scores  against 
Mr.  Fronde,  becanse  he  uses  better,  and  applies  more 
thoroughly,  Mr.  IVonde^s  own 't>iographicah  methods. 
Mx.. JRreiide'B  Juttenition, .vheniieatarted  xm  Jiis  iargs 


CtJRRENT   THOUGHT. 


191 


(ntbei  Uun  great)  enterprise,  waa  to  prodvoe  a  realis- 
tic biography.  Carlyle's  life  was  to  be  a  stady  in  the 
moral  nade.  He  himself  wished  to  be  painted,  warts 
and  all ;  that,  and  thos  only,  woald  Mr.  Fronde  paint 
him.  He  woald  have  accomplished  his  design  to  the 
eatiafac Jon  of  experts  in  biographical  portraiture  had 
He  printed  accurately,  and  at  length,  all  the  letters  and 
jonmals  of  Carlyie-  he  conld  lay  his  hands  on,  With 
the  necessary  links  of  nnimpassioned,  uncritical  nar- 
rative. Mr.  Fronde  has  failed— in  so  far  as  he  has 
failed  at  all— in  not  having  stuck  to  his  original  pur- 
pose. He  has  allowed  Mr.  Fronde,  the  literary  artist, 
dogmatist  in  ethics  and  pessimist,  to  interfere  with 
and  spoil  the  work  of  Mr.  Froude  the  biographer.  He 
has  insisted  on  trying  his  draperies  on  his  naked  Sam- 
son Agonifftcs,  on  making  frequent  appearances  as 
the  Greek  chorus,  on  saying  every  third  page  that  Mr. 
or  Mrs.  Carlyle  ^should*  have  done  this,  that,  or  the 
other  thing.  Last  and  worst,  he  has  interpreted  the 
injunction  about  'warts  and  air  as  ^warts  above  all.* 
Prof.  Norton  amplifles  and  corrects  Mr.  Froude ;  he 
Aces  not  demolish  or  refute  him.  He  prints  accurately 
what  Mr.  Froude  printed  inaccurately.  He  prints 
nsoy  things  that  Mr.  Fronde  omitted  to  print,  and 
OQgbt  to  have  printed.  Inclined  to  take  an  optimistic 
view  of  Carlyle,  Prof.  Norton  publishes  letters  exhibit- 
ing him  in  his  more  cheerful  moods.  Whoever  re- 
gards Carlyle  as  a  man  of  many  ailments  and  weak- 
neasei,  great  mainly  in  virtue  of  his  literary  genius 
and  achievements,  heroic  solely  on  account  of  the 
continuity  and  independence  of  his  moral  life,  will 
not  alter  his  views  on  reading  Prof.  Norton's  two 
volumes.  His  Carlyle  from  1814  to  1886  is  still  Mr. 
Proude's,  with,  perhaps,  his  hat  not  so  hard  pressed 
on  his  brow  and  his  teeth  not  set  so  grimly.  The  per- 
fectly new  matter  in  these  volumes  consists  largely  of 
ettera  by  Carlyle  to  three  college  friends — Johnstone, 
Mitchell,  and  Murray;  and  in  consequence  fnll  of 
cttmanuUrUy  which  always  wears  the  appearance  at 
least  of  jollity.  They  abound  in  good  and  kindly  ad- 
vice, and  illostrate  Carlyle's  enormous  appetite  for 
miflcellaneons  reading.  There  Is  not  mnch  gall  and 
bitterness  in  them,  mainly  because  up  to  the  date  of 
hit  marriage  Carlyle  had  not  seen  mnofa  of  society.*^ 

Faotmi  AHD  Carltlb.— In  the  London  SptoUUor  we 
relfi:— 

"Mr.  Fronde  writes  to  Tuesday's  [Nov.  2]  TIfNSS, 
in  reply  to  the  criticisms  of  Mr.  Charles  Eliot  Norton 
on  the  way  he  has  discharged  his  task  of  writing 
Cariyle's  biography,  that  he  never  desired  the  dntj, 
that  he  accepted  it  on  Carlyle'a  nrgeat  solicitations, 
and  that  he  was  intrusted  by  Carlyle  with  full  dis- 
cretion, all  Carlyle's  former  conditions  having  been 
expressly  withdrawn  for  the  purpose  of  leaving  his  dis- 
cretion unfettered.  He  farther  declares  that  the  errors 
in  transcrlbtng  the  SemifU»emc«i  were  due  partly 
to  Carlyle's  small,  diflicult  handwriting  (in  old  age), 
tad  that  he  waa  in  haate  to  return  the  MUS.  to  Carlyle's 
niece  (Mrs.  Alexander  Carlyle),  to  whom  they  ^longed, 
ukd  that  therefore  she  was  bound,  in  courtesy,  to  have 
informed  him  of  the  errors  mada,.eapeclaUy,»aa  *abe 
^Vte  herself  leceiving  the  profits  of  this  book  as  a  .gUt 


from  myself.*  In  Thursday's  I^hms,  Mrs.  Alexaadet 
Carlyle  replies  that  she  was  in  no  hurry  for  the  MSS., 
and  never  pressed  for  them;  she  peremptorily  denies 
that  she  has  received  the  profits  of  the  BftninUemces 
'as  a  gift  from  Mr.  Fronde,'  and  this,  she  says,  she  can 
prove  by  producing  her  lawyer's  statement  tthe  main< 
tains  that  the  blunders  are  as  numerous  in  Carlyle's 
Hf^-^Kad  in  that  period  when  he  wrote  a  hand  pro- 
nounced by  Mr.  F^nde  ^beantif uP  and  ^exceptionally 
excellent^'— as  in  the  BetfinUeencea ;  and  that  even  in  a 
quotation  from  Sartor  £e§artu9  ^here  are  in  the  first 
eight  lines  over  twenty  deviations  from  the  printed 
text.'  Tliese  are  not  statements  which  it  is  easy  to 
reconcile.** 

CBEWiMtt  OoGA  LKATn.— It  hss  long  been  known 
that  the  people  of  the  mountain  regions  of  Pern  are 
accustomed  to  chew  the  dried  leaves  of  ihe  Erythrox- 
yton  loecL,  a  small  tree  or  shrub,  a  native  of  the  lofty 
Andean  region,  and  that  under  its  influence  they  per- 
form great  physical  labor  with  a  very  small  amonnt  of 
food.  Cocoins,  an  alkaloid  of  the  coca,  has  within  a 
few  years  been  introduced  into  medical  practice.  The 
best  professional  authorities  are  not  fully  agreed  as  to 
its  therapeutic  value.  There  seems,  however,  to  be 
no  question  that,  lUce  morphine,  it  is  a  very  powerful 
drug,  and  should  be  administered  only  under  compe- 
tent medical  direction.  As  to  the  use  of  the  leaves 
themselves,  the  Judgment  of  Markham  that  *'  coca  is 
the  least  injurious,  and  the  most  soothing  and  invigo- 
rating of  all  the  narcotics  used  by  man,"  is  quite  gener- 
ally  accepted  by  the  best  authorities.  Sir  Bobert 
Christison,  an  eminent  Scottish  physician  (born  in 
^797,  died  in  188S),  was  accustomed  to  try  upon  himself 
the  effects  of  medicinal  agents.  In  his  Mtmoirs^  just 
published,  are  given  some  accounts  of  his  personal  ex- 
periments with  the  use  of  coca.  In  his  seventy-eighth 
year  he  made  the  ascent  of  Ben  Vouloch,  one  of  vhe 
loftiest  Scottish  mountains,  and  he  thus  writes  In  his 
Journal  :— 

^*  1  reached  the  top  very  tired.  Determination  alone 
carried  me  up  the  last  six  hundred  feet.  As  soon  as  1 
arrived,  I  began  to  chew  coca  leaves,  and  consumed 
ninety  grains  ^nring  the  half-hour  spent  on  the  sum- 
mit and  the  first  haIf-4iour  of  the  descent.  Whenl 
started  for  the  descent,  the  sense  of  fatigue  was  en- 
tirely gone.  I  went  straight  down  without  a  stop  in 
one  hour  and  a  quarter  to  the  road,  not  much  tired- 
able  to  walk  comfortably  a  mile  and  a  half  to  meet  the 
carriage. .  Althangh  my limbefelt  rather  heavy  to  move, 
I«.aeemed  mxti  to  case  for  this.  .  .  .  The  chewing 
of  coca  removes  extreme  fatigae  and  prevents  it. 
Hunger  and  thirst  are  suspended ;  ^t  eventually  ap- 
petite and  digestion  are  unaffected.  ...  It  has  no 
effect  upon  the  mental  faculties,  so  far  as  my  own 
trialaand  other  oboervatlens  go,  except  liberating  them 
from  the  dnllnesa  and^drowainess  wnich  follow  great 
bodily  fatigue." 

PtniBS  OF  MoTHXBBOOD.— **I>r^  J.  C.  Winters,  of  New 

roi:k,"  says  SeUnc*,  *Jdn  a  paper  read   before  ^he 

Academy  of  Medicine,  condemned  the  practice,  now 

so  common  among  society  women,  of  «mplo7ing  wel- 

jiaraas  Instead  of  themselves  performing  the  duties  of 


m 


THE  LIBRARY  MAaAZINE. 


a  mother.  He  proTes  most  satitfactorUy  that  the 
practice  i^  not  duly  demoraliEingf  but  actually  in- 
creaaea  the  mortality  among  Infanta,  and  Is  often  the 
channel  through  which  dleeaaea  of  a  most  loathsome 
nature  are  contracted.  The  lives  of  nine-tentha  of  the 
wet-nnraed  children  are  purchaaed  at  the  expense  oj 
the  lives  of  other  children.  The  practice,  therefore, 
of  placing  children  to  dry-nurse,  either  in  familes  or 
institutions,  in  order  that  the  mother  may  go  as  wet- 
nurse,  he  regards  as  iniquitous.  He  sums  up  his 
argument  in  the  following  language:  *We  usually  select 
a  hireling  to  perform  the  mother^e  most  sacred  duty ; 
one  who  occupies  the  lowest  place  in  the  social  scale, 
and  in  whom  there  is  an  absence  of  moral  qualities; 
usually  one  who  has  been,  in  some  d^ree  at  least,  a 
prostitute ;  one  who  can  forsake  her  own  child,  and 
take  a  stranger's  to  her  breast ;  one  who  can  witness 
the  gradual  starvation  and  death  of  her  own  child,  and 
who  may  be  a  double  murderess  by  poisoning  her  fos- 
ter-child with  opiates  or  alcohol.  If,  after  being 
nourished  from  such  a  fountain,  our  ctiUd  is  perverse, 
froward,  insolent,  and  has  no  regard  for  truth,  who  Is 
accountable  ?  Is  not  the  mother,  who  deprived  him 
of  her  own  pure,  untainted  breast,  and  who  purchased 
for  him  instead  a  polluted  and  debauched  stream  ?'— It 
is  lamentable  that  a  system  so  pernicious  and  injurious 
to  the  best  interests  of  society  should  be  tolerated,  and 
even  encouraged,  by  the  moat  eminent  and  honorable 
members  of  the  medical  profession.  Br.  Winters 
deserves  the  thanks  of  all  right-minded  persons  for 
the  able  and  convincing  manner  in  which  be  puts  his 
arguments,  and  it  is  to  be  hoped,  that,  attention  having 
becu  thus  directed  to  what  may  be  regarded  as  a  great 
and  growing  evil,  this  practice  which  he  so  Justly  con- 
demns may  be,  to  some  degree  at  least,  mitigated  and 
leseened." 

The  Brajbiuaiis.— **The>  have,"  s«ysMr.  James  W. 
Wells,  [h  his  recent  book.  Three  Thoutand  MUee 
throvgk  Brazil^  *^no  ambition,  no  *go*  in  them,  no 
will  or  desire  for  anything  but  to  sleep  away  their  days 
and  pass  their  nights  in  singing,  dancing,  and  revelry. 
.  .  .  InhabiUnts  of  any  countiy  like  these  of  Bo- 
queirao  are  as  useless  as  if  they  did  not  exist  They 
have  nothing  to  sell  or  means  for  purchase.  Their 
little  labor  is  expended  in  raising  a  few  vegetablefi; 
fishing,  and  building  a  poor  hut,  barely  sufficient  to 
accommodate  them.  It  is  never  repaired;  and  when 
the  rain  comee  in  In  one  part  of  the  roof  the  hammock 
Is  removed  to  another  comer,  until,  finally,  when  the 
hut  decays  and  collapsee  in  spite  of  props,  another  is 
built  alongside  it  The  women  make  the  few  cotton 
garments  of  the  men,  fhat,  like  the  huts,  are  never  re- 

S aired,  and  are  worn  until  the  rags  will  no  longer  hold 
>gether.  Tet,  withal,  they  are  the  most  Independent 
of  all  peoples,  proud  of  their  right  to  do  nothing,  and 
they  do  it  most  effectually." 

Hr.  SwnmuBNv  oh  tbi  **QiTA»rBKLT  Rimw."— 
The  London  Quarteriy  JSsvi#i0,  of  which  Oiflord,  and 
Sottthey,  and  Croker  were  onee  the  shining  lighta.  has 
not  the  honor  of  standlBg  h^  in  the  esteem  of  Hfr. 


Algernon  Charlei  Bwinbntne,  who  thus  condudee  a 
critical  paper  in  Hie  AtheMBum : — 

^*  I  shall  not  recall  any  reader^s  attention  to  theeifete 
and  obsolete  subject  of  their  strictures  on  Keats  and 
Shelley,  on  Lord  Tennyson  or  Hiss  Brontfi,  Charles 
Dickens  or  Charles  Kingsley :  one  instance  of  nadre 
scholarship,  one  example  of  critical  forseigfat,  shall 
suffice  me  for  the  time.  In  a  review  of  Scotfs  Antl- 
qvary  they  described  the  common  language  of  the 
JBogllsh  and  the  Scottish  Border  as  *«  dark  dialect  of 
Anglified  Erse.*  Ttte  verieit  cockney  on  the  present 
staff  of  the  JiefoUw  can  hardly  need  to  be  told  that  it 
would  not  be  more  inaccurately  described  as  a  dark 
dialect  of  Frenchified  Hebrew.  A  generation  later, 
while  commending  the  poetic  promise  of  Mr.  Monckton 
mines,  they  foretold  for  him  a  day  when  he  would 
look  back  from  his  seat  on  Parnassus,  with  eqaal 
amusement  and  regret  upon  the  foolish  young  days  in 
which  he  had  burnt  incense  before  '  such  baby  idols  as 
Mr.  John  Keats  and  Mr.  Alfred  Tennyson.^  As  it  was 
in  the  beginning  with  the  Quetrterly  Jtevi^w,  so  >is  it 
now,  and  so  may  we  feel  confident  that  it  will  be  to 
the  end  of  its  existence.  But  even  this  periodical  has 
its  province  and  its,  office  in  the  world  of  letters.  For 
the  gossip  of  gastronomy  and  the  babble  of  the  back- 
stairs we  shall  not  refer  to  it  in  vain.  Those  who  list 
may  learn  of  it  the  art  of  dining,  orthe  secrets  of  his- 
toric holes  and  comers ;  but  outside  the  inner  circle 
of  its  contributors  and  subscribers  no  mortal  who  does 
not  desire  to  be  clothed  with  ridicule  as  with  a  gar- 
ment will  appeal  on  any  question  of  literature  to  the 
authority  of  the  Quarterly  Bevieuf.'''' 

Wahtsd:  a  Kino  i<ob  Buloabu.  —  *'The  Oreat 
Sobranje"— BO  says  the  London  Spectator  ^'''■haying 
held  a  secret  meeting  on  the  0th  of  November,  during 
which,  it  is  understood,  theclaimaof  Prince  Alexander 
were  strongly  pressed,  met  again  on  the  10th,  and  by 
acclamation  elected  Prince  Waldemar  of  Denmark, 
brother  of  the  Princess  of  Wales,  of  the  Czarina,  and  of 
the  King  of  Greece,  to  the  vacant  throne.  Information 
was  at  once  forwarded  tolhrince  Waldemar  at  Cannes; 
but  while  expressing  his  thanks,  he  referred  the 
Regents  to  his  father,  who,  it  is  understood,  will  in 
his  name  decline.  The  election  would  not  be  accepta- 
ble to  the  Caar,  who  wants  an  instrument  at  Sofia,  or 
to  the  King  of  Graeee,  who  fears  he  may  have  to  flght 
Bulgaria  for  his  share  of  Macedonia.  Immediately 
after  the  election,  the  Russian  Court  was  asked  to 
name  Its  candidate,  and  indicated  Nicholas  of  Min- 
grelia,  a  mediatised  Prince  of  the  Caocasus,  sprung 
from  a  family  of  great  antiquity,  but  at  present  only  a 
large  proprietor  In  Mingrelia.  He  is  thirty-six  years 
of  age,  was  bred  In  Russia,  and  is  not  supposed  to  pos- 
sess special  mental  qualifications.  It  is  ^oubtful  if  be 
will  be  accepted  by  the  Sobrahje,  which  wishes  for  a 
Kuropean  Prince,  and  not  for  an  Asiatic  noble;  hot 
even  if  he  is,  the  Caar  will  demand.  It  is  said,  a  *rea- 
toration  of  legality^— that  la,  the  resignation  of  tke 
Regency,  and  a  re«1eetl0iii  df  the  Sobranje  under  a 
Boaalam  CPemaittsati. 


LONGFELLOW. 


198 


LONGFELLOW. 


Two  American  boys,  who  have  since  ac- 
chieved  the  highest  distinction  in  literature, 
graduated  with  the  class  of  1825  from  Bow- 
doin  College.  It  was  natural  that  they  should 
gravitate  toward  the  intellectual  center  of 
New  fingland,  and  live  near  Emerson,  with 
whom  their  names  are  associated  as  peers  and 
friends. 

These  three  men,  Longfellow,  Hawthorne, 
and  Emerson,  are  all  of  them  of  pure  New 
England  blood  and  training,  and  are  the  high- 
est product  thus  far  attained  by  the  American 
civilization.  They  honor  American  citizen* 
ship  no  less  than  American  letters,  for  they 
were  all  men  of  unimpeachable  private  char- 
actera,  and  we  can  gladly  respect  as  well  as 
admire  them.  They  showed  that  delicate 
sensibilities,  refined  intellectual  culture,  de- 
votion to  art,  and  passionate  interest  in  the 
.supernatural,  are  entirely  consistent  with  a 
scrupulous  and  minute  performance  of  the 
onlinaxy  duties  of  life,  to  which  genius  some- 
times thinks  itself  superior.  None  of  them 
slaved  for  money.  They  did  not  regard  it, 
as  so  many  Englishmen  of  letters  have  done, 
as  something  necessary  to  social  distinction, 
nor,  on  the  other  hand,  as  something  which 
in  their  exceptional  cases  was  to  be  attained 
by  any  but  the  ordinary  conmierdal  qualities 
of  frugality  and  industry;  but  all  of  them 
were  methodical,  accurate,  and  competent 
men  of  affairs,  and  from  the  pecuniary  point 
of  view,  more  than  ordinarily  successful. 

Imagine  the  hopeless  failures  Shelley  or 
Coleridge  would  have  been,  as  foreign  consuls, 
or  college  professors,  or  popular  lecturers.  The 
fact  that  a  duty  was  to  be  performed  caUed 
into  play  in  their  minds  marvelous  ingenuity 
in  avoiding  it.  The  practicable  adaptability 
of  Americans  is  shown  not  to  be  incongruous 
with  high  ideals  held  and  lived  up  to;  and  we 
can  rightly  honor  our  good,  true,  and  stead- 
fast men  of  letters  that  they  illustrated  a  na- 
tional quality  on  the  grand  stage.  They  paid 
their  debts,  and  lived  within  their  income^, 
and  provided  for  their  families,  in  the  most 
prosaic  way;  and  "did  thehr  day's  work,"  as 


steadily  as  the  most  benighted  Philistine, 
whether  the  work  was  providing  manna  for 
the  children  of  light,  or  the  drudgery  of  some 
regular  vocation.  They  required  no  sine- 
cures, nor  ready-made  laureatshipe,  but  took 
care  of  themselves  and  wove  their  own 
crowns.  Living  in  the  transcendental  world 
OS  entirely  as  Shelley,  they  were  as  much  mas- 
ters of  the  real  world  as  Dr.  Johnson.  This 
reconcilement  of  the  ideal  and  the  evcry-day 
world,  this  lack  of  mental  awkwardness  in 
practical  duties,  may  be  a  modem  character- 
istic— a  result  of  the  rapid  interchange  of 
ideas,  and  the  numberless  varying  impulses  of 
modem  life— but  if  we  cannot  claim  it  broad- 
ly  as  a  characteristic  of  American  scholars,  it 
certainly  is  a  trait  of  the  three  of  whom  we 
have  spoken.  » 

In  the  history  of  English  literattire  Long- 
fellow must  stand  as  an  American,  for  the 
reason  that  he  is  a  personality.  Imitation 
is  one  thing,  absorbing  and  giving  out  is  an- 
other, though  the  ideas  absorbed  are  repro- 
duced in  the  product  Longfellow  was  essen- 
tially a  man  of  culture,  and  literary  culture, 
in  his  day — much  m^re  than  it  does  in  ours 
— ^meant  trans- Atlantic  culture ;  but  Longfel- 
low always  had  a  manner,  not  a  very  forcible 
nor  pronounced  manner,  perhaps,  in  his  early 
days,  but  still  always  a  graceful,  felicitous 
manner  of  his  own — part  of  the  constitution 
of  his  mind.  No  one  can  travel  in  England 
without  receiving  many  impressions  which 
become  part  of  his  mental  resources.  Many 
consciously  endeavor  to  reproduce  peculiarities 
of  logical  movement,  or  of  diction,  or  even  of 
bearing  which  have  struck  them  as  admirable 
in  our  trans- Atlantic  cousins,  but  the  imitation 
IB  the  result  of  effort,  snd  will  betray  itself. 
Some,  indeed,  after  long  striving  are  able  to 
imitate  the  English  vowel  pronounciatlon,  and 
even  some  of  the  English  croaking  sounds,  so 
well,  that  if  we  are  not  paying  attention  we 
may  not  notice  that  their  articulation  is  second- 
hand. Like  the  Ancient  Mariner  they,  ''pass 
like  night  from  land  to  land,"  they  ''have 
strange  power  of  speech,**  only,  they  do  not 
"hold  us  by  their  glittering  eye"  but  by  their 
obscure  "a*s"  and  "«*s."  And  some  Ampri- 
cans,  too,  have  acquired  the  English  literuiy 


IM 


THE  UBRART  MAGAZINE. 


manner.  But  this  does  not  make  it  the  less 
true  tbat  the  English  literary  manner  is  one 
thing,  and  the  American  literary  manner  an- 
other. 

As  I  said  before,  the  moral  standards  are 
substantially  the  same  in  the  two  countries. 
We  agree  as  to  the  weightier  matters -of  the 
]aw»  but  the  conventional  standards  are  differ- 
ent. The  language  is  the  same,  but  the  use  of 
words  is  not  exactly  the  same.  In  conversing 
with  an  Englishman  it  is  soon  forced  on  our 
notice  that  he  has  attached  to  all  abstract 
words  a  meaning  slightly  different  from  that 
which  we  have  been  accustomed  to  receive. 
The  wonls  "home,"  "family,"  "genUeman," 
"lady,"  have  not  exactly  the  same  content  and 
association  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  more  broad  and  general 
words,  the  meaning  of  which  depends  on  our 
conception  of  duty. 

Did  time  allow,  I  think  it  could  be  shown 
that  Longfellow  is  an  American  poet  in  essen- 
tial spirit  and  in  diction,  and  especial^  that 
he  holds  in  their  American  meaning  ali  those 
conventional  conceptions  which  are  distinc- 
tively national,  such  conceptions,  for  iuslanoe, 
as  are  attached  to  the  words  "citizen,"  "fam- 
ily-bond," "maniage  relation,"  and  the  like, 
in  the  using  of  which  the  prevalent  social 
usages  and  laws  are  unconsciously  referred  to 
by  the  mind. 

Perhaps  one  of  the  most  evident  marks  of 
the  American  spirit  is  our  peculiar  attitude 
toward  the  past.  We  are  apt  to  regard  it  as  a 
vanishing  ideal,  a  type  out  of  vital  relation  to 
us.  Between  us  and  the  past  there  has  been  a 
great  gulf  fixed,  but  there  has  been  no  break 
in  the  continuity  of  English  development. 
Their  present  is  a  modified  past,  and  as  far  as 
it.  is  embodied  in  usages,  institutions,  and  tra- 
ditions, they  are  helpless  before  it.  They  re- 
gard many  relics  of  medieval  thought  as  part 
of  the  established  and  necessary  order  of 
things.  We  are  apt  to  regard  such  ideas  a 
little  whimsically,  but  always  through  the  im- 
aginative medium.  It  is  the  future  tbat  we 
regard  with  seriousness.  Dr.  Holmes  bears 
niuch  the  same  relation  to  Boston  that  Charles 
Lamb  did  to  London,  but  the  American,  when 
speaking  of  old  Boston,  falls  naturally  into 


quite  a  different  tone  from  that  which  the 
Englishman  adopts  when  speaking  of  old 
London.  The  humor  of  Holmes  is  tinged 
with  whimsicality;  the  whimsicality  of  Lamb 
with  respect  and  regret,  as  for  something  in 
the  order  of  nature — something  quite  above 
and  beyond  human  contrivance,  and  not  in 
the  order  of  development. 

If  then  we  may  assume,  roughly,  .that  one 
mark  of  the  American  spirit  is  a  slightly  sen- 
timental regard  for  the  past — a  regard  charac- 
terized not  so  much  by  reverence  as  hy  critical 
interest,  tinged  slightly,  too,  by  a  feeling  of 
superiority— I  think  that  we  can  claim  Long- 
fellow to  have  been  an  American  poet,  though 
by  nature  he  was  by  far  more  kindly  reverent 
of  uitiqiiity  than  critical  of  Its  shortcomings. 
It  is  not  so  much  treating  American  subjects, 
as  criticising  life  by  the  American  criterion, 
that  marks  an  American  writer.  Longfellow 
was  bom  Just  as  the  plant  of  native  literature 
began  to  assume  a  life  of  its  own.  When  he 
died  the  plant  was  firmly  rooted,  and  the 
spirit  of  nationality  had  received  in  the  War  of 
the  Rebellion  definitcness,  coherence,  and  fer- 
vor. Margaret  Fuller  complained  that  he  was 
an  exotic,  a  foreigner;  that  he  gathered  flowers 
from  all  lauds,  but  no  wild  flowers  from 
American  soil.  He  lived  after  the  period 
which  was  formative  of  character,  and  in  the 
period  wiien  a  literary  tone  was  developing. 
He  developed  with  it.  He  aided  in  develop- 
ing it.  If  Ouir0-Mtr  is  n  reflection  of  cooti- 
nentel  culture,  his  poems  on  slavery — even 
granting  that  they  were  insplfed  by  Sumner's 
personality — are  informed  Isy  the  very  ground- 
feeling  of  AmericMi  patriottom. 

It  has  been  frequently  said  that  LongfSellow 
was  not  original  in  the  highest  sense,  that  he 
sometimes  took  the  lioney  other  bees  had, 
stored  up,  and  did  not  gather  it  from  the 
flowers  hiBMelf.  Edgnr  Poe,  wlio  did  a  good 
deal  of  what  passed  for  critical  writing  forty 
years  ago,  stated  and  reiterated  this  charge  in 
a  venomoas  tone  that  would  not  be  tolerated 
in  modem  journalism.  Hafrgaret  Fuller,  who 
was  as  far  superior  to  Pee  in  critical  insight 
as  in  justice  and  scope  of  mind,  called  him  a 
"Dandy  Pmdar,"  and  objected  to  him,  as  I 
said  before,  on  the  ground  tbat  he  was  an 


LONGFELLOW. 


195 


exotic,  and  a  reflection  of  trans- Atlantic  cul- 
ture. At  that  period  there  was  a  passionato 
desire  to  throw  off  dependence  on  foreign 
masters,  which  we  haye  to  a  great  extent  out- 
grown, though  we  still  hear  from  time  to  time 
frantic  calls  for  the  ''great  American  novel," 
or  for  the  ''great  American  poem,"  which 
shall  cut  loose  from  all  traditions  of  the  past, 
disdain  the  models  eyolved  in  the  effete  civil- 
ization of  Europe,  and  be  altogether  *'new,*' 
and  "grand."  and  "fresh,"  and  "strong,"  and 
''penetrating, ' '  and  '  'strenuous.  * ' 

But  now  most  people  feel  that  national  tem- 
per ia  of  slow  evolution;  that  many  heteroge- 
neous elements  must  be  fused  and  blend"  I 
here;  Chat  we,  too,  must  hate  a  past,  and  that 
the  spirit  of  our  past  must  be  taken  up  and 
transmated,  before  a  new  type  is  realized  in  a 
new  ait  and  a  new  literature.  We  can  see 
Chat  Longfellow  was  essentially  a  scholar— a 
receiver  of  impressions  from  books— that  he 
was  like  an  iEolian  harp,  blown  up<Mi  by 
many  winds,  so  tliat  his  musks  was  in  many 
regimlfl  "necessarily  a  melodious  echo  of  what 
was  "whispered  by  world- wandering  winds." 
And  we  can  see,  too,  that  he  came  into  Amer- 
ican literary  life  Just  as  ic  was  passing  from 
the  sens  to  the  plant,  and  that  every  year  he 
became  more  distloetiye.  Thus,  the  rather 
timid  prose  of  Hffperian  might  have  been 
written  by  an  Englishman,  by  Bulwer  for  in- 
stance, if  Bulwer  had  had  the.gnioeful  and 
easy  leuch  of  the  young  American;  hut  "The 
Bnikling  of  the  Ship,"  though  %  distinct  imi 
talioa  Af  9Ghi»er*s  "Song  of  the  BeU."  is 
nevertbelesB  a  natioasl  song,  and  no  English- 
man  could  have  written  "The  Song  of  Hia- 
watha,'" unless  he  had  taken  to  pieces  the  web 
of  his  mind  and  woven  it  over  again  in  a  trans- 
Atlaolie  loom.  It  would  be  an  intetesting 
task  Co  traoe,  did  time  aHow,  through  the  en- 
tire cycle  <ft  Longfellow  Vs  work,  the  growth 
of  American  feefing;  to  show  liow,  as  the  na- 
tional epiriC  became  more  assured  and  mose 
dignified  in  the  nation  at  large,  it  became,  as 
reflected  in  his  pages,  brooder  and  more  dis- 
ttBCtive.  I  feel  sure  from  a  rapid  re-reading 
that  this  progress-Co «  higher  naidonal  ground 
can  be  tnoed  in  his  vnse.  His  was  a  nature 
^  genial*  ^fluletv  healthy  growth.    From  the 


beginning  he  possessed  the  perfecily  graceful 
touch  of  the  artist,  and  the  gradual  evolution 
that  took  place  in  his  inner  spirit  was  in  the 
direction  of  broad  and  democratic  sjrmpathies. 
It  could  not  well  have  been  otherwise,  when 
Emerson  was  leading  the  thou^t  of  New 
England. 

It  is  Emerson.  I  think,  who  says  that  poems 
should  be  Judged  by  their  effects — ^by  the  mood 
they  induce  in  us.  The  greatest  elevate, 
strengthen,  encourage  to  resolution  and  to 
effort;  those  on  a  lower  artistic  plane  amuse, 
the  worst  either  deaden,  or  corrupt  The 
mood  Longfellow  induces  in  ns,  at  least 
throuf^h  his  domestic  and  personal  poems, 
where  he  gives  out  the  most  of  himself— such 
poems,  for  instance,  as  "Excelsior,"  "The^ 
Psalm  of  Life,"  "Resignation,"  and  others, 
where  the  ther^c  is^a  reflection  on  life,  a  call 
to  duty,  or  an  exhortation  to  conduct— seems 
to  me  to  be  a  normal  and  healthy  one,  though 
not  a  very  vigorous  nor  positive  one.  The 
spirit  of  these  poems  is  rather  dreamy,  but 
not  languid,  indeed  rather  restful  than  languid, 
but  still,  slightly  that  of  romantic  reverie,  and 
slightly  out  of  sound  relation  to  life.  Let  us 
go  on  peacefully— let  us  do  our  duty  as  it 
conies  to  us,  looking  on  the  past  with  resigna- 
tion, to  the  future  with  equanimity.  There 
are  so  many  tender,  beautiful  things  in  life, 
even  grief,  when  subdued  by  time,  becomes  a 
g^itle,  pathetic  feeing.  Hamlet's  solemn 
question,  "To  be  or  not  to  be?"  never  rises 
like  a  specter  in  his  imagination.  He  never 
echoes  the  hopeless  sadness  of  Shelley's: — 


Ml 


*We  look  before  »nd  after, 
And  iigh  for  what  is  not, 
Oar  aincereat  langhter 
With  eome  pain  is  trtnf^ 
OVT  Bweeteet  songa  are  thoea  that  tell  of  tadde^ 
tbongfat^ 

Nor  is  there  a  note  like  tiie  profound  world* 
weariness  of  Macbeth: — 

^o-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  io-tnorrow, 
Creepa  In  t&ia  petty  pace  from  day  to  day. 
To  the  last  ayUable  of  recorded  time; 
And  all  our  yeeterdaya  have  lighted  fools 
The  way  to  doaty  death.  ^ 

Longfellow's  poetry  lies  in  the  li^t  of  the 
sun.    It  deals  with  every-dajr  rektions.    Jf 


196 


THE  UBRART  MAGAZINE. 


there  is  a  "root  of  bHtemess  in  life,  which  no 
change  of  circumstances,  and  no  improYcment 
in  the  outward  condition  can  eradicate/'  our 
American  poet  knew  it  not.  But  poetry  which 
does  not  meddle  with  the  great  mysteries  has 
its  important  functions  in  spiritual  education, 
for  our  daily  duties  meet  us  every  day.  It 
carries  pleasure  and  consolation  to  ordinary 
mortals,  and  its  gentle  pathos  lend  itself  to 
personal  application  in  the  simple  joys  and 
priTate  sorrows  of  the  work-a-day  woild.  It 
may  be  that  poetry  of  this  order  lacks  the  un- 
iversal element,  that  it  is  written  for  the  present 
generation,  and  is  in  its  nature  ephemeral — a 
powerful  formative  and  creative  agency  in  its 
day,  but  not  a  great  wakening  light  for  all 
time.  For  poetry,  and,  indeed,  all  imagina- 
tive expression,  is  beyond  all  question  an  oc- 
cult power  in  forming  the  character  of  the 
young,  the  more  effective  that  it  works  most 
in  that  type  of  character  which  from  euthusi- 
asm  and  activity  is  most  apt,  later  in  life,  to 
react  effectively  on  other  more  prosaic  charac- 
ters. For  many  years  the  Book  of  Job,  the 
pastoral  of  Ruth,  the  Psalms  of  David,  and  the 
heroic  history  of  the  chosen  people,  were  the 
only  poetry  which  had  any  contact  with  the 
mind  of  New  England.  This  was  the  poetry 
of  war  and  of  spiritual  striving,  of  the  Divine 
covenant  and  the  conflict  with  the  heathen. 
Its  tone  entered  into  the  Puritan  soul,  and 
went  far  to  give  it  that  vigor  and  toughness, 
that  intellectual  arrogance  and  spiritual  pride, 
which  if  robbing  life  of  much  of  ^tB  sweetness 
and  grace,  yet  gave  it  qualities  of  endur- 
ance and  reality,  of  reliance  on  something 
outside  of  itself,  which  were  the  necessary 
outfit  of  men  who  should  build  in  the  wilder- 
ness the  foundation  of  a  nation  on  the  germi- 
nal institutions  of  the  old  Teutonic  freedom, 
stripped  of  the  fungoid  accretions  of  royalty 
and  feudalism.  But  there  are  in  warmth, 
color,  brightness,  grace,  and  harmony,  ele- 
ments of  beauty  and  joy  which  are  lacking  in 
Puritan  thought,  and  it  is  not  a  little  signifi- 
cant that  the  first  great  poet  from  this  stock  in 
America  should  be  marked  by  the  grace,  and 
tenderness,  and  sense  of  rest,  which  are  the 
highest  and  last  outcome  of  the  conflict  of  the 
f::irit. 


Let  us  look  at  Longfellow  very  cuxsoiily 
and  hastily,  as  a  technical  artist — a  verse 
builder.  One  of  the  first  things  that  strikes 
us  is  that  his  rhymes  are  always  perfect  He 
never,  like  Mrs.  Browning,  maJLes  **  freer" 
rhyme  to  "we  are,"  or  "thinks  he"  to  "Galli- 
lee,"  or  "dark  sea"  to  "hurriedly,"  or 
"achieve"  to  "negative;"  but  his  rhymes  are 
true  chords.  The  latest  theory  of  verse— Mr. 
Sidney  Lanier's— is,  in  substance,  that  the 
lines  are  divided  into  bars,  and  so  grouped 
that  those  of  equal  temporal  value  recur  in 
fixed  numerical  positions;  that  a  pause  can 
take  the  place  of  a  syllable;  that  the  accent 
lengthens  the  time  necessary  to  the  utterance 
of  a  syllable,  whether  it  be  the  usual  pronun- 
ciation accent,  or  the  logical  accent  commonly 
called  emphasis;  tiiat  every  sentence  has  a 
rhythm  of  its  own  connected  with  the  meaning 
it  conveys.  His  principles  seem  to  be  correct- 
ly based  in  the  science  of  sound,  and  the  na- 
ture of  spoken  discourse,  and  the  last  seems 
to  be  illustrated  In  many  of  Longfellow's  lines. 
For  if  we  examine  his  poems,  we  find  that  in 
many  of  them  the  mechanical  rhythm  is  neg- 
lected. Many  of  them  will  not  scan  in  the 
technical  sense.  There  are  redundant  lines 
and  short  lines,  but  the  harmony  which  results 
from  artistically  formed  clauses  is  never  want- 
ing. There  is  the  same  melody  in  them  that 
there  is  in  the  highest  forms  of  prose— in 
Hawthorne's  prbse,  for  instance.  "A  Psalm 
of  Life"  scans  perfectly,  so  does  "Excelsior," 
and  many  others  are  perfect ^in  this  superficial 
quality.  But  many  of  his  best — the  one  be- 
ginning, "The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  night,"  for  example, 
do  not.  The  first  line  in  this  consists  of  eight 
syllables  divided  naturally  into  what  are  usu- 
ally called  an  amphibrach,  a  dactyl,  and  a 
spondee.  The  corresponding  line  of  another 
verse,  "Read  from  some  humbler  poet,"  Is 
made  up  of  seven  syllables  only,  and  the  first 
line  of  the  last  verse,  "And  the  night  shall  be 
filled  with  music,"  contains  nine  syllables. 
According  to  the  old  system,  these  lines  would 
not  be  technically  correct.  But  when  they  ars 
read  with  the  natural  expression,  we  find  that 
every  line  occupies  the  same  time;  tftid  that 
there  is  a  harmony  in  them  much  deeper  and 


THE  SITUATION  IN  THE  EAST. 


197 


more  pleasing  than  any  depending  on  mere 
mechanical  regularity.  The  melody  of  the 
clauses  is  subtly  related  to  the  movemeDt  of 
the  thought,  and  to  the  sentiment  or  feeling, 
^his  spontaneous  freedom  of  music  is  a  point 
in  which  I  am  inclined  to  think  Longfellow  is 
superior  to  Whittier,  who,  as  I  remember,  is 
always  rigorously  correct  But  ability  to 
relate  the  inner  movement  of  verse  to  the  mean- 
ing is  one  of  the  high  poetic  powers.  Swin- 
burne's poetry  consists  of  melodious  coUoca 
Uons  of  words,  which  cannot  be  read  gram- 
maticaUy,  or  if  they  are,  the  music  is  gone. 
Even  of  Shelley  it  is  said  that  he  "accomplished 
the  miracle  of  making  words  divested  of  their 
meaning,  the  substance  of  an  ethereal  har- 
mony." It  may  be  doubted  whether  this  is  a 
miracle  worth  the  working,  for  music  has  its 
own  sphere,  and  when  one  of  the  arts  intrudes 
on  the  province  of  another,  the  result  is  apt  to 
be  confused  and  oou fusing.  A  song,  how- 
ever, which  is  primarily  intended  for  musical 
utterance,  may  rightly  have  the  metric  frame- 
work independent  of  the  grammatical  con- 
struction. In  Tennyson's  beautiful  ''Bugle 
song/'  the  rhythm  of  the  first  line — 

**The  Bplendor  falls  on  castle  walls, *^ 
necessitates  tlie  separation  of  the  prepositional 
phrase  from  the  verb,  a  divorce  which  is  con- 
ixnry  to  the  genius  of  English  speech,  unless 
the  modification  is  more  important  than  the 
action,  which  it  certainly  is  not  in  the  above 
instance. 

Shakespere,  in  his  later  manner,  is  the  great 
exemplar  of  the  interwoven  harmony  of  sound 
and  sense,  this  ethereal  rhetoric — or  rather, 
this  oonverBational  music.  To  take  a  familiar 
example,  notice  again  how  these  words  of 
Horatio  are  in  the  highest  degree  both  natural 
and  poetic  diction.  The  thought  runs  over  the 
Une  and  seems  to  advance  and  recede  to  meet 
it.  No  off  hand  discourse  could  sound  more 
spontaneous— no  balanced  lines  could  be  half 
80  musical: — 

'*So  have  I  heard,  and  do  in  part  believe  It 
Bat  look,  the  mom,  in  ntaset  mantle  clad, 
Walks  o'er  the  dew  of  yond'  high  eastern  hill. 
Break  we  oar  watch  op;  and  hy  my  advice 
Let  as  impart  what  we  have  seen  to-night 
Unte  ypang  Hamlet;  for,  upon  my  soul, 
This  spirit,  dumb  to  na,  will  speak  to  him." 


Proepero's  address  to  Miranda,  when  he 
unfolds  to  her  the  history  of  his  life,  is  an- 
other beautiful  instance  of  this  inter-depeiid- 
ence  between  rhythm  and  conveyed  thought, 
worth  more  than  all  the  declamatory  "tirades" 
of  French  tragedy  put  together. — ^Charlss 
F.  J0HH8ON,  in  Three  Amerieans  and  Three 
Englishmen. 

(TO  BB  CONCLUDED.) 


THE  SITUATION  IN  THE  EAST. 

Who  can  foretell  what  will  result  from-a  situ- 
ation so  a  complicated  and  so  grave  as  that 
which  we  see  in  the  Balkan  Peninsula?  It  is 
always  perilous  to  play  tlie  part  of  prophet  in 
matters  of  foreign  policy,  especially  when  the 
final  decision  must  proceed  from  an  autocrat 
who  lives  apart  from  the  world,  and  who  can 
with  a  single  word  set  in  motion  at  his  own 
will  a  million  of  soldiers.  A  propos  of  the  im- 
possibility of  foreseeing  events,  Prince  Bis- 
marck, in  one  of  those  long  evenings  at  Ver- 
sailles during  the  siege  of  Paris,  told  a  story 
Ilerr  Busch  has  reported  for  us  in  his  curious 
which  book,  Bismarck  und  seine  Leute,  At 
the  moment  when  the  quarrel  between  Prussia 
and  Switzerland  about  Neuchfitel  seemed 
likely  to  lead  to  war,  Bismarck,  who  was 
then  Prussian  representative  at  the  Diet  at 
Frankfort,  called  on  Rothschild  and  instructed 
him  to  sell  some  stock  which  he  thought 
would  fall  if  the  war  broke  out.  **They  are 
good  securites,"  said  Rothschild;  "it  is  a 
mistake  to  sell  them.'*  "  I  know  what  I 
know"  answered  Bismarck:  "sell."  As  we 
know,  the  Emperor  Napoleon  intervened,  and 
the  question  was  amicably  settled;  Bismarck, 
who  thought  himself  so  well  informed,  sold 
his  stock,  and  lost  on  the  barcrain.  ''  It  is  the 
only  financial  speculation  I  ever  made,"  he 
added;  "I  was  a  diplomatist,  not  more  stupid 
than  other  diplomatists;  I  thought  I  was  ad- 
mirably informed,  and  yet  my  forecast  was 
entirely  contradicted  by  the  event." 

So  I  will  not  try  to  predict  what  the  near 
future  may  have  in  store  for  us.  The  only 
task  that  can  be  attempted  is  to  disentangle 
the  interests  of  the  different  States  which  in- 


198 


THE  LIBRARY  MAQAZINE. 


Tolved  in  this  Eastern  imbroglio.  First,  let 
U8  take  the  Bulgarians.  1  think  I  may  assert 
that  the  good  things  which  I  said  of  them  in 
my  book  on  the  Balkan  Peninsula  have  beon 
entirely  Justified  by  tbeir  conduct  in  the  face 
of  the  stern  and  terrible  trials  through  which 
they  have  just  passed.  Taken  at  unawares  by 
a  detestable  piece  of  treachery,  worthy  only  .of 
the  brigands  whoiofestMacedonia,  tliey  rallied 
round  the  Prince  who  had  been  their  leader, 
and  proved  their  affection  and  gratitude  to 
him  by  unmistakable  signs.  Left  to  tliem- 
selves  by  the  forced  departure  of  their  Sov- 
ereign, they  m^t  the  intrigues,  the  threats, 
and  the  violence  of  the  Russian  agents  with 
firmness,  dignity,  and  prudence.  In  spite  of 
all  the  efforts  of  Qeneral  Kaulbars  to  provoke 
disturbance,  order  has  been  maintain^  down 
to  this  moment.  The  Regenc]^  in  strict 
obedience  to  the  Constitution,  has  issued 
orders  for  elections  to  the  National  Assembly, 
and  has  replied  to  the  unjustifiable  demands 
and  accusations  of  Russia  by  notes  as  digni- 
fied as  they  were  unanswerable.  We  may  well 
hope  that  the  whole  Bulgarian  people,  and 
especially  the  officers,  will  have  dignity  and 
patriotism  enough  to  resist  all  foreign  inter- 
ference and  rally  to  the  (Government  which 
legitimately  represents  their  country.  BoUi 
the  people  and  the  army  showed  so  much 
courage  and  devotion  in  repelling  the  Servian 
invasion  that  it  is  reasonable  to  expect  from 
them  similar  heroism  in  opposing  any  Russian 
colunms  which  may  seek  to  occupy  Bulgaria 
in  the  teeth  alike  of  treaty  rights  and  of  in- 
ternational law.  No  doubt  they  must  be 
beaten  in  the  end.  But  the  Russian  troops 
would  have  to  go  by  sea;  their  commissariat 
would  not  be  an  easy  matter ;  and  the  Bul- 
garian army  might,  by  purely  defensive 
movements  and  guerilla  warfare,  keep  up  its 
resistance  long  enough  for  some  Power  to 
come  to  its  relief.  Jjet  us  hope  that  we  may 
be  spared  the  spectacle  of  this  fratricidal 
struggle. 

The  policy  of  Russia  has  been  as  clumsy  as 
it  possibly  could  be,  and  in  its  later  stage  it 
has  become  absolutely  odious.  It  is  to  Russia 
Uiat  Ronmania,  Servia,  and  Bulgaria  are  in- 
debted for  their  freedom;  and  yet  Russia,  by 


her  haughty  and  violent  proceedings,  has 
brought  it  about  that  all  these  young  States^ 
which  owe  to  her  their  very  existence,  have 
become  hostile  to  her.  From  1820  to  I&IO 
Rua^a  acted  in  Servia  precisely  as  she  is  act- 
ing in  Bulgaria  to-day,  and  with  the  same 
result.  Having  forced  from  Turkey  the  con- 
cession of  the  semi-indepeudence  of  Servia, 
she  tried  to  govern  the  country  according  to 
her  own  liking,  by  means  of  the  Ministry  and 
the  Prince.  The  Russian  consul  gave  his 
orders  and  the  Government  had  only  to  obey. 
But  the  Servians  got  tired  of  being  the  mere 
instruments  of  the  foreigner,  and  opposltioQ 
soon  sprang  up,  which  Russia  tried  to  over- 
come by  all  possible  methods— by  gaining  over 
influential  senators  to  her  side,  stirring  up 
popular  movements,  and  even  compelling  Umb 
Prince  to  abdicate  and  quit  Bulgaria.  Noth- 
ing came  of  it:  the  national  sentiment  proved 
quite  unmanageable.  Servia  escaped  from 
Russian  influence,  and  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
the  recent  aggrandizement  of  tha  Principality 
is  due  to  the  generous  devotion  of  the  Russian 
Volunteers  and  soldiers  who  shed  their  blood 
in  the  valley  of  the  Timok,  it  is  not  to  St. 
Petersburg  that  Prince  Milan  looks  for  his 
instructions. 

In  the  Russian  interventior  in  Bulgarian 
affairs  we  see  the  same  inconsL^tency  and  the 
same  lack  of  foresight.  Having  given  to  tiie 
Bulgarian  people  their  freedom  and  provided 
them  with  a  constitution  as  liberal  as  that  uf 
Belgium,  and  more  democratic,  prescntl}'  she 
finds  that  they  prefer  to  use  their  newly  ac- 
quired liberty  for  the  purpose^  of  governing 
themselves  according  to  their  own  wishes  and 
needs,  and  not  for  the  purpose  of  obeying  the 
commands  of  the  Czar.  Forthwith  she  urges 
the  Prince  to  a  eowp-d'etat,  which  was  effected 
on  the  27th  of  May,  1881,  scarcely  two  years 
after  the  Constitution  of  Tiruova  was  pro- 
mulgated, and  before  its  working  could  possi- 
bly be  judged  of.  The  Prince  demanded  of 
the  Extraordinary  Assembly  full  powers  for 
seven  years,  and  also  the  right  of  proposing  a 
revision  of  the  Constitution.  The  Russian 
General,  Ehrenroott,  who  was  made  Minister, 
managed  by  means  of  gendarmes  and  special 
conmiissioners    to  suppress   completely  all 


THE  8ITUATION  IN  THE  EAST. 


IM 


electond  freedom.  The  Liberals,  hunted  like 
wild  beasts,  abstained  from  the  polls.  The 
Consul-GenRral  of  Russia  anooanced  the  ap- 
proval of  the  Czar.  Nevertheless,  some  Lib- 
eral deputies  were  elected;  among  others,  M. 
Balabanoff  was  reiurned  for  Sofia.  They 
were  excluded  by  the  President  of  the  Legis- 
lative Assembly,  the  Sobranie,  The  regime 
which  followed  was  a  reproduction  of  that  of 
December  2  in  France— a  real  despotism  hid- 
den under  a  slight  varnish  of  constitutional- 
ism. 

It  IS  a  fact  very  h<morable  to  the  Bulgarian 
character  that  the  superior  officials  headed  the 
remonstrance,  just  as  was  the  case  in  Hesse, 
at  the  time  of  Hassenpflug.  Thus,  at  Sofia, 
fifty -five  of  the  higher  employes,  including 
the  President  of  the  Court  of  Accounts  and 
almosi  all  the  heads  of  Ministerial  Depart- 
ments, members  of  the  Court  of  Apiieal,  and 
Municipal  Councilor,  signed  a  petition  to 
the  Council  of  State  asking  for  guarantees 
against  the  arbitrary  power  of  the  (Govern- 
ment. This  act  of  patriotic  courage  cannot 
be  too  much  admired. 

To  insure  the  success  of  the  Ministerial 
candidates  at  the  coming  elections  it  was 
necessary  to  call  in  the  General.  The  Czar 
saw  that  the  situation  had  become  very  em^ 
barmssing,  and  he  sent  two  very  able  officers 
— Generals  EauUxirs  and  Soboleff.  The  elec- 
tions again  controlled  by  the  military,  were 
everywhere  favorable  to  the  Conservatives,^ 
the  Liberals  being  compelled  to  keep  away. 
But  Natchovitchf.  Gxeooff,  and  the  Prince 
himself,*  soon  <began  a  secret  contest  against 
the  Russian  Geaorals.  I  have  heard  many 
piquant- de&ails  on  this  subject  At  the  Princess 
dinners  •  tlie  Generals  came,  with  their  aides- 
de-camp,  without  waiting  for  invitations,  and 
at  the  soirees  the  Prince  pretended  not  to  see 
them.  He  was  irritated  by  his  Riii»ian  Min- 
isters, who  considered  him  as  under  their  pro- 
tection. They. aietod. like  masters,  and  tried 
to  manage  everything  in  their  own  way.  The 
Conservative  Ministers- endeavored  to  force 
them  to  retreat  by  exciting  opposition  against 
them  in  the  Chamber.  It  was  intimated  from 
8t.  Pet4»sburg  that  the  mission  of  Ctenerals 
Soboleir  and  Kaulhan  would  not  be  com- 


pleted until  -MM.  Natchovitch  and  GrecofC 
had  retired. 

Mudi  exasperated,  these  two  Ministers  pur> 
sued  the  struggle  with  more  bitterness  than 
ever;  they  even  went  so  far  as  to  join  with 
the  Liberals  in  their  effort  to  compel  the 
Russian  Gtenerals  to  leave  the  country,  while 
the  Prince  steadfastly  refused  to  rectiive  the 
latter.  Russia,  finding  that  she  had  made  a 
mistake  in  favoring  the  reaction,  ordered.  M. 
Yonine,  the  Russian  Consul,  to  compel  the 
Prince  to  reestablish  the  Constitution  of  Tir- 
nova  (August)  1883.  The  Conservatives,  see- 
ing that  there  was  no  hope  of  success,  did 
everything  to  Obtain  the  support  of  the  Liber- 
als. M.  Zankoff,  but  lately  proscribed,  be- 
came the  master  of  the  situation,  lie  ac- 
cepted the  power  offered  to  him  by  Prince 
Alexander  on  condition  that  the  jCoustitution 
should  be  obeyed.  The  Russian  Generals, 
Kaulbars  and  Soboleff,  being  left  without 
support,  sent  in  their  resignatiou  and  left 
Sofia.  The. Conservatives,  who  had  brought 
them,  openly  rejoiced  over  their  departure, 
while  the  Radicals  showed  them  the  warmest 
sympathy. 

Russia,  evicted,  manifested  her  displeasure 
by  reoulling  two  of  the  Pnince'a  aides  de- 
camp, without  even  giving  him  notice. 
Deeply  wounded,  the  Prince  sent  back  all  the 
Russian  officers  of  hts  suite,  and  recalled  the 
thirty-one  Bulgarian  officers  who  were  study- 
ing in  Russia.  Thia  was  c^n  hostility.  M. 
Balabanoff,  the  best  man  to  fairly  represent 
Btdguia,  was  sent  e»  a  delegate  to  the  Czar. 
He  was  well  received  at  St.  Petersburg,  and 
peace  was  made.  The  Emperor  recalled 
Kaulbars,  and  it  was  decided  that  for  the  fu- 
ture Russian  officers  in  Bulgaria  should  give 
their  attention  exclusively  to  military  matters. 
Tb  sum  up,  the  result  obtained  was  impor- 
tant. Bulgaria,,  like  Western  Roiimelia,  had 
definitely  escaped  Irom  the  guardianship  of 
Russia. 

NeverBieteas,  when  1  visited  Bulgaria  three 
years-  ago  the  feeling  of  gratitude  toward 
*'Le  Czar  Llberateur«*  was  still  very  strong. 
In  the  cettc^es,  i&  the  A^iim,  in  all  the  public 
buildings,  tiie  portrait  of  the  Emperor  hung 
side  by  dde  with  that  of  Prince  Alexander,. 


200 


THE  LIBRABT  MAGAZINE. 


and  generally  in  the  more  important  place, 
liui  the  attitude  taken  by  Russia  upon  the 
question  of  the  union  of  Bulgaria  and  Rou- 
melia  has  estranged  all  hearts  from  her.  It 
fills  one  witli  surprise  and  melancholy  to  see* 
with  what  asperity  the  Russian  Ambassador, 
at  the  Conference  of  Constantinople,  opposed 
the  union  of  the  two  Bulgarias,  a  measure 
unanimously  desired  by  the  people,  justified 
by  historical,  ethnical,  geographical  and  com 
mercial  considerations,  and  admitted  in 
principle  from  the  very  outset  by  Count  Kal- 
noky.  Russia  alone,  to  her  disgrace,  urged 
Turkey  to  send  troops  to  occupy  Roumelia, 
at  the  risk  of  renewing  the  Bulgarian  atroci- 
ties— a  step  so  extreme  that  it  sliocked  all  the 
Powers,  even  Turkey  herself.  "Whence  came 
this  opposition  to  a  manifestation  of  the 
popular  will,  aiming  at  the  establishment,  in 
part,  of  that  very  Bulgaria  which  Russia  had 
herself  mapped  out  in  tlie  Treaty  of  San  Ste- 
fano,  and  had  at  one  moment  been  prepared 
to  defend  even  at  the  risk  of  a  general  war. 
It  was  an  attitude  so  contrary  to  the  tradi- 
tional policy  of  Russia,  that  the  Russians  at 
Philippoplis  at  first,  and  before  they  had  re- 
ceived their  instructions,  showed  themselves 
favorable  to  the  union  movement. 

The  apologists  of  Russia— and,  among 
them,  Madame  de  Novikoff,  one  of  her  most 
convinced  and  most  eloquent  apoligists — plead 
that  the  Czar  was  bound  to  act  as  he  did,  lest 
he  should  appear  in  the  eyes  of  Europe  as  an 
accomplice  in  a  revolution  contrary  both  to 
the  Treaty  of  Berlin  and  to  the  views  which 
he  had  recently  expressed  to  his  Imperial 
allies.  But  it  appears  from  the  Blue-Bookf 
that  Count  Kalnoky  told  Sir  A.  Paget  that 
the  Czar  was  as  much  taken  by  surprise  by 
the  course  of  events  at  Philippopolis  as  Prince 
Alexander  himself.  So  that  there  was  no 
need  for  the  Czar  to  urge  the  Turks  to  re- 
occupy  Roumelia  in  order  to  prove  that  he 
Ihad  not  favored  or  excited  the  Roum'elian 
iraovement,  which  indeed  no  well-informed 
? person  suspected  him  of.  The  truth  is,  that 
ihe  was  influenced  by  two  feelngs,  both  ego- 
lUstic,  and  not  easily  to  be  justified.    In  the 

*  Blae-Book,  Tukey ;  N«.  t, 
,  t  September  S8, 1886 ;  0-UL 


first  place,  he  was  profoundly  vexed  witb 
Prince  Alexander  because  he  neither  would 
nor  could  play  the  part  of  a  Russian  pioooD- 
sul,  yielding  paasive  obedience  to  the  Generals 
sent  to  him  from  St.  Peteisburg.  Secondly, 
he  was  beginning  to  understand  tliat  Gisat 
Bulgaria,  recognized  by  Europe,  supported 
at  last  even  by  the  Porte,  and  now  sure  of 
future  prosperity  and  freedom,  would  cer- 
tainly escape  from  the  exclusive  influence  of 
Russia. 

In  giving  way  to  these  narrow  jealousies, 
the  Czar  was  taking  up  a  policy  even  less 
adroit  than  before.  He  proved,  in  couuradic- 
tion  to  all  the  fine  speeches  of  the  Moscow 
Slavophils  about  their  brethren  in  tlic  Penin- 
sula, that  what  Russia  had  had  in  view  was 
only  to  constitute  a  group  of  vassal  princi- 
palities, and  not  to  foster  the  enfranchisement 
and  autonomous  development  of  the  Serbs 
and  Bulgarians.  He  admitted,  by  implica- 
tion, that  in  creating  the  ''Great  Bulgaria"  at 
the  Treaty  of  San  Stefano  he  had  made  an 
enormous  blunder,  and  shown  the  most  pal- 
pable want  of  foresight;  for  clearly  that  Bul- 
garia, being  much  more  powerful,  and  pos- 
sessing in  a  much  higher  degree  the  elements 
of  praspcrity,  would  have  offered  a  far  mors 
prompt  and  vigorous  resistance  to  the  en- 
croachments of  Rsssia  than  the  Bulgaria  of 
the  Treaty  of  Berlin.  And  lastly,  what  was 
more  important,  he  aroused  against  himself 
the  patriotic  feeling  of  the  Bulgarians,  and 
provoked  the  distrust  of  Scrvia.  Roumania, 
and  all  the  Slav  peoples  of  the  Peninsula,  by 
showing  them  that  the  true  object  of  Russia 
was  simply  to  subject  them  to  her  irresisti- 
ble will,  pending  the  moment  when  she  should 
think  fit  to  annex  them. 

And  now  what  shall  I  say  of  recent  events; 
of  the  conspiracy  of  Sofia,  openly  paid  for  by 
Russia :  of  ihe  banishment  of  the  young 
Prince  whose  courage  and  skill  were  the  ad* 
nuralion  of  Europe;  a^jove  all,  of  the  mission 
,of  General  Kauibars.  disputuig  with  the 
crowd  at  public  meetings,  urging  the  miUtaiy 
men  and  officials  to  rise  against  the  lawful 
government  of  their  country,  stirring  up 
troops  of  peasants  in  order  to  invalidate  the 
elections  on  the  pretext  of  disturbances  sod 


THE  SITUATION  IN  THE  EAST. 


ML 


rlotB,  ttnd  retarning  from  his  fruitless  tour, 
everywhere  bowed  out  and  avoided  ?  No  words 
esn  adequately  depict  the  series  of  foolish  pro- 
ceedings of  this  tragicomedy,  in  which  the 
balelul  snd  the  ridiculous  dispute  the  supre- 
macy. The  n ext  result  is  that  Russia  has  united 
against  her  all  parties  in  Europe — ^the  friends  of 
freedom,  because  she  infringes  the  liberties 
of  a  peaceful,  sensiMe,  and  industrious  people 
who  hare  won  the  esteem  of  every  one;  the 
Conservatives,  because  she  has  been  foment- 
ing insurrections  And  pronunciamientos;  and 
the  partisans  of  law,  because  she  has  taken 
under  her  protection  the  authors  of  the  kid- 
naping affair  at  Sofia,  men  much  more 
guilty  than  the  Kussian  Nihilists,  who,  though 
they  resort  to  abominable  methods,  are  at 
least  striving,  at  the  peril  of  their  own  lives, ' 
to  emancipate  their  country,  while  the  con- 
spirators who  made  a  night  raid  on  Prince 
Alexander  not  only  broke  their  military  oath, 
but  betrayed  tbeir  country  for  a  foreign  bribe. 
Bulgaria  has  had  the  splendid  advantage,  such 
aa  also  fell  to  the  fortune  of  Belgium,  of 
having  a  prince  at  one  with  his  people,  who 
had  led  them  to  victory,  and  was  then  in  a 
position  to  found  a  national  dynasty.  In 
order  to  satisfy  a  contemptible  spite,  Russia 
has  destroyed  this  element  of  peace  and  pledge 
of  a  happy  future,  and  so  far  as  in  her  lies, 
has  left  this  young  state  which  she  herself 
created,  a  prey  to  the  imknown,  to  anarchy, 
and,  it  may  be,  to  a  crisis  which  may  en- 
danger its  very  existence. 

Wliat  will  Russia  do  now?  Who  can  fore- 
tell the  decree  of  a  ruler  ignorant,  unintelli- 
gent, ill-informed,  as  we  can  only  too  well 
see,  and  rendered  almost  imbecile  by  the  vol- 
untary imprisonment  to  which  he  is  con- 
demned by  the  incessant  conspiracies  of  his 
gubjects,  who  are  driven  to  despair  by  his 
ofutrageous  severity?  The  most  sensible  thing 
to  do  would  obviously  be  to  draw  from  Gen- 
eral Kaulbars'  missio.i  the  sound  conclusion 
that  the  Bulgarians  mean  to  govern  them- 
selves, and  not  to  obey  orders  from  St. 
Petersburg,  and  to  accept  this  fact,  whioh 
every  one-  can  see.  If  ^e  is  determined  to 
impose  her  will,  she  must  dispatch  the  Cos- 
step  which  might  have  the  gravest 


consequences.  Is  she  sure  that  Berlin,  which 
maintains  so  absolute  a  reserve,  would  con 
sent?  Would  not  the  Russian  army  of  occupa- 
tion, which  must  cross  the  Black  Sea,  find  its 
communications  cut  by  the  Turkish  fleet  and 
the  English  iron-clads?  Would  it  not  very 
soon  come  into  contact  with  **the  Austro-. 
Hungarian  sentinel,  mounting  guard  over  the 
Balkans,"  of  whom  Lord  Salisbury,  and,  still 
more  recently,  Lord  Randolph  Churchill,  has 
spoken?  Besides,  the  position  of  Russia  in 
Bulgaria,  deprived  of  the  right  of  sending 
supplies  through  Roumania,  would  be  very 
difficult.  She  would  have  to  reckon  from  the 
outset  with  the  passionate  hostility  of  the 
country  occupied.  The  Bulgarians,  like  the 
Servians,  hi^re  the  instinct  of  liberty  and  in- 
dependence, and  it  will  be  long  before  they 
are  willing  to  be  led  like  serfs. 

Let  us  consider  what  would  be  the  probable 
attitude  of  the  Powers  in  presence  of  such  an 
event.  There  has  beeu  much  talk  lately  about 
the  understanding  which  seemed  to  be  estab- 
lished between  Turkey  and  Russia.  The 
Porte,  conscious  of  the  dangers  which  threaten 
it  on  every  side,  refuses  to  offend  any  Power, 
and  will  take  no  step  without  the  concurrence 
of  the  States  which  were  parties  to  the  Treaty 
of  ^rlin;  but  it  would  probably  resist  a 
Russian  occupation  if  assured  of  sufi[icient 
support,  and  for  two  reasons — first,  for  fear 
of  losing  a  province  which  was  on  the  way  to 
become  an  ally,  as  Prince  Alexander  had 
proposed ;  and  next,  because  Russia,  well 
planted  at  Philipopolis,  would  be  practically 
master  of  Constantinople.  I  do  not  believe 
that  any  promise  of  bcikaheesh  would  bring 
the  Sultan  voluntarily  to  submit  to  such  a 
solution. 

As  to  Austria- Hungary,  her  policy  has  been 
already  explained  in  M.  lMsza*s  remarkable 
speech  to  the  Hungarian  Parliament.  She 
covets  no  extension  of  territory  in  the  Balkan 
Peninsula;  she  cannot  allow  any  other  Power 
to  exercise  preponderating  influence  there;  she 
favors  the  autonomy  of  the  young  states 
which  have  so  recently  sprung  up.  and  would 
willingly  see  them  federated.  This  attitude 
is  apparently  hostile  to  the  entry  of  the  Rus- 
sians into  Bulgaria.    One  would  have  thought 


^17H£  MBRABY  MAOAZTNU. 


Umt  an  agreement  migbt  bave  been  oometo 
between  the  two  empires  which  dispute  the 
liegemony  of  tlie  Balkan  peninsula,  the  one 
taking  the  west,  as  far  as  Salonica,  and  the 
other  the  east,  as  far  as  Constantinople.  But 
1  fancy  that  the  Hungarians,  who  aie  very 
clear-sighted,  would  never,  consent  to  such  a 
partition.  For  flrat,  it  would  immeasurably 
increase  the  Slav  element  in  the  dual  empire; 
and  secondly,  the  position  of  Austria  at  Salon- 
ica would  be  untenable  with  Russia  at  Con- 
atantinople,  Qreat  Bulgaria  on  one  dank  and 
Montenegro  on  the  other.  Austria  cannot 
extend  her  occupation  from  Bosnia  and  Novi 
Bazar  to  the  Egean,  unless  Russia  remains 
wi:hin  her  present  frontiers.  One  of  the  most 
eminent  of  Russian  military  writers,  (General 
Eadeeff ,  has  said  that  the  road  from  Moscow 
to  Constantinople  lay  through  Vienna;  and 
be  was  right.  Austria  must  be  reduced  to 
impotence  before  she  could  allow  the  Russians 
to  establish  themselves  permanently  on  the 
ahores  of  the  Bosphorus. 

And,  England,  what  would  she  do?  You 
are  better  able  to  judge  than  I.  But  it  seems 
to  me  that  she  would  support  Austria,  because 
it  is  for  her  inteFest  to  do  so.  At  least  that  is 
what  Lord  Randolph  Churchill  said  very 
lately;  but  was  he  speaking  of  moral  support 
<»*  of  the  effective  support  of  the  British  fleet? 
I  think  that  England  would  be  drawn  into 
.active  hostilities,  because  it  would  be  better 
worth  her  while  to  fight  Russia  in  comf^ny 
with  allies  on  the  Continent  and  on  the  Black 
Sea.  than  to  have  to  attack  the  Muscovite 
Colossus  alone  in  the  deserts  of  Central  Asia, 
or  the  valleys  of  Afghanistan,  as  she  was 
ready  to  do  the  other  day  under  the  Gladstone 
Cabinet.  It  has  lately  been  maintained  that 
England  might  look  on  a  Russinn  occupation 
of  Constantinople  without  regret  or  fear,  and 
even  with  satisfaction.  It  is  an  illusi(m  or  a 
dream.  It  is  the  same  question  as  that  of 
Egypt.  If  England  could  give  up  her  interest 
in  India,  turn  her  attention  to  her  internal 
development,  and  resolve  to*  allow  the  Suez 
Canal  to  pass  into  the  hand»  ef  France  or 
Russia,  that  would  be  a  c(Mnplete'Sch(»ne,  and 
would  best  make  for  the  happiness  of  the 
EngUah  people.    But  as  in  the  preaent  state 


of  opinion  this  |x>licy,  however  desJiahte  on 
economic  grounds,  has  not  the  slightest 
chance  of  acceptance,  the  Government,  of 
whatever  oomplexion,  will  be  compelled  to 
defend  the  passage  from  the  Mediterranean 
to  the  Red  Sea. 

The  Russians  at  Constantinople  would  be 
masters  of  the  Suez  Canal,  for  having  the 
Black  Sea  all  to  thenkselves  and  the  Bosphortu 
for  a  base  of  operations  they  could  dispatch  to 
Egypt  by  land  such  an  army  as  the  English 
could  not  stop.  If  therefore  England  can 
find  aUies,  she  will  prevent  the  Russians  from 
occupying  Bulgaria  in  permanence,  and  this 
is  the  more  probable  that  Liberal  opinion  is 
unanimous  in  favor  of  the  Bulgarians,  and 
of  the  idea  of  a  Balkan  Federation,  which 
Mr.  Gladstone  has  always  put  forward. 

Italy  would  probably  incline  to  the  cause  of 
the  liberty  of  peoples,  defended  by  England 
and  Aus^a ;  but  no  one  would,  I  imagine, 
expect  any  military  action  from  her.  Theie 
remains  to  be  questioned  the  formidable 
Sphinx  of  Berlin.  Every  one  acknowledges 
that  the  final  decision  depends  on  him.  If  he 
decidedly  opposes  the  occupation  of  Bulgaria^ 
it  will  not  take  place ;  for  unless  at  least  the 
Czar  has  lost  all  power  of  forecast,  he  will  not 
go  so  far  as  to  risk  the  quadruple  alliance  of 
Turkey,  Austria,  Germany  and  EngiaadL 
Some. say  Bismarck  will  not  veto  the  occupa- 
tion, because  he  does  not  want  war.  But,  on 
the  contrary,  would  not  his  veto  be  peace? 
And  if  he  does  not  forbid,  it  is  not  because  a 
conflict  between  Rnsna  and  Austria  would  not 
be  disagreeable  to  him?  Three  years  ago, 
when  I  traveled  along  the  banks  of  the  Dan- 
ube and  through  the  Balkan  Peninsula,  every 
one  thought  that  this  terrible  duel  was  about 
to  come  off  because  Prince  Bismarck  desired 
it. 

I  will  not  venture  to  solve  this  awful  enig- 
ma :  but  we  call  to  mind  some  remarks  of  the 
great  Obanoelor  on  this  subject,  whidi  affoid 
matter  for  reflection.  In  June,  188S,  Prinoe 
Bismarck,  in  the  Prussian.  Parliament,  ad- 
dressing one  of  the  heads  of  the  liberal  op^ 
position,  spoke  as  folkxws: — 

*^Thc  honorable  depnty  Rlehter  is  for  ecooomr  in 
the  bodget,  «ad  ao  am  1;  bat  in  what  dipaitntato 


THE  SITUATION  m  THE  BAST. 


iM» 


shall  we  economire'f  No  doubt  he  refers  to  the  mill- 
tsry  expeoditure ;  it  is  only  there  that  redaction  is 
pooeible.  Bat  does  not  Herr  Ricbter  know  that  Ger- 
many is  a  pole'  toward  which  all  the  bayonets  in 
Borope  may  point  f  JX>efl  he.  forget  that  ever  since 
1875 1  have  not  paased  for  one  moment  io  my  efforts  to 
prevent  the  formation  of  a  triple  alliance  against  as. 
Be  sure  of  th'iB,  that  on  the  day  which  shall  see  ns 
weak  and  disarmed  that  alliance  will  be  made/^  • 

It  was  to  prevent  that  triple  alliance  that 
Prince  JBismarck,  in  1879,  entered   into  the 
very  closest  relations  with  Austria.        The 
Austrian  alliance  is  the  pivot  of  his  policy.  He 
is  threatened  by  the  ever  possible  alliance  of 
France  and  Russia.     "Such  an  alliance/'  he 
once  S4ud,'"is  so  natural  that  we  may  consider 
it  as  already  in  existence. "    When,  in  1870, 
Bishop  Strossmayer  asked  of  the  Russian  am- 
bassador at  Vienna  that  the  Czar  should  come 
to  the  relief  of  France,  he  was  answered :  "It 
would  be  an  act  of  f  oUy  on  our  part.  We  shall 
now  have  an  ally  on  whom  we  can  always 
reckon  in  case  of  need."    May  not  Bismarck, 
knowing  himself  jnenaced  both  from  East  and 
West,  think  it  wise  to  rid  himself  of  one  of 
his  two  enemies,  while  he  is  still  sure  of  hav- 
ing Austria  with  him ;  or  rather,  may  he  not 
be  very  willing   to  see  a  struggle   between 
Russia  and  Austria,  in  which  he  might,  by 
supporting  his  ally,  reduce  one  of  his  enemies 
to  impotence  for  a  long  time  to  come?    He 
may,  perhaps,  think  the  moment  opportune. 
Qermany  has  still  with  her  Moltke  and  the 
other  military  leaders  who  fought  the  cam- 
paign of  1870 ;  she  has  at  her  Jj^ead  the  Iron 
Chancelor  himself,  the  ablest  politician  of  his 
age  ;  while  France  has  no  general  of  reputa- 
tion and  no  great  strategist.    It  is  certain  that 
in  1875  Bismarck  wanted— and  if  necessary, 
by  force— to  prevent  the  French  from  recon- 
stituting their  army  and  their  defences,  and  as 
he  was  hindered  from  doing  so  by  the  Em- 
peror of  Russia  and  Gortchakoff  he  must  have 
thought  of  weakening  that  obstacle.       The 
Eastern  Question,  by  rendering  the  rivalry 
of  Russia  and  Austria  more  acute,  may  some 
day  fmnisfa  him  with  the  means  of  accom- 
plishing his  object. 

The  AustroQerman  alliance  rests  upon  com- 
mon interests  so  obvious,  that  we  may  believe 
OouBt  Taaffe's  recent  declaration  that  it  ro- 


inains  unshaJ^en.  Austria,  sapported  by  Ger- 
many,  is  in  truth  n^istress  of  the  East.  Bhe  only 
can  sp^ak  the  decisive  word.  Her  inHuence 
in  Servia  is  supreme.  Bosnia  and  Herzegovina, 
under  the  akillful  administration  of  Baron 
Kallay,  are  on  the  wi^  to  become  completely 
assimilated  to  her.  By  protecting  Bulgarian 
autonomy,  and  supporting,  under  the  plea  of 
the  rights  of  nationalities,  tlie  idea  of  a  Balkan 
Federation,  stxe  will,  thanks  to  the  inexplicable 
mistakes  of  Russia,  sec  the  whole  peninsula 
turn  toward  her,  and  accept  her  commercial 
and  economic  supremacy.  There  is  no  dis- 
guising the  fact  that  since  she  has  been  able  to 
dispose  of  the  sword  of  Germany,  she  has 
grown  from  a  week  and  threatened  Power  in- 
to arbiter  of  European  politics.  Germany,  on 
her  side,  finds  in  the  support  of  Austria  so- 
Gurity,  and  the  ceartainty  of  being  able  to  face 
both  the  East  and  the  West  at  once.  We  may 
therefore  conclude,  that  if  Austria  thinks 
sheopght  at  one  stroke  to  prevent  Russia  from 
occupying  Bulgaria,  and  so  being,  by  railway, 
at  the  very  gates  of  Coustautiuople,  Germany 
will  support  her.  Prince  Bismarck  has  often 
said  that  the  German  Empire  has  no  direct,  in- 
terests in  the  East;  and  one  can  see  from  Blue- 
Books  (Turkey,  I.  and  II.)  that  he  comes  to 
no  decision  without  consulting  Austria;  but 
he  has  an  overwhelming  interest  in  holding 
the  friendship  of  Austria,  and  this  will  deter- 
mine his  true  position. 

IHf  the  Czar,  carried  away  by  his  anger,  his 
resentments,  and  his  embarrassments,  should 
take  the  plunge,  and  brave  the  hostility  of 
Austria,  could  he  count  on  the  support  of 
France?  Who  will  dare  to  say  yes?  No  doubt 
the  idea  of  the  "Revanche"  has  not  faded  out 
of  the  French  mind.  On  the  contrary,  it  has 
been  gaining  strength  for  some  time  past.  To 
satisfy  one's  self  of  this  it  is  only  necessary  to 
read  the  French  newspapers,  or  to  note  that  a 
writer  so  cautious  as  M.  CherbuHez  closes  his 
recent  artiole*  on  Bulgarian  affairs  with  the 
following  words: — "France  has  no  course  to 
propose,  but  i»  it  her  duty  to  hold  off  from 
those  who  would  sfm^  with  her,  and  can  she 
pievent  people  from   knowing  where   she 

*  JSe9U4  4m  Dma  MondH^  Octoher  1, 188a. 


904 


THE  LIBRARY  MA0i!J5INE. 


lives?"  We  must  believe  that  France  •would 
choose  her  own  time,  and  that  she  would  not 
mingle  in  the  fray,  unless  she  saw  Germany 
obliged  to  carry  off  a  portion  of  her  army  to 
the  Sast  to  cover  the  flank  of  Austria.  What 
ever  may  be  said,  France  has  at  her  disposal 
very  formidable  military  forces,  animated  by 
an  ardent  patriotism  and  an  insatiable  thirst 
for  vengeance;  her  territory  and  her  capital 
are  now  surrounded  by  a  ring  of  detached 
forts  and  entrenched  camps,  so  well  planted 
that  an  invasion  like  that  of  1870  has  become 
impossible.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  she  lias 
no  generalissimo  who  would,  from  the  first 
start,  be  universally  accepted— an  indispensa- 
ble condition  of  successful  warfare  in  an  epoch 
like  ours,  when  the  engagements  of  the  first 
fortnight  decide  the  campaign;  and  besides 
it  would  be  very  difficult  for  the  French  to 
get  past  the  enormous  fortifications  of  Stras- 
bourg and  Metz  into  the  interior  of  Germany. 
They  would  therefore  be  obliged  to  invade  by 
the  valley  of  the  Meuse,  and  endeavor  to  turn 
Cologne — ^a  very  dangerous  plan  of  attack, 
according  to  the  strategic  authorities.  Would 
these  obvious  difficulties  be  enough  to  prevent 
her  from  seizing  the  opportunity  apparently 
offered  by  a  war  between  Germany  and  Rus- 
sa?  At  all  events  thcrr  would  be  for  the 
French  people  a  moment  of  cruel  anxiety  and 
perhaps  of  irresistible  impulse. 

Happily,  at  the  moment  at  which  I  pen  the 
concluding  lines  of  this  article,  the  da^lr 
which  seemed  imminent  tends  to  recede.  The 
Czar  seems  to  be  coming  to  understand  that 
Uie  road  he  was  taking  leads  to  disaster.  We 
may  hope  that  a  very  clear  and  marked  under- 
standing between  England,  Germany  and 
Austria  will  always  avail  to  stop  him;  and  if 
this  strange  and  mysterious  journey  of  Lord 
Randolph  Churchill  has  contributed  to  that 
end,  the  friends  of  humanity  will  owe  him 
tbeir  best  thanks. 

I  am  not  unaware  that  the  English  Liberals 
are  very  loth  to  see  their  country  deeply  in- 
volved— and  especially  by  means  of  alliances 
— ^in  the  complications  of  continental  politics. 
But  circumstances  may  arise  in  which  this 
may  be  the  best  way  of  preserving  peace.  If 
England  were  to  decide  to  defend  only  her 


own  shores,  and  to  leave  the  rest  of  her  Em- 
pire to  the  attacks  of  her  rivals,  she  would 
rightly  puisue  a  policy  of  absolute  isolation. 
But  if  it  be  necessary  to  keep  in  view  the  mo- 
ment when  she  may  be  compelled  to  appeal  to 
arms,  whether  to  defend  Constantinople  or 
India,  would  it  not  be  worth  her  while  to 
escape  so  terrible  a  necessity,  even  at  the  pric<* 
of  continental  alliances,  provided  that  they  had 
for  their  object  the  rights  and  liberties  of  na- 
tions, and  the  maintenance  of  International 
law?  It  is  not  enough  to  desire  and  to  resolve 
on  peace,  we  must  also  make  up  our  minds  to 
do  all  that  is  needful  to  secure  it. — Emilb  de 
Laveleye,  in  7^h€  Contemporary  Retiew 


SOCIALISM  AND  LANDED  PROP- 
ERTY. 

The  discussion  of  natural  rights  is  one  from 
which,  as  a  mere  empirical  utilitarian.  I 
should  prefer  lO  stand  aloof.  But  when  it  is 
asserted  that  the  prevalent  semi-socialistic 
movement  implies  at  once  a  revolt  from  or- 
thodox political  economy,  and  a  rejection  of 
Kant's  and  Mr.  Spencer's  fundamental  politi- 
cal principle,  that  the  coercive  action  of  gov- 
ernment should  simply  aim  at  securing  equal 
freedom  to  all,  I  feel  impelled  to  suggest  a 
very  different  interpretation  of  the  movement. 
I  think  that  it  may  be  more  truly  conceived 
as  an  attempt  to  realize  natural  justice  as 
taught  by  Mr.  Spencer,  imder  the  established 
conditions  of  society,  with  as  much  conform 
ity  as  possible  to  the  te.achings  of  orthodox 
Englisli*  political  economy.  For  wfiat.  ac- 
cording to  Mr.  Spencer,  is  tlie  foundation  of 
the  right  of  property?  It  rests  on  the  natural 
right  of  a  man  to  the  free  exercise  of  his  fac- 
ulties, and  therefore  to  the  results  of  his 
labor ;  but  this  can  clearly  give  no  right  to 
exclude  others  from  the  use  of  the  bounties  of 
Nature ;  hence  the  obvious  inference  is  that 
the  price  which — as  Ricardo  and  his  disciples 

*  I  say  "English*'  becante  Bastlat  and  otber  con- 
tinental writers  have  partly,  I  think,  been  led  to  veject 
tiie  Ricardian  theory  of  rent  by  their  deeire  to  avoid 
the  obvious  inference  that  the  payment  of  rent  waa 
opposed  to  aataral  Justice. 


SOCIALISM  AXD  LANDED  PROPBRTY. 


206 


teacli — ^is  mcTeasingly  paid,  as  society  pro- 
gresses, for  the  use  of  the  ''xuUural  and  orig- 
iaal    powers  of  the  soil/'  must  beloug,  by 
natural  right,  to  the  human  community  as  a 
^'liole;  it  can  only  be  through  usurpation  that 
it  has  fallen  into  the  hands  of  private  iudivid- 
iials.     Mr.   Spencer   himself,  in   his  Social 
StaHcs,  has  drawn  this  conclusion  in  the  roost 
emphatic  terms.    That  "equity  does  not  ad- 
xnii  property  in  land ;"  that  "the  right  of 
mankind  at  large  to  the  earth's  surface  is  still 
valid,  all  deeds,  customs,  and  laws  notwith- 
standing:" that  "the  right  of  private  posses- 
sion of  the  soil  IS  no  right  at  all  ;'*  that  "no 
amount  of  labor  bestowed  by  an  individual 
upon  a  part  of  the  earth's  surface  can  nullify 
the  title  of  society  to  that  part;"  that,  finally, 
"^'to  deprive  others  of  their  rights  to  the  use  of 
the  earth  is  a  crime  inferior  only  in  wicked- 
ness to  the  crime  of  taking  away  their  lives 
or  personal  liberties;" — these  conclusions  are 
enforced  by  Mr.  Spencer  with  an  emphasis 
that  makes  Mr.  Henry  George  appear  a  pla- 
giarist.   Perhaps  it  will  be  replied  that  this 
argument  only  affects  land:  that  it  doubtless 
leads  us  to  confiscate  land  "with  as  little  in- 
jury to  the  landed  class  as  may  be" — giving 
them,  I  suppose,  the  same  sort  of  compensa- 
tion that  was  given  to  slave  owners  when,  we 
abolished  slavery —but  it  cannot  justify  taxa- 
tion of  capitalists. 

But  a  little  reflection  will  show  that  this 
distinction  between  owners  of  land  and  owners 
of  other  property  cannot  be  maintained.  In 
the  first  place,  on  Mr.  Spencer's  principles, 
the  rights  of  both  classes  to  the  actual  things 
they  now  legally  own  are  equally  invalid. 
For,  obviously,  the  original  and  indefeasible 
right  of  all  men  to  the  free  exercise  of  their 
faculties  on  tlieir  material  environment  must 
— ^if  valid  at  all — exteud  to  the  whole  of  the 
environment;  property  in  the  raw  material  of 
movables  must  be  as  much  a  usurpation  as 
property  in  land.  As  Mr.  Spencer  says,  "the 
reasoning  used  to  prove  that  no  amount  of 
'  labor  bestowed  by  an  individual  upon  a  part 
of  the  earth's  surface  can  nullify  the  title  of 
society  to  that  port,"  might  be  similarly  em- 
ployed to  show  that  no  one  can,  "by  the  labor 
he  expends  in  cat.ching  or  gathering/'  super- 


sede "  the  just  claims  of  other  men"  to  "  the 
thing  caught  or  gathered."  If  it  be  replied 
that  technically  this  is  true,  but  that  substan- 
tially the  value  of  what  the  capitalist  owns  is 
derived  from  labor,  whereas  the  value  of 
what  the  landlord  owns  is  largely  not  so  de- 
rived, the  answer  is  that  this  can  only  affect 
the  respective  claims  of  the  two  classes  to 
receive  compensation  when  the  rest  of  the 
community  enforce  tlieir  indefeasible  rights 
to  the  free  use  of  their  material  environment ; 
and  that,  in  fact,  these  different  claims  have 
now  got  inextricably  mixed  up  by  the  com- 
plicated series  of  exchanges  between  land  and 
movables  that  has  taken  place  since  the  orig- 
inal appropriation  of  the  former.  To  quote 
Mr.  Spencer  again,  "most  of  our  present 
landowners  are  men  who  have,  either  medi- 
ately or  immediately,  given  for  their  estates 
equivalents  of  honestly  earned  w^th" — at 
least  as  honestly  earned  as  any  other  wealth — 
so  that  if  they  are  to  be  expropriated  in  order 
to  restore  the  free  use  of  the  land  to  the 
human  race,  the  loss  entailed  on  them  must 
be  equitably  distributed  among  all  other  own- 
ers of  wealth. 

But  is  the  e^ropriation  of  landlords  a 
measure  economically  sound?  We  turn  to 
tlie  orthodox  economists,  who  answer,  almost 
unanimously,*  that  it  is  not;  that,  not  to 
speak  of  the  financial  difficulty  of  arranging 
compensation,  the  business  of  owning  and 
letting  land  is,  on  various  grounds,  not  adapted 
for  governmental  management ;  and  that  a 
decidedly  greater  quantum  of  utility  is  likely 
tp  be  obtained  from  the  land,  under  the  stim- 
ulus  given  by  complete  ownership,  than  could 
be  obtained  under  a  system  of  leasehold  ten- 
ure. What  then  is  to  be  done?  The  only 
way  that  is  left  of  reconciling  the  Spencerian 
doctrine  of  natural  right  with  the  teachings 
of  orthodox  political  economy,  seems  to  be 
just  that  "doctrine  of  ransom"  which  the 
semi-socialists  have  more  or  less  explicitly 
put  forward.  Let  the  rich,  landowners  and 
capitalists  alike,  keep  their  property,  but  let 
them  ransom  the  flaw  in  their  titles  by  com- 

*  J*.  8.  Mill  ii,  80  far  bb  I  know,  the  only  {mportsnt 
exception;  and  his  orthodoxy  on  qaeettons  of  this 
kind  U  aomewhat  dubious. 


906 


m 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZDTE. 


pensadng  the  other  human  beings  redding  in 
their  country  for  that  free  use  of  tlieir  ma- 
teriid  environment  which  lias  been  withdrawn 
from  them;  only  let  this  compensation  be 
given  in  such  a  way  as  not  to  impair  the 
mainsprings  of  energetic  and  self-helpful  in- 
dustry. We  cannot  restore  to  the  poor  their 
original  share  in  the  spontaneous  bounties  of 
Nature;  but  we  can  give  them  instead  a  fuller 
share,  than  they  could  acquire  unaided  of  tlie 
more  communicable  advantages  of  social 
progress,  and  a  fairer  start  in  the  inevitable 
xaue  for  tiie  less  communicable  advantages; 
and  *' reparative  justice"  demands  that  we 
should  give  them  tiiis  much. 

That  it  is  not  an  easy  matter  to  manage  this 
•compensation  with  due  regard  to  the  interests 
<of  all  concerned,  I  readly  grant;  and  also 
that  tlie  details  of  the  legislation  which  this 
(semi-socialistic  movement  has  prompted,  and 
is  prompting,  are  often  justly  open  to  critl- 
•cism,  both  from  the  point  of  view  of  Mr. 
Spencer  and  from  that  of  orthodox  econo- 
mists; but,  when  these  authorities  combine  to 
attack  its  generad  drift,  it  seems  worth  while 
to  point  out  how  deeply  their  combined  doc- 
.trines  are  concerned  in  its  parentage. 

At  this  point  the  reader  may  perhaps  won- 
der where  I  find  the  real  indisputable^pposi- 
-tiOD,  between  orthodox  political  eoonomyand 
the  prevalent  movement  in  our  legislation. 
The  most  obvious-example  of  it  is  to  bef  ound 
In  the  kind  of  governmental  interfeeence, 
lAgainst  which  the  request  for  laiuerfadre  was 
originally  directed,  and  wUch  is  perhaps 
.more  appropriately  called  "patemar*  tbair 
^'socialistic"  legislation  which  aims  at4<egii- 
lating  the  business  arrangements  of  any  in- 
dustrial class,  not  on  account  of  any  appre- 
kended  conflict  between  the  private  interests, 
properly  understood,  of  the  persons  conoem- 
^,  and  the  public  interest,  but  on  account  of 
their  supposed  incapacity  to  take  due  care  of 
their  own  business  intere  ts.  The  most  note- 
worthy recent  instance  of  thfe  in  England  is 
4he  interference  in  contracts  between  (EnglS^) 
agricultural  tenants  and  their  landlords  inrc- 
-epeot  of  ''compensation  for  improvemenlB  f* 
flmoeno  attempt,  so  far  as  I  know,  was  made 
hj  those  who  urj;ed  thia  interteetioe^.flboir 


that  the  properly  understood  interests  of 
lords  and  tenants  combined  would  not  lead 
them  to  arrange  for  such  treatment  of  tbc 
land  aa  was  under  their  existing  circnmstalices 
economically  best. 

A   more  important  species  of  unorthodox 
legislation  consists  of  measures  that  attempt  to 
determine  directly,  by  some  method    other 
than  free  competition,  the  share  of  the' appro- 
priated prodiut  of  industry  allotted  to  some 
particular    indi'strial  class.     The   old  I^al 
restrictions  on  interest,  old  and  new  popular 
demands  for  "fair"  wages,  recent  Irish  legfe- 
lation  to  secure  "fair  "  rents,  all  come  under 
this  head.    Any  such  legislation  is  an  attempt 
to  introduce  into  a  social  order  constructed  on 
a  competitive  basis  a  fundamentally  incom- 
patible principle ;  the  attempt  in  most  caees 
fails  from  its  inevitable  incompleteness,  and 
where  it  succeeds,  its  succeias  inevitably  re- 
moves or  weakens  the  normal  motives  to  in- 
dustry and  thrift.    You  can  make  it  illegal 
for  a  man  tu  pay  more  than  a  certain  price 
for  the  use  of  money,  but  you  cannot  thus 
secure  him  the  use  of  tlic  money  he  wants  at 
the  legal  rate;  so  that,  if  his  wants  ane  urgent, 
be  will  pay  the  usurer  mose  than  be  would 
otherwise  liave  done  to  compensate  him  for 
tlie  risk  of  the  unlawful  loan.    Similarly,  you 
can  make  it  illegflfl  to  employ  a  man  under  a 
certain  rate  of  wages,  but  you  cannot  secure 
his  emp9o3rment  at  that  rate,  unless  tlie  com- 
munity win  undertfi^  to  provide  for  an  in- 
definite number  oi  claimants  work  remuner- 
ated at  more  than  its  market  value;  in  which 
case  its  action  wilt  tend  to  remove,  to  a  con- 
tinually increasing  .extent,  the  ordinary  mo- 
tives   to  vigorous   nnd  -efficient  labor,     fio 
again,  you  can  insure  that  a  tenant  does  not 
pay  the  full  competition  rent  to  his  landlord, 
but— tinlisss  you  prdhibit  the  sale  of  the.rightB 
that  y-eu  have  thus  given  him  in  tlie  produee 
of  the  land — ^you  eannol  insure  that  his  suc- 
cessor in  title  shall  not  pay  tbte  fuW  competi- 
tive prfee  for  the  use  of  the' land  in  refAplm 
intwest  on  tije  cost  ^f  the  tenant-right;  and, 
in  any  case,  it  you  try  >by  a  ^' fair  rent"  to 
-seawe  to  the  tenant  a  share  of  produce  oi 
which  he  can  "live  and  thrive.**  you  inevitaWy 
deprive  him^  of  the  ordinary  motlT69-»bott 


WATER  OR  WIKB. 


207 


attnctive  and  deterrent— prompting  to  ener- 
getic self-help  and  self-  improvement.  I  do  not 
say  dogmatically  that  no  measures  of  this  kind 
ought  ever,  under  any  circumstances,  to  be 
adopted,  but  merely  that  a  heavy  burden  of 
proof  is  thrown  on  any  one  who  advocates 
them,  by  the  valid  objections  of  orthodox  polit- 
ical economy;  and  tliat,  in  the  arguments  used 
in  support  of  recent  legislation  of  this  kind,  this 
burden  does  not  appear  to  me  to  have  been 
adequately  taken  up.— Prof.  Henbt  Sidg- 
WICK,  in  The  Contemporary  Bemew. 


^      WA.TER  OR  WINE. 

Running  water  has  always  possessed  a 
charm  for  the  minds  of  men  second  to  no 
other  influence  in  out-door  life.  All  through 
tlie  old  literatures,  from  the  brooks  of  the 
Bible  to  the  resplendent  fountains  of  Horace, 
we  hear  the  bubbling  of  the  transparent 
streams  and  feel  the  coolness  and  freshness  of 
their  currents.  Whether  we  walk  by  the 
Jordan,  or  rest  by  the  dreamy  "source  of 
some  sacred- stream,*'  we  never  ouss  the  dis- 
tinct and  individual  fascination — the  melodi- 
ous mystery  of  the  rippling  element,  so 
abundimt  and  yet  so  precious ;  the  tinted, 
water- worn  pebbles,  the  white  «and,  the  flash- 
ing minnows,  the  kingfisherl 

The  poets,  those  glorious  loungers  by  the 
brooks,  long  ago  surprised  the  rhythmic  fie- 
cret  of  running  water.;  but  they  have  never 
been  able  to  imprison  ia  their  lyrics  that 
under  throb,  that  liquid  counterpoint  which 
palpitates  in  every  brook  and  rivulet  from 
Texas  to  Turkestan.  Anacreon  caught  the 
gurgle  of  wine,  and  set  in  exquisite  phrasing 
the  sensuous,  luring  delights  of  the  mocker 
glowing  red  in  the  glass,  and  Keats,  the  rest- 
less, longing  boy,  has  cried  ont. 

**Oh  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  mmn  8oafli« 
Fnll  of  the  trae.-the  bknhtal  Htppecwe, 
With  beaded  bubbleft  winking  at  the  brtai 
And  pnrplc-stained  moath.^'* 

Bui  the  artless,  hetitby-eoiil  wefiM  have 
thought  of  the  bubbling'  spring,  with  'the 
fragrant  mint  growing  aroundH.   *I  vemem- 


her  one,  where  the  peppermint  and  cress  and 
calamus  formed  the  frame  for  a  pool,  clearer 
and  sweeter  than  that  of  Bandusia;  and  a 
gourd  wa§  the  beaker,  at  whoee  brim  the 
beaded  bubbles  winked.  One  who  drank 
there  felt  the  coolness  slowly  steal  throughout 
his  frame,  and  it  was  as  if  Nature  hud  poured 
her  freshness  through  his  veins.  If  wine  is  a 
mocker,  water  is  a  consoler.  If  your  nerves 
are  tired,  there  is  no  medicine  so  good  as  the 
sound  of  a  pure,  swiftly-flowing  brook.  The 
restorative  effect  comes  of  the  lulling,  sooth- 
ing ripple-music.  Insomnia  is  impossible 
where  this  stream-bubbling  can  be  heard. 
The  sweetest  sleep  that  ever  came  to  tired 
eyelids  may  be  had  by  hanging  your  ham- 
mock (some  sultry  summer  night)  directly 
above  a  noisy  rapid  of  some  pure  brook,  or 
by  tlte  sea.  i  remember  many  a  night  of 
ddieious  slumber  on  the  cool,  dry  sand  of  a 
Ploridian  coast-island.  The  swash  and  boom 
of  the  Atlantic  eomes  with  the  thought.  The 
swee'est  flowers  and  the  most  luxuriant  plants 
grow  where  water  is ;  they  seem  to  revel  in 
the  moistuie  the  coolness,  the  music  and  the 
pervading  freshness.  All  the  four-footed 
aaimals  and  the  birds  congregate  at  times 
near  the  springs  and'  brooks,  or  slip  shyly 
d6wB  to  the  still  pools  to  bathe.  The  shade 
is  more  refieshing  and  the  euushine  is  more 
antisepCie  in  the  little  dells  where  the  influence 
of  the  restless  water  currents  fills  all  the  air. 
What  flagon  with  its  mysterious  philter  caji 
atay  the  very  soul  thirst  like  a  jug  of  water 
from  the  hill-Bide  spring!  Comfort  me  wiA 
a  draught  from  the  "  moss- covered  bucket:** 
Bven  a  pfieture  dt  on  i>ld  well-sweep  is  eooUng 
and  satisfying,  almost. 

'Bikt  a  bath  ia  mantng  water!  Have  yon 
watebed  a  fish  in  a  crystal -clear  current,  his 
head  up  stream,  working  his  fins  Just  enough 
to  keep  him  stationary?  Wiiat  comfort  is 
suggested!  Every  pore  Of  ooe's  skin,  every 
ultimate  particle  of  one's  nerve- tissue,  eveiy 
fiber  of  one*s  frame,  clanwra  for  the  hixury 
that  the  fish -enjoys.  See  that  warling-bird.  a 
^eron-or  a«and-plper;  howtlie  sen.^e  of  con). 
Bess  must  steal  up  those  sfilt-like  legs  and  rip- 
ple out*  to  the  tip  of  everV  feather!  Who 
d6enr*t:liketo  w^kde.  J  ahooia  almost  dotibt 


ao8 


THE  UBRART  MAGAZINE. 


the  honesty  of  him  whose  feet  did  not  itch  to 
feel  the  touch  of  flowing  water. 

I  once  found  a  brown  thrush's  nest  on  a 
branch  swinging  about  three  feet  above  the 
surface  of  a  noisy  spring  stream.  I  heard  the 
male  bird  sing  hajxi  by,  and  then  I  knew 
where  he  had  found  those  wonderful  liquid 
notes.  If  evolution  is  a  truth  to  its  farthest 
limit,  then  we  can  trace  the  birds  back  to  the 
fishes,  and  we  might  well  imagine  that  bird- 
song  is  the  hereditary  memory  of  running 
water. 

If  a  stream  runs  through  a  desert  it  is  ac- 
companied by  a  shining  line  of  green  plants 
and  we  see  wisps  of  birds  following  its 
wavering  way.  When  the  glaciers  retreated 
from  the  temperate  /one  our  rivers  were  the 
first  immigratiou  lines  of  plants  and  animals. 
True,  the  warm  Gulf  Stream  enticed  a  fringe 
of  green  far  up  the  Atlantic  coast;  bu  it  was 
the  Mississippi  Kiver  that  drew  from  its 
mouth  to  its  source  a  great  army  of  vegetation 
which  afterward  spread  over  all  the  great 
valley  and  out  across  the  highlands.  Next  to 
sunlight  and  heat,  water  is  the  greatest  life- 
giving  force  in  Nature.  Whenever  sunlight 
and  water  meet  there  is  luxuriant,  gushing 
life.  Water  is  joy ;  drouth  is  sorrow  and 
death.  Life  is  a  fever  without  the  cooling 
sip,  the  soothing  draught  from  the  well. 
What  is  the  use  of  stimulants,  when,  with 
most  of  us,  the  mere  friction  of  life's  current 
in  our  veins  is  burning  us  up?  Abstinence 
from  every  artificial  strain  is  commanded  by 
Nature,  and  the  command  is  implicitly  obeyed 
by  all  her  subjects  save  man.  A  fountain  of 
the  rarest  old  wine  would  never  tempt  my 
thrush,  my  mockingbird  or  my  gay,  green 
heron.  Water,  the  soother,  the  quencher  of 
fire,  the  controller  of  passion,  is  their  drink. 
There  is  a  profound  physiological  meaning  in 
this  trite  fact.  The  wild  things  do  not  know 
as  much  as  we  do  about  the  good  of  this,  or 
the  evil  of  that;  but  they  never  break  old 
Nature's  Inws.  What  is  the  meaning?  It 
is  equipoise — ^steadfastness — hereditary  habit. 
Looking  into  the  far  future  and  remembering 
how  this  hereditary  habit  is  created,  we  may 
well  draw  the  eonclusion,  and  today  begin 
laying  the  fouodatimi  for  the  steadfast  obiir- 


acter  of  future  generations.^  Shall  dumb  na- 
ture, working  blindly*  do  more  than  human 
nature,  working  in  the  full  flood  of  intelli 
gence  and  of  ChrisUan  enlightenment?  For 
countless  ages  the  bird  and  the  beast  have 
kept  faith  with  Nature;  and  who  flnds  a  wild 
bird  with  consumption  or  a  wild  beast  with 
Bright's  disease?  There  is  nothing  visionary 
in  such  a  question.  From  my  earliest  boy- 
hood I  have  been  a  persistent,  tireless  roamer 
in  the  wild  woods,  a  student  by  field  and 
flood,  and  I  never  yet  have  found  a  sick  wild 
thing,  save  those  sick  from  wounds,  nor  have 
I  ever  found  a  dead  wild  thing  which  ap- 
peared to  have  died  of  disease  or  old  age. 
This  is  significant,  in  view  of  man's  terrible 
lot.  No  one  need  rush'  to  the  extreme  of  the 
thought;  but  why  may  we  not  sensibly  and 
safely  infer  enough  to  argue  as  follows :  For 
years  unnumbered  the  wild  things  have  strictly 
followed  the  plain  rules  of  Nature.  As  they 
have  developed  their  habits  have  developed, 
SD  that  a  bird,  for  instance,  and  its  life-liabii 
are  the  results  of  parallel  and  just  natural 
forces.  Man  and  his  habits  might  have  been 
as  justly  balanced  for  perfect  physical  and 
moral  sanity,  if  he  had  never  transgressed. 
But  transgression  is  already  becoming  a  her- 
editament— I  mean  physical  transgression — 
and  who  does  not  see  long  dark  lines  running 
down  into  the  far  future  marking  the  ways 
of  weakness,  disease,  suffering  and  crime, 
through  countless  generations? 

Man  has  not  been  upon  earth  as  long  as  the 
other  animals  have.  We  cannot  say,  and  I 
think  science  forbids  us  to  say,  that  man  has 
yet  had  time  to  develop  any  steadfast  human 
life-habit.  But  in  the  great  future  habit  will 
crystalize  and  become  permanently  heredi- 
tary. It  appears  to  me  that  one  ol  the  lilghest 
offices  of  Christianity  is  to  infiuence  through 
the  ages  this  crystalization  of  human  habit 
Man,  the  last  and  noblest  of  God's  creations, 
will,  perhaps,  some  time  in  the  awful  future, 
reach  a  fixed  stature,  when  (in  no  dimly  figur- 
ative sense)  his  drink  will  be  either  water  or 
wine.  Nature,  even  human  nature,  is  in 
God's  hand,  and  we  must  trust  that,  as  he 
has  led  bis  older  creatures  to  steadfastness  in 
the  simplest  and  safest  habit  ol  life,  he  will 


PRISONERS  AS  WITNESSES. 


)m 


lead  oar  younger  and  more  precious  race  of 
beings  safely  into  the  hig^hest  state  of  moral  and 
physical  equilibrium.  The  water  of  life  is  a 
phrase  balancing  well  between  the  meanings 
of  science  and  the  meanings  'of  religion. 
There  is  no  substitute  for  water  anywhere  in 
the  economy  of  Nature,  and  its  cieansiDg  and 
soothing  properties  might  well  pass  over  into 
literature  along  with  the  word  and  typify  the 
highest  and  purest  influence  that  affects  hu- 
man life. 

If  we  could  but  view  ourselves  as  the 
fountains  of  generations  running  perhaps  miU- 
ioas  of  years  into  the  future,  and  then  ration- 
ally consider  the  enormous  responsibility  we 
assume  when  we  adulterate  the  fountains,  we 
should  shudder  that  on  our  account  a  clear 
stream  is  rendered  muddy  and .  bitter  to  flow 
so  far. 

What  a  brook,  bordered  by  green  willows, 
winding  away  through  the  great  plain  of  the 
future,  is  a  hereditary  hf4)piness!  Robu9t 
health  and  steadfast  qualities,  based  on  sanity, 
purity,  and  simplicity!  A  clear  stream  of  gen- 
erations after  generations,  slowly  but  surely 
aasiming  the  type-form  of  the  race! 

Perhaps,  after  all.  the  imiversal  delight  in 
running  water  shown  by  mankind  is  but  a 
manifestation  of  the  great  under- thought,  the 
natural,  spontaneous  impulse  toward  the  prop- 
er steadfast  habit  of  life,  the  life  of  purity. — 
Maurice  Thompson,  in  The  Independent. 


PRISONERS  AS  WITNESSES. 

One  of  the  measures  which  came  to  nothing 
in  the  last  Parliament,  and  which  it  may  be 
hoped  will  be  passed  by  the  present  one,  was 
Lord  Bramweirs  Bill  for  making  accused 
persons  competent  witnesses  in  criminal  cases. 
Something  may  now  be  added  from  actual 
experience  to  what  is  already  familiar  in  the- 
ory to  all  persons  who  care  about  such  dis- 
cussions. I  refer  to  the  practical  working  of 
the  statutes  which  have,  in  some  particular 
cases,  made  prisoners  competent  witnesses. 
The  most  important  of  the  statutes  is  the 
Criminal  Law  Amendment  Act  of  1885,  which 


renders  persons  accused  of  various  offene^ 
against  women  competent,  though,  not  com- 
pellable witnesses.  « 

I  have  gained  much  experience  on  this 
matter  since  the  Criminal  Law  Amendment 
Act  came  into  force  in  the  autumn  of  last 
year.  Since  that  time  I  have  tried  a  great 
noany  cases  in  which  prisoners  were  compe- 
tent witnesses.  In  most  of  these  cases,  though 
not  in  all,  they  were  called,  and  I  have  thus 
had  the  opportunity  of  seeing  how  the  system 
works  in  actual  i>raQtice.  My  experience  has 
confirmed  and  strengthened  the  opinion  upon 
the  subject  which  I  have  held  for  many  yeais, 
that  the  examination  of  prisoners  as  witnesses, 
or  at  least  their  competency,  is  favorable  in 
the  highest  degree  to  the  administration  of 
justice ;  that  the  value  of  a  prisoner's  evidence 
varies  according  to  the  circumstances  of  each 
particular  case  as  much  as  the  evidence  of 
any  other  class  of  witnesses  does ;  and  that 
therefore  it  is  as  unwise  to  exclude  the  evi- 
dence of  prisoners  as  it  would  be  to  exclude 
the  evidence  of  any  other  class  of  persons 
arbitrarily  chosen. 

No  theory  on  which  the  evidence  of  prison- 
ers ought  to  be  excluded  can  be  suggested 
which  does  not  really  come  to  tliis:  tJiat  the 
probability  that  a  prisoner  will  speak  the 
truth  is  so  much  diminished  by  his  interest 
in  the  result  of  the  trial  that  it  is  not  worth 
while  to  hear  what  he  has  to  say.  I  do  not 
think  that  any  one  ever  held  this  theory  com- 
pletely In  the  crude  form  in  which  I  have 
stated  it,  for  so  stated  it  involves  the  mon* 
strous  result  that  no  prisoner  ought  to  be  al- 
lowed, even  if  he  is  undefended,  to  tell  his 
own  story  to  the  jury,  but  that  all  prisoners 
ought  to  be  confined  to  remarking  upon  the 
evidence  given  for  or  again  t  them.  This 
appears  to  me  to  reduce  the  theory  to  an  ab- 
surdity. It  may,  however,  be  worth  while  to 
dwell  a  litUe  upon  the  reasons  why.  the  the- 
ory is  absurd.  It  is,  in  the  first  place,  obvi- 
ous that  it  cAsumes  the  prisoner 'h  guilt,  for  it 
the  truth  is  in  his  favor,  the  prisoner's  inter- 
est  is  to  speak  the  truth  as  fully  and  exactly 
as  he  can.,  and  it  is  therefore  probable  that  bo 
will  do  his  best  so  to  speak  it  This  rem'^rk, 
if  followed  out,  explains  the  whole  matt^/. 


210 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


It  is  waste  of  time  to  try  to  lay  down  geDeral 
rules  as  to  the  weight  of  evidence  and  the 
credit  of  witnesses.  What  really  has  to  be 
determined  is  the  probability  that  this  or  that 
statement  is  true;  and  this  task  cannot  be 
•undertaken  unless  and  until  the  statement  is 
made.  No  doubt  the  interest  which  a  witness 
has  in  the  result  of  the  inquiry  must  always 
be  entitled  to  consideration  as  bearing  upon 
the  probability  of  different  parts  of  his  state- 
ment. No  doubt  also  it  may  in  particular 
cases  be  not  only  a  leading  but  a  decisive 
"^consideration.  In  such  cases  due  allowance 
can  be  made,  and  the  evidence  given  may  be 
thrown  out  of  account;  but  the  importance  of 
this  depenis  on  time,  place,  and  circumstance, 
and  varies  from  case  to  case  and  statement  to 
statement.  Interest,  in  other  words,  ought 
in  reason  to  be  treated  as  an  objection  to  the 
credit  of  a  witness  and  not  to  his  competence. 

The  principal  object  of  this  paper  is  to 
show  by  illustrations  taken  from  actual  ex- 
perience that  the  value  of  the  evidence  given 
by  prisoners  is  exactly  like  the  value  of  the 
evidence  given  by  other  witnesses,  and  that 
though  their  interest  in  the  result  must  always 
be  taken  into  account,  and  is  in  many  cases 
so  important  as  to  destroy  altogether  the 
value  of  their  evidence,  there  are  also  many 
cases  in  which  it  is  of  great  and  even  of  de- 
cisive importance.  These  matters  are  most 
easily  understood  by  illustrations,  and  I  will 
accordingly  proceed  to  attempt  to  prove  what 
I  have  said  by  references  to  actual  cases 
which  have  been  tried  before  me,  and  which 
are  so  chosen  as  to  illustrate  tlie  different  de- 
grees of  importance  which  may  attach  U>  the 
evidence  of  accused  persons. 

I  am  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  take  most  of  my 
illustrations  from  cases  of  sexual  crime;  but 
this  cannot  be  helped,  because  most  of  the 
cases  IP  which  prisoners  are  by  law  competent 
to  testify  have  arisen  under  the  Criminal  Law 
Amendment  Act.  It  is  not,  however,  neces- 
sary for  my  purpose  to  enter  infc  any  details 
of  an  offensive  character.  I  will  begin  with 
cases  which  appear  to  me  to  illustrate  the 
doctrine  that  the  evidence  of  prisoners  may 
often  be  unimportant. 

A  man  was  indicted  under  the  Criminal 


I«aw  Amendment  Act  for  the  seduction  of  a 
girl  und^r  sixteen.  About  the  facts  there 
was  no  dispute,  but  the  prisf^ner  was  defended 
on  the  ground  that  he  believed  the  girl  to  be 
of  the  age  of  seventeen.  She  admitted  th&l 
she  had  told  him  she  was  seventeen.  His 
counsel  said  that  he  should  not  call  the  pris- 
oner. He  would  of  course  say,  if  he  wrec 
called,  that  he  believed  the  girl,  but  as  this 
would  be  merely  his  own  statement  as  to  his 
own  state  of  mind  it  would  add  nothing  to 
the  case.  His  evidence  would  thus  be  super- 
fluous. The  jury  acquitted  the  prisoner,  see- 
ing no  reason  to  doubt  that  the  girl  had  made 
the  statement,  and  probably  regarding  her 
appearance  as  such  that'  the  prisoner  might 
naturally  believe  the  statement  made  by  her 
to  "be  true.  In  this  case  the  prisoner's  evi- 
dence was  sure  to  be  given  if  asked  for, 
whether  it  was  true  or  false,  and  was  thero- 
fore  worthless. 

This  case  is  a  typical  one,  and  suggests  s 
general  principle  which  may  be  illustrated  in 
many  ways  as  to  the  value  of  the  evidence  of 
prisoners  and  of  interested  witnesses.  It  is, 
that  the  evidence  of  a  deeply  interested  wit- 
ness, given  on  the  side  which  Ms  interest 
would  incline  Mm  to  give  it,  is  of  no  value 
when  the  circimistances  are  such  that  he  can- 
not be  contradicted  on  the  subject-matter  of 
his  evidence.  This  principle  is  of  very  gen- 
eral application,  and  reaches  its  height  when 
the  matter  to  which  the  prisoner  testifies  is  a 
fact  passing  in  his  own  nilnd,  such  as  knowl- 
edge, belief,  intentioL),  or  good  fmth.  Did 
you  in  good  faith  A)elfeve  the  girFs  statement 
that  she  was  seventeen  and  not  sixteen?  Did 
you,  when  at  Iwdve  oMcock  at  niglit  you 
bought  for  a  small  price  from  a  man  whom 
you  did  not  know,  and  who  concealed  his 
face,  a  quantity  of  government  stores  of  which 
he  gave  no  account,  know  tliat  they  were 
stolen?  Did  you,  when  you  fired  a  pistol 
straight  at  an  enemy  and  wounded  him,  in- 
tend to  do  him  grievous  bodily  harm?— are 
questions  which  it  is  idle  to  ask,  because  they 
are  sure  to  be  answered  in  one  way,  and  be- 
cause no  reasonable  person  would  be  affected 
in  his  judgment  on  the  subject  by  the  answer. 

Bare  reluctance  to  commit  perjury  is  shown 


PRISONERS  AS  WITNSSSES. 


211 


by  daily  experienoe  to  be  far  too  feeble  a  mo- 
tive to  counteract  any  strong  interest  in  doing 
so.     No  doubt  honorable  men  in  common 
life  feel  as  if  it  would  be  morally  impossible 
for  them  to  tell  a  willful  lie  on  a  solemn  ocoa- 
fiion  like  a  trial  in  a  court  of  justice,  whether 
uX^n  oath  or  not,  and  many  men  would  no 
dloubt  undergo  great  loss  and  Inoonvsnience 
rather  than  do  so ;   but  this  reluctance*  I  feel 
convinced,  proceeds  much  more  than  they 
suppose  from  the  fear  of  being  contradicted 
and  found  out.    There  are  temptations  under 
'vrhich  almost  every  one  would  lie,  and  in  the 
face  of  which  no  man's  word  ought  to  be 
taken.    The  fact  that  the  most  respectable, 
most  pious,  and  mont  virtuous  of  men  denied 
upon  oath  that  he  had  committed  some  dis- 
graceful act,  especially  if  the  admission  that 
he  had  done  so  would  involve  not  only  per- 
jury, but  a  shimeful  breach  of  confidence, 
would  weigh  little  with  me  in  considering  the 
question  of  his  guilt.     His  character  would, 
or  might,  weigh  heavily  in  his  favor,  but  his 
oath  would  to  my  mind  hardly  f^6  to  it  per- 
ceptibly.   Voltaire  asked  long  ago  whose  life 
would  be  safe  if  even  a  virtuous  man  was  able 
to  kill  him  by  a  mere  wish;  and  the  case  is 
the  same  with  regard  to  perjury.    Unite  a 
strong  temptation  to  lie  witii  a  strong  interest 
in  lying  and  security  from  discovery,  and  it 
Is  all  but  morally  oertun  that  the  lie  will  fol- 
low. 

I  will  give  a  few  more  instances  of  the  way 
In  which  this  principle  works,  and  I  may  ob- 
serve that  it  affords  a  rule  by  wluch  it  is 
often  possible  to  test  the  justice  of  the  com- 
plaint, often  used  as  a  topic  of  grievance  by 
counsel,  that  the  prisoner's  mouth  is  closed. 
■  A  wonma  was  tried  for  murder  under  the 
following  circumstances.  She  lived  as  ser- 
vant to  an  -old  farmer  on  one  of  the  most 
barren,  out-of-the-way  moors  in  England,  near 
the  plaoe  at  wRich  the  live  northern  counties 
closely  approach  each  other.  The  only  other 
Inmate  of  die  house  was  a  young  man,  the 
fanner's  son.  The  old  man  and  the  servant 
were  sitdng  together  one  evening  when  the 
young  man  canie  in,  and  said  he  had  been  at 
the  nearest  village  and  seen  some  one  there, 
about  whom  be  laughed  at  the  girl.    The 


farmer  did  not  know  what  his  son  referred 
to,  nor  was  there  any  evidence  on  the  subject. 
The  son  left  the  rcx)m.  The  girl  also  left 
soon  afterward,  and  returned  after  a  short 
absence.  The  son  did  not  return,  and  after 
waiting  for  him  a  considerable  time  the  father 
went  to  bed,  leaving  the  girl  sitting  up.  A 
point  to  which  some  importance  was  after- 
ward attached  was  that  the  dogs  remained 
quiet  all  night,  which,  it  was  suggested,  wctn 
to  show  that  no  stranger  approached  the 
house.  In  the  morning  tbe  girl  called  the  old 
man  down  and  told  him  that  on  going  out  to 
see  after  the  cows  she  had  noticed  blood  on 
the  walls  of  the  cowhouse,  which  had  trickled 
down  from  chinks  in  the  floor  of  a  room 
above  it,  used  as  a  sort  of  workshop.  In  this 
room  was  found  the  dead  body  of  the  young 
man.  He  bad  been  killed  by  several  terrible 
blows  from  a  stone-breaker's  hammer  kept  in 
the  room,  which  was  found  lying  near  hint; 
and  the  position  of  the  body  and  the  hammer 
made  it  clear  that  he  must  have  been  stoop'ng 
down  lacing^is  boots  when  some  one  armed 
with  the  hammer,  striking  him  from  behind, 
knocked  him  down  with  a  terrible  blow  ia 
the  face,  and  afterward  dispatched  him  by 
breaking  his  skull.  There  were  various  other 
circumstances  in  the  case,  but  these  were  the 
most  important  of  them.  Some  which  ap- 
peared to  throw  suspicion  on  the  girl  were 
rendered  doubtful  by  the  fact  that  the  old 
man,  on  whose  testimony  they  depended, 
completely  contradicted  at  the  trial  the  evi- 
dence he  had  given  about  them  before  the 
magistrates,  excusing  himself  by  saying  that 
he  was  so  agitated  and  broken  down  by  the 
murder  of  his  son  that  he  could  not  depend 
on  his  memory.  The  girl  was  acquitted,  and, 
as  I  thought,  properly,  as  the  whole  matter 
was  left  in  mystery.  That  she  had  an  oppor- 
tunity  of  committing  the  crime  was  clearly 
proved  ;  there  was  some  evidence,  though  not 
enough  to  exclude  a  reasonable  doubt  on  the 
subject,  to  show  that  no  one  else  could  have 
committed  it.  Nothing  in  any  way  resem- 
bling a  motive  for  the  crime  was  proved,  or 
even  suggested,  and  the  matter  was  thus  left 
incomplete. 
If  tills  matter  had  been  invesligaled  aooord- 


313 


THE  UBRART  MAGAZINE. 


ing  to  the  French  system,  the  girl  would 
have  heen  put  in  solitary  confinement  and 
examined  in  private  for  weeks  or  months  as 
to  €very  incident  of  her  life,  in  order  to  dis- 
cover, if  possible,  circumstances  which  would 
show  a  motive  for  the  crime  which  would 
have  been  imputed  to  her,  and  to  sift  to  the 
utmost  a  number  of  minute  circumstances  in 
the  case  which  I  have  passed  over  because 
they  were  imperfectly  ascertained.  It  is  im- 
possible to  say  what  the  result  might  have 
been,  and  it  is  not  worth  while  to  consider  it, 
as  no  one  would  propose  the  introduction  of 
this  mode  of  inquiry  into  this  country.  The 
point  here  to  be  noticed  is  that,  if  she  had 
been  a  competent  witness  according  to  Eng- 
lish law,  her  evidence — assuming  her  inno- 
cence—could have  done  her  no  good,  nor  if 
she  were  guilty  would  it  have  exposed  her  to 
much  risk,  unless  she  had  gone  out  of  the 
way  to  tell  lies  in  her  own  favor,  as  a  guilty 
person  very  probably  might.  Suppose  her 
innocent — all  she  could  have  had  to  say  would 
have  been  that  she  knew  nothing  about  the 
mau>  death:  that  she  left  the  room  to  look 
after  the  cows  or  for  some  other  purpose; 
that  while  absent  she  neither  saw  nor  heard 
anything  suspicious;  that,  after  sitting  up  in 
vain  for  the  man's  return,  she  went  out  again 
to  the  cows  and  found  the  blood,  and  so  the 
body.  If  her  guilt  is  assumed,  she  would  be 
able  to  tell  the  same  story,  as  there  was  no 
one  to  contradict  her  and  nothing  of  impor- 
tance to  explain.  Her  evidence,  therefore, 
would  have  been  in  the  particular  circum- 
stances of  the  case  wholly  unimportant. 

This  no  doubt  is  speculation  upon  what 
would  have  happened  had  the  law  been  some 
years  since  what  it  is  now  proposed  to  make 
it.  I  will  give  an  instance  of  the  same  kind 
under  the  Criminal  Law  Amendment  Act.  A 
man  was  tried  for  an  attempt  to  ravish,  which 
was  undoubtedly  committed  by  some  one. 
His  guilt  was  positively  sworn  to  by  the  girl 
herself,  and  by  two  if  not  three  otlier  wit- 
nesses who  were  near.  His  defence  was  an 
alibi.  He  said  he  was  at  dinner  at  his  mo- 
ther's house  at  the  time  when  the  offence  was 
committed.  He  called  a  number  of  witnesses 
in  support  of  his  stoiy,  who  had  seen  him  at 


different  times  on  his  way  there,  at  the  house, 
and  on  his  way  back.  The  persons  in  the 
house  gave  evidence  as  to  the  time  during 
which  he  stayed  there.  His  own  evidence 
accordingly  added  only  this  fact,  that  between 
the  time  when  he  was  last  seen  going  toward 
his  mother's  house  and  the  time  when  he  ar- 
rived there,  he  was  not  engaged  in  commit- 
ting the  crime,  bat  in  walking  along  the  road. 
On  a  close  inquiry  into  times  and  places,  it 
turned  out  that  all  that  was  necessary  for  him 
to  say,  on  the  supposition  of  his  guilt,  was  to 
alter  the  time  of  his  arrival  at  his  mother's  by 
a  very  few  minutes.  Any  accused  person  who 
was  not  prepared  to  adm  t  his  guilt  would  go 
as  far  as  that  in  the  direction  of  perjury. 

Further  illustrations  may  be  found  in  the 
case  of  almost  all  offences  committed  at  night 
"When  you  say  I  was  committing  burglary  or 
night-poaching  I  was  in  fact  at  home  and 
asleep  in  bed,  and  both  my  wife  and  I  are 
prepared  to  swear  to  it  now  that  the  law  has 
opened  our  mouths.  **  If  the  law  were  altered, 
I  should  expect  such  defences  to  be  set  up  in 
almost  every  case  of  the  kind;  but  I  should 
hope  juries  would  be  slow  to  acquit  in  conse- 
quence of  it  if  the  evidence  for  the  prosecu- 
tion were,  independently  of  it,  enough  to 
warrant  a  conviction. 

Though  the  evidence  of  an  accused  person 
on  a  point  in  which  he  is  interested  and  can- 
not be  contradicted  ought  to  be  regarded  as 
worthless  in  the  way  of  proving  his  innocence, 
the  absence  of  such  evidence  may,  under  par- 
ticular circumstances,  go  far  to  prove  his 
guilt ;  for  it  is  a  fact,  and  a  very  strange  one, 
that  criminals  will  now  and  then  shrink  from 
denying  the  commission  of  crimes  from  the 
actual  commission  of  which  they  have  not 
shrunk.  The  working  of  the  Criminal  Law 
Amendment  Act  has  furnished  very  curious 
illustrations  of  this. 

A  girl  swore  that  her  master  committed  an 
offence  upon  her  in  his  shop,  and  that  im- 
mediately afterward  he  suggested  to  a  friend 
who  came  into  the  shop  that  he  should  do  the 
same.  The  friend  persuaded  the  girl  (so  she 
said)  to  go  with  him  to  his  house  to  get  some 
grapes,  and,  when  he  got  there,  committed 
the  same  offence.    That  the  girl  had  gone  to 


PRISONERS  AS  WITNESSES. 


218 


her  master's  shop,  that  his  friend  had  come 
in  and  had  persuaded  her  to  go  to  his  house 
to    get  grapes,  was  cleariy  proved;  but  the 
commission  of  the  two  offences  rested  upon 
lier  testimony,  which  was. in  itself  open  to 
many  objections,  showing,  to  say  tbe  least, 
great  inaccuracy  and  confusion  as  to  time 
and  place,  and  being  in  several  particulars  in- 
trinsically improbable.     If  the  master's  friend 
had  sworn  to  his  innocence  and  had  said  that 
all  that  passed  between  him  and  the  girl  was 
tliat  he  took  her  to  his  house  and  giive  her 
some  grapes,  and  that  the  rest  of  her  stdry 
-WBS  false,  I  think  he  would  have  been  ac- 
quitted, but  be  refused  to  lie  called  as  a  wit 
ness.     The  jury  convicted  him,  I  suppose, 
considering  it  incredible  that  a  man  falsely 
accused  of  such  an  odious  crime  should 'not 
deny  it  upon  his  oath  when  he  had  the  oppor- 
tuttity.     The  girl's  master  did  give  evidence. 
He  swore  that  tlie  girl's  story  was  totally  false 
as  regarded  his  having  committed  the  crime. 
The  girl,  he  said,  had  been  sent  to  his  shop 
(whica  was  some  distance  from  his  house)  on 
an  errand,  and  had,  after  a  short  interval  and 
some  joking  with  his  friend  who  came  in,  left 
it  in  the  friend's  company.    The  jury  ac- 
quitted him.  being  greatly  dissatisfied  with 
the  girl's  evidence.     This  was  a  very  singular 
case.     It  clearly  shows  that  in  tlie  class  of 
cases  under   consideration   accused   persons 
will,  if  the  law  is  altered,  have  to  swear  to 
tlieir  innocence,  unless  the  facts  of  the  case 
are  undisputed,  or  else  be  taken,  and  not  un- 
justly, to  have  confessed  their  guilt. 

No  doubt  there  are  cases  in  which  silence 
does  not  admit  guilt.  A  number  of  men  were 
indicted  for  a  rape;  their  defence  was  con- 
sent, of  which  there  was  strcng  evidence  in 
the  prosecutrix's  own  story.  Two  of  them 
gave  evidence,  but  the  second  of  the  two 
made  such  a  pitiable  exhibition  of  himself, 
especially  in  anwering  questions  asked  of  him 
by  the  jury,  that  the  rest  preferred  to  keep 
silence.'  They  were,  all  acquitted,  but  this 
was  because  their  evidence  could  not  have 
materially  varied  the  facts,  while  their  silence 
was  under  the  circumstances  not  surprising 
and  not  inconsistent  with  the  defence  set  up. 
All  that  their  silence  admitted  was  that  they 


had  been  concerned  in  a  disgraceful  transac- 
tion. 

Cases  sometimes  occur  in  which  the  evi- 
dence of  a  prisoner  is  useless  because  it  is  out 
of  his  power  to  give  the  only  evidence  which 
would  be  of  use  to  him. 

A  man  was  tried  for  murder.  He  had 
spent  the  greater  part  of  the  day  before  the 
murder  with  the  murdered  man,  and  was 
seen  in  his  company  late  at  night  near  the 
place  where  his  dead  body  was  discovered 
next  morning.  In  the  course  of  the  morning 
after  the  discovery  of  the  murder  the  prisoner 
exhibited  to  several  people  the  murdered 
roan's  watch,  and  finally  sold  it  to  a  com- 
panion, who  kept  it  for  some  time,  and  min- 
utely described  it  at  the  trial.  Hearing  of 
the  murder,  and  fearing  he  might  get  into 
trouble  about  the  watch,  the  purchaser  gave 
it  back  to  the  prisoner.  The  prisoner  did  not 
produce  it  at  the  trial,  and  neither  gave  nor 
suggested  any  account  of  it.  This  the  jury 
regarded  as  being  inconsistent  with  any  other 
supposition  than  that  he  did  not  produce  it 
because  it  had  belonged  to  the  murdered  man, 
and  so  would,  if  produced,  have  procured  fiis 
conviction.  It  is  obvious  that  in  this  case  the 
prisoner's  evidence  would  have  been  useless, 
unless  he  had  l)een  able  to  produce  or  account 
for  the  watch.  As  the  charge  against  him 
was  murder,  he  was  not  a  competent  witness; 
but  a  very  similar  case  under  the  Criminal 
Law  Amendment  Act  occurred  very  lately. 

A  man  was  indicted  for  a  rape.  The  ques- 
tion was  as  to  the  identity  of  the  prisoner,  as 
to  which  the  account  of  the  prosecutrix  was 
highly  unsatisfactory,  or  at  least  very  doubt- 
ful. The  prisoner  was  a  soldier.  The  prose- 
cutrix saw  him  with  other  men  at  the  barracks 
soon  after  the.  crime.  She  hesitated  as  to  his 
identity,  and  even  denied  it  at  one  time, 
though  at  the  trial  she  spoke  to  it  with  the 
utmost  confidence,  giving  reasons  for  her 
previous  mistakes.  On  this  evidence,  had  it 
stood  alone,  the  man  must  have  been  ac- 
quitted. The  woman  had,  however,  been 
robbed  of  a  purse  containing  three  or  four 
coins,  which  she  specified — one  being  a  half 
sovereign,  kept  in  a  small  compartment  of 
the  purse  with  a  separate  clasp.    It  was  proved 


214 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


that  immediately  after  the  commission  of 
the  offence  the  prisoner  was  at  a  pullic-house, 
in  which  he  saw  an  amber  mouthpiece  for 
cigars.  He  bought  it  from  the  lan(Jlord  after 
some  talk,  in  the  course  of  which  he  displayed 
a  purse  exactly  corresponding  to  the  descrip- 
tion of  her  purse  given  by  the  prosecutrix, 
not  only  in  its  shape,  color,  apd  material,  but 
in  the  coin  it  coutaiDed,  and  the  way  they 
were  distributed  in  it.  Tiie  prisoner  said 
nothing  of  the  purse,  and  did  not  produce  it. 
This  caused  his  conviction.  He  was  not 
called  as  a  witness,  and  there  would  have 
been  no  use  in  calling  him  if  he  had  not  1)een 
able  to  produce  a  purse  like  the  one  seen  by 
the  publican  but  different  from  the  one  stolen 
from  the  prosecutrix.  This  was  an  instruc- 
tive case  in  another  way.  If  it  had  not  been 
for  the  purse,  the  prisoner  would  probably 
have  been  acquitted  on  account  of  the  weak- 
ness of  the  evidence  of  the  prosecutrix,  and 
his  evidence  would  have  been  immaterial  even 
if  hers  had  been  stronger.  He  was  unques- 
tionably near  the  place  at  the  time  of  the 
crime,  and  had  not  more  than  perhaps  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  to  account  for.  If  he  had 
sworn  that  he  was  lounging  about  the  stieets 
(as  he  had  been  just  before)  for  this  quarter  of 
an  hour,  and  did  not  commit  the  crime,  his 
evidence  would,  for  reasons  already  given, 
have  made  no  difference. 

It  may  seem  to  be  paradoxical  to  say  so, 
but  it  is  nevertheless  true  that  the  class  of 
accused  persons  who  will  get  least  advantage 
from  having  their  mouths  opened  are  those 
who  are  entirely  innocent  of  and  unconnected 
with  the  crime  of  which  they  are  charged — 
people  who  have  nothing  to  conc.al  and 
nothing  to  explain.  The  only  way  in  which 
the  most  innocent  man  can  prove  his  inno- 
cence of  a  crime,  of  which  he  knows  notliing 
whatever,  is  by  proving  (as  by  an  alibi)  that 
it  was  physically  impossible  that  he  should 
commit  the  crime ;  this  in  many  cases  he 
would  be  able  to  do  only  by  his  own  uncor- 
roborated assertion.  **I  was  sitting  quietly 
writing  letters  in  my  library  at  the  time  when 
you  say  I  was  committing  a  crime"  would 
in  many  cases  be  all  a  man  could  say,  and  of 
such  a  statement  he  might  have  no  corrobora- 


tion whatever,  and  he  might  well  have  tbe 
means  of  leaving  the  room  undiscovered. 

If,  however,  there  is  a  possibility  of  cor- 
roboration, the  fact  that  a  man  can  supply,  so 
to  speak,  the  threads  on  which  the  corrobo- 
rating facts  are  strung  may  be  of  the  greatest 
importance.  A  man  was  tried  for  a  rape. 
His  defence  was  an  alibi.  He  gave  a  com- 
plete account  of  the  way  in  which  he  passed 
the  whole  period  during  which  the  crime  was 
being  committed,  and  was  corroborated  as  to 
several  of  the  incidents  which  he  said  had 
happened  during  the  interval.  He  had  been 
at  work  making  a  bridge  over  a  ditch ;  he 
came  from  thence  to  a  corner  of  a  field,  where 
he  heard  some  children,  returning  from  a 
school  teast  use  language  for  which  he  re- 
proved them.  He  went  to  his  lodgings  and 
remained  there  writing  a  letter  for  a  consid- 
erable time,  and  finally  he  went  to  a  club  to 
which  he  belonged  at  a  public-house  some 
short  way  off.  He  was  corroborated  on  each 
of  these  points.  One  man  had  lent  him  tools 
for  his  work  and  had  seen  him  employed 
there.  The  children  to  whom  he  had  spoken 
described  where  he  was  standing,  what  he 
said,  and  what  gave  occasion  for  his  reproof. 
Several  little  incidents  were  proved  about  his 
writing  his  letter  and  leaving  it  to  be  posted, 
and  his  arriving  at  his  club,  and  so  on.  No 
doubt  these  facts  might  have  been  independ- 
ently proved,  and  they  might  have  had  the 
same  effect  as  they  had  in  fact,  but  nothing 
could  have  given  the  effect  of  the  ease,  vi- 
vacity and  spirit  with  which  he  told  his  story, 
his  entire  absence  of  embarrassment,  and  the 
confidence  with  wnich  he  dealt  with  all  the 
different  questions  put  to  him. 

It  must  never  be  forgotten  in  connection 

with  this  subject  that  there  are  differences 
between  people  who  tell  the  truth  and  people 
who  lie,  which  it  is  not  easy  to  specify  but 
which  are  none  the  less  marked  and  real.  I 
have  known  cases  in  which  a  jury  has  ac- 
quitted merely  upon  hearing  an  accused  per- 
son tell  his  tale,  and  in  which  I  felt  perfectly 
confident  they  were  right. 

A  girl,  between  thirteen  and  sixteen,  prose- 
cuted a  hawker  for  an  offence  against  her 
under  the  act  of  1885.     He  had  no  counflel. 


OURRBNT  THOUGHT. 


215  ' 


aod  he  did  not  much  crofis-examine  her,  but 
he  gave  his  own  account  of  the  matter  in  a 
way  which  led  the  jury  to  stop  the  case  and 
declare  that  they  did  not  believe  a  word  of 
the  girl's  story.    Theoretically ,  the  two  stories 
were  no  more  tliau  an  affirmation  on  the  one 
aide  and  a  contradiction  on  the  otlier.    The 
girl  affirmed  that  the  man  had  committed  the 
oiXence  and  that  he  had,  when  charged  by 
her  and  her  mother,  admitted  it;  and  the 
mother  corroborated  her  daughter  as  to  the 
last  assertion.    The  man  deiued  the  offence* 
and  said  (and  in  this  his  wife  confirmed  him). 
that  when  the  girl  came*  to    his  house  he 
threatened  to  kick  her  out  and  prosecute  hcr^ 
More  particularly!  the  gij*l  declared  that  on  a 
particular  day  and  atia.^particular  place  the 
man  called  her  into.the.  house  and  committed 
the  offence.    The  man  gave  a  minute  descrip- 
tion of  where  he  was  and  what  he  was  doing 
on  the  day  in  question,  of  .his  having  met  the 
girl  and  scolded  or,  as  heeaUed  it,  "chastised'* 
her  for  some  fault,  and  :of  her  behavior  to 
him  on  the  occasion.    It  would  not  be  easy 
even  by  entering  into,  minute  details  to  give 
all  the  reasons  for  my  opinion,  but  I  do  not 
think  that  any  one  who  heard  this  man  give 
his  evidence  could  have,  doubted  its  eutiie. 
truth.    He. was  a  grave*  elderly  man,  with  na^ 
kind  of  special  talent,  and  with  a  slight  im- 
pediment or  imperfection  in  his  speech;  but 
all  that  he  said  had  upon  it  the  mark  of  hon- 
esty and  sincerity;  and  the. -details  which  he 
gave — through,  having  no  legal  advice,  he  waa 
not  prepared  to  prove  them. by  independent 
evidence — were  in  themselves  some  guarantee 
of  his  truthf ulaessw'    Itr  is  littlei-  less  than  a 
monstrous  denial  of  justice- that  a  man  so 
situated,  should  be  deprived  of  theopportunity 
of  tclinig  the  truth  in  his  own  behalf  under 
every  sanction  tor  his  truthfulness  that  can  be 
devised;  und  I  think  that-  nothing  but  the 
forced,  almost  inveterate  habit  could  blind  ua 
to  the  fact  —  Jcsticb  .L  F."  Stephen,  in  ThA 
KiMieenth  Century. 

[to  be  cokcluded.] 


CURRENT.  THOUGHT. 

Nbexm  or  ooR  N^vT.— Admiral  David  D.  Porter  haa 
reaiitt«d  to  the  Secretary  of  tbe  Navy  an  elaborate  Be- 


port,  embodying  nomeroofl  sof^gestions  for  promoting 
tbe  efllcieQCy  of  otur  navy.  Among  tbese  bu^estions 
is  the  following : — 

"  We  reqoire  for  the  Navy  the  following  claeeeB  of 
veaaels,  which  will  at  leaat  enable  as  to  ehow  that  we 
have  a  system,  even  if  oar  ehipB  do  not  equal  in  epeed 
those  of  foreign  Powers :  The  first  class  bhould  be  re- 
presented by  a  vessel  not  less  than  6,000  or  more  than 
7,000  tons,  Able  to  make  for  a  few  hoars  a  speed  of  1^ 
knots.  The  second  class  shoald  be  a  vessel  of  not  less 
than  4,500  or  more  than  5,000  tons,  able  to  make  for  a 
few  hours  a  speed  of  19  knots.  Vesselii  of  this  class 
shoald  serve  as  flagships  on  foreign  stations.  The 
third  c]M0  shonld  be  a  vessel  of  8,000  tons,  able  to  make 
for.  A  few  hoars  a  speed  of  18  knots.  It  may  seem  to 
those  who  have  not  closely  studied  the  question  that 
the  amount  of  speed  I  have  estimated  is  preposterous. 
It  has  been  asserted  that  the  speed  of  eighteen  and  a 
half  knots  attained  by  foreign  ships  of  war  on  their 
trial  trips  over  a  measured  mile  is  never  equaled  after 
the  vessels  are  put  in  commission.  To  this  I  must  reply 
that  such  speed  is  familiar  to  the  transatlantic  racers, 
which  attain  it  on  every  voyage.  It  is  not  probable 
that  any  war  vessel  in  the  world  coald  overtake  one  of 
these  vessels. 

THANKMimro  DAT.— Charles  Dudley  Warner  thus 
writes  in  the  JndepunderU:.— 

"Thanksgiving  Day  has  beconle  a  mnch  larger  affair 
than  it  used  to  be.  It  is  a  naUoaal  holiday  now.  Bat 
it  has  lost  some  of  its  chArftclertsti^s  in  being  spread 
over  so  large  a  surface*.  I  suppose  that  the  younger 
States  and  tfai»  aoulhem  States,  in  accepting  It,  will 
never  And  in  tt  the  flavor  it  had  a  quarter  of  a  century 
ago  in  New  England.  It  is  a  more  superficial  day  than 
it.  iis«d  to  be.  It  Is  idle  to  regret  this.  Edncatlon 
jllaelf  has  become  necessarily  more  superficial  in  be- 
coming genecaU  I  am  writing  these  lines  in  the  far 
Soath,  and  although  we  shall  have  turkey  on  Novem- 
ber 25th,  sAd  probably  many  of  the  forms  of  the  New 
J^pglanA  holiday,  I  know  that  the  turkey,  however 
easily  it  may  be  carved,  will  not  have  the  tender  as- 
sociations of  the  holiday  tarkeys  of  my  boyhood. 

^*Still,  to  me  one  of  the  chief  reasons  for  thanksgiv- 
ing in  the  year  of  grace  1808  is  that  it  is  a  Southern  as 
well  as  a  Northern  holiday.  T^en  will  go  np  all  over 
this  broad  Soath  fervent  thanksgiving  t^hat  in  the  fall 
of  slavery  we  have  a  »n'ted  conntiy.  I  do  not  suppose 
that  public  thanks  will  be  given  for  the  War,  or  any 
contrition  expressed  at  the  share  the  South  had  in  it: 
but  I  do  know  that  In  no  part  of  the  Union  are  tlie 
people,,  as  a  mass,  mars  toys);  nowhere  have  they 
greater  anlicipatioos  of  oar  destiny  as  one  people; 
and  I  do  know  that  all  thongbtfnl  people  Sonth 
unite  with  all  thoqghtful  people  North  in  rejoicing 
that  the  frightfol  specters  of  disonion  and  slavery 
'.  have  been  removed  from  oar  path.  It  is  not  only  that 
industry  and  thxift  have  sprang  np  all  over  tbe  Sontbi. 
bnl  that  a  virile  manhood  responds  to  the  call  of  one. 
national  future. 

'*6reat  problems  of  laboi  and  education  are  yet  to.be.. 
worked  ont:  time  is  required  to  marshal  the. new. 
forces ;  no  man  can  by  his  own  wisdom  lay  oat  ap^na^ 


rtf 


TfiE  LIBRART  MAGAZINE. 


fhat  shall  meet  ail  the  dlfflcnltlea ;  bni  I  am  aatonlshed. 
In  all  the  cities  I  have  visited,  at  the  educational  life 
and  the  advance  in  the  edacation  of  both  races.  When 
I  compare  it  with  the  edncationalexperience  of  Colo- 
nial New  England  in  regard  to  Its  quality  and  quan- 
tity, I  see  how  much  more  responsive  is  intellectual 
life  In  these  days  than  in  pre-revolntionary  times. 
Considering  all  the  past,  it  is  simply  a  marvel  what 
the  Southern  States  have  accomplished,  unaided,  In 
the  matter  of  education  since  the  reconstruction ;  and 
I  do  not  believe  that  in  all  our  marshaling  of  things  to 
be  thankful  for  at  this  festival  there  is  a  greater  one 
than  this. 

'^The  education  of  the  Negro  is  that  Which'  excites 
most  interest,  but  the  establishment  of  graded  schools 
of  a  high  order  in  all  the  towns  and  their  general  ex- 
cellence is  as  marked  a  featare  of  the  New  South.  In 
most  of  the  cities  these  schools  rank  with  any  but  the 
exceptionally  best  in  the  North.  To  the  problem  of 
Negro  education  there  are  two  sides.  The  danger  hai 
already  been  developed  of  educating  girls  and  boys 
out  of  any  inclination  to  do  work  for  a  living,  and  in 
many  places  this  tendency  is  now  being  counteracted 
by  the  establishment  of  schools  to  teach  special  trades 
and  industries.'' 

The  Electmo  Liohtand  ftj^wr  Growth. —Mr.  Chas. 
E.  Putnam,'  of  Davenport,  Iowa,  writes  to  SAence : 
*'The  following  item,  which  first  appeared  in  Th€ 
Democrat  of  this  city,  has  a  substantial  basis  of  fact  :— 

**  'The  light  from  an  electric-lamp  tower  in  Daven- 
port, Iowa,  falls  full  upon  a  flower-garden  about  one 
hundred  feet  away;  and  during  the  past  summer  the 
owner  has  observed  that  lilies  which  have  usually 
bloomed  only  in  the  day  have  opened,  to  the  night,  and 
that  morning'giories  have  unclosed  their -bloasoms  as 
soon  as  the  electric  light  fell  on  them.'' 

•**  'The  "  Jehney  "  system  of  electric  lighting  w'as  in- 
troduced into  this  city  early  this  past  spring,  and  across 
the  street  from  the  residence  of  Hr.  Henry  W.  Kerker 
is  situated  one  of  its  towem.  This  tower  is  125- feet 
bigh,  and  contains  five  arc  lights,  each  of  SvOOO  oandle- 
power.  During  the  past  summer,  Mr.  Karker'S  atten- 
tion wasattractellk4othe  singular  afiact  thase  lights 
fcodttced  upon  so»e<ay4iliea blooming  in  his  garden. 
Ibese  flowers  cloiied'asaught  came xm^  bat,.a»  soon  as 
the  .electric  lamps  wwe  started  up,  they  re-opened^  and 
whtt^itbe  lights  were>in  operation  •oontinued  in  full 
bloom.  As  the  street  la  about  80  feet  wide,  the  lights 
were>distant  some -400  feet. from  (he  flowers.  -Ot]i6r 
similar. observatioBahere  are  reported,  but,  as  they  are 
less  attourately  verified;  I,  >pasa  them  for  ihe  present 
withonuspeci al  mention.  * ^* 

pAiMnrsE  RE-TOUin>.~AiFEngllsb>  physician,*  Dr.  J. 
Wille,liias  Jui<t  pttt  forth  a  book  entitled  Persia  om  It 
/*,  a«a«krd!ng  to  wbiehi  that'Oonntry— after  a  little  flx- 
ingrup— 'Will  be  -a'<pe»f0Ct  Paradise.  rOne  respect  in 
whiob  tthere  is  -room  for  improvement  is  that  '*  In 
PofSia,  ithe  great  'hot-bed  of  lies  and  intrigue,  the 
man « who  does  not  lie-is  indeed  a  phenomenon."  But, 
aays!Dt.  Wills : 

.1*  jQUfigaU}>PnaU'4&aot  diange,  ti^ey  only  decay ; 


and  Persia  and  the  Penians  are  to^ay  what  they  vers 
in  the  time  of  Morier,  sixty  years  ago.  Hie  popola- 
tion  has  grown  thinner  from  misgovemment  and  the 
great  famine,  but  Southern  Persia  remains  what  it  wm, 
an  arid  desert,  waiting  only  irrigation  to  become  fer- , 
tile ;  while  Northern  Persia  is  a  land  unsnrpassed  is 
cUmate,  richneas  of  pnMluce,  and  general  capacity  for 
happiness.  The  air  is  always  dry,  bat  always  pleas- 
ant; the  land  will  yield  everything— from  wheat  to 
pineapples— in  the  same  place ;  and  so  plentiful  is 
food,  both  for  man  and  beast,  that  Persia  may  be  de- 
scribed as  'the  Paradise  of  the  poor  maa.^  .  .  . 
Here  is  a  playground  almost  nntrodden  by  the  tonriat'a 
foot .  a  land  where  hotels  are  not— or  where,  at  any 
late,  there  is  but  one ;  a  land  where  the  EaFtcm  cara- 
vanserai opens  its  hospitable  doors  to  every  man,  rich 
or  poor ;  a  land  where  one  can  travel  en  primes  or 
*  pad  the  hoof,'  aii^  live  decently  on  ninepence  a  day ; 
a  country  to  all  intents  and  purposes  the  Far  East,  yet 
touching  Europe ,  a  country  interesting  to  the  botanist 
and  nfttnralist,  for  its  rerdant  soil  teems  with  animal 
life*  its  streams  an  fnU  of  fish  inaoccnt  of  the  acts  of 
the  angler ;  a  country  of  magnificent  forests,  aboond- 
ing  with  game,  large  and  small— pheasants,  partridges^ 
wild  duck,  snipe,  bears,  wild  rlieep,  antelope,  'pan- 
there,  tigeriH^ye,  and  lions ;  a  country  where  a  ser- 
viceable horse  is  to  be  had  for  a  £lii  note,  and  when 
feed  never  exceeds  sixpence  a  day.  As  for  climate, 
perfection.  In  Persia  the  traveler  may  go  royally  with 
a  string  of  mules,  tents,  horses,  and  even  carriages  if 
be  will,  with  his  cooka  and  kitchen  and  every  kind  cif 
comfort  He  may  march  lesa  ambitiooaly,  taking  bto 
chairs  and  bedding,  his  brace  of  servants,  his  cook  and 
groom,  for  about  thirty  shillings  a  day,  and  ride  his 
own  horse  into  the  bargain.  Or  he  may  post  with  or 
without  a  servant  and  a  gnido,  tearing  along  at  the 
Eata^-ol. eight  miles  an  hour,  including  stoppages,  for 
twttpence-ha)/penny  a  mile  each  horse,  and  a  couple  of 
i«hilUngs  for  food  per  diem.  Or  he  may  even  make  a 
k  walking  tour  of  it,  marching  his  twenty  or  twenty- 
eight  miles  a>day-  with  a  caravan  ;  when,  if  he  he  e«>n* 
oaiftcal,  his  ^penses  will  be  covered  by  tenpeoce  a 
day.  He  may  cross  Persia  to  the  Persian  Gulf  on  mnlo* 
>  back  in  a  month  for  £^  10».  mule  hire,  of  for  half  that 
sum  if  he  has  a  friend  who  will  ride  and  tie.  The 
Anglo-Indian  in  search  of  *  change'  may  ride  pmt 
across  Persia  from  Boshire,  in  the  Gulf,  to  Enaelli^  on 
the  Caspian,  in  nine  to  ten  days,  if  he  be  a  determined 
fider,  at  a  cost  of  some  £l\  for  one  horse ;  if  he  takes 
a  guide,  then  about  £^.^ 


« 


RiTBKtK^  Mode  ov  Covposme.- Mr.  Buskin.  In  hia 
AvMAographys  thus  describes  his  own  method  of  liter* 
ary  working:— '^  My  literary  work  was  always  done  as 
quietly  and  methodically  as  a  piece  of  tojiestry.  1 
knew  exactly  what  I  had  got  to  say,  put  the  words 
firmly  in  their  places  like  so  many  stitches,  hemmed 
the  edges  of  chapters  round^th  what  seemed  to  me 
graceful  flonrishea,  touched  them  finally  with  my  cnn- 
ningest  points  of  color,  and  read  the  work  to  papa  and 
mamma  at  breakfast  next  morning,  as  agid  shows  her 
sampler.** 


LONOFELLOVr. 


»t7 


LONGFELLOW. 

II. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  power,  poe 
mnorl  by  Longfellow  in  bo  eminent  a  degree, 
of  making  the  melody  dependent  on  the 
thou^t,  is  a  far  higher  poetic  power  than  the 
rhyme  and  metre  power,  for  these  last  are  in  a 
seue  physical  gifts,  and  lie  in  the  ear,  or  in 
counting  on  the  Angers;  but  the  deeper  har- 
mony comes  from  a  deeper  source,  and  must 
lie  in  the  spiritual  nature  of  the  poet.  It  is  an 
£lizabetban  quality  as  opposed  to  an  Augus- 
tan quality.  Pope,  for  instance,  is  Augustan. 
His  lines  are  tied  up  in  little  bundles  sawed 
oS  to  exact  length.  He  has  one  measured 
tone  for  all  emotions,  and  consequently  is 
foroed  to  confine  himself  to  a  narrow  range  of 
feeling. 

Very  cloeely  connected  with  this  quality  of 
Longfellow's  is  his  constructive  power.    As 
kaa  been  said  of  Hawthorne,  he  had  not  only 
the  artist's  k>ve  of  beauty,  but  the  artist's 
sense  of  structure.    His  shorter  poems  em- 
body and  round  off  a  conception— they  are 
structural  wholes,  with  a  beginning,  and  a 
middle,  and  a  close,  and  a  flow  and  continuity. 
We  find  no  patch-work  oman^ts  sewed  on 
loosely,  but  each  senienoe  harmonizing  and 
fitting,  and  having  a  vital  relaUon   to   the 
theme.    It  is  true  we  do  not  find  any  of  the 
strong  dynamic  phrases  which  lie  like  un- 
hewn bioc.vs  of  stone,  half  covered  up  in 
Biowning's  verbiage,  or  scattered  few  and  far 
between  in  the  dreary  waste  of  Wordsworth'^ 
blai^  verse.      Longfellow's  blocks  are  neat 
•nd  polished,  and  fitted  accurately  to  their 
places.    His  poetic  structures  do  not  have  the 
impreasiveness  of  a  rock-hewn  Egyptian  tern- 
ple-~vague,  vast,  suggestive  of  unregulated 
power,  and  of  an  imperial  will  and  domina- 
tion;  nor  tlie  oriental   magnificence  of  the 
house  of  Solomon,  with  the  multiform  human 
activities  of  a  great  metropolis  in  its  outer 
oourts,  and  its  guarded  central  shrine  holding 
the  ark  of  the  covenant;  nor  have  they  the 
cheerful,  open-air  serenity  and  severe  outlines 
of  a  Grecian  temple;  still  less,  the  scope  and 
elevating  power  of  the  great  Gkithic  minsteis, 
wbevs  grotesque  ornamentation  and  reaefaes  of 


gloomy  ipaoe  ezpiess  the  devotion  of  a  moody 
and  earnest  race,  a  race  whose  animalism  and 
aqnrations  were  as  close  together,  and  in  as 
sharp  contrast,  as  iheir  oriel  windows,  and 
the  gargoyles  and  demons  sculptured  above 
them. 

Longfellow's    poems    are    like    wayside 
chapels,  carefully  built  by  pious  bands,  fin- 
ished without  and  within— the  floor,  a  care- 
fully fitted  mosaic,  the  walls,  garnished  with 
precious  stones  and  votive  pictures,  and  tableta 
to  the  dead  who  sleep  in  peace,  the  wh  le 
radiant  with  the  indwelling  of  a  gentle  spirit 
of  rest,  the  spirit  of  Christ,  the  Healer  and 
Consdler,  not  of   Christ,  the   Accuser   and 
Judge.    And  Longfellow's  longer  narrative 
poems  march  steadily.    The  story  in  them 
unf ulds  naturally.    Siangelins  is  as  interesting 
as  a  novel.    Try  it  on  those  acute,  imbiased 
critics,  the  children.    It  fascinates  them,  for 
there  is  Just  description  enough  to  malcea 
back-ground,  and  then  the  incidents  follow 
naturally,    and    cumulate— each   succeeding 
picture  adding  to  the  effect,  brought  in  at  Just 
the  right -time  and  dwelt  on  Just  long  enough, 
with  fine;  unconscious  art    Observe  what  a 
patch-work  most  stories  are;  how  the  chapten 
are  semi-detached  incidents,  perhaps  not  even 
complete  in  themselves,  certainly  not  integral 
parts  of  the  action;  and  how  the  tone  of  the 
style  and  the  interest  drops  instead  cf  rising  as 
the  end  is  neared.    Observe,  too,  how  tired 
one  becomes  in  reading  such  stories;  how  dif- 
ficult it  is  to  hold  one's  attention  throughout 
This  defect  in  modem  stories  comes,  no  doubt 
in  part,  from  the  fact  that  they  are  written  in 
serial  form,  and  paid  for  by  the  page,  so  thai 
there  is  no  time  for  them  to  form  organically 
in  the  artist's  mind.    We  must  have  our  fresh 
eggs  for  breakfast  every  morning,  and  cannot 
allow  to  our  domestic  fowls  any  period  for  in- 
cubation.   But,  whatever  the  reason,  if  you 
will  notice  the  difference  in  the  effect  on  the 
reader  made  by  a  well  and  ill -told  story,  you 
will   acknowledge   that   EwMffeUne   is  well 
told. 

I  do  not  say  that  Longfellow  had  the  firm 
grasp  on  a  story  as  a  whole,  and  on  its  olh 
scure  interpretations,  that  Hawthorne  had; 
but,  certainly,  whea  Hawthorne  gave 


dit 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


fellow  the  plot  of  EvangeUney  sajring  he  did 
not  care  to  use  it,  it  fell  into  hands  capahle  of 
handling  it.  The  master-necromancer  might 
have  plunged  the  figures  into  a  profounder 
gloom,  some  deeper  mystic  symbolism  might 
ha\  e  beckoued  from  the  sbadow;  the  soirow 

• 

might  have  been  more  bUter,  and  the  despair 
more  hopeless,  but  the  art  which  made  a  unity 
of  the  story  could  not  have  been  more  sponta- 
neous and  natural.  It  is  this  naturalness  of 
story-telling  which  makes  Ttt^  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field so  attractive.  Morris  is  sometimes  re- 
ferred to  as  a  great  story-teller,  but  it  seems 
to  me  that  there  is  no  story  in  The  Earthly 
Paradise  that  is  developed  so  naturally  as  the 
simple  story  of  ExangeUrhe. 

Longfellow's  h&X  claim  to  literary  power 
rests,  I  think,  on  Hiawatha.  This  poem  len( 
itself  easily  to  parody — in  fact  was  a  direct 
invitation  to  ridicule  of  a  cheap  kind — but  I 
think  it  a  poem  of  a  very  high  order.  I  have 
time  to  call  your  attention  to  but  one  or  two 
points  ot  its  excellence. 

In  the  first  place,  we  must  notice  the  great 
intrinsic  ditficulty  of  the  task.  It  was  an  at- 
tempt to  realize  in  verse  a  mythical  theory  of 
the  universe,  as  it  arose  in  the  mind  of  a  crude, 
childish  race.  All  modem  thought  must  be 
kept  out  of  the  rendition.  This  Longfellow 
has  done,  except  in  one  or  tw0- instances. 

In  the  next  place,  the  myths  in  question  are 
those  of  a  race  in  no  way  akin  to  us,  a  race 
much  more  akin  to  the  Japanese  and  Chinese 
than  to  the  Indo  Germans.  It  is  not  difficult 
for  us  to  imagine  the  frame  of  mind  which 
produced  the  Scandinavian  myths.  The  grim 
humor,  the  firm  grasp  of  the  ethical  element, 
the  underlying  melancholy,  the  pervading 
feeling  of  the  majesty  of  the  sea,  the  delight 
in  personal  conflict,  which  are  basic  elements 
in  the  poetry  and  mythology  of  the  great 
northern  race  whose  blood  flows  in  our  veins 
but  sligiitly  diluted,  find  their  response  and 
ooimterpart  in  the  modern  man.  Even  the 
myths  of  India  appeal  to  something  native  in 
us.  They  are  the  attempt  of  a  related  race  to 
express  in  concrete  form  some  answer  to  the 
great  questions.  Whence?  and  Whither?— from 
what  origin  sprang  man,  and  the  pleasant 
•arth,  and  the  Umitlets  saaT— who  are  the  mat- 


te^i^  of  this  singular  phantasmagoria?  Wt 
feel — dimly  it  may  be— but  we  do  feel  in  soma 
measure,  the  same  impelling  forces  that  tor- 
mented our  most  distant  f  r.  f  thers:  at  least 
we  can  bysjrmpathy  iii.L  ;.  v>\v  they  felt 
But  Chinese  mytbolog>\  \.  ...i  its  dragons 
swallowing  the  sun,  and  its  faulastic  array  of 
monsters,  grotesque  and  malignant,  but  not 
purposive,  appears  to  us  to  lack  eameBtnesi 
and  consecutiveness.  Indeed,  it  is  not  natur- 
ally that  we  recognize  any  elements  of  beauty 
in  Chinese  art — their  sense  of  form  is  so  much 
weaker  than  ours,  their  sense  of  color  so  much 
more  develope(^  In  the  same  way,  the  myths 
of  the  North  American  Indians  are  foreign  to 
us.  To  make  them  the  basis  of  a  work  of  art 
is  a  much  more  difficult  task  than  to  take  up 
and  embody  a  Grocian  myth.  Soutbey  found 
matter  in  the  Arabian  mytbsmuch  more  tract- 
able; but  compare  The  Gwree  of  Eehama,  or 
Moore's  Oriental  Leffend8,  or  Kingsley's  ^i>- 
dromeda,  to  Hiawatha,  Longfellow  has  made 
a  far  finer  poem  out  of  much  less  promising 
material.  He  has  done  it  because  he  possessed 
far  higher  imaginative  power. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  quote  the  original 
stories  in  Schoolcraft,  and  examine  just  how 
Longfellow  has  transmuted  them.  Indian 
ficholsrs  say  he  has  made  mistakes  in  translat- 
ing words,  but  all  who  have  any  historic  s^nse 
agree  that  he  has  given  the  Indian  spirit.  For 
he  has  taken  the  stories  into  his  mind  and 
given  them  out  again,  not  merely  re-told  them, 
but  re-created  them.  He  has  done  exacHy 
what  an  Indian  would  have  done,  had  there 
been  born  among  the  Ojibwavs  a  man  who 
summed  up  in  himself  the  race-feeling,  and 
had  the  power  to  give  it  out  again  in  arttstic 
form.  He  has  made  himself,  for  the  time  be- 
ing the  Ojibway  Homer.  Is  there  another 
instance  of  a  modem  poet  who  could  have 
done  this?  Gh)ethe  perhaps  could  have  done 
it,  but  Goethe  would  have  been  more  sub- 
jective, would  have  put  more  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  between  the  lines.  Tennyson 
has  infused  more  of  modem  life  into  any  ten 
lines  of  the  IdyU  of  the  King  than  Longfellow 
has  put  into  the  whole  of  Hiawatha.  I  admit 
that  there  are  lines  where  modem  sentiment 
inUrudss,  but  they  are  rare,  and  the  entirs  fesl 


LONGFELLOW. 


iBf  wad  moHy  of  th«  po«K  !•  Bntiqii«»  #!•- 
menUl—that  of  an  Ufaat,  iiarticulato  imoe. 
Th«  atmofphere  of  the  Oeltic  myths  aa  repro- 
duoed  in  Tennyion'a  Id^U  of  the  King,  ia  not 
exactly  modem,  though  we  cannot  help  think- 
ing that  Lancelot  and  Guinevere  and  Arthur 
would  not  be  mu6h  out  of  place  in  modem 
£ngliBh  society.  There  is,  at  least,  a  great 
deal  of  the  conventional  knight  and  lady  about 
them,  and  a  suggestion  of  modernness  through- 
out all  the  treatment. 

Now,  there  is  very  little  that  is  melodrama- 
tic in  Hiatoatha.  Longfellow  took  a  set  of 
legends  whose  inner  spirit  was  essentially 
foreign  to  the  American  mind.  He  has  given 
them  an  independent  treatment,  and  realized  a 
primitive  state  of  mind  and  an  embryonic  so- 
ciety, removed  from  us,  not  only  in  time,  but 
in  sphere  of  existence.  To  have  done  this 
implies  a  great  imaginative  and  artistic  achieve- 
ment. How  immeasurably  superior  is  his 
conception  of  savage  life  to  Cooper's!  The 
superiority  lies  not  so  much  in  the  formal  pre- 
sentation of  the  scenery,  actors,  and  the  like, 
— a  comparatively  simple  matter — ^but  in  the 
apprehension  of  the  inner  life  of  the  savage 
man,  in  which  Cooper  is  ridiculously  senti- 
mental, conventional,  and  untrue.  Whatever 
dignity  and  impressiveness  there  is  in  Long- 
fellow's poem  is  strictly  an  Indian  dignity, 
and  is  not  purchased  by  attributing  to  the 
aavago  the  reflective  and  self-conscious  quali- 
ties of  a  civilized  race. 

Mr.  Palfrey  seems  to  think  that  the  Indian 
niytha  were  entirely  destitute  of  any  moral  or 
poetic  content,  that  they  were  poor,  confused, 
jejune.  Thus  they  might  appear  to  tlie  unim- 
aginative mind,  but  it  is  impossible  that  any 
genuine  mythology  should  be  really  so.  For 
myths  are  really  embryonic  theology,  history, 
science,  and  poetry.  Every  race  gives  birth 
to  this  strange,  mystic  product,  which  becomes 
the  raw  material  for  successive  generations  of 
artists.  The  body  of  Greek,  and  Latin,  and 
Scandinavian  mythology,  the  heroic  myths  of 
''Charlemagne  and  his  Paladins,"  of  **Arthur 
and  his  Knights,"  the  religious  "Myths  of  the 
Middle  Ages,"  are  all  of  them  very  significant 
outcomes  of  the  race-imagination.  The  great 
kady  of  loeal  tradition  is  hardly  less  so.    No 


poet  of  gnat  name  is  independent  of  thesa. 
Mythioal  'history  is  the  i)sld-ground  of  the 
ei^e,  which  constitutes  in  weight  and  dignity, 
if  not  in  balk,  three-qiiarters  of  imaginative 
literature.  Longfellow  had  the  eye  for  the 
true  value  of  the  Indian  myths,  and  the  pontic 
instinct  to  recast  them  in  harmony  with  their 
essential  spirit. 

A  second  but  minor  point  is,  that  Longfel- 
low has  realized  perfectly  the  tone  of  the 
Northwestern  Lake  Country.  The  forest  he 
describes  is  the  Northem  forest.  The  moon 
is  the  Northern  moon — the  cold  moon  of  Lake 
Superior.  It  is  almost  impossible  to  believe 
that  he  had  not  been  there,  so  truly  does  he 
reproduce  the  impression  made  by  that  vast 
and  cheerless  region.  Some  early  familiarity 
with  the  forest  of  Maine  must  have  aided  him 
in  embodying  the  sentiment  of  a  kindred  land- 
scape. In  his  descriptions  of  the  lake  there  is 
no  hint  of  the  majesty  and  haunting  mystery 
of  the  ocean.  He  instinctiyely  felt  the  differ- 
ence in  the  impressions  made  on  us  by  the 
Atlantic,  and  by  a  great  inland  sea.  And, 
again,  the  Indian's  relation  to  the  wild  tilings 
— to  the  heron,  the  crow,  the  squirrel,  the 
wild  goose — ^is  truly  conveyed. '  Instead  of 
the  humorous  tenderness  of  the  Teutonic  mind 
toward  the  bmte  creation,  we  have  a  sense  of 
personal  acquaintance  with  a  fellow  denizen 
of  the  woods.  Over  all  is  a  suggestion  of  pa- 
tient waiting,  of  vast  reaches  of  forest,  of  the 
limited,  apat]^etic  life  of  the  little,  isolated 
Indian  village,  with  its  dumb  fragment  of  a 
race  doomed  to  extinction;  whose  evolution 
has  reached  its  possibilities,  and  droops  in  its 
downward  curve. 

Our  modem  language  is  so  full  of  associa- 
tions from  our  modem  life  and  culture,  such 
words  as  "home,"  "country,"  "people," 
"hearth-fire,"  have  a  meaning  in  our  minds 
so  much  fuller  than  that  which  they  have  in 
the  minds  of  an  undeveloped  and  stationary 
race,  of  a  race  profoundly  foreign  to  all  our  as- 
pirations and  ambitions,  that  none  but  a  great 
imaginative  artist  can  re-create  the  aspect 
of  nature  and  the  "social  milieu"  which  was 
their  environment,  as  Longfellow  has  done. 

A  third  striking  point  in  Longfellow's  han^ 
dling  of  these  Indian  myths  is  the  boldness 


THE  LIBRABY  UAQA2JNK 


'mth  which  he  puam  from  the  mystical  chir> 
acter  of  hit  hero  to  hii  heroic  charator.  In 
some  of  the  legeodi  Hiawatha  if  thought  of  ai 
a  demigod,  io  othen,  aa  a  human  heco.  An 
inferior  literary  artiat  would  have  endeaTored 
to  harmonize  theee  conoeptiona,  would  have 
made  HiMwatha  leoa  mythological  at  first,  and 
more  idealized  in  the  later  cantos.  He  would 
have  striven  for  unity  of  oonceptiou.  But 
these  very  incongruities  are  an  essential  char- 
acteristic of  the  Indian  mind,  which  lacks 
definiteness  of  apprehension  of  the  line  be- 
tween the  natural  and  the  supernatural,  in 
fact  of  any  moral  or  mental  lines.  Their 
mental  operations  are  essentially  lawless  and 
unregulated.  A  disregard  for  the  unity  of 
character  which  would  have  been  shocking  to 
the  Qreek  mind,  is,  therefore,  native  to  the 
races  which  have  leas  sense  of  artistic  balance. 
The  human  character  of  Hiawatha  is  a  beau- 
tiful conception;  original,  no  doul>t,  with 
Longfellow,  in  its  detail,  though  a  careful 
study  of  the  original  ^myths  would  be  neces- 
sary to  determine  how  far  he  is  indebted  to 
them  for  the  hints  they  give.  The  sickness 
aud  death  of  Minoehaha  is  conceived  and  told 
in '  a  strain  of  the  purest  pathos,  as  far  re- 
moved from  realism  as  from  sentimentality. 
The  wintry  scene,  the  steadfast,  dull  endur- 
ance of  the  Indian,  and  the  deadly  enemies  of 
the  race— Famine  and  Feyer — so  powerfully 
personified,  compose  a  striking  picture,  em~ 
bodying  a  strictly  original  treatment  (^  the  old 
themes,  suffering  and  death:-^ 

**0  the  long  and  dreary  Winter! 
O  the  cold  aad  crael  Winter! 
Erer  thicker,  thicker,  thicker, 
Froze  the  ice  on  lake  and  river, 
JBrer  deeper,  deeper,  deeper. 
Fell  the  anow  o'er  all  the  land4cape« 
F^U  the  covering  snow  and  drifted 
Thzt>agh  the  foreat,  ronnd  tke  Tillage.  .  . 

O  the  famine  and  tk^feverl 
O  the  wactlng  of  the  famine! 
O  the  blasting  of  the  fever! 
O  the  wailing  of  the  children! 
O  the  angniah  of  the  womenl 

Ml  the  earth  waa  aick  and  famiahed, 
Hnngrj  waa  the  air  aroand  them, 
fiongry  wat  the  aky  above  them, 
And  the  hungry  atara  In  heaven 
like  tihe  eyea  of  wolves  glared  at  thea. 


Into  Qlawathav  wlgwaa 
Came  two  other  gneeta,  aa  aileiit 
Am  the  ghotta  were,  and  aa  gloomy. 
Waited  not  to  be  invtted, 
IXd  not  parley  at  the  doorway. 
Sat  there  without  word  of  welcome 
In  the  aeat  of  Laoghing  Water; 
Looked  with  haggard  eyea  and  hollow 
At  tlie  face  of  Laoghing  Water. 

And  the  foremoat  aaid:  'behold  mel 
I  am  Famine,  Bukadawinr 
And  the  other  said,  'Behold  me! 
I  am  Fever,  Ahkaaewin  !*.... 

Forth  Into  the  empty  foreat 
Bathed  the  maddened  Hiawatha; 
In  hla  heart  waa  deadly  Borrow, 
On  bia  face  a  atony  finnneaa; 
On  bia  brow  the  sweat  of  angniab 
Started,  bat  it  froze  and  fell  not  .... 

*Gitche  Kanito,  the  mighty  1* 
Cried  he  with  his  face  nplifled 
In  that  bitter  hour  of  anguish, 
*Oive  yonr  children  food,  O  Father! 
Give  na  food  or  we  most  perithi 
Qive  me  food  for  Minnehahai 
For  my  dying  Minnehaha!^ 

Through  the  far-resoanding  foreat, 
Through  the  foreat  vast  and  vacant 
Bang  that  cry  of  deaolation; 
But  there  came  no  other  anawer 
Than  the  echo  of  bia  crying,    > 
Than  the  echo  of  the  woodlands,— 
•Minnehaha!    Minnehaha!'  .... 

• 

Over  snow-field,  waste  and  pathlea% 
Under  snow-encumbered  branchea,  * 
Homeward  harried  Hiawatha, 
Bmpty-handed,  heavy-hearted; 
Heard  Nokom^  moaning,  wailing, 
*WahonowinI    Wahonowinl 
Would  that  I  had  perished  fOr  yon. 
Would  that  I  were  dead  aa  yon  ara. 
Wahoaowin!    Wahonowln!' 

And  be  rushed  into  the  wigwam. 
Saw  the  old  Nokomis  slowly 
Rocking  to  and  fro  and  moaning. 
Saw  hie  lovely  Minnehaha 
Lying  cold  and  dead  before  him. 

Then  he  sat  down  cold  and  apeecbleaa 
On  the  bed  of  Minnehaha, 
At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water, 
At  thoae  willing  feet,  that  never 
More  would  lightly  ran  to  meet  him. 
Never  more  would  lightly  follow.^* 

With  this  brief  and  unsatisfying  extract, 
and  these  brief  and  imperfect  hints,  I  niuit 
dismiss,  for  the  present,  the  ooi]sideratio&  ol 
the  great  American  poem. 

The  idea  of  force  and  power  is  not  usually 
associated  with  that  of  graosful  felifiit/.    Bit 


LONOFBLLOlf. 


ttl 


for  tbk  reaicm,  I  think,  that  youni^  men  some- 
timet  f«el.  uoconiciouily,  perhftpt,  that  Long- 
fellow was  too  conTentionallj  correct  to  be  a 
trustworthy  ethical  guide,  j net  as  they  some- 
times shrink  from  a  thoroughly  cultured  and 
elegant  person  as  from  one  not  quite  sincere. 
And,  too,  the  immense  amount  of  sentimental 
laudation  with  which  the  press  was  flooded 
after  hia  death,  gave  some  of  us  a  distaste  for 
him.     He  pleased  so  many  people  that  it  was 
a  mark  of  superiority  to  be  indifferent  to  his 
artistic  merit    It  was  felt  tliat  he  must  be  a 
sort  of  glorified  Mrs.  Hemaus — a  person  who 
bad  never  been  subject  to  temptation,  and 
whose  relation  to  some  of  the  great  facts  of 
life  must,  of  necessity,  be  iirtificial.    Such  a 
feeling  is  essentially  wrong,  and  unworthy  a 
Kbolar.     The  scholar's  pride  and  exclusive- 
neas  is  the  most  hateful  of  all  forms  of  pride; 
far  more  so  than  the  pride  of  money,  which  is 
simply  fantastic  and  harmless;  in  fact,  too 
pitiable  to  be  irritating.    What  we  need  in 
America  is  the  instincts  of  the  people  in  the 
beart  of  the  scholar;  and  till  a  man  feels  some 
portion  of  sueh  sympathy  he  cannot  be  said 
to  be  educated.    On  the  contrary  he  is  re 
pressed.    Longfellow  had  some  of  this  quality, 
and  he  was  certainly  very  much  more  than  a 
correct  and  graceful  person,  both  as  an  artist 
and  as  a  thinker.    Art,  whether  poetic,  plastic, 
or  pictorial,  is  now  in  many  regards  so  essen- 
tially realistic  and  heathen,  so  unmoral,  not  to 
Bay  immoral,  that  we  must  be  grateful  for  an 
artist  to  whom  it  was  ideal,  and  informed 
with  the  gentle  spirit  of  Christian  brother- 
hood 

The  main  characteristic  of  Longfellow  is  not 
ao  much  grace  as  balance.    There  is  nothing 
forced,  or  exaggerated,  or  outre  about  him. 
Thus,  his  yer^,  his  dress,  his  manner  of  life, 
Mb  appearance,  were  all  in  perfect  harmony. 
All  were   deorous  and  graceful;   no  loose 
eQds,  no  angles,*  no  Berserker  rages,  no  pro- 
found discontent,  no  rebellion  against  usage, 
nothing  startling,  yet. nothing  affected.    His 
orderly  life,  his  lovely  home,  his  charming 
Snmp  of  daughters,  his  gentle,  reflective  in- 
tellect, are  all  in  keeping.    He  illustrates  the 
groat  power  of  sweetness  and  serenity,  and  of 
harmony  between  the  soul  and  its  environ- 


ment. There  are  many  qnestlons  he  never 
asks,  many  doubts  that  torment  the  sons  of 
men  that  never  trouble  htm.  He  looks  on  the 
bright  side  of  life.  or.  if  he  casts  a  glance  into 
the  darker  shadows;  he  soon  turns  his  eye 
away,  as  from  something  he  cannot  under- 
stand, the  enlightenment  of  which  he  is  con- 
tent to  leave  with  €k>d.  Are  not  many  who 
called  Longfellow  superficial  and  shallow, 
forced,  after  vain  years  of  rebellion  and  de- 
spair, on  to  the  same  ground? 

Certainly  Longfellow  is  an  optimist,  but  as 
little  of  an  Epicurean  as  of  a  Stoic,  for  the 
philosophy  of  Epicurus  was  at  best  a  subli- 
mated materialism,  and  the  philosophy  of  Zeno 
naturally  degenerates  into  a  superb  indiffer- 
entism,  though  both  produced  some  noble 
characters,  representing  as  high  types  as  un- 
aided humanit^^  can  show.  And  if  we  do 
miss  in  our  poet  the  highest  note,  the  trumpet- 
call  to  duty,  or  the  pathetic  minor  of  despair, 
we  must  remember  that  the  great  orchestra  is 
made  up  of  instruments  of  different  sympa- 
thetic qualities,  and  that  no  one  can  echo  the 
entire  range  of  the  heavenly  harmony. 

On  returning  from  Longfellow's  funeral 
Mr.  Emerson  said, '  'That  gentleman  we  buried 
to-day  was  a  sweet  and  gentle  soul,  but  I  can- 
not recall  his  name."  On  the  clouds  that 
were  settling  on  that  radiant  intelligence,  the 
^ure  light  of  Longfellow's  personality  re- 
mained, a  luminous  image,  distinct  in  the 
gathering  darkness.  He  bad  forgotten  the 
years  of  converse  and  mutual  cheer  that  had 
made  the  name  of  Henry  Longfellow  a  house- 
hold word  to  him,  but  fading  memory  retained 
the  impression  of  a  sweet  and  gentle  soul— his 
spiritual  brother,  younger,  but  more  tender, 
more  human.  If  the  clouds  of  oblivion  which 
precede  national  dissolution  ever  roll  between 
America  and  the  past,  we  wiU  always  be  able 
to  recall  Longfellow's  name,  for  he  was  n(H 
only  a  "sweet,  gentle  soul,"  but  a  true  poet, 
and  the  woild  does  not  forget  the  names  of  its 
poets.  For,  to  quote  Mr.  Emerson's  words 
called  out  by  another  death: — 

''WhatoTerls  excellent, 
A«  Ood  11  Tea,  Is  permanent** 

— Okakijm  F.  Jobicbok,  in  T%m$  Ammimm 
and  Three  EngUthmen, 


THE  LIBRAHT  MAGAZINE. 


THE  HUMORS  OF  KERRY. 

1  have  OD  a  former  oocMion  fiTen  specimaDB 
tot  the  quaint  wording  of  petitionB  for  medical 
aflsifitance  or  pecuniary  aid.  Here  is  a  literal 
transcription  of  a  document  lying  before  me 
as  I  write,  which  is  tjpical  of  the  literature  of 
rustic  supplication : — 

**  RxT.  81B,— I  hope  yon  remtMsr  I  being  talking  to  yon 
In  last  Thaecday,  about  the  charitable  aaaiatanoe  to- 
ward the  damage  done  to  me  by  the  lightening.  So 
irben  ,f  oox  Kct.  read  the  memorial  yon  told  me  to  come 
In  two  daya  time  and  that  yon  would  give  me  one 
poand  eo  I  came  in  Baaterday  and  yoa  were  after  leav- 
ing the  day  bef orCf  so  I  Lope  yoar  Bev.  arrived  home 
MLfe.  (to  I  will  expect  from  your  Bev.  that  yon  will 
lend  it  by  poet  to  me,  aa  it  waa  my  own  fanlt  not  to  go 
for  it,  the  day  your  Kev.  told  me— aa  it  la  aa  big  Char- 
ity as  wae  ever  done,  aa  it  waa  the  will  of  Providence 
to  leave  me  in  ench  a  need  aa  I  am  at  present,  bnt  Ood 
•pare  the  geutlemen  of  the  place  th^have  done  a  great 
deal  for  me  ^t  PresazO.— I  am  yoo^bedient  Servant, 


It  is  hard  to  say  which  is  tlie  more  charac- 
teristic feature  of  the  foregoing  letter — its  ia- 
coDsequent  reasoning  or  its  fatalism. 

The  allusion  to  charity  reminds  me  of  a 
curious  commentary  whi(^  is  furnished  byan 
Irish  exproteion,  upon  the  text  "  He  that  giveth 
to  the  poor,  lendeth  unto  the  Lord. ' '  Not  leog 
Ago,  as  I  was  driving  along  the  Glengarriff 
f  oad,.  I  was  solicited  by  an  old  man,  well 
Imown  to  tourists,  for  a  oontribuHon  to  enable 
iiim  to  rebuild  his  cottage.  When  I  reminded 
4iim  that  he  had  been  making  the  same  request 
for  a  good  many  years,  and  had  nothing  to 
showior  the  donations  enlesed  in  his 'book,  he 
fwaxed.  eloquent  on  his  miseries,  and- wound  up 
Jby  exclaiming  that  he  had  nothing  ataU  but 
Ood  MnUghty  in  the  middle  fffihe  road,  mean- 
ing the  alms  of  the  passer-by.  On  the  last  two 
occasions  on -which  I  have  taken  this  road,  the 
4>ld  man  was  ncit- forthcoming  ;  but  his  plaee 
«ras  taken  by  a  number  of  little  barefooted 
boys  and  girkf  each  with  a  wild  flower  or 
4)eeu4o-Eillamey  fern  in  his  or  her  hand. 
AViiile  atill  at  a  distanoe  from  them,  I  said  to 
my  driver,  "ChUdien  going  home  ftt>m«school, 
I 'Suppose?"  on  which  he  replied.  "No,  sir, 
but  ihey^  hunting  the  day-car  for  book- 
jaoney,"  which  being  interpreted  means  that 
tMSf  were  lying  in  wait,  for  the  dailj.  teuciit- 


car  which  plies  between  Olenganiff  and  Kft- 
lamey.  in  order  to  ask  the  passengers  for  pi» 
nies  "to  buy  a  lxx>k,'*  for  in  this  ingenious 
way  have  they  been  taught  to  ootot  with  the 
plea  of  a  thirst  for  Information  what  is  too 
often  their  parents'  thirst  for  whisky. 

The  most  extraordinary  demand,  however, 
that  lias  come  within  the  range  of  my  expe- 
rience was  that  of  a  woman  who  begged  for  a 
subsidy  to  replace  tlie  funds  expended  in 
"waking"  licr  mother,  "for,"  as  she  added, 
"if  we  did,  \vc  \saked  her  too  soon,  for  slie 
came  to  life  again." 

From  illegitimate  I  pass  to  legitimate  de 
mands,  some  of  which  are  often  exoeedingU 
diverting.  A  peculiarly  comic  effect  is  pro 
duced  in  sonie  of  tliem  by  the  use  of  a  oertain 
condensed  form  of  speech,  exactly  similar  to 
that  called  of  grammarians  "brachyology." 
Instances  of  this  flgi:re  are  supplied  by  the 
cobbler's  bill— "For  soling  and  lieeling  Master 
Charles ; "  better  still  by  the  charge — I  forget 
of  how  much — "for  welting  the  mastber  aad 
turning  up  Miss  Kitty."  The  accompanying 
document  shows  that  even  a  Kerry  butcher  is 

capable  of  a  fine  epistolary  style :  "Mrs. , 

Please  te  h»ve  me  paid  for  tho  killingK>f  ten 
sheep  at  the  moderate  charge  of  6d,  each, 
which  is  equal  to  5  shillings.  And  FU  feel 
much  pleasure  in  remaining  your  ever-faithful 
servant,  Timothy  McGiUyouddy. " 

It  is  a  peculiarity,  of  the  Iridi  peasant  that  he 
iias  <a  way  of  irresistibly  Uckling  your  sense  of 
the  ridiculous  jsisi  at  the  very  moment  when 
you  ace  most  anxious  to,  exhibit  your  sym- 
pathy. Our  boatman,  who.  lost  his  brother  a 
few  years  twdk,  was  giving  me  some  aoeount 
of  the  latter's  last  illness,  in  whidi  he  sorely 
tried  ny  ^gravity  by  saying,  *  *  He  had  an  air  j 
fit,  'yer  honor,  and  then,  saving  your  presence, 
he  was  very  sick  in  Mb  shtonach."  What  an 
"airy  fit"  exactly  means,  I  have  not^eon  able 
to  discover ;  but  I  have  ascertained  that  it  is  s 
mysterious  seizure,  akin  to  a  "f airy  stroke, " 
^hich  has  set  some,  of  us  wondering  whether 
"-airy*'  might  not  possibly  be  the  same  as 
"eerie."  Against  this  must  be  set  the  fact 
that  I  can  think  of  no  other  instance  where  es 
Is  pronounced  in  this  fashion.  But  the  bslitf 
ki.iairies  is  deeply-Jooted  in  theKecry  pstf- 


PRISONERS  AS  WITNESSES. 


O0> 


fotry,  aft  eyery  resident  knows,  and  manifustt 
itself  in  a  strong  disinclination  to  discuss  tlie 
subject,  or  to  visit  lonely  spots.  We  have 
often  thought  what  a  perfectly  effectual  means 
of  stopping  orcUard-Fobbing  oould  be  devised 
by  han^Dg  up  an  ^Eollan  harp,  but  somehow 
never  carried  ont  the  design.  In  some  of  these 
statements  of  Uieir  ailments  by  the  peasantry, 
the  picturesque  element  lesides  in  a  single 
word.  A  woman  came  to  our  door  this  sum- 
mer, and,  on  being  interrogated,  explained  as 
follows  :  **I'm  a  poor  lame  craytuse,  and  I've 
lost  the  footing  from  under  me. '  *  More  forci- 
ble was  the  declaration  made  quite  recently  to 
our  neighbor  opposite,  by  an  applicant  for 
help:  "I  had  three  children,  yer  honor; 
but,  by  ganoies,  the  chincough  pinned  wan  of 
them!"* 

While  I  am  talking  of  ailments  and  com- 
ments tbereon,  J  cannot  refrain  from  'giving 
an  anecdote  from  another  part  of  the  country, 
but  which  is  well  authenticated.    A  landlord 
noted  for  his  bulkof  person  was  lying  serious- 
1)'  ill.  and  one  cff  his  tenants,  who  came  to  in- 
quire after  "the  masther,"  was  informed  that 
he  was  being  kept  up  l^  the  occasional  ad- 
ministration    of    teaspoonfuls    of    brandy. 
Whereon  be  rejoined  somewhat  contemptuous- 
ly:  **  Ikyipoon^  is  it  ?    And  what  good  would 
a  tsyspoon  be, 'Sthraying  abont  in^such  a  wil- 
derness of  a  man  r '   The  Irish  -peasant,  though 
apt  to  be  long  winded  at  times,  is  ^capable  oti 
occasion  of  summarizing  theeituation  in  singu- 
larly terse  fasfaion.    A  landlord  showed  ^me 
lately  a  letter  he  had  received  from  *a  former 
tenant,  now  in  Australia,  in  ^hieh  there  oc- 
cnrred  the  fdliowing  passage  :    **  Theve  are 
more  men  idle  in  Sydney  than  there  is  in 
T-^  flock,  iookingfar  tpork  and  praying  O^ 
not  to  §et  it,  but  loafing  around  froni  one  pub- 
lic- L  ouse  to  another; '"    Again  tbo  expression 
made  use  of  by  a  Kerry  gamekeeper  to  describe 
the  ascent  of  a  steep  green  slope-namely,  that 
"  one  wu  aiin*  grass  aUlhewty** — has  always 
struck  me  as  a  singularly  vivfd  picture  of  the 
relative  positions  of  dimber  and  hill-side. 

But  a  fondness  for  fine  words  and  expansion 
is  more  frequently  observable  than  the  -epi- 
pavmatic  vein  illustrated  above.  One  of  onr 
ahartti,  who  aftarward  bacaaae  ajaost  an- 


cient member  of  the  London  police,  went  over 
to  Italy  to  join  the  Pope's  brigade  In  1800« 
and  on  his  return  presented  my  father  with  the 
diary  he  had  kept  during  his  absence.  I  have 
this  literary  effort  in  my  possession,  and  wlU 
extract  from  it  one  sentence :  '*  We  visited 
St.  Peter's  Church,  and  I  can't  presume  the 
idea  of  giving  an  adumbration  of  its  beauty." 

Of  Irish ''  bulls  "  Lhave  notencoimtered  any 
good  specimen  of  late.  The  story  of  the  priest 
who  prays  weekly  "  for  the  mainland  of  Val- 
«ntia  and  all  the  iidjaoent  Britiiih  isles  "is,  I 
suspect,  apocryphal. 

Finally,  let  me  wind  tip  my  letter  with  an 
anecdote  of  an  incident  whidi  occurred  at  a 
dfe  ini  Dublin.  My  brother,  who  was  iunong 
the  spectators,  heaid  from  time  to  time  a  voioe 
as  of  a  womf^  wandering  about  among  the 
|;roWd,.  and  crying  aloud  in  pitiful  aooeniB, 
"'Ochi  Mff.  MoCormick,  Mm.  HcOormick!*' 
At  last  the  wanderer  discovered  the  object  of 
her  search,  and  as  it  happened  to  be  iniiis  im- 
mediate jieighborhood,  he  4lstened  with  great 
attention  for  the  urgent  commimication  she 
.had  to  make.  His  feelings,  therefore,  majf 
■weU  be  imagined  when  he  heard  the  good  lacfy 
exclaim,  "  Och !  glory  be  to  Gtod,  Mrs.  Mc- 
€k>rmick,'we  shall,  all  be  burnt  in. our  beds 
Ihis  night  1  "—2^  Bpeeiaitr. 


PRISONIUS  AS  WITNiefiM. 

«. 

"ft  ought-not,  however,  to  "be '  forgotten  that 
the  opening  of  the  moulhsof  prisoners  opens 
a  way  to  falsehood  as  well  as  to  truth,  and 
•oometimes  to'  falsehood 'which  It  is  difflcuh  at 
the  moment  to  unmask.  I  hvre  known  cases 
in  'Which— as  it  appeared  to  me— 'failurea  of 
justice  have  occurred  because  the  prisoner, 
either  from  artfulness  or  from  mere  blunder- 
ing, kept  back  till  the  last  moment  some  m«fe 
'or-less  spedons  topic  of  defence,  and  brought 
'it  out'  at  -last  when  -  it  was  too  late  to  test  4he 
matter  pioperly. 

Three  soldiers  were  iried  for  a  rape,  which 
«o  ^  doubt  was  eommitted.  The  evidoMi 
agolast  perhaps  tih«^«nost-promhMBt«f 


m 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINB. 


WW  that  he  had  a  bugle  upon  which  he  re* 
paatodly  blew  while  the  crime  was  being 
committed,  the  whole  party  being  probably 
more  or  less  in  liquor.  He  swore  positively, 
and  with  many  piteous  appeals,  that  he  was 
not  only  innocent,  but  that  it  was  physically 
impossible  for  him  to  blow  upon  a  bugle  be- 
cause he  had  lost  his  front  teeth,  which  loss 
he  exhibited  to  the  jury.  Seyeral  persons  in 
court,  and  one  of  the  jurymen,  professed  to 
be  acquainted  with  playing  on  the  bugle,  and 
one  of  them  swore  to  his  conviction  that  it 
was  in  fact  physically  impossible  that  the 
prisoner  sliould  play.  The  jury,  upon  this, 
acquitted  all  the  thiee  prisoners,  thinking,  no 
doubt,  that  a  failure  in  the  identification  of 
one  of  the  three  greatly  shook  4he  evidence 
against  the  other  two.  I  was  afterward  in- 
formed that  the  bugle  was  actually  taken 
from  the  man  on  his  return  to  the  barracks 
shortly  after  the  offence.  Whether  I  was 
rightly  informed  I  cannot,  of  course,  say;  but 
the  prisoner  imdoubtedly  by  keeping  his  de- 
fence back  to  the  last  moment  and  then  bring- 
ing it  unexpectedly  before  (he  jury  got  an 
advantage  whidi  he  assuredly  ought  not  to 
have  bad. 

This  trick  of  keeping  back  a  defence  is  one 
of  the  most  dangerous  to  public  justice  whicli 
could  be  played  by  persons  accused  of  crime. 
I  have  known  many  cases  of  it,  and  I  think 
it  is  well  worthy  of  consideration  whether, 
before  their  oommittal,  priaoners  ought  not  to 
be  examined  before  the  magistrates,  and 
whether  a  power  of  adjournment  might  not 
be  intrusted  to  judges  when  such  points  are 
raised,  in  order  that  they  ought  be  properly 
dealt  with. 

It  would  be  of  little  use  or  interest  to 
multiply  these  stories.-  It  is  enough  to  say 
that  they  show  clearly,  in  respect  at  all  events 
of  ooe  particular  dais  of  crimes,  that  the 
evidence  of  an  accused  person  resembles  that 
of  any  other  witness  in  all  essential  respects — 
that  is  to  say,  its  value  varies  from  case  to 
case  accorditt(>  to  circynatanoes.  In  thei»s6 
of  a  man,  truthful,  resolute,  with  a  good 
memory  and  adequate  •ponwr  of  expreasion, 
Hia  gnat,  and  may,  under  droamatanftaa,  be 
daiiaiv.    In  other  eaaaa  it  Is  of  laaa  Impor- 


tance ;  in  many  hwtaneea  it  is  pncUcaSij  el 
no  more  use  than  a  bare  plea  of  not  gully; 
and  this,  I  think,  is  more  than  enough  to 
show  that  it  ought  never  to  be  excluded,  bnt 
in  all  cases  be  taken  for  whatever  it  may  be 
worth. 

I  have  already  observed  up<»  the  circum- 
stance that  the  numerous  exceptions  to  the 
general  rule  of  law  which  have  now  been  in- 
troduced into  it  make  the  law  an  absurdity. 
It  is  impossible  to  justify  both  the  rule  and 
the  exception.  But  this  is  not  the  only  ob- 
servation which  arises  upon  the  present  state 
of  the  law.  Another  is,  Uiat  the  class  of 
crimes  as  to  which  the  most  important  excep- 
tion to  the  rule  which  incapacitates  priaonen 
as  witaesses  is  made  is  far  from  being  the  one 
in  which  that  rule  is  most  likely  to  be  mis- 
chievous. In  regard  of  offences  of  an  in- 
decent character  there  is.  as  a  rule,  a  plain 
well-marked  question  of  fact.  Were  certain 
things  done  or  not,  and  was  the  prisoner  the 
man  who  did  them?  But  in  respect  of  crimes 
against  property  this  is  not  the  case.  Such 
offences  are  often  complicated  transactions, 
full  of  details,  of  which  different  views  may 
be  taken  and  different  accounts  giren,  on  the 
special  nature  of  which  depends  the  question 
of  guilt  or  innocence.  A  case  of  th^,  false 
pretences,  embezzlement,  or  fraudulent  bank- 
ruptcy will  often  turn  upon  matters  in  which 
it  is  of  the  utmost  importance  that  the  pris- 
oner should  be  examined  and  cross-examined. 

I  remember  a  case  in  which  a  prisoner  was 
tried  for  embezzlement  He  was  defended 
by  counsel,  and  was  convicted.  When  called 
upon  to  say  why  he  should  not  be  senteneed, 
he  gave  an  account  of  the  transaction  whidi 
his  counsel  had  never  auggeeted,  but  which, 
on  questi<Miing  the  witnesees  who  had  testified 
against  him,  appeared  to  be,  to  say  the  very 
least,  so  highly  probable,  that  the  jury  desired 
to  withdraw  Uieir  verdict,  and  instead  to  ra- 
tum  a  verdict  of  not  guilty,  which  was  done. 
This  was  an  illustrative  case,  and  one  of  con* 
siderable  interest.  It  shows  both  the  etnmg 
«nd  the  weak  sides  of  the  proposed  change  in 
the  law.  It  shows  its  strong  aide,  beoauae  it 
givea  an  instance  in  whidh  a  man  waa  mmHoM 
by  triUng  his  own  story  to  aaci^^  from  what 


PUSONEHS  A8  WITNESSES. 


226 


would  presamablj  haye  been  an  unjast  oon- 
Tiction.  It  shows,  or  rather  suggests,  its 
weakness,  because  it  shows  how  great  an  op- 
portunity the  examination  of  prisoners  might 
afford  for  artfully  contrived  frauds  and  eva- 
sions of  justice. '  Each  of  these  observations 
requires  some  development 

To    take    the  strong  side  first.     It  must 
always  be  borne  in  mind  that  the  business  of 
prosecuting  and  defending  prisoners,  though 
in  some  respects  the  most  important  branch 
of  legal  business,  is  the  least  important  of  all 
if  it  is  measured  in  money,  and  that  it  is  in 
many  cases  in  the  hands  of  the  lowest  class 
of  solicitors  and  the  least  experienced  class  of 
barristers.     A  great  criminal  trial,  in  which 
the  prisoner  has  plenty  of  money,  and  in 
which  the  prosecution  is  conducted  by  the 
Treasury,  is  susceptible  of  little  improvement, 
but  the  case  with  the  common  run  of  criminal 
business  is  totally  different    If  the  prisoner 
is  not  defended  at  all,  he  may,  and  often  does, 
fall  into'  every  kind  of  mistake.    He  may 
have  a  good  defence,  and  not  know  how  to 
avail  himself  of  it.    He  may  be  shy  and  ill- 
instructed,  and  not   put   it  forward  at  the 
proper  time.    He  is  probably  not  aware  of  his 
rights  in  respect  to  the  calling  of  witnesses, 
and  may  therefore  not  be  prepared  with  them 
at  his  trial.    If,  on  the  other  hand,  he  is  de- 
fended, he  is  in  all  probability  in  the  hands 
M  a  solicitor  of  the  lowest  class,  to  whom  he 
and  his  friends  probably  give  some  very  small 
sum,  say  £2  or  £8.    The  solicitor  gets  froifl 
tke  olerk  to  the  magistrates  a  copy  of  ths  de- 
positions, puts  on  the  back  of  tbem  a  sheet  of 
paper  indorsed  "  Brief  for  die  pristiser,  Mr. 

,  sne  guinea,''  pays  some  Junior  oounsiBl 

£1  ftv.  6tf.,  and  tsUs  him  that  the  nature  of 
the  ease  appears  from  the  depositions.  The 
ceonsel  does  as  well  as  he  can  upon  his  ma- 
teriali,  repeating  with  more  or  less  energy  and 
ingenuity  the  commonplaces  appropriate  to 
the  occasion,  and  making  ths  most  of  what- 
t?er  he  may  have  been  able  to  obtain  by  cross- 
examination.  Ths  result  is,  that  if  ths  case 
of  a  pauper  dient  prssssits  any  intricacy  or 
leqvixss  any  tpssial  atlsntioa,  it  is  rsry  apt 
to  be  Mismanafsd  and  misundsntood.  I  have 
■t  Asttbt  that  in  ths  osss  of  smbesilsmont  to 


which  I  have  referred,  something  like  this  had 
happened.  The  prisoner's  counsel  was  a  busy 
and  able  man,  he  had  obviously  no  instruc- 
tions which  deserved  the  name,  and  I  suppose 
knew  nothing  about  the  case  beyond  what  the 
depositions  told  him  and  what  the  prisoner 
could  tell  him  in  a  few  hurried  unintelligible 
whispers  from  the  dock,  and  so  he  exposed  his 
client  to  an  imminent  risk  of  conviction. 

From  dangers  of  this  sort  prisoners  would 
be  effectually  protected  by  being  made  com- 
petent witnesses.  They  would  be  sure,  at  all 
events,  of  telling  their  own  stories,  and  if  ths 
Judge  was  competent  and  patient,  of  having 
them  understood. 

In  order  to  appreciate  the  importance  of 
this  it  is  necessary  to  bear  in  mind  the  fact 
that  it  is  often  exceedingly  difficult  to  undet- 
stand  prisoners,  and  to  appreciate  the  real 
nature  of  what  they  have  to  say^  and  also  that 
it  is  quite  essential  to  justice  that  they  should 
be  understood,  and  lastly  that  far  the  eaaiesi 
and  safest  way  of  doing  this  is  by  questioning 
them.  A  prisoner,  generally  spealdng,  is  an 
ignorant,  uneducated  man,  dreadfully  fright- 
ened, very  much  confused,  and  almost  always 
under  the  impression  that  the  judge  and  jury 
know  as  much  about  his  case  as  he  does  him< 
self,  and  are  able  at  once  to  appreciate  what 
ever  he  says  about  it,  although  what  he  has  to 
say  consists  mainly  of  imperfect  allusions 
which  he  do^  not  explain. 

I  remember  a  case  in  which  five  or  six  men 
were  tried  for  wounding  A.  with  various  in- 
tents, also  for  wounding  B.  with  various  in- 
tents, also  for  being  armed  by  night  in  search 
of  game.  The  defence  of  some  of  them  was 
that  two  partis  of  poachers  set  out  at  nigbi 
togsthsr  in  company ;  that  at  a  certain  point 
they  separated,  one  having  a  white  dog  with, 
them  and  the  other  what  they  called  a  red 
dog;  that  after  they  separated  the  party  with, 
the  white  dog  met  ihe  keepers  and  police,  and 
committed  the  different  offences  with  which 
all  were  charged,  whereas  the  party  with  ths 
red  dog  had  nothing  to  do  with  them.  The 
men  were  tried  three  separate  times  on  the 
three  charges  I  have  msntioned.  It  was  oply 
by  dsgrees  that  they  sueesedsd  ia  m^ku 
thsir  dsfencs  intelli|^bto.    At  tkt  ixtt 


n 


226 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZmE. 


the  onlj  hint  given  of  it  was  by  one  of  the 
red  dog  party  who  asked  one  of  the  witnesses 
the  color  of  the  dog  he  said  he  had  seen  with 
the  men  whom  he  identifie4.    The  witness 

said  it  was  white.     ''That's  a lie,"  said 

the  prisoner,  **it  were  red."  Not  a  word  was 
said  to  explain  in  any  way  the  meaning  of  the 
question  or  the  importance  of  the  answer. 

It  requires  a  good  deal  both  of  patience  and 
experience  to  understand  and  disentangle  the 
stories  which  the  prisoners  often  set  up.  At 
an  assize  held  a  few  months  ago,  a  good  many 
of  the  prisoners  took  it  into  their  heads,  to 
write  their  defences,  and  to  ask  thai  they 
might  be  read  to  the  jury. .  They  were  strange 
compositions,  but  it  was .  usually  possible, 
though  difficult,  not  only  to  extract  from 
them  an  intelligible  defence,  but  to  examine 
the  witnesses  by  the  help  of  it  in  such  a  way 
as  to  test  its  truth.  One  prisoner  I  remember, 
who  was  charged  with  theft,  made  bitter 
complaints,  by  way  of  an  irregular  cross-ex- 
amination, about  his  wife,  his  sister,  and 
several  other  person.  In  his  mouth  these 
coraplaints  and  reproaches  were  wholly  un- 
intelligible, thanks  to  the  combined  effects  of 
ignorance,  confusion,  fear,  and  anger;  but  I 
found  it  possible  by  giving  him  hints,  which 
I  must  own  were  questions  in  all  but  form, 
to  find  out  what  he  really  meint,  which  was 
that  the  charge  against  him  was  h  false  one, 
got  up  from  base  motives,  and  founded  up- 
on the  misrepresentation  of  innocent  actions. 
The  jury  thought  the  defence  Important  en- 
ough to  Justify  his  acquittal.  If  he  could 
have  been  called  as  a  witness,  the  matter 
would  have  bmp  arranged  much  move  clearly 
and  satisfactorily. 

In  cases  of  this  kind  I  have  no  doubt  that 
it  would  be  in  the  highest  degree  conducive 
to  justice  to  make  prisoners  competent  wit- 
nesses; but  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  pris- 
oners are  not  always  needy  or  ignorant.  They 
ore  in  many  cases  thoroughly  well  aware  of 
their  XK)Aition  and  are  well  provided  with 
money  and  with  the  professional  assistance 
which  money  will  procure.  It  certainly  is  to 
W  feared  that  in  such  a  case  a  prisoner  would 
W  so  well  advised  as  to  his  potifion,  and  as  to 
Ike  stroBg  and  weak  poiBts  of  kis  oaae,  .t^t 


he  would  be  able  in  the  witness-box  tm  Ur 
with  skill  and  effect.  I  tliink  tl&at  thk,  ea 
pecially  in  capital  cases,  would  be  dangerow 
to  the  interests  of  justice.  It  may  be  tap- 
posed  that  legal  advisers  would  be  too  hon- 
orable to  devise  lies  for  their  clients  to  teU« 
and  I  feel  no  ioubt  that  honorable  mea 
would  not  say  openly  and  crudely,  "You 
must,  in  order  to  save  your  life,  swear  this  or 
that. "  I  do  not  believe  ho  would  do  so,  but 
I  have  no  doubt  that  in  the  course  of  the 
preparation  of  the  case  the  client  would  be 
made  full  aware  of  its  weak  as  well  as  its 
strong  points.  He  would  be  told  -where  his 
danger  lay.  He  would  be  asked  to  give  ex- 
planations on  this  point  and  that,  he  would 
be  asked  whether  such  and  such  persons 
might  not  be  able  to  testify  on  such  and  such 
point  and  he  would  in  practice  require  no 
more. 

It  must  also  be  remembered  that  people  de 
not  in  real  life  repose  absolute  confidence  la 
their  legal  advisers,  nor  are  they  pressed  to 
do  so.    As  a  rule  they  put  before  their  ad- 
visers as  good  an  account  of  what  has  hap- 
pened as  circumstances  permit,  acd  l«>ave  ii 
to  the  lawyers  to  put  the  matter  into  shape. 
The  best  proof  of  this  is  to  be  found  in  the 
evidence  given  by  the  parties  ia  civil  actions. 
In  nearly  every  civil  action  the  parties  contra- 
dict each  other,  more  or  less,  generally  oo  the 
vital  parts  of  the  case.    Lut  I  think  It  woold 
1)e  unjust  to  throw  the  blame  on  the  soliciton 
or  on  the  counsel,  though  no  doubt  the  evi- 
dnce  given  is  a  good  deal  influenced  by  the 
light  which  the  parties  get  from  their  legal 
advisers  as  to  their  legal  position,  and  the 
bearing  upon  it  of  particular  facte  if  estab- 
lished.   In  cases  where  life,  liberty,  and  char- 
acter were  at  stake,  I  have  no  doubt  contra- 
dictions  would  1)ecome  more  pointed,  and  Uie 
provision   of   false  or   misleading  evidence 
more  artful  and  complete.    I  have,  in  short, 
little  doubt  that,  if  prisoners  were  made  com- 
petent witnesses,  there  would  be  a  considerable 
increase  in  perjury.     The  same  thkig  was 
predicted  as  a  natural  consequence  of  tl^  ad- 
mission of  the  evidtnoe  of  partial  in  elfil 
actions,  and  I  hava  aa  Aaabt  thai  tfat  pfpkmf 
has  been  fulfilled. 


PRISONERS  AS  WITNESSES. 


d27 


Few  actions  are,  in  my  experience,  tried  in 
tlM  Superior  CJonrti  of  England  and  Wales 
in  which  there  is  not  a  good  deal  of  rash  and 
false  swearing,  and  in  a  large  proportion  there 
is  willful  perjury— that  is  to  say,  false  evi 
dence  which  cannot  be  accounted  for  either 
hy  rashness  or  prejudice  or  bad  memory.    I 
do  not  suppose,  however,  that  any  one  would 
wish  to  reimpoee  the  old  restrictioDS  upon 
evidence  which  made  the  parties  to  a  suit  in- 
competent as  witnesses.    After  all,  courts  of 
justice  only  shew  Uie  national  veracity  as  it 
ii;  they  do  not  make  it  what  it  is.    False  evi- 
dence of  every  kind  might  at  once  be  put  an 
ead  to  absolutely  by  shutting  up  the  courts; 
but  if  they  are  to  be  open,  people  must  take 
what  they  get  in  the  way  of  evidence.    I  do 
not  think,  however,  it  can  be  denied  that  the 
duqge  suggested  would  in  fact  greatly  multi- 
ply perjury,  and  it  is  to  be  feared  that,  unless 
jttrieB  cotild  be  got  to  harden  their  hearts 
ssainst    accused    persons   and   their  oaths, 
wrong  acquittals  would  become  even  com- 
moner than  they  are.    Jurors  are  usually  ig- 
norant, good-natured   men,  quite    unaccus- 
tomed to  the  administration  of 'justice,  and 
willing  to  receive  any  plauMble  statement  con- 
listent  with  a  prisoner's  innoeence  as  being 
enough  at  least  to  raise  a  reasonable  doubt  on 
the  subject 

If  the  change  in  question  should  be  made, 

it  wou^d,  I  think,  be  necessary  to  modify  the 

old  doctrine  about  proving  beyond  all  rea- 

lonable  doubt  the  guilt  of  an  accused  person, 

for  it  would  be  a  matter  of  moral  certainty 

that  whenever  a  plausible   story  consistent 

with  innocence  could  be  devised,  the  prisoner 

would  swear  to  it  and  find  others  to  help  him. 

My  experience  upon  tUs  part  of  the  subject 

h  taken  rather  from  the  civil  oourts  than  from 

Actual  experience  in  criminal  cases,  for  it 

is  noticeable  that  in  the  many. scores  of  cases 

which  I  have  tried  and  to  whieh  the  rule  of 

eridencelaid  down  by  the  Act  of  1885  applies, 

the  accused  person  has  in  every  case  been  too 

p(H>r  to  be  able  to  make  full  use  of   the  re- 

■ouroes  which  the  act  Uiys  open  to  people 

who  have  money  and  are  well  advised.    If  it 

b  tnit,  whltii  I  do  aot  believe,  that  the  crimes 

•CiilMt  mlMk  1k9  CMaaiMl  JmtfM  Act  is 


directed  are  principally  committed  by  rich 
men,  it  is  also  true  that  only  Aose  exceptional 
cases  in  which  they  are  committed  by  the 
lowest  and  most  brutal  rufflans  come  in  o 
court.  I  think,  however,  that  Uie  experi- 
ence of  the  Dfvorce  Court  would  confirm 
what  I  have  said,  both  sui  to  the  neoeaiity  of 
allowing  the  parlies  to  a  suit  to  be  competent 
witnesses,  and  as  to  the  practicaUy  irreslBtible 
nature  of  the  temptation  to  perjury  which 
their  competency  provides. 

There  is  one  point  on  which  the  public  nat- 
urally feel  much  anxiety  as  to  the  examina- 
tion of  prisoners,  and  on  which  I  think  the 
experience  of  trials  under  the  Criminal  Law 
Amendment  Act  throws  great  light.  Nothing 
has  operated  so  strongly  as  the  example  of 
France  in  causing  the  public  to  view  with 
distrust  and  reluctance  the  proposal  to  make 
prisoners  competent  witnesses.  .It  has  been 
said  that  nothing  which  could  be  gained  in 
the  way  of  additional  evidence  by  the  exam* 
ination  of  prisi^ners  could  compensate  for 
what  would  be  lost  by  a  diminution  of  dignity 
in  the  whole  proceeding,  and  by  placing  the 
judge  in  an  attitude  of  hostility  to  the  pris- 
oner. With  this  I  entirely  agree.  The  en- 
actment in  English  courts  of  the  kind  of 
scenes  which  frequently  occur  in  French 
courts,  apparently  without  exciting  any  par- 
ticular complaint,  would  certainly  completely 
alter  the  whole  character  of  our  administra- 
tion  of  Justice;  but  I  think  that  it  may  be 
clearly  proved  by  experience  that  the  conse- 
quence apprehended  would  not  follow  in  fact, 
sind  it  is  not  difficult  to  explain  the  reason 
why  it  would  not  follow. 

As  to  the  fact  we  have  already  abundant 
experience.  Since  the  parties  to  a  civil  suit 
were  made  competent  witnesses  in  1851,  no 
complaint  has  been  made  that  they  are  worse 
treated  than  other  witnesses.  Notoriously,  in- 
deed, they  are  treated  in  exactly  the  same 
way,  and  those  who  are  familiar  with  the 
{Mutual  practice  of  the  courts  will,  I  think, 
agree  with  me  in  the  opinion  that  in  the 
course  of  the  present  generation  the  treatment 
of  witnesses  has  become  gentler  than  it  used 
to  be,  or,  at  all  events,  simpler  and  mors 
direct.    ▲  wmmi$t  faiMaftee  e^  Iht  waj  fm 


296 


THB  LIBRARY  MAQAZINE. 


which  partieB  to  an  action  are  treated^  and 
one  which  haa  a  clo^pr  reaemblance  to  what 
may  be  expected  in  criminal  casea  than  the 
oommon  run  of  ci?il  actions,  ia  afforded  by 
the  Divorce  Court.  In  no  class  of  cases  are 
equally  strong  feelings  excited,  in  none  is 
perjury  of  the  most  artful  kind  more  conunon 
or  sturdy  and  determined;  but  I  do  not  know 
that  it  is  fdleged  (my  own  experience  on  the 
subject  is  too  small  to  be  worth  mentioning) 
that  the  parties  to  divorce  suits  are  treated  in 
the  witness-box  with  unfairness  or  cruelty. 
Certainly  no  imputation  of  any  want  of  dig- 
nity or  impartiality  has  been  thrown  on  the 
distinguished  judges  who  have  presided  in 
that  court.  If  this  is  so^  what  reason  is  there 
to  fear  that  prisoners  should  be  worse  treated 
in  the  witness-box  than  the  parties  are  treated 
in  civil  cases  or  in  divorce  suits  ? 

In  the  trials  in  which  accused  persons  are 
competent  witnesses  I  have  not  observed  the 
smallest  tendency  to  such  treatment.  I  should 
say  that  prisoners  were  cross-examined  rather 
too  little  than  too  much.  In  particular  I  have 
hardly  ever  heard  a  prisoner  cross-examined 
to  lus  credit  as  to  previous  convictions. 

As  to  the  reasons  of  this,  they  are,  I  think, 
plain  enough  to  any  one  who  is  acquainted 
with  the  spirit  of  the  system  and  the  nature 
of  cross-examination.  An  English  criminal 
trial  is  from  first  to  last  a  question  between 
party  and  party,  and  the  position  of  the  judge 
is  one  of  real  substantial  indifference,  in  which 
he  has  neither  any  interest  nor  any  vanity  to 
gratify  by  the  prisoner's  conviction.  This 
interest,  such  as  it  is,  is  always  in  favor  of  an 
acquittal,  wliich  frees  him  from  the  exercise  of 
a  painful  and  embarrassing  discretion,  and  the 
only  questions  which  he  has  occasion  to  ask, 
either  of  the  witnesses  or  of  the  prisoner,  are 
such  as  tend  to  throw  light  on  points  in  the 
case  which  for  any  reason  are  left  in  obscurity. 
In  cases  where  the  prisoner  is  poor  and  unde- 
fended this  is  a  most  important  function, 
which  at  present  is  often  discharged  imper- 
fectly, under  great  difficulties,  or  not  at  all* 
as  I  have  already  sufficiently  shown.  In  cases 
in  which  a  prisoner  is  competently  defended 
tl^a  Judge  would  as  a  rule  be  not  only  able  but 
wilUif  tm  lit  atiUMd  liatM,  Jaaviag  tha  rt- 


sponaibliity  of  sifting  the  facts  to  thpae  whose 
natural  and  proper  duty  it  is  to  sift  them. 
As  for  cross-examination  by  counsel,  many 
false  impressions  prevail.  People  who  take 
their  view  on  the  subject  from  actual  experi- 
ence are  well  aware  that  counsel  of  any  ex- 
perience never  try  to  to  prove  their -case  by 
cross-examination.  In  respect  to  prisoners, 
counsel,  in  my  experience,  usually  reganl 
their  duty  as  done  ivhen  they  have  committed 
the  prisoner  to  contradicting  witnesses  not 
likely  either  to  commit  perjury  or  to'  be  mia- 
taken.  I  have  indeed  been  greatly  struck 
with  the  moderation  and  brevity  with  ^Lich 
prisoners  have  usually  been  cross-examined 
before  me.  I  think  indeed,  as  I  have  ailready 
said,  they  have  been  cross-examined  rather 
too  littlo  than  too  much. 

A  French  criminal  trial — ^and  it  is  from  the 
reports  of  French  trials  that  English  people 
get  the  notions  unfavorable  to  the  examina- 
tion of  prisoners  which  commonly  prevail — ii 
quite  a  different  process  from  an  English  one, 
and  proceeds  from  entirely  different  princi- 
ples.. It  is  in  its  essence  an  inquiry  into  the 
truth  of  a  charge  brought  forward  and  sup- 
ported by  public  authority,  and  the  duty  of 
the  judge  is  rather  to  inquire  than  to  direct 
and  moderate.  His  examination  of  the  pris- 
oner is  directed  to  this  object,  and  the  result, 
no  doubt,  is  to  produce  scenes  much  at  vari- 
ance with  what  our  notions,  founded  as  they 
are  upon  principles  and  on  practice'  of  an 
entirely  different  kind  approve.  It  is  no  part 
of  my  present  purpose  to  compare  the  two 
systems,  or  to  criticise  either  of  them.  It  is 
enough  to  say  that  there  is  no  danger  that  a 
change  in  the  procedure  of  the  English  sys- 
tem, made  in  exact  conformity  not  only  with 
its  principles,  but  with  the  practice  already 
established  and  in  use  in  a  large  and  impor- 
tant class  of  cases,  should  introduce  among 
us  what  strike  us  as  the  defects  of  a  system 
founded  upon  and  administered  according  to 
totally  different  principles. 

One  point  which  appears  to  me  of  great 
practical  importance  in  the  matter  of  the  evi- 
dence of  prisoners  is  that  proviaion  should  be 
made  for  their  being  examined  as  witaessss 
More  tk«|r  are  eoauutlt<  as  wail  aa  at  tUr 


PRISONERS  AS  WITNESSES. 


tiiaL  There  cannot  be  a  greater  pledge  of 
truthfulness  and  good  faith.  It  is  a  common 
form  for  lolicitors  to  advise  their  clients,  when 
as^ed  before  their  committal  whether  they 
wish  to  say  anything,  to  answer,  "I  reserve 
my  defence."  How  far  this  may  be  a  con- 
venient coarse  in  the  case  of  a  guilty  person 
I  do  not  say,  bat  in  the  case  of  an  Innocent 
person  who  has  a  true  and  substantial  defence 
to  rely  upon  it  is  a  great  advantage  to  be  able 
to  say,  "This  defence  of  mine  is  not  an  after- 
thought, it  is  what  I  have  said  all  along.  It 
is  what  I  gave  my  accusers  notice  of  as  soon 
as  I  had  an  opportunity."  An  alibi  in  par- 
ticular is  greatly  strengtheneQ  if  it  is  set  up  at 
once,  and  that  for  many  reasons.  In  the  first 
place,  such  a  course  gives  tlie  prosecution  an 
opportunity  of  making  inquiries  and  testing 
the  evidence  of  witnesses.  In  the  second 
place,  the  evidence  of  the  witnesses  is  less 
open  to  attack,  either  on  the  ground  of  a 
failure  of  memory  or  on  the  ground  of  subse- 
quent contrivance. 

It  is  more  difficult  to  say  how  this  desirable 
result  is  to  be  obtained.  One  way  of  doing  it 
would  be  to  make  the  accused  person  not 
merely  a  oomretent  but  a  compellable  wit- 
ness at  every  stage  of  the  inquiry;  to  author- 
ize the  magistrates  or  the  prosecutor  before 
the  nmgistrates  to  call  him  as  A  witness;  and 
to  provide  that  unless  he  gave  evidence  at 
the  trial  his  deposition  might  be  given  in  evi- 
dence. This  course  would  no  doubt  be 
effectual,  and  I  do  not  myself  see  why  it 
should  not  be  taken.  I  can  understand,  how- 
ever, that  there  might  be  a  feeling  against  it. 
It  might  be  regarded  as  oppressive,  and  it 
might  not  improbably  invest  a  certain  number 
of  police  officers  with  a  discretion  which  they 
are  not  fit  to  exercise.  It  is  not  uncommon 
for  officers  of  the  police  to  act  as  prosecuting 
solicitors  in  some  parts  of  England  and  Ire- 
land, and  it  may  be  well  that  such  an  addition 
to  their  powers  would  be  objectionable.  In 
matters  of  this  sort  the  popularity  of  the  law 
is  more  Important  than  an  increase  of  its 
•tficlsncy,  unless  the*  increase  of  its  efficiency 
is  very  great  indeed.  It  is,  however,  impor- 
tist  to  obtain  as  general  as  possible  a  reoogai- 
Kmi  ef  tke  &•!  tluit  ta  ksi|^  hUk  a  dsf  «ot  is 


a  suspicious  thing,  and  that  to  bring  it  forward 
on  the  first  opportunity  is  the  strongest  pledge 
of  sincerity  and  truthfulness  that  can  be 
given'. 

One  point  doaely  connected  with  this  sub- 
ject is  the  propriety  of  adding  to  the  perma^ 
nent  and  general  law  a  provision  to  the  same 
effect  as  that  one  which  lately  proved  so  use- 
ful in  Ireland  for  the  detection  and  suppres- 
sion of  systematic  crime — power,  namtly,  to 
the  police  authorities  to  hold  an  inquiry  upon 
oath  with  a  view  to  discover  the  authors  of  a 
a  crime,  although  no  one  may  have  been 
charged  with  it.  It  was  one  of  the  proposals 
of  the  Orimioal  Code  Commission  of  1876 
that  such  a  power  should  be  given,  and  a 
clause  to  that  effect  was  introduced  into  the 
Criminal  Code  which  that  oommission  pre- 
pared. Upon  general  grounds  I  cannot  un- 
derstaad  the  objection  to  such  a  measure. 
The  practice  exists  in  most  parts  of  the  world, 
and  in  England  the  principle  is  recognised 
by  one  of  the  oldest  of  our  Judicial  institutions 
— the  coroner *s  inquest.  Of  its  utility  for  the 
discovery  of  crime  it  is  necessary  only  to  refer 
to  the  case  of  the  murder  of  Lord  Frederick 
Cavendish  and  Mr.  Burke.  It  is,  of  course, 
possible  to  lament  that  discovery,  but  there 
can  be  no  question  at  all  as  to  the  means  by 
which  it  was  brought  about.  With  regard  to 
all  questions  of  the  ref  onn  of  the  criminal  law, 
whether  In  regard  to  the  rules  of  evidence 
or  otherwise,  it  must  never  be  forgotten  that 
those  who  fear  that  the  criminal  law  may  be 
applied  to  themselves  or  their  friends  for  polit- 
ical offences  of  which  they  do  not  morally 
disapinrove  do  not  wish  to  see  the  efficiency 
of  its  administration  increased. 

For  these  various  reasons  I  think  that  the 
old  rule  as  to  the  exclusion  of  persons  accused 
of  crime  from  competency  as  witnesses  ought 
to  be  entirely  abolished,  and  that  criminal 
and  dvil  proceedings  should  so  far  be  put 
upon  the  same  footing.  It  would,  however, 
be  wrong,  in  advocating  such  a  measure,  not 
to  point  out  (me  inevitable  consequence.  It 
is  a  consequence  which  has  already  been  in- 
curred in  respect  of  all  civil  proceedings,  and 
which  I  believe  to  be  neariy  inseparable  from 
all  impravwMnH  ift  Hm  kw.    Then  «re  ia 


2W 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


all  legal  prooeedings  two  interesU  which  are 
diametrically  opposed  to  each  other,  though 
their  oppoaitiozi  ia  for  Uie  most  part  concealed, 
because  its  existence  is  one  of  those  disagreea- 
ble truths  which  no  one  likes  to  admit.  They 
are  goodness  and  cheapness;  either  object  may 
bo  attained,  but  not  both.  Up  to  a  certain 
point  it  is  no  doubt  possible  to  combine  and 
promote  the  two  objects  at  once.  If  you  have 
a  system  at  once  inefficient  and  costly,  a  sys- 
tem in  which  fees  are  imposed  at  every  step 
for  the  purpose  of  providing  for  useless 
officials,  it  is  no  doubt  possible  to  increase 
efficiency  and  economy  at  the  same  time  by  a 
reduction  of  estabiishmenta  and  alterations  in 
tlie  law.  This  state  of  thinKs  did  at  one  time 
exist  to  a  considerable  extent  in  regard  to 
litigation  in  England,  and  it  was  possible  to  get 
the  work  better  done  at  a  less  cost  by  proper 
alterations,  but  even  al  that  time  reforms 
usually  were  found  to  mean  increased  expen- 
diture i.i  the  long  run ;  and  I  think  that,  in 
regard  to  the  administration  of  justice,  the 
question  in  most  (4kscs  is  whether  new  elabo- 
rations are  worth  the  price  paid  for  ihem.  I 
have  a  very  decided  opinion  that  in  civil  cases 
the  procedure  in  the  4}resent  day  is  too  elab- 
orate, though  some  recent  efforts  have  been 
made  for  its  simplification,  I  hope  with  suc- 
cess. I  do  not  think  tliis  is  so  with  regard  to 
criminal  justice.  A  certain  number  of  crim- 
inal trials  are  still  dealt  with,  not  unfairly, 
not  hastily,  but  without  that  degree  of  care 
to  find  out  the  truth  which  ought  to  be  em- 
ployed in  every  case  in  which  liberty  and 
character,  and,  indeed,  a  man's  whole  pros- 
pect of  leading  a  respectable,  prosperous  life, 
may  be  at  stake,  but  which  an  ignorant  un- 
advised man  cannot  be  expected  to  employ 
for  himself.  Many  circumstances,  some  of 
which  I  cannot  now  remember,  have  produced 
a  conviction  in  my  mind  that,  if  the  whole 
truth  were  known,  it  would  be  found  that 
many  crimes  are  not  so  simple  as  they  look, 
and  that  prisoners  might  often,  if  fully  ex 
amined,  bring  to  light  facts  which  would  set 
their  conduct  in  an  unsuspected  light.  This, 
I  think,  would  certainly  lengthen  trials  and 
might  tend  to  complicate  them  cansiderably. 
UaleaB  aone  means  ware  taken  to  secure  the 


taking  of  the  prisoner's  evidence  fully  befocs 
the  magistrates,  it  would  in  all  probability 
lead  to  the  raising  of  false  issues  before  juries, 
and  make  oocasicmal  adjoummenta  for  the 
purpose  of  sununoning  new  witneseea  neces- 
sary, and  thus  in  various  ways  give  a  good 
deal  of  trouble  to  all  the  parties  ooncemed ; 
but  I  think  it  would  contribute  largely  to  the 
faime  s  of  the  ultimate  result,  and  this  is 
the  main  thing  to  consider. — .Tuarics  J.  F. 
Stsphsm,  in  Ths  Nineteenth  Century, 


WILLIAM  BARNES,  THE  DORSET 

POET. 

At  this  time  of  day,  and  with  the  example 
of  the  French  ** Classics*'  before  us,  it  need 
not  be  urged  that  sustained  finish  ia  not  the 
first  claim  to  classical  rank;  yet  sustained 
finish,  in  passages  at  least,  is  one  of  the  in- 
variable notes  of  such  claim,  for  absolute  and 
unlabored  finish  is  the  natural  accompaniment 
of  those  full  floods  of  poetic  passion  which 
come  upon  all  true  poets,  at  least  in  roomeots. 
In  such  happy  flood^tidcs  the  best  words  will 
take  their  best  order  in  the  best  meters  with- 
out any  sensible  effort;  but  in  most  poets  these 
outpourings  are  rare  indeed,  though  a  consci- 
entious worker  will  sometimes  conceal  their 
rarity  by  spending  so  much  time  and  labor 
upon  the  comparatively  uninspiied  context  of 
passages  inspired  that  his  whole  work  will  be 
upon  the  same  level  of  verbal  beauty,  and  the 
delighted  peruser  will  find  nothing  to  remind 

him  that  easy  reading  's  sometimes  d d 

hard  writing  There  have  been  few  poets 
who  have  worked  with  such  conscientiousncsB, 
and  the  reward  of  such  work  is  far  off,  for 
"the  crowd,  incapable  of  perfectneas."  sre 
more  moved  to  admiration  by  the  alternation 
and  contrast  of  good  with  bad  than  by  that  of 
different  kinds  of  exoellence.  Tnis  disquali- 
fication for  immediate  recognition  is  equally 
shared  by  another  and  still  rarer  order  of  poet 
—he  who  is  tl)e  ideal  ''classic,"  he  in  whose 
every  verse  poetic  feeling  breathes  in  words 
of  unlabored  perfection. 

I  should  hMiiali  to  deeiara  ny  MM  that 


WILLIAM  BARNES,  THE  DORSET  POET. 


281 


William  Barnes,  the  "Donet  Poet/'  who 
died  on  the  7th  of  October,  1886,  belon£;8  to 
this  order  did  I  not  know  that  my  belief  is 
shared  by  judges  of  authority  more  estab- 
lished than  mine,  one  of  whom — a  well-known 
and  grave  and  cautious  speaker  and  writer — 
went  so  far  as  to  say  in  my  hearing,  ' '  There 
has  been  no  such  art  since  Horace."  This 
Ba^ng.  of  course,  implies  no  sort  of  compari- 
Bon  of  the  poetiy  of  Barnes  with  that  of 
Horace.  It  simply  means  that  in  both  alike 
thoughts  and  feelings  are  expressed  and  inci- 
dents related  and  represented  with  the  most 
dainty  x)erfection;  neither  does  it  imply  that 
Barnes  is  nearly  so  great  a  poet  as  many  an- 
other whose  average  display  of  art  has  been 
incomparably  less.  Burns,  for  example,  who 
like  Barnes,  is  a  poet  of  the  first  water,  lyit 
not  of  the  first  magnitude,  is  peiliaps  better 
at  his  best  than  the  Dorset  poet,  though 
greatly  inferior  to  him  in  evennciss  of  quality; 
and  permanent  fame  is  right  in  her  usual 
practice  of  judging  a  poet  by  his  best,  even 
when  there  is  not  much  of  it,  and  in  rarely 
admitting  quantity  as  a  main  factor  of  her 
calculation.  That  which  is  o(  the  greatest 
value  in  every  true  artist  is  his  style,  and  that 
may  be  conveyed  almost  as  effectively  in  fifty 
pages  as  in  five  hundred. 

The  absolnte  preeminence  of  style  above 
all  other  artistic  qualities  seems  not  to  have 
been  sufflcientljr  preceived  or  at  least  insisted 
upon  by  critics,  and  a  few  words  on  that  sub- 
ject are  therefore  proper  in  a  notice  of  a 
writer  whose  individuality,  though  it  may 
not  be  so  forcible,  is  more  clearly  and  deli- 
cately pronouncisd  than  jf  is. in  any  other  poet 
of  our  day.  That  the  proper  study  of  man- 
kind is  man  expresses  a  truth  which  Pope  had 
scarcely  tenderness  and  subtility  enough  of 
intellect  to  feel  in  its  fullness.  Some  one  has 
better  expressed  the  same  thought  in  the 
words,  "  Every  soul  is  a  celestial  Venus  to 
every  other  soul.*'  As  the  human  face,  the 
image  of  the  soul,  is  incomparably  the  most 
beautiful  object  that  can  be  seen  by  the  eyes, 
the  soul  itielf  is  the  supreme  interest  and 
attraction  of  the  intellectaal  vision ;  and  the 
variety  of  this  interest  and  attraction  is  only 
limited  by  tht  number  of  those  who,  in  action, 


manners,  or  art,  are  endowed  with  the  faculty 
of  expressing  themselves  and  their  inherent 
distinction,  which,  could  it  be  fully  displayed, 
would  be  found  to  be  absolutely  imique  im 
each  person.  In  that  shadow  of  the  soul, 
the  face,  some  glimpse  of  this  fundameutal 
uniqueness  is  always  apparent,  no  vice  or 
power  of  custom  being  enough  altogether  to 
quench  it.  In  manners,  though  singularity  is 
common  enough,  it  is  very  rasely  the  clear 
and  expressive  outcome  of  the  individual  life. 
When  it  is  so,  it  constitutes  "distinction,'*  as 
It  is  well  called.  In  art,  in  which  singularity 
is  also  common,  this  living  uniqueness  is 
exceedingly  rare  iudeed,  and  it  is  what  is, 
rightly  again,  called  "genius,"  that  is,  the 
manifestation  of  the  inward  man  himself. 
It  has  been  said  that  he  alone  who  has  no 
style  has  true  style.  It  would  be  better 
to  say  that  he  who  has  no  manner  has  the 
first  condition  of  style.  As  theologians  alfirm 
that  all  a  man  can  of  himself  do  toward  ob- 
taining positive  sanctity  is  a  negative  avoid- 
ance of  the  hindrances  of  sin,  so  style,  the 
sanctity  of  art,  can  only  appear  in  the  artist 
whose  ways  are  purged,  in  the  hour  at  least 
of  effective  production,  from  all  mannerism, 
eccentricities,  and  selfish  obfuscation  by  the 
external  life.  These  evils  are  so  strong  and 
the  individuality  of  nearly  all  men  so  weak, 
that  there  is  about  as  much  chance  of  any 
particular  child  turning  out  to  be  capable  of 
style  In  art  as  there  is  of  his  being  able  to 
fight  the  battles  of  Kapoleon  or  to  lead  the 
life  of  St.  Francis.  There  have  been  whole 
nations— «f  which  the  American  is  most  nota- 
ble— which  have  nev^  attained  to  the  pre- 
duccion  of  a  single  work  of  art  marked  by 
true  style;  and  in  bo  woman,  so  far  as  I 
know,  has  this  interior  uniqueness  been  able 
to  express  itself  in  any  higher  way  than  "dis- 
tinction** of  personal  manners. 

Now  a  man*s  true  character  or  Individu- 
ality lies,  not  in  his  intellect  but  in  his  love, 
not  in  what  he  thinks,  but  what  he  Is.  The 
"light  that  lighteth  every  man"  is,  in  every 
man,  the  same  in  k)nd,  though  not  in  degree; 
he  is  essentially,  ^differentiated  from  other  mem 
by  his  Ipy^^  .  Old  writers  bore  this  in  mind 
when   they,. «aed.  the   words  "spirit"    anA) 


2S3 


THE  LIBRART  IIAGAZINB. 


"  genius ;"  what  they  called  ipirit  we  now 
oall  art  or  talent.  "L'eaprit  est  le  Dieu  dea 
instans,  le  gdnie  eat  le  Dieu  des  ages,"  says 
Fr.  Lebrun.  So  far  are  these  from  being  the 
same  that  a  man  may,  like  Herrick  or  Blake, 
be  little  better  than  a  blank  in  intellect,  yet 
be  full  of  the  dainty  perfume  of  his  peculiar 
love,  while  a  colossus  of  wit  and  understand- 
ing may  be  as  empty  as  a  tulip  of  the  odor  of 
thnt  sanctity;  for  a  sort  of  sanctity  it  really  is, 
always  containing  as  it  does  some  manifest 
relic  of  that  infantine  innocence  which  nearly 
all  men  have  trodden  under  foot,  or  laughed 
to  death,  or  otherwise  lost  touch  of,  before 
they  wore  out  of  their  teens.  This  peculiar 
faculty,  or  rather  yirtue,  which  alone  confers 
true  style  upon  the  poet,  is  as  often  as  not, 
nay,  more  often  than  not,  the  grace  of  those 
whom  even  ordinarily  clever  men  look  down 
upon,  and  justly  from  their  point  of  view,  as 
' '  little  ones. ' *  Little  ones  they  mostly  are,  but 
their  angels  behold  the  face  of  their  Father, 
and  the  words  of  the  least  of  them  is  a  song 
of  individuiU  love  which  was  never  heard 
before  and  never  will  be  heard  again. 

To  this  primary  claim  to  an  abiding  place 
among  such  minor  classics  as  Herbert,  Suck- 
ling,  Herrick,  Bums,  and  Blake,  William 
Barnes  adds  that  of  a  sustained  perfection  of 
art  with  which  none  of  them  can  compare. 
His  langtiage  has  the  continual  slight  novelty 
which  Aristotle  inculcates  as  proper  to  true 
poetic  expression,  and  something  tnuch  higher 
than  the  curios  f&UHUu,  which  has  been  ab- 
•^surdly  rendered  "curious  felicity,*'  but  which 
■Daaas  the  "careful  luck*'  oC  him  who  tries 
many  words  and  has  tha  wit  to  know  when 
)  memory,  or  the  necessity  df  meter  or  rhyme, 
ihas  supplied  him  unexpectedly  with  those 
vwhioh  are  perhaps  even  better  than  he  knew 
ikow  to  desire.    The  w«rds  ef  Barnes  are  not 
*4^  carefully  made  clothes  but  the  body  of  his 
itibBuughts  and   feelings.    Another  still  rarer 
pnalM  of  his  work  is  .that  he  nerer  stops  in  it 
tfiil  he  has  said  all  that  should  be  said,  and 
ne?  «r  exioeeda  that  meaAire  by  Myllable;  aad 
Iib««t  thk  art  tkiM  ia  not  Cke  sUcklist  antais 
•ttt  ooaadomaess  ehhsr  of  its  abttsdmnt  full 
or  its  delicate  rsticeaee.    He  seems,  ta 
la  hare  writteA  «oept  msisr  IIm 


sense  of  a  subject  that^  makes  its  own  form 
and  of  feelings  which  form  their  own  words; 
that  is  to  say,  he  is  always  daasic  both  in 
form  and  substance. 

Perfect,  however,  aa  are  the  BoeiM  in  ike 
Dortet  Dialect,  it  would  be   absurd   to  call 
Barnes  a  poet  of  the  first  magnitude  or  even 
the  second.    Every  one  of  tfae-minor  clsancs 
I  have  name^  surpasses  him  in  some  point  of 
wit,  sweetness,  subtility,  or  force,  as  he  sur, 
passes  them  in  the  lovely  innocence  which 
breathes  from  his  songs  of  nature  aod  natural 
affection.    He  has  written  no  one  poem  that 
time  is  likely  to  stamp  as  of  value  at  all 
equivalent,  for  instance,  to  Qenetieve  or  the 
0(20  on  a  Grecian  Urn;  and  such  a  lyric  u 
Spenser's  Epithalamian,  compared  with  the 
best  song  of  Barnes,  is  as  Hera  to  a  wood- 
nymph. 

Barnes's  reputation  has  the  great  advantage 
— since  he  could  bear  the  delay  of  fame  with- 
out discouragement  —  of  not  having  been 
forced.  Poor,  contented,  unambitious,  with- 
out anything  remarkable  in  his  person  or  con- 
versation or  romantic  in  his  circumstance-s 
hidden  all  his  lifetime  in  a  sequestered  coun- 
try parsonage,  and  having  no  means,  direct 
or  indirect,  of  affecting  the  personal  hopes  or 
fears  of  his  literary  contemporaries,  tliey 
have  left  him  alone  in  his  humble  glory, 
which  was  to  recite  to  delighted  audiences  of 
farmers  and  ploughmen  and  their  wives  and 
sweethearts  a  series  of  lyrics,  idylls,  and  ec- 
logues, which,  being  the  faultless  expression 
of  elementary  feelings  and  preceptions,  are 
good  fur  all  but  those  in  whospi  sudi  feeliogs 
and  precvptJQOs  are  extinot. 

OojioerQing  Barnes's  dialect  I  may  be  al- 
lewed  to  qu9te  from  a  shoxt  mortuary  notice 
which  I  have  published  elsewhere.  "Barucs 
leved  his  awn  dialect  and  made  it  the  veliicle 
of  his  thoughts  and  feeliii^s,  not  only  because 
it  was  his  native  language,  but  also  because 
he  oonsidered  it  to  be  the  leaat  oormpted  form 
of  Knglish.  That  he  waa  right,  from  whatever 
raasoa.  ia  usiag  it  attd  oo  other  is  aWadastly 
shawm  hjr  the  mmlt  eC  Jais  afct  Ufmttim  thsfc 
his  role.  The  ?WfM  ^  Bmrnt  X#%  Hi  (W 
men  Mi%gliik  are  veryeomnaoa  lagliili  IslliA 
wh«L  ^mpared  with  his  aalive 


WILLIAM  BARNES,  THE  bORSET  POET. 


^wildL.     Many  poraons  allow  themselves  to  be 
robbed  of  the  delight  of  reading  Barnes's  poems 
bjr  the  fancy  that  it  would  require  serious  labor 
to  overcome  the  difficulty  of  the  dialect.    There 
is  no  such  difficulty.    Barnes's  dialect  does 
not  differ  so  much  from  conoimon  English  as 
does  the  dialect  in  which  are  written  those  of 
Bums's  poems,  which  are  most  universally 
raad     in  England.      Half -an- hour's   reading 
OTcsrcomes  all  sense  of  oddity,  and,  though 
the  poet  has  provided  his  readers  with  a  com 
plete  glossary  of  his  Dorsetshire  words,  few 
persons  would  find  much  need  of  it,  for  the 
oontezt    commonly    interprets    the   unusual 
word,  or  is  able  to  give  sufficient  ple^asure 
without  its  interpretation/'    Barnes  obtained 
for  himself  a  recognized  standing  as  a  philol- 
ogist.    "This  learning  he  seems  to  have  ac- 
quired not  so  much  for  any  of  the  ordinary 
motives  for  which  a  man  becomes  a  scholar 
as  in  order  to  gratify  a  profound  delight  in 
contemplating  those  obscure  echoes  and  imi- 
tations of  realities  by  which  language  in  its 
infancy  is  rendered  almost  pure  poetry,  and 
to    feel  and    preserve  the  magic  charm  of 
which  is  the  poet's  greatest  art  when  he  has 
to  deal  with  the  fully  develope(^  tongue. " 

I  should  prefer  to  abstain  altogether  from 
giving  extracts  from  the  Dorset  poems  in  cor- 
roboration of  what  I  said  have  about  them, 
First,  because  few  of  the  readers  of  this  paper 
will  have  spent  the  "half  hour"  which  must 
be  spent  in  getting  over  the  strangeness  of  the 
dialect  so  far  as  to  qualify  them  for  feeling 
the  delicate  graces  of  the  poetry  written  in  it ; 
and  secondly,  because  entire  idylls  or  eclogues 
of  considerable  length  would  have  tu  be  quo- 
ted in  order  to  enable  the  reader  to  judge  of 
that  living  hitegrity  which  Is  tihe  main  }usti» 
flcation  of  the  foregoing  praise.  I  might 
quote  scores  of  the  "  fine  things,"  the  little 
gems  of  rare  perception  miraculously  worded, 
which  are  scattered  up  and  down  Barnes's 
poems,  as  they  are  through  the  pages  of  many 
t  modem  poet.  But  that  would  not  be  to 
eoavey  to  the  TMder,  as  the  critic's  business 
ii,  that  whiok  is  most  tharaettristie.  The 
Tivjr  hmt  of  Ittttstf'B  poems  art  almost  as 
Itnr  of  "offsnueat"  and  as  dependent  for 
'iCeit  Oft  tluir  p«f  ection,  as  a  whole,  as  a 


tragedy  -  of  .^schylus.  There  is  not  tho 
slightest  touch  of  "poetry"  in  the  laaguago 
itself  of  the  rustics  who  are  the  dra7nati§ 
per^ancB  of  the  eclogues,  yet  poetry  has  not 
much  to  show  which  is  more  exquisite  in  its 
way  than  these  unconscious  and  artless  con-' 
fabulations  of  carters  and  milkmaids  is  re- 
flected in  the  consciousness  and  arranged  by 
the  art  of  the  poet.  A  critic  cannot  be  wor^ 
much  if  the  expressions  with  which  he  de- 
livers'his  deliberate  judgment  do  not  produce 
a  presumption  in  favor  of  its  general  truth 
sufficient  to  supersede  the  necessity  for  the 
very  imperfect  corroboration  supplied  by  the 
quoting  of  short  pieces  or  passages  which  lose 
nine-tenths  of  their  significance  by  dislocation. 
But  universal  custom  requires  that  the  re- 
viewer shall  offer  at  least  a  petal  or  two  in 
proof  of  the  flower.  Accordingly,  the  three 
following  little  poems  are  taken  almost  at 
random ;  for  it  is  difficult  to  select  where 
there  is  no  inequality  of  merit: — 

BLACKICWOBB  MAZDXira. 

The  primrwow  in  the  sh«iiil«  do  blow. 

The  cowslip  In  the  zun. 
The  thyme  n\wn  the  down  do  grow. 

The  clote  where  ttreame  do  ran : 
An^  where  do  pretty  maldene  prow 

▲n^  blow,  bnt  where  the  tow'r 
Do  rise  among  the  bricken  lane. 

In  Blackmwore  by  the  Stourf 

If  yon  conid  see  their  comely  gait, 

An^  pretty  fefteee*  imilea, 
A-trlppdn  on  so  light  o^  walght, 

An'  ateppdn  off  the  stiles ; 
A-gwalo  to  church,  as  bells  do  swing 

An'  ring  within  the  tow'r, 
Ton'd  own  the  pretty  maidens*  pleloe 

Is  BlackmwoTe  bgr  the  Stovr. 

If  yon  vrom  Wimborne  took  yeur  road, 

To  Slower  or  Paladore, 
An'  all  tbe  farmers'  housen  Hhew'd 

Their  daoghters  at  the  door ; 
Ten'd  cry  to  bachelors  at  hwome— 

"Here,  come:  Ithtn  an  hour 
Ton '11  vlnd  ten  aaldens  to  yonr  mlad. 

In  Blackmwore  by  tbe  fitq^." 

An'  if  yon  look'd  Hhln  their  doos, 

To  see  'em  In  their  pleAoe, 
A-doin  honsework  «p  avore 

Their  imildn  motiur's  f  lisi ; 
Tm'd  try-"  Why  tf  a  man  WAM 

Aa'  tbrlre,  Ithont  c  doW^ 
Tken  let  en  leek  en  ont  a  wife 

hk  Blaekjawoie  by  the  8t( 


m 


THS  UBRAXJ  MAGAZINS. 


A»  I  apon  my  road  did  piM 

A  tchool-hotifle  back  In  Mny, 
There  oat  npon  the  beAten  frait 

Were  maldexu  at  their  plaf ; 
An'  aa  the  pretty  soola  did  tweil 

An'  smile,  I  cried,  '*The  flow> 
O'  beauty,  then,  ia  still  In  bad 

In  Blackmwore  by  the  Stoor/* 

Ttnxxs  mcB. 

TTwer  when  the  busy  birds  do  Wee, 
Wi'  sheendn  wings  vrom  tree  to  tree^ 
To  bttlld  npon  the  mossy  lim\ 
Their  hollow  nestes*  rounded  rim ; 
The  while  the  eon,  ar-zinken  low. 
Did  roll  along  hia  evenen  bow, 
I  come  along  where  wide-horn*d  cows, 
^Ithin  a  nook,  a-screen'd  by  booghs. 
Did  Stan'  an'  flip  the  white-hoop'd  palla 
Wi'  heftiry  tofts  o'  awingdn  tails ; 
An'  there  were  Jenny  Coom  a-gone 
Along  the  path  a  vew  steps  on, 
A-be&rdn  on  her  head,  npetralght, 
Her  pall,  wi'  slowly •rldto  walght. 
An'  hoops  a-sheendn,  lily-white, 
AgeiUi  the  evondn's  slantdn  light ; 
An*  zo  I  took  her  pall,  an'  left 
Her  neck  ar-f reed  vrom  all  its  heft ; 
An'  she  a-lookdn  np  an'  down, 
Wi'  sheftply  head  an'  glossy  crown. 
Then  took  my  zide,  an'  kept  my  peiot 
A.talkdn  on  wi'  smildn  feice. 
An'  zettdn  things  in  sich  a  light, 
I'd  fain  ha'  heftr'd  her  talk  all  night ; 
An'  when  I  brought  her  milk  arore 
The  geftte,  she  took  it  in  to  door, 
An'  if  her  pall  had  bat  allow'd 
Her  head  to  rail,  she  wooid  ha'  bow'd, 
An'  still,  as  'twer,  I  had  the  sight 
pv  her  sweet  smile  dronghoot  the  night 

BLLXir  nUKB  07  ALLIRBUBN. 

Noo'soul  did  hear  her  lips  complain, 
Ai^  she's  a'gone  vrom  all  her  palu, 
An'  •there'  losa  to  her  is  gain 
For  she  do  Ui(»  in  hflavaD'a  love ; 
Ynll  many  a  longaome  day  zn'  week 
She  bore  her  alldn,  still  an'  meek  ; 
A-wt>rkdn  while  her  sirangth  held  •■, 
An'  guidin  housework,  when  twergon*. 
Vor  £llen  Brine  ov  Allenbum, 
Oh  1  there  be  soola  to  mom. 

The  1a«t  time  I'd  a-caai  my  ztght 
Upon  her  f eiC0,  a  f eided  white, 
Wer  In  a  zommer's  momdn  light 
In  hall  avore  the  smwold'rdn  vlre. 
The  while  the  childem  beat  the  vloor. 
In  play,  wi'  tiny  shoes  they  wore, 
An'  call'd  their  mother'a  eyes  to  Ti«w 
The  feAU  their  little  limbs  coald  4m, 
Oh :  Xllen  Brine  ov  Allenbum, 
1^  ehildern  now  mna'  mnm. 


nien  woone,  a-ttoppdn  vrom  liia  reloe, 
Went  up,  an'  on  her  knee  did  pleioe 
His  band,  a-lookdn  in  her  feice. 
An*  wi'  a  smildn  month  so  small, 
He  zaid,  *•*  Yon  promised  us  to  goo 
To  Shroton  feftir,  and  teAke  ns  two  1  ** 
She  heArd  it  wi'  her  two  white  ears. 
An'  in  her  eyes  there  sprang  two  tetrt, 
Vor  Bllen  Brine  ov  Allenbum 
Did  veel  that  th^  mos'  mom. 

September  come,  wi'  Shroton  felir. 
But  Bllen  Brine  wer'  never  there, 
A  heavy  heart  wer'  on  the  metre. 
Their  father  rod  his  hwomeward  road; 
'Tie  true  he  brought  some  f eArdn's  baok, 
Vor  them  two  childem  all  in  black ; 
But  they  had  now,  wi'  playthings  new, 
Moo  mother  vor  to  shew  *em  to, 
Vor  Ellen  Brine  ov  Allenbom 
Would  never  mwore  return. 

I  will  conclude  my  statement  of  the  claim  of 
Barnes  to  be  regarded  as  an  English  classic 
by  a  few  words  on  tlie  likelihood,  as  it  seeiiis 
to  me,  of  his  being  one  of  the  last  of  hia  sort 
Everything  in  the  present  state  and  apparent 
prospects  of  civilization  is  discouraging  to  the 
production  of  classical  work.  B03S  and  girls 
may  lisp  in  numbers  because  the  numbers 
come,  but  no  true  artist  in  words  can  do  his 
arduous  though  joyful  work  except  in  the 
assured  hope' of  having,  sooner  or  later,  an 
audience;  and  as  time  goes  on  this  must  seem 
to.him  a  less  and  less  likely  reward  and  com- 
plement of  his  labor. 

Barnes's  best  poems  have  been  before  the 
public  for  more  than  forty  years;  yet  what 
proportion  of  those  who  will  read  this  notice 
have'  ever  Ueld  a  volume  of  them  in  their 
hands?  A  hundred  or  two  hundred  years 
ago  his  general  acknowledgment  by  educated 
readers  would  have  been  immediate.  The 
ReUffio  Mfdici  was  reprinted  eight  times  in 
England  and  translated  into  most  languages 
of  Europe  during  the  lifetime  of  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  its  literary  excellence  constituting 
its  only  attraction,  for  all  "parties"  were 
offended  by  it  The  reading  public  of  Eng- 
land was  then  less  thi^n  one-fenth  of  its  present 
number,  making  a  sale  of  eight  editions  thus 
equivalent  to  one  of  eighty  editions  now. 
The  book  having  been  recognized  at  the  tim« 
tor  what  it  is,  a  tnie  classic,  has  continued  to 
form  part  of  the  course  of  reading  expected 


WILLIAM  BARNB»,  THE  DORSET  POET. 


dS5 


in  cultivated  prions.    But  had  it  been  pub- 
liahed  in  our  own  day,  would  ii  have  told 
eiglity  copies?    We  read  of  £5,  £20,  or  even 
£00  in  old  times  having  been  given  by  book* 
aellers  to  persons  of  wholly  untried  fame  for 
the  copjnrights  of  works  which  time  has  never- 
theless stamped  as  great  classics.    It  seems 
scarcely  credible,  but  there  can  be  no  resson- 
able  doubt  of  it.    Is  it  that  the  present  in- 
difterenoe  and  even  repugnance  to  new  ex- 
cellence of  the  highest  order  is  accounted  for 
by  our  having  more  of  the  old  than  we  know 
what  to  do  with?    Scarcely;  for  a  man  of 
forty,  without  being  at  all  a  man  of  unlimited 
leisnre.  may  very  well  have  perused  all  that 
remains  of  the  world's  literature  that  \b  above 
or  up  to  the  mark  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne  or 
William  Barnes.     The    few  shelves  which 
would  hold  ail  the  true  classics  extant  might 
receive  as  many  more  of  the  like  as  there  is 
any  chance  that  the  next  two  or  three  centuries 
could  produce,  without  burdening  the  select 
and  leisurely  scholar  wl^  a  sense  of  how 
much  he  had  to  read.    Is  it  not  rather  that 
the  power  to  appreciate  either  the  matter  or 
form  of  genuine  ax^  in  writing  is  dying  out, 
even  among  those  who  by  their  education 
ought  to  be  the  zealous  upholders  and  guard- 
ians of  a  high  and  pure  standard?    Lawless- 
ness, self-assertion,  oddity  instead  of  indiv- 
idusJity,  and  inorganic  polish  where  there 
should  be  the  breathing  completeness  of  art, 
are  no  longer  the  delight  only  of  the  "ground- 
lings."   They  are  also  the  lure  of  leaders  oi 
literary   fashion,  of    those   whose   approval 
used  to  be  the  almost  certain  forerunner  of 
fame,  and  that  foretaste  of  it  without  which 
the  soul  of  the  man  of  genius  sickens  within 
him  and  refuses  to  exercise  its  functions. 

There  appears  to  be  little  hope  that  this  is 
only  a  transitory  declension.  It  is  not  a  re- 
action but  a  decay;  and  the  recuperative 
force,  if  there  be  any  in  the  future,  shows  no 
signal  of  its  approach.  The  peace  and  Joy 
which  are  the  harvest  of  a  quiet  mind,  and 
the  condttion&H-when  they  are  not  the  inspira- 
tions, as  they  were  in  Barnes— of  true  art  no 
longer  exist.  In  America,  where  it  has  been 
well  said  there  is  everywhere  oomfort  but  no 
joy,  aad  where  popularity,  as  a  clever  Ameri- 


can lady  assured  me,  lasts  a  year,  and  flEune 
ten,^e  probably  have  the  mirror  of  our  owa 
very  near  future;  and  the  decline  from  this 
present  easy-going  state  of  things  to  the  com- 
mencement of  a  series  of  dark  ages,  of  which 
no  one  shall  be  able  te  discern  the  limit,  may 
perhaps  be  more  rapid  than  most  of  us  im- 
agine. Unpalatable  and  unacceptable  as  the 
suggestion  may  be,  it  cannot  be  denied  by 
persons  who  are  able  and  willing  to  look  facts 
in  the  face  that  there  are  already  strong  indi- 
cations of  a  relapse  into  a  long-protracted 
period  of  social  and  political  disorganization, 
so  complete  that  there  shall  be  no  means  of 
leisure  or  even  living  for  a  learned  class  nor 
any  audience  for  what  it  hae  to  impart.  Such 
recrudescences  of  civilization  have  occurred, 
and  they  may  occur  again,  though  the  pros- 
pect may  be  as  incredible  to  most  Europeans 
at  the  present  moment  as  it  must  have  been 
to  the  lieges  of  the  Eternal  City  at  the  height 
and  sudden  turning-point  of  its  popular  glory 
and  seemingly  consolidated  order.  By  Amer- 
ericans  the  idea  would  of  course  be  scouted. 
But  American  culture  and  civilization  are 
identical  with  those  of  Europe,  only  they  are  in 
many  respects  the  worse  and  in  very  few  the 
better  for  transplantation.  Religion,  though 
widespread,  is  of  a  vulgarer  and  less  efficient 
type  than  among  us ;  art  is  absolutely  non- 
existent ;  and  the  vanity  which  so  lodlyu 
claims  the  paternity  of  the  future  is  the  very 
worst  of  prognostics  for  the  fulfillment  of  that 
expectation.  America  is  beginning  where 
others  have  ended,  in  a  widely  spread  and 
widely  indulged  desire  for  riches  and  luxury.- 
It  is  said  that  the  disappearance  of  some  of 
the  finest  and  most  carefully  cultivated  sorts 
of  fruit  trees  is  owing  to  tiie  fact  that  the 
grafts,  from  which  alone  they  can  be  repro- 
duced, will  only  live  and  give  other  grafts 
during  the  natural  hfetime  of  the  original 
tree.  History  seems  to  indicate  that  a  aimilar 
law  applies  to  the  grafts  of  culture  and  civil- 
ization, and  that  they  cannot  long  survive  the 
failure  of  the  sap  in  the  old  trunk. 

I  had  intended  to  give  some  personal  ac- 
count of  Barnes,  but  our  first  living  novelist, 
Mr.  Thomas  Hardy,  who  knew  him  far  better 
than  I  did,,  has  been  beforekaad  witk 


m 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


I  will  conclude  therefore  vnth  an  extract  from 
a  Utter  which  1  received  for  my  friend- Mr. 
Gotee,  written  just  after  leaving  the  dde  of 
the  dying  claagic. 

"Hardy  and  I  went  on  Monday  last  to 
Game  Rectory,  where  he  Ues  bedridden.  It 
is  curiouB  that  he  is  dying  as  picturesquely  as 
he  lived.  We  fo\md  him  in  bed  in  his  study, 
his  face  turned  to  the  window,  where  the 
light  came  streaming  iu  through  flowering 
plants,  his  brown  books  on  all  sides  of  him 
saTe  one,  the  wall  behind  him  being  hung 
with  old  green  tapestry.  He  had  a  scarlet 
bedgown  on,  a  kind  of  soft  biretta  of  dark 
red  wool  on  his  head,  from  which  his  long 
white  hair  escaped  on  to  the  pillow;  his  gray 
beard  grown  very  long  upon  his  breast ;  his 
complexion,  which  you  recollect  as  richly 
bronzed,  has  become  blanched  by  keeping 
indoors,  and  is  now  waxily  white  where  it  is 
not  waxily  pink;  the  blue  eyes  half  shut, 
restless  under  languid  lids;  the  whole  body 
Tery  restless,  rising  and  falling  in  bed,  by 
means  of  a  very  gorgeous  bed-rope,  with  an 
action  like  rowing  in  a  boat.  I  wish  I  could 
paint  for  you  the  strange  effect  of  this  old, 
old  man,  lying  in  cardinal  scarlet  in  his  white 
bed,  the  only  bright  spot  in  ihe  gloom  of  all 
these  books.  You  must  think  that  I  make 
too  much  of  tliese  outer  signs,  but  it  seemed 
to  me  that  this  unconsciously  tlieatrical  mise- 
in-Bckne  in  the  solitude  of  this  out-of-the-way 
rectory  was  very  curious  and  characteristic." 
— CoviBKTBT  Patmobx,  in  Th/6  FortnighUy 
Bniew.  , 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

On  December  17  the  poet  Whittier  enters 
on  his  eightieth  year.  Few  men  have  more 
fairly  earned  the  world's  respect  than  the 
militant  Quaker  poet  who  was  the  Tyrtseus  of 
the  Alx)litionist  cause.  For  many  years  every 
action  of  his  life  was  scrutinized  beneath  the 
pitiless  limelight  of  hostile,  if  not  malignant, 
criticism.  Yet  no  one  has  even  hinted  that, 
throughout  the  struggle  with  which  his  name 
to  associated,  Whittier  ever  showed  himself 
mean  in  motive,  false  in  purpose,  or  dishonest 
iBaasertioB. 


His  early  training  and  the  part  whidi  he 
played  in  the  Anti-Slavery  agitation  are  the 
distinguishing  features  of  his  life,  and  tbm 
most  potent  influences  of  his  literary  career. 
Dependent  for  refinement  on  his  own  internal 
resources,  living  outside  the  range  of  Euro- 
pean culture  and  beyond  the  reach  of  the  tran- 
scendental movement,  removed  from  the 
sound  of  the  conflicts  of  poetical  schools, 
Whittier  had  few  temptations  to  imitatioD; 
he  created  a  new  world  for  himself;  he  fonned 
his  own  style  and  his  own  habits  of  tlioaght. 
Before  he  threw  himself  into  the  Abolitionist 
cause,  home  surroundings  were  almost  the 
only  influences  by  which  he  was  affected. 
Whatever  may  be  his  position  in  the  world  of 
letters,  he  has  made  it  for  himself;  the  keenest 
eye  for  plagiarisms  fails  to  detect  in  his  ma- 
ture writings  any  use  of  the  thoughts  of 
others.  Horace  Greeley  called  him  the  most 
national  of  American  poets.  In  a  limited 
sense  the  judgment  is  correct.  He  is  Ameri- 
ct^  in  his  choice  q^  subjects,  his  scenery,  his 
images,  his  religion,  'his  politics.  He  is 
American  also  in  the  practical  character  of 
his  poetry.  He  sings  of  no  useless  ideals:  ha 
dreams  no  impossible  dreams  in  unknown 
regions;  he  keeps  close  to  the  common  affairs 
and  interests  of  men.  He  is  essentially  home- 
brad;  no  representative  of  foreign  schools  of 
thought  presided  over  the  birth  or  the  growth 
of  his  genius. 

Whittier  was  bom  in  1807  at  a  lonely  farm- 
house, three  miles  north-east  of  Haverhill,  a 
town  in  the  Merrimac  valley  in  Essex  county, 
Massachusetts.  He  comes  of  a  Quaker  stock. 
His  paternal  ancestors  settled  in  tlie  neighbor- 
hood in  1638.  On  his  mother *s  side  he  has 
French  blood  in  liis  veins,  for  '*  GreenleaT'  to 
a  translation  of  Feuillewri — 

"  The  name  the  Gallic  exll^  bore, 
8t  Kalo !  from  thy  ancient  mart**  i 

As  Quakers  and  Huguenots  Whittier'a  an- 
cestors for  generations  suffered  religions  and 
social  persecution.  This  inheritance  of  Puri- 
tan intolerance  still  grates  on  the  poet's  mem- 
ory, and  explains  the  bitterness  which  he  some- 
times displays  toward  the  grim  elders  who  taw 
in  toleration  as  grava  a  arint  aa  hani|r. 


JOHN  GREENLBAP  WHITTIER. 


»7 


The  old  homestead  in  which  he  was  bom 
still  ataiida~-«  pUun,  solidly  framed  house, 
built  by  the  first  of  the  WhitUer  colonists 
Dioie  thnn  two  centuries  ago.  From  the  front 
door  a  wooded  grassy  bank  slopes  down  to 
the  little  brook — 

"  The  music  of  whose  liquid  lip 
Had  been  to  as  companlonebip, 
And,  In  oar  lonely  life,  had  grown 
To  hftYe  an  pimoot  human  tone.^^ 

The  house,  nestling  in  the  valley,  is  shut  in 
on  all  sides  by  hills;  but  the  oak  forest  which, 
in  Whittier's  youth,  "swept  unbroken  to  the 
Dortbem  horizon,"  as  been  partially  cleared. 
The  brook,  tumbling  down  from  its  ravine, 
and  whispering  at  the  garden  wall,  played  an 
importaot  part,  in  the  poet's  boyhood.  Along 
its  windings  he  wandered,  watching  with 
chiidiah  delight  the  flshiog-rod  of  Uncle 
Hoses;  on  its  banks  he  knew  the  haunts  of 
the  earliest  aod  latest  wild  flowers,  from  the 
hei>atioa  or  the  wood  anemone  "to  the  yellow 
bloom  of  the  witch-hazel,  burning  in  the 
leafless  October  woods."  It  is  a  country  full 
of  quiet  beauty,  of  woods  and  velvety  lawns 
and  round-backed  hills,  of  scenery  which  is 
not  bold  or  impressive,  but  is  stored  with  un- 
obtrusive treasures  for  the  quiet  eye  of  the 
observant  watcher. 

In  those  days  of  self-suflScing  agriculture, 
food  and  clothing  were  produced  at  home: 
towns  and  shops  were  little  needed;  visitors 
were  rare,  and  glimpses  of  the  outside  world 
few  and  far  between.  The  farthest  spot  to 
which  he  traveled  from  the  secluded  farm 
was  the  meeting-house  at  Amesbury,  where 
on  First-days  he  sometimes  worshiped.  In 
8nowb(miMl  he  has  sketched  with  mingled 
grace  .and  vigor  portraits  of  his  home  circle, 
and  set  them  against  a  background  of  the 
interior  of  a  New  England  farmhouse  painted 
with  the  fidelity  of  a  Tenicrs.  His  father,  a 
«ilent  man,  who  had  passed  his  Wanderjdhre 
among  the  trappers — ^his  mother  at  her  wheel, 
teaching  simple  lessons  from  Bible  history,  or 
Xemng  stories  of  Red  Indian  perils— dangers 
brought  home  to  the  children  by  the  old 
garrison-house  which  stood  dose  to  the  farm 
'^-his  a«at,  Iteey  Husse|r, 


'  **  The  sweetest  woman  ever  fate 

Perverse  denied  a  household  mate  **— 

his  Uncle  Hoses,  "innocent  of  books,"  but 
"rich  in  love  of  fields  and  brooks"— his 
brother  Hatthew,  and  his  sisters  Mary  and 
Elizabeth,  made  up  the  little  world  of  hu- 
man beings  in  which  the  poet  lived. 

Uncle  Moses  instnicted  the  boy  in  wood- 
craft and  field  lore.  Of  other  schooling  he 
had  little.  Joshua  Coffin,  afterward  a  life-  * 
long  friend  and  fellow  soldier  in  the  Aboli- 
tionist struggle,  taught  him  his  A  B  C  in  a 
smoked  and  dingy  room,  which  served  for  a 
"ragged  winter  school."  This,  with  a  few 
weeks  under  an  unnamed  "brisk  wielder  of 
the  birch  and  rule,"  and  a  term  at  Madame 
Chadbonne's,  included  all  the  regular  in- 
struction which  the  boy  received.  Since  then 
he  has  read  widely.  Perhaps  his  occasional 
display  of  learning  is  due  to  the  comparatively 
recent  date  of  his  self -education.  The  home 
library  was  limited.  The  Bible  and  Ellwood's 
Davideis  were  his  only  poetical  reading ; 
Sewel's  History  of  the  Quakers,  a  volume  l)e- 
loved  of  Charles  Lamb,  and  C/ialkley*s  Jour- 
nul,  with  a  handful  of  controversial  tracts, 
exhaust  the  literature  of  his  early  boyhood. 
Instead  of  books  the  "barefoot  boy^"  who 
ran  his  mother's  errands,  or  hoed  in  the  corn- 
fields, or  played  on  the  slopes  of  Job's  hill, 
studied  Nature.  He  und  rwent  an  appren- 
ticeship which  proved  of  inesthnabls  valoa^ 
Afl  he  himself  writes — 

**  I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees, 
Hamming  birds  and  honey  bees ; 
For  my  sport  the  sqnirrel  played, 
Plied  the  snonted  mole  his  spade ; 
"For  my  taste  the  blackberir  cone 
Parpled  over  hedge  and  stone ; 
Laaghed  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through  the  day  and  throngh  the  nigbli 
Whispering  at  the  garden  wall, 
Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall ; 
Xine  the  sand-<rtmmed  pickerel  pond. 
Mine  the  walnnt  slopes  beyond. 
Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees, 
Apples  of  Hesperfdes.** 

The  fceckles  and  the  tan  and  the  stain  of 
the  wild  strawberry  are  still  upon  his  poetiy; 
his  verse  seems  written  to  the  sound  of  tha 
whetstone  on  the  scythe,  or  t«  thi  rhythaift 
Jb^  of  the  flail: 


THE  LIBRARY  DIAGAZINE. 


**  Such  mntlc  at  the  wooda  and  atreama 
Sang  In  hia  oan  he  aanf  aloud.** 

In  his  fourteenth  year  a  wider  world  began 
to  open  before  the  boy*s  expanding  conscious- 
ness. From  the  lips  of  a  wandering  gaber- 
lunzie  he  first  heard  the  songs  of  Bums; 
from  Jonathan  Plummer,  a  traveling  pedlar 
and  local  poet,  he  learned  the  power  of 
^  rhyme.  But  the  great  event  of  his  boyhood, 
and  even  of  his  literary  life,  was  the  perusal 
of  Burns'  poetry.  It  opened  to  him  a  fresh 
world :  nature  wore  a  different  appearance, 
and  contained  for  the  future  a  deeper  irean- 
ing.  New  ideas  germinated  in  his  mind  :  his 
creative  faculty  was  stirred.  *'I  began,"  he 
writes,  *'to  make  rhymes  myself,  and  to  im- 
agine stories  and  adventures."  In  1826  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  literary  fame.  A  poem 
from  his  pen,  probably  that  on  The  Deity, 
was  printed  in  the  poet's  comer  of  the  Free 
Press  of  Newbupyport.  Stmck  by  the  prom- 
ise of  the  verses,  Garrison,  at  that  time  the 
editor  of  the  paper,  rode  out  to  Whittler's 
home  to  urge  upon  the  lad  the  advantages  of 
a  wider  education.  Mainly  by  his  advice 
Whittier  went,  at  nineteen  years  of  age,  to 
the  Latin  School  at  Kaverhill.  The  legend 
that  he  paid  for  his  education  by  cobbling  has 
been  discredited  by  his  most  recent  biogra- 
pher He  was  then  a  tall,  slight  lad,  erect  in 
figure,  with  those  dark  flashing  eyes  which 
still  command  attention.  Two  years  later  he 
became  the  editor— in  fact,  though  not  in 
name— of  the  Manuftusturer,  a  Boston  paper, 
written  in  support  of  Henry  Clay  and  Fro- 
.  tectionist  principles.  For  the  next  four  years 
he  was  alternately  schoolmaster,  farmer,  and 
newspaper  editor.  But  he  disliked  journal- 
ism, and  his  health  could  not  stand  its  strain. 
In  1832  he  gave  up  his  connection  with  the 
Hartford  Beniew,  and  returned  to  the  plough 
at  Haverliili.  From  that  time  forward  he 
has  lived  at,  or  near,  his  old  home.  When 
the  farmhouse  was  sold  in  1840,  Whittier 
moved  with  his  mother  and  nsters  to  Ames- 
bury.  His  later  life  has  been  spent  at  Dan- 
vers,  a  village  close  to  Amesbury.  He  has 
never  married. 

The  only  movement  which  disturbed  the 
tmm  ttaor  of  kis  q«iol  llfs  wjw  the  antl- 


slavery  agitation,  in  which  he  took  so  praor 
iuent  a  part.  The  Quakers  were  from  lbs 
first  identified  with  the  Abolitiooist  cause. 
They  set  a  practical  example  by  liberating 
their  own  slaves  in  the  Southern  States. 
Lundy,  who  with  Garrison  edited  the  €hnivs 
of  Universal  Emaneipationf  at  Baltimore,  was 
a  Quaker;  to  the  same  body  belonged  the 
first  President  of  the  New^  Eagland  Anti- 
Slavery  Society.  His  Quaker  ancestry,  his 
friendship  with  Garrison,  his  generous  char- 
acter and  ardent  temperament,  all  impelled 
Whittier  to  fight  the  battle  of  the  slaves. 
The  cotton  trade  was  then  the  chief  source  of 
American  wealth;  any  attempts  to  disturb  iti 
existing  conditions  were  viewed  with  alarm. 
Southern  planters  and  Northern  merchants 
commanded  the  press,  tuned  the  pulpits,  and 
hounded  on  the  mob  in  the  track  of  the  Abo- 
litionists. To  champion  the  cause  of  the 
slave  meant  to  encounter  personal  Tiolence, 
social  ostracism,  civil  persecution,  literaiy 
martyrdom.  But  Whittier  was  not  t2ie  man  to 
shrink  from  danger  or  self-sacrifice  when 
once  his  sympathies  were  enlisted.  In  the 
first  of  his  Voices  cf  Freedom  he  addresses 
Garrison — 

**  lAj  heart  hath  leaped  to  anawer  thinei, 
And  echo  back  thj  worda, 
As  leape  the  warrlor^a  at  the  thine 
And  flaah  of  kindred  aworda.** 

The  cause  to  which  he  devoted  his  best 
years  and  energies  has  triumphed;  and  now 
America  makes  him  hearty  reparation. 

**  The  hooting  mob  of  jeeterdaj,  in  elient  awe  return 
To  gather  ap  the  acattered    aahea  Into  Hlatory^i 
golden  nrn.*^ 

In  1881  Garrison  starts  the  lAbera/Uyr  in  a 
small,  dingy  ink  bespattered  ofiloe  on  tlM$  third 
story  of  the  Merchanis'  Hall  at  Boston.  In 
that  "dark,  unfumitured,  mean"  room,  as 
Lowell  has  written,  "the  freedom  of  a  race 
began."  Whittier  appeared,  even  in  that 
"day  of  small  things/'  as  Garrison's  resolute 
supporter.  In  1888  he  published  his  pamph^ 
let,  Jxvstioe  and  Bjppsdienojf.  His  second 
poem  00  the  slave  question  shows  the  spirit 
with  which  he  entered  on  the  conflict.  It  ii 
addressed  to  Iha  ■mboij  tf  €iuuias  Stom^ 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 


•Be  of  the  ffmt  Tlctlnif  of  the  peraecatfon 
Wkich  ftwaited  the  AbolitioniBts  : 

**  Tlioa  haet  f  Jtll«ii  in  tUae  armor. 
Thou  .servant  of  the  Lord  I 
With  thy  la«t  breath  cryinf  Onward ! 
And  thy  hand  opon  thy  sword/' 

For  many  years  Whittier  poared  forth  his 
impassioDod  lyrics,  which  throb  and  beat, 
beneath  tlie  Quaker  drab,  with  the  hot  blood 
and  vehement  spirit  of  the  soldier.  On  De- 
cember 4,  1883,  a  convention  assembled  at 
Philadelphia  to  form  the  American  Anti- 
Slavery  Society.  Whittier's  thoughts  will  go 
back  to  the  grny  December  morning  of  the 
5th,  when  he  found  Garrison  drafting  the  last 
lines  of  *'  the  Declaration  of  Sentiments." 
"I  set,"  says  Whittier,  "a  higher  value  on  my 
name  as  appended  to  that  Declaration  than 
on  the  title-page  of  any  book.  Looking  over 
a  life  marked  by  many  errors  and  shortcom- 
ings, I  rejoice  that  I  have  been  able  to  naain- 
tain  the  pledge  of  that  signature,  imd  that  in 
the  long  intervening  years 

**  *  My  voice,  thoagh  not  the  londeat,  has  baan  baard 
Wherever  Freedom  raised  her  ciy  of  pain.* " 

In  discussing  Whittler's  literary  position, 
too  much  stress  cannot  be  laid  upon  the  two 
points  alrea  i y  emphasized.  Two  periods  may 
be  distingoished  in  his  poeitical  career.  In 
the  first  the  polemical,  in  the  second  the  lit- 
erary, element  predominates.  No  sciefitific 
frontier  can  be  dvawn  between  them;  but  the 
pnUication  of  Snmbbofmd  in  1869  marks  th«i 
final  line  of  demarcatloii.  Natnralfy  it  is  in 
the  first  of  these  two  periods  that  ttie  influence 
of  his  eariy  boyh€0d  and  of  the  mowmeot 
witii  which  he  identified  hiaiMftf  b4ld  mom 
tmdisfmted  sway. 

Bom  and  bred  a  Quaker,  Whittier  pMsesMt 
the  indepefidence,  the  love  of  liberty,  the  sim- 
ple piety,  the  moral  sincerity  whidi  are  the 
birthright  of.  his  sect.  Like  many  of  the  So- 
ciety of  Friends,  he  combines  illibend  princi- 
ples with  liberal  practice;  narrow  in  doctrine 
but  broad  in  sympathy»  he  has  consecrated 
his  Uf»  to  a  nobie  cause  with  largehearled 
VHalfltUness.  His  artlstie  natuM  was  stunted 
%f  tb*  awfrity  «f  his  «arly  trainiAg ,  as  well 
« Ij  bit  x«]ifi«is  toror.    The  mistcra  pni»- 


tical  people  among  whom  he  was  bred  at- 
tached no  value  to  culture.  Their  sense  of 
beauty  was  dwarfed  by  their  perception  of 
moral  worth.  Whittier  is  above  all  things,  a 
moralist,  a  reformer,  a  preacher.  He  uses  verse 
to  rotise  the  hearts  of  men;  but  poetry  is  only 
a  means  to  an  end,  it  is  not  an  aim  in  itself. 
He  even  apfilogizea  to  his  sister  for  the  culti- 
vation of  his  poetical  tastes,  as  thou|(h  it 
were  wasted  energy 


u 


To  con,  at  times,  an  idle  rhyme, 
To  pluck  a  flower  from  childhood'!  eUme, 
Or  listen,  at  lifers  noonday  chime, 
7or  the  sweet  belle  of  morning  t** 


Whittier's  martial  spirit  might  at  first  sight 
seem  to  contradict  the  influence  of  his  Quaker 
training.  Friend  of  peace  though  he  is,  the 
molten  stream  of  his  glowing  utterances  be- 
trays the  warlike  fire  that  burned  within  him. 
But  there  is  here  no  inconsistency.  The 
Quakers  drew  their  strength  from  the  English 
yeomen  who  formed  the  backbone  of  Crom- 
weirs  army.  While  renouncing  carnal  weap- 
ons, they  abandoned  none  of  their  natural 
combativeness.  The  language  of  their  wor- 
ship teems  with  military  metaphors.  As  a 
boy,  Whittier's  favorite  charabter  in  Bunyan's 
Ptiffrim's  Proffress  was  Oreatheart;  his  favor- 
ite scene  the  encounter  between  Christian  and 
Apollyon.  Though  it  was  only  a  wordy  war 
that  Whittier  wagM  he  manifests  that  spirit 
which  answered  Rupert's  trumpets  with  "Let 
Ood  arise,  and  let  His  enemies  be  scattered  I'* 
During  the  OivH  War  he  is  reported  to  hav« 
met  a  Government  official  commissioned  to 
inspect  the  timbers  of  a  Northern  cruiser. 
''Friend,"  said  he,  '*  thee  koowe  that  I  am  a 
Quaker,  and  do  not  believe  in  shipb  of  war; 
but,  in  this  case  I  would  advise  thee  to  be 
very  careful  that  the  timber  is  sound." 
From  the  moment  that  he  heard 

^  the  Toice  that  bids 
nie  dreamer  leave  his  dreams  midway 
l^or  larger  hopes  and  graver  fsars,' 


«« 


poetry  becaime,  as  he  himself  said,  "simply 
episodical  as  s^Mnethiag  »part  from  the  real 
c^Jtct  and  aim  of  my  Ufa."  F^'osf  #f  JVa#» 
dnn  bear  every  mark  etf  str«af  feeliafi  I»- 
laaiity  cf  eMvietiMi  and  tJle  gtmm  ef 


24A 


THB  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


oeiitj  gire  hii  best  lyriei  a  compactnen  which 
ih%  quintmence  of  artistic  flnkh  often  fails 
to  produce.  They  are,  aa  Lowell  mjb  in  the 
Fabl&ifar  OrMc$, 

*^Mndk  •€  at  wkttt  hMli 
WkM  tke  h«art  1%  kU  brMsl  lik«  a  trip-hammw  beati.*" 

£rem  now  hla  appeal  to  the  Bay  State  atfara 
the  blood: 

*'  Soni  of  mott  who  Mt«  In  eoanetl  wlfli  their  Bibles 

ronad  the  board,  . 
Aniwerinf  JSDflaad'i  royal  mlwlTewlth  a  flrm  ThuM 

Mith  the  Lord/ 
Rise  if  tin  for  home  and  freedom  1    Set  the  battle  In 

array ! 
What  the  fathers  did  of  old  time,  we  their  sons  mnst 

do  to-day.'' 

On  the  other  hand,  Voieei  of  Freedom  are  bare 
of  ornament,  betray,  by  repetitiona  and  jar- 
ring rhymes,  signs  of  rapid  composition,  often 
stray  into  noisy  declaaiation,  and  carry  the 
habit  of  pious  ejaculation  and  exhortation  to 
inopportune  excess. 

The  faults  of  Whittier*s  early  poetry  may 
be  summed  up  in  the  lack  of  the  Hellenic 
element,  the  want  of  artistic  taste.  The  Toid 
was  never  entirely  tilled,  so  enduring  was 
the  influence  of  his  early  training  and  of  the 
Abolitionist  movement.  But  in  his  later  and 
more  literary  i)oetry  the  blemishes  are  less  con- 
spicuous. As  his  mental  horizon  widena,  the 
gray  atmosphere  of  his  Quaker  youth  grows 
brighter.  He  has  read  and  thought  for  him- 
self. In  the  process  of  his  self-culture  his 
early  faith  seems  to  have  wavered.  Perplexed 
by  voices  calling  from  the  right  and  left,  his 
sight  dimmed  by  the  impenetrable  darkness 
of  life's  mysteiy,  he  hesitated — 

"  Like  ehlldhobd  Uetonlng  fat  the  sMad 
9f  its  dro^psd  )Mbbles  In  ^  weal, 
AU  irainJy  dewn  the  dark  profewul 
His  brlef-Uned  plammet  fell.'' 

The  mental  struggle  left  its  traee  in  maay  of 
his  poems;  but  he  has  won  his  way  back  to  his 
old  unquestioning  trust.  In  his  later  poetry 
the  piety,  simplicity,  and  frankness  remain; 
but  to  these  are  added  a  wider  sympathy,  a 
mors  tolerant  spirit,  a  deep«  eulturs,  a  mel- 
lewed  taste,  and  a  growing  love  of  poetry  as 
iB  art    tts  totaiM  HmX  yowv  of 


painting  which  was  the  inheritance  of  his 
childhood.  His  descriptive  poetry  ia  never 
cold.  He  paints  in  fresh  bright  colors,  trans- 
fers the  living  scene  to  his  page,  and,  witfaont 
pausing  to. analyze  or  philosophize,  gives  us 
pictures  of  Nature  at  first  hand.  Hia  poetiy 
ia  fresh  and  simple;  but  it  is  not  deep.  He  is 
a  genuine  story-teller.  The  want  of  depth 
here  become  a  positive  advantage.  He  never 
mars  the  vivid  directness  of  his  narrative  by 
the  intrusion  of  his  own  personality.  Mystic 
beauty,  dreamy  grace,  rounded  art,  lofty  im- 
agination, sre  not  his  gifts.  He  would  not, 
if  he  could,  soar  into  the  unreal  world  of 
Shelley. 

Snatcbound  is,  on  the  whole,  his  moat  fin- 
ished production.  In  it  his  pictures  stand 
out  with  sharply  defined  outline  against  the 
snow ;  his  background  gives  emphasis  and 
expression  to  every  feature  which  he  de- 
scribes. A  selection  from  his  poetry  has  been 
recently  published.  It  contains  Ifogg  Meffone, 
a  poem  which  Whittior  himself  condemned 
as  a  big  Red  Indian  strutting  in  a  Scotch 
plaid;  it  does  not  include  any  of  the  "Songs 
of  Labor,"  such  as  the  Com  Song,  The  Hiuk- 
er$,  and  Th$  Drovers,  or  Bandolph  of  Boanoke, 
lehahod,  TelUng  the  Beea,  Among  the  HiU$, 
My  Soiu  and  I,  FoUen,  QueMme  of  Life, 
Tet,  whether  as  spedmena  of  his  poetry  or  as 
illustrations  of  his  mental  growth,  ail  these 
deserve  to  be  included  in  any  selection. 

Much  that  is  interesting  in  Whittier'a  life 
and  writings  must  neoeraarily  be  omitted  from 
so  brief  a  sketch.  After  all,  his  life  ia  his 
most  perfect  poem.  Higher  value  attaches  to 
his  noble  services  to  humanity  than  to  his  in- 
tolloGtQal  efforts,  greot  tboogh  Hiciy  undoKbi- 
odly  are.  "A  dreamer  bom,*'  the  efaivalrous 
philanthropiat,  who 

"  left  the  Xnse's  hauU  te  tam 

nie  crank  of  an  oplnlon-mlll. 
Making  his  mstic  read  of  sonf 
▲  weapon  In  the  war  with  wrong,* 

saorffioed  literary  fame  to  win  the  grmtltnds 
of  a  people.  The  world  honors,  even  while  it 
most  ragfota,  his  ohoioa.— 4t.  TL  T: 


PRANQOIS  JOSEPH  DUPMJIX. 


241 


FRANQOIS  JOSEPH  DUPLEIX. 

IN  FOUR  PABTS— PART  L 

The  military  adventurer  has,  in  all  ages, 
been  a  prominent  figure  in  India;  and  his- 
tory  of  that  country  derives  much   of  its 
interest  from  the  remarkable  characters  and 
brilliant  achievements   of    such    men»    and 
their  commanding  influence  on  the  fortunes 
of  a  community  discordant  in  race,  national 
sentiment,  and  religion,  weak  in  political  in- 
stitutions and  public  spirit,  and  hence  pecul- 
iarly liable  to  revolutions  wrought  out  by  the 
swonL    Thus,  without  citing  earlier  instances, 
the  Mogul  empire  was  founded,  undermined 
and  laid  low  by  three  representatives  of  this 
class,  each  well  suited  to  his  mission,  and  all 
memorable  for  the  wild  romance  of  their  ex- 
ploits.   The  quick-witted,  large-hearted,  and 
enlightened  Baber,  a  conqueror  in  his  boy- 
hood, youthful  in  spirit  to  the  end,  a  knight- 
errant  ever,  was  happily  adapted  to  conciliate 
his  Indian  subjects;  and  to  stamp  upon  the 
government  of  his  new  dominions  thai  blended 
character  of  energy  and  tolerance,  which  it 
long   retained   under   his   descendants,  and 
which  contributed  so  much  to  its  stability* 
But  when  the  gloomy  and  persecuting  An- 
rungzib  laid  his  hand  heavily  on  the  Hindoos. 
Sivaji  arose  as  their  deliverer  and  avenger: 
his  subtlety,  political  ability,  skill  in  irregular 
warfare,  religious  zeal,  and  national  spirit, 
made  him  irrepressible,  and  the  Hindoo  re- 
action, initiated  by  him,  irresistible.    Sapped 
by  the  Mahrattas,  the  tottering  empire  was 
prostrated  by  Nadir  Shah.    This  giim,  in- 
flexible, and  able  soldier,  who  freed  Persia 
from    a    foreign  yoke   only   to    usurp   the 
throne,  enforce  a  change  of  religion,  play  the 
tyrant,  and  perpetrate  frantic  cruelties  which 
cost  him  his  life,  was  an  appropriate  instru- 
ment for  the  repetition  of  Timour*s  work  of 
destruction;  and  Nadir *8  indiscriminate  mas- 
sacre at  Delhi  recalled  the  dread  memory  of 
"the  Scourge  of  God." 

The  fortunes  of  the  Anglo-Indian  empire 
have  been  not  less  notably  affected  by  the 
same  class  of  men,  though  hitherto  the  gen- 
eral results  of  their  operations  have  been 
favorable  to  it.    The  enterprise  of  adventurers 


called  it  into  being,  pivscipitated  its  develop- 
ment, and  gave  occasion  to  each  great  step 
in  its  advance.    Dupleix*s  policy  forced  the 
Madras   govemLient  to  take   up  Mahomed 
All's  cause;   Clive,  the  *' heaven-born  gen- 
eral,'* sustained  it;  and  the  relation  thus  es- 
tablished inevitably  ended  in  the  British  an- 
nexation of  the  Camatic.    Anaverdy  Khan 
made  himself  master  of  the  Bengal  provinces; 
and  though  he  refused  to  quarrel  with  the 
English,  his  fatuous  partiality  for  Surajah 
Dowlah  brought  about  the  crisis  which  he 
deprecated.    Plassey  was  the  contre-eoup  of 
the  attack  on  Calcutta.    The  rise  of  Hyder, 
and  the  close  alliance  of  his  house  with  the 
French,  led  eventually  to  ttie  British  conquest 
of   Mysore.     De   Boigne   made  Mahadajei 
Sindia  predominant  at  Ddhi,  and  over  a  great 
part  of  Hindoslan,  though  both  he  and  his 
patron  were  careful  to  keep  on  good  terms 
with^e  English.    But  when  another  soldier 
of  fortune,  Ameer    Khan,  incited  Jeswunt 
Boa  Holkar,  an  adventurer  like  himself,  to 
march  on  Poena,  the  defeated  Peishwa  fled 
to  Bombay,  and  concluded  the  treaty  of  Bas- 
sein.    This  Mahadajee  s  successor,  proud  of 
the  position  won  for  him  by  De  Boigne,  and 
relying   on    the    powerful  army  which  the 
Savoyard  had  organized,  thought  proper  to 
oppugn;  and  the  triumphant  English  mulcted 
him  of   the  so-called  north-west  provinces. 
In  the  ebb  tide  of  British  policy,  after  Welles- 
ley's  departure,  Ameer  Khan  prepared  the 
way  for  new  annexations,  both  by  exhibiting 
in  his  own  licentious  proceedings  the  intoler- 
able evils  attending  non-intervention,  and  by 
stimulating  the  growth  of  a  yet  more  debased 
type  of  adventurers,  the  Pindaris,  for  whose 
suppression  forces  were  assembled  by  Lord 
Hastings.     This  circumstance  hastened  the 
intriguing  and  suspicious  Peishwa 's   explo- 
sion; and  his  defeat,  surrender,  and  deposition 
transferred  his  dominions  to  the  company^ 
In  Wellesley's  days,  an  Irish  sailor,  Oieorge 
ThonuM,  had  made  himself  independeix^  ton 
the  borders  of  the  Indian  desert:  had  plipBdA 
nuMterf  ul  p«rt  in  the  Cis^atle]  Sikh  oPWtiQK: 
and  had  projected  the  coDq[oesl  of  tb^i^ia^iM^ 
and  of  Sinde.    He  was  out  off  before  he^owldf.  » 
attempt   either  object ;   and   Rupjlt  ^i^mfif  v 


ttsi 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINR 


onited  and  disciplined  the  northern  Sikhs, 
ftnd  maintained  a  dubious  faith  with  the  Eng- 
lish. But  the  proud  and  adventurous  spirit 
which  he  had  strengthened  in  his  army  im- 
peilod  it,  on  his  death,  to  cross  the  Sikh  Ru- 
bicon ;  and  the  Punjab  soon  became  British 
territory.  It  must  be  added  that  one  view  of  the 
conquest  of  Sinde  would  represent  Sir  Charles 
Napier  as  a  predetermined  military  adventurer. 
Of  the  names  we  have  mentioned,  some  are 
absolutely  unknown,  others  little  more  than 
names,  to  most  Englishmen.  But  of  Du- 
pleix's  ambition,  vanity,  sudden  elevation, 
equally  sudden  reverses,  who  has  not  read  in 
the  fascinating  pages  of  Macaulay?  Yet,  as 
Mr.  Justice  Stephoi  has  lately  shown,  Mac- 
aulay is  an  unsafe  guide  to  truth  in  Indian 
history.  And  there  is  special  ground  for  dis- 
trusting his  account  of  Olive's  great  rival. 
His  essay  was  written  d  prvpoM  of  Sir  John 
Malcolm's  Life  of  Clive,  But  Malcoln^  con- 
tributes no  original  information  on  Dupleix 
and  his  proceedings.  He  dispatches  in  a  few 
lines,  in  accordance  with  Onne's  narrative,  the 
story  of  the  surrender  of  Madras,  and  Du- 
pleix's  breach  of  the  capitulation,  while  he  fills 
twenty-four  p^ges,  describing  Olive's  defence 
of  A  root,  with  a  quotation  from  Orme.  That 
writer  is  evidently  both  his  authority  and 
Macaulay 's  at  this  period.  But  Orme,  ad- 
mirable historian  as  he  is  in  general,  was 
imperfectly  acquainted  with  Dupleix,  and 
much  prejudiced  against  him.  As  a  personal 
friend  of  Olive,  who  broke  his  parole  on  the 
faith  of  Labourdonnais's  version  of  the  occa- 
sion and  merits  of  his  quarrel  with  Dupleix, 
Orme  would  be  inclined  to  misjudge  the 
French  governor-general  from  the  outset:  and 
Dupleix 's  later  conduct  did  not  tend  to  re- 
move the  impression  of  perfidy,  usurped  au- 
thority, and  extreme  arrogance  thus  associatdd 
with  his  name.  Hence  he  became  in  Orme's 
eyes,  in  spite  of  his  ability  and  perseverance, 
both  odious  and  contemptible.  It  must  be 
remembered  also  that,  while  Labourdonnais 
was  indefatigable  in  circulating  his  own  story, 
Dupleix 's  lips  were  sealed  by  authority,  when 
.he  undertook  to  vindicate  his  career,  and 
press  his  claims  on  the  French  East  India 
()oKipany.    Thus  1m  says: 


Le  Biear  ]>apleix.reffpecte  trop  lee  Ofdres  dn  minis- 
tdre  et  ceax  de  la  comiiagnic  pour  oeer  pubher  ici  ce 
qoMI  lai  A€t6  enjoint  d'eneevelirdane  Icplus  profocd 
secret,  et,  qnelqa  Mnt4r6t  qa'il  paisse  avoir  de  jiutifler 
ane  condaitc  qa'll  nMgnore  pas  que  beancoup  de  per- 
sonnes  ont  coDdamn^,  ce  motif,  toot  paiasant  qa'il 
est,  o^dera  toajonrs  &  la  loi  du  devoir. 

Thus  Dupleix  continued  to  be  misunder- 
stood and  underrated;  tmd  Macaulay,  by  a 
few  vigorous  and  confident  strokes,  from  an 
unfavorable  portrait  produced  a  caricature  of 
the  real  man.  An  anonymous  writer  in  the 
defunct  National  Reeiew  (October.  1862)  first, 
as  far  as  we  are  aware,  explained  the  true 
state  of  the  case  relative  to  Madras  and  its 
treatment  by  the  rival  French  officers;  and 
later  still  Oolonel  Malleson  in  his  History  cf 
the  French  in  India  has  done  ample  justice  to 
Dupleix.  But  the. interest  of  the  subject  is 
by  no  means  exhausted.  Much  of  Dupleix 's 
voluminous  correspondence  still  awaits  publi- 
cation. A  recent  French  writer,  M.  Tibulle 
Hamont,  has  consulted  this,  and  based  upon 
it  a  detailed  and  enthusiastic  biography,  in- 
terspersed with  copious  extracts  from  the 
letters,  which  throw  a  new  and  vivid  light  on 
the  character  and  conduct  of  the  brilliant 
adventurer. 

M.  Hamont  is  not  free  from  the  luet  Bos- 
weUiana;  and  we  are  often  quite  unable  to 
sympathize  with  his  reflections,  or  to  admit 
the  force  of  his  reasoning  and  the  soundness 
of  his  conclusions.  But  bis  contribution  to 
the  knowledge  of  his  hero's  pei'sonality  seems 
to  us%  really  valuable  one;  and  with  the  ad- 
vantage of  this  fresh  ilhistnrtion  we  propose 
to  give  a  short  ouiiine  of  the  critical  passages 
in  Dupleix 's  career,  and  to  attempt  to  appre- 
ciate fairly  his  character,  designs,  and  achieve- 
ments. Whatever  his  faults,  he  certainly  de- 
serves a  better  fate  than  to  be  held  up  to  scorn 
as  a  clever,  but  vain -glorious  and  detected 
charlatan. 

Francois  Joseph  Dupleix  was  bom  on  the 
first  day  of  the  year  1697,  at  Landrecies.  His 
father  was  a  farmer-general  of  taxes,  appar- 
eniXj  a  narrow-minded  and  austere  money- 
maker, and  a  stem  despot  in  the  family 
circle,  whose  constant  aim  was  to  make  his 
son  a  thorough,  but  a  mere,  man  of  busineas, 
rigidly  proserihittg  all  higher  culture,  and 


FRANgOIS  JOSEPH  DUPLEIX. 


d43 


especially  all  scope  for  the  imaginaticHi.  But 
the  exclusive  side  of  this  pplicy  defeated 
Itself.  As  so  often  happens  in  similar  coses, 
the  forbidden  fruit  was  eagerly  snatched  by 
the  boy,  who  was  of  a  dreamy  and  enthiisi- 
astic  temperament ;  and  he  soon  reveled  in 
the  world  of  ideas,  and  devoted  himself  to 
studies  very  relnote  from  bookkeeping,  in- 
cluding that  of  music,  which  throughout  his 
career  was  his  solace^  and  in  some  sense  his 
inspirer.  He  combined  with  a  love  of  the 
fine  arts  a  taste  for  the  severer  studies  of 
mathematics  and  fortification.  His  father 
^nras  naturally  much  provoked:  Paste  encore 
pour  las  nuUhemaUquee,  he  exclaimed  indig- 
nantly, ma%9  la  forUfieaUan  et  U  restef  Such 
perversity  required  sharp  discipline;  and  in 

1719,  that  is  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  the  youth 
was  sent  to  sea  on  boani  of  an  £ast-India- 
man.  From  his  voyages  he  returned  with 
much  information,  and  what  the  domestic 
oracle  considered  sound  ideas  on  trade  and 
maritime  affairs. 

Being  a  large  shareholder  in  the  French 
East  India  Company,  the  elder  Dupleix,  in 

1720,  proeored  for  his  son  a  seat  in  the  Coun- 
cil at  Pondicherry,  with  the  then  almost 
nominal  and  ill-paid,  but  to  Dupleix  very 
suggestive,  peat  of  eommisMire  des  guerree, 
Lenoir,  the  governor  of  Pondicherry,  was  a 
shrewd  and  kindly  man,  well  vetsed  in  Indian 
politics:  he  quickly  discerned  the  capacity  of 
the  young  councilor,  and'  employed  him  in 
a  manner  well  adapted  to  prepare  him  for  his 
enterprising  career.  Under  Lenoip's  tuition, 
Dupleix  explored  the  archives  of  the  com- 
pany, and  was  intrusted  with  the  drafting  of 
dispatdiieB  to  France  and  the  native  powers. 

It  soon  appeared  that,  whatever  his  original 
tastes,  his  commercial  training  had  not  been 
dirown  away.  The  company's  commerce 
was  in  a  very  bad  state.  The  most  element- 
ary principles  of  political  economy  were  ig- 
nored .by  the  professed  men  of  business;  and 
it  was  reserved  for  the  votary  of  the  muses  to 
work  out  a  salutary  reform  by  the  application 
of  thoee  principles.  The  commerckl  agents, 
both  at  Pondicherry  and  in  Europe,  were  con- 
tent to  purchase  Indian  goods  with  French 
gold,  Jtad  neglected, both  .the  introduction  of 


western  commodities  into  India,  and  a  similar 
traffic  with  the  outlying  regions  of  Asia. 
Hence  their  operations  were  comparatively 
feeble  and  intermittent,  and  their  prolits  very 
small.  But  the  company's  servants  were  not 
forbidden  to  trade,  on  their  own  account, 
with  the  interior  of  the  country.  Dupleix 
availed  himself  of  this  opening ;  obtained 
much  money  in  return  for  the  European 
goods  in  which  he  speculated;  and  induced 
his  father  to  engage  in  an  enterprise  that 
gave  him  the  double  satisfaction  of  receiving 
a  good  dividend,  and  feeling  that  his  son  was, 
on  one  side  of  his  character  at  least,  a  chip  of 
the  old  block. 

For  several  years  Dupleix  continued  thus 
to  amass  wealth,  and  made  comprehensive 
studies  of  the  political  sltuatioo  ;  though  it 
may  be  doubted  whether,  ss  M.  Hamopt 
asserts,  he  was  already  dreaming  of  the  con- 
quest of  India;  the  rather,  &»  no  passage  is 
cited  in  proof  of  this  precocious  reverie,  in 
1780  he  was  appointed  governor  of  Chander- 
nagore  in  Bengal.  This  settlement  was  in  a 
more  dilapidated  condition  than  Pondicherry. 
But  it  was  a  sphere  that  suited  him;  and  his 
influence  was  soon  marvelously  displayed  in 
the  development  of  its  comooercial  activity. 
The  place  was  well  situated  both  for  internal 
and  foreign  traffic ;  and  the  example  of  the 
new  governor's  profitable  enterprise  in  pur- 
chasing vessels  and  goods,  and  pushing  them 
seaward  to  remote  Asiatic  ports,  and  along 
the  great  river  highways  far  up  the  country, 
stimulated  the  settlers,  whom  he  freely  assisted 
with  his  capital,  and  so  effectually,  that  at 
the  end  of  ten  years  French  wares  supplied 
many  of  the  great  cities  of  Hindostan,  and 
were  even  sent  up  to  Thibet;  Chandemagore 
mustered,  instead  of  five,  not  less  than  seventy- 
two  ships  engaged  In  the  carrying  trade  with 
western  India,  Arabia,  and  China;  and  the 
increasing  opulence  of  the  place  is  said  to 
have  been  attested  by  the  construction  of  ten 
thousand  new  houses. 

In  1741  the  governor  married  a  remarkable 
woman,  whose  influence  on  his  career  was 
destined  to  be  very  great.  She  was  a  widow: 
her  father  was  French,  her  mother  an  Indo- 
Portuguese,  and  a  sdon  of  the  historic  house 


244 


THE  LffiRAHY  MAGAZINE. 


of  De  Castro.  Madame  Dupleix  was  born 
and  educated  in  India.  Her  manners  are  said 
to  have  been  fascinating :  her  strength  of 
character  and  intelligence,  her  diplomatic  tact, 
and  her  proficiency  in  native  languages,  were 
notable,  and  invaluable  to  her  husband,  whose 
political  designs,  if  not  suggested,  were 
warmly  embraced  and  actively  promoted  by 
her.  A  mutual  and  deep  devotion,  in  weal 
and  woe,  seemed  to  have  united  the  brilliant 
Frenchman  and  the  accomplished  Eurasian, 
not  unlike  that  which  existed  later  between 
Warren  Hastings  and  his  foreign  wife. 

The  year  of  his  marriage  was  also  that  of 
Duplcix's  appointment  as  governor  of  Pondi- 
cherry,  including  the  supreme  control  over 
the  other  f^rehch  possessions,  Ohandemagore 
in  Bengal,  Karikal  on  the  Coromandel,  and 
Mahe  on  the  Malabar  coast.  He  was  pro'** 
vided  with  a  council  of  five  members,  who 
appear  to  have  been  throughout  very  sub- 
missive to  his  ascendency.  The  company 
nominated — and  could  recall — all  these  offi- 
cers, though  the  royal  sanction  ratified  the 
appointment,  and  supplemented  it  with  a 
royal  commission,  and  justice  ran  in  the  king's 
name.  The  powers  of  the  governor-general 
were  very  extensive,  but  were  conveyed  in 
t«rms  perhaps  too  indefinite.  Each  of  the 
settlements  had  its  governor  and  council, who 
were  bound  to  obey  the  orders  of  the  ruler  of 
Pondicherry.  Tliis  is  not  the  occasion  for 
tracing,  even  in  outline,  the  previous  history 
of  the  French  East  India  Company.  But  it 
may  be  mentioned  that  it  bad  already  exhib- 
ited tendencies  strictly  analogous  to  those 
with  which  tlie  student  of  our  own  company's 
annals  is  ffftniliar.  The  directors  limited  their 
aspirations  to  a  large  dividend,  and  were  most 
anxious  to  *'kecp  a  calm  sough,"  and  avoid 
any  proceedings  which  might  compromise 
their  proper  object,  by  involving  them  in 
local  troubles.  On  the  other  hand,  some  of 
their  governors  had  attained  a  dim  conscious- 
ness that  while  their  trade  was  by  no  means 
flourishing,  it  might  prosper  more  if  they 
secured  a  stronger  footing  in  the  country, 
and  more  commanding  influence  over  the 
natives.  Thus  M.  Dumas  had  already  shown 
great   resolution   in    resisting   and    defying 


Mahratta  dictation.  After  Law's  bubble  bad 
burst,  the  French  government,  and  the 
French  people  generaUy,  took  little  interest  in 
Indian  affairs. 

Since  the  fusion  of  the  rival  companies  in 
England   our  countrymen    in  the  east  h&d 
subsided    into  quiet  traders,   and  had  been 
much  abler  and  more  successful  in  their  call- 
ing than  their  natural  enemies  the  French. 
This  once  favorite  phrase  we  use  advisedly: 
for  the  petty  jealousy  of  the  commercial  spirit, 
the  close    neighborhood  of  the  French  and 
English  settlements  on  the  Coromandel  coast, 
the  remoteness  of  the  overruling  authorities  in 
Europe,  and  the  circumstances  that  each  set- 
tlement was  fortified,  and  possessed  the  nu- 
cleus of  an  army,  all  tended  to  aggravate  na- 
tional antipathies,  and  to  provoke  colUsfons, 
which  would  have  been  more  frequent  bat 
for  the  surviving  respect  for  the  native  pow- 
ers.   If  the  emperor  was  a  phantom,  he  was 
still   an     august    phantom,     and     inspired 
fear.    If  the  great  subahdar  of    the    Dek- 
kan,  Nizam  ul  Mulk,  was  afar  off,  he  was 
well  known  to  have  long  arms.    ^\jid   the 
nawab  of  the  Camatic  at  the  time  was  not 
only  his  titular  deputy,  but  had  been  actually 
selected  and   supported  by  him;   and   was 
moreover  a  man  of  character  and  vigor,  with 
large  military  resources  at  his  disposal.     But 
Dupleix 's  bold  spirit  was  not  to  be  thus  in- 
timidated: and  he  early  resolved  to  turn  the 
imperial  authority  to  his  own  account.     It 
must  be  remembered  that  tlie  practical  dis- 
memberment of  the  empire  was  almost  com- 
plete; that  the  viceroy  of  the  Dekkan,  or  India 
south  of  the  Nerbudda,  was  virtually  an  inde- 
pendent sovereign,  though  tlie  great  Mahrat- 
ta confederacy,  of  which  the   Peishwa  was 
becoming  the  acknowledged  head,  was  his 
constant  and  formidable  rival:  and  that  My- 
sore was  still  a  comparatively  insignificant 
state,  under  Hindoo  rule,  Hyder  Ali  being  a 
young  adventurer  in  the  service  of  Nunjiraj. 
the  dulway  o?  regent  of  that  kingdom. 

Whatever  might  be  his  ulterior  designs, 
Dupleix 's  immediate  attention  was  engroased 
by  preparation  for  the  impending  war  be- 
tween his  countrymen  and  the  English,  arising 
out  of  the  disputed  Austrian  succession.    His 


FRANQOIS  JOSEPH  DUPLEIX. 


245 


first  step  was  characteristic.  Knowing  too 
well  the  feebleness  of  ^is  military  resources, 
and  the  precariousness  of  timely  aid  from  be- 
yond the  sea,  he  sought  to  strengthen  his 
political  position  in  the  eyes  of  the  natives, 
which  might  be  not  less  useful  in  the  coming 
crisis  than  in  the  promotion  of  remoter 
schemes.  His  predecessor  Dumas  had  ob- 
tained from  the  empefor,  through  the  Mogul 
governor  of  the  Caroatic,  the  title  of  nawab 
for  himself  and  his  official  successors.  This 
title  Dupleix  now  assumed  with  much  pomp, 
impressive  to  a  native  mind,  ridiculous  in  the 
eyes  of  the  French  settlers,  unaware  of  the 
serious  object  of  the  ceremony  or  sceptical 
of  its  advantages.  He  then  repaired  to  Ben 
gal.  and  Uktc  paraded  his  semi- barbaric  grand- 
eur, exchanging  visits  of  state  with  the  native 
go  ernor  of  Hooglee,  and  exciting  the  same 
sens;!  i  >us  as  in  the  C-amatic.  Thus,  he  flat- 
tered himself,  he  i^as  regularly  enrolled  in 
the  official  hierarchy  of  the  empire.  He  had, 
so  to  speak,  taken  up  his  native  peerage. 

On  his  return  he  devoted  himself  to  the 
reduction  of  expenditure,  the  control  of  the 
civil  functionaries,  tlie  increase,  organization, 
and  training  of  his  little  army,  and  the  com- 
pletion of  the  defences  of  Pondicherry.  The 
chief  defect  of  the  works  was,  that  as  the 
citadel  commanded  the  strand,  there  was  no 
wall  or  ditch  on  that  side.  This  deficiency 
he  now  supplied;  and  of  this  he  was  very 
proud,  and  laid  great  stress  upon  it  in  his 
Memdre,  as  he  was  fully  entitled  to  do;  for 
it  was  a  great  and  cos^y  undertaking,  and  he 
both  devised  it,  superintended  its  construction, 
and  paid  for  it  out  of  his  own  purse.  But  his 
labors  were  rudely  interrupted.  On  18th  Sep- 
tember, 1748,  he  rejeived  most  discouraging 
and  embarrassing  orders  from  his  employers. 
Ho  was  directed  to  retrench  the  expenditure 
by  one-half,  and  to  spend  no  more  at  present 
on  fortification,  although  the  same  dispatch 
apprised  him  that  war  was  almost  certain. 
To  obey  such  orders  would  have  been  fatal  to 
French  interests  in  India;  to  transgress  tnem 
might  be  perilous  to  himself.  In  this  cruel 
dilemma  he  chose  a  middle  course—as  before, 
at  his  owa  cost.  He  had  already  done  his 
utmost  to  retrench  ordinaiy  expenditure,  and 


had  paid  off  most  of  the  debt  incurred  on 
military  preparation,  when  Pondicherry  had 
been,  a  few  years  before,  threatened  by  the 
Mahrattas.  He  now  advanced  out  of  his  own 
funds  500,000  livres,  one  half  of  which  he 
allotted  to  the  defences,  the  other  half  to  the 
freight  of  two  vessels,  which  he  dispatched 
with  a  justification  of  his  proceedings,  and 
bn  urgent  petition  for  a  military  reinforce- 
ment and  the  aid  of  a  fiect. 

After  u  tedious  delay  he  received  a  dis- 
heartening reply.  England  and  France  were 
now  at  war;  but  instead  of  sending  him  sol- 
diers, the  directors-  recommended  him  to  con- 
clude a  neutrality  between  the  commercial 
settlements  of  the  hostile  nations.  In  case 
this  should  not  be  feasible,  it  was  added,  La- 
bourdpunais,  the  governor  of  the  Isles  of 
France  and  of  Bourbon,  had  been  ordered  to 
conduct  a  fleet  to  Pondicherry.  Dupleix 
found,  as  he  feared^  that  Mr.  Morse,  the  gov- 
ernor of  Fort  St.  Qeorge,  would  not  consent 
to  stand  neutral:  Pondicherry  was. almost 
defenceless:  a  large  English  fleet  was  cruising 
in  the  eastern  seas,  and  the  arrival  of  La- 
bourdonnais  was  quite  uncertain.  In  this 
emergency  Dupleix's  previous  policy  stood 
him  in  good  stead.  Reminding  Anwarodeen, 
the  Nawab  of  the  Caruatic,  of  the  long-stand- 
ing friendship  between  the  rulers  of  that 
province  and  the  French,  and  of  the  Mogul 
dignity  conferred  upon  M.  Dumas  and  his 
successors,  and  denouncing  Mr.  Morse's  tur- 
bulent disposition,  he  persuaded  the  Nawab 
to  forbid  an  attack  on  Pondicherry  by  the 
English;  who  were  however  assured  that  if 
the  French  should  becoQie  the  stronger  party 
a  similar  check  should  be  placed  upon  them. 
Our  countrymen  as  yet  stood  too  much  in 
awe  of  the  Mogul  power  to  disobey  such  a  man- 
date. Dupleix  meanwhile  had  dispatched  his 
single  vessel  with  a  pressing  request  that  La- 
bourdonnais  would  hasten  to  his  relief.  That 
remarkable  man  made  extraordinary  exertions 
to  replace  the  fleet  of  which  he  had  been  de- 
prived. He  detained ,  re-equipped ,  and  armed 
for  naval  service  every  merchant  sliip  that 
put  in  at  the  islands;  mustered  and  trained 
every  available  man  on  the  spot;  levied  an 
African  force;  displayed  wonderful  versatility 


246 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


in  organizing  every  department  of  the  arma- 
ment, and  in  restoring  its  efficiency  when 
impaired  by  a  hurricane  off  Madagascar ; 
fought  an  indecisive  action  with  Admiral 
Peyton  near  Negapatam :  and,  the  English 
fleet  next  day  leaving  the  coast  clear,  made 
the  best  of  his  way  to  Pondicherry. 

We  now  approach  a  passage  in  Duplet x's 
history  which  has  been  strangely  misrepre- 
sented. Our  countr3rmen  at  the  time,  piqued 
at  the  loss  of  Madras,  blinded  by  national 
antipathy  and  personal  prejudice  against  their 
ambitious  and  indomitable  antagonist,  flat- 
tered by  the  blandishments  and  misled  by  the 
sophistry  of  Labourdonnais,  too  leadily  ac- 
cepted his  statement  of  the  case;  even  Orme 
afterward  adopted  it;  and  the  traditional 
legend  has  since  been  stereotyped  in  Maca^- 
lay's  celebrated  essay  on  Olive. 

The  relations  between  the  two  distinguished 
men  were,  at  first,  most  cordial.  Dupleix's 
great  objects  were  the  defeat  of  the  English 
fleet,  and  the  capture  of  Madras.  Labour- 
donnais professed  strong  sympathy,  and  stated 
that  without  the  protection  of  a  fleet  Madras 
must  fall  easily.  Dupleix  reinforced  his  ves- 
sels with  heavy  guns ;  and  by  address  and 
liberal  gifts  induced  the  nawab  to  w^ithhold 
his  promised  protection  from  the  English, 
who  had  solicited  it  too  much  as  a  matter  of 
course,  and  empty-handed.  But  Labourdon- 
nais now  suggested  that,  on  taking  Madras, 
he  should  load  his  fleet  with  its  merchandise, 
and  restore  the  town  to  the  enemy,  on  pay- 
ment of  a  ransom.  Here  M.  Hamont  justly 
observes  :  Cette  manUre  d^enrisager  la  qnestion 
sentait  plus  le  corsnire  que  Vhomme  d'etat.  Thi- 
pleix  naturally  objected  to  this  strange  pro- 
posal, made  at  a  time  when  England  and 
France  were  at  war,  and  so  soon  after  the  gov- 
ernor of  Madras  had  refused  to  agree  that  the 
commercial  settlements  in  India  should  remain 
neutral  during  the  European  contest.  With 
out  committing  himself  to  a  premature  opin- 
ion as  to  the  destiny  of  the  town,  he  argued 
that  it  would  be  expedient,  at  any  rate,  to 
raze  its  fortifications. 

From  this  time  Labourdonnais  seemed  a 
changed  man.  Arcust(^>med  to  command,  he 
could  not  brook  an  equal,  much  less  a  supe- 


rior ;  and  he  resented  instructions,  however 
gently  communicated  and  reasonably  justified. 
He  grew  sullen,  captious,  hesitating.  He 
appeared  more  inclined  to  tiispute  than  to  act. 
At  length,  the  English  fleet  having  fled  dis- 
gracefully before  him,  he  attacked  Madras 
with  his  usual  vigor,  and  it  fell  almost  with- 
out resistance.  On  leaving  Pondicherry,  he 
had  again  harptd  on  the  restitution  project, 
and  had  been  answered  decisively.  Yel  he 
now  agreeed  to  a  conditional  capitulation  in 
that  sense:  8i  par  rachat  ou  ran^n  on  rei/ut 
la  rille  d  MM.  les  Anglain,  etc.  Still  there 
was  no  positive  engagement  to  that  elTect; 
though  reporting  that  the  capitulation  left 
him  free  to  choose  between  destro\*iug  the 
town,  making  it  a  French  colony,  or.  restor- 
ing it  on  ransom,  he  pronounced  in  favor  of 
the  third  course.  Dupleix  informed  him  that, 
to  prevent  the  Nawab  yielding  to  the  impor- 
tunity of  the  English,  he  had  been  obliged  to 
promise  that  the  city  should  be  given  up  to 
Anwarodeen,  though  he  apparently  intended 
first  to  destroy  the  fortifications.  To  this 
promised  cession  Labourdonnais  assented. 
And  the  (Jovernor-General  in  the  interim 
made  the  victor  governor,  and  sent  a  council 
to  assist  him,  which  was  the  usual  plan  on  a 
new  acquisition  by  the  company.  But  this 
exercise  of  supreme  authority  Labourdonnab 
vehementl}'  resented,  and  now  announced  that 
he  had  concluded  a  treaty  for  the  ransom  of 
the  town.  It  is  clear  that,  apart  from  the 
promise  to  the  Nawab,  he  had  no  right  what- 
ever to  do  so.  Indeed,  he  virtually  admitted 
this  later.  But  in  vain  Dupleix  argued,  en- 
treated, appealed  to  the  better  nature  of  the 
stubborn  and  arrogant  sailor.  He  only 
changed  his  line  of  defence,  and  in  impudent 
disregard  of  facts  declarecl  himself  pledged  in 
honor  to  execute  the  treaty,  in  consequence 
of  a  promise  which  he  had  made  at  the  time 
of  the  surrender,  and  to  which  he  now  as- 
cribed his  easy  victory.  He  had  been  silent 
as  to  this  promise  at  the  time.  The  tone  of 
his  subsequent  letters  had  belied  it  It  was 
not  ena bodied  in  tlie  capitulation.  And  it 
was  certain  that  the  place  had  been  incapable 
of  holding  out.  Yet  upon  this  alleged  secret 
compact  he  now  took  his  stand  resolutely, 


METAPHOR  AS  A  MODE  OP  ABSTRACTION. 


247 


desperately.  How  is  his  conduct  to  be  ex- 
plained ?  Whatever  his  other  motives,  there 
is  too  good  ground  for  suspecting,  as  was 
charged  against  him  later  in. France,  but 
could  not  be  proved,  that  he  had  been  bought 
by  the  English,  who  preferred  afterward  to 
enlarge  on  Dupleix's .  Punic  faith,  rather  than 
to  testify  against  the  inveterate .  enemy  •  of 
their  great  foe. 

We  must  pass  over  the  violent  scenes  that 
ensued,  and  have  only^pacc-  to  mention  that 
Labourdonnais  placed  in  arrest  some  of  the 
commissioners  sent  by  Dupleix  to  vindicate 
his  authority,  and  the  others  fled. — Sidnbt  J« 
O w£2r,  in-  The.  English  HisioriccU  EaneuK. 

[to  BB  OOHTINTJBD.X 


METAPHOR   AS   A  MODE   OF 
ABSTRACTION. 

Metaphor  represents  a*  whole  stage  of 
thought  through  which  all  languages  must 
pass,  though  its  influence  cannot  be  confined 
within  strictly  chronological  limits,  but  will 
assert  itself  again  and  again,  when  favorable 
circumstances  arise. 

When  treating  of  Metaphor  in  my  Lectures 
on  the  Science  of  Language^  I  endeavored  to 
establish  a  distinction  between  twox:laS8eBof 
metaphors,  which  I  called  "radical"  and 
"poetical."  I  meant  by  a. radical  metaphor 
the  transference  of.  one  and  the  same  root  to 
different  objects,  as -when  in  Sanskrit  both 
tlie  sun  and  a  hymn  of  praise  are  called  arkd, 
from  a  root  ark,  to  shine,  tlie  one  in  the  sense 
of  what  shines,  the  other  in  the  sense  of  what 
makes  shine,  or  what  bla?:es  forth  the  glory 
of  a  god.  When  from  the  root  ucw,  to  cover, 
the  Hindus  derived  Ywr-uxka  {Q^vfMf^),  the  cov- 
ering sky  and  the  god  of  the  sky.  and  Ukewise 
Vri-tm  Coptfj^),  the  covering  darkness,  the 
cloud,  the  enemy  of  the  bright  gods;  when 
from  .a.root<j>r(l,  meaning  originally  to  blow, 
10  let  forth,  was  derived  irpucrtiipk,  a  storm,  but 
also  irpif««,  to  burn;  or  fnom  a  root  an,  to 
blow,  the  Sanskrit  anala,  fire,  and  aniUi, 
wind:  all  this  was  what  I  meant  by  radical 
metaphor.    Perhaps  the  name  was  not  well 


chosen,  because  it  is  rather  a  process  of  "dia- 
phora,"  of  carrying  the  root  with  its  conc^^pt 
to  this  and  tliat  object,  than  a  "metaphora,"  or 
transference  from  one  object  to  another;  }et, 
for  practical  purposes,  metapfiara,  applied  in 
this  sense,  can  hardly  be  misunderstood,  and, 
as  guarded  by  a  proper  definition,  it  might 
well  be.  kept. 

But  at  all  erents  this  prooess  is  different, 
and  ought  to  be  distinguished  from  another, 
namely,  the  transference  of  ready-made  woixis 
from  one  well-known  object  to  another  eqfially 
well-known  subject,  as  when  poets  call  the 
raysof  the  sun  arrows,  large  waves  white  horses 
(cavalli),  small  waves  moutons,  Italian  peco* 
YeilSr  or  when,  as  in  French,  the  sky  covered 
with  thin  white  clouds  is  called  del  movtannS^ 
and  Virgil  says  La7u»  veUera  per  ccdum  ft- 
runiur.  Such  metaphors  I  wished  to  distin- 
guish as  "poetical,"  and  for  a, proper  study 
of  comparative  mythology  the.  distinction 
seems  to  me  of  considerable,  importance. 

Dr.^  Brinkmann,  in  a  work  of  gregt  learning 
and  research,  entirely  devoted  to  the  subject 
of  metaphor,  has  -found  iauU  with,  tliis  divis- 
ion; but,  set  far  aaLcan  judge,  from  a  misap- 
prehension of  the  meaning  which  I  attached 
to  these  names  of  radical  and  poetical  meta< 
phon  He  saya  that  1  ought  to  have  divided 
all  metaphors,  into-  radical  and  nun  radical, 
and.  inXQ-  poetical  and  prosaic.  This  dichoto* 
mous  process  may  be  right  from  a  logical 
point  ol  view,  but  it  would  hardly  h^ve  an- 
swered niy  purpose.  I*  did  not  take  poetical 
^in  the  sense  of- metneal,  and  tlierefore  could 
not  have  used  prosaic  as.  the  complement  of 
poetical.  My  objeet  waa  sa  historical  divis- 
ion, and  if  L  1iad«  caved  for  apparent  logical 
accuracy  rather- than,  for  clearness  of  expres- 
sion,  I  might  have-  divided  metaphors  into 
rcuiieal  &ud  verbal.  By  radical  metaphors,  as  . 
I  explained,  I  mean  ti^ese  which  determined 
the-applicatioR  ofceitain  roota  to  objects  apt; 
parenlly  8&  diffeiw^  aa  aun  and  hymn  of 
praise;  willd  'and  fiie^  eto^  The  metaphor  in 
this,  case-  affected  the  root ;  and  it  was  not 
only  dlf)!cult;.  biol  impossible,  to  say  in  each 
case  wheth«^  voot8«  s^te^  havla^  attained  a 
general  meaning,  had  been  speciaUzed,.  or 
whethev  a.re«l  oi  speeisl  SManUtgbad  ibeeni 


248 


THE  LIBRABY  MAGAZINE. 


generalized,  and  thus  become  applicable  to 
the  expression  of  various  concepts.  If,  in- 
stead of  calling  all  the  remaining  metaphors 
verbal,  I  preferred  to  call  them  poetical,  it 
was  partly  because  verbal  is  now  generally 
supposed  to  exclude  nominal,  partly  because 
I  wanted  to  imply  that  these  metaphors  con- 
stituted preeminently  the  innate  poetry  of 
language.  These  metaphors,  the  unconscious 
poetry  of  language,  were  originally  as  much 
an  act  of  poetical  genius  perform^  by  a  for- 
gotten poet  as  was  any  metaphorical  expres- 
sion of  Shakspeare  or  Goethe.  But  from  our 
point  of  view  there  is  a  difference,  and  a  very 
important  ditf erence,  between  a  metaphor  that 
hasbeen  so  completely  absorbed  into  the  blood 
of  a  language  as  no  longer  to  be  felt  as  a 
metaphor,  and  otfitsrs  which  we  use  with  a 
conscious  feeling  that  they  are  our  own  work 
or  the  work  of  some  one  else,  and  that  they 
require  a  kind  of  excuse,  or  even  an  interpre- 
tation. Aristotle  {Poet,  c.  21)  calls  such  meta- 
phors artificial  (wtiroiyitJiiva),  as  when  some  poets 
call  the  horns  '*small  branches"  {tptntyts,)  or  a 
priest  "one  who  prays"  (ipirr^p.) 

I  confined  my  observations  chiefly  to  a  con- 
sideration of  metaphors  which  have  become 
part  and   parcel  of    a  language,  what  Dr. 
Brinkmann  would  call  incarnate  metaphorsf 
such  as  when  the  central  sp>ot  of  the  eye  is 
called  the  piipil,  the  little  girl — in  Spanish,  la 
nifla  de  los  ojos;  or  when  a  machine  for  bat- 
tering is  called  a  battering-ram  (aries);  or  an- 
other for  lifting   is  called    a  crane.     Such 
metaphors   are    very  numerous.      Thus  the 
name  of  donkey,  in  German,  Bsel,  is  used  in 
English  as  the  name  of  a  support  for  pictures 
(easel).     In  Span'sh  la  horriea  del  hato,  "the 
tihe- donkey  of  a  bundle  of  clothes,*'  is  used 
to  signify  a  shepherd's  wallet.     In  Greek  don 
key  (ov<k)  is  used  for  windlass,  the  upper  mill- 
stone, and  a  distaff.    When  the  Aryans  had 
discovered  that  the  soil,  after  having  been 
.raked  up,  proved  more  fertile,  and  when  they 
ihad  contrived  some  crude  kind  of  plough, 
ithe  essential  part  of  which  consisted  in  a  piece 
•  <$f  wood,  stone,  or  metal  that  tore  open  the 
ssoil,  how  were  they  to  call  itf   Such  words 
as  r  the  Sanskrit  gtMiarana,  earth-cleaver,  are 
iJiate.     Ancient  languages  were  shorter  and 


less  analytical.     Having  watched  the  pro- 
pensity of  pigs  to  scratch  the  soil  with  theii 
noses,  some  of  the  Aryans  called  the  plough 
the  pig,  the  ploughshare,  the  pig*s  snout 
Thus  Punini  tells  us  that  potram  in  Sanskrit 
meant  both  a  pig  and  a  plough:  HalSyudha 
states  that  protham  is  the  name  of  the  snouts 
both  of  plough  and  pig.     Plutarch  goes  a  step 
further,  and  asserts  that  the  first  idea  of  a 
plough  came  from  watching  the  pig  burrow- 
ing, and  that  hence  the  ploughshare  was  called 
tjyif.    It  is  curious  that  the  Latin  portj,  a 
ridge  between  two  furrows,  is  derived  from 
porous;  and  that  the  German  Fkirehe  (furieha), 
furrow,  is  connected  with  farah,  boar.     In 
Sanskrit  we  find  zrrika,  the  name  for  trol/, 
used  in  tlie  sense  of  plough;  but  this  raav  be 
due  to  a  radical  metaphor,  vrika  being  de- 
rived from  vraek,  to  tear.      In  many  lan- 
guages the  living  principle  within  us  is  called 
isjnrit  (breath);    to    die   is  expressed  by  to 
wither^  to  sclieme  by  to  spin,  a  doubt  by  a 
knot,  kind  by  warm,  unkind  by  cold,  etc. 

All  this  I  call  poetical  metaphor,  and  it  in- 
terested me  as  being  a  most  im.portant  element 
in  the  growth  of  language.    What  we  gener- 
ally call  metaphors,  and  what  Dr.  Brinkmann 
is  chiefly  concerned  with,  are  uo  doubt  poeti- 
cal too,  and  perhaps,  if  poetical  means  what  is 
done  by  professed  poets,   even    more  truly 
poetical  than  what  I  call  sd.    But  they  belong 
to  a  later  stratum  of  language  and  thought 
If  I  call  a  man  a  lion,  in  the  sense  of  dandy; 
or  a  dog,  in  the  sense  of  a  wretch,  these  are 
incarnate  metaphors,  and  their  study  belongs 
to  the  science  of  language.    But  if  I  say  "he 
was  like  a  lion  in  fight,"  or  "he  was  a  lion  in 
fight,"  if  I  call  him  "Coeur  de  lion."  these 
are  individual  metaphors,  and  their  study  be 
longs  to  rhetoric.    It  may  sometimes  be  diffi- 
cult to  draw  a  sharp  line  between  the  two, 
but  that  is  due  to  the  very  natui^  of  mela- 
phors.     Though  all  originally  the  work  of 
individuals,  their  acceptance  and  popularity 
depend  on  the  taste  of  others;  and  it  is  often, 
therefore,  a  mere  question  of  time  whether 
they  become  incorporated  in  the  spoken  Ian 
guage  or  remain  outside.    Frequently  a  mod- 
ern poet  does  but  revive  the  latent  metaphors 
of  language,  or  furbish  them  up  UIl  they 


METAPHOR  AS  A  MODE  OF  ABSTRACTION. 


249 


show  once  more  their  original  intentions.  If 
we  say  "to  plough  the  aea,  '*  in  French,  nUoner 
la  7ner,  in  Italian,  9oleare  il  mare,  in  Spanish, 
arar  la  mar,  in  Latin,  perarare  aquas,  sulcare 
Tiada  carina,  we  only  repeat  the  old  radical 
metaphor  which  gave  to  the  root  ar  the 
meanings  of  stirring,  ploughing,  and  rowing. 
Frequently  a  modern  metaphor  fades  and 
hardens  so  quickly  that  we  forget  that  it  ever 
was  a  metaphor.  Who  thinks  of  a  tded-pen 
as  a  feather,  ur  of  shares,  when  they  rise  and 
fall,  as  portions  of  capital?  Yet  these  are 
metaphors  of  very  modern  date. 

But  though  for  the  purposes  which  I  had 
chiefly  in  view  when  treating  of  the  origin  of 
mythology,  the  division  of  metaphors  into 
radical  and  poetical,  as  explained  by  myself, 
seemed  most  convenient^  a  more  detailed 
classification  of  metaphors  may  be  useful  for 
studying  some  deeper  and  wider  strata  in  the 
growth  of  human  thought  and  language. 

The  oldest  division  of  metaphors  dates 
from  the  dme  of  Aristotle. 

He  takes  i^trc4opa  in  a  very  wide  sense,  call- 

ing  by  that  name  every  transference  of  a  word, 

(1)  from  the  genus  to  the  species,  as  if  we 

say,  *'to  stand"  of  a  ship,  instead  of  * 'being 

at   anchor ;"    (2)  from    the   species   to   the 

genus,  if  we  say  a  ''thdusand,"  instead  of 

"many;"  (3)  from   one   species   to   another 

species,  if  we  say  x^^^  ««^  ^x^*"  «pvva«,  "with 

tbe  weapon  lifting  the  soul  as  water  with  a 

pitcher  from  the  well,"  orrcfiMv  antptft  x«^V> 

"cutting  with  the  unyielding  weapon,"  for  in 

both  cases  the  special  apvtiv  and  Tc>y^tr  are 

used  in  the  sense  of  taking  away;  and  (4), 

according  to  analogy.    Aristotle  gives  here  as 

an  instaTice  "the  goblet  of  Ares:"    and  he 

adds,  "as  the  goblet  stands  to  Dionysoi  in  the 

same  relation  as  the  shield  to  Ares,  the  former 

is  used  for  the  latter."    Another  instance  is, 

if  we  call  the  evening  the  old  age  of  the  day, 

or  old  age  the  evening  of  life.    It  was  this 

last  transference,  however,  that  "according  to 

analogy,"  which  in  later  times  monopolized 

the  name  of  metaphora^-Berkeley  uses  analogy 

as  synonymous  with  metaphor— while  tropus 

was  used  in  the  more  general  sense  which 

Aristotle  had  assigned  to  metaphora.    Thus 

Qaintilian,  rendeqag  ]^taQ)iora   by  tran&- 


latio,  explains  it  by  brevior  similiiudo,  an 
abridged  comparison;  and  this  has  remained 
for  centuries  Uie  recognized  definition  of  the 
term.  By  similitudo  Quintilian  means  such 
expressions  as  when  we  say  that  a  man  acted 
like  a  lion,  by  metaphora  when  we  say  more 
briefly  the  man  is  a  lion.  In  addition  to  these 
he  admits  two  other  kinds  of  trope,  viz.,  the 
synecdoche  and  metonymy.  \¥  hen  we.are  meant 
*to  understand  the  many  from  the  one,  the  whole 
from  the  part,  the  genus  from  the  species,  the 
result  from  the  antecedents,  and  vice  rersd, 
that  with  him  is  synecdoche;  when  we  put  one 
name  for  another,  such  as  Homer  for  Uonoer's 
poems,  that  is  metonymy. 

This  classification  has  answered  its  object 
very  well,  particularly  as  it  was  intended 
chiefly  for  rhetorical  pi^poses.  But  as  we 
acquire  a  fuller  understanding  of  certain  pro- 
cesses of  the  mind  and  language,  it  often 
happens  that  the  old  classification  and  the  old 
technical  terms  prove  inadequate  and  that  we 
have  nevertheless  to  retain  them,  though  in  a 
modified  sense.  Thus  the  name  of  metaphor 
is  certainly  objectionable,  except  when  we 
restrict  it  to  individual  poetical  metaphors, 
because  it  seems  to  imply  a  conscious  trans- 
ference of  a  name  from  one  object  to  another, 
both  previously  known,  both  previously 
named.  Such  transference  takes  place  both 
in  modem  and  ancient  writers,  as  when,  for 
instance.  Gibbon  says,  "Some  seeds  of  knowl- 
edge might  be  cast  upon  a  fruitful  soil ! ' '  Suuh 
a  metaphor  is  poetical  and  intentional.  This 
is  already  less  so  in  a  passage  quoted  by  Aris- 
totle in  his  Poeiica,  when  the  sun  is  spoken  of 

as  (nrc(pwi»  Btotcriorw  ^kiya,   "sOwing  the  dlvinC 

light!"  For,  as  Aristotle  hints  himself,  the 
metaphor  here  is  not  quite  involuntary,  be- 
cause the  Greek  language  had  no  separate 
verb  to  express  the  act  of  strewing  or  scatter- 
ing the  light,  and  nothing  remained  but  to  use 

9wtip*Kv,  to  sow. 

This  is  a  very  important  remark,  and  a 
closer  examination  of  ancient  metaphors 
teaches  us  that  poverty  of  language  was  a  very 
important,  nay  the  most  important  element 
in  the  formation.  Language  had  need  of 
metaphors,  had  in  fact  to  borrow,  b«5cause  it 
was  loo  poor,  or,  as  Gioer»  says,  has  transkh 


850 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


Hones  qvAui  mutatiane$  sunt,  cum  quod  nan 
habeas,  aliunde  sumas.  He  dlBtinguishes  these 
metaphors  from  others,  which  he  calls  pavlo 
audadores,  qua  non  inopiam  indicant,  sed 
oraUoni  spUndoris  cUiquid arcessunt." 

Whea  there  w^  uo  word  to  express  a  nas- 
cent idea,  what  could  he  done  but  to  take  the 
next  best?  Man  was  driven  to  speak  meta- 
phorically, whether  he  liked  it  or  not.  It 
was  not  because  he  could  not  restrain  his* 
poetical  imagination,  but  rather  because  he 
had  to  strain  it  to  the  very  utmost,  in  order  to 
find  expres  ion  for  tlie  ever-increasing  wants 
of  his  mind.  Suppose  man  had  advanced  as 
far  as  platting  or  weaving;  it  would  be  very 
natural  that,  after  setting  lines  to  catch  birds 
he  should  when  he  had  to  describe  his  day's 
work,  be  reminded«Df  the  words  for  platting 
or  weaving.  Weaving  would  thus  take  the 
sense  of  putting  snares,  and  when  a  new 
word  was  wanted  for  setting  snares — that  is, 
for  tricking,  cheating,  luring,  inveigUng  a 
person  by  false  words — nothing,  again,  was 
more  natural  than  to  take  a  word  of  a  similar 
import,  and  to  use,  for  instance,  v^aiyctF,  to 
weave,  in  the  sense  of  plotting.    Thus  Homer 

says,  mfKivbv  SoXov  v^aivtiv,  ik^nv  v^aivtiv,  etC.,  i.C, 

to  weave  a  plot.  This  metaphor  spread  very 
widely,  and  we  may  discover  it  even  in  our 
own  word  subtle,  Lat.  subtiUs,  which  comes 
from  stibiexere,  to  weave  beneath,  like  iSla  for 
iexUt. 

Metaphor,  therefore,  ought  no  longer  to  be 
understood  as  simply  the  premeditated  act  of 
a  poet,  as  a  conscious  transference  of  a  word 
from  one  object  to  another.  This  is  modem, 
fknciful,  individual  metaphor,  while  the  old 
metaphor  was  much  more  frequently  a  matter 
of  necessity,  and  in  most  cases  not  so  much 
the  transference  of  a  word  from  one  concept 
to  another,  as  the  creation  or  determination 
of  a  new  concept  by  means  of  an  old  name. 
A  poet  who  transfers  the  name  of  tear  to  the 
dew  has  already  clear  names  and  concepts 
both  for  tear  and  dew.  But  the  old  framers 
of  language  who  for  the  first  time  used  "to 
weave"  in  the  sense  of  plotting  had  before  this 
neither  concept  nor  name  for  plotting;  they 
created  or  fixed  the  new  concept  and  widened 
the  old  name  at  one  and  the  same  time. 


But  though  it  would  be  more  correct  to 
call  ancient  metaphors  transformations  or 
transitions  rather  than  transferences,  it  will 
be  necessary  to  retain  the  old  technical  term, 
only  guarding  against  its  etymological  mean- 
ing being  taken  for  its  real  definition.  After 
these  preliminary  itsmarks,  a  classification  nf 
ancient  metaphors  will  become  less  difficult. 

FuNDAMBKTAL  METAPHOR. — There  is,  first 
of  all,  a  whole  class  of  metaphors  which  arise 
from  a  deep  necessity  of  thought.     Of  these  I 
have  often  spoken  before,  and  need  not  dwell 
on  them  now,  particularly  as  they  have  lately 
been  discussed  with  great  philosophical  in- 
sight by  Professor  Noire  in  his  Loffos.    There 
was  no  way  of  conceiving  or  naming  anything 
objective  except  after  the  similitude  of  the 
subjective,  or  of  ourselves.    Not  only  animaja 
must  be  conceiv^  as  acting  like  ourselves,  as 
pointing,  retrieving,  rejoicing,  grieving,  will- 
ing, or  resisting,  but  all  inanimate  objects 
had  to  be  interpreted  in  the  same  way.    The 
sun  rises  and  sets,  the  moon  grows  and  wanes, 
the  clouds  fly,  the  river  runs,  the  mountains 
stand,  the  trees  die,  the  sea  smiles.    Homer 
calls  even  a  lance  furious  (junuMwra),  and  a  stone 
shameless  (^atdi|c.)    IShis  fundamental  meta^ 
phor,  however,  dates  back  so  far  in  the  growth 
of  our  thoughts  and  words  that  it  is  hardly 
ever  felt  as  a  metaphor.     It'  is  at  the  root  of 
all  my  thology,  and  had  been  perceived  as  such 
long  ago,  before  the  science  of  comparative 
mythology  was  even  dreamt  of.     Thus  I^id 
wrote:    "Our  first  thoughts  seem  to  be  that 
the  objects  in  which  we  perceive  motion  have 
understanding  and  power  as  we  have.    'Sav- 
ages,' says  the  Abbe  Raynal,  'wherever  they 
see  motion  which  they  cannot  account  for, 
there  they  suppose  a  soul.  *    All  men  may  be 
considered  as  a  savages  in  this  respect,  until 
they  are  papable  of  instruction,  and  using 
their  faculties  in  a  more  perfect  manner  than 
savages  do.    The  Abbe  Raynal's  observation 
is  sufllciently  confirmed  both  from  fact  and 
from  the  stnicture  of  a  languages.    Ruder 
nations  do  really  believe  sun,  moon,  and  stars, 
earth,  sea,  and  air,  fountains  and  lakes,  to 
have  understanding  and  active  iwwer.    To 
pay  homage  to  them,  and  implore  then-  favor, 
is  a  kind  of  idolatry  natural  to  savages.    All 


METAPHOR  AS  A  MODE  OT  ABSTRACTION. 


251 


languages  carry  in  their  structure  the  marks 
of  their  being  formed  when  this  belief  pre- 
Tsiled.  '*,  With  certain  limitations  this  is  quite 
true,  but  mythology  is  but  one  out  of  many 
manifestations  in  which  fundamental  meta- 
phor shows  itself. 

Grammatical  Metaphor. — There  is  a  sec- 
ond doss  of  metaphors,  arising,  it  would 
seem,  from  an  imperfection  of  grammar 
rather  than  from  any  necessity  of  thought, 
though  on  closer  examination  we  should 
probabl}''  find  that  here,  too,  language  and 
thouirht  are  inseparable.  The  fact  is  that 
certain  derivative  su dices  have  more  than  one 
meaning;  but  tliis  is  due  in  the  beginning  to 
an  ambiguity  both  of  thought  and  expression, 
while  afterward  this  ambiguity,  which  was  at 
first  intended,  became  traditional  and  purely 
formal.  Thus  we  find  that  in  many  languages 
agent  and  instrument  are  expressed  by  the 
same  word,  possibly  because  at  first  the  in- 
strument was  conceived  as  a  kind  of  agent, 
afterward,  however,  from  a  mere  hiibit.  A 
borer  may  mean  a  man  who  bores  or  the  in- 
strument which  bores.  In  Greek  aofnripf  lifter, 
applied  to  the  horses  which  were  not  yoked 
to  the  carriage,  was  also  applied  to  a  strap; 
lepanip,  originally  a  mixer,  was  used  for  a  mix- 
ing vessdl,  became  afterward  the  name  of  any 
cup-shaped  hollow,  and  lastly  the  name  of  the 
crater  of  a  volcano.  'Ei^dvnfp  was  used  as  the 
name  of  a  garment  (ireirXof)  to  be  put  on,  just 
as  we  say  in  German  ein  Ueberzieher,  a  great- 
coat. 

Act  and  result  are  constantly  expressed  by 
the  same  word,  as  in  perception  and  intuition, 
when  used  in  the  sense  of  what  is  perceived 
and  seen.  This  has  often  become  a  mere 
matter  of  idiom,  as  when  we  now  use  rela- 
tions for  relatives,  action  for  act,  nationalities 
for  peoples,  even  essences  for  extracts,  entities 
for  beings,  nay,  real  existences  for  subjects. 
SubstarUia,  substance,  originally  the  most  ab- 
stract of  abstract  terms,  lias  now  become  ap- 
parently so  concrete  that  Dr.  Whewell  thought 
wc  ought  not  to  speak  of  impoaderable  sub- 
stances, but  of  imponderable  agencies. 

Sometimes  the  name  of  the  instrument  is 
used  where  tl^e  act  is  implied,  a§  when  we 
Si^  brain,  or  ^r«f ,  midriff,  for  thinking,  h^rt 


for  feeling.  Sometimes  the  name  of  the  in- 
strument is  made  to  convey  the  oifect  pro- 
di^d  by  it,  as  when  the  Greek  word  x«pa«Tijp 
an  instrument  for  graving,  is  used  for  the 
mark  produced  by  it,  then  for  any  mark,  and 
lastly  for  the  peculiar  nature  or  character  of 
a  man. 

The  name  of  the  place  sometimes  expresses 
the  agents  located  in  sudi  places,  as  when  we 
speak  of  the  Court  migrating  or  the  Porte  is- 
suing a  firman,  of  Oxford  presenting  a  peti- 
tion, or  of  the  Church  holding  a  council. 

Metaphor  ab  the  Result  op  General- 
ization AND  Abstraction. — We  now  pro- 
ceed to  the  consideration  of  what  is  most 
commonly  called  metaphor.  I  explained  this 
process  formerly  as  "a  transference  of  a  name 
from  the  object  to  whidS  it  properly  belongs 
to  other  objects  which  strike  the  mind  as  in 
some  way  or  other  participating  in  the  pecul- 
iarities of  the  first  object."  This  definition 
has  been  accepted  by  Dr.  Brinkmann  and 
others,  but  a  repeated  consideration  of  the 
subject  has  led  me  to  take  a  different  view 
of  the  mental  process  .:hich  produced  meta- 
phor in  the  earliest  stages  of  language  and 
thought. 

If  the  ruler  of  a  country  was  called  a 
gubernaior,  it  was  not,  I  believe,  by  a  straight 
transference  of  the  concept  of  steersman  to 
that  of  a  ruler  of  a  state.  That  may  be  the 
process  by  which  a  poet  speaks  of  a  king  as 
steersman  standing  at  the  helm  of  a  vessel 
tossed  by  storms.  But  a  simpler  process  is 
that  by  which  the  mind,  after  having  formed 
such  a  word  as  gubematoTy  steersman,  drops 
one  after  another  the  minute  points  which 
constitute  its  intention  or  comprehension,  and 
thereby  retains  only  the  more  general  concept 
of  a  ruler.  That  process  is  not  necessarily 
conscious.  It  is  not  ophaereHs,  or  abstrac- 
tion, in  the  usual  sense  of  that  word.  No 
one,  at  least,  I  believe,  has  ever  caught  him- 
self in  that  process  of  plucking  the  feathers 
out  of  his  concepts.  It  is  rather  an  apoptosis, 
a  falling  ofi^,  a  moulting,  or,  as  Hobbes  would 
have  called  it,  a  decay  of  sense,  which  leaves 
behind  more  and  more  vague,  more  and  more 
abstract,  more  and  more  general  idctii. 

When  that  process  had  taken  place,  wbea 


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TfiE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


gubemaior  in  the  language  of  sailors  and 
others  had  dwindled  down  to  a  mere  director, 
no  actual  transference  was  necessary.  Guber  • 
nator  had  been  so  far  emptied  of  its  original 
contents,  its  intension  had  shriveled  up  so 
much  that  it  was  naturally  applicable  to  ever 
so  many  persons,  provided  they  acted  a  lead- 
ing part  in  the  management  ..f  any  affairs. 

There  is,  for  instance,  a  great  difference  be- 
tween calling  a  ruler  a  steersman,  Skgubemator, 
and  calling  the  same  man  a  column  of  the 
state.  First  of  all,  the  latte-  simile  belongs 
probably  to  a  much  later  time,  when  columns 
had  become  not  only  useful,  but  also  orna- 
mental. Secondly,  column  would  have  to 
dwindle  down  very  much  before  it  could  fall 
into  the  same  wide  genus  as  minister  of  state. 
Here,  therefore,  a  real  poetical  ransference 
seems  to  have  taken  place,  and  when  Pope, 
in  his  translation  of  the  Odyssey,  introduces 
this  simile — 

*^Now  from  my  fond  embrace  by  tempest  torn 
Oar  other  column  of  the  state  is  borne, ^^ 

we  feel  at  once  a  change  of  atmosphere,  for 
Homer  would  certainly  not  have  spoken  of  a 
column  of  the  state,  nor  would  he  have  re- 
presented such  a  column  as  torn  from  his 
mother's  fond  embrace  by  tempest. 

If  we  speak  of  the  moons  of  Jupiter,  moon 
is  no  longer  our  measurer  of  time,  but  it  has 
faded  into  a  mere  satellite,  a  companion  of  a 
planet.  It  has  become  a  very  general  name, 
and,  as  such,  it  proved  applicable  .to  the  satel- 
lites of  Jupiter  or  of  any  other  planet.  A 
foot  had  originally  a  very  full  intension.  It 
meant  the  member  of  a  living  body,  made 
of  tiefth  and  bone  and  muscles,  with  five  toes, 
and  used  for  locomotion.  It  was  meant  for  a 
human  foot,  and  implied  very  soon  a  certain 
length.  But  many  of  its  attributes  not  being 
attended  to,  foot  became  applicable  to  the 
locomotive  organs  of  other  animals*  of  quad- 
rupeds, insects,  birds,  till  at  last  it  lost  even 
the  attribute  of  locomotion,  and,  as  the  foot 
of  a  table,  or  the  foot  of  a  mountain,  signified 
what  is  most  lifeless  and  motionless. 

And  here  again  we  see  very  clearly  how 
language  and  thought  march  hand  in  hand. 
It  was  not  that  we  did  not  know  by  what  is 


called  sensuous  knowledge  the  foot  of  a  table, 
or  the  foot  of  a  mountain  "before  we  gave  it  a 
name.  The  carpenter  who  made  the  foot 
knew  It  as  a  piece  of  wood,  as  a  stick,  as 
properly  shaped,  whether  square  or  round. 
But  until  he  conceived  it  as  something  sup- 
porting tlie  top  of  a  table,  aa  a  foot  supports 
the  body,  he  did  not  know  it  as  a  foot,  and  it 
is  impossible  to  say  which  came  first,  concept 
or  name,  in  what  must  have  been  an  almost 
instantaneous  process. 

A  poet,  no  doubt,  might  dispense  with  this 
slow  process  of  aphcteresis  or  apojHms;  he 
might  not  wait  for  the  gradual  dropping  off 
of  claws  and  wings  and  feathers  before  he 
called  the  sun  a  golden  bird.  But  with  the 
majority  of  mankind  Tnetaphor  is  mostly  pro- 
dui^ed  by  the  gradual  fading  of  the  colors  of 
our  percepts,  and  even  by  the  vanishing  of 
the  outlines  of  their  shadows,  *'.  «.,  of  our  con- 
cepts. This  gives  us  abstract,  hence  general 
names,  and  these  general  names,  without  any 
metaphorical  effort,  become  applicable  to  a 
large  number  of  new  objects,  and  are  after- 
ward called  metaphors. 

How  quickly  language,  even  in  modem 
times,  can  generalize,  we  see  in  a  number  of 
idiomatic  and  proverbial  expressions  in  which 
one  single  case  is  used  to  convey  wide  infer- 
ences and  very  general  lessons.     The  Spanish 
language  is  particularly  rich  in  such  proverbs 
and  metaphors,  and  they  have  been  carefully 
collected  by  Spanish  scholars.    The  Diction- 
ary of  the  Simnish  Ac^idemy  is  well  known 
for  its  wealth  of  metaphorical  expressions, 
most  of  which  *ire  carefully  and  successfully 
explained.     The  number  of  Spanish  proverl^ 
is  said  to  amount  to  no  less  than  twenty -four 
thousand.     Instead  of  saying,  "  What  service 
have  you  rendered  me?"  the  Spaniard  .Sitys, 
Que  hijo  me  has  sacado  dc pilaf    "Which  son 
have  you  taken  for  me  from  the  font?"    In- 
stead of  saying  Why?  he  may  say,  For  que 
carga  de  aguaS     "For  what  load  of  water?'* 
When  we  say.  "Tell  this  story  to  anotlier 
person,"  he  says,  **A  otro  perro  con  eso  hueso,'* 
"Go  to  another  dog  with  that  bone."    The 
Spanish  language  abounds  in  similar  expres- 
sions which  in  one  sense  may  all  be  called 
metaphorical,  because  they  are  all  iNised  oa 


FOUNDLING  QUOTATIONS. 


253 


rapid  generalizations  of  single  cases. — Max 
jVIullek,  in  The  Fortnightly  Review. 


FOUNDLING  QUOTATIONS. 

Quotations  play  no  small  part  in  conver- 
sation and  general  literature.  Tiiere  are  some 
vrbich  we  know  must  inevitably  be  made  under 
certain  circumstances.  It  is  almost  impossible, 
for  instance,  for  the  conventional  novelist, 
^vhen  he  wants  to  convey  to  his  readers  the 
fact  that  his  heroine's  nose  is  of  a  particular 
order — which,  formerly,  through  our -lack  of 
invention,  we  could  only  describe  by  a  some- 
vrhat  ungraceful  term — to  avoid  quoting  Lord 
Tennyson's  description  of  the  feature  as  it 
graced  Lynelte's  fair  face — "  Tip-tilted  like 
the  petal  of  a  flower."  We  feel  sure  that  it 
must  come ;  and  there  is  now,  happily,  no  oc- 
casion for  a  yrmng  lady  in  the  position  of  one 
of  Miss  Braddun's  earlier  heroines,  when  lis- 
tening to  a  detailed  description  of  her  appear- 
ance, to  interrupt  the  speaker,  as  he  is  about 
to  mention  the  characteristics  of  her  nose,  with 
a  beseeching,  "  Please,  don't  say  pug!" 

And  then,  does  anybody  ever  expect  to  read 
a  description  of  a  certain  celebrated  Scotch 
ruin,  without  being  told  that 

**  If  thoo  woQldst  view  fair  Melrose  aright, 
60  visit  it  by  the  pale  moonlight  ?  " 

or  to  get  through  an  account  of  the  ancient 
gladiatorial  games  at  Rome  without  coming 
across  the  line, 

^*  Batchered  to  make  a  Roman  holiday  ?  '*'* 

You  know,  perhaps,  what  praise  Mark 
Twain  took  to  himself  because  he  did  not  quote 
this  line.  "  If  any  man  has  a  right,*'  he  says, 
*'  to  feel  proud  of  himself  and  satisfied,  surely 
it  is  I ;  for  I  have  written  about  the  coliseum, 
and  the  gladiators,  the  martyrs,  and  the  lions, 
and  yet  have  never  used  the  phrase,  '  Butch 
ered  to  make  a  Roman  holiday. '  I  am  the 
only  free  white  man  of  mature  age  who  has 
Accomplished  this  since  B3rron  originated  the 
expression . ' '  This  little  piece  of  self -congratu - 
lation  rather  reminds  one  of  the  lady  who  was 
accused  of  never  being  able  to  write  a  letter 
without  adding  a  P.S.    At  last,  she  managed 


to  write  one  without  the  usual  addition ;  but 
when  she  saw  what  she  had  succeeded  in  doing, 
she  wrote  :  **  P.  S. — At  last,  you  see,  I  have 
written  a  letter  without  a  P.S."  And  so, 
though  Mark  Twain  managed  to  steer  clear  of 
the  hackneyed  quotation  in  the  body  of  his 
account,  he  could  not  help  running  against  it 
in  a  P.S. 

Then  we  have  all  the  multitude  of  Shaks- 
perean  quotations  which  are  sure  to  be  heard 
in  their  accustomed  places,  many  of  which, 
indeed,  have  become — to  quote  again — such 
"household  words,"  that  to  very  many  people 
they  do  not  appear  to* be  quotations  at  all,  but 
merely  every-day  expressions,  of  the  same 
order  as  "  A  fine  day  *'  or  *'  A  biting  wind." 

Again,  when  we  read  of  some  cheerful  fire- 
side scene,  when  the  curtains  are  drawn  close- 
ly against  the  winter  wind  that  is  roaring 
round  the  house,  and  the  logs  are  crackling 
and  spitting  in  the  grate,  and  the  urn  is  hissing 
and  steaming  upon  the  table,  don't  we  know 
that  a  reference  to  the  **  cup  which  chcejs  but 
not  inebriates"  is  certainly  coming?  This, 
by  the  way,  is  a  line  that  is  almost  invariably 
incorrectly  quoted,  and  it  is  the  usual  and  in- 
correct form  that  we  have  given.  We  shall 
leave  our  readers  to  turn  up  the  line  for  them- 
selves,  and  «ee  what  the  correct  form  is,  and 
then,  perhaps,  the  trouble  they  will  thereby 
have  had  will  serve  to  impress  it  upon  their 
minds,  and  prevent  them  again  quoting  it  in- 
correctly. 

But  it  was  not  with  the  intention  of  talking 
about  these  well-known  and  every-day  quota- 
tions from  Tennyson.  Scott,  Byron,  Shaks- 
peare,  and  Cowper  that  we  thought  of  writing 
this  paper.  We  want  to  talk  about  a  few 
quotations,  quite  as  well  Known  as  thd'se  to 
which  we  have  already  alluded,  which  have 
been  so  bandied  about  that  all  trace,  or  nearly 
all  trace,  of  their  original  parish  and  paternity 
has  been  lost ;  and,  though  they  are  i\&  familiar 
to  us  as  the  most  hackneyed  phrases  from  our 
best  known  poets,  no  one  can  say  with  cer- 
tainty by  whom  they  were  first  spoken  or 
written. 

A  good  many  wagers  have  been  made  as  to 
the  source  of  the  well-known  and  much-quoted 
couplet : — 


854 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZOTB, 


'*  He  that  fights  and  rnna  away, 
May  live  to  fight  another  day/^ 

The  popular  belief  is  that  they  are  to  be  found 
in  Butler's  Iludibras.  But  the  pages  of  that 
poem  may  be  turned  over  and  over  again,  and 
the  lines  will  not  be  found  in  them.  We  may 
as  well  say  at  once  that  they  cannot  be  found 
anywhere  in  the  exact  form  in  which  they  are 
usually  quoted.  The  late  Mr.  James  Yeowell, 
formerly  sub-editor  of  Notes  and  QuerieSy  once 
thought  that  he  had  discovered  their  author  in 
Oliver  Goldsmith,  as  a  couplet,  varying  very 
slightly  from  the  form  we  have  given,  occurs 
in  T/ie  Art  of  Poetry  on  a  New  Plan,  which 
was  compiled  by  Newbery — the  children's 
publisher — more  than  a  century  ago,  and  re- 
vised and  enlarged  by  Goldsmith.  But  the 
lines  are  to  be  found  in  a  book  that  was  pub- 
lished some  thirteen  years  before  The  Art  of 
Poetry,  namely,  Ray's  History  of  the  Bebellion. 
There  they  appear  as  a  quotation,  and  no  hint 
is  given  as  to  the  source  from  which  Jhey  are 
taken.    Ray  gives  them  as  follows  : — 

*^  He  that  fighta  and  nina  away. 
May  tarn  and  fight  another  day/* 

Though  this  is  the  earliest  appearance  in 
print  of  the  exact  words,  or  almost  the  exact 
werds^  in  which  the  quotation  is  now  usually 
f^ven,  it  is  by  no  means  the  earlieet  appearance 
of  a  similar  thought.  Even  as  far  back  as 
Demosthenes  we  find  it.  It  appears,  too,  in 
BcarroD,  in  his  VirffiU  TVawtU,  if  we  remem- 
ber rightly.  And  now  we  must  confess  that 
the  atiU  prevailing  belief  that  the  lines  occur 
in  Hudibras  is  not  entirely  without  a  raisoai 
SHre,  and  it  is  not  impoflsible  that  Ray  may 
luiiEe  thought  he  was  quoting  Butler,  preserv- 
ing some  hazy  imd  indistinct  recollection  of 
iines^read  long  ago,  and  putting  their  meaning 
periups  quite  unwittingly  and  unconsciously, 
into  a  new  and  unaHth^ced  form.  This, 
liowever,  is  mere  coBjectnie.  The  lines,  as 
they  appear  in  BuMtOMi^mt  iii.  canto  iii., 
toss  diS,  di4),  are  as  foUows  :— 

- "  For  tboae  that  fiy,  -may  fight  again, 
Which  he  ean  never  do  thst^a  alain.'*^ 

^e  may  Just  add  that  Collet,  in  his  BdUs 
•4?f  Xc^ralMrtf,  says  that  the  couplet  occurs  in  a 
jmall  volums  of  roisoeUaiiecHw  .poems  ^j^fiir 


John  Mennis,  written  in  the  reign  of  Charles 
II.  With  this  book,  however,  we  are  unac- 
quainted, and  cannot,  therefore,  discuss  the 
appearance  of  the  foimdiing  lines'  in  it,  or 
what  claims  its  author  may  have  to  be  their 
legitimate  parent.  ^ 

All  readers  of  Tennyson  —  and  who  that 
reads  at  all  is  not  numbered  among  them  Y— 
know  well  the  opening  stanza  of  In  Mom- 
riam: — 

**  I  held  it  trnth,  with  him  who  einga 
To  one  clear  harp  in  divers  tones. 
That  men  may  rise  on  stepping-stones 
Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things." 

Tliese  lines  contain  another  quotation  of  the 
order  we  have  designated  as  "Foundling 
Quotations."  Who  is  the  singer,  **to  one 
clear  harp  in  divers  tones,"  to  whom  Lord 
Tennyson  refers  ?  Passages  from  Seneca  and 
from  St.  Augustine  (Bishop  of  Hippo)  have 
been  suggested  as  inspiring  the  poet  when  he 
penned  the  lines;  but  neither  Seneca  nor  St 
Augustine  can  be  said  to  sijig  "to  one  clear 
harp  in  divers  tones.  *'  Perhaps  the  most  reason- 
able hypothesis  is  that  Lord  Tennyson  had  in 
his  mind  Longfellow's  beautiful  poem  of  St. 
Au^fustinAs  Ladder,  the  opening  lines  of  which 

are : — 

**Salnt  Angastine!  well  haat  thon  said 

That  of  our  vieee  we  can  frame 
▲  ladder,  if  we  will  but  tread 
*   Beneath  our  feet  each  deed  of  ahameP^ 

And  jthe  closing  ones  >— 

*tNor  deem  the  irrevocable  Past 
As  wholly  wasted,  wholly  vain, 

If,  rl^og  on  its  wxeeks,  at  last 
To  something  nohler  we  attain.^ 

The  question,  however,  though  Lord  Ten- 
nyson isstill  alive,  is  one  that  is  not  likely  ever 
to  be  clearly  solved;  for  we  have  very  good 
authority  for  saying  that  he  has  himself  quite 
forgotiien  of  what  poet  or  verses  he  was  think- 
ing when  he  composed  the  first  8.Anzai)f  i« 
Mem^riam, 

The  equally  veU-kiiawB 

'•This  is  tnith^he  iMet  singv, 
Tfa«t  a  sorrow's  orowB  of  aoirow  i«  rememberinglu^ 
pier  things, '' 

in  LocksUy  Mali,  refoFB^jof  cttase,  to  Hht  line 
iajQaoJlo*s_ii|/!iRGBv. 


POUNDLIKG  QUOTATIONS. 


The  trite  "Not  lost,  but  gone  before,*' 
might  alone  provide  subject-matter  for  a  fairly 
long  essay.  Like  the  other  quotations  which 
'we  are  discussing,  it  can  be  definitely  assigned 
to  no  author.  The  thought  can  be  traced  back 
as  far  as  the  time  of  Antiphanes,  a  portion  of 
vhose  eleventh  "fragment,"  Cumberland  has 
translated,  fairly  literally,  as  follows  : —  « 

'^Yoar  lost  friends  are  not  dead,  bat  gone  before, 
Adranced  a  stage  or  two  upon  that  road 
Which  yon  mnst  travel,  in  the  stepe  (hey  trod.** 

Seneca,  in  his  ninety -ninth  Epistle,  says: 
Qu£m  putas  periissey  pruBmistus  est  (He  whom 
you  think  dead  has  been  sent  on  before);  and 
he  also  has:  Nonamitiuntur^  sedprasmiiiuntur 
(They  are  not  lost,  but  are  sent  on  before), 
which  corresponds  very  closely  with  the  popu- 
lar form  of  the  quotation.  Cicero  has  tlie  re- 
mark that  "FriendF,  though  absent,  are  still 
present;'*  and  it  is  very  probable  that  it  is  to 
this  phrase  of  Cicero  that  we  are  really  in- 
debted for  the  modem,  "Not  lost,  but  gone 
iKjfore."  We  may  note  that  Rogers,  in  his 
Uurruin  Life,  has,  "Not  dead,  but  gone  be- 
fore." 

Then  there  is  the  somewhat  similar, '  'Though 
lost  to  sight,  to  memory  dear,"  which  no  one 
has  siicceeded  in  satisfacstdirily  tracing  to  its 
original  source.  It  was  said,  some  years  ago, 
that  the  line  was  to  be  found  in  a  poem  pub- 
lished in  a  journal  whose  name  was  given  as 
The  Oreenicieh  MagaMne,  in  1701,  and  written 
by  one  Ruthven  Jenkyns.  The  words  formed 
the  refrain  of  each  stanza  of  the  poem.  We 
give  one  of  them  as  a  sample : — 

**8weetheart,  good-bye!  the  flatterimg  aaU 
Ib  spread  to  waft  me  far  from  thee; 

And  soon  before  (he  fav^lng  gale 
My  ship  shall  boand  upon  the  sea. 

Perchance  all  desolate  and  forlorn. 
These  eyea  shall  miss  thee  many  a  yeac,   «. 

Bat  nnf  orgotten  every  charm- 
Though  lost  to  eight,  to  memory  dear.^ 

Mr.  Bartlett,  however,  in  the  last  edition  of 
his  Dictionary  of^  Quotmtums,  has  demolkAied 
this  story  of  Mr.  Ruthven  Jenkyns ;  and  the 
line  is  still  unclaimed  and  fatherless.  Prob- 
ably, as  in  the  case  of  the  last  mentioned,  ''Not 
lost,  but  gone  before,"  its  genn  is  to  be  found 
hi  an  expression  of  Cioeroi. 


There  is  a  Latin  line  familiar  to  all  of  xu, 
Tempara  muiantur,  nos  et  mutatMir  in  iUi$ 
(The  times  change,  and  we  change  with  them), 
which  we  are  frequently  hearing  and  seefaig. 
This  is  a  much-abused  line;  probably  there  le 
none  more  so;  and  we  do  not  think  we  shall 
be  guilty  of  exaggeration  if  we  say  that  it  is 
misquoted  ten  times  for  every  time  it  is  cor- 
rectly cited.  The  positions  of  the  nos  and  the 
et  are  usually  interchanged;  the  result  being, 
of  course,  a  false  quantity;  fOr  the  line  is  a 
hexameter.  Now,  who  first  wrote  this  line? 
The  answer  must  be,  as  in  the  cases  of  all  our 
other  "Foundling  Quotations."  that* we  do 
not  know.  But  in  this  particular  instance  we 
may  venture  to  be  a  little  more  certain  and 
definite  in  our  remarks  concerning  its  pedigree 
tlian  we  have  dared  to  be  in  previous  ones. 
There  can  be  little  doubt  that  the  line  is  a  cor- 
ruption of  one  to  be  found  in  the  DeHiUa 
Poetarum  Germanorum,  among  the  poems 
of  Mattliias  Borbonius,  who  considers  it  a  say- 
ing of  Lotharius  I.,  who  flourished,  as  the 
phrase  goes,  about  880  a.d.  We  give  the  cor- 
rect form  of  the  line  in  question,  and  the  one 
which  follows  it : — 

**Omnia  fmUantur,  not  H  muiamvr  in  Wit^ 
Ilia  vicet  quoidem  re$  habet^  ilia  tua^'' 

There  is  another  foundling  Latin  line,  al- 
most as  frequently  quoted  as  the  one  we  have 
Just  been  discussing,  namely,  Qua$  DeuM 
vuU  perdere,  priua  dementat  <Wliom  the 
gods  would  destroy,  they  first  madden).  Con- 
cerning this  there  is  a  note  in  Mr.  Croker's 
edition  of  Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson,  in  which 
it  is  said  to  be  a  translation  from  a  Qieek  * 
iambic  of  Euripides,  which  is  quoted;  but  no 
such  line  is  to  be  found  among  the  writings 
of  Euripides.  Words,  however,  expressing 
the  same  sentiment  are  to  be  found  in  a  frag- 
ment of  Athenag(»^»;  and  it  is  most  likely 
that  the  Latin  phrase  noweo  commonly  quoted 
is  merely  a  translation  from  this  writer's  Qreek, 
though  by  whom  it  was  first  made  we  canBot 
say.  The  same  sentiment  has  been  expressed 
more  than  once  in  English  poetry. 

Dryden,  in  the  third  part  of  The  Ein4 

the  Panther,  has : — 

-"Forthose  whom  ^oA  V>  rnihi  haa  desigMd, 
xfle  Ataior  lata,  ao^  ^Klt  ;4ealW!ys  thoir  mtnd.** 


256 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


And  Butler  writes  in  HudSbras : 

*^Like  men  condemned  to  thnnder-bolta. 
Who,  ere  the  blow,  become  mere  dolts/^ 

Further  consideration  will  probably  bring 
to  the  reader's  niind  other  examples  of  these 
'*FoundUug  Quotations'*  which  have  won  for 
themselves  an  imperishable  existence ;  though 
their  authors,  whose  names  these  few-syllabled 
sentences  might  have  kept  alive  forever,  if 
they  were  only  linked  the  one  with  the  other, 
•vre  now  utterly  unknown  and  forgotten.  Any 
one  who  can  succeed  in  discovering  the  real 
authorship  of  the  quotations  we  have  been 
considering  will  win  for  himself  the  credit  of 
having  solved  problems  which  have  long  and 
persistently  baffled  the  most  curious  and  dili- 
^nt  research. — Cftambers's  Journal. 


SISTEHS-IN-LAW. 

From  time  to  time  during  the  last  five-and- 
forty  years  efTorts  have  been  made  to  alter 
the  marriage  law  of  England  in  the  matter  of 
the  prohibited  degrees.  It  is  not  surposing 
that  many  persons  are  tired  of  the  discussion. 
Rather  than  listen  to  any  further  arguments 
they  will  vote  for  the  change  which  is  so  per- 
sistently demanded,  and  hope  to  be  troubled 
with  it  no  more.  I  wish  to  point  out  that 
the  hill  advocated  by  Lord  Bramwell  in  the 
House  of  Lords,  and  more  recently  in  The 
Library  Magazine  will  not,  if  enacted,  fulfill 
their  desire.  It  will  be  but  the  beginning  of 
troubles  to  those  whose  chief  anxiety  is  to 
lead  a  quiet  life.  It  will  unsettle  the  whole 
Iftw  of  marriage  and  decide  nothing.  Its  in- 
herent unreason  is  a  fatal  defect. 

For  my  present  purpose  it  is  not  necessary 
to  enter  into  the  theological  argument.  It 
seems,  indeed,  but  yesterday  that  a  theologi 
cal  treatment  of  the  question  was  generally 
deprecated.  Speakers  in  Parliament  a  few 
years  since  disclaimed  all  intention  of  defend- 
ing or  attacking  the  law  on  that  side.  Nor 
would  any  one  have  expected  that  the  Scrip- 
tural controversy  should  be  revived  under  the 
auspices  of  a  veteran  lawyer  who  is  careful 
to  remind  the  world  that  he  knows  no  more 


of  theology  than  of  astrology.  Divine*  per- 
haps will  remark  from  their  point  of  ^icw, 
that  their  own  science  is  not  so  easily  set  aside 
as  lawyers  or  astrologers  suppose.  It  has  an 
awkward  way  of  reappearing  after  it  has  been 
declared  to  be  dead  and  buried  by  general 
consent.  Even  when  polemics  slumber,  popu- 
lar literature  has  a  curious  tendency  to  clothe 
itseff  in  theological  language,  and  to  adapt 
Scriptural  phraseology  to  its  own  use.  An 
attentive  reader  of  the  Parliamentary  debates 
of  the  late  brief  session  could  not  fail  to  no- 
tice that  there  was  hardly  one  speech  of  im- 
portance in  which  illustrations  from  Bible 
history  or  adaptations  of  Script  urjil  language, 
did  not  occur.  Men  do  not  so  easily  unlearn 
even  that  which  they  repudiate,  or  wholly 
throw  off  the  authority  they  have  resolved  to 
dethrone.  Be  this  as  it  may,  Lord  Bramwell 
certainly  devotes  half  his  article  to  the  theo- 
logy of  which  he  speaks  so  lightly.  It  would 
be  foreign  to  my  immediate  purpose  to  follow 
him  on  this  track.  It  is  sufficient  to  reassert 
the  facts  that  marriage  between  persons  near 
of  kin  is  prohibited  in  the  8crif>ture.  and  that 
no  distinction  between  relationship  by  affinity 
or  consanguinity  is  there  to  be  found. 

It  is  on  this  last  point  that  the  wliole  sub- 
ject at  present  really  turns.  In  England  no 
one  openly  denies  that  it  is  necessary  to  pur 
some  restrictions  on  the  general  liberty  to 
contract  marriage,  even  apart  from  any 
Scriptural  or  ecclesiastical  rule;  or  that  near- 
ness of  relationship  between  the  parties  to  the 
proposed  marriage  constitutes  a  valid  impedi- 
ment. But  what  degree  of  nearness?  This 
is  the  point  in  dispute.  I  am  assuming  that 
the  idea  of  nearness  includes  the  notion  of 
degrees  in  nearness ;  although  to  hear  some 
persons  talk  on  this  subject,  one  might  think 
that  all  relationships  were  the  same.  As  they 
attach  no  particular  meaning  to  the  words 
they  use,  argument  with  them  is  impossible. 
Rational  men  will  allow  that  all  who  are 
related  to  one  another  are  more  nearly  or  more 
distantly  related:  parents  more  nearly  related  to 
cliildren  than  uncles  and  aunts  to  their  nephews 
and  nieces.  They  will  hardly  deny  that  kins- 
folk related  in  the  same  degree  must  all  be 
equally  allowed,  or  forbidden,  to  intermarrf: 


SISTERS-IN-LAW. 


287 


and  that  permission  to  many  given  to  the 
nearly  related,  and  denied  to  those  more  dis- 
tantly related,  would  be  an  arbitrary  indul- 
gence to  the  one,  an  intolerable  wrong  to  the 
other.  These  positions  have  not  been,  to  mj 
knowledge,  disputed  in  the  abstract  by  any 
one. 

But  it  is  exactly  with  these  positions  that 
the  law,  in  the  proposed  form,  would  be  in 
direct  conflict.    The  man  would  be  allowed 
to  marry  two  or  more  sisters;  the  woman  for- 
bidden to  marry  two  brothers.    Marriage  with 
a  wife*8  jsister  would  be  lawful;  marriage  with 
her  niece  absolutely  contrary  to  law.    Further, 
the  only  reason  for  prohibiting  half  the  mar> 
riai^  named  in  the  Table  of  Degrees  would 
oease  to  exist    Marriage  with  a  wife's  near 
kinswomen  is  forbidden  now  because  they  are 
the  wife's  kinswomen,  and  for  no  other  rea- 
son.    Remove  that  reason,  and  they  would 
be  forbidden  for  no  reason  at  a|l.    Could  it 
be  expected  that  the  persons  subject  to  these 
disabilities   would   contentedly    bear    them? 
Once  declare  it  lawful  and  right  for  a  man  to 
marry  a  near  kinswoman  of  his  wife,  and  it 
is  inevitable  that,  if  his  affections  were  set  on 
any  other  of  her  kinsfolk,  he  should  feel  him- 
self the  victim  of  a  senseless  tyranny,  were  he 
not  allowed  to  gratify  those  affections  with 
the  sanction  of  the  law.    I  am  unable  to  think 
of  any  rational  answer  to  the  protest  which 
such  flagrant  inequality  would  call  forth. 

Two  answers,  indeed,  have  been  attempted, 
but  they  are  mutually  destructive.  On  the 
one  hand,  it  is  said  that  further  relaxations 
would  be  so  shocldng  that  no  one  would  ask 
for  them;  on  the  other,  that  as  soon  as  they 
were  asked  for,  they  would  be  granted  with- 
out demur.  Taking  the  former  line  of  argu- 
ment, Lord  Bramwell  has  urged  that  it  is 
very  foolish  not  to  do  a  right  thing  be- 
cause you  may  be  asked  thereafter  to  do  a 
wrong  one — forgetting,  apparently,  that  the 
"wrong'*  thing  would  cease  to  be  wrong  in 
Parliamentary  and  legal  eyes  in  the  event  of 
his  bill  becoming  law.  The  wrong,  indeed, 
would  be  on  the  other  side.  It  would  be 
wrong  to  withhold  (he  permission,  which  you 
bad  granted  in  one  case,  from  others  Whose 
plea  for  it  rested  «n  the  mme  grounds.    It 


may  be  right,  or  it  may  be  wrong,  to  marry 
your  wife's  near  kinswoman;  it  cannot  be 
right  and  wrong  at  the  same  time.  It  cannot 
be  right  to  favor  a  particular  case  by  exoep-  . 
tional  treatment,  or  to  draw  lots  for  indul- 
gences among  those  whose  ttatus  of  affinity  is 
the  same.  It  is  not  a  question  of  being  asked, 
as  Lord  Bramwell  says,  to  do  a  wrong  thing, 
but  of  being  asked  to  do  that  which  your  own 
line  of  action  has  compelled  you  to  acknowl- 
edge to  be  right 

It  is  natural  to  ask,  if  this  be  so.  why  the 
bill  does  not  include  all  the  kindred  whom 
the  majority  of  its  supporters  admit  to  be 
within  the  scope  of  its  principle.  An  altera- 
tion of  a  very  few  words  would  make  it  con- 
sistent with  itself  and  with  the  arguments 
used  in  support  of  it.  What  hinders  the 
alteration  from  being  made?  The  answer  to 
this  question  has  more  policy  than  honesty  on 
Its  face.  Shortly  stated  it  is,  "One  thing  at 
a  time.  This  is  a  world  of  expediency  and 
compromise.  We  cannot' ' — ^say  the  advocates 
of  the  bill — "persuade  the  great  body  of  our 
countrymen  that  it  is  right  to  allow  all  these 
marriages,  but  there  is  a  certain  seutimeut  in 
favor  of  one  of  them.  Kindly  grant  a  privi- 
Ugium  for  that  one,  then  we  shall  have  the 
lever  we  require  for  further  action;  we  shall 
be  able  to  show  that  the  principle  has  been 
conceded,  ani  that  the  rest  must  follow.*' 
Truly  this  reasoning  assumes  a  simplicity  of 
character  among  those  to  whom  it  is  addressed 
which  can  hardly  be  imputed  without  some 
disparagement  of  their  understanding. 
^  "Only  Just  this  little  bill,  this  innocent  little 
bill,"  they  entreat  us  to  pass;  then  aHde  to 
their  friends  and  allies,  **Yon  shall  soon  be  > 
set  at  liberty  to  marry  all  your  wives*  rela- 
tions, if  we  can  only  just  carry  this  little  bill. 
Don't  mention— for  the  world— those  nieces,  . 
and  brothers*  widows,  and  all  the  rest,  whilo  .,. 
we  have  tliis  bill  in  hand;  but  you  shall  8oon«  ^. 
see  that  we  have  done  your  business  for  yoot  : 
as  effectually  as  if  the  whole  list  had  been 
enumerated  In  our  act."  Let  it  not  be 
thought  I  am  imputing  motives  to  opponent; 
I  am  saying  only  what  they  have  said  for 
themselves  wherever  it  was  politic  to  say  it, 
and  I  ttm  thinking  of  oases,  not  a  f«w,  in  ^ 


858 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


which  it  is  the  brother's  widow  on  whom  the 
widower's  heart  is  set. 

I  am  very  anxioufl  that  the  Ipvers  of  a  quiet 
life,  for  whose  happiness  I  am  much  con- 
cerned, should  open  their  eyes  to  the  prospect 
before  them.  They  must  expect  a  long  series 
of  demauds  lor  successive  relaxations  of  a 
serieB  of  prohibitions  of  which  the  foundation 
will  have  l)een  already  destroyed.  Resistance 
to  their  demands  must  needs  grow  weaker 
year  by  year,  as  the  want  of  any  valid  argu- 
ment against  them  is  more  plainly  seen.  But 
what  a  prospect!  Year  after  year  to  have  the 
whole  question  of  marriage  and  of  family  life 
dragged  into  the  arena  of  parliamentary  dis- 
cussion, with  jibe  and  sneer  and  vulgar  de- 
traction of  all  sanctions  hitherto  revered,  is 
surely  not  an  anticipation  which  any  good  or 
wise  man  can  with  patience  entertain  We 
stand  on  the  ground  of  solid  principle  now; 
we  ure  entitled  at  least  to  ask  what  principle' 
is  to  l)e  substituted  for  it  before  we  swept  it 
away.  To  calm  lookers  on,  indeed,  it  must 
be  little  less  than  marvelous  to  observe  the 
way  in  which  the  law  of  marriage,  with  its 
far-reaching  influences  on  national  life,  has 
been  at  the  mercy  of  chance  majorities  any 
time  these  last  twenty  years.  Half  a  dozen 
young  men,  hastily  summoned  from  a  race- 
course to  give  a  vote  in  harmony  with  the 
known  wish  of  some  distingtiished  personage, 
have  been  able  to  influence  divisions  on  which 
tlie  welfare  of  every  family  in  England  de- 
pended. They  may  have  had  as  little  desire 
to  take  a  part  as  they  have  had  opportunity  of 
acquainting  themselves  with  the  merits  of  the 
question  at  issue;  but  the  Parliamentary  game 
required  their  presence,  and  seemed  to  place 
tlie  stakes  of  victory  at  their  disposal.  If  any 
question  ever  demanded  the  careful  study  of 
skilled  jurists  and  experienced  masters  of 
social  ethics,  it  is  this  question  of  the  Mar- 
riage Liiw.  The  results  of  careful  study  and 
sound  historical  knowledge  should  have  been 
laid  before  Parliament  by  men  capable  of 
placing  the  whole  question  in  its  true  light, 
witli  documentary  evidence  in  support  of 
their  words.  Some  such  speakers,  indeed, 
have  from  time  to  time  treated  the  subject 
Ip  a  worthy  manner ;  but  when  one  recalls 


the  performances  of  triflers  who  have  scarcely 
been  at  the  pains  to  digest  the  scraps  of  in* 
formation  supplied  to  them— the  hurried,  ill- 
baianced  debates,  and  the  closure  dictated  by 
the  approach  of  the  dinner-hour,  when  the 
fringe  of  the  question  had  been  scarcely 
touched — one  can  but  be  profoundly  thankful 
that  a  great  disaster  has  notwithstanding  been 
averted  for  so  many  years. 

I  shall  be  told  that  what  I  have  written  is 
beside  the  point,  that  no  one  defends  the  bill 
as  logical.     It  claims  to  be  nothing  more  than 
a  practical  proposal  to  get  rid — with  or  with- 
out reason— of  a  practical  evil,  arising  from 
the  want  of  a  second  bedroom  in  a  poor  man*9 
house.    Far  be  it  from  me  to  extenuate  the 
evils  caused  by  over -crowded  dwellings,  or  to 
hinder  any  honest  effort  t4>   remedy  them: 
they  are  grave  evils  indeed.    The  remedy, 
however,   would  hardly  seem    to  lie  in  an 
arrangement  by  which  a  wido'^-er  should  be 
encouraged  to  marry  the  female  who  looks 
after  his  children  as  soon  as  possible  after  the 
poor  wife*s  death.     This  is  not  always,  nor 
indeed  often,  her  sister,  as  any  one  acquainted 
with  the  habits  of  the  people  can  testify.    At 
the  sudden  deatli  of  a  young  wife  the  natarsl 
person  to  care  for  the  orphans  is  the  kins- 
woman who  loved  her  best — her  own  mother; 
she  takes  the  little  ones  to  her  own  house,  or 
stays  at  their  home,  until  some  plan  can  be 
devised  for  their  ciire.    Sometimes  it  is  the 
man's  sister  in  blood,  sometimes  the  sister-in- 
law,  who  is  the  friend  in  time  of  need.    But 
in  a  large  proportion  of  these  latter  cases,  the 
sister,  or  sister-in-law,  is  *'out  at  service,"  and 
cannot  leave  her  place  without  notice,  or  can- 
not afford  to  give  it  up  to  discharge  a  duty  in 
her  brother's  house,  for  which  he  can  give 
her  no  wages.    In  other  cases  the  neighbors 
— and  their  charity  at  such  times  is  marvel- 
ous—take in  one  or  another  of  the  young 
children  until  the  darkest  days  are  past    The 
notion  that  a  working-man's  family  has  its 
store  of  sisters  living  unemployed  at  home  in 
readiness  to  help  a  brother-in-law  in  his  be- 
reavement is  a  fancy  picture,  which  is  exhib 
ited  in  order  to  divert  attention  from  the  fact 
that  it  is  quite  a  different  claser  from  which 
the  promoters  of  this  bill  are  drawn.    Not 


SISTERS-IN-LAW. 


259 


tlie  laborers,  but  tbeir  employers,  signed  the 
notorious  Norfolk  petition,  and  for  reasons 
aJtogetber  different  from  those  which  are 
connected  with  the  experiences  of  cottages 
having  but  a  single  room.  It  must  be  added 
that  the  dwelling-house  argument  proves  too 
much.  It  would  require  the  bans  of  marriage 
Tirith  the  successor  to  be  put  up  as  soon  as  the 
wife's  funeral  was  past.  The  case,  however, 
is  not  quite  so  lamentable  in  this  respect  as 
the  advocates  of  the  bill  would  have  us  sup- 
IM)se.  To  those  of  us  who  have  often  visited 
poor  dwellings  it  is  well  known  tbat  arrange- 
ments which  would  distress  us.  iC  Ihey  existed 
in  our  own  homes,  are  often  quite  free  from 
moral  suspicion — even  in  Irish  cabins— among 
those  who  have  been  familiar  with  the  occu- 
pation of  one  room  by  a  whole  family  all 
their  liyes.  Evils  arise,  no  doubt,  from  the 
crowding;  but  the  ruined  characters  and  blast- 
ed lives,  of  which  our  penitentiaries  tell  a 
mournful  tale,  do  not  come,  for  the  most  part, 
from  one-roomed  cottages,  but  from  the  con- 
tamination of  the  work-room  or  of  low  places 
of  amusement,  from  dom^tic  service  to  de- 
praved employers,  and  the  manifold  oppor- 
tunities for  corruption  which  money  and 
leisure  supply.  Certain  it  is  that  neither  the 
act  of  lb3o,  nor  the  agitation  which  has  since 
grown  up,  bad  anything  to  do  with  poor 
men's  cottages  or  poor  men's  needs. 

I  have  said  that  the  argument,  to  which  I 
have  just  referred,  proves  too  much.  As 
much  may  be  said  of  every  argument  which 
has  been  urged  in  favor  of  the  Deceased  Wife's 
Sister  Bill.  When,  lor  example,  the  laws  of 
Prussia  and  other  foreign  countries  are  quoted 
in  support  of  the  proposed  change,  I  ask,  in 
reply,  whether  there  is  any  country  in  Europe 
which,  differs  from  our  own  in  this  respect 
only,  that  it  allows  marriages  with  a  wife's 
sister.  After  the  change  of  our  Marriage 
Law  which  this  bill,  if  carried,  would  effect, 
we  should  remain,  as  we  now  are,  alone. 
Nor  is  there  any  such  agreement  between  the 
various  codes  of  law  in  force  on  the  Continent 
as  would  give  us  any  hope  of  sheltering  our- 
selves by  further  changes  behind  the  authority 
of  some  general  rule.  In  this  only  they  agree, 
that  they  all  go  beyond  the  point  at  which 


the  Marriage  Law  Reform  Association  pro- 
poses, for  the  moment,  to  halt  Then  we  are 
told  that  it  is  our  duty  to  follow  our  colonies 
in  their  legislation  on  this  subject.  But  why 
on  this  subject  only?  On  important  econom- 
ical questions  we  have  not  yet  shown  any 
disposition  to  adopt  colonial  theories  or  to 
introduce  colonial  practice.  In  the  days 
when  slavery  was  part  of  the  cherished  insti> 
tut  ions  of  more  than  one  British  colony,  so 
far  from  holding  ourselves  bound  to  conform 
the  laws  of  England  to  that  example,  we  de- 
voted millions  of  our  money  to  the  emanci- 
pation of  the  slaves,  and  coinpelled  the  col- 
onies, much  as  they  disliked  the  change,  to 
accept  the  legislation  which  set  their  l)onds- 
men  free.  It  would,  indeed,  be  an  evil  day 
for  England  when  we  began  to  take  the  pat- 
tern of  our  laws  from  the  medley  of  crude 
legislation  which  a  score  of  inexperienced 
communities  had  chanced  to  enact.  Nor 
should  it  be  forgotten  that  in  the  countries 
inhabited  by  the  majority  of  her  majesty's 
subjects  polygamy  is  an  integral  part  of  the 
law.  • 

It  is  not  surprising  that  Lord  Bramwell 
should  treat  cursorily  what  he  mentions  as 
the  "  ecclesiastical"  objection,  or  that  he 
somewhat  misapprehends  its  bearing.  It  is 
true  that  most  clergymen  would  think  it  a 
grievous  wrong  to  be  compelled  to  solemnize 
such  marriages.  Lord  Bramwell  would  give 
them  liberty  to  refuse.  But  he  fails  to  see 
that  the  Church  of  England,  as  a  religious 
society,  would  be  sorely  aggrieved  if  her 
clergy  were  even  allowed  to  celebrate  in  her 
churches  unions  which  for  centuries  her 
courts,  her  canons,  and  her  Prayer  Book  have 
declared  to  be  unlawful.  Still  tlie  charge  in 
the  Marriage  Service  would  remain,  bidding 
the  parties  to  confess  any  impediment,  and 
solemnly  reminding  them  that  '*8o  many  aa 
are  ooupled  together  otherwise  than  God's 
Word  doth  allow  are  not  joined  together  by 
God,  neither  Is  their  matrimony  lawful." 
Still  the  table  of  kindred  and  affinity  would 
be  the  only  answer  given  by  the  Church  to 
those  who  wish  to  know  what  persons,  how 
related,  are  forbdiden  in  Scripture  to  many 
together.    Few  wiU  contend  tiiat  what  Scrip- 


2eo 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE, 


tiire  has  been  held  for  centuries  to  forbid, 
ceases  to  be  forbidden  in  Scripture  because  a 
narrow  Parliamentary  majority,  created,  it 
may  be,  by  the  votes  of  members  who  deny 
the  autliority  of  the  Bible,  is  of  that  opinion. 
The  Table  of  Degrees  would  still  be  read  on 
the  walls  of  our  churches,  placed  there  as  the 
canon  directs.  Preachers  might  still  expound 
the  law  of  Qod  as  forbidding  such  unions 
even  in  the  presence  of  those  who  had  con- 
tracted them,  and  parish  priests  might  refuse 
— as  the  Bishop  of  Predericton  has  bidden  his 
clergy  to  rcif use — Commimion  to  the  offenders. 
In  all  this  the  Church  of  England  would  not 
go  beyond  the  Westminster  Confession  of 
Faith  (which  is  the  law  of  Presbyterian  Scot- 
land), declaring  that — 

"Marriage  oaght  not  to  be  within  the  degrees  of  con- 
sangninity  or  affinity  forbidden  in  the  Word;  nor  can 
each  incestaoas  marriagea  ever  be  made  lavrfol  by  any 
law  of  man,  or  consent  of  partiee,  so  as  these  persona 
may  live  together  as  man  and  wife.  The  man  may  not 
marry  any  of  his  wife>  kindred  nearer  in  blood  than 
he  may  of  his  own,  nor  the  woman  of  her  hnsband^s 
kindred  nearer  in  blood  than  of  her  own.'* 

"Very  uncharitable  language,  whoever  uses 
it,"  say  the  advocates  of  the  bill.  "  IVo 
thoroughly  well-conducted  persons,"  —  so 
Lord  Brarawell  describes  all  pairs  of  attached 
brothers  and  sisters-in-law — ought  not  to  be 
treated  with  disrespect.  The  feeling,  which 
he  has  more  than  once  expressed,  of  sympa- 
thy with  an  agreeable  and  affectionate  young 
couple,  of  like  age  and  condition  in  life,  ap- 
parently formed  each  other's  happiness,  ap- 
peals to  a  universal  sentiment.  Astrologically 
they  would  petition,  under  his  guidance, 
against  the  law  which  forbids  their  nuptials; 
and,  so  pleading,  they  would  enlist — as  they 
have  enlisted — in  their  favor  many  a  friend  to 
whom  fathers  and  councils,  theology  and  law, 
are  equally  unknown.  But,  then,  it  must  be 
remembered  that  the  same  engaging  portrait 
may  be  painted  wi*h  a  variety  of  kinsfolk  for 
the  sitters;  it  does  not  apply  to  sisters  -in-law 
and  brothers  alone. 

I  have  admitted  that  there  is  a  natural 
sympathy  with  young  persons  deeply  attached 
to  one  another,  who  are  prevented  from  mar- 
rying. But  here  again,  when  we  try  to 
translate  the  feeling  Into  solid  reason,  we  find 


that  the  argument  proves  too  much.    "The 
course  of  true' love  never  did  run  smooth;" 
and   infinitely  varioiis  are   the  obstacles  to 
marriage  which  youthful  affections  must  be 
content  to  endure.     The  very  man  who  has 
been  declaiming  against  the  table  of  prohib- 
ited degrees,  will  go  home  and  threaten  to 
turn  his  son  or  daughter  out  of  doors  if  an 
imprudent  courtship  is  not  immediately  broken 
off.    And  this  parental  sternness  may  have 
its  justification  too.      A  thoughtless  young 
couple  may  be  saved  from  life-long  trouble 
by  the  unwelcome  intervention  of  wiser  and 
more  experienced  counselors.      Or,   on  the 
other  hand,  that  intervention  may  nip  in  the 
bud  affections  which  might  have  blossomed 
into  happy  married  life.    Either  way.  how- 
ever, it  is  part  of  the  condition  of  things  in 
which  we  live  that  young  persons  "madly  in 
love,"  as  the  phrase  is,  must  often  be  disap- 
pointed; it  is  not  only  widowers  in  love  with 
their  wives*  sisters  who  have  to  bear  their 
fate.     If  it  is  cruel  to  delwr  from  marriasre 
those  who  are  sincerely  in  love,  the  Court  of 
Chancery  has  mor0  wanton  cruelty  to  repent 
of  than  all  the  defenders  of  the  Christian  law 
of  marriage.    Has  it  never  occurred  to  Lord 
Bramwell  to  turn  a  glance  of  pity  on  the 
sorrows  of  its  wards?    The  maintenance  of 
the  Ijevitical  prohibitions  has  at  least  the  gen- 
eral good  for  its  object;    the  hard-hearted 
guardian  has  nothing  better  than  the  preser- 
vation or  augmentation  of  an  estate  in  view. 
After  all,  the  happiness  of  the  community 
and  the  purity  of  social  life  must  outweigh 
the   particular   grievances  of  which    disap- 
pointed lovers  naturally  complain.     So  it  is 
in  many  another  case  familiar  to  us  all.     It  is 
a  hardship,  for  instance,  to  our  Jewish  fellow- 
subjects  to  lose  their  trade  on  the  Lord's  Day 
when  they  have  already  kept  their  own  Sab- 
bath on  the  day  before.    But  we  could  not 
preserve  our  national  Sunday  from  the  in- 
vasion of  secular  business  if  we  made  an  ex- 
ception in  their  favor;  and,  for  the  general 
advantage,  they  must  bear  the  loss.    We  may 
pity  the  lovers  whose  sad  case  Lord  Bramwell 
deplores;  but  they  have  really  no  right  to  the 
special  aureole  with  which  he  would  invest 
them. 

•    I 


SISTERS-IN-LAW. 


861 


The  question  is  often  asked,  ''May  I  not 
marry  my  sister-in-law  T  "  The  real  question 
is,  whether  I  may  still  have  a  * 'sister-in-law" 
at  all.  If  the  law  which  forbids  us  to 
Biarry  is  abolished,  in  what  docs  the  relation 
of  sister  between  us  consist  ?  Thenceforward 
slie  is  no  more  to  her  sifter's  husband  than 
any  other  female  friend.  He  must  be  content 
to  see  her  welcomed  by  his  wife  with  tender- 
est  affection,  caressed  by  his  children  with 
devoted  love,  but  she  is  nothing  to  him;  sis- 
ter, either  in  law  or  in  feeling,  she  cannot  be. 
His  wife's  sister,  his  children's  aunt,  their 
best- loved  kinswoman,  is  to  be  but  an  ac- 
quaintance to  him.  A  sharp  line  of  division 
is  drawn  through  the  midst  of  the  family; 
the  futher,  with  his  group  of  kinsfolk;  the 
mother,  with  her's — two  sets  of  kindred  in 
one  home.  It  will  be  hard,  no  doubt,  for 
those  who  have  entered  into  the  happy  conli- 
dence  of  the  old  rtlatlonship  to  unlearn  the 
lessons  of  a  united  home;  but  new  generations 
as  they  arise,  if  the  law  is  changed,  must  be 
brought  up  in  a  different  experience  and  form 
a  different  estimate  of  family  life.  I  am  not 
suggesting  any  thoughts  of  improper  attach- 
ment in  the  wife's  lifetime.  I  am  only  assert- 
ing that  one  who  is  in  no  sense  a  sister,  and 
may  possibly  become  a  wife,  ceases  absolutely 
to  be  what  a  sister-in-law  has  been,  and  hap- 
pily still  is,  in  many  an  English  home. 

Some  persons  make  merry  with  descriptions 
of  tlie  family  circle — perhaps  because  they 
have  never  known  the  pure  and  happy  unity 
to  which  they  refer.  The  Scripture  expres- 
sion that  man  add  wife  are  "one  flesh"  is  to 
some  of  them  particularly  ludicrous.  Lord 
Bramwell,  with  some  endeavor  to  be  serious; 
would  dispose  of  it  by  the  remark  that  it  is  a 
metaphor,  on  the  apparent  assumption  that 
a  metaphorical  statement  is  necessarily  un- 
true. I  quite  admit  that  metaphors  are  not 
freely  used  in  the  courts,  and  that  they  would 
be  a  little  out  of  place  in  the  discussion  of  a 
dry  point  of  law.  Nor  should  I  look  for  il- 
lustration of  the  use  of  metaphor  in  any  case 
to  writings  from  Lord  Bramwell's  pen. 
Nevertheless  it  would  be  a  strange  misconcep- 
tion to  make  metaphor  and  fiction  synony- 
mous terms.    One  might  say  of  a  celebrated 


statesman  that  his  race  is  run,  or  tliat  his  sun 
lias  set;  and  it  would  be  a  reasonable  answer 
to  declare  that  his  energies,  bodily  and  men- 
tal, are  unimpaired,  or  that  he  has  still  a 
great  career  in  politics  before  him.  But  it 
would  be  absurd  to  argue  that  the  statement 
was  untrue  because  it  was  clothed  in  meta 
phorical  language.  If  marriage  be,  as  some 
free-thinkers  assert,  a  time-bargain  between 
two  persons  that  they  will  live  together  as 
long  as  it  is  mutually  convenient  for  them  to 
do  so,  it  follows  that  the  Scriptural  expres- 
sion, "they  two  shall  be  one  flesh,"  is  unmean- 
ing. But  the  truth  or  falsehood  of  it  does 
not  depend  on  its  metaphorical  character.  It 
may  weU  be  that  an  expression  has  been 
chosen  which,  by  its  very  paradoxical  char- 
acter, most  strongly  expresses  the  close  and 
indissoluble  union  which  marriage  creates, 
not  to  add  that  the  expression,  as  found  in 
the  language  of  the  Old  Testament  Scripture, 
may  exegetioally  have  no  metaphorical  char- 
acter; it  may  be  a  simple  statement  that  the 
relationship  of  married  persons  is  to  be  as 
close  as  that  which  exists  between  persons  of 
the  same  blood,  expressed  in  the  plainest  way 
of  which  the  language  would  admit. 

We  come  back,  then — putting  aside  this 
unprovoked  attack  on  the  moral  character  of 
metaphor — to  the  point  which  touches  the 
root  of  the  matter.  '  *Ninety-nine  out  of  every 
hundred  advocates  of  legalizing  marriage  with 
a  deceased  wife's  sister,"  says  one  of  them, 
"&re  in  favor  of  legalizing  marriage  with 
wives'  nieces  and  their  wives*  kinsfolk  in 
general.  A  man's  own  nieces  are  blood  re- 
lations, but  his  wife's  nieces  are  not.  The 
reason  marriage-law  refprmers  confine  them 
selves  to  one  point  at  a  time  is  that  they  be- 
lieve success  can  best  be  obtained  in  this 
way."  For  that  very  reason,  among  others, 
the  upholders  of  the  marriage  law  of  England 
tenaciously  defend  the  position  which  is  the 
object  of  immediate  attack.  They  have  been 
fairly  warned  that  all  turns  on  this:  its  cap- 
ture means  the  loss  of  the  fort.  Surely  it  is 
time  for  Parliamentary  assailants  to  give  up 
the  disingenuous  pretence  that  they  have  only 
this  one  point  in  view,  and  to  discuss  the 
whole  question  In  a  reasonable  way.    For 


dos 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


my  own  part — disastrous  as  the  change  would 
be— I  had  rather  see  the  law  altered  so  as  to 
abolish  at  once  all  legal  prohibitioDS  of  mar- 
riage between  persons  connected  by  affinity 
than  to  have  an  enactment  which  would  abol- 
ish them  by  implication,  and  require  their 
legal  abolition  in  detail  as  opportunity  served. 
The  Church  would,  in  that  case,  have  its  own 
opposite  principle  clearly  defined  as  a  basis 
for  consistent  action;  good  people  would  be 
saved  from  the  confusion  of  thought  which 
would  betray  them  into  condonation  of  evil, 
as  though  it  were  a  comparatively  harmless 
exception  to  the  general  law.  It  is  not  im- 
material to  remember  that  this  was  the  basis 
of  the  act  of  1835.  That  statute  drew,  for 
the  first  time,  a  partial  dstinction  between  the 
prohibited  degrees  of  consanguinity  and  affin- 
ity. Lord  Lyndhurst  had  not  drawn  any 
such  distinction  in  the  bill  which  he  intro- 
duced. His  bill,  as  he  afterward  said,  had 
nothing  to  do  with  annulling  marriages;  it 
had  no  other  end  in  view  than  the  condition 
of  children,  which  the  existing  law  left  in  a 
unsettled  state  during  their  parents'  lifetime. 
In  its  passage  through  Parliament  the  dis- 
tinction (retrospectively)  between  consanguin- 
ity and  affinity  was  introduced.  But  neither 
then  nor  at  any  other  time,  until  the  tactics 
of  the  Marriage  Law  Reform  Association 
were  adopted,  was  a  wife's  sister  dealt  with 
on  any  other  footing  than  that  on  which  the 
whole  of  the  wife's  near  kinsfolk  stood,  ^y 
the  law  of  England,  to  use  the  words  of  Lord 
Wensleydale — certainly  rot  one  of  the  * 'eccle- 
siastically-given" lawyers  whom  Lord  Bram- 
ewll  depreciates — the  marriage  of  a  widower 
with  his  deceased  wife's  ister  was  always  as 
illegal  and  invalid  as  a  marriage  with  a  sister, 
daughter,  or  mother  Was.  For  the  first  time, 
as  I  have  said,  by  Lord  Lyndhurst's  act, 
though  not  by  Lord  Lyndhurst *s  will,  a 
partial  distinction  between  relationship  in 
blood  and  relationship  by  marriage  was  rec- 
ognized. To  that  distinction — if  ever  we  are 
driven  to  ellow  any  distinction  at  all — ^sound 
reason  and  good  sense  require  us  to  adhere. 

I  am  well  aware  that  in  what  I  have  writ- 
ten I  have  laid  myself  open  to  Lord  Bram- 


weirs  sneer  at  "priests.**  I  am  content  to 
bear  this  reproach.  I  believe  that  the  Church 
of  Christ  has  done  more  than  any  power  on 
earth  to  uphold  the  sacrcdness  of  family  life 
in  its  pure  affections  and  unity  of  interests. 
The  members  of  other  religious  denominations 
have  not  been  wanfeing  in  zeal  for  morality,  as 
they  understand  it.  But  in  rospect  of  mar- 
riage they  avowedly  take  a  "liberal*'  view. 
They  would  make  prohibitions  of  it  as  few 
as  possible;  they  approve  of  facilities  for  the 
dissolution  of  it  which  the  Church  has  always 
refused  to  allow.  The  tendency  of  these 
"free"  views  may  be  illustrated  by  the  exist- 
ing state  of  things  in  North  America.  In  the 
New  England  States  it  has  come  to  pass  that 
2,000  families  are  now  broken  up  every  year, 
and  4,000  persons  divorced.  We  conceive  it 
to  be  our  duty  to  resist  those  tendencies  to  the 
utmost  of  our  power.  The  Church  has  spoken 
by  her  ministers  surely  not  unnatural  ex^xju- 
ents  of  her  mind,  and  their  loyalty  has  often 
brought  upon  them  bitter  hatred  and  personal 
loss.  But  on  this  question  her  laity  have  not 
been  silent.  To  describe  them  as  "ecclesi- 
astically-given," is  but  a  disagreeable  way  of 
saying  that  they  have  been  on  the  Church's 
side.  On  the  other  side  are  ranged  a  variety 
of  interests  and  motives  which  do  not  see 
Parliamentary  light.  A  traveler  in  a  railway 
carriage  heard  some  country  folk  discussing 
the  Wife's  Sister  question.  One  of  them 
mentioned  a  man  who  had  "married"  his 
stepmother.  The  father  had  left  her  the 
house  and  some  property.  The  grown-up  son 
was  living  in  the  house  and  **maiTied"  the 
woman  "to  keep  the  property  together." 
The  relator  quite  approved  of  vhat  the  son 
had  done.  We,  who  deprecate  even  a  dis- 
tant approach  to  such  laxity  of  morals,  ought 
not  to  be  regarded  ^  hostile  to  the  happiness 
or  the  welfare  of  our  country.  We  believe 
that  we  are  its  true  friends.  I  adopt  the  con- 
cluding sentence  of  Lord  Bram  well's  article 
— with  a  variation.  I  tnist  that  a  right  view 
will  be  taken  of  this  important  matter,  and 
the  law  remain  unch4j'nged. — John  F.  Wac- 
KARNE88,  BisHOP  OF  OXFORD,  In  Tfus  Nine- 
teenth OffnHinf, 


CUftRENT  THOUGHT. 


268 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 

Air  AuBMCAN  ScHOLAB.— ProfesBor  J.  H.  Thayer, 
of  Barvard,  has  joBt  broaght  oat^  Qrwk-English  Lex- 
icon <tf  the  New  TeetatMul^  being  Qrinun's  Wilke's 
Clavie  Novi  TeetamerUi^  revised  and  enlarged.  Con- 
cerning this  work,  aud  its  aathor,  Mr.  W.  Sanday  thus 
urites  in  the  London  Academy:—* 

"Thia  work  has  been  eagerly  looked  for  erer  since 
«  few  specimen  sheets  were  privately  circolated  in 
1881;  and  it  may  be  said  at  once,  and  with  much  confi- 
dence, that  it  will  not  disappoint  the  expectations  that 
vere  then  formed  of  it.  Just  as  it  was  a  marked  step 
in  advance  when,  In  186sl,  (he  now  veteran  WiUibald 
<irimm  took  up  and  recast  Wilke's  Olavis,  ao  it  is  not 
qoite  so  great  a  step,  perhaps,  but  still  a  distinct  step 
in  advance  now  that  the  combined  work  of  Grimm  and 
Wilke  has  been  translated  and  adapted  for  American 
and  English  readers  by  Prof.  Thayer,  who  is  the  snc- 
ceaaor  of  the  late  Dr.  Kzra  Abbot  in  the  Buckley  Pro-^ 
fettorship  of  Biblical  Criticism  and  Interpretation  at 
Harvard.  It  would  not  have  been  easy  for  the  mantle 
of  that  admirable  scholar  to  fall  upon  shoulders  more 
worthy  to  wear  it.  Prof.  Thayer  and  bis  predecessor 
w«re  men  of  kindred  genius.  Better  examples  could 
no£  well  be  chosen  of  the  American  aptitude  for  exact 
echolarship.  It  was  abomewhat  striking,  and  I  will  not 
Bay  a  humiliating,  fact— for  £nglishmen  and  Ameri- 
cans are  coming  more  and  more  to  think  of  each  other 
as  forming  one  family— that  the  last  edition  of  Liddeli 
and  Scott  e^Uould  go  across  the  Atlantic  for  its  revision. 
And  now  the  lexicon  of  New  Testament  Greek,  which 
we  had  long  hoped  might  proceed  from  Oxford — for  I 
believe  that  I  am  right  in  saying  that  Dr.  Scott  pro- 
jected such  a  work,  and  was  only  led  to  abandon  it  by 
iJl-health— has  also  gone  to  America.'' 

Hnrou  WoBKVBir.^'*Mr.  Thomas  Scott,  of  Blythe,*' 
aaya  The  JWl  Mall  Oazetle^  **who  recently  super- 
intended the  building  of  two  baizes  at  Bhownuggar, 
in  the  Bombay  Presidency,  has  furnished  his  experi- 
citcea  to  a  reporter.  Mr.  Scott  was  the  only  European 
workman  employed,  and  had  no  knowledge  of  the 
language,  but,  with  the  help  of  an  interpreter,  the  na- 
tives very  quickly  learned  the  diifcrent  parts  of  the 
barge.  The  average  number  of  persons  employed  was 
about  2S0.  Sometimes  nearly  half  of  those  were 
women,  who  did  exactly  the  same  work  aa  men  en- 
gaged in  laboring.  Children  of  a  very  tender  age  were 
likewise  counted  among  the  staff  of  workpeople.  Me- 
chanics received  eight  annas  (an  anna  would  be  worth 
about  a  i^'J.  in  English  money)  per  day;  male  labor- 
era»  four  annas;  and  female  laborers,  three  annas. 
Their  day^s  work  commenced  at  seven  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  aud  terminated  at  sunset,  two  hours  being 
allowed  for  dinner  at  midday,  except  in  the  hottest 
part  of  the  summer,  when  there  was  a  cessation  of 
labor  from  eleven  in  the  morning  till  two  in  the  after- 
noop.  With  the  exception  of  the  riveten,  who  were 
brought  from  Bombay,  the  whole  of  the  work  was 
done  by  the  natives.  Awkward  enough  some  of  the 
'bands'  were  when  they  commenced  their  tasks^^nd 
li  mm  tbe  leae  to  be  wondered  «t  wben  many  of  them 


had  not  seen  a  steamship  before— they  adapted  them- 
selves to  the  work  in  an  almost  incredibly  buort  time, 
displaying  much  intelligence,  and  esDecially  evincing 
a  strong  desire  to  please.  The  quality  of  their  work, 
according  to  the  testimony  of  the  State  engineer,  Mr. 
R.  P.  Simms,  was  ^qnite  equal  to  the  same  class  at 
home;'  but,  as  was  to  be  expected,  the  people  are  not 
capable  of  turning  out  the  ^quantity,'  and  Mr.  Scott  is 
of  opinion  that  one  English  mechanic  would  be  worth 
from  three  to  four  native  artisans.  The  time  occupied 
in  fitting  up  the  barges  was  twelve  months.  As  a  class, 
the  natives  are  most  temperate  In  their  habits,  and 
during  the  eighteen  months  which  Mr.  Scott  was 
domiciled  in  the  State,  he  avers  he  did  not  see  a  single 
individual  Intoxicated.  Vegetarianism  is  predomi- 
nant" 

The  Grbat  Paius  BooKBxirDSii.— "There  is,"  says 
The  Fall  Mall  Oazetle^  **  some  difference  of  opinion 
as  to  who  is  the  best  bookbinder  in  London.  Not 
BO  in  Paris.  If  you  want  a  volume  bound  In  the 
highest  style  of  art  the  man  to  go  to  is  M.  Cu2in,  of  the 
Hue  Siguier.  Go  there  and  you  will  find  a- specimen 
of  a  real  Parisian  workshop.  Up  three  pairs  of  stairs 
in  a  narrow  street,  very  different  from  the  blazing 
boulevards,  where  casual  spectators  think  they  are 
seeing  Parisian  life  when  they  are  really  assisting  at  a 
cosmopolitan  orgie  held  at  Paris  by  the  dissolute  of 
all  nations  and  both  hemispheres,  the  door  of  the  flat 
is  in  all  probability  opened  to  you  by  the  wife  of  the 
great  binder.  Within  are  cupboards  containing  the 
stock  of  tools,  worth  perhaps  jC^iOOO,  which  form  the 
necessary  plant  of  an  ambitious  establishment,  and 
morocco  and  other  leather  in  every  process  of  treat- 
ment, while  the  master  workman  faimi>e]f  in  basque 
oap  and  brown  holland  blouse  is  working  away  at 
some  pet  specimen  of  his  art,  such  as  an  edition  de 
luxe  of  Morean's  Monument  du  Coelume^  which  he  has 
Just  completed  in  blue,  with  a  ^doublure'  (this  is  the 
term  applied  to  the  elaborated  ineide  faces  of  the 
cover)  of  crimson  morocco.  Inside  and  out  the  whole 
ornamentation  of  this  sumptuous  binding  has  been 
carried  out  leaf  by  leaf  and  spray  by  spray,  as  the 
Freeh  say  d  petite  fere^  and  you  are  not  surprised  to 
hear  that  M.  Cuzin  has  sold  it  an  English  amateur  for 
fifty  napoleons.  It  only  remains  to  add  that  M.  Cuzin 
is  a  self -made  man,  the  son  of  a  tailor  in  a  small  town 
of  Central  IVance,  who  took  early  to  bookbinding,  and 
is  now  at  the  head  of  that  handicraft  in  Paris,  and 
perhaps  in  the  world." 

A  oNCB  7AXons  Novelist.— A  few  years  ago  one  of 
the  inost  widely-read  English  novelists  was  Mr.  J,  ^ 
Smith,  whose  name  we  do  not  find  in  any  Biographii;^ 
Dictionary.    Of  him  The  Saturday  Jievtew  says :— . 

'^His  province  in  art  was  cheap  fiction ;  bu^  in  his 
time  he  was  one  of  the  best  read  writers  in  Ep^Iand.  He 
hUB  been  dead  not  many  years,  and  alreacj^  there  is  an 
accretion  of  legends  about  his  name  ^^ji^' promises  to 
develop  into  a  regular  myth.  Thoaljl  \»  said,  for  one 
thing,  that  he  believed  his  real  a^fsagth  to  lie  in  ser- 
ious art,  and  that  he  died  of  grlj^f  Wcaose  he  was  bound, 
hand  and  foot  to  the  penny  «^ve\  Ag^tn,  It  is  told  c^  • 
him  that  bawaB  the  BalTil^9.<2l%^«ll*iBjootnaL  tti^ 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


proprietors  were  in  despair ;  they  had  tried  Walter 
Bcott,  they  had  tried  Alexandre  Damas,  they  had  tried 
Charles  Readc ;  the  public  wonld  not  bny,  and  all  was 
going  by  the  board ;  when  J.  F.  Smith  stepped  in  with 
a  masterpiece  of  his  making,  and  the  consumptive 
print  became  the  healthiest  of  its  kind.  .Another 
romance  affirms  that  he  was  made  a  Papal  connt  under 
circufiistances  that  do  him  the  greatest  honor  as  a 
practical  novelist  Twas  in  the  Some  of  flve-and- 
twenty  years  ago ;  a  dignitary  of  the  Church  had  been 
seen,  in  full  canonicals,  to  come  forth  into  open  day 
from  an  establishment  the  most  disreputable  that  can 
be  imagined.  The  Liberal  press  ipade  much  of  the 
event ;  when  J.  F.  Smith,  with  such  presence  of  mind 
as  few  men  of  letters  can  boast,  suggested  to  the 
proper  person  that  a  reward  should  be  offered  for  the 
discovery  of  the  impostor  who,  attired  as  a  cardinal, 
had  been  seen  to  leave,  etc.,  etc.  This  was  done ;  the 
Church  was  saved ;  and  J.  F.  Smith,  like  Mr.  Chucks, 
became  a  foreign  nobleman.  What  is  certain  is  that 
J.  F.  Smith  was  a  hard-working  man  of  letters  of  the 
type  (let  us  say^  of  Ponson  du  Terrail ;  that,  if  his 
English  was  elaborate  and  his  sentiments  a  trifle 
obvious,  he  had  a  prodigious  fund  of  invention ;  and 
that  in  his  time  he  apiiised  the  toiling  millions  as  much 
as  anybody  who  has  ever  worked  for  them,  the  poet  of 
Rocambole  not  excepted." 

The  Children's  Aid  Socxett.  —  '*Few  organized 
charities,"'  says  Science^  "are  so  uniformly  successful 
and  so  richly  deserving  as  the  Children's  Aid  Society 
of  Kcw  York  City,  of  which  Mr.  Charles  L.  Brace  is 
the  executive  officer.  In  describing  the  work  of  the 
society  at  the  annual  nieetiug  of  the  trustees,  Mr. 
Brace  detailed  the  principles  of  the  society  and  the 
results  attained  by  proceeding  upon  them.  The  prin- 
ciples were  defined  as  the  absolute  necessity  of  treat- 
ing each  youthful  criminal  or  outcast  as  an  individual, 
and  not  as  one  of  a  crowd ;  the  immense  superiority  of 
the  home  or  family  over  any  institution  in  reformatory 
and  educational  influence ;  the  prevention  of  crime 
and  pauperism  by  early  efforts  with  children,  and  the 
vital  importance  of  breaking  up  inherited  pauperism 
by  putting  ahnebonse  children  in  separate  homes;  and, 
most  of  all,  the  immense  advantage  of  'placing  out' 
n^lected  and  orphan  chUdrea  in  farmers'  families. 
The  records  of  the  city  police  tiourts  show  how  these 
(principles  work  in  practice.  While  in  thirty  years  the 
•city's  population  has  increased  from  about  six  hundred 
>and  thirty  thousand  to  nearly  a«nilUon  and  a  half,  the 
.number  of  girls  committed  for  petty  larceny  has  fallen 
in  the  same  period  from  over  nine  hnndrad  to  less 
tihan  two  hundred  and  fifty.  In  the  same  time  the 
'commitments  of  female  vagrants  ihave  decreased  from 
.^77«  to  2,665." 

^  liONDON  Foo.— During  the  last  week  of  November,; 
ILondon  was  visited  by  a  fog  of  very  remarkable  den- 
rslty,  even  for  London,  coacemlag  which  Ihc  Baktr^ay 
^9«9ieu7  thus  remarka : — 

'**A8'a  matter  of  Cad,  tiiere  is  no  cure  for  a  London 
ffqg,  nor  even — what,  etymologically  speaking,  would 
'belong  to  the  homaropathic  order  off  treatment— any 
XpalUjsllTe  for  it»    AitiflciAl  Ugbt  l^v  .fpi^teUawi  beai 


exhibited  with  good  leaulta ;  bat  there  are  cases,  as? 
for  instance,  that  of  last  Wednesday  afternoon,  wben 
it  proves  almost  ineffectual  for  the  production  of  even 
the  slightest  relief.  Still  there  is  no  reason,  nnleee  it 
be  the  one  above  hinted  at,  why  it  should  not  be  tried 
with  more  promptitude  than  the  local  authorities  are 
accustomed  to  display  in  many  parts  of  London.  Bren 
at  the  very  darkest  hours  of  the  late  visitation  it  narae 
generally  possible  to  see  a  gaa-lamp  a  few  feet  further 
off  than  touching  distance,  and  for  vehicles  [near!  ng 
the  kerbstone  even  that  is  an  advantage  worth  securing. 
It  may  be  here  remarked  for  the  behoof  of  those  lamp- 
lighters who  do  not  seem  to  have  grasped  the  fact  that 
it  is  better  to  Iea%'e  the  lamps  uulighted  altogether  than 
to  light  them  at  the  sides  of  the  street,  and  to  leave  the 
refuges  in  the  Middle  of  the  roadway  in  darknetv. 
Lamplighters  should  be  on  their  guard  against  thaf 
4dol  of  the  market-place'  —  a  superstitions  belief. 
There  is  no  magic  in  the  word  *refnge.*  Under  certain 
(Conditions  the  refuge  may  become  a  mere  obstacle, 
and  at  one  point  at  least  in  London  these  conditions 
were  temporarily  realized.  Beyond  the  mere  plaU- 
tude,  however,  that  the  streets  of  London  should  be 
more  speedily  and  generally  illuminated  on  the  de- 
scent of  a  fog,  it  is  lo  be  feared  that  few  people  have 
any  suggestion  to  make  for  the  relief^f  Londoners 
from  a  sordid  horror  which  certainly  grows  worse  and 
worse  every  year,  denser  to  the  eye,  and  more  offen- 
sive, there  is  no  use  in  denying  It,  to  the  taste.  Ifaia 
last  fog  haa,  according  to  the  report  of  many  connoie- 
eeurs,  been  one  of  a  peculiarly  full-bodied  and  high- 
flavored  brand,  which  one  would  not  so  much  mind  if 
it  were  only  wholesome  instead  of  disagreeing,  as  it 
does,  with  almost  everybody.  The  nuisance,  indeed, 
is  rapidly  approaching  a  point  at  which,  like  the 
suicide  it  counsels,  and  sometimes,  we  fancy,  causes, 
it  must  be  *pnt  down.'  Many  plans, have  been  devised 
for  abating  the  smoke  which,  mixed  with  ( omparativeij 
tolerable  river  fog,  is  supi>o8ed  to  constitute  the  appall- 
ing mixture  known  as  'London  particular.'  Ferhapa 
the  failure  to  carry  them  out  generally  has  exasperated 
the  fog-fiend  ;  perha]>s,  on  the  other  hand,  conaclona 
that  his  time  is  short,  he  is  doing  his  very  foggiest. 
At  any  rate,  the  last  week  has  been  in  one  sense  a  can. 
tion ;  let  us  hope  that  it  will  prove  to  have  been  a 
caution  in  another." 

LiTEBAnnuB  JA  A  MsAHs  OT  LivKUHOOD.— Amottg  the 
recently  published  LttUr$  €^  Thomas  Carlyl*,  edited 
by  Charles  Sliot  Norton,  there  is  one  addressed  to  his 
brother,  John  Carlyle,  urging  him  not  to  make  liter- 
ature, as  such,  his  businesa  in  life,  but  to  stick  to  the 
medical  profession,  for  which  he  had  been  educated. 
Be  writes  :— 

"  I  can  tell  you  from  experience  that  it  is  a  sad  thing 
for  a  man  to  have  his  bread  to  gain  in  the  miscellane- 
ous fashion  which  circumstances  have  in  some  degree 
forced  me  into ;  and  I  cannot  help  seeing  that  with 
half  the  expense,  and  one  tenth  of  the  labor  which  I 
have  incurred,  I  might  at  thia  time  have  been  enjoying 
the  comforts  of  some  solid  and  fixed  establishment  in 
one  of  the  regular  departments  of  exertion,  had  1  been 
4i|^  WEioogh  lo  hftWMitacsd  qi^b  ms^  ona  of  thwn.^ 


FRANgOIS  JOSEPH  DUPLEDL 


266 


FRAKQOIS  JOSEPH  DUPLEIX. 

IN  FOUR  PARTS-PART  IL 

The  Governor-GeQeral  was  helpless,  but  his 
mutinous  admiral  was  ill  at  ease,  and  tried  to 
gain  a  legittnate  standpoint  by  negotiating 
with  his  rival  for  a  postponement  of  the  res- 
toration.    DupleiXt  reduced  to  extremity,  and 
probably  hoping  tMgain  time  until  the  ad- 
miral should  be  obliged  to  quit  the  coast, 
affected  readiness  to  treat  on  this  basis.    But, 
pending  the  negotiation,  a  violent  hurricane 
destroyed  half  of  Labourdonnais's  ships,  and 
disabled  the  rest.    He  was  now  driven  to  re- 
sort to  an  audacious  diplomatic  coup  d'etat. 
He  produced  his  treaty,  asserted  that  it  Aod 
been  assented  to  at  Pondicherry,  executed  it 
himself,  procured  it   execution  by  the  Eng- 
lish— prisoners  of  war  as   they  were : — and 
dispiitching  it  to  Dupleix,  6alled  upon  him  to 
abide  by  it.    He  soon  after  left  India  forever; 
and  thenceforth  maintained  that  he  had  acted 
loyally,  and  Dupleix  perfidiously  and  tyran- 
nically.   Such  is  a  bare  but  exact  outline 
of  this  memorablo  quarrel.    What  Dupleix 
might  have  been  tempted  to  do,  but  for  the 
hurricane,  is  one  thing.    What  he  actually 
did,  namely  repudiate  an  unauthorized  treaty, 
to  which  he  was   falsely  asserted   to   have 
agreed,  and  the  fundamental  principle  of  which 
he  had  from  the  first  opposed,  is  quite  another 
thing.     He  was   by  no  means    scrupulous. 
But  in  this  case  he  was  certainly  far  more 
sinned  against  than  sinning      Much  doubt 
also  hangs  over  the  story  of  his  ill-treatment 
of  the  English  prisoners.     Whether  he  meant 
originally  to  fulfill  his  promise  of  giving  up 
Madras  to  the  Nawab  is  doubtful.    He  per- 
haps intended,  as  we  have  intimated,  to  dis 
mantle  it,  and  then  transfer  it  to  Anwarodeen. 
But  the  dispute  with  the  victor,  and  the  im- 
patience of  tlie  native  ruler,  prevented  this. 
And,  as  Dupleix  had  predicted,  the  long  and 
inevitable   delay  *  in   the '  fulfilment  of   the 
promise,  turned  the  Kawab  into  an  enemy, 
and  an  ally  of  the  English. 

The  position  was  now  critical  in  the  ex- 
treme. The  French  fleet  had  disappeared ; 
the  English  fleet  was  intact,  and  threatened 
to  letunL    The  Nawab  sent  a  considerable 


force  to  besiege  Madras.  To  defend  that  city 
and  Pondicherry  only  2,000  Europeans  and 
twice  that  number  of  sepoys  were  available. 
Qeneral  despondency  prevailed  at  the  seat  of 
government.  But  Dupleix  saw  clearly  that 
the  case  was  not  hopeless.  Some  time  must 
elapse  before  the  enemy  could  muster  and 
combine  their  armaments  for  a  general  attack. 
By  a  bold  and  sudden  blow  he  might  paralyze 
the  Nawab,  and  perhaps  force  him  again  to 
change  sides.  For  this  purpose  he  selected 
Paradis,  a  veteran  Swiss  ofilcer,  whose  capac- 
ity and  energy  he  well  knew,  and  detached 
him  with  200  Europeans  and  700  sepoys  to 
attack  the  camp  of  Maphuz  Khan,  the  Na- 
wab's  general,  and  eldest  son.  Meanwhile  he 
still  continued  to  negotiate  with  Anwarodeen. 
Epremenil,  the  governor  of  Madras,  was 
ordered  to  remain  strictly  on  the  defensive. 
The  besiegers  at  first  confined  themselves  to  a 
close  blockade;  but  after  a  while  they  diverted 
the  river,  and  intercepted  a  spring  which 
supplied  the  place  with  fresh  water.  These 
measures  exasperated  and  alarmed  the  garri- 
son. Dupleix  saw  that  his  hour  was  come, 
aud  insisted  on  a  sortie.  Four  hundred  men, 
with  two  field-pieces,  sallied  from  tlie  city, 
and  were  charged  impetuously  by  a  host  of 
cavalry.  But  the  swift  fire  of  the  field-pieces 
amazed,  checked,  and  at  the  fourth  discharge 
sent  the  horsemen  to  the  right-about.  The 
French  sustained  absolutely  no  loss.  And 
Maphuz  Khan,  hearing  that  Paradises  reliev- 
ing force  was  on  the  march,  retired  to  St. 
Thom6,  and  encamped  on  the  south  bank  of 
a  river,  confiding  in  its  protection,  end  keep- 
ing a  careless  look-out.  Dupleix  planned  sn 
attack  oh  this  exposed  position,  to  be  made 
simultaneously  by  the  Swisp  and  EpremeniL 
Paradis  suddenly  appeared  on  the  northern 
bank  of  the  river;  dashed  across  it,  sword  in 
hand,  at  the  head  of  his  men;  and  before  the 
enemy  could  do  much  execution  with  their 
slow  fire,  fell  upon  them  with  the  bayonet, 
and  drove  them  before  him  in  headlong  flight 
into  St.  Thome.  Thence  the  dense  mass  of 
fugitives  was  quickly  dislodged,  only  to  be 
again  assailed  by  the  garrison  of  Madras :  in 
'wild  panic  they  dispersed,  and  rushed  on- 
ward toward  Aroot 


d66 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZUTB. 


These  complele  and  Htartllng  victories  are 
memorable  to  all  time.^  They  dispelled  the 
awe  of  native  authdrity,  and  proclaimed  to  all 
the  world  that  the  European  was  the  destined 
successor  of  the  proud  Mogul-  and  the  fiery 
Mahratta. 

Relieved  from  immediate  anxiety  on  ac- 
count of  the  Nawab,  Dupleix  next  attempted 
the  reduction  of  Fort  St.  David.  A  compara- 
tively strong  force  was  sent  against  it.  But 
this,  in  deference  to  professional- jealousy,  was 
commanded  by  a  very  inferior  officer.  M. 
Bury's  failure  was  as  signal  as  Paradises  suc- 
cess. He  posted  his  men  in  a  walled  garden, 
near  the  fort,  and>  on  the  south  ^de  of  the 
river.  A  sudden  alarm  in  the  night  occasioned 
a  panic;  and  instead  of  holding  their  own  in  so 
defensible  a  position,  the  troops  rushed  to  the 
river,  and  crossed  it  in  the  face  of  the  Nawab's 
arms.  But  for  the  field-pieces,  which  covered 
the  crossing,  a  rout  would  have  been  inevita- 
ble, and  the  loss  severe.  Bury  returned  in 
gloriously  to  Pondicherry.  But  the  glamour 
of  the  late  victories  was  not  dispelled  by  this 
reverse;  and  Dupleix's  calculations  were  justi- 
fied by  a  successful  negotiation  with  the 
Nawab,  who  agreed  to  make  peace,  to  aban- 
don the  English,  and  to  cancel  the  bargain  for 
the  surrender  of  Madras.  His  son,  Maphuz 
Khan,  visited  Pondicherry;  was  received  with 
great  honor,  and  loaded'  with  presents,  which, 
as  the  governor  explained  to  his  masters,  were 
an  excellent  political  investment.  He^  then 
planned  another  assault  on  Fort  St..  David, 
and  intrusted  it  to  Paradis.  But  just  as  the  gal- 
lant Swiss  had  reoccupied  the  wailed  garden, 
and  was  on  the  pomt  of  attacking,  the  English 
fleet  was  signaled,  and  he  was  fain  to  retreat 

Again  the  outlook  was  most  gloomy;  again 
the  civilians  counseled  surrender  to  inevit- 
able fate.  But  Admiral  Griffin  confined  him- 
self to  his  own  element;  and  Dupleix,  having 
hastily  summoned  assistance  from  the  French 
islands,  was  cheered  by  the  arrival  of  some 
ships,  whiuh  succeeded  in  reinforcing  Madras 
wiUi  800  men;  but  then,  from  fear  of  the 
English  fleet,  retired  hastily.  And  tidings 
soon  after  arrived  from  Europe  which  might 
well  appal  even  the  Governor- General's  stout 
heart.     The  most  formidable  flotilla  which 


had  ever  appeared  in  the  eastern  wateii  was 
on  its  way,  carrying  a  strong  body  of  troops, 
and  its  commander,  Admiral  Boscawen,  bad 
it  in  charge  to  besiege  Pondicherry.    The  di- 
rectors exhorted  their  governor  to  make  a  good 
defence,  but  sent  him  no  help  of  any  kind. 
He  resolved  to  attack  Ouddalore,  which  lay 
over  against   Fort  St.   David,  immediately, 
hoping,  if  successful,  to  impede  the  landing  of 
the  enemy  there  and  to  intercept  their  com- 
munication with  the  fort,  or,  naore  probably, 
to  make  Cuddalore  a  base  for  the  capture  of 
the  fort  itself.    But  Major  Lawrence,  who  had 
lately  arrived  from  England  as  commander  of 
all  the  company '&  forces,  defeated  this  move- 
ment  by  a  simple  stratagem.    During  the  day, 
and  in  sight  of  ^  the  French,  he  removed  the 
guns  from  Cuddalore,  as  if  intent  only  on  de- 
fending Fort  St.  David.    But  at  nightfall  he 
quietly  replaced  tliom;  and  the  assailants  were 
warmly  received,  and  fled  back  in  confusion  to 
Pondicherry.    Dupleix  met  them' at  the  bar- 
riers, and  was  so  deeply  dejected  at  the  reverse, 
thai  for  one  brief  moment  he  meditated  sui 
cide.    But  a  movement  of  his  horse  caused 
him  to  look  up.    The  sight  of  the  solid  ram- 
parts, surmounted  by  the  proud  banner  of 
France,  reassured  him.    And  he  resolved  to 
live,  and— if  die  he  musl^-todiein  the  defence 
of  his  post. 

At  length  the  enraay  appeared  in  over- 
whelming force,  but  not  until  the  plan  of  the 
defence  had  been  w^l  considered  and  ar- 
ranged. On  the  sea  side;  the  town  was  pro- 
tected by  Dnpieix's  new  wall  and  by  shoal 
water.  A  bound  hedge  of  prickly-pear  made 
a  bold  circuit  on  the  hmd  side;  and  the  ad- 
vance of  the  besiegers  to  the  Vaulxinized  walls 
was  more  effectually  impeded  by  a  chain  of 
redoubts  to  the  north  and  west^by  Arianoopan, 
a  fort  on  the  south- west,  and  by  an  inlet  of 
the  sell  or  river  of  the  same  name  to  the  south. 
Being  well  provided  with  .artHlcry,  Dupleix 
hoped  to  cope  ^ith,  and  even  overpower,  the 
enemy's  batteries;  and  by  sorties  and  skir- 
mishes to  harass  the  communications  between 
the  fleet  and  the  English  army,  capture  con- 
voys, and  obstruct  the  prosecution  of  the 
trenches.  Then  the  monsoon  nught  be&iend 
him. 


PRANQOIS  JOSEPH  DUPLEIX. 


967 


The  admiral  was  commander-in-chief  on 
la&d  as  well  as  at  sea,  a  fact  which  must  not 
he  forgotten  in  estimating  the  result.  The 
river  was  passed,  not  without  an  ohstinate 
contest  and  serious  casualties  from  the  fire  of 
the  adjacent  fort,  a  rash  assault  upon  which 
was  repulsed;  and  much  valuable  time  was 
lost  In  besieging  and  afterward  repairing  it. 
It  was  stoutly  defended;  but  a  cajMial  explo- 
sion having  much  reduced  the  number  of  the 
garrison,  and  spread  panic  among  the  sur- 
vivors, this  important  position  was  evacuated. 
Thus  the  external  line  of  defence  was  turned, 
and  the  other  outworks  became  almost  useless. 
But  the  English  engineers  were  thoroughly  in- 
capable. By  their  advice,  Boscawen  opened 
his  batteries  at  a  distance  far  too  great  to  be 
of  any  avail;  and  on  pushing  the  trenches 
nearer,  the  ground  whs  found  to  be  hopelessly 
swampy  and  impracticable.  Dupleix  ordered 
a  sally.  But  the  state  of  the  grotmd  and  other 
causes  retarded  the  advance;  and  the  English, 
well  prepared,  routed  the  assailants,  killing 
many  officers,  among  them  Paradis.  Still,  in 
spite  of  this  serious  loss,  and  the  partial  de- 
Hiolition  of  the  bastion  which  Boscawen  had 
chosen  as  his  objective,  time  went  on,  and  the 
siege  made  little  progress.  The  superiority 
of  Dupleix's  fire  was  pronounced;  the  damage 
to  the  bastion  was  rapidly  repaired;  and  Ma- 
dame Dupldx's  secret  relations  with  our  native 
soldiers  are  said  to  have  supplied  information, 
which  caused  much  mischief  by  facilitating 
attacks  on  convoys. 

Foiled  on  land,  the  admiral  ordered  a  gen- 
eral bombardment  by  the  fleet.  This  lasted 
for  twelve  hours  consecutively.  Orme  says 
that  the  only  casualty  it  caused  was  the  death 
of  one  old  woman.  The  boisterous  challenge, 
being  found  so  ineffective,  presently  remained 
unanswered.  But  landward  the  French  bat- 
teries replied  vigorously,  and  overpowered 
those  opposed  to  them.  The  monsoon  was  at 
hand;  the  mortality  in  the  English  army  had 
been  great;  the  h^th  of  the  troops  was  fail- 
ing; and  it  was  high  time  for  the  fleet  to  seek 
safer  anchorage.  This  place  was  too  strong 
to  be  taken  by  a  e<yup  de  main.  Boscawen 
therefore  suddenly  broke  up  the  siege,  and  re- 
tired; leaving  to  his  antagonist  the  imperisha- 


ble honor  of  having,  with  a  very  small  force, 
and  by  his  own  engineering  skill,  baffled  the 
most  imposing  European  armament  that  had 
ever  been  engaged  in  Indian  warfare. 

Dupleix's  exultation  was,  of  course,  great; 
and  he  announced  his  triumph  far  and  wide  to 
the  native  potentates,  receiving  in  return  the 
florid  comptimeuts  which  the  Oriental  is  ever 
ready  to  bestow  on  such  occasions.  The  peace 
of  Aix-la-Chapelle  soon  ufter  restored  Madras 
to  the  English,  and.  however  mortifying  in 
this  respect  to  the  French  Qov^mor-General, 
left  him  free  to  prosecute  his  amMious  enter- 
prises among  the  natives.  But  it  must  be  re- 
membered that  the  English  set  him  an  exam- 
ple by  an  armed  intervention  in  Tanjore, 
which  resulted  in  their  acquisition  of  Devicot- 
tah,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Coleroon. 

And  here  it  is  material  to  observe  that  it 
does  not  seem  very  clear  when  Dupleix  first 
conceived  the  idea  of  subjecting  the  "  country 
powers"  to  French  ascendency  ;  nor  how  far 
he  was,  in  the  first  instance,  prepared  to  soar 
even  in  his  dreams  of  empire.  His  military 
and  diplomatic,  success  in  dealing  with  An- 
warodeen  may  have  emboldened  him  to  con- 
sider the  Oriental  as  his  convenient  tool.  His 
triumph  over  Boscawen  not  only  elated  him 
at  the  moment,  but  would  be  apt  to  make  him 
miscalculate  the  force  of  English  opposition 
to  his  designs.  Chunda  Sahib's  overtures  so 
exactly  accorded  with  the  train  of  political  as- 
sociations already  raised  in  the  case  of  An- 
warodeen,  that  the  temptation  to  accept  them 
would  be  the  stronger,  especially  when  they 
included  an  offer  of  alliance  with  the  preten- 
der to  the  Dekkan  subahdary,  and  thus  prom- 
ised to  establish  French  influence  on  a  legiti- 
mate basis  over  the  greater  portion  of  India 
south  of  the  Nerbudda.  He  was  doubtless 
much  encouraged  by  the '  political  hesitation 
of  the  English  ;  and  (he  more  so  as  he  prob- 
ably did  not  fully  appreciate  the  grounds  of 
that  hesitation,  and  attributed  it  too  much  to 
fear  of  his  arms,  and  too  little  to  the  convic- 
tion that  the  English  directors  would  be  slow 
to  sanction  even  defensive  operations  against 
his  latent  and  insidious  attack  upon  the  free- 
dom of  English  trade,  if  not  on  the  existence 
of  Englishmen  in  the  country.    But  when  he 


968 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


proceeded  to  action,  the  weak  side  of  his  pol- 
icy, whenever  matured,  disclosed  itself.  He 
had  not  overrated  his  influence  with  the  native, 
but  he  had  underrated  the  resistance  which  its 
exercise  was  to  elicit  from  the  European ;  and 
having  forced  the  English,  in  self-defence, 
into  the  service  of  his  Indian  opponents,  he 
soon  found  th^t,  he  must  battle  for  life  and 
death  with  our  countrymen,  who  slowly,  but 
surely,  taking  their  sides,  and  animated  by 
Olive's  spirit,  an^  enlightened  by  his  genius, 
displayed  iu  ^lu>  later  stages  of  the  contest  an 
energy  and^eterminatiou  equal  to  his  own. 

.  JUi<Eui*opean  peace  left  Dupleix  in  a  favor- 
able poiiltion  for  entering  on  his  great  design. 
He  had  2,000  European  soldiers,  almost  double 
that  number  of  sepoys,  artillery  in  plenty  and 
of  good  quality,  several  competent  officers,  a 
strongly  fortified  capital,  improved  credit,  and 
the  high  and  weU-earned  fame  of  his  late 
splendid  achievement.  And  the  opportunity 
which  he  coveted  soon  occurred.  Ghunda 
Sahib,  son-in-law  of  Anwarodeen's  predeces- 
sor, had  in  old  days  been  on  good  terms  with 
the  French,  and  was  personally  known  to  the 
Qovernor  -General.  But  he  had  long  languish- 
ed in  a  Mahratta  prison,  whence  Dupleix  now 
procured  his  release,  and  encouraged  him  to 
assert  his  right  to  the  Carnatic  si  ccession. 
About  the  same  time  the  great  viceroy  of  the 
Dekkan,  Nizam  ul  Mulk,,died  ;  andMirzapha 
Jung,  a  son  of  his  daughter,  claimed,  by  his 
grandfather's  appointment,  to  succeed  him,  in 
supersession  of  Nazir  Jung,  the  Nizam^s  second 
son,  the  eldest  being  permanently  employed 
at  Delhi.  IVIirzapha  obtained  little  support ; 
he  was  defeated,  and  fled  southward.  But 
Chunda  Sahib,  an  able  soldier,  an  experienced 
politician,  and  a  man  of  vigorous  character, 
now  made  common  cause  with  him.  The  two 
pretenders  invaded  the  Carnatic ;  and,  being 
energetically  opposed  by  the  Nawab,  preferred 
a  joint  request  for  assistance  to  tlie  ruler  of 
Pondiclierry.  Great  concessions  to  the  French 
were  offered ;  and  the*  momentous  bargain 
was  soon  struck. 

The  French  contingent  consisted  of  400 
Europeans  and  1,200  sepoys,  with  six  field- 
pieces,  commanded  by  Count  D'Autheuil,  a 
sturdy  veteran,  but  of  no  great  capacity,  and 


afiiicted  with  the  gout.  Dupleix  announoed 
the  step  to  the  directors,  justifying  it  princi- 
pally on  the  ground  that  it  was  to  be  recom- 
pensed by  the  cession  to  the  company  of  Yil- 
lenore  and  a  district  around  that  town,  which 
would  yield  a  considerable  revenue.  Chunda 
Sahib  was  to  furnish  provisions,  transport, 
etc.,  and  the  troops  were  to  draw  pay,  as 
usual,  from  Pondicherry. 

The  allied  army  .found  Anwarodeen  en- 
trenched in  a  very  strong  position.  The 
French  attacked  vehemently,  but  were  re- 
pulsed ;  a  second  attack,  led  by  H' Autbeuil  in 
person,  also  failed,  and  he  was  disabled. 
Bussy,  a  young  officer  destined  to  become 
very  famous,  now  took  the  command,  and 
stormed  the  entrenchments.  Anwarodeen 
was  killed,  and  his  army  eut  up  and  dispersed. 
The  allies  entered  Arc^t  in  triumph;  and  tliere 
Mirzapha  was  proclaimed  subahdar  of  the 
Dekkan,  and  appointed  Chunda  Sahib  Nawab 
of  the  Carnatic.  Then  they  marched  to  Pon- 
dicherry, where  Dupleiz  gave  them  a  mag- 
nificent i*eception,  and  spared  no  pains  to  im- 
press them  by  the  assumption  of  viceregal 
state,  and  a  fuU  muster  of  his  formidable 
troops. 

With  military  insight  he  then  insisted  on 
the  immediate  reduction  of  Trichinopoly  and 
Gingee.    The  maritime  province,  besides  ita 
intrinsic   importance,  was   an   indispensable 
base  for  operations  in  the  Dekkan.    The  late 
victory  had  left  the  Carnatic  without  a  ruler, 
and,  following  so  soon  after  the  successful  de- 
fence of  Pondicherry,  had  spread  a  general 
terror  of  the  French  arms.    The  English  as 
yet  made  no  sign  of  opposition  to  Dupleix's 
bold  game  ;  indeed,  they  were  willing  to  recog* 
nize  Chunda  Sahib's  title.    Nazir  Jung  was 
hovering  above  tlie'  Ghauts,  and  his  threaten- 
ed approach  made  it  advisable  to  1<^  no  tinie 
in  securing  the  military  occupation  of  tb^ 
lower  country.      Gingee  was  a  very  strong 
fortress  in  the  interior  of  the  Carnatic.    Trich- 
inopoly, in  the   basin  of   the  Caveiy,  ^as 
strongly  fortified,  and  a  place  of  great  political 
importance  as  a  sort  of  second  capital  of  tlie 
Carnatic,  and  of  no  less  militaxy  consequence 
with  a  view  to  assuring  the  fidelity  of  Tanjore, 
and  the  wilder  regions  further  to  the  south. 


PRANQOIS  JOSEPH  DUPLEIX. 


269 


It  WHS  alio  a  barrier  toward  Mysore.  Ma- 
homed Ali,  a  younger  son  of  Aiiwarodeen, 
liad  fled  thitber,  and  seemed  disposed  to  make 
at  stand  as  claimant  of  tlie  nawabshlp.  But 
fear  of  the  Engliali  checked  the  progress  of 
Mirzapha  and  Chunda  Sahib.  Till  Boscawen 
left  the  coast  they  dallied  At  Arcot.  Then, 
having  received  from  Duplelx  slIcus  of  rupees, 
800  French  and  800  sepoys,  with  a  siege  train, 
under  M.  Duquesne,  they  began  their  march. 
But  instead  of  attacking  Trichinopoly  they 
entered  Tanjore,  bent  on  rifling  that  rich 
principality.  The  Rajah  was  a  Mahratta,  a 
collateral  descendant  of  Sivaji ;  and  he  cun- 
ningly kept  them  in  play  for  months,  until 
Dupleix's  patience  was  exhausted,  and  he  or- 
dered the  French  commander-  to  storm  the 
capital.  An  attack  was  made  on  the  outwork^ 
and  upon  a  gate  of  the  city.  Then  the  Rajah 
came  to  terms,  and  agreed  to  pay  a  large  con- 
tribution. But  by  tendering  obsolete  coins, 
and  plate  and  jewels  of  questionable  value,  he 
contrived  to  delay  the  settlement  until  his  ob- 
ject was  gained  ;  and  the  invaders  were  sud- 
denly appalled  by  the  tidings  that  Kazir  Jung, 
at  the  head  of  an  immemie  army,  had  entered 
the  Camatic.  The  English  also  had  begun, 
timidly  and  sparingly,  to  reinforce  Mahomed 
Ali  and  the  Tanjore  prince.  The  allied  chiefs 
broke  up  their  camp  and  retreated,  baffled, 
discredited,  and  dejected,  to  Pondicherry. 

Nazir,  of  course,  espoused  Maliomed  Ali's 
cause,  and  was  promptly  joined  by  an  Eng- 
lish contingent  under  Major  Lawrence,  a 
capable  and  experienced  officer.  The  Madras 
government,  at  this  time,  certainly  acted  rather 
from  the  instinct  of  self-preservation  than 
from  deliberate  policy.  Dupleix's  insinua- 
tion, we  may  add,  that  the  junction  of  this 
contingent  was  due  simply  to  heavy  bribes 
received  by  Lawrence  and.  his  ofBcers,  is 
gratuitous  and  absurd.  And  though  he  affect- 
ed to  laugh  at  the  impertinence  of  *Hwo  lieu- 
tenants declaring  war  on  tlie  king  of  France," 
he  was  fully  alive  to  his  dangerous  position. 
The  forces  of  his  allies  did  not  exceed  8,000 
men;  his  own^snudl  army  might  be  outnum- 
bered by  the  English;  while  Nazir *s  h'>9t  was 
.  estimated  at  800,000.  But  he  hoped  that  fear 
would  restrain  the  natives,  and  political  con- 


siderations the  English,  from  attacking  Pon- 
dicherry; and  he  relied  on  his  own  diplomatic 
ability  for  effecting  a  compromise,  or,  if 
Nazir  proved  intractable,  for  circumventing 
him.  Thus  he  boldly  arrayed  his  troops  out- 
side the  city,  and  engaged  in  negotiation. 
He  seems  to  have  thought  that  he  might  in- 
duce Nazir  to  confer  the  Camatic  on  one  of 
his  allies  and  an  extensive  appanage  in  the 
Dekkan  on  the  other.  Thus,  could  he  detach 
Nizam  ul  Mulk's  son  from  the  English,  and 
make  him  his  friend,  his  own  influence  would 
be  paramount  in  southern  India. 

Meanwhile  he  advised  a  night  attack,  in  the 
hope  of  terrifying  Nazir,  and  bringing  him  to 
reason.  D'Autheuil  adopted  the  suggestion: 
Nazir  retreated  in  alarm  and  seemed  disposed 
to  come  to  terms;  when  a  large  party  of 
French  officers,  whether  fh>m  cupidity  and 
disappointment  at  finding  the  service  more 
arduous  and  less  lucrative  than  they  had  an- 
ticipated, or  from  actual  cowardice,  suddenly 
mutinied;  in  the  face  of  the  enemy  resigned 
their  commisions,  and  sneaked  off  to  Pondi- 
cherry, where  Dupleix  met  the  dastards  at 
the  gate  and  placed  them  in  strict  confinement. 
D'Autheuil  was  obliged  to  retreat,  and  fought 
his  way  back,  gallantly  covered  by  Chunda 
Sahib  and  his  cavalry ;  but  Mirzapha  in  de- 
spair threw  himself  on  his  uncle's  mercy,  and 
contrary  to  promise  was  imprisoned  add  fet- 
tered. 

This  catastrophe  for  a  time  prostrated  Du- 
pleix. But  the  strains  of  his  harp  are  said  to 
have  soothed  him;  and  his  wife's  tidings  that 
Mirzapha  was  still  alive  and  that  his  impris- 
onment was  much  resented  by  several  of  Na- 
zir's  principal  supporters,  roused  him  to  re- 
newed exertion.  He  resolved  to  maintain  an 
unflinching  attitude,  to  demand  the  same 
terms  as  before,  to  recognize  Nazir  as  subahdar, 
but  to  insist  on  his  releasing  his  nephew  and 
making  either  him  or  Churda  Sahib  Nawab  of 
the  Camatic  with  the  appanage  of  Adoni  for 
the  other.  And  through  his  agents  and  in  a 
letter  to  Nazir,  he  appealed  to  every  motive 
that  he  thought  likely  to  influence  the  prince; 
promising,  in  case  the  English  contingent 
were  dismissed,  or  retired,  to  contribute  double 
or  evea  treble  the  number  of  French  soldien 


270 


THE  LIBRIBY  MAGAZINE. 


for  the  8ubahdar*8  flervioe.  The  negotiation 
lingered;  then  Dupleix  broke  it  off,  and  or- 
dered another  attack  on  Na/ir's  camp,  who 
thereupon  retreated  in  unseemly  baste  to 
Arcot;  and  Lawrence,  finding  him  impracti- 
cable, led  his  men  back  to  Fort  St.  David. 

Dupleix  employed  the  respite  thus  gamed 
partly  in  secret  attempts  to  undermine  the 
fidelity  of  Xazir's  adherents,  partly  in  bold 
operations  against  Mahomed  Ali,  who  was 
encamped  on  the  hanks  of  the  river  near  Fort 
SL  David.  A  French  force  under  D'Autheuil 
suddenly  occupied  the  pagoda  of  Trivadi, 
which  in  such  hands  was  equivalent  to  a 
strou*^  fortress ;  and  an  attempt  to  recover  it 
made  by  Mahomed  Ali,  assisted  by  the  Eng- 
lish and  a  large  detachment  of  Nazir's  troops, 
was  repulsed.  Then,  as  before,  the  English 
quarieled  with  their  employer,  and  left  him. 
Dupleix  largely  reinforced  D'Authueil,  and 
ordered  him  to  attack  Mahomed  All's  army, 
which  was  routed  with  great  alaught'j,  and 
with  hardly  any  loss  to  the  French.  Nazir 
took  little  heed,  and  amused  himself  with 
hunting  and  less  xespectable  pleasures. —SiD- 
NKY  J.  OwEif,  in  Ths  Engliafi  HiiUnical  Me- 

meuu 

[to  be  €oirrDn7ED.J 


.     A  W0>IAN'S  STORY.* 

This  is  a  genuine  poem.  In  tenderness, 
gracefulness,  simplicity,  and  exquisite  versifi- 
cation, it  would  not  be  easy  to  find  its  eqp$X 
tn  the  poetry  of  our  day.  The  story  rune 
somewhat  thus:  Ruth,  the  woman  who  tells 
the  story,  is  left,  while  a  young  girl,  an  orphan, 
with  a  still  younger  broUier,  Robert,  to  whom 
she  promises  her  dying  mother  to  be  all  thai 
an  elder  sister  could  be.  The  poem  opqns 
thus: 

I  sever  iball  forget  the  >inimier  Atnf 
Whea  mother  died.    If  I  but  close  my  eyee 
It  sll  comee  back  to  me,  m,  after  dreame, 
Remembrance  of  them  hannta  our  waking  boon.  .  .  . 

Ttall  romea  back  to  me  like  yeeterday— 
Thateammer  hoar,  acroM  whose  aanahine  fell 
The  lonecome  ahadow  of  an  nnm^e^are. 

*  Brother  and  Lover:  A  WamaiVs  Story*  By  Canr 
£.  RazroRi).  Ideal  Edition,  cloth,  4f^ ;  poftage,  5c 
New  Xork:  Joha3.  Aldeo,  PaVUsher. 


In  thoae  long  days,  when  sense  of  coming  Iom 
Hang  like  a  clond  between  me  and  the  world. 
And  eeemed  to  shot  me  in,  a  {M^aoner  there, 
Away  from  thoae  who  had  no  care  to  vex- 
No  grief  to  beai^-I  need  to  alt  and  think 
Of  what  maet  be.— I  aaw  dear  mother'e  face 
Grow  thinner,  paler,  like  a  sail  that  fades 
In  the  gray  distance,  and  I  knew  full  well 
That  she  was  drifting.ont  upon  the  tide 
That  aets  toward  the  Infinite  Sea,  and  soon 
Where  her  dear  face  made  sunshine  in  the  room 
The  shadow  of  dread  Azraers  wing  would  falL 
Where  was  the  Heaven  she  was  going  to? 
So  far  away  that  i>hc  could  no  more  e4to 
The  children  she  had  loved  and  leftbchindf 
When  trouble  came  to  us,  could  her  warm  heart—' 
No  less  a  mother's  heart  in  Heaven  than  it  had  been 
A  mother ''a  heart  on  earth— know  of  it  all. 
And  understand  our  aorrowa  as  of  oldt 
What  Heaven  waa  I  hardly  nndersUKxL. 
For  childhood's  thoughts  are  vague  ones  at  the  best 
About  the  mysteries  of  life  and  death; 
But  I  was  sure  that  Heaven  would  not  be 
The  Heaven  of  my  fancy  Jf  it  ahut 
Oar  mother  and  her  love  &way  from  oa. 

Mother  would  often  talk  with  Uob  and  me 
About  her  going  from  us.    Never  once 
She  spoke  of  it  as  dying,  for  I  think 
*K3oing  away'*  has  not  so  sad  a  eouod 
Aa  '*dying'^  has,  and  in  that  thoughtful  love 
Which  always  aonght  to  spare  her  children  pain. 
She  chose  tlie  simple  phcasc  in  daily  nse 
Among  us  when  we  6pea£  of  those  who  go 
Upon  a  journey.    If  we  think  of  them  « 

An  goru.  atoaut  not  dead,  we  do  not  feel 
That  awful  sense  of  loss  which  death  snggeata; 
We,  someway,  do  not  feel  their  absence  so; 
A  little  time  of  parting  from  our  frienda— 
A  parting  all  most  know--and  thea 
To  be  with  them  again.    Sometime,  somewhere. 
The  sundered  paths  will  meet,  and  love  will  have 
Its  own  again,— its  own  forevermore. 
But  if  we  think  of  them  as  dead^  we  aeem 
To  stand  upon  the  brink  of  a  great  gulf 
Too  wide  for  ns  to  cross,  and  feel  that  thc^ 
Are  separated  from  us  by  a  sea 
That  breaks  upon  a  shore  of  mystery. 
And  they  are  lost  to  us.    At  least  to  me 
It  always  brings  each  dreary  fancies  np 
To  Bpeak  of  death,  or  absent  friends  as  dead. 
80,  when  our  mother  talked  with  Rob  and  me 
About  her  going  from  us,  I  would  feel 
That  after  she  was  gone,  Hwonld  be  as  if 
Her  feet  had  climbed  a  long,  eCeep  hill,  and  sIm 
Waa  on  the  other  aide,  Jnet  out  of  sight. 
But  never  far  away.    The  thought  was  sweet 
With  comfort  for  a  childish  heart  like  mine. 
Perplexed  by  thoughts  of  what  I  felt  moat  l>e. 
The  m^istery  that  I  ooold  not  compfshend. 

Ruth  and  her  brother  grew  up  into  carjf 
wpm^ohpod^d^Qianh^.    ghesaja: 


A  WO^IANB  STORY. 


871 


Ko  oiM  c«n  know 
flow  macb  I  lored  my  brother.    Upon  him 
I  lavifihed  the  affections  of  my  heart, 
GiTing  him  all,  and  keeping  nothing  back. 
With  him  to  love,  I  felt  no  need  of  friends, 
Aad  00  my  friends  were  few.    Now,  looking  b«ek 
Along  the  etream  on  which  we  drifted  down 
To  manhood  and  to  womaohood,  one  face, 
And  only  one,  looks  ont  of  memory. 
Beside  Rob's  face,  and  that  one  is  John  Strides. 
It  brightens  and  blends  in  with  %\\  my  thooghtt 
Of  childhood''8  time,  as  oft  a  memory 
Of  melody  beard  on  some  happy  day 
Comes  back  to  haunt  us  in  some  after  y?tr. 

Ruth  thufl  continues  bcr  story: 

Thoqgh  to  myself 
I  had  not  said,  in  Jast  so  QiAny  words. 
That  John  Earle  was  my  lover,  I  had  felt 
His  friendship  had  a  tenderer  quality  '« 

Than  ordinary  friendships  have.    No  wofd 
Of  his  had  ever  told  as  anuch  to  me. 
And  yet  I  knew  iL    1  coold  feel  the  truth. 
I  felt,  a0  any  woman  will,  a  thrill 
Of  pleasure  at  the  thought  of  being  loved 
In  such  a  way.    When  her  Urst  lover  coaiM,  * 
.    woman's  heart  is  like  a  bad  that  feela 
l.ie  eanehiue  on  its  folded  leaves— astir 
or  new,  strange  gladness  in  its  hidden  depths.- 
A!)d  then  some  burst  into  a  sudden  bloom 
And  yield  their  fragrance  to  the  snjitle  power 
That  opens  the  watting  flower;,  but  I  a^id,  , 

'*!  have  no  love  to  give  him  In  n?tum; 
It  all  belongs  to  Rob/^    So  I  would  keep 
My  heart  shut  Against  the  warmth  of  lovers  sweet  smn. 
**We  will  be  friends,''  I  said,  'Hhe  best  of  friend^ 
But  nothing  more,  for  fate  haa  vrilled  it  so." 

Our  civil  war  breaks  out.  John  and  Robert 
both  in  enlist  in  the  Union  army.  Before  they 
set  out,  John  avows  his  love  for  Ruth;  but 
she  answers  thus: 

^*Dear  John,  best  friend  I  ever  hadt 
Save  Robert  and  my  mother,  1  can  give 
Friendship  for  friendship,  but  the  love  yon  seek 
I  keep  for  Robbie,  and  for  him  alone. ''^— 
**Ia0kno  love  like  that"  hs«ad,    *1waiift 
A  different  love.    You  can  love  <ne  as  I 
Would  have  you,  Ruth,  and  love  Rob  none  tba  le9&"-~ 
**Ton  cannot  understand  me,  John,"  I  said; 
**Vm  sorry  for  your  sake,  so  sorry,  John, 
But  what  yon  ask  it  is  not  mine  to  give." 
*^I  will  not  take  an  answer  now,"  ho^ntfd: 
'Think  over  it.    Before  I  go  away 
ni  ask  for  your  decision."— *'It  will  be 
The  same,"  I  answered. 

This  is  not  a  war-stoiy,  and  of  the  conflict 
no  details  are  given.  But  after  a  couple  of 
yean  Rath  xvceives  a  t9le.gv«m  4(BllJfl^  Jier 


ihat ''  Robert  was  killed  in  battle  yesterday." 
Soon  afterward  she  learns  that  John  Earlo 
had  been  sorely  wounded  by  the  side  of  Rob- 
ert»  and  was  lying  in  the  hospital,  apparently 
very  near  his  end^;  and  that  he  was  continually 
calling  for  '  *  Ruth.  * ' .  She.  says : 

TUII  lead  that. 
And  felt  how  near  death  was,  .1  did  not  know 
How  much  I  loved  John  Earle ;  .hot  then  I  saw 
The  .truth  tp  wbich  my  love  for  Brother  Rob 
Had  piade  mq  blind.    The  love  that  John  had  asked 
My  heart  would  give  him  now,  but  ah !  too  late 
Would  come  the  boon  Jila  steadfast  heart  had  craved. 
Alas,  too  late  1  What  need  have  they  who  go 
Away  from  us  to  Heaven,  of  earthly  love  ?— 
The  love  that  would  have  made  a  Heaven  here 
For  them  and  us.    **  Too  late,  too  late,  too  late,^ 
Kf  pt  ringing  in  my  ears  to  torture  me 
With  hopeless  lojaging  and  with  vain  regret. 
By  the  ipopotony  of  its  refrain,  *^^ Alas,  too  late." 

She  hurries  away  to  the  scene  of  the  con- 
flict; flnds  John  Earle  indeed  sorely  wounded 
— his  right  arm  shot  off — and  to  all  seeming 
very  near  the  end  of  life.  But  her  presence 
does  for  him-  more  than  any  medical  or  surgi- 
cal skill  could  have  done.  He  slowly  re- 
covers, and  one  still  October  day  he  conducts 
her  to  the  nameless  grave  of  her  brother.  He 
leaves  her  there  alone  for  awhile,  and  then 
comes  back  to.  the  grave. 

**  Is  It  too  soon  r^  he  aakedy  and  came  and  stood 
Be«ide  me,  looking  down  upon  the  grave 
With  thoughtful  eyes.    '*I  knew,  dear  Sister  Rnth, 
You'd  have  so  much  to  tell  him."    "  Tes, "  I  said« 
"And  I  have  told  it,"— smiling  through  my  tear«, 
At  him  who  stood  there  with  his  empty  sleeve 
Across  his  breast    How  brave,  how  grand  he  lookedl 
"  If  /  were  lying  here,  and  to  my  grave 
Yon  came,  dear  Ruth,  what  would  you  have  to  (eU  f** 
He  questioned,  looking  gravely  in  my  eyes. 
"Oh  John,"  I  cried,  my  heart  upon  my  lips, 
**rd  tell  yon  that  I  loved  you."    Like  a  flash 
Of  sudden  light,- the  meaning  In  my  words 
Broke  in  upon  him,  and  with  eager  eyes 
He  scanned  my  face.    "O  Bath,  what  do  you  meaor* 

".Oh,  are  y^m  bUndr*  1  cried  in  sweet,  swift  shame, 

"  I  told  you,  once,  I  could  not  give  such  love 

To  you  as  that  you  asked  for.    I  was  wrong. 

Oh,  let  me  be  right  hand  to  you,  dear  John> 

ril  take  the  place  of  the  strong  arm  you  gave 

For  him  whose  grave  is  here.    Oh,  may  I,  Johnr*^ 

"Ruth,  Ruth,**  h«  orled.  In  voi^  that  trembled  so 

With  doubtful  Joy,  the  words  seemed  close  to  teasi, 

**  Do  yon  say  this  because  you  pity  me  ? 

For  love**  sake  only  would  I  take  the  gilt 

Yoaoftav 


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I  looked  into  his  face, 
With  honest  eyes,  and  answered  truthfully. 
**  Believe  me,  John,  I  say  it  for  lovers  sake.*^' 
And  overhead  I  heard  the  pine's  low  voice 
Telling  its  troubles  to  the  wandering  wind, 
While  in  the  rustling  grasses  at  my  feet 
1  seemed  to  hear  a  voice  all  jubilant 
With  gladness,  and  I  think  it  was  Rob's  voice. 
And  he  was  telling  me  he  knew,  be  knew ! 
Ah  yes,  he  knew,  and  for  love's  sake  was  glad, 
As  was  the  bird  that  from  its  little  nest 
Upon  his  grave  soared  singing  up  the  sky. 
To  tell  the  story  at  the  gate  of  Heaven. 

And  thus  comes  to  a  happy  close  this  "  Wo- 
man's Story,"  so  gracefully  told  from  begin- 
ning to  end. — Alfrbd  H.  Guebnbet. 


CHRISTIANITY    AS   THE   ABSOLUTE 

RELIGION. 

Christianity  claims  to  be  a  Gospel;  to  offer  to 
men  that  which  answers  to  their  needs;  to  dis- 
close in  a  form  available  for  life  eternal  truths 
which  we  are  so  coxistituted  as  to  recognize, 
though  we  could  not  of  ourselves  discover 
them.  Its  verification  therefore  will  lie  in  its 
essential  character;  in  its  fitness  to  fulfill  this 
work,  which  is  as  broad  as  the  world.  And  it 
may  be  worth  while,  in  the  presence  of  much 
apparent  misunderstanding,  to  endeavcnr  to 
indicate  tlic  points  which  must  he  noticed  in 
any  fair  estimate  of  its  relations  to  modem 
thought. 

I  assume  that  men  are  bom  religious.  By  this 
.  I  mean  they  are  so  constituted  as  to  seek  to 
place  themselves  in  harmony  with  the  powers 
without  them,  and  to  establish  a  harmony  be- 
tween the  forces  which  are  revealed  in  their 
'  own  f persons.  The  effort  to  obtain  this  twofold 
harmony  will  be  directed  by  many  partial  in- 
teri>retations  of  the  phenomena  of  existence. 
The  results  of  experience  gained  during  the 
life  of  humanity  and  during  the  life  of  the 
individual  present  the  elements  with  which 
religion  has  to  deal  in  various  lights.  Chil- 
dren and  childlike  races  have  of  necossity 
different  conceptions  of  self  and  the  world 
and  God— the  final  elements  of  religion— 
from  those  which  belong  to  a  maturer  age  or 
to  a  later  period  of  national  growths    The 


religion  which  is  able  to  bring  peace  at  one 
stage  of  human  development  may  be  wholly 
ineffective  at  another. 

When,  therefore,  we  look  for  a  religioia 
which  shall  perfectly  satisfy  the  needs  of 
men,  we  look  for  one  which  is  essentially 
fitted  for  the  support  of  man  as  man;  ^liicb 
is  able  to  follow  him  through  the  cbangiBp 
circumstances  of  personal  and  social  growth, 
able  to  bring  from  itself  new  resources  for 
new  requirements,  able  to  reveal  thoughts  out 
of  many  hearts,  and  to  meet  them  with  an- 
swers of  wider  knowledge.  Such  a  religion 
must  have  a  vital  energy  commensurate  with 
all  conceivable  human  progress. 

And  yet  again:  the  perfect  religion  must 
not  only  have  the  power  of  dealing  with  man 
and  men  throughout  the  whole  course  of  their 
manifold  development;  it  must  have  the  pow- 
er of  dealing  witii  the  complete  fullness  of  life 
at  any  ^moment.  It  must  have  the  preeept 
power  of  dealing  with  the  problems  of  crj 
being  and  of  our  destiny  in  relation  to  thought 
and  to  action  and  to  feeling.  The  Truth 
which  religion  embodies  must  take  account  of 
the  conditions  of  existence,  and  define  the 
way  of  conduct,  and  quicken  the  energy  of 
enterprise.  Such  Trutli  is  not  for  speculation 
only:  so  far  it  is  the  subject  of  Philosophy. 
It  is  not  for  discipline  only:  so  far  it  is  the 
subject  of  Ethics.  It  is  not  for  embodiment 
only:  so  far  it  is  the  subject  of  Art.  Religion 
in  its  coropleteiless  is  the  harmony  of  these 
three,  of  Philosophy,  Ethics,  and  Art.  blended 
into  one  by  a  spiritual  force,  by  a  consecration 
at  once  personal  and  absolute.  The  direction 
of  Philosophy,  to  express  the  thought  some- 
what differently,  is  dieoretic,  and  its  end  is 
the  true,  as  the  word  is  applied  to  knowledge; 
the  direction  of  Ethics  is  practical,  and  its 
end  is  the  good;  the  direction  of  Art  is  repre- 
sentative, and  its  end  is  the  beautiful.  Re- 
ligion includes  these  several  ends,  but  adds  to 
them  that  in  which  they  find  their  consum- 
mation, tlie  holy.  Tlie  holy  brings  an  infinite 
sanction  to  that  which  is  otherwise  finite  and 
relative.  It  expresses  not  only  a  complete  in- 
ward peace,  but  also  an  essential  fellowship 
with  God. 

Every  religion,  even  the  meet  primitive, 


CJHRISTIANITT  AS  THE  ABSOLUTE  RELIGION. 


878 


will  exhibit  these  three  aims,  these  three  ele- 
meatB,  at  least  in  a  rudimeatary  j^m:  the 
perfect  religioo  will  exhibit  them  in  complete 
adjustment  and  efficacy.  A  perfect  religion— 
a  reUgion  which  offers  a  complete  satisfaction 
to  the  religious  wants  of  man — must  (to  re- 
peat briefly  what  has  been  said)  be  able  to 
meet  the  religious  wanta  of  the  individual, 
the  society,  the  race,  in  the  complete  course 
of  their  development  and  ii^the  manifold 
intensity  of  each  separate  human  faculty. 
This  being  so,  I  contend  that  the  faith  in 
Christ,  bom,  crucified,  risen,  ascended,  forms 
the  basis  of  tliis  perfect  religion;  that  it  is 
able,  in  virtue  of  its  essential  character,  to 
bring  peace  in  view  of  the  problems  of  life 
under  every  variety  of  circumstance  and 
character — ^to  illuminate,  to  devdop,  and  to 
iDsplre  every  human  faculty.  My  contention 
rests  upon  the  recognition  of  the  two  marks 
by  which  Christianity  is  distinguished  from 
every  other  religion.  It  is  absolute  and  it  is 
historical. 

On  the  one  side,  Christianity  is  not  con 
fined  by  any  limita  of  place,  or  time,  or  fac- 
ulty, or  object.  It  reaches  to  the  whole  sum 
of  being  and  to  the  whole  of  each  separate 
existence.  On  the  other  side,  it  offers  its  rev- 
elation in  facts  which  are  an  actual  part  of 
human  experience,  so  that  the  peculiar  teach- 
ing which  it  brings  as  to  the  nature  and  rela- 
tions of  God  and  man  and  the  world  is  simply 
the  interpretation  of  events  in  the  life  of  men 
and  in  the  life  of  One  who  was  truly  Man. 
It  is  not  a  theory,  a  splendid  guess,  but  a 
proclamation  of  facts.  These,  I  repeat,  are 
its  original.  Its  unalterable  claims.  Christi- 
anity is  absolute.  It  claims,  as  it  was  set 
forth  by  the  Apostles,  though  the  grandeur 
of  the  claim  was  soon  obscured,  to  reach  all 
men,  all  time,  all  crcatidn;  it  claims  to  effect 
the  perfection  no  less  than  the  redemption  of 
finite  being;  it  claims  to  bring  a  perfect  unity 
of  humanity  without  destroying  the  personal- 
ity of  any  one  man;  it  claims  to  deal  with  all 
that  is  external  as  well  as  with  all  that  is  in* 
temal,  with  matter  as  well  as  with  spirit, 
with  the  physical  universe  a»  well  as  with 
tlie  moral  universe;  it  claims  to  realize  a  re- 
creation coCxteosive  with  creation ;  it  claims 


to  present  Him  who  was  the  Maker  of  the 
world  as  the  Heir  of  all  things;  it  claims  to 
complete  the  cycle  of  existence  and  show 
how  all  things  come  from  God  and  go  to 
God. 

Christianity  is  absolute:  it  is  also  historical. 
It  is  historical,  not  simply  in  the  sense  in 
which  (for  example)  Mohammedanism  is  his- 
torical, beca.ise  Uie  facts  connected  with  the 
origin  and  growth  of.  4his  religion,  with  the 
personality  and  life  of  the  Founder,  with  the 
experience  and  growth  of  His  doctrine  can  be 
traced  in  documenta  which  are  adequate  to 
assure  belief;  but  in  a  far  different  sense 
also.  It  is  historical  In  its  antecedents,  in  its 
realization,  in  itself;  it  is  historical  as  crown- 
ing a  long  period  of  religious  training,  which 
was  accomplished  under  the  influence  of  di- 
vine facU;  it  is  historical  as  brought  out  in 
all  its  fullness  from  age  to  age  in  an  outward 
society  by  the  action  of  the  Spirit  of  God; 
but,  above  all,  and  most  characteristically,  it 
is  historical,  because  the  revelation  which  It 
brings  is  of  life  and  in  life.  The  history  of 
Christ  is  the  Gospel  in  its  light  and  in  ita 
power.  His  teaching  is  Himself,  and  nothing 
apart  from  Himself;  what  He  is  and  what  He  ! 
does.  The  earliest  creed — ^the  creed  of  our 
baptism— is  the  affirmation  of  faota  which  in- 
clude all  doctrine. 

Dogmatio  systems  may  change,  and  have 
changed  so  far  as  they  reflect  transitory  phasea 
of  speculative  thought,  but  the  primitive  Gos- 
pel is  unchangeable  as  it  is  inexhaustible. 
There  can  be  no  addition  to  it.  It  contains  in 
itself  all  that  will  be  slowly  wrought  out  in 
thought  and  deed  until  the  consummation. 
In  this  sense,  Christianity  is  the  only  histori- 
cal religion.  The  message  whioh  it  proclaims 
is  wholly  unique.  Christ  said,  I  am^  not  1 
declare,  or  I  lay  open,  or  I  point  to,  but  lam 
—the  Way,  the  Truth,  and  the  Life. 

At  first  sight,  the  two  characteristics  of 
Christianity  whic^  I  have  laid  down,  that  it 
is  absolute  and  that  it  is  historioul,  appear  to 
be  inconsistent.  It  may  seem  that  a  revela- 
tion whioh  is  not  only  given  under  particular 
conditions  of  time  and  place,  but  also  vk- 
pressed  under  thoee  conditions,  must  be  linft- 
ited;  that  the  influence  and  the  meaning  ^u  * 


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life,  however  powerful  and  sympathetic,  must 
grow  fainter  in  the  course  of  centuries,  and 
cannot  extend,  even  if  it  has  the  capacity  for 
extending,  through  all  being. 

It  is  a  partial  and  suggestive  answer  to  such 
objections,  that  since  .we  have  to  consider  a 
'final  revelation  given  to  man,  to  man  as  he  is 
in  the  fullness  of  his  being,  such  a  revelation 
must  come  through  a  true  human  life;  and 
further,  that  what  is  offered  to  us  in  a  repre- 
sentative life  has  contact  with  all  life,  as  the 
one  life  is  unfolded  in  its  manifold  richness  ; 
that  nothing  in  the  whole  realm  of  Nature 
can  be  alien  from  man,  who  gathers  in  him- 
self an  epitome  of  Nature;  that  nothing, 
therefore,  is  incapable  of  sharing  in  the  conse- 
cration and  transfigurement  by  which  he  is 
ennobled. 

But  the  complete  answer  lies  in  the  person- 
ality of  Him  who  lived  Man  among  men. 
The  Word,  we  read,  heoame  JUsh.  Here  lies 
the  secret  of  the  power  of  that  one  true  life. 
The  Son  of  man  was  also  Son  of  God.  The 
Incarnation  and  the  Resurrection  reconcile 
the  two  characteristics  of  our  faith — they  es 
tablish  the  right  of  Christianity  to  be  called 
historical,  they  establish  its  right  to  be  called 
atMolute. 

We  are  not  now  concerned  with  the  "evi- 
dence" for  these  transcendent  facts,  but  I 
may  make  one  remark  which  is  of  considera- 
ble importance.  There  cannot  possibly  be 
any  antecedent  objection  to  them.  They  are 
as  unique  as  tlie  universe  itself.  There  is 
no  standard  of  experience  to  which  we  can 
bring  them,  and  pronounce  in  virtue  of  the 
comparison  that  they  are  '*pretematural.'* 
And  it  may  be  added  that  the  antithesis  of  the 
finite  and  the  infinite  which  they  combine 
underlies  all  thought,  all  life.  The  antithesis 
exists;  consciousness  witnesses  to  it;  Chris- 
tianity meets  it,  aimouncing  the  vital  union  of 
the  two  terms  as  the  fundamental  Gospel,  not 
as  a  speculation  but  as  a  twofold  fact.  By 
the  Incarnation  it  gives  permanent  reality  to 
human  knowledge;  by  the  Resurrection  it 
gives  permanent  reality  to  human  life. 

Thus,  the  Incarnation  and  the  Resurrection 
furnish  the  basis  for  a  religion  which  is  in- 
tensely human,  and  which,  at  every  unnnent. 


introduces  the  infinite  and  the  unseen  into  a 
vital  cflnnectiou  with  the  things  of  earth— a 
religion  which  illuminates  the  dark  clouds 
that  lie  over  our  work,  which  offers  an  ideal 
wherein  we  can  recognize  the  fulfillment  of 
the  destiny  of  humanity,  which  supplies  an 
inspiration  of  power  flowing  from  a  divine 
fellowship — a  religion,  in  other  words,  which  is 
a  complete  satisfaction  of  tbe  religious  needs 
of  man.  * 

Let  me  endeavor  to  make  these  statements 
a  little  clearer  in  detail.  Men,  as  we  have 
seen — men,  as  bom  for  religion — are  born  for 
knowing,  for  feeling,  for  acting;  they  need 
light,  they  need  an  ideal,  they  need  power. 
And  (this  is  my  contention)  the  historic  Gospel 
brings  the  light,  the  ideal,  the  power  which 
they  need— the  light,  the  ideal,  the  power 
which  we  ourselves  need  in  this  crisis  of  our 
trial. 

1. — ^Men  need  light.  No  one  can  look  either 
within  or  without  and  fail  to  see  clear  marks, 
not  only  of  imperfection,  but  of  failure.  No 
one  can  study  the  pictures  which  great  writers 
draw  of  the  destiny  of  humanity,  and  not  feel 
that  the  features  which  he  recognizes  have 
been  grievously  marred.  There  is  a  terrible 
contrast  between  man's  power  and  man's 
achievements ;  there  is  a  terrible  contrast  be- 
tween that  which  (as  we  are  made)  we  feel 
must  be  the  purpose  of  Creation  and  the  facts 
by  which  we  are  encountered.  Viewed  in 
themselves,  the  phenomerii  which  suggest  a 
design  of  love  in  the  order  of  the  world  issue 
in  deeper  son'ow.  Naturally— and  the  words 
have  a  manifold  application — death  closes  all. 
There  is  not,  I  think,  a  more  impressive  im- 
age in  literature  than  that  in  which  J>r.  New- 
man describes  the  ffrst  effect  of  the  world 
upon  the  man  who  looks  there  for  tokens  of 
the  presence  of  God.  * "  It  is,"  he  says,  *'as  if 
I  looked  in  a  mirror  and  saw  no  reflection  of 
my  own  f«K:e."  This  is  the  first,  the  natural 
effect.  But  the  record  of  the  life  of  Christ, 
the  thought  of  the  presence  of  Christ,  changes 
all.  Christ,  as  He  lived  and  lives,  justifies  our 
highest  hope.  He  opens  depths  of  vision  be- 
low the  surface  of  thmgs.  He  transforms 
suffering ;  He  shows  us  the  highest  aspira- 
tions of  our  being  satisfied  through  a  way  of 


CHRISTIANITY  AS  THE  ABSOLUTE  RELIGION. 


275 


8C1T0W.  He  redresses  the  superAcial  inequal- 
ities of  life  by  revealing  its  eternal  glory.  He 
enables  us  to  understand  how,  being  whatwe 
are,  every  grief  and  every  strain  of  sensibility 
can  be  made  in  Him  contributory  to  the 
"Working  out  of  our  common  destiny. 

Such'  reflections  have  a  social,  and  they 
have  also  an  individual,  application.  It  was, 
as  we  read  in  St.  Paul,  the  good  pleasure  of 
Ood  "to  sum  up  aU  things  in  Christ,''  and 
"thfWigh  Him  to  reconcile  aU  things  to  Him- 
self.'* This  purpose  ia,  in  potency,  already 
accomplished*  in  Him.  In  one  sense  all  is 
done  already;  in  another  sense  all  has  still  to 
be  realized.  The  fact  at  least  of  a  fellowship 
of  eartli  and  heaven  is  given  us  in  life;  and 
we  can  all  strive  toward  the  sense  of  .the  new 
unity.  Under  this  broadest  aspect,  the  fact  of 
Redemption  carries  us  back  to  the  fact  of 
Creation,  and  we  are  enabled  to  sec  how  the 
will  of  QtiA  is  wrought  out  in  spite  of  man's 
self-assertion. 

We  may  not  indeed  be  able  to  penetrate 
very  far  into  these  great  mysteries.  We 
shrink  rightly  from  confining,  by  any  theory 
in  the  terms  of  our  prtaent  thoughts,  truths 
which  peas  iato  another  order.  But  the  vision 
"v^ich  we  can  gain  is  sufficient  to  change  the 
whole  aspect  of  life.  Let  us  once  feel  that, 
the  anguish  of  .creation  is  indeed  the  travail 
pain  of  a  new  birth,  as  Scfipture  teaches,  and 
we  shall  be  strengthened  to  bear  and  to  wait. 
And,  as  I  said,  these  larger  sorrows—^sorrows 
which  form  a  heavy  burden  to  many  of  us — 
find  a  counterpart  4n  the  single  soul.  And 
here  again  light  is  thrown  npon  the  discipline 
of  personal  suffering  through  the  work  of 
Christ.  That  reveals  to  us  tiie  love  from 
which  it  Hows,  and  the  perfection  to  which  it 
is  able  te  minister.  Again,  we  may  not  be 
able  to  aee  f ar  into  tjie  application  of  these 
lessons;  but  it  becomes  intelligible  that  if  the 
virtue  of  OhrisCs  life  and  death  was  made 
available  for  man  through  suffering— if  it  was 
through  suffering  that  He  fulfilled  the  destiny 
of  man  fallen— the  appropriation  of  that  which 
Be  has  gained  may  be  carried  into  effect 
Ihrongh  the  same  law.  The  mystery  of  the 
forgiveness  of  sins  is  fulfilled,  and  we  can 
hear  .chearf ally,  the  Jtemponl  comequencsB  of 


sin.  In  both  respects,  in  regard  to  personal 
sufferings  and  to  social  sufferings,  it  is  en- 
ough to  remember  that  Ho  who  was  the  ''Man 
of  sorrows,"  He  who  *'  toas  a  propitiation  for 
our  sins,  and  not  for  ours  only,  but  also  for 
the  whole  world,"  first  revealed  the  Fatherhood 
of  God. 

2.  —These  considerations  which  I  can  only 
indicate  in  the  faintest  outtine,  prove  our  first 
point.  We  need  light,  as  conscious  of  failure 
in  ourselves,  sensible  of  failure  around  us;  and 
Christianity  takes  tlie  fullest  account  of  this 
great  gloom  and  illuminates  it.  But  in  the 
next  place,  as  men — as  men  in  our  essential 
constitution,  and  not  only  as  fallen  men — we 
need  an  ideal  which  may  move  us  to  effort 
Now  here,  up  to  a  certain  point,  there  is  no 
difference  of  opinion. 

It  is  generally  agreed  that  the  type  of  char- 
acter presented  to  us  in  the  Qospels  is  the 
highest  which  we  can  fashion.  The  Person 
of  the  Lord  meets  us  at  every  point  in  our 
strivings,  and  discloses  something  to  call  out 
in  us«  loftier  endeavor.  In  Him  we  discover 
in  the  most  complete  harmony  all  the  excel- 
lences which  are  divided  not  unequally  be- 
tween man,  and  woman.  In  Him  we  can 
recognize  the  gift  which  has  been  intrusted 
to  each  one  of  us  severally,  used  in  its  true 
relation  to  the  other  endowments  of  humani- 
ty. He  enters  into  the  fullness  of  life,  and 
makes  known  the  value  of  each  detail  of  life. 
A^d  what  He  is  for  us,  He  is  for  all  men,  and 
for  all  time.  There  is  nothing  in  the  ideal 
which  He  offers  which  belongs  to  any  par- 
ticular age,  or  class,  or  nation.  He  stands 
above  all  and  unites  all.  That  which  was 
local  or  transitory  in  the  circumstances  under 
which.  He  lived,  in  the.  controversies  of  rival 
sects,  in  the  struggles  of  patriotism,  in  the 
isolation  sf  xeligious  pride,  leave  no  color  in 
His  character.  All  that  is  abiding,  all  that  is 
human,  is  there  without  admixture,  in  that 
eternal  energy  which  man*s  heart  can  reoog^ 
nize  in  its  time  of  trial. 

So  it  is  that  the  Person  of  the  Lord  satisfies 
the  reqtiirement  of  growth  which  belongs  to 
the  religious  nature  of  man.  Our  sense  of 
His  perfections  grows  with  our  own  moral 
advanoa.    We  aee  mots  of  EAb  beauty  as  our 


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power  of  vkion  is  disciplined  and  purified. 
The  slow  unfolding  of  life  enables  us  to  dis- 
cern new  meaning  in  His  presence.  In  His 
humanity  is  included  whatever  belongs  to  the 
conswnmation  of  the  individual  and  of  the 
race,  not  only  in  one  stage  but  in  all  stages  of 
progress,  not  only  in  regard  to  some  endow- 
ments but  in  regard  to  the  whole  inheritance 
of  our  nature  enlarged  by  the  most  vigorous 
use  while  the  world  lasts.  We,  in  our  weak- 
ness and  littleness,  confine  our  thoughts  from 
generation  to  generation,  now  to  this  fragment 
of  His  fullness  and  now  to  that;  but  it  is,  I 
believe,  tnie  without  exception  in  every  realm 
of  man's  activity,  true  in  action,  true  in  lit- 
erature, true  in  art,  that  the  works  which 
receive  the  most  lasting  homage  of  the  soul 
are  those  which  are  most  Christian,  and  that 
it  is  in  each  the  Christian  element,  the  ele- 
ment which  answers  to  the  fact  of  the  Incar- 
nation, to  the  fellowship  of  Qod  with  man 
as  an  accomplished  reality  of  the  present 
order,  which  attracts  and  holds  our  reverence. 
In  the  essence  of  things  it  cannot  be  othervrise. 
Our  infirmity  alone  enfeebles  the  effect  of  the 
truth  which  we  have  to  embody. 

3. — "Our  infirmity."  Here  again  the  his- 
toric Gospel  comes  to  our  md.  We  need 
light,  and,  as  we  have  seen,  it  makes  a  sun  to 
rise  upon  our  darkness.  We  need  an  ideal 
and  it  lifts  up  before  us  a  Person  in  whom, 
under  every  variety  of  circumstance,  we  recog- 
nize the  likeness  for  which  we  were  created. 
But  we  also  need  power.  It  is  true  that  we  in- 
stinctively acknowledge  the  ideal  in  Christ  as 
that  which  interprets  perfectly  our  own  aspira- 
tions. No  accumulation  of  failures  can  destroy 
the  sense  of  our  destiny.  But  alone^  in  our- 
selves, as  we  look  back  sadly,  we  confess  that 
we  have  no  new  resource  of  strength  for  the 
future,  as  we  have  no  ability  to  undo  the  past. 
The  loftiest  souls  upart  from  Christ  reco^ze 
that  they  were  made  for  an  end  vriiich  * 'na- 
turally*' is  unattainable.  They  do  homage 
(for  example)  to  a  purity  which  they  person- 
ally dishonor.  This  need  brings  into  promin- 
ence the  supreme  characteristic  of  the  faith. 
Christ  meets  the  acknowledgment  of  individ- 
ual helplessness  with  the  offer  of  fellowship, 
lie  reveals  union  with  Himself,  union  with 


Qod,  and  union  witli  man  in  Him,  as  the 
spring  of  power,  and  the  inspiration  of  effort 
The  knowledge  which  flows  from  the  vision 
of  the  world  as  He  has  disclosed  it  is  not 
simply  for  speculation:  the  glory  of  the  imai^ 
of  man  which  He  shows  is  not  for  contem- 
I^tive  admiration.  Both  are  intensely  prac- 
tical. Both  tend  directly  to  kindle  and  sup- 
port love  in  and  through  Him ;  and  love, 
which  is  the  transflgurement  of  pain,  is  nlso 
strength  for  action  and  motive  for  action. 

In  this  way  believing  in  Christ — believing 
in  Christ,  and  not  merely  believing  Christ- 
brings  into  exercise  the  deepest  human  feel- 
ings. It  has  been  excellently  laid  down  by 
one  who  was  not  of  us,  that  *'thc  solution  of 
the  problem  of  essence,  of  the  questions. 
Whence?  What?  and  Whither?  must  be  in  a 
life  and  not  in  a  book."  For  the  solution 
which  is  to  sway  life  must  have  been  already 
shown  in  its  sovereign  efficacy.  And  more 
than  this,  it  must  have  been  shown  to  have 
potentially  a  universal  and  not  only  a  singular 
application.  And  this  is  exactly  what  the 
Gospel  brings  home  to  us.  He  who  said,  '*I 
came  forth  from  the  Father,  and  am  come 
into  the  world*  again  I  leave  the  world,  and 
go  to  the  Father,"  illuminated  the  wordaby 
actions  which  made  known  the  divine  origin 
and  the  divine  d^l^ny  of  man.  The  Son  of 
man  did  not  separate  Himself  from  those 
whom  He  was  not  ashamed  to  call  brethren. 
He  bade,  and  bids,  them  find  in  His  human- 
ity-—His  "flesh  and  blood"— the  support  of 
their  own  humanity.  In  His  life,  for  our 
sakes,  the  heavenly  interpreted  the  earthly. 
He  called  out,  and  He  still  calls  out  in  us,  as 
we  dwell  upon  the  records  of  the  Gospel,  the 
response  of  that  which  is  indeed  kindred  to 
Himself,  of  that  which  becomes  one  with 
Himself.  The  sjrmpathy  which  is  thus  awak- 
cped  by  Christ  makes  known  to  the  soul  its 
latent  capacities.  Again  and  again  our  own 
experience  startles  us  with  unexpected  wel- 
comes to  the  highest  thoughts  and  claimsi 
Even  in  ordinary  life  contact  with  nobler  na- 
tures arouses  the  feeling  of  unused  power, 
and  quickens  the  consciousness  of  responsi- 
bility. And  when  union  with  the  Son  of 
nutn,  the  Son  of  Qod,  is  the  basis  of  ewr  ra- 


CHRISTIANITY  AS  THE  ABSOLUTE  RELIGION. 


m 


ligion,  all  Hiese  natural  influences  produce 
tbe  highest  conceivable  effect  We  each  draw 
from  fellowship  with  the  perfect  life  that 
which  our  little  life  requires  for  its  sustenance 
and  growth. 

Such  considerations  enable  us  to  understand 
a  little  better  than  we  commonly  do  those  two 
words  of  St  Paul,  **in  Christ,''  which  form 
an  implicit  creed.  Wo  come  to  see  that  they 
correspond  with  the  fact  of  a  larger  life  to 
which  our  lives  are  contributory,  a  life  which 
reaches  potentially  to  all  redeemed  beings,  a 
life  which  takes  into  itself  all  that  is  harmoni- 
ous with  its  character,  and  conveys  of  its  in- 
finite wealth  to  each  fragment  included  in  its 
organization. 

The  revelation  which  places  us  in  direct 
connection  with  unfailing  power  supplies  us 
also  with  a  sovereign  motive.  When  we  accept 
such  a  revelation,  the  same  instinct  which 
constrains  us  to  labor  for  ourselves  constrains 
us  to  labor  for  otliers.  To  labor  for  others  is,  we 
then  see  in  literal  truth,  to  labor  for  oiu^elves. 
The  separate  consciousness  of  the  individual 
parts  of  the  body  of  Christ  does  not  modify 
their  inter-dependence,  but  gives  a  new  mean- 
ing to  the  social  destination  of  work.  There 
is,  we  know,  no  pain  which  the  devotion  of 
love  is  unable  to  transfigure;  and  it  is  this 
devotion  which  the  Christian  conception  of 
humanity  and  nature  is  essentially  fitted  to  stir 
and  to  deepen.  Not  by  accident,  not  by  a 
remote  or  precarious  deduction,,  but  directly, 
in  its  simplest  announcement,  the  Gospel  pro- 
claims that  we  are  members  one  of  another, 
and  that  all  creation  waits  for  the  manifesta- 
tion of  the  sons  of  God.  And  it  is  obvious 
.that  this  belief  in  the  solidarity  of  life,  if  once 
we  could  give  it  vivid  distinctness,  is  able — 
perhaps  is  alone  able — to  deal  with  the  evils 
which  spring  from  selfishness.  It  enables  us 
to  estimate  rightly  the  burden  of  poverty  and 
the  heavier  burden  of  wealth,  when  we  take 
account  of  the  conditions  under  which  the 
one  life  is  fulfilled  in  many  parts.  It  quick- 
ens that  keen  sense  of  responsibility  to  God 
which  best  regulates  the  use  of  large  means; 
and  it  quickens  that  conviction  of  EMvine  fel- 
lowship which  brings  dignity  even  to  indi- 
gence.   And  meanwhile  it  delivers  U3  from 


the  bondage  of  material  standards,  when  it 
makes  known  all  that  is  of  the  ea.th  as  that 
through  which  the  spiritual  is  brought  withjn 
our  reach. 

If  now  I  have  succeeded  in  any  degree  in 
marking:  clearly  the  Unes  of  thought  which  I 
have  wished  to  trace,  we  shall  see  tliat  the 
capacity  of  Christianity  to  illuminate,  to 
guide,  to  inspire,  belongs  to  its  very  nature; 
that  we  cannot  bold  our  Faith  without  find- 
ing in  it  light  to  dispel  the  heaviest  clouds  of 
life,  an  ideal  to  keep  before  us  the  divine 
purpose  of  creation,  power  to  support  us  in 
our  strivings  to  fulfill  God*s  will ;  that  when 
it  fails  us  in  theory  or  in  deed,  we  have  so  far 
limited  or  misunderstcod  or  misused  it  In 
other  words  we  shall  see  that  Christianity  is 
the  perfect  religion.  It  gives  stability  and 
energy  to  thought,  and  feeling,  and  action. 
Nothing  can  be  without  its  scope,  but  to  all 
tiling*)  transitory  it  adds  the  element  of  the 
infinite.  It  supplies  the  foundation  of  perfect 
freedom  in  absol  ute  self-devotion.  It  ennobles 
dependence  as  the  correlative  of  social  fellow- 
ship. It  presents  the  total  aspect  of  being 
not  as  a  conflict  but  as  a  unity.  Politicians 
aim  at  "the  greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest 
number,"  but  we  have  a  surer  and  wider 
principle  for  our  guidance,  that  the  happiness 
of  the  whole  is  the  happiness  of  all. 

But  it  will  be  said  that  the  theoretic  claims 
of  Christianity  are  paralleled  by  the  claims  of 
other  religions;  that  they  are  disproved  by  the 
crimes  of  Christians.  I  notioe  the  objections 
only  to  point  out  that  they  do,  in  fact,  if  fairly 
examined,  confirm  my  position  with  over- 
whelming force.  If  it  could  be  shown  that 
the  vital  force  of  any  other  great  religion  was 
alien  from  Christianity;  if  it  could  be  shown 
that  the  crimes  of  Christians  arose  from  that 
which  is  of  the  essence  of  their  Faith,  then 
the  objections  would  be  weighty;  but  if,  on 
the  other  hand  it  is  obvious  that  the  religions 
of  the  world  each  touched  the  hearts  of  men 
by  a  power  of  order  or  devotion,  of  sympathy 
with  nature  or  of  surrender  to  a  supreme 
King,  then  each  pne -Christian  religion  be- 
comes a  vntness  to  the  Faith  which  combines 
these  manifold  powers  in  a  final  unity;  if  it  is 
obvious  that  the  excesses  of  Christian  men 


878 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


find  Christian  States  are  in  defiance  of  the 
message  of  the  Incarnation,  then  tbey  only 
prove  that  the  approach  to  the  ideal  is  slow 
and  that  it  rises  above  attainment  to  condemn 
and  to  encourage.  So  it  is  that  the  gathered 
experience  of  men  bears  testimony  to  tbe  truth 
of  Christianity,  both  when  it  records  anticipa- 
tions and  when  it  records  corruptions  of  its 
teaching.  In  the  one  case  it  shows  the  Gospel 
as  satisfying  the  cravings  of  men,  and  in  the 
other  as  judging  their  self-will  and  selfishness. 

And  at  tbe  same  time  the  wide,  frank  ques- 
tionings of  history  wbich  lead  to  these  results, 
the  attempt,  however  imperfect,  to  bring  our 
Faith  into  actual  contact  with  the  most  varied 
facts  of  life,  reveals  its  breadth  and  grandeur 
and  vitality.  We  are  all  tempted  to  limit  our 
conception  of  its  efficacy  by  our  personal  re- 
quirements. We  forget  that  it  is  directed  not 
only  to  the  redemption  of  man  as  fallen,  but 
to  the  consummation  of  man  as  created.  It 
requires  a  serious  effort  to  look  beyond  our- 
selves, our  nature,  our  age,  and  recognize  how 
it  meets  wants  which  we  have  not  felt,  how 
ii  disciplines  powers  with  which  we  are  not 
endowed,  how  it  supplements  our  offerings  by 
the  fruits  of  other  service.  The  effort  is  difil- 
cult,  but  it  brings  for  its  reward  a  calm  assur- 
ance which  is  us  firm  as  the  far-reaching 
foundation  of  human  experience  on  which  it 
rests. 

So  it  may  well  be  that  some  of  the  lines  of 
thought  which  I  have  endeavored  to  indicate 
—only  to  indicate — may  be  strange;  but  X 
know  that  they  are  worth  following.  I  know 
that  they  are  able  to  bring  home  to  us  with 
irresistible  force  the  conviction  that  Christi 
anity  has  a  message  for  us;  that  the  Holy 
Spirit  is  speal^ing  to  us  with  a-  voice  which  we 
can  interpret ;  that  the  currents  of  action  and 
thought  by  which  we  are  swayed  can  be  so 
guided  as  to  generate  a  divine  light;  that  the 
conceptions  of  the  dependence  of  man  upon 
man,  and  of  man  upon  nature,  of  a  funda- 
mental unity,  underlying  the  progress  of 
phenomena,  which  aie  taking  place  about  us, 
illuminate  mysteries  of  apostolic  teaching; 
that  the  theology  which  expresses  the  tem- 
poral apprehension  of  the  facts  of  reveli^on 
advances  stUl,  as  it  has  advanced  from  the 


first,  with  the  accumulated  mofvement  of  all 
ancillary  sciences. 

Such  convictions  restore  to  us  the  position 
and  the  spirit  of  conquerors — ^tbe  only  posilioD, 
tlie  only  spirit  which  befit  our  Faith.    We  are, 
we  must  be,   as  believers  in  Christ,  in  the 
presence  of  a  living,  that  is,  of  a  speaking  God. 
Nothing,  indeed,  can  be  added  to  the  facts  of 
the  Gospel,  but  all  history  and  aU  nature  is 
the  commentary  upon  them.    And  tbe  loftiesl 
conceptions  of  human  destiny  and  human  duty 
cannot  but  be  quickened  and  raised  by  the 
message  which  reaches  through  tbe  finite  to 
the  infinite,  through  time  to  eternity:  *  'In  the 
beginning  was  the  Word,  and  the  Word  was 
with  God,  and  the  Word  was  Qod,  .  .  .   And 
the  Word    became   flesh,    and   tabernacled 
among  us."    Our  imaginations  are  dull  and 
ondiBciplined.     We  can  hardly  for  a  brief 
moment  strive  to  realize  what  this  Historic 
Gospel  means.    Yet  even  so  in  the  still  silence 
it  makes  itself  felt.    Then  we  confess  that 
nothing  beautiful,  or  true,  or  good,  which 
lies  vrithin  the  range  of  human  powers,  can 
be  outside  its  hallowing  influence;  that  it  calls 
for  an  expresesion  in  doctrine^  and  in  con- 
duct, and  in  worship  which  exercises  the  ut- 
most gifts  of  reason,  and  will,  and  feeling; 
that  it  restores  to  man  the  divine  fellowship 
which  has  been  intemipted  by  sin;  thai  it 
discloses  tlie  importance  of  the  present  through 
which  the  interpretation  of  th«*  eternal  comes 
to  us;  that  it  confirms  the  value  of  the  indi- 
vidual by  revealing  his  relatioir  to  a  whole  of 
limitless  majesty;  that  it  offers  a  sovereign 
motive  for   seeking   the   help   of  unfailing 
might;  that  it  asks,  guides,  sustains  the  minis- . 
try  of  all  life,  and  the  ministry  of  every  life; 
and,  therefore,  that  it  is  a  c(>mplete  satisfaction 
of  the  religious  needs  of  men.— B.  F.  West- 
coTT,  in  The  ConUmporary  Benew. 


BUYING  NIAGARA. 

I  have  been  asked  to  write  the  history  of 
the  movement  to  preserve  Niagara,  and  I 
gladly  comply,  believing  that  all  students  of 
politics  and  the  actions  of  public  opinion  on 


BUYING  NIAGARA. 


279 


measures  will  find  in  the  movemeDt  which 
has  led  to  the  purchase  of  Niagara  Falls  by 
the  State  of  New  York  another  uistance  of 
the  power  of  mere  ientiment  among  men. 
The  nuichinery  of  government  in  the  United 
States  is  rarely  used  to  procure  a  result  be- 
longing so  entirely  to  the  realm  of  elevated 
sentiment;  and  yet  it  is  only  by  appeals  to  a 
legislative  body  that  any  help  can  be  obtained 
for  such  purposes  from  the  Stale.    An  occa- 
sional  appropriation    for  a  statue  or   some 
other  work  of  art  u  about  the  limit  to  which 
a  Legislature  will  go,  unless  the  object  is  dis- 
tinctly of  an  educational  character  and  has  a 
very  practical  side  to  it.    But  away  down 
deep  in  the  Anglo-Saxon  breast  is  always  to 
be  found  the  element  of  sentiment;  stronger 
perhaps  because  so  deeply  hidden,  and  capa- 
ble too  of  great  results  and  great  sacrifices 
when  once  aroused.    The  trouble  is  to  arouse 
it,  and  this,  in  the  practical,  active  life  of  the 
^eat  Ilepublic,  is  a  matter  of  difficulty;  cer- 
tainly it  requires  time  .and  patience  to  do  it. 
Nowhere  in  the  world  is  private  generosity 
for  public  purposes  greater  than  in  the  United- 
States,  and  it  was  not  an  impossibility  to  im- 
agine that  the  preservation  of  Niagara  might 
have  been  secured  by  the  contributions  of 
private  individuals;  yet  the  evident  propriety 
of  the  work  to  be  done  being  carried  out  by 
tlie  state,  prevented  even  th&  consideration  of 
the  fonn<*>r  method.    Besides^  it  was  thouglxt 
by  those  who  had  the  matter  in  charge  thai 
an  appeal  to  the  sentiment,  to  the  patriotism 
and  pride  of  the  people  would  not  be  in  vain, 
and  on  that  principle  the  battle  was  fought 
and  the  victory  woo.    Never  before  had  an 
attempt  to  use  the  machinery  of  government 
on  so  large  a  scale  for  such  a  purpose  been 
tried;  but  the  very  magnitude  and  grandeur 
of  the  sentiment,  so  to  speak,  would,  it  was 
thought,  have  aa  attraction  for  our  people, 
who  have  an  inborn   interest  for  anything 
great  or  large;  and,  moreover,  there  was  from 
the  very  begtaning  no  sordid  element  to  de- 
grade or  modify  the  ideal  set  before  the  pub- 
lie  by  the  laborers  in  the  movement.     Time 
has  justified  our  faith:  the  work  has  been 
accomplished;   and   the  million  and  a   hall 
which  the  Slate  ef  New  York  has  given  for 


this  purpose  is  not  regretted  by  even  the  small 
part  of  its  citizens  who  originally  opposed  the 
appropriation.  On  the  contrary,  the  pride  of 
the  people  is  universal  in  the  fact  that  they 
themselves  have  made  the  Falls  of  Niagara 
free  to  all  mankind  for .  all  time  to  come» 
But  tb  secure  all  this  it  was  first  necessary  to 
obtain  an  expression  of  public  opinion,  and 
that  not  a  doubtful  one:  and  this  is  the  way 
we  went  about  it,  for  we  never  doubted  for  a 
moment  that,  this  expression  once  obtained, 
success  would  follow  as  a  matter  of  course. 

About  eight  or  nine  years  ago  attention  was 
called  to  the  condition  of  affairs  at  Niagara^ 
but  not  until  1879  did  the  matter  take  any 
public  form.  During  that  year  the  Governor 
of  New  York,  as  the  result  of  an  interview, 
had  with  the  (jk)vernorrGeneral  of  Canada^, 
sent  a  message  to  the  Legislature  of  the  state 
regarding  the  abuses  existing  at  the  Falls* 
The  result  of  this  message  was  a.  resolution 
by  the  Legislature  directing,  the  Conunissiofli- 
ers  of  the  State  Survey  to  inqjidre.  considef^ 
and  report  regarding  the  matter.  Such  a  re- 
port was  duly  made,  and  in  the  fallowing 
year  the  movement  received  additional  sUmu* 
lus  by  the  presentation  of  a  notable  memorial 
to  the  Governor  of  New  York  and  the  Gov- 
ecnor-'General  of  Canada,  asking  that  immedi* 
ate  steps  be  taken  to.  piesorve  the  scenery  at 
the  Falls.^  The  first  bill  to  secure  these  re- 
sults was  also  at  this  time  introduced  into  the 
Legislature  of  New  York,  but  did  not  pass. 
A  seeond^  bill  was  brought  in  the  next  year» 
bat  met  with  the  same  fate. 

In  1888;  however,  another  effort  was  made, 
and  an  act  was  finally  passed.  To  secure  its 
passage  an  association  was  formed  called  the 
Niagara  Falls  Association,  which  hid  for  its 
object  "to  promote  legislation  and  other  mea- 
sures for  the  restoration  and  preservation  of 
the  natiural  scenery  at  Niagara  Falls,  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  plan  proposed  by  the  Com- 
missioners of  the  State  Survey  in  their  special, 
report  on  the  subject."  It  was  through  thi^^ 
society  tha^  the  expresison  of  public  opinion, 
was  obtained.  The  first  move  made  was.  tp> 
secure  the  support  of  the  press;  and  r^h^ 
willingly  and  steadfastly  was  this  supportt 
given  to  the-  v«x:y  wA-    Indeed,  it  was  tlu-^u^ 


280 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


fear  of  this  mighty  en^ne  of  a  free  people 
that  more  than  one  legislator  gave  his  rote 
for  the  bill,  and  the  writer  recollects  a  fellow- 
member  of  the  Legislature  telling  him  he  had 
voted  for  the  measure  solely  because  he  was 
afraid  "the  newspapers  would  hammer  the 
life  out  of  him  if  he  voted  t'other  way/* 

Strong  opposition  to  the  bill  came  from 
certain  quarters,  and  in  some  of  the  agricul 
ural  counties  of  the  state  the  fear  of  addi- 
tional taxation  to  meet  tlie  cost  of  the  proposed 
Reservation  induced  the  members  from  those 
counties  to  oppose  the  bill.  No  opposition 
was  made  to  the  bill  per  se,  though  there  were 
members  who  considered  the  whole  thing  a 
bit  of  sentimental  nonsense  got  up  by  a  lot  of 
rich  people  in  the  large  cities.  In  many  cases, 
however,  these  gentlemen  were  undeceived 
by  their  constituents,  whom  they  found  on 
inquiry  to  favor  the  proposition  and  to  be  very 
mvLf^h  more  alive  to  the  advantage  and  benefit 
to  the  state  to  be  derived  from  the  scheme 
than  the  aforesaid  legislators  dreamed  of. 
Another  difficulty  to  be  overcome  was  the 
indifference  on  the  part  of  the  members,  and 
the  trouble  always  attendant  on  any  effort  to 
obtain  the  active  ^pport  for  a  measure 
"without  any  politics  in  it,"  or  which  lacks 
the  interest  which  attaches  to  legislation  in 
the  interests  of  corporations.  Finally,  how- 
ever, the  measure  came  out  of  committee  in 
the  Lower  House,  and,  after  a  debate  of  some 
length,  passed  and  went  to  the  Senate.  The 
margin,  however,  was  a  narrow  one,  the  vote 
In  the  Assembly  being  barely  enough.  Sixty- 
five  affirmative  votes  were  required,  and  the 
measure  received  but  sixty -seven  in  a  i)08sible 
hundred  and  twenty-eight. 

Altogether  this  first  engagement  was  the 
hardest,  and  promised  to  be  more  difficult  to 
win  than  any  of  the  subsequent  combats  of 
the  campaign.  Public  sentiment  had  not  yet 
declared  itself  so  emphatically  as  it  did  later 
on,  and  there  were  at  this  time  honest  oppo- 
nents to  the  bill  who  carried  many  votes  with 
them  by  the  arguments  that  the  state  might 
become  involved  by  such  legislation  for  an 
'uriknown,  and  perhaps  enormous  amount,  and 
f that  the  measure  was  merely  the  entering 
wedge  or  a  great  and  lasting  extravagance. 


Enemies  of  the  scheme  made  use  of  the  wor^l 
"park,''  commonly  applied  at  the  be^aui&<; 
of  the  movement,  to  show  that  all  niaiiDer  i  f 
costly  public  works  were  contemplated  at  Ki 
agara.    Goat  Island  was  to  be  covered  v:i\\\ 
statues  and  foimtains,  roads  and  paths  laid 
out,  bridges  built,  and  summer-houses  and 
other  buildings    erected,  a  mass  of  useless 
officials  employed,  and  tlie  Falls  converted 
into  a  sort  of  State  Cremorne.    In  the  Senate 
the  passage  of  the  bill  was  delayed  for  some 
time  by  the  committee   having  the  bill  in 
charge  failing  to  report  it.  and  matters  began 
to  look  serious,  when  the  assistance  of  a  cer- 
tain well-known  political  leader  was  sought, 
and  through  bis  influence  the  bill  was  at  onoe 
reported  and  presently  passed. 

This  leader  was  the  last  person  whom  many 
would  have  thought  willing  to  give  it  any 
help,  and  yet  not  only  at  this  time  but  after- 
ward no  oue  gave  us  more  important  support 
or  more  entirely  sympathized  with  our  efforts, 
and  this,  too,  purely  from  a  great  love  for 
nature  inherent  in  the  man — from,  in  fact,  a 
mere  sentiment,  added  perhaps  to  the  soimd 
common  sense  for  which  he  is  recognized  by 
those  who  know  him.    As  was  generally  ex- 
pected, the  Governor  of   the  State,  Grover 
Cleveland— now  President  of  the  United  Statea 
— ^at  once  signed  the  bill,  and  appointed  the 
commissioners  who  were  to  carry  its  provisions 
into  effect.    These  were,  that  the  commis- 
sioners should  select  the  lands  at  the  Falls 
which  in  their  opinion  would  carry  out  the 
plan  of  restoring  the  scenery  at  Niagara  and 
renewing  the  charm  and  beauty  of  the  spot  so 
marred  and  defaced  by  the  erection  of  un- 
sightly buildings,  etc.    A  selection  was  ac- 
cordingly made  of  some  106  acres,  including 
Gk>at  Island  and  the  adjacent  smallei  islands, 
what  is  known  as  Prospect  Park,  and  a  strip 
of  land  on  the  mainland;  the  result  being  tliat 
a  Reservation  complete  in  itself,  and  embrac 
ing  all  the  American  side  of  the  Falls,  was 
secured. 

In  compliance  with  the  terms  of  tlie  act 
the  commissioners    then  proceeded  to  have 
said  lands  condemned  by  due  process  of  law 
and,  when  this  was  completed,  made  their 
report  to  the  state,  and  had  a  bill  introduced 


BUYING  NIAGARA. 


281 


into  the  Legislature  of  1885  appropriftting  the 
Sam  needed  to  pay  for  the  Reservation.  Tlie 
success  so  far  had  been  in  every  way  gratify- 
Ing  to  the  friends  of  the  measure;  but,  as  we 
all  saw,  the  greatest  difficulty  lay  in  finally 
securing  the  money  to  complete  the  work,  tmd 
'with  this  knowledge  every  effort  was  made 
to  impress  upon  the  Legislature  the  propriety 
of  voting  the  needed  amount. 

When  this  matter  was  first  agitated,  our 
opponents,  as  has  been  already  stated,  took 
the  ground  that  the  cost  of  the  proposed  Res- 
ervation would  be  very  large,  and  that  the 
commissioners,  who  were  given  unlimited 
powers  in  the  way  of  the  amount  of  property 
to  be  taken,  might  involve  the  state  in  a  great 
expense,  and  that  the  scheme  would  cost  any- 
thing from  five  to  twenty  millions.  It  added 
mudi  to  the  strength  of  our  position  then,  to 
learn  that  the  total  cost  of  the  Reservation 
proposed  came  to  something  under  a  million 
and  a  half  of  dollars,~t>r  just  about  what  we 
had  originally  given  as  the  probable  cost.  As 
au  offset,  however,  to  this  advantage,  the 
majority  of  the  Legislature  of  1885  was  Re- 
p  iblican,  aud,  in  the  face  of  the  coming  elec- 
tion for  Governor  of  the  State,  the  politicians 
of  tliat  party  were  loth  to  increase  the  amount 
of  appropriations  for  the  year,  believing  the 
people  might  hold  them  responsible  for  any 
resulting  additional  taxation. 

The  attempt  to  make  Niagara  free  to  every 
one,  rich  and  poor  alike,  was  thoroughly 
dcmoerHtic,  and  consequently  many  of  the 
leaders  iu  the  Democratic  party  bad  given  the 
sckeroe  a  very  cordial  support  from  the  start, 
a  DemocrStic  Governor  having  first  calLd  the 
attention  of  the  Legislature  to  the  matter,  and 
another  Donu/tratic  Governor  having  signed 
the  bill  appointing  the  commissioners.  Be- 
sides, the  then  Governor  was  also  a  Democrat, 
and  should  he  in  like  manner  approve  of  the 
bill  appropriating  the  money  to  secure  the 
Reservation,  the  people  might  conclude  that  it 
was  to  the  Democratic  party  in  the  state  that 
they  were  indebted  for  what  a  large  majority 
were  in  favor  of  and  eagerly  vrished  to  see 
consummated.  Altogether  the  prospect  for 
securing  the  mpney  was  not  brilliant,  and,  to 
add  to  our  doubts  of  obtaining  it,  the  appro- 


priations for  the  year  were  certain  to  be  unus- 
ually large,  owing  to  sudden  imperative  events 
in  another  direction — namely,  for  the  mainte- 
nance of  the  state  prisons.  Indeed,  one  of  our 
warmest  friends  and  also  one  of  the  most 
prominent  men  in  the  Republican  party,  a 
man  wielding  g:reat  influence,  wrote  to  the 
author  of  this  article  early  in  the  session  that, 
after  a  careful  survey  of  the  ground,  he  had 
little  hopes  of  any  success.  Some  of  us,  how- 
ever, still  believed  that  public  sentiment,  if  its 
expression  in  a  unmistakable  way  could  be 
brought  out,  would  force  the  Legislature  to 
vote  the  money,  and  to  that  end  the  Niagara 
Falls  Association  and  its  friends  bent  all  their 
endeavors.  As  before,  we  started  wfth  tfao 
press  on  our  side,  and  with  but  few  exceptions 
every  newspaper  in  the  state  continued  to  give 
us  its  help  and  support. 

The  unanimity  of  the  press  had  its  effect; 
and  when,  besides,  members  began  to  receive 
petition  after  petition  from  their  constituents 
asking  that  the  bill  be  passed,  matters  began 
to  have  a  different  look.  Together  with  the 
men  who,  though  belonging  to  one  or  the 
other  of  the  great  political  parties,  act  inde- 
pendently on  measures  of  general  interest,  the 
Legislature  always  -contains  many  members 
who  are  merely  the  representatives  of  certain 
leaders  in  different  parts  of  the  state,  and  there 
are  also  other  members  who  are  generally 
willing  to  act  in  compliance  with  the  wishes 
of  some  great  corporation.  The  change  to  be 
made  at  Niagara  promised  to  greatly  increase 
the  travel  to  that  point,  and  so  it  was  easy  to  « 
secure  the  influence  of  the  great  railroad  cor- 
porations of  the  state,  and  through  them  the 
votes  of  certain  members.  The  political  lead- 
ers who  had  helped  in  the  passage  of  the  first 
bill  again  gave  us  their  support,  and  it  was 
of  the  most  valuable  and  positive  sort. 
Finally  the  appropriation  was  duly  voted  in 
the  Assembly,  or  Lower  House,  with  but 
trifling  opposition.  When,  however,  the  bill 
reached  the  Senate  there  were  found  to  be 
powerful  obstacles  to  its  further  progress,  and 
an  evident  desire  to  smother  the  matter  and 
"kill  it"  in  a  quiet  way,  as  by  this  time  public 
opinion  had  become  so  entirely  aroused,  and 
had  begun  to  express  itself  so  emphaticaUy, 


THE  LIIBRARY  MAGAZtNB. 


thai  but  few  politiciana.  however  much  op- 
posed to  the  bill,  dated  to  openly  face  it  ''or 
go  on  the  record"  against  it.  This  attempt 
to  smother  and  delay  the  measure  was  de- 
feated by  the  friends  of  the  bill  exposing  in 
the  open  Senate  JKheX  was  being  done  by  its 
enemies,  and  so  calling  down  upon  these  latter 
the  thunders  of  the  press  and  the  indignation 
of  their  respective  coostituencies.  Such  a 
pressure  was  brought  to  bear  that  the  bill 
came  out  of  committee,  and  then  passed  the 
Senate  with  only  some  four  votes  recorded 
against  it.  Indeed,  many  senators  who  had 
in  previous  years  discountenanced  all  attempts 
to  preserve  Niagara,  and  sidiculed  and  op- 
posed ilie  scheme,  now  gave  their  votes  for 
the  appropriation  to  redeem  and  save  it 

To  reach,  however,  this  result  a  compromise 
had  to  be  accepted,  so  far  as  concerned  the 
manner  of  raising  the  money  to  be  used  for 
the  payment  of  the  Reservation,  an  arrange- 
ment which  later  on  placed  the  bill  in  a  posi- 
tion of  great  danger.  It  would  have  been 
better  to  vote  the  entire  sum  outright;  but  the 
Senate  were  unwilling  to  do  this  for  en  am- 
ount exceeding,  say,  a  third  of  the  total,  and 
directed  the  balance  to  be  paid  from  the  pro- 
ceeds of  bonds  to  be  issued  by  the  state. 
Even  under  the  stale  constitution  bonds  are 
only  to  be  issued  for  some  extraordinary  pur- 
pose, and  such  issue  is  limited  to  one  million, 
or  just  the  amount  directed  by  the  Niagara 
bill  to  be  raised  this  way.  The  change  made 
by  the  Senate  was  promptly  agreed  to  by  the 
«  House,  the  latter  acting  throughout  with  great 
favor  to  the  bill. 

Mention  has  already  been  made  of  the  flood 
of  petitions  which  poured  into  Albany.  Be 
rides  the  petitions  there  came  to  every  mem- 
ber of  both  Houses  private  letters  written  by 
half  a  dozen  of  the  most  influential  citizens  of 
both  parties  residing  in  the  different  Assem* 
bly  and  Senatorial  districts,  and  these  lettero 
were  obtained  by  circulars  sent  out  by  the 
Niagara  Falls  Association  asking  the  Individ- 
tialfl  to  whom  the  circulars  were  addressed  to 
write  such  letters.  Thousands  of  such  circu- 
lars were  distributed:  and  the  association  had 
also  a  gentleman  acting  as  their  agent,  who 
for  two  winters  went  through  the  different 


counties  of  the  state  and  personally  visiied  the 
editors  of  newspapers  and  other  influential 
citizens  reriding  therein,  explaining  the  pro- 
posed legislation,  and  asking  for  their  influ- 
race  and  help.  Numbers  of  the  clergy  of  all 
denominations  worlLed  actively  for  us,  and 
great  was  the  help  and  assistance  wliich  came 
from  the  women  of  the  state:  the  vote  of  more 
than  one  member  of  the  Legislature  was  se- 
cured by  the  influence  of  his  wife  or  children. 

Another  sort  of  opposition  came  from  a 
few  of  the  landowners  at  Niagara,  who  were 
not  over-wilMng  to  have  their  property  taken 
by  the  state,  as,  incident  to  the  use  of  the 
water-power  they  were  enabled  to  carry  on  a 
lucrative  manufacturing  business,  and  tb^ 
well  knew  that  for  such  water-power  the  state 
would  not  pay  anything.    It  is  true  that  this 
did  not  deter  them  from  making  claims  of 
this  sort,  when  the  lands  were  condemned^  of 
millions  of  dollars,  which,  however,  were  all 
thro^m  out  by  the  arbitrators,  as,  luckily, 
these  water-rights  had  never  been  granted  or 
ceded  by  the  state,  the  original  owner  of  the 
lands,  and  fi'om  whom  all  the  titles  to  the 
property  came.    The  opposition  of  these  prop- 
erty-owners in  the  flrst  stages  of  the  enter- 
prise was  vefy  active,  and  led  to  a  clause 
being  inserted  in  the  original  act  limiting  the 
time  in  which  the  state  was  to  pay  for  the 
property  condenmed.    This  limit  expired  on 
the  1st  of  May,  1885,  and  had  the  bill  api;»-o- 
priating  the  money  not  been  signed  by  the 
governor   by  that   date    the  whole   matter 
would  have  fallen  to  the  ground,  and  the 
movement  to  preserve  Niagara  received  a  set- 
back which  might  perhaps  have  forever  pie- 
vested  its  success.    It  was  with  the  knowl- 
edge of  this  fact  that  our  enenfles  in  the  Sen- 
ate tried  to  delay  action  on  the  bill,  and  they 
so  far  succeeded  that  the  bill  went  to  the 
governor  at,  so  to  speak,  the  last  hour. 

Great  indeed,  then,  was  the  anxiety  of  all 
concerned  when  the  governor,  to  whom  the 
Legislature  sent  the  bill  only  ten  days  before 
the  expiration  of  the  limit  of  tinre  referrsii  to, 
did  not  immediately  sign  it.  Allusion  has 
already  been  made  to  a  compromise  in  regard 
to  the  manner  of  raising  the  money.  €k>vtfDor 
HIU,  who  had  succeeded  Ctovernor  Cleveland 


BUYING  NIAGARA. 


288 


had  grave  doubts*  as  to  tlie  propriety  of  the 
issue  uf  bonds  spoken  of,  and  it  was  only  at 
the  last  moment  that  he  concluded  that  for 
the  purpose  intended  tliere  was  no  conflict 
with  the  meaning  of  the  constitution,  and 
signed  the  bill  Just  as  the  limit  of  time  was 
about  expirlDg.  Pending  the  governor's  de- 
cision, some  of  the  ablest  and  most  distin 
gnished  lawyers  of  the  state  presented  opin- 
ions in  favor  of  the  bill,  and  personally  waited 
on  the  governor  to  argue  the  propriety  of  his 
making  the  measure  a  law. 

An  incident  which  occurred  at  this  time 
will  show  how  greatly  every  one  was  inter- 
ested in  the  measure,  and  how  strong  the 
sentiment  had  become  in  its  favor.    One  of 
the  foremost  members  of  the  bar  had  been 
asked  by  the  governor  what  his  opinion  was 
as  to  the  constitutionality  of  an  issue  of  bonds 
except  for  public  defence  or  such  like  emer- 
gency, but  without  making  any  reference  to 
the  Niagara  bill.    In  reply,  the  lawyer  told 
the  governor  that  he  h\id  ^grave  doubts  of 
the  constitutionality  of  any  such  legislation; 
but  learning  a  few  days  later  what  the  bill  was 
the  governor  had  reference  to,  he  went  im- 
mediately to  the  latter  and  strongly  urged 
him  to  sign  the  act,  on  the  ground  that  the 
money  was  for  an  extraordinary  purpose,  and 
intended  for  the  beneflt  of  the  entire  people; 
in  fact,  the  propriety  of  such  an  issue  of  bonds 
as  was  proposed  was  recognized  in  the  char- 
acter of  the  purpose  for  which  the  proceeds 
of  the  issue  were  to  be  used. 

At  the  last  moment  the  bill  wad  signed,  and 
pertiaps  no  executive  act  was  ever  received 
in  the  state  with  more  complete  and  unani- 
mous approval.  Its  passage  secured  for  all 
time,  not  only  for  its  own  citizens,  but  for 
the  nation  and  the  world  at  large,  the  preser- 
vation of  the  greatest  natural  object  of  its 
kind,  the  Falls  of  Niagara.  It  had  come  to 
pass  that  the  enjoyment  of  this  wonderful 
gift  of  nature  had  l)een  greatly  impaired  by 
the  rapid  progress  bf  disfigurements— indeed, 
its  speedy  destruction  was  threatened,  and  the 
state  did  not  step  fn  a  moment  too  soon  in 
order  to  retain  this  great  x)ossessiou  for  the 
ever-constant  pleasure  and  delight  of  its 
people.    Tht  petition  of  the  people  addressed 


to  their  representatives  asked  that  Niagara  be 
made  forever  free,  and  that  its  beauties  be 
made  accessible  to  rich  and  poor  alike. 

In  spite  of  many  obstacles  this  had  at  last 
been  done,  and  solely  through  the  power  of 
sentiment.  The  love  of  nature  and  of  the 
beautiful,  patriotism  and  pride  in  retaining 
unimpaired  tliis  great  wonder  of  the  universe, 
had  prevailed  o\'er  indifference  and  self-inter- 
est. It  is  true  that  the  constitution  if  the 
state  forbids  the  appropriation  of  public 
money  for  any  but  public  uses;  but  it  was  to 
be  seen  whether  the  meaning  of  the  words 
"public  uses"  was  to  be  decided  in  a  broad 
or  a  narrow  sense,  and  whether  the  indulgence 
of  a  great  and  sublime  sentiment  was  to  be 
denied  the  people,  as  it  were,  by  themselves. 
Under  the  administration  of  an  enlightened 
despot,  the  arts  may  flourish,  and  all  that 
belongs  to  the  sentiment  of  beauty  be  pre- 
served and  fostered,  without  trouble  or  difll- 
culty.  But  amid  a  free  people  the  success 
of  such  a  movement  as  has  resulted  in  the 
preservation  of  the  Falls  of  Niagara  could 
only  be  brought  about  by  an  all -prevailing 
sentiment,  touching  all  classes  of  society,  a 
sentiment  sure  to  carry  all  before  it  when 
once  roused,  and  which  voices  to  its  servants 
orders  which  they  never  dare  to  disobey.  But 
a  short  period  was  necessary  for  the  transfer 
to  the  state  of  the  property  at  the  Falls  pre- 
viously selected  by  the  commissioners,  and  on 
the  15th  of  July,  1885,  the  Reservation  was 
formally  opened  to  the  public  by  appropriate 
ceremonies,  and  the  great  cataract  declared 
free  forever  to  all  mankind. 

The  commissioners  immediately  proceeded 
to  the  removal  of  tlie  many  unsightly  build- 
ings, etc.,  which  have  so  long  disfigured  the 
surroundings  of  the  Falls.  Already  nearly 
all  of  such  eye-sores  ha^e  disappeared,  and  the 
change  made  far  exceeds  expectations.  Those 
who  went  to  Niagara  but  a  year  ago,  were" 
they  to  go  again  to-day  would  hardly  recog- 
nize the  place  so  far  as  the  American  side  is 
concerned.  The  change  has  extended  to  the 
municipal  affairs  of  Niagara  village,  where  a 
most  complete  reform  has  taken  place,  and 
which  will  be  sensibly  felt  by  any  traveler 
visiting  there  now  and  having  occasion  to 


384 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


have  to  do  with  one  of  its  far-famed  hackmen 
and  cab-drivers.  The  freedom  of  the  Falls 
and  the  removal  of  all  charges  have  greatly 
increased  the  number  of  visiters,  the  number 
last  season  being  many  times  greater  than  ever 
before.  With  all  this  gi-eat  concourse  of 
people  arrests  are  hardly  ever  mude,  and, 
without  any  police  deserving  of  such  a  name, 
the  commissioners  readily  guard  the  Reserva- 
tion and  preserve  the  public  peace.  The  suc- 
cess of  our  efforts  has  had  its  effects  on  our 
Canadian  neighbors;  and  the  time  is  not  dis- 
tant when  both  sides  of  the  Falls  will  have 
been  secured  from  any  possible  injury  in  the 
future.  The  province  of  Ontario,  which 
shares  with  New  York  the  possession  of  the 
great  cataract,  has  already  through  its  com- 
missioners proceeded  to  make  a  Reservation 
like  ours.  The  lands  have  been  selected  and 
condemned,  and  it  will  not  be  long  before 
both  sides  of  the  Niagara  River  are,  as  they 
should  be,  public  domain,  and  thus  the  work 
of  saving  Niagara,  and  preserving  forever  its 
great  charm  and  beauty,  will  be  realized  in 
all  its  completeness.— J.  Hahfdbn  Robb,  in 
The  Mneteenth  Century. 


SUPPRESSING  A  MOB. 

I  propose  to  consider  the  best  means  of  cop- 
ing with  a  riotous  mob,  which  often  means  an 
embryo  revolution,  and,  at  all  events,  is  certain 
if  not  repressed  at  once,  to  effect  terrible  loss  of 
life  and  property.  Under  any  circumstance 
a  riot  not  promptly  arrested  is  apt  to  bring 
the  law  into  contempt.  The  ordinary  instru- 
ments for  dealing  with  a  disturbance  are  the 
police.  Should  the  task  prove  to  be  beyond 
the  power  the  aid  of  the  military  is  invoked, 
and  if  matters  threaten  to  be  very  serious  law- 
abiding  citizens  are  sworn  in  as  special  consta- 
bles. Between  the  three  we  possess  in  Eng- 
land ample  means  to  maintain  or  restore 
order;  but  unfortunately  there  is  no  system, 
no  code  of  tactics^  by  which  these  instru- 
ments can  be  used  to  the  best  advantage. 
Indeed  we  set  to  work  in  what  may  be  termed 
a  very  crude  manner,  merely  directly  oppos- 
ing brute  foree  to  brute  force,  instead  of 


using  the  means  at  the  disposal  of  the  author- 
ities with  the  skill  which  is  the  outcome  of 
reflection,    common-sense,    and    experience. 
However  capable  the  direction  of  the  opera- 
tions of  the  troops  of  order  or  disorder,  skill 
cannot  to  any  great  extent  be  displayed  un- 
less the  troops  themselves  are  properly  orgaa- 
ized,  disciplined,  and  accustomed  to  combined 
action.     This  fact  in  itself  gives  authority  an 
immense  advantage,  for  the  army  of  disorder 
is  so  wanting  in  the  qualifications  above  re- 
ferred to,  that  it  is  capable  only  of  moving  in 
huge  unwieldy  masses,  and  quite  incapable  of 
manoeuvering.    It  has,  it  is  true,  in  its  favor 
the  weight  of  numbers,  and  the  momentum 
caused  by  the  foremost  ranks  being  pressed 
irresistibly  forward  by  the  large  majority  in 
the  rear,  who  either  are  ignorant  of  the  danger 
awaiting  them  or  are  protected  from  its  con- 
sequeuiL'CS.     A    mob  in  short  is  pushed  on 
rather  than  drawn  or  led  on,  and  provided 
those  in  the  rear  feel  or  fancy  themselves 
safe,  the  courage  or  cowardice  of  tliose  at  tlie 
head  of  the  column  is  a  matter  of  compara- 
tively little  importance.    We  have,  however, 
always  acted  as  if  such  were  not  the  fact,  and 
our  only  notion  of  stopping,  driving  back,  or 
dispersing  a  mob  consists  in  making  a  bull- 
like rush  at  its  head. 

I  venture  to  suggest  that  the  principles  of 
military  tactics  are  a&  applicable  in  a  contest 
with  a  mob  as  in  a  pitched  battle  with  a 
foreign  army.  I  also  submit  that  a  mob  pos- 
sessing little  cohesion,  no  organization  or  dis- 
cipline, and  sli^t  confidence  in  its  extempor- 
ized leaders,  and  having,  moreover,  a  sense 
of  wrong-doing,  is  especially  liable  to  moral 
influences,  and  consequently  to  panic.  The 
above  considerations  form  the  basis  of  the 
following  outline  scheme. 

A  mob  is  either  stationary,  wiUi  the  excep- 
tion that  small  portions  make  occasional  brief 
rushes  against  the  police,  or  on  the  marchy 
with  a  view  to  reach  the  appointed  scene  of 
operations,  or  attacking  either  the  police  or 
another  body  of  civilians.  Let  us  deal  with 
each  case  separately: 

The  stationary  irob  is  generally  occupied 
in  listening  to  speeches,  or  making  a  demon- 
stration, or  attacking  or  plundering  a  howe, 


STJFPRESSINa  A  MOB, 


286 


or  blocking  a  street.    No  matter,  however, 
Dehat  its  object  may  be,  the  same  means,  or 
almost  the  same  means,  should  be  employed 
to  deal  witik  it.    I  of  course  assume  that  the 
authorities  consider  it  necessary  to  disperse 
tbe  mob.    Generally  speaking  it  will  be  found 
more  easy  to  prevent  the  assembly  than  se- 
cure tbe  dispersal  of  a  crowd.    The  best  way 
to  prevent  the  gathering  of  the  latter  is  to 
keep  every  one  moving;  also  on  the  dispersal 
of  a  crowd,  its  constituents  parts  must  be 
kept  on  the  move  and  in  as  many  directions 
as  possible.    To  disperse  a  stationary  crowd  a 
direct  attack  by  the  police,  or  even  by  the 
troops,  with  an  attempt  to  reach  the  core  of 
the  meeting,  such  as  the  platform,  is  not  as  a 
rule  advisable.    The  superior  weight  of  the 
mob  in  such  a  case  has  to  be  overcome  by  the 
free  use  of  batons  or  arms,  and  the  police  or 
soldiers  are  likelv  to  be  surrounded.    If  the 
front  ranks  of  the  mob  are  by  a  sudden  rush 
of  the  police  forced  back,  or  should  a  panic 
caused  by  fear  of  soldiers  arise,  many  foolish 
but  innocent  spectators  are  exposed  to  the 
clanger  of  being  thrown  down  and  trampled 
to  death.    At  all  events,  the  contest  should 
be  begun  by  shredding  off  as  it  were-  comers 
and  the  outermost  ranks  of  'the  mob,  and  this 
process  should  be  carried  on  quietly  at  several 
spots  simultaneously.    If  possible,  by  a  com- 
bination of  moral  and  physical  force,  a  group 
of  the  mob  should  be  got  to  move  away  from 
the  crowd;  the  probablity  is  that  many  will 
follow  without  knowing  why,  simply  from 
the  sheep-like  instinct  which    men    display 
when  assembled  in  any  numbeitt    When  the 
crowd  has  been  thinned  from  the  outside,  and 
Is  beginning  to  sway  about  somewhat,  the 
police,  forming  a  long  triangle  with  short 
base,  might  endeavor  to  insinuate  their  way 
m  firmly,  but  without  more  violence  or  noise 
than  is  necessary,  and  disintegrate  the  crowd. 
An  endeavor  to  penetrate  to  the  center  and  to 
arrest  the  speakers  should  not  be  made  till 
the  last  moment.    In  fact  the  harangues  of 
the  speakers  ifnd  the  applause  of  their  im 
mediate  surrounders  favOT  the  action  of  the 
police  by  drawing  away  attention  from  the 
latter.    As  for  the  arrest  of  the  speakers,  that 
,oaa  SMJly  be  accom|)lished  wh«a  the  arowd 


has  been  broken  up.  To  attempt  it  earlier 
would  only  be  to  concentrate  and  give  cohe- 
sion to  the  mob. 

When  the  mob  is  merely  blocking  a  street 
to  prevent  say  the  passage  of  tbe  general  pub- 
lic, the  troops,  or  a  procession,  etc.,  there  is 
generally  only  one  front,  i.  e,,  the  mob  are 
looking  in  one  direction  for  the  arrival  of  those 
whom  it  is  desired  to  stop.  In  that  case  no 
effort  should  be  made  to  directly  drive  back 
the  mob,  for  the  reasons  which  we  have 
already-  given.  The  front  should  be  watched 
and  its  attention  attracted  by  a  portion  of  the 
police,  but  the  real  efforts  should  be  made  by 
two  or  three  strong  detachments  shredding 
off  successively  men  in  the  rear  and  on  the 
flanks.  When  that  process  has  gone  on  for 
some  little  time,  bodies  of  police  may  boldly 
attempt  to  make  several  lanes  simultaneously 
in  the  mob  from  one  flank  to  tbe  other,  and 
thus  disintegrate  it.  Deprived  of  solid  sup- 
port in  the  rear,  the  men  in  front  will  prob- 
ably lose  heart,  and  be  easily  driven  away  or 
arrested.  It  must  be  remembered  that  the 
people  on  tlie  outskirts  and  rear  of  a  crowd  are 
often  only  influenced  by  curiosity,  and  almost 
always  are  the  least  determined  members  of 
the  mob. 

In  the  case  of  a  mob  attacking  a  house,  the 
proceedings  of  the  police  must  be  somewhat 
modified.  Delay  under  such  cireumstan^  is 
dangerous,  and  energetic  measures  must  be 
adopted.  I  would  advise  that  tbe  bulk  of  the 
police  available  should  be  formed  into  a  solid 
colunm  with  a  front  of  four,  and  should  with 
a  cheer  charge  the  flank  of  the  foremost  row 
of  the  assailants,  using  truncheons  freely;  at 
the  same  time  a  smaller  body  should  attack 
the  flank  of  the  rearmost  rows. 

I  have  a  great  belief  in  the  efficacy  of  fire- 
engines  agahist  a  mob.  Wet  clothes  damp 
ardor;  few  men  are  brave  when  cold  and  wet; 
and  this  fact  is  so  well-known  that  a  certain 
French  x)olitician  living  in  Paris  during  a 
period  of  excitement  was  in  the  Imbit  as  soon 
as  he  rose  of  locking  out  of  window,  and  if 
he  foimd  that  it  was  raining  would  exclaim 
with  a  sigh  of  relief,  **No  revolution  to-day." 
We  also  learn  that  when  Louis  Philippe  was 
replacing  Napoleon's  statue  on  the  column  In 


S86 


THE  LIBRARY  MAOAZIKE. 


the  Place  Yeodome,  the  Napoleonists  assem- 
bled continuaUy  in  excited  crowds  around  the 
pedestal.  The  crowds  were,  however,  soon 
dispersed  by  copious  streams  of  water  being 
pproped  on  them.  The  material  ^ect  of  a 
stream  of  water  projected  from  a  fire-engine 
through  a  hose  is  considerable.  No  man  can 
stand  against  it.  Besides,  on  the  principle 
that  tlie  mishaps  of  others  afford  human  be- 
ings a  certain  amount  of  satisfaction,  the 
members  ot  a  crowd  are  sure  to  laugh  at  see- 
ing their  companions  wetted,  and  a  crowd 
which  begins  to  laugh,  ceases  to  be  danger- 
ous. I  ^'ould  therefore  suggest  that  when- 
ever a  serious  disturbance  is  anticipated  a  few 
fire-engines  should  be  placed  at  the  disposal  of 
tlie  police. 

I  will  now  deal  with  the  case  of  a  mob  on 
the  maich.  Hitherto  the  method  of  proceed- 
ing is  to  oppose  a  direct  resistance  to  the  head. 
This  is  a  mistake,  for  the  force  at  the  dis- 
posal of  tlie  authorities  is  generally,  nay, 
almost  always  inferior  in  numbers  to  the  mob. 
I  would  recommend  a  plan  very  different 
from  the  above.  The  great  point  is  to  first  of 
All  disintegrate  the  mob,  t. «.,  break  it  up  into 
small  parties.  Most  of  the  system  of  tactics 
suggested  for  dealing  with  a  stationary  mob 
is.alfl )  applicable  in  this  case.  As  to  details, 
the  head  of  the  moving  mob  should  be  ob- 
served and  hindered  by  a  portion  of  the  po- 
lioe,  but  the  latter  should  -not  attempt  to  stop 
the  liead  of  the  prooession  by  main  force.  It 
is  easier  to  turn  off,  than  to  stop,  the  mob. 
Heace.endeavoirs  should  be  made  occasioually 
tO'divert  its  bead  down  a- side- street,  and  when 
a  certain  number  .have  gone  by  to  allow  the 
bulk  to  proceed' in  the  original  direction.  If 
this  process  be  repeated  several  times  the  mob 
.will  be  broken  up  into  manageable  fragments. 
It  may  be  said  that  it  is  no  easy  thing  to  di- 
vert a  living  stream  ,>  but  by  suddenly  charging 
or  tl&reatentng  to  charge  the  head  of  the  col- 
umn and  simultaneously  opening  a  way  by  a 
ycax>B»  street  close  at  band. and  gettmg  a  few  of 
the  mob  to  take  the  new  directi<}n,  the  object 
rmay  be  effected,  for  a  croffrd  iaalwaya  i%ady 
4o  follow  an  example. 

A  good  plan  is  for  the  police  to  have  a  few 
j»Hghi  in  their  pay. .aad.eniploy.  them  Jo  «et 


the  example  requi  ^.  These  broken-off  frag. 
roentfi  of  .the  mob  can  when  they  have  gone  a 
short  way  l^  dbposed  of  very  easily  by  a  few 
policemen  assisted  if  necessary  by  special 
constables.  Of  course  this  diversion  would 
be  of  little  avail  if  the  detached  fragments 
were  allowed  to  retrace  their  steps  and  rejoin 
the  principal  body;  but  an  essential  part  of 
my  plan  is  to  occupy  with  troops,  police,  or 
special  constables  all  the  entrances  from  cross 
streets  into  the  line  of  route,  fiy  so  doing  the 
authorities  have  it  in  their  power  at  any  mo- 
ment to  attack  the  mob  in  flank  and  cut  the 
column  into  slices.  The  great  point  is  to  pare 
off  the  columu  from  the  rear,  and  this  can 
best  be  done  by  successively  making  at  inter- 
vals a  rush  across  the  street  and  chopping  off 
the  tail,  turning  it  if  possible  off  the  main  line 
of  route.  It  cannot  be  too  much  borne  in 
mind  that  the  strength  of  a  mob  consists  in 
the  mass,  generally  without  resolution  or 
fixed  purpose,  which  pushes  on  the  leaders, 
who  from  fear  of  personal  consequences  would 
often  be  glad  to  stop  or  go  back  if  the  press- 
ure would  allow  tliem  to  do  so.  The  brains 
are  in  the  head  and  the  physical  force  in  the 
body  of  the  column.  The  thinner  the  latter, 
«.  «.,  the  narrower  its  front,  the  more  easily 
is  it  dealt  with. 

It  is  therefore  a  good  plan  to  keep  bodies 
of  police  (or  troops — ^preferably  cavalry)  mov- 
ing backward  and  forward  along  the  pave- 
ment or  the  sides  of  the  roadway.  These 
bodies  of  troops  should  not  attempt  to  stop 
the  progress  of  the  mob,  but  merely  to  shoul- 
der them  off  «as  "much  as  possible  toward  the 
center  of  the  street  They  at  the  same  time 
protect  the  houses.  The  bodies  of  troops  or 
police  occupying  the  entranee  of  the  croes 
streets  serve,  in  addition  to.the  uses  roentioaed 
above,  to  prevent  tlie  Kinforcing  c^  the  mob 
by  people  ooimng  down  these  streets.  The 
rear  of  the  mob  sbould  be  -followed/ both  in 
order  to  arrest  or  send  away  persons  by  de- 
grees and  to  ppevent  any  aoeession^f  nttnibevs 
from  behind.  A  eord  or  vope  stretcbed 
across  the  street  about^  eighteen  inches  above 
the  ground  will  be  found  useful,  for  if  the 
mob  are  moving  rapidly-  many  parsons  wiM 
,8tumble.QVjer  or  be.piiflhfld.0^[er  It,  and-dMsa 


0UPPRi»SING  A  HOB. 


887 


^wbo  follow  win  fall  over  tkose  who  are  in 
front 

It  often  happens,  especially  in  Ireland,  that 
&  body  of  police  is  besieged  in  a  bouse.  In 
such  a  case  a  good  way  to  assist  direct  de- 
fence is  for  a  portion  of  the  garrison— if  it  be 
poflsible,  and  they  can  be  spared — ^to  slip  out 
nnperceived,  and  makiug  a  circuit  to  charge 
with  a  rush  and  a  shout  the  rear  or  flank — ^the 
latter  in  preference—of  the  assailants.  A 
mob  is  especially  liable  to  pimic,  and  half-a- 
dozen  policemen  uuexpectedly  appearing  will 
suggest  the  arrival  of  a  force  ten  times  as 
large. 

I  now  come  to  the  question  of  tbe  employ- 
ment of  troops.  The  Duke  of  Wellington,  in 
tbe  Chartist  demonstration  in  London  in  1848, 
thought  it  wise  to  keep  his  force  at  hand  but 
out  of  sight.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  great 
captain  was  right,  and  that  the  troops  should 
not  be  shown  till  it  is  intended  that  they 
flliould  act.  It  cannot  be  wise  to  allow  the 
mob  time  to  familiarize  themselves  with  the 
sight  of  the  military  and  to  count  their  num- 
bers. On  the  contrary,  a  great  moral  effect  is 
produced  by  the  sudden  appearance  of  the 
military,  especially  if  it  be  known  that  they 
arc  brouglit  to  the  spot,  not  to  be  stoned  and 
insulted,  but  to  act  with  effect  if  the  mob  do 
not  immediately  give  way.  I  do  not  advocate 
hasty  or  extreme  violence,  but  I  do  emphati- 
cally urge  in  the  interests  alike  of  humanity 
and  order  that  in  the  case  of  a  riot  the  troops 
are  for  use  ahd  not  for  show.  They  should 
never  be  broken  up  into  small  numbers,  and 
when  warning  is  given  that  force  will  be  ufled 
if  tbe  people  do  not  di^wrse  within  a  given 
time -and  that  time  should  be  short — no  fur- 
Uier  delay  should  take  place.  If,  however, 
the  mob  be  not  very  aggieseive  and  desperate, 
a  charge  by  infantry  with  ufiflxed  bayonets 
will  frequently  sifffice;  for  a  thrust  in  the  pit 
of  the  stomadi  with  the  muzsle  of  a  Tifie  is 
by  no  mean  agreeable,  neither  can  it  be  said 
that  a  blow  with  the  butt  of  a  rifle  on  the 
shins  is  a  pleasant  salute. 

If  more  than  this  be  needed  then' the  effeet 
of  fire  should  be  tried.  I  yeoture,  however, 
with  all  respect  for  the  regulations,  to  submit 
that  if  matters  are  so  bad  that-fixingk  needed 


at  all,  it  should  be  such  as  to  produce  a  terri- 
fying impression  on  the  mob;  if  it  fall  short 
of  that  it  is  apt  to  irritate  instead  of  cowing. 
Consequently  I  would  suggest  that  not  fewer 
than  twelve  men  should  lire  at  first,  and  that 
if  the  crowd  do  not  then  at  once  flee  a  sec- 
ond volley  by  an  equal  body  of  men  should 
promptly  follow.  The  object  being  to  disable 
and  frighten  rather  than  to  slay,  the  troops 
should  fire  from  a  kneeling  position  anc}  aim 
at  the  shin.  Moreover,  by  this  means  the 
danger  of  the  bullets  ranging  far  and  striking 
either  the  most  innocent  members  of  the  mob, 
i.  e.,  those  in  rear,  or  peaceful  persons  a  mile 
off,  will  be  avoided.  Buck  shot  are,  however, 
preferable  to  bullets.  If  it  can  be  managed  there 
should  be  a  fire  on  the  flank  as  well  as  on  the 
front  of  the  crowd.  As  soon  as  the  mob  be- 
gin to  turn,  they  should  be  followed  up  rap- 
idly, but  steadily,  with  fixed  bayonets,  so  as 
to  give  no  -.opportunity  of  ralljing,  and  to 
keep  up  the  terror.  In  some  cases,  especially 
in  open  ground,  a  charge  of  cavalry  is  more 
humane,  than,  and  equally  as  effective  as,  the 
action  of  infantry.  The  charge  should  be 
made  in  line,  with  supports  on  each  flank,  at 
a  fast  trot,  or  at  most  a  canter.  The  troop^s 
should  rely  as  much  as  possible  on  the  action 
of  their  horses,  and  the  edge  not  the  point  of 
the  sword  should  be  used.  The  former  is 
more  tmriljriag  And  hifiicts  uflier-looking 
wounds,  and  yet  is  less  likely  to  prove  fatal 
than  the  latter.  If  possible,  the  troopers 
should  aim  at  the  ajms  and  legs  of  the  mob, 
though,  if  the  latter  resist  viciously,  a  few 
cuts  across  the  faoe  are  desirable. 

Artillery  should  .only  be  used  as  a  last  re- 
souBoe,  and  then  case-shot  should  be  em- 
ployed; but  when  it  comes  to  cannon  the  rioC 
has  developed  into  an  attempt  at  revolution, 
and  the  only  object  of  the  military  conunand- 
ers  should  he  at.any  cost  to  stamp  out  resist- 
ance. In  such  «  case  as  that  it  may  be 
assumed  that  the  houses  adjoining  the  troops 
will  be  occupied  by  the  insurrectionists,  and 
then  the  tacUcsshould  be<«uch  as  those  em- 
ployed when  a  garrison  which  has  been  drirai 
rfrom  the  nimp»rts  continues  its  resistance  in 
the  streets.  '  For  example,  detachments  ae- 
Tttmnanied  'hv-BSLDOWB  should  bpgak  into  A 


Qflfi 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


building  and  force  their  way  from  house  to 
house  till  tliey  get  in  rear  of  the  enemy,  shell 
and  band-grenades  being  thrown  down  the 
chimneys  or  through  any  other  openings  in 
order  to  dislodge  the  occupants  of  a  house. 
If  this  house-to-house  fluting  requires  too 
much  time,  or  for  any  other  reason  is  unad- 
visuble,  an  artillery  or  rifle  fire  should  be  de- 
livered down  the  center  of  the  street,  while 
on  e^oh  side,  close  to  the  walls,  should  march 
a  body  of  soldiers  in  single  file,  firing  at  any 
who  may  show  themselves  at  the  windows  on 
the  appoitite  side. 

My  object,  however,  is  not  so  much  to 
wri  e  on  the  best  means  of  dealing  with  revo- 
lution, but  to  show  how,  in  my  opinion,  a  riot 
can  be  prevented  from  becoming  one.  As  I 
have  said  above,  this  object  may  be  accom- 
plished without  much  bodily  injury  to  any 
one  concerned,  by  the  adoption  of  a  simple 
system  of  tactics,  if  the  disturbance  is  in  its 
earlier  stages  dealt  with  firmly.  In  the  case 
of  the  police,  I  have  gone  into  those  tactics 
minutely.  In  the  case  of  the  military  I  have 
treated  the  subject  more  generally.  Whether, 
however,  police  or  military  be  employed,  the 
main  principles  are  the  same.  In  conclusion, 
I  would  again  impress  upon  my  readers  that, 
if  the  actors  in  a  disorderly  drama  are  thought 
to  be  not  merely  mischievous  but  really  vic- 
ious, then  calculated,  methodical,  and  con- 
trolled severity  will  prove  in  the  long  run  the 
truest  humanity. — Lieut. -Col.  W.  W.  Kkol- 
LTS,  in  T/ie  Fortnightly  Beview. 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 

^OMTRiEUTTONB  TO  MAOAztKKft.— Apropos  of  •  paper 
by  Mr.  George  William  Cartis,  in  Harper'^t  MagaHne^ 
the  London  Saturday  Beview  says  :— 

'The  editor  of  Harper^s  has  pat  the  case  Into  Mr. 
Cnrtis's  bands,  and  bis  reply  may  be  commended  to 
disappointed  aatbors.  Looking  over  the  usnal  con- 
tnbators— the  editor  finds  that  most  of  them  first  made 
their  mark  in  the  New  York  magazines;  and,  as  they 
were  nnknown  when  they  b^an  there,  it  follows  that 
unknown  people  do  have  a  chance.  Bat  the  New  York 
magazines  are  not  the  best  places,  it  is  admitted,  for 
writers  of  pare  literatnre  to  make  their  first  appear- 
ance in.  These  periodicals  are  fall  of  *Bpecialists' ' 
articles,  essays  on  topics  as  remote  from  literatare  as 
boot:blacking,  or  shlpboilding,  or  sewing-machine- 
making,  by  writers  who  are  practical,  nnt  literary, 
men.  The  pnbHc  likes  this  sort  of  tUog.  For  example, 


the  VetUury  gives  a  Ta«t  proportion  of  its  space  to  ae> 
coants  of  battles  in  the  Civil  War,  and  pictures  of  deMl 
bodies.  All  this  space,  and  all  that  is  occupied  by  de- 
scriptions of  button-hook  factories  and  patent  tor- 
pedoes, is  closed  against  the  literary  adventurer, 
cannot  get  in  there,  the  public  does  not  want 
there ;  for  his  work,  even  if  it  were  good  (whidi  it 
generally  is  not),  there  is  no  demand. 

*^ThG  editor  now,  having  *barred^  a  large  rsgion  of 
his  space,  takes  a  look  at  the  volunteer  USS. 
Boston  and  Tarrytown,  and  the  round  world  al 
No  two  men  could  read  the  produce  of  a  single 
in  twenty-four  hours,  so  devouring  is  the  literary- 
activity  of  our  race.  *The  editor  gives  them  Just  a« 
much  attention  as  is  necessary  In  order  that  he  max 
determine  with  respect  to  each  contribution  whether 
it  lies  within  the  scope  of  his  magazine,  whether  It 
meets  the  essential  requirements  as  to  style  and  treat- 
ment, and,  finally,  whether  he  can  make  room  for  it 
without  displacing  some  more  desirable  article.*  The 
subject  alone  ruins  the  chance  of  half  the  volunteer 
contribution.  The  magazine  does  not  crave  for  an 
essay  on  The  Birthplace  of  Mungo  Park/  or  *My  Sz- 
periences  as  Collector  at  Boggleywollah,*  or  *The  Phi- 
losophy of  the  Self-contained,*  or  ^Infanticide  in  Up- 
per Burmah,*  or  *The  Poetry  of  Pantheism,*  or  *Th» 
Hieroglyphic  Inscriptions  of  Palenque.*  All  th^e  are 
capital  topics — to  write  on;  but  the  public  does  not 
want  them,,  and  the  editor  does  not  want  them,  to 
where  is  the  nse  of  wasting  time  over  them  f  Then 
remains  a  hnge  bundle  of  MS8.  which  the  subject  doee 
not  essentially  bar.  *Geoige  Wa8hington*8  Finfc 
Breeches,*  The  Young  School  Harm,*  'The  Battle  of 
Cow*s  Lick,*  The  Asiatics:  a  Novel*— all  these  may  be 
regarded  as  feasible  titles,  if  the  style  and  treatment 
are  good  enough.  But  *a  partial  reading*  shows  tliat 
they  are  not  good  enough,  and  KSeoige  Washington* 
and  the  *Youug  School  Harm*  and  the  rest  go  forth 
upon  the  backward  way.  There  remain  only  a  few 
MSS.,  and  the  editor  finds,  to  his  real  regret,  that  he 
most  forego  the  pleasure*  of  accepting  them.  Perhapst 
on  the  whole,  If  even  good  contributions  cannot  be  ac- 
cepted, it  would  be  better  to  decline  to  be  the  bailee 
(involuntary)  of  volunteer  authors.  The  editor  ends 
by  agreeing  with  a  Bostonian  malcontent  that  the  oat. 
sider  has  but  a  slender  chance.  But  he  does  not  see 
how  the  outsider  is  to  better  his  position,  except  by 
.writing  belter  than  the  usual  contributors.  The  con- 
tributor will  probably  answer,  in  his  heart,  that  edi- 
tors have  a  professional  bias,  which  prevent*  them 
from  seeing  that  he  does  write  better. 

*There  the  matter  stands  as  far  as  America  Is  con- 
cerned. The  literary  'output*  there  seems  to  be  quite 
enormous.  In  England,  at  least,  most  editors  search 
the  day*s  post  earnestly,  ever  hoping  to  find  some  new 
contributor,  over  whom,  if  he  is  only  good  enough, 
there  Is  more  Joy  than  over  a  wilderness  of  old  con- 
tributors.  But  the  new  man  seldom  comes;  and,  when 
he  has  sent  in  a  good  piece  of  work,  it  is  averred  that 
he  almost  never  follows  it  by  another.  Be  aeems  to 
blossom  just  once ;  and  his  efforts  are,  too  frequently, 
quite  abortive.  This  is  an  old  phenomenon,  of  which 
we  can  devise  no  satisfactory  explanation.  The  maa 
has  got  his  chance,  an  excellent  chance,  and  he  nine 
timea  oat  of  ten  mokes  nothing  of  the  opportaaity.** 


SCIEXCE  AND  MOILVLS. 


289 


SCIENCE  AND  MORALS. 

In  spite  of  long  and,  perhaps,  not  unjusti- 
fiable hesitation,  I  begin  to  think  that  there 
must  be  something  in  lelepathy.     For  evi- 
deace,  which  I  may  notdisi-egard,  is  furnished 
by  the  November  number  of  the  Fori/UghUy 
Bevieyo,  that,  among  the  hitherto  undiscovered 
endowments  of  the  human  iH)ecies,  there  may 
be  a  power  even  more  wonderful  than  tlie 
mystic  faculty  by  which  the  esoterically  Budd- 
histic sage  "upon  the  furthest  mountain  in 
Cathay"  reads  the  inmost  thoughts  of  a  dwell- 
er within  the  homely  circuit  of  the  London 
postal  districL    Qreat  indeed  is  the  insight  of 
such  a  seer;  but  how  much  greater  is  his  who 
combines  the  feat  of  reading,  not  merely  the 
thoughts  of  which  the  thinker  is  aware,  but 
those  of  which  he  knows  nothing;  who  sees 
him  unconsciously  drawing  the  conclusions 
which  he  repudiates,  and  supporting  Uie  doc- 
trines which  he  detests.    To  reflect  upon  the 
,  confusion   which   the  working    of   such    a 
power  as  this  «may  introduce  into  one's  ideas 
of  x)ersonality  and  responsibility  is  perilous — 
madness  lies  that  way.    But  truth  is  truth, 
and  I  am  almost  fain  to  believe  in  this  magi- 
cal divisibility  of  the  non-existent  when  the 
only  alternative  \b  the  supposition  that  .the 
writer  of  the  article  on   '*  Materialism  and 
Morality,"  in  spite  of  his  manifest  ability  and 
honesty,  has  pledged  himself,  so  far  as  I  am 
concerned,  to  what,  if  I  may  trust  my  own 
knowledge   of  my  own*  thoughts,  must  be 
called  a  multitude  of  errors  of  the  first  mag- 
nitude. 

I  so  much  admire  lAx,  Lilly's  outspokenness, 
I  am  so  completely  satisfied  of  the  uprightness 
of  his  intentions,  that  it  is  repugnant  to  me  to 
quarrel  with  anything  he  may  say;  and  sym- 
pathize so  warmly  with  his  manly  scorn  of 
the  vileness  of  much  that  passes  under  tlie 
name  of  literature  in  these  times,  that  I  would 
willingly  be  silent  under  this  by  no  means 
unkindly  exposition  o£  his  theory  of  my  own 
tenets,  if  I  thought  that  such  personal  abne- 
gation would  serve  the  interest  of  the  cause 
we  both  have  at  heart.  But  I  cannot  think 
BO.  My  creed  may  be  an  ill-favored  thing, 
but  it  is  mine  own,  as  Touchstone  says  of  his 


lady-love;  and  I  have  so  high  an  opinion  of 
the  solid  virtues  of  the  object  of  my  all'ections 
that  I  cannot  calmly  see  her  personated  by  a 
wench  who  is  much  uglier  and  has  no  virtue 
worth  speaking ^of.  I  hope  I  should  be  ready 
to  s^d  by  a  falling  cause  if  I  had  ever 
adopted  it;  but  suffering  for  a  falling  cause, 
which  one  has  done  one's  best  to  bring  to  the 
ground,  is  a  kind  of  martyrdom  for  ^hich  I 
have*  no  taste.  In  my  opinion,  the  philoso- 
phical theory  which  Mr..  Lilly  attributes  to 
me — but  which  I  have  over  and  over  again 
disclaimed— is  untenable  and  destined  to  ex- 
tinction ;  and  L  not  unreasonably  demur  to 
being  counted  among  its  defenders. 

After  the  manner  of  a  mediaeval  disputant, 
Mr.  Lilly  posts  up  three  theses,  which,  as  he 
conceives,  embody  the  chief  heresies  propagat- 
ed by  the  late  Professor  Clifford,  Mr.  Herbert 
Spencer,  and  myself.  He  says  that  we  agree 
"(1)  in  putting  aside,  as  unverifiable,  every- 
thing which  the  senses  cannot  verify;  (2) 
everything  beyond  the  bounds  of  physical 
science;  (8)  everything  which  cannot  be 
brought  into  a  laboratory  and  dealt  with 
chemically." 

My  lamented  young  friend  Clifford  is  out 
of  reach  of  our  little  controversies,  but  his 
works  speak  for  him,  and  those  who  run  may 
read  a  refutation  of  Mr.  Lilly's  assertions  in 
them.  Mr.  Herbert  Spencer  hitherto,  has 
shown  no  lack  either  of  ability  or  of  inclina- 
tion to  speak  for  himself;  and  it  would  be  a 
superfluity,  not  to  asy  an  impertinence,  on 
my  part  to  take  up  the  cudgels  for  him.  But, 
for  myself,  if  my  knowledge  of  my  own  con- 
sciousness may  be  assumed  to  be  adequate 
(and  I  make  not  the  least  pretension  to  ac- 
quaintance with  what  goes  on  in  my  Unbe- 
vnisttsein),  I  may  be  permitted  to  observe  that 
the  first  proposition  appears  to  me  to  be  not 
true;  that  the  second  is  in  the  same  cas^;  and 
that,  if  tliere  be  gradations  in  untrueness,  the 
third  is  so  monstrously  untrue  that  it  hovers 
on  the  verge  of  absurdity,  even  if  it  does  not 
actually  flounder  in  that  logical  Umbo.  Thus, 
to  all  three  theses,  I  reply  in  appropriate 
fashion,  Ne^o — I  aay  No;  and  I  proceed  to 
state  the  grounds  of  that  negation. 

Let  me  b^gin  with  the  first  assertion,  that  I 


290 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


**1)  ii  iiside,  as  unverifiable,  everything  which 
the  senses  cannot  verify."  Can  such  a  state- 
ment as  this  be  seriously  made  in  respect  of 
any  human  *being?  But  I  am  not  appointed 
apologist  for  mankind  in  general;  and  confin- 
ing my  observations  to  myself,  I  beg  leave  to 
point  out  that,  at  this  present  moment,  I  en- 
tertain an  unshakable  conviction  that  Mr. 
Lilly  is  the  victim  of  a  patent  and  enormous 
misunderstanding,  and  that  I  have  not  the 
slightest  intention  of  putting  that  conviction 
aside  because  I  cannot  •* verify"  it  either  by 
touch,  or  taste,  or  smell,  or  hearing,  or  sight, 
which  (in  the  absence  of  any  trace  of  tele- 
pathic facility)  make  up  the  totality  of  my 
senses. 

If  there^is  anything  in  the  world  which  I 
do  firmly  believe  in,  it  is  the  universal  valid- 
ity of  the  l^w  of  causation;  but  that  univer- 
sality cannot  be  proved  by  any  amount  of 
experience,  let  alone  that  which  comes  to  us 
thtough  the  senses.  And,  when  an  effort  of 
volition  changes  the  current  of  my  thoughts, 
or  when  an  idea  calls  up  another  associated 
idea,  I  have  not  the  slightest  doubt  that  the 
process  to  which  the  first  of  the  phenomena, 
in  each  case,  Is  due  stands  in  the  relation  of 
cause  to  the  second.  Yet  the  attempt  to  veri- 
fy this  belief  by  sensation  would  be  sheer 
lunacy.  Now  I  am  quite  sure  that  Mr.  Lilly 
does  not  doubt  my  sanity;  and  the  only  al- 
ternative seems  to  be  the  admission  that  his 
first  proposition  is  eiToneous. 

The  second  thesis  charges  me  with  putting 
aside  "as  unveritiable"  "everything  beyond 
the  l)ounds  of  physical  science."  Again,  t 
say  No.  N()body,  I  imagine,  will  credit  me 
with  a  desire  to  limit  the  empire  of  physical 
science,  but  I  really  feel  bound  to  confess 
that  a  great  many  very  familiar  and,  at  the 
same  time,  extremely  important  phenomena 
lie  quite  beyond  its  legitimate  limits.  I  can- 
not conceive,  for  example,  how  the  phenom- 
ena of  consciousness,  as  such  and  apart  from 
the  |)hy8ical  process  by  which  they  are  called 
into  existence,  arc  to  be  brought  within  the 
bounds  of  physical  science.  Take  the  sim- 
plest possible  example,  the  feeling  of  redness. 
Plivsical  science  tells  lis  that  it  commonly 
arises  as  a  consequence  of  molecular  changes 


propagated  from  the  eye  to  a  certain  part  oi 
the  substance  of  the  brain,  when  vibiatiuii!» « f 
the  luminiferous  ether  of  a  certain  chumcier 
fall  upon  the  retina.    Let  us  suppose  the  pro- 
cess of  physical  analysis  pushed  so  far  that 
one  could  view  the  last  link  of  this  chain  of 
molecules,  watch  their  movements  as  if  thev 
were  billiard  balls,  weigh  them,  measure  them, 
and  know  all  that  is  physically  knowable 
about  them.    Well,  even  in  that  case,  we 
should  be  just  as  far  from  being  able  to  in- 
clude the  resulting  phenomenqn  of  conscious- 
ness, the  feeling  of  redness,  within  the  bounds 
of  physical  science,  as  we  are  at  present.    It 
would  remain  as  unlike  the  phenomena  we 
know  under  the  names  of  matter  and  motion  as 
it  is  now.    If  there  is  any  plain  truth  upon 
which  I  have  made  it  my  business  to  insist 
over  and  over  again  it  is  this — and  whether 
it  is  a  truth  or  not,  my  insistence  upon  it 
leaves  not  a  shadow  of  justification  for  Mr. 
Lilly's  assertion. 

But  I  ask  in  this  case  also,  how  is  it  con- 
ceivable that  any  man,  in  possession  of  all  his 
natural  faculties,  should  hold  such  an  opinion? 
I  do  not  suppose  that  I  am  exceptionally  en- 
dowed because  I  have  all  my  life  enjoyed  a 
keen  perception  of  the  beauty  offered  us  by 
nature  and  by  art.  Now  physical  science 
may  and  probably  will,  some  day,  enable  our 
posterity  to  set  forth  the  exact  physical  con- 
comitants and  conditions  of  the  strange  rap- 
ture of  beauty.  But,  if  ever  that  day  arrives, 
the  rapture  will  remain,  just  as  it  is  now, 
outside  and  beyond  the  physical  world;  and, 
even  in  the  mental  world,  something  super- 
added to  mere  sensation.  I  do  not  wish  to 
crow  unduly  over  my  humble  cousin  the 
orang,  but  in  the  aesthetic  province,  as  in  that 
of  the  intellect,  I  am  afraid  he  is  nowhere.  I 
doubt  not  he  would  detect  a  fruit  amid  a  wil- 
derness of  leaves  where  I  could  see  nothing; 
but  I  am  tolerably  confident  that  he  has  never 
been  awestruck,  as  I  have  been,  by  the  dim 
religious  gloom,  as  of  a  temple  devoted  to  !hc 
earth  gods,  of  the  tropical  forest  which  he  in- 
habits. Yet  I  doubt  not  that  our  poor  long- 
armed  and  short- legged  friend,  as  he  sits 
meditatively  munching  his  durian  fruit,  has 
something  behind  that  sad  Socratic  face  of  his, 


SCIENCE  AND  MORALS. 


dn 


which  is  utkCify  ••beyond  the  bounds  of  physi- 
cal science."  Physical  science  may  know  all 
about  his  clntching  the  fruit  and  munching  it 
and  digesting  it,  and  hew  the  physical  titilla- 
tion  of  bis  palate  is  transmitted  to  some  mi- 
croflcopic  cells  of  the  gray  matter  of  his  brain. 
But  the  feelings  of  sweetness  and  of  satisfac- 
tion which,  for  a  moment,  hang  out  their 
si^al  lights  in  his  melancholy  eyes,  are  as 
utterly  outside  the  bounds  of  physics  as  is  the 
**fiiie  frenzy'"  of  a  human  rhapsodist. 

I>oe8  Mr.  Lilly  really  believe  that,  putting 
me  aside,  there  is  any  man  with  the  feeling 
of  music  in  him  who  disbelieves  in  the  reality 
of  the  deligiit  wiiich  he  derives  from  it,  be- 
cause that  delight  lies  outside  the  bounds  of 
physical  science,  not  less  than  outaide  the 
region  of  the  mere  sense  of  hearing?  But,  it 
may  be,  that  he  includes  music,  painting,  and 
sculpture  under  the  head  of  physical  science, 
and  in  that  case  I  can  only  regret  I  am  un- 
able to  follow  him  in  his  ennoblement  of  my 
favorite  pursuits. 

The  third  thesis  runs  that  I  put  aside  as 
*'un  verifiable"  * 'everything  which  cannot  be 
brought  into  a  laboratory  and  dealt  with 
chemically  ;"  and,  once  more,  I  say  No. 
This  wondrous  allegation  is  no  novelty.  But 
I  marvel  to  find  that  a  writer  of  Mr.  Lilly's 
intelligence  and  good  faith  is  willing  to  father 
such  a  wastrel.  If  I  am  to  deal  with  the 
thing  seriously,  I  find  myself  met  by  one  of 
the  two  horns  of  a  dilemma.  Either  some 
meaning,  as  unknown  to  usage  as  to  the  dic- 
tionaries, attaches  to  ''laboratory"  and  "chem- 
ical," or  the  proposition  is  (what  am  I  to  say 
in  my  sore  need  for  a  gentle  and  yet  appro- 
priate word?)— well — unhistorical. 

Does  Mr.  Lilly  suppose  that  I  put  aside  as 
"un verifiable"  all  the  truths  of  mathematics, 
of  philology,  of  history?  And,  if  I  do  not, 
will  he  have  the  great  goodness  to  say  how  the 
binomial  theorem  is  to  be  dealt  with  "chemi- 
cally," even  in  the  best  appointed  "labora- 
tory ;"  or  where  the  balances  and  crucibles 
are  kept  by  which  the  various  theories  of  the 
nature  of  the  Basque  language  may  be  tested; 
or  what  reagents  will  extract  the  truth  from 
aoy  given  History  of  Rome,  and  leave  the 
errors  behind  as  a  residual  calx? 


The  whole  thing  perplexes  me  much;  and  I 
am  sure  there  must  be  an  explanation  which 
will  leave  Mr.  Lilly's  reputation  for  common 
sense  and  fair  dealing  untouched.  Can  it  ba 
— I  put  this  forward  quite  tentatively — that 
Mr.  Lilly  is  the  victim  of  a  confusion,  conmiou 
enough  among  thoughtless  people,  and  into 
which  he  has  fallen  unawares?  Obviously,  it  is 
one  thing  to  say  that  the  logical  methods  of 
physical  science  are  of  universal  applicability, 
and  quite  another  to  affirm  that  all  subjects  of 
thought  lie  in  the  province  of  physical  sci- 
ence. I  have  often  declared  my  conviction 
that  there  is  only  one  method  by  which  intel- 
lectual truth  can  be  reached,  whether  the 
subject-matter  of  investigation  belongs  to  the 
world  of  physics  or  to  the  world  of  conscious^ 
ness;  and  one  of  the  arguments  in  favor  of 
the  use  of  physical  science  as  an  instrument 
of  education  which  I  have  oftenest  used  is 
that,  in  my  opinion,  it  exercises  young  minds 
in  the  appreciation  of  inductive  evidence  bet- 
ter than  any  other  study.  But  while  I  repeat 
my  conviction  that  the  physical  sciences  prob 
ably  furnish  the  best  and  most  easily  appreci- 
able illustrations  of  the  one  and  indivisible 
mode  of  ascertaining  truth  by  the  use  of 
reason,  I  beg  leave  to  add  that  I  have  never 
thought  of  suggesting  that  other  branches  of 
knowledge  may  not  afford  the  same  discipline; 
and  assuredly  I  have  never  given  the  slightest 
ground  for  Uie  attribution  to  me  of  the  ridic- 
ulous contention  that  there  is  nothing  true  out- 
side the  bounds  of  physical  science. 

So  much  for  the  three  theses  which  Mr. 
Lilly  has  nailed  on  to  a  page  of  The  Fort- 
nighUy  Beview.  I  think  I  have  shown  that 
the  first  is  inaccurate,  that  the  second  is  inac- 
curate,  and  that  the  third  is  inaccurate;  and 
that  these  three  inaccurates  constitute  one  pro- 
digious, though  I  doubt  not  unintentional  mis- 
representation. If  Mr.  Lilly  and  I  were  dia- 
lectic gladiators,  fighting  under  the  eye  of  an 
editorial  lanista,  for  the  delectation  of  the 
public,  my  best  tactics  would  now  be  to  leave 
the  field  of  battle.  For  the  question  whether 
I  do,  or  do  not,  hold  certain  opinions  is  a 
matter  of  fact,  with  regard  to  which  my  evi- 
dence is  likely  to  be  regarded  as  conclusive^ 
at  least  until  such  time  as  the  telepathy  of  the 


s»» 


THE  LIBRARY  >IAGAZINE. 


iinconscious  Is  more  generally  recognized. 
lLow<jver,  some  other  as8ertiuus  are  made  by 
Mr.  Lilly,  which  more  or  less  involve  matters 
of  opinion  whereof  the  rights  and  wrongs  are 
less  easily  settled,  but  in  respect  of  which  he 
seems  to  me  to  err  quite  as  seriously  as  about 
the  topics  we  have  been  hitherto  discussing. 
And  the  importance  of  these  subjects  leads 
me  to  venture  upon  saying  something  about 
them,  even  though  I  am  thereby  compelled  to 
leave  the  safe  ground  of  personal  knowledge. 

Mr.  Lilly  says  that  with  whatever  **rhetori- 
cal  ornaments  I  may  gild  my  teaching/'  it  is 
''Mftterialism/'  Let  me  observe,  in  passing, 
that  rhetorical  ornament  is  not  in  my  way, 
and  that  gilding  refined  gold  would,  to  my 
mind,  be  less  objectionable  than  varnishing 
the  fair  face  of  truth  with  that  pestilent  cos- 
metic, rhetoric.  If  I  believed  that  I  had  any 
claim  to  the  title  of  "Materialist,"  as  that 
term  is  understood  in  the  language  of  philoso- 
phy and  not  in  that  of  abuse,  I  should  not 
attempt  to  hide  it  by  any  sort  of  gilding.  I 
have  not  found  reason  to  care  much  for  hard 
names  in  the  course  of  the  last  thirty  years, 
and  I  am  too  old  to  develop  a  new  sensitive- 
ness. But,  to  repeat  what  I  have  more  than 
once  taken  pains  to  say  in  the  most  unadorned 
of  plain  language,  I  repudiate,  as  philosophi- 
cal error,  the  doctrine  of  Materialism  as  I  un- 
derstand it,  just  as  I  repudiate  the  doctrine  of 
Spiritualism  as  Mr.  Lilly  presents  it,  and  my 
reason  for  thus  doing  is,  in  both  cases,  the 
same;  namely,  that, whatever  their  differences, 
Materialists  and  Spiritualists  agree  in  making 
very  positive  assertions  about  matters  of 
which  I  am  certain  I  know  nothing,  and 
about  which  I  believe  they  are,  in  trutli,  just 
as  ignorant.  And  further,  that,  even  when 
their  assertions  are  confined  to  topics  which 
Me  within  the  range  of  my  faculties,  they 
often  appear  to  me  to  be  in  the  wrong.  And 
there  is  yet  another  reason  for  objecting  to  be 
identified  with  either  of  these  sects;  and  that 
is  that  each  is  extremely  fond  of  attributing 
to  tlie  other,  by  way  of  reproach,  conclusions 
which  are  the  property  of  neither,  though 
they  infallibly  flow  from  the  logical  devehjp- 
ment  of  the  first  principles  of  both. 

I  understand  the  main  tenet  of  Materialism 


to  be  that  there  is  nothing  in  the  universe  hut 
matter  and  force,  and  that  all  the  phenomena 
of  nature  are  explicable  by  deduction  frtini 
the  properties  assignable  to  these   primitixe 
factors.     That  great  champion  of  Material  Lsin 
whom  Mr.  Lilly  appears  to  consider  to  be  an 
authority  in  physical  science,  Dr.  BUchuer, 
embodies  this  article  of  faith  on  his  tiile-page. 
Kraft  und  Staff— -Force  and  Matter — are  parad- 
ed as  the  Alpha  and  Omega  of  exislence.   This 
I  apprehend  is  the  fundamental  article  of  the 
faith  materialisUc;  and  whosoever   does  not 
hold  it  is  condemned  by  the  more  zealous  of 
the  persuasion  to  the  Inferno  appointed  for 
fools  or  hypocrites.    But  all  this  I  heartily 
disbelieve;  and  at  the  risk  of  being  charged 
with  wearisome  repetition  of  an  old  story  I 
will  briefly  give  my  reasons  for  persisting  in 
my  infidelity.    In  the  first  place,  as  I  have 
already  hinted,  it  seems  to  me  pretty  plain 
that  there  is  a  third  thing  in  the  universe,  to 
wit.  Consciousness,  which,  in  the  hardness  of 
my  heart  or  head,  I  cannot  see  to  be  matter  or 
force,  or    any  conceivable    modification   of 
either,  however  intimately  the  m  anifestation 
of  the  phenomena  of  consciousness  may  be 
connected  with    the    phenomena  known  as 
matter  and  force.    In  the  second  place  the 
arguments  used  by  Descartes  and  Berkeley  to 
show  that  our  certain  knowledge  does  not 
extend  beyond  our  states  of  consciousness, 
appear  to  me  to  be  as  irrefragable  now  as 
they  did  when  I  first  became  acquainted  with 
them  some  half -century  ago.    All  the  mate- 
rialistic writers  I  know  of  who  have  tried  to 
bite  that  file  have  simply  broken  their  teeth. 
But,  if  this  is  true,  our  one  certainty  is  the 
existence  of  the  mental  world,  and  that  of 
Kr(rfi  und  Stoff  falls  into  the  rank  of,  at  best, 
a  highly  probable  hypothesis. 

Thirdly,  when  I  was  a  mere  boy,  with  a 
perverse  tendency  to  think  when  I  ought  to 
have  been  playing,  my  mind  was  greatly  ex- 
ercised by  this  formidable  problem.  What 
would  become  of  things  if  they  lost  their 
qualities?  As  the  qualities  had  no  objective 
existence  and  the  thing  without  qualities  was 
nothing,  the  solid  world  seemed  whittled  away 
—to  my  great  horror.  As  I  grew  older,  and 
learned  to  use  the  tenns  Matter  and  Force,  the 


SCIENCE  AND  MORALS. 


boyish  problem  waA  revived,  mutato  nomine. 
On.  the  one  hand,  the  notion  of  matter  without 
fopce  seemed  to  resolve  the  worl4  into  a  set  of 
geometrical  ghosts,  too  dead  evien  to  jabber. 
On  the  other  hand,  Boscovich's  hypothesis, 
\>y  which  matter  was  resolved  into  centers  of 
force,  was  very  attractive.  But  when  one  tried 
to  think  it  out,  what  in  the  world  became 
of  force  considered  as  an  objective  entity? 
Force,  even  the  most  materialistic  of  philoso- 
pliers  will  agree  with  the  most  idealistic,  is 
nothing  but  a  name  for  the  cause  of  motion. 
Ajad  if,  with  Boscovich,  I  resolved  things  into 
centers  of  force,  theti  matter  vanished  alto- 
gether and  left  immaterial  entities  in  its 
place.  One  might  as  well  frankly  accept  Ideal- 
ism and  have  done  with  it. 

I  must  make  a  confession,  even  if  it  be 
humiliating.    I  have  never  been  able  to  form 
the    slightest  conception  of  those  "forces" 
^wfaich  the  Materiulists  talk  about,  as  if  they 
had  samples  of  them  many  years  in  bottle. 
They  tell  me  that  nuttter  consists  of  atoms, 
'Which  are  separated  by  mere  space  devoid  of 
contents;  and  that,  through  this  void,  radiate 
the  attractive  and  repulsive  forces  whereby 
the  atoms  affect  one  another.    If  anybody 
can  clearly  conceive  the  nature  of  these  things 
which  not  only  exist  in  nothingness,  but  pull 
and  push  there  with  great  vigor,  I  envy  him 
for  the  possession   of  an  intellect  of  larger 
grasp,  not  only  than  mine,  but  than  that  of 
Leibnitz  or  of  Newton.    To  me  the  ekimara, 
bombinans   in  doguo   quia  eomedii   securi^Uzs 
inientiones  of  the  schoolmen,   is  a  familiar 
and  domestic  creature  compared  with  such 
'"forces."     Besides,  by  the  hypothesis,   the 
forces  are  not  matter;  and  thus  all  that  is  of 
any  particular  consequence  in  the  world  turns 
out  to  be  not  matter  on  the  Materialist's  own 
showing.    Let  it  no   be  supposed  that  I  am 
casting  a  doubt  upoi  the  propriety  of  tlie  em- 
ployment of  the  term?  "atom"  and  "force."  as 
they  slmd  among  tbe  working  hypotheses  of 
physical  science.    Ai  formnlae  which  can  be 
applied,  with  perfect  precision  and  great  con- 
venience, in  tlie  intei  pretation  of  nature,  their 
value  is  incalculable  ;    but,   as  real  entities, 
having  an  objective  existence,  an  indivisible 
particle  which  nevertheless  occupies  space,  is 


surely  inconceivable;  and  with  respect  to  the 
operation  of  that  atom,  where  it  is  not,  by 
the  aid  of  a  '*force"  resident  in  nothingness, 
I  am  as  little  able  to  imagine  it  as  I  fancy 
any  one  else  is. 

Unless  and  until  anybody  will  resolve  all 
these  doubts  and  difficulties  for  me,  I  think  I 
have  a  right  to  hold  aloof  from  Materialism. 
As  to  Spiritualism,  it  lands  me  in  greater 
difficulties  when  I  want  to  get  change  for  its 
notes  of -hand  in  the  solid  coin  of  reality. 
For  the  assumed  substantial  entity,  Spirit, 
which  is  supposed  to  underlie  the  phenomena 
of  consciousness,  as  matter  underlies  those  of 
physical  nature,  leaves  not  even  a  geometrical 
ghost  when  these  phenomena  are  abstracted. 
And,  even  if  we  suppose  the  existence  of  such 
an  entity  apart  from  qualities— that  is  to  say, 
a  bare  existence — for  mind,  how  does  anybody 
know  that  it  differs  from  that  other  entity, 
apart  from  qualities,  which  is  the  supposed 
substratum  of  matter?  Spiritualism,  is,  after 
all,  little  better  than  Materialism  turned  upside 
down.  And  if  I  try  to  think  of  the  * 'spirit" 
which  a  man,  by  this  hypothesis,  carri& 
about  under  his  hat,  as  something  devoid  of 
relation  to  space,  and  as  something  indivisible 
even  in  thought,  while  it  is,  at  the  same  time 
supposed  to  be  in  that  place  and  to  be  possessed 
of  half-a-dozen  different  faculties,  I  confess 
I  get  quite  lost. 

As  I  have  said  elsewhere,  if  I  were  forced 
to  choose  between  Materialism  and  Idealism, 
I  should  elect  for  the  latter;  and  I  certainly 
would  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  effete  my- 
thology of  Spiritualism.  But  I  am  not  aware 
that  I  am  under  any  compulsion  to  choose 
either  the  one  or  the  other.  I  have  always 
entertained  a  strong  suspicion  that  the  sage 
who  maintained  tliat  man  is  the  measure  of 
the  universe  was  sadly  in  the  wrong,  and  age 
and  experience  have  not  weakened  that  con- 
viction. In  following  these  lines  of  specula- 
tion I  am  reminded  of  the  quarter  deck  walks 
of  my  youth.  In  taking  that  form  of  exer- 
cise, you  may  perambulate  through  all  points 
of  the  compass  with  perfect  safety,  so  long  as 
you  keep  within  certain  limits  :  forget  those 
limits,  in  your  ardor,  and  mere  smothering 
and  spluttering,  if  not  worte,  awaits  you.    I 


.2M 


THE  libhaby  magazine. 


stick  by  the  deck  and  throw  a  life-buoy  now 
and  then  to  the  struggling  folk  who  have 
gone  overboard;  and  all  I  get  for  my  human- 
ity is  the  abuse  of  all  whenever  they  leave  off 
abusing  one  another. 

Tolerably  early  in  life,  I  discovered  that 
one  of  the  unpardonable  sins,  in  the  eyes  of 
most  people,  is  for  a  man  to  presume  to  go 
about  uolabelled.  The  world  regards  such  a 
person  as  the  police  do  an  unmuzzled  dog, 
not  under  proper  control.  I  could  find  no 
label  that  would  suit  me,  so,  in  my  desire  to 
range  myself  and  be  respectable,  I  invented 
one;  and,  as  the  chief  thing  I  was  sure  of  was 
that  I  did  not  know  a  great  many  things  that 
the  — ists  and  the — ites  about  me  professed 
to  be  familiar  with,  I  called  myself  an  Ag- 
nostic. Surely  no  denomination  could  be 
more  modest  or  more  appropriate;  and  I  can- 
not imagine  why  I  should  be  every  now  and 
then  haled  out  of  my  refuge  and  declared 
tsometimes  to  be  a  Materialist,  sometimes  an 
Atheist,  sometimes  a  Positivist;  and  some- 
times, alas  and  alack,  a  cowardly  or  reaction- 
ary Obscurantist. 

I  trust  that  I  have,  at  last,  made  my  case 
clear,  and  that,  henceforth,  I  shall  be  allowed 
to  rest  in  peace— at  least,  after  a  further  ex- 
planation or  two,  which  Mr.  Lilly  proves  to 
me  may  be  necessary.  It  has  been  seen  that 
my  excellent  critic  has  original  ideas  respect- 
ing the  meaning  of  the  words  "laboratory" 
and  "chemical;"  and,  as  it  appears  to  me, 
his  definition  of  "  Materialist"  is  quite  as 
much  peculiar  to  himself.  For,  unless  I  mis- 
understand him,  and  I  have  taken  pains  not  to 
do  so,  he  puts  me  down  as  a  Materialist  (over 
and  above  the  grounds  which  I  have  shown 
to  have  no  foundation);  firstly,  becuse  T  have 
said  that  consciousness  is  a  function  of  the 
brain;  and.  secondly,  because  I  hold  by  de- 
terminism. With  respect  to  the  first  point, 
I  am  not  aware  that  there  is  any  one  who 
doubts  that,  in  the  proper  physiological  sense 
of  the  word  Function,  consciousness,  in  cer- 
tain forms  at  any  rale,  is  a  cerebral  function. 
In  physiology  we  call  function  that  eiTect, 
or  series  of  effects,  which  results  from  the 
activity  of  an  orcran.  Thus,  it  is  the  function 
pf  muscle  to  giv&  rise  to  motion;  and  the 


muscle  gives  rise  to  motion  when  the  serve 
which  supplies  it  is  stimulated.    If  one  of  the 
nerve-bundles  in  a  man's  arm  is  laid  bare  ai.d 
a  stimulus  is  applied  to  certain  of  the  nervous 
filaments,  the  result  will  be  production  of 
motion  in  that  arm.    If  others  are  stimulated, 
the  result  will  be  production  of  the  state  of 
consciousness  called  pain.    Now,  if  I  trace 
these  last  nerve-filaments,  I  find  them  to  be 
ultimately  connected  with  part  of  the  sub- 
stance of  the  hrsiD,  just  as  the  others  turn  out 
to  be  connected  with*muscular  substance.    If 
the  production  of  motion,  in  the  one  case,  is 
properly  said  to  be  the  function  of  the  mus- 
cular substance,  why  is  the  production  of  a 
state  of  consciousness,  in  the  other  case,  not 
to  be  called  a  function  of  the  cerebral  sub- 
stance?   Once  upon  a  time,  it  is  true,  it  was 
supposed  that  a  certain  "animal  spirit"  re- 
sided in  muscle  and  was  the  real  active  agent. 
But  we  have  done  with  that  wholly  super- 
fluous fiction  so  far  as  the  muscular  organs 
are  concerned.    Whv  are  we  to  retain  a  cor- 
resijonding  fiction  for  the  nervous  organs? 

If  it  is  replied  that  no  phjrsiologist,  however 
spiritual  his  leanings,  dreams  of  supposing 
that  simple  sensations  require  a  "spurit"  for 
their  production,  then  I  must  point  out  that 
we  are  all  agreed  that  consciousness  is  a  func- 
tion of  matter,  and  that  particular  tenet  must 
be  given  up  as  a  mark  of  Materialism.  Any 
further  argument  will  turn  upon  the  question, 
not  whether  consciousness  is  a  function  of  the 
brain,  but  whether  all  forms  of  consciousness 
are  so.  Again,  I  hold  it  would  be  quite  correct 
to  say  that  material  changes  are  the  causes  of 
psychical  phenomena  (and,  as  a  consequence, 
that  the  organs  in  which  these  changes  take 
place  have  the  production  of  such  phenomena 
for  their  function),  even  if  the  sf  iritualistic 
hvpothesis  had  any  foundation.  For  nobody 
hesit  ites  to  say  that  an  c  ent  A  is  the  cause 
of  an  event  Z,  oven  if  there  are  as  many  in- 
termediate terniR,  known  and  unknown,  in 
the  chain  of  causation  as  there  are  letters  l)e- 
tween  A  and  %.  The  man  who  pulls  the 
triffcrer  of  a  loaded  pistol  placed  rlo«^c  to  an- 
other's Jiead  rcrtainlv  is  the  cause  ff  that 
other's  death,  thniin;]!  J p  strictness,  he  "<  auses" 
nothing  but  the  mov^m^nt  of  the  finger  upon 


SCIENCE  AND  MORALS. 


295 


tlie  trigger.  And»  in  like  manner,  the  mole- 
cular change  which  is  brought  about  in  a 
certain  portion  of  the  cerebral  substance  hy 
tlie  stimulation  of  a  remote  part  of  the  body 
iMTould  be  properly  said  to  be  the  cause  of  the 
consequent  feeling,  whatever  unknown  terms 
'were  interposed  between  the  physical  agent 
and  the  actual  psychical  product.  Therefore, 
unless  Materialism  has  the  monopoly  of  the 
rights  of  language,  I  see  nothing  materialistic 
in  the  phraseology  which  I  have  employed. 

The  only  remaining  Justification  which  Mr. 
Lilly  offers  for  dubbing  me  a  Materialist, 
malff^re  mai,  is  out  of  a  passage  whioh  he  quotes, 
in  which  I  say  that  the  progress  of  science 
means  the  extension  of  the  province  of  what 
'we  call  Matter  and  Force,  and  the  concomitant 
gradual  banishment  from  all  regions  of  hu- 
man thought  of  what  we  call  Spirit  and 
Spontaneity.  I  hold  that  opinion  now,  if 
anything,  more  firmly  than  I  did  when  I 
l^ave  utterance  to  it  a  score  of  years  ago,  for 
it  has  been  justified  by  subsequent  events. 
liut  what  that  opinion  has  to  do  with  Materi- 
alism I  fail  to  discover.  In  my  judgment,  it 
is  consistent  with  the  thoroughgoing  Idealism, 
and  the  grounds  of  that  judgment  are  really 
very  plain  and  simple. 

The  growth  of  science— not  merely  of  physi- 
cal science,  but  of  all  science — means  the  de- 
monstration of  order  and  natural  causation 
among  phenomena  which  had  not  previously 
been  brought  under  those  conceptions.  No- 
body who  is  acquainted  witli  the  progress  of 
scientific  thiDking  in  every  department  of 
human  knowledge,  in  the  course  of  the  last 
two  centuries  will  be  disposed  to  deny  that 
immense  provinces  have  been  added  to  the 
realm  of  science;  or  to  doubt,  that  the  next 
two  centuries  will  be  witnesses  of  a  vastly 
greater  annexation.  More  particularly  in  the 
region  of  the  physiology  of  the  nervous  sys- 
tem, it  is  justifiable  to  con^^lude  from  tlie 
progress  tbut  has  been  made  in  analyzing  the 
relations  between  material  and  physical  phe- 
nomena, that  ^east  further  advances  will  be 
made ;  and  that,  sooner  or  later,  all  the  so- 
called  spontimeous  operatious  of  the  mind 
vr'iW  have,  not  only  their  relations  to  one  an- 
other, but  their  relations  to  physical  phenpm- 


ena,  connected  in  natural  series  of  causes  and 
effects,  strictly  defined.  In  other  words  .while, 
at  present,  we  know  only  the  nearer  moiety , 
of  the  chain  of  catises  and  effects,  by  which 
the  phenomena  we  call  material  give  rise  to 
those  which  we  call  mental ;  hereafter,  we 
shall  get  to  the  further  end  of  the  series. 

In  my  innocence,  I  have  been  in  the  habit 
of  supposing  that  this  is  merely  a  statement 
of  facts,  and  that  the  good  Bishop  Berkeley, 
if  he  were  alive,  would  find  such  facts  fit  into 
his  system  without  the  least  difiiculty.  That 
Mr.  Lilly  should  play  into  the  hands  of  his 
foes,  by  declaring  that  unmistakable  facts 
make  for  them,  is  an  exemplification  of  ways 
that  are  dark,  quite  unintelligible  to  nie. 
Surely  Mr.  Lilly  does  not  hold  that  the  dis- 
belief in  spontaneity — which  term,  if  it  has 
any  meaning  at  all,  means  uncuused  action — 
is  a  mark  of  the  beast  Materialism?  If  so,  he 
must  be  prepared  to  tackle  many  of  the  Car- 
tesians (if  not  Descartes  himself),  Spinoza  and 
Leibnitz  among  the  philosophers,  Augustine, 
Thomas  Aquinas.  Calvin  and  his  folluwci-s, 
among  theologians,  as  Materialists — and  that 
surely  is  a  sufiftcient  reductio  ad  absurd  urn  of 
such  a  classification. 

The  truth  is  that  Mr.  Lilly  forgets  a  very 
important  fact,  which,  however,  must  be  pat- 
ent to  every  one  who  has  paid  attention  to  the 
history  of  human  thought;  and  that  fact  is, 
that  every  one  of  the  speculative  difiiculties 
which  b^t  Kant*s  three  problems,  the  ex- 
istence of  a  Deity,  the  freedom  of  the  will, 
and  immortality,  existed  ages  before  anything 
that  can  be  called  physical  science,  and  would 
continue  to  exist  if  modern  physical  science 
were  swept  away.  All  that  physical  science 
has  done  has  been  to  make,  as  it  were,  visible 
and  tangible  some  difiSculties  that  formerly 
were  more  hard  of  apprehension.  Moreover, 
these  difficulties  exist  just  as  much  on  the 
hypothesis  of  Idealism  as  on  that  of  Material- 
ism. 

The  student  of  nature  who  starts  from  the 
axiom  of  the  universality  of  the  law  of  causa- 
tion cannot  refuse  to  admit  an  eternal  Exist- 
ence; if  he  admits  the  conservation  of  energy, 
he  caunot  deny  the  possibility  of  an  eternal 
Energy;  if  he  admits  the  existence  of  iiiuna- 


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THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZHTE. 


terial  phenomena  in  the  form  of  consciouF- 
ness,  he  must  admit  the  posbibility,  at  any 
rate,  of  an  eternal  ■  eries  of  such  phenomena; 
and,  if  his  studies  have  not  been  barren  of 
the  best  fruit  of  the  investigation  of  nature, 
he  will  have  enough  sense  to  see  that  when 
Spinoza  says,  '*Per  Deum  intelligoena  ahmlute 
infinitum t  Iwc  est  substaniiam  eonstantem  in- 
flnitis  attnfmtis/'  the  God  so  conceived  is  one 
that  Only  a  very  great  fool  would  deny,  even 
in  his  heart.  Physical  science  is  as  little 
Atheistic  as  it  is  Materialistic. 

So  with  respect  to  Immortality.  As  physi- 
cal science  states  this  problem,  it  seems  to 
stand  thus:  Is  there  any  means  of  knowing 
whether  the  series  of  states  of  consciousness, 
which  has  been  casually  associated  foi  three 
score  years  and  ten  with  the  arrangement  and 
movements  of  inmumerable  millions  of  suc- 
cessively different  material  molecules,  can  be 
continued,  in  like  association,  with  some  sub- 
stance which  has  not  the  properties  of  "matter 
and  force?"  As  Kant  said,  on  a  like  occasion, 
if  anybody  can  answer  that  question,  he  is 
Just  the  man  1  want  to  see.  If  he  says  that 
consciousness  cannot  exist  except  in  relation 
of  cause  and  effect  with  certain  organic  mole- 
cules, I  must  ask  how  he  knows  that;  and  if 
he  says  it  can,  I  must  put  the  same  question. 
And  I  am  afraid  that,  like  jesting  Pilate,  I 
shall  not  think  it  worth  while  ^(having  but 
little  time  before  me)  to  w^ait  for  an  an- 
swer. 

Lastly,  with  respect  to  the  old  riddle  of  the 
Freedom  of  the  Will.  In  the  only  sense  in 
which  the  word  freedom  is  intelligible  to  me — 
that  is  to  say,  tlie  absence  of  any  restraint  upon 
doing  what  one  likes  within  certain  limits — 
physical  science  certainly  gives  no  more 
ground  for  doubting  it  than  the  common 
sense  of  mankind  does.  And  if  physical  sci- 
ence, in  strengthening  our  belief  in  tlie  uni- 
versality of  causation  and  abolishing  chance 
as  an  absurdity,  leads  to  the  conclusions  of 
determinism,  it  does  no  more  than  follow  the 
track  of  consistent  and  logical  thinkers  in 
philosophy  and  in  theology  before  it  existed 
or  was  thought  of.  Wnoever  accepts  the 
tmiversality  of  the  law  of  causation  as  a  dog- 
ma of  philosophy,  denies  the  existence  of 


uncaused  phenomena.  And  the  essence  of 
that  which  is  improperly  called  the  free-will 
doctrine  is  that  occasionally,  at  any  rate,  hu- 
man volition  is  self  caused,  that  is  to  say,  not 
caused  at  all ;  for  to  cause  one*s  self  one  roust 
have  anteceded  one's  self — ^which  is,  to  say  the 
least  of  it,  difficult  to  imagine. 

Whoever  accepts  the  existence  of  an  om- 
niscient Deity  as  a  dogma  of  theology  affirms 
that  the  order  of  t'hings  is  fixed  from  eternity 
to  eternity;  for  the  foreknowledge  of  an  oc- 
currence means  that  the  occurrence  will  cer- 
taiuly  happen;  and  the  certainty  of  an  event 
happening^  is  what  is  meant  by  its  being 'fixed 
or  fated. 

Whoever  asserts  the  existence  of  an  om- 
nipotent Deity,  and  that  he  made  and  sustains 
all  things,  and  is  the  causa  eausarum,  cannot, 
without  a  contradiction  in  terms,  assert  that 
there  is  any  cause  independent  of  him;  and  it 
is  a  mere  subterfuge  to  assert  that  the  cause 
of  all  things  can  ''permit*'  one  of  these  things 
to  be  an  independent  cause. 

Whoever  asserts  the  combination  of  omnis- 
cience and  omnipotence  as  attributes  of  the 
Deity,  does  implicitly  assert  predestination. 

For  he  who  knowingly  makes  a  thing  and 
places  it  in  circumstances  the  operation  of 
which  on  that  thing  he  is  perfectly  acquainted 
with,  does  predestine  that  thing  to  whatever 
fate  may  befall  it. 

Thus,  to  come,  at  last,  to  tlie  really  impor- 
tant part  of  all  this  discussion,  if  the  belief  in 
a  God  is  essential  to  morality,  physical  science 
offers  no  obstacle  thereto ;  if  the  belief  in 
immortality  is  essential  to  morality,  physical 
science  has  no  more  to  say  against  the  proba- 
bility of  that  doctrine  than  the  most  ordinary 
experience  has,  and- it  effectually  closes  the 
mouths  of  those  who  pretend  to  refute  it  by 
objections  deduced  from  merely  physical  data. 
Finally,  if  the  belief  in  the  uncaused ness  of 
volition  is  essential  to  morality,  the  student  of 
physical  science  has  no  more  to  say  against 
that  absurdity  than  the  logical  philo<sopher  or 
theologian.  Physical  science,  I  repeat,  did 
not  invent  Determinism,  and  the  deterministic 
doctrine  would  stand  on  just  as  firm  a  founda- 
tion as  it  does  if  there  were  no  physical  science. 
[  Let  any  one  who  doubts  tliis  read  Jonathan 


FRAJN'gOlS  JOSEPH  DUPLEIX. 


297 


Edwards,  whose  demonstrations  are  derived 
wholly  from  philosophy  and  theology. 

Thus,  when  Mr.  Lilly  goes  about  proclaim- 
ing "Woe  to  thiis  wick^ed  city,"  and  denounc- 
es ph3'8ical  science   as  the  evil    genius  of 
modern  days— mother  of    materialism,  and 
fatalism,  and  all  sorts  of  other  condemnable 
isms — I  venture  to  beg  him  to  lay  the  blame 
on  the  right  shoulders;  or,  at  least,  to  put  in 
the  dock,  along  with  Science,  those  sinful  sis- 
ters of  hers.  Philosophy  and  Theology,  who 
being  so  much  older,  should  have  known 
better  than  the  poor  Cinderella  of  the  schools 
and  universities  over  which  they  have  so  long 
dominated.      No   doubt   modem   society   is 
diseased  enough;  but  then  it  does  not  differ 
from  older  civilizations  in  that  respect.    So- 
cieties of  men  are  fermenting  masses,  and  as 
beer  has  what  the  Grermans  call  Oberfwfe  and 
Unkrhffe,  so  every  society  that  has  existed 
has  bad  its  scum  at  the  top  and  its  dregs  at 
the  bottom;  and  I  doubt  if  any  of  the  "ages 
of  faith"  had  less  scum  or  less  dregs,  or  even 
showed  a  proportionally  greater  quantity  of 
sound  wholesome  stuff  in  the  vat.    I  think  it 
would  puzzle  any  one  to  adduce  convincing 
evidence  that^  at  any  period  of  the  world's 
history,  there  was  a  more  widespread  sense 
of  social  duty,  or  a  greater  sense  of  justice,  or 
of  Uie  obligation  of  mutual  help,  than  in  this 
England  of  ours.    Ah!  but,  says  Mr.  Lilly, 
these  are  all  products  of  our  Christian  inheri- 
tance; when  Christian  dogmas  vanish  virtue 
will  disappear  too,  and  the  ancestral  ape  and 
tiger  will  have  full  play.   But  there  are  a  good 
many  peo]ile  who  think  it  obvious  that  Chris- 
tianiiy  also  inherited  a  good  deal  from  Pa- 
ganism and  from  Judaism,  and  that,  if  the 
Stoics  and  the  Jews  revoked  their  bequest, 
the  moral  property  of  Christianity  would  real- 
ize very  litcle.    And  if  Morality  has  survived 
the  stripping  oflf  of  several  sets  of  clothes 
which  have  been  found  to  fit  badly,  wby 
should  it  not  be  able  to  get  on  very  well  in 
the  light  and  handy  garments  which  Science 
is  ready  to  ])rovide? 

But  this  by  the  way.  If  the  diseases  of 
society  consist  in  the  weakness  of  its  faith  in 
the  existence  of  the  God  of  the  theologians, 
to  a  future  ^t^te,  and  in  imcaused  volitions. 


the  indication,  as  the  doctors  say,  is  to  sap- 
press  Theology  and  Philosophy,  whose  bick- 
erings about  things  of  which  they  know 
nothing  have  been  the  prime  cause  and  con- 
tinual sustenance  of  that  evil  scepticism  which 
is  the  Nemesis  of  meddling  with  the  unknowa- 
ble. 

Cinderella  is  modestly  conscious  of  her  Ig- 
norance of  these  high  matters.  She  lights 
the  fire,  sweeps  the  house,  and  provides  the 
dinner;  and  is  rewarded  by  being  told  that 
she'  is  a  base  creature,  devoted  to  low  and 
material  interests.  But,  in  her  garret,  she 
has  fairy  visions  out  of  the  ken  of  the  pair  of 
shrews  who  are  quarreling  downstairs.  She 
sees  the  order  which  pervades  the  seeming 
disorder  of  the  world;  the  great  drama  of 
evolution,  with  its  full  share  of  pity  and  ter- 
ror, but  also  with  abundant  goodness  and 
beauty,  unrolls  itself  before  her  eyes;  and  she 
learns,  in  her  heart  of  hearts,  the  lesson,  that 
the  foundation  of  morality  is  to  have  done, 
once  and  for  all,  with  lying;  to  give  up  pre- 
tending to  believe  that  for  which  there  is  no 
evidence,  and  repeating  unintelligible  prop- 
ositions about  things  beyond  the  possibilities 
of  knowledge.  She  knows  that  the  safety  of 
morality  lies  neither  in  the  adoption  of  this  or 
that  philosophical  speculation,  or  this  or  that 
theological  creed,  but  in  a  real  and  living  be- 
lief in  that  fixed  order  of  nature  which  sendj' 
social  disorganization  upon  the  track  of  im- 
morality, as  surely  as  it  sends  physical  disease 
after  physical  trespasses.  And  of  that  firm 
and  lively  faith  it  is  her  high  mission  to  be 
the  priestess  —T.  H.  Huxley,  in  Th^  Fort- 
nightly  Review. 


FRANgOIS  JOSEPH  DUPLEIX. 

IN  FOUR  PARTS — ^PAKT   HI. 

Circumstances  now  favored  the  move  which 
Dupleix  had  long  contemplated,  the  acquisi- 
tion of  Ginu:ee.  Bussy  spontaneously  submitted 
to  him  a  plan  of  attack,  which  was  approved, 
and  its  exention  intrusted  to  the  projector. 
From  the  plain  shot  up  a  massive  eminence, 
on  which  was  the  pettaJi,  or  town,  its  walls 
following  the  irregularities  of  the  hill.  The 
summit  broke ;  into  0iree  peaks,  eacfi  sur- 


298 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


mounted  by  a  separate  citadel.  The  whole 
was  strongly  garrisoned,  well  supplied  with 
artillery,  and  well  provisioned,  and  was  be- 
lieved by  the  natives  to  be  impregnable.  But 
Bussy  knew  his  business,  and  was  no  carpet 
knight.  The  wreck  of  Mahomed  All's  army 
had  here  found  refuge,  and  thus  sheltered 
might  have  baffled  the  young  commander. 
But,  with  incredible  folly,  these  already  beaten 
troops  were  led  out  to  battle  in  the  plain  below; 
were,  of  course,  again  routed,  and  pursued  up 
the  hill ;  and  the  victors  nearly  succeeded  in 
entering  the  town  along  with  them.  One  of 
the  gates  was  blown  open;  and  after  an  ob- 
stinate contest  in  the  streets,  the  town  was 
won  toward  nightfall.  No  time  was  lost  in 
assailing  tlie  citadels.  Bussy  formed  his  men 
in  three  columns,  himself  leading  the  attack 
uu  the  principal  work;  and,  in  spite  of  the 
acclivity,  df  the  strong  defences,  and  of  a 
murderous  fire,  before  sunrise  the  French  flag 
waved  over  the  three  crests  of  Gi^igee  the  im- 
pregnable. 

D'Autheuil  had  come  up  to  Bussy *s  support 
in  the  crisis  of  the  batttle,  and  Dupleix  urged 
him  to  advance  at  once  on  Arcot,  where  Nazir, 
loitering  away  his  tim^  in  pleasure,  quarrel- 
ing with  his  nobles,  becoming  every  day  more 
unx)opular,  and  amazed  at  the  rapid  opera- 
tions of  the  French,  offered  a  tempting  prey. 
But  the  monsoon  was  raging  in  its  full  fury  ; 
the  country  was  almost  impassable ;  D*Au- 
theuil  was  old,  gouty,  and  unenterprising;  and 
he  halted,  deaf  to  Dupleix 's  reiterated  appeals 
— de  faire  Vimpomble,  ei  dialler  de  Vawbnt. 
Neither  yet  knew  that  Nazir  was  already 
seeking  an  accommodation.  He  betrayed  his 
fears  by  demanding  a  suspension  of  arms, 
and  of  D'Autheuil's  march  on  Arcot.  This 
Dupleix  refused,  and  insisted  hauglitily  on 
his  previous  terms.  But  D'Autheuil's  halt 
lulled  the  envoys  and  their  master  into  fatal 
security,  and  encouraged  them  to  protract 
the  negotiation. 

Meanwhile  the  disaffected  nawabs  of  Canoul, 
Cudapah  and  Savanore  instigated  the  French 
governor  to  order  an  attack  on  the  snbahdar's 
camp,  promising  to  co5perate,  and,  if  neces- 
sary, to  secure  his  person.  All  they  a«<ked  for 
tli^mselves  was  a  French  flag,  the  hoisting  of 


which  would  prevent  a  collision  between  their 
own  troops  and  the  assailants.    Dupleix  read- 
ily complied;  gave  the  flag,  and  confided  bia 
intention  to  D'Autl^euil  and  to  La  Touche, 
who  was  to  command  the  party.    Na?ir  be- 
came more  and  more  uneasy  and  undecided. 
He  meditated  retreating  to  the  Dekkan,  but 
was  deterred  by  the  disaffected  nobles.    At 
last  he  sent  to  accept  Dupleix 's  terms.    But 
in  the  interval  La  Touche  had  been  ordered  to 
advance.    The  French  attacked;  the  traitors 
drew  off  their  forces,  and  ranged  them  apart: 
Nazir,  slowly  convinced  that  he  had  stooped 
in  vain  to  conciliate  an  implacable  adversary, 
strove  as  vainly  to  check  the  progress  of  the 
assailants.    In  the  bitterness  of  his  heart  he 
rode  up  to  and  reviled  the  Nawab  of  Canoul, 
who  replied  by  sending  a  bullet  through  his 
heart.    Mirzapha,  who  had  been  ordered  for 
execution  at  the  beginning  of  the  affray,  was 
liberated  by  the  conspirators,  proclaimed  sub- 
ahdar,  and  paraded  in  state,  preceded  by  the 
ghastly  trophy  of  his  uncle's  head  exalted  on 
a  pole.    Bussy  met  him  fresh  from  the  battle- 
field, and  typified  too  plainly  the  alien  influ- 
ence to  which  he  owed  his  sudden  deliverance 
and  precarious  elevation. 

£lated  by  the  success  of  his  policy,  Dupleix 
prepared  to  take  full  advantage  of  this  abrupt 
revolution.  His  first  care  was  to  make  ar- 
rangements for  enthroning  Mirzapha  at  Pon- 
dicherry,  with  every  circumstance  that  could 
give  luster  to  the  occasion,  and  significance  to 
his  own  weight  in  the  political  scale.  A  vast 
and  gorgeous  tent  was  erected,  within  which 
were  placed  two  chairs  of  state  (or  "thrones" 
as  M.  Hamont  calls  them),  one  for  Mirzapha. 
the  other  for  the  Viceroy  and  Governor-Gen. 
eral.  Mirzapha  first  entered  the  tent  and 
seated  himself,  encircled  by  the  Dekkan  nobles 
in  all  their  finery.  Dupleix  advanced  to  the 
rendezvous  in  an  imposing  procession.  He 
did  homage  to  Mirzapha,  and,  tendering  the 
customary  nuzzur,  was  installed  by  him  on 
the  vacant  chair  of  state.  Then  the  native 
grandees  in  turn  saluted  and  presented  tokens 
of  reverence  to  the  viceroy  of  the  king  of 
France  and  Mogul  Nawab  by  imperial  ap- 
pointment. Dupleix  was  invested  with  the 
kficla\ — a  splendid  robe  of  gtate,  once  tbf^  ejift 


FRANgOIS  JOSEPH  DUPLBIX 


899 


of  the  great  emi>eror  Aurungzib  to  Mirzapha's 
ancestor — together  with  a  turban,  a  sash,  a 
sword,  shield,  and  dagger;  and  he  paraded 
tlu-oughout  the  day  iu  these  emblematical  ap- 
pendages of  oriental  dignity.  His  grateful  ally 
fomially  declared  him  nawab  of  all  India  south 
of  the  Kistna  ;  bestowed  on  him  a  pompous 
name,  indicative  of  valor  and  assured  victory; 
raised  him  to  the  rank  of  a  commander  of  7,000 
horsemen;  and  added  the  more  substantial  do- 
nations of  the  town  and  territory  of  Valdore, 
to  be  held  by  him  and  his  descendants,  and  of 
a  large  annuity  to  himself,  and  another  of 
e(iuul  value  to  his  wife.  The  subahdar  more- 
over decreed  that  the  money  of  Pondicherry 
should  have  exclusive  currency  in  southern 
India:  acknowledged  the  sovereignty  of  the 
French  company  over  Masulipatam  and  Ya- 
noon;  and  enlarged  their  territory'  at  Karikal. 
}le  is  said  also  to  have  formally  announced 
that  all  petitions  to  himself  should  be  thence- 
forth preferred  through  Dupleix. 

Such  a  scene  and  such  treatment  may  well 
have  turned  the  Frenchman's  head,  and  ex- 
posed him  to  the  half  incredulous,  half  admir- 
ing ridicule  of  his  livdy  countrymen,  and  to 
the  serious  envy  and  bitter  taunts  of  his  crest- 
fallen English  rivals.  But,  vain  as  he  may 
have  been,  he  knew  too  well  the  precarious 
character  of  his  exaltation,  the  serious  difficul- 
ties thai  lay  before  him  in  the  way  of  consoli- 
dating his  equivocal  and  hybrid  dominion, 
and  securing  the  solid  acquisitions  which  ac- 
companied the  grant  of  empty  titles,  and  the 
foppish  adornments  in  which  he  masqueraded. 
And  though  he  played  his  part  with  becoming 
gravity  aa  a  native  potentate,  his  next  move 
was  dictated  by  sober  policy.  Professing  his 
deep  gratitude  for  the  ample  favors  conferred 
on  him,  he  liisclaimed  all  wish  to  become  a 
personal  Indian  ruler:  he  had  but  obeyed  the 
onlers  of  the  emperor  in  suppressing  rebellion, 
and  maintaining  the  cause  of  the  rightful  sub- 
ahdar. But  in  this  good  work  Chunda  Sahib 
bad  been  equally  faithful  and  zealous.  Let 
him,  therefore,  retain  the  prize  that  was  his 
due,  and  which  he  had  contemplated  when  he 
cemented  the  alliance  between  Mirzapha  and 
the  French.  Let  him  he  confirmed  in  the 
Nawahship  of  the  Oamatic.  The  proposal  was 


adopted.  Chunda  Sahib's  effective  assistance 
in  defending  the  province  was  secured;  while 
the  ingenious  Frenchman  prudently  retained 
the  title  of  sub-viceroy  of  India  south  of  the 
Kistna,  which  gave  him.  formal  supremacy 
over  Chunda  and  might  on  occasion  be  use- 
fully employed  in  diplomatic  disputes  with  the 
English.  Lastly,  to  confirm  and  perpetuate 
the  impression  produced  by  the  incidents  of 
this  great  day,  he  ordered  a  triumphal  colunm 
to  be  erected  on  the  sit^  ot  Nazir  Jung's  over- 
throw. And  around  it  was  to  arise  a  city 
whose  name  was  to  commemorate  the  same 
event,  and  his  capital  share  in  it. 

In  the  midst  of  his  triumph,  Dupleix  real- 
ized that  he  must  pay  a  perilous  price  for 
the  maintenance  of  his  influence  with  the  sub- 
ahdar. Mirzapha  was  anxious  to  return  to 
the  Dekkan;  and  he  urgently  requested  that  a 
body  of  French  troops  might  escort  him,  and 
continue  in  his  service.  This  request  was 
quite  in  accordance  with  Dupleix *s  general 
policy;  but  in  his  actual  circumstances  it  was 
premature.  The  small  number  of  his  Euro- 
pean soldiers,  and  especially  of  officers,  and 
the  danger  of  diminishing  them  while  Maho- 
med All  was  still  master  of  Trichinopoly,  and 
the  attitude  of  the  English  uncertain,  were 
very  serious  considerations.  And  it  was  too 
likely  that  those  who  had  already  been  ad* 
verse  to  his  intervention  in  native  disputes, 
would  strongly  disapprove  of  tbis  remote  di- 
version of  troops  intended  to  guard  the  French 
possessions  on  the  coast.  Thus  the  difficulties 
that  he  rtiised  do  not  seem  to  have  been  simply 
effected.  But  Mirzapha's  lavish  promises 
were  very  seductive,  and  Mahomed  Ali  deter- 
mined him  by  offering  to  surrender  Trichin- 
opoly, if  he  should  be  allowed  to  retain  his 
tather's  treasures,  and  receive  an  appanage  in 
the  Dekkan.  He  reported  the  transaction  to 
the  directors  with  a  request  for  a  strong  rein- 
forcement, and  the  intimation  that  both  the 
native  rulers  were  to  pay  the  troops  while  in 
their  service. 

Bussy  was  appointed  to  attend  Mirzapha 
with  800  French  soldiers,  including  ten  offi- 
cers, 2,000  sepoys  and  Caffres,  and  a  battery  of 
artillery.  Dupleix  was  much  affected  at  their 
departure.    His  anxiety  was  increased  by  ti|c 


800 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


consciousness  that  Mirzapha  was  already  in  a  I 
critical  position.  The  three  nawabs  who  hadj 
conspired  against  jSazir  were  so  exorbitant  iu 
their  demands  on  the  gmtitude  of  his  successor, 
that  he  was  equally  unable  and  unwilling  to 
satisfy  them.  The  favors  lavished  on  Dupleix 
made  them  still  more  di8.satist1ed;  and  though 
at  the  center  of  French  power  they  had  contined 
themselves  to  complaints,  at  a  distance  these 
might  ripen  into  violent  acts.  This  misgiving 
was  soon  realized;  As  the  army  traversed 
Cudapah,  the  territory  of  one  of  the  malcon- 
tents, they  created  a  commotion,  in  which 
they  were  worsted  and  slain.  But  at  the  close 
of  the  contest  Mirzapha  was  shot  down. 
Thus,  what  Dupleix  had  gained  in  a  moment 
by  the  murder  of  Nazir,  was  as  suddenl}*,  and 
by  the  same  savage  agency,  in; periled  by  the 
slaughter  of  Mirzapha.  Bui  he  now  profited 
by  his  skillful  selection  of  instruments.  Bussy 
and  his  Brahmiu  adviser  procured  the  provis- 
ional exaltation  of  Salabat  Jung,  a  younger 
brother  of  Nazir,  and  who  was  in  the  camp, 
Mirzapha's  infant  son  being  rejected  as  ineli- 
gible at  such  a  crisis.  Dupleix  highly  ap- 
proved of  an  arrangement  which  promised  so 
well  for  the  maiutenause  of  his  intluence  in 
the  upper  country.  The  new  subahdar  was  ac- 
knowledged by  all  parties;  and  his  first  act  was 
to  confirm  and  extend  the  benefactions  granted 
by  his  predecessor  to  the  French  The  army 
resumed  its  march;  and  Bussy  and  his  contin- 
gent prosecuted  an  adventurous  and  glorious 
career,  which  lies  beyond  our  immediate 
scope.  But  we  may  mention  that  it  did  not 
terminate^  nor  French  ascendency  cease  in  the 
Pekkan,  until  Lally  hastilv  recalled  Bussv  to 
the  Oarnatic;  and  Forde,  detached  by  Clive 
from  Bengal,  routed  the  French  at  Peddapore, 
stormed  Masulipatam,  and  conquered  the 
northern  Ci  rears. 

Hitherto  Dupleix 's  policy  seemed  justified 
by  its  results.  He  had  humbled  the  English 
and  exalted  the  French  by  the  capture  »»f  Ma- 
dras, and  the  sucessful  defence  of  Pondi- 
chcrry.  He  had  dispelled  the  awe  of  native 
armaments,  and  with  a  handful  of  men  had 
asserted  the  resistless  superiority  of  European 
skill  and  discipline  over  Asiastic  numliers.  j 
The  Eagliah,  dazzled  by  the  splendor  of  his 


achievements,  disheartened  at  their  own  poor 
performance  in  the  rapid  drama,  mistrustful- 
of  Mahomed  Ali,  and  knowing  the  aversion  of 
the  directors  to  the  perils  and  ex])enscs  of  war. 
seemed  little  inclined  to  dispute  the  progress 
of  their  bold  rival.  Still  Trichinopoly  w.i« 
not  surrendered. 

Mahomed  Ali's  overtures  bad  been  a  mere 
expedient  for  gaining  time.     He  had  now.  by 
lavish  promises,  secured  the  assistance  of  the 
Mysore  regent,  of  a  Mahratta  force,  and  of  the 
English;  and   he  flatly  refused   to  evacuate 
Trichinopoly.     Its  siege  was  first  undertaken 
by  D'Autheuil;  but  an  attack  of  f^oui  in  er- 
rupled  his  construction  of  batteries,  and  dis- 
abled him  so  completely  that  Dupleix  recalled 
him  and  in  an  evil  hour  gave  the  command  to 
Law,  a  nephew  of  the  great  speculator.     By  a 
curious  coincidence,  the  timidity  of  the  nephew 
was  destined  to  prove  as  fatal  to  French  am- 
bition in  Asia,  as  the  uncle's  audacitv  had 
proved  to  her  financial  affairs  in  Europe.    The 
younger  Law  was  by  no  means  destitute  of 
assurance;   he  was  voluble  and  plausible  at 
Pondicherry;  he  had  shown  himself  brave  in 
the  defence  of  the  fort  of  Ariancopan;  hut  he 
was  utterly  unfit  for  a  separate  and  critical 
command.     In  such  a  position  he  was  op- 
pressed with  the  sense  of  responsibility;  aud 
from  first  to  last  his  (lesi>onding  temper  and 
hesitating  conduct  went  far  to  bring  about  the 
ensuing  catastrophe.     His  first  dispatch  must 
have  given  Dupleix  a  painful  shock.     He  de- 
scribed the  place  as  too  strong  to  be  taken  hy 
a  cov]^  ^^  main;  he  dwelt  on  the  difficulties  of 
a  regular  siege,  and  the  loss  of  life  that  must 
attend  the  final  assault,  and  recommended  a 
close  blockade  as  the  easiest  and  safest  plan. 
Dupleix  thought  otherwise;  but  he  was  at  the 
lime  prostrated  by  the  death  of  his  brolhtr, 
his  one  devoted  champion  against  the  lil)els 
of  Labourdonnais,  and  the  growing  disfavor 
with  which  his  polic}"^  was  regarded  in  France. 
Thus,  against  his  better  judgment,  he  yielded 
to  Law's  importunity,  and  consented  to  the 
blockade. 

From  this  moment  Fortune  seemed  to  h.ave 
deserted  her  spoiled  child.  Hitherto  the  gen- 
eralship had  l)een  on  his  side.  Now  tliis  was 
reversed.      Clive  suddenly  appeared  on  the 


FRAXCOrS  JOSEPH  DUPLEIX. 


801 


scene;  created  a  powerful  diversion  by  taking 
and  heroically  defcudiug  Arcot,  Ibe  capital  of 
the  Caruatic;  assumed  the  offensive  in  turn,aud 
defeated!  his  besiegers  in  a  bloody  battle;  and 
on  their  retreat  to  Giugee  prepared  to  relieve 
Trichinopoly.  Dupleix  sought  to  gain  time  for 
the  operation  of  the  blockade  by  threatening 
Madras,  and  amusiui*  Clive  with  marches,  and 
countermarches.  But  the  "heaven -bom  gen- 
eral" was  not  to  be  thus  dallied  with  innocu- 
ously. He  overtook  the  French  army  at  Covre- 
pauk,  and  inflicted  on  it  another  terrible  de- 
feat. He  then  hurried  off  to  expedite  a  convoy 
fi^r  the  relief  of  the  beleaguered  city,  demol- 
ishiug  on  his  way  Dupleix's  vaunting  column. 
The  spell  of  French  invincibility  was  broken; 
the  militiiry  reputation  of  the  English  was 
established;  an  able  general,  at  the  head  of  a 
victorio\is  army,  was  marching  to  the  critical 
p*)int;  the  covering  army,  which  ought  to  have 
disputeil  his  advance,  was  dissipated  ;  and  to 
crown  all,  Law  chose  this  appropriate  moment 
for  requesting  leave  to  e visit  Pondicherry,  on 
account  of  his  wife's  approaching  confinement. 
Dupleix  refused,  and  rebuked  him  sharply. 
He  ought  to  liave  superseded  him,  but  was  at 
a  loss  for  a  fit  man  to  replace  him;  and  he 
hoped,  by  positive  and  minute  orders,  to  keep 
Ibc  malingerer  up  to  his  work. 

To  intercept  the  convoy  was  of  the  utmost 
importance;  and  Law's  greatly  superior  force 
ought  to  have  made  this  a  comparatively  easy 
task,  considering  tlie  long  train  of  cumbrous 
wagons,  slow    oxen,  and  timid    coolies,  the 
disUuice  to  be  traversed,  and  the  natural  obsta- 
cles on  the  way.     lie  had  900  Europeans, 
2,000  sepoys,  and  Chuuda  Sahib's  army,  com- 
puted at  SO.OOO.     These  Dupleix  reinforced 
with  every  available  man  from  the  garrison  of 
Gingce.   The  English  had  only  400  Europeans 
and  900  sepoys.     Law  was  ordered  to  leave 
300  French  and  tw'o-thirdsof  Chunda's  multi- 
tude before  the  place,  aod  with  the  rest  to 
meet  the  convoy  as  far  in  advance  as  possible 
After  promising  compliance,  he  veered  round, 
enlarged  on  the  danger  ot  a  Mahratta  mroad; 
suggested  a  march  into  Mysore  to  counteract 
il  and  finally  proposed  to  withdraw  his  whole 
army  into  the  island.  Dupleix,  amazed  and  m 
diguant,  in  a  biting  dispatch  insisted  thai  the 


last  hopeful  project  should  be  submitted  to  a 
council  of  war,  confident  that  the  general 
voice  of  the  officers  would  condemn  it.  Thus 
he  concluded:  Ldissez  Vaveiiir  tenir  et  Ballad- 
ji-Rao  \i.  e.,  the  Peishw^a].  A'd  songez  qu'au 
preMrU ;  tadiez  de  vous  persuader  dt  Vimpar- 
tance  de  detruire  le  convoi;  laifoez  moi  le  win 
du  reste.  And  announcing  that  the  English 
army  had  left  Cuddalore,  iie  repeated  his  pro- 
phetic warning:  11  eat  de  votre  hmneur  de  de- 
truire le  secoars^  Tout  depend  de  ce  coup.  Ne 
negligez  rien  pour  reumr.  But  Law,  seemed 
fascinated  by  Clive 's  terrible  audacity,  energy, 
and  skill,  now  all  the  more  formidable  because 
they  were  combined  with  Lawrence's  expe- 
rience, and  respectable  though  less  original 
military  talents.  While  he  should  have  been 
marching,  he  was  still  arguing;  and  Dupleix's 
crushing  replies  die  away  in  a  wail  of  indignant 
despondence.  Je  vom  avertis  de  tout;  qu'en 
arriveratilf  Dieu  le  mit.  Ty  suis  resigne,  et  ce 
quefapprendrai  ne  me  eurprendra  plus.  11  sera 
pourtant  difficile  de  persuader  en  France  qtta 
irente  mille  Iiomfnes  en  aient  laisse  passe?'  deux 
mille,  embarrasses  d'un  diai^oi  et  d'un  trans- 
port effroyahles. 

Thus  Lawrence,  who  had  now  taken  the 
chief  command,  neared  Coiladdy  unopposed. 
Thence  he  was  fired  upon  with  some  loss  and 
more  confusion;  and  a  bold  sally  from  the  fort, 
supported  by  an  advance  from  the  French 
lines,  must  have  been  perilous,  if  not  faUd,  to 
his  immediate  object.  But  Law  recalled  the 
garrison  of  Coiladdy,  and,  fearing  a  sally  from 
the  city,  posted  his  army  so  awkwardly  that 
Lawrence  succeeded  in  turning  it.  By  a  reso- 
lute onslaught  during  this  fiank  march  Law 
might  have  defeated  the  English,  or  at  lea^t 
taken  or  destroyed  a  large  part  of  the  stores 
and  provisions.  But  he  hesitated  too  long; 
and  when  he  did  advance  he  was  daunted  by 
a  sortie  of  the  garrison,  and  after  an  idle  can 
nonade  fell  back.  Meanwhile  the  convoy  had 
pursued  ita  way  on  the  unexposed  fiank  of  the 
English  column,  and  was  triumphantly  wel- 
comed in  the  city. 

This  decisive  failure  completed  the  prostra 
tion  of  the    Scotchman's   spirit.     Dupleix's 
Cassindra  warnings  must  have  rung  in  his 
ears  like  the  knell  of  his  fortime  and  honoi  aa 


3C2 


THE  UBIIARY  MAGAZINE. 


a  soldier.  Taking  counsel  of  .his  fears — and 
nA,  as  Dupleix  had  expressly  ordered,  of  his 
olMcers — he  gave  the  word  for  an  immediate 
retreat  into  the  island.  This  decision  was 
vigorously,  hut  fruitlessly,  combated  by 
Ohunda  Sahib.  And  it  was  carried  out  in  in- 
decent and  prodigal  haste.  A  large  part  of 
the  vast  stores  of  provisions  which  had  been 
laid  in  was  sacriticed,  together  with  much  of 
the  baggage.  Chunda  Sahib  gloomily  fol- 
lowed. The  French  occupied  the  pagoda  of 
Jumbakishua:  of  their  allies  some  went  into 
Seringham;  others  settled  themselves  along 
the  bank  of  the  Coleroon. 

Dupleix  described  his  heart  as  "bleeding" 
at  these  tidings,  which  at  first  hcj  refused  to 
believe.  When  convinced,  he  resolved,  too 
late,  to  supersede  the  craven  general.  Je  ne 
wux  plutf  etre  prapIUts,  j'ai  trap  averti  en  vain.. 
11  faut  retii'tr  le  cominandemeni  d  cet  liomme. 
He  earnestly  appealed  to  the  infirm  but  gallant 
D' Autheuil  to  undertake  the  arduous,  perhaps 
desperate,  task  of  saving  the  army  and  its 
honor.  And  D'Autheuil,  like  Coote  in  similar 
circumstances,  responded  to  the  call  of  duty. 
In  announcing  to  Law  his  recall,  Dupleix 
added  the  cutting  gibe:  Je  siiis  persuade  qive 
eet  arrangement  tafaire  plamr  a  madame  vo- 
ire femme,  qui  Tie  desire  qve  le  moment  de  vouh 
t&nir  dans  ses  bras. 

Meanwhile  Clive  had  proposed  a  plan  which 
could  hardly  fail  to  bring  the  contest  to  a  rapid 
and  decisive  issue.  His  aim  was  to  isolate  the 
enemy  in  their  exposed  situation;  and  thus,  as 
at  Syracuse,  to  turn  the  besiegers  into  the  be- 
sieged. One  division  of  the  army  was  to 
guard  the  city,  and  threaten  Law  from  the 
south;  another  was  to  push  across  the  rivers, 
intercept  his  communication  with  Pondi- 
cherry,  and  operate  against  any  reinforcement 
which  Dupleix  might  be  able  to  provide. 
Though  he  proposed  that  the  two  divisions 
should  remain  within  a  forced  march  of  each 
other,  dive's  project  was,  considering  the  dis 
parity  of  numbers,  a  characteristically  bold 
one ;  as  Orme  says .  "This  was  risking  the 
whole  to  save  the  whole."  Lawrence  as 
sented,  and  gave  the  command  ot  the  detach 
ment  to  Clive  himself  He  soon  occupied 
Semiaveram,  seven  miles  north  of  the  Cole 


roon.  Dupleix  insisted  that  he  should  be 
immediately  assailed  and  dislodged.  But 
Law,  already  in  want  of  provisions,  threw 
away  his  last  chance  of  profiting  by  his  supe- 
rior numbers,  and  of  securing  the  junction  of 
D'Autheuil,  who  might  still  have  rescued  him. 
Nor  was  this  all.  He  had  already'  engrossed 
and  paralyzed  almost  all  the  soldiers  of  the 
French  army.  He  now  opened  a  correspond- 
ence with  the  enemy,  still  more  deeply  de- 
pressed his  troops,  and  their  allies,  and  excited 
suspicion  of  treasonable  intentions.  Dupleix 
authorized  D'Autheuil,  in  the  last  extremity, 
to  conclude  peace,  which  was  to  be  made  for- 
mally between  Chunda  Sahib  and  Mahomed 
Ali.  La  situation,  he  added,  ou  Vavidite  de 
Law  a  mis  nos  affaires  m^font  penser  que  c\H 
le  seul  parti  qtii  nous  reak'.  Thus  he  seems  to 
have  suspected  that  Law,  like  his  uncle,  was 
making  his  own  game  at  the  expense  of  his 
adopted  country.  Though  this  imputation 
may  be  dismissed,  it  was  less  ridiculous  than 
a  wild  project  which  the  governor-general 
broached  of  liberating  •!  he  army  by  bribing 
Lawrence. 

D'Autheuil's  force,  including  the  garrison 
of  Volcondah,  which  he  picked  up  on  his  way, 
amounted  onl|f  to  120  Europeans,  500  sepoys, 
and  four  guns,  with  a  large  convoy.  He  sent 
a  letter,  in  duplicate,  to  announce  his  ap- 
proach, and  request  Law  to  detach  to  his  sup- 
port. One  copy  of  the  letter  was  safely  re- 
ceived; but  the  other  Clive  intercepted,  and 
thereupon  advanced  against  D'Autheuil,  who 
retreated  hastily.  Law  sent  a  feeble  i>arty  lo 
Semiaveram  in  Clive's  absence,  but  on  his  un- 
expected return  he  overpowered  it;  and,  after 
more  fighting  and  the  capture  of  the  convoy 
at  Utatoor,  he  fell  upon  D'Autheuil  at  Vol- 
condah and  compelled  him  to  surrender. 

Before  this  happened  the  monsoon  had 
burst,  and  Increased  the  difficulty  of  crossing 
the  swelling  rivers.  But  while  Chunda  Sa 
hib's  army,  as  his  fortune  declincxi,  dwindled 
away  apace,  and  many  ol  his  followers  joined 
the  English,  Lawrence  made  his  way  info  tiie 
island:  threw  up  an  entrenchment  across  it 
from  north  to  south;  and  the  Tanjore  troops 
being  posted  to  the  east,  and  the  Mysoreanj>  \o 
the  west,  oi  the  city,  while  Clive's  division 


THE  STORY  OF  DANTE'S  "DIVINE  COMEDY." 


303 


lined  the  north  bank  of  the  Coleroou,  the  toils 
were  effectually  tlirown  round  the  hite  besieg- 
ers. Dupleix  still  maintaiued  that  famine 
w  ould  be  no  excuse  for  surrender,  and  urged 
I^w  to  fight  his  way  to  Karikal,  which  he 
thought  practicable,  as  tlie  flooded  river  would 
prevent  the  junction  of  the  English  divisions. 
As  it  ivas,  Law  showed  no  disposition  to  make 
the  desperate  effort,  but,  on  13th  June,  1752, 
tamely  capitulated;  and  with  him  35  officers, 
785  ICuropcans,  2,000.  sepoys,  and  ^1  guns 
were  captured.  Chunda  Sahib  gave  himself 
up  to  Monacjee,  the  Tanjorine  general,  who 
put  him  to  death. 

Dupleix *s  position  might  now  well  appear 
desperate;  to  make  peace  at  once,  or  to  recall 
Bussy  and  employ  him  in  a  supreme  effort  to 
capture  Trichinopoly,  seemed  the  only  alter- 
native open  to  him.  Y'et  he  chose  neither, 
but  preferred  to  try  a  third  plan,  for  which 
there  was  certainly  much  to  be  said,  but  which 
involved  the  proverbial  danger  of  a  middle 
course,  and  proved  in  the  end  most  unfortu- 
nate. 

He  despaired  of  obtaining  tolerable  terms 
from  an  enemy  flushed  with  such  a  victory. 
He  calculated  that  political  caution  would  re 
strain  the  English  from  an  immediate  attack 
ou  the  French  capital,  and  he  did  not  fear 
such  an  attack  if  made  by  native  forces  only, 
lie  had  also  reason  to  believe  tliat  the  victors 
were  on  the  eve  of  a  quarrel  among  themselves, 
which  he  might  turn  to  his  advantage.     Kein- 
forcements  from  France  were  due;  and  they 
arrived  opportunely.     Olive's  health  too  was 
impaired,  and  he  returned  to  Europe.    To 
him  the  English  had  mainly  owed  their  suc- 
cess, and  without  him  they  would  be  much 
less  formidable.    Moreover,  Dupleix  hoped  to 
form  a  league  between  the  Subahdur  and  the 
?ei»hwa,  who  had  lately  been  at  war;  to  bring 
down  the  united  forces  of  the  Dekkan  on  My- 
sore, so  &s  to  compel  the  regent  of  that  state 
to  espouse  the  French  cause;  and  then  to  make 
tills  great  confederation  available  for  rcaucing 
Trichinopoly,  overpowering  the  English  and 
^lahomed  Aii,  and  restoring  his  own  ascend- 
ency in  the  Camatic.     Whatever  force  there 
might  be  in  some  of  these  reasons  for  perse- 
vering in  the  contest,  the  scheme  of  native  co- 


operation  frour  the  Dekkan,  the  magnitude 
and  comprehensiveness  of  wbich  excite  M. 
Hamout's  glowing  admiration,  required  too 
much  time  to  give  it  effect:  it  was  also  too 
complicated;  it  ignored  too  much  tlie  jealous 
and  vindictive  [)ositi(>n  of  the  Poona  Malirat- 
tas;  and  it  wiis  promptly  thwarted  by  one  of 
the  Nizam's  ministers,  who  stirred  up  a  mu- 
tiny in  his  army,  which  prevented  its  taking 
the  field,  and  ^vas  the  prelude  of  other  serious' 
and  engrossiag  disturbances.  —  Sidney  J. 
Ow£N,  in  The  EnglUh  Historical  Heview. 

[to  be  CONCIiUDED.] 


THE  STORY   OF    DANTE'S   ''DIYIHIS 

COMEDY."* 

I. 

THE  UNIVERSALITY  OF  THE  FOEK. 

The  most  important  point  in  the  study  of 
Dante's  JXzine  Comedy  is  to  sec  its  mean- 
ing, as  applicable  to  •ur  own  individual*  lives, 
here  and  now.  For,  like  all  the  greatest  works 
of  art,  the  poem  is  universal  in  its  application. 
It  does  not  exist  for  a  time,  but  for  all  time. 
Its  teachings  are  as  practical  to  the  coming 
twentieth  century  as  they  were  to  the  rnedi- 
(eval  age  when  Dante  wrote.  Its  lessons  find 
their  echo  in  the  experience  of  every  thinking 
man  and  woman,  and  contain  an  inspiration 
and  a  warning  for  the  whole  western  world. 
It  is  the  poem  of  the  universal  life  of  man- 
kind, in  the  light  of  the  Christian  revelation. 

Dante  was  a  lioman  Catholic,  but  his 
DiviTte  Camedj/  cannot  be  read  into  Roman 

*  The  sabBtance  of  these  pagee  was  first  printed  in 
the  form  of  letters  to  the  Boston  Transcript  and  the 
8pring:lleld  Rtpyblican^  written  from  the  Concord 
School  of  Philosophy,  in  the  summer  of  1886.  For  mnch 
of  the  material  I  am  directly  indebted  to  a  coarse  of 
lectures  given  at  the  School  by  Professor  William  T, 
Harris.  I  have  also  drawn  from  a  conversation  given 
by  Mr.  Thomas  Davidson  on  the  first  canto  of  the 
Paradi«o,  and,  indirectly,  from  all  previous  students 
of  Dante.  The  special  motive  of  the  work  is  to  tell  the 
story  of  Thf  Divine  Comedy  in  such  a  simple  way  that 
''he  thai  runs  may  rcad,^*  and,  at  the  same  time,  to 
help  all  seekers  for  truth  to  see  the  great  truth  which 
Dante  saw,  and  to  walk  through  life  in  the  light  of  Ita 
revelatiou.^U.  R.  SS. 


I 


d04 


THE  LIBHAHY  MAGAZINE. 


Galholicism.  Among  the  most  patent  facts  of 
the  history  of  the  Middle  Ages,  are  the  corrupt 
results  of  an  ascendant  Romanism  and  the 
courageous,  even  defiant  attitude  of  Dante 
toward  these  evils,  lieligion  and  moralit\' 
■were  divorced  ;  the  people  were  kept  in  a  con- 
dition of  ignorance  autl  slavery,  by  a  priest 
hood  whom  monasticism  had  rendered  gross 
and  licentious ;  and,  while  the  word  in  the 
ritual  exalted  Mary,  the  de^d,  both  of  church- 
man and  layman,  degraded  that  half  of  human- 
ity to  which  Mary  belongs,  thereby  setting 
the  seal  of  damnation  upon  both  Church  and 
8tate. 

Against  this  divorce  of  religion  and  moral- 
ity, of  the  word  and  the  deed,  Dante  rebelled. 
Indeed,  had  the  halcyon  days  of  Roman 
Catholicism  been  the  halcyon  days  of  the 
world,  when,  as  the  Roman  Catholic  claims, 
"religion  was  not  separated  from  morality" 
in  the  conduct  of  men,  there  had  been  no  need 
of  a  Dante  at  all.  Uis  is  not  the  "wayward- 
ness of  the  child  who  will  return  to  his  alle- 
giance," but  the  protest  of  the  man  against 
hypocrisy  and  corruption.  Dante  was  the  Pro- 
testant before  Luther,  whose  protest,  with  his, 
shall  endure. 

The  Divine  Comedy  is  not  a  sectarian  but  a 
universal,  not  a  Roman  Catholic  but  a  Chris 
tian  poem.  Dante  transcends  the  bounds  of 
the  narrow  limit  set  him  by  the  historic 
Church  of  his  time,  and,  with  an  insight  into 
the  truth  of  Christianity,  l)ecomes  the  great 
genius  of  that  time,  the  exponent  and  also  the 
prophet  of  its  highest  ideals.  He  saw  that 
**God  is  to  be  mediated  through  reason,  not 
reason  tlirough  God."  And  if  he  did  not  en- 
force the  further  truth,  it  is  at  least  clear  to  the 
nineteenth  century,  that  if  reason  cannot  be 
mediated  through  God,  far  less  can  it  be 
mediated  through  any  alleged  minister  or  re- 
piiesentative  of  God,  whether  Priest  or  Pope  or 
Church. 

Reconciling  theoretical  free-will  with  practi- 
cal obedience  to  the  command  of  a  body  or 
sect,  or  man,  is  a  difficulty  from  which  the 
modern  world  is  freed  by  the  example  and 
teaching  of  Martin  Luther.  "Rules  for  pass- 
ing through  life,"  prescribed  by  one  individ- 
uality for  another,  deny  all  personal  freedom, 


and  therefore  all  intelligence,  in  that  other. 
It  makes  no  difference  whether  the  prescrip- 
tion be  n'ade  by  one  man  or  by  u  body  of 
men.  Roman  Catholicism  is  not  the  atlirma- 
tion,  but  the  denial  of  freedom  ;  and  if  Daute 
taught  the  one  he  could  not  have  taught  the 
other. 

That  the  poet  did  teach  tlie  freedom  of  man 
to  turn  to  good  or  to  evil  as  he  may  choose.  If 
clear.  The  return  of  the  deed  upon  the  doer, 
in  just  retribution  for  his  free  act,  is  his  cen- 
tral theme.  Man,  created  in  the  image  of 
God,  is  free  to  realize  in  himself  that  image, 
to  make  himself  like  or  unlike  his  Maker  just 
as  he  chooses.  By  remaining  in  his  sin  he 
makes  his  own  "Inferno;"  by  rej>enting  and 
desiring  to  be  good,  he  makes  his  own  "Pur- 
gatorio  ;  "  by  coming  into  union  with  God  be 
makes  his  own  "Paradiso."  His  will  deter- 
mines his  condition.  He  may  go  to  heaven  or 
to  hell  as  he  chooses  and  w^hen  he  chooses. 

This  teaching  of  freedom,  as  the  divine  in- 
heritance of  man,  is  the  best  instance  of  the 
poem's  univei-sality.  It  lifts  it  above  the  re- 
strictions of  time  or  place  or  sect.  Another 
illustration  is  the  placing  of  both  the  living 
and  the  dead,  and  of  mythological  as  well  as 
historical  characters,  all  together  in  the  poem. 
Dante  is  not  painting  a  picture  of  what  shall 
happen  to  men,  V>ut  of  what  is  happening  to 
them.  He  does  not  mean  his  w6rk  to  present 
solely  a  view  of  life  after  death,  but  a  view  of 
eternal  life,  past,  present,  and  future,  with  no 
reference  to  physical  death.  It  is  man  living 
here  and  now,  among  us  and  with  us,  and 
man  spiritual,  not  man  physical,  tlmt  he 
shows  us. 

Sin  is  death  and  the  only  death,  here  or 
hereafter,  and  the  sinner  is  the  true  and  only 
dead  man.  Punishments  for  sin  are  not 
necessarily  deferred  imtil  after  so-called  death; 
though  they  may  be,  and  will  be  if  not  met 
here.  They  are  inevitable  here  or  hereafter ; 
for  the  deed  returns  upon  the  doer ;  what  he 
does  is  meted  out  to  him  in  return. 

It  is  man's  whole  existence  in  the  immortal 
life— this  world  and  the  world  to  come,  one 
and  inseparable — that  we  se^  in  Dante.  It  is 
not  life  under  the  form  of  Time,  but  under 
the  form  of  Eternity.    It  ia  not  the  transieot 


THE  STORY  OF  DANTE'S  "  DIVINE  COMEDY." 


305 


existence  which  ends  or  changes  when  the 
iKxiy  dies,  but  the  eternal  life  of  the  spirit, 
ever  one  and  the  same,  and  depending  upon 
man's  choice  whether  it  be  a  separation  from, 
or  a  progression  toward,  the  divine. 

XL 

THE  CHRISTIAN  INSIGHT. 

Dante  rises  above  all  preceding  poets  in  that 
he  sees,  and  then  realizes  in  his  symbolisms, 
the  doctrine  of  individual  responsibility. 
Vir^l,  the  poet  who  next  preceded  him,  holds 
the  doctrine  of  Metempsychosis,  or  the  trans- 
ference of  the  soul,  after  death,  into  other 
bodies:  a  theory  which,  when  logically  carried 
out,  destroys  man's  freedom,  because  it  pre 
supposes  the  loss  of  memory,  and  therefore  of 
responsibility.  Were  there  no  responsibility, 
the  soul  would  be  the  victim  of  fate.  The 
higher  insight  of  Dante  was  into  that  principle 
of  perfect  freedom  which  lays  stress  upon  the 
tletermining  power  of  man  as  a  being  whc^, 
once  conscious,  does  not  lose  his  consciousness, 
and  which  builds  up  the  idea  of  personal  free- 
will, the  possession  of  which  makes  man  re- 
sponsible to  a  personal  God. 

The  Dtvine  Comedy  is  distinctively  the 
l)oem  of  the  Christian  religion.  That  is,  it  is 
inspired  by  that  insight  into  the  nature  of  Gofl 
which  is  the  groundwork  of  Christianity,  and 
which  is  opposed  to  the  oriental  conception. 
The  eastern  nations  regard  the  absolute  l)eing 
as  a  formless,  indefinite,  unconscious  entity 
from  which  man  is  separated  by  reason  of  his 
individuality,  or  self -consciousness.  His  indi- 
viduality, or  form,  he  must  lose  in  returning  to 
the  Absolute;  because  it  is  formless,  it  is  his 
source,  of  its  nature  he  must  partake,  and  to 
it  he  must  return.  The  return  to  formlessness 
is  nothing  less  than  Annihilation.  Buddhism, 
Brahmanism.  Neoplatonism.  Gnosticism  and 
modem  Theosophy  are  all  phases  of  this  con- 
c*»ption.  The  Greek  philosophers  Socrates, 
Plato,  and  Aristotle,  with  the  Jewish  .prophets, 
first  possessed  the  higher  insight  that  God, 
instead  of  being  a  principle  without  form  and 
void,  is  the  very  essence  of  all  form.  Instead 
of  lieing  undetermined  he  is  sei  determined, 
and  instead  of  being  unconscious  he  is  self- 
conscious.     He  is  pure  form,  or  reason ;  he  is 


self -conditioned;  and  he  is  also  creative,  or 
self-revealing. 

The  Christian  idea  of  a  creative  principle 
includes  and  transcends  the  Greek  idea  of 
absolute  reason,  the  Jewish  idea  of  a  holy 
personality,  and  the  Roman  practical  applica- 
tion of  this  conception  in  volition  or  act,  and 
sees  a  revealed  self-conscious  divine- human 
God,  or  Christ,  who  creates  beings  witli  per- 
sonality like  himself.  This  supreme  insight 
into  the  nature  of  Gk>d  is  the  standing  point  of 
Cliristianlty. 

As  God  is  form  and  self-consciousness, 
reason  and  will,  so,  potentially,  are  men ; 
that  is,  they  are  when  they  have  realized  their 
higher  or  real  selves  by  conquering  their  lower 
or  unreal  selves.  They  are  able,  by  their  own 
freedom,  to  make  themselves  over  'into  bis 
likeness,  and  are  immortal  by  virtue  of  his 
divine-human  nature,  which  unites  him  to 
them  and  them  to  him.  And  when  they  re- 
turn to  him  as  to  their  source,  they  do  not 
lose  consciousness  and  individuality,  but  at- 
tain it  to  its  fullest.  They  are  not  annihilated, 
but  immortal,  and  immortal,  too,  as  conscious, 
thinking,  growing  beings.  This  is  the  distinc- 
tive point  of  difference  between  the  Orient  and 
the  Occident.  The  Christian  God,  who  kngws 
and  loves  his  children,  and  helps  them  to  a  self- 
realization  which  shall  be  attained  in  their 
union  with  him  through  their  own  reason  and 
will,  is  Dante's  God.  God  is  forever  creating 
beings  like  himself,  who  in  turn,  are  free,  even 
against  himself.  Their  free  will  brings  its 
own  roward,  mor«?over;  for  the  free  will  of  all 
society  reacts  against  tlie  deed  of  the  individ- 
unl  free  agent,  and  brings  him  the  return  of 
his  deed  either  in  suffering  or  in  joy.  There- 
by he  learns  what  hell  or  heaven  is,  and  that 
he  is  really  free  only  when  he  comes  into 
union  with  God,  through  a  long,  upward 
struggle  with  his  sins.  These  are  the  beings 
of  whom  Dante  writes;  and  they  are  the  be 
ings  of  all  time,  past  as  well  as  present,  now 
as  well  as  hereafter,  viewed  in  the  light  of  the 
Christian  insight,  which  Dante  possessed  to  a 
transcendent  degree. 

The  truth  is  therefore  revealed  that,  how- 
ever limited  Dante  was  by  the  local  spirit  of 
his  time,  he  yet,  perhaps  only  half  couscioutlx, 


806 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


seizf  d  the  meaning  of  all  life  in  its  universal 
aspe(;t.  and  transcending  his  own  sect  and  his 
own  nationality,  became  the  exponent  of  the 
best  and  fullest  light  of  all  ages.  As  the  early 
Chriftian  fathers  preached  Christ  far  more 
nearly  than  has  ever  been  done  since — ^and  to 
their  teaching  religion  is  now  returning — so 
Dante  preached  and  pictured  Chri&tianity,  in 
its  essentials  of  a  revealed  Gkxi,  a  free  manhood, 
and  an  immortal  self-conscious  existence,  far 
more  nearly  than  did  the  narrow  sect  which 
ruled  his  time.  He  "builded  better  than  he 
knew."'  He  seized  the  meaning  of  life.  He 
understood  the  soul  of  man,  which  every- 
where, past,  present  and  future,  is  tiie  same. 
He  saw  the  truth  of  the  Christian  revelation. 
He  mourned  the  corruption  of  the  times, 
brought  about  through  the  wrong  exercise  of 
free  will  in  priest  and  lord  and  people.  And 
he  meant,  by  picturing  the  horrors  of  sin  and 
the  happiness  of  virtue,  to  influence  men  to 
turn  from  their  evil  ways,  to  bring  their  wills 
into  union  with  Gkxl's  will,  and  thus  to  realize 
their  freedom. 

UL 

THE  POBTIO  METHOD. 

The  philosophic  mind,  or  reason  (as  distin- 
guished from  sense-perception  and  from  re- 
flection) sees  the  unity  or  uniting  principle 
which  underlies  all  the  objects  and  relations  of 
the  world.  In  other  words,  philosophy  per- 
ceives universal  truths.  If  the  philosopher  is 
also  the  poet,  he  will  express  these  universal 
tniths  by  means  of  trope  and  metaphor,  pre- 
senting laws  and  consequences  in  allegorical 
per&oniflcation.  Poetry  is  thus  the  supreme 
example  of  the  philosophic  insight.  By  means 
of  the  myth,  or  symbol,  the  poet  furnishes  a 
solution  of  the  world's  problems,  and  makes 
things  and  events  the  means  of  spiritual  ex 
pression.  Poetry  is  eyes  to  the  blind,  ears  to 
the  deaf,  and  intuition  to  all.  Being  the  high- 
est expression  of  philosophic  thought,  the 
poem  can  never  deny,  but  must  always  affirm 
truth.  Negation  or  agnosticism  can  be  put 
into  verse,  but  such  verse  is  not  poetry. 

The  poet  sees  that  there  is  a  rational  cause 
in  Nature  identical  with  the  rational  cause  in 
himself;  in  other  words,  that  everything  is  the 


outcome  of  a  reasoning  and  intelligent  l?inX 
Principle,  which  is  the  Totality  iu  ^hicli  all 
things  are  included.  This  is  his  key.  He  is 
himself  conscious  of  this  truth  in  the  highest 
degree.  He  recognizes  the  fact  that  the  ex- 
istence of  nature  and  of  man  necessarily  pre- 
supposes the  exis'ence  of  a  God  in  w^honi  both 
nature  and  man  live  and  move. 

Every  one  has  this  know^ledge  in  more  or 
less  degree.  In  its  lowest  form,  it  appears  in 
the  delight  of  the  savage  in  repetition,  as  for 
instance,  in  the  continual  repeating  of  one 
note  which  is  his  idea  of  beautiful  music. 
The  repetition  symbolizes  to  him  (of  course 
unconsciously)  the  principle  of  return  to  itself 
(or  causer  and  caused  in  one)  which  is  the 
distinctive  characteristic  of  the  First  Cause. 
or  God.  The  succession  of  day  and  night,  the 
revolution  of  the  stars  and  the  return  of  the 
seasons,  illustrate  the  same  idea.  Being  iden- 
tifled  in  his  mind  with  this  principle  of  return 
to  itself  which  so  delights  him,  these  phenom- 
enli  make  him  conclude  that  they  themselves 
lire  this  principle  (which  really  they  only  sym- 
Ixilize)  and  are  therefore  gods.  Hence  arises 
the  worsliip  of  the  sun  and  of  natural  objects. 
The  underlying  truth,  latent  in  the  mind  it- 
self, originates  the  myth.  The  sun-myth,  as 
well  as  other  myths,  is  not  a  mere  arbitrary 
setting  up  of  an  object  as  a  god;  but  is  the 
outcome  and  expression  of  this  truth  (the 
necessary  existence  of  a  First  Cause)  common 
to  all  minds  in  all  ag(^,  and  only  differing  in 
that  it  is  less  or  more  consciously  recognized. 

The  Divim  Comedy  is  a  "mytli"  or  symboliz- 
ing, from  beginning  to  end;  and  to  get  the 
beauty  and  the  lesson  from  it,  one  must  look 
at  it  in  this  light.  Dante  seizes  a 'special  in- 
stance of  a  special  sin,  and  with  one  stroke 
paints  the  manifold  consequences  of  that  sin, 
as  they  would  appear  if  concentrated  and  in- 
tensified into  one  momentary  effect.  The 
special  ii^tance  of  the  punishment  of  a  special 
sin  in  a  special  man  or  woman,  stands  for  all 
like  instances  of  the  same  sin  and  its  effect  in 
any  human  being  of  any  time.  The  general 
truth  that  universal  man  brings  his  deed  upon 
himself  by  his  own  free  act  is  symbolized  in  tbe 
special  illustration,  the  real  meaning  being 
veiled  in  figures  and  personificationa. 


THE  STOliY  Ol^  DANTE'S  "  DIVINE  COMEDY.** 


307 


The  greatest  personification  is  that  of  sin  it- 
self, wliicb  appears  as  Lucifer  or  Dis,  the  re- 
bellious archangel  who  in  his  fail  from  heaven, 
tunnels  the^eajth  to  its  center  and  thereby 
makes  hell.  In  the  same  mighty  fall,  he 
pushes  the  earth  upward  on  the  other  side  and 
makes  the  Mountain  of  Purgatory,  causing, 
says  Dante,  the  great  preponderance  of  land  in 
the  northern  over  the  southern  hemisphere. 

The  Minotaur,  which  guards  the  circle  of 
violence  in  the  Inferno,  is  put  there  as  the 
symbol  of  that  blood-revenge  which  destroys 
itself  by  its  own  violence.  This  fabled 
monster  lived  in  the  midst  of  a  labyrinth 
whose  avenues  led  ever  and  ever  into  one 
another  in  an  endless  process  of  bewilderment. 
He  is  therefore  a  fitting  guardian  of  the  vio- 
lent, \vhose  crimes  defeat  their  own  end,  every 
crime  making  a  new  complication  and  involv- 
ing the  criminal  in  a  labyrinth  from  which 
there  is  no  way  out. 

3Iinos,  who  was  a  just  ruler  of  Crete,  is 
made  the  dispenser  of  justice  to  the  souls  as 
they  arrive  at  the  Inferno.  They  lay  open 
their  lives  before  him,  and  he  indicates  to 
which  circle  they  shall  go,  by  winding  his  tail 
about  him  as  many  times  as  the  number  of  the 
circle.  This  indicates  that  the  sinner's  own 
bestiality  (symbolized  by  the  tail)  determines 
his  place  in  hell. 

The  Centaurs,  who  were  marauders,  are 
employed  to  inflict  punishment  on  the  violent. 
They  shoot  their  arrows  at  every  doomed  soul 
which  dares  to  rise  out  of  the  sea  of  blood 
higher  than  its  crimes  will  admit.  The  Har 
pies  in  the  suicidal  woods  represent  those 
moods  and  forebodings  which  defile  the  pres- 
ent with  evil  anticipations  of  the  future. 

Geryon,  upon  whose  back  Dante  and  Virgil 
descend  into  the  eighth  circle  of  hell  (where 
are  punished  the  crimes  which  envy  incites)  is 
the  symbolization  of  fraud.  His  face  is  mild 
and  gentle  as  if  he  were  to  be  trusted,  but  he 
has  a  reptile's  body,  the  paws  of  a  bea£t  and 
a  scorpion's  tail — fit  symbol  of  hypocrisy, 
which  with  fair  face  wins  the  faith  of  men. 
and  then  abuses  their  confidence.  Cerberus, 
who  guards  the  ro!ind  of  gluttony,  represents 
greed  in  its  concentration. 

These  arc  only  a  few  of  the  manifold  in 


stances  of  Dante's  power  of  symbolizing,  in 
living  forms,  the  thouglits  and  deeds  of  men. 
The  uiythoioiQr  of  the  Furgatorio  is  much 
milder  than  that  of  the  Inferno,  and  the  great 
contrast  between  the  two  enhances  the  effect 
of  each.  The  symbolism  of  the  Infenio  is 
that  of  fate  in  its  most  terrible  retributkMi, 
while  that  of  the  Furgatorio  represents  the 
process  of  the  realization  of  freedom  through 
the  overcoming  of  sin.  In  the  Paradise  the 
mytlms  is  expressive  of  triumph  and  joy  in 
the  final  union  witli  God. 

Iv. 

THE  THRAIB  divisions  OF  THE  POEM. 

Man's  actual  self  being  his  ideal  self,  his 
self  united  to  God  through  the  conquering  of 
all  his  tendencies  which  separate  him  from 
God,  it  follows  that  the  realization  of  his 
actual  self  comes  about  through  the  expurga- 
tion of  sin.  In  the  end,  selDshness  is  over- 
come, and  the  individual,  by  sacrificing  him- 
self wholly  to  the  uplifting  of  his  fellow 
beings,  l)ecomes  at  one  witli  the  spirit  of  the 
Christ.  The  attitude  of  the  free  human  person 
toward  his  sins  is  therefore  the  index  to  his 
spiritual  condition  ;  and  the  key  to  the  move- 
ment of  the  Divine  Comedy  is  the  antithesis  of 
selfishness  to  that  perfect  unselfishness  which 
leads  to  a  union  of  all  society  in  one  universal 
brotherhood. 

The  poem  is  divided  into  three  parts,  each 
one  dealing  with  a  certain  spiritual  condition 
of  the  soul  consequent  upon  its  attitude  to- 
ward sin.  The  Inferno  treats  of  sin  indulged 
in,  the  Furgatorio  of  sin  repented  of,  and  the 
Paradiso  of  sin  overcome. 

Dante  has  a  profound  insight,  not  only  into 
the  nature  of  the  particulas  sin  and  its  appro- 
priate consequences,  but  also  into  the  effect  of 
the  sin  upon  others  than  the  sinner,  and  the  re- 
action of  the  freedom  of  these  others  up<m  the 
individual.  He  sees  that  society  can  do  much 
for  the  individual  in  return  for  his  little  mite, 
and  that  just  in  proportion  as  that  mite  is  ma- 
terial or  spiritual  will  its  return  be  a  small  or 
an  infinite  amount.  It.  is  when  he  is  *iii  the 
mid-journey'  of  his  life,  that  he  has  this  in- 
sight :  and  as  the  specialist  sees  and  dociibe^ 


80d 


THE  LIRHAUY  MAGAZINE. 


a  whole  species  from  the  sight  of  a  little  speci-  i 
men,  so  Dante  knows  the  history  of  all 
humanity  hy  little  symptoms  and  examples, 
seeing  in  the  deed  its  presuppositions  and  its 
consequences.  He  makes  Virgil  say  that  he 
(Dante)  must  help  his  country  by  depicting 
the  sins  of  Florence  in  the  guise  of  poesy, 
since  he  is  prevented  by  |iis  exile  from  helping 
her  by  means  of  politics.  So  with  Virgil, 
(who  represents  science,  or  earthly  wisdom)  as 
his  guide,  he  descends  into  HcU,  mounts  the 
hill  of  Purgatory  and  ascends  into  Paradise, 
that  all  mankind  may  know  and  see  with  him 
the  horror  of  the  first,  the  necessity  of  the 
second,  and  the  bliss  of  the  third. 

All  these  conditions  of  the  soul.  Hell,  as 
well  as  Purgatory  and  'Paradise,  are  created 
by  and  are  the  manifestation  of  that  Divine 
love  which  will  not  allow  man  to  be  anni- 
hilated, even  though  he  descend  to  the  lowest 
depths  of  hell.  God's  hand  is  under  the  sin- 
ner everywhere,  leaving  him  free  to  rise  or  fall 
as  he  will,  but,  by  reason  of  his  participation 
in  llis  nature,  forbidding  his  extinction  into 
formlessnesiis  or  naught.  "If  I  descend  into 
hell  Thou  art  there,"  upholding  me,  waiting 
for  my  return,  but  never  compelling  it.  I 
may  stay  in  hell  if  I  will,  and  as  long  as  I  will; 
but  (jk)d,  in  his  divine  mercy,  will  not  allpw 
me  to  be  annihilated,  for  he  knows  that 
one  day  I  shall  "arise  and  go  to  my 
Father." 

The  condition  of  the  soul  in  the  Inferno  is 
that  of  complete  selfishness.  The  capacity  for 
growth  is  not  exercised,  and  the  freedom  of 
the  will  is  used  against  one's  fellow- men.  The 
inmates  of  Hell  are  immersed  in  their  sins  and 
do  not  see  that  it  is  their  own  deed  that  makes 
the  pain  of  their  condition.  They  put  the 
blame  upon  society  and  consider  themselves  ill- 
used  because  society  punishes  them,  since  as 
they  think,  "they  have  done  nothing  to 
deserve  it. ' '  They  * *look  out  for  number  one' ' 
and  get  all  they  can  out  of  their  fellow-men. 
They  do  not  see  that  their  pain  is  the  result 
of  their  own  freedom  and  that  they  can,  if 
they  will,  exert  that  freedom  to  conquer  their 
selfishness  and  thereby  get  rid  of  their  sin. 
When  ihey  do  reach  this  standing  point,  they 
come  to  Purgatory.    Here,  all  ills  are  a  means 


of  purification,  and  the  soul  welcomes  pain 
as  a  means  of  reform. — Harbiette  tt,  Suat- 

TUCK. 

[to  be  concluded.] 


SCOTLAND'S  PEASANT  POETESS. 

The  land  dowered  with  such  scenery  as 
that  which  encompasses  the  green  holms  of 
Yarrow,  the  Braes  of  Doon,  or  tlie  shining 
shallows  of  the  "clear,  winding  Devon" — 
hallowed  as  these  spots  are  by  the  glow  of 
history  or  the  glamour  of  romance— cannot  fail 
to  produce,  at  intervals,  souls  of  the  deepest 
poetic  vision,  who — 

*'  Will  mnrmttr  to  the  rannlng  brooki 
A  music  sweeter  than  their  own.** 

Every  student  of  literature  knows  of  those 
deathless  ballads  in  Border  Minstrelsy,  of 
which  the  Yarrow  alone  furnishes  many  a 
theme;  that  Yarrow  whose  pensive  murmur 
ing  has  mingled  for  ages  with  the  bleating 
on  the  hills  and  the  curlew's  call  from  the 
lonely  moorland,  and  whose  braes  have  so 
often  witnessed  scenes  of  love  and  death  in 
tlie  days  of  foray  and  famil}'  feud.  **Habbie's 
Howe,"  close  by  Roslyn  and  the  classic  Haw- 
thornden,  is  all  worthy  of  Allan  Ramsay's 
charming  pastoral,  The  Gentle  Shepherd,  and 
no  one  doubts  but  the  pensive  Yarrow  and  the 
ineffable  repose  around  St.  Mary's  Loch  had 
much  to  do  in  the  way  of  inspiring  the  Et- 
trick  Shepherd  in  the  creation  of  his  exquisite 
elfin-ballad,  Kilmeny. 

Nor  has  Scotland  been  wanting  in  women 
who  have  been  highly  dowered  with  the  gift 
of  song.  Joanna  Baillie,  born  in  Botliwell 
Manse.  Jean  Elliot,  and  Lady  Naime  can  all 
claim  an  honorable  position  among  our  poets; 
but  there  is  one  woman,  a  humble  peasant 
and  yet  one  of  Nature's  truest  ladies,  who 
occupies  a  unique  position  among  Scottish 
bards,  and  that  woman  is  Janet  Hamilton, 
the  peasant  poetess  of  Langloan. 

This  remarkable  woman  was  born  in  the 
parish  of  Shotts,  Lanarkshire,  in  October, 
1795.  This  most  pensive  and  sober  of  all  the 
months  of  the  year,  when  the  woods  have  put 
on  their  russet  hues,  and  when  Nature  is  fall 


SCOTLAND  o  r::ASANT  POETESS. 


309 


ing  into  her  winter  sleep,  was  ever  Janet's 
favorite  month.  To  its  ruddy  sunsets,  its 
pensive  caUn,  and  its  quiet  gloamin)^  she  de- 
voted many  of  her  finest  poems,  and  in  that 
month,  a  few  years  ago,  she  was  laid  with 
ber  fathers,  in  Old  Monkland  churchyard,  in 
a  spot  compassed  by  many  a  martyr's  grave. 
She  herself,  through  her  maternal  ancestors, 
vras  connected  with  the  children  of  the  Cove 
nant,  being  the  fifth  in  descent  from  John 
'Whitelaw  of  Monkland,  who  was  executed  at 
the  Old  Tolbooth  of  Edinburgh,  1683,  four 
years  after  the  battle  of  Bothwell  Bridge,  in 
which  he  had  taken  part. 

Janet  was  the  daughter  of  a  poor  shoe- 
maker, and  had  the  luckless  hap  of  being 
ushered  into  an  atmosphere  of  "chill  penury.  '* 
Albeit  hers  was  an  heroic  spirit,  and  from  her 
earliest  years  she  learned  to  realize  the  stern 
duties  devolving  on  human  existence.  We 
cannot  do  better  than  give  an  account  of  her 
early  years  in  her  own  words.  They  are  taken 
from  one  of  her  prose  sketches — A  Scottish 
Village  Sixty  Tears  Ago.  And  here  it  might 
be  said  that,  for  a  self-educated  peasant  wom- 
an, utterly  ignorant  of  the  rules  of  grammar, 
her  prose  shows  even  more  marvelous  power 
than  her  verse.  The  sketch  in  question  could 
be  placed  honorably  on  the  same  shelf  with 
Christoplier  North's  Lights  and  Shadows  of 
Scottish  Life. 

When  about  twelve  years  of  age  she  began 
to  shape  her  thoughts  in  rhyme,  and  when 
she  had  reached  her  eighteenth  year  she  was 
the  author  of  some  twenty  pieces  in  verse, 
mostly  of  a  religious  nature.  The  cares  in- 
cidental to  rearing  a  family,  however,  soon 
precluded  all  chances  of  having  much  spare 
time  to  devote  to  the  Muses,  and  she  informed 
the  writer,  on  one  of  the  many  visits  to  her 
which  it  was  his  privilege  to  make,  that  after 
the  birth  of  her  third  child  she  did  not  indite 
a  line  till  she  had  reached  her  fifty-fourth 
year,  when  she  commenced  writing  for  Cas- 
sell's  Working  Man's  Friend.  All  her  life 
long  she  had  never  received  a  lessoit  in  pen- 
manship. Through  indomitable  perseverance, 
however,  she  invented  a  species  of  caligraphy 
of  her  own,  a  struggling  imitation  of  printing 
types.    When  it  is  said  that  Janet  Hamilton 


wrote  the  MS.  of  two  large  volumes  of  poems 
and  essays  in  tliis  hieroglyphic  style  with  her 
own  hand,  it  will  be  seen  that  she  was  a 
woman  of  no  ordinary  kind  as  to  energy  of 
will  and  strength  of  character.  For  many 
years  before  her  death  she  was  stricken  w  ^ 
total  blindness.  When  this  afiiiiction  was  fully 
developed,  her  memory,  always  gOv^d,  became 
strengthened  to  a  marvelous  degree;  and 
many  a  time,  when  we  entered  her  humble 
home,  we  found  her,  like  Hannah,  with  her 
lips  moving  yet  uttering  no  word.  When  this 
action  was  playfully  referred  to  she  would 
answer,  with  a  smile  of  unspeakable  peace  on 
her  sweet  face,  that  she  was  only  "stringing 
some  verses  thegither."  If  asked,  she  would 
repeat  the  verses  as  she  sat  in  her  arm-chair 
by  the  kitchen  fireside,  all  the  while  absorbed 
in  the  creations  of  her  fancy,  and  gently 
swaying  in  that  motion  which  we  associate 
with  mental  abstraction  either  of  joy  or  grief. 

Her  third  ahd  last  volume  was  entirely 
written  by  her  son  to  her  dictation;  for  com- 
plete darkness  had  now  closed  around  her, 
and  henceforth  she  was  never  more  to  see 
those  flashing  streams,  purple  moorlands, 
imd  sweet  wild  flowers  which  she  loved  so 
fondly.  There  was  a  touching  pathos  in  the 
quiet  atmosphere  of  content  and  love  in  that 
Humble  home.  It  consisted  of  only  two 
apa^ments,  a  "but  and  ben,"  as  it  is  termed 
b  the  low  and  Scottish  peasants.  A  single 
glance  would  show  that  there  was  love  there, 
and  peace,  and  the  fear  of  Ood.  James,  her 
son,  was  unwearied  in  his  attention  to  his 
mother;  Marian,  or  "Mirren,"  as  she  was 
called  in  the  broad  vernacular,  was  doing  the 
household  work  with .  a  spontaneous  cheerful- 
ness, and  old  John,  her  gudeman,  now  over 
eighty  years — "His  lyart  haffets  wearing  thin 
and  bare" — looked  at  her  with  the  quenchless 
beam  of  love  in  his  eyes — a  love  that  had 
been  undimmed  through  fifty-nine  years  of 
married  life — and  yet  with  a  strange  rever- 
ence, as  if  he  were  all  unworthy  of  such  a 
blessed  gift.  Supposing  sae  had  been  a  duch- 
ess, an  empress,  or  the  Queen  of  Sheba,  she 
could  not  have  got  more  honor  than  was 
given  her  by  that  affectionate  household. 

We  never  heard  a  voice  so  rich  in  tone  and 


810 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


so  perfect  in  modulation  as  was  that  of  Janet 
Hamilton.  Her  ear  was  perfect,  and  she  could 
detect  the  slightest  flaw  or  want  of  taste  in 
composition.  On  one  occasion  she  repeated 
the  whole  of  Gray's  EUffy,  as  if  to  haiself. 
The  cadences  were  faultless  and  rose  and  fell 
like  music.  When  she  had  finished  she  said, 
as  it  were  in  a  reverie,  "'Yes,  that's  poetry!" 
We  asked  her,  on  the  occasion  of  one  of  our 
last  visits  to  her,  if  she  would  do  us  the  favor 
of  repeating  to  us  any  of  her  lastest  poems. 
She  at  once  repeated  a  poem — A  Lay  cf  the 
Loch  an*  ike  Muirlan* — three  verses  of  which 
we  subjoin,  and  which  the  reader  will  admit 
to  be  an  exquisite  bit  of  word-painting. 

*^  A  lanely  lochf  a  muirlan^  broom, 

A  warr  o^  whins  and  heather, 
Whaur  aft,  when  life  was  yonng,  I  strayed 

The  berries  blae  to  gather. 
Sae  bonnie  bloomed  the  gowden  broom, 

8ae  green  the  feathery  brackefi. 
And  rosy  brier  dear  to  my  een, 

Sre  licht  had  them  forsaken. 

**  How  saftly,  calmly,  sweetly  fell 

That  dewy  simmer  gloaming 
When  1  alang  the  lanely  loch 

To  muse  and  dream  gaed  roaming. 
The  star  o'  love  her  lamp  had  lit, 

Tlie  snn^s  last  rays  were  glancin* 
Oot  owre  the  wee,  wee  cnrlin^  wayea, 

liike  water  spankies  dancin.^ 

"  The  wild  dnck  stayed  her  paidlln'  feet 

To  nestle  mang  the  rashes,  .*. 

The  lonpln'  braise  and  perch  fell  back 

Wt*  mony  plonts  and  plashes. 
And  there,  deep  anchored  in  the  loch. 

The  water  lilies  floatin\ 
Like  pearly  skiffs  to  bear  the' crews 

When  fairies  tak'  to  boatln\" 

Here  again  is  an  extract  from  a  poem  of  a 
different  order : — 

OTTR   OLD  CHUBCHT^KD* 

**  Lone  field  of  graves !  onr  churchyard  old  and  hoar ! 
Trenched  deep,  and  sown  by  death  with  mortal 
grain; 
Decayed,  and  dead  it  lies— not  evermore  1 
All,  all  shall  live,  shall  rise  to  life  again  I  .  .  . 

*^  With  lingering  step,  in  solemn,  mnsing  mood, 
I  pass  within  the  time-worn  lichen 'd  walls ; 
A  softened  awe  steals  o^er  me  as  I  brood 
On  scenes  and  forms  that  memory  still  recalls. . . . 

**Now  on  a  broad  and  lettered  stone  I  sit. 
The  gloaming  shadows  have  began  to  fall ; 
Old  forms  and  faces  ronnd  me  seem  to  flit— 
They  come  and  go  at  brooding  fancy's  call.  .  .  . 


*'  Lone  field  of  graves,  farewell  I  old  chnicbyaid  hoar ! 

I  go,  but  moat  and  will  return  again ! 
I  come,  but  may  not  go  as  heretofore ; 
Till  Time  and  Death  shall  die,  with  thee  remsin  V 

As  her  gloaming  of  life  began  to  darken,  a 
memorial  in  her  favor  was  sent  to  Lord 
Beacousfield,  then  Mr.  Disraeli.  It  was  signed 
by  such  men  of  influence  and  worth  as  the 
late  Lord  Belhaven,  Major  Hamilton  of  Dal- 
zell,  who  was  recently  raised  to  the  peerage. 
Colonel  Buchanan  of  Dnimpt;llier,  Sir  James 
Campbell  of  Stracathro.the  late  Sheriff  Henry 
Glassford  Bell,  himself  a  poet  of  no  mean 
order,  and  many  others.  The  late  Sir  Wil- 
liam Stirling-Maxwell  presented  the  memoriaL 
The  result  was  the  reception  of  a  most  dainty 
letter  of  sympathy  and  appreciation — one  of 
those  letters  which  Lord  Beaconsfipld  could 
write  so  well — together  with  an  annua!  ;^ranl  of 
£50,  for  Janet,  out  of  the  Royal  BouLty  Fund. 

But  the  blind  singer  of  Langloan  was  not 
to  enjoy  long  the  gift  of  her  sovereign  lajly. 
Already  the  windows  had  been  long  darkened 
and  the  almond-tree  was  now  in  full  flourish 
and  the  grasshopper  had  become  a  burden. 
Her  flesh  and  her  heart  were  lieginning  to 
faint  and  to  fail;  but  her  faith  burned  all  the 
brighter  every  step  she  took  nearer  the  Bor- 
derland, and* she  could  say  with  quenchless 
trust  that  God  was  the  strength  of  her  heart 
and  her  portion  forever.  There  is  an  un- 
speakable pathos  in  one  of  the  last  poems  she 
ever  wrote : — 

"  The  star  o^  memory  lichts  the  past ; 

But  there's  a  licht  abane. 
To  cheer  the  darkness  o^  a  life 

That  mann  be  endit  soon ; 
And  aft  I  think  the  gowden  mom. 

The  purple  gloamin'  fa,' 
Will  shine  as  bricht,  and  fa'  as  saft  ^ 

When  I  hae  gane  awa'." 

The  dear  old  peasant-singer,  a  peasant  bom. 
but  refined  in  feeling  and  heart  as  any  lady 
who  ever  trod  royal  palace  or  ducal  hall,  had 
not  long  to  wait.  She  did  not  enjoy  the  royal 
bounty  piore  than  one  short  year.  Amid  the 
sweet  calm  of  a  pensive  October  day— the 
month  she  loved  so  well — she  passed  away 

"  To  where  beyond  these  voices  there  is  peace." 

— AXEXANDBR  Lamomt,  in  The  Sunday  Vaga 
tine. 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 


311 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 

MlBBXONABT  WOBK  IK  £lHNOI.OOr  AMI)  LnfOUlBnOB.— 

Upon  tiiia  sabject  we  read  in  J3(^nc4  ttxat— 

^*  The  debt  which  the  sciences  of  Ethnology  and  Lin- 
guistics owe  to  missionary  labors  has  never  been  ade- 
qaately  acknowledged.  The  latest  recognition  of  its 
▼aloe,  thoogh  instractive,  is  still  imperfect  Dr.  R.  N. 
Cost*  in  his  monograph,  Lctnguage  m  UlustraUd^  by 
BU>U  Tratulailons ''  (1883),  gives  a  classified  list  of 
Tersions,  arranged  acccording  to  the  varioos  families 
of  langaages,  from  which  it  appears  that,  since  the  es- 
tablishment of  the  British  and  Foreign  Bible  Society, 
in  1803,  the  missionaries  of  that  Society  and  of  similar 
associations  In  Great  Britain,  the  United  States,  and 
other  PruteBtant  countries,  have  translated  the  Bible 
or  portions  of  into  no  less  than  290  languages  and  dia- 
lects, or  these,  40  belong  to  Europe,  101  to  Asia,  60  to 
Africa,  38  to  America,  and  41  to  Oceanica.  Adding  the 
older  versions  (some  of  which  have  been  republished 
under  missionary  revision),  we  have  a  total  of  SM 
translations  in  the  catalogue  of  Dr.  Cost.  This,  how- 
ever, by  no  means  exhausts  the  list  His  plan  ezclndes 
reference  to  the  Roqaan-Catholic  versions,  which  are 
nnmerous — if  not  of  the  ^hole  Bible,  at  least  of  por- 
tions of  it  Sliofs  Indian  Bible,  though  mentioned 
(not  quite  accurately)  in  the  text  of  the  monograph, 
does  not  appear  in  the  list.  Nor  is  any  thing  said  of 
the  vast  number  of  Grammars,  Dictionaries,  and  Yocab- 
nlarles,  or  the  versions  of  Catechisms  and  similar 
works— in  many  more  languages  than  are  included  in 
his  list— which  we  owe  to  these  zealous  laborers,  of 
almost  every  Christian  denomination.  Dr.  Cust's 
memoir  will,  however,  be  a  most  useful  manual  of  ref- 
erence for  philologists.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  he  will 
supplement  it  by  an  additional  list,  comprising  these 
other  missionary  publications,  which  will  be  helpful 
to  students.  Prof.  Max  M&ller  has  shown  that  the 
foundation  of  the  science  of  comparative  philology 
was  laid  in  the  great  work  of  the  Jesuit  missionary 
Ilcrvas,  In  his  Cat4il(ygue  of  Laj^giuiges^  in  six  volumes, 
published  in  Spanish  in  1800,  and  derived  mainly  from 
the  results  of  missionary  researches.  The  distinguished 
professor  himself,  and  the  other  eminent  philologists 
of  our  day — (a  list  which  includes  such  names  as  F. 
Mflller,  Gerland,  Latham,  Farrar,  Sayce,  Hovelacque, 
Charencey,  Whitney,  Brinton,  Trumbull,  and  many 
hardly  less  noted) — who  have  reared  upon  this  basis 
such  a  noble  superstructure,  will  be  the  first  to  admit 
that  their  work  owes  its  extent  and  value  chiefly  to  the 
materials  supplied  by  the  later  efforts  of  these  en- 
lightened and  indefatigable  toilers." 

Schoolboys  Ind  trrtb  Tailohs.  —  English  school- 
boys, who  happen  to  be  blessed  with  wealthy  fathers, 
have,  as  with  us,  a  propensity  for  running  up  sartorial 
bills,  which  "  the  Governor"  is  expected  to  liquidate ; 
an  expert-atinn  which  is  sometimes  balked.  One  in- 
etance  of  this  kind  is  thus  commented  upon  in  TAs 
Saturday  Hgriew:— 

"The  want  of  prnco,  so  observable  in  other  walks  of 
life,  docs  not  seem  to  be  much  felt  at  present  by  those 
wbo  disport  themselves  under  Henry's  holy  shade. 


Th«  interestiog  little  tailor's  bill  which  Mr.  Justice 
Hawkins  and  a  common  Jury  recently  enjoyed  the 
privilege  of  investigating,  eonflrma  the  view  expressed 
by  another  learned  Judge  that  public-school  boys  have 
not  degenerated.  Owen  0.  Williams  and  11.  J. 
Williams  would  not  have  been  unworthy  products  of 
the  great  dress  age— the  age  which  produced  Pelham^ 
or  the  Adventures  of  a  Gentleman.  One  of  t]iese 
youths,  if  we  may  use  a  word  of  which  tailors  are 
peculiarly  fond,  has  achieved  the  distinction  of  run- 
ning up  a  bill  of  83/.  6«.  M.  for  his  apparel  within  the 
space  of  twelve  months,  and  has  exhibited  the  more 
commonplace  quality  of  being  unable  to  pay.  Tet 
Owen  Williams's  father,  with  a  liberality  proving  him 
to  merit  the  progeny  with  which  he  is  blessed,  told 
both  his  boys  he  would  give  them  '  each  a  hundred  a 
year  to  dress  upon,^  besides  paying  their  traveling 
expenses,  and  letting  them  have  *a  small  sum  for 
pocket-money.'  The  sum  of  £^  (for  the  0*.  M.  may 
be  consigned  to  the  destination  of  Mr.  Mantalini's 
halfpenny)  was  made  up,  wholly  or  partially,  of 
"about  thirteen  coats,  an  overcoat,  and  a  dreseing- 
gown,  in  addition  to  sixteen  waistcoats,  eleven  pair  of 
trousers,  three  pairs  of  knickerbockers,  one  pair  of 
hunting-breeches,  and  two  items  of  cash  of  one 
pound."  If  this  is  Williams  major's  ordinary  outfit 
at  the  edge  of  seventeen,  he  should  live  to  be  the  de- 
light of  tailors,  if  only  he  acquires  the  trick  or  habit 
of  solvency.  He  may,  of  course,  liquidate  this  ac- 
count in  the  future,  or  he  may  maintain,  when  he 
comes  of  age,  that  knickerbockers  are  not  necessaries 
of  life.  The  question  in  the  case  of  Smith  and  another 
9.  Williams  was  whether  General  Williams,  having 
given  his  son  a  hundred  a  year  for  clothes,  can  be 
made  to  pay  about  a  hundred  more  for  the  same  pur- 
pose. When  a  similar  application  was  made  to  the 
Duke  of  Wellington,  the  duke  replied,  io  what  Miss 
Broughton  might  call  'good  nervous  English,'  as  fol- 
lows :— F.  M.  the  Duke  of  Wellington  begs  to  inform 
Messrs.  Jones  that  he  is  'neither  the  Marquess  of  Douro 
nor  a  debt  collector.'  The  Jury  appear  to  have  taken 
this  view  of  the  position  of  General  Williams,  since 
they  found  a  verdict  for  the  defendant" 

Mr.  Ruskin  at  Uoxx.— Mr.  Raskin  is  now  engaged 
In  writing  his  Autobiography  in  serial  form.  In  a  re- 
cent number  he  thus  speaks  of  his  estate  at  Denmark 
Hill,  when  it  came  into  his  hands  upon  the  death  of 
his  father,  some  forty  years  ago :— • 

"I  have  round  me  here  at  Denmark  Hill  seven  acres 
of  leasehold  ground.  1  pay  jQSfi  a  year  ground  rent, 
and  ;£230  a  year  in  wages  to  my  gardeners ;  besides  ex- 
penses in  fuel  for  hothouses  and  the  like.  And  for  this 
sum  of  ;C800  odd  a  year  I  have  some  peas  and  straw- 
berries in  summer,  some  camellias  and  azaleas  in 
winter,  and  good  cream,  and  a  quiet  place  to  walk  in, 
all  the  year  round.  Of  the  strawberries,  cream,  and 
peas,  I  eat  more  than  is  good  for  me,  sometimes,  of 
course,  obliging  my  friends  with  a  superfluous  pf>ttle 
or  pint  The  camellias  and  azaleas  stand  in  the  ante- 
rbom  of  my  library;  and  everybody  says,  when  they 
come  in,  *How  pretty!'  and  my  young  lady  frit-ads 
have  leave  to  gather  what  they  like  to  put  in  their  hair 


aid 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


when  they  are  going  to  halls.  Meantime,  outside  of 
my  fenced  seren  acres  numbers  of  people  are  starving; 
many  more  dying  of  too  mnch  gin ;  and  many  of  their 
children  dying  of  too  little  milk/' 

The  Ehrenbheitstbin  of  India.— The  Key.  I>octor 
John  F.  Hurst  thus  writes  in  The  Independent  of  the 
renowned  city  of  Gwalior  :— 

**  Qwalior  is  the  most  interesting  city  in  India,  or  in 
the  world,  as  an  illustration  of  the  ancient  Jain  wor- 
ship and  architecture.  It  lies  at  a  distance  from  all 
the  regular  railway  lines.  The  most  convenient  point 
for  a  visit  is  Agra,  from  which  a  slow  and  poorly  man- 
aged branch  road,  of  sixty  miles  in  length,  goes  almost 
to  the  base  of  the  great  acropolis.  On  that  lofty  height 
the  palaces  and  temples  of  Gwalior  Ftand  in  all  the 
eloquence  of  sculptured  stone.  Out  of  the  level  plain 
there  rises  abruptly  this  vast  bill  of  abont  two  miles 
long  and  an  average  width  of  about  a  quarter  of  a 
mile.  On  one  side  the  red  sandstone  cliffs  are  almost 
perpendicular.  The  surface  of  the  great  hill  has  been 
scarped  in  the  long-gone  ages,  to  make  it  the  shapely 
pedestal  of  palace,  and  temple,  and  tomb.  No  large 
city  ever  shone  here  in  the  early  sunlight.  Only  the 
royal,  priestly,  and  military  classes  might  live  on  this 
great  height.  The  city  of  Gwalior  lay  below,  just  un- 
der the  shadow  of  the  beetling  cliffs. 

*The  natives  are  a  curious  folk.  Dirt  prevails  on 
every  hand.  The  people,  seeing  I  was  a  stranger,  and 
from  the  conquering  West,  were  not  very  civil,  and 
were  little  disposed  to  answer  questions.  I  secured  a 
guide,  however,  and  began  to  climb  the  hill.  No 
warder  stands  at  the  old  gateway.  The  massive  en- 
trance is  now  as  free  as  the  very  air.  But  one  can  see 
that  the  place  had  been  carefully  guarded  in  the  gray 
old  times.  Whatever  might  be  the  force,  it  docs  not 
seem  possible  that  these  great  gates  could  ever  have 
been  battered  down.  Yet  the  hour  did  come  when 
even  they  yielded  to  British  pressure.  One  gate,  how- 
ever, did  not  satisfy  the  sense  of  Mogul  security- 
Should  one  be  forced  open,  there  must  be  still  another 
beyond,  with  its  brohzed  keepers,  to  keep  back  the  in- 
trusive force.  But  should  this  yield,  what  then^ 
Further  along  there  was  still  another,  and  another,  to 
tiie  number  of  six  in  all — to  guard  the  approach  to 
august  king,  and  fabnious  treasure,  and  awful  temple. 
I  had  never  seen  any  parallel  in  India  to  this  wonder- 
ful position.  In  addition  to  w^hat  nature  had  done, 
the  lords  of  this  great  rock  had  shaved  it,  and  grooved 
it,  and  perforated  it  to  such  an  extent  that  it  seemed 
to  be  a  very  part  of  the  firm  earth.  It  is  India's 
Ehrenbreitsteiii.  In  the  elder  days  the  ascent  was  by 
steps,  cut  in  stone,  with  horizontal  spaces  between  the 
flights.  But  in  later  times  these  have  been  removed, 
go  that  the  ascent  is  now  by  an  inclined  plane. 

'*!  was  amazed  at  one  feature  of  this  ascent  There 
are  altars,  and  in  one  case  a  temple,  hewn  out  of  the 
solid  stone.  In  the  temple  are  altars  and  images 
carved  with  great  care,  and  grown  old  and  worn 
by  the  long  roll  and  grinding  of  the  wasting  ages. 
The  entrance  to  some  of  them  is  easy  enough,  only 


the  deflection  of  a  few  steps  from  ^e  main  road  being 
needed  to  reach  their  carious  portals.  Bat  lem  easy  li 
your  way  to  others.  Ton  turn  off  from  your  general 
road  and  follow  little  grooves  in  the  side  of  the  rocky 
hill,  and  cross  shaky  and  labyrinthine  foot-bridges, 
and  by  and  by  get  to  the  cnrious  ezcavationa  where 
people  worshiped  in  ages  long  since  gone.  Each  one 
of  these  cave-altars  has  its  sacred  associations.  Its 
special  deity  to  gnard  it,  and  its  long  and  marvelous 
history.  There  are  colossal  carvings  along  the  side  of 
the  rock,  some  of  single  figures  and  others  of  groups, 
but  all  of  hardly  a  later  date  than  a  thousand  yean 
ago.    Ail  are  curious  remnants  of  the  Jain  f^th. 

'*When  the  climb  to  the  top  of  the  hill  is  nearly  fin- 
ished,  the  broad  road  by  which  one  has  come  brings 
him  directly  up  to  the  portal  of  a  vast  palace.  Ton 
enter  the  curiously  carved  vestibule,  and  find  yourself 
within  the  precincts  of  what  must  have  been  one  of 
the  most  magnificent  palaces  of  anfient  India.  This, 
however,  is  only  one  of  six  palaces.  Their  majestic 
and  richly  ornamented  walls  once  adorned  a  good 
part  of  the  whole  plain  of  the  acropolis.  This  lofty 
hill,  with  its  foundstions  of  firm  rock,  was  too  com- 
manding and  secure  for  one  palace  Successive 
dynasties  saw  in  it  the  best  place  in  all  their  realm 
for  a  throne,  and  here  they  lived,  and  reared  their 
families,  and  down  this  worn  way  they  marched  to 
foreign  wars;  and  some,  yes,  many,  came  never  back 
again.** 

The  ALEtJTES.— Mr.  Henry  W.  Elliott,  in  his  work 
Alaska  and  the  Seal  Islands^  thus  speaks  of  the  natives 
of  the  Aleutian  Islands  :— 

"  Look  at  those  two  Aleutes  under  the  shelter  of  that 
high  bluff  by  the  beach.    You  see  them  launch  a  bid- 
arka.,  seat  themselves  within,  and  lash  their  lunnlayka " 
firmly  over  the  rims  to  the  manholes.    And  now  ob- 
serve them  boldly  strike  out  beyond  the  protection  of 
that  cliff  and  plunge  into  the  very  vortex  of  that  fear- 
ful sea,  and  scudding,  like  an  arrow  from  the  bow, 
before  the  wpid,  they  disappear  almost  like  a  flash  and 
a  dream  in  our  eyes.    These  men  have,  by  some  intui- 
tion, arrived  at  the  understanding  that  the  storm  will 
last  but  a  few  hours  longer,  and  they  know  that  some 
ten  or  twenty,  or  even  thirty  miles  away  lies  a  series 
of  islets  and  rocks  a-wash,  out  n4>on  which  the  long- 
continued  fury  of  this  gale  has  driven  a  number  of 
sea-otters  that  have  been  so  sorely  annoyed  by  the  bat- 
tle of  the  elements  as  to  crawl  there  above  the  wash  of 
the  surf.    So  our  two  hunters  have  resolved  to  scud 
down  on  the  tail  of  this  howling  gale,  run  in  between 
the  breakers  to  the  leeward  of  this  rocky  islet,  and 
sneak  from  that  direction  over  the  land  and  across  to 
the  windward  coast,  so  as  to  silently  and  surely  creep 
up  to  the  victims.    ...    If  these  hardy  men  had 
deviated  a  paddle's  length  from  their  true  course,  they 
would  have  been  swept  on  and  out  into  a  vast  marine 
waste,  and  to  certain  death  from  exhaustion.    They 
knew  it  perfectly  when  they  ventured,  yet  at  no  time 
could  they  have  seen  ahead  clearly,  or  behind  them, 
farther  than  a  thousand  yards  1  ^^ 


THE  STORY  OF  DANTE'S  "  DIVINE  COMEDY." 


818 


THE   STORY  OF   DANTE'S    "DIVINE 

CX)>IEDY." 

V. 

THK  PUBOATORIO  AND  THE  INrERKQ. 

The  PuTgalorio  differs  from  the  Inferno  in 
that  it  contains  and  is  based  upon  repentance. 
Repentance  is  the  dividing  line.  Those  who 
have  repented  are  glad  of  their  punishment, 
which  is  punishment  only  in  the  reformatory, 
or  kindly  sense.  .They  joyfully  endure  their 
period  of  purgation  in  order  .to  free  them* 
selves  from  sin.  Those,  on  the  contrary,  who 
have  not  repented,  who  do  not  recognize  their 
awful  state,  who  are  selfish  themselves  and 
see  only  selfishness  in  others,  are  in  the  In- 
ferno. But  the  discovery  and  comprehension 
of  unsellishness  in  another  leads  them  out  of 
this  hop'^less  condition.  It  makes  them  see 
that  they  themselves  are  in  Hell.  As  soon  as 
they  see  that  they  are  in  Hell  they  will  begin 
to  realize  their  infernal  condition  and  will 
wish,  and  therefore  strive,  to  escape  from  it. 
They  are  then  in  Hell  no  longer,  but  in  Pur- 
gatoiy. 

CMme,  or  the  overt  act,  is  punislied  in 
Hell,  while  sin,  or  the  condition*of  soul  from 
which  the  overt  act  arises  is  overcome  and 
removed  in  Purgator)'.  And  all  the  crimes 
which  Dante  punishes  in  his  Inferno  are  the 
outcome  of  the  sins  or  inclinations  toward 
crimes  from  which  he  purifies  in  his  Purga- 
torio.* 

VI. 

THK  SBTEN  SINS  AND  THEIR  CHILDREN. 

Each  group  of  crimes,  with  each  of  the 
seven  capital  sins^  of  which  these  crimes  are 

*  Crime  is  the  province  ot  the  State,  sin,  of  the  Chnrch. 
The  state  takes  cognizance  of  the  overt  act,  bat  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  inclination  toward  that  act  It 
retarns  the  cnminal's  deeds  opon  him  by  penalties  of 
the  law.  Or,  strictly  speaking,  it  ought  to  do  this,  for 
as  yet  it  lias  only  imperfectly  mastered  the  science  of 
penalty,  and  by  quibbles  of  law  or  insofflcient  and  in- 
appropriate panishments  the  guilty  too  often  escape 
Justice.  Crime  can^  however,  be  meai«ured,  and  its 
measure  meted  out  to  it  in  return.  The  Church,  on 
the  contrary,  de«Js  with  the  condition  of  mind,  and 
takes  cognisance  of  repentance,  with  which  the  State 
should  have  nothing  to  do ;  for  repentance  of  a  ennu 
eannot  atone  for  that  crime.  Sin,  however,  is  alienn- 
|toB  of  the  heart  from  Ood,  and  can  be  atoned  for  by 


the  children,  is  the  result  of  a  misunderstand- 
ing of  the  true  nature  of  love  as  the  divine 
self-sacrifice  of  the  higher  for  the  sake  of  the 
lower.  Some  are  the  results  of  love  exceenve, 
others  of  love  defective,  and  others  of  love 
perverted. 

The  seven  capital  sins  ar«  Pride,  Envy, 
Anger,  Sloth,  Avarice,  Gluttony  and  Incon- 
tinence, tlie  first  three  being  the  effects  of 
love  perverted,  the  last  three  of  love  excessive, 
and  sloth,  or  lukewarmness,  resulting  from 
luve  defective.  Dante  considers  this  the  order 
of  heinousness.  The  northern  nations,  with 
their  calmer  temperament  and  their  ideal  of  the 
sacr^iness  of  the  family,  and  of  the  rights  of 
the  children,  would  with  justice  insist  that  the 
seventh  sin  be  placed  higher  in  the  scale. 

The  worst  sins  are  tliose  which  are  spiritu- 
ally worst ;  that  is,  which  symbolize  selfish- 
ness, or  isolation  from  others,  in  the  greatest 
degree.     Pride  is  freewill  exercised  to  fuller 
seltishness.     It   is  complete  isolation.     The 
proud  man  wants  nothing  that  his  fellow  has. 
He  is  perfectly  satisfied  with  himself,  and 
will  do  nothing  for  and  receive  nothing  fro| 
mankind.     This  sin  is  purged  by  the  carryii^^ 
of  heavy  weights,  which  bow  the  back;  whili% 
examples  of  humility  and  of  pride  brougfal 
low  are  painted  on  the  rocks  of  this  circle  of 
Purgatory,  and  the  angels  sing  a  paraphra^ 
of  the  Lord's  Prayer,  or  prayer  of  humility 
The  proud  souls  are  glad  of  their  burden 
since  it  is  the  means  of  their  reform.    Thisil 
true  of  all  the  other  souls  in  Purgatory. 

The  crimes,  or  children   of  pride,  are  pii 
tured  in  the  lowest  depth  of  the  Inferno  hi 

repentance.  To  deal  with  this  is  the  proper  province 
of  the  Church.  The  State  takes  the  deed  just  as  it 
stands,  measures  it  and  returns  its  crime  u|)on  it  m 
legal  punishment  The  chnrch  regards  the  interi 
which  canot  be  measured,  and  which  can  only  be 
atoned  for  by  repentance  and  purification.  The  trouble 
in  the  time  of  Dante  was  that  the  Church  usurped  the 
province  of  the  State.  It  dealt  with  crimes  as  well  as 
Bins,  and  forgave  the  deed  itself  on  profession  of  re' 
pcntance.  The  consequence  was  that  crime  flourished. 
Good  deeds  cannot  atone  for  bad  ones,  nor  one  virtue 
absolve  another  vice.  The  sincere  amendment  of  life 
can  alone  atone  for  sm,  and,  in  the  case  of  cnme 
(Since  this  affects  society  as  well  as  self),  only  the  re- 
turn of  the  deed  upon  the  doer  in  adequate  and  suita* 
ble  penalty  can  satisfy  the  ends  of  jusUoe. 


814 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


the  traitors,  who  are  enveloped  in  the  icy  lake 
of  Cocytus,  were  Lucifer,  chief  of  traitors 
and  king  of  the  proud,  dwells  and  reigns, 
with  Judas  as  his  chief  attendant. 

The  next  sin  is  Envy,  and  the  expurgation 
of  envy  is  by  means  of  an  iron  thread  sewfng 
together  the  eyes  of  the  sinner.  Envy  differs 
from  and  arises  above  pride,  in  that  it  does 
want  something  of  its  fellows.  But  it  is  a 
terrible  sin,  because  it  wishes  evil  to  them  in 
return.  It  wants  to  take  away  good  from 
another.  Its  eyes  are  blinded.  It  does  not 
see  that  only  in  the  good  of  others  can  it  at- 
tain its  own  good. 

The  criminals  whose  deeds  are  the  chfldren 
of  Envy  are  punished  by  various  terrible 
torments.  They  are  in  *'  a  place  stone-built 
throughout,  called  Malebolge,"  of  a  livid 
hue,  as  Envy  is.  They  are  as  follows:  Se- 
ducers, who  are  scourged  by  demons;  Flatter- 
ers, immersed  in  filth ;  Simonists  fixed  in 
circular  holes,  head  downward,  their  feet 
burned  with  flickering  flames ;  Soothsayers 
and  Sorcerers,  who,  having  tried  to  pry  into 
the  future,  now  are  compelled  to  walk  with 
their  faces  twisted  so  that  their  tresses  fall 
over  their  bosoms,  walking  backward  iu 
order  to  see;  Barterers  and  Peculators,  plunged 
in  a  lake  of  boiling  pitch  and  guarded  by, 
demons,  who  thrust  those  down  those  that  trj- 
to  rise;  Hypocrites,  *'a  painted  people"  pacing 
up  and  down  under  the  pressure  of  gilded 
6loaks  with  leaden  linings;  Thieves,  perse- 
cuted by  serpents  and  transformed  into  the 
likeness  of  their  creeping  selves,  by  a  process 
before  which  the  imagination  stands  appalled; 
Evil  Counselors,  in  the  torment  of  spiral 
flames,  which  have  become  so  at  one  with 
them  that  the  flame  is  even  the  instrument -of 
speech;  Schismatics  and  Heretics,  with  limbs 
torn  off  and  bodies  mangled,  one,  who  has 
disrupted  the  family,  carrying  his  head  in  his 
bis  hand ;  finally.  Alchemists,  Forgers  and 
Counterfeiters,  afflicted  with  grievous  diseases 
and  loathsome  sores. 

Next  to  Envy  comes  Anger,  purged  by  a 
thick  smoke,  through  which  Dante  himself 
passes  in  company  with  the  other  repentant 
•ouls.  And  when  w«  look  into  the  Inferno 
for  the  acts  produeed  by  this  parent  sin,  we 


find  the  violent  plunged  in  a  river  of  blood; 
either  suicides  changed  into  trees,  not  allowed 
to  have  their  bodies  again  at  the  resurrection, 
because  they  have  destroyed  these  bodies  by 
self-murder;  and  the  violent  against  Ood.  or 
blasphemers,  under  a  slow  showier  of  liquid 
fire.  Fraud  and  usury  are  also  punished 
here.  These  tliree  sins — ^pride,  envy  and 
auger,  with  their  attendant  crimes,  are  the 
results  of  love  misapplied,  or  turned  from  its 
proper  channel.  They  are  self-love  instead 
of  love  of  God,  and  of  humanity,  as  the  mani- 
festation of  God.  Anger  is  less  than  the 
other  two  beci\use  they  strike  at  institutions — 
at  the  church,  the  state  and  the  home,  while 
anger  affects  individuals  only.  The  fourth  sin 
is  Luke w arm  ness,  or  tardiness  in  doing  good 
and  in  following  the  right.  This  is  love  de- 
fective, and  we  see  it  purged  by  the  possess- 
ion of  an  eager  desire  to  go  forward;  7^ 
keeps  these  souls  rapidly  in  progress,  unrest- 
ing in  their  desire  to  show  their  anxiety  to 
serve  God. 

Love  excessive  produces  Avarice,  Gluttony, 
and  Incontinence.  Each  punishment  is  the 
symbol  of  the  sinful  condition  of  the  particu- 
lar soul  which  receives  it.  £ach>  sin,  each 
crime,  receives  its  appropriate  penalty  in  the 
shape  of  the  return  of  the  deed  upon  the  doer 
in  ord^r.that  the  doer  shall  be  able  to  rise  out 
of  his  sin. 

vn. 

ETERNAL  PUNISHMENT. 

Dante  gives  no  literal  assurance  that  a  soul, 
when  once  in  the  Inferno,  can  get  out  of  it 
into  the  Purgatorio.     He  rather  intimates  the 
contrary,  as  his  sect — and,  indeed,  ecclesias 
tirism    generally — has    taught.     But    taking 
the  poem  in  its  universal  application  we  may, 
with  the  certainty  of  observation,  assert  that 
the  soul  may  and  does  issue  from  Hell  and  go 
through  Purgatory  into  Heaven.     Looking  at 
it  in  this  light,  with  death  as  an  incident  and 
not  as  a  dead  wall  beyc^nd  which  there  is  no 
hope.  Vie  draw  a  wonderful  lesson  of  faith 
and  of  joy.    Hell  then  becomes  a  state  where- 
in the  sinner  is  punished,  because  his  fellow- 
men  return  upon  him,  in  justice,  his  own 
deed,  and  because  God  m  his  love  allows  him 


THE  STORY  OF  DANTKo    '  DTVINE  COMEDY." 


81S 


to  be  free  and  to  exercise  his  freedom  even  & 
tbe  utmoftt  wickedness,  waiting  till  he  shall 
turn,  and  then  standing  ready  in  his  grace  to 
help  him  to  rise.  The  inscription  over  the  gate 
of  Hell  which  proclaims  **A11  hope  aban- 
don, ye  that  enter  here,"  is  then  translated 
as  meaning  that  while  ye  are  in  Hell  there  is 
DO  hope  for  you,  but  not  necessarily  that  ye 
cannot  ever  get  out  of  Hell  and  into  Hope 
again.  This  is  the  lij^ht  of  reason  and  uf 
levelation.  That  Dante  did  not  himself,  in 
spite  of  his  theology,  have  an  inkling  of  this 
truth  is  extremely  improbable,  when  we  con- 
sider the  wonderful  insights  he  did  possess, 
insights  which  have  been  possessed  by  very 
few  in  the  centuries  that  have  followed  him. 

Reason,  and  the  freedom  of  the  will,  deny 
eternal  punishment.  The  insight  into  the 
nature  of  God  as  a  personality  revealed  to 
man  in  the  Christ,  who  leaves  man  free  to 
rise  or  fall,  forbids  the  limiting  of  the  free 
dom  of  any  special  individual  by  a  period  of 
time.  If  man  is  free  he  must  be  free  by  na- 
ture, and  if  free  by  nature  he  must  be  free 
after  the  death  of  the  body  as  well  as  before, 
and  if  not  as  free  to  turn  and  be  good  then  as 
now  he  ia  not  free  at  aU.  To  limit  freedom 
is  to  deny  it  If  man  has  (ree  will,  he  is  as 
free  to  return  to  God  in  repentance  as  to 
depart  from  him  in  sin.  And  to  limit  the 
return  from  sin  to  any  time,  whether  it  be  the 
hour  of  death  or  any  other  hour,  is  'to  deny 
man*s  freedom.  The  freedom  of  the  will 
would  be  a  farce  if  it  last  but  threescore  years 
and  ten.  A  being  who  is  allowed  to  sin  vol- 
untary farewr  and  is  not  allowed  afU^  a 
certain  time  to  repent  and  return  to  his  God, 
cannot  by  any  stretch  of  the  imagination  be 
called  a  creature  of  free-will.  To  be  free  at 
all  he  must  be  free  eternally.  The  dogma  of 
eternal  punishment  is  illogical  and  untenable 
unless  one  denies  the  freedom  of  the  will. 

The  word  '*  eternal"  may  be  translated 
"spiritual"  rather  than  "everlasting,"  and  in 
this  sense,  as  Miss  Pcabody  suggests,  the  term 
"eternal  punishment"  is  eminently  true,  since 
God's  chastenings  are  "spiritual." 

It  is  undeniably  true  that  Hell  is  everlast- 
ing and  punishment  everlasting,  for  ae  crea- 
tioB  if  fTtrlMtiDf ,  liii  and  therefore  penalty 


niust  also  be ;  but  that  any  individual  soul 
shall  forever  stay  in  Hell,  that  he  shall,  b^ 
cause  of  the  incident  of  death,  be  deprived  of 
the  blessing  of  repentance  and  the  consequent 
chance  for  reform,  is  to  deny  God*s  justice 
and  his  everlasting  love.  ^Ve  have  no  good 
authority  in  revelation,  much  less  in  reason 
(which  must  be  our  final  test)  for  any  such 
conception.  Mau  is  in  Hell  so  long  as  he 
sins ;  when  he  repents  he  enters  the  state  of 
reform  or  expurgation,  and  this  will  be  when 
he  mUe. 

VIIL 

PARADISB  AND  BEATUICB. 

Before  Dante  enters  tlie  gate  of  Purgatory 
he  must  ascend  three  stairs,  the  white  repre- 
senting confession,  the  purple,  scored  with 
figures,  of  the  crojts,  symbolizing  contrition 
or  crucifixion  of  self,  and  the  scarlet  repre- 
senting absolution  by  means  of  love.  The 
angel  marks  his  forehead  with  seven  P'«, 
each  of  which  stands  for  .1  sin  (pe^cata)  that 
he  must  purge  away.  He  passes  through  the 
seven  circles  of  the  Purgatorio  At  the  end 
of  each  circle  a  P  is  brushed  away  from  his 
forehead,  until  having  passed  through  the 
fiery  flames  which  purify  from  incontinence, 
he  is  free  from  sin.  When  it  has  become  as  easy 
for  him  to  be  good  "as  to  float  down  river  in 
a  boat,"  the  heii;ht  of  Purgatory  is  attained. 
Here  he  finds  tlie  earthly  Paradise  and  is 
granted  the  vision  of  Beatrice  descending  in 
the  chariot  of  the  Church.  He  then  drinks 
of  the  waters  of  Lethe,  whereby  be  loses  the 
remembrance  of  sin,  and  of  the  waters  of 
"Eunoe,"  which  enarble  him  to  remember 
only  the  good;  and,  girded  with  the  rush  of 
humility  and  crowned  lord  of  himself,  he 
passes  from  Purgatory  to  Paradise  with  Bea- 
trice as  his  guide. 

The  splendors  of  this  triumphal  Paradiso, 
with  its  spheres  wherein  dwell  the  spirits  of 
the  blessed,  and  its  culmination  in  the  vision 
of  God  in  his  threefold  nature,  cannot  be 
confined  within  any  words  of  description.  It 
is  a  vision  of  beauty  and  joy  and  of  that  love 
which  upholds  the  world,  and  to  which  the 
human  soul,  when  freed  from  sin,  shall 
finally  attain.    Its  ixuDAtes  ai*  members  9t 


tl6 


THB  UBRAS9  MAGAZINE. 


the  Inylsiblo  Church,  the  Communion  of 
Saints,  "Love,  at  whose  word  the  sun  and 
planets  move,"  sways  "every  will  and  wish," 
mutual  unselfishness  reigns  and  man  beholds 
his  Grod. 

In  the  nine  spheres  of  Dante's  heavenly 
system  dwell  the  blessed  spirits,  living  in  this 
sphere  or  in  that  according  to  the  s|)€oiaI 
characteristic  of  their  piety.  All  »re  in  bliss, 
for  ** every  part  of  Heaven  is  Paradise." 
The  system  was  adopted  from  that  of  Diony- 
■ius  the  Areopagite ;  and  as  in  Dante's  time 
the  earth  was  supposed  to  be  the  center  of  the 
universe,  the  nine  spheres  are  represented  as 
revolving  around  the  earth,  each  one  further 
and  further  away  from  earth  and  so  nearer 
and  nearer  to  God. 

The  light  or  love  of  God  penetrates  the 
^hole  universe  and  is  the  same  everywhere. 
But  it  is  reflected,  here  more  and  there  less 
according  to  the  capability  of  the  recipient. 
GkxL  is  the  one  Independent  Essence;  he  is 
Cause  of  himself,  and  therefore  caus6'r  and 
c&uaed  in  one.  All  else  is  dependent  upon  Him. 
His  divine  light — that  Intelligence  which  is 
Wisdom,  Power,  and  Love  in  one — is  reflected 
down  to  all  that  is  inferior  to  him;  each  in- 
ferior reflecting  to  its  inferior,  as  a  mirror  re- 
flects the  light  thrown  upon  it.  The  light 
which  penetrates  and  is  always  the  same,  is 
essence;  the  light  which  reflects,  is  being. 
And  in  so  far  as  the  individual  wills,  docs  he 
receive  more  or  less  being.  In  the  Paradiso, 
the  most  light  is  reflected,  and  the  soul  reaches 
most  nearly  the  Divine  Essence — the  i  bsolute 
Wisdom,  I^ve,  and  Power. 

In  the  highest  of  Dante's  nine  spheres,  is 
•em  pi  tern  al  quiet,  the  peace  which  has  had 
no  beginning,  and  shall  have  no  end.  Desire, 
and  therefore  motion,  or  restlessness,  has 
ceased,  for  the  sphere  touches. God  at  every 
point,  and  is  absolutely  content.  It  contains 
everything  within  itself ,•  because  it  is  atone 
with  God.  Motion  is  but  the  result  of  the 
unsatisfled  desire  to  reach  God.  As  the  eii^ht 
lower  spheres  touch  Him  only  at  certain 
points  instead  of  at  all  points,  they  are  unsat- 
isfled: and  so,  ia  order  that  each  point  shall 
touch  Him  as  much  and  an  often  as  possible, 
the  spheres  revolve  with  the  utmost  rapidity, 


.t 


eicii  part  breathless  in  its  loving  desire  to 
tiilrt'h  again  its  satisfaction  in  fhrn  union  with 
God. 

Love  in  the  object  moved,  acting  toward 
the  immovable  Creator  of  that  object,  causes 
motion.  Thus  only  can  the  immovable  create 
movabilty.  **To  be  loved  requires  do  act." 
Go^  seen  from  without  is  the  infinite  Beauty, 
Tnth  and  Goodness  who  inspires  lo^e  or 
motion  toward  himself.  Thus  the  spheres  re- 
volve eternally. 

This  explanation  of  the  origin  of  spherical 
motion,  beautifully  symbolizes  the  restless- 
ness of  the  soul  in  its  failure  to  reach  God,  as 
compared  with  its  peace  when  united  to  Him. 
And  since  He  is  the  perfection  of  self-activity, 
the  peace  bom  of  the  union  with  llim  is  not 
the  peace  of  inanition,  but  the  peace  of  the 
realized  activity  of  the  spirit  in  its  eflfort  for 
the  good  of  the  whole,  as  compared  with  Ci» 
unrest  of  its  separation  from  God  in  selfish- 
ness. 

The  central  figure  of  the  Paradisu  is  Bea- 
trice. The  beautiful  child  and  maiden  whom 
Dante  loved  as  a  boy,  he  apotheosizes  as  the 
goddess  of  Divine  Love  and  wisdom.  From 
the  time  when  she  sees  his  trouble  in  the  mid- 
Journey,  of  life,  and  sends  Virgil  to  his  as8is^ 
ance,  all  througu  his  journeying  Beatrice  is 
the  goal  toward  which  he  strives.  Before  he 
begins  his  journey,  Virgil,  after  promising 
to  be  his  guide  through  the  realm  of  the 
* 'mournful  shades"  and  that  of  those  who 
"in  fire  contented"  remain,  says  to  him — 

"  Bat  wonldet  thon  monnt  to  where  the  blessed  dwell, 
A  Boal  more  worthy  shall  conduct  thy  flight ; 
Her  care  ehall  guide  thee  when  1  bid  fare^-ell.^* 

When  he  delays  or  faints  on  his  journey, 
Virgil  reminds  him  or  her  whom  he  shall  sec, 
and  spurs  his  desire  to  go  onward  and  up- 
ward, until  finally,  purified  by  the  tlames 
which  cleanse  the  incontinent,  so  hot  that  be 
would  fain  plimge  himself  into  boiling  glass 
to  cool  himself,  he  comes  to  the  summit  of 
Purgatory  and  finds  Beatrice,  clad  in  the 
colors  of  hope,  ready  to  be  his  giiide  through 
Paradise. 

The  sun  is  at  the  equinox,  or  point  where , 
"four  circles  and  three  crosses  meet."    Uii 
Springtime     in     the    southem    hemisphere. 


THE  STORY  OF  DAXTi:  S    '  DIVINE  COMEDY." 


817 


Dante  standi  at  the  summit  of  Purgatory  in 
the  Earthly  Paradise.  He  is  ready  for  the 
Heavenly  Paradise,  fur  he  has  realized  the 
four  cardinal  virtues,  Prudence,  Temperance, 
Fortitude,  and  Justice;  and  tne  three  celestial 
virtues.  Faith,  Hope  and  Chaiity,  or  brotherly 
love — Uie  four  circles  and  three  crosses  have 
met  in  him.  * 

Beatrice,  standing  above  Dante,  turns  her 
head  a  little  to  the  left  and  fixes  her  eyes  upon 
the  sun's  full  light.  "So  never  eagle  fixed 
his  steadfast  gaze.*^  Dante  tixiug  his  eyes  on 
hers,  endures  the  light  as  reflected  from  her 
eyes  and  rises  witU  her  to  heaven. 

As  they  go  from  sphere  to  sphere,  Beatrice 
glows  ever  brighter  and  brighter  with  the 
divine  light,  and  her  eyes  glow  ever  more  and 
more  in  their  intensity.  It  is  only  by  their 
increased  shining  thai  Dante  knows  that  he 
has  ascended  from  one  sphere  to  another. 
Sometimes  he  can  hardly  endure  their  light, 
and  once  even  ^he  is  obliged  to  turn  her  eyes 
away  lest  their  brilliancy  shall  overpower 
him.  By  this  reflected  light  he  rises.  The 
central  sun  of  righteousness  is  reflected  so  that 
the  human  eye  can  bear  its  rays,  and  the  hu- 
man soul  rise  by  its  light.  The  womanly 
I  principle  of  divine  wisdom  draws  mankind 
V. Inward  and  the  Beatride  of  Dante  is  the  pre- 

I  he  four  Cardinal  Virtues  belong  to  humanity  be 
r>  >  > 4  well  aa  eince  the  Christian  era;  bnt  in  the 
1  •  \Ieetial  Virtaes  there  is  special  reference  to  the 
t  n  ■  a  insight  into  the  nature  of  God  as  the  Divine- 
i: '  .ittn  revealed  in  Christ.  Faith  is  not  blind,  nnthink- 
vag  acceptance  of  another's  verdict,  but  that  insight  of 
the  mind  into  the  nature  of  God  which  sees  him  as 
personal,  self-active,  self-determining  or  creating,  and 
self-revealing.  It  is  the  ^^evidence  of  things  not  seen.**' 
From  this  insight  follows  the  conception  of  the  world 
of  haman  beings  as  the  creation  of  a  self-revealing 
Ood,  in  an  infinite  progress  of  perconaliticStWho  ascend 
eternally  into  anion  with  him.  Hope  does  not  see  this 
insight  clearly,  bat  knows  that  it  is  withont  seeing  it 
Hope  looks  forward  with  confidence  to  a  time  when  it 
knows  It  shall  see  it.  Brotherly  love  combines  faith 
and  hope  by  living  what  they  see  and  believe.  It  is, 
therefore,  **the  greatest  of  these,*'  since  it  does  what 
faith  and  hope  have  revealed.  That  is,  charity  mani- 
fests in  its  o^n  deed  the  nature  of  the  Ood  it  believes 
in.  By  stooping  down  to  those  lees  enlightened,  and 
therefore  Ie«s  moral,  than  itself  it  draws  them  upward, 
Just  as  Ood,  by  revealine  himself  through  the  Christ, 
^esas  of  Nasuiroth,  has  stooped  down  to  all  straggling 
liofiU  bfing*  and  iialp«d  Ui«m  to  vim. 


cursor  of  the  etotg  toeibliche  of  Qoethe's  Fa/uti. 
Beatrice  shows  that  slie  is  womanly  in  the 
highest  sense,  for  she  is  strong  and  self-deter* 
mined,  as  well  as  sweet  and  pure.  Her  words 
are  full  of  wisdom,  and  in  her  sacrifice  for 
Dante's  upraising  she  does  not  forget  to  show 
him  wherein  he  has  failed  in  his  duty  to  her, 
and  consequently  to  himself.  She  is  merci- 
ful, for  she  is  just.  She  is  loving,  for  she  is 
steadfast  in  her  devotion  to.  the  highest  ideal, 
both  for  herself  and  for  him.  I  would  fain 
turn  aside  for  a  moment  to  lay  one  flower  on 
the  grave  of  Dante's  wife — she  who  bore  and 
reared  his  seven  children  and  through  whose 
carefulness  his  manuscript  of  the  Ditina 
Commedia  was  preserved  from  oblivion. 
Gemma  Donati  is  not  in  Dante's  "Paradise," 
probable  because  she  was  his  wife,  and  chiv- 
alry forbade.  Women  and  men  of  a  better  age 
who  are  beginning  to  see  that  love  is  the 
ideal  of  marriage,  ani  marriage  the  ideal  of 
love,  may  well  spend  a  moment  of  sympathy 
with  Gemma  and  her  sisters  of  the  middle 
ages,  whose  domination  by  masculine  ideas 
and  priest- made  laws  has  kept  the  world 
from  receiving  the  light  which  the  feminine 
can  impart.  Christianity  has  still  to  see  the 
central  truth  of  Christ's  incarnation — God  re- 
vealed by  means  of  the  womanly. 

IX. 
coNCLusroir. 

RememberinsT  the  universal  light  in  which 
the  poem  is  to  be  read,  applicable  to  to  day  as 
well  as  to  all  past  and  future  time,  we  see 
that  each  one  of  us  has  or  may  have,  his  llell, 
his  Purgatory,  and  his  Paradise,  here  and 
now.  There  are  souls  in  all  of  these  three 
states,  living  right  around  us;  souls  who  are 
in  a  Hell  as  deep  and  terrible  as  are  any  of 
the  denizens  of  Dante's  Inferno,  and  souls 
who  have  reached  the  consciousiiesss  of  sin 
and  the  bliss  of  forgivenes  and  union  with 
God. 

Further ir  ore,  although  the  poet  could  not, 
in  consistency  with  his  method,  so  portray  it, 
the  same  soul  may  be  in  all  three  states  at 
once,  bavins:  realized  his  best  self  in  ore  rnr- 
ticular,  while  purifying  himself  in  .inotlier, 
and  y<*t  unawakened  in  a  third.    For  instance, 


tl8 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


a  man  may  b«  in  Paradiw  by  reasgn  of  gen- 
erosity, in  Purgatory  from  his  struggle  against 
incontinence,  and  in  Hell  from  intemperance; 
or,  he  may  be  in  the  Hell  of  the  traitor,  the 
Purgatory  of  avarice  and  the  Heaven  of  self- 
control  over  the  passions. 

Effort  should  therefore  be  made  to  help 
every  human  being  to  see  that  outside  of 
himself  there  is  no  essential  Evil:  that  his 
temptations  are  within  and  to  be  overcome 
from  within;  that  his  deed,  whether  good  or 
evil,  is  returned  upon  him  inexorably,  through 
the  justice  of  the  infinite  Love  in  whom  he 
has  his  being;  and  that  to  avert  the  conse- 
quences of  his  own  free  choice  would  be  to 
annul  his  freedom,  and  thus  destroy  at  once 
all  rational  conception  of  either  Qod  or  man, 
who  essentially  are  One. — Habriettb  R. 
Shattuck. 


PRANQOIS  JOSEPH  DUPLEIX. 

IS  POUR  PABTfl — ^FABT  IV. 

We  have  not  space  to  follow  the  course  of 
the  renewed  war,  which  was  equally  notable 
for  the  hard  fighting  of  the  Europeans  on  both 
sides;  for  the  steadfaBtne&s  and  wariness  of 
Dalton,  the  commander  in  Trichinopoly, which 
again  became  the  chief  bone  of  contention;  for 
the  activity  of  Lawrence  in  relieving  the  be- 
leaguered city,  and  his  skill  in  defeating  with 
his  small  army  the  vast  hosts  of  the  assailants; 
and,  above  all,  for  the  indefatigable  efforts  of 
Dupleix  to  supply  the  means  of  carrying  on 
the  obstinate  contest,  and  to  repair,  by  his 
Judicious  and  detailed  instructions,  the  con- 
spicuous want  of  capacity  among  his  officers. 

The  diplomacy  of  Dupleix,  or  rather  that 
of  his  wife,  detached  the  Mysorean  and  Morari 
Rao  from  Mahomed  Ali  and  the  English;  and 
securing  them  as  allies,  reestablished  the 
blockade  of  the  city.  But  as  he  was  never 
able  to  take  it,  and  the  wasting  war  involved 
him  and  the  company  deeper  and  deeper  in 
embarrassment  and  increased  the  exasperation 
of  the  English  against  him,  there  seemed  less 
and  less  hope  that  he  could  escape  condemna- 
tion for  persisting  in  designs  which,  however 
plausible  in  their  origin,  were  opposed  by  the 


stem  logic  of  facts.  Thus  he  did  si  last 
sent  to  treat,  but,  treo  then,  in  do  temper  of 
practical  compromise.  He  still  insisted  on  the 
recognition  by  his  adversaries  of  the  authority 
which  had  been  delegated  to  him  by  successiva 
subahdars;  and  supported  his  pretensions  by 
alleged  charters  from  them,  and  from  the  em- 
peror, which  the  English  loudly  asserted  to  he 
forgeries.  This  charge  was  vehemently  repu- 
diated at  the  time  by  the  French  negotiators. 
But  thus  no  common  basis  could  be  eiEtab- 
lished;  and  hostilities  were  resumed.  The 
end,  however,  was  at  hand.  In  this  last  trans- 
action Dupleix  seems  to  have  been  almost  ju- 
dicially blind;  for  relating  the  conference  to 
Bussy,  he  writes:  Tout  ce  que  nou9  awfnspre- 
tents,  firmans f  paravanas,  et  autres  piiees,  tout 
avait  its  forge  par  notu.  This  is  a  melancholy 
revelation,  though  not  more  so  than  Olive's 
shamelessly  fraudulent  treatment  of  Omi- 
chund. 

The  storm  that  had  long  been  brewing  in 
France  was  now  to  burst  on  Dupleix *8  devoted 
head.     The  Governor-General  must,  indeed, 
have  been  well  aware  that  he  stood  on  very 
slippery    ground;    that  powerful    influences 
were  banded  together  against  him:   that  the 
surrender  of  the  French  army  at  Trichinopoly 
had  gone  far  to  eclipse  the  luster  of  earh'er 
achievements;  and  that  his  subsequent  failure 
to  reduce  that  city  was  an  unanswerable  argu- 
ment against  his  policy.   The  company  reseot- 
ed  the  suspension  of  their  trade,  and  the  ab- 
sorption of  their  funds  in  war  expenses.    The 
ministers  were  anxious  to  conciliate  England, 
and  feared  that  the  Carnatic  struggle  might 
provoke  a  European  war.     Public  opinion  was 
adverse  to  schemes  which  seemed  at  once  vis- 
ionary and  inglorious  in  their  results.    La- 
bourdonnais  was  indefatigable  in  fanning  the 
flame  of  indignation  against  his  rival:  and 
Dupleix 's  champion,  D'Autheuil,   whom  be 
had  sent  home  to  explain  and   defend  his 
course,  was  so  injudicious  in  his  t^\ocaof, 
that  M.  Hamont  says  of  him  roundly:  Bon 
ambfttmadefut  plu$  nuitiUe  qu*uHle  aux  intSriU 
de  DupUix. 

Thus  negotiations  were  enterfd  into  with 
Emrland,  and  a  convention  wis  concluded, 
whereby  commiasioners  were  to  be  appointed 


FRANgOIS  JOSEPH  DUPLEIX. 


810 


for  reconcil^g  the  two  Companies,  and  pre- 
venting the  recurrence  of  war  between  them 
while  their  respective  nations  should  be  at 
peace.  And  it  was  agreed  that  both  Dupleix 
and  Saunders  should  be  recalled.  To  estimate 
this  point  rightly,  we  must  look  back  at  Du- 
pleix's  conduct,  and  remember  bis  character- 
istic disposition.  Did  he  act  wisely  in  taking 
up  ChuDda  Sahib's  cause.  If  so — and  this 
proceeding  had  been  condoned  by  the  direc- 
tors— was  he  wise  in  prosecuting  the  wat* 
against  Mahomed  Ali  and  the  English  after 
the  loss  of  his  army  and  the  death  of  his  can- 
didate? His  reasons  for  doing  so  we  have 
stated.  But  they  did  not  satisfy  his  employers 
or  the  king's  ministers;  and  as  the  continua- 
tion of  the  contest  seemed  to  them  to  open  an 
Indefinite  vista  of  expense  and  peril  without 
any  corresponding  advantage,  his  recall  ap- 
peared to  them  essential.  For  could  he  be 
trusted  not  only  to  effect,  but  to  abide  by,  a 
real  pacification?  Would  it  not  have  been 
found  too  late,  that,  taking  occasion  from 
some  new  and  plausible  opening  for  adven- 
ture he  had  resumed  the  attempt  to  redevelop 
his  "system?" 

But  whatever  may  be  thought  as  to  the  ne- 
cessity of  his  removal,  there  can  be  only  one 
opinion  of  the  way  in  which  it  was  effected, 
and  of  the  French  commissioner's  conduct  to- 
ward him.  It  would  seem  that  the  Govern- 
ment and  the  Company  were  seriously  afraid 
that  one  who  had  so  long  ruled  as  a  master 
might  refuse  to  relinquish  his  authority  with- 
out a  struggle.  Godeheu  was  accordingly 
provided  with  2,000  soldiers,  a  force  that,  if 
aent  sooner  and  properly  officered,  might  have 
brought  the  long  contest  to  a  triumphant  issue. 
And  an  order  signed  by  the  king  empowered 
Godeheu  to  arrest  the  Governor-General,  guard 
him  securely,  and  send  him  home  a  prisoner 
on  the  first  vessel  that  should  sail  for  France. 
This  mandate  was  absolute.  But  a  second 
order  dispensed  with  its  execution  in  case  Bu- 
pleix  should  submit  quietly;  though  it  added, 
that  if  Godeheu  judged  it  necessary  to  arrest 
hi^.  Madame  Dupleix  and  her  daughter  were 
tOBh^re  the  same  fate,  and  were  to  have  no 
oommlnnication  with  him.  Meanwhile  the 
dimt^Aif  of  the  direeton,  and  €k)deheu*s  own 


letters,  were  so  worded  as  to  excite  no  surmiflt 
of  the  real  drift  of  the  commission.  So  o(»i- 
pletely  was  Dupleix  deceived,  that  he  wrote 
thus:  ITaUez  pas  regarder  cette  resolution  de  la 
eompagnie  comms  une  marque  de  son  ingrati- 
tude a  mon  ega/rd.  Je  la  regarde,  au  contraire, 
eomme  un  serties  esseniiel  gu*elle  me  rend,  ei 
surUmi  d  avoir  fait  le  choix  ee  Oodeheu^  qui  est 
le  plus  elier  de  mM  amis. 

On  arriving  in  the  river  the  commissioner 
sent  another  unctuous  and  cunningly  reticent 
letter,  declining,  however,  Dupleix  *8  proffered 
hospitality.  He  disembarked  surrounded  by 
guards  and  other  military  display.  The  Gov- 
ernor-General met  him  on  the  bank,  and 
offered  him  his  hand.  Godeheu  bowed  stiffly, 
and  presented  a  letter  from  himself  for  Du- 
pleix's  perusal.  This,  amid  many  polite 
phrases,  and  still  suppressing  the  occasion, 
and  misrepresenting  the  character  of  the  meas- 
ure, abruptly  revealed  the  fact  of  the  Grov- 
ernor-Grenerars  recall,  and  that  of  his  family, 
to  France.  Vintention  du  roi,  said  this  glozing 
epistle,  n'est  que  de  mettre  la  campagnie  d  portS 
de  ton  lumi^res.  Before  Dupleix  could  recover 
from  his  astonishment,  or  ask  any  question, 
Godeheu  produced  the  royal  mandate  revok- 
ing the  Governor-General's  commission,  and  a 
second,  demanding  a  detailed  report  on  the 
company's  affairs.  Dupleix  calmly  perused 
these  documents  but  it  was  observed  that  he 
grew  pale.  Declaring  his  readiness  to  obey 
the  king's  commands,  he  requested  to  be 
favored  with  any  other  of  which  Godeheu 
might  be  the  bearer.  Then  with  one  long- 
drawn  sigh,  and  a  fixed  and  contemptuous 
gaze  at  his  false  friend,  he  silently  awaited  the 
issue  of  this  strange  scene.  Godeheu  desired 
him  to  summon  the  Council.  The  news 
spread  fast,  and  a  crowd  beset  the  pre- 
cincts of  the  council  chamber.  Godeheu 
ordered  his  guards  to  disperse  it.  Then 
seating  himself,  and  motioning  Dupleix  to  sit 
beside  him,  he  solemnly  recited  his  instructions 
amid  profound  silence.  Dupleix  showed 
great  self-restraint,  but  his  hands  at  times 
twitched  convulsively.  With  bowed  head  he 
listened  attentively,  and  at  the  close  he  rose, 
and  with  extended  arms  exolaimed»  Flw  If 
roil    The  cry  was  taken  up,  and  he  qoltted 


I?r-v 


8d0 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


the  council  chamber,  and  poured  forth  to 
Buesy  the  bitterness  of  his  soul. 

The  following  evening  Godeheu  assumed 
command  as  governor.  But  his  moral  author- 
ity was  impaired  by  the  subterfuge  which  he 
had  practiced,  and  by  .the  pitiful  contrast 
which  he  presented  to  the  brilliant  and  un- 
daunted ruler  who  had  so  long  defied  the 
storms  of  fate,  and  whose  attitude  of  dignified 
resignation  might  imply  tacit  rebuke,  but 
offered  no  excuse  for  violence.  The  new  gov- 
ernor complained  that  D'upleix  talked  of  re- 
turning in  the  course  of  two  years.  But  as 
he  had  himself,  by  his  misrepresentation,  sug- 
gested this  hope,  so  he  now  determined  to  frus- 
trate it.  He  sought  eagerly,  but  vainly,  to 
ruin  Dupleix's  personal  character  by  eliciting 
against  him  charges  of  pecuniary  corruption; 
and  regretted  that,  to  facilitate  this  noble  end, 
the  order  of  arrest  had  not  been  left  absolute. 
Cetait  U  moyen  de  decotivnr  taut,  et  de  me 
inettre  en  etat  d'agir  atec  fruit.  In  default  of 
this  expedient  he  imprisoned  Papiapoulc,  the 
agent  who  managed  the  assignments  on  the 
Carnatic  districts,,  moi  tgaged  to  Dupleix  for 
the  liquidation  of  his  large  persojial  advances 
to  the  native  princes.  This  tyrannical  act  not 
producing  any  incriminating  revelations,  he 
misappropriated  the  assignments  to  the  use  of 
the  Company;  refused,  on  the  absurd  plea  of 
their  intricacy,  to  sanction  the  auditing  and 
passing  of  the  Governor  General's  accounts 
which  showed  a  balau.xj  against  the  company 
of  a  quarter  of  a  million  sterling;  and  even 
prevented  the  cashing  of  a  large  bill  which 
they  had  made  payable  to  Dupleix.  Thus  this 
false  and  cruel  man  reduced  his  old  benefactor 
and  recently  alleged  intimate  friend  to  beggary 
and  worse;  for  Dupleix's  influence  had  in- 
duced many  friends  and  admirers  to  intrust 
him  with  large  sums  for  the  public  service, 
which  he  thus  lost  the  means  of  repaying,  and 
for  which  he  was  sued  on  his  return  to  France. 
Nor  would  Ck>deheu  advance  him  money  on 
the  Company's  account  and  on  the  security  of 
his  claims;  though  he  privately  lent  him  a 
small  sum,  which  the  ex -governor-general  was 
constrained  to  accept  for  immediate  necessities. 

The  commissioner's  political  adjustment  is 
beyond  our  present  province.    But  we  may 


remark  generally,  that  although  later  orden 
from  France  preserved  the  Dekkan  connec- 
tion, the  tendency  of  his  other  arrangements 
was  to  sacrifice  the  Interests  of  his  countrymen, 
and  to  give  England  a  decided  preponderanos 
on  the  eastern  coast.  Thus  he  aggravated  the 
unfavorable  conditions  under  which  Lally  con- 
tended with  us  a  few  years  later,  and  may  be 
said  to  have  prepared  the  way  for  the  downfall 
of  the  French  power  in  India. 

The  melancholy  close  of  Dupleix's  story 
may  be  told  very  briefly.  He  embarked 
amid  the  cordial  and  publicly  expressed  sym- 
pathy of  the  settlement.  His  arrival  in  France 
was  greeted  with  popular  enthusiasm;  at  fint 
he  was  well  received  by  tlie  ministers;  and  the 
Pompadour  made  much  of  his  wife.  He  even 
began  to  hope  that  he  might  be  reinstated. 
But  the  pacification  once  accomplished,  he 
was  frowned  upon  by  the  court,  slighted  by 
the  ministry,  harassed  by  creditors,  insulted 
by  ofiicers  formerly  imder  his  authority,  and 
who  had  conceived  grudges  against  him,  and 
exposed  to  popular  ridicule  as  a  political  char- 
latan. But  worst  of  all  was  his  treatment  by 
his  old  employers.  He  could  obtain  no  adjud- 
ication of  his  claims  on  the  Company.  In 
vain  he  monorialized.  earnestly,  luminously, 
convincingly.  He  was  answered,  and  replied 
with  indisputable  cogency.  The  literary  con- 
troversy was  prolonged,  but  without  effect. 
Godeheu's  maneuver  had  encouraged  and  en- 
abled the  directors  to  evade  a  judicial  settle- 
ment of  his  demands.  And  they  were  never 
settled. 

The  death  of  Madame  Dupleix  in  November, 
1756,  left  her  husband  unspeakably  desolate. 
And  though  two  years  later  he  remarried,  ap- 
parently happily,  his  second  wife  had  little 
fortune,  and  he  became  'more  and  more  im- 
poverished, though  he  still  made  gallant  "effort 
to  relieve  friends  who  bad  been  involved  in 
his  ruin.  He  was  at  last  threatened  with  an 
execution  on  his  poor  effects,  and  expulsion 
from  his  humble  retreat.  In  a  state  of  ex- 
treme exhaustion,  he  composed  a  1  st  and  q^ 
ecus  summary  of  his  services,  his  wrongs.  '  and 
his  forlorn  condition;  and  tliree  <lay8^*^jier 
ward  he  expired,  on  November  10.  nCT),  hav- 
ing survived  the  final  triumph  of  the  /^°\jigliih 


PRANQOIS  JOSEPH  DUPLEIX. 


831 


in  ihe  great  duel  which  he  bad  first  provoked. 
That    Duplelx  was  not  only  a  remarkable, 
but  a  really  great  man,  is  the  general  impres- 
sion conveyed  by  an  attentive  study  of  his  his- 
tory.  The  originality,  boldness  and  magnitude 
of  his  politicaLconceptions;  his  versatile  ability, 
displayed  alike  in  its  application  to  commerce, 
politics,  and  war;  his  inexhaustible  fertility  of 
resource;  his  high  moral  courage;  his  indom- 
itable  energy  and  perseverance;  his  munifi- 
cent devotion  of  an  ample  fortune  to  the  public 
service;  the  marvels  which  he  wrought  with  in- 
adequate means  and  unpromising  instruments; 
the  unhesitating  confidence  which  he  inspired 
both  in  Europeans  and  natives,  and  which  was 
exemplified  in  the  continuous  acquiescence  of 
his  council  in  his  adventurous  policy;  the  ad- 
miration which  he  extorted  from  his  enemies; 
the  enthusiastic  sympathy  which  he  kindled 
not  only  in  the  young  and  chivalrous  Bussy, 
but  in  the  aged  and  gout-stricken  D'Autbeuil; 
the  precautions  which  were  adopted  by  the 
French  authorities  and  their  sycophantic  agent 
to  trepan  and  coerce  him  into  the  surrender  of 
his  authority;  his  loyal  and  unconditional  sub- 
mission to  the  adverse  verdict,  though  it  cast 
him  down. from  the  pinnacle  of  power  under 
the  feet  of  one  of  the  meanest  and  most  worth- 
less of  men;  and  his  dignified  demeanor  after 
his  resignation: — all  these  tokens  bespeak  the 
presence  of  a  king  of  men. 

He  has  been  taxed  with  inordinate  vanity. 
The  charge,  if  not  imfounded,  seems  to  be  at 
least  much  exaggerated,  and  mainly  the  result 
of  misapprehension,  national  antipathy,  per- 
sonal prejudice,  and  studied  misrepresentation. 
"Vain* '  was,  nay  is,  one  of  the  stock  epithets  too 
readily  applied  by  sober  Englishmen  to  their 
more  mercurial  and  self -asserting  neighbors; 
and  it  was,  of  course,  liberally  bestowed  on 
one  who  pushed  himself  into  such  sudden  and 
invidious  eminence,  and  for  a  while  bestrode 
the  Indian  world  like  a  Colossus.  And  his 
policy  of  impressing  the  oriental  imagination 
by  a  dramatic  display  of  dignity  as  the  French 
king's  viceroy;  by  making  much  of  the  title 
of  nawab  to  which  he  had  succeeded,  and 
parading  the  new  honbrs  and  decorations  re- 
ceived from  his  Mogul  patron;  and  by  trum- 
peting his  successes  far  and  wide,  and  graving 


in  the  living  stone  his  triumph  over  Nazir  Jung 
— all  these  devices  naturally  caused  him  to  be 
regarded  as  a  man  of  an  unbounded  stomach. 
This  estimate  was  confirmed  by  his  conduct 
in  the  later  stages  of  the  Carnatic  contest. 
Orme  mentions  how,  while  Chuiida  Sahib  was 
his  tool,  he  provoked  the  English  by  setting 
up  French  flags  round  their  territory,  as  if  to 
warn  them  off  from  crossing  his  frontier. 
Valeat  quantum/  But  is  not  British  sensitive- 
ness here  as  evident  as  French  vanity?  When, 
however,  after  Chunda  Sahib'sT  fall,  Dupleix 
still  refused  to  recognise  Mahomed  Ali,  affect- 
ed to  give  a  title  to  Mortiz  Ali,  and  at  last  pro- 
duced a  grant  of  the  nawabship  from  the  Sub* 
ahdar  to  himself  the  monstrous  assumption  was 
most  readily  accounted  for  by  the  plai  sible 
theory,  that  the  once  lucky  and  now  desperate 
adventurer  was  the  dupe  of  his  own  extrava- 
gant conceit,  which  goaded  him  on  to  perse- 
vere in  playing  at  kingship  instead  of  "seeing 
things  as  they  were,"  making  peace  and  set- 
tling down  to  his  proper  business  as  the  mana- 
ger of  a  commercial  concern.  And  Labour- 
donnais's  aspersions  fell  in  with  tills  view  of 
bis  rival's  besotted  egotism. 

In  spite  of  all  this,  we  believe  the  charge  to 
be  substantially  untrue,  or  at  least  unproved. 
To  analyze  correctly  the  mixed  motives  of 
human  action,  and  to  assign  \fO  each  motive 
its  relative  strength,  is  never  e^y.  But  it  m 
especialy  difficult  when  personal  ambition  and 
public  views  are  intertwined;  when  the  indiv- 
idual is  the  prime  mover,  and  throughou;,  the 
ruling  agent,  upon  whose  influence  and  repu- 
tation the  success  *of  an  original  and  critica) 
policy  is  staked;  and  when  accordingly  the  ex- 
altation of  the  man  is  essential  to  the  execu- 
tion of  his  designs  That  Dupleix  was  public- 
spirited  in  his  aims,  that  be  was  zealously  de- 
voted to  the  interests  of  the  Company  as  he 
understood  them,  to  the  service  of  the  king 
though  that  king  was  Louis  XV.,  and  to  the 
glory  and  aggrandizement  of  hb  countrymen 
however  little  they  understood  him,  we  cannot 
doubt.  How  far  personal  considerations  and 
feelings  influenced  him;  how  far  his  achieve- 
ments and  his  barbaric  honors  stimulated  1  « 
vanity,  as  they  no  doubt  flattered  his  sr  • 
esteem;  how  far  his  peiWHud   claim   to  <^o 


822 


THE  LTBRART  MAGAZINE. 


mumud  was  put  forward  not  ooly  for  public 
ends,  but  gratify  a  half-orientalized  craving 
for  high  rank  and  swelling  title— must  remain 
uncertain. 

Again,  he  has  been  sneered  at  as  a  physical 
coward;  and  Macaulay  was  not  ashamed  to 
repeat  the  silly  sneer.  That  he  did  not  lead 
armies  in  the  field,  is  true  enough:  his  business 
lay  elsewhere.  But  a  single  incident  which 
occurred  during  the  siege  of  Pondicherry  will 
be  enough  to  clear  up  tliis  point.  Coming  upon 
a  group  of  soldiers,  who  were  cowering  be- 
fore a  shell  tliat  had  just  lighted  among  them, 
he  approached,  but  too  late  to  prevent  tlie  ex- 
plosion, which,  however,  only  covered  him 
with  dust  and  smoke.  Turning  to  the  men, 
he  remarked  coolly.  Vims  wyez  hien,  enfaniSy 
que  cela  lie  fait  pas  de  mal. 

If  the  mature  Governor-General  did  not, 
like  the  young  factor  Clive,  turn  soldier  out- 
right, his  military  capacity  was  shown  in  sev- 
eral ways>  He  was  a  great  war  minister. 
His  promptitude,  assiduity,  and  skill  in  mak- 
ing the  most  of  his  scanty  resources  and  poor 
material,  in  organizing  and  equipping  the  va- 
rious departments  of  the  army,  in  improving 
the  discipline  and  tone  of  the  wretched  recruits 
sent  out  from  France,  in  raising  and  training 
sepoy  corps,  in  pushing  on  his  troops  to  the 
scene  of  action,  employing  them  as  effectively 
as  circumstances  permitted,  and  keeping  them 
true,  latterly,  to  a  losing  cause,  will  appear  the 
more  notable  the  more  his  story  is  studied  in 
detail.  Again,  he  was  no  mean  master  of  the 
operations  of  war,  both  as  a  strategist  and  as 
a  tactician.  His  insight  was  clear  and  com- 
prehensive; his  suggestions  were  generally  ap- 
posite; his  warnings  too  often  prophetic.  He 
insisted,  from  the  first,  on  the  extreme  impor- 
tance of  reducing  Trichinopoly  and  Gingee, 
and  of  the  folly  and  danger  of  the  Tanjore 
diversion.  He  consented  most  reluctantly, 
and  against  his  judgment,  to  the  first  block- 
ade of  Trichinopoly;  and  at  every  stage  of 
that  fatal  enterprise  we  have  seen  how  well  he 
understood  the  requirements  of  the  position, 
and  s  rove  by  vrise  orders  to  check  each  ap- 
proach to  tlie  catastrophe.  In  the  courae  of  the 
second  blockade  he  ordered  an  escalade  in  the 
night,  which  very  nearly  succeeded.     After 


Law's  surrender,  he  was  never  strong  enough 
to  besiege  the  city  in  form.    Though  in  his 
last  campaigns  he  vfns  overmatched  through- 
out, his  sagacious  advice  waa  most  serviceable. 
He  recommended  that  pitched  battles  in  the 
open  should  be  avdded;  that  the  spade  should 
be  used  more  than  the  Sword;  tliat  good  jKm- 
tions,  which  he  carefully  selected  and  pointed 
out,  should  be  occupied,  and   strongly  en- 
trenched with  earthworks.     And  thus  he  was 
able  to  restore  the  confidence  and  supplement 
the  scanty  numbers  of  his  own  army  to  repulse 
with  loss  and  disgrace  to  the  English  a  form- 
idable demonstration  agaii  st  Gingee,  and  to 
keep  Lawrence  himself  at  bay  and  inactive, 
until  he  was  forced  to  hurry  off  to  the  relief  of 
Trichinopoly,  which  was  again  on  the  verge 
of  surrender  for  want  of  provisions. 

Once  more,  Dupleix's  defence;  of  Pondi- 
cherry against  Boscawen  exhibits  his  military 
ability  in  yet  another  light.  The  plan  of  that 
defence  was  his  own,  the  fruit  (as  we  have 
already  said)  of  his  early  devotion  to  the  study 
of  fortification;  after  Paradis's  death  he  was 
entirely  his  own  engineer:  his  zenl  and  confi- 
dence sustained  the  spirits,  his  skill  directed 
the  efforts,  of  the  besieged;  and  with  every 
allowance  for  the  awkwardness  of  the  besieg- 
ers the  result  seeiAB  to  entitle  him  to  a  respec- 
table place  among  military  commanders. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  dwell  upon  his  profic 
iency  in  the  diplomatic  departmient  of  general- 
ship, in  which  he  was  assisted  by  his  wife, 
and  which  enabled  him  to  rescue  Pondicherry, 
to  augment  his  small  army  with  hosts  of  na- 
tive allies,  and  after  Cliunda  Sahib's  death  to 
detach  the   M3'soreans  and  Mahrattas  from 
Mahomed  Ali  and  the  English,  and  with  their 
aid  to  reestablish  the  blockade  of  Trichino- 
poly.   Thus,  under  the  most  serious  and  ac- 
cumulating disadvantages,  he   continued  to 
fight  on,  with  varying  fortune,  unable  to  con- 
quer, but  still  unconquercd,  until  he  fell,  not 
by  the  arms  of  his  antagonists  in  India,  but  by 
the  arts  of  his  opponents  in  France,  the  dex- 
trous contrivance  of  the  English  negotiators. 
and  the  crushing  dead -weight  of  a  calamity 
which  he  had  done  all  in  his  power  to  prevent, 
but  of  which  he  was  doomed  to  pay  the  bitter 
penalty. 


FRANgOIS  JOSEPH  DUPLEES:. 


a23 


Dupleix  was  not  only  a  great  nian;  but  in 
many  respects  a  great  statesman.    His  ruling 
idea  of  establishing  European  ascendency,  in 
India,  by  a  combination  of  martial  enterprise 
and  subsidiary  relations  with  native  rulers/ 
mad  based  partly  on  direct  titular  and  territo- 
rial acquisitions  from  the  Mogul  or  his  depu- 
ties, partly  on  the  indirect  influence  of  the 
resources  of  western  civilisation,    operating 
steadily  as  a  sapping  and  transforming  force 
on  the  disintegrated  and  discordant  elements 
of  native  society,  may,  at  the  present  day, 
seem  obvious  and  almost  commonplace.    But 
not  the    less   because  experience   has  since 
proved  that  it  was  a  practicable  one,  was  it  an 
original,  subtle,  and  bold  conception  at  the 
time.     That  Dupleix,  so  lightly  equipped  at 
the  opening  of  his  march,  so  grudgingly  sup- 
ported from  his  remote  French  base,  so  stouUy 
obstructed  by  the  English,  made  such  progress 
on  the  road  to  empire,  and  to  the  last  guarded 
Pondicheny  and   Qingee  intact,  maintained 
the  bloekade  of  the  second  capital  of  the  Car- 
natic,  kept  Bussy  at  Aurungabad,  and  thereby 
retained  his  influence  over  the  subahdar,  his 
reputation  in  the  Dekkan  as  mayor  of  the 
palace,  and  his  hold  of  the  French  possessions 
in  the  Circars,  is  surely  enough  to  establish  his 
pretensions  to  statesmanship,  judging  even  by 
the  vulgar  test  of  accomplished  results. 

How  much  further  he  might  have  proceeded, 
had  his  heroic  exertions  been  better  sustained 
by  his  countrymen,  and  less  stubbornly  op- 
posed by  the  British,  may  seem  an  idle  ques- 
tion; yet  in  suggesting  it  we  have,  it  appears 
to  us,  touched  the  blot  that  derogates  from  his 
fame  as  a  practical  and  far-seeing  statesman. 
He  had  a  brilliant  imagination,  consummate 
dexterity,  untiring«energy,  an  indomitable  will; 
but  he  seems  to  have  lacked,  as  a  politician, 
whiCt,  paradoxically  enough,  he  so  often  dis- 
pliycd  as  a  general — sobriety  of  judgment, 
the  capacity  or  inclination  to  count  the  cost  of 
his  great  undertaking  before  he  entered  on  it, 
«nd  again  when,  instead  of  making  peace,  he 
persevered  in  it,  regardless  of  the  warnings  of 
experience.  He  knew  that  he  owed  his  ap- 
pointment to  the  improvement  which  he  had 
elEecfced  intbe  Company's  condiUan  by  a  long 


He  knew  that  the  directors  were  so  much 
averse  to  military  expenditure  that,  on  the  eve 
of  war  with  England,  tbey  prescribed  the  most 
rigid  economy  in  that  respect,  instead  of  send- 
ing reinforcements,  and  constrained  him  to 
fortify  Pondicherry  at  his  own  cost.  He 
knew  that  Madras  had  been  reduced  not  by  a 
regular  armament  from  Eurofie,  but  by  a  non- 
descript, force  extemporized  at  the  Isle  of 
France;  that  Pondicherry  had  been  preserved, 
first  by  an  appeal  to  the  Nawab,  afterward  by 
the  clumsiness  of  the  besiegers,  and  his  own 
careful  husbanding  of  a  coibparatively  small 
army.  This  great  success,  and  the  subsequent 
hesitation  of  the  English,  might  indeed  tempt 
him  to  underrate  them,  and  the  danger  of  their 
interference  with  his  designs.  Still  he  knew 
well  what  Englishmen  l^ad  been  in  the  past, 
and  might  again  show  themselves— to  his  peril. 
He  also  knew  well  the  intensity  and  sensitive- 
ness of  their  commercial  jealousy,  the  precari- 
ousness  of  native  alliances,  the  uncertainties 
of  war,  the  certainty  that  his  policy  of  inter- 
vention, if  tolerated  by  "his  employers  for  a 
while  in  a  single  case  and  in  the  full  tide  of 
startling  success,  would  be  disapproved  as  a 
general  scheme,  and  in  the  case  that  had  al- 
ready occurred  would  be  liable  to  condemna- 
tion on  the  first  reverse,  and  to  faint  support 
in  the  interval.  After  Clive*s  rise  and 
Lawrence's  return  to  India,  there  could  be  no 
mistake  as  to  the  seriousness  and  potency  of  the 
English  opposition.  Law's  disaster,  so  great 
in  itself,  so  ominous  in  every  way,  was  sure  to 
be  regarded  as  the  fatal  outcome  of  Dupleix *8 
temerity.  Whether,  had  he  recalled  Bussy  tp 
the  Oamatic,  and  through  him  even  s<:cceeded 
in  storming  Trichinopoly,  he  could  have  re- 
covered his  ground,  and  concluded  a  favorable 
peace,  seems  doubtful;  and  not  less  so,  whether 
the  authorities  in  France  would,  after  such  a 
disaster,  have  allowed  time  for  working  out 
such  a  programme. 

But  Dupleix  did  not  recall  Bussy.  The 
collapse  in  the  Camatic  made  him  cling  all 
the  more  tenaciously  to  the  Dekkan  His 
'  'system' '  was  at  stake.  The  death  of  Chunda 
Sahib  was  an  additional  reason  for  adhering  to 
the  subahdar.  The  political  legitimacy  of 
Duplelx's  Attitude  as  a  belUgeioiit  now  do- 


S24 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


pended  entirely  on  Salabat  Jung's  sanction. 
He  hoped  also  to  receive  material  support  from 
him,  which  was  prevented  by  circumstances 
upon  which  we  must  not  now  enter,  but  which 
Dupleix  ougnt  to  have  taken  into  account. 
Yet  without  Bussy's  help,  without  a  single 
able  officer,  practically  almost  without  an  army 
of  his  own,  and  in  desperate  dependence  on 
doubtful  and  treacherous  native  alli&nces,  he 
neglected  to  make  peace  and  thereby  com- 
mitted himself  anew  to  a  most  precarious  con- 
test, which  if  not  promptly  and  successfully 
ended,  he  must  have  been  well  aware,  would 
in  one  way  or  another  be  his  undoing.  Such 
is  hardly  the  conduct  of  a  practical  statesman. 
And,  on  the  whole,  the  old  estimate  of  Duplies, 
as  a  brilliant  visionary,  does  not  seem  to  be 
far  from  the  truth;  *not,  however,  because  he 
dreamed  of  what  was  impracticable  in  itself, 
but  because  he  refused  to  discern  the  signs,  of 
the  times,  and  to  recognize  the  fact  that  what 
he  coveted  was,  in  his  actual  circumstances, 
beyond  his  reach.  And  we,  who  have  since 
settled  down  in  the  promised  land  of  his  as- 
pirations, ought  to  be  the  first  to  admit  the 
great  qualities,  to  speak  gently  of  the  defects, 
and  to  commiserate  the  misfortunes  of  the  pro- 
phet, who  impelled  us  to  enter  in  and  possess 
it.— Sidney  J.  Owen,  in  The  English  Histori- 

cai  EtvUw. 

[concluded.] 


"WONDERFUL  WALKER." 

If  I  may  judge  by  the  number  of  circulars  I 
find  in  my  letter-box,  there  are  a  great  many 
societies  for  augmenting  the  incomes  of  the 
clergy,  and  I  am  often  called  upon  to  be  pe- 
cuniarily sympathetic  with  distressed  rectors 
whose  livings  are  under  £200  a  year — nay,  I 
read  only  quite  lately  in  my  PaU  Matt  Oazeite 
that  the  distress  among  the  clergy  is  such  that 
second-hand  clothes  are  but  too  welcome.  As 
a  contribution  to  the  subject,  I  should  like  to 
tell  the  story  of  an  exemplary  clergyman  who 
was  rector  of  one  parish  for  sixty-seven  years, 
whose  living  was  under  the  value  of  £20,  who 
•duoated  and  placed  in  the  world  eight  chil- 
dren, and  left  behind  him,  not  only  a  ipemory 
hoAorvd  tkrougk  all  fho  country  idde,  btit 


£2,000  in  hard  cash.  It  is  very  certain  that 
my  model  parson  never  asked  for  charity  fur 
himself  from  any  living  soul,  nur  ever 
dreamed  of  wearing  anybody's  cast-olf  clothes. 
He  is  known  all  over  the  Liike  country  as 
"Wonderful  Walker,"  but  in  his  own  partic- 
ular vale  the  peasants  speak  of  him  simply  as 
"The  Wonderful."  I  have  lorg  wanted  to 
explore  his  native  vale,  and  this  autumn,  St. 
Luke  having  been  very  gracious  and  sent  us 
a  most  delightful  "little  summer,"  I  reflected 
that  out  of  <|;ratitude  to  his  so  generous  saint- 
ship,  one  day  at  least  should  be  spent  in  a 
pleasant  devotional  manner.  I  determined 
therefore  to  make  a  pilgrimage  to  the  "Won- 
derful's"  grave. 

This  simple  little  Mecca  is  Seathwaite,  in 
the  Duddon  valley.    If  tliere  is  any  word  sig- 
nifying something  far  smaller  than  either  vil- 
lage or  hamlet,  Seathwaite  is  that:  it  is  pmcti- 
cally  a  church  and  a  few  scattered  farms  \\  ing 
in  the  lap  of  the  hills.    My  way  there  was  by 
little  Langdale  Tarn,  the  only  lake  Mr.  I'ayn 
says  "that  he  is  ashamed  of;"  and  indeeci 
even  under  the  glamour  of  a  glorious  October 
day  it  looked  very  mean  and  ill-conditioned; 
then  over  Wrynose  Pass  down  into  Cocklej 
Beck  Bottom.    This  valley  is  the  picture  of 
desolation;  one  farmhouse  breaks  the  long 
sweep  of  stony  fell,  a  shabby  little  stream 
jerks  itself  down  a  rocky  channel,  the  whole 
valley  is  treeless,  flowerless  and  birdless.    But 
the  change  out  of  this  into  the  Duddon  valley 
is  inspiriting:  the  stream  plucks  up  heart  and 
begins  to  conduct  itself  properly,  feeling  that 
it  is  not  every  little  river  that  has  thirty -four 
Wordsworthian    sonnets    written    about   it; 
gradually  the  stones  become  rocks,  the  rocks 
boulders,  the  sweep  of  the  lower  hills  grows 
noble,  and  the  outline  of  the  mountains  be- 
comes rugged  and  grand.    And,  above  all, 
one  has  a  feeling  of  supreme  peace  and  seclu- 
sion— an  assurance  that  one  is  at  last  out  of 
the  world  of  railways,  telegrams,  jerry  build- 
ertf,  and  school  boards.  It  is,  indeed,  a  Valley 
of  Avilioi),  where,  it  is  true,  rain  falls  some 
what  freely  and  winds  blow,  but  which  is 

Ileep4iie«doir6d,  liappj,  fair  wtth  oroharA  ItWM. 

For  the  flnt  ten  milia  of  mywalk  I  <«t]r 


"WONDERFUL  WALKER" 


S25 


met  one  mAn.  I  found  him  to  be  a  fierious,  taci- 
turn creature,  square  jawed  and  wide  browed, 
pausing  long  before  lie  answered  a  question. 
Three  miles  from  Cock  ley  Beck  Farm  brought 
me  to  Seathwaite,  and  here  one  is  in  the  heart 
of  the  lovely  valley.  It  is  a  dale  within  a  val- 
ley ;  on  every  side  except  the  south  the  circling 
hills  close  round  you,  and  down  through  the 
midst  of  it  the  river  leaps  and  rushes  in  a 
series  of  lovely  falls.  Seathwaite  Church 
stands  close  to  the  stream;  but,  alas!  the  old 
church  has  given  place  to  a  new  one.  A 
dozL^  years  ago  the  very  church  in  which 
**Thc  Wonderful**  ministered  was  still  stand- 
io7.  and  would  have  stood  there  still  if  an  ex- 
eel  lent  Seathwaite  dame  had  had  her  own  way; 
she  told  me  with  a  sigh,  ^'Parsons  are  so 
proud  nowadays,  so  the}*^  pulled  down  t'ould 
church  and  put  oop  the  new  one."  The  pres- 
ent building  is  of  the  usual  genteel  Early 
English  type.  Under  an  old  yew  tree  in  a 
corner  of  the  quiet  little  graveyard.  "Won- 
derful Walker"  sleeps  his  long  sleep;  the  plain 
blue  slab  rests  on  two  crumbling  brick  sup- 
ports. It  is  simply  inscribed  to  the  memory 
of  the  Rev.  Rci'tjert  Walker,  aged  ninety-three; 
his  wife,  also  aged  ninety-ihrec;  and  their 
eldest  daughter  Elizabeth,  aged  eighty-one. 

And  now  to  tell  you  something  of  the  man 
who  lies  beneath  that  stone.  He  was  born 
witliin  half  a  mile  from  his  last  hom%  in  a 
humble  little  cottage  in  Seathwaite  he  min- 
istered in  this  valley  for  sixty -seven  years,  and 
here  he  died:  be  was  born  in  1709  and  died  in 
1802.  During  sixty -seven  years  he  governed 
his  parish  with  an  entirely  healthy  and  abso- 
lutely autocratic  rule.  "The  Wonderful"  was 
a  well-read  theologian  and  an  exceedingly  ex- 
act and  loyal  Churchman;  above  all  things  he 
hod  the  gift  and  wisdom  to  bring  religion  into 
touch  with  conduct,  and  to  enforce  in  the 
field  what  he  preached  in  the  pulpit.  He  was 
an  ideal  bishop  or  overseer  of  his  flock,  not 
only  instructing  his  people  in  spiritual  matters, 
but  directing  their  material  lives  and  exercis- 
iag  a  noble  masterhood  over  both  souls  and 
bodiflB.  In  a  valley  where  every  man,  woman , 
and  child  had  to  work  hard  for  a  living,  he 
led  the  way  in  all  manual  labor.  Rising  every 
morning  between  three  and  four  o'clock  he 


ploughed  and  planted,  he  tended  his  own  fk>ck, 
spun  his  own  flax  and  wool,  aid  made  his  own 
shoes.  In  his  person  he  combined  law, 
physic,  and  divinity,  with  admirable  magis- 
terial function  added;  he  prepared  all  his 
people's  wills  and  bonds,  and  when  they  were 
ill  he  physicked  them,  and  that  with  good 
effect,  if  one  may  judge  by  the  average  length 
of  Seathwaite  lives.  He  educate^hall  his  own 
children  and  started  them  in  the  world,  send- 
ing one  of  the  boys  to  coUeire— educating  them, 
too.  in  so  solid  and  admirably  tenacious  a  way 
that  all  lived  honorable  lives,  handing  down 
the  Walker  traditions  almost  to  the  present 
day.  So  excellent  was  the  discipline  of  the 
parish,  tliat  in  all  the  length  and  breadth  of  it 
there  was  not  a  single  Dissenter,  and  no  tithe 
war  ever  ruffled  the  peace  of  the  valley.  The 
matter  of  titiies,  by  the  way,  was  adjusted  in  a 
very  simple  and  picturesque  manner.  When 
the  villagers  were  getting  in  their  hay  or  com, 
"The  Wonderful  "  took  a  sheet  into  the  field 
and  filling  it  with  as  much  of  the  crop  as  it 
would  carry,  he  would  place  it  on  his  back  and 
contentedly  walk  home.  As  regards  clothes, 
he  was  certainly  a  law  unto  himself,  when  at 
home  he  wore  a  coarse  blue  frock  and  checked 
shirt,  a  leather  strap  for  a  stock,  and  coarse 
apron  and  wooden  clogs,  but  for  all  this  no 
bishop  in  full  vestments  ever  seems  to  have 
inspired  more  absolute  reverence  and  awe. 
In  two  ways  "The  Wonderful"  anticiiated 
certain  recent  reforms.  For  alx)ut  eight  hours 
every  day,  except  Saturday,  he  was  occupied 
in  teaching  the  children  of  his  parish,  giving 
them  sound  education  free  of  charge.  I  think 
it  is  Mr.  Ruskin  who  has  desired  that  every 
village  should  have  a  holy  church  at  one  end 
and  a  holy  tavern  at  the  other,  with  a  holy 
tapster,  if  it  may  be,  dispensing  honest  beer. 
Here,  again,  "The  Wonderful"  was  just  one 
hundred  years  in  advance  of  his  time.  He 
kept  the  village  inn,  selling  an  excellent 
home-brewed  ale  that  was  meat  and  drink  to 
his  people;  not  only  did  he  preach  temperance 
and  solnicty  in  the  pulpit,  but  he  enforced  it 
in  the  village  beershop.  To  this  day  they  tell 
a  story  of  a  thirsty  wayfarer  ordering  a  pint 
of  ale  on  a  hot  day,  and  finding  it  so  exoelle^t 
he  called  for  a  second,  whereupcm  Mr.  Walker 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


made  answer,  "Ky  friend,  go  thy  way,  I 
know,  if  thou  dost  not,  when  thou  hast  had 
enough. "  He  exercised  a  generous  hospitality, 
literally  feeding  his  flock,  the  long  homely 
table  being  spread  every  Sunday  with  simple 
fare  for  the  refreshment  of  parishioners  who 
came  from  a  long  distance.  His  wife  was 
worthy  of  her  husband,  seconding  all  his 
efforts  and  sweetening  and  softening  his  rough 
life  in  unfailing  love  and  tenderness.  The 
records  of  her  death  and  funeral  are  full  of  a 
lovely  pathos.  She  was  borne  to  her  grave 
by  three  of  her  daughters  and  one  grand- 
daughter. "The  Wonderful''  was  then  more 
than  ninety  years  old  and  well-nigh  blind,  but 
he  insisted  on  lending  his  aid,  and  feeling 
about  took  hold  of  a  napkin  tied  to  the  coffin, 
and  so,  as  far  as  might  be,  helping  to  bear  the 
body,  he  entered  the  church. 

I  have  not  space  to  tell  of  his  wide  practical 
knowledge  of  plants,  stones,  and  fossils,  and 
of  his  exact  observation  of  stars,  winds,  and 
clouds,  his  clear  healthy  soul  seems  always  to 
have  been  in  touch  with  nature.  Preferment 
was  offered  to  him,  for  his  bishop  knew  the 
value  of  the  man,  but  he  put  it  on  one  side 
lest  he  should  "be  sT2spected  of  cupidity." 
He  loved  his  own  valley  too  well  to  leave  it^ 
and  there  he  remained  till  the  end  came,  very 
peacefully,  in  1802.  Every  night  before  he 
went  to  bed  he  examined  the  heavens,  and 
meditated  for  a  little  space  in  the  open  air;  the 
very  night  he  died  he  did  so,  and  spoke  of  the 
exceeding  brightness  of  the  moon;  when  they 
went  to  him  next  morning  he  had  journeyed 
to  that  city  that 

Needeth  no  san  nor  moon  to  lighten  It, 
Nor  any  etart. 

— AiAKRT  FuEMmo,  in  Tha  PaU  MaU  Oaeettf 


MOHAMMEDANISM   IN   CENTRAL 

AFRICA. 

For  some  time  past  the  sabject  of  the  civi- 
lization of  Africa  has  been  a  favorite  one  with 
all  classes.  Each  European  country  has  vied 
with  the  others  in  attempting  ostensibly  to 
it  up  for  the  special  benefit  of  the  in- 


habitants. The  methods  adopted  iometimei 
appear  strange,  and  we  ture  ^t  to  become 
suspicious  when  we  find  berealh  a  veneer  of 
cotton  a  large  amount  of  rum  and  gin,  and 
civilization  forced  on  the  notice  of  the  negro 
with  sword  and  gun.  It  may  perhaps  not  be 
without  a  certain  amount  of  interest  to  m- 
quire  if  there  are  any  other  agencies — apart 
from  the  European — at  work  pursuing  the 
noble  aim  of  elevating  the  negro  to  a  higher 
level  of  humanity,  it  will,  I  suppose,  seem 
passmg  strange  to  many  when  I  point  td  Mo- 
hammedanism as  one  of  these  agencies  en- 
gaged in  this  great  task. 

Since  the  appearance  of  Mohammed  the 
religion  which  he  founded  has  been  a  favorite 
subject  of  attack  and  misrepresentation.  First 
looked  upon  as  a  form  of  idolatry,  it  was,  later 
on,  descrilied  as  a  mass  of  blasphemous  impos- 
ture, and  only  within  the  last  few  years  have 
a  few  sympathetic  and  impartial  students  of 
the  Koran  dared  to  point  out  tlie  genuioe 
veins  of  gold  which  ramify  through  the  ays- 
tern,  and,  risking  the  odium  tfieologicum,  to 
hold  up  its  author  ss  a  hero.  Even  yet,  to 
the  great  mass  of  the  people,  Mohammedan- 
ism is  merely  thought  of  in  a  vague  sort  of 
way  as  something  connected  with  polygam/. 
as  the  inspiring  source  of  the  slave  trade,  u 
the  C|pse  of  all  the  evils  which  prevail  in 
North  Africa,  Asia  Minor,  and  Turkey,  and 
as  in  some  way  or  other  a  curse  and  a  blight 
to  whatever  country  falls  imder  its  influence. 

It  is  not  my  business  to  point  out  here  how 
Mohammedanism,  in  being  thus  depicted,  is 
treated  with  injustice;  but  I  may  be  permitted 
to  remind  tne  reader  that  the  man  who  said 
that  "the  worst  of  men  is  the  seUer  of  men," 
and  who   declared  that  nothing  was  more 
pleasing  to  Gk>d  than  the  emancipation  of 
slaves,  could  never  have  in  any  way  encour- 
aged or  sanctioned  the  slave  trade.     To  argue 
that  a  religion  is  responsible  for  all  the  yii^ 
acts  of  its  professors  is  monstrous  in  the  ex- 
treme.   Yet  that  is  exactly  what  we  are  con- 
tinually doing  with  regard  to  Mohammedan- 
ism.   We  forget  that  the  Mohammedan  might 
turn  the  tables  on  us  with  a  vengeance,  and 
lay  our  brutal  aUive  trade  of  the  past  at  the 
door  of  Christianity,  as  well  as  our  inoesMBt 


MOHAMMEDAliaSM  IN  CENTRAL  AFRICA. 


327 


wan  and  all  the  crying  evils  of  the  gin  trade 
ia  the  present.  And  has  he  not  as  good  a 
right  to  say  tliat  these  are  the  necessary  out- 
come of  Christianity  as  we  have  to  say  that 
the  slave  trade  and  other  evils  are  produced 
and  encouraged  by  Islam?  We  are  not,  how- 
ever, called  upon  to  discuss  these  questions 
nor  am  I  the  roan  fitted  to  do  it.  I  propose 
to  direct  attention  to  the  civilizing  and  ele- 
vating influence  which  this  so  much  vilified 
religion  is  exercising  in  the  heart  of  Africa 
and  to  the  transformation  it  is  effecting  in  the 
whole  political  and  social  condition  of  inner 
Africa  north  of  the  equator. 

During  tlie  three  expeditions  which  I  con- 
ducted in  East  Central  Africa  I  saw  nothing 
to  suggest  Mohammedanism  as  a  civilizing 
power.     Whatever  living  force  might  be  in 
the  religion  remained  latent.    The  Arabs  or 
their  descendants    in  those  parts  were   not 
propagandists.    There  were  no  missionaries 
to  preach  Islam,  and  tlie  natives  of  Muscat 
were  content  that  their  slaves  should  conform 
to  a  certain  extent  to  the  forms  of  the  religion. 
They  left  the  East  African  tribes,  who  in- 
deed, in  their  gross  darkness,  were  evidently 
content  to  remain  in  happy  ignorance.    Their 
inaptitude    for   civilization    was    strikingly 
shown  in  the  strange  fact  that  five  hundred 
years  of  contact  with  semi-civilized  people 
had  left  them  without  the  faintest  reflection, 
of  the  higher  traits  which  characterized  their 
neighbors — not  a  single  good  seed  during  all* 
these  years  had  struck  root  and :  flourished! 
This  seemed  to  me  a  very  remarkable  fact, 
and  the  only  conclusion  I  could  then  come  to 
was,  that  the  negro  was  so  hopelessly  ossified 
io  his  degraded  state  as  to  be  next  to  unim- 
provable, by  moral  suasion  at  least — a  view 
somewhat  strengthened  on  seeing  the  martyred 
lives  of  missionaries  and  the*  great  treasure 
thrown  away  in    endtovors  to  reach  them 
through  the  divine  teaching  of  Christ.    That 
tliese  latter  practically  failed  to  attaia  their 
noble  ends  I  did « not  wonder  at  when  I  saw 
how  the  missionariecKattempted  the  impracti- 
cable—expecting -to  i  do-  in  a  geBenition  the 
work  of  centuries,  and*  to-  insti)  the  most 
beautiful,  sublime,  and  delicate  conceptions 
of  religion   into   undeveloped  brafais.    The 


more  I  saw  of  East  Central  Africa  the  more  I 
tended  to  take  a  despondent  view  of  the  fu- 
ture improvability  of  the  negro,  simply  be- 
cause I  could  not  see  how  he  was  to  Xm  got  at  ' 
in  such  a  way  as  to  touch  the  depths  of  his 
soul,  and  light  some  spark  which  would  give 
him  new  life.  So  far  as  I  could  judge,  I  had 
not  as  yet  seen  more  than  a  semblance  of 
something  bettei^— a  sort  of  veneer  of  Christi- 
anity, which  made  a  good  show  and  looked 
satisfactory  only  when  described  in  a  Mission- 
ary Magazine. 

It  was  not  till  last  year  that  I  was  destined 
to  be  converted  from  this  scepticism  about 
the  negro,  and  to  begin  to  see  infinite  possi- 
bilities lying  latent,  encased  in  his  low  thick 
cranium.  My  conversion  took  place  in  West 
Central  Africa.  It  was  not,  however,  brought 
about  by  the  sight  of  the  thriving  community 
of  Sierra  Leone  or  that  of  Lagos,  though  both 
were  encouraging.  Neither  was  it  brought 
about  by  seeing  the  civilizing  intluence  of 
European  trade,  of  which  we  sometimes  hear 
so  much;  for,  as  I  have  stated  elsewhere^  "for 
*every  African  who  is  influenced  for  good  by 
Christianity  a. thousand  are  driven  into  deeper 
degradation  by  the  gin  trade."  Four  hun- 
dred years  of  contact  wiUi  Europeans  liave 
only  suceeded,  along  the  greater  part  of  the 
ooaat,  in  raising  a  taste  for  gin,  rum,  gun- 
powder and  gun&  The  extent  of  the  inter 
course  between  a  village  and  the  European 
merchant  is  only  too  often  gauged  by  the  size 
of  its  pyramid  of  gin  bottles.  It  is  a  iminful 
fact  to  admits  but  there  is  no  shirking  the 
naked  reality,  that  in  West  Africa  our  influ- 
ence for  evil  enormously  counterbalances  any 
Utile  good  we  liave  produced  by  our  contact 
with  the  African.  The  sight  of  tlie  small 
headway  Christianity  was  making,  and  the 
aptitude  in  the  negro  to  adopt  all  that  was 
evil  in  the  white  man,  only  deepened  the  im- 
pression I  had  acquired  In  East  Africa. 

My  conversion  from  this  pessimistic  view*/ 
took  place  when  passing  up  the  Niger,  through] 
the  degraded  cannibals  who  inhabit  its  lower- 
reaches.  I  reached  the  Central  Sudan,  and, 
the  sights  and  scenes  I  there  witnessed  burst: 
upon  me  like  a  revelation.  I  found  myself  in^. 
the  heart  of  Africa,  among  undoubted  ne-. 


2?9 


THE  UBRABT  MAGAZINE. 


groes;  out  how  different  from  the  unwaahed, 
unclad  bsorbarians  it  had  hitherto  been  my  lot 
to  meet  in  my  travels  in  Africa !  I  could  hurdly 
*  believe  I  was  not  dreaming  when  I  looked 
around  me  and  found  large  well  built  cities, 
many  of  them  containing  10,000  to  80,000 
inhabitants.  The  people  themselveB,  pictur- 
esquely and  voluminously  dressed,  moved 
about  with  that  self-possessed  sober  dignity 
which  bespeaks  the  man  who  has  a  proper 
respect  for  himself.  I  saw  on  all  sides  the 
signs  of  an  industrious  community,  differen- 
tiated into  numerous  craf  ta^  evidence  sufficient 
to  show  how  far  advanced  they  were  on  the 
road  to  civilization.  I  heard  the  rattle,  the 
tinkle,  and  the  musical  clang  of  workers  in 
iron,  in  brass,  and  in  copper.  I  could  see 
cloth  being  made  in  one  place,  and  dyed,  or 
sewn  into  gowns  or  other  articles  of  dress,  in 
other  places.  In  the  markets,  crowded  with 
eager  thousands,  I  could  see  how  varied  were 
the  wants  of  these  negro  people,  how  mani- 
fold the  productions  of  their  industry,  and 
how  keen  their  business  instincts.  Almost 
miore  remarkable  than  anything  else,  no  na- 
tive beer  or  spirits,  nor  European  gin  and 
rum,  found  place  in  their  markets.  Clearly 
tliere  were  no  buyers,  and  therefore  no  sellers. 
Outside  tlie  towns,  again  no  forest  covered 
Uie  land;  the  density  of  rhe  population  and 
its  numerous  requirements  had  made  the 
virgin  forest  a  thing  of  the  past,  and  its  place 
was  taken  by  various  cereals,  by  cotton  and 
indigo,  and  other  vegetable  productions  which 
minister  to  the  inner  and  outer  man. 

What   could   have    produced    this   great 

change?— for  that  a  change  had  occurred  could 

not   be   doubted.     Certainly,    contact   with 

Europeans  had  had  nothing  to  do  with  it. 

The  character  of  tlie  industries,  the  style  of 

art,  indicated  a  certain  amount  of  Moorish 

influence,  giving  them  the  direction  which 

ithey  had  assumed.    How  had  tlie  first  great 

hSteps  been  taken  f    No  Moors  or  Arabs  were 

I  lo  be  seen  among  the  people.    No  such  races 

Ihsld  the  reins  of  government,  and  by  their 

I  powerful  influence  caused  the  introduction  of 

mew  arts  and  industries.    Evidently,  whatever 

! bail  (been  done  had  been  done  through  the  free 

cASpimtions  of  the  negroes  towazd  highor  things. 


I  was  not  left  long  in  ignorance  of  tlie 
i^ncy  which  had  thus  transformed  numer- 
ous tribes  of  savages  into  semi-civiliEed  na- 
tions,  ruled  by  powerful  sultans  who  admin- 
istered  justice  of  a  high  order  (for  Africa), 
and  rendered  life  and  property  safe.  Tbat 
agency  was  almost  exclusively  Mohammedan- 
ism. I  say  almost,  because  there  were  in 
reality  a  few  secondary  causes  at  work,  whieli 
tended  to  elevate  the  negro,  apart  from  tlie 
religious.  One  of  these  causes — the  one  of 
chief  importance — was  the  p^iysical  conditions 
which  prevailed  over  a  great  part  of  the  Cen- 
tral Sudan. 

Mohammedanism  it  was,  without  a  doubt, 
which  had  breathed  this  fre<<h  vigorous  life 
into  these  negroes.  It  was  Mohammedanism 
which  supplied  the  living  tie  which  l)ound  a 
hundred  fdien  tribes  together— tribes  which 
without  it  were  deadly  foes.  The  Koran 
supplied  the  new  code  of  laws.  Islam  had 
swept  away  fetishism,  with  all  its  degrading 
rites,  and  replaced  it  with  a  new  watchword 
— a  watchword  of  a  truly  spiritual  sort.  No 
longer  did  the  naked  savage  throw  himself 
before  stocks  and  stones,  or  lay  offerings  be- 
fore serpents  or  lizards;  but  as  a  well-clothed 
and  reverent  worshiper  he  bent  before  that 
**  One  God"  whose  greatness  and  compassion- 
ateness  he  continually  ficknowledged.  How 
impressive  it  was  to  me,  when  I  wandered  in 
these  lands,  to  hear  the  negro  population 
called  to  the  duties  of  the  day  by  the  sum- 
mons to  prayer  at  the  first  streak  of  dawn; 
sung  out  in  the  musical  stentorian  notes  of 
the  negro  muezzin,  it  echoed  and  reechoed 
throughout  the  sleeping  city.  "Gkxi  is  most 
great.  Come  to  prayers  I  Prayer  is  better 
than  sleep!"  was  the  burden  of  the  call:  and 
even  as  the  thrilling  notes  still  lingered  in 
dying  cadence,  and  the  gray  dawn  but  faintly 
illumined  the  houses  of  the  town,  doors  were 
heard  to  open,  and  devout  Muslims — such  as 
submit  themselves  to  and  have  faith  in  God-^ 
appeared.  Some  would  go  through  their 
rooming  duties  in  tlie  cx)urtyard8  of  thdr 
compounds,  and  others,  more  devout,  would 
wend  their  way  to  the  mosque,  where,  looking 
in  the  diradion  of  Mecca,  and  with  faces 
humbled  to  tbe4ust,  they  would  acknowledge 


^ 


MOHAMMEDAOTSM  IN  CENTllAL  AFRICA. 


their  utter  dependence  on  Qod.  At  other 
times  I  could  see  these  negroes,  duriAg  the 
thirsty  march,  in  the  dusty  field,  or  while  en- 
gaged in  ordinary  industrial  occupations,  stop 
fo.-  a  moment  in  their  several  employments, 
and  seeking  out  one  of  the  numerous  places 
marked  off  by  stones  which  did  duty  as  mos- 
ques wean  for  a  time  their  thoughts  from  the 
sordid  cares  of  this  world,  and  fix  them  on 
the  things  which  are  above  mere  sense. 

In  these  Sudanese  towns  not  only  did  I  find 
mosques,  but  the  importance  of  studying  re- 
ligion at  the  fountain-head  had  made  educa- 
tion neces  ary ,  and  hence  in  every  quarter  of 
the  town  were  to  be  found  schools  of  the 
usual  Eastern  type,  where  the  rising  genera- 
tion learned  at  one  and  the  same  time  the 
'  articles  of  their  faith  aod  the  Arabic  language. 
The  desire  for  education  was  very  general, 
and  a  village  without  several  meu  who  could 
read  or  write  Arabic  was  a  rarity.  In  the 
larger  ti)wns,  such  as  Sokoto,  Wurnu,  and 
Gandu,  there  were  to  be  found  men  who,  not 
content  with  the  education  they  could  get  at 
home,  had  found  their  way  through  manifold 
dangers  and  toils  to  the  great  Mohammedan 
university,  £1-Azhar,  in  Cairo,  to  complete 
their  studies. 

A  volume  might  be  written  in  describing 
the  various  modes  in  which  Mohammedanism 
has  affcotcd  the  negro  and  civilized  him;  but 
I  have  said  enough  to  draw  attention  to  the 
inc  Dteslable  fact  that  Islam  is  a  powerful 
agency  for  good  in  Central  Africa.  It  may 
be  remarked  that  in  the  Central  Sudan  the 
Muslim  is  uot  fanatical.  The  negro  has  not 
the  intense  nature  of  the  Arabs  and  kindred 
people,  and  is  consequently  inclined  to  live 
and  let  live  on  easier  terms  than  his  co-relig- 
ionist in  the  Egyptian  Sudan.  Like  all  East- 
em  and  African  races,  the  Sudanese  is  a 
polygamist,  but  his  free  and  sociable  nature 
has  not  permitted  the  seclusion  of  his  wives 
in  harems,  nor  does  he  consider  it  necessary 
that  tliey  should  be  veiled.  They  occupy 
{ffobably  a  better  position  in  the  Central  Su- 
dan than  in  any  other  country  where  polyg- 
amy is  the  rule. 

The  extent  of  country  over  which  Islam 
holds  sway  is  coterminous  with  that  great  con- 


tinental zone  called  the  Sudan,  which  extends 
from  the  Nile  to  the  Atlantic,  and  from  the 
Sahara  to  within  between  four  degrees  and 
six  degrees  of  the  equator.  Along  the  AUan- 
tic  seaboard  there  are  still  some  pagim  spots, 
but  Mohammedanism  is  slowly  but  surely 
bearing  down  on  them— establishing  itself  by 
moral  suasion  if  it  can ;  but  if  not,  then,  in 
the  name  of  God,  with  fire  and  sword  and  ail 
the  dread  accompaniments  of  war.  But  not 
only  is  it  proselytizing  among  the  heathen;  it 
has  its  missionaries  in  Sierra  Leone  and  Lagos. 
It  has  there  thrown  down  its  gage  to  Christi- 
anity for  the  .possession  of  the  natives,  and 
reports  speak  of  it  spreading  rapidly,  and  re- 
cruiting its  ranks  from  the  Christian  com- 
munity to  no  small  extent.  If  that  is  so— 
and  I  have  no  reason  to  doubt  it— there  must 
be  something  terribly  wrong  in  the  method  of 
teaching  Christianity.  To  me,  as  one  having 
the  interests  of  Christianity  deeply  at  heart,  it 
has  always  appeared  as  if  the  system  adopted 
was  radically  unsuited  to  the  people.  Mean- 
while I  cannot  help  saying,  better  a  good 
Muslhn  than  a  skin-deep  Christian — a  mere 
jackdaw  tricked  out  in  peacock's  feathers. 

In  reaching  the  sphere  of  European  influ- 
ence. Mohammedanism  not  only  throws  down 
its  gage  to  Christianity,  it  alsp  declares  war 
upon  our  chief  contribution  of  West  Africa — 
the  gin  trade.  While  we  support  anti-slavery 
societies,  and  spend  great  sums  in  sending 
missionaries  to  the  heathen,  it  is  very  strange 
that  we  are  absolutely  indifferent  to  the 
shameful  character  of  this  trafl[)c.  We  are 
ever  ready  to  raise  shouts  of  horror  if  a  case 
of  maltreatment  of  slaves  occurs,  and  we  will 
not  see  that  we  at  this  moment  are  conduct- 
ing a  trade  which  is  in  many  respects  a  greater  ^ 
evil  than  the  slave  trade.  That  word,  "Euro- 
pean trade,"  as  spoken  of  on  our  platforms, 
is  complacently  regarded  as  synonymous  with 
civilization ;  it  is  supposed  to  imply  well- 
dressed  negroes  as  its  necessary  outcome,  and 
the  introduction  of  ail  the  enlightened  amen- 
ities (}f  European  life.  It  ought  to  mean  that 
to  some  extent;  but,  as  I  have  seen  it  in  many 
parts  of  West  Africa,  it  has  largely  meant  the 
driving  down  of  the  negro  into  a  tenfold 
deeper  slough  of  moral  depravity.    And  we 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


— we  Cbristians — ^leare  it  to  the  despised  Mo- 
hammedans, those  professors  of  a  * 'false  re- 
llj^on,"  to  attack  this  traffic  and  attempt  to 
stem  the  tide  of  degradation,  to  sweep  it  away 
utterly  if  possible,  as  they  have  aheady  done 
fetishism  and  cannibalism  over  enormous 
areas.  If  this. is  its  mission,  then,  in  default 
of  something  better,  let  Islam  continue  its 
progress  through  Africa!  It  will  be  the  van- 
guard of  civilization.  Whatever  may  be  said 
about  many  aspects  of  Mohammedanism,  it 
at  least  contains  as  much  of  good  as  the  unde- 
veloped^ brains  of  the  negro  can  well  assim- 
ilate; and  so  long  as  good  is  being  done  in 
genuine  reality,  why  should  we  not  heartily 
welcome  it,  even  though  it  is  accomplished 
through  a  religion  we  ourselves  do  not  accept. 

I  had  proposed  to  myself  to  enter  into  the 
questions,  why  Moiiammedanism  has  been  so 
successful  in  Africa?  and  why  Christianity,  in 
comparison  with  it,  has  done  so  little?  I  had 
further  proposed  to  ask  whether  our  mission- 
aries could  not  derive  some  hints  and  lessons 
from  the  Mohammedans,  and  so  be  better  able 
to  enter  into  the  Held  against  heathendoifl? 

These  three  questions  cannot  be  adequately 
answered  here.  I  may,  however,  be  permitted 
to  express  my  opinion  in  the  briefest  manner. 
The  Success  of  Mohammedanism  has  been 
largely  due  to  the  fact  that  it  has  asked  of  the 
negro  apparently  so  little,  and  yet  that  little 
is  so  much,  for  in  it  lie  the  germs  of  a  great 
revolution.  The  message  is  brought  by  men 
like  themselves;  its  acceptance  does  not  nec- 
essarily change  any  of  their  habits.  Every- 
thing is  within  the  range  of  the  negro's  com- 
prehension—a very  terrible  One  Qod,  who  sits 
in  Judgment,  and  a  very  real  heavvn  and  bell. 
Belief  in  these  and  in  Qod's  messeiiyer,  and 
*attenti(m  to  a  few  practical  duties— prayer, 
almsgiving,  etc. — are  all  the  requirements. 
To  state  the  matter  in  another  way,  it  is  be- 
cause of  its  very  harshness,  of  its  great  inferi- 
ority, as  compared  with  Christianity,  that  it 
has  succeeded. 

On  the  other  hand,  Christianity  has  done  so 
little  because  it  has  tried  to  do  too  much. 
Missionaries  have  proceeded  almost  invariably 
on  the  assumption  that  it  is  necessary  to  pre- 
sent the  doctrinal  system  of  the  Christian 


Church  in  its  entirety.  They  have  fargoCtea 
that  minds  can  only  assimilate  subtle  or 
beautiful  truths  in  proportion  to  their  devel- 
opment. The  ideas  of  the  Christian  world  at 
large  are  in  many  respects  not  the  same  to- 
day as  they  were  six  centuries  ago,  or  even 
one  century  ago.  We  have  taken  eigbtcsen 
centuries  to  become  the  Christians  we  are, 
although  through  the  ages  the  Bible  remained 
the  same;  and  now  we  think  tha  in  a  gen- 
eration we  can  graft  our  conceptions  of 
Christianity  on  the  low  brains  of  the  negro. 
The  idea  is  not  in  accord  with  common  sense. 
We  present  to  him  intangible  and  transcen- 
dental aspects  of  religion.  We  stupify  him 
with  unthinkable  dogmas  about  the  Trinity 
and  kindred  topics.  With  all  this  we  think 
there  ought  to  be  a  Pentecostal  awakening — 
that  the  inherent  virtue  of  the  Word  should 
produce  a  miracle,  and  when  the  miracle  does 
not  appear  we  groan  over  the  hardness  of  heart 
and  the  ascendancy  of  the  devil  in  the  negro, 
when  in  reality  the  fault  is  in  ourselves  and 
in  our  methods  of  procedure.  We  must  be 
simple  in  our  creed,  or  rather  in  our  presenta- 
tion of  the  Gospel.  We  must  find  out  what 
aspects  of  Christianity  the  negro  can  compre- 
hend and  can  assimilate,  as  well  as  what  will 
attract  and  impress  him.  From  the  Moham- 
medan missionaxy  we  might  get  hints  as  to 
the  line  this  simpli^cation  should  take.  Bet- 
ter sow  one  good  seed  which  will  grow  ard 
fructify  and  permeate  the  life  of  the  negro, 
than  a  thousand  which  will  fail  to  strike  root, 
but  remain  sterile  on  the  surface. 

In  thus  recognizing  a  good  element  in  the 
spread  of  Mohammedanism,  and  iu  veuiurini^ 
to  jixat  at  desirabDIf  ^preivecDents  in  the 
methods  of  our  owb  nissibuary  propaganda, 
vefy  probably  I  shall  lay  myself  open  te  vari- 
ous forms  of  misconception  on  the  part  of 
those  who  recognize  but  the  agency  of  the 
Evil  One  in  good  works  which  are  not  done 
in  the  ortliodox  manner.  In  any  case,  I  shall 
be  satisfied  if,  by  indicating  that  some  good 
can  come  out  of  Islam,  I  have  shown  that 
some  Christians  may  take  hints  from  our 
vastly  more  successful  rival  in  the  work  of 
civilizing  'Africa,  and  thus  be  able  to  present 
a  purer,  a  nobler,  a  more  iniq>iring  religion  to 


WHAT  IS  A  SPOOK 


881 


tlie  ne^TO,  which  will  8ati8f3''  his  inner  crav- 
ings for  some  light  in  his  dark  surroundings. 
For  the  negro,  with  all  his  intellectual  de- 
ficiencies, is  naturally  a  very  religious  indi- 
vidual.   In  a  hundred  ways  he  shows  how 
mucli  he  feels  the  necessity  of  depending  on 
something  else  than  himself.    In  his  helpless- 
ness he  gropes  aimlessly  about  after  an  ex 
planation  of  his  surroundings,  and  finds  but 
slig^lit  consolation  in  fetisliism  and  spirit-wor- 
aliip.     The  rapid  spread  of  Islam  proves  be- 
yond a  doubt  that  there  is  nothing  to  hinder 
Hie  Christian  faith  from  making  far  more  ex- 
tensive conquests,  if  we  would  only  meet  the 
uegTo  with  weapons  properly  selected  from 
tlie  Christian  armory.    We  must  also  be  con- 
tent to  let  generations  of  wise  education  de- 
velop the  capacities  which  as  yet  are  in  the 
most  rudimentary  condition  and  not  expect  to 
'work  miracles.     And,  most  important  of  all, 
let  us  get  up  a  missionary  agency  for  Christian 
£ur(>pe  which  shall  preach  the  doctrine  of  no 
more  gin  trade,  no  more  gunpowder  and  guns, 
for   the  African.    Then,  when   we  have  set 
our  own  house  in  order,  we  shall  be  able  to 
go  with  clearer  conscience  to  the  heathen, 
and    with    brighter  prospects  of   success. — 
JoaspH  Thomson,  in  The  Contemporary  Be- 


WHAT  IS  A  SPOOK? 

Divers  communications  from  persons  of 
both  sexes  and  of  various  callings  have  been 
received  at  the  ofi9ce  of  this  journal,  the  sub- 
Btancebof  -which  may  be  summarized  in  the 
question  wherewith  these  lines  are  headed. 
It  is  obvious  that  any  one  who  could  furnish  a 
complete  answer  would  be  superior  in  wisdom 
and  knowledge  not  only  to  Solomon,  but  also 
to  the  most  stupendous  adept  whose  existence 
the  Theosophists  pretend  to  imagine.  Never- 
theless it  is  possible  that  a  few  words  of  gen- 
eral indication  may  not  be  without  their 
use. 

Phllologically,  of  oourM,  there  is  no  diffl- 
oolty  about  the  matter.  The  Greek  word 
infKi  if  familiar  t«  many  people  whd  do  not 


know  Qreek,  and  the  ingenious  theory  has 
been  put  forward  that  the  Qermans  thought 
well  to  adopt  it  into,  their  language,  and,  hav- 
ing a  well-grounded  dislike  to  beginning  a 
word  with  pe,  tliey  simply  transposed  the  con- 
sonants. Moreover,  they  slightly  specialized 
the  meaning,  as  constantly  happens  when  a 
word  is  borrowed  by  one  language  from 
another.  Thus  ^^vx^^i  soul,  or  spirit,  became 
Spuk,  spirit,  apparition,  or  ghost.  Finally,  the 
inhabitants  of  the  Western  States  of  America, 
in  order  to  prove  the  cosmopolitan  liberality 
which  is  one  of  their  proudest  boasts,  learnt 
the  word  from  their  German  fellow- citizens, 
and  again  slightly  altered  the  spelling  in  order 
to  preserve  the  sound;  so  that  Spook,  the 
daughter  of  8puk  and  grand-daughter  of 
^vxn*  became  and  was  and  still  is  a  recog- 
nized word  wherever  the  English  language  is 
spoken,  and  the  normal  and  orthodox  generic 
word  for  ghosts  and  things  ghostly  throughout 
a  great  part  of  the  American  continent. 
•  The  interrogation,  '*What  is  a  spook?"  re- 
quires for  its  full  and  proper  answer  a  declar- 
ation as  to  what  a  spook  is.  That,  as  already 
indicated,  will  probably  not  be  given  within 
a  measurable  time.  But  some  information  on 
the  subject,  stating  afilrmatively  what  is  a 
spook,  is  available  for  all,  and  can  perhaps  be 
set  forth  with  peculiar  advantage  by  those  who 
have  watched  with  kindly  interest  the  recent 
outburst  of  spookical  activity.  Suppose,  then, 
to  begin  with  a  simple  instance,  that  you  see 
somebody  who  isn't  there.  What  you  see  is  a 
spook.  The  person  whom  you  see  where  he 
isn't  may  be  dead  or  alive,  and  may  be  in  the 
next  room  or  on  the  other  side  of  the  world, 
but  what  you  see  is  a  spook  all  the  same.  Nor 
does  it  matter  how  he  came.  He  may  be  a 
stranger,  in  Eastern  attire,  and  may  begin  to 
twaddle  about  planes,  chelas,  gurus,  adepts, 
and  Higher  Selves,  and  offer  to  * 'materialize" 
some  article  of  trifling  pecuniary  value.  In 
that  case  he  is  the  astral  principle  of  some- 
body, probably  a  Mahatma,  whose  bodily 
principle — ^which  means  his  body — is  lying 
motionless  in  a  trance  at  some  distant  spot. 
But  he  is  still  a  spook.  Or,  again,  he  may  be 
somebody  whom  you  know  perfectly  well  and 
to  whom  you  owe  money,  and  who  is  at  that 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


very  moment  having  bis  throat  cut  in  a 
cannibal  island.  He  is  a  spook  too.  The  one 
is  occult,  the  other  is  telepathed^  but  for  prac- 
tical purposes  there  is  no  difference  between 
them.  The  apparition  of  a  person  who  has 
been  dead  for  some  time  is  equally  a  spook, 
and  that,  whether  he  or  she  wears  the  mortal 
semblance  of  Julius  Csesar,  or  of  the  Sieur  who 
came  over  with  Conqueror,  begat  your  great- 
grandfather, and  was  finally  beheaded  for 
murder,  or  of  the  only  woman  you  ever  loved. 
He  is  not  occult,  and  he  is  not  telepathed— at 
least  not  in  the  ordinary  way — but  some  day 
Messrs.  Myers  and  Qurney  will  publish  a  book 
containing  statutory  declarations  and  scientific 
comment  about  him,  and  then  we  shall  know 
more  than  we  do  at  present.  But  that  will  not 
make  him  more  or  less  a  spook. 

It  is  common  knowledge  that  a  great  many 
spooks  invert  the  proverbial  duty  of  little  girls, 
and  are  heard  and  not  seen.  Information  de- 
lived  from  Spookical  Research  shows  clearly 
that  they  are  sometimes  felt,  suggests  that 
they  have  been  smelt,  and  leads  the  professors 
of  that  branch  of  learning  to  express  a  guarded 
hope  that  some  day  they  may  be  tasted.  The 
invisible,  audible  spook  presents  some  difl^cul- 
ties  of  his  own  in  the  way  of  definition.  A 
man  hears  a  sound  which  is  not  made — e.  g.  the 
sound  of  human  song  where  no  human  larynx 
is  singing.  Does  he  hear  a  sound  being  made 
by  a  spook,  or  is  the  sound  he  hears  itself  a 
spook?  The  question  is  one  of  Spookical  Re- 
search. For  tlie  la^^man  it  is  enough  to  know 
that  in  either  case  the  listener  may  accurately 
and  according  to  the  common  use  of  language 
be  said  to  "hear  a  spook.'*  Dogs,  carriages, 
balls  of  fire,  musical  chords,  drum-beats,  and 
raps  on  the  furniture  may  also  be  siKX>ks.  It 
is  hard  to  recognize  a  rap  as  a  spook,  because 
so  many  thousands  of  raps  are  not  spooks  at 
all,  but  are  produced  in  the  ordinary  way  by 
mechanical  appliances.  Still  it  is  probable 
that  some  sorts  of  raps,  especially  on  windows 
at  the  dead  of  night,  may  be  spooks.  But  of 
course  a  sheet  and  turnip,  or  a  smudge  of 
phosphorus  on  the  wall,  are  not  spooks 
Whaterer  else  your  spook  is  or  is  not,  he 
■Mitt  be  gonuiae. — The  8aturdaiy  Bevimo, 


MR.  PUNCH'S  CHRONICLES  OF  THB 

YEAR  1860. 

In  1860  Mr.  Gladstone  is  Chancellor  of  tlie 
Exchequer  in  the  Palmerston  Cabinet.     Italy 
is  successful  in  her  struggle  for  freedom  under 
Garibaldi  and  Victor  Emmanuel    The  Em- 
peror Napoleon  desires  tliat  Italy  should  ob- 
tain peace  and  that  the  French  troops  should 
be  able  to  quit  Rome  without  compromising 
the  becurity  of  the  Poi^e.     This  is  illustrated 
in  Mr.  Punches  cartoon  (October  13)  of  "The 
Friend  in  Need,"  where  Louis  Napoleon  is 
saying  to  the  Pope  "There,  cut  away  quietly 
and  leave  me  your  keys.    Keep  up  your  spir- 
its and  I'll  look  after  your  little  temporal 
matters."     The    legend    here    confuses  the 
spiritual  and  temporal  powers,  but  later  on 
(October  1,  1870)  it  will  be  seen  that  Mr. 
Punch  had  clearly  mastered  the  distinction 
when  he  depicts  the  Pope  as  surrendering  the 
temporal  ^/ower  to  King  Victor  Emmanuel, 
while  he  retains  the  spiritual  power  which 
the  latter  has  no  authority  to  touch.     Tliis 
exactly  illustrated  the  attitude  of  Pius  IX. 
toward   the  King   of   Italy  between  whom 
there  was  popularly  supposed  to  exist  a  strong 
personal  affection. 

The  great  volunteer  review  of  June  23d, 
1860,  is  recorded  by  Mr.  Punch  in  a  cartoon 
representing  the  Queen  in  a  soil  of  huntress's 
uniform  resting  her  rifle  on  Mr,  Punch*9 
head,  which  is  surmounted  by  a  volunteer 
cap.  At  what  Her  Majesty  is  taking  aim  is 
not  mentioned,  but  this  is  an  imimportant 
detail,  as  the  Queen's  aim  must  always  be  the 
welfare  of  her  subjects.  Leech  in  his  sketches 
of  his  review  shows  that  crinolines  were  still 
in  vogue,  that  the  policeman's  uniform  still 
consisted  of  the  high  chimney-pot  hat  and  tail 
coat,  and  that  schoolboys  were  wearing  a 
sort  of  Spanish  toreador's  cap,  which  soon 
developed  into  a  kind  of  "pork-pie  hat" 
The  summer  had  evidently  been  a  wintry  one, 
as  Mr.  Punch  in  a  cartoon  (drawn  by  John 
Leech),  dated  July  14th,  1860,  shows  the  joy 
of  Britannia  on  welcoming  the  "Long-loit 
8un"  to  her  shores,  where  all  "the  com  had 
been  spoiling— to  say  nothing  of  the  stiaw- 
b«rri«t*" 


MR.  PUNCH'S  CHRONICLES  OP  THE  YEAR  1800. 


883 


In  the  Royal  Academy  list  the  nuraes  of 
ickersgill,  Hunt,  Richmond,  Morris,  and  O. 
I>.  Leslie  are  honorably  mentioned.  Mr. 
Whistler's  talents  are  recognized;  indeed  Mr, 
I*uneh*8  critic  says  that  his  picture  of  "At 
the  Piano,"  No.  598.  "shows  genius.**  Also 
the  water-color  portraits  by  Mr.  Moore  come 
in  for  a  word  of  praise  from  "Jack  Easel,'* 
who  tells  us  how  he  passed  through  the 
"Condemned  Cell,"  by  which  he  means  "the 
room  devoted  to  rejected  contributions.*'  He 
describes  what  he  sees  there.  Do  the  rejected 
ones  nowadays  lie  in  the  condemned  cell  till 
late  in  July?  Is  there  not  an  exhibition  of 
the  Great  Unhung? 

A  half-pnge  picture  by  Mr.  Tenniel  shows 
John  Ball  in  a  fearful  temper  at  having  to 
pay  £4,000,000  for  the  expenses  of  the  Chinese 
War.  This  delayed  the  reduction  of  the  pa- 
per duty.  A  cartoon  represents  John  Bright 
as  a  Quakeress  throwing  a  torn  census  pai^er 
in  the  face  of  Mother  Established  Church. 
The  victory  remained  with  the  Dissenters. 

Tlie  Berkely  peerage  case  occupied  legal 
attention.  It  was  heard  before  Ix>rds  Redes- 
dale,  Brougham,  Eingsdown,  and  others. 
The  Chancellor  sums  up  the  sitting  with  these 
words:  "We  have  made  very  good  progress 
to-day  and  we  must  not  hurry.  Admiral 
Berkely  has  been  for  sixty  years  and  more 
without  a  peerage,  so  he  can  wait  a  little 
longer  and  we  can't.*' 

Volunteer  movement  in  full  force.  Vol- 
unteers been  bivouacking  in  the  park,  and 
"  3Ias(er  cleaning  that  there  dratted  rifle 
in  the  kitching,*'  Is  drawn  by  Mr.  Charles 
Keene.  The  Spanish  cap  for  young  men  in 
country  suits  has  come  into  fashion ;  also 
turndown  collars.  This  summer  a  new  ride 
in  Kensington  Gardens  Is  opened.  It  is  a 
great  boon  to  equestrians  and  is  protested 
against  by  the  stupid  "Westry.**  What  a 
pity  this  ride  is  not  revived  and  two  or  three 
more  shady  ones  made,  after  the  manner  of 
the  avenues  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne. 

Sir  Colin  Campbell  returns  from  Thdla,  and 
Punch  in  full  volunteer  uniform  at  the  head 
of  a  regiment,  in  which  we  recognize  such 
other  distinguished  Tolunteers  as  Lord  John 
koflMll  and  Lord  Pahnerston,  stlatei  "the 


conquering  hero.  *'  "Spiritualism* '  and  "spir- 
it-rapping** are  coming  to  the  front  again  and 
are  trenchantly  satirized.  The  late  Mr.  Medi- 
um Home  gets  a  severe  rapping.  Mr.  Punch 
points  out  the  need  for  reform  in  bankruptcy 
proceedings. 

Jnhn  Bull  determines  to  spend  some  money 
in  Ms  dockyards  and  arsenals,  meaning  there- 
by no  ofiFence  of  course  to  anybody,  least  of 
all  to  Louis  Napoleon,  who  is  armed  to  the 
teeth.  This  is  in  a  cartoon  for  August  4th, 
The  return  of  the  Irish  Papal  Volunteers  is 
celebrated  in  a  couple  of  verses,  from  which 
it  would  appear  that  the  expedition  had  not 
tt^n  a  conspicuous  success.  The  Emperor's 
remarkably  frank  letter  to  Count  de  Persigny 
does  not  obtain  much  creJence  from  Mr, 
Punch,  who  represents  His  Majesty  as  the 
wolf  in  sheep*s  clothing,  and  Mr.  John  Bull 
replies — 

**  What  haa  been  may  recar.    Should  a  Bmininagem 
Ca\«ar 
Try  a  dash  at  John  Ball,  after  coaquMng  the 
Gaala, 
I  intend  he  shall  find  the  achievement  a  teaser, 
What  with  Armstrongs,  long  Bnflelds,  and  stont 
wooden  walls.*" 

The  expenses  of  projecting  the  Suez  Canal 
are  noted  by  Mr,  Punch,  who  keeps  an  eye  on 
M.  de  Lesscps.  A  cartoon  represents  "The 
Two  Sick  Men,* '  the  Pope  and  the  Turk,  with 
Napoleon  as  the  physician  who  has  done  no 
good  to  the  former  with  his  doses  of  steel,  and 
is  now  giving  the  latter  his  "gruel." 

About  this  time  Mr.  Punch  takes  Lord 
Shaftesbury  and  others  to  task  for  their  big- 
otry in  depriving  one  Mr.  Tumbull,  a  Roman 
Catholic,  of  the  office  of  Calenderer  of  For- 
eign Papers  in  the  State  Paper  Office.  This 
gentleman  was  especially  fitted  for  the  post 
and  did  some  excellent  work,  but  the  persecu- 
tion to  which  he  was  subjected  by  the  ultra- 
Protestant  party  hastened  his  death.  "This." 
says  Mr,  Punch  indignantly,  "is  altogether  a 
most  inexplicable  case  of  Protestant  terror, 
and  he  summons  Lord  Shaftesbury  to  call  at 
his  office  and  explain.  The  Sage  of  Fleet 
Street  highly  praises  the  conduct  of  two 
clergymen  of  the  name  of  Hayles,  of  Llanelly, 
who  inter  two  hundred  and  thirty  bodies  of 
BOtBons  lost  in  the  Royal  OhcvrUr,  and  prepeiet 


834 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZmH 


a  testimonial  for  the  Reverend  "Robin  Red- 
breast'' brothers. 

August  25th,  Lord  Palmerston,  in  a  cartoon 
as  a  valet,  tells  the  gamekeepers  **it's  uo  use 
their  waiting,  as  their  masters  won't  be  up  fqr 
a  long  time."    A  protracted  session. 

The  Prince  of  Wales  is  in  Canada,  and  Mr, 
Punch  protests  against  H.R.U.  being  pestered 
by  advertising  tradesmen.  Spiritualism  is 
ridiculed  in  the  letterpress,  and  in  pictures  by 
John  Leech.  The  Ministerial  Government 
dinner  takiss  place  at  the  end  of  August,  and 
Lord  John  Uussell  on  the  balcony  of  the 
"Trafalgar"  complains  of  the  size  of  the  white 
bait,  whereupon  Lord  Palmerston  repUey, 
*  Oh  yes,  you  would  make  it  so  late  tliis  sea- 
son." Mr.  Spurgeon  is  mentioned,  and  is 
supposed'  to  write  a  letter  in  verse  recounting 
what  he  hod  seen  on  the  Continent. 

Everybody  in  September  has  gone  out  of 
iown;  Pum  and  Johnnj^  Russell  are  packing 
up,  and  the  "social"  cuts,  i.e.,  half -page  and 
quarter- page  pictures,  at£  all  about  holidays, 
traveling,  fishing,  and  shooting.  Mr.  Briggs 
goes  to  the  Highlands  and  crosses  a  park  in 
which  somebody's  favorite  bisons  are   kept 

The  next  cartoon  is  about  the  harvest,  and 
Mr.  Charles  Eeene  represents  a  solitary  swell 
left  in  town  chatting  with  a  crossu3g-sw«eper. 
The  swell  in  question  is  a  member /of  the  Rag 
j(he  calls  it  "Wag:"  this  afiectation  was  as 
much  "the  thing  to  do"  as  it  was  when  Bui- 
wer  Lytton  wrote  Money)  and  wears  weeping 
iwhisk^s,  cutaway  coal,  low -shoes,  and  balloon 
irousers.  To  Charles  Kean,  on  tour  in  the 
provinces,  Mr,  Punch  devotes  a  chnffy  para- 
graph. This  actor  has  not  been  ^lotieed  for 
«ome  time  in  Mr.  Punch't  pages. 

Spurgeon,  the  Pope,  Cardinal  Wiseman,  Mr. 
Babbsge  (of  calculating  fame, .  and  much 
disturbed  by  organ  finders),  spirit-xapping, 
daribaidi,  all  eome  in  for  paragraphs,  and  the 
last  mentioned  is  represented  in  one  cartooaas 
driving  the  saints  of  the  Roman  Calendar  out 
of  Italy  and  in  another  as  sympathetically 
«uggcsting  to  the  Pope  that  hejihould  ex- 
x^hange  his  tiasa  for  the  cap  of  .  liberty. 
"Uneasy  lies  the  head  that  wears  a  crown,'* 
wtys  Shakespeare,  and  — it  is  capable  of 
ifli^^iim^tirAi  damanitration — J)i0.head  that 


wears  a  triple  crown  must  be  trebly  uneasy. 
The  Prince  of  Wales  is  now  in  America, 
and  presently  Mr,  Punch  has  some  letters 
about  his  progress  in  the  United  States,  and  a 
cartoon  entitled  "The  Next  Dance,"  in  which 
H.  R.  H.  is  represented  as  being  intr^xluoed  to 
pretty  Cousin  Columbia  as  a  partner. 

In  October,  there  is  an  amusing  article  on 
"The  Registration  Court."  It  is  a  dramatic 
dialogue,  evidently  a  propos  of  a  generally 
haphazard  manner  of  conducting  business  ra 
the  part  of  revising  barristers.  Nearly  all  Uie 
cartoons  just  now  are  occupied  with  foreign 
politics,  in  which  the  Pope,  Italy,  Victor 
Emmanuel,  King  of  Naples,  Garibaldi,  and  the 
Emperor  of  Austria  play  conspicuous  parts. 

Leech  has  a  very  funny  sketch,  a  half  page, 
of  Brighton  at  this  time  of  year.  Israelitiah 
"gents"  are  on  the  parade  wearing  velvet 
coats,  big  trousers,  and  '* pork-pie  hats." 
The  ladies— one  of  decidedly  Jewish  type — 
appear  in  enormous  crinolines,  pork-pie  hata. 
and  their  hair  in  nets.  In  another  part  of  the 
same  number  there  is  a  short  paragraph  an- 
nouncing, under  the  title  of  "New  Jewry." 
that  "Baron  Rothschild  is  stated  to  be  arrang- 
ing for  the.purchase  of  Pxdesdne,  with  a  view 
to  the  restoration  of  the  Jews.  Rents  at 
Biighton  are  expected  to.go  down  two-thirds. ' ' 
In  this  respect  alone  Brighton  has  not  much 
changed  in  ihe  last  twenty  years:  it  is  still 
JeruMlemsuper-mare. 

Mr,  Punch  chaffs  Dr.  Gumming  In  a  friendly 
way  in  consequence  of  the  latter  having  al- 
luded to  something  the  "celebrated  satirist" 
has  written  about  his  having  prophesied  the 
end  of  the  world  in  1867  and  then  taken  a  lease 
of  a  house  tor  tweaty-one  years.  This  year  a 
Home  for  Dogs  was  started  at  Islington^  and 
Mr,  Punch  punningly  suggests  that  a  more 
appropnatesite  iox  it  would  Jiave  been  Koiil- 
worth. 

Mr,  Pun^^s  nautical  poet  now  sings  that 
the  hearts  of  oak  and  wooden  walls  have  come 
to  an  end,  and  that  henceforth  "Ribs  of  sted 
are  our  ships,  EAgineen  aie  our  men,"  and 
then  he . goes  on^ 

-^W«*ro'«to«47,  boj%  steady, 
Bat  slwsf  ■  uirMdV : 


MR.  PUNCH'S  CHRONICLES  OF  THE  TEAR  1860. 


886 


Th«  "latest  Parisian  folly— the  spoon- 
•haped  bonnet,"  is  immortalized  in  a  sketcli 
by  John  Leech. 

November  80.  One  of  Mr.  Punch 'e  poets 
writes  some  verses  about  "The  Drag  on  the 
Treasury  Coach/'  which  "BUI  Qladstone"  had 
.been  driving. 

^  John  Bull  hu  good  jilvGk  and  firm  faith  la  hia  lack, 
And  likes  a  bold  rate  of  progreMion ; 
ire  hard  to  make  Aim  nhj,  bnt  that  son  of  Kimahi, 
Bill  Gladstone,  did  that  all  last  session." 

m 

And  so  John  Bull,  Jumfdng  down— 

**  Amazed  that  he'd  not,]iad  a  tombl*— 
Says  be,  *Next  Ume  you  drive,  snre  as  I  am  alive, 
111  send  a  safe  guard  in  the  ramble.' " 

And  in  consequence  ".Pam^puts  uj>  "Ered 
Peel,"  bidding  him — 


'^To  the  drag  hareaa  eye^  and  Temeaiber*BS,-tK>7, 
Yon  Ye  pot  there  to  keep  William  in  order/ 


»» 


Mr.  Rarey,  the  faerse-taraer,  attracts  the 
notice  of  the  Sage  of  Fleet  Street.  The  Em- 
perors of  Austria  and  Russia  and  the  King  of 
Prussia  hold  a  conference  at  Warsaw,  -and 
Mr.  Punch  records  their  probable  dialogue. 
The  sentimental  ballad  becomes  a  nuisance, 
and  Ptin^h  propoees^omei  simple  songs  instead 
of  "Will  you  love  me  4hen  as  now?"  and 
"I*m  sitting,  on  the  stile,  Mary,"  which  were 
at  this  time  rather  toe  popular. 

Notable  is  the  reappearance  -of  Prince  Ah 
beri  in  the  cartoon  for  No¥ember  10.  He  is 
bald-headed,  wears  stock  and  turn-down  col- 
lars, tightly-buttoned  frock  coat  .very  much 
taken  in  at  the  waist  and  tightly-strapped 
tiousers.  It  is  on  the  oooasion  of  the  returti 
from  America  of  the  Prince  (d  Wales,  who, 
dressed  as  a  Yankee,  ^is- seated  in  .a  chair  wit^ 
hia  legs  on  the  mantelpieoe  (on  which  ^  is  a 
glass  of  sherry  cobbler  with  straws  and  iee  in 
it),  ancf  while  he  whitUeaa  stick  rand  .smokes  ever  make  one  Napoleon*: 


**  Ashes  to  ashes  I    Lay  the  hero  down ; 

No  nobler  heart  o'er  knew  the  bitter  lot 
To  be  misiadged,  maligned,  accased,  forgot : 
Twine  martyrs  palm  among  his  victor 'a  crowxu' 

The  Convention  between  China  and  the 
allied  Powers  having  been  signed  in  October, 
Lord  Elgin  insists  on  the  terms  being  strictly 
adhered  to  by  the  Chinese  Emperor.  This  is 
shown  by  the  cartoon,  November  24,  entitled 
*  'New  Elgin  Marbles. "  The  volunteer  move  - 
meat  was  very  much  to  the  front  about  this 
time,  and  Mr.  Charles  Keene  was  perpetually 
sketching  amusing  incidents  in  volunteer  drill. 

A  small  theater  inside  Her  Majesty's  Thea- 
ter was  opened,  called  The  Bijou.  Here 
Madame  Doche  performed.  It  was  very  badly 
ventilated,  and  Mr.  Puneh  justly  complained. 
Fechter  was  pla3dng  Buy  BIm  at  the  Prin- 
cess's, and  the  Sage  of  Fleet  Street  was  much 
delighted  with  the  performance.  He  alludes 
at  this  time  to  his  favorite  paper,  TTie  Musical' 
WorldXii  was  then  beingjedited  by  "Jimmy" 
Davison,  musical  critic  of  the  ISmes),  and  he 
suggests,  d  fropos  ef  a  promenade  at  Baden^ 
Baden  having  been  christened  UAvenus  Mey- 
erheez,  that  in  London  we  ought  to  have  a 
"Balfe  Square,  a  Wallace  Crescent,  a  Macfar- 
ren  Avenue,  and-a  Clara  Novello  Park.""  By 
^the  way,  when  there  recently  arose  a  diffi- 
culty about  naming  the  new  space  between 
the  Criterion  and  the  Pavilion,  it  is  a  pity  that 
ti>is  hint  of  Mr.  PuneJCB  was  no^  again  brought 
forward  and  acted  upon. 

Mr.  Punch  advises  the  South wark  electors 
to  take  Mr.  Layard  as  thw  Parliamentary 
representative.  In  the  same  number  his  car- 
toon jrepresents  "The  Eldest  Son  of  the 
Church' '.as.  Prince  Henry  tying  on  the  Pap^ 
tiam,  while  the  f^ope  is  Just  waking  up  and 
looking' on  in  horrified  astonishment.  Mr. 
Punch  asks,  "Why  can  tbe  Emperor  of  the 
French  never  be  Po^?*'<and  replies,  "Be- 
cause it  is  impossible  that  three  erowns  ean 


a  cigar  says  to  his  father,  "Now  sir-ree,  if 
you'll  li(|uor  up  and  settle  down.  111  teU  you 
all  about  my  travels."  This  pictuve  is  by 
Leech. 

A  poem  on  the  burial  of  Lord  Dundoaald, 
in  Westminster  Abbey,  November  18.  This 
is  the  final  verse: — 


■M 


Mr.  PandCi  cartoon  6f  "A  Friendly  Visit," 
shows  the  Empress  of  the  French  taking  tea 
with,  the  Queen.  Her  Imperial  Majesty  ar 
-rfv>ed  intEngland  in  the  moat  informal  man- 
ner, went  to  -Scdtlahd,  visited  the  Queen  at 
Windsor,  and  returned  home  sery  much  .the 
J  hetlfirforharirq». 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


The  "spoon  bonnet'*  becomes  fashionable 
here,  and  two  little  boys  salute  its  appearance 
with  ''Oh,  if  'ere  ain't  a  gal  been  and  put  on 
a  dustman's  'at."  Mr.  Punch,  for  the  worst 
conundrum,  gives  as  a  prize  Martin  Tupper's 
Proverbial  PhiUmophy,  bound  in  extra  calf. 
This  says  much  'for  the  popularity  of  the 
book. 

Passports  for  British  subjects  were  abolished 
(December  16)  in  France,  and  the  last  cartoon 
of  the  year  depicts  Louis  Napoleon  giving 
.John  Bull  the  latch  key,  so  that  he  can  "come 
and  go  as  he  likes."— F.  C.  Burn  and  and 
Arthur  a'Bbckett,  in  The  FbrtnighUy  Be- 
view. 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 

Tbb  World*8  Tallvbt  Statitk.— For  severtl  monthB 
New  York  hu  plumed  itself  on  poflaeflsiiu;  the  talleet 
•  Bt«tiie  by  all  odds  that  the  world  has  ever  had.  The 
famoas  Ptatae  of  Apollo  at  Rhodes— styled  par  exc^- 
lenee  **the  Colossos^^— was  some  106  feet  high,  while 
Bartholdl's  ''Liberty''  is  161  feet  We  believe  that 
there  is  no  aathentic  record  of  any  other  statoe,  in 
ancient  or  modern  timeiF— (for  we  put  no  faith  in  the 
story  of  a  marble  statue  of  Nero  ISO  feet  high,  erected 
In  Rome)— the  height  of  which  exceeds  72  feet.  But 
now  we  are  told  that  there  exists  a  statae  which  over- 
tops the  ''Liberty''  of  Bartholdi  by  half  aa  many  feet 
as  that  overtops  the  "Apollo"  of  Chares.  In  Science, 
for  December  81, 1S86,  we  read :—  V 

"The  £ngli8h  do  not  propose  to  permit  the  statue  of 
"Liberty"  in  New  York  harbor  to  rank  as  the  biggest 
on  record,  without  a  contest  The  JllvHrated  London 
Newt  comes  forward  with  a  description  of  the  colossal 
statues  of  Bamian,  together  with  measurements  and 
illustrations.  Travelers,  oriental  and  occidental, 
have  spoken  of  these  statues  from  ttme  to  time, 
but  accurate  measurements  of  them  were  first 
made  by  the  surveyors  who  were  attached  to 
the  Afghan  Boundary  Commission.  Bamian, 
where  these  statues  are,  is  on  the  road  from 
Cabul  to  Balkh,  where  it  crosses  the  Paropamismus 
range.  The  elevation  is  about  8,600  feet  above  sea- 
level.  There  are  five  statnes,  three  of  them,  including 
the  largest,  being  in  niches,  the  figures  being  formed 
of  the  rock  within  the  niche.  Captain  Talbot  of  the 
Boundary  Commission,  osing  a  theodolite,  found  the 
talleet  statue  to  be  178  feet  high,  whereas  the  statue  of 
Uberty  is  only  1!S1H  feet  high.  Since  "Liberty"  is  on 
a  pedestal,  however,  the  statue  of  Bamian  must  rank 
below  her,  unless  the  English  propose  to  count  its 
8,600  feet  elevation  above  sea-level  as  a  pedestal.  The 
Bamian  statues  seem  to  be  Buddhist  idols  of  great  oi- 
tiqnity,  and  the  natives  have  a  variety  of  legends  con- 
cerning them." 

WiATBm  Pbmdiorobb.— In  Sdencs  we  rMd  the  fol- 
lowing :— 


"A  fnll  acconnt   of  the   Union   PiKiflc  Railroad 
weather-service  has  been  furnished  to  the  newspapers 
in  the  West  by  Lieutenant  Powell  of  the  Signal  Service, 
who  is  in  charge  of  the  new  enterprise,  and  now  en- 
gaged in  bringing  it  Into  shape  for  practical  work. 
There  will  be  83  stations  tn  all.  It  is  proposed  to  Issoe 
predictions  twice  a  day,  announcing  the  expected 
weather  changes  from  M  to  48  hours  beforehand,  llua 
will  give  the  railroad  officials  ample  time  before  the 
trains  start  in  the  afternoon  and  morning  to  make  any 
changes  which  the  predicted  weather  may  neccssiiate. 
The  predictions  will  be  couched  in  specific  language, 
and  not  in  meaningless  general  terms.    For  iusunce: 
one  indication  will  predict  in  a  certain  division  co>d 
weather  with*  snow,  the  wind  being  from  the  north  and 
blowing  at  the  rate  of  30  miles  an  hour,  followed  by 
warmer  weather,  the  wind  changing  to  a  souiheiiy 
direction.    Study  of  the  road  will  determine  where  the 
worst  snow-drifts  most  frequently  occur,  and  from 
this  it  will  be  possible  to  tell  pretty  nearly  where  snow 
blockades  are  liable  to  form.    An  accurate  and  com- 
prehensive weather-service  will  enable  the  Union  Pa- 
cific to  save  thousands  of  dollars  every  week  to  its 
patrons.     If  storms  can  be  accurately  predicted  be- 
forehand, the  stockmen  can  withhold  their  shipments 
and  allow  cattle  to  be  sent  through  without  danger  of 
perishing  by  being  caught  In  blockades  or  blizaards. 
One  prominent  cattleman  recently  said   that  such  a 
system  of  predictions,  if  accurate,  would  bo  the  means 
of  saving  him  $90,000  every  year.    The  practical  work- 
ing of  this  service  will  be  watched  with  much  interest 
by  railroad  men  in  all  parts  of  the  country.^ 


«« 


Sib  Thokas  Frahctb  Wads,  D.  L.— This  profound 
scholar,  bom  about  1880,  has  had  much  to  do  with 
Chinese  concerns  for  a  half  century.  Those  who  have 
not  mastered  his  great  work,  TeOM  Erh  Uki^  a  ''Pro- 
gressive Course"  in  Chinese,  know  much  less  of  the 
language  of  the  Flowery  Kingdom  than  they  might 
have  known.  Sir  Thomas  lYancls  Wade  has  recently 
presented  to  the  Library  of  Cambridge  University  a 
valoable  collection  of  Chinese  books.  He  was  there* 
upon  honored  with  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Letters. 
Upon  this  occasion.  Doctor  Sandys,  the  '^Public  Ora- 
tor" delivered  (Dec.  0, 1886),  the  following  laudatory 
address;  for  the  like  of  which  one  will  look  In  vain  in 
the  extant  writings  of  Cicero:— 

"Salntamusdeinceps  vimm  insignemqul  inventutflm 
armis,  aetatem  mediam  litteris,  annos  maturoe  Aeade- 
miae,  vium  vero  totam  patriae  dedicavit  Salntsmns 
legatum  illustrero,  cuius  fidei  et  tntelae  Imperii  Britan- 
nici  causa,  in  extrema  Orientis  ora,  inter  Seras  illos 
remotos,  auspiciis  optimis  olim  tradita  eat  Salutamns 
denique  vlrum  doctissimum,  qui  bibliothecam  nostram 
beneflcio  anxit  slngnlari,  sapientlae  orientalis  divitlis, 
quas  cura  infinita  per  tot  annos  congeseerat,  Academias 
nostrae  in  pcrpetunm  donatls.  Tanti  vero  muneris  et 
anctor  et  interpres  et  cnstos  Academlam  nostram  Qtt> 
nam  plarlmos  in  annos  exomet;  quiqne  orientsm 
prope  cinlrm  aetatis  nrioris  in  luce  patriae  nomen  iUns- 
trius  reddidit,  idem  inter  Academiae  nostrae  ocddeo- 
talis  umbras,  vesperascente  leniter  vitae  die  hospes 
honoratus  dlutlasime  sapersit 

ooriip  tt  wpL¥  cXofiirffr  iyov  warpiU  ^rfyyof, 


GOBTHE  AND  PHILOSOPHY. 


89r 


GOETHE  AND  PHILOSOPHY. 

Thb  "old  quarrel  of  poets  and  phil- 
osophers/' of  which  Plato  speaks,  is  as 
far  off  from  reconciliation  as  ever,  and 
in  one  point  of  view  we  cannot  wish 
it  to  be  reconciled.  It  is  far  from 
desirable  that  poetry  should  ever  become 
"a  criticism  of  life,"  except  in  the 
sense  in  which  beauty  is  always  a  criti- 
cism upon  ugliness,  or  a  good  man 
upon  a  bad  one;  and  it  is  quite  afi 
undesirable  that  philosophy  should 
relax  any  of  its  efforts  to  produce  such 
a  criticism,  or,  in  other  words,  to  set 
the  deeper  meaning  of  things  against 
their  superficial  appearances.  Each 
does  best  service  by  remaining  within 
its  own  limtis  and  keeping  to  its  own 
ways  of  action.  Yet  there  is  undoubt- 
edly a  point — and  that,  indeed,  the 
highest  point  in  both — ^in  which  they 
conoe  into  close  relations  with  eacn 
other.  Hence,  at  least  in  the  case  of 
the  greatest  poets,  we  are  driven  by  a 
kind  of  necessity  to  ask  what  was  their 
philosophy.  A  few  words  on  the  gen- 
eral relations  of  poetry  and  philosophy 
may  make  it  easier  to  express  what  in 
this  point  of  view  we  have  to  say  about 
Ooethe. 

The  poet,  like  the  philosopher,  is  a 
seeker  tor  truth,  and  we  may  even  say 
for  the  same  kind  of  truth.  He  may 
not,  indeed,  like  the  philosopher,  sep- 
arate the  idea  or  principle  from  the 
immediate  reality  of  things,  but  he 
must  be  so  eager  and  passionate  in  his 
realism  as  to  ^et  at  the  ideal  in  it  and 
through  it.  He  must  grasp  the  world 
of  sense  so  firmly  that  it  ceases  to  sting. 
If  he  remolds  the  immediate  facts 
of  the  world  of  experience,  it  must  be 
by  means  of  forces  which  are  working 
in  it  as  well  as  in  himself,  and  which 
his  own  plastic  genius  only  brings  to 
clearer  manifestation.  In  some  few 
cases,  this  poetic  process  of  ^^widening* 
nature  witnout  going  beyond  it,''  as 


Schiller  expresses  it,  has  been  so  suc- 
cessful that  it  becomes  almost  a  futile 
curiosity  to  ask  what  were  the  materials 
which  the  poet  has  used,  or  the  bare 
facts  for  which  he  has  substituted  his 
creations.  The  kernel  has  been  so 
completely  extracted  that  we  are  not 
concerned  about  the  husk.  If  we  could 
learn  the  circumstances  of  the  Trojan 
War  as  a  contemporary  historian  might 
chronicle  them,  we  should  not  know 
nearly  so  much  of  the  inner  movement 
and  development  of  the  Greek  spirit  as 
Homer  has  told  us;  though  we  should 
probably  find  that  Homer's  story  is 
nowhere  a  mere  copy  of  the  facts,  but 
that  it  stands  to  them  in  somewhat  the 
same  relations  in  which  the  Sorrows  of 
Werther  stands  to  the  accidents  of 
(Joethe's  life  in  Welzlar,  and  the  suicide 
of  Jerusalem.  The  facts  are  changed, 
and  a  new  world  constructed  out  of  the 
old  by  the  shaping  imagination  of  the 
poet,  but  the  change  is  such  that  it 
seems  to  have  taken  place  in  the  factory 
of  Nature  herself.  The  forces  that 
w^rk  underground,  and  hide  themselves 
from  us  beneath  the  appearances  of 
human  life,  have,  by  the  silent  elabo- 
ration of  poetic  genius,  forced  their  way 
to  the  surface,  and  transformed  the 
appearances  thenuelves.  Hence  the 
new  creation  has  all  the  colors  of  life, 
and  almost  shaifies  the  so-called  facts 
of  evdry  day  by  the  sturdy  force  and 
reality  of  its  presence.  Thus  before 
Shakespeare's  characters  most  ordinary- 
human  beings  seem  like  the  shadows, 
of  the  dead  m  Homer.  It  is  not  that 
in  these  dramas  a  different  life  is  set 
before  us  from  that  which  men  every- 
where lead,  but  the  passions  and  Qharr 
acters  which,  in  conflict  with  each 
other  and  with  circumstance,  gradually 
work  out  thoir  destinv,  are  in  Sie  poet's 
mind  put  into  a  kind  of  forcing-house, 
and  made  with  rapid  evolution  to  sluiv 
their  inner^law  and  tendency  in  imi-.  j- 
diate  result. 


888 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


It  is  indeed  only  the  greatest  poets 
who  are  capable  of  thus  making  them- 
selves, as  it  were,  into  organs  by  which 
nature  reaches  a  further  development. 
In  all  but  the  greatest  we  find  a  mixture 
of  such  creative  reconstruction  with 
what  we  can  only  call  manufacture. 
The  failing  force  of  vision  obliges 
them  to  hold  together  by  mechanical 
means  the  elements  which  do  not 
lound  themselves  into  an  organic  whole. 
And  even  to  the  greatest  poets  it  is  not 
granted  to  have  a  complete  and  contin- 
uous vision.  Hence>  except  in  the 
case  of  short  "swallow-flights  of  song," 
which  can  be  produced  in  one  lyric 
burst  of  feeling,  works  of  pure  poetic 
art  must  be  the  result  of  much  patient 
waiting  and  watching  for  the  spirit; 
they  cannot  be  perfected  without  much 
self-restraint  and  critical  rejection  of 
every  element  which  is  not  quite  gen- 
uine. **That  which  limits  us,  the 
common  or  vulgar,'*  and  which  by  its 
presence  at  once  turns  poetry  into  piose, 
cannot  be  excluded  except  by  a  self- 
abnegation  as  great  as  that  by  which 
the  scientific  man  puts  aside  subjective 
pre-suppositions  and  "anticipations  of 
nature."  For  poetic  truth  does  not  lie 
on  the  surface  any  more  than  scientific 
truth.  The  kinds  of  truth  are  indeed 
widely  different.  THe  aim  of  the  man 
of  science  is  to  distinguish  the  threads 
of  necessity  that  bind  together  the  most 
disparate  phenomena,  and  in  pursuit 
of  these  he  seems,  to  one  who  looks  at 
the  immediate  result,  to  be  explainiuff 
away  all  the  life  and  unity  of  the  world 
and  putting  everywhere  mechanism  for 
organism,  even  in  the  organic  itself. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  poet  ignores  or 
endeavors  to  get  beyond  the  external 
mechanism  of  the  world;  he  is  ever 
seeking  and  finding  life  even  among 
the  dead.  But  only  one  who  regards 
the  abstractions  of  science  as  the  ulti- 
mate truth  of  things,  can  take  this 
process  to  be  a  mere  play  of  cubjective 


fancy,  or  can  suppose  that  any  great 
poetic    creation    is    produced   by   an 
imagination  which  merely  follows  its 
own  dreams  and  does  not  bend  to  any 
objective  law.     It  is  even  harder  for  the 
poet  to  eliminate  from  his  work  all  that 
18  not  living,  than  for  the  scientific 
man  to  set  aside  the  phantoms  of  life, 
the  final  causes,  which  disturbed  the 
prose  of  science.     In   both  cases  the 
individual  has  to  put  himself  aside  and 
let  nature  speak;  but  the  poet  listens 
for  another  voice,  a  * 'still  small  voice," 
which    comes   from  a  further  depth. 
The  extreme  rarity  of  poetic  works  of 
a  high  order,  in  spite  of  the  compar- 
atively frequent  appearance  of  a  measure 
of  poetic  genius,  shows  how  many  and 
difiicult  are  the  conditions  which  must 
be  satisfied  in  their  production. 

The  poet,  like  the  philosopher,  is  in 
search  of  a  deeper  truth  in  tnings  than 
that  which  is  the  object  of  science. 
He  seeks,  as  has  been  said,  the  unity 
and  life  which  is  hidden  in  the  mechan- 
ism of  the  universe,  and  he  who  seeks 
truth  in  any  form  must  be  prepared 
for  self -abnegating  effort.  Yet  we  must 
not  forget  another  characteristic  of  po- 
etiy  by  which  it  is  separated  at  once  from 
science  and  philosophy — viz.,  its  spon- 
taneous and  even  unconscious  character. 
After  all,  the  effort  of  the  poet  is  to 
provide  a  free  channel  for  a  power  that 
works  in  him  like  a  natural  force. 
Wordsworth's  criticism  of  Goethe's 
poetry,  that  it  was  not  inevitable  enongh 
(a  criticism  which  is  singularly  wide 
of  the  mark  in  regard  to  the  best  of 
Goethe's  work),  is  an  apt  expression  of 
this  truth.  Creative  imagination  is  a 
power  which  is  neither  lawless,  nor  yet, 
strictly  speaking,  under  law;  it  is  a 
power  which,  as  Kant  said,  makes  faws. 
It  carries  us  with  free  steps  into  a 
region  in  which  we  leave  behind  and 
forget  the  laws  of  nature;  yet,  as  soon 
as  we  begin  to  look  round  us  and  to 
reflect  on  our  new  environment,  we 


GOETHE  AND  PHILOSOPHY. 


889 


that  it  could  not  have  been  otherwise. 

The  world  has  not  been  turned  upside 

down,  but  widened  by  the  addition  of 

a   new  province  which  is  in  perfect 

continuity  with  it.     But  this  feat  of 

''widening      nature     without     going 

beyond  it,"  has  its  special  subjective 

conditions.     It  cannot  be  achieved  by 

one    in  whom  the  division  of  man's 

higher  and  lower  nature  has  produced 

the  sense   of  an  irreconcilable  breach 

between  the  two,  or  in  whose  eyes  their 

unity  has  been  reduced  to  a  mere  ideal. 

Poetic  genius  must  live  in  fruition,  not 

in  aspiration — must  be  at  peace  and  not 

at  wai'  with  the  world;  it  must  be  able 

to  see  good  in  the  heart  of  evil,  it  must 

grasp  as  attained  what  others  see  only 

as  a  distant  hope.     The  poet  cannot  be 

one  who  has  had   to   trample    upon 

his  natural  life  in  order  to  make  room 

for   moral  freedom,  or  one  who  has 

lost    the   vividness    of    the    sensuous 

present  in  order  to  grasp  at  an  idea. 

He  must  remain  at  one  with  himself  as 

in  happy  childhood,  and  maintain  an 

unbroKen  life  in  spite  of  all  fightings 

within    And*  contradictions    without. 

For  if  he  does  not,  a  false  note  will  ^et 

into  his  song;  it  will  become  a  wail  lor 

a  lost  past,  a  complaint  against  time 

and  fortune,  or  an  aspiration  after  the 

unattainable  instead  of  an  echo  of  the 

divine  word  that  "all  is  good." 

Art  must,  therefore,  in  a  sense,  be 
joyous;  if  it  is  not  to  fall  beneath  its 
idea,  it  mast  at  least  return  in  its  final 
note  to  joy.  If  it  admits  the  tragic 
contrasts  of  life,  it  must  not  lose  itself 
in  them;  it  mu^  carry  us  beyond  "fear 
and  terror,"  even  if  it  has  to  carry  us 
through  them.  It  must  not  leave  us 
victims  of  such  passions  without  a 
reconciling  atonement,  which  makes  us 
accept  the  event,  not  merely  as  an  inev- 
itable fate,  but  as  an  issue  in  which 
the  dramatic  evolution  of  character  has 
brought  about  its  own  destiny.  Thus, 
even  when  it  goes  beyond  the  first  and 


simplest  theme  of  poetic  imagination, 
and  ceases  to  be  an  expression  of  man's 
joy  in  the  response  of  nature  to  the 
demands  of  his  spirit,  it  must  restore 
the  broken  harmony  by  giving  us,  even 
in  the  utmost  tra^c  catastrophe,  the 
sense  of  the  realization  of  a  law  in  which 
we  are  more  deeply  interested  than 
even  in  the  sorrows  and  joys-  of  the 
individual.  If,  on  the  contrary,  a 
poem  throws  us  back  upon  ourselves, 
jarred  and  untuned  as  by  a  conscious- 
ness of  inexplicable  accident  or  mean 
ingless  sorrow,  or  if  it  leaves  us  strained 
with  a  vacant  longing  for  we  know  not 
what,  we  may  safely  say  that  we  have 
been  cheated  by  a  false  semblance  of 
art,  or  at  best  by  an  art  which  willfully 
seeks  to  destroy  the  sources  of  its  own 
power.  For  contradiction,  division^ 
external  limitation  are  the  prose  ol 
life;  and  art  is  ai*t,  poetry  is  poetry^ 
only  as  it  disentangles,  unites,  and 
reconciles,  giving  us,  if  not  the  open 
v^ion,  at  least  the  presentment  or 
'^hnung"  of  the  unity  which  13  be- 
neath and  beyond  it. 

In  a  sense,  then,  we  may  admit  that 
poetic  art  is  merely  ideal.  It  must  be 
ideal  just  because  it  holds  so  closely  to 
the  immediate  reality  or  sensuous  pres- 
ence of  its  objects,  even  while  it  lifts 
them  beyond  those  limits  and  conditions 
which  are  attached  to  the  things  of 
sense.  It  cannot,  therefore,  even  in 
tragedy,  go  fairly  down  into  the  region 
of  confiict  and  limitation,  which,  as  T 
have  said,  is  the  domain  of  prose.  It 
shrinks  from  the  abstractions  and 
divisions  of  science,  as  fatal  to  that 
immediate  unity  and  life  which  it 
cannot  surrender.  Hence  its  "old 
(quarrel"  with  philosophy.  Philosophy 
is,  in  the  end,  at  one  with  poetry.  It 
might  even  be  said  thsLi,  ultimately  it 
is  nothing  more  than  an  attempt  to 
prove  that  which  poetry  assumes  as 
given,  or  to  enable  us  by  reflection  to 
recognize  as  the  universal  principle  of 


340 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


reality  that  ideal  which  poetry  exhibits 
to  us  in  special  creations.  Yet  the 
essential  differences  of  method  make  it 
difficult  for  two  such  disparate  activities 
to  come  to  any  understanding  with 
each  other.  Plato,  in  whom  the  per- 
fect union  of  these  two  forms  of  spirit- 
ual life  was  most  nearly  realized,  is  also 
the  writer  who  most  strongly  insists  on 
their  essential  Opposition.  In  truth 
they  may  be  said  to  start  in  opposite 
directions,  and  only  to  coincide  in  their 
final  goal.  For  philosophy,  whatever 
ultimately  it  may  do  to  point  toward 
unity,  is  obliged  to  begin  by  carrying 
abstraction  and  division  to  a  fui1;her 
extent  than  even  science.  If  it  aims  at 
a  fina(  synthesis,  it  is  on  the  basis  of  an 
unspaang  analysis;  if  it  seeks  to  nnd  a 
living  unity  in  the  world,  it  is  not 
by  restoring  the  immediate  life,  which 
science  destroys  that  it  may  dissect  the 
dead  body.  Hather  its  business  is  to 
complete  the  scientific  disintegration 
that,  through  death,  it  may  reach  «a 
higher  life.  It  is  essential  to  philos- 
ophy to  separate  the  spiritniil  from  the 
natural,  the  higher  life  from  the  lower 
life,  the  subject  from  the  object,  the 
universal  from  the  particular,  the  ideal 
from  the  real.  Thus  it  carries  us 
deep  into  the  region  of  abstraction  and 
division,  of  contradiction  and  contro- 
versy, and  if  it  also  can  be  said  to  carry 
us  beyond  that  region,  yet  in  this 
respect  its  work  is  never  complete,  and 
the  answer  it  gives  in  one  age  requires 
to  be,  if  not  essentially  changed,  yet 
deepened  and  widened  and  translated 
into  a  new  language  with  the  changing 
experiences  of  another  age.  Thus  the 
element  of  pure  theory  must  always  be 
a  dangerous,  and  may  even  be  a  fatal,  ele- 
ment to  the  poet;  for  it  severs  that  which 
it  is  his  peculiar  function  to  keep  united, 
and  even  where  it  reunites,  it  has  to 
accomplish  its  synthesis  in  a  region 
of  thought  ih  which  the  sensuot^s  fbrms 
t  f  poetry  can  hardly  breathe  and  live. 


These  general  considerations  may 
serve  as  an  introduction  to  a  few 
remarks  on  Goethe's  attitude  toward 
philosophy  and  its  infiueuoe  on  his 
intellectual  development.  Goethe  owed 
much  to  particular  philosophers;  we 
can  often  trace  in  his  work  indications 
of  the  study  of  Plato,  and  still  more  of 
Spinoza.  Nor  could  he  at  any  time 
withdraw  himself  from  the  influence  of 
the  great  contemporaneous  movement 
of  idealistic  thought,  to  which  his  own 
mental  development  moved  in  parallel 
lines,  and  on  which  it  frequently  re- 
acted. But  toward  philosopiiy  in  gen- 
eral he  preserved  throughout  his  life 
a  self-defensive  attitude — a  sort  of 
armed  neutrality.  While  he  welcomed 
suggestions  from  it  which  were  kindred 
with  his  own  way  of  thinking,  and  even 
willingly  apnropriated  many  of  its 
results,  he  always  tried  to  keep  his 
mind  from  being  influenced  by  its 
methods  and  processes.  He  shrank 
from  it,  at  first  by  a  kind  of  instinct, 
and  afterward  with  a  distinct  convic- 
tion, that  any  nearer  approach  would 
be  dangerous  to  that  intuitive  process 
of  imagination  which  was  the  source  of 
his  own  strength. 

Such  reserve  and  self-limitation  was 
Very  characteristic  of  Goethe;  for,  not- 
withstanding his  many-sidedness,  no 
one  ever  realized  more  distinctly  the 
necessity  of  keeping  within    his  own 

Erovince.  That  each  one  must  know 
imseif 'in  the  sense  of  knowing  his 
work,  and  mast  refuse  to  allow  himself 
to  be  drawn  away  from  it  to  interests 
and  pursuits  which  lie  beyond  the  range 
of  his  faculty,  was  for  him  the  fiist 
maxim  of  self- culture.  His  obedience 
to  it  has  often  subjected  him  to  serioiis 
moral  charges,  on  the  ground  that 
his  pursuit  of  self-culture  involved  a 
narrow  self-absorption  and  a  selfish 
indifference  to  the  interests  of  his  nation 
or  of  humanity.  Such  a  view  mi^ht 
appeal  to  expressions  like  the  following 


GOETHE  AND  PHILOSOPHY. 


841 


in  a  letter  to  Larater:     ''The  passion 
to  lift  the  pyramid  of  my  being,  the 
bajsis  of  which  is  assigned  and  estab- 
lished for  me,  as  high  as  possible  into 
the  air,  outweighs  everything  else,  and 
permits  me  sc^arcely  for  one  moment  to 
forscet  it."     But  we  must  interpret  an 
exaggerated  phrase  like  this  by  Goethe's 
often-expressed     conviction     that    we 
necessarily  become  bunglers  and  med- 
dlers when  we  interfere  with  that  which 
lies   beyond   the  "orbit  fixed  for  our 
existence  by  eternal  laws.'*    Activity 
that  does  not  advance  our  own   self- 
culture  will,  he  holds,  be  useful  to  no 
other  man.     For  him,  as  fpr  Plato,  all 
the  virtues  were   summed  up  in  each 
one  doing  his  own  business  and  avoid- 
ing to  interfere  with  that  which  is  the 
business  of  othei:8.     On  this  principle 
we  can,  at  least,  partly  explain  what 
gave  so  much  offence  to  the  patriotism 
of  his  countrymen — his  attitude  during 
the  war  of  liberation.     In  the  Awaking 
of  Epirnenides^  a  poem  which  was  writ- 
ten  after  the  victory  over  Napoleon, 
and  in  which  he  expresses  a  kind  of 
penitence  for  his  silence  diwing  the 
national    struggle,    he    suggests  •  the 
excuse  that  the  part  he  was  called  by 
his  nature  to  play  was,  not  to  share  in 
the  war,  but  to  prepare  for  the  higher 
civilization  that  should  arise  after  the 
war    was    ended.      Epimenides,    who 
represents  Goethe,  is  made  to  say:  '"I 
am  ashamed  of  the  hours  of  rest;   it 
would  have  been  a  gain  to  suffer  with 
you;  for  the  pain  you  have  borne  makes 
yon  greater  than  I.''    But  the  answer 
of  the  priest  is:  **Blame  not  the  will 
of  the  gods    that   thou    hast    sained 
many  a  year;  they  have  kept  thee  in 
quietness  so  that  thy  feeling  may  be 
pure  {doss  du  rein  emfinden  kanst). 
And  so  thou  art  in  harmony  with  the 
future  days  to  which  history  offers  our 
pain  and  sorrow,  our  endeavor  and  our 
courage." 
J  It  was  a  similar  feeling  that  made 


Goethe  generally  keep  philosophy,  as 
it  were,  at  arm's  len^h,  while  at  the 
same  time  he  recognized  the  points  of 
contact  which  it  offered  to  him.  In  a 
letter  to  Jacobi  he  says  : — 

''  You  can  easily  imagine  my  attitude  to 
philosophy.  When  it  lays  itself  out  for  division 
1  cannot  get  on  wiUi  it;  indeed  I  may  say 
that  it  has  occasionaily  done  me  harm  by 
disturbing  me  in  my  natural  course.  But 
when  it  unites,  or  rather,  when  it  elevates  and 
confirms  our  original  feeling  as  Though  we 
were  one  with  Nature,  and  elevates  it  into 
a  peaceful  intuition  that  under  its -external 
ovYxpcffif  and  5iaxpi«>(f  a  divine  life  is  present 
to  U6,  even  if  we  are  not  permitted  to  lead 
such  a  life  ourselves — ^then  it  is  welcome  to 
me,  und  you  may  reckon  upon  my  sympathy. ' ' 

From  this- we  may  explain  the  charm 
which  he  found  in  the  one  philosoph- 
ical wcfrk  from  the  influence  of  which 
he  never  tried  to  withdraw  himself — 
the  Ethics  of  Spinoza.  That  strange 
book,  in  which  the  soul  of  poetry  is 
clothed  in  the  body  of  geometry,  took 
hold  of  Goethe  at  an  early  period,  so 
soon  as  he  had  begun  to  emerge  out  of 
the  "storm  and  stress"  of  his  youth; 
and  through  all  his  subseouent  life  he 
continued  to  refresh  and  strengthen 
himself  with  its  doctrine  of  all- 
embracing  unity  and  disinterested  love. 
The  Of trenie 'antagonism  of  Spinoza's 
methods  of  thinking  and  expression 
to  his  own  contributed  to  the  attraction. 
He  saw  in  Spinoza  his  intellectual  com- 

Element,  whom  he  could  enjoy  without 
eing  in  any  way  tempted  to  go  beyond 
himself. 

"His  all-reconciling  peace  contrasted  with 
my  all  agitating  endeavor;  his  intellectual 
method  was  the  opposite  counterpart  of  my 
poetic  way  of  feeliuz  and  expressing  myself: 
and  even  the  inflexible  regularity  of  his  logical 
procedure,  which  might  be  considered  ill- 
adapted  to  moral  subjects,  made  me  his  most 
passionate  scholar  and  his  devoted  adherent. 
Mind  and  heart,  understanding  and  sense 
were  drawn  together  with  an  inevitable 
elective  affinity,  and  this  at  the  same  time 
produced  an  intimate  union  between  individ- 
uals of  the  meet  different  type." 


843 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


Goethe  never  attempted  to  master  the 
Spinozistic  philosophy  as  a  system;  he 
tells  us,  indeed,  that  he  never  even  read 
the  Ethics  through  at  one  time.  But  he 
kept  reading  in  it,  as  people  read  in 
the  Bible,  to  get  strength  and  inspira- 
tion, and  to  confirm  himself  in.  those 
principles  that  gradually  had  become 
almost  identified  with  his  consciousness 
of  himself.  No  other  philosophy  ever 
came  so  close  to  him:  tnough  nis  early 
association  with  Herder  brought  him 
indirectly  under  many  philosophic 
influences,  and  in  particular  we  often 
find  him  using  the  ideas  and  lan^age 
of  Leibnitz.  To  the  Critical  philos- 
ophy, in  which  the  subject  seemed  to 
be  set  against  the  object  and  the  ideal 
separated  from  the  real,  he  at  ^rst  felt 
an  instinctive  repulsion.  But  at  a 
later  time,  intercourse  with  Schiller, 
who  professed  himself  a  Kantian  but 
who  tried  to  soften  Kant's  sharp  con- 
trast between  the  moral  and  the  natural, 
did  something  to  remove  his  objections. 
And  the  Critique  of  Judgment,  in 
which  Kant  himself  undertakes  the 
same  task  of  mediation  between  free- 
dom and  nature,  was  a  book  almost 
entirely  to  his  mind.  He  detected  the 
way  in  which  Kant,  especially  in  this 
final  development  of  lis  philosophy, 
points  ('*as  by  a  side  gesture'*)  beyond 
the  limitations  which  he  seems  to  fix 
for  the  intelligence  of  man,  and  with 
a  curious  turning  of  the  tables,  he 
claimed  Kant's  account  of  the  "intui- 
tive understanding"  as  a  fit  description 
of  the  true  synthetic  method  for  the 
discovery  of  Nature's  laws  which  he 
had  himself  followed.  On  the  other 
hand,  he  was  repelled  by  the  one-sided 
Idealism  of  Fichte,  who  exaggerated 
that  aspect  of  the  critical  philosophy 
with  which  he  was  least  in  sympathy, 
and  he  seldom  speaks  of  "the  great  Ego 
of  Ossmanstadt"  without  a  shade  of 
irony.  There  is  even  a  trace  of  ma- 
licious satisfaction  in  the  way  in  which 


he  relates  how  Fichte  had  his  windows 
broken  by  the  students  of  Jena:  "not 
the  most  pleasant  way  of  becoming 
convinced  of  the  existence  of  a  non- 
ego.  "  The  further  development  of  the 
ideas  of  the  Critique  of  Judgnient,  by 
which  Schelling  brought  Idealism,  so  to 
speak,  into  a  line  witli  Spinozism', 
excited  his  eager  interest,  and  he  even 
speaks  of  the  advance  of  philosophy  as 
having  helped  him  to  reconcile  himself 
to  many  things  that  had'  repelled  him 
at  an  earlier  time,  and  especially  "as 
having  considerably  changed  his  view 
of  Christianity.  Still,  on  the  whole, 
except  in  the  case  of  Spinoza,  his 
attitude  to  philosophy  is  that  of  an 
outsider  who  accepts  its  help  when  it 
seems  to  support  his  own  way  of  think- 
ing, but  disregards  it  when  it  does  not. 
And  his  ultimate  view  of  it  seems  to  be 
that  indicated  by  the  (somewhat  ambig- 
uous) aphorism,  that  "man  is  not  bom 
to  solve  the  problem  of  the  universe, 
but  to  find  out  wherein  it  consists." 

What  has  just  been  said  may  be 
taken  as  a  summary  of  Goethe's  rela- 
tions to  philosophy.  Such  a  summary, 
however,  can  tell  us  very  little  about 
Goethe,  unless  we  are  able  to  bring  it 
into  definite  relation  with  the  different 
stages  of  his  intellectual  history.  In 
this  article  we  can  only  attempt  to 
indicate  one  or  two  turning-points  in 
that  history,  and  especially  to  show 
how  it  was  that,  at  one  of  these  turning- 
points,  the  philosophy  of  Spimiza 
gained  so  great  a  power  over  him,  and 
how  at  a  later  time  it  combined  itself 
with  other  influences  to  produce  that 
distinctive  cast  of  thought  which  we 
trace  in  all  his  lat^r  works. 

The  first  question  we  are  naturally 
led  to  ask  aboiJUt;  an  original  genius 
like  Goethe,  who  has  done  so  much  to 
change  the  main  current  of  European 
thought,  is  as  to  his  relation  to  the  past. 
Against  what  had  he  to  revolt — from 
what  had  he  to  free  himself,  i^  order 


GOETHE  AND  PHILOSOPHY. 


843 


to  open  the  way  for  the  new  life  that 
was  m  him?    And  on'' the  other  side, 
with  what  already  acting  forces  could 
he  ally  himself?    Born  m  the  middle 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  he  awakened 
to   intellectual  life   between   a  lifeless 
orthodoxy  and  an  external  enlighten- 
ment which  was  gradually  undermining 
it,  but  at  the  same  time  reducing  itself 
to   a  platitnde.     Looking  beyond  his 
own    country  to   France,   which    had 
then    all  the  prestige  of  culture,   he 
found    an    artificial    and    aristocratic 
literature  which  repelled  his  youthful 
sympathies,  and    a   scepticism  which 
stopping  shbrt '  in  .  its  development  and 
allying   itself  with  the  rising  mathe- 
matical and  physical  sciences,  was  on  the 
way  to  produce  a  mechanical  theory  of 
the  universe.     He  had  soon  got  by  heart 
the   negative  lesson  of  Voltaire,  and, 
like  Faust,  he  found  that,  while  it  freed 
him  from  all  his  superstitions,  it  at  the 
same  time  made  the  world  empty  and 
barren  to  him.     And  the  mechanical 
philosophy  which   presented   itself  in 
the  Systime  de  la  Nature,  as  the  posi- 
tive substitute  for  his  lost  faith,  could 
not  but  fill  a  poet's  soul  with  pious 
horror.       In  Goethe's  autobiography, 
though  written  many  years  after,  we 
can  still  see  the  vehemence  of  his  revolt 
against  a  theory  which  "reduced  that 
\niich  appears  higher  than  nature,  or 
rather  as  the  higher  nature  in  nature 
itself,  to  aimless  and  formless  matter 
and  motion." 

"It  appeared  to  us/' he  declared,  "aoeray, 
80  CimmeriaD,  and  so  dead  that  we  shuddered 
at  it  as  at  a  ghost.  We  thought  H  the  very 
quinteflscncc  of  old  age.  All  was  said  to  be 
necessary,  and  therefore,  no  God.  AVhy,  we 
ask^  should  not  a  necessity  for  God  find  place 
among  oth^r  necessities?  We  confessed, 
indeei,  that  we  could  not  withdraw  ourselves 
from  the  necessary  influencetj  of  day  and 
night,  of  the  seasons,  of  the  climatic  changes, 
of  physical  and  animal  conditions;  yet  we  felt 
something  within  us  that#ppeared  arbitrarily 
to  assert  itself  against  all  these;  and  again 
something  which  sought  to  counterpoise  such  | 


arbitrariness  and  to  restore  the  equilibrium  of 
life.'* 

On  the  other  hand ,  the  ordinary  teleo- 
logical  theology,  with  its  external  world 
architect  and  externally  determined 
designs,  could  not  seem  to  Goethe  any 
more  satisfactory  than  the  mechanical 
philosophy.  It  had  indeed  the  same 
fault  as  that  philosophy;  for  it,  too, 
substituted  an  external  composition  of 
parts  for  inner  life  and  development. 
He  had  put  such  theology  away  from 
him  almost  in  his  boyhood,  and  he 
could  not  return  to  it.  Then  as  always, 
he  was  ready  to  shoot  Voltairian  shafts 
of  wit  at  a  doctrine  of  final  causes 
which  made  any  accidental  result  of 
the  existence  of  an  object  into  its  end. 
In  this  state  of  mind,  the  fiery  appeals 
of  Rousseau  to  Nature,  as  a  power  with- 
in man  which  is  self-justified  against 
every  constraint  forced  upon  him  from 
without,   could  not  but  produce  the 

frfeatest  effect  on  Goethe,  All  his 
iscontent  with  an  unproductive  ortho- 
doxy, and  all  his  distaste*  for  a  disin- 
tegrating scepticism,  combined  to  make 
him  accept  a  creed  which  promised 
freedom  to  all  the  forces  of  his  being. 
Rousseau  seemed  to  vindicate  the  claims 
of  everything  that  had  life,  and  to  war 
only  with  the  dead  ;  and  a  susceptible 
poetic  nature,  doubting  of  itself,  was 
only  too  willing  to  be  reassured  by 
him  as  to  the  Tightness  of  its  own 
impulses.  The  vagueness  of  this  gospel 
of  nature  was  for  a  time  hidden  from 
Goethe  by  the  very  intensity  of  the 
poetic  impulse  within  him  which 
responded  vividly  to  every  impression 
from  without,  **See,  nay  friend, *'  he, 
writes  in  an  early  letter,  '*what  is  the 
beginning  and  end  of  all  writing,  bnt 
the  reproduction  of  the  world  around 
me  by  the  inner  wortd>  which  seiaes.. 
upon  eveiything,  binds  it  together,  n^w 
creates  it,  knead&  it>  and  sets  it  ouV 
a^ain  in  its  own  form  and  manner.'*' 
The  rush  of  youthful  inj»piratLon  seemedi 


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THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


to  need  no  guide^  and  it  spent  its  force 
in  every  direction  from  which  excite- 
ment came  with  what  Goethe  afterward 
called  *'a  divine  wantonness.'*  The 
calm  pages  of  the  Dichtung  und  Wahr- 
heit  p'rLrve  only  a  fee4  image  of 
the  fervor  and  passion  which  is  ^own 
in  the  letters  and  poems  of  this  time 
of  **storm  and  stress."  From  some  of 
the  worst  dangers  of  such  a  time^ 
Goethe  was  saved  by  the  genuineness 
of  his  poetic  impulse.  But  such  a 
living  at  random,  with  all  sails  set  and 
no  han:.  on  the  helm,  could  not  long 
be  possible  even  to  genius.  In  his 
case  it  resulted  in  a  crisis  of  sensibility, 
the  image  of  which  is  preserved  for  us 
in  the  Sorrows  of  Werther,  a  work  in 
which  he  at  once  expressed  the  passions 
and  illusions  of  his  youth,  and  freed 
himself  from  them. 

"Nature**  is  the  obvious  rallying  cry 
of  a  new  generation  striving  to  free 
itself  from  the  weight  of  the  ideas  and 
institutions  of  an  earlier  time.  Such  a 
cry  may  often  be  the  expression  of  a 
very  artificial  and  sophistical  state  of 
mind,  which,  beginnmg  in  the  desire 
to  throw  of!  that  which  is  really  oppres- 
sive, e«ds  in  a  fretful  revolt  against  the 
most  necessary  conditions  of  human  life. 
The  vague  impulse  of  youth  which 
refuses  to  limit  itself  or  give  up 
its  "natural  right  to  all  things,"  the 
vain  demand  of  the  heart  to  find  an 
outward  world  which  corresponds  to 
its  wants,  the  rebellion  of  passion 
against  the  destiny  which  refuses  it  an 
immediate  satisfaction,  the  hatred  of 
the  untamed  spirit  for  everything  of 
the  nature  of  convention  and  rule — 
each  and  all  of  these  feelings  readily^ 
disgiiise  themselves  under  the  name  of 
a  desire  to  return  to  nature.  But  in 
truth  such  a  longing  can  least  of  all  be 
satisfied  with  tne  simple  rustic  and 
domestic  life  which  it  seems  to  admire. 
When  it  cries  out — "0  fortunatos 
.niinium^    sua   si   bona  norintl^* — ^it 


forgets  that  knowledge  would  be  fatal 
to  such  bliss.  .The  self-absorbed,  self- 
conscious  spirit,  preying  upon  itseU  in 
its  isolating  individualism,  is  least  of  all 
capable  of  that  simple  union  with 
others  for  which  it  pines,  of  that  con- 
tentment with  natural  pleasures  which 
it  loves  to  express.  Buae  nature  would 
terrify  it  most  of  all,  if  it  could  once 
fairly  come  in  contact  with  her.  The 
discontent  of  the  sentimentalist  with 
the  world  is  merely  a  way  of  expressing 
what  is  really  the  inner  self-contradic- 
tion of  his  own  state.  The  exaggerated 
image  of  self  stands  between  him  and 
the  world,  and  gives  rise  to  an  infinite 
craving  which  spurns  every  finite  satis- 
faction. His  joy  is,  in  the  language  of 
Goethe,  a  fruit  which  is  "corrupted  ere 
it  is  broken  from  the  tree." 

This  strange  emotional  disease  which 
vexes  the  modem  world  has  had  its 
literary  representatives  in  most  Euro- 
pean nations,  who  have  expressed  it  with 
national  and  individual  modifications. 
From  Rousseau,  whose  whole  individu- 
ality and  character  was  absorbed  by  it, 
it  received  its  first  and  most  complete 
expression.  In  this  country,  Byron 
combined  it  with  the  fervor  of  an 
active  temperament,  and  draped  it  in  a 
somewhat  theatrical  costume.  Goethe, 
in  his  Werther^  gav^  to  it  a  purer 
rendering,  combining  it  with  the 
domestic  sentiment  and  reflective  self- 
analysis  of  his  nation.  But,  while 
Rousseau  and  even  Byron  were  perma- 
nent victims  of  the  self-contradictory 
state  of  feeling  which  they  expressed, 
Goethe,  in  his  Werther,  found  a  tnie 
aesthetic  deliverance  from  it.  He  cured 
himself,  so  to  speak,  by  painting  his 
disease.  He  exorcised  the  specter  tMt 
barred  his  way  to  a  higher  life  by  fore-- 
ing  it  to  stand  to  be  painted.  Werther 
was  his  demonstration  to  himself  of  the 
emptiness  and  unworthiness  of  a  state 
of  mind  whose  o»ly  legitimate  end  was 
suicide.    This^  indeed^  was  not  under- 


QOETHE  AND  PHILOSOPHTT. 


84tt 


stood  at  the  time.     Ooethe  was  haunted 
through  life   by  the  *^viel   betveinter 
Schatlen'^ — by  a  constant  demand  for 
sympathy  from  those  whose  malady  he 
^ad   80   perfectly  described  and  who 
expected  to    find    in   him    a   fellow- 
sunerer.     But  for  him^  the  writing  of 
the  book  was  the  beginning  of  recovery. 
In  his  Autobio^phy,  he  complains  of 
those  who  tought  a  direct  moral  lesson 
in   a  work  of  art,  and  who  imagined 
that  Werther  was  intended  to  justify 
the  sentimentality  and  the  suicide  of 
the  hero.     For  {limself,  however,  it  had 
a  lesson,  the  reverse  of  that  which  lies 
on  the  surface  of  it — the  lesson  that 
rebellion    against    the    conditions    of 
human  life  is  not  only  futile,  but  irra- 
tional.    In  these  limiting  conditions, 
he  is  never  weary  of  preaching,  lies 
the  way  to  freedom.       From  the  law 
that  binds  all  men,  he  only  can  be  Ireed 
who    overcomes  himself.        How  far 
this  lesson  was  revealed  to  Goethe  in 
the  mere  rebound  from  Wertherism, 
and  how  far  he  owed  it  to  any  external 
teaching,  we  cannot  now  disentangle. 
It  is  sumcient  to  say  that  he  seemed  to 
himself  to   find   it    in  the  pages  of 
Spinoza.     Qoethe's  '^apprenticeship," 
to  use  his  own  metaphor,  was  ended 
when  Spinoza  took  in  his  inner  life 
that  place  which  had  hitherto    been 
filled  oy  Boufiseau.     The  passage  in  the 
Dichtung  und  Wakrheit  m  which  this 
is  expi'essed  is  familiar,  but  it  is  neces- 
sary to  quote  it  here  once  more: — 

"Our  physical  as  well  as  our  social  life, 
morality,  custom,  knowledge  of  the  world, 
pbiloeopliy,  religion — yea,  many  an  accidental 
occurrence — ail  tell  us  Uiat  we  must  renounce. 
So  much  is  there  which  belongs  to  our  inmost 
being,  which  we  cannot  develop  and  form 
ouwardly;  so  much  that  we  need  from  with- 
out to  the  completion  of  our  being  is  withdrawn 
from  us:  and,  aig;ain,  so  much  is  forced  on  us 
which  is  both  alien  and  burdensome.  We  are 
deprived  of  that  which  is  toilsomely  won,  of 
that  which  is  granted  by  kindly  powers,  and 
ere  we  can  see  the  meaning  of  it,  we  find 
Mnel ves  compelled  to  give  up  our  personality, 


first  by  fragments,  and  then  completely.  In 
such  cases  it  is  usual  to  pay  no  attcution  to 
one  who  makes  faces  at  the  sacrifice  exuc^ed 
of  him;  rather,  the  bitterer  the  cui),  the  sweeter 
must  be  one's  bearing,  in  order  tliat  the  un- 
concerned spectator  may  not  be  annoyed  by  a 
grimace. 

**To  solve  this  hard  problem,  Nature  has 
furnished  man  with  a  rich  provision  of  force, 
activity,  and  toughness.  But  what  most  often 
comes  to  his  help  is  his  unconquerable  levity. 
By  this  he  becomes  capable  of  renouncing 
particular  things  at  each  moment  if  he  can 
only  grasp  at  something  new  in  the  next. 
Thus  unconsciously  we  arc  constantly  renew- 
ing our  wliolc  lives.  We  put  one  passion  in 
place  of  another;  business,  inclinatious,  amuse- 
ments, hobbies,  we  prove  them  all  one  after 
another,  only  to  crv  out  that  *all  is  vanity.* 
No  one  is  shocked  at  this  false,  nay,  blas- 
phemous, speech;  nay,  every  oue  thinks  that 
in  uttering  it  he  has  said  something  wise  and 
uLwnswerable.  Only  a  few  Inen  there  are 
who  anticipate  such  unbearable  feelings,  and 
m  order  to  escape  from  all  partial  renuncia- 
TOns,  i)erform  oup  all-embracing  act  of  re- 
nuncfaUon.  These  are  the  men  who  convince 
themselves  of  the  existence  of  the  eternal,  of 
the  nccet*8ary,  of  universal  law,  and  who  seek 
to  form  conceptions  which  cannot  fail  them, 
yea,  which  are  not  disturbed,  but  rather  con- 
firmed, by  the  contemplation  of  that  which 
passes  awsy.  But  as  there  is  something 
superhuman  in  this  atlitude  of  mind,  such 
persons  are  commonly  held  to  be  inhuman, 
without  God  and  aliens  to  the  world,  and  it  is 
much  if  men  refrain  from  decorating  th^m 
with  horns  and  claws." 

"Benunciation  once  for  all  in  view 
of  the  Eternal. '^  It  was  this  lesson 
that  made  Goethe  feel  an  '^atmosphere 
of  peace  breathe  upon  him"  whenever 
he  0|>ened  his  Spinoza.  Much  may  be 
said  in  some  respects  against  Goethe's 
moral  attitude,  but  there  is  one  point 
in  which  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  praise 
it  too  much.  No  one  ever  acted  more 
faithfully  on  the  resolve  to  make  the 
best  of  circumstances,  and  to  put  behind 
him  with  resolute  cheerfulness  the 
' 'blasphemous  speech  that  all  is 
vanity."  It  is  easy  in  one  way  to 
make  too  much  of  one's  own  life,  but 
it  is  not  easy  to  make  enough  of  it  in 
Goethe's  sense  of  living  in  tne  present^ 


846 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


and  drawing  all  the  good  out  of  it. 
Where  men  do  not  live  from  hand  to 
mouth,  nor  are  the  victims  of  one 
narrow  interest,  their  self -occupation  is 
often  a  dreaming  about  the  past  and 
the  future,  whicli  isolates  them  from 
other  men  and  from  the  world.  "They 
are  always  losing  to-day,  because  there 
has  been  a  yesterday,  and  because  to- 
morrow is  coming."  "They  little  sus- 
pect what 'an  inaccessible  stronghold 
that  man  possesses  who  is  always  in 
earnest  witli  himself  and  the  things 
around  him."  To  be  "always  in  earn- 
est" with  little  things  as  well  as  great, 
with  the  minutest  facts  presented  to 
his  observation  as  with  the  most  impor- 
tant issues  of  fife,  to  throw  the  whole 
force  of  his  l?eing  into  a  court  masque 
(when  that  was  the  requirement  of  the 
hour)  as  into  a  great  poem  or  a  scientilji^ 
discovery;  to  be,  in  short,  always  intent 
upon  the  "nearest  duty,"  was  Goethe's 
practical  philosophy.  With  this  was 
combined  a  resolute  abstinence  from 
complaint,  or  even  from  thought  about 
what  is  not  given  by  nature  and  for 
tune,  and  an  eager 'and  thankful  accep- 
tance of  what  is  so  given.  In  one  way, 
this  "old  heathen, ''^as  he  calls  himself, 
is  genuinely  pious;  he  is  always 
acknowledging  his  advantages  and 
opportunities,  and  almost  never  speak- 
ing of  hindrances ;  and  he  seems  con- 
stantly to  bear  with  him  a  simple- 
hearted  contidence  in  the  goodness 
and  justice  of  the  Power  which  has 
brought  him  just  what  it  has  brought, 
and  refused  just  what  it  has  refused. 
He  belongs  to  the  order  of  which  he 
speaks  in  the  second  part  of  Wilhelm 
Meider,  the  order  of  those  who  "cheer- 
fully renounce"  whatever  is  not  granted 
to  them,  and  who  come  back  through 
a  kind  of  stoicism  to  an  optimism  which 
begins  on  a  higher  level.  With  this  is 
connected  an  ungrudging  spirit  in  the 
recognition  of  the  excellences  of  others, 
and  an  unenvious  readiness  to  further 


every  one  in  his  own  way.  It  was  this 
pliant  strength,  and  the  faith  on  which 
it  rests,  that  attracted  to  Goethe  the 
admiration  and  almost  worship  of  a 
man  so  different  as  Carlyle,  who,  in  all 
superficial  interests,  was  at  an  opposite 
pole  of  thought  and 'temperament. 

Goethe's  "storm  and  stress"  period 
— the  period  of  "unconditioned  effort 
to  brealc  through  all  limitations,"  as  he 
calls  it — was  ended  with  Werther,  and 
with  it  began  a  movement  toward  limit 
and  measure,  which  culminated  at  the 
period  of  his  Italian  journey.     If  iu 
this  new  phase  of  thought  Nature  was 
still    worshiped,    it     was    no     longer 
regarded  Isus  a  power  that  reveals  itself 
at  once   in  the  immediate  appearances 
of  the  outward  world,  or  the  immediate 
impulses  of  t^e  human  spirit.     It.was 
now  the  natura  naturans  of  Spinoza — 
i.  e,y  as  Goethe  conceived  it,  a  plastic 
organizing  force  which  works  secretly 
in  the  outward  and  especially  in  the  or- 
ganic .world,  and  which  in  human  life 
reveals  itself  most  fully  as  the  ideal 
principle  of  art.     Clinging,  as  an  artist, 
to  the  external,  Goethe  new  sees  that 
the  truth  of  nature  does  not  lie  imme- 
diately on  the  surface,  but  in  a  unity 
which  can  be  grasped  only  by  a  pene- 
trative insight.     Demanding,  as  a  poet, 
that  the  ideal  should  not  be  separated 
from  the  sensuous,  he  is  now  conscious 
that  the  poetic  truth  of  the  passions 
shows  itself,   not  in  their  immediate 
expression,  but  only  when  their  conflict 
leads  to  their  "purification,"  and  so 
reveals   a   higher  principle.      Hence, 
though,  even  more  decidedly  than  at 
an  earlier  time,  he  rejects  the  Christian 
faith,  which  he  regards  as  breaking  the 
sacred  bond  of  Nature  and  Spirit,  and 
setting  the  one  against  the  other,  it  is 
an     idealized    materialism    which   he 
opposes  to  it.  What  he  fears  and  abhors 
in  religion  and  in  philosophy  is  the  idea 
of  "a  godless  nature  and  an  unnatural 
God,"  a  mechanical  world  order  and  && 


<K)ETHB  AND  PHILOSOPHY. 


847 


external  world-architect  or  world-gov- 
ernor who  'iets  the  world  swing  round 
his  finger."  "It  befits  him  to  move 
the  world  from  within,  to  cherish 
nature  in  Himself,  and  Himself  in 
nature,  so  that  what  lives  and  moves 
and  is  in  Him  never  forgets  his  force 
or  his  spirit."  He  is  filled  with  the 
thought  of  a  power  which  manifests 
itself  in  the  facts  of  nature,  though 
only  to  an  eye  which  can  penetrate 
throngh  the  apparent  chaos  to  the  point 
where  it  may  be  seen  as  a  cosmos.     The 

treat  modern  ideas  of  organism  and 
evelopment  have  taken  hold  upon 
him,  and  he  regards  the  artistic  faculty 
as  simply  the  highest  expression  bf  the 
shaping  principle  which  works  under- 
^ound  in  nature.  His  fundamental 
ideas  might  be  summed  up  in  the  preg- 
nant words  of  Shakespeare,  that 

'* Nature  is  made  better  by  do  in|Mi, 
But  nature  makes  that  mean:  so  o'er  ffi  aft. 
Which  you  say  adds  to  nature,  is  an  art 
That  nature  makes." 

He  had  come,  he  tells  us,  ^'to  regard 
his  own  indwelling  poetic  power  as 
simply  and  entirely  nature,"  and  as 
with  him  "  every  idea  rapidly  changed 
itself  into  an  image,"  he  sought  to  ex- 
press his  religious  attitude  oy  a  new 
rendering  of  the  old  myth  of  Prome- 
theus. He  too,  like  Prometheus,  had 
a  consciousness  of  ''the  god  within 
him"  which  made  him  independent  of 
the  gods  above;  for  his  poetic  faculty 
seemed  to  him  something  higher  than 
his  individual  will  and  impulses— some- 
thing that  migh't  claim  Icindred  with 
the  productive  force  of  nature  itself. 

Such  a  view  of  things  we  may  call  in 
a  special  sense  Hellenic,  since  it  was 
in  ancient  Greece  that  the  higher  spir- 
itual interests  of  man  8eeme«l  most  di- 
rectly to  connect  themselves  with  the 
fifts'of  nature.  The  Greeks  were  led 
y  an  almost  unconscious  impulse  to 
idealize  the  natural- without  ever  break- 


ing with  it  or  opposing  the  spiritual  to 
it.  Thus  thev  showed  themselves  art- 
ists not  only  in  art,  but  in  life,  and 
escaped  the  painful  division  of  the 
modern  mind. 

•'The modern, "writes  Goethe,  "can  scarce- 
ly bond  his  thoughts  upon  any  object  ¥^ithout 
throwing  himself  into  the  infinite,  in  order 
finally,  if  things  go  well  with  him,  to  return 
to  a  limited  point;  but  the  ancients,  >vitliout 
traversiui^  any  such  circuitous  patli  felt  all 
their  individual  requirements  satisfied  within 
the  limits  of  tlie  beautiful  world.  Wherefore 
are  their  poets  and  historians  the  wonder  of 
those  who  understand,  the  despair  of  those 
who  would  imitate  them,  but  because  the 
dramatis  peruana  whom  they  had  to  set  on  the 
stage  took  so  deep  an  interest  in  their  own 
immeliate  selves,  in  the  narrow  sphere  of 
their  Fatherland,  in  the  course  of  tlieir  own 
lives  and  that  of  their  fellow  citizens — because, 
in  short,  with  all  their  heart  and  soul  tliey 
threw  themselves  upon  the  present?  Hence  it 
could  not  be  difficult  for  writers  who  were 
filled  with  a  kindred  spirit  to  muke  such  a 
present  eternal.  What  actually  1ih|  >pened  had 
for  them  that  magic  value  which  we  are 
scarcely  able  to  attach  to  anything  but  that 
which  is  thought  and  felt.  They  clung  so 
closely  to  what  is  nearest,  what  is  truest  and 
most  real,  that  even  their  fancy  pictures  have 
bone  and  marrow.  Man  and  whi.t  is  human 
were  mosthi^^hly  prized,  and  all  man's  inward 
and  outward  relations  to  the  world  were 
exhibited  as  powerfully  as  they  were  appre- 
hended. For  noLyet  were  thought  and  feeling 
dismembered  by  abstraction;  not  yet  had  that 
scarcely  remediable  division  been  produced  in 
the  sound  nature  of  man.'' 

These  words  bear  the  impress  of  the 
change  by  which  Goethe  passed  from 
what  is  usually  called  the  romantic  to 
the  classic  school  of  art.  From  Iiis 
earliest  years  indeed  he  had  felt  the 
charm  of  Greek  art  and  noetry;  but 
the  productions  of  his  youth  were  ani- 
mated by  another  spirit.  Gotz  von 
BerUchinge7iy  his  first  important  dra- 
matic work,  was  one  of  the  earliest  ez- 
pression^of  that  passion  for  mediaeval 
ideals  which  afterward  went  so  far  in 
Germany  and  other  countries;  and  his 
first  essay  on  art  was  an  enthusiastic 
tribute  to  the  glories  of  Strasburg  Ca- 


848 


THE  LIBIiLABT  MAGAZINE. 


thedral.  Most  of  the  poetic  works  at- 
tempted or  sketched  out  in  this  period, 
Bucli  as  The  Wandering  Jew  and  the 
first  outline  of  Faust,  show  the  same 
bent  of  mind;  and  in  Werther  the  end- 
less lament  of  modern  sentimentalism 
over  the  separation  of  the  real  from  the 
ideal  reached  its  ne  plus  ultra  of  ex- 
pression. But  with  tbis  work  Goethe, 
as  we  have  seen,  made  a  return  upon 
himself,  and  almost  violently  rejected 
from  him  the  ideas  and  n^ethods  of 
romanticism.  He  became  the  sworn 
enemy  of  all  formless  and  chaotic  {>ro- 
ductions,  and  insisted  with  growing 
emphasis  upon  the  necessity  of  form 
and  measure.  It  is  a  superficial  indi- 
cation of  this  that  he  began  to  versify 
his  dramatic  works,  even  those  that 
had  at  first  been  composed  in  prose, 
and  in  many  cases  to  select  classic  sub- 
jects and  use  classic  meters.  The  same 
change  showed  itself  in  other  contem- 
poraneous writers,  as,  for  example,  in 
Schiller,  whose  Goiter  Griechenlands 
is  an  expression  of  that  admiration  for 
the  repose  and  harmon^^  of  the  antique, 
which  was  awakened  in  him  in  the 
reaction  against  the  untamed  violence 
of  The  Robbers,  But  it  is  characteris- 
tic that  while  Schiller^  expresses  this 
feeling  as  a  longing  for'something  un- 
attainable—something  that  has  once 
for  all  been  taken  from  men  by  the 
progress  of  human  thought  and  can 
never  be  perfectly  recovered — Goethe 
has  no  such  word  of  despair.  For  him 
the  ideal  is  there  before  us  in  nature 
for  our  eyes  to  see,  if  they  can  only 
look  deep  enough,  and  it  is  working  in 
the  poet  8  mind  now,  as  in  Greece,  to 
reproduce  itself  in  art.  His  dawning 
friendship  with  Schiller  was  disturbed 
when  the  latter  began  to  insist  upon 
the  Kantian  doctrine^  that  no  experi- 
ence can  ever  be  adequate*  ta  an  idea. 
Goethe  reflected,  however,  that  if 
Schiller  held  that  to  be  an  idea  which 
he  expressed  as  experience,  there  must 


be  some  mediating  link  between  them. 
'^I  told  him  that  1  was  glad  to  think 
that  I  had  ideas  without  knowing  it, 
and  that  I  could  even  see  them  with 
my  eyes." 

.This'  last  expression  has  immediate 
reference  to  Goethe's  scientific  views, 
especially  in  relation  to  the  Metamor- 
phosis of  Plants.  This,  like  all  bis 
contributions  to  biology,  was  inspired 
by  the  idea  that  there  is  a  unity  of 
prinqiple  in  all  life,  and  that  it  develops 
toward  diversity  by  continuous  modi- 
fication of  a  single  form.  This  idea 
led  him  to  regard  all  plants  as  varia- 
tions on  a  single  type,  and  ^1  the  parts 
of  eaeh  plant  as  correlative  modifica- 
tions of  one  simple  form  by  which  it 
has  been  adapted  to  various  functions. 
The  sape  principle  guided  him  to  the 
discovery  of  the  traces  in  iiian  of  the 
intermaxillary  bone,,  the  absence  of 
wbkk  had  been  supposed  to  distiuguish 
Olie  mructure  of  man  from  that  of  the 
apes,  and  also  made  him  one  of  the  first 
to  maintain  that  all  parts  of  the  skull 
are  modified  vertebrae.  Thus,  in  spite  of 
his  being  in  a  technical  sense  an  ama- 
teur in  science,  Goethe  grasped  the  idea 
of  development,  and  used  it  to  throw 
light  upon  the  animal  kingdom,  when 
as  yet  few  or  none  of  the  professed  bi- 
ologists had  reached  such  a  point  of 
view.  Nor  did  he  regard  these  bio- 
logical studies  as  a  something  distinct 
from  his  poetic  work.  On  the  con- 
trary, he  conceived  them  to  be  a  nec- 
essary complement  or  continuation  of 
that  work,  and  he  complained  of  the 
imperfect  insight  of  some  of  his  friends, 
who  thought  that  he  was  wasting  time 
upon  scientific  studies  that  might  have 
been  better  spent  in  poetic  creation, 
and  who  did  not  detect  how  tliis  inter- 
est ' 'sprang  out  of  his  inmost  being." 
And  when  an  eminent  naturalist  com- 
plimented him  on  his  objective  think- 
ing*'— i.  c,  on  his  power  of  giving 
himself  up  to  the  sensaous  impressioa 


GOETHE  AND  PHILOSOPHY. 


849 


of  objects  in  such  as  way  as  to  e:s:tract 
their  secret — he  did  not  hesitate  to 
claim  for  himself  in  the  same  sense  the 
power  of  bcin'»  objective  in  'poetry 
{Gege^istdndliche  Dichtung) : — 

"Certain  great  motives,  legends,  ancient 
traditions  so  deeply  impressed  themselves 
'fepon  my  mind,  that  I  kept  them  living  and 
active  within  me  for  thirty  or  forty  years. 
To  me  it  appeared  the  most  beautiful  of  pos- 
sessions to  see  such  worthy  images  renewed 
in  mv  ima^ation,  in  which  they  were, 
indeea,  contmually  iransfo  med,  yet  without 
being  altered,  till  at  last  they  were  raised  to 
a  purer  form  and  a  more  definite  expression." 

These  words  well  express  the  manner 
of  Goethe's  poetic  production.     It  was 
not  his  way,  as  it  was  the  way  of  Schil- 
ler, to  concentrate  his  thoughts  upon  a 
subject,  and  fofce  his  genius  into  ac- 
tion.    Bather  he  watched  the  creations 
a£  they  grew  within  him,  and  used  his 
conscious  intelligence  only  to   defend 
the    work  from  all    incongruous  ele- 
ments.    Such  '^objective  poetry"  can- 
not  be  an  easy  matter  even  for  the 
greatest  of  poets.     As  it  takes  much 
metaphysic  to  keep  free  from  meta- 
physic,  so  it  requires  no  little  critical 
and  reflective  power  in    the    poet  to 
puree  out  the  dross  of  prose  from  his 
work,  and  especially  to  free  its  pure 
intuitive  unity  from  the  artifice    and 
mechanism*  of  reflection.     Above  all  it 
requires  a  certain  stubborn  faith  in  the 
"whispers  of  tlie  lonely  muse  when  the 
whole  world  seems  adverse,"  a  resolute 
maintenance  of  the   consciousness  of 
poetic  harmony  in  the  face  of  all  the 
discords  of  life,  which  is  hard  for  the 
poet,  just  in  proportion  as  the  very 
condition  of  his  existence  is  his  sus- 
ceptibility to  impression.     And  for  the 
modem  poet  this  is  harder  than  for 
the  ancient,  because  the  movement  of 
history  has  brought  with  it  new  prob- 
lems  and    causes    of  division.      The 
greater  the  conflict  of  man's  nature 
with  itself  and  with  circumstance,  the 
more  diflSiciilt  has  become  the  artistes 


task  of  making  music  out  of  the  jar- 
ring forces  in  and  around  him,  and  pre- 
venting their  confusion  and  conflict 
from  mingling  with  his  song. 

In  a  passage  already  quoted,  as  in 
many  others,  Goethe  expresses  his  sense 
of  the  effort  which  the  modern  requires 
to  make  in  order  to  place  and  keep 
himself  at  a  point  of  view  which  the 
Greek  took  up  almost  by  instinct. 
And  it  is  indeed  this  effort  itself,  and 
the  consciousness  of  it,  which  prevents 
Goethe  from  ever  being  wholly  Greek. 
Even  in  those  of  his  works  that  are 
most  filled  with  the  spirit  of  antiquity, 
he  is  obliged  to  pay  tnis  tribute  to  the 
time.  He  is  not  a  Greek  because  in 
order  to  reach  the  "peace  and  purity 
of  the  antique,"  he  has  to  conquer  an 
antagonism  which  for  the  Greek  did 
not  exist.  This  feeling  is  expressed 
half-humorously  in  his  account  of  a 
conversation  with  Schiller,  who  re- 
garded the  Fall  as  a  desirable  event, 
becau^  only  by  it  could  man  rise  above 
his  animal  innocence ;  while  Goethe 
maintained  that  such  a  break  in  the 
continuity  of  development  was  a  disas- 
ter. In  the  same  spirit  he  sometimes 
spoke  of  the  Hef  ormation  as  a  violent 
crisis  which  delayed  the  progress  of 
civilization,  and  condemned  the  Kevo- 
lutionary  struggle  of  his  own  day  as  a. 
disturbance  to  peaceful  culture.  "I 
hate  all  violent  overturns,  because  in 
them  men  lose  as  much  as  they  gain. 
All  that  is  violent  and  precipitate  dis- 
pleases me,  because  it  is  not  conforma- 
ble to  nature.  In  politics,  as  in  nature, 
the  true  method  is  to  wait."  Struggle, 
warfare,  revolution  is  to  him  the*  nega- 
tive and  the  barren;  and  even  patriot- 
ism, with  its  exaltation  of  one  nation 
at  the  expense  of  another,  is  a  doubtful 
virtue.  How  conld  I  take  up  arms 
without  hate?"  he  cries.  "National 
hate  is  a  particular  hate;  it  is  in  a  low- 
er region  that  it  is  most  energetic  and 
ardent;  but  there  is  a  height  at  which 


850 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


it  vanishes,  when  one  is,  so  to  speak, 
abo^e  nationalities,  and  one  feels  the 
happiness  and  misery  of  a  neighboring 
people  as  his  own."  This  idea  of  all 
negation,  controversy,  and  conflict  as 
something  essentially  evil  is  embodied 
in  his  wonderful  creation  of  Mephis- 
topheles,  the  disintegrating  spirit  who 
is  continually  warring  against  life  and 
energy,  but  who  is  tolerated  by  the  di- 
vine power,  because  man  is  so  fond  of 
**  unconditioned  peace,"  and  rec^uires 
to  be  fretted  and  provoked  into  activity. 
Even  so  much  toleration  as  this,  how- 
ever, is  for  God  and  not  for  man,  who 
is  called  to  ^'hate  the  devil  and  him 
only,"  to  withdraw  himself  from  all 
that  is  negative,  violent  and  destruct- 
ive, and  to  devote  all  his  life  to  that 
which  is  positive  and  productive,  and 
who  thus  only  can  hope  for  a  final  de- 
liverance from  the  base  companion  who 
is  allowed  in  this  world  to  haunt  him. 

'^Gerettet  ist  das  edle  Glied 
I>er  Geisterwelt  vom  BOsen: 
Wer  iininer  strebend  sich  bemUht 
Den  kdnnen  wir  erIOeen." 

It  is  here,  perhaps,  that  we  find  the 
limitations  of  the  genius  of  Goethe, 
limittitions  which  were  closely  connect- 
ed with  the  sources  of  his  strength. 
As  to  the  artist  the  immediate  sensaons 
form  of  reality  is  indispensable,  so  Goe- 
the was  jealous  -of  any  influence  that 
tends  to  mar  or  destroy  it.  Division, 
pain,  and  evil  appeared  to  him  too 
great  a  price  to  pay  even  for  the  high- 
est good,  and,  in  the  spirit  of  his  mas- 
ter Spinoza,  he  was  inclined  to  deny 
that  such  a  price  was  necessary.  He 
demanded  that  the  highest  should.be 
attained  without  a  breach  with  nature, 
and  merely  by  continuing  her  work 
upon  a  hiffher  platform.  Hence  .he 
was  repelled  from  history  as  he  wafio^- 
pelled  from  polities,  by  the  violence-of 
the  struggles,  the  depth  of  the  divis- 
ions, ana  the  greatness  of  the  sacrifices 
with  which  the  progress  of  man  is  pur- 


chased. Hence  also  he  could  not  ac- 
cept the  Christian  idea  of  life.  It  is 
true,  as  we  have  seen,  that  he  was  in- 
spired with  the  great  moral  idea  of  re- 
nunciation, but  his  interpretation  of  it 
is  somewhat  different  from  the  Chris- 
tian interpretation.  He  does  not  ex- 
actly bid  us  die  to  self  that  we  may 
live;  he  bids  us  renounce  all  that  na- 
ture and  fortune  refuse  us,  in  the  con- 
fidence that  if  we  keep  working  on  to 
the  end  "nature  will  be  obliged  to  give 
us  another  form  of  existence  when  that 
which  we  have  can  no  longer  contain 
our  spirit."  The  difference  may  seem 
almost  verbal,  and  it  is  easy  to  see  that 
by  a  slight  change  of  tone  the  one  les- 
son may  be  made  to  paas  into  the  other. 
Nay,  we  may  even  say  that  such  a 
change  of  tone  is  perceptible  in  some 
of  the  later  works  of  Goethe  himself. 
But  in  the  first  instance,  the  variation 
of  expression  concealed  a  real  difference 
of  spirit.  It  showed  that  Goethe  feared 
and  shrank  from  what  has  been  called 
**the  earnestness,  the  pain,  the  patience 
and  the  labor  of  the  negative,"  through 
which  the  Christian  spirit  reaches  a 
higher  affirmative ;  that  he  could  not 
reconcile  himself  to  a  war  with  nature 
even  as  the  way  to  a  higher  reconcilia- 
tion. 

This  difference  between  th^  Goethean 
and  the  Christian  idea  of  life  showed 
itself  in  the  most  marked  way  in  Goe- 
the after  his  Italian  journey.  At  that 
time  he  was  so  imbued  with  the  natur- 
alistic spirit  of  antiquity  that  he  re- 
garded the  productions  of  mediaeval  art 
as  for  the  most  part  monstrosities,  or 
at  least  as  eccentricities  that  were  not 
to  be  copied.  He  even  felt  and  occar 
sionally  expressed  a  violent  repulsion 
toward  the  symbols  of  Christian  wor- 
ship, and  took  pleasure  in  p]:Qclaiming 
himself  a  "heathen.^'  At  a  later  period 
the  bitterness  of  this  anti^onism  disap- 
peared. As  his  exclusive  Hellenism 
was  j^radually  modified  by .  adxancin  j 


GOETHE  AND  PHILOSOPHY. 


861 


years  he  became  ready  to  admit  the 
value  and  eveii  the  supreme  moral  im- 
portance of   Christian  ideas.     '^It  is 
altogether  strange  to  me/'  he  writes  to 
Jacobiy  in  reference  to  the  dramatist 
Werner,    "that    I,    an    old  heathen, 
should  see  the  Cross  planted  in  my  own 
ground,  and  hear  Christ's  blood  and 
wounds    poetically  preached,   without 
its  offending  me.     We  owe  this  to  the 
higher  point  of  view  to  which  philoso- 
phy has  raised  us."     His  *' truly  Julian 
nate  to  Christianity  and  so-called  Chris- 
tians,"  he  declared  on  one  occasion^ 
with  a  touch  of  humor,  had  softened 
itself  'with  years,  so    that   little  was 
wanting  to  make  him  say  with  the 
Ethiopian  eunuch  in  the  Acts,  "What 
doth  hinder  me  to  be  baptized!"     A^^^ 
in  the  Wanderjahre,  he  makes  a  broad 
distinction  between  the  "ethnio  relig- 
ions" and  the  religion  which  teaches 
"reverence  for  that  which  is*  beneath 
us,"  recognizing  in  the  latter  the  high- 
est of  all  religions.     He  adds,  however, 
that  it  must  not  be  understood  to  ex- 
clude the  other  two  religions — the  re- 
ligion of  reverence  ior  that  which  is 
above  us,  and  the  religion  of  reverence 
for  equals.     The  overseer  of  his  ideal 
educational    institution,    when    asked 
which  religion  he  accepts,  has  to  an? 
swer:  "^//e  rfrei" — each  and  all  of  the 
tluree  religions  that  have  divididd  man's 
allegiance  in  the  past. 

In  truth  Qoethe'S"  quarrel  with 'Chris- 
tianity was  due  to  two  causes,  which 
were  at  first  closely  connected,  but 
which  are  capable  of  being  separated. 
In  the  fi^t  place,  as  has  been  suggested 
above,  it  was  due  to  his  viewing, Chris- 
tianity as  a  religion  of  the  other  world, 
a  religion  whose  God  was  not  the  j)rin- 
ciple  of  all  life  in  nature  and  man,«but 
an  external  creator  and  governor.  In 
the  second  place,  it  was  due  to  the 
prominence  of  the  ascetic  or  negative 
element  in  Christianity,  and  to  the 
divorce  of  the    natural  and  ^jHritual 


which  is  connected  therewith.  Now 
the  first  of  these  objections  rested  on 
a  mental  characteristic  which  GToethe 
could  scarcely  have  surrendered  with- 
out ceasing  to  be  Qoethe,  the  bom  en- 
emy of  all  that  is  transcendent,  all  that 
carries  us  into  a  region  beyond  the 
possibility  of  human  experience.  It 
was  the  vocation  of  Goethe's  life  to 
teach  that  what  in  this  sense  cannot 
be  brought  within  our  reach,  is  as  good 
as  nothing  for  us.  His  objection  to 
Chriatianity  on  this  ground,  therefore, 
could  be  removed  only  in  so  far  as  he 
was  led  by  the  philosophical  movement 
of  his  time  tO  attach  greater  importance 
to  the  Christian  idea  of  the  unity  of 
the  divine  and  the  human,  and  to  re- 
gard the  purely  supernatural  element 
as  an  accident. 

On  the  other  hand,  Goethe's  objec- 
tion to  Christianity  as  a  negative  and 
ascetic  religion  became  greatly  modified 
when,  in  later  years,  tlie  Greek  con- 
ception of  life  ceased  to  be  all-sufficient 
for  him.  Ultimately,  as  we  have  seen, 
he  came  to  admit  the  necessity  of  a 
reli^on  of  reverence  for  that  which  is 
beneath  us — a  religion  which  could  see 
the  divine  even  in  that  which  in  its 
immediate  aspect  is  "repulsive,  hateful, 
and  evil."  But  that  which  is  "repul- 
sive, hateful,  and  evil  "  cannot  by  any 
fradual  transition  be-elevated  and  re- 
ned  to  goodness.  If  the  divine  is  te 
be  revealed  an  it,  it  can  only  be  by  the 
negation  of  that 'which  at  first  it  seems 
to  be.  The  Christian  idea  of  self-real- 
ization through  self-sacrifice  is  the  neces- 
sary outcome  -of  the  religion  of  rever- 
enoefor  that  which  is  beneath  us. 
Hence  we.do  not  wonder  to  find  Goethe 
in  the  same  *  connection  treating  the 
"Sanctuary  of  Sorrow,"  in  which  the 
sufferings  and  -death  of  Christ  are  rep- 
resented, as  the  innermost  >sanctuary  of 
religion.  :  Into  this  «anctuaryr  however, 
he  avoids  taking  us.  He  is,  one  might 
say,  theoretical^  reconciled  with  Chris- 


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THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


tianity,  but  something  still  repels 
him  from  it.  He  waits^  to  use  the  im- 
agery of  his  Mdrche/ky  till  the  narrow 
fisherman's  hut  shall  become  the  altar 
in  a  new  temple  of '  humanity.  The 
form  in  which  Christianity  is  com- 
monly presented  as  a  religion  of  super- 
naturalism  and  other- world liness  con- 
tinues to  keep  him  alienated  from  that 
which  in  its  moral  essence  he  recog- 
nizes as  the  highest. 

Perhaps  we  may  best  sum  up  what 
has  to  be  said  of  Goethe  by  calling  him 
the  most  modern  of  the  moderns,  the 
high  priest  of  a  culture  which,  in  its 
position  to  mediaevalism,  is  carried  back 
t(5ward  ihe  literature  of  the  Greeks, 
'•the  most  human  and  humane  of  lit- 
eratures, the  literature  of  those  who 
were  most  at  home  in  the  world.'*  It 
was  characteristic  of  the  mediaeval  mind 
to  seek  for  that  which  is  highest  in 
tliat  which  is  furthest  removed  from 
man,  that  which  can  least  be  brought 
within  the  range  of  human  experience. 
Tlie  divine  power  on  which  it  depended 
for  the  elevation  of  man,  was  conceived 
as  acting  upon  him  from  without,  as 
upon  a  lifeless  and  inert  material. 
The  ascetism,  the  supematuralism,  the 
divided  life  of  the  Middle  Ages,  were 
only  the  natural  result  of  such  concep- 
tions. On  the  other  hand,  the  whole 
movement  of  civilization  from  the  time 
of  the  revival  of  learning  has  been  a 
war  against  such  ways  of  thinking. 
The  modern  spirit,  like  the  spirit  of 
anti(juity,  is  obliged,  by  its  most  essen- 
tial mtelleetual  instincts,  to  cling  to 
that  which  is  present,  to  that  which  is 
immediately  evidenced  to  us  in  inner 
and  outer  experience.  It  holds  to  fact 
and  reality  against  that  which  is  merely 
ideal,  and  it  can  recognize  the  ideal 
only  when  it  presents  itself  as  the 
deeper  fact. 

In  all  this  the  modem  spirit  with- 
draws itself  from  the  Middle  Ages, 
and  claimB   kindred   with   antiquity. 


Yet  it  is  impossible  any  longer  to  re- 
gard the  moaem  movement  of  thought 
as  merely  a  return  to  the  light  of 
ancient  culture  out  the  "  Dark  Ages." 
I'he  long  mediaeval  struggle  of  human- 
ity for  deliverance  from  itself  cannot 
be  regarded  as  simply  a  contest  with 
specters  of  its  own  raising,  bnt  must  be 
taken  as  an  essential  stage  in  the  pro- 
gress of  human  thought.  If  the  en- 
deavor to  crush  nature  under  the  dom- 
inion of  spirit  was  fn  a  sense  irrational 
and  fruitless,  seeing  that  it  -is  only  in 
nature  that  spirit  can  be  reveled,  yet 
that  endeavor  has  forever  made  im- 
possible the  easy  reconciliation  of  the 
two  with  which  the  ancients  were  sat- 
isfied. A  mere  return  to  antiqu  ity  must 
produce,  as  it  always  produced,  a  cul- 
ture which  falls  below  that  of  antiquity 
both  in  fullness  and  depth.  For  the 
ancient  civilization  was  not  impover- 
ished, as*  such  a  revival  of  it  must  be, 
by  ignoring  problems  which  had  not 
yet  been  opened  up.  As  Goethi  found 
his  idea  of  Iphigenia  most  fully  real- 
ized in  a  Christian  saint,  so  we  may 
say  that  the  perfect  form  of  Greek  art 
cannot  be  agftin  reproduced  except  by 
a  spirit  which  has  passed  through  the 
Christian  "Sanctuary  of  Sorrows." 
On  the  other  hand,  if  the  modems  can 
return  to  the  ideals  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
it  is  on  a  higher  level,  at  which  such 
ideals  no  longer  come  into  conflict 
with  the  naturalistic  spirit  of  antiquity. 
In  like  manner  the  secular  scientific 
impulse,  which,  in  the  last  century, 
was  working  toward  an  altogether 
mechanical  and  external  exph|pation  of 
the  world,  begins,  with  Goethe  him- 
self, to  bring  back  in  a  higher  sense, 
under  the  names  of  organism  and  de- 
velopment, that  explanation  of  the 
world  by  final  causes,  which  in  a  lower 
sense  it  has  rejected.  And  the  vain 
attempts  still  made  to  explain  spirit  by 
nature  are  rapidly  teaching  us  to  re- 
yire   the   truth   whieh   underlay  th« 


NOVA  SCOTIA'S  CRY  FOR  HOME  RULE. 


868 


mediaeval  snpematuralism,  that  in  the 
last  resort  nature  is  only  to  be  explained 
by  spirit.  Perhaps  it  may  be  found 
that  no  one  has  done  more  to  prepare 
the  way  for  such  a  reunion  of  ancient 
and  mediae vai  ideas  than  our  great 
modern  poet  and  prophet  of  the  re- 
ligion of  nature,  Goethe. — Edward 
Caird,  in  The  Contemporary  Review. 


NOVA  SCOTIA'S  CRY  FOK  HOME 

RULE. 

Having  spent  mnch  time  in  Nova 
Scotia,  I  am  often  asked—  Why  does 
that  province  wish  to  sever  connection 
with  the  Dominion,  and  what  means 
her  cry  of  * 'Repeal  and  Reciprocity?" 
Why  the  inhabitants  of  the  Acaaian 
peninsula  want  repeal  of  the  union  with 
Canada  and  reciprocity  with  the  United. 
States  and  other  countries,  I  propose 
in  the  following  article  to  show. 

When  Nova  Scotia,  in  18G7,  entered 
the  Confederation  her  debt  amounted 
to  some  t8,000,000  or  9,000,000.  To- 
day her  share  of  the  rapidly  increasing 
Dominion  debt,  which  during  the  last 
eighteen  years  has  advanced  from 
$96,000,000  to  281,000,000,  is  fully  $28,- 
000,000  (Ottawa  says  $40,000,000), 
a  burden  far  too  heavy  for  her  altered 
circumstances.  And  to-day  the  Domin- 
ion's annual  expenditure,  which  at  the 
time  of  Confederation  was  $13,000,000, 
and  in  the  last  year  of  Liberal  Govern- 
ment (1878)  $23,000,000,  has,  to  the 
dismay  of  Canada's  wisest  statesmen, 
already  reafched  $35,000,000,  and  ere 
the  clQpe  of  the  present  year  is  expected 
to  touch  $38,000,000.  Of  this  charge 
Nova  Scotia  pay  a  tenth,  if  not  a  sev- 
enth, and  of  her  contribution  a  large 
portion  is  spent  outside  her  borders 
and  in  ways  which  benefit  her  not  at 
all  "  Previous  to  the  Union,**  her 
Premier,  Mr.  Fielding,  tells  us,  *'  Nova 


Ontario 

New  Brunswick    . 

Prince  £dward  Island 

Quebec 

Manitoba 

British  Columbia 

Nova  Scotia 


U^,t.^ 


Scotia  had  the  lowest  tariff,  and  was  in 
the  best  financial  condition  of  any  of  the 
provinces.  *'  To-day  she  has  the  highest 
tariif,  since  she  pays  some  three  dollars 
more  on  everv  hundred  dollars'  worth 
of  imported  dutiable  goods  than  her 
fellow  provinces,  and  is,  the  same  high 
authority  assures  us,  in  the  worst  fin- 
ancial condition.  The  reason  is  not 
far  to  seek.  Not  only  does  she,  with 
the  most  liberal  hand,  subscribe  to  till 
the  common  treasury,  but  for  her  own 
needs  she  gets  back  the  amallest  pro- 
portional share,  the  allowance  meted 
out  to  the  seven  principal  provinces 
being  somewhat  as  follows:-—  , 

Per  Head. 
$1.4&i 
1.50  to  1.95 
.     1.65 
2.10f 
.     7.50 
20.00 
.     0.98  to  1.18^ 

While  on  the  subject  of  monetary 
payments,  it  would  scarcely  be  out  of 
place  to  instance  another  grievance. 
When  the  International  Fisheries  Com- 
mission, which  sat  at  Halifax  in  1877, 
paid  the  Ottawan  Tory  Government, 
m  November  1878,  the  five-and-a-hall 
million  dollars  indemnity  for  the  in- 
jury sustained  by  the  fishermen  of  the 
Dominion,  Nova  Scotia,  which  had 
suffered  most,  received  no  share.  New- 
foundland was  more  fortunate.  She 
was  outside  the  Confederation ;  thus 
there  was  no  excuse  for  withholding 
her  portion.  As  the  **grand  old  island'' 
(to  quote  Captain  Kennedy)  keeps  an 
attentive  eye  on  the  doings  of  her 
near  neighbors,  she  is  likely  to  remain 
outside. 

The  improvements,  such  as  they  are, 
made  in  Nova  Scotia  by  the  Ottawan 
Government,  Mr  Fraser,  a  member  of 
the  local  Parliament,  assures  us,  are 
not  paid  for  out  of  the  taxes  levied  i  i 
the  province,  but  are  charged  to  t'  « 
National  Debt.    It  is'te  b«  hoped  w..j 


864 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


improvements    are    of  a    lasting  and 
beneficial  character,  so  that  the  pros- 

Eect  of  getting  out  of  debt  again  may 
e  less  desperate  than  in  the  case  of 
sundry  other  undertakings.  For  in- 
stance, the  Halifax  Chro7iicle,  of  June 
11,  tells  us  that  $500,000  have  been 
spent  in  establishing  a  sugar  refinery  at 
itichmond,  a  suburb  of  Halifax,  '  'every 
cent  of  which  is  lost;"  also  that  1350,000 
have  been  sunk  in  a  cotton-mill  hard 
by  which  is  probably  worth  ten  cents 
in  the  dollar,  and  has  never  yet  paid  a 
dividend.  To  keep  life  in  these  and 
other  bantling  industries,  the  Ottawan 
Government  miposes  pretty  stiff  duties 
on  imported  sugar  and  cotton,  whether 
to  commemorate  the  throwing  away  of 
the  1850,000  and  other  enormous  sums 
on  similar  undertakings  elsewhere,  or 
to  give  cause  for  a  new  reading  (by 
substitution  of  the  word  Protectionists) 
of  a  sneering  old  proverb  anent  the 
wisdom  of  our  ancestors,  I  know  not. 
Among  other  efforts,  some  colonists, 
foolishly  relying  on  that  spirit  of  pri- 
vate enterprise  which  it  seems  to  be 
the  paternal  mission  of  Protection  to 
thwart,  once  sought  to  rival  Crosse  and 
Blackwell  by  setting  up  a  pickle  fac- 
tory. The  vegetables  were  cheap  and 
plentiful  enough,  but  the  duty  on  im- 
ported glass  bottles  was  sufficient  to 
cause  the  infant  industry  to  die  that' 
premature  death  to  which  most  of  the 
infant  industries  seem  doomed  whose 
misfortune  it  is  to  be  Protection's  fos- 
ter-children. 

Let  us  examine  awhile  this  matter  of 
Protection,  which  has  so  much  to  do 
with  Nova  Scotia's  discontent,  and  see 
whether  it  be  true,  as  some  of  our 
friends  so  confidently  and  at  times  so 
flippantly  assure  us,  that  the  doctrines 
taught  by  Cobden,  Bright,  and  others 
are  all  wrong,  and  that  we  had  much 
better  return  to  that  halcyon  period 
when  commerce  lived  in  shackles  and 
cheap  bread  jwafl  not.    Abler  pent)  than 


mine  have  exhausted  the  subject  as  re- 
gards Europe  and  the  United  States; 
therefore  I  will  chiefly  confine  myself, 
because  I  can  speak  as  an  eye-witness, 
to  the  question  as  it  affects  the  Acadian 
peninsula.  And  it  may  not  a  little 
astonish  **  fair  traders"  to  learn  that 
the  condition  to  which  Nova  Scotia  is 
reduced  is  that  which  all  sound  politi- 
cal economists  would  expect,  that  she 
is  indeed  an  existing  "awful  example," 
some  2,500  miles  awav;  of  the  hideous 
folly  of  reverting  to  Protectionist  prin- 
ciples Her  taxation  is  swollen  some 
150  per  cent.,  and  the  tariff,  being 
purposely  framed  to  bar  ont  foreign 
trade  as  much  as  possible,  does  her 
serious  injury;  albeit  Protectionists  on 
her  side  of  the  Atlantic  labor  with  a 
zeal  worthy  a  bettor  cause  (though 
fruitlessly,  1  abi  glad  to  say,  for  Aca- 
dians  are  not  ''mostly  fools")  to  make 
►her  people  believe  that  an  imported 
article  which  formerly  came  in  free,  or 
with  only  a  10  per  cent,  duty  charged, 
is  no  dearer  now  when  a  25  to  35  per 
cent,  duty  is  paid.  And,  as  the  last 
report  of  the  Halifax  Chamber  of 
Commerce  declares.  Protection  presses 
especially  hard  upon  a  "people  who 
are  chiefly  fishermen,  agiiculturists, 
miners,  and  farmers."  "Repeal,"  says 
the  Chro7iicle  of  Mav  12,  "would  mean 
closer  trade  relati'.ns  with  al)  our  nat- 
ural markets,"  to  wit.  New  England, 
the  West  Indies,  and  other  places,  with 
which,  says  another  writer,  "the  prov- 
ince is  bound  together  socially,  com- 
mercially, and  geographically."  These 
trade  relations,  so  far  from .  being  cul- 
tivated, are,  as  I  will  still  further  show, 
distinctly  discouraged.  And  one  effect 
of  this  unduly  heavy  taxation,  unequal 
distribution  of  its  proceeds,  and  en- 
forced isolation  is  to  cause  more  favored 
provinces^  to  flourish  at  Nova  Scotia's 
expense. 

1  spok«  just  now  of  altered  circum- 
stances.    Let  us  glance  at  these.    To 


NOVA  SCOTIA'S  CRY  FOR  HOME  RULK. 


865 


do  80  is  not  to  wander  from  tlie  subject 
of  ProtectioU;  as  will  at  once  appear. 
Halifax's  two  miles  or  so  of  fine 
wharves  are  doing  far  less  business  than 
of  yore^  and  have  so  decreased  in  value 
that,  as  the  Attorney-General,  Mr. 
LongJey,  says,  those  ''which  once 
could  not  be  purchased  for  150,000 
now  will  not  sell  for  $20,000.''  One 
Tvharf,  the  Chronicle  tells  us,  which 
fifteen  years  ago  sold  for  $40,000,  was 
bought  in  last  year  by  one  of  the  banks 
for  $22,000.  Another  was  sold  some 
years  since  at  $25,000,  and  a  few  weeks 
ago  was  bought  in  for  less  than  half 
that  sum.  Meanwhile  the  polo  ground, 
which  occupies  an  excellent  situation 
on  that  higli  tableland  which  iu  better 
times  will  form  part  of  the  city's  cen- 
tre, was  sold  some  years  ago  for  $16,000 
and  recently  bought  for  $7,000.  Shops, 
too,  may  be  had  at  far  less  price  than 
their  cost  of  erection  could  they  but 
meet  with  purchasers,  and  altogether 
between  300  and  400  houses  in  the  once 
prosperous  capital  are  for  sale.  Many 
families  are  without  their  grown-up 
sons,  who  are  driven  to  seek  a  liveli- 
hood in  other  lands ;  and,  owin^  to 
the  constant  exodus,  the  population, 
which  between  1861  and  1874  increased 
over  17  per  cent.,  is  acknowledged, 
even  by  those  who  would  fain  shut 
their  eyes  to  tell-tale  statistics,  to  have 
grown  during  the  succeeding  decade  at 
a  maoh  slower  rata  If  Nova  Scotia 
be  as  prosperous  as  some  would  have  us 
believe,  how  is  it  that  every  year  thou- 
sands of  her  youth  of  both  sexes  and 
all  conditions  leave  her  shores?  The 
exodus  is  sometimes,  apparently  for 
political  reasons,  denied,  though  the 
inhabitants  of  the  province,  are  well 
aware  not  only  of  its  existence  but  of 
^ts  magnitude.  There  are,  the  At- 
torney-General tells  us,  more  Nova 
Scotians  in  Boston  than  in  Halifax. 
Yet  between  the  natural  allies  is 
raised  the  protective  harrier.    A  Nova 


Scotian  Q.  0.,  Mr.  Thomson,  shows 
that  the  Assessment  Bolls  of  many 
districts  have  steadily  decreased,  those 
of  four  leading  counties,  representing 
the  four  leading  industries  of  coal  min- 
ing, farming,  ship-building,  and  lum- 
bering, which  in  1868  amounted  to 
a  little  below  11  j  million  dollars, 
having  fallen  in  1884  to  less  than 
8J  millions.  Every  way  the  province 
suffers. 

Were  return  made  to  the  10  per  cent. 
ante-Gonfederation  tariff,  and  were  tlie 
taxes  raised  in  Nova  Scotia  spent  in 
Nova  Scotia,  there  would,  says  a  vet- 
eran member  of  the  Provincial  Liberal 
Government,  Mr.  Morrison,  be  money 
enough  to  "build  every  projected  rail- 
way, make  our  road  and  oridge  service 
efficient,  and  still  have  a  lar^e  surplus 
for  other  purposes."  As  it  is,  railway 
enterprise  halts,  and  roads  and  bridgeu 
are  falling  out  of  repair.  MeanwhQe, 
Nova  Scotia  is  forced  to  consume  Can- 
adian flour,  and  to  pay  60  cents  in 
conveyance  on  the  same  amount  there- 
of, as,  before  Confederation,  she  paid 
10  cents  to  the  nearer  United  States. 
In  exchange  for  this  dearer  flour,  dis- 
tant Canada  is  supposed  to  buy  Nova 
Scotian  coal.  Needless  to  say,  distant 
Canada  finds  it  as  a  rule  more  conven- 
ient to  draw  her  '^  black  diamonds'^ 
from  neighboring  Pennsylvania.  That 
Ontario  at  least  should  do  so  is  inevi- 
table. Her  natural  markets  are  not  the 
maritime  provinces,  but  the  states  of 
New  York,  Ohio,  Pennsylvania,  and 
Michigan.  Those  of  Manitoba  and  the 
North-west  are  Dakota,  Minnesota, 
and  Michigan;  while  those  of  British 
Columbia  are  Idaho,  Washington  Ter- 
ritory, Oregon,  and  coalless  California.i 
When  the  trade  relations  between  these 
states  and  provinces  are  hindered,  tha 
injury  is  mutual.  But  tlie  provinoes 
suffer  most,  for,  when  protecting 
themselves  against  the  outside  world, 
the  United  States  were  too  wise  to  at 


856 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


tew  any  individnal  state  to  protect  it- 
nelf  against  any  other  indiviaual  state. 
Thns  they  hare  an  enormous  country, 
compact  of  shape,  and  possessed  of 
almost  every  yanety  of  chmate  and  of 
products,  enjoying  absolute  Free  Trade 
within  its  wiae  borders.  It  is  as  if 
international  Free  Trade  prevailed 
throughout  Europe,  to  the  exclusion 
only  of  other  continents.  This  most 
telling  fact,  however,  the  advocates  of 
Protection  over  here,  when  exhorting 
us  to  let  our  small  group  Of  islands 
follow  America's  example  and  bar  out 
the  rest  of  the  world,  seem  entirely  to 
overlook.  The  Dominion,  although  it, 
too,  has  Free  Trade  within  its  borders, 
differs  from  the  United  States  in  being 
a  long,  straggling  string  of  provinces, 
designed  by  nature  rather  to  be  gath- 
ered into  three  or  four  groups,  and 
possessing  too  little  variety  of  climate 
and  products  to  justify  imitation  of 
her  ereat  neighbor's  somewhat  unsuc- 
cessnil  attempt  at  independence  of 
other  nations.  The  United  States  by 
Free  Trade  with  other  countries  would 
enjoy  greatly  increased  prosperity.  So 
also  would  Canada  prosper  were  she 
but  to  throw  open  her  ports  and  gates. 
In  the  case  of  jf  ova  Scotia,  Protection 
is  nothing  less  than  a  curse.  Visitors 
to  Canada — the  tourists,  I  mean,  who 
take  a  month's  or  six  weeks'  run  across 
to  the  Dominion,  are  introduced  to  one 
set  of  people,  make  a  mental  note  (for 
later  use)  of  their  opinions,  give  a  hur- 
ried  look  round,  and  then  return  home 
to  add  yet  another  to  the  list  of  valua- 
ble books  upon  foreign  countries  and 
the  colonies — are  often  invited  to  ad- 
mire the  progress  the  upper  provinces 
have  made,  and  are  gravely  assured  that 
"  Protection  has  done  much  for  Cana- 
da." Much  to  make  or  much  to  mar? 
It  is  not  the  marring,  however,  which 
is  implieid.  Of  'the  making,  how  much 
l!RB  been  done  by  individual  energy,  and 
ill  spite  of  Protection,  and  huw  much. 


by  the  forced  contributions  of  other 
provinces? 

Protection,  being  as  mischievous  as 
it  is  foolish,  has,  wherever  introduced, 
given  rise  to  smuggling  Kova.  Scotia, 
like  Prince  Edward  Island,  nowhere 
touches  the  United  States  frontier. 
Therefore  she  has  not  one  quarter  of 
the  splendid  chance  for  smuggling, 
and  consequent  cheaper  sale  of,  8nd 
larger  profit  on,  dutiable  articles  of 
Cousin  Jonathan's  manufacture,  wliicli 
the  more  favorably  situated  provinces 
take,  it  is  rumored,  such  frequent 
opportunities  to  enjoy.  Which  fact 
doubtless  adds  to  her  embarassment. 
And  the  longer  she  is  bound  against 
her  will  and  against  her  interests  in 
this  unnatural  bondage  the  more  des- 
perate becomes  her  condition.  "  Wait 
till  the  West  is  more  settled!"  cry  the 
Protectionists.  '*  Wait  till  the  Cana- 
dian Pacific  Railwav  gets  into  full 
running  order!  See  how  Nova  Scotia's 
trade  will  flourish  then,  and  how  the 
West  will  deal  with  her!"  Vain  dream! 
Have  Federationists  ever  realized  t}\e 
fact  that  by  rail  Montreal  (Que.)  is  859 
miles  from  Halifax?  If  Ontario,  which 
is  yet  further,  is  too  remote  to  trade 
much  with  Nova  Scotia,  are  the  verv 
much  more  distant  North-west  and 
British  Columbia  likely  to  do  so?  If 
there  were  no  other  impediment,  there 
would  still  be  the  one  item,  in  this 
huge  straggling  <;ountry,  of  cost  of 
transport.  No!  it  is  impossible  to  cre- 
ate artificial  trade  or  artificial  markets. 
The  oft-derided  plan  of  "making  people 
virtuous  by  Act  of  Parliament"  is  not 
one  whit  more  absurd. 

After  what  I  have  said  of  the  tariff, 
I  trust  that  Nova  Scotia's  cry  for  Re- 
ciprocity may  not  sound  amiss  in  Brit- 
ish Free  Trade  ea|;s.  To  ns,  it  is  a 
word  retrogressive  of  meaning,  synony- 
mous with  Retaliation.  To  a  country 
severely  suffering  from  Protection's 
blighting  influence.  Reciprocity,  on  the 


KOVA  SCOTIA'S  CRY  FOR  HOME  RULE. 


897 


contrary,  appears  distinctly  progress- 
iye^  tends  toward  trade  freedom^  and 
has  a   sense  identical  with  our  term 
Commercial  Treaty.     Eeciprocity  with 
the  United  states  to  'Nova,  Scotia  would 
mean  trade-resuscitation.    The  experi- 
ment has  already  been  tried ;  and  ref- 
erence to  statistics  of  the  past  will  show 
with  what  success.     The   Reciprocity 
Treaty,   which  lasted  fourteen  years, 
came    into    operation    in   1854.     The 
previous  year — English   currency  was 
then  in  use — the  exports  of  Nova  Scotia 
were    a    trifle    below  £280,000.     The 
succeeding  year,  1855,  they  were  over 
£481,000.      The     imports     were     in 
1853    nearly  £416,000;  in  1855,  over 
£780,000.     At  the  time  of  Confedera- 
tion (1867)  the  province  was  importing 
♦14,000,000  worth  of  goods.     She  now 
imports    $8,000,000    worth.      During 
these    fourteen    prosperous    years  the 
Halifax  Assessment  Roll  advanced  from 
about  10}  million  dollars  to  17}  mil* 
lions,  since  which  time  it  has  steadily 
declined.     No  wonder    the  Attorney- 
General,  when  speaking  of  those  years, 
should  say,  *'The  period  then  was  one 
of  the  golden  days  in  the  history  of 
Nova  Scotia,  when  fortunes' were  accu- 
mulated^ farms  increased  in  value,  and 
prosperity  abounded."     Is    it,    then, 
surprising  that  the  provincials,    with 
that  crowning  sorrow  born  of  remem- 
brance of  happier  things,  should  be 
resolutely  striving  to  brin^  them  back? 
Those  who  think  the  Kepeal  cry  in 
Nova  Scotia  is  indicative  of  disloyalty 
make  a  great  mistake.     The  question 
is  being  agitated  in  reasonable  and  dig- 
nified langpiage.     Indeed,  the  Kepeal 
speeches  in  the  Provincial  Parliament 
Iiave  been  at  once  so  moderate  in  tone 
and    sound    in    argument,   that  they 
might  well  command  admiration  in  our 
own   House.     They  are    ably  supple- 
mented by  a  flood  of  correspondence  in 
the  Halifax-  CJironicle  and  elsewhere. 
Thus  it  is  clear  there  is  no  detericHU- 


tion  in  the  race  which  two  years  before 
the  mother  country  passed  a  measure 
of  Catholic  Emancipation.  Nor  is  ha« 
mor  wanting  to  give  pleasing  variety  to 
the  discussion,  as  is  made  manUest 
when  Miv  Mack,  M.P.P.,  reminds  the 
house  that,  as  that  man  is  considered 
a  patriot  who  makes  two  blades  of  grass 
to  grow  where  but  one  grew  before, 
those  who  were  instrumental  in  achiev- 
ing Confederation  must  have  been  es 
pecially  patriotic,  since  grass  is  now 
abundant — 'in  the  city  streets.  The 
Halifax  Chamber  of  Commerce  main- 
tains that  thode  are  ^ 'cruel  and  nnjusl 
laws"  which  restrict  trade  betweer 
'^  natural  customers,"  and  truly  says 
that  commercial  ''relations  betv^eer 
British  Colonies  should  be  frea^' 
"There  are,"  says  Mr.  Roche,  M.P.P., 
"no  more  loyal  people  within  the  wide 
compass  of  the  British  Empire  thar 
the  Repeal  party  of  Nova  Scotia" 
Elsewhere  he  reminds  his  fellow-pro* 
vincials  that  Nova  Scotia  was  true  wheo 
Canada  was  in  rebellion. 

Let  us  not,  then,  grudge  our  sympa- 
thy to  our  fellow-subjects,  the  more  str 
as  we  too  have  had  not  a  few  struggles 
for  freedom,  political  and  commercial, 
and  seem  likely  to  have  more.  Nova 
Scotians,  moreover,  can  claim  an  illu&- 
trious  parentage  which  it  might  be 
churlish  to  leave  out  of  account.  It  is 
not  so  much  their  A  agio-Scandinavian 
or  French  descent  I  have  in  mind,  as 
that  nearer  ancestry,  the  "United  Em- 
pire Loyalists,"  who,  a  century  ago, 
gave  up  everything  rather  than  live  in 
the  revolted  American  colonies  under 
^  new  and  alien  flag,  and  whose  story 
— seldom,  I  fear,  re*id  here,  where  the 
stuff  which  is  called  history  treats  far  of- 
tener  of  dynasties  and  wars,  than  of  he- 
roes and  heroines  who  renounce  home^ 
employment,  wealth,  kindred,  and 
friends  for  conscience'  sake — is  one  as 
affecting  as  it  is  worthy  of  admiration. 
These  were  the  people  who  settled  the 


THE  LIBRARY  MAdAZINB. 


then  wilderness  of  Ontario,  and  sought 
refuge  in  the  West  Indies,  New  Bruns- 
yfiok,  and  elsewhere,  very  man^  coming 
to    Nova   Scotia,   where    their    justly 

Eroud  descendants  keep  green  their 
onored  memory,  and  do  it  special  rev- 
erence on  St.  George's  Day.  Even  in 
the  present  struggle  these  ancestors  are 
not  forgotten,  as  Mr.  Weeks,  M.P.P., 
showed  wh  u  he  said,  ^'Descended  from 
race  who  sacrificed  their  estates  and 
shed  their  blood  for  that  which  they 
then  considered  the  sacred  cause  of 
British  connection,  I  would  be  the  last 
to  lightly  regard  or  easily  discard  the 
sentiment  of  loyalty  to  the  crown  of 
England  which  every  true  Englishman 
should  feel.'* 

Things  cannot  last  long  as  they  are. 
The  instinct  of  self-preservation  teaches 
revolt  against  them.  The  better  to 
realize  the  situation,  let  us  imagine 
ourselves  in  Nova  Scotia's  place.  Sup- 
pose this  straggling  Europe  to  be 
united  like  the  Dominion  with  little 
local  governments  everywhere,  but  with 
an  all-controlling  d  very  despotic 
central  power  situated  hundreds  of 
miles  away — say  at  Vienna.  Suppose 
that  by-and  by  the  Viennese  decided, 
in.  the  imaginary  interests  of  Austro- 
Hungary.  to  adopt  a  rigorous  system 
of  Protection,  and  to  impose  it  upon 
the  rest  of  Europe.  Suppose  the  in- 
habitants of  the  British  Isles,  on  ac- 
count of  their  superior  wealth  and  en- 
ergy, to  be  specially  selected  for  taxation 
for  the  benefit  of  An stro- Hungary  and 
adjacent  countries.  Suppose  them  to 
l)ecome  aware  of  their  consequent 
impoverishment,  to  feel  its  injus- 
tice, and  to,  strive,  year  after  year, 
constantly  and  vainly,  to  convince  Vi- 
enna of  the  unsoundness  of  her  econ- 
omic views,  and,  still  more,  of  the  sa- 
cred right  of  each  individual  member 


of  the  European  commniiity  to  control 
its  own  affairs,  political  and  commer- 
cial. And,  finally,  suppose  them,  con- 
scious at  last  that  the  choice  lay  be- 
tween gradual  ruin  and  timely  secession, 
to  pre&r  the  latter  alternative,  and  to 
try  to  reach  it  by  peaceable  and  legiti- 
mate means.  They  would  only  be 
taking  the  course  followed  by  Nova 
Scotia  now.  Should  we  not,  looking 
on,  say,  from  the  neighboring  contin- 
ent^  of  Asia  or  Africa,  think  they  were 
justified  in  so  doing?  Should  we  not 
indeed  despise  them  were  they  indif- 
ferent to  their  country's  decay,  and  did 
they  not  make  everv  reasonable  effort 
to  free  her  and  themselves  from  what 
had  grown  to  be  an  intolerable  bondage? 
Tlie  grievance  of  the  Nova  Scotians, 
then,  being  so  genuine,  and  their  Epirit 
so  constitutional,  the  case  surely  merits 
a  patient  hearing.  It  is  important, 
too,  to  recollect  that  their  demand 
comes  not  from  clique  or  from  a  single 
nationality.  Those  of  British  birth  or 
extraction,  the  many  descendants  of 
the  French  Acadians  immortalized  by 
Longfellow,  the  Germans  of  Lunen- 
burg, and  others  who  are  dwelling  to- 
gether in  this  fair  land  in  amity,  and 
gradually  fusing  to  make  a  stock  as 
good  as  any  in  America,  alike  protect, 
and  in  no  uncertain  voice,  against  the 
existing  state  of  things.  How  much 
in  earnest  these  people  are — spite  of 
sundry  sneering  assertions  that  tne  agi- 
tation is  all  t^k,  means  nothing  seri- 
ous, and  is  a  mere  vote-catching  trick 
—  is  abundantly  proved  by  the  fact 
that,  at  the  Provincial  Parliamentary 
Oeneral  Election  on  the  15th  of  June 
last,  of  38  candidates,  31  were  returned 
(many  with  larce  majorities)  pledged 
to  Repeal  and  Reciprocity. — 'Mrs.  E. 
G.  Fellows^  in  Tlie  nineteenth  Cen- 
tury. 


CONFORMTY  TO  TYPE. 


859 


COISTORMITY  TO  TYPE. 

A  CHAPTER  FROM  HENRY  DRUMMOND'S 


a 


KATURAL    LAW    IK  THE  SPIRITUAL 


WORLD. 


f> 


If  a  botanist  be  asked  the  difference 
between  an  oak,  a  plum-tree  and  a 
lich'en,  he  will  declare  that  they  are 
separated  from  OLe  another  by  the 
broadest  line  known  to  classification. 
Without  taking  into  account  the  out- 
ward differences  of  size  and  form,  the 
Tariety  of  flower  and  fruit,  the  pecu- 
liarities of  leaf  and  branch,  he  sees 
even  in  their  general  architecture  types 
of  structure  as  distinct  as  Norman, 
Gothic  and  Egyptian.  But  if  the  first 
young  gei-ms  of  these  three  plants  are 
placed  before  him  and  he  is  called  upon, 
to  define  the  difference,  he  finds  it 
impossible.  He  cannot  even  say  which 
is  which.  Examined  under  the  highest 
powers  of  the  microscope  they  yield  no 
clue.  Analyzed  by  the  chemist  with 
all  the  appliances  of  his  laboratory  they 
keep  their  secret. 

The  same  experiment  can  be  tried 
with  the  embryos  of  animals.  Take 
the  ovule  of  the  worm,  the  eagle,  tho 
elephant,  and  of  man  himself.  Let  the 
most  skilled  observer  apply  the  most 
searching  tests  to  distinguish  one  from 
the  other  and  he  will  fail.  But  there 
is  something  more  surprising  still. 
Compare  next  the  two  sets  of  germs, 
the  vegetable  and  the  animal.  And 
there  is  still  no  shade  of  difference. 
Oak  and  palm,  worm  and  man  all  start 
in  life  together.  No  matter  into  what 
strangely  different  forms  they  may 
afterward  develop,  no  matter  whether 
they  are  to  live  on  sea  or  land,  creep  or 
fly,  swim  or  walk,  think  or  vegetate,  in 
the  embryo  as  it  first  meets  the  eye 
of  Science  they  are  indistinguishable. 
The  apple  which  fell  in  Newton's 
garden,  Newton's  dog  Diamond,  and 
Newton  himself,  began  life  at  tlie  same 
point. 


If  we  analyze  this  material  point  at 
which  all  life  starts,  we  shall  find  it  to 
consist  of  a  clear  structureless  jelly-like 
substance  resembling  albumen  or  white 
of  egg.  It  is  made  of  Carbon,  Hydro- 
gen, Oxygen  and  Nitrogen.  Its  name 
IS  protoplasm.  And  it  is  not  only  the 
structural  unit  with  which  all  living 
bodies  start  in  life,  but  with  which 
they  are  subsequently  built  uj).  ** Pro- 
toplasm," says  Huxley,  "simple  or 
nucleated,  is  the  formal  basis  of  all  life. 
It  is  the  clay  of  the  Potter."  "Beast 
and  fowl,  reptile  and  fish,  mollusk, 
worm  and  polype  are  all  composed  of 
structural  units  of  the  same  character, 
namely,  masses  of  protoplasm  with  a 
nucleua." 

What  then  determines  the  difference 
between  different  animals?  What 
makes  one  little  speck  of  protoplasm 
grow  into.  Newton's  dog  Diamond,  and 
another,  exactly  the  same,  into  Newton 
himself?  It  is  a  mysterious  something 
which  has  entered  into  this  protoplasm. 
No  eye  can  see  it.  No  science  can 
define  it.  There  is  a  different  some 
thing  for  Newton's  dog  and  a  different 
sonwtJhing  for  Newton;  so  that  though 
both  use  the  same  matter  they  build  it 
up  in  these  widely  different  ways. 
Protoplasm  being  the  clay,  this  some- 
thing is  the  Potter.  And  as  there  is 
only  one  clay  and  yet  all  these  curious 
forms  are  developed  out  of  it,  it  follows 
necessarily  that  the  difference  lies  in 
the  potters.  There  must  in  short  be 
as  many  potters  as  there  are  forms«. 
There  is  tlie  potter  who  segments  the 
worm,  and  the  potter  who  builds  up 
the  form  of  the  dog,  and  the  potter 
who  moulds  the  man^  To  understand 
unmistakably  that  it  is  realty  the  potter, 
who  does  the  work,  let  us  follow  'for 
a  moment  a  description  of  the  procetss 
by  a  trained  eye-witxxess.  The  observer 
is  Mr.  Huxley.  Through  tho  tube  of 
his  microscope  he  i»  watching  the  develr- 
opment,  out  of  a  spock  of  protoplasm,. 


890 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


of  one  of  the  commonest  animals: 
"Strange  possibilities,"  he  says,  **lie 
dormant  in  that  semi-fluid  globule. 
Let  a  moderate  supply  of  warmtn  reach 
its  watery  cradle  and  the  plastic  matter 
undergoes  changes  so  rapid  and  yet  so 
steady  and  purposelike  in  their  succes- 
sion that  one  can  only  compare  them 
to  those  operated  by  a  skilled  modeler 
upon  a  formless  lump  of  clay.  As  with 
an  invisible  trowel  the  mass  is  divided 
and  subdivided  into  smaller  and  smaller 
portions,  until  it  is  reduced  to  an  aggre- 
gation of  granules  not  too  large  to  build 
withal  the  finest  fabrics  of  the  nascent 
organism.  And,  then,  it  is  as  if  a 
delicate  finger  traced  out  the  line  to 
be  occupied  by  the,  spinal  column,  and 
moulded  the  contour  of  the  body; 
pinching  up  the  head  at  one  end,  the 
tail  at  the  other,  and  fashioning  flank 
and  limb  into  due  proportions  in  so 
artistic  a  way,  that,  after  watching  the 
process  hour  by  hour,  one  is  almost 
involuntarily  possessed  by  the  notion, 
that  some*  more  subtle  aid  to  vision 
than  an  achromatic  would  show  the 
hidden  artist,  with  hiq  plan  before  him, 
striving  with^  skillful  manipulati5s>  to 
perfect  his  work.*' 

Besides  the  •  fact,  so  luminously 
brought  out  here,  that  the  artist  is  dis- 
tinct from  the  "semi-fluid  globule"  of 
protoplasm  in  which  he  wores,  there  is 
this  other  essential  point- to  notice,  that 
in  all  his  ^'skillful  manipulatioii"  the 
artist  is  not  working  at*  random,  but 
according  to'  law.  •  He  has  **his  plan 
before  him."  In  the  zoological  labor- 
aitory  of  Nature  it  is  not  as  in  aworkshop 
where  a  skilled  artisan  can  turn  his 
iiand  to  anything — where  the  same 
potter  one  dfay  moulds  a  dog,  the  next 
a  bird,  and  the  next  a  man.  in  Nature 
tone  potter  .is  ^aet  apart  to  make  ?ach. 
It  18  a  more  complete 'System  of  division 
•of  labor.  One  artist'  makes  all  the 
dogs,  another  makes  all  the  birds,  a 
third  JDaakes  all  the  men.    Moreover, 


each  artist  confines  himpelf  exclusively 
to  working  out  his  own  plan.  He 
appears  to  nave  his  own  plan  somehow 
stamped  upon  himself,  and  his  work 
is  rigidly  to  reproduce  himself. 

The  Scientific  Law  by  which  this 
takes  place  is  the  Law  of  Conformity 
to  Type.  It  is  contained,  to  a  large 
extent,  in  the  ordinary  Law  of  Inheri- 
tance; or  it  may  be  considered  as 
simply  another  way  of  stating  what 
Darwin  calls  the  Laws  of  Unity  of 
Type.  Darwin'  defines  it  thus:  "By 
Unity  of  Type  is  meant  that  funda- 
mental agreement  in  structure  which 
we  see  in  organic  beings  of  the  &ime 
class,  and  which  is  quite  independent 
of  their  habits  of  life."  According  to 
this  law  every  living  thing  that  comes 
into  the  world  is  compelled  to  stamp 
upon  its  offspring  the  image  of  itself. 
The  dog,  according  to  its  type,  pro- 
duces a  dog;  the  bird  a  bird. 

The  artist  who  operates  upon  matter 
in  this  subtle  way  and  carries  out  this 
law  is  Life.  There  are  a  great  many 
different  kinds  of  Life.  If  one  might 
give  the  broader  meaning  to  the  words 
of  the  apostle:  **A11  life  is  not  the 
same  life.  There  is  one  kind  of  life 
of  men,  another  life  of  beasts,  another 
of  fishes,  and  another  of  birds.'' 
There  is  the  Life,  or  the  Artist,  or  the 
Potter  who  segments  the  worm,  the 
potter  who  forms  the  dqg,  the  potter 
who  moulds  the  man. 

What  goes  on  then  in  the  animal 
kingdom  is  this — the  Bird-Life  seizes 
upon  the  bird -germ  and  builds  it  up 
into  a  bird,  the  image  of  itself.  The 
Reptile  Life  seizes  upon  another  ger- 
minal speck,  assimilates  surrounding 
matter,  and  fashions  it  into  a  reptile. 
The  Reptile-Life  thus  simply  makes 
an  incarnation  of  itself.  The  visible 
bird  is  simply  an  incarnation  of  the 
invisible  Bird-Life. 

Now  we  are  nearing  the  point  where 
the  spiritual  analogy  appears*    It  is  a 


CONFORMITY  TO  TYPE. 


861 


very  wonderful  analogy,  so  wonderful 
that  one  almost  hesitates  to  put  it  into 
words.     Yet  Nature  is  reverent;  and 
it   is    her  voice   to  which  we  listen. 
These  lower  phenomena  of  life,   she 
says,  are  but  an  allegory.     There  is 
another  kind  of  Life  of  which  Science 
as  yet  has  taken  little  cognizance.     It 
obeys  the  same  laws.     It  builds  up  an 
organism  into  its  own  form.     It  is  the 
Christ-life.      As   the  Bird-Life  builds 
up  a  bird,  the  image  of  itself,  so  the 
Ciirist-Life  builds    up   a  Christ,   the 
image  of  Himself  in  tne  inward  nature 
of    man.     When    a   man    becomes    a 
OflTistian  the  natural  process  is  this: 
The  living  Christ  enters  into  his  soul. 
Development  begins.     The  quickening 
Life  seizes  upon  the  soul,  assimilates 
sarrounding  elements,  and  begins  to 
fashion  it.     According'  to   the  great 
Law  of  Conformity  to  Type  this  fashion- 
ing takes  a  specific  form.     It  is  that  of 
the    Artist    who    fashions.      And    all 
through  Life  this  wonderful,  mystical, 
gloribufi,  yet  perfectly  definite  process, 
goes  on  "until  Christ  be  formed"  in  it. 
The  Christian  Life  is  not  a  vague 
effort     after     righteousness— an     Ill- 
defined  pointless  struggle  for  an  ill- 
defined  pointless  end.     Religion  is  no 
disheveled  mass  of  aspiration,  prayer, 
and  faith.     There  is  no  more  mystery 
in  Religion  as  to  its  processes  than  in 
Biology.      There  is  much  mystery  in 
Biology.     We  know  all  but  nothing  of 
Life    yet,    nothing    of    development. 
There    is    the    same    mystery  in  the 
spiritual  Life.     But  the  great  lines  are 
tne  same,  as  decided,  as  luminous;  and 
the  laws  of  natural  and  spiritual  are  the 
same,  as  unerring,   as  simple.     Will 
everything  else  in  the  natural  world 
unfold  its  order,  and  yield  to  Science 
more  and  more  a  vision  of  harmony, 
and  Religion,  which  should  complement 
and  perfect  all,  remain  a  chaos?    From 
the  standpoint  of  Revelation  no  truth 
is    more  obscure  than  Conformity  to 


Type.  If  Science  can  furnish  a  com- 
panion phenomena  from  an  every-day 
process  of  the  natural  life,  it  may  at 
least  throw  this  most  mystical  doctrine 
of  Christianity  into  thinkable  form. 
Is  there  any  fallacy  in  speaking  of  the 
Embryology  of  the  New  Life?  Is  the. 
analogy  invalid?  Are  there  not  vital 
processes  in  the  Spiritual  as  well  as  in 
the  Natural  world?  The  Bird  being 
an  incarnation  of  the  Bird -Life,  may 
not  the  Christian  be  a  spiritual  incar- 
nation of  the  Christ-Life?  And  is  here 
not  a  real  justification  in  the  processes 
of  the  New  Birth  for  such  a  parallel? 

Let  us  appeal  to  the  recora  of  these 
processes. 

In  what  terms  does  the  New  Testa- 
ment describe  them?  The  answer  is 
sufficiently  striking.  It  uses  every- 
where the  language  of  Biology.  It  is 
impossible  that  the  New  Testament 
writers  should  have  been  familiar  with 
these  biological  facts.  It  is  impossible 
that  their  views  of  this  great  truth 
should  have  been  as  clear  as  Science 
can  make  them  now.  But  they  had  no 
alteniative.  There  was  no  other  way 
of  expressing  this  .truth.  It  was  a 
biological  question.  So  they  struck 
out  unhesitatingly  into  the  new  fields 
of  words,  and,  with  an  originality  which 
commands  both  reverence  and  sjirprise, 
stated  their  truth  with  such  light,  or 
darkness,  as  they  had.  They  did  not 
mean  to  be  scientific,  onlr  to  be  accur- 
ate,  and  their  fearless  accuracy  has 
made  them  scientific 

What  could  be  more  original,  for 
instance,  than  the  apostle's  reiteration 
that  the  Christian  was  a  new  creature, 
a  new  man,  a  babe?  Or  that  this  new 
man  was  "begotten  of  God,"  God's 
workmanship?  And  what  could  be  a 
more  accurate  expression  of  the  law  of 
Conformity^ to  Type  than  this:  "Put 
on  the  new  man,  which  is  renewed  in 
knowledge  after  the  image  of  Him  that 
created    him?"     Or    this,    "We   are 


8«2 


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changed  into  the  same  image  from 
glory  to  glory?"  And  else¥rnere  we 
are  expressly  told  by  the  same  writer 
that  this  Conformity  is  the  end  and 
goal  of  the  Christian  life.  To  work 
this  Type  iu  us  is  the  whole  purpose  of 
God  for  man.  "Whom  He  did  fore- 
know Ho  also  did  predestinate  to  be 
conformed  to  the  image  of  His  Son." 

One  must  confess  that  the  originality 
of  this  entire  New  Testament  concep- 
tion is  most  startling.  Even  for  the 
nineteenth  century  it  is  the  most  start- 
ling. But  when  one  remembers  that 
such  an  idea  took  form  in  the  first,  he 
cannot  fail  to  be  impressed  with  a 
deepening  wonder  at  the  system  which 
begat  and  cherished  it.  Men  seek  the 
origin  of  Christianity  among  philoso- 
phies of  that  age.  Scholars  contrast 
it  still  with  these  philosophies,  and 
scheme  to  fit  it  in  to  those  of  later 
growth.  Has  it  never  occurred  to 
them  how  much  more  it  is  than  a 
philosophy,  that  it  includes  a  science, 
a  Biology  pure  and  simple?  As  well 
might  naturalists  contrast  zoology  with 
chemistry,  or  seek  to  incorporate  cacol- 
ogy,with  botany— the  living  with  the 
dead — as  try  to  explain  the  spiritual 
life  in  terms  of  mind  alone.  When 
will  it  be  seen  that  the  characteristic 
of  the  Christian  Religion  is  its  Life, 
that  a  tfue  theology  must  begin  with  a 
Biology?  Theology  is  the  Science  of 
God.  'Why  will  men  treat  God  as 
inorganic? 

If  this  analogy  is  capable  of  being 
worked  out,  we  should  expect  answera 
to  at  least  three  questions. 

First:  What  corresponds  to  the  pro- 
toplasm in  the  spiritual  sphere? 

Second:  W^hat  is  the  Life,  the 
Hidden  Artist  who  fashions  it? 

Third:  What  do  we  know  of  the 
process  and  the  plan? 

First:  the  Protoplasm. 

We  should  be  forsaking  the  lines  of 
nature  were  we  to  imagiae  for  a  moment 


that  the  new  creature  was  to  be  found 
out    of    nothing.     Ex  nihilo  nihil— 
nothing  can  be  made  out  of  nothing. 
Matter  is  uncreatable  and  indestructi- 
ble; Nature  and  man  can  only  form  mA 
transform.     Hence  when  a  new  animal 
is  made,  no  new  cluy  is  made.      Life 
merely    enters    into    already   existing 
matter,  assimilates  more  of  the  same 
sort  and  re-builds  it.     The   spiritual 
Artist   works  in  the  same   way.     He 
must   have  a  peculiar  kind   of  proto- 
plasm, a  basis  of  life,  and  that  must  be 
already  existing. 

Now  we  find  this  in  the  materials  of 
character  with  which  the  natural  man 
is    previously    provided.    .  Mind    and 
character,  the  will  and  the  affections, 
the  moral  nature — ^these  form  the  bases 
of  spiritual  life.     To  look  in  this  direc- 
tion for  the  protoplasm  of  the  spiritual 
life  is  consisstent  with  all  analogy.     The 
lowest  or  mineral  world  mainly  supplies 
the  material — and  this  is  true  even  for 
insectivorous  species — for  the  vegetable 
kingdom.     The  vegetable  supplies  the 
material  for  the  animal.     Next  in  turn, 
the  animal  furnishes  material  for  the 
mental,  and  lastly  the  mental  for  the 
spiritual.     Each  member  of  the  series 
isi  complete  only  when  the  steps  below 
it  are  complete;  the  highest  demands 
all.     It  is  not  necessary  for  the  im- 
mediate purpose  to  go  so  far  into  the 
psychology  either  of  the  new  creature 
or  of  the  old  as  to  define  more  clearly 
what  these  moral   bases    are.     It    is 
enough  to  discover  that  in  this  womb 
the  new  creature  is  to  be  bom,  fashioned 
out  of  the  mental  and  moral  parts, 
substance,  or  essence    of  the  natural 
man.     The  only  thing  to  be  insisted 
upon   is  that  in  the  natural  man  this 
mental  and  moral  substance  or  basis  is 
spirituallv    lifeless.      However    active 
the  intellectual  or  moral  life  may  be^ 
from  the  point  of  view  of  this  other 
Life  it  is  dead.     That  which  is  flesh  ia 
flesh.      It  wants,  that  is  to  say,  the 


CONFORMITY  TO  TYPE. 


863 


kind  of  Life  which  constitutes  the 
difference  between  the  Christian  and 
the  not-a-Christian.  It  has  not  yet 
been  "bom  of  the  Spirit." 

To  show  further  that  this  protoplasm 
possesses  the  necessary  properties  of  a 
normal  protoplasm  it  wiil  bo  necessary 
to  examine  in  passing  what  these  prop- 
erties are.     They  are  two  in  number, 
the   capacity  for   life   and   plasticity. 
Consider    first   the  capacity  for  life. 
It  is  not  enough  to  find  an  adequate 
supply  of  material.     That  must  bo  of 
the  right  kind.     For  all  kinds  of  matter 
have  not  the  power  to  be  the  vehicle 
of  life — ^all  kinds  of  matter  are  not  even 
fitted  to  be  the  vehicle  of  electricity. 
What  peculiarity  there   is  in  Carbon, 
Hydrogen,     Oxygen,    and    Nitrogen, 
when  combined   in  a  certain  way,  to 
receive  life,  we  cannot  tell.     We  only 
know  that  life  is  always  associated  in 
Nature  with  this  particular  physical 
basis  and  never  wit7any  other.     But 
we  are  not  in  the  same  darkness  with 
regard  to  the  moral  protoplasm.     When 
we  look  at  this  complex  combination 
which  we  have  predicted  as  the  basis 
of  spiritual  life,  we  do  find  something 
which  gives  it  a  peculiar  qualification 
for  being  the  protoplasm  of  the  Christ- 
Life.     We  discover  one  strong  reason 
at  least,  not  only  why  this  kind  of  life 
should  be  associated  with  this  kind  of 
protoplasm,  but  why  it  should  never  be 
associated  with  other  kinds  which  seem 
to  resemble  it — why,  for  instance,  this 
.  spiritual  life  should  not  be  engrafted 
upon  the  intelligence  of  a  dog  or  the 
instincts  of  an  ant. 

The  protoplasm  in  man  has  a  some- 
thing in  addition  to  its  instincts  or  its 
habits.  It  has  a  capacitor  for  God.  In 
this  capacity  for  God  lies  its  receptivity; 
it  is  the  very  protoplasm  that  was 
necessary.  The  chamber  is  not  only 
ready  to  receive  the  new  Life,  but  the 
Guest  is  expected,  and,  till  He  comes, 
is  missed.     Till  then  the  soul  longs  and 


yearns,  wastes  and  pines,  waving  its  ten- 
tacles piteously  in  the  empty  air,  feeling 
after  Uod  if  so  be  that  it  may  find  Him.  ' 
This  is  not  peculiar  to  the  Protoplasm 
of  the  Christianas  soul.  In  every  land 
and  in  every  age  there  have  been  altars 
to  the  Known  or  Unknown  God.  It  is 
now  agreed  as  a  mere  question  of 
anthropology  that  the  universal  lan- 
guage of  the  human  soul  has  always 
been  "I  perish  with  hunger."  This  is 
what  fits  it  for  Christ.  There  is  a 
grandeur  in  this  cry  from  the  depths 
which  makes  its  very  nnhappiness 
sublime. 

The  other  quality  we  are  to  look  for 
in  the  soul  is  mouldableness,  plasticity. 
Conformity  demands  conformability. 
Now  plasticity  is  not  only  a  marked 
characteristic  of  all  forms  of  life,  but  in 
a  special  sense  of  the  highest  forms. 
It  increases  steadily  as  we  rise  in  the  ^ 
scale.  The  inorganic  world,  to  begin  ' 
with,  is  rigid.  A  crystal  of  silica  dis- 
solved and  redissolved  a  thousand  times 
will  never  assume  any  other  form  than 
the  hexagonal.  The  plant  next,  though 
plastic  in  its  elements,  is  comparatively 
msusceptible  of  change.  The  very 
fixity  of  its  sphere,  the  imprisonment 
for  life  in  a  single  spot  of  earth,  is  the 
symbol  of  a  certain  degradation.  The 
animal  in  all  parts  is  mobUe,  sensitive, 
free;  the  highest  animal,  man,  is  the 
most  mobile,  the  most  at  leisure  from 
routine,  the  most  impressionable,  the 
most  open  for  change.  And  when  we 
reach  the  mind  and  soul,  this  mobility 
is  found  in  its  most  developed  form. 
Whether. we  regard  its  susceptibility  to 
impressions,  its  lightning-like  response 
even  to  influences  the  most  impalpable 
and  subtle,  its  power  of  instantaneous 
adjustment,  or  whether  we  regard  the 
delicacy  and  variety  of  its  moods,  or  its 
vast  powers  of  growth,  we  are  forced  to 
recognize  in  this  the  most  perfect 
capacity  for  change.  This  marvelous 
plasticity  of   mind   contains  at  once 


864 


THE  LlfilURY  MAGAZINE. 


the  possibility  and  prophecy  of  it^ 
transformation.  The  soui^  in  a  word, 
is  made  to  be  converted. 

Second,  The  Life. 

•The  main  reason  for  giving  the  Life, 
the  agent  of  this  change,  a  separate 
treatment,  is  to  emphasize  the  distinc- 
tion between  it  and  the  natural  man 
on  the  one  hand,  and  the  spiritual 
man  on  the  other.  The  natural  man  is 
its  basis,  the  spiritual  man  is  its  prod- 
uct, the  Life  itself  is  something  diifer- 
ent.  Just  as  in  an  organism  we  have 
these  three  things — formative  matter, 
formed  matter,  and  the  forming  prin- 
ciple  or  life;  so  in  the  soul  we  have  the 
old  nature,  the  renewed  nature,  and 
the  trtitisforming  Life. 

This  being  made  evident,  little 
remains  here  to  be  added.  No  man 
has  ever  seen  this  Life.  It  cannot 
be  analyzed,  or  weiffhed,  or  traced  in  its 
essential  nature.  But  this  is  just  what 
we  expected.  This  invisibility  is  the 
same  property  which  we  found  to  be 
peculiar  to  the  natural  life.  We  saw 
no  life  in  the  first  embryos,  in  oak,  in 
palm,  or  in  bird.  In  the  adult  it  like- 
wise escapes  us.  We  shall  not  wonder 
if  we  cannot  see  it  in  the  Christian. 
We  shall  not  expect  to  see  it.  A 
fortiori  we  shall  not  expect  to  see  it, 
for  we  are  further  removed  from  the 
coarser  matter — moving  now  among 
ethereal  and  spiritual  things.  It  is 
because  it  conforms  to  the  law  of  this 
analogy  so  well  that  men,  not  seeing  it, 
have  denied  its  being.  Is  it  hopeless 
to  point  out  that  one  of  the  most  recog- 
nizable characteristics  of  life  is  its 
unrecognizableness,  and  that  the  very 
token  of  its  spiritual  nature  lies  in  its 
being  beyond  the  grossness  of  our  eyes? 
We  do  not  pretend  that  Science  can 
define  this  Life  to  be  Christ.  It  has 
no  definition  to  give  even  of  its  own 
life,  much  less  of  this.  But  there  are 
converg^ing  lines  which  point,  at  least, 
in  the  direction  that  it  is  Christ.    There 


was  One  whom  history  acknowledges 
to  have  been  the  Truth.  One  of  His 
claims  was  this,  ''I  am  the  Life." 
According  to  the  doctrine  of  Biogenesis, 
life  can  only  come  from  life.  It  was 
His  additional  claim  that  His  function 
in  the  world  was  to  give  men  Life. 
^'I  am  come  that  ye  mi^ht  have  Life, 
and  that  ye  might  have  it  more  abun- 
dantly." This  could  not  refer  to  the 
natural  life,  for  men  had  that  already. 
He  that  hath  the  Son  hath  another  Life. 
**Know  ye  not  your  own  selves  how 
that  Jesus  Christ  is  in  you." 

Again,  there  are  men  whose  charac- 
ters assume  a  strange  resemblance  to 
Him  who  was  the  Life.  When  we  see 
the  bird-character  appear  in  an  organ- 
ism we  assume  that  the  Bird-Life  has 
been  there  at  work.  And  when  we 
behold  Conformity  to  Type  in  a  Chris- 
tian, and  know  moreover  that  the  type- 
organization  can  be  produced  by  the 
type-life  alone  d<TO  this  not  lend  sup- 
port to  the  hypothesis  that  the  Type- 
Life  also  has  been  here  at  work?  If 
every  effect  demands  a  cause,  what 
other  cause  is  there  for  the  Christian  ? 
When  we  have  a  cause,  and  an  adequate 
cause,  and  no  other  adequate  cause: 
when  we  have  the  express  statement  of 
that  Cause  that  he  is  that  cause,  what 
more  is  possible?  Let  not  Science, 
knowing  nothing  of  its  own  life,  go 
further  than  to  say  it  knows  nothing  of 
this  Life.  We  shall  not  dissent  from 
its  silence.  But  till  it  tells  us  what  it 
is,  we  wait  for  evidence  that  it  is  not 
this. 

Third,  the  Process. 

It  is  impossible  to  enter  at  length 
into  any  details  of  the  great  miracle 
by  which  this  protoplasm  is  to  be  con- 
formed to  the  Image  of  the  Son.  We 
enter  that  province  now  only  so  far  as 
this  Law  of  Conformity  compels  us. 
Nor  is  it  so  much  the  nature  of  the 
process  we  have  to  consider  as  its 
general  direction  and  results.     We  are 


CONFORMITY  TO  TYPE. 


865 


dealing  with  a  question  of  morphology 
rather  than  of  physiology. 

It  must  occur  to  one  on  reaching  this 
jioint,  that  a  new  element  here  comes 
m  which  compels  us,  for  the  moment, 
to  part  company  with  zoology.  That 
element  is  the  conscious  power  of  choice. 
The  animal  in  following  the  type  is 
blind.  It  does  not  only  follow  the  type 
involuntarily  and  compulsorily,  but 
does  not  know  that  it  is  following  it. 
We  might  certainly  have  been  made  to 
conform  to  the  Type  in  the  higher 
sphere  with  no  more  knowledge  or 
power  of  choice  than  animals  or 
automata.  But  then  we  should  not 
have  been  men.  It  is  a  possible  case, 
but  not  possible  to  the  kmd  of  proto- 

Slasm  with  which  men  are  furnished. 
>wing  to  the  peculiar  characteristics 
of  this  protoplasm  an  additional  and 
exceptional  provision  is  essential. 

The  first  demand  is  that  being  con- 
scious and  having  this  power  of  choice, 
the  mind  should  have  an  adequate 
knowledge  of  what  it  is  to  choose. 
Some  revelation  of  the  Type,  that  is  to 
say,  is  necessary.  And  as  that  revela- 
tion can  only  come  from  the  Type,  we 
must  look  there  for  it. 

We  are  confronted  at  once  with  the 
Incarnation.  There  we  find  how  the 
Christ-Life  has  clothed  Qimself  with 
matter,  taken  literal  flesh,  and  dwelt 
among  us.  The  Incarnation  is  the 
Life  revealing  the  Type.  Men  are  long 
since  agreed  that  this  is  the  end  of  the 
Incarnation — the  revealing  of  God. 
But' why  should  God  be  revealed? 
Why,  indeed,  but  for  man?  Why 
but  that  ^'beholding  as  in  a  glass  t\ve 
g'ory  of  the  only  begotten  we  should 
be  cnanged  into  the  same  ima^?" 

To  meet  the  powtsr  of  choice,  how- 
ever, something  more  .  was  necessary 
than  the  mere  revelation  of  the  Type 
— it  was  necessary  that  the  Type  should 
be  the  highest  conceivable  Type.  In 
other  words,  the  Type  must   be   an 


Ideal.  For  all  true  human  growth, 
effort,  and  achievement,  an  ideal  is 
acknowledged  to  be  indispensable. 
And  all  men  accordingly  whose  lives  are 
based  on  principle,  have  set  themselves 
an  ideal,  more  or  less  perfect.  It  is 
this  which  first  reflects  the  will  from 
what  is  base,  and  turns  the  wayward 
life  to  what  is  holy.  80  much  is  true 
as  mere  philosophy.  But  philosophy 
failed  to  present  men  with  their  ideal. 
It  has  never  been  suggested  that  Chris- 
tianity has  failed.  Believers  and  un- 
believers have  been  compelled  to 
acknowledge  that  Christianity  holds  up 
to  the  world  the  missing  Type,  the 
Perfect  Man. 

The  recognition  of  the  Ideal  is  the 
flrst  step  in  the  direction  of  Conformity. 
But  let  it  be  clearly  observed  that  it 
is  but  a  step.  There  is  no  vital  con- 
nection between  merely  seeing  the 
Ideal  and  being  conformed  to  it. 
Thousands  admire  Christ,  who  never 
become  Christians. 

But  the  great  question  still  remains. 
How  is  the  Christian  to  be  conformed 
to  the  Type,  or  as  we  should  now  say, 
dealing  with  consciousness,  to  the 
Ideal?  The  mere  knowledge  of  the 
Ideal  is  no  more  than  a  motive.  How 
is  the  process  to  be  practically  accom-> 
plished?  Who  is  to  do  it?  Where, 
when,  how?  This  is  the  test  question 
of  Christianity.  It  is  here  that  all 
theories  of  Christianity,  all  attempts  to 
explain  it  on  natural  principles,  all 
rMuctions  of  it  to  philosophy,  inev- 
itably break  down.  It  is  here  that  all 
imitations  of  Christianity  perish.  It 
is  here,  also,  that  personal  religion 
finds  its  most  fatal  obsticle.  Men  are 
all  quite  clear  about  the  Ideal.  We  are 
all  convinced  of  the  duty  of  mankind 
regarding  it.  But  how  to  secure  that 
willing  men  shall  attain  it — ^that  is  the 
problem  of  religion.  It  is  the  failure  to 
understand  the  dynamics  of  C  iristianity 
that  has  most  seriously  and  most  piti- 


866 


THE  LIBRARY  >fAGAZINE. 


fully  hindered  its  growth  both   in  the 
individual  and  in  the  race. 

From  the  standpoint  of  biology  this 
practical  difficulty  vanishes  in  a 
moment.  It  is  probably  the  very 
simplicity  of  the  law  regarding  it  that 
has  made  men  stumble.  For  nothing 
is  so  invisible  to  most  men  as  trans- 
parency, l^he  law  here  is  the  same 
biological  law  that  exists  in  the  natural 
world.  For  centuries  men  have  striven 
to  find  out  ways  and  means  to  conform 
themselves  to  this  type.  Impressive 
motives  have  been  pictured,  the  proper 
circumstances  arranged,  the  direction 
of  eifort  defined,  and  men  have  toiled, 
stniggled,  and  agonized  to  conform 
themselves  to  the  Image  of  the  Son. 
Can  the  protoplasm  conform  itself  to 
its  type?  Can  the  embryo  fashion  it- 
self? Is  Conformity  to  Type  produced 
by  the  matter  or  by  the  life^  by  the 
protoplasm  or  by  the  Type?  Is  organ- 
ization the  ^ause  of  life  or  the  effect  of 
it?  It  is  the  effect  of  it.  Conformity 
to  Tj^e,  therefore,  is.  securefl  by  the 
tjrpe.     Christ  makos  the  Christian. 

Men  need  only  reflect  on  the  auto- 
matic processes  of  their  natural  body 
to  discover  that  this  i«  the  universal 
law  of  Life.  What  does  any  man  oon- 
€ciously  do,  for  instance,  in  the  matter 
of  breatliing?  What  part  does  he  take 
in  circulating  the  blood,  in  keeping  up 
the  rhythm  of  his  heart?  What  con- 
trol has  he  over  growth?  What  man 
jby  taking  thought  can  add  a  cubit  to 
-his  stature?  What  part  voluntarily  d<)^s 
man  take  in  secretion,  in  digestion,  in 
the  reflex  actions?  In  point  of  fact  is 
he  not  after  all  the  veriest  automaton, 
'every  organ  of  his  body  given  him, 
•every  function  arranged  for  him,  brain 
And  nerve,  thought  and  sensation,  will 
And  consoionce,  all  provided  for  him 
Tcady  mode?  And  yet  he  turns  upon 
iii^  soul  and  wishes  to  organize  that 
iiimself!  O  preposterous  and  vain 
ndUj  thca  w^o  OQoldest  notjnaka.a 


finger-nail  of  thy  body,  thinkest  tht»a 
to  fashion  this  wonderful,  mysterious, 
subtle  soul  of  thine  aft«r  the  ineffable 
Image?  Wilt  thou  ever  permit  thyself 
to  he  conformed  to  the  image  of  the 
Son?  Wilt  thou,  who  canst  not  add 
a  cubit  to  thy  stature,  submit  to  bf* 
raised  by  the  Type- Life  within  thee  to 
the  perfect  stature  of  Christ? 

This  is  a  humbling  conclusion.  And 
therefore  men  will  resent  it.  Men  will 
still  experiment  "by  works  of  righteons- 
ness  which  they  have  done"  to  earn  the 
Ideal  life.  The  doctrine  of  Human 
Inability,  as  the  Church  calls  it,  has 
always  been  objectionable  to  men  who 
do  not  know  themselves.  The  doctrine 
itself,  perhaps,  has  been  partly  to 
blame.  While  it  has  been  often 
affirmed  in  such  language  as  rightly  to 
humble  men,  it  had  also  been  stated 
and  cast  in  their  teeth  with  words 
which  could  only  insult  them.  Merely 
to  assert  dogmatically  that  man  has  no 
power  to  move  hand  or  foot  to  help 
himself  toward  Christ,  carries  no  real 
conviction.  The  weight  of  human 
authority  is  always  powerless,  and 
ought  to  be,  where  the  intelligence  is 
denied  a  I'ationale.  In  tlie  light  of 
modem  science  when  men  seek  a  reason 
for  every  thought  of  God  or  man,  this 
old  doctrine  with  its  severe  and  almost 
inhuman  aspect — ^till  rightly  understood 
— must  presently  have  succumbed.  But 
to  the  biologist  it  cannot  -d  ie.  It  stands 
to  him  oil  the  dolid  ground  of  Nature, 
It  has  a  reason  in  •the  laws  of  life 
which  must  resuscitate  it  and  give  it 
tinother  lease  -of  years.  Bird-Life 
makes  the  Bird.  Christ-Life  makes  the 
Christian.  Ko  man  by  taking  thought 
can  add  a  cubit  to  his  stature. 

So  much  for  the  seientiflc  evidence. 
Here  is  the  eonfesponding  statement  of 
-the  truth  from  Scripture.  Observe 
the  passive  voice  in  these  sentences: 
'^begotten  of  God;"  "The  new  man 
.whieh  is.  renewed  in  kaowled^e  .after 


CONFORMITY  TO  TYPE. 


867 


the  Image  of  Him  that  created  him;" 
or  this,  ''We  are  changed  into  the  same 
Image;''  or  this,  ''Predestinate  to  he 
conformed  to  the  Image  of  his  Son ;" 
or  again,  "  Until  Christ  be  formed 
in  you;"  or  "Except  a  man  be  born 
again  he  cannot  see  the  Kingdom 
of  God;"  "Except  a  man  be  born 
of  water  and  of  the  Spirit  he  cannot 
enter  the  Kingdom  of  God."  There 
is  one  outstanding  verse  which  seems 
at  first  sight  on  the  other  side:  "Work 
out  your  own  salvation  with  fear  and 
trembling;"  but  as  one  reads  on  he 
finds,  as  if  the  writer  dreaded  the  very 
misconception,  the  complement,  "For 
it  is  God  which  worketh  in  you  both  to 
will  and  to  do  of  His  good  pleasure." 

It  will  be  noticed  in  these  passages, 
and  in  others  which  might  he  named, 
that  the  process  of  transformation  is 
referred  inditferently  to  the  agency  of 
each  Person  of  the  Trinity  in  turn. 
We  are  not  concerned  to  take  up  this 
question  of  detiul.  It  is  sufficient  that 
the  transformation  is  wrought.  Theo- 
logians, however,  distinguish  thus:  the 
indirect  agent  is  Christ,  the  direct 
influence  is  the  Holy  Spirit.  In  other 
words,  Christ  by  his  Spirit  renews  the 
souls  of  men. 

1&  man,  tlien,  out  of  the  arena  alto- 
gether? Is  he  mere  clay  in  the  hands 
of  the  potter,  a  machine,  a  tool,  an 
automaton?  Yes  and  Na  If  he  were 
a  tool  he  would  not  be  a  man.  If  he 
were  a  man  he  would  have  something 
to  do.  One  need  not  .seek  to  balance 
what  God  does  here,  and  what  man 
does.  But  we  shall  attain  to  a  suffi- 
cient measure  of  truth  on  a  most  deli- 
cate problem  if  we  make  a  final  appeal 
to  the  natural  life.  We  find  that  in 
maintaining  tliis  natural  life  Nature 
has  a  share  and  man  Jias  a  shave.  >  By 
far  the  larger  part  is  done  for  us — ^the 
breathing,  the  secretins;,  theoirculating 
of  the  blood,  the  buudine  up  of  the 
organism.      And    although  ithe   part 


which  man  plays  is  a  minor  part,  yet, 
strange  to  say,  it  is  not  less  essential  to 
the  well  being,  and  even  to  the  being, 
of  the  whole.  For  instance,  man  has 
to  take  food.  He  has  nothing  to  do 
with  it  after  he  has  once  taken  it,  for 
the  moment  it  passes  his  lips  it  is  taken 
in  hand  by  reflex  actions  and  handed 
on  from  one  organ  to  another, .  his 
control  over  it,  in  the  natural  course 
of  things,  being  completely  lost.  But 
the  initial  act  was  his.  And  without 
that  nothing  could  have  been  done. 
Now  whether. there  be  an  exact  analogy 
between  the  voluntary  and  involuntary 
function  in  the  body,  and  the  corre- 
sponding processes  in  the  soul,  we  do 
not  at  present  inquire.  But  this  will 
indicate,  at  least,  that  man  has  his  own 
part  to  play.  Let  him  choose  Life;  let 
him  daily  nourish  his  soul;  let  him 
forever  starve  the  old  life;  let  him 
abide  continuously  as  a  living  branch 
in  the  Vine,  and  the  True-Vine  Life 
will  flow  into  his  soul,  assimilating, 
renewing,  conforming  to  Type,  till 
Christ,  p^ledged  by  His  own  law,  be 
formed  IB  him. 

We  have  been  dealing  with  Chris- 
tianity at  its  most  mystical  point. 
Mark  here  once  more  its  absolute  nat- 
uralness. The  pursuit  of  the  Type  is 
i'ust  what  all  Nature  is  engaged  in. 
i^lant  and  insect,  fieh  and  reptile,  bird 
and  mammal — ^these  in  their  several 
spheres  are  striving  After  the  Type. 
Toj»'eventitsextinSbion,to  ennoble  it, 
to  people  earth  and  sea  and  sky  with 
it;  this  is  the  meaning  of  the  Struggle 
for  Life.  And  this  is  our  life — to 
pursue  *the  Type,  to  populate  <he  world 
with  it. 

Our  religion  *is  not  all  a  mistake. 
We  are  not  visionaries.  We  are  not 
''unpractical,*'  as  men  pronounce  us, 
^hen  we.  worship.  To  try  to  follow 
Christ  is  ^ot  to  be  ^'righteous  over- 
much." True  men  are  not  rhapsodiz- 
ing ^h»Q  they  j)reach;  nor  do  thixse 


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waste  their  lives  who  waste  themselves 
iu  striving  to  extend  the  Kingdom  of 
tiod  on  earth.  This  is  what  life  is  for. 
The  Christian  in  his  life-aim  is  in  strict 
line  with  Nature.  What  men  call  his 
Eupematural  is  quite  natural. 

Mark  well  also  the  splendor  of  this 
ideii  of  salvation.  It  is  not  merely  final 
* 'safety/'  to  be  forgiven  sin,  to  evade 
the  (;urse.  It  is  not,  vaguely,  "to  get 
to  heaven."  It  is  to  be  conformed  to 
tlie  Image  of  the  Son.  It  is  for  these 
poor  elements  to  attain  to  the  Supreme 
Beauty.  The  organizing  Life  being 
Eternal,  so  must  this  Beauty  be  im- 
mortal. Its  progress  toward  the 
Immaculate  is  already  guaranteed. 
And  more  than  all  there  is  here 
fulfilled  the  sublimest  of  all  prophecies; 
not  Beauty  alone  but  Unity  is  secured 
by  the  Type — Unity  of  man  and  man, 
God  and  man,  God  and  Christ  and 
man  till  **all  shall  be  one/' 

Could  Science  in  its  most  brilliant 
anticipations  for  the  future  of  its 
highest  organism  ever  have  fore- 
shadowed a  development  like  this? 
Now  that  the  revelation  is  made  to  it, 
it  surely  recognizes  it  as  the  missing 
point  in  Evolution,  the  climax  to 
which  all  Creation  tends.  Hitherto 
Evolution  had  no  future.  It  was  a 
pillar  with  marvelous  carving,  growing 
richer  and  finer  toward  the  top,  but 
without  a  capital;  a  pyramid,  the  vast 
base  buried  in  the  inorganic,  towering 
bigher  and  higher,  tier  above  tier,  life 
above  life,  mind  above  mind,  ever  more 
perfect  in  its  workmanship,  more  noble 
in  ics  symmetry,  and  yet  withal  so 
much  the  more  mysterious  in  its 
aspiration.  The  most  curious  eye, 
following  it  upwardc  ^^  nothing. 
The  cloud  fell  and  covered  it.  Just 
what  men  wanted  to  see  was  hid.  The 
work  of  the  ages  had  no  a])ex.  Bnt 
the  work  begun  by  Nature  is  finished 
by  the  Supernatural — as  we  are  wont 
to  call  the  oigher  natural.    And  as  the 


veil  is  lifted  by  Christianib^  it  strikes 
men  dumb  with  wonder.  For  the  goal 
of  Evolution  is  Jesus  Christ. 

The  Christian  life  is  the  only  life 
that  will  ever  be  completed.  Apart 
from  Christ  the  life  of  man  is  a  broken 
pillar,  the  race  of  men  an  unfiTiished 
pyramid.  One  by  one  in  sight  of 
Eternity  all  human  Ideals  fall  short, 
one  by  one  before  the  open  grave  all 
human  hopes  dissolve.  The  jjaureate 
sees  a  moment's-  light  in  Nature's 
jealousy  for  the  Type;  but  that  too 
vanishes. 

**  *8o  careful  of  tbe  type?'  but  no 

From  scarped  cliff  and  quarried  stone 
Bbe  cried,  'A  thousand  types  are  gone; 
I  care  for  notliing,  all  shall  go.'  " 

All  shall  go?  No,  one  Type  remains. 
"Whom  He  did  foreknow  He  also  did 
predestinate  to  be  conformed  to  the 
Image  of  His  Son."  And  "when 
Christ  who  is  our  life  shall  appear,' 
tlien  shall  ye  also  appear  with  Him  in 
glory." 


THE    LOWER    EDUCATION    OP 

WOMEN. 

We  have  all  read  an  admirable  treatise 
from  the  hand  of  a  gifted  penwoman, 
slashing  at  all  our  hopes,  and  attempt- 
ing to  destroy  the  very  fabric  of  the 
movement  for  the  Higher  Education  of 
Women.  And  wherefore?  Because — 
we  gather  from  her  argument— it  means 
loss  of  money,  time,  and,  above  all 
things,'  strength.  A  highly  educated 
woman,  we  are  told,  is  incapacitated 
for  her  natural  functions.  She  is  a 
woman  destroyed,  a  man  not  made. 
All  ^er  finer  and  mora  valuable  attri- 
butes are  blurred.  She  is  unsatisfying 
as  a  companion,  worthless  as  a  wife, 
incapable  as  a  mother.  A  girl's  physi- 
cal strength  can  never  carry  her  bravely 
through  the  arduous  strangle  for 
honors,  degrees,  and  prof  essorsmps,  and 


THE  LOWER  EDUCATION  OP  WOMEN. 


land  her  safely  at  the  other  side. 
Mental  success  must  be  obtained  at 
the  loss  of  physical  powers.  A  girl  is 
weaker,  physically,  mentally,  morally, 
than  a  man;  therefore  she  must  take 
the  lowest  seat. 

Of  course  the  actual  facts  as  to  tlie 
relative  numbers  of  boys  and  girls  wlio 
fail  from  over-pressure  in  brain  work 
havo  been  already  erroneously  stated  by 
a  man,  and  ably  proved  to  be  so  by  a 
woman.  That  part  of  the  argument 
is  finished.  Our  attention  is  now 
obtrusively  drawn  to  a  lower  field. 
We  would  fain  have  passed  over  the 
ignoble  theme,  but  we  are  called  upon 
to  face  the  facts  of  the  disastrous  system 
of  education  which  has  till  lately  pre- 
vailed. We  are  told  a  woman's  hignest 
aim  is  to  be  a  good  animal.  Undoubt- 
edly to  be  a  good  animal  is  one  of  the 
requisites  of  successful  living.  But  is 
it  life  altogether?  Without  infringing 
on  man's  royal  prerogative,  have 
women  not  a  right  to  live — to  live  as 
beings  answerable  for  their  all?  Our 
opponent  says,  and  others  have  said 
before  her,  ''There  is  one  sphere  for 
woman's  thought  and  work  and 
action. ''  But  wnen  we  come  to  inquire 
what  it  is,  it  appears  that  the  one 
sphere  is  that  of  wife,  mother,  and 
household  drudge.  Perhaps  these  Pro- 
fessors of  the  Lower  System  of  Educa- 
tion know  of  some  sphere  for  women's 
souls.  If  so,  their  discreet  silence  is 
to  be  commended.  We  might  have 
supposed  that  the  domestic  sphere  did 
not  include  all  the  thought  of  which 
even  a  woman  is  capable.  But  no; 
there  is  a  sharp  line  drawn;  so  far  can 
they  advance,  but  here  they  must  stop. 
"No  further,"  say  the  new  King  Can- 
utes. We  ask:  is  this  compatible  with 
human  nature?  Is  there  any  point  at 
which  humanity  can  stand  still,  intellec- 
tually, socially,  mentally,  morally?  No; 
we  progress  or  retrograde.  Toward  what 
shall  we  move  ?  is  the  only  question. 


Now  the  progress  of  the  Lower 
System  of  Education  does  not  seem  to 
tend  toward  improvement.  The  aim 
seems  to  be  to  te^ch  women  to  suit 
themselves  to  others'  requirements, 
because  their  well-being  depends  on 
others'  approval.  A  woman's  laudable 
ambition,  say  this  school  of  philoso- 
phers, is  first  to  become  a  wife,  forget- 
ting that  the  desire  to  become  a  wife  does 
not  necessarily  include  the  desire  to  be- 
come a  good  wife.  The  direct  road  to 
become  a  wife  is  not  by  the  development 
of  the  intellect,  but  by  the  development 
of  certain  feminine  qualities,  bad  and 
good.  A  girl  is  to  cultivate  her  love 
o|  dress,  her  taste  for  frivolities,  her 
desire  to  please.  Her  life  must  embody 
soft  pleasure,  that  she  may  be  the 
embodiment  of  it  to  a  sterner  com- 
panion. What  does  a  feminine  life 
imply  in  these  people's  mouths? 
Vanity,  ease,  luxury,  dissipation  to  the 
prescribed  amount;  lack  of  method, 
disrespect  of  time,  carelessness  of  every- 
thing. Little  failings  incidental  to 
those  of  the  weaker  sex  are  to  be  con- 
doned, and  little  weaknesses  made 
greater;  for  by  their  weakness  they 
shall  rule.  "Haphazard,  aimless,  help- 
less,, women's  lives  must  be;  for  their 
help  comes  from  without.  They  are 
not  strong  enough,  poor  things,  to 
fight  life's  battle.  They  must  find 
some  one  to  fight  it  for  them.  But 
does  their  taste  for  amusement  and 
frivolities  always  stop  when  they  have 
gained  the  husband?  Is  the  desire  for 
admiration,  sometimes  grown  into  a 
craving,  always  satisfied  in  the  hum- 
drum  domestic  career  for  which  the 
Professors  of  the  Lower  System  are  so 
anxious  that  girls  should  be  carefully 
prepared  ?  Have  these  women  any  sen- 
ous  thoughts  and  worthy  studies  to  fall 
back  upon  when  they  are  once 
"settled?"  They  know  nothing  of  all 
jthat.  They  were  only  taught  to  win 
men's  admiration^  to  gratify  their  own 


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dt  ^ircii.  ^  Why  should  marriage  change 
tin- 111?  There  is  no  terminus  in  tne 
eel  u  cut  ion  of  human  character;  there 
are  only  stations.     • 

\\q  have  read,  too,  the  ardent  phil- 
ippics on  energies  strained  and  frames 
exliausted  by  mental  work:  but 
although  an  equal  number  of  constitu- 
tions are  ruined  by  physical  exertioR 
there  is  no  war  cry  raised  because  of 
that.  Where  are  the  lamentations 
about  over-danced  girls,  over-dressed 
girls,  over-driven  girls,  over-dissipated 
girls?  What  of  the  weary  dinners,  the 
over-heated  theaters,  the  glaring  ball- 
rooms? What  of  mornings  begun  at 
mid-day,  of  afternoons  harassed  witj^ 
the  desire  of  getting  through  in  one 
day  a  week's  social  duty,  of  days  spent 
in  racketing  railway  traveling  for  two 
days'  giddy  visit  to  a  fashionable  house? 
Is  this  the  life  that  will  make  strong 
women  to  be  the  mothers  of  a  giant 
race? 

Putting  aside  the  facts  that  women 
desire  some  happiness  of  their,  own, 
and  that  they  prefer  to  find  it  them- 
selves without  having  arbitrary  rules 
laid  down  for  them;  putting  aside  the 
question  whether  a  present  generation 
of  one  s'ex  is  to  be  entirely  sacrificed 
for  a  future  generation  of  the  other, 
let  us  consider  the  dicta  laid  down  for 
us  by  the  advocates  of  the  Lower 
System.  ''Women  are  made  and 
meant  to  be,  not  men,  but  mothers  of 
men. "  ' '  A  noble  wife,  a  noble  mother, 
etc."  True,  most  true;  but  what  are 
the  means  to  the  end?  Should  we  set 
out  with  the  object  of  making  a  good 
wife  or  a  good  mother  before  we  have 
considered  how  to  make  a  good  woman? 
How  do  we  get  good  human  character? 
Is  it  not  by  the  cultivation  of  all  higher 
attributes,  and  che  suppression  of  all 
lower?  Is  it  not  by  tne  development 
of  all  the  faculties,  the  increased  desire 
for  all  good?  We  are  told,  to  be  good 
wives  and  mothers,  women  must  sink 


the  race  in  the  individual,  and  crave, 
not  all  good,  but  the  good  of  husbaiul 
and  children.  And  yet  at  the  same 
time  women  are  not  to  exert  themselves, 
but  to  push  on  others  to  get  it  for  them; 
to  be,  m  fact,  the  spur  for  the  willing 
horse.  It  is  a  capital  sketch  of  the  old- 
fashioned  idea  of  a  woman;  but  we  de- 
cline to  admire  or  indorse  it.  The  in- 
dividual good — decidedly;  according  to 
one  of  our  best  ethical  schemes,  if  each 
man  is  happy,  who  shall  be  miserable  ? 
Neither  men  nor  women  are  conducing 
to  the  general  good  when  they  shut  up 
their  own  house  to  mind  their  neigh- 
bor's shop.  This  essential  for  good 
wifedom  is  also  an  essential  for  good 
womanhood.  The  individual  first: 
nations  and  races  are  formed  of  men 
and  women,  not  of  droves  of  cattle. 
We  want  good  characters.  Will  good 
characters  ever  be  formed  by  helpless, 
dependent  lives?  Do  great  individuals 
spring  from  a  cowed  and  conquered 
people?  Let  a  ruler  be  appointed  by  a 
people,  let  a  husband  bs  chosen  by  a 
woman;  but  woe  to  the  people  who 
think  they  can  live  by  the  bounty  of 
their  king,  and  that  their  own  indepen- 
dence, their  own  endeavor  are  nothing; 
and  woe  to  the  woman  who  thinks  of 
her  husband  likewise.  Look  at  the 
inmates  of  the  workhouse,  the  paupers 
who  cringe  and  fawn.  What  effect  has 
that  depen  dence  on  character  ?  Yet  the 
noble  wife  is  to  spring  from  a  training 
not  very  different.  All  her  life  long 
she  has  never  tasted  the  bread  of  inde- 
pendence. She  waits  whiuingly  for 
others  to  provide  all  that  she  requires, 
and  hangs  her  whole  weight  upon  some 
one  man,  from  necessity,  not  choice. 
Why  does  a  man's  opinion  immediately 
sug^gest  a  broad,  well-balanced  view, 
while  the  term  ''feminine"  implies  in 
most  cases  something  weak  and  con- 
temptible? Does  it  mean  that  man's 
vices  are  noble,  and  woman's  virtues, 
faults?    No,  it  means  that  a  man  has 


THE  LOWER  EDUCATION  OP  WOMEN. 


371 


been  trained  and  educated  by  the 
struggle  of  life.  Eacii  generation  of 
men  starts  at  a  higher  stage  of  develop- 
inent  than  the  l^t;  while  women,  so 
far  as  their  minds  and  characters  go, 
have  been  left  uncultured,  and  in  the 
general  affairs  of  life  they  have  made 
no  progress  worth  speaking  of. 

But  in  spite  of  this  advance,  we  say 
— nay,  rather  in  consequence  of  it, 
mon  have  by  no  means  outgrown  such 
failings  as  tyranny  and  a  desire  for 
domination.  And  in  spite  of  the  rosy 
views  of  men  to  be  found  in  the  article 
in  question,  we  are  afraid  it  is  not  quite 
old-fashioned  to  suppose  that  men  still 
wish  to  make  women  dependent  upon 
them  and  subject  to  their  wishes. 
This  is  natural  enough.  The  affairs  of 
the  world  are  carried  on  by  self-reliance 
and  love  of  power.  These  qualities  are 
kept  in  check  in  the  sphere  that  has 
developed  them;  but  at  nome,  through 
want  of  independence  and  self-reliance 
in  woman,  they  have  become  things 
with  even  uglier  names.  On  the  other 
hand,  we  are  told,  women  are  puffed 
up  with  inordinate  vanity,  their  little 
knowledge  appears  to  them  the  height 
of  wisdom,  for  their  unreasonableness 
has  no  experience  but  a  domestic  one 
to  temper  it.  They  think  they  can 
rule  and  decide  in  every  sphere  because 
they  are  quite  aware  that  in  the  one 
sphere  they  are  far  more  experienced 
than  men.  But  are  these  the  faults  of 
Higher  Education?  Who  would  select 
as  bis  general  adviser  a  man  who  knew 
only  one  sphere  of  life?  How  can 
women  on  such  a  system  be  ever  the 
useful  companions  to  men  whom  our 
adversaries  so  much  admire?  ** Wom- 
en,'' say  they,  "do  not  desire  emanci- 
pation. "  It  is  true.  They  have  never 
Deen  slaves.  What  they  do  desire  is 
education;  education  that  will  enable 
them  to  find  happiness  within  them- 
selves; that  will  give  them  glad  liours, 
bright  dreams,  and  noble  ambitions. 


under  whatever  roof  they  may  call 
their  home.  They  desire  intellectual 
preparation  for  intellectual  intercourse 
— if  needs*  be,  stimulated  by  competi- 
tion. But  they  do  not  intend  because 
of  this  to  give  up  all  claim  to  the  happy 
life  ordained  for  them  as  companions 
to  men.  On  the  contrary,  they  wish 
to  become  better  fitted  for  that  life 
than  they  are  at  present.  They  wish 
to  enable  themselves  to  enter  into  all 
men's  views  and  thoughts.  They  wish 
to  live  with  them  as  rational  beings, 
as  classmates  in  the  school  of  life, 
though  one  may  perhaps  be  on  the 
higher,  the  other  on  the  lower,  form. 
This  is  better  than  that  men  and 
women  should  be  foes,  forced  to  be 
allies  in  order  that  each  may  fight 
more  successfully  for  his  or  her  selfish 
interest.  It  is  better  for  a  woman  to 
look  on  all  good  men  as  her  friends — 
one  dearest  and  best  of  all — than  to 
look  on  all  men  as  foes,  to  be  battled 
with  according  to  the  rules  of  the  lists, 
in  order  that  one  may  be  out- maneuvered 
and  captured  by  a  strategy  that  it  is  a 
life's  work  to  learn  and  to  put  into 
execution.  And  men  and  women  can 
never  work  side  bv  side  unless  the 
ground,  whether  for  battle  or  for  pro- 
duction, is  the  same;  nor  can  they  be 
either  worthy  allies  or  useful  fellow- 
laborers,  unless  they  have  together 
prepared  a  plan  of  campaign,  and 
together  considered  the  work  that 
needs  doing  and  the  means  that  are 
ready  to  hand. 

Again,  say  our  opponents,  while 
women  have  been  clamoring  men  have 
been  advancing.  They  have  no  longer 
any  petty  feelings  of  jealousy.  They 
only  desire  what  is  best  for  all,  not 
what  is  best  for  men.  We  wish  we 
could  honestly  think  so.  But  it  would 
be  contrary  to  all  experience  of  human 
nature  that  men  should  not  feel  them- 
selves injured  by  finding  women  iu  the 
field  to  increase  the  competition  already 


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tclt  to  press  Tory  sorely.  Yet  in  other 
iiitittors  men  f^till  have  their  eves  half 
shut.  They  still  think  it  is  well  for  a 
woman  to  marry  for  a  subsistence,  for 
a  home,  for  a  champion,  and  not  for 
love.  So  well  that  if  appears  to  men 
to  outweigh  all  the  sacrifice.  Men 
prefer  to  be  foes  out-maneuvered  into 
matrimony  rather  than  the  best  of 
friends.  This  may  read  well  enough 
in  romances,  and  please  the  ear  in 
tinkling  rhyme.  But  how  is  it  in  fact? 
Try  this  syllogism:  Men  are  loved 
because  they  are  strong;  all  men  are 
strong;  theresore  they  may  all  be  loved. 
Or,  again:  Women  are  to  be  weak. 
Compared  to  men  they  are  to  be  as 
"moonlight  unto  suniighf  and  as 
"water  unto  wine."  But  does  real 
virtue,  not  that  of  the  glass-house  and 
conservatory  sort,  require  no  strength, 
and  are  our  "noble  wives  and  mothers" 
to  fare  no  better  in  education  or  in  life 
than  the  heroine  of  Locksley  Hall? 

There  is  one  question,  asked  in  the 
article  which  has  given  rise  to  this  pro- 
test, too  amusing  to  be  passed  over.  It 
is  asked  in  reference  to  Lady  Jane  Grey, 
who  wanders  like  a  ghost,  poor  crea- 
ture, through  this  controversy — not 
surely  as  a  punishment  for  a  too  vault- 
ing ambition.  Lady  Jane  Grey  is  ad- 
mitted to  have  been  a  happy,  or  at  least- 
unobjectionable,  instance  of  a  learned 
woman.  But,  adds  the  writer,  do  we 
admire  her  education  or  her  character? 
We  are  tempted  to  ask  in  reply,  What 
is  the  idea  of  education  in  the  minds  of 
the  adherents  of  the  Lower  Svstem? 
Does  not  education  form  character? 
Would  the  character  of  Lady  Jane  Grey, 
or  of  anybody  el%,  have  been  the  same 
if  the  education  had  been  different? 
Should  we  have  admired  her  character 
as  we  do  if  she  had  been  brought  up  a 
washerwoman,  or  as  maid -of -honor  to 
Queen  Catherine  de  Medici?  We  are 
striving  for  education  in  order  to  the 
better  formation  of  character.    W' e  want 


to  stay  the  riotous  growth  of  frivolous, 
worthless,  and  unhappy  women.  iM 
course,  if  women  could  be  pitcliforked 
into  life  with  all  their  finer  attributes 
and  qualities  full  grown,  we  should 
have  nothing  more  to  say.  But  we  as- 
sert that  the  attributes  and  qualities  so 
much  desired  cannot  be  obtained  for  a 
girl  by  priming  her  with  accomplish- 
ments and  just  a  sufficient  smattering 
of  knowledge  to  make  her  an  agreeable 
but  not  too  intelligent  companion  for 
men,  and  then  turning  her  loose  at  the 
age  of  eighteen,  or  before  it,  to  find  the 
particular  man  whom  in  the  wisdom  of 
Providence,  or  more  probably  by  the 
want  of  wisdom  of  her  educators,  she  is 
destined  to  accept  as  a  husband.  Edu- 
cation is  the  development  of  faculties, 
the  motive  power,  the  basis  of  character. 
When  we  want  a  musician  we  do  not 
put  a  fiddle  in  a  boy's  hand  and  tell  him 
to  work  till  he  can  play  seco7id  in  the 
orchestra,  and  at  the  same  time  take 
.lessons  in  drawing;  we  put  the  instru- 
ment in  his  hand  and  tell  him  to  do  his 
best  and  study  everything  that  will  t^nd 
to  make  him  a  good  musician.  It  is 
the  same  for  a  life-worker,  a  life-artist, 
as  surely  we  wish  a  woman  to  bel  We 
must  give  her  education,  which  is  her  in- 
strument, and  tell  her  to  do  her  best,  to 
study,  to  develop  her  faculties,  her  tal- 
ents, her  powers.  Wo  cannot  say,  at  any 
fixed  point  in  her  development:  "So  far 
is  good,  beyond  that  is  bad."  The  aim 
must  be  at  the  highest  pint,  however 
far  short  the  accomplishments  mar 
come.  We  care  for  the  woman's  char- 
acter, not  for  what  she  does — say  the 
cavilers.  Yes,  but  the  doing  makes 
the  character. 

And  what  is  the  remedy  which  the 
advocates  of  the  Lower  System,  through 
Mrs.  Lynn  Linton,  propose?  They  ad- 
mit that  there  is  a  difiTicuIty  as  to 
womeu's  employment.  How  do  they 
meet  it?  The  scheme  is  simple;  they 
condemn    women    to    mannal    labor. 


THE  LOWER  EBi:  CATION  OF  WOMEN. 


873 


They  may  be  tinkers,  tailors,  portman- 
teau-makers, or  anything  of  that  kind. 
We  gather  that  they  may  cover  toys 
with  poisonous  paint  at  2s,  a  week,  and 
yet  our  philosophers  would  not  exclude 
them  from  the  highest  society.     Noth- 
ing is  degrading  to  women  so  long  as  it 
is  not  intellectual.     Our  "noble  wives 
and  mothers"  are  not  strong  enough 
for  quiet  study  or  intellectual  excite- 
ment in  a  well-aired  lecture-room;  but 
they  may  stand  for  twelve  hours  at  a 
stretch  behind  a  counter  in  a  draughty 
and    ill-ventilated    shop.      They    may 
strain  eyes  and  injure  weary  backs  over 
sewing.     There  is  no  danger,  appar- 
ently, of  destroying  fair  young  faces,  of 
blunting  fine  feelings,  of  decreasing  vi 
till  force,  by»  such  a  profession  as  that 
of  the  theater.     Women  may  be  the 
hangers-on  of  fashion,  and  may  minis- 
ter, without  danger  to  themselves,  to  its 
shifting  whims  in  every  department. 
And  all  this  with  the  hope,  distinctly 
held  out  to  them  bv  the  article  before 
us,  that  perhaps  ii  they  make  them- 
selves very  pleasant,   "the  countesses 
and  clames  for  whom  they  devise  their 
dainty  costumes  may  even — not  treat 
them  as  intelligent  companions;  but — - 
agree  to  meet  them  on  equal  terms  at 
balls  and  dinners/'     Women  may  do 
all  this,  and  verily  they  would  have 
their  reward.     But  there  is  one  thing 
a  woman  may  not  do.     She  may  not  be 
independent.      She  may  depend  on  a 
husband,  or  upon  a  fashion  in  flowers 
or  jackets,  but  she  must  not  be  mistress 
of  her  own  destiny;  above  all,  she  muwst 
not  think. 

We  are  told  that  the  tnie  way  to  help 
women  is  to  recei'  e  working  women  in- 
to society;  and  tie  writer  marvels  why 
men  shopkeepers  ire  received,  but  not 
milliners  or  lady  shopkeepers.  The 
idea  betrays  the  essential  narrowness  of 
the  Lower  vSchoo  ,  and  the  remedy  is 
somewhat  of  a  specific.  Still,  the 
reason  why  m^n  b^ve  risen  from  the 


earth  is  not  far  to  seek.  Apart  from  the 
innate  vulgarity  which  worships  wealth, 
and  won  1(1  associate  with  its  tailor,  or 
even  its  dustman,  on  that  ground,  irre- 
spective of  naany  mental  qualifications, 
the  reason  why  men  who  have*  risen  are 
received  into  mtelligent  society  has  al- 
ways been  that,  they  have  something  to 
contribute.  Their  birth  may  be  noth- 
ing, their  education  may  be  self-ac- 
quired; but  they  have  got  something  in 
tne  struggle  of  life  which  is  valuable  to 
others.  They  become  friends  of  men 
of  genius  or  talent  because  they  have 
fitted  themselves  to  be  so.  It  was  not 
by  dependence  on  others  that  these  men 
rose;  they  may  not  have  been  educated, 
but  at  least  they  were  allowed  to  educate 
themselves.  This  is  the  liberty  which 
we  claim  for  women. 

But  this  is  a  much  larger  question 
than  a  question  of  any  "society,"  Lon- 
don or  provincial,  learned  or  frivolous. 
We  not  only  ask  that  women  may  be 
allowed  to  get  their  own  living  in  spite 
of  the  fine  feelings  of  fathers  and 
brothers.  Not  only  do  we  go  so  far  as 
to  think  a  ladv  might  be  perfectly 
happy  even  if  she  had  given  up  "soci- 
ety. There  is  a  wider  question  than 
this.  We  admire  our  sister  who  carries 
on  the  milliner's  shop  as  much  as  our 
brother  who  rises  from  the  ranks.  But 
we  object  to  the  idea  that  women's 
work  must  be  confined  to  manual  labor, 
entirely  for  the  same  reasons  as  we 
should  object  to  be  tied  to  associate 
with  none  but  self-educated  men.  Any- 
thing is  better  than  dependence  on 
others,  either  for  man  or  woman.  But 
jire  we  to  allow  our  ideal  of  womanhood 
to  be  exclusively  shaped  on  the  ideals 
of  the  workshop  and  the  counter?  Is 
the  taint  of  money-making,  uncounter- 
acted  by  ideas,  to  cover  over  and  blot 
out  all  that  is  fair  and  beautiful  in  the 
minds  of  women?  Are  the  attributes 
j  of  the  merchant  and  the  traveling 
agent  to  be  the  exclusive  models  of 


874 


THE  LIBRARY  3IAGAZINE. 


women  who  work  for  their  living?  Will 
these  employments,  better  than  intellec- 
tual ones,  fit  them  to  be  the  companions 
of  our  best  men  and  the  teachers  of  our 

.most  hopeful  children?  Is  man,  who 
devotes  nis  life  to  art,  thought,  or 
scientific  discovery,  to  be  satisfied  with 
a  wife  who  is  either  a  frivolous  society 
doll,  or  a  sweet  and  patient  drudge,  or 
a  woman  with  the  ideas  of  the  shopman 
with  whom  he  would  find  no  pleasure 
in  associating?  Are  the  great  men  who 
are  to  be  born  in  the  future,  if  only 
women  will  refrain  from  study,  to  be 
guided  by  the  remembrance  of  their 
mother's  face,  as  she  appeared  in  pow- 
der and  paint  in  some  stupid  vaudeville 
before  a  cheering  theater;  are  they  to 
gaze  admiringly  on  the  trade  gesticu- 
lation, or  to  listen  lovingly  to  tales  of 
sharp  bargains  and  skillful  adulteration? 
nomen  whose  characters  have  been 
formed  by  mechanical  labor,  unmiti- 
gated by  higher  education,  are,  accord- 
ing to  these  thinkers,  to  be  the  mothers 
of  the  Bacons  and  Goethes  of  the  future. 
They  object  to  over-pressure.  So  do 
we;  but  we  object  to  it  in  any  direction, 
and  if  in  one  direction  more  than  an- 
other it  would  be  in  the  direction  from 
which  comes  least  general  profit,  that 
of  the  mechanical  and  the  material. 
Our  fiery  leveler  would  abolish  all  grades 
of  rank  and  breeding  and  reduce  women 
to  one  dead  level  of  unintellectual  pur- 
suit. Men  would  alone  be  in  possession 
of  thought  and  knowledge,  and  would 
form  an  aristocracy  of  culture.  This 
is  rank  anarchy  and  demoralization. 
How  under  such  a  system  could  a  phil- 

.  osopher  of  the  Lowpr  System  obtain  a 
hearing  even  for  criticism  of  her  owb 
sex?  ^\  e  maintain,  on  the  contrary,  that 
the  effort  for  higher  education  is  simply 

-an  effort  to  secure  in  the  case  of  women 
what  has  always  been  the  case  with 
men.  Women's  ideals  should  be  formed 
as  men's  have  been,  by  those  who  have 
Uv§d  put  of  th^  ro$ir  of  traffic,  out  of 


the  glare  of  politics,  far  from  the  infln- 
ence  of  mobs,  away  from  the  coutarai- 
nation  of  commerce  and  the  drudgery  of 
manual  labor.     The  women  we  want  to 
form  women's  ideal  of  education  are 
women  with  calm,  well-balanced  minds 
and  hallowed  "hearts,  equal  to  men  in 
ideas  and  mental  prowess,  if  inferior  to 
them  in  mental,  because   in  physical, 
endurance,  and  perhaps  making  up  in 
spiritual  insight  for  their  lack  of  physi- 
cal strength.     This  is  the  goal  toward 
which   we   invite  all  women  to  strive 
whose  position  is  fortunate  enough  to 
enable    them  to  do  so.     Happily,  in 
spite  of  the  Lower  plan  of  Education  - 
for  women,  the  road  is  ])lain  and  the 
gates  are  already  open;  and  it  requires 
no  gift  of  prophecy  to  foreee  the  time 
when  highly  educated  women  may  be 
taught  to  study  some  stranded  philoso- 
pher of  the  Lower  System,  long  reduced 
to  a  fossilized  condition,  as  we  now  study 
the  extinct  creatures  of  the  mud  period 
of   the  earth's  history. — Helek  Mc- 
Kerlie,  in  The  Contemporary  Review, 


EUSSIAN  PETROLEU  M. 

Of  the  five  hundred  petroleum  wells 
at  Baku,  the  majority  are  situated  on 
the  Balakhani  Plateau,  eight  or  nine 
miles  to  the  north  of  the  town.  The 
latest  "spouter'^bf  Tagief's  is,  however, 
in  a  different  locality,  being  situated 
on  a  promontory  three  miles  to  the 
south  of  Bnkii.  Here  Go?podin  TagiefF 
began  boring  about  three  years  ago. 
At  first',  the  oil  was  slow  to  come,  and 
at  its  best  hnd  never  yielded  more  than 
16,000  gallons  a  day.  On  the  2:ih 
September  last,  having  touched  oil  at 
714  feet,  the  well  began  to  spout  yil 
with  extraordiiKiry  force. 

From  the  town,  the  fountain  hud 
the  appearance  of  a  colossal  pillar  <jf 
smoke,  from  the  creijt  of  whicn  cloudf 


RUSSIAN  PETROLEUM. 


H75 


of  oil-sand  detached  themselves  and 
floated  away  a  great  distance  without 
touching  the  ground.  Owing  to  the 
prevalence  of  southerly  winds,  the  oil 
was  blown  in  the  direction  of  Bailoff 
Point,  covering  hill  and  dale  with  sand 
and  petroleum,  and  drenching  the 
houses  of  Bailoff,  a  mile  and  a  half 
away.  Nothing  could  be  done  to  stop 
the  outflow.  It  seems  that  the  whole 
district  was  covered  with  oil,  the  outflow 
being  at  the  rate  of  thousands  of  tons  a 
day,  which  flTled  up  cavities,  formed  a 
lake,  and  on  the  flfth  day  began  to 
escape  into  the  sea.  The  square  in 
front  of  the  town-hall  of  Baku  was 
drenched  with  petroleum.  On  the 
eighth  day,  the  outflow  reached  the 
highest  ever  known — a  rate  of  11,000 
tons,  or  2,750,000  gallons  a  day. 
Thus,  says  Mr.  Marvin,  from  a  single 
orifice  ten  inches  wide  there  sprouted 
daily  more  oil  than  was  being  produced 
throughout  the  whole  world,  including 
therein  the  25,000  wells  of  America, 
the  thousands  of  wells  in  Galicia, 
Roumania,  Burmah,  and  other  coun- 
tries, and  the  shale-oil  distilleries  of 
Scotland  and  New  South  Wales.  By 
the  fifteenth  day,  those  in  charge  had 
got  the  outflow  so  far  under  control  as 
to  restrict  it  to  250,000  gallons  a  day. 
It  was  certainly  a  misfortune  that  of 
the  10,000  gallons  of  oil  ejected  from 
TagieflP's  well,  most  of  it  was  at  first  lost 
for  want  of  storage  accommodation. 

The  yield  of  oil  at  Baku  is  thus 
much  ahead  of  the  greatest  product  of 
the  American  wells.  Noble  Brothers' 
No.  18  Well  has  yielded,  from  a  depth 
of  1721  feet,  nearly  30,000,000  gallons 
of  oil;  and  thoir  No.  9  Well , from  a  depth 
of  642  feet,  40,1.00,000  gallons.  Some  of 
these  wells  arc  kept  closed  while  oil  is 
being  sold  at  so  cheap  a  rate.  Against 
the  assertion  that  the  product  of  these 
wells  may  dry  up  and  will  not  last  very 
lonff,  Mr.  Mjirvin  says  that  there  is 
ample   historical   evidence  that  petro- 


leum has  been  flowing  from  the  Apshe- 
ron peninsula  for  2500  years,  and  thtit 
there  seems  more  likelihood  of  the 
American  wells  drying  up  than  those 
of  Baku.  .  Besides,  the  petroleum 
region  of  the  Black  Sea  has  scarcely 
been  touched,  and  there  the  oil  seems 
as  plentiful  as  in  America. 
.  Owing  to  this  prodigious  outflow 
without  a  ready  market,  oil  was  selling 
there,  in  the  beginning  of  October  last, 
at  one  penny  per  sixteen  gallons.  The 
best  refined  petroleum  or  lamp-oil  is 
sold  at  three  farthings  a  gallon.  The 
production  of  crude  petroleum  last  year 
exceeded  420,000,000  gallons;  there  are 
now  120  firms  with  oil  refineries  at 
Baku,  which  last  year  turned  out  120,- 
000,000  gallons  of  refined  petroleum. 
The  production  in  1878  was  only  1,250,- 
000  gallons.  The  bulk  system  of  trans- 
port, as  distinffuished  from  carryiug  in 
barrels,  first  adopted  in  1879,  has  had  a 
tendency  to  revolutionize  the  trade,  and 
now  there  are  100  oil  steamers  on  the 
Caspian.  Some  of  these  steamers  have 
a  capacity  of  carrying  800  tons  of  oil 
each  trip. 

After  extracting  30  per  cent,  of 
lamp-oil,  and  allowing  10  jper  cent,  for 
waste  and  dregs,  the  remaining  60  per 
cent.,  out  of  every  hundred  gallons,  is 
used  for  lubricating  and  other  purposes. 
Large  quantities  are  imported  by  certain 
firms  in  London,  for  the  manufacture 
of  lubricating  oils.  Although  thus 
exported,  the  supply  of  this  waste  or 
residue  is  so  ffreat  that  it  has  become 
the  principal  niel  in  South-east  Russia. 
Steamers  purchase  it  at  Baku  at  four- 
pence  a  ton,  to  be  used  as  fuel.  When 
sent  by  rail  to  Batoum,  the  price  rises 
as  high  as  one  pound  per  ton,  which  is 
still  cheaper  than  English  coal.  More 
than  250  tank  ^and  many  paasenper 
steamers  and  locomotives  now  use  tliis 
waste  oil  as  fuel  in  plac^e  of  coal.  A 
ton  of  liquid  fuel  is  Sni  1  lo  do  the  work 
of  »wo  or  three  tons  ut*  coal;  the  chief 


875 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


adrantage  of  its  use  consists  in  the  fact 
that  it  can  be  turned  off  and  on  like 
gas;  it  is  clean,  and  takes  up  very  little 
Dunker-space,  a  matter  of  great  impor- 
tance to  steamers  traveling  to  long 
distances.  The  Black  Sea 'Steam  Nav- 
igation Company,  owning  76  steamers, 
intend  to  commence  using  this  oil- 
refuse. 

The  chief  outlets  for  the  transport 
of  Baku  oil  at  present  are  by  the  Volga 
and  the  Transcaucasian  Railway.  A 
concession  has  been  granted  by  the 
Russian  government  for  laying  down 
a  petroleum  pipe  600  miles  long  for  the 
carrying  of  the  oil  from  Baku  to  a  point 
on  tne  Black  Sea.  The  pipe  must  be 
large  enough  to  carry  160,000,000  of 
gallons  of  oil  a  year;  and  it  is  expected 
that  three  years  will  elapse  before  it  is 
in  working  order.  Meantime,  the 
North  Caucasus  Railway  will  be  com- 
plete in  1887,  and  it  is  expected  that  it 
will  convey  at  least  100,000,000  gallons 
of  oil  to  the  port  of  Novorossisk,  on 
the  Black  Sea.  Thence  it  can  be 
shipped  in  tank  steamers  to  Europe. 

A  huge  iron  reservoir  is  being  built 
at  a  remote  spot  in  the  outer  harbor  of 
Amsterdam  for  the  storage  of  petro- 
leum. It  will  be  nearly  33  feet  in 
diameter,  and  of  the  same  depth,  and 
is  calculated  to  hold  nearly  1,740,000 
gallons.  The  petroleum  will  be  brought 
direct  from  Russia  in  these  tank  steam- 
ers, and  will  be  pumped  out  at  Amster- 
dam into  the  tanks,  thus  saving  the 
expense  of  filling  and  emptying  casks, 
besides  diminishing*  the  risks  of 
accidents. 

Mr.  Marvin  is  of  opinion  that  the 
world  is  consuming  more  oil  yearly, 
and  he  calculates  the  daily  consumption 
at  2,000,000  gallons.  Along  with  the 
cheapening  of  the  oil  have  also  come 
great  imi)ovements  in  the  make  of 
lamps,  such  as  the  Defries  Safety-lani]), 
in  which  the  receptacle  for  the  oil  is 
formed  of  brass.    Mr.  Marvin  makes 


the  sensible  suggestion,  that  as  Russia 
is  flooding  the  surrounding  countriefi 
with  oil,  our  manufacturers  might  sup- 
ply the  ^outh-east  of  Europe  with 
lamps,  and  thousands  of  cooking  and 
warming  stoves.  It  appears  that  there 
is  not  a  country  in  Europe  to  which 
Baku  oil  is  not  now  shipped,  and  the 
figures  quoted  show  that  American  pe- 
troleum is  being  'driven  from  the  Black 
Sea  and  the  Mediterranean.  Mr.  Mar- 
vin is  of  opinion  that  the  shale-^il  in- 
dustry of  Scotland  alrea^  shows  signs 
of  yielding  to  the  competition  of  Amer- 
ica, ''and  unless  special  circumstances 
should  arise,  must  eventuallv  be  crushed 
by  the  rivalry  of  Russian  petroleum, 
when  imported  in  bulk." — Chambers's 
Journal, 


VOCAL     MUSIC     IN     PUBLIC 
SCHOOL  INSTRUCTION. 

I  hope  to  see  every  state  in  the 
Union,  sooner  or  later,  place  the  study 
of  vocal  music  on  the  same  place  witn 
the  other  elementary  branches,  i.  «., 
make  its  introduction  and  maintenance 
compulsory  upon  every  school  board 
througl lOut  the  state.  This  proposition 
would  have  the  ultimate  approval  of 
every  man,  woman  and  child,  who  had 
been  in  any  way,  directly  or  indirectly, 
and  without  prejudice,  cognizant  of  the 
successful  results  attending  the  system- 
atic study  of  vocal  music  in  the  publio 
schools  of  the  United  States.  The 
earnestness  of  teachers,  both  special 
and  regular,  in  this  direction,  cannot 
be  lightly  passed  bv;  it  is  soul-born, 
and  as  such  is  deserving. 

But  what  is  our  experience?  For  I 
am  persuaded  that  my  experience  of 
the  last  fifteen  years  is  but  a  comple- 
ment of  that  of  many  others.  Bright- 
ened, as  it  always  may  be,  in  the  pfeas- 
ant  intercourse  of  teacher  and  clasSy  it 


VOCAL  MUSIC  IN  PUBLIC  SCHOOL  INSTRUCTION. 


37> 


is,  on  the  other  hand,  too  frequently 
clouded  by  the  willful  persistency  of 
those  who  block  the  wheels  of  progress, 
themselves  ignorant  of  music,  i)erhaps, 
even  in  its  lowest  forms;  susceptible  in 
no  way  to  its  kindly  influence;  unable 
to  perceive  in  the  remotest  degree  its 
bearing  upon  the  disposition  and  the 
entire  nature  of  the  child,  in  creating 
within  its  breast  a  love  for  the  beautiful 
and  the  good,  in  preference  to  that 
which  is  ignoble  and  bad;  shutting 
their  eyes  in  stubborn  blindness  to 
everj'thing  but  their  own  egotism,  and 
their  worship  of  that  monstrous  crudity 
— the  theory  of  bread-and-butter 
studies;  antagonistic  to  all  else  beyond 
the  limits  of  the  "three  R's  "  and 
fighting  to  the  bitter  end  every  sug- 
gested expenditure  f6v  anything 
beyond.  Such  clouds  are  without 
doubt  constantly  within  the  horizon  of 
every  school  committee-man's  experi- 
ence; they  darken  the  days  of  many 
teachers  in  special  brunches,  and  in  the 
study  of  vocal  music  in  particular;  the 
chief  cause  being  the  fact  that  this 
study  is  optional  with  city  or  town,  a 
vulnerable  point. 

A  school  committee-man  who  may 
favor  this  study,  however  loyal  to  his 
convictions,  has  no  power  behind  him, 
as  he  has  in  the  case  of  the  prescribed 
branches;  his  compeers  also  know  the 
weakness  of  his  position,  and  just  so 
long  as  his  adherents  are  in  the  minor- 
ity, it  is  only  by  courtesy,  as  a  nile, 
that  any  progress  is  made.  I  do  not 
think  that  I  am  stating  the  case  too 
strongly,  for  I  know  of  instances  where 
the  study  has  been  dropped  from  tlie 
course  when  its  advocates,  wearied  in 
their  2)ersistent  but  futile  endeavors, 
at  last  gave  way  in  despair.  I  believe 
firmly  that  in  all  cases  where  the  study 
has  been  discontinued  it  is  because  of 
this  antagonism,  which  has  no  basis  of 
truth  in  its  assaults,  and  not  because 
of  an  nnsnccessfal  result  of  it;3  trial. 

*    »         »  9  m   m 


This  is  why  I  wish,  and  I  have  every 
reason  to  believe  that  every  friend  of 
this  study  would  w^ish,  to  have  it  taken 
from  the  list  of  optional  studies  and 
placed  upon  an  equal  footing  with 
tJiose  in  the  required  course.  It  would 
relieve  the  local  committee-man  of  a 
grave  responsibility,  in  his  own  eyes  at 
least  (an  honest  conviction,  doubtless, 
but  tliat  has  sent  many  an  unfortunate 
to  the  stake  before  now),  and  it  would 
place  this  study  where  it  rightfully 
belongs.  It  would  then  become  the 
duty  of  the  local  committee  to  so 
perfect  this  study  as  to  graduate  scholars 
who  could  teach  singing  In  common 
with  the  other  branches,  and  thus 
finally  reduce  the  cost  of  supervision 
to  a  minimum. 

In  my  own  schools  (at  Chelsea,  Mass.) 
out  of  72  teachers  in  the  primary  and 
grammar  schools,  67  possess  the  ability 
requisite  to  drill  their  pupils  daily  in 
the  singing  exercises  assigned;  17  out 
of  the  G7  have  been  pupils  in  the  schools 
under  my  direction;  the  other  50,  most 
of  whom  were  teachers  at  the  time  I 
took  the  schools  sixteen  years  ago,  have 
learned  the  elements  of  music  as  I  have 
taught  them  to  their  classes;  knowing 
nothing  of  the  art  (with  one  or  two 
exceptions)  when  they  began,  they  are 
now  capable  teachers  in  that  direction. 
This  has  enabled  me  hj  degrees  to  • 
reduce  my  visits  in  the  primary  schools 
from  twice  a  week  to  once  in  three 
weeks,  ard  in  the  lower  grades  of 
grammar  schools  to  once  in  two  weeks; 
so  that  whore  our  city  formerly' 
employed  and  paid  me  for  the  entire 
school  session,  four  whole  and  two 
half  days,  I  am  now  engaged  for  only 
five  half  days,  with  a  corresponding 
reduction  in  salary.  It  is  probably 
only  a  question  of  time  as  to  a  still 
further  reduction;  in  fact,  it  is  certain, 
if  the  option  is  withdrawn  by  the  state. 
I  am  not  writing  this  paper  directly  in 
my  own  interest^  bvit  in  the  iut^est  of 


878 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


the  future  men  and  women  of  our 
Kepublic;  for  I  truly  believe  that  with 
a  realization  of  my  desires  and  the 
desires  of  all  who  agree  with  me  in  the 
direction  named,  will  come  the  dawning 
of  a  brighter  era  in  the  social  and 
political  relations  of  our  states,  as 
within  and  among  themselves.  I  can- 
not better  explain  myself  here  than  by 
quoting  from  the  report  (1883)  of  our 
music  committee. 

*  'Let  it  l)e  understood  that  muRic  is  not  taught 
in  our  schools  for  what  it  may  bring  to  the 
pupil  in  mere  temporal  advancement,  thout^h, 
whatever  may  be  gained  in  this  direction, 
should  the  scholar  tinally  make  music  a  pro- 
fession, is  to  his  advantage.  The  training  of 
the  voice  and  the  ear,  and  the  formation  of  a 
correct  musical  tuste  through  the  medium  of 
pure  models  of  musical  composition  adapted 
m  all  grades  of  school  work  to  the  ability  of 
the  young  singer,  is  the  underlying  principle 
of  this  noble  endeavor,  and  every  child  is 
made  the  better  for  participating  in  the  musi- 
cal exercise  with  a  conscious  ability.  Its 
spiritual  nature  is  broadened  and  deepened  un- 
consciously, and  thus  made  more  painfully  sen- 
sitive to  the  assaults  of  evil,  and  much  more  ready 
to  welcome  the  benign  influences  for  good,  with 
which  our  civilized  world  is  blessed." 

The  spirit  of  the  last  sentence  of  this 
quotation  is  the  key-note  of  this  whole 
paper;  it  is  truly  tne  spirit  in  which  1 
write. — George  A.  Veazie,  Jr.,  in 
Circulars  of  the  U.  S.  Bureau  of  Edu- 
cation. 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 

Matthew  Arnold  upon  General  Grant. 
— In  Murray's  Magazine  Mr.  Matthew  Ar- 
nold undertakes  to  set  forth  his  ideas  con- 
cerning General  Grant: — 

*'I  have  he.ird  it  said,  I  know  not  with 
what  degree  of  truth,  that  while  the  sale  in 
America  of  Geneial  Grant's  Personal  Memoirs 
has  produced  300,000  dollars  for  tlie  Ix'nefil 
of  his  widow  and  familv,  there  have  not  in 
JEngland  been  sold  of  the  book  300  copies. 
Certainly  the  book  has  had  no  wide  circula- 
tion here,  it  has  not  been  much  read  ur  much 
'^''•loussed.  There  are  obvious  reasons  for 
The  book  relates  in  great  det^)  the 


military  history  of  the  American  Civil  War. 
so  far  as  Grant  bore  part  in  it:  such  u  hist<jry 
cannot  possibly  have  for  other  nations  the 
interest  which  it  has  for  the  Uniteil  8iatei^ 
tlienaselves.  For  the  general  rsader,  outside  of 
America,  It  certainly  cannot;  as  to  the  value 
and  importance  of  the  history  to  tlie  inilitar}'^ 
specialist,  that  is  a  question  on  ivliich  I  hear 
very  conflicting  opinions  expressed,  and  one 
on  which  1  myself  can  have,  of  course,  no 
opinio.!  to  offer.  So  far  as  the  general  Euro- 
pean reader  might  still  be  attracted  to  such  a 
history,  in  spite  of  its  military  details,  for  the 
sake  of  the  importance  of  the  issues  at  stake 
and  of  the  personages  enga^,  we  in  Europe 
have,  it  cannot  Iks  denied,  m  appnjaclting  an 
American  recital  of  the  deeds  of  'the  greatest 
nation  uiwn  eartli,'  some  apprehent-ion  and 
mistnist  to  get  over.  We  nmy  be  pardoned 
for  doubting  whether  we  shall  in  the  recital 
find  measure,  whether  we  shall  find  sobriety. 
Then,  too.  General  Grant,  the  centi*al  figure 
of  these  Memoirs,  is  not  to  the  English  im* 
agination  the  hero  of  the  American  Civil  War; 
the  hero  is  Lee,  and  of  Lee  the  Memoirs  idi 
us  little.  Moreover  General  Grant,  when  he 
was  iu  England,  did  not  himself  personally 
interest  people  much.  Later  he  fell  iu  Am- 
erica into  the  hands  of  financing  speciilators, 
and  his  embarrassments,  though  the}'  excited 
sorrow  and  compassion,  did  not  at  all  present 
themselves  to  us  as  those  of  '*a  good  roan 
struggling  with  adversity."  For  all  these 
reasons,  then,  the  Personal  Metnoirs  have  in 
England  been  received  with  coldness  and  in- 
difl'erenco. 

*'I,  too,  bad  seeti  General  Grant  in  Eng- 
land, and  did  not  fiud  him  interesting.  If  I 
said  the  truth,  I  should  say  thai  I  thought 
him  ordinary -looking,  dull  and  silent.  An 
expression  of  gentleness  and  even  sweetness 
in  the  eyes,  which  the  portraits  in  the  Mem- 
oirs show,  escaped  me.  A  strong,  resolute, 
business-like  man.  who  by  possession  of  un- 
limited resources  in  men  and  money,  and  by 
the  unsparing  use  of  them,  had  been  ens  hied 
to  wear  down  and  exhaust  the  strength  of  the 
South,  this  was  what  I  supposed  Grant  to  be, 
this  and  little  more. 

"Some  documents  published  by  General 
Badeau  in  the  American  newspapers  first 
attracted  my  serious  attention  to  Gr  nt. 
Among  those  documents  was  a  Utter  f*^  •'» 
him  which  showed  qualities  for  which  i"  '-i*^ 
rapid  and  uncharitAble  view  which  our  cur- 
sory judgments  of  men  so  often  take,  I  hwl 
by  no  menns  ffiven  him  rredif.  It  was  tlie 
letter  of  a  man  with  the  vfrti  o.  rare  every- 
where, but  more  rare  in  America. perhaps,  tlmn 
anywhere  else,  the  virtue  of  l>eing  able  to 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 


879 


confront  and  resist  popular  clamor,  the  cimum 
ard&r  nratajuhentium.  Public  opiuiou  seem- 
ed in  favor  of  a  hard  and  insolent  course,  the 
authorities  seemed  putting  pressure  up|<)n 
Grant  to  make  him  follow  it.  He  resisted  with 
firmness  and  dignity.  After  reading  that  let- 
ter 1  turned  to  Greneral  Grant's  Personal 
Metnoii'M,  then  just  published.  This  man,  I 
said  to  myself,  deserves  respect  and  attention; 
and  I  read  the  two  bulky  volumes  through. 

**I  found  shown  in  them  a  man,  strong, 
resolute  and  businesslike,  as  Grant  had  ap- 
peared to  me  when  I  first  saw  him ;  a  man 
with  no  magical  personality,  touched  by  no 
divine  light  and  giving  out  none.  I  found  a 
language  all  astray  in  \\s  use  of  mU  and  shall, 
should  and  would,  an  English  employing  the 
verb  to  conscript  and  the  participle  conscript- 
ing, and  speaking  in  a  dispatch  to  the  Secre- 
tary of  War  of  having  ba^y  whipped  the  en- 
emy; an  English  without  charm  and  without 
high  breeding.  But  at  the  same  time  I  found 
a  man  of  sterling  good -sense  as  well  as  of  the 
firmest  resolution;  a  man,  withal,  humane, 
simple,  motlest;  from  all  restless  self -con- 
sciousness and  desire  for  display  perfectly 
free;  never  boastful  where  he  himself  was 
concerned,  and  where  his  natiou  was  con- 
cerned seldom  boastful,  boastful  only  in  cir- 
cumstances where  nothing  but  high  genius 
or  high  training,  I  suppose,  can  save  an  Am- 
erican from  being  boastful.  I  found  a  lan- 
^ai^  straightforward,  nervous,  and  possess- 
ing in  general  the  high  merit  of  saying  clearly 
in  the  fewest  possible  words  what  had  to  be 
said,  and  saying  it  frequently,  with  shrewd 
and  unexpected  turns  of  expression.  The 
Memoirs  renewed  and  completed  the  im])ress- 
ions  which  the  letter  given  by  General  Badeau 
had  made  upon  me.  And  now  I  want  to  en- 
able Grant  and  his  Memoirs  as  far  as  possible 
to -speak  for  themselves  to  the  English  public, 
which  knows  them,  I  believe,  as  imperfectly 
as  a  few  months  ago  myself  did.     .     .     . 

** His  own  account  of  his  first  experience  as  a 
Commander  is  very  characteristic  of  him: 

**  'My  eensations  ap  wc  approached  what  T  mppopcd 
might  t»e  a  field  of  battle,  wore  anything  but  agreeable. 
I  had  been  m  all  the  enijac;enieiits  in  Mexico  that  it 
was  poMible  tor  one  person  to  be  in:  but  not  in  com- 
mami.  If  some  one  elpe  had  been  colonel,  and  1  had 
been  lieulenant-rolonel,  1  do  not  think  I  would  have 
felt  any  trepiflntion.  Before  we  were  prepared  to 
cmM  the  Mi««1«!»inpi  River  at  Qnln^y,  my  anxiety  was 
Klievcd;  for  the  men  of  the  bepleped  regiment  came 
straggling  into  the  town.  I  nm  inclined  to  think  both 
Bides  got  frightened  and  ran  away.' 

"Now,  however,  he  was  started;  and  from 
this  time  \mtil  he  rercivod  Tif'e's  surrender  at 
A:^pomattox  Court  House,  four  years  later, 
he  was  always  the  same  strong;  man,  showing 


the  same  valuable  qualities.  He  had  not  the 
pathos  and  dignity  of  Lee,  his  power  of  cap- 
tivating the  admiring  interest,  almost  the  ad- 
miring affection,  of  his  profession  and  of  the 
world.  He  had  not  the  fire,  the  celerity,  the 
genial  cordiality  of  Sherman,  whose  {ierson 
and  manner  emitted  a  ra/y  (to  adopt,  with  a 
very  slight  change.  Lamb's  well-known 
lines)— 

*aray 

Whichk  struck  a  cheer  upon  the  day, 
A  cheer  which  would  not  go  away—' 

Grant  had  not  these.  But  he  certainly  had 
a  good  deal  of  the  character  and  qualities 
which  we  so  justly  respect  in  the  Duke  of 
Wellington.  Wholly  free  from  show,  parade, 
and  ]X)mposity;  sensible  and  sagacious ; 
scanning  closely  the  situation,  seeing  thin^ 
as  they  actually  were,  then  making  up  his 
mind  as  to  the  right  thing  to  be  done  under 
the  circumstances,  and  doing  it;  never  flur- 
ried, never  vacillating,  but  also  not  stubborn, 
able  to  reconsider  and  change  his  plans, 
a  man  of  resource;  when,  however,  he  had 
really  fixed  on  the  \)esX  course  to  take,  the 
right  nail  to  drive,  resolutely  and  tenaciously 
persevering,  driving  the  nail  hard  home — 
Grant  was  all  this,  and  surely  in  all  this  he 
resembles  the  Duke  of  Wellington. ' ' 

As  SOMEBODY  SAYS. — "In  a  little  book  called 
WeUerisms,*'  says  Mr.  Andrew  Lang,  in  Long- 
man* s  Magazine,  "the  question  has  been  started, 
What  is  the  origin  of  tliose  facetious  remarks 
of  Sam's  which  always  mt  lude  the  expression, 
'aj9* — some  one  or  other— 'said*?  '  "Plenty 
to  get  and  little  to  do,"  'as  the  soldier  said 
when  he  was  sentenced  to  be  flogged.  As  ths 
judge  remarked  'What  the  sokiier  said  is  not 
evidence . '  But  it  is  in  terestin g  to  observe  that 
these  facetious  formvla  are  common  on  the 
Continent  as  well  as  in  England,  and  make 
part  of  the  traditional  wisdom  of  the  people. 
In  French  they  are  called  Les  comme  dtts.  In 
Germany  M.  E.  Holfer  has  published  a  collec- 
tion of  them  {Wie  das  Volk  sryricht.)  Here 
are  some  French  examples:  *  Vive  la  lumih'e, 
comme  dit  Vaveitple.*  This  answers  to  'I  see, 
I  see,'  said  the  blind  man.  '  "You're  a  liar," 
said  the  dumby'— a  refined  piece  of  Scotch 
popular  humor.  Here  is  one  from  George 
gand: — *Je  vais  m>e  res^imer,  comme  dit  M.  le 
cure  de  Ouzion  an  commencement  de  tous  ses 
sermons.*  Those  are  Dutch  examples:—'! 
know  what  I  think,'  as  tbe  madman  said  to 
his  keeper.  'Nobody  to  blame,'  as  the  man 
said  when  he  threw  his  wife  downstair^ 
'Excuse  me  if  there  is  any  error, '  as  the  soldi' 


880 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


said  when  be  shot  his  colonel.  Samuel 
Weller's  comtiie  diis  are  bettor  than  these  fri- 
volous foreign  endeavors." 

Thouoitt READnto— In  The Niniieenth  Century^ Mr. 
Stuart  C.  Camberland,  who  incidentally  mentions  that 
for  eome  time  |>a8t  be  hae  virtually  given  up  the 
practice  of  ''thought-reading,"  because  bis  thoughts 
and  his  time  were  occupied  in  other  matters,  gives 
numerous  iustances  of  trials  which  he  had  made  as  a 
'thought-reader ;"  persons  of  the  highest  i>tation  and 
character  being  not  nnfrequently  the  willing  tiiibjects 
of  bis  endeavors.  The  following  is  among  the  most 
curious  of  these  experiences  :— 

"When  the  'subject'  is  a  good  one,  the  operator  is 
enabled  not  only  to  give  a  greater  precision  but  oft«n 
a  much  higher  finish  to  his  experiments,  leaving  out 
in  his  execution  of  them  not  a  single  detail  which  has 
had  place  in  the  'subjectV  thoughts.  This  was  notably 
the  case  in  my  drawing  illustration  with  his  Royal 
Highness  the  Prince  of  Wales,  whlr^h  took  place 
about  two  and  a  half  years  ago  w'u'u  1  was  on  a  visit 
to  Baron  Ferdinand  Rothschild  at  Waddesdon.  After 
dinner  one  night,  his  Kr)\  al  Highness  was  pleased  to 
offer  himself  as  a  subject  for  experiment;  and  he 
chose  a  test  altogether  different  from  anything  1  had 
attempted  before.  It  consisted  of  my  having  to  draw 
apo'n  a  piece  of  paper  the  outline  of  an  animal  which 
his  lioyal  Highness  had  at  the  time  in  his  mind.  A 
•beet  of  paper  was  placed  upon  a  music-»ttand  on  the 
piano;  and,  having  blindfolded  myself,  I  took  the 
Pnnce  by  the  left-  hand,  holding  a  lead-pencil  in  my 
right.  In  a  few  moments  1  had  drawn  the  outline  of  the 
animal  desired— vizT,  an  elephant.  The  drawing  was 
very  rough,  but,  as  neither  his  Royal  Highness  nor  my- 
self is  an  artist,  the  irregular  contour  of  the  animal  de- 
oicted  was  readily  accounted  for.  There  wa?,  however, 
one  striking  peculiarity  about  the  sketch  which  was  not 
allowed  to  pass  notice.  The  animal  I  had  drawn  was 
tailless.  It  was  afterward  explained  that  the  Prince 
had  in  mind  the  first  elephant  he  had  shot  in  Ceylon, 
and  whose  tail  he  had  himself  docked  at  the  time  of 
shooting. '*' 

Sax  Rooers,  rnE  Porp  of  "M kmoht.  "—The  recently- 
published  Hay  ward  X^/er#  contain  a  notelet,  in  which 
Mrs.  Caroline  Norton  thus  characters  her  dear  friend 
Rogers,  an  invitation  to  one  of  whose  "brenkfatts" 
was  tliought,  two  generations  ago,  to  be  enough  tt) 
make  a  man's  reputation  for  talent  :— 

*'I  am  sure  you  will  know  what  I  mean:  no  men 
ever  seemed  so  important,  who  did  so  little,  nye,  and 
said  so  little  (in  spite  of  tabletulk)  for  his  fellow-men. 
His  God  was  Harmony  ;  and  over  his  life  Harmony 
presided,  sitting  on  a  Inkcwarm  cloud.  He  was  ttot 
the  'poet,  sage,  and  philosopher'  people  expect  to  Tnd 
be  was,  but  a  man  in  whom  the  tastes  (rare  fact ! ) 
preponderated  over  the  passions ;  who  dcfrnyed  the 
expenses  of  his  tastes  as  other  men  make  ontlay  for 
the  gratification  of  their  passions;  all  within  limit  of 
reason,  h«  did  not  squander  more  than  win  the  affec- 


tion of  his  seraglio— the  Nine  Mosea— nor  bet  upon 
Pegasus,  though  he  eniered  him  for  the  races  when  he 
had  a  fair  chance  of  winning.    He  did  nothing  ra«h.  I 
am  sure  Rogers  as  a  baby  never  fell  dowu,  uute$s  he 
was  pushed  ;  but  walked  from  chair  to  chair  of  the 
drawing-room  furniture  steadily  and  quietly  till  he 
reached  the  place  where  the  sunbeam  fell  on  the  car- 
pet.   He  must  always  have  preferred  a  lullaby  to  the 
merriest  game  of  romps ;  and  if  he  could  have  spoken 
would  have  begged  his  long-clothes  might  be  made  of 
fine  Mull  muslin  instead  of  cambric  or  jarqnenet.  the 
first  fabric  being  of  incomparable  BoftDesfe>,  and  the 
two  latter  capable  of  that  which  he  loathed,  starch. 
He  was  the  very  embodiment  of  quiet,  from  bis  voice 
to  the  last  harmonious  little  picture  that  hung  in  his 
lulled  room,  and  a  curious   figure  he  fseemed  —  an 
elegant,   pale  watch-tower,  showing    forever  what  a 
quiet  port  literature  and  the  fine  arta  might  offer,  in 
an  age  of  'progress,'  when  every  one  is  tossing,  strug- 
gling, wrecking,  and  fonndering  on  a  sea  of  commer- 
cial speculation  or  political  adventure:  where  people 
fight  oven  over  pictures,  and  if  a  man  does  buy  a 
picture,  it  is  Mith  the  burning  desire  to  prove  it  is  a 
Raphael  to  ^is  yelping  enemies,  rather  than  to  point 
it  out  with  a  slow  white  finger  to  his  breakfasting 
friends." 

Ths  Scenery  in  Balzac^s  Novels.— 7Vmp/«  Bar^ 
in  one  of  a  series  of  articles  upon  the  Novels  of  Bal- 
zac, says : — 

^Tlie  place  and  the  surroundings  of  his  stories  are 
to  Baljsac  what  the  skeleton  is  to  the  body,  or  what 
the  body  itself  is  to  certain  thoroughgoing  artists  who 
first  draw  it  nude,  then  clothe  it  with  its  assigned 
draperies.  Each  town,  each  street,  eAch  house,  each 
room,  has  its  own  physiognomy  as  distinctly  marked 
as  the  characters  who  inhabit  the  one  and  act  out  the 
details  of  their  drama  in  the  other.  This  physiognomy 
is  even  more  ^graphically  described  than  Sir  Walter 
Scott's  famous  descriptions,  and  with  more  absolute 
harmony  between  the  surroundings  and  the  personages 
—even  to  the  thirsty  look  of  a  forest  matching  the 
fatigue  and  thirst  of  the  strayed  sportsmen  in  'Adieu.' 
In  each  of  those  descriptions  is  the  biting  touch  which 
etches  a  picture,  and  in  all  the  most  relentless  harmony. 
Among  these  the  Maison  Vauquer,  where  le  p^re 
Goriot,  Vautrin,  and  Rastignac  live,  stands  oat  for  Its 
sordid    poverty  and    boarding-houo    abominations. 

^Cetts  premiere  piece  exhale  vne  odeur  sans  notn  dans 
la  lavgne^  et  gvll /avdt^ait  appeler  Vodtvr  de  pension. 
Elle  sent  le  renferme,  la  tnoisie,  le  ranee  ;  file  donne 
froid^  elle  est  humideau  nez^  elle  pinltre  lesrtttments^ 
elle  a  le  ffoCit  d^vne  sails  oh  I'on  a  dini  ;  elle  pus  Is 
serricety  Voffice^  Vhospice.  How  clearly  this  cruel 
picture  shows  that  house,  and  'lesjettnes  pensionnatres^ 
(pti  se  erohmt  stfptrisffrs  a  lef/r  position  en  se  moqvani 
dn  diner  avqitel  la  misWe  les  condamns."  From  this 
firnt  description  to  the  last  epigrammatic  note,  when 
de  Rnstignac  goes  to  dine  with  his  mistress,  Madame 
de  Nucingen,  on  the  day  of  her  father's  fnneral>-the 
father  she  has  helped  to  murder  after  having  helped 
to  ruin— the  whole  is  perfect." 


•'LOCKSLEY  HALL"  AND  TFIE  JUBILEE. 


881 


"LOCKSLEY   HALL"  AND    THE 

JUBILEE. 

The  nation  will  observe  with  warm 
satisfaction  that,  although  the  new 
Locksley  Hall  is,  as  told  by  the  Calen- 
dar, a  work  of  Lord  Tennyson's  old  age, 
yet  is  his  poetic  **eye  not  dim,  nor  his 
natural  force^  abated."  The  date  of 
Wavei'Ieif  was  fixed  by  its  alternative 
title  ^Tis^ Sixty  Years  Since;  but  the 
illustrious  author  told  6i  years  not  all 
included  within  his  own  span  of  life; 
and  Ids  decease  saddened  the  world  of 
letters  and  of  man  soon  after  his  sixth 
decade  was  complete.  It  was  in  1842 
tliat  the  genius  Lord  Tennyson  blazed 
in  full  orb  upon  the  world.  But  he 
had  as  eai'ly  as  1827  worn  the  livery 
of  the  Muse,  and  braved  the  ordeal  of 
the  press,  so  that  it  is  hardly  an  exag- 
geration to  treat  of  the  whole  period  of 
three  score  years  as  already  included 
within  a  literary  life.  And  now  that 
he  gives  us  another  Locksley  Hall 
**after  sixty  years,"  the  very  last  criti- 
cism that  will  be  hazarded — or  if  haz- 
arded will  be  accepted — on  his  work 
will  be,  that  it  betravs  a  want  of  tone 
and  fiber.  For  my  own  part  I  have 
been  not  less  impressed  with  the  form, 
than  with  the  substance.  Limbs  will 
grow  stiff  with  age,  but  minds  not  al- 
wavs:  we  find  here  all  undiminished 
that  suppleness  of  the  poet  which  en- 
ables him  to  conform  without  loss  of 
freedom  to  the  stringent  laws  of  meas- 
ured verse.  Lord  Tennyson  retains  his 
conspicuous  mastery  over  the  trochaic 
meter,  and  even  the  least  favorable 
among  the  instantaneous,  or  * 'pistol- 
graph,"  criticisms  demanded  by  the 
necessities  of  the  daily  press,  stingily 
admits  that  the  poem  '*here  and  there 
exhibits  the  inimitable  touch." 

An  article  in  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette, 
produced  under  the  same  rigorous  con- 
ditions, but  of  singular  talent,  states 
rallier  dogmatically  that  any  criticism 


which  accepts  .Lord  Tennyson  as  a 
thinker  is  now  out  of  date.  "  1  venture 
to  demur  to  this  proposition;  and  to  con- 
tend that  the  author  of  I71  Menioriam 
(for  example)  shows  a  capacity  which 
entitles  him  to  a  high  place  among  the 
thinkers  of  the  day;  of  thinkers,  too,  on 
those  subjects,  which  have  the  first  and 
highest  claim  to  the  august  name  of 
philosophy.  It  does  not  follow  that  we 
are  to  regard  all  the  productions  of 
Lord  Tennyson  as  equally  the  fruit  of 
the  **thinker"  that  is  in  him.  A 
great  poet  is  commonly  of  a  richly  di- 
versified nature;  arid  as  the  strong  man 
of  the  gospel  is  ejected  by  a  stronger 
man,  so  the  strong  faculty  of  the  poet 
may  rock  or  swerve  under  the  encroach- 
ing pressure  of  a  faculty  which  is  even, 
if  only  for  the  time,  stronger  still.  The 
passionate  or  emotional  part  of  nature 
comes  into  rivalry  with  the  reflective 
organ,  and  it  is  our  own  fault  if  because 
in  a  given  work  the  one  predominates, 
we  deny  the  existence  of  the  other;  or 
again,  if  we  assume  that  the  balance  of 
powers  can  never  shift,  and  that  all  fac- 
ulties are  equably  represented  at  all 
times,  was  to  exalt  the  individual  human 
mind,  subject  to  all  the  incidents  of 
life,  up  to  the  level  of  a  perfect  intelli- 


gence. 


In  the  work,  however,  that  is  now 
before  the  world,  Lord  Tennyson  nei- 
ther claims  the  authority,  nor  charges 
himself  with  the  responsibility,  of  one 
who  solemnly  delivers,  under  the  weight 
of  years,  and  with  a  shortened  span  be- 
fore him,  a  confession  of  political  or 
social  faith.  The  poem  is  .strictly  a 
dramatic  monologue.  In  its  pages  we 
have  before  us,  though  without  the  for- 
mal divisions  of  the  drama,  a  group  of 
personages,  and  the  strain  changes  from 
the  color  of  thought  appropriate  for  one 
to  that  which  befits  another.  In  the 
one  supreme  poem  of  the  first  person 
singular,  the  Divina  Commedia.we  know 
at  first  hand  the    precise  relation   of 


382 


THE  LTBRAHY  MAGAZINE. 


sympathy  in  which  the  poet  stands  to 
each  of  tlie  persons  brought  upon  the 
scene.  But  this  is  a  case  by  itself. 
When  it  is  not  the  intention  of  the 
piece  that  the  poet  shall  himself. appear, 
the  'greater  is  his  power,  the  more  com- 
pletely he  is  shrouded  behind  the  veil 
nis  art  has  woven;  and  we  can  but 
specuhite,  in  Homer  or  in  Shakespeare, 
on  the  question  which  amon^  his  crea- 
tions were  the  favorites  of  the  maker 
himself.  These  two  superlative  mas- 
ters are  more  nearlv  allied  than  might 
be  supposed;  for  Homer,  although  in 
form  epic,  is  in  essence  also  a  great 
dramatist,  and  contains  within  him 
serai nally  the  diiima  of  his  country. 
Lord  Tennyson  gives  his  reader,  in  form 
at  least,  even  less  help,  since  each  of  us 
«  has  to  discover  the  transitions  for  him- 
self. The  method  in  the  old  Locksley 
Hall,  and  in  the  new,  is  the  same.  In 
each  the  maker  is  outside  his  work; 
and  in  each  we  have  to  deal  with  it  as 
strictly  imi>ersonal.  Were  it  otherwise, 
were  we  to  seek  political  knowledge  at 
the  lips  of  our  author,  we  should  not 
be  in  difficulty;  for  this  is  he  who  in 
his  official  verses  of  1851,  addressed  to 
the  Queen,  and  in  the  poem  *'Love  thou 
thy  Land,"  has  supplied  us  with  a  code 
of  politics  as  sound,  as  comprehensive, 
and  as  exactly  balanced,  as  either  *  erse 
or  prose  could  desire. 

The  connection  of  the  two  Locksley 
Halh  lies  in  the  continuous  identity  of 
the  hero,  he  supplying  the  thread  on 
which  the  subject  and  its  movement 
hang.  The  teaching  of  half  a  century 
ago,  proceeding  immediately  from  .the 
poet's  lips,  inculcated  above  all  things 
impartiality  of  view.     He 

Would  love  the  gleams  of  good  that  broke 
From  either  sicle,  nor  veil  his  eyes. 

And  the  strain  of  the  personage  then 
young,  whom  the  famous  poem  set  be- 
fore us,  was  not  one-sided.  He  then 
saw  a  mercenary  taint  upon  the  age:— 


Every  door  is  barred  with  gold,  ana  opens  l»ut 

to  golden  keys. 

He  had  glimpses  of  vaunting'  temper 
and  of  words  outrunning  deeds:  — 

But  the  jingling  of  the  guinea  helps  the  hurt 

that  Honor  feels, 
And  the  nations  do  but  murmur,  snarling  at 

each  other's  heels. 

Yet  he  shook  oil  depression,  and  taught 
the  doctrine  of  a  tempered  progress,  in 
lines  which  the  language  itstlf  cannot 
outlive: — 

Yet  I  doubt  not  through  the  ages  one  increas- 
ing purpose  runs. 

And  the  thoughts  of  man  are  widened  ^rith 
the  process  of  the  suns. 

And  what  those  suns  had  already  done 
was  first  fruit;  the  harvest  was  be- 
hind:— 

Men  my  brothers,  men   the   workers,  ever 

reaping  something  new, 
Thai  which  they  have  done  but  earnest  of  the 

things  that  they  shall  do. 

And  not  only  was  there  no  fear  of  on- 
ward movement — witness  the  line  which 
may  well  make  a  nervous  man  giddy  as 
he  reads  it — 

Let  the  great  world  spin  forever  down  the  ring- 
ing grooves  of  change; 

but  the  dauntless  eye  of  the  Prophet 
has  seen,  down  the  long  avenue,  all  the 
way — I  fear  the  immeasurable  way — to 
the  great  result: — 

Till  the  war -drums  throbbed  no  longer,  and 

the  battle  flags  were  furled 
In  the  Parliament  of  man,  the  Federation  of 

the  world. 

Such  is  the  Voice  that  rings  as  well  as 
warbles  from  the  chambers  of  the  old 
Locksley  Hall,  On  the  whole,  if  an 
account  be  strictly  taken,  the  coloring 
was  something  sanguine.  A  bias  in 
that  direction  was  not  unsuited  to  the 
speaker's  youth,  especially  if,  as  Eng- 
land has  unflinchingly  believed,  his  les- 
sons of  hope  were,  upon  the  whole,  the 
lessons  of  wisdom.  The  labor  of  life  is 
cheered  by  the  song  of  life.     The  sweat 


"LOCKSLEY  HALL'*  AND  TI/E  JUBILEE. 


383 


•f  man's  brow,  and  the  burden  on  his 
bnck,  produce  better  practical  results, 
if  he  can  be  encouraged  to  reckon  with 
:i  reasonable  confidence  on  his  reWard. 

As  the  junior  changes  into  a  senior 
at  the  command  of  the  new  Locksley 
Hall,  he  does  not  forget  to  look  at  the  re- 
vei'se  as  well  as  the  obverse  of  the  medal, 
or  to  recommend  the  persevering  per- 
foriAanco  of  daily  duty  as  the  best  medi- 
cine for  paralyzing  doubts,  and  the  safest 
shelter  under  tlie  storms  either  of  prac- 
tical or  of  speculative  life.  So  speaks 
the  eulogy  on  the  successful  suitor  of  the 
first  Locksley  Hall,  to  whom  a  gentle 
reparation  is  now  made,  and  who  serv- 
ed God  in  his  generation: — 

Strove  for  sixty  widowed  years  to  help  his 

homelier  brother  meD, 
Served  the  poor,  and  built  the  cottage,  raised 

the  scliool,  and  drained  the  fen. 

But  the  voice  of  our  Prophet  in  this 
poem,  if  taken  as  a  whole,  has  under- 
gone a  change.  Such  a  change  was  in 
the  course  of  Nature.  As  Wordsworth 
says  : — 

The  clouds,  that  gathered  round  the  setting 

sun, 
Do  tuke  a  8ol)er  coloring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o  er  man's  mortality. 

Perhaps  the  tone  may  even,  at  times, 
be  thought  to  have  grown  a  little 
hoarse  with  his  years.  Not  that  we  are 
to  regard  it  as  the  voice  of  the  author. 
On  the  earlier  occasion  he  supplied  in 
"fjove  thou  thy  Land"  whatever  cor- 
rection was  required  to  bring  the  scales 
of  anticipation  back  to  equilibrium. 
He  has  not  now  ffiven  us  his  own  per- 
sonal forecast  of  tne  actual  or  the  com- 
ing time;  and  in  withholding  it  he 
allows  us  a  yet  greater  freedom  to  esti- 
mate the  utterances  of  the  Prophet  in 
ihe  new  Locksley  Hall  by  the  rules  of 
irnth  and  soberness,  but  "without  re- 
spect of  persons." 

For  much  indeed  that  he  teaches  we 
oaght  to  feel  obliged  to  him.      Each 


generation  or  age  of  men  is  under  a 
twofold. temptation:  the  one  tooverrato 
its  own  performances  and  prospects, 
the  other  to  undervalue  the  times  pre- 
ceding or  following  its  own.  No 
greater  calamity  can  happen  to  a  people 
than  to  break  utterly  with  its  Past. 
But  this  proposition  in  its  full  breadth 
applies  more  to  its  aggregate,  than  to 
its  immediji'3  Past.  Our  judgment  on 
the  age  that  last  preceded  us  should  be 
strictly  just.  But  it  should  be  mascu- 
line, not  ,timorous;  for,  if  we  gild  its 
delects  sind  glorify  its  errors,  we  dislo- 
cate the  axis  of  the  very  ground  which 
forms  our  own  point  of  departure. 
This  rule  particularly  applies  to  the 
period  whicn  preceded  our  own.  The 
first  chree  decades  of  this  century  were 
far  from  normal.  They  suffered,  both 
morally  and  politically,  from  the  terri* 
ble  recoil  of  the  French  Revolution, 
and  of  the  means  employed  for  coun- 
teracting it.  That  period  gave  us  mili- 
tary glory.  It  made  noble  and  immor- 
tal additions  to  our  literature.  In  ^uq 
art,  though  there  had  been  a  sunset, 
the  sun  still  illumined  the  sky.  But 
the  items  of  the  account  per  contra  are 
great  indeed.  One  of  the  lightest 
among  them  is,  that  it  brought  our  in- 
dustrial arts  to  the  lowest  point  of  de- 
gradation. Under  the  benign  influence 
of  Protection,  there  was  a  desert  of 
universal  ugliness.  It  also  charged  the 
inheritance  of  our  countrymen  with  a 
public  debt  equal  to  more  than  a  fourth, 
at  one  time  more  nearly  touching  a 
third,  of  the  aggregate  value  of  all  their 
private  property.  Would  that  this  had 
been  all!  It  taxed  the  nation  for  the 
benefit  of  class.  It  ground  down  the 
people  by  the  Com  Law,  and  debased 
them  by  the  Poor  Law.  In  Ireland, 
Parliament  refused  through  one  genera- 
tion of  men  to  fulfill  the  promise  of 
Roman  Catholic  Emancipation,  without 
whioli  promise  not  even  the  devilish 
enginery  of  the  other  means  employed 


884 


THE  LlBllAllY  MAGAZINE. 


would  have  suflficed  to  bring  about  the 
Legishitive  Union  between  the  two 
countries.  But  in  1815  they  legislated, 
with  a  cruel  severity  which  the  Irish 
Parliament  might  never  have  wished, 
and  could  never  have  dared,  against  the 
occupiers,  that  is  to  say,  against  the 
people,  of  that  * 'sister  island."  On 
this  side  the  Channel,  the  Church  was 
quietly  suffered  to  remain  a  wilderness 
of  rank  abuse.  But  activitv  was  shown 
enough  and  to  spare,  by  the  use  of  leg- 
islative and  executive  power,  to  curtail 
the  traditional  freedom  of  the  })eople. 
The  law  had  been  made  hateful  to  the 
nation;  and  both  our  institutions  and 
our  Empire  had  been  brought  to  the 
brink  of  a  precipice,  when  in  1830  the 
King  dared  not  dine  with  the  Lord 
Mayor,  and  the  long  winter  nights  were 
illuminated  by  the  blaze  of  Swing  fires, 
in  southern  counties  which  have  grown 
into  Torvism  under  the  beneficent  in- 
flucnce  of  reformed  government  and 
legislation. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  beginning  of 
the  period  had  the  solitary  glory  of 
ending  one  long  serie^  of  continuous 
crime  bv  the  Abolition  of  the  Slave 
Trade.  Nearer  its  close,  there  were 
marked  tendencies  toward  good,  and 
even  some  noble  beginnings  of  impl'ove- 
ment;  but  these  wei*e  mainly  ana  con- 
spicuously due  to  suspected  and  reviled 
minorities,  and  were  in  many  instjinces 
resented,  as  well  as  resisted,  with  a  bit- 
terness almost  savage,  and  hardly  known 
to  our  more  modern  and  sufficiently 
lively  contentions. 

Such  were  the  backwaters  (so  to  call 
them)  of  the  French  Revolution  and  of 
the  war  against  it,  and  such  was  the 
later  Georgian  era,  on  which  it  is  neces- 
sary to  use  plainness  of  speech,  because 
it  now  takes  the  benefit  of  the  glorify- 
ing hues  of  distance,  as  well  as  of  mili- 
tary triumph;  and  none  survive,  except 
a  dwindling  Jiandful,  to  speak  of  it 
from  recollection.     But  though  it  was 


a  time  which  can  ill  stand  comparison 
with  most  others  of  our  history,  there 
still  romained  for  us  that  glorious  in- 
heritance of  Britons  which,  though  it 
imperiled  and  defaced,  it  did  not  de- 
stroy. 

It  was  manifestly  from  the  point 
marked  by  the  close  of  tliis  period  that 
the  old  Lockdey  Hall  took  its  measure- 
ments, and  fbund  in  the  survey  of  the 
years  which  had  succeeded  1830,  tliat 
their  good  outweighed  their  evil.  In 
his  admirable  verses  to  the  Queen,  too, 
Mr.  Tennyson — this  time  in  person  and 
not  through  &  persona — looked  at  the 
Ship  of  State,  and  gave  her  his  bene- 
diction on  her  .way,  as  Longfellow's 
Master  blessed  the  ship  of  the  Union; 

Sail  on,  nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea; 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  with  thee; 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  tears, 

Our  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears, 

Are  all  with  thee — are  all  with  thee. 

During  the  intervening  half-century, 
or  near  it,  the  temper  of  hope  and 
thankfulness,  which  both  Mr.  Tennyson 
and  the  young  Prophet  of  Locksley 
Hall  so  hirgely  contrionted  to  form,  has 
been  tested  by  expefienee.  Authori- 
ties and  people  have  been  hard  at  work 
in  dealing  with  the  laws,  the  policy, 
and  the  manners  of  the  country.  Their 
performances  may  be  said  to  form  the 
Play,  intervening  between  the  old  Pro- 
logue, and  the  new  Epilogue  which  has 
just  issued  from  the  press.  This  Epi- 
logue, powerful  as  it  is,  will  not  quite 
harmonize  with  the  evergreens  of  Clirist- 
mas.  The  young  Prophet,  now»  grown 
old,  is  not,  indeed  (though  perhaps,  on 
his  own  showing,  he  ought  to  be);  in 
despair.  For  he  still  stou,tly  teaches 
manly  duty  and  personal  effort,  and 
longs  for  progress  more,  he  trows,  than 
its  professing  and  blatant  votaries. 
But  in  his  present  surrey  of  the  age  as 
his  field,  he  seems  to  find  that  a  sadder 
I  color  has  invested  all  the  scene.  The 
I  evil  has  eclipsed  the  good;  and  the  scaloi 


''LOCKSLEY  HALL"  AND  THE  JUBILEE. 


885 


which  before  rested  solidly  on  the 
ground,  now  kicks  the  beam.  For  the 
framing  of  our  estimate,  however,  prose, 
aad  very  prosaic  prose,  may  be  called  in 
not  less  than  poetry.  The  question  de- 
mands an  answer,  whether  it  is  needful 
to  open  80  dark  a  prospect  for  the 
Future;  whether  it  is  just  to  pronounce 
what  seems  to  be  a  very  decided  cen- 
sure on  the  immediate  Past.  And 
there  is  this  peculiar  feature  in  the  case. 
In  most  countries  and  most  periods  of 
the  world.  Governments  may  Dear  their 
own  faults,  and  in  proportion  the 
peoples  may  go  scot-free.  Not  so  in 
this  country,  and  at  this  time.  In  the 
words  of  the  Prince  Consort,  **Our  in- 
stitutions are  on  their  trial,''  as  institu- 
tions of  self-government;  and  if  condem- 
nation is  to  be  pronounced,  on  the  na- 
tion it  must  mainly  fall,*  and  must 
sweep  away  with  it  a  large  part  of  such 
hopes  as  have  been  either  fanatically  or 
reflectively  entertained  that,  by  this  pro- 
vision of  self-government,  the  Future 
might  effect  some  moderate  improve- 
ment upon  the  Past,  and  mitigate  in 
some  perceptible  degree  the  social  sor- 
rows and  burdens  of  mankind. 

I  will  now,  with  a  view  to  a  fair  trial 
of  this  question,  try  to  render,  rudely 
and  slightly  though  it  be,  some  account 
of  the  deeds  aud  the  movement  of  this 
las*^  half-century.  I  shall  reserve  until 
the  close  what  must  be  put  down  to  its 
debit.  For  the  present  I  will  only  shut 
out  from  the  review  important  divisions 
of  the  subject  with  which  I  am  not  com- 
petent to  deal:  those  of  literature,  of 
research,  of  science,  of  morals.  These 
great  subjects  would  resent  summary 
treatment  even  by  a  competent  hand; 
and  my  hand  is  not  competent,  nor  my 
opinions  worth  record.  What  I  have 
to  say  bears  npon  them,  but  mainly  in 
the  way  of  exterior  contact.  I  shall 
only  venture  to  refer  to  those  portions 
of  the  case  which  can  as  it  were  be  in- 
ventoried :  the  course  and  acts  of  public 


authority,  and  the  movement,  so  closely 
associated  with  them,  of  public  opinion, 
and  of  the  most  palpable  forms  of  vol- 
untary action. 

The  Prophet  of  the  new  Locksley 
Hall  records  against  us  many  sad,  and 
even  shameful,  defaults.  They  are  not 
to  be  denied;  and  the  list  probably 
might  be  lengthened.  The  youngest 
among  us  will  not  see  the  day  in  which 
new  social  problems  will  have  ceased  to^ 
spring  as  from  the  depths,  and  vex 
even  the  most  successful  solvers  of  the 
old;  or  in  which  this  proud  and  great 
English  nation  will  not  have  cause,  in 
all  its  ranks  and  orders,  to  bow  its  head 
before  the  Judge  Eternal,  and  humbly 
to  confess  to  forgotten  duties,  or  wasted 
and  neglected  opportunities.  It  is  well 
to  be  reminded,  and  in  tones  such  as 
make  the  deaf  may  hear,  of  city  children 
who  ''soak  and  blacken  soul  and  sense 
in  city  slime;"  of  maidens  cast  by  thou- 
sands on  the  street;  of  the  sempstress 
scrimped  of  her  daily  bread;  of  dwell- 
ings miserably  crowded;  of  fever  as  the 
result;  even  of  '^incest  in  the  warrens 
of  the  poor."  On  the  last-named  item, 
and  the  group  of  ideas  therewith  asso- 
ciated, scarcely  suited  for  discussion 
here,  I  am  not  sure  that  the  warrens  of 
the  poor  have  more  to  fear  from  a  rigid 
investigation  than  other  and  more  spa- 
cious liH-bitations.  But  a  word  on  the 
rest.  Take  first  the  city  child  as  he  is 
dor.oribed.  For  one  such  chilfi  now  there 
^vure  ten,  perhaps  twenty,  fifty  years 
back.  A  very  large,  and  a  still  increas- 
ing proportion  of  these  i:hildren  have 
been  brought  under  the  regular  train- 
ing and  discipline  of  the  school.  Take 
the  maidens,  who  are  now,  as  they  were 
then,  cast  by  thousands  on  the  street. 
But  then,  if  one  among  them  were 
stricken  with  penitence  and  sought  for 
a  place  in  which  to  hide  her  head,  she 
found  it  only  in  the  pomp  of  paid  insti- 
tutions, and  in  a  help  well  meant,  no 
doubt,  yet  carrying  little  •f  what  wai 


886 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE- 


most  essential,  sympathetic  discrimina- 
tion, and  mild,  nay  even  tender  care. 
Witliin  the  half -century  a  new  chapter 
has  opened.  Faith  and  love  have  gone 
forth  into  the  field.  Specimens  of 
womankind,  sometimes  the  very  best 
and  highest,  have  not  deemed  this  quest 
of  souls  beneath  them.  Scrimping  of 
wages,  no  doubt,  there  is  and  was. 
But  the  fair  wage  of  to-day  is  far  higher 
than  it  was  then,  and  the  unfair  wage 
IS  assumably  not  lower.  Miserable  and 
crowded  dwellings,  again,  and  fever  as 
their  result,  both  then  and  now.  But 
legislation  has  in  the  interval  made  its 
attempts  in  earnest;  and  if  this  waa 
with  awkward  and  ungainly  hand,  pri- 
vate munificence  or  enterprise  is  dotting 
our  city  areas  with  worthy  dwellings. 
Above  all  have  we  not  to  record  in  this 
behalf  martyred  lives,  such  as  those  of 
Denison  and  Toynbee?  Or  shall  we 
refuse  honorable  mention  to  not  less 
devoted  lives,  still  happily  retained,  of 
such  persons  as  Miss  Octavia  Hill? 
With  all  this  there  has  happily  grown 
up  not  only  a  vast  general  extension  of 
benevolent  and  missionary  means,  but 
a  great  parochial  machinery  of  domestic 
visitation,  charged  with  comfort  and 
blessing  to  the  needy,  and  spread  over 
so  wide  a  circle,  that  what  was  formerly 
an  exception  may  now  with  some  confi- 
dence be  said  to  be  the  rule.  If  in- 
sufticiencies  have  come  to  be  more 
keenly  felt,  is  that  because  they  are 
greater,  or  because  there  is  a  bolder  and 
better  trained  disposition  to  feel  them? 
The  evils,  which  our  Prvphet  rightly 
seeks  to  cauterize  with  his  red-hot  iron, 
were  rank  among  us  even  in  the  days 
when  Hogarth,  a  pioneer  of  reforma- 
tion, drew  his  Beer  Street  and  his  Gin 
Lane.  They  grew  with  population  and 
with  wealth;  but  they  grew  unnoticed, 
until  near  the  period,  when  the  earliest 
Lockslev  Hall  cheered  the  hearts  of 
tliose  who  sought  to  mend  the  world. 
If  fifty  yofirs  ago  censure  was  appeased 


and  hopefulness  encouraged,  is  there 
any  reason  now  why  hope  should  be 
put  under  an  extinguisher  and  censure 
should  hold  all  the  ground? 
.  About  twenty  years  ago,  and  toward 
the  close  of  his  famous  and  highly  hon- 
ored life.  Lord  Russell  spoke  flie  much- 
noted  words  "Rest  and  be  thankful." 
And  right  well  had  his  r^st  been  earned. 
B6t  the  nation,  which  we  may  hope 
was  thankful,  yet  rested  not.  As  a  na- 
tion, it  has  labored  harder  than  ever 
before;  harder,  perhaps,  than  any  nation 
ever  labored.  True,  it  has  a  gi-eater 
number  of  leisured  men,  and  moreover 
of  idle  men,  than  it  had  sixty  years 
back.  It  must  be  left  to  them  to  state 
what  is  the  final  cause  of  their  existence, 
and  what  position  it  is  that  the  Al- 
mighty, destined  them  to  fill  upon  this 
ever-whirling  planet.  But,  even  after 
deducting  them  as  a  minus  quantity 
from  our  sum  total,  it  still  remains  true 
not  only  that  the  nation  labors  hard, 
but  that  it  has  discovered,  for  itself  at 
least,  the  perpetual  motion.  For  it  has 
built  up  an  Empire,  and  no  insignifi- 
cant part  of  it  since  the  first  Locfcsley 
Hall  was  written,  of  such  an  exacting 
though  imposing  magnitude,  and  of 
such  burden  some  though  glorious  re- 
sponsibilities, that  it  must  perforce  keep 
to  its  activity  like  Sisyphos  with  his 
stone  or  Ixion  on  his  wheel.  It  would 
be  little  to  say  that  the  practical  legisla- 
tion of  the  last  fifty  years  has  in  quan- 
tity far  exceeded  that  of  the  three  pre- 
ceaing  fifties  taken  together.  The  real 
question  is  on  its  qiiality.  Has  this 
great  attempt  in  an  old  country  at  pop- 
ular government,  when  brought  to  trial 
by  relative,  not  abstract  standards, 
failed,  or  has  it  not?  I  remember  be- 
ing told  by  Kingsl^  how,  when  an  old 
friend  of  his  had  rushed  unadvisedly 
into  verse,  he  plucked  up  all  his  courage 
for  the  needful  emphasis,  and  told  him, 
**My  dear  friend,  your  poems  are  not 
good  but  bad."   Will  it  be  ti»o audacioui 


I— 


"LOCKSLEY  HALL''  AND  THE  JUBILEE. 


887 


to  submit  to  the  Prophet  of  the  new 
Locksley  Hall  that  the  laws  and  works 
of  the  iiulf -century  he  reviews  are  not 
bad  but  good? 

I  will  refer  as  briefly  as  may  be  to 
the  sphere  of  legislation.  Slavery  has 
been  abolished.  A  criminal  code, 
which  disgraced  the  Statute  Book,  has 
been  effectually  refowned.  Laws  of 
combination  and  contract,  which  pre- 
vented the  working  population  from 
obtaining  the  best  price  for  their  labor, 
have  been  repealed.  The  lamentable 
and  demoralizing  abuses  of  the  Poor 
Law  haveljeen  swept  away.  Lives  and 
limbs,  always  exposed  to  destruction 
through  the  incidents  of  labor,  formerly 
took  their  chance,  no  man  heeding 
them,  even  when  the  origin  of  the  ca- 
lamity lay  in  the  recklessness  or  neglect 
of  the  employer:  they  are  now  guarded 
by  preventive  provisions,  and  the  loss 
is  mitigated,  to  the  sufferers  or  their 
survivors,  by  pecuniary  compensation. 
The  scandals  of  labor  in  mines,  facto- 
ries, and  elsewhere,  .to  the  honor,  first 
and  foremost,  of  the  name  of  Shaftes- 
bury, have  been  either  removed,  or 
greatly  qualified  and  reduced.  The 
population  on  the  sea  coast  is  no  longer 
forced  wholesale  into  contraband  trade 
by  fiscal  follies;  and  the  Game  Laws  no 
longer  constitute  a  plausible  apology 
for  poaching.  The  entire  people  have 
good  schools  placed  within  the  reach  of 
their  children,  and  are  put  under  legal 
obligation  to  use  the  privilege,  and 
contribute  to  the  charge.  They  haye 
also  at  their  doors  the  means  of  hus- 
banding their  savings,  without  the  com- 
promise of  their  independence  by  the 
inspection  of  the  rector  or  the  squire, 
and  undor  the  guarantee  of  the  state 
to  the  uttei  mo^t  farthing  of  the  amount. 
Living  in  a  land  where  severance  in 
families  is  almost  a  matter  of  course, 
they  are  no  longer  barred  from  feeding 
and  gu8t«ir.in«jf  domestic  affection  1  v 
prohibitory  rates  of  postage,  sternly  ip> 


posed  upon  the  masses,  while  the  peers 
and  other  privileged  classes  were  ex- 
empt through  franking  from  the 
charge.  In  this  establishment  of  cheap 
communications,  England  has  led  the 
world.  Information  through  a  free 
press,  formerly  cut  off  from  them  by 
stringent  taxation,  is  now  at  their  easy 
command.  The  taxes  which  they  pay 
are  paid  to  the  state  for  the  needful  pur- 
poses of  government,  and  nowhere  to 
the  wealthy  classes  of  the  community  for 
the  purpose  of  enhancing  the  price?  of 
the  articles  produced  for  their  account. 
Their  interests  at  large  are  protected  by 
their  votes;  and  their  votes  are  pro- 
tected by  the  secrecy  which  screens 
them  from  intimidation  either  through 
violence  or  in  its  subtler  forms.  Their 
admission  into  parliament,  through  the 
door  opened  by  abolishing  the  property 
qualification,  has  been  accomplished  on 
a  scale  which,  whether  sufficient  or  not, 
has  been  both  sensible,  and  confessedly, 
beneficial.  Upon  the  whole,  among  the 
results  of  the  last  half-century  to  them 
are,  that  they  work  fewer  hours;  that 
for  these  reduced  hours  they  receive 
increased  wages;  and  that  with  these 
increased  wages  they  purchase  at  dim- 
ished  rates  almost  every  article,  except 
tobacco  and  spirits,  of  which  the  price 
can  be  affected  by  the  acts  of  the  Leg- 
islature. 

It  seems  to  me  that  some  grounds 
have  already  been  laid  for  a  verdict  of 
acquittal  upon  the  public  perfonnances 
of  the  half -century.  The  question  now 
touched  upon  is  that  "condition  of 
England  question'*  on  which  Mr.  Car- 
lyle,  about  midway  in  his  life,  thun- 
dered in  our  ears  his  not  unwarrantable 
but  menacing  admonitions.  Some  heed, 
it  would  appear,  has  been  given  to  such 
pleading.  Science  and  legislation  have 
been  partners  in  a  great  work.  There 
is  no  question  now  about  the  shares  of 
their  respective  contributions.  It  is 
enough  for  my  pur])oso  that  the  work 


88d 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


has  been  done,  and  tnat  the  Legislature 
has  labored  hard  in  it.  Mr.  Gitfen,  in 
a  treatise  of  great  care  and  ability,  has 
estimiited  the  improvement  in  the  con- 
dition of  the  working  population  at  50 
per  cent.  Would  that  it  might  be  pos- 
sible to  add  another  fifty,  ^ut  an  ac- 
complished fact  of  this  character  and 
magnitude  is  surely  matter  for  thank- 
fulness, acknowledgment,  and  hope. 
The  discord  between  the  people  and  the 
law  is  now  at  an  end,  and  our  institu- 
tions are  again  ** broad-based"  upon 
national  conviction  and  affection. 

I  turn  to  another  great  category  of 
contention.  It  is  in  the  nature  oi  re- 
ligious disabilities  to  die  hard.  Stirred 
at  a  sore  point'into  spasmodic  action  in 
the  Parliament  of  1880,  they  are  now 
practically  dead.  The  signs  of  inequal- 
ity obtruded  upon  Nonconformists  by 
the  Church  Bate,  and  by  the  unequal 
laws  of  marriage,  and  of  registration 
upon  births  and  burials,  have  heen  put 
away.  In  just  satisfaction  to  a  civil 
right,  free  access  has  been  given  to  the 
churchyards  of  the  country;  and  the 
sinister  predictions  which  obstructed 
the  change  have  proved  to  be  at  least 
as  shadowy  as  the  beings  commonly 
supposed  to  haunt  those  precincts. 
The  old  universities  have  opened  wide 
their  august  portals  to  the  entire  com- 
munity; and  they  have  more  than 
doubled  the  numbers  of  their  students. 
If  the  oath  is  not  now  universally  re- 
vered, at  least  a  gi*eat  provocation  to 
irreverence  in  the  needless  and  perfunc- 
tory use  of  it  has  been  carefully  remov- 
ed. 

It  would  be  endless  to  recite  all  the 
cases  in  which  relief  has  been  afforded, 
during  the  period  under  review,  to 
suffering  industry  and  imperiled  capi- 
tal. One  case  at  least  must  not  be  left 
wholly  without  notice.  The  farmers 
of  the  country  have  suffered  for  a  series 
of  years  with  their  landlords,  but  us- 
ually beyond  their  landlords,  and  from 


causes  which. it  is  not  altogether  easy  to 
trace.  The  law  cannot  give  prosperity; 
but  it  can  remove  grievance.  Ly 
changes  in  the  law,  the  occupiers  of  the 
soil  have  been  saved  from  the  ravages 
(such  they  often  were)  of  ground  game. 
In  the  repeal  of  the  malt  tax  there  has 
disappeared  what  had  been  commonly 
proclaimed  to  be  their  heaviest  wrong. 
The  tithe-owner,  clerical  or  lay,  no 
longer  abstracts  the  tenth  sheaf,  which 
may  often  have  represented  the  whole 
nett  value  of  an  improvement.  Claims 
of  the  landlord  for  the  recovery  of  rent, 
which  were  found  to  operate  unjustly 
(I  refer  particularly  to  the  law  of  hypo- 
thec in  Scotland)  have  been  abolished. 
And  more  than  all  these,  the  title  of 
the  farmer  to  the  fruit  of  his  legitimate 
investments  in  his  holding  has,  though 
only  a  few  years  back,  obtained  efficient 
protection. 

Long  as  is  this  list,  it  is  not  less,  in- 
complete than  long.  Two  or  thi:ee  of 
its  gaps  must  be  filled  up.  The  new 
and  stringent  act  for  the  reduction  of 
the  expenses  of  parliamentary  elecjtions 
is  both  a  law  for  virtue  against  vice  of 
the  most  insinuating  kind,  and  a  law 
for  the  free  popular  choice  of  represen- 
tatives as  against  the  privilege  and 
monopoly  of  the  rich,  nomen  have 
been  admitted  to  new  public  dutiea, 
which  they  have  proved  their  perfect 
capacity  to  discharge,  and  their  pro- 
perty and  earnings  in  the  married  state 
have  been  protected.  Prying  for  a 
moment  into  a  hidden  corner  of  the 
Statute  Book,  I  remind  the  reader  that 
at  the  date  of  the  first  Locksley  Hall 
no  woman  could  by  law  obtain  the 
slightest  aid  toward  the  support  of  an 
illegitimate  child,  wherever  the  father 
was  a  soldier.  This  shameful  enact- 
ment has  been  abolished.  The  mem- 
bers of  the  two  Houses  of  Parliament 
used  to  find  in  that  membership  a  cover 
from  the  payment  of  their  lawful  debts. 
This  shelter  they  have  lost.     The  ap* 


tt 


LOCKSLEY  ITAtfT'^AND  THE  JUBILEE. 


as9 


plication  of  the  elective  principle  to 
municipal  corporations  has  advanced 
our  towns  to  a  higher  civilization,  and 
haa  exhibited  in  many  instances^  of 
which  Mr.  Chamberlain  is  the  most 
brilliant  and  famous  name,  the  capacity 
of  local  government  to  develop  the 
political  faculty,  and  confer  imperial 
education.  The  repeal  of  the  Naviga-' 
tion  Laws  was  effected  in  1849,  amidst 
a  howl  of  prophecies  that  it  would  be 
found  to  have  involved  not  merely  the 
destruction  of  a  '^harassed  interest,'* 
but  the  downfall  of  our  national  de- 
fence. The  result  of  the  new  law,  in 
combination  with  the  great  change  in 
shipbuilding  from  wood  to  iron,  was 
that  the  ^'harassed  interest"  has  been 
strengthened,  a  noble  art  improved, 
the  character  of  the  service  refined  and 
reformed,  the  tonnage  multiplied,  and 
a  new  position  given  to  Great  Britain 
as  the  first  among  the  shipbuilding 
countries  of  the  world.  ^  If  we  look  now 
to  the  vital  subject  of  the  relations  be- 
tween the  two  Islands,  we  come  on  the 
brink  of  controversies  I  would  rather 
avoid;  and  I  do  not  forget  that  there  is 
one  epoch  of  our  history  with  which 
the  names  of  Pitt  and  Fox  and  Burke 
and  every  statesman  of  their  day  are 
alike  associated,  but  which  as  yet  we 
have  not  rivaled.  Drawing  compari- 
sons only  from  the  time  that  followed 
1782  and  1783,  I  venture  to  assert  that 
only  since  1829,  and  chiefly  within  the 
latter  part  of  this  period,  has  Right 
begun,  though  with  a  chequered  his- 
tory, manfully  to  assert  itself  against 
.Wrong,  in  the  management  and  gov- 
emment  of  Ireland. 

This  work  of  legislation,  so  vast  and 
so  varied,  has  been  upon  the  whole  an 
impartial  work.  Many  and  manv  a 
time,  not  only  have  its  promoters  'had 
to  face  powerful  and  obstinate  opposi- 
tion, bnt  thev  have  not  been  cheered 
in  their  work  by  the  public  opinion  of 
Mie  moment,  and  have  bad  their  faith 


and  patience  exercised  by  reliance  only 
on  the  future.  And  it  has  been  seen 
in  strengthening  police  and  prison  dis- 
cipline, in  legislation  for  public  order, 
and  in  the  radical  reformation  of  the 
poor  laws,  that  unpopular  as  well  as 
popular  work  has  been  done,  and  well 
done,  when  it  came  to  hand. 

And  the  wholesome  breath  of  the 
nation  has,  during  this  period,  purified 
not  only  the  legislative  but  the  admin- 
istrative atmosphere.  Let  me  record 
to  the  honor  of  Lord  Liverpool  a  great 
practical  reform.  He  dealt  a  deadly 
blow  at  the  fatal  mischief  of  Parliamen- 
tary influence  in  the  departmental  pro- 
motions of  the  Civil  Service,  by  placing 
them  under  the  respective  heads.  Sir 
Robert  Peel,  as  I  knew  him,  was  a 
thorough  and  inflexible  practical  re- 
former. Sir  James  Graham  was  a  true 
genius  of  administration.  I  took  upon 
the  quarter  of  a  century  preceding  the 
Crimean  War  as  the  best  period  of  all 
our  history  with  regard  to  economy, 
purity  and  administrative  energy.  But 
there  were  very  great  subjects,  then 
scarcely  touched,  on  which  only  the 
afflatus  of  the  nation  could  dissipate  the 
Hostile  forces  of  profession  and  of  clique. 
Good  work  was  being  done  in  many 
ways;  but  it  required  time.  We  had 
had  the  press-gang  used  at  discretion  as 
the  ultimate  instrument  of  supplying 
men,  when  wanted,  for  the  Navy:  in- 
credible, but  true.  It  is  now  a  thing 
of  the  past.  We  had  flogging  as  the 
standing  means  of  maintaining  the  dis- 
cipline of  the  Army,  and  destroying 
the  self-respect  of  the  soldier.  Despite 
professional  authority,  which  in  certain 
classes  of  question  is  the  worst  of  guides, 
the  profane  hands  of  uninstructed  re- 
formers have  pulled  this  Dagon  to  the 
ground,  and  he  has  shivered  into  splin- 
ters. The  Government  at  its  discretion, 
opened,  when  it  chose  to  see  cause, 
letters  confided  to  the  Post*  Office. 
This  bad  practice  has  died  out.     The 


890 


THE  LICI:a:.V  ^'AGAZINK 


ofiBccvs  of  the  Army  were  introduced 
and  promoted  by  purchase;  and  that 
system^  under  which  at  one  time  the 
Duke  of  Wellington  so  desponded  as  to 
military  promotion  that  he  wished  for 
a  commissionership  in  a  revenue  de- 
partment^ made  the  business  of  supply- 
ing brains  for  the  Army  the  property 
of  the  long  purses  of  the  country.  The 
Parliamentary  defenders  of  the  system, 
which  involved  the  daily  practice  of 
patent  and  gross  illegality,  held  their 

f  round  with  a  persistency  which  would 
ave  been  worthy  even  of  the  British 
oflBcer  in  the  field.  But  it  was  swept 
away  by  an  act  of  the  Executive;  the 
Arrny  became  the  nation's  army,  and 
what  was  one  in  vindication  of  the 
law  has  received  a  splendid  vindication 
in  point  of  policy  from  a  conspicuous 
and  vast  advance  m  military  efficiency 
since  the  date  of  the  great  Army  re- 
forms. So  aho  in  the  Civil  establish- 
jneuts  of  the  country.  The  members  of 
the  House  of  Commons  have  freely  given 
up  their  respective  shares  of  the  patron- 
age, which  the  friends  of  each  succes- 
sive administration  habitually  exercised 
through  the  treasury;  and  a  wide  career 
of  unequaled  security,  with  emolu- 
ments undoubtedly  liberal  for  the  aver- 
age of  good  service,  and  with  the  moral 
certainty  of  fair  play  in  promotion,  has 
been  opened  to  character  and  talent 
throughout  the  land  without  distinction 
of  class. 

If,  now,  we  look  to  what  has  hap- 
pened oversea,  and  to  our  country's 
share  in  it,  the  view  is  in  many  respects 
satisfactory,  and  the  period  is  in  all  re- 
markable. I  speak  with  respect  of  the 
East  India  Company,  and  with  a  deep 
admiration  of  the  statesmen  who  were 
reared  under  its  shade.  The  transfer 
of  the  government  of  the  vast  dominion 
in  1858  was  not  an  unmingled  good. 
But  upon  the  whole  it  was  the  letting 
in  of  a  flood  of  light  upon  a  shadowed 
region.     If  since  that  time  evil  things 


have  been  done,  it  has  not  been  at  the 
instigation  or  with  the  sanction  of  the 
country.  The  company  had  the  merits 
and  the  faults  of  a  conservative  institu- 
tion. The  new  feeling  and  new  meth- 
ods toward  the  natives  are  such  as  hu- 
manity rejoices  in.  They  are  due  to 
the  nation,  and  are  intimately  associated 
with  the  legislative  change.  It  is  no 
small  matter  if,  though  much  may  yet 
remain  to  do,  progress  has  been  made 
in  the  discharge  of  a  debt,  where  the 
creditors  are  two  hundred  and  fifty 
million  of  our  fellow-creatures,  each  of 
them  with  a  deep  and  individual  con- 
cern. With  respect,  again,  to  the  great 
and  ever-growing  Colonial  Empire  of 
the  Queen,  the  change  has  It^^n  yet 
more  marked.  Before  Lord  Grey's  Re- 
form Act,  colonies  were  governed  in 
and  from  Downing  street.  An  ad- 
herence to  the  methods  then  in  use' 
would  undoubtedly  before  this  time  have 
split  the  Empire.  The  substitution  of 
government  from  within  for  govern- 
ment from  without  has  brought  all  dif- 
ficulties within  manageable  bounds,  and 
has  opened  a  new  era  of  content  which 
is  also  consolidation. 

But  the  period  has  also  been  a  great 
period  for  Europe,  The  Treaty  of 
Vienna,  in  the  main,  had  consecrated 
with  solemn  forms  a  great  process  of  re- 
action, and  had  trampletl  under  foot 
every  national  aspiration.  The  genius 
of  Mr.  Canning  moved  upon  far  other 
lines:  and  his  efforts,  especially  in 
Portugal  and  Greece,  made  preparation 
for  a  better  day,  and  for  the  vigorous 
action  of  his  disciple  Lord  Palmerston. 
Nationalities  have  suffered,  and  in  some 
places  suffer  still.  But  if  we  compare 
this  with  other  periods  of  history,  never 
have  they  had  such  a  golden  age.   Bel- 

fium  set  free,  Germany  consolidated, 
'ortugal  and  Spain  assisted  in  all  such 
efforts  as  they  have  made  for  free  gov- 
ernment, Italy  reconstituted,  Hungary 
replaced  in  tlie  enjoyment  of  its  his- 


"LGCKSTLEY  HALL"  AND  THE  JXJBIL;EE. 


391 


toric  rights,  Greece  ^enlarged  by  the 
addition  of  the  Ionian  Islands  and  of 
Thessaly,  ten  millions  of  Christians 
under  Ottoman  rule  in  communities 
that  once  had  an  historic  name^  restored 
in  the  main  to  freedom,  to  progress, 
and  to  hope;  to  say  nothing  oi  reforms 
and  changes  many  of  them  conspicu- 
ously beneficial,  in  other  vast  popula- 
tions: these  are  events,  of  which  we 
may  reverently  say,  "their  sound  is  gone 
out  into  all  lands,  and  their  voices  unto 
the  ends  of  the  world. "  If  these  things 
are  as  good  as  they  are  unquestionably 
great,  nay  if,  being  so  great,  they  have 
real  goodness  at  nil  to  boast  of,  then  it 
is  comforting  to  bear  in  mind  that  in 
by  far  the  greater  number  of  them  the 
British  influfence  has  been  felt,  that  in 
some  of  them  it  has  held  a  foremost 
place,  and  that  if,  in  any  of  them  the 
note  uttered  has  not  been  true,  it  has 
belied  the  sentiment  of  the  nution,  made 
known  so  spon  as  the  forms  of  the  Con- 
stitution allowed  it  an  opportunity  of 
choice.  Wars  have  not  been  extin- 
guished; they  have  been  too  frequent; 
and  rumors  of  war  have  grown  to  be 
scarcely  less  bad  than  the  reality.  Yet 
there  have  been  manifestations,  in  act 
as  well  as  word,  of  a  desire  for  a  better 
state  of  things;  and  we  did  homage, 
in  the  Alabama  case,  to  the  principle 
of  a  peaceful  arbitration,  at  the  cost, 
ungnidgingiy  borne  by  the  people,  of 
three  millions  of  money. 

I  have  not  dwelt  in  these  pages  upon 
the  commerce  of  the  United  Kingdom, 
augmented  fivefold  in  a  term  of  years 
not  sufficient  to  double  its  population, 
or  of  the  enormons  augmentation  of  its 
wealth.  One  reference  to  figures  mav 
however  be  permitted.  It  is  that  which 
exhibits  the  recent  movement  of  crime 
in  this  country.  For  the  sake  of  brev- 
ity I  use  round  numbers  in  stating  it. 
IIapj>i]y  the  facts  are  too  broad  to  be 
S'^rionclv  mistaken.  In  1 870,  the  Uiiited 
1^'iigdom    with  a  population  nf  aboiit 


31,700,000  had  about  13,000  criminals, 
or  one  in  1,760.  In  1884,  with  a  popu- 
lation of  36,000,000  it  had  14,000  crim- 
inals, or  one  in  2,500.  And  as  there 
are  some  among  us  who  conceive  Ireland 
to  be  a  sort  of  pandemonium,  it  may  be 
well  to  mention  (and  I  have  the  hope 
that  Wales  might,  on  the  whole,  show 
as  clean  a  record)  that  with  a  popula- 
tion of  (say)  5,100,000  Ireland  ^in  1884) 
had  1,573  criminals,  or  less  tnaa  one 
in  3,200. 

If  now  I  set  out  upon  chronicling 
the  actual  misdeeds  of  the  Legislature 
during  the  last  half-centur}',  and  deal 
not  with  temporary  but  with  permanent 
acts,  the  tasK  is  a  very  easy  one.  Were 
I  recording  my  own  sentiments  only,  I 
should  set  down  the  Divorce  Act  as  an 
error;  but  I  conceive  it  has  the  approval 
of  a  majority.  I  should  add  the  Public 
Worship  Act,  but  that  it  is  fast  passing 
into  desuetude;  and  the  Ecclesiastical 
Titles  Act,  which  ended  its  mute  and 
ignominious  existence  in  an  early  re- 
peal. If  these  were  errors,  and  some 
would  deny  it,  what  are  they  in  com- 
parison with  the  good  laws  of  the  time? 

If  we  look  for  sins  of  omission,  it  is 
indeed  undeniable  that  the  public  busi- 
ness is  more  and  more  felt  to  be  behind- 
hand. What  we  call  arrears,  however, 
were  arrears  in  the  beginning  of  the 
century;  only  they  were  then  unfelt 
arrears.  For  my  own  part,  I  believe 
that  the  cause  and  prospective  cure  of 
these  arrears  lies  in  a  single  word.  Tliat 
word  is  Ireland.  But  Ireland  at  this 
moment  means  controversy,  and  for  the 
purposes  of  this  paper  I  regard  it  as 
forbidden  ground. 

There  is  one  serious  subject  which, 
as  it  is  commonly  understood,  falls 
neither  under  the  head  of  legislation 
nor  of  administration,  wliile  it  partakes 
of  both.  Within  our  memory,  and  es- 
pecially within  the  last  twenty  ycjirs, 
we  have  seen  a  large  and  general  i^^rox^  th 
of  the  public  expenditure.     It  may  now 


THE  LIBRARlr  MAGAZINE. 


be  stated  in  round  numbers  at  ninety 
millions.  It  has  grown,  since  1830, 
much  more  rapidly  yian  the  population. 
Fully  to  exhibit  this  growth  we  should 
deduct  the  charffe  for  debt  and  repay- 
ment of  debt.  After  this  has  been  done 
it  will  appear  that  what  may  be  called 
the  optional  expenditure  has  more  than 
trebled  within  fifty  years,  while  the  pop- 
ulation has  less  than  doubled.  Against 
this  it  may  be  said  that  in  the  defensive 
services  we  have  greater  ejficiency;  that 
changes  of  armament  have  been  costly; 
and  that  the  vast  augmentation  in  con- 
tinental forces  compelled  a  certain  de- 
gree of  upward  movement;  while,  in  the 
civil  services,  provision  has  undoubtedly 
been  made  for  a  multitude  of  real  wants, 
formerly  undreamt  of.  Let  all  reason- 
able allowance  be  granted  accordingly. 
It  will  still  remain  true,  first,  that  this 
growth  has  been  in  many  cases  forced 
by  the  House  of  Commons,  of  which 
the  first  duty  is  to  curtail  it;  secondly, 
that  the  appetite,  to  which  it  is,  in  my 
opinion,  partly  due,  is  as  yet  unsated 
and  menaces  further  demands;  thirdly, 
that  promises  of  retrenchment  given  to 
the  country  on  the  Abolition  of  Pur- 
chase in  1871  by  the  Government  of 
the  day  have  not  been  redeemed; 
fourthly,  that  the  dangerous  invasion 
by  the  House  of  Commons  of  the  prov- 
ince of  the  Executive  with  regard  to 
expenditure  betokens  a  prevailing  in- 
difference to  the  subject  in  the  country. 
It  is  true,  however,  that,  though  our 
expenditure  is  greatly  swollen,  our 
finance  is  not  demoralized.  The  public 
credit  has  been  vigorously  maintained: 
our  debt  (since  1816)  has  been  reduced 
by  more  than  150  millions,  and  we  no 
longer  enjoy  the  melancholy  distinction 
of  being  the  most  indebted  people  in 
the  world.  But  on  the  whole  I  am  un- 
able to  dcnv  that  the  State  and  the  na- 
tion  have  lost  ground  with  respect  to 
the  .^reat  business  of  controlling  the 
public   charge,   and   I  rejoice  in   any 


occurrence  which  may  give  a  chance, 
however  slender,  of  regaining  it. 

Let  us  not,  however,  overstate  the 
matter.  It  is  an  item  in  the  account, 
but  an  item  only.  There  is  an  ascemus 
Averni  for  the  nation,  if  it  will  face 
the  hill.  The  general  balance  of  the 
present  survey  is  not  disturbed. 

It  is  perhaps  of  interest  to  turn  from 
such  dry  outlines  as  may  be  sketched 
by  the  aid  of  almanacs  to  those  more 
delicate  gradations  of  the  social  move- 
ment, which  in  their  detail  are  indeter- 
minate and  almost  fugitive,  but  which 
in  their  mass  may  be  appreliended  and 
made  the  subject  of  record.  The  gross 
and  cruel  sports,  which  were  rampant 
in  other  da>s,  have  almost  passed  from 
view,  and  are  no  longer  national. 
Where  they  remain,  they  have  submitted 
to  forms  of  greater  refinement.  Pugil- 
ism,, which  ranges  between  manlinej?8 
and  brutality,  and  which  in  the  days  of 
my  boyhood  on  its  greatest*  celebrations 
almost  monopolized  the  space  of  jour- 
nals of  the  highest  order,  is  now  rare, 
modest,  and  unobtrusive.  But,  if  less 
exactmg  in  the  matter  of  violent  physi- 
cal excitements,  the  nation  attaches  not 
less  but  more  value  to  corporal  educa- 
tion, and  for  the  schoolboy  and  the  man 
alike  athletics  are  becoming  an  ordinaiy 
incident  of  life.  Under  the  influence 
of  better  conditions  of  living,  and  prob- 
ably of  increased  self-respect,  mendicity, 
except  in  seasons  of  special  distress,  has 
nearly  disappeared.  If  our  artisans 
combine  (as  they  well  may)  partly  to 
uphold  their  wages,  it  is  also  greatly 
with  the  noble  object  of  keeping  all 
the  members  of  their  enormous  class 
independent  of  public  alms.  They  have 
forwarded  the  cause  of  self-denial,  and 
manfully  defended  themselves  even 
against  themselves,  by  promoting 
restraints  upon  the  traffic  in  strong 
liquors.  In  districts  where  they  are 
most  advanced,  they  have  fortiliecl 
their  position  by  organized  cooperation 


"LOCKSLEY  HALL-  AND  THE  JUBILEE. 


89B 


\ 


in  supply:  and  the  capitalist  will  have 
no  jealousy  of  their  competition,  should 
they  succeed  in  showing  that  they  can 
on  a  scale  of  sensible  magnitude  assume 
a  portion  of  his  responsibilities,  either 
of  the  soil  or  in  the  workshop. 

Nor  are  the  beneficial  changes  of  the 
last  half-century  confined  to  the  masses. 
Swearing  and  duelling,  established  until 
a  recent  date  almost  as  institutions  of 
tlie  country,   have  nearly  disappeared 
from  the  face  of  society:  the   first  a 
gradual  change;  the  second  one  not  less 
s  id'len  than  it  was  marvelous,  and  one 
happily  not  followed  by  the  social  tres- 
passes which  it  was  not  wholly  unreas- 
onable to  apprehend  from  its  abolition. 
Serious,  as  opposed  to  idle  life,  has  be- 
come a  reality,  and  a  groat  reality,  in 
quarters  open  to  peculiar  temptation; 
for  example,  among  the  officers  of  the 
army,  and  at  our  public  schools,  which 
are    among    the   toost    marked    and 
national  of  our  institutions.    The  clergy 
of  the  Anglican  Church  have  been  not 
merely  improved,  but  transformed ;  and 
have  greatly  enlarged  their  influence 
during  a  time  when  voluntary  and  Non- 
conforming effort,  within  their  province 
and  beyond  it,  and  most  of  all  in  Scot- 
land, hag^chieved  its  noblest  truimphs. 
At  the  same  time,  that  disposition  to 
lay  bare  public  mischiefs  and  drag  them 
into  the  light  of  day,  which,   tliough 
liable  to  exaggeration,  has  perhaps  been 
our  best  distinction  among  the  nations, 
has  become  more  resolute  than  ever. 
The  multiplioation  and    better  forma- 
tion of  the  institutions  of  benevoknce 
among  us  are  but  symptomatic  indica- 
tions of  a  wider  and  deeper  change:  a 
silent  but  more  extensive  and  practical 
acknowledgment  of  the   great   second 
commandment,  of  the  d'uties  of  wealth 
to  poverty,  of  strength  to  weakness,  of 
knowledge  to  ignorance,  in  a  word  of 
man   to   man.     And   the  sum   of  tlie 
matter  seems  to  be  that  upon  the  whole, 
and  in  a  degree,   we  who  lived  fifty. 


sixty,  seventy  years  back,  and  are  living 
now,  have  lived  into  a  gentler  time; 
that  the  public  conscience  has  grown 
more  tender,  as  indeed  was  very  need- 
ful; and  that,  in  matters  of  practice,  at 
sight  of  evils^  formerly  regarded  with 
indifference  or  even  connivance,  it  now 
not  only  winces  but  rebels:  that  upon 
the  whole  the  race  has  been  reaping, 
and  not  scattering;  earning,  and  not 
wasting;  and  that,  without  its  being 
said  that  the  old  Prophet  is  wrong,  it 
may  be  said  that  the  young  Prophet 
was  unquestionably  right. 

But  do  not  let  us  put  to  hazard  his 
lessons,  by  failing  to  remember  that 
every  blessing  has  its  drawbacks  and 
every  age  its  dangers.  I  wholly  reserve 
my  judgment  on  changes  now  passing 
in  the  world  of  thought,  and  of  inward 
conviction.  I  confine  myself  to  what 
is  nearer  the  surface;  and  further,  I 
exclude  from  view  all  that  regards  the 
structure  and  operation  of  political 
party.  So  confining  myself,  I  observe 
that,  in  the  sphere  of  the  sti^e,  the 
business  of  the  last  half-century  has 
been  in  the  main  a  process  of  setting 
free  the  individual  man,  that  he  may 
work  out  his  vocation  without  wanton 
hindrance,  as  his  Maker  will  leave  him 
do.  If,  instead  of  this.  Government  is 
to  work  out  his  vocation  for  him,  I  for 
one  am  not  sanguine  as  to  the  result. 
Let  us  beware  of  that  imitative  luxury, 
which  is  tempting  all  of  us  to  ape  our 
betters.  Let  us  remember,  that  in  our 
best  achievements  lie  hid  the  seeds  of 
danger;  and  beware  lest  the  dethrone- 
ment of  Custom  to  make  place  for 
Kight  should  displace  along  with  it 
that  principle  of  Reverence  which  be- 
stows a  discipline  absolutely  invaluable 
in  the  formation  of  character.  We 
have  had  plutocrats  who  were  patterns 
of  every  virtue,  as  may  well  be  said  in 
an  age  which  has  known  Samuel  Mor- 
ley:  but  let  us  be  jealous  of  plutocracy, 
and  of   its  tendency  to  infect  aristoc- 


804 


THE  LIBRAKY  MAGAZINE.  • 


racy,  its  elder  and  nobler  sister;  and 
learn,  if  we  can,  to  hold  by  or  get  back 
some  regard  for  simplicity  of  life.  Let 
us  respect  the  ancient  manners;  and 
recollect  that,  if  the  true  soul  of  chiv- 
uh'y  has  died  among  us,  with  it  all  that 
is  good  in  society  has  died.  Let  us 
cherish  a  sober  mind;  take  for  granted 
that  in  our  best  performances  there  are 
latent  many  errors  which  in  their  own 
time  will  come  to  light;  and  thank  our 
present  teacher  for  reminding  us  in  his 
stately  words: 

Forward,  then,  but  still  remember,  how  the 
course  of  Time  will  swerve, 

Crook  and  turn  upon  itself  in  many  a  back- 
ward streaming  curve. 

And  now  a  closing  word.  There  is  a 
circle  of  elect  spirits,  to  whom  the 
whole  strain  of  this  paper  will,  it  is 
most  likely,  seem  to  be  beside  the  mark. 
A  criticism  on  the  new  volume  in  the 
Spectator,  bearing  the  signs  of  a  mas- 
ter-hand justly  (as  I  think)  praises  the 
chief  poem,  in  a  temper  unalloyed  by 
the  fears  which  weaker  men  may  enter- 
tain, lest  by  other  men  weaker  still  ic 
may  be  taken  for  a  deliberate  authorita- 
tive estimate  of  the  time,  and  if  so  taken 
may  be  made  and  excused  for  the  in- 
dulgence of  the  opposite  but  often  con- 
curring weakness  of  a  carping  and  alsi> 
of  a  morbid  temper.  If  I  understand 
the  criticism  rightly,  it  finds  a  perfect 
harmony,  a  true  equation  between  the 
two  Lock$ley  Halls;  the  warmer  picture 
due  to  the  ample  vitality  of  the  rroph- 
et's  youth,  and  the  colder  one  not  less 
due  to  the  stinted  vitality  of  his  age.  In 
passing  I  may  just  observe  that  this 
stinted  vitality  can  strike  like  a  spent 
cannon-ball.  But  at  all  events  we  must 
in  this  view  not  merely  accept,  we  must 
carry  along  with  us  in  living  conscious- 
ness, the  proposition  that  the  poems  are 
purely  subjective;  that  they  do  not  deal 
witli  the  outward  world  at  all;  that 
their  imagery  is  like  the  perception  of 


color  by  the  eye,  and  tells  us  only  our  own 
impression  of  the  thing,  not  at  all  the 
thing  itself.  Provided  with  this  mblu, 
we  can  safely  confront  any  Cire^,  and 
defy  all  her  works.  But  it  is  not  a  spe- 
cific that  all  men  are  able  to  *'keep  iu 
stock;"  and,  for  such  as  have  it  not, 
the  minutes  spent  upon  this  rouglily 
drawn  paper  will  possiblv  not  have  been 
wasted,  if  it  shall  have  helped  to  show 
thcai  that  their  country  is  still  young 
as  well  as  old,  and  that  in  these  latest 
days  it  has  not  been  unworthy  of  iti?clf. 
Justice  does  not  require,  nay  rather  she 
forbids,  that  the  Jubilee  of  the  Queen 
be  marred,  by  tragic  tones. — W.  E. 
Gladstone,  in  The  Nineteenth  Cen- 
tury. 


THE  AGGRESSIVE  WEEDS. 

• 
A  point  of  primary  importance  in  a 
first   view  of  north-eastern  America  to 
a  European  tourist  is  the  extraordinary 
and  unexpected  extent  to  which   the 
commonest  European  weeds  and  wild 
flowers    have    overrun    and    occupied 
the    habitable    and    agricultural    por- 
tions  of   New   England,   the    Middle 
States,  the  MTstern  grain  district,  and 
the   Dominion   of  Canada.*   A    Euro- 
pean botanist  in  America  who  confined 
himself  exclusively   to  the   cultivated 
fields,  the  roadsides  and  commons,  the 
neighborhood  of  great  towns,  and  the 
outskirts  of  villages  in  the  alluvial  val- 
leys, would  hardly  ever  light  upon  an 
unfamiliar  or  local  form   among  the 
thousands  of  plants  that  he  saw  com- 
peting eagerly  for  life  in  the  meadows 
and    pastures    around    him.     Thistles 
and  burdocks^  mayweed  and  dead-net- 
tle,   copimon    buttercup    and    ox-eve 
daises,    English    grasses    and   English 
clover,  with  the  familiar  weeds  of  our 
cornfield  and  our  garden,  would  6evm 
to  him  to  compose  the  main  mass  and 
central   phalanx  of  American    vegetft- 


THE  AGGRESSIVE  WEEDS. 


S95 


tion.  Where  the  flora  is  not  the  com- 
mon weedy  assemblage  of  Sussex  or  of 
Normandy,  it  is  the  common  weedy  as- 
semblage of  the  Mediterranean  and  the 
Lombard  plains.  Once  get  well  away 
from  the  purlieus  of  civilization,  to  be 
sure,  into  the  woods  and  forests,  or  on 
to  the  intervening  watersheds,  and  the 
whole  character  of  the  flora  changes 
abruptly.  But  fn  civilized,  cultivated, 
and  inhabitated  New  England,  and  as 
far  inland  at  least  as  the  Mississippi,  the 
vegetation  is  the  vegetation  of  settled 
Europe,  and  that  at  its  weediest.  The 
daisy,  the  primrose,  the  cowslip,  and 
the  daffodil  have  stopped  at  home:  the 
weeds  have  gone  to  colonize  the  New 
World.  For  thistles  and  groundsel, 
for  catmint  and  mullein,  for  hounds- 
tongue  and  stickseed,  for  dandelion 
and  cocklebur,  America  easy  licks  crea- 
tion. All  the  dusty  and  noisome  and 
malodorous  pests  of  all  the  world  seem 
here  to  revel  in  one  grand  congenial 
democratic  orgy. 

The  reason  is  not  far  to  seek,  and  it 
suggests  unpleasant  and  dis(^uieting 
suspicions  as  to  the  future  which  our 
scratch  civilization  holds  in  store  for 
us  all  the  world  over.  These  vigorous 
and  obtrusive  weeds,  which  have  taken 
possession  of  America  and  Australia  and 
New  Zealand  and  the  Cape,  side  by 
side  with  the  deluge  of  white  coloniza- 
tion, are  for  the  most  part  of  western  Asi- 
atic or  Mediterranean  origin,  and  have 
accompanied  the  seeds  of  wheat  and 
fodder  crops  from  land  to  land  wher- 
ever the  white  man's  foot  is  planted. 
Dr.  Asa  Gray  (from  whose  great  and 
just  authority  I  am  here  tempted  to 
differ  widely)  thinks  that  the  common 
European  weeds  spread  so  rapidly  and 
so  effectively  over  America,  not  through 
any  inherent  vigor  of  constitution  evolv- 
ed during  the  fierce  struggle  against  ag- 
gressive man,  but  merely  because  there 
was  then  and  there  a  vacancy  created 
for  them.    I  wish  I  could  agree  with 


him.  It  would  remove  from  my  mind 
a  pressing  nightmare  for  the  future  of 
nature  and  of  the  world's  scenery. 
"•This  was  a  region  of  forest/'  says  th© 
Harvard  botanist,  *'upon  which  the 
aborigines,  although  they  here  and 
there  opened  patches  of  land  for^culti- 
vation,  had  made  no  permanent  en- 
croachment. Not  very  much  of  the 
herbaceous  or  other  low  undergrowth 
of  this  forest  could  bear  exposure  to 
the  fervid  summer  sun;  and  the  change 
was  too  abrupt  for  adaptive  modificar 
tion.  The  plains  and  prairies  of  the 
great  Mississippi  valley  were  then  too 
remote  for  their  vegetation  to  compete 
for  the  vacancy  which  was  made  here 
when  forest  was  changed  to  grain- 
fields,  and  then  to  meadow  and  pasture. 
And  so  the  vacancy  came  to  be  filled  in 
a  notable  measure  by  agrestial  plants 
from  Europe"  [horrid  word,  agrestial!], 
'*the  seeds  of  which  came  in  seed-grain, 
in  the  coats  and  fleeces,  and  in  the  im- 
ported fodder,  of  cattle  and  sheep.  .  .  . 
while  an  agricultural  people  displaced 
the  aborigines  whom  the  forest  sheltered 
and  nourished,  the  herbs  purposely  or 
accidentally  brought  with  them  took 
possession  of  the  clearings,  and  pre- 
vailed more  or  less  over  the  native  and 

rightful  heirs  to  the  soil In 

spring  time  you  would  have  seen  the 
fields  of  this  district  yellow  with  Euro- 
pean buttercups  and  dandelions,  then 
whitened  with  the  ox-eye  daisy,  and  at 
midsummer -brightened  by  the  cerulean 
blue  of  chicory.  I  can  hardly  name 
any  native  herbs  which  in  the  fields 
and  at  the  season  can  vie  with  these 
intruders  in  floral  show." 

But  Dr.  Gray  does  not  think  the 
weeds  have  conquered  by  virtue  of 
their  inherent  vigor  of  constitution. 
There,  I  fear,  pessimistic  as  my  con-, 
elusion  may  he  in  its  final  implication, 
I  must  venture  to  differ  from  him. 
The  common  agricultural  nuisances  of 
Western   Europe^   which   alone   have 


896 


THE  LIBtfARY  MAGAZINE. 


flooded  America  and  Australia,  and 
threaten  to  flood  the  cosmopolitan ized 
world,  to  the  destruction  of  all  pictur- 
esque diversity  and  variety  or  local 
flora,  are  not  truly  European  by  origin 
at  all,  but  are  the  offscourings,  and  re- 
fuse of  civilization  in  all  countries, 
ages,  and  conditions.  These  pertin- 
acious plants,  most  of  them  marked  by 
two  sets  of  alternative  peculiarities, 
came  to  us  first  from  farther  east,  and 
took  in  on  their  way  most  of  the  like- 
minded  scrubby  weeds  of  intervening 
regions.  They  are  usually  either  ill- 
scented  to  the  nose  or  acrid  and  disa- 
greeable to  the  taste;  and  they  have 
usually  either  adherent  fruits,  like 
burrs  and  cleavers,  houndstongue  and 
teasel,  or  winged  and  flying  seeds,  like 
thistle  and  dandelion^  groundsel  and 
fleabane.  Often,  too,  they  sting  like 
nettles,  or  prick  like  cocklebur,  or  tear 
the  skin  liEe  brambles  and  rest-harrow. 
In  short,  they  are  the  champaign  types 
of  dusty  weeds,  which  resist  by  their 
nastiness  or  their  thorns  the  attacks  of 
herbivores,  love  the  garish  heat  of  the 
midday  sun,  and  disperse  their  germs 
over  wide  plains  either  by  the  aid  of 
the  wind  or  by  unwilling  conveyance 
of  man,  sheep,  goats,  and  cattle.  Fol- 
lowing the  movements  of  agricultural 
humanity  from  the  east  westward,  they 
have  first  occupied  the  once  forest-clad 
regions  of  peninsular  Europe,  and 
there  assimilating  whatever  lite  kinds 
could  stand  the  new  conditions,  have 
gone  forth  on  colonizing  and  filibus- 
tering expeditions  over  all  the  rest  of 
the  habitable  world. 

In  America  the  same  process  is  now 
being  continued  under  our  very  eyes. 
Such  hateful  native  species  as  most 
nearly  resembled  in  type  the  European 
weeds  have  ahme  survived,  in  the  cul- 
tivable valleys,  this  vast  influx  of  the 
tolerated  pests  of  civilization.  Tne 
ugly  and  malodorous  European  hound- 
tongue  holds  every  dusty  roadside  in 


the  states;  but,  cheek  by  jowl  with  '- 
the  native  beggar's-lice — *'a  common 
and  vile  weed,     savs  Asa  Grav,   with 
righteous    indignation — flourishes    ex- 
ceedingly in   squalid  spots  under  the 
selfsame    condition.     And    why?    Be- 
cause its  habit  is  just  as  coarse,  its 
smell  just  as  rank  and  disgusting,  its 
horrid   little   nutlets  just  as  prickly, 
barbed,  and   adherent  as  those  of  its 
successful  Old  World  competitor.     The 
seeds  of  both  get  carried  about  and 
dispersed  indiscriminately  together  in 
the  fleeces  of  sheep  and  the   hair  of 
sheepdogs.     So,   too,  the  continental 
European    stickseed    (Echinospei'vum 
lappula),    equally     vile    and    equally 
nauseous    in    smell,     occupies    every 
w^aste  patch  of  building-ground  in  the 
towns  and  villages  east  of  the  Missis- 
sippi, while  in  Minnesota  and  westward 
its  place  is  filled  by  Redowski's  stick- 
seed,  an  allied  native  x\merican  prairie 
l)lant,  with   the  same  prickly  adhesive 
nuts,  and  the  same  abominable  cling- 
ing perfume.     Once  more;  our  South 
European  cocklebur  {Xanthinvi  dm- 
marinm),  a  degraded   and    degenerate 
composite  weed,  with   hooked  prickly 
fruits    and    a    disagreeable   scrofulous 
smell,  like  mayweed   and  chrysanthe- 
mum, common  along  the  roadsides  of 
Provence  and  Italy,  has  probably  been 
indigenous    in   Eastern   America  ever 
since  the  Pliocene  times,  and  has  there 
also  developed  southward  a  still  more 
noxious  and  prickly  variety,  called  from 
its  intense  thorniness,  echinatuin.    But 
farther  south  yet  its  place  in  tropical 
latitudes  is  taken  by  a  peculiarly  Am- 
erican  form,  the  spiny  clotbur  {Xon- 
thhtm  spinostnn),  which  adds  to  the 
already  ofl'ensive  parent  type  the  fur- 
ther atrocity  of  a  long  tripartite  prickle, 
deftlv  inserted  at  the  ba^^e  of  each  lenf. 
This  most  terrible  development  of  the 
cocklebur  kind    belongs    by  origin  to 
tropical   ^lexico,   where  it   pushes  iti^ 
way  stoutly  among  the  prickly  aloes, 


THE  AGGRESSIVE  WEEDS. 


897 


cactuses,  and  piiiguins  of  that  very  de- 
fensive and  strongly  armed  desert  flora. 
Xow,  the  terror  for  the  future  sug- 
gested by  these  native  American  weeds 
is   just  this:  that  in  the  cosmopolitan 
world  of  the  next  century  the  cosmo- 
politan weed  will  have  things  all  its 
own  way.     Western  Asia  and  Europe 
luive  long  since  furnished  each  its  quo- 
tum to  the  world's  weedy  vegetation; 
America  and  Australia,  China  and  Ja- 
pan, have  their  own  quota  still  to  come. 
Already  a  few  pushing  American  scrub- 
phmts  have  invaded  the  older  quarters 
of   the  globe.    "The  Canadian   butter- 
weed  {Erigeron  Ca7iaden,sis)  has  spread 
boldly  over  the  whole  Mediterranean 
shore,  as    well    as  into  India,   South 
Africa,  and  perhaps  Australia.     I  find 
it    now  well    established    among    the 
Surrey  hills,  and   beginning  to  feel  its 
wav   thence  in  an  acclimatized  form 
over  all  the  rest  of  Southern  England. 
The  improved  American  variety  of  the 
cocklebur  Jias  long  since  made  good  its 
foothold  over  every  warmer  region  of 
the   world.      The    pretty   little  white 
clavtonia  of  the  Xorth-western  States 
has  of  late  years   become  a  common 
weed  in  many  parts  of  Lancashire  and 
Oxfordshire,  and  occurs  also  in  some 
comers  of  Surrey.     Southern   Europe 
has  now  many  of  these  stray  American 
denizens,  the  first  fruits  of  a  future 
abundant  crop,  all  of  them  thoroughly 
weedy  in  type,  and  all  dispersed  in  the 
true   weedy  fashion  by  feathery  seeds 
or  adhesive  nutlets. 

As  yet,  however,  we  have  but  seen 
the  mere  straggling  advance-guard  of 
the  great  weedy  American  army.  The 
main  body  still  loiters  in  the  rear. 
Xevertheless,  it  will  come  in  time.  As 
surely  as  we  shall  see  the  Colorado 
beetle  and  the  Hessian  fly  on  English 
corn  and  English  potatoes,  so  surely 
shall  we  see  the  western  weeds  invade 
and  appropriate  the  scanty  interstices 
of  Europoam  field  crops.     Many  true 


weeds,  with  all  the  genuine  weedy 
peculiarities,  have  already  developed 
themselves  on  the  spot  out  of  American 
native  plants.  Some  of  them  belong 
by  origin  to  the  Eastern  States,  like 
the  Massachusetts  nettle,  the  rich  weed, 
the  smaller  American  spurges,  and  the 
three-seeded  mercury.  All  these  have 
now  acquired  a  thoroughly  weedy  habit 
and  aspect;  they  compete  successfully 
in  certain  places  even  with  the  old  and 
sophisticated  European  or  West  Asiatic 
immigrants,  such  as  shepherd's  purse, 
mallow,  vetches,  and  chickweed: 
Others  are  of  Southern,  or  even  tropi- 
cal, American  antecedents,  like  tne 
Mexican  prickly  poppy  and  the  apple 
of  Peru.  Prickly  pears,  with  their 
broad  leaf -like  cactus  stems  and  troub- 
lesome hairs,  cover  sandy  patches  as  far 
north  as  Nantucket  Island  ;  the  com- 
mon sunflower  sow6  itself  as  a  weed  in 
Pennsylvania ;  the  Peruvian  galinsoga 
(now  also  escaping  in  England  from 
Kew  Gardens)  has  long  established 
itself  on  waste  places  in  the  Eastern 
States,  and  is  rapidly  spreading  from 
year  to  year  as  a  pest  of  the  roadsides. 
These  pertinacious  tropical  species, 
accommodating  themselves  by  degrees 
to  more  northern  climates,  grow  side  by 
side  in  New  England  fields  with  the 
South  European  caltrops,  the  Indian 
abutilon,  the  African  sida,  and  the 
native  bur-marigold,  whose  barbed  ar- 
rows cling  so  tightly  to  the  fleece  of 
animals  and  the  nether  garments  of 
wayfaring  humanity.  Hindoo  impor- 
tations, like  the  Indian  heliotrope,  the 
cypress-vine,  the  thorn-apple,  and  the 
opium-poppy,  are  likewise  everywhere 
frequent  in  the  States;  and  mixed  wit'i 
them  we  see  such  cosmopolitan  non- 
descript outcasts  as  the  goose-foots,  the 
pig-weeds,  and  the  thorny  amaranths, 
which  at  present  invade  every  portion 
of  our  cultivable  soil  all  the  world  over, 
in  tropical,  sub-tropical,  and  temperate 
climates. 


898 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


Nor  is  this  all.  The  western  prairie 
region,  an  open  plain  country,  admira- 
bly adapted  oy  nature  for  the  evolution 
of  weeds  of  cultivation,  is  just  begin- 
ning to  send  eastward  its  own  rich 
contingent  to  compete  with  the  Euro- 
pean and  Asiatic  and  Atlantic  types  for 
the  waste  places  of  cosmopolitan  civil- 
ization. A  bristly  cone-flower  {Rudhec- 
hia  hirta),  unknown  till  lately  east  of 
the  Mississippi  Valley,  has  been  intro- 
duced of  recent  vears  with  Western 
clover-seed  into  the  Atlantic  States, 
and  now  brightens  profusely  with  its 
unwelcome  golden  flowers  the  farmer's 
meadows  from  Canada  to  Maryland. 
** Almost  every  year,"  says  Asa  Gray, 
"gives  new  examples  of  the  immigra- 
tion of  campestrine  Western  plants  into 
the  Eastern  States.  They  are  well  up 
to  the  spirit  of  the  age:  they  travel  by 
railway.  The  seed?  are  transported, 
some  in  the  coats  of  cattle  and  sheep 
on  the  way  to  market,  others  in  the 
food  which  supports  them  on  the  jour- 
ney, and  many  in  a  way  which  you 
might  not  suspect,  until  you  consider 
that  these  great  roads  run  east  and 
weet,  that  the  prevalent  winds  are  from 
westward,  ....  and  that  the  bared 
and  unkempt  borders  of  the  railways 
form  capital  seed-beds  and  nurseries 
for  such  plants.'* 

The  invasion,  then,  with  which  the 
world  is  now  threatened  is  an  invasion 
of  the  cosmopblitanized  weed  from 
everywhere,  to  the  utter  extinction  (in 
tilled  soil  at  least)  of  all  the  beautiful 
local  plants  which  to-day  give  interest 
and  variety  and  novelty  to  each  fresh 
quarter  of  the  world  we  visit.  The 
loss  would  be — perhaps  we  must  say, 
will  be  —  incalculable.  A  weed  has 
been  defined,  on  the  false  analogy  of 
the  famous  definition  of  dirt,  as  merely 
a  plant  in  the  wrong  place.  But  it  is 
far  more  than  that:  it  has  positive  as 
well  aa  negative  qualities.  The  word 
weed  implies  something  further  than 


mere  abstract  hostility  to  the  agricul- 
tural interest ;  it  implies  a  certain  in- 
grained coarseness,scrubbinefis,  squalor, 
and  sordidness,  besides  connotin|;  in 
nine  cases  out  of  ten,  soxiie  stringmess 
of  fiber,  hairiness  of  surface,  or  prickly 
defensive  character  as  well.  Sucn 
noxious  and  dusty  roadside  plants,  of 
which  thistles,  nettles,  henbane,  and 
mullein  may  be  taken  as  fair  average 
types,  are  beginning  to  turn  the  whole 
world  in  our  own  day  into  one  vast 
weed-bed  of  universal  sameness.  We 
are  getting  cosmopolitanized  too  fast, 
to  the  detriment  of  all  picturesque  di- 
versity and  individuality  of  country  or 
nation.  The  Empress  of  Japan  has 
ordered  a  complete,  wardrobe  from  Pa- 
risian milliners.  King  Kalakaua  of 
Hawaii  dresses  in  the  full  uniform  of 
an  American  major-general.  Sitting 
Bull  and  Big  Bear  accept  with  effusion 
the  inevitable  chimney  pat.  Zulu  and 
Kanaka  take  to  Snidera  in  the  place 
of  their  aboriginp'  assegais  or  boome- 
rangs. Ah  Sing  washes  clothes  in  Bos- 
ton and  Chicago.  Wampum  and  cal- 
umets, bead  kirtles  and  flower  girdles, 
fezes  and  turbans,  flowing  robes  and 
nude  brown  busts,  are  all  unhappily 
doomed  to  proximate  extinction.  The 
coolie,  the  potato-beetle,  and  tlie/ Cana- 
da thistle  will  pervade  the  world.  In 
a  few  generations,  the  whole  earth  will 
be  one  big  dead-level  America,  as  hke 
as  two  peas  from  end  to  end,  dressed 
in  the  same  stereotyped  black  coat  and 
round  felt  hat,  enjoving  a  single  uni- 
form civilization,  an3  looking  out  upon 
a  single  uniform  landscape  of  assorted 
European,  Asiatic,  American,  African, 
and  Australian  weeds,  diversified  here 
and  there  by  the  congenial  architecture 
of  railwir^  arches,  crematoriums,  gas- 
ometers. Board  schools.  Salvation  Army 
barracks  and  main  drainage  works.— 
Grant  Allen,  in  The  Fortnightly 
Review. 


THE  LITERARY  PENDULUM. 


THE  LITERARY  PENDULUM. 

"After  all,"  said  the  great  advocate 
Rufus  Choate,  "a  book  is  the  only  ira- 
mortalily."  That  was  the  Jawyer's 
point  of  view;  but  the  author  knows 
that,  even  after  the  book  is  published 
the  immortality  is  often  still  to  seek. 
In  the  depressed  moods  of  the  advocate 
or  the  statesman,  he  is  apt  to  imagine 
himself  writing  a  book;  and  when  this 
is  done  it  is  easy  enough  to  carry  the 
imagination  a  step  farther  and  to  make 
the  work  a  magnificent  success;  jyst 
as,  if  you  choose  to  fancy  yourself  an 
Englishman,,  it  is  as  easy  to  be  a  duke 
as  a  tinker.  But  the  professional  au- 
thor is  more  often  like  Christopher  Sly, 
whose  dukedom  is  in  dreams;  and  he 
is  fortunate  if  he  does  not  say  of  his 
own  career  with  Christopher,  "A  very 
excellent  piece  of  work,  good  madam 
ladv.     Would  'twere  doner' 

tn  our  college  days  we  are  told  that 
men  change  while  books  remain  un- 
changed. But  in  a  very  few  years  we 
find  that  the  circle  of  Dooks  alters  as 
swiftly  and  strangely  as  that  of  the 
«men  who  write  or  the  boys  who  read 
them.  When  the  late  Dr.  Walter 
Channing,  of  Boston,  was  revisiting  in 
old  age  his  birthplace,  Newport,  11.  I., 
be  requested  me  to  take  nim  to  tiie 
Redwood  Library,  of  which  he  had 
been  librarian  some  sixty  years  before. 
He  presently  asked  the  librarian,  with 
an  eagerness  at  first  inexplicable,  for  a 
certain  book,  whose  name  I  had  never 
before  heard.  With  some  diflSculty  the 
custodian  hunted  it  up,  entombed  be- 
neath other  dingy  folios  in  a  dusty  cup- 
board. Nobody,  he  said,  had  ever 
before  asked  for  it  during  his  adminis- 
tration. "Strangel"  said  Dr.  Chan- 
ning,  turning  over  the  leaves,  "this  was 
in  my  time  the  show-book  of  the  col- 
lection; people  came  here  purposely  to 
see  it."  He  closed  it  with  a  sigh, 
ftMfll  it  was  replMed  in  its  erypt.     Dr. 


Channing  is  dead;  the  librarian  who 
unearthed  the  bo^k  is  since  dead,  and 
I  have,  forgotten  its  very  title.  In  all 
coming  time,  probably,  its  repose  will 
be  as  undisturbed  as  that  of  Hans  An- 
dersen's forgotten  Christmas-tree  in  the 
garret.  Did  then  the  authorship  of 
that  book  give  to  its  author  so  very 
substantial  a  hold  on  immortality. 

But  there  is  in  literary  fame  such  a 
thing  as  recurrence — a  swing  of  the 
pendulum  which  at  first  brings  despair 
to  the  young  author,  yet  yields  him  at 
last  his  only  consolation.  Ueternite 
est  une  pendule,  wrote  Jacques  Bri- 
daine,  that  else  forgotten  Frenchman 
whose  phrase  gave  Longfellow  the  hint 
of  his  Old  Clock  on  the  Stair.  When 
our  professors  informed  us  that  books 
remain  unchanged,  those  of  us  who 
were  studious  at  once  pinched  ourselves 
to  buy  books;  but  the  authors  for  whom 
we  made  economies  in  our  wardrobe 
are  now  as  obsolete,  very  likely,  as  the 
garments  that  we  exchanged  for  them. 
No  undergraduate  would  now  take  oflf 
my  hands  at  half  price,  probably,  the 
sets  of  Lander's  Imaginary  Conversa' 
tions  and  Coleridge  s  Literary  Be- 
mai7is,  which  it  once  seemed  worth  a 
■month  of  threadbare  elbows  to  possess. 
I  lately  called  the  attention  of  a  young 
philologist  to  a  tolerably  full  set  of 
Thomas  Taylor's  translations,  and 
found  that  he  had  never  heard  of  even 
the  name  of  that  servant  of  obscure 
learning.  In  college  we  studied  Cousin 
and  Jouffroy,  and  he  who  remembers 
the  rise  and  fall  of  all  that  ambitious 
school  of  French  eclectics,  can  hardly 
be  sure  of  the  permanence  of  Herbert 
Spencer,  the  first  man  since  them  who 
has  undertaken  to  explain  the  whole 
universe  of  being.  How  we  used  to 
read  Hazlitt,  whose  very  name  is  so 
forgotten  that  an  accomplished  author 
has  lately  duplicated  the  title  of  his 
most  remarkable  book.  Liber  Amoris, 
without  knowing  that  it  had  been  used 


40« 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


before!  What  a  chai:m  Irving  threw 
about  the  literarv  career  of  Roscoe;  but 
who  now  recognizes  his  name?  Ar- 
dent youths,  eager  to  combine  intel- 
le<:*.tual  and  worldly  success*  fed  them- 
selves in  those  days  on  Felham  and 
Vivian  Orey^  but  these  works  are  not 
now  ev«n  included  in  '*  Courses  of 
Reading" — that  last  intirmity  of  noble 
fames.  One  may  look  in  vain  through 
the  vast  mausoleum  of  Bartlett's  Dic- 
tionary of  Quotations  for  even  that 
one  maxim  of  costume,  which  was 
Felham\s  bid  for  immortality.  *'There 
is  safety  in  a  swallow-tail." 

Literary  fame  is  then  by  no  means  a 
fixed  increment,  but  a  series  of  vibra- 
tions of  the  pendulum.  Ha]*py  is  that 
author  who  comes  to  be  benefited  J)y 
an  actual  return  of  reputation — as  ath- 
letes get  beyond  the  period  of  breath- 
lessness  and  come  to  their  * 'second 
wind."  Yet  this  is  constantly  hap- 
pening. Emerson,  visiting  Landor  in 
1847,  wrote  in  his  diary,  '"lie  pestered 
me  with  Sou  they — but  who  is  South- 
cy?"  Now  Southey  had  tasted  fame 
more  promptly  than  his  greater  con- 
temporaries, and  liked  the  taste  so  well 
that  he  held  his  own  poems  far  superior 
to  th'os3  of  Wordsworth,  and  wrote  of 
them,  "With  Virgil,  with  Tasso,  with 
Homer^  there  are  fair  grounds  of  com- 

Sarison."  Then  followed  a  period 
uring  which  the  long  sliades  of  ob- 
livion seemed  to  have  closed  over  the 
author  of  Madnc  and  KehamaT  Be- 
hold! in  1886  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette, 
revising  through  '*the  best  critics"  Sir 
James  Lubbock's  Hundred  Best  Books, 
dethrones  Byron,  Shelley,  Coleridge, 
Lamb  and  Landor;  omits  them  all  and 
reinstates  the  forgotten  Southey  once 
more.  Is  this  the  final  award  of  fate? 
"No,  it  is  simply  the  inevitable  swing  of 
the  pendulum. 

Southey,  it  would  seem,  is  to  have 
two  innings;  perhaps  one  day  it  will 
■'**^    be    Havlev'a    turn,      ''  Would  it 


please  you  very  much,"  asks  Warring- 
ton of  Pendennis,  "to  have  been  the 
author  of  Hayley's  verses?"  Yet  Hay- 
ley  was,  in  his  day,  as  Southey  t^tifies, 
"by  popular  election  the  king  of  the 
English  poets;"  and  he  was  held  so 
important  a  personage  that  he  received, 
what  probably  no  other  author  ever 
has  won,  a  large  income  for  the  last 
twelve  years  of  his  life  in  return  for 
the  prospective  copyright  of  his  post- 
humous memoirs.  5liss  Anna  Seward, 
writing  in  1786,  ranks  him.  with  the 
equally  forgotten  Mason,  as  "The  two 
foremost  poets  of  the  day;"  she  calls 
Hayley's  poems  "magnolias,  roses  and 
amaranths,"  and  pronounces  his  esteem 
a  distinction  greater  than  mouarchs 
hold  it  in  their  power  to  bestow.  But 
probably  nine  out  of  ten  who  shall  read 
these  lines  will  have  to  consult  a  bio- 
graphical dictionary  to  find  out  who 
Hayley  was ;  while^  his  odd  protege, 
William  Blake,  whom  the  fine  ladies 
of  the  day  wondered  at  Hayley  for  pa- 
tronizing, is  now  the  favorite  of  litera- 
ture and  art. 

So  strong  has  been  the  recent  swing , 
of  the  pendulum  in  favor  of  what  is 
called  realism  in  fiction,  it  is  very 
possible  that  if  Hawthorne's  Twic£- 
Told  Tales  were  to  appeal*  for  the  first 
time  to-morrow  they  would  attract  no 
more  attention  than  they  did  fifty  years 
ago.  Perhaps  this  gives  half  a  centuiy 
as  the  approximate  measure  of  the  vari- 
ations of  fate — the  periodicity  of  the 
jiendulum.  On  the  other  hand,  Jane 
Austen  who  would,  fifty  years  ago, 
have  been  regarded  as  an  author  suited 
to  desolate  islands  or  long  and  tedious 
illnesses,  has  now  come  to  be  the 
founder  of  a  school ;  and  must  look 
down  benignly  from  Heaven  to  see  the 
brightest  minds  assiduously  at  work 
upon   that   "little  bit  of  ivory,   four 

I  inches  square,"  by  which  she  symbol- 
ized  her   novels.     Then   comes  in,  as 

'  an  alterative,  the  stro ag  Kussian  tribe, 


CUKHENT  THOUGHT. 


401 


claimed  by  realists  as  real,  by  idealists 
as  ideal,  and  perhaps  forcing  the  pen- 
dulum in  a  new  direction.  Nothing, 
surely,  since.  Hawthorne's  death,  has 

fiven  us  so  much  of  the  distinctive 
aver  of  his  genius  as  Tourgueneff's 
extraordinary  Poems  in  Prose  in  the 
admirable  version  of  Mrs.  T.  S.  Perry. 
And  the  great  and  deserved  popularity 
of  Mr.  Stevenson's  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr. 
Hyde  certainly  betokens  a  new  depart- 
ure in  fiction,  unless  all  signs  fail  in 
the  dry  weather  to  which  our  minor 
realists  treat  us. 

But  the  question  after  all  recurs. 
Why  should  we  thus  be  slaves  of  the 
pendulum?  Why  should  we  not  look 
at  these  vast  variations  of  taste  more 
widely  and,  as  it  were,  astronomically, 
to  borrow  Thoreau's  phrase? 

In  the  mind  of  a  healthy  child  there 
is  no  incongruity  between  fairy  tales 
and  the  Rollo  Books;  and  he  passes 
without  disquiet  from  the  fancied 
heart-break  of  a  tin  soldier  to  Jonas 
mending  an  old  rattrap  in  the  barn. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  the  literary  fluctua- 
tion occurs  equally  in  their  case  and  in 
ours,  but  under  different  conditions. 
It  may  be  that,  in  the  greater  mobility 
of  the  child's  nature,  the  pendulum 
can  swing  to  and  fro  in  half  a  second 
of  time  and  without  the  consciousness 
of  effort;  while  in  the  c^se  of  older 
readers,  the  same  vibration  takes  half  a 
century  and  the  angry  debate  of  a 
thousand  journals. — Thomas  Went- 
WORTH  HiGQiNSON,  in  Ths  Independ- 
ent. 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 

Reading  for  Teachers. — ^In  the  new  oiag> 
aziue,  Common  ikhool  Educator,  William  T, 
Harris.  LL.D  ,  gives  a  list  of  twenty-flve 
"iihort«  condensed,  but  genial  and  stimulating 

gieccB— most  of  which  may  be  read  at  an  even- 
ig'M  leisure — which  will  serve  to  give  an  im- 


pulse toward  longer  works  .  .  .  These  pieces, 
if  read  and  re-read  many  times,  allowing  inter- 
vals of  montlis,  will  cullivaie  a  literary  taste 
in  the  right  direction.  They  are  repiesenta- 
live  of  types  of  valuable  literature.  *'  The  fol- 
lowin«j  is  Mr.  Harris's  list : 

1.  Wordsworth's  Ode,   Intimatiomi  of  Im- 
rmrtality,  styled  by  Emerson  the  high- water 


essay,  "jcan  raul  Kicliter  Again, 
Its  content  is  tiie  protest  of  the  heart  against 
atheism  or  pantheism. — 3.  Tfie  Tale.  Trans- 
lated by  Carlyle  from  Qoethe,  with  notes  in- 
dicating its  purport:  an  adumbration  of  the 
evolution  of  ideas  in  modern  history.  The 
reader  will  be  interested  to  read  anotlier  in- 
teresting interpretation  of  this  fairy  story,  in 
Dr.  Hedge's  "Hours  with  German' Classics." 
4.  SiiconUtia,  translated  from  Kalidasa,  the 
East  Indian  poet,  by  Sir  William  Jones  (pub- 
lished in  his  complete  works  and  also  separ- 
ately). This  translation  is  livelier  and  easier 
to  follow  than  the  more  recent  ones,  which 
surpass  it  in  accuracy.  — 5  Chapter  on:  Natural 
Supematuralism  in  Carlyle's  "Sartor  Resar- 
tus.*'— 6.  Emerson's  poems  on  Tii^  TeH  and 
The  mution.—7.  The  FaU  of  the  Hmm  of 
UsJwi^  by  Edgar  A.  Poe.  This  sensational  piece 
by  way  of  variety  ;  it  contains,  imder  a  thin 
veil,  Poe 's  autobiographical  portraiture,  which 
is  again  retiected  entire  in  the  poem,  "The 
Haunted  Palace."— 8.  Odin,  from  Carlyle'a 
"Hero  Worship."— 9.  The  Prose  Edda,  as 
given  in  Mallet's  "Northern  Antiquities." — 
10.  Coleridge's  Ancient  Mariner. — 11  and  1^. 
Chapters  on  .'in  In/^ident  in  Modern  History, 
and  on  Sf/mbfds,  from  Carlvle's  "Sartor  Resar- 
tus."— 13.  Cousin's  History  of  Modern  Phil- 
osophy, first  ten  chapters,  being  an  introduc- 
tion to  the  study  of  philo6oph3\ — 14.  Carlyle's 
essay  on  7'A«  Nibelungen  Lied,  in  his  "Miscel- 
laneous Writings. " — 15.  Longfellow's  transla- 
tion of  Shel ling's  Essay  on  Dante's  Ditina  Com- 
tnedia. — 16.  The  Hero  as  Poet,  Carlyle's  "Hero 
Worship."— 17.  Novalis,  Carlyle's  "Miscella 
ueous  W  ritines.  *  '—18.  The  Obseqmes  of  Migncn, 
from  "Wilhelm"  Meister's  Apprenticeship." — 
19.  The  first  part  of  Fichte's  Destination  of 
Man,  Hedge's  "German  Prose  Writers.  "—20. 
Tfie  Ped(tgogical  Province,  "Wilhelm  Meister's 
Travels."— 21.  Chapters  on  Tlie  Everlasting 
No,  TJie  Centre  of  Indifference,  and  The  Ever 
lasting  Yea,  from  Carlyle's  "Sartor  Resartus." 
—22.  CtL\i\Qron\  World  Theatre.  See  Trench's 
analysis  and  partial  translation. — 23.  Emer- 
son's poem,  Tiie  Problem. — 24.  Tennyson's 
In  Memoriam.'^^.  Ruakin's  Cr&ton  of  Wild 
OUve. 


€k 


400 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


'i  r[R  EscuBiAL  As  It  Is. — In  a  recent" 
0>  i(frbo!tk  to  tJui  Escurial  we  find  the  follow- 
in  :z-  pusj^agc: — 

•'NVlio  could  have  told  Philip  II,  the  mon- 
aich  of  two  worlds,  who  defended  the  Catho- 
lic reli^on  with  fanaticism  and  even  delirium, 
in  the  wars  of  Italy  and  France  in  the  time 
of  the  Huguenots,  that  to-day  this  whole 
buildiu^  ana  the  garden  made  by  himself  and 
destined  for  a  convent,  has  entered  into  the 
possession  of  a  Protestant  pastor,  who  em- 
bellishes it  and  uses  it  for  the  instruction  of 
his  sect? 

As  Ideal  Library.  By  way  of  introduc- 
tion to  a  series  of  papers  %ntitled  ''Gossip  in  a 
Library,"  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse,  of  London, 
writes  in  Tfie  Independent: — 

"To  possess  few  books  and  tliose  not  too 
rich  and  rare  for  daily  use,  has  this  advantage, 
thut  the  possessor  can  make  himself  master 
of  them  all,  can  recollect  their  peculiarities, 
and  often  remind  himself  of  their  contents.  The 
man  that  has  two  or  three  thousand  books  can 
be  familiar  with  Uiem  all;  he  that  has  thirty 
thousand  can  hardly  have  a  si)eaking  acquain- 
tance with  more  than  a  few.  The  more 
conscientious  he  is,  the  more  he  becomes  like 
Lucian's  amateur,  who  was  so  much  occupied 
in  rubbing  the  bindings  of  his  books  with 
sandal-wood  and  saffron,  that  he  had  no  tinre 
left  to  study  the  contents.  After  all,  with 
every  due  respect  paid  to  'states*  and  editions 
and  bindings  and  tall  copies,  the  inside  of  the 
volume  is  really  the  essential  part  of  it.  The 
excuses  for  collecting,  however,  are  more  than 
satire  is  ready  to  admit.  The  first  edition 
re])rcsents  the  author's  first  thought;  in  it  we 
read  his  words  as  he  sent  them  out  to  the 
World  in  his  first  heat,  with  the  type  he  chose, 
and  with  such  peculiarities  of  form  as  he 
selected  to  do  most  justice  to  his  Creation. 
We  often  discover  little  individual  points  in  a 
first  (Mlilion,  which  never  occur  again.  And  if 
it  bn.  conceded  that  theie  is  an  advantage  in 
reading  a  book  in  the  form  which  the  author 
ori.u:iiialiy  designed  for  it,  then  all  the  other 
retinements  of  tlie  collector  become  so  man v 
acts  (.1  respect  paid  to  this  first  virgin  appan- 
tion.  tonchiiiir  and  suitable  homage  of  clean 
ness  and  fit  adornment.  Il  is  only  when  this 
homage  be(!onies  mere  eye  service  —  when  a 
book  radically  unworthy  of  such  dignity  is  too 
delicately  cultivated,  too  richly  bound — that 
a  mere  dilettanteism  comes  in  between  the 
read(;r  and  what  he  reads.  Indeed,  the  beat 
of  books  may  in  my  estimation  be  destroyed 
as  a  possession  by  a  binding  so  sumptuous 
that  no  li Hirers  dare  to  open  it  for  perusal. 
Perliaps  the  ideal  library,  after  all,  is  a  small 
one,  where  the  books  are  carefully  selected 


and  thoughtfully  arranged  in  accordance  with 
one  central  code  of  taste,  and  inieuucd  u>  ; 
respectfully  consulted  at  an}- momei.l  b\  tl  j 
master  of  their  destinies.  If  furtime  made  n  o 
possessor  of  one  book  of  unique  value.  I 
should  hasten  to  part  with  it.  In  a  liiilc 
working  libranr  to  hold  a  first  quarto  of 
Hamlet  would  be  like  entertidning  a  reiguini; 
monarch  in  a  small  farm-house  at  harvesting.  " 

Count  Leo  Tolstoy. — Mr.  Nicholas  Sto- 
rojenko  furnishes  to  the  Athen(ff/m  a  summary 
of  the  principal  Russian  books  of  the  ycai 
which  has  just  closed: — 

"The  literary  hero  of  1886.  the  author  o» 
whom  most  has  been  said  and  written  during 
the  year,  is  Count  Leo  Tolstoy.  Immersed  iu 
the  study  of  theological,  philosophical,  ojid 
social  questions  (the  fruit  of  which  was  Lis 
W7iat  do  I  Believe?  which  attained  a  Euro- 
pean celebrity),  he  has  not  for  ten  years  pub 
lished  anytlung  pertaining  to  the  branch  of 
literature  to  which  he  owes  his  fame.  Indeed, 
it  was  even  said  that  he  had  discontinued  to 
write  because  he  did  not  feel  himself  capable 
of  producing  work  equal,  from  an  aitistic 
point  of  view,  to  his  earlier  productions.  His 
new  novel,  TJieBeath  of  Ivan  Ilyiteh  has,  how- 
ever, silenced  all  such  rumors.  Like  Antxeus, 
he,  on  touching  native  soil,  again  felt  within 
himself  the  old  power,  and  produced  a  work 
which  for  truthfulness  and  delicacy  of  psy- 
chological analysis  has  no  equal  in  Kuasi»n 
literature.  Never  has  the  tragi-comedy  of 
human  life  been  represented  with  such  realism 
as  iu  the  scenes  that  take  place  in  Ivan  Ily- 
iteh's  house  after  his  death.  It  is  impossible 
to  read  without  an  inward  shudder  how  poor 
Ivan  Ilyiteh  feels  some  unknown  force  is 
pushing  him  into  a  yawning  gulf,  and  how 
to  the  natural  fear  of  death  is  s^ded  the  bitter 
consciousness  that  he  had  not  lived  as  a  man 
should  live,  that  his  departing  life  might  have 
been  better  employed  both  for  himself  and 
for  otiiers.  Beside  The  Death  of  Ivan  Ilyitfh 
the  popular  tales  of  Count  Tolstoy  published 
in  the  sti^ne  year,  and  highly  praised  by  his 
admirers,  appear  pale  and  weak.  Hoi  to 
speak  of  their  too  transparently  evident  tend 
ency,  whic^h  is  in'  close  harmony  with*  the 
views  the  author  has  lately  adopted,  they  owe 
their  fascination  rather  to  their  charming 
and  original  popular  diction  than  to  siny 
higher  artistic  merits.  However  great  an 
artist  may  be,  he  cannot  give  full  expression 
to  his  genius  if  he  keeps  to  one  color,  and 
always  repeats  the  same  shades.  This  is  why 
the  stories  bv  Count  ToIhIov's  imitators,  who 
have  succeetled  in  acquiring  his  manner,  are 
not  very  different  from  his  own.  aLd  are  even 
frequently  attributed  to  him." 


UNIVERSITY  EDUCATION  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES. 


408 


UNIVERSITY  EDUCATION  IN 
.    THE  UNITED  STATES. 

The  great  c.elebration_of_  the  two 
hundred  and  fiftieth  anniversary  of  the 
founding  of  Harvard  University  has 
just  called  attention  anew  to  the  con- 
dtion  and  tendencies  of  higher  educa- 
tion in  the  United  States.  There  were 
present  at  the  festivities  in  the  early 
days  of  November  not  only  about  2,500 
of  the  alumni  of  the  college,  but  rep- 
resentatives from  nearly  all  the  other 
prominent  institutions  of  learning  in 
the  land,  as  well  as  from  several  of  the 
universities  of  the  Old  World.  Never 
before  were  so  many  presidents  of  col- 
leges and  eminent  professors  gathered 
together  in  the  Western  World.  The 
note  that  was  sounded  at  the  very  be- 
ginning of  the  festivities  continued  to 
be  heard  t^  the  end;  and  no  one  could 
have  been  in  attendance  without  real- 
izing, and  in  some  degree  measuring, 
the  extent  of  the  interest  that  is  now 
everywhere  felt  in  the  methods,  of 
higher  education.  Harvard  is  not  only 
the  oldest  and  largest  of  our  universi- 
ties, but  she  is  the  leader  and  repre- 
sentative of  -a  tendency  that  is  exerting 
a  vast  influence  on  the  other  colleges 
of  the  land.  Some  account  of  this  in- 
fluence and  tendency  may  not  be  out 
of  place. 

The  early  history  of  our  colleges  was 
shaped  after  the  English  model.  It 
has  been  estimated  that  within  a  very 
few  years  after  the  settlement  of  Massa- 
chusetts Bay  the  colony  contained  as 
many  as  a  hundred  men  who  had  re- 
ceived the  honors  of  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge. When,  in  1636,  Harvard  Col- 
lege was  founded  by  a  gift  of  the 
Colonial  Legislature,  and  given  the 
name  of  a  son  of  Emmanuel  College  in 
old  Cambridge,  it  was  but  natural  that 
the  methods  of  the  old  colleges  should 
/e  given  to  the  new  institution.  The 
other  colleges  that  in  due  course  of 


time  came  to  be  founded  took  on  sim- 
ilar characteristics.  Nor  was  there 
any  very  striking  or  radical  change  of 
method  or  of  spirit  till  past  the  middle 
of  the  present  century.  The  applicant 
for  admission  was  required  to  read  easy 
Latin  and  to  know  something  of  Greek 
and  the  mathematics.  After  his  ad- 
mission he  was  expected  to  devote  four 
years  chiefly  to  supplementing  the  fru- 
gal knowledge  he  nad  already  acouired 
in  those  three  great  branches  of  learn- 
ing. There  was  very  little  of  the  nat- 
ural sciences,  there  was  even  less  of  the 
applied  sciences ;  there  was  next  to 
nothing  of  history.  In  short,  until 
near  the  outbreak  of  our  Civil  War,  it 
might  have  been  said  in  plain  descrip- 
tive prose,  as  has  since  been  said  in  the 
Qpigfammatic  i>ropa^ndi8m  of  a  the- 
ory,  that  **a  university  is  a  place  where 
nothing  useful  is  taught." 

But  about  the  middle  of  the  present 
century  it  came  to  be  seen  that  the 
condition  of  higher  education  was  not 
satisfying  the  demands  of  the  country. 
Colleges  had  been  multiplied  in  all 
parts  of  the  land,  as  if  it  were  the  pro- 
vince of  higher  education  to  carry  it- 
self to  the  door  of  every  man's  home. 
The  numerous  religious  sects  felt  the 
necessity  of  having  schools  for  the 
training  of  the  clergy.  These  schools 
were  the  victims  of  a  somewhat  active 
rivalry,  a-nd  in  consequence  it  was  im- 
possible to  raise  the  low  standard  of 
scholarship  that  prevailed.  Nearly  all 
of  the  newer  colleges  had  attached  to 
them  as  an  integral  part  a  preparatory 
school,  the  business  of  which  wias  to 
give  students  such  meager  preliminary 
training  as  was  necessary  for  admission 
to  the  college  or  university.  Thus 
the  colleges  were  able  to  make  a  very* 
considerable  show  of  numbers,  though 
in  many  instances  the  rolls  were  made 
almost  exclusively  of  pupils  who  might 
as  well  have  been  in  any  one  of  the 
primary  or  secondary  schools  of  the 


404 


THF  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


l.ud.  Bnt  the  deceptive  character  of 
tills  apparent  prosperity  could  not  long 
be  concealed.  When  statistics  came  to 
be  carefully  brought  together,  it  was 
found  that  the  relative  number  of 
students  in  the  higher  courses  of  in- 
struction was  steadily  growing  less  and 
less.  It  was  also  evident  tliat  there 
was  a  widespread  feeling  of  discontent 
with  the  courses  of  instruction  given. 
The  clamor  was  everywhere  heard  that 
'the  classical  tongues  were  no  longer 
called  for,  that  this  is  a  practical  age, 
that  if  students  are  not*  to  be  taught  in 
the  universities  what  they  can  turn  to 
use  in  the  affairs  of  life,  they  may  as 
well  get  on  without  the  universities 
altogether.  This  feeling  it  was  which, 
ever  crowing  deeper  and  more  wide- 

?3reaa,  had  the  general  effect  of  re- 
ucing  the  number  of  students  in  all 
the  colleges  of  the  country.  Young 
men  everywhere  were  going  into  the 
professions  without  that  preliminary 
collegiate  training  which  in  the  early 
history  of  the  country  was  considered 
a  necessary  prerequisite  of  success. 

How  should  this  evil  tendency  ae 
met  and  averted  ?  Many  ways  were 
suggested,  and  not  a  few  were  adopted. 
One  of  them  was  through  the  estab- 
lishment of  separate  technical  schools. 
In  the  older  parts  of  the  country  sev- 
eral schools  were  endowed  for  the  pur- 
pose of  affording  opportunities  for 
special  training  to  such  as  might  have 
no  opportunity  or  inclination  to  take 
the  more  orthodox  course  in  arts.  The 
Sheffield  Scientific  School  at  Yale,  the 
Lawrence  Scientific  School  at  Harvard, 
the  Chandler  Scientific  School  at 
Dartmouth,  the  Stevens  Institute  at 
Hoboken,  the  Polytechnic  Institute  at 
Troy,  the  School  of  AJines  atr  Columbia 
College  in  New  York,  were  all  the 
fruits  of  this  impulse.  In  some  of 
these  schools  the  course  of  study  contin- 
tied  through  three  years,  in  others  it 
extended,  as  in  the  old  college  courses, 


through  four.  It  will  be  observed  that 
there  were  two  systems  even  of  the 
schools  above  named.  Some  of  tiiem 
were  connected  with  colleges  alrea(?y 
established,  others  wore  entirelv  inde- 
pendent  and  isolated.  As  a  rule,  how- 
ever, it  may  be  said  that  in  all  instances 
independence  went  as  far  as  to  the  estab- 
lishment of  separate  courses  of  study 
for  the  separate  schools.  Students  of 
the  regular  college  course,  and  students 
of  the  newly  established  scientific 
schools  never  mot  in  the  same  lecture- 
rooms,  although  they  might  meet  on 
the  same  college  grounds,  and  might 
even  be  pursuing  the  same  studies  in 
common. 

As  a  class,  these  newly  established 
schools  could  not  be  regarded  as  very 
prosperous.  Whenever  they  were  es- 
tablished in  connection  w^ith  one  of 
the  older  universities,  the  students 
never  seemed  to  feel  quitebat  home  in 
the  companionship  of  the  members  of 
the  older  college.  •  Whenever  they 
were  given  an  ahsolutely  independent 
existence  it  was  often  found  that  the 
expense  of  establishing  and  keening  up 
libraries,  museums,  and  the  other  ne- 
cessary appliances,  was  much  greater 
than  the  financial  condition  of  the 
school  would  warrant.  The  result  was 
that  although  there  were  a  few  venr 
signal  examples  of  success,  the  experi- 
ment, as  a  wliole,  could  not  be  regarded 
as  having  changed  the  general  drift. 

Another  series  of  efforts  was  made 
by  establishing  parallel  courses  of  study 
in  several  of  the  colleges  and  universi- 
ties already  existing.  One  of  the  first 
to  advocate  such  a  change  was  President 
Wayland,  of  Brown  university.  He 
presented  with  great  cogency  the  ar- 
guments which  at  a  later  period  became 
very  familiar  to  those  engaged  in  edu- 
cational affairs.  The  necessity  of 
change  in  methods  presented  itself 
in  two  forms.  In  the  first  place,  it  was 
irrational  that  every  student  up  to  the 


UNTVERSITT  EDUCATION  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES. 


4^ 


close  of  his  collegiate  course  should  be 
required,  on  pain  of  forfeiting  all  chance 
for  a  degree,  to  take  precisely  the  same 
course  as  that  marked  out  for  every 
One  of  his  fellows.  The  method  in 
vogue,  it  was  urged,  not  only  required 
every  candidate  for  a  degree  to  take  a 
prescribed  amount  of  Greek,  Latin, 
and  mathematics,  but  it  also  gave  him 
almost  absolutely  no  opportunity  of 
taking  any  more  than  the  amount  pre- 
scribed. The  old  curriculum  was  a 
hard-and-fast  requirement  that  gave  no 
possible  play  for  differing  abilities  and 
tastes.  Such  a  method  could  never 
develop  to  the  highest  pitch  of  scholar- 
ship more  than  a  very  small  number  of 
persons  in  any  class.  Students  arc 
spurred  on  to  their  best  efforts  only 
when  their  enthusiasms  are  moved;  and 
a  prescribed  course,  however  excellent 
in  itself,  can  never  stir  the  enthusiasm 
of  more  than  a  limited  number  of  those 
who  are  required  to  take  it.  The  con- 
sequence is,  that  we  are  brought  at 
once  to  the  second  reason  for  a  change 
— namely,  the  inability  of  the  old 
method  to  draw  within  its  influence 
any  considerable  number  of  those  who, 
under  a  better  system,  would  be  glad 
to  avail  themselves  of  a  course  of  uni- 
versity study.  The  very  fact  that  the 
classes  in  college  were  everywhere 
growing  less  and  less,  showed  that  the 
education  given  was  not  the  education 
that  was  desired.  The  defect  in  the 
existing  system,  it  was  said,  was  open 
to  the  view  of  any  one  who  would  ob- 
serve. There  were  large  numbers  of 
people  who  do  not  admit  the  superior 
eflicacy  of  trainii  g  in  the  ancient  lan- 
guages and  in  t  le  mathematics,  and 
who  assert  that  large  numbers  must 
either  go  throng] i  life  without  the  ad- 
vantage of  a  liberal  education,  or  the 
requirements  muft  be  so  changed  as  to 
funiisli  the  oppoi  timities  desired. 

The  agitation  that  ensued   resulted 
in  the  establishment  of  parallel  courses 


of  study  in  several  of  the  universities 
of  the  country*  In  some  of  the  insti- 
tutions favoring  this  method  of  meet- 
ing the  new  demand,  what  was  known 
as  a  "Scientific  Course"  was  provided 
for.  Greek  and  Latin  were  either 
omitted  altogether,  or  were  required  of 
the  students  in  only  very  moderate 
amount.  French  and  German  were 
given  a  prominent  place  in  the  ne^y  re- 
quirements, and  there  was  a  generous 
introduction  of  history  and  the  various 
natural  sciences.  In  short,  the  effort 
was  essentiallv  the  same  as  that  which 
in  Germany  had  resulted  in  the  Real 
Schools,  and  the  consequent  admission 
to  the  university  of  students  who  had 
no  knowledge  of  Greek,  and  very  little 
knowledge  of  Latin.  The  new  courses 
extended  through  four  years,  and  cul-. 
minated  in  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of 
Science.  There  was  also  provision 
made  for  those  who  desired  Latin,  but 
had  an  antipathy  to  Greek.  German 
and  French  were  given  the  place  held 
in  the  old  curriculum  by  the  Hellenic 
tongue,  while  the  full  quota  of  Latin 
continued  to  be  required.  This  course 
led  ordinarily  to  the  degree  of  Bachelor 
of  Philosophy.  Finally,  a  fourth  course 
was  added,  designed  to  substitute  for 
advanced  studies  in  the  mathematics 
and  in  the  natural  sciences,  studies  in 
history  and  modem  literature.  Some 
two  years  in  the  preparatory  schools, 
and  about  the  same  length  of  time  in 
the  university,  were  devoted  to  the 
modern  languages,  after  which  the 
time  of  the  remaining  two  years  was 
given  to  studies  in  literature  and  cog- 
nate branches.  This  course  also  led  to 
a  degree— that  of  Bachelor  of  Letters. 
This  method  of  solving  the  problems 
of  higher  education  was  adopted  by  a 
few  of  the  older  and  by  nearly  all  of 
the  qewer  institutions.  From  1850  to 
1870  it  was  what  mip:ht  be  called  the 
predominant  method.  Though  the 
older  schools  clung  with  a  strong  con- 


406 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


servatism  to  the  methods  of  the  fathers,  I 
the  newer  colleges  and  universities  in 
the  middle  of  the  country  and  in  the 
West  almost  without  exception  adopted 
what  may  be  called  the  System  of  Par- 
allel Courses. 

While  the  success  of  this  system  was 
perhaps  such  as  to  satisfy  its  friends,  it 
was  not  enough  to  conrert  its  enemies. 
The  older  institutions,  like  Harvard 
and  Yale,  and  the  other  colleges  of 
Kew  England,  pi*actically  assum^  that 
the  system  of  parallel  courses  was  a 
surrender  to  Philistinism  in  which  they 
could  take  no  part,  A  few  of  them 
have  maintainea  this  position  to  the 
present  day.  All  of  the  more  promi 
nent  universities,  however,  have  felt 
themselves  obliged  to  seek  the  same 
ends  by  other  uieans.  Harvard  Uni- 
versity has  been  the  leader  of  this  third 
movement,  and  the  means  by  which  its 
ends  have  been  accomplished  is  known 
as' the  "Elective  System." 

Until  about  1870  the  courses  of  study 
prescribed  for  the  degree  of  Bachelor 
of  Arts  gave  to  the  student  very  little 
latitude  for  choice.  In  the  fourth  year 
the  candidate  had  placed  before  him  a 
number  of  subjects  from  which  he  was 
at  liberty  to  select  enough  to  make  up 
the  requisite  amount  of  instruction. 
But  the  field  of  choice  was  limited,  and 
the  variety  of  studies  was  correspond- 
ingly meager.  This  characteristic  car- 
ried with  it,  of  course,  the  impossibility 
of  anything  but  verv  elementary  work. 
A  little  Latin,  a  little  Greek,  about  the 
same  amount  of  the  mathematics,  a 
trifle  of  history,  taught  in  a  very  dull 
way,  for  the  most  part  from  a  very  dull 
textbook,  the  elements  of  half  a  dozen 
of  the  sciences,  including  psychology 
and  logic — such  was  the  pabulum  on 
which  the  college  student  in  one  of  the 
older  colleges  was  mainly  obliged  to  be 
fed.  It  can  hardly  be  considered  very 
surprising  thut  the  relative  number  of 
gtudeiits  in  polle^e  was  steadily  declin- 


ing. But  about  seventeen  years  a^o 
Mr.  Eliot  entered  upon  his  adminis- 
tration as  President  of  Harvard.  It  was 
understood  that  he  was  chosen  to  his 
position  as  the  representative  ol  a  new 
and  vigorous  policy  that  had  already,  in 
some  measure,  been  entered  upon  by 
his  predecessor.  That  policy  involved 
a  multiplication  of  the  courses  of  in- 
struction given,  and  the  offering  of  a 
substantially  free  choice  of  courses 
during  the  later  years  of  the  curricu- 
lum. Gradually  this  freedom  was  ex- 
tended down  nearly  to  the  beginning 
of  the  course.  Indeed,  it  has  now 
come  to  include  almost  the  whole  of 
the  studies  of  the  freshmaa  year. 
Meantime  it  has  been  practicable  to 
multiply  the  opportunities  afforded  the 
individual  student.  When  everybody 
was  taught  as  much  as  anybody^  it  was 
impossible  to  do  very  much  of  Jiny  one 
thing.  But  as  soon  as  freedom  of 
choice  was  offered,  it  was  found  that 
students  demanded  advanced  courses, 
and  consequently  advanced  courses  were 
provided.  The  courses  in  ever^  branch 
of  knowledge  were  so  multiplied  that 
in  less  than  a  score  of  years  the  aggre- 
gate number  was  three  or  four  times 
as  great  as  it  had  been  when  the  re- 
form was  begun.  The  Harvard  cata- 
logue now  shows  an  array  of  courses  in 
history,  in  political  economy,  in  the 
various  sciences,  as  \^'ell  as  in  the  lan- 
guages of  Europe  and  Asia,  that  quite 
reminds  one  of  the  wealth  of  learning 
offered  by  one  of  the  larger  universities 
of  Germany.  It  is  thus  made  quite 
possible  for  the  sti.dent  to  concentrate 
his  work  in  such  a  way  as  not  only  to 
learn  a  little  of  many  things,  but  also 
to  learn  much  of  the  particular  subject 
of  his  choice.  The  drift  has  been  to- 
ward the  (ren>ian  rather  than  toward 
the  En.a:lisli  nictiiods;  and  in  the  free- 
dom of  clioicc  now  afforded  the  Ger- 
man limit  has  very  nearly  been  reached. 
While  this  oiiange  hm  been  goin{[  on 


TJNIVERSITy  EDUCATION  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES. 


407 


at  Harvard  under  President  Eliot's  in- 
spiration and  direction,  a  similar  tend- 
ency has  shown  itself  in  those  institu- 
tions which  at  first  tried  to  meet  the 
requirements  of  the  affe  by  establishing 
'*  parallel  courses."  It  was  found,  not 
nniiaturally,  that  the  decision  early  in 
life  to  pursue  a  certain  course  of  study 
was  sometimes  a  premature  decision, 
and  coijseauently  that  room  ought  to 
be  provided  for  subSeouent  change  of 
purpose.  The  system  oi  parallel  courses, 
like  the  old  classical  courses,  afforded 
no  room  for  change  of  studies  when 
once  a  course  had  been  entered  upon. 
It  was  everywhere  found  necessary, 
therefore,  to  give  something  of  the 
same  flexibility  to  the  new  courses  that 
Harvard  was  giving  to  the  old.  At 
the  University  of  Michigan  and  at 
Cornell  University,  the  two  most  con- 
spicuous and  prosperous  examples  of 
the  parallel  course  system,  the  first  two 
years  are  for  the  most  part  prescribed, 
while  the  last  two  are  for  the  most  part 
elective.  Thus  the  student  is  afforded 
a  twofold  privilege  of  choice.  He  may 
decide  upon  one  of  the  parallel  courses 
when  he  begins  his  preparatory  studies; 
then,  after  he  has  been  two  years  in 
the  university,  he  may  choose  with 
almost  absolute  freedom  from  the  hun- 
dred courses  that  are  offered. 

It  will  be  seen  from  what  has  been 
stated  that  all  the  changes  that  have 
come  about  have  been  made  in  the  di- 
rection of  greater  freedom.  The  tend- 
ency has  been  unmistakably  in  the  di- 
rection of  that  Lernfreiheii  to  which 
the  Germans  attach  so  much  impor- 
tance. It  should  not  be  supposed,  how- 
ever, that  these  changes  nave  come 
about  without  opposition.  On  the 
contrary,  tliose  conservative  elements 
tliat  are  found  in  such  abundance  in 
all  educational  affairs  have  offered  a 
stem  resistance.  The  opposition  has 
taken  on  two  forms.  The  first  has 
asserted   and   stoutly  maintained   that 


there  is  no  form  of  study  at  all  com- 
parable for  the  development  of  intelli- 
gence with  the  study  of  the  ancient 
languages.  By  some  of  the  advocates 
ojf  tne  reform  this  assertion  is  denied, 
by  others  it  is  admitted.  Those  wlio 
admit  the  position  still  maintain  tliat 
the  assertion  proves  very  little,  inas- 
much as  the  question  is,  not  whether 
Greek  and  Latin  are  the  studies  best 
adapted  to  the  improvement  of  those 
who  pursue  them,  but  whether  if  Greek 
and  Latin  are  not  taken,  there  shall 
not  be  certain  other  studies  offered  in 
their  place.  In  other  words,  if  the 
student  toill  not  take  Greek  and  Latin, 
shall  he  be  compelled  to  take  nothing, 
or  shall  he  be  permitted  to  take  some 
other  study  even  though  it  be  of  sec- 
ondary importance?  The  other  objection 
to  the  reform  is  founded  on  what  may 
be  called  a  mistrust  of  the  ability  or 
disposition  of  the  student  to  use  the 
liberty  of  choice  without  abusing  it. 
It  is  an  odd  anomaly  that  in  a  country 
that  prides  itself  so  much  on  the  liber- 
ties of  the  people  there  should  be  so 
little  faith  in  the  beneficial  effects  of 
liberty  among  the  students  of  our  uni- 
versities. At  the  middle  of  their 
course  the  students  in  the  American 
universities  are  now  about  twenty-one 
years  of  age.  In  many  of  the  univer- 
sities the  average  age  at  the  time  of 
taking  the  degree  vanes  not  more  than 
a  mouth  or  two  from  twenty-thiee 
years.  And  yet  in  many  quarters  it 
contintiesto  be  thought  that  the  student 
of  twenty-one  and  more  should  still  be 
held  to  as  rigid  a  course  of  study  as 
that  which  was  marked  out  for  him  at 
sixteen  or  seventeen.  Witliin  a  few 
months  at  least  as  many  as  two  form- 
idable articles  in  as  many  of  our  leud- 
ing  reviews  have  made  ponderous 
efforts  to  prove  that  students  cannr>t  he 
trusted,  and  that  if  they  are  f::iven 
their  liberty  they  will  elect  the  en.sy 
things,  neglect  the  hard  things,  and  so 


408 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINB. 


spoil  their  education.  In  many  quar- 
ters this  distrust  of  the  student's  judg- 
ment or  purpose  has  been  strong  en- 
ough to  stand  up  in  face  of  all  experi- 
ence. It  seems  to  forget  that  even  if  an 
opportunity  is  sometimes  lost,  the  fact 
is  only  the  concomitant  of  every  form 
of  human  liberty.  Everybody  knows 
that  liberty  is  always  subject  to  abuse. 
Under  the  privilege  it  grants,  it  is  the 
more  possible  to  do  the  wrong  thing, 
for  the  simple  reason  that  there  can  be 
no  opportunity  of  doing  the  right  thing 
without  a  corresponding  possibility  of 
doing  the  wrong  one.  The  possibility 
of  taking  the  easy  and  unimportant 
things  must  be  granted;  for  along  with 
such  a  possibility  goes  also  that  oppor- 
tunity of  thoroughness  which  is  the 
only  condition  of  the  highest  success. 
And  thus  it  happens  that  the  very  best 
attainments  are  found  only  in  those 
schools  where  negligence  is  possible, 
and  even  not  uncommon.  It  is  onlv 
under  the  stimulus  of  liberty  that  the 
largest  results  are  possible;  it  is  only 
under  the  opportunities  afforded  by 
the  same  liberty  that  neglect  of  oppor- 
tunity is  most  easy,  if  not  most  preva- 
lent. 

That  the  new  system  has  not  resulted 
in  any  general  abuse  has  been  abund- 
antly shown.  Five  years  ago  the  im- 
pression became  somewhat  prevalent 
that  the  large  freedom  now  given  to 
the  Harvard  students  resulted  in  some- 
what general  neglect  and  abuse.  The 
overseers  of  the  university  were  said  to 
share  this  opinion.  But  whether  the 
current  report  on  this  .subject  was  cor- 
rect or  not,  it  was  certainly  true  that 
they  imposed  a  decisive  check  on  the 
further  movements  in  the  same  direc- 
tion proposed  l)y  the  president  and 
corporation  of  the  university..  This 
action  led  to  a  very  important  investi- 
gation of  the  whole  subject.  The  next 
report  of  the  president  contained  a 
very  elaborate  system  of  tables,  showing 


precisely  what  each  student  had  elected 
duiing  the  series  of  years  since  the 
elective  system  was  introduced.  The 
result  could  hardly  have  been  more 
conclusive.  The  figures  so  far  carried 
conviction  that  the  overseers  not  only 
reversed  their  action,  but  approved 
unanimously  of  the  policy  which,  under 
the  light  of  more  imperfect  informa- 
tion, they  had  strenuously  opposed. 

As  was  to  be  anticipated,  this  reform 
has  met  with  a  hearty  appreciation  from 
the  public.     The  sense  of  freedom,  the 
conscious  privilege  of  selecting  those 
studies  that  one  desires,  the  larger  range 
of  possibilities  in  the  way  of  attain- 
ments in   one's  favorite  pursuits,  all 
these  added  to  the  attractiveness  of  the 
universities  that  had  adopted  the  new 
methods.     A  large  influx  of  students  is 
the  result.     While  the  classes  in   the 
colleges  and  universities  that  still  ad- 
here to    the  former    methods  remain 
very    nearly  what    they  were  twenty 
years  ago,  the  classes  in  all  of  those  in- 
stitutions that  have  adopted  the  new 
methods  have  nearly  or  quite  doubled 
in    numbers  within  the  same  length 
of   time.      In    1870    the    number  of 
students  in  the  academic  or  non-pro- 
fessional department  of  Harvard  was 
608;  in  1885-86  the  number  had  in- 
creased  to   1006.     Twenty  years  ago, 
Cornell  University  did  not  exist.     The 
first  class  graduated  in  1869.     At  pres- 
ent the  corps  of  instruction  consists  of 
about  eighty  persons,  and  the  roll  of 
students   has    more  than    eight  hun- 
dred names.     A  similar  prosperity  has 
nuirked  the   univeri-ities  of  Michigan, 
These  three  institutions,  though  differ- 
ing somewhat  in  their  characteristics, 
are  the  most  typical  and  marked  ex- 
amples of  the  new  methods.     Within 
the  last  ten  years  all  of  them  have  re- 
ceived abundant  evidences  of    public 
favor. 

From  another  and  a  higher  point  of 
view  the  beneficial  resulte  have  been 


TTNITERSITY  EDUCATION  IN  THE  TNITwD  STATES. 


40d 


even  more  striking.  Perhaps  the  most 
potent  reason  for  the  reform  was  the 
inducement  held  oat  by  the  new  method 
for  long-continued  study  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  student's  iadividual  choice. 
While  it  was  foreseen  that  a  few  stu- 
dent-8  would  straggle  through  the  four 
years  of  their  course  in  an  aimless  kind 
of  way,  it  was  still  hoped  that  a  large 
majority — even  a  very  large  majority 
— would  choose  their  studies  wisely, 
and  pursue  them  steadily  to  the  ac- 
complishment of  some  very  tangible 
results.  It  may  fairly  be  said  that 
this  hope  has  not  been  disappointed. 
The  tables  published  by  President  Eliot 
show  conclusively  that  a  vast  majority 
of  the  young  men  know  what  they 
want,  and  go  about  accomplishing 
their  ends  in  an  intelligent  and  praise- 
worthy way.  But  there  is  a  kind  of 
evidence  that  figures  cannot  give.  It 
is  in  the  spirit,  in  the  prevailing  tone, 
of  the  institutions  that  have  adopted 
the  new  methods.  It  is  the  subject  of 
universal  remark  that  there  is  less  of 
boyishness  and  more  of  manliness.  The 
prevailing  spirit  is  one  of  far  greater 
earnestness.  This  general  temper  of 
the  students,  united  with  the  greater 
opportunities  offered,  has  brought  about 
most  excellent  results.  It  is  not  too 
much  to  say  that  within  the  past  ten 
years  a  far  higher  plane  of  scholarship 
has  been  reached  than  was  possible 
under  the  old  system.  A  student's 
ideas  soon  after  he  enters  on  his  uni- 
versitv  course  be^in  to  crvstallize  in 
the  direction  of  his  aptitude  and  pref- 
erences. As  early  as  the  second  year 
he  enters  on  the  fulfillment  of  his  pur- 
poses. In  the  third  and  fourth  years 
lie  is  able  to  carry  on  his  studies  even 
into  the  most  advanced  stages  offered. 
The  consequence  is,  that  at  the  time  of 
receiving  the  baccalaureate  degree  he 
has  learned  far  more  than  under  the 
tAi  system  was  in  any  way  possible. 
And  80  it  has  happened  tJxat  s.-idi^s  in 


Greek,  in  Latin,  in  the  Oriental  lan- 
guages, in  history,  in  the  mathematics, 
in  political  economy,  and  in  all  the 
sciences,  are  carried  very  much  farther 
than  it  was  possible  to  carry  them 
twenty  or  even  ten  years  ago.  An  in- 
spection of  the  courses  of  instruction 
now  given  at  either  of  the  typical  uni- 
versities named  above  will  show,  that 
university  work  of  a  high  character 
has  at  last  become  possible  and  practi- 
cable. Advanced  studies  carried  on  in 
the  methods  of  the  German  ''Seminar" 
were  first  introduced  into  the  Univer- 
sity of  Michigan,  but  they  have  since 
become  common  at  Cornell,  and  have 
finally  been  somewhat  generally  adHpted 
at  Harvard.  The  beneficial  results 
cannot  fail  to  show  themselves  in  every 
field  of  learning. 

No  account  of  the  tendencies  of 
higher  learning  in  the  United  States 
could  be  complete  without  some  ade- 
quate reference  to  the  work  of  Johns 
Hopkins  University.  No  other  insti- 
tution within  the  past  few  years  has 
attracted  so  much  attention.  This  has 
been  owing  partly  to  the  great  excel- 
lence of  the  instruction  given,  partly  to 
the  peculiarities  of  its  organization  and 
methods,  and  partly  to  the  fact  that  it 
has  laid  great  stress  on  the  publication 
of  accomplished  results.  Through  the 
various  ournals  and  serials  that  were 
estal)lished  at  the  university  early  in 
its  liistory,  the  public  has  been  tept 
a<l  vised  in  a  very  efficieiit  manner  of 
the  work  that  has  been  done  in  the 
Hcveral  departments  of  knowledge.  But 
it  ciin  hardly  be  said  that  Johns  Hop- 
kins University  has  a  very  intimate 
historic  connection  with  the  educa- 
tional system  of  the  country.  It  did 
not  grow  out  of  the  root,  but  was  rather 
grafted  into  the  old  stock.  It  was 
founded  in  the  belief  that  the  time  had 
come*  for  the  establishment  of  a  uni- 
versity that  should  do  for  American 
scholars  what  the  German  universities 


410 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


are  doing  for  them.  During  the  last 
twenty-five  years  some  hundreds  of 
American  students,  after  completing* 
their  collegiate  course,  have  annually 
gone  to  Germany  for  more  advanced 
instruction  than  could  be  obtained  on 
this  side  of  the  Atlantic,  Why  should 
there  not  be  established  in  America 
some  one  institution  that  should  obvi- 
ate the  necessity  of  a  Transatlantic 
voyage?  The  fundamental  idea  should 
be  the  giving  of  instruction  in  the  most 
improved  methods  that  would  supple- 
ment the  instruction  given  in  the  other 
colleges  and  univei'sities  of  the  country. 
It  should  be  a  university  established 
priniarilv  for  those  who  had  already 
taken  tlie  Bachelor's  degree.  Here 
was  the  field  which  Johns  Hopkins 
University  undertook  to  occupy.  It 
was  not  absolutely  new  ground,  for  all 
of  the  older  universities  had  provided 
courses  of  instruction  for  graduates  and 
fellows.  But  its  peculiarity  was  in  the 
fact  that  all  its  strength  was  primarily 
devoted  to  instruction  to  those  students 
who  had  already  taken  the  first  degree. 
It  was  as  though  one  of  the  colleges  of 
Oxford  or  Cambridge  should  say,  We 
will  not  teach  undergraduates;  we  will 
only  have  to  do  with  those  who  have 
already  received  the  de^ee  of  Bachelor 
of  Arts.  Our  effort  will  be  simply  to 
do  the  most  advanced  grade  of  wort  as 
a  means  of  preparing  specialists  for  the 
profession  of  teachers.  This  was  the 
position  of  Jphns  Hopkins  University. 
It  did.  not  aim  to  secure  the  attendance 
of  large  numbers;  it  desired  rather  to 
attract  those  who,  desirous  of  complet- 
ing their  outfit  for  the  work  of  teachers 
and  professors,  would  otherwise  have 
been  attracted  to  the  universities  of 
Germany. 

The  success  of  the  experiment  has 
been  abundant  and  gratifying.  The 
nature  of  the  work  has  afforded  qyery 
encouragement  to  advanced  and  orig- 
inal investigation,  and  the  results  of 


such  investigations  as  have  been  made 
have  been  given  very  generously  to  the 
world.  Whether  in  founding  the  uni- 
versity the  necessity  of  estublishi ng 
ultimately  an  undergraduate  course  was 
contemplated,  is  not  })erhaps  very  cer- 
tain. But  such  a  necessity  has  made 
itself  felt.  This  end  was  probably 
favored,  on  the  one  hand,  by  local  de- 
mand; on  the  other,  by  the  assistance 
that  a  preparatory  department  would 
give  to  the  advanced  work  for  which 
the  university  was  more  especially  es- 
tablished. It  still  remains  true,  how- 
ever, that  the  prominent  characteristic 
of  the  Johns  Hopkins  University  is  its 
work  with  graduate  students,  while  it 
receives  such  undergraduates  as  offer 
themselves.  The  stress  of  its  effort  is 
devoted  to  its  advanced  classes.  It  is 
perhaps  needless  to  add  that  it  is  from 
this  cnaracteristic  that  the  university 
is  so  widely  and  so  favorably  known. 
In  the  various  realms  of  university 
work  there  is  nothing  more  interesting, 
or  indeed  more  important,  than  the 
change  that  has  been  going  on  in  the 
minds  of  scholars  during  the  past  fev 
years  on  the  subject  of  political  econ- 
omy. Twenty  years  ago  the  scholars 
and  the  politicians  were  separated  in 
their  beliefs  by  a  sort  of  impassable 

fulf .  The  political  economy  of  Adam 
mith  and  nis  followers  was  accepted 
by  the  academic  teachers  almost  with- 
out exception.  The  books  that  made 
an  impression  were  those  of  the  gi'eat 
founders  of  the  science— of  Ricardo 
and  of  Mill.  The  doctrine  of  laissez- 
faire,  as  ordinarily  accepted,  was  uni- 
versally taught  in  the  colleges  and  uni- 
versities, ft  was  a  common  remark 
that  in  the  schools  everybody  was  taught 
''free  trade,"  while  in  business  every- 
body came  to  believe  in  ''protection/* 
This  sharply  defined  difference  was  not 
the  result  of  accident.  Both  classes 
followed  their  own  teacher.  The  sys- 
tem of  protQ<3tion.  advocated  >S'ith  suck 


UNIVERSITY  EDUCATION  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES. 


411 


power  by  Henry  Clay  and  Mr.  Carey 
was  given  to  the  multitnde  with  consum- 
mate skill  by  Mr.  Greeley  and  the  other 
editorial  writers  of  the  day.  The  coii- 
seqiienee  of  these  diyerging  tendencies 
was,  that  while  the  policy  of  the  nation 
was  firmly  held  to  the  doctrines  of  a 
protective  tariff,  what  might  be  called 
tiie  more  scholarly  part  of  the  com- 
munity was  coming  more  and  more 
into  an  acceptance  of  the  doctrines  of 
Mill  and  Cairnes.  Fifteen  years  ago, 
among  all  the  teachers  of  political 
economy  in  the  country,  not  more  than 
one  or  two  of  atiy  prominence  could  be 
named  who  did  not  advocate  the  policy 
of  free  trade.  The  political  economy 
of  the  Manchester  school  came  to  be 
regarded  as  the  only  orthodox  form  of 
economic  faith  and  doctrine. 

It  is  patent,  however,  that  a  ffreat 
change  nas  now  taken  place.  While 
on  the  one  hand  a  very  considerable 
number  of  prominent  manufacturers 
have  declared  themselves  advocates  of 
free  trade,  on  the  other  a  still  more 
conspicuous  number  of  teachers  of  po- 
litical economy  either  are  avow  ed  advo- 
cates of  protection,  or,  what  is  perhaps 
more  common,  are  in  favor  of  occupy- 
ing a  middle  ground  between  the  op- 
posing theories.  There  has  grown  up 
what  may  be  called  a  new  school  of 
economists.  These,  for  the  most  part, 
are  young  men  who,  under  the  influ- 
ence of  German  instruction,  have  ad- 
opted the  German  historical  methods. 
Is  early  all  of  the  younger  economists 
^ave  studied  in  Germany  and  have 
fallen  under  the  powerful  influence  of 
Roscher,  Waguer,  or  Conrad,  and  have 
brought  the  ideas  so  acquired  to  their 
new  fields  of  instruction.  While  in 
several  of  the  universities  upholders  of 
the  A  priori  methods  are  still  in  posi- 
tions of  predominant  influence,  it  is 
undoubtedly  true  that  at  the  present 


moment  a  majority  of  the  teachers  in 
our  colleges  and  universities  are  to  be 
ranked  as  belonging  to  the  historical 
school.  It  goes  without  saying,  there- 
fore, that  tne  doctrines  of  free  trade 
are  not  so  generally  or  so  dogmatically 
taught  as  tney  were  ten  or  fifteen  years 
ago.  The  tendency  is  probably  very 
nearly  akin  to  that  which  appears  to 
be  prevailing  in  England.  The  views 
and  methods  of  Rogers,  Jevons,  and 
Sidgwick  are  now  much  more  generally 
accepted  than  the  views  and  methods 
of  the  economists  that  led  public  opin- 
ion a  generation  ago. 

The  movement  as  a  whole,  however, 
is  to  be  regarded  as  a  favorable  sign  of 
the  times.  It  is  certain  that  at  no 
time  in  the  past  has  the  study  of  po- 
litical economy  been  carried  on  so  earn- 
estly and  so  thoroughly  as  at  the  present 
moment.  In  all  of  the  universities  the 
classes  in  this  subject  are  large,  and  in 
many  of  them  the  most  difficult  ques- 
tions are  considered  with  a  care  and  a 
thoroughness  that  was  formerly  un- 
known. More  than  all  this,  within 
the  last  few  months  two  important 
journals  have  come  into  existence  for 
the  discussion  of  questions  of  political 
economy  and  political  science.  The 
Political  Science  Quarterly,  edited  by 
the  Faculty  of  Political  Science  in  Co- 
lumbia College,  is  devoted  to  the  whole 
range  of  questions  indicated  by  its 
title;  while  the  Quarterly  Journal  of 
Economics,  edited  by  the  rrofessors  of 
Political  Economy  at  Harvard,  is  to 
be  confined  more  narrowly  to  a  special 
field.  Both  of  these  journals  have  the 
flavor  of  a  careful  scholarship,  and 
their  first  appearance,  almost  simul- 
taneously, must  be  regarded  as  among 
the  more  auspicious  signs  of  the  times. 
— Pres.  Charles  Kendall  Adams, 
in  Tlie  Contemporary  Review. 


412 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


CHARLES  STUART  CALVERLEY. 

[bORK  in  1831,  DIED  IN  1885.] 

Calverley  was  an  Oxford  man,  who 
had  migrated  to  Cambridge,  and  I,  a 
Cambridge  man,  afterward  migrated  to 
Oxford.  I  was  a  freshman  and  Calverley 
was  in  his  second  year;  and  at  Cam- 
bridge colleges  there  is  a  gulf,  at  least 
there  was  in  my  time,  which  is  beyond 
the  power  of  human  language  to  de- 
scribe, between  first  and  second  year 
men.  This  was  intensified  in  Calver- 
ley's  position  toward  his  juniors  by  his 
previous  Oxford  experience  ana  his 
unique  position  at  Christ's  College. 
For,  to  use  a  popular  term,  Calverley 
might  have  been  called  the  King  of  the 
College. 

One  day  an  old  friend  of  mine,  now 
a  highly-esteemed  bishop  of  the  church, 
remonstrated  with  me  on  my  extreme 
"cheek''  in  having,  in  my  first  year, 
called  upon  the  illustrious  Calverley. 
Let  me  illustrate  this  supposed  gaum- 
erie.  About  two  years  ago  there  was  a 
Cambridge  man  who  without  any  intro- 
duction or  permission  left  a  card  on 
Prince  Edward  of  Wales,  at  his  rooms 
opposite  the  famous  lime-walk  of  Trin- 
ity. This  unforeseen  call  caused  consid- 
erable perplexity  in  the  highest  quarters, 
but  it  was  eventually  decided  that  a 
card  should  be  left  in  return.  To  call 
on  Calverley  uninvited  would  be  as 
much  * 'cheek"  in  my  instance  as  the 
calling  upon  the  prince.  IIap])ily  I 
was  able  to  assure  my  c?/,v/as*  morifm 
that  I  had  not  called  upon  Calverley  till 
that  prince  of  undergraduates  had  been 
twice  at  my  rooms  and  more  than  once 
taken  a  ramble  with  me  in  the  countrv. 

How  our  acquaintance  began  I  cannot 
recollect.  I  had  come  up,  7wn  sine 
glorify  from  a  Scottish  university, 
which  at  that  time  was  senrlin^  a  num- 
ber of  good  men  to  Cambridge,  and  I 

ffappose  that  I  wm  inadvertently  set 


ripe 
the 


down  among  the  number.  Anyhow  I 
saw  a  good  deal  of  Calverley,  who  was 
not  at  all  exclusive  in  confining  himself 
to  the  men  of  his  year  at  Christ's,  lie 
knew  all  the  men  of  all  the  vears. 
There  was  hardly  any  set  of  rooms  in 
the  college  which  he  could  not  enter  at 
will — whose  owner  would  not  be  in  the 
highest  degree  gratified  by  being  hon- 
ored with  a  call.  The  principal  associ- 
ations which  I  connect  with  Calverley 
— at  least  in  those  days — were  a  cutty- 
pipe,  a  curly-tailed  terrier,  and  a  pew- 
ter-pot. Both  in  Latin  and  English 
verse,  botli  by  precept  and  example,  he 
celebrated  the  praises  of  beer.  Gradually 
there  stole  upon  you  the  sense  of  the 
enormous  brain-power  by  which  he  was 
distinguished  from  other  men. 

The  tutor  of  Christ's  College,  the 
Rev.  W.  M.  Gunson,  was  a  scholar  ri] 
and  good,  who  had  greatly  raised 
standard  of  scholarship  at  Christ's  Col- 
lege. There  was  something  very  un- 
happy in  his  case  at  the  last.  From  a 
morbid  sensitiveness  he  declined  the 
Miistership  of  the  College,  and  was 
found  drowned,  it  was  feared  by  his 
own  act  At  this  date  he  was  at  the 
zenith  of  a  high  university  reputation. 
He  told  me  one  day  that  I  should  be 
surprised  at  what  lie  was  going  to  sav, 
but  he  really  preferred  Calverley 's  Latin 
verse  to  Horace's.  His  Latin  was  as 
good  as  Horace's,  and  he  had  a  peculiar 
feeling  and  beauty  of  stvle  which  Hor- 
ace did  not  possess.  tiThen  Calverley 
sat  down  to  write  Latin  verse  he  simply 
took  pen  and  paper,  without  using  nwj 
books  for  reference  and  helps.  Simi- 
larly when  he  read  Aristophanes,  he  had 
nothing  but  Dindorf's  PoctcB  Scenici 
Gropxi  before  him,  which  he  enjoyed 
as  much  as  he  did  PickiHch^  which  he 
knew  almost  by  heart.  TTe  all  believed 
that  there  was  nothing  which  he  coulcl 
not  do  if  he  chose.  Unfortunately 
Calverley  did  not  choose  to  work.  He 
read  Greek  and  Latin  as  he  might  read 


CHARLES  STLaUT  CALVi:.ULEY. 


413 


English  fiction  lor  mxs  aniuaemeiK 
but  there  is  a  certain  amount  of  hard 
study,  without  which  Pericles  himself 
could  not  have  hoped  to  be  at  the  head 
of  the  classical  tripos.  His  friends  saw 
that  he  had  given  up  severe  study  as 
out  of  his  line — if  it  had  ever  been  in  it. 
One  day  I  said  to  him — 

"Well,  Calverley,  you  will  not  be 
Senior  Classic/'  **Who  will?''  — 
"Brown?"  "Who's  Brown?'' —  this 
with  some  little  scorn. 

Brown  was  Senior  Classic  and  Cal- 
verley only  second;  a  very  fine  degree, 
hut  one  which  we  thought  might  with 
a  little  effort  have  been  higher. 

There  was  at  that  time  however  at 
Christ's  a  man  who  attained  for  the 
college  the  coveted  distinction  of  Sen- 
ior Classic.  This  Wiis  J.  R.  Seeley, 
who  years  afterward  broke  suddenly 
upon  the  world  as  the  author  of  Ucce 
Homo.  Mr.  Gladstone  wrote  a  set  of 
articles  about  the  book,  and  made  its 
author  Professor  of  Modern  History  at 
Cambridge.  Mr.  Seeley  wrote  also  a 
Life  of  Stein,  a  work  as  much  appreci- 
ated in  Germany  as  in  England.  It 
was  just  a  chance  that  Seeley  and  Cal- 
verley were  not  competitors  for  the  same 
distinction^  but  Mr.  Seeley  having 
entered  in  a  leg-term  was  entitled  to  go 
out  later,  and  did  so.  The  two  vnQii 
contrasted  as  much  physically  as  men- 
tally, and  each  was  a  very  fine  specimen 
in  his  way.  There  was  this  difference, 
however.  Mr.  Seeley  seems  always  to 
have  interested  himself  intensely  in 
every  high  and  serious  subject,  but 
Calverley,  may  be  to  hide  a  deeper  feel- 
iog,  seemed  almost  incapable  of  looking 
at  any  subject  except  from  a  comic  point 
of  view.  Once  I  told  him  his  effort 
always  seemed  to  be  to  "disillusionate" 
everything.  He  laughed  heartily,  and 
took  the  remark,  as  I  certainly  did  not 
intend  it,  in  the  light  a  compliment. 
There  were  other  men  of  that  time  that 
have  come  to  considerable  distinction — 


Mr.  Walter  Skeat,  our  great  Anglo-Sax- 
on scliuiar;  11:*  Walter  Besant,  the 
novelist  and  philanthropist;  Mr.  Sen- 
dall,  who  has  edited  some  of  Calverley's 
Remains;  Dr.  Gell,  the  Bishop  of 
Madras.  The  fellowships  of  Christ's 
College  were  supposed  to  be  very  good, 
better  than  those  of  Trinity  College — 
so  far  as  information  leaked  out,  about 
£330  a  year.  Of  course  Calverley  be- 
came Fellow  and  M.  A.,  but  to  the  last 
there  was  more  of  the  undergraduate 
than  of  the  magisterial  element  in  him. 
Few  men  have  passed  through  univer- 
sities so  inexpensively  as  he  did.  Both  at 
Balliol  and  at  Christ*s,  his  academical 
income,  even  while  an  undergraduate, 
must  have  paid  his  academical  expenses. 
On  one  occasion  I  took  what  we  used 
to  call  "a  rise"  out  of  Calverley.  It 
had  so  happened  that  I  had  gone  into 
his  room  and  found  it  empty.  A  sheet 
of  white  foolscap  was  lying  on  the  table 
half-way  covered  with  Latin  poetry. 
One  line  struck  my  eye  and  pleased  me 
very  much — 

"Mira  manus  tangit  citharam  neque  cemitur 
uUi." 

In  fact,  I  do  not  think  that  I  read 
any  other  line.  Going  next  into  a 
room  on  the  ground-floor  of  the  near 
staircase  there  were  a  lot  of  men,  and 
Calverley  among  them.  The  talk  hap- 
pened to  be  on  the  subject  of  weird  and 
eerie  things.  I  or  some  other  man  spoke, 
of  mysterious  harp-like  sounds  that  we 
fancy  are^  heard  at  times  in  solitary 
places. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "that  is  an  old  idea 
found  even  amongst  Latin  poets.  Do 
you  remember  this  line? 

"Mira  maniis  tangit  citharam  neque  cemitur 
uUi." 

Calverley  looked  very  puzzled,  and 
said — 

"Would  you  mind  repeating  that  line 
again,  old  man?" 

I  accordingly  repeated  it. 


414 


THE  LraRAtlY  MAGAZINE. 


By-and-by  Calrerley  moved  across  the 
room,  and  looked  at  me  very  earnestly 
and  said — 

'*Do  you  know  I  really  thought  I  had 
composed  that  line  myself.  Can  you 
tell  me  where  it  comes  from?" 

"It  is  your  own  line,  Calverley,"  I 
/answered.  "I  happened  to  go  into  your 
"  room  just  now — you  will  find  my  card 
— and  hardly  knowing  what  1  was  doing 
I  looked  at  some  Latin  lines  lyiu§  on  the 
table,  and  that  was  one  which  pleased 
me  very  much." 

Calverley's  Latin  lines  were  always 
admirable.  The  ordinary  writers  of 
Latin  verse  must  always  contemplate 
them  with  admiring  despair.  Pernaps 
the  most  popular  of  his  Latin  verses 
was  the  Tripos  Latin  poem,  Carmen 
Seculare,  which  he  wrote  one  year.  It 
was  customary  for  the  vice-chancellor 
to  give  a  pair  of  gloves  to  the  writer  of 
such  lines.  Calverley,  as  I  have  been 
informed,  asked  for  and  obtained  a  pair 
of  boxing  gloves  from  the  vice.  Many 
of  the  lines  of  his.  poems  have  passed 
almost  into  proverbs  at  Cambridge.  His 
description  of  the  youth  who  was  going 
to  set  the  Cam  on  fire  and  "'junior 
optimus^exii;"  of  the  more  fortunate 
youth. — 

''Si  qua  fata  aspera  rumpas, 
Tu  rixator  eris. " 

Wrangler  =  rixator;  the  youth  who 
ffoes  to  green  fields,  not  of  the  country, 
but  of  the  billiard  table,  *'poIHcitus 
meliora  patri;^^  the  translation  of 
"unmentionables,"  '^Crurum  non  enar- 
rabile  tegmeny  the  warning  to  the 
lad  who  runs  up  bills  at  Bacon's  the 
tobacconist — 

"O  fumose  puer,  nimiiim  ne  crede  Baconi. 
Manillas  vocat;  hoc  prsetextat  nomine  caules  ** 

But  the  whole  poem  overflows  with 
fun  which  has  amused  many  of  the  fast- 
fleeting  generations  of  the  university. 
Calverley  too  was  an  admirable  punster. 
Mr.  Payn,  the  novelist,  in  his  Liternrii 


Recollections,  tells  the  story  that  when 
he  was  left  behind  in  a  mountain  excur- 
sion, Calverley  quoted  the  lines  ''Tlie 
labor  we  delight  in  physics  Pain." 

Onp  evening  one  or  two  of  us  strolled 
down  with  Calverley  to  the  Cambridge 
railway  station.  There  was  a  very 
pretty  girl  serving  at  the  refreshment 
bar,  and  one  of  the  men  went  up  and 
asked  her  at  what  time  the  Xorthem 
train  came  in.  "Now,"  said  Calverley 
somewhat  severely  to  his  companion, 
**if  you  come  to  think  of  it  that  s  a  sort 
of  lie,  you  know." 

I  found  when  I  went  to  Oxford  that 
Blaydes  was  a  tradition  and  the  name  of 
Calverley    unknown.      The  author  of 
Alic-e  in   Wonderland  took  me  bv  the 
little  path  arid  showed  me  the -forked 
tree  through  which  Calverley  took  his 
dangerous  and  daring  leap.     It  is  not 
likely  to  be  repeated,  for  this  path, 
which  used  to  be  the  short  cut  to  the 
boats,  is  now  entirely  shut  up  since  the 
Dean  of  Christ  Church  has  laid  out  his 
new   path  from   the  Broad   Walk.     I 
asked  him  once  how  he  came  to  change 
his  name  to  Calverley.     He  answere<l 
naively,  that  all  his  family  had  found 
out  that  they  had  been  using  the  wrong 
name  for  a  great  many    years.      The 
change  of  name  concurred  opportunely 
wtth  the  change  of  luiiversity.     I  once 
asked  him    the    exact    circumstances 
under  which  he  had  left  Oxford.     The 
story  was,  that  having  got  into  trouble 
once  or  twice  about  climbing  walls,  he 
was  warned  about  the  very  unpleasant 
consequences  that  would  ensue  if  he 
was  found   doing  it  again.      Alas,  a 
tempting  opportunity  arose  one  night, 
and  the  forbidden  cHnib  was  achieved. 
Calverley  had  no  desire  to  hurt  the 
feelings  of  the  authority.     It  was  only 
his  playfulness.     He  wanted  his  joke 
and  his  jump.     There  was  a  gresit  but 
unsuccessful  effort  to  catch  the  truant, 
who  might  have  escaped,  but  for  his 
own  wicked  wit.    He  was  heard  to  ex- 


CHARLES  STUART  CALVERLEY. 


415 


clainiy  "My  enemies  compassed  me 
round  about^  but  by  the  help  of  the 
Lord  I  leaped  over  the  wall."  This 
uuguarded  admi^ion  proved  too  much 
for  him,  and  he  was  requested  to  take 
his  name  off  the  books.  1  repeated  to 
Calverley  the  story  as  I  had  neard  it, 
and  asked  him  if  it  were  correct.  He 
nodded  his  head  and  said,  "Something 
like  it.'' 

There  was  no  boisterousness  displeas- 
ing to  the  authorities  during  Calverley  *s 
undergraduate  days  at  Cambridge, 
Nothing  could  be  quieter,  in  better  tone 
and  taste  than  his  conduct.  I  remem- 
ber that  there  was  a  rumor  among  the 
"fast"  men,  of  whom  there  were  some, 
even  at  small  Christ's  College,  that  the 
college  defences  were  not  impregnable, 
and  that  there  was  a  weak  pomt;  either 
that  some  gate  could  be  opened  or  some 
wall  be  scaled.  There  were  one  or  two 
men  who  declared  that  they  had  achiev- 
ed this  hazardous  operation.  To  Cal- 
verley anv  matter  of  this  sort  would 
not  be  01  the  slightest  interest.  He 
had  left  everything  of  this  sort  far  be- 
hind. A  man  who  could  vault  over  a 
horse  and  cart  in  Petty  Cury  bad  no 
need  to  prove  his  prowess  in  an  irregu- 
lar and  abnormal  way.  When  "fast" 
men  indulged  their  talk,  Calverley 
would  listen  in  an  amused  and  quizzi- 
cal way.  I  never  myself  heard  him  use 
a  single  expression  which  any  child  or 
lady  might  not,  hear.  There  was  a 
sacred  pond  in  (^  garden,  near  Mil- 
ton's still  more*  sacred  mulberry  tree* 
beneath  whose  "glassy,  cool  translucent 
wave"  I  have  a  notion  that  he  used  to 
disport  himself.  This  was  no  doubt 
by  permission,  or  in  the  exercise  of  his 
undoubted  rights. 

Calverley  once  gave  me  two  songs  of 
his  for  publication.  It  was  for  a  little 
provincial  story  which  I  published 
many  years  ago  in  a  great  Scottish  city. 
The  talo  has  been  out  of  print  for  a 
great  many  years.     One  of  these  songs, 


"0  a  life  in  the  country  so  joyous," 
as  "Stanzas  for  Music,"  has  been  pub- 
lished in  his  Remains,  but  I  could  never 
see  much  in  it.  The  other,  which  is 
not  at  all  known,  is  much  more  charac- 
teristic.    It  came  out  as — 


MR.  LESLIE  S  SONQ. 

''There  is  a  r?i;Hure,  exceeding  all  measure, 

Left  to  euli<  CD  this  sorrowful  world; 
Who  does  uot  think  of  that  moment  with 
pleasure, 
When  tiret  round  his  lips  the  wreathing 
smoke  curled? 
Purenta  look  grave  or  sick. 
Call  it  a  nasty  trick, 
Say  it  i9  ruinous— say  it  is  wrong, 
Ilappy  indeed  his  lot, 
Who,  for  these  caring  not. 
Puffs  like  a  chhnney-pot 
All  the  day  long. 

''Some,  who  are  troubled  with  endless  en- 
treaties. 
Strive  for  a  time  this  delig;ht  to  forego; 
Vain  are  the  efforts,  their  failure  complete  is — 
Life  without  smoking 's  unl)earably  slow. 
Boon  their  mistake  they  lind. 
Leave  all  such  thoughts  behind. 
Wise  resolutions  all  vanish  in  ttnioke; 
And  to  their  cost  they  see. 
That  if  their  life  must  be 


Unfumigatory 
•Twill  L 


be  no  joke. 


"Ladies  majr  talk  of  their  otto  of  roses — 

Oh,  there  is  somethiui;  that's  better  by  far! 
Believe  me,  an  odor  more  fragnmt  reposes 
In  a  whiff  from  a  pipe  or  a  penny  cigar! 
Healer  of  ever3'  smart. 
Soother  of  every  heart. 
Would  I  could  tell  all  thy  praises  in  song! 
Incense  at  Pleasure's  shrine, 
Oh,  that  thy  fumes  divine 
Curled  round  tliis  nose  of  mine 
All  the  dapr  long'" 

• 

Every  generation  of  university  men 
have  their  personal  literary  favorites. 
Now  it  is  Tennyson,  now  Carlyle,  now 
Browninj^,  now  Dickens.  At  this  time 
it  was  Dickens,  especially  his  Pickwick, 
Those  who  took  so  ardently  to  Pickwick 
(lid  not  trouble  themselves  very  much 
about  Carlyle  and  Browning.     \Ve  left 


/ 


416 


THE  LIBRAUY  MAGAZINE. 


the  more  serious  side  of  things  to  ^Ir. 
Seeley  and  his  friends.  Pickwick  was 
regarded  as  the  highest  achievement  of 
the  human  mind,  so  far  as  the  human 
mind  has  as  yet  gone.  My  own  idea 
is  that  at  this  time  the  study  of  Pick- 
wick gave  a  great  impulse  to  the  con- 
sumption of  beer.  There  is  hardly  a 
chapter  in  the  immortal  work  which 
does  not  bring  in  what  Mr.  Gladstone 
has  called  "that  refreshing  beverage." 
The  morning  began  with  beer,  which 
continued,  with  proper  or  improper 
intervals,  till  dewy  eve,  and  later  still. 
When  some  one  remarked  to  a  don  that 
the  whole  university  miglit  be  divided 
into  **readiug"  and  "feeding"  men,  he 
expressed  his  regret  that  they  washed 
down  the  feeding  with  such  copious  li- 
bations. Some  men,  who  absolutelv 
detested  beer,  thought  it  a  proper  thing 
to  acquire  the  taste,  as  being  thoroughly. 
British  and  patriotic.  There  was  an 
extraordinary  knowledge  of  Pickwick 
among  Christ's  men  in  those  days.  It 
has  been  said  that  if  the  Paradise  Lost 
had  been  lost,  Macaulay  could  have  re- 
vived it  from  his  own  memory.  This  is 
not  exactly  true.  When  Caiverley  was 
at  Christ's,  Macaulay  came  dov.n  to 
Cambridge  to  spend  a  few  days  with  his 
nephew,  Mr.  Trevelyan,  at  Cambridge. 
They  started  him  on  the  Pctradise  Lost, 
but  the  historian  broke  down.  Tears 
rushed  into  his  eyes  when  he  found  that 
his  incomparable  memory — a  memory, 
however,  which  retained  all  the  rubbish 
as  well  as  all  the  precious  things — was 
deserting  him.  There  was  Caiverley, 
with  two  or  three  others,  who  could 
have  gone  a  very  long  way  toward  re- 
producing Pickwick,  Calvfrley's  fa- 
mous examination  paper  on  Pickwick  is 
well  known.  I  have  seen,  I  will  hardly 
say  a  rival,  but  another  examination 
paper  on  Pickwick,  but  it  is  "not  a 
patch"  upon  Caiverley 's.  It  shows 
that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  even  a 
recondite  knowledge  of  Pickwick.     Its 


chief  ch^rm  is  the  admirable  parody  on 
the  examination  style  at  (/ambridge,  I 
consider  myself  very  well  up  in  my 
Pickwick,  but  I  think  I  should  have 
been  floored  at  this  examination.  lie 
offered  two  prizes,  each  consisting  of  a 
"lirst  edition"  of  Pickwick;  a  "first 
edition"  is  worth  money  now,  and  it 
was  a  rarity  in  volume,  I  think,  years 
ago.  U'he  prizes  were  obtained  by 
Professor  ISkeat,  who  was  famous  for  a 
mai-velous  power  of  pace  in  the  cover- 
ing of  an  examination  paper;  and  Mr. 
Walter  Besant,  wlio  was,  no  doubt, 
helped  by  his  own  kindred  genius. , 

Some  of  these  questions  are  reprinted 
by  Mr.  Payn  in  his  Literary  EecoUec- 
tions.  I  include  some  excerpts  not 
given  by  Mr.  'Payn.  The  paper  is 
found  in  some  editions  of  the  I^ly 
Leaves,     The  first  question  is — 

Mention  any  occiisions  on  which  it  is  speci- 
fied that  the  tat  Boy  was  not  asleep;  and  that 
(1)  Mr.  Pickwick  and  (3)  Mr.  Waller,  senior, 
ran.  Deduce  from  expressions  used  on  one 
occasion  Mr  Pickwick's  maximum  of  speed. 

3.  Who  were  Mr.  Stokle,  Goodwin,  Mr. 
Brooks,  Villam,  Mr.  Bleukin,  '^old    Nobs," 

"cast  iron  head,"  "young  Bantam?" 

4.  \\  hat  operation  was  performed  on  Tom 
Smart  8  chair?  Who  little  thinks  that  in 
which  pocket,  of  what  garment,  in  where,  he 
has  left  what,  entreating  him  to  return  to 
whom,  with  how  many  what,  and  all  how 
big? 

6.  Mr.  Weller's  knowledge  of  London  was 
extensive  and  peculiar.  Illlustrate  this  by  a 
reference  to  the  facts. 

8.  Give  in  full  Sam ucf  "Weller's'  first  com- 
pliment to  Mar5%  and  hirtjUieT's  critique  upon 
the  same  voung  lady.  What  church  was  on 
the  valentine  that  first  attracted  Mr.  Samuel's 
eye  in  the  shop? 

10.  On  finding  his  principal  in  the  pound, 
Mr.  Wcller  and  the  tow^n -beadle  varied  di- 
rectly. Show  that  the  hitter  was  ultimately 
elimmated,  and  state  the  number  of  rounds 
in  the  square  which  is  not  described. 

20.  Write  down  the  chorus  to  each  line  of 
Mr.  S.  Weller's  song,  and  a  sketch  of  the 
mottle  faced  mnrt's  excursus  on  it.  Is  there 
any  ground  for  conjecturing  that  he  (Sam)  hai 
more  brothers  ^han  one? 

21.  How  many  lumps  of  sugar  went  into 


CHARLES  STUART  CALVERLEY 


417 


the  Shepherd's  liquor  as  a  rule?    And  is  any 
exception  recorded? 

24.  How  did  Mr.  Weller,  senior,  define  the 
Funds,  and  wiiat  view  did  he  take  of  Reduced 
Consols?  In  what  terms  is  his  elastic  force 
(iesciibed  when  he  assaulted  Mr.  Stiggins,  at 
the  meeting?  Write  down  the  name  of  the 
meeting. 

27.  In  developing  to  P.  M.  his  views  of  a 
])rop06ition,  what  assumption  did  Mr.  Pick- 
wick feel  justified  in  making? 

28.  Deduce  from  a  remark  of  Mr.  Weller, 
junior,  tlie  price  per  mile  of  cabs  at  tlie  pcricxi. 

29.  What  do  you  know  of  the  hotel  next 
the  Bull  at  Rochwter? 

The  examination  paper  must  be 
taken  as  a  whole  to  do  justice  to  its 
clover  parodies  and  infinite  fun.  Few 
brochures  have  been  so  popular  and 
Fuccessful. 

It  i5  greatly  to  be  regretted  that  Cal- 
verley  never  attempted  any  more  serious 
work  that  would  nave  brought  out  his 
great  abili  y  and  large  knowledge.  The 
best-known  pieces  of  his  lyric  verse  are 
no  doubt  the  light  Cambridge  pieces, 
and  here  he  ought  to  be  compared  with 
his  contemporary  Sir  George  Pi-evelyan, 
the  statesman,  whose  Horace  in  AtheriH 
is  most  delicious  fooling.  Sir  G.  0. 
Trevelyan  says,  in  a  note  to  his  poem, 
that  its  lines,  dealing  not  very  respect- 
fally  with  the  Trinity  dons,  was  the 
dearest  thing  he  ever  composed,  for 
they  cost  him  a  fellowship.     On  this 

Soint,  however,  we  are  able  to  assure 
irG.  Trevelyan  that  he  was  quite  mis- 
taken. A  Trinity  Fellowship  is  rarely 
ever  given  to  a  man  on  his  first  compe- 
tition. He  might  have  made  quite  safo 
for  it  on  his  second  or  third  trial.  He 
would  have  commanded  it  by  h'lS  own 
merits,  and  the  fellows  would  have 
heen  glad  to  welcome  a  worthy  nephew 
of  Macaulay's  into  their  society.  Sir 
(i.  Trevelyan  has  since  won  great  honor 
in  literature  and  politics.  .  Calverley^s 
ability  and  scholarship  might  have 
earned  him  perhaps  no  less  distin- 
guished a  position.  The  only  subject 
io  which  he  deliberately  applied  his 


mind  was  that  of  translation.  He 
studied  it  as  an  art,  and  as  an  art  he 
published  several  gems  of  criticism  on 
rt.  His  own  i)owers  of  translation  from 
Greek  and  Latin  into  English,  and  from 
English  into  Greek  Latin,  were  unique. 
His  version  of  Tlieocritus,  perhaps  the 
best  known  of  his  wTi tings,  is  perhaps 
the  best  example  of  this.  It  is  curious 
that  Mr.  Frederick  Harrison,  while 
discoursing  at  some  length  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Translation  in  his  Choice  of 
Books,  and  while  mentioning  one  trans- 
lation of  Theocritus,  does  not  seem  to 
be  acquainted  with  Calverley*s.  Life 
was  made  so  smooth  and  easy  for  Cal- 
verley  that  he  missed  the  great  incen- 
tive of  poverty,  which  causes  most  of 
the  work  of  the  world.  He  was  not  a 
man  likely  to  work  unless  under  the 
pressure  of  a  strong  incentive— a  type 
of  a  very  large  class  of  men.  Beyond 
most  even  he  was  devoid  of  ambition. 
He  married  and  lived  happy  ever  after- 
ward, until  the  last  illness  came,  as  it 
comes  to  all.  In  his  Latin  poem  of 
Australia  he  contrasts  the  life  of  the 
goW-digger,  and  compares  wiih  it  the 
happier  and  more  careless  life  of  the 
peasant  who  stays  at  home. 

"Felix  qui  tantos  potuit  perferre  laboresl 
Quique  procellarum  furiis,  testuque  fameque 
Majoreai  se  fassiis,  iter  palefecit  habendi! 
Fortinintus  et  ille,  sui  qui  dives,  et  utens 
Sortc  data,  magnis  non  invidet?    Improhus 

ilium 
Tors  urget  labor,  arcta  domus,  rarique  bo- 

dales: 
Atjneunda  quies,  at  viva  in  fnanUbus  au/rcBf 
Et  vacuum  curis  animus,  fec^re  beatum. 
Patris  amatis  iUi  soboles,  nee  Icpta  labonim 
Uxor  abest;  non  ille  timet  de  nocte  latrones, 
Non  auclumnalem    maturis    frugibus    im- 

breni.'* 

The  passage  which  I  have  underlined 
seems  descriptive  of  the  brightness  and 
joy  and  happiness  of  Calverley's  own 
home  life.  He  was  quite  content  with- 
in such  limits  as  he  has  described.  The 
words  seemed  especially  applicable  to 


41  JO 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


liitn  **Seeke8t  thou  great  things  for  thy- 
Bi}\(?  Seek  them  not.''  There  never 
was  a  man  for  whom  the  ambitions  and 
competitions  of  life  had  so  little  attrac- 
tion. 

A  selection  of  hymns,  bearing  the 
title  of  the  Hymnary,  appeared  some 
years  ago  under  the  editorship  of  Canon 
Cooke  of  Chester,  and  of  the  Rev.  Ben- 
jamin Webb.  Mr.  Webb  was  the  Vicar 
of  St.  Andrew's,  Well  street,  and  for 
years  the  editor  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land Qiutrterly  Revieio.  The  collection 
is  not  very  well  known,  but  it  is  used 
in  some  tliirty  or  forty  churches,  gener- 
ally of  a  somewhat  advanced  Ritualistic 
type.  In  this  collection  there  are  no 
lesri  than  nineteen  hymns  attributed  in 
the  index  to  C.  Stuart  Calverle)^.  They 
are  all  of  them  written  in  a  vein  of  al- 
most ecstatic  piety.  Those  who  only 
knew  Calverley  by  his  lighter  verse 
must  have  been  rather  struck  by  the 
violence  of  the  contrast.  Mr.  Sendall 
in  his  memorial  volume  states  the  fact, 
wliich  is  not  to  be  gathered  from  the 
Hymnary  itself,  that  these  are  all  trans- 
lations from  ancient  sources.  They  are 
not  so  successful,  as  translations,  as  thb 
wonderful  translations  of  John  Mason 
Neale,  but  they  bring  out  his  former 
skill  as  a  translator,  on  higher  themes 
than  had  ever  before  occupied  his  pen, 
and  w^ill  form  a  touching  memorial  of 
his  name  and  work.  Ue  was  not  the 
man  to  undertake  such  subjects  unless 
he  deeply  felt  them. 

(ioing  back  to  my  own  recollections, 
he  always  seemed  to  me  one  of  the  hap- 
])iest  and  most  charming  men  possible, 
at  perfect  case  with  himself  and  all  his 
surroundings,  in  the  perfection  of  bod- 
ily and  intellectual  strength.  The 
great  charm  of  Calverley  was  his  perfect 
unconsciousness.  He  was  free  from  the 
sli<;htest  touch  of  vanity  or  assumption, 
apparently  quite  unaware  of  there  being 
anything  remarkable  about  himself, 
?Toreo^er,  there  was  a  real  vein  of  kind- 


ness about  him  and  generosity  of  na- 
ture; a  personal  instance  of  which  is 
fresh  in  my  recollection.  No  man  was 
richer  in  friends,  and  chiefly  because 
none  could  be  a  truer  friend  than  he 
was.  Those,  however,  who  knew  him 
much  better  than  myself  have  testified 
to  this,  and  to  his  many  noble  and 
generous  qualities. — Tetnple  Bar. 


BYRONIANA. 

Sixty  years  ago  (that  .is  in  1816)  John 
Murray — whose  name  was  really  Mac 
Murray — the  founder  of  the  great  Lon- 
don publishing  house,  wrote  to  Lord 
Byron: 

*'I  am  thinking  more  seriously  than  ever  of 
establishing  a  monthly  literary  journal,  and 
am  promised  the  contributions  of  the  greater 
characters  here;  if  I  succeed  I  will  venture  lo 
solicit  the  favor  of  your  powerful  assistance, 
in  the  shape  of  Letters,  Essays,  Characters, 
Pacts;  Travels,  Epigrams,  and  other,  to  you, 
small  shot,  and  to  intreat  the  favor  of  your 
influence  among  your  friends.  Ever>'one  can 
communicate  something, — a  fact  or  perhaps 
some  curious  letter,  etc." 

This  scheme,  formed  so  long  ago,  has 
now  been  carried  out  by  the  present 
John  Murray.  The  first  number  of 
Murray'^s  Magazine  made  its  appear* 
ance  in  January,  1887.  It  opens  with  a 
score  or  so  of  lines  intended  as  the  be- 
gining  of  Lara,  but  now  printed  for 
the  first  time. 

OFENIKO  LnCES  TO  LARA. 

"When  she  is  gone,  the  loved,  the  best,  the  one 
Whose  smile  hath    gladdened    though   per- 
chance undone, 
Whose,name,  too  dearly  cherished  to  impart. 
Dies  on  the  lip,  but  trembles  in  the  heart; 
Whose  sudden  mention  can  almost  convulse 
And  lighten  through  the  ungovernable  pulss. 
Till  the  heart  leaps  so  keenly  to  tlie  word 
We  fear  that  throb  can  hardly  be  unheard, 
Then  sinks  at  once  beneatli  that  sickly  chill 
That  follows  when  we  find  her  absent  still; 
When  &ucli  is- gone,  too  far  again  to  blesSr 


t  — 


BYRONIANA. 


419 


Oh  Qod,  bow  slowly  comes  Forgetfulness! 
Let  none  complain  how  faithless  and  how  brief 
The  brain's  remembrance  or  the  bosom's  grief; 
Or,  ere  they  thus  forbid  us  to  forget, 
Let  Mercy  strip  the  memory  of  regret. 
Yet — selfish  still — we  would  not  be  forgot; . 
What  lip  dare  say,  *'My  love  remember  not?" 
Oh,  best  and  dearest,   thou  whose  thrilling 

name 
My  heart  adores  too  deeply  to  proclaim! 
My  memory,  almost  ceasing  to  repine, 
AV  ould  mount  to  Hope  if  once  secure  of  thine. 
Meantime  the  tale  1  weave  myst  mournful  be. 
As  absence  to  the  heart  that  lives  on  thee." 

Then  comes  a  letter  from  Byron, 
written  from  Ravenna  in  1821,  in  which 
he  describes  his  first  meeting  with 
Madame  De  Stael  eight  years  before. 

HAPAMB  DB  BTABL  AND  OEOR6B  TV. 

"In  the  year  1813,  I  had  the  honor  of  being 
amongst  the  earliest  of  my  countrymen  pru< 
sentcd  to  Mde.  de  Stael  on  the  very  night  of 
her  arrival  in  London.  She  arrived,  was 
dr^Sifd,  and  came  with  her  Glory  to  Lady 
Jersey's,  where,  in  common  with  many  others, 
I  bowed— /k?f  the  knee,  but  the  head  and  heart 
— in  homage  to  an  extraordinary  and  able 
woman  driven  from  her  own  country  by  the 
most  extraordinary  of  men.  They  are  both 
dead  and  buried,  so  we  may  speak  without 
offence. 

**On  the  day  after  her  arrival  I  dined  in  her 
company  at  Sir  Humphry  Davy's,  being  the 
least  of  one  of  a  'legion  of  honor*  invited  to 
greet  her.  If  I  mistake  not — and  can  memory 
be  treacherous  U)  such  men? — there  were  pres- 
ent Sheridan,  Whitbread,  Grattan,  the  Mar- 
quis of  I^nsdowne,  without  counting:  our  ill ms- 
trious  host.  The  first  experimental  philosopher 
of  his  own  (or  perhaps  any  other  pTeeeding 
time)  was  there,  to  receive  the  most  celebrated 
of  women,  surrounded  by  the  flower  of  our 
wits,  the  foremost  of  our  remaining  orators 
and  stitesmen,  condescending  even  to  invite 
the  tlien  youngest  and,  it  may  be,  still  least  of 
our  living  poets. 

"Of  these  guests,  it  would  be  melancholy  to 
relate,  even  in  cornmon  life,  that  three  of  the 
foremost  are  in  their  graves,  with  her  who  met 
them  and  with  him  who  was  the  irreat  cause 
of  their  meeting  (at  least  in  England.)  in  the 
short  space  of  seven  yeat-s  or  a  little  belter, 
and  n'>nc  of  them  aged;  but  when  we  utter 
their  n  :ines,  it  is  something  more— it  is  awful 
— il  s  o  AS  •  8  how  frail  they  were  in  their    L-y 


greatness',  and  we  who  remain  shrink,  as  it 
were,  into  nothing. 

"Of  this  'Symposion,*  graced  by  these  now 
Immortals,  I  recollect  less  than  ought  to  have 
been  remembered.  But  who  can  carry  away 
the  remembrance  of  his  pleasures  unimpaired 
and  unmutilated?  The  grand  impression  re- 
mains, but  the  tints  are  faded.  Besides,  I  was 
then  too  young  and  too  passionate  to  do  full 
justice  to  those  around  me. 

"Time,  absence  and  death  mellow  and  sanc- 
tify all  things.  I  then  saw  around  me  but  the 
men  whom  I  heard  daily  in  the  Senate,  and 
met  nightly  in  the  Ix}ndon  assemblies.  1  re- 
vered, 1  respected  them:  b»it  I  saw  them;  and 
neither  Beauty  nor  Glory  can  stand  this  daily 
test.  I  saw  the  woman  of  whom  I  had  heard 
marvels;  she  justified  what  I  had  heard,  but 
she  was  still  n  mortal,  and  made  long  speeches! 
nay,  the  very  day  of  this  philosophical  feast  in 
her  honor,  she  made  very  long  speeches  to  those 
who  had  been  accustomed  to  hear  such  only 
in  the  two  Houses.  She  interrupted  Whit- 
bread; she  declaimed  to  Lord  L.;  she  misun- 
derstood Sheridan's  jokes  for  assent;  she  har- 
angued, she  lectured,  she  preached  English 
politics  to  the  first  of  our  English  Whig  jwl- 
iticlans,  the  day  after  her  arrival  in  England; 
and  (if  I  am  not  much  misinformed)  preached 
politics  no  less  to  our  Tory  politicians  the  day 
after. 

"The  Sovereign  himself,  if  I  am  not  in 
error,  was  not  exempt  from  this  flow  of  elo- 
quence. As  Napoleon  had  been  lectured  on 
the  destinies  of  France,  the  Prince  Regent  of 
England  was  asked  'what  he  meant  to  do  with 
America?*  At  present  I  might,  with  all  hu- 
mility, ask,  'what  America  means  to  do  with 
him?*  In  twenty  or  thirty  years  more,  wliich 
he  cannot  (and  f  in  all  human  chances  shall 
not)  live  to  see,  this  will  be  to  his  successor  a 
serious  question.  W?w  will  be  his  successor? 
The  Dukes,  all  of  them  half  a  century  old, 
cannot  hvst  forever;  and  who^will  be  their 
successors?  The  little  Princesses!  This  is  a 
grand  petU-etre!'  In  the  meantime,  his  Majesty 
is  crowned;  and  long  may  he  reign!  His 
father  was  crowned  at  twenty  and  reigned 
sixty  years;  Tie  is  crowne  \  at  sixty,  and  may 
reign  twenty  years:  'tis  a  long  time,  as  reigns 
usually  go.  But  he  is  not  a  bad  King«  and  he 
was  a  fine  fellow;  it  is  a  great  pity  he  did  not 
come  to  his  crown  thirty  years  lief  ore.  I  can- 
not help  thinking  that,  if  lie  had  done  so,  all 
this  outcry  about  morals  and  wives  and  frivol- 
ties  might  have  been  prevented.  But  *Hope 
delayed  maketh  the  heart  sick:'  and  it  is  to  be 
feared  that  out  of  a  sick  heart  there  never  came 
a  sound  body  nor  a  tcm;>cr:ite  soul.     Ixit  it 


420 


*rfiE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


not  be  forgotten  that  he  'was  one  of  the  most ; 
persecuted  of  princes;  and  the  fruit  of  p(^rse-  j 
cution  has  been  in  all  ages  the  same.  I  shall 
not  I) resume  to  be  so  treasonable  as  to  say  that 
he  is  bad,  but  if  he  were,  with  the  provocation 
he  has  had,  I  should  only  wonder  that  he  is 
not  worse." 

Appended  to  this  is  an  extract  from  a 
letter  by  Miss  Catherine  M.  Fanshawe, 
giving  some  account  of  another  dinner 
party  at  Sir  Humphry  Davy's,  at 
which  Lord  Bryon  and  Madame  De 
Stael  were  prese*:*;. 

'*!  have  just  stayed  in  London  long  enouc^h 
to  get  a  sight  of  the  last-imported  lion,  Mde. 
de  Stael;  but  it  was  a  sight  worth  twenty 
peeps  through  ordinary  show  boxes.  ... 
I^loquence  is  a  great  word,  but  not'  too  big 
for  her.  She  speaks  as  she  writes;  cad,  upon 
this  occasion,  she  was  inspired  by  indignation, 
finding  herself  between  two  opposition  spirits, 
who  gave  full  play  to  all  her  energies.  She 
was  astonished  to  hear  that  this  pure  and  per- 
fect constitution  was  in  need  of  radical  're- 
form; that  the  only  safety  for  Ireland  was  to 
open  wide  the  doors  which  had  been  locked 
and  barred  by  the  glorious  revolution;  and 
that  Qreat  Britain,  the  Bulwark  of  the  World, 
the  Rock  which  alone  had  withstood  the 
sweeping  flood,  the  ebbs  and  tlows  of  Demo- 
cracy and  Tyranny,  was  herself  feeble,  dis- 
jointed, and  almost  on  the  eve  of  ruin.  So, 
at  least,  w.s it  represented  by  her  antagonist 
in  argument,  Childe  Harold,  whose  senti- 
ments—partly, perhaps,  for  the  sake  of  argu- 
ment— grew  deeper  and  darker  in  proportion 
to  her  enthusiasm.  The  wit  was  his.  lie  is 
a  mixture  of  gloom  and  sarcasm,  chastened, 
however,  by  good  breeding,  and  with  a  vein 
of  origmal  genius  that  makes  some  atone- 
ment lor  the  unheroic  and  ungenial'cast  of 
his  whole  mind.*  It  is  a  mind  that  never  con- 
veys the  idea  of  sunshine.  It  is  a  dark 
night  upon  which  the  lightning  flashes.'' 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 

Posthumous  Poems  op  Victor  Hugo. — 
In  the  AiheruBum,  M.  Gabriel  Sarvazin 
thus  speaks  of  two  posthumous  poems  by 
Victor  Hugo,  recently  published: — 

"Let  me  speak  of  Victor  Hugo's  two  pos- 
thumous poems,  Theatre  en  Liberie  and  Im 
Fin  de  Satan,    The  former,  a  heavy  and  pre- 


tentious fantasy,  was  forgotten  aft  acon  a& 
published.  La  Fin  de  ^tan  is  wriLevhat 
better.  The  fundamental  idea  of  the  wcik  is 
grand  and  symbolical;  it  lays  all  the  misdeeds 
of  Satan  lo  the  score  of  his  despair  at  seeing 
everywhere  the  implacable  face  of  God, 
which  in  his  inmost  heart  and  throughout  his 
fall  he  has  never  censed  to  love.  The  poem 
ends  with  the  pardon  of  the  fallen  angel,  alia* 
the  disapppcarance  of  evil,  and  his  redemp- 
tion by  love.  There  is  some  kinship  Injtween 
this  conception  and  the  admirable  words  of 
Santa  Theresa,  wBo  'wished  to  love  Satan,  to 
pray  for  liim,  to  console  and  convert  him.' 
La  Fin  de  Stttan  is  unfortunalolv  six)ilt  by 
repetition  and  lengthiness,  and  it  is  a  relief  to 
come  to  the  piece  called  La  Cliangon  de* 
Oiseaux,  a  lyrical  flight  of  marvelous  £:race 
and  rhythm.*  To  sum  up.  La  Fin  de  Satan 
would  be  an  altogether  fine  poem  were  it  not 
for  a  pervading  tone  of  declamation  and 
rhetoric,  which  at  the  present  day  we  find 
peculiarly  intoler  .ble;  and  although  the  pre- 
dominatit  idea  is  sympathetic  to  me,  I  do  not 
think  it  is  presented  in  a  form  that  w^ill  meet 
with  public  favor." 

Progress  in  Stria.— "G.   I.   C".  wrilfia 
thus  in  the  London  Sj)ectatar  of  Dec.  26: — 

"Having  .^usl  returned  from  a  long  journey 
through  I^orthern  Syria,  I  was  amazed  to  see 
a  letter  on  'proa:' ess'  in  that  unhappy  eoim- 
try.  Progress,  if  it  exists  at  all,  must  be  in 
the  immeiliate  neighborhood  of  Beirdt  lilone. 
The  country  north  of  that  city  is  literally 
4)Iighted  and  blasted  by  Turkish  tyranny  and 
roisnile,  and  all  classes  agreed  in  testifying 
that  things  arc  going  from  bad  to  worse. 
Vast  tracts  of  what  is  one  of  tlie  richest  coun- 
tries in  the  world  lie  entirely  untilled,  or  ten- 
anted solely  by  wanderiDg  Tiircomans  and 
Bedouins ;  and  at  the  present  moment,  a 
nithless  conscription  of  boys  and  men  from 
fifteen  or  sixteen  to  fifty,  leaves  an  insufldcient 
population  to  cultivate  the  small  portion  of 
the  land  hitherto  under  tillage.  The  officials 
are  unpaid,  and  taxes  are  exacted  years  in 
advance.  The  trade  of  the  once-flourishing 
town  of  Ladikeyeh  is  dead.  A  road  is  pro- 
jected from  that  place  to  Hama,  and  perhaps 
to  Homs.  When  I  was  there  a  few  days 
since  I  found  the  shops  nearly  all  shut  up, 
for  the  Turkish  governor  had  driven  oijt  Uie 
whole  shopkeeping  population,  irrespective  of 
capability,  age,  or  infirmity,  to  work  on  this 
road;  those  even  w*ho  offered  to  pay  for  nble- 
l)odied  men  as  substitutes  were  not  excused. 
Everywhere  along  *that  lonely  coast  which 
once  echoed  with  the  world's  debate,'  one 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 


431 


saw  relics  of  the  grandeur  and  civilization  of 
successive  peoples  where  now  all  is  ruin. 
I  forded  scores  of  torrents  and  streams,  danger- 
ous or  impassable  after  rain,  and  across  each 
saw  the  fragments  of  a  Roman  or  even  of  an 
Arab  bridge,  but  in  no  single  instance  a 
similar  structure  of  Turkish  times.  The  role 
of  the  Turk  is  to  destroy,  not  to  construct."  - 

FAIB  ANDOTEBl  ANC£  HALI9  BCHULB. 
Not  by  ROBBKT  BXTBNB. 

Fair  Andoverl  ance  halie  schule, 
Where  Orthodoxy's  lang  held  rule, 
Now  wise  men  made  and  now  a  fool, 

Or  a  f  ause  prophet : 
Phiiistia's  tonnes  speak  oot  thy  doo) 

Thou  St  gane  to  Tophet ! 

Thy  founders'  prayers  were  a'  in  vain, 
The  funds,  whilk  wcdows  scrimped  wi'  pain; 
Thy  creed,  slow- braided,  strain  on  strain. 

Could  na  protect  Ihee! 
They've  tustled  lang  wi'  might  and  main, 

An'  now  ha^e  wrecked  thee. 

On  Pisgah  where  thy  Moses  lies, 
Where  Woods  and  Porter  maun  arise, 
And  Edwards  twa,  fit  for  the  skies, 

There  art  thou  scuttled  : 
New-fangled  Rabbis,  modern- wise, 

Koun'  thee  befuddled ! 

They  dinna  spier  what  Jesus  taught. 
But  uncos  01  man's  modern  thought, 
Wi'  Teuton  smudge  and  lager  brought 

Across  the  ocean: 
Wi'  them  the  Bible  goes  for  naught, 

'Qainst  such  a  potion. 

They've  stalked  an'  auld  hypothesiB, 
Whilk,  when  interpreted  is  this  : 
That  Hades  is  short-cut  to  bliss. 

Or  half  way  station  ; 
The  lake  o'  fire,  the  serpent's  bias 

'8  a  fabrication. 

That  Satan's  realm  is  na  disgrace: — 

A  sort  of  penitentiary  place, 

Where  chaplains  say  a  word  o'  grace; — 

House  of  correction: 
Where  dyeing  does  all  sins  efface 

From  soul's  complexion. 

If  there's  a  Qod,  He  did  na  mean  it. 
If  there's  a  God,  He  sure  will  screen  it. 
If  there's  a  God,  He  has  na  seen  it; 

He  was  but  tnlkin: — 
This  Is  their  craft,  how  they  careen  it. 

To  gie  it  caulkia'. 


It  whips  auld  Clootie  round  the  stump, 
While  he  exclaims,  "Why,  that's  my  trump! 
The  nose  well  in,  soon  comes  the  rump." 

This  new  departure  1 
An'  ye  maun  tak  it  sans  a  humph! 

Nor  let  it  start  ye. 

They  qfuote  for  this,  th'  Apostle  Peter, 
A  blund'rin',  heady,  swearin'  creature, 
Wha'd  prove  the  Lord's  best  man,  short 
meter. 

But,  quick  foreswore  Him: — 
Bootless,  a  very  proper  preacher, 

With  them  afore  him. 


For  Peter  like,  they  swear  it  o'er. 
Though  cock  may  crow  as  ne'er  before: 
"This  they  believe,  nor  less,  nor  more!* 

Wi'  reservation! 
Leavin'  wide  open,  a  back  door: 

To  'scape  damnation. 


tf 


They've  found  new  veins  o'  precious  gold, 
An'  ha'e  their  dreams  o'  vaults  untold  : 
Whilk  maun  prove,  when  they're  gane  to 
mould, 

The  devil's  metal: 
An'  many  a  weak  one  o'  the  fold 

Craze  or  unsettle. 

Like  ithcr  miners  they  may  learn 
A  thing  or  twa,  by  lesson  stem : 
An'  wiser  men  at  length  return, 

Though  hard  they  blink  it;      ' 
While  gowd: — they  for  their  wages  earn 

Hole,  where  they  sink  it. 

Alas!  alas!  thou  sacred  place! 

Fair  fount  o'  leamin',  tnith  and  grace, 

That  thou  sud  come  to  sic'  disgrace, 

I'd  scarce  believe  it : 
Oh!  could *8t  thou  yet  fause  steps  retrace: — 

The  past  retrieve  it! 

They've  bound  thine  ankles  fast  in  blocks. 
They've  sheared  thee  o'  thy  gowden  locks, 
Gi'en  thee,  at  par,  their  fancy  s«»cks. 

Or  German  siller! 
A  black  sheep  now  'mong  the  Lord's  fiocks, 

We  ha'e  to  bill  thee. 

They  say  the  thing  is  nowise  worse 
Than  funds  John  Harvard  did  disburse. 
The  land  to  save  frae  error's  curse, 

And  found  a  college: 
For,  while  he  sleeps,  thev  steal  his  purse, 

As  a'  acknowledge. 


422 


THE  libr:.lt  :::.gazine. 


These  folk  still  flannt  the  bb'ral  name; 
And  mild  morality  proclaim: 
Their  words  a'  plausible  tliough  tame, 

Smack,  sweet  as  honey  : — 
They  gi'e  the  Lord  awa,  the  same, 

And  tak'  His  money. 

Te  chiels,  wha  sacred  funds  pervert, 
Whose  waters  cast  up  mire  and  dirt, 
Wha  still  maun  grind,  meanin'  na  hurt,  ' 

Your  hurdy-gurdies: 
Plain  Yankee  dames  stand  ready-girt 

To  spank  your  hurdles. 

They  dinna  want  this  German  dish, 
They  dinna  want  scorpion  for  fish: 
God's  word  is  bread:  'tis  what  they  wish 

Their  lads  to  stud)r: 
If  not,  they'll  send  them  with  a  pishl 

To  Dwight  L.  Moody. 

Fair  Andover!  gaun  is  thy  light. 

Mid  mirk  and  darkness,  wae  and  blight, 

Thou  hast  mis'rere  morn  and  night :^ 

Thy  pray'rs  diurnal: 
Pray 'rs  for  the  deadl  Well,  'tis  thy  right: 

Death's  na  eternal  I 


Here  lies  Fair  Andover  stone  deadl 
Whilk  is  her  fit,  and  whilk  her  head, 
The  men  wha  ^i'e  us  stone  for  bread. 

An'  mm'  their  pay-days, 
Ha'e  never  yet,  bv  stone-mark  said: — 

Her  soul  s  in  Hades! 

If  there's  a  God,  and  there's  a  hell, 
These  men,  on  Pisgah's  top  wha  dwell 
Sud  they  pursue  their  purpose  fell. 

Their  high-toned  tenor, 
Are  like  in  English  phrase  to  smell 

What  IS  Gehenna! 

What  shall  be  said  of  the  Trustees 
Wha  whustle  roun'  and  tak'  their  ease. 
And  "Rabbis!"  say,  "just  as  you  please. 

We  put  no  word  in?" 
To  keep  them  oot,  a  sword  sud  bleeze, 

O'  yonder  Garden! 

Lano  upon  Longfellow.— Mr.  Andrew 
Lang  is  writing,  in  The  Independent,  a  series 
of  •  'Letters  on  Literature. ' '  The  last  of  these 
letters  treats  mainly  upon  Longfellow,  of 
whose  poems  Mr.  Lang  has  a  ratherish  good 
opinion.    He  says:-^ 


'  "Longfellow,  though  not  a  very  great  ma- 
gician and  master  of  language — not  a  Keats 
by  any  means — has  often,  by  sheer  force  of 
plain  sincerity,  struck  exactly  the  right  noie, 
and  matched  his  thought  with  music  that 
haunts  us  and  will  not  }^  forgotten:- 

Ye  open  the  eastern  windoira. 

That  look  towards  the  nan, 
Where  thoughts  are  singing  swallows, 

And  the  brooks  of  morning  mn. 

''Longfellow  is  exactly  the  antithesis  of 
Poe  who,  with  all  his  science  of  verse  and 
ghostly  skill,  has  no  humanity,  or  puts  none 
of  it  into  his  lines.  One  is  the  ))oet  of  Life, 
and  every-day  life,  the  other  is  the  poet  of 
Death,  and  of  Inzan-e  shapes  of  deaths,  from 
which  Heaven  deliver  us!  Neither  of  tbem 
shows  any  sign  of  l)cing  ]>articularly  Ameri- 
can, though  Lontrfellow  in  Brangeline  and 
Hiamaifui,  and  tlie  Neto  Enffland  Trag<dm, 
sought  his  topics  in  the  history  and  iraditions 
of  the  New  World.  To  me  Jfiatcay^a  seems 
by  far  the  best  of  his  longer  efforts:  it  is  quite 
full  of  sympathy  with  men  and  women,  na- 
ture, beasts,  birds,  weather,  and  wind  and 
snow.  Everything  lives  with  a  human 
breath,  as  everything  should  do  in  a  poem 
concerned  with  these  wild  folk,  to  wliom  all 
the  world,  and  all  in  it,  is  personal  as  them- 
selves. Of  course  there  are  lapses  in  style  in 
so  long  a  piece.  It  jars  on  us  in  the  lay  of 
the  mystic  Chibiabos,  the  boy  Persephone  of 
the  Indian  Eleusinia,  to  be  told  that 

The  gentle  Chibiabos 
Sang  in  tones  of  deep  ^notion  / 

'Tones  of  deep  emotion"  may  pass  in  a 
novel,  but  not  in  this  epic  of  the  wild  wood 
and  the  wild  kindreds,  an  epic  in  all  ways  a 
worthy  record  of  those  dim,  brawling  races 
tliat  have  left  no  stoiy  of  their  own,  only  here 
and  th(re  a  ruined  wigwam  beneath  the 
forest  leaves." 

Railroads  and  the  State.— Prof.  Wil- 
liam Q.  Sumner,  in  T/ie  Independent,  discusses 
the  general  question  of  ** Federal  Legislalion 
on  Railroads."  One  of  his  best  points  is  the 
following: — 

"The  railroad  question,  properly  speaking, 
goes  tar  l)eyond  ihc  points,  which  are  now  at- 
tracting attention.  The  railroad  company  has 
relations  to  its  employees,  to  the  state  which 
taxes  its  property,  to  the  municipalities  whose 
streets  its  line  cro8.«*es,  to  adjoining  real  estate 
owners,  to  the  Icgidlators  and  editors  who 
want  free  passes,  etc.,  etc.  In  all  these  re 
lations  there  are  two  parties,  for  even  ::  rail- 
road company  has  rights.    Competing  lines 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 


128 


ham  relatioQfl  to  each  other,  and  these  often 
raise  questions  in  which  there  is  no  simple 
** justice."  The  competin|^  lines  ma^  not  be 
subject  to  the  same  legislative  regulations.  A 
countiy  three  thousand  milen  in  extent  is  not 
much  troubled  by  the  extra  prejudice  which 
is  imported  into  the  question  of  long  and 
short  haul  when  it  seems  to  include  favor  to 
foreigners  at  the  expense  of  citizens;  but,  if 
there  is  anything  real  in  the  latter  grievance, 
it  is  difficult  to  see  why  it  should  not  also 
exist  in  a  concealed  form  here.  Finally,  it 
cannot  be  forgotten  that  the  railroad  question 
includes  the  question,  how  those  who  have 
contributed  the  capital  to  build  the  road  are 
to  obtain  their  remuneration.  If  the  state 
undertakes  to  regulate  all  the  rest,  it  will  see 
itself  forced  at  last  to  regulate  also  this. 
Hitherto  the  stockholders  have  been  left  to 
get  their  remuneration  oiit  of  their  own  en- 
terprise, if  they  could.  If  they  could  not, 
they  have  been  left  to  make  the  best  of  it. 
If,  however,  the  state  interferes  with  tlie 
whole  management  of  their  enterprise,  how 
will  it  escape  the  justice  of  the  demand  at  last 
that  it  compensate  them  or  secure  them  a  re- 
turn on  their  investment?" 

The  St^t  of  Geogkapht.— Prof.  Rav- 

enstein  recently  delivered  a  lecture  before  the 

Royal  Geographical. Society,  in  the  course  of 

which  he  gave  the  following  "examinatioD 

paper,"  of  which    Science   says,  "it  is  very 

probably  a  combination  of  the  more  atrocious 

questions  on  several  examination  papers: — 
« 

''Mention  all  the  names  of  places  in  the  world  de- 
rived from  Julias  Caesar  or  Aagustnn  Caesar. 

"Where  are  the  following  rivers :  Pisuerga,  Sakaria, 
Gaadalete,  Jalon,  Malde  ? 

"All  you  know  of-  the  following:  Machacba,  Pilmo, 
SchebQlos,  Crlvoscia,  Basecs^  Mancikert,  Taxhen, 
Citeaax.'  Meloria,  Zntphen. 

"The  highest  peaks  of  the  Karakoram  range. 

"The  number  of  universities  in  Prussia. 

"Why  are  the  tops  of  mountains  continually  covered 
with  snow? 

"Name  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  streams  of  lava 
which  issued  from  the  Skapt&r  Jokul  in  the  eruption 
of  1783/' 

"But,"  says  Science,  "It  none  the  less  will 
serve  as  a  text,  for  our  paper;  and  this  bc^cause 
it  fairly  represents  the  ideas  of  certain  so- 
calle  1  "teachers  of  geography"  as  to  the  lira- 
its  of  the  science  they  were  attempting  to 
teach.  To  them  geography  simply  meant 
the  cramming  into  a  child's  mind  so  many 
isolat'  (I  facts,  so  many  heights  of  mountains, 
so  miriy  lengths  of  rivers,  so  many  names  of 
places .  most  of  them  of  no  possible  im por- 
ta nco  to  the  student.  Indeed,  so  f»ir  and  wiile 
bis  Uiis  erroneous  idea  of  geography  spread. 


that  there  are  books  actually  made  for  the 
purpose  of  teaching  this  sort  of  thing.  For 
instance:  there  is  a  compiler  who  has  been 
known  to  assert,  and  to  assert  with  pride, 
that,  by  the  use  of  his  book,  one  might  Icarn 
the  names  of  17,000  places  in  the  course  of  a 
few  years.  Just  as  though  there  were  any 
object  in  one's  turning  one's  self  into  a  walk- 
ing gazetteer,  when  ffazetteers  in  plenty  could 
be  found  on  the  shelves  of  a  neigh borinir  lib- 
rary! ....  If  the  learning  of  17,()00 
names  in  a  few  years,'  or  the  'bounding' 
of  countless  states,  or  the  making  of  maps 
that  will  look  well  on  exhibition,  is  not  the 
end  of  geographical  teac  ing,  what  is  the  use 
of  teaching  it  at  all.  Geoijraphy,  properly 
studied,  gives  one  a  clear  and  accurate  knowl- 
etige  of  the  physical  conformation  of  the 
earth's  surface.  This  is  physical  gcograpliy, 
and  should  be  studied  tlrsr.  But  tuis  is  not 
the  mere  learning  of  'tables  of  heights.;  etc. 
It  is  something  entirely  different.  ()ne  may 
have  a  very  g(K)d  knowledge  of  the  formation 
of  the  earth,  and  yet  be  densel\'  ignorant  of 
the  height  of  the  liarakorum  range.  And  lus 
a  general  rule,  the  less  of  such  stutf  crammed 
into  a  child's  head,  the  more  physical  geogra- 
phy he  will  know." 

Some  Oxford  and  Cambrfdge  Profes- 
sorships.— Science  gives  some  curious  particu- 
lars respecting  the  work  and  emoluments  of 
prominent  professors  at  the  two  great  English 
universities.  The  figures  refer  to  the  year 
1885,  and  are  taken  from  a  recent  return  oi  a 
Parliamentary  committee.  It  will  be  under- 
stood, of  course,  that  the  real  value  of  the 
work  p'^rformed  by  these  professors  is  in  no 
way  to  Ikj  estimated  by  the  number  of  students 
who  avail  themselves  of  their  lectures.  The 
professor  who  reads  his  lectures  to  half  a 
dozen  students  undoubtedly  does  his  work  as 
thoroughly  as  though  he  had  an  audience  of 
half  a  thousand: — 

"At  Oxftrrd,  Canon  Driver,  Regius  Pro- 
fessor of  ftebrew,  gave  105  lectures  to  classes 
of  from  50  to  60  students ;  his  salary  is 
£1,500.  Professor  Bryce  of  the  chair  of  Civil 
Law  delivered  30  ordinary  and  2  public 
lectures;  ho  record  was  kept  of  the  attend- 
ance; his  salary  is  £435.  Professor  Sylvester, 
Savilian  Prefessor  of  Geometry,  gave  40  lec- 
tures to  14  students;  his  salary  is  £700.  Prof. 
E.  B.  Tylor,  the  Anthropologist,  receives 
£200,  and  lectures  18  times  to  about  'io  hear- 
ers. Prof.  Benjamin  Jowett,  the  llcil'nist, 
receives  £500  per  annum,  and  did  not  Jcr  tpre 
in  1885,  as  lie  was  Vice-chancellor  of  ihe 
University.     Prof.  A.  H.  Sayce  had  only  from 


THE  JJBRARY  magazine. 


S  to  16  hearers  for  his  lectures  on  ComparatlTe 
Pnilology:  he  receive  £800.  The  Professor 
of  Moral  Philosophy,  William  Wallace,  re- 
ceives £400  a  year,  and  has  from  48  to  70 
students  at  his  28  lectures.  Professor  Freeman 
keeps  no  record  of  the  number  of  his  hearers; 
his  salary  is  £700,  and  he  gives  47  lectures 
during  the  academic  year. — At  Cambridge^ 
Canon  Westcott,  Professor  of  Divinity,  has 
a  siilary  of  about  £800;  he  gave  66  lectui^es, 
aud  his  audience  varied  from  10  t^)  350.  Pro- 
fessor Stokes,  of  tbe  chair  of  Mathematics, 
receives  £470,  and  delivers  40  lectures  to  about 
8  students.  The  Knightsbridge  Professor  of 
Moral  Philosophy,  Henry  Sidgwick,  has  £700, 
and  delivered  87  lectures  to  from  4  to.  20 
bearers.  Professor  Darwin,  of  the  chair  of 
Experimental  Philosophy,  gave  40  lectures, 
aud  had.  18  students;  his  salary  is  £580.  The 
Professor  of  Modern  History,  J.  R.  Seeley, 
has  an  income  of  £371,  and  gave  one  lecture  a 
week  for  two  terms,  averaging  90  hearers. 
Prof.  Arthur  Cay  ley  only  mustered  2  hearers 
to  nis  20  lectures;  his  salary  is  £471.  Michael 
Foster,  Professor  of  Physiology,  has  a  salary 
of  £800,  and  gives  3  lectures  a  week  to  about 
160  students. 

Clergyman's  Sorb  Throat. — Chambers's 
Journal  contains  the  following  paragraph. 
We  commend  the  subject  to  the  attention  of 
those  directly  interested  in  the  matter: — 

*'Dr.  Thomas  Whipbam,  physician  »x)  St. 
George's  Hospital,  London,  ana  in  ciiar&^e  of 
the  department  for  Diseases  of  the  Tiiroat 
there,  claims  to  have  discovered  the  origin  of 
clergyman's  sore  throat."  He  was  struck  by 
the  circumstance  that  barristers— from  whom 
as  great  oratorical  efforts  are  exacted  as  from 
clergymen— do  not  suffer  from  this  highly 
painful  aud  inconvenient  form  of  sore  throat. 
He  looked  around  for  an  explanation,  and 
endeavored,  at  first,  to  trace  it  to  adverse  at- 
mospheric conditions.  But  he  early  decided 
that  the  air  of  a  crowded  court  of  law  must 
be  more  injurious  than  that  of  an  ordinary 
place  of  worship;  and  hence  he  was  forced  to 
seek  elsewhere  a  satisfactory  solution  of  the 
problem  he  had  set  himself.  At  length  the 
different  positions,  in  relation  to  Jheir  audi 
tors,  from  which  clergymen  and  barristers 
spoke,  suggested  itsi'lf  for  consideration. 
While  a  barrister  slightly  threw  back  his  head 
in  addressing  the  judge  and  jury  who  were 
seated  alxive  him,  the  clergyman  de]ircssed 
his  in  addressing  the  congiegation  seated  be- 
low him.  Experiments  were  made  with  a 
man  reading  aloud  witli  his  head  in  the  two 


positionB.  In  the  first,  tha  tone  of  hia  Toice 
was  clear  and  penetrating,  and  phonation  was 
practiced  with  a  minimum  oi  exertion  ;  in 
the  second,  the  tone  grew  muffled,  aud  the 
previous  distinctness  could  only  be  approxi- 
mated with  aciditional  effort.  Nor  whs.  in- 
distinct utterance  the  only  result  recorded  of 
the  experiment  in  the  second  position.  Tbe 
friction  of  the  air  passing  through  the  throat 
of  the  reader  was  very  mucii  increased. 
Thus,  says  Dr.  Whipbam,  hyperssmia  was 
establish^  in  the  parts  affected  by  this  ex- 
cessive friction;  and  temporary  bypersmia, 
if  frequently  encouraged,  soon  becomes 
chronic  congestion.  Dr.  Whipbam  was  sat- 
islied  that  he  had  arrived  at  the  true  caa<e  of 
'clergyman's  sore  throat;'  and  facts  soon  came 
to  confirm  his  impression.  Two  clerg}'nien. 
hailing  from  different  parts  of  the  country, 
placed  themselves  under  treatment  for  the 
disorder,  which  had  long  held  a  hold  on  them. 
They  were  directed,  in  speaking  from  tlie 
pulpit,  for  the  future  to  hold  their  heads  well, 
up,  instead  of  allowing  them  to  droop  for- 
ward and  downward.  Both  soon  reported  a 
speedy  relief  from  their  ;  uffering.'  " 

Coming  to  Base  Uses.— ** Grace  Green- 
wood, ' '  writing  to  The  Indej^^dmi,  thus  speaks 
of  Hursley  (Church,  near  W incbSler.  England. 
of  which  John  Kcble  was  for  a  long  time 
rector: — 

"In  Hursley  Church  was  buried  Richanl 
Cromwell,  who  lived  and  died  in  Merdon 
Cajstle,  near  by.  After  bis  death  the  manor 
was  sold  to  one  Sir  William  Heathcotc,  who 
ruthlessly  pulled  down  the  quaint  old  man- 
sion, built  ill  113y  by  Bishop  Henry  de  Blois. 
During  the  demolition  the  workmen  had  a 
fortunate  **f. nd"— tiie  big  seal  of  the  Com- 
monwealth, hidden  in  a  well.  A  still  more 
curious  act  of  vandalism  was  committed  in 
this  neighborhood — no  less  than  the  breaking 
up  of  the  st^ne  coffins  if  Alfred  the  Great, 
his  Queen  Alswitha,  and  his  son,  Edward  the 
Elder— for  material  to  mend  the  road  with. 
They  had  l)een  discovered  amid  the  ruins  of 
ny<'"e  Abbey,  wh^Tcin  many  princes  were  en- 
tombed in  the  old.  old  time.  It  happened 
that  the  county  Bridewell  was  being  built  on 
the  spot  and  tlie  contents  of  tbe  comns  were 
piously  buried  in  the  jail  yard.  So  the  crim- 
inals, in  passing  back  and  forth,  may  be 
tramping  over  royal  dupl— over  what  was 
once  pride  and  power  and  dainty  beauty. 
The  upper  slab  of  Alfred's  coffin,  bearing  the 
inscri  tion.  was  alone  perscrved,  and  is  said 
to  be  at  Corby  Castle." 


RUKAL  LIFE  IN  RUSSIA. 


425 


RURAL  LIFE  IN  RUSSIA. 

The  system  of  land  tenure  in  Russia 
at  present  combines  in  a  singular  man- 
ner the  results  of  the  scheme  of  a  be- 
nevolent despot  for  supplying  each  peas- 
ant with  sulHcient  land  to  live  upon, 
and  the  remains  still  unbroken  of  the 
rigid  rule  of  the  old  village  commun- 
ities to  which  he  continues  subject. 
These,  as  Mr.  Seebohm  shows,  at  one 
time  occupied  the  ^vhole  of  Ejirope, 
but  are  now  only  to  be  found  surviving 
in  the  Russian  Mir, 

The  amount  of  territory  given  up  to 
the  serfs  by  the  Emancipation  Act  of 
18G1,  was  about  one-half  of  the  arable 
land  of  the  whole  empire,  so  that  tlio 
experiment  of  cutting  up  the  large 
properties  of  a  country,  and  the  forma- 
tion instead  of  a  landed  peasantry,  lias 
now  been  tried  on  a  sufficiently  large 
scale  for  a 'quarter  of  a  century  to  en- 
able the  world  to  judge  of  its  success  or 
failure.  There  is  no  doubt  of  the 
philanthropic  intentions  of  Alexander 
I.,  but  he  seems  to  have  also  aimed 
(like  Richelieu)  at  diminishing  the  pow- 
er of  the  nobles,  which  formed  some 
bulwark  between  the  absolute  sway  of 
the  crown  and  the  enormous  doa&d  level 
of  peasants. 

The  serfs  belonged  soul  and  body  to 
the  landowner :  even  when  they  were 
allowed  to  take  service  or  exercise  a 
trade  in  distant  towns,  they  were  ob- 
liged to  pay  a  due,  obrok,  to  their 
owner,  and  to  return  home  if  required; 
while  the  instances  of  oppression  were 
sometimes  frightful,  husbands  and 
wives  were  separated,  girls  were  sold 
away  from  their  parents,  young  men 
were  not  allowed  to  marry.  On  the 
other  hand,  when  the  proprietor  was 
kind,  and  rich  enough  not  to  make 
money  of  his  serfs,  the  patriarchal 
form  of  life  was  not  uniiappv.  *SSee 
now,"  said  an  old  peasant,  '*what  have 
I  gained  by  the  emancipation?    I  have 


nobody  to  ^o  to  to  build  my  house,  or 
to  help  in  the  ploughing  time ;  the 
seigneur,  he  knew  what  I  wanted,  and 
he  did  it  for  me  without  any  bother. 
Now  if  I  want  a  wife,  I  have  got  to 
go  and  court  her  myself :  he  used  to 
choose  for  me,  and  he  knew  what  was 
best.  It  is  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  and 
no  good  at  all!"  Under  the  old  ar- 
rangement three  generations  were  of tfn 
found  living  in  one  house,  and  Ih* 
grandfather,  who  was  called  "the  Big 
One,"  bore  a  very  despotic  sway.  The 
plan  allowed  several  of  the  males  of  the 
family  to  seek  work  at  a  distance,  leav- 
ing some  at  home  to  perform  the  corvee 
(forced  labor)  three  days  a  week;  but 
the  families  quarreled  among  them- 
selves, and  the  effect  of  the  emancipa- 
tion has  everywhere  been  to  split  them 
up  into  different  households.  A  con- 
siderable portion  of  the  serfs  were  not 
really  serfs  at  all.  They  were  coach- 
men, grooms,  gardeners,  gamekeepers, 
etc.,  while  their  wives  and  daughters 
were  nm-ses,  ladies'  maids,  and  domestic 
servants.  Their  number  was  out  of 
all  proportion  to  their  work,  which  was 
always  carelessly  done,  but  there  was 
often  great  attachment  to  the  family 
they  served.  The  serfs  proper  lived  in 
villages,  had  houses  and  plots  of  land 
of  their  own,  and  were  nominally  never 
sold  except  with  the  estate.  The  land, 
however,  was  under  the  dominion  of 
the  Mir;  they  could  neither  use  it  nor 
cultivate  it  except  according  to  the 
communal  obligations. 

The  outward  aspect  of  a  Russian  vil- 
lage is  not  attractive,  and  there  is  little 
choice  in  the  surrounding  country 
between  a  wide  gray  plain  with  a  dis- 
tance of  scrubby  pine  forest,  or  the 
scrubby  T)ine  forest  with  distant  gray 
plains.  The  peasant's  houses  are  scat- 
tered up  and  down  without  any  order 
or  aiTangement,  and  with  no  roads 
between,  built  of  trunks  of  trees,  un- 
squared,  and  mortised  into  each  other  at 


426 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


the  comers,  the  interstices  filled  with 
moss  and  mud,  a  mode  of  building 
warmer  than  it  sounds.  In  the  interior 
there  is  always  an  enormous  brick  stove, 
five  or  six  feet  high,on  which  and  on  the 
floor  the  whole  family  sleep  in  their 
rags.  The  heat  and  the  stench  are 
frightful.  No  one  undresses,  washing 
is  unknown,  and  sheepskin  pelisses 
with  the  wool  inside  are  not  conducive 
to  cleanliness.  Wood,  however,  is  be- 
coming very  scarce,  the  forests  are  used 
up  in  fuel  for  railway  engines,  for 
wooden  constructions  of  all  kiuds,  and 
are  set  fire  to  wastef  ully — in  many  places 
the  peasants  are  forced  to  burn  dung, 
weeas,  or  anything  they  can  pick  up. 
Fifty  years,  it  is  sail,  will  exhaust  the 
present  forests,  and  fresh  trees  are 
never  planted. 

The  women  are  more  diligent  than 
the  men,  and  the  hardest  work  is  often 
turned  over  to  them,  as  is  generally  the 
case  in  countries  where  peasant  prop 
erties  prevail.  **They  are  only  the  fe- 
males of  the  male,"  and  have  few  wom- 
anly qualities. 

They  toil  at  the  same  tasks  in  the 
field  as  the  men,  ride  astride  like 
them,  often  without  saddles,  and  the 
mortality  is  excessive  among  the  neg- 
lected children,  who  are  carried  out 
into  thfe  fields  where  the  babies  lie  the 
whole  day  with  a  bough  over  them  and 
covered  with  flies,  while  the  poor  mo- 
ther is  at  work.  Eight  out  of  ten 
children  are  said  to  die  before  teii  years 
old  in  rural  Russia. 

In  the  little  church  (gcneially  built 
of  wood)  there  are  no  seats,  the  wor- 
shipers prostrate  themselves  and  knock 
their  heads  two  or  three  times  on 
the  ground,  and  must  stand  or  kneel 
through  the  whole  service.  The  roof 
consists  of  a  number  of  bulbous-shaped 
cupolas;  four,  round  the  central  dome, 
in  the  form  of  a  cross  is  the  cohipleted 
ideal,  with  a  separate  minaret  for  tbe 
Virgin.     These  are  covered  with  tiles 


of  the  brightest  blue,  green,  and  red, 
and  gilt  metal.  The  priest  is  a  pictu- 
resque figure,  with  his  long  unciipped 
hair,  tall  felt  hat  largest  at  the  top, 
and  a  flowing  robe.  He  must  be  mar- 
ried when  appointed  to  a  cure,  but  is 
not  allowed  a  second  venture  if  his  wife 
dies.  Until  lately  they  formed  an 
hereditary  caste,  and  it  was  unlawful 
for  the  son  of  a  "pope''  to  be  other 
than  a  pope.  They  are  taken  from 
the  lowest  class.  And  are  generally  quite 
as  uneducated,  and  are  looked  down 
upon  by  their  flocks.  "One  loves  the 
Pope,  and  one  the  Popess,"  is  an  un- 
complimentary proverb  given  by  Gogol. 
"To  have  priests*  eyes,'*  meaning  to  be 
covetous  or  extortionate,  is  another. 
The  drunkenness  in  all  classes  strikes 
Russian  statesmen  with  dismav,  and 
the  priests — the  popes — are  among  the 
worst  delinquents.  They  are  fast  losing 
the  authoritv  which  thev  once  had  over 
the  serfs,  when  they  formed  vart  of  the 
great  political  system  of  which  the  Czar 
was  tne  religious  and  political  head. 
A  Russian  official  report  says  that  "the 
churches  are  now  mostly  attended  by 
women  and  children,  while  the  men 
are  spending  their  last  kopeck,  or  get- 
ting deeper  into  debt,  at  the  village 
dram  shop.*' 

Church  festivals,  marriages,  chris- 
tenings, burials,  and  fairs,  leave  only 
two  hundred  days  in  the  year  for  the 
Russian  laborer.  The  climate  is  so 
.^overe  as  to  prevent  out-of-door  work 
for  months,  and  the  enforced  idleness 
increases  tlie  natural  disposition  to  do 
nothing.  "We  are  a  lethargic  people," 
says  Gogol,  "and  require  a  stimulus 
from  without,  either  that  of  an  officer, 
a  master,  a  driver,  the  rod,  or  vodki  (a 
white  spirit  distilled  from  corn);  and 
this,  he  adds  in  another  plncc,  * 'whether 
the  man  be  peasant,  soldier,  clerk, 
sailor,  priest,  merchant,  seigneur,  or 
prince.  At  the  time  of  the  C'rimean 
war  it   was  always  believed   that  the 


RURAL  Lxi  'T  nt  irljSSIA. 


427 


Russian  soldier  could  only  be  driven 
up  to  an  attack,  such  as  that  of  Inker- 
man,  under  the  influence  of  intoxica- 
tion. The  Russian  peasant  is  indeed  a 
barbarian  at  a  very  low  stage  of  civ- 
ilization. In  the  Crimean  hospitals 
every  nationality  was  to  be  found  among 
the  patients,  and  the  Russian  soldier 
was  considered  far  the  lowest  of  all. 
Stolid,  stupid,  hard,  he  never  showed 
any  gratitude  for  any  amount  of  care 
and  attention,  or  seemed,  indeed,  to 
understand  them;  and  there  was  no 
doubt  that  during  the  war  he  continu- 
ally put  the  wounded  to  death  in  order 
to  possess  himself  of  their  clothes. 

The  Greek  Church  is  a  very  dead 
form  of  faith,  and  the  worship  of  saints 
of  every  degree  of  power  "amounts  to  a 
fetishism  almost  as  bad  as  any  to  be 
found  in  Africa."  I  myself  am  the 
happy  possessor  of  a  little  rude  wooden 
bas-relief,  framed  and  glazed,  of  two 
saints  whose  names  I  have  ungratefully 
forgotten,  to  whom  if  you  pray  as  you 

fo  out  to  commit  a  crime,  however 
einous,  you  take  your  pardon  with 
you-7-a  refinement  upon  the  whipping 
of  the  saints  in  Calabria,  and  Spanish 
hagiolatry.  The  Icoiia,  the  sacred 
images,  are  hung  in  the  chief  corner, 
called  '*The  Beautiful,"  of  a  Russian 
Isba,  A  lamp  is  always  lit  before 
them,  and  some  food  spread  "for  the 
ghosts  to  come  and  eat."  The  well-to- 
do  peasant  is  still  "strict  about  his  fasts 
and  festivals,  and  never  neglects  to 
prepare  for  Lent.  During^  the  whole 
year  his  forethought  never  wearies;  the 
children  pick  up  a  number  of  tungi, 
whi<;h  the  English  kick  away  as  toad- 
stools, these  are  dried  in  the  sun  or  the 
oven,  and  packed  in  casks  with  a  mix- 
ture of  hot  water  and  dry  meal  in 
which  they  ferment.^  The  staple  diet 
of  the  peasant  consists  of  bucKwheat, 
rye  meal,  sauerkraut,  and  coarse  cured 
fish"  (little,  however,  but  black  bread, 
often  mouldy,  and  sauerkraut,  nearly 


putrid,  is  found  in  the  generality  of 
Russian  peasant-homes).  No  milk, 
butter,  cheese,  or  eggs  are  allowed  in 
Lent,  all  of  which  are  permitted  to  Ihe 
Roman  Catholic;  and  the  oil  the  peasant 
uses  for  his  cooking  is  linseed  instead 
of  olive  oil,  which  last  he  religiously 
sets  aside  for  the  lamps  burning  before 
the  holy  images.  "To  neglect  fasting 
would  cause  a  man  to  be  shunned  as  a 
traitor,  not  only  to  his  religion,  but  to 
his  class  and  country." 

In  a  bettermost   household,  the  sa- 
movar, the  tea-urn,  is  always  going. 
If  a  couple  of  men  have  a  bargain  to 
strike,  the  charcoal  is  lighted   inside 
the  um,  which  has  a  pipe  carried  into 
the  stone  chimney,  and  tne  noise  of  the 
heated  air  is  like  a    roaring  furnace. 
They  will  go  on  drinking  boiling  hot    .. 
weak  tea,  in  glasses,  for  hours,  with  a 
liberal  allowance  of  vodki.     The  samo- 
var, however,  is  a  completely  new  insti 
tution,  and  the  old  peasants  will  tell  * 
you,  "Ah,  Holy  Russia  has  never  been 
the  same  since  we  drank  so  much  tea." 

The  only  bit  of  art  or  pastime  to  be 
found  among  the  peasants  seems  to 
consist  in  the  "circling  dances"  with 
songs,  at  harvest,  Christmas,  and  all 
other  important  festivals,  "as  described 
by  Mr.  Ralston.  And  even  here  "the 
settled  gloom,the  monotonous  sadness," 
are  most  remarkable.  Wife-beating, 
husbands'  infidelities,  horrible  stories 
of  witches  and  vampires,  are  the  gen- 
eral subjects  of  the  songs.  The  lament  '^ 
of  the  young  bride  who  is  treated  al- 
most liKe  a  slave  by  her  father  and 
mother  in  law,  has  a  chorus:  "Thump- 
ing, scolding,  never  lets  his  daughter 
sleep,"  **Up,  you  slattern!  up,  you 
sloven,  sluggish  slut!"  A  wife  entreats: 
"Oh,  my  husband,  only  for  good  cause 
beat  thou  thy  wife,  not  for  little  things. 
Far  away  is  my  father  dear,  and*farther 
still  my  mother."  The  husband  who 
is  tired  of  his  wife,  sings:  "Thank s» 
thanks  to  the  blue  pitcher  (*.«.,  poison), 


428 


THE  LUmXfTP  MAGAZINE. 


it  has  rid  me  of  my  cares;  Not  that 
cares  afflicted  me,  my  real  affliction 
was  my  wife/'  ending  '*Love  will  I 
make  to  the  gisls  across  the  stream."  | 
Next  comes  a  wife  who  poisons  her; 
hushand.  "I  dried  the  evil  root  and 
pounded  it  small;"  but  in  this  case  the 
husband  was  hated  l^ecause  he  hail 
killed  her  brother.  The  most  unpleas- 
ant of  all,  however,  are  the  invocations 
to  vodki.  A  circle  of  girls  imitate 
drunken  women,  and  sing  as  they 
dance,  '* Vodki  delicious  I  drank,  I 
drank;  not  in  a  cup  or  a  glass,  but  a 
bucketful  I  drank.  ...  I  cling  to  the 
posts  of  the  dopr.  Oh,  doorpost,  hold 
mo  up,  the  drunken  woman,  the  tipsy 
rogue." 

The  account  of  the  Baba  Zaga,  a 
hideous  old  witch,  is  enough  to  drive 
children  into  convulsions. 

"She  has  a  nose  and  teeth  made  of  strong 
sharp  iron.     An  sue    lies    in  her  hut  she 
stretches  from  one  corner  to  the  other,  ai\d  her  j 
nose  goes  through  the  roof.     The   fence  is  j 
made  of  the  bones  of  the  people  she  has  eaten,  | 
and  tipped  with  their  skulls.    The  uprights 
of  the  gate  are  human  legs.     She  has  a  broom 
to  sweep  away  the  traces  of  her  passaq^e  over 
the  snow  in  her  seven -leagued  boots.     She 
steals  children  to  eat  them." 

Remains. of  paganism  are  to  be  found 
in  some  of  the  sayings.  A  curse  still 
existing  says,  "  May  Perun  (i.  c,  the 
lightning)  strike  thee. "  Tlie  god  Pern  n , 
the  Thunderer,  resembles  Thor,  and  like 
him  carritjs  a  hammer.  He  ha§  been 
transformed  into  Elijah,  the  prophet 
Ilya,  the  rumbling  of  whose  chariot  as 
he  rolls  through  heaven,  especially  on 
the  week  in  summer  when  Iiis  festival 
falls,  may  be  heard  in  thunder.  There 
is  a  dismal  custom  by  which  the  chil- 
dren are  made  to  eat  the  mouldy  bread, 
''because  the  Eusalkas  (the  fairies)  do 
not  choose  bread  to  be  wasted."  In- 
humaa  stories  about  burying  a  child 
alive  in  the  foundation  of  a  new  town 
to  propitiate  the  earth  spirit ;  that  a 
drowning  man  must  not  do  saved,  lest 


the  water  spirit  be  offended;  that  if 
groans  or  cries  are  heard  in  the  forest, 
a  traveler  must  go  straight  on  without 
paying  any  attention,  "for  it  is  only  the 
wood  demon,  the  lyeshey,"  seem  only 
to  be  invented  as  excuses  for  selfish  in- 
action. Wolves  bear  a  great  part  in 
the  stories.  A  peasant  driving  in  a 
sledge  with  three  children  is  pursued  by 
a  pack  of  wolves:  he  throws  out  a  child, 
which  they  stop  to  devour;  then  the 
howls  come  near  him  again,  and  he 
throws  out  a  second;  again  they  return, 
when  the  last  is  sacrificed;  and  one  is 
grieved  to  hear  that  he  saves  his  own 
wretched  cowardly  life  at  last. 

The  account  of*  a  rural  Russian  life 
given  in  a  book  called  Bead  Souls ,  by 
Gogol,  which  is  ct)nsidered  a  Russian 
classic,  is  dismal  in  the  extreme.  Land 
in  Russia  has  hardly  any  value  in  itself, 
and  the  property  of  the  landowner  was 
estimated  by  the  number  of  serfs,  called 
"souls,"  whose  labor  alone  has  rendered 
the  land  valuable.  It  is  a  more  human 
way  of  speaking  of  the  peasants  than 
our  own  counting  of  "hands'*  (the 
women,  however,  were  not  considered 
''souls"  I).  The  possessor  of  200  or  300 
was  a  small  man;  2,000  seem  to  have 
placed  the  owner  among  the  large  pro- 
prietors. The  hero  Tchitchikof  (it  has 
been  said,  that  to  give  a  good  sneeze 
and  put  "off"  at  the  end  makes  a  very 
tolerable  Russian  name)  is  a  small 
functionary  on  the  usual  meager  salary, 
which  is  m  all  cases  eked  out  by  an 
unblushing  receipt  of  bribes.  As  every- 
body, however,  is  bribed,  he  finds  his 
share  too  small  to  set  the  luxuries  for 
which  he  pants.  Money,  however,  he 
knows,  is  lent  by  Government  dn  the 
serfs  and  land  possessed  by  an  owner. 
The  serfs  are  only  numbered  in  the 
census  every  ten  years,  while  a  tax  is 
paid  for  them  dead  or  alive;  and  it 
suddenly  strikes  him  that  he  may  buy 
the  "dead  souls,"  undertaking  to  pay 
the  tax  and  then  borrow  on  the  secur- 


RURAL  L'FK  IN  RU-SIA. 


429 


ity.  "If  it  IS  objectea  tlmt  he  has  no 
estate  to  take  them  to,  lie  says  that  he 
is  goiug  to  colonize  in  the  Taurus  or 
the  Chersonese,  which  is  a  very  praise- 
worthy enterprise. "  lie  goes  to  a  small 
country  town,  with  his  two  serfs,  one 
of  them  a  coachman,  three  horses  and 
a  britska,  which  appears  to  be  almost 
indispensable  for  even  so  poor  a  man, 
and  he  gradually  makes  his  way  among 
the  officials,  getting  introductions 
among  the  country  owners.  "The  no- 
bles possessed  land,  but  did  not  live 
upon  it;  there  was  nothing  like  the  life 
of  an  English  country  gentleman  on  his 
estate."  He  then  goes  from  house  to 
house,  and  the  result  is  a  description  of 
every  variety  of  village  and  estate  in  a 
great  part,  at  least,  of  Russia,  which 
read  like  sketches  from  nature,  and  have 
all  the  exactness  of  photographs.  They 
are  melancholy  indeed.  An  opening 
picture  of  the  scenery  is  very  vivid: — 

"As  soon  as  he  left  the  town  the  savage  con- 
dition in  which  all  the  communications  were 
left  became  apparent.  Ou  each  side  Die  road, 
ankle  deep  il  dust  hi  summer,  knee  deep  in 
mud  in  bad  weather,  lay  lines  of  mole  lulls, 
fir  woods,  with  tufts  of  shabby  trees,  stumps 
of  old  trunks  which  had  been  burnt  by  tire, 
wild  heaths,  bogs,  etc.  The  villages  here 
were  in  two  perfectly  parallel  lines,  looking 
like  stacks  of  wood,  with  roofs  of  cray  planks, 
the  edges  cut  out  as  if  in  paper.  The  peasant 
as  usual  lounged  about  ou  planks  raised  on 
two  blocks,  yawning  under  their  sheepskin 
pelisses.  Women,  their  waists  under  their 
armpits,  looked  out  of  the  upper  unglazed 
windows,  while  a  calf  or  a  pig  might  be  seen 
gazing  from  the  stable  below.  He  comes  to 
an  owner's  establishment.  The  Manlloff's 
hoTise  was  perched  on  a  bare  hill,  or  nither 
slope,  wilh  scarcely  a  bush;  an  arbor,  how- 
ever, painted  green,  and  called  'Temple  of 
Solitary  Meditation,*  stood  on  the  bank.  A 
little  farther  off  was  a  pond,  or  rather  a  mass 
of  raud.  green  with  weeds,  in  which  two 
women,  having  turned  up  their  clothes,  were 
standing  up  to  their  knees,  dragging  out  a  net 
containmg  two  crabs  and  a  perch.  More  than 
two  hundred  little  black  hovels,  withD at  trees 
or  bushes  or  green  of  any  kind  above  them, 
with  nothing  out  broken  wood  lying  about 
darkened  by  the  weather,  lay  beyontl.    Out- 


t;ide  the  house  Tchitdhikof  finds  the  husband, 
lounging  about  in  a  dirty  silk  dressing  gown, 
smoking  a  long  pipe  touching  t^e  ground, 
and  doing  nothing  from  moruuig  till  night. 
Within  reigned  the  greatest  disorder;  the 
c-j/oking  was  abominable,  the  provisions  al- 
ways ran  short,  the  household  servants  were 
dirty,  and  generally  half  tipsy,  those  in  the 
courtyard  slept  twelve  hours  m  the  day,  and 
conmiilted  iill  sorts  of  fooleries  during  the 
other  twelve.  And  why?  because  Sluie. 
Maniloit  was  bicii  eUree;  and  good  education 
is  gi\cn  (as  everybody  knows)  in  young  ladies* 
schools,  and  in  young  ladies'  schools  (as 
everybody  knows)  three  things  are  taught, 
which  constitute  the  basis  of  all  human  virtue; 
French,  which  is  indispensable  to  the  happi- 
ness of  family  life;  the  piano,  to  charm  the 
leisure  houis  of  the  husband  (when  he  shall 
come);  and,  finally,  household  nuinagement, 
properly  so  called,  which  consists  in  knitting 
pui-scs  and  preparing  pretty  little  surprises 
for  birthdays,  etc.  There  are  different  pro- 
grammes and  different  schools:  sometimes  the 
first  thing  considered  is  the  science  of  house- 
keeping, the  cigar  cases  and  bead  work,  and 
French  and  music  only  come  afterward,  or 
music  may  be  the  first  neceisily.  There  are 
programmes  and  programmes,  methods  and 
methods,  but  noming  ueyond  these  three." 

At  this  house  Tchitchikof  gets  his 
dead  souls  for  nothing.  He  then  visits 
a  score  of  other  properties,  in  most  of 
which  he  makes  himself  useful  and  lives 
at  free  quarters  while  he  negotiates  his 
purchases. 

One  belongs  to  a  miser,  a  man  of 
large  property  and  a  thousand  souls. 
The  windows  of  the  house  are  all  shut 
up,  excepting  the  two  rooms  which  he 
inhabits.  His  peasants  are  so  misera- 
ble that  between  seventy  and  eighty 
have  run  away.  It  was  diflScult,  how- 
ever, for  a  serf  in  such  circumstances 
to  keep  clear  of  the  police  ;  they  could 
not  find  work,  and  were  often  starved 
into  returning  to  their  misery.  The 
master  lived  on  sour  cabbage  and  gruel, 
like  his  barefoot  servants, who  stand  in 
rags  about  the  courtyard  Tchitchikof 
offers  to  buy  the*fngitives  at  thirty-two 
kopecks  (about  tenpence)  a  head,  and 
gets  them  for  fifty,  after  a  great  deal 
of  bargaining. 


480 


THE  LIBRART  MAGAZINE. 


Another  picture  of  .the  country  is 
striking. 

"The  britska  drove  on.  The  country  was 
flat  and  bare.  What  is  seen  on  such  occasions 
is  that  there  is  nothing  to  be  seen.  Milestones 
wliich  show  the  l^ilometers  of  the  past  and 
announce  the  kilometers  of  the  future,  lines 
of  carts,  villages,  gray  masses  varied  with 
samovars,  decrepit  old  men  and  women 
lounging  in  the  roads,  men  shod  with  the 
bark  of  the  lime  or  the  birch,  their  legs 
swathed  in  rags.  Little  towns  built  with 
unhewn  trunks,  without  planks— then  open 
country  witli  patches  of  ground  green  with 
meadows,  yellow  with  gold,  marked  with 
furrows  in  the  open  desert.  Then  a  peasant 
song  heard  in  the  farthest  distance,  peals  of 
church  bells,  and  further  still  clouds  of  flies, 
multitudes  of  grasshoppers,  flights  of  crows, 
the  tops  of  fir  trees,  oceans  of  fog  darkening 
a  score  of  different  points  on  a  horizon  which 
seems  to  have  no  other  limits." 

^'Boundless  as  the  sea"  is  not  a  com- 
parison which  occurs  to  a  Russian. 

Everywhere  the  lists  of  dead  serfs 
which  Tchitchikof  obtains  are  made 
out  for  him  with  the  utmost  elabora- 
tion: their  trades,  their  qualities,  their 
height,  the  color  of  their  eyes,  and 
their  nicknames,  such  as  **  Lazy  Peter, 
the  trough  is  near,"  "Ivan  not  in  a  hur- 
ry," "Slippery  Nicholas,"  "Andreas 
the  sndith  few  uf  words,"  etc. 

The  saddest  story  of  all  is  of  a  pro- 
prietor who  determined  to  go  home 
from  St.  Petersburg,  where  he  hau 
spent  all  his  life  since  childhood,  and 
try  to  do  his  duty  by  his  people. 

"He  sees  before  him,  at  the  end  of  his 
journey,  ^  fine  forest,  and  asks  who  is  the 
owner,  and  the  reply  is  his  own  name;  and 
further  on  he  inquires,  *  Whose  are  those  fields 
and  little  hills?'  The  leply  is  again  that  they 
are  his  own.  At  length  he  sees  the  red  roofs 
and  gilded  cupolas  of  his  home.  The  peas- 
ants crowd  round  the  carriage;  square  beards 
of  every  hue,  red.  black,  cinder-colored,  and 
white,  welcome  him  with  loud  hurrahs.  'Our 
father  is  come  at  last.'  The  women  in  high 
red  headdresses  scream,  'Oh,  our  little  heart, 
our  gold,  our  dear  treasure.'  He  is  much 
moved  at  the  sight  of  such  excellent  natures, 
and  prepares  to  be  their  father  indeed;  he 
began  by  dimioishing  the  number  of  days  of 


forc'd  service,  abolished  all  the  dues  In  linen, 
a])ples,  mushrooms,  nuts,  and  walnuts,  and 
halves  the  other  work  wliich  had  been  rigor- 
ously exacted  from  the  women.  Uo  thought 
that  they  would  become  more  careful  of  their 
houses,  their  husbands,  and  their  children; 
instead  of  which,  gossip,  quarrels,  and  free 
fights  between  persons  of  the  fair  sex  got  to 
such  a  pitch,  that  the  husbands,  after  months 
of  woe,  came  up  one  after  another  and  said, 
*OBarine,  deliver  me  from  my  wife,  she  ia 
worse  than  an  imp  of  hell.  I  can't  live  with 
her  any  longer.*  As  for  the  land  which  he 
kept  in  his  own  hands,  the  hay  dried  up,  the 
barley  failed,  the  oats  shed,  while  on  that 
held  by  the  peasants  everything  went  on  well. 
*Why  are  my  crops  wcrse  than  yours?*  in- 
quired he.  'God  knows,  perhaps  it  is  the  fly," 
or  'Surely  there  has  been  no  rain  at  all;*  but 
the  fly  had  not  eaten  the  peasants*  crops,  and 
the  capricious  rain  had  certainly  singularly 
favored  them.  He  tried  to  found  a  school, 
but  the  outciy  was  so  great  that  he  was  ob- 
liged to  give  It  up,  and  all  his  efforts  after 
law  and  order,  arbitrations,  and  regulation  of 
property,  failed  one  after  the  other,  and  at 
length  he  gave  up  s(x;iety,  sank  into  a  torpid* 
lethargic  state,  spent  his  time  in  solitaij 
smoking,  and  soon  sank  to  the  level  of  his 
neighboi-s.** 

Here  Tchitchikof  made  himself  gener- 
ally useful,  and  eot  ninety  ^^ad  souls 
given  him  for  notning. 

The  mixture  of  Inxury  and  barbar- 
ism in  every  account  is  remarkable. 
The  ladies  are  described  as  dressed  in 
the  last  Parisian  fashion,  smoking  cig- 
arettes, sitting  in  filthy  rooms  wiui 
broken  funiiture,  and  surrounded  by 
drunken  maids.  "There  were  six  laun- 
dresses in  the  house,  and  thev  were 
drunk  four  days  in  the  week.  The 
men  with  endless  carriages  and  horses, 
drinking  champagne  liie  water  over 
their  cards  (more  champagne  is  con- 
sumed in  Russia  alone  than  is  grown 
in  the  whole  French  province),  but 
eating  enormously  like  sayages^  One 
man  consumes  a  sucking  pig  for  his 
dinner,  another  a  whole  shoulder  of 
mutton  stewed  in  gruel,  another  slips 
into  a  supper  befcnre  the  guests  arrive, 
and  eats  up  a  monstrous  stnrgoon, 
"leaying  only  the  tail  and  the  bones."' 


RURAL  LIFE  IN  RUSSIA. 


481 


Superstitions,  snch  as  "spitting  three 
times  on  each  side  when  death  or  any 
other  unpleasant  subject  is  spoken  of, 
to  ward  off  the  devils,''  are  mentioned 
casually.  ^  There  are  four  kinds  of 
these — house  devils,  wood  devils,  stable 
devils,  field  devils  —  and  a  counter 
charm  for  each.)  In  a  great  house, 
with  a  magnificent  array  of  servants, 
the  ladies-maids  and  footmen  sleep  on 
the  ground  in  passages,  on  a  mat  or 
the  bare  floor,  and  in  large  towns  often 
in  the  street.  Tchitchikof  on  some 
grand  occasion  "passes  a  wet  sponge  all 
ovir  him,  which  generally  he  did  only 
on  Sundays;  but  if  he  did  not  wash, 
he  always  used  a  great  deal  of  eau  de 
Cologne!"  The  condition  of  society 
reminds  one  of  a  medlar,  rotten  before 
it  is  ripe. 

At  the  end,  Tchitchikof,  who  has 
obtained  200,000  roubles  from  the  State 
Bank,  is  obliged  to  refund  them,  but 
he  has  borrowed  sufficient  money  from 
his  different  acquaintances  to  enable 
him  to  purchase  a  large  and  rich  estate 
in  a  distant  part  of  the  country.  He 
marries  the  daughter  of  a  neigHboring 
mayor,  a  very  decent  man,  and  sets  up 
himself  for  good.  The  author  is  so 
angry  with  his  own  creation,  that  he  is 
barely  able  to  finish  the  fortunes  of  his 
hero.  After  years  of  happiness,  and 
having  six  children,  he  grows  sick  of 
80  much  repose,  health,  well-being,  and 
calm.  He  finds  respectability  extremely 
tiresome,  and  proposes  to  his  old  coach- 
man to  start  once  more  on  their  trav- 
els, as  in  his  beloved  Bohemian  days. 
The  man  has  grown  old  and  fat,  and 
resists  to  the  uttermost;  but  Tchitch- 
ikof will  listen  to  nothing,  and  they 
set  out  at  daybreak  in  his  celebrated 
britska.  About  twenty  miles  from 
home,  however,  the  wheels  break  down, 
and  the  village  blacksmith  takes  two 
days  to  mena  them  ;  he  starts  again 
the  following  evening,  but  while  he 
was  asleep  the  coachman  and  the  horses 


drive  back  again  qaietly  to  the  house. 
His  wife  wisely  holds  her  tongue,  and 
he  has  not  the  courage  to  go  forth  again 
once  more.  "He  then  reconciled  him- 
self to  fate,  was  elected  marshal  of  the 
nobles,  went  in  for  agriculture,  sub- 
scribed to  seven  Russian  papers,  two 
French,  and  one  German,  although  he 
did  not  know  a  word  of  French,  and 
barely  a  hundred  of  German.  "This 
good  and  great  man,"  as  the  author 
perpetually  calls  him,  "adored  every- 
thing existing  in  Russia,  and  consi- 
dered any  refornr  as  iniquitous,  anti- 
social, and  unchristian.  As  a  man  of 
order,  and  marshal,  he  enjoyed  general 
esteem  and  consideration.  HS  may 
truly  be  said  to  be  one  of  the  most  per- 
fect heroes  of  the  past  generation.  In- 
deed, we  believe  that  he  is  not  dead, 
that  such  men  must  live  forever,  im- 
mortal as  they  are  in  their  qualities." 
He  was  a  good-natured  rogue,  and  had 
always  intended  to  treat  his  serfs  well; 
"bnt  this  last  point  of  his  wishes  was 
like  the  plates  of  dessert  for  ever  left 
untouclied  at  the  grand  dinners  laid 
out  in  railway  stations." 

The  accounts  in  Ivan  Tourgueneff's 
stories  are  still  more  sad.  ITie  note 
struck  has  a  deeper  sound  of  tragedy, 
and  one  painful  scene  after  another 
shows  the  misery,  vice,  and  barbarism  of 
all  classes  alike.  In  one  of  the  lighter 
sketches,  the  great  musical  capacity  of 
the  people  mentioned  by  Haxthausen 
appears.  Notwithstanding  his  extra- 
ordinarily backward  state  of  civiliza- 
tion, the  peasant  is  a  born  musician, 
and  the  Russian  bass  is  said. to  have 
two  more  low  notes  in  his  voice  than  the 
rest  of  Europe.  A  young  peasant,  Ivan, 
excels  so  greatly  in  the  trills  and  shakes 
and  variations,  of  which  the  race  is 
very  fond,  that  he  is  called  "the  night- 
ingale." He  hears  of  a  rival  in  a  dis- 
tant village  who  trills  and  shakes  to  an 
even  higher  degree^  and  sets  off  for  the 
place,  to  dare  him  to  a  trial  of  singing 


..-;.■  "^ 


THE  I.rnTJARV  MAGA'/iNE. 


in  the  villHge  dram-shopt  The  hut  is 
full  of  bearded  amateurs,  who  listen 
with  ail  their  might.  Iran  begins  the 
contest,  and  the  boards  wag  approval. 
Next  comes  the  rival's  turn,  and  his 
performances  are  still  finer,  and  so 
prolonged  and  delightful  that  he  evi- 
dently is  winning,  and  the  beards  wag 
faster  than  before.  Poor  Ivan  asks  for 
another  trial,  and  this  time  he  sur- 
passes himself.  He  sings  higher  and 
higher,  and  deeper  and  deeper,  and 
above  all  louder  and  louder,  till  at  last 
he  falls  down  in  a  fainting  fit,  and  is 
carried  oVit,  he  knows  not  whether  tri- 
umphant or  not,  but  half-dying. 

The  emancipation  was  doubtless  a 
great  work.  20,000,000  serfs  beloiig- 
mg  to  private  owners,  and  30,000,000 
more,  the  serfs  of  the  crown,  were  set 
free.  They  had  always,  however,  con- 
siaered  the  communal  land  as  in  one 
sense  their  own.  **We  are  yours,  but 
the  land  is  ours,'*  was  the  phrase. 
The  act  was  received  with  mistrust 
and  suspicion,  and  the  owners  were 
supposed   to   have  tampered  with  the 

fooa  intentions  of  the  Czar.  Land 
ad  been  allotted  to  each  peasant  fam- 
ily sufficient,  as  supposed,  for  its  sup- 
port, besides  paying  a  lixed  yearly  sum 
to  Government.  Aiuch  of  it,  however, 
is  so  bad  that  it  cannot  be  made  to 
afford  a  living  and  pay  the  tax,  in  fact 
a  poll  tax,  not  dependent  on  the  size 
of  the  strip,  but  on  the  number  of  the 
souls.  The  population  in  Russia  has 
always  had  a  great  tendency  to  migrate, 
and  serfdom  m  past  ages  is  said  to  have 
been  instituted  to  enable  the  lord  of 
the  soil  to  be  responsible  for  the  taxes. 
"It  would  have  been  impossible  to  col- 
lect these  from  peasants  free  to  roam 
from  Archangel  to  the  Caucasus,  from 
Petersburg  to  Siberia."  It  was  there- 
fore necessary  to  enforce  the  payments 
from  the  village  community,  the  Mir, 
which  is  a  much  less  merciful  landlord 
than  the  nobles  of  former  days,  and 


conrtstitly  sells  up  the  defanlting  peas- 
ants. 

The  rule  of  the  Mir  is  siic.n^ely 
democratic  in  so  despotic  an  eu.jiire. 
The  Government  never  interferes  with 
the  communes  if  they  pjiy  their  taxes, 
and  tire  ignorant  peasimts  of  the  rural 
courts  may  pass  sentences  of  imprison- 
ment for  seven  days,  inflict  twenty 
strokes  with  a  rod,  impose  fines,  and 
cause  a  man  who  is  pronounced  "vicious 
or  pernicious"  to  be  .banished  to  Si- 
beria. The  authority  of  the  Mir,  of 
the  Starosta,  the  Whiteheads,  the  chief 
elders  seems  never  to  be  resisted,  and 
there  are  a  number  of  proverbs  declar- 
ing "what  the  Mir  decides  must  come 
to  pass,"  "Tlie  neck  and  shoulders  of 
the  Mir  are  broad,"  "The  tear  of  the 
Mir  is  cold  but  shar|)."  Each  peasant 
is  bound  hand  and  foot  by  minute 
regulations;  he  must  plough,  sow,  and 
reap  only  when  his  neighbors  do,  aud 
the  interference  with  his  liberty  of  ac- 
tion is  most  vexatious  and  very  injuri- 
ous. 

The  agr^'culture  enforced  is  of  the 
most  barbarous  kind.  Jansen,  Profes- 
sor of  Political  Economy  at  Moscow, 
says:  "The  three-field  system — corn, 
green  crops,  and  fallow — which  was 
abandoned  in  Europe  two  centuries  ago, 
has  most  disastrous  consequences  here 
The  lots  are  changed  every  year,  and 
no  man  has  any  interest  in  improving 
property  which  will  not  be  his  in  so 
short  a  time.  Hardly  any  manure  is 
used,  and  in  many  places  the  com  is 
threshed  out  by  driving  horses  and 
wagons  over  it.  The  exhaustion  of  the 
soil  by  this  most  barljarous  culture  has 
reached  a  fearful  pitch." 

The  size  of  the  allotments  varies  ex- 
tremely in  the  different  climates  and 
soils,  and  the  country  is  so  enormous 
that  the  provinces  were  divided  into 
zones  to  carrv  out  the  details  of  the 
emnnoipntion  act--thp  zone  wiihout 
black  soil;  the  zone  with    black  soil; 


RURAL  LIFE  IN  RUSSIA. 


483 


and,  third,  the  great  steppe  zone.  In 
the  first  two,  tlie  allotmects  range  from 
25  to  20  acres,  in  the  steppe,  from  8j  to 
34J,  "Whether,  however,"  says  /an- 
flen,  "the  peasants  cultivate  their  land 
as  proprietors  at  Is,  M.  or  hire  it  at 
18«.  6x  the  result  is  the  same— the  soil 
is  scourged  and  exhausted,  and  semi- 
starvation  has  become  the  general  fea- 
ture of  peasant  life.*' 

By  the  act  and  its  consequences 
62,000,000  human  beings,  or  7?  per 
cent,  of  the  population,  were  converted 
into  owners  or  perpetual  tenants.  In 
the  Baltic  provinces  private  owners  still 
possess  rather  more  than  the  peasant, 
but  in  three  of  the  most  northern  and 
two  of  the  most  southern  provinces 
peasant  ownership  prevails  exclusively. 
Tlie  landed  proprietors  were  nominally 
indemnified  by  the  state  for  the  land 
taken  from  them,  but  th^y  were  often 
ffreatly  in  debt,  their  mortgages  were 
deducted,  and  of  the  remainder  on^y 
part  was  paid  in  cash,  the  rest  in  stock, 
which  was  charged  for  the  costs  of 
administration.  When  the  labor  of 
the  serfs  was  taken  away  from  the 
owners  who  still  held  on,  free  labor 
was  impossible  to  obtain,  from  peasants 
working  their  own  land  at  seed-time 
"and  harvest.  The  robles  were  there- 
fore obliged  to  sell  as  much  land 
as  possible.  They  were  allowed,  if  the 
peasants  wanted  a  homestead,  to  oblige 
them  to  buy  an  allotment  with  it,  and 
the  state  undertook  to  advance  four- 
fifths  of  the  purchase  money.  At  the 
beginning  of  1881  nearly  100,000,000/. 
had  been  thus  advanced  by  the  (rov- 
ernment  to  the  ex-serfs.  Only  »14  per 
cent.,  however,  applied  for  money  to 
be  helped  to  buy ;  the  remaining  66 
per  cent,  have  done  it  by  compulsion. 

The  result  as  given  in  all  the  reports 
from  Russian  authorities  and  English 
consuls  agree  that  the  emancipation 
act  has  been  an  utter  failure.  They 
repeat  the  same  facts  afirain  and  amn. 


ttan 


The  peasant  proprietors  of  the  zone 
without  black  soil  are  in  a  condition  of 
bankruptcy,  hopelessly  in  arrears  with 
their  poll-tax,  capitation  rents,  redemp- 
tion dues."  **The  Russian  peasants 
are  now  in  reality  with  few  exceptions 
mere  paupers,  as  the  land  they  culti- 
vate does  not  yield  enough  to  feed  them. 
From  one  end  of  the  country  to  the 
other,  they  are  in  a  stale  of  semi-star- 
vation. In  seveml  of  the  Volga  prov 
inces  there  has  been  a  widespread  fam- 
ine." The  Moscow  Gazette  acknowl- 
eges  that  '^nearly  one-half  of  Russia  is 
a&iicted  with  famine  to  an  extent  hith- 
erto unknown."  Another  report  says, 
"The  harvest  has  been  failing  in  the 
south  of  Russia,  not  from  drought,  but 
from  the  ravages  of  beetles  and  worms 
produced  by  slovenly  cultivation  and 
shallow  ploughing.  In  twenty-five 
years  the  experiment  has  reduced  the 
Russian  peasant  to  a  lower  level  than 
when  he  was  a  serf,  and  exhausted  the 
once  rich  soil  of  the  country."  The 
English  consul  at  Taganrog  repeats  the 
same  story.  A  quarter  of  a  century  has 
sufficed  to  ruin  the  once  great  and 
powerful  nobles  of  Russia.  One-fourth 
of  their  estates,  indeed,  of  the  whole 
agricultural  soil  of  the  country,  is 
mortgaged  to  the  land  banks,  who 
often  step  in  and  take  possession.  An- 
other feurth  has  been  sold  outright. 

*'In  the  black  earth  zone,  with  a  produce  of 
281  kopecks  per  desiatine,  the  interefit  takes 
228,  the  taxes  15,  leaving  the  proprietor  only 
38  kopecks.  It  being  impossible  to  get  labor 
at  the  most  important  seasons,  the  landlords 
sometimes  let  land  to  the  mir,  receiving  every 
third  or  fourth  shock  of  com  as  rent;  the 
cost  of  ploughing,  seed,  and  harvesting  being 
borne  by  the  peasants.  The  land  considered 
enough  in  18(51  to  suj)port  the  peasants  is  now 
quite  insufficient;  village  and  communal  taxes 
have  increased  as  well  as  the  Gtovernment 
impw^ts.  The  price  of  own  has  gone  down, 
the  seasons  have  been  bad,  the  agriculture  is 
wretched,  the  produce  is  only  2^  to  4J  to  the 
quantity  of  corn  sown,  whereas  in  England  it 
is  al)oiit  15  for  winter  and  20  for  spring 
cereals.    Although  rent  is  only  2»,  per  act« 


«n 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


1(  1  lar^e  holdings,  and  11«.  to  15«.  for  vegeta- 
ble uardeiis,  the  peasants  cannot  at  the  pres- 
ent lime  live  ana  piur  their  taxes,  and  their 
cattle  and  goods  are  onen  seized,  ivhich  means 
ruin.  No  manure  is  used,  com  is  sown  con- 
sec  uitively  for  years,  after  which  the  laud  is 
used  for  grazing. 

"A  great  part  of  the  country  has  fallen  into 
the  hands  of  rapacious  middle-men  and  specu- 
lators, the  upper  and  middle  classes  are  nearly 
ruined,  and  that  without  benefiting  the  masses. 

Usury  is  the  great  nightmare  of  rural 
Russia  at  present^  an  evil  which  seems 
to  dog  the  peasant  proprietor  in  all 
countries  alike.  The  '*6ombeen  Man" 
is  fast  getting  possession  of  the  little 
Irish  owners.  A  man  who  hires  land 
cannot  borrow  on  it;  the  little  owner  is 
tempted  always  to  mortgage  it  at  a 
pinch.  In  Russia  he  borrows  to  the 
outside  of  its  value,  to  pay  the  taxes 
and  get  in  his  crop.  "The  bondage 
laborers,  t.  c,  men  bound  to  work  on 
their  creditor's  land  as  interest  for 
money  lent,  receive  no  wages  and  are  in 
fact  a  sort  of  slaves.  They  repay  their 
extortioners  by  working  as  badly  as  they 
can — a  "level  worst,"  far  inferior  to 
that  of  the  serfs  of  old,  they  harvest 
three  and  a  half  or  four  stacks  of  corn 
where  the  other  peasants  get  five.  The 
.  Koulaks  and  Mir-eaters,  and  other  us- 
urers, often  of  peasaat  origin,  exhaust 
the  peasant  in  every  way;  they  then 
foreclose  the  mortgages,  unite  the 
small  pieces  of  land  once  more,  and 
reconstitute  large  estates.  A  koulak  is 
not  to  be  trifled  with;  he  finds  a  thou- 
sand occasions  for  revenge;  the  peasant 
cannot  cheat  the  Jew  as  he  does  the 
landlord,  and  is  being  starved  out — the 
mortality  is  enormous.  In  the  rural 
districts  of  England,  the  death  rate  is 
18  per  1,000.  In  the  whole  of  Central 
Eussia  it  reached  62  per  1,000  at  the 
last  revision  in  1882.  "The  famine 
no^v  so  frightfully  common  is  not  owing 
to  barrenness  of  the  soil,  for  the  mortal- 
ity is  greatest  where  the  land  is  best. 
The  birth  rate  in  these  provinces  is  45." 


"The  usurers  are  able  to  oj)|  rers  the 
peasants  by  the  help  of  the  tax  gal  l»erer, 
e.  g,y  they  are  obliged  to  sell  their  corn 
in  September,  when  it  is  cheap,  in 
order  to  pay  the  tax,  and  buy  it  again 
in  winter,  when  it  is  dear,  to  live/* 
The  tax  gatherer  knows  that  if  he  sells 
up  the  peasant  he  becomes  a  beggar 
and  can  pay  no  more;  flogging  there- 
fore is  resorted  to,  and  insolvent  peas- 
ants are  flogged  in  a  body.  Last  win- 
ter an  inspector  of  Novgorod  reported 
that  in  one  district  1,500  peasants  had 
been  condemned  to  be  flogged  for  non- 
payment of  taxes.  550  had  already 
suffered,  and  the  ministry  was  inter- 
ceded with  to  procure  a  respite  for  the 
rest.  "One-third  of  our  peasants  have 
become  homeless,  downtrodden,  beggar- 
ly batraks."  "The  area  of  cultivated- 
land  has  diminished  by  one-fifth  and  in 
some  places  by  a  quarter  of  its  former 
amount."  "Land  yields  nothing,"  is 
the  general  outcry.  "It  is  abandoned  to 
the  wasteful  cultivation  of  the  cottiers," 
says  Stepnlak — no  prejudiced  witness 
against  them.  The  Nihilist  remedy  is 
to  give  the  peasant  more  land,  i.  e.,  to 
enable  them  to  mortgage  further,  and 
to  iivide  still  more  as  population  in- 
creases. The  other  remedy  proposed  is 
to  reconstitute  large  estates,  which  is 
being  done  already,  but  in  the  worst 
manner  and  by  the  worst  men  in  the 
country;  "a  wage-receiving  class  would 
then  be  possible,"  it  is  said. 

The  artificial  creation  of  a  system  of 
peasant  proprietors  in  order  to  increase 
their  well-being,  it  is  allowed  now  on 
all  hands,  has  failed  entirely  in  Russia. 

The  two  panaceas  prescribed  for  Ire- 
land have  been  the  possession  of  land 
by  the  peasants,  and  local  self-govern- 
ment, both  of  which  have  been  enjoyed 
by  the  Eussian  peasant  for  centuries, 
although  the  particular  form  of  it  was 
changed.  The  proposals  for  Ireland 
by  the  late  government  are  strangely 
like  those  emx)loyed  in  Russia  to  carry 


RUKAL  LIFE  IN  RUSSIA. 


485 


out  emancipation — L  e,,  the  buyinff  out 
of  the  landlords,  the  enormous  advan- 
ces of  money  to  the  peasants  to  pur- 
chase their  land,  the  encouragement  to 
the  morcellement  of  property  generally, 
and  the  extensive  rights  of  self-govern- 
ment to  be  given  to  local  communities. 
Moreover  **the  character  of  the  Russian 
Slav  is  like  that  of  the  pure  Irish  Celt, 
with  no  steady  habit  of  industry  or 
tenacity  of  purpose,  the  chief  object  of 
life  being  to  drmk  and  be  merry.  The 
consequence  of  the  measure  has  been 
that  the  upper  and  middle  classes  have 
been  mined,  agriculture  in  a  good  sense 
has  almost  ceased  to  exist,  and  the 
peasant  is  at  the  last  degree  of  misery 
and  starvation,  ground  down  by  the 
usurers,  who  alone  make  it  possible  to 
pay  the  taxes.*' 

The  financial  condition  of  Russia  is 
thus  described:  "The  government  loses 
£5,000,000  yearly  by  its  administration 
of  the  railroads,  about  £3,500,000  on 
the  decline  in  value  of  the  paper  rouble. 
She  borrows  enormous  sums  each  year 
at  high  interest.  An  overwhelming 
economic  crisis  in  Russia  is  expected, 
which  will  bring  financial  ruin  more 
disastrous  than  the  most  sanguinary 
and  costly  war.*'  It  is  a  vicious  circle: 
the  Empire  cannot  reduce  its  expendi- 
ture, the  taxes  cannot  be  remitted,  and 
they  can  only  be  paid  by  help  of  the 
usurers.     The  knowledge  of  this  will 

Erobably  account  for  the  hesitation 
itely  shown  at  St.  Petersburg.  The 
malversations  and  peculations  of  the 
War  Department  are  such,  also,  that 
the  number  of  troops  on  paper  is  no 
real  guide.  It  is  told  on  the  best  au- 
thority that  it  was  necessary  to  call  out 
700,000  men  in  the  last  war  with  Tur 
key  in  order  to  place  200,000  in  the 
field,  the  rest  had  either  not  obeved 
the  summons,  had  fallen  sick  on  the 
wav,  been  starved,  or  had  deserted. 

'the  motive  of  emancipation  cannot 
be  considered    as   quite  disinterested. 


It  was  not  the  first  time  that  the  Rus- 
sian government  had  posed  as  the  pro- 
tector of  "the  masses  against  the  class- 
es." Bulgaria  is  only  the  last  instance 
of  a  policy  which  has  long  been  the 
mainspring  of  Russian  government. 
"  Protiting  by  the  difference  of  race 
between  the  peasants  and  the  German 
landowners  and  merchants  in  Lithuania 
and  the  Baltic  provinces,  it  has  aggra- 
vated the  discord  between  them.  The 
attempt  to  crush  the  German  element 
has  indeed  created  great  ill-feeling  in 
Germany.  The  same  policy  has  been 
followed  in  Finland,  where  the  Finns 
have  been  set  against  the  Swedes," 
while  in  Poland  the  ruin  of  the  nobles, 
ousted  in  great  part  by  the  peasant 
proprietors  (who  are  now  mostly  in  the 
nands  ot  the  Jews),  is  a  melancholy 
story.  In  Bulgaria  the  ill-will  between 
the  Mah'ommedan  conquerors  and  land- 
ownera,  and  the  Christian  peasants, 
was  such  that  Russia  appeared  as  a 
deliverer;  but  as  soon  as  she  demands 
the  price  of  her  efforts,  in  a  semi-pro- 
tectorate, Bulgaria  seems  to  feel  as 
much  dislike  toward  her  would-be  lord 
BB  to  the  old  Turk  himself. 

One  result  of  emancipation  has  come 
about,  probably  foreseen  by  the  benev- 
olent despot.  The  peasant  class  com- 
prises five-sixths  of  the  whole  popula- 
tion— a  stolid,  ignorant,  uttex-ly  unpro- 
gressive  mass  of  human  beings.  They 
have  received  in  gift  neSrIy  half  the 
empire  for  their  own  use,  and  cling  to 
the  soil  as  their  only  chance  of  exist- 
ence. They  consequently  dread  all 
change,  fearing  that  it  should  endanger 
this  valued  possession.  A  dense  solid 
stratum  of  unreasoning  conservatism 
thus  constitutes  the  whole  basis  of 
Russian  society,  backed  by  the  most 
corrupt  set  of  officials  to  be  found  in 
the  whole  world.  The  middle  and 
upper  classes  are  often  full  of  ardent 
wishes  for  the  advancement  of  society 
and  projects  for  the  reform  of  the  state. 


436 


THE  LIBR^yn'  MAGAZINE. 


These  are  generally  of  the  wildest  and 
most  terrible  description,  but  tlreir  ob- 
jects are  anything  but  unreasonable. 
They  desire  to  share  in  political  power 
and  the  government  of  their  country, 
as  is  the  privilege  of  every  other  nation 
in  Europe,  and  they  hope  to  do  some- 
thing for  the  seething  mass  of  ignor- 
ance  and  misery  around  them.  The 
Nihilists  have  an  ideal  at  least  of  good, 
and  the  open  air  of  practical  politics 
would  probably  get  rid  of  the  unhealthy 
absurdities  and  wickedness  of  their 
creeds.  But  the  Russian  peasant  cares 
neither  for  liberty  nor  politics,  neither 
for  education,  or  cleanliness,  or  civiliza- 
tion of  any  kind.  His  only  interest 
is  to  squeeze  just  enough  out  of  his 
plot  of  ground  to  live  upon,  and  to  get 
drunk  as  many  days  m  the  year  as 
possible.  With  such  a  base  to  the 
pyramid  as  is  constituted  by  the  peas- 
ant proprietors  of  Russia,  aided  by  the 
enortnous  army,  recruited  almost  to 
any  extent  from  among  their  ranks, 
whose  chief  religion  is  a  superstitious 
reverence  for  the  **great  father/'  the 
Czar  is  safe  in  refusing  all  concessions, 
all  improvements ;  and  the  hopeless 
nature  of  Russian  reform  hitherto, 
mainly  hangs  upon  the  conviction  of 
the  government  that  nothing  external 
can  possibly  act  upon  this  inert  mass. 
"Great  is  stupidity,  and  shall  prevail." 
But  surely  not  forever! — Lady  F.  P. 
Vbrnby,  in  The  Nineteenth  Century, 


SEA  PHRASES. 

"The  searlan^age,''  says  Sir  Wil- 
liam Monson  in  nis  Naval  Tracta 
(1640),  "is  not  soon  learned,  and  much 
less  understood,  beinj^  only  proper  to 
him  that  has  served  his  apprenticesliip; 
besides  that,  a  boisterous  sea  and  stormy 
weather  will  make  a  man  not  bred  to  it 
so  sick  that  it  bereaves  him  of  legs. 


stomach,  and  courage  so  much  as  to 
tight  with  his  meat;  and  in  sucn 
weather,  when  he  hears  the  seamen  Cry 
starboard  or  port,  or  to  bide  aloof,  or 
flat  a  sheet,  or  haul  home  a  clew-line, 
he  thinks  he  hears  a  barbarous  sjHjeeh, 
which  he  conceives  not  the  meaning  of. " 

This  is  as  true  now  as  then.  But  the 
landsman  is  not  to  blame.  There  is  no 
dialect  peculiar  to  a  calling  so  crowded 
with  stranfi:e  words  as  the  language  of 
the  sea.  Dr.  Johnson,  who  is  never 
more  diverting  than  when  he  thunders 
forth  his  abhorrence  of  naval  life  and 
of  sailors  as  a  community  of  persons, 
has  in  some  cases  perpetuated,  and  in 
some  cases  created,  the  most  ludicrous 
errors  in  respect  of  ships,  their  furni- 
ture and  crews.  If,  as  Macaulay  de- 
clares, the  doctor  was  at  the  mercy  of 
Junius  and  Skinner  in  many  of  his 
shore-going  derivatives,  he  was  equally 
at  the  mercy  of  Bailey  and  Harris  wheu 
he  came  to  the  ocean.  A  few  samples 
will  suffice. 

* 'Topgallant,,  the  highest  sail." 
"Topsail,  the  highest  sail.  The  word 
topgallant,  as  Johnson  prints  it,  is  not 
a  sail  at  all.  Had  Johnson  defined  the 
"topgallant-sair'  as  the  highest  sail,  he 
would  have  been  right;  for  in  his  day- 
there  was  no  canvas  set  above  the  top- 
gallant yard.  But  it  is  manifest  that  if 
the  "topgallant-sail"  was  the  highest 
sail,  the  topsail  could  not  be  the  high- 
est too.  "Tiller,  the  rudder  of  a  boat. " 
The  proverbial  schoolboy  knows  better 
than  that.  "Shrouds,  the  sail-ropes. 
It  seems  to  be  taken  sometimes  for  the 
sails.  *'  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that 
the  shrouds  have  nothing  whatever  to 
do  with  the  sails.  They  are  ro})es — in 
Johnson's  day  of  hemp,  in  our  time  of 
wire — for  the  support  of  lower,  topmast, 
and  topgallant  masts,  '  *  Sheets. ' '  This 
wo^fd  he  correctly  defines,  borrowing 
his  definition  from  a  dictionarv.  But 
he  adds,  ''IJrvden  seems  to  understand 
it  otherwise;     and  quotes 


SEA  PFTBASES. 


487 


"Pierce  Boreas  drove  against  his  flying  sails, 
And  rent  the  sheets.'' 

It  is  very  evident  that  Dryden  per- 
fectly underistood  the  term  as  signifying 
the  ropes  at  the  clews  of  sails.  "Quar- 
ter-deck, the  short  upper  deck."  This 
is  as  incorrect  as  "Poop,  the  hindmost 
part  of  the  ship."  The  poop  lies  aft, 
to  be  sure,  but  it  is  no  more  the  hind- 
most part  of  the  ship  than  the  bowsprit 
is — any  more  than  the  quarter-deck 
need  necessarily  be  "short"  or  "upper" 
—  in  the  sense  clearly  intended  by  John- 
son. "Over-hale,  to  spread  over." 
Over-hale  then  signified  what  is  now 
meant  by  overhaul.  To  overhaul  a  rope 
is  to  drag  it  through  a  block;  to  over- 
haul a  ship  is  to  search  her.  It  cer- 
tainly does  not  mean  "to  spread  over," 
nor,  in  my  judgment,  does  Spenser 
employ  it  in  that  sense  in  the  triplet 
that  Johnson  appends.  "Loo fed,  gone 
to  a  distance."  "Loofed"  in  Johnson's 
day  denoted  a  ship  that  had  luffed — i.e., 
put  her  helm  down  to  come  closer  to 
the  wind.  "Keel,  the  bottom  of  the 
ship."  No  doubt  the  keel  is  at  the 
bottoqi  of  the  ship,  but  sailors  would 
no  more  understand  it  as  a  ship's  bot- 
tom than  they  would  accept  the  word 
"beam"  as  a  definition  of  the  word 
"deck."  Johnson  gives  "helm"  as 
"the  steerage,  the  rudder."  It  is  plain 
that  he  is  here  under  the  impression 
that  "steerage"  is  pretty  much  the 
same  as  "steering.  In  reality  the 
helm  is  no  more  the  rudder  than  it  is 
the  tiller,  the  wheel,  the  w^heel-chains, 
or  ropes  and  the  relieving-tackles.  It 
is  a  generic  term,  and  means  the  whole 
apparatus  by  which  a  ship  is  steered. 

"Belay,  to  bela^  a  rope;  to  splice;  to 
mend  a  rope  by  laying  one  end  over 
another."  To  bday  a  rope  is  to  make 
it  fast.  These  examples  could  be  mul- 
tiplied; but  it  i;  not  my  purpose  to 
criticise  Johnsor's  Dictionnry.  Yet, 
as  it  is  admitted  the  basis  of  most  of 
the  dictionaries   in  use,  it    is  worth 


while  calling  attention  to  errors  which 
have  survived  without  question  or  cor- 
rection into  the  later  compilations.  * 

These  and  the  like  blunders  merely 
indicate  the  extreme  difficulty  that  con- 
fronts, not  indeed  the  etymologist — for 
I  nowhere  discover  any  signs  of  research 
in  the  direction  of  marine  oriffinals — 
but  the  plain  definer  of  nautical  words. 
The  truth  is,  before  a  man  undertakes 
to  explain  the  language  of  sailors  he 
should  go  to  sea.  It  is  only  by  mixing 
with  sailors,  by  hearing  and  executing 
orders,  that  one  can  distinguish  the 
shades  of  meaning  amidst  the  scores  of 
subtleties  of  the  mariner's  speech.  It 
is  of  course,  hard  to  explain  what  the 
sailor  himself  could  not  define  save  by 
the  word  he  himself  employs.  Take, 
for  example,  "inboard"  and  "aboard." 
You  say  of  a  man  entering  a  ship  that  he 
has  gone  "aboard  her;"  of  a  boat  hang- 
ing at  the  davits  that  it  must  be  swung 
"inboard. "  There  is  a  nicety  here  diffi- 
cult of  discrimination,  but  it  is  fixed 
nevertheless.  You  would  not  say  of  a 
man  in, a  ship  that  he  is  "inboard,"  nor 
of  davits  that  they  must  be  slewed 
"aboard."  So  of  "aft"  and  "abaft." 
They  both  mean  the  same  thing,  but 
they  are  not  applied  in  the  same  way.  A 
man  is  "aft"  when  he  is  on  the  quarter- 
deck or  poop;  you  could  not  say  he  is 
*  *abaf t. ' '  But  suppose  him  to  be  beyond 
the  mizen-mast,  you  would  say  "he  is 
standing  just  abaft  the  mizen-mast," 
not  "he  is  standing  aft  it."  ' 

Peculiarities  of  expression  abound  in 
sea-languag'e  to  a  degree  not  to  be  par- 
alleled by  the  eccentricities  of  other 
vocational  dialects.  A  man  who  sleeps 
in  his  bunk  or  hammock  all  nis^ht,  or 
through  his  watch  on  deck,  "lies  in" 
or  "sleeps  in."  But  neither  term  is 
a])])licable  if  lie  sleeps  through  liis  watch 
below.  "Idlers,"  as  they  are  called, 
snoh  as  the  cook,  steward,  butcher,  and 
the  like,  are  said  to  have  "all  nisjht  in" 
— that  is,  **aU  night  in  their  bunks  or 


<88 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


hammocks."  To  "lay^*  is  a  word  plen- 
tif  ally  employed  in  directions  which  to 
a  lanasman  snould  render  its  significa- 
tion hopelessly  bewildering. 

"This  word  'lay/  "  savs  Richard  H.  Dana, 
in  note  to  Two  Tea/rs  Before  the  Mast,  '* which 
is  in  such  ^neral  ose  on  board  ship,  being 
used  in  givmg  orders  instead  of  *go/  as  Lay 
forwardr  'Lay  aft!*  'Lay  aloft!'  etc.,  I  do  not 
understand  to  be  the  neuter  verb  lie  mispro- 
nounced, but  to  be  the  active  verb  *lay*  with 
the  objective  case  understood,  as  *Lay  your 
selfM  forwardi'  'Lay  yourselves  aftl'  etc.  At 
all  events,  lay  is  an  active  verb  at  Sea  and 
means  go."  It  is,  however,  used  in  other 
sense,  as  to  "lay  up  a  rope,"  '*  the  ship  lay 
ilong,"  the  old  expression  for  a  vessel  presse<l 
down  by  the  force  of  the  wind.  Other  terms 
strike  the  land-going  ear  as  singular  contradic- 
tions, such  as  '*to  make  land,"  to  "fetch  such 
and  such  a  place" — i.  «.,  to  reach  it  by  sailing, 
but  properlv  to  arrive  at  it  by  means  of  beat- 
ing oi:  tacking;  "jump  aloft;"  run  aloft; 
"tumble  up,"  come  up  from  below;  **bear  a 
hand/ '  look  sharp,make  haste ;  *  'handsomely , ' ' 
as  in  the  expression,  "Lower  away  hand 
somelyl"  meaning,  lower  away  with  judg 
ment,  but  promptly ;  '  'bully, ' '  a  term  of  kmdly 
greeting,  as  **  Bully  for  you!" 

The  difficulties  of  the  lexidbgrapher 
desiring  the  inclusion  of  nautical  terms 
ixx  his  list  are  not  a  little  increased  by  the 
sailor's  love  of  contractions,  or  hie  per- 
versities of  pronunciation.  Let  me  cite 
a  few  examples.  The  word  "treenail," 
for  instance — a  wooden  spike — in  Jack's 
mouth  becomes  "trunnel. '*  "To  reach" 
is  to  sail  along  close-hauled;  but  the 
sailor  calls  it  ^'ratch."  "Gunwale," 
as  everybody  knows,  is  "gunnel,"  and 
so  spelt  by  the  old  marine  writers. 
"Grossiack,"  a  sail  that  sets  upon  a 
yard  called  the  "cross jack  yard  on  the 
mizen-mast,  is  pronounced  "crojjeok." 
The  "strap"  of  a  block  is  always  termed 
"strop;"  **streak,"  a  single  range  of 
planks  running  from  one  end  oi  the 
ship  or  boat  to  the  other,  is  "strake;" 
"to  serve,"  that  is,  to  wind  small  stuff 
suchas  spnn-yarn,  round  a  rope,  is  "to 
sarve."  The  numerous  contractions, 
Uow^reri  are  preeminently  illustrative 


of  the  two  distinctive  qualities  of  the 
English  sailor — nimbleness  and  alert- 
ness. Everything  must  begone  quickly 
at  sea:  there  is  no  time  for  sesquipeda- 
lianism.  If  there  be  a  long  word  it  must 
be  shortened,  somehow.  To  spring,  to 
jump,  to  leap,  to  -tumble,  to  keep  his 
eyes  skinned,  to  hammer  his  flngenj  into 
fish-hooks:  these  are  the  things  required 
of  Jack.  He  dances,  he  swings,  he 
drinks,  he  is  in  all  senses  a  lively  hearty; 
but  underlying  his  intellectual  and 
physical  caper-cutting  is  deep  percep- 
tion of  the  sea  as  a  mighty  force,  a  re- 
morseless foe.  ^'he  matter  seems  trif- 
ling, yet  the  national  character  is  in  it. 
A  great  number  of  words  are  used  by 
sailors  which  are  extremely  disconcert- 
ing to  landsmen,  as  apparently  sheer 
violations  of  familiar  sounds  and  the 
images  they  convey.  "To  lash:"  ashore, 
this  is  to  beat  with  a  whip,  to  thrash; 
at  sea  it  means  to  make  anything  fast 
by  securing  it  with  a  rope.  "To  foul:" 
when  a  sauor  speaks  of  one  thing  foul- 
ing another,  he  does  not  intend  to  say 
that  one  thing  soils  or  dirties  another, 
but  that  it  has  got  mixed  in  a  manner 
to  make  separation  a  difficult  v.  "Our 
ship  drove  and  fouled  a  vessel  astern." 
A  line  is  foul  when  it  is  twisted,  when 
it  jams  in  a  block.  "Seize"  is  to  at- 
tach: it  does  not  mean,  "to  p-asp." 
"Seizing"  is  the  line  or  laniard  or 
small  stuff  by  which  anything  is  made 
fast.  "Whip:"  this  word  naturally 
conveys  the  idea  of  the  implement  for 
flogging,  for  driving;  in  reality,  it  sig- 
nilles  a  line  rove  through  a  single  block. 
**  Whip  it  up  I"  hoi.-t  it  up  by  means  of 
the  tackle  called  a  whip.  '*Get  it 
wliip))edl"  jprot  it  hoisted  b/ a  whip. 
"Sweep"  looks  like  a  fellow  who  deans 
a  chimney;  at  sea  it  is  a  lon;j[  oar. 
"Board"  is  Tint  a  plank,  but  tl.e  dis- 
tnnce  mejisured  hv  a  ship  or  ves^^t  I  sail- 
ing on  either  t;u:k,  imd  heating  asiaiust 
the  wind  before  she  puts  her  helm  down 
for   the  next   "ratch."      "Guy"  has 


SEA  PHRASES. 


439 


nothing  to  do  with  the  fifth  of  Novem- 
ber, nor  with  a  person  absurdly  dressed, 
but  is  a  rope  used  for  steadying  a  boom. 
"Ribbons  are  pieces  of  timber  nailed 
outside  the  ribs  of  a  wooden  ship. 
**  Ear-rings"  are  ropes  for  reefing  or  for 
aecuring  the  upper  corners  of  a  sail  to 
the  yardarms. 

The  bewilderment  increases  when 
Jack  goes  to  zoology  for  terms.  "Fox" 
is  a  lashing  made  by  twisting  rope-yarns 
together.  "Spanish  Fox"  is  a  single 
yarn  untwisted  and  "laid  up"  the  con- 
trary way.  "Monkey"  is  a  heavy 
weight  of  iron  used  in  shipbuilding  for 
driving  in  long  bolts.  "Cat"  is  a 
tackle  used  for  hoisting  up  the 
anchor.  "Mouse"  or  "mousing"  was 
formerly  a  ball  ofyarns  fitted  to  the  col- 
lare  of  stays.  "To  mouse,"  is  to  put 
turns  of  rope-yarn  round  the  hook  of 
a  block  to  prevent  it  from  slipping. 
"Spider"  is  an  iron  outrigger.  Liz- 
ard" is  a  piece  of  rope  with  a  "thim- 
ble" spliced  into  it.  "Whelps"  are 
pieces  of  wood  or  iron  bolted  on  the 
main-piece  of  a  windlass,  or  on  a  winch. 
**Leech"  is  the  side-edge  of  a  sail. 
* 'Sheepshank"  is  the  name  given  to 
a  manner  of  shortening  a  rope  by 
hitches  over  a  bight  of  its  own  part. 

Of  such  terms  as  these  how  is  the 
etymology  to  be  come  at  ?  Without  ques- 
tion the  name  of  the  animal  was  sug- 
gested in  a  few  cases,  as  in  "lizard 
perhaps  by  some  dim  or  fanciful  re- 
semblance to  it  in  the  object  that  wanted 
a  title.  But  "monkey,"  "fox,"  "cat," 
and  other  such  appellations,  must  have 
an  origin  referable  to  any  other  cause 
than  that  of  their  likeness  to  the  crea- 
tures they  are  called  after.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  be  sure  that  these  names  are  not 
corruptions  from  Saxon  and  other  terms 
expressive  of  totally  different  meaning. 
It  may  be  supposed  that  "Spanish  Fox^' 
comes  from  the  Spaniards'  habit  of  us- 
ing "foxes"  formed  of  single  j'arns.  We 
have,  for  example,  "Spanish  windlass," 


as  we 'have  "French  fake,"  "Fronch 
sennit,"  etc.  The^derivatives  of  s*«  '\q 
words  are  suggested  by  their  .om.  s. 
"Bowse,"  pronounced  "Duwce,"  nz  a 
familiar  caii  at  sea.  "Bowse  it  taut, 
lads!"  "Take  and  bowse  upon  those 
halliards!"  The  men  puU  oj^  upon  the 
rope  and  how  it  by  their  action.  It 
is  therefore  conceivable  that  "bowse'' 
may  have  come  from  "bow"  "bows/' 
"Dowse,"  pronounced  "dowce,"  sicriii- 
fies  to  lower,  to  haul  down  suddenly. 
Also  to  extinguish,  as  "dow^se  the  glim, " 
"put  out  the  light."  The  French  word 
"aoi^ce"  is  probably  the  godfather  here. 
But  "rouse,"  pronounced  "ronce?" 
"Bouse  it  aft,  boys!"  It  means  to  drag 
smartly.  Does  it  really  signify  what  it 
looks  to  express — ^to  "rouse  up''  the 
object  thaMs  to  be  handled? 

It  is  wonderful  to  note  how,  on  the 
whole,  the  language  of  tlie  sea  hius  pre- 
served its  substance  and  sentiment 
through  the  many  generations  of  sea-  ^ 
farers  down  to  the  present  period  of 
iron  plates  and  steel  masts,  of  the  i)ro- 
peller  and  the  steam-engine.  'J'he 
reason  is  that,  great  as  has  been  tlie 
apparent  change  wrought  in  the  body 
and  fabric  of  ships  since  the  days  of 
the  Great  Harry  of  the  sixteenth  ecii- 
tuiT,  and  the  Rbyal  Georr/e  of  the 
eighteenth  centurv,  the  nomenclature 
of  remote  times  still  perfectly  answers 
to  a  mass  of  nautical  essentials,  more 
especially  as  regards  the  masts,  yards, 
rigging  and  sails  of  a  vessel.  And  an- 
other reason  lies  in  the  strong  conser- 
vative spirit  of  the  sailor.  IMiere  w,is 
a  loud  outcry  when  the  Admiralty  many 
years  ago  condemned  the  term  '*J::r- 
board,"  and  ordered  the  word  "})ort" 
to  be  substituted.  The  name  was  not 
abandoned  without  a  violent  stru^-.i:!e, 
and  many  throes  of  prejudice,  on  i!ie 
part  of  the  old  salts.  Wliat  was  gcod 
enough  for  Hawkins.  Duncan,  Ron  e, 
liodney,  Nelson,  was  surely  good 
enough  for  their  successors. 


440 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


Not  in  many  directions  do  I  find  new 
readings  of  old  terms.  As  a  rule, 
where  the  feature  has  disappeared  the 
term  has  gone  with  it.  Where  the  ex- 
pression is  retained  the  meaning  is  more 
or  less  identical  with  the  original 
words.  A  few  exceptions  may  be  quoted : 
*'Bittacle"  was  anciently  tlie  name  .of 
the  binnacle;  obviously  derived  from 
the  French  habitacle  (a  small  habita- 
!;ion),  and  still  the  French  term  for  the 
compass-stand.  * 'Caboose"  was  for- 
merly the  name  of  the  galley  or  kitch- 
en of  small  merchantmen.  Falconer 
spells  it  **coboose,"  and  describes  it  as  a 
sort  of  box  or  house  to  cover  the  chim- 
ney of  some  merchant  ships.  Previous 
to  the  introduction  of  the  caboose,  the 
furnaces  for  cooking  were,  in  three- 
deckers,  placed  on  the  middle  deck;  in 
two-decked  ships  in  the  forecastle;  and, 
adds  my  authority  (the  auouymous 
author  of  a  treatise  on  shipbuilding, 
written  in  1701 ),  "also  in  all  ships  which 
have  forecastles  the  previsions  are  there 
dressed.**  "Cuddy  '  is  a  forcible,  old- 
fashioned  word  that  has  been  replaced 
by  the  mincing,  affected  term  **saloon." 
In  the  last  century  it  signified  ''a  sort 
of  cabin  or  cook-room  in  the  forepart 
or  near  the  stern  of  a  lighter  or  barge 
of  burden." 

It  is  curious  to  note  the  humble 
origin  of  a  term  subsequently  taken  to 
designate  the  gilded  and  sumptuous 
first-class  cabin  accommodation  of  the 
great  Indian,  American,  and  Australian 
ships.  ** Forecastle,"  again,  I  find  de- 
fined by  old  writers  as  **a  place  fitted  for 
a  close  fight  on  the  upper  deck  for- 
ward." The  term  was  retained  to  de- 
note the  place  in  which  tlie  crew  live. 

The  exploded  expressions  are  numer- 
ous. A  short  list  may  prove  of  interest. 
**Hulling"  and  **trying"  were  the  words 
which  answer  to  what  we  now  call 
**hove-to."  "Sailing  large,"  having 
the  wind  free  or  quartering:  this  ex- 
^sion  is  dead.     "Plying"  was    the 


old  term  for  "beating" — "we  plyed  to 
windward,"  i,  e.,  "we  beat  to  wind- 
ward." The  word  is  obsolete,  aa  is 
"spooning,"  replaced  by  "scudding." 
For  * 'veering"  we  have  substituted 
"wearing."  Some  good  strong,  ex- 
pressive words  have  vanished.  Nobody 
nowadays  talks  of  "clawing  off," 
though  the  expression  is  perfect  as  rep- 
resenting a  vessel  clutching  and  grab- 
bing at  the  wind  in  her  efforts  to  b8ul 
off  from  a  lee  nhore.  For  "shivering" 
we  now  say  "shaking."  "The  topsail 
shivers  to  the  wind!  In  these  days  it 
"shakes."  We  no  longer  speak  of  the 
"topsail  atrip."  but  of  the  topsail  hoist- 
ed or  the  yard  mastheaded.  "'Hank 
for  hank,"  signifying  two  ships  heating 
together  and  always  going  about  at  the 
same  moment,  so  that  one  cannot  get  to 
windward  of  the  other,  is  now  ''tack  for 
tack."  We  have  ceased  to  "heave  out 
staysails:"  they  are  now  loosed  and 
hoisted.  The  old  "horse"  has  made 
way  for  the  "foot-rone,"  though  we  still 
retain  the  term  "Flemish  horse"  for 
the  short  foot-rope  at  the^ topsail  yard- 
arms.  The  word  "horse"  readily 
suggests  the  origin  of  the  term  "stir- 
rup," a  rope  fitted  to  the  foot-rope  that 
it  may  not  be  weighed  down  too  deep 
by  the  men  standing  on  it.  It  is  plain 
that  "horse"  is  owing  to  the  seamen 
"riding"  the  yard  by  it.  Anything 
traversed  was  called  a  "horse."  The 
term  is  still  used.  The  "round-house" 
or  "coach"  yielded  to  "cuddy,"  as 
"cuddy"  has  to  "saloon."  The  poop 
remains;  but  the  "poop-royal"  of  the 
French  and  the  Spaniards  or  the  "top- 
gallant poop"  of  our  own  shipwrights 
— a  short  deck  over  the  aftermost  part 
of  the  poop — has  utterly  disappeared. 

"Whoever  were  the  inventors,"  writeii  8ir 
Walter  Raleigh  in  A  Dincnvrae  of  Shipping  in- 
chi(le<l  in  liis  ^jfenniiie  rcnnains,  1700.  **we  find 
that  every  n;xe  hath  adde<l  somewhat  to  ships, 
ami  to  nil  thin^  else:  and  in  mine  own  time 
the  shape  of  our  English  stiip  hath  been  groalty 


BEA  PHRASES. 


441 


bettered.  It  is  not  long  since  the  striking  of 
tlie  Top-mast  (a  wonderful  ease  to  great  Ships 
lx>th  at  Sea  and  in  Harbor)  Imtli  been  devise<l, 
together  witli  tlie  Chain  Piuup,  which  lakes 
up  twice  as  much  water  as  the  ordinary  did. 
We  liave  lately  added  the  Bonnet  and  the 
Drabler.  To  the  Coui'ses,  we  have  devised 
Htudding  Sails,  Top-gjUlant  Sails,  Sprit-sails, 
Topsails.  The  Weighing  of  Anchors  by  the 
Capstone  is  also  new.  VV^e  iiave  fallen  into 
consideration  of  the  length  of  Cables,  and  by 
it  we  resist  the  malice  of  the  greatest  Winds 
that  can  blow.** 

Now,  although  this  passage  has  refer- 
ence to  improvements  made  in  the 
fabrics  of  ships  during  the  closing  years 
of  the  rei^n  of  Queen  Elizebeth  and  of 
the  opening  of  that  of  James  I.,  it  is 
curious,  as  illustrative  of  the  conserva- 
tism of  the  sailor,  that  by  omitting  the 
**8pritsair'  these  words  of  Raleigh 
might  stand  for  tlie  ships  of  to-day. 
No  sailor  unacquainted  with  the  arclue- 
ology  of  his  own  calling  would  believe 
that  the  studding-sail,  the  bonnet, 
the  drabbler,  the  chain-punip,  the  top- 
gjillant-sail,  and  even  the  spritsail  (a  sail 
that  was  in  use  down  to  so  late  a  period 
as  the  close  of  the  first  quarter  of  the 
present  century)  were  lus  old  as  Raleigh's 
hey-day.  Certainly  t'le  terms  given  by 
Sir  Wjilter  would  furnish  us  witli  a  clew 
to  the  paternity  of  these  cloths.  * 'Stud- 
ding-sail," for  example.  Falconer  de- 
rives it  from  stud,  stead,  or  steady.  I 
am  inclined  to  think  it  is  derived  from 
the  verb  "to  stud"— to  adorn,  to  cover, 
but  not  necessarily,  as  Johnson  says 
**with  studs  or  shining  knobs."  It  is 
quite  conceivable  to  think  of  a  forked- 
beard  lifted  over  a  ruff  in  admiration 
of  canvas  that  raises  the  cry,  **Bv'r 
Lady,  but  she  is  now  studded  with  sail  I" 
Assuredly  we  moderns  would  not  re.irard 
a  studding-sail  as  a  steadying  sail  in  any 
sense  of  the  word.  The  ''bonnet" 
mentioned  by  Raleigh  is  an  additional 
piece  of  canvas  made  to  lace  on  to 
the  foot  of  a  sail.  The  term  bonnet  ap- 
plied to  a  thing  worn  at  the  foot  advises 
US  of  an  ironical  derivative.     But  of 


'^drabbler"  the  etymology  is  obvious. 
To  drabble  is  to  wet,  to  befoul.  Now 
the  drabbler  is  an  additional  piece  of 
canvas  laced  to  the  bonnet,  and  neces- 
sarily coming  very  low,  unquestionably 
takes  its  name  from  * 'drabbling" — get- 
ting wet.  The  spritsail  and  sprit-top- 
sail are  among  the  vanished  details;  so 
indeed  is  the  spritsail-yard,  which  may 
be  said  to  have  been  conquered,  like  a 
cold  young  virgin,  by  the  invention  of 
"whiskers" — small  booms  or  irons,  one 
on  each  side  the  bowsprit,  and  formerly 
projecting  from  the  catheads,  whence 
possibly  the  term. 

Of  many  sea-expressions  the  origin 
is  suflScently  transparent.  I  offer  a 
few  examples.  "BiWe"  is  the  part  of  a 
ves^l's  'bottom  which  begins  to  round 
upward.  The  word  is  corrupted  from 
the  old  '  'bulge,  the  outermost  and  lowest 
part  of  a  ship,  that  which  she  bears  up- 
on when  she  lies  on  the  ground." 
"Butt' '  is  the  joining  of  two  planks  end- 
ways. "To  start  a  butt"  is  to  loosen 
the  end  of  a  plank  where  it  unites  with 
another.  This  word  is  got  from 
"abut."  "Chock-a-block,"  said  when 
anything  is  hoisted  by  a  tackle  as  high 
as  the  block  will  let  it  go.  Chock  here 
means  choke,  and  in  that  sense  is  im- 
plied in  such  expressions  as  "chock- 
aft,"  "chock-home,"  etc.  Formerly 
"jib"  was  spelt  "gyb."  A  vessel  in 
is  said  to  "gybe"  or  "jibe" 


running 


when  the  wind  gets  on  the  tee  side  of 
her  fore  and  aft  sails  and  blows  them 
over.  As  tliis  in  the  old  days  of  square 
rip^c5  and  "niizon  yards"  would  be  pe- 
culiar to  the  "gyi)"  or  "jib,"  the  ex- 
pression is  suTiciently  accounted  for. 
"To  stay*'  is  to  tack;  a  ship  "in  stays" 
is  a  ship  in  the  act  of  tacking.  I  inter 
pret  "to  stay"  by  the  verh  "to  stop; 
'^she  is  staving" — she  is  stopping^;  "in 
stavs" — in  the  act  of  stopping.  "Tack" 
is  the  weather  lower  comer  of  a  square- 
course  when  set.  "To  tack"  may  be 
accepte4  ^  metaphoricaU;^  ex|)rQ88iiig 


>» 


." 


44d 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


the  action  of  rounding  into  the  wind  in 
the  direction  of  the  tacks.  "Topgal- 
lant," says  Johnson,  "is  proverbially 
applied  to  anything  elevated  or  splen- 
did," and  quotes  from  L'Estrange:  "I 
dare  appeal  to  the  consciences  of  topgal- 
lant sparks."  Prior  to  the  introduc- 
tion or  topgallant-sails,  there  was  noth- 
ing higher  than  the  topsails.  Taking 
"topgallant"  as  of  proverbial  applica- 
tion tO'  whatever  is  elevated,  if  not 
splendid,  one  easily  sees  how  the  top- 
gallant fabric  of  a  ship — its  sail,  mast, 
and  gear — obtained  the  name  it  is 
known  by.  "To  luff"  is  to  put  the 
helm  down,  so  as  to  bring  the  vessel 
closer  to  the  wind.  This  word  is  man- 
ifestly taken  from  "loof,"  ,whifh  in 
olden  times  was  the  term  applied  to 
the  after-part  of  the  bows  of  a  ship. 
"Quick-work"  was  the  name  given  to 
that  part  of  a  ship's  sides  which  is 
above  the  channel-wales.  "  'Tis  com- 
monly performed  with  Fir-deal,"  says 
an  old  writer,  "which  d^n't  require  the 
fastening  nor  the  Time  to  work  it,  as 
the  other  parts,  but  is  Quicker  done." 
The  ancient  spelling  gives  us  "hal- 
yards," "halliards"-  >pes  and  tackles 
for  hoisting  sails  and  yards.  To  hale 
is  to  haul;  so  that  "halyards,*'  "hal- 
liards," is  ben  trovaio. 

In  old  marine  narratives  and  novels 
the  term  "lady's  hole"  frequently 
occurs.  I  was  long  bothered  by  this 
term,  which  I  indirectly  gathered  to 
signify  a  sort  of  cabin,  but  m  what  part 
of  the  ship  situated,  and  why  so  called, 
I  could  not  imagine,  until  in  the  course 
of  my  reading  I  lighted  upon  a  descrip- 
tion of  a  man-of-war  of  1712,  in  which 
it  is  stated  that  "the  lady's  hole"  is  a 
place  for  the  gunner's  small  stores, 
built  between  the  partners  of  the  main- 
mast, and  looked  after  by  a  man  named 
"a  lady,"  "who  is  put  in  by  turns  to 
keep  the  gnn-room  clean."  Terms  of 
this  kind  are  revelations  in  their  way, 
as  showing  for  the  most  part  tbo  sort  pf 


road  the  marine  philologist  must  take 
in  his  search  after  originals  and  deriva- 
tives. A  vessel  is  said  to  be  ** hogged" 
when  the  middle  part  of  her  bottom 
is  so  strained  as  to  curve  upward. 
To  the  shape  of  a  ho^'s  back,  therefore, 
is  this  expression  owmg.  But  the  ety- 
mology of  the  word  "sagged,"  which  I 
expresses  the  situation  of  a  vessel  whe^  i 
her  bottom  curves  downward  through 
being  strained,  I  am  unable  to  tra<*e.  I 
"Gangway"  means  the  going- way — the  i 
place  by  which  you  enter  or  quit  a  ship. 
Gudgeons" — braces  or  eyes  fixed  to  the 
stern-post  to  receive  the  pintles  of  a  rud- 
der, I  find  the  meaning  of  in  the  old 
spelling  for  the  same  thing,  "ffougings" 
— the  eye  being  gouged  by  the  pintle. 
"Lumpers"  is  a  name  given  to  dwk- 
laborers  who  load  or  discharge  vessels; 
it  was  their  custom  to  contract  to  do 
the  wor8  by  the  lump,  and  hence  the 
word.  "Stevedore"  (one  whose  occu- 
pation is  to  stow  cargoes)  originates 
with  the  Spanish  stibador,  likewise  a 
stower  of  cargoes.  The  etymology  of 
certain  peculiarly  nautical  expressions 
in  common  use  on  shipboard  must  be 
entirely  conjectural.  Take  "swig  off" 
— i,  e.,  to  pull  upon  a  perpendicular 
rope,  the  end  of  which  is  led  under  a 
belaying-pin.  The  old  reading  give 
it  as"' *swag  off, ' '  *  'swagging  off.  The 
motion  of  this  sort  of  pulling  is  of  a 
swaggering  kind,  and  I  have  little 
doubt  that  the  expression  of  "swi.j"  or 
"swag"  comes  from  "swaggering.'' 
"Ta.il  on,  tally  on!"  the  order  for  more 
men  to  haul  upon  a  rope,  jwssibly  ex- 
pressed its  origination  with  some  clear- 
ness. '*Tail  on  I" — lengthen  the  tail  of 
pullers;  "tally  onl" — add  men  in  a 
countable  way.  It  is  usual  to  j^peak  of  a 
ship  as  being  "under  way."  It  bhouiii 
be  "under  weigh."  The  ^jxpression 
is  wholly  referable  to  the  situation  of 
a  ship  in  the  act  of  rf>oving  after  her 
anchor  has  been  lilt  »cl  or '* weighed/' 
1  Similarly  it  should  be»   {  thiuk,  *'tbe 


SEA  PHRASES. 


448 


anchor  is  a  weigh/'  n^t  the  anchor  is 
"away" — ^the  mate's  cry  from  the  fore- 
castle when  the  anchor  is  atrip  or  off 
tlie  ground. 

Blocks^  a  very  distinctive  feature  in 
the  equipment  of  a  vessel,  get  their 
names  in  numerous  cases  from  their 
shape  or  conveniency.  A  cant-block 
so  called  because  in  whalers  it  is 


13 


used  for  the  tackles  which  cant  or  turn 
the  whale  over  when  it  is  being  stripped 
of  its  blubber;  a  fiddle-block^  because 
it  has  the  shape  of  that  instrument;  a 
jf7y-block,  because  it  shifts  its  position 
when  the  tackle'  it  forms  a  part  of  is 
hauled  upon;  leadin^-blooks,  because 
they  are  used  for  guiding  the  direction 
of  any  purchase;  hook-blocks^  because 
they  have  a  hook  at  one  end;  sister- 
blocks,  because  they  are  two  blocks 
formed  out  of  one  piece  of  wood,  and 
suggest  a  sentimental  character  by  in- 
timate association;  snatch-blocksy  be^ 
cause  a  rope  can  be  snatched  or  whipped 
through  the  sheave  without  the  trouble 
of  reevinff;  tail-\Aocks,  because  they  are 
fitted  with  a  short  length  or  tail  of  rope 
by  which  they  are  lashed  to  the  gear; 
shoulder-blocks,  because  their  shape 
hints  at  a  shoulder,  there  being  a  projec- 
tion left  on  one  side  of  the' shell  to  pre- 
vent the  falls  from  jamming.  In  this  di- 
rection the  marine  philologist  will  find 
his  work  all  plain  sailing.  The  sources 
whence  the  sails,  or  most  of  them,  take 
their  appellations  are  readily  grasped 
when  the  leading  features  of  the  ap- 
parently complicated  fabric  on  high  are 
uuderatood.  The  staysails  obtain  their 
names  from  the  stays  on  which  they 
travel.  *'  Topsail "  was  so  entitled 
when  it  was  literally  the  top  or  upper- 
.  most  sail.  The  origin  of  the  word 
"royal"  for  the  sail  above  the  top- 
gallant-sail we  must  seek  in  the  fancy 
that  found  the  noble  superstructure  ot 
white  cloths  crowned  bv  that  lieaven- 
seeking  space  of  canvas. 
The  etymology  of  "hitches"  is  not 


far  to  seek.  But  first  of  the  **  hitch  " 
itself.  **  *  To  hitch,'  to  catch,  to  move 
by  jerks.  I  know  not  where  it  is  used 
but  in  the  following  passage — nor  here 
know  well  what  it  means: 

Whoe'er  offends  at  some  unlucky  time 
Slides  in  a  verse,  or  hitches  in  a  rhyme. — 
Pope." 

So  writes  Dr.  Johnson.  Had  he 
looked  into  the  old  Voyages,  he  would 
have  found  "  hitch  "  repeated  very  often 
indeed.  From  the  nautical  standpoint, 
he  defines  it  accurately  enough  as  'Ho 
catch. ' '  Pope's  use  of  the  term  puzzled 
the  doctor,  and  he  blundered  into  "to 
move  by  jerks."  But  Pope  employs  it 
as  a  sailor  would;  he  hitches  the  culprit 
in  a  line — that  is,  takes  an  iutellectual 
"turn"  with  his  verse  about  him,  or, 
as  the  poet  puts  it,  suffers  the  person 
to  "hitch"  himself.  To  hitch  is  to 
fasten,  to  secure  a  rope  so  that  it  can 
run  out  no  further.  Irom  "hitch"  pro- 
ceed a  number  of  terms  whose  pater- 
nity is  very  easily  distinguished.  The 
"Blackwall  hitcn"  takes  its  name 
from  the  famous  point  of  departure  of 
the  vanished  procession  of  Indiamen 
and  Australian  liners;  the  "harness 
hitch,"  from  its  form,  which  suggests  a 
bit  and  reins;  "midshipman's  hitch," 
from  the  facility  with  which  it  may  be 
made;  "rolling  hitch,"  because  it  is 
formed  of  a  series  of  rolling  turns  round 
the  objects  it  is  intended  to  secure  and 
other  rolling  turns  yet  over  its  own 
part;  a  "timber  hitch,"  because  of  its 
usefulness  in  hoisting  spars  and  the  like 
through  the  ease  of  its  fashioning  and 
the  security  of  its  jamming.  The 
etymology  of  knots,  again,  is  largely 
found  in  their  forms.  "  The  figure-of- 
eight  knot"  is  of  the  shape  of  the  figure 
eight;  the  diamond  readily  suggests  the 
knots  which  bear  its  name  (single  imd 
double  diamond-knots);  the  "Turk's- 
head  knot "  excellently  imitates  a 
turban.  To  some  knots  and  spliros 
the  inventors  have  given  their  names, 


444 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZIKE. 


such  as  "  Elliot's  splice"  and  "Matthew 
Walker"  knot.  The  origin  of  this 
knot  is  thus  related  by  a  contributor 
to  the  Newcastle  Weekly  Chronicle: — 

"Over  sixty  years  ago  an  old  sailor,  then 
drawing  near  to  eighty  years  of  age,  said  that 
when  he  was  a  sailor- boy  there  was  an  old 
rigger,  named  Matthew  Walker,  who,  with  his 
wife,  lived  on  board  an  old  covered  hulk, 
moored  near  the  Folly  End,  Monkwearmouth 
Shore;  that  new  ships  when  launched  were 
laid  alongside  of  tliis  hulk  to  be  ligged  by 
Walker  and  his  gang  of  riggers;  that  also  old 
ships  Imd  their  riggiug  refitted  at  the  same 
place;  and  that  Matthew  Walker  was  the  in- 
ventor of  the  lanyard  knot,  now  known  by 
the  inventor's  name  wherever  a  ship  floats. ' ' 

It  has  been  suggested  that  '*knot," 
the  sailor's  word  for  the  nautical  mile, 
springs  from  the  small  pieces  of  knotted 
stuff,  called  kjioLs,  inserted  in  the  log 
line  for  marking  the  progress  of  a  ship 
through  the  water.  It  is  worth  noting, 
however,  that  in  the  old  Voyages  the 
word  knot,  as  signifying  a  mile,  never 
occurs.  It  seems  reasonable  to  suppose 
that  it  is  a  word  not  much  older  than 
the  last  century. 

Among  puzzling  changes  in  the  sea- 
language  must  be  classed  the  names  of 
vessels.  "  Yacht  "  has  been  variously 
defined:  as  "  a  small  ship  for  carrying 
passengers;"  as  ^*a  vessel  of  state.'' 
The  term  is  now  understood  to  mean  a 
pleasure  craft.  "  Yawl  "  was  formerly 
a  small  ship's  boat  or  a  wherry:  it  has 
become  the  exclusive  title  of  yachts 
rigged  as  cutters,  but  carrying  also  a 
small  sail  at  the  stem,  called  a  mizeu. 
The  *' barge"  was  a  vessel  of  state, 
furnished  with  sumphious  cabins,  and 
canopies  and  cushions,  decorated  with 
flags  and  streamers,  and  propelled  by 
a  band  of  rowers.  This  hardly  answers 
to  the  topsail  barges  and  dnnib-bargcs 
of  to-day!  The  word  **  bark  "  has  been 
Gallicized  into  *' barque,"  possibly  as 
a  marine  protest  against  the  poetic  mis- 
application as  9hown  in  these  lines  of 
Byron  ;-^ 


**My  boat  is  on  the  shore. 
And  my  bark  is  on  the  seft/' 

Or  the— 

"My  bark  is  my  bride!" 

of  Eliza  Cook.  By  bark  the  poets  In- 
tend any  kind  of  ship  you  please:  but 
to  Jack  it  implies  a  particular  rig.  The 
Americans  write  **  bark  "  for  "baique/* 
and  rightly:  for  tliough  Falconer  says 
that  '"bark  is  a  general  name  given 
to  small  ships,"  he  also  adds:  **It  is, 
however,  peculiarly  appropriated  by 
seamen  to  those  which  carry  three  masts 
without  a  mizen  topsail. ''  The  **pink" 
is  another  craft  that  has  "gone  over.'' 
Iler  very  narrow  stem  supplied  the 
name,  pink  having  been  used  in  the 
sense  of  small,  as  by  Shakespeare,  who 
speaks  of  *  "pink-  ey  ne, ' '  small  eye.  The 
*'  tartan,"  likewise,  belongs  to  the  j)a*t 
as  a  rig:  a  single  mast,  lateen  yard  and 
bowsprit.  The  growth  of  our  ances- 
tors' '*frigott,"  too,  into  the  fire-eating 
Saucy  Arefhusa^  of  comparatively  re- 
cent times,  is  a  storv  full  of  interest. 

I  have  but  skimmed  a  surface  whose 
depths  should  honestly  repay  careful 
and  laborious  dredging.  The  langiia;;e 
of  the  sea  has  entered  so  largely  into 
common  jyid  familiar  speech  ashore, 
that  the  philologist  who  neglects  the 
maritier's  talk  will  struggle  m  vain  in 
his  search  after  a  mass  of  paternities  and 
derivatives,  and  the  originals,  and  even 
the  sense,  of  many  every-day  expres- 
sions. It  is  inevitable  that  a  maritime 
nation  should  enlarge  its  shore  vocab- 
ulary by  sea  terms.  The  eloquence  of 
the  forecastle  is  of  no  mean  order,  and 
in  a  hundred  directions  Jack's  expres- 
sions are  matchless  for  brevity,  senti- 
ment and  suggestion.  But  the  origin 
and  rise  of  the  marine  tongue  is  also  the 
origin  and  rise  of  the  British  nfivy,  a"^ 
of  the  fleets  which  sail  under  the  red 
ensign.  The  story  of  the  British  ship 
may  be  followed  in  the  maritime  glos- 
saries; and  perception  of  the.  delicate 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 


445 


shades  and  lights,  of  the  subtleties, 
niceties,  and  discriminations  of  the 
oceau-diulect  is  a  revehition  of  the 
mysteries  of  the  art  of  the  shipwright 
and  tlie  profession  of  the  seaman. 
— AV.  Clark  Bussell,  in  The  Contem- 
porary Review, 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 

Emolxtxents  op  some  English  Authors. 
— It  is  said  that  Mr.  Gladstone  received  a 
beggarly  cheque  of  £250  for  bis  paper  oix 
*'I^kslejL  Hall  and  the  Jubilee,"  which  ap- 
])eared  in  the  NiiietterUh  Ctntury,  and  has 
Ikjcti  reprinted  in  the  Library  Miifjaziiie.  The 
Pall  MnU  Oazefte  has  made  a  calculation 
showing  that  this  was  just  sixpence  a  word. 
The  Gazette  thinks  that  taking  this  as  a 
measure  of  the  value 'of  that  article  Mr.  John 
Morley  ought  to  be  paid  twopence  a  word; 
Mr.  Matthew  Arnold  a  halfpeimy  a  word  ; 
while  Mr.  Swinburne  ought  to  Ire  content 
with  getting  a  penny  fur  each  ten  words. 
The  (huette  continues: — 

"Apropos  of  this  staggering  cheque,  it  is 
interesting  Ui  collect  a  few  flgures  of  prices 
given  and  accepted  for  literature  whicli— well, 
is  less  ephemeral  than  Mr.  Gladstone's  golden 
elo'piencc.  Goldsmith  received  €tiO  for  the 
Vicar  of  Wakf field,  Johnson  £100  for  Hnme- 
bin,  ancf  £300  for  the  Litesi  of  t/i€  Pods.  The 
Lambs  were  paid  00  guineas  for  tlie  Talcn 
from  S/utkespeare,  Fiekling  received  £600  fur 
Torn  Janes.  But  we  have  not  space  to  (|uote 
innumerable  instances  of  sucii  Grub-street 
prices  paid  for  work  which  still  delights  the 
world  Take  TUackera}',  for  instance,  who 
said  that  he  had  never  made  more  than  £5,000 
for  any  of  his  books.  Fancy  the  price  of 
twenty  Nineteenth  Centfuy  articles  for  Vanity 
fair!  On  the  other  hand,  Scott  made  in  less 
than  two  years  £20,0(X);  Lord  Lytton  is  said 
to  liave  made  £80,000  by  his  novels;  Dickens 
is  supposed  to  have  cleared  over  £10.000  a 
year,  during  the  publication  of  NirhMan 
yickleby,  and  $7,000  was  to  have  been  paid 
for  Edwin  I>rood.  *  Dizzy*  is  said  to  have 
made  £30,000  by  his  novels,  while  'George 
Eliot's'  profits  on  Romola  were  estimated  at 
£10,000.  and  Mr.  Wilkie  Collin?  received  £10,- 
000  for  two  novels  alono.  Bvron's  irains  were 
about  £23.000;  Monro  was 'paid  i'3,000  for 
ImWi  Ri)okh;  Ma(!aulay  received  £23,000  on  ac- 
count for  three-fourths  of  his  HUtory,    These 


ligures  would  have  been  doubled  (shall  we 
say?),  but,  alas!  there  was  no  Baruum  of  lit- 
erature in  those  days.  What  is  a  pen  with- 
out a  name?" 

The  Origin  of  the  Diamond. — Mr.  Or- 
ville  A.  Dewey,  of  the  Afuseum  nadontU, 
Rio  de  Janeiro,  writes  in  Hcience  a  paper  on 
this  subject,  of  which  we  give  a  portion: — 

*'The  eruptive  rocks  thus  far  recognized  in 
the  diamond  district  aie  granites,  diabases, 
gabbros,  and  8cri>entinous  rocks,  which  very 
probably  were  originally  peridotites.  The 
greater  part  of  the  diamond  wii.>hing,  being  in 
river  alluviums  or  in  gravel- deposits  on  the 
uplands,  gives  no  clew  as  to  which  of  the 
three  groups  or  of  the  associated  eruptions 

may  have  furnished  the  gems At  a 

single  locality,  Sao  Joao  da  Chapada,  the 
miners  have  penetrated  deeply  the  decomposed 
but  undisturbed  schists,  extracting  the  dia- 
mond from  a  decomposed  vein-rock  from 
which  Professor  Goraix  took  out,  with  his 
own  hands  and  with  all  possible  precaution 
a<^ainst  error,  several  of  the  precious  stones, 
after  I  had  expressed  to  him  the  opinion  that 
it  was  the  veritable  matrix  of  the  diamond. 
Tlirec  veins  of  somewhat  different  character 
have  been  recognized.  One  is  of  quartz  with 
plates  of  specidar  iron,  to  which  the  diaman- 
tiferous  barsa  (clay)  adheres.  This  last  is  an 
earthy  mass  rich  in  iron,  whic;h  gives,  on 
wasliiug,  an  abundance  of  microscopic  tour- 
maline. The  other  veins  are  withotit  quartz, 
and  consist  of  a  lithomarge-like  clay  charg^ 
with  oxides  of  iron  and  mimganese,  whi"ch, 
tis  i'rofessor  Goraix  states,  bear  a  strong 
resemblance,  both  in  composition  Mud  geologi- 
cal occurrence,  to  the  topaz  and  cuchuse  l)ear- 
ing  veins  of  the  vicinity  of  Ouro  Preto. 
These  veins  are  coincident  '^'ith  the  beclding, 
or  nearly  so.  Besides  quartz  jind  tourmaline 
they  carry  iron  and  titanium  minerals  (mag- 
netite, hematite,  nitile,  and  anatase),  amor- 
phous chloro- phosphates  of  some  of  the  rarer 
elements  (ceriimi,  lanthanum,  didymium,  etc.), 
and,  almost  certaiidy,  euclase. 

**  The  observations  a'  this  place  exclude 
completely  the  idea  of  peridotite  or  other 
eruptive  rocks.  The  diamond  at  Sao  Joao 
da  Chapada,  and  presumably  at  other  Brazil* 
ian  localities,  is  a  rein  mineral,  and  the  con- 
ditions of  its  genesis  (unless'  we  admit  the 
hypothesis  of  a  subsequent  deposition  of  car- 
lK)n,  which  is  uncalled  for  by  any  of  the  ob- 
servations thus  far  made)  must  have  l)een  such 
as  were  favoral^le  to  the  pegregation  of  iron 
and  titanium  oxiiles,  phosphates  of  rare  ele- 
ments, and  certain  silicates,  .such  as  tourma- 
line and  presumably  topaz  and  euclase.    The 


446 


THE  LIBRARY  ALAGAZINE. 


hypothesis  of  a  genesis  through  the  reaction 
01  eruptive  masses  on  carbonaceous  schists  is 
here  as  inadmissible  as  would  be  that  of  a 
veih  formation  for  the  South  African  mines. 
If  the  origin  of  the  carbon  is  to  be  ^ught  in 
the  nx:ks  traversed*  by  the  eruptive  or  vein 
masses  containing  it,  it  is  not  without  interest 
to  mention  that  the  schists  of  the  veins  in 
which  the  Sao  Joao  mine  is  excavated  frequent 
ly  contain  graphite,  though  at  that  particular 
locality  they  are  too  much  decomposed  to  en 
able  one  to  determine  whether  it  occurs  there 

or  not 

"The  Brazilian  and  African  diamond-fields 
thus  indicate  two  very  distinct  modes  of 
occurrence  and  genesis  for  the  ^em:  one  as  a 
vein-mineral  accompanying  oxides,  silicates, 
and  phosphates;  the  other  as  an  accessor}'  ele- 
ment in  an  eruptive  rock.  In  the  last  num- 
ber of  the  BuUetin  de  la  Societe  geohgigv^  d^ 
It  ranee,  M.  Chaper  presents  a  third  mode  of 
occurrence  as  the  result  of  his  observations  in 
an  Indian  diamond  field.  He  satisfied  himself 
that  the  gem  occurs  there,  alon^  with  sap- 
phires and  rubies,  m  a  decomposed  pegmatite, 
having  taken  out  two  diamonds,  two  sap- 
phires and  three  rubies  from  an  excavation 
made  in  that  material.  The  circumstance 
that  all  these  stones  were  found  during  the 
preliminary  work  with  pick  and  shovel, 
whereas  nothing  was  found  in  the  washing, 
would  seem  to  the  practical  diamond -miner 
to  be  extremely  suggestive  of  salting  very 
inartistically  done.  The  occurrence  of  rem- 
nants of  a  sedimentary  formation  of  a  conglo- 
meritic  character  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
old  washing  examined  suggests  another  ex- 
planation for  the  occurrrence  of  the  gem  in 
placers  resting  on  a  bottom  of  granitic  rocks." 

The  Late  Wilhelm  Scherkr. — In  re- 
viewing the  German  books  of  the  last  year 
Mr.  Robert  Zim merman n,  in  the  Atheiupum, 
thus  speaks  of  an  author  whose  death  is  justly 
regarded  as  a  great  loss  to  our  contemporary 
critical  literature: — 

"Since  the  opening  of  the  Goethe  Archives 
in  the  house  in  the  Frauenplan  at  Weimar 
literary  history  is  almost  coextensive  with 
Goethe  investigation.  Wilhelm  Scherer,  the 
most  competent  writer  in  this  domain,  in 
whose  hands  was  in  part  the  direction  of  the 
critical  edition  to  l)e  published  of  Goethe's 
works,  and  who,  it  was  expected,  would  at 
length  produce  a  worthy  biography  of  the 
poet,  was  prematurely  carried  off  by  death  on 
August  Gth.    The  last  fruits  of  his  work  ap- 


peared together  in  a  collection  of  bis  essays 
on  Goethe,  which  contains  his  well-kifown 
attempts  to  restore  and  complete  some  of 
Goethe's  sketches  and  fragments,  as,  for 
instance  Pandora  and  ^autdkac,  and  aL<o 
several  things  as  yet  impublished.  In  his 
linguistic  studies  Scherer  was  a  worthy  suc- 
cessor to  the  traditions  of  Grimm  and  Lach- 
mann;  in  taste  and  a'Stbetic  criticism  he  was 
far  superior  to  most  of  his  colleagues,  who 
exhaust  themselves  in  the  collection  and  in- 
vestigation of  detail.  His  loss  is  the  more  to 
be  regretted  because,  as  his  chief  work,  the 
History  of  German  Littrature^  which  has  been 
translated  into  English,  shows  he  had  reached 
the  height  of  his  intellectual  development, 
and  htm  freed  himself  from  the  fetters  of 
dominant  academic  prejudice  and  one>sided 
judgment,  especially  in  r('<rard  to  >liddle 
High  German  poetry.  Mot  inf«:rior  to  Ger- 
viniis  in  width  of  reading  and  command  of 
his  subject,  he  surjinssed  him  in  aesthetic 
feeling  and  original  criticism." 

The  Swiss  Cross. — This  is  a  new  maga- 
zine, the  organ  of  "The  Agassiz  Association/' 
and  issued  in  some  connection  with  Seiem^. 
The  editor  explains  the  reason  for  the  im- 
port of  the  title,  and  the  design  of  the  Asso- 
ciation:— 

"The  word  'association*  was  chosen  insle&'i 
of  'society'  from  an  imprc^ion,  perhaps  not 
entirely  well  founded,  that  that  word  could 
be  taken  to  mean  'a  union  of  societies,*  just  as 
society  means  'a  union  of  individuals. '  And 
our  first  plan  was  to  have  these  local  societii^ 
entirely  independent  of  one  another.  excef»i 
in  the  general  name  and  in  the  purpose  of 
studying  nature.  We  chose  the  name  'Agas- 
siz' because  it  was  then  uppermost  in  mind. 
His  then  recent  death  was  fresh  in  tlie  hearts 
of  the  nation;  and  his  birth  in  Switzerland, 
where  a  similar  organization  was  said  to  ex- 
ist, rendered  it  esi)ecially  appropr.ate.  The 
choice  was  wiser  than  we  knew.  No  one 
can  read  Mrs.  Agassiz 's  life  of  her  husband 
without  feeling  that  no  name  could  lietter 
stimulate  us  to  faithful  work.  .  .  .  The 
Agassiz  Association  as  it  appears  to-day  is  a 
union  of  986  l(K,'al  societies,  each  numbering 
from  4  to  120  memliers,  of  all  ages  fxx>m  4  to 
84.  Our  total  meml)ership  is  above  ten  thou- 
sand. We  are  distributed  in  all  the  states 
and  territories  with  very  few  exceptions,  and 
have  strong  bran'^h  societies  and  active  niem- 
l)ers  in  Canada,  England,  Ireland,  Scotland, 
Chili,  Japan,  and  Persia." 


HILL-DIGGING  AND  MAGIC. 


447 


HILL-DIGGING  AND  MAGIC. 

Among  all  my  acquaintances  above 
the  lower  middle  class  I  know  no  man 
of  forty — except  he  be  a  country  parson 
— who  has  not  written  a  book,  or  who 
has  not  an  account  at  a  bank.  We  all 
write  books,  and  we  all  keep  a  banking 
book.  Yet  there  was  a  time  when 
human  beings  did  neither  the  one  nor 
the  other.  Also  there  was  a  time  when 
books  were  common,  much  written, 
much  read,  and  when  bankers  were  not 
common.  Nevertheless  in  those  days 
money  changed  hands — money  in  lumps 
with  a  stamp  upon  it,  money  by  weight 
that  was  the  price  of  lands  and  cattle 
and  men's  lives,  and  things  much  more 
precious  than  even  these.  The  world 
had  grown  quite  an  old  world  when 
Pasion — the  Rothschild  of  Athens — 
turned  over,  the  leaves  of  his  ledger  to 
find  out  how  Lycon  of  Heraclea  stood 
in  his  books.  It  was  a  much  older  one 
when  Julius  Caesar  persuaded  the  bank- 
ers at  Rome  to  make  those  heavy 
advances  to  him  as  he  was  preparing 
for  the  pillage  of  Gaul.  Bu  t  a  thousand 
years  after  Caesar's  time  Europe  had 
clean  forgotten  all  about  the  finance  of 
the  earlier  ages,  and  banking,  as  we 
understand  the  word,  was  a  thing 
unknown.  Yet  men  trailed,  and  bar- 
gained, and  got  gain,  and  some  grew 
rich,  and  some  grew  poor,  and  some 
were  thriftless  and  some  were  grasping 
— as  it  was  in  the  beginning,  is  now, 
and  ever  shall  be. 

But  in  process  of  time  the  art  of 
money-making  advanced  again.  Great 
capitalists  rose  up,  fortunes  were  made, 
estates  changed  hands.  The  great 
men  doubtless  had  their  own  methods 
of  managing  their  money  matters. 
The  Jews,  the  Carausini  (who  bought 
out  the  Jews),  and  other  such  finan- 
ciers, made  their  accounts  and  nego- 
tiated loans  with  kings  and  potentates 
and    throve    surprisingly    as    a    rule. 


though  by  no  means  invariably.  That 
was  all  very  well  for  the  big  men 
embarked  in  important  specuhitions; 
but  what  was  the  small  man  to  do — the 
man  who  went  about  from  village  to 
village  and  from  fair  to  fair  with  a 
pack  on  his  back — the  man  of  the 
market  whom  people  called  indifferently 
John  le  Marchaut,  or  Johannes  Merca- 
tor,  or  Ja(  !c  the  Pedlar,  and  whose 
gains  counted  by  groats,  not  by  shil- 
lings? 

What  did  he  do?  To  tell  the  plain 
truth  he  found  his  money — his  hard 
cash— -somewhat  of  an  incumbrance  to 
him  as  he  traveled  about  from  place  to 
place.  It  is  hard,  very  hard,  for  us  to 
realize  in  our  time  the  difficulty  of  find- 
ing investments  for  capital  in  the 
middle  ages.  The  merchant  princes 
of  Venice  or^  Genoa  and  many  another 
thriving  mart  built  their  palaces  and 
got  rid  of  a  great  deal  of  their  ready 
money  by  indulging  in  their  taste  for 
splendor.  But  the  'Mow  man  adding  one 
to  one,"  to  whom  fifty  pounds  was  a 
fortune,  if  he  could  not  hear  of  some 
neighbor  in  difficulties  who  wanted  to 
sell  house  and'  land  on  a  small  scale, 
must  have  been,  and  often  was,  sorely 
put  to  it  to  know  where  to  dispose  his 
gains.  Sometimes  he  made  an  advance 
to  the  landlord  out-at-elbows,  some- 
times a  neighboring  monastery  was  bad- 
ly in  want  of  money  for  carrying  on  those 
everlasting  building  operations  wkich 
ambitious  abbots  or  priors  were  never 
tired  of  undertaking.  Sometimes  there 
was  a  speculation  in  shipbuilding  to 
tempt  him  when  half  a  dozen  small 
adventurers  made  up  a  joint-stock  part- 
nership, each  contributing  his  quota; 
but  as  often  as  not,  when  a  small  cap- 
italist had  a  good  round  sum  in  his 
money  bag  there  was  no  opportunity 
of  putting  it  out  at  interest,  and  the 
poor  man  had  literally  to  carry  it  about 
on  his  person  and  take  his  chance. 
Timid  men  and  women  shrank  from 


448 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


Bucli  a  risk,  and  then  the  alternatives 
which  presented  tliemselves  were  few. 
If  there  was  a  reh'gious  house  which 
bore  a  high  character  in  the  neighbor- 
hood the  spare  cash  was  left .  in  the 
custody  of  one  or  others  of  the  Obedien- 
tiaries y  tlie  depositor  receiving  an 
acknowledgment  which  took  the  form 
of  an  obligation — i,  e.,  a  promise  to  pay 
by  a  certain  date.  In  tlie  meanwhile 
the  lender  in  most  cases  received  no 
interest — for  was  not  tlie  taking  of 
usury  a  deadly  sin,  or  something  very 
like  it? — the  security  of  liis  deposit  was 
reckoned  a  sufficient  equivalent  for  any 
advantage  which  the  borrower  derived 
from  the  use  of  the  capital,  and  the 
money  so  lent  lay  not  ''at  call"  but 
invariably  *'on  deposit.'^ 

In  the  case  of  a  small  trader  who 
required  a  certain  amount  of  floating 
capital  for  the  purposes  of  his  business, 
these  monastery  banks  were  of  very  little 
use.  As  the  time  approached  for  the 
holding  of  one  of  the  great  annual  fairs, 
where  the  merchant  laid  in  his  stock 
for  the  year  and  paid  ready  money  for 
it,  it  was  needful  that  he  should  call  in 
his  small  debts  and  gather  his  dues. 
That  must  have  been  a  very  nervous 
time  for  Jack  the  Pedlar.  Ihe  nights 
were  long  and  very  dark;  folks  said 
tliat  a  band  of  landless  rogues  were 
skulking  in  the  copses  down  in  the 
hollow  yonder;  that  two  pilgrims  com- 
ing home  from  Walsingham  had  been 
stripped  of  their  all;  that  there  was  a 
hue  and  cry  for  some  ruffian  who  had 
killed  his  mistress  and  was  supposed  to 
be  hiding,  hungry  and  desperate,  the 
Lord  knew  where;  that  in  Black 
Robin's  Alehouse  on  the  moor  there 
had  been  much  talk  of  Jack  the 
Pedlar's  wealth,  and  grim  Jem  and 
cock-eyed  Peter  had  darkly  hinted  with 
Bome  savagery  that  the  pedlar  was  a 
grasping  knave  whom  it  would  be  a 
good  deed  to  lighten  of  his  burden. 

Oh    Jack  I    Jack!     How  you    must 


have  quaked?  Was  it  wonderful  that 
Jack  and  Jill  and  manv  a  score  of  the 
thriftv  ones  who  had  laid  bv  their  tiny 
hoards  against  a  rainy  day  should  have 
been  driven  to  think  of  a  cache  as  the 
only  possible  way  out  of  the  difficulty, 
and  that  hiding  money  in  the  earth 
should  have  been  a  very  common  prac- 
tice up  and  down  the  land  in  the  old 
days  \\\\Qi\  security  for  life  and  property 
was  a  very  dilTerent  thing  from  what 
we  now  understand  by  the  words? 

But,  bless  my  heart  I — what  am  I 
thinking  about?  Did  not  Arlian,  the 
son  of  Zerah,  feel  himself  to  be  in  the 
same  difficulty  when  he  purloined  that 
wedge  of  gold  and  the  fifty  shekels  of 
silver  and  all  that  perfectly  irresistible 
accumulation  which  dazzled  his  eyes 
among  the  spoils  of  Jericho?  Did  he 
not  hide,  it  in  his  tent,  dig  a  hole  there 
and  bury  it.  the  accursed  thing  ?  Verily 
a  capacious  receptacle,  wherein  that 
goodly  Babylonish  garment  had  a  place 
among  other  objects  of  vertu.  How 
blind  avarice  is  I  The  son  of  Zerah 
I  must  have  been  distraught  in  his  wits 
when  he  persuaded  himself  that  he  could 
remain  for  long  one  of  that  noble  army 
of  the  favored  few  who  are  7iot  found 
out.  Ages,  before  Achan  there  had 
been  buriers,  the  thing  has  always  gone 
on.  Why  our  dogs — our  very  dogs — 
practice  the  virtue  or  the  vice,  and  Tip 
and  Toby  and  Nick  and  Gyp — confound 
them! — can  never  be  cured  of  hiding 
their  stolen  mutton-bones  in  the  flower- 
beds and  returning  to  them  in  the 
dead  of  night  to  sci:atch  up  the  nau- 
seous relics.'  It  is  a  survival  of  some 
instinct  or  other,  say  the  wise  men. 
So  we  cannot  cure  our  dogs  of  it  and 
we  cannot  eradicate  it  from  the  hearts 
of  our  fellow  men.  All  literature  is 
full  of  it— yes,  and  all  law. 

In  the  Viyest,  in  the  Listitutes,  the 
law  of  treasure  trove  is  elaborately  han- 
died;  the  law  varied  from  time  to  time. 
Constantino  (a.d.  315)  claimed  half  of 


HILLr-DIGGING  AND  MAGIC. 


149 


all  treasure  trove  for  the  crown;  Gratian 
in  380  surrendered  all  claim  upon  any 
share  of  the  spoil,  but  assigned  a  fourth 
to  the  owner  of  the  land;  Valentinian, 
ten  years  after  this,  decreed  that  the 
finder  of  treasure  should  keep  all  that 
lie  found. 

It  is  evident  from  all  this  legislation 
that  in  the  Roman  world  the  practice 
of  burying  valuables  must  have  been 
very  common.  Can  we  wonder  at  it? 
Between  the  death  of  Septimius  Severus 
in  A.  D.  211  and  the  accession  of 
Constantino  in  305,  no  less  than  twenty- 
seven  names  appear  upon  the  Fastis 
of  pretenders  to,  or  wearer^s  of,  the 
purple.  Twenty-seven  Emperors  of 
Kome  in  less  than  a  century!  Mere 
names  do  you  say?  Ay,  that  was  just 
the  worst  of  it.  There  was  no  saying 
any  day  who  waa  or  who  might  be  king 
over  us.  Of  course  men  lost  all  sense 
of  security.  Men  with  the  best  inten- 
tion coula  not  be  trusted.  These  must 
have  been  the  days  of  old  stockings  and 
of  literally  hiding  talents  in  the  earth. 

But  our  concern  just  now  is  not  with 
other  lands.  We  have  only  to  look  at 
home;  and  here,  "within  the  four  seas," 
I  am  inclined  to  think  that  we  in  East 
Anglia  have  been  at  all  times  more 
addicted  to  the  hoarding  and  hiding 
mania  than  elsewhere.  There  are 
innumerable  stories  of  men  and  women 
digging  up  money  and  getting  suddenly 
rich  by  a  great  find.  Sometimes  you 
are  assured  that  old  Hakes,  who 
amassed  such  vast  wealth  that  he  was 
able  to  buy  a  farm  of  tifty  acres  with- 
out a  mortgage,  began  by  finding  an  old 
teapot  full  of  golden  guineas  up  the 
chimney;  or  that  Joe  Pymer  dug  up  a 
pot  of  money  in  his  cabbage-bed;  or 
that  Mr.  Dixe,  "him  as  is  the  builder 
now,''  what  time  he  was  a  mere  well- 
sinker  came  upon  "a  sight  o'  old  gold 
cups  and  things"  when  he  was  making 
a  well  at  a  fabulous  depth.  Sometimes, 
too,  the  prevalent  belief  receives  a  start* 


ling  confirmation  in  an  undoubted 
discovery,  as  when  some  few  years  ago, 
in  clearing  out  a  moat  at  Bradenham, 
a  silver  jug  was  actually  picked  up; 
and  then  it  was'  remembered  that 
some  fifty  years  before  there  had  been 
a  robbery  of  plate  at  Letton  Hall,  and 
the  report  was  that  the  thieves  were 
hard  pressed  and  had  to  drop  their 
booty. 

I  was  myself  once  present  at  a  very 
remarkable  function.  Evidence  had 
been  adduced,  so  positive  and  precise 
as  to  defy  contradiction,  that  a  certain 
magnate  at  Ladon  had  been  buried 
in  the  family  vault  and  the  family 
jewels  had  been  buried  with  him.  An, 
application  was  actually  made  to  the 
constituted  authorities  for  a  license  to 
disinter  the  corpse  and  open  the  coffin. 
The  thing  was  done.  Then  the  real 
explanation  of  the  story  that  had  got 
abroad  revealed  itself.  When  the 
arrangements  for  the  funeral  of  the 
defunct  were  approaching  completion 
it  was  found  that,  by  some  mistake,  the 
leaden  coffin  had  been  made  too  large 
for  the  oaken  shell  that  was  placed 
within  it,  and  it  became  necessary  to 
make  use  of  something  to  serve  in  the 
place  of  wedges  to  prevent  the  inner 
receptacle  from'  shifting  when  the 
bearers  had  to  carry  it  to  the  vault. 
The  undertaker's  men  were  equal  to 
the  occasion;  they  picked  up  a  couple 
of  old  books  which  they  found  ready  at 
Land;  the  one  was  a  battered  old 
b>ench  dictionary,  the  other  was,  I 
believe,  TJie  Whole  Duty  of  Man.  The 
fellows  made  no  secret  of  the  matter, 
and  the  two  volumes  were  wedged  in 
accordingly.  It  would  have  been  all 
one  to.  them  if  they  had  been  a  couple 
of  Caxtons  or  Wy  nkyn  de  Wordes.  But 
the  story  got  wind.  Two  books  soon 
became  changed  into  two  boxes,  and 
the  two  boxes  Became  caskets  of  inesti- 
mable value,  till  it  ended  by  people 
loudly    proclaiming    that    the    family 


450 


THE  LIBHAUY  MAGAZINE. 


jewels  had  been'buried  with  the  dead, 
and  a  cry  arose  and  grew  strong  that 
"something  must  be  done."  It  was  to 
me  a  very  memorable  day,  for  I  had  the 
French  dictionary  in  my  hands,  and, 
inasmuch  as  I  had  a  very  smart  new 
coat  on  and  "looked  the  cnaracter,"  I 
was  much  flattered  by  being  mistaken 
for  the  bishop  of  the  diocese  and  being 
addressed  as    my  lord!" 

But  widespread  belief  in  the  existence 
of  large  sums  of  money  being  concealed 
in  the  ground,  and  which  wait  only 
for  the  sagacious  explorer  to  discover 
them,  has  really  a  ba^is  of  truth  to 
support  it.  Such  hoards  of  valuables 
have  indeed  been  turning  ujj  continu- 
ously from  the  very  earliest  times,  and 
they  turn  up  still  much  more  frequently 
than  might  be  supposed.  In  1855  a 
workman  came  upon  "a  collection  of 
nearly  500  silver  pennies,  of  the  reigns 
of  Henry  11.  and  Henry  III.,  at  Hock- 
wold  in  Norfolk.  They  had  been 
hidden  by  some  poor  creature  six  hun- 
dred years  ago,  probably  under  his  own 
doorpost.  The  house  may  have  been 
burned  or  tumbled  down — ^who  knows? 
— ages  had  passed,  and  the  ploughman 
had  drawn  his  furrow  over  the  place 
from  year  to  year,  and  the  corn  had 
sprung  up,  been  reaped  and  garnered, 
and  then  one  day  the  nineteenth- 
century  man  with  a  patent  improved 
share  had  driven  it  in  a  few  inches 
deeper  than  any  plough  had  ever  gone 
before,  and  lo!  there  rolled  out  before 
his  delighted  but  hardly  astonished 
eyes  tlie  sum  total  of  that  other  poor 
miser's  life-long  savings,  scraped  to- 
i^cther  in  the  times  when  every  penny 
stood  for  at  least  a  whole  day's  wages, 
Itiid  by  so  painfully,  watched  so  very 
anxiously,  gloated  over  so  raveiioudy, 
but  all  saved  in  vain  for  another  to 
gather!  Had  the  poor  wretch  some 
dream  of  buying  his  ireeddm  or  getting 
his  only  boy  maide  a  priest,  or  making 
himself  n^aster  of  that  other  strip  of 


earth  thaUmarched  with  his  own  tiny 
patch?  Blow  easy  it  is  to  find  a  pathos 
m  some  mysterious  relic  of  the  past! 

In  1852,  again,  upward  of  300 
British  coins  were  found  in  a  field  at 
Weston.  We  may  be  sure  it  had  not 
been  an  open  field  when  they  were 
hidden  there:  they  are  said  to  have 
been  coins  of  the  Iceni— 7struck,  it  may 
be,  in  some  rude  mint  of  the  great 
Queen  Boadicea,  hidden  away  for  a 
purpose  when  money  was  very  scarce 
and  a  little  would  go  a  very  long  way; 
meant  to  be  dug  up  all  in  good  time 
by  the  hider,  who  thereupon  went  into 
the  battle  with  the  Roman  legionaries, 
fought  and  fell,  and  took  his  secret 
with  him. 

It  is  scarcely  eight  years  since  the 
largest  find  of  all  was  made.  Ten  to 
fourteen  thousand  Roman  coins,  mostly 
of  the  reign  of  Postumus,  were  dis- 
covered at  Baconsthorpe,  where  it  seems 
a  Roman  station  once  was.  There  they 
had'  lain  for  fifteen  centuries,  and 
cunning  scholars  will  have  it  that  some 
bold  band  of  Britons  made  a  raid  one 
day  upon  the  weak  Roman  garrison, 
slew  them  to  a  man,  pillaged  the 
station,  burned  and  rioted,  but  missed 
the  treasure,  which  the  legionaries,  in 
view  of  the  peril  grown  imminent,  had 
buried  so  deep  and  meant  to  return  for 
when  the  foe  should  have  been  repulsed 
or  annihilated.  Those  legionaries 
never,  came  back.  How  far  did  they 
get?  And  then  those  others  who  were 
waiting  for  their  pay — waxing  mutin- 
ous— ^and  the  commissary-general  with 
a  deficit  of  14,000  pieces  of  silver  lyin^ 
in  a  hole  in  a  gigantic  earthen  pot,  and 
destined  to  lie  there  for  ages — what  did 
they  do?  And  yet  people  will  write 
fiction  and  think  it  is  a  mark  of  genius 
to  be  able  to  invent  a  story.  Would 
not  telling  one  do  as  well? 

Gentlemen  of  the  shires  will  perhaps 
tell  me  that  they  too  had  much  treasure 
buried  in  holes  among  themselves.    I 


HILL-DIGGING  AND  MAGIC. 


451 


deny  it  not,  but  I  protest  that  incom- 
parably more  finds,  have  been  made 
artiOQg  us  in  the  east  than  among  you 
in  the  west  and  the  midlands.  More- 
over, there  is  a  reason  for  this:  a  man 
thinks  twice  before  he  begins  to  pick 
a  hole  through  the  limestone  or  the 
>^ranite.  Such  a  hole  would  very  soon 
betray  itself  if  he  did.  Nor  does  he 
like  to  bury  his  hoard  in  a  marsh  or  a 
river  bank — your  sloppy  swamp  is  not 
adapted  for  concealment.  But  the  dry 
and  light  soil  on  which  most  of  our 
Norfoik  villages  were  planted,  and  the 
old  banks  raised  in  pnmaBval  times  for 
defence  or  for  the  mclosure  of  cattle, 
and  the  old  walls  of  cobble^  sometimes 
three  or  four  feet  thick,  of  which  many 
of  our  humRler  dwellings  and  almost 
all  our  barns  and  byres  were  made 
before  the  times  came  back  when  people 
set  10  work  to  burn  bricks  again  and 
build  houses  with  them — all  these  were 
exactly  the  spots  whicn  afforded  easy 
hiding-places  for  the  small  man*s  sav- 
ings. Even  to  this  day  such  places  are 
utilized  by  our  local  misers. 

Nevertheless,  I  do  not  want  to  hurt 
the  feelings  of  the  gentlemen  of  the 
shires.  I  know  that  it  was  somewhere 
between  Wycombe  and  Onhandandede- 
cniche  {there  is  a  name  to  be  proud  of) 
that  William  Attelythe  in  the  year  1290 
was  said  to  have  found  a  hoard  of 
twenty  pounds,  the  which  he  was  said 
maliciose  concelasse,  and  that  by  favor 
of  the  king  he  was  pardoned  his  offence 
whether  he  had  committed  one  or  not. 
Also  I  know  that  a  hundred  years  after 
this  Robert  atte  Mulle  and  Alice  his 
wife  were  put  upon  their  trial  on  the 
charge  of  having  appropriated  seven 
hundred  pounds  d  au7iciem  teinps 
mussez  souz  la  terre  at  Guildford  in 
Surrey,  and  that  the  unhappy  couple 
were  prosecuted  and  worried  for  years 
by  Sir  Thomas  Camoys;  though  it 
seems  clear  that  the  charge  was  utterly 
false,  and  after  sQven  years  of  shameful 


exactions  it  was  practically  withdrawn 
and  master  Robert  restored  to  what 
was  loft  of  his  houses  and  land  and 
goods  and  chattels,  which  during  all 
this  time  had  been  left  in  the  hands  of 
the  spoiler. 

So,  too,  in  the  year  1335,  a  decree 
went  forth  from  the  great  king,  who 
was  at  Carlisle  at  the  time,  directing 
that  an  inquiry  should  be  made  regard- 
ing a  hoard  of  unknown  value  which 
certain  rogues  had  succeeded  in  un- 
earthing in  the  garden  of  Henry  Earl 
of  Lancaster,  in  the  parish  of  St.  Cle- 
ment Danes,  outside  1  emple  Bar.  They 
found  the  treasure  in  the  said  garden 
under  a  pear-tree  and  they  dug  it  up 
and  carried  it  off;  and  for  all  that 
appears  they  escaped  with  their  booty, 
and  none  ^knew  what  became  of  it  or 
them. 

How  did  these  rogues  find  that  money 
in  the  Earl  of  Lancaster's  garden  under 
the  pear-tree?  How  did  it  get  there? 
The  Earl  (he  wasnot-yet  Duke)  was  one 
of  the  greatest  potentates  in  England. 
If  his  house  was  not  his  castle,  whose 
should  it  be?  We  cannot  help  thinking 
that  the  hoard  must  have  lain  there 
from  a  very  distant  time — it  may  be 
that  it  had  been  there  for  ages.  How 
did  the  rogues  find  it?  wliy  didn't 
the  gardener  dig  it  up?  It  was  not  his, 
and  he  knew  nothing  about  it.  It  cer- 
tainly was  not  found  by  mere  chance, 
for  tLre  nras  a  recogni^  term  in  U8^ 
for  describing  such  finds.  In  the  for- 
mal documents  they  are  spoken  of  as 
subito  inventum;  a^  in  the  case  of  that 
sum  of  gold  and  silver  which  William 
Whethereld  of  Brokf ord  in  Suffolk  fish  • 
ed  up  from  a  well  infra  manaionem  ip- 
sius  Willielmi  in  the  year  1425,  and 
about  which  due  inquiry  was  made — 
the  jury  declare  expressly  that  it  was 
suoito  inventuvi;  or  that  other  hoard  of 
money,  which  on  the  Monday  after  All 
Saints'  Day  three  years  aft^r  this,  John 
Sowter,  alias  John  Richerd,  of  Bury  St. 


452 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


Edmunds,  cordwainer,  came  upon  at 
Thurleston,  in  the  same  county,  under 
a  certain  stone.  That,  too,  was  a  mere 
chance  find,  and  that,  too,  is  set  down 
as  subito  inventum.  So,  too,  some 
finds  were  mere  thefts,  as  when  the 
Eev,  Edmund  Welles,  parson  of  Lound, 
who  had  hidden  away  in  a  secret  place 
in  the  church  of  Lound  his  little  pile  of 
seven  pounds  and  saw  it  safe  there  on 
the  1st  of  April*,  1465,  and  when  he 
came  to  look  at  it  again  on  St.  Lau- 
rence's Day,  the  10th  of  August,  found 
it  was  gone;  and  by-and-by  405.  thereof 
was  proved  to  be  in  the  hands  of  Robert 
Prymour,  a  noted  receiver  of  stolen 
goods.  It  was  clear  enough  that  some 
one  had  watched  the  reverend  gentle- 
man, peradventure  through  the  leper's 
window,  one  dark  night  as  he  went  to 
trim  the  lamp  over  the  altar,  and  could 
not  keep  himself  from  having  one  more 
look  at  his  savings,  just  to  see  if  they 
were  there  in  their  hiding-place. 

But  when  it  came  to  such  a  hoard  of 
treasure  as  Beatrix  Comwallis  and 
Thelba  de  Creketon — two  lone  women, 
observe — dug  up  at  Thetford,  in  the 
year  1340,  and  which  was  worth  at  least 
one  hundred  pounds,  which  they  could 
not  in  the  joy  of  their  proud  hearts 
hold  their  tongues  about,  which  they 
forthwith  began  to  spend  in  riotous 
fashion,  so  that  mere  guzzling  seems 
to  have  been  the  death  of  Beatrix — 
which,  too,  when  Reginald  of  Kylver- 
ston  and  his  brother  H^enry  and  another 
rogue  got  wind  of,  they  came  upon  the 
two  women  and  despoiled  them  of  it; 
which,  moreover,  was  the  death  of 
Reginald  also  and  the  ruin  of  all  the 
rest,  none  could  tell  how; — when.  I 
say,  it  came  to  this  kind  of  thing,  you 
must  not  hope  to  persuade  any  but  the 
most  feebly  credulous  that  that  was  all 
a  haphazard  business,  or  that  there 
were  no  occult  powers  enlisted  in  so 
awful  and  terrible  a  business  as  that. 
What!  are  we  going  to  be  persuaded 


that  only  the  nineteenth  century  has 
anything  to  tell  us  about  spirit-rapping 
and  bogies? 

I  will  not  intrude  into  the  province 
of  these  profound  philosophers,  whose 
business  it  is,  and  their  delight,  to 
trace  the  origins  and  development  of 
religion.  Only  this  I  know,  that  there 
does  seem  to  exist  a  stage  in  the  prog- 
ress of  human  beliefs,  when  the  ortho- 
dox and  universally  accepted  creed  of 
the  children  of  men  may  be  summed 
up  .in  the  brief  formula — * 'There  are 
gods  above,  there  are  fiends  below." 
That  seems  to  have  been  the  creed  of 
the  earliest  men  who  had  any  creed  at 
all.  What  the  gods  could  do,  or  would 
do,  people  were  very  vague^ about;  for 
men  learn  very  slowly  to  believe  in  the 
power  of  goodness  and  in  the  i)ossibility 
of  a  Divine  love,  personal,  mild,  and 
beneficent.  These  things  are  matters 
not  of  experience  but  of  a  higher  faith. 
Even  the  gentler  and  the  more  earnest 
find  it  hard  to  keep  their  hold  of  these. 
They  are  forever  tending  to  slip  away 
from  us;  but  there  is  no  difficulty  at 
all  in  believing  in  cruelty  and  hate  and 
malignity.  iTiese  thmgs  are  very  nigh 
to  us,  meeting  us  wherever  we  turn. 
* 'There  may  be  heaven,  there  must  be 
hell,"  was  not  a  dogma  first  formulated 
in  our  days.  Heaven  for  the  gods, 
that  might  be;  but  earth,  and  all  that 
was  below  the  earth,  that  was  the  evil 
demon's  own  domain.  The  demons 
were  essentially  earth  spirits.  The 
deeper  you  went  below  the  outer  crust 
of  this  world  of  ours,  the  nearer  vou 
got  to  the  homes  of  the  dark  and  grisly 
beings  who  spoil  and  poison  and  blight 
and  blast — the  angry  ones  who  only 
curse  and  hate,  and  work  us  pain  and 
woe.  All  that  is  of  the  earth  earthly 
belongs  to  them.  Wilt  thou  hide  thy 
treasure  in  the  earth?  Then  it  becomes 
the  property  of  the  foul  fiend.  Didst 
thou  trust  it  to  him  to  keep?  Then 
ho  will  keep  it. 


HILIr-DIGGING  AND  MAGIC. 


•45a 


"Never  may  I  meddle  with  such 
treasure  as  one  hath  hidden  away  in 
the  earth/'  s^s  Plato  in  the  eleventh 
book  of  the  Laws,  "nor  ever  pray  to 
find  it.  No!  nor  may  I  ever  have  deal- 
ings with  the  so-called  wizards^  who 
somehow  or  other  (aM»«ry€ir«?)  counsel  one 
to  take  up  that  which  has  been  com- 
mitted to  the  earth;  for  I  shall  never 
gain  as  much  as  I  shall  lose!"  It  was 
already,  you  perceive,  an  established 
practice.  The  wizards  that  peep  and 
that  mutter,  the  "cunning  men  that 
dealt  with  familiar  spirits,  nad  been  an 
institution  time  out  of  mind.  "0!  if 
Hercules  would  but  be  so  good,"  says  the 
man  in  Peraius,  "and  I  could  hear  the 
click  of  a  pot  full  of  cash  under  that 
harrow  of  mine!"  Hermes  was  he  who 
bestowed  the  lucky  find;  but  Hercules — 
who  was  he  but  the*  car/ A  sj^irit  who 
claimed  his  dues? 

When  the  witch  )i  Endor,  to  her 
own  amazement,  had  summoned  the 
shade  of  the  dead  prophet  to  commune 
with  the  doomed  King,  the  wicked  old 
women  cried  out  in  her  horror,  **I  saw 

fods  ascending  out  of  the  earth." 
Tnder  the  earth  were  the  powers  of 
darkness  that  could  be  dealt  with  some- 
how, and  they  were  witches  and  wiz- 
ards— who  could  doubt  it? — ^possessed 
of  awful  secrets  and  versed  m  occult 
practices,  who  somehow  or  other 
(aftwryiw^)  cxcrcis^d  a  hideous  sway 
over  the  fiends  below,  and  used  them 
for  their  own  ends.  Has  the  race 
died  out?  Have  the  awful  secrets  been 
lost?  Are  there  no  more  specimens 
of  the  real  genuine  article?  Have  all 
the  railway  tunnels  and  other  auda- 
cious devices  of  our  time  let  too  much 
light  and  too  much  air  into  the  bowels 
of  the  earth,  so  that  the  very  demons 
have  been  expelled,  or  retired  deep 
and  deeper  down  toward  the  center  of 
our  planet,  where  the  everlasting  fires 
burn,  'and  whence  sometimes  they 
burst  forth? 


I  am  always  finding  that  I  know 
nothing  of  the  present.  I  find  it  so 
hard  to^  understand;  it  is  so  very 
near;  it  cramps  a  man  with  its  close 
pressure.  The  past  you  can  form  a  fair 
and  impartial  estimate  of,  and  of  the 
past  you  can  know  something  (just  a 
little),  but  still. something;  the  present 
wriggles  so.  This  I  know,  that  ages 
ago  there  were  wizards,  and  potent 
wizards,  too,  who  had  dealings  with 
imps  and  fiends  and  goblins,  and  lived 
with  those  beings  upon  familiar  terms 
and  called  them  by  their  several  names, 
and  compelled  them  to  do  service. 
Surely  this  candid,  truth-loving,  saga- 
cious, and  most  impartial  nineteenth 
century  is  not  going  to  resist  and  sot 
itself  against  the  crushing  force  of 
cumulative  evidence. 

In  the  year  of  grace  1521 — that  is,  in 
the  twelfth  year  of  King  Henry  VIII. 
— ^a  license  was  given  to.  one  Sir  Robert 
Curzon,  commonly  called  Lord  Ourzon, 
to  search  for  hidden  treasure  within 
the  counties  of  Norfolk  and  Suffolk. 
The  noble  lord,  like  the  unjust  steward, 
cx>uld  not  dig  himself,  but  he  could 
^d  others  who  would  act  as  his  depu- 
ties and  agents.  Accordingly,  he 
made  choice  of  three  rogues,  who 
were  styled  his  servants,  named  William 
Smyth,  William  Tady,  and  one 
Amylyon,  whose  Christian  name,  if  he 
ever  had  one,  does  not  appear,  and  the 
worthy  trio  made  their  head-quarters 
at  Norwich  and  began  to  look  about 
them.  It  was  discouraging  to  hear 
sundry  rumors  that  they  had  been 
forestalled.  Others  had  been  at  work 
before  them.  There  might  be  a  doubt 
whether  or  not  they  could  discover  hid- 
den treasure;  there  could  be  no  doubt 
that  if  they  flourished  their  commission 
in  poor  men's  faces  they  might  easily 
succeed  in  levying  blackmail  from  the 
suspected.  They  lost  no  time  in 
pouncing  down  upon  four  unlucky 
victims.     From    three    of   these  they 


454 


THE  LIB 


«  »  •  *  *  . 


'    '    "iAZlSE. 


managed  to  extort  gnndry  small  earns, 
amounting  in  the  aggregate  to  two  or 
three  pounds,  together  with  a  crystal 
stone  and  certain  books,  which,  being' 
duly  delirered  up,  an  engagement  was . 
given  that  the  culprits  should  be 
'"troubled"  no  more.  The  offence  com- 
mitted by  these  poor  fellows,  and  for 
which  they  compounded,  was  that 
they  had  been  all  hill  diggers;  and 
though  it  does  not  appear  that  they 
had  been  by  any  means  successful  in 
their  searches,  yet  digging  of  hills  was, 
it  appears,  an  amusement  not  to  be 
indulged  in  by  any  but  the  privileged 
few. 

Encouraged  by  this  first  success,  the 
three  went  about  trumping  up  accusa- 
tions against  any  one  of  whom  they 
could  hear  any  vague  story,  and  in  the 
course  of  their  inquiries  they  singled 
out  one  William  Goodred  of  Great 
Melton,  a  village  about  seven  miles 
from  Norwich,  whom  they  found 
ploughing  in  his  field;  and,  forthwith 
charging  him  with  being  a  hill-digger, 
they  tooK  him  off  to  the  village  alehouse 
and  ' 'examined  the  said  Go^red  upon 
hill-digging."  But  Goodred  was  a 
stout  Knave  .and  obstinate;  he  had 
never  been  a  hill  digger— not  he — and, 
moreover,  the  squire  of  the  parish, 
Thomas  Downes,  happened  by  good 
luck  to  be  in  the  alenouse  when  the 
rogues  took  their  man  there,  and 
Goodred  threw  himself  upon  the  pro- 
tection of  Mr.  Downes,  who  offerea  to 
give  bail  to  the  extent  of  one  hundred 
pounds.  It  was  a  very  indiscreet  offer, 
and  Smyth  and  the  others  waxed  all 
the  more  exacting  when  they  heard  of 
so  great  a  sum.  They  dragged  poor 
Goodred  to  Norwich,  ne  protesting  all 
the  way  that  he  would  give  them  never 
a  farthing.  But  when  they  came  in 
sight  of  Norwich  Castle  the  man's  heart 
sank  within  him  and  he  came  to  terms. 
He  promised  to  pay  twenty  shillings  *Ho 
have  no  furder  trouble/*  and  when  it 


was  all  paid,  Amylyon,  acting  for  the 
otiie'-s,  gave  him  a  regular  receipt,  or, 
afi  the  deposition  has  it,  '^made  to  the 
said  Gooored  a  bill  of  his  own  hand.'' 
The  rascals  had  gone  too  far  this  time, 
for  Mr.  Downes,  angered  at  the  treat- 
ment which  he  himself  had  received, 
and  indignant  at  the  abominable  extor- 
tion, managed  to  get  an  inquiry  set  on 
foot  as  to  the  character  and  proceedings 
of  the  fraternity,  and  then  it  came  oat 
that  they  had  already  begun  their 
operations,  not  without  the  help  of  the 
black  art. 

It  appears  that  they  themselves  knew 
nothing  of  the  real  methods  of  hill- 
digging,  and  the  first  requisite  for  in- 
suring success  was  to  find  6):uebody 
who  knew  what  he  was  about.  Accord- 
ingly they  made  advances  to  one  George 
Dowsing,  a  schoolmaster  dwelling  at 
St.  Faith's,  a  village  three  or  four  miles 
from  Norwich,  who  they  heard  sa? 
''should  be  seen  in  astronomy;"  and 
having  opened  negotiations  witb  him  he 
engaged  to  cooperate  with  them,  but 
he  seems  to  have  made  his  own  terms. 
He  would  not  go  alone — other  skilled 
experts  should  go  with  him;  and  it  was 
agreed  that  tney  should  commence 
operations  *'at  a  ground  lying  besides 
Butter  Hills  within  the  walls  of  the 
city"  of  Norwich.  There,  accordingly, 
between  two  and  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  a  fortnight  after  Easter,  the 
company  assembled — the  three  servants 
of  Lord  tJurzon,  the  Parish  Priest  of 
St.  Gregory's  Church,  Norwich,  the 
Rev.  Eo&rt  Cromer  of  Melton  aforesaid, 
and  other  priests  who  were  strangers  to 
the  deponent.  Before  starting  a  solemn 
council  a«8sembled  and  the  necessary 
ceremonial  (i|M«r7«w«K)  was  rehearsed  *'at 
Saunders'  house  \n  the  market  at 
Norwich,"  and  then  the  schoolmaster 
'^raised  a  spirit  or  two  in  a  glass,"  and 
the  parson  of  St.  Gregory's  '*l^eld  tbe 
glass  in  his  hand."  Mr.  Dowsing^  was 
not  the  only  nor  the  most  expeditions 


HILL-DIOaiNG  AND  MAGIC. 


455 


hierophant  present,  for  the  Rev.  Eobort 
Cromer  *' began  and  raised  a  spirit  first. " 
When  the  fellow  Amylyon  was  exam- 
ined on  the  subject  he  declared  that 
when  the  Rev.  Robert  Cromer  *'held  up 
a  stone,  he  could  not  perceive  anything 
thereby,  but .  .  .  that  George  Dowsing 
did  areyse  in  a  glass  a  little  thing  of 
the  length  of  an  inch  or  thereabout,  but 
whether  it  was  a  spirit  or  a  shadow  he 
cannot  tell,  but .  .  .  George  said  it  was 
a  spirit." 

The  astonishing  feature  in  this  busi- 
ness is  the  prominent  part  which  was 
taken  in  it  by  the  parish  priests.  Jt  is 
clear  that  among  people  of  some  culture 
there  was  a  very  widespread  belief  in 
the  powers  of  magic,  or  whatever  we 
may  choose  to  call  it,  and  that  the 
black  art  was  practiced  systematically 
and  on  a  large  scale. 

In  the  firat  volume  of  the  Norfolk 
ArchcBology  there  is  a  most  curious 
and  minute  account  of  the  doings 
of  a  certain  worthy  named  William 
Stapletou,  who  had  been  a  monk 
at  the  great  abbey  of  St.  Benet's 
Hulme  in  Norfolk,  had  misconducted 
himself,  and,  having  been  punished  for 
his  sins,  had  in  consequence  run  away 
from  the  monustery  and  set  up  as  a 
practicer  of  magic.  The  rascal  was  a 
stupid  bungler,  but  in  the  course  of 
his  career  he  was  brought  into  relations 
with  all  sorts  of  people,  among  others 
with  Cardinal  Wolsey  and  Sir  Thomas 
More.  His  chief  confederates,  however, 
were  half-a-dozen  parish  priests  in 
Norfolk,  who  had  awful  dealings  with 
familiar  spirits,  spirits  that  came  at 
call  and  ||j|ew  their  names.  The  most 
notable  ^  these  fiends  were  Oherion 
and  Inchubus  and  Andrew  Malchus — 
a  surly  and  uncertain  demon — and  also 
a  singular  and  peculiar  being  which 
Staplet on  describes  as  "a  Shower"  and 
whom  they  called  Anthony  Ftilcar, 
"whi'^li  s«iid  spirit  1  had  after  myself/* 
i)c  riifsire^  us.    All  these  spirits  and  their 


priestly  confederates  were  engaged  in 
nill'digping.  I  regret  that  I  cannot  re- 
port a  single  success;  though  it  is  certain 
that  they  were  not  idle.  They  were  in- 
tensely serious  in  their  proceedings,  and 
seem  to  have  made  very  little  secret  of 
them.  No  one  seems  to  have  thought  any 
the  worse  of  them  for  their  converse 
with  the  fiends,  and  only  one  instance  is 
mentioned  of  their  being  at  all  inter- 
fered with  in  their  hill-digging.  That 
instance  is,  however,  a  remarkable  one. 
In  the  course  of  their  rambles  they  got 
information  that  there  was  a  very 
promising  digging  place  at  Syderstone, 
a  parish  not  far  from  Houghton,  where 
at  the  manor  house  lived  the  widow  of 
Sir  Terry  Robsart,  a  person  of  some 
consideration.  She  was  the  grand- 
mother of  Amy  Robsart,  and  it  is  more 
than  probable  that  in  this  manor  house 
Ajny  herself  was  born.  The  old  ]a<ly 
no  sooner  heard  of  the  hill  diggers 
than  she  had  them  all  brought  before 
her,  examined  them  strictly,  and  told 
them  plainly  she  would  have  no  digging 
in  her  domain;  *'she  forbade  us  med- 
dling on  her  said  ground,  and  so  we 
departed  thence  and  meddled  no 
further."  There  was  at  any  rate  one 
woman  of  sense  who  could  deal  with 
the  cunning  men  and  their  "Shower." 

But  what  did  all  these  people  mean 
by  talking  about  hill-digging  so  often? 
I  must  defer  answering  this  question 
for  a  little  longer,  until  I  have  dealt 
with  one  more  story  of  hill-digging 
which  is  much  more  complete  than  any 
of  the  preceding,  and  has,  moreover, 
never  yet,  as  far  as  I  know,  appeared 
before  the  eyes  of  those  who  read  only 
what  is  displayed  upon  a  printed  paire. 

On  Saturday,  being  the  Feast  of  St. 
Clement,  in  the  fifth  yea"r  of  King 
Edward  the  Fourth — that  is,  oti 
November  23,  1465  —  an  inquiry  was 
held  at  Longstfatton,  in  the  eo'n:ty 
of  Norfolk,  before  Edward  C'lyref  !'•?., 
escheater   of  the  king's  majesty  in  tiie 


456 


THE  LIBRAffSr  MAGAZINB. 


county  aforesaid,  and  a  jury  of  thirteen 
persons  of  some  consideration  in  the 
neighborhood,  with  a  view  to  examine 
into  the  case  of  John  Cans,  late  of 
Bunwell,  and  others  implicated  by 
common  report  in  the  finding  of  certain 
treasure  in  the  county  of  Norfolk, 
and  to  report  accordingly.  The  jury 
being  duly  sworn;  and  having  exaniined 
witnesses  and  received  their  depositions, 
did  so  report,  and  this  is  wnat  they 
found. 

John  Cans,  late  •  of  Bunwell,  and 
Robert  Hikkes,  lat«  of  Forncett, 
worsted-weaver,  during  divers  years 
past,  on  divers  occasions  and  in  various 
places  in  the  county,  had  been  wont  io 
avail  themselves  of  the  arts  of  magic 
and  darkness  and  invocations  of  dis- 
embodied spirits  of  the  damned,  and 
had  most  wickedly  been  in  the  habit  of 
making  sacrifices  and  offerings  to  the 
same  spirits.  By  moans  of  which  arts 
and  sacrifices  they  had  incited  many 
persons  unknown — being  his  majesty's 
subjects — to  idolatry  and  to  the  practice 
of  liill'digging  and  other  disturbances 
and  unlawful  acts  in  the  county 
aforesaid  (ad  fodiciones  montium  et 
ad  alias  riotias  et  iUicita). 

Especially,  too,  they  had  made 
assemblies  of  such  persons  at  night-time 
again  and  again  {smpitis)  for  the  finding 
of  treasures  concealed  in  the  said  hills. 
Moreover,  that  the  same  John  Cans  and 
Robert  Hikkes,  having  assembled  to 
themselves  many  persons  unknown 
on  the  night  of  Sunday  before  the 
Feast  of  St.  Bartholomew  in  the  fifth 
5^ear  of  the  king  aforesaid  [August  18, 
1465},  thev  did  cawse  to  appear  before 
the  same  disorderly  persons,  practicing 
the  same  unlawful  arts,  a  certain 
accursed  disembodied  spirit  (spiriium 
aerialem)  at  Bunwell  aforesaid,  and  did 
promise  and  covenant  that  they  would 
sacri fir^e,  give,  and  make  a  burnt 
offering  to  the  selfsame  spirit  of  the 
[dead]  Body  of  a  Christian  man,  if  so 


be  that  the  aforesaid  spirit  there  and 
then  would  show  and  make  known  to 
the  said  disorderly  persons  in  some 
place  then  unknown  within  the  countv 
aforesaid,  so  as  that  a  trofiure  therein 
lying  might  come  to  the  hands  of  them. 

Whereupon  the  said  spirit,  under 
promise  of  the  sacrifice  to  be  made, 
did  show  to  them  by  the  help  of  a 
certain  crystal  a  vast  treasure  hidden 
in  a  certain  hill  {in  qtiodam  monte)  at 
Forncett,  in  the  county  aforesaid,  called 
Nonmete  Hill.  Upon  the  which  dis- 
covery he  same  John  Cans  and  Robert 
Hikkes  and  many  more  unknown 
to  the  jurors,,  in  return  for  the 
aforesaid  treasure  so  found  and  to  be 
applied  to  their  own  use,  did  then 
seize  upon  a  certain  fowl  called  a  cock 
^t  Bunwell  aforesaid,  and  there  and 
then  in  the  presence  of  their  fathers 
and  mothers,  baptize  the  said  cock  in 
holy  water,  and  gave  to  the  said  cock 
a  Christian  name,  and  slew  the  same 
cock  so  named,  and  did  offer  it  as  a 
whole  burnt  offering  as  a  Christian 
carcass  to  the  accursed  spirit,  according 
to  covenant.  Which  being  done,  the 
said  John  Cans  and  Robert  Hikkes 
and  the  other  unknown  persons  assem- 
bled at  Bunwell  aforesaid  did  proceed 
to  Forncett  along  with  the  said  accursed 
spirit  and  did  dig  m  the  hill  called 
Nonmete  Hill  and  made  an  entry  into 
the  said  hill,  insomuch  that  there  and 
then  they  found  to  the  value  of  more 
than  a  hundred  shillings  in  coined 
money  in  the  said  hill.  For  all  which 
they  shall  make  answer  to  our  lord  the 
king,  insomuch  as  the  said  treasnre 
they  did  appropriate  to  tlmr  own  use 
and  do  still  retain.  ^ 

We  have  come  upon  our  real  magi- 
.cian  at  last — one  who  knows  how  to 
use  a  crystal,  who  knows  how  to 
summon  a  spirit  from  the  vasty  deep 
and  make  him  appear,  who  can  car?/ 
the  foul  fiend  along  with  him,  make 
him  tell  his  secrets,  disclose  the  treas- 


HTLLr-DlGGING  AND  MAGIC. 


457 


lire  that  had  beeu  hidden  in  the  bowels 
of  the  earth,  at  any  rate  in  the  hills, 
and,  to  crown  all,  a  magician  who  can 
ontwit  the  foul  fiend,  which  is  grandest 
of  all.  For  it  is  plain  and  evident  that 
the  accursed  spirit  intended  to  have  the 
body  of  a  Christian  man  handed  over 
to  him  with  all  due  formalities  as  an 
equivalent  for  the  filthy  lucre  which  he 
was  to  surrender.  •  Some  one  was  to  be 
sacrificed  to  the  powers  of  darkness, 
whose  soul  should  te  the  property  of 
the  evil  one  forever  and  ever;  and 
John  Cans  did  manage  the  mutter  so 
shrewdly  that,  instead  of  a  human 
carcass,  only  a  certain  fowl  commonly 
called  a  cock  (quoddmn  volatile  vocatum 
nuum  Galium)  did  duty  for  the  human 
victim  demanded. 

But  where  did  they  get  the  holy 
water?  The  Reverend  Thomas  Larke 
was  rector  of  Bun  veil  at  this  time, 
having  been  presented  to  the  living 
some  twenty  years  before  by  William 
Grey  of  Merton,  ancestor  of  Lord 
Walsingham.  Did  the  rector  connive 
at  the  proceedings?  Did  he  provide 
the  holy  water  for  the  occasion?  I 
really  am  afraid  he  did ;  for  the  craze 
of  hunting  for,  treasure  had  been 
eiulemic  in  that  neighborhood  for 
several  years  past;  and  fifteen  years 
before  this  time  another  wortliy,  named 
John  Yongeman,  with  other  hill 
diggers,  had  dug  up  a  hidden  treasure 
said  to  be  worth  one  hundred  pounds 
at  Oarleton  Rode,  wliich  is  a  parish 
contiguous  to  Bunwell;  and  if  the 
parisii  priests  were  delirious  with  han- 
kerings after  crystals  and  familiar 
spirits  in  1520,  they  certainly  were  not 
less  so  seventy  3"ears  before  that  time. 

In  East  Anglia  it  is  to  be  noted  that 
we  are  not  rich  in  sepulchral  barrows. 
I  do  not  mean  that  we  have  not  some 
instances  of  these  prehistoric  structures, 
but  that  we  have  nothing  to  be  com- 
pared to  the  nu miners  which  remain  in 
Wiltshire  or  the  Yorkshire  Wold.     We 


have  them,  but  they  are  not  very 
common.  They  wero,  of  course,  the 
burial-places  of  great  chieftains  who 
may  or  may  not  have  provided  for  their 
sepulchers  before  they  died,  just  as  we 
know  the  Pharaohs  built  their  own 
pyramids  and  Mr.  Brownhig's  bishop 
made  his  preparations  for  his  tomb  in 
St.  Praxed's  Church.  Were  those 
sepulchral  mounds  on  Salisbury  Plain 
our  British  survivals  of  the  earlier 
PJgyptian  pyramids?  Or  were  they 
even  earlier  structures? — and  did  those 
great  men  of  Egypt  learn  the  trick  of 
heaping  much  earth  over  their  dead  of 
our  primaeval  British  forebears,  learn 
and  perfect  the  art  as  the  ages  rolled? 
I  would  not  be  too  sure  if  I  were  you, 
Mr.  Dryasdust.  One  of  the  greatest  of 
English  ethnologists  was  bold  enough 
years  ago  to  express  a  doubt  whetjier 
the  migration  of  the  Aryan  race  had 
certainly  moved  from  east  to  west,  and 
ventured  to  suggest  that  it  might  be 
proved  hereafter  that  it  was  otherwise. 
Be  it  as  it  may,  though  our  sepulchral 
barrows  do  not  stvarm  in  Norfolk  as 
they  do  elsewhere,  we  have  a  fine  sprink- 
ling of  them.  .  It  is  unquestionable  that 
when  some  great  man  was  buried  in  his 
earthen  tumulus,  his  arms,  his  golden 
torque,  his  brooches  and  what  not, 
were,  as  a  rule,  buried  with  him.  In 
some  eases  these  would  constitute  a 
really  valuable  find.  For  ages  these 
buried  great  men  were  protected  from 
disturbance  by  the  superstitious  awe 
that  haunted  the  resting-places  of  the 
dead.  For  generations  they  were  left 
alone.  Tradition  well-nigh  perished 
with  regard  to  them.  But  there  came 
a  day  when  a  vague  curiosity  which 
makes  diggers  of  us  all  and  **the  lust 
of  gain  in  the  spirit  of  Cain,"  began  to 
work,  and  some  one  said,  '*Let  us 
search  and  see  what  lies  there  in  vender 
earthly  pyramid  I*'  Then  they  made 
a  hole  into  the  mysterious  barrow  that 
none  had  meddled  with  for  U  millen- 


458 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


nium,  and  lo!  there  was -something  to 
pay  them  for  the  toil.  It  is  easy  to  see 
that  no  sooner  had  a  single  success 
crowned  the  search  of  an  excavationist 
than  a  mania  would  speedily  spread. 
That  it  did  spread  we  have  .proof 
positive,  for  I  do  not  remember  a 
single  instance  of  a  sepulchral  mound 
in  .Norfolk  having  been  opened  in  the 
memory  of  man  which  did  not  afford 
unmistakable  proof  of  having  been 
entered  and  disturbed  at  some  previous 
time.  Our  Norfolk  harrows  have  all 
been  explored  and  rifled.  The  hill 
diggers  of  the  fifteenth  century  did 
their  work  mopt  effectually:  they  left 
nothing  for  that  rabid  band  of  mono- 
maniacs of  our  own  time  who  with 
sacrilegious  hands  have  been  burrowing 
into  dead  men's  graves  elsewhere,  and, 
in  defiance  of  the  curse  fulminated 
upon  such  as  disturb  a  great  man's 
bones,  are  prouder  of  nothing  so  much 
as  of  having  unearthed  a  hero's  vertebra, 
his  skull,  his  eye-teeth,  or  the  boss  of 
his  once  massive  shield.  No  dread  of 
the  foul  fiend  with  these  gentlemen, 
and  no  -  taste  for  familiarities  with 
Oberion  and  A  ndrew  Malchns! 

With  regard  to  this  particular  hill  at 
Forncett,  when  first  the  case  of  John 
Cans  became  known  to  me,  an  unex- 
pected difficulty  presented  itself.  The 
country  hereabouts,  if  not  flat  as  a 
board,  is  at  any  rate  almost  as  flat  as 
the  palm  of  vour  hand,  and  the  little 
stream  called  the  Tase  goes  crawling 
in  tortuous  fiishion  through  the  only 
depression  that  there  is  in  the  general 
level  of  the  landscape,  and  nothing  like 
a  liMy  or  even  a  mound  or  tumulus, 
could  be  discovered,  though  a  careful 
survey  of  the  parish  and  neighborhood 
was  made.  Had'  any  one  heard  of 
Nonmete  Hill?  No.  * 'Never  heerd 
tell  of  no  such  place!"  We  were  baffled, 
till  by  good  luck  the  oldest  inhabitant, 
as  usual,  came  to  our  rescue.  It  wa« 
James  Balls — aged  now  nearly  ninety- 


three  years,  parish  clerk  at  Forncett  St. 
Peter,  who  last  Sunday,  November  28, 
1886,  took  his  place  at  his  desk  as  usual 
and  gave  out  the  responses  in  a  full 
sonorous  voice,  as  he  has  done  every 
Sunday  for  more  than  forty  years — who 
found  for  us  the  clew.  ''  Nonmete 
Hill?"  No,  ho  had  never  heard  the 
name.  Mound?  No.  '*A  hill  that  folks 
had  dug  into  one  duy  and  found  some- 
thing there?"  suggested  some  wise  one. 
*'0h!  lawk!  ah!  You  must  mean  Old 
Groggrams!^^  We  had  got  it  at  last. 
The  fifteenth-century  name  had  long 
since  passed  away,  and  had  been 
superseded  by  the  name  of  the  familiar 
spirit  conjured  up  by  John  Cans  four 
hundred  years  ago. 

But  where  was  *'01d  Groggrams"? 
From  the  recesses  of  James  lialls' 
memory  there  rose  up  straightway  clear 
and  distinct  the  scenes  and  incidents 
of  his  childhood  and  boyhood,  and 
then  he  told  us  in  picturesque  lan- 
guage, not  without  a  certain  lively 
dramatic  power,  how  when  he  was  a 
boy  there  stood  on  the  edge  of  what 
were  then  the  un  in  closed,  open  fields, 
in  a  somewhat  conspicuous  position, 
and  where  four  ways  met,  a  slignt  ai'tifi- 
cial  mound  of  earth  where  the  lads 
were  wont  to  assemble  and  practice 
horseplay.  They  used  to  slide  down 
the  sides  of  Old  Groggrams  when  the 
time  was  favorable,  and  our  informant 
had  taken  paa*t  in  such  glissades  now 
and  then,  though  he  was  only  a  little 
un.  Then  came  the  inclosure  of  the 
parish;  this  was  in  1809.  (I  nonder 
if  in  the  act  of  Parliament  there  is  any 
mention  of  Old  Groggrams?)  James 
Balls  was  then  a  lad  of  sixteen,  and  he 
remembers  *'the  piece  of  work  there 
was."  Old  Groggrams  appears  to  have 
been  a  sourc^  of  disagreement,  and  it 
was  finally  determined  that  the  mound 
of  eanii  should  be  leveled  and  carted 
away  for  the  benefit  of  the  parish. 
Balls'  father  had  some  patches  of  land 


HILL-DIGOmff'SSfb  MAGIC. 


4S$ 


**near  by/*  ancVhe  actually  employed  his 
horse  and  cart  to  carry  oft  sundry  loads 
of  the  mound  and  spread  it  on  his  own 
little  field.  Earth  to  earth!  This  was 
the  end  of  Old  Groggrams. 

But  was  this  mcJund  one  of  the  many 
sepulchral  tumuli  dl  which  Me  have 
already  heard?  And  did  John  Cans 
really  find  a  treasure  there,  value  five 

founds  and  more  in  coined  money? 
think  not.  For  the  buried  money, 
which  appears  to  have  been  made  up 
of  silver  pennies  for  the  most  part  {cen- 
tum soUdos  et  ultra  in  denarits  numer- 
atis,)  I  can  hardly  douDt  but  that  it 
was  deposited  there  by  Mr.  Cans  him- 
self, or  his  confederate,  in  preparation 
for  the  great  unearthing  that  came- in 
due  course;  but  that  anything  else 
was  ever  hidden  away  in  Nonmete  Hill, 
even  a  hero's  skeleton,  I  should  find  it 
very  hard  to  believe.     * 

What,  then,  was  the  artificial  emi- 
nence, which  undoubtedly  did  exist 
from  very  ancient  times,  and  was  only 
removed  in  the  memory  of  a  man  still 
living?  I  believe  it  was  the  place  of 
assembly  for  the  pld  open-air  hundred 
court  of  the  Hundred  of  Depwade,  for 
which  the  parishes  of  Forncett  St. 
Peter  and  Forncett  St.  Mary  constitute 
a  geographical  area  most  convenient 
because  most  central,  and  of  these  par- 
ishes this  very  spot  Adhere  the  old 
mound  stood  when  our  friend  James 
Balls  was  a  boy  is  almost  exactly  the 
center  or  omphalos.  On  the  subject  of 
these  open-air  courts  I  will  not  presume 
to  speak.  But  I  am  strongly  inclined 
to  believe  that  a  few  years  of  research 
^ill  discover  for  us  the  site  and  the 
remains  of  many  another  ancient 
meeting-place  of  those  assemblies.  I 
believe  that  if  Mr.  Gomme,  or  some 
expert  whose  eye  he  may  have  trained 
to  see  what  others  are  blind  to,  would 
pay  a  visit  to  the  little  parish  of  Runton, 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Cromer,  he 
would  pronounce  that  curious  circular 


protuberance  on  the  hillside,  which  is 
called  in  the-  ordnance  map  ''The 
Moat,"  to  be  another  instance;  nor 
shourd  I  be  surprised  if  even  th»  tu- 
mulus contiguous  to  the  churchyard  of 
Hunstanton  should  turn  out  to  be  not 
a  burial-place  at  all,  but  the  site  of 
another  ancient  open-air  assembly.  In 
such  ''hills'*  all  the  diggers  that  ever 
dealt  with  familiar  spirits  since  the 
world  began  would  never  find  more  than 
they  themselves  thought  fit  to  conceal. 
Furthermore,  if  other  experts — experts 
in  linguistics — should  further  suggest 
that  the  very  name  None-«ic^e-hill  may 
indicate,  even  by  the  help  of  etymology, 
comparative  philology,  umlaut,  vowel 
scales,  dynamic  change  and  all  the  rest 
of  it,  that  there  was  once  a  time  when 
Old  Groggrams  was  actually  called  the 
Moot  Hill,  I  can  have  no  possible 
objection,  but,  as  we  say  here  in  the 
east,  "That  I  must  lave!"— 

But  what  has  all  this  chatter  about 
open-air  courts  and  the  like  got  to  do 
with  magic  and  magicians?  To  that 
only  too  severe  question  I  can  but 
answer  that  I  never  did,  never  do,  and 
never  will  promise  in  handling  a  subject 
in  The  Nineteenth  Century  not  to  di- 
gress. If,  however,  my  readers  are  not 
satisfied,  I  must  refer  them  again  to 
the  experts  of  the  Psychological  Society 
and  other  iaquirers  into  the  regions  of 
Transcendentalism.  Only  one  caution 
would  I  venture  to  offer  to  all  who  are 
inclined  to  practice  the  black  art  in 
our  days:  Let  them  remember  that  a 
malignant  spirit  is  not  likely  to  be 
outwitted  twice  on  the  same  lines,  and 
that  if,  having  been  duly  summoned,* 
and  duly  put  in  an  appearance,  he 
should  once  again  make  his  bargain  for 
a  Christian  corpse,  the  adept  in  necro- 
mancy must  beware  how  he  tries  to 
circumvent  him  a  second  time,  even 
by  the  help  of  the  baptismal  font  and 
holy  water,  with  so  poor  a  substitute 


460 


THE  Lnn::kiiY  magazine. 


as  **a  certain  fowl  called  a  cock."  | 
Terrible,  I  ween,  might  be  the  raging 
wrath  of  Old  Grog^ams.  Who  shall 
imagine  what  he  might  do  in  an  out- 
burst of  malignant  vengeance  and  pent- 
up  rage?  He  might  turn  again  and 
rend  you!— Augustus  Jessopp,  p.  D., 
in  TJie  Nineteenth  Century. 


IRELAND   BEYOND  THE  PALE. 

The  Ireland  of  Galway  and  Conne- 
mara,  with  its  chronic  poverty  and  its 
crowded  population,  has  always  pre- 
sented a  spectacle  of  so  much  interest 
to  the  philanthropist  and  the  politician 
that  I  am  tempted  to  publisn  a  short 
account  of  a  tour  among  the  poorest 
districts  of  the  west,  from  which  I 
have  but  just  returned.  When  on  my 
way  through  Dublin,  I  was  introduced 
to  Mr.  0.  Redington,  who  is  the  head 
of  a  commission  appointed  by  the 
government  to  build  piers  and  con- 
struct small  harbors,  bridges  and  roads 
on  the  western  coast.  £20,000  has  been 
devoted  to  this  excellent  work,  and 
several  civil  engineers  appointed  to  su- 
pervise it.  Too  much  cannot  be  said  in 
praise  of  it,  for  the. employment  has  lit- 
erally saved  the  people  from  starvation; 
but  unfortunately,  another  £20,000 
was  given  to  the  Boards  of  Guardians, 
who  have  wasted  it  either  by  making 
roads  leading  nowhere  or  in  other  works 
of  no  possible  utility,  while  they  have 
burdened  the  rates  in  addition  by 
spending  beyond  the  limit  to  which 
tney  were  empowered  by  government. 

Leaving  Dublin  we  crossed  the  Shan- 
non at  Athlone,  and  reached  Galway 
about  4  p.  M.  I  was  greatly  surprised 
with  the  general  aspect  of  the  town, 
which  is  picturesquely  situated  at  the 
head  of  GalwHy  Harbor,  and  contains 
s6v*3ral  interesting  relics  of  former  days, 
notably  the  old  gate  leading  into  the 


port.  Galway  has  decreased  in  popula- 
tion from  40,000  to  15,000,  mainly  ow- 
ing to  the  emigration  to  America,  ami 
although  many  of  the  inhabitantb 
seemed  poor,  yet  there  was  no  apparent 
destitution  or  extreme  poverty  even 
among  the  fishing  population,  who  dwell 
in  a  separate  village  at  the  harbor.  I 
met  the  resident  magistrate,  Mr.  Lyster, 
who  showed  me  the  salmon-fishery  at  the 
lock,  the  Queen's  College,  and  tlie  jail, 
the  number  of  whose  inmates  lias  been 
recently  increased  by  the  arrival  of  56 
prisoners  from  the  VVoodford  estate  of 
Lord  Clanricarde,  and  by  the  Rev.  Dr. 
Fahy  of  House  of  Commons  notoriety. 
Two  of  the  resident  landlords.  Colonel 
O.'Hara  and  Major  Lynch,  told  me 
that  in  their  opinion  the  distress  was 
not  so  great  among  the  poorest  classes, 
having  no  doubt  been  relieved  by  emi- 
gration ;  but  that  there  was  considerable 
pressure  upon  the  smaller  chiss  ot 
farmers,  owing  to  the  low  price  of  stock, 
every  kind  of  which  has  fallen,  with 
the  exception  only  of  sheep. 

We  started  next  morning  from  Gfil- 
way  for  Skreeh.  Immediately  after 
getting  clear  of  the  town,  the  va^t 
sheet  of  water  knows  as  Lough  Corrib. 
with  its  numerous  islands  and  pictur- 
esque scenery,  opened  out  on  the  riglit, 
while  on  both  sides  of  the  main  road 
we  passed  numerous  country  houses, 
with  parks  and  woods  bearing  at  first 
sight  a  strong  resemblance  in  outward 
features  to  an  English  landscape.  On 
nearer  insnection,  the  singular  absence 
of  animal  life  betrayed  the  fact  that  not 
one  of  these  mansion-houses  was  hi- 
habited.  We  passed  not  less  than 
twelve  or  fourteen  before  reaching 
Oughterard,  and  each  of  these  country 
houses  had  been  abandoned  by  its  owner 
and  was  inhabited  only  by  a  caretaker. 
Tiie  trees  were  felled  but  not  carried, 
the  gi'ass  was  growing  over  the  walks, 
the  windows  were  closed  with  shutters; 
every   circumstance   showed   that   the 


IRELAND  BEYOND  THE  PALE. 


461 


owner  had  abandoned  his  residnnce  and 
the  care  of  his  t'iinantry,  fortunate  if  in 
some  cases  he  could  secure  a  fanner 
fiufliciently  well  off  to  occupy  the  man- 
sion-house at  a  nominal  rent.  Former 
habits  of  extravagance  and  a  chronic 
living  up  to,  if  not  beyond,  their  means, 
must  have  contributed,  with  the  present 
loss  of  rents,  to  bring  about  this  result. 
Koaching  Ou^hterard  we  entered  the 
Connemara  district,  inhabited  by  the 
poorest  class  of  Irish  peasantry.  At 
the  town  I  was  informed  that  no  less 
tluin  600  tenants  of  a  Mr.  Berridge,  a 
London  brewer,  who  bought  the  pro- 
perty of  the  Law  Life  Assurance  Com- 
})any,  had  been  lately  evicted  in  this 
neighborhood.  Young  and  old,  a 
woman  of  eighty  with  two  girls,  the 
hale  and  the  sick,  were  turned  out  on 
the  road,  the  police  bursting  in  the 
doors,  and  in  some  cases  burning  the 
roof.  Home,  however,  had  been  read- 
mitted as  caretakers,  paying  Id.  per 
week,  and  some  had  reinstated  them- 
selves, though  two  had  been  committed 
to  jail  for  so  doing. 

The  scenery  now  became  very  wild 
and  grand;  high  cone-shaped  mountains 
rise  on  the  right,  the  bog  is  intersected 
with  lakes  and  rivers;  but  there  is 
hardly  any  cultivation;  only  a  few  cows 
and  sheep  pick  up  a  living  on  the  stony 
and  desolate  moor.  At  5  p.  m.  we 
reached  Skreeb,  a  very  comfortable  fish- 
ing lodge.  Starting  early  next  morn- 
ing ^ve  drove  by  car  to  Garalin,  on  an 
arm  of  the  sea,  where  a  new  pier  has 
been  built  to  enable  the  people  to  load 
their  turf  for  transport  to  Gal  way. 
We  there  found  a  boat,  manned  bv 
three  men,  called  a  cnrragh,  not  unlike 
an  Indian  canoe,  in  which  we  embarked, 
and  rowed  across  to  Bealadangan,  where 
we  landed,  and  the  crew,  turning  the 
boat  upside  down,  got  inside  and  car- 
ried it  across  the  causewav.  From 
thence  we  rowed  for  half  an  hour  to 


poorest  on  the  western  coast.  Here 
again  a  new  pier  has  been  made,  in  the 
hope  of  encauragiug  sea-fishing,  but  at 
present  the  men  are  without  boats,  gear, 
or  any  adequate  knowledge  of  fishing. 

On  inquiring  of  the  inhabitants  the 
causes  of  their  present  distress,  1  was 
informed  that  they  attributed  the  fall- 
ing-off  of  their  income  to  three  causes: 
first,  the  low  price  of  cattle;  decondly, 
the  substitution  of  guano  for  the  sea- 
weed which  they  were  accustomed  to 
sell  for  manure;  and  thirdly,  non-sale 
of  kelp  for  .che  manufaciure  of  iodine, 
which  has  been  supplanted  by  some 
American  product.  To  these  reasons 
might  be  added  another,  probably  more 
potent  than  any,  viz.,  the  over-popula- 
tion on  so  unproductive  a  soil,  and  the 
subdivision  of  holdings  among  all  the 
sons  upon  the  death  of  the  father, 
which  reduces  them  to  a  size  much  too 
small  for  the  support  of  a  man  and  his 
family.  This  view  was  fully  indorsed 
by  the  poor  law  guardian,  a  most  in« 
telligent  man,  who  has  resided  on  the 
island  all  his  life  and  is  fully  acquainted 
with  its  population  and  their  means  of 
subsistence.  He  took  me  into  tho  most 
wretched  cottnge,  in  which  the  accom- 
modation for  the  number  of  occupants 
was  the  worst  I  have  ever  seen,  and  ex- 
ceeded in  misery  anything  which  I  1  e- 
lieve  could  be  founS  in  England.  A 
family  of  fourteen,  some  of  them  grown 
up,  were  herded  together  in  this  cabin, 
the  majority  sleeping  in  the  single  bed, 
and  the  minority  having  a  shake  down 
bv  the  fire.  The  onlv  f eatu re  of  comfort 
which  every  cottage,  however  humble, 
possesses,  is  the  warmth  of  a  peat  fire, 
and  there  is  no  doubt  that  without  this 
ample  supply  of  fuel  the  population 
could  not  exist.  Meal  and  potatoes  are 
their  only  food,  and  if  they  suffer  from 
cold  they  at  once  become  ill. 

We  visited  several  other  c.t tastes, 
and  then  drove  on  to  Curraroe.    Father 


Lettermore  Island,  one  of    the   very  i  Conway,  the  parish  priest,   appeared 


462 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


much  superior  in  intelligence  to  the 
average  of  his  class,  and  is  thoroughly 
acquainted  with  the  circumstances  of 
his  flock.  Although,  from  the  priests 
receiving  head-money,  they  have  a 
direct  interest  in  maintaining  the 
numbers  of  their  flocks.  Father  Con- 
way was  ecjuallv  earnest  with  Mr. 
Toole  in  urging  the  necessity  of  emigra- 
tion, if  any  permanent  relief  was  to  be 
given  to  the  chronic  distress  of  his 
parish.  He  told  me  distinctly  that 
relief-works  would  have  to  be  under- 
taken every  year  to  support  those  who 
QpUld  not  support  themselves,  unless 
two-thirds  of  the  people  could  be  emi- 
grated. They  were,  he  said,  always  on 
the  brink  of  starvation,  and  were  al- 
together too  crowded  for  so  poor  a  soil. 
The  only  industry  which  we  saw  was  a 
little  weaving,  and  in  this  case  the  man 
was  as  poor  as  the  rest,  having  lately 
been  evicted,  and  having  returned  with- 
out leave,  for  which  he  was  fineu  178., 
a  sum  which  he  was  altogether  unable 
to  pay.  The  rents  in  this  parish  were 
about  £4  or  £5;  the  patches  of  ground 
were  mostly  not  more  than  half  an 
acre,  ,with  cottage  upon  them  of  a  single 
room,  which  was  in  some  instances 
divided  by  partitions. 

The  next  morning,  October  27,  we 
left  Skreeb  on  a  car  for  Ballinahinch. 
The  route  took  us  below  a  magnificent 
range  of  mountains,  known  as  the 
"  Twelve  Pins,''  on  the  right,  and  on 
the  left  by  "  Glendalough's  gloomy 
wave,"  so  celebrated  in  the  song  of 
Kathleen  Mavourneen.  We  passed 
Ballinahinch  Castle,  the  principal  resi- 
dence on  Mr.  Berridge's  property, 
which  was  occupied  two  years  ago  by 
Lord  Malmesbury,  but  is  now  vacant; 
and  in  the  evening  we  reached  Der- 
adder,  another -shooting-lodge,  but  now 
converted  into  .a  comfortable  small 
hotel,  kept  by  the  gamekeeper  of  the 
estate.  One  of  Mr.  Redington's  en- 
gineers was  staying  here,  and  he  kindly 


arranged  for  a  boat 'to  take  us  the  fol- 
lowing afternoon  to  Innis!acken  Island, 
one  of  the  very  poorest  on  the  west 
coast. 

We  started  by  driving  nine  miles  to 
Clifden.  The  general  aspect  of  the 
country  was  much  the  same  as  yester- 
day, viz.,  a  succession  of  lakes,  connect- 
ed by  streams  which  run  through  vast 
peat  bogs,  on  which  there  are,  only  in 
the  neighborhood  of  the  cottages,  small 
patches  of  cultivated  land  principally 
sown  with  potatoes.  Clifden  contains 
a  population  of  about  1,500,  of  whom 
300  are  Protestants,  many  of  the  latter 
having  lately  emigrated:  and  it  can 
boast  two  large  churches,  Protestant 
and  Catholic,  having  been  one  of  the 
centers  of  the  Protestant  mission,  to 

f  ether  with  an  immense  union  work- 
ouse  and  a  police-barrack.  We  drove 
on  after  an  interview  with  the  English 
clergyman  to  Ballykenealay,  a  village 
on  the  coast,  whose  Roman  Catholic 
priest  joined  us  on  the  road  and  intro- 
duced us  to  his  school.  About  forty 
children,  boys  and  girls,  all  dressed 
alike  in  two  pieces  of  sacking,  one  for 
the  upper  and  the  other  for  the  lower 
part  of  the  person,  were  assembled 
round  a  nice-looking  schoolmistress, 
who  was  teaching  them  to  read.  The 
cottages  in  this  village  wei'e  of  the 
poorest  description,  consisting  of  one 
room  with  a  hole  in  the  rooi  for  the 
peat-smoke  to  escape;  and  the  whole 
family  herd  together,  either  sleeping 
in  one  bed  or  lying  down  by  the  fire. 
We  drove  on  seven  miles,  and  then, 
scrambling  down  to  the  shore,  em- 
barked in  the  boat  sent  for  us  for  In- 
nislacken  Island. 

This  island  represents,  perhaps,  the 
most  hopeless  misery  of  any  district  we 
saw  in  the  west.  It  contains  40  fami- 
lies, probably  a  population  of  200  souls. 
They  have  no  shop,  no  school,  and  no 
parish  priest  on  the  island.  Mass  is 
celebrated  once  a  month;  but  thacbil- 


IRELAND  BEYOND  THE  PALE. 


4C3 


dren  are  left  altogether  untaught.  They 
were  too  poor  to  liave  auy  cattle  on  the 
island,  and  the  sole  occupation  of  the 
population  was  to  dig  small  patches  of 
potato  ground  which  surround  their 
wretched  hovels.  Mr.  Tukeliad  visited 
this  island,  and  by  giving  them  potato- 
seed  had  averted  actual  starvation,  while 
Mr.  Redington's  commission  had  built 
them  a  pier.  They  are,  however,  with- 
out boats  or  gear,  and  until  they  are 
taught  deep-sea  fisl^ng  by  experien^d 
fishermen  will  hardly  make  any  progress 
with  it.  Mr,  Tuke  had  emigrated  some, 
and  I  was  happy  to  find  that  others  were 
desirous  to  leave  the  island,  whose  rocky 
soil  cannot  support  their  numbers.  On 
the  whole,  the  island  population  on  the 
west  coast  seem  to  me  in  a  worse  con- 
dition tlian  those  on  the  mainland. 

Leaving  Deradder,  we  started  for 
Letterfrack,  the  road  to  which  runs 
under  the  Twelve  Pins  and  Beucor,  then 
past  a  succession  of  lakes  to  Kylemore 
Castle,  the  seat  and  domain  of  Mr.  Mit- 
chell Henry.  The  castle  is  beautifully 
situated,  looking  over  the  lake,  with  a 
purple  mountain  rising  immediately 
behind  it.  The  house,  a  castellated 
mansion  on  a  plateau,  and  grounds 
were  entirely  created  by  the  present  j 
proprietor,  who  brought  the  stone  by 
water  from  Dublin.  There  are  immense 
glass  houses,  some  full  of  delicious 
grapes;  but  the  wind  from  the  sea  is 
very  destructive  of  young  plants  and 
shi-ubs.  We  drove  on  to  Letterfrack 
for  the  night.  Next  morning,  after 
visiting  the  gardens  at  Kylemore,  on 
the  shore  of  Killary  Bay  we  quitted 
Gahvay  and  entered  Mayo,  arriving  at 
Westport  in  the  evening. 

Westport  has  somewhat  of  a  foreign 
appearance,  the  principal  hotel  standing 
in  a  boulevard,  whose  trees  fringe  on 
either  side  the  river  which  runs  through 
the  town,  and  by  Lord  Sligo's  park  to 
the  harbor.  After  church  on  Sunday 
W8  walked   through   the  park  to  the 


house,  a  plain  square  building  looking 
over  a  lake  to  the  harbor.  Later  in  the 
day  I  called  on  the  resident  magistrate, 
Mr.  Home.  He  told  me  that  in  West- 
point  itself  there  were  no  manufac- 
tures, but  an  exchange  took  place  for 
the  corn  stored  in  large  granaries  here, 
with  coal,  slate,  and  brick,  which  are 
imported.  The  holdings  in  this  neigh- 
borhood wero  about  twenty  acres,  and 
the  rents  in  his  opinion  too  high. 
Many  of  the  people  would  have  been 
entirely  destitute  had  it  not  been  for 
the  distribution  of  seed  potatoes  bv  Mr. 
Tuke's  fund.  And  yet  the  landlords, 
three  of  whom  receive  £60,000  a  year 
between  them,  did  nothing  to  help  the 
people!  The  district  at  present  was 
remarkably  quiet  and  free  from  crime, 
nor  did  he  believe  that  the  Land 
League  had  much  influence  with  the 
people,  although  two  meetings  near  Cas- 
tlebar  were  announced  for  next  week. 

Leaving  Westport,  we  started  in  a 
tandem  car  for  our  twenty  miles'  drive 
to  Achill  Sound.  The  property  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Westport  almost  en- 
tirely belongs  to  Lord  Sligo;  and  though 
the  soil  is  poor,  it  is  not  altogether 
peat,  as  in  Connemara,  while  the  hold- 
ings are  evidently  larger.  A  perfect 
hurricane  of  wind  and  rain  overtook 
us  before  we  arrived,  and  the  current 
was  running  so  strongly  that  the  ferry- 
boat could  not  cross,  and  we  were 
obliged,  much  to  our  dissatisfaction, 
to  remain  the  night  at  the  little  auberge 
by  the  Sound.  In  the  morning  we 
found  that  the  storm  had  moderated, 
and  we  were  able  to  cross  in  a  few 
minutes.  Of  Achill  itself,  it  may  be 
said  that  in  its  main  fe.ntures  it  resem- 
bles the  worst  part  of  Connemara.  It 
presents  a  vast  expanse  of  peatbog  and 
mountain,  interspersed  only  here  and 
there  with  small  patches  of  cultivated 
potato-ground  in  the  neighborhood  of 
small  thatched  cottages,  which  resemble 
the  crofters'  huts  in  Skye. 


404 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


We  drove  nine  miles  to  Doogort.  In 
•the  afternoon  we  drove  to  the  opposite 
sea  in  Keel  Bay,  where  a  new  pier  is 
being  constructed  and  we  visited  several 
of  the  cottages.  Most  of  the  able-bodied 
men  spend  four  months  in  England  or 
Scotland  at  harvest  time,  and  are  ac- 
customed to  bring  baok  £8  or  £9, 
tliough  this  year  they  have  not  managed 
to  save  more  than  30s.  With  this  they 
pay  their  rent,  and  the  landlords  are 
therefore  recouped  by  a  payment  which 
never  could  be  made  out  of  the  pro- 
ceeds of  the  soil. 

The  next  morning  we  started  to  drive 
toward  Achill  Head,  visiting  the  vil- 
lages of  Keem  and  Dooagli  on  the  way. 
AVe  met  the  parish  priest,  Father  O'Con- 
nor, and  his  two  curates  in  the  former 
village,  who  took  us  round  several  of 
the  cottages.  They  declared  that  the 
landlords  did  nothing  whatever  for  the 
people,  who  would  not  be  able  to  pay 
any  -rent  but  for  the  harvest  money 
earned  in  England.  Father  O'Connor 
said  they  required  a  larger  i)ier  than 
was  being  constructed  for  them  at  this 
village;  but  Mr.  Griffin,  of  the  Coast- 
guard, told  me  that  they  woijld  require 
previous  instruction  from  some  fisher- 
men experienced  in  diep-sea  fishing, 
and  their  canoes  orcurraghs  exchanged 
for  small  yawls,  before  much  could  be 
done  in  the  way  of  deep-sea  fishing. 
The  priests  declared  that  they  and  all 
the  people  were  strong  Home  Rulers, 
but  decidedly  opposed  to  separation 
from  Englana,  and  the  crowd  heartily 
indorsed  these  views.  In  these  villages 
it  is  melancholy  to  see  the  entire  absence 
of  any  occupation  for  able-bodied  men; 
the  patches  of  cultivated  ground  are  too 
email  to  occupy  them;  the  fishing  is 
an  industry  which  requires  both  a  large 
market  and  a  better  acq^iiaintance  with 
its  methods  than  the  villagers  possess; 
there  is  no  manufacture,  beyond  a  little 
weaving,  and  consequently,  except  for 
those  who  go  to  England  and  Scotland, 


there  is  no  steady  occnpation  at  all. 
The  only  real  remedy  would  be  to 
diminish  the  numbers  ^y  emigration, 
and  to  increase  for  the  smaller  number 
remaining  the  size  of  the  holdings.  For 
the  inhalitahts  of  Achill  and  the  coast, 
no  doubt,  much  might  be  done  by  giv- 
ing them  proper  boats  and  gear,  and 
settling  among  them  a  few  experienced 
Cornish  fishermen,  to  teach  them  the 
mysteries  of  the  deep-sea  fishing.  Con- 
curiently,  however,  with  this  some  effort 
ought  to  be  made  to  secure  them  access 
to  larger  markets  by  establishing  a  few 
light  railways  for  the  transport  of  their 
produce.  In  this  direction  the  comple- 
tion of  the  bridge  which  will  unite  Ac- 
hill with  the  mainland  will  do  much, 
and  will  avoid  the  necessitv  of  waiting 
manv  hours  at  the  Sound  for  the  trans- 
port  across  of  their  stock.  At  the  same 
time  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the 
habits  of  the  people,  accustomed  as  they 
are  to  a  very  low  scale  of  living,  must 
be  raised,  before  any  improvement  can 
be  permanent;  otherwise  the  only  effect 
of  removing  a  certain  number  of  them 
would  be  to  replace  them  by  a  new 
population  more  wretched  still,  who,  by 
subdividing  the  holdings,  would  bring 
about  very  rapidly  a  reproduction  oi 
the  existing  state  of  things. 

November  the  4th,  we  mounted  onr 
tandem  and  drove  the  nine  miles  to 
Archill  Sound  in  little  more  than  an 
hour,  meeting  on  the  road  a  number 
of  laborers  returning  from  the  English 
harvest.  Crossing  by  the  ferry-boat, 
we  found  a  wagonette  waiting,  in  which 
ue  drove  to  Westport,  from  whence  we 
took  the  train  to  Athlone.  Athlone  is 
the  border  town,  s*^anding  on  both  sides 
of  the  Shannon,  which  here  divides 
Leinster  from  Connaught.  It  is  a 
favorite  fishing  quarter,  and  boflsts  an 
old  castle,  which  was  taken  by  General 
Ginkle  for  William  III.,  close  by  which 
stands  now  the  Infantry'  barrack.  We 
left  at  ten  next  morning  for  Limerick. 


IRELAND  BEYOND  THE  PALE. 


465 


I  called  upon  the  Roman  Catholic 
bishop,  a  young  man  who  has  lately 
been  promoted  from  curacy  to  the 
episcopate.  He  was  a  strong  Home 
Ruler,  in  which  view  he  said  the  Roman 
Catholic  clergy  entirely  agreed,  beiag,he 
said,  mostly  the  sons  of  farmers,  and 
representing  faithfully  the  opinions  of 
the  class  from  which  they  sprang.  Of  the 
ultimate  concession  of  Home  Rule  to 
Ireland  he  entcnained  no  doubt  what- 
ever, but  feared  lest  the  grant  should  be 
made  too  late  to  conciliate  Ireland.  He 
was  strongly-  in  favor  of  the  endowment 
of  a  purely  Catholic  university,  in  order 
that  four- fifths  of  the  Irish  people  might 
be  placed  on  a  par  wjth  the  Protestants 
so  far  as  regards  higher  education.  At 
present  IVinity  College  has  an  endow- 
ment of  £50,000  a  year,  and  the  Catho- 
lic University  not  more  than  £5,000. 
The  city  of  Limerick  contains  about 
50,000  people.  There  are  some  flourish- 
ing cloth  mp^nufactures,  which  the 
government  has  lately  assisted  by  large 
orders  for  the  supply  of  military  cloth- 
ing; two  of  the  largest  bacon-curing 
establishments  are  in  full  work;  but 
the  lace  manufacture  is  practi(ially 
extinct. 

In  the  evening  we  took  the  train, 
and  reached  Killarney  Station.  Kil- 
laruey  has  been  the  suoject  of  so  many 
descriptions  that  it  would  be  useless  to 
attempt  another;  but  the  view  from  the 
hotel  windows  of  these  glorious -lakes, 
with  the  purple  mountains  beyond, 
whose  sides  the  laurel,  arbutus,  and 
birch  clo;he  down  to  the  water's  edge, 
with  the  innumerable  islands  studded 
over  the  bosom  of  the  lake,  present  a 
scene  which  in  picturesque  beauty  can- 
not be  surpassed.  As  our  object, 
however,  was  less  to  study  the  scenery 
than  to  endeavor  to  ascertain  the  feeling 
in  this  disturbed  district,  my  first  visit 
was  made  to  the  Roman  Catholic  bishop. 
In  respet^t  to  the  all-important  ques- 
tion   of   land  tenure,    he  thinks   the 


settlement  of  it  should  precede  the 
grant  of  Home  Rule.  He  does  not  be- 
lieve that  the  old  svstem  of  landlord 
and  tenant  can  ever  be  restored  in  Ire- 
land, but  that  it  will  be  replaced  by  .a, 
peasant  proprietary,  the  landlofds  in 
some  instances  retaining  their  dwelling- 
houses  and  demesnes.  The  bishop  said 
that  the  raising  of  the  rents,  whicli  had 
been  so  frequently  the  case  in  this 
country,  after  the  tenant  had  improved 
his  holding,  was  the  sure  way  to  check 
all  desire  for  improvement,  and  he 
strongly  deprecated  the  practice.  With 
regard  to  the  Land  League,  he  said  that 
nothing  was  ever  granted  in  Ireland 
until  after  an  agitation,  and  that  this 
fact  must  be  the  excuse  for  the  excesses 
of  the  League. 

We  afterward  saw  Lord  Kenmare, 
who  told  us  that  the  country  was  quiet-  • 
ing  down  under  the  Buller  regime,  and 
that  there  were  but  few  outrages.  He 
himself  hai  1,800  tenants  on  his  estate, 
but  though  reviled  as  the  ar?h-eviotor, 
there  had  not  been  altogether  more 
than  fifteen  cases  of  eviction  amongst 
them.  The  feeling,  however,  must  still 
be  very  strong,  since  no  one  in  the-ir 
neighborhood  will  have  any  dealings 
with  the  Curtins,  who  behaved  so 
bravely  in  the  Moonlight  attack  when 
their  father  was  murdered,  and  they  are 
not  even  allowed  to  take  part  in  the 
public  celebration  of  divine  woarsliip. 

We  afterward  saw  Sir  Red  vers  Buller* 
who  told  me  that  the  district  was  un- 
doubtedly quieter  now, hut  ho  feared  that 
it  was  only  a  temporary  hilU  He  agreed 
with  the  bishop  that  the  time  for  Homt 
Rule  was  not  yet,  and  that  the  land, 
question  ought  first  to  be  settled.  There  - 
is  a  generd  feeling  of  confidence  en- 
gendered among  all  i-anks  in  tlie  con- 
stabulary since  tiie  arrival  of  Sir  Redvera 
Buller.  Mr.  Crosbie,  a  large  landowner, 
whose  herd  of  shorthorns  is  amoi  ; 
the  best  in  the  kingdom,  gave  me  m '  i 
the  same  <ux)ount^    He  too  thiiikb  ...> 


466 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


country  is  frtr  the  present  quieting 
down,  but  does  not  believe  the  old  rela- 
tions of  landlord  and  tenant  can  be 
restored.  A  constantly  increasing  num- 
ber of  tenants  will  avail  themselves  of 
Lord  Ashbourne's  Act,  and  they  will 
gradually  buy  out  the  landlords.  Mr. 
Crosbie  said  that  in  this  county  the 
tenants  w^ere  not  badly  off,  having 
mostly  good  pasture  farms,  while  the 
breed  of  cattle  has  been  very  much  im- 
proved by  the  excellent  stocic  which  he 
has  himself  imported  from  England. 
Notwithstanding,  however,  their  better 
condition,  a  terrible  system  of  Moon- 
lighting had  prevailed,  and  eveiy  one 
of  Mr.  Crosbie's  tenants  had  been  in 
turn  assailed,  the  house  of  the  Protest- 
ant clergyman  having  even  been  fired 
into.  He  bore  strong  testimony  to  the 
•  satisfaction  of  the  police  at  the  appoint- 
ment of  »Sir  Redvers  Buller,  and  to 
thoiv  increased  loyalty  from  the  removal 
of  their  a})prehensions  by  it.  The  next 
day  we  left  Killarney  for  Cork,  where 
w^  had  additional  corroborative  testi- 
mony of  the  condition  of  the  people, 
viz.,  as  to  the  comparative  quiet  of  the 
present  moment,  owing  \o  the  instruc- 
tions of  the  Land  League,  but  of  an 
intense  desire  for  a  change  in  the  system 
of  land  tenure,  without  which  no  per- 
manent peace  will  be  achieved  in 
Ireland. 

Thus  ended  our  tour  in  the  west, 
and  I. would  only  desire  to  make  one 
or  two  general  observations  before  con- 
cludiifg.  In  the  fii*st  place  it  must  be 
distinctly  understood  that  no  measure 
of  relief,  whether  undertaken  by  gov- 
ernment or  public  charity,  will  have 
the  effect  of  permanently  improving 
the  condition  of  the  peasantry  in  the 
west  unless  accompanied  by  a  large 
measure  of  i  migration.  The  people  are 
altogether  too  numerous  to  be  supported 
on  so  rocky  and  barren  a  soil;  and  they 
are  living  already  on  the  narrowest 
margin  of  subsistence,  so  that  any  fail- 


ure of  the  crop,  however  partial,  at 
once  reduces  tliem  to  destitution. 
Secondlyy  any  remedial  measure  of 
emigration  ought  to  be  accompanied  by 
some  securities  taken  to  prevent  the 
constant  subdivision  of  the  land.  It  is 
tliis  practice  which  reduces  whole  fami- 
lies to  such  small  patches  that  they 
cannot  subsist  upon  them,  and  which 
consequently  reduces  the  scale  of  living 
below  the  most  modest  estimate  of 
what  is  needed  for  comfort  and  decencj. 
Thirdly,  it  will  be  necessary  tc  accom- 
pany the  relief  works  now  being  under- 
taken for  the  promotion  of  the  fishing 
industry  with  some  better  means  of 
access,  either  in  the  way  of  roads  or 
light  railways,  to  the  market*  where 
the  fishermen  are  to  dispose  of  their 
produce.  This  is  specially  the  case 
with  respect  to  the  inhabitants  of  the 
islands,  who  are  worse  off  than  those  on 
the  mainland.  It  will  be  nho  necessary 
to  establish  on  the  coast  some  men 
skilled  in  deep-sea  fishery,  who  can  in- 
struct the  people  in  the  use  of  nets,  in 
the  time  and  season  for  taking  the 
shoals,  and  in  the  Innding  of  fish. 

These  are  remedial  •  measures  which 
will,  we  may  hope,  commend  them- 
selves to  the  government  for  the  im- 
provement of  the  social  condition  of 
the  people.  With  regard  to  theirpolit- 
ical  condition  ard  the  means  of  satis- 
fying the  aspirations  of  the  Irish 
peasantry,  there  is  but  one  object  ever 
prominent  before  their  eyes.  That 
object  is  the  acquisition  of  the  soil. 
Home  Rule,  as  distinct  from  sepani- 
tion  is,  I  believe,  heartily  desired  for 
its  own  sake;  the  demand  for  it  has  not 
been  and  cannot  be  extinguished.  But 
it  would  be  idle  to  suppose  that  such  a 
concession  wonld  ever  be  preferred  as 
an  object  of  ambition  before  the  secure 
tenure  of  their  holdings,  in  the  eyes  of 
a  peasantry  whoso  lue  is  one  long 
struggle  for  existence.  The  grant  of 
Home  Enle   w:  ild,  I  firmly  believe, 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 


4tf7 


bring  peace  tti)d  blessings  to  the  Irish 
people,  by  getting  rid  of  an  alien  gov- 
ernment in  no  way  representative  of 
the  country;  but  a  peasant-ownership 
of  th€|  soil  would  get  rid  of  the  threat- 
ened increase  of  rent  which  follows 
invariably  every  successive  improve- 
ment. A  large  and  increasing  number 
of  tei^ants  are  taking  advantage  of  Lord 
Aslibourne's  Act  to  become  purchasers 
of  their  holdings,  an  act  which  may  be 
extended  in  amount,  and  relieved  of 
the  clause  which  reserves  one-fifth  of 
the  purchase  money  due  to  the  land- 
lord. It  is  certain  that  there  can  be  no 
better  security  for  the  stability  of  the 
institutions  of  a  country  than  by  enlist- 
ing an  increasing  number  ot  the  people 
in  their  support  by  giving  them  a  stake 
in  the  prosperity  of  the  soil. —  Sir 
Arthur  D.  Hayter,  in  The  Fortiiighi- 
ly  Review, 

CURRENT  THOUGHT. 

M0N8.  Zola. — Mr.  Frank  T.  Marzials,  in 
The  Cordtnvporwry  Review,  writes  a  long  crit- 
ique upon  M.  Zola,  concluding  thus: — 

"Of  what  M.  Zola  may  be  in  the  ordinary 
relations  of  life  *I  neither  know,  nor  have  a 
right  to  know,  anything.  It  is  only  his 
character  as  a  writer  that  can  possihly  be  here 
in  question.  When  I,  say  therefore,  that  the 
essential  quality  of  his  spirit  is  coarseness,  I 
must  lie  exonerated  from  all  intention  of  per- 
sonal discouTtefy.  Naturally,  there  are  many 
other  hues  blended  in  the  temperament 
through  which  he^  views  life,  art,  and  letters. 
*  But  coarseness  is*  tlie  prevailing  tone.  He 
seems  to  see  everything  through  what  ma^ 
1)6  called  an  anim'H  atmosphere.  Does  this 
expression  seem  unduly  strong,  and  unwar- 
ranted by  the  ordinary  amenities  of  literature? 
I  scarcely  think  M.  Zola  himself  would  re- 
pudiate it.  Fossjbly  he  might  even  regard  it 
as  a  compliment.^  Has  he  nut  a«»urcd  us  that 
the  result  of  all  investigations  into  the  various 
classes  of  society  is  'immediately  to  reach  the 
beast  in  man,  whether  covered  by  a  blaek 
coat  or  b}*^  a  blouse.*  And  it  is  this  bafist 
which  his*  temperament  leads  him  always  to 
«ee,  and  to  see  exclusively.  A  swarming, 
huddled  mass  of  growling  creatures,  eacii 
iinunded  on  by  his  foul  appetites  of  ^od  and 
Just;  the  strong  succeeding  rightly  in  virtue 


of  their  strength,  and  the  weak,  as. rightly, 
bein^T  puslied  into  the  mire — such  is  his  out- 
look on  humanity.  Love  he  scarcely  recog- 
nizes save  in  its  purely  physical  aspect,  ^l 
nobler  aspirations  and  emotions  he  regards 
as  the  lymg  inventions  of  writers,  who  de- 
ceived their  fellows  in  the  dark  ages  before 
the  dawn  of  'Naturalism.'  For  the  contlict 
with  the  evil  iu  itself  wliich  every  soul  of  the 
better  kind  is  impelled  to  wage  unceasingly 
he  has  but  words  of  scorn.  ...  If  it  were 
rash  U)  assert  that  M.  Zola, .  by  vulgarizing 
literature,  will  not  be  able  to  rea<^h  lower 
strata  of  readers,  we  may  at  least  afflrm  that 
his  claim  to  be  in  possession  of  the  future  is 
no  more  than  an  ill  and  an  idle  dream.  Let 
us  grant  that  man  baa  been  developed  from 
the  brute.  Let  us  grant  that  there  is  a  vary- 
ing proportion  of  the  brut«  still  left  iu  hiui. 
But  if  there  lie  one  thing  clearer  than  another 
in  his  obscure  history,  it  is  that  the  course  of 
his  development  has  led  him  gradually  and 
ever  more  and  more  to  emancipate  hunself 
from  the  bnite,  and  to  conquer  his  full  man- 
hood. This  is  what  civilization  means.  This 
is  what  morality  means.  This  is  the  edifice 
which  Christianity  would  crown  with  its  sub- 
lime ideals.  Here  lie  our  hopes  for  the  fu- 
ture of  the  race.  ^  And  M.  Zola,  so  far  from 
marching,  as  he  fondly  imagines,  in  the  ad- 
vanced guard  of  human  progress,  is  really 
loitering  behind,  and  finding  the  while  only  too 
much  pleasure  in  the  companionship  of  lag- 
gards, malingerers,  and  camp-followers  of 
the  less  reputable  type." 

Increase  op  Tubbrcut.ou8  Disease  amono 
THE  Indians.— Dr.  Washington  Matthews, 
surgeon  in  the  U.  S.  Army,  "has  made,"  says 
Science,  **a  valuable  contribution  on  the 
causes  which  are  at  work  in  carrying  off  the 
Indians  of  our  country.  One  of  the  most 
important  of  these  he  finds  to  be  consump- 
tion. From  the  census  of  1880  we  learn  that, 
while  the  death-rate  among  Europeans  is 
17.74  p(r  thousand,  apd  that  ai^ng  Africans 
17.28,  the  rate  among  the  Indians  is  not  less 
than  23.6.  In  diarrhoeal  diseases  the  Indian 
death-rate  is  not  greatly  in  excess  of  that  of 
the  other  classes.  Measles  gives  a  mortality  of 
61.78  per  thousand.  But  it  is  under  the  head 
of  consumption  that  the  difference  between 
the  Indians  and  the  blacks  is  most  conspic 
uous;  the  rate  among  the  former  being  286  as 
compared  with  168  among  the  latter,  while 
among  the  whites  it  is  but  166  in  the  thou- 
sand. Dr.  Matthews  finds  that,  where  the 
Indians  have  been  longest  under  civilizing 
influences,  the  cousumption-rate  is  the  high- 
est; meaning  by  the  term  '  consumption- rat6' 


468 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINK 


the  number  of  deaths  from  consumption  in  a 
thousand  deaths  from  all  known  causes. 
Thus  the  rate  amoiig  reservation  Indians  in 
Nevada  is  45;  in  Dakota,  200;  in  Michigan, 
833;  and  in  New  York,  tt2o.  The  evidence 
appears  to  show  that  consumption  increases 
among  Indians  under  the  influence  of  civil- 
ization, t.  e.,  under  a  compulsory  endeavor  to 
accustom  thenibi^lves  to  the  food  and  the 
habits  of  an  alien  and  more  advanced  race — 
and  that  climate  is  no  calculable  factor  of  this 
increase.  It  is  .a  general  supposition  on  the 
frontier  that  it  is  change  of  diet  which  is  the 
most  potent  remote  cause  of  consumption 
among  the  Indians.  It  is  also  ascertained 
that  the  consumption-rate  is  high  at  agencies 
where  the  supply  of  beef  is  liberal,  and,  as 
especially  higli  among  the  Indians  of  New 
York  and  Michigan,  whose  diet  is  by  no 
means  a  restricted  one.  It  is  evident  that  the 
true  e.x])l:mation  for  this  remarkable  predis- 
position of  the  red-^an  to  pulmonary  tuber- 
culosis has  not  yet  been  given,  and  that  a 
fruitful  field  is  open  to  those  whose  qualifica- 
tions and  taste  lead  them  into  such  investiga- 
tons  as  these.*' 

Some  Clevkti  SprDERs. — Mr.  G.  Thomp- 
son, of  Washington,  writes  thus  to  Science: — 

**Some  disadvantage  or  evil  appears  to  be 
attendant  upon  every  invention,  and  the  elec- 
tric light  is  not  an  exception  in  this  respect. 
In  this  city  they  have  been  placed  in  positions 
with  a  view  of  ilhiminnting  the  buildings, 
notably  the  Treasury,  and  a  fine  and  striking 
effect  is  produced.  At  the  same  time,  a  si^ecies 
of  spider  has  discovered  that  game  is  plenti- 
ful in  their  vicinity,  and  tlmt  he  can  ply  his 
craft  both  day  and  night.  In  consequen^e, 
their  webs  are  so  thick  and  numerous  that  por- 
tions of  the  architectural  ornamentation  are  no 
longer  vi8i])le,  and  when  torn  down  by  the 
wind,  or  when  they  fall  from  decay,  the  refuse 
gives  a  dingy  and  dirty  appearance  to  every- 
thing it  comes  in  contact  with  Not  only  this, 
but  these  at^nturers  take  possession  of  the 
portion  of  the  ceiling  of  any  room  which  re- 
ceives the  illumination.  It  would  be  of  interest 
to  know  whether  this  spider  is  confined  to  a 
certain  latitude,  and  at  what  seasons  of  the  year 
or  temperature  we  can  indulge  in  our  illumin 
ation.'* 

To  Amrkican  Geoloqistb.  —  It  is  an- 
nounced that  a  meeting  of  the  American 
Committee  of  tlw)  International  Congress  of 
Geologists  will  be  held  in  Albany,  from  April 
5  to  April  19,  of  the  present  year.  Mr.  Per- 
sifor  Frazer,  Secretary  of  this  Committee, 
lias  issued  the  following  "Card  to  American 
P*»')logi8ta:** — 


"The  object  of  this  meeting  is  to  perfect  a 
scheme  embodying  the  thoughts  of  American 
geologists  on  the  questions  of  classificaliou, 
nomenclature,  coloration,  etc.,  enieriup  into 
the  system  of  unification  of  geological 
science,  which  is  the  object  of  the  luteroa- 
tional  Congress.  In  order  that  the  com- 
mittee may  represent  the  views  of  all  geolo- 
gists in  the  United  States,  it  hereby  invites 
from  all,  the  individual  opinions  on  any  Biib- 
jects  likely  to  arise  in  the  OongrcFS.  Tliose 
who  will  meet  the  American  Committee  in 
Albany  ere  requested  to  send  to  the  uuder 
signed  a  note  of  tlie  topic  or  topics  they  jjio 
pose  to  treat,  and  the  time  which  tliey  will 
require.  In  cases  wh^'re  it  is  not  couvenieol 
for  them  to  go  to  Albany,  they  are  requested 
to  forward  a  state. ueut  of  their  views  to  the 
undersigned  in  writing  before  April  1,  for 
presentation  to  the  committee.  For  iu forma 
tiou  as  to  the  kind  of  questions  to  be  dis- 
cussed, attention  !&  called  to  the  *  Report  of 
the  American  Committee,'  published  hi$t 
spring,  in  which  the  debates  in  the  tbird 
session  of  the  International  Congress  are  re- 
ported. •" 

A  Mighty  Catalogue. — We  read,  in  Sci 
ence,  that  **A  memorial  h^s  been  presented  to 
Congress,  signed  by  prominent  literary  and 
scientitic  men  and  representatives  of  several 
historical  societies,  setting  forXii  the  great 
value  and  importance  of  a  full  and  accurate 
digest  and  catalogue  of  the  numerous  docu- 
ments found  in  public  and  private  archives  of 
Europe  relating  to  the  early  history  of  the 
United  States,  and  especially  to  the  treaty  of 
Paris  in  1763,  and  the  treaty  of  peace  between 
the  United  Slates  and  Great  Brilain  in  1783. 
Most  of  these  documents  are  unknown  to  tiie 
American  student,  and  but  few  of  them  have 
ever  been  copied,  owing  to  their  inaccessi- 
bility. Mr.  B<^njamin  Franklin  Stevens  of 
London  has,  after  many  years'  labor,  pre- 
pared a  descriptive  catalogue  of  over9r),(KH» 
separate  papers  found  in  the  archives  of  differ 
ent  European  cfjuntries.  The  Secretary  of 
State  recommends  to  Congress  the  purchase 
of  this  descriptive  catalogue,  and  adds, 
*  Without  its  favorable  action,  not  only  vill 
the  completion  of  the  work  l5e  doubtful,  if  not 
impossible,  but  the  fragment  now  prejMired 
would  probably  remain  practically  valueless.' 
Mr.  Steven8,in  a  letter  to  the  Secretary  of  State, 
says  that  the  work  has  become  too  great  for 
any  individual  to  undertake  alone,  unless  a 
man  of  wealth,  and  that,  when  complete,  tlie 
index  will  probably  comprise  150.000  docu 
ments,  and  fill  ^,000  royal  octavo  printed 
pages." 


A  LEARNED  INFANT. 


469 


A  LEARNED  INFANT. 

Gifted  childhood  has  never  been 
without  its  ardent  admirers.  In  tho 
literature  of  the  East  we  have  the 
stories  of  the  wondrous  childish  wisdom 
of  Gautama,  Confucius,  and  other  in- 
tellectual leaders.  Classical  literature 
records  the  youthful  achievements  of 
Aristophanes,  Pliny  the  younger,  and 
others.  And  modern  writings  are  8*iill 
richer  in  the  tradition  of  juvenile 
talent.  Besides  the  manv  anecdotes 
strewn  over  the  biographies  of  great 
men  there  are  volumes  especially  de- 
voted to  setting  forth  the  wondera  of 
the  youn^  intellect.  Of  these  the  most 
memorable  perhaps  is  the  collection  of 
ancient  and  modern  stories  made  two 
centuries  ago  by  M.  Adrien  Bail  let. 
Here  the  exploits  of  early  talent  are 
amply  done  justice  to,  so  that  however 
gre^it  the  reader's  capacity  for  the  de- 
lights of  the  marvelous,  it  is  pretty 
certain  to  be  sufficiently  gratified. 

To  the  genuine  worshiper  of  youth- 
ful genius  these  records,  highly  impres- 
sive as  they  are,  have  one  drawback. 
In  too  many  cases  they  seem  to  magnify 
the  exploits  of  the  juvenile  intellect,  not 
80  much  for  their  own  worth's  sake, 
as  for  their  supposed  significance  as  an 
omen  of  a  later  and  mature  distiuction. 
Now  to  one  who  feels  the  potent  charm 
of 'childish  talent,  the  future  of  the 
little  hcFo  is  a  matter  of  indifference. 
He  is  quite  at  liberty,  if  he  thinks  it 
worth  while,  to  grow  into  an  adult  cele- 
brity, like  Giotto,  Mozart,  Pope,  and 
many  another;  or  he  may,  after  attain- 
ing to  youth's  leadershij),  prefer  to  fall 
back  into  the  rank  and  file  of  unknown 
men,  as  the  learned  boy  that  Pepys  tells 
us  of,  who,  after  earning  renown  at  the 
early  age  of  eleven  for  his  gigantic  feats 
in  scholarship,  settled  down  in  early 
manhood  to  the  snug  privacy  of  a 
loiintry  living;  or  finally,  contented 
with  youth^B  distinction^  he  may  deem 


it  best  to  forsake  the  earthly  scene  al- 
together. Rightly  considered,  the  luster 
of  childish  talent  needs  not  the  addition 
of  the  more  diffused  and  vulgar  splendor 
of  adult  fame. 

The  most  perfectly  loyal  tribute  to 
the  childish  king  is  probably  to  be 
found  in  the  story  of  those  gifted  ones 
who,  having  been  too  much  beloved  of 
the  gods,  died  in  youth.  For  here  we 
may  be  sure  not  only  that  the  young 
hero  is  extolled  for  what  he  already  is 
and  not  for  what  he  is  to  be,  but  that 
the  record  of  his  doings  is  wholly  a 
testimony  to  others'  veneration  and  not 
the  outcome  of  manhood's  retrospective 
vanity.  And  such  unimpeachable  re- 
cords exist.  Here,  however,  we  must 
further  distinguish.  Not  every  biog- 
raphy of  splendid  youthful  talent  cut 
short  by  death  is  a  perfect  example  of 
homage  to  the  supreme  rank  of  the 
child-King.  Thus  the  story  of  the 
rifted  young  painter  and  novelist,  0. 
Madox  Brown,  cut  off  in  his  adolescence 
when  just  about  to  seize  the  glory  of 
manhood's  fame,  owes  much  of  its 
fascination  to  the  pathos  of  that  event. 
What  we  want  is  a  chronicle  of  a  great 
child  who  died  before  there  was  time  to 
think-  of  a  later  career,  and  who  is 
therefore  plainly  immortalized  in  virtue 
of  his  young  achievements. 

Of  such  perfect  tributes  to  the  genius 
of  childhood  the  number  seems  to  be 
verj'  small.  At  least  the  present  writer 
.has  only  succeeded  in  un^jfthing  two 
examples.  The  earlier  of  these  is  a 
German  work  bearing  the  elaborate 
title.  Life,  Deeds,  Travels,  and  Death 
of  a  very  wise  and  very  fiicely  behaved 
four-year-old  child,  Christian  Heinrich 
Heineken,  of  Lilbeck,  described  by  his 
tutor.  Christian  von  Schoneich,  and 
published  in  GSttingen  in  1779.  The 
other  work  is  from  the  pen  of  an 
Englishman.  It  is  entitled,  A  Fathers 
Memoirs  of  his  Child,  by  B.  H.  Malkin, 
Esq.,  and  was  published  in  1806. 


470 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


The  second  of  these  should,  as  a 
father's  offering,  be  scanned  with  a 
charitable  eye;  and  it  sorsly  needs  thib 
forbearance.  The  English  reader  of 
to-day,  whose  love  of  the  marvelous 
has  been  regaled  by  the  stories  of  the 
fabulous  erudition  of  Master  J.  S.  Mill, 
Master  W.  Rowan  Hamilton,  and  other 
childish  worthies,  obstinately  refuses  to 
be  startled  by  the  information  that  at  the 
age  of  three  and  a  half  Master  Malkin 
could  read  any  English  book  without 
hesitation  and  knew  the  Greek  letters. 
Nor  when  he  recalls  others  who  have 
lisped  in  numbers  is  he  likely  to  be 
profoundly  moved  by  little  Malkin 's 
first  poetic  effort,  a  versified  psalm 
composed  at  the  age  of  seven. 

It  is  otherwise  with  the  biography  of 
the  Liibeck  child.  This  is  written  by  a 
tutor  who  may  be  supposed  to  have 
known  something  of  ordinary  childish 
powers.  And  the  subject  of  the  memoir 
appears  to  have  been  in  every  way 
worthy  of  the  posthumous  honor  paid 
to  him.  He  is  a  giant  among  childish 
heroes,  whether  we  consider  his  faculty 
of  learning  or  his  yet  more  impressive 
power  of  original  utterance.  And  then 
his  title  to  the  fame^  that  he  so  well 
deserves  was  wholly  won  in  four  short 
years,  or,  to  be  exact,  four  years,  four 
months,  and  twenty-one  days.  Al- 
together the  biography  of  Master 
Keineken  very  well  satisfies  the  condi- 
tions of  a  spontaneous  and  sincere 
tribute  tq^hildish  greatness,  and  as 
such  it  has  been  selected  as  the  theme 
of  this  paper. 

liefore  entering  upon  the  contents  of 
the  record  a  word  or  two  may  be  said 
about  the  biographer.  The  parents  of 
this  astounding  child  are  to-be  con- 
gratulated on  their  discernment  in 
having  intrusted  their  precious  off- 
spring to  one  who  was  so  completely 
worthy  of  the  high  office.  Herr  von 
Schoneich,  as  his   name  reminds   us. 


nobihry  of  title  thero  corresponded  a 
nobility  of  mind,  a  suscepubiiity  -.o 
grand  ideas.  In  the  infant  of  Liibeck 
he  recognized  with  a  fine  pedagogic  eye 
a  miracle  of  nature,  at  the  performance 
of  which  he  might  play  a  subordinate 
but  still  a  distinguished  part.  Like 
eyery  pedagogue  worthy  of  tlie  name  he 
had  a  system,  and  in  the  richly  endowed 
baby  Heineken  he  saw  a  unique  opportu- 
nity of  fully  developing  its  possibilities. 
Inasmuch,  moreover,  as  the  Lubeck 
child  had  a  thirst  for  learning  worthy 
of  an  Erasmus,  his  tutor  was  able  to 
apply  his  peculiar  principles  with  the 
the  minimum  risk  of  appearing  to  force 
the  development  of  the  bri'^ng  intel- 
lect. 

As  a  biographer  Herr  von  cjchoncich 
is  much  to  be  commended.  He  is 
human,  and  naturally  does  not  forget  to 
remind  his  readers  now  and  again  of  iiia 
own  part  in  the  production  of  the 
infant-marvel.  Thus  in  the  preface  be 
modestly  alludes  to  his  own  function 
when  he  asserts  that  the  subject  of  his 
st(3ry  "is  indisputably  one  of  the  most 
wonderful  phenomena  that  psychology 
and  pedagogy  have  supplied  since 
Adam's  creation."  Nevertheless,  he 
does  not  disagreeably  push  himseif  into 
the  foreground  of  his  picture,  lo  the 
detriment  of  the  principal  figure.  He 
writes  of  his  subject  with  an  enthusiasm 
that  seems  half  the  passionate  deh^ht 
of  a  savant  in  discovering  a  rare  and 
priceless  specimen,  and  half  the  more 
elemental  human  emotion  of  baby-wor- 
ship. This  gives  mudh  of  the  charra 
to  the  narrative.  The  tutor  notes  down 
every  detail  of  the  sublime  child's  life 
with  that  unquestioning  and  impartial 
admiration  that  marks  the  true  courtier. 
Not  Boswell  himself  hung  on  the  utter- 
ances of  his  hero  with  a  greater  avidity 
than  that  of  our  Liibeck  tutor. 

The  very  form  of  the  biography  at- 
tests the  true  appreciation  of  imnutinp 


A  LEAKNED  INFANT. 


471 


such  an  abundant  harvest  of  intellec- 
tual achievement  is  ripened  and  gather- 
ed in  the  brief  season  of  infancy  months 
must  count  for  years,  and  years  for 
Shakespeare's  **age8."  Hence  he  ap- 
propriately divides  his  narrative  into 
sixteen  books.  A  like  penetration 
shows  itself  in  the  arrangement  of  the 
matter.  Thus  by  devotmg  only  two 
chapters  to  the  first  thr^e  years  and  re- 
serving fourteen  for  the  last,  the  biog- 
i-apher  seems  to  tell  us  that  in  Master 
lleinekeu's  case  the  fourth  year  repre- 
sents in  its  maturity  and  productiveness 
the  adolescence  and  manhood  of  the  or- 
dinary and  more  diffuse  life.  In  truth, 
as  we  shall  see,  this  last  epoch  of  the 
child's  existence  covered  both  the  Wan- 
derjahre  and  the  Meisterjahre  of  human 
life.  It  was  then  that  the  phenomenal 
child  left  his  peaceful  Liibeck  home,  in 
order  to  see  the  world;  it  was  then  that 
he  gave  the  most  signal  proofs  of  that 
profundity  of  wisdom  which  places  him 
among  the  select  group  of  the  unf  orgot- 
ten.     But  we  are  anticipating. 

The  illustrious  child  of  whom  we 
speak  was  bom  in  Liibeck  on  February 
6,  1721.  The  date  of  his  birth,  it  mp,y 
be  said  in  passing,  intervened  between 
those  of  two  more  widely  known  Ger- 
man scholars,  viz.,  Winckolmann,  born 
in  1717,  and  his  disciple  Lessiug,  born 
in  1 729.  We  are  told  that  the  privileg- 
ed father  of  the  child  wa^  a  painter; 
but,  as  nothing  further  is  said  about 
him,  wo  may  infer  that  he  blad  little  to. 
do  with  bringing  up  or  bringing  Q»t 
the  infant-wonder.  Possibly  the  good 
man  felt  inadequate  to  deal  with  tlie 
preternatural  abilities  of  little  Christian, 
arid  more  pei-plexed  than  elatvd  by  his 
good  fortune.  If  so,  h^  only  resembled 
other  uuaiipreciative  fathers  of  talented 
children.  However  this  iiir.y  have  been, 
Christian,  when  literally  a  babe  and 
suckling,  was  handed  over  to.  a  tutor. 
How  far  the  learned  man  undertook 
the  physical  as  well  as  the  mental  nur^ 


ture  of  the  child  is  not  distinctly  stated, 
but  we  are  led  to  conjecture  that  liis 
influence  extended  over  the  whole  of  its 
marvelous  b^ing.. 

The  reader  might  not  unnaturally 
wonder  whether  the  tutorial  authority 
ever  came  into  collision  with  that  of 
the  mother  and  the  nurse,  but  our  biog- 
rapher does  not  satisfy  such  curiosity. 

In  any  case  the  ardent  pedagogue 
could  not  have  met  with  any  serious 
opposition  from  the  conventional  rulers 
of  the  nursery,  for  by  the  end  of  the 
first  year  he  ie  able  to  report  very  tangi- 
ble results  of  his  educational  system. 
This  date  is  an  epoch-making  one,  even 
in  the  life  of  the  ordinary  child,  and 
in  Christian's  case  it  wa^  signalized  by 
the  completion  of  the  fii'st  stadium  of 
the  curriculum.  His  baby  head,  we  are 
proudly  told,  had  taken  in  und  absorb- 
ed all  the  principal  stories  of  the  Old 
Testament.  From  this  point  on,  the 
progress  of  this  extraordinary  mind  is 
carefullv  noted.  Thus  we  read  that  in 
the  eignteenth  month  the  child  van* 
Quished  the  remaining  stories  of  the 
Old  Testament,  and  by  the  end  ot  the 
following  month  had  addQd  t^  his  in- 
tellectual trophies  the  intrrative  of  the 
New  Testapient^  Sacred  history  was 
followed  by  prrfane.  so  that  by  the  age 
of  two.  pnd,  J*  half  the  little  scholar  JiSd 
leari^t  ihe  history  of  the  ancient  world 
toge^r  with  universal  geography, 
Thia  part  of  the  curriculum  was  com- 
pleted by  linguistic  stud ijM  which  ci\^^ 
minated  in  the  imposing  reeuU:  ^t  a 
Ijatin  vocabulary  of  8,000  W()^^xlft, 

It  would  be  easy,  for  th^  outsider  to 
pass  unfavorably  orUicisms  on  the 
method  adopted  \)iy  yen*  von  SchOneich^ 
Why,  it  may  b^  wi^ed^  was  little  Chris-, 
tian  pluhgeqi  u>to  the  remote  and  ab^d^ 
owy  region  of  a^Qient  history  b^foro 
knowing  anythiBg  of  the  paat  ^  his 
own  country,  and  wh^n,  too,  th^§  wore 
in  his  iiative  town  so  m^ny  pictnrepque 
r^ic«  o|  th^-t  pa^t  which  might  btt^d 


in 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


served  at  once  as  object-lessons  and  as  a 
means  of  awakening  the  historical  sense 
of  the  child?  In  answer  to  this  it  may 
be  enough  to  remind  the*  reader  that 
our  worthy  pedagogue  lived  before  the 
age  of  Pestalozzi  and  the  object-lesson, 
and  that,  after  all.  a  method  of  instnic- 
tion  that  seems  unnatural  and  inverted 
when  applied  to  ordinary  capacity  may, 
for  aught  we  know,  have  been  quite 
legitimate  and  appropriate  in  the  ease 
of  one  endowed  with  such  extraordinary 
powers  as  those  of  our  hero. 

Whatever  the  merits  or  demerits  of 
the  system,  it  is  apparent  that  Herr 
von  ISelioneich  was  bent  on  making  his 
pupil  a  scholar  with  a  mind  steeped  in 
the  lore  of  books.  Now  scientific  men 
tell  us  that  learning  by  heart  is  among 
all  intellectual  exercises  one  of  the  most 
fatiguing  to  the  brain,  and,  though 
little  Christian's  organ  was  no  doubt 
preternatural ly  vigorous,  it  felt  the 
strain  that  is  inseparable  from  accurate 
scholarship.  He  suffered,  we  are  told, 
at  this  time  from  a  sharp  attack  of  ill- 
ness, wliich  may  pretty  safely  Ke  taken 
as  an  evidence  of  a  consuming  passion 
for  study.  The  malady  did  not,  ap- 
parently, cause  a  serious  interruption  of 
the  curriculum,  for  by  the  end  of  the 
third  year  considerable  progress  is  again 
recorded. 

Pursuing  the  route  laid  down  by  his 
jBystem,  the  tutor  began  in  the  fourth 
year  to  open  up  the  gi-ave  mysteries  of 
Dogmatic  'geology.  The  severity  of 
the  subject  was  relieved  by  the  addition 
of  Ecclesiastical  History.  And  more 
mundane  interests  were  represented  by 
Modern  History,  which  included  such 
obscure  departments  as  that  of  Hungary 
and  Poland. 

Such  feats  of  learning  could  not  long 
remain  hidden,  more  particularly  as 
they  occurred  when  scholarship  in  the 
Fatherland  was  not  at  a  remarkably 
high  level.  The  fame  of  the  Liibeck 
tchild  went  through  one  half  of  Europe, 


and  Master  Heineken  found  himself, 
like  the  great  metaphysician  who  dwelt 
in  later  years  in  another  town  on  tho 
same  Baltic  coast,  interviewed  by  those 
serious  lion-hunters  who  do  not  mii.d 
traveling  a  hundred  miles  or  more  in 
order  to  see  a  real  intellectual  king. 
But  the  child's  philosophy  was  equal 
to  the  trial.  He  accepted  the  homage 
as  one  born  to  royalty,  and  then  quietly 
resumed  his  studies. 

We  know  how  the  absorption  of  a 
great  man  in  the  things  of  the  mind  is 
apt  to  leave  him  bacKward  in  respect 
01  more  commonplace  attainments.  It 
is  said  that  more  than  one  intellectual 
hero  never  acquired  the  knack  of  dress- 
ing himself  properly.  A  like  charac- 
teristic defect  shows  itself  in  the  case 
of  Christian.  His  fingers  did  not  keep 
pace  with  his  swift  brain,  so  that  in  the 
beginning  of  the  fourth  year,  while  able 
to  compose  whole  narratives  in  French, 
he  was  still  unable  to  write  down  his 
compositions,  and  had  to  resort  to  an 
amanuensis.  Possibly  this  muscular 
infirmity  was  not  altogether  a  loss,  as  it 
may  have  helped  to  develop  the  singular 
oratorical  powers  of  the  child,  that  gift 
of  ready  and  pregnant  apothegm  which 
gives  him  a  place  among  the  great 
moralists. 

Once  more  the  slender  body  proved 
too  weak  to  support  the  big  soul  it  car- 
ried within  it,  and  a  second  attack  of 
sickness  put  the  child's  mental  faculties 
for  the  moment  liors  de  combat.  C'hris- 
tian  was  too  much  of  a  philosopher  to 
be  indifferent  to  his  health,  and  often 
breathed  the  wish,  Utinam  me/is  sana 
in  corpore  sano  (**  Oh,  that  I  had  the 
healthv  mind  in  the  healthv  bodv  1  '1 
At  length  change  of  air  was  proposed 
for  the  precious  invalid.  Christian 
snatched  at  the  idea,  and,  to  the  as- 
tonishment of  his  parents,  reduced  it  to 
concrete  form  by  saying,  *'  I  will  go  to 
Copenhagen  and  make  a  present  of  my 
colored  maps  to  the  king,  then  I  shall 


A  LEARNED  INFANT. 


473 


be  all  right  a^in.*^  One  would  like 
to  know  the  origin  of  this  bold  concep- 
tion in  the  hero's  mind.  Was  it  the 
product  of  M  nascent  consciousness  of 
intellectual  kingship  and  a  desire  to 
assert  it  over  and  against  the  imposing 
grandeur  of  an  earthly  court  ?  How- 
ever this  be,  we  see  in*the  proposal 
evidences  of  that  large-hearted  cosmo- 
politanism whicli,  as  we  know  from  the 
example  of  Lessing,  Goethe,  and  others, 
a  wide  intellectual  culture  is  fitted  to 
develop.  For  Denmark  was  the  heredi- 
tary foe  of  the  Hanseatic  city,  which 
haa  had  enough  to  do  to  preserve  its 
independence  against  the  menaces  of 
its  powerful  neighbor.  It  is  hardly 
necessary  to  say  that  the  wish  of  the 
child  was  regarded  by  those  about 
him  as  absolutely  authoritative.  The 
mother's  natural  dislike  to  the  idea  of  a 
sea-voyage  was  disarmed  by  the  all-wise 
infant  with  a  re:£erence  to  its  hygienic 
advantages  and  a  consolatory  quotation 
or  two  from  the  Bible. 

From  this  point  on  the  sayings  and 
doings  of  our  hero  are  recorded  with 
much  greater  fullness.  The  tutor  nat- 
urally felt  that  this  journey  to  the 
Panish  capital  was  to  be  the  proud  oc- 
casion of  his  life.  No  schoolmaster's 
heart,  we  may  be  sure,  ever  beat  so  high 
at  the  prospect  of  the  closing  scene  of 
the  academic  year,  the  distribulicm  of 
prizes  by  that  most  influential  patron 
of  the  school,  Jonathan  Jones,  Esq.,  as 
the  heart  of  Herr  von  Schoneich  beat 
at  the  vision  of  laying  his  miracle  of 
podagogic  workmanship  before  the 
king. 

The  party  set  sail  in  the  month  of 
July,  1724.  It  consisted  of  the  infant- 
king  himself,  and,  for  retinue,  the 
mother,  nur^e,  and  tutor.  Neptune 
was  less  friendly  to  Christian  than  to 
another  illustrious  youth  who  once 
boldly  crossed  his  domain,  and  he  suf- 
fered sorely  from  sea-sickness.  Yet  tlio 
great  mind  again  rose  superior  to  the 


ills  of  flesh,  and  flashed  out  now  and 
then  in  brilliant  observation — some- 
times its  own,  sometimes  a  ehissical  or 
Scriptural  quotation  hardly  less  original 
by  reason  of  its  ready  and  novel  appli- 
cation. Thus,  when  some  of  the  ship- 
milk  was  offered  him  he  facetiously 
asked,  "Is  it  not  that  lac  galldna- 
ceu m  ?  "  — i. e. ,  something  too  r ether che. 
And  when  some  unusual  lurch  of  the 
vessel  upset  and  destroyed  a  number  of 
wine-glasses  and  bottles  of  wine  belong* 
ing  to  the  '*Herr  Lieutenant,"  the 
infant-philosopher  shrewdly  remarked, 
0  nulla  calamitas  sola  ("no  calamity 
comes  alone  "),  At  the  same  time,  like 
the  true  philosopher  that  he  was  he 
managed  to  combine  .the  gay  with  the 
grave,  and  when  he  saw  the  crew  de- 
jected by  a  protracted  storm,  he  manned 
them  to  new  efforts  by  consolatory 
quotations  from  their  vernacular  Scrip- 
tures. 

At  last  the  miseries  of  the  passage 
were  over  and  the  party  arrived  at 
Copenhagen.  The  child's  condition 
was  still  so  weakly  that  it  was  deemed 
best  to  keep  him  quiet  for  awhile  before 
subjecting  him  to -the  ordeal  of  a  pres- 
entation at  court,  and  lodgings  were 
taken  for  this  purpose. 

Apropos  of  the  Copenhagen  menage^ 
the  tutor  descants  at  some  length  on 
the  distinguished  child's  diet.  Let  not 
the  reader  take  umbrage  at  this.  No 
true  pedagogue  can  be  indifferent  to  the 
vast  and  momentous  problem  of  feed- 
ing the  child.  So  grave  a  philosopher 
as  Locke,  in  his  essay  on  Education, 
devotes  considerable  space  to  the  details 
of  children's  meat  and  drink,  not  dis- 
daining to  speak  of  such  homely  matters 
as  the  virtues  of  milk-pottage,  water- 
gruel,  flummery,  and  such  like.  And 
in  the  case  of  the  Liibeck  child,  owing 
to  the  inadequacy  of  the  puny  body  to 
fneet  the  demands  of  the  big  brain,  the 
dietetic  question  had  its  peculiar  com- 
plexity. 


474 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


To  begin  with,  then,  the  child  was 
still  suckled.  The  presence  of  the  nurse 
in  the  traveling  party  is  explained  by 
this  ciroumsttince.  At  first  sight  this 
arrangement  looks  like  an  invention  of 
the  ingenious  pedagogue  specially  de- 
Bigne<l  to  meet  the  case  of  his  phenom- 
enal pupil.  One  must  remember, 
however,  that  liottsseau — who,  by  the 
way,  wa»s  Voin  only  nine  years  before 
the  Iwub(  k  .  elebrity — had  not  yet  pro- 
pounded liici  doctrine  of  handing  over 
children  to  nature.  Moreover,  the  ex- 
cellent tutor's  plan  of  intellectual  dis- 
cipline appears  to  deviate  considerably 
from  the  ''follow  nature"  method  of 
his  famous  successor.  The  true  ex- 
planation of  the  late  adhesion  to  nature's 
nutriment  is  to  be  found  in  part  in  the 
fact  that  the  child's  muscles  of  mastica- 
tion were  too  feeble  to  allow  of  a  solid 
diet.  Possibly,  too,  Frau  Ileineken,  in 
ceding  to  the  tutor  so  much  of  her 
maternal  jurisdiction  over  the  boy's 
mind,  may  have  insisted  on  the  nurse 
arrangement  as  a  mode  of  asserting 
feminine  rights  over  his  body. 

This  last  conjecture  is  borne  out  to 
some  extent  by  a  closer  inspection  of 
t^hristian's  dietary.  The  demand  for 
pabtdnm  made  by  this  active  brain  was 
considerable,  and  the  nurse's  capacity 
limited.  So  other  sustenance  had  to 
be  provided.  At  first,  says  our  chroni- 
cler, when  the  child  did  not  get  enough 
from  his  nurse  he  took  a  little  tea. 
Here  we  seem  to  be  still  plainly  within 
the  limits  of  feminine  rule,  feut  now 
we  appear  to  see  the  intrusion  of  the 
male  pedagogic  hand.  Soon  after, 
continues  the  chronicle,  he  needed  other 
things — for  example,  a  little  soup.  The 
composition  of  this  soup,  by  its  admir- 
able adaptation  to  the  curious  conjunc- 
tion of  infantile  and  mature  capacities 
of  our  hero,  must  be  pronounced  a 
master-stroke.  It  consisted  of  whit€k 
bread,  and  beer  sweetened  with  sugar. 
The  weakness  of  what  the  writer  prettily 


calls  the  child's  "straw  fingerkius'* 
forbade. his  feeding  himself,  and  mt 
ingenious  soup,  for  which  Chribtian 
showed  a  distinct  liking,  had  to  be  care- 
fully, poured  down  his  tnroat.  Talking 
of  sugar,  one  must  not  forget  to  quote 
a  remark  elsewhere  made  by  the  biog- 
rapher, that^  the  supremacy  of  the 
intellect  over  sense  in  this  wuudroiis 
child  showed  itself,  among  othi.a-  ways, 
in  the  fact  that  he  cared  for  this  favorite 
condiment  of  childhood  not  so  much 
on  account  of  its  sweetness  as  because 
it  presented  itself  to  his  mind  as  a 
foreign  product,  and  so  connected  itself 
with  his  beloved  geographical  studies. 

In   spite  of  the  mother  s   wish  for 
retirement,  the  capital  clamored  to  see 
the   infant  prodigy,  whose   fame  had 
preceded    him  across   the    sea.      The 
passionate  curiosity  of  a  metropolis  lb 
not  a  thing  to  be  trifled  with;  and  the 
mother  had  to  swallow  her   scrupleg. 
And  now  the  public  pierfurfliance  of  the 
young  intellectual  giant  may  be  said  to 
nave  commenced.     The  heart  of  the 
showman  glowed  with  proud  satisfac- 
tion when  the  ponderous  name  of  one 
august   visitor  after  another  was  an- 
nounced.    His  joy  was  now  and  again 
dashed  by  a  momentary  irritation  wlien 
the  imperious  child,  growing  weary  of 
all   this    **  trotting    out,''    refusecl  to 
answer  the  jerk  of  the  tutorial  rein  and 
remained  stubbornly  motionless.     Yet 
for  the  most  part  he  deserved  the  epithet 
which  his  biographer  has  given  him  in 
the  title.    He  was  prettily  courteous  and 
charmingly  affable,  and  entertained  his 
interviewers  in  the  politest  of  French. 
At  length  the  all-important  announce- 
ment arrived  that  his  majesty  wished 
to  see  the  gifted  child.     The  way  in 
which  Christian  received  the  news  was 
highly    characteristic.     *He    first    re- 
marked, with    a    delightful    childish 
simplicity,  *^  Does  King  Frederick  IV. 
I^now  about  me?'*    But  immediately 
after  his  ripe  learning  and  consummate 


A  LEARNEI*  INFANlT. 


475 


wisdom  prompted  the  observation,  *'  He 
can  very  easily  know  that  I  am  here, 
for  regum  aurea et  oculi multi  "  ('*  kings 
have  many  ears  and  eyes.") 

The  king  happened  at  this  time  to 
be  at  Friedensbarg,  a  hunting-box  about 
twenty-five  miles  from  the  capital. 
Thither  the  Liibeek  party  were  sum- 
moned. On  the  way  our  hero,  divining 
perhaps  the  special  demands  that  were 
about  to  be  made  on  his  powers,  wisely 
gave  himself  up  to  a  sweet  sleep.  This, 
however,  did  not  prevent  his  succumb- 
ing to  another  attack  of  illness  on  his 
arrival  at  Friedensburg. 

The  tutor  must  have  been  more  than 
human  if  he  was  not  a  good  deal  put 
out  by  this  contretemps.  Nevertheless 
he  lets  no  note  of  pedagogic  petulance 
escape  him,  but  with  perfect  placidity 
of  mind  records  the  fact  that  Christian 
exhibited  disgust  and  obstinacy  at  the 
thought  of  the  presentation  to  court, 
and  asserted  his  child-nature  by  hiding 
his  face  in  the  bosom  of  his  nurse. 
Kay,  more,  Herr  von  Schoneich  proves 
his  magnanimity  by  offering  excuses 
for  his  provoking  pupil.  He  sagely 
observes  that  **  it  was  hard  for  a  still 
sucking  child  to  have  to  be  presented 
to  a  monarch  and  all  his  court,  and, 
so  to  speak,  to  work  miracles.'' 

At  length,, on  Sept.  9,  the  object  of 
the  journey  was  attained.  The  child, 
though  still  ailing,  on  receiving  a 
summons  to  an  audience,  heroically 
looked  at  his  clothes  and  bade  the  nurse 
dress  him,  bracing  himself  for  the 
supreme  effort  in  his  customary  Roman 
fashion  by  the  quotation.  Rebus  in 
adversis  melius  sperare  memeiito,  (Re* 
member  in  adversity  to  hope  for  better 
things.)  On  being  ushered  into  the 
audience-chamber  he  hastened,  with  a 
charming  childish  spontaneity,  to  meet 
the  advancing  king,  and  thus  accosted 
him:  **  Perfnettez-moi,  sirof,  que  je 
baistld  main  de  voire  majestisM  le  bord 
de  voire  habit  royal."     AivAy  suiting 


the  action  to  the  word,  he  made  a  pretty 
obeisance,  worthy  of  a  perfectly  trained 
courtier. 

Thereupon  the  scholarly  performance 
was  opened  by  the  recital  of  a  long 
speech  specially  prepared  for  the  occa- 
sion. Like  many  an  older  orator. 
Christian  found  his  occupation  thirst- 

E revoking,  and,  in  the  midst  of  the 
arangue,  turned  with  a  charming  re- 
sumption of  infantile  sovereignty  to 
his  nurse,  and  acquainted  her,  in  his 
favorite  Latin  medium,  of  the  fact  that 
he  was  thirsty. 

His  physical  requirements  having 
been  satisfied,  he  professed  himself 
ready  to  still  further  gratify  royal 
curiosity  by  undergoing  at  the  hands 
of  the  king  an  examination  in  history 
and  geography.  So  far  everything 
went  off  to  the  perfect  satisfaction  of 
the  anxiou^  tutor.  But  now  came  an 
awkward  moment.  The  Danish  king 
seems^to  have  had  ideas  of  his  own 
about  education,  and  hinted  to  the 
tutor  that  the  child's  bodily  weakness 
might  be  the  result  of  over-application 
to  study.  Herr  von  Schoneich  was, 
however,  in  nowite  confounded  by  this 
royal  criticism,  but  proceeded  to  turn 
the  occasion  to  good  purpose  by  enter- 
ing on  an  elaborate  explanation  and 
defence  of  the  system. 

Little  Christian  was  made  to  feel  that 
royal  families  are  apt  to  be  inconveni- 
ently large  and  their  demands  somewhat 
oppressive.  After  satisfying  the  cu  rios- 
ity  of  the  Friedensburg  company  he  wa« 
required  to  make  two  more  journeys 
in  order  to  exhibit  himself  to  sundry 
princesses.  But  his  philosoj)hy  was 
equal  to  the  emergency,  and  he  acceded 
to  the  royal  wishes  with  a  commendable 
courtesy. 

The  whole  account  of  this  presenta- 
tion  at  court  is  curious  and  piquant. 
Delicious  little  infantile  traits  peep  out 
now  and  flien  in  the  intervals  of 
scholarly  performance  as  if   the  illuEh 


476 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


trious  child,  while  graciously  disposed 
to  pay  a  conventional  deference  to  a 
state-crowned  head,  were  all  the  time 
conscious  of  his  own  underived  roya^y. 
Thus,  in  the  midst  of  one  of  his  learned 
discourses  with  some  of  the  Copenhagen 
notabilities,  little  Christian  suddenly 
broke  olf  the  colloquy  by  asking  in 
Latin  for  a  stick  to  ride  on  (equitaho  in 
arUndine  longa),  and,  his  wish  being  in- 
stiintly  gi-atitied  by  one  of  the  courtiers, 
he  proceeded  to  ride  up  and  down  the 
room  with  all  a  child's  abandon.  On 
another  occasion,  when  performing  be- 
fore the  crown  princess,  after,  as  he 
thought,  he  had  done  enough  to  satisfy 
any  reasonable  curiosity,  he  broke  out, 
with  an  astonishing  frankness,  "  Je  suU 
accabU  de  sommeiU^  Once  or  twice  he 
relieved  the  moral  gravity  of  his  dis- 
course by  a  bit  of  genuine  childish  wit, 
as  when,  finding  the  door  to. some  royal 
museum  locked,  he  said,  **  It  looks  as 
if  neino,  nullus,  and  neuter,  or  Mr. 
Nobody,  lived  here." 

The  visitors,  after  a  stay  of  nearly 
three  months,  bade  adieu  to  the  capital 
and  sailed  back  to  Lubeck.  When  the 
ship  was  wind-bound  Christian  again 
showed  that  superiority  of  mind  which 
philosophy  gives  by  setting  an  example 
of  patience  to  the  sailors  and  instruct- 
ing them  by  the  aid  of  his  favorite 
classical  authorities,  that  "he  is  truly 
wise  who  accommodates  himself  to  all 
circumstances  "  {vir  sapiens  qui  se  ad 
casus  accmnmodat  omnes). 

Immediately  on  his  return  to  Lubeck 
his  studies  seem  to  have  been  renewed. 
Toward  the  end  of  his  fourth  vear  his 
tiny  fingers  were  strong  enough  to  allow 
of  nis  taking  up  the  neglected  art  of 
writing.  Hfere,  again,  his  extensive 
scholarship  came  to  his  aid,  and  he 
braced  himself  for  the  fatigues  of  strokes 
and  pothooks  by  remarking,  Scribere 
scribendo,  dicendo  dicer e  disces  (''You 
will  learn  to  write  by  writing,  and  to 
speak  by  speaking.") 


And  now  we  near  the  tragic  close  of 
this  memorable  existence.  Mr.  Malkin, 
in  the  memoir  of  his  boy,  tells  us  that 
on  that  young  gentleman's  demise  a 
somewhat  cynical  man  of  science  wrote, 
"  These  prodigies  of  learning  commence 
their  cai*eer  at  three,  become  expert 
linguists  at  four,  profound  philosophers 
at  five,  read  the  fathers  at  six,  and  die 
of  old  age  at  seven."  But  this  descrip- 
tion, hyperbolical  as  it  no  doubt  was 
intended  to  be  by  the  profane  jester 
who  penned  it,  was  more  than  litendly 
realized  by  the  wonderful  infant  of 
whom  we  tell.  Early  in  his  fifth  year 
he  began  to  show  signs  of  senile  decay. 
The  bodily  weakness  which  he  shared 
with  many  another  son  of  genius  gi-ew 
on  him  and  was  the  source  of  much  and 
keen  suffering.  Yet  his  many  infirmi- 
ties did  not  break  his  heroic  spirit  or 
rob  him  of  his  philosophic  temper. 
As  in  the  days  of  his  prosperity  he  had 
illustrated  the  antique  ideal  of  modera- 
tion by  never  laughing  aloud,  so  now 
he  was  never  heard  to  cry  over  his 
miseries. 

In  March  a  stupendous  change  was 
introduced  into  the  plan  of  physical 
education.  At  the  mature  age  of  four 
years  one  month  Christian  was  weaned. 
We  are .  not  told  who  is  answernble  for 
this  innovation,  whether  the  tutor,  the 
physician,  or  possibly  the  long-suffering 
nurse  herself.  Whatever  the  reason  of 
the  change,  it  caused  the  little  invalid, 
whose  masticatory  and  deglutitory 
powers  were  now  feebler  than  before, 
much  additional  fatigue,  without  pro- 
ducing any  appreciable  improvement  \n 
his  health. 

As  the  end  approaches  the  biographer 
lingers  fondly  on  each  day's  details,  as 
if  loth  to  part  with  so  entrancing  a 
theme.  A  whole  book  is  devoted  to  the 
"last  days"  of  our  hero — that  is  to  say, 
from  the  17th  to  the  27th  of  June, 
1725.  The  patient  was  now  confined 
to  his  bed,  yet  the  light  of  his  great 


A  LEARNED  INFANT. 


477 


intellect  still  burnt  brightly.  His  child- 
ish brain  seemed  to  well  and  to  over- 
flow with  the  rich  accumulations  of  his 
stiidious  life.  Quotations  from  pagan 
writings  and  from  the  Bible  inter- 
in  ingled  in  rich  confusion,  to  the  joy 
of  the  eagerly  listening  tutor.  The 
splendid  range  of  his  scholarship  was 
shown  by  an  appeal  to  the  authority  of 
no  less  ancient  a  teacher  than  Thales, 
the  first  ancestor  of  Greek  philosophy. 

To  thase  graver  intelftctnal  pursuits 
lighter  occupations  were  now  and  again 
added,  answ^ering  to  the  pure  childish 
instincts  which  the  weight  of  scholar- 
ship never  wholly  crushed.  A  favorite 
diversion  of  the  patient,  our  biographer 
tells  us,  was  to  have  a  basin  of  water 
brought  to  the  bedside,  on  which  the 
tutor  was  required  to  sail  a  number  of 
tiny  ships,  so  as  to  represent  the  various 
islands  and  ports  of  that  Baltic  which 
his  travels  had  endeared  to  him. 

In  the  biograpliies  of  the  great  one 
may  find  more  than  one  instance  of  the 
mastery  of  the  body  by  the  spirit,  made 
perfect  by  the  habit  of  a  life,  continu- 
ing undisturbed  through  the  ordeal  of 
the  final  malady.  Little  Christian 
equaled  the  greatest  of  adult  heroes  in 
this  particular.  Indeed,  it  might  not 
be  going  too  far  to  say  that  he  gave  a 
unique  example  of  absorption  in  intel- 
lectual inquiry  at  the  very  close  of  life. 
For  only  a  day  or  two  before  his  death 
he  astounded  those  about  his  bed  by 
asking  for  tlu  skeleton  which  he  had 
used  in  his  anatomical  studies  and 
running  over  for  the  last  time  the  well- 
learnt  list  of  bonea.  This  performance 
\yemg  over,  he  remarked,  without  a 
tremor,  Mors  omni  mtati  communis 
r*  Death  is  common  to  every  age.'') 
This  cool  and  masterful  facing  of  the 
inevitable  proves  that  our  hero  had 
assimilated  something  of  the  spirit  of 
those  Stoical  writers  with  whom  his 
classical  studies  had  made  him  familiar, 
ft  is  noticeable,  indeed,  that  well  versed 


as  he  undoubtedly  was  in  Scriptural  lore, 
he  appeared  to  draw  his  moral  refiec- 
tions  mainly  from  Latin  authors.  His 
last  scholarly  achievement,  which  is 
pathetically  called  by  his  biograplicr  his 
swan-song,  was  a  learned  coinuientary 
on  a  map  of  Palestine.  The  fullness 
and  accuracy  of  his  geographical  and 
historical  knowledge  are  liere  presented 
in  a  striking  light. 

The  last  book  of  the  life  is  devoted  to 
the  account  of  the  child's  death,  which, 
as  has  been  said,  took  place  on  June  27, 
and  of  the  way  in  which  the  news  of 
the  event  was  received  by  the  world. 
A  number  of  journals,  it  seems,  recorded 
the  fact.  More  than  this,  poets  were 
found  discerning  enough  to  recognize 
and  sing  the  superlative  merits  of  the 
infant.  But,  alas!  adds  the  chnmicler, 
the  opulent  city  of  Liibeck  luis  erected 
no  monument  to  its  illustrious  child. 
Yet  if  Herr  von  Schoneich  had  reflected 
lie  would  have  seen  that  in  tiiis  rojspect, 
too,  his  hero  shared  in  the  destiny  of 
many  a  son  of  genius  who  has  found 
least  honor  in  the  birthplace  which  he 
helped  to  make  famous.  And  after  all, 
perhaps,  the  injury  done  to  our  hero's 
reputation  by  this  neglect  is  less  than 
the  good  tutor  anticipated.  For  how 
many  travelers,  one  wonders,  nowadays 
visit  the  venerable  Hanseatic  town, 
albeit  the  quaint  splendors  of  its  Gothic 
architecture,  its  churches,  Rathhaus, 
and  high-gabled  houses  make  it  well 
worth  a  visit  even  after  the  mediseval 
wonders  of  Nuremberg  itself,  and  aJ- 
though  it  can  be  reached  m  an  hour  or 
so  from  Hamburg  And  it  may  be  that 
the  devoted  tutor  himself  has  erected  the 
best  monument  to  his  pupil  by  writing 
a  book  that  here  m  England,  at  the  end 
of  the  nineteenth  century,  can  rivet  the 
eye  of  a  nimmager  in  a  library,  and 
portray  to  his  imagination,  as  stone  or 
marble  could  never  do,  the  spiritual 
lineaments  of  the  matchless  infant.— 
Comhill  Magazine. 


478 


THE  LIBRAKY  MAGAZINE. 


MOABITE  AND  EGYPTIAN 
HISTORY. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  recent 
contributions  to  our  knowledge  of 
ancient  Oriental  History  is  contained 
in  a  small  pamphlet  pnblisTied  by 
Professors  Smend  and  oocin.  It  is 
entitled  Die  Inschrift  des  Konigs 
Mesa  von  Moab,  and  embodies  a  new 
and  minute  examination  of  the  squeeze, 
now  preserved  in  the  Louvre,  of  the 
famous  Moabite  Stone.  The  squeeze 
was  taken  iu  1809  by  Selim  el-Qarl, 
a  Syriau  iigent  of  M.  Clermont- 
Ganneau,  before  the  stone  was  broken, 
and  under  ordinary  circumstances, 
would  have  been  a  faithful  reproduction 
of  the  inscription.  Unfortunately, 
however,  Selim  had  to  take  it  in  a 
hurry,  and  almost  at  the  risk  of  his 
life;  it  was  torn  from  the  surface  of 
tlie  stone  before  the  paper  was  dry, 
and,  in  rescuing  it  from  the  Arabs  of 
Dhibdn,  the  precious  decument  was 
rent  in  two.  nith  all  its  deficencies, 
it  is  nevertheless  invaluable,  as  the 
fragments  of  tlie  stone  itself,  whieh 
have  been  recovered,  include  only  a 
portion  of  the  text,  and  many  of  them 
could  not  be  assigned  to  tneir  right 
plaees  without  the  assistance  of  the 
squeeze.  The  two  German  scholars, 
therefore,  in  no  way  wasted  their  time 
by  spending  a  fortnight  last  spring  in 
closely  studying  the  squeeze.  The. 
result  of  their  examination  has  been  to 
correct  and  supplement  the  readings 
published  by  M.  Clerraont-Ganneau 
eleven  years  ago  in  several  important 
resjiects.  The  following  is  their  revised 
ta*anslation  of  the  text: — 

1  **1  am  Meftha,  the  son  of  Chemosh'Hielech, 

the  king  of  Moab,  of 
i2  Dibcm.     My  father  was  king  of  Moab  80 

years,  and  I  became  king 
8  after  my  father,  and  I  have  erected  this 

high-place  to  Ohemosh  in  Kirkhah  for  the 

■Aalvation  of  Mesha» 


4  since  he  saved  me  from  all  the  kings,  and 
let  me  see  my  desire  upon  ail  my  enemies. 
Omrl, 

5  the  king  of  Israel,  he  oppressed  ^Lv^h 
many  nays,  since  Chemosh  was  angiy 
against  his 

6  land.  And  then  his  sou  followed  him, 
and  he  also  said:  1  \vill  oppress  3Ioab.  in 
my  day  he  said  thus. 

7  b  it  I  saw  my  pleasnre  upon  him  and  his 
house,  and  Israel  perished  for  ever.  And 
Omri  occupittd  the  whole  land 

8  of  Medeba  and  dwelt  therein  (all^  his  days 
.  aud  half  the  ckys  of  his  sou,  40  years;  but 

9  Chemosh  restored  it  in  my  dsi^^s;  and  T 
built  Baal-meon.  and  made  tJjerein  the 
reservoir,  and  I  built 

10  Kirjathain.  And  the  meM  of  Gad  dwelt 
in  the  land  of  Ataroth  from  of  old,  and 
the  king  of  Israel 

11  built  Atiiioth ;  and  I  fought  against  the 
city  and  took  it,  and  I  slew  all  the  people 
of 

12  the  city  as  a  silectacle  for  Chemosh  and 
for  Moab;  and  1  brought  back  frnni  thence 
the  iipi^er  altar  (arei)  of  Dodo  (David)  and 
dragged 

13  it  before  Chemosh  in  Kirjath;  and  I  settled 
therein  the  men  of  Siran  and  the  men  of 

14  Mokhrath.  And  Chemosh  said  tc  me:  Go. 
take  XelK)  of  Israel;  and  I 

15  went  in  the  night  and  fought  against  it 
from  the  break  of  day  until  noon,  and  took 

16  it  and  slew  them  all,  7,000  men  and  1k)}s 
aitd  women  and  maidens 

17  and  female  alaves  <?),  since  I  had  devoted 
tliem  to  Ashtar-Chemosh;  and  I  took  from 
thence  the  altars  {(treli) 

18  of  Yahveh  (Jehovah)  and  dragged  them 
before  Chemosh.  Now  Uie  king  of  Israel 
bad  built 

19  Jahaz  aud  dwelt  therein  while  he  made 
war  against  me,  and  Chemosh  drove  him 
out  before  me,  and 

20  I  took  of  Moab  200  men.  all  its  princes, 
and  I  led  them  against  Jaliaz  and  took  it 

21  in  order  to  add  if  to  Dlbon.  I  Lave  built 
Kirkhali,  the  wall  oi  the  forest  and  the 
wall 

22  of  the  hill  {opMt),  and  I  have  built  il« 

fates  and  I  have  built  its  towers,  and 
have  built  the  house  of  the  king,  and  I 
have  made  the  sluices  of  the  reservoir -for 
the  water  (?)  within 

24  the  city  Now  there  was  bo  cifetem  witfiin 
the  city  in  Ktrkh^,  and  I  spake  to  all  the 
^people*  make 

25  you  each  one  a  cistern  in  his  house;  and  I 
cut  the  cutting  ior  Kirkhah  by  means  d 
the  piisoners 


MOABITE  AND  EGYPTIAN  HISTORY. 


479 


26  of  Israel.  I  have  built  Arocr  and  I  have 
made  the  roads  by  the  Arnon,  and 

27  I  have  built  Beth-^^amoth,  since  it  was 
destroyed,  I  have  built  Bezer  since  it  lay 
in  ruins, 

28 of  DIbon  fifty,  since  all  Dibon  is 

subject  (to  me),  and  I  rule  (V) 
29 a  lnuidred  in  the  cities  which  I 

liave  added  to  the  land.     And  I  built 
30  (Medeba)  and  Beth -Diblathain.    And  Beth- 

Baalmeon,  thither  I  brought  the  sheep 
31 the  Hocks  of  the  land.     And  as 

for  Horonain,  tlierein  dwelt  the  sons  of 

Dedan,  and  Dedan  said  (?).... 
32 and  Chemosh    said  to    me:  go 

down,  fl^srht  against  Horonain;  and  I  went 

down  (aiid  fought) 
83 Chemosh  restored  it  iii(my)4kys 

and from  thence. 

84 And  I  .  .  . 


»» 


Dr.  Neiibauer  baa  criticised  one  or 
tsfo  points  in  this  translation^  and  has 
drawn .  attention  to  the  remarkable 
reference  to  the  arels  or  ^'altars"  of 
Dodo  and  Yabvelu  He  would  identify 
arel  with  an'el,  which  apoears  in  the 
book  of  Isaiah  as  an  old  name  of 
Jerusalem.  It  is  noticeable  that,  while 
in  Genesis  xxii.,  14,  the  only  correct 
rendering  of  tlie  proverb  current  on 
the  Temple  Hill  is  "In  tlie  Mount  of 
the  Lord  is  Jireh/'  or  Yeru,  a  town 
called  Har-el,  or  "the  Mount  of  God/' 
seems  to  occupy  the  site  of  the  Jebusite 
city,  which  afterward  became  Jerusalem 
in  the  Karnak  lists  of  Thothmes  HI. 
However  this  may  be.  Dodo  or  David 
is    represented   in   the  inscription  in 

Earallelism  to  Y''ahvch  as  worshiped 
y  the  northern  Isi-aelites.  The  name 
means  "the  beloved  one,'*  and  must 
have  been  a  title  given  to  the  Diety 
by  the  Phoenicians,  since  Dido,  the 
patron-goddess  of  ^Carthage,  is  merely 
its  corresponding  feminine  form  in  a 
Latin  dress. 

The  revised  version  of  the  inscription 
further  serves  to  clear  up  the  history 
of  the.Moabite  revolt  from  Israel,  ft 
shows  that  the  recovery  of  Medeba  and 
other  portions  of  Moabite  territory  took 


place  in  the  middle  of  Ahab's  reign, 
and  that  consequently  Moab  regfiined 
its  independence  before  the  death  of 
Ahab,  and  not  after  it,  as  lias  been 
hitherto  supposed.  It  will  be  observed 
that,  in  accordance  with  the  statement 
of  the  Old  Testament,  Mesha  represents 
himself  as  a  great  "sheep-master." 

Next  perhaps  in  interest  to  the 
revised  text  oi  the  Moabite  Stone  is 
Professor  Maspero's  report  of  "the 
excavations  carried  on  in  Egypt  from 
1881  to  1885,"  which  is  p^abiished  in 
the  Bulletin  de  Vlnstihit  egyptien  (II. 
6).  It  is,  in  fact,  a  good  deal  more 
than  a  report.  Professor  Maspero 
explains  in  it  the  bearing  of  his  recent 
discoveries  upon  the  history  and  religion 
of  ancient  Egypt,  :»nd  states,  with  his 
usual  felicity,  conclusions  which  will 
be  new  not  only  to  the  general  public, 
but  to  Egyptian  students  as  well.  The 
discovery  of  a  necropolis  of  the  twelfth 
dynasty  at  SakkArah,  and  the  tombs  of 
the  eleventh  dynasty  he  has  uncovered 
at  Thebes,  have  refuted  Mariette's 
theory  of  a  break  between  the  Egypt 
of  the  Old  Empire  and  the  Egypt  of 
the  Theban  dynasties.  On  the  con- 
trary, the  art  and  religion  of  Thebes  is 
now  shown  to  be  but  a  continuation 
and  development  of  the  art  and  religion 
of  Memphis.  The  early  Theban  tomb 
is  but  a  modification  of  the  later  Mem- 
phis pyramids;  the  funereal  texts 
painted  on  the  walls  of  the  mastaba  or 
the  pyramid  of  ^  Pepi  find  themselves 
on  the  walls  of  the  tombs  of  Thebes: 


t«i 


Far  from  altering  the  ideas  And  images  of 
the  Memphite  epoch,  the  first  Theban  epocfh 
has  copied  them  servilely;  the  flole  innovation 
it  has  permitted  itself  has  consisted  in  adding; 
the  scenes  of  the  private  sepnlchral  chambers 
to  the  texts  of  the  royal  chnmlwrs  of  the  sixth 
dynasty.  The  artistic  style  is  the  same  in 
both  cases,  and  the  figures  of  the  objects 
appear  to  have  been  copied  from  the  same 
model.  The  only  real  diflferenc©  lies  in  the 
writing;  sculptured  or  painted,  the  mastjibas 
veontain   texts  in  carefully  executed  hiero- 


480 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


glyphics  only,  while  the  painted  tombs  of  the 
Theban  period  contain  only  cursive  hiero- 
glyphs." 

The  pyramids  of  the  fifth  and  sixth 
dynasties  which  Professor  Maspero  has 
opened  have  furnished  him  with  a 
large  abundance  of  funerary  texts. 
They  prove  that  the  Egyptian  pantheon 
of  that  remote  age  was  as  thickly 
peopled  with  divine  beings  as  the  pan- 
theon of  the  age  of  the  Eamessides. 
''The  myths/'  says  Professor  Maspero, 
** which  correspond  to  each  of  the 
divine  names  are  already  fully  developed 
and  fully  complete.  To  cite,  one 
example  only,  the  Osirian  religion  is 
precisely  what  it  was  when  revealed  to 
us  in  the  monuments  of  the  Theban 
a^e.  The  struggle  between  Osiris  and 
Sit,  the  action  of  Xephthys  and  Isis, 
the  intervention  of  Anubis,  of  Thotb, 
of  Horus  ar.d  of  his  ministers  are 
already  settled  even  in  their  most 
minute  details."  To  find  the  origins 
of  the  official  cult,  or  to  trace  Egyp- 
tian religion  through  the  earlier  stages 
of  its  gi-owth,  we  must  go  back  to  that 
prehistoric  period  of  which  dim  tradi- 
tions alone  survived.  But  the  phrases 
fossilized  as  it  were  in  the  religious 
texts  have  enabled  Professor  Maspero 
to  discover  more  than  one  feature  of 
the  early  faith.  Thus  he  points  out 
that  '*the  two  religions  which  chiefly 
contributed  to  the  mortuary  ritual  in 
use,  if  not  throughout  Egypt,  at  all 
events  at  Memphis  under  the  Old 
Empire,  were  those  of  the  two  cities 
of  Heliopolis  and  Abydos,"  and  he 
furthei;  believes  that  the  religion  of 
Abydos  was  modified  and  remodeled 
at  Heliopolis.  More  startling  are  the 
conclusions  which  he  draws  from  the 
expressions  that  describe  "the  absorp- 
tion and  digestion  of  the  gods  by  tbe 
dead."  Thus  the  double  or  spirit  of 
Unas  is  declared  to  *'eat  men  and  to 
nourish  himself  ujwn  them."  **Shos- 
mu  has  dismembered  (the  gods)  for 


Unas,  and  has  cooked  their  limbs  in 
his  burning  chaldrons.  It  is  Unas 
who  devours  their  magic  virtues 
and  who  eats  their  souls,  and  the 
great  among  them  are  the  food  of  Unas 
in  the  morning,  the  inferior  among 
them  are  his  dinner,  the  small  among 
them  are  the  supper  of  Unas  in  the 
evening,  the  old  meh  and  old  women 
arc  for  his  ovens."  Only  one  inference 
can  be  drawn  from  such  words.  Not 
only  must  human  sacrifice  have  once 
been  practiced  in  Egpyt — a  rite,  indeed 
which  seems  never  to  Jiave  become 
altogether  extinct  in  the  country,  but, 
as  among  the  Polynesian  islanders,  it 
must  have  been  accompanied  by  can- 
nibalism. The  courage  and  strength 
of  the  enemy  were  supposed  to  be 
transferred  to  those  who  devoured  him. 
and  it  is  plain  that  when  the-  sacred 
texts  of  the  Old  Egyptian  Empire  were 
composed  the  same  belief  must  still 
have  lingered  at  all  events  in  the  lan- 
guage. The  symbolic  cannibalism  of 
the  soul  points  to  a  real  cannibalism 
practiced  at  the  religious  fejtsts  of  the 
prehistoric  days. 

The  excavations  carried  on  by  Mr. 
Flinders  Petrie,  the  winter  before  last, 
on  the  site  of  Naukratis,  form  the  sub- 
ject of  a  goodly-sized  volume  issued  by 
the  Egypt  Exploration  Fund;  those 
conducted  last  winter  by  Mr.  Gardner 
being  reserved  for  a  future  ^'olume. 
Chapters  have  been  added  to  the  work 
by  Messrs.  C.  Smith,  E.  Gardner,  and 
B.  V.  Head,  on  the  early  pottery,  in- 
scriptions, and  coins  found  on  the  spot, 
and  the  latter  portion  of  the  book  is 
occupied  by  a  long  series  of  valuable 
plates.  I  have  already  anticipated  the 
account  given  in  it  by  Mr.  Petrie  of  his 
recovery  of  the  long-lost  city,  as  well 
as  of  the  most  important  results  derived 
from  its  disinterment.  Its  foundation 
seems  to  go  bacl^  to  the  time  of  Psam- 
metikhos  I.,  when  a  manufacture  of 
scarabsei  was  started  in  the  town^  and 


IS  CONSTANTINOPLE  WORTH  FIGHTING  FOR  ? 


481 


the  first  temple  of  Apollo,  of  which 
traces  only  have  been  discovered,  was 
probably  founded  a  little  later,  about 
B.  c.  610.  It  is  from  a  trench  within 
the  precincts  of  this  temple,  into 
which  the  broken  or  discarded  pottery 
of  the  sanctuary  was  thrown,  that 
inscriptions  of  the  highest  importance 
for  the  history  of  the  Greek  alphabet 
have  been  taken.  The  majority  of 
them  are  written  in  the  Ionic  form  of 
the  alphabet,  and  are  in  many  instances 
older  than  the  famous  inscriptions 
engraved  bv  the  Greek  mercenaries  of 
Psammetikhos  II.  on  the  colossi  of 
Abu-Simbel.  They  prove  chat  the 
latter  do  not  belong  to  the  reign  of 
Psammetikhos  I. — as  indeed  has  long 
been  maintained  by  Egyptologists,  de- 
spite the  assertion  of  Herodotos  that 
it  was  Psammetikhos  I.  who  pursued 
the  Egyptian  deserters  into  Ethiopia. 

The  great  Temenos,  or  sacred  inclos- 
ure,  which  was  the  joint  work  of  nine 
of  the  chief  cities  of  Asia  Minor  and 
the  rallying- point  of  the  Greeks  in 
Eg3rpt,  lies  at  the  southern  end  of  the 
ruined  town.  It  was  called  the  Hel- 
lenion,  according  to  Herodotos,  and 
within  it  stood  the  altar  on  which  the 
representatives  of  the  nine  cities  offered 
sacrifice.  The  walls  of  the  Temenos 
have  now  for  the  most  part  disappeared, 
though  their  foundations  can  still  be 
traced,  and  it  was  underneath  the 
comers  of  a  gateway  erected  on  their 
line  by  Ptolemy  Philadelphos  that  Mr. 
Petrie  found  four  ceremonial  deposits 
of  models,  including  miniature  work- 
men's tools.  Toward  the  southern 
end  of  the  inclosure  was  a  brick 
structure,  containing  doorless  and 
windowless  chambers,  in  which  Mr. 
Petrie  sees  the  remains  of  a  fort, 
though  his  arguments  on  behalf  of  his 
view  do  not  convince  me.  It  may  be 
added  that  nothing  has  been  found 
which  can  be  dated  later  than  the  third 
century  of  our  era;  the  final  ruin  and 


desertion  of  Naukratis  iMy  therefore  bo 
placed  shortly  after  the  removal  of 
Proklos  and  its  ancient  schools  to 
Athens  in  190  a.  d. — A.  H.  Sayce,  in 
The  Contemporary  Review. 


IS    CONSTANTINOPLE    WORTH 
FIGHTING  FOE? 

This  in  an  old  question,  and  it  has 
generally  been  the  policy  of  the  Russians 
to  assure  the  world  that  it  was  not 
a  practical  question,  that  the  supposed 
testament  of  Peter  the  Great  wa«  a 
forgery,  and  that  Russia  did  not  desire 
Constantinople.  Within  a  few  months 
all  this  has  changed,  and  the  Russian 
press  has  explained  jrettv  fully  to  the 
world  that  Constantinople  belongs  to 
Russia,  that  Bulgaria  is  the  bridge 
which  leads  to  it,  and  that  she  proposes 
to  take  what  belongs  to  her^— by  force, 
if  necessary. 

It  is  not  the  city  of  Constantinople 
alone  which  is  to  be  annexed  to  Russia, 
but  Bulgaria,  Roumania,  and  all  the 
territory  occupied  by  Slaves  in  south- 
eastern Europe.     With  the  occupation . 
of  Constantinople  and  the  Dardanelles, , 
the  Asiatic  coast  of  the  Black  Sea  will  1 
necessarily  fall  under  Russian  nile,  and  ■ 
thus  the  historic  destiny  of  Russia  will  ■ 
be  fulfilled. 

Such,  in  brief,  is  the  scheme  ot 
conquest  which  is  involved  in  what  is 
now  the  Bulgarian  question,  but  which 
will  soon  be  the  Constantinople  ques- 
tion. I  cannot  pretend  to  foretell  tlwfe 
steps  which  Russia  will  take  in  carrying 
out  this  scheme.  Probably  the  Czsr 
himself  does  not  know  what  course 
events  will  take,  so  much  depends  uipon 
the  attitude  of  other  Powers.  Bat  it 
seems  plain  that  he  has  determisoed  to 
secure  Bulgaria  at  any  cost.  This 
done,  the  otner  steps  will  be  easy..  TV  \ 
probability  is^  that  after  a  bri^  p«^;..  .1 


482 


THE  LffiRARY  MAGAZINE. 


of  uncertairty  and  hesitation,  the 
Bulgarian  dit'ficulty  will  end  in  war. 
Firm  and  concerted  action  on  the 
part  of  the  Powers  .in  defence  of 
Bulgarian  independence  would  prevent 
a  war,  but  in  view  of  the  past  history  of 
Europe,  this  is  hardly  to  be  hoped  for. 

Sooner  or  later  war  must  come,  and 
the  question  is,  whether  England  will 
resist  the  advance  of  Eussia  upon 
Bulgaria  and  Constantinople,  or  not. 
Until  within  a  short  time  it  has  been 
an  accepted  principle  of  European 
politics  that  Russia  should  not  be 
allowed  to  possess  Constantinople. 
Such  men  as  Frederick  the  Great  and 
Napoleon  had  very  decided  views  on 
this  subject.  The  Crimean  war  was 
fought  in  defence  of  this  principle,  and 
the  Congress  of  Berlin  sent  the  Russian 
horde  from  the  gates  of  Constantinople, 
and  established  an  independent  king- 
dom in  the  Principalities,  to  gain 
which  Russia  has  undertaken  so  many 
wai*s. 

For  a  fair  understanding  of  this 
question  in  any  one  of  its  various 
bearings,  it  is  essential  to  grasp  the  full 
signiticance  and  extent  of  the  conquest 
wTiich  is  involved  in  the  capture  of 
Constantinople  by  way  of  Bulgaria. 
The  frontier  of  Russia  is  to  be  advanced 
to  the  /Egean  and  the  Adriatic;  the 
Black  Sea  is  to  become  a  Russian  lake; 
at  least  the  coast  of  Asia  Minor  from 
Trebizond  to  the  -^gean  is  to  be  Rus- 
sian. But  this  advance  of  the  frontier 
involves  the  annexation  of  some  of  the 
richest  provinces  and  the  moat  impor- 
tant commercial  centers  in  Europe, 
with  a  population  of  twenty  millions. 
The  strength  and  the  wealth  of  Russia 
will  be  increased  in  a  much  greater 
proportion  than  her  territory.  It  is 
not  like  the  annexation  of  the  wastes 
of  Contnil  Asia,  which,  so  far  as 
Europe  is  concerned,  weakens  the 
power  of  Russia.  Great  armies,  and 
the  means  of  supporting  them,  are  to 


be  found  in  this  ten'itory.  It  wonld 
be  possible  for  Russia  to  add  a  well- 
equipped  force  of  125,000  men  to  her 
army,  within  a  month  after  her  occu- 
pation of  Bulgaria  and  Roumania,  from 
tl^se  two  provinces  alone.  With  the 
occupation  of  Constantinople  and  the 
whole  territory  she  could  depend  on  at 
least  a  quarter  of  a  million,  aud  would 
tax  the  people  to  support  them.  They 
could  pay  this  tax  more  easily  than  the 
Russian  peasants  pay  their  taxes.  As 
a  naval  Power  the  position  of  Russia 
would  be  totally  changed.  She  would 
be  better  situated  than  any  other  Power 
to  control  the  ]\lediterranean.  Holding 
the  Dardanelles,  with  the  Marmora  and 
the  Black  Sea  behind  it,  and  all  the 
advantages  of  Constantinople  as  an 
arsenal,  she  would  have  a  naval  position 
which  is  unsurpassed  in  the  world. 
She  would  become  supreme  in  Europe. 
No  one  Power  and  no  ordinary  coalition 
of  Powers  would  be  able  to  resist  her 
will,  or  to  act  in  any  direction  without 
consulting  her  wishes. 

It  is  plain  that  such  an  extension  of 
the  Russian  Empire  must  seriously 
aifect  British  interests,  both  political 
and  commercial.  AVith  the  Czar  at 
Constantinople  and  the  Sultan  ruling 
as  his  vassal  at  Broosa,  what  would 
become  of  the  British  Empire  in  India? 
Some  persons  have  fondly  imagined 
that  if  Russia  v/ere  allowed  to  occupy 
Constantinople  she  would  be  content 
to  let  India  alone.  Why  should  she? 
With  vastly  increased  advantages  for 
overthrowing  the  British  power  in 
India,  why  should  she  refrain  from 
doing  so?  If  the  Czar  did  nothing, 
the  very  knowledge  of  the  changed 
circumstances — the  vast  increase  of 
Russia  power,  the  occupation  of  Con- 
stantinople, the  vassalage  of  the  Caliph, 
and  the  increased'  difficulties  of  Eng- 
land —  would  shake  the  power  of 
England  in  India.  •But  the  Czar  wonld 
improve  his  opportunity.    He  would 


IS  CONSTANTINOPLE  WORTH  FIGHTING  FOR  ? 


483 


not  be  liussia  or  even  human  if  he  did 
not.  He  would  threaten,  if  not  control, 
the  Suez  Canal.  It  would  not  be  for 
the  interest  of  other  Mediterranean 
Powers  to  oppose  him  in  this  or  any- 
thing else.  He  would  use  the  Sultan 
to  make  trouble  amon^  the  Mohamme- 
dans. At  the  same  time  there  would 
be  nothing  to  oppose  his  advance  on 
the  line  where  ne  is  acting  now  in 
Certral  Asia.  England  might  still 
hold  India  in  spite  of  the  Czar,  but  it 
would  be  at  such  a  cost  as  would  make 
it  hardly  worth  holding.  She  would 
have  to  increase  botli  ner  naval  and 
military  expenses  enormonsly  and  per- 
manentlv.  No  doubt  Russia  will  some 
day  attack  India  whether  she  occupies 
Constantinople  or  not,  but  she  can 
certainly  do  it  far  better  after  than 
before.  , 

The  commercial  interests  of  England 
urould  be  even  more  seriously  affected 
by  this  advance  of  Russia.  There  is 
no  city  on  the  Continent  where  English 
commercial  interests  center  as  they  do 
at  Constantinople,  and;  under  favorable 
circumstani.'es,  it  is  destined  to  become 
far  more  important  than  it  is  now. 
Nature  has  destined  Constantinople  to 
be  one  of  the  greatest  commercial 
centers  of  the  world.  It  is  true  that 
of  late  years  the  mistakes  of  the 
Turkish  Government  have  reduced  its 
importance,  but  this  is  only  a  tempo- 
rary thing.  Even  the  Turks  are  begin- 
ning to  realize  their  blunders.  Under 
Russian  rule,  or  as  a  free  city,  it  would 
rise  again  at  onee,  and  become  the 
emponum  of  the  East.  A  shrewd  and 
successful  American  merchant,  who 
had  traveled  widely  in  this  part  of  the 
world,  expressed  the  opinion  not  long 
ago,  that  within  a  hundred  years  Con- 
stantinople would  be  the  largest  and 
richest  commercial  city  in  the  Old 
World.  He  may  be  mistaken,  but  his 
opinion  is  good  evidence  to  show  how 
(^nstautinople  impresses  ^n  impartial 


man  who  looks  at  it  from  a  purely 
commercial  standpoint.  Under  Russian 
rule  its  growth  would  contribute 
nothing  to  the  commerce  of  England. 
On  the  contrary,  England  would  lose 
what  she  now  has.  The  markets  of  all 
this  part  of  the  world  would  be  prac- 
tically clcsed  against  her.  English 
goods  would,  to  a  great  extent,  disap- 
pear from  south-eastern  Europe,  and 
probably  also  from  Asia  Minor.  This 
would  result  not  simply  from  the  fact 
that  Russia  has  a  protective  tariff. 
The  United  States  has  a  protective 
tariff,  and  is  at  the  same  time  Eng- 
land's largest  customer.  But  Russia 
goes  further.  She  makes  a  special 
effort  to  exclude  British  goods.  A 
dozen  English  steamers  pass  up  the 
Bosphorus  every  day  for  Russian  ports, 
but  nearly  all  were  without  cargo. 
There  was  formerly  an  important  com- 
merce in  English  goods  bietween  Con- 
stantinonle  and  Central  Asia.  It  has 
ceased  since  the  advance  of  Russia  over 
these  countries.  The  trade  with  Persia 
has  also  been  cut  off,  so  far  as  it  has 
been  in  the  power  to  Russia  to  stop  it. 

Just  fifty  years  ago  Mr.  Cobden  pub- 
lished a  pamphlet  to  prove  that  it  would 
be  a  great  advantage  to  England  to  have 
Russia  capture  Constantinople  and 
annex  the  whole  Turkish  Empire.  He 
maintained  these  views  at  the  time  of 
the  Cnmean  war,  and  his  pamphlet 
was  republished,  with  approval,  by  the 
Cobden  Club  in  1876.  The  argument 
is  chiefly  from  the  commercial  point  of 
view.  He  argues  that,  while  under  the  , 
Sultan  the  decaying  provinces  of  the 
Turkish  Empire  consume  British  goods 
to  the  amount  of  only  half-a-million, 
and  will  consume  less,  the  trade  of 
England  with  Russia  is  always  increas-  • 
ing  with  its  wealth,  and  that  the  an- 
nexation of  Turkey  would  be  followed 
by  a  wonderful  development  of  British 
trade  in  the  East.  He  claims  that 
Russia  cannot  become  a  manufacturing 


484 


THE  LTORARY  MAGAZINE, 


country,  and  that  she  is  specially  de- 
pendent on  Jlngland.  * '  No  country  can 
carry  on  great  financial  transactions 
except  through  the  medium  of  Eng- 
land." These  are  the  speculations  of 
a  great  theorist  fifty  years  ago.  Now, 
let  us  look  ai  the  facts.  English  trade 
with  Turkey,  notwithstanding  the  con- 
tinued reign  of  the  Sultan,  has  steadily 
increased.  .Mr.  Cobden  savs  it  was 
£500,000  in  1835.  Now  the  single 
small  province  of  Eastern  Roumelia  is 
repoiiied  to  consume  half  that  amount 
of  British  goods,  and  the  imports  of 
these  goods  into  Turkey  in  1884 
amounted  to  nearly  £7,000,000.  The 
total  of  British  'trade  with  what 
was  Turkey  in  1835  is  now  about 
£32,000,000.  During  these  same  years 
has  the  consumption  of  British  products 
in  Russia  increased  in  the  same  pro- 
portion ?  He  does  not  give  the  amount 
m  1835,  and  I  have  no  official  statis- 
tics, but  Blaok  gives  the  sum  at  £1,750,- 
000.  In  1880  it  was  £8,000,000,  with 
a  steady  decline  to  1885,  when  it  was 
£5,000,000,  or  £2,000,000  less  than 
Turkey.  During  these  fifty  years  Turkey 
has  gi-own  smafier  in  territory  and  pop- 
ulation, while  Eussia  has  increased 
her  population  from  60,000,000  to  more 
than  100,000,000.  According  to  Mr. 
Cobden's  theories,  making  full  allow- 
ance for  the  general  increase  of  trade 
throughout  the  world,  Turkey  ought  to 
be  still  importing  to  the  amount  of 
about  £500,000,  while  Kussia  ought  to 
be  buying  at  least  £35,000,000  worth  of 
British  produce. 

Time  has  proved  Mr.  Cobden^s  re- 
marks to  bo  unfounded,  and  his  conclu- 
sion is  equally  false.  The  capture  of 
Constantinople  and  the  advance  of 
Russia  to  the  Adriatic  will  practically 
put  an  end  to  English  commerce  in 
this  part  of  the  worlo.  This  is  the  fixed 
policy  of  the  Russian  Government,  and 
it  will  be  applied  here  as  vigorously  as 
it  has  been  in  the  coontries  annexed 


during  the  last  ten  years.  An  old 
English  merchant,  who  has  dealt  with 
those  provinces  for  many  years,  and  who 
has  lately  visited  them,  assures  me  that 
he  can  buy  there  is  freely  as  ever,  but 
that  he  can  sell  nothing. 

At  the  present  time  Russian   trade 
with  Turkey  is  small,  but  the  capture 
of  Constantinople  would  give  her  the 
practical  control  of  the  Empire  and  she 
would  take  the  place  of  England.     If 
she  is  kept  within  her  present  frontiers, 
there  is  no  reason  why  English  com- 
merce with  Turkey  should  not  continue 
to  steadily  increase.     If  left  to  them- 
selves, the  small  States  of  south-eastern 
Europe  will  rapidly  increase  in  wealth 
and  population,  and,  notwithstanding 
the  weakness  of  the  Turkish  Govern- 
ment, it  is  a  fact  that  Asia  Minor  is 
every  year  a  better  customer  of  Eng- 
land.     With   the  railways  which   are 
now  projected  commerce  will  rapidly 
increase.     We  have  but  little  patience 
with  the  Turks  and  speak  contempt- 
ously  of  their  reforms,  but  those  wlio 
have  lived  for.  thirty  or  forty  years  in 
Asia  Minor  know  very  well  that  there 
has  been   great   progress  in   building 
roads,  in  the  administration  of  the  law, 
and  especially  in  the  security  of   life 
and  property.     Like  Russia,  Turkey  is 
a  despotism  of  the  Asiatic  type;  but 
there  is  far  more  liberty  here  than  there, 
even  for  the  natives  of  the  country,  and 
the  present  Sultan  is  doing  his  best  to 
develop  the  resources  of  the  Empire- 
Whatever  may  be  the  final  destiny  of 
Constantinople,  it  is,  beyond  a  doubt, 
for  the  present  interest  of  Endish  com- 
merce that  it  continue  to  be  the  capital 
of  the   Turkish  Empire,  and   it   can 
never  be  an  advantage  to  England  to 
have  it  annexed  to  Russia,  whatever  the 
alternative  may  be. 

There  is  still  another  view  which  we 
are  bound  to  take  of  the  advance  of 
Russia  to  Constantinople.  It  is  not  a 
new  one;  Englishmen  were  once  very 


IS  CONSTANTINOPLE  WORTH  FIGHTING  FOR  ? 


485 


familiar  with  it.  At  the  time  of  the 
Crimean  war  it  was  presented  fully  as 
a  moral  justification  of  the  action  of 
England  in  defending  Turkey.  It  was 
claimed  that  this  war  was  really  a  con- 
flict between  Eastern  and  Western 
civilization,  betweeti  despotism  and 
liberty;  that  it  was  undertaken,  not  to 
defend  Turkey  or  English  interests,  but 
the  rights  of  man. 

I  do  not  remember  to  have  read  much 
of  late  yeara  on  the  duties  that  we  owe 
to  liberty  and  the  rights  of  man,  or  the 
fundamental  principles  of  Western 
civilization.  Whatever  may  be  the 
reason  there  has  not  been  much  said 
on  this  subject  of  late.  But"  are  these 
things  really  less  dear  or  less  important 
to  us  than  they  were  thirty  years  ago  ? 
Are  they  no  longer  worth  fighting  for  ? 
There  vas  no  difference  of  opinion  on 
this  subject  in  Great  Britain  at  the 
time  of  the  Crimean  war.  Those  who 
opposed  the  war  then  and  those  who 
have  condemned  it  since,  did  so  on  the 
ground  that  no  such  interests  were 
really  at  stake.  Whatever  muy  have 
been  true  then  or  in  other  wars,  there 
is  no  need  of  question  or  misapprehen- 
sion now.  Russia  cannot  claim  that 
her  advance  is  now  in  the  interests  of 
any  oppressed  nationality.  She  is  not 
called  by  any  persecuted  Christians  to 
free  them  from  the  Turkish  yoke. 
Bulgaria  has  no  desire  to  be  annexed  to 
the  Kussian  Empire.  She  has  resisted 
the  encroachments  of  Russia  to  the  best 
o.  her  ability,  and  what  she  demands  is 
libei^/  to  work  out  her  own  destiny. 
The  aim  of  Russia  is  conquest;  it  is  to 
fulfill  her  "historic  destiny,"  to  capture 
Constantinople  and  extend  her  frontiers 
to  the  Adriatic.  From  her'  point  of 
view  this  is,  no  doubt,  a  perfectly 
natural  and  reasonable  object. 

That  the  advance  of  Russia  will  be 
the  destruction  of  the  liberties  of  South- 
eastern Europe  is  plain  enough.  The 
Boumanians,  Bulgarians,  Servians^  and 


E 


Greeks  have  no  sympathy  with  the 
Russian  idea.  However  we  may  ac- 
count for  it,  these  races  under  Turkish 
rule  learned  to  hate  despotism  and  t6 
value  individual  liberty.  They  grew 
into  sympathy  with  Western  rather  than  . 
Eastern  civilization.  All  their  hopes 
and  aspirations  are  in  that  direction, 
and  have  been  ever  since  their  emanci- 
pation. The  Greeks,  who  have  been 
tree  the  longest,  are  more  democratic 
than  the  French,  and  quite  as  much  so 
as  the  English.  There  is  no  reason  why 
these  races,  if  left  to  themselves,  should 
not  be  in  full  sympathy  with  the  best 
ideas  of  Western  Europe,  and  do  their 
art  in  solving  the  great  problems  of 
luman  progress.  There  is  no  reason 
why  they  should  not  come  into  a  friendly 
alliance  between  themselves,  and  secure 
peace,  wealth,  and  prospei-ity  to  this 
part  of  the  word.  Up  to  the  present 
time  the  chief  obstacle  to  this  alliance 
has  been  the  constant  intrigues  of 
Russia.  Put  an  end  to  this  and  give 
them  time,  and  they  will  then  come 
into  harmony.  It  may  seem  hard  to 
make  this  charge  against  Russia,  when 
all  these  people  owe  more  or  less  of  their 
liberty  to  her  efforts.  But  it  is  true, 
and  the  Bulgarians  have  been  told  often 
enough  within  the  past  year,  by  the 
Russians  themselves,  that  Russia  fought 
the  last  war  for  her  own  interests  and 
not  for  theirs. 

The  advance  of  Russia  to  Constanti- 
nople will  condemn  these  people  to  the 
fate  of  Poland.  Their  liberties  will  be 
abolished,  their  hopes  crushed,  and 
their  spirit  broken.  South-eastern 
Europe  will  be  lost  to  civilization  and 
progress,  and  become  the  support  of 
Russian  despotism.  Is  there  nothing 
here  which  is  worth  defending— noth-  . 
ing  which  the  new  English  democracy 
thinks  worth  fighting  for  ?  Has  the 
democracy  discovered  that  all  interests 
but  selfisJfi  ones  are  exploded  supersti- 
tions ?    I  believe  that  those  English 


486 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


politicians  who  think  that  this  is  the 
spirit  of  the  democracy  liave  made  the 
great  mistake  of  their  lives.  They  will 
tiiid  it  more  easily  stirred  by  moral  con- 
siderations than  the  old  aristocracy. 

But  the  liberties  of  South-eastern 
Europe  are  not  only  ones  that  will  be 
endangered  by  the  advance  of  Russia. 
If  she  secures  the  vast  increase  of  power 
involved  in  this  conquest,  her  influence 
will  be  supreme  in  Europe,  and  one  of 
two  things  must  follow:  either  the 
submission  of  Europe  to  the  dictation 
of  Russia  and  the  gradual  substitution 
ef  Russian  for  Western  civilization, 
er  a  life-and-death  struggle  between 
the  two>  which  would  arrest  the  progress 
of  Europe  for  fifty  years,  even  it  Russia 
were  defeated.  It  is  true  that  the  Con- 
tinental Powers,  and  Austria  first  of 
all,  have  a  more  immediate  interest  in 
this  impending  danger  than  England 
has. .  It  is  true  that  the  Russian  hates 
the  German  and  the  Bulgarian  with  a 
bitterness  beyond  our  comprehension, 
and  has  no  such  hatred  of  the  English- 
man; but  it  is  the  dream  of  a  fool's 
paradise  to  imagine— as  one  writer  sug- 
gests— that  England  can  allow  Europe 
to  go  to  destruction,  and  yet  remain  rich 
and  prosperous  as  mistress  of  the  seas 
and  powerful  in  her  colonies.  Eng- 
land is  not  mistress  of  the  seas  now, 
and  still  less  would  she  be  so  if  Russia 
were  at  Constantinople.  She  is  not  so 
far  from  Europe  as  to  be  beyond  the 
reach  of  Russia  even  now.  How  many 
allies  did  she  find  when  a  war  was  im- 
minent in  1885.  Every  advance  of 
Russia  in  Europe  must  weaken  the 
power,  diminish  the  commerce,  increase 
the  '  expenditure,  and  endanger  the 
liberties  of  England.  English  civili- 
zation has  its  own  peculiarities,  but  it 
is  essentially  the  civilization  of  Europe, 
and  it  will  stand  or  fall  with  this.  It 
has  its  imperfections,  and  tlure  is  plenty 
of  room  for  improvement;  but  it  will  not 
be  improved  by  the  Rusaification  of  Eu- 


rope. True  civilization  is  constantly 
aggressive,  and  it  is  not  this  feature  of 
Russian  civilization  to  which  we  obje;  t. 
If  the  Russians  believe,  as  they  saj  so 
openly,  that  the  civilization  of  Europe 
is  corrupt  and  dying,  while  ,theirs  is 
pure  and  living,  it  is  their  duty  to  be 
aggressive.  But  if  England  values  her 
civilization,  she  must  defend  it  on  the 
Continent  as  well  as  at  home.  It  will 
be  a  poor  consolation  to  know  that 
South-eastern  Europe  and  Austria  have 
been  the  first  to  suffer,  when  England 
herself  comes  to  feel  the  weight  of  the 
Russian  advance,  and  when  it  is  too  late 
to  turn  back  the  tide. 

History  sometimes  repeats  itself,  and 
it  remains  to  be  seen  whether  it  will  do 
so  in  this  case  Once  before  in  the 
history  of  the  world  Europe  has  been 
summoned  to  defend  Constantinople  in 
the  interests  of  civilization.  It  was 
then  the  bulwark  of  Christendom.  It 
had  long  defended  Europe  against  the 
ever-advancing  Turk.  But  the  Emperor 
was  weak,  his  court  Avas  feeble  and 
corrupt,  his  people  demoralized,  his 
treasury  empty,  and  his  friends  few. 
He  had  lost  Bulgaria  as  well  as  Asia, 
and  the  Turks  hm  gained  it.  He  ap- 
pealed to  Europe,  in  the  name  of  Chris- 
tianity and  civilization,  to  sa^e  itself  in 
saving  him.  No  one  cared  for  him, 
which  was  not  strange  perhaps,  and  it 
was  not  the  business  of  any  one  in  par- 
ticular to  defend  Europe.  Perhaps 
they  thought  that  the  Turk  was  not  so 
bad  after  all,  and  that  when  he  had  won 
Constantinople  he  would  be  content  to 
let  Europe  alone,  or  that  his  character 
might  change  under  these  new  circum- 
stances. At  any  rate,  the  question 
whether  •  Constantinople  was  worth 
fighting  for  was  discussed  all  oyer  Eu- 
rope, and  while  they  were  still  discuss- 
ing the  city  was  captured.  The  story 
is  too  familiar  to  b&  repeated  here;  but 
the  fiict  is  Avortli  rocnirinir.  that  when 
it  was  too  late  Europe  rec<-^niz6d  tb^ 


DOG-KILLING  AND  HYDROPHOBIA. 


487 


Importance  of  CoDstantinople^  and  Buf- 
fered the  consequences  of  her  folly  for 
centuries^  The  Turk  was  not  less  ag- 
gressive than  before.  Jle  was  far  more 
than  ever  the  terror  of  the  world.  He 
dil  not  adopt  European  civilization. 
He  did  his  best*  to  destroy  it,  as  his  con- 
science  bound  him  to  do.  After  400 
Years  he  is  still  here. 

And  now  Europe  is  once  more  dis- 
cussing the  same  question.  It  cares  as 
little,  perhaps,  for  the  Sultan  as  the  old 
Europe  did  for  the  Emperor  Constan- 
tine  ralseologus,  and  is  as  much  puz- 
zled-as  to  the  future  of  the  city.  It  is 
summoned,  •  however,  to  defend  it 
Uigainst  the  Czar  of  Russia,  the  present 
representative  of  Asiatic  despotism  and 
a  new  civilization  which  is  to  be  forced 
upon  Europe.  The  question  is,  whether 
Europe  will  repeat  the  mistake  which 
she  made  in  1453. — An  Old  Resi- 
dent, in  Tlie  Contemporary  Review. 


DOG-KILLING  AND  HYDRO^ 
PHOBIA. 

[Hydrophobia  (* 'dread  of  water")  is  the 
popular  name  for  the  disease  among  dogs 
scientifically  known  as  Babisa,  which  the 
Dictionaries  describe  as  **a  kind  of  blood- 
])oisouing  affecting  certain  animals,  especially 
those  of  the  dog- tribe;"  a  disease  which  may 
bo  propagated  by  the  bite  of  an  animal 
affected  by  it.  In  The  Contemporary  Revieic, 
under  the  title  **Dogs  in  London"  Sir  Charles 
Warren  writes  a  paper,  containing  much 
in  for]  nation  and  many  suggestions  upon  this 
Bulijcct.  Oiily  a  portion  of  this  paper  is  here 
given. — Ed.  Lib.  Mag.] 

The  great  antagonism  which  has 
i^eently  been  shown  as  to  the  operation 
of  the  Dog  Laws  is  a  result  of  an 
advance  of  healthy  sympathy  on  the 
part  of  the  majority,  causing  natural 
differences  with  those  who  are  lagging 
behind.  On  the  one  side  are  those  who 
look  upon  humanity  as  the  first  con- 
sideration^ and  wish  to  do  justice  to 


animals,  ])ut  not  at  the  sacrifice  of  the 
people;  while  on  the  other  side  are  ihe 
sentimentalists  and  dog-fancrers,  who 
care  little  for  humanity,  and  who  find 
their  selfish  amusements  curtailed  for 
the  benefit  of  the  public.  With  all 
this  antagonism,  however,  there  is  a 
steady  advance  in  healthy  tone.  There 
may  be  a  difference  of  opinion  as  to 
whether  a  dog  that  appears  to  he  mad 
ought  to  be  killed,  oased  upon  the 
question  as  to  whether  he  is  dangerous 
or  not;  but  all  concur  that  if  he  is 
killed  in  public  some  method  must  be 
devised  by  which  it  can  be  done  with- 
out shocking  the  fastidious.  The 
sound  view  of  the  matter  is,  that  the 
welfare  of  humanity  is  the  first  consid- 
eration, and  that  when  human  life  is 
in  danger  from  a  dog,  that  dog  must 
be  rendered  innocuous  in  the  most 
expeditious  manner  practicable;  at  pres- 
ent no  better  weapon  in  an  emergency 
than  the  truncheon  is  known. 

Among  other  statements  regarding 
dogs  it  has  been  averred  with  authority 
that  rabies  is  almost  invariably  propa- 
gated by  the  bite  of  an  animal  already 
suffering  from  the  disease,  and  various 
theories  as  to  its  spread  have  been 
based  on  this  assumption.  Yet  there 
are  those  who  still  believe  in  its  spon- 
taneous production. 

With  this  view  before  us  it  is  difficult 
to  comprehend  how  entirely,  during 
the  recent  prevalence  of  rabies,  the  fact 
has  been  lost  sight  of,  that  the  general 
condition  of  the  dogs  during  the 
period  may  hajs^e  had  very  much  to  do 
with  the  spread  of  tlie  disease.  It 
seems  to  navQ  been  forgotten  that 
while  during  ordinary  seasons  dogs 
bitten  by  a  mad  dog  might  for  the 
most  partr  escape  unharmed,  yet  that 
during-  iltfe  recent  season  there  may 
have  been  a  predisposition  among  dogs 
ta  develop  the  disease. 

I|^  London  the  disease  among  doga 
ha£;Qften  afisum^d   alarming  proper-- 


483 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINEL 


tions,  and  extraordinary  precautions 
have  been  taken.  In  1759-60  madneas 
rav^ed  tnnong  dogs  during  the  winter 
auil  early  spring,  and  the  magistrates 
i'sdued  orders  for  persons  to  confine 
thei  5ogs  to  the  house  for  a  month, 
and  ordered  all  dogs  found  at  large  to 
be  destroyed.  Through  many  years  of 
fluctuations  rabies  again  appeared  in 
England  in  1856  in  a  verv  severe  form, 
and  in  1865  it  prevailed  in  and  around 
London  to  an  unusual  extent,  the  total 
number  of  deaths  during  the  year  from 
hydrophobia  being  19.  In  1866  the 
disease  again  assumed  a  formidable 
aspect  in  England,  and  on  April  16  of 
that  year  a  notice,  under  the  Order  in 
Council  for  the  Cattle  Plague,  was 
issued  as  to  stray  dogs  in  Middlesex: — 
*'That  with  a  view  to  prevent  the  prop- 
agation of  disease  by  dogs,  any  dog 
found  straying  about  the  jurisdiction, 
and  without  a  collar  having  the  name  of 
the  owner  on  it,  may  be  destroyed." 
When  the  Metropolitan  Streets  Act 
was  passed  in  1867  the  commissioner 
was  enabled  to  direct  all  stray  dogs  to 
be  seized,  and  this  practice  has  re- 
mained in  force  continuously  to  the 
present  time.  We  have  the  authority 
of  Mr.  Fleming  for  stating  that  after 
this  **thc  number  of  cases  of  hydropho- 
bia immediately  began  to  diminish  in 
and  around  London." 

Owing  to  the  prevalence  of  rabies  in 
1868  Sir  Richard  Mavne  issued  an 
order,  under  the  Metropolitan  Streets 
Act,  that  all  dogs  in  the  street  should 
be  muzzled.  The  publication  of  this 
oi;der  was  the  signal  for  an  onslaught 
upon  the  commissioner  by  a  great 
.portion  of  the  press,  and  it  is  amusing 
•to  find  that  the  letters  written  in 
1885-6  are  almost  identical  with  those 
'Written  in  1868,  in  their  wild  and 
;groundless  accusations. 

The  number  of  mad  dogs  found  in 

the  streets  of  London  fluctuates  from 

jDoar  to  year  and  from  month  to  month. 


and  the  monthly  diagram  since  1879  is 
most  instructive.  It  shows  a  gradual 
increase  year  by  year  up  to  the  present 
year,  and  it  shows  also  that  the  number 
invariably  falls  about  February  and 
rises  again  to  July  or  August,  except 
under  abnormal  conditions,  as  in  1885. 
In  every  year  the  maximum  in  the  hot 
weather  is  four  or  five  times  the  mini- 
mum in  the  cold  weather.  It  is  not 
supposed  that  all  these  cases  are  cases 
of  time  rabies,  but  sufliicient  has  l)een 
seen,  during  the  past  year  to  make  it 
appear  very  certain  that  in  addition  to 
the  ordinary  cases  of  epilepsy  thel"e  is 
also  a  disease  pronounced  to  be  epilepsy, 
in  which  the  dogs  when  alive  appear 
to  have  rubies,  and  after  death  are  said 
to  have  had  epilepsy.  During  the  past 
six  months  there  has  been  upost  morient 
examination  on  nearly  every  dog  killed 
as  rabid.  With  regard  to  the  year 
1886,  tliere  were  two  high  periods  in 
July  and  again  in  November,  the 
number  of  dogs  killed  as  mad  being 
over  fifty  in  each  month;  in  March, 
1886,  the  number  fell  to  about  fifteen, 
then  again  rose  in  July  and  August  to 
over  fifty,  and  then  rapidly  declined; 
in  November  it  reached  the  normal 
condition  of  former  years.  Owing  to 
the  prevalence  of  rabies  on  the  outskirts 
of  tx)ndon  it  is  probable  that  the 
disease  may  be  again  introduced  in 
April  or  >iay,  and  stringent  measures 
may  then  be  necessary. — Sir  Charles 
Waerkn,  in  The  Coyitemporary  Re- 
view. 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 

The  Legal  Status  of  Indians. — ^Presi- 
dent Merrill  E.  Gates,  of  Rutgers  Cr allege,  a 
member  of  the  U.  S.  Board  of  Indian  com- 
missioners, presents  in  the  Indtpendmt  a 
summary  le^l  status  of  tlifi  Indian  tribes 
resident  in  the  United  States: — 

"L  The  Indians,  as  tribes,  cannot  obtain 
legal  redress  in  our  courts,  although  ve  com- 
pel them  to  liold  only  by  tribal  patents  such 
property  as  they  hola  at  all.    Tbe  Commis- 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 


doner  of  Indian  Affairs  for  1886  discusses 
the  action  of  Cougrc&s  and  of  the  Treasury 
regardint?  the  Indian  moneys  which  have  heen 
received  lor  pasturage,  limber,  etc.,  on  tlie  In- 
dian reservations,  which  unquestionably  be- 
long to  the  tribes  on  whose  reservations  they 
were  coIK-cted,  but  which  have  li^u  'covered 
into  the  Treasury'  and  cannot  be  gotten  out 
asrain.  2.  The  Indians,  as  individuals,  can- 
not obtain  legal  redress  in  our  courts.  They 
are  not  aliens.  They  are  not  citizens.  We 
do  not  allow  them  to  I>ecome  citizens  by  any 
process  of  naturalization.  Since  the  Indian 
is  neither  a  foreigner  nor  a  citizen,  he  is  held 
inculpable  of  brining  smIU  in  our  courts. 
Our  courts  have  decided  that  there  is  no  re- 
dress for  the  Indian.  'He  had  no  ri^ht  to 
appear  in  court  claiming  his  own,'  is  the 
declaration  of  a  Secretary  of  the  Interior. 
8.  Except  under  particular  treaties,  Indiaas, 
either  individually  or  in  tril>es,  cannot  ac- 
quire an  absolute  title  to  land,  even  to  the 
^and  which  lies  witliin  their  own  reservation. 
If  driven  oil  his  lands,  the  Indian  finds 
no  redress  in  our  courts.  It  would  be  easy  to 
specify  cases  of  wholesale  robbery  by  land 
companies  [in  California]  who  t;ike  forcible 
possession  of  the  best  tracts  of  Indian  lands 
and  at  once  put  upon  them  valuable  improve- 
ments, so  that  the  authorities  at  Washington 
may  hesitate  to  'disturb  large  investments  of 
capital'  and  higli  handed  robbery  by  individ- 
uals who  simply  drive  the  mild,  half -civilized 
Mission  Indians  off  tlie  lands  they  have  culti- 
vated for  generations,  and  by  threats  and  at 
the  rillo's  muzzle  hold  their  plunder  as  did  the 
robber  Ijarous  of  the  daxk  ages,  p*  et  armis.** 

Rev.  Pi  If  up  O'Flajierty. — Those  who 
have  kept  themselves  posted  in  regard  to  mis- 
sionary work  in  eqimtorial  Africa  will  have 
seen  frequent  mention  Jot  the  He  v.  Philip 
O* Flaherty,  a  missionary,  at  Ui^nda,  on  the 
shore  of  Lake  Victoria  Nyanza.  .  Good  Words, 
in  noticing  his  recent  death,  says: — 

•  Through  all  the  vicissitudes  of  cloud  and 
sunshine,  of  friendship  and  enmity,  which 
the  Christian  teachers  at  Uganda  have  exf^ri- 
enced,  Mr.  O' Flaherty  showed  himself  ever 
stanch  and  undaunted.  He  inspired  the 
native  converts  there  with  his  fearless  spirit, 
and  in  the  recent  persecution  they  have  shown 
of  what  stuff  they  are  made.  His  life  was 
an  eventful  one.  Religious  differences  sepa- 
rated him  from  his  family  when  a  young 
man.  He  enlisted  in  the  ranks,  served  In  the 
Crimean  war,  and  distingxiished  himself  for 
bis  coolness  under  fire  and  his  wonderful  in- 
fluence among  his  fellow-soldiers.  It  was 
found  that  he  had  great  linguistic  skill,  and 


he  was  taken  to  serve  as  one  of  the  interpre- 
ters^to  the  staff.  When  tlie  war  was  over  he 
remained  in  Turkey  as  a  missionary  of  the 
Free  Church,  but  was  afterward  transferred 
by  them  to  the  (Church  Missionary  Society. 
He  worked  abroad  for  some  years,  and  then 
came  back  to  F^ngland  to  serve  at  home;  but 
when  the  committee  of  the  Church  Mis.sion- 
ary  Society  invited  him  to  go  out  to  Uganda, 
he  gave  up  everything  and  went,  leaving  wife 
and  children  behind.  After  years  of  devoted 
service  he  was  on  his  way  liome ;  but  he 
brought  away  with  him  the  seeds  of  the  fever 
which  proved  fatal.  He  did  not  live  to  see 
the  faces  of  those  whom  he  loved  in  England, 
and  from  the  home  which  he  left  dark 
rumors  of  persecution  and  massacre  have 
reached  us,  which,  if  true,  imply  that  the 
native  Chuich  which  he  built  up  has  been 
swept  away." 

Bird's  Nest  Soap. — The  CornhiU  MagnHne 
has  a  by  no  means  appetizing  account  of  this 
famous  Chinese  delicacy: — 

•*The  bird  whose  nest  is  utilized  b}^  Chinese 
cooks  is  a  species  of  the  'swift'  common 
both  in  Europe  and  America.  The  swifts 
being  by  nature  atrial  birds,  with  a  great  in- 
disposition to  settle  on  the  ground — where 
they  are  about  jis  much  out  of  their  element 
as  a  seal  is  on  dry  land— do  not  readily  collect 
the  sticks  and  straws  and  grasses,  and  bits  of 
refuse  of  which  most  binls  habitually  con- 
struct their  tiny  homes.  When  forced  to 
buil'J  a  nest  f(»r  themselves,  they  use  for  the 
most  part  light  fragments  of  grass,  thistle- 
down, and  feathers,  all  of  which  can  be  gath- 
ered on  the  wing,  while  borne  by  the  breezes 
through  the  upper  air.  These  materials  they 
cement  together  with  their  copious  mucus,  for 
which  purpose  their  salivary  glands  arc  pecu- 
liarly large  and  fully  developed.  As  the  spi- 
der spins  its  web  ouC  of  its  own  l>ody,  so  the 
swift  finds  it  chc>aper  in  the  end  to  build  a 
nesv  out  of  its  own  secretions  than  to  collect 
material  in  unsuitable  places.  The  true  edi- 
ble bird's  nest  swiftlet  builds  in  caves  where 
materials  for  architecture  are  necessarily  scanty 
or  on  sea  clifls  of  inaccessible  height.  More 
than  most  other  swifts,  this  tropical  species  is 
a  confirmed  hiirhflyer,  hawking  for  its  food 
around  the  summits  of  the  mountains,  and 
much  indisposed  to  settle  on  the  ground  upon 
any  pretext.  Hence  it  has  learned  to  carry 
to  the  farthest  possible  limit  the  family  habit 
of  making  a  nest  quite  literally  *all  out  of  its 
own  head,' "Without  the  slightest  extraneous 
aid  of  any  sort.  The  best  and  cleanest  nests, 
which  fetch  the  highest  price,  are  composed 
entirely  of  pure  mucus   from  the  salivary 


490. 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


glands.  The  material  in  its  hardened  state 
IS  brittle,  tibrous,  white,  and  transparent, 
*very  like  pure  gum  arabic,  or  even  glass;' 
and  the  inner  lining  consists  of  nothing  but 
small  soft  feathers.  Inferior  nests,  which 
command  a  smaller  price  in  the  Chinese  mar- 
ket, arc  composed  in  part  of  dry  grasses,  hair, 
and  down,  welded  together  by  the  fibrous 
ffummy  secretion.  In  short,  as  Mr.  Darwin 
bluntly  puts  it,  *The  Chinese  make  soup  of 
dried  saliva.'  This  sounds  horrid  enough,  to 
be  sure;  but  when  we  ourselves  give  up  col- 
oring jellies  with  defunct  cochineal  insects,  it 
will  be  time  for  us  to  cast  the  first  stone  at 
the  Oriental  cuisine." 

Economy  in  Fuel. — **The  waste  of  coal 
in  Britain,'"  says  Cliambers*s  Journal,  **is  posi- 
tively disgraceful;  120,000,000  of  tons  are 
consumed  every  year.  Of  this  one  half  u light 
be  saved  by  the  adoption  of  improved  appli- 
ances. About  £30,000,000  might  tiius  be 
kept,  in  our  banks,  instead  of  beiog  turned 
into  cinders  and  smoke.  The  pall  of .  smoke 
and  fog  that  broods  over  London  contains  in 
a  single  day  fifty  tons  of  coal!  The  fact  is 
that  we  burn  coal  in  house-fires  on  an  entirely 
false  principle — that  is,  on  the  principle  of  a 
blast-furnace,  letting  cold  air  pass  through 
the  center  of  the  fire,  to  blaze  the  coal  rapidly 
away,  and  hurry  the  heat  and  half -burnt  gases 
unused  up  the  chimney.  We  have  to  go 
back  to  the  good  old  principle  of  the  embers 
on  the  hearth,  when  the  licarth  was,  as  it  is  at 
the  present  day  in  many  Irish  cottages,  a  true 
*focus,'  a  center  of  accumulated  heat.  We 
must,  then,  return  to  truer  lines,  and  make  our 
flrephire  again  a  'focus'  or  'well*  of  stored 
hejil,  into  which  we  put  our  fuel,  first  to  be 
distilled  into  gas,  which,  rising  at  a  high 
temperature  from  its  hot  bed,  meets  the  air 
gliding  toward  the  chimney,  and  bursts  in- 
to flame,  communicating  heat  to  the  firebrick 
back  and  to  the  room.  Then,  when  all  the 
gases  have  been  burnt  oflE,  the  red-hot  coke 
remains,  and  burns  away  in  the  bottom  of  the 
grate  at  a  slow  rate,  yet  radiating  abundant 
heat  into  the  room.  Tliis  desirable  end  is 
gained  by  using  Mr.  Teale's  'Economizer;' 
whicli  is  simply  a  shield  of  sheet-iron  which 
stands  on  the  hearth,  and  rises  as  high  as  the 
lowest  bar  of  the  grate  against  which  it  should 
fit  accurately,  so  as  to  shut  in  the  space  un- 
der the  fire.  It  is  applicable  to  any  ran;re, 
wlu^ther  in  the  cottages  of  the  poor  or  the 
mansions  of  the  rich.  Its  chief  purpose  is  to 
cut  off  the  under  current,  and  to  keep  tlie 
chaml)er  under  the  fire  hot.  Count  Rumford 
aflirmed  that  seven-eighths  of  the  heat  was 
carried  up  the  chimney     Heat  is  wasted  in 


three  ways:  by  combusticn  under  the  iiifiu> 
ence  of  a  strong  draught;  by  imperfect  coai- 
bustion;  by  the  escape  of  heat  through  the 
sides  and  the  back  of  the  fireplace.  B\'  usin^ 
the  'Economizer'  all  this  is  altered.  If  there 
is  plenty  of  heat  round  the  fuel,  then  but 
little  oxygen  will  do.  But  burn  coal  with  a 
chilling  jacket,  and  it  needs  a  fierce  draught 
of  oxygen  to  sustain  it.  High  temperature 
does  not  imply  complete  combustion,  for  in 
making  gas,  coke  is  left.  When  the  'Econo- 
mizer' IS  applied,  the  fire  burns  v  ith  an  orange 
color,  for  the  stream  of  oxygen  is  slow  and 
steady,  and  the  coal  undergoes  complete  com- 
bustion; consequently  there  is  an  entire  ab- 
sence of  cinders,  and  only  a  little  fine  Miuft*- 
like  powder  falls  into  the  'economized' 
chamber.  Smoke  ifi  also  conspicuous  by  it» 
absence." 

Thackeray  and  the  Bowery  Bhoy. — 
Mr.  Thackeray  used  to  tell  a  story  ujx)n  him- 
self, which  we  find  thus  retold  in  Chantber»*$ 
Journal: — 

*' While  in  New  York,  he  expreased  to  a 
friend  a  desire  to  see  some  of  the  'Bowery 
Bho3's.'  So  one  evening  he  was  taken  to  the 
Bowery,  and  he  was  shown  a  'Bhoy.'  The 
young  man,  the  business  of  the  day  being 
over,  had  changed  his  attire.  He  wore  a 
dress-coat,  black  trousers,  and  a  sjitin  waiat- 
coat;  while  a  tall  hat  rested  on  tlie  back  of 
his  head,  which  was  adorned  with  long,  well- 
greased  hair — known  as  *scap-locks. '  The 
youth  was  leaning  against  a  lamppost,  smok- 
mg  an  enormous  cigixr;  and  his  whole  asj^ect 
was  one  of  ineffable  self-satisfaction.  Tlie 
eminent  novelist,  after  contemplating  him 
for  a  few  moments  with  silent  admiration, 
said  to  the  gentleman  by  whom  he  was  ac- 
companied :  '  This  is  a  great  and  gorgeous 
creature!'  adding:  'Can  I  speak  to  him  with- 
out his  t aki ng  offence?'  Having  recei  ved  an  an- 
swer in  the  atfirmative,  Thackeray,  cm  the  pro- 


ual  spoken  to.  Instead,  therefore,  of  affording 
the  information  sought,  the  'Bhoy'— adiraiuu- 
tive  specimen  of  humanity,  scjirtely  over  five 
feet  in  height— -eyeing  the  tall  form  of  his  in- 
terlocutor askance,  answered  tl:e  query  in  the 
sense  that  his  ])ermiss8ion  had  been  asked  for 
the  speaker  to  visit  the  locality  in  question, 
and  he  said,  patronizingly:  'Well,  sonny,  ye 
kin  go  thar.*  When  Thackeray  sul*sequently 
related  the  incident,  he  laughingly  declared 
that  he  was  so  disconcerted  by  tlie  unexpected 
response,  that  he  had  not  the  courage  to  con- 
tinue the  diioguo. "  . . 


WOMANHOOD  IN  OLD  GREECE. 


491 


WOMANHOOD  IN  OLD  GREECE. 

Though  the  parent  of  our  own — 
though  its  spirit  still  informs  us  and 
its  life-blood  runs  in  our  veins  —  the 
civilization  of  the  Greeks  is  in  many 
most  important  circumstances  utterly 
unlike  our  own.  Its  virtues  and  its 
vices  are  alike  alien  to  us;  its  beauty  is 
not  ours;  its  'poetry  appeals  to  but  a 
chosen  few;  its  deeds  of  heroism  have 
no  echo  in  our  history;  its  heroes  light 
no  living  fire  of  imitative  enthusiasm 
in  our  youth;  its  religion  has  come  to  be 
a  by- word  of  contempt;  its  gods  are 
striken  with  leprosy  and  smitten  with 
shame;  and  our  social  habits  are  as 
different  from  those  of  the  men  who 
yet  are  our  spiritual  fathers,  as  our 
moral  codes  are  irreconcilable.  Much 
which  they  allowed  as  of  the  nature  of 
men  and  things  we  forbid  as  infamous; 
what  they  considered  essential  to  morals 
and  good  manners  we  have  wiped  off 
the  tables  altogether;  and  lapses  which 
to  them  carried  disgi-ace  and  left  an  in- 
delible stigma,  we  in  our  turn  treat  as 
weaknesses  of  the  flesh,  to  be  dealt  with 
leniently  by  all  but  Pharisees  and 
Tartuffes.  For  human  nature  has 
everywhere  the  same  trick  of  breaking 
loose  from  the  bonds  of  the  forbidden; 
and  it  is  only  custom  and  climate  which 
decide  what  is  infamous  and  what  is 
only  regrettable — what  may  never  be 
forgiven  and  what  can  without  difficulty 
be  pardoned. 

Other  things,  too,  have  changed 
since  Darius  demanded  earth  and  water 
from  Amyntas,  ahd  his  son  vindicated 
the  honor  of  the  women  by  such  bloody 
reprisals;  since  Leonidas  died  at  Ther- 
mopylae, and  Pericles  rebuilt  the  Par- 
thenon; since  Socrates  drank  the  cup 
of  hemlock,  and  Etna  cast  back  the 
golden  sandal  of  Empedocles.  Indi- 
vidualism, for  one,  has  taken  the  place 
of  that  passionate  devotion  to  the  State 
which  made  mothers    like   Praxithea 


sacrifice  their  daughters  to  the  gods; 
as  modern  mothers  see  theirs  undertake 
the  living  death  of  a  Sepolto  V^iva — 
with  the  same  solemn  sorrow  for  the 
lost  love  yet  with  the  same  grave  sub- 
mission to  the  divine  will.  But  where 
our  modern  sacrifice  is  for  the  saving 
of  ou^*  own  souls,  theirs  was  for  the  sal- 
vation of  the  State;  and  our  daughters 
know  as  little  of  the  patriotism  which 
made  Chthonia  submissive  and  gentle 
Iphigeneia  resigned,  as  they  do  of  the 
herb  moly  or  the  helmet  of  Hades. 

The  one  strong  friendship  through 
life  and  to  death  which  made  Orestes 
and  Py lades  proverbial;  which  sent 
Nisus  to  his  own  death  in  defence  of 
Euryalus;  which  made  Achilles  forget 
his  Wrath  that  he  might  avenge  Patro- 
cles,  and  Panteus,  forgetting  wife  and 
home,  slay  himself  on  the  dead  body  of 
Oleomenes — this  one  strong  love  be- 
tween men  has  declined  to  a  crowd  of 
pleasant  acquaintances,  for  the  most 
part  based  on  the  most  prosaic  con- 
siderations of  mutual  advantages. 

The  modesty  and  strict  discipline  of 
youth,  the  influence  given  to  teachers, 
the  power  of  eloquence,  the  adoration 
of  beauty  —  all  have  gone  with  that 
passionate  devotion  to  the  one  mother, 
the  State;  that  faithful  friendship  to 
the  chosen  beloved.  The  sentiment 
expressed  in  the  ephebic  oath,  when 
the  newly-enrolled  youth  swore  never 
to  disgrace  his  hallowed  weapons,  nor 
to  abandon  the  comrade  by  whose  side 
he  might  be  placed,  nor  to  leave  his 
country  less,  but  rather  greater  and 
better  by  sea  and  land,  than  when  he 
received  it — that  sentiment  is  as  archaic 
as  the  Socratic  method,  as  obsolete  a» 
the  Bacchic  hymn,  as  dead  as  the  gods 
on  Mount  Olympus.  It  bore  its  most 
splendid  fruit  when  those  Three 
Hundred  perished,  each  man  by  the 
side  of  his  friend;  Since  then,  however 
great  and  grand  the  deed,  the  heart  of 
the  heroism  animating  it  has  been  dif- 


492 


THE  LIBRAllY  MAGAZINE. 


ferent,  and  the  ephebic  oath  is  among 
the  things  done  with. 

But  chief  of  all  the  things  which 
have  changed  since  then  and  now  is  the 
social  condition  of  woman.  And  here 
we  vigorous  AVesterns  take  credit  to 
ourselves,  and  hold  that  we  have  made 
a  clear  step  forward,  casting  behind  us 
many  dishonoring  fetters  and  oppres- 
sive superstitions  by  the  way.  And  yet 
-^nothing  having  one  side  only — some- 
thing may  be  said  for  the  habits  and 
customs  of  the  despised  past;  and  as- 
suredly the  Greek  Ideal  of  Womanhood 
stands  among  the  most  beautiful  in  the 
world.  For  we  must  not  confound 
customs  with  character,  nor  habits  of 
life  with  moral  influence  and  repute. 

The  religion  of  those  old  times  is 
itself  evidence  of  the  power  held  by 
women  and  the  respect  paid  to  them. 
Zeus,  the  **  cloud-gatherer,"  was,  of 
course,  the  supreme  deity  of  all;  the 
father  of  gods  and  men,  whose  nod 
shook  the  foundations  of  the  earth, 
before  whose  wrath  all  creatures,  divine 
and  human,  trembled.  Even  Hera  her- 
self hearkened  to  the  sage  counsel  which 
advised  her  to  bear  her  jealous  wrath  as 
best  she  could,  because  of  the  power  of 
the  Thunderer  to  hurt  and  destroy.  But 
witn  this  exception  the  goddesses  were 
as  powerful  as  the  gods,  and  wrought 
their  will  on  men  and  things  at  pleasure. 
Between  the  two,  when  Foseidon  con- 
tended with  Athene  for  the  guardian- 
ship of  Atliens,  it  was  the  goddess  who 
conquered : — Was  not  that  old  gnarled 
sacred -olive  in  the  Acropolis  the  sign 
thereof  ? — that  olive  which  was  then  as 
im  mortar  as  the  goddess  herself;  which 
sprouted  two  cubits  long  on  the  very 
day  when  the  Medes  burnt  it  and  the 
city;  which  died  only  when  the  gods 
^themselves  passed  away  into  the  gray 
gloom  of  Hades,  and  the  cry  went  round 
among  men  who  then  had  found  an- 
other shrine:  **The  great  god  Pan  is 
dead!'' 


"The  severe  goddesses,"  the  Erin- 
nyes,  were  women  whose  power  filled 
earth  and  sky  and  drove  men  like  sheep 
to  the  slaughter;  wreckiug  lives  as 
storms  wreck  strong  ships,  and  destroy- 
ing peace  and  happiness  and  self-respect 
as  winds  u proot  the  forest-trees.  Essen- 
tially womanlike  are  they  in  their  softer 
aspect*  of  those  "  thrice  awful  protec- 
tresses— dread  daughters  -of  the  Earth 
and  Darkness,"  those  venerable  Eu- 
menides  who  were  to  be  propitiated  by 
penitence  and  prayer,  and  who,  from  the 
Furies  who  scourged,  became  the  mis- 
tresses who  pardoned  and  the  mothers 
who  received.  Ate  was  a  woman;  so 
was  swift  Night,  whom  Zeus  himself 
*' feared  to  vex;"  while  the  great 
Mother  of  the  Earth,  Demeter  —  that 
nobler,  fuller,  more  matured  Hera, 
whose  pride  sorrow  has  chastened  to 
sympathy  and  who  gives  with  both 
hands  the  treasure  of  her  heart — was 
almost  as  potent  over  men  as  was 
her  cloud-compelling  brother.  Hestia, 
again,  was  one  of  the  most  influential 
forms  of  divinity.  She  was  the  6uj)reme 
deity  of  the  home;  and  the  home  is  the 
center  of  societv  and  one  of  the  holiest 
of  the  Holy  Places  of  humanity.  Be- 
fore her  altar  were  transacted  all  the 
solemn  events  of  the  family.  Here  the 
young  were  married;  here  the  dead 
were  laid;  here  was  brought  the  new- 
bom  infant  to  be  carried  round  that 
sacred  shrine  as  a  sign  of  reception  and 
welcome;  and  here  was  received,  by 
the  whole  family,  the  new  slave,  also  as 
a  sign  that,  like  the  newly-born,  he  was 
admitted  to  the  hotisehold  hearth  as 
one  of  themselves.  Here,  too,  he  ran 
for  protection — to  this  visible  sign  of 
the  home  divinity — when  he  had  done 
wrong  and  feared  punishmentr  and 
here  the  stranger,  doubtful  of  his  wel- 
come, placed  himself  as  under  the  aegis 
of  the  goddess.  So  Odysseus,  when- 
directed  hy  the  goddess,  "gray-eyed 
Athene,"  m  the  fashion  of  a  young 


WOMANHOOD  IN  OLD  GREECE. 


'498 


maiden  carrying  a  pitcher — ^he  passed 
through  the  golden  door  of  the  palace 
of  Alcinous,  and  *'sat  him  down  by  tile 
hearth  in  the  ashes  at  the  fire."  First 
and  last  of  all  libations  were  poured  out 
to  Hestia,  as  a  sign  that  she  inclosed 
all  things — she,  one  form  of  the  great 
Mother  of  All.  Standing  as  close  as 
the  guardian  angel  in  the  dreams  of  the 
young  acolyte — as  helpful  as  intimate, 
as  observant  as  the  patron  saint — this 
sweet,  chaste  virgin-mother  gathered  up 
the  prayers  of  all  her  children  as  the. 
sun  gathers  up  the  dew  from  the  white 
fleeces  strewn  on  the  earth ;  and  no  one 
could  feel  desolate  or  abandoned  while 
the  fire  burnt  on  her  altar  and  the  sac- 
rifices were  duly  made.  The  prayer  of 
Alcestis  to  Hestia  could  not  have  made 
to  a  god.  So  that  religion  at  least  gave 
her  scepier  to  woman;  and  neither  god 
nor  man,  neither  demigod  nor  demi- 
brute,  could  resist  when  she  command- 
ed nor  fulfill  when  she  opposed. 

The  better-known  four  great  god- 
desses are  in  themselves  types  of  living 
women.  So  they  seem  to  us  to  whom, 
they  are  no  longer  awful  and  divine. 
They  have  lost  tne  formless  nebulosity 
of  Khea,  the  elemental  grandeur  of  De- 
meter,  the  awful  omnipotence  of  Neces- 
sity by  whose  will  the  gods  themselves 
were  bound,  the  weira  faculties  and 
mysterious  functions  of  the  Erinnyes 
and  the  Phorcydes.  They  are  women — 
living,  breathing,  acting  women — lov- 
ing and  hating,  protecting  and  perse- 
cuting, accordingto  their  desire;  taking 
one  man  for  their  love  and  banning 
another  with  their  wrath,  and  seldom 
more  reasonable  than  their  mortal  rep- 
resentatives. The  earth  is  peopled 
with  their  daughters,  who  cluster 
beneath  the  folds  of  their  garments 
and  reproduce  the  lineaments  of  the 
archetype.  To  white  armed  Hera  be- 
long the  proud,  exclusive,  virtuous 
ladies  who  class  themselves  as  a  chosen 
band  apart  from  the  commonalty,  call 


themselves  "  we,"  keep  society  at  a 
high  level  of  outside  refinement,  and 
hold  the  rougher  world  of  men  in 
check. 

For  the  most  part  stately  and  still — 
quiet  because  proud,  and  too  refined  to 
be  demonstrative — they  are  yet  at  times, 
in  their  own  regal  way,  substantially 
termagants;  and  they  are  noted  for 
their  hardness  of  hand  when  dealing 
with  offenders.  But  without  them  the 
world  would  breed  corruption  as  quickly 
as  the  bull,  '*  on  whose  brows  are  be- 
ginning to  curl  the  horns  of  the  second 
year,"  breeds  bees  after  he  has  been 
killed  with  blows  and  laid  on  thyme 
and  cassia  flowers.  They  are  the  great 
forbidders  of  men's  wishes  and  self-in- 
dulgences. They  stop  up  bung-holes  and 
spigots  in  the  wine-casks;  deny  both 
cakes  and  ale;  and  pnt  the  seas  between 
them  and  their  husband's  cigars.  They 
peraecute,  even  when  ignorantly  sin- 
ning, the  unfortunate  Alcmenas  whose 
children  have  no  name;  and  they  lead 
the  rasn  Semeles  to  their  own  destruc- 
tion when  they  wish  to  mate  with  their 
betters.  Like  Cassandra,  they  are 
strong  to  resist  Apollo  himself;  and 
the  base-born  Ixions  of  rash  desires 
know  them  only  through  the  vapors 
of  imagination.  Everywhere  "young 
Cupid's  fiery  shaft  "  has  no  more  chance 
with  them — if  outside  the  magic  circle 
of  the  wedding-ring — than  it  had  when 
it  was  "  quenched  in  the  chaste  beams 
of  the  watery  moon."  They  are  the 
leaders  of  the  *'  proper  set "  in  London 
society,  and  the  ladies  of,  honorable 
birth  and  more  honorable  marriage  in 
the  country.  They  we*ir  rich  furs  and 
stately  velvets;  bear  children  in  decorous 
sufficiency  but  not  with  vulgar  plenti- 
tude;  keep  their  husbands  in  good 
order,  and  drive  their  hoKsehold  team 
with  a  light  rein  and  a  strong  curb. 
They  are  our  ladieus  of  high  lineage  and 
blameless  repute — the  direct  descend- 
antfi  of  those  Junonic  Bomau  matrons 


494 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


who,  when    they    crossed    the    bride- 
groom's threshold,  said  emphatically: 
Ubi  tu  Caius  ego  Caia;"  and  translated 
into  deeds  the  self-assertive  promise  of 
their  words. 

To  gniy-eyod  Athene,  the  "very 
wise,''  belong  the  whole  class,  however 
named,  of  those  thoughtful,  learned, 
ambitious,  or  self-devoted  women  who 
despise  the  lusts  of  the  flesh  and  live 
for  intellect,  power,  country,  or  a  cause. 
Pythonesses  at  Delphi,  vestals  at  Rome, 
Lady  Abbesses  and  leaders  of  religious 
soots  in  (Jhristendom,  they  have  not 
much  to  do  with  the  laughing,  careless, 
happy  freedom  of  maidenhood  in  its 
budding-time.  They  are  the  Deborahs 
and  Juiliths,  the  Boadiceas  and  Joans 
of  Arc,  of  history  or  patriotism; — the 
Vittoria  <3olonnas,  the  Mesdames  Ro- 
land, the  Mrs.  Montagus  of  politics  and 
literature; — the  Princess  Idas  of  poetry. 
As  wives  or  maidens  they  are  chaste, 
severe,  high-minded,  perhaps  restricted. 
In  their  modern  presentation  they  are 
committee  -  women,  platform  -  women, 
White  (Jross  women,  anti-vivtsection- 
ists.  They  are  apt  to  be  a  little  meddle- 
some as  well  as  aggressive,  and  are  fond 
^  of  lifting  up  forbidden  lids — setting 
the  trap]>ed  reptiles  loose  and  letting 
the  foul  birds  go  free.  They  give  lec- 
tures on  abominable  subjects;  blaspheme 
men;  fight  the  cause  of  dogs;  have  no 
love  for  little  children.  They  are  whole- 
souled  in  judgment,  strong  in  counsel, 
helpful  in  deed,  out-andout  pai'tisans 
in  principle.  But  we  respect  them  nwre 
than  we  love,  aad  go  to  them  for  views 
rather  than  for  sympathy.  They  have 
nothing  in  common  with  the  Junonic 
ladies  of  society,  though  they  hold  the 
reins  as  tightly  and  use  the  whip  as 
ffeely.  But  where  the  former  act  on 
individuals,  these  others  work  for  prin- 
ciples, and  seldom  go  so  far  as  to  have 
either  an  Odvssensor  a  Telemachus  in 
their  lives. 

To  ^^gold-gleaming"    Artemis  are 


affiliated  all  out-of-doors  and  active 
women,  whether  as  swift-funning  Spar- 
tan girls,  or  those  of  modem  type  who 
face  Dullfinches  and  leap  ditches  in  the 
hunting- field,  climb  snow  mountains 
and  cross  glaciers  in  the  Engadine,  go 
out  with  the  guns  and  bring  clown  tlioir 
bird  on  the  moors.  Also  to  her  belones 
the  collective  maidenhood  of  the  world, 
before  desire  lies  on  the  eyelids  or  love 
looks  out  from  the  eyes.  Artemis  holds 
as  her  own  all  that  innocent  and  laugh- 
ing girlhood  which  neither  cares  for 
fame  nor  pines  for  love,  biit  just  lives 
as  the  flowers  and  the  birds  live — stand- 
ing in  the  sunlight  of  to-day  with  now 
and  then  a  backward  glance  to  the  rose- 
colored  memories  of  yesterday's  child- 
hood, but  never  an  attempt  to  peer  into 
the  dim  shadows  of  to-morrow.  These 
are  the  creatures  to  whom  to  live  is 
enough  for  happiness.  They  do  not 
know  one  philosophy  from  another,  and 
as  little  of  the  sm  and  sorrow  of  the 
world  about  them.  To  the  poor  of  their 
own  place  they  are  good  and  compas- 
sionate; and,  in  the  bleak  winter 
weather,  carry  willingly  four  or  five 
miles  over  the  snow,  Baskets  of  warm 
comforts  for  the  ailing,  shivering,  pen- 
niless bodies  who  starve  on  the  ont- 
skirts  of  tl)e  parish.  Tliey  are  uncon- 
scious hedonists  beomise,  being  pure  in 
mind  and  healthy  in  body,  everything 
turns  to  -enjoyment  with  them;  and  all 
forms  ^f  discontent,  repining,  or  mo- 
roseness  are  as  foreign  to  their  nature  as 
a  burning  desire  to  understand  algebra 
©r  a  steady  resolve  to  master  Greek. 
They  are  our  typical  English  girls  of 
country  life  and  habits;  and  we  would 
match  them  ^against  the  world  for 
health,  beauty,  innooenee  —  and  the 
lovely  freshness  resulting. 

To  sea-born  Aphrodite  -are  given  all 
women  who  love;  all  women  who  care 
to  make  the  joy  of  men;  all  tire  sweet 
names  of  passionate  renown;  all  the 
fair  shapes  of  those   who  loved  and 


WOMANHOOD  IN  OLD  GREECE. 


495 


smiled  and  wrought  in  a  kiss  the  ruin 
of  a  life  or  the  salvation  of  a  world. 
All  the  immortal  loveliness  of  time  and 
th«  ages,  of  history  and  poetry,  belongs 
to  her.  Helen  and  Aspasia;  Buth 
standing  breast-high  among  the  corn, 
and  the  Magdalene  wiping,  the  feet  of 
her  Lord  with  her  long  fair  hair;  fair 
Rosamond  and  Agnes  Sorel;  the  Scot- 
tish Mary  whose  witchery  made  death 
for  her  far  sweeter  to  the  loving  than 
life  without  her;  Queen  Margot,  who 
kissed  her  sleeping  poet  on  the  lips,  and 
whose  blue  eyes  shone  with  the  light  of 
the  love  that  is  born  in  an  hour  to  live 
for  a  day;  Ninon  de  I'Enclos,  who 
seemed  to  have  bathed  in  a  special 
Canathus  of  her  own,  and  to  have 
received  a  private  patent  from  the 
Mother  of  Love  herself;  Hero  and 
Juliet;  Lisette  and  Jeanette — these  and 
countless  more  are  the  buds  which 
cluster  round  that  parent  rose;  and 
wherever  woman  loves  and  is  beloved, 
there  the  Sea-born  rise«  again  from  the 
iridescent  foam,  and  men  peril  their 
immortal  souls  f®r  the  flavor  of  her  lips 
and  the  perfume  of  her  hair.  All  the 
sweetness  and  softness  which  make  the 
enduring  charm  of  womanhood  are  the 
gifts  bequeathed  by  her.  But  as  little 
as  the  laughing  ''nymphs  of  Dian'e 
train  "  know  of  philosophy,  so  little  do 
these  reproductions  of  Aphrodite  Jcnow 
of  ascetism  or  self-restraint,  .To  others 
the  lessons  of  pmdence  and  the  denials 
of  virtue;  to  them  the  full  cnp  drained 
with  passionate  haste  while  the  wine  is 
sweet  and  before  the  acid  of  the  lees 
crisps  the  moist  lips  and  dims*  the  bright 
eyes.  When  the  inevitable  day  of  decay 
comes,  then,  like  the  Sicilian  Lais, 
they  hang  up  their  mirrors  in  the  temple 
where  they  have  worshiped,  and  sigh 
sidlv  as  they  sav:  ^  We  have  lived  !  " 

J  ■  ml  V 

For  nothing  is  eternal;  and  -even  Ana- 
d\'omene  has  passed  back  into  the.  froth 
and  foam  of  her  beginning. 
For  the  rest  of  the  Greek  goddesses^ 


they  are  simply  women  differentiated 
by  functions  rather  than  by  qualities, 
and  in  no  way  archetypal.  Ileet-f  ooted 
Iris  and  silver-ankled  Thotis,  and  Hebe 
who  is  her  mother's  attendant  and  the 
young  daughter  of  the  Divine  House, 
are  like  a  thousand  others.  Pysche  has 
her  own  individuality  because  of  her 
extreme  youth  and  innocent  foolish- 
ness; but,  unless  we  would  make  Pan- 
dora stand  for  curiosity,  Leda  for  com- 
passion, Daphne  for  terror,  Arethusa 
for  repugnance,  Proserpine  and  Europe 
for  victimized  maidenhood,  and  so  on, 
we  can  carve  but  few  distinctive  marks 
on  the  pedestals  where  stand  the  images 
of  those  who  loved  and  were  beloved, 
or  who  were  beloved  and  not  consent- 
ing. Th©y  are  as  hand-maidens  helping 
in  the  splendor  of  the  pageant;  but  they 
are  satellites  not  suns^  accessories  not 
principat^ 

This  ckar-cut  personality  of  the  four 
great  goddesses,  taken  in  the  concrete 
form  in  which  we  chiefly  know  them — 
but  how  tiie  outlines  fade  and  the  at- 
tributes commingle  when  we  go  deeper ' 
into  the  meaning  of  the.  myths,  group- 
ing the  various  embodiments  and  ceasing 
to  isolate  the  localities! — this  clear-cut 
personality  is  repeated  in  the  Homeric 
women,  and  later,  in  those  of  the  great 
tragedians.  Helen,  Penelope,  Andro- 
mache, Eurydice,  Nausicaii,  Arete, 
Calypso  herself,  half  divine  yot  all  a 
woman,  are  like  so  many  cameos,  per- 
fectly distinct  and  individualized, 
(^'hryseis  and  Briscis,  on  the  contrary 
are  like  shadows  crossing  the  page,  not 
detached  nor  solidified  nor  differentiated 
one  from  the  other.  They  are  the  Hebe 
-and  iris  of  humanity,  important  as 
agencies  but  formless  as  persons.  Their 
fainter  tones  are  supplemented  by  the 
living  reality  of  these  others.  Helen 
herself-^fortfll  that  her  beauty  is  of 
an  almost  elemental  kind,  like  the  radi- 
ance of  the  d^iwn  or.  the  splendor  of  the 
stars,  ^aad   though   she  has  a  oei-tain 


486 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


mythic  and  mystic  quality,  as  if  she 
were  rather  an  avatar  of  Aphrodite  than 
a  woman  of  ordinary  mortal  mould — 
yet  even  she  lives  and  breathes  before 
us  as  clearly  as  Scott's  Queen  Mary  or 
Shakespeare's  Juliet. 

Nothing  is  more  eloquent  of  the  dif- 
ference between  us  and  the  old  Greeks 
in  our  estimate  of  beauty  and  the  true 
value  cf  women,  than  is  Homer's  treat- 
ment of  llelen,  and  so  many  genera- 
tions after,  Isocrates's.  Tiiough  an 
ordinary  woman's  adultery  was  an  in- 
finitely deeper  crime  with  them  than  it 
is  with  us,  for  the  sake  of  her  loveli- 
ness the  Greeks,  both  of  Homer's  time 
and  after,  forgave  Helen  all  her  sins. 
No  one  has  a  word  of  blame  for  her 
whost.  fatal  charms  and  still  more  fatal 
undutifulness,  have  already  wrought  the 
doom  of  so  many  brave  men,  and  are 
still  to  work  so  much  more  woe.*  When 
Iris,  in  the  likeness  of  **  Laodike,  fairest 
favored  of  Priam's  daughters,"  goes  to 
tell  her  that  Alexandros  and  Menelaos, 
*'  dear  to  Ares,  will  fight  with  their  tall 
spears  for  her,  and  that  she  will  be 
declared  the  dear  wife  of  him  that  con- 
quereth,"  begging  her  to  go  on  the 
lower  that  she  may  **  see  the  wondrous 
doings  of  the  horse-taming  Trojans  and 
mail-clad  Achaians,"  the  goddess  speaks 
to  the  woman,  the  sister  to  the  sister-in- 
law,  the  virtuous  maiden  to  the  adul- 
terous wife,  with  both  tenderness  and 
respect.  So  does  Priam,  on  whose 
house  and  city  she  has  brought  this  il- 
limitable woe.  When  she  has  left  that 
*'  great  purple  web  of  double  woof,"  on 
which  she  is  embroidering  '^many  battles 
of  horse-taming  Trojans  and  mail-clad 
Achaians,"  and,  veiling  her  face  in 
shining  linen,  while  letting  fall  a  great 
round  tear,  goes  with  her  handmaidens 
to  the  tower,  Priam  calls  her  his  '*  dear 
child "  and  comforts  her.  '*  I  hold 
thee  not  to  blame,"  he  8ay«;  '*  nay,  I 
hold  the  gods  to  blame  who  brought  on 
UB  the  dolorous  war  of  the  Achaians." 


She  herself  says  in  answer:  "  Reverend 
art  thou  to  me  and  dread,  dear  father 
of  my  lord;  would  that  sore  death  had 
been  my  pleasure  when  I  followed  thy 
son  hither,  and  left  my  home  and  my 
kinsfolk  and  my  daughter  in  her  girl- 
hood and  the  lovely  company  of  my 
age-fellows.  But  that  was  not  so, 
wherefore  I  pine  with  weeping." 

Nevertheless,  she  goes  on  to  explain 
quite  quietly  who  are  the  leaders  of  the 
hostile  hosts,  and  how  they  are  named. 
There  is  nothing  wild  nor  disturbing  in 
her  self-reproach.  The  tear  lies  on 
her  cheek,  but  no  anguish  contracts  the 
fair  features  of  her  face  nor  furrows  the 
clear  breadth  of  her  brows.  She  is  not 
heartless,  but  galm  as  Fate  is  calm.  She 
has  brought  evil  on  all  who  loved  her 
and  on  thousands  besides;  but  it  is  the 
law  of  her  being;  and  she  is  no  more 
responsible  for  the  one  or  for  the  other 
than  the  lily  is  responsible  for  its  beauty 
or  the  night-shade  for  its  bale.  Stand- 
ing on  the  high  tower  under  the  clear 
blue  sky  of  Greece — before  her  the 
chiefs  and  leaders  of  that  grand  Achaian 
host,  their  armor  flashing  in  the  sun 
and  their  hollow  ships  rocking  in  the 
bay — in  the  streets  of  the  beleaguered 
city  at  her  feet  crowds  of  helmeted 
Trojans,  with  long-robed  women  pass- 
ing to  and  fro — she  feels  and  knows  how 
all  this  is  the  result  of  her  beauty  and 
her  power.  She  shows  no  vulgar  tri- 
umph, betray  no  mean  vanity.  With 
statuesQue  composure  she  confesses  her 
fault,  tnen  turns  to  her  calm  descrip- 
tion of  the  men  who  have  come  to  die 
for  her  sake.  In  her  infidelity  and  her 
love — in  her  matchless  charm  and  beauty 
— in  her  grace  and  dignity  and  queenly 
splendor  even  in  her  shame  —  in  her 
feminine  supremacy,  the  while  she  is 
submissive  to  her  lord's  will — in  the 
godlike  grandeur  .  and  the  womanly 
tenderness  of  her  embrace  —  Helen  of 
Troy  lives  forever  as  the  type  of  one 
whose  perfection  of  sex  redeems  her  sin 


WOMANHOOD  IN  OLD  GREECE. 


'07 


and  stands  instead  of  the  crowning 
virtue  of  that  sex.  Even  so  late  as 
Isocrates^  she  was  honored  beyond  all 
women;  and  in  the  famous  oration,  her 
Encomium,  this  fervid  outburst  attests 
her  place  in  history  and  the  hearts  of 
men:  '*  And  who  would  have  scorned 
wedlock  with,  her,  for  whose  sake  all 
the  Hellenes  went  to  war  as  if  Hellas 
had  been  ravaged  ?  Tliey  regarded  the 
issue  as  lying,  not  between  Alexander 
and  Menelaos,  but  between  Europe  and 
Asia.  The  land  which  held  Helen  must 
be  most  blest.  As  thought  men,  so 
thought  the  gods.  Zeus  sent  his  son 
Sarpedon,  Eos  sent  her  Memnon,  Posei- 
don sent  Kyknos,  Thetis  sent  Achilles, 
to  a  fate  which  they  foreknew,  but 
which,  they  deemed,  could  not  be  more 
glorious.  And  naturally;  for  Helen 
was  endowed  beyond  compare  with 
beauty  —  the  most  august,  the  most 
honored,  the  most  divine  of  all  things; 
the  quality  for  which,  if  absent,  nothing 
can  make  up;  which,  where  it  is  pre- 
sent, wans  good- will  at  first  sight;  which 
makes  seiTice  sweet  and  untiring; 
which  makes  tasks  seem  favors;  beauty, 
the  profanation  of  which  by  those  who 
possess  it  we  deem  a  crime  more  shame- 
ful than  any  wrong  which  thev  can  do 
others,  while  we  honor  for  all  tlieir  davs 
those  who  guard  it  sacred  as  a  shrine. 

There  is  a  more  cynical  ring  in  the 
opening  chapter  of  Herodotus.  Speak- 
ing of  the  carrying  off  from  her  husband 
of  this  fair  cause  of  so  much  sorrow — 
this  **  long-robed  Helen,'*  whom  Homer 
calls  "  the  noblest  of  women '' — he  says: 
"  Now  to  carry  off  women  by  violence 
the  Persians  think  is  the  act  of  wicked 
men;  but  to  trouble  one's  self  about 
avenging  them  when  carried  off,  is  the 
act  of  foolish  ones;  and  to  pay  no  regard 
to  them  when  carried  off,  of  wise  men; 
for  that  it  is  clear,  that  it  they  had  not 
been  willing  they  would  not  have  been 
carried  off.  Queen  Elizabeth  repeated 
the    same    sentiment  in  other  words 


many  hundreds  of  years  after  the  F;:;>.  r 
of  History  had  joined  the  m('l:nu*}:t)ly 
shades  below^.  ^schylus,  in  liis  A(/a' 
mefnnon,  strikes  a  yet  graver  note  of 
reprobation:  *' Who  gave  thut  war- wed 
strife-upstirring  one  the  name  of  Helen, 
ominous  of  ill  ?  "  "  Hell  of  men,  and 
hell  of  ships,  and  hell  of  towers,?  nlie 
is  primarily  responsible  for  the  awful 
crime  about  to  be  committed  by  Ler 
sister;  she  is  the  source  whence  ilows 
this  fatal  river  of  hot  blood;  thou^^li, 
indeed,  she  is  but  one  of  the  fated  in 
her  own  person,  destined  to  lielp  in 
carrying  on  the  curse  lying  on  the  house 
of  Agamemnon  for  the  sin  of  Thycntes 
and  tne  vengeance  of  Atreus.  All  the 
same,  Isocrates  had  religion  and  tradi- 
tion on  his  side  when  he  made  his 
Encomium,  For  the  account  of  Helen 
in  her  restored  home,  with  Meneh'os  of 
the  golden  hair,  in  the  Odysseif — of  l  he 
temple  built  to  her  honor  ''  in  tlie  phice 
called  •  Therapne, ' '  by  Herodot u  s  —  of 
the  votive  cups  suspended  in  the  temi)le 
of  Aphrodite,  modeled  on  her  fair 
breasts,  show  how  her  beauty  stoo<l  in 
men's  minds  for  glory,  and  how  the  mul- 
tiplicity of  her  lovers  tarnislied  the 
brightness  of  her  fame  no  more  tlum 
did  the  frank  infidelities  of  her  fatlier 
Zeus  or  the  loves  of  her  patroness 
Aphrodite.  But  the  legend  that  throii gh 
the  time  of  the  Trojan  w^ar,  wliile, 
seeming  to  be  in  Troy  she  was  really 
safe  in  Egypt,  twining  lotus-flowers  in 
her  hair  and  embroidering  mystic  loveli- 
ness on  splendid  robes — that  all  those 
men  and  heroes  lost  their  lives  for  a 
Shadow,  and  that  nothing  was  roal  save 
suffering  and  death — this  is  the  saddest 
note  of  all.  No  sermon  ever  written  on 
the  vanity  of  human  aims  uud  the 
phantasmagoria  we  call  life,  approaches 
this  pathetic  satire  for  force  or  subtlety. 
It  makes  the  solid  earth  reel  beneath 
our  feet,  and  things  become  as  unreal  as 
the  cloud  that  Ixion  embracet^.  We 
prefer  the  thoroughly  feminine  realism 


r 


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I 


o'  I  he  taunt  ma4e  by  Electra,  when 
sh.'  sneers  at  tlie  fair  woman's  vanity 
for  merely  snipping  the  "tips  of  her 
loni^  hair,  saving  its  beauty,''  where 
others  gave  long  locks  and  some  the 
whole  crown  of  glory,  for  their  mourn- 

Very  different  from  this  half-divine 
et  sinful  daughter  of  the  gods,  beloved 
y  Aphrodite  and  the  adored  of  men, 
are  the  other  Homeric  women.  Fore- 
most among  them  stands  Andromache, 
that  tender,  faithful,  loving  wife,  with 
her  young  son,  '*  like  a  beautiful  star  " 
on  her  breast.  No  portrait  ever  drawn 
by  the  hand  of  man  is  more  exquisite 
tlian  hers.  Kot  Imogen  nor  Dorothea 
surpasses  her  in  that  subtle  charm  and 
steadfast  nobleness  of  womanhood  which 
make  her  name  fragrant  and  her  image 
immortal.  She  even  dwarfs  by  com- 
parison the  lovely  majesty  of  Helen; 
and  when  Hector  passes  from  the  fair 
palace  of  Alexandres  to  his  own  *.*  well- 
established  "  house,  we  feel  all  the  differ- 
ence between  the  divine  harlot  and  the 
womanly  wife.  Her  prayer  that  her 
husbana  should  stay  in  safety  with  her 
upon  the  tower — woman's  love  forget- 
ing  man's  honor — and  Hector's  answer 
and  mournful  prophetic  picture,  are 
among  the  divine  things  in  literature, 
deatliless  as  the  sun  is  deathless,  and 
like  the  sun,  renewed  in  power  and 
glory  to  each  young  life.  Whose  eyes 
are  dry  when  reading  the  answer  of  this 
l^rojan  Hotspur  to  a  nobler  than  was 
Percv  Kate  ?  — 

•'Surely  I  take  thought  for  all  these  things, 
my  wife:  but  I  have  very  sore  shame  of  I  he 
TrDJaiiH  and  Trojan  dames  with  trailing 
rolH's.  if,  like  a  coward,  I  shrink  away  from 
battle.  Moreover,  mine  own  soul  forbiddeth 
me,  seeins^  I  have  learnt  ever  to  be  valiant  and 
fight  in  the  forefront  of  the  Trojans,  winning 
my  faibcr's  great  glory  and  my  own.  Yea. 
of  a  sirety  I  know  this  in  leart  and  soul;  the 
day  shall  come  for  holy  Ilios  to  be  laid  low, 
and  rrinm  and  the  folk  of  Priam  of  the  good 
asl'cu  sjHmr.  Yet  doth  the  anguish  of  the 
Trojans  hereafter  not  so  much  trouble  me. 


neither  Hekabe's  own,  neither  Kin/r  Priam's, 
neither  my  brethren's,  the  many  a:.(l  1  r;.  ^  o 
that  shall  fall  in  the  dust  before  their  Uh^ux  , 
as  doth  thine  anguish  in  the  day  when  SfiM  'j 
mail-clad  Achaian  shall  lead  thee  weepii  -r 
and  rob  thee  of  the  light  of  freedom  t^.> 
shalt  thou  abide  in  Argos  and  ply  the  loom  «t 
another  woman *.s  bidding,  and  l)ear  water 
from  Mount  Messeis  or  Hypercia.  bein^ 
grievously  entreated,  and  sore  constraint  shall 
be  laid  on  thee.  And  then  shall  one  say  tliat 
bcholdeth  thee  weep  'This  is  the  wife  of 
Hector,  that  was  foremost  in  battle  of  the 
horse-taming  Trojans,  when  men  fought  aljout 
Ilios.'  Thus  shall  one  say  hereafter,  and 
fresh  grief  will  be  thine  for  lack  of  such  an 
husband  as  thou  hadst  to  ward  o£F  the  day  of 
thraldom.  But  me  in  death  may  the  upheap- 
ed  earth  be  covering,  ere  I  hear  thy  cryinis 
and  thy  carrying  into  captivity." 

Full,  too,  of  pathos  as  warm  as  tears, 
as  immeasurable  as  human  sorrow,  is 
Andromache's  lament  for  her  dead  hus- 
band, and  her  prophecy  of  sorrow  for 
her  fatherless  son  —  that  "  cruel-fated 
child,"  for  whom,  perhaps,  the  swift 
murder  done  by  the  Greets  was  a  more 
merciful  fate  than  the  long  years  of  cold 
neglect  and  sharp  oppression  foreseen 
by  his  mother. 

*'  Thus  saying,  she  sped  through  the 
chamber  like  one  mad,  with  beating  heart, 
and  with  her  went  her  handmaidens.  But 
when  she  came  to  the  battlements  and  the 
throng  o^  men,  she  stood  still  upon  the  wail 
and  ^azed,  and  beheld  him  dragged  before 
the  city :— swift  Worses  dragged  him  recklessly 
toward  the  hollow  ships  of  the  Achaiaiis. 
Then  dark  night  came  on  her  eyes  ard 
shrouded  her,  and  she  fell  backward  and 
gasped  forth  her  spirit.  From  oft  Iier  head 
she  shook  the  bright  attiring  thereof,  frontlet 
and  net  and  woven  band,  and  veil,  the  veil 
that  golden  Aphrodite  gave  her  on  the  day 
when  Hector  of  the  glancing  helm  led  her 
forth  of  the  house  of  E^tion,  having  given 
bride -gifts  untold.  And  aroimd  her  thronged 
her  husband's  sisters  and  hi.s  brotliers'  wives, 
who  held  her  up  among  them,  distraught 
even  to  death.  But  when  at  last  she  came  to 
herself  and  her  soul  returned  into  her  breast. 
Uien  wailing  with  deep  sobs  she  spake  among 
the  women  of  Troy :  O  Hector,  woe  is  me!  to 
one  fate  then  were  we  l)oth  lK>rn,  thou  in 
Troy  in  the  house  of  Priam,  and  I  in  Thel)es 
under  wcwdy  Plakos,  in  the  house  of  EWion, 
who  reared  iiie  from  a  little  one — ill- fated  sire 


WOMANHOOD  IX  OLD  GREECE. 


499 


of  cruel-fated  chilil.  Ab,  would  be  bad  be- 
gotten uie  notl  Xu.v  liioii  to  tbe  bouse  of 
Hades  beneatb  tbe  secret  places  of  the  earth 
departest,  and  me  in  bitter  mourning  thou 
leavest  a  widow  in  thy  halls;  and  thy  son  is 
but  an  infant  child — son  (if  unhappy  parents 
thou  and  me— nor  shalt  thou  profit  him. 
Hector,  since  thou  art  detul,  neither  he  thee. 
For  even  if  he  escape  the  Achaians'  wof ul 
war,  yet  shall  labor  and  sorrow  cleave  unto 
him  hereafter,  for  other  men  shall  seize  his 
lands.  The  day  of  orphanage  sundereth  a 
child  from  his  fellows,  and  his  bead  in  bowed 
down  ever,  and  his  cheeks  are  wet  with  tears. 
And  in  his  need  the  child  seeketh  his  father's 
friends,  plucking  this  one  by  cloak  and  that 
by  coat,  and  one  of  them  that  pity  him  hold- 
eth  his  cup  a  little  to  his  mouth  and  moisten- 
etb  his  lips,  Imt  his  palate  he  moisteneth  not. 
And  some  child  unorphaned  thri^teth  him 
from  tlip  feast  with  blows  and  tauntmg  words, 
'Out  with  thee!  no  father  of  thine  is  at  our 
board!'  Then  weeping  to  his  widowed  mo- 
ther shall  he  return,  even  Astyanax,  who  erst 
upon  his  father's  knee  ate  only  marrow  and 
fat  flesh  of  sheep;  and  when  sleep  fell  on  him 
and  he  ceased  from  childish  play,  then  in  bed 
in  bis  nurse's  arms  he  would  sleep  softly 
nested,  having  sutislled  his  heart  with  good 
things:  but  now  that  he  hajs  lost  his  father  he 
will  suffer  many  ills.  Astyanax — that  name 
the  Trojans  gave  him  because  thou  only  wert 
the  defence  of  their  gates  and  their  long 
walls.  But  now  by^  the  beaked  ships,  far 
from  thy  parents,  shall  coiling  worms  devour 
thee  when  the  (logs  have  had  their  fill,  as 
thou  Host  naked;  yet  in  these  halls  lieth  rai- 
ment, of  thine,  delicate  and  fair,  wrought  by 
the  hands  of  women.  But  verily,  ail  these 
will  I  consume  with  burning  fire— to  thee  no 
profit,  since  thou  wilt  never  lie  therein,  yet 
that  tills  be  honor  to  thee'  from  the  men  and 
the  women  of  Troy." 

Nowhere  is  there  a  more  beautiful,  a 
more  pathetic  presentation  than  this 
of  Hector's  '*  dear- won  " '  wife.  Penel- 
ope, wise  in  counsel,  firm  of  purpose, 
astute  in  deed  as  she  is,  yet  lacks  Andro- 
mache's great  charm.  Where  the  wife 
of  Hector  has  all  the  frank  fire  of 
virtuous  love,  the  wife  of  Odysseus  has 
blood  so  chastened  as  to  creep,  not  flow; 
and  her  tenacity  seems  born  rathw  of 
the  mind  than  the  heart.  We  can 
scarcely  say  how  or  where  it  is  that  she 
fails  to  touch    our  sympathies  as  do 


Andromache,  Nausicaa,  and  even  Arete. 
Perhaps  it  was  because  of  her  husband's 
frank  confession  when  he  says  to 
Calypso:  "  Myself  I  know  well,  how 
wise  Penelope  is  meaner  to  look  upon 
than  thou  in  comeliness  and  stature.*' 
Perhaps  it  is  because  of  her  long  hesi- 
tancy before  she  can  be  brought  to 
acknowledge  as  her  husband  the  stranger 
whom  the  old  nurse  Eurycleia,  '*  that 
ancient  woman  of  an  understanding 
heart,"  has  already  recognized,  and  at 
seeing  whom  the  dog  Argos  has  died 
for  joy.  Nevertheless,  some  great  and 
subtle  power  she  must  have  had;  some 
tender  strains  of  virginal  modesty  and 
wifely  passion,  as  well  as  of  the  honor 
which  clings  round  the  life  of  a  pur- 
poseful woman,  must  have  mingled  in- 
extricably with  her  memory  to  have 
kept  her  husband's  heart  so  fixed  upon 
her  that  even  a  goddess  could  not  sway  it. 
To  be  sure  they  are  both  no  longer  young 
when  the  much-loved  wanderer  returns. 
But  Penelope  is  still  able  to  charm 
the  many  suitors  who  throng  about 
her;  for  those  fair  women  of  ancient 
Greece  seem  to  have  kept  their  oeauty 
long  after  the  average  time,  as  witness 
Clytemnestra,  Jocasta,  and  now  Pene- 
lope. Perhaps  her  cautious  prudence 
fitted  in  with  her  husband's  own  care- 
ful, doubtful,  watching  character,  and 
was  the  quality  which  Kept  all  the  rest 
alive:  ^^ausicaa,  the  sweetest  ingenue 
that  ever  stood  where  **  brook  and  river 
meet "  and  dreamed  the  dreams  wliich 
repeat  the  waking  visions  of  tlie  day; 
Arete,  honoiud  by  Alcinous  as  *  *no  other 
woman  in  the  world  is  honored,"  walk- 
ing through  the  city,  appeasing  quarrels 
and  receiving  reverence  as  she  goes, 
enthroned  bv  her  husband  in  the  golden 
palace,  and  hers  the  first  word  to  which 
he  appeals;  "Calypso  of  the  braided 
tresses  singing  with  a  sweet  voice  jis  she 
fared  to  and  fro  hefore  the  loom  and 
wove  with  a  sluittle  dT  gold  " — singing 
now,  but  soon  to  shudder  when  Hermes 


500 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


delivers  his  message  and  her  ardent  love- 
story  has  mil  its  course;  Circe,  that 
**  uwfiil  goddess  of  nitortal  speech  "  who, 
80  cruel  to  others,  yet  entreated  noble 
Odysseus  well;  all  the  poor  shadows 
down  in  Hades,  those  now  strengthless 
heads  who  had  been  loved  by  gods  and 
made  the  mothers  of  men;   truly  the 

falaxy  of  Homeric  womanhood  shines 
right  and  burnished  in  the  poetic 
firmament,  and  we  cannot  say  that  in 
those  old  times  the  honor  paid  to  women 
was  scant  or  the  estimate  of  their  value 
small.. 

The  women  of  the  dramatists  are  as 
vitalized  as  thdfee  of  Homer,  and  some 
are  as  supreme.  Equal  to  Andromache 
in  her  tenderness  and  to  Penelope  in  her 
constancy,  that  **  child  of  a  blind  old 
man,  Antigone,"  gathers  up  in  herself 
some  of  the  noblest  characteristics  of 
her  sex,  and  is  the  ideal  woman  of  her 
kind.  Her  devotion  to  her  father  dur- 
ing his  life-time  is  matched  only  by  her 
devotion  to  her  brother  after  his  death ; 
and  in  all  her  actions  no  care  for  self 
mars  the  perfect  wholeness  of  her  love, 
no  fear  of  consequences  disturbs  the 
strong  tenacity  of  her  purpose.  (Edipus 
turns  to  her  for  counsel  as  for  tender- 
ness, and  she,  always  so  wise  and  gentle 
to  him,  gives  him  the  eye  of  her  mind 
as  of  her  body — tells  him  what  to  do 
and  where  to  go — what  to  confess  and 
when  to  refram.  She  guides  him  by 
the  hand,  as  she  has  "since  first  her 
childhood's  nurture  ceased,  and  she 
grew  strong,"  and  for  him  abandons 
all  the  hopes  ami  pleasures  of  her  age 
and  sex.     Ismene,  who  comes  to  them 

i'ust  as  they  have  left  the  grove  of  the 
Dumenides,  **in  her  broad  Thessalian 
hat,"  and  **  mounted  on  a  colt  of  Etna's 
breed,"  is  a  slighter  character,  but  more 
essentially  womanly  according  to  our 
ideas.  Gentle  and  timid,  though  quite 
faithful,  she  is  tqo  fearful  to  be  heroic, 
and  bends  to  the  storm,  as  Autiffoiie 
does    not.      Nevertheless^    she    stands 


bravely  enough  by  her  sister  in  her  1i our 
of  peril,  and  would,  if  she  might,  share 
the  punishment  due  to  disobedience  in 
the  matter  of  those  funeral  rites  to  tlie 
slain  Poljoieikes.  But  Antigone  nobly 
repudiates  her,  and  saves  her  from  her- 
self. Also,  she  has  suffered  much  in 
this  journey  to  her  father,  that  she  may 
tell  him  of  the  evil  that  has  befallen  his 
two  sons  and  give  him  the  words  of  the 
oracle;  and  Edipus  makes  no  differ- 
ence between  his  daughters.  His  greet- 
ing to  Ismene  is  curious  on  account  of 
the  opening  words;  corresponding  as 
they  do  with  our  own  later  knowledge 
by  the  j)apyri  of  the  private  lives  of 
the  Egyptians.  QHdipus  contrasts  his 
daughters'  devotion  with  his  sons' 
snpineness  and  indifference  to  him. 

"Oh,  like  in  all  things  both  in  nature's  bent. 
And  mode  of  life,  to  Egypt's  evil  ways, 
Where  men  indoors  sit  weaving  at  the  loom. 
And  wives  outdoors  must  earn  their  daily 

bread. 
Of  you,  my  children,  those  who  oiight  to  toil. 
Keep  house  at  home,  like  maidens  in  their 

prime. 
And  ye,  in  their  stead,  wear  yourselves  to 

death 
For  me  and  for  my  sorrows.    She,  since  first 
Her  childhood's  nurture  ceased,  and  she  grew 

strong. 
Still  wandering  with  me  padlv  evermore. 
Leads  the  old  man   through  many  a  wild 

wood's  paths, 
Hungry  and  footsore,  threading  on  her  way. 
And  many  a  storm'  and  many  a  scorching  sun 
Bravely  she  bears,  and  little  recks  of  home. 
So  that  her  father  finds  his  daily  bread. 
And  thon,  my  child,  before  didst  come  to  me 
All  oracles  to  tell  me  (those  Cadmeians 
Not  knowing  of  thy  errand)  which  were  given 
Touching  this  feeble  frame;  and  thou  wast 

still 
A  faithful  guardian,  when  from  out  the  land 
They  drove  me." 

Through  the  whole  of  the  two  plays, 
however,  of  (Edipus  at  Colonos  and 
Antigone,  it  is  Antigone  who  fills  the 
stage.  Faitliful  and  reverent  to  her 
father,  she  guides,  protects,  counsels, 
and  consoles  him.  Loving,  too,  and 
of  a  more  heroic  temper  than  her  sweet 


WOMANHOOD  IN  OLD  GREECE. 


501 


young  sister^  she  refuses  to  allow  the 
impulse  of  loyalty  which  would  have 
made  Ismene  also  a  martyr.  Holding 
her  brother  Polyneikes  dearer  than  her 
life,  she  urges  him  to  the  wiser  course 
of  a  noble  self-restraint,  but  afterward 
voluntarily  sacrifices  herself  to  the  con  • 
sequences  of  his  willfulness  and  indocil- 
ity.  Steadfjist  to  her  duty,  bold  against 
tyranny,  faithful  to  her  own,  tender  as 
love  and  resolute  as  hate,  she  never 
faltei*s  in  her  self -elected  path,  nor  turns 
back  from  the  martyrdom  she  has  chosen 
as  her  fate.  Yet  though  she  is  so 
strong,  she  says  of  herself:  **  My  nature 
leads  to  love,  not  hate,"  and  finds  her 
consolation  in  the  prospect,  more  sure 
than  hope,  that  *'  Loved  I  shall  be  with 
him  whom  I  have  loved,  guilty  of 
holiest  crime."  '*  I  know  I  please  the 
souls  I  ought  to  please,"  is  another  of 
her  self -revelations.  No  truckling  to 
the  living  powers  that  can  hurt,  no 
for:retfulness  of  the  dead  love  that  can 
no  longer  bless,  for  her  !  Though  it 
cost  her  her  life,  she  will  please  the  soul 
she  ought  to  please,  and  let  the  rest  go 
by.  And  for  these  two  qualities  of  en- 
during love  and  constancy  in  duty,  the 
world  reverences  her  name,  and  will 
reverence  it  forever.  She  lives  in  these 
two  plays  as  much  a«  Cordelia  and 
Juliet  live.  She  is  as  real  a  person  as 
our  sister,  our  daughter.  But  she  is 
so  far  unlike  our  modern  women  in  that 
she  prefers  her  brother  to  her  lover,  and 
chooses  death  through  loyalty  to  the 
dead  Polyneikes,  rather  than  life  and 
love  with  Haemcn.  In  her  pathetic 
farewell  to  life  sl.e  only  alludes  to  her 
lover,  and  then,  n  )t  to  him  personally — 
rather  to  her  own  lost  hope  of  marriage 
and  maternity — N/hile  the  whole  tone 
of  her  lament  is  f  ill  of  the  very  passion 
of  love  for  her  own  people.  Among 
other  things  she  says  she  would  not 
have  done  this  bo  d  deed  of  pious  dis- 
obedience had  she  *'  come  to  be  a  mother 
with  her  children,"  nor  dared  **  though 


^twere  a  husband's  head  that  mouldered 
there;  "  for  she  goes  on  to  say — 

'Am  I  asked  what  law  constrained  me  thus? 
I  answer,  had  I  lost  a  husband  dear 
I  might  have  had  another;  other  sons 
By  other  spouse,  if  one  were  lost  to  me; 
But  when  my  father  and  my  mother  sleep 
In  Hades,  then  no  brother*  more  can  come!*' 


This  is  exactly  the  same  reason  as 
that  given  by  the  wife  of  Intapherues, 
when  Darius  offers  her  the  choice  of 
one  life  among  all  those  of  hers  he  has 
doomed  to  death,  and  she  saves  her 
brother  to  the  neglect  of  her  husband 
and  children.  It  is  a  curiously  explicit 
evidence  of  the  stren^h  of  the  family 
tie  on  the  father's  side,  and  the  pre- 
dominance of  simple  instinct  over  senti- 
ment in  the  matters  of  marriage,  and 
even  maternity.  All  the  same,  Euri- 
pides says  in  the  Danm — 

"A  woman,  when  she  leaves  her  father's  homo, 
Belongs  not  to  her  parents,  but  her  bed." 

.  Electra  is  another  character  of  abso- 
lute vitality.  As  strong  as  Antigone, 
and  as  faithful,  she  however  misses 
that  charm  which  made  the  child  of  the 
blind  old  man  so  lovely.  With  her, 
sorrow  is  too  much  mixed  up  with 
vengeance  to  be  pathetic.  A  more  pur- 
poseful and  a  fiercer  Hamlet,  she  never 
ceases  to  bewail  hei  murdered  father; 
but  she  does  not  shrink  from  helping 
to  avenge  him — not  on  her  mother's 
paramour,  but  on  that  mother  herself. 
Like  Antig^one,  she  is  contrasted  with 
a  weaker  sister,  the  politic  and  reason- 
able Chrysothemis,  who  thinks  it  wise 
in  foul  weather  "to  slack  my  sail,  and 
make  no  idle  show  of  doing  something 
when  I  cannot  harm."  But  Electra  is 
too  full  of  the  fire  of  hate  to  heed 
this  sage  advice;  and  after  she  has  de- 
fied Clytemnestra  to  her  face,  com- 
pletes her  dreadful  vengeance  by  the 
savage  taunts  and  eager  cries  with  which 
she  shares  her  brotlier's  crime,  and 
urges  its  execution.  Her  frantic  hatred 
to  her  mother  is  terrible^  but  as  revolt- 


502 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


ing  as  it  is  terrible.  No  sentiment  of 
pity,  no  dread  of  her  own  incited  work, 
no  memory  of  the  days  when  her 
mother  had  been  her  friend,  softens 
her  heart  or  bends  the  steely  hardness 
of  her  purpose.  She  only  asks:  "And 
is  she  aead,  vile  wretch?"  when  Ores- 
tes and  Pylades  come,  their  crimsoned 
hands  dripping  with  ^ore ;  and  when 
she  answers  the  questioning  of  ^Egis- 
thos,  she  answers  back  with  bitter 
sneers  and  sarcastic  taunts.  Clytem- 
nestra  lierself  has  something  of  the 
awful  sublimity  of  Milton's  Satan.  She 
is  like  some  heroic  statue  of  Melpomene 
— the  impersonation  of  the  tragedy 
which  is  associated  with  crime.  As  she 
is  in  the  Electra,  Pheidias  might  have 
carved  her,  and  she  would  have  lived 
in  the  marble  as  now  in  the  book. 
But,  indeed  all  Greek  litefary  work  is 
statuesque,  like  Michelangelo's  paint- 
ing. Her  imperious  will  and  jealous 
pride,  her  regal  personality  and  ruthless 
purpose,  her  temperament  at  once  cruel 
and  voluptuous,  stamp  her  image  in 
lines  of  fire  and  blood  on  the  page; 
and  only  the  character  of  her  retribu- 
tion turns  our  loathing  to  that  horror 
which  has  its  other  side  in  pity.  Just 
one  word  of  excuse  for  the  murder  of 
her  husband  is  to  be  found  in  the 
mother's  vengeful  sorrow  for  the  sac- 
rifice of  Iphigeneia,  and  the  woman's 
pride  insulted  by  the  presence  of  Cas- 
sandra. And  only  one  human  touch 
redeems  her  passionate  exaltation  at  his 
death — when  she  says  that  his  child 
will  meet  him  in  Hades,  and  *Svith 
ffreetinff  kind,  e'en  as  is  fit,"  will  clasp 
him  in  her  arms,  **by  the  dark  stream 
of  bitter  woes,"  and  give  him  a  daugh- 
ter's kiss. 

But  for  Iphigeneia  herself — all  pic- 
tures fail  in  beauty,  all  poetry  in  tender- 
ness, by  the  side  of  this  loveliest  ai^d 
most  pathetic  figure.  The  description 
of  her  at  the  sucrificijil  altar  is.  scarcely 
to  b^  r?J*d  0ven  now  without  tears;— r 


'**A11  her  prayers  and  efger  callings 

On  the  tender  name  of  Father. 

All  her  young  and  uiaiden  freshness 

They  but  set  at  nought,  those  rulers. 

In  tlieir  passion  for  the  battle. 

And  her  father  gave  coinuuindmcnt 

To  the  servants  of  the  Goddess, 

When  the  prayer  was  o'er,  to  lift  her 

Like  a  kid  above  the  altar. 

In  her  garments  wrapt,  face  downward, — 

Yea,  to  seize  with  all  tlieir  courjge, 

And  that  o'er  her  lips  of  beauty 

Should  be  set  a  watch  to  hinder 

Words  of  curse  against  the  houses. 

With  the  gag's  strength  silence-working." 

*'And  she  upon  the  ground 
Pouring  rich  folds  of  robes  in  saffron  dyed. 
Cast  at  each  one  of  those  who  sacriliced 
A  piteous  glance  that  pierced, 
Seen  like  a  pictured  form/' 

Beautiful,  however,  as  she  is  in  this 
picture,  in  the  more  elaborated  play  of 
Iphigeneia  in  Aiilis  she  is  even  more 
lovely,  because  more  endowed*  The 
scene  where  she  first  entreats  her 
father  for  dear  life,  then,  rising  above 
the  weakness  of  her  youth  and  flesh, 
accepts  her  doom  with  that  grand  sub- 
mission to  the  inevitable  which  arises 
from  the  highest  kind  of  courage,  is 
almost  unique  in  its  sacred  tones  of 
pathos.     "Look  on  me!    Give  me  one 

farting  look,  one  kiss,  that  when  I  die 
may  remember  thee!''  she  says  to  her 
miserable  heart-strir.ken  father.  Her 
presentation  of  her  infant  brother, 
asking  his  innocence  to  plead  for  her; 
her  last  agony  of  supplication: — 

"Have  pity  on  me,  father!  spare  my  life ! 
*Tis  sweet  to  gaze  upon  the  blessed  light ; 
The  grave  is  nought!    The  fool  resigns  his 

breath  ; 
The  sorriest  life    is  hctter  than  the  noblest 

death!" 

And  then  tlie  last  abandonment  of 
hope,  and  with  hope  of  self-considera- 
tion— forbicMinir  Jier  mother  to  revile 
her  father — forbidding  Achilles  to  act 
on  her  bcluilf — not  suffering  her  house- 
hold to  put  on  Trourninsf — sayinir  that 
she  dies  In'  the  v.'ill  of  the  gods  and  for 
her  country — where  can  w©  find  any- 


WOMANHOOD  IN  OLD  GREECE. 


503 


thing  more  pure,  more  beautiful,  more 
honourable  to  the  ideal  of  womanhood? 
Add  to  this  most  exquisite  presentation 
that  other,  almost  as  lovely,  of  Polyx- 
ena,  as  the  maiden  sacrifice,  and  to 
these  join  that  of  Alcestis  as  the  wifely 
— ^the  one  forced  and  patiently  sub- 
mitted to,  the  other  voluntary  and  no- 
bly undertaken — and  the  many  minor 
and  yet  sweet  and  lovely  female  char- 
acters of  his  other  plays,  and  Euripides 
may  stand  excused  from  the  charge  of 
reviling  the  sex  he  delighted  to  paint 
in  sucn  splendor  of  moral  coloring. 
Of  the  character  of  Alcestis  and  her 
farewell  to  life,  all  words  of  praise  are 
faint,  all  tribute  is  inadequate.  Her 
prayer  to  Hestia  as  she  stands,  nobly- 
clad,  before  the  hearth;  her  pious  care 
of  tlie  gods,  decking  every  altar  in  the 
house,  **  stripping  the  myrtle-foliage 
from  the  bouffhs,  without  a  tear,  with- 
out -a  groan ;  then  her  passionate  em- 
brace of  her  marriage-bed,  and  bitter 
foreboding  of  her  rival — that  woman 
who  will  be  "truer  — no  !  but  of  better 
fortune  ;"  her  last  kisses  to  her  children 
clustered.  Weeping  round  her  knees;  her 
last  hand -clasp  to  her  servants;  and 
then  her  faring  forth  from  the  inner 
sanctuary  of  the  gynaeceum  to  the  atrium 
to  die  that  he  whom  she  loved  might 
live  —  ah  !  true  as  is  all  beauty,  and 
deathless  as  true  love  is  this  scene,  this 
character — as  fresh  now  as  when  it  was 
written  m^re  than  two  thousand  years 
ago; — the  material  circumstances  only 
changed,  but  ever  the  same  gem,  dif- 
ferently set  according  to  customs  and 
beliefs."  And  when  Admetus  refuses 
the  veiled  stranger  for  love  Jind  con- 
stancy to  the  memory  of  her  who  died 
for  him,  Kuripides  strikes  a  nobler  chord 
than  our  Shakespeare  sounds  when 
Claud  io  aooepts  with  **  tears  of  grati- 
tude" the  unknown  spouse  bestowed 
on  him  to  replace  tlie  Hero  he  had  80 
basely  shamed  and  so  unmanfiilly  de- 
stroyed.    Say  that  the  whole  story  is  a 


fable  no.truer  than  the  island  of  Calypso, 
the  incantations  of  Circe,  the  phaiit«  -u 
of  Helen,  the  vengeance  of  Medea— or, 
if  not  a  fable,  then  a  story  of  which  t  he 
bare  prosaic  elements  have  been  height- 
ened by  romance  to  the  sublimest  poet  ry 
-*-still,  the  presentation  is  real;  for  the 
women  created  by  the  poetic  Logos  are 
as  much  facts  'as  if  they  stood  clothed 
in  the  flesh  before  us.  They  live  in  4 he 
mind,  and  the  mind  is  the  sole  mirror 
of  reality.  That  Homer  should  have 
painted  Andromache  and  Nausicaa; 
that  ^schylus  should  have  given  us 
that  exquisite  picture  of  the  bound  and 
sacrificed  Iphigeneia;  that  Sophocles 
should  have  created  Antigone,  Ismene, 
and  gentle-hearted  Tecmessa;  Euripi- 
des —  Alcestis,  Iphigeneia,  Polyxena, 
and  those  many  minor  others;  that  all 
this  golden  glory  of  renown  and  sweet 
savor  of  immortal  love  should  be  as  tlie 
bride-vails  round  the  gracious  head  of 
womanhood,  show  us  in  what  esteem 
the  sex  was  held  by  the  Greeks,  despite 
the  sneers  of  Aristophanes  and  the 
coarser  satires  of  Archilochus  and 
Simonides. 

Woman  has  her  place,  too,  in  the 
heroic  history  of  the  olden  times,  and 
certain  feminine  names  and  deeds  are 
emblazoned  forever  in  the  annals  of 
ancient  Greece,  side  by  side  with  those 
of  her  bravest  and  noblest  men.  Chel- 
onis,  faithful  to  misfortune,  who  left  her 
husband  to  share  her  father's  exile,  and 
her  father  to  share  her  husband's,  *'  so 
that,  had  not  Cleombrotus  been  cor- 
rupted with  the  love  of  false  glory,  he 
must  have  thought  exile  with  such  a 
woman  a  greater  happiness  than  a  king- 
dom without  it;"  -/3Egistrata,  who,  after 
she  had  seen  her  son  slaughtered  and 
her  mother  hanged,  rose  up  to  meet 
her  fate,  and  said,  with  a  si^h  for  her 
country:  "  May  all  this  be  for  tlie  cfood 
of  Sparta  !  "  Panthea,  that  Smyrnaiiin 
and  more  constant  Bathshebfi.  m  !)nie 
Cyru«  was  a  nobler  and  more  contijiiat 


504 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


David,  if  Abradates  was  not  more  for- 
tunate than  Uriah;  Cratesiclea,  brave 
and  devoted;  and,  above  all,  that  name- 
less wife  of  Panteus,  that  heroine  of 
hiroines,  calm,  faithful,  courageous, 
.ii(ti)ie  as  none  else  ever  was,  more  care- 
ful of  lier  modesty  after  death  than  of 
luT  pain  in  dying,  and  mainly  solicitous 
t(»  Iiolp  those  of  her  sisters  who  were 
.  I«'ris  liiave  than  she; — these,  only  a  few 
of  tlic  many,  attest  the  quality  of  the 
wo.jiuuhood  of  ancient  Greece,  and  put 
to  ylhinie  the  lampooners. 

Ail  the  same,  women  were  set  in  the 
lowc  r  phice,  and  taught  that  humility 
and  submission  were  their  chief  virtues 
and  their  fhst  duties.  "  Woman,  know 
tliai  silence  is  woman's  noblest  part," 
say  x\ias,  better  known  as  Ajax,  to  his 
wul  I -beloved  Tecmessa,  when  she  seeks 
to  control  his  mad  and  Quixote-like 
fury  —  mistaking  beeves  and  herds  for 
eneiuies.  If  it  be  objected  to  this  that 
Ajax  in  life  was  notorious  for  his 
liaii;>htine8S,  and  in  death  wandered 
ai)art,  too  proud  to  consort  with  the 
otliei'  pliantoms  haunting  Hades;  that, 
lalhor  than  become  agam  a  man  with 
the  cluince  of  a  second  time  losing  the 
arms  of  an  Achilles  to  another  Odysseus, 
lie  chose  —  so  said  Erus,  the  son  of 
AnnfMiius,  as  vouched  for  by  Plato — 
to  b(M!ome  a  lion;  and  that  he  therefore 
would  be  apter  than  most  men  to  forbid 
utterance  to  even  the  best-beloved  among 
Avo.nen — still,  others  of  as  great  re- 
•  no'vn  as  Ajax,  and  of  as  splendid  genius 
:i-  Kuri])ides,  have  said  the  same  thing. 
Fi'.m  Solomon  to  Shakespeare,  from 
Oiwav  to  Wordsworth  ana  onward  to 
]•-'»  :its,  the  supreme  value  of  woman  has 
b(  ( n  found  in  her  virtues;  and  her 
vi.iues  have  ever  been  those  of  the 
J  lilcr,  gentler,  more  patient  and  more 
."  ii-.sKrificing  kind.  This  the  old 
\\ir(A<  dramatists  knew  and  showed, 
i  '>pil  »  the  strength  and  splendid 
i.iniinalitv  of  Clvtemnestra,  Medea, 
j'-.v...:'j  and  the   like.    And  on  this 


base-line  the  Grecian  woman's  life 
was  planned,  with  such  practical  oni- 
come  as  we  see  in  art  and  learn  bj 
history. — Eliza  Lynn  Linton,  in  th$ 
Fortnightly  Review. 


THE  GLACIAL   PERIOD    IN 
AMERICA. 

The  one  salient  point  of  America  is 
the  Glacial  Epoch.  In  Europe,  the 
Great  Ice  Age  is  but  a  pious  opinion;  . 
in  Canada  and  the  Northern  States  it 
is  a  tremendous  fact,  still  devastating 
with  its  mass  of  tumbled  debris  the 
cultivable  fields  in  everv  direction. 
The  havoc  wrought  by  tte  universal 
ice-sheet,  indeed,  renders  by  far  the 
greater  part  of  north-eastern  America 
permanently  unfit  for  human  tillage. 
The  backbone  of  Canada  consists  of  a 
low  granitic  rid^e,  worn  down  to  a 
stump  by  the  grinding  ice-sheet,  with 
the  bare  gneiss  scarcely  covei'ed  in 
places  by  some  thin  scattering  of  infer- 
tile soil.  Hardly  a  stunted  pine-tree 
or  a  straggling  blueberry-bush  can 
find  a  foothold  anywhere  in  the  shallow 
crannies  where  the  rock  has  weathered 
into  a  crumbling  trench.  The  great 
central  range  of  Now  England,  again, 
from  the  Green  Mountains  of  Vermont 
to  the  Connecticut  hills,  is  almost  as 
barren,  rocky,  and  desolate^  and  for 
the  same  reason.  So  are  the  dividing- 
ridges  of  the  Mohawk,  the  Hudson,  the 
Susquehanna,  and  the  Ohio  River.  In 
all  the  more  mountainous  or  elevated 
regions,  in  short,  the  ice  has  simply 
cleared  away  everything  bodily  from 
the  surface  of  the  earth,  and  left 
nothing  behind  but  a  bald  rounded 
surface,  scantily,  occupied,  even  at  the 
present  day,  by  casual  colonies  of  strag- 
gling trees. 

To  realize  the  profound  effect  visibly 
produced  upon  the  whole  face  of  nature 


THE  '^ihXnXL  PERIOD  IX  AMERICA. 


505 


in  the  new  world  by  tlie  glaciation  of 
two  hundred  thousand  years  ago,  we 
have  only  to  imagine  the  existing  ice- 
cap melted  hodily  by  some  secular 
change  off  the  frozen  surface  of  our 
modern  Greenland.  As  the  ice  grad- 
ually retreated  and  disappeared,  it 
would  leave  behind  it,  on  the  ridges, 
a  slippery  mass  of  smooth  and  polished 
nakea  rock;  in  the  interstices  or  valleys, 
a  mighty  mud-field,  composed  of  the 
drift  or  boulder-clay — that  is  to  say, 
of  the  ground-up  detritus  of  sand  and 
earth,  rubbed  on  the  rocks  by  the  con- 
stant downward  movement  of  the  ice, 
and  largely  intermixed  with  boulders 
and  erratic  blocks  of  all  sizes,  colors, 
shapes,  and  materials.  This  'Hill," 
or  ground  moraine,  or  glacial  drift, 
would  form  at  first  the  only  cultivable 
soil  that  a  fre^h  race  of  immigrants 
might  perhaps  attack  in  the  newly 
made  plains  of  a. warmer  Greenland. 
The  mountains  or  hills,  planed  smooth 
and  low,  and  as  yet  unweathered  into 
pinnacles  and  crannies,  would  allow  no 
roothold  for  tree  or  shrub;  and  even 
the  till  in  the  intervening  valleys 
w^ould  be  so  thickly  choked  with  big 
round  stones,  that  only  after  many 
pickings  would  it  be  possible  to  run  a 
plough  or  harrow  through '  the  stiff 
mass  of  heterogeneous  rubble. 

Now  that  was  just  the  condition  of 
northern  America  about  the  end  of  the 
last  glaciation,  say  no  more  than  some 
eighty  thousand  years  ago.  The  whole 
north  had  gone  solid  for  ice.  The 
crystal  sheet  that  covered  the  surface 
of  the  entire  continent,  as  far  south 
as  Baltimore  And  Washington,  must  at 
the  time  of  its  greatest  extension  have 
had  a  thickness  of  which  the  puny 
modern  coating  of  Greenland  and  tlie 
Antarctic  land — those  last  relics  of  the 
,old  polar  caps — can  scarcely  give  us 
any  adequate  conception.  The  ice  lay 
fio  deep  and  high  that  it  ground  smooth 
},ho  summits   o|    the   CatskiiiJ,   \hTQQ 


thousand  feet  above  the  Hudson  Valley; 
and  the  scratches  and  polishing  due  to 
its  ceaseless  motion  may  be  still  oltserved 
among  the  White  Mountains  of  New 
Hampshire,  at  a  height  of  5,500  feet 
above  sea-level.  A  hundred  yards 
higher  still,  the  glacial  mud  lies  even 
now  upon  the  upper  slopes  and  combes 
of  Mount  Washington.  We  may  prob- 
ably conclude,  therefore,  that  the  ice 
at  its  thickest  rose  to  at  least  some 
6,000  feet  above  the  general  level  of  the 
North  American  plainlands.  And  this 
vast  moving  continent  of  solid  glacier 
pressed  slowly  and  surely,  ever  down- 
ward, from  the  Arctic  regions  to  its 
fixed  melting-point  in  the  latitude  of 
Maryland.  As  it  went,  it  wore  down 
the  eternal  hills  like  hummocks  in  its 
march,  and  filled  the  intermediate 
troughs  with  wide  sheets  of  rubbish 
from  their  eroded  material.  The 
grooves  worn  in  the*  solid  Silurian 
limestone  by  the  shores  of  Lake  Ontario 
look  in  places  like  big  rounded  chan- 
nels, and  in  their  regularity  and  par- 
allel arranffement,  always  running 
approximately  from  north  to  south, 
cipsely  simulate  some  gigantic  product 
of  human  workmanship.  In  places  the 
rock  seems  almost  to  undulate,  as  if 
upheaved  and  disturbed  from  below,  by 
some  long  rolling  wave-like  convulsion. 
All  northern  America,  as  we  see  it 
to-day,  is  the  natural  result  of  this 
terrilic  orgy  of  profound  glaciation. 
From  the  Atlantic  to  the  foot  of  the 
Ro(;ky  Mountains,  and  from  the  latitude 
of  Maryland  up  to  the  eternal  snows, 
all  America  still  suffers  visibly  to  the 
n^ikcd  eye  from  the  havoc  wrought  by 
that  long  and  widespread  secular  ca- 
lamity. The  mountains,  to  be  sure, 
liave  slowly  weathered  down  in  process 
of  time,  and  vegetation  has  spread 
tentatively  among  the  rifts  and  ravines 
excavated  on  their  flanks;  but  in  most 
places  even  now  where  there  are  still  or 
once  were  nipuntains,  th^  greater  part 


506  N 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZI1S13. 


of  the  land  remains  as  mere  shining 
flats  of  polished  rock,  naked  and  not 
aaliamed,  or  barely  covered  with  a  girdle 
of  foliage  strewn  here  and  there  upon 
its  rugged  loins.  The  moraines  and 
drift  still  occupy  the  better  part  of  the 
iuteiTcning  spaces;  and  though  the 
native  vegetation  here  grows  thicker 
and  lusher,  the  cultivated  fields  attest 
abundantly,  by  their  frequent  heaps  of 

I)icked-out  boulders,  with  what  cease- 
ess  toil  in  these  stony  basins  tillage  has 
been  brought  up  at  last  to  its  present 
low  and  shabby  level.  It  is  only  in  a 
few  rare  spots  by  the  river  sides,  in  the 
Eastern  States  at  least,  that  any  depth 
of  alluvial  soil,  spread  over  the  surface 
by  floods  since  glacial  times,  gives  rise 
to  meadows  of  deep  grass,  or  to  corn- 
fields which  approach,  at  a  dismal 
distance,  our  European  standard  of 
good  farming.  ^I  speak,  of  course,  of 
the  East  alone,  in  the  West,  the 
prof ounder  alluvium  of  the  great  central 
basin  has  had  time  to  collect,  from  the 
Mississippi  and  Missouri  tributaries, 
over  the  vast  areas  which  form  the 
American  and  Canadian  wheat-belt. 

But  while  America  hn&  suffered 
immensely  in  her  geographical  and 
agricultural  features  from  the  Great 
Ic^  Age,  she  has  suffered  far  less  in  her 
fauna  and  flora  than  poor  peninsular 
and  isolated  Europe.  For  us,  the 
Glacial  epoch  was  a  final  catastrophe — 
the  end  of  most  things;  for  America 
it  was  merely  an  unfortunate  episode. 
The  second  thing  that  strikes  ar  English 
naturalist  in  New  England,  after  he 
has  got  accustomed  to  the  first  flush  of 
the  all-pervading  glacial  phenomena, 
is  the  wonderful  proportional  richness 
of  the  vegetation  and  the  animal  life. 
In  Europe,  and  still  more  in  England, 
we  have  only  a  bare  score  of  indigenous 
mammals,  oiilv  half  a  dozen  or  so  of 
indigenous  forest-trees — oaks  and  elms, 
ashes  and  maples,  birches  and  bceches, 
piues    and    lime-trees.  .    But    in    the 


American  woods  the  wild  beasts  are 
large  and  numerous,  the  birds  are 
multitudinous  and  multiform,  the 
insects  are  innumerable,  the  name*  of 
the  various  forest- trees  are  legion. 
Scarcely  any  two  one  sees  at  the  same 
moment  are  of  the  same  species;,  and 
the  diversity  and  beauty  which  this 
variety  gives  to  the  trunks  and  foliage 
forms  one  great  charm  of  wild  Ameri- 
can woodland  scenery.  Life  with  us 
is  poor  and  stunted;  life  in  America  is 
rich  and  manifold  and  vigorous  and 
beautiful. 

Asa  Gray  has  ^ell  pointed  out  the 
underlying  reason  for  this  marked 
difference  between  the  plants  and 
animals  of  the  two  continents.  On 
our  side  all  the  main  mountain  ranges 
— Pyrenees  and  Asturias,  Alps  and 
Carpathians,  Balkans  and  Caucasus — 
trend  ever  regularly  east  and  west, 
along  the  axis  of  the  great  subdivided 
peninsula  of  Europe.  In  America  the 
two  main  mountain  svstems,  the  Rockies 
and  the  Alleghanies,  with  all  tlieir 
outliers  and  lateral  ranges,  trend  ever 
regularly  north  and  south,  along  the 
axis  of  the  big,  solid,  undivided  con- 
tinent. Furthermore,  Europe  is  sharply 
cut  off  from  the  routh  by  the  Mediter- 
ranean,  and  again  just  beyond  the 
Atlas  chain  by  the  vast  lifeless  area  of 
Sahara.  When  the  enormous  ice-sheet 
of  the  glacial  epoA  began  to  form,  it 
covered  the  northern  half  of  our  con- 
tinent with  its  devastating  mass,  and 
chilled  the  frosty  air  of  the  remainder 
as  far  south  as  the  Mediterraneim. 
Even  Spain  and  Italy  must  then  have 
posscj^sed  a  climate  far  more  rigorous 
and  forbidding  than  the  climate  of 
Labrador  in  our  own  day.  Nor  was 
this  all;  the  Alps  and  the  Apennines, 
the  Sierras  and  the  Carpathians,  were 
each  the  centers  of  minor  ice-sheetp,  of 
which  a  few  shrunken  representatives 
still  remain  in  the  Mer  de  (tlace  aisd 
along  the  flanks  of  the  Pic^  du  ^liJu 


THE  GLACIAL  PERIOb  I^N  AMERICA. 


507 


But  during  the  Great  Ice  Age  these 
mountaiu  glaciers  extended  far  more 
widely  iu  every  direction  over  the 
better  part  of  Switzerland  and  the 
Tyrol,  of  Southern  France  and  Northern 
Italy.  As  the  ice  moved  slowly  ever 
southward,  it  pushed  the  warm  Tertiary 
fauna  and  flora  remorselessly  before  it, 
crashing  them  up  and  hemming  them 
in  between  the  northern  ice-sheet  and 
the  Alps,  the  Alps  and  the  sea,  the 
Sierra  and  the  Straits,  the  Straits  and 
Sahara.  Naturally,  m  such  hard  times 
the  warmer  types  died  out  entirely,  and 
only  those  sterner  plants  and  animals 
which  could  accommodate  themselves 
to  the  chilly  conditions  of  the  Glacial 
Period  struggled  through  with  bare  life 
somehow  into  the  succeeding  epoch  of 
secular  summer. 

When  the  ice  retreated  slowly  north- 
ward once  more,  it  left  behind '•it  a 
Europe  (and  a  Siberia)  out  of  which  all 
the  largest,  fiercest,  and  strongest 
animals,  as  well  as  half  the  most  beauti- 
ful trees  and  shrubs  and  plants,  had 
been  utterly  exterminated.  The  mam- 
moth and  the  mastodon  were  gone  for- 
ever; the  elephant  and  the  rhinoceros 
were  gone'  too;  the  tapir  and  the  hip- 
parion,  the  hyaena  and  the  monkey, 
the  primitive  panther  and  the  saber- 
toothed  lion,  all  had  disappsared  from 
the  face  of  our  continent,  and  some  of 
them  utterly  from  the  face  of  the  earth. 
The  European  fauna  and  flora  of  the 
Pliocene  age — ^the  genial  age  just  pre- 
ceding the  Glacial' epoch — were  richer 
and  more  luxarii*nt  in  type  than  those 
of  sub-tropical  South  Africa  at  the 
present  day.  Chestnuts  and  Jiquidam 
burs,  laurels  and  cinnamons,  ancestral 
tamarinds  and  Australian  hakeas,  with 
conifers  like  the  bisj  trees  of  the  Mari- 
posa grove,  had  flourished  lustily  in 
tho.-^  happy  years  by  the  banks  of  the 
SM!ie,  tfee .  Rhine,  and  the  Danube. 
Through  swch  forests  of  lush  sub- 
tropical   vegetation,    early    man — that 


dark  and  low-browed  savage  whose  fire- 
marked  flints  the  Abb6  Bourgeois 
unearthed  from  the  still  earlier  deposits 
of  the  Calcaire  de  Beauce — must  have 
chased  many  wild  and  ferocious  crea- 
tures now  known  to  us  only  by  the 
scanty  bones  of  the  Red  Crag  and  the 
Belvedere-Schotter.  The  dinotherium, 
with  his  fearsome  tusks,  still  basked  in 
the  sunshine  by  the  river- bank  at 
Eppelsheim;  the  hippotherium,  with 
his  graceful  Arab-like-  tread,  still 
cantered  lightly  over  the  Vienna  plains. 
The  African  hippopotamus  lolled  as 
commonly  in  the  Rhone  as  in  the  Nile. 
Apes  and  gazelles  gamboled  over  the 
not  yet  classic  soil  of  Attica,  side  by 
side  with  a  gigantic  wild  boar,  which 
fa'htastic  science  has  not  unaptly  nick- 
named Erymanthian^  and  with  an 
extinct  giraffe  as  huge  in  proportion  as 
his  modern  African  representative. 
"The  colossal  size  of  many  of  its 
forms,"  as  Geikie  puts  it,  "is  the  char- 
acteristic mark  of  the  Pliocene  Euro- 
pean fauna."  But  when  the  limitless 
ice-sheet  swept  all  these  gigantic 
creatures  away  before  it,  there  was  no 
point  from  which,  on  its  retreat,  they 
could  re-enter  the  impoverished  younger 
Europe.  The  Himalayas  and  the 
Hindoo  Koosh,  the  Caucasus  and  the 
Caspian,  Sahara  and  the  Mediterranean, 
stretched  between  them  one  long 
heterogeneous  but  continuous  barrier, 
cutting  off  the  surviving  fauna  and 
flora  of  the  fortunate  south  from  the 
whole  depopulated  and  devastated  area 
of  Siberia  and  Europe. 

The  consequence  is  that  our  modem 
European  fauna  and  flora  are  probably 
the  poorest  in  ^ize  and  variety  to  be 
found  anywhere,  in  an  equally  large 
tract  of  country,  over  the  whole  face  of 
the  haoitable  globe.  In  insular  Britain , 
and  more  especially  in  Ireland,  this 
general  poverty  reaches  at  length  its 
lowest  depth.  Even  allowing  for  ihe 
extinct  species  killed  off  by  man  within 


508 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


the  historical  period,  what  is  the  miser- 
able little  sum-total  of  eur  British 
mammalian  populatiQn  at  the  very 
highest  period  of  its  recent  develop- 
ment? The  red  deer  and  the  wild 
whit^  cattle,  the  bear  and  the  boar,  the 
wolf  and  the  fox,  the  beaver  and  the 
otter,  -the  badger  and  tlie  weasel,  and 
a  beggarly  array  of  smaller  wild  beasts, 
such  as  squirrels,  martens,  rats,  mice, 
shrews,  hedgehogs,  hares,  rabbits, 
moles,  and  water-voles.  Even  of  these, 
the  largest  and  most  interesting  forms 
are  gone  long  since;  only  the  smallest, 
most  vermin-like,  and  (so  to  speak) 
weediest  still  survive,  except  under 
special  artificial  conditions  of  deliberate 
preservation. 

In  America,  on  the  other  hartd, 
when  the  advancing  ice -sheet  pushed 
the  genial  Pliocene  fauna  and  flora 
southward  before  it,  it  pushed  them  on, 
not  into  the  sea,  the  mountains,  or  the 
desert,  but  into  the  open  lands  of 
Carolina,  Kentucky,  and  the  Gulf 
States.  There  were  no  intervening 
Alps  or  Pyrenees,  between  which  and 
the  slowly  southward  marching  ice- 
plain  the  plants  and  animals,  attacked 
on  front  and  rear,  could  be  gradually 
crushed  out  of  eaHhlv  existence.  So 
the  ice  advanced  harmlessly  to  tlie 
point  where  American  geologists  have 
of  late  detected  its  absolute  terminal 
moraine,  in  a  line  running  roughly 
along  the  parallel  of  thirty-nine  or  forty 
degrees — about  the  boundary  between 
the  old  slave  and  free  States,  in  fact — 
and  there  for  a  time  it  halted  on  its 
march,  leaving  the  plants  and  animals 
it  displaced  free  to  find  their  own 
quarters  in  the  warmer  plains  from 
Florida  to  Texas,  and  from  the  Ohio 
River  to  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  The  coun- , 
try  lay  open  from  the  An^tic  circle  to  the  ! 
tropic  in  Mexico.  As  the  ice  oscillated  j 
backward  and  forward  (for  the  glacial ; 
era  as  a  whole  embraced,  as  Dr.  Croll  | 
a&d  Dr.  Jame^  Geikie  have  proved,  i 


from  different  points  of  view,  many 
successive  glacial  and  interglacial 
periods)  the  vegetation  and  the  wild 
animals  had  full  freedom  to  follow  it 
closely  northward  during  each  long 
retreat,  and  to  fall  back  southward 
again  during  each  fresh  spell  of  rigid 
glaciation.  As  a  consequence,  the 
American  fauna  and  flora  have  not 
suffered  to  anything  like  the  same 
extent  as  the  European  from  the  paa- 
perizing  effects  of  the  continental  ioe- 
sheet.  As  soon  as  the  ice  got  once 
clear  off  the  face  of  the  ground,  trees 
and  shrubs,  beasts,  birds,  and  insects, 
struck  north  once  more,  almost  in  as 
full  force  as  ever,  to  occupy  the  soil 
their  ancestors  had  left  during  the  firsi; 
chill  that  ended  the  halcyon  days  of  the 
Pliocene  epoch. 

No  distinct  break,  therefore,  divides 
the  i;emperate  and  tropical  American 
life-regions.  Europe  ha&  no  lion,  no 
tiger,  no  jackal,  no  crocodile.  But  the 
puma  (or  '^panther"),  in  the  native 
state,  ranges  from  far  south  of  the 
equator  in  Paraguay  to  far  north  of 
Hudson's  Bay,  among  the  frozen  shores 
of  the  Saskatchewan  and  the  Athabaska 
The  coyote,  or  prairie  wolf,  is  equally 
at  home  on  the  banks  of  the  Missouri 
and  in  the  North-west  Tenitorv.  The 
black  and  brown  bears,  it  is  true,  show 
themselves  somewhat  more  exclusively 
northern  in  their  tastes;  but  the  grizzly 
extends,  with  the  utmost  impartiality, 
from  the  Canadian  fiockies  as  far  south 
as  Mexico.  The  richness  of  the  Cana- 
dian fauna  in  animals  like  the  lynxes, 
wolverines,  racoons,  minks,  sables, 
skunks,  badgers,  otters,  wild  cats,  and 
fishers,  is  very  noticeable  by  the  side 
of  our  marked  European  poverty. 
Flying  squirrels,  gray  squirrels,  and 
other  bright  little  forestine  rodents, 
abound  in  the  woods  of  the  St.  Law- 
rence region.  Woodchucks,  musquash, 
and  the  so-called  rabbit  are  everywhere 
common,    Buffalo  roam  over  the  wbols 


THE  GLACIAL  PERIOD  IN  Al^IERICA. 


509 


prairie-land.  The  moose  and  wapiti 
range  far  northward,  till  they  encroach 
upon  the  region  of  the  musk-ox,  the 
caribou,  and  the  polar  bear.  The  great 
black  war-eagle,  the  loon,  and  the  wild 
duck  give  life  and  animation  to  the 
woods  and  lakes.  Everywhere  one  feels 
one's  self  in  the  immediate  presence 
of  a  large  and  luxuriant  native  wild 
life,  to  which  porcupines  and  beavers, 
chipmunk  ana  gophers,  prairie  dogs 
and  shrew  moles,  Virginian  deer  and 
prong-horn  antelopes,  #ach  in  its  own 
place,  impart  variety,  novelty,  and 
freshness.  One  recognizes  throughout 
in  America  the  stamp  of  a  great  vigor- 
ous continent.  Europe,  on  the  contrary, 
has  but  the  population  of  a  narrow, 
poverty-stricken,  outlying  peninsula. 

The  woods  themselves  point  this 
obvious  moral  even  more  vividly  and 
distinctly  than  the  creatures  that 
inhabit  them.  American  wood-land 
runs  riot  in  its  richness.  Lissome 
creepers  recall  the  tangled  bush-ropes 
and  lianas  of  the  tropics;  a  vivid 
undergrowth  of  glossy  poison-ivy  and 
trailing  arbutus  and  strange  shield- 
leaved  or  umbrella  shaped  may -apple, 
far  surpasses  in  beauty  and  luxuriance 
any  temperate  forest  flora  of  the  east- 
ern hemisphere.  Rhododendrons  and 
kalmias  drape  the  hillsides  with  masses 
of  pink  and  purple  glory.  Virginia 
creeper  crimsons  the  autumnal  tree- 
truiikg;  the  pretty  climbing  bittersweet, 
known  by  that  quaint  New  England 
name  of  waxwork,  opens  its  orange 
pods  and  displays  the  scarlet  seeds 
within  on  every  thicket.  Wild  vines, 
lithely  twisting  their  supple  stems, 
mantle  with  rich  foliage  and  with 
hanging  clusters  of  small  bloom-covered 
grapes  the  snake-fences  and  wayside 
busnes  by  the  country  roads.  Ample 
leaves  like  those  of  the  striped  maple 
and  of  the  white  basswood  impart  an 
almost  tropical  breadth  of  shade  to  the 
profound  recesses  of  the  deeper  forests. 


And  to  pick  the  insect-eating  pitcher- 
plants  among  their  native  bogs,  or  to 
watch  the  strange  side-saddle  flowers 
lifting  high  their  lurid  blossom  amon^ 
the  wicked  rosette  of  uncanny-looking, 
trumpet-shaped  leaves  is,  to  the  heart 
of  a  naturalist  at  least,  well  worth  the 
ten  days  of  volcanic  upheaval,  external 
and  internal,  on  the  treacherous  bosom 
of  the  cruel  Atlantic. 

To  compare  numerically  the  larger 
elements  of  the  landscape  alone,  we 
have  in  Britain  three  indigenous  con- 
ifers only — the  Scotch  fir,  the  juniper, 
and  the  English  yew.  Against  this 
scanty  list  Canada  proper  (the  old 
provinces  I  mean,  not  the  Dominion) 
can  set,  according  to  Asa  Gray,  no  less 
than  five  pines,  five  firs,  a  larch,  an 
arborvitae,  three  junipers,  and  one  yew; 
that  is  to  say,  Canada  has  fifteen  distinct 
species  of  cone-bearing  trees  to  Britain's 
three.  Of  catkinbearers,  which  form  by 
far  the  greater  and  nobler  portion  of 
our  forest  timber,  Great  Britain  has 
of  oaks,  beech,  hazel,  hornbeam,  and 
alder  one  each,  with  eighteen  ill-marked 
willows  and  two  poplars:  twenty-eight 
species,  all  told,  and  some  of  them 
dubious.  To  balance  this  tale  Canada 
has  eight  (Jaks,  a  chestnut,  a  beech,  two 
hazels,  two  hornbeams,  six  birches,  two 
alders,  fourteen  willow-s,  five  poplars,  a 
plane-tree,  two  walnuts,  and  four  hick- 
ories— forty-eight  species,  all  told.  If 
we  remove  the  willows,  badly  divided 
(and,  in  my  private  opinion,  by  no 
means  always  distinct^,  the  contrast 
becomes  even  more  snarply  marked. 
Moreover,  as  Asa  Gray  has  also  pointyi 
out,  besides  this  mere  diflference  in 
number  of  species  there  is,  further,  a 
distinct  difference  in  kind  and  aspect. 
America  has  many  trees  and  plants 
wholly  unlike  aftything  European:  tall 
arborescent  pea-flowers,  such  as  the 
locusts  and  cladrastis;  southern-looking 
tvpes,  such  as  magnolia  and  tulip-tree; 
bold  ornamental  ^ubs  like  the  rhodo- 


r- 
»■ 


510 


THE  LIBViAKY  MxVGAZTNE. 


den  (Irons  and  azaleas;  handsome  com- 
posites in  immense  variety,  like  the 
asters,  sunflowers,  golden-rods,  and 
erigerons.  The  warm  summer  climate, 
in  fa(;t,  allows  many  plants  and  blossoms 
of  tropical  luxuriance,  like  the  papaw, 
the  trumpet-creeper,  the  passion-flowers, 
and  the  bignonia,  to  flourish  freely  in 
the  wild  state  and  in  the  open  air,  not 
only  a&  far  north  as  New  York  and 
Philadelphia,  but  sometimes  even  on 
the  northern  shores  of  the  Grpat  Lakes. 
Nevertheless,  this  superior  richness  of 
American  life  is  for  the  most  part  de- 
monstrably due  to  the  more  favorable 
set  of  circumstances  for  replenishing 
the  earth  which  existed  there  at  the  end 
of  the  (Jreat  Ice  Age.  The  ancestors  of 
the  American  wild  animals  and  plants 
lived  also  in  Europe  during  the  Pliocene 
period.  We  had  then  an  American  oak 
of  our  own;  hickories  then  flourished  on 
the  European  plains;  pines  of  the  west- 
ern type  covered  our  island  hillsides; 
cotton- woods  and  balsam-poplars,  mag- 
nolias and  tulip-trees,  locusts  and  sugar- 
maples,  grew  side  by  side  in  French 
and  English  cops6s  with  our  modem 
elms  and  oaks  and  ashes.  But  the  ice 
swept  them  all  away  remorselessly  on 
this  side  of  the  world,  hemmed  in  as 
they  were  between  the  upper  and  the 
nether  millstone,  the  arctic  ice-cap  and 
the  Alpine  glaciers.  Tn  America  they 
all  returned  with  the  return  of  warmer 
weather,  and  form  to  this  day  that 
beautiful  and  varied  Atlantic  woodland 
which  is  the  delight  and  the  envy  of 
the  European  botanical  visitor. 
^Before  the  Glacial  epoch  the  fauna 
and  flora  all  round  the  role  were  prob- 
ably identical.  They  are  practically 
identical  at  the  present  day.  But  as  we 
move  southward  differences  soon  begin 
to  appear  between  the  temperate  fauna 
and  flora  on  either  side  of  the  Atlantic, 
descended  though  they  both  are  from 
the  more  luxuriant  circum polar  typos  of 
the  Pliocene  age.     The  time  they  have 


been  separated  has  told  distinctly  on  the 
formation  of  species.  Hardlv  any  plants 
or  animals  now  remain  absolutely  alike 
on  the  two  continents.  Even  where 
systematically  referred  to  the  same 
species  they  differ,  as  a  rule,  more  or 
less  markedly  in  minor  details.  The 
wapiti  is  a  larger  and  handsomer  form 
of  our  own  red  deer,  with  a  nobler  head 
and  more  superbly  branching  antlers. 
The  caribou  is  a  reindeer  whose  horns 
present  some  minor  differences  of  tine 
and  beaim  and^chnical  arrangement. 
The  moose  is  an  elk,  all  but  indistin- 
guishable in  anj  definite  particular  from 
the  true  elk  of  Northern  Europe  and 
Siberia.  The  silver  birch  and  the 
chestnut  are  reckoned  as  mere  varieties 
of  the  European  type;  but  the-  nuts  of 
the  latter  are  smaller  and  sweeter  than 
in  our  Spanish  kind,  and  the  leaves  are 
narrower  and  acuter  at  the  base.  So 
on  throughout.  The  beeches  and 
larches  cliirer  even  more  widely;  the 
hornbeams,  elms  and  nearest  oaks  have 
attained  the  rank  of  distinct  species. 
Yet  all  along  the  northern  Atlantic 
seaboard  the  original  oneness  of  kind 
may  still  be  easily  traced  in  numberless 
cases;  as  we  move  southward  along  the 
shore  or  westward  inland,  unlikenese  of 
type  grows  more  and  more  accentuated 
at  every  step.  We  catch  here  species- 
making  in  the  very  act.  Many  of  these 
marked  differences  must,  indeed,  have 
been  evolved  in  the  mere  trifle  of  two 
hundred  centuries  or  ao  which  have 
now  elapsed  since  the  great  polar  ice- 
cap first  cut  off  the  American  trees  and 
shrubs  and  animals  from  free  inter- 
course and  facility  of  interbreeding 
with  their  European  and  Asiatic 
congeners. 

Nor  is  it  only  among  the  old  settled 
American  animals  and  plants  that  one 
noMces  these  greater  or  less  differences 
of  nspect  and  habit:  something  of  the 
same  sort  even  shows  itself  already  in 
tho  animals  and  plants  which  owe  tlieir 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 


511. 


iDtroduction  to  the  hand  of  man  since 
the  sixteenth  century.  One  expects  of 
coui*8e  that  the  American  marsh- 
marigolds  aud  spearworts,  which  have 
been  separated  from  all  intermixture 
with,  others  of  their  kind  elsewhere, 
ever  since  the  date  of  the  great  glacial 
extension,  should  exhibit  distinct  and 
namable  points  of  difference  from 
their  congeners  that  grow  beside  the 
English  watercourses;  one  is  perhaps  a 
trifle  more  surprised  to  find  that 
American  specimens  of  henbit,  chick- 
weed,  sandwort,  and  purslane,  intro- 
duced by  European  settlers  since  the 
foundation  of  the  colonies,  should  also 
present  minor  (though  doubtless  grow- 
ing) differences  from  their  recent 
French  and  British  ancestors.  Yet 
such  is  in  almost  every  instance  actually 
the  case.  Just  as  European  man, 
domiciled  in  those  young  and  vigorous 
countries,  has  evolved  for  himself,  in 
barely  three  centuries,  a  new  type  of 
figures  and  f  jat,ure,  a  new  intonation 
and  inflection  of  the  voice,  a  new  polit- 
ical, social,  and  domestic  organization; 
80  the  plants  and  animals,  in  a  thou- 
sand minute  points  of  habit  and 
appearance,  have  begun  to  evolve  for 
themselves  a  distinct  aspect,  differing 
already  more  or  less  markedly  from  the 
average  run  of  their  European  contem- 
poraries. Often  it  would  be  hard  to 
say  to  one's  self  in  definite  language 
wherein  the  felt  difference  exactly  con- 
sisted: the  points  of  unlikeness*  seem 
too  subtle  and  too  vague  to  admit  of 
formulation  in  the  harsh  and  rigidly 
accurate  terminology  of  zoological  and 
botanical  science;  but  I  have  seldom 
picked  an  imported  plant  anywhere 
m  America  which  did  not  strike  me 
as  in  some  degree  unfamiliar,  and  more 
so  in  proportion  as  I  knew  its  form  and 
features  intimately  in  our  English 
meadows.  Sometimes  it  is  possible  to 
spot  the  precise  points  of  difference,  or 
some  among  them:    the  purple  deiid- 


nettle,  for  example,  a  British  colonist 
over  all  the  isorthern  States,  grows 
usually  more  luxuriant  than  with  us; 
it  hjis  longer  leaf -stalks,  deeper  crena- 
tions,  more  procumbent  branches  than 
its  English  cousins.  But  oftener  still, 
the  differences  elude  one,  viewed  separ- 
ately; a  naturalist  can  only  say  that  the 
plant  of  animal  as  a^  whole  impresses 
him  as  somewhat  altered  or  unfamiliar. 
It  bears  pretty  much  the  same  relation 
to  the  original  stock  as  the  New  York 
trotting-horse  bears  to  the  English 
hunter,  or  as  the  common  young  lady 
of  the  Saratoga  hotels  bears  to  her 
prototype  in  Belgravian  drawing-rooms. 
Here  we  catch  the  process  of  species- 
making  in  its  initial  stage.  Every 
intermediate  step  is  well  represented  for 
us  in  one  organism  or  another,  till  at 
last  we  reach  the  most  diverse  forms 
which  have  thojoughly  established  their 
full  right  to  bear  Latin  specific  names 
of  their  own,  marking  them  off  in  the 
Linnaean  phrase  as  Canadense,  Virgini- 
cum,  Occidentale  or  Americanum, — 
Grant  Allen,  in  The  Fortnightly 
Review. 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 

The  Crossing  op  the  Red  Sea. — lu  Good 
Words  Mr.  Henry  A.  Harper  commences  a 
series  of  papers  describing  a  journey  "PYom 
Goshen  to  Sinai."  He  commeni  es  with  what 
we  believe  to  be  an  original  view  iis  to  the 
place  where  the  miraculous  passage  of  the  sea 
by  the  Israelites  took  place:— 

"  The  Exodus  began  from  Ramesos  lo  Suc- 
coth,  then  to  the  *  edge '  of  the  wilderness  of 
Etham.  Somewhere  near  Ismailia  or  Lake 
'Timsah,'  they  now  marched  to  encamp  lie- 
fore  'Pi-hahiroth.'  between  Migdol  and  the 
sea  over  against  Baal-zephon.  Pi-hahiroth 
means 'edsre  of  the  sedge.'  or  'where  9e(\^e 
grows;'  Baal-zephon,  *the  Lord  of  the  North,' 
This  latter  was  ar^roM  the  sea.  and  probably 
the  high  peaks  of  Jebel  Muksheih  were  in 
view.  But  have  we  any  rr-ason  to  beh'eve 
that    the  'Red    Sea'  extended   in  those  days 

I  a«  far  as  Lake  Timsah?    Yes,  plenty  of  proof. 

'  Egyptian  records  show  how  at  that  time  the 


612 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


'sea*  extended  to  that  place.  The}'  tell  how 
a  canal  was  made  to  connect  the  Nile  with 
that  sea,  and  give  an  account  of  the  rejoicuigs 
on  the  openint;  of  the  canal.  The  'sea*  has 
retreated  owing  to  the  elevation  of  the  land. 
Proofs  are  in  plenty  from  recent  geological 
surveys,  and  now  we  can  understand,  with  a 
clearer  eye,  what  the  prophet  Isaiah  means 
when  he  says,  *And  the  Lord  shall  utterly  de- 
stroy the  tongue  of  the  Egyptian  Sea;  and  with 
his  mighty  wind  shall  he  shake  his  hand  over 
the  river,  and  shall  smite  it  in  the  seven  streams, 
and  make  men  go  over  dry  shod.'  'Egyptian 
Sea,'  could  never  liave  meant  that  which  now 
ends  at  Suez,  but  one  which  all  records  prove 
extended  to  Liike  Timsah.  Sluggish,  yes;  for 
it  was  *weedy '  or  'reedy.  *  And  here  let  me 
say  there  is  no  warrant,  according  to  the  best 
scholars,  in  calling  the  sea  in  question  'Red 
Sea;'  the  Hebrew  words  are  clear,  and  mean 
'Sea  of  reeds,'  or  'Sea  of  weeds,'  when  they 
describe  the  'sea'  tbe  Israelites  crossed.  This 
a^in  is  a  most  powerful  conlirmation  of  the 
view  that  at  one  time  the  present  Gulf  of 

Suez  extended  to  Lake  "Hmsah 

AVhat  >I.  de  Lesseps  did  wuspnly  to  reconnect 
the  'salt*  or  'bitter'  lakes  Timsah  and  Men- 
zaleh'^ith  tl  e  Gulf  of  Suez,  on  the  one  hand, 
and  on  the  other  to  make  a  new  way  to  Port 
Said  in  the  Mediterranean.  These  'lakes'  are 
really  inland  seas,  remains  of  that  'Egyptian 
Sea'  of  Isaiah,  the  tongue  of  which  'dried 
up.'  " 

Unclk  Tom's  Cabin.— In  the  Detroit  Home 
and  ScJiool  Supplement  Mr.  W.  H.  Huston 
■writes  a  critico -biographical  sketch  of  Mrs. 
Harriet  Beecher  Stowe,  now  approaching  her 
seventy-fifth  birthday: — 

**  About  1851  her  husband  became  Professor 
of  Divinity  at  Bovvdoin  College,  Brunswick. 
It  was  here  that  LWle  Tom's  Cahin  was  writ 
ten.  Its  origin  was  substantially  as  follows: 
Dr.  Bailey,  of  the  National  Era,  had  noticed 
the  wonderful  delineating  powers  of  Mrs. 
Stowe's  pen,  and  wrote  to  her  asking  for  a-story 
to  be  published  as  a  .serial  in  the  Era.  In  his 
letter  lie  inclosed  a  check  for  $100.  The  invi- 
tation was  accepted,  and  thus,  'with  a  foot 
upon  the  rocker  of  the  cradle,  and  her  port 
folio  in  her  lap,  she  first  put  pen  to  paper  to 
write  the  stor>'  of  Uncle  Tom.  *  No  idea  of  the 
effect  of  her  work  seemed  to  be  present  with 
her,  though  she  found  her  interest  in  the  story 
deepen  as  she  advanced.  Tbe  tale  was  pub 
lished  in  successive  numbers  of  the  Era,  but 
created  no  spciial  intercut  till  it  was  brought 
out  in  book-form  in  Boston,  when  it  met  with 
a  flattering  reception — somewhat  to  the  sur- 


p  ise  of  the  author,  who  took  little  credit  to 
herself  for  the  work,  for  we  find  hor  saying: 
'  After  fldl  it  does  not  seem  to  me  tb;;t  I  had 
very  much  to  do  about  that  story;  it  wrote 
itself. '  Within  a  few  years  after  i' s  first  ap- 
pearance the  tale  was  translated  intc^  the 
following  languages:  French  (three  versions), 
German  (thirteen  or  fourteen),  Dutch  (two), 
Danish,  Swedish;  Portuguese,  Spanish,  Ital- 
ian, Welsh  (two),  Wendish,  Wallachian  (two), 
Armeniiui,  Romaic,  Arabic,  and  also,  it  is 
stated,  Japanese  and  Chinese,  Nor  is  the 
popularity  of  tHe  tale  waning.  To  day  it  is 
one  of  the  best  selling  books  a  bookseller  can 
have  on  his  shelves.  So  that  it  seems  Itkeliy 
that  it  will  always  be  a  well-known  book,  in 
fact,  there  are  indications  that  in  a  future  age 
it  may  have  a  substantial  historical  value, 
which,  apart  from  its  power  as  a  story,  will 
result  in  its  becoming  one  of  the  fewworld 
books — in  other  words,  it  will  be  declared 
'great.'  Much  less  hesitation  will  be  /elt  in 
thus  deciding,  when  it  is  considered  that  it  has 
already  been  one  of  the  means  of  accomplish- 
ing a  great  moral  and  social  reform.  In  little 
more  than  ten  years  after  the  publicatio\i  of 
Uncle  Tom'%  Cabin  slavery  was  a  thing  of  the 
past. 

Room  enough  in  the  Heavenly  City. — 
We  find  the  following  encouraging  statistics 
going  the  rounds  of  the  newspaper  press.  We 
suggest  that  people  of  an  arithmetical  turn 
will  take  the  trouble  of  verifying  tbe  figur 
ing:— 

*  'And   he    measured   the   city  with    the 
reed,  twelve  tnousand  furlongs.     The  length, 
and  the  breadth,  and    the   height  of  it  are 
e'l'vuil.' — He^.  xxi.  16. — ^Twelve  thmisand  fur- 
longs =  7.920.000  feet,  which   being   culled, 
gives   41)6,798,088,000,000,000.000  cubic  feet. 
Half  of  this  we  will  reserve  for  the  Throne  of 
God  and  the  Court  of  Heaven, and  half  the  bal 
ance  for  streets  leaving  a  remainder  of  124,  - 
198,272.000,000.000,000  cubic  feet.   Divide  this 
by  4,096,  the  cubical  feet  in  a  room  of  16  feet 
square,  and  there  will  be  30.321,843,750,000, 
000  rooms.  We  will  now  supix^se   the  world 
always  did  and  always  will  contain  990,000,000 
inhabitants,  nnd  that  a  generation  lasts  for  33i 
years,  making  in  all  2,970,000,000  everj-  cen 
tury,  and  that  the  world  will  stand  lOO.OOO 
years,  or  1,000  centuries,  making  in  all  2,970,- 
000,000,000  inhabitants.      Then  suppose  there 
were  100  w^orlds  equal  to  this  in  number  of  in 
habitants  and  duration  of  years,  making  a  to 
\a\\  of  297,000,000.000,000  persons,  and  there 
would  be  more  than  1(X)  rooms  16  feet  square 
for  each  person." 


IN  THE  MATTJilR  OF  SILVKESPEARE. 


518 


IN  THE  MATTER  OF  SHAKE- 
SPEARE. 

I  have  sometimes  found  myself  in- 
dulging the  fancy  that  Shakespeare's 
genius  has  been  greatly  overrated— or 
rather  overstated— even  by  the  most 
cautious  critics  and  commentators;  but 
I  should  not  like  to  be  forced  into  a 
defence  of  the  fancy.  Monuments  are 
sacred  things  and  fe^  men  will  deny 
that  the  Bible  and  the  body  of  Shake- 
speare's works  are,  to  English-speaking 
people  at  least,  the  most  venerated  of 
all  monuments. 

JIow  could  any  man,  no  matter  how 
self-confident,  go  cheerfully  about  the 
attempt  to  prove  that  Shakespeare  has 
been  overrated  as  a  genius  ?  In  the  first' 
place,  he  would  have  to  be  a  most  ex- 
traordinary genius  himself,  and  distin- 
guisho  1  lis  such  in  the  world,  before  he 
could  command  even  respectful  atten- 
tion as  an  iconoclast.  In  the  next 
place,  he  would  have  to  stem  the  tide-  of 
what  has  come  to  be  hereditary  popular 
opinion ;  and  he  would  have  to  bear  the 
taunts,  jibes,  kicks,  and  cuffs  of  all  the 
Shakespeare-cranks  in  the  whole  world 
— to  say  nothing  of  the  ire  of  all  the 
publishers^who  get  a  big  income  off  the 
old  poet's  books.  Lastly,  he  would 
have  no  way  of  proving  that  the  poorest 
verse  in  Shakespeare's  poorest  play  is 
not  better  than  the  strongest  that 
Tennyson  or  Emerson  ever  wrote. 

Most  of  us  are  slow  to  learn  that  a 
Booth  may  do  as  much  for  Shakespeare 
as  the  great  dramatist  can  do  for  a 
Booth,  and  that  Modjeska  may  put 
into  Juliet  a  breath  of  life  not  known 
to  Shakespeare's  girl.  Genius  is  genius, 
and  asserts  itself  as  superior,  in  its  own 
particular  way,  to  every  other  genius 
m  the  world.  Shaftespeare  was  a  genius 
and  Victor  Hugo  was  as  near  the  right 
as  any  critic  when  he  said  that  criticism 
cannot  apply  to  genius.  We  may  point 
put  errors  of  methods,  of  judgment. 


of  execution,  in  the  works  of  a  genius, 
but  that  part  of  those  works  which 
testifier  of  genius  is  always  beyond  our 
reach. 

In  Shakespeare's  works  this  unreach* 
able  and  therefore  unassailable  part  is 
very  large,  and  it  is  incomparably  many- 
sided  and  many-colored.  One  reads 
Shakespeare  with  confidence,  because 
one  feels  no  lurking  insincerity  between 
his  lines;  there  is  no  conscious  art,  in 
other  words,  padded  and  intercollated 
in  the  tissue  and  fiber  of  the  work;  no 
posing  and  attitudinizing  of  the  author 
in  the  presence  of  his  creations.  Wo 
feel  sometimes  that  we  have  been  duped 
and  made  game  of,  but  we  never  catch 
the  trickster  wagging  his  thumbb  and 
puffing  his  cheeks  at  us.  Indeed 
Shakespeare  was  the  first  humorist  who 
did  not  laugh  at  his  own  jokes,  and  he 
so  far  remains  the  last.  His  simplicity 
sometimes  borders  close  upon  mere 
baldness  and  fiatness,  but  nis  finish 
never  suggests  (as  does  most  of  our  con- 
temporary work)  a  laundry  secret. 

I  should  adore  Shakespeare,  if  for 
nothing  else,  in  recognition  of  his 
cont-empt  for  analytical  realism.  How 
he  dashes  on  color,  and  with  what  divine 
steadfastness  he  sticks  to  heroic  ideals, 
even  when  he  appears  to  be  dallying 
with  infinitesimals  I  You  never  find  him 
probing  and  picking  at  a  ganglion  of 
motive  to  trace  it  back  to  some  obscure 
origin,  as  if  the  whole  of  life  depended 
rpon  the  absolute  accuracy  to  be  at- 
tained in  microscopic  analysis.  His 
characters  are  just  as  distinctly  individ- 
ual and  just  as  mysterious  as  real  flesh 
and  blooa  men  and  women.  He,  him- 
self, too.  is  intensely  human,  weak  and 
strong,  silly  and  wise,  careful  and  care- 
less, neat  and  slip-shod,  clean  and  dirty, 
but  he  is  never  mean  or  vicious.  We 
may  find  a  good  d^al  in  Chaucer  which 
is  so  obscene  that  we  doubt  that  old 
poet's  moral  grain  and  fiber,  but  Shake- 
speare does  not  revel  in  the  filth   b4| 


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THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE 


■ometimes  Iiandles.  There  is  a  scver- 
ity,  an  immovable  manner,  a  steadfast- 
Bees  of  countenance,  so  to  say,  attending 
him  in  his  dealings  with  the  unclean, 
as  if  he  felt  no  touch  of  any  sentiment 
whatever  in  the  matter. 

Your  modem  artist,  if  he  dared  speak 
his  feeling,  would  s^  that  Shakespeare 
was  not  an  artist.  Well,  he  was  not;  he 
was  something  better;  he  was  a  genius 
whose  power  needed  none  of  the  facti- 
tious aids  characteristic  of  modern  liter- 
ary and  ^aphic  art.  He  had  a  superb 
imagination  and  an  infinitely  flexible 
style  of  expression  without  any  techn  ical 
expertness  or  smartness  whatever.  Pret- 
tiness  and  exquisite  finish  of  surface  he 
never  thought  of.^  Even  his  sonnets  have 
something  of  the  swing  and  freedom  of 
a  young  god's  movement.  I  confess 
that  I  do  not  have  any  idea  of  what 
they  mean,  but  I  feel  their  value  as  I 
feel  the  value  of  the  sky  and  the  clouds 
— ^they  are  fire  and  smoke— passion  and 
dimness.  If  we  compare  Shakespeare 
with  some  ^eat  writer  of  the  present 
day,  Victor  Hugo,  say,  the  first  strong 
line  of  contrast  is  the  self -consciousness 
of  the  latter.  We  cannot  ignore  Hugo's 
or  Goethe's  obvious  attitudinizing  in 
front  of  their  subjects.  Even  Tennyson 
uses  the  egotistic  pronoun  with  an  em- 
phasis not  to  be  misunderstood. 

Shakespeare  was  lucky  in  many  ways, 
as  genius  always  is,  and  he  has  had 
better  luck  since  he  died  than  he  had 
while  living:  another  franchise  of  the 
children  of  glory.  As  the  years  have 
rolled  publishers  have  increased,  and 
what  publisher  ever  died  without  issuing 
his  special  edition  of  Shakespeare  ?  As 
the  leaves  of  the  forests  have  authors 
increased;  what  scribbler  ever  goes 
hungry  to  his  grave  without  having 
written  his  essay  on  the  Bard  of  Avon  ? 
Headers  have  become  as  countless  as  the 
sands  of  the  sea,  and  all  have  read  or  arc 
just  going  to  r^  Hamlet  and  the  rest. 
We  are  born  with  a  hereditary  Shake- 


speare bias,  and  we  go  toward  his  works 
as  the  young  snapping  turtle  goes  toward 
water,  as  if  the  act  were  an  instinctive 
one. 

There  are  men  who,  if  they  dared, 
would  bum  at  the  stake  any  human  be- 
ing who  in  his  sincerity  should  admit 
that  he  found  As  You  Like  It  a  very  dull 
affair.  Once  in  the  hospitable  home  of 
the  late  Paul  II.  Hayne  I  said  that  I  did 
not  regard  some  oi  Shakespeare's  works 
as  of  any  great  value,  wnen  lo !  the 
gracious  and  kindly  southern  poet  leaped 
to  his  feet  and  poured  forth  upon  my 
devoted  head  a  flood  of  eloquent  and 
indignant  protest  the  like  or  which  I 
never  have  heard  elsewhere.  Indeed 
one  does  not  dare  be  independent  in  the 
ihatter  of  discussing  the  old  master. 
Not  worship  Shakespeare !  one  might 
as  well  deny  the  attraction  of  gravita- 
tion, or  suggest  a  new  theory  of  polite- 
ness which  would  ignore  the  swallow- 
tailed  coat.  Some  things  are  true 
because  it  is  death  to  deny  them. 
Snobbery  is  kept  alive  and  fat  all  over 
the  world  because  it  is  safer  to  be  a  snob 
than  to  be  a  sincere  and  independent 
man.  The  lords  and  kings  and 
princes  have  said  that  a  swallcfw-tailed 
coat  is  just  the  thing,  atid  even  the  hotel 
waiter  cannot  cheapen  it.  So  the 
Moguls  of  criticism  have  said:  "  Shake- 
s}>eare  is  incomparable,"  and  how  shall 
any  clod  gainsay  it  ?  They  used  to' say 
something  pretty  about  Homer,  too,  but 
Greek  is  no  longer  fashionable.  It 
proves  something,  however,  this  firm 
hold  that  the  old  English  bard  keeps  on 
the  moulders  of  public  opinion.  It 
requires  extraordinary  genius  to  live  up 
to  the  standard  these  intolerant  wor- 
shipers have  set  for  their  god,  and  so 
far  Shakespeare  has  lost  little  ground, 
if  we  may  judge  by  the  increased 
number  of  editions  he  is  subjected  to 
by  enthusiastic  editors  and  hopeful 
publishers  every  year. 

This  matter  of  editing  Shakespeare, 


IN  THE  MATTER  OP  SHAKESPEARE. 


S16 


as  it  is  called,  has  a  broad  tinge  of 
humor  as  I  view  it.  All  this  hair-bplit- 
ting  over  doubtful  readings  is  ludicrous, 
if  one  dared  say  so.  In  the  old  bard's 
own  manner  tnere  is  very  little  to  set 
an  example  of  carping  or  higgling  about 
a  word  or  the  turn  of  a  phrase.  He  put 
things  forth  with  a  direct  stroke  of  his 
pen,  as  Turner  after  him  did  with  the 
Drush,  giving  not  the  slightest  heed  to 
the  infinitesimals  about  which  the  wise 
little  commentators  pretend  to  know  so 
much.  A  Shakespearean  scholar  re- 
minds me  always  of  an  expert  in  fossil 
bryozoans — he  is  so  dry  and  narrow,  so 
fretful  and  pig-headed  when  he  finds  a 
man  standing  before  him  who  dares  to 
have  a  soul  of  his  own  that  he  would 
like  to  unburden.  This  reading,  that 
edition,  tlie  other  MS.,  somebody's 
interpolation — ^what's  the  difference  so 
that  I  get  the  broad  wash  of  thought, 
the  incomparable  impressions  —  the 
kaleidoscopic  views  of  life  and  manners? 
What  do  I  care  whether  or  no  the  cele- 
bated  Professor  Nosemout  has  given  his 
consent  to  the  edition  I  am  reading  ? 
Nee  te  senserem.  It  is  Shakespeare  I 
care  for,  not  the  little  man  with  the 
ejre-glasses  and  the  many  MSS.  and  edi- 
tions. To  be  particularly  sincere,  I 
would  not  give  a  straw  to  be  able  to  read 
the  great  cipher  of  Donnelly.  Life  is  so 
short  and  wisdom  is  so  broad. 

Still,  if  a  young  person  came  to  me 
asking  how  to  get  grounded  in'  literary 
wisdom  I  should  say:  *Go  study  Shake- 
speare, as  you  would  study  Nature,  not 
as  a  specialist,  but  in  a  liberal  and  free 
way.  What  edition  ?  Any  edition. 
Whose  notes  ?  Nobody's.  Make  your 
own  notes,  insist  upon  your  own  inter- 
pretations, then  go  hear  some  good 
reader  like  Booth  or  Lawrence  Barrett  or 
Modjeska;  but  at  last  cling  to  your 
own  private  opinions.  Of  course  these 
opinions  will  be  modified  and  specialized 
as  you  grow,  but  you  must  not  let  tli^ni 
hybridize  and   lose   the    precious  ele- 


ments of  your  own  originality,  last  of 
all  must  you  let  the  little  buzzing  in- 
sects, self-styled  commentators  and 
editors,  fertilize  the  fresh  flowers  of  yoar 
mind.  The  pollen  they  carry  is  noth- 
ing but  shelf -dust  and  book-mould;  it 
will  miake  your  brain  like  an  autumn 
puff-ball.  Go  into  the  open  air  and 
read  your  open-  type  copy  of  Shakespeare 
under  a  tree  wherein  the  birds  sing  and 
the  wind  rustles.  You  will  find  his 
effects  broad,  like  the  sky  and  the  sea; 
narrow,  like  the  brook;  tangled  and 
fretted,  like  the  vine-worried  groves; 
earthy  as  the  earth  itself.  As  plays, 
all  these  works  were  made  for  the  stage, 
therefore  much  of  their  stuff  is  mere 
stuff  indeed,  but  these  people  are  people, 
these  heroes  are  heroes,  these  villains 
are  villains,  and  these  lovers  are  genuine 
old-time  sweet-kissing  and  hard-hghting 
ones  that  it  does  one  s  soul  good  to  read 
about  once  more,  after  somo  dozens  of 
modern  novels. 

Since  Scott  no  English  novelist  has 
suggested  a  comparison  with  the  great 
dramatist,  unless  we  consider  Bulwer 
at  his  verv  best.  Hugo  and  Goethe, 
barring  their  miserable  egotism,  arc 
Shakespeare's  equals  (at-  some  points 
his  superiors);  but  they  lack  his  equi- 
poise, nis  constant  suggestion  of  a  reserve 
of  power.  Hugo  now  and  again  wallows 
and  flounders,  like  a  whale  in  shallow 
water;  Goethe  struts,  scowls,  smiles 
and  laughs  in  turn,  and  always  with 
the  air  of  feeling  his  own  superiority; 
but  Shakespeare  is  steadfast,  liberal- 
faced,  never  surprised  by  his  own  wit 
and  never  in  need  of  extrinsic  aid. 

If  anv  young  writer  of  to-day  could 
master  himself  so  as  to  be  as  self-pos- 
sessed as  Shakespeare  was,  we  might  call 
him  a  thorough-bred  author.  Vulgar 
fussiness  and  anxiety  about  the  fit  of 
one's  phrases  is  what  one  can  scarcely 
avoid  in  this  day  of  clever  stylists  and 
smart  analysts;  and  yet  this  was  just 
what  all  tlie  truly  great  authors  of  the 


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THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


past  really  did.  Read  Shakespeare's 
plays  and  note  how  like  the  heavy 
blows  of  a  laboring  swain  are  the  most 
tellin^^  of  his  lines.  Even  he  loses 
when  he  turns  back  to  polish  a  verse  or 
remodel  a  phrase.  It  was  little  Horace, 
not  big  Homer,  who  sot  such  high 
value  on  the  details  of  verse-making. 
There  are  a  great  many  little  Horaces 
now,  but  where  is  our  grand  Homer  ? 

The  study  of  large  models  cannot 
fail  to  give  some  feeling  of  breadth,  even 
to  a  small  mind;  hence  the  reading  of 
Shakespeare  is  of  prime  importance  to 
one  who  dreams  of  making  literature 
some  day.  Not  that  writing  plays  like 
Shakespeare's  ever  will  be  profitable 
again;  the  good  will  come  in  what  is 
caught  of  Shakespeare's  contempt  of 
leading-strings  and  of  his  love  of  the 
ideal.  Originality  in  his  works  means 
a  Shakespearian  use  of  whatever  came 
to  his  hand.  He  employed  no  tricks, 
appealed  to  no  mock  foam  or  stage- 
tnunder  to  strengthen  a  weak  passage. 
Men  quarrel  to-day  over  the  question 
of  Hamlet's  mental  condition;  but 
Shakespeare  saw  no  need  for  any  foot- 
note. There  are  many  very  weak 
places  in  his  plays,  but  each  play  makes 
a  distinct  and  clear-cut  impression. 
It  is  this  impression  which  constitutes 
true  value  in  every  work  of  art.  No 
mind  can  be  unenlightened  which  is 
full  of  the  spirit  of  Shakespeare's  works; 
but  one  may  become  a  mere  book-louse 
by  creeping  too  long  among  the  v?ords 
and  phrases  of  them.  Note  well  the 
difference.  If  you  come  to  the  reading 
of  Shakespeare  with  the  cringing  soul 
of  a  snob  m  you,  the  reading  will  be  in 
vain.  Read  him,  just  as  you  would 
read  Mark  Twain,  with  a  feeling  of 
democratic  independence.  He  was  no 
more  a  god  than  you  are  a  god;  he  was 
nothing  but  a  large-headed,  open-eyed 
self-reliant  man  who  was  gifted  with 
a  talent  for  writing  good  plays.  He 
Wtuld  not  thank  you  for  saying  that 


the  poorest  of  his  sonnets  are  better  than 
the  best  of  Keats' ;  for  he  would  know 
that  you  were  not  sincere.  Keats  wrote 
one  or  two  sonnets  that  are  incompar- 
ably better  than  any  of  Shakespeare's. 

I  say  this  without  blinking,  for  I  am 
writing  in  a  pine  woods  on  the  shore  of 
the  Mexican  Gulf,  far  out  of  anvso- 
called  Shakespearian  scholar's  reach. 
Beside  me  lies  a  volume  of  Alden's 
Ideal  Edition  of  the  works  of  William 
Shakespeare,  the  cheapest  and  clearest- 
typed  edition  I  have  yet  seen.  You 
may  read  it  as  you  walk;  I  have  read 
it  as  I  walked,  communing  with  the  Two 
Gentlemen  of  Verona  under  the  moan- 
ing pines  and  mossy  live-oaks,  while  the 
lazy  wash  of  the  Gulf  waves  and  the 
lazy  touch  of  the  Gulf  breeze  ''filled  in 
the  symphonies  between."  Forgive 
me,  but  once  in  a  while  a  mocking-bird 
makes  me  forget  that  there  ever  was  a 
Shakespeare.  Just  a  while  ago  I  flung 
down  the  Ideal  to  run  and  peep  at  shy 
songster  flitting  about  in'  a  cedar 
thicket.  I  like  living  things,  and  in 
spite  of  all  that  I  can  do  a  live  titmouse 
is  more  to  my  taste  than  a  dead  poet. 
There  are  some  wonderful  fossils,  but 
even  a  mammoth's  jaw  is  not  so  inter- 
esting as  a  warm,  buzzing,  flaming 
humming  bird  bobbing  at  a  flower. 

A  vast  quantity  of  good  breath  has 
been  wasted  telling  over  and  over  and 
over  the  threadbare  romance  of  how  in- 
comparable arc  the  works  of  the  old  art- 
masters,  a  lie  which  has  to  be  kept 
warm  by  the  constant  friction  of  tell- 
ing. The  romance  of  Shakespeare  is 
of  the  same  sort;  but  the  tnith  about 
him  is  wonderful  enough — the  tnith 
that  makes  him  a  great  man',  like  Na- 
poleon. Newton,  Phidias,  Homer,  Dante 
and  Hugo — greater  in  some  ways  thau 
any  of  these  and  not  half  as  great  in 
other  ways;  a  man  whose  glaring  faults 
stand  out  in  his  works,  and  whose  rare 
.drifts  those  works  do  not  half  disclose — 
the  'truth,  in  short,  that  he  was,  liki 


IN  THE  MATTKK  OP  SHAKESPEARE. 


517 


any  other  genius^  a  curious  bundle  of 
greatness  and  commonness. 

When  I  was  a  boy  they  made  me  wash 
my  face,  comb  my  hair  and  put  on 
a  broad  white  collar  before  they  would 
let  me  go  to  the  book-shelves  and  take 
down  the  old  leather-backed,  heavy- 
ribbed  book  they  called  by  the  sacred 
Dame  of  Shakespeare.  In  those  days  I 
devoutly  believed  all  they  said  about 
that  man's  perfectness  and  universality 
of  genius.  Indeed  it  was  with  a  sense 
of  profound  guilt  that  one  day  I  dis- 
covered a  doubt.  I  had  been  reading 
Tennyson  and  my  head  and  my  heart 
were  full  of  new  and  glorious  sounds, 
colors,  longings,  and  dreams.  I  know 
to  the  last  pang  how  a  Christian  must 
feel  who  suddenly  lapses  into  inlidelity, 
for  did  I  not  fall  from  the  grace  of 
Shakespeare-worship  ?  It  was  a  tinal 
fall,  too,  for  I  never  have  got  wholly 
back  and  never  shall. 

Still  Shakespeare  stands  alone  (so  does 
Shelley)  tmd  ne  stands  alone  in  the 
highest  realm  of  art.  Quantity  as  well 
as  quality  (when  the  quality  is  always 
high)  goes  to  prove  great  genius.  Many 
men  have  done  one  act  of  perfect  crea- 
tion, falling  back  to  mere  mediocrity 
afterward;  but  it  is  only  the  few  who 
can  keep  up  the  ecstacy  of  the  maker 
for  many  years  together.  We  may 
count  these  on  our  fingers:  Homer, 
Milton,  Dante,  Shakespeare,  Goethe, 
Scott,  and  Hugo  —  the  list  would  be 
short,  but  such  a  list  I .  I  am  not  quite 
sore  that  Emerson  ought  to  be  left  out, 
for  he  was  one  of  the  calm  and  lofty 
ones  who  build  for  all  time,  and  yet  he 
suggested  rather  than  created  the  best 
of  his  effects.  All  these  great  men  im- 
press us  with  the  peculiar  sereneness  of 
their  bearing  under  the  infinite  white 
heat  of  poetic  ecstacy.  Carlyle  fell 
short  here  and  hence  cannot  be  called 
great. 

Naturalists    tell    us    about    highly 


specialized  animal  forms  —  those  that 
have  departed  most  from  the  prototype. 
There  is  a  figure  here  with  which  great 
genius  like  Shakespeare's  may  be  repre- 
sented— the  old,  simple,  universal  hu- 
man mind.  Shakespeare  was  not  a  spec- 
ialized man,  he  was  a  specimen  left  over 
from  the  ancient  virile  race  loug  since 
worshiped  as  gods.  Walt  Whitman 
consciously  and  with  great  labor  has 
tried  to  be  such  a  specimen — he  has  tried 
to  stand  for  mankind,  but  his  great 
assumption  of  virility  is  vox  et  preterm 
nihil  save  in  a  few  splendid  exceptions. 

At  last  it  is  Shakespeare's  siiu-ere  and 
perfect  love  of  his  race,  his  brimming 
Qumanity,  his  commanding  simplicity, 
his  courage,  liis  abounding  sympathy, 
his  liberality,  that  will  always  draw 
men  to  him.  We  speak  of  personal 
magnetism  when  we  mean  a  man's 
power  to  influence  his  fellows.  This 
magnetism  of  manhood  exhales  from  all 
the  works  of  genius,  and  especially  from 
those  of  Shakespeare.  Walt  Whitman 
asserts  for  himself  in  rude  and  almost 
brutal  phrasing  what  Shakespeare  never 
claims,  but  always  has  to  overflowing — 
the  vigor  and  rugged  self-sufficiency  of 
the  primitive  man.  I  have  noticed  that 
all  grand  men  assert  themselves  with  ir- 
resistible force  but  always  without  noise 
or  contortion  or  bluster.  A  steadfast 
eye,  a  calm  face,  a  quiet  manner,  an 
even  voice.  The  gods  turned  men  to 
stone  by  a  glance.  The  clouds  and 
storms  are  always  far  below  the  serene 
blue  sky  in  wKose  depth  the  empyrean 
fire  steadily  bums. 

Coming  to  the  study  of  Shakesperae 
without  any  taint  of  literary  snoboery, 
ani  wholly  free  from  mere  hero-worship 
looking  upon  him  as  quite  subject  to 
criticism  and  quite  vulnerable  to  it,  one 
should  choose  an  edition  without  notes. 
A  glossary  is  well  enough;  but  one 
rarely  uses  it.  The  gist  of  the  plays  is 
not  to  be  found  in  the  obselete  words. 


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THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


Anybody  can  understand  Shakespeare, 

firovidea  the  Shakespeare  scholars  are 
orbidden  admission  to  the  stndy  during 
the  reading. — Maurice  Thompson. 


THE  TRUE  EEFOEM  OP  THE 
HOUSE  OP  LORDS. 

"  Abolish  the  House  of  Lords !  *' 
"  Reform  the  House  of  Lords ! "  are 
cries  which  from  time  to  time  may  be 
heard  above  the  din  of  political  warfare, 
and  the  conflicting  shouts  of  the  excited 
combatants.  Sometimes  these  shouts 
are  so  loud,  and  apparently  uttered  in  so 
earnest  a  tone,  that  a  man  may  readily 

Ersuade  himself  the  Gauls  have  at 
igtl^  arrived,  and  are  about  to  pluck 
bv  the  beard  the  senators  of  England, 
like  those  of  Rome,  as  they  sit  in  their 
seats  of  office.  But  hardly  has  he 
arrived  at  this  conclusion  when  the 
rush  of  battle  bears  the  excited  crowds 
to  other  fields,  and  their  cries  wax 
weaker  and  weaker  until  lost  in  the 
distance.  Prom  time  to  time  the  same 
scene  is  reenacted,  but  the  House  of 
Lords,  though  often  threatened,  con- 
tinues to  exist  in  spite  of  the  attacks 
of  its  enemies. 

The  truth  of  the  matter  is  that, 
although  the  constitution  of  the  House 
of  Lords  may  not  be  logically  defensi- 
ble. Englishmen  are  aware  that,  to  say 
the  least,  it  has  proved  as  good  a  work- 
ing machine  as  any  foreign  senate,  with 
the  exception,  perhaps  of  the  American, 
the  constitution  of  which  it  would  be 
impossible  to  copy  in  this  country. 
They  are  aware  that,  with  all  its  faults, 
the  House  of  Lords,  taken  as  a  whole, 
'represents  a  sum  total  of  ability,  public 
spirit,  honesty,  and  high  purpose,  which 
it  would  be  difficult  to  match  in  any 
assembly  in  the  world,  and  they  are 
not  blind  to  the  fact  that  if  it  were  not 


for  the  revision  it  exercises  on  legisla- 
tion the  statute-book  would  contain 
even  more  unworkable,  overlapping, 
and  contradictory  acts  than  it  does 
at  present.  They  also  know  that  the 
very  constitution  of  the  House  is  a 
guarantee  that  it  will  never  permanently 
oppose  the  popular  will  when  once  that 
will  has  been  distinctly  and  unmis- 
takably pronounced;  and  satisfied  in 
the  possession  of  a  machine  ready  to 
hand  which  is  not  practically  inferior 
in  working  power  to  those  possessed  by 
their  neighbors,  they  do  not  care  to  in- 
qaiTQ  too  closely  whether  its  construc- 
tion is  theoretically  consistent  with 
modern  ideas. 

If  the  British  people,  const  ious  of 
the  merits  of  the  House  of  Lords,  are 
content  to  overlook  its  faults,  that  is 
all  the  more  reason  why  the  members 
of  that  assembly  should  exert  them- 
selves to  render  their  House  as  little 
open  to  adverse  criticism  as  possible. 
The  peculiar  character  of  its  composi- 
tion should,  indeed,  make  the  peers 
more  jealous  of  its  honor  than  senators 
of  a  more  representative  House.  When 
the  people  cnoose  to  elect  a  man  who  is 
devoid  of  principle  to  represent  1  .lem, 
they  have  none  but  themselves  to  blame 
if  they  should  suffer  through  his  vil- 
lainy, but  as  the  House  of  Lords  is 
unrepresentative  they  have  a  right  to 
expect  that  the  peers  shall  see  that 
there  be  no  abuse  of  the  confidence 
which  a  generous  nation  has  reposed  in 
its  nobility.  Practically  there  is  little 
danger  oi  the  ne'er-do-well  peer  in- 
fluencing legislation,  but  it  would  be 
well  if  it  were  impossible  for  such  to 
enter  the  portals  of  the  House. 

The  Lords  have  wisely  declared  that 
bankrupt  peers  shall  forfeit  their  legis- 
lative privileges;  they  would  do  well 
to  exclude  from  their  deliberations 
members  of  the  House  who  had  proved 
themselves  unworthy  of  their  position^ 


THE  TRUE'  REFORM  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  LORDS. 


51f 


by  such  breach  of  criminal  or  moral 
law  as  would  entail  ostracism  from  the 
society  of  gentlemen. 

Justly  or  unjustly,  the  aristocracy  of 
the  country,  especially  when  endowed 
with  such  high  privileges  as  that  of 
England,  is  expected  by  the  nation  to 
be  in  deed,  as  well  as  in  name,  apurroi, 
the  best.  Let  the  peers  but  show 
themselves  conscious  of  their  duties  and 
responsibilities,  and  desirous  of  fullill- 
ing  them,  and  many  shortcomings  will 
be  overlooked;  but  the  people  are  justly 
severe  on  the  man  of  high  birth,  who 
insolently  uses  his  wealth,  privileges, 
and  position  for  the  furtherance  of  his 
own  selfish  gratifications,  regardless  of 
laws,  divine  or  human.  The  possible 
presence  of  a  few  notoriously  bad  men 
in  the  House  of  Lords  (though  they 
may  probably  never  attend)  is  a  source 
of  greater,  danger  to  its  existence  than 
many  a  prolonged  opposition  to  the 
will  of  .the  Lower  House,  It  is  part 
of  the  price  which  an  aristocracy  pays 
for  the  elevated  position  it  occupies  that 
it  cannot  sin  in  a  corner.  Its  evil  deeds 
are  known,  exaggerated,  and  blazone<l 
forth  to  the  country.  The  wrong  or 
foolish  step,  which  in  the  case  of  a  man 
of  humble  birth  is  unknown  to  any  but 
the  nearest  relatives,  becomes  the  gossip 
of  the  world  if  taken  by  a  peer  of  high 
position.  In  this  there  lies,  on  the  part 
of  the  latter,  no  just  ground  for  com- 
plaint against  society.  It  is  part  of  the 
contract  by  which  he  occupies  his  posi- 
tion. Society  expects  more  of  the  peer 
than  of  the  commoner,  and  is  inclined 
to  be  severe*  in  its  judgment,  if  the 
former  should  fall  short  of  the  standard 
of  its  expectations,  though  in  justice 
it  should  be  remembered  that  rank  and 
riches  have  their  special  temptations  as 
much  as  poverty  and  social  obscurity. 
An  aristocracy  cannot  aiford  to  forget 
the  meaning  of  the  words  noblesse  oblif/e. 
Lord  Derby  once  advised  the  peers  to 
look  after  their  duties,  and  told  them 


that  their  privileges  would  look  aftar 
themselves.  This  adyice  constitutes  to 
my  mind  the  lines  upon  which  the  real 
reform  of  the  House  of  Lords  should 
run.  Such  moral  reformation  need 
not  hinder  any  concurrent  constitu- 
tional  reforms  which  might  be  thought 
advisable,  though  in  all  probability  it 
would  render  some  of  them  unnecessary. 
If  each  member  of  the  House  of  Loras 
were  genuinely  anxious  to  make  himself 
useful  in  his  generation,  and  to  devote 
his  position,  energies,  and  ability  to  the 
service  of  his  fellow-men,  we  should 
hear  much  less  of  the  necessity  for 
reform  in  the  Upper  House,  and  mi^ht 
congi-atulate  ourselves  on  the  possession 
of  a  legislature  which,  under  those 
circumstances,  would  be  the  superior  of 
any  in  the  world.  The  House  of  ^  Lords 
exists  indeed,  because  of  the  lar^e  pro- 
portion of  its  members  which  is  asso- 
ciated with  the  true  spirit  of  noblesse 
oblige.  The  men  who  form  this  pro- 
portion constitute  the  salt  which  has 
kept  the  mass  pure  and  healthy. 

I  do  not  suppose  that  the  strictly 
political  work  of  legislation  in  the 
Upper  House  would  be  better  performed 
than  it  is  at  present,  even  if  every  peer 
should  always  attend  and  be  a  Bayard 
in  freedom  irom  reproach.  The  politi- 
cal result  of  the  session  mi^ht  jiossibly 
be  even  less  satisfactory  than  it  is  ai 
present.  A  multitude  of  counselors 
does  not  necessarily  increase  wisdom, 
nor  do  numbers  favor  dispatch  or  ad 
curacy  in  business;  but  if  more  peers 
were  to  interest  themselves  in  the 
social  questions  of  the  day,  were  to  die- 
cuss  them  in  Parliament,  and  use  their 
great  influence  and  position  as  levers 
for  the  moral  and'  material  elevation 
of  the  people,  the  country  would  be  the 
happier,  and  the  House  of  Lords  would 
soon  come  to  be  regarded  with  very 
\  different  eyes  by  the  mass  of  the  popu- 
lation; its  position  would  be  strength- 
I  ened,  its  usefulness  would  be  acknowl- 


590 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


edged^  and  its  power  would  be  quadni- 
pl«i.  The  mass  of  the  people  know 
little  of  the  way  in  which  the  work 
of  either  House  is  carried  on;  bub  they 
notice  that  divisions  which  are  not  of  the 
first  political  importance  are  won  or  lost 
in  the  House  of  Lords  by  very  small 
numbers,  they  remark  the  shortness  of 
the  debates  and  the  lack  of  apparent 
interest  in  the  proceedings  of  the  House 
displayed  by  many  peers,  and  .more 
particularly  they  read  and  comment  on 
the  scandalous,  extravagant,  or  foolish 
exploits  of  individual  members  of  the 
peerage,  and  some  are  apt  to  inquire 
whether  it  is  right  that  such  men  should 
be  permitted  to  make  laws  by  which 
they,  the  people,  must  be  bound.  Such 
criticism  is  most  natural,  though  in 
great  measure  it  misses  it3  marl,  for 
the  number  of  such  peers  is  few  and 
their  influence  would  be  nil  even  if 
they  attended  the  sittings  of  the  House, 
which,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  such  men 
rarely  do. 

lEiigliflhmen,  however,  as  a  rule,  far 
from  entertaining  hostile  feeling  against 
the  nobility,  recognise  their  past  services 
and  are  proud  of  their  traditions,  and 
if  a  commoner  and  noble  display  equal 
powers  of  leadership  they  usually  prefer 
to  place  themselves  under  the  guidance 
of  the  man  of  aristocratic  birth.  The 
possession  of  a  title  is  in  some  countries 
a  positive  disadvantage  to  a  man  desir- 
ous of  taking  a  leading  and  useful  part 
in  the  work  of  the  world.  This  is  not 
80  in  England,  unless  perhaps  in  the 
case  of  the  few  men  who,  having  ac- 

2uired  an  inflaence  in  the  House  of 
Jommons,  are  reluctant. to  leave  it  for 
the  more  severe  atmosphere  of  the 
Upper  Chamber.  There  is  no  excuse, 
therefore,  for  the  young  noble  who 
deliberately  throws  away  the  grand 
opportunities  of  usefulness  open  to  him 
in  this  country.  Let  him  but  show  an 
interest  in  some  particular  line  of  work 
or  subject  of  thought,  and  if  he  be  of 


passable  ability  his  assistance  and  co- 
operation will  be  gladly  welcomed. 
The  days  are  past  when  an  aristocracy 
can  expect  to  maintain  its  position 
simnlv  by  force  of  prestige,  birth,  and 
wealth.  It  must  possess  some  more 
solid  claim  to  the  respect  of  its  fellow- 
men. 

There  has  lately  passed  away  from 
among  us  one  whose  life  should  be 
made  a  text-book  for  the  study  of  our 
well  bom  youth.  The  Earl  of  Shaftes- 
bury has  shown  what  it  is  possible  for 
an  earnest  English  nobleman  to  ac- 
complish in  a  lifetime.  What  one  has 
done  others  may  do.  Self-sacrifice, 
self-restraint,  energy,  untiring  pursuit 
of  duty  —  with  such  coin  alone  can 
similar  results  be  purchased.  The  path 
of  duty  is  never  one  of  roses,  but  there 
are  many  more  delights  to  be  met  witli 
on  that  road  than  the  young  man  iisually 
imagines.  It  n^ay  safely  be  said  that 
if  the  roses  be  not  thickly  strewn  there 
are  fewer  genuine  thorns  in  the  path  of 
duty  than  that  of  pleasure.  Would 
that  a  larger  number  of  our  youth  of 
birth  and  fortune  could  be  persuaded 
to  use  their  position  and  influence  for 
the  benefit  of  their  fellow-creatures, 
rather  than  make  these  social  advan- 
tages instruments  for  the  gratification 
of  selfish  desires,  and  the  handmaids 
of  a  material  luxury  enervating  to  both 
mind  and  body. 

There  are  many  social  and  philan- 
thropic problems  of  the  deepest  uiterest 
to  the  masses  of  the  people,  waiting 
for  solution  at  the  hands  of  the  legisla- 
ture, which  owing  to  the  pressure  of 
purely  political  business,  are  annually 
elbowed  out  of  the  House  of  Commons, 
or  have  never  obtained  even  so  much 
as  a  hearing  in  that  overworked  House. 
Some  of  these  subjects,  such  as  those 
connected  with  pauperism,  poor  law 
reform,  compulsory  physical,  technical, 
and  industrial  education,  public  health, 
the  prevention  of  the  adulteration  of 


THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS. 


521 


food,  air,  and  water,  peasant  proprietor- 
ship, State-directed'  colonization,  the 
restriction  of  excessive  hours  of  labor, 
the  preservation  of  open  spaces  in  cities 
and  of  commons  in  the  country,  the 
reclamation    of    waste    lands   for   the 

fmblic  benefit,  the  utilization  of  convict 
abor,  national  thrift,  the  housing  of 
the  working  classes,  the  reform  of  the 
licensing  laws,  the  prevention  of  acci- 
dents in  mines  and  factories,  and  a 
host  of  others,  are  of  infinitely  more 
importance  to  the  masses  than  many  of 
those  which  are  accustomed  to  engross 
the  attention  of  politicians  and  to  oc- 
cupy the  nights  and  days  of  the  over- 
worked members  of  the  House  of 
Commons.  It  is  a  very  frequent  com- 
plaint of  the  peers  that  the  Govern- 
ment of  the  day  introduces  so  few  bills 
into  their  House,  and  that  while  dur- 
ing the  latter  portion  of  the  session  they 
are  overwhelmed  with  work,  during 
the  earlier  months  they  have  little  or 
nothing  to  do.  The  Ho.use  of  Lords  is 
peculiarly  fitted  for  the  calm,  dispas- 
aionate,  and  thoughtful  discussion  of 
such  social  subjects  as  those  I  have 
mentioned.  Daring  the  early  months 
of  each  session  tlie  peers  have  the  leisure 
which  the  House  of  Commons  does  not 
possess;  they  are  exempt  from  the 
pressure  of  interested  sections  of  voters, 
and  can  handle  such  subjects  in  a  more 
independent  manner  than  men  who  live 
in  perpetual  fear  of  a  constituency. 
Some  of  these  social  problems  require 
a  great  deal  more  discussion  before  they 
can  be  considered  ripe  for  legisla- 
tion. It  would  be  ditticult  to  find  a 
better  platform  for  such  critical  discus- 
sion than  the  floor  of  the  Ilonse  of 
Lords,  in  the  presence  of  eminent 
judges,  ministers,  and  statesmen.  Here 
13  a  field  of  labor  worthy  of  the  highest 
intellect  and  ambition.  If  only  a  few 
members  of  the  Upper  House  should 
be  inspired  by  the  noble  example  of  the 
Jato  KarLof  Shaftesbury  to  devote  their 


lives  to  the  benefit  of  their  fellow-men, 
the  nation  would  not  be  slow  to  appre- 
ciate their  labors,  and  the  House  of 
Lords  would  have  commenced  a  reform 
which,  if  continued  (and  it  should  be 
borne  in  mind  that  noble  example  is 
contagious),  would  probably  do  more  to 
strengthen  its  influence  and  increase 
its  authority,  than  many  an  ambitious 
project  which  had  taxed  the  brpins  of 
statesman  and  reformers. — Lord  Bka 
RAZON,  in  The  Nineteenth  Century, 


THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS. 

They  are  not  white:  not  the  least  bit 
of  it:  they  are  green  below — such  a  lus- 
cious green  as  I  have  seldom  if  ever  seen 
elsewhere;  while  above,  they  look  dark 
blue  or  purple  in  the  dim  distance,  and 
somber  gray  of  a  steely  type  when  yon 
come  to  examine  their  rugged  boulder- 
strewn  peaks  at  close  quarters.  Such 
at  least  we  found  them  in  July  and 
August.  No  doubt  to  the  early  New 
Hampshire  settlers,  who  gazed  up  at 
them  from  the  semi-cultivated  plain 
far  off  below,  they  showed  white  enough 
in  all  conscience,  with  their  snowy  coat, 
in  December  and  January,  or  well  on 
into  the  middle  of  April.  I  would  not 
like  to  look  upon  them  then;  so  much 
lonely  solitude  and  native  inhospitality 
would  strike  cold  upon  one's  heart  in 
the  short  gray  days  of  American  winter. 

We  started  fi'om  Montreal  on  our 
pilgrimage  to  the  White  Mountains. 
The  St.  Lawrence  valley  from  end  to 
end  was  made  by  nature  (like  the 
French  Kopublic)  one  and  indivisible; 
but  wliHtGod  had  joined  together,  man 
and  his  politics  have  ruthlessly  and 
absurdly  put  asunder. 

Between  Montreal  and  the  White 
Mountains  an  impal])able  line,  running 
in  imagination  straight  across  country^ 
makes  this  half  of  a  field  or  grove  lie 


532 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


in  Canada,  and  hands  over  that  half 
with  incongruous  strictness  to  Vermont 
or  New  Hampshire.  Not  even  a  fence 
or  hedge  in  many  places  marks  the 
distinction  between  the  two  countries; 
unless  you  happen  to  carry  a  sextant' in 
your  waistcoat  pocket,  and  settle  the  lati- 
tude with  minute  accuracy  by  direct  ob- 
servation, you  can't  be  certain  as  you 
take  your  walks  abroad  whether  you  are 
living  at  that  moment  under  the  juris- 
diction of  her  most  sacred  majesty 
Queen  Victoria  or  enjoy  the  privileges 
of  a  free  and  independent  American 
citizen.  This  practical  absurdity 
stares  one  in  the  face  all  al6ng  the 
Canadian  and  American  border.  Every- 
where inconvenient  lines  of  demarca- 
tion split  up  incongruously  into  two 
nationalities  what  is  clearly  one  and  the 
same  natural  country.  However,  the 
Canadians,  being  doomed  to  8e])aration 
from  the  rest  of  America,  have  made 
the  best  of  it,  and  have  minimized  the 
inevitable  discomfort  to  travelers  of  the 
thrice  abhorred  custom-house  system, 
by  permitting  the  American  customs 
officials  to  invade  their  territory,  and 
tq  examine  all  baggage  bound  for  the 
States  before  it  leaves  Montreal  or 
Toronto.  In  other  words,  they  allow 
a  body  of  foreign  agents  permanently 
to  occupy  their  own  soil,  and  exercise 
in  it  a  sovereign  prerogative,  for  the 
sake  of  peace  and  quietness,  and  to  the 
immense  advantage  of  the  traveling 
public.  Thus,  instead  of  stopping  at 
the  frontier  station,  and  having  all  your 
soiled  linen  tumbled  out  for  public 
inspection,  you  get  everything  satisfac- 
torily examined  before  starting,  and 
proceed  on  your  journey  with  an  eiisy 
conscience.  Until  we  attain  the  goal 
of  annexation — which  is  in  my  humble 
opinion  the  manifest  destiny  and  only 
natural  future  of  the  Canadian  Domin- 
ion, we  may  well  be  thankful  for  this 
unwonted  relaxation  of  sovereign  jeal- 
ousy between  neighboring  governments. 


From  Montreal,  over  the  great 
Victoria  Bridge,  with  just  a  glimpse  of 
the  bubbling  and  seething  Lachine 
Rapids  to  westward,  the  line  runs  on 
through  Lower  Canada — torture  itself 
will  never  induce  me  to  abandon  that 
6ne  old  historical  name  for  the  stupid 
and  new-fangled  "Province  of  Quebec" 
— to  the  swelling  country  on  the  Ver- 
mont border.  The  monotonous  St. 
Lawrence  plain  gives  way  near  Montreal 
to  a  broken  hill  region,  of  which  the 
eponymous  mountain  of  Mont  Royal 
itself  is  but  a  last  outlier,  and  these 
hills, 'in  turn,  from  the  subsiding  but- 
tresses of  the  twin  range  composing  the 
Green  and  White  Mountains.  All 
North  America  has  but  two  distinct 
mountain  systems,  one  eastern  and  one 
western,  between  which  lies  the  vast 
level  basin  of  the  Mississippi,  with  its 
tags,  the  prairie  country,  and  the 
north-western  grain-belt.  The  western- 
most of  these  two  svstems,  the  back- 
bone  of  the  continent,  bears  Ihroughont 
all  its  length  the  general  name  of  the 
Rocky  Mountains,  though  particular 
portions  and  lateral  ranges  have  special 
titles  like  the  Sierra  Nevada,  the 
Wahsatch,  and  the  Selkirks.  The 
easternmost  system,  far  more  ancient, 
but  on  that  very  account  more  wasted 
away  and  less  imposing,  starts  as  the 
Laurentian  range  in  Canada;  passes 
on  into  the  States  as  the  ureen 
Mountains  of  Vermont,  the  White 
Mountains  of  New  Hampshire,  and 
the  New  York  Adirondacks;  ran  south- 
ward as  the  Catskills,  the  Hoosacks, 
and  the  Hudson  Highlands;  reappears 
in  Pennsylvania  under  its  best-Known 
general  title  as  the  Alleghanies;  and 
finally  subsides  through  the  Black 
Mountains  of  Carolina  and  Georgia  into 
the  long  fiat  peninsula  and  sandbanks 
of  Florida. 

As  we  glided  southward  in  our  com- 
fortable **Pulman" — tlie  Americans  do 
know  the  meaning  of  the  word  comfort 


THE  WHITE'MdTJNTAINS. 


62a 


— we  got  every  moment  deeper  and 
<leeper  into  the  hill  district,  till  some- 
where about  the  village  of  \^est  Fam- 
ham  we  crossed  the  impalpable  line 
aforesaid,  and  found  ourselves,  without 
knowing  it,  in  a  foreign  country.  Its 
foreignness  was  soon  amply  aemon- 
strated  to  our  exploring  eyes  by  the 
increased  air  of  life  and  wealth  about 
the  country  towns;  for  a  cruel  wrong 
has  been  inflicted  upon  Canada  in  this 
matter  by  its  own  sons,  through  their 
sentimental  attachment  to  the  British 
throne,  its  crown  and  dignity.  They 
have  cut  themselves  off,  politically  and 
Bocially,  from  all  the  advantages  which 
would  naturally  accrue  to  them  through 
the  influx  of  American  capital  and 
American  energy  into  the  Dominion; 
and  the  consequence  is  that  while  the 
Vermont  villages  bear  in  their  neat 
white  houses  and  busy  factories  every 
mark  of  rapid  and  solid  progress,  their 
Canadian  counterparts,  just  across  the 
border,  consist  for  the  most  part  of  the 
rudest  log  or  frame  houses,  in  every 
variety  of  discomfort,  squalor,  dilapida- 
tion, and  decay. 

Shorcly  after  passing  the  border  line 
we  turned  a  corner  in  the  hills,  now 
almost  rising  to  the  dignity  of  moun- 
tains, and  burst  suddenly  upon  the 
exquisite  expanse  of  Lake  Memphrem- 
agog.  It  makes  a  lovely  episode  in 
the  Vermont  uplands.  Mempliremagog 
ranks,  indeed,  among  the  less  known 
of  American  lakes;  but  in  my  judg- 
ment it  stands  first  of  all  for  pictur- 
esqueness  of  scale  and  variety  of  scenery. 
The  great  lakes  of  the  St.  Lawrence 
chain — Ontario,  Erie,  Huron,  and  so 
forth — which  alone  enter  into  the  stock 
tour  of  European  visitors,  are  from  the 
scenic  point  of  view  flat,  slale,  and 
unprofitable  to  the  last  degree.  They 
occupy  the  center  of  the  even  and  level 
St.  Lawrence  basin;  their  banks  lie 
low,  dull,  monotonous,  and  uninterest- 
ing; their  very  vastness  fails  to  impress 


the  imagination,  because  it  is  the  mere 
vastness  of  the  sea  on  a  smaller  scale, 
and  with  less  picturesque  or  loftr 
surroundings.  Ontario,  in  fact,  much 
resembles  in  size  and  aspect  the  Ger-  ' 
man  Ocean.  Even  Champlain  itself, 
beautiful  as  it  is,  and  embowered  all 
round  in  smiling  hills  or  rugged 
mountains,  erra,  Yankee  fashion,  on 
the  side  of  too  great  an  area;  one  can 
hardly  see  both  banks  distinctly  from 
the  middle.  Lake  George,  to  be  sure, 
is  perfect  in  its  way:  a  mountain  tarn 
on  a  scale  unknown  in  Europe,  a  Loch 
Katrine  expanded  almost  to  the  size  of 
Xeuchatel,  and  studded  with  a  hundred 
Ellen's  Isles  of  extraordinary  beauty. 
But  yet  Lake  George  even  fails  to 
produce  the  saftie  effect  of  calm  loveli-' 
ness  as  Memphremagog,  a  sheet  of 
smooth  liquid  silver,  girt  round  by 
fantastic  peaks  of  every  imaginable 
shape  or  outline,  and  cut  up  into  ex- 
quisite bays  and  reaches  by  projecting 
headlands  of  unusual  grandeur.  The 
railway  runs  for  some  miles  together 
along  the  south-western  shore,  and 
affords  passing  glimpses  of  ^reat  beauty 
toward  the  nigh  mountains  of  the 
northern  or  Canadian  side. 

At  Newport,  Vt.,  the  capital  of  the 
Memphremagog  tourist  region,  beauti- 
fully situated  on  the  south  end  of  the 
lake,  we  stop  about  one  o'clock  for 
lunchof/ii.  Opposite  the  station,  the 
Memphremagog  Hotel  opens  wide  its 
hospitable  arms  to  receive  us  in  its 
spacious  dining-room.  Half  an  hour 
or  more  is  allowed  for  the  square  meal. 
We  enter,  and  find,  as  is  usual  in 
America,  a  plentiful  table  dWidte  already 
spread,  and  neat-handed  Vermont 
rhyllises,  self-respecting  and  well- 
mannered  daughters  of  the  great 
republic,  waiting  behind  our  chairs, 
without  flurry  or  bustle,  to  take  our 
orders  and  supply  our  necessities.  Tea 
and  coffee  smoke  already  on  the  table; 
fish    and    joints    are    hissing    loudly 


624 


THE  LIB]  I  All  Y  MAGAZINE. 


through  th6  kitchen  hatch.  At  sucli 
a  hotel  you  can  eat  your  luncheon  in 
peace  and  comfort,  sitting  down  at 
^your  ease  at  a  good  solid  table,  and 
*  undisturbed  by  that  perpetual  expecta- 
tion of  the  warning  bell  which  poisons 
digestion  at  a  European  refreshment 
room.  All  countries  have  their  strong 
and  weak  points,  and  on  the  whole 
England,  I  will  confess,  is  quite  good 
enough  for  me;-  but  they  certainly 
order  these  things  better  in  America. 

From  Newport  we  ascend  the  valley 
of  a  mountain  stream,  choked  with 
great  balks  of  timber  from  the  forest 
around,  but  running  through  a  lovely 
and  wild  country.  Those  logs  that  fill 
the  little  river  were  cut  down  on  the 
slopes  of  the  Green  Mountains,  here  in 
Vermont,  upon  American  territorv,  but 
they  will  go  down  through  Memplirem- 
agog  to  the  St.  Lawrence,  of  which 
our  stream  is  an  ultimate  tributary, 
and  so  be  exported  finally  from  Quebec 
to  Europe  in  British  bottoms.  Half- 
way up  the  little  river  we  pass  a  singu- 
larly beautiful  and  picturesque  moun- 
tain lake — ^a  mountain  lake  as  big  as 
Grasmere,  and  with  steep  wooded  banks 
80  richly  endowed  with  crag  and  ver- 
dure that  if  it  were,  in  Europe  a 
thousand  artists  would  sketch  it  yearly, 
and  ten  thousand  tourists  would  linger 
upon  its  shore.  We  wanted  to  know 
the  name  of  this  exquisite  tarn,  so  I 
ventured  to  break  the  universal  silence 
of  our  drawing-room  car — American 
travelers,  in  spite  of  common  opinion 
to  the  contrary,  are  even  more  reserved 
and  reticent  than  English  ones — and 
to  ask  the  other  occupants  of  the 
Pulman  whether  they  could  give  us  its 

E roper  style  and  title.  Not  a  soul  on 
card  had  ever  heard  of  it.  I  turned 
to  the  conductor,  who  passed  it  every 
day  up  and  down  on  his  journey.  He 
had  never  asked  what  it  niii^ht  be  called; 
it  was  just  a  lake,  one  of  these  lakes 
you  have  always  in  the  mountains.     He 


knew  nothing  more  upon  the  subject, 
I  looked  .it  up  in  Appleton's  Guide. 
Even  the  guide  itself  ignored  it.  So 
great  is  the  wealth  of  scenery  in 
America  that  Americans  can  afford  to 
pass  by  without  notice  a  sheet  of  water 
quite  as  beautiful  as  Bala  Lake  or 
j  liydal  Water,  without  ever  so  much  as 
giving  a  name  to  it. 

But  if  I  travel  at  this  slow  rate 
(American  trains  are  in  no  hurry)  we 
shall  never  get  to  the  White  Mountains. 
Let  us  loiter  no  more  en  route.  SuflScc 
it  to  say,  then,  that  after  a  delightful 
journey  through  the  Vermont  hills  and 
the  first  outliers  of  the  New  Hampshire 
district,  we  came  full  in  sight  of  Mount 
Washington  itself  about  four  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon.  For  some  time  past 
all  trace  of  civilization  in  the  country 
around  had  died  away  entirely;  for  the 
White  Mountains  consist  of  a  purely 
woodland  tract,  practically  uninhabited 
during  the  winter  months,  and  unten- 
anted even  in  summer  save  by  the 
tourist  public  and  the  hotel  or  railway 
people  who  wait  upon  its  convenience. 
It  IS  this  curious  isolation  that  gives 
these  sporadic  and  spasmodic  American 
pleasure-resorts  so  different  an  air  from 
anything  European.  In  Wales  or 
Scotland  the  higher  lands  are  laid  out 
in  sheep  walks,  or  regularly  stocked 
with  deer  and  grouse;  houses  and  barns, 
kirks  and  clachans,  shepherds'  folds 
and  keepers'  cottages,  appear  every- 
where in  the  glens  and  valleys.  In  the 
Engadine  or  the  Tyrol,  smiling  villages 
and  Alpine  pastures  lie  interspersed  at 
every  turn  among  the  pine  woods  and 
the  snow  peaks.  But  in  wild  America 
all  is  wilderness,  save  the  vast  hotels 
that  stapd  here  and  there  at  wide  dis- 
tances in  their  tiny  clearings,  like 
islands  of  civilization  in  a  boundless 
waste  of  primeval  barbarism.  So  much 
is  this  the  case,  indeed,  that  some  few 
years  ago  a  forest  fire  swept  through  the 
valley    just   below    tlie    "Presidential 


THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS. 


92« 


BftDge*'  of  the  White  Mountains,  and 
it  was  with  difficulty  that  the  great 
hotels  themselves,  in  their  ring  of  gar- 
den, were  secured  from  the  fierce 
onslaught  of  that  blazing  column. 

Fabyan's  is  the  first  of  these  big 
hotels,  a  huge  caravanserai  of  the  true 
American  type,  standing  bare  and 
naked  in  a  great  opening  of  cleared 
ground  (cleared  for  the  sake  of  avoiding 
these  very  fire  risks),  in  full  view  of  all 
the  higher  peaks  of  the  New  Hampshire 
mountains.  Crawford's  lies  but  a  few 
mile  further  on,  in  the  gate  of  the 
"Notch,"  as  the  chief  pass  through  the 
mountains  is  picturesquely  styled;  and, 
though  Mount  WashingtoA  and  the 
Presidential  Peaks  ari«hidden  from  it  by 
a  spur  of  the  neighboring  hills,  it  looks 
out  in  front  upon  a  pretty  little  lake, 
the  head- waters  of  the  Saco  river,  and 
stands  surrounded  by  picturesque 
heights,  like  tliose  that  overhang  tlie 
Holyhead  Road  at  Bettwa-y-coed,  or 
those  that  tower  above  the  profound 
gorge  at  Killie(^rankie.  Lest  any  man 
should  suspect  me  of  touting,  I  may  add 
in  confidence  that  all  the  hotels  alike  in 
the  White  Mountains  are  in  the  hands 
of  a  single  tirmof  bold  monopolists,  who 
have  driven  competitors  clean  out  of 
the  market  and  now  exploit  the  Presi- 
dential Range,  with  all  its  tourists,  for 
their  own  sole  use  and  benefit. 

At  Crawford's  we  pitched  our  head- 

?|uarters,  and  found  ourselves  very  com- 
ortably  ensconced  in  a  hotel  about  as 
big  as  the  Grand  or  the  Metropole,  but 
surrounded  on  every  side  by  an  utter 
jungle  of  primeval  forest.  A  neat  little 
railway  station  stands  beside  the  hotel; 
otherwise,  no  other  human  habitation 
is  anywhere  in  view,  nor  can  you  reach 
any  without  taking  the  train  to  Fab- 
yan's  in  one  direction  or  to  the  Willey 
House  below  in  the  other.  In  front 
stretches  a  little  lake  and  a  small  lawn; 
but  just  beyondy  the  mountains  rise 
preoipitooflly  froni  the  narrow  glen,  clad 


from  top  to  bottom  with  magnificent 
woodland.  Footpaths  lead  up  several 
of  the  torrents,  which  are  in  character 
not  unlike  those  at  Dolgelly;  though 
the  woodland  itself  and  its  uuder^-owth 
of  vegetation  are  utterly  dissimilar  to 
anything  that  can  be  seen  anywhere  in 
Europe.  Huge  moss-clad  trunks  strew 
the  ground,  each  one  lying  just  where 
it  fell  and  mouldering  away  into  deep 
black  earth,  on  which  maiden*- hair  ferns 
and  rich  forest  lilies  flourish  luxu- 
riantly. Never,  save  in  the  West 
Indies,  have  I  seen  such  a  glorious 
native  woodland  flora.  The  foliage 
formed  its  chief  attraction:  large-leafed 
bush  foliage,  like  that  of  a  conservatory, 
but  growing  in  wild  luxuriance  over 
crag  arid  tree  trunk,  filling  the  niches  of 
rock  by  the  watercourses  with  its  broad 
verdure,  and  carpeting  the  soil  every- 
where with  an  exquisite  pattern  of  rich 
glossy  green.  It  was  indeed  a  sight  to 
gladden  a  botanist's  eyes;  and  when  one 
adds  to  it  the  deep  blue  berries  of  the 
clintonia  lilies,  the  strange  triangular 
flowers  of  the  trilliums,  the  great 
bunches  of  Indian  cucumber,  and 
Solomon's  seals,  and  smilacinas,  any 
rattlesnake  plantain,  I  need  hardly  sad 
that  the  undergrowth  of  woodland 
plants  on  the  mountain  side  was  almost 
tropical  in  its  abundance  and  magnifi- 
cence. 


Through  this  log-encumbered,  moss- 
grown,  lily-dappled  forest,  the  moun- 
tain torrents  course  down  in  sheets  of 
silvery  foam  from  granite  barrier  into 
granite  basin.  On  every  side  around 
Crawford's,  a  few  minutes'  walk  up 
any  one  of  the  pretty  little  brooks 
that  converge  toward  the  valley 
would  lead  one  at  once  to  some 
un marred  and  unsophisticated  cataract. 
Gibb's  Falls  lie  on  the  east  of  the  hotel, 
high  up  the  flanks  of  a  shoulder  of 
Mount  Washington  itself.  Beecher'g 
Falls,  so  chilled  because  the  great 
preacher  is  said  to  have  taken  au  inval- 


\ 


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untary  dip  in  the  basin  at  their  feet, 
.stand  opposite  on  the  slopes  of  Mount 
Lincoln.  All  are  "lovelier  than  their 
names,"  for,  indeed,  local  nomenclature 
is  not  the  forte  of  the  great  free  Ameri- 
can people.  By  some  admired  mis- 
chance, they  have  christened  all  the 
highest  peaks  of  these  White  Mountains 
after  presidents  or  other  distinguished 
American  statesmen,  displacings  for  the 
purpose  the  beautiful  and  characteristic 
old  Indian  names;  so  that  now,  instead 
of  Chocorua  and  Ossipee,  we  get  such 
obtrusive  monsters  as  Mount  Jefferson, 
Mount  Adams,  Mount  Madison,  and 
Mount  Webster.  It  is  for  this  reason 
that  the  main  central  massif  of  the 
White  Mountains  (to  use  the  good  and 
expressive   French  term  for  which  we 

Eossess  as  yet  no  English  e(mivalent) 
ears  the  singular  title  of  the  Presiden- 
tial Range. 

Life  at  Crawford's  was  amusing  and 
varied.  But  it  was  very  different  from 
our  English  ideal  of  a  country  holiday. 
We  solitude-loving  Britons  keep  our- 
selves always  on  the  look-out  for  a  very 
retired  and  unhackneyed  seaside  place, 
a  gap  in  the  cliffs  with  a  coast-guard 
cottage  and  a  single  lodging-house, 
where  we  may  commune  with  nature 
undisturbed  to  our  heart's  content. 
But  our  American  brother  escaped  from 
town  loves  rather  a  big  hotel,  on  whose 
verandah  he  may  sit  and  idly  rock  him- 
self; and  when  he  wants  to  commune, 
hi  communes  rather  with  his  intelligent 
and  loquacious  fellow-citizen.  Never- 
theless, it  was  good  as  change.  Craw- 
ford's supplied  us  with  an  excellent 
table,  where  our  waiter  was  a  young 
man  from  Amherst  College,  Massachu- 
setts, who  earned  money  during  his 
summer  vacation  to  keep  him  at  Am- 
herst through  the  winter  session.  A 
self -respecting,  sharp,  business  -  like 
young  man,  indeed,  that  waiter,  con- 
scious of  no  degradation  in  the  employ- 
ment be  aooepted^  aMd  to  our  eyes  there- 


by really  making  "that  and  the  acMon 
jjne."  Similarly,  the  waitresses  were  for 
the  most  part  active  and  good-looking 
New  England  school  teachers — ^the 
"school-marms"  of  fiction — picking  up 
an  honest  livelihood  diwing  their  long 
holiday  in  the  mountain  region.  It 
gave  them,  besides  wages,  the  advan- 
tages of  occupation,  society,  change  of 
air,  pretty  scenery,  and  the  off-chance 
of  marrying  an  Amherst  student.  Wo 
got  quite  intimate  with  our  own  waiter, 
who  would  pause  after  dinner,  napkin 
in  hand,  and  discuss  his  studies  with  ns 
ill  perfect  good  faith,  showing  not  the 
slightest  symptom  of  false  shame  or 
even  timidily,  but  ingenuously  inter- 
ested in  us  as  live  specimens  of  the 
European  university  training.  There 
was  something  noble  and  republican 
and  deserving  of  high  esteem  in  it  all; 
and  yfet  somehow  one  regretted,  on  the 
other  hand,  that  youths  and  maidens 
struggling  upward  in  such  praise- 
wortny  fashion  toward  a  liberal  educa- 
tion should  have  to  struggle  through 
such  sordid  and  unbecoming  surround- 
ings. Our  thoughts  reverted  involun- 
tarily to  Oriel  quad  and  Magdalen 
cloisters,  and  we  thanked  God  after  all, 
in  spite  of  everything,  that  we  were  bom 
Englishmen.  The  position  of  waiter  is 
a  useful  and  meritorious  one,  but  it 
lacks  expansiveness.  In  the  evening 
all  Crawford's  assembled  in  the 
drawing-room  for  music  and  dancing. 
But  here  we  noted  that  the  dancers 
were  mostly  mere  children,  not  adults. 
Whether  this  means  that  the  American 
girl  is  growing  with  time  more  shy  and 
retiring  I  do  not  know;  I  trust  I  may 
venture  without  rudeness  to  say  I  hope 
it  does.  At  any  rate,  the  American 
old  maid,  learned  and  cultured,  was 
present  in  very  astonishing  force,  and 
did  not  retire;  on  the  contrary,  she 
struck  dismay  into  the  timid  breasts  of 
all  our  party  by  the  bold  and  aggressive 
front  she  presented  to   the  intrusive 


THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS. 


697 


Britisber.  What  eradition !  What  ver- 
satility! What  research!  What  omnis- 
cience I  She  knows  intuitively  all  about 
the  idean  of  Hegel  and  the  Hittite  in- 
scriptions, the  morpholoffy  of  Limulus 
and  the  exact  place  in  philological  classi- 
fication of  the  Ostiak  dialect  of  the  Tun- 
giisian  language.  Such  wisdom  affrights 
the  soul  01  the  poor'empirical  English- 
man, who  is  conscious  to  himself  of  hav- 
ing only  received  the  ordinary  university 
education,  and  of  acquiring  nothing  by 
the  light  of  nature  without  the  aid  of 
some  slight  cursory  preliminary  study. 

Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  the  omnis- 
cient old  maids  with  their  blue  spec- 
tacles, and  the  eminent  lawyers  with 
their  profound  convictions,  life  at 
Crawford's  went  on  as  a  whole  very 
pleasantly.  The  two  CTeat  excursions 
are  the  run  down  the  I^otch,  and  the 
trip  bv  a  Rigi  railway  up  to  the  summit 
of  Mount  Washington.  The  Notch 
may  be  taken  as  a  verv  good  specimen 
of  a  snowless  mountain  pass:  a  deep 
and  narrow  gorge  or  chasm  between  two 
opposite  precipitous  cliffs,  which  look, 
oi  course,  as  if  they  had  been  *'rent 
asunder  by  some  terrific  convulsion  of 
nature,'*  but  have  really,  I  need  hardly 
say,  been  worn  down  to  their  present 
depth  by  the  slow  cutting  action  of  the 
little  stream  that  still  feebly  trickles 
down  their  center.  You  can  drive 
through  the  Notch  in  a  White  Mountain 
wagon,  if  you  have  a  taste  for  dangerous 
and  adventurous  performances;  we  did, 
and  we  felt  at  the  finish  much  like  the 
Yankee  who  went  down  a  toboggan 
slide  at  the  Montreal  carnival,  ami 
exclaimed  at  the  end  of  his  trip,  **I 
wouldn't  have  missed  that  for  a  hun- 
dred dollars!"  "Then  try  another 
one,"  suggested  an  enthusiastic  Cana- 
dian friend.  "I  wouldn't  try  another," 
answered  the  Yankee  decisively,  "not 
for  ten  thousand." 

In    fact,  the    roads    of    the   White 
Mountains  remain  to  this  day  in  the 


same  embryonic  and  proleptic  condition 
as  those  of  the  Scotch  Highlands  before 
the  wayfarer  from  southern  shires  had 
cause  to  bless  the  name  of  General 
Wade.  They  have  been  sketched  or 
foreshadowed  (I  won't  say  made^ 
entirely  for  the  benefit  of  the  hotel 
guests,  who  form  the  sole  population  of 
the  mountain  region;  and  they  run 
straight  up  and  down  hill,  with  won- 
derful ruts  and  marvelous  ''butter- 
bowls"  sufficient  to  strik^  amazement 
and  awe  even  into  the  triple-brass* 
bound  breast  of  a  South  American 
mule-driver.  Long  wagons  full  of 
tourists  dash  madly  along  these  rooky 
tracks,  all  agog  like  the  Gilpin  house- 
hold, and  often  arrive  at  their  journey's 
end  without  experiencing  any  serious 
casualty.'  To  say  the  truth,  roads  are 
practically  unknown  even  in  the  civil- 
ized portions  of  America.  The  railway 
has  preceded  them,  and  so  effectually 
checked  their  free  development;  where- 
as in  Europe  great  engineering  works 
like  the  Simplon  and  the  l£)lyhead 
Koad  preceded  and  heralded  the  aidvent 
of  the  railway  system. 

A  pleasanter  way  of  seeing  the  Notch 
is  to  take  the  rail;  for  the  Portland 
and  Ogdensburg  line  runs  right  through 
the  whole  lengtli  of  the  pass,  along  a 
narrow  ledge  cut  at  a  high  elevation  on 
the  steep  sloping  and  landslipping 
sides  of  Mount  Willard  and  Mount 
Willey.  Open-air  ''observation  cars," 
with  neat  wicker-work  basket  chairs, 
are  attached  to  the  train  for  this  portion 
of  its  route;  and  the  view  down  into 
the  profound  gorge  below,  with  the 
Saco  forming  a  lost  silver  thread  in  its 
very  middle,  is  certainly  most  grand 
and  impressive. 

But  the  great  trip  from  Crawford's, 
{IS  from  all  the  other  White  Mountain 
hotels,  is  of  course  the  excursion  up 
Mount  Washington.  The  actual  sum- 
rait  does  not  nse  so  very  high — only  a 
little  above  6,000  feet — but  it  ranks  as 


-      '9' 


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THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


the  greatest  elevation  in  Eastern 
America  this  side  the  Rockies  (bar 
some  obscure  and  uu visited  Carolinian 
hills),  and  Americans  generally  feel  a 
paternal  pride  in  its  name  and  features. 
You  go  up  in  a  cog-wheel  railway  with 
a  crooked  staggering  Rigi  engine,  all 
off  the  perpendicular  when  it  comes  to 
rest;  and  the  track  runs  through  wild 
forest,  spanning  endless  gorges  and 
torrents  "by  the  way  on  those  light, 
impossible  i^erican  trestles,  which 
one  feels  sure  can  never  bear  the  weight 
of  the  train,  until  one  has  crossed  over 
them  and  seen  them  do  it.  The  day 
we  went  up  a  forest  fire  had  broken  out 
on  the  slopes,  and  as  we  came  down 
again  the  llames  had  almost  reached 
one  of  the  boldest  among  these  slender 
wooden  viaducts,  known,  I  think,  by 
the  suggestive  name  of  "Jacob's  Lad- 
der." A  gang  of  workmen,  armed 
with  axes  and  hatchets,  were  eagerly 
fighting  fire  with  fire,  cutting  down 
and  burning  all  the  trees  immediately 
around  the  base  of  the  trestle,  in  the 
difiiicult  endeavor  to  clear  a  space  around 
it  before  the  onward  march  of  the 
fiames  had  reached  the  neighborhood 
of  the  actual  woodwork.  Smoke  and 
blaze  seemed  almost  to  envelop  us  as 
we  passed  througli;  but  the  trestle 
appeared  not  one  penny  the  worse,  nor 
dm  we  hear  the  next  day  that  any 
repairs  had  been  rendered  necessary  by 
the  damage  due  to  fire. 

Slight  as  is  the  elevation  of  Mount 
Washington,  it  rises  quite  high  enough 
in  the  rigorous  climate  of  New  Hamp- 
shire to  carry  one  successively  through 
several  distinct  climatic  zones,  as  one 
mounts,  and  to  bring  one  at  last  to  the 
limit  of  trees  before  arriving  at  the 
actual  sum mit.  As  we  went  up,*though 
it  was  full.  July,  we  found  the  Canadian 
spring  flowers  one  by  one  returning  to 
VLB.  We  could  measure  our  height  first 
by  trilliums,  then  by  cornel,  next  by 
yiolets,  last  of  all  by  dog's-tooth  lily. 


blood-root,  and  hepatica.  The  top 
itself  consists  of  bare  and  rugged  rock, 
strewn  with  huge,  shapeless  micaceous 
boulders,  the  debris  of  ages  and  of  the 
glacial  period.  Indeed,  a  glacial 
fauna  and  flora  still  cling  to  the 
heights.  Polar  butterflies,  stranded 
there  at  the  end  of  the  Great  Ice  Age, 
keep  up  to  this  day  the  lineal  succession 
of  their  little  colony,  though  no  others 
of  their  kind  are  again  to  be  found  in 
all  America  till  you  reach  the  frozen 
shores  of  Labrador.  The  plants  are 
every  one  of'  arctic  species,  bearing 
such  suggestive  names  as  Arenaria 
greenlandica,  or  Diapefma  Inpponica, 
which  suflSciently  attest  their  high 
northern  origin.  A  very  Alpine  aspect 
is  given  to  the  whole  flora  by  the  prev- 
alence of  such  flowers  as  the  little 
creeping  Caithness  Sibbaldia,  the 
Norwegian  cloudberry,  the  Swiss 
brook-saxifrage,  the  arctic  bog  bilberrv, 
the  frigid  potentilla,  and  the  mountain 
epilobe.  All  these  plants  were  once 
common  glacial  species;  they  have 
struggled  on  here  among  the  clouds  and 
snow  after  more  southern  types  hiive 
long  overrun  the  whole  lowland  and 
hill  country  around  them.  Indeed,  the 
most  northern  kinds  of  all  are  strictlv 
confined  to  a  tiny  belt  around  the 
summit  itself,  extending  only  some  six 
or  eight  htfftdred  feet  down  the  combes 
and  corries. 

Once  upon  a  time  Mount  Washington 
was  much  bigger  than  it  is  to-day.  All 
these  White  Mountains  are  at  present 
mere  **  basal  wrecks"  of  once  far  larger 
peiiks,  w^om  down  by  age  and  by  tlie 
grinding  ice-sheet  of  the  glacial  epoch. 
Being  very  old  they  are,  of  course, 
now  verv  low;  for  mountains  reverse 
the  usual  rule,  and,  following  the 
example  of  little  Miss  Etticoat  in  the 
nursery  rhyme,  grow  smaller  as  they 
live  longer.  It  is  new  mountain  mnges 
that  are  bic:  and  high;  tlu*  aged  ones 
are  always  worn  down  almost  flat  by 


THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS. 


5^ 


the  ceaseless  action  of  rain  and  weather, 
frost  and  water-courses.  Mount  Wash- 
ington is  a  specimen  in  its  last  dotage. 
'*The  view  from  Mount  Washing- 
ton/' says  my  guide-book,  with  par- 
donable enthusiasm,  ^^is  incomparably 
grand."  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  a 
good  view,  but  still  quite  comparable, 
and  not  good  enough  in  proportion  to 
the  elevation.  You  are  at  the  same 
height  as  on  top  of  the  Rigi;  but  oh, 
what  a  differeuee!  Mount  Washington 
towers  as  the  actually  highest  peak  aay- 
where  around;  whereas  the  Rigi  stands 
a  mere  o'iservatory  in  the  center  of  a 
girdle  of  mountains  all  infinitely 
grander  and  nobler  than  itself.  I  don't 
want  to  make  "odorous"  comparisons 
about  the  incomparable;  I  merely 
mean  that,  all  things  considered,  the 
view  from  the  American  mountain  is 
not  quite  so  fine  as  one  might  naturally 
have  expected  it  to  be  for  its  height 
above  sea-level.  For  one  thing,  there 
is  little  or  no  water  in  sight,  only  a 
stray  lake  or  two  shimmering  pond-like 
in  the  remoter  distance.  No  near  tarns, 
as  in  the  deep  combes  of  Snowdon;  no 
sea,  as  from  Ben  Nevis  and  Helvellyn; 
no  winding  meres,  as  when  one  looks 
down  on  Lucerne  and  Zurich;  rather  a 
tumultuous  mob  of  surging  mountains, 
like  the  serried  racks  of  Deeside  hills 
from  the  top  of  Lochnagar.  Still,  I 
will  frankly  admit  it  is  a  magnificent 
prospect  in  its  own  way.  Westward 
through  the  faint  blue  haze,  the  Camel's 
Hump  and  the  Green  Mountfvins  of 
Vermont  loom  indistinctly  on  the 
cloudy  horizon.  Eastward,  the  other 
great  peaks  of  the  Presidential  Range 
— JeSersoui  Adams,  Madison — rise  to 
above  the  limit  of  trees  and  with  their 
gaunt  bare  summits  of  loose-strewn 
boulders  remind  me  more  of  Cader 
Idris  and  of  the  Condon  near  Toulon 
than  of  any  other  masses  I  have  seen 
aaywhere.  Southward,  the  more 
woodea  and  rounded  tops  of  Eearsarge 


and  its  giant  neighbors  recall  rather 
St.  Catherine's  Peak  and  the  Blue 
Mountains  of  Jamaica.  Yes,  on  second 
thoughts,  I  will  compare:  for,  after 
all,  a  large  part  of  the  pleasure  of 
scenery  lies  in  just  such  conscious 
recognition  of  likeness  with  well- 
remembered  views  that  have  given  one 
similar  pleasure  before;  and  those 
whose  standard  has  been  most  widely 
formed  get,  I  suppose,  most  enjoyment 
out  of  this  half -instinctive  process  of 
reminiscence  and  comparison. 

On  t^e  summit  stands,  I  need  hardly 
say,  a  gigantic  hotel,  **run"  by  the 
proprietors  of  Crawford's  and  Fabyan's. 
This  is  very  good  business;  because  by 
the  American  uniform  system,  you 
have  to  pay  for  your  dinner  and  rooms 
at  the  hotel  below,  and  if  you  go  up 
Mount  Washington  you  pay  over  again 
for  your  meals  and  bed  at  the  summit: 
80  that  Messrs.  Barron,  Merril,  and 
Ban'OB  get  it  out  of  you  Invice  over. 
However,  it  is  worth  paying;  for  I  have 
seen  nothing  in  wonderful  America 
more  wonderful,  as  a  piece  of  organiza- 
tion, than  that  hotel  on  the  summit  of 
Mount  Washington.  The  wind  outside 
is  blowing  at  the  rate  of  a  hundred 
miles  an  hour.  The  thermometer  at 
the  United  States'  Signal  Station  hard 
by  barely  marks  a  degree  or  two  above 
freezing.  The  clouds  are  swirling' 
and  eddying  and  dancing  around  the 
dark  and  gloomy  peaks  of  Mount 
Madison.  A  trackless  forest-clad 
region,  just  broken  by  two  or  three  big 
hotels,  stretches  for  miles  and  miles  at 
our  feet.  But  inside,  you  are  once 
more  simply  and  solely  m  New  York 
or  Philadelphia.  Three  hundred 
hungry  tourists  are  taking  their  regula* 
tion  square  meal  at  the  accustomed  nour 
in  the  immense  dining  hall,  6,000  feet 
above  sea  level.  Fresh  fish  from  the 
Atlantic  and  the  rivers;  entries  tiiA 
made  dishes  and  pastry  as  at  Delr"  - 
icio's;  joints  and  vegetables  in  hoptl.ob 


TPiE  LIBKAKV  :.IAGAZIXE. 


intermixture;  fruits  from  the  South, 
the  Middle  States,  and  New  Euglaud; 
ices  and  coHee,  wiues  aud  liquors, 
foreign  sweetmeats  and  indigenous 
"candy,"  load  the  tables  on  every  side 
of  us.  As  far  as  profusion  and  variety 
goes,  you  couldn't  get  a  better  or  more 
carefully  selected  meal  at  the  Conti- 
nental in  Paris.  I  reserve  the  question 
of  cuisine,  not  because  it  is  not  admir- 
able in  its  way,  but  because  it  is  rather 
American  than  European — ^a  trifle 
crude  in  certain  of  ita  developments. 
It  includes  an  instrument  of  torture 
known  as  pie;  and  one  must  draw  the 
line  somewhere. 

Altogether  the  "White  Mountains  are 
a  mass  of  almost  unbroken  and  primi- 
tive wilderness,  penetrated  and  pervaded 
from  end  to  eud  by  great  railways, 
dotted  about  at  convenient  distances 
with  monster  hotels,  and  supplied  in 
part  with  rude  tracks  which  somewhat 
simulate  tlue  function  of  highways;  but 
in  all  essentials  as  native  and  unsophis- 
ticated to  the  present  day  as  Scotland 
was  in  the  days  of  Galgacus.  Here 
more  than  anywhere  else  one  sees  in 
perfection  the  startling  contrasts  of 
American  life — ^urban  civilization  at 
its  highest  pitch,  side  by  side  and 
cheek  by  jowl  with  rural  barbarism  in 
its  utmost  intensity. — Grant  Allen, 
iu  Longman^ s  Magazine. 


THE  UNANIMITY  Ol^  THE  JURY. 

The  essence  of  the  system  of  trial  by 
jury  consists  in  the  separation  of  ques- 
tions of  law  and  questions  of  fact,  and 
their  determination  by  distinct  classes 
of  persons.  In  the  decision  of  the 
former  lies  the  peculiar  province  of  the 
judge,  who  presides  at  the  trial,  to 
determine  what  matters  shall  be  pre- 
sented to  the  jury  or  received  by  the 
court,. as  evidence.     Such  evidence  as 


is  thus  permiiLed  to  Ijc  detailed,  is  said 
to  be  comjKjteut;  its  eifect  upon  the 
minds  of  the  triers  depends  on  its 
credibility.  Their  office  is  to  decide 
upon  the  effect  of  evidence  and  thus 
inform  the  court  truly  upon  the  ques- 
tions at  issue,  in  order  that  the  latter 
may  be  enabled  to  pronounce  a  right 
judgment.  But  they  tkve  not  the  court 
itself,  nor  do  they  form  part  of  it;  they 
are  men  selected  by  lot  from  the  com- 
munity at  large  who  perliaps  were  never 
before  called  to  the  exercise  of  such  a 
function,  nor  foresee  that  thev  shall  ever 
be  called  to  it  again;  nor  have  they 
anything  to  do  with  the  sentence  by  the 
court,  which  follows  the  delivery  of 
their  verdict. 

In  other  words,  the  jurv  is  the  sole 
judge  of  the  weight  of  evidence  adduc- 
ed and  arbiter  of  compensation  for  con- 
tract broken  or  injuries  received,  and  is 
composed  of  men  selected  by  lot  from 
the  body  of  the  community  and  "sworn 
to  declare  the  facts  of  a  case  in  accord- 
dance  with  the  eWdence  placed  before 
them,"  their  province  bemg  to  deter- 
mine the  truth  of  facts  or  the  amount 
of  damages  in  civil,  and  the  guilt  or 
innocence  of  the  accused  in  criminal 
cases. 

The  outline  thus  presented  of  our 
Common  Law  TrilAmal  shows  it  to  be 
one  of  a  compound  nature — ^partly  fixed 
and  partly  casual — aud  so  constructed  as 
to  secure  nearly  all  the  advantages  of 
the  opposite  systems,  while  avoiding 
their  cnaracteristic  dangers.  We  find 
its  claims  to  recognition  sustained  by 
many  of  the  iTiost  eminent  scholars  of 
all  ages  and  cknies.  Hume  charac- 
terizes it  as  '^an  institu^tion  admirable 
in  itself,  and  the  best  calculated  for  the 
preservation  of  liberty  and  the  admin- 
istration of  justice,  that  was  ever  devised 
by  the  wit  of  man,"  while  modem 
oontinental  jurists  comment  on  it  as 
"the  true  guaranty  of  individual  liberty 
in  England,  and  in  every  countiy  of  the 


THE  U  X AiN  nilT  f  OP  THE  JURY. 


581 


world  where  men  aspire  to  freedom." 
Yet  it  will  cause  no  surprise  in  view 
of  the  tendencies  of  our  age,  to  behold 
even  this  cherished  and  time-honored 
institution  subjected  to  the  onslaughts 
of  legal  iconoclasts,  and  its  faults  or 
flaws  ma^ilied  into  colossal  propor- 
tions. The  defects  incident  to  trial  by 
jury  would  almost  wholly  disappear, 
and  its  virtues  be  correspondingly 
enhanced,  by  the  abolition  of  what  Hal- 
lam  terms  ''that  preposterous  relic  of 
barbarism'' — the  requirement  of  unani- 
mity. The  sole  advantage  attributable 
thereto  is  the  opportunity  which  it  gives 
each  individual  juror  to  be  heard;  but 
this  end  would  be  equally  well  attained 
by  enabling  a  majority  to  render  a  valid 
verdict  after  a  definite  period  of  em- 
panelment;  thus  allowing  the  minority 
opportunity  to  convince  the  others  by 
argument,  but  preventing  it  from  nul- 
lifying the  will  of  the  majority  by  an 
absolute  veto  power.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  objections  to  the  require- 
ment  of  unanimity  are  many,  and  may 
be  said  to  consist  in: 

1.  The  absence  of  any  reasonable 
security  in  unanira.ity,  which  is  not 
eaually  well  afiEorded  by  a  majority. — 2. 
Tne  diminution  of  public  confidence  in 
the  adminstration  of  justice,  owing  to 
the  probability  that  I'nrors  will  disagree 
and  trials  thus  be  abortive. — 3.  It  in- 
vdves  the  application  of  coercion,  enfor- 
cing conviction  (by  the  agency  of  close 
confinement)  on  the  minds  of  the 
jurors. 

Indeed,  hardly  more  than  a  century 
ag9  this  element  of  coercion  was  (we 
learn  from  Blackstone)  carried  to  such 
an  extreme  as  to  require  the  jurors, 
after  the  judge's  charge,  "to  be  kept 
without  meat,  drink,  fire,  or  candles,  till 
they  are  unanimonslv  agreed;  and  if 
they  do  not  agree  in  their  verdict  before 
the  judges  are  about  to  leave,  they  may 
be  carried  around  the  circuit  from  town 
to  towa  iaacart."    So  old  Plowden 


quaintly  reports:  "And  for  that  a  cer- 
tain box  of  sugar,  called  sugar-candy> 
and  sweet  roots,  called  liquorish,  were 
found  with  John  Mucklow,  one  of  the 
jurors  aforesaid;  .  .  .  therefore  the  said 
J.  M.  is* committed  to  the  Prison  of 
the  Lady  the  Queen  of  the  Fleet/' 
While  Pope  sarcastically  sings  of  how 

*'Tiie  liungry  judges  soon  a  sentence  sign, 
And  wretches  hang  that  jurymen  may  dine." 

Were  the  abolition  or  modification  of 
this  requirement  secured,  the  character 
of  the  institution  would  soon  be  amelior- 
ated, and  the  two  ulcers  which  mainly 
disfigure  its  countenance — bribery  and 
jury-fixing — would  speedily  disappear. 
For, 

1.  Corruption  is  much  less  practicable 
where  a  majority  must  be  made  to  suc- 
cumb to  its  influeiice; — 2.  Hope  of  profit 
can  no  longer  act  as  an  inducement  for 
worthless  persons  to  serve  as  jurors, 
since  the  purchase  of  their  votes  would 
be  an  unpromising  investment; — 3.  The 
occupation  of  jury-fixer  will  become  a 
thing  of  the  past,  since  he  will  no  lon- 
ger have  fit  subjects  to  operate  upon,  nor 
parties  eager  to  employ  nim ; — 4.  Men  of 
capacity,  standing,  and  integrity  will 
with  mure  readiness  consent  to  serve, 
since  their  opinion  must  then  carry  its 
proper  weight  and  can  no  longer  be 
nullified  by  their  inferiors; — 5.  Trials 
will  become  shorter,  service  in  the  jjnry- 
box  less  exacting,  and  the  status  of  the 
legal  profession  itself  will  be  benefited 
by  the  change;  for  the  labor  of  the 
advocate  can  no  longer  be  confined  to 
the  aim  of  causing  an  individual  to 
dissent,  but  must  assume  the  nobler  and 
broader  form  of  an  endeavor  to  convince 
the  majority  of  the  justice  of  his  cause. 

A^  soon,  then,  as  we  dispense  with 
unanimity  as  an  essential  element  in 
our  jury  system — an  elemeixt  already 
lon^  ago  stigmatized  by  Prof.  Christian 
as  ''repuenant  to  all  experience  of  hu- 
man conduct,  passions  and  understand- 


582 


THE  UBKARY  MAGAZINE. 


ings" — 60  soon,  too,  will  its  defects 
vanish,  its  preeminent  merits  resume 
full  sway,  and  general  recognition  will 
once  more  be  accorded  an  institution 
which,  for  ages,  served  as  a  potent 
promoter  of  the  dispensation  of  justice, 
and  for  which  no  substitute  more  per- 
fect and  cfticaeious  has  as  yet  been  de- 
vised. Lord  Brouffham,  in  a  memorable 
speech  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
February,  1828,  said:— 

*'  Speaking  from  experience,  and  experience 
alone,  as ji  practical  lawyer,  I  must  aver  that  I 
consider  the  method  of  juries  a  most  whole- 
some, wise  and  almost  perfect  invention  for  the 
purposes  of  judicial  inquiry.  In  the  first  place, 
it  controls  the  judge,  who  mi^ht,  not  only  in 
political  cases,  have  a  prejudice  against  one 
party  or  a  leaning  toward  another,  or,  what  is 
as  detrimental  to  justice,  their  C(junsel  or  attor- 
ney. In  the  second  place,  it  supplies  that 
knowledge  of  the  world,  and  that  sympathy 
with  its  tastes  and  feelings  which  judges  do 
not  always  possess.  In  the  third  place,  what 
individual  can  so  well  weigh  contiictiu|r  evi- 
dence as  twelve  men  indifferently  chosen 
from  the  community,  of  various  habits,  char 
acters,  prejudices  and  ability?  Lastly,  what 
individual  can  so  well  assess  the  amount  of 
damages  which  a  plaintiff  ought  to  recover  in 
compensation  for  an  injury  he  has  received? 
The  system  is  above  all  praise;  it  looks  well 
in  theory  and  works  well  in  practice,  I  would 
have  all  matters  of  fact,  wheresoever  dis- 
puted, tried  by  a  jury.  In  my  mind  he  was 
guilty  of  no  error — ^he  was  chargeable  with  no 
exaggeration — he  was  betrayed  by  his  fancy 
into  no  metaphor,  who  once  said  that  all  we 
see  about  us — king,  lords  and  commons,  the 
whole  machinery  of  the  state,  all  the  appar- 
atus of  the  system  and  its  varied  workings — 
end  in  simply  bringing  twelve  good  men  into 
a  (jury)  box.  Such — the  administration  of 
justice — Is  the  cause  of  the  establishment  of 
government — such  is  the  use  of  government : 
It  is  this  purpose  which 'can  alone  justify 
restraints  on  natural  liberty — it  is  this  only 
which  cau  excuse  constant  interference  with 
the  rights  and  the  property  of  men." 

No  radical  change  need  be  nlade. 
In  public  prosecutions,  involving  the 
infliction  of  criminal  penalties,  unanim- 
ity may  still  be  advantageously  pre- 
8erved;  but  in  civil  cases  (in  accord- 
::iice    with    the   example   set    by  the 


constitutions  of  California  and  two 
other  states),  three-fourths  of  the  jnry 
should  be  suiBBcient  to  render  a  valid 
verdict.  So  should  the  number  of 
twelve  preserved,  since  it  seems  to  be 
a  happy  medium  between  too  numerous 
and  too  restricted  a  body,  but  concern- 
ing which  number  an  old  writer  on 
tht9  law  assigned  the  quaint  and  curious 
reason  that  it  is  by  analogy,  ''like  as 
the  prophetes  were  12,  to  foretell  the 
tnith;  the  apostles  12,  to  preach  the 
truth;  the  discoverers  12  (sent  into 
Canaan),  to  seek  and  report  the  truth; 
and  the  stones  12,  that  the  holy  Hierv- 
salem  is  built  upon." — Maxim  us  A. 
Lesser. 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 

The  New  Heaven  and  thb  New 
Earth.  —  Archdeacon  Farrar  preached  nn 
eloquent  Now  Year's  sermon  in  St.  Paurs, 
London,  of  which  the  following  are  the  open- 
ing and  closing  paragraphs: — 

"In  the  minds  of  the  early  Christians  there 
was  a  strani^e  mixture  of  feelings  as  regards 
the  present  life.  They  were  looking  forward 
with  constunt  and  eager  expectation  for  the 
coming  of  the  Lord.  They  thought  that 
any  morning  mic^ht  witness  the  flaming  advent 
of  their  king.  They  never  knew  whether  the 
scarlet  clouds  of  sunrise  might  not  herald 
some  world -catastrophe.  Misunderstanding 
some  of  the  reported  savings  of  Christ,  mis- 
taking, sometimes  the  spiritual  for  the  literal, 
sometimes  the  literal  for  the  spiritual/  they 
were  temjited  into  feverish  ana  unpractical 
restlessne.-s.  And  when  the  Second  Advent 
on  the  clouds  of  heaven  was  su  long  delayed, 
the  natural  result  was  first  disappointment, 
and  then  in  some  minds  unbelief.  *  Where.' 
they  asked,  *is  the  promise  of  His  coming?* 
And  all  that  St.  Peter,  in  his  second  Epistle, 
can  sa}'  in  answer,  is  to  reassert  to  them  that 
as  certainly  as  there  had  once  been  a  deluge 
of  water  which  drowned  the  old  world,  so 
certainl}-  shall  there  be  a  dehice  of  fire  to 
destroy  the  world  which  now  is.  The  earth,  he 
tells  them ,  is  *  stored  with  Are  *  The  day  shall 
come  when  her  volcanoes,  bursting  the  seals 
which  repress  the  impatient  earthquake,  shall 
iMillow  destruction  from  their  fiery  cones,  and 
the  world,  with  its  elements  melted  with  fer 
vent  heat,  shall  become  but  a  burnt-up  dndei 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 


988 


like  her  attendant  moon.  So  too  aay  the  other 
Apostles.  '  This  world/ says  St.  Paul,  ^pass- 
eth  away,  and  the  fashion  thereof.'  *1  saw,' 
says  St.  John,  '  a  new  heaven,  and  a  new 
earth;  for  the  first  heaven  and  the  first  earth 
are  passed  away.'  And  we  ma^  still  retain 
that  hope  of,  nay,  that  sure  belief  in,  a  new 
heaven  and  a  new  earth  in  the  eternity  which  is 
to  be.  But  now,  at  the  beginning  of  this  n^^w 
year,  the  question  is,  whether  it  need  be  a  hope 
only?  whether  even  here  and  now  the  new 
heaven  may  not  spread  over  us  its  soft  empy- 
real azure,  and  the  new  earth  may  not  at  least 
begin  to  rejoice  for  us  and  to  blossom  as  the 
rose  ?  .  .  .  .  The  surest  secret  of  a  happy 
home  is  that  it  should  be  a  home  wherein 
dwelleth  righteousness,  wherein  dwelleth  the 
fear  of  God.  wherein  dwelleth  love.  And  since 
this  is  in  our  power,  therefore  the  blesnedaeM 
which  is  deejier  and  more  eudiiring  than  hap- 
piness is  within  our  own  reach.  Let  us  aim 
at  this  tranquil  happiness  of  (^uietoess  and 
confidence  and  peace  in  Gkxi.  This  is  no 
chimiera.  The  possibility  of  winning  this  is 
no  illusion.  In  our  patience  let  us  possess,  let 
us  acquire  our  souls.  The  world  will  still  be 
the  world.  There  will  still  be  the  pestilence 
which  walk(ith  in  darkness  and  the  arrow 
that  flieth  in  the  noon-day.  The  animalism 
of  brutal  passions  will  still  crowd  our  streets 
with  the  infamy  of  its  victims  and  Mie 
wretchedness  which  dogs  their  lieels.  There 
will  still  be  envy  and  hatred  and  malice,  and 
lies,  and  sickness,  and  poverty,  and  death: 
but  the  world  in  which  our  inmost  souls  shall 
live  and  move  and  have  their  being  will  even 
in  this  life  be  an  anticipated  fruition  of  the 
new  heaven  and  the  new  earth." 

Henry  M.  Stanley.— The  PaU  Mall  Oa- 
eette  of  January  20  publishes  an  account  of 
an  interview  with  Mr.  Stanley,  who  was  to 
start  for  Africa  in  a  day  or  two: — 

"Mr.  Stanley's  head-quarters  are  in  Bond 
street,  a  suite  of  rooms  on  the  first  floor 
which  he  has  made  his  home  for  the  last  two 
years.  TJie  walls  of  tlie  vestibule  are  lined 
with  trophies  and  pictures  of  Africa,  but  there 
is  no  sign  of  barbaric  mementoes  in  the  mod- 
em luxury  of  his  spacious  sitting-room,  whose 
walls  are  hung  with  water-colors,  photographs, 
and  sketches.  Explorer,  nomad,  as  he  is,  he 
does  not  despise  the  pleasures  of  the  uphol- 
sterer, as  was  shown  b  /  the  handsome  cabi 
nets,  the  sumptuous  settees,  the  soft  rugs, 
strewn  about  the  fioor.  In  a  minute  he  came 
into  the  room,  erect  as  ever,  smoking  a  cigar, 
and  remarking,  *I  have  had  no  sleep  for  two 
nights,  and  only  got  back  from  Brussels  at 


five  this  morning;  but  I  can  gi,ve  you  fifteen 
minutes.  My  time  is  short  now.  We  have 
naturally  considered  the  question  of  the  routes 
very  senously,  and  discussed  it  very  thorough- 
ly. I  will  explain  to  you  how  matters  stand. 
It  is  possible  to  reach  £min  Bey  cither  from 
the  Congo  or  from  Zanzibar.  Let  us  take 
the  Zanzibar  route:  My  expedition  is  1,000 
strong  when  it  leaves  Zanzibar.  What  will  it 
be  when  we  reach  the  savage- bound  circle 
dniwn  rouud  Emin?  You  have  marched,  say, 
1,000  miles  under  a  torrid  sun,  each  man  carry- 
ing sixty  pounds.  During  this  arduous  jour- 
ney your  number  is  /gradually  decreasing. 
Sotne  desert,  some  are  fatigued,  some  die,  some 
are  killed,  some  are  weakened  by  bhan^.  The 
.  rumor  goes  about  that  the  real  dan;j[er  does  not 
begin  until  you  reach  the  fiinge  oi  the  circle. 
Panic  may  seize  the  men;  and  then — way, 
they  may  desert  in  a  body  They  have  come 
from  Zanzibar,  and  the  way  home  is^  open  to 
them.  Take  the  Congo  route:  The  King  of 
the  Belgians  has  given  us  permission  to  use  the 
steamer  on  the  Upper  River,  the  journey  is 
comparatively  easy,  food  is  plentiful,  and  you 
land  your  men  on  the  edge  of  the  danger  circle 
fresh,  active,  in  good  spirits,  and  in  gtxxi 
condition.  But  most  important  of  all,  they 
cannot  desert.  If  they  turn  tail  they  have 
not  Zanzibar  behind  them,  bui  only  the  wa- 
ters of  the  Cougo.  The  advantages  of  one 
route  over  another  are  obvious.  The  dittl- 
culty  now  is  the  transport  from  2janzibar  to 
the  Congo.  I  hope  to  find  a  steamer  ready 
when  we  reach  S^nzibar.' 

'*Mr.  Stanley  then  spread  out  a  well-worn 
map  of  Equatorial  Africa.  By  means  of  a 
telegraph  form  and  a  pair  of  dividers,  he 
measured  off  the  possible  routes,  explaining 
how  thfe  dreaded  power  of  M'Wanga  of 
Uganda,  son  of  his  old  friend  M'Tesa,  had 
spread.  *  Here,*  indicating  the  stretch  of 
country  between  the  great  lakes.  *ape  some  of 
the  best  fighiing  men  in  all  Africa.  200,000 
of  them  and  more.  No  matter  which  route 
the  expedition  takes,  there  is  the  danger,  for 
Uganda's  power  extends  ri^ht  up  to  Albert 
Nyanza.  *  'Could  you  cross  Victoria  by  boats?* 
'We  take  one  boat  with  us  for  the  rivers,'  re- 
plied the  explorer.  'I  cannot  tell  you  what  I 
shall  do.  My  secret  must  remain  undivulged. 
M'Wanga's  emissaries  arc  everywhere.*  " 

QtTEEN  Victoria  and  her  Children. — In 
the  just  published  Third  Part  of  T/ie  Oreville 
MemoirB,  extending  from  1852  to  1860,  are 
several  anecdotes  relating  to  the  Queen. 
Thus,  in  April,  1858,  he  writes,  in  his  jour- 
nal:— 


084 


THE  LIBRAj  T  MAGPAZINE. 


'•Lady  Ljrttelton,  whom  I  met  at  AUborp, 
said  the  Queen  was  very  food  of  them,  but 
severe  in  her  manner,  and  a  strict  disciplin- 
arian in  her  family.  She  described  the  Prince 
of  Wales  to  be  extremely  shy  and  timid,  with 
very  good  principles,  and  particularly  an  ex- 
act observer  of  truth;  the  Princess  Koyal  is 
remarkably  intelligent.  I  wrote  this  because 
it  will  hereafter  be  curious  to  see  how  the  boy 
crows  up,  and  what  soit  of  performance  fol- 
lows this  promise,  though  I  shall  not  live  to 
see  it." — In  November,  1858,  we  find  the  fol- 
lowing entry:  "I  hear  the  Queen  has  written 
a  letter  to  the  Prince  of  Wales  announcing  to 
him  his  emancipation  from  parental  authority 
and  control,  and  that  it  is  one 'of  the  most 
admirable  letters  that  ever  were  penned.  She 
tells  him  that  he  may  have  thought  the  rule 
they  adopted  for  his  education  a  severe  one, 
but  that  his  welfare  was  their  only  object, 
and  well  knowing  to  what  seductions  of  flat- 
tery he  would  eventually  be  exposed,  they 
wished  to  prepare  and  strengthen  his  mind 
against  ihem,  that  he  was  now  to  consider 
himMf  his  own  master,  and  that  they  should 
never  intrude  uny  advice  upon  him,  although 
always  ready  to  give  it  him  whenever  he 
thought  lit  to  seek  it.  It  was  a  very  long 
letter,  all  in  that  tone,  and  it  seems  to  have 
made  a  profound  impression  on  the  Prince, 
and  to  have  touched  liis  feelings  to  the  quick. 
He  brought  it  to  Gerald  Wellesley  in  floods  of 
tears,  and  tlie  effect  it  produced  is  a  proof  of 
the  wisdom  which  dictated  its  composition." 

Truth  and  Sijs'cerity  in  Criticism. — Mr. 
Maurice  Thompson,  in  The  Independent,  dis- 
courses at  some  length  upon  certain  phases  of 
criticism,  which  he  siiys  is  ''colored  by  re- 
flections from  the  surroundings  of  the  critic." 
Compare  the  Boston  criticisms  with  those  of 
New  York,  and  it  will  soon  appear  that  the 
flavor,  nay  more,  the  fiber  of  each  is  distinctly 
affected  by  what  may  be  called  local  influ- 
ence.    But  he  continues: — 

**This  question  of  truth  and  sincerity  affects 
the  substance  of  criticism  much  more  than  it 
affects  the  fiber  of  literary  art.  Mr.  Cable's 
novels  are  good,  no  matter  whetiier  they  are 
true  to  Creole  life  or  not;  but  criticism  which 
wrongfully  charges  Mr.  Cable  with  falsifying 
records  and  libeling  individuals  is  valueless. 
So,  on  the  other  hand,  if  Mr.  Howe's  novels 
of  Western  life  arc  too  gloomy  and  hopeless  lo 
be  true  to  that  incomparable  manhood  and 
womanhood  which  have  made  the  great  W^est 
loap  t«  the  high-tide  of  prosperity  in  a  few 


short  years,  still  his  stories  are~none  the  leas 
good.  It  is  when  the  sincere,  or  the  alien 
and  uninformed  critic  says  to  the  world: 
'This  is  realism — ^these  aire  true  pictures  of 
Western  life,'  tliat  the  harm  is  done.  A  Bos- 
ton or  a  New  York  critic,  alien  to  Eaid  Ten- 
nessee, may  praise  or  blame  Craddock's  art- 
methods,  but  he  may  not  decide  as  to  the 
realism  of  the  scenes  and  characters  sketched 
in  Craddock's  romances.  We  Americans 
know  very  well  tliat  we  have  the  laugh  turned 
on  our  English  friends  who  point  to  Walt 
Whitman  as  the  most  'American'  of  our  y)oets. 
Not  that  we  deny  the  genius  of  the  'good 
gray  poet,'  the  point  of  our  objection  to  the 
dictum  of  the  English  critic  is  found  in  our 
absolute  knowledge  of  two  facts:  First,  the 
fact  that  the  English  critic  regards  American 
life  is  being  barbarous;  second,  the  fact  that 
the  English  critic  knows  nothing  at  uU  about 
American  life." 

Hanging  Women  for  Murdrr. — ^Apropos 
of  a  bill  recently  introduced  into  the  Assembly 
of  New  York,  making  the  crime  of  murder  in 
the  first  de^ee  punishable  only  by  impris- 
onment for  life,  The  Independent  says: — 

"There  is  no  reason  why  women  should  be 
exempted  from  the  penalty  of  death  any  more 
than  men.  If  inflicted  at  all  it  should  be 
equally  inflicted  on  both  sexes.  The  crime  is 
the  same  in  botli,  and  the  interests  of  society 
to  be  protected  by  punishment  are  the  same 
in  both.  The  bill,  if  it  should  Ivecome  a  law, 
would  have  the  effect  of  increasing  the  number 
of  murders  by  females,  and  virtually  putting 
a  premium  on  female  criminality.  There  is 
no  gallantry  or  sentimentality  due  to  a  mur- 
deress that  should  exempt  her  from  the  same 
punishment  that  is  inflicted  on  men  vrhen  tbey 
commit  murder.  Either  abolish  the  death 
penalty  altogether,  in  the  wisdom  of  which 
we  do  not  l^lieve,  or  make  no  distinction  be- 
tween the  sexes  in  its  infliction.  The  fact 
that  women  are  not  voters  and  do  not,  there- 
fore, directly  participate  in  the  enactment  of 
the  laws,  is  no  argument  for  tlieir  exemption 
from  capital  punishment.  It  proves  too  much 
if  it  proves  anytliing.  It  woiild  equally  ap- 
ply to  the  punishment  of  minors  and  aliens, 
neither  of  which  classes  participates  in'  the 
enactment  of  the  laws,  and  also  to  the  pun- 
ish n>ent  of  any  other  crime.  Carry  out  the 
principle  involved  in  this  bill,  and  the  result, 
so  far  as  the  infliction  of  punishment  is  con- 
cerned, would  be  that  we  should  have  one 
penal  code  for  men  and  another  for  women." 


EARLY  EXPLOBATI(»^  IN  AMERICA. 


536 


EARLY  EXPLORATIONS 
OF  AMERICA, 

{Real  and  Imaginary), 

The  history  of  the  first  discovery  and 
exploration  of  tlie  New  World  comprises 
a  series  of  narratives  f  uUv  as  interesting, 
when  first  told,  as  the  Inousand  Nights 
atid  One  Night,  and  more  improving  to 
study,  it  may  be  plausibly  alleged,  than 
even  the  uuexpurgated  version  of  that 
venerable  body  of  romance.  And  had 
the  New  World,  once  discovered  and 
pai'tially  known,  relapsed  into  darkness, 
and  the  way  across  the  sea  been  forgot- 
ten, the  Quaiuor  Navigationes  of  Ves- 
pucci (if  ever  written)  might  have  taken 
the  place  of  ihe  seven  voyages  of  Sindbad 
the  Sailor,  and  gossiping  Peter  Martyr 
of  Anghiera  might  have  been  the 
western  Scheherazade.  It  is  difficult 
for  us,  who  know  already  what  coasts 
and  rivers  the  eaiiy  explorers  were  to 
find,  to  realize  the  feelings  of  the 
generation  that  read  the  letters  of 
Columbus  and  Cortes.  The  wonders 
of  travel  in  yet  unexplored  parts  of  the 
earth  can  never  have  for  us  the  same 
freshness  as  to  men  who  knew  little  of 
the  laws  of  nature  and  human  history 
rujing  in  their  own  hemisphere,  and 
had  no  confident  assurance  that  the 
laws  they  knew  would  hold  good  in  the 
New  World.  We  know  within  certain 
limits  what  to  expect  from  unexplored 
regions;  the  first  Europeans  landing  in 
America  were  ready  to  accept  any 
marvel  as  possible;  and  when  they 
showed  scepticism  and  reluctance  to 
believe,  it  was  most  often  because  they 
had  started  with  some  preconceived 
notion  of  greater  wonders  still — a  notion 
which  was  in  general  contradicted  by 
tlie  event.  The  curious  tentative  maps 
that  clironicle  successive  discoveries  and 
liypotheses  are  studded  with  monuments 
of  dead  theories  and  lost  illusions.  The 
mines  of  Cipango,  the  paradise  of 
Bimini,  the  strait  of  Anian^  the  Seven 


Cities,  the  Amazonian  tribes,  the  golden 
city  of  the  inca  Manoa — these  and  other 
names  sum  up  the  story  of  the  first  dis- 
coveries, ever  driven  on  through  real 
wonders  in  the  pursuit  of  the  non- 
existent. 

The  Odyssey  of  the  New  World  was 
first  begun;  then  came  its  Iliad,  in  the 
record  of  the  conquests — the  minor  cycle 
of  epics  clustering  round  the  two  great 
stories  of  Mexico  and  Peru,  the  struggle 
between  Spaniard  and  Aztec  for  domin- 
ion, and  the  internecine  war  of  Spaniard 
with  Spaniard.  Then  the  center  of 
interest  shifts  northward,  and  to  the 
romantic  age  of  discovery  and  conquest 
succeeds  the  historical  age  of  coloniza- 
tion and  trade  which  founded  New 
France  and  New  England.  The  New 
World  has  lost  its  strangeness  and  ro- 
mance; it  has  been  appropriated,  de- 
spoiled, partitioned,  and  is  now  to 
become  the  sphere  in  which  European 
political  and  religious  ideas,  European 
state  policy,  and  national  prejudice  may 
work  out  their  results  under  new  condi- 
tions. This  phase  of  development  may 
be  said  to  end  with  the  contest  between 
England  and  France  for  North  America. 
With  the  American  war  of  independence 
begins  the  emancipation  of  tiie  colonies 
from  European  control,  and  their  con- 
version into  states  affecting  to  govern 
themselves,  and  in  some  cases  succeed- 
ing". With  the  accomplishment  of  this 
change  the  unity  of  American  history 
ceases;  no  longer  assimilated  in  develop- 
ment and  policy  bv  a  common  colonial 
status,  a  cotnmon  dependence,  the  new 
countries  form  a  system  of  independent 
states,  each  going  on  its  own  separate 
path  henceforward,  and  working  out  its 
own  diverse  political  and  social  prob- 
lems. 

In  studying  the  recoid  of  America, 
attention  haa  naturally  been  concen- 
trated largely  on  the  most  interesting 
and  eventful  periods;  and  it  is  of  these 
especially,  though  far  ixQxa  exclusively^. 


686 


THE  LIBilXRY  MAGAZINE. 


that  English-speaking  writers  have 
treate'J  most  worthily.  Eobertson^ 
Irving,  Prescott,  Helps,  have  succes- 
sively done  good  service  in  searching 
out  or  popularizing  the  story  of  the 
Spanish  discoverers  and  conquerors; 
and  if  the  pioneers  of  England  in 
America  have  not  as  yet  met  with  the 
same  measure  of  good  fortune  as  the 
pioneers  of  France,  it  is  not  for  want 
of  reverent  research  and  careful  record- 
ing on  the  part  of  their  descendants. 
The  history  of  the  duel  between  England 
and  France  has  of  late  been  told  by  Mr. 
Parkman  in  a  manner  that  seems  to 
precUide  repetition:  and  the  war  of  in- 
dependence has  found  a  worthy,  if 
hardly  so  impartial,  chronicler.  But  a 
history  of  America  as  a  whole,  founded 
on  the  wide  results  of  modern  research, 
but  depicting  those  results  in  due  per- 
spective, and  gnisping  and  presenting 
Clearly  the  broad  lines  of  sameness  and 
diiference  in  the  records  of  the  various 
states  and  settlements — this  has  yet  to 
be  written. 

Thanks  to  the  patient,  unselfish,  and 
often  unrenowned  and  unrewarded  re- 
search of  many  students,  we  have  now 
within  reach  a  vast  bodv  of  facts  about 
various  stages  of  development  of  many 
parts  of  America;  and  the  further  ap- 
plication of  the  same  research  would 
probably  lead  to  a  similar  collection  of 
materials  for  the  rest  of  the  continent. 
But  whetht^r  the  heaven-bom  historian 
will  arise  to  work  this  material  into 
artistic  shape,  or  not,  real  historical 
workers  are  not  willing  to  sit  down  and 
wait  for  him;  they  will  at  least  collect 
the  essential  items  of  known  fact,  and 
the  opinions  of  those  best  fitted  to  judge 
on  points  of  dispute,  together  with  the 
fliuthorities  on  which  are  based  such 
records  or  inferences:  they  will  have 
leady  pigeonholed  for  the  great  writer 
— 'and,  indeed,  for  all  others — the  ma- 
Iserials  fii'om  which  to  construct  a  book 
or  A  .theery  or  a  mere  personal  knowl- 


edge. They  will  arm  research  for  work 
and  point  out  its  path,  even  as  we  give 
the  latest  maps  to  a  discoverer.  ''  Thus 
far  others  have  gone,''  they  will  say, 
'^and  here  lies  the  most  favorable 
road." 

It  is  this  task  that  has  heen  under- 
taken by  the  various  authors  of  the  two 
historical  series*  which  I  am  now  con- 
sidering, and  in  each  case  the  result  is 
one  which  promises  a  great  future  to 
the  bold  applicaHon  of  co-operation  to 
history.  In  one  case  a  number  of  men 
of  special  knowledge  liave  been  set  to 
write  each  the  history  of  some  place  or 
period  of  exploration  or  settlement,  or 
to  investigate  some  thorny  question,  and 
each  narrative  is  followed  by  a  critical 
essav  on  the  sources  of  information,  and 
often  by  further  bibliogTajihical  infor- 
mation from  the  editor,  Mr.  Justin 
Winsor,  librarian  of  Harvard  Univer- 
sity. In  the  other  case,  Mr.  H.  H. 
Bancroft's  method,  equally  co-opera- 
tive, results  in  more  apparent  unity, 
and  does  not  give  his  subordinntes  so 
much  latitude  or  responsibility  as  be- 
longs to  the  collaborators  of  Mr.  Win- 
sor. But  there  is  a  fundamental  simi- 
larity beneath  the  apparent  diversity  of 
these  two  valuable  compilations.  Both 
are  attempts — and  apparently  very 
successful  ones — to  sum  up  all  that  has 
been  written  on  the  subjects  of  which 
they  treat;  both  add  to  their  narrative 
a  copious  bibliography  of  authorities, 
and  estimates  of  their  value.  In  Mr. 
Winsor's  volumes  we  are  even  informed 
what  booksellers  paid,  how  much,  Ht 
what  dates,  for  what  rare  books — a  trick 
of  the  librarian  cropping  up  in  the  liis- 
torian. 

The  History  of  America  makes  a 
special  study  of  early  chartographv, 
showing  in  a  series  of  interesting  copies 
or  i^ketches  of  maps  the  gradual  wideu- 

*  Narrative  and  Critical  History  of  Amer- 
ica, edited  by  Justin  Winsor.  History  of  tho 
Pacific  States^  by  Hubert  H«»we  i^ancroft. 


EARLY  EXPLORATIONS  IK  AMERICA. 


6d7 


ing  of  the  known  world.  *  It  also  gives 
mauy  portraits  of  persons,  and  old  en- 
gravings of  places,  and  facsimiles  of  the 
signatures  of  everybody,  in  a  manner, 
including,  by  a  curious  affectacion,  the 
signatures  of  its  own  contributors. 
There  is  in  general  a  studied  avoidance 
of  personal    declaration    on   disputed 

Eoints — we  are  only  told  what  every- 
ody  else  thought  and  wrote;  and  this 
is  tantalizing,  if  impartial.  Mr.  Ban- 
croft, on  the  other  hand,  while  his 
maps  are  smaller  and  not  nearly  so  well 
executed,  is  able  to  give  his  own  opin- 
ion on  vexed  questions  and  on  the  value 
of  authorities  in  a  manner  which  his 
wide  acqucuntance  at  first  or  second 
hand  with  these  authorities,  and  his 
evident  desire  to  be  impartial,  render  of 
considerable  value.  On  one  point, 
however,  it  is  necessary  for  all  students 
of  literature  sorrowfully  to  deny  his 
competence,  and  that  is  in  questions  of 
style.  The  mere  narrative  of  facts  is 
tolerable,  if  at  times  rough  in  manner; 
but  the  generalizations,  moral  reflec- 
tions, and  purple — or  rather  magenta 
— patches  of  description  are  uniformly 
bad.  Mr.  Bancroft's — or  somebody's — 
remarks  on  the  state  of  Europe  and  the 
manners  of  the  Spaniards  at  the  time 
of  the  conquest,  which  open  the  first 
volume,  read  like  a  rude  attempt  to 
parody  Buckle.  I  merely  mention  this 
literarv  matter,  however,  that  intend- 
ing  students  may  not  be  rebuffed  from 
consulting  the  work  by  meeting  on  its 
threshold  with  commonplace  momlities 
about  the  horrors  of  war,  the  coarseness 
and  ignorance  of  the  middle  ages,  the 
cruelties  of  the  Spa^iiards,  etc.,  etc., 
more  sensible,  but  hardly  less  wearisome, 
than  Alison's  well-known  justifications 
of  Providence.  Once  in  touch  with 
their  paper  bags  of  facts,  Mr.  Bancroft 
and  his  assistant  writers  are  again  read- 
able and  valuable. 

Thus  much  may  suffice  for  the  ar- 
rangement and  style  of  the  works  re- 


ferred to;  but  their  literary  aspect  is 
the  least  important.  Neither  are  they 
to  be  regarded  as  adding  very  much  to 
our  absolute  knowledge  of  the  periods 
of  which  they  treat.  Mr.  Bancroft's 
large  special  library  and  carefully  form- 
ed collection  of  manuscripts  have  fur- 
nished him  with  many  minor  facts  not 
hitherto  recorded,  and  the  resources  of 
the  Harvard  library  and  the  papers  of 
many  industrious  American  societies 
are  at  the  disposal  of  Mr.  Winsor  and 
liis  associates;  but  in  the  main  their 
work  is  rather  settlement  than  discov- 
ery,* rather  a  polity  than  a«  conquest, 
and,  like  their  own  republican  govern- 
ment, rather  for  use  than  for  show. 
The  chief  value  of  both  works  lies  in 
the  opportunity  they  give  us  of  seeing 
clearly  how  far  the  knowledge  and  the 
history  of  early  America  have  progress- 
ed. 

The  first  problem  of  importance 
which  historians  of  the  discoverv  of 
America  have  to  solve  (for  the  apparent- 
ly authentic  but  resultless  voyages  of 
the  Northmen,  the>  semi-mythical  ad- 
ventures of  the  Zeni,  etc.,  are  little 
worth  a  laborious  investigation)  is  a 
psychological  matter — it  is  simply  the 
personal  character  of  Columbus  him- 
self, on  the  interpretation  of  which  not 
only  much  of  hisbiogi'aphy,  but  not  a 
little  of  the  history  of  his  discoveries, 
must  be  based.  As  in  the  case  of  Mary 
Queen  of  Scots,  or  indeed  of  any  histor- 
ical character  of  striking  personality, 
the  dramatic  conception  of  the  charac- 
ter governs  the  historical  interpretation 
of  the  life. 

The  estimate  formed  of  Columbus  by 
historians  and  biographers  has  varied 
considerably.  At  present  it  seems 
passing  through  a  cycle  of  depression. 
The  hero-worship  of  Irving  and  others 
invited  a  reaction  which  finds  voice  in 
the  expressions  for  Mr.  Bancroft's  com- 
mon-sense, if  somewhat  Philistine,  im- 
partiality; and    the   more  eztravagant 


THE  LIBRA:^  MAGAZINE. 


eulogy  of  M.  Roselly  de  Lorgues  and 
other  advocates  of  the  canonization  of 
ColuLibus  hus  met  with  a  corrective  in 
the  work  of  M.  Harrisae,  wl)o,  indeed^ 
may  speak  with  authoi'ity  on  (][uestions 
of  American  discovery  after  his  exten- 
sive labors  on  the  bibliography  of  the 
subject.  His  late  study  of  Columbus 
is  indisputably  the  most  important  that 
has  a[)peared  for  long,  and  perhaps, 
on  the  whole,  the  most  trustworthy  life 
as  yet  written.  Possibly  the  function 
of  advocatus  diaboli  has  carried  the 
historian  too  far  in  depreciation  of  the 
admiral,  o^:  of  the  history  of  him  gen- 
erally attributed  to  his  son  Fernando; 
and  the  bibliographer's  faults  of  attach- 
ing too  much  weight  to  evidence  which 
he  has  himself  found,  and  too  readily 
doubting  what  his  own  reseai'ches  do 
not  contirm,  may  have  invalidated  the 
work  in  some  measure.  But  if  this  be 
so — and  I  would  not  venture  to  assert  it 
— the  next  swing  of  the  pendulum  will 
vindicate  the  admiral  from  any  unjust 
charges  by  disclosing  new  documents, 
for  even  so  indefatigable  a  worker  as  M. 
Harrisse  has  not  exhausted  the  wealth 
of  papers  that  must  still  remain  in  the 
Spanish  archives,  after  all  the  ravages 
of  damp,  moths,  rats,  and  Napoleon. 

Accurate  and  scientific  historical 
labor  is  often  accused  of  making  its 
productions  dull;  and  some  of  those 
who  promote  scientific  study  have  too 
rashly  accepted  the  charge  as  a  necessary 
truth.  Undoubtedly  impartial  and 
rigorous  investigation  tends  to  diminish 
the  picturesquoness  of  historical  iiaiTa- 
tive.  It  reduces  alike  the  greatness  of 
heroes,  the  goodness  of  saints,  and  the 
blackness  of  villains,  and  shows,  as  a 
rule,  that  particular  individuals  were 
responsible  for  much  less  than  is  pop- 
ularly credited  to  them.  This  process 
has  the  disadvantage  of  depriving  those 
who  like  violent  contrasts  of  their 
beloved  dramatic  or  rather  melodrama- 
tic effects;  but  to  those  who  desire  to 


study  real  life,  it  is  far  more  interesting, 
as  well  as  more  scientific,  to  treat  of 
historical  events  a?  resulting  from  the 
probable  interaction  of  conceivable 
characters  and  causes.  The  general 
result  of  inquiry  and  criticism  as  re- 
cently applied  to  the  history  of  American 
discovery  has  been,  as  elsewhere,  to 
level  down  the  heroes  and  saints,  and 
level  up  the  knaves  and  fools,  without, 
however,  altering  their  traditional  char- 
acters completely.  Isabella  is  less 
admirable,  Ferdinand  less  mean,  than 
Irving  makes  out;  Fonseca  is  no  longer 
the  villain  of  the  piece,  and  Columbus, 
though  still  the  hero,  is  not  so  much 
the  hero. 

The  admiral's  character  seems  to  be 
one  of  not  such  rare  occurrence  aa  we 
might  think.  He  was  a  good  practical 
seaman;  but  in  other  respects  he  seems 
to  have  lived  rather  in  a  shifting  world 
of  his  own  conceptions,. which  were  to 
him  as  facts;  and  though  the  pressure 
of  realities  sometimes  compelled  him  to 
give  up  some  of  his  illusions,  he  none 
the  less  continued  to  hold  it  the  dutv 
of  the  world  to  conform  to  his  concep- 
tions of  it.  Thus  living  in  a  world  of 
his  own  creation,  self-consciousness  was 
perhaps  his  strongest  characteristic; 
and  the  universal  persecution  over 
which  many  biographers  have  wept  is 
in  no  small  part  the  well-known  de- 
lusion which  lies  at  the  root  of  that  ex- 
tremely common  "persecution  mania" 
into  which  a  morbi(l  self-consciousness 
often  develops.  Tliis  egoistic  habit  of 
mind  was  probably  necessary  to  carry 
Columbus  through  his  great  enterprise, 
for  the  man  was  so  possessed  with  a 
sense  of  his  personal  divine  mission  as 
to  impress  others  with  something  of  his 
fervor;  but  it  sufficiently  explains  how 
his  colonial  projects  failed,  and  how  he 
co.itrived  to  suffer  injury  from  all 
quarters.  To  take  the  most  familiar 
instance  of  his  egoism,  it  is  not  likely 
that  Columbus's  heart  ever  smote  him 


EARLY  EXPLORATIONS  IN  A3IERICA. 


589 


for  taking  from  Kodrigo  of  Triana  (if 
that  was  the  sailor's  name^  the  poor 
little  pejisiou  promised  to  tne  first  be- 
holder of  land.  And  Irving's  rather 
lame  excuse — namely,  that  the  admiral's 
glory  was  at  stake  — practically  means 
that  feeling  that  he  ought  to  be  the  fii^st 
to  see  land,  Cohunbus  persuaded  him- 
self that  he  had  seen  it  fii*st,  or  at  least 
a  light  on  it.  The  act,  in  any  case,  is 
characteristic  of  the  mun,  and  appears 
to  me  to  bring  out  the  self-regard  ing  and 
^self-centered  mind  of  the  Italian  of 
Renaissance  times  in  contrast  with  the 
more  practical  and  external  observation 
of  the  Spaniard.  Cort6s  would  not 
have  thought  such  a  thing  worth  doing; 
Vasco  Nuflez  wo&ld  not  have  thought 
of  it  at  all. 

The  same  temper  comes  out  in  the 
highest  as  in  the  lowest  parts  of  Colum- 
bus's character.  His  constant  reference 
to  his  mission  of  recovering  the  holy 
sepulcher  can  hardly  be  thought  a  mere 
parade;  yet  he  n&ver  took  any  steps  to- 
ward the  carrying  out  of  that  mission, 
nor  ever  would  have  done.  Here  again 
comes  in  the  illusion:  to  one  who  lived 
in  his  own  world  of  dreams, the  very  fer- 
vor of  his  religious  purpose  probably 
seemed  to  excuse  him  from  taking  prac- 
tical steps  to  carry  it  out.  He  might  as 
well  have  been  one  of  those  kings  to 
whom  a  vow  of  crusade  was  a  periodical 
source  of  revenue. 

The  great  admiral's  power  of  **  make- 
believe  was  like  a  child's.  On  a  few 
facts,  capable  of  many  rational  interpre- 
tations, tie  based  the  astounding  theory, 
astounding  even  for  those  days,  of  the 
}>ear-8haped  earth  with  the  terrestrial 
paradise  at  its  apex  somewhere  on  the 
equator;  and  so  firm  was  his  belief  in 
his  own  a  pHori  conclusions,  that  he 
died  in  the  conviction  that  Cuba  was 
part  of  the  mainland  of  Asia — a  state- 
ment  which,  indeed,  he  had  once  made 
his  crew  swear  to  maintain,  under  heavy 
ponalties.     This^  as  Mr.  Bancroft  well 


says,  is  one  of  the  facts  that  help  ns  to 
understand  why  Columbus  was  so  un- 
popular. He  was  always  doing  myste- 
rious things,  and  preferred  to  make  them 
more  mysterious  still.  He  had  bound- 
less confidence  in  himself  and  his 
mission;  but  when  he  had  to  deal  with 
men,  there  was  an  alternation  of  severity 
and  lenity,  a  distrust  and  deception  of 
others  which  begot  distrust  and  decep- 
tion in  others.  The  false  reckoning 
which  he  kept  on  his  first  voyage,  so  as 
to  entice  his  men  onward  in  spite  of 
themselves,  was  due  to  this  temper. 
Pizarro,  ruffian  as  he  was,  showed  far 
more  wisdom  in-  the  ways  of  men  when 
he  drew  that  famous  line  on  the  beach 
of  the  island  of  Oallo,  and  bade  those 
step  over  it  who  would  meet  **  labor 
hunger,  thirst,  fatigue,  wounds,  sick- 
ness, and  every  other  kind  of  danger  " 
with  him. 

But  the  ugliest  part  of  Columbus's 
nature  was  what  one  can  hardly  avoid 
calling  his  snobbishness  about  his  family 
and  early  life;  and  on  this  point  M. 
Harrisse  in  especial  has  accumulated 
many  damaging  facts.  The  main  source 
of  the  current  and  popular  account  (as 
given  in  Irving  and  elsewhere)  of 
Columbus's  early  life  has  been  the 
Hiatoriey  so  called,  an  Italian  version 
(probably  very  inaccurate)  of  a  lost 
Spanish  original  ascribed  to  Fernando, 
the  illegitimate  son  of  Columbus  -by 
Beatrix  £nriquez.  After  at  first  sus- 
pecting the  work  to  be  a  mere  fabrica- 
tion, M.  Harrisse  was  compelled,  by  an 
inspection  of  unpublished  works  of  Las 
Casas,  to  admit  that  the  Hutorie  was 
due  to  Fernando,  or  some  one  closely 
connected  with  him.  This,  however, 
rather  helps  to  damage  the  credit 
of  the  father;  for  since  Fernando,  an 
educated  and  honorable  man,  was  hardly 
likely  to  publish  tales  which  he  knew 
to  be  false,  it  is  probable  that  iho  ad- 
miral himself  was  given  to  talking 
'  largely  and  vaguely  about  his  youth  and 


540 


THE  LIBTTARY  MAGA2INE. 


his  exploits,  aTid  that  the  confused  hints 
of  the  llistorie  owe  their  origin  to  him. 
This  supposition  is  contirmed  from  other 
sources.  We  know  that  Columbus  stated 
more  than  once  that  he  was  not  the  first 
admiral  of  his  family — so  that  the  con* 
fusion  between  him  and  the  Gascon 
corsjiirs,  the  Cazeneuves,  surnamed 
Coullon,  and  in  Italian  (Jolombo,  seems 
to  have  beon  intentional  on  his  part. 
Possibly  lie  also  threw  out  occasionally 
dark  hints  as  to  the  noble  origin  of  his 
race,  in  this  as  in  many  other  ways 
strongly  reminding  us  of  that  other 
famous  Italian,  the  tribune  Rienzi.    . 

On  this  question  there  can  be,  after 
M.  Ilarrisse's  laborious  researches  in 
the  archives  of  Genoa,  Savona,  and  all 
the  neighborhood,  no  reasonable  doubt. 
Oolumbus,  in  spite  of  the  hints,  declara- 
tions, and  invectives  of  the  Historie, 
was  himself  a  weaver  and  the  son  of  a 
weaver.  There  is  no  reason  to  suppose 
that  he  ever  went  to  study  at  P^via, 
nor  did  he  become  a  sailor  at  an  early 
age.  He  sprang  from  no  poor  branch 
of  a  noble  house,  and  the  arms  which 
he  inserted  afi  his  family  bearings,  in 
the  coat  granted  him  by  Ferdinand  and 
Isabella,  have  every  appearance  of  being 
due  to  his  own  invention.  They  are 
or,  a  chief  gules  and  bend  r72:tt  re,  a  singu- 
lar comtiinution,  and  not  like  the  blazon 
of  anv  Italian  Colombi,  all  of  whom, 
according  to  M.  Harrisse,  bore  '*  cant- 
ing "  or  punning  arms,  with  one  or 
more  doves. 

I  am  loth  to  think  that  the  great 
navigator,  no  matter  how  earnestly  he 
desired  to  conceal  his  humble  origin, 
could  have  allowed  his  aged  father 
Domenieo  to  die  in  poverty  after  he  had 
returned  from  his  first  voyage,  and  waa 
in  the  full  flush  of  honor  and  prosper- 
ity. Yet  a  document  discovered  by  M. 
Hfarrisse  seems  to  show  that  Domenieo, 
who  lived  after  1494,  was  poor  and  in 
debt  at  that  time.  Far  the  most 
curious  instance,  however,  of  the  ad- 


miral's desire  to  obscure  his  antecedents 
is  to  be  found  in  his  will,  in  which  he 
charges  his  son  and  executor  Uiegoto 

|)ay  to  certain  merchants  of  Genoa,  who 
lad  carried  on  business  at  Lisbon  in 
1482,  certain  sums  of  rhoney,  the  recipi- 
ents to  be  kept  in  total  ignorance  of  the 
source  of  these  windfalls.  Tliere  can  be 
little  doubt  about  the  meaning  of  this. 
The  sums  in  question  were  evidently 
Columbus's  unpaid  debts  incurred 
while  trading  at  Lisbon,  and  he  had 
left  them  unpaid  till  at  least  twenty-, 
two  years  after  they  were  contracted. 

Apart  from  the  new  light  thrown  on 
the  admiral's  character,  recent  re£earch 
has  not  added  much  to  our  knowledge 
of  his  actions.  The  6ne  difficult  proo- 
lem  of  his  history — the  determination  of 
the  place  of  the  first  landfall — remains 
as  insoluble  as  ever.  Mr.  AVinsor's  care- 
ful statement  leaves  the  honor  undeter- 
mined between  five  islands,  to  which 
M.  Harrisse  adds  a  sixth.  It  is  vain  to 
expect  any  great  approach  to  certainty 
in  the  matter,  for  all  -authorities  seem  to 
agree  that  Columbus's  own  description 
does  not  apply  in  every  particular  to 
any  one  of  the  "  36  islands,  G87  cays, 
and  2,414  rocks"  which  constitute  the 
Bahamas. 

Apart  from  this  point,  wliich,  after 
all,  is  one  of  chiefly  sentimental  interest, 
there  is  comparatively  little  doubt  about 
the  history  of  Columbus'H  voyages.  It 
is  far  otherwise  with  the  history  of  his 
next  successors  in  discovery,  the  Cabots, 
in  whom  students  of  English  blood  are 
bound  to  feel  especial  interest.  The 
records  of  their  voyages  are  distressing- 
ly meager,  even  after  the  exhaustive 
research  and  lalK)r  of  Dr.  Charles  Deane, 
who  writes  of  the  Cabots  in  the  History 
of  AmericUy  and  of  M.  Harrisse.  It  is 
still  not  quite  pertain  whether  John 
Cabot  or  his  son  Sebastian  was  the  real 
leader  in  both  voyoges,  though  the 
probability  is  very  strongly  in  favor 
of  the  former  as  far   a«  state  papers 


EARLY  EXPLOKATIONS  IN  AMERICA. 


541 


and  letters  go.  It  is  not  at  all  clear 
when  John  Cabot  died,  though  there 
seems  nothing  to  support  the  theory 
that  he  died  between  the  tirst  and 
second  voyages  of  discovery.  After  a 
long  tradition  of  error  it  has  been  possi- 
ble to  fix  the  dates  of  the  two  expedi- 
tions with  accnracy;  bat  we  do  not 
know  what  parts  of  the  coast  were  dis- 
covered, oa  which  voyage,  where  the 
(Jabots  lirst  saw  land,  and  whether  they 
reached  Florida  or  Cape  Uatteras,  or 
only  explored  the  Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence 
or  the  coast  of  Labrador,  and  whether 
a  third  English  voyage  was  attempted 
or  not.  Sebastian  Cabot  himself  seems 
to  have  added  to  the'  confusion  by  re- 
porting different  things  to  different 
{lersons,  and  these  reports  have  almost 
certainly  suffered  additional  distortion 
before  reaching  us  at  second  or  third 
hand.  Everything  about  him  is  more 
or  less  doubtful;  even  the  Latin  inscrip- 
tion on  his  picture  is  ambiguous  by  the 
awkward  use  of  the  same  case  for  his 
father's  name  and  his  own.  It  is 
greatly  to  be  regretted  that  none  of  the 
Cabots  seem  to  have  drawn  up  a  detail- 
ed official  report  for  Henry  Vll.  Dr. 
Deane  need  hardly  blame  Richard  Eden, 
the  first  English  historian  of  American 
discovery,  for  not  being  a  skillful  "in- 
terviewer." Probably  the  only  result 
of  Eden's  cross-examining  Sebastian 
Cabot  (thcTi  aged  and  at  no  time  too 
exact  in  statement)  for  the  benefit  of 
the  Massachusetts  Historical  Society 
would  have  been  a  yet  more  hopeless 
entanglement  of  the  whole  Question. 
We  must  rest  content  with  such  things 
as  we  have,  and  rather  wish  than  hope 
that  the  fitate  papers  of  Henry  VII. 's 
reign,  when  calendared,  may  tell  us 
more,  or  that  something  authentic  may 
yet  turn  uj)  at  Bristol.  It  is  a  pity,  in 
some  respects,  that  the  English  govern- 
ment had  not  yet  acquired  the  record- 
ing and  docketing  habits  of  the  Span- 
*^ards.      We    know    far    more  of  the 


compai*atively  unsuccessful  expedition 
of  Sebastian  Cabot  to  La  Plata  than  of 
the  first  two  voyages  of  his  father  and 
himself.  It  is  only  through  the  invalu- 
able Italian  ambassadors  that  we  are 
really  sure  of  the  dates  of  those  voyages. 

One  of  the  disputed  points  about 
Sebastian  Cabot,  and  one  Avhich  was 
once  of  some  historical  importance,  and 
still  seems  to  arouse  interest,  is  the 
question  of  his  birthplace.  On  this 
matter  I  may  be  permitted  to  enlarge 
somewhat^  as  it  has  recently  been  dis- 
cussed by  Mr.  C.  H.  Coote  in  the  Die- 
tionnry  of  Natiotial  Bioaraphy.  1  am 
unable  to  agree  with  nis  conclusions 
when  he  adopts  the  current  English 
tradition  that  the  discoverer  was  bom 
at  Bristol,  rejecting  the  'Mate  and  sus- 
picious" theory  of  his  Venetian  birth, 
and  it  therefore  is  necessary  briefly  to 
state  the  reasons  for  preferring  the  opin- 
ion of  Dr.  Deane  and  M.  Harrisse. 

Both  of  the  hypotheses  as  to  Cabot^s 
birthplace  seem  due  primarily  to  his 
own  statements  to  various  ]}er8ons — at 
least  we  cannot  trace  any  otiior  sources 
of  information.  He  undoubtedly  stat- 
ed to  Richard  Eden,  and  apparently  to 
other  Englishmen,  that  he  was  born  at 
Bristol,  taken  to  Venice  when  four 
years  old,  and  brought  back  to  Eng- 
land afterward.  He  also  stated  to 
Peter  Martyr  in  1615,  to  Contarini  in 
1522,  and  to  a  learned  Italian,  suppos- 
ed to  be  Gian  (^riacomo  Bardolo  of  Man- 
tua, about  1540,  that  he  was  born  in 
Venice  and  taken  young  to  England, 
whether  pene  infans  or  "having  some 
knowledge  of  the  humanities  and  the 
sphere,"  according  to  one  or  other  of 
his  statements,  we  may  give  up  hope  of 
determining.  Mr.  Coote  is  within  his 
rights  in  impugning  the  statement  of 
Contarini  as  made  with  the  purpose  of 
currying  favor  with  the  Venetian 
authorities,  and  therefore  suspicious. 
Nevertheless  I  may  point  out  that  the 
Venetian    authorities    could  probably 


642 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


\ 


find  out  whether  Cabot's  statement  was 
true,  for  the  evidence  was  within  their 
reach;  and  when  engaging  in  intrigues 
with  Venice,  which,  as  he  said,  would 
risk  his  neck,  or  at  any  rate  might  spoil 
his  credit  with  his  Spanish  and  Eng- 
lish employers,  Cabot  would  hardly 
arouse  the  watchful  suspicion  of  the 
council  of  ten  by  a  needless  lie.  Be- 
sides, if  Cabot  was  not  bom  in  Venice, 
to  what  motive  can  we  ascribe  his  desire 
to  benefit  Venice,  at  some  risk  to  him- 
self, by  disclosing  the  secret  he  imagin- 
ed himself  to  possess?  Either  in  Eng- 
land or  iu  Spain  his  high  position  and 
credit  would  have  won  a  readier  hear- 
ing. 

Mr.  Coote  has  not  noticed  that  the 
statements  of  English  birth  are  also 
**su8piciou8.'*  Sebastian's  reasons  for 
claiming  English  citizenship  are  suffi- 
ciently obvious.  The  English  of  that 
time,  if  not  so  exclusive  as  the  Vene- 
tians, were  fully  as  proud  of  their 
nationality,  and  probably  more  inclined 
to  contemn  strangers.  Columbus,  as 
we  know,  found  his  Italian  birth  a  great 
hindrance  among  Spaniards;  and  if 
Sebastian  Cabot  could  avoid  such  diflft- 
culties  by  making  himself  out  Bristol- 
born,  we  know  enough  of  him  to  be 
sure  that  no  petty  question  of  fact  would 
stand  in  the  way  of  his  doii^  so.  And 
English  chroniclws  had  a  very  strong 
motive  for  claiming  Cabot  as  their 
countryman*  On  his  disooveiy  the 
English  claim  to  dominion  in  ^orth 
America  was  often  based,  and  this  was 
clearly  strengthened  by  proving  the  ex- 
plorer to  be  not  only  the  servant  but 
the  born  sabject  of  the  king  of  Eng- 
land. 

But  Contarini's  report  is  not  the  only 
^ne  that  affirms  Cabot's  Venetian 
•birth. 

Why,  if  Mr.  Ooote's  opinion  is  cor- 
rect, did  Sebastian  trouble  to  tdl  a  lie 
to  Peter  Martyr  full  seven  years  before 
tha  intrigue  with  Contarini?  or  what 


motive  could  he  have  for  denying  his 
English  birth  to  Bardolo  of  Mantua, 
between  the  time  when  the  secret  nego- 
tiation with  Venice  was  dropped  in 
Spain  and  the  time  wlien  it  was  taken 
up  agiiin  iji  England? 

So  far,  then,  as  Cabot's  own  assor- 
tions  go  the  Venetian  claim  seems  to  lie 
the  stronger;  but  Sebastian  was  evi- 
dently a  person  whose  birthplace  and 
family  shifted  according  to  circum- 
stances, and  his  unsupported  testimony 
could  not  be  held  to  decide  the  question 
— nun:h  less  the  slight  difference  in 
weight  between  two  bundles  of  conflict- 
ing statements.  In  such  matters  a 
pennyweight  of  fact  is  worth  a  ton  of 
tradition  or  theorv,  and  there  are  two 
facts  which  a  recertain.  On  March  28, 
1476,  John  Cabot  was  naturalized  as  a 
Venetian  citizen,  having  fulfilled  the 
statutory  conditioTi  of  fifteen  years* 
continuous  residence.  And  on  March  5, 
1495-6,  the  right  to  discover  and  occupy 
unknown  lands,  and  to  exercise  juris- 
diction and  monopolize  trade  iu  them, 
was  granted  to  John  Cabot  and  his 
three  sons,  of  whom  Sebastian  is  named 
the  second.  The  four  names  are  men- 
tioned on  the  same  footing,  and  the 
grant  is  co-ordinate  to  all,  which  has 
generally  been  taken  as  proving  that  all 
three  sons  were  legally  major.  There- 
fore Sebastian  must  have  been  born  be- 
fore 1474,  very  possibly  in  1473,  a  date 
which  fits  in  with  whsi  we  know  from 
Richard  Eden  of  Cabot's  later  years. 
John  Cabot* s  wife  was  a  Venetian 
woman,  as  we  loam  from  Lorenzo  Pa«- 
qnaligo's  letter  of  August,  1497,  and 
not  improbably  posses^  proj)erl7  at 
Venice. 

It  seems  to  result  from  these  dates 
that  all  three  of  John  Cabot's  sons  were 
bom  while  their  father  was  still  legally 
domiciled  at  Venice;  and  though  thst 
domicile  might  r^  be  heUd  to  l^  inter- 
rupted by  voyaj?es  of  a  moderate  length, 
soch  as  the  jGenoese  merchant  mast 


EAKLY  EXPLOR4TION»  IN  AMERICA. 


548 


have  made,*  yet  a  removal  to  Bristol  and 
a  sojourn  of  several  years  there,  would 
surely  be  fatal  to  a  claim  for  naturaliza- 
tion. There  remains  therefore  only  the 
supposition  that  Sebastian  may  have 
been  born  at  Bristol  when  John  Cabot 
had  taken  h|8  wife  there  on  a  voyage, 
and  that  the  child  was  left  there  for 
some  years  and  then  taken  back  to 
Venice.  This  is  possible,  but  not  at  all 
probable,  nor  does  it  seem  worth  wliile 
to  strain  jK)8sibility  in  order  to  credit 
the  less  likely  of  tw^  conf  icting  state- 
ments. 

Though  Cubot  must  in  all  probability 
remain,  as  Dr.  Deane  calls  him^  "the 
sphinx  of  American  discovery,"  a  some- 
what nearer  approach  to  certainty  has 
been  made  in  the  no  less  perple:&iug 
case  of  Amerigo  Vespucci.  1  he  strange 
chain  of  events  by  which  the  name  of 
that  navigator  was  affixed  on  tlie  map 
to  the  new  continent,  is  in  itself  as  im- 
probable  as  a  roniance.  Vespucci,  a 
Florentine  pilot,  while  in  the  Portu- 
guese service,  sent  a  letter  to  his  coun- 
tryman and  schoolfellow,  Pioro  Soder- 
iui,  in  1504,  giving  an  account  of  his 
"four"  voyages.  Probably  (as  Mr. 
Major  thinks)  a  copy  of  this  letter  was 
sent  to  Giocondo,  an  Italian  architect 
at  Paris,  who  translated  it  into  French 
and  gave  it  to  his  iiiend  Mathias  King- 
man. Bingman,  returning  to  the  Vos- 
ges  country,  became  professor  of  Latin 
at  St.  Die,  in  the  seminary  set  up  there 
by  Duke  Rene  -of  Lorraine.  Here  the 
letter  of  Vespucci  was  taken  up  by 
Waldzeemiiller,  or  Hylacomylns  as  he 
preferred  to  call  himself,  the  professor 
of  geography,  who  printed  a  Latin  ver- 
sion of  Vespucci's  account  with  a. trea- 
tise of  his  own,  published  in  1507.  In 
this  little  book,  the  Cosmographim 
IntroductiOy  was  first  proposed  the 
name  of  America  or  Amerige  for  the 
continent.     In  1509  another  edition  of 

*  Raimondo  de  SonciDO  sayfi  that  J61m  Oa* 
bci  had  reached  Mecca  on  a  voyage. 


the  work  was  published  at  Strasburg, 
the  press  at  St.  Die  having  been  given 
up;  and  thus  the  name  was  spread 
through  Germany.  At  first  it  was  only 
what  is  now  South  America  that  bore 
the  title,  for  the  northern  parts  of  the 
continent  had  been  named  already,  and 
the  connection  between  north  and  south 
was  only  conjectured.     There  was  ap- 

Earently  no  desire  to  rob  Columbus  of 
is  honors;  but  Vespucd  had  explored 
a  <3onsiderable  part  of  the  new  coast, 
his  narrative  was  interesting  and  gained 
the  ear  of  the  learned,  and  naturally 
thev  united  to  do  him  honor.  With 
some  also,  the  alleged  first  voyage  of 
1497  gave  a  ground  for  applying  Amer- 
igo*s  name  to  the  whole  continent, 
which  the  Spaniards  had  simply  called 
Uerra  firma. 

The  suggestion  of  Waldzeemiiller  was 
taken  up  by  other  German  geogrji- 
phers.  Mapmakers  sometiriies  put  in 
the  new  name.  Schouer  adopted  it  in 
his  first  globe  and  a  d^criptive  treatise. 
The  name  spread  the  more  easily  that 
the  Spaniard[s  had  not  found  any  good 
general  name  for  the  mainland ;  and  by 
the  time  that  nation  woke  up  to  de- 
nounce what  was  taken  as  a  fraud,  the 
mischief  was  done.  Vespucci  had  died 
in  1512,  but  his  name  was  immortal 
Golnmlms,  Columbia,  Colombia,  Colon, 
have  been,  adopted  as  the  names  of  var- 
ious fitates,  districts,  towns,  rivers,  etc., 
but  the  continent  itself  remains  mark 
ed  with  the  title  of  tlie  man  who  did 
Twt  discover  it  first  And,  eoriously^ 
just  as  Vespncoi  had  the  privil^e  of 
naming  the  New  World,  though  only 
one  among  many  explorers,  the  Uniteo 
States,  though  only  one  state  of  cste 
half  of  the  continent,  have  appropriaited 
the  name  of  the  continent  to  them- 
selves in  defiance  of  all  scientific  nomen- 
clature. In  view  of  the  confusion 
which  thi&  often  causes  we  may  feel  a 
certaki .  sympathy  vvith  the  mournful 
creatuie  who  hit  en  the  ^ea  of  calling 


044 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE 


his  country  "Fredouia'*  and  his  fellow- 
citizens  "Fredish,"  under  a  vague  idea 
that  these  words  were  in  some  way  de- 
rived from  * 'freedom.''  There  seem 
to  be  traces  that  these  terrible  names 
had  once  some  vogue.  . 

There  was  already  no  hope  of  sup- 
planting the  new  name  when  men  final- 
ly realized  the  fact  that  the  new  con- 
tinent had  nothing  to  do  with  Asia  and 
tlie  Indies.  Some  writers  about  Co- 
lumbus and  the  New  World  revenged 
themselves  by  denouncing  Vespucci  as 
a  biise  impostor,  who  bad  been  in  some 
way  suborned  by  some  nefarious  con- 
spiracy of  supposed  merchants  to  lay 
claim  to  the  discovery  of  the  mainland 
and  have  his  name  put  to  it.  A  con- 
spiracy of  merchants  to  name  a  conti- 
nent IS  indeed  a  fascinating,  if  rather 
improbable,  notion.  Humboldt  put  an 
end  to  sudi  ideas  by  showing  tnat  the 
naming  of  the  new  land  after  Vespucci 
was  none  of  his  doing,  and  was  not 
practically  adopted  till  after  his  death; 
and  the  researches  of  Major,  D'Avezac, 
and  others  have  further  cleared  up  the 
singular  story.  And  although,  if  we 
disbelieve  in  Amerigo's  first  voyage, 
it  is  hard  to  get  in  his  four  expeditions 
or  to  reconcile  his  accounts  with  known 
facts,  a  good  deal  of  the  conf nsion  may 
be  safely  put  down  not  to  deliberate 
lying,  but  to  the  blunders  of  transla- 
tors, first  from  Italian  or  Spanish-Ital- 
ian into  French,  and  then  from  French 
into  Latin.  On  the  wiiole  we  may  say 
that  tliG  Florentine  was  not  over-modest 
in  his  account  of  his  doings,  and  not 
averse  to  claiming  and  taking  any  un- 
appropriated credit  that  was  going.  Be- 
sides this,  he  seems  to  have  been,  like 
Sebastian  Cabot,  rather  loose  and  apt 
to  vary  in  his  statements.  But  that  he 
in  any  way  deliberately  set  himself  to 
supplant  Columbus  by  a  false  claim  is 
highly  improbable.  So  far,  therefore, 
Emerson's  ''  dishonest  pickle  dealer  "  is 
rehabilitated. 


A  bold  and  ingenious  attempt  to 
vindicate  Vespucci  completely  has  of 
late  revived  interest  in  him.  Baron 
V^arnhagen  maintains  the  accuracy  of 
Amerigo's  account  of  his  fii'st  voyage, 
on  the  hypothesis  that  it  was  to  North 
instead  of  (as  gtnerally  interpreted)  to 
South  America.  This  supposition  cer- 
tainly destroys  some  of  the  objections 
to  Vespucci's  statement,  and  weakens 
even  one  of  the  most  fatal  of,  them, 
namely  the  fact  that  the  Florentine, 
though  he  had  been  Ojeda's  j)ilot  in 
exploring  the  coast  of  the  mainland,  was 
not  called  as  a  witness  in  the  great 
Columbus  lawsuit,  which  was  to  settle 
the  rights  of  the  admiral's  family,  ^'ow 
it  was  the  interest  of  the  Spanish  crown 
to  restrict  these  rights;  and  if  \>spucci 
had  for  the  first  time  discovered  any 
part  of  the  coast  in  the  royal  service  (as 
he  says  he  did),  the  crown  could  ob- 
viously bar  the  claims  of  Diego  Colon 
over  that  coast.  Bui  even  if  the  dis- 
coveries of  Amerigo  had  been  made  in 
the  gulf  of  Mexico,  yet  the  boundaries 
of  the  country  (as  Mr.  Gay  well  points 
out)  were  so  little  known  that  his  testi- 
mony would  still  have  bo2n  useful.  And 
the  entire  absence  of  documents  about 
Vespucci's  first  expedition,  and  even 
(according  to  Mufloz)  the  presence  of 
documents  proving  that  he  was  engaged 
in  fitting  out  ships  for  Columbus  dunng 
the  time  of  the  supposed  voyage,  are 
objections  too  hard  to  overcome.  Most 
writers  therefore  have  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  the  voyage  of  1497  was  a 
myth;  and  this  view  is  taken  by  Mr. 
Gay,  the  author  of  the  essay  on  Ves- 
pucci; by  Mr.  Winsor,  the  editor,  in 
an  elaborate  bibliographical  note;  and 
by  Mr.  Bancroft,  in  a  long  and  ably 
I'easoned  appendix.  The  discoverj  by 
which  the  Florentine  was  thought  to 
have  forestalled  Cabot  must  be  relegat- 
ed to  the  extensive  limbo  of  imaginary 
explorations. 

In  that  limbo  there  is,  perhaps,  no 


EARLY  EXPLORATIONS  IN  AMERICA. 


c: 


more  important,  minutely  mapped,  and 
at  the  same  time  fantastically  varying 
country  than  that  which  includes  the 
famous  kingdom  or  province  of  Anian 
with  the  still  more  famous  strait  of  the 
same  name.  The  history  of  this  strait 
is  remarkable  enough  to  be  worth  set- 
ing  down  briefly,  even  though  the  pro- 
portion of  fact  to  fiction  in  the  narra- 
tive be  of  the  slenderest. 

With  the  discoveries  of  Magellan, 
the  Spanish  exploration  and  conquest 
of  Mexico  and  Central  America,  and 
the  French  occupation  of  Canada,  the 
field  of  imaginary  geography  and  the 
scope  of  fictitious  or  doubtful  voyages 
was  largely  reduced;  but  the  imagina- 
tion long  "found  its  home  in  the  north- 
west and  the  interior  of  North  America, 
The  uncertainty  of  the  coast-line  of  the 
north-west  lasted  down  to  a  singularly 
late  period,  hardly  any  progress  in  ex- 
ploration having  been  made  for  nearly 
two  hundred  years. 

The  reason  for  this  delay  is  obvious. 
Spain,  in  accordance  with  her  accus- 
tomed colonial  policy,  was  playing  the 
dog  in  the  manger.  She  would  not 
enter  in  herself  to  the  undiscovered 
lands,  and  them  that  were  entering  in 
she  hindered;  and  owing  to  her  com- 
mand of  Mexico  and  California,  the 
only  good  bases  for  northern  exploration 
on  the  Pacific  coast,  she  was  able  to 
follow  her  dilatory  plan  out  with  un- 
usual success.  After  the  first  era  of 
conquest  and  plunder  the  fervor  of 
discovery  slackened.  Spain  was  im- 
mersed in  European  politics;  she  aspired 
to  be  the  head  of  the  nations,  acting 
with  the  empire  under  Charles  V.,  and 
alone  under  Philip  II.  Hence,  though 
exploration  was  still  undertaken,  it  was 
chiefly  with  a  view  to  the  profit  of  the 
Spanish  crown;  and  when  the  limits  of 
profitable  discovery  seemed  to  have  been 
reached,  the  government  settled  down 
to  devote  its  decaying  energies  to  ex- 
tracting the  largest  possible  profits  out 


of  tht  colonies  for  the  support  of  Spain's 
interminable  wars. 

Yet,  what  the  Spaniards  did  not 
want  for  themselves,  tney  most  emphati- 
cally refused  to  allow  others  to  take; 
and  in  the  face  of  their  constant  hostility 
no  colony  could  well  be  established  on 
the  Pacific  coast,  considering  the  pre- 
carious state  of  communication  by  sea. 
So  the  no\th-west  coast  was  left  to  the 
chance  explorations  of  Spaniards  or 
those  who  came  to  plunder  them,  and 
neither  had  much  inducement  to  push 
northward  or  inland. 

The  void  thus  left  was  filled  up  by 
the  more  or  less  ingenious  conjectures 
of  mapmakers  and  cosmographers.  Some 
of  their  minor  delusions — so  great  is  the 
power  of  printed  error  —  lasted  longer 
than  one  could  expect,  &id  showed  in 
some  cases  a  singular  power  of  resurrec* 
tion.  The  belief  in  an  Isthmian  strait 
was  soon  given  up;  but  the  supposed 
insularity  of  Lower  California  was  a 
singularly  durable  mistake,  the  more 
remarkable  because  it  crooped  up  agaiu 
after  the  peninsula  had  been  credited 
with  its  proper  form. 

But  the  most  fertile  source  of  con jeo* 
ture,  the  delight  of  romantic  Explorers 
and  the  despair  of  science,  was  the 
famous  strait  of  Anian.  This  name^ 
which  haunted  the  maps  of  two  centu- 
ries, embodied  two  separate  ideas, 
though  at  first,  doubtless,  the  two  were 
one.  It  was  the  passage  through  which 
men  might  sail  from  Atlantic  to  Pacific,, 
and  it  was  also  the* strait  cutting  ofi^ 
America  from  Asia.  These  two  were  orm 
in  the  opinion  of  those  who  conceived  the 
northern  part  of  North  America  to  be  a 
prolongation  of  Asia,  and  the  straiti 
that  separated  it  from  the  central  pact 
to  be  the  highway  to  India  and  Cathay; 
but  from  the  time  when  the  real  distai^e 
between  America  and  Asia  began  to  be 
known,  the  name  of  Anian  waans-ually, 
though  by  no  means  always,  restrir'  I 
to  the  supposed  strait  between  Aisia  iw.i 


546 


THE  LIBRAliY  MAGAZINE. 


the  new  continent.  The  north-west 
passrtge  had  several  names  given  to  it, 
and,  in  fact,  varied  with  the  fancy  of 
inventive  mariners  and  the  conjecture 
of  ingenious  chartographers. 

The  derivation  of  the  word  **  Anian  *' 
is  obscure;  but  it  seems  to  have  come 
from  some  name  given  to  the  extreme 
north-east  part  of  Asia;  and  this  name 
has  been  vaguely  ascribed  to  Marco 
Polo.  That  the  title  first  appeared  on 
the  Asiatic  side  of  the  strait  (though  it 
afterward  settled  on  the  other)  is  almost 
certain,  for  it  is  hardly  credible  that  a 
mapmaker  would  put  an  entirely  imag- 
inary name  to  an  entirely  unknown  part 
of  a"  new  continent.  And  if  Asiastic, 
the  name, -being  applied  to  the  north- 
east part  of  the  Chinese  empire,  would 
almost  inevitably  be  taken  from  Marco 
Polo.  But  the  word  "  Anian  "  is  no- 
where mentioned  by  the  Venetian. 
HovV,  then,  did  this  "  Anian  regnum," 
"  Anian  provincia,  "  come  to  make  its 
appearance  on  the  map  ? 

rurchas  gives  "  Anian  "  as  an  island 
off  the  Chinese  coast,  probably  a  cor- 
ruption of  Hainan;  and  Polo  mentions 
a  province  of  Anifi,  variously  read  in 
some  editions  as  Amu  or  A7iiu,  and 
placed  by  Colonel  Yule  in  Yunnan. 
This,  then,  moved  far  north  by  some 
mapmakers,  may  account  for  *'  Anian 
provincia; "  but  what  is  "  Anian  res- 
num?"  How  were  geographers  able 
to  settle  the  political  organization  of 
this  unexplored  land  ? 

In  Marco  Vo\o\  gravels,  an  account 
is  given  of  a  prince  named  Nayan  or 
Naian,  a  relative  of  Kublai  Khan,  who 
made  war  on  the  khan  and  was  captured 
and  put  to  death  after  one  of  Messer 
Marco's  stock  battles.  Now  Nayan's 
dominions  were  probably  near  Sorea 
and  in  about  the  position  where  the 
later  geographers  placed  their  strait; 
and  if  one  mapmaker  had  put  in  **  Reg- 
num  Naian  "  in  the  north-east  of  the 
great  khan's  dominions,  the  subsequent 


transposition  into  *^ Anian"  is  not  un- 
likely, and  would  be  helped  by  the 
actual  names  of  Anin,  Hainan,  or  even 
Annam.  I  give  this  conjecture  for 
what  it  is  worth,  which  is,  not  impro- 
bably, very  little.  In  any  case  the 
derivation,  whatever  it  was,  was  soon 
confused  by  a. supposed  connection  with 
some  explorer  A  nus  (Toi*  Joao)  Cortercal, 
who  again  was  confounded  with  the 
earlier  and  more  authentic  Cortereala, 
till  a  whole  galaxy  of  fictions  had  from 
the  first  clustered  round  the  famous 
straits.  The  strait  of  Anian  first  ap- 
pears in  1566  in  Zaltieri's  map;  Anian 
itself  as  a  state  or  country  is  not  men- 
tioned there.  Mercator's  map  of  15G9 
puts  the  name  on  the  American  side; 
Furlani,  in  1574.  on  the  Asiatic.  Evi- 
deittly  it  was  a  matter  of  little  moment 
on  which  side  this  roving  kingdom  was 
ultimately  to  settle. 

But,  with  this  exception ,  the  concep- 
tion of  the  position  of  Anian  and  its 
strait  was  for  the  most  part  rational  and 
tolerably  consistent.  The  severance  was 
made  between  the  north-east  of  Asia  and 
the  north-west  of  North  America,  and  in 
almost  the  same  position,  as  a  rule,  as 
the  actual  Behring's  straits.  Some 
maps,  however,  after  the  Dutch  voyages 
to  Japan,  filled  up  the  sea  between  Asia 
and  America  witli  a  land  of  Jesso,  ap- 
parently a  distoriion  of  the  Aleutian 
island  and  the  iieninsula  of  Alaska. 
Geographical  guessing  sometimes  went 
strikingly  near  the  truth.  The  map  of 
Conrad  Low,  1598,  is  singularly  accu- 
rate, or  rather  lucky,  in  its  rivers,  lakes 
and  general  configuration.  This  coin- 
cidence has  not  yet  been  used  to  support 
the  fictitious  voyages  of  this  or  that 
mariner  who  represented  himself  as  hav- 
ing discovered  the  strait;  but  Mr.  Ban- 
croft remarks  ironically  that  he  fully 
expects  it  will  be  so  used.  Certainly 
the  resemblance  of  Lows  map  to  the 
real  coast  is  far  more  striking  than  that 
of  Juan  de  Fuoa's  description;  yet  the 


EARLY  EXPLORATIONS  IN"  A:'rERICA. 


547 


Greek  pilot's  name  remains  attached  to  a 
strait  which  in  all  probability  he  never 
saw. 

The  Greek  was  the  most  distinguish- 
ed and  the  best  believed  of  the  paper 
discoverers  of  the  north-west,  but  he  was 
oiily  one  among  many.  The  strait  of 
Anian,  separating  Asia  from  America, 
was  not  of  such  great  imix)rtance,  and 
the  further  north  it  was  removed  the 
less  i  ts  configuration  mattered.  But  the 
north-west  passage  through  the  contin- 
ent — this  was  inquired  after  eagerly  as 
giving  a  short  sea  voyage  to  India, 
China,  and  Japan.  It  was,  in  fact,  a  dis- 
covery of  mucli  obvious  and  immediate 
profit  if  it  could  have  been  made;  and  ac- 
cordingly the  number  of  those  who  had 
seen  che  strait,  or  at  least  one  end  of  it, 
or  had  even  sailed  through  it,  was  large. 
Not  a  needy  explorer  but  had  passed  the 
strait  himself  or  seen  some  one  who  had 
done  so.  The  north-west  passage  was  as 
commonly  seen  as  the  sea-serpent  in 
modem  times.  The  Spaniards,  though 
they  no  longer  cared  to  explore  the  strait 
for  themselves,  still  wished  to  close  it 
to  their  rivals;  and  hence,  on  one  side 
or  the  other,  the  sailor  who  told  a  plausi- 
ble story  was  likely  to  obtain  a  hearing. 
The  reports  of  these  inventive  mariners, 
adopted  and  developed  by  the  reasonings 
of  men  of  science,  probably  gave  rise  to 
the  wonderful  maps  which  depicted  the 
north-west.  Charts  usually  gave  the 
coasts  already  explored,  and  left  the  rest 
blank;  but  the  cosmo^rapl^er  scorned 
such  ignorance.  Especially  did  the  lat- 
ter s^etn  set  against  the  belief  in  any  great 
extent  of  land  unbroken  by  sea.  iTorth 
America  was  often  represented  as  a  mere 
shell  of  land,  straggling  in  the  wildest 
way  between  the  known  points — Mexico, 
Florida,  and  "  Bacalaos,'^*as  Newfound- 
land and  the  neighboring  parts  were 
called.  Through  this  hypotlietical  con- 
tinent there  must  be  at  least  one  strait, 
and  some  geographers  made  several,  and 
«Yen  broke  up  Canada  into  iBlands. 


Juan  de  Fuca  is  in  hardly  any  respect 
to  be  distinguished  from  the  other 
romancing  pilots  of  his  time,  so  far  as 
his  narrative  goes.  In  1596  he  told 
Michael  Lok,  an  Englishman,  at  Ven- 
ice, that  he  had  been  for  forty  years  in 
the  Spanish  service,  and  while  so  en- 
gaged had  been  plundered  by  Cavendish. 
Having  thus  aroused  sympathy,  Fuca 
went  on  to  say  that,  while  on  an  explor- 
ing expedition  in  1592,  he  had  found 
a  broad  inlet  between  47°  and  48°  noi*th, 
and  entered  it,  and  thus  found  the 
passage  to  the  "  North  Sea,"  as  the 
North  Atlantic  was  called,  in  opposition 
to  the  **  South  Sea"  or  Pacific.  The 
passage  was  ftiirty  or  forty  leagues  wide 
at  first,  and  wider  further  on,  with 
** divers  islands"  in  it.  There  was  a 
great  pinnacle  of  rock  near  the  en- 
trance. The  land  trended  north  and 
east  in  the  main;  it  was  rich  in  gold, 
silver,  and  pearls,  and  the  natives  wore 
skins.  Fuca  could  get  no  reward  from 
Spain,  and  at  last  resorted  to  the  En- 
glish authorities,  hoping  that  Elizabeth 
would  repay  the  money  taken  by  Caven- 
dish, and  provide  a  ship  to  discover  the 
strait.  Failing  to  get  a  favorable  answer 
from  England,  Juan  de  Fuca,  alias 
Apostolos  Valerianus,  left  Venice  for 
his  native  Cephalonia,  where,  after  more 
correspondence  with  Lok,  he  seems  to 
have  died  about  1602. 

It  is  ^ot  too  much  to  say  that  the 
statement  just  summarized  has  every 
internal  mark  of  falsehood .  It  contains 
absolutely  nothing  that  could  not  have 
been  guessed;  and  on  several  points 
much  better  guesses  were  made  by 
others.  We  have  seen  that  conjectural 
maps  sometimes  approached  the  actual 
configuration  of  tne  coast  very  nearly 
and  a  pilot's  guess  might  well  turn  out 
to  be  as  happy  as  a  geographer's.  Every 
ambitious  sailor's  story  must  differ  from 
those  of  his  predecessors;  and  by  boxing 
the  compass  of  falsehood,  the  tnith 
might  often  be  accidently  stated.    There 


648 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


is  not  a  scrap  of  evidence  in  any  archives 
to  corroborate  Fuca's  statements;  and 
the  idea  that  the  Spaniards  willfully 
neglected  to  explore  a  land  rich  in  gold, 
silver,  and  pearls  is  highly  improbable. 
Ill  that  search  they  were  never  backward. 

Further,  as  Mr.  Bancroft  points  out, 
Fuca's  description  does  not  fit  the  coast 
with  flny  accuracy.  It  has  been  sup- 
posed by  his  advocates  that  he  went  into 
the  strait  which  now  bears  hisriame.  be- 
tween  Vancouver  Island  and  the  main- 
laud,  and  sailed  round  th«  island.  Th6 
strait  is  only  about  a  degree  wrong  in 
latitude  in  Fuca's  a<3C0unt,  but  it  is 
only  twenty  miles  broad  at  the  mouth 
instead  of  thirty  leagues,  and  grows 
narrower.  Fuca's  pinnacle  ^^Hedland 
or  Hand"  is  not  to  be  found,  though 
Meares  thought  he  had  seen  something 
that  would  do  for  it;  and  the  direction 
of  the  strait  is  entirely  different  from 
the  course  which  the  Greek  said  he 
took.  As  for  the  gold,  silver,  and 
pearls,  that  was  the  flourish  of  a  pros- 
pectus. Gold  there  is  in  British  Co- 
lumbiai,  no  doubt;  but  what  was  known 
of  it  then?  and  what  of  silver  and 
pearls? 

However,  the  Greek  pilot  has  had 
good  fortune.  His  name  has  been  put 
to  a  strait  which  he  probably  never  en- 
tered and  certainly  never  explored. 
The  American  advocates  on  the  Oregon 
question  took  up  his  claim,  as  giving 
to  Spain,  and  hence  by  cession  to  the 
United  States,  rights  extending  far  up 
the  north-west  coast.  Hence  a  sort  of 
official  belief  in  him  was  held  by  many. 
Meares  had  already  given  the  Greek's 
name  to  the  strait  south  of  Vancouver 
Island,  and  one  more  name  was  added 
to  the  list  of  the  conquests  of  imagina- 
tion. Juan  de  Fuca's  strait  is  not, 
alter  all,  out  of  place  in  a  continent 
named  after  Amengo  Vespucci. 

Fuca,  afi  already  mentioned,  was  only 
one  of  a  crowd  of  discoverers  whose 
f  oats  are  reported  with  a  certain  dry 


humor  by  Mr.  Bancroft,  and  at  less 
length  in  Mr.  Winsor's  History,  The 
north-west  passage  was  the  most  popular 
subject  of  inquiry.  Either  the  naviga- 
tor had  himself  discovered  and  passed 
the  strait,  or  if  he  were  modest,  and 
confined  himself  to  observing  an  inlet 
or  the  mouth  of  a  river,  geographers  at 
once  supplied  the  defect.  Aguilar  in 
1603  saw,  or  thought  he  saw,  a  river 
mouth,  and  this  was  at  once  taken  to 
be  the  strait  of  Anian  and  the  way  to 
the  mysterious  city  of  Quivira,  which 
had  long  ago  been  found  by  Coronado 
to  be  a  mere  Indian  wigwam  town. 
Native  rumors  of  great  lakes  and  rivers 
and  cities  added  to  the  zeal  and  stimu- 
lated the  ingenuity  of  mapmakers. 
Names  were  placed  in  profusion  in  the 
undiscovered  parts. 

Maldonado  in  1609  claimed  to  have 
passed  the  strait  of  Anian  in  1688.  thus 
forestalling  or  rather  aniedaiing  Fuca. 
He  also  has  found  believers,  though 
his  strait,  being  described  in  more  de- 
tail, is  more  hopelessly  wrong  than  the 
Greek's.  The  work  of  dissecting 
America  on  paper  went  merrily  on. 
The  discoveries  of  Admiral  Fonte  or 
Fuente  in  1640  broke  up  the  interior 
intc  archipelagos  and  lakes,  and  proved 
that  there  was  no  passage.  The  man 
was  probably,  and  his  voyages  certainly, 
a  myth,  and  not  nearly  so  well  con- 
structed a  myth  as  the  geographical 
fictions  of  Poe.  But  Fuente's,  or  his 
inventor's,  discoveries  gave  rise  to  the 
theory  of  a  huge  fresh  or  salt  lake  'n 
the  interior,  through  which,  probably, 
the  north-west  passage  led.  This  theon' 
was  strengthened  by  vague  Indian  re- 
ports of  the  great  lakes  and  rivers  of 
the  north.  The  internal  sea  lasted 
down  to  the  very  time  when  Russian 
and  English  ezplox#*8  joined  hands 
on  the  coast,  and  ended  the  reign  of 
mystery.  The  whole  story  is  a  proof 
of  the  singular  permanence  of  tradi- 
tional error  in  the  face  of  reason  and 


PRESERVATION  OF  FOOD  AKD  PREVENTION  OF  DISEASE. 


549 


sense,  the  continuance  for  centuries  of 
an  attitude  of  mind  that  saw  in  every 
unexplored  inlet  ou  one  side  of  a  con- 
tinent a  communication  with  every  nn* 
explored  inlet  on  the  other. — Arthur 
K.  Ropes,  in  T/ie  English  Historical 
Rtvieio, 


PRESERVATION  OF  FOOD  AND 
PREVENTION  OF  DISEASE. 

Putrefaction,  it  appears,  is  invari- 
ably the  work  of  living  organisms, 
which  exist  as  an  impurity  in  the 
atmosphere,  an  impurity  everywhere 
present,  but  an  impurity  which  can 
readilv  be  removed  by  filtration,  or  de- 
stroyed  by  heat,  or  rendered  inert,  for 
the  time  being,  by  cold  near  to  the 
freezing  point.  Contagious  disease, 
also,  is  due  to  the  work  of  living 
organisms;  indeed,  one  almost  feels 
warranted  in  these  days  in  saying  of  it 
too,  is  invariably  due  to  the  work  of 
living  organisms,  wliich  may  be  dis- 
seminated tiirough  the  air  and  in  various 
other  ways,  and  which  can  be  rendered 
inoperative  by  several  means. 

While  putrefaction,  is  invaluable  in 
breaking  down  useless  masses  of  organic 
material  into  their  inorganic  constitu- 
ents, with  their  endless  possibilities  of 
reconstruction  and  revivification,  it  be- 
comes undesirable  when  it  attacks  the 
material  of  man's  food.  From  very 
early  times  various  expedients  were 
adopted  to  prevent  the  putrefaction  of 
food  stuffs.  Drying,  the  use  of  chemi- 
cal agents,  and  the  application  of  cold, 
as  means  to  preserve  food,  are  all  mat- 
ters of  ancient  history.  Yet  no  method 
seems  to  have  been  extensively  adopted 
till  quite  recent  times.  But  with  the 
development  of  ocean  navigation  and 
voyages  of  discovery  the  necessity  of 
adopting  some  reliable  methods  became 
the  spur  to  invention.     The  method  of 


drying  was  too  coarse  in  its  results; 
chemical  means  were  not  desirable, 
from  the  point  of  view  of  the  palate. 
Salt,  used  for  such  purposes  from  the 
earliest  times,  which  rendered  the  meat 
hard  and  indigestible,  as  well  as  less 
nutritious  by  extracting  some  of  the 
nutritive  juices  of  the  meat,  proved  it- 
self to  possess  more  fatal  objections  to 
the  long  voyager,  when  out  of  an  expe- 
dition of  961  men  626  were  lost  by 
scurvy,  the  attendant  of  a  diet  too  abun- 
dant m  salt  junk  and  destitute  of  fresh 
provisions.  How.  urgent  became  the 
demand  for  better  methods  is  evident 
from  the  fact  that  while  in  the  seven- 
teenth century  only  one  patent  for  the 
preservation  of  food  was  described,  and 
only  three  in  the  eighteenth,  as  many 
as  117  were  specified  in  the  first  fifty- 
five  years  of  the  present  century,  and 
since  then  they  have  been  very  numer- 
ous. Some  of  these  were  for  drying 
processes,  such  as  that  by  which  Liebig's 
Extract  of  Meat,  Hassal's  Flour  of 
Meat,  Blumenthal  and  Chollet's  Meat 
and  Vegetable  Tablets,  etc. ,  are  prepar- 
ed; others  were  for  chemical  processes, 
such  as  the  emjiloyment  of  sulphurous 
acid  or  carbonic  oxide  gas,  or  the  injec- 
tion of  meat  with  chemical  agents. 
The  chief  patents,  as  now  appears,  were 
those  which  proposed  to  exclude  the 
atmospheric  air  or  to  employ  cold. 
One  method  (Plowden^s,  1807)  propos- 
ed to  exclude  the  air  by  iucrusting  the 
meat  with  some  substance  which  would 
resist  the  action  of  the  air,  and  the  sub- 
stance used  was  a  hot  extract  of  meat; 
another  proposed  to  coat  the  meat  with 
impermeable  varnish.  These  failed, 
and  now  we  know  the  reason.  It  is 
not  the  air  in  itself  that  effects  the  nox- 
ious change,  but  the  living  germs  de- 
posited from  it.  These  already  would 
be  deposited  on  the  meat  before  the 
coating  was  applied,  and  under  cover 
of  the  impermeable  coating  could  calm- 
ly proceed  with  their  'ravages.    Augus- 


550 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


tns  de  Heine,*in  1810,  proposed  to  place 
the  food  in  closed  vessels,  and  then  to  | 
withdraw  the  air  through  a  valvular 
aperture  by  a  special  exhausting  ap- 
paratus.    That  metliod,  too,  was  found 
to  fail  for  similar  reasons.     In   1807, 
however,  J.  Saddington,  London,  pro- 
posed to  preserve  fniits  without  sugar 
by  placing  them  in  bottles,  driving  air 
out  of  the  bottles  by  heat,  filling  tliem 
up  with  boiling  water,  and  then  tightly 
corking  them.     The  bottles  filled  with 
fruit  to  the  neck  were  placed    in   a 
water-bath,    the  water  of    which  was 
gradually  heated  up  to  one  hundred  and 
seventy  degrees  Fahrenheit.     Then  the 
boiling  water  was  poured  in.     For  his 
method  Saddington  received  a  premium 
from  the  Society  of  Arts.     Three  years 
later,  in  1810,  a  Frenchman,  Appert, 
applied  the  method  to  meat,  vegetables, 
'^uit,  and  milk,  receiving  as  the  reward 
of  his  labors   12.000  francs  from  the 
French  Government.     Appert  first  par- 
tially cooked  his  provisions.     He  then 
placed  them    in  strong  bottles,  which 
lie  filled  up  to  the  neck.     The  bottles 
were  then  well  corked,  and  the  corks 
were  covered  with  aluting  of  cheese  and 
powdered  lime,  which  he  said  rapidly 
hardened,  and  wjis  then  able  to  resist 
the  action  of  boiling  water.     The  bot« 
ties  were  then  wrapped  in  coarse  can- 
vas bags  and  placed  up  to  the  neck  in 
a  boiler  of  cola  water.     The  boiler  was 
covered  and  heat  applied  till  the  water 
boiled.      It   was    kept  boiling  for  an 
hour  or  more.      The   heat   was    then 
withdrawn,  the  water  drawn  off,   and 
the  bottles  allowed  to  cool.     **ln  every 
case,"  says  Appert,  *'the  exclusion  of 
air  is  a  precaution  of  the  utmost  impor- 
tance to  the  success  of  the  operation; 
and  in  order  to  deprive  alimentary  sub- 
stances of  contact  with  the  air  a  perfect 
knowledge  of  bottles  and  the  vessels  to 
be  used,  of  corks  and  corking  is  requis- 
ite." 
Now,  though  Appert's  method  has 


proved  of/ immense  practical  value,  his 
explanation  of  it  has  been  proved  quite 
erroneous.  For  air  may  be  admitted 
in  abundance  to  organic  solids  and 
fluids  without  exciting  putrefaction 
provided  the  organic  impurities  have 
been  previously  removed  from  the  air 
by  filtration,  and  substances  which 
have  been  submitted  to  the  operation 
of  boiling  are  as  eligible  sites  for  the 
work  ot  decomposition  as  those  that 
have  not  been  boiled.  It  is  not  the 
oxygen  of  the  air  that  is  the  exciter  of 
putrefaction,  but  the  living  organisms. 
It  was  not  the  expulsion  of  air  produc- 
ed by  the  boiling,  for  even  that  was  not 
properly  effected,  that  preserved  the 
food  stuffs,  it  was  the  destruction  by 
the  heat  of  the  living  things;  and  it 
was  not  the  continued  exclusion  of  the 
air  in  itself  by  sealing,  etc.,  that  main 
tained  the  preserved  condition,  but 
the  barrier  tnus  set  up  to  the  access  of 
a  new  supply  of  active  organisms. 
Enormous  quantities  of  all  sorts  of  ali- 
mentary substances  are  now  preserved 
for  indefinite  periods  by  methods  simi- 
lar to  that  of  Appert,  greatly  improved 
in  its  details.  The  substances  to  be 
preserved  are  packed  in  tins;  a  small 
quantity  of  water  is  added.  The  covers 
are  carefully  soldered  on  the  tins,  aud 
in  such  cover  is  made  a  small  pin-hole. 
The  tin«  are  then  placed,  up  to  a  short 
distance  from  the  covers,  in  "baths" 
of  water,  to  which  chloride  of  calcium 
has  been  added.  The  addition  of  the 
chloride  raises  the  boiling  point  to  be- 
tween two  hundred  and  sixty  degrees 
and  two  hundred  and  seventy  degrees, 
and  thus  insures  a  greater  degree  of 
heat  than  could  be  obtained  by  water 
only.  The  bath  is  kept  boiling  for 
some  time,  till  the  issue  of  steam  from 
the  pin-holes  insures  the  expulsion  of 
air  from  the  tins.  Solder  is  then  drop- 
ped on  the  pin-hole,  and  the  tins  thus 
tightly  sealed.  They  are  then  com- 
pletely immersed  for  some  «ime  in  the 


PRESERVATION  OF  FOOD  AND  PREVENTION  OF  DISEAttE. 


651 


hot  bath,  and  after  being  removed  are 
placed  in  chambers  kept  at  the  degree 
of  temperature  most  favoi'able  to  putre- 
faction. There  they  remain  for  some 
time.  If  decomposition  ensues  in  any 
of  the  tins  it  is  evidenced,  by  the  bulging 
of  the  sides,  owing  to  the  pressure  of 
the  gases  of  putrefaction.  If  the  food 
remains  sound  the  top  and  bottom  of 
each  tin  should  be  concave,  pre&sed  in- 
ward by  the  atmospheric  pressure  out- 
side and  tlie  diminished  pressure,  owing 
to  the  partial  vacuum,  within.  If  the 
soldering  gives  way  at  any  part  of  the 
tin,  or  if  in  course  of  transit,  by  bad 
usagtt  and  so  on,  a  crack  be  opened  in 
the  casing,  or  the  point  of  a  nail  driven 
in,  or  if  by  the  action  of  weather,  damp, 
etc.,  the  paint  coating  of  the  tin  having 
bec#me  rubbed  off,  the  metal  has  been 
eaten  into,  air  will  effect  an  entrance 
with  a  rush,  carrying  germs  of  putre- 
faction with  it.  Thus,  a  tin  apparent- 
ly sound  may  on  being  opened  reveal 
putrid  contents.  Search  will  likely 
discover  the  secret  pathway  of  the 
enemy.  That  the  process  is,  however, 
an  eminently  satisfactory  one  so  far  as 
preservation  is  concerned,  is  shown  by 
tbe  fact  that  stores  of  tinned  meats 
landed  on  the  beach  of  Prince  Regent's 
Inlet  from  the  wreck  of  H.M.S.  Fury  in 
1825  were  found  twenty-four  years  later 
in  a  perfect  state  of  preservation  By 
the  captain  of  H.M.S.  investigatory  and 
tliat  in  spite  of  exposure  to  extremes 
of  weather. 

Within  recent  years  the  agency  of 
cold  has  been  invoked  on  a  very  exten- 
sive scale  for  the  preservation  of  food.. 
A  patent  was  taken  out  by  John  Lings 
in  1845  for  employing  ice  in  closed 
chambers  to  reduce  the  temperature  to 
a  proper  degree.  If  a  sufficient  degree 
of  cold  is  obtained  the  activity  of  the 
organism  of  putrefaction  is,  arrested, 
though  the  organisms  are  not  destroy- 
ed. On  the  restoration  of  a  normal 
temperature  they  become  as  active  as 


ever.  Following  Ling'^  patent,  others 
were  taken  out  for  obtaining  the  requis- 
ite low  temperature  by  the  evaporation 
of  ammonia  and  ether.  The  invention 
of  machines  for  the  artificial  production 
of  ice  gave  an  impetus  to  the  employ- 
ment of  ice  for  preserving  food  for  con- 
siderable periods.  During  the  winter 
of  1875-76  large  quantities  of  beef ,  mut- 
ton and  fish  were  Drought  from  America 
preserved  by  ice.  An  effort,  made  in 
1873,  to  bring  meat  from  Australia 
preserved  in  this  way,  failed  because 
the  supply  of  ice  gave  out  before  the 
end  of  the  voyage. 

It  seenied  as  if  there  was  little  pros- 
pect of  a  trade  in  fresh  meat  being 
opened  up  between  this  country  and  so 
distant  quarters  of  the  globe  i;s  Austra- 
lia. But  in  1879,  Mr.  J.  J.  Coleman, 
of  Glasgow,  went  out  to  New  York  with 
a  Bell-Coleman  air-refrigerating  ma- 
chine, and  proved  that  food  could  be 
preserved  for  long  periods  by  the  agency 
of  air  cooled  by  mechanical  means. 
This  Bell-Coleman  machine  is  a  re- 
markable example  of  the  practical 
working-out  of  advanced  scientific 
theory.  Its  construction  is  based  on 
the  principles  of  thermo-dynamics,  that 
when  air  is  compressed  heat  is  evolved, 
and  that,  if  this  compressed  air  be  then 
allowed  to  expand  and  be  caused,  in 
the  act  of  expansion,  to  do  work,  a 
large  amount  of  heat  disappears.  The 
machine,  worked  by  steam,  sucks  in  a 
certain  quantity  of  air  and  compresses 
it  to  a  pressure  of  50  to  CO  pounds  to 
the  inch.     The  air  in  the  act  of  com- 

Eression  becomes  very  hot:  it  is  cooled 
y  the  injection  of  cold  water.  Tbe 
cold  compressed  air  is  now  driedl  by 
being  passed  through  a  set  of  h<;>rii;&?aQtal 
pipes,  and  is  then  allowed  to.  expand 
behind  a  piston,  which,  it  pi*>pe1s  in 
the  act  01  expansion..  In:  \h»  act  of 
doing  work  the  expandijng^ aiSr-  becomes 
cooled  "as  much  as  50v.  3lOQ'>  «nd  200 
degrees  below  freezing  |fi^^  ^cordinje; 


CoS 


THE  LIBRART  MAGAZINE. 


to  the  amoniit  of  previous  compres- 
sion." The  cooled  air  is  passed  into 
the  ehamber  containing  the  provisions, 
and  the  temperature  of  the  air  in  the 
chamber  can  be  kept  by  the  machine 
at  a  constant  low  temperature  for  any 
length  of  time.  Wit h  such  machin  es  no 
previous  packing  of  the  meat  is  requir- 
ed. The  carcases  are  cut  up  into  quar- 
ters or  other  convenient  sizes,  placed 
in  calico  bags,  and  packed  in  the  freez- 
ing chamber. 

It  has  been  noticed  that  frozen  meat 
spoils  more  quickly  after  it  has  been 
thawed  than  ordinary  meat.  This  is 
probably  due  to  the  fact  that  the  pro- 
cess of  freezing  separates  Out  water 
which  formed  part  of  the  tissues,  and 
that,  on  thawing,  the  water  is  not  taken 
up  again  into  the  substance  of  tlie  tis- 
sues, but  remains  simply  moistening 
them.  The  meat  being  thus  in  a  more 
moist  and  soft  condition  permits  of 
more  rapid  development  and  propaga- 
tion of  organisms.  If  frozen  meat  be 
thawed  very  slowly,  however,  the  moist 
condition  is  not  so  marked  and  the 
meat  will  remain  longer  in  good  condi- 
tion. 

But  it  is  in  reference  to  the  question 
of  the  prevention  of  disease  that  the 
knowledge  now  possessed  of  the  agency 
of  organized  bodies  in  disease  becomes.of 
the  utmost  significance.  The  methods 
of  preserving  food  have  reached  the 
perfection  they  now  possess  practically 
independently  of  any  such  knowledge, 
while  the  possibility  of  preventing  con- 
tagious disease  to  any  extent  is  really 
dependent  upon  the  facts  which  science 
can  and  must  yet  elucidate.  The  pos- 
sibility of  inoculating  against  measles, 
ficarlec  fever,  typhoid  fever,  yellow 
fever,  malarial  fever,  etc.,  as  is  now 
«done  against  «mall-pox,  is  the  golden 
'dream  of  the  enthusiastic  student  of 
i bacteria.  He  suggests  that  the  day 
^«will  come  when  the  traveler,  before  he 
UBtarts  abroad^  will  go  to  his  physici^. 


and,  informing  him  of  liis  intended 
destination,  will  request  to  be  protected 
against  any  contagious  diseases  that 
may  prevail  in  that  quarter. 

This  is  the  dream  of  the  enthusiast. 
But  there  are  many  practical  truths 
capable  of  daily  application  taught 
by  the  view  of  contagion  dependent  on 
the  discovery  and  life-history  of  germs. 
Supposing  this  view  to  be  strictly  and 
entirely  correct,  it  is  plain  that  any  one 
suffering  from  a  contagious  disease  is 
the  sphere  of  activity  of  micro-organ- 
isms which  are  nlultiplyiug  in  his  body. 
They  have  not  by  some  strange  chance 
arisen  anew  there,  but  have  gained  ac- 
cess from  without.  They  have  had 
parents  like  to  them.  The  germs  that 
attack  one  man  are  the  progeny  of 
others  which  have  conducted  similar 
raids  on  a  previous  victim.  Gaining 
access  to  a  human  body,  they  multiply 
and  are  cjist  off  by  various  channels, 
some  by  the  skin,  some  perchance  in 
the  breath,  others  by  the  way  of  the  in- 
testinal canal,  and  if,  thus  cast  upon 
the  world,  they  are  fortunate  enough 
to  light  upon  another  host,  they  will 
speedily  take  up  their  abode  with  him. 
And  while  the  channels  by  which  a  liv- 
ing multitude  of  disease  germs  may  be 
cast  off  from  one  person's  body  are 
thus  numerous,  the  means  by  which 
tTiey  may  be  distributed  to  olhei*s  are 
as  inexhaustible  as  are  "the  resources 
of  civilization."  They  may  gain  en- 
trance to  the  body  in  air,  in  food,  in 
drink;  they  may  be  carried  about  on 
one's  clothes;  they  may  be  harbored  un- 
der one's  thumb-nail;  a  hostess  may 
dispense  them  with  her  hospitalitv;  a 
friend  may  impart  them  by  a  tiss. 
One  man's  body  may  thus  be  the  breed- 
ing-ground of  a  disease  for  a  whole 
community. 

It  becomes,  therefore,  a  question  of 
the  utmost  importance  for  science  to 
answer  how  best  these  unwelcome  in- 
vaders of  a  community  may  be  arrested 


MR.  LOWELL'S  ADDRESSES. 


553 


or  destroyed  at  the  very  outset  of  their 
career.  Of  course  it  is  possible  to  sep- 
arate an  individual  suffering  from  a 
contagious  disease  from  his  fellows  so 
that  they  may  run  no  risk.  But  then, 
as^we  have  seen,  germs  are  not  neces- 
sarily short-lived.  They  have  not 
necessarily  ceaseor  to  exist  when  the 
individual/  on  whom  they  have  spent 
their  force,  is  once  more  able  to  return 
to  society,  and  a  guarantee  is  needed 
that  he  does  not  carry  back  with  him 
the  active  agents  of  the  contagion. 
It  is  to  give  this  guarantee  that  all  the 
methods  of  disinfection  are  employed, 
by  which  steps  are  taken  to  destroy  the 
disease  germs  Jis  soon  as  possible  after 
they  have  separated  from  the  person's 
body.  It  can  easily  be  seen  that  if 
this  is  t.0  be  of  any  use,  it  must  be  very 
thoroughly  performed,  the  patient's 
body,  his  clotlies,  the  room  in  which  he 
has  lived,  the  thin^  he  has  handled, 
and  everything  that  has  come  in  contact 
with  him  being  submitted  to  the  disin- 
fecting process.  It  is  amazing  how 
many  neglect  even  the  simplest  precau- 
tions. Childi'en  newly-recovered  from 
measles  or  scarlet  fever,  or  still  suffer- 
ing from  whooping-cough,  are  sent  out 
to  scliool  or  to  play,  to  scatter  broadcast 
among  their  companions  the  seeds  of 
their  diseiise,  still  separating  from  their 
skin  or  clinging  to  their  clothing. 
Children  go  to  school  from  a  house 
where  some  one  lies  ill  of  an  infectious 
fever,  men  go  to  their  work  or  business, 
women  move  about  among  their  neigh- 
bors or  doing  their  shopping,  with  little 
precaution  and  with  less  thought, 
trafficking  in  the  disease,  sending  it 
along  the  highways  and  the  by-ways, 
and  here  and  there  doubtless  providing 
it  with  a  victim  that  succumbs.  The 
public  safety  and  the  public  health 
ought  not  to  be  at  the  mercy  of  careless 
parents  or  self-sufficient  dominies.  If 
the  facts  of  science  I  have  attempted  to 
state  plainly  are  true,  contagious  diseaM 


might  be  stamped  out  of  existence,  in- 
stead of  ever  and  anon  rioting  among 
the  people.  The  facts  are  not  sufficiently 
known.  It  takes  a  long  tim'e  for  such 
facts  to  become  adequately  known  and 
understood;  it  is  a  very  much  longer 
time  before  the  facts  become,  as  they 
ought  to  be,  the  basis  and  the  guide  of 
practice.  Our  sanitary  authorities  have 
done  much  for  the  health  of  the  people, 
as  the  reduced  English  death-rate  con- 
clusively shows,  and  that  chiefly  by 
hindering  the  spread  of  infectious 
disease.  But  it  is  not  till  the  vast  bulk 
of  the  people  themselves  intelligently 
set  their  hands  to  this  work  that  the 
greatest  degree  of  prevention  will  be 
achieved. — .1.  McGregor-Robertsok, 
M.D.,  in  Good  Words. 


MR.  LOWELL'S  ADDRESSES. 

Citizens  of  the  United  States  are, 
it  is  understood,  accustomed  to  divide 
mankind  into  Americans,  Britishers  and 
Foreigners;  and  it  is  tp  be  hoped  that 
the  division  would  now  be  accepted  by 
most  people  on  this  side  of  the  water. 
Even  those  doleful  "scribes"  who 
think  they  can  best  exalt  their  own 
country  by  insulting  ^others,  and  who 
found  it  seemly  a  few  years  ago  to  sneer 
at  the  sympathy  Shown  by  Englishman, 
from  the  sovereign^  downward,  with  the 
sorrow  of  the  American  people  for  their 
murdered  President  —  even  they,  we 
think,  would  admit  that  it  is  an  almost 
hopeless  task  to  stir  up  bad  blood  at  this 
time  of  day  between  England  and  the 
United  States.  This  has  not  always 
been  so— it  was  not  so  even  within  the 
memory  of  people  who  are  not  yet 
middle-aged;  but  it  is  so  now,  and  his 
share  in  bringins;  about  this  state  of 
things  is  not  the  least  claim  which  the 
amiable  statesman  whom  we  have  just 
lost  had  to  the  gratitude  and  esteem  of 


654 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINS. 


bis  countrymen.  The  good  work  which 
he  and  his  colleagues  set  on  foot  has 
been  continued  and  strengthened  by 
many  hands;  but  bv  ilo  one  more  than 
by  the  author  of  the  little  volume  now 
before  us. 

For  five  years  Mr.  Lowell  went  in  and 
out  among  Englishmen  as  one  of  them- 
selves. It  would  have  seemed  absurd 
to  think  of  him  as  a  foreigner.  Nor 
was  it  mere  community  of  speech  that 
brought  about  this  result.  Tlfere  is  at 
least  one  other  representative  of  a 
foreign  power  among  us  who  in  this 
respect  is,  perhaps,  even  closer  to  us 
than  Mr.  Lowell;  but  with  him  the 
English  blood  and  the  English  speech 
serve,  it  is  understood,  only  to  make 
difficult  duties  rather  more  difficult. 
At  any  rate,  though  doubtless  in  the 
republic  of  letters  all  are  countrymen, 
and  other  foreign  ministers  besides 
Mr.  Lowell  niight  have  presided  at  a 
meeting  of  the  Wordsworth  Society, 
or  delivered  addresses  at  the  unveiling 
of  the  busts  of  Fielding  and  Coleridge, 
we  can  hardly  imagine  any  other  being 
called  upon  to  address  an  English 
audience  on  such  a  subject  as  that  of 
the  lecture  which  gives  its  title  to  the 
present  volume.*  Mr.  Lowell  has  been 
well  advised  to  put  it  in  the  fore-front, 
for  it  sets  a  key-note  which  recurs  more 
than  once  as  we  go  through  the  volume, 
and  gives  a  measure  of  unity  to  the 
treatment  of  subjects  so  dissimilar  as 
the  death  of  General  Garfield,  the  open- 
ing of  a  free  public  library  in  a  Massa- 
chusetts town,  or  the  two  hundred  and 
fiftieth  anniversary  of  Harvard.  The 
last  named,  indeed,  may  be  regarded  as 
an  answer  to  some  of  the  questions  sug- 
gested in  the  opening  essay,  llow  this 
18  we  will  ])roceed  to  show. 

Mr.  Lowell's  view  of  democracv,  it 
need  hardly  be  said,  differs  a  good  deal 
from  that  which  has  been  taken  by  re- 

•  Demorrftoy  and  Other  Addresses.  By 
James  Russell  LowcU. 


cent  writers  in  England  and  France, 
and  which  appears  to  be  generally  ac- 
cepted by  "superior"  persons.  He 
holds  with  them^  indeed — and  it  may  be 
presumed  with  most  intelligent  people 
^that  '^democracy  is  nothing  more 
than  an  experiment  in  government," 
though  he  does  not  enunciate  the  state- 
ment with  the  pomp  of  a  new  discovery. 
Unlike  tnem,  nowever,  he  can  say: — 

•'B)'  tern]  craraent  and  education  of  a  con- 
servative turn  .  .  .1  liaye  grown  to  manhood 
and  am  now  growing  old  with  the  growth  of 
this  system  of  government  in  my  native  land, 
have  watclied  its  advances,  or  what  some  would 
call  its  encroachments,  gradual  and  irresistible 
as  tho$«  of  a  glacier;  have  been  an  ear-witoeie 
to  the  f(>reb(jdingB  of  wise  and  good  and  timid 
men,  and  have  lived  to  see  those  foreboding 
belied  ])y  tlie  course  of  events,  which  is  apt  to 
show  itself  humorously  careless  of  the  reputa- 
tion of  prophets.  1  recollect  hearing  a  sa- 
gacious old  gentleman  say  in  1840  tliat  the 
doing  away  with  the  property  quulificalion 
for  the  suHrage  twenty  years  before  had  been 
the  ruin  of  the  State  of  Massachusetts;  that 
it  had  put  public  credit  aud  private  estate 
alike  at  the  mercy  of  demagogues.  I  lived 
to  see  -the  Commonwealth  twenty  odd  yeais 
later  i>aj|Mng  the  interest  on  her  bonds  in  gold, 
though  it  cost  her  sometimes  nearly  three  for 
one  to  keep  her  faith,  and  that  while  suffering 
an  unparalleled  drain  of  men  and  treasure  in 
helping  to  sustain  the  unity  and  self-respect 
of  the  nation." 

And  again: — 

"Not  a  change  for  the  better  in  our  human 
housekeeping  lias  ever  taken  place  that  wise 
and  good  men  have  not  opposed  it .  .  .Suppres- 
sion of  the  slave-trade,  abolition  of  slaver>'. 
trade  unions — at  all  of  these  excellent  i>eople 
shook  their  heads  dcspondingly,  aud  mur 
mured  *Ichabod/  " 

At  the  same  time,  while  not  treating 
democracy  as  a  hugbear,  Mr.  TjOwcU  is 
far  from  regarding  it  as  a  fetish.  At 
the  coni:lusion  of  his  address  on  Presi- 
dent Garfield,  he  says: — 

*'I  am  not  one  of  those  who  believe  that 
democracy  any  more  than  any  other  form  of 
;;ovtrnment  will  go  of  itself.  I  am  not  a  be- 
liever in  perpetual  motion  in  politics  any 
more  than  in  mechanics,  but  in  common  with 
all  of  you  [it  will  be  remembered  thai,  thou|;iL 


MR.  LOWELL'S  ADDRESSES. 


655 


speaking  in  L6Ddon,  he  was  speaking  to  an 
audience  of  Americans]  I  have  an  imperturb- 
able faitli  in  tlie  honesty,  the  intelligence,  and 
the  good  sense  of  the  American  i>e()ple.'* 

It  will  be  seen  that  sixty  years'  ex- 
perience of  mankind  has  led  Mr,  Lowell 
to  adopt  a  somewhat  diiferent  view  of 
human  nature  from  that  of  elderly  pes- 
simists who  ask,  **L'egoi"8me  ne  reste- 
t-il  pas  le  fond  oternel,  irreductible,  de 
la  personnalite?"  or  from  that  of  some 
of  our  cheerful  young  cynics,  who  from 
the  heights  of  a  recently  acquired  de- 
gree calmly  set  down«s  ^'a  liar  and  a 
cowardly  liar"  every  man  who  ventures 
to  assume  in  his  fellow  creatures  other 
than  base  motives  for  conduct.  Nor 
can  he  be  charged  with  that  envy  to- 
ward all  social  superiority  which  is 
often  amiably  imputed  to  those  who 
Tvould  diminish  social  inequalities. 

"I  see,"  he  says,  "as  oleariy  as  any  man 
possibly  can,  and  rate  as  highly,  tiie  value 
of  weaUli,  and  hereditary  wealth,  as  the  secur- 
ity of  refiuemeut,  the  feeder  of  all  those  arts 
that  ennoble  and  beautify  Ufe,  and  as  making 
a  country  worth  living  in." 

He  is  as  keenly  alive  as  M.  Scherer 
himself  to  the  tendency  which  demo- 
cracy has  *'to  reduce  all  mankind  to  a 
dead  level  of  mediocrity  in  character 
and  culture,  to  vulgarize  men's  concep- 
tions of  life,  and  therefore  their  coae 
of  morals,  manners,  and  c(Hid act,"  **to 
be  satisfied  with  the  second-best  if  it 
appear  to  answer  the  purpose  tolerably 
well,  and  to  be  cheaper,^'  particularly 
in  the  matter  of  education;  its  ten- 
dency, when  it  is  prosperous,  '* toward 
an  overweening  confidence  in  itself  and 
its  home-made  methods,  an  over-esti- 
mate of  material  success,  and  a  corre- 
sponding indifference  to  the  things  of  the 
intellect. ''    If  it  is  not  to  be  a  failure — 

"Democracy  must  show  its  capacity   for 

g reducing  not  a  higher  average  man,  but  Uie 
ighent  {Kassiblc  types  of  manhood  in  all  its 
manifold  varieties.  No  matter  what  it  does 
for  the  body,  if  it  do  not  in  some  sort  satisfy 
that  inextinguishable  passion  of  the  soul  for 


something  that  lifts  life  away  from  prose, 
from  the  common  and  the  vulgar,  it  is  a 
failure." 

These  last  extracts  are  from  the  Har- 
vard address,  and  the  fact  that  they 
form  part  of  it  may  serve  to  indicate 
the  way  in  which  the  author  looks  to 
see  the  problem  solved.  He  expands, 
indeed,  perliaps  with  more  sanguine 
geniality  than  f  ccompanied  its  original 
utterance,  the  famous  dictum  '*We 
must  educate  our  masters." 

We  have  left  ourselves  little  space  to 
speak  of  the  more  purely  literary  part 
of  the  contents  of  this  volume.  Besides 
the  address  already  referred  to  on  Books 
and  Libraries,  delivered  at  Chelsea, 
Massachusetts,  this  comprises  Words-' 
worth,  Coleridge,  Fielding,  and  Don 
Quixote,  all  of  which  were  spoken  be- 
fore English  audiences;  and  that  not 
in  the  way  in  which  English  men  of 
letters  are  wont  to  lecture  in  America, 
as  visitors  who  have  come  mainly  for 
that  purpose — sometimes,  perhaps,  with 
a  touch  of  the  missionary — but  simply 
as  by  the '  best  man  of  letters  who  was 
available  for  the  purpose.  Wlien  Mr. 
Lowell  discoursed  to  the  people  of 
Taunton  on  Fielding,  or  to  the  work- 
ing men  in  Great  Ormond  Street  on 
Don  Quixote,  probably  a  hu'ge  propor- 
tion of  his  hearers  forgot  that  they  were 
not  listening  to  a  **citizen  of  Queen 
Victoria"  (as  the  American  said).  At 
any  rate,  they  heard  some  criticism  as 
good  as  they  were  likely  to  hear  on 
either  side  of  the  Atlantic.  Take,  for 
example,  this  on  Wordsworth.  After 
noting  that  Wordsworth  has  specially 
the  "privilege  of  interesting  the  high- 
est and  purest  order  of  intellect,"  while 
at  the  same  time'**he  makes  no  con- 
quests beyond  the  boundaries  of  his 
mother-tongue,"  herein  differing  from 
the  very  greatest,  he  proceeds  as  fol- 
lows:— 

**Too  often,  when  left  to  his  own  resources, 
and  to  the  conscientious  performance  of  the 


556 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


duty  laid  upon  him  to'  be  a  ^reat  poet,  quand 
meme  he  seems  diligeully  mtent  on  produc- 
ing tire  by  the  primitive  method  of  rubbing 
tlie  dry  sticks  of  his  blank  verse  one  against 
tiie  other,  while  we  stand  in  shivering  expec- 
tation of  tlie  tlame  that  never  comes.  In  his 
truly  inspired  and  inspiring  passa^  it  is  re- 
markable also  that  he  is  most  unlike  his  or- 
diuarv  self,  least  in  accordance  with  his  own 
tlieories  of  the  nature  of  poetic  expression. 
\V  hen  at  his  best  he  startles  and  waylays  as 
only  genius  can;  but  is  furtliest  from  that 
equanimiiy  of  conscious  and  constantly  in- 
dwelling power  that  is  the  characteristic  note 
of  the  greatest  work.  If  Wordsworth  be 
judged  by  the  ex  ungue  leonem  standard,  no 
one  capable  of  forming  an  opinion  would  hesi- 
tate to  pronounce  liim  not  only  a  great  poet^ 
but  among  the  greatest,  convinced  in  the  one 
ca.se  by  the  style,  and  in  lioth  by  the  force 
that  radiates  from  him,  by  the  stimulus  he 
sends  kindling  through  every  fiber  of  the  in- 
tellect and  of  the  imagination.  At  the  same 
time  there  is  no  admittedly  great  poet  in 
placing  vyhom  we  are  forced  to  acknowledge 
sr)  many  limitations  and  to  make  so  many 
concessions." 

It  is  always  difficult  to  say  that  the 
**last  word'*  has  ever  been  spokcD;  but 
it  will  be  some  time,  we  think,  before 
the  elements  of  WorcTsworth's  strength 
and  weakness  are  more  adecjuately  set 
forth.  Similar  e^dence  of  intelligent 
insight  and  effective  expression  will  be 
found  in  the  other  three  addresses  which 
belong  to  tlie  same  group. 

We  must  revert  once  more  to  the 
Harvard  speech  in  order  to  call  atten- 
tion to  two  points  of  interest.  How 
many  people,  we  wonder,  know  that 
Harvard  once  ^'succeeded  in  keeping" 
an  Indian  "long  enough  to  make  a 
graduate  of  him?"  In  these  times, 
when  Indians  wear  *' store  clothes" 
and  are  addressed  as  **Esq., "  this 
would,  perliaps,  be  less  remarkable;  but 
of  we  understand  rightly,  the  one  grad- 
Tiiate,  whose  name  only  one  man  can 
pronounce,  belonged  to  the  colonial 
times. 

The  other  matter  touches  us  more 
closely.     Probably  Mr.  Lowell's  retire- 


ment brought  [,jme  to  Englishmen 
more  vividly  tiia^i  had  ever  been  done 
before  the  inoonveniencc  of  the  Ameri- 
can system  which  is  popularly  called 
"the  spoiU  to  the  victors."  When 
they  i-ead  the  terms  in  which  Mr.  Low- 
ell addrpssed  President  Cleveland,  they 
will  be  struck  not  only  by  its  inconven- 
ience, but  by  its  absurdity.  There  can 
be  little  doubt  that  JVJr.  Lowell  on  all 
essential  points  of  politics  is  in  much 
closer  affreement  with  Mr.  Cleveland 
than  witTi  the  candidate  of  the  party  to 
which  he  nomiiUlly  belongs,  whom  he 
certainly  would  never  have  apostro- 
phized as  one  "who  knows  how  to  witb- 
st^md  the  Civium  ardor  prava  juben- 

That  the  accession  to  office  of  Mr. 
Cleveland  should  have  caused  the  re- 
tirement of  Mr.  Lowell  is  about  as  ridic- 
ulous an  instance  of  slavery  to  the 
"platform"  as  can  well  be  imagined. 
It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  culti- 
vated democracy,  of  which  Mr.  Lowell 
does  not  despair,  may  some  day  see 
the  matter  m  the  same  light. — Tlie 
A  thenwum. 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 

English  as  she  is  Spokb. — Mrs.  Jessie 
Benton  Fremont,  in  her  sketch  of  her  father, 
Thomas  H.  Benton,  relates  an  anecdote  of  the 
French  Bishop  at  St  Louis,  at  the  time  of  the 
purch{ise  of  Louisiana: — 

"It  was  a  point  of  honor  among  the  older 
French  not  to  learn  English;  but  the  Bishop 
needed  to  acquire  tluent  English  for  all  uses 
and  for  use  irom  the  pulpit  especially.  To 
force  himself  into  familiar  practice,  he  seclud- 
ed himself  for  a  while  with  the  family  of  an 
American  farmer,  where  he  would  hear  no 
French.  Soon  he  bad  gained  enough  to  an- 
nounce a  sermon  in  English.  Mr.  Benton  was 
present  and  his  feelings  can  be  imagined  when 
the  polished,  refined  Bishop  said:  'My  friends, 
I  am  right-down  glad  to  see  such  a  smart 
chance  of  folks  here  to-day.'  '* 


THE  CENTENNIAL  OF  THE  CONSTITUTION. 


567 


THE  CENTENNIAL  OF  THE 
CONSTITUTION. 

Tlie  most  important  event  in  the 
history  of  our  Republic  was  the  ratifica- 
tion of  the  National  Constitution,  which 
act  settled  the  momentous  question: 
'*  Shall  there  be  a  National  Government 
or  general  anarchy?"  That  problem 
was  definitely  solved  in  the  summer  of 
1788,  by  the  ratification  of  the  new 
Constitution,  by  the  voice  of  the  People 
of  the  United  States.  Then  our  mere 
league  of  States,  bound  by  a  **  rope  of 
sand,"  first  became  a  Nation,  lusty  and 
powerful,  even  in  its  infancy.  The 
celebration  of  the  one  hundredth  anni- 
versary of  that  event  should  be  observed 
as  a  day  of  rejoicing  and  thanksgiving, 
and  should  be  celebrated  by  as  many 
American  citizens  as  possible,  collec- 
tively. 

A  movement  for  such  a  celebration 
has  already  taken  place.  Toward  the 
close  of  1886,  the  Governors  of  Virginia, 
Rhode  Island,  Georgia,  Delaware, 
Pennsylvania  and  Maryland,  and  repre- 
contatives  of  the  Governors  of  South 
Carolina,  New  Jersey,  Connecticut  and 
New  York,  altogether  representing  ten 
of  the  original  thirteen  States,  met  at 
Carpenter  s  Hall,  in  Philadelphia,  to 
take  measures  for  a  centennial  celebra- 
tion of  the  ^'adoption"  of  the  National 
Constitution  by  a  Convention  at  Phila- 
delphia, on  September  17, 1787.  They 
resolved  that  a  celebration  of  that  event 
should  be  held  at  Philadelphia,  on 
September  17,  1887,  and  that  the 
President  of  the  United  States  and  the 
Governors  of  all  the  States  and  Terri- 
tories should  be  asked  to  assist  in 
such  celebration.  Was  this  a  wise  or 
unwise  movement  ?    Let  us  inquire. 

The  utter  weakness  of  the  Constitu- 
tion of  Government,  known  as  "The 
Articles  of  Confederation,"  and  the  im- 
pending danger  of  a  dissolution  of  the 
league  of  States  of  which  it  was  the 


bond,  so  deeply  impressed  the  thought- 
ful men  of  the  Union,  that  a  convention 
of  delegates  from  the  thirteen  States 
was  called  at  Philadelphia  to  consider 
the  matter.  Delegates  from  every  State 
but  Rhode  Inland  assembled  in  May, 
1787.  It  was  soon  perceived  that  the 
existing  form  of  government  was  too 
radically  defective  to  admit  of  adequate 
amendment,  and  it  was  cast  aside.  The 
Convention  proceeded  to  the  task  of 
framing  an  entirely  new  Constitution. 
A  wide  diiference  of  opinion  a^  to  the 
best  form  of  a  national  government 
prevailed  in  and  out  of  the  Convention. 
Every  proposition  was  carefully  scru- 
tinized and  debated.  Finally,  the  Con- 
vention referred  (August  6)  all  proposi- 
tions, reports,  etc.,  to  a  **  Committee  of 
Detail,"  and  then  adjourned  for  ten 
days.  On  the  reassembling  of  the  Con- 
vention, the  Committee  presented  a 
rough  draft  of  a  Constitution,  substan- 
tially as  it  now  appears.  Again  long 
and  sometimes  storm v  debates  occurred. 
Amendments  were  offered,  and  all  were 
referred  to  another  committee  for  final 
revision,  which,  on  the  12th  of  Septem- 
ber submitted  a  report  and  the  following 
resolution: 

'* Besotted  Unanimmidy,  That  the  said  re- 
port with  the  resolutions  and  letters  accom- 
panying the  same,  be  transmitted  to  our 
several  IiCgislatures,  in  order  to  bo  submitted 
to  a  convention  of  delegates  chosen  in  each 
State  by  the  people  thereof  in  conformity  to 
the  resolves  of  the  Convention,  mude  and  pro- 
vided in  tliat  case." 

The  Convention  agreed  to  the  revised 
Constitution  on  September  15,  and'on 
the  17th  it  was  signed  by  the  repre- 
sentatives of  all  the  States  then  present, 
excepting  George  Mason  and  Edmund 
Randolph,  of  Virginia,  and  Elbridge 
Gerry,  of  Massachusetts.  It  was  sub- 
mitted to  Congress,  then  in  session  at 
New  York,  on  the  28th  of  September, 
and  that  body  sent  copies  of  it  to  all 
the  State  legislatures.  State  conven- 
tions were  then  called  to  consider  it. 


558 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


and  more  than  a  year  elapsed  before  the 
requisite  number  (nine)  of  the  States 
had  ratified  it. 

By  tills  simple  statement  of  facts  it 
will  be  perceived  that  the  action  olthe 
Convention  at  Philadelphia  on  the  17th 
of  September,  1787,  was  by  no  means 
an  "  adoptit)n  ^'  of  the  Constitution.  It 
was  only  an  agreement  as  to  its  sub- 
stance and  form  by  a  committee  chosen 
by  the  States  for  the  consideration  of  a 
better  form  of  government  preliminary 
to  the  tinal  decision  of  the  PeopL»-  who, 
alone,  hud  power  to  "adopt"  or 
**  ratify  "  the  instrument  then  provided 
r— only  a  "  proposed  Constitution  "  as 
one  of  the  conventions  afterward  termed 
it.  Therefore  a  centennial  celebration 
of  the  *'  adoption  "  of  the  CKJUstitution 
in  September,  1887,  would  be  mani- 
festlv  premature  and  improper. 

'J' lie  important  question  here  presents 
itself.  When  and  Where  should  that 
centennial  celebration  take  place  ?  I 
would  respectfully  suggest  that  the 
proper  time  when  such  a  celebration 
should  occur  will  be  the  21st  of  June, 
1868,  one  hundred  years  after  the 
People  of  Xew  Hampshire,  in  represen- 
tative convention,  voted  to  ratify  the 
Constitution.  It  was  the  ninth  State 
that  performed  this  act,  and  made  the 
requisite  number  to  secure  that  ratifica- 
tion. It  was  on  that  warm  day  in  June 
that  our  National  Constitution  first 
became  the  fundamental  law  of  the 
Republic  and  constituted  the  United 
States  a  nation. 

It  may  not  be  unprofitable  briefly  to 
consider  here  the  action  of  the  people 
of  those  nine  States,  who  effected  the 
ratification  of  the  Constitution,  in  the 
chronological  order  in  which  that  action 
took  place.  These  States  were  Dela- 
wwe,  Pennsylvania,  New  Jersey,  Geor- 

E'a,  Connecticut,  Massachusetts,  Mai^- 
nd.  South  Carolina,. and  New  Hamp- 
Bhire. 
"Little  Delaware"  .fixst   g^ve   its. 


decision.  The  people  had  long  felt  the 
necessity  of  a  radical-  change  in  the 
fundamental  law  of  our  Republic.  I^te 
in  October  (1787)  its  legislature,  stimn- 
lated  by  petitions  from  the  people, 
adopted  measures  for  a  convention  of 
representatives  to  consider  the  new  in- 
strument. They  were  speedily  chosen, 
and  assembled  at  Dover  the  first  week 
in  December.  On  the  6th  the  deputies, 
by  unanimous  vote,  '*  approved,  as- 
sented to,  ratified  and  confirmed  "  the 
National  Constitution,  and  on  the  fol- 
lowing day  they  all  signed  their  names 
to  their  form  of  ratification.  This 
prompt  action  of  a  people  who  were 
really  of  the  same  slock,  as  the  settlers 
of  Pennsylvania,  and  who  had  grown 
up  under  the  same  proprietary  govern- 
ment, greatly  quickened  the  zeal  of  the 
friends  of  the  Constitution,  then  sitting 
in  convention  at  Philadelphia,  and  who 
encountered  much  opposition. 

On  the  18th  of  December,  the  venera- 
ble Dr,  Franklin,  more  than  eighty 
years  of  age,  and  then  President  of 
Pennsylvania,  entered  the  Assembly 
Chamber,  and  presented  to  the  legisla- 
ture a  copy  of  tne  Constitution  after  ex- 
pressing hope  that  the  people  would 
adopt  it.  Out  of  respect  for  Congress  it 
was  not  acted  on  for  ten  days,  liie  leg- 
islature was  to  adjourn  on  the  29th.-  On 
the  morning  of  the  previous  day,  George 
Clymer  proposed  to  refer  the  Constitu- 
tion to  a  convention  of  the  People  of 
the  State,  A  minority  of  the  members 
obtained  a  postponement  until  the  after- 
noon, when  that  minority  dishonestly 
refused  to  attend  the  session.  Tlie 
citizens  of  Philadelphia  were  greatly 
irritated,  and  a  body  of  them  finding 
two  of  the  recusant  members,  sufficient 
to  make  fi.quorum,  dn^ed  them  to  the 
Assembly  Chamber,  and  compelled 
them  to  stay  there  until  the  vote  was 
taken.  At  this  juncture  a  fleet  mes- 
senger arrived  from  New  York,  bearing 
a  .copy  of  aresolution  of  Congress,  onan- 


•I'HE  CEJSTENl^IAL  05'  THE-  GONeTITUTION. 


509 


iraously  recommending  the  reference 
of  the  Constitutions  to  conventions  of 
the  People  of  the  several  States.  The 
Assembly  at  once  authorized  a  State 
convention.  It  met  at  Philadelphia  on 
the  20th  of  November  and  thoroughly 
discussed  the  Constitution;  and  on  the 
12  th  of  December,  it  ratified  it  by  a 
vote  of  46  for  the  Constitution  and'  23 
against  it.  The  next  day  the  conven- 
tion marched  in  procession  to  the  Court 
house,  where  it  i)roclaimed  the  ratifica- 
tion, and,  returning  to  its  place  of 
meeting,  the  forty-six  affixed  their 
names  to  tlie  engrossed  act.  The  con- 
vention was  dissolved  on  the  19th,  after 
offering  a  permanent  and  a  temporary 
seat  of  government  to  the  United  States. 

The  people  of  New  Jersey  were  chiefly 
engaged  in  rural  occupations.  The 
western  portion  was  settled  largely  by 
the  descendants  of  "  Friends,"  or 
Quakers,  and  in  the  eastern  part  by 
descendants  of  Dutch  and  Scotch  im- 
migrants. They  were  a  quiet,  thought- 
ful people,  little  disturbed  by  political 
agitations.  They  generally  accepted 
the  new  Constitution.  Late  in  October 
(1787)  the  Legislature  of  New  Jersey 
called  a  State  Convention  of  the  People 
to  consider  the  instrument.  The  con- 
vention assembled  at  Trenton  on  the 
11th  of  December,  and  began  its  sessions 
on  the  12th,  with  prayer.  It  was  com- 
posed of  the  best  and  brightest  men  of 
the  State,  and  the  proceedings  were 
held  with  open  doors.  The  Constitution 
was  fully  discussed  for  about  a  week, 
when,  on  Tuesday,  the  18th,  the  ^'  Peo- 
ple of  the  State  of  New  Jersey,  by  the 
unanimous  consent  of  the  n^embers 
present,  agreed  to,  ratified  and  con- 
firmed the  proposed  Constitution,  and 
every  part  tnereof,"  as  the  act  of  ratifi- 
cation expressed  it.  The  form  of  ratifi- 
cation was  signed  by  every  member  of 
the  convention. 

So  it  was  that  within  the  space  of 
twelve  days  in  the  last  month  of  the 


year  1787,  and  three  months,  after  the 
National  Convention  agreed  to  its  form, 
the  Constitution  was  ratified  by  the 
three  central  States  of  the  Union.  The 
fiiends  of  the  instrument  regarded  this 
as  a  most  encouraging  omen. 

Before  the  decision  of  these  three 
States  was  known  to  the  people  of 
Georgia,  the  extreme  Southern  member 
of  the  Union,  they  had  performed  their 
part  in  the  momentous  drama.  The 
Legislature  of  Georgia  was  in  session 
when  the  message  from  Congi-ess  ar- 
rived. The  people  greeted  with  joy  a 
Constitution  that  promised  to  make  the 
States  a  Nation  with  strength  to  give 
protection  against  the  aggression  of 
their  Spanish  and  barbarian  neiglibora 
in  Florida  and  the  Gulf  region.  A 
State  convention  was  called.  It  as- 
sembled at  Augusta,  far  up  the  Savan- 
nah river,  on  Christmas  day,  with 
delegated  powers  to  adopt  or  reject  the 
whole  or  any  part  of  the  Constitution. 
The  members  were  all  of  one  mind,  and 
on  January  2,  1788,  che  convention, 
for  themselves  and  their  peo])le  unani- 
mously *' assented  to,  ratified,  and 
adopted'*  the  whole  of  the  Constitu- 
tion. 

They  expressed  a  hope  that  their 
ready  compliance  would  ^'  teiul  to  con- 
solidate the  Union  and  promote  the 
happiness  of  the  common  country." 
When  the  members  completed  the  sign- 
ing of  the  form  of  ratification,  the  act 
was  announced  by  a  salute  of  thirteen 
cannons. 

Connecticut  was  the  first  of  the  New 
Englai»d  States  that  ratified  the  new 
Constitution.  Two  of  its  delegates  to 
the  National  Convention  (Roger  Sher- 
man and  Oliver  Ellsworth)  sent,  Sep- 
tember 25th,  a  copy  of  the  Constitution 
to  Samuel  Huntrngton,  then  Governor 
of  the  State,  who  was  its  zealous  friend. 
At  the  middle  of  October  the  legislature 
called  a  State  convention,  to  which  were 
elected  men df  the  highest  standing  in 


5eo 


THE  LLIRARY  MAGAZINE. 


the  commonwealth — ^legislators,  Judges, 
clergymen,  etc.  The  convention  as- 
sembled in  the  State-house  at  Hartford, 
and  immediately  adjourned  to  the  North 
Meeting-liouse,  when  the  Constitution 
^  was  read  in  the  presence  of  a  multitude 
of  people,  and  debated  section  by  section 
witli  open  doors.  No  vote  was  taken 
until  the  whole  had  been  thus  read  and 
debated.  When,  on  the  9th  of  January, 
a  vote  was  takeu,  128  spoke  for  the 
Constitution  and  only  40  against  it;  a 
majority  of  more  than  three  to  one. 
The  decision  was  received  with  delight 
by  tlie»j)eople. 

The  great  State  of  Massachusetts 
next  wheeled  into  line.  Its  attitude 
toward  the  new  Constitution  was  ob- 
served with  much  anxiety,  for  it  was 
thought  that  upon  its  decision  depended 
the  fate  of  the  instrument.  The  State 
had  lately  been  shaken  by  an  armed 
insurrection,  "Shay's  Rebellion,"  and 
the  public  mind  was  still  much  dis- 
turbed by  political  and  social  animosi- 
ties. The  legislature,  which  had  been 
chosen  under  the  influence  of  the  in- 
surrection, met  on  the  17th  of  October. 
The  (tovernor  (John  Hancock),  in  pre- 
senting the  Constitution,  wisely  rec- 
ommended its  reference  to  a  State 
convention.  The  Senate,  of  which 
Samuel  Adams  was  president,  promptly 
adopted  a  resolve  to  refer  it  to  such  a 
convention.  In  the  Lower  House  the 
re:?ohition  of  the  Senate  elicited  some 
debate.  The  galleries  and  floors  were 
crowded  with  earnest  spectators.  At 
first  there  were  signs  of  warm  opposi- 
tion to  the  new  Constitution.  Members 
denied  the  right  to  supersede  the  old 
**  Confederation,"  and  contended  that 
the  adoption  of  the  new  Constitution 
by  its  ratification  by  only  nine  of  the 
thirteen  States  was  a  violation  of  the  still 
valid  compact  of  that "  confederation." 
But  wisdom  and  patriotism  prevailed, 
and  after  some  other  expressions  of  dis- 
sent a  State  convention  was  called. 


Of  the  delegates  to  the  convention 
chosen,  eighteen  were  the  late  insur- 
gents elected  in  the  niral  districts. 
The  leading  men  of  the  State  and  of 
the  Territory  of  Maine,  its  "annex," 
were  in  favor  of  the  new  Constitution, 
and  some  of  the  strongest  men  of  the 
commonwealth  were  chosen  to  seats  in 
the  convention.  There  were  about 
twenty  ministers  of  various  religious 
denominations.  "So  able  a  bodv," 
says  Bancroft,  "had  never  met  in 
Massachusetts."  It  was  felt  that  the 
adoption  of  the  new  Constitution  was 
"  the  greatest  (juestion  of  tbe  age." 

The  convention  met  in  Boston  early 
in  January,  1788,  with  John  Hancock 
as  presiding  officer.  The  debates  as- 
sumed the  form  of  free  conversation, 
and  it  was  agreed  that  no  vote  should 
be  taken  until  every  paragraph  of  the 
Constitution  had  been  discussed.  This 
discussion,  aa  it  went  on  day  after  day, 
took  a  wide  range.  At  every  st^e 
what  the  conclusion  of  the  Convention 
would  be  was  doubtful.  The  influence 
of  the  intrigues  of  Richard  Henry  Lee, 
of  Virginia,  the  bitter  enemy  of  the 
Constitution,  was  felt  in  the  convention. 
He  had  meddled,  by  letters,  with  every 
convention  yet  held,  excepting  that  of 
Georgia;  and  in  Massachusetts  he  waa 
aided  by  Elbridge  Gerry.  This  evil 
influence  was  met  by  a  letter  of  Wash- 
ington to  a  friend  in  Virginia,  which 
was  published  in  a  Boston  newspaper 
on  the  23d  of  January,  in  which  he  said: 
"The  Constitution  or  Disunion  is  befon* 
us.  If  the  Constitirtion  is  our  election, 
a  constitutional  door  is  open  for.  amend- 
ments, and  may  be  adopted  in^  a  peace- 
able manner  without  tumult  or 
disorder." 

One  of  the  chief  men  and  sound 
debaters  in  the  Massachusetts  Conven- 
tion was  Theophilus  Parsons.  On  th« 
morning  of  January  31st,  he  proposed 
that  the  Convention  "  do  assent  to  and 
ratify    the    Constitution."     Hancock 


THE  CENTENNIAL  OP  THE  CONSTITUTION. 


.',61 


spoke  earnestly  iu  favor  of  the  proposi- 
tion, and  offered  some  amendments. 
Able  debates  were  continued  until  the 
8th  of  February,  when  a  vote  was  taken, 
and  resulted  in  187  voices  in  favor  of 
the  Constitution,  and  IG8  against  it. 
The  glad  news  of  the  result  was  an- 
nounced by  the  ringing  of  the  bells  and 
the  booming  of  canuons.  The  news 
was  received  with  Joy  elsewhere.  In 
New  York  six  saluteS,  of  thirteen  guns 
each,  were  fired  in  honor  of  the  six 
ratifying  States.  From  that  time 
Lon^  Lane,  by  the  meeting-house  in 
which  the  convention  was  held,  was 
called  Federal  street. 

The  Legislature  of  Maryland,  at  its 
session  in  November,  1787,  ordered  a 
convention,  but  fixed  the  time  of  meet- 
ing late  in  the  spring  of  1788.  This 
delay  gave  Lee  and  other  opponents  in 
Virginia  opportunity  to  bring  their  in- 
fluence to  bear  upon  the  leaders  of 
opinion  in  Maryland.  But  Washington 
stood  as  a  **rock  of  defence"  in  the 
region  of  the  Potomac,  and  his  influence 
was  mighty.  In  a  published  better  to  a 
friend,  Washington  said: 

**My  decided  opinion  is  that  there  is  no  al- 
ternative between  the  adoption  of  the  proceed- 
ings of  tlie  [National]  Convention  and  anarchy. 
If  one  state,  however  important  it  may  con- 
ceive itself  to  be  [meaning  Virginia],  or  a  min- 
ority of  them  should  suppose  that  they  can 
dictate  a  Constitution  to  the  Union  (unless  they 
have  the  power  of  applying  the  vltima  ratio  to 
good  effect),  they  will  find  themselves  de- 
ceived." 

The  Maryland  Convention  assembled 
at  Annapolis  on  April  21,  1788. 
There  were  in  it  smoe  very  strong 
opponents  of  the  Constitution,  and 
debates,  generally  very  warm,  continued 
several  days.  Among  the  most  vehe- 
ment opposers  of  the  Constitution  was 
Samuel    Chast.      Amendments    were 

?iroposed,  and  while  the  enemies  of  the 
lonstitution  were  "  filling  the  hall  with 
loud  words  "  the  friends  of  the  measure 
remained  '^  inflexibly  silent."     On  the 


26th  a  vote  was  taken,  and  the  Con- 
stitution was  ratified  by  63  voices 
against  11.  This  majority  of  nearly 
six  to  one,  gave  to  the  support  of  thi 
Constitution  a  majority  of  tiie  thirteen 
States  and  a  very  great  majority  of  the 
f fee  inhabitants.  It  was  a  happy  omen 
that  a  proposition  in  the  JVf  aryland  con- 
vention, for  the  establishment  of  a 
Southern  Confederacy,  did  not  find  a 
single  supporter. 

In  Soutli  Carolina  there  was  much 
opposition  amofig  the  slave-holders  on 
account  of  the  restrictions  of  the  slave- 
trade  which  it  proposed.  **  Without 
negroes, "  said  Lowndes,  one  of  the 
ablest  men  in  the  commonwealth, 
"  this  State  would  degenerate  into  one 
of  the  most  contemptible  in  the 
Union.  Negroes  are  our  wealth,  our 
only  natural  resource."  '  But  the' 
legislature  unanimously  issued  a  call 
for  a  convention.  That  body  was  or- 
ganized on  the  10th  of  May,  with 
Thomas  Pinckney  as  president.  They 
were  assembled  at  Charleston.  Virginia 
intriguers  tried  to  have  the  Convention 
consider  a  proposition  for  a  Southern 
Confederacy,  but  failed.  The  Constitu- 
tion was  thoroughly  discussed,  and  on 
the  23d  was  ratified  by  a  vote  of  149 
against  73,  or  more  than  two  to  one. 

A  convention  of  delegates  assembled 
at  Exeter,  New  Hampshire,  in  Febru- 
ary, 1788,  and  discussed  the  Constitu- 
tion about  seven  days.  There  appeared 
to  be  a  small  majority  against  the  in- 
strument  at  first,  but  Its  friends  grada- 
^Uy  gained  converts.  Many  of  the 
members  were  fettered  by  instructions 
from  their  constituents.  To  give  these 
an  opportunity  to  consult  with  their 
people  at  home,  the  friends  of  the  con- 
stitution proposed  an  adjournment 
until  June.  They  also  urged  the  more 
weighty  argument  that  a  small  State, 
like  New  Hampshire,  should  wait  and 
see  what  the  other  States  would  do. 
They  did  so  adjourn,  and  changed  the 


562 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


plate  of  meeting  from  Exeter  to  Concord. 
"There  the  convention  reassembled  on 
the  17th  of  June.  *  They  discussed  the 
Constitution  only  four  days  and  on 
Saturday  afternoon,  at  one  o'clock,  June 
3l8t,  they  ratified  the  great  proposed 
*'  fundamental  law  "  of  the  Republic  by 
a  Tote  of  57  against  46  and  made  it  a 
reality.  The  people  of  the  United  States 
spoke  the  word,  and  tlie  Republic  of  the 
West  was  created  a  Nation. 

The  remaining  States,  excepting 
Bhode  Island,  soon  afterward  ratified 
the  Constitution — Virginia,  on  June 
26;  New  York,  on  July  26;  and  North 
Carolina,  on  November  21.  Rhode 
Island  did  not  become  a  member  of  the 
Union  until. May  29,  1790. 

HV^ere  should  the  centennial  of  the 
adoption  of  the  Constitution  be  cele- 
brated ?  No  one  place  in  the  Union 
can  rightfully  claim  the  precedence. 
The  seat  of  each  convention  of  the 
nine  States  which  effected  its  ratification 
has  an  equal  claim  with  the  others  as 
the  place  where  that  ratification  was 
effected.  It  seems  desirable  that  as  many 
of  the  citizens  of  the  Republic,  as  possi- 
ble, should  assemble  together  in  cele- 
bniting  the  gre^t  event.  If  the  gather- 
ing should  be  confined  to  only  one  city, 
comparatively  few  persons  could  per- 
sonally participate  in  the  proceedings. 
I  would  therefore  suggest  that  the  cen- 
tennial of  the  adoption  of  the  Constitu- 
tion sliould  be  celebrated  at  the  respec- 
tive capitals  of  the  nine  ratifying  States, 
on  the  same  day,  namely,  the  twenty- 
firsl  of  June,  1888. — Benson  J.  Loss- 
ING,  in  The  Independent, 


THE  SUN'S  HEAT.* 

From  human  history  we  know  that 

*  IjGCture  cm  "The  Probable  Origin ,  the 
ToUil  Amount,  and  the  Possible  Duration,  of 
the  Siui's  lleat,"  delivered  by  Sir  William 
Thomson,  F.  R.  S.,  at  the  Royal  Institution, 
Jan.  21,  1887. 


for  several  thousand  vears  the  Pii!!  hi 
been  giving  heat  and  light  to  tho  t\  : .  i 
as  at  present;  possibly  with  eonie  cm. - 
siderable  fluctuations,  and  possibly  with 
some  not  very  small  progressive  varia- 
tion. The  records  of  agriculture,  an  el 
the  natural  'history  of  plants  and 
animals  within  the  time  of  human  his- 
tory, abound  with  evidence  that  there 
has  been  no  exceedingly  great  change 
in  the  intensitv  of  the  sun's  heat  and 
light  within  the  last  3,000  years;  but 
for  all  tiiat,  there  niav  have  been  varia- 
tions  of  quite  as  much  as  5  or  10  per 
cent.,  as  we  may  judge  from  consider- 
.ing  that  the  intensity  of  the  solar  radia- 
tion to  the  earth  is  0  per  cent,  greater 
in  January  than  in  July;  and  neither 
at  tlie  equator  nor  in  the  northern  or 
southern  hemisphere  has  this  difference 
been  discovered  by  experience  or  general 
observation  of  any  kind.  But  as  for 
the  mere  age  of  the  sun,  irrespective  of 
the  question  of  uniformity,  we  have 
proof  of  something  vastly  more  than 
3,000  years  in  geological  history,  with 
its  irrefragable  evidence  of  continuity 
of  life  on  the  earth  in  time  past  for  tens 
of  thousands,  and  probably  for  millions 
of  years. 

Here,  then,  wq  have  a  splendid  sub- 
ject for  contemplation  and  research  in 
natural  pliilosophy,  or  physics,  the 
science  of  dead  n  at  or  The  sun,  a 
mere  piece  of  matter  of  the  moderate 
dimensions  which  we  know  it  to  have, 
bounded  all  round  bv  cold  ether,  has 
been  doing  work  at  the  rate  of  four 
hundred  and  seventy-six  thousand  mil- 
lion million  million  horse-power  for 
3,000  years,  and  at  possibly  more,  and 
certainly  not  nnch  less,  than  that  for  a 
few  million  vears.^  llow  is  this  to  be 
explained?  'Natural  philosophy  cannot 
evade  the  question,  and  no  physicist 
who  is  not  engaged  in  trying  to  answer 
it  can  have  any  other  justification  than 
that  his  wliole  working  time  isoccupieil 
with  work   on  some   other  subject  or 


THE  SUN'S  HEAT. 


508 


subjects  of  his  province  by  which  he 
has  more  hope  of  beiug  able  to  advance 
science. 

I  suppose  I  may  assume  that  every 
person  present  knows  as  an  established 
result  of  scientic  inquiry  that  the  sun 
is  not  a  burning  lire,  and  is  merely  a 
fluid  mass  cooling,  with  some  little 
accession  of  fresh  energy  by  meteors 
occasionally  falling  in,  of  very  small 
account  in  comparison  with  the  whole 
energy  of  heat  which  he  gives  out  from 
year  to  year.  You  are  also  perfectly 
familiar  with  Helmholtz's  form  of  the 
meteoric  theory,  and  accept  it  as  having 
the  highest  degree  of  scientific  proba- 
bility that  can  be  assigned  to  any 
assumption  regarding  actions  of  prehis- 
toric times.  You  understand,  then, 
that  the  essential  principle  of  the  ex- 
planation is  this:  at  some  period  of  time, 
long  past,  the  sun's  initial  heat  w'as 
generated  by  the  collision  of  pieces  of 
matter  gravitationally  attracted  together 
from  distant  space  to  build  up  his 
present  mass;  and  shrinkage  due  to 
cooling  gives,  through  the  work  done 
by  the  mutual  gravitation  of  all  parts 
of  the  shrinking  mass,  the  vast  thermal 
capacity  in  virtue  of  which  the  cooling 
has  been,  and  continues  to  be,  so  slow. 
I  assume  that  vou  have  not  been  misled 
by  any  of  your  teachers  who  may  have 
told  you,  or  by  any  of  your  books  in 
which  you  may  have  read,  that  the  sun 
is  becoming  hotter  because  a  giiseous 
mass,  shrinking  because  it  is  becoming 
colder,  becomes  hotter  because  it 
shrinks. 

An  essential  detail  of  Helmholtz's 
theorv  of  solar  heat  is  that  the  sun  must 
be  fluid,  because  even  though  given  at 
any  moment  hot  enough  from  the  sur- 
face to  any  depth,  however  great, 
inward,  to  be  brilliantly  incandescent, 
the  conduction  of  heat  from  within 
through  solid  matter  of  even  the  high- 
est ponducting  quality  known  to  us 
would  not  suffice  to  maintain  the  in- 


candescence of  the  surface  for  more 
than  a  few  hours,  after  which  all  would 
be  darkness.  Observation  confirms  this 
conclusion  so  far  as  the  outward  ap- 
pearance of  the  sun  is  concerned,  but 
does  not  suffice  to  disprove  the  idea 
which  prevailed  till  thirty  or  forty  years 
ago  that  the  sun  is  a  solid  nucleus  in- 
closed in  a  sheet  of  violently  agitated 
flame.  In  reality,  the  matter  of  the 
outer  shell  of  the  sun,  from  which  the 
heat  is  radiated  outward,  must  in  cool- 
ing become  denser,  and  so  becoming 
unstable  in  its  high  position,  must  fall 
down,  and  hotter  fluid  from  within 
must  rush  up  to  take  its  place.  The 
tremendous  currents  thus  continually 
produced  in  this  great  mass  of  flaming 
fluid  constitute  the  province  of  the 
newly-developed  science  of  solar  phy- 
sics, which,  with  its  marvelous  instini- 
ment  of  research — the  spectroscope — is 
yearly  and  daily  giving  us  more  and 
more  knowledge  of  the  actual  motions 
of  the  different  ingredie'hts,  and  of  the 
splendid  and  all-important  resulting 
phenomena. 

Now,  to  form  some  idea  of  the 
amount  of  the  heat  which  is  being  con- 
tinually carried  up  to  the  sun's  sur- 
face and  radiated  out  into  space,  and 
of  the  dvnamical  relations  between  it 
and  the  solar  gravitation,  let  us  first 
divide  that  prodigious  number  (47G  X 
10'')  of  horse-power  by  the  number 
(G.l  X  10'")  of  square  metres*  in  the 
sun's  surface,  and  we  find  78,000  horse- 
power as  the  mechanical  value  of  the 
riuliation  per  square  metre.  Imagine, 
then,  the  engines  of  eight  ironclads 
applied  to  do  all  their  available  work  of, 
say,  10,000  horse-power  each,  in  per|>et- 
uity  driving  one  small  paddle  in  a  fluid 
contained  in  a  square  metre  vat.  The 
same  heat  will  be  given  out  from  the 
square  metre  surface  of  the  fluid  as  is 

*  Tlie  7m(}r==^^d.  370  in'^hos.  about  1  ^  yard; 
the  kilometre  (.100  metres)  3,281  feet,  about  f  of 
u  mile 


564 


THE  LIBUARY  MAGAZINE. 


given  ont  from  every  square  metre  of  the 
siui's  Biirfme. 

But  now  to  pass  from  a  practically 
impossible  combination  of  engines  and 
a  pbysieally  impossible  paddle  iind 
fluid  and  containing  vessel,  toward  a 
more  practical  combination  of  matter 
for  producing  the  same  effect:  still 
keep  the  ideal  vat  and  paddle  in  fluid, 
but  place  the  vat  on  tne  surface  of  a 
cool,  solid,  homogeneous  globe  of  the 
same  size  (.697  X  10"  metres  radius^  as 
thjB  sun,  and  of  density  (1.4)  equal  to 
the  sun's  density.  Instead  of  using 
steam-power,  let  the  paddle  be  driven 
by  a  weight  descending  in  a  pit  exca- 
vated below  the  vat.  As  the  simplest 
possible  mechanism,  take  a  long  verti- 
cal shaft,  with  the  paddle  mounted  on 
the  top  of  it  so  as  to  turn  horizontally. 
Let  the  weight  be  a  nut  working  on  a 
screw-thread  on  the  vertical  shaft,  with 
guides  to  prevent  the  nut  from  turning 
— the  screw  and  the  guides  being  all 
absolutely  frictionless.  Let  the  pit  be 
a  metre  square  at  its  upper  end,  and  let 
it  be  excavated  quite  down  to  the  sun's 
center,  everywhere  of  square  horizontal 
section,  and  tapering  uniformly  to  a 
point  at  the  center.  Let  the  weight 
be  simply  the  excavated  matter  of  the 
sun's  mass,  with  merely  a  little  clear- 
ance space  between  it  and  the  four  sides 
of  the  pit,  and  a  kilometre  or  so  cut  off 
the  lower  pointed  end  to  allow  space 
for  its  descent.  The  mass  of  this 
weight  is  326' X  10"  tons.  Its  heavi- 
ness, three-quarters  of  the  heaviness  of 
an  equal  mass  at  the  sun's  surfjice,  is 
244:  XIO*  tons  solar  surface-heaviness. 
Kow  a  horse-power  is  270  metre- tons, 
terrestrial  surface-heaviness,  per  hour; 
or  10  metre- tons  solar  surfiice-lieaviness, 
per  hour.  To  do  78,000  horse-power, 
or  780,000  metre- tons,  solar  surface- 
heaviness,  per  hour,  our  Aveiglit  must 
therefore  descend  at  the  rate  of  1  metre 
in  313  hours,  or  about  28  metres  per 
year. 


To  advance  another  step,  still  throiirh 
impracticable  mechanism,  toward  ll  e 
practical  method  by  which  the  siiu's 
heat  is  produced,  let  the  thread  of  tlio 
screw  be  of  uniformly  decreasing  steep- 
ness from  the  surface  downward,  kg 
that  the  velocity  of  the  weight,  as  it  is 
allowed  to  descend  by  tlie  turning  of 
the  screw,  shall  be  in  simple  proportion 
to  distance  ivom  the  sun's  center. 
This  will  involve  a  uniform  condensa- 
tion of  the  material  of  the  weight;  but 
a  condensation  so  exr-oedingly  small  in 
the  course  even  of  tons  of  tlioiisands  of 
years,  that,  whatever  be  the  supposed 
character,  metal  or  stone,  of  the  weight, 
the  elastic  reaction  against  the  conden- 
sation will  be  utterly  imperceptible  in 
comparison  with  the  gravitational  f  orceis 
with  which  we  are  concerned.  The 
work  done  per  metre  of  descent  of  the 
top  end  of  the  weight  will  be  just  four- 
fifths  of  what  it  was  when  the  thread  of 
the  screw  was  uniform.  Thus,  to  do 
the  78,000  horse-power  of  work,  the  toj) 
end  of  the  weight  must  descend  at  the 
rate  of  35  metres  per  year:  or  70  kilo- 
metres, which  is  one  one-hundredth  per 
cent. (1-10,000)  of  the  sun's  radius,  per 
2,000  vears. 

IS^ow  let  the  whole  surface  of  our  coo? 
solid  sun  be  divided  into  squares,  for 
example  as  nearly  as  may  be  of  1  squiirc 
metre  area  each,  and  let  the  whole  mjiss 
of  the  sun  be  divided  into  lonff  inverted 
pyramids  or  pointed  rods,  each  700,000 
kilometres  long,  with  their  points 
meeting  at  the  center.  Let  each  be 
mounted  on  a  screw,  as  already  de- 
scribed for  the  long  tapering  ^veight 
which  we  first  considered;  and  let  the 
paddle  at  the  top  end  of  eiich  screw - 
shaft  revolve  in  a  fluid,  not  now  con- 
fined to  a  vat,  but  covering  the  whol© 
surface  of  the  sun  to  a  depth  of  a  few 
metres  or  kilometres.  Arrange  the 
viscositv  of  the  fluid  and  the  size  of 
each  paddle  so  as  to  let  the  j)addle  turn 
just  so  fast  as  to  aUow  the  top  end  of 


THE  SUN'S  HEAT. 


565 


each  pointed  rod  to  descend  at  the  rate 
of  ;?5  metres  per  year.  The  whole  fluid 
will,  by  the  work  wliich  the  paddles  do 
in  it,  be  made  incandescent,  and  it  will 
give  out  heat  and  light  to  just  about 
the  same  amount  as  is  actually  done  by 
the  sun.  If  the  fluid  be  a  few  thousand 
kilometres,  deep  over  the  paddles,  it 
would  be  impossible,  by  any  of  the 
appliances  of  solar  physics,  to  see  the 
diJference  between  our  model  mechani- 
cal sun  and  the  true  sun. 

Now,  to  do  away  with  the  last  vestige 
of  impracticable  mechanism,  in  which 
the  heavinesses  of  all  parts  of  each  long 
rod  are  supported  on  the  thread  of  an 
ideal  screw  cut  on  a  vertical  shiift  of 
ideal  matter,  absolutely  hard  and  abso- 
lutely frictionless:  first,  go  back  a  step 
to  our  supposition  of  just  one  such  rod 
and  screw  working  on  a  single  pit  ex- 
cavated down  to  the  center  of  the  sun, 
and  let  us  suppose  all  the  rest  of  the 
sun's  mass  to  be  rigid  and  absolutely 
impervious  to  heat.  Warm  up  the 
matter  of  the  pyramidal  rod  to  such  a 
teuiperature  that  its  material  melts  and 
experiences  enough  of  Sir  Humphry 
Davy's  * 'repulsive  motion"  to  keep  it 
balaiKicd  as  a  fluid,  without  either  sink- 
ing or  rising  from  the  position  in  which 
it  was  held  by  the  thread  of  the  screw. 
AVhen  the  matter  is  thus  held  up  with- 
out the  screw,  take  away  the  screw  or 
let  it  melt  in  its  place.  We  should 
thus  have  a  pit  from  the  sun's  surface 
to  his  center,  of  a  square  metre  area  at 
the  surface,  full  of  incandescent  fluid, 
which  we  may  su])posc  to  be  of  the  act- 
ual ingredients  o.'the  solffr  substance. 
This  fluid,  having  at  the  first  instant 
the  temperature  m  ith  which  the  paddle 
le't  it,  would  at  the  first  instant  con- 
tinue radiating  h(at  just  as  it  did  when 
the  paddle  was  kept  moving;  but  it 
would  qni(!kly  become  much  cooler  at 
its  surfaf'c,  and  o  a  distance  of  a  few 
metres  down.  Convection -currents, 
with  their  irregular  whirls,  would  cari'y 


the  cooled  fluid  down  from  the  surface, 
and  bring  up  hotter  fluid  from  below, 
but  this  mixing  could  not  go  on  through 
a  depth  of  very  many  metres  to  a  suf- 
ficient degree  to  keep  up  anything 
approaching  to  the  high  temperature 
maintained  by  the  paddle;  ana  after  a 
few  hours  or  days,  solidification  would 
commence  at  the  surface.  If  the  solid- 
ified matter  floats  on  the  fluid  at  the 
same  temperature  below  it,  the  crust 
would  simply  thicken  as  ice  on  a  lake 
thickens  in  frosty  weather;  but,  if,  aa 
is  more  probable,  solid  matter,  of  such 
ingredients  as  the  sun  is  composed  of, 
sinks  in  the  liquid  when  both  are  at  th© 
melting  temperature  of  the  substance, 
thin  films  of  the  upper  crust  would  fall 
in,  and  continue  lalling  in,  until,  for 
several  metres  downward,  the  whole 
mass  of  mixed  solid  and  fluid  becomes 
stiff  enough  (like  the  stiffness  of  paste 
or  of  mortar)  to  prevent  the  frozen  film 
from  falling  down  from  the  surface. 
The  surface  film  would  then  quickly 
thicken,  and  in  the  course  of  a  few 
hours  or  days  become  less  than  red-hot 
on  its  upper  surface.  The  whole  pit 
full  of  fluid  would  go  on  cooling  with 
extreme  slowness  until,  after  possibly 
about  a  million  million  million  years  or 
so,  it  would  be  all  at  the  same  tempera- 
ture as  the  space  to  which  its  upper  end 
radiates. 

Now,  let  precisely  what  we  have  been 
considering  be  done  for  every  one  of  our 
pyramidal  rods,  with,  however,  in  the 
first  place,  thin  partitions  of  matter 
impervious  to  heat  separating  every  pit 
from  its  four  surrounding  neighbors. 
Precisely  the  simie  series  of  events  as  we 
have  been  considering  will  take  place 
in  every  one  of  the  pits. 

Suppose  the  whole  complex  mass  to 
be  rotating  at  the  rate  of  once  round  in 
25  days. 

Xow  at  the  instant  when  the  paddlt 
stops  let  all  the  partitions  be  annulled, 
so  that  there  shall  be  perfect  frcedon^ 


560 


THE  UBRAIT  ?r.V»AZINE. 


for  conTcction-ciirrents  to  flow  mirc- ' 
sisted  in  any  direction,  except. so  far  as 
resisted  by  the  viscosity  of  the  fluid, 
and  leave  the  piece  of  matter,  wliich  we 
may  now  call  the  sun,  to  himself.  He 
will  immediately  begin  showing  all  the 
phenomena  known  in  solar  physics.  Of 
course  the  observer  might  have  to  wait 
a  few  years  for  sunspots,  and  a  few 
quarter-centuries  to  discover  periods  of 
sunspots,  but  they  would,  I  think  I  may 
say  probably,  all  be  there  just  as  they 
are;  because  I  think  we  may  feel  that  it 
is  most  probable  that  all  these  actions 
are  due  to  the  sun's  own  mass  and  not 
to  external  influences  of  any  kind.  It 
is,  however,  quite  possible,  and  indeed 
many  who  know  most  of  the  subject 
th int  it  probable,  that  some  of  the 
chief  phenomena  due  to  sunspots  arise 
from  influxes  of  meteoric  matter  cir- 
cling round  the  sun.  The  energy  of 
chemical  combination  is  as  nothing 
compared  with  the  gravitational  energy 
of  shrinkage,  to  which  the  sun's  activity 
is  almost  wholly  due,  but  chemical 
combinations  and  dissociations  may,  as 
urged  by  Lockyer,  be  thoroughly  potent 
determining  influences  on  some  of  tlie 
features  of  non-uniformity  of  the 
brightness  in  the  gi-and  phenomena  ef 
sunsnots,  hydrogen  flames,  and  corona, 
wkicli  make  the  province  of  solar 
physics.  But  these  are  questions  belong- 
ing io  a  very  splendid  branch  of  solar 
science  with  which  we  are  not  occupied 
this  evening. 

What  concerns  us  at  present  may  be 
summarized  in  two  propositions: — 

(1)  Gigantic  convection  currents 
throughout  the  sun's  liquid  mass  are 
continually  maintained  by  fluid,  slightly 
cooled  by  radiation,  falling  down  from 
the  surface,  and  hotter  fluid  rushing  up 
to  take  its  place. 

(2)  The  work  done  in  any  time  by 
the  mutual  gravitation  of  all  the  parts 
of  the  fluid,  us  it  shrinks  in  virtue  of 
tli9  lowering  of  its  temperature,  is  but 


little  less  than  (so  little  less  than,  that 
we  many  regard  it  as  practically  equal 
to)  the  (lynaniical  equivalent  of  the  heat 
that  is  radiated  from  the  sun  in  the 
same  time. 

1'he  rate  of  shrinkage  corres])onding 
to  the  present  rate  of  solar  radiation  has 
been  proved  to  us,  by  the  consideration 
of  our  dynamical  model,  to  be  35  metrea 
on  the  radius  per  year,  or  one  ten- 
thousandth  of  its  own  length  on  the 
radius  per  two  thousand  years.  Uence, 
if  the  solar  radiation  has  been  about  the 
same  iis  at  present  for  two  hundred 
thousand  vears,  his  radius  must  liave 
been  greater  by  1  per  cent,  two  hundred 
thousand  years  ago.  than  aj  present.  If 
we  wish  to  carry  our  calculations  much 
farther  back  or  forward  than  two  hun- 
dred thousand  vears,  we  must  reckon 
by  differences  of  the  reciprocal  of  th« 
sun's  radius,  and  not  by  differences 
simply  of  the  radius,  to  take  into  ac- 
count the  change  of  density  (which,  for 
example,  would  be  3  per  cent,  for  1  per 
cent,  change  of  the  radius).  Thns  the 
rule,  easily  woiked  out  according  to  the 
princi])les  illustrated  by  our  mechanical 
model,  is  this: — 

Equal  differences  of  the  reciprocal  of 
the  radius  correspond  to  equal  quanti- 
ties of  heat  radiated  away  from  million 
of  years  to  million  of  years. 

Take  two  examples: — 

(1)  If  in  pttst  time  there  has  been  as 
much  as  fifteen  million  times  the  heat 
radiated  from  the  sun  as  is  at  present 
radiated  out  in  one  vear,  the  solar  radius 
must  have  been  four  times  as  great  as  at 
present. 

(2)  If  the  sun's  effective  thermal 
capacity  L::n  ^  o  maintained  by  shrink- 
age till  twenty  n.illion  times  the  present 
vear's  amount  of  heat  is  r.idiated  awav. 
the  sun's  radins  must  be  half  what  it  is 
now.  Rnt  it  is  to  be  remarked  thr.t  the 
densitv  wlii»^]i  Wua  would  imply,  neing 
11.2  times  the  density  of  water,  or  just 
about  the  density  of  lead,  is  probably  too 


THE  SUN'S  HEAT. 


567 


great  to  allow  the  free  shrinkage  as  of 
a  cooling  gas  to  be  still  continued  with- 
out obstruction  through  overcrowding 
of  the  molecules.  It  seems,  therefore, 
most  probable  that  we  cannot  for  the 
future  reckon  on  more  of  solar  radiation 
than,  if  so  much  as,  twenty  million 
times  the  amount  at  present  radiated 
out  in  a  year.  It  is  also  to  be  remarked 
that  the  greatly  diminislied  radiating 
surface,  at  a  mu(ih  lower  temperature, 
would  give  out  annually  much  less  heat 
than  the  sun  in  his  present  condition 
gives.  Tlie  same  considerations  led 
^'evvcomb  to  the  conclusion  ''  that  it 
is  hardly  iikelv  that  tlie  sun  can  eon- 
tinue  to  give  sufficient  heat  to  support 
life  on  the  earth  (such  life  as  we  now 
are  acquainted  with,  at  least)  for  ten 
millioii  years  from  the  present  lime." 

In  all  our  calculations  hitherto  we 
have  for  simplicity  taken  the  density 
as  uniform  throughout,  and  equal  to 
the  true  mean  density  of  the  sun,  being 
about  I A  times  the  densitv  of  water, 
or  about  a  fourth  of  the  earth's  mean 
densitv.     In  realitv  the  densitv  in  the 

««  ^  w 

upper  parts  of  the  sun's  mass  must  be 
something  less  than  this,  and  some- 
thing considerably  more  than  this  in 
the  central  parts,  because  of  the  press- 
ure in  the  interior  increasing  to  some- 
tiling  enormously  great  at  tlie  center. 
If  we  knew  the  distribution  of  interior 
densitv  we  could  Ciisily  mod  if  v  our  cal- 
culatious  accordingly,  but  it  does  not 
seem  probable  that  the  correction  could, 
with  any  probable  a.^sumption  as  to  the 
greatness  of  the  density  tliron«i;hout  a 
considerable  proportion  of  the  sun's 
interior,  add  mure  than  a  few  million 
years  to  the  past  of  solar  heat,  and  what 
could  be  added  to  the  past  must  be  ta- 
»ken  from  the  future.  '^ 

In  our  calculations  we  have  taken 
Pouiilet's  number  for  the  total  activity 
of  solar  radiation,  which  ])racti('nlly 
agrees  with  IhM'sclicrs.  Foi'oe-;  showed 
the  necessity  for  corrocLing  the  motle  of 


allowing  for  atmospheric  absorption 
used  by  his  two  predecessors  in  esti- 
mating the  total  amount  of  solar  radia- 
tion,  and  he  waa  thus  led  to  a  number 
1.6  times  theirs.  Forty  years  later 
Langley,  in  an  excellently  worked  out 
consideration  of  the  whole  question  of 
absorption  by  our  atmosphere,  of  radi- 
ant heat  of  all  wave-lengths,  accepts 
and  confirms  Forbes's  reasoning,  and 
b^^  fresh  observations  in  very  favorable 
circumstances  on  Mount  Whitney, 
15,000  feet  above  the  sea-level,  finds  a 
number  a  little  greater  still  than  For- 
bes (1.7,  instead  of  Forbes's  1.6,  times 
Pouiilet's  number).  Thus  Langley's 
number  expressing  the  quantity  of  heat 
radiated  per  second  of  time  from  each 
square  centimetre  of  the  sun's  surface 
corresponds  to  133,000  horse-power  per 
square  metre,  instead  of  the  78,000 
horse-power  which  we  have  taken,  and 
diminishes  each  of  our  times  in  the 
ratio  of  1  to  1.7.  Thus,  instead  of 
Helmholtz's  twenty  million  years, 
which  was  founded  on  Pouiilet's  esti- 
mate, we  have  only  twelve  millions, 
and  similarly  with  all  our  other  time 
reckonings  based  on  Pouiilet's  results. 
In  the  circumstances,  and  taking  fully 
into  account  all  possibilities  of  greater 
density  in  the  sun's  interior,  and  of 
greater  or  less  activity  of  radiation  in 
past  ages,  it  would,  I  think,  be  exceed- 
ingly rash  to  assume  as  probable  any- 
thing more  than  twenty  million  years  of 
the  sun's  light  in  the  past  history  of  the 
earth,  or  to  reckon  on  more  than  five 
or  six  million  years  of  sunlight  for  time 
to  come. 

But  now  we  come  to  the  most  inter- 
esting part  of  our  subject — the  early 
history  of  the  sun.  Five  or  ten  million 
years  ago  he  may  have  been  about  dou- 
ble his  present  diameter  and  an  eighth 
of  his  present  mean  density,  or  .175 
of  the  densitv  of  water;  but  we  cannbt, 
with  any  probability  of  argument  or 
speculation,  go  on  continuously  much 


ws 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


beyond  that.  W©  cannot,  however, 
help  asking  the  question,  What  was  the 
condition  of  the  sun's  matter  before  it 
came  together  and  became  hot?  It 
may  have  been  two  cool  solid  masses, 
which  collided  with  the  velocity  due  to 
their  mutual  gravitation;  or,  but  with 
enormously  less  of  probability,  it  may 
have  been  two  masses  colliding  with 
velocities  considerably  greater  than  the 
velocities  due  to  mutual  gravitation. 
This  last  supposition  implies  that, 
calling  the  two  bodies  A  and  B  for 
brevity,  the  motion  of  the  center  of  in- 
ertia of  B  relatively  to  A,  must,  when 
tha  distances  between  them  was  great, 
have  been  directed  with  great  exactness 
to  pass  through  the  center  of  inertia  of 
A  ;  such  great  exactness  that  the  rota- 
tional momentum  after  collision  was 
of  proper  amount  to  let  the  sun  have 
his  present  jotational  period  when 
shrunk  to  his  present  dimensions. 
This  exceedingly  exact  aiming  of  the 
one  body  at  the  other,  so  to  speak,  is,  on 
the  dry  theory  of  probability,  exceed- 
ingly improbable.  On  the  other  hand, 
there  is  certainty  that  the  two  bodies 
A  and  B  at  rest  in  space  if  left  to 
themselves,  undisturbed  by  other  bod- 
ies and  only  influenced  by  their  mutual 
gravitation,  shall  collide  with  direct 
impact,  and  therefore  with  no  motion 
of  their  center  of  inertia,  and  no  rota- 
tional momentum  of  the  compound 
body  after  the  collision.  Thus  we  see 
that  the  dry  probability  of  collision  be- 
tween two  of  a  vast  number  of  mutually 
attracting  bodies  widely  scattered 
through  space  is  much  greater  if  the 
bodies  be  all  given  at  rest,  than  if  they 
be  given  moving  in  any  random  direc- 
tions and  with  any  velocities  consider- 
able in  comparison  with  the  velocities 
which  they  would  acquire  in  falling 
from  rest  into  collision.  In  this  con- 
nection it  is  most  interesting  to  know 
from  stellar  astronomy,  aided  so  splen- 
%lidly  as  it  has  recently  been  by  the 


spectroscope,  that  the  relative  motions 
of  the  visible  stars  and  our  sun  are 
generally  very  small  in  comparison  with 
the  velocity  (612  kilometres  per  second) 
a  body  would  acquire  in  falling  into 
the  sun,  and  are,  comparable  with  the 
moderate  little  velocity  (29.5  kilome- 
tres per  second)  of  the  earth  in  her 
orbit  round  the  sun. 

To  fix  the  ideas,  think  of  two  cool 
solid  globes,  each  of  the  same  mean 
density  as  the  earth,  and  of  half  the 
sun's  diameter,  given  at  rest,  or  nearly 
at  rest,  at  a  distance  asunder  equal  to 
twice  the  earth's  distance  from  the  sun. 
They  will  fall  together  and  collide  in 
half  a  year.  The  collision  will  last  for 
a  few  hours,  in  the  course  of  which 
they  will  be  transformed  into  a  vio- 
lently agitated  incandescent  fluid  mass, 
with  about  cfighteen  million  (accord- 
ing to  the  Pouillet-Helmholtz  reckon- 
ing, of  twenty  million)  years'  heat 
ready  made  in  it,  and  swelled  out  by 
this  heat  to  possibly  one  and  a  half 
times,  or  two,  or  three,  or  four  times, 
the  sun's  present  diameter.  If  instead 
of  being  at  rest  initially  they  had  had 
a  transverse  relative  velocity  of  14.2 
kilometres  per  second,  they  would  just 
escape  collision,  and  would  revolve  in 
equal  ellipses  in  a  period,  of  one  year 
round  the  center  of  inertia,  just  graz- 
ing one  another's  surfaces  every  time 
they  come  round  to  the  nearest  points 
of  their  orbits. 

If  the  initial  transverse  component 
of  relative  velocity  be  less  than,  but 
not  much  less  than,  1.42  kilometres 
per  second,  there  will  be  a  violent  graz- 
ing collision,  and  two  bright  suns,  solid 
globes  bathed  in  flaming  fluid,  will 
come  into  existence  in  the  course  of  a 
few  hours,  and  will  commence  revolv- 
ing round  their  common  center  of 
inertia  in  long  elliptic  orbits  in  a  period 
of  a  little  less  than  a  year.  The  quasi- 
tidal  interaction  will  diminish  the 
eccentricities    of  their    orbits;  and  if 


THE  SUN^S  HEAT. 


tm 


continued  long  enough  will  cause  the 
two  to  revolve  in  circular  orhits  round 
their  center  of  inertia  with  a  distance 
between  their  surfaces  equal  to  .044  of 
the  diameter  of  each. 

If  the  initial  transverse  component 
relative  velocity  of  the  two  bodies  were 
just  68  metres  per  second,  the  moment 
of  momentum,  the  same  before  and 
after  collision,  would  be  just  equal  to 
that  of  the  solar  system,  of  which 
eeventeen-eighteenths  is  Jupiter's  and 
one-eighteenth  the  sun's:  the  other 
bodies  being  not  worth  considering  in 
the  account.  Fragments  of  superficial- 
ly-melted solid,  or  splashes  of  fluid, 
sent  flying  away  from  the  main  com- 
pound mass  could  not  possibly  by  tidal 
action  or  other  resistance  get  into  the 
actual  orbits  of  the  pl-inets,  whose 
evolution  requires  some  finer  if  more 
complex  fore-ordination  than  merely 
the  existence  of  two  masses  undisturbed 
by  any  other  matter  in  spac^e. 

I  shall  only  say  in  conclusion: — As- 
suming the  sun's  mass  to  be  composed 
of  portions  which  were  far  asunder 
before  it  was  hot,  the  mimed iate  ante- 
cedent to  its  incandescence  must  have 
'been  either  two  bodies  with  details 
di tiering  only  in  proportion  and  den- 
sities from  the  cases  we  have  been  now 
consiilering  as  examples;  or  it  must 
have  been  some  number  more  than  two 
— ^some  finite  number — at  the  most  the 
number  of  atoms  in  the  sun's  present 
mas-?,  which  is  a  finite  number  as  easily 
understood  and  imagined  as  number  3 
or  number  123.  The  immediate  ante- 
cedent to  incandescence  may  have  been 
the  whole  constituents  in  the  extreme 
condition  of  subdivision — that  is  to  suy, 
in  the  condition  of  separate  atoms;  or 
it  may  have  been  any  smaller  number 
of  groups  of  atoms  making  up  minute 
crystals  or  groups  of  crystals — snow- 
flake?  of  matter,  as  it  were;  or  it  mav 
nave  been  lumps  of  matter  like  this 
macadamizing  stone;  orUketL.3  &tpne. 


which  you  might  mistake  for  a  maca- 
damizing stone,  and  which  was  actually 
tiuveling  through  space  till  it  fell  on 
the  earth  at  Possil,  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Glasgow,  on  April  5,  18U4;  or  like 
this — which  was  found  in  the  Desert  of  '' 
Atacama  in  South  America,  and  is  be- 
lieved to  have  fallen  there  from  the  sky 
— a  fragment  made  up  of  iron  and 
stone,  which  looks  as  if  it  has  solidified 
from  a  mixture  of  gravel  and  melted 
iron  in  a  place  where  there  was  very 
little  of  heaviness;  or  this  splendidly 
crystal i zed  piece  of  iron,  a  slab  cut  out 
of  the  celebrated  aerolite  of  Lenarto,  in 
Hungary;  or  this  wonderfully  shaped 
specimen,  a  model  of  the  Middlesburgh 
meteorite,  kindlv  given  me  by  Prof.  A. 
8.  Uerschel,  witli  corrugations  showing 
how  its  melted  matter  has  been  scoured 
off  from  the  front  part  of  its  surface  in 
its  final  rush  through  the  earth's  at- 
mosphere when  it  was  seen  to  fall  on 
March  14,  1881,  at  3.35  P.  3i.  For  the 
theory  of  the  sun  it  is  indifferent  which 
of  these  varieties  of  configurations  of 
matter  may  have  been  the  immediate 
antecedent  of  his  incandesceni'e,  but  I 
can  never  think  of  these  material  ante- 
cedents without  remembering  a  ques- 
tion put  to  me  thirty  years  ago  by  the 
late  Bishop  Ewing,  Bishop  of  Argyll 
and  the  Tsles.  **Do  you  imagine  that 
piece  of  nuUter  to  have  been  as  it  is 
from  llie  beginning;  to  have  been 
created  as  it  is,  or  to  have  been  as  it  is 
through  all  time  till  it  fell  on  the 
earth  ?"  I  had  told  him  that  I  believed 
the  sun  to  be  built  up  oi  stones,  but  he 
woiil«l  not  l)e  satisfied  till  he  knew,  or 
could  imagine,  what  kind  of  stones.  I 
could  not  but  agree  with  him  in  feeling 
it  impossible  to  imagine  that  any  one 
of  these  meteorites  before  you  has  been 
as  it  is  through  all  time,  or  that  the 
materials  of  the  sun  were  like  this  for 
all  time  before  they  came  together  and 
became  hot.  Surely  this  stone  has  an 
eventful  history,  but  I  shall  Aot  tax 


570 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


your  patience  longer  to-night  by  trying 
to  trace  it  con jectu rally.  I  shall  only 
say  that  we  cannot  but  agree  with  the 
common  opinion  which  regards  meteor- 
ites as  fragments  broken  from  larger 
masses,  but  we  cannot  be  satisfied  witli- 
out  trying  to  imagine  what  were  the 
antecedents  of  those  masses. — Nature, 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 

The  reader  who  loves  literature  for 
itself  will  have  anticipated  witli  interest 
the  Life  of  Shelley,*  whicli  has  been  for 
some  time  in  preparation  by  hands  so 
careful  and  cultivated  as  those  of 
Professor  Dowden.  Much  has  been 
already  written  on  the  subject, "and  the 
name  of  the  poet  has  been  confused  with 
nianyautobu)graphical  records  in  which 
other  men  nave  done  their  best  to  in- 
terest the  world  in  the  part  they  them- 
selves played  ia  his  hnplcHs  story,  quite 
as  much  as  to  chronicle  the  facets  and 
certainties  that  concerned  their  hero. 
Hogg,  Peacock,  Med  win,  Trelawney, 
and  how  many  names  beside,  will  occur 
to  the  recollection  of  every  readers-all 
contemporary  witnesses,  and  eager  to 
tell  everything,  and  a  little  more  perhaps 
than  everything,  they  knew.  There 
followed  a  silence  after  the  flutter  of 
all  these  voices,  and  the  interest  con- 
nected with  the  poet  drooped  in  the 
partial  and  momentary  decay  of  nature; 
but  fame  has  now  had  time  to  come 
back,  and  the  reputation  of  Shelley  has 
risen  into  what  is  perhaps  an  extrava- 
gant reactionary  splendor. 

Of  late  veara  it  has  become  a  fashion 
with  a  small  but  enthusiastic  sect  to 
place  the  poet  on  a  pedestal  whir-h  is 
something  more  than  that  of  poetical 
fame,  and  to  claim  for  him  not  only  the 
merited  laurel  of   a  gi*eat  singer,  but 

*  Tlie  IJfe  of  Percv  Bysshe  Sliolley.     By 
>;dward  Dowden,  LL.t). 


strange  crowns  of  olive  and  myrtle,  the 
reward  of  the  philosopher  and  moralist. 
Professor  Dowden  fortunately  does  not 
join  in  these  exaggerated  claims.  His 
aim  is  not  to  suj)port  any  theory,  bnt 
to  set  before  us  with  a  fullness  of  uetHil 
not  previon.-l;"  attained,  the  much  con- 
fused ai  ''w  wandering  career  of  one  of 
the  most  wayward,  if  also  one  of  the 
most  interesting,  beautiful,  and  be- 
wildering spirits  that  ever  was  clothed 
in  flesh  and  blood.  He  has  collected 
and  examined  the  many  fragmentary 
pictures  in  which  Shelley  and  the  curi- 
ous figures  assembled  round  him  have 
ap})eared  iu  glimpses  before  a  puzzled 
world.  What  luxs  hitherto  been  foseek 
in  many  books,  all  more  or  less  imper- 
fect, may  now  finally  be  found  with 
authority  in  this.  Mr.  W.  M.  Rossefti, 
in  the  biography  prefixed  to  his  edition 
of  Shelley's  works,  had  already  done 
much;  but  Professor  Dowden,  with 
more  sj)ace  find  a  more  perfect  com- 
mand of  all  the  sources  of  information, 
has  enlarged  and  completed  the  work. 
He  luis  been  able  to  add  some  chapters 
to  the  record,  making  it  continuons, 
and  to  fill  up  the  breaks  and  intciTals 
in  other  plac^es  from  correspondences 
abridged  and  su]  pressed.  The  b6ok  is 
net  one  of  criticism.  It  is  not  intended 
to  expound  either  the  strange  chaotic 
beliefs  and  wild  social  theories  of  the 
poet,  or  the  modes  and  methods  of  liis 
wonderful  art.  The  position  of  Shelley 
as  a  poet  is  one  of  those  things  beyond 
argun)cnt  and  reason,  on  which  there 
hiLs  never  been  any  real  conflict  of 
opinion.  Even  in  those  mad  ;';ys  of 
youili  when  Queen  Mab  aifronad  the 
world,  and  the  poet's  bark  was  launched 
upon  no  gentle  stream,  but  in  the  midst 
of  a  whirlpool,  the  wonderful  boy  to<>k 
the  imagina^^^ion  captive  with  a  spell 
impossible  to  shake  off.  We  believe, 
even  now,  that  the  number  of  •<  ^'cs 
who  are  familiar  with  his  lour: or  Ji  s. 
— the  bewildering  sweetness;  of  . .  Vv  .  ui\ 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


571 


the  gorgeous  visions  of  the  Revolt  of 
Islam,  or  even  the  exquisite  melody  of 
some  })arts  of  the  Prometheus  —  are 
comparatively  few  —  as  few  fts  those 
wlio  follow  Wordsworth  through  all  the 
valleys  and  over  all  the  mountains  of 
the  Kvnirfiion;  yet  Shelley  calls  forth 
a  warmer  enthusiasm  than  his  austere 
and  nobler  senior.  He  has  the  suffrages 
of  those  who  are  capable  of  judging, 
and  of  those  who  are  not.  The  full 
flowing  stream  of  perfect  sound  which 
carries  him  along  has  what  we  may 
venture  to  call  an  almost  mechanical 
power  over  multitudes  incapable  of 
understanding  his  poetry  in  any  higher 
sense.  That  melodious  '  medium  bor- 
rows the  results  of  another  art.  It  has 
the  supreme  eifect  of  music  transport- 
ing, by  the  endless  wonder  of  its  har- 
monies, minds  from  which  its  intellec- 
tual meaning  may  be  hid,  and  which 
want  no  more  than  that  charm  of  be- 
wildering sweetness  which  is  an  en- 
chantment beyond  reason,  an  irresist- 
ible magic;  and  spell. 

But  these  are  not  discussions  into 
which  it  is  here  necessary  to  enter.  It 
is  tlie  story  of  Shelley's  life  rather  than 
of  his  poetry  which  Professor  Dowden  | 
tells  us,  and  he  tells  it  like  the  romance  i 
it  is.  A  tale  so  full  of  tragic  incident, 
so  soilly  complete  and  incomplete,  so 
overflowing  with  all  the  contradictions 
of  humanity,  is  seldom  put  before  the 
world.  Professor  Dowden  has  had 
access  to  all  the  collections,  both  of  the 
poet's  family  and  other  authorities:  'and  | 
we  may  conclude  that  we  have  here  the 
last  word  on  the  subject;  but  there  is 
no  new  revelation  in  respect  to  the 
largely  discussed  events  of-Shelley's  life. 
The  two  marriages,  if  we  may  use  the 
word,  which  followed  euch  other  with 
so  short  an  interval,  in  no  way  change 
their  aspect  from  what  he  tells  us,  ex- 
cept that  it  becomes  more  evident  than 
before  that  on  SIkm^ov's  side  there  was 
nothing  that  could  be  called  love,  no 


passion  such  as  one  feels  to  be  necessary 
to  justify  such  a  step,  in  the  mad  reck- 
lessness of  the  poet's  marriage  at  nine- 
teen. That  Shelley's  motive  was  en- 
tirely chivalrous  and  noble,  if  over- 
whelmingly foolish,  there  can  be  no 
further  doubt.  The  girl  to  whom  be 
had  been  teaching  the  finest  of  senti- 
ments, when  she  confessed  her  love  to 
him  (as  well  as  that  tyranny  of  home 
which  she  was  determined  to  resist,  a 
determination  which  enlisted  his  warm- 
est sympathies),  made  no  stipulations^ 
but  threw  herself  upon  bis  protection 
with  a  folly,  but  at  tne  same  time  with 
a  trust,  which  the  youth,  notwithstand- 
ing his  theories,  could  not  take  advan- 
tage of.  All  honor  to  Shelley  !  Many 
a  man  without  theories  would  hav© 
fallen  before  the  force  of  this  tempta- 
tion. Young  Shelley  contradicted  all 
his  own  hot  convictions  to  save  the  girl 
who  trusted  him  from  the  consequences 
of  her  own  rashness,  sacrificing  himself 
and  his  interests  by  the  way. 

The  second  chapter  of  the  tale — the 
flight  with  Mary  and  abandonment  of 
poor  Harriet,  though  the  passion  in  it 
has  thrown  glamour  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world,  is  a  very  different  matter.  Here 
again,  so  far  as  regards  the  facts  of  the 
elopement,  there  is  little  new  to  tell; 
but  the  life  which  followed,  the  joint 
narrative  of  the  little  party  of  three  who 
escaped  together  from  all  the  bonds  and 
prejudices  ^  of  life,  with  its  piteous 
youthfulness,  reading  like  the  story  of 
some  new  hapless  Babes  in  the  Wood, 
or  rather  in  the  Wild,  the  desert  of  this 
world — most  inappropriate  of  all  shelters 
for  their  mfinite  helplessness,  wayward- 
ness, and  inexperience — is  curiously 
touching,  and  would  disarm  the  severest 
moralist.  Nothing  could  be  more  ruin- 
ous than  what  they  were  doing  to  every 
law  and  instinct  of  orderly  life;  yet  the 
wild  infantile  expedition,  with  all  it? 
raptures  and  adventures,  its  sett^ la- 
ments that  are  to  be  forever,  and  lae!  a 


672 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


day,  its  sudden  resolves  and  re-resolves, 
has  a  sort  of  perverted  innocence  in  it 
which  confuses  the  judgment.  That 
wonderful  flight  and  return,  and  the 
few  months  that  followed  in  London, 
when  Shelley  roamed  about  from  money- 
lender to  money-lender,  endeavoring  to 
raise  the  wind,  and  hide  from  his  credi- 
tors, coming  home  by  stealth  on  the 
sacred  Sunday  mornings,  when  he  was 
safe :  supremely  miserable  and  su- 
premely happy — without  a  penny,  yet 
ready  to  ttike  any  other  adventurer  he 
came  across  on  his  shoulders — are  all 
new  to  us,  and  full  of  interest,  and 
pathos,  and  amusement.  Were  it  not 
for  the  unhappy  shadow  of  Harriet 
behind,  the  story  of  tlii.-^  young  pair 
playing  at  life,  tfiHiiiig  so  splendidly, 
suifering  and  enjoying  so  passion- 
ately, with  such  reckless  innocence 
and  ignorance  in  all  their  ways,  would 
be  as  pretty  and  amusing  a  picture 
(with  all  its  despairs  and  destitutions) 
as  could  be  found  in  literature.  And 
such  is  the  extraordinary  absence  of  all 
perception  of  wrong  in  the  high-minded 
young  culprits  that  the  moralist,  as  we 
have  said,  finds  himself  altogether  out 
of  place  between  them.  The  same  thing 
may  be  said  of  both  Shelley's  begin- 
nings: it  is  a  pair  of  children  playing  at 
matrimony,  playing  at  existence,  with 
a  proud  sense  that  they  are  not  as 
others,  and  pleasure  in  defying  the 
world,  who  are  set  before  us.  The  tale 
in  both  cases  is  equally  astounding, 
amusing,  pathetic.  Poor  children  of 
heaven  astray,  playing  such  pranks  as 
make  the  angels  weep,  bewildered  in 
the  midst  of  an  alien  universe,  '*  mov- 
ing about  in  worlds  not  realized. "  The 
double  tale  is  at  once  piteous  and  laugh- 
able, with  differences  which  make  it 
more  comic  in  one  case,  more  sad  in  the 
other.  We  know  nothing  like  it  either 
in  fiction  or  life. 

Professor    Dowden.  has   treated    his 
enbject    with    suHicient    justice    and 


sincerity  so  far  as  Shelley  himself  is 
concerned.  He  has  "  nothing  exten- 
uate, nor  set  down  aught  in  malice,*' 
but  this  is  not  always  the  case  in  respect 
to  the  other  personages  of  the  tale.  Thus 
we  feel  that  Harriet's  life,  after  the 
separation — ^which  we  must  still,  not- 
withstanding Professor  Dowden's  ob- 
jections, call  her  desertion  by  Shelley — 
IS  left  in  a  midst  of  unfavorable  infer- 
ence, which  is  very  injurious  to  that 
unfortunate  girl.  A  supposition,  or 
suggestion,  that  she  fell  into  evil  ways, 
and  that  the  despair  which  caused  her 
death  arose  from  a  second  desertion  by 
some  one  else,  '*  upon  whose  gratitude 
she  had  a  claim,"  is  skillfully  disposed, 
in  the  haze  which  surrounds  her  misera- 
ble end,  to  withdraw  our  thoughts  from 
the  possibility  that  both  misery  and 
death  were  to  be  attributed  to  Slielley. 
In  this  Professor  Dowden  follows  several 
of  his  predecessors  in  the  Shelley  story, 
and  there  may  or  may  not  be  truth  in 
the  suggestion.  But  justice  requires  a 
more  even  balance  than  is  here  at- 
tempted. Her  husband  had  seen  her 
after  his  return  with  Mary.  He  had 
suggested,  in  his  inconceivable  way, 
that  they  should  all  live  together.  •  He 
had  borrowed  money  even,  as  it  is  as- 
serted, from  his  foi'saken  wife.  That 
he  should  have  lost  sight  of  her  al- 
T;ogether,  meant  of  course  that  he  also 
must  have  lost  sight  of  the  two  children 
who  were  in  her  hands,  and  about 
whom,  so  far  as  can  be  seen,  he  never 
asked  a  question  until  the  moment  when 
they  were  torn  from  his  arms  (according 
to  the  cant  of  the  biographera)  by  the 
Court  of  Chancery.  Surely  it  would  be 
worth  while  to  ascertain  what  really 
was  this  poor  young  woman's  life  up  to 
the  moment  when  she  plungetl  into  the 
dark  and  dreary  Serpentine  and  made 
an  end  of  it.  Hogg's  scornful  banter 
of  the  young  wife  who  rejected  his  own 
evil  overtures,  the  .always  blooming, 
smiling,  imperturbable    Harriet,  wim 


PERC^l  TiYSSIIE  SHELLEY. 


573 


her  passion  for  reading  aloud,  and  her 
equable  voice,  really  affords  us  an  ex- 
tremely clever,  distinct,  and  humorous 
sketch  of  character,  though  he  did  not 
so  intend  it,  a  character  not  at  all  in 
keeping  with  the  suggestion  of  dull  dis- 
sipation and  despair  which  is  hazarded 
but  never  proved  against  this  poor 
victim — the  victim  of  high-flown  senti- 
ment and  false,  imperfectly  understood 
theory,  as  wjell  as  of  Shelley.  Such  a 
discrepancy,  if  nothing  else,  should 
secure  a  little  more  attention  to  her  sad 
fate. 

And  this  all  the  more  that  Mary  for 
whom  she  was  deserted — Mary,  the  ob- 
ject of  the  poet's  impassioned  love,  the 
heroine  of  that  strange  idyl  of  wander- 
ing romance  which  occupied  his  hap- 
piest years — Mary,  too,  ceased  to  be  the 
ideal  companion  whom  his  heart  re- 
quired, and  was,  before  many  years  had 
passed,  found  as  incapable  of  giving  the 
sympathy  that  was  necessary  to  nim, 
and  responding  in  all  things  to  his 
capricious  appeals,  as  Harriet  had  been. 
Her  own  expressions  in  her  journal 
apj)ear  to  imply  that  the  heaven  of  hap- 
piness  in^  which  they  began  was  very 
soon  overclouded.  The  two  following 
extracts  from  her  diary  will  show  some- 
thing of  the  under-current  of  Mary's 
thoughts;  the  first  is  written  in  the 
midst  of  deep  grief  for  the  loss  of  her 
children,  and  yet  would  seem  to  imply 
gomething  more  than  bereavement: — 

**Augntft  4,  LeffJvorn. — I  begin  my  journal 
on  Shelley's  birthday.  We  have  now  lived 
five  years  toi^ether;  and  if  all  the  events  of  the 
five  years  were  blotted  out  I  mii»ht  be  happy; 
bTit  to  have  won,  and  thus  cruelly  to  have  lost, 
the  associations  of  four  years,  is  not  an  acci- 
dent lo  which  tiie  human  mind  can  bend  with- 
o;it  much  suffering. 

*'Sttinrday,  AuguM  4. — Shelley's  birthday. 
Seven  years  are  now  gone.  What  changes! 
What  a  life!  We  now  appear  tranquil — yet 
who  knows  what  wind — but  I  will  not  prog- 
jinsHcate  evil:  we  have  had  enough  of  it. 
Wlie  1  Shelley  came  to  Italy  I  said.  All  is  well 
tf  it  were  permanent;  it  was  mor«  passing  than 


an  Italian  twilight.  I  now  say  the  same. 
Mrfy  it  be  a  Polar  day.  Yet  that  day  loo  has 
an  end." 

•  These  are  sad  utterances  for  the 
woman  beloved,  and  evidently  mean 
much  more  than  they  say.  About  the 
same  time  Shelley  writes  to  the  Gis- 
bornes: — 

*'I  feel  the  want  of  those  who  can  feel  for 
and  understand  me.  Whether  from  proximity 
and  the  continuity  of  domestic  iiUercourse 
Mary  does  not.  It  is  the  curse  of  I'au talus 
that  a  i)erson  possessing  such  excellent  powers 
and  so  pure  a  mind  as  hers  should  not  excite 
the  sympathy  indispensable  to  their  applica- 
tion to  domestic  life.** 

Strange  and  tragical  commentary 
upon  the  impassioned  beginning  of  this 
life  of  disappointment  and  dissatisfac- 
tion !  They  had  broken  all  laws  and 
cut  all  ties  of  nature  to  form  the  bond 
which  already  strained  the  nerves  and 
tried  the  hearts  of  both.  Alas  for  Love 
if  this  were  all  its  meaning  !  Professor 
Dowden  gives  a  little  explanatory  de- 
fSnce  of  both,  which  is  curious  as  the 
plea  of  a  generous  partisan  who  cannot 
escape  from  the  necessities  of  the  pro- 
verb, and  instinctively  accuses  in  excus- 
ing. 

"His  love  for  Mary  had  become  a  more  sub- 
stantial portion  of  his  l)eing  than  the  h)ve  of 
these  e  rly  days  of  poverty  in  London,  when 
he  addressed  to  her  his  little  morning  and 
evening  letters  of  rapturous  devotion.  He 
constituted  himself,  as  far  as  might  be.  the 
guardian  of  her  tranquillity:  made  less  extrava- 
gant demands,  dealt  prudently  with  her  peace 
of  mind;  acknowledged  the  bounds  of  life. 
In  this  there  was  loss  and  there  was  gain;  up- 
on the  whole  it  was  a  serviceable  education  for 
Shelley's  sympathies,  bringing  them  close  to 
reality  and  helping  to  mature  his  mind. 
Mary's  moods  of  dejection,  the  disturbance  of 
serenity,  in  one  whose  nature  was  deep  and 
strong,  caused  him  disturbance  and  pain,  from 
which  he  instinctively  sought  protection.  He 
was  at  times  tempted  to  elude  difficulties, 
rather  than  with  courage  to  meet  and  vanquish 
them.  For  his  own  sake  perhaps  unwisely, 
and  for  hers,  he  avoided  topics  which  could 
cause  her  agitation,  or  bring  to  the  sirfare  any 
imperfection  of  sympathy  that  ( xistcd  between 
them.  ...  It  is  true,  indeed,  that  such  a  spirit 


574 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


as  Shelley's  can  find  no  absolute  contciU  in 
mortiil  liiing,  or  nuin  or  woman.  One  w*io  is 
in  love  with  beauty,  finds  every  incarnation 
of  beauty  unsatisfiini^:  one  wiio  is  in  love 
^ith  love,  thirsts  after  he  has  druuk  the  full- 
est and  purest  drau<?ht.  'Some  of  us, '  Shelley 
wrote  in  October,  1821,  'have  in  a  prior  exis- 
tence been  in  love  with  tui  Antigone,  and  that 
makes  us  find  no  full  content  in  any  mortal 


tic. 


» >f 


In  short,  it  was  scarcely  worth  wliile  to 
have  gone  through  tliat  dream  of  pas- 
sion and  rapture — to  have  driven  poor 
Harriet  adrift  on  those  wild  waters  in 
which  she  sank;  Harriet,  after  all, 
would  have  done  as  well  as  Mary  to  fill 
that  always  unsatisfying  place,  and 
afford  an  excuse  for  the  wayward  and 
capricious  poet  to  snatch  a  draught  at 
every  fountain  he  passed. 

Of  the  extraordinary  and  involved 
relations  which  made  Shelley  always  the 
dominant  figure  in  a  trio,  with  both 
wife  and  sister  always  at  his  heels — and 
of  his  friends,  so  strangely  chosen,  and 
of  all  the  odd,  unrealities  of  his  lif^i— 
the  reader  will  find  Professor  Dowden's 
book  an  admirable  and  interesting  rec- 
ord. Merely  as  a  dramatic  study  of 
character,  it  is  well  worthy  attention. 
The  strange,  wild,  impetuous  heing — 
full  of  unreason,  yet  now  and  then 
turning  a  sudden  unexpected  side  of 
good-sense  and  judgment  to  the  light 
— full  of  the  most  selfish  freaks  and 
fancies,  the  most  sudden  and  complete 
changes:  yet  faithful  to  liis  friends 
(who  were  men  and  not  women)  witn  a 
faithfulness  which  was  unaffected  by 
the  misbehavior  of  the  object  of  his  re- 
gard: and  with  all  the  instincts  of  a 
man  bom  to  wealth  and  lavish  expendi- 
ture subsisting  through  the  hardest 
struggles  of  actual  poverty — is  as  un- 
usual in  his  nni'ire  as  in  his  genius. 

Nor  are  his  friends  less  worthy  atten- 
tion. The  Godwin  household,  with  its 
extraordinary  group  of  young,  ardent, 
and  undisciplined  girls,  was  indeed  as 
congenial  as  anything  earthly  could  be 


to  the  Elfin  Knight.  But  by  what 
strange  .magic  that  Will-o'-the-witip 
should  have  drawn  to  himself  and  found 
pleasure  in  the  witty  and  cynical  Hogjjr, 
and  the  strange  humorist  Peacock,  is  us 
inexplicable  as  any  other  wonder  of 
Shelley 's  1  if e.  Byron  was  a  more  natur- 
al and  fitting  mate  for  his  brother  poet; 
but  the  story  of  their  intercourse  is  one 
of  the  darkest  and  most  painful  here 
recorded.  There  seems  no  reason  to 
connect  Shelley  with  the  beginning  of 
the  shameful  tale  of  cruelty  and  false- 
hood,  of  which  the  little  Allegra  is  the 
innocent  heroine,  and  her  mother  the 
victim;  nor  does  he  play  in  it  any  but 
an  honorable  part,  excej)t  in  condoning 
by  his  friendship,  or  pretence  at  friend- 
ship, the  heartless  baseness  of  the  noble 
poet,  whose  conduct,  so  far  n&  we  are 
aware,  has  never  before  been  set  in  so 
scathing  a  light.  , 

There  is  little  criticism,  as  we  have 
said,  in  this  book;  and  not  much  even 
of  tlijit  story  of  poetic  development,  or 
of  tlie  growth  of  Shelley's  wonderful 
music  of  expression,  which  we  might 
have  looked  for.  We  will  only  pause 
to  note,  as  a  writer  seated  in  tliis  cliam- 
ber  of  associations  and  memories  is 
bound  to  do,  that  to  the  little  group  of 
friends  upon  the  Italian  coast,  whose 
hearts  had  been  lacerated  bv  a  furious 
onslaught  in  the  Quarterly — not  only 
upon  the  Revolt  of  Ishm,  but  upon  the 
poet — there  came  balm  from  the  kind 
hand  of  him  who  then  was  paramount 
in  this  center  of  literature.  "In  Janu- 
ary, 1819,  appeared  a  notice  of  the  He- 
volt  of  Islam  from  Wilson's  pen,  which 
had  been  justly  described  as  bv  far  the 
worthiest  recognition  that  Shelley's 
genius  x'eceived  in  his  lifetime."  The 
generous  enthusiasm  of  the  great  critic 
of  Blackwood  was  not  content  with  one 
full  measure  of  applause,  but  returned 
again  and  again  to  subsequent  poems, 
and  did  not  hesitate  to  transfix  with  an 
indignant    arrow    his  brother  in   the 


THE  INDIAN  BROKER. 


675 


Quarterly.  *^If  that  critic  does  not 
know  that  Mr.  Slielley  is  a  poet  almost 
in  the  very  liighest  sense  of  that  mys- 
terious word,  siiid  our  Professor,  with 
all  tlie  authority  and  certainty  of  kin- 
dred genius,  **then  we  appeal  to  all 
those  whom  we  have  enahied  to  judge 
for  themselves,  if  he  he  not  unfit  to 
sneak  of  poetry  before  the  people  of 
England.  Such  was  the  verdict 
which  those  pages  carried  to  the  world 
more  than  sixty  years  ago;  and  no  man 
will  dare  to  demy  its  justice  now. — 
Blackwood* 8  Magazine. 


THE  INDIAN  BEOKEE. 

The  Dalai,  or  Indian  broker,  is  omni- 
present. It  does  not  matter  what  you 
call  it — trade,  business,  charity,  wor- 
ship, festival — wherever  money  changes 
hands  in  India,  there  is  that  oily-ton^ 
gued  individual  ready  to  take  his  com- 
mission. Any  one,  especially  it  he  be 
a  stranger,  who  has  ever  been  in  an  In- 
dian bazaar,  knows  the  Dalai  well' 
enough.  Directly  you  enter  it  you  are 
besieged  by  a  number  of  these  brokers, 
bowing  and  salaaming,  who  will  offer 
to  show  you  the  best  and  cheapest  shop 
for  everything;  and  though  you  may 
onlv  want  to  buv  a  shilling's-worth  of 
calico  or  a  pair  of  eighteenpenny  slip- 
pers, they  will  stick  to  you  like  bees  to 
a  honey-pot  till  you  have  concluded  the 
bargain.  *'What  will  the  gentleman 
have?  What  is  the  pleasure  of  my 
loi-d?  This  humble  servant,  this  gro- 
veling slave,  can  in  a  minute  take  him 
to  the  best  shop  in  the  world,  where  the 
people  are  honest  as  honesty  itself." 
80  runs  the  tongue  of  the  broker.  You 
need  not  consider  yourself  safe  even  if 
you  go  in  a  carriage  with  its  doors 
closed,  after  giving  strict  instructions 
to  your  coachman  to  drive  fast  without 
taking    notice  of   anybody.     Be    bure 


that  an  exchange  of  glances  and  si^ns 
took  place  between  the  obliging  fratc- 
nity  and  the  man  on  the  coach-box  soon 
after  you  started  from  home.  The  pace 
of  your  horses  will  slacken,  the  carriage- 
doors  open  gentl3%  and  sleek  faces  thrust 
themselves  into  vour  privacy.  If  you 
are  an  old  liand  at  buvino;  in  the  ba- 
zaars,  you  of  course  know  that  the  least 
hesitation  i  i  showing  the:so  gentlemen 
the  manlier  part  of  your  nature  will  tell 
heavily  on  your  peace  and  purse.  But 
even  though  you  have  set  tlie  Dalals  on 
their  heels  as  you  piiss  to  the  shop,  you 
will  find  yourself  forestalled  there  by 
somebody  apparently  belonging  to  it, 
who  insinuates  his  services  to  you  as 
soon  as  you  open  the  bargain  with  tho 
shopkeeper. 

In  an  Indian  bazaar  it  is  not  unusual 
to  spend  an  hour  in  higgling  over  half 
a  dozei>  of  handkerchiefs,  after  wasting 
as  much  time  in  looking  into  a  dozen 
shops  for  the  same;  and  the  Dalals  would 
not  leave  you  even  if  you  gave  a  whole 
day  to  finding  what  you  wanted.  At 
least  one  of  them  will  be  at  "your  elbow 
at  the  time  of  bargaining;  und  the 
whole  fraternity  will  go  sliares  in  the 
commission,  be  it  only  a  halfpenny. 
Of  course  there  is  a  secret  understanding 
between  the  brokers  and  shopkee[)ers, 
who  communicate  wuth  each  other  in 
the  very  presence  of  the  customer.  If 
they  find  him  sharp  enough  to  detect 
them  in  their  cabalistic  language  or 
mysterious  signs,  the  shopkeeper  and 
the  broker,  putting  their  right  hands 
under  a  piece  of  cloth,  let  each  other 
know  the  price  they  are  to  put  on  the 
yard  or  the  pound  by  a  mere  touch  of 
the  fingers;  the  various  parts  of  which 
represent  to  them  different  lengths, 
weights,  and  sums  of  money.  No 
doubt,  there  are  still  more  ingenious 
means  of  communication.  If  the  pur- 
chaser be  very  particular  and  will  not 
easily  buy  anything,  the  Dalals  will 
leave    him  alone  after    showin/^    hiia 


S7d 


THE  LIRKAHY  MAOAZIKE. 


ovcry  shop.  But  on  l)iiying  the  urticle 
l:e  needs  from  any  sliop  in  the  Lazaiir, 
en  the  same  or  any  otlier  day,  lie  will 
f.nd  that  the  shopkeeper  Avill  not  sell  it 
to  him  without  adding  the  commission 
of  the  brokers. 

The  rate  of  commission  differs  in 
every  town  and  in  every  bazaai\  It  is 
usually  about  a  half  penny  in  the  shilling 
— with  the  understanding,  of  course, 
that  the  more  simj)le  and  inexperienced 
the  purchaser  is  the  more  he  shall  be 
mulcted;  the  profits  of  cheating  being 
divided  between  the  merchant  and  the 
brokers.  In  Benares  and  other  places, 
as  m^ny  as  twenty  Daldls  will  some- 
times share  the  commission  on  a  piece 
of  embroidered  cloch.  It  is  said  that 
not  very  long  ago,  in  Benares,  out  of 
each  rupee  paid  by  the  customer  ten 
annas  went  into  the  pockets  of  the 
Dalals,  while  the  remaining  six  annas 
covered  the  original  value  of  the  article 
bought  and  the  profit  of  the  seller, 
which  was  amply  sufficient. 

The  Dalals  have  from  time  imme- 
morial formed  thems?elves  into  a  profes- 
sional body,  and  believe  that  they  have 
a  perfect  right  to  come  between  the  two 
parties  in  any  transaction  or  dealing. 
As  a  rule  they  have  no  capital  of  their 
own,  and  live  entirely  by  their  wits. 
It  is  not  only  in  the  cities  and  towns 
that  you  meet  them;  you  see  them  in 
country  markets,  in  villages,  among 
weavers,  among  peasants,  and  most  of 
all  in  the  sacred  places  of  the  Hindoos. 
Directly  a  Hindoo  arrives  at  any  of 
these,  he  is  pounced  uj)on  by  a  number 
of  affable  individuals,  who,  often  of  the 
same  caste  as  the  priests  and  acting  in 
concert  with  them,  will  conduct  him  to 
the  different  temples  and  advise  him  as 
to  the  presents  be  should  offer  to  each 
of  the  gods.  These  men  are  not  like 
the  ordinary  touts:  the  gratuity  they 
receive  from  the  visitors  counts  for 
nothing  with  them;  their  chief  resource 
is  a  share  of  the  offerings  to  the  gods. 


l>y  far  the  greater  portion  of  the  In- 
dian brokers  belong  to  the  mercantile 
caste.  According  to  the  social  rules  of 
the  tradesmen  and  merchants,  thev  are 
bound  to  help  their  caste  people.  In 
very  early  times  when  any  member  of 
their  caste  failed  in  business,  they 
would  get  up  a  subscription  and  start 
him  afresh,  meantime  allowing  him  for 
his  subsistence  a  small  share  of  their 
profits.  This  is  the  ori^n  of  the  cus- 
tom of  Daldlce,  or  couimission  to  bro- 
kers. But  latterly  the  Dal&ls  have  be- 
come so  numerous  through  increase  of 
population,  failures  in  business,  etc.. 
that  the  prosperous  members  of  the 
mercantile  caste  cannot  follow  their 
social  rules  as  of  old.  Nevertheless 
they  feel  bound  not  to  refuse  any  bro- 
ker a  share  of  the  commission,  tlenw 
the  secret  compact  between  the  mer- 
chants and  the  brokers,  and  hence  the 
abject  j)overty  of  a  great  many  of  the 
latter.  People  of  all  ages,  from  foiu- 
teen  to  seventy,  many  of  them  in  rags, 
are  seen  in  the  class  of  Dal&ls.  As  a 
rule,  they  are  very  effeminate  and  ouit* 
incapable  of  hard  work.  Tliey  are  lield 
to  be  extremely  avaricious  and  niggard- 
ly; they  are  loth  to  part  with  even  two 
cowrees,  or  one-tenth  of  a  farthing. 
In  short,  the  Daldls  of  India  combine 
in  themselves  all  the  shady  characteris- 
tics of  the  gentlemen  known  in  England 
a^  '*  touts,"  * 'go-betweens,"  et<3.  In- 
deed, the  very  name  * 'Dalai"  has  be- 
come in  parts  of  India  a  bv-word  for 
one  who  lives  by  cheating^  liis  fellow- 
creatures. —  A  Hindoo,  in  The  SU 
Jameses  Gazette. 


CUBRENT  THOUGHT. 

The  approaching  End  of  the  Wobli. 

—Sir  TVilliam  Thomson's  lecture  on  "Tht 

Sun's  Heat"  is  reproduced  in  this  number  of 

ITiiE  LiBUARY  Magazine.      The  PaU  y^Ul 

'  Gazette  thus  sums  up  tli«  oenduaions  at  which 

-    -7 


CTRUENT  THOUGHT. 


577 


Sir  William  Thomson  has  arrived  upou  a  not 
iiniuterestiutc  topic: — 

"Sir  W.  Tliomson,  lecturing  at  Ihe  Royal 
Institution  before  a  brilliant  ftishionabic  and 
fK'ien title  audience,  set  forth  the  latest  scientific 
theories  concerning  the  probable  origin,  total 
amount,  and  possible  duration  of  the  sun's 
heat.  After  referring  to  the  theory  of  Helm- 
holtz  thai  the  sun  was  a  vast  globe  gradually 
cooling,  but  as  it  cooled  shrinking,  and  that 
the  shrinkage — which  was  the  eifect  of  gravity 
upon  its  mass— kept  up  its  temperature,  Sir 
William  Thomdon  said :  The  total  of  the  sun's 
heat  was  equal  to  that  which  would  be  re- 
quire*! to  keep  up  476,000  millions  of  millions 
of  millions  horse-power,  or  about  78,000  horse- 
power for  every  square  metre — a  little  more 
than  a. square  yard — and  yet  the  modern  dy- 
namical theory  of  heat  shows  that  the  sun's 
mass  would  require  only  to  fall  in  or  contract 
thirty -five  metres  per  annum  to  keep  up  that 
tremendous  energy.  At  this  rate,  the  solar 
radius  iu  2,000  years*  time  would  be  about 
one-hundredth  per  cent,  less  than  at  present. 
A  time  would  come  when  the  temperature 
would  fall,  and  it  was  thus  inconceivable  that 
the  sun  would  continue  to  emit  heat  su'ticient 
to  sustain  existing  life  on  the  globe  for  more 
than  ten  million  years.  Applying  the  same 
principles  retrospectively,  they  could  not  sup- 
pose that  the  sun  had  existed  for  more  than 
twenty  million  years — no  matter  what  might 
have  been  its  origin — whether  it  came  into 
existence  from  the  clash  of  worlds  pre-exist- 
ing, or  of  diffused  nebulous  matter.  There 
was  a  great  clinging  by  geologists  and  biol- 
ogists to  vastly  longer  periods,  but  the 
physicist,  treating  it  as  a  dynamic  question 
with  calculable  elements,  could  come  to  no 
other  cqpclusion  materially  different  from 
what  he  had  stated.  Sir  W.  Thomson,  who 
owed  his  knighthood  to  the  share  he  had  in 
the  laying  of  the  Atlantic  cable,  is  one  of  the 
most  distinguished  physicists  of  our  time. 
Popul  rly  he  is  best  known  for  his  ingenious 
theory  of  the  origin  of  life  in  tliis  planet, 
which  he  set  forth  in  his  inaugural  address  a^ 
President  of  the  British  Association  in  1871. 
The  vital  germ  from  which  all  else  wiis  evolved 
might,  he  suggested,  have  been  brought  to 
.  this  world  on  an  aerolite  produced  by  the 
break  up  of  another  world  that  had  happened 
on  a  collision  somewhere  in  f^pace.  He  is  an 
LL.D.  of  Dublin,  Cambridge,  and  Edin- 
burrh,  and  D.C.L.  of  Oxford,  and  F.R.S. 
of  London  and  Edinburgh,  and  Professor  of 
Natural  Philosophy  in  the  University  of 
Glassrow.  Although  most  famous  for  his  dis- 
coveries and  inventions  in  electrical  science, 
Jke  has  been  president  of  the  C^logical  Society 


of  Glasgow.    He  is  now  sixty-three  years  of 
age,  having  been  born  in  Bel^t  in  1824." 

The  Study  of  Botany  by  Young  Men 
— In  the  Sitiss  Cross,  Dr  J.  P.  Adams  takes 
the  ground  that  botany,  so  far  from  being 
"one  of  the  ornamental  bninches"  of  educa- 
tion '^suitable  enough  for  voung  ladies  and 
effeminate  youths,  ought  to  be  ranked  as  "one 
of  the  most  useful  and  most  manly  of  stud- 
ies." He  gives  the  four  following  reasons, 
supporting  them  by  detailed  argument: — 

**Th^  study  of  botany  is  an  admirable  mental 
discipline.  Any  education  is  defective  which 
includes  no  training  in  the  scientific  method 
of  study;  that  is,  in  developing  the  powers  of 
careful,  minute  observation  and  comparison 
in  some  department  of  nature.  By  this  means 
is  ac(piired  the  habit  of  investigation,  or  the 
seeking-out  of  nature's  mysteries  by  the  us* 
of  one's  own  senses,  instead  of  trusting  wholly 
to  the  observations  of  others.  This  method 
of  study  may  l)e  learned  through  any  branch 
of  science;  but  l)otany  presents  this  advantage, 
that  it  can  be  pursued  with  less  inconvenience 
and  less  exi^nse  than  any  other.  .  .  .  Th4 
fftfidy  of  botany  promotes  physical  development 
The  botanical  student  must  be  a  walker;  and 
his  frequent  tramps  harden  his  muscles,  and 
strengthen  his  frame.  He  must  strike  off 
across  the  fields,  penetrate  the  woods  to  their 
secret  depths,  scramble  through  swamps,  and 
climb  the  hills.  The  fact  that  he  walks  with 
an  earnest  "purpose  gives  a  zest  to  these  ram- 
bles; and  he  comes  home  proud  and  happy 
from  his  successful  search  for  botanical  treas- 
ures, with  a  keen  appetite  and  an  invigorated 
body  and  mind.  .  .  .  The  study  of  botany 
is  of  great  practical  utility.  It  is  an  essential 
preparation  for  several  important  pursuits. 
The  physician  and  pharmacist  need  to  have 
a  prs'  (ical  knowledge  of  those  plants  which 
are  lu^ed  as  medicines;  and,  if  this  knowledge 
is  hot  acquired  in  early  life,  the  opportunity 
ne.er  afterward  presents  itself.  For  the  pre- 
lection of  our  rapidly  dwindling  forests,  the 
services  of  many  skilled  foresters  will  scx)n  be 
required;  and  the  forester  must  be  a  practical 
botanist.  .  .  .  The  study  of  botany  is  a 
source  of  lifelong  happinejts.  Whatever  may 
be  one's  station  or  pursuit  in  life,  it  is  a  great 
tbing  to  have  an  intellectual  hobby,  which 
will  afford  agreeable  and  elevating  occupation 
in  all  leisure  hours.  Botany  is  one  of  the  beet 
of  hobbies.  It  can  be  studied  out  of  doom 
from  early  spring  till  the  snow  falls:  and  even 
in  winter  there  is  plenty  to  be  done  in  the 
analysis  of  dried  specimens  and  the  c^re  of 

the  herbarium For  these  reasons 

it   is  obv\puf    that  the  study  of  boUBy  is 


578 


THE  LIBHARY  MAGAZINE. 


peniiliarly  rich  in  thosfe  elements  which  con- 
duce to  a  vigorous  mind  and  body  and  a  ro- 
bust character  It  is  therefore  pre-eminently 
a  manly  study,  and  an  invaluable  part  of  a 
young  man's  education.  The  student  may 
rest  assured  that  the  time  and  effort  devoted 
to  it  are  well  spent;  for  the  result  will  be  to 
make  him  a  w  iser,  stronger,  more  useful,  anti 
happier  man. 


t» 


Thackeray  on  a  Strike. — The  CJiurles- 
ton  JSetPs  publishes  a  heretofore  unprinted 
letter  "from  Mr.  Thackeray  which  was 
written  to  Jame&  Fraser,  the  proprietor  of 
Fraaer^s  }fagazine,  and  was  copied  by  a 
Charleston  hvdy  who  visited  Europe  this  year 
[1886],  from  the  original  in  the  collection 
belonging  to  Mr.  Fraser's  sister,  Mrs.  Finlay- 
son,  of  Dublin,  Ireland."  The  letter  is  dated 
"Boulogne,  Monday,  February;"  the  year  not 
specitled;  but  it  was  probably  1840: — 

"My  dear  Fraser, — I  have  seen  the  doctor, 
who  has  given  me  his  command  about  the 
hundredth  number.  I  shall  send  him  my 
share  from  Paris,  in  a  day  or  two,  and  hope 
I  shall  do  a  good  deal  in  the  diligence  to- 
morrow. He  reiterates  his  determination  to 
write  monthly  for  you,  and  to  deliver  over 
the  proceeds  to  me.  Will  you,  therefore, 
have  the  goodness  to  give  the  bearer  a  cheque 
(in  my  wife's  name)  for  the  amount  of  his 
contributions  for  the  two  last  months.  Mrs. 
Thac^keray  will  give  you  a  receipt  for  tlie 
same.     You  have  already  Maginn  's  authority. 

"Now'  comes  another,  and  not  a  very  pleas- 
ant point,  on  which  I  must  speak.  I  hereby 
give  notice  that  I  shall  .strike  for  wages. 
You  pay  more  to  others,  I  find,  than  to  me; 
and  so  I  intend  to  make  some  fresh  conditions 
about  Yellowplush.  I  shall  write  no  more  of 
that  gentleman's  remarks  except  at  the  rate 
of  twelve  guineas  a  sheet,  and  with  a  drawing 
for  each  number  in  which  his  story  apj)eai's — 
the  drawing  two  guineas.  Pray  do  not  be 
anirry-  at  this  decision  on  my  part;  it  is  simply 
a  bnrpiin,  which  it  is  my  duty  to  make. 
Bad  as  he  is,  Mr.  Yellowplush  is  the  most 
popular  contributor  to  your  magazine,  and 
.ought  to  l)e  paid  accordingly:  if  he  does  not 
deserve  more  than  the  monthly  nurse,  or  the 
Blue  Friars,  I  am  a  Dutchman.  I  have  been 
at  work  upon  his  adventures  to  day,  and  will 
•end  them  to  you  or  not  as  you  like,  but  in4  This  theory,  of  course,  can  be  brought  to  the 


gry,  or  because  we  differ  as  tradesmen  break 
off  our  connection  as  friends.  Believe  me 
that,  whether  I  write  for  you  or  not,  I  always 
shall  be  glad  of  your  friendship  and  anxious 
to  have  your  gooa  opinion.  I  am  ever,  my 
dear  Fraser  (independent  of  £  «.  d.),  very 
trulvyours,  W.  M.  Thackeray. 

"Write  me  a  line  at  Maurice*s,  Rue.de  Ri- 
voli.  I  can  send  off  Y.  P.  twentv-four  hours 
after  I  get  yours,  drawling  and  all." 

Kjy OWING  Beans. — ^Mr.  Andrew  Lang,  in 
Longmnn's  Magazine,  gives  some  information 
about  Beans,  and  is  earnestly  desirous  of  far- 
ther knowledge  on  this  subject.     He  says:— 

"I  have  read  in  some  strange  old  *  volume  of 
forgotten  lore'  that  Pythagoras  said  that  what- 
ever is  written  in  bean-juice  on  this  earth  re- 
appears on  the  lunar  disk.  How  long  it  roust 
be  since  any  one  tried  this  simple  experiment, 
and  wrote  a  sentence  in  bean-juice?  But  who 
is  the  authority  for  the  opinion  of  Pythagoras? 
I  fear  it  is  no  more  (?ontemporary  author  than 
the  late  I^ord  Lytton  in  The  CaxUms,  a  book 
rich  in  out-of-the-way  information.  1  can 
find  nothing  about  this  effect  of  bean-juice  in 
Plutarch's  essay  on  The  Face  in  the  M^inn. 
The  ancient  folk-lore  of  Beans  is  a  most  at- 
tractive topic  to  the  antiquarian,  because  it 
seems  wholly  out  of  the  question  that  we 
shouhl  ever  understand  what  is  was  all  al)out. 
Why  would  not  Pythagoras  let  his  pupils  eat 
beans?  Why  had  the  Athenians  a  hero  called 
Bean,  or  Bean -man.  Why  was  it  impious  to 
attribute  to  Demeter,  patroness  of  all  other 
fruits,  tlie  discovery  of  the  bean.  Why  niipht 
not  beans  be  tasted  by  the  initialed  at  the 
Elcusinian  mysteries?  Finally,  why  did  the 
Shawnee  prophet,  in  this  our  century,  send 
round  strings  of  beans  which,  mystically,  were 
his  body,  so  that  when  the  faitlifiil  touched 
the  beans  they  were  supposed  to  'sliake  hanf^s 
with  the  prophet?'  Here  are  puzzles  for  any 
of  the  newspai^ers  which  think  puzzle-setting 
a  dignified  mode  of  attracting  the  public. 
Persons  who  attempt  this  puzzle  will  kindly 
assign  to  its  author  the  line— ^ivoir  ro<  Kva^ovf 

re    ^aytlv   xc^aAav    t<    tok^f.        'It     Is     all     ODC, 

whether  you  eat  beans  or  the  heads  your  par- 
ents.* That  beiins,  if  hidden  under  manure, 
became  human  beings,  is  an  ;  ssertion  which 
Heraclides  appears  to  attribute  to  Orpheus. 


common    regard    for  myself  I  won't  work 
under  prices. 

"W^ell,  I  dare  say  you  will  be  very  indig- 
nant, and  swear  I  am  the  most  mercenary  of  in- 
dividuals. Not  so.  But  I  am  a  better  work- 
man tlnui  most  in  your  crew  and  deserve  a 
belter  price.     You  must  not,  I  repe;it,  be  an- 


test  of  practical  experiment.  And  why  were 
beans  thrown  on  tombs  'for  the  salvation  of 
men?'  Why  was  not  the  Flamen  Dialis,  at 
Rome,  permitted  even  so  much  as  to  name 
beans?  Wlio  can  unriddle  all  this?  It  is 
clear,  as  Lobeck  admits,  that  there  is  plenty 
of  religion  in  beans." 


THOMAS  HOBBES. 


679 


THOMAS  HOBBES. 

There  exists  a  remarkable  contrast, 
wliich  has  probably  been  often  noticed, 
between  the  historical  fortune  of 
Hobbes's  speculations  and  the  special 
character  of  those  speculations  them- 
selves. Ho  has  been  claimed  by  think- 
ers who  believe  themselves  following 
in  his  footsteps  as  a  ^radical  freethinker, 
while  in  himself  he  was  especially 
conservative  and  reactionary.  The 
stoutest  advocate  of  the  irresponsible 
and  inviolable  authority  of  an  absolute 
savereign  has  been  accepted  as  a  proto- 
type by  those  whose  interest  it  was  to 
advance  the  claims  of  democratic 
equality.  It  was  James  Mill  who 
began  this  remarkable  reverence  for  a 
man  whose  conclusions,  at  all  events 
in  a  political  sphere,  were  diametri- 
cally opposed  to  his  own;  and  he  was 
followed  by  Austin  and  Grote.  Sir 
W.  Molesworth,  in  his  magnificent 
edition  of  Hobbes's  wbrks  botli  English 
and  Latin,  tells  us  that  Grote  first 
suggested  the  undertaking;  in  order, 
seemingly,  to  secure  by  an  accessible 
edition  greater  effect  for  doctrines 
which  their  author  intended  as  a 
panacea  for  projects  of  revolutionary 
reform.  No  more  curious  homage  has 
ever  been  rendered  to  a  man  by  his 
theoreti'cal  opponents.  Obvious  though 
the  contrast  may  appear,  it  is,  however, 
more  apparent  tnan  real.  For  of 
Hobbes,  before  all  others,  it  may  be 
said  that  his  spirit  was  different  from 
his  performance,  that  his  political 
motive  was  one  thing,  and  his  intellec- 
tual temper  and  genius  quite  another. 

There  can  be  no  question  that  the 
native  bent  of  his  mind  was  radical 
and  frcethinking,  which  is  proved, 
among  other  evidences,  by  his  lifelong 
struggle  with  ecclesiastical  pretensions, 
and  liis  heartfelt  dislike  of  the  Papacy. 
His  philosophy  again  partook  of  lli  t 
general    revolt    against    authority    o:i 


behalf  of  the  individual,  which  charac- 
terizes all  the  best  thought  of  the 
sixteeiitii  and  seventeenth  century;  he 
has  some  point  in  connection  with 
Bacon  and  many  with  Descartes  and 
Locke,  and  he  carried  on  the  war  with 
scholasticism  in  the  interest  of  a 
mechanical  and  atomistic  system  which 
is  the  philosophic  mark  of  advanced 
heterodoxy.  However  much  Hobbes 
may  have  imposed  on  some  of  his  later 
critics,  he  assuredly  did  not  deceive 
his  contemporaries,  who  were  never 
weary  of  calling  him  materialist, 
agnostic,  and  atheist.  Even  in  the 
political  theory  which  contains  the 
conservative  element  of  his  creed,  the 
conclusions  do  not  follow  from  the 
premisses,  with  that  logical  rigor  which 
would  prevent  them  from  being  inter- 
preted m  a  wholly  different  light.  The 
strong  and  autocratic  government  which 
it  is  his  desire  in  the  Leviathan  to 
see  firmly  established,  however  absolute 
it  may  be,  is  yet  shown  to  have  sprung 
from  something  like  popular  choice, 
and  that  which  has  made  can  also 
unmake.  From  his  own  premisses  a 
different  conclusion  might  be  drawn 
as  we  can  see  by  the  political  specula- 
tion of  both  Locke  and  Rousseau,  the 
first  of  whom  proved  the  right  of  the 
people  to  change  their  choice  of  sov- 
ereign, and  the  second  justified  the 
popular  obliteration  of  the  ancun  re- 
gime. Indeed,  Hobbes's  own  practice 
dealt  a  blow  at  his  theory,  for  he 
found  it  not  inconsistent  with  his 
principles  to  live  under  the  protection 
of  Cromwell  and  the  Parliament. 
The  complexion  of  his  political  theory 
was  in  reality  due  to  his  personal 
feelings,  which  were  both  '  timorous 
and  worldly.  Personal  security  is  there- 
fore the  aim  of  those  who  established 
an  i7Jiperium,  not  self-realization  or  a 
desii'e  for  progressive  welfare;  and 
Hobbes  affords  an  instance — ^almost  a 
melancholy  instance — of  the  extent  to 


590 


THE  LIBKARY  MAGAZINE. 


which  political  necessities  and  the 
accidents  of  personal  disposition  can- 
interfere  in  the  logical  evolution  of  t» 
philocophical  system.  He  was  a  radi- 
cal in  the  garb  of  a  conservative,  a 
freethinker  enlisted  in  the  service  of 
reaction. 

The  personality  of  Hobbes  was 
neither  pleasing  nor  attractive.  He 
was  prematurely  bom,  owing  to  the 
fright  his  mother  experienced  at  the 
news  of  the  Spanish  Armada  in  1588. 
His  own  account  of  the  affair  is — 

"Atque  metum  tantum  concepit  tunc  mea 
mater, 
Ut  pareret  geminos,  meque  Metumque  simiil. 
Hiac  est,  ut  credo,  patrios  quod  abominor 
hostes, 
Pacem  amo  Musis,  et  faciles  Bocios." 

It  is  doubtful,  however,  whether 
Hobbes  is  right  in  saying  that  he  is 
devoted  to  peace  and  agreeable  com- 
panionship; a  more  vain  and  combative 
person  rarely  existed.  In  his  youth, 
Aubrey  tells  us,  he  was  "unhealthy, 
and  of  an  ill  complexion  (yellowish). 
From  forty  he  grew  healthier,  and 
then  he  had  a  fresh,  ruddy  complex- 
ion. His  head  was  of  a  mallet  form. 
His  face  was  not  very  great — ample 
forehead,  yellowish  reddish  whiskers, 
which  naturallt  turned  up,  below  he 
was  shaved  close,  except  a  little  tip 
under  his  lip;  not  but  that  nature 
would  have  afforded  him  a  venerable 
beard,  but  being  mostly  of  a  cheerful 
and  pleasant  humor  he  affected  not  at  all 
austerity  and  gravity  and  to  look  se- 
vere." His  portraits  (in  the  National 
Portrait  Gallery  and  in  the  rooms  of  the 
Royal  Society  of  Burlington  House)  give 
the  appearance  of  a  somewhat  stem,  but 
not  unhandsome  man.  Far  more 
nnpleaaing  pictures  than  that  of 
Aubrey  are,  nowever,  to  be  found  in 
the  writings  of  Hobbes'  contemporaries. 
He  seems  indeed  to  have  been  the 
terror  of  his  age. 


*'Iiere  lies  Tom  Hobbes,  the  Bugbear  of  the 

Nation, 
\Vkose  death  hath  frightened  Atheism  out  of 

fasiuon,*' 

was  a  scurrilous  epitaph  composed  for 
him.  Amongst  the  crowd  of  pamph- 
lets, sermons,  treatises  aimed  at  his 
doctrines,  there  was  an  ingenious  little 
book  written  by  Thomas  Tenison, 
afterward  Archbishop  of  Canterbury, 
winch  appeared  in  1670,  and  was  en- 
titled ^'The  Creed  of  Mr.  ffobbes,  exam- 
ined  in  a  feigned  conference  between 
Mm  and  a  student  ui  divinity/'  It 
proves,  as  well  as  any  other,  tlie  gen- 
eral opinions  held  about  the  philoso- 
pher. 

"You  have  been  represented  to  the  world,' 
says  the  student  to  Mr.  Hobbes,  whom  he 
meets  at  Buxton- well,  "as  a  person  very  in- 
conversible,  and  as  an  imperious  Dictator  of 
the  principles  of  vice,  and  impatient  of  all 
dispute  and  contradiction.  It  hath  been  said 
that  you  will  be  very  angry  with  all  the  men 
that  will  not^presentij;  submit  to  your  Dictates; 
and  Uiat  for  advancing  the  reputation  of  your 
own  skill,  you  care  not  what  unworthy  reflec- . 
tions  you  cast  on  others.  Monsieur  Descartes 
hath  written  it  to  your  confident  Mersennus, 
and  it  is  now^  published  to  all  the  world,  *That 
he  esteemed  it  the  better  for  himself  that  he 
had  not  any  commerce  with  you  (Jejvge  que  U 
mdlleur  est  qveje  n*aye  point  dn  tout  dt  com- 
merce atec  luy);  as  also,  that  if  you  were  of 
such  an  humour  us  he  imagined,  and  had  such 
designs  as  he  believed  you  had,  it  would  be 
impossible  for  him  and  you  to  have  any  com- 
munication without  becoming  enemies.  *  And 
your  great  friend,  Monsieur  Sorbif re,  hath  ac- 
cused you  of  being  too  dogmatical ;  and  hath 
reported  how  you  were  censured  for  the  vanity 
of  dogmatizing,  between  his  Majesty  and  him- 
self, in  his  Majesty's  cabinet.  You  are  tljought, 
in  dispute,  to  use  the  Scripture  with  irrever- 
ence." 

Tenison  cannot,  indeed,  deny  the 
excellence  of  his  style: 

"He  hath  long  ago  published  his  errours  in 
Tbeologie,  in  the  English  Tongue,  insinuating 
himself  by  the  handsomeness  of  his  style  into 
the  mindes  of  such  whose  Fancie  leadeth  their 
iudgements:  and  to  say  truth  of  an  En3my, 
he  may,  with  some  reason,  pretend  to  Mastery 
in  that  Language." 


THOMAS  HOBBES. 


681 


Yet  he  cannot  forbear  to  have  a  cut 
at  Hobbes's  personal  timidity. 

"They  [the  atudent  and  Mr.  Hobbes]  were 
interruptea  by  the  ditfturbance  arising  from  a 
little  quarrel,  in  which  some  of  the  ruder 
people  in  the  house  were  for  a  short  lime  en- 
gaged. At  this  Mr.  Hobbes  seem'd  much 
concern 'd,  though  he  was  at  some  distance 
from  the  persons.  For  a  while  he  was  not 
composed,  but  related  it  once  or  twice  as  to 
himself,  with  a  low  and  careful  tone,  how 
Sextus  RosciuB  was  murdered  after  Supper  by 
the  Bains  Palatinae.  Of  such  general  extent 
is  that  remark  of  Cicero,  in  relation  to  Epicurus 
the  Atheist,  of  whom  he  observes  that  he  of 
all  men  dreaded  most  those  things  which  he 
contemned,  Death  and  the  Gods. ' 

The  system  of  Hobbes  is  then  reduced 
into  twelve  Articles,  **which  sounds 
harshly  to  those  professing  Christi- 
anity/' under  the  title  of  the  Hobbist's 
creed: — 

*'I  believe  that  Qod  is  Almightv  Matter; 
that  in  him  there  are  three  Persons,  he  having 
been  thrice  represented  on  earth;  that  it  is  to 
be  decided  by  the  Civil  Power  whether  he 
created  all  thmgs  else;  that  Angels  are  not  In- 
corporeal sub&nces  (those  words  imply  a 
contradiction)  but  preternatural  impressions 
on  the  brain  of  man;  that  the  soul  6f  Man  is 
the  temperament  of  his  Body:  that  the  very 
Liberty  of  Will,  in  that  Soul,  is  Physically 
necessary;  that  the  prime  Law  of  Nature  in 
the  Soul  of  Man  is  that  of  temporal  Self-Love, 
Uiat  the  La^  of  the  Civil  Sovereign  is  the  only 
obliging  Rule  of  just  and  unjust;  that  the 
Books  of  the  old  and  New  Testament  are  not 
•  made  Canon  and  Law,  but  by  the  Civil 
Powers;  that  whatsoever  is  written  in  ihese 
Books  may  lawfully  be  denied  even  upon 
Oath  (after  the  laudable  doctrine  and  practice 
of  the  Gnosticks)  in  times  of  persecution  when 
men  shall  be  urged  by  the  menaces  of  Au- 
thority; that  hell  is  a  tolerable  condition  of  life, 
for  a  few  years  upon  earth,  to  begin  at  the 
Qen  ral  Resurrection;  and  that  Heaven  is  a 
blessed  estate  of  good  men,  like  that  of  Adam 
before  his  fall,  l>eginning  at  the  General  Res- 
urrection, to  be  from  thenceforth  eternal  upon 
earth  in  the  Holy  Land. " 

There  is  caricature  in  all  this,  but 
not  so  extravagant  as  to  prevent  it 
from  being  a  fair  picture  of  Hobbes  as 
be  appeared  to  a  contemporary  divine. 
Fortunately,  as  Samuel  Johnson  had 


his  Boswell  and  Goethe  his  Eckermann, 
80  Hobbes  had  an  indulgent  biographer 
in  Aubrey, 

Hobbes,  like  ian  elder  philosopher 
with  whose  nominalism  he  had  some- 
thing in  common,  Antisthenes  the 
Cynic,  was  i*t**atfii«,  "  late  learned-" 
He  took  nothing  ^way  with  him  from 
his  residence  at  Magdalen  Hall,  Oxford, 
except  a  dislike  of  the  Puritans,  who 
were  strongly  represented,  owing  to 
the  influence  of  Dr.  John  Wilkinson, 
and  a  contempt  for  academic  learning, 
which  came  out  strongly  in  the  con- 
troversies of  his  later  life.  He  was 
forty  years  of  age  before  he  ever  saw 
the  Elements  of  Euclid;  he  was  close 
on  fifty  before  he  became  a  philosopher. 
Although  it  is  true,  as  Professor 
Robertson  romarks,  that  there  are  few 
thinkers  who  succeed  better  than  he 
did  '^in  leaving  not  unsaid  all  that 
was  in  his  mind,"  it 'is  hardly  fanciful 
to  trace  some  of  his  mental  peculiar- 
ities to  this  late  acquisition  of  culture. 
Plato  remarks  in  the  Themtelus,  in 
reference  to  the  same  Antisthenes, 
who  came  so  late  to  Socrates,  that  it  is 
characteristic  of  such  minds  to  ignore 
ail  that  they  cannot  grasp  ''with  teeth 
and  hands;"  and  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  a  certain  excess  of  the  practical 
instinct  and  a  decided  coarseness  of 
mental  fiber,  combined,  it  is  true,  with 
great  penetrative  insight,  marked  much 
of  the  speculations  of  Hobbes.  Defi- 
cient in  uis  own  nature  of  sympathetic 
affection,  he  cannot  conceive  of  the 
possibility  of  innate  altruistic  feeling 
m  humanity  at  large;  richly  endowed 
with  logical  faculties,  he  would  apply 
the  most  rigorous  logic  to  the  customs 
and  conventionalities  of  mankind,  and 
is  unable  to  realize  the  value,  for 
instance,  of  mixed  political  forms,  or 
the  expediency  of  disguising  the  form 
of  sovereignty.  For  the  same  reason 
he  probably  has  the  clearest  mind  and 
the  least  ambiguous  style  of  all  philos- 


582 


THE  Lin::;_  ^  ^ 


.'VZIXE. 


ophers.  Grant  him  his  premissea,  and 
the  conclusion  seems  inevitable;  if 
humanity  is  through  and  through 
reasonable,  it  looks  fts  if  it  ought  to 
adopt  the  standpoint  of  Hobbism.  But 
then  humanity  is  not  wholly  reason- 
ably, but  largely- influenced  by  emotion 
and  sentiment,  and  the  groundwork 
'on  which  the  whole  superstructure 
rests  is  only  to  be  reached  by  the  most 
wholesome  elimination  of  complex 
sentiments  and  the  employment  of 
abstract  and  unreal  hypotheses.  For 
the  logic  and  the  psychology  of  Hobbes 
depend  on  the  fiction  of  a  single 
individual  devoid  of  all  those  relations 
to  his  fellows  which  actually  constitute 
his  individuality;  just  as  his  political 
philosophy  depends  on  the  fiction  of  a 
social  contract,  which  could  only  be 
possible  to  men  living  inr  a  realized 
society  and  not  in  a  state  of  "nature,** 
prior  to  such  realization. 

From  1608  to  about  1637,  we  can 
trace  a  methodical  advance  in  the 
mental  culture  of  Hobbes.  The 
impulses  came  mainly  from  foreign 
travel,  for  in  all  some  twenty  years 
were  spent  by  Hobbes  on  the  Continent. 
His  .first  work,  the  translation  of 
Thucydides,  was  published  in  1628, 
though  written  some  tim.e  previously, 
and  his  earliest  ambition  seems  to  have 
been  to  be  a  scholar,  just  as  his  latest 
efforts,  when  he  was  quite  an  old  man, 
were  devoted  to  versions  of  Homer's 
Odyssey  and  Iliad  in  rhyme.  The 
more  special  intellectual  training  takes 
place  between  the  years  1628  and  1637. 
First  came  the  discovery  of  the  value 
of  geometrical  demonstration  in  1639^ 
the  story  of  which,  as  told  by  Aubrey, 
is  too  characteristic  to  be  omitted:  **He 
was  forty  jears  old  before  he  looked  on 
geometry,  which  happpened  accident- 
ally;  being  in  a  gentleman's  library  in 

,    Enlid's    Elements    lay   open, 

and   it  was  the  forty-seventh  proposi- 
tion, Lib.  I.     So  he  reads  the  proposi- 


tion. *By  6 — — ,*  says  he,  'this  i? 
impossible!*  So  he  reads  the  demon- 
stration, which  referred  him  back  to 
another,  which  he  also  read,  et  sic 
deinceps,  that  at  last  he  was  denioii- 
stratively  convinced  of  that  truth. 
This  made  him  in  love  with  geometry.'' 
But' it  was  not  so  much  geometry  in 
itself  with  which  he  fell  in  love,  for  uo 
part  of  his  the  orieswas  more  success- 
fully attacked  by  his  contemporaries 
than  his  geometrial  speculations,  but  the 
form  of  the  reasoning  and  the  manner 
of  proof.  As  he  says  himself  in  his 
Life,  he  was  delect aius  methodo  illim, 
non  tarn  ob  theo^'emata  ilia  qunm  ob 
artem  ratiocviandi ,  The  next  and 
most  decisive  step  was  the  apj'.ication 
of  the  idea  of  motion  to  physics.  He 
graphically  narrates  the  influence  of 
the  idea  on  his  mind,  in  the  Vita  car- 
mine eorpressa, 

"Ast  ego  perpetuo  naturam  cogito  rerum 

Seu  rate,  seu  cumi,  siv6  ferebar  equo. 
Ec  milii  visa  quidem  est  toto  res  uuica  mundo 

Vera,  licet  multis  falsificata  modis — 
Pliantasise,  nostri  soboles  cerebri,  niliil  extra; 

Partibus  internis  nil  nisi  Motus  inest. 
nine  est  quod  physicam  quisquis  vult  discere. 
mollis 

Quid  possit,  debet  perdidiciase  prius." 

It  is  thus  that  Hobbes  advances 
through  the  idea  of  motion,  aided  by 
the  geometrical  form  of  reasoning,  to 
the  gradual  evolution  of  a  system  of 
mechanical  philosophy.  Atoms  and 
movement  account  for  all  the  changing 
forms  of  the  phenomenal  world;  thej 
also  explain  sensation  and  unlock  the 
secrets  of  intellectual  growth.  From 
physics  and  psychology  the  next  step  is 
easy  and  natural  to  sociology.  For 
Hobbes,  like  the  earlier  philosophers, 
and  unlike  the  moderns,  understood 
philosophy  to  mean  a  systematic  view 
of  the  universe  and  a  consistent  ex- 
planation of  all  its  various  departments. 
Thus  he  has  a  catholic  purpose  before 
his  mind,  to  present  in  one  pictuie  the 
various  provinces  of  human  thought  as 


THOMAS  HOBBES. 


588 


interpreted  in  accordance  with  one 
method  and  traced  in  their  origin  to  the 
same  set  of  principles.  Tliat  philosophy 
only  means  psychology  and  morals,  or 
in  the  last  resort  metaphysics,  is  an  idea 
slowly  develoj)ed  through  the  eighteenth 
century,  owing  to  the  victorious  ad- 
vances of  science.  At  the  end  of  1637 
Hobbes  has  a  comprehensive  plan  for 
future  labors.  The  system  is  to  begin 
with  a  treatise  De  Corpore,  to  continue 
with  the  subject  De  Homine,  and  to 
find  its  consummation  in  De  Oive, 
Nature  consists  of  '^bodies,"  and  bodies 
are  either  in9.nimate  or  animate,  or, 
again,  organized  aggregates  of  living 
men.  The  whole  field  is,  however,  to 
be  traversed  with  the  guiding  clue  of 
motion  as  acting  on  bodies,  and  accord- 
ing to  the  principles  of  mechanical 
atomism — a  clue  which  is  to  distinguish 
forever  the  modem  philosophy  from 
the  misty  logomachies  of  Aristotle  and 
the  Schoolmen.  It  is  this  masterly 
scheme  which  was  thrown  out  of  pro- 
portion by  the  pressing  circumstances 
of  Hobbes's  life.  .The  Revolution  and 
its  necessities  forced  on  the  publication 
of  the  Leviathan,  and  it  was  not  till' 
after  fourteen  years,  when  Hobbes  was 
sixty-three,  that  the  attempt  was  made 
to  compose  the  De  Corpore,  v/hich  was 
originally  designed  to  be  the  foundation 
of  the  stnicture.  His  fame  rests  prin- 
cipally on  the  Leviathan,  but  the  main 
philsophical  thought  of  Hobbes  was  the 
application  of  the  idea  of  motion. 
Perhaps  the  Leviathan  itself  owes  the 
jiaradoxical  character  of  some  of  its 
doctrines  to  the  fact  that  the  original 
perspective  was  lost  in  this  transposi- 
tion of  the  order  of  topics,  and  Hobbes, 
by  becoming  an  advocate  of  absolute 
sovereignty,  throws  into  shadow  his 
ethical  egoism  and  his  mechanical 
materialism.  His  own  principles, 
however  .strinirent  and  arbitarv,  Rnfforcd 
him  apparently  to  live  under  the  Pro- 
tectonite  with  an  easv  conscience,  ami 


with  greater  freedom  than  he  afterward 
enjoyed  in  the  time  of  the  Restoration. 
His  last  years  were  equally  disturbed 
by  the  antagonism  of  the  High  Church 
party  and  the  bitter  controversies  with 
the  Savillian  professor,  Wallis. 

The  main  points  in  Hobbes's  pol- 
itical theory,  as  displayed  in  the  Levi- 
athan,  are  so  well  tnown  that  no  long 
capitulation  is  necessary.  The  theory 
itself  rests  on  a  series  of  Jissumptions,' 
each  of  which  may  be  contested,  jiiid 
culminates  in  a  principle  of  autocratic 
supremacy,  which  the  development  of 
peoples  and  the  progressive  tt^acliing 
of  history  seem  little  likely  to  indorse. 
The  first  assumption  is  the  ante-social 
state,  a  state  of  nature  which  Hobbes 
asserts  to  be  one  of  universal  war, 
though  Rousseau  is  equally  positive  in 
maintaining  that  it  is  a  state  of  peace. 
The  state  of  nature  is  one  in  which 
man,  minus  his  historical  qualities, 
has  free  play;  and  as  those  historical 
qualities  are  exactly  those  which  con- 
stitute, so  far  as  we  have  anv  means  of 
knowing,  man's  essential  nature,  his 
ante-social  period  is  one  about  to  which 
it  is  impossible  to  argue.  Expericnco 
and  the  growth  of  reason  (Hobbes, 
despite  his  sensationalism,  is  as  firm  a 
believer  in  the  power  of  reason  as  if  he 
had  lived  in  the  eighteenth  century) 
bring  home  the  manifold  inconven- 
iences of  a  condition  of  perpetual  war. 
and  suggest  certain  articles  of  peace, 
also  called  laws  of  nature.  The  result 
is  a  second  assumption,  the  formation 
of  a  social  contract,  a  famous  theoiT, 
traces  of  which  can  be  found  in  the 
early  political  speculation  of  the 
Greeks,  and  which,  despite  its  abso- 
lutely unhistorical  character,  was  ex- 
tensively popular  amongst  Hobbes's 
successors.  The  theor}^  can  be  disproved 
on  lines  of  both  a  posteriori  and  a 
priori  argument;  a  posteriori,  fc^r  no 
records  or  evidences  can  be  fo':jj<'  (if 
the  existence  of  such  a  primiti\c  v 


,»'  .- 


«4 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


pact,  and  even  if  it  existed  it  would 
rapidly  have  been  dissolved  by  such 
phenomena  as  migration  of  races  and 
foreigi^  conquests;  A  priori  because  an 
hypothesis  to  be  scientific  must  deal 
with  causes  and  conditions  which  are 
capable  of  being,  reasoned  about,  and 
we  have  no  right  to  postulate  both  the 
efficient  agent  and  the  productive 
agency,  the  cause  and  its  methods  of 
working. 

A  third  assumption  then  follows, 
that  men,  having  formed  a  contract, 
created  or  elected  an  absolute  power  to 
secure  the  fulfillment  of  its  conditions. 
Uobbes,  it  is  true,  sometimes  speaks 
as  if  the  sovereign  could  obtain  his 
authority  not  only  by  institution  but 
by  acquisition.  But  his  language  as 
te  the  devolution  of  authority  belongs 
more  naturally  to  the  former  process 
than  the  latter.  It  is  natural  to 
suppose  that  if  men  give,  they  can 
also  take  away.  But  such  is  not  the 
view  of  Hobbes,  who  considers  that 
such  a  transference  of  authority  would 
be  a  violation  of  the  original  compact. 
Why,  again,  men  having  attained  to 
such  a  pitch  of  rationality  as  to  form 
contractual  relations  with  one  another, 
should  then  proceed  to  tie  their  hands 
and  treat  themselves  as  though  thoy 
were  no  longer  rational,  but  had  to  be 
violently  coerced — why,  in  short,  the 
sovereignty  so  formed  should  be  abso- 
lute. Hoboes  never  properly  explains.. 
For'  the  paradoxical  character  of  his 
speculation  centers  in  this,  that  while 
citizens  have  duties  to  one  another, 
the  sovereign  has  no  duties  toward 
them;  they  formed  a  contract  with 
their  fellowmen,  but  the  monarch 
formed  no  contract^  at  all.  It  is  clear 
that  in  this  Hobbes  manifests  too 
plainly  his  desire  "to  vindicate  the 
absolute  right  of  a  de  facto  monarch;" 
or,  in  other  words,  that  the  pressure 
of  the  revolution  proved  too  mucli  for 
tlie  natural  development  of  his  thought. 


Locke  and  Bousseau,  oiling  from 
much  the  same  premisses,  (&ew  a  totally 
different  conclusion.  The  "genera- 
tion of  the  Leviathan,  or  mortal  God" 
is  not  quite  so  orderly  and  methodical 
as  Hobbes  desired  to  make  it;  it  would 
rather  appear  that  he  is  first  assumed 
to  exist,  and  then  a  highly  imaginative 
account  is  given  of  his  origin.  It  is 
clear,  as  Professor  Green  remarks,  that 
the  jus  civile  cannot  itself  belong  to 
the  sovereign,  who  enables  individuals 
to  exercise  it.  The  only  right  which 
can  belong  to  the  sovereign  is  theyw* 
naturale  (defined  LevicUhan,  i.  14), 
consisting  in  the  superiority  of  his 
power,  and  this  right  must  be  meas- 
ured by  the  inability  of  the  subjects  to 
resist.  If  they  can  resist,  the  right 
has  disappeared.  Kor  did  Hobbes 
himself  fail  speedily  to  indorse  this 
I  argument  by  returning  to  England 
from  France,  when  the  Protectorate 
was  established,  and  treating  the 
triumph  of  "the.  rebels"  as  an  accom- 
plished fact. 

Whilst  these  sheets  are  passing 
through  the  press  we  meet  witn  some 
passages  in  the  Nicholas  Papers, 
recently  published  by  the  Camden 
Society,  which  curiously  illustrate  this 
rapid  transition  of  Hobbes  from  mon- 
archy to  the  commonwealth.  The 
Leviathan  was  published  in  Paris, 
where  Hobbes  had  resided  ,for  several 
years,  parly  in  1651.  Hobbes  appears 
to  have  gone  to  the  Hague  to  present 
a  copy  of  his  book  to  Charles  II.,  which 
the  King  refused  to  accept.  Upon  this 
Sir  Edward  Nicholas  writes  to  Sir  Ed- 
ward Hyde — 

"All  honest  men  here  who  are  lovers  of 
monarchy  are  very  glad  that  tlie  K.  hath  at 
length  banisht  his  court  that  failier  of  atheists 
j  Mr.  Hobbes,  who  it  Ts  said  hath  rendered  all 
the  Queen's  court  and  very  many  of  the  D.  of 
York's  family  atheists,'  and  if  he  had  been 
suffered  would  have  done  his  best  to  poison 
the  K.'s  court." 

And  shortly  after — 


THOMAS  H0BBE8. 


585 


"I  hear  Lord  Percy  is  much  concerned  in 
the  forbidding  Hobbes  to  come  to  court,  and 
says  it  was  you  and  other  episcopal  men  tliat 
were  the  cause  of  it.  But  I  hear  tliat  Wat 
Montagu  and  other  Papists  (to  the  shame  of 
the  true  Protestants)  were  the  chief  cause  that 
that  great  atheist  was  sent  awa> .  And  I  may 
tell  you  some  say  that  the  Marq.  of  Ormonde 
was  very  slow  in  signifying  the  King's  com- 
mand to  Hobbes  to  forbear  coming  to  court, 
which  I  am  confident  is  not  true,  though 
several  persons  affirm  it.*' 

Be  this  as  it  may,  Hobbes,  being 
thus  pressed,  returned  to  England, 
thouffh  it  is  inaccurate  to  say  tliat  he 
fled  n'om  the  Hague,  and  he  found  in 
London  a  government  quite  as  much  to 
his  taste  and  much  more  absolute  than 
that  of  a  fugitive  sovereign.  A  month 
later  Nicholas  writes  to  Lord  Hatton — 

•*Mr.  Hobbes  is  in  London,  much  caressed, 
as  one  that  hath  bv  his  writings  justified  the 
reasonableness  and  righteousness  of  their  arms 
and  actions.'* 

The  ethical  views  of  Hobbes,  are 
vitiated  by  assumptions  and  fallacies, 
as  remarkable  as  those  we  have  met 
with  in  his  political  theory.  A  ficti- 
tious appearance  of  clearness  and  logi- 
cal rigor  is  gained  by  excluding  from 
the  scheme  all  but  a  few  elementary 
principles,  and  by  disregarding  or 
refusing  to  admit  complexity  of  con- 
stitutive elements.  Man's  actions,  i1 
is  clear,  are  motived  in  countless 
different  ways;  but  Hobbes  will  only 
allow  of  a  smgle  motive.  Will  would 
be  appear  to  be-  something  distinct 
from  desire,  or  at  least  to  have  rela- 
tions with  desire  so  intricate  as  to 
require  careful  analysis  to  disentan- 
gle, but  with  Hobbes  it  is  only  **the 
last  appetite  in  deliberating."  There 
are,  in  the  last  resort,  elements  of  char- 
acter—  a  sphere  of  personality  and 
consciousness — which  do  not  appear  to 
be  exhausted  by  ati  enumeration  of 
^'feelings,"  and  which  are  involved  in 
what  we  mean  by  self-determination;" 
but  the  psychology  of  Hobbes  is  too 


superficial  to  come  in  eight  of  them. 
The  picture  which  Hobbes  draws  of 
humanity  is  indeed  simple  and  easy  to 
understand,  either  pathetic  or  ludicrous 
in  its  simplicity  according  to  the  tastes 
and  predilections  of  the  observer.  All 
activity  depends  on  endeavor,  all 
endeavor  is  appetite,  all  appetite  is  for 
personal  well-being.  There  is  only  a 
single  motive  in  man,  the  desire  for 
selfish  gratification;  the  only  meaning 
of  good  and  evil  is  what  a  man  desires 
or  avoids  in  the  furtherance  of  his 
pleasure;  the  only  standard  of  judg- 
ment in  the  opinion  of  the  egoist.  In 
a  luminous  paragraph  in  the  Leviathan 
(i.  6),  Hobbes  lays  the  foundation  of 
his  ethics — so  good  an  example  of  his 
manner  of  resolving  a  complex  prpblem 
by  refusing  to  see  its  complexity,  that 
it  is  worth  quoting  and  remembering: — 

"Whatsoever  is  the  object  of  any  man's 
appetite  or  desire,  that  is  it  which  he  for  his 
part  calleth  good;  and  the  object  of  his  hate 
and  aversion,  evil;  and  of  his  contempt,  mle 
and  iiiconifiderahle.  For  these  worlds  of  good, 
evil,  and  contemptible  are  ever  used  with  re- 
lation to  the  person  that  useth  them:  there 
being  nothing  simply  and  absolutely  so;  nor 
any  common  rule  of  good  and  evil,  to  be  taken 
from  the  nature  of  the  objects  themselves." 

The  solution  of  the  moral  problem  is 
so  astounding  in  its  simplicity  that  it 
almost  takes  away  one's  breath.  The-i 
relativity  of  the  standard  and  single- 
ness of  the  motive  are  the  remarkable 
points  in  the  theory,  and  serve  to 
distinguish  the  system  of  Hobbes  as 
that  which  we  now  call  Egoistic 
Hedonism.  Good  is  my  pleasure,  the 
only  thing  which  makes  me  act  is  my 
desire  for  pleasure.  I  am  the  only 
judge  of  my  own  pleasure;  therefore 
I  am  the  only  judge  of  good.  There 
is  at  all  evente  no  obscurity  in  such  a 
scheme,  and  it  makes  no  excessive 
demands  on  men's  capabilities.  We 
are  all  so  naturally  moral,  according 
to  Hobbes,  that  it  is  doubtful  whether 
any  instruction  or  training  is  required. 


596 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


Certainly  there  is  no  room  or  possibility 
for  the  law  of  duty  or  a  moral  ideal. 

But  directly  we  begin  to  analyze  the 
scheme  we  find  that  each  step  can  be 
contested.  Is  there  only  a  single 
motive  for  human  activity,  and  is  such 
a  single  motive  self-love?  Butler,  in 
his  Sermons  on  Human  JSatnre,  pointed 
out  that  there  were  a  certain  set  of 
activities  which  could  only  be  called 
instinctive  and  reflective,  and  which 
he  called  '  'propensions. ' '  These  rested 
simply  on  the  objects  proposed  in  each 
case:  hunger  rested  on  food,  curiosity 
rested  on  knowledge.  It  is  only  when 
the  series  of  instinctive  propensions 
were  satisfied,  that  there  could  arise 
for  the  human  being  a  complex  (and 
by  no  means  simple)  notion  of  self,  as 
something  for  which  he  ought  to  work. 
Self-love  clearly  could  not  have  been 
the  earliest  motives  for  activity,  for  its 
very  existence  depends  on  the  prior 
existence'  of  unreflective  instinctive 
activities.  It  is  true  that  when  the 
notion  of  self  has  been  formed  it 
appears  to  absorb  the  whole  field,  but 
this  again  leads  to  considerations  which 
are  fatal  to  Hobbes's  scheme.  Self- 
love  is  a  complex  of  different  feelings, 
because  it  is  based  on  the  satisfaction 
of  widely  different  instincts.  Some  of 
these  instincts  are  extra-regarding 
impulses,  they  tend  toward  our  fellow- 
men,  and  are  based  on  the  fact  that  a 
man's  single  personality  can  duly  be 
defined  in  the  terms  of  his  relations  to 
others.  Thus  sympath}'  is  an  extra- 
regarding  instinct,  so  too  is  the  more 
active  affection  which  we  term  benevo- 
lence, so  too  are  all  the  social  interests 
and  ai)titudes  of  humanity.  It  follows 
that  much  more  is  included  in  the 
notion  of  pleasure  than  egoistic  gratifi- 
cation, and  self-love  itself  is  found  to 
include  certain  affectionate,  benevolent, 
philanthropic  activities,  the  perfor- 
mance of  which,  however  apparently 
altruistic,  tends  to  heighten  and  vivify 


the  consciousness  of  self.  Thus,  on 
all  sides  the  scheme  of  Hobbes  is  found 
to  be  deficient  in  analysis;  the  picture 
drawn  of  humanity  is  discoverea  to  be 
lacking  in  some  of  the  prominent 
elements  of  nature.  Man  is  not  natur- 
ally an  isolated  and  repellent  atom;  he 
is  one  element,  one  factor  in  a  com- 
posite humanity.  He  can  only  Vje 
defined  in  relation  to  his  fellows;  he 
begins  by  liaving  social  instincts;  he 
is,  as  Aristotle  said,  »oAiTucbi'  <ior.  It 
is  the  caricature  of  analysis  to  resolve 
pity  and  benevolence  into  selfishness; 
to  define  the  first  as  the  pain  arising 
from  the  consideration  that  what  has 
happened  to  another  man  may  also 
happen  to  one's  self,  and  to  explain  the 
second  as  the  fear  that  we  also  may 
suffer.  This  is  not  logical  simplicity 
but  psychological  inanity. 

AVe  must  not,  however,  through 
detestation  of  the  ethical  results,  blind 
ourselves  to  the  historical  value  of 
Hobbes's  psychology.  It  was  vitiated 
by  the  gravest  errors:  it  was  based  on 
the  original  fiction  of  a  single  individual 
who  could  be  treated  as  though  his 
nature  was  independent  of  his  relations 
to  his  fellows;  it  rested  on  a  mechanical 
and  materialistic  theory  which  could 
not  but  be  fatal  to  the  higher  aspects 
of  character.  But  though  this  may 
be  the  condemnation  from  an  absolute 
standpoint,  the  relative  standpoint 
will  do  justice  to  Hobbes.  History 
tells  us  that  individualism  was  in  the 
air,  and  that  a  mechanical  philosonhy 
whs  the  heritage  from  Bacon  as  well  as 
the  product  of  the  best  contemporary 
intelligence  on  the  Continent.  The 
merit  of  Hobbes  is  that  he  in  reality 
began  that  study  of  psychology  which 
was  the  distinguishing  mark  of  the 
line  of  English  thinkers  which  suc- 
ceeded him.  He  rendered  Locke  pos- 
sible, who  in  turn  led  the  wav  for 
Berkeley  and  Hume.  From  this  point 
of    view,  the    judgment  of  Professor 


THOMAS  HOBBES. 


587 


Croom  Robertson, .  may  be  thoroughly 
indorsed. 

• 

"Hobbes  signalized  the  fact  of  Sense — or 
phenomenal  experience — as  itself  a  phenom- 
enon to  be  accounted  for  in  the  way  of  science; 
and  though  the  fact  of  subjective  representa- 
tion may  not  thus  iiave  Its  philosophical  im- 
port exhausted,  uor  is  well  coupled  with  the 
pirlicular  facts  of  Physics,  to  recognize  it  as 
such  a  matter  of  inquiry  is  a  very  notable 
step.  It  is  to  proclaim  that  there  is  room  and 
need  for  a  science  of  Psychology  as  well  as  of 
Physics — tliat  >lind  can  be  investigated  by  the 
same  method  and  under  like  conditions  as 
Nature.  Such  a  conception  of  psychological 
science  has  steadily  made  way  in  later  times, 
and  to  Hobbcs  belongs  the  credit  as  early  as 
any  otlier,  and  more  distinctly  than  any  other, 
of  having  opened  its  path." 

A  consideration  of  this  physiological 
treatment  of  sensation  will  lead  us  on 
to  the  general  basis  of  Hobbes's  philos- 
ophy. We  have  before  remarked  that 
Hobbes  is  a  rationalist;  he  is  so,  how- 
ever, only  so  far  as  rationalism  was 
not  yet  clearly  distinguished  in  the 
progress  of  controversy  from  sensation- 
alism. He  belieyes,  for  instance,  that 
the  difference  between  science  and 
experience  is  one  mainly  of  reason;  and 
that  in  similar  fashions  we  distinguish 
between  reason  and  custom  in  politics, 
and  reason  and  faith  in  theology.  Yet 
all  knowledge  originates  with  sense, 
and  all  knowledge  is  only  sense  trans- 
formed. We  pass  beyond  sense- 
experience  by  means  which  are  still 
sensible,  for  the  connecting  bridge  is 
found  in  language  and  the  use.  of 
names.  Thus  the  functions  of  sense 
are  all-important  for  Hobbes,  and  its 
explanation  one  of  the  chief  duties  of 
♦he  philosopher.  What,  then,  is  sensa- 
tion? It  IS  essentially  "movement." 
The  motion  in  external  particles  is 
taken  on  by  means  of  the  nerves  to  ^M 
heart,  and  there  is  an  answering  move- 
ment or  reaction  from  the  internal 
organ.  This  reaction  accounts  for  the 
fact,  that  we  refer  our  sensations  out- 
ward^ and  that  they  become  for  us  the 


qualities  of  external  bodies.  We 
observe,  on  the  one  hand,  that  the 
whole  explanation  is  physiological  and 
mechanical;  on  the  other  hand,  that 
it  is  based  on  that  idea  of  motion 
which,  as  we  know,  so  powerfully 
impressed  the  imagination  of  Hobbes. 
There  is,  further,  the  necessary  deduc- 
tion that  sense  is  mere  seeming — 
Tb  6o*tiv — for  it  is  only  due  to  the 
mechanical  interaction  between  external 
bodies  and  the  living  organism.  We 
cannot  argue  from  sensation  in  us  to 
an  actually  objective  quality  in  the 
body  outside  us;  we  cannot  say,  for 
instance,  that  sugar  is  sweet  (as  though 
sweetness  was  an  objective  ingi'edient 
of  the  external  body,  sugar),  but  only 
that  we  have  a  sensation  of  sweetness. 
What  is  real  is  the  movement  of 
particles  from  outside  to  inside,  and 
the  answering  from  inside  to  outside. 
What  is  unreal  is  the  subjective  feeling, 
if  it  be  taken,  not  as  merely  subjective, 
but  as  an  objective  quality. 

Difficulties,  however,  remain.  If 
sense  be  seeming,  how  can  we  be  sure 
even  of  this  motion  of  particles,  which 
is  declared  to  be  real?  For  our  per- 
ception of  motion  is,  after  all  sensa- 
tion, and  may  be  the  subjective  presen- 
tation of  facte,  which  in  their  objective 
import  are  quite  different.  Again, 
motion  is  only  realized  by  us  by  means 
of  time,  and  time  is  by  Hobbes  himself, 
in  the  De  Corpore,  declared  to  be  a 
subjective  phenomenon.  Curiously 
enough,  he  attempts  to  derive  time 
from  motion.  But  he  has  to  add  that 
it  stands  rather  for  the  fact  of  succes- 
sion, or  before-and-after  in  motion; 
which  means  that  it  is  a  prior  fact  of 
consciousness  involved  in  the  percep- 
tion of  motion  rather  than  in  any  way 
explicable  from  motion  as  an  objective 
occurrence.  Further,  if  sensation  be 
seeming,  and  all  sensible  qualities  only 
states  of  consciousness,  how  can  we  be 
sure,  in  default  of  any  mental  function 


088 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


sar>erior  to  sense,  of  matter  and  par- 
ticles— in  a  word,  of  an  objective  world? 
And  if  we  are  not  sure,  what  becomes 
of  scientific  materialism  and  the 
mechanical  philosophy  ?  Thus  Hobbes's 
system  would  end  m  scepticism. 

From  another  point  of  view,  it 
requires  to  be  explained  by  a  deeper 

Ssychology.  Hoboes  notices  that  the 
istinctive  mark  of  the  human  body 
amongst  other  bodies  is  that  it  knows 
that  it  knows;  in  other  words  that, 
besides  sensation,  there  is  also  the 
consciousness  of  sensation.  ''In  seek- 
ing for  the  cause  even  of  sense,"  says 
Prof.  Robertson,  "he  sees  the  need  of 
some  other  ^sense'  to  take  note  of  sense 
by."  He  tries  to  supply  this  need  by 
bringing  forward  the  phenomenon  of 
memory.  But  this  is  at  most  only  a 
substitute  for  an  explanation,  for  the 
possibility  of  memory  itself  retjuires  to 
oe  explained.  How  is  it  possible  for  a 
number  of  series  of  states  of  conscious- 
ness to  be  so  far  aware  of  themselves 
as  a  number  or  series — ^that  they  can 
remember  any  one  or  all  ?  Is  it  possi- 
ble, unless  there  be  something  higher 
than  such  states,  or,  at  all  events,  some 
golden  thread  running  through  them 
and  holding  them'  all  together?  If  so, 
what  shall  we  call  this  synthetic  capac- 
ity? Shall  we  call  it  reason,  or  spirit, 
or  soul,  or  self?  Whatever  it  be,  the 
fact  of  its  existence  renders  a  purely 
sensationalistic  psychology  forever  im- 

Sossible.  For  it  cannot  in  its  turn  be 
educed  from  sensation,  but  makes  sen- 
sation possible.  It  is  that  which  both 
knows  and  feels,  and  makes  us  aware 
of  an  external  world. 

Here,  however,  we  are  anticipating  a 
more  modern  metaphysics,  and  taking 
a  diflerent  view  of  philosophy  from 
that  which  Hobbes  took.  In  his 
account  of  ultimate  principles  he  clearly 
states  his  own  view.  Although  power- 
full  v  influenced  by  Descartes,  he  is 
untouched  by  that  deeper  consideration 


of  philosophical  problems  which  Des- 
cartes describes  in  his  Discours  and 
his  Meditations,  and  he  is  either  quite 
unaware  of,  or  discards  that  ultimate 
basis  of  all  reality  which  took  for  the 
French  thinker  the  form  of  Je  pense, 
done  je  siiis.  According  to  Hobbes, 
philosophy  is  ratiocination,  and  ratio- 
cination is,  in  reality,  reckoning,  or 
adding  and  subtracting.  It  is  com- 
putation in  the  largest  sense,  deducing 
effects  from  causes,  and  inferring  causes 
from  effects.  Only  on  one  assumption 
is  this  possible.  Philosophy  must 
deal  only  with  phenomena.  It  is  not, 
so  Hobbes  tell  us,  of  that  kind  which 
makes  philosopher's  stones,  or  is  found 
in  the  metaphysic  codes,  but  merely 
"the  natural  reason  of  man  busily  flying 
up  and  down  among  the  creatures,  and 
bringing  back  a  true  report  of  their 
order,  causes,  and  effects."  This 
being  so,  we  can  make  a  clean  sweep 
of  certain  ultimate  questions.  We 
need  not  ask  what  Ood  is,  for  He  is 
not  a  phenomenon  ami  has  no  genera- 
tion. Nor  need  we  trouble  ourselves 
about  spirits,  for  they  have  no  phen- 
omenal  aspects,  nor  are  we  concerned 
with  matters  of  faith. 

The  rest  of  the  items  of  a  properly 
scientific  creed,  such  as  we  are  familiar 
with  in  modern  times,  follow  in  due 
order.  Causes  can  only  be  efficient 
and  material.  Formal  causes  and  final 
causes  are  nonsense.  The  soul  of 
man  is  not  otherwise  than  corporeal; 
ghosts  and  spirits,  as  spoken  of  in 
ordinary  language,  are  but  dream- 
images  and  pure  phantasmal.  And 
man  is  not  a  free  a^ent:  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  freedom  of  the  will. 
Man  himself  is  not  a  spiritual  ego,  but 
natural  *'body"  whose  sensations, 
impulses,  volitions,  and  emotions  are 
alike  explicable  by  motions  of  particles. 
In  all  tliis,  Hobbes  is  from  one  point 
of  view  an  ancient,  from  another  point 
of    view    a    very    modern    thinker. 


THOMAS  HORBES. 


589 


Ancient,  because  he  makes  mind  de- 
pend on  matter,  which,  after  Berkeley 
and  Kant,  should  be  impossible  for  a 
philosopher:  but  also  modern,  because 
language  such  as  his  is  almost  identical 
with  that  of  contemporary  systems  of 
* 'naturalism^'  and  the  facile  framers  of 
*  ^mental  and  moral  science. ' '  Perhaps, 
hard  driven  by  the  mechanical  philo- 
sophers and  the  modern  Hobbist,  we 
may  be  content  to  remark,  in  the  last 
resort,  with  Lotze,  how  universal  is 
the  extent,  and  yet  how  completely 
subordinate  is  the  significance  of  the 
mission  which  mechanism  has  to  fulfill 
in  the  structure  of  the  world.  For 
.the  world  of  forms  is  one  thing,  and 
the  world  of  values  is  another. 

Hobbes's  views  on  religion  are  too 
characteristic  to  be  altogether  omitted, 
although  naturally  they  impressed  his 
contemporaries  more  than  they  influ- 
enced succeeding  thought.  Hobbes's 
general  position  as  a  phenomenalist 
did  not,  as  we  have  already  seen,  allow 
him  much  room  for  a  treatment  of 
super-spnsual  verities.  **A11  the  argu- 
ing of  infinities,"  he  impatiently 
remarks,  "is  but  the  ambition  of 
schoolboys."  But  in  his  theory  of 
human  nature  he  has  to  allow  a  certain 
seed  of  religion  as  a  factor,  often 
troublesome,  but  ineradicable,  with 
which  both  philosopher  and  statesman 
have  to  dieal.  It  is  this  which,  in  the 
methodical  form  of  intellectual  inquis- 
itiveness,  leads  men  to  form  a  concep- 
tion of  God  as  the  first  and  eternal 
cause  of  all  things;'  but  is  equally  pro- 
ductive, owing  to  men's  fears  and 
fancies,  of  all  kinds  of  vain  and  foolish 
imaginings.  Images  of  dreams  are 
projected  outward  and  become  spiritual 
and  supernatural  agents,  and  there  is 
no  more  curious  chapter  in  the  Levia- 
than than  that  in  which  Hobbes  de- 
scribes with  exuberance  of  detail  the 
mischievous  delusions  of  "the  Gen- 
tiles."   In  order  to  correct  such  super- 


stition, Ilobbes  bestows  especial  care 
on  a  review  of  what  is  really  meant  by 
such  things  as  spiri::s,  angels,  prophets, 
miracles,  eternal  life,  hell,  and  salva- 
tion, though  at  times  the  reader  cannot 
help  entertaining  some  doubt  as  to 
Hobbes's  seriousness.  A  more  mar- 
velous exegesis  of  Scripture  than  that 
which'  is  attempted  in  the  third  part  of 
the  Leviathan  was  probably  *  never 
penned  and  its  critics  and  opponents 
might  well  exclaim  with  Antonio: 

"M.irk  you  this,  Bassanio, 
The  devil  can  cite  Scripture  for  iiis  purpose.'' 

Two  points,  however,  stand  out  with 
distinctness.  In  the  first  place,  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  Hobbes  recognizes 
that  there  is  "a  core  of  mystery  in 
religion  which  faith  only  and  not  reason 
can  touch."  He  treats  it  indeed  with 
coarse  humor,  when  he  siivs  that  "it  is 
with  the  mysteries  of  religion  as  with 
wholesome  pills  for  the  sick;  which 
swallowed  whole  have  the  virtue  to 
cure;  but  chewed,  are  for  the  most  part 
c^ist  up  again  without  effect."  But  as 
Professor  Robertson  remarks,  the  idea 
is  so  distinctive  of  English  thought, 
from  William  of  Ocknam  through 
Bacon  to  Locke,  that  there  can  be  no 
reasonable  doubt  that  to  Hobbes  too 
"the  core  of  mystery"  remains.  In 
the  second  place,  Hobbes  is  persuaded 
that  the  whole  department  of  religious 
thought  should  be  under  the  control 
of  the  state.  This  is  his  chief  contest 
with  the  episcopalians  of  his  time,  and 
is  the  motive  of  his  attack  on  the 
Papacy  as  a  spiritual  '*Khigdom  of 
Darkness."  He  had  seen  how  great 
was  the  evil  of  religious  dissension, 
and  how  fatal  its  power  in  dissolving 
the  fabric  of  the  commonwealth:  the 
only  alternative  to  the  supremacy  of 
the  Church  was  the  autocratic  power 
of  the  sovereign  who  ought  to  be  priest 
as  well  as  king.  How  is  the  sovereign 
to  get  his  laws  obeyed  if  there  is  a  rival 


590 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


power  dividing  his  subjects'  allegiance? 
Unless  the  State  control  the  religious 
life,  there  will  be  a  chance  for  the 
Papacy,  and  civil  obedience  will  be  at 
an  end.  Moreover,  there  is  only  one 
thing  necessary  for  salvation,  which  is 
the  confession  that  Jesus  is  the  Christ 
— a  dogma  which  ought  to  be  kept  free 
from  all  the  surrounding  scaffolding 
of  ecclesiastical  dogma  invented  by  the 
church  doctors  or  largely  borrowed 
from  pagan  philosophy. 

The  later  years  of  Hobbes's  life 
exhibit  the  aged  philosopher  as  engaged 
with  ceaseless  conflicts  with  outraged 
divines  or  incensed  mathematicians^ 
but  do  not  throw  any  fresh  light  on 
the  nature  of  his  thought.  His  weak- 
est side  was  his  geometrical  speculation, 
and  it  was  that  which  he  defended 
with  the  stoutest  obstinacy  against  the 
superior  knowledge  of  Ward,  and 
Wilkins,  and  Wallis.  So  remarkable 
a  figure  as  his  was  the  natural  butt  of 
all  those  who  were  concerned  with 
defending  the  older  philosophy,  or 
were  outraged  by  his  notorious  secular- 
icm.  In  personal  characteristics  per- 
haps as  unamiable  a  man  as  ever  lived, 
devoid  of  sympathetic  affection,  un- 
touched by  the  higher  graces  oi  char- 
acter, intensely  and  narrowly  practical, 
and  of  great  personal  timidity,  he  yet, 
in  virtue  of  a  comprehensive  intellect 
and  an  analytic  power  of  uncommon 
keenness  and  edge,  succeeded  in  leaving 
a  conspicuous  mark  on  the  history, 
not  only  of  English,  but  of  Continental 
thought.  He  accepts  the  practical 
scientific  problem  irom  Bacon,  and 
hands  on  the  psychological  problem  to 
Locke.  He  may  almost  be  said  to  have 
originated  moral  philosophy  in  Eng- 
land, or  at  all  events  to  have  inspired, 
either  by  antagonism  or  direct  influ- 
ence, its  most  characteristic  efforts  and 
doctrines.  In  direct  influence  he  lives 
again  in  much  of  the  utilitarianism 
of    Hume,   Hai'tley,  Penthem,    Paley, 


and  the  elder  and  younger  Mill;  his 
characteristic  selfishness  is  reproduced 
on  a  wider  scale  in  the  universalistic 
hedonism  of  eighteenth  and  nineteenth 
century  speculation.  Antagonism  to 
his  position  diverged  in  two.  directions: 
on  the  one  hand,  it  produced  the 
rationalism  of  the  Cambridge  Platon- 
ists — Henry  More  and  Ralph  Cudworth; 
on  the  other,  through  Shaftesbury 
it  led  to  the  moral-sense  doctrines  of 
Hutcheson.  Indeed,  the  whole  of  the 
next  two  centuries  was  occupied  in  one 
way  or  another  with  Hobbes,  and,  if 
any  system  can  be  called  epoch-making, 
there  is  none  that  deserves  the  title 
better  than  his.  Philosophy,  as  we 
now  understand  the  term,  is  not  per- 
haps so  much  indebted  to  him  as  to 
Descartes,  from  whom  sprang  the  line 
of  catholic  thinkers,  among  whom 
occur  the  illustrious  names  of  Spinoza, 
and  Leibnitz,  and  Kant.  But  Hobbes 
did  more  than  any  one,  with  the  pos- 
sible exception  of  Bacon,  to  direct 
English  thought  into  its  characteristic 
channels,  and  to  put  before  it  its 
especial  problems.  Its  precision,  its 
clearness,  its  narrowness,  its  scientific 
tendency,  its  practical  character — all 
are  there.  In  Hobbes  are  represented 
in  embryo  the  specific  developments 
which  we  meet  with  in  Locke  and 
Berkeley,  Hume  and  Mill.  His  country- 
men may  well  be  proud  of  one  who 
concentrates  in  his  single  personality 
their  most  characteristic  defects  and 
excellences.  Add  to  this  the  merits  of 
an  admirable  style,'  and  we  have  the 
picture,  not  only  of  a  thinker,  but  also 
of  a  writer  and  a  man  of  letters. 
Above  all  others  he  succeeds  in  marry- 
ing words  to  thoughts,  and  lights  up 
the  most  abstruse  exposition  with  the 
brightest  gleams  of  wit  and  fancy. 
"  Vir  probus  et  fama  erudiiionts'  donii 
forisque  bene  cog/tifus*^  is  the  simple 
inscription  which  designates  his  resting 
place  in  Hault  Hucknalh     Perhaps  a 


GREG'S  HI8T0UY  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES. 


501 


happier  text  for  his  grave  was  suggested 
by  the  humor  of  one  of  his  friends 
during  his  lifetime,  ''This  is  the  true 
Philosopher's  Stone," -^Eduiburgh  Re- 
view^ 


GEEG'S  HISTORY  OF  THE 
UNITED  STATES.* 

Under  the  title  of  a  "History,"  Mr. 
Percy  Greg  has  composed  a  violent 
pamphlet  in  two  bulky  volumes.  He 
will  take  exception  to  the  description, 
"because  he  is  so  very  evidently  in  earn- 
est, and  so  indisputably  sincere.  He 
hates  democracy,  and  he  hates  "the 
North,''  all  his  affections  flow  out  to- 
ward the  late  Slave  States,  anc^  all  his 
powers  of  invective — and  they  seem 
abundant — are  easily  excited  by  the 
mere  mention  of  any  one  who  even 
seems  to  oppose  Secession  or  look  du- 
biously on  slavery.  So  thoroughly  is 
this  the  case,  that  so  stout  a  Southerner 
as  Andrew  Jackson — by  no  means  an 
ideal  hero — is  overwhelmed  bv  a  torrent 
of  choice  invective  because  ne  roughly 
and  resolutely  opposed  the  nullification 
doctrine  of  Camoun,  the  grandfather 
of  that  extreme  form  of  State  rights 
which  necessarilv  led  to  Secession  and 
to  civil  war.  The  book  is  so  violent 
and  uncompromising,  that  it  reminds 
us  of  the  Frenchman  who,  when  advis- 
ed by  the  magistrate  to  put  his  case 
temperately,  said  in  excuse  for  his 
fierceness,  that  "he  had  been  in  a 
continuous  rage  for  fifteen  months.  " 
Air.  Greg  surpasses  in  his  constancy 
the  impassioned  Gaul.  We  shall  do 
him  no  injustice  when,  we  say  that  he 
has  raged  furiously  over  the  Secession 
War  for  twenty-one  years,  nearly  a  gen- 

♦  History  of  the  United  Slates,  from  the 
Foundation  of  Virginia  to  the  Reconstruction 
of  the  Union.  By  Percy  Greg.  2  vols.  Lon- 
don :  1887. 


oration,  "nursing  his  wrath  to  keep  it 
warm"  throughout  that  long  period. 
Mr.  Greg  describes  himself  as  "review- 
ing from  the  BencK  of  history  a  course 
he  once  argued  at  the  Bar  of  politics;" 
and  he  is  surprised  to  find — a  surprise 
which  few  will  share— that  he  has  not 
to  "modify  many  severe  censures,  con- 
tradict many  grave  charges,"  or  doubt 
the  evidence,  if  not  the  truth  of  state- 
ments accepted  at  the  time.  He  finds 
all  his  "original  views  confirmed,"  and 
he  is  happy  in  the  conviction  that  aa 
he  accurately  judged  passing  events 
twenty  or  five-and-twenty  years  ago,  so 
now  he  is  able  to  come  forward  as  the 
one  true  and  faithful  witness  who  can 
and  who  does  depone  the  exact  and 
startling  truth  respecting  American 
history,  hitherto  systematically  and 
almost  wickedly  withheld  from  Eng- 
lishmen, and  certainly  most  Ameri- 
cans, to  whom  these  pages  will  come  in 
the  light  of  a  revelation. 

We  have  said  that  the  author  of  this 
astounding  book  is  sincere.  Nothing, 
indeed,  but  the  earnestness  of  a  fanatic 
could  have  borne  him  along  and  sus- 
tained unbroken  his  anger,  his  partial- 
ity, and  perversity  from  the  beginning 
to  the  end  of  these  otherwise  well- 
written  volumes.  It  sounds  like  irony 
to  the  reader  of  Mr.  Greg's  pages,  to 
find  himself  adjured  to  re-examine  the 
subject  with  "calmer  feelings,"  seeing 
that  the  author  himself  is  always  at 
fever-heat.  Others  h^ve  reviewed  the 
facts,  and  found  much  to  modify  both 
in  regard  to  the  North  and  the  South; 
have  learned  to  understand  and  sym- 
pathize with  men  like  Lee  and  Alexan- 
der Stephens;  but  Mr.  Greg  has  over 
them  an  enormous  advantage — he  has 
nothing  to  alter,  nothing  to  retract. 
Yet  twenty  years  have  passed  by;  the 
old  antagonists  have  become  friendly; 
a  son  of  Robert  Lee  has  been  present 
at  the  funeral  of  Ulysses  Grant;  the 
soldiers  who  fought  each  other  havQ 


h 


5dd 


THE  LIBRARY  MAOAZINB. 


shaken  hands,  and  compared  notes  in 
order  to  establish,  if  possible,  the  truth 
respecting  their  military  deeds;  nay,  a 
Democratic  President  lives  in  the  White 
House,  and  the  old  alliance  between 
the  ex-Slaves  States  and  the  "Northern 
Wing"  has  been  to  a  great  extent  suc- 
cessfully revived.  There  are,  however, 
two  constant  men  M'hom  nothing  can 
shake,  both  resolved  to  prove,  before 
gods  and  men,  that  they  are,  and  al- 
ways were  right  and  righteous — Mr. 
jQtferson  Davis  and  Mr.  Perey  Greg. 
The  book  of  the  latter  is  precisely  what 
he  says  it  is  not," a  political  apology" 
for  the  Slave  States,  and  an  unquali- 
fied "impeachment"  of  the  Free  States. 
It  is  impossible  to  deal  in  a  few  lines 
with  a  sel-ies  of  arguments,  statements, 
and  assertions  which  extend  to  more 
than  a  thousand  pages.  That  would 
require  almost  an  equal  bulk  of  type, 
for  the  whole  would  have  to  be  rewrit- 
ten. Mr.  Greg  starts,  for  example, 
with  the  assumption  that  all,  or  nearly 
•  all  the  people 'living  north  of  the  Poto- 
mac are,  if  not  exactly  wicked  yet  a 
low,  vulgar,  huckstering,  greedy,  and 
intolerant  set;  while  every  one  soutli  of 
the  stream^  but  especially  the  Virgin- 
ians and  South  Carolinians,  are  wise, 
high-minded,  sagacious,  generous,  hon- 
orable, and  eminently  humane.  The 
author  will  not  agree  with  such  an  ac- 
count of  his  standpoint,  and  may  be 
.unconscious  that  he  stands  there;  but 
the  proof  of  its  accuracy  may  be  found 
on  almost  every  page.  At  any  rate,  it 
governs  the  whole  of  his  "history"  of 
every  transaction  from  the  Revolution 
to  the  great  war  begun  and  waged  in 
order  to  found  an  empire  on  the  basis 
of  negro  slavery.  That,  Mr.  Greg  de- 
nies; but  he  is  only  able  to  do  so  by 
shutting  his  eyes  to  the  main  facts,  anS 
bv  standing  on  a  narrow  edge  of  "leg- 
ality" which  he  finds  in  the  Constitu- 
tion. Robert  Lee,  who  had  insight,  de- 
cltared  that  Sooottion  wsa  revolution. 


Mr.  Greg  knows  better;  it  was  a  legal 
proceeding,  based  on  the  reserved,  we 
might  almost  say  the  inalienable 
rights,  of  each  sovereign  State. 

But  of  what  use  are  such  contentions 
when  the  facts  override  the  conten- 
tions? The  real  strife,  from  1820  on- 
wards, was  between  free  labor  and  slave 
labor,  between  free  communities  and 
communities  based  on  the  enslavement 
of  an  alien  race.  No  one  in  his  senses 
could  suppose  that  the  free  white 
myriads  pouring  into  America  would 
submit  to  see  the  field  of  their  labor 
limited.  Setting  aside  altogether  the 
moral  question — whether  slavery  was 
just  or  unjust,  good  or  bad,  sanctioned 
or  unsanctioned  by  Scripture— the  bare 
fact  that  free  labor  would  be  predomi- 
nant in  the  Union  decided  the  question 
for  the  South.  The  alternative  before 
the  slave-owners  was  to  accept  the  re- 
stricted area,  and  allow  slavery  to  die 
out  or  assume  some  other  form;  or  to 
fight  for  its  existence,  and  with  its  ex- 
istence, the  power  to  extend  the  area, 
not  only  in  order  that  new  lands  might 
be  acquired  to  replace  exhausted  soil, 
but  in  order  that  the  dominant  power 
in  the  Union,  which  the  slave-owners 
had  managed  to  secure,  should  be  pre- 
served. "State  rights"  was  a  genuine 
cry  in  the  mouth  of  a  man  like  Robert 
Lee;  it  was  only  a  cheval  de  bataiUe 
when  employed  by  a  Toombs  or  a  Jef- 
ferson Davis.  The  real  exponents  of 
the  movement  were  the  Lamars,  who 
tried  to  revive  the  slave  trade,  and  Wil- 
liam Walker,  with  his  extravagant  pro- 
ject of  a  military  confederacy  basea  on 
slavery. 

Mr.  Greg  never  enters  into  the  actual 
facts  which  led  up  to  the  war,  but  runs 
off  into  barren  legal  arguments  and 
unmeasured  diatribes.  The  real  truth 
is,  that  the  conflict  was  "irrepressible,'' 
because  two  antagonistic  principles 
were  imprisoned  in  the  same  Constitu- 
tion— freedom  and  slavery;  and  as  tb^ 


THE  FIGHT  AT  OTTERBURN. 


I!;93 


were  incompatible,  no  "compromises" 
could  bring  them  into  harmony.  Mr. 
Greg  is  so  angry  throughout,  that  be 
cannot  see  the  realities,  and  ho  goes  off 
into  in vec tires  or  eulogies  suggested 
by  the  names  of  persons.  He  says, 
''The  temper  of  the  American  people 
is  feminine."  The  word  is  much 
abused,  but,  in  a  certain  sense,  we  are 
entitled  to  say  that  Mr.  Greg's  treat- 
ment of  his  great  theme  betrays  a  tem- 
per which  is  distinctly  like  that  which 
lie  so  oddly  ascribes  to  the  American 
people. 

Anothei-  point  of  vital  historical  im- 
portarce,  which  is  ignored  by  the 
author,  is  the  composition  of  the  De- 
mocratic Party.  In  order  to  dominate, 
the  slave-owners — and  the  preservation 
and  extension  of  slavery  were  by  virtue 
of  the  position  to  which  they  were 
born,  tlieir  first  thought — had  to  secure 
allies  in  the  Free  States.  That  was  ac- 
complished by  supporting  the  tariff, 
which  favored  Nortnern  manufacturers, 
and  by  giving  to  their  confederates  a 
large  share  of  the  spoils.  Mr.  Greg 
travesties  this  state  of  things  when  he 
savs  the  Southrons  "led"  the  Union, 
the  Nortlierners  desired  to  govern  it. 
Leading,  predominance,  was  essential 
to  the  preservation  of  the  political  posi- 
tion obtained  by  the  slave-owners;  they 
governed  just  as  much  and  as  little  as 
any  other  set  of  politicians.  It  was 
only  when  the  position  became  imperil- 
ed by  the  growth  of  a  free  population, 
that  the  Southern  leaders  wisely  elect- 
ed Pierces  and  Buchanans.  The  nature 
of  the  party  disruption,  in  1859-60,  as 
narratea  by  Mr.  Greg  himself,  shows 
that  a  point  had  been  reached  where 
the  Democrats  of  the  North  and  West 
could  no  longer  go  with  their  slave- 
owning  confererates,  whose  claims  grew 
greater  and  more  imperious  year  after 
year.  An  ^'impartial  historian" — Mr. 
Greg  thinks  he  is  one — would  have 
unfolded  this,  and  defined  the  causes 


which  brought  on  the  terrible  strife, 
and  would  not  have  fastened  on  legal 
subtleties,  or  piunged  headlong  into 
violent  personal  attacks,  and  the  whole- 
sale indictment  of  free  conimunibies. 

We  can  only  deal  in  generalities, 
because  so  much  space  would  be  needed 
to  show  up  any  special  example  of  dis- 
tortion, not  intentional,  but  distortion 
sprin^ng  out  of  the  quenchless  feeling 
of  disappointment  and  anger '  which 
flames  through  these  pages.  It  need 
hardly  be  said  that  the  military  narra^ 
tives  are  mere  partisan  sketches,  with- 
out any  merit  whaever  from  a  military 
point  of  view,  and  calculated  to  give 
the  reader  a  false  impression  of  the 
campaigns.  It  is  not  necessary  to  enter 
into  any  con tro very  with  Mr.  Greg  to 
prove  that  General  Grant  had  at  least 
some  soldierlike  ability,  and  dieplayed 
it  even  in  the  last  campaign;  npr  is  it 
in  the  least  needful  to  occupy  space  in 
showing  that  the  Northern  and  West- 
ern soldiers  were  not  dolts  and  cowards 
who  prevailed  by  mere  '*brute  force." 
The  Confederate  Generals  themselves 
have  answered  Mr.  Greg's  illiberal 
strictures,  and  General  Lee's  conduct 
in  1864-65  proved  that  he  knew  he  had 
a  worthy  opponent  in  General  Grant, 
one  with  whom  he  could  not  take  lib- 
erties. The  book,  however,  is  ably, 
sometimes  powerfully,  and  always  fur- 
iously written;  but  it  is  of  no  value  as 
a  "history,"  and  can  only  rank  among 
the  purely  polemical  works  on  the 
great  theme. — The  Spectator. 


THE  FIGHT  AT  OTTERBTJEN. : 

AUGUST   12,  1888. 

[The  Earl  of  Home,  the  present  inheritor 
of  the  Douglas  estates,  has  caused  to  be  erect- 
ed a  noble  monument  to  his  ancestors,  in  t-lic 
Douglas  Book,  prepared  by  William  Frn*'^^-. 
LL.  D.  This  work,  in  four  sunij)!  i 
quarto  volumes,  was  printed  last  year-  ^^r 


594 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


private  circulation,  and  few  readers  on  this 
side  of  the  Atlantic  will  ever  see  it.  Frorft 
this  DoagUu  Book  we  extract  the  story  of  the 
Battle  of  Otterburn,  rendered  famous  for  all 
time  by  the  ballad  entitled  "Chevy  Chase." — 
Ed.  Lib.  Mao.] 

The  erening  was  well  advanced,  when 
the  English  came  in  sight  of  the  camp 
where  the  Scots,  not  expecting  aa  at- 
tack so  late  in  the  day,  were  resting, 
some  at  supper,  others  asleep.  Yet 
they  were  not  altogether  unprepared,  ajs 
their  plan  of  action  had  heen  arranged 
iu  case  of  a  sudden  attack,  a  piece  of 
forethought  on  which  Froissart  be- 
stows much  praise.  la  the  hurry  of 
arming  when  the  first  onslaught  wa? 
made,  and  the  war  cry  of  *'Percy! 
Percy!"  rang  through  the  camp,  it 
iri  said  part  of  Douglas's  armor  was  left 
unfastened,  and  Uie  Earl  of  Moray 
fought  ull  night  without  his  helmet. 
The  Scots  were  fortunately  favored  by 
a  mistake  made  by  the  English  in  their 
attack.  Percy  and  his  men  reached 
the  neighborhood  of  the  Scottish  camp 
unnoticed  in  the  gathering  shades  of 
evening,  and  halted,  it  is  believed,  on 
a  rising  ground  which  lay  to  the  left  of 
the  camp,  toward  Newcastle,  where  ar- 
rangements for  the  onset  were  made,  as 
Sir  Henry  Percy  (''Hotspur")  resolved 
to  lose  no  time,  not  even  to  rest  his  fol- 
lowers. He  detached  a  small  force  un- 
der Sir  Thomas  Umfraville  and  his 
brother  to  pass  on  his  own  right  to  the 
northward  of  the  Scots  and  cut  off  their 
retreat,  or  to  attack  the  Scots  in  rear 
wlwle  they  were  engaged  with  Percy. 
Sir  Henry  Percy  then  led  the  mam 
body  over  the  rising  ground,  straight 
toward  the  entrance  to  the  camp, 
which,  as  already  staled,  was  on  the 
eastern  side,  where  also  the  plunder 
was  j)iled  and  the  servants  were  lodged, 
whose  huts,  in  the  twilight,  the  Eng- 
lish mistook  for  those  of  their  masters. 
This  delayed  them,  for  not  only  was 
the  camp  well  fortified,  but  the  servants 


made  a  stoat  defence,  and  as  the  alarm 
and  the  English  war  crie«  sounded  over 
the  camp,  Doughis  and  his  fellow  lead- 
ers had  time  to  make  their  dispositions 
for  resistance. 

The  first  move  was  to  dispatch  a 
body  of  infantry  to  the  aid  of  the  ser- 
vants 'to  keep  the  English  engaged. 
The  rest  of  the  Scots  ranged  themselTes 
under  their  three  princi])al  leaders,  who 
each  knew  what  to  do.  The  English 
soon  drove  back  the  servants,  but  as 
they  forced  their  way  further  into  the 
camp  they  found  themselves  still  steadily 
opposed .  In  the  m  ean  ti me  a  large  body 
of  the  Scots,  under  the  Earl  of  Doug- 
las, left  the  camp  in  silence,  drew  off 
toward  a  rising  ground  on  the  north- 
ward, and  marching  rapidly  round,  fell 
suddenly  on  the  flank  of  the  English, 
with  shouts  of  "Douglas!  DouglasI" 
This  unexpected  attack,  made,  as  nyn- 
town  asserts,  by  no  fewer  than  twelve 
displayed  banners,  disconcerted  the 
English;  but  they  rallied  bravely,  and 
formed  into  better  order.  The  war 
cries  of  the  leaders  now -resounded  on 
every  side,  9nd  as  the  moon  was  shin- 
ing the  combat  increased  in  intensity. 

Froissart,  who  wrote  from  the  ca- 
count  of  eye-witnesses  and  c<  mbatants. 
says  that  at  the  first  encounter  many 
on  both  sides  were  struck  down.  The 
Englishmen  kej>fc  well  together,  and 
fought  so  fiercely  that  the  Scots  were 
at  first  driven  back.  Then  the  Earl 
of  Douglas  advanced  his  banner,  to 
which  the  banner  of  the  Percys  was  soon 
opposed,  and  a  severe  fight  raged  in 
which  the  Scots  had  rather  the  worst, 
and  even  the  Douglas  pennon  was  for  a 
time  in  danger.  Knights  and  squires, 
says  the  historian,  were  of  good  courage, 
and  both  sides  fought  valiantly:  cow- 
ards there  had  no  place.  The  combat- 
ants met  so  closely  that  the  archers 
could  not  use  their  bows,  but  the  battle 
was  waged  by  hand-to-hand  conflict. 
The  leaders  especially  were  emulous  of 


THE  FIGHT  AT  OTTERBURN. 


595 


victory.  When  the  weight  and  number 
of  the  English  made  their  foes  give 
way,  the  Earl  of  Douglas,  *'of  great 
harte,  and  hygh  of  enterprise,"  seized 
his  battleaxe,  or,  according  to  some,  a 
heavy  maco  with  both  hands,  aud 
rushed  into  the  thick  of  the  fight. 
Here  he  made  way  for  himself  in  such 
manner  that  none  dare  approach  him, 
and  went  forward  'iike  a  hardv  Hec- 
tor  wyllynge  alone  to  conquere  the  felde, 
and  to  dyscorafyte  his  enlmyes."  He 
was  well  supported  by  his'  followei-s, 
who,  inspirited  by  the  prowess  of  their 
ncible  leader,  pressed  upon  and  forced 
back  the  English,  though  fighting  was 
dilllcult  in  the  dim  light.  At  last,  the 
Earl  was  encountered  by  three  spears 
at  once:  one  struck  him  on  the  shoul- 
der, another  on  the  breast  '*and  the 
stroke  glented  down  to  his  belly." 
The  third  spear  struck  him  on  the 
thigh,  and  sore  hurt  with  all  three 
wounds,  the  hero  was  by  sheer  force 
borne  down  to  the  ground.  As  he  fell 
he  was  struck  on  the  head  with  an  axe, 
and  round  his  body  the  press  was  so 
great  that  no  aid  could  be  given  to  him, 
while  a  large  number  of  the  English 
in  retreat  marched  over  him. 

Fortunately,  when  the  Eiirl  was 
struck  down,  his  rank  and  identity  were 
unreoognized  by  the  English,  or  the  is- 
sue of  the  conflict  mi&^ht  have  been 
very  different.  The  English  falling 
back,  those  Scottish  knights  who  had 
closely  followed  Douglas  came  up  to 
the  spot  where  th«ir  leader  had  fallen. 
Beside  him  lay  one  of  his  personal  at- 
tendants, Sir  Robert  Hart,  while  tne 
Earl's  chaplain,  Richard  Lundie,  de- 
fended the  body  of  the  prostrate  hero. 
The  Earl's  kinsman.  Sir  James  Lind- 
say^with  Sir  John  and  Sir  Walter  Sin- 
€lair,  were  the  first  to  reach  their  chief. 
The  scene  which  followed  is  one  of  the 
most  affecting  in  the  annals  of  chivalry* 
When  asked  how  he  did,  the  dying 
Earl  replied,  ^ 'Sight  evil;  jet,  thank 


God,  but  few  of  my  ancestors  have  died 
in  their  beds.  1  am  dying,  for  my 
heart  grows  faint,  but  I  pray  you  to 
avenge  me.  Raise  my  banner,  which 
lyeth  near  me  on  the  ground;  shew  my 
state  neither  to  friend  or  foe,  lest  mine 
enemies  rejoice  and  my  friends  be  dis- 
comfited." So  saying,  the  Earl  expir- 
ed, with  his  war  cry  sounding  in  his 
ears,  as  Sir  John  Sinclair  i*aised  the 
fallen  pennon,  and  his  friends  renewed 
the  fignt,  first  covering  their  leader's 
body  with  a  mantle. 

Obeying  the  last  words  of  the  brave 
Douglas,  his  friend  shouted  his  name 
with  increased  energy,  as  if  he  were 
still  in  the  forefront  of  the  fray.  They 
pressed  upon  the  foe  with  vigor,  being 
reinforced  by  the  Earl  of  Moray  and  his 
men,  who,  attracted  by  the  shouts  of 
**Douglas!"  "Douglas!"  rallied  to  the 
cry,  and  so  stoutly  did  the  Scots  follow 
the  banner  of  the  slain  Earl,  that  the 
English  were  driven  back  far  beyond 
where  his  body  lay.  And,  this  indeed, 
was  the  last  charge,  and  virtually  decid- 
ed the  contest  in  favor  of  the  Scots, 
as  the  English,  tired  with  their  long 
journey  from  Newcastle,  though  they 
had  fought  valiantly,  now  began  to 
break  their  ranks,  and  in  a  short  time 
were  in  full  retreat.  In  another  part 
of  the  field  also,  the  strenuous  efforts 
of  the  Earls  of  March  and  Moray  had 
turned  the  tide  of  conquest,  and  Sir 
Ralph  Percy  was  a  prisoner. 

Froissart  states  that-of  the  English 
about  one  thousand  and  forty  were 
taken  or  slain  on  the  field,  and  up- 
wards of  eight  hundred  in  the  pursuit, 
while  more  than  a  thousand  were 
wounded.  The  Scots,  he  says,  had  one 
hundred  slain,  and  two  hundred  made 
prisoners,  the  latter  chiefly  because  of 
their  impetuosity  in  pursuit.  The  num- 
ber of  prisoners  taken  by  the  Scots 
was  very  great,  and  the  amount  of  their 
ransoms  equaled  200,000  francs.  But 
the  rejoioing  om  this  account,  and  be- 


596 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


cause  of  the  victory,  was  greatly  ming- 
led with  sorrow  at  the  death  of  the 
Earl  of  Douglas.  His  body  was  placed 
on  a  bier,  and  borne  on  the  second  day 
after  the  battle  to  the  Abbey  of  Mel- 
rose. There  his  funeral  obsequies  were 
performed  with  due  ceremony  two  days 
later,  and  he  was  buried  anaer  a  tomb 
of  stone,  over  which  his  banner  was  left 
to  wave. 


THE  WORKS  OF  JOHN  FISKE. 

Mr.  Fiske  may  justly  be  claimed  as 
the  most  popular  philosophical  writer 
America  has  produced.  It  is  doubtful, 
indeed,  whether  the  writings  of  any 
other  philosopher  have  ever  commanded 
so  large  a  circle  of  readers  in  so  short  a 
space  of  time.  The  Outlines  of  Cosmic 
Philosophy  consists  of  two  substantial 
volumes  containing  in  all  over  a  thou- 
sand closely  printed  octavo  pages,  and 
though  but  twelve  years  old,  it  has  run 
through  no  fewer  than  seven  editions 
and  has  recently  been  issued  again. 
This,  so  far  as  we  know,  is  unprece- 
dented and  says  much  both  for  the 
present  position  and  future  prospects 
of  philosophical  studies  in  America, 
as  well  as  for  the  ability  of  Mr.  Fiske 
as  a  writer  and  philosopher. 

Systems  of  philosophy  and  exposi- 
tions of  the  profound  problems  with 
which  philosophy  deals  appeal  as  a  rule 
to  a  very  select  few,  but  it  would 
appear  that  in  America  the  number  of 
persons  who  are  interested  in  the 
teachings  of  philosophy  and  who  have 
the  patience  to  follow  any  serious  and 
intelligent  effort  to  set  forth  its  doc- 
trines, is  very  considerable  and  that 
Mr.  Fiske  has  won  their  symnathies 
and  obtained  their  suffrages.  Nor  is 
the  popularity  of  his  writings  at  all 
undeserved.  A  more  attractive  writer 
oil  matters  philosophical,  a  fairer  dis- 


putant, a  keetaer  critic,  or  a  more  lucid 
expositor,  is  rarely  met  with.  His 
works  too  are  as  remarkable  for  their 
literary  and  artistic  merits  as  they  are 
for  their  intellectual  or  purely  philo- 
sophical. He  is  as  skillful  in  building 
up  his  own  thoughts  and  in  setting 
them  forth  as  he  is  in  dissecting  thof^e 
of  others,  or  in  detecting  their  bearing, 
or  pointing  out  their  fallacies.  Now 
and  then,  too,  his  pages  are  marked  by 
the  purest  eloquence,  while  the  fertility 
and  suggestiveness  of  his  illustrations, 
his  fresh  and  wise  enthusiasm,  and 
the  aptness  and  beauty  of  the  language 
in  which  he  clothes  his  thoughts, 
entitle  much  that  he  lias  written  to  a 
foremost  place  in  the  literature  of  the 
English  speaking  races. 

Thfe  subjects  of  which  he  treats  in 
the  eight  volumes  before  us  are  of  the 
greatest  variety,  from  the  speculations 
of  Mr.  Spencer,  M.  Comte,  and  Mr. 
Harrison  to  the  lucubration  of  M. 
Figuier  in  Tlie  To-morrow  of  Death, 
and  from  the  origin  of  matter  and 
man  to  Athenian  and  American  Society. 
In  dealing  with  so  largo  a  variety  of 
subjects* it  need  not  surprise  us  if  here 
and  there  we  meet  with  inequalities  or 
defectiveness  of  treatment.  Among 
the  miscellaneous  papers  some  are 
scarcely  deserving  oi:  the  position 
assigned  to  them.  Those  on  *'the 
Christ  of  History"  and  **the  Christ  of 
Dogma'*  are  crude  and  immature, 
and  display  too  obvious  a  leaning  to 
the  speculations  of  Strauss  and  the 
Tubingen  School,  and  too  little  of  that 
sagacity  and  independence  of  thought 
which  form  so  striking  a  characteristic 
of  the  greater  part  of  their  author's 
writings.  The  essay  on  M.  Fignier's 
foolish  volume,  while  interesting  and 
amucing  in  itself,  serves  to  perpetnat.e 
the  memory  of  a  book  which  cannot  be 
too  soon  buried  in  oblivion.  On  the 
other  hand  the  papera  on  the  Unseen 
Universe,  to    mention  no  others,  are 


M.  PAUL  DE  LA  SAINT-VICTOR. 


m7 


excellent  specimens  of  acute  criticism. 
Myths  and  Myth-makers  is  a  charming 
volume,  and  along  with  the  papers  on 
*'Our  Aryan  Forefathers/'  ''What  we 
learn  from  old  Arvjxn  Words,"  and 
'"Was  there  a  •  PrimaBval  Motlier 
Tongue?"  proves  that  Mr.  Fiske  is 
quite  as  much  at  home  in  discussing 
questions  of  Folk-lore  and  Comparative 
Pliilology  as  in  dealing  with  the  prob- 
lems of  philosophy.  Ihe  essay  on  Mr. 
Gladstone's  almost  forgotten  Juventus 
Mundi  is  worth  reading  if  ouly  to  see 
how  differently  the  subject  may  be 
treated . 

But  Mr.  Fiske  is  undoubtetUv 
strongest  as  a  philosopher  and  specula- 
tive, or  if  the  reader  chooses,  scientific 
theologian.  Here  he  is  a  thorough 
going  evolutionist.  As  an  exf)ositor 
of  Mr.  Spencer's  system  he  is  without 
a  rival.  Under  his  marvelously  skill- 
ful treatment  the  doctrines  and  princi- 
Eles  of  the  theory  of  evolution,  their 
earings  and  applications,  acquire  an 
attractiveness  and  a  luminosity  with 
which  Mr.  Spencer  himself  has  not 
been  able  to  invest  them.  Mr.  Spen- 
cer's works  are  more  voluminous  and 
for  philosophical  study  perhaps  supe- 
rior; but  for  the  general  reader,  for 
those  who  wish  for  a  ready  means  of 
acquiring  a  clear  and  accurate  concep- 
tion of  the  doctrine  of  evolution  and 
its  bearing  upon  the  great  problems  of 
thought  and  life,  and  even  for  the 
student  desirous  of  preparing  himself 
for  the  full  appreciation  of  the  works 
of  Mr.  Fiske  s  master  in  philosophy, 
we  know  nothing  better  than  the  two 
volumes  of  the  Outlines  of  Cosmic 
Philosophy,  and  nothing  equal  to  them. 
These  volumes,  too,  contain  a  brilliant 
exposition  and  refutation  of  M. 
Comte's  Positivism  and  of  the  position 
taken  up  by  his  followers,  more  espec- 
ially by  Mr.  Harrison,  in  respect  to 
religion. 
It  must  not  be  supposed  however  that 


Mr.  Fiske  is  merely  aa  expositor  of  the 
thoughts  or  systems  of  others,  or  that 
he  is  nothing'  more  than  a  versatile 
critic.  His  own  contributions  to  philo- 
sophy are  considerable.  His  chapters 
on  the  Genesis  of  Man,  Intellectually 
and  Morally,  in  which  he  sets  forth  his 
theory  of  the  influence  of  prolonged 
inf alley  upon  social  development,  are  a 
decided  addition  to  the  development 
tfieory  and  contain  the  solution  of  one 
of  the  most  perplexing  questions.  In 
the  last  part  of  tlie  Cosmic  Philosophy 
he  comes  near  another.  'More  than  any 
writer  we  have  met  with,  he  seems  to  be 
conscious  that  the  ultimate  goal  of  the 
Synthetic  Philosophy  is  and  must  be  a 
Science  of  God,  notwithstanding  his 
unwise  clinging  to  the  term  **the  Un- 
knowable" as  a  designation  of  the 
Deity. 

AVe  have  said  enough  however  to  show 
our  appreciation  of  Mr.  Fiske's  worth 
as  a  philosopher  and  a  writer,  and 
though  we  must  not  be  held  as  agreeing 
with  all  that  he  has  said,  we  shall  have 
done  our  readers  a  service  if  we  have 
succeeded  in  directing  their  attention 
to  his  volumes.  The  solid  merits  which 
have  gained  for  them  their  populs^rity 
in  America  can  scarcely  fail  to  gain 
for  them  an  equally  wide  popularity 
here. — Scottish  JReview. 


M.  PAUL  DE  LA  SAINT-VICTOR. 

Different  literary  men  have  different 
methods  of  composifion.  M.  Th^- 
ophile  Gautier,  like  the  poet  of  society, 
could  *^reel  it  off  for  hours  together." 
But  he  was  so  bored  by  the  daily  round, 
the  common  task,  that  he  used  three 
inks — red,  black,  and  blue — promis- 
ing himself  a  little  treat,  and  saying, 
'*Now,  when  you  liave  finished  this 
page,  you  shall  have  a  turn  at  the  red 
ink."    He  added,  "That  helps  me  to 


598 


THE  IJBRM.^JIJLiAZmE. 


cheat  the  tedium  of  putting  black  on 
white  forever."  M.  Paul  de  Saint- 
Victor,  on  the  other  hand,  at  least 
according  to  M.  Alidor  Delzant,  wrote 
in  a  very  odd  way.  He  did  not  reel 
it  off.  When  he  had  to  "do''  a  new 
play  he  collected,  very  properly,  all  the 
books  bearing  on  the  subject.  Then 
he  took  a  sheet  of  paper  and  threw  on 
to  that  phrases,  and  ''mots-images^*'^ 
separated  by  spaces  of  blank.  Then 
into  these  blanks  he  introduced  other 
words  that  seemed  necessary  for  the 
harmonv  of  the  sentence,  and  finally  he 
packed  It  all  up  in  his  article  and  went 
to  press. 

This  is  such  a  novel  way  of  writing 
an  essay  that  we  have  determined  to 
try  how  it  works.  Let  us  suppose  that 
the  subject  is  the  play  of  Dandy  Dick 
at  the  Court.  The  first  duty  is  nega- 
tive— namely,  to  say  as  little  as  may  be 
about  the  play.  The  play  is  wo^the 
thing  in  the  criticisms  of  M.  Paul  de 
Saint- Victor,  which,  therefore,  have 
no  mere  temporary  interest,  but  bear 
republication  in  Hommes  et  Dieuz 
Anciens  et  Modei^nes, 

With  these  explanations  let  us  start. 
There  is  a  horse  in  the  play.  The 
'critic  will  therefore  write  about  the 
Horse — about  anything  rather  than 
Dandy  Dick,  He  now  takes  a  sheet  of 
paper,  and  puts  down  mots-images.  If 
the  result  reminds  any  one  of  the  con- 
versation of  Mr.  Jingle,  that  is  not  our 
fault. 

The  Horse.  .  .  .  Koble  animal.  .  .  .  Man 
the  i)roudest  conquest  of  the  Horse  (Buffon) 
....  Horse  in  Aryan  sculptures.  .  .  .  Neck 
<-i(»tne,l  in  Thunder.  .  .  .  White  Horses  of 
Rhesus.  .  .  .  Lightning.  .  .  .  Horse  of  Achil- 
les speaks.  .  .  .  Ass  of  Balaam.  .  .  .  Semitic 
and  Aryan  genius  .  .  .  Donkey  and  Horse, 
not  to  be  yoked  together.  .  .  .  Modern  spirit 
yokes  them.  .  .  .  No  donkeys  in  Elgin  Mar- 
Dies.  .  .  .  Beautiful  Yonng  Men.  .  .  .  Shak- 
speare,  Oollop  opace  yee  four-y -footed  steads 
....  Horse  aristocratic.  .  .  .  Donkey  not 
....  The  Count  and  the  Coster  monger.  .  .  . 
France  and  England.  .  .  .  Conclusion. 


This  preliminary  canter  being  over, 
the  author  writes  in  a  few  words  full 
of  melody  and  charm,  say  "amaran- 
thine, V  "  iridescent,  "  *'  magnani- 
mous, '*  **  Mesopotamia,  "  '*  epical," 
"lyrical,^'  and  th5  like.  Then  he 
fastens  up  his  parcel,  and  we  have  tlie 
feuilleton,  which  follows,  rather  short- 
ened. 

Dandy  Dick. 

Even  in  the  dusty  and  flaring  precincts  of  a 
theatre  of  the  Boulevard  how  proudly,  how 
'chivalrously  rings  that  old  Aryan  word^  hctrx. 
Our  far-off  ancestors,  in  the  sultry  tiible-laod 
of  Frangipar.i,  already  called  him  **a  noble 
animal.  Before  this  haughty  quadruped 
man  has  bo^  ed  himself,  and  Buffon  Teas  in- 
spired when  he  wrote  that  Man  is  the  proudest 
conquest  of  the  horse.  History  rings  with 
his  neighing  and  echoes  with  the  clamor  of 
his  flying  feet.  His  neck  is  clotlied  in  thun- 
der, in  tonitrutestita  cervix:  and  all  the  empty 
spaces  of  the  past  resound  with  the  din  tliat 
Ennius  knew,  . 

Quadntpedante  putrevi  9on%iu  quadt  UTiffula 
campum. 

Wheresoever  he  canters  he  carries  conquest 
and  conquerors.  The  carveu  portals  of  As- 
S3^ria  knew  his  triumph;  Mesopotamia  wakes 
one  hour  from  her  secular  beatitude,  and  fain 
wou^d  stake  her  staters  on  him  at  starting 
price.  Through  the  midnight  of  the  IHj  rf. 
when  nien  are  asleep,  tile  white  horses  of 
Rhesus  pass  like  lightnins:  through  the  thun- 
der cloud.  The  gods  deign  to  love  in  tbe 
equestrian  guise,  and  from  Uie  gods  are 
sprung  the  horses  of  Achilles.  Xanthus,  and 
Baliiis,  "from  Eld  :  nd  Death  exempted."  In 
Homer  the  proud  beast  even  speaks,  et  meme 
il  parte  Men,  but  the  Erinyes  gag  his  utter- 
ance. Greece  adored  the  Imiit.  knew  where 
to  draw  the  line.  Among  tlie  tamer  Semites 
the  horse  is  hardly  known,  and  tlie  Princes 
ride  on  Asses.  To  the  prophet  il  was  no 
wind -footed  horse,  but  an  Ass  that  spoke,  nor 
did  the  Erinyes  balk  him  of  his  utterance. 
The  Horse,  the  xVss!  They  are  the  children 
of  Japhet,  gcnu8  audax  Japeti,  and,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  plwldiug  sons  of  Sliem,  who, 
less  audacious,  mount  the  donkey.  The  Lcir- 
islator  forbade  the  yoking  together  of  horse 
and  ass;  but  the  modem  spirit  would  unite, 
in  an  incongruous  team,  the  Semite  genius 
and  the  Aryan.  Vain  endeavor  1  Ahab  fell 
from  his  horse-drawn  chariot;  tlie  Jew  is  m) 
sportsman.    In  the  illustrious  wor:^  of  Phidias 


CURREJ8IT  THOUGHT. 


699 


there  are  no  asses,  his  beautiful  ephebi  domi- 
nate saeh  chargers  as  pranced  through  Wil 
liam's  dreams  when  he  wrote  OoUop  opaes  yee 
fouT-y  footed  sUatU.  The  Horse  is  an  aristo- 
crat, the  kniglit  was  disgraced  who  drove  in 
a  cart,  like  Launcelot,  instead  of  striding  the 
saddle.  France  is  the  knight;  England  is  the 
Git'-inan,  the  dog-cart  man.  They  cannot 
understand  each  other.  We  are  the  Count, 
they  are  the  Costermonger. 

The  system  seems,  at  all  events,  an 
easy  system.  But,  in  spite  of  his 
method,  if  it  really  was  his  method, 
arid  in  spite  of  his  extraordinary  way 
of  spelling  English,  M.  Paul  de  Saint- 
Victor  was  a  most  distinguished  and 
original  writer. — Saturday  Review. 


CURREiTT  THOUGHT. 

Some  Slashing  Ciuticisms. — ^The  London 
Saturday  Becieio  is  never  chary  in  its  criti 
cisms  iipon  authors  who  do  not  happen  to  find 
favor  in  its  eyes.  Tlius  respecting  Mr.  Wil- 
liam D.  Howells'  novel  T/is  Minister's  Chawge 
the  Saturday  Bsview  says : — 

"Mr.  W.  D.  Howells  is  well  known  to  hold 
a  poor  opinion  of  Eo^lisli  novelistjs,  and,  in- 
deed, of  most  ether  English  men  and  things. 
This  should  not  prevent  Englishmen  from 
treating  him  with  candor,  and  it  must  he  can- 
didly admitted  that  he  moulds,  his  perfor- 
mance in  accordance  with  his  principles  suffi- 
ctently  to  write  novels  of  a  diffe-ent  sort  from 
those  which,  as  a  critic,  he  has  felt  it  his  duty 
to  condemn.  The  aim  of.  the  old-fashionbd 
masters  of  English  tiction  has  been,  in  a  gen- 
eral way,^  to  writd  novels  which  it  shall  be  in- 
teresting to  read.  Thia  feature  in  their  work 
Mr.  Howells  has  sir  veu  not  to  imitate.  He 
has  enjoyed  a  reasonable  measure  of  success, 
and  his  success  has  seldom  l)een  more  complete 
than  in  Tfie  Minister's  Charge.  Of  course 
tliere  are  many  ways  of  interesting.  The 
misg  lided  George  Eliot  sought  to  interest  by 
iKiug  a  little  rfifflcult,  and  making  her  ro- 
mances contribute  to  the  solution  of  serious 
questions  of  ethics,  and  occasionally  of  meta- 
physics, to  say  nothing  of  incidcjutal  excur- 
sions into  physiology  and  psychology.  The 
deluded  Thackeray  wrote  stories  m  which 
remarkable  events  occurred  in  the  ftctitiors 
lives  of  persons  who  eatirically  illustrated  the 
quail  lien  and  foibles  of  upper-middle-clnss 
society  in  Loudon.    The  abject  Dickens  was 


alternately  funny  and  sentimental.  By  these 
dija:ereut  methods  the  thoughtf  1,  the  worldly, 
and  the  frivolous  were  respe. lively  entertain- 
ed. Mr.  Howells  triumphantly  avoids  all 
these  and  all  otJier  ways  of  interesting  any- 
bodv." 

Mr.  Thomas  Purnell  has  put  forth  TJie 
Lady  Drusilla:  a  Psycological  Romance  which, 
according  to  the  Saturday  Betiew,  is — 

'*A  weird  story  in  cue  volume  of  a  man  with 
presentiments.  Tiiey  are  very  bad  cues,  be- 
cause one  haunts  him  twice  in  every  twenty- 
four  hours,  nt  noon  and  midnight,  and  the 
other  apparently  pursues  him  continually. 
They  came  true.  The  story  contains  a  good 
murder,  a  remai  kably  thrilling  tale  of  an  old 
lunatic,  with  a  ghostly  story  6f  a  midnight 
drive,  and  a  decidedly  powerful  exi^erience  of 
being  lost  in  a  cave  with  a  skeleton.  It  is  a 
slight  piece  of  work,  but  excellently  adapted 
for  about  the  space  of  two  pipes  before  going 
to  bed." 

The  Hon.  Mrs.  Henry  Chetvynd's  rew 
novel  Sara  receives  a  long  notice  commencing 
thus: 

**lf  it  is  a  laborious^  and  ungrateful  task  to 
write  in  exceptionally  sloppy  EuglisU  a  story 
wMch  will  not  flow,  and  which  is  excessively 
tiresome  to  read,  then  Mrs.  Chet\rynd  de- 
serves the  utmost  commiseration.  Surah  was 
a  fin«  woman,  with  splendid  red  hair,  and  a 
high  color,  and  v.  as  as  stupid,  and  morally 
and  mentally  unattractive  as  it  is  pos.sible  for 
a  fine  woman  to  be.  She  nijirricd  S  r  Basil 
FairliOi  who  was  a  sort  of  combination  of  all 
the  actually  existing  eminent  persons  who, 
not  being  members  of  the  House  of  Commons, 
write  letters  to  the  Times  upon  questions  of 
general  interest." 

€hiEG*8  History  of  thk  Uxtted  States 
— Mr.  Percy  Greg  is  not  at  nil  satisfied  with 
the  critique  upon  h*s  History  of  the  United 
States,  in  the  London  Spectator,  which  is  re- 

Erinted     in    the    present    number  of  Thk 
iiBRART  Magazine.    He  writes  to  the  Spec- 
tafoT  as  follows: — 

"When  you  call  me  a  defender  of  slavery 
— after  I  tell  you  that  the  South  thinks  its 
removal  worth  all  it  has  cost— when  you  say 
I  think  everything    Northern   Imd— Jf.   who  < 
drew  a  thoroughly    sympathetic  portrait  of 
Hamilton  of  New  York,  theultra^xleralist, 
and  the  reverse  of  Jefferson,  the  Democratic 
idol — when  you  untruly  acciv^  me  of  imput- 
ing cowardice  to  theNorthc^m  .«5oldiery,  a  d; 
so  forth,  you  can  hardly  heli>  feeling,  on  re-, 
flection,  that  you  have'been  fighting  with  a. 
poisoned  blade.     Had  the  Northern — and  es- 
pecially  North-Eastew— twjops  been  equal, ^o. 


600 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


the  South,  the  war  could  not  have  lasted  two 
years." 

Cabtle. Dangerous. — The  latest  and  one 
of  the  poorest  of  the  novels  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  is  founded  upon  a  iesrend  which  is  thus 
told  by  Mr.  Fraser  in  TJie  uougUm  Book: — 

**The  story  is  told  of  a  wealthy  heiress  of 
noble  English,  birth,  beset  with  suitors,  us- 
sembling  them  all  at  a  festivity,  and  a  min- 
strel having  sung  the  deeds  of  the  redoubtable 
Douglas  in  his  own  lands,  and  the  danger  of 
holding  such  a  hazardous  lut  honorable  post 
as  Douglas  Castle,  she  openly  declared  her 
intention  to  bestow  her  hand  upon  the  knight 
who  should  hold  it  for  a  ^  ear  and  a  da^  in  the 
interet  of  the  King  of  England.  Of  all  the 
knight')  who  surrounded  the  table  only  one. 
Sir  John  de  Wanton,  was  fo^nd  brave  enough 
to  accept  the  conditions.  His  offers  to  hold 
the  post  were  accepted,  and  he  it  was  who  at 
this  time  was  in  command  of  Douglas  Castle, 
with  a  stronger  garrison  than  any  of  his  pre 
decessors. 

*' Understanding  that  the  castle  was  not 
over  well  stocked  with  supplies,  Douglas  con- 
ceived a  stratagem  whereby  he  might  draw 
out  the  governor  with  his  troops  into  an  am- 
bush, and  then  <  verthrow  them.  On  the 
morning  of  a  great  fair  day  at  Lanark,  after 
placing  his  men  in  ambush  at  a  convenient 
spot,  he  instructed  fourteen  of  them  to  fill 
sacks  with  grass,  throw  them  over  the  back  of 
tlieir  horses,  and,  concealing  their  armor  un- 
der countrymen's  frock's,  to  drive  their  beasts 
past  the  castle  as  if  they  were  traders  on 
their  way  to  market.  The  passage  of  the 
large  cavalade  with  provender  so  much 
needed  by  t lie  garrison  was  reported  to  Sir 
John  de  SVanton,  who  at  once  ordered  his 
men  to  f^tart  in  pursuit,  and  rode  at  their  head. 
The  passed,  the  ambuscade  unlieeded,  and 
drew  near  their  supposed  prize,  when  sudden- 
ly the  sacks  were  thrown  away,  the  rustic 
^rments  followed,  and  Douglas's  men  leap- 
ing on  Ihcir  horses,  the  English  were  con- 
fronted with  a  body  of  well-armed  and  reso- 
lute warriors.  Sir  John  de  Wanton  at  once 
attempted  :  retreat  to  the  ca  tie,  but  o'^ly 
turned  to  liml  himself  beset  on  all  sides,  and 
in  the  struirgh;  which  ensued  the  garrison  'vere 
overpowered,  and  nearly  all  slain,  with  their 
commander.  On  his  dead  body,  it  is  said, 
•was  discovered  a  letter  from  the  lady  in  the 
Ihope  '  f  whose  hand  and  heart  he  had  accept- 
•ed  his  fatal  post.  Douchis  next  proceeded  to 
tiie  castle,  which  was  yielded  up  to  him.  On 
'.their  surrduder  he  not  only  spared  the  lives  of 


the  English  soldiers  who  had  remained  ther^ 
in  during  the  affray,  but  dismissed  them  Kith 
marks  of  kindness  to  their  own  country. 
On  this  occasion  Douglas  razed  the  castle  to 
the  ground."   . 

Population  op  the  Gr-«co  Roman 
World. — Dr.  Julius  Beloch  has  rerenlly 
put  forth  at  Leipzig  a  treatise  upon  tliis  sub- 
ject, of  which  Mr.  Franklin  T.  Richards 
writes  in  the  London  Academy: — 

**Dr.  Beloch's  immense  collection  of  facts, 
various  aud  well  arranged,  iniparts  a  human 
interest  even  to  tables  of  figu  es.  He  shows 
great  modesty  in  pointing  out  the  i!t»(x»sssry 
uncertainty  of  his  results,  and  in  a.It^wing  a 
ver}'  large  margin  for  error;  but  he  is  con- 
fident that  the  ancient  population  of  the 
Mediterranean  countries  (except  Egypt)  lias 
been  greatly  over-estimated.  The  population 
of  Ronie  itself  he  is  content  to  reckon  at 
about  850,000  in  the  year  5  B.C.  Italy,  some- 
what later,  had,  he  computes,  some  4.500,000 
free  inhabitants;  whereas  Hermann  Schillor 
has  quite  lately  rated  it  at  14  to  17,000,000;  a 
difference  of  opinion  sufficient  «o  liiake  an 
impartial  reader  hesitate  or  even  despair/ 


it 


Novels,  Good,  Bad,  and  Indifferent.— 
The  Athena  in  commenting  upon  the  batch 
of  novels  issued  in  the  last  week  of  January 
says,  by  way  of  preHide: — 

"Week  by  week  does  the  flood  of  fiction 
come  in  upon  us  in  a  never- failing  stream. 
Yet.  as  retiards  the  main  body  of  English 
readei'S,  so  entirely  has  tbe  novel  supplanted 
all  other  forms  of  imaginaiive  literature  that 
the  demand  for  f  jiirly  readable  stories  of  evcT> 
variely  seems  to  be  as  vigorous  as  ever.  "We 
say  faiily  readable  slories;  for,  of  course,  all 
the  novels  sent  out  Yy  the  publisheis  within 
any  given  year  must  be  finally  divisible  into 
four  classes:  1,  Good  stories  of  striking  in- 
cident; 2,  Good  stones  of  ordinar>'  incident; 
3.  Bad  stories  of  striking  incident;  4,  Bad 
stories  of  ordinary  incident  The  denoting 
difference  let  ween  class  1  and  class  3  is  the 
same  as  the  denoting  difference  bct\\  cen  class 
2  and  class  4,  that  is  to  say  in  good  >\  ork  the 
I  incidents  are  adequately  rendered,  in  bad 
j  work  they  are  inadequately  rendered.  But 
inasmuch  as  the  teller  of  a  story  of  striking 
incident  must  often  be  compelled  by  the  exi- 
gencies of  structure  to  depict  what  he  has 
never  seen,  he  is  manifestly  more  severely 
handicapped  thap  his  bnUher  artist  the  realist, 
who  never  has  any  call  to  depart  from  his  owft 
experience,  be  it  narrow  or  wide." 


EARTHQUAKES. 


601 


EARTHQUAKES. 


The  earthquake  shocks  which  have 
recently  occurred  in  America  and 
Greece,  and  the  great  volcanic  eruption 
in  New  Zealand,  have  served  to  keep 
the  subject  vividly  before  us  during 
many  month  past,  and  have  perhaps 
created  in  some  alarmist  minds  an  un- 
bounded expectation  that  the  earth 
IS  about  to  enter  on  a  new  period  of 
plutonic  activity.  It  is  natural  then 
to  ask  at  the  present  time  what  is  an 
earth(^uake,  and  what  are  its  causes. 
Notwithstanding  the  necessary  incom- 
pleteness in  the  answers  which  can  be 
fiven  to  these  questions,  yet  a  good 
eal  more  is  known  than  appears  to  be 
the  common  property  of  newspaper 
writers.  The  object  of  the  present 
article  is  to  give  a  rough  sketch  of  the 
present  state  of  knowl^ge  in  this  com- 
plicated subject. 

Although  history  abounds  with  more 
or  le^  complete  account  of  earthquakes, 
it  is  remarkable  that  hardly  ten  years 
have  yet  elapsed  since  an  accurate  record 
was  first  obtained  of  what  actually  oc- 
curs during  an  earthquake.  The  com- 
bination of  circumstances  is  curious,  by 
which  a  knot  of  Scotch  students,  work- 
ing in  Japan,  has  secured  so  consider- 
able an  advance  in  seismology.  The 
incessant,  but  usually  non-destructive 
earthquakes  by  which  Japan  is  visited, 
the  strange  Japanese  renaissance,  and 
the  importation  of  foreign  professors, 
thoroughly  trained  at  the  Scotch  Fni- 
versities  in  an  accurate  perception  of 
mechanical  principles,  are  the  three 
factors  which  have  co-operated  to  bring 
about  this  result. 

The  Scoto-Japanese  professors,  of 
whom  the  most  eminent  are  Ewing, 
Grajr,  and  Milne,  have  studied  their 
subject  with  admirable  persistence,  and 
have  by  their  ingenuity  placed  seismol- 
ogists in  possession  of  instruments  by 
which  the  motion  of  the  ground  during 


an  earthquake  is  recorded  on  an  acccu- 
rate  scale  of  time.  Such  instruments 
are  called  seismographs,  or  recording 
seismometers.  During  an  earthquake 
the  ground  and  all  that  is  fixed,  to 
move  together,  and  at  first  sight  it 
seems  impossible  to  get  anything  to  stay 
still  during  the  vibration.  An  exact 
description  of  a  scientific  instrument 
would  be  out  of  place  here,  but  a  gen- 
eral notion  of  these  seismographs  may 
be  easily  grasped. 

The  horizontal  pendulum.of  ZoUner, 
and  a  suggestion  of  Chaplin  (also  a  pro- 
fessor in  Japan),  are  the  sources  from 
which  "the  horizontal  pendulum  seis- 
mograph''  of  Ewing  originated.  The 
principles  according  to  which  it  is  con- 
structed may  be  explained  as  follows: 
If  we  consider  an  open  door  which  can 
swing  on  its  hinges,  and  imagine  that 
a  sudden  horizontal  movement  is  given 
to  the  doorpost,  at  right  angles  to  the 
position  i|^  which  the  door  is  hanging, 
then  it  is  clear  that  the  outer  edge  of 
the  door  will  begin  to  move  with  a 
sort  of  recoil  in  the  direction  opposite 
to  that  of  the  movement  imparted  to 
the  doorpost.  Since  the  doorpost  moves 
in  one  direction,  whilst  the  edge  of 
the  door  recoils,  somewhere  in  the  door 
there  is  a  vertical  line  which  remains 
still.  The  exact  position  of  this  line 
depends  on  the  proportion  which  the 
amount  of  the  recoil  of  the  outer  edge 
bears  to  the  direct  motion  of  the  door- 
post. Now,  if  the  sudden  movement 
w  imparted  to  the  doorpost  by  means 
of  the  floor  to  which  it  is  attached,  it 
is  clear  that  a  pencil  attached  to  the 
door  at  this  vertical  line  will  write  on 
the  floor  the  displacement  of  the  door- 
post, notwithstanding  that  the  floor  has 
moved.  If  next  we  suppose  that  there 
are  two  such  doors  hanging  at  right 
angles  to  one  another  from  the  same 
doorpost,  and  that  a  sudden  horizontal 
movement  in  any  direction  is  given  to 
the  floor,  each  nencil  will  write  on  the 


m 


THS  LIBRAR7  MAGAZINE. 


floor  that  part  of  the  movement  which 
was  at  right  angles  to  its  door.  Last- 
ly, if  the  floor  or  surface  on  which  the 
record  is  written  is  kept  moving- uni- 
iormly  by  clockwork  we  obtain  also  a 
register  in  time  as  well  as  space. 

Dut  in  an  earthquake  the  surface  of 
the  earth  undergoes  also  a  vertical 
movement  which  has  to  be  recorded. 
The  principle  by  which  an  instrument 
may  be  constructed  to  attain  this  end 
is  as  follows: — If  a  weight  hangs  by  a 
long  elastic  cord,  so  that  when  set 
dancing  up  and  down  it  oscillates  very 
slowly,  then  when  a  sudden  jerk  is 
given  to  the  point  of  support,  the 
weight  will  for  a  moment  stand  almost 
stationary^  and  a  pencil  attached  to  it 
may  write  its  record  on  a  surface  fast- 
ened to  the  part  jerked.  This  idea  has 
been  utilizea  in  the  construction  of  a 
vertical  seismograph,  but  various  im- 

Sortant  modifications  have  been  intro- 
uced  for  the  purpose  of  annulling  the 
spontaneous  dance  of  the  weight  after 
tne  shock  has  occurred. 

I  make  no  attempt  to  opportion  the 
credit  amongst  the  several  inventors  of 
these  instruments.  The  men  mention- 
ed have  played  the  leadihg  parts,  and 
the  work  of  all  seems  to  be  thorough 
and  sound. 

It  will  undoubtedly  serve  to  give  an 
impulse  to  this  science  that  henceforth 
the  intending  observer  need  not  waste 
time  in  devising  and  constructing  in- 
struments, but  can  purchase  the  com- 
plete equipment  of  a  seismolo^ical  ob- 
servatoiy,  recommended  by  Ewmg,  and 
may  begin  with  these.  Many  other 
instruments  have  been  used  for  the  ob- 
servation of  earthquakes,  and  amongst 
the  best  are  those  of  Bertelli,  Rossi, 
and  Palmieri.  An  instrument  which 
tells  only  that  there  has  been  a  shock, 
without  making  a  record  of  the  nature 
of  the  movement,  is  called  a  seismo- 
BGope.  Some  of  the  Italian  instruments 
are     seism oscopes,     which,    however. 


give  an  approximate  idea  of  the  severity 
and  direction  of  vibration,  and  others 
claim  to  be  accurate  seismographs  or 
seismometers.  But  I  do  not  think 
that  any  of  them  can  compete  with  the 
instruments  described  in  outline  above. 
And  what  do  recording  instruments 
tell  us  of  the  actual  occurrences  during 
an  earthquake? 

"They  show,"  writes E wing,  in  the  Memain 
^of  the  Science  Department  of  the  Um't^mty  oj 
Tokio,   No.    9,   18Hd,  ''Ihat,   as  observed  at 
a  station  on  the  surface  of  the  eartli,  au  earth- 
quake consists  of  a  very  large  uuniber  of  suc- 
cessive vibrations — in  some  cases  as  many  as 
three  hundred  have  been  distinctly  registered. 
They  are  irregular  both  in  period  ana  ampli- 
tude, and  tlie  amplitude  does  not  exceed  a  few 
millimetTes  [a  millimetre  is  one  twenty  fifih 
uf  an  mch],  even  when  the  earthquake  is  A 
sufficient  severity  to  throw  do\^n  chimneys 
and  crack  walls,  while  in  many  instances  the 
greatest  motion  is  no  more  than  the  fraction 
of  a  millimetre.    The  periods  of  the  ]>rincii)al 
motions  are  usually  from  half  a  second  tiia 
second  but  ....  the  earl^'  part  of  the  dis- 
turbance often  contains  vibrations  of  much 
greater  frequency.    The  earthquake  generally 
be^ns  and  always  ends  very  gradually,  and 
it  IS  a  noteworthy  fact  that  tliere  is  in  general 
no  one  motion  standing  out  from  the  rest  as 
OTeatly  larger  than  those  which  precede  and 
Jfollow  it.    The  direction  of  motion   varies 
irregularly  during  the  disturbance — ^so  much 
so,  that  in  a  protracted  shock  the  horizontal 
movements  at  a  single  station  occur  in  aU  pos- 
sible azimuths  [that  is  to  say  to  all  points  of 
the  compass].    The  duration — that  is  to  say, 
the  time  during  which  the  shaking  lax^tsat 
any  one  point-'is  rarely  less  tlian  one  minute, 
often   two  or  three,  and  in  one  case  in   the 
writer's  experience  was  as  much  as  twelve 
minutes.*' 

The  horizontal  path  pursued,  in  an 
actual  earthquake  at  Tokio  on  March 
8th,  I88I9  by  the  part  of  the  recording 
instrument  which  was  fixed  to  the 
ground,  is  shown  in  the  annexed  figure. 
It  is  niagnified  six-fold^  and  the  time 
occupied  from  the  beginning  to  the  end 
of  this  part  of  the  vibration  was  thive 
seconds.  This  earthquake,  although 
alarming  did  no  damage  except  to 
crack  a  few  walls. 


EARTHQUAKES. 


608 


It  is  obyions  that  when  the  motion 
is  so  complicated,  the  impressions  of 
people  present  go  for  little  as  conlpar- 


ed  with  an  automatic  record.  Observ- 
ers often  differ  widely  amongst  them- 
selves as  to  what  was  the  direction  of 
the  prevailing  oscillation  and^  the 
magnitude  of  the  displacement  of  the 

f  round  is  generally  much  exaggerated, 
t  is  true  that  in  some  of  the  great  his- 
toric earthquakes  the  displacements  are 
supposed  to  have  been  considerable; 
for  example,  according  to  Mallet,  in 
the  Neapolitan  shock  of  1857  it  amount- 
ed to  a  foot,  and  Abella  assigns  six  feet 
as  the  amplitude  in  tlie  Manila  earth- 
quake of  1881.  But  without  contesting 
the  accuracy  of  these  estimates,  it  is 
safe  to  say  that  such  displacements  are 
very  rare,  for,  as  provea  by  automatic 
seismographs,  when  the  motion  is  «s 
much  as  a  quarter  of  an  inch  brick  and 
stone  chimneys  are  generally  shattered. 
Every  railway  traveler  knows  that 
it  is  not  the  steady  speed,  but  the  start- 
ing and  stopping  which  jars  him;  that 
is  to  say,  it  is  change  of  velocity  by 
which  he  is  shaken.  The  misconcep- 
tion of  an  observer  in  an  earthquase 
arises  from  the  fact  that  f^he  sensation 
of  being  tossed  about  comes  from  the 
change  of  velocity  to  which  he  is  sub- 
jected, rather  than  from  the  extent  of 
nis  displacement.  Now  the  greatest 
change  per  second  of  velocity  may  be 


considerable  in  a  vibration,  whilst  the 
amplitude  is  small. 

The  forc^  of  gravity  is  the  most 
familiar  example  of  a  change  per  se- 
cond of  velocity,  for  in  each  second  the 
velocity  of  a  falling  body  is  augmented 
by  a  velocity  of  32  feet  a  second.  Ew- 
ing  appears  to  have  been  the  first  to 
think  comparing  the  greatest  change 
per  second  of  velocity  in  an  earthquake 
with  gravity.  Thus  at  Tokio,  on 
March  1:^,  1882,  walls  were  cracked  and 
chimneys  knocked  over,  and  in  this 
shock  the  greatest  change  per  second 
of  velocity  may  be  expressed  by  the 
phrase  one  thirty-fifth  of  gravity;  in 
other  words,  the  greatest  change  per 
second  of  velocity  was  tf  of  a  foot  p^ 
second.  This  conclusion  enables  us  also 
to  illustrate  the  mechanical  conse- 
quences of  the  shock  in  another  way; 
for  if  a  wall  35  feet  high  leans  over,  so 
that  the  top  brick  projects  a  foot  be- 
yond the  bottom  bricK,  the  forces  tend- 
ing to  upset  the  wall  are  the  same  as 
those  which  occurred  in  this  earth- 
quake. 

No  great  shock  has  ever  yet  been  re- 
corded by  automatic  instrument!^  ai\d 
it  is  not  unlikely  that  in  these  ^eat 
disasters  the  instruments  would  be 
thrown  out  of  gear,  and  no  record 
would  be  obtained.  Thus  earthquakes 
which  only  work  a  moderate  amount 
of  destruction  are  the  moat  favorable 
for  scientific  observation. 

Since  the  oscillations  at  any  one  spot 
are  usuaUy  in  all  sorts  of  directions,  it 
is  impossible,  from  observation  at  a 
single  place,  to  form  a  sound  opinion  as 
to  position  of  the  origin  of  the  disturb- 
ance. Much  information  useful  for 
the  study  of  vibrations  and  of  the  laws 
of  their  decrease  with  increasing  dis- 
tance, has  resulted  from  a  laborious 
series  of  experiments  made  by  Milne  at 
Tokio.  Artificial  earthquakes  were 
produced  by  the  explosion  «#  ffun-cot- 
ton  in  holes  in  the  ground,  and  by  the 


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THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


fall  of  heavy  weights,  and  the  records 
at  various  distances  from  the  origin 
were  obtained. 

From  theoretical  considerations,  con- 
firmed  by  these  experiments,  it  is  estab- 
lished that  earthquake  waves  consist 
of  oscillations  of  two  kinds^  namely, 
waves  or  vibrations  olf  compression,  and 
of  distortion.  In  the  first  kind  the 
motion  of  each  particle  of  the  ground 
is  to  and  fro  in  the  direction  in  which 
the  wave  is  traveling;  and  in  the  se- 
cond kind  the  excursions  are  at  right 
angles  to  the  direction  of  wave  propaga- 
tion. As  the  former  vibrations  travel 
more  rapidly  than  the  latter,  all  the 
coDipressional  waves  may  have  passed  a 

fiven  station  before  the  arrival  of  the 
istortional  waves,  and  thus  the  shock 
may  be  apparently  duplicated.  Or, 
nearer  to  the  origin,  the  two  series  will 
overlap,  and  a  complex  movement 
ensues,  such  a£  that  exhibited  in  the 
preceding  figure.  The  phenomena  are 
further  complicated  by  frequent  reflec- 
tions and  refractions,  as  the  wave 
piisses  from  one  geological  stratum  to 
anotlier.  The  rate  at  which  these 
wavef  travel  depends  on  the  nature  of 
the  rock  through  which  the  movement 
passes:  velocities  ranging  from  a  mile 
per  second  to  five  miles  per  second  are 
usual. 

Tlie  destructive-  effects  of  earth- 
quakes on  buildings  are  notorious,  and 
it  is  unnecessary  to  describe  them 
here.  By  an  examination  of  ruined 
buildings  a  competent  observer  is  often 
able  to  obtain  a  good  deal  of  informa- 
tion as  to  the  natures  of  the  shock. 
Thus  Mallet  visited  the  towns  destroy- 
ed by  the  Neapolitan  earthquake  of 
1857,  and,  by  a  very  careful  considera- 
tion of  the  fractures  in  walls  and  other 
damage,  was  able  to  draw  a  number  of 
interesting  conclusions  as  to  the  direc- 
tions and  amplitudes  of  the  principal 
vibrations  and  as  to  the  site  of  the  cen- 
ter of  disturbance. 


Architects  should  be  able,  by  an  ad- 
herence to  sound  mechanical  principles, 
to  construct  buildings  which  should 
stand  against  all  but  the  severest 
shocks,  and  much  lias  already  been 
done  in  this  way.  Where  a  choice  for 
the  site  of  an  intended  .building  is  pos- 
sible, the  most  impoi-tant  consideration 
is  that  it  should  be  where  there  has 
been  the  greatest  immunity  from  vibra- 
tion on  previous  occasions,  for  even 
within  a  very  small  area,  different  spots 
are  very  differently  affected.  In  most 
regions  there  is  only  a  single  impor- 
tant center  whence  earthquakes  origi- 
nate, and  the  safe-places  are  situated 
in  what  may  be  called  earthquake- 
shadow  for  the  prevalent  vibrations. 
For  just  as  a  high  wall,  a  hill,  or  a  rail- 
way cutting  often  completely  cuts  off 
sounds  by  forming. a  sound-shadow,  so 
a  ravine  or  some  arrangement  of  the 
geological  formation  may  afford  earth- 
quake-shadow for  particular  places. 

It  is  not  in  general  possible  to  pick 
out  the  favorable  sites  by  mere  inspec- 
tion,,for  the  distribution  of  vibration 
is  often  apparently  capricious.  Thus 
Milne  tells  us  of  a  princely  mansion 
at  Tokio  ^' which  has  so  great  a  reputa- 
tion for  the  severity  of  the  shakings  it 
receives,  that  its  marketable  value  has 
been  considerably  depreciated,  and  it 
is  now  untenanted."  Ina4;own  which 
is  frequently  shaken  there  is  no  need 
to  wait  long  to  carry  out  a  rough  sur- 
vey with  seismographs,  and  tnns  to 
oJ:)tain  an  idea  of  the  relative  shakiness 
of  the  various  part*.  If  such  a  survey 
is  impossible,  it  is  best  to  avoid  as  the 
site  for  building  a  loose  soil,  such  as 
gravel,  resting  on  harder  strata,  and 
the  edge  of  a  scarp  or  bluff,  or  the  foot 
of  similar  eminences. 

The  same  capriciousness  of  distribu- 
tion which  is  observable  on  a  small 
scale  is  found  to  hold  on  a  large  scale 
when  we  consider  tho  distribution  of 
earthqudces  throughout  a  whole  coon- 


EARTHQUAKES. 


605 


try.  Regions  subject  to  earthquakes, 
or  seismic  areas,  appear  to  have  fairly 
definite  boundaries,  which  remain 
constant  for  long  periods.  For  ex- 
ample, in  Japan  earthquakes  are  rarely 
felt  on  the  western  side  of  the  central 
ranse  of  mountains. 

The  search  for  the  actual  point 
whence  the  earthquake  originated  is 
one  of  the  most  interesting  branches  of 
the  science.  In  order  to  trace  the 
earthquakes  in  a  country  to  their 
origin,  the  places  of  observation  should 
not  be  chosen  where  there  is  compara- 
tive immunity  from  shaking.  Thus  a 
seismic  survey  is  necessary,  and  the 
limits  of  the  seismic  areas  will  be  dis- 
covered in  the  course  of  it.  Milne 
commenced  his  survey  of  Japan,  by 
sending  to  the  local  government  offices 
in  the  important  towns,  distant  from 
30  to  100  miles  from  Tokio,  packets 
of  post-cards,  one  of  which  was  to  be 
returned  to  him  at  the  end  of  each 
week  with  a  record  of  the  shocks  which 
had  been  felt.  "The  barricade  of 
post-cards  was  then  extended  farther 
northward,  with  the  result  of  sur- 
rounding the  origin  of  certain  shocks 
amongst  the  mountains,  whilst  others 
were  traced  to  the  sea-shore.  By  system- 
atical ly  pursuinfi^  earthquakes,  it  was 
seen  that  many  slocks  had  their  origin 
beneath  the  sea,  ....  but  it  was  sel- 
dom that  they  crossed  through  the 
mountains  forming  the  backbone  of  the 
island.''  When  the  country  had  been 
thus  mapped  out,  it  was  possible  to 
choose  the  most  advantageous  sites  for 
the  observatories. 

It  would  carry  us  too  far  into  tech- 
nical matters  to  describe  the  method  of 
searching  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth 
for  the  actual  point  of  disturbance. 
It  must  here  suffice  to  say  that  if  a 
shock  be  accurately  timed  at  various 
places,  and  if  the  approximately  cir- 
cular ring  where  it  was  most  severe  be 
determined,  it  is  possible  to  find  with 


fair  accuracy  the  roots  or  spots  under 
which  it  originated  and  the  depth  of^ 
the  earthquake  center.  Even  without 
accurate  time-observations.  Mallet  was 
able  to  show  that  the  Neapolitan  shock 
originated  between  three  and  seven 
miles  below  the  surface.  The  Yoko- 
hama earthquake  of  1880  appears  to 
have  had  its  center  at  a  depth  of  from 
one  and  a  half  to  five  miles.  Notwith- 
standing that  one  earthquake  has  been 
estimated  as  originating  at  a  depth  of 
fifty  miles,  it  is  probable  that  in  all  cases 
the  center  of  shock  is  only  a  few  miles 
below  the  surface. 

The  vagueness  as  to  the  position  which 
has  been  assigned  for  the  center  of  dis- 
turbance in  the  case  of  particular  earth- 
Quakes  probably  depends  less  on  the 
difficulty  of  tracing  back  the  vibrations 
to  their  origin,  than  on  the  fact  that 
the  shocks  do  not  usually  originate  in 
a  single  point,  but  rather  along  a  line 
of  a  mile  or  two  in  length. 

As  to  the  way  in  which  seismic 
activity  is  distributed  geographically 
over  the  earth's  surface,  certain  broad 
conclusions  have  been  fairly  well  ascer- 
tained. If  ^a  map  be  shaded,  so  as  to 
represent  the  frequency  of  earthquakes, 
we  see  that  the  shading  has  a  tendency 
to  fall  into  bands  or  ribbons,  which 
generally  follow  the  steeply  sloping 
shores  of  continents  and  islands;  and 
it  is  probable  that  the  ectnal  origins  of 
the  shocks  are  generally  situated  under 
the  sea  not  far  from  the  coast. 

It  is  a  further  interesting  peculiarity 
that  the  most  important  bands  fall  end 
to  end,  so  that  they  may  be  regarded 
as  a  single  ribbon  embracing  nearly 
half  the  earth.  It  may  be  suspected 
that  this  ribbon  really  meets  itself  and 
forms  a  closed  curve,  but  this  cannot 
be  proved  as  yet.  We  may  begin  to 
trace  its  course  at  Cape  Horn,  whence 
it  follows  the  Andes  along  the  whole 
western  coast  of  South  America.  At 
the  north  of  that  continent  it  becomes 


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THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


somewhat  broader,  but  its  course  is 
clearly  marked  along  the  liae  of  the 
West  Indies  from  Trinidad  to  Cuba; 
Hence  it  passes  to  the  mainland  in 
Mexico,  and  then  runs  along  the  whole 
western  coiist  of  North  America.  We 
*  then  trace  the  line  through  the  Aleu- 
tian Islands  to  Kamschatka,  and 
thence  southward  through  the  Japanese 
Islands,  the  Philippines,  and  the 
Moluccas  to  Sumatra  and  Java.  An- 
other branch  seems  to  run  from  Suma- 
tra, through  New  Guinea,  to  New  Zea- 
land, and  the  closed  curve  may  perliaj^s 
be;  completed  through  the  antarctic 
regions,  which  are  known  to  be  vol- 
canic. Returning  to  the  first  branch 
which  we  traced  as  far  as  Java,  to  the 
westward  the  seismic  areas  become  more 
patchy  and  less  linear.  It  may,  how- 
ever, perhaps  be  maintained  that  the 
ribbon  runs  on  through  India,  Persia, 
Syria,  the  Eastern  Mediterranean, 
Greece,  and  Italy. 

This  grouping  of  seismic  areafi  into  a 
ribbon  does  not  comprise  all  the  re- 
gions of  earthquakes,  but  it  must  rather 
be  taken  as  meaning  that  there  is  one 
great  principal  line  of  cracking  of  the 
earth's  surface.  In  speaking  here  of 
earthquakes,  those  sensible  shocks  are 
meant  which  are  sufficiently  severe  to 
damage  buildings,  for,  as  will  be  ex- 
plained below,  there  is  reason  to  believe 
that  the  whole  earth  is  in  a  oootinual 
state  of  tremor. 

Seismic  areas  are  not  absolutely  con- 
stant in  their  limits,  and  cases  are 
known  where  regions  previously  quies- 
cent have  become  disturbed.  It  seems 
likely  that  the  recent  disastrous  earth- 
qaake  at  Charleston,  S.  C,  belongs  to 
West  Indian  system  of  seismic  activity, 
but  there  is  no  reason  to  suspect  a  per- 
manent extension  of  the  West  Indian 
area  so  as  to  embrace  the  Southern 
States.  Ou  the  contrary,  it  is  far  more 
probable  that  this  disastrous  shock  will 
remain  a  unique  occurrence.    Tbe  pre- 


vious experience  of  great  eai-thqnakes, 
such  as  that  of  Lisbon  in  the  middle 
of  the  last  entury,  shows,  however,  that 
the  inhabitants  of  Charleston  must  for 
the  next  year  or  two  expect  the  recur- 
rence of  slight  shocks,  and  that  the 
subterranean  forces  will  then  lull  them- 
rselves  to  sleep  again. 

With  regard  to  the  distribution  of 
earthquakes  in  time  there  is  no  evi- 
dence of  either  decrease  or  increase 
within  historical  periods,  and  although 
physical  considerations  would  lead  us 
to  suppose  that  they  were  more  fre- 
quent in  early  geological  times,  geology 
at  least  can  furnish  no  proof  that  this 
has  been  the  case. 

A  great  deal  has  been  written  on  the 
causes  of  earthquakes,  and  many  of  the 
suggested  theories  seem  fanciful  in  the 
highest  degree.  It  is  clear,  however, 
that  the  primary  cause  resides  in%  the 
upper  layers  of  the  earth,  and  that  the 
motive  power  is  either  directly  or  indi- 
rectly the  internal  heat  of  the  earth. 
The  high  temperature  of  the  rocks,  in 
those  little  scratches  in  the  earth's  sur- 
face which  we  call  mines,  proves  the 
existence  of  abundant  energy  for  the 
productiion  of  any  amount  of  distur- 
bance of  the  upper  layers.  It  only 
remains  to  consioer  how  that  energy 
can  be  brought  to  bear.  One  way  is 
by  the  slow  shrinking  of  the  earth, 
consequent  on  .  its  slow  cooling.  Now 
thto  heterogeneity  of  the  upper  layers 
makes  it  impossiole  that  the  shrinkage 
shalLoccur  with  perfect  ^iniformity  all 
round..  Thus  one  part  of  the  surface 
will  go  down  before  another,  and  as 
this  must  usually  occur  by  a  cracking 
luid  sudden  motion^  the  result  will  be 
an  earthquake. 

The  seismic  ribbons  of  which  we 
have  spoken  are  probably  lines  of  weak- 
ness along  whicn  cracking  habitually 
takes  place.  Along  these  lines  there 
are  enormous  dislocations  of  the  geolo- 
gical strata,  and  earthquakes  are  known 


EARTHQUAKES. 


007 


to  follow  lines  of  faulting.  The  geolo- 
gically recent  elevation  of  the  Pacific 
coast  of  South  America  is,  obviously, 
from  this  point  of  view,  connected 
with  the  abundance  of  volcanoes  and 
the  frequency  of  earthquakes  along  the 
chain  of  the  Andes.  ^ 

One  would  think  that  .the  continual 
ejection  of  lava  and  ashes  from  an  ac- 
tive volcano  must  leave  a  hollow  under 
the  mountain,  and  that  some  day  the 
cavern  would  suddenly  collapse.  It 
has,  however,  been  observed  that  vol- 
canic eruptions  and  severe  earthquakes 
are  to  some  extent  alternatives,  so  that 
it  seems  as  though  the  volcanic  vent 
served  as  «.  safety  valve  for  the  libera- 
tion of  the  dangerous  matter.  But  the 
theory  of  the  collapsing  cavern  must 
not  be  wliolly  rejected,  for  some  disas- 
trous earthquakes  affecting  only  very 
restricted  areas,  such  as  that  oi  Casa- 
micciola  in  lachia,  are  hardly  otherwise 
explicable.  In  this  case  Palmieri  has 
attributed  the  formation  of  the  cavern 
to  evisceration  under  the  town  produc- 
ed by  hot  mineral  springs. 

In  the  theories  of  which  we  have  just 
spoken,  the  internal  heat  of  the  earth 
acts  iudirectly,  by  giving  to  gravitation 
an  opportunity  of  coming  mto  play. 
But  as  in  volcanic  eruptions  enormous 
quantities  of  steam  are  usually  emitted, 
it  is  probable  that  the  pressure  of 
steam  is  the  force  by  which  the  lava  and 
ashes  are  vomited  forth,  and  that  the 
steam  is  generated  when  water  has  got 
among  hot  internal  rocks.  From  this 
point  of  view  we  can  understand  that 
an  eruption  will  serve  as  a  protection 
against  earthquakes,  and  that  the  cen- 
ters of  disturbance  will  usually  be  sub- 
marine. 

It  may  on  the  whole  be  safely  con- 
cluded that  a  diversity  of  causes  are 
operative,  and  that  some  earthquakes 
are  due  to  one  and  others  to  others 
causes.  It  would,  however,  be  certainly 
wrong  to  look  only  to  the  interior  oi 


the  earth  for  the  causation  of  earth- 
quakes, since  the  statistics  of  earth- 
quakes clearly  it  point  to  connections 
with  processes  external  to  the  solid 
earth.  ' 

The  laborious  inquiries  of  jf .  Perrey 
show  that  there  are  more  earthquakes 
at  the  time  of  full  and  change  of  moon 
than  at  other  times,  more  when  the 
moon  is  nearest  to  the  earth  and  more 
when  she  is  on  the  meridian  than  at 
the  times  and  seasons  when  she  is  not 
in  those  positions  relatively  to  the 
earth.  The  excess  of  earthquakes  at 
these  times  is,  however,  not  great,  and 
an  independent  investigation  of  •  the 
Japanese  earthquakes  does  not  confirm 
Perrey's  results.  It  is  well,  therefore, 
still  to  hold  opinion  in  suspense  on  this 
point-  If,  however,  Perrey's  result 
should  be  confirmed,  we  must  attribute 
it  to  the  action  of  those  forces  which 
produce  tides  in  the  ocean,  and  there- 
lore  at  the  same  time  cause  a  state  of 
stress  in  the  solid  earth. 

Then  again  it  is  found  that  earth- 
quakes are  indubitably  more*  apt  to  oc- 
cur when  there  is  a  rapid  variation  of 
the  pressure  of  the  air,  indicated  by  a 
rise  or  fall  of  the  barometer,  than  in 
times  of  barometric  quiescence.  It  is 
certain  that  earthquakes  in  both  hemi- 
spheres are  more  frequent  in  the  winter 
than  in  the  summer;  this  is  probably 
connected  with  greater  frequency  of 
sudden  rises  and  falls  of  the  barometer 
at  that  season.  It  may,  however,  be 
urged  aganst  this  view  that  volcanic 
eruptions  are  somewhat  more  frequent 
in  the  summer.  But  whatever  be  the 
action  of  these  external  processes  with 
regard  to  earthquakes,  it  is  certain  thflfc 
the  connection  between  the  two  is 
merely  that  of  the  trigger  to  the  gun. 
The  internal  energy  stands  waiting  for 
its  opportunity,  and  the  attraction  of 
the  moon  or  the  variation  in  atmo- 
^heric  pressure  pulls  the  trigg^er. 
ThuB  the  p]redicti(»is  of  disaster  wmoh 


606 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


have  frequently  been  made  for  particu- 
lar dates  must  be  regarded  as  futile. 

It  has  long  been  known  that  an 
earthquake  is  preluded  by  slight  tre- 
mors leading  by  a  gradual  crescendo  to 
the  destructive  shocks.  But  within 
the  last  fifteen  years  it«  has  been  dis- 
covered that  the  earth's  surface  is  being 
continually  shaken  by  tremors,  so  min- 
ute as  to  remain  unsuspected  without 
the  intervention  of  the  most  delicate 
iastruments.  In  every  country  where 
the  experiments  has  been  tried  these 
tremors  have  been  detected,  and  not 
merely  at  certain  periods  but  so  inces- 
santly that  there  is  never  a  second  of 
pej^fect  rest.  The  earth  may  fairly  be 
said  to  tremble  like  a  jelly.  The  pio- 
neer in  this  curious  discovery  was 
Father  BertelK.  His  experiments  re- 
late only  to  Italy,  but  that  which  has 
been  found  true  also  of  England, 
France,  Egypt,  Japan,  Brazil,  and  a 
solitary  island  in  the  South  Pacific 
Ocean,  probably  holds  good  generally, 
and  we  may  feel  sure  that  earth-tremors 
or  **microseisms"  are  not  confined  to 
countries  habitually  visited  by  the 
grosser  sort  of  earthquakes. 

Almost  all  our  systematic  knowledge 
of  microseisms  comes  from  Italy,  for 
a  co-operation  has  been  arranged  there 
between  many  observers  with  ingenious 
instruments  at  their  disposal.  Besides 
Bertelli,  the  most  eminent  of  the  obser- 
vera  is  OavaMere  Michele  de  Rossi,  who 
has  established  at  Rome  a  "Geodynami- 
cal  Observatory,''  and  has  initiated  as 
an  organ  of  publication  the  Btilletmo 
del  Vulcanismo  Italiano,  in  whose 
pages  are  to  be  found  contributions 
irom  Malvasia,  Monte,  Cecchi,  Pal- 
mier!, Egidi,  Galli,  and  *many  others. 
The  literature  which  has  already  ac- 
cumulated on  the  subject  is  extensive, 
and  it  will  only  be  possible  generally 
to  indicate  its  scope. 

The  Italians  have,  of  course,  occu- 
pied themselves    largely    with    earth- 


quakes, but  in  that  field  their  results 
do  not  present  a  great  deal  that  is 
novel.  The  instruments  in  use  for  the 
observation  of  microseisms  are  scarcely 
to  be  classed  as  perfect  seismographs 
or  seismometers,  and  the  minuteness  of 
the  movements  to  be  observed  no  doubt 
entails  especial  diflSciilties.  The  **nor- 
mal  tromometer"  of  Bertelli  and  Rossi 
is  a  simple  pendulum,  about  six  feet 
long,  with  an  arrangement  for  observ- 
ing the  dance  of  the  pendulum-bob 
with  a  mciroscope.  With  this  and  other 
instruments  it  has  been  established 
that  the  soil  of  Italy  trembles  inces- 
santly. The  agitation  of  the  pendu- 
lum is  usually  relativelv  considerable 
for  about  ten  days  at  a  time;  toward 
the  middle  of  the  period  it  increases 
in  intensity,  when  there  genemlly  en- 
sues an  earthquake  which  can  be  per- 
ceived without  instruments;  the  agitar 
tion  then  subsides.  This  has  been 
called  by  Rossi  a  seismic  period  or  seis- 
mic storm.  After  sucn  storm  there 
ensues  a  period  of  »  few  days  of  rela- 
tive quiescence. 

The  vibration  of  the  pendulum  in 
these  storms  is  in  general  parallel  to 
neighboring  valleys  or  chains  of  moun- 
tains, and  its  intensity  seems  to  be  inde- 
pendent of  wind,  rain,  and  temperature. 
Care  is  of  course  taken  not  to  mistake 
the  tremors  due  to  carts  and  carriages 
for  microseismic  agitation,  and  it  has 
been  found  easy  to  efl'ect  this  separ^ 
tion.  The  positions  of  the  sun  and 
moon  exercise  some  influence  on  these 
tremors,  but  the  most  important  con- 
comitance which  has  been  established 
is  that  they  are  especially  apt  to  be  in- 
tense when  the  barometer  is  low. 

Microseismic  storms  are  not  strictly 
simultaneous  at  different  places  in 
Italy,  but  if  a  curve  be  constructed  to 
represent  the  average  intensity  of  agi- 
tation during  each  month,  it  is  found 
on  comparison  of  the  curves  for  a  year 
— ^for,  say,  Rome^  Florence,  and   Leg- 


EARTHQUAKES. 


eoo 


horn — that  there  is  a  very  close  agree- 
ment between  them. 

Rossi  has  also  made  some  interesting 
experiments  with  the  microplione  on 
microseisms.  In  this  instrument  one 
electrical  conductor  is  arranged  to  rest 
on  another  at  a  single  point — say,  a 
nail  resting. on  its  poiut  on  a  shilling. 
One  copper  wire  is  attached  to  the  nail 
and  another  £o  the  shilling,  and  an 
electric  current,  with  an  ordinary  tele- 
phone receiver  in  the  circuit,  is  then 
passeJ  through  the  system.  As  long 
as  the  microphone  is  still,  nothing  is 
heard;  biio  on  the  occurrence  of  the 
very  sligatest  tremor,  a  noise  is  audbile 
in  the  telephone.  The  instrument  can 
be  made  so  sensitive  that  a  fly  may  he 
heard  to  walk  near  the  microphone 
with  a  loud  tramp,  and  a  touch  with  a 
hair  to  the  nail  or  to  the  shilling  would 
sound  like  the  grating  of  a  harsh  saw. 
Rossi  placed  his  microphone  on  the 
ground  in  a  cavern  sixty  feet  below  the 
surface,  on  a  lonely  part  of  Rocca  di 
Papa,  an  extinct  volcano  not  far  from 
Rome,  whilst  he  listened  with  hia  tele- 
phone at  the  surface  of  the  earth.  He 
then  heard  the  most  extraordinary 
noises,  which,  as  he  says,  revealed 
''natural  telluric  phenomena.'^  The 
sounds  he  describes  as  ''roarings,  ex- 
i)losions  occurring  isolated  or  in  vol- 
leys, and  metallic  or  bell-like  sounds." 
Tliey  all  occurred  mixed  together,  and 
rose  and  fell  in  intensity  at  irregular 
intervals.  He  found  it  impossible  by 
anv  artificial  disturbance  to  a  micro- 
Hihono  to  produce  the  greater  number 
of  these  noises.  The  microphone  is 
especially  sensitive  to  vertical  move- 
ments  of  the  soil,  whereas  the  tro- 
mometer fails  to  reveal  them.  Neverthe- 
less there  was  more  or  less  concordance 
between  the  agitations  of  the  two  in- 
struments. In  order  then  to  determine 
the  noises  corresponding  to  various 
kinds  of  oscillation,  he  transported  his 
microphone  to  Palmieri^s  Vesuvian  ob- 


servatory, where  mild  earthquakes  are 
almost  incessant ;  here  he  discovered 
that  each  class  of  shock  had  its  charac* 
teristic  noise.  The  vertical  shocks  gave 
the  volleys  of  musketry  and  the  undu« 
latory  shocks  the  roarings.  By  a  sur^ 
vey  with  his  microphone  he  concluded 
that  the  mountain  is  divided  by  lineo 
of  approximate  stillness  into  regions 
where  the  agitation  is  great.  If  a  met- 
al plate  dusted  over  with  saad  is  set 
into  vibration  by  a  violin  bow  rubbing 
on  its  edge,  all  the  sand  congregates 
into  lines  which  mark  out  a  pattern  on 
the  plate;  these  lines  are  nodes,  or  lineef 
of  stillness.  It  appear?  then  that, 
when  Vesuvius  trembles  with  earth" 
(^uake  shocks,  its  method  of  vibration 
is  such  that  there  are  nod&  of  stillness. 
At  the  Solfatara  of  Pozzuoli  the  sounds 
were  extraordinarily  loud;  and  the 
prevailing  noise  could  be  imitated  by 
placing  the  m.'crophone  on  the  lid  of  a 
boiling  kettle.  Similar  experiments 
have  since  been  made  by  .Milne  in 
Japan  with  similar  results. 

Some  years  ago  my  brother  Horace 
and  I  made  some  experiments  at  Cam- 
bridge with  a. pendulum,  so  arranged 
as  to  betray  the  minutest  displacements. 
It  was  then  but  few  years  sinc^  Bertelli 
and  Bossi  had  begun  to  ob8«^rve,  we 
had  read  no  account  of  their  vvork,  and 
earth-tremors  were  quite  unsuspected 
by  us.  Indeed,  the  object  of  our  ex- 
periment—  the  measurement  of  th« 
moon's  attraction  on  a  plummet — wa*i 
altogether  frustrated  by  these  disturb- 
ances. The  pendulum  wcs  suocesR^ 
fully  shielded  from  the  shaking  caused 
by  traffic  in  the  town,  so  that  there  waa 
no  perceptible  difference  in  its  beliav- 
ior  in  the  middle  of  the  night  on  Si  n* 
day,  and  in  the  day-time  during  tb» 
week.  We  were  then  much  surprised 
to  find  that  the  dance  of  the  pendnlnm 
(for  it  was  not  a  regular  oscillation  > 
was  absolutely  incessant.  The  np\* :  - 
tion  was  more  marked  at  some  il..,c6 


610 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZIXE. 


than  at  others ;  the  relatively  large 
awinging,  though  absolutely  very  small, 
would  continue  for  many  days  to- 
gether, and  this  would  be  succeeded  by 
a  few  days  of  comparative  calm.  In 
fact  we  saw  the  seismic  storms  and 
calms  of  the  Italians.  As  the  instru- 
ment was  designed  for  another  purpose, 
and  was  not  quite  appropriate  for  mi- 
croseismic  observation,  we  did  not  con- 
tinue to  note  it  after  a  month  or  two. 
But  the  substantial  identity  of  the  mi- 
croseisms  of  England  and  Italy  seems 
fairly  well  established. 

The  causes  of  these  interesting  vibra- 
tions are  as  yet  but  little  understood, 
and  it  may  be  hoped  that  the  subject 
will  receive  further  attention.  It 
seems  probable  that  they  are  in  part 
true  microscopic  earthquakes,  produced 
by  the  seismic  forces  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. B\it  they  are  also  doubtless  due 
to  the  reverberation  of  very  distant 
shocks.  It  is  probable  that  there  is  not 
a  minute  of  time  without  its  earth- 
quake somewhere,  and  the*  vibrations 
may  often  be  transmitted  to  veiy  great 
distances.  In  only  a  very  few  cases 
has  it  hitherto  been  possible  to  identify 
a  tremor  with  a  distant  shock,  and 
even  then  the  identification  is  necessa- 
rily rather  doubtful.  One  of  the  best 
authenticated  of  these  cases  was  when 
M.  Nyren,  an  astronomer  at  St.  Peters- 
burg, noticed  on  May  10  (April  28), 
1877,  a  very  abnormal  agitation  of  the 
levels  of  his  telescope,  an  hour  and  four- 
teen minutes  after  there  had  been  a 
^ery  severe  shock  at  Iquique,  in  Peru. 

Astronomers  are  much  troubled  by 
slight  changes  in  the  level  of  the  piers 
of  their  instruments,  and  they  meet 
this  inconvenience  by  continually  read- 
ing their  levels  and  correcting  their 
results  accordingly.  Of  course  they 
also  take  average  results.  These  trou- 
blesome changes  are  probably  earth 
tremors,  with  so  slow  a  motion  to  and 
fro  that  the  term  tremor  becomes  inap- 


propriate. This  kind  of  chi:nge  has 
been  called  a  displacement  of  the  verti- 
cal, since  a  plummet  moves  relatively 
to  the  ground.  Thus  we  found  at  Cam- 
bridge that  as  the  pendulum  danced  it 
slowly  drifted  in  one  direction  or  the 
other.  There  was  a  fairly  regular 
daily  oscillation,  but  the  pendulum 
would  sometimes  reverse  its  expecteil 
course,  for  a  few  minutes,  or  for  an 
hour.  During  the  whole  time  that  we 
were  observing,  the  mean  position  of 
the  pendulum  for  the  day  slowly  shifted 
in  one  direction;  but  even  after  a  voy- 
age of  six  weeks  the  total  change  was 
still  excessively  small.  How  far  this 
was  a  purely  local  effect  and  how  far 
general  we  had  no  means  of  determin- 
ing. 

This  is  a  subject  which  M.  d' Abba- 
die,  of  the  French  Institute,  has  made 
especially  his  own.  Notwithstanding 
his  systematic  observations,  carried  on 
during  many  years  in  an  observatory 
near  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  on  the  French 
side  of  the  Spanish  frontier,  hardly 
anything  has  been  made  out  as  to  the 
laws  governing  displacements  of  the 
vertical.  He  has,  however,  been  able 
to  show  that  there  is  a  tendency  for 
deflection  of  the  vertical  toward  the  sea 
at  high  tide,  but  this  deflection  is  fre- 
quently masked  by  other  simultaneous 
changes  of  unexplained  origin. 

This  result,  and  the  connection  be- 
tween barometric  variations  Jind  earth- 
quakes and  tremors,  should  make  us 
reflect  on  the  forces-which  are  bronghtt 
into  play  by  the  rise  and  fnll  of  the 
tide  and  of  atmospheric  pressure.  Our 
very  familiarity  with  these  changes  may 
easily  blind  us  to  the  greatness  of  the 
forces  which  are  so  produced.  The  sea 
rests  on  the  ground,  and  when  the  tide  is 
high  there  is  a  greater  weight  to  be  sup- 
ported than  when  it  is  low.  A  cu  bic  foot 
of  water  weighs  62  lbs.;  thus  if  high- 
tide  be  only  ten  feet  higher  than  low- 
tide,  every  square  foot  of  the  sea  hot- 


THE  CANADIAN  PACIFIC  RAILWAY. 


611 


torn  supports  620  lbs.  more  at  high  than 
at  low- water;  and  G'ZO  lbs.  to  the  square 
foot  is  nearly  eight  million  tons  to  the 
square  mile.  Again,  the  barometer 
ranges  through  fully  two  inches,  and  a 
pool  of  mercury  two  inches  deep  and  a 
square  foot  in  area  weighs  145  lbs.  J 
hence  when  the  barometer  is  very  high 
every  square  foot  of  the  earth  surface 
supports  about  140  lbs.  more  than  if  it 
is  low;  and  140  lbs.  to  the  square  foot 
is  1,800,000  tons  to  the  square  mile. 

Now  rocks  are  not  absolutely  rigid 
against  flexure,  certainly  less  so  than 
most  of  the  metals,  and  these  enormous 
weights  have  to  be  supported  by  the 
rocks.  Taking  a  probable  estimate  for 
the  elasticity  of  rocks,  I  have  made 
some  calculations  as  to  the  amount  of 
effect  that  we  may  expect  from  this 
shifting  of  weights,  and  I  find  that  it 
is  likelv  that  we  are  at  least  three  or 
four  inches  nearer  the  earth's  center 
when  the  barometer  is  very  high  than 
yhen  it  is  very  low,.  It  may  be  that 
the  incessant  straining  and  unstrain- 
ing  of  the  earth's  surface  is  partly  the 
Cause  of  earth-tremors,  and  we  can  at 
least  understand  that  these  strains  may 
well  play  the  part  of  the  trigger,  for 
precipitating  the  explosion  of  the  inter- 
nal smsmic  forces.  The  calculations 
also  show  that  near  the  sea-coast  the 
soil  must  be  tilted  toward  the  sea  at 
high-water,  and  that  the  angle  of  tilt- 
ing may  be  such  as  could  be  detected 
by  a  delicate  instrument  like  that  of  M. 
d'Abbadie. 

This  breathing  of  the  solid  earth 
seems  to  afford  a  wide  field  for  scienti- 
fic activity.  It  would  be  premature  to 
speculate  as  to  how  far  it  will  be  possi- 
ble to  educe  law  from  what  is  now 
ehaotic;  but  it  is  clear  that  the  co- 
operation of  many  observers  will  be  re- 
?|uired  to  separate  the  purely  local 
rora  the  true  terrestrial  changes.  The 
directars  of  astronomical  observatories 
have  peculiar  facilities  for  the  studj  of 


displacements  of  the  vertical,  and  it  is 
to  be  regretted  that  hitherto  most  of 
them  have,  been  contented  to  banish,  as 
far  as  may  be,  the  troubles  caused  in 
their  astronomical  work  by  earth-tre- 
mors and  displacements  of  the  vertical. 
—Prof.  G.  H.  Darwin,  F.  K  S.,  in 
The  Fortnightly  Review. 


THE     CANADIAN     PACIFIC  . 
EAILWAY. 

The  London  Quarterly  Review  for 
January  to  April,  has  a  long  and 
elaborate  sirticle  upon  this  great  Cana- 
dian enterprise.  We  copy  the  more 
important  parts  of  this  paper: 

Let  us  now  go  back  six  years,  [that 
is  to  February  17,  1881,  when  the 
Canadian  Pacific  Railway  received  the 
Royal  Assent,  and  the  Company  its 
charter,]  and  look  at  the  problem  then' 
before  the  organizers  of  the  new  Com- 
pany. Canada's  object  was  to  conneut 
the  Atlantic  and  the  Pacific  Oceans  by 
a  railway  to  be  made  entirely  on 
Canadian  soil.  This  meant  the  con- 
struction of  at  least  2500  miles  of  new 
line.  Of  this  length,  the  650  milea 
between  the  upper  Ottawa. River  and 
Port  Arthur  lay  through  a  district  of 
which  all  that  was  known  was  its 
extreme  unsuitability  for  railway  con- 
struction. The  fertility  of  the  great 
prairie  plains,  stretching  for  900  miles 
westward  from  the  Red  River,  was 
theoretically  believed  in  by  few,  but 
was  not  yet  practically  demonstrated 
to  the  many;  while  in  the  West  there 
were  three  mountain  ranges  to  be 
crossed,  and  the  dangerous  caflons  of 
the  British  Columbian  rivers  to  be 
threaded.  Through  these  the  three- 
quarters  of  a  million  sterling  already 
spent  on  surveys  had  hardly  resulted 
in  discovering  one  feasible  line  for  the 
passage  of  the  railway  to  the  Pacific. 


612 


THE  LroRARY  MAGAZINE. 


Any  estimate  of  the  cost  of  construction 
was  necessarily  little  more  than  con- 
jectural, while  the  market  yalue  to  be 
set  upon  the  Land  Grant,  upon  which 
it  was  expected  that  so  much  of  the 
capital  needed  for  the  work  would  be 
raised,  was  also  problematical. 

The  conditions  of  the  contract  made 
were,  briefly,  as  follows.  The  Govern- 
ment were  to  complete  and  hand  over 
to  the  company  the  lines  then  under 
construction,  amounting  in  all  to  713 
miles,  and  representing  approximately 
«n  outlay  of  $30,000,000.  The  re- 
mainder of  the  line  between  Callendar 
—a  geographical  expression  for  the 
terminus  of  the  yet  unfinished  Canada 
Central  Railway — and  the  Pacific  coast, 
an  estimated  total  of  at  leas>t  1900 
miles,  was  to  be  completed  by  the 
company  before  May,  1891.  The  con- 
struction was  to  be  equal  to  the  stand- 
ard of  the  Union  Pacific  road.  The 
subsidy  was  fixed  at  $25,000,000 
(£5,000,000  sterling)  and  25,000,000 
acres  of  land;  eacli  amount  to  be 
given  to  the  company  in  stated  propor- 
tions to  the  work  done  on  tach  section. 
Materials  used  in  the  first  construction 
of  the  road  were  to  be  admitted  free  of 
duty.  The  company's  lands,  if  unsold, 
were  to  be  free  of  taxes  for  twenty 
years,  and  its  property  was  to  be 
exempt  from  taxation.  The  right  of 
way  over  lands  owned  by  the  Gctrern- 
ment  was  to  be  free.  The  rates  charged 
by  the  company  were  to  be  exempt 
from  Government  interf'^Tence  until 
the  shareholders  were  in  receipt  of  10 
per  cent,  on  their  stock;  and  for  twenty 
years  no  competitive  lines  were  to  be 
allowed  to  cross  the  American  boundary 
in  Manitoba  or  the  North-west  Terri- 
tories  

The  Canadian  Central  Railway  not 
having  in  1881  reatihed  Callendar,  it 
was  obviously  impossible  for  the  new 
Company  to  undertake  much  work 
]  oyond  that  point.     Its  chief  energies 


were  therefore  first  directed  to  the  con- 
struction of  the  line  from  Winnipeg 
westward.  At  the  outset  two  decisions 
of  importance  were  made;  first,  to  adopt 
a  more  southern  route  across  the  plains 
and  through  the  mountains  than  hr.d 
formerly  been  advocated;  and  secondly, 
to  construct  the  line  in  a  more  substan- 
tial manner  than  the  contract  re(]uire<]. 
The  former  decision  would,  ,it  was 
calculated,  save  between  70  and  100 
miles  in  the  through  distance,  but  the 
latter  necessitated  the  abandonment  of 
all  the  work  done  by  the  government 
beyond  Winnipeg,  at  the  time  when  it 
was  supposed  that  a  ^* Colonization 
road"  of  a  cheap  character  wouk^  suffice. 
We  enter  now  upon  a  record  of  con- 
struction that  is  absolutely  without 
parallel  in  railway  annals.  People  talk 
of  the  "Prairie  section"  as  if  the  coun- 
try was  as  level  as  a  billiard  table, 
and  that  little  more  was  required  than 
to  lay  the  rails  on  the  surface  of  the 
soil.  But  those  who  have  been  in  thq 
North-west  know  well  that,  except 
between  Winnipeg  and  Portage,  there 
is  very  little  level  country.  The 
eartliwork  on  this  whole  section 
averaged  at  least  17,000  cubic  yards 
per  mile,  and  the  railway  was  con- 
structed usually  high  al>ove  the  ground, 
so  as  ta  avoid  as  far  as  possible  the 
risk  of  snow  blocks.  Work  was  com- 
menced in  May  1881,  and  by  the  doge 
of  the  season  165' miles  had  been  com- 
pleted. This  rate  of  progress,  however, 
was  not  fast  enough.  8o  in  the  spring 
of  1882,  a  contract  was  made  with 
Messrs.  Langdon  and  Shepherd,  of  St. 
Paul,  to  complete  the  line  to  Calgary, 
839  miles  from  Winnipeg.  But  in  a 
country  where  even  the  stone  and 
timber  for  construction,  as  well  as  the 
food  for  men  and  horses,  had  to  be 
brought  up  from  an  ever-receding  base, 
it  wais  absolutely  necessary  that  the 
control  of  the  whole  should  be  centered 
in  one  management.     To  provide  for 


THE  CANADIAN  PACIFIC  RAILWAY. 


618 


the  sixty  different  parties  employed,  to 
see  that  each  had  its  requisite  materials^ 
and  that  T^ork  in  each  year  was  being 
•done  up  to  time,  as  well  ds  up  to  the 
standard,  could  only  be  effected  by 
perfect  organization.     .  ' .     .     . 

In  the  spring  of  .1882  disastrous 
floods  occurred  in  the  upper  Red  River, 
the  only  route  by  which  supplies  could 
then  reach  the  North-west ;  and  con- 
sequently in  the  three  months  ending 
30th  June  less  than  70  utiles  were  com- 
pleted. This  comparative  inactivity 
vas,  however,  counterbalanced  by  the 
work  of  the  next  six  months,  which,  at 
the  rate  of  over  58  miles  a  month, 
produced  349  miles  of  finished  railway. 
In  1883,  376  miles  were  completed, 
and  this  included  the  gradual  ascent 
of  the  Rocky  Mountains  to  within  four 
miles  of  the  summit  of  the  pass.  The 
total  advance  for  the  three  vears  was 
0G2  miles,  exclusive  of  66  miles  of 
siding.  The  greatest  length  of  ^ileage 
laid  in  one  month  was  92  miles,  in 
Jaly,  1883;  the  highest  daily  average 
during  several  weeks  was  3.46  miles 
per  diem  for  the  eight  weeks  ending 
August  6th;  and  the  greatest  length 
laid  in  one  day  was  6.38  miles  on  July 
28th  in  that  year 

But  dramatic  as  was  the  completion 
of  such  a  length  of  mileage  within 
three  working  seasons,  the  work  which 
had  meantime  been  going  on  near 
Lake  Superior  was  no  less  remarkable. 
Operations  in  this  case  were  not  con- 
fined to  the  ends  of  the  line,  but  were 
carried  on  at  all  points  to  which  access 
could  be  gained  on  or  from  th^  Lake. 
From  CaJlendar  westward  S  more 
favorable  route  than  had  been  expected 
was  found ;  and  on  several  long  stretches 
progress  was  very  rapid.  But  some  of 
the  most  difficult  and  expensive  work 
on  the  line  was  required  along  the 
northern  edge  of  the  Lake  itself.  The 
amount  of  rock-cutting  was  very  heavy, 
and  here^  as  in  the  Rocky  Mountains, 


it  was  found  desirable  to  establish 
dynamite  factories  on  the  spot.  It  is  said 
that  £1,500,000  sterling  was  expended 
in  dynamite  and  that  $10,000,000 
were  laid  out  on  one  90-mile  section 
of  road.  Even  all  through  the  winter 
of  1884-5  this  work  went  on,  some 
9,000  men  being  employed.  And  well 
it  was  for  Canada  that  such  energy 
had  been  shown  and  such  progress 
made  in  that  district,  .... 
The  Pacific  Railway,  though  incom- 
plete,.enabled  the  Government  to  crush 
Kiel's  rebellion  [in  the  spring  of  1885] 
promptly.  By  the  time  the  troops 
returned  in  the  early  summer,  tlie  gaps 
had  been  finished,  and  there  was  a  con- 
tinuous line  of  rails  stretching  from 
Montreal  to  the  summit  of  the  Rocky 

Mountains 

At  the  watershed  is  a  lake,  from 
either  end  of  which  issues  a  stream — 
the  outlet  of  one  stream  is  in  the 
Atlantic,  vid  Hudson's  Bay,  the  outlet 
of  the  other  is  in  the  Pacific.  The 
latter  stream,  the  Kicking  Horse  River, 
begins  its  turbulent  course  through  a 
cleft  of  crystalized  limestone  of  exten- 
sive hardness,  and  falls  1,100  feet  in 
three  and  a  half  miles.  To  complete 
at  once  the  circuitous  route  by  which 
this  descent  could  be  accomplished 
without  exceeding  the  gradient  of  2.2 
per  100  feet,  which  had  been  decided 
upon  as  the  maximum  to  be  allowed  in 
the  Mountain  section,  would  have 
delayed  the  work  beyond  that  point  so 
many  months,  that  it  was  determined 
to  construct,  at  the  most  difficult  part, 
a  temporary  line  on  which  a  very  steep 
gradient  would  for  the  time  be  admit- 
ted. This  was  accordingly  done,  and 
not  only  the  construction  trains  bat 
those  for  the  regular  traffic,  after  the 
completion  of  the  line,  have  ever  since 
been  so  easily  and  safely  worked  up 
and  down  this  heavy  gradient,  that  it 
seems  doubtful  if  it  will  ever  be  nec- 
essary to  undertake  the    longer    and 


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THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


easier  route.  In  the  44  in  ilea  between 
the  summit  of  the  Rockies  and  the 
mouth  of  the  Pass  in  the  valley  of  the 
Columbia  River,  a  fall  of  :2?57  feet  was 
accomplished,  and  in  that  distance,  in 
addition  to  other  minor  streams,  the 
Kicking  Horse  River  was  crossed  nine 
times,  and,  exclusive  of  tunnels, 
1,500,000  cubic  yards  were  excavated, 
370,000  of  which  were  of  rogk.  The 
drilling  for  this,  owing  to  the  impos- 
sibility of  conveying  machinery  to  the 
spot,  was  done  by  hand.  In  one  part 
treacherous  landslips  gave  far  moi^ 
trouble  than  even  the  hardest  rock.  It 
was,  therefore,  not  to  be  wondered  at 
that  by  the  18th  of  June,  the  per- 
manent way  had  only  been  laid  8  miles 
west  of  the  summit.  By  the  end  of 
the  season,  however,  there  was  a  satis- 
factory record  of  75  miles  of  finished 
line,    including    a   very   considerable 

bridge  over  the  Columbia  River 

By  the  time  the  work  was,  in  the 
spring  of  1885,  resumed  at  the  mouth 
of  the  Beaver  River,  the  line  in  course 
of  construction  by  the  Government 
from  Port  Moody  to  Savona's  Ferry, 
near  Kamloops,  was  approaching 
completion.  The  gap  between  the  two 
ends  was  only  220  miles,  but  two 
mountain  ranges,  the  Selkirks  and  the 

Gold  Range,  had  to  be  surmounted 

Even  to  those  who  had  triumphed 
over  the  obstacle  of  the  Kicking  Horse 
Pass,  the  ascent  and  descent  of  the 
Selkirks  presented  problems  that  taxed 
to  the  utQiost  the  skill  and  courage  of 
the  engineers.  .  .  .  Some  idea  of 
the  length  of  the  Canadian  Pacific 
Railway  and  the  speed  of  construction 
may  be  formed  from  the  fact,  that 
several  miles  of  permanent  way  yet 
remained  to  be  laid  in  the  West,  when 
the  first  train,  that  was  destined  to 
pass  from  St.  Lawrence  to  the  Pacific 
coast,  left  Montreal.  Steadily  westward 
moved  the  train,  steadily  onward  from 
both  sides  proceeded  the  work;   until 


I  when  the  locomotive  reached  a  point 
,  in  the  Eagle  Pass,  not  far  from  the 
I  second  crossing  of  the  Columbia  River, 
the  two  parlies  were  found  on  Novem- 
ber 5th,  1885,  face  to  face,  and  tlie 
Canadian  Pacific  Railwav,  with  the 
exception  of  one  rail,  was  an  accom- 
plished fact.  It  is  significant  of  the 
business-like,  unostentatious  manner, 
in  which  this  whole  work  was  accom- 

?lished,  that,  whereas  the  Northern 
'acific  celebrated  the  driving  of  their 
"golden  spike*'  by  an  extravagant 
excursion,  that  a<imittedly  cost  the 
company  $175,000,  and  probably  cost 
them  half  as  much  more,  the  last  spike 
on  the  Canadian  Pacific  was  driven  by 
Sir  Donald  Smith,  in  the  presence  of 
not  more  than  a  dozen  persons  besides 
those  who  had  been  actively  employed 
in  laying  the  permanent  way.  ''The 
last  spike,'*  Mr.  Van  Home  had  long 
before  announced,  "will  be  just  as 
good  w  iron  spike  as  any  on  the  road; 
and  those  who  want  to  see  it  driven 
will  have  to  pay  full  fare."  There  was 
no  banquet,  no  speech-making  in  the 
depths  of  that  British  Columbian  forest; 
and,  having  seen  the  last  rail  duly  laid, 
the  whole  party,  it  is  said,  quietly 
went    fishing    at    the    next    "likely'*' 

stream 

The  contract  stipulated  for  the  com- 
pletion of  the  line  by  May  31st,  1891. 
Ad  we  have  seen,  the  last  rail  was  laid 
on  November  5,  1885,  and  a  regular 
through  train  service  commenced  on 
June  28th,  188G,  or  five  years  in 
advance  of  the  specified  time.  When 
it  is  remembered  that  in  the  West 
three,  mountain  ranges  were  traversed, 
and  that  in  the  East,  near  Lake 
Superior,  the  work  for  more  than  100 
miles  was  one  of  the  utmost  difficnltv, 
the  construction  of  more  than  2,^00 
miles  of  railroad  in  four  years  and  a 
half  must  be  regarded  as  a  most 
wonderful    achievement 

• 

The    three    heavy    gradicL-'.d    in    the 


THE  CANADIAN  PACIFIC  RAILWAY. 


616 


mountams  are  all  contg-ined  within 
three  sections  of,  say,  20  miles  each;  a 
concentration  that  tends  to  security  and 
economy  in  the  working.  Between 
Montreal  and  Winnipeg  there  is  no 
gradient  exceeding  53  feet  to  the  mile; 
between  Winnipeg  and  a  point  close  to 
the  summit  of  the  Rockies  there  is  but 
one  that  exceeds  40  feet.  Since  July, 
the  schedule  time  between  Montreal 
and  Burrard's  Inlet  has  been  136  hours; 
soon  to  be  reduced  to  120  hours;  and 
this  again,  when  the  China  and  Aus- 
tralian mail  service  commences,  will, 
we  are  promised,  be  reduced  to  90 
hours,  or  a  through  speed  of  32  miles 
an  hour. 

For  making  fast  time,  a  compasonir 
between  the  American  and  Canadian 
transcontinental  railroads  is  most  mark- 
edly in  favor  of  the  latter.  On  the 
Canadian  Pacific,  as  we  have  seen,  the 
heavy  gradients  are  all  within  a  short 
length  of  line;  whereas  on  the  lines  in 
the  States  they  ai'e  stretched  over 
hundreds  of  miles.  Then,  too,  in  the 
summit  levels  to  be  reached  the  Cana- 
dian line  has  an  immense  advantage. 
The  Northern  Pacific  passes  are  respec- 
tively 3,940,  5,500,  and  5,563  feet  above 
the  sea;  those  on  the  Union  and  Cen- 
tral Pacific  are  6,160,  7,017.  7,835,  and 
8,240  feet;  while  those  on  the  Canadian 
Pacific  are  1,896,  4,306  and  5,296  feet 
only.  In  actual  distance,  also,  across 
the  Continent,  Canada  has  a  consider- 
able advantage:  the  distance  from 
Montreal  to  Vancouver  being  only  2>905 
miles,  while  from  New  York  to  San 
Francisco  it  is  3,271  miles. 

In  July,  1886,  as  we  have  seen,  Mon- 
treal found  itself  in  easy  daily  com- 
munication with  the  Pacific  coast. 
But  neither  Canada  nor  the  Railway 
Company  w^re  satisfied  to  rest  there. 
The  St.  Lawrence  is  only  available  for 
summer  traffic.  True,  the  Grand 
Tnink  connects  Montreal  with  the 
harbor  of  Portland,  Maine.      But   it 


was  deemed  essential  that  the  national 
transcontinental  line  should  have^  its 
own  independent  access  to  all  the 
Atlantic  ports;  and  especially  that  the 
Maritime  Provinces  of  Canada  should 
be  brought  into  closer  commerciil 
relations  with  the  rest  of  the  Dominion. 
To  effect  this,  the  Canadian  Pacific 
prepared  to  bridge  the  St.  Lawrence; 
and  the  Government  agreed  to  subsidize 
a  company  which  undertook,  by  acquir- 
ing such  lines  as  were  already  available, 
and  by  constructing  the  missing  links 
where  needed,  to  make  an  almost  "Bee 
line'*  between  Montreal  and  the  head 
of  the  Bay  of  Fundy,  round  which  it 
was  necessary  to  go  to  reach'  Halifax. 
This  /'Short  Line,"  or  International 
Railway,  is  to  be  completed  by  the 
winter  of  1886-7,  and  .the  effect  will 
be  to  bring  the  New  Brunswick  port  of 
St.  John,  and  the  Nova  Scotian  port 
of  Halifax,  279  and  125  resi:uctively 
nearer  to  Montreal  than  they  are  by 
the  present  Intercolonial  Railway  route. 
The  Short  Line'  will,  of  course,  as  it 
passes  for  some  150  miles  through  the 
State  of  Maine,  not  be  available  for 
troops  and  war- materials;  but  com- 
merce fortunately  can,  by  sealed  cars, 
and  bonding  ar];^ngements,  afford  to 
disregard  political  boundaries.  .... 
We  have  said  that'  there  is  no  other 
railway  whose  position  is  so  parallel  to 
the  Canadian  Pacific  as  to  allow  of 
useful  comparisons  being  made  between 
them.  But,  for  whatever  they  may  be 
worth,  we  give  the  following  figures. 
Over  a  period  of  nine  years  the  urand 
Trunk  net  earnings  averaged  $1,850  per 
mile.  Those  of  the  Great  Western  of 
Canada,  during  six  years,  $1,165^  The 
Northern  of  Canada,  during  the  past 
four  years,  $1,360,  and  the  Northern 
Pacific,  during  tW  twelve  months 
ending  Sept.  1886,  nt  the  rate  of  $2,190 
per  mile.     The  Canadian   Pacific  can 

Jay  its  fixed  charges  by  earning  only, 
750  per  mile.    .  •  •    •    « 


61G 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


The  great  project,  except  as  regards 
the  p^tension  to  the  eastern  sea  board, 
being  now  practically  complete,  Canada 
has  already  begun  to  reap  some  return 
for  the  sacrifices  she  has  mtide;  and  we 
in  England  may  all  the  more  cordially 
hope  that  her  expectations  may  be 
entirely  fulfilled,  inasmuch  as  while 
working  for  herself,  she  has  also  been 
working  in  the  interests  of  the  mother 
country.  For  herself,  she  has  welded 
that    iron    band,   without   which   her 

Eolitioal  system  would  disintegrate, 
ut  the  possession  of  which  promises 
to  render  permanent  a  Confederacy 
occupying  a  line  four  thousand  miles 
in  length,  of  which  each  section  is  now 
within  touch,  by  wire  and  rail,  of  the 
rest.  The  * 'illimitable  possibilities'*  of 
the  Great  North-west,  with  its  millions 
of  acres  of  land  producing  abundantly 
the  hardest  wheat  in  the  world,  are 
now  ready  for  development.  There  is 
no  longer  any  reason  why  Canada's 
sons  should  *'go  to  the  States"  to  make 
a  new  start  in  life,  while  there  is  every 
reason  why  emigi-ation  from  our  own 
shores  should,  in  preference  to  being 
allowed  to  drift  to  New  York,  be  judi- 
ciouslv  directed  to  a  land  over  which 
the  British  flag  waves,  and  where,  in 
fourteen  days  from  the  date  of  leaving 
his  old  home,  the  emigrant  may  be 
turning  the  furrow  on  an  estate  of  160 
acres  of  good  wheat  land  which,  at  no 
cost  to  himself,  is,  as  children  say, 
*'his  very  own."     .... 

The  ranching  industry  in  Alberta, 
for  which  district  American  cattle-men 
are  deserting;  their  former  holdings 
further  South,  is  rapidly  growing,  and, 
either  "on  h^of"  or  in  refrigerator  cars 
.and  steamers,  its  products  will,  along 
\with  '*No.  1  Hard"  wheat,  soon  make 
rtheir  mark  in  English  markets.  The 
rcastern  foothills  of  the  Rockies  are 
mnderlaid  by  vast  coal  fields,  which  are 
:jllreafly  supplying  to  the  settlers  on  the 
ttxeeless  prairie  that  cheap  f  uel^  without 


which  the  cultivation  of  those  rich 
acres  would  be  impossible.  For  lumber, 
too,  about  the  future  supply  of  which 
Americans  are,  not  without  reason, 
becoming  anxious,  the  Canadian  Pacific 
opens  new  districts  near  Lake  Bnperior, 
in  Keewatin,  and,  above  all,  m  British 
Columbia,  whose  forests  are  perhaps 
the  finest  in  the  world.  .  .  .  Add 
to  this  list  the  opening  of  a  large 
reciprocal  trade  between  the  Dominion 
and  Australia,  and  we  have  the  princi- 
pal results  to  Canada  herself  of  the 
completion  of  the  Canadian  Pacific 
Railway. 

But  there  are  other  and  yet  more 
far-reaching  results  that  affect  English- 
men all  the  world  over.  Whetlier  we 
regard  it  in  relation  to  the  emigration 
problem  which  must  so  soon  be  grai)pled 
with;  or  in  connection  with  a  possible 
Imperial  Federation;  or,  lastly,  as  a 
contribution  to  the  safety  and  defence 
of  the  Empire  at  large,  we  shall  find 
much  to  interest  us  in  the  Canadian 
Pacific  Railway.  In  order  that  this 
may  be  understood,  it  will  be  necessary 
to  show,  by  a  few  details,  what  a  revo- 
lution in  our  old -fashioned  ideas  of 
geography  and  routes  this  young  giant 
is  affecting. 

Canada  has  hitherto  been  content 
with  an  ocean  service  that  has  landed 
passengers  in  Quebec  very  comfortably 
in  ten  or  eleven  days  from  Liverpool. 
But  in  view  of  the  understood  intention 
of  the  Imperial  Government  to  sub- 
sidize a  line  of  mail  steamers  on  the 
Pacific  between  Vancouver  and  Japan 
and  China,  the  Dominion  Government 
are  now  calling  for  an  accelerated 
Atlantic  service,  and  it  seems  certain 
that  they  will  be  offered  one  of  a  char- 
acter and  speed  at  least  equal  to  any 
now  running  to  New  York.-  The  result 
will  be  that,  as  Halifax,  projecting  far 
into  the  Atlantic,  lies  nearer  than  New 
York  to  Queenstown  or  Plymouth  by 
600  miles,  passengers  and  mails  will  be 


Tdi  CA2^  ATXIA^^  I^a.v/xx  a>^  x%£k^xj  nr  xi.  &  • 


617 


carried  from  shore  to  shore  in  (say)  five 
days  and  a  half.  From  Halifax  those 
travelling  west  to  the  east  will  be  car- 
ried to  the  Pacific  coast  in  another 
equally  short  period,  say,  eleven  days 
from  London  to  Vancouver  .... 
Not  onlv  will  thepassao^e,  between  Eng- 
land, Yokohama,  and  Hong  Kong, 
which  now,  vid  Brindisi,  occupies  40  to 
42  and  32  to  35  days,  in  either  case, 
be  reduced  to  25  and  31  days  respect- 
ivelv 

With  its  Eastern  terminus  at  Halifax, 
where  is  a  dockyard  and  the  only 
Imperial  station  on  the  Atlantic  coast, 
and  its  Western  at  Vancouver,  and  coal 
mines  at  both,  the  Canadian  Pacific 
becomes  a  strategic  line  of  no  little  im- 
portance to  the  Empire.  Vancouver 
IS  exceptionally  well  adapted  for  the 
purposes  which  Great  Britain  requires. 
The  Pacific  squadron,  having  its  ren- 
dezvous in  British  Columbia  .waters, 
will  no  longer  be  cut  off  from  its  base, 
and  dependent  on  a  foreign  country  for 
even  telegraphic  communication  with 
its  own.  The  Admiral,  lying  in  Bur- 
rard's  Inlet,  which  could  itself  easily 
be  fortified,  is,  by  a  wire  that  no  foreign- 
er handles,  in  touch  with  Halifax,  Ber* 
muda,  and  Whitehall,  and  can  draw 
men  and  supplies  in  a  week  from  Hali- 
fax, in  a  fortnight  from  England  it- 
self. Acro3s  the  Straits  lie  the  coal 
mines  of  Nanaimo,  whence  comes  the 
only  good  coal  on  the  Pacific  coast;  and 
at  Esquimau  the  Dominion  has  just 
completed  a  large  dry  dock,  and  has 
agreed,  it  is  said,  to  erect  defensive 
works. 

But  it  is  not  only  our  relations  with 
Japan  and  China  that  are  affected  by 
this  railway.  In  speaking  of  the  possi- 
ble alternative  route  to  India  whiuh  it 
affords,  we  shall  be  careful  not  to  over- 
state its  importance,  although  we  know 
that  by  some  authorities  that  is  esti- 
mated very  highly.     When  the  Suez 


Canal  was  opened,  a  great  part  of  the 
commerce  of  the*  world,  from  having 
been  oceanic,  became  again  more  or  less 
thalassiCy  in  Carl  Kitker  language.  The 
present  generation  has  come  to  look 
upon  that  route  as  permanent,  and  such 
a  very  large  proportion  of  ship^  are  now 
built  on  canal  measurements,  that  any 
blocking  of  "the  ditch"  will  cause  a  very 
serious  disturbance  to  trade.  Yet  all 
are  agreed  that,  in  the  case  of  a  Euro- 
pean war,  the  canal,  even  if  not  block- 
ed, will  be  nearly  useless,  beet: use  the 
passage  of  the  Mediterranean,  in  the 
face  of  so  many  ports  from  which 
cruisers  could  sally,  will  be  so  danger- 
ous as  to  be  practically  unusable  except 

by  strong  squadrons 

Now  let  us  look  at  the  Canadian  route. 
The  North  Atlantic  should  be,  and  in 
case  of  war  must  be,  safe  for  British 
shipping,  if  for  no  other  reason  than 
this,  that  otherwise  we  shall  starve. 
Neither  Russia  nor  India  will  send  us  a 
bushel  of  wheat.  Cargoes  from  New 
Zealand,  California,  South  America, 
will  be  risky  ventures.  It  will  be  on 
such  wheat-fields  and  ranches  in  the 
North-west  as  we  have  been  describing, 
that  many-mouthed  England  will  de- 
pend for  her  food  supplies;  and  the 
food  problem  promises  to  be  for  us  one 
of  the  most  serious  in  the  great  wars 
of  the  future.  Our  transports,  then, 
we  must  assume,  will  be  abl.  fely  to 
run  to  North  America,  from  whence 
they  will  bring  back  food  supplies. 
Presumablv,  too,  if  the  war-cloud  lowers 
in  the  East,  a  force  will  have  quietly 
been  concentrated  at  Vancouver.  From 
that  point,  if  need  arose,  it  could  either 
be  conveyed  to  England  in  a  fortnight, 
or  landed  in  Calcutta  in  twenty-five 
days.  The  Halifax  garrison  and  more 
troops  from  England  could  reach  India 
in  five,  and  eleven  days  longer,  respec- 
tively. This  is,  at  least,  a  second 
string  to  our  bow;  and  such  second 


618 


THE  LIBRARY  MAaAZINE. 


strings  are  not  to  be  lightly  thrown 
aside.  Iii  chronicling  the  suggestive 
fact^  that  the  first  through  train  on  the 
Oauadian  Pacific  carried^  in  six  days 
from  Quebec  to  the  Pacific,  naval  stores 
for  Esquimalt,  we  do  not  wish  to  give 
undue  prominence  to  the  part  which 
this  railway  can  p]ay  in  actual  warfare, 
for  in  the  peaceful  development  of 
commercial    ifitercourse    will     lie    its 

f greatest  triumphs.  In  this  respect, 
uUer  use  of  the  Pacific  route  to 
Australasia  demands  attention.  Already 
we  are  told  that  a  cable  is  to  con- 
nect Vancouver  with  Australia  and 
New  Zealand  vid  Honolulu;  and  with 
such  an  Atlantic  service  as  we  have 
anticipated,  and  a  correspondingly  fine 
service  on  the  Pacific  as  will  undoubt- 
edly follow,  one  cannot  but  foresee  that 
Australia  will  shortly  be  fortunate  in 
possessing  a  mail  service  between  Lon- 
don and  Adelaide  viV:^  8uez,  and  another 
between  London  and  Brisbane  vid 
Canada,  each  covering  the  distance  in 
about  thirty  two  days.     .     .     .     , 

Much  reference  has  lately  been  made 
to  the  immensa  majestas  R(yman€Bpaci», 
England  can  hai-dly  Have  a  higher 
ambition  than  to  secure  to  the  world 
the  benefit  of  such  a  peace.  And  any- 
thing that  strengthens  our  position, 
that  by  reducing  time  and  distance 
enables  us  to  concentrate  and  most 
efficiently  employ  our  necessarily  scat- 
tered and  somewhat  limited  forces,  and 
that  for  commercial  advantage  as  well 
as  for  political  security  brings  the 
component  parts  of  Greater  Britain 
into  closer  relationship  with  each 
other,  is  in  advance  towards  that  most 
desirable  object.  Such  a  contribution 
to  tho  welfare  and  unity  of  the  British 
Empire,  and  so  to  peaceful  interests 
throughout  the  world,  has  Canada  now 
most  obviously  made  by  the  construc- 
tion of  her  inter-oceanic  lines  and  by 
the  completion  of  the  Canadian  Pacific 
Railway. — Quarterly  Review.  . 


A  NEW  RELIGION  FOR  THE 
FUTURE.* 

This  book  is  the  most  powerful 
attack  on  Christianity  that  has  becD 
produced  in. England  during  this  gen 
eraticn.  That  may  be  because  the  op 
ponents  of  current  beliefs  have  not  for 
the  most  part  cared  to  iissiiil  them 
directly,  but  have  preferred  to  under- 
mine by  ^'explaining"  them.  The 
solvent  of  historical  criticism  has  done 
more  toward  brinring  about  a  decay 
of  faith  than  any  direct  impeachment 
And  one  other  consideration  has  prob- 
ably been  active  in  deterring  leaders  of 
thought  who  are  undoubtedly  not 
Christian  from  openly  attacking  Chris- 
tianity: they  have  nothing  to  set  in  its 
place,  and  they  naturally  shrink  from 
a  merely  negative  onslaught.  Mr. 
Mprison  speaks  as  if  he  had  something 

Positive  to  ofter  instead  of  the  dogmas 
e  woiild  depose;  but  unfortunately  ill 
health  has  disturbed  his  plan,  and  the 
book  remains  a  fragment,  with  the 
positive  part  only  barely  indicated  in 
tho  last  two  chapters  and  the  title  of 
the  book.  As  for  the  lines  of  atack 
developed  by  Mr.  Morison,  the  follow- 
ing summary,  given  in  the  book  itself, 
will  best  explain  the  chief  points:— 

"1.  That  a  wide-spread  tendency  exists  in 
this,  and  still  more  in  uther  countries,  to  give 
up  a  belief  in  Christianity.  A  nd  that  the  scep- 
ticism of  the  present  day  is  very  far  more 
serious  and  scientiflc  than  was  the  deis'n  of 
the  last  century. 

'  '2.  That  the  mippoMd  consolations  of  Chris- 
tianity have  been  much  cxnggerated.  And 
that  it  may  be  questioned  whether  that  religion 
does  not  often  produce  as  much  anxiety  and 
mental  distress  as  it  does  of  joy,  gladness  and 
content. 

*'3.  That  by  the 'great  doctrine  of  forgive- 
i>ess  of  sins  consequent  on  repentance,  even  in 
the  last  moment  of  life  Cliristianity,  often 
favors  spirituality  and  salvation  at  the  expense 
of  morals. 

*  Tlie  Service  of  Man:  An  Essay  towards 
the  Religion  of  the  Future.    By  J.  Cotter 
'Morison. 


A  NEW  RELIGION  FOR  THE  FUTURE. 


tt9 


"4.  That  the  morality  of  the  Ages  of  Faith 
was  very  low;  ami  that  the  further  we  go  back 
into  tiiDes  wheu  belief  vas  strongest,  the 
worse  it  is  found  to  be. 

**5.  That  Christianity  has  a  very  limited  in- 
fluence on  the  world  at  large;  but  a  most 
powerful  effect  on  certain  high-toned  natures, 
who,  by  boconiing  true  saints,  produce  an  im- 
mense impression  on  public  opinion,  and  give 
thai  relig.on  much  of  the  honor  which  it 
enjoys. 

'  '6.  That  although  the  self-devotion  of  saints 
is  not  only  beyond  question,  but  supremely 
beautiful  and  attractive;  yet,  as  a  means  of 
relieving  human  suffering  and  serving  man  in 
the  widest  sense,  it  is  not  to  be  compared  for 
efficiency  with  science." 

From  this  outline  it  will  be  seen  that 
the  strength  of  the  onslaught  lies  in 
denying  the  moral  efficacy  of  Christian* 
ity.  Kven  in  dealing  with  the  Passion 
Mr.  Morisoii  brings  forward  the  moral 
deficiencies  of  the  conception  of  sacri- 
fice, though  with  some  inconsistency 
he  owns,  later  on,  that  sacrifioe  is  of 
the  essence  of  religion.  It  has  been  a 
commonplace  of  unbelit»Ting  polemics 
to  declare  against  the  morality  of  the 
Old  Testament.  But  Mr.  Morison  is 
equally  ad  Terse  to  the  ide^  sketched 
in  the  New.  The  ideal  is  too  high,  and 
this  discourages  the  ordinary  mortal, 
-while  he  is  encouraged  to  take  a  lower 
tone  by  the  hope  of  a  sudden  repen- 
tance, which,  according  to  the  Church, 
is  sufficient  for  salration.  That,  by 
thus  laying  stress  on  salvation,  the 
Church  has  done  ijijury  to  morals,  Mr. 
Morison  attempts  to  show  in  his  sixth 
chapter,  on  the  morality  of  the  ages  of 
faith.  His  wide  historical  reading 
stands  him  in  good  stead  here,  and  he 
is  enabled  to  compile  a  chroni^ue 
scandalense  of  the  Middle  Ages  which 
may  have  a  certain  piquancy  for  some 
of  his  readers,  but  scarcely  bears  on  his 
argument,  as  it  seems  to  us.  That  an 
ideal  is  not  realized  is  of  its  verv  na- 
ture;  the  question  is  rather  whether 
the  ideal  talces  practical  hold  on  men  as 
an  ideal,  and  influences  their  conduct 


so  far  as  to  make  it  nearer  the  ideal 
than  if  this  were  not  in  action.  The 
undoubted  fact  that  Christianity  has 
not  eradicated  the  vagaries  of  human 
appetites  and  passions  is  scarcely  in 
evidence  against  it  as  an  ideal.  The 
other  point  raised  by  Mr.  Morison  is 
much  more  pertinent,  though  more 
difficult  of  proof.  If  the  ideal  has  a 
distinctly  discouraging  effect  on  the 
desire  for  the  higher  life  owing  to  its 
loftiness,  it  is  faulty  ^  an  ideal.  But 
then  Mr.  Morison  has  no  right  to  com- 
plain of  an  ideal  as  too  lofty  in  one 
place,  and  then  as  below  our  moral 
standpoint  in  another. 

Yet  Mr.  Morison  is. distinctly  in  the 
right,  and  has  made  a  novel  point,  in 
using  as  his  test  of  a  creed  or  principle 
it«  influence  on  the  permanent  forces 
of  human  nature.  Of  course,  in  a 
measure  this  has  been  always  recogniz- 
ed. But  Mr.  Morison's  point  is  that 
men's  natures  are  in  large  measure 
fixed  by  birth  and  education,  and  can- 
not be  changed  by  any  sudden  conver- 
sion. And  similarly  in  the  hints  he 
gives  of  -the  religion  of  the  future  he 
shows  that  he  would  base  it  upon  the 
cultivation  of  human  nature  in  the 
strictest  sense  of  the  word,  as  we  use  it 
of  the  cultivation  of  the  vine.  Salva* 
tion  is  of  the  psychologists.  We  must 
know  the  facts  of  human  nature  before 
we  attempt  to  save  men,  if,  indeed, 
men  need  to  be  saved,  according  to  Mr. 
Morison.  For  the  service  of  man, 
which  is  to  be  the  religion  of  the  future, 
is  assistance  given  to  other  men  for 
their  "external  goods,"  as  the  Stoics 
would  say,  their  wealth  and  health  and 
joy.  Hence,  in  selecting  three  saints 
to  illustrate  the  spiritualizing  effect  of 
Christianity  —  Sister  Agnes  Jones, 
Mother  Margaret  Hallahan,  and  Sister 
Dora  Pattison — while .  expressing  en- 
thusiastic reverence  for  tneir  charac* 
ters,  he  denies  that  their  religion  help- 
ed them  to  achieve  more  goM  in  their 


tiM» 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


vocation  of  nursing.  They  needed 
more  anatomy  and  physiology,  not  more 
grace;  and  generally  it. is  from  the  pro- 
gress of  science  that  the  world's  ad- 
vance must  come.  To  which  it  may  be 
objected  that  science  may  give  the 
material,  but  what  will  give  the  motive 

Eower?  The  forces  of  the  heart  are 
ere  of  infinitely  more  importance  than 
the  forces  of  the  mind)  to  which  Mr. 
MoHson,  with  scholarly  one-sidedness, 
attributes  so  much  power. 

It  is  in  this  overestimate  of  the  intel- 
lect and  underestimate  of  the  emotional 
side  of  human  nature  that  the  funda- 
mental fallacy  of  Mr.  Morison's  argu- 
ment is  to  be  found,  and  also  in  all 
probability  the  secret  of  his  revolt 
against  Christianity.  There  is  not 
much  likelihood  that  the  mass  of  man- 
kind will  be  at  all  eager  to  abandon 
their  present  religion  for  the  gospel 
that  Mr.  Morison  appears  prepared  to 
offer  them  in  its  steaa. 

In  bis  preface  Mr.  Morison  touches 
upon  a  problem  which  seems  but  re- 
motely connected  with  his  immediate 
object,  except,  perhaps,  as  showing 
how  very  didicult  the  service  of  man 
will  soon  become,  owing  to  the  gloomy 

5 respects  of  our  sociai  system.  For 
Ir.  Morison  sees  before  us  in  the  very 
near  future  a  state  of  things  brouj^ht 
about  by  the  internecine  competition 
of  modern'  commerce  which  will  rival 
the  horrors  of  the  Black  Death.  The 
assumption  underlying  his  fears  is  the 
steady  worsening  of  social  conditions 
brought  about  by  international  compe- 
tition and  reckless  production  of  off- 
spring. The  fact  is  more  than  doubt- 
ful, and  much  of  Mr.  Morison's  fear  is 
thus  groundless,  but  he  certainly  hits  a 
weak  point  in  Anglo-Teutonic  civiliza- 
tion when  he  deplores  the  increase  of 
the  population  at  a  rate  which  must 
necessarily  be  checked  before  many 
generations  are  over. 

The  book  thns  deals  with  some  of  the 


profoundest  problems  of  the  time,  and 
m  a  tone  befitting  the  gravity  of  the 
themes.  That  the  only  paH  of  the 
volume  which  bears  the  character  of 
completeness  is  the  negative  section  is 
due,  perhaps,  as  much  to  the  nature  of 
the  case  as  to  the  state  of  Mr.  Morison's 
health.  But  in  discussing  the  book 
this  latter  fact  must  appeal  to  idl  who 
have  been  instructed  by  the  sweep  of 
historic  imagination  which  chaiacter- 
izes  Mr.  Morison's  works,  this  as  much 
as  the  classic  monoOTaphs  on  St.  Bern- 
ard and  Gibbon.  His  latest  book  aud 
most  ambitious  production  con:<'S  to 
us,  we  regret  to  think,  with  the  testa- 
mentary solemnity  of  last  words.— 
The  AthencBum. 


BYRON'S  LAST  VERSES. 

Byron  died  April  19,  1824.  The 
verses  on  his  36tn  birthday  (Jan.  22, 
1824)  have  been  supposed  to  be  the 
last  ones  written  by  him.  But  Mur- 
ray's Magazine  has  come  into  possession 
of  much  fresh  matter  relating  to  By- 
ron, among  which  are  a  couple  of 
poems,  hitherto  unpublished.  To  these 
is  prefixed  the  following  indorsement 
by  John  Cam  Hobhouse:  '*The  last  he 
ever  wrote;  from  a  rough  copy  found 
amongst  his  papers,  on  the  back:  of  the 
*Song  of  Suli,'  copied  November,  1824. 
A  note  attached  to  the  verses  by  Lord 
Byron  states  that  they  were  addressed 
to  no  one  in  particular,  and  were  a 
mere  poetical  Scherzo."— It  is  a  no- 
ticeable fact,  however,  that  in  both  of 
the  following  poems,  as  well  as  in  that 
composed  on  his  thirty-sixth  birthday. 
Bryon  represents  himself  as  suffering 
the  pangs  of  unrequited  love. 

RTAKZAS. 

I. 

I  watched  thee  when  the  foe  was  at  oui  side 
Ready  to  strike  him— on  thee  aod  me 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 


621 


Were  safety  hopeless — ^rather  tlian  divide 
Aught  with  oiie  loved  save  love  aud  liberty. 

n. 

I  watched  thee  in  the  breakers,  when  the  rock 

Received  our  prow  and  all  was  btorm  aud 

fear, 

And  bade  thee  cling  to  me  though  every  shock; 

This  arm  would  be  thy  bark,  or  breast  thy 

bier. 

ni. 

I  watched  thee  when  the  fever  glazed  thine 
eves, 
Yield  hi  g  ray  couch,  and  stretched  me  on 
the  ground 
When  over-worn  with  watching,  ne'er  to  rise 
From  thence  if  tliou  an  ear^  grave  hadst 
found. 

IV. 

Tlie  eartiiquake  came,  and  rocked  the  quiv- 
ering wall. 
And  men  and  nature  reeled  as  if  with  wine. 
Wliom  did  I  seek  around  the  tottering  hall? 
For  thee.     Whose  safety  first  provide  for? 
Thiue. 

V. 

And  when  convulsive  throes  denied  my  breath 
The  faintest  utterance  to  my  fading  thought, 

To  thee — to  thee— even  in  the  gasp  of  deatli 
My  spirit  turned,  oh!  oftener  than  it  ought. 

n. 

Thus  much  and  more,  and  yet  thou  lov'st  me 
not, 

An  1  never  wilt!  Love  dwells  not  in  our  will. 
Nor  can  I  blame  thee,  though  it  be  my  lot 

To  strongly,  wrongly,  vainly  love  thee  still. 


LAST   WORDS   ON  GREECB. 

Wliat  are  to  me  those  honors  or  renown 

Past  or  to  come,  a  new- bom  people's  cry? 
Albeit  for  such  I  could  despise  a  crown 

Of  aught  save  Laurel,  or  for  such  could  die. 
I  am  a  fool  of  passion,  and  a  frown 

Of  thine  to  me  is  as  an  adder's  eye 
To  the  i)oor  bird  whose  pinion  fluttering  down 

W  fts  unto  death  the  breast  it  bore  so  high; 
Such  is  this  maddening  fascination  grown. 

So  strong  thy  magic  or  so  weak  am  L 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 

What  was  Shakespeare's  Name? — ^Mr. 
Henry  Bradley  thus  writes  in  the  London 
Academy: — 

"It  seems  to  me  very  unlikely  thai  tibe  sur- 


name made  illustrious  by  our  great  poet  origi- 
nally meant  'spear-shaker. '  Probably  it  was 
an  etymologizing  distortion  of  something 
more  in  accordance  with  the  analogies  of  Eng- 
lish family  nomenclature.  I  venture  to  sug- 
gest that  It  may  be  derived  from  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  personal  name  Seaxberht,  and  that  the 
well-knowa  form  'Shaxberd,'  instead  of  bting 
a  mere  blunder,  was  a  colloquial  si:  rvival  of  the 
original  name,  which  the  fami  y  so  called 
preferred,  at  least  in  writing,  to  render  in  a 
manner  suggested  '  y  its  assumed  etymology. 
There  are  many  questionable  instances  m 
which  Anglo-Saxon  personal  names,  other 
than  those  retained  as  '^Christian  names"  in 
later  times,  have  left  trac&s  in  family  nomen- 
clatunt.  The  surnames  **\MnfaUhin<''*  and 
* '  Allfarthing, ' '  for  example,  are  clearly  dci  i ved 
from  the  names  Winferht/i  and  Ktilhferhih. 
There  seems,  therefore,  to  l>e  no  intrinsic 
improbability  in  the  suggestion  here  put  for* 
ward,  though  of  course  any  actual  proof  of  iti 
correctness  is  out  of  the  question." 

Arbor  Day. — The  observance  of  this  festi- 
val— which  we  trust  will  soon  become  9 
national  one — was  first  suggested  some  fifteen 
years  ago  by  Hon.  J.  Sterling  Morton,  then 
Governor  of  Nebraska,  who  states  that  upon 
that  day  more  than  12,000,000  trees  were 
planted.  Not  long  ago  ex-Oovcrnor  Morton 
stated:  "We  have  now  growing  in  the  State 
of  Nebraska  more  than  700,000  acres  of  trees 
which  have  been  planted  by  hurjan  hands." 
**  Arbor  Day"  is  now  an  established  institution 
in  nearly  twenty  States  of  the  Union.  Con- 
cerning the  benefits  resulting  from  its  obser- 
vance, the  New  York  Examiner  says: — 

"No  argument  should  be  needed  to  recom- 
mend an  observance  so  beneficial.  The  con- 
ditions of  climate  and  fertility  have  in  many 
parts  of  the  world  been  affecte^l  by  the  de- 
struction of  trees.  Damage  from  the  same 
cause  is  already  seriously  tnrea'ened  in  parts 
of  our  own  land.  Considerable  mischief  has 
been  done,  wlrch  may  still  be,  in  lare^e  degree, 
repaired;  and  worse  devastation  may  be  avert- 
ed by  a  proper  education  of  the  people  on  the 
subject.  Such  education  is  greatly  stimulated 
and  aided  by  Arbor  Day  ooservances.  The 
day  is  becoming  a  popular  festival  in  many 
schools  throughout  our  country.  In  connec- 
tion witli  it,  children  are  taught  to  recognize 
our  common  trees,  and  learn  by  actual  prac- 
tice the  best  methods  of  tree  planting  They 
are  also  encouraged  to  collect  and  plant  seeds 
and  nuts  of  various  kinds,  to  watch  their 
growth  and  care  for  them,  as  the  elm,  maple, 
linden,  locust,  beech,  ash,  tulip^  poplar,  apple, 
pttar,  cherry,  chestnut,  black  walnut,  (nUs. 


THE  LIBRART  UA.QAZDSK 


hickory  and  butternut.  Ornamental  vines, 
like  woodbine,  the  different  varieties  of  cle- 
matis and  the  beautiful  Japanese  ivy,  have 
been  widely  introduced  by  means  of  the  Arbor 
Day  observance,  and  through  the  instruction 
given  in  school/* 

St.  Makk's,  Venice.—  "L.  L.,'*  the  Italian 
correspondent  of  the  Toronto  Weak,  writes: — 

*To  And  one's  self  suddenly  before  St. 
Mark's,  resplendent  under  the  sunlight  as  a 
miarhty  Jewel,  is  indeed  to  face  one's  heart's 
desire,  rerhaps,  besides  that  of  Milan,  no  other 
cathedral  in  Italy  so  far  surpasses  our  brightest 
dreams  of  1)cauty  and  the  ideal.  Its  marble- 
lined  walls,  its  wondrous  mosaics,  its  mnrvel- 
ous  workniai  ship,  produce  an  effect  such  as 
can  alone  tlie  warm,  voluptuous  art  of  the 
East.  Within  the  church  is  the  light  subdued 
and  soft— a  place  to  pray  and  £eam.  Col- 
umns of  marble  and  jeweled  altars,  gilding 
and  exquisite  color,  wroui^ht  by  time  into  a 
perfect  whole,  make  it  a  worthy  gate  of  para- 
dise. The  old  mosaic  pavement,  of  the  twelfth 
century,  rises  and  falls  in  an  odd,  aimless  way 
— trodden  by  feet  different  enough  during 
these  hundreds  of  past  years,  yet  all  impelled 
by  like  emotions,  all  governed  in  the  end  by 
fe«r.  Here,  churches  are  very  far  from  lye- 
ing  the  haunts  only  of  women.  Indeed,  men 
seem  not  seldom  in  the  majority.  If  the  mas- 
culine mind  follows  more  readily,  and  perhaps 
o^lcn?''.  the  unconventional  paths  of  thought, 
you  may  remark,  when  the  beaten  track  is  its 
choice,  it  marches  with  equal,  perchance  great- 
er, ostentation,  and  truly  few  feminine  mouths 
could  be  more  eager  for  the  dusty  morsels 
than  those  of  the  strong-headed  devotees." 

The  Origin  of  the  Family  Institution. 
— ^The  Past  Graduate,  of  the  University  of 
Woi»8ter,  Ohio,  contains  a  ''Graduating 
Thesis."  on  T7/«  Family,  by  Mrs.  Rose  P.  Pire- 
fttone,  from  which  we  extract  a  few  paaiages: — 

"The  Family,  in  the  largest  sense  St  the 
word,  has  been  defined  as  a  group  of  per- 
sons— men,  women,  and  children— descended 
from  a  common  ancestor,  or  supposed  to  be 
fio  descended;  subject,  both  as  to  person  and 
property  to  the  eldest  male  bead,  whose  will 
within  his  circle  is  law.  To  this  definitioo 
may  be  added  the  clause,  that  it  was  some- 
times used  to  include  slaves  as  well  as  inani- 
mate propert}';  and  it  is  in  this  latter  mean- 
ing that  the  origin  of  the  word,  and  of  the 
idea  of  subjection  implied  in  it,  is  fousd. 

"At  tlHs  point  arises  the  pertinent  inquiry: 

— Is  this  the  earliest  form  of  society?    How 

rcame  the  race  to  adhere  together  in  families? 

Such  a  conception  as  the  family  argues  a  more 

Jugbly  organized,  social  atftbt.than  xecent, in- 


vestigations into  the  conditions  of  primitive 
man  would  seem  to  warrant.  The  old  theory, 
that  man  first  appears,  like  Pallas  from  the 
head  of  Jove,  fully  armed  and  equipped, 
complete  as  to  his  intellectual  and  moral  na- 
ture, has  been  called  in  question,  through 
closer  examination  of  his  first  stages  of  exis- 
tence, and  of  his  process  of  growth  in  accor 
dance  with  law?  How  then,  is  the  very 
existence  of  the  family  to  be  accrurted  for? 

"Two  theories  seem  to  lie  at  the  bottom 
of  all  writinj»8  on  Sociology.  The  cne,  while 
admitting  that  nations  may  retrograde,  argues 
that  the  condition  of  the  loweM  savages  to-day 
is  the  former  slate  of  the  most  highly  civilized 
races;  that  all  improvement  has  come  from 
Within;  and  that  the  various  degrees  of  de- 
velopment through  which  the  most  learned 
and  cultured  man  of  to  day  has  passed,  exist 
somewhere  at  the  present  time.  It  holds  that 
savages  are  seen  to  be  progressing,  and  that 
tnices  of  barbarism  as  seen  in  the  survival  of 
supei'stitions  are  everywhere  found  among 
civilized  nations. 

"The  other  theory  claims  that  savages  are 
the  descendants  of  civilized  races  who  have 
retrograded  from  their  former  proud ,  position 
and  have  lost  all  tradition  of  their  inheritance; 
that  their  religiotis  belief  is  a  survival  and 
corruption  of  Hevelation;  tliat  tliey  are  the 
outcasts  of  the  human  race,  'Desrendanta  of 
weak  tribes  driven  to  the  rocks  and  w<fods  by 
the  stranger.'  The  one  view  would  argue 
from  the  cases  of  tribes  without  any  religious 
belief,  if  any  such  there  l)e,  that  their  state 
must  be  primitive;  since  it  is  not  likely  tliat 
any  people  who  had  po88es.«ed  a  religious 
belief  would  entirely  lose  it.  The  other, 
having  once  started  man  m  his  onward 
career,  would  set  no  limits  to  his  fall. 

"In  the  opinion  of  many  writers  of  emi- 
nence who  hold  to  the  first  of  tliese  theories, 
the  family  seems  to  mark  an  advanced  stage 
of  civilization;  to  be,  indeed,  one  of  its 
products,  in  which  the  higher  nature  of  man 
plainly  asserts  itself.  They  argue  tliat  the 
ideas  and  practioes  of  existing  savage  races 
show  that  there  are  earlier  stages  through 
which  human  society  has  passed,  ))efore  dis- 
closing itself  as  organized  into  family  groups 
Tl>e  relation  between  the«cxes  has  lieen  shown 
to  exist  in  nearly  every  variety  of  form — 
from  the  lowest  license,  through  poyglamy 
and  the  various  forms  of  polyandria,  to  the 
present  permanent  union  known -as  mono- 
gamy—everywhere eo-existent  with  the  hiL'h- 
est  de^lopment  of  tile  raee.  Facts  whtdu 
though  long  ofp  observed;  have  only  recently 
been  classified  and  wrou^t  into  a  theory  ia 
Stt{^ort  of .  tihlB  iilew«  ace  numerous.^* 


THEOLOGY  AS  AN  ACADEMIC  DISCIPLINE. 


028 


THEOLOGY   AS  AN   ACADEMIC 
DISCIPLINE. 

IN"  TWO  PABT8. — PART  I. 

In  England  the  study  of  theology 
is  so  little  understood  and  cultivated 
that  a  plea  on  its  behalf  as  a  high  aca* 
demic  discipline  is  more  likely  to  be 
dismissed  with  amused  impatience  than 
soberly  discussed.  We  are  a  curious 
people,  inclined  to  religious  contro- 
versy, but  decidedly  disinclined  to  ap- 
ply science  in  religion.  Yet  these  may 
be  related  as  effect  and  cause,  for  con- 
troversies are  more  often  due  to  igno- 
rance than  to  knowledge,  and  conflicts 
in  the  dark  are  noisier  and,  possibly, 
more  exhilarating  than  conflicts  in  the 
light.  This,  we  are  assured,  is  an  age 
of  criticism; — so  it  would  be  were  it  not 
for  the  critics.  Our  critics,  indeed,  are 
most  skillful  workmen,  considering  the 
tools  they  have,  or  rather  have  not. 
Mr.  Matthew  Arnold  iis  here  our  fore- 
most craftsman,  and  not  being  an 
equipped  and  disciplined  theologian, 
he  hiis  been  able  to  essay  and  even  ac- 
complish bi-ave  things  on  the  field  of 
religious  criticism.  His  general  cul- 
ture has  given  him  a  fine  confidence  he 
miffht  have  lost  by  ^)ecial  training, 
and  so  he  has  exercised  his  rare  and 
excellent  gifts  unencumbered  by  the 
responsibilities  and  insight  of  a  too 
curious  or  too  sympathetic  knowledge. 

But,    as  was  said   of   old,    U^rri^y'ipiorot, 

Um  <(M<ti  «aAM«.  A  master  of  graeefal 
speech,  well  skilled  in  the  art  of 
amusing,  of  making  grave  subjects 
gay  and  solemn  persons  humorous, 
ne  has  shocked,  oantered,  tortured, 
instructed  tlie  British  Philistine, 
and  then,  with  fine  and  double-edged 
irony,  admonished  his  bewildered 
victims  to  be  sweetly  reasonable.  In 
religion  Mr.  Arnold  has  been  an  ear- 
nest but  hardly  a  serious  critic,  with 
canons  of  criticism  so  subjective  as  to 


mean  that  a  teacher  onght  to  instruct 
his  age  all  the  better  for  being  the 
standard  of  the  truth  he  teaches.  He 
has  been  so  essentially  a  preacher  in- 
tent on  mending  manners,  that  he  has 
never  escaped  from  those  whose  naanners 
he  wished  to  mend.  His  past  has  al- 
ways been  the  present,  and  history  the 
storehouse  whence  he  has  drawn  the 
means  of  awing,  chastising,  or  amusing 
it.  His  culture  is  too  conscious  of  it- 
self, and  so  too  borne,  too  local  and 
limited,  to  enable  him  critically  to 
handle  religion  as  distinguished  from 
religious  literature  and  character.  We 
may  admire  the  work  the  man  attempt- 
ed to  do  while  deploring  his  limita- 
tions. If  he  had  been  less  critical  of 
manners,  he  might  have  known  more 
of  man;  if  he  hiS  known  more  of  reli- 
gion, he  would  have  persuaded  men 
with  more  reason  and  greater  sweet- 
ness. 

But  Mr.  Arnold  must  not  be  allowed 
to  stand  here  in  solitude.  Professor 
Huxley  and  he  have  often  tilted  to- 
gether as  the  champions  respectively 
of  Science  and  Literature.  Mr.  Ar- 
nold loves  to  magnify  his  ignorance  of 
Science;  but  the  professor  has  on  many 
fields  proved  his  mastery  of  Letters. 
He  is  a  teacher  one  always  feels  it  a 
pleasure  to  learn  from;  for  his  massive 
common-sense  so  serves  as  a  sort  of 
universal  genius,  that,  however  much 
he  writes,  he  never  writes  nonsense. 
There  is  no  man  who  would  more 
sternly  warn  the  ignorant  off  his  own 
province,  though,  strangely,  there  is 
no  man  more  ready  to  invade  a  prov- 
ince so  little  his  own  as  that  of  the 
history  and  literature  of  religion* 
There,  indeed,  he  loves  to  disport  him- 
self in  a  state  not  very  remote  from  a 
state  of  nat^e,  though  he  so  well  un- 
derstands the  sartorial  art  as  to  seem  to 
the  passer-by  a  very  req)ectably  clothed 
man.  In  the  presence  of  such  a  re- 
markable phjenoaAenoa  a  studentof  men 


624 


TEE  LIBilARY  MAGAZIJSK 


and  morals  migM  be  inclined  to  start, 
as  something  more  than  a  carious,  as  a 
serious  and  significant  question,  this — 
why  men  will  not  only  tolerate,  but 
even  applaud  and  follow  practices  in 
the  theological  that  they  would  not  for 
a  moment  allow  in  the  physical  scien- 
ces? They  have  what  may  be  called  a 
scientific  conscience  in  the  one  case, 
but  not  in  the  other;  for  a  Uian  may, 
apparently  without  loss  of  reputation  or 
of  self-respect,  speak  in  theology  on 
terms  and  with  an  outfit  that  would 
make  him  ridiculous  in  biology.  Sup- 
pose some  dazed  divine,  belated  by 
much  study  of  Hebrew  roots,  or  philo- 
sophical or  historical  theology,  were 
suddenly  seized  with  a  fit  of  versatility, 
and  began  to  coach  himself  in  Darwin, 
Spencer,  and  Huxlej,  and,  thus  fur- 
nished, were  to  publish  in  the  pages  of 
some  enlightened  review  a  series  of 
essays  on  the  Evolution  of  Man,  one 
may  faintly  imagine  the  cachinnations 
with  which  scieutific  societies  and  sa- 
vans  would  greet  his  achievement — if, 
indeed,  profanity  so  gi'oss  could  pro- 
voke to  mirth  bodies  so  grave^ 

Yet  Professor  Huxley  has  recently 
favored  us  with  a  performance  which 
hardly  rises  above  this  level.  He  is  a 
distiuguished  polemic,  and  he  proved 
his  resource  and  prowess  by  storming 
a  position  which  a  statesman  with  theo- 
logical proclivities  might  defend,  but 
which  no  scientific  theologian  would 
occupy,  or  indeed  recognize  as  a  posi- 
tion at  all.  It  was  a  very  pretty  fight 
between  laymen  (the  word  is  not  used 
in  its  clerical  sense),  but,  like  laymen's 
battles  everywhere,  it  was  fought  on 
ifisues  both  false  and  irrelevant,  and 
with  results  significant  of  nothing  but 
the  skill  of  the  combatants.  The  pro- 
fessor, having  put  on  his  fighting  gear, 
was  not  going  to  put  it  hastily  off,  and 
so  he  resolved  to  advance  to  something 
positive,  a  theory  as  to  the  Evolution 
of  Theology,  which  was  to  be  worked 


out  and  verified  in  the  comparative 
method.  The  problem  was  simple  to 
him,  for  he  was  a  simple  man  to  the 
problem,  not  seeing  its  complexity,  or 
the  delicacy  of  the  process  needed  to 
ascertain  the  factors  necessary  to  its 
solution.  He  had  got  up  enough  of 
Reuss,  Kuenen,  and  Wellhauscn  to 
serve  his  purpose;  but  he  had  master- 
ed neither  the  linguistic,  nor  the  liter- 
ary, BOr  the  historical,  nor  the  relijd- 
ous  material  required  for  the  scientific 
handling  of  the  theory,  to  say  nothing 
of  its  proof.  The  theory  came  to  be 
througn  the  absence  of  science;  a  little 
thorougher  knowledge  would  have 
made  tb^  very  statement  of  it  impossi- 
ble. It  is  something  more  than  a  plea- 
sure ^- if  *fs''^Mi-i&piration — to  see  9 
masterly  spirit  exercised  over  our  deep- 
est problems;  but  what  is  needed  for 
their  solution  is  masterliness  penetrat- 
ed and  guided  by  full  and  accurate 
knowledge. 

Now,  what  we  need  here  is  a  scien- 
tifip  conscience,  as  sensitive -to  the  in- 
terference of  the  tyro  or  the  untrained 
in  the  field  of  religions  as  in  the  field 
of  mathematical  or  physical  inquiry. 
We  often  hear  of  the  feebleness,  per- 
haps senility,  of  Newton,  the  student 
of  prophecy,  as  compared  with  the 
strength  and  clear  intellect  of  Newton, 
the  intei*preter  of  nature  and  discov- 
erer of  natural  law.  But  the  contrast 
may  be  repeated,  though  the  student's 
handling  of  the  Bible  be  as  free  as 
Newton  s  was  reverent.  There  is  a 
want  of  seriousness,  because  a  want  of 
the  thoroughness  and  veracity  of  sci- 
ence, in  our  religious  thought  and 
criticism.  There  is  nothing  so  funda- 
mentally divisive  as  superficial  misun- 
derstanding ;  because  of  it  the  attitude 
to  religion  is  meanly  polemical  on  the 
one  side,  and  narrowly  apologetic  on 
the  other.  Science  and  culture  have  a 
contempt  for  theology,  if  not  for 
theologians;  theology  has   a  suspicion 


THEOLOGY  AS  AN  ACADEMIC  DISCIPLINE. 


625 


of  the  methods  of  science  and  the  spirit 
of  culture,  even  though  many  of  the 
men  that  most  adorn  science  best  illus- 
ti-ate  piety.  Now,  we  must  correct 
this  evil,  that  the  greater  evils  it  helps 
to  occasion  may  be  corrected;  and  the 
correction  is  to  come,  not  by  keeping 
theology  and  the  sciences  apart,  but 
by  bringing  them  together,  that  they 
may,  as  related  and  co-ordinated  de- 
partmenta  of  knowledge,  learn  to  know, 
respect,  supplement,  and  explain  each 
other.  In  other  words,  theology 
ouglit  to  be  an  academic  discipline  and 
a  living  science;  and  to  be  either,  it 
must  be  both.  Only  of  the  progress- 
ive student  of  a  progressing  science 
can  we  say  with  Augustine :  ^^Melior 
meliorque  fit  qumrens  tarn  magnum 
bo7ium,  quod  et  inveniendum  qucaritur 
et  quarendum  invenitur.  Nam  et 
quQsritury  ut  inveniatur  dulcius,  et  in- 
venitur,  ut  quceratur  avidius,^^ 

1. 

1. — "Academic"  is  here  used  to  de- 
note the  studies  and  discipline  proper 
to  the  university,  as  distinguished 
from  those  peculiar  to  the  sectional 
seminary  or  clerical  school.  These 
differ  both  as  regards  the  discipline 
they  give  and  the  knowledge  which  is 
its  instrument,  or  more  simply  in  the 
quality  of  the  education  and  the  char- 
acter of  the  sciences  which  educate. 
But  these  things  are  so  related  that 
what  is  good  for  either  is  good  for  both: 
to  educate  is  to  quicken  and  develop 
mind,'  and  the  only  sciences  that  can 
really  educate  are  those  that  live  and 
grow  in  the  hands  of  the  student  and 
teacher.  Dead  sciences  generate  no  life, 
and  so  cultivate  no  man;  and  sciences 
are  dead  when  they  have  ceased  to 
grow,  or  to  be  handled  as  living  things. 
Now,  there  is  nothing  more  dead  than 
School  Divinity— i.  e.,  divinity  made 
for  the  schools  out  of  texts  and  formu- 
he  framed   by  fathers,  counoils,  amd 


schoolmen,  whose  authority  has  become 
explicitly  or  .implicity  the  bulwark 
against  heterodoxy  and  unbelief.  It  is  a 
n^anufactured  article,  carefully  articu- 
lated and  elaborated  to  the  last  degree, 
with  the  truth  stated  in  well-balanced 
and  rigorous  propositions,  and  proved  by 
a  series  of  cumulative  arguments,  which 
are  in  turn  followed,  in  order  to  greater 
thoroughness,  by  an  exhaustive  and 
detailed  enumeration  of  all  actual  and 
possible  objections,  though  only  that 
they  may  be  rounded  off  by  a  sufficien- 
cy, or  rather  superabundance,  of  vic- 
torious answers.  The  divinity,  as  bad 
science,  is  not  good  theology;  but  it  is 
made  worse  by  being  taught  in  an  ex* 
elusive  seminary.  Were  the  men  who 
are  doomed  to  learn  it  forced  to  live 
in  a  free  academic  air,  it  might  be 
made  comparatively  innocuous  ;  but  in 
the  close  atmosphere  of  a  separate 
school  it  is  allowed  to  do  its  work  un- 
neutralized.  The  men  are  instnicted, 
but  not  disciplined;  they  may  be  drill- 
ed, as  the  eemiuHry  priest  almost  al- 
ways is,  in  theological  dialectics  with* 
out  being  educated  into  and  bv  a 
knowledge  of  theology.  The  system 
that  has  never  withstood  the  criticism 
of  an  age  does  not  live  to  the  age's  in- 
tellect;  but  this  criticism  is  exactly  the 
thing  that  cannot  be  allowed  to  pene- 
trate and  profane  the  precincts  sacred 
to  scholasticism.  The  objections  so 
exhaustively  stated  and  victoriously 
answered  in  the  textbooks  of  school 
divinity  never  lived;  they  died  in  pass- 
ing through  the  mind  of  the  sUbool- 
man.  A  hostile  mind  conceives  an  ob- 
jection only  to  kill  it;  however  consci- 
entiously statod,  it  is  stated  only  to  be 
answered;  and  so  it  is  made  to  seem 
to  live  simply  that  it  may  the  more 
demonstrably  be  seen  to  die.  For 
difficulties  to  be  understood  and  really 
felt,  they  must  be  met  as  they  live  ai-d 
move,  speak  and  persuade,  in  To 
•world  of  articulated   thought,  wi*.^o 


626 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


they  have  all  the  potencies  of  real 
things.  But  they  can  be  so  met  only 
if  theology  lives  face  to  face  3^ith  the 
sciences  and  arts,  at  once  sharing  in 
their  life  and  shaping  it.  The  worst 
way  to  keep  a  faith  vital  and  pure  is 
to  isolate  the  men  who  are  to  teach  it 
from  the  men  they  are  to  teach, 
while  both  are  still  in  process  of  forma- 
tion/ The  master  m  theology  will 
teach  all  the  better  that  he  has  to 
form'  and  inform  minds,  not  simply 
docile,  but  deeply  moved  and  exercised 
about  the  principles  and  truths  and 
problems  of  his  science;  and  his  pupils 
will  be  all  the  stronger  and  wiser  men 
that  they  were  forced  to  encounter 
and  overcome,  in  classroom  and  study, 
their  great  intellectual  difficulties,  not 
waiting  to  be  found  by  them  at  a  later 
and  more  defenceless  day, 

2. — Theology,  then,  needs  the  uni- 
versity to  keep  it  living,  in  touch  with 
all  the  sciences^  face  to  face  with  all 
the  problems  that  to-day  exercise 
thought,  and  at  once  perplex  and  in- 
spire the  spirit.  But  the  necessity  is 
mutual,  lor  the  university  no  less 
needs  theology'  to  make  its  circle  of 
the  sciences  complete,  to  fill  its  studies 
with  ideal  contents  and  ends,  to  hu- 
manize education  by  baptizing  it  in  the 
transcendental  and  divine.  Of  course 
the  study  of  theology  in  the  nniver- 
sitv  does  not  here  mean  the  dominance 
of  a  church;  it  means  very  much  the 
opposite.  If  the  history  of  religious 
and  academical  thought  in  England 
proves- anything,  it  is  this,  that  the 
supremacy  of  the  church  led  to  the 
decay  of  theology.  The  Act  of  Uni- 
formity wtis  one  of  those  blunders 
which  are  fatal  most  of  all  to  the  men 
who  blundered,  and  the  dismal  age  of 
the  universities  is  coincident  with  the 
golden  age  of  ecclesiastical  sovereignty. 
Theology,  to  be  an  academic  discipline, 
must  not  fear  the  open  ways  and  high 
argument  of  the  acad^mj^  but  miust 


seek  to  rule,  if  it  rule  at  all,  by  its  dig- 
nity as  a  science  and  its  supremacy  iss 
truth.  -  Cardinal  Newman  thus  sums  up 
the  view  he  takes  of  '*a  universitv  iu 
its  essence,  and  independently  of  Us 
relation  to  the  church:" 

**It  is  a  place  of  teachiug  universal  knowl- 
edge. Tills  imp.ies  tlwt  Us  object  ts  on  the 
one  hand,  Intel  ectual,  not  mornl:  and.  on  tlie 
other,  that  it  is  tiic  ditfnsion  and  extension  of 
knowledge  rather  than  the  advancement  If 
its  object  were  scienttiic  and  philosophical 
discovery,  I  do  not  see  ^hy  a  uni-emly 
should  have  fitudcnt«:  if  rcli.uious  training,  I 
do  not  see  how  it  can  be  the  seat  of  literature 
and  science." — TAe  Idea  of  a  UnitrrtHy. 

Now,  this  view  is,  in  about  equal 
proportions,  correct  and  incorrect.  It 
18  correct  in  saying  that  a  university  is 
"a  place  of  teaching  universal  knowl- 
edge," but  incorrect  in  saying  that  its 
object  is  *'the  diffusion  and  extension 
of  knowledge  rather  than  the  advance- 
ment." Its  object  is  both;  it  cannot 
fulfill  the  one  unless  it  aims  at  the  other. 
To  teach  knowledge  really,  w^e  must 
endeavor  to  advance  it.  AVhero  "sci- 
entific and  philosophical  discovery"  is 
most  active,  there  students  will  be  best 
educated,  and  there  tliey  ought  to  be 
in  greatest  numbers.  The  weakness 
of  the  English  universities  hjis  been 
their  fidelity  to  the  eardinars  ideal. 
Had  they  been  more  places  of  discov- 
ery, they  would  hrve  been  better  places 
of  education;  had  thev  done  more  for 
the  advancement  of  knowledge,  they 
would,  great  and  noble  as  their  influ- 
ence is,  have  exercised  a  greater  and  a 
nobler  influence  over  the  thought  and 
life  of  England.  Science,  of  course, 
does  not  here  mean  the  physical  sci- 
ences; it  means  knowledge  as  a  whole. 
Literature  and  science  ought  not  to  be 
conceived  as  antitheses ;  literature  is 
science,  and  science  is  literary.  Philol- 
ogy is  as  essentially  a  science  as  palae- 
ontology ;  and  there  is  more  knowl- 
edge of  man,  his  nature,  home,  ways 
and  motives    of  action,  to  be  gained 


THEOLOGY  AS  AN  ACADEMIC  Dls^UIPLINE. 


627 


from  the  living  study  of  classical 
literature  and  philosophy  than  from 
the  most  extensive  researches  into  the 
ancient  forms  and  conditions  of  life 
on  our  planet.  These  sciences  are  dif- 
ferent^ and  so  dissimilar;  but  they  are 
not  opposed.     Each  has  its  own  specific 

,  province ;  but  in  the  degree  that  it 
finds  there  real  and  enriching .  knowl- 
edge, it  is  a  real  and  educative  science. 
If,  then,  ''universal  knowledge"  is  to 
be  taught,  all  the  sciences  must  be  cul- 
tivated; and  a  university,  to  fulfill  the 
one  duty,  must  aim  no  less  at  the 
other.  Her  teachers  ought  to  be,  not 
the  bond-slaves  or  doleful  drudges  of 

•  examiners,  but  the  men  fitted  at  once 
to  advance  add  communicate  knowl- 
edge; and  her  students,  men  who  seek 
the  higher  humanity  that  comes  by 
culture,  and  the  culture  that  comes 
from  fellowship  with  the  foremost  liv- 
ing minds,  whether  these  minds  be  in- 
tei-preters  of  nature,  or  ancient  litera- 
ture, or  living  men. 

3. — On  this  ground,  then,  the  uni- 
versity needs  theology  as  much  a 
theology  needs  the  university.  With- 
out theology,  the  university  were 
incomplete,  destitute  —  not  of  one 
science  simply,  but  of  a  vast  circle  of 
sciences,  more  than  any  other  neces- 
sary to  the  full  and  true  interpretation 
of  man  and  his  universe.  Without  the 
university  theology,  were  without  a  fit 
place  to  be  stuuied,  and  fit  men  to 
study  it  If  it  is  to  be  a  science,  it 
must  not  fear  to  stand  among  the 
sciences;  and  if  it  is  to  be  an  educative 
study,  it  must  be  studied  by  the  edu- 
catea.  Men  may  understand  religion 
by  living  it;  and  that  is  an  understand- 
ing possible  to  all  men,  and  incumbent 
upon  all;  but  to  know  theology  as  the 
science  of  religion,  its  reason,  rights, 
iistory,  truths,  symbols — to  follow  its 
methods,  grasp  its  problems,  master 
its  range,  relations,  and  limitations, 
jrequires  a  qualified  intellect^  and  dis- 


ciplined faculties.     Here,  if  anywhere, 
exercise  in  the  Humanities  ought  to 
precede  the  special  discipline  of  the 
school;    where   it  does   not,    we   may 
have  a  dogmatist,  but  uot  a  divine. 
Indeed,  to  no  other  science  is  a  liberal 
culture  so  absolute  a  necessity,  for  no 
other  science  is  so  nearly  universal — so 
touches  and  is  so  touched  by  all  the 
rest.      Theology   cuuujt    dwell    apart 
and  be  a  sepaiate  field  of  knowledge. 
If  it  were  to  disclaim  all  connection 
with  and  concern  in  the  other  sciences, 
it  would  simply  invite  them  to  blot  its 
name  out  of  the  book  of   life.     All 
speculation,  physical  or  metaphysical, 
as  to  matter  or  being  touches  tne  exist- 
ence and  idea  of  God;  every  theory  as 
to  the  genesis  and  age  of  the  heavens 
and  the  earth  raises  questions  as  to 
creation  and  providence ;  all  inquiries 
as  to  the  history,  progress,  civilizations, 
and   religions  of   man    affect,  at  one 
point  or  another,  doctrines,  beliefs,  or 
institutions    of     Christianity ;     every 
branch  of  social,  political,  and  moral 
thought  and  research  leads  straight  In- 
to the  heart  of  religion — nay,   every 
phase  of  criticism  in  literature  and  art 
stands  somehow  related  to  principles 
and  truths  which  belong  to  theology. 
And   this  universality,  though  it  may 
seem  its  weakness,  proves  its  strength 
and  greatness.     What  so  penetrates  all 
sections  and  subjects  of  human  thought, 
has  a  deep  root  in  human  nature  and 
an  immense  hold  upon  it.     W^hat  so 
possesses  man's  mind   that  he  cannot 
think  at  all  without  thinking  of  it,  is 
so  bound  up  with  the  very  being  of  in- 
telligence tnat  ere  it  can  perish,  intel- 
lect must  cease  to  be.     Science  and  re- 
ligion have  no  conflict,  though  theories, 
of  science  and  views  of  religion ,  have 
had  many— always,  indeed,  in  the  long 
run,  to  their  mutual  benefit;  and  they 
will  have  many  more.     Men  who,  in 
the  interests  of  faith,  dread  and  depre- 
cate these  coBflicts,  may  be  sure  of  one 


028 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


thing — were  there  no  such  collisions, 
they  would  have  greater  cause  for  fear, 
for  it  would  signify  that  theology  had 
lost  all  its  roots  in  reason,  and  so  all 
its  rights  to  reign.  Sovereignty  has 
its  burdens  as  well  is  its  honors,  and 
the  Queen  of  the  sciences  can  hope  to 
keep  her  throne,  especially  in  times  of 
advancing  knowledge,  only  by  rigorous 
criticism  of  her  own  claims,  excision  of 
the  -fictitious  or  the  decayed,  and  the 
development  of  the  new  energies  and 
adaptations  needed  for  vigorous  survi- 
val. 

11. 

But  to  make  the  discussion  signifi- 
cant it  must  become  specific;  the  state- 
ment, the  university  needs  theology, 
means  nothing  till  we  understand  what 
theology  signifies  and  comprehends. 
It  is  here  used  to  denote  a  science 
whose  field  is  co-extensive  with  the 
problems  and  history  of  religion;  and 
we  may  say  of  the  science,  as  of  re- 
ligion, that,  since  it  has  to  do  with 
every  region  of  thought  and  relation  of 
life,  whatever  concerns  man  concerns 
it.  It  is  not  one  science,  but  an  im- 
mense circle  of  sciences ;  and  while 
they  are  all  so  related  internally  as  to 
constitute  an  organic  whole,  they  are 
so  related  externally  as  to  assume  and 
require  the  existence  of  an  equally 
large  circle  of  auxiliary  sciences.  To 
make  this  statement  clear  or  intelligi- 
ble, we  must  attempt  to  explain  tne 
idea  and  scope  of  theology. 

1. — Theology  may  be  described  as 
the  explication  and  articulation  of  the 
idea  of  God,  or  the  interpretation  of 
Nature,  Man,  and  History  through 
that  idea.  So  conceived,  its  primary 
problem  is  to  find,  prove,  and  construe 
the  idea;  or  to  discuss  how  and  whence 
it  comes,  why  it  is  to  be  believed,  what 
it  means  and  contains,  and  how  it 
ought  to  be  formulated.  This  is  the 
-''gion  of  pure  or  speculative  theology 


— i.e.y  the  region  where  it  deals  with 
its  ultimate  principles  as  pure  rathei 
than  abstract  ideas,  at  once  involved 
in  thought  and  evolved  from  it.  Here 
is  the  point  where  it  both  merges  in 
philosophy  and  transcends  it.  Every 
philosophical  system  must  face  Ihe  the-^ 
istic  question,  the  very  refusal  to  do  so 
carrying  with  it  an  indirect  yet  real 
determination;  but  no  svRtem,  as  pure- 
ly philosophical,  can  fully  unfold  or 
explicate  the  idea.  The  attitude  to 
this  as  the  ultimate  depends  on  the  an- 
swer to  the  primary  question  in  phil- 
osophy: What  are  the  conditions  and 
what  the  nature  of  knowledge?  If  the 
answer  be  the  Empirical,  then  the  con- 
clusion as  to  God  must  be  either  scep- 
tical or  nescient^ — i.e.,  the  system  mupt 
end  either  in  reasoned  doubt  or  reason- 
ed ignorance;  the  term  God  being  to 
the  one  but  the  symbol  of  the  indeter- 
minable; to  the  other,  of  the  unknown 
and  unknowable.  If  the  answer  be 
the  Transcendental,  then  the  ultimate 
problem  will  be  the  determination  of 
the  idea,  how  God  is  to  be  conceived, 
how  his  relation  to  the  universe  con- 
strued and  represented.  Thus  Hume's 
doctrine  of  impressions  and  ideas"  is 
the  very  premiss  of  his  sceptical  con- 
clusion. Grant  it,  and  no  other  infer- 
ence is  possible ;  and  Mr.  Spencer's 
theory  as  to  "states  of  consciousness," 
which  are  symbols*  of  an  outside  un- 
known reality,  or  '*vivid"  and  "faint" 
manifestations  of  the  unknown,  is  the 
basis  of  his  agnosticism,  real  knowl- 
edge of  the  ultimate  reality  being  im- 
possible to  the  man  who  builds  on  ig- 
norance of  the  primary.  Thus  pure 
theology  must  be  philosophical,  and 
discuss  whether  the  empirical  or  the 
transcendental  be  the  truer  solution  of 
the  problem  of  knowledge,  in  order 
that  it  may  discover  whether  its  idea 
be  given  in  reason,  the  neces3ary  at 
once  condition  and  object  of  thought. 
But  it    cannot    leave  the  question 


THEOLOGY  AS  AN  ACADEMIC  DISCIPLINE. 


629 


where  philosophy  may  be  content  to 
leave  it ;  it  must  formulate  and  expli- 
cate its  idea — whether  is  God  to  be 
conceived  as  immanent  or  transcen- 
dent, or  as  both?  If  as  immanent,  the 
result  will  be  one  of  the  multitudinous 
forms  of  what  is  called  Pantheism, 
either  losing  all  in  God  {akosmism),  or 
resolving  God  into  the  All  { Theopant- 
ism).  If  as  transcendent,  the  outcome 
will  be  either  Abstract  Theism,  which 
makes  God  and  the  world  separate 'and 
inter-independent;  or  some  theory  of 
artificial  and  mechanical  relation  —  a 
doctrine  of  pre-established  harmony, 
or  an  unreasoned  miraculous  superna- 
turalism.  If  as  both,  then  the  conplu- 
sion  will  be  a  Natural  I'heism,  which 
so  interlaces  God  and  the  world  that 
it  cannot  be  without  Him,  or  He  be 
interpreted  and  conceived  without  it. 
But  to  determine  the  relation  of  the 
world  and  God  ia  but  to  raise  a  multi- 
tude of  questions  touching  His  provi- 
dence or  government.  Is  Optimism  qi" 
Pessimism  the  truer  theory  of  life?  or 
is  there  not  room  for  a  third  which 
recognizes  equally  the  sad  realities  that 
create  the  one  and  the  Supreme  Good 
that  justifies  the  other?  Then,  how 
ought  man  to  stand  related  to  his  Goil? 
What  is  the  ideal  of  religion,  and  how 
far  does  it  furnish  a  law  of  life?  Thus 
pure  theology,  which  begins  with  the 
deepest  problems  as  to  knowledge,  ends 
with  the  most  radical  and  vital  ques- 
tions in  ethics— out  of  it  is  built  not 
simply  a  theory  of  the  universe,  but  a 
rule  of  conduct,  an  ideal  of  the  perfect 
life.  It  remains  throughout  specula- 
tive or  philosophical  by  being  reasoned, 
a  creation  of  thought  deduced  from 
the  very  nature  of  the  thought  that 
creates  it ;  but  it  at  once  transcends 
and  is  distinguished  from  philosophy 
by  interpreting  the  universe  and  its 
history  through  the  idea  of  God.  The 
idea  philosophy  enabled  it  to  win  it 
us^s  to  transcend  philosophy,  consti-u- 


ing  man  and  time  from  the  standpoint, 
as  it  were,  of  God  and  eternity.  And 
so  the  idea  becomes  the  regulative  or 
organizing  principle  which  the  body 
of  the  theological  sciences  but  articu- 
lates. They  are  its  completed  explica- 
tion ;  it  is  their 'latent  or  immanent 
form.  The  speculation  v^hich  does  not 
explain  man  is  illusory ;  the  theory 
that  best  interprets  history  is  the 
theory  that  best  expresses  the  truth. 

2. — Pure  or  speculative  theology  is 
thus  but  preparatory  to  Applied  or 
Historical,  and  if  pure  reposes  on  and 
rises  out  of  philosophy,  applied  seeks 
the  help  of  many  sciences,  aud  lives 
only  as  it  secures  it.  The  theologian, 
when  he  turns  to  history,  is  met  by  a 
whole  wonderland  of  knowledge;  the 
religions  of  man  lie  before  him.  Ee- 
ligion  is  the  thing  most  characteristic 
of  man;  it  is  as  old  and  as  extensive  as 
the  race — universal  in  its  being,  but 
infinite  in  its  varieties.  To  look  at  it, 
as  it  were,  in  the  mass,  is  to  raise  many 
questions:  What  is  it?  Whence  is  it? 
why  is  it?  What  is  the  law  or  laws  of 
its  development?  How  have  these 
endless  varieties  of  religious  faith  and 
practice  arisen?  The  answer  to  these 
questions  is  the  work  of  a  special  disci- 
pline— the  Philosophy  of  Religion ; 
and  here  the  differences  of  the  funda- 
mental philosophies  are  curiously  but 
faithfully  reflected.  The  empiricist 
must  derive  religion  from  a  source  in 
harmony  with  his  sensuous  theory  of 
knowledge ;  either,  like  the  older 
school,  from  fear,  prompting  to  pro- 
pitiation and  flattery,  or,  like  the  later, 
from  belief  in  ghosts,  a  belief  due  to 
the  misinterpretation  of  subjective 
phenomena  and  the  consequent  wor- 
ship of  ancestors.  And  the  transcen- 
dentalist  must  no  less  trace  it  to  a 
source  agreeable  to  his  cardinal  doc- 
trine, that  man  is  reason,  and  must 
articulate  the  reason  he  is  in  language 
and  religion,  society  and  history.     As 


eao 


THE  LIBRA]  .Y  MAGAZINE. 


is  the  theory  of  the  origin,  so  must  be 
the  conception  of  the  nature;  a  religion 
derived  from  ghostly  fears  must  be  a 
system  of  more  or  less  rationalized  illu- 
sions, while  a  religion  that  expresses  a 
more  or  less  latent  or  developed  reason 
must  have  reason  at  its  heart,  however 
much  distorted  or  concealed. 

But  whatever  the  philosophy,  it  must 
be  tested  by  fact ;  and  surely  no  in- 
quirer ever  had  so  immense  or  so  com- 
plex a  problem  to  resolve  as  this  of  the 
religions  of  man.  Two  methods  may 
be  followed  :  the  ethnographic,  or  the 
historical.  The  ethnographic  consists 
of  the  comparative  study  of  savage  or 
natural  people  with  a  view  to  the  dis- 
covery of  the  pi'imary  or  rudimentary 
forms  of  religious  custom  and  belief; 
the  historical  consists  of  the  retrogress- 
ive and  analytic  study  of  the  religions 
of  history,  in  order  that  their  most 
archaic  forms  and  elements  may  be  dis- 
covered, the  principle  and  ratio  of 
growth  ascertained,  as  well  as  the  causes 
and  conditions  of  decay.  The  ethno- 
graphic has  no  historical,  and  so  no 
scientific  value — it  has  been  used  only 
to  illustrate  an  imaginary  theory  con- 
cerning an  imaginary  state ;  but  the 
historical  is  the  scientific  method,  for 
it  is  the  study  of  religions  as  they  ac- 
tually lived  and  grew,  acted  on  man 
and  wore  a^^ted  on  by  him.  These, 
then,  the  theologian  has  to  investigate, 
and,  if  possible,  understand ;  and  to 
understand  a  religion  is  to  understand 
at  once  its  people  and  their  history. 
People  and  religion  must  be  studied 
together,  in  their  home  and  history,  as 
aifectiug  and  affected  by  eaeh  other,  as 
modified  by  geographical  and  cliniatic 
conditions,  ethnical  relations  intellec- 
tual movements,  political  and  social 
changes  and  causes.  To  investigate 
religions  in  the  historical  method  is 
thus  t©  inquire  into  their  action  in  his- 
tory, and  in  the  progress  and  civiliza- 


tion of  man;  with  the  result  that  we 
obtain  data  for  a  twofold  philosophy — 
one  of  religions  and  another  of  history. 
The  later  ought  to  show  the  place  and 
function  of  each  religion,  and  the  peo- 
ple it  has  created  and  governed,  in  the 
order  of  the  world  ;  while  the  province 
of  the  former  is  to  determine  the  rela- 
tion of  each  real  to  the  ideal  religion,  and 
to  discover  its  essential  constituents  or 
character,  the  secret  or  cause  of  its. 
peculiar  influence  and  distinctive  work. 
This  theological  discipline,  or  series  of 
disciplines,  ends,  then,  in  a  new  anal- 
ogy, with,  a  brojwier  basis  and  vaster 
induction  than  Butler's.  It  builds  on 
the  nature  of  man,  transcendental  yet 
conditioned  and  developed  by  experi- 
ence, so  essentially  religious  that  it 
cannot  but  realize  a  religion,  the  rery 
attempt  of  men  and  peoples  to  break 
away  from  an  ancestral  or  historical 
faith  but  resulting  in  ^an  endeavor  to 
find  one  happier  and  better  fitted  to 
the  new  and  larger  spirit.  It  is  not  in 
any  man  or  people's  choice  to  deter- 
mine whether  they  will  or  will  not 
have  a  religion;  they  must  have  one; 
He  who  made  nature  made  that  sure: 
but  they  may,  though  a  people's  choice 
ia  a  thing  of  centuries,  determine  what 
or  what  sort  of  religion  it  shall  be. 
And  this  is  where  the  deductive  erokes 
the  inductive  process ;  religion  being 
proved  a  necessity  of  nature,  history 
must  show  which  of  all  the  mighty 
multitude  of  religions  is  the  fittest  for 
man.  It  will  be  but  reasonable  if  we 
find  that  where  there  is  most  ideal 
truth,  there  also  is  most  real  worth  ; 
and  so  by  a  natural  transition  the  stu- 
dent passes  over  to  the  study  of  the  re- 
ligion of  Christ,  or  that  of  God  in  hu- 
manity and  humanity  in  God,  where 
the  ideas  of  immanence  and  transcen- 
dence are  at  once  expressed  and  recon- 
ciled.— A.  M.  Fairbairn,  D.D.,  in 
Tlie  Contemporary  Revieto. 


EGYPT  ON  THE  EVE  OF  THE  ENGLISH  INVASlOiN. 


631 


EGYPT   ON  THE  EVE   OF  THE 
ENGLISH  INVASION.  ♦ 

Before  entering  upon  the  proper 
subject  of  our  intjuiry,  it  will  be  nec- 
essary to  give  a  brief  description  of  tl'ie 
condition  of  Egypt  and  its  government 
from  the  time  that  Mohammed  All 
Pasha  .came  to  the  throne^  till  the 
commencement  of  the  rising  under 
Arabi,  which  was  followed  by  the 
entrance  of  the  British  troops  into  the 
valley  of  the  Nile.  This  will  enable 
us  to  show  the  state  of  the  Egyptian 
people  and  their  transition  from  a 
condition  of  general  comfort  to  one  of 
great  hartlship,  the  ruin  brought  upon 
them  and  their  country,  and  the  in- 
timate relation  of  th^  government  to 
their  state  of  civilization  during  these 
changes;  as  well  as  the  growth  of  the 
foreign  element,  and  its  control  over 
affairs,  from  the  time  that  Earopeans 
came  into  Egypt  and  their  influence 
increased,  till  they  acquired  the  pre- 
eminence which  they  attained,  ^d 
seized,  as  by  the  arts  of  the  fisher,  the 
various  public  offices,  to' the  injury  of 
the  country  at  large  and  of  the  felialiin 
in  particular. 

It  is  well-known  that  the  Eg3rptian 
Govemment  is  completely  bound  up 
and  intiuiately  connected  with  the 
Ottoman  Government,  which  'wields 
the  spiritual  power  over  the' kingdoms 
of  Islam;  and  that  Egypt  only  obtained 

*  To  this  paper  is  prefixed  the'follovrlng 
note  by  the  edkor  <rf  the  ^kottiah  nevieit:-— 
•*The  foUovviui;  arlicle  ha»  been  seal  to  us  by 
a  writer  in  E^^ypt,  whose  oame  wo  are  not  at 
libeitv  to  divulge,  but  which,  if  known, 
would,  we  are  sure,  from  the  social  and 
literary  position  ho  occupies,  lend  weight  and 
iuterest  to  his  wonls.  The  translation — for 
the  article  reached  us  in  Arabic — is  from  the 
hand  of  Dr.  Robertson,  Professor  of  Oriental 
LanguftDces  in  the  University  of  Glasgow." — 
The  reader  will  And  in  this  article  a  curious 
specimen  of  Arabic  composition  — £d.  Lib. 
Mag. 


its  distinguishing  privileges  [C(  Tsat;:- 
tion]  wheu^  [in  1811],  the  power  ciime 
into  the  hands  of  Mohammed  All  Pasha. 
This  Prince  used  the  political  conces- 
sions which  were  made  to  hi  in,  :is  the 
basis  of  those  magnificent  undertakings 
which  became  of  universal  benefit  and 
clothed  the  country  in  the  garb  of 
comfort  and  luxury.  Nor  was  he, 
while  reforming  his  age  and  clearing 
the  atmosphere  of  darkening  clouds, 
inattentive  to  the  condition  of  his 
subjects,  or  slack  to  take  measures  for 
their  advancement  and  for  tlie  pros- 

Eerity  of  the  country.  On  the  contrary, 
e  was  most  assiduous  in  his  labors  to 
produce  love  in  the  hearts  of  all  who 
were  overshadowed  by  the  flag  of  hia 
justice;  and,  by  the  firmness  of  his 
courage  and  the  greatness  of  his  power, 
he  wiped  out  those  national  iealousies 
which,  before  the  sunrise  of  his  guid- 
ance, had  thrown  the  country  into  a 
bed  of  inactivity.  He  aimed  at  pro- 
ducing harmony  among  his  subjects, 
and  planted  the  principles  of  human 
brotherhood  in  hearts  that  were  mutu- 
ally estranged  and  in  sects  that  wore 
widely  parted.  He  lifted  from  off  the 
Copts  the  awning  of  servitude;  and 
placed  many  of  them  in  secretaries' 
offices,  breaking  from  their  necks  the 
chains  of  religious  inferiority.  He 
removed  the  restraints  of  party  feeling 
by  directing  men's  minds  to  the  prac- 
tice of  their  common  duties.  Thus 
discord  was  supplanted  by  universal 
union;  and  the  love  of  tlteir  race  and 
attachment  to  their  country  took  poj8-. 
session  of  the  hearts  of  the  wbpj^ 
Egyptian  people,  who  strove  after  dit* 
interestedness  in  action,  and  actuated 
by  a  desire  for  the  common  good,  were 
united  against  i\ie  conniptions  which 
had  hitherto  workel  ruin. 

Then  affairs  in  general  felt  the 
influence  of  him  that  dire<*ted  tl'em> 
and  the  people  cast  behind  their  backa 
their  evu  passions  and  {Qliig$,     For 


C33 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


every  individual  observed  that,  in  what- 
ever he  did,  and  in  all  his  conduct,  the 
profit  of  his  actions  came  back  to  him- 
self in  the  return  of  advantage  to  his 
countrv,  under  the  shadow  of  whose 
abundance  he  grew  up  and  on  the 
breast  of  whose  resources  and  blessiuffs 
he  was  nourished.  This  admirable 
Prince,  whenever  he  was  witness  of  an 
evil  tendency  in  any  direction,  used 
to  correct  it  in  his  noble  person,  in 
order  to  be  a  terror  to  the  people  lest 
they  should  break  away  from  the  paths 
of  guidance.  Therefore  he  looked  into 
the  cause  of  the  weak  and  resolved 
their  difficulties  by  the  light  of  his 
reason,  cutting  with  the  sword  of 
justice  the  necks  of  those  who  pros- 
pered by  oppression.  So  his  fear  fell 
upon  the  people  and  his  word  became 
powerful  in  the  world;  and  no  wonder, 
since  he  was  a  shepherd  treating  his 
fock  with  equity  and  mercy;  and  as 
the  consequence  of  his  sincere  desire 
for  their  good,  he  had  the  merit  of 
having  prosperity  guaranteed  by  his 
footstep  and  the  world  prostrate  before 
his  stirrup.  When  he  saw  that  the 
pillars  of  safety  were  firmly  fixed  in 
nis  country,  and  the  stability  of  the 
Province  secured  after  its  temporary 
weakness,  he  set  himself  to  give  the 
finishing  touch  of  splendor  to  the 
kingdom,  by  cultivating  the  arts  and 
sciences  and  by  using  the  appliances 
necessary  for  their  wider  propagation, 
in  order  to  raise  high  the  beacon  of 
civilization  and  add  glory  to  his  reign. 
Accordingly  he  started  manufactories 
And  great  works,  and  the  country  was 
enabled  by  thoir  products  to  dispense 
mill  the  precarious  dependence  upon 
foreign  manufactures.  Of  these  mag- 
nificent undertakings  we  see  nothing 
now  but  the  ruins,  which  stand  con- 
*Vonting  the  present  age,  marks  for  the 
.nrrows  of  destruction,  wearing  mourn- 
ang  for  their  builder,  and  testifying, 
logriha  excellence  of  their  situatioDA  U 


the  wisdom  of  him  who  contrived  them. 
In  a  word,  there  was  not  a  possible 
path  to  the  advancement  of  Egypt 
that  he  did  not  follow,  nor  a  difficulty 
in  the  way  that  he  did  not  surmount. 
The  days  submitted  to  his  power,  the 
times  accepted  guidance  from  his  ben- 
eficent hand,  and  under  his  govern- 
ment the  minds  of  the  people  were  at 
rest. 

But  Egypt  had  hardly  put  on  its 
festal  attiio  and  adorned  itself,  the 
people  had  scarcely  begun  to  feel  them- 
selves masters  of  the  country,  when  the 
visitation  of  God  came  upon  them,  *'by 
night  or  by  day."  The  Prince  depart- 
ed to  the  abode  of  perpetuity,  and  after 
his  death  [in  1849],  the  country  fell 
into  the  fire  of  the  abyss.  For  the  vio- 
lent commotion,  which  shook  the  feet 
of  his  successor  like  an  earthauake  and 
shattered  the  pillars  of  his  Kingdom, 
enfiamed  in  the  minds  of  the  Occiden- 
tals the  fires  of  greed,  and  stirred  up^ 
those  hostile  feelings  which  had  hither-* 
to  been  laid.  So  they  entered  the 
country,  crowds  upon  crowds,  the 
EgyptiR.n8  welcoming  them  with  open 
breasts  and  beaming  face  and  smiling 
lip,  being  impressed  with  the  power  of 
accommodating  themselves  and  making 
their  abode  comfortable  which  was 
shown  by  those  that  resorted  to  their 
fertile  country  and  blessed  land.  And 
thus  these  settlers,  who  were  mostly  a 
mixed  rabble  and  the  dregs  of  the 
nations,  throve  on  the  pasture  which 
waa  wide  and  desirable;  and  caused 
con*uption  to  increase  on 'land  and  sen, 
inflicting  on  the  people  the  heaviest 
affliction,  with  every  kind  of  affront 
and  disgrace.  They  elaborated  the  sys- 
tem of  loans,  by  which  they  deceived 
the  hearts  of  the  simple  peasants,  who 
were  glad  at  what  their  Lord  sent, 
though  His  good  kindness  did  not  de- 
liver them  from  falling  into  the  snares 
of  ruin  spread  for  those  among  them 
who  were  rich  by  those  deceivers. 


EGYPT  ON  THE  EVE  OP  THE  ENGLISH  INVASION. 


088 


This  was  the  condition  of  things 
under  the  third  Prince  [Abba  Pasha] 
who  ruled  Egypt  after  him  who  had 
raised  it  to  eminence  and  restored  its 
landmarks.  The  reigning  family  grew 
in  importance.  But  the  Prince  was 
seduced  by  outward  show,  and  was  be- 
guiled by  the  pomps  of  life.  His  heart 
became  more  and  more  addicted  to  love 
of  ease,  and  more  prone  to  indulgence. 
He  was  led  by  false  counselors  to  pull 
down  what  his  predecessors  had  erected, 
and  to  cut  off  the  means  of  wealth  they 
had  originated;  and  while  he  was  play- 
ing the  fool  in  the  long  robes  of  magni- 
ficence and  luxury,  the  lashes  of 
affliction  and  vengeance  were  falling 
like  rain  upon  the  fellahlu  from  the 
hands  of  the  foreigners,  who  stripped 
them  and  took  to  themselves  whatever 
their  right  hand  could  seize,  though 
right  in  the  matter  they  had  none, 
ceasing  not  to  rob  the  villages  by  force 
and  to  fall  upon  any  one  who  was  hit 
by  the  arrow  of  their  covetousness. 

His  successor  in  the  government  [said 
Pasha]  followed  the  same  path,  and 
went  beyond  him  in  excess.  He  seized 
the  hem  of  the  garments  of  the  fancies 
of  those  misleaders  who  disfigured  the 
fair  face  of  the  country  and  made  the 
noblest  of  its  people  the  meanest.  He 
set  about  instituting  new  laws  and  cus- 
toms, and  decided  to  make  that  slit- 
nosed  Suez  Citnal;  putting  the  poor  of 
his  subjects  to  forced  labor  on  the 
works,  and  loading  with  his  favors 
those  who  had  no  need  of  his  lavish 
gifts; 

And   but  that  my  days  were  spent  under 

oppression, 
Dire    Poverty    had   not   paid    me    in   full 

measure. 

So,  by  the  passing  to  and  fro  of  for- 
eign ships  on  this  canal,  the  fountains 
of  blessing  failed,  and  the  waters  of 

I)rosperity  dried  up.     The  hand  of  vio- 
ence  exhausted  wnat  the  reverence  of 
former    generations    had   left  in  the 


sources  of  plenty;  the  goods  and  pro- 
ducts of  Egypt  were  thrown  to  waste; 
and  the  wide  places  of  the  land  became 
too  narrow  for  the  inhabitants,  through 
the  intermixture  of  foreign  elements 
which  spoiled  the  native  character. 
Then  the  Egyptians  recovered  from 
their  drunken  stupor  and  awoke  from 
their  slumber;  but  it  was  of  no  avail 
that  they  bit  their  fingers  in  sorrow 
and  that  the  silent  tears  started  to  their 
eyes  when  they  understood  the  hidden 
secret  of  these  foreign  races.  The 
pleasant  supplies  decreased,  the  troub- 
ling of  thu  Nile  sources  continued,  the 
skies  of  Yemen  and  the  hill  tops 
ceased  to  drop  down  plenty;  in'  their 
place  were  showers  of  misfortune  on 
every  side,  and  instead  of  comfort  and 
ease,  writhing  under  violence  and  force: 

And  but  for  tbe  fair  faces  of  the  songstresses 
The  hearts  of  the  lovers  had  not  turned  to 
them  with  fond  desire. 

By  this  time  it  had  become  the  firm 
conviction  of  the  people,  high  and  low, 
that  what  had  induced  these  foreigners 
to  cross  the  waves  of  the  ocean  to  the 
plains  of  the  Valley  of  the  Nile  had 
been  motives  of  great  covetousness  and 
purposes  of  mischief,  which  heretofore 
had  been  kept  from  coming  to  light  by 
the  wisdom  of/  former  governors  and 
the  discernment  of  those  in  high  office, 
who  had  not  been  seduced  by  the  love 
of  the  stranger,  and  had  not  made 
close  friends  of  those  who  were  not  of 
their  own  kindred.  The  opinion  came 
to  be  entertained  by  all  chisses  that  the 
principles  of  nature  were  but  a  covering 
of  malice  to  every  one  who  wafi  evil- 
minded;  the  darkest  nights  refused  to 
hide  the  naked  deformity  of  their 
deeds;  and  the  people  were  overborne 
by  the  weight  of  these  riders  of  the  sea. 
Then  enmity  and  hatred  ruled  in 
hearts  which  hungered  rather  for  unity 
than  for  discord,  and  which  would 
never  have  moved  out  of  their  original 
condition  but  for  the  going  about  of 


G84 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


tempters^  the  eecret  hatching  of 
intrigues  in  the  hearts  of  small  and 
great,  and  the  sway  of  passion  over  the 
minds  of  the  rulers,  both  Prince  and 
Minister.  Thus  wickedness  increased 
and  violence  became  common;  danger 
followed  nnd  unrest  extended,  till 
people  chose  death  rather  than  life: 

For  better  than  life  to  a  man  is  death 
Which  shicKls  the  scul  of  the  uoble  from 
contempt. 

Then  the  country  was  like  grain  ripe 
for  the  mower;  for  things  had  returned 
to  a  worse  state  even  than  they  were  in 
before.  The  seed  of  evil  that  had  been 
sown,  grew  up  and  produced  a  hundred 
thousand  grains  on  each  stalk;  so  grew 
also  the  appetites  bred  of  evil  passions 
and  tlie  misguidance  of  those  who 
looked  upon  the  Valley  of  the  Nile 
with  lustful  eye,  to  swallow  up  what- 
ever they  could  find,  and  plunder 
whatever  they  could  see. 

Egypt  continued  struggling  with 
this  rampant  wickedness  till  the  power 
came  Into  the  hands  of  Ismail  rasha 
[1863].  He  had  seen  enough  of  the 
distress  of  the  people  and  of  their 
gloomy  condition  to  stir  him  to  cut  at 
the  roots  of  the  stubborn  evil.  Accord- 
ingly, in  his  first  acts  he  abolished 
former  corruptions,  and  but  a  little 
time  elapsed  ere  the  oppression  of  the 
people  became  scarcely  worth  the 
mention.  Then  passed  the  shadow  of 
the  mischief-makers  between  him  and 
the  expectations  which  the  people  had 
entertained  of  his  noble  conduct,  an 
indication  of  which  he  had  given  in 
the  establishment  of  schools.  For 
these  mischief-makers  planted  in  his 
heart  foul  desires  which  smoothed  their 
own  way  to  power,  and  set  him  free  to 
the  unrestrained  enjoyment  of  his 
passions;  and  by  these  wiles  he  was 
inspired  to  cease  finishing  what  he  liad 
determined  to  establish,  and  to  leave 
off  executing  what  he  had  commanded 
and  arranged  to  be  done.     So  the  world 


was  darkened  to  the  Egyptians  at  noon- 
day; for  he  made  them  drink  the  cup 
of  grief  and  bitterness  at  the  hands  of 
foreign  corrupters,  the  evil  element  of 
whom  abounded  at  that  time  in  all  the 
offices  of  State.  There  was  a  donble 
increase  of  oppressors  and  offenders, 
and  a  ruin  of  awelling  places  with  their 
landmarks;  the  reign  of  force  opened 
the  way  to  every  official  for  the  obliter- 
ation of  rights  and  the  plunder  of  what 
his  hands  could  reach;  every  party 
eagerly  gi*asped  at  wealth;  for  God  had 
sealed  up  the  hearts  of  chiefs  and 
rulers,  till  there  waa  universal  misery 
and  unbounded  misfortune. 

Now  when  the  Khedive  perceived 
that  the  tongues  of  the  people  were 
clamoring  against  the  unequal  distribu- 
tion of  wesuth,  and  their  consciences 
were  seeking  relief  in  open  demonstra- 
tions for  the  recovery  of  what  had  been 
wrung  from  them  by  a  people  of  force 
and  fraud,  he  covered  up  the  fires  that 
were  burning  in  their  bosoms  by  the 
institution  of  the  Mixed  Courts.  In 
establishing  these  Courts  he  concealed 
in  his  own  mind  what  the  eventa 
clearly  brought  to  light.  Feeling  the 
continuance  of  those  offensive  restraints 
which  were  placed  on  the  Government 
on  account  of  his  wasteful  and  extrav- 
agant expenditure,  he  wished  by  means 
of  them  to  deceive  the  European  mem- 
bers, on  a  point  in  which  they  would 
prefer  darkness  to  clear  light;  that  is 
to  say,  matters  were  so  arranged  that 
the  oppressors  should  perforce  gain 
their  cases,  while  the  cause  of  every 
one  that  was  oppressed  shonld  come  to 
naught.  But  for  the  confidence  of  the 
foreign  Governments  that  their  subjects 
would  have  in  these  Courts  a  strong 
backing,  they  would  not  have  agreed 
to  his  request,  nor  confirmed  his 
decree;  and  up  to  the  present  day  these 
Courts  have  proved  nothing  but  the 
seed  of  increased  litigation,  a  pillar  on* 
which  has  leaned  in  covetoasness  the 


EGYPT  ON  THE  EVE  OP  THE  ENGLISH  INVASION. 


685 


greedy  desire  of  the  strong  to  plunder 
the  weak.  The  example  of  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Courts  was  followed  by 
those  who  had  been  restrained  from 
open  plunder  and  injustice  by  respect 
for  the  Prince;  and  so' they  went  on  in 
oppression,  eating  up  the  goods  of  the 

5eoj)le,  as  the  ostrich  indiscriminately 
evours  whatever  comes  in  its  way. 
Meantime  it  was  all  over  with  the 
fellah,  who  had  no  ono  to  help  him  or 
to  make  a  move  to  lift  the  weight  that 
pressed  him  down. 

But,  perhaps,  an  objector  or  ignorant 
person  may  tnink  that  the  troubles  of 
the  Egyptians  were  the  fruits  of  their 
own  avarice.  Therefore,  to  remove  all 
doubt  and  make  the  truth  clear,  we 
have  to  state  that  the  various  Loans 
which  were  advanced  by  the  foreigners 
at  this  time,  besides  exceeding  the 
bounds  of  justice  and  "the  quality  of 
mercy,"  and  the  measure  of  propriety, 
were  exacted  under  the  authority  of 
the  Local  Government  as  instructea  by 
the  lying  statements  of  those  who  had 
advanced  them.  So  when,  in  God's 
Providence,  a  felliih  was  forced  to 
borrow  from  them,  whether  by  reason 
of  a  pressing  demand  upon  him,  or 
from  a  preference  based  on  the  fact 
that  the  agents  of  the  foreigners  were 

Srotected  from  the  oppression  of  the 
rovernor  and  the  tyranny  of  his  petty 
officials,  the  simple  borrower  would 
make  his  land  over  in  security  for  what 
he  had  borrowed.  We  shall  not  enter 
into  the  kinds  of  tricks  by  which  the 
forms  of  receipt,  bills  of  transfer,  and 
so  forth,  were  drawn  out,  for  that  is  a 
well-known  affair.  But  when  the  time 
for  paying  the  debt  arrived,  the  lender 
came  with  his  horsemen  and  his  array, 
and  drove  the  fellah  from  his  ground 
by  force.  If  he  appealed  to  the  Gov- 
ernment, this  only  added  to  his  dogra.- 
d  at  ion  and  loss;  for  he  was  accused  by 
his  persecutor  of  having  infringed  the 
rights^    which    were    guaranteed    by 


Government  stipulations  and  political 
concessions.  And  when  the  foreigners 
saw  that  it  was  their  arrow  that  hit  the 
mark,  and  that  it  was  the  Coasular 
party  that  prevailed  with  the  Govern- 
ment, they  insinuated  themselves  first 
with  the  small  merchants,  and  then 
with  the  rich  and  strong,  and  used 
every  effort  to  cheat  the  whole  throng* 
They  were  aided  in  their  schemes  by 
the  Government  following  their  false 
guidance  and  imitating  their  example 
to  the  very  phrase :  so  tliey  impover- 
ished the  rich  and  loaded  the  shoulders 
of  the  poor  and  broke  the  backs  cf  the 
weak,  getting  help  in  these  pernicious 
measures  by  snaring  their  game  in  the 
office  of  every  Minister,  Director,  and 
Mudir;  profits  and  dividends  being  the 
means  of  taking  the  greedy  captive 
with  long  arms.  What  aided  them 
most  powerfully  to  rise  to  such  a  height 
and  to  adhere  to  their  crooked  policy 
was  that  the  great  ones  among  them 
copied  the  vices  of  the  supreme  ruler, 
and  guided  him  for  the  advantage  of 
their  several  Governments  and  for  their 
own  private  ends.  And  this  was  the 
reason  why  the  care  of  the  people's  wel- 
fare was  handed  over  to  those  who  cared 
not  for  their  well-being  and  were  inter- 
ested only  in  their  loss.  The  chiefs 
thus  appointed  performed  the  duties 
required  of  them  by  tlic  prevailing  law' 
of  vanities;  by  a  zealous  endeavor  to 
invest  their  own  kinsmen  with  every 
office  that  turned  up  or  that  they  wished 
to  turn  up.  And  all  the  centers  of 
government  at  this  time  were  like 
nothing  but  so  many  places  of  worship, 
frequented  by  the  various  sects,  where 
every  Mudir  labored  at  the  performance 
of  the  worship  and  service  of  his  lords 
and  masters.  The  happy  man  wtts  he 
on  whom  were  lavished  hearty  greet- 
ings, and  who  rose  to  the  highest  rank 
by  the  help  of  his  patrons;  and  the 
unhappy  man  was  he  who  was  eyed 
askance  with  forbidding  glance,  and 


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whose  longin?  look  was  cast  down  in 
weeping  and  disappointment. 

From  the  bosom  of  the  unseen,  a  voice  calls 

to    him«  to    give    him    patience    under 

suflFering; 
"Thv  case  is  not  hidden  from  the  Lord  of  the 

Uuiverse; 
But  if  thou  fearest  death  before  fate  overtake^ 

thee, 
Know  that  there  is  no  caution  that  can  guard 

against  wliat  He  has  appointed: 
And  if  life  is  long,  and  thou  hast  lost  in  it  all 

pleasantness, 
Take  comfort,  for  nothing  on  the  earth  is 

abiding." 

We  do  not  think  that  any  one,  who 
is  acquainted  with  the  condition  of 
Egypt  and  its  modern  history,  is 
ignorant  of  this:  that  the  foreigner, 
whose  high  ranks  added  to  the  weight 
that  pressed  on  the  finances  of  Egypt 
by  the  including  of  their  names  in  the 
country's  official  list,  and  who  by  the 
attainment  of  counterfeit  titles,  were 
strengthened  in  their  desire  to  obtain 
the  favor  of  the  representatives  of  their 
Governments,  were  exercising  their 
every  thought  in  planning  undertak- 
ings which  could  have  no  other  purpose 
than  the  squandering  of  what  was  laid 
up  in  the  treasuries  of  Egypt,  and 
were  making  its  supreme  ruler  fancy 
that  these  undertakings  of  his  were  of 
great  profit  to  the  people  and  the 
country.  Accordingly  he  would  issue 
his  gracious  command  for  the  execu- 
tion of  these  schemes,  and  set  apart 
for  them  the  loads  of  money  that  was 
carried  by  the  hundredweight  to  the 
doors  of  the  Directorate,  or  of  the 
Companies,  formed  by  the  gentlemen 
of  trie  Banks,  after  arranging  the 
guarantees  on  terms  and  conditions  of 
the  most  excessive  loss.  Then  he  gave 
to  the  investor  in  the  concern  a  larger 
share  than  his  capital  warranted,  and 
the  calculated  profits  were  to  be  his 
return  for  what  he  had  paid  and  for 
his  pretended  disinterestedness.  But 
after  the  starting  -'of  the  works,  which 


were  on  a  scale  of  extravagant  expense, 
leading  to  the  certain  impoverishment 
of  every  projector,  then  one  could 
plainly  see  that  there  was  a  vast  differ- 
ence between  the  grand  profits  expected 
and  those  that  actually  appeared;  or 
else  there  was  a  speedy  collapse  of  the 
concern,  when  the  hand  of  ruin  got 
the  mastery  over  the  buildings  that 
had  been  erected,  and  their  sjilendid 
adornments  became  a  sport  to  the 
winds.  Waste  and  blundering  could 
go  no  farther;  this  was  playing  with 
the  rights  of  the  people  and  cutting 
them  at  the  very  roots.     Th^se  were 

Things  that  fools  make  sport  of, 

But  wise  men  weep  at  their  consequences. 

Then  Ismail  abdicated  [1879],  while 
the  bowels  of  the  '"OT^itry  were  burning 
with  the  fires  of  oppression  and  hatred, 
and  the  people,  high  and  low,  were 
entreating  God  to  dispel  their  troubles 
and  remove  their  .griefs;  since  not  one 
of  them  was  able  to  escape  from  the 
cruel  distress  if  he  complained  of  his 
oppression,  or  carried  to  the  directors 
of  affairs  his  appeal.  Then  Avas  raised 
to  the  dignity  oi  Khedive  His  Highness 
Tewfik  rasha,  who  treated  the  people 
with  marked  kindness,  and  put  a 
restraint  on  the  hands  of  their  tnemies, 
protecting  them  from  injury  by  his 
gentle  bearing.  The  sweet  odors  of 
blessedness  were  wafted  to  the  Egyp- 
tians from  the  meadows  of  his  justice, 
and  their  hearts  sang  songs  of  thanks- 
giving at  the  ausioicious  commencement 
of  his  reign. 

The  people  were  well  disposed  in  those  days, 
yet  there  wjis  sent 
In    lorce    against   them    the    heaviest  of 
visitations. 

In  the  last  davs  of  the  rule  of  Ismail 
the  Egyptians  had  taken  to  lauding 
the  British  influence  and  the  English 
nationality  and  singing  in  favor  there- 
of songs  of  praise  and  thanksgiving. 
They  regarded  those  who  sat  under  its 


EGYPT  ON  THE  EVE  OP  THE  ENGLISH  INVASION. 


637 


shadow  as  the  successful  ones  of  the 
earth,  enjoying  above  all  other  nations 
the,  blessings  of  natural  rights  and 
national  distinction;  and  observed 
that,  by  the  happy  accomplishment  of 
imitating  of  their  superiors  they  were 
able  to  gain  whatever  object  they 
desired,  and  even  to  surpass  Iheir 
masters  in  villainy.  Bat  the  fates  sent 
against  them  that  which  changed  their 
prosperity  into  misfortune,  and  their 
joy  into  sorrow,  and  brought  to  light 
the  hidden  designs  of  tbose  who  had 
been  but  indistinctly  seen  amid  the 
violent  strugglings  and  sudden  vicissi- 
tudes and  crafty  dealings  of  tbe  past. 
It  was  then  that  England  and  Prance 
made  the  land  of  Egypt  a  racecourse, 
in  which  the  steeds  of  intrigue  vied 
with  each  other  in  their  eager  desire  to 
increase  their  prestige.  England  caused 
most  trouble  in  this  respect,  because 
the  Financial  Control  instituted  in  the 
time  of  Ismail  having  exalted  the 
beacon  of  French  influence,  the  Eng- 
lish concealed  their  jealousies,  and 
would  have  nothing  but  controversy 
and  opposition  and  persistent  adherence 
to  whatever  would  make  the  success  of 
the  French  contemptible  in  comparison 
with  their  own.  So  they  announced 
their  intention  to  make  a  Nile  canal, 
beginning  at  the  borders  of  Sherbin 
and  ending  at  the  Mediterranean;  and 
they  carried  their  purpose  into  excel- 
lent execution,  bringing  machinery  and 
workmen  for  the  purpose.  But  the 
natives  feared,  and  the  French,  who 
were  friendly  to  them,  insinuated  into 
their  minds  the  most  hostile  feelings 
toward  England.  An  excitement  was 
got  up  by  spreading  a  report  that  she 
intended  to  occupy  the  country,  to 
which  end,  it  was  alleged,  she  had  used 
as  a  ladder  the  claim  to  interference 
on  behalf  of  desired  reforms.  These 
suspicions  grew  stronger  with  time, 
and  men's  minds  became  unsettled  on 
i^,count  of  them.    So  they  vitiated  the 


sincerity  of  the  cordial  relations  which 
the  French  had  set  on  foot,  and  the 
result  was  that  the  Control,  which  had 
originated  in  a  hearty  desire  to  serve 
Egypt  and  her  children,  and  in  a 
sincere  effort  which  would  have  re- 
dounded to  her  eternal  happiness,  was 
relaxed  in  the  middle  of  its  work. 
Thus  men  were  at  their  wit's  end,  and 
the  endless  intrigues  of  the  foreigners 
made  rude  sport  of  their  hearts. 

It  was  when  things  were  in  this  state 
that  the  excesses  of  the  Circassians 
occurred,  their  jealousy  of  the  native 
officers  showing  itself  in  the  singling 
out  of  some  of  them  for  the  harshest 
treatment.  In  consequence  of  this  the 
spirits  of  the  leaders  of  the  army,  viz., 
Arabi  and  his  four  brother  officers, 
instigated  by  Ismail,  broke  away  from 
control  in  connection  with  the  well- 
known  affair  of  Wilson. '  But  had  not 
the  conduct  of  the  Circassians  been 
encouraged  by  the  Khedive's  compla- 
cency with  it,  or  his  inattention  to  it, 
these  ardent  spirits  would  never  have 
been  driven  on  by  it  to  open  displays 
of  unnatural  hate.  And  so  when 
Arabi  rose  up  to  demand  national 
rights,  he  never  could  have  ventured 
on  what  was  far  beyond  his  power  of 
attainment,  had  he  not  been  led  on  to 
the  bitter  end  by  the  false  guidance  of 
the  great  men  at  the  English  Consulate- 
General,  such  as  Mr.  Vincent,  Sir  E. 
Malet,  and  others;  for  it  was  by  their 
means  that  he  was  incited  to  break  the 
rod  of  harmony  and  good  relationship 
with  the  Khedive,  a  irtep  fraught  with 
miserable  confusion  and  poisoning  of 
mind.  In  all  his  vicissitudes,  while 
making  a  show  of  friendship  to  the 
French,  he  followed  in  his  heart  the 
counsels  of  the  English,  and  relied  on 
their  hypocritical  suppi.rt  of  his  acts, 
which  had  for  their  ODJect  (as  they  led 
him  to  believe)  the  granting  to  the 
Egyptians  of  such  complete  liberty  as 
would  "insure    to   them   independent 


638 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


action  in  their  own  country,  and  the 
raanageinent  of  their  financial  and 
other  affairs.  The  fires  of  disaffection 
kept  growing  till  the  first  demand  of 
tlie  otticers  for  the  removal  of  the  Cir- 
cassians was  <^omplied  with.  At  the 
head  of  these  wjis  the  Minister  of  War, 
0th man  Hifki  Pasha,  who  had  planned 
the  murder  of  the  four  leading  native 
ot!icers.  This  design  of  his  failed 
because  the  troops  revolted  and  carried 
off  the  officers  who  have  just  been 
mentioned,  from  the  Gardens  of  the 
Kasr-el-Nil,  where  the  Minister  of  War 
had  intended  to  kill  them.  Thny  then 
went,  accompanied  by  the  troops,  to 
the  Palace  of  Abidin,  and  laid  their 
grievances  before  His  Highness  the 
Khedive,  who  granted  their  request  by 
deposing  the  Circassian  officers,  in 
order  to  quell  the  disturbance  and  toi 
insure  the  obedience  of  those  who  were, 
the  defenders  of  his  kingdom  from  the 
horrors  of  war;  and  so  on  as  we  shall' 
show  in  detail. 

[The  writer  proceeds  at  oonsiderable  length 
to  give  the  details  of  these  transaclious,  which 
we  omit.  He  thus  coDcludes: — Ed.  Lib.  >Llo.] 

The  negotiations  on  the  subject  of 
a  Euro])ean  Conference  for  the  purpose 
of  settling  the  Egyptian  Question  nad 
resulted  in  the  acceptance  by  th^ 
Ottoman  Government  of  the  declaration 
of  the  European  Governments  that  such 
a  Conference  was  necessary,  and  their 
explanation  that  it  would  not  weaken 
the  operations  of  the  Ottoman  Com- 
mission. Accordingly  the  Conference 
began  its  sittings  on  the  21st  June, 
1882;  its  members  confirmed  the 
minute  of  Constitution  on  the  25th, 
and  on  the  26th  they  agi-eed  to 
proscribe  the  formation  of  party;  and 
the  gist  of  their  first  sittmg  was  a 
clear  enunciation  of  respect  for  and 
preservation  of  Imperial  rights  and  a 
regard  to  Imperial  Firmans  and  the 
Ancient  Constitution  of  Egypt.  Thus 
the  affairs  of  Egypt  entered  upon  a 


new  era,  and  in  Alexandria  and  else- 
where there  prevailed  a  disposition  to 
maintain  order,  and  a  readiness  to 
repel  danger  should  the  country  he 
threatened  with  such  by  her  enemy 
who  was  lying  in  ambush  for  her,  till 
the  proper  time  drew  near  for  the 
exhibition  of  villainy  and  the  clear 
exposure  of  evil  designs.  This  crisis 
came  immediately  after  many  meetings 
liad  been  held  in  the  palace  of  Kas-et- 
Tin,  under  the  presidency  of  the 
Khedive,  Derwish  being  present,  with 
the  great  men  of  the  army  and  the 
Ministers,  to  take  into  consideration 
the  demand  of  Admiral  Sevmonr  for 
the  cessation  of  t'lie  strengthening  of 
the  forts  and  the  destruction  or 
removal  of  the  materials  coUected  for 
that  purpose. — Scotch  Review. 


LADY  ASHBURTON. 

Until  a  couple  of  years  ago  few 
persons  out  of  their  own  clique  probably 
knew  that  there  had  been  such  a  man 
living  as  the  Hon.  C.  F.  Greville, 
Clerk  of  the  Council.  But  he  not  onlv 
lived,  but  for  more  than  forty  years 
kept  up  a  journal — the  first  entry  hav- 
ing been  made  in  1818,  the  l^st  in 
1860,  a  year  and  a  half  after  be  had 
retired  from  office.  He  closes  his  long 
record  thus:  "I  am  entirely  out  of 
the  way  of  hearing  anything  of  the 
slightest  interest  bevond  what  is  known 
to  all  the  world.  I  therefore  close  this 
record  without  any  intention  or  expec- 
tation of  renewing  it,  with  a  full  con- 
sciousness of  the  smallness  of  its  value 
or  interest,  And  with  great  regret  that 
I  did  not  make  better  use  of  the  oppor- 
tunities I  have  had  of  recording  some- 
thing more  worth  reading.'  We 
believe  he  died  in  1803,  at  the  age  of 
three-score  and  ten.  His  journal  was 
thought  worth^ublishing;  and  it  jias 


LADY  iJSHBimTON. 


es9 


been  printed  in  there  parts  each  of  a 
couple  volumes,  the  last  part  early  in 
this  present  yeai\  Of  Greville  himself 
it  needs  only  to  say  that  he  came  of 
the  bluest  blood  on  both  sides — 
Qrevillo  and  Bentinck;  that  while 
yonng  his  grandfather's  political  influ- 
ence procured  for  him  the  reversion  of 
the  lucrative  office  of  clerk  of  the 
council;  and  that  he  had  moreover  a 
large  salary  from  a  West  India  appoint- 
ment, which,  as  far  as  he  was  con- 
cerned, was  a  sinecure — all  the  duties 
of  his  position,  except  that  of  drawing 
the  pivy,  being  performed  by  deputy. 
Ho  seeing  to  have  known  every  body 
that  he  tliought  worth  knowing,  from 
the  Queen  downward;  and  he  tells 
quite  frankly  just  what  be  thought 
about  them:  his  opinions  varying  very 
widely  from  time  to  time.  Among  the 
great  personages  of  whom  he  gives  pen- 
and-ink  portraits  is  Lady  Ashburton — 
a  woman  who  figures  rather  largely  in 
Fronde's  Life  of  Carlyle,  and  of  whom, 
if  Froude  is  to  be  trusted,  Jane  Carlyle 
was  very  jealous.  This  is  what  Mr. 
Greville  has  to  say  of  Lady  Ashburton: 

**Lady  A  lilnirton  was  perhaps,  on  tlie 
whole,  the  nio  t  con^iouous  woman  in  the 
society  of  tlic  present  day.  She  was  undoubt- 
edlv  very  intelligent,  wkh  muth  quickness 
and  vivacity  in  conversation,  and  by  dint  of 
a  good  deiil  of  desultory  reading  and  social  in- 
tercourse witii  men  iitf)reor  less  dis^nguished, 
she  liad  improved  her  mind,  and  made  herself 
a  very  agreeable  woman,  and  had  acquired 
no  small  reputation  for  ability  and  wit.  It 
is  Bcver  difficult  for  a  woman  in  a  great  posi- 
tion aud  with  some  talent  for  conversation  to 
attract  a  large  society  around  her,  and  to  have 
a  numl)cr  of  admirers  and  devoted  habitHes. 
Lady  Ashburton  laid  herself  o  t  f or  this, 
•  and  V  liMe  she  exerc'ped  hospitality  on  a 
great  scale,  she  was  more  of  a  Precieuse  than 
anv  woman  I  have  known.  She  was,  or 
affected  to  be,  extremely  intimate  with  many 
men  whose  literary  celebrity  or  talents  con- 
stituted their  only  attraction,  and  while  they 
were  gratified  by  the  attentions  Of  the  great 
lady,  her  vanity  was  flattered  by  thehoma^of 
such  men,  of  whom  Carlyle  was  the  principal. 
It  is  only  justice  to  her  to  say  that  she  t;;^'^'^ 


her  literary  friends  with  constant  kindness 
and  the  most  unselfish  attentions.  They, 
their  wives  and  children  (when  they  had  any), 
were  received  at  her  house  in  the  country, 
and  entertained  there  for  weeks  without  any 
airs  of  patronage,  and  with  a  spirit  of  genuine 
benevolence  as  well  as  hospitality. 

"She  was  in  her  youth  tall  and  commanding 
in  person,  but  without  any  pretensions  to  good 
looks;  still  she  was  not  altogether  destitute  of 
sentiment  and  coquetry,  or  incapable  of  both 
feeling  and  inspiring  a  certain  amount  of 
passion.  The  only  man  with  whom  she  was 
ever  what  could  Ite  called  in  low  was  Claren- 
don, and  that  feeling  was  never  entirely 
extinct,  and  the  recollection  of  it  kept  up  a 
sort  of  undefined  relation  between  them  to 
the  end  of  her  life.  T  .vo  men  were  certainly 
in  love  with  her,  both  distinguished  in  differ- 
ent ways.  One  was  John  Mill,  who  was 
sentimentally  attached  to  her,  and  for  a  long 
time  was  devoted  to  her  society.  Slie  w^as 
pleased  and  flattered  by  his  devotion,  but  as 
she  did  not  in  the  slightest  degn  e  return  his 
passion,  though  she  admired  his  abilities,  he 
at  last  came  to  resent  her  indifference,  and 
ended  by  estranging  himself  from  her  entirely, 
and  proved  the  strength  of  his  feeling  by  his 
obstinate  refusal  to  continue  even  his 
acquaintance  with  her.  Her  other  admirer 
was  Charles  Buller,  with  wliom  she  was 
extremely  intimate,  but  without  ever  recipn»- 
c^ting  his  love.  Curiously  enough,  they 
we  e  very  like  each  other  in  person,  as  well 
as  in  their  mental  accomplishme  ts.  They 
had  both  the  same  spirits  and  cleverness  in 
conversation,  and  the  same  quickness  and 
drollery  in  repartee.  I  remember  Allen  well 
describing  them,  wlien  he  said  that  their  talk 
was  like  thai  in  a  polite  conversation  between 
Never  Out  and  Miss  Notable.  Her  faults 
appeared  to  be  caprice  and  a  disposition  to 
quarrels  and  tractuseriM  about  nothing, 
which,  however  common  amongst  ordinary 
women,  were  unworthy  of  her  superior 
understanding. 

"But  during  her  last  illness  all  that  was  bad 
and  hard  in  her  nature  seemed  to  be^mproved 
and  softened,  and  she  became  full  of  charity, 
good -will,  and  t^e  milk  of  human  kindness. 
Her  .brother  and  her  sister-in-law,  who, 
forgetting  fonner  estrangements,  hastened  4o 
her  sick  bed,  were  received  by  her  with  owr- 
flawing  tenderness,  and  tdl  selfish  and 
nnamiable  feelings  seemed  to  be  entirely 
subdued  within  her.  Had  she  recovered  shie 
would  probably  have  lived  a  better  and  a 
happier  woman j  and  as  it  is  she  has  died  in 
charity  with  all  the  worlds  and  has  left  behind 
her   ooxxeQKuidiiig   sentim^pts    of  affection 


640 


THE  LLIRART  MAGAZINE. 


and  regret   for  her  memory.*' — ^Alfbed  H. 

GUERMBBY. 


CHEATING  THE  DEVIL. 

When  tlie  writer  of  this  article  was 
■  a  i)arson  in  Yorkshire,  he  had  in  his 
parish  a  blacksmitli  blessed  or  aflflicted 
— which  shall  we  say? — with  seven 
daughters  and  not  a  son,  .Mow  the  I 
parish  was  a  newly  constituted  one,  and 
it  had  a  temporary  licensed  service ' 
room;  but  in  the  week  before  the 
newly  erected  church  was  to  be  conse- 
crated, the  blacksmith's  wife  presented 
her  husband  with  a  boy — his  first  boy. 
Then  the  blacksmith  came  to  the  par- 
son, and  the  following  conversation 
ensued : — 

Blacksmith:  Please,  sir,  I've  got  a 
little  lad  at  last,  praised  be,  and  I  want 
to  have  him  baptized  on  Sunday. 

Parson:  Why,  Joseph,  put  it  off  to 
Thursdav,  when  the  new  church  will 
be  consecrated;  then  your  little  man 
will  be  the  first  child  -christened  in  the 
new  font  in  the  new  church. 

Blacl'srnith  (shuflling  with  his  feet, 
hitching  his  shoulders,  looking  down): 
Please,  sir,  folks  say  that  t'  fust  child 
as  is  baptized  i'  a  new  church  is  bound 
to  dee  [die.]  The  old  un  [the  devil] 
claims  it.  Kaw,  sir,  I've  seven  little 
lasses,  and  but  one  lad.  Jf  this  were  a 
lass  again,  'twouldn't  'a  mattered;  but 
as  it's  a  lad — well,  sir,  I  won't  risk  it. 

A  curious  instance  this  of  a  very  wide- 
spread and  very  ancient  superstition, 
the  origin  of  which  we  shall  arrive  at 
prepontly.  All  over  the  North  of  Europe 
the  greiitest  aversion  is  felt  to  be  the  first 
to  enter  a  new  building,  or  go  over  a 
newly  built  bridge.  If  to  do  this  is  not 
thought  everywhere  and  in  all  cases 
to  entail  death,  it  is  considered  su- 

I)remely    unlucky.       Several    German 
egends  are  connected  with  this  super- 
stition.    The  reader,  if  he  has  been  *to 


Aix-la-Chapelle,  has  doubtless  had  the 
rift  in  the  great  door  pointed  out  to 
him,  and  has  been  told  how  it  came 
there.  The  devil  and  the  architect 
made  a  compact  that  the  first  should 
supply  the  plans  and  the  second  gain 
the  kudos;  and  the  devil's  pav  was  to 
be  the  first  who  crossed  the  threshold 
when  the  church  was  built.  When 
the  building  was  nearly  complete,  the 
architect's  conscience  smote  nim,  and 
he  confessed  the  compact  to  the  bishop. 
** We'll  do  him,"  said  the  prelate; 
that  is  to  say,  he  said  something  to  this 
effect  in  terms  more  appropriate  t<^  the 
century  in  which  he  lived,  and  to  bis 
high  ecclesiastical  office. 

When  the  procession  formed  to  enter 
the  minster  for  the  consecnition,  the 
devil  lurked  in  ambush  behind  a  pillar, 
and  fixed  his  wicked  eye  on  a  fine  fat 
and  succulent  little  chorister  as  his 
destined  prey.  But  alas  for  his  hopes! 
this  fat  little  boy  had  beei^ given  his 
instructions,  and,  as  he  neared  the 
great  door,  loosed  the  chain  of  a  wolf 
and  sent  it  through.  The  evil  one 
uttered  a  howl  of  rage,  snatched  up  the 
wolf  and  rushed  away,  giving  the  door 
a  kick,  as  he  passed  it,  that  split  the 
solid  oak. 

The  castle  of  Gleichberg,  near  Bdns- 
kild,  was  erected  by  the  devil  in  one 
night.  The  Baron  of  Gleichberg  was 
threatened  by  his  foes,  and  he  promis- 
ed to  give  the  devil  his  daughter  if  he 
erected  the  castle  before  cockcrow. 
The  nurse  overheard  the  compact,  and, 
just  as  the  castle  was  finished,  set  fire 
to  a  stack  of  corn.  The  cock,  seeing 
the  light,  thought  morning  had  come, 
and  crowed  before  the  last  stone  was 
added  to  the  w£ills.  The  devil  in  a  rage 
carried  off  the  old  baron — and  served 
him  right — instead  of  the  maiden.  We 
shall  sec  presently  how  this  story  works 
into  our  subject. 

At  Frankfort  may  be  seen,  on  the 
Sachsenh&user  Bridge,  an  iron  rod  with 


LUTHER'S  PORTRAIT  AT  THE  WARTBURO. 


641 


a  gilt  cock  on  the  top.  This  is  the 
reason:  An  architect  undertook  to 
build  the  bridge  within  a  fixed  time, 
but  three  davs  before  that  on  which  he 
had  contracted  to  complete  it  the 
bridge  was  only  half  finished.  In  his 
distress  he  invoked  the  devil,  who  un- 
dertook to  complete  it  if  he  might  re- 
ceive the  first  Avho  crossed  the  bridge. 
The  work  was  done  by  the  appointed 
day,  and  then  the  architect  drove  a 
cock  over  the  bridge.  The  devil,  who 
had  reckoned  on  getting  a  human 
being,  was  furious;  ne  tore  the  poor 
cock  in  two,  and  flung  it  with  such 
violence  at  the  bridge  that  he  knocked 
two  holes  in  it,  which  to  the  present 
day  cannot  be  closed,  for  if  stones  are 
put  in  by  day  they  are  torn  out  by 
night.  In  memorial  of  the  event,  the 
image  of  the  cock  was  set  up  on  the 
bridge. 

And  now,  without  further  quotation 
of  examples,  what  do  they  mean? 
They  mean  this — ^that  in  remote  times 
a  sacrifice  of  some  sort  was  offered  at 
the  completion  of  a  building;  but  not 
only  at  the  completion —  the  founda- 
tions of  a  house,  a  castle^  a  bridge,  a 
town,  even  a  church,  were  laid  in 
blood.  In  heathen  times  a  sacrifice 
was  offered  to  the  god  under  whose 

grotection  the  building  was  placed;  in 
'hristian  times  the  sacrifice  continued, 
but  was  given  another  signification.  It 
was  said  that  no  edifice  would  stand 
firmly  unless  the 'foundations  were  laid 
in  blood.  Usually  some  animal  was 
placed  under  the  comer  stone — a  dog, 
a  sow,  a  wolf,  a  black  cock,  a  goat, 
sometimes  the  body  of  a  malefactor 
who  had  been  executed  forJiis  crimes. 
Heinrich  Heine  says  on  this  subject: 
*'In  the  Middle  Ages  the  opinion  pre- 
vailed that  when  any  building  was  to 
be  erected  something  living  must  be 
killed,  in  the  blood  of  which  the  founda- 
tion had  to  be  laid,  by  which  process 
the  building  would  bis  eecnrea  from 


falling;  and  in  ballads  and  traditions 
the  remembrance  is  still  preserved  how 
children  and  animals  were  slaughtered 
for  the  purpose  of  strengthening  large 
buildings  with  their  blood." — Corn- 
hill  Magazine.  | 


LUTHER'S   PORTRAIT   AT   THE- 
WARTBURO. 

And  there,  looking  out  on  us,  where 
we  stand,  from  its  place  on  the  wall,  is 
the  portrait  which,  oy  common  consent, 
transmits  to  us  the  correct  appearance 
of  the  man  who  has  thus  come  to 
occupy  the  reverent  imaginations  of 
mankind.  And  in  that  appearance 
lies  a  key  to  himself:  to  his  power  and 
marvelous  success;  to  his  weakness 
and  failure.  As  we  look  at  that  broad, 
frank,  strong  face  the  artist  saw  and 
painted  for  u«  to  see,  we  recognize  at 
once  the  champion  of  libeities,  the 
friend  of  Scripture,  the  man  and  idol 
of  a  reformation.  That  man's  name, 
any  one  can  see,  is  not  "Faintheart" 
nor  **Timorous,"  nor  is  it  ''Facing- 
both -Ways."  He  is  a  man  of  move- 
ment,  determined  aim,  and  mighty 
force.  He  is  brave,  incapable  of 
cowardice,  and  also  of  charity.  He  is 
no  model  for  the  Good  Shepherd,  save 
when  the  wolves  are  by  the  fold,  and 
then  woe  to  them!  iHe  could  face 
archdukes  and  prelates,  and  cities  all 
whose  tiles  are  devils;  he  could  do  that 
with  unswerving  sense  of  public  duty; 
but  he  could  not  go  out  jnto  the  night 
alone,  seeking  the  lost  and  weary;  he 
could  not  patiently  stand  at  a  door  and 
knock  (except  to  knock  it  down), 
treading  the  path  to  the  unwilling 
again  and  again  in  beseeching  tears. 
He  is  not  slow  to  anger;  he  is  not 
plenteous  in  mercy;  and  you  see  ..at 
once  that  he  **will  by  no  means  clear 
the  guilty."    He. means  business,  and  . 


643 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


no  doubt  the  seiTants  at  the  Wartburg 
Castle  knew  it,  and  regarded  him  as  a 
terrible  prophet  of  the  Lord.  We  say 
this  in  no  disparagement  of  the  grand 
man,  for  the  very,  greatest  disciple  has 
but  a  fragment  of  his  Lord  in  him. 
He  was  public-spirited,  and  brave,  and 
had  the  courage  of  his  convictions. 
He  hold  it  to  be  God's  will  that  men 
should  judge  and  believe  for  them- 
selves; and  dedicating  himself  to  that 
undoubted  fragment  of  the  mind 
which  was  in  Christ  Jesus,  he  worked 
day  and  night  to  give  them  the  means 
— the  Now  Testament  in  their  own 
tongue,  and  the  power  and  riglit  to  use 
it — for  breaking  down  the  authority  of 
Rome.  A  man  of  that  face  might  be 
able  and  logical,  have  firm  grasp  of 
ideas,  and  clearly  propound  them;  but 
though  it  glows  with  characteristics  of 
the  Word,  .it  does  not  glow  with  the 
light  of  the  Spirit.  His  most  passion- 
ate admirer  cannot  see  there,  at  least, 
signs  of  the  broad,  world-wide,  patient, 
long-snlfering  love  which  speaks  of 
drinking  deeply  of  the  mind  of  Jesus. 
At  his  best  ne  was  a  grand  prophet; 
he  was  scarcely  an  apostle.  He  could 
create  a  sect,  but  not  a  church.  He 
became  a  dictator,  but  not  a  loyal  leader 
toward  the  beautiful  Christ.  The 
Pope  whom  he  denounced  he  succeeded, 
wherever  his  denunciations  were 
heeded;  sitting  in  a  new  kind  of 
throne,  issuing  new  bulls,  canonizing 
new  saints,  receiving  the  homage  of 
the  new  faithful.  He  was  a  prophet, 
but  not  more  than  a  prophet.  He  did 
not  transfer  his  followers  to  the 
Nazarene.  In  his  later  life  he  became 
far  too  contented  with  what  he  did, 
and  by  prosperity  became  faithless. 
Jesus  did  not  increase;  himself,  Luther, 
did  not  decrease,  but  rather  the  reverse. 
He  founded  a  church,  as  men  count 
churches,  which  increi^ed  and  multi- 
j>liedj  but  did  not  grow  into  a  life 
^iser  and  stronger  than  liis  own  h^ 


been.  His  early  spirit  did  not  pass 
on.  To-day  they  hold  what  Luther 
held.  Jesus  did  not,  does  not,  cannot 
take  the  high  place  among  them 
which  He  could  and  must  have  done, 
had  Luther's  spirit,  not  his  dogma, 
possessed  his  followers.  Luther  gave 
them  rest.  Had  * 'Jesus,  still  lead  on/' 
been  their  cry  as  well  as  his,  the  church 
which  bears  his  brave  name  would  not 
have  been,  as  it  now  is,  cold  and 
formal. — Mary  Harrisok,  in  The 
Sunday  Magazine. 


ANIMAL  MASQUERADERS. 

There  are  some  animals  which  not 
merely  assimilate  themselves  in  color 
to  the  ordinary  environment  in  a 
general  way,  but  have  also  the  power 
of  adapting  themselves  at  will  to  what- 
ever objeot  they  happen  to  be  against. 
Cases  like  that  of  ptarmigan,  which  in 
summer  harmonizes  witli  the  brown 
heather  and  gray  rock,  while  in  Winter 
it  changes  to  the  white  of  the  snow- 
fields,  lead  us  up  gradually  to  such 
ultimate  results  of  the  masquerading 
tendency.  There  is  a  tiny  crnstaoean, 
the  chameleon  flhriraf»,  which  can  alter 
its  hue  to  that  of  unv  material  on 
whicJi  it  happens  to  rest.  On  a  sandv 
bottom  it  appears  gray  or  sand-colored; 
when  lurking  among  seaweed  it  be- 
comes green,  or  red,  or  brown,  accord- 
ing to  the  nature  of  its  n>omentary 
background.  Probably  the  effect  is 
quite  unconscious,  or  at  least  involun- 
tary, like  blushing  with  ourselves — and 
nobody  eve»  blushes  on  purpose,  thonj^ 
they  do  say  a  distinguished  poet  once 
complained  that  an  eminent  actor  did 
not  follow  his  stage  directions  becaoee 
he  omitted  to  obey  the  rubrical  remark, 
''H'cre  Harold  purples  with  anger." 
The  change  is  produced  by  certain 
automatic   muscles   which    ioaroe    np 


AOTMAL  MASQITERADERS. 


W 


particular  pigment;  cells  above  the 
others,  greeu  coming  to  the  top  on  a 
green  surface,  red  on  a  ruddy  one,  and 
brown  or  gray  where  the  circumstances 
demand  tliem.  Many  kinds -of  fish 
similarly  alter  their  color  to  suit  their 
background  by  forcing  forward  or 
backward  certain  special  pigment-cells 
known  as  chroinatophores,  whose 
various  combinations  produce  at  will 
almost  any  required  tone  or  shade. 
Almost    all    reptiles    and   amphibians 

Eosscss  the  power  of  changing  tlieir 
ue  in  accordance  with  their  environ- 
ment in  a  very  high  degree;  and  among 
certain  tree-toads  and  frogs  it  is 
difficult  to  say  what  is  the  normal 
coloring,  as  they  vary  indefinitely  from 
buff  and  dove-color  to  chocofate-brown, 
rose,  and  even  lilac. 

But  of  all  the  particolored  reptiles 
the  chameleon  is  by  far  the  best  known, 
and  on  the  whole  the  most  remarkable 
for  his  inconstancy  of  coloration.  He 
varies  incontinently  from  buff  to  blue, 
and  from  blue  black  to  orange  again, 
under  stress  of  circumstances.  The 
mechanism  of  this  curious  change  is 
extremely  complex.  Tiny  corpuscles 
of  different  pigments  are  sometimes 
bidden  in  the  depths  of  the  chameleon's 
skin,  and  sometimes  spread  out  on  its 
surface  in  an  interlacing  network  of 
brown  or  purple.  In  addition  to  this 
prime  coloring  matter,  however,  the 
animal  also  possesses  a  normal  yellow 
pigment,  ana  «  bluish  layer  in  the 
skin  yrhich  acts  like  the  iridium  glass; 
being  seen  as  straw-colored  with  a 
transmitted  light,  but  assumii^  a 
faint  lilac  tint  against  an  opaque 
absorbent  surface.  While  sleeping  the 
<ihameleon  becomes  almost  white  in 
the  shade,  but  if  light  falls  upon  him 
he  slowly  darkens  by  an  automatic 
process.  The  movements  of  the  cor- 
puscles are  governed  by  opposite  nerves 
and  muscles,  which  either  cause  them 
to  bory  themselves  under  the  true  4skin, 


or  to  form  an  opaque  ground  behind 
the  blue  layer,  or  to  spread  out  in  a 
ramifying  mass  on  the  outer  surface, 
and  so  produce  as  desired  almost  any 
necessary  shade  of  gray,  green,  black, 
or  yellow.  It  is  an  interesting  fact 
that  many  chrysalids  undergo  precisely 
similar  changes  of  color  in  adaptation 
to  the  background  against  which  they 
suspend  themselves,  being  gray  on  a 
gray  surface,  green  on  a  green  one, 
and  even  half  black  and  half  red  when 
hung  up  against  pieces  of  particolored 
paper. 

Nothing  could  more  beautifully 
prijve  the  noble  superiority  *of  the 
numan  intellect  than  the  fact  that 
while  our  grouse  are  russet-brown  to 
suit  the  bracken  and  heather,  and  our 
caterpillars  green  to  suit  the  lettuce 
and  the  cabbage  leaves,  our  British 
soldier  should  be  wisely  coated  in 
brilliant  scarlet  to  form  an  effective 
mark  for  the  rifles  of  an  enemy.  Red 
is  the  easiest  of  all  colors  at  which  to 
aim  from  a  great  distance;  and  its 
selection  by  authority  for.  the  uniform 
of  unfortunate  Tommy  Atkins  reminds 
me  of  nothing  so  much  as  Mr.  McClel- 
land's  exquisite  suggestion  that  the 
peculiar  brilliancy  of  the  Indian  river 
carp  makes  them  serve  ''»)  a  better 
mark  for  kingfishers,  terns,  and  other 
birds  which  are  destined  to  keep  the 
number  of  these  fishes  in  check.'* 
The  idea  of  Providence  and  the  Horse 
Guards  conspiring  to  render  any  crea- 
ture an  easier  target  for  the  attacks  of 
enemies  is  worthy  of  the  decadent 
school  of  natural  history,  and  cannot 
for  a  moment  be  dispassionately  con- 
sidered by  a  judicious  critic.  Nowa- 
days we  all  know  that  the  carp  are 
decked  in  crimson  and  blue  to  please 
their  partners,  and  that  soldiers  are 
dressed  in  brilliant  red  to  please — the 
aesthetic  authorities  who  command 
them  from  a  distance. — OornJnll  Mag- 
aaine. 


644 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINIL 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 

CmcAT7B,  Chicanbrt.— In  Worcester's  Die- 
tlonary,  the  word  chicane  is  thus  traced  and 
defined:  ''chicane,  [A.  S.  mjoican,  to  de- 
ceive; Ft.  chicane],  A  shift,  turn,  or  trick, 
especially  in  law  proceeding."  But  Col. 
Yule,  in  his  Anglo-Indian  Glossary,  proposes 
a  quite  new  etymology,  which,  to  say  the 
least,  is  curious: 

**  Chicane,  chicanery. — These  English  words, 
.signifying  pettifogging,  captioiis  contention, 
taking  every  possible  advantage  in  a  contest, 
have  been  referred  to  Spanish  ehico,  little,  aad 
to  French  chic,  chiquet,  a  little  bit,  as  by  Mr. 
Wedgwood  in  his  Diciionary  of  English 
Etymology.  But  there  can  be  little  doubt 
that  the  words  are  really  traceable  to  the 
|^me*of  chavgan  or  horse-golf.  This  game 
IS  now  well  known  in  England  under  the 
name  of  Polo.  But  the  recent  introduction 
under  that  name  is  its  second  importation  into 
Western  Europe.  For  in  the  Middle  Ages  it 
came  from  Persia  to  Byzantium  ;  where  it 
was  ix)pular,  under  a  modification  of  its  Per- 
sian name  (verb  T<vxai'i^eiv,  playing  ground 
r^tfxayifrriiptoy  and  froui  BvzaDtium  it  passed 
as  a  pedestrian  game  to  Lan^edoc,  where  it 
was  called  by  a  further  modilication  chicane. 
The  analogy  of  certain  periods  of  the  game  of 
golf  suggests  now  how  the  figurative  mean- 
ing of  Meaner  might  arise  in  taking  advan- 
tage ot  the  petty  accidents  of  the  surface. 
Aud  this  is  the  strict  meaning  of  chicaner  as 
used  by  military  writers.  Ducange's  idea 
was  that  the  Greeks  had  borrowed  both  the 
game  and  the  name  from  France,  but  this  is 
evidently  erroncojs.  He  was  not  aware  of 
the  Persian  cliaugan.  But  he  explains  how 
well  the  tactics  of  the  game  should  have  led 
to  the  application  of  its  name  to  'those  tor- 
tuous proceedings  of  pleaders  which  we  old 
practitioners  call  barres.'  Tlie  indication  of 
the  Persian  origin  of  both  the  Greek  and 
French  words  is  due  to  W.  Ouseley  and  to 
Quatremere.  The  game  is  now  quite  extinct 
in  Persia  and  Western  Asia,  surviving  only 
in  certain  regions  adjoining  India  But  for 
man}'  centuries  it  was  the  game  of  kings  and 
courts  over  all  Mahommedan  Asia.  Tlie 
earliest  l^Stihommcdan  historians  represented 
the  .s;nme  of  chavgan  as  familiar  to  the 
Sassanian  kings;  Ferdnsi  puts  the  chavgan- 
stick  into  the  hands  of  Siawush,  the  father  of 
Kai  Khjsru  or  Cyrus;  many  famous  kings 
were  devoted  to  the  s^ame.  among  whom  ma;, 
be  ment.oned  Nuruddin  the  Just,  Atabek 
of  Syria,  and  the  great  enemy  of  the  Crusaders, 
lie  was  so  fond^of  the  game,  that  he  naed 


Oike  Akbar  in  after  days)  to  play  it  by  lamp 
light,  and  was  severe  y  rebuked  by  a  devout 
Mussulman  for  being  so  devoted  to  a  mere 
amusement.  Other  zealous  chaugan  players 
were  the  ^at  Saladin,  Jalaluddin  Maukbami 
of  Khwansm,  and  Malik  Bibars,  Marco  Polo's 
Bendocquedar  Soldan  of  Babylon,  who  was 
said  more  than  once  to  have  played  chaugao 
at  Damascus  and  at  Cairo  withm  the  same 
week.  It  is  not  known  when  the  game  was 
conveyed  to  Constantinople,  but  it  must  have 
been  uot  later  than  the  beginning  of  the 
eighth  century.  Th3  fullest  description  ^f 
the  game  as  played  there  is  given  by  Ji>lianries 
Cinnamus,  who  does  nA,  nowever,  give  tbe 
barbarian  name." 

Mr.  Leggo  akd  Oursklvks — Mr.  W. 
liCggo— -a  gentleman  otherwise  wholly  un- 
known to  us  has.  through  the  Scottisli  iteritw, 
undertaken  to  enlighten  his  fellow  subjects 
upon  *'The  Fisheries  Question  from  a  Cana- 
dian Point  of  View."  Toward  the  close  of 
his  second,  and  we  suppose  his  concludmg 
paper,  he  thus  lifts  up  his  warning  voice 
against  tlie  wicked,  cunning,  grasping  Yankee 
race: 

**  When  we  consider  the  long  train  of  humili- 
ating and  worse  than  needless  concessions  to 
the  America QS— concessions  yielded  at  the 
expense  of  the  struggling  fishermen  of  our 
Maritime  Provinces,  this  last  one  'out-Hcrods 
Herod.'  Britain  may  just  as  sensibly  trust 
to  Russian  honesty  as  to  American  palaver. 
The  one  is  precisely  as  reliable  as  the  otlier. 
The  whole  course  of  American  diplomacy 
with  Britain  since  the  Declaration  of  Indepen- 
dence has  been  distinguished  by  a  want  of 
frankness  and  sincerity.  The  Fishery  ques- 
tion is  but  one  of  a  serious  of  similar  stories. 
The  Maine  boundary,  the  Oregon  boundary, 
the  San  Juan  or  Havo  Straits  que&lfon,  the 
Fenian  outrages,  are  others,  and  in  each  of 
these  cases  did  the  United  States  Government 
exhibit  a  disingenuousness  which  in  private 
life  would  consign  the  culprit  to  social  out- 
lawry. British  Ministers  ought  to  hate  seen 
that  the  Americans  harl  no  intentions  wh.it- 
ever  to  open  up  such  trade  relations  with 
Canada  as  would  he  at  all  beneficial  to  us, 
and  yet  they  persisted,  on  the  stiength  of  a 
faint  suggestion  that  something  mi^ht  be 
done  by  Congress  in  1885-6,  in  allowing  tlie 
Americans  for  another  sensoo  to  raid  on  the 
ground  of  the  Colonial  fishermen,  without 
Uie  slightest  compensation  either  in  presenii  or 
infvturo.  It  must  he  difficult  for  any  Briton 
to  hear  this  with  a  blush  of  shame— it  is 
possible  to  a  Canadian  to  think  of  it  without 
mdignation.*' 


THE  SCIENTIFIC  BASES  OF  ANARCHY. 


645 


THE  SCIENTIFIC  BASES  OF 
ANAKCHY.* 

Anarchy  {Sa^ipx^)^  the  No-Govem- 
meiit  system  of  Socialism,  has  a  double 
origin.  It  is  an  outgrowth  of  the  two 
great  movements  of  tl^ought  in  the 
economical  and  the  political  fields 
whicli  characterize  our  century,  and 
especially  its  second  part.  In  cotiimon 
with  all  Socialists,  the  anarchists  hold 
th^t  the  private  ownership  of  land, 
capital,  and  machinery  has  had  its 
timo;  that  it  is -condemned,  to  disap- 
pear; and  that  all  requisites  for  produc- 
tion must,  and  will,  become  the  com- 
mon property  of  society,  and  be 
managed  in  common,  by  the  producers 
of.  wealth.  And,  in  common  with  the 
most  advanced  representatives  of  polit- 
ical Radicalism,  tliey  maintain  that 
the  ideal  of  the  political  organization 
of  society  is  a  condition  of  things 
where  the  functions  of  government  are 
reduced  to  a  minimum,  and  the  indivi- 
dual recovers  his  full  liberty  of  initia- 
tive and  action  for  satisfying,  by  means 
of  free  groups  and  federations — freely 
Constituted — all  the  infinitelv  varied 
needs  of  the  human  being.  As  regards 
Socialism,  most  of  the  anarchists  arrive 
at  its  ultimate  conclusion,  that  is,  at  a 
complete  negation  of  the  wage-system, 
and  at  communism. 

And  with  reference  to  political  or- 
ganization, by  giving  a  further  devel- 
opment to  the  above-mentioned  part  of 
the  Radical  programme,  they  arrive 
at  the  conclusion  that  the  ultimate  aim 
of  society  is  the  reduction  of  the  f u  no- 
tions of  government  to  nil — that  is,  to 
a  society  without  government,  to  An- 
archy. The  anarchists  maintain, 
moreover,  that  such  being  the  ideal  of 

•  Place  is  .j^iven  in  The  LiimAnY  Magazine 
to  tills  article  because  it  is  a  dispassionate  pre- 
sentat'on  of  one  aspect  of  the  question  which 
in  one  fomi  or  nnoHier  involves  the  great 
social  problem  of  the  day  — ^Ed.  Lib.  Macu 


social  and  political  organization,  they 
must  not  remit  it  to  future  centuries, 
but  that  only  those  changes  in  our  so- 
cial orgjinization  which  are  in  accord- 
ance with  the  above  double  ideal,  and 
constitute  an  approach  to  it,  will  have 
a  chance  of  life  aud  be  beneficial  for 
the  commonwealth. 

As  to  the  method  followed  by  the 
anarchist  thinker,  it  differs  to  a  great 
extent  from  that  followed  by  the 
Utopists.  The  anarchist  thinker  does 
not  resort  to  metaphysical  conceptions- 
(like  the  "natural  rights,"  the  **dutic8 
of  the  State,"  and  so  on)  for  establishing 
what  are,  in  his  opinion,  the  bes^  con- 
ditions for  realizing  the  greatest  hap- 
piness of  humanity.  He  follows,  on 
the  contrary,  the  course  traced  by  the 
modern  philosophy  of  evolution — with- 
out entering,  however,  the  slippery 
route  of  mere  analogies  so  often  resort- 
ed to  by  Herbert  Spencer.  He  stud- 
ies human  society  as  it  is  now  and  was 
in  the  past;  aud,  and  without  either 
endowing  men  altogether,  or  separate 
individuals,  with  superior  qualities 
which  they  do  not  possess,  he  merely 
considers  society  as  an  aggregation  of 
organisms  trying  to  find  out  the  best 
ways  of  combining  the  wants  of  the 
individual  with  those  of  co-operation 
for  the  welfare  of  the'  species.  He 
studies  society  and  tries  to  discover  its 
tendencies,  past  and  present,  its  grow- 
ing needs,  intellectual  and  economical; 
and  in  hi*  ideal  be  merely  points  out 
in  which  direction  evolution  gors.  He 
distinguishes  between  the  real  wants 
and  tendencies  of  human  aggregations 
and  the  accidents  (want  of  knowledge, 
migrations,  wars,  conquests)  which 
prevented  these  tendencies  from  being 
satisfied,  or  temporarily  paralyzed 
them.  And  he  concludes  that  the  two 
most  prominent,  although  often  uncon- 
scious, tendencies  throughout  our  his- 
tory were:  a  tendency  toward  integra- 
ting our  labor  for  the  production  of  all 


646 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


riches  in  common,  so  as  finally  to  ren- 
der it  impossible  to  discriminate  the 
part  of  the  common  production  due 
to  the  separate  individual;  and  a  ten- 
dency toward  the  fullest  freedom  of  the 
individual  for  the  prosecution  of  all 
aims,  beneficial  both  for  himself  and 
for  society  at  large.  The  idea  of  the 
anarchist  is  thus  a  mere  summing-up 
of  what  he  considera  to  be  the  next 
phase  of  evolution.  It  is  no  longer  a 
matter  of  faith;  it  is  a  matter  for 
scientific  discussion. 

In  fact,  one  of  the  leading  features 
of  our  century  is  the  growth  of  Social- 
ism aiid  the  rapid  spreading  of  Socialist 
views  among  the  working  classes.  How 
could  it  be  otlierwise?  We  have  wit- 
nessed during  the  last  seventy  years  an 
nnparalleled  sudden  increase  of  our 
powers  of  production,  resulting  in  an 
accumulation  of  ^wealth  which  has 
outstripped  the  most  sanguine  expecta- 
tions.. But,  owing  to  our  wage  system, 
this  increase  of  wealth — due  to  the' 
combined  eiforta  of  men  of  science,  of 
managers,  and  workmen  as  well — has 
resulted  only  in  an  unprecedented  ac- 
cumulation of  wealth  in  the  hrnds  of 
the  owners  of  capital;  while  an  increase 
of  misery  for  the  great  numbers,  and 
an  insecurity  of  life  for  all,  have  been 
the  lot  of  the  workmen.  The  unskilled 
laborers,  in  continuous  search  for  labor, 
are  falling  into  an  unheard  of  destitu- 
tion; and  even  the  best  paid  artisans 
and  skilled  workmen,  who  ufldoubtedly 
are  livino^  now  a  more  comfortable  life 
than  before,  labor  under  tl)e  permanent 
menace  of  being  thrown,  in  their  turn, 
into  the  same  conditions  as  the  unskill- 
ed paupers,  in  consequence  of  ^omo  of 
the  continuous  and  unavoidable  fluct- 
uations of  industry  and  caprices  of 
capital.  The  chasm  between  the  mod- 
em millionaire  who  squanders  the  pro- 
duce of  human  labor  in  a  gorgeous  and 
vain  luxury,  and  the  pauper  reduced  to 
a  miserable  and  insecure  G\mtence,  is 


thus  growing  more  and  more,  so  asto 
break  the  very  unity  of  society — the 
harmony  of  its  life — and  to  endaogtr 
the  progress  of  its  further  development. 
At  tlie  same  time,  the  working  classes 
are  the  less  inclined  patiently  to  euduro 
this  division  of  societv  into  two  classes, 
as  they  themselves  become  more  and 
more  conscious  of  the  wealth -producing 
power  of  modern  industry,  of  the  part 
played  by  labor  in  the  production  of 
wealth,  and  of  their  own  capacities  of 
organization.  In  proportion  as  all  class- 
es of  the  community  take  a  more  lively 
part  in  public  affairs,  and  knowledge 
spreads  among  the  masses,  their  long- 
ing for  equality  becomes  stronger,  and 
their  demands  of  social  reorganization 
become  louder  and  louder:  they  can 
be  ignored  no  more.  The  worker  claims 
his  share  in  the  riches  he  ])roduces;  ho 
claims  his  share  in  the  management  of 
production;  and  he  claims  not  only 
some  additional  well-Deing,  but  also  his 
full  rights  in  the  higher  enjoyments  of 
science  and  art.  These  claims,  which 
formerly  were  uttered  only  by  the  social 
reformer,  begin  now  to  be  made  by  a 
daily  growing  minority  of  those  who 
work  in  the  factory  or  till  the  acix*;  and 
they  so  conform  with  our  feelings  of 
justice,  that  they  find  supjiort  in  a 
daily  growing  minority  amidst  the  privi- 
leged classes  themselves.  Socialism 
becomes  thus  ilic  idea  of  the  nineteenth 
century;  and  neither  coercion  nor 
pseudo-reforms  can  stop  its  further 
growth. 

Much  hope  of  improvement  was  laid, 
of  course,  in  the  extension  of  political 
rights  to  the  working  classes.  But 
these  concessions,  unsupported  as  they 
were  by  con*esponding  changes  in  the 
economical  relations,  proved  delusory. 
They  did  not  materially  improve  the 
conditions  of  the  great  bulk"  of  the 
workmen.  Therefore,  the  watchword 
of  Socialism  is:  "Economical  free- 
dom, as  the  only  secure  basi-^  for  politi- 


THE  SCIENTIFIC  BASES  OF  ANARCHY. 


647 


cal  freedom. "  Arfd  as  long  as  the  pre- 
sent wage  system,  with  all  its  oad 
consequences,  remains  unaltered,  the 
Socialist  watchword  will  continue  to 
inspire  the  workmen.  Socialism  will 
continue  to  grow  until  it  has  realized 
its  programme. 

Side  by  side  with  this  great  move- 
ment of  thought  in  economical  matters, 
a  like  movement  was  going  on,  with 
regard  to  political  rights,  political  or- 
ganization, and  the  functions  of  govern- 
ment.  Government  was  submitted  to 
the  same  criticism  as  Capital.  While 
most  of  the  Kiidicals  saw  in  universal 
suffrage  and  republican  institutions  the 
last  word  of  political  wisdom,  a  further 
step  was  made  by  the  few.  The  very 
functions  of  government  and  the  State, 
m  also  their  relations  to  the  individual, 
were  submitted  to  a  sharper  and  deeper 
criticism.  Hcpresentative  government 
having  been  experimented  on  a  wider 
field  than  before,  its  defects  became 
more  and  more  prominent.  It  became 
obvious  that  these  defects  are  not  mere- 
ly accidental,  but  inherent  to  the  sys- 
tem itself.  Parliament  and  its  execu- 
tive proved  to  be  unable  to  attend  to 
all  the  numberless  affairs  of  the  com- 
munity and  to  conciliate  the  varied 
and  often  opposite  interests  of  the  cep- 
arate  parts  of  a  State.  Election  proved 
unable  to  find  out  the  men  yfho  might 
represent  a  nation,  and  manage,  other- 
wise than  in  a  party  spirit,  the  affairs 
they  are  compelled  to  legislate  upon. 
The  defects  became  so  striking  that 
the  very  principles  of  the  representative 
system  were  criticised  and  their  justness 
doubted.  Again,  the  dangers  of  a 
centralized  government  became  still 
more  conspicuous  when  the  Socialists 
came  to  the  front  and  asked  for  a  further 
increase  of^lie  powers  of  government 
by  intrusting  it  with  the  management 
of  tke  immense  field  covered  now  by 
the  economical  relations  between  indi- 
viduals.     The    question    was    aske<l. 


whether  a  government,  intrusted  with 
the  management  of  industry  and  trade, 
would  not  become  a  permanent  danger 
for  liberty  and  peace,  and  whether  it 
even  would  be  able  to  be  a  good  mana» 
ger? 

The  Socialists  of  the*  earlier  part  of 
this  century  did  not  fully  i-ealize  the 
immense  difficulties  of  tffe  problem. 
Convinced  as  they  were  of  the  necessity 
of  economical  reforms,  most  of  them 
took  no  notice  of  the  need  of  freedom 
for  the  individual;  and  we  have  had 
social  reformers  ready  to  submit  society 
to  any  kind  of  theocracy,  dictatorship, 
or  even  Csesarism,  in  order  to  obtain 
reforms  in  a  Socialist  sense.  Therefore 
we  saw,  in  this  country  and  .ilso  on  the 
Continent,  the  division  of  men  of  ad- 
vanced opinions  into  political  Eadicals 
and  Socialists — the  former  looking  with 
distrust  on  the  latter,  as  they  saw  in 
them  a  danger  for  the  political  liberties 
which  have  been  won  by  the  civilized 
nations  after  a  long  series  of  struggles. 
And  even  now,  wlien  the  So<Malists  all 
over  Europe  are  becoming  political  par- 
ties, and  profess  the  democratic  faith, 
there  remains  among  most  irapiirtial 
men  a  well-founded  fear  of  the  Volks- 
stant  or  ''popular  State*'  being  as  great 
a  danger  for  liberty  as  any  form  of 
autocracy,  if  its  government  be  intrus- 
ted with  the  management  of.  all  the 
social  organization,  including  the  pro- 
duction and  distribution  of  wealth. 

The  evolution  of  the  last  forty  yeara 
prepared,  however,  the  way  for  showing 
the  necessity  and  possibility  of  a -higher 
form  of  social  organization  which  might 
guarantee  economical  freedom  without 
reducing  the  individual  to  the  role 
of  a  slave  to  the  State.  The  origins  of 
government  were  carefully  studied,  and 
all  metaphysical  conceptions  as  to  divine 
or  '^social  contract"  derivation  having 
been  laid  aside,  it  appea?^  that  it  is 
among  us  of  a  relatively^  ijBodern  origin, 
and  that  its  powers;  gfe^  precisely  in 


CIS 


THE  LIBRAHY  MAGAZINE. 


proportion  as  the  division  of  society  in- 
to the  privileged  and  uoprivileged 
classes  was  growing  in  the  course  of 
ages.  Representative  government 
was  also  reduced  to  its  real  value — that 
of  an  instrument  which  has  rendered 
services  in  the*  struggle  against  auto- 
cracy, but  not  an  ideal  of  free  political 
organization.  As  to  the  system  of  phil- 
osophy which  saw  in  the  State  (the 
Kultur-Staat)  a  leader  to  progress,  it 
was  more  and  more  shaken  as  it  became 
evident  that  progi'ess  is  the  more  effec- 
tive when  it  is  not  checked  by  State  in- 
terference. It  thus  became  obvious 
that  a  further  advance  in  social  life 
does  not  lie  in  the  direction  of  a  further 
concentration  of  power  and  regulative 
functions  in  the  hands  of  a  governing 
body,  but  in  the  direction  of  decentra- 
lization, both  territorial  and  functional 
— in  a  subdivision  of  public  functions 
with  respect  both  to  their  sphere  of 
action  and  to  the  character  oi  the  func- 
tions; it  is  in  the  abandonment  to  the 
initiative  of  freely  constitnted  groups 
of  all  those  functions  which  are  now 
considered  as  the  functions  of  govern- 
ment. 

This  current  of  thought  found  its 
expression  not  merely  in  literature,  but 
also,  to  a  limited  extent,  in  life.  The 
uprise  of  tlie  Paris  Commune,  followed 
by  that  of  the  Commune  of  Cartagena 
— a  movement  of  which  the  historical 
bearing  seems  to  have  been  quite  over- 
looked in  this  country — opened  a  new 
page  of  history.  If  we  analyze  not  only 
i^his  movement  in  itself,  but  also  the 
:  ifnpression  it  left  in  the  minds  and  the 
i  ifeeaidencies  which  were  manifested 
j  «d:UTing  the  communal  revolution,  we 
flwinrt  recognize  in  it  an  indication 
«h^w.i]ig  that  in  the  future  human  ag- 
;gilomeration8  which  are  more  advanced 
ioi  their  social  development  will  try  to 
irtart  im  independent  life;  and  that  Ihey 
•will  endeftvor  to  convert  the  more 
l^ackward  j)artB  of  a  nation  by  example. 


• 
instead  of  imposing  their  opinions  by 

law  and  force,  or  submitting  them- 
selves to  the  majority-rule,  which  always 
is  a  mediocrity-rule.  At  the  same  time 
the  failure  of  representative  govern- 
ment within  the  Commune  itself  prov- 
ed that  self-government  and  self -admin- 
istration must  be  carried  on  farther 
than  in  a  mere  territorial  sense;  to  be 
effective  they  must  be  earned  on  also 
with  regard  to  the  various  functions  of 
life  within  the  free  community;  a 
merely  territorial  limitation  of  the 
sphere  of  action  of  government  will  not 
do — representative  government  being 
as  deficient  in  a  city  as  it  is  in  a  na- 
tion. Life  gave  thus  a  further  point 
in  favor  of  the  no-government  theory, 
and  anew  impulse  to  anarchist  thought. 
Anarchists  recognize  the  justice  of 
both  the  jnst-mentioncd  tendencies  to- 
ward economical  and  political  freedom, 
and  see  in  them  two  different  manifes- 
tations of  the  very  same  need  of  equality 
which  constitutes  the  very  essence  of 
all  struggles  mentioned  by  liistory. 
Therefore,  in  common  with  all  Social- 
ists, the  anarchist  says  to  the  political 
reformer:  ''No  substantial  reform  in 
the  sense  of  politicjd  equality,  and  no 
limitation  of  tne  powers  of  government, 
can  be  made  as  long  as  society  is  divid- 
ed .into  two  hostile  camps,  and  the  la- 
borer remains,  economically  speaking, 
a  serf,  to  his  employer.''  But  to  the 
Popular  State  Socialist  we  say  also: 
"You  cannot  modify  the  existing  con- 
ditions of  property  without  deeply 
modifying  at  the  same  time  the  politi- 
cal organization.  You  must  limit  the 
powers  of  government  and  renounce 
Parliamentary  rule.  To  each  new 
economical  phasis  of  life  corresponds  a 
new  political  phasis.  Absolute  mon- 
archy— that  is,  Court-nile — correspond- 
ed to  the  system  of  serfdom.  Repre- 
sentative government  corresponds  to 
Capital-rule.  Both,  however,  are  class- 
rule.    But  in  a  society  where  the  dis- 


THE  SCIENTIFIC  BASES  OF  ANARCHY. 


649 


tinction  between  capitalist  and  laborer 
has  disappeared,  there  is  no  need  of 
such  a  government;  it  would  be  an  an- 
achronism, a  nuisance.  Free  workers 
would  require  a  free  organization,  and 
this  cannot  have  another  basis  than  free 
agreement  and  free  co-operat.ion,  with- 
out sacrificing  the  autonomy  of  the  in- 
dividual to  the  all-pervading  inter- 
ference of  the  State.  The  no-capitalist 
system  implies  the  no-government  sys- 
tem.'' 

Meaning  thus  the  emancipation  of 
man  from  the  oppressive  powers  of  capi- 
talist and  government  as  well,  the 
system  of  anarchy  becomes  a  synthesis 
oif  the  two  powerful  currents  of  thought 
which  characterize  our  century. 

In  arriving  at  these  conclusions  an- 
archy proves  to  be  in  accordance  with 
the  conclusions  arrived  at  by  the  phil- 
osophy of  evolution.  By  bringing  to 
light  the  plasticity  of  organization,  the 
philosophy  of  evolution  has  shown  ihe 
admirable  adaptivity  of  organisms  to 
their  conditions  of  life,  and  the  ensuing 
development  of  such  faculties  as  ren- 
der more  complete  both  the  adapta- 
tions of  the  aggregates  to  their  sur- 
roundings and  those  of  each  of  the 
constituent  parts  of  the  aggregate  to 
the  needs  of  free  co-operation.  It 
familiarized  us  with  the  circumstance 
that  througliout  organic  nature  the 
capacities  for  life  in  common  are  grow- 
ing in  proportion  as  the  integi'ation  of 
organisms  into  compound  aggregates 
becomes  more  and  tnore  complete;  and 
it  enforced  thus  the  opinion  already 
expressed  by  social  moralists  as  to  the 
perfectibility  of  human  nature.  It  has 
shown  us  that,  in  the  long  run  of  the 
struggle  for  existence,  **the  fittest"  will 
prove  to  be  those  who  combine  intellec- 
tual knowledge  with  the  knowledge 
necessary  for  the  production  of  wealth, 
and  not  those  who  are  now  the  richest 
because  they,  or  their  ancestors,  have 
been  momentarily  the  strongest.     By 


shovjring  that  the  ^'struggle  for  exis- 
tence" must  be  conceived,  not  merely 
in  its  restricted  sense  of  a  struggle  be- 
tween individuals  for  the  means  of  sub- 
sistence, but  in  its  wider  sense  of 
adaptation  of  all  individuals  of  the 
species  to  the  best  conditions  for  the 
survival  of  the  species,  as  well  as  for 
the  greatest  possible  sum  of  life  and 
happiness  for  each  and  all,  it  permitted 
us  to  deduce  the  laws  of  moral  science 
from  the  social  needs  and  habits  of 
mankind.  It  showed  us  the  infinites- 
imal part  played  by  positive  law  in 
moral  evolution,  and  the  immense  part 
played  by  the  natural  growth  of  altru- 
istic feelings,  wliich  develop  as  soon  as 
the  conditions  of  life  favor  their 
growth.  It  thus  enforced  the  opinion 
of  social  reformers  as  to  the  necessity 
of  modifying  the  conditions  of  life 
for  improving  man,  instead  of  trying  to 
improve  human  nature  by  moral  teach- 
ings while  life  works  in  an  opposite 
direction.  Finally,  by  studying  numan 
society  from  the  biological  point  of 
view,  it  came  to  the  conclusions  arrived 
at  by  anarchists  from  the  study  of  his- 
tory and  present  tendencies,  jis  to  fur- 
ther progress  being  in  the  line  of  so- 
cialization of  wealth  and  integrated 
labor,  combined  with  the  fullest  possi- 
ble freedom  of  the  individual. 

It  is  not  a  mere  coincidcfnce  that 
Herbert  Spencer,  whom  we  may  con- 
sider as  a  pretty  fair  expounder  of  the 
philosophy  of  evolution,  has  been 
brought  to  conclude,  with  regard  to 
political  organization  that  **that  form 
of  society  toward  which  we  are  pro- 
gressing is  **one  in  which  government 
will  be  reduced  to  the  smallest  amount 
possible,  and  freedom  increased  to  the 
greatest  amount  possible. "  When  he 
opposes  in  these  words  the  conclusion 
01  his  synthetic  philosophy  to  those  of 
Aup:uste  Comte,  he  arrives  at  very 
nearly  the  same  conclusion  as  Proud- 
lion  and  Bakunin.     More  than  that^ 


660 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


the  very  methods  of  argumentation  and 
the  illustmtions  resorted  to  by  Herbert 
Spencer  (daily  supply  of  food,  post- 
oftice..  and  so  on)  are  the  same  which 
we  find  iu  the  writings  of  the  anar- 
chists. The  channels  of  thought  were 
the  same,  although  both  were  unaware 
of  each  otjier's  endeavors. 

Again,  wlien  Mr,  Spencer  so  power- 
fully and  even  not  without  a  touch  of 
passion,  argues  (in  his  Appendix  to  the 
third  edition  of  the  Data  of  Ethics) 
that  human  societies  are  marching  to- 
ward a  state  when  a  further  identifica- 
tion of  altruism  with  egotism  will  be 
made  ^^in  the  sense  tliat  personal  grati- 
ficncion  will  come  from  the  gratitication 
of  others;"  when  he  says  that  '*we  ai'e 
shown,  undeniably,  that  it  is  a  perfect- 
ly possible  thing  for  organisms  to  be- 
come so  ail  lusted  to  tlie  requirements 
of  their  lives,  that  energy  expended  for 
the  general  weliiire  may  not  only  be 
idequate  to  checic  energy  expended  for 
che  individual  weliare,  but  may  come 
CO  subordinate  it  so  far  as  to  leave  in- 
dividual welfare  no  greater  part  than  is 
necessary  for  maintenance  of  individual 
life'' — provided  the  conditions  for  such 
]*ehitioTi8  between  the  individual  and 
the  community  be  maintaineci, — he  de- 
rives from  the  study  of  nature  the  very 
same  conclusions  which  the  forerunners 
of  anarchy,  Fourier,  and  Robert  Owen, 
derived  from  a  study  of  \uman  charac- 
ter. 

When  we  see  further  Mr.  Bain  so 
forcibly  elaborating  the  theory  of  moral 
hal)its,  and  the  French  philosopher,  M. 
Guyau,  publishing  his  remarkable  work 
on  Morality  without  Ohlvjation  or 
Sanction;  when  J.  S.  Mill  so  sharply 
criticises  representative  government, 
and  when  he  discusses  the  problem  of 
liberty,  although  failing  to  establish 
its  necessary  conditions;  when  Sir  John 
Lubbock  prosecutes  his  admirable  stud- 
ies on  animal  societies,  and  Mr.  Morgan 
applies  scientific  methods  of  investiga- 


tion to  the  philosophy  of  history — 
when,  in  short,  every  year,  by  bringing 
some  new  arguments  to  the  philosophy 
of  evolution,  adds  at  the  same  time 
some  new  arguments  to  the  theory  cf 
anarchy — we  must  recognize  that  this 
last,  although  differing  as  to  its  start- 
ing-points, follows  the  same  sound 
methods  of  scientific  investigation. 
Our  confidence  in  its  conclusions  is  stiil 
more  increased.  The  difference  be- 
tween anarchists  and  the  just-ni.mcd 
philosophers  may  be  immense  as  to  the 
presumed  speed  of  evolution,  and  r.s 
to  the  conduct  which  one  ought  to  as- 
sume as  soon  as  he  has  had  an  insight 
into  the  aims  toward  which  society  is 
marching.  !No  attempt,  however,  has 
been  made  scientifically  to  determine 
the  ratio  of  evolution,  nor  have  the 
chief  elements  of  the  problem  (tho 
state  of  mind  of  the  masses)  been  take!i 
into  account  by  the  evolutionist  phi- 
losophers. As  to  bringing  one's  action 
into  accordance  with  his  philosophical 
conceptions,  we  know  that,  unhappily, 
intellect  and  will  are  too  often  separat- 
ed by  a  chasm  not  to  be  filled  by  mere 
philosophical  speculations,  however 
deep  and  elaborate. 

There  is,  however,  between  the  just- 
named  philosophers  and  the  anarchists 
a  wide  difference  on  one  point  of  pri- 
mordial im'))ortance.  This  difference  is 
the  stranger  as  it  arises  on  a  [K}iut 
which  might  be  discussed  figures  in 
hand,  and  which  constitutes  the  verv 
basis  of  all  further  deduction,  as  it  be- 
longs to  what  biological  sociology  would 
describe  as  the  physiology  of  nutrition. 

There  is,  in  fact,  a  widely  spread  fal- 
lacy, maintained  by  Mr.  Spencer  and 
many  others,  as  to  the  causes  of  the 
misery  which  we  see  round  about  U8. 
It  was  aflirmed  forty  years  ago.  and  it 
is  affirmed  now  by  Mr.  Spencer  and 
his  followers,  that  misery  m  civilized 
society  is  due  to  our  insufficient  pro- 
duction or  rather  to  the  circumstances 


THE  SCIENTIFIC  BASES  OP  ANARCHY. 


651 


that  "population  presses  upon  the 
means  of  subsistence.'*  It  would  be  of 
no  u^e  to  inquire  into  the  origin  of 
such  a  misrepresentation  of  facts,  which 
might  be  easily  verified.  It  may  have 
its  origin  in  inherited  misconceptions 
whfch  liave  nothing  to  do  with  the 
phliosophy  of  evoluticm.  But  to  be 
maintained  and  advocated  by  philoso- 
phers, there  must  be,  in  the  concep- 
tions of  these  philosophers,  some  con- 
fusion as  to  the  different  aspects  of  the 
struggle  for  existence.  Sufficient  im- 
portance is  not  given  to  the  difference 
between  the  struggle  which  goes  on 
among  organisms  which  do  not  co- 
operate for  providing  the  means  of 
subsistence,  and  those  which  do  so.  In 
this  last  case  again  there  must  be  some 
confusion  between  those  aggregates 
whose  members  find  their  means  of 
subsistence  in  the  ready  produce  of  the 
vegetable  and  animal  kingdom,  and 
those  whose  members  artificially  grow 
their  means  of  subsistence  and  are  en- 
abled to  increase  (to  a  yet  unknown 
amount)  the  productivity  of  each  spot 
of  tlie  surface  of  the  globe.  Hunters 
who  hunt,  each  of  them  for  his  own- 
sake,  and  hunters  who  unite  into  so- 
cieties for  hunting,  stand  quite  differ- 
ently with  regard  to  the  means  of  sub- 
sistence. But  the  difference  is  still 
greater  betv/een  the  hunters  who  take 
their  means  of  subsistence  as  they  are 
in  nature,  and  civilized  men  who  grow 
theit  food  and  produce  all  requisites 
for  a  comfortable  life  by  machinery. 
hi  this  last  case — the  stock  of  potential 
energy  in  nature  being  little  short  of 
infinite  in  comparison  with  the  present 
])opulation  of  the  globe — the  means  of 
availing  ourselves  of  the  stock  of  ener- 
gy are  increased  and  perfected  precise- 
ly in  proportion  to  the  density  of  popu- 
lation and  to  the  previously  accumulated 
stock  of  technical  knowledge ;  so  that 
for  human  beings  who  are  in  possession 
of    scientific     knowledge,    co-operate 


for  the  artificial  production  of  the 
means  of  subsistence  and  comfort,  the 
law  is  quite  the  reverse  to  that  of  Mal- 
thus.  The  accumuhition  of  means  of 
subsistence  and  comfort  is  going  on  at 
a  much  speedier  rate  than  the  increase 
of  population.  The  only  conclusion 
which  we  can  deduce  from  the  laws- of 
evolution  and  multiplication  of  effects 
is  that  the  available  amount  of  means 
of  subsistence  increases  at  a  rate  which 
increases  itself  in  proportion  as  popula- 
tion becomes  denser — unless  it  be  art\^- 
ficially  (and  temporarily)  checked  by 
some  defects  of  social  organization.  As 
to  our  powers  of  production  (our  poten- 
tial production,)  they  increase  at  a  still 
speedier  rate  ;  in  proportion  as  scientific 
knowledge  grows,  the  means  for  spread- 
ing it  are  rendered  easier,  and  inventive 
genius  is  stimulated  by  all  previous 
inventions. 

If  the  fallacy  as  to  the  pressure  of 
population  on  the  means  of  subsistence 
could  be  maintained  a  hundred  yeara 
ago,  it  can  be  maintained  no  more, 
since  we  have  witnessed  the  effects  of 
science  on  industry,  and  the  enormous 
increase  of  our  productive  powers  dur- 
ing the  last  hundred  years.  We  know, 
in  fact,  that  while  the  growth  of  popu- 
lation of  England  has  been  from 
16k  million  m  1844  to  2(jH  mil- 
lions in  1883,  showing  thus  an  increase 
of  62  per  cent,  the  growth  of  national 
wealth  (as  testified  by  schedule  A  of 
the  Income  Tax  Act)  has  increased  at 
a  twice  speedier  rate;  it  has  grown' 
from  221  to  bOlH  millions— that  is, 
by  130  per  cent.  And  we  know  that 
the  same  increase  of  wealth  has  taken 
place  in  France,  where  population  re- 
mains almost  stationary,  and  that  it 
has  gone  on  at  a  still  speedier  rate  in 
the  united  States,  where  population  is 
increasing  every  year  by  immigration. 

But  the  figures  just  mentioned, 
while  showing  the  real  increase  of  pro- 
duction, give  only  a  faint  idea  of  what 


652 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


our  production  might  be  under  a 
more  reasonable  economical  organi- 
zation. We  know  well  that  the 
owners  of  capital,  while  trying  to  pro- 
duce more  wares  with  fewer  "lianas/' 
are  also  continually  endeavoring  to 
limit  the  production,  in  order  to  sell  at 
higher  prices.  When  the  benefits  of  a 
concern  are  going  down,  the  owner  of 
the  capital  limits  tlie  production,  or 
totally  suspends  it,  and  prefers  to  en- 
gage his  capital  in  foreign  loans  or 
shares  of  Patagonian  gold-mines.  Just 
now  there  are  plenty  of  pitmen  in 
England  who  ast  for  nothing  better 
than  to  be  permitted  to  extract  coal 
and  supply  wilh  cheap  fuel  the  house- 
holds where  children  are  shivering  be- 
fore empty  chimneys.  There  are 
thousands  of  weavers  who  ask  for 
nothing  better  than  to  weave  stuffs  in 
order  to  replace  the  Whitechapel  rugs 
witli  linen.  And  so  in  all  branches  of 
industry.  How  can  we  talk  about  a 
want  of  means  of  subsistence  when  246 
blasting  furnaces  and  thousands  of 
factories  lie  idle  in  Great  Britain  alone; 
and  when  there  are,  just  now,  thou- 
sands and  thousands  of  unemployed  in 
Jjondon  alone;  thousands  of  men  who 
wodid  consider  themselves  happy  if 
they  were  permitted  to  transform  (un- 
der the  guidance  of  experienced  men) 
the  heavy  clay  of  Middlesex  into  a  rich 
soil,  and  to  cover  with  rich  cornfields 
and  orchards  the  acres  of  meadow-land 
which  now  yield  only  a  few  pounds' 
worth  of  hay?  But  they  are  prevented 
from  doing  so  by  the  owners  of  the 
land,  of  the  weaving  factory,  and  of 
the  coal-mine,  because  capital  finds  it 
more  advantageous  to  supply  the  Khe- 
dive, with  harems  and  the  Russian 
Government  with  "strategic  railways" 
and  Krupp  guns.  Of  course  the  main- 
tenance of  harems  pays:  it  gives  ten  or 
fifteen  per  cent,  on  the  capital,  while 
the  extraction  of  coal  does  not  pay — 
that  is,  it  brings  three  or  five  per  cent. 


— and  that  is  a  sufficient  reason  for 
limiting  the  production  and  permit- 
ting would-be  economists  to  iiidulge  m 
reproaches  to  the  working  classes  as  to 
their  too  rapid  multiplication ! 

Here  we  have  inst^mces  of  a  direct 
and  conscious  limitation  of  production, 
due  to  the  circumstance  that  the  re- 
quisites for  production  belong  to  the 
few,  and  that  these  few  have  the  right 
of  disposing  of  them  at  their  will, 
without  caring  about  the  interests  of 
the  community.  But  there  is  also  the 
indirect  and  unconscious  limitation  of 
production — that  which  results  from 
squandering  the  produce  of  human 
labor  in  luxury,  instead  of  applying  it 
to  a  further  increase  of  production. 

The  last  even  cannot  be  estimated  in 
figures  but  a  walk  through  the  rich 
shops  of  any  city  and.  a  glance  at  the 
manner  in  which  money  is  squandered 
now,  can  give  an  approximate  idea  of 
this  indirect  limitation.  When  a  ricli 
man  spends  a  thousand  pounds  for  his 
stables,  he  squanders  five  to  six  thou- 
sand days  of  human  labor,  which  might 
be  used,  under  a  better  social  organiza- 
tion, for  supplying  with  comfortable 
homes  those  who  are  compelled  to  live 
now  in  dens.  And  when  a  lady  spends 
a  hundred  pounds  for  her  dress,  we 
cannot  but  say  that  she  squanders,  at 
least,  two  years  of  human  labor,  which, 
again  under  a  better  organization, 
might  have  8up])lied  a  hundred  women 
with  decent  dresses,  and  much  moa'e  if 
applied  to  a  further  improvement  of  the 
instruments  of  production.  Preachers 
thunder  against  luxury,  because  it  is 
shameful  to  squander  money  for  feed- 
ing and  sheltering  hounds  and  horses, 
when  thousands  live  in  the  East  End 
on  sixpence  a  day,  and  other  thousands 
have  not  even  their  miserable  sixpence 
every  day.  But  the  economist  sees 
more  than  that  in  our  modern  luxurv: 
when  millions  of  days  of  labor  are  spent 
every  year  for  the  satisfaction  of  the 


THE  SCIENTIFIC  BASES  OF  ANARCHY. 


653 


stupid  vanity  of  the  rich,  he  says  that 
80  many  millions  of  workers  have  been 
diverted  from  the  manufacture  of  those 
useful  instruments,  which  would  per- 
mit us  to  decuple  and  centuple  our 
present  production  of  means  of  subsis- 
tence and  of  requisites  for  comfort. 

In  short,  if  we  take  into  account 
both  the  real  and  the  potential  increase 
of  our  wealth,  and  consider  both  the 
direct -and  indirect  limitation  of  pro- 
duction, which  are  unavoidable  under 
our  present  economical  system,  we  must 
recognize  that  the  supposed  "pressure 
of  population  on  the  means  of  subsis- 
tence'' is  a  mere  fallacy,  repealed,  like 
manv  other '  fallacies,  without  even 
taking  the  trouble  of  submitting  it  to 
a  moment's  criticism.  The  causes  of 
the  present  social  disease  must  be 
sought  elsewhere. 

Let  us  take  a  civilized  country.  The 
forests  have  been  cleared,  the  swamps 
drained.  Thousands  of  roads  and  rail- 
ways intersect  it  in  all  directions;  the 
rivers  have  been  rendered  navigable, 
and  the  seaports  are  of  easy  access. 
CJanals  connect  the  seas.  The  rocks 
have  been  pierced  by  deep  shafts ; 
thousands  of  manufactures  cover  the 
land.  Science  has  taught  men  how 
to  use  the  energy  of  nature  for  the 
satisfaction  of  his  needs.  Cities  have 
slowly  grown  in  the  long  run  of  jiges, 
and  trciisures  of  science  and  art  are 
accumulated  in  these  centers  of  civil- 
ization. But — who  has  made  all  these 
marvels? 

The  combined  efforts  of  scores  of 
generations  have  contribiited  toward 
the  achievement  of  these  results.  The 
forests  have  been  cleared  centuries  ago; 
millions  of  men  have  spent  years  and 
vears  of  labor  in  draining  the  swamps, 
in  tracing  the  roads,  in  building  the 
railways.  0*;her  millions  have  built 
the  cities,  and  created  the  civilization 
we  boast  of.  Thousands  of  inventors, 
iiostly  unknown,  mostly  dying  in  pov- 


erty and  neglect,  have  elaborated  the 
machinery  in  which  Man  admires  his 
genius.  Thousands  of  writers,  philoso- 
phers and  men  of  science,  supported 
by  many  thousands  of  compositors, 
printers,  and  other  laborers  whose  name 
is  legion,  have  contributed  in  elabor- 
ating and  spreading  knowledge,  in  dis- 
sipating errors,  creating  the  atmosphere 
of  scientific  thought,  without  which 
the  marvels  of  our  century  never  would 
have  teen  brought  to  life.  The  genius 
of  a  Mayer  and  a  Grove,  the  patient 
work  of  a  Joule,  surely  have  done  more 
for  giving  a  new  start  to  modern  indus- 
try than  all  the  capitalists  of  the  world; 
but  these  men  of  genius  themselves 
are,  in  their  turti,  the  children  of  in- 
dustry :  thousands  of  engines  had  to 
transform  heat  ipto  mechanical  force, 
and  viechanical  force  into  sound,  light, 
and  electricity — and  they  had  to  do  so 
years  long  ago,  every  day.  under  the  eyes 
of  humanity — before  some  of  our  con- 
temporaries proclaimed  the  mechanical 
origin  of  heat  and  the  correlation  of 
physical  forces,  and  before  we  ourselves 
became  prepared  to  listen  to  them  and 
understand  their  teachings.  Who  knows 
foe  how  many  decades  we  should  con- 
tinue to  be  ignorant  of  this  theory  which 
now  revolutionizes  industry,  were  it  not 
for  the  inventive  powers  and  skill  of 
those  unknown  workers  who  have  im- 
proved the  steam-engine,  who  brought 
all  its  parts  to  perfection,  so  as  to  make 
steam  more  manageable  than  a  horse, 
and  to  render  the  use  of  the  engine 
nearly  universal?  But  the  same  is  tnie 
with  regard  to  -each  smallest  part  of 
our  machinery.  In  each  machine  how- 
ever simple,  we  may  read  a  whole  his- 
tory— a  long  history  of  sleepless  nights, 
of  delusions  and  joys,  of  partial  inven- 
tions and  partial  improvements  which 
brought  it  to  its  present  state.  Nay, 
nearly  each  new  machine  is  a  synthesis, 
a  result  of  thousands  of  partial  inven* 
tions  made,  not  only  in  one  special  de^ 


654 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


partment  of  machinery,  but  in  all 
departments  of  the  wide  field  of 
mechanics. 

Our  cities,  connected  by  roads  and 
brought  into  easy  communication  with 
all  peopled  parts  of  the  globe,  are  the 
grow  til  of  centuries;  and  each  house 
m  these  cities,  each  fiictory,  each  shop, 
derives  its  value,  its  very  raisoii  d'etre 
from  the  fact  that  it  is  situated  on  a 
spot  of  the  globe  where  thousands  or 
miiJiQns  lave  gathered  together.  Every 
smallest  part  of  tlie  immense  wliole 
which  we  call  the  wealth  of  civilized 
nations  derives  its  value  precisely  from 
being  a  part  of  this  whole.  What 
would  be  the  value  of  an  immense 
London  shop  or  storehouse  were  it  not 
situated  precisely  in  London,  which 
has  become  the  gathering  spot  for  live 
millions  of  human  brings?  And  what 
the  value  of  our  coal-pits,  our  manu- 
factures, our  ship  building  yards,  were 
it  not  for  the  immense  traffic  which 
goes  on  across  the  seas,  for  tl>e  railways 
which  transport  mountains  of  mer- 
chandise, for  the  cities  which  number 
their  inhabitants  by  millions?  Who  is, 
then,  the  individual  who  has  the  right 
to  step  forward  and,  laying  his  hands 
4)n  the  smallest  part  of  this  immense 
whole,  to  say, '*/ have  produced  this; 
it  belongs  to  m«f "  And  bow  can  we 
discriminate,  in  this  immense  inter- 
woven whole,  the  part  which  the  iso- 
lated individual  mav  appropriate  to 
hiniself  with  the  sliglbtest  approach  to 
justice?  Houses  and  etreets,  canals 
iind  railways,  machines  and  works  of 
Art,  all  these  have  been  created  by  the 
combined  efforts  of  generations  past 
and  pre<ient,  of  men  living  on  these 
islanas  and  men  living  tl^usands  of 
miles  away. 

But  it  has  happened  in  the  long  run 
-of  ages  that  everything  which  permits 
men  further  to  increase  their  produc- 
tion, or  even  to  continue  it,  has  been 
appropriated   by  the.  few.  .  The  land. 


which  derives  its  value  precisely  from 
its  being  necessary  for  an  ever-increas- 
ing population,  belongs  to  the  few,  who 
may  prevent  the  community  from  cul- 
tivating it.  The  coal-pits,  which  rep- 
resent the  labor  of  generations,  and 
which  also  derive  their  value  from  the 
wants  of  the  manufactures  and  i"uil- 
roads,  from  the  immense  trade  carried 
on  and  the  density  of  population  (what 
is  the  valiTc  of  coal -layers  in  Tninsbai- 
kilia?),  bcijmg  a^ain  to  the  few,  who 
have  even  the  right  of  stopping  the 
extraction  of  coal  if  they  choose  to  give 
another  use  to  their  capital.  The  lace- 
weaving  machine,  which  represents  in 
its  present  state  of  perfection,  the  work 
of  three  generations  of  Lancashire 
weavers,  belongs  again  to  the  few;  and 
if  the  grandsons  of  the  very  same  wea- 
ver who  invented  the  firet  lace-weaving 
machine  claim  their  rights  of  bringing 
one  of  these  machines  into  motion,  thev 
will  be  told  '^Hnndsoff!  this  machine 
does  not  belong  to  youl*'  The  rail- 
roads, which  mostlv  would  be  useless 
heaps  of .  iron  if  Great  Britain  hjd  not 
its  present  dense  population,  its  indus- 
try, trade  and  traffic,  belong  again  to 
the  few — to  a  few  shareliolders,  who 
may  even  not  know  where  the  railway 
is  situated  which  brings  them  a  yearly 
income  lar^r  than  that  of  a  meaiaevd 
king;  and  if  the  children  of  those  peo- 
ple who  died  by  thousands  in  digging 
the  tunnels  would  gather  and  go — a 
ragged  and  starving  crowd — to  ask 
bread  or  work  from  the  shareholders, 
they  would  be  met  with  bayonets  and 
bullets. 

W^ho  is  the  sophist  who  will  dare  to 
say  that  such  an  organization  is  just? 
But  what  is  unjust  cannot  be  beneficial 
for  mankind;  and  it  is  noL  In  con- 
sequence of  this  monstrous  organiza- 
tion,  the  son  of  a  workman,  when  te  is 
able  to  work,  finds ,  no  acre  to  till,  no 
machine  to  set  in  motion,  unless  he 
agrees  .to  ^ell  his  labor  .for. a  aum  infe- 


THE  SCIENTIFIC  BASES  OP  ANARCHY. 


655 


rior  to  its  real  value.  His  father  and 
ffrandfuthcr  have  contributed  in  drain- 
ing the  field,  or  erecting  the  factory, 
to  the  full  extent  of  their  capacities — 
and  nobody  can  do  more  than  that — 
but  he  comes  into  the  world  more  des- 
titute tlian  a  savage.  If  he  resorts  to 
agriculture,  he  will  be  permitted  to 
cultivate  a  plot  of  land,  but  on  the  con- 
dition that  he  rives  up  one  quarter  of 
his  crop  to  the  landlord.  If  he  i-esorts 
to  industry,  he  will  be  permitted  to 
work,  but  on  the  condition  that  out  of 
the  thirty  shillings  he  has  produced, 
ten  shillings  or  more  will  be  pocketed 
by  the  owner  of  the  machine.  We  cry 
against  the  feudal  baron  whQ  did  not 
permit  any  one  to  settle  on  his  land 
otherwise  than  on  payment  of  one 
quarter  of  the  crops  to  the  lord  of  the 
manor;  but  we  continue  to  do  as  they 
did — wo  extend  their  system.  The 
forms  huve  changed,  but  the  essence 
has  remained  the  same.  And  the 
workman  is  compelled  to  accept  the 
feudal  conditions  which  we  call  **free 
contract,"  because  nowhere  will  he  find 
better  conditions.  Everything  has 
been  appropriated  by  somebody;  he 
must  accept  the  bargain,  or  starve. 

Owing  to  this  circumstance  our  pro- 
duction takes  a  wrong  turn.  It  takes  no 
care  of  the  needs  of  the  community; 
its  only  aim  is  to  increase  the  benefits 
of  the  capitalist.  TherQfore — the  con- 
tinuous fluctuations  of  -industry,  the 
crises  periodically  <5oming,  nearly  every 
ten  years,  and  throwing  out  of  employ- 
ment several  ^hnndred  thousand  men 
who  are  brought  to  complete  misery, 
whoso  childi-en  grow  up  in  the  gutter, 
ready  to  become  inmates  of  the  prison 
and  workhouse.  The  workmen  being 
unable  to  purchase  with  their  wages 
the  riches  they  are  producing,  industry 
must  search  for  markets  elsewhere, 
amidst  the  middle  classes  of  other  na- 
tions. It  must  find  markets,  in  the 
East,   in   Africa,   anywhere;   it   must 


increase,  by  trade,  the  number  of  its 
serfs  in  Egypt,  in  India,  in  the  Congo. 
But  everywhere  it  finds  competitors  in 
other  nations  which  rapidly  enter  into 
the  same  line  of  industrial  develop- 
ment. And  wars,  continuous  wars, 
must  be  fought  for  the  supremacy  on 
the  world-market — wars  for  the  pos- 
session of  the  East,  wars  for  getting 
possession  of  the  seas,  wars  for  having 
the  right  of  imposing  heavy  duties  on 
foreign  merchandise.  The  thunder  of 
guns  ircver  ceases  in  Europe;  whole 
generations  are  slaughtered;  and  we 
spend  in  armaments  the  third  of  the 
revenues  of  our  States — a  revenue  rais- 
ed, the  poor  know  with  what  difficul- 
ties. 

Education  is  the  privilege  of  the  few. 
Not  because  we  can  find  no  teachers, 
not  because  the  workman's  son  and 
daughter  are  less  able  to  receive  in- 
struction, but  bet^ause  one  can  receive 
no  reasonable  instruction  when  at  the 
age  of  fifteen  he  descends  into  the 
mine,  or  goes  selling  newspapers  in  the 
streets.  Society  becomes  divided  into 
two  hostile  camps;  and  no  freedom  is 
possible  under  such  conditions.  While 
the  Radical  asks  for  a  further  exten- 
sion of  liberty,  the  statesman  ans«K?r8 
him  that  a  further  increase  of  liberty 
would  bring  about  an  uprising  of  the 
paupers;  and  those  political  libei-tiee 
which  have  cost  so  dear  are  replaced 
by  coercion,  by  exceptional  laws,  by 
military  rule. 

And  finally,  the  injustice  of  our 
repartition  of  wealth  exercises  the  most 
deplorable  effecV  on  our  morality- 
Our  principles  of  morality  fiay:  **Love 
your  neighoar  as  yourself ;"  but  let^ 
child  follow  this  principle  and  take 
off  his  ccfftt  to  give  it  to  the  shivering 
pauper,  and  his  mother  will  tell  him 
that  be  must  never  understand  the 
moral  principles  in  their  right  sense. 
If  he  lives  according  to  them,  he  will 
g«  -barefoot,   without    alleviating  the 


656 


THE  LIBHARY  MAGAZEra. 


misery  round  about  him!  Morality  is 
good  on  the  lips,  not  in  deeds.  Our 
preachers  say,  **\Vho  works,  prays," 
and  everybody  endeavors  to  make 
others  work  for  himself,  They  say, 
*'Never  lie!"  and  politics  is  a  big  lie. 
Aud  we  accustom  ourselves  and  our 
children  to  live  under  this  double-faced 
morality,  which  is  hypocrisy,  and  to 
conciliate  our  double-facedness  by 
Kopliistry.  Hypocrisy  and  sophistry 
become  the  very  busia  of  our  life.  But 
society  cannot  live  under  such  a  moral- 
ity. Jt  cannot  last  so;  it  must,  it  will, 
be  changed. 

The  question  is  thus  no  more  a 
mere  question  of  bread-.  It  covers  the 
whole  Held  of  human  activity.  But  it 
has  at  its  bottom  a  question  of  social 
economy,  and  we  conclude:  The 
means  of  production  and  of  satisfaction 
of  all  needs  of  society,  having  been 
created  by  tlie  common  efforts  of  all, 
must  be  at  the  disposal  of  all.  The 
private  appropriation  of  requisites  for 
production  is  neither  just  nor  bene- 
ticial.  All  must  be  placed  on  the  same 
footing  as  producers  and  consumers  of 
wealth.  That  would  be  the  only  way 
for  society  to  step  out  of  the  bad  con- 
ditions wliich  have  been  created  by 
centuries  of  wars  and  oppression. 
That  would  be  the  only  guarantee  for 
further  progress  in  a  direction  of  equal- 
ity and  freedom,  which  always  were 
the  real  although  unspoken  goal  of 
humanity.  —  Prince  Rropotkin,  in 
the  Nineteenth  Century, 


ABOUT  FICTION. 

The  love  of  romance  is  probably 
coeval  with  the  existence  of  humanity. 
So  far  as  we  can  follow  the  history  of 
the  world  we  find  traces  of  it  and  its 
effects  among  every  people,  and  those 
who    are  acquainted  with  the  habits 


and  ways  of  thought  of  savage  races 
will  know  that  it  nourishes  as  strongly 
in.  the  barbarian  as  in  the  cultured 
breast.  In  short,  it  is  like  the  passions, 
an  innate  quality  of  mankind.  In 
modern  England  this  love  is  not  by  any 
means  dying  out,  as  must  be  clear,  even 
to  that  class  of  our  fellow-countrymen 
who,  we  are  told,  are  interested  in 
nothing  but  politics  and  religion.  A 
writer  in  the  Saturday  Revieio  com- 
puted not  long  ago  that  tire  yearly 
output  of  novels  in  this  country  is 
about  eight  hundred;  and  probably  he 
wafi  within  the  mark.  It  is  to  be  pre- 
sumed that  all  this  enormous  mass  of 
fiction  finds  a  market  of  some  sort,  or 
it  would  not  be  produced.  Of  course 
a  large  quantity  of  it  is  brought  into 
the  world  at  the  expense  of  the  writer, 
who  guarantees  or  deposits  his  thirty 
or  sixty  pounds,  whicn  in  the  former 
case  he  is  certainly  called  upon  to  pay, 
and  in  the  latter  he  never  sees  again. 
But  this  deducted,  a  large  residue 
remains,  out  of  which  a  profit  must  be 
made  by  the  publisher,  or  he  would 
not  publish  it.  Now,  most  of  this 
crude  mass  of  fiction  is  worthless.  If 
three- fourths  of  it  were  never  put  into 
print  the  world  would  scarcely  lose  a 
single  valuable  idea,  aspiration,  or 
amusement.  Many  people  are  of 
opinion  in  their  secret  hearts  that  they 
could,  if  they  thought  it  worth  while 
to  try,  write*  a  novel  that  would  be 
very  good  indeed,  and  a  large  number 
of  people  carry  this  opinion  into  prac- 
tice without  scruple  or  remorse.  But 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  with  the  exception 
of  perfect  sculpture,  really  good 
romance  writing  is  perhaps  the  most 
difficult  art  practiced  by  the  sons  of 
men.  It  might  even  be  maintained 
that  none  but  a  greftt  man  or  woman 
can  produce  a  really  great-  work  of 
fiction.  But  great  men  are  rare,  and 
great  works  are  rarer  still,  because  all 
great  men  do  not  write.     If,  however, 


ABOUT  FICTION. 


657 


a  person  is  intellectually  a  bead  and 
shoulders  above  his  or  her  fellows,  that 
person  is  prima  facie  fit  and  able  to 
write  a  good  work.  Even  then  he  or 
she  jnay  not  succeed,  because  in  addi- 
tion to  intellectual  pre-eminence,  a 
certain  literary  quality  is  necessary  to 
the  perfect  flowering  of  the  brain  in 
books.  Perhaps,  therefore,  the  argu- 
ment would  stand  better  converselv. 
The  writer  who  can  produce  a  noble 
and  lasting  work  of  art  is  of  necessity 
a  great  man,  and  one  who,  had  fortune 
opened  to  him  any  of  the  doors  that 
lead  to  material  grandeur  and  to  the 
busy  pomp  of  power,  wduld  have  shown 
that  the  imagination,  the  quick  sym- 
pathy, the  insight,  the  deptn  of  mmd, 
and  the  sense  of  order  and  proportion 
which  went  to  constitute  the  writer 
would  have  equally  constituted  the 
statesman  or  the  general.  It  is  not, 
of  course,  arguea  that  only  great 
writers  should  produce  books,  because 
if  this  was  so  publishing  as  a  trade 
would  come  to  an  end.  Also  there 
exists  a  large  class  of  people  who  like 
to  read,  and  to  whom  great  books 
would  scarcely  appeal.  Let  us  imagine 
the  consternation  of  the  ladies  of 
England  if  they  were  suddenly  forced 
to  an  exclusive  fare  of  George  Eliot 
and  Thackeray.  But  it  is  argued  that 
a  large  proportion  of  the  fictional  matter 
poured  from  the  press  into  the  market 
IS  superfluous,  and  serves  no  good  pur- 
pose. On  the  contrary,  it  serves  several 
aistinctly  bad  ones.  It  lowers  and 
vitiates  the  public  taste,  and  it  obscures 
the  true  enas  of  fiction.  Also  it  bripgs 
the  hi^h  and  honorable  profession  of 
authorship  into  contempt  and  disrepute, 
for  the  general  public,  owing  perhaps  to 
the  comparative  poverty  of  literary  men, 
has  never  yet  quite  made  up  its  mind 
as  to,  the  status  of  their  profession. 
Lastly,  this  over-production  stops  the 
sale  of  better  work  without  profiting 
those  who  are  responsible  for  it. 


The  publication  of  inferior  fiction 
can,  in  short,  be  of  no  advantage  to 
any  one,  except  perhaps  the  proprietors 
of  circulating  libraries.  To  the  author 
himself  it  must  indeed  be  a'  source  of 
nothing  but  misery,  bitterness,  and 
disappointment,  for  only  those  who 
have  written  one  can  know  the  amount 
of  labor  involved  in  the  production  of 
even  a  bad  book.  Still,  the  very  fact 
that  people  can  be  found  to  write  and 
publishers  to  publish  to  such  an  unlim- 
ited extent,  snows  clearly  enough  the 
enormous  appetite  of  readers,  who  are 
prepared,  like  a  diseased  ostrich,  to 
swallow  stones,  and  even  carrion, 
rather  than  not  get  their. fill  of  novel- 
ties. More  and'  more,  as  what  we  call 
culture  spreads,  do  men  and  women 
crave  to  be  taken  out  of  themselves. 
More  and  more  do  they  long  to  be 
brought  face  to  face  with  Beauty,  and 
stretch  out  their  arms  toward  that 
TiBion  of  the  Perfect,  which  we  only 
see  in  books  and  dreams.  The  fact 
that  we,  in  these  latter  days,  have  as 
it  were  macadamized  all  the  roads  of 
life  does  not  make  the  world  softer  to 
the  feet  of  those  who  travel  through  it. 
There  are  now  royal  roads  to  every- 
thing, lined  with  staring  placards, 
whereon  he  who  runs  may  learn  the 
sweet  uses  of  ddvertisement;  but  it  is 
dusty  work  to  follow  them,  and  some 
may  think  that  our  ancestors  on  the 
whole  found  their  voyaging  a  shadier 
and  fresher  business.  However  this 
may  be,  a  weary  public  calls  continually 
for  books,  new  books  to  make  them 
forget,  to  refresh  them,  to  occupy 
minds  jaded  with  the  toil  and  empti- 
ness and  vexation  of  our  competitive 
existence. 

In  some  ways  this  demand  is  no 
doubt  a  healthy  sign.  The  intellect 
of  the  world  must  be  awakening  when 
it  thus  cries  aloud  to  be  satisfied. 
Perhaps  it  is  not  a  good  thing  to  n^.id 
nothing    but    novels    of    an    inferior 


6r)8 


THE  LIBRARY-  MAGAZINE. 


order,  but  it,  at  any  rate,  shows  the 
])()SM'.isioji  of  a  certain  degree  of  intel- 
ligence. For  there  still  exists  among 
us  a  class  of  educated  people,  or  rather 
of  people  who  have  had  a  certain  sum 
of  money  spent  upon  their  education, 
who  are  absolutely  incapable  of  reading 
anythiiigy  and  who  never  do  read  any- 
thing, except,  perhaps,  the  reports  of 
famous  divorce  cases  and  the  spiciest 
paragraphs  in  Society  papers.  It  is 
not  their  fault;  they  are  very  often 
good  people  enough  in  their  way;  and 
as  they  go  to  church  on  Sundays,  and 

Eay  their  rates  and  taxes,  the  world 
as  no  right  tor  complain  of  them. 
They  are  bom  without  intellects,  and 
with  undeveloped  souls,  that  is  all, 
and  on  the  whole  they  find  themselves 
very  comfortable  in  that  condition. 
But  this  class  is  getting  smaller,  and 
all  writers  have  cause  to  congratulate 
themselves  on  the  fact,  for  the  dead 
wall  of  its  crass  stupidity  is  a  dreadful 
thing  to  face.  Those,  too,  who  begin 
by  reading  novels  may  end  by  reading 
Milton  and  Shakespeare.  Day  by  day 
the  mental  area  open  to  the  operations 
of  the  English-speaking  writer  grows 
larger.  At  home  the  Board  schools 
pour  out  their  thousands  every  year, 
many  of  whom  have  acquired  a  taste 
for  reading,  which,  when  once  it  has 
been  born,  will,  we  may  be  sure,  grow 
apace.  Abroad  the  colonies  are  filling 
up  with  English-speaking  people,  who, 
as  they  grow  refined  and  find  leisure 
to  read,  will  make  a  considerable  call 
upon  the  literature  of  their  day.  But 
by  far  the  largest  demand  for  books  in 
the  English  tongue  comes  from 
America,  with  its  reading  population 
of  some  forty  millions.  Putting  aside 
this  copyright  question,  however  (and, 
indeed,  it  is  best  left  undiscussed), 
there  may  be  noted  in  passing  two 
curious  results  which  are  being  brouglit 
about  in  America  by  this  wholesale 
perusal  of  English   books.     The  first 


of  these  is  that  the  Americans  are 
destroying  their  own  literature,  that 
cannot  live  in  the  face  of  the  unfair, 
competition  to  which  it  is  subjected. 
It  is  not,  perhaps,  too  rash  a  prophecy 
to  say  that,  if  the  present  state  of 
things  continues,  American  literature 
proper  will  shortly  be  chiefly  repre- 
sented by  the  columns  of  a  very  enter- 
prising daily  press.  The  second  result 
of  the  present  state  of  affairs  is  that 
the  whole  of  the  American  population, 
especially  the  younger  portion  of  it, 
must  be  in  course  of  thorough  impreg- 
nation with  English  ideas  and  modes 
of  thought  as  set  forth  by  English 
writers.  We  all  know  the  extraordi- 
nary effect  books  read  in  youth  have 
upon  the  fresh  and  imaginative  mind. 
It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  many  a 
man's  whole  life  is  influenced  by  some 
book  read  in  his  teens,  the  very  title 
of  which  he  may  have  forgotten.  Con- 
sequently, it  would  be  difficult  to  over- 
rate the  effect  that  must  be  from  year 
to  year  produced  upon  the  national 
character  of  America  by  the  constant 
perusal  of  books  bom  in  England. 
For  it  must  be  remembered  that  for 
every  reader  that  a  writer  of  merit  finds 
in  England,  he  will  find  three  in 
America. 

In  the  face  of  this  constant  and  ever- 
growing demand  at  home  and  abroad 
writers  of  romance  must  often  find 
themselves  questioning  their  inner 
consciousness  as  to  what  style  of  art  it 
is  best  for  them  to  adopt,  not  only 
with  the  view  of  pleasing  tneir  readers, 
but  in  the  interests  of  art  itself.  There 
are  several  schools  from  which  they 
may  choose.  For  instance,  there  is 
that  followed  by  the  American  novel- 
ists. These  gentlemen,  as  we  know, 
declare  that  there  are  no  stories  left  to 
be  told,  and  certainly,  if  it  may  be 
said  without  disrespect  to  a  clever  and 
laborious  body  of  writers,  their  works 
go   far    toward  supporting    the  state- 


ABOUT  FICTION. 


659 


meut.  They  have  developed  a  new 
style  of  romance.  Their  heroines  are 
things  of  silk  and  cambric,  who  solilo- 
qnize  and  dissect  their  petty  feelings, 
and  elaborately  review  the  feeble 
promptings  which  serve  them  for  pas- 
sions. Their  men — well,  they  are 
emasculated  specimens  of  an  over- 
wrought age,  and,  with  culture  on 
their  lips,  and  emptiness  in  thsir 
hearts,  tney  dangle  round  the  heroines 
till  their  three-volumed  fate  is  accom- 
plished. About  their  work  is  an 
atmosphere  like  that  of  the  boudoir  of 
a  luxurious  woman,  faint  and  delicate, 
and  suggesting  the  essence  of  white 
rose,  flow  different  is  all  this  to  the 
swiftness,  and  strength,  and  directness 
of  the  great  English  writers  of  the 
past.     Why, 

**The  surge  and  tlmnder  of  the  Odyssey" 

is  not  more  widely  separated  from  the 
tinkling  of  modern  society  verses,  than 
the  labored  nothingness  of  this  new 
American  school  of  fiction  from  the 
giant  life  and  vigor  of  Swift  and  Field- 
iDg,  and  Thackeray  and  Hawthorne. 
Perhaps,  however,  it  is  the  art  of  the 
future,  in  which  case  we  may  hazard  a 
shrewd  guess  that  the  literature  of  past 
ages  will  be  more  largely  studied  in 
days  to  come  than  it  is  at  present. 

Then,  to  go  from  Pole  to  Pole,  there 
is  the  Naturalistic  school,  of  which 
Zola  is  the  high  priest.  Here  things 
are  all  the  other  way.  Here  the 
chosen  function  of  the  writer  is  to 

*Taiut  the  mortnl  shame  of  nature  with  the 
living  hues  of  art." 

Here  are  no  silks  and  satins  to  impede 
our  vision  of  the  flesh  and  blood 
beneath,  and  here  the  scent  is  patch- 
ouli. Lewd,  and  bold,  and  bare, 
living  for  lust  and  lusting  for  this  life 
and  its  good  things  and  naught  beyond, 
the  heroines  of  realism  dance,  with 
Bacchanalian  revellings,  across  the! 
astonished  stage  of  literature.     What-' 


ever  there  is  brutal  in  humanity — and 
God  knows  that  there  is  plenty — what- 
ever there  is  that  is  carnal  and  filthy, 
is  here  brought  into  prominence,  and 
thrust  before  the  reader^s  eyes.  But 
what  becomes  of  the  things  that  are 
pure  and  high— of  the  great  aspirations 
and  the  lofty  hopes  and  longings,  which 
dOy  after  all,  play  their  part  in  our 
human  economy,  and  which  it  is  surely 
the  duty  of  a  writer  to  cull  attention  to 
and  nourish  according  to  his  gifts? 

Certainly  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  this 
naturalistic  school  of  writing  will  never 
take  firm  root  in  England,  for  it  is  an 
accursed  thing.  It  is  impossible  to 
help  wondering  if  its  followers  ever 
reflect  upon  the  mischief  that  thev  must 
do,  and,  reflecting,  do  not  shrinx  from 
the  responsibility.  To  look  at  the 
matter  from  one  point  of  view  only, 
Society  has  made  a  rule  that  for  the 
benefit  of  the  whole  community  indi- 
viduals must  keep  their  passions  within 
certain  fixed  limits,  and  our  social  sys- 
tem is  so  arranged  that  any  transgres- 
sion of  this  rule  produces  mischief  of 
one  sort  or  another,  if  not  actual  ruin, 
to  the  transgressor.  Especially  is  this 
so  if  she  be  a  woman.  Now,  as  it  is, 
human  nature  is  continually  fretting 
against  these  artificial  bounds,  and 
especially  among  young  people  it 
requires  considerable  fortitude  and  self- 
restraint  to  keep  the  feet  from  wander- 
ing. We  all  know,  too,  how  much  this 
sort  of  indulgence  depends  upon  the 
imagination,  and  we  all  know  how  easy 
it  is  for  a  powerful  writer  to  excite  it  in 
that  direction.  Indeed,  there  could  be 
nothing  more  easy  to  a  writer  of  any 
strength  and  vision,  especially  if  he 
spoke  with  an  air  of  evil  knowledge  and 
intimate  authority.  There  are  probably 
several  men  in  England  at  this  moment 
who,  if  they  turned  their  talents  to  this 
bad  end,  could  equal,  if  not  outdo,  Zola 
himself,  with  results  that  would  shortlv 
show  themselves  in  various  ways  among 


660 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


the  population.  Sexual  passion  is  the 
most  powerful  lever  with  which  to  stir 
the  mind  of  man, -for  it  lies  at  the  root 
of  all  things  human;  and  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  over-estimate  the  damage  that 
could  be  worked  by  a  single  English  or 
American  writer  of  genius,  if  he  grasp- 
ed it  with  a  will.  ''But,"  say  these 
writers,  "our  aim  is  most  moral;  from 
Nana  and  her  kith  and  kin  may  be 
gathered  many  a  virtuous  lesson  and 
example."'  Possibly  this  is  so,  though 
as  I  write  the  words  there  rises  in  my 
mind  a  recollection  of  one  or  two 
French  books  where — but  most  people 
have  seen  such  books.  Besides,  it  is 
not  so  much  a  question  of  the  object  of 
the  school  as  of  the  fact  that  it  contin- 
ually^ and  in  full  and  luscious  detail, 
calls  attention  to  erotic  matters. 
Once  start  the  average  mind  upon  this 
subject,  and  it  will  go  down  the  slope 
of  itself.  It  is  useless  afterward  to 
turn  round  and  say  that,  although  you 
cut  loose  the  cords  of  decent  reticence 
which  bound  the  fancy,  you  intended 
that  it  should  run  tcphill  to  the  white 
heights  of  virtue.  If  the  seed  of  eroti- 
cism is  sown  broadcast  its  fruit  will  be 
according  to  the  nature  of  the  soil  it 
falls  on,  but  fruit  it  must  and  will. 
And  however  virtuous  may  be  the  aims 
with  which  they  are  produced,  the 
publications  of  the  French  Naturalistic 
school  ai*e  such  seed  as  was  sown  by  that 
enemy  who  came  in  the  night  season. 

In  England,  to  come  to  the  third 
great  school  of  fiction,  we  have  as  yet 
little  or  nothing  of  all  this.  Here,  on 
the  other  hand,  we  are  at  the  mercy  of 
the  Young  Person,  and  a  dreadful 
nuisance  most  of  us  find  her.  The 
present  writer  is  bound  to  admit  that, 
speaking  personally  and  with  humility, 
he  thinks  it  a  little  hard  that  all  fiction 
should  be  judged  by  the  test  as  to 
whether  or  no  it  is  suitable  rea^ling  for 
a  girl  of  sixteen.  There  are  plenty  of 
people  who  write  books  for  little  girls 


in  the  schoolroom;  let  the  little  girls 
read  them,  and  leave  the  works  wiiiii  u 
for  men  and  women  to  their  elders,  i  t 
may  strike  the  reader  as  inconsislteTit, 
after  the  remarks  made  above,  that  :i 
plea  should  now  be  advanced  for  greater 
freedom  in  English  literary  art.  But 
French  naturalism  is  one  thing,  and 
the  unreal,  namby-pamby  nonsense 
with  which  the  market  is  flooded  liere 
is  quite  another.  Surely  there  is  a 
middle  path!  Why  do  rne7i  hardly  ever 
read  a  novel?  Because,  in  ninetv-nine 
cases  out  of  a  hundred,  it  is  utterly 
false  as  a  picture  of  life;  and,  failing  in 
that,  it  certainly  does  not  take  ground 
as  a  work  of  high  imagination.  The 
ordinary  popular  English  novel  repre- 
sents life  as  it  is  considered  desirable 
that  schoolgirls  should  suppose  it  to  be. 
Consequently  it  is  for  tne  most  part 
rubbish,  without  a  spark  of  vitality 
about  it,  for  no  novel  writen  on  those 
false  lines  will  live.  Also,  the  system 
is  futile  as  a  means  of  protection,  for 
the  young  lady,  wearied  with  the 
account  of  how  the  good  girl  who  jilted 
the  man  who  loved  her  when  she  was 
told  to,  married  the  noble  lord,  and 
lived  in  idleness  and  luxury  for  ever 
after,  has  only  to  turn  to  the  evening 
paper  to  see  another  picture^  of  exis- 
tence. 

Of  course,  no  humble  producer  of 
fiction,  meant  to  interest  through  the 
exercise  of  the  intelligence  rather  than 
through  the  senses,  can  hope  to  com- 
pete with  the  enthralling  details  of 
such  cases  as  that  of  Lord  Colin  Camp- 
bell and  Sir  Charles  Dilke.  That  is 
the  naturalism  of  this  country,  and, 
like  all  filth,  its  popularity  is  enor- 
mous, as  will  be  shown  by  the  fact  that 
the  circulation  of  one  evening  paper 
alone  was,  I  believe,  increased  during 
the  hearing  of  a  recent  case  by  60,0CM) 
copies  nightly.  Nor  would  any  respect- 
able author  wish  to  compete  with  this. 
But  he  ought,  subject  to  proper  reser- 


ABOUT  FICTION. 


661 


vations  and  restraints^  to  be  allowed  to 
picture  life  as  life  is,  and  men  and 
women  as  they  are.  At  present,  if  be 
attempts  to  do  this,  he  is  denounced  as 
immoral;  and  perchance  the  circulat- 
ing library,  which  is  curiously  enough 
a  great  power  in  Euglish  literature, 
suppresses  the  book  in  its  fear  of  losing 
subscriptions.  The  press,  too — the 
same  press  that  is  so  active  in  printing 
"full  and  special"  reports — is  very 
vigilant  in  this  matter,  having  the 
Young  Person  continually  before  its 
eyes.  Some  time  ago  one  of  the 
London  dailies  reviewed  a  batch  of 
eight  or  nine  books.  Of  these  reviews 
nearly  every  one  was  in  the  main  an 
inquiry  into  the  moral  character  of 
the  work,  judged  from  the  standpoint 
of  the  unknown  reviewer.  Of  their 
literary  merits  little  or  nothing  was 
said.  Now,  the  question  that  naturally 
arose  in  the  mind  of  the  reader  of  these 
notices  was — Is  the  novelist  bound  to 
inculcate  any  particular  set  of  doctrines 
that  may  at  the  moment  be  favored  by 
authority?  If  that  is  the  aim  and  end 
of  his  art,  then  why  is  he  not  paid  by 
the  State  like  any  other  official?  And 
why  should  not  the  principle  be  carried 
further?  Each  religion  and  every  sect 
of  each  religion  might  retain  their 
novelist.  So  mi^it  the  Blue  Ribbon- 
ites,  and  the  rositivists,  and  the 
Purity  people,  and  the  Social  Demo- 
crats, and  others  without  end.  The 
results  would  be  most  enlivening  to 
the  general  public.  Then,  at  any  rate, 
the  writer  would  be  sure  of  the  appro- 
bation of  his  owji  masters;  as  it  is,  he 
is  at  the  mere/  of  ever}^  unknown 
reviewer,  some  o.'  whom  seem  to  have 
peculiar  views — though,  not  to  make 
too  much  of  th )  matter,  it  must  be 
remembered  that  the  ultimate  verdict 
is  with  the  publi  j. 

Surely,  what  s  wanted  in  English 
fiction  is  a  hight  ^  ideal  and  more  free- 
dom to  work  it  out.     It  is  impossible, 


or,  if  not  impossible,  it,  requires  the 
very  highest  genius,  such  as,  perhaps, 
no  writers  possess  to-day,  to  build  up  a 
really  first-class  work  without  the  neces- 
sary materials  in  their  due  proportion. 
As  it  is,  in  this  country,  while  crime 
may  be  used  to  any  extent,  passion  in 
its  fiercer  and  deeper  forms  is  scarcely 
available,  unless  it  is  made  to  receive 
some  conventional  sanction.  For 
instance,  tho  right  of  dealing  with 
bigamy  is  by  custom  conceded  to  the 
writer  of  romance,  because  in  cases  of 
bigamy  vice  has  received  the  conven- 
tional sanction  of  marriage.  True, 
the  marriage  is  a  mock  one,  but  such 
as  it  is,  it  provides  the  necessary  cloak. 
But  let  him  beware  how  he  deals  with 
the  same  subject  when  the  sinner  of 
the  piece  has  not  added  a  sham  or  a 
bigamous  marriage  to  his  evil  doings, 
for  the  book  will  in  this  case  be  cer- 
tainly called  immoral.  English  life  is 
surrounded  by  conventionalism,  and 
English  fiction  has  come  to  reflect  the 
couventionalism,  not  the  life,  and  has 
in  consequence,  with  some  notable 
exceptions,  got  into  a  very  poor  way, 
both  as  regards  art  and  interest. 

If  this  moderate  and  proper  freedom 
is  denied  to  imaginative  literature 
alone  among  the  arts  it  seems  probable 
that  the  usual  results  will  follow. 
There  will  be  a  great  reaction,  the 
Young  Person  will  vanish  into  space 
and  be  no  more  seen,  and  Naturalism 
in  all  its  horror  will  take  its  root 
among  us.  At  present  it  is  only  in 
the  P'rench  tongue  that  people  read 
about  the  inner  mysteries  of  life  in 
brothels,  or  follow  the  interesting  study 
of  the  passions  of  senile  and  worn-out 
debauchees.  By-and-by,  if  liberty  ia 
denied,  they  will  read  them  in  the 
English.  Ai-t  in  the  purity  of  its 
idealized  truth  should  rcsom hie  some 
perfect  Grecian  statue.  It  sl.cHild  be 
cold  hut  naked,  and  looking  tliereon 
mou  should  be  led  to  think  of  naught 


662 


THE  librai;t'mag*azine. 


but  beaufcy.  Here,  however,  we  attire 
Art  in  every  sort  of  dress,  some  of 
them  suggestive  enough  in  their  own 
way,  but  for  the  most  part  in  a  pina- 
fore. The  dijfference  between  literary 
Art,  as  the  present  writer  submits  it 
ought  to  be,  and  the  Naturalistic  Art 
of  France  is  the  difference  between  the 
Venus  of  Milo  and  an  obscene  photo- 
graph taken  from  the  life.  It  seems 
probable  that  the  English-speaking 
people  will  in  course  of  time  nave  to 
choose  between  the  two. 

But  however  this  is — and  the  writer 
only  submits  an  opinion — one  thing 
remains  clear,  fiction  a  VAnglaise 
becomes,  from  the  author's  point  of 
view,  day  by  day  more  difficult  to 
deal  with  satisfactorily  under  its  pres- 
ent conditions.  This  age  is  not  a 
romantic  age.  Doubtless  under  the 
surface  human  nature  is  the  same  to- 
day as  it  was  in  the  time  of  fiameses. 
Probably,  too,  the  respective  volumes 
of  vice  and  virtue  are,  taking  the 
altered  circumstances  into  considera- 
tion, much  as  they  were  then  or  at  any 
other  time.  But  neither  our  good  nor 
our  evil  doing  is  of  an  heroic  nature, 
and  it  is  things  heroic  and  their  kin 
and  not  petty  things  that  best  lend 
themselves  to  the  purposes  of  the 
novelist,  for  by  their  aia  he  produces 
his  strongest  effects.  Besides,  if  by 
chance  there  is  a  good  thing  on  the 
market  it  is  snapped  up  by  aliundred 
eager  newspapers,  who  tell  the  story, 
whatever  it  may  be,  and  turn  it  inside 
out;  and  draw  morals  from  it  till  the 
public  loathes  its  sight'  and  sound. 
Genius,  of  course,  can  always  find 
materials  wherewith  to  weave  its  glow- 
ing web.  But  these  remarks,  it  is 
scarcely  necessary  to  explain,  are  not 
mjide  from  that  point  of  view,  for  only 
;:niius  can  talk  of  genius  with  author- 
ity, but  ratlier  from  tlie  humbler 
s'luiding-ground  of  the  ordinary  con- 
st;? entioii^  laborer  in  the  field  of  letters, 


who,  loving  his  art  for  her  own  sake, 
yet  earns  a  living  by  following  her, 
and  is  anxious  to  continue  to  do  so 
with  credit  to  himself.  Let  genius,  if 
genius  there  be,  come  forward  and 
speak  on  its  own  behalf!  But  if  the 
reader  is  inclined  to  doubt  the  proposi- 
tion that  novel  writing  is  becoming 
every  day  more  difficult  and  less  inter- 
esting, let  him  consult  his  own  mind, 
and  see  how  many  novels  proper  among 
the  hundreds  that  have  been  published 
within  the  last  five  years,  and  which 
deal  in  any  way  with  every  day  con- 
temporary life,  have  excited  his  pro- 
found interest. 

There  is  indeed  a  refuge  for  the  less 
ambitious  among  us,  and  it  lies  in  the 
paths  and  calm  retreats  of  pure  imag- 
ination. Here  we  may  weave  our 
humble  tale,  and  point  our  harmless 
moral  without  being  mercilessly  bound 
down  to  the  prose  of  a  somewhat  dreary 
age.  Here  we  may  even — if  we  feel 
that  our  wings  are  strong  enough  to 
bear  us  in  that  thin  air — cross  the 
bounds  of  the  known,  and,  hanging 
bstween  earth  and  heaven,  gaze  with 
curious  eyes  into  the  great  profound 
beyond.  There  are  still  subjects  that 
may  be  handled  there  if  the  man  can 
be  found  bold  enough  to  handle  them. 
And,  although  some  there  be  who 
consider  this  a  lower  walk  in  the 
realms  of  fiction,  and  who  would  prob- 
ably scorn  to  become  a  "mere  writer  of 
romances,"  it  may  be  urged  in  defence 
of  the  school  that  many  of  the  most 
lasting  triumphs  of  literary  art  belong 
to  the  producers  ci  purely  romantic 
fiction,  witness  the  Arabian  JSighiff^ 
Gulliver' 8  Travels,  The  Pilgrim\s 
Progress,  Robinson  Crusoe,  and  other 
immortal  works.  If  the  present  writer 
may  be  allowed  to  hazard  an  oj  inion, 
it  is  that,  when  Naturalism  has  h.M«l  its 
day,  when  Mr.  llowolls  ceases  to  (•l^:irm, 
and  the  Society  novel  is  utterly  ]•  laved 
out,  thq  kindly  race  of  men  in  their 


HEALTHY  FICTION  FOR  THE  YOUNG. 


Cfi3 


latter  as  in  their  earlier  developments 
will  still  take  pleasure  in  those  works 
of  fancy  which  appeal,  not  to  a  class, 
or  a  nation,  or  even  to  an  age,  but  to 
all  time  and  humanity  at  large. — H. 
BiDEK  Haggard^  in  The  Contmnpo- 
rary  Review, 


HEALTHY    FICTION    FOB    THE 

YOUNG. 

That  a  nation  like  England,  which 
spends  millions  on  the  education  of  her 
children,  and  boasts  of  teaching  every 
poor  boy  and  girl  to  read,  should 
provide  for  them  no  fiction  but  of  an 
infamously  worthless  kind,  is  at  once  a 
disgrace  to  our  boasted  civilization  and 
a  blot  on  the  fair  fame  of  Christian 
Fociety  and  Christian  work.  Surely  it 
i3  not  to  be  for  a  moment  tolerated 
that  the  poor  children  of  our  great 
towns  and  cities  should  be  trained  and 
fed  on  mental  diet  specially  adapted  to 
lure  them  into  a  course  of  crime,  or 
be  driven  to  find  their  only  amusement 
in  the  exploits  of  thieves  and  assassins, 
and  the  lying  chronicles  of  scoundrelism 
at  sea  or  on  shore.  If  Dick  the  errand 
boy  and  Mary  Ann  the  shop  girl,  the 
maidservant,  the  milliner,  or  the  fac- 
tory girl,  thirsts  for  a  tale  of  tender 
love  and  romantic  emotion,  a  plot  of 
mystery  and  a  denouement  of  fierce 
and  exciting  sensationalism,  it  is  hard 
to  condemn  them  to  a  course  of  sham 
sentiment  and  brutal  ruffianism.  To 
do  this  is  no  less  than  to  deliberately 

Eoison  the  springs  of  a  nation's  life,  by 
saving  the  future  fathers  and  mothers 
of  the  next  generation  of  the  working 
class  in  a  worse  condition  than  that 
in  which  we  found  them. 

In  a  word,  why  should  there  not  be 
a  library  of  Penny  Romance,  of  whole- 
some, sounrl,  and  liealthy  fiction?  For 
boys,  the  dramatis  per soncB  should  be 


real,  living,  human  beings  not  outraire- 
ous  caricatures.  Their  books  sliouM 
teach  them  what  are  the  temptations, 
follies,  faults,  heroism,  and  true  woi  k 
of  life.  These  may  include  tales  of 
history,  love-making,  adventure,  crime, 
and  fairy-land,  as  true  and  as  whole- 
some as  Tom  Brown^s  Schooldays,  as 
real  as  Robinson  Crusoe,  as  astounding 
as  Sindbad  the  Sailor,  and  as  mysteri- 
ous as  The  Moonstone.  In  such  books 
as  Marryat's  Pirate  and  the  27iree 
Cutters,  Cooper's  Pilot,  The  Last  of  the 
Mohicans,  The  Treasure  Island,  and  a 
score  of  other  such  and  well-known 
favorites,  there  is  an  unfailing  store- 
house jof  healthy  amusement  for  the 
young  of  all  ages  and  half  a  dozen 
such  men  as  Mr.  Besant^  Wilkie  Collins, 
Black,  Stevenson,  and  Henty,  would 
suffice  to  keep  up  the  supply.  But, 
if  they  are  to  reach  the  classes  in  direst 
need,  there  must  be  no  preaching,  or 
even  direct  religious  teaching,  though 
the  whole  atmosphere  of  the  fiction 
must  be  clean  and  healthy,  and  the 
men  and  women  in  it  true  to  life. 
The  books  must  be  books  of  downright 
amusement,  or  they  will  not  be  read. 
The  elements-  of  wonder,  mystery,  and 
the  wildest  adventure  may  be  freely 
used;  but  the  heroes  need  not  be 
scoundrelly  ruffians,  nor  the  heroines 
tiger-cats  or  jailbirds.  And  if  stronger 
and  more  fully-flavored  diet  be  needed, 
let  them  have  Baron  Mu7ichausen, 
Gulliver,  The  Thousand  and  One 
Nights;  all  of  which  could  be  so 
revised  and  edited  as  to  tempt  and 
satisfy  the  keenest  appetite.  Such 
accomplished  artists  as  Mrs.  Oliphant, 
Miss  Edwards,  Mrs.  Riddell,  Miss 
Braddon,  and  Catharine  Saunders 
might  well  supply  enough  romantic 
love  making  to  win  captive  the  hearts 
of  all  the  sentimental  maidservants  in 
Babylon.  Nor  need  the  elements  of 
pure  fun  be  wanting.  From  tlio  hands 
of  a  careful  editor  might  come  penny 


6^ 


THE  LIBRABY  MAQAZINE. 


and  readable  editions  of  Pickwick, 
Nicklehy,  Boz's  Sketches,-  Harry 
Lorrequer,  s,nd>Charles  O^Malley,  many 
of  Carleton's  Irish  stories.  Handy 
Andy,  Rory  O^More,  and  a  host  of 
others  equally  full  of  humor  and  the 
spirit  of  genuine  laughter. 

Tlie  scheme  is  wide,  bold  and  com- 
prehensive, but  not  too  wide  or  too 
bold  to  be  practical.  It  will  demand 
time,  thought,  care  and  money  to  carry 
it  out,.  But  if  trash  of  the  worst  kind 
can  be  printed  and  sold  at  a  profit, 
there  can  be  no  valid  reason  why  an 
article  of  a  better  quality  should  not  be 
equally  salable  and  with  equal  profit. 
If  it  be  objected  that  such  a  Penny 
Library  as  we  have  described  would  not 
reach  the  hands  of  those  who  need  it, 
but  overshoot  the  mark,  the  reply  is 
obvious.  Carry  the  war  into  the 
enemy's  camp;  flood  the  market  with 
good,  wholesome  literature  instead  of 
the  poisonous  staff  to  which  the  hapless 
purchasers  are  now  condemned.  The 
battle  must  be  fought  out  by  the 
purveyors  of  fiction,  and  it  must  be 
mjide'as  easy  and  profitable  to  provide 
a  dainty,  harmless,  and  well-seasoned 
repast  as  a  dish  of  poison.  If  such 
atrocioQS  pages  as  The  Police  Xews,  a 
weekly  record  of  crime,  outrage,  and 
horror,  cannot  be  put  down  by  the 
strong  hand  of  the  law,  something 
surely  can  bo  done  to  lessen  the  evil, 
as  easily  as  the  police  can  suppress  the 
trafiic  in  indecent  prints;  and  the 
former  evil  as  the  greater  of  the  two. 
The  lovers  of  pure  indecency  are  com- 
paratively few;  not  to  be  found  among 
the  children  of  the  streets  who  can 
read;  but  for  the  most  part  among 
older  and  viler  sinners — the  lazy,  the 
idle,  with  money  at  command,  whose 
minds  have  been  polluted  long  ago. 
Throughout  the  whole  region  of  worth- 
less pages  to  which  we  have  called  our 
reader's  attention,  we  can  recall  no 
one  single  indecent  phrase  or  illusion. 


This  may  be  partly  owing  to  fear  of 
legal  penalties  and  the  risk  of  actual 
suppression;  but  far  more  is  due  to  the 
fact  that  the  intended  readers  haye  no 
special  relish  for  printed  impurity.  In 
scenes  of  ruffianism,  bloodshed,  crime, 
bombast  and  sham  sentiment  they  take 
a  fierce  delight;  and,  to  the  shame  of 
a  great  and  enlightened  people,  no 
other  adequate  means  are  provided  for 
their  pleasure,  amusement,  and  instruc- 
tion. The  question  of  the  present 
race  of  novelists  and  novel -reatiers  is 
at  once  too  wide  and  too  intricate  a 
topic  to  be  now  even  touched  on;  but 
the  indisputable  fact  remains  that  the 
worst  of  modern  novels  are  too  often 
among  the  most  popular.  Pare, 
healthy  fiction  is  indeed  to  be  had, 
and  in  fair  abundance,  but  public  taste 
seems  to  devour  unhealthy  trash,  of 
every  kind,  with  a  higher  relish  than 
it  can  find  for  the  good  gifts  of  'the 
most  gifted  artists.  There  is  no  pos- 
sible lack  of  good  work,  and  they  who 
choose  trash  do  so  of  their  own  free 
will  and  choice.  But  the  case  of  those 
for  whom  this  article  pleads  is  wholly 
different.  To  them  no  choice  whaterer 
is  allowed.  They  must  be  content 
with  the  garbage  of  the  "Penny 
Dreadfuls"  or  nothing.  Yet  the  fancy 
and  the  imagination,  the  innate  thirst 
for  novelty  and  excitement,  for  a  touch 
of  mystery  or  of  tender  passion,  are  as 
potent  and  as  true  in  the  heart  of  the 
street  Arab  or  the  shopgirl  as  in  the 
fiercest  adult  devourer  of  romance. 
I^ut  their  desire  can  be  gratified  in  one 
way  alone.  The  feast  spread  for  them 
is  ready  and  abundant:  but  every  dish 
is  poisoned,  unclean,  and  shameful. 
Every  flavor  is  a  false  one,  every  con- 
diment vile.  Every  morsel  of  food  is 
doctored,  every  draught  of  wine  is 
drugged;  no  true  hunger  is  satisfied, 
no  true  thirst  quenched;  and  the  hap- 
less guests  depart  with  a  depraved 
appetite,  and  a  palate  more  than  ever 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 


dead  to  every  pure  taste,  and  every 
perception  of  wliat  is  good  and  true, 
riius  entertained  and  equipped,  the 
wide  army  of  the  children  of  the  poor 
are  sent  on  their  way  to  take  part  in 
the  great  battle  of  life,'with  false  views, 
false  impressions,  and  foul  aims.  The 
pictures  of  men  and  women  to  which 
they  have  been  introduced  are  unreal 
and  untrue.  The  whole  drama  of  life, 
as  they  see  it,  is  a  lie  from  beginning 
to  end,  and  in  it  they  qan  play  none 
but  a  vicious  and  unhappy  part. — 
Edinburgh  Review, 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 

Gk)ETHB,  Shakespeare,  and  Maurice 
Thompson. — Mr.  Guido  H.  Stempel  sends 
us  the  following  critique  upon  Mr.  Thomp- 
son's recent  paper  u{X)n  Shakespeare,  hopin:^, 
as  he  says,  Uiat  The  Library  Magazine  will 
"do  him  justice."    We  think  that  the  fulle  t 

i'u.stico  which  we  can  mete  out  to  him  will  be 
y  the  publication  of  his  critique  without  note 
or  comment: — 

"It  was  bad  enough  when  Lowell,  in  a 
superficial  and  flippant  manner,  wrote  on 
subjects  he  had  never  b  riously  considered. 
But  now  comes  Maurice  T^iompson,  who  has 
made  himself  many  friends  Uirough  his 
channing  writings  on  out-door  life  and 
natural  history,  and,  with  no  preparation  for 
the  task,  put^  himself  forward  'in  the  matter 
of  Shakespeare.'  The  article  is  as  ill-consid- 
ered ns  it  is  uncalled  f(9r.  By  means  of  a 
maze  of  generalities,  he  conveys  to  us  his 
half-formeid  ideas  of  Shakespeare.  He  hap- 
pens to  say  a  few  good  and  original  things, 
then  deliberately  utters  the  veriest  nonsense 
and  evident  untrutlis.  Thus  concerning 
ShHkes[)eiire!  But  Maurice  Thompson  goes 
f  urtlier,  and  makes  an  exhibition  of  his  totnl 
ignorance  of  one  topic  which  he  touchc*s. 
What  does  he  know  of  Goethe,  that  he  writes 
us  he  (Iocs  about  him?  Or,  rather,  by  whose 
aulhority  dots  he  say  such  things?  For  it  is 
very  evident  he  himself  has  never  opened 
Goethe.  It  is  the  acme  of  knownothingness 
and  impudence  to  speak  of  egotism,  and 
mention  Hugo  and  Groethe  in  the  same  breath. 
Tiiere  i.s  in  Goethe,  as  in  Shakespeare,  as, 
p  rhaps,  in  Homer,  a  repose,  a  self  nossession, 
^  consciousness  of  worth,  a  certaiij  dignity; 


but  egotism— never!  Hugo,  the  self -created, 
self -announced  god,  wa^  egotistic.  But 
Goethe,  who,  *poet  of  the  universe'  as  he  was, 
piit  Limself  as  far  l)eneath  Shakespeare  as  he 
put  Tieck  beneath  himself,  is  never  guttty  of 
the  charge  .  of  'attitudinizing*  that  Mr. 
Thompson  has  preferred  against  Goethe  and 
Hugo,  at  once.  Where,  or  when,  I  would 
ask  Mr.  Thompson,  has  he  (or  any  one  else) 
ever  caught  Goethe  'strutting,  scowling,  smil- 
ing, laughing.  .  .  .  with  the  air  of  feel- 
ing his  superiority?*  Would  he  indeed  iden- 
tify Goethe  with  his  Wagner,  the  famulus  of 
Faust!  Enough.  Mr.  Thompson  will  do 
well  to  confine  himself  within  his  legitimate 
sphere,  when  future  success  bids  fair  to 
equal  or  surpass  past.  Goethe  has  sjffered 
enough  (if  such  a  one  can  suffer  thus)  at  the 
hands  of  American  critics,  shallow  and  ignor- 
ant; if  another  wishes  to  enter  the  field,  let 
him  at  least  be  willing  to  'give  his  days  and 
nights'  to  Goethe,  and  know. whereof  he 
speaks,  before  he  begins.  As  for  Mr. 
Thomi>son,  he  mi^ht  read  with  profit  to 
himself,  the  parables  of  the  Schlegels,  and 
the  Von  Stolbergs." 

England  and  Ireland. — In  the  FebTuarv 
number  of  the  Ninteenth  Century,  Mr.  Glad- 
stone has  a  long  paper  entitled  "Notes  and 
Queries  on  the  Irish  Demand."  In  this 
paper  he  sajrs: — 

"One  of  the  conclusions  that  with  the 
progress  of  a  lengt4iened  life  most  ripens  and 
deepens  in  my  mind,  is  my  conclusion  as  to 
the  vast  and  solid  strength  of  Great  Britain, 
bhe  htis  a  strength  such  as  tliat  she  may 
almost  war  with  heaven;  may  prolong  wrong- 
doing through  years  and  years,  if  not  with 
impunity,  yet  with  a  reserve  of  unexhausted 
strength,  fetched  up  from  every  fiber  of  a 
colossal  organism,  which  seems  as  if,  like  the 
peasant's  river,  it  would  flow  forever,  never 
drain  away.  Little  indeed  need  she  fear  to 
lack  the  possession  of  the  giant's  strength; 
but  much  lest  she  should  be  tempted  to  use 
it  like  a  giant.  The  defects  of  British  char- 
acter, and  I  do  not  underestimate  them,  lie 
in  my  opinion  on  tlio  surface;  the  root  and 
heart  of  it  are  not  only  great  but  good.  I 
l)elieve  my  countrymen  will  arrive,  and  that 
not  slowly,  at  the  consciousness  tbat  the  one 
(Icep  and  terril)le  stain  upon  their  history, 
II  history  in  most  respects  so  noble,  is  to  be 
foimd  in  their  treatment  of  Ireland.  It  is 
not  a  little  noteworthy,  first,  that  this  is  an 
English,  not  a  British  question;  for  the  people 
of  Scotland  cannot  be  said  to  have  been  in 
political  relations  with  Ireland  before  1838. 
in  these  circunistancea  I  would  make  my 


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appeal,  not  to  superficial  qualities  or  super- 
ficial distinctions,  but  to  the  innate  ineradicable 
nobleness  of  English  character.  I  would  be- 
seech Englishmen  to  consider  how  they  would 
behave  to  Ireland,  if  instead  of  having  five 
roil  lions  of  people,  she  bad  twenty-five;  or  if 
instead  of  being  placed  between  us  and  the 
Ocean,  she  were  placed  between  us  and  the 
Continent.  In  any  case  let  us  make  the 
appeal  to  her  heart,  her  reason,  and  her  con- 
science: not  to  her  fears." 

MissiONABT  Work  for  London.  —  Mr. 
William  Rossiter  writes,  in  the  Mneteenth 
Century,  a  paper  on  "Artisan  Atheism," 
concliiaing  thus: — 

**My  own  experience  is  not  without  some 
value,  as  enabling  me  to  understand  the  gulf 
that  seems  to  iS  between  the  Church  and 
the  workman.  For  twenty  years  I  have  been 
workinfc  in  South  London,  the  true  home  of 
the  artisans, of  London,  where  one-third  of 
the  population— over  a  million — ^are  crowdwi 
into  one -tenth  of  the  space.  My  one  object 
has  been  to  bring  books  and  pictures  to  those 
who  scarcely  know  what  they  mean,  fo  give 
the  younger  men  some  slight  knowledgo  of 
that  higher  education  which  is  familiar  to 
those  who  are  more  fortunate  in  leisure, 
which  is  even  more  important  than  money 
for  culture.  We  have  b^n  helped  by  various 
friends,  but  the  clergy  have  been  conspicuous 
only  by  their  absence,  and  in  that  they  have 
been  conspicuous.  The  Church  is  supposed 
to  be  the  obstacle  to  real  education,  the 
stumbiingblock  of  freedom  of  thought;  I 
believe  it  is  the  only  body  that  can  really 
lead  the  way  to  freethought  in  its  fullest  and, 
in  fact,  only  meaning,  for  frecthou^lit  does 
not  mean  merely  permission  to  think,  but 
must  be  based  on  power  to  think  and  on 
broad  knowledge.  I  believe  the  Church  has 
power  to  help  the  artisan  class  in  a  much 
greater  degree  than  any  other  religious  body 
— not  so  much  because  it  has  greater  wealtli, 
but  because  it  could  so  much  more  easily 
than  any  otlier  body  gain  their  confidence. 
A  Church  minister  could  do  more .  for  his 
parishioner  than  any  Dissenting  minister,  if 
of  equal  power  and  will:  and  this  is  especially 
trne  with  regard  to  working  men,  who  feel 
that  what  is  caMed  'chapel  life'  does  not  pos- 
sess the  breadth  and  depth  to  satisfy  them. 
But  a  Church  clergyman  who  should  preacli, 
not  the  Bible,  not  church -going,  not  oreetls 
or  catechisms,  but  Gk)d  as  the  living  Ruler  of 
the  world,  would,  I  believe,  find  the  artisans 
of  any  large  town  regard  him  as  a  prophet 
revealing  to  them  a  mighty  truth  for  which 


their  souls  are  hungering.  But  it  must  be  the 
declaration  of  a  God  who  governs  this  world, 
a  knowledge  of  whom  is  the  kingdom  of 
heaveu;  a  God  whose  influence  is  to  be  found 
in  the  every-day  life  of  even  the  poorest:  n<-t 
of  a  God  who  ruled  the  world  in  days  lon/r 
past.  And  He  mufet  be  declared  in  terms  that 
bring  Him  home  to  the  least  educated:  or 
rather  the  poorest  must  be  educated  euougli  to 
understand  the  declaration  and  to  have  their 
minds  capable  of  what  is  really  freethougLl." 

The  Greatest  of  the  Douglases^-  Of 
William,  the  eighth  Earl  of  Douglas,  mur- 
dered in  1458,  by  the  band  of  King  James  II. 
of  Scotland,  Mr.  Eraser  writes  in  T7te  Douglas 
Book:  "Through  his  inherited  positi'^n,  and 
his  own  personal  qualities  he  soon  rose  to  be 
not  only  one  of  the  most  distinguished  of  his 

freat  race,  but  the  foremost  peer  in  Scotland, 
during  his  possession  of  tlie  earldom  the 
Douglases  reached  the  full  zenith  of  tbeii 
power,  while  his  untimely  death  was  the  be- 
ginning of  thfcir  decline  and  fall.  The  strug- 
gle between  the  Scottish  C*rown  and  the  feudal 
aristocracy  of  Scotland  may  be  said  to  have 
been  fought  between  King  James  and  this 
Earl,  and  from  the  moment  when  Douglas  fell 
by  the  royal  dagger  in  Stirling  Castle,  and 
his  honors  and  estates  passed  into  weaker 
hands,  the  conflict  was  virtually  decided  in 
favor  of  the  former."  It  is,  however,  a  mat- 
ter of  congratulation  that  if  any  man  in  Soot- 
land  deserved  hanging  for  more  murders  than 
we  can  undertake  to  count,  that  man  was  this 
mighty  Earl  of  Do iiglas.  Mr.  Eraser  thus  telis 
story  of  the  murder. 

**The  king  recei\ed  him  graciously,  and 
invited  him  to  dine  and  sup  next  day.  Doug 
las  fo  ind  the  courtiers  talking  of  hia  bond 
with  Crawford  and  Ross,  and  probably  j^uess- 
ed  the  king's  purpdfee,  but  accepted  the  invi- 
tation. After  supper  the  king  invited  the 
Earl  to  a  private  conference,  remonstrated 
with  him  against  the  bond,  which  he  charged 
him  to  break,  urging  his  duty  as  a  snljiect 
ButT)ouglas.  perhaps  heated  by  wine,  refused, 
and  the  interview  waxing  warm,  the  Earl 
defiantly  declared  that  he  wotild  not  break  the 
confedeVacy.  Starting  to  his  feet^  the  king 
exclaimed,  'False  traitor!  if  you  will  not,  1 
shall!*  and  stabbed  Douglas  twice  wiJh  his- 
dagger,  in  the  neck  and  in  the  body  Rre  the 
Earl  could  recover  himself,  Sir  V.  Iiiok  Gray 
rushed  into  the  chamber,  and  struck  him  on 
the  head  with  a  pole-axe,  while  others  in  at- 
tendance also  stabbed  the  fallen  Earl,  wlirse 
(load  lK)dy  bore  uq  fewer  than  twenty -six 
wounds." 


THEOLOGY  AS  AN  ACAPEMIC  DISCIPLINE. 


007 


THEOLOGY  AS    AN  ACADEMIC 
DISCIPLINE. 

IN  TWO  PARTS. — PART  IL 
IIL 

The  two  previous  disciplines  thus 
become  introductory  to  a  third,  at  once 
more  definite  and  extensive — Special 
or  Christian  Theology.  The  relation 
between  the  three  divisions  or  disci- 
plines may  be  exhibited  thus:  The  first 
vindicates  and  explicates  the  idea  of 
God,  the  second  vindicates  and  expli- 
cates the  idea  of  religion,  and  then 
studies  religion  and  the  religions  in 
history;  whSe  the  third  interprets  the 
supreme  or  absolute  religion,  alike  in 
its  historical  appearance  and  in  its 
ideal  truth.  Without  the  idea  of  God 
given  in  the  first,  and  the  ideas  of  re- 
ligion and  history,  or  of  man's  relation 
to  God  and  God's  government  of  man, 
given  in  the  second,  we  could  not  scien- 
tifically understand  and  construe  the 
third.  The  deeper  our  studies  of  phil- 
osophy and  religion  before  coming  to 
Christianity,  the  more  transcendent 
will  it  appear.  In  order  to  an  exhaus- 
tive knomedg^'we  must  follow  a  series 
of  studies  that  may  be  grouped  into 
three  great  divisions — Bibicai,  Eccle- 
siastical, and  Constructive. 

/.  Biblical.  The  primary  fact  that 
here  meets  us  is  this:  Chnstianity  is 
the  religion,  not,  as  is  often  incorrectly 
said,  of  a  Book,  but  of  a  Revelation. 
It  has  its  sacred  books,  and  it  lives  by 
faith  in  the  God  they  reveal. 

1. — It  is  necessary  to  determine  the 
nature  and  relations  of  these  two  things, 
Religion  and  Revelation,  in  order  that 
we  may  be  able  to  construe  the  reason 
and  place  of  the  Sacred  Books,  and  the 
authority  of  the  message  they  brin^. 
As  the  previous  discipline  has  compel- 
led us  to  study  many  religious  systems 
and  literatures,  we  pannot  approach 


the  Christian  without  asking.  Why  do 
we  call  its  Books  Sacred?  Why  do  we 
hold  them  authoritative?  The  world 
is  full  of  sacred  books;  they  are  not 
common  to  one,  but  peculiar  to  all  re- 
ligions. The  tombs  and  mummy-cases 
of  Egypt  are  covered  with  hieroglyphic 
and  hieratic  writinffs,  books  of  the  liv- 
ing God,  books  of  the  Dead,  with  their 
moral  laws,  hall  of  final  judgment,  and 
universal  judge.  The  palaces  of  Assy- 
ria are,  as  it  were,  alive  with  inscrip- 
tions which  tell  of  creation  and  the 
division  of  time,  the  fall,  punishment 
and  deliverance  of  man.  Ancient 
Persia  had  its  sacred  books,  which 
described  man's  lost  happiness,  the 
birth  of  evil,  its  conflict  witii  the  good, 
and,  not  content  with  earth  and  time, 
make  immensity  and  eternity  the  open 
arena  of  the  conflict.  India  is  by  pre- 
eminence the  land  of  holy  scriptures; 
there  the  Word  is  indeed  divine;  no 
God  made  it;  uncreated  it  ever  has 
been,  and  is  awful  in  its  sanctity  and 
indestructible  in  its  power.  China 
has  its  sacred  books,  as  numerous  as  its 
religions — Confucian,  Taoist,  Budd- 
hist. Mexico  and  Peru  embodied  their 
faith  in  pictured  hiotories.  Ancient 
Greece  and  Rome  believed  in  their  (to 
us)  gross  and  grotesque  mythologies. 
Buddhism  has  its  Tripitakas,  which  its 
various  branches  recognize,  and  on 
which  its  several  schools  build;  and 
Islam,  Sunnite  and  Shi'ite  alike,  pro- 
fesses to  walk  by  the  light  of  its 
Koran. 

Now,  why  and  on  what  grounds  do 
we  claim  that  our  Bible,  stands,  not 
simply  pre-eminent  among  sacred 
books,  but  apart  from  them;  in  an 
order  by  itself,  unique,  authoritative; 
the  one  true  revelation  of  the  true  God  ? 
The  question  is  not  to  be  auswered  by 
an  appeal  to  the  authority  of  an  infal- 
lible and  authenticating  church,  for  1  he 
church  assumes  and  builds  on  the  truth 
of  the  very  Word  it  is  called  in  to 


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authenticate.  To  base  the  antecedent 
on  the  consequent  authority  is  more 
convenient  tlian  reasonable;  but,  hap- 
pily for  truth's  sake,  there  is  no  basis 
so  secure  as  the  reasonable,  so  insecure 
as  the  convenient.  Men  have  been'  too 
long  asked  to  believe  in  the  Bible  be- 
cause of  its  supernatural  character  and 
evidences:  may  it  not  be  time  to  ask 
men  to  believe  in  it  for  natural  reasons? 
Would  a  world  without  a  revelation 
be  more  natural  and  more  reasonable 
than  a  world  with  one?  If  the  world 
be  created,  then  whether  is  it  more 
agreeable  to  reason  to  conceive  its  Crea- 
tor as  a  Deity  who  will  not,  or  as  a 
Deity  who  must,  speak  to  His  creation? 
Agnosticism,  as  now  staled  and  taught, 
assumes  not  simply  the  impotence  of 
the  human,  but  of  the  divine  reason; 
for  a  God  man  cannot  know  is  at  the 
same  time  a  God  that  cannot  make 
Himself  known.  Our  inability  to  reach 
Him  is' possible  only  because  of  His  in- 
ability to  become  intelligible  to  us. 
But  a  living  God  cannot  be  silent;  He 
must  speak,  and  to  speak  is  to  reveal 
Himself.  A  nature  that  exists  through 
such  a  God  is  a  nature  that  must  have 
a  revelation.  To  be  without  it  would 
be'  to  argue  that  He  and  nature  were 
divided  by  an  impassable  gulf,  that 
its  well  or  ill-being  was  no  care  or 
concern  of  His,  The  univei'sal  being 
of  sacred  books  but  proves,  on  the  one 
hand,  the  4*elations  or  God  to  the  uni- 
versal— they  are,  for  He  meant  them 
to  be;  and,  on  the  other,  the  pro- 
eminence  of  our  Scriptures,  for  in  them 
tlie  truth  and  life  of  God  are  seen  com- 
ing with  absolute  authority  into  the 
mind  and  history  of  man.  Tlieir  place 
and  nature  are  made  evident  in  a  thou- 
sand ways:  by  the  character  they  bear, 
by  the  persons  or  organs  tlu^y  use,  by 
the  history  they  create  and  control,  by 
the  kind  and  quality  of  the  truth  they 
bring,  by  the  work  they  have  done  and 
gtill  do  for  men,  for  peoples,  and  for 


collective  humanity.  The  nltimato 
evidence  for  the  being  of  God  is  the 
correspondence  between  the  mind  in 
man  and  the  mind  in  nature;  nature 
develops  mind,  and  mind  interprets 
nature;  each  being  so  the  correlative 
of  the  other  that  mind  has  no  thought 
without  nature,  and  nature  no  being 
save  through  mind.  And  in  like  man- 
ner the  ultimate  evidence  of  the  truth 
of  God  in  the  book  is  its  correspond- 
ence with  the  truth  of  God  in  the 
man;  the  implicit  Deity  in  the  one 
is  evoked  by  the  explicit  Deity  in  th« 
other;  or,  as  used  to  be  said,  the  wit- 
ness of  the  Spirit  in  the  heart  attests 
the  truth  of  the  Spirit  in  the  Word. 
The  man  renewed  by  the  Word  is  a 
man  re-made  in  the  image  of  God;  his 
lost  sonship  is  restored  by  the  gospel  of 
the  Son. 

2. — But  it  is  not  enough  to  have 
Sacred  Scriptures;  they  must  be  inter- 
preted, and  the  interpretation  must  be 
at  once  literary  and  historical;  in  other 
words,  have  regard  both  to  the  form 
and  matter  of  tne  revelation. 

(L)The  formal,  introductory  or  isa- 
gogic,  studies  have  a  wide  range,  re- 
quiring, perhaps  more  than  any  other, 
educated  faculty  and  the  scientific 
mind,  (a)  There  are  sacred  languagos 
to  master.  Theology  so  depends  en 
philology  that  it  is  as  little  possible  to 
be  a  theologian  as  a  philologian  without 
a  knowledge  of  the  classical  tongues. 
It  is  only  through  them  that  the  Scrip- 
tures which  are  the  sources  of  his 
science,  the  Fathers  who  made  its  be- 
ginnings, the  Masters  who  built  it  into 
system,  and  the  terminology  they 
created,  can  be  understood.  Transla- 
tion is  for  the  multitude— it  does  not 
serve  the  purpose  of  the  scientific  in- 
quirer or  thinker;  the  intelligence  he 
seeks  can  be  found  in  the  originals 
alone.  The  sources,  the  history,  the 
tei-ms,  the  doctrines,  the  whole  inter- 
pretation of  theology  are  so  bound  up 


THEOLOGY  AS  AN  ACADEMIC  DISCIPLINE. 


669 


with  the  Greek  and  Latin  languages 
that  ignorance  of  them  is  ignorance  of 
it.  Hut  the  theologian  must  add  to 
the  classical  an  important  branch  of 
Oriental  philology,  the  Semitic;  for ' 
he  has  not  simply  Greek,  but  Hebrew 
scriptures  to  interpret,  and  they  stand 
80  related  to  the  languages,  traditions, 
and  histories  of  Arabia,  Egypt,  Phoeni- 
cia, and  Assyria,  that,  studied  out  of 
connection  with  these,  they  can  hardly 
he  said  to  be  studied  at  all.  (b)  Lan- 
guage leads  to  literature,  and  the  sa- 
cred literature  theology  has  to  study  is 
not  simply  immensely  rich  and  varied, 
interesting  above  all  others  in  the  pos- 
session of  man,  but  presents  problems 
of  the  most  delicate  character,  soluble 
only  by  critical  and  often  most  subtle 
processes.  («)  The  texts  of  both  Tes- 
taments have  a  history — nay,  every  one 
of  the  multitude  of  varied  readings  has 
a  history  of  its  own;  and  the  scholar 
must  determine  how  the  variation  or 
corruption  arose,  how  it  is  to  be  detect- 
ed and  the  original  reading  recovered, 
how  a  pure  text  is  to  be  obtained,  and 
how,  with  a  view  to  this,  the  various 
families  of  manuscripts  must  be  clas- 
sified, handled,  and  appraised,  (0) 
But  there  is  a  literary  as  well  as  a  tex- 
tual history,  calling  for  critical  faculty 
and  methods  of  another  order.  Every 
book,  sometimes  every  section  of  a 
book,  has  its  own  series  of  problems — 
its  date,  author,  purpose,  place  in  the 
canon,  and  right  to  stand  there,  (y) 
And  the  canon  has  its  own  series  of 
questions,  external,  but  strictly  correla- 
tive and  complementary  to  those  raised 
bv  the  literature  itself — how  it  came  to 
be?  when  it  came  to  be?  under  what 
influences  and  by  what  authority? 

These,  though  only  formal  questions 
— concerned,  as  it  were,  with  the  mere 
shape  and  fashion,  and  not  at  all  with 
the  contents  or  matter  of  the  books  we 
bring  together  under  the  name  of  Bible 
— are  yet  questions  of  surpassing  mo- 


ment. In  one  aspect  they  represent 
the  distinctive  and  supreme  problem 
set  to  the  biblical  scholars  of  our  day. 
Our  fathers  knew  it  not;  for  them  the 
canon  was  fixed;  what  tradition  or  os- 
tensible literary  claim  had  affirmed,  ec- 
clesiastical authority  indorsed;  church- 
es decreed  that  so  many  books  consti- 
tuted the  canon,  and  that  such  and 
such  men  were  their  authors.  But  the 
decrees  framed  in  ignorance  or  on 
rumor  are  seldom  wise  decrees;  and 
these  synodical  or  conciliar  decrees  but 
burden  and  perplex  questions  otherwise 
hard  enough  to  discuss  and  determine. 
What  is  the  date  of  the  Pentateuch? 
How  many  hands  and  how  many  gen- 
erations were  concerned  in  its  making? 
Where  and  by  whom  and  for  what  pur- 
pose was  it  edited?  What  relation  does 
the  Levitical  bear  to  the  Deuteronomic 
legislation  on  the  one  hand,  and  the 
historical  books  on  the  other?  At 
what  time  jdid  our  Psalter  arise?  To 
whom  do  we  owe  our  Psalms?  Under 
what  conditions,  with  what  purpose 
and  aim  were  they  written?  And  the 
prophets,  how  were  they  related  to  each 
other  and  to  the  popular  religion?  to 
the  priesthood  and  temple?  With 
what  reason  are  the  books  that  bear 
their  names  ascribed  to  them?  Did 
they  themselves  write  their  books?  or 
did  they  speak  their  oracles  and  leave 
the  writing  and  the  editing  to  scholars 
and  to  scribes?  Is,  for  example,  Isa- 
iah, or  Jeremiah,  or  Zechariah  tne  work 
of  one  or  of  several  hands?  If  of  one, 
how  are  the  most  dissimilar  literary 
phenomena  to  be  explained?  If  of 
several,  how  has  the  unity  arisen?  and 
how  does  the  composite  authorship 
affect  the  worth  and  veracity  of  the 
book.  Then,  as  to  the  New  Testament: 
When  were  our  Gospels  written?  Who 
wrote  them?  In  what  relation  do  they 
stand  to  each  other,  to  the  various  pnr- 
ties  in  the  Primitive  Church,  to  the 
common  oral  or  original  tradition,  and 


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THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


to  the  development  of  thought  and  life? 
Are  all  the  Epistles  that  bear  Paurs 
name  really  Pauline?  Do  the  Apoca- 
lypse and  the  Fourth  Gospel  come  from 
one  and  the  same  hand?  or  do  the  Third 
Gospel  and  the  Acts?.  These,  and  such 
as  these,  are  the  questions  the  theolo- 
gical student  to-day  has  to  face  and  the 
scholar  to  solve.  Escape  from  them  is 
impossible;,  they  are  being  worked  at 
in  the  study  with  all  the  helps  com- 
parative science  in  the  regions  of  lan- 
guage, literature,  history,  and  religion 
can  command;  they  are  being  discussed 
by  eager  minds  in  university  and  col- 
lege; they  are  reaching  the  people, 
finding  voice  in  the  club-room,  or  lec- 
ture-hall, or  debating  society,  and  even 
affecting  the  mind  of  the  ready  journa- 
list, who  thinks  little  that  he  may 
write  much.  They  cannot  remain 
closet  questions;  and  once  they  become 
a  common  possession,  they  must  be 
settled  and  set  at  rest.  And  this  is  a 
work  in  which  the  living  men  who 
teach  and  learn  theology  must  engage. 
Student  may  not  throw  the  burden  on 
professor,  or  professor  on  student;  but 
both  must  bear  it  together,  that  it  may 
be  borne  to  a  peaceful  end;  and  the 
end  to  be  peaceful  must  satisfy  both 
faith  and  knowledge.  True  knowledge 
can  never  be  unjust  to  faith;  and  the 
faith  that  is  unjust  to  knowledge  is  but 
convicted  faithlessness. 

(II.)  The  material  studies  connected 
with  the  Scriptures  are  of  three  kinds 
— historical,  exegetipal,  and  theological. 
(a)  The  historical  are  concerned  with 
the  people  of  the  book  and  their  great 
religious  personalities,  with  the  pro- 
gress or  evolution  of  their  law  or  reli- 
gion, and  the  mode  in  which  it  is 
affected  by  both  inner  and  outer  con- 
ditions and  events,  (b)  The  exegetical 
studies  endeavor,  by  the  help  of  philo- 
logy, archaeology,  and  the  other  ancil- 
lary sciences,  to  translate  and  interpret 
the  texts;    while   (c)    the   theological 


seek  to  co-ordinate  and  articulate  the 
unsystematized  thought  of  the  texts  so 
interpreted.  Exegesis  deals  with  a 
book  or  text  as  continuous,  but  biblical 
theology  with  the  beliefs  or  ideas  of 
each  writer;  the  formw  is  satisfied  with 
the  explanation  of  what  he  has  written 
in  the  order  he  himself  has  followed, 
but  the  latter  aims  at  a  connected  ex- 

Eosition  and  exhibition  of  the  truths 
e  held.    There  may  be  biblical  exegesis 
without  biblical  theology,  but  there  cun 
be  no  theology  without  exegesis.  Exeg- 
esis is  literary,  but  theology  scientifjc; 
it  treats  the  writers  individuallv,  but 
only  that  it  may  get  ,a  complete   view 
of  the  mind  of  each,  alike  as  regards 
the  organization  of  its  beliefs  and  its 
place  and  action  in  the  collective  his- 
torv.    These  studies  are  all  inter-relate-i 
and  inter- dependent;  the  history,  the 
literature,  aiul  the  theology  must  all  h** 
studied  together  and  in  living  connec- 
tion, in  order  to  be  intelligible.     Tht 
man  niust  not  be  removed    from  his 
place^  or  the  book  from  its  time,  or  ii.tr 
thought  from  its  period,  if   tlie  truth 
concerning  either  or  all  is  to  be  four.d. 
A   revelation    embedded   in   a    liistorT 
must  be  studied  as  a  history;  the  stu- 
dent who  would  know  it  must  stud\  ir 
in  the  order  or  mode  of  its  coming.   T-.tf 
notions. of  the  later  must  not   be  car- 
ried into  the  earlier  books — these  niu^ 
be  allowed  to  speak  for  them  selves,  aii  - 
their  ideas  must  be  interpreted  in  xh- 
light  of  the  cognate  religions.     Thr^ 
we  see  God  at  first  conceived  as  tl^ 
Mighty,  the  Maker  and   Sovereign  i*: 
Nature;  then  as  the  God  of  a  peojiV 
He  has  chosen,  and,  by  the  giving  uf 
a  law,  constituted  a  nation.     The  liiw? 
are  moral:  man  obedient  is  rewartleu; 
disobedient,  is  punished.     As  the  i\K*^\ 
who  abides  by  His  word,  whether  h 
promises  or  threatens.  He  is  faithful; 
while  man,  as  he  obeys  or  disobeys.  :- 
good  or  wicked.     To  feel  guilty  in  tl- 
presence  of  a  God  who  punishes   is  *., 


THEOLoaY  AS  AN  ACADEMIC  DISCIPLINE. 


e-zj 


believe  at  once  in  the  need  of  sacrifice 
and  in  the  holiness  of  the  God  who 
cannot  look  on  sin  without  displeasure. 
Eat  there  is  something  higher  than  the 
being  able  to  punjsh,  the  being  willing 
to  save;  and  so  the  idea  of  the  placable 
Deity  rises  into  the  idea  of  the  God 
who  must  and  will  save,  even  though 
it  be  by  the  suffering  and  sacrifice  of 
Himself.  And  so  the  process  which 
began  with  faith  in  a  God  who  was  but 
personalized  might,  ends  with  faith  in 
a  God  who  is  the  Saviour  of  man.  Yet 
the  historical  movement  does  not  end, 
as  it  were,  in  a  mere  abstract  faith  or 
conception;  for  the  theology  penetrates 
the  history,  the  history  realizes  the 
theology.  If  God  saves  men,  it  must 
be  through  man.  His  transcendence 
must  become  immanence  if  nature  4s 
to  live  in  and  move  through  Him. 
And  His  rela'ion  to  man  must  be  no 
less  real  or  intimate  if  by  Him  man  is 
to  live ;  and  so  He  who  bears  the 
form  of  God  takes  the  form  of  man, 
that  humanity  may  be  saved.  The 
basis  of  redemption  is  in  the  nature  of 
God;  the  agent  of  redemption  is  the 
historical  yet  eternal  Son.  And  so  the 
highest  Person  of  sacred  history  be- 
comes the  highest  Problem  of  biblical 
theology.  While  the  one  represents  Him 
under  the  forms  of  time,  the  other  con- 
ceives Him  under  the  form  of  eternity — 
not  simply  as  an  historical,  but  as  a  uni- 
versal and  divine  Person,  come  to  fulfill 
a  purpose  implicit  in  the  character  of 
God,  involved  in  the  constitution  of 
nature  and  evolved  in  the  course  of  his- 
tory. 

//.  Ecclesiastical,  Christ  creates 
the  church,  and  the  church  interprets 
Christ.  Neither  is  intelligible  witliout 
the  otlier;  radically  to  understand 
either,  both  must  be  understood. 
With  Him  the  old  world  ends  and  the 
new  begins,  he  centuries  that  divide 
us  from  Him  have  been  ruled  by  His 
name,  and  the  civilized  states  of  to-iiay 


have  risen  under  His  influence.  His 
society  has  never  ceased  to  be,  and  it 
has  been  at  every  moment  a  i.ictor  of 
change;  it  has  disintegrated  empires 
and  constructed  kngdoms;  at  once 
v/orked  and  suffered  revolution,  and 
its  revolutions  have  shaken  down  and 
built  up  states,  determined  the  course 
of  history,  the  .beliefs,  hopes,  and  ideals 
of  man,  an  J.  of  all  that  constitutes  him 
reason  and  spirit.  To  interpret  the 
church,  therefore,  is  not  simply  to  in- 
terpret Christ,  but  modern  history  ;  to 
understand  how  our  civilization  has 
come  to  be,  and  how  it  stands  not  only 
distinguished  from  the  ancient  and 
classical,  but  related* to  Christ  as  its 
efficient  and  determinative  cause. 
Here.,  then,  we  have  a  series  of  ques- 
tions vast  enough  for  the  exercise  of 
the  highest  critical  and  philosophical 
faculty. 

1. — («)  There  are  questions  as  to  the 
institution  of  the  church:  What  and 
why  is  it?  How  is  it  related  to  the 
Kingdom  of  Heaven?  Are  they  dis- 
tinct or  identical?  Did  Christ  found 
it?  What  was  the  authority  He  gave 
to  it,  and  whether  was  it  given  to  the 
church  as  a  whole,  or  to  its  several 
component  societies,  or  to  a  special 
order  or  sacred  class?  In  what  rela- 
tion does  His  Headship  stand  to  the 
political  and  social  organizations  that 
call  themselves  churches,  and  the  offi- 
cialisms they  have  created?  In  other 
words,  is  it  a  Headship  of  polity,  work- 
ing through  and  realized  by  legislative 
machinery;  or  is  it  a  Headship  of  tho 
Spirit,  active  and  actual  wherever  there 
is  love  of  Him  and  His  truth.  Did  He 
institute  sacraments?  What  do  they 
mean,  and  what  were  they  intended  to 
effect?  {b)  But  the  institutional  be- 
come constitutional  Questions,  How 
have  the  churches  of  to-day  become 
what  they  are?  In  what  way  are  they 
related  to,  in  what  degree  do  they  agree 
with  or  differ  from  the  primitive?    Did 


im 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZraE. 


the  primitive  embody  a  sacerdotal 
idea?  Had  they  a  priesthood,  a  graded 
clergy,  a  system  of  ceremonial  and 
sacritice?  If  they  had  not  how  has  the 
rise  of  these  things  affected  the  ideal 
of  religion?  How  have  changes  in  the 
constitution  of  the  church  affected  the 
notion  of  the  sacraments  and  the  idea 
and  claims  of  the  clergy?  Constitu- 
tional history  is  a  complicated  study, 
possible  only  if  the  methods  of  analyt- 
ical criticism  are  followed.  Constitu- 
tions grow,  the  growth  is  conditioned; 
and  the  function  of  criticism  is  to 
discover  the  reason  and  direction  of 
change — whether  due  to  evolution  from 
within  or  adoption  from  without,  or 
both;  and  whether  its  tendency  is  to 
perfect  qr  destroy,  realize  or  abolish, 
the  original  ideal.  Scientific  method 
has  accomplished  great  things  for  our 
civil  history;  it  will  accomplish  still 
greater  things  for  our  -^^clesiastical. 
It  is  well  for  man  to  cease  to  live  in  a 
world  of  illusions,  however  venerated 
and  venerable  they  may  be;  and  the 
criticism  that  restores  him  to  reality 
saves  him  from  a  bondage  that  may  be 
all  the  worse  for  being  revered  and 
loved. 

2. —  The  intellectual  history  of  the 
church  raises  another  series  of  ques- 
tions— those  connected  with  religious 
thought  and  doctrine.  First,  it  luis  to 
deal  with  Symbolics,  or  the  attempts 
of  the  churches  to  formulate  and  reduce 
to  system  the  truths  they  believe.  Each 
symbol  —  whether  so-called  a^cumen- 
ical,  like  the  Nicene,  or  sectional,  like 
the  Lutheran,  Anglican,  Westminster, 
Tridentine,  and  Vatican— has  a  history 
which  must  be  written,  a  meaning 
which  must  be  explained,  and,  as 
standing  in  antagonism  to  or  agreement 
with  other  creeds  or  confessions,  a  sig- 
nificance at  once  common  and  sectionsil, 
which  must  be  made  manifest  by  com- 
parison. Secondly,  each  doctrine  has 
a  history,   and  cannot  be  understood 


apart  from  it.  Fathers  stated  it,  Doc- 
tors developed  it,  Churches  formulated 
it,  peoples  believed  it;  and  in  each 
phtise  it  appears  in  a  new  asixjct — 
changed,  modified,  enriched,  or  im- 
poverished. Thirdly,  systems  luive  a 
history,  ages  when  they  begin,  are  built 
up,  and  are  dissolved.  There  is  a 
mediaeval  scholasticism,  a  scholasticism 
of  the  seventeenth  centurv;  one  of  the 
Catholic,  another  of  the  Luthei'an,  and 
anotlier  of  the  Reformed  Churches, 
Each  has  its  own  basis,  method,  and 
material  conception  or  doctrine,  bv 
which  the  whole  system  is  organized 
and  determined.  Fourthly,  religious 
thought,  philosophic  and  apologetic,  has 
a  history.  Churches  do  not  simply 
think  their  own  thoughts;  the  Zeityeiit 
touches  them,  quickens  or  paralyzes 
their  intellect,  dissolves  their  systems 
or  verifies  their  beliefs.  A  Renaissance 
comes  with  its  new  knowledge,  a  six- 
teenth century  with  its  new  life,  an 
eighteenth  century  with  its  deism  and 
prosaic  rationalism;  and  the  thinkers, 
whether  within  or  without  the  church- 
es, who  attempt  to  renew  religion  by 
i-e -stating  old  truths,  have  as  high  a 
significance  as  the  Father  or  school- 
nuxu.  The  intellectual  history  of  the 
church,  conceived  and  construed  from 
the  standp^iint  of  the  scholar,  is  not 
simply  immense,  but  instructive,  as 
hardly  any  other  study;  teaching  the 
student  how  to  appraise  the  claims  of 
the  churches,  how  to  separate  the  essen- 
tial and  accidental  in  doctrine,  how  to 
love  the  seekers  for  the  truth,  and  how 
to  pursue  the  search  after  it.  Without 
it  there  can  be  neith^  criticism  nor 
construction  in  the  region  of  religious 
belief. 

3. —  But  the  intellect  of  a  society 
does  not  work  apart  from  its  mond 
or  spiritual  condition.  Polity,  theo- 
logy, and  religion,  while  distinct,  are 
yet  inseparable;  they  possess  a  common 
character  and  express  a  common  life. 


THEOLOGY  AS  AN  ACADEMIC  DKCIPLINB. 


678 


There  is  nothing  that  judges  polity 
and  doctrine  like  the  history  of  godli- 
ness; it  shows  whether  they  tend  to 
enrich  or  impoverish  life.  Hence,  it 
is  not  enough  to  study  the*  morphol- 
ogy of  the  Dody  ecclesiastic;  its  biol- 
ogy, in  the  proper  sense  of  that  term, 
must  be  studied  as  well.  It  has  two 
aspects,  the  personal  and  the  collective; 
or  the  life  as  realized,  first,  by  repre- 
sentative men,  and  secondly,  by  the 
society  as  a  whole.  The  spirit  of  a 
church  is  expressed  in  the  characters  it 
forms  and  the  persons  it  canonizes;  its 
saints  embody  its  ideal  of  saintliness, 
and  so  are  its  most  characteristic  crea- 
tions, types  of  the  manhood,  individual 
and  social,  it  seeks  to  realize.  It  is  a 
significant  thing  to  find  out  whether  a 
society  most  loves  the  ascetic,  monastic, 
mystic,  or  puritan  ideal;  whether  it 
praises  more  the  devoted  ecclesiastic  or 
the  beneficent  citizen;  whether  its 
high  rewards  are*for  the  sectional  or  the 
humaner  virtues.  Then,  its  collective 
life  must  be  studied,  how  it  binds  to- 
gether belief  and  conduct,  its  manner 
of  serving  man  and  the  state,  its  modes 
of  expansion  and  amelioration,  its 
missions,  beneficences,  philanthropies, 
policies;  in  a  word,  its  endeavors,  to 
further,  not  its  own  being,  but  God's 
kingdom  upon  earth.  The  Greek 
Church  claims  to  be  orthodox,  the 
Latin  to  be  catholic;  but  without  the 
note  of  goodness  or  godliness  no  church 
can  be  true,  and  with  it  no  church  can 
be  false. 

4. — Biit  the  church  must  be  studied 
on  its  secular  and  real,  as  well  as  on  its 
political,  intellectual,  and  religious 
side.  It  stands  on  the  plane  of  uni- 
versal history,  translating  its  thought 
and  life  into  action,  helping  to  deter- 
mine the  coui*se  and  destinies  of  states 
and  civilizations.  Churches  and  states 
stand  in  mutual  relations,  reci])rocally 
influenced  and  influencing;  indeed, 
divorce  between  these  13  so  impossible 


that  the  most  radical  Free  Church 
theory  may  be  described  as  a  method 
for  augmenting  rather  than  lessening 
the  action  of  the  church  on  the  state. 
Science  cannot  allow  the  unity  and  con- 
tinuity of  history  to  be  broken,  the  di- 
vision into  "sacred  and  profane"  being 
to  it  as  unreal  as  the  division  into  '^an- 
cient and  modern."  While  the  church 
may,,  under  one  aspect,  be  conceived 
and  handled  as  a  living  organism,  it 
must,  under  another,  be  construed  and 
described  as  a  member  of  a  vaster  body, 
intelligilJleonly  when  viewed  in  rela- 
tion to  the  larger  whole  to, which  it 
belongs.  The  ancient  world  organized 
the  church,  the  church  organized  thfc 
modem  world,  and  so  the  inevitable 
question  emerges:  How,  why,  under 
what  conditions,  by  what  forces,  with 
what  results,  have  these  things  been 
done?  To  answer  this  question,  it  is 
necessary  first  to  discuss  the  attitude 
of  the  primitive  Christian  societies  to 
the  empire;  their  action  on  it,  its  ac- 
tion on  them;  the  changes  incident  to 
the  conversion  of  Constantino  and  the 
establishment  of  Christianity;  the 
way  it  furthered  the  organization  of  the 
church  on  the  old  imperial  lines,  the 
continuance  under  changed  forms  of 
the  ancient  pontifical  attributes  and 
religio!is  prerogatives  of  the  emperor, 
the  p:radual  transference  of  these,  as  .his 
po"  or  decayed,  to  the  Bishop  of  Eome, 
iw.ii  the  consequent  emergence  of  a  new 
imperialism.  The  Boman  chiirch  is 
the  child  of  the  Roman  Empire;  it 
could  as  little  have  been  without  Csesar 
as  without  Christ;  its  ideals,  policy, 
methods,  being  such  as  became  a  trans- 
formed eternal  city  rather  than  a  real- 
ized kingdom  of  heaven.  But  the 
imperialized  church  has  its  own  pecu- 
liar activities:  creates  infant,  nurses 
feeble,  commands  mature  states;  pro- 
motes order,  limits  tyranny,  comes  to 
tyrannize:  is  honored,  obeyed,  resist- 
ed, broken;  with  the  result  that  new 


674 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


churches  with  new  ideals  and  influences 
arise.  And  so,  secondly,  there  must 
be  inquiry  into  the  civil  and  political 
action  oi.  all  the  churches,  how  they 
affect  progress,  order,  freedom,  the 
happiness  and  well-being  of  peoples. 
This  is  a  study  in  comparative  politics 
and  histories,  forcing  us  to  Iook  into 
the  varied  vital  relations  of  the  eccle- 
siiistical  ideal  to  the  realities  of  the  so- 
cial and  civil  state,  as  illustrated  by  the 
action  of  Rome  in  the  states  she  created 
and  still  controls,  and  the  action  of 
Protestantism,  and  the  various  types  of 
Protestantism,  in  the  states  she  expand- 
ed, founded,  educated,  and  still  guides. 
The  religion  that  does  not  quicken  and 
fill  the  imagination  does  not  satisfy  the 
spirit  or  enrich  the  life;  and  the  church 
that  is  inimical  to  literature  or  injur- 
ious to  the  highest  art  is  false  to  relig- 
ion; while  an  alienated  literature  and 
a  debased  or  senspous  art  mean  that 
the  church  has  ceased  to  be  a  force  that 
makes  for  culture,  and  become  unable 
either  to  understand,  interpret,  or 
realize  those  sublime  truths  that  ought 
to  be  the  inspiration-  and  joy  of  man. 
Thus,  viewed  on  its  real  or  secular  side^ 
the  history  of  the  church  ought  to 
show  the  progressive  realization,  in  all 
the  forms  of  personal  and  collective  be- 
ing, of  the  grander  Christian  ideals. 
To  see  what  ideals  the  churches  con- 
sider the  grander,  and  how  they 
achieve,  or  seek  to  achieve,  their  reali- 
zation, is  to  be  made  to  understand  the 
degree  in  which  they  are  churches  of 
Christ. 

III.  Cojistructive.  Theology  is  not 
simply  a  cycle  of  historical  sciences,  but 
the  science  which  has,  above  all  others, 
to  do  with  the  exercise  of  the  reason, 
the  direction  of  the  conscience,  the 
education  of  the  heart,  and  the  conduct 
of  life.  It  is  not  a  mere  branch  of  his- 
torical archaeology,  concerned  with  the 
discovery  and  resuscitation  of  a  dead 
and  buried   world;  but  it  is  a  living 


.science — a  science  of  life,  and  for  the 
living.  It  lives,  for  it  looks  eagerly 
into  all  the  provinces  of  knowledge  for 
material  that  may  add  to  its  already 
rich  stores.  The  investigations  that, 
by  widening  the  universe,  fill  and  in- 
spire the  imagination,  peopling  space 
with  worlds  and  eternity  with  creative 
forces  and  activities;  the  discoveries 
that  have  restored  the  languages  and 
literatures  of  long-decayed  empires,  the 
speculations  that  have  given  us  the 
ideas  of  law  and  order,  evolution  and 
progress,  have  all  enlarged  the  domain, 
clarified  the  vision,  renned  the  spirit, 
sifted,  tested,  exalted  the  ideas  of  tneol- 
ogy.  And,  as  it  lives,  it  gives  life, 
lifts  man  above  the  tyranny  of  the  sen- 
suous and  the  temporal,  softens  for  him 
the  mysteries  and  the  miseries  of  being, 
Xiheers  him  with  immortal  hopes,  brings 
his  dim  and  narrow  existence  under 
the  inspiration  and  governance  of  the 
transcendental  and  divine.  To  accom- 
plish this  it  has  a  threefold  constructive 
discipline,  —  Doctrinal,  Ethical,  and 
Political. 

1.  —Constructive  or  systematic  theol- 
ogy is  the  interpretation  and  articula- 
tion of  the  truths  or  material  supplied 
by  the  philosophical  and  historical 
sciences  in  terms  and  forms  intelligible 
to  living  mind  and  revelant  to  living 
thought.  It  is  not  the  study  of  texts, 
or  the  exposition  of  Symbols,  Fathers, 
and  Schoolmen.  There  is  nothing  so 
fatal  to  constructive  thought  as  the 
dominion  of  an  ancient  cpuncil  or  a 
dead  divine.  The  spirit  of  truth  did 
not  cease  to  live  when  the  Fathers  died; 
to  be  faithful  to  it,  we  must  hold  theol- 
ogy to  be  as  living  now  as  it  was  then, 
and  the  living  teacher  to  be  as  much 
bound  to  find  for  it  fit  and  masterful 
speech.  But  he  cannot  create  it  ont  of 
a  vacant  consciousness;  he  must  come 
to  it  with  the  sympathies,  knowledge, 
and  capabilities  the  historical  scieuces 
have  created.     To  know  the  historv  of 


THEOLOGY  AS  AN  ACADEMIC  DISCIPLINE. 


675 


doctrine  is  to  be  saved  from  many  an 
error;  it  is  to  be  made  to  understand 
the  limits  of  the  possible,  to  be  made 
critical  of  crudities,  doubtful  of  bril- 
liant generalizations  or  plausible  the- 
ories, suspicious  of  a  too  visionary  or 
too  adventurous  speculation.  The  man 
who  has  with  open  soul  studied  dogma 
in  its  history,  is  on  his  way  to  the, cau- 
tion that  is  true  boldness;  he  will 
dare  to  build  when  he  has  material,  and 
to  refuse  when  he  has  none;  he  will 
test  every  stone  he  uses,  and  will  use 
only  those  that  have  stood  not  merely 
his  test,  but  that  of  time.  Still,  his 
aim  is  to  kno>y  the  past  that  he  may 
serve  the  present,  following  it  where  it 
has  followed  the  truth,  but  no  further. 
The  supreme  problem  of  to-day  is  to 
construct  a  theology  real  and  revelant 
to  living  mind;  a  system  so  articulated 
out  of  reason  and  history,  so  interpreta- 
tive of  nature  and  man,  so  incorpora- 
ting the  highest  truths  of  all  the  scien- 
ces and  the  surest  institutions  of  the 
spirit,  that  it  shall  force  man  to  say: 
'*Here  isa  system  not  suited  to  the 
necessities  and  audacious  infallibilities 
of  a  church,  always  most  errant  when 
most  authoritative;  but  so  large,  rea- 
sonable, comprehensive,  that  one  must 
confess  it  a  veritable  intellectual  system 
of  the  universe."  Constructive  theolo- 
gy is  the  interpretation  of  nature,  man, 
and  history,  through  the  conception  of 
the  God  who  is  at  once  their  first  and 
final  cause.  The  more  veracious  this 
conception,  the  more  veracious  the 
theology.  The  system  that  builds  on 
and  expounds  the  dogmas  of  a  church, 
is  but  that  church's  system;  but  the 
theology  which  is  throughout  deter- 
mined by  the  notion  of  the  God  and 
Father  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  is  a 
Christian  theology. 

2.  —  Constructive  Ethics.  Theology 
cannot  remain  a  mere  intellectual  sys- 
tem; it  must  be  applied  to  the  rejjr'r- 
tion  of  life.     It  touches  ethics  both  on 


the  speculative  and  practical  sides:  on 
the  one  side  it  deals  with  the  basis-^nd 
idea  of  duty;  on  the  other,  with  this 
as  realized  m  and  interpreted  through 
an  historical  ideal.  Theological  are 
essentially  transcendental  ethics  ;  their 
ultimate  idea  is  an  absolute  yet  person- 
alized law  —  a  concrete  yet  uncondi- 
tional categorical  imperative.  But 
Christian  ethics  are  the  realization  of 
the  theological  as  it  were,  the  benefi- 
cent energies  of  God  expressed,  em- 
bodied, made  real  and  e^cient  in  an 
historical  person.  Christ's  law  of  love 
is  but  the  application  to  human  con- 
duct of  the  principle  that  determines 
the  divine  will.  From  the  double 
bases  thus  supplied.  Constructive  Eth- 
ics have  to  build  up  an  ideal  of 
character;  define,  develope,  and  enforce 
the  duties  that  brin^  the  perfect  life. 
The  idea  of  man  in  the  ethics  but 
trandates  the  idea  of  (iod  in  the  theol- 
ogy;  their  aim  is  so  to  secure  the  god« 
liness  that  is  godlikeness,  that  the  wil 
reigning  in  heaven  may  be  realiz&t  oj 
earth. 

3.  — Constructive  Politics.  As  th»' 
highest  constructive  achievement  o; 
philosophy  is  an  ideal  republic,  and  the 
fondest  dream  of  the  philosopher  the 
mode  of  its  realization,  so  the  final 
function  of  theology  is  to  unfold  its 
ethical  contents  into  an  ideal  of  society 
and  the  state,  though  as  one  that  can 
be  satisfied  only  by  the  comprehension 
and  perfection  of  all  mankind.  Christ 
came  to  found  a  kingdom,  and  were  his 
purpose  fulfilled,  the  church  would 
disappear  in  the  state,  or  the  state  in 
the  church — t.  e.,  Uis  truth  would  so 
penetrate  and  change  all  peoples  and 
societies  that  they  should  be  through 
and  through  and  in  all  things  Chris- 
tian.  The  law  that  governs  the  good 
man  ought  to  govern  the  good  state; 
the  international  laws  of  Christian 
peoples  should  be  but  the  transcript  of 
the  law  that  binds  a  man  to  love  his 


676 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZI!^. 


neighbor  as  himself.  And  theology, 
undismayed  by  the  failures  of  tlie  piist, 
should  inspire  the  present  and  create 
the  future  by  boldly  bidding  the  imagi- 
nation depict  the  ideal  city  of  Ood  that 
her  sons  may  realize  it. 

IV. 

1. — We  are  now  in  a  position  to  dis- 
cuss, though  it  must  be  most  briefly, 
the  right  of  theology  to  bo  considered 
an  academic  discipline.  It  is  indeed 
so  vast  a  cycle  of  sciences,  that  unless 
it  be  academically,  it  can  never  be  real- 
ly or  exhaustively  studied.  It  requires 
so  many  teachers,  specialists  all — phil- 
oBophero,  Dhilolo^ans,  hiBtorians,  crit- 
ics,  archaeologists,  exegetes,  constructive 
scholars  and  thinkers — that  only  a  un- 
iversity could  make  a  home  spacious 
enough  to  hold  them,  and  rich  enough 
to  supply  the  material  they  need.  And 
its  studies  are  educative — so  much  so, 
that  the  theological  are  the  only  scien- 
ces that,  taken  alone,  could  they  be  so 
taken,  would  give  a  really  liberal  edu- 
cation. They  cultivate  every  faculty 
— philosophical,  linguistic,  historical, 
critical,  literary,  and,  above  all,  those 
architectonic  faculties  that  find  among 
the  ruin  criticism  has  worked  only  the 
materials  for  a  nobler  and  more  stable 
structure.  To  pursue  them  a  man 
must  have  the  imagination  that  at  once 
sees  and  realizes  the  past;  the  sympathy 
that  keeps  him  so  m  love  with  men 
that  he  can,  however  divided  by  time 
and  thought,  und^erstand  them,  and  be 
just  to  their  opinions;  the  insight  that 
refuses  to  be  blinded  either  by  preju- 
dice or  partiality;  the  judicial  sense 
that  feels  the  sectary's  passion  as  little 
as  the  cynic's  disdain;  the  patience 
that  grudges  no  labor  and  knows  no 
fear  in  the -search  for  truth;  the  open- 
ness of  mind  that  can  bear  suspense 
and  set  judgment  free  till  the  case  be 
fully  heard  and  justly  closed.     And 


I  the  sciences  the  theologian  studies  cor- 
respond to  the  faculties  they  exercise 
and  cultivate.  They  are  the  sublimest 
and  most  far-reaching  of  the  sciences, 
deal  with  the  most  universal,  abiding, 
and  sovereign  elements  in  human  na- 
ture, the  mightiest  forces  in  history,  the 
grandest  monuments  of  literature  and 
art,  the  most  wonderful  social  phenom- 
ena, the  most  silent  yet  most  irresisti- 
ble factors  of  political  evolution  and 
change.  On  the  lowest  ground,  to 
deny  these  sciences  an  academic  posi- 
tion would  be  to  leave  the  cycle  of 
knowledge  incomplete;  on  a  some- 
what higher  ground,  it  would  be  to 
divorce  studies  whose  union  is  necessary 
to  the  wholeness  and  harmonv  of  a 
people's  life.  Man  does  not  live  by 
bread  alone;  iA  its  strength  he  can 
never  either  be  or  do  his  best.  The 
utilities  are  not  the  great  forces  of  dis- 
covery; nature  hides  her  choicest 
secrets  from  the  man  who  seeks  them 
for  ffreed  or  gain.  Man  is  ruled  by  his 
ideals;  he  sees  by  the  light  of  large 
and  living  ideas,  and  if  he  lives  in  an 
atmosphere  where  they  cannot  breathe, 
the  best  of  himself  will  die  in  their 
death.  To  hold  everything  worthy  of 
knowledge  but  the  faith  by  which  he 
has  lived,  is  to  hold  the  accidents  of  life 
better  than  its  essence.  Theology  may 
not  create  religion,  but  religion  cannot 
abide  without  theology;  if  it  be  not 
dealt  with  as  truth,  it  will  not  long  be 
believed  as  true,  just  as  to  spare  a 
church  out  of  reverence  for  its  past,  or 
out  of  pity  for  the  feeble-minded,  is 
but  to  doom  it  to  a  sterner  death.  But 
religion  is  too  essential  to  man  co  be 
dismissed  from  the  field  of  his  inquir- 
ies; and  while  it  stands  there  the  scien- 
ces concerned  with  it  ought  to  fill  as 
large  a  place  in  the  academic  system  as 
religion  itself  fills  in  the  history  and 
mind  of  man.  The  universitv  that 
wants  them  is  without  the  studies  that, 
more  than  any  others,  are  needed  for 


THEOLOGY  AS  A..  ..CADEMIC  DISCIPLINE. 


677 


the  complete  education  of  man  and  the 
complete  intrepretation  of  his  universe. 

Of  course,  to  plead  for  Theology  as 
an  academic  discipline^  does  not  mean 
that  it  be  made  either  the  universal  or 
the  only  discipline.  Theology  to  be  a 
real  study  must  be  loved.  While  the 
heart  alone  can  never  make  a  theolo- 
gian, the  theologian  can  never  be  made 
without  heart,  and  heart  in  and  for  his 
work.  Few  things,  indeed,  are  harder 
than  to  be  a  pious  divine.  The  truths 
men  delight  to  meditate  on  only  in 
moments  of  holy  rapture  are  by  him 
subjected  to  the  hardening  process  of 
analysis.  But  all  the  more  does  he 
need  to  hold  his  soul  pure  by  keeping 
it  open  to  God,  and  nis  heart  tender 
by  keeping  it  open  to  man.  If  theology 
be  not  loved,  the  discipline  will  not 
educate^  Perfunctory  and  compulsory 
drill  is  more  likely  to  be  harmful  than 
beneficial.  Men  will  not  Jove  religion 
the  better  that  they  must,  in  order  to  a 
pass  degree,  be  coached  in  its  rudi- 
ments; scamped  work  never  yet  awoke 
love  or  quickened  faith  in  the  man  who 
had  to  ao  it.  The  best  security  for  re- 
ligious education  is  the  religious  edu- 
cator; without  him  rules  for  unready 
learners  will  be  enforced  in  vain. 
Academic  theology  is  for  the  training 
of  theologians,  and  ought  to  stand  as  a 
secondary  and  special  after  the  primary 
and  general  studies^  with  a  course  at 
least  equal  in  length  to  these.  Physi- 
cal science,  confident  of  its  own  suffi- 
ciency, may  claim  to  be  able  to  dispense 
with  the  LitercB  Humaniores;  but, 
for  my  part,  I  feel  i^hat  theology  is  most 
honored  by  making  no  such  claim.  It 
is  too  universal  in  its  relations  to  be 
able  to  stand  alone;  it  will  disclose  its 
best  treasures  only  to  those  who  come 
to  it  cultivated  by  the  study  of  the 
humaner  letters. 

2. — But  this  paper  must  not  end 
without  a  word  of  another  kind.  It 
is  a  plea  for  an  academic  discipline  in 


academic  and  educational  interests,  but 
not  iu  these  alon«.  The  writer  loves 
his  science,  honors  it,  and  would  have 
it  honored  of  all  men;  and  he  knows 
no  way  of  honoring  a  science  but  by 
zealous  and  unwearied  cultivation. 
But  he  also  loves  religion,  wishes  to  see 
it  clearly  conceived,  strenuously  de- 
fended, truly  taught,  fully  realized; 
and  he  pleads  for  a  larger,  deeper,  wiser 
study  of  theology  as  the  noblest  service 
now  possible  to  religion.  .Our  scepti* 
ciam  IS  mainly  a  thing  of  ignorance;  its 
conceptions  of  •  religious  truth  and  his- 
tory hardly  rise  above  those  of  an  ill- 
taught  schoolboy.  One  is  amazed  to 
find  the  absurd  and  puerile  fancies  that 
pass  with  the  apostles  of  Agnosticism 
and  Positivism  for  knowledge  of  Chris- 
tianity. And  there  is  ignorance  abroad 
because  there  is  defective  knowledge 
at  home.  We  need  a  generation  of 
trained  .teachers;  a  great  school  of 
theology  would,  by  the  creation  of  the 
simple '  yet  potent  agencies  of  new 
thought  and  new  knowledge,  introduce 
a  religious  epoch.  The  great  theolo- 
gian is  the  greatest  of  all  human  forces 
in  religion;  no  sect  owns  him,  for  all 
sects  feel  his  spirit  and  his  power.  The 
priest  made  by  a  sacred  caste  belongs 
to  the  caste  that  made  him;  but  the 
great  theologian,  though  sprung  out  of 
one  church,  oelongs  to  all  the  churches, 
supplies  them  with  truth,  learning, 
literature.  Peter  may  have  done  more 
for  the  organization  of  the  church  than 
Paul,  but  Paul  did  more  for  its 
thought,  and  so  has  been  mightier  than  ' 
Peter.  Two  men,  indeed,  rise  out  of 
the  primitive  church  as  sources  of  im- 
perishable quickening  energies —  Paul 
and  John.  The  system  Paul  has  devel- 
oped in  his  great  Epistles — his  doc- 
trines of  love  and  grace,  faith  and 
works,  righteousness  and  life,  election 
and  sovereignty,  the  first  and  the 
second  Adam  —  formed  the  mind  of 
Augustine,    inspired   the    thought    of 


678 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


Anselm,  touched  and  qnieted  the  con- 
science of  Luther,  subdued  the  intellect 
of  Calvin,  and  have  lived  like  a  ubi- 
quitous presence  in  the  minds  of  the 
men  who  have  intensely  feared  sin  be- 
cause they  so  greatly  loved  God.  And 
the  lofty  speculations  of  John  as  to 
God  and  His  word,  as  to  light  and 
life,  love  and  truth,  the  Father  and 
the  Son,  created  theologians  like 
Athanasius,  mystics  like  Tauler  and 
Boehme,  enthusiasts  like  Fi^ncis  of 
Assisi,  and  the  great  multitude  who 
have  loved  quietude  and'  fled  from  self 
to  God.  Men  will  never  lose  their  in- 
terest in  things  religious;  nature  herself 
is  the  guarantee  that  he  who  speaks 
most  wisely  concerning  them  will  never 
speak  in  vain.  The  school  that  can 
train  men  so  to  speak  will  attain  a 
sovereignty  such  as  is  unknown  to  the 
cabinet  of  the  most  honored  statesman 
or  the  council  of  the  best  loved  queen. 
—A.  M.  Fairbairn,  D.  D.,  in  The 
Contemporary  Review. 


OUR  NOBLE  SELVES. 

• 

England  is  suffering  at  the  present 
day  from  a  plethora  of  genius.  She 
has  more  great  men  than  she  knows 
what  to  do  with.  Three  generations 
go  to  a  century:  the  three  that  make 
up  this  crammed  century  of  ours  have 
been  indeed  mighty  and  marvelous 
ones.  The  first  was  the  generation  of 
Keats  and  Shelley,  of  Scott  and  Byron, 
of  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge,  of  Lamb 
and  Landor.  That  was  truly  a  gener- 
ation rich  in  master-minds  of  the  first 
order.  The  second  was  the  generation 
of  Tennyson  and  Browning,  of  Dickens 
and  Thackeray,  of  Darwin  and  Spencer, 
of  George  Eliot  and  Matthew  Arnold. 
That  was  a  generation  richer  still  in 
something  like  a  rude  numerical  pro- 
portion  to    the    increased  population 


from  which  it  drew  its  domir^tnt 
spirits.  The  third  is  the  generation 
we  now  see  emerging  from  adolescence 
around  us,  the  "young  men"  of  fifty 
or  under,  whom  a  certain  false  shame 
of  anticipating  the  verdict  of  time 
makes  us  always  shy  of  naming 
individually.  That  is  a  generation 
richest  of  all,  both  in  promise  aud 
performance;  a  generation  pregnant 
with  good  men  whose  work  in  some 
cases  has  already  received  wide  recog- 
nition, while  in  others  it  is  known 
only  to  the  little  literary  circle  which 
is  not  afraid  of  judging  for  itself,  and 
praising  great  things  wherever  it  sees 
them. 

I  know  at  the  very  outset  Tiat  my 
thesis  is  a  paradox.  It  has  been  a 
paradox  in  all  ages.  The  ^reat  men  of 
the  generation  that  is  just  ^passing 
away  are  known  to  everybody  as  great 
men,  because  the  world  has  found 
them  out,  and  set  the  stamp  of  its 
tardy  approval  upon  them.  Can  any- 
body doubt  that  these  are  great?  Are 
not  their  photographs  to  be  seen  daily, 
displayed  m  the  windows  of  the  London 
Stereoscopic  Company  in  Regent  Street? 
Is  it  not  certain  that  Tennyson  is  a 
true  poet — because  he  is  a  lord,  and 
you  find  his  green-covered  volumes  in 
everybody's  librwy?  *  Is  it  not  certain 
that  Ruskin  is  a  wonderful  thinker — 
because  all  the  spectacled  ladies  in 
Oxford  thronged  the  Sheldonian  when 
the  Slade  Professor  was  announced  as 
lecturer?  Who  can  refuse  to  dead 
Thackeray,  or  dead  George  Eliot,  the 
tribute  of  a  genuine  and  outspoken 
admiration?  We  publish  6ditions  de 
luxe  of  their  novels.  But  the  great 
men  of  the  generation  among  which 
we  actually  live  and  move  and  have 
our  being — that,  of  course,  is  a  totally 
different  matter.  Many  of  them  are 
still  quite  young;  and  the  notion  of  a 
yoinig  man  being  really  great  is  in 
itself  of  cours3  quite  too  ridiculous. 


OUR  NOBLE  8ELYE& 


679 


To  be  sure,  Eeats  died  at  twenty-four, 
and  was  only  an  assistant  in  a  doctor's 
shop  in  London.  Shelley  was  no  more 
tjian  thirty  when  his  sailing-boat  cap- 
sized of[  St.  Arengo,  leaving  behind  it 
Prometheus  and  Tlie  Skylark,  Even 
Byron  was  but  thirty-seven  when  rum 
and  fever  carried  him  off  between  them 
at  Missolonghi.  But  then,  that  was 
a  long  time  ago,  and  they  are  all  now 
dead  and  buried.  That  a  living  young 
man  should  possess  genius  is  as  incon- 
ceivable as  that  a  living  physicist 
should  be  greater  than  Newton,  a  liTJjig 
painter  greater  than  Baffaelle,  or  a 
living  playwright  greater  than  Shake- 
speare. What  fallacy  could  be  more 
transparent?   . 

And  yet,  after  all,  when  one  comes 
to  think  of  it,  why  not?  For  strange 
as  it  may  appear,  Shakespeare  himself 
was  once  nothing  more  than  an  ordin- 
ary actor,  well  thought  of  by  the  play- 
goers of  his  day,  but  not  to  be  men- 
tioned in  the  same  breath  with  poets 
of  gentle  origin  like  Spenser,  or  think- 
ers of  learning  and  dignity  like  my 
Lord  Verulam.  When  Mr.  Newton 
was  an  undergraduate  of  Trinity, 
inventing  in  his  own  rooms  at  leisure 
the  method  of  fluxions,  who  could 
have  believed  it  had  they  been  told 
in  a  whisper  that  -the  young  gentleman 
in  the  gray  coat  over  yonder  was  the 
profoundest  mathematical  genius  in 
all  Europe?  When  George  Eliot,  a 
bookseller's  hack,  was  translating 
Strauss's  Leben  Jesu  for  a  miserable 
wage,  who  would  have  accepted  the 
confident  prediction  of  her  friend  Mr. 
Herbert  Spencer  (author  of  an  occa- 
sional scientific  paper  in  the  Leader 
and  the  Westminster)  that  the  plain 
woman  with  the  long  chin  who  talked 
metaphysics  would  become  the  most 
popular  novelist  of  her  time  in  modem 
England  ? 

It  is  fashionable  nowadays  (as  it  lias 
been  always)  to  complain  that  all  our 


great  writers  and  thinkers  are  dead  or 
dying,  and  who  is  there  left  to  replace 
them?  Dickens  is  ^one,  our  critical 
Cassandras  tell  us  with  a  sigh  in  the 
AthencBum  and  the  Saturday;  Thack- 
eray is  gone;  George  Eliot  is  gone; 
even  Trollope  and  Beade  have  been 
taken  from  us.  Carlyle  has  ceased 
from  his  lifelong  wail;  Darwin  has  left 
the  less  fit  to  survive;  Mill  has  joined 
the  voteless  majority.  Macaulay  and 
Lytton  disappeared  irom  their -peers  a 
decade  or  so  earlier.  Disraeli  has  rein- 
forced his  friends  the  angels.  Across 
the  Atlantic,  Emerson,  Longfellow, 
JIawthome  sleep  in  Sleepy  Hollow; 
Lowell,  Holmes,  and  Whittier  belong 
to  the  elder  and  passing  generation. 
With  ourselves,  the  few  great  names 
still  left  loitering  are  equally  those  of 
reverend  seniors.  Tennyson,  Matthe«r 
Arnold,  Newman,  Herbert  Spencer, 
Ruskin,  and  Browning  have  all  seen 
their  best  working  days;  and  where  are 
the  juniors  who  ought  to  be  taking 
their  vacant  places?  If  one  ventures 
to  saggest  a  rising  name  or  two  in 
reply,  the  objector  has  always  an  easy 
answer.  '* Young  So-and-so?  Ah,  he 
writes  poems,  does  he?  No,  no;  I 
nevisr  heard  of  him. "  Or  else,  in  a  more» 
dogmatically  negative  form,  "You 
don't  mean  to  say  yon  think  that 
fellow,  What's-his-name,  who  did  the 
papers  on  Siamese  butterflies  in  Nature, 
IS  the  equal  of  Darwin  or  Wallace  or 
Lyell?"  "W^hat!  the'  author  of  those 
pretty,  little  essays  in  Blackwood? 
You  can't  consider  him  on  the  same 
line  with  giants  like  Carlyle  and 
Macaulay  and  Ruskin?"  The  fact  is, 
these  men  still  labor,  like  Pitt,  under 
the  fatal  defect  of  being  young:  as 
young  as  Tennyson  and  Thackeray  and 
Herbert  Spencer  were,  at  their  age, 
and  no  younger. 

Look  at  the  critical  journals  of  tliii  ty 
or  forty  years  back,  and  you  will  liiul 
exactly  the  same  complaint  made,  and 


THE  UBEAJXY  MAGAZINE. 


with  exactly  the  same  measure  of 
reason.  The  great  a^e,  oar  Cassandras 
told  us  then^  had  clean  passed  away: 
the  Virgils  and  Livys  bad  been 
gathered  to  tbeir  fathers;  '^it  is  all 
Prudentias  and  Clandian  with  as 
nowadays."  ''Keats  is  dead;  Sbelley 
drowned;  Byron  killed  by  Greek  fever; 
Scott  has  disappeared;  Wordsworth 
grows  old;  Lamb  lives  on  the  Com- 
pany's pension;  Sonthey  has  sank  to 
imbecility  under  stress  of  his  own 
amazing  poems;  Coleridge  has  finally 
befogg^  his  maddled  brains  with  too 
much  opiam  and  metaphysics.  All 
the  grand  old  men  of  the  grand  old 
days  are  dead  or  dying;  and  who  is 
there  left  to  replace  them?"  Why, 
young  Mr.  Tennyson,  who  wrote  those 
silly  sing-song  verses  of  Oriana;  young 
Mr.  Dickens,  the  author  of  those 
vulgar  catchpenny  Pickwick  Papers; 
young  Mr.  Thackeray,  who  hangs 
about  the  clubs,  and  failed  with  the 
Luck  of  Barry  Lyndon.  Then  there's 
that  strange  man  Browning,  whose 
crabbed  jingle  nobody  understands, 
and  that  wild  enthusiast,  Suskin  of 
Christ  Church,  who  has  gone  conge- 
nially mad  over  that  equally  mad  land- 
scape-painter, Turner.  But  of  course 
nobody  would  ever  dream  of  comparing 
amiable  and  estimable  youths  like  these 
with  such  souls  as  Byron  and  Scott 
and  Southeyl  (It  was  Byron  and  Scott 
and  Southey  then:  nowadays  it  would 
be  Keats  and  Shelley  and  Coleridge.) 

So  men  spoke  in  the  brief  apparent 
interregnum  between  the  two  great 
literary  British  empires  of  the  nine- 
teenth century.  They  did  not  know 
they  then  stood  on  the  very  eve  of  a 
sudden  outburst  of  thought  and  art 
nnec^ualed  in  our  island  since  the 
spacious  days  of  great  Elizabeth,  when 
''England  became  a  nest  of  singing 
birds. "  At  that  very  moment  Eugiand 
was  once  more  just  brewing  and  seeth- 
ing with    a    mighty  leaven    of  fresh 


motives  and  fresh  intellects.  Dickens 
and  Thackeray,  Tennyson  and  Brown- 
i^igy  by  no  means  exhausted  the  list  of 
budding  geniuses.  George  Eliot  was 
reading  German  metaphysics  and  mak- 
ing silent  studies  for  the  Scenes  in 
Clerical  Life  at  her  own  Nuneaton; 
Carlyle  was  groaning  over  the  French 
Eevolution,  and  tracking  hatless  Dan- 
ton  through  the  packed  streets  of  Paris; 
Darwin  was  watching  earthworms  at 
Down  and  observing  the  strange  habits 
and  manners  of  intelligent  orchids  in 
hi£  own  conservatory;  Herbert  Spencer 
was  discovering  that  his  sphere,  in  life 
lay  not  in  the  construction  of  new  rail- 
ways, but  in  the  building  up  of  the 
Svstem  of  Synthetie  Philosophy; 
Matthew  Arnold  was  quietly  inspecting 
schools  and  mystifying  the  world  with 
the  Strayed  Reveller;  Charlotte  Bronte, 
on  her  Yorkshire  moor,  was  writing 
Jane  Eyre  in  a  crabbed  little  hand  on 
broken  scraps  of  paper  by  the  flickerihg 
firelight  at  Haworth  Rectory.  I  don't 
mean  to  say  that  all  these  events  were 
strictly  contemporaneous  to  a  year  and 
a  day — I  am  not  writing  for  a  Quarterly 
Reviewer  to  vivisect  me — but  at  the 
very  time  when  futile  complaints  about 
the  barrenness  of  the  younger  gent- ra- 
tion were  fiooding  the  papers,  all  these 
great  men  and  women  were  alive  and 
at  work  in  their  full  prime,  as  great 
as  they  ever  were,  or  perhaps,  because 
unknown,  a  trifle  greater.  All  the 
chief  writers  and  thinkers  who  made 
the  decades  from  1850  to  1880  into  a 
mighty  period  of  English  literary  his- 
tory had  reached  maturity  and  years 
of  harvest  in  1845— -a  date  which  most 
people  would  probably  pitch  upon  as 
representing  the  very  blackest  and  low- 
est d^ths  of  the  supposed  interregnum. 
It  is  just  the  same  at  the  present  day. 
A  few  of  the  very  greatest  names  have 
dropped  out  rapidly  in  the  last  ten 
years  or  so;  .a  few  more  are  likely  in 
the  average  course  of  nature  to  drop 


OUR  NOBLE  SELVES. 


681 


ont  in  the  next  twenty.  But  England 
is  not  in  want  of  others  to  replace 
them.  Quite  the  contrary;  fortes 
creantur  fortihus  ei  bonis.  Never,  I 
believe,  were  literature  and  thought  so 
)  ich  in  good  men  an  J  true  under  fifty 
j>8  they  are  at  this  moment.  All  the 
jivjiilable  protoplasm  in  the  country 
V.  as  not  used  up  in  the  production  of 
'I  ennyson  and  Arnold  and  Browning. 
'i1ie  reason  why  no  two  or  three  names 
emerge  conspicuously  as  yet  among 
the  younger  men  is  not  because  there 
are  none  to  emerge,  but  because,  on 
the  other  hand,  there  are  far  too 
many.  We  live  in  an  age  when  high 
genius  is  a  drug  in  the  market:  the 
supply  of  originality,  of  brilliancy,  of 
tirst-rate  workmanship  far  exceeds  the 
effective  demand.  Writers  and  think- 
ers of  prime  magnitude  positively 
swarm  upon  the  pavements  of  London : 
if  you  want  a  poet,  an  essayist,  a  phil- 
osopher, a  romancer,  vou  can  hire  him 
anywhere  in  the  Temple  or  at  the 
dubs  for  the  modest  remuneration  of  a 
guinea  a  page.  At  no  other  age  of 
English  literature  could  any  man  have 
written  such  finished  poetry  as  the 
Proverbs  in  Porcelain,  the  Dead  Letter, 
the  ballad  of  Beau  Brocade^  and  yet 
not  be  recognized  as  standing  in  the 
front  rank  of  English  poets.  At  no 
other  age  could  a  man  have  written 
the  Dynamiter  and  the  New  Arabian 
Niffhts,  and  Through  the  Cevennes 
VJith  a  Donkey  without  being  pro- 
chiimed  in  every  house  a  perfect 
master  of  absolutely  pellucid  and 
exquisite  English  style.  Even  among 
the  men  of  an  older  generation,  at  no 
other  age  could  a  poet  have  produced 
Jvctfjling  Jerry  and  Phmbus  with 
Admetus,  and  Martin's  Puzzle  with- 
out being  generally  and  popularly 
known  as  a  thinker  and  worker  of  the 
first  order.  At  no  other  age  could 
even  a  police  magistrate  have  remained 
absolutely    ignorant    of    the    Earthly 


Paradise,  But  in  our  own  time  men 
may  do  such  work  in  abundance,  and 
yet  be  comparatively  overlooked  in  the 
mighty  throng  of  struggling  genius 
that  we  see  blindly  surging  everywhere 
around  us. 

The  reason  for  this  curious  state  of 
things  is  not  far  to  seek  in  modern 
England.  Eyery  gate  is  thronged  with 
suitors;  all  the  markets  overflow:  and 
the  publisher's  gate  is  thronged  like  aV 
others;  the  book-market  overflows  with 
wit  and  wisdom.  In  a  small  provincial 
town — at  Gabii  orFidense — the  "clever 
man'^  of  local  opinion  soon  emerges 
into  local  consequence;  sed  RorncB 
durior  illi  conatus.  In  London  or 
Paris  he  is  lost  in  the  crowd,  and  no 
man  distinguishes  him  from  all  his 
fellows.  80  it  is  on  a  larger  scale  with 
the  packed  and  jostling  England  of 
Victoria  as  compared  with  the  roomy 
England  of  Elizabeth.  When  the 
British  people  numbered  some  five 
millions  ,each  individual  retained  a 
certain  stamp  of  individuality;  every 
man  of  part-s  had  his  fair  chance  in  the 
game  of  life;  whatever  he  wrote  or  said 
or  acted  was  duly  judged  on  its  own 
merits  by  a  critical  audience.  But 
now  when  the  real  strength  of  Britain 
—  European  and  extra-European  — 
amounts  to  something  like  a  hundred 
million  souls — for  obvious  reasons  I 
include  America,  I  exclude  India — 
genius  suffers  acutely  from  over- 
production; it  exposes  itself  to  the 
fashionable  struggle  for  existence;  like 
Comus's  world,  it  is  strangled  by  its 
waste  fertility;  no  one  or  two  great 
men  among  so  many  can  easily  overtop 
by  head  and  shoulders  the  vast  throng 
of  first-class  talent  awaiting  its  sporiula 
at  the  doors  of  the  libraries.  Mr. 
Mudie,  thronged  within  as  Plutus  to 
our  modern  Apollo,  dispenses  impar- 
tiallv  his  daily  dole  of  tnirtv-one  and 
sixpences  to  some  twenty  thousand 
clamorous  applicants.     Our  magazines, 


682 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


whose  name  is  now  legion,  contain 
every  month  innumerable  papers  which 
in  any  age  except  the  present  would 
have  sufficed  te  secure  their  author  a 
solid  reputation.  We  glance  over  them 
hastily  in  our  easy-chairs,  skim  their 
profound ity,  smile  at  their  humor, 
approve  their  style,  appraise  their  mat- 
ter, never  look  at  the  writer's  name  at 
the  end,  and  toss  the' volume  when 
finished  into  the  waste-paper  basket. 
The  social  leaders  in  som6  of  our  Lon- 
don penny  papers  are  masterpieces  of 
wit  and  epigraua  and  satire — pearls 
cast  before  swine  for  the  bulk  of  their 
readers — worthy  of  Sydney  Smith  at  his 
best,  or  of  Charles  Lamb  in  his  easiest 
and  most  graceful  humor.  Few  read 
them;  nobody  dreams  of  asking  who 
wrote  them. 

The  fact  is,  in.  London  to-day,  genjus 
swarms  in  every  department.  Parnas- 
sus teems  from  Piccadilly  to  Highgate. 
Young  Chattertons  print  their  genuine 
poetry  in  the  weekly  papers,  no  man 
hindering  but  no  man  regarding  them. 
Young  Heines  show  their  snarling 
teeth  or  preach  Pantagruelism  in  the 
Saturday  journals.  Young  Murgers 
tread  the  Bohemia  of  llampstead,  and 
dream  impossible  Arabian  Nights  of 
extraordinary  imaginative  force  and 
brilliancy.  Young  Poes  invent  new 
murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue,  and  fill 
the  magazines  with  fresh  adventures 
of  the  immortal  Prince  Florestan. 
You  cannot  take  a  walk  down  Fleet 
Street  any  day  of  the  week  without 
enQountering  wits  and  poets  such  as 
Johnson  and  Burke  never  chanced  to 
meet  on  their  afternoon  rambles. 
tTonathan  Swift,  unknown  and  un- 
noticed, pours  forth  volume  after 
volume  of  delicate  irony  and  scathing 
sarcasm,  with  sardonic  laughter  un- 
heard of  gods  or  men,  from  some  com- 
modious villa  in  Peckham  or  in  Canon- 
bury.  Isiiac  Newton,  with  big  calm 
brows  and  measured  spee(ih,  corresponds 


no  longer  with  Leibnitz  or  Huygens, 
but  sinks  his  mighty  European  fame 
in  a  dissertation  on  the  causes  of  the 
Polar  ice-cap.  Our  little  world  is  far 
too  full.  No  man  nowadays  can 
emerge  from  the  ruck — ^the  common 
ruck  of  divine  genius — until  he  has 
completed  at  least  his  entire  half 
century.  At  fifty  we  are  still  promis- 
ing young  men;  at  sixty  we  may,  with 
good  luck,  be  spoken  of  as  rising 
writers.  Now  and  then,  to  be  sure,  a 
Swinburne  makes  good  his  claim  by 
storm,  to  he  reckoned  among  the  ranks 
of  the  immoi-tals,  or  a  Hugh  Conway 
goes  up  like  a  rocket,  to  fall,  a  most 
unmistakable  stick,  on  the  morrow. 
But  these  are  always  illegitimate  suc- 
cesses. It  was  not  his  undeniably  true 
poetic  qualities  that  awoke  the  public 
attention  to  the  Bard;  it  was  the  auda- 
cious apparition  of  Poems  and  Ballads, 
naked  and  not  ashamed,  that  aroused 
the  world  with  a  start  to  the  sudden 
coneciousness  of  a  fresh  poet.  So  too 
with  Mallock  and  the  New  Republic. 
Bar  novelists,  who  will  still  sometimes 
carry  the  world  by  assault,  no  writer  or 
thinker  can  now  rise  to  the  modest 
level  of  popular  appreciation  till  he 
has  slowly  and  laboriously  lifted  him- 
self hand  over  hand  on  a  steep  ladder, 
each  of  whose  many  rungs  represents 
in  time  and  work  a  full  twelvemonth. 

The  vaster  the  mass  of  good  work 
done,  the  harder  becomes  the  task  of 
discrimination.  Not  because,  ag  people 
love  to  say.  we  have  now  a  wide  dead 
level  of  mediocrity:  quite  the  contrary: 
but  because  we  have  a  wide  field  of  the 
highest  excellence  which  in  any  other 
age  would  have  merited  and  obtained 
in  every  case  immediate  recognition. 
It  is  fashionable  always  to  ignore  this 
fact,  to  conceal  our  knowledge  of  living 
men's  virtues,  to  join  in  a  vast  * 'con- 
spiracy of  silence"  as  to  the  genius  and 
learning  of  one's  own  contemporaries. 
Why    tiius?      **D©    mortuis  ^nil    nisi 


OUR  NOBCE  SELVES. 


683 


bonum,"  if  you  will,  but  why  of  the 
living  nothing  but  harsh  criticism?  It 
is  80  easy  to  sneer,  it  is  so  hard  to  be 
generous.  Any  fool  can  praise  you 
Shakespeare  or  Milton;  and  any  fool 
can  laugh  down  an  unknown  aspirant. 
It  was  so  simple  for  Christopher  North 
to  poke  fun  at  Tennyson:  Tennyson 
had  not  then  accepted  a  peerage.  If, 
while  Keats  still  lurked  in  the  back 
surgery,  a  discerning  critic  had  boldly 
said  of  him,  *'This  young  dispenser  is 
at  this  moment  one  oi  the  truest 
English  poets  that  ever  breathed,"  all 
the  world  would  have  laughed  incred- 
ulous. The  haunters  of  clubs  would 
have  said  with  a  cynical  smile,  "Young 
Mr.  Keat's  poems  are  very  pretty  in 
their  own  way,  no  doubt,  though  some- 
what wild  and  lawless  in  manner;  but 
as  to  calling  him  a  great  poet,  why 

really,  you   mow No  criticism 

is  so  killing  as  an  oposiopesis.  And 
80,  too,  in  our  own  days,  if  one  ventured 
to  oppose  to  the  known  names  of  the 
elder  generation  the  unknown  but  not 
less  sr&aX  names  of  the  picked  juniors, 
all  the  world  would  laugh  with  equal 
incredulity.  "Never  heard  of  them 
before  in  my  life!''  As  though  any- 
body ever  heard  of  anybody  else  until 
the  time  when  he  first  heard  of  him. 

Those  who  don't  know,  say  nothing, 
because  they  have  nothing  at  all  to  say. 
Those  who  do  know,  hold  their  tongues, 
because  a  certain  unworthy  false  shame 
makes  them  diffident  about  setting  up 
their  own  opinion  as  a  standard  of 
criticism  for  other  people.  I  often 
notice  with  amusement  how  measured 
and  sparing  and  tentative  (as  of  a  snail 
feeling  its  way  with  its  horns)  is  the 
praise  which  one  good  man  bestows  in 
a  review  upon  another  good  man  of 
•his  own -generation.  I  observe  how  he 
hedges  and  attenuates  and  qualifies: 
how  he  keeps  his  own  generous  enthu- 
siasm well  m  hand  for  fear  it  should 
run  away  with  him  before  the  eyes  of 


sneering  bystanders.    I  read  how  So- 
and-So's  verses  almost  remind  one  in 

E laces  of  Shelley's  early  bad  manner: 
ow  the  best  of  So-and-So's  new  stories 
attain  to  something  like  the  height  of 
Thackeray's  minor  performances:  how 
So-and-So's  essay  in  the  last  West- 
minster is  not  wlioUy  unworthy  at 
times  of  the  first  attempts  nuule  by 
Macaulay.  Unstinted  praise  of  living 
authors,  however  deserved,  is  avoided 
with  an  almost  Greek  terror  of  Nemesis. 
I  have  heard  dozens  of  people  say  in 
private — what  is  the  obvious  truth — 
that  the  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feveril  is 
the  greatest  novel  ever  written  in  the 
English  language.  But  I  never  saw 
anybody  say  so  in  print:  and  I  know 
why;  because  Richard  Feveril  still 
remains  half  unknown,  and  they  are 
all  afraid  of  getting  laughed  at  by  fools 
who  can  only  appreciate  high  merit 
after  it  has  received  the  final  stamp  of 
popular  approbation  in  illustrated  two- 
shilling  paper  covers.  No  one  shrinks 
from  praising  Thackeray  duly,  or 
Fielding  excessively;  because  Thack- 
eray and  Fielding  are  both  stone  dead, 
and  everybody  now  has  learned  (after 
being  often  told  so)  that  Thackeray  and 
Fielding  are  very  wonderful  novelists 
indeed.  But  I  myself,  who  have  the 
courage  of  my  opinions,  am  afraid  to 
say  openly  what  1  feel  and  know  about 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  about  Austin 
Dobson,  about  half-a-dozen  other  real 

feniuses  of  our  own  time,  not  because 
mind  the  public  sneer  myself,  bub 
because  those  for  whom  I  feel  a  pro- 
found admiration  are  afraid  on  their 
own  account  to  face  it.  I  once  impru- 
dently called  a  friend  ^  true  poet  in  a 
daily  paper  (knowing  him  to  be  one) 
and  he  wrote  me  back  a  letter  by  the 
first  post  to  complain  bitterly  that  I 
had  made  him  ridiculous  before  the 
foolish  face  of  the  British  public. 
And  yet  I  suppose  there  must  be 
sometimes  true  poets,   who   are   true 


e84 


THE  LIBltlRY  MAGAZINE. 


rts  even  in  their  own  lifetime.  Or 
they  only  become  poets  at  all,  I 
j  wonder,  after  their  quick  tongues  lie 
'  silent  in  the  dust,  and  their  ri*ht 
hands  have  lost  their  cunning.  You 
may  see  people  open  their  eyes  wide  in 
astonishment  if  you  speak  of  Herbert 
Spencer  as  the  greatest  pliilosopher  that 
ever  lived;  and  yet  they  are  not  in  the 
least  astonished  if  you  say  the  same 
thing  about  Aristotle  or  Kant  or  even 
Bacon. 

There  were  giants  in  those  days. 
Tliat  is  the  common  and  naif  belief  of 
all  unsophisticated  and  thoughtless 
humanity.  The  giants,  to  be  sure,  are 
never  with  us,  they  tower  gigantesque 
only  in  proportion  as  they  fade  away 
into  the  aim  mist  of  historical  perspec- 
tive. Through  that  fallacious  haze  of 
time  and  repute,  men  loom  always 
larger  than  human:  stand  too  near,  and 
you  see  them  only  in  their  natural  size, 
as  five  feet  ten  m  their  stocking  feet, 
and  measuring  round  the  chest  tnirty- 
eight  inches.  And  yet  they  are  giants 
none  the  less,  in  earnest:  for  though 
no  man,  we  know,  is  a  hero  to  his 
valet,  that,  as  Hegel  justly  remarked,  is 
not  because  the  hero  is  no  hero,  but 
because  the  valet  is  only  a  valet.  Con- 
temporaries can  seldom  understand 
any  form  of  greatness  that  does  not 
come  to  them  marked  with  the  guinea 
stamp  of  official  approbation.  They 
will  never  believe  that  the  man's  the 

fold  for  all  that.  My  Lord  Duke  in 
is  big  house  they  can  readily  appre- 
ciate, and  even  recognize  for  the  most 
part  in  the  street,  for  has  he  not  a 
coronet  painted  on  his  carriage?  The 
President  of  th^  Royal  Academy  or  of, 
the  Hoyal  Societv,  the  Poet  Laureate, 
the  Vice-Chancelor  of  the  University 
of  Oxford,  the  Archbishop  of  Canter- 
burv,  the  Lord  Chief  Justice — these 
also  are  tangible  realities,  with  robes  of 
office  and  many  letters  tacked  to  their 
names — LL.D.,     and     F.R.S.,      and 


K.C.S.L,  whatever  that  may  be — which 
enable  all  men  to  see  at  once  that  here 
we  liave  to  deal  with  real  genuine 
indubitable  gr'^atuess.  Bufe^  how  can 
the  purblind  public  believe,  while  ho 
still  lives,  that  the  excise  o^cer  who 
dwells  in  the  little  cottage  there,  and 
fuddles  his  brain  with  a  pack  of  vulgar 
cronies  at  the  village  public,  is  the 
Poet  Laureate  of  Scotland  for  all  time, 
to  be  remembered  when  Buccleuchs 
and  Argylls  and  Hamiltons  and  Ath- 
oles  have  gone  to  their  own  place,  con- 
signed forever  to  merited  obljvion? 
How  can  they  believe  that  the  dirty  un- 
shaven ill-bred  Scotchman  in  the  small 
house  by  the  waterside  at  Chelsea, 
who  talks  broad  Ecclefechan  and  omits 
to  change  his  linen  regularly,  is  the 
most  wonderful  master  of  pictorial 
description  that  ever  put  pen  to  pa}>er 
in  England?  And  how  m  our  own 
day  can  they  believe  that  the  tall  young 
man  with  the  stoop  over  yonder,  who 
passes  unnoticed  down  the*-  village 
street,  is  the  greatest  living  artist  m 
English  style,  or  that  the  handsome 
fellow  in  the  light  overcoat,  who  strolls 
unobserved  through  Piccadilly,  is  the 
most  versatile  humorist,  essayist,  and 
versifier  that  Wild  Wales  has  ever 
begotten? 

These  things  the  public  can  never 
conceivably  discover  for  itself.  •  All 
the  more  need,  therefore,  that  those 
who  can  discover  them  should  publish 
their  discovery  eveiy where  broadcast, 
proclaiming  it  on  the  housetops,  and 
making  it  possible  for  a  man  to  be 
somewhat  known  before  his  graiid- 
children  lose  their  hold  upon  his  copy- 
rights. When  a  great  poet  has  resumed 
the  inorganic  condition,  it  is  small 
consolation  to  him  that  his  Complete 
Works  should  be  edited  and  emended 
in  sumptuous  forms  by  Mr.  H.  Buxton 
Form  an.  He  wants  recognition,  and 
not  unfrequently  he  wants  bread  also: 
but  he  wants  them  botH  during  his 


OUR  NOBLE  SELVES. 


685 


own  lifetime.  He  greatly  prefers 
enough  to  eat  while  he  still  lives,  to  a 
handsome  memorial  tablet  above  his 
mouldering     bones     in     Westminster 

'  Abbey.  VVhen  he  asks  for  bread,  do 
not  give  him  a  stone,  even  if  it  bear 
his  own  face  in  a  neatly  cut  medallion 
by  Boehm  or  by  Thornycroft.  In 
order  for  men  to  be  known,  however, 

^  it  is  necessary  for  the  few   who  are 

'  capable  of  judging  to  speak  out  boldly 
and  frequently  without  false  modesty. 

;  We  have  heard  a  great '  deal  of  late 
about  some  mysterious  operation  known 
as  Log-Rolling:  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
there  is  not  half  log-rolling  enough  in 
the  ranks  of  contemporary  English 
literajture.  Throughout  all  ages,  the 
men  who  had  anything  in  them,  the 
men  who  were  going  to  rise,  and  did 
in  the  end  actually  rise,  have  had  from 
the  first  a  generous  appreciation  for 
one  another's  real  merits.  Knowing 
good  work  from  bad  when  they  saw  it, 
they  early  picked  one  another  out  from 
the  mass  oi  honest  but  second-rate  writ- 
ers: they  formed  a  little  freemasonry  of 
culture — if  you  will,  a  clique,  a  coterie, 
a  mutual  admiration  society.  But  they 
admired  mutually  because  they  knew 
<3ach  other  to  be  really  admirable. 
**Cedite  Romani  scriptores,  cedite 
Graii'^ — what  is  ^that  but  the  most 
unblushing  log-rolling?  Look  at  Ben 
Johnson's  lines  on  the  Droeshout 
portrait  of  Shakespeare:  what  would 
our  Quarterly  reviewers  say  to  such 
open  and  unconcealed  cliquish  adula- 
tion ?  Nobody  now  thinks  of  accusing 
Jonson  or  Burke  or  Reynolds  or  Gold- 
smith of  ''the  vile  arts  of  mutual 
puffery:"  everybody  sees  that  they 
stood  together  because  they  recognized 
each  other's  ability.  So,  if  you  read 
the  memoirs  of  the  literary  generation 
just  passing  away,  you  will  find  that 
Mill  acknowledged  Carlyle,  and  Carlyle 
acknowledged  Mill,  long  before  the 
French  Revolution  or  the  Sysiem  of 


Logic,  Lyell  saw  what  was  in  Darwin 
while  the  Origin  of  Species  was  still  in 
embryo:  Lewes  knew  Herbert  Spencer 
for  himself  when  Fimt  Principles  were 
still  floating  indefinitely  in  the  air: 
Spencer  in  turn  foretold  George  Eliot 
when  George  Eliot  posed  only  as  a 
Westminster  Reviewer. 

What  we  need;  in  short,  is  more 
strenuous  and  more  open  log-rolling. 
**Our  Noble  Selves"  makes  a  very 
good  toast  for  rising  talent.  At  this 
moment  the  enormous  mass  of  young 
English  ititellect  is  for  the  most  part 
mutually  known  to  itself,  and  its  final 
success  mutually  predicted.  But  in 
order  to  insure  that  happy  consum- 
mation, in  order  to  push  the  good,  new 
literature  and  thought  and  humor  and 
science  down  the  recalcitrant  throats 
of  a  careless  and  uncritical  public,  what 
we  want  is  a  long  pull  and  a  strong 
pull  and  a  pull  all  together.  Shoulder 
to  shoulder,  set  the  log  rolling.  It  it 
only  by  the  consistent  and  persistens 
hammering  of  those  who  know  that 
anything  ever  gets  hammered  at  all 
into  the  thick  heads  of  the  British 
people.  (America,  to  be  sure,  is  some- 
what more  rect^ptive;  but  then  plastic 
America  pays  only  in  praise,  not  in 
dollars.)  Twenty  years  ago  Herbert 
Spencer  was  by  far  the  greatest  thiuker 
the  world  contained.  But  only  a  few 
sympathetic  minds  on  either  side  the 
Atlantic  had  then  found  him  out:  if 
the  world  at  large  knows  him  nowadays, 
it  is  because  for  twenty  years  liis 
sympathizers  have  lost  no  possible 
opportunity,  in  season  or  out  of  season, 
of  dragging  his  name,  his  praise, 
his  work,  and  his  opinions  into  every 
book,  magazine,  or  journal,  where  by 
hook  or  by  crook  they  could  manage 
to  divulge  him.  Twenty  years  ago, 
George  Meredith  was  by  far  the  grejit- 
est  artist  of  character  and  situation  in 
the  English  language.  But  only  a  few 
appreciative  critios   at  London  olubs 


886 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


bad  yet  taken  the  tronble  io  crack  the 
hard  nuts  he  set  before  them,  and 
extract  the  rich  kernel  of  epigram  and 
wisdom:  if  the  world  at  large  begins  to 
know  him  nowadays  it  is  because  the 
few  who  could  grasp  his  enigmatic 
meaning  have  preached  faith  in  him 
with  touching  fidelity  till  at  last  the 
public,  like  tne  unjust  judge,  for  their 
much  importunity,  consents  to  buy 
"    popular    edition    of    Beauchamp's 


a 


Career  atid  Evan  Harrington.  1  don't 
of  course  mean  to  say  that  this  deliber- 
ate booming  was  necessary  in  either 
case  for  the  recognition  of  those  two 
great  men's  real  greatness,  on  tlie  part 
of  the  few  adapted  by  nature  for  duly 
recognizing  it.  The  critics  of  England 
would  have  found  out  Meredith,  the 
philosophers  of  the  world  would  have 
found  out  Spencer,  even  without  the 
aid  of  an  occasional  laudatory  news* 
paper  allusion.  But  the  "blind  and 
battling"  mass  around  would  never 
have  found  them  out  at  all;  and  it  is 
the  blind  and  the  battling  that  consti- 
tute society.  As  it  has  been  possible 
thus  to  boom  Herbert  Spencer  and 
George  Meredith,  so  is  it  possible  per- 
haps to  boom  the  hundred  best  living 
authors  of  whose  very  names  the  blind 
and  battling  are  still  for  the  most  part 
contentedly  ignorant. 

We  live  in  the  midst  of  the  greatest 
outburst  of  thought  and  feeling  and 
expression  in  England  that  has  occurred 
at  least  since  the  days  of  Elizabeth. 
The  movement  of  our  own  time  has 
been  a  movement  comparable  only  to 
that  of  the  Renaissance  and  the  Refor- 
mation in  its  wide-reaching  effects  on 
literature,  art,  science,  philosophy, 
religion,  ethics,  politics,  and  society 
generally.  The  world  has  seethed  and 
fermented  with  great  ideas — the  relig- 
ious emancipation,  the  socialist  revolu- 
tion, the  cosmopolitanization  of  the 
world,  the  evolutionary  system,  the 
vast  fundamental  physical  concept  of 


universal  energy  pervading  the  cosmos. 
In  politics,  ours  is  the  era  when  the 
area  of  civilization  has  spread  from  the 
Atlantic  to  the  Pacific,  the  South  Seas, 
and  the  Indian  Ocean.  In  ethics,  it 
is  the  era  when  the  naked  value  of  man 
as  man  has  begun  to  dawn  upon  the 
conscience  of  humanity.  In  science, 
it  is  the  era  when  the  idea  of  gradual 
and  regular  growth  from  within  per- 
vading the  universe  has  overridden  the 
idea  of  miraculous  beginning  and  con- 
tinuance by  perpetual  petty  external 
interference.  In  philosophy,  it  is  the 
era- when  the  relations  of  the  boundless 
cosmos  with  itself  have  eclipsed  the 
relations  of  minor  parts  with  the  mere 
percipient  human  intelligence.  In 
every  direction  our  concepts  have 
widened.  Europe  has  merged  in  the 
round  world:  the  world  has  become  a 
fraction  of  the  infinite  universe.  Man 
has  been  recognized  as  a  final  outcome 
of  evolving  life:  life  itself  au  a  final 
outcome  of  solar  energy  falling  on  tlie 
cooled  and  corrugat^  surface  of.  a 
minor  satellite.  It  is  impossible  that 
an  epoch  of  such  mighty  changes  should 
not  profoundly  affect  the  human  intel- 
lect and  the  human  emotions.  It  has 
profoundly  affected  them,  and  all  the 
world  over  we  find  to-day  an  awakening 
of  the  mind  of  man  such  as  never 
before  perhaps  was  seen  upon  the  face 
of  our  poor  belated  little  planet. 

In  England,  this  fierce  stirring-up 
of  stagnant  humanity  to  its  profoundest 
depths,  this  universal  whirl  and  ferment 
of  opinion,  has  produced  its  necessary 
and  inevitable  consequences  upon  the 
growth  and  direction  of  the  literary 
spirit.  Science  and  letters  have  been 
served  in  our  time  by  more  devotees 
and  with  greater  success  than  in  any 
other  previous  epoch.  The  great 
thinkers  and  the  great  works  of  the 
last  fifty  years  have  indeed  been 
innumerable:  the  great  thinkers  and 
the  great  works  in  our  own  day  show  no 


OUR  NOBLE  SELVES. 


687 


signs  of  falling  off  in  any  way.  The 
movement  has  been  continuous,  con- 
stant, and  at  least  equal.  After  Scott, 
Byron,  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Lamb, 
Southey,  Keats,  and  Shelley,  came  in 
due  course  Leigh  Hunt,  Landor,  Ten- 
nyson, Browning,  Matthew  Arnold, 
Fitzgerald,  William  Morris,  George 
Meredith,  Swinburne,  Austin  Dobson. 
Dickens  and  Thackerary  were  followed 
fast  by  Charlotte  Bronte,  George  Eliot, 
Charles  Reade,  Wilkie  Collins,  Anthony 
Trollope,  James  Payn,  and  Walter 
Besant.  Lyell  and  Hierschel  and  Owen 
led  on  without  a  break  to  Darwin, 
Hooker,  Lewes,  Spencer,  Wallace, 
Huxlev,  Galton,  Clifford,  Lubbock, 
and  Tylor.  Mill  and  Macaulay  gave 
place  successively  to  Newman,  Carlyle, 
Ku^in,  Freeman,  Froude,  GoJdwin 
Smith,  John  Richard  Green,  Lecky, 
and  Frederick  Harrison.  How  can 
we  talk  of  a  falling  off  when  we  have 
still  with  us,  not  only  so  many  of  these 
great  names,  but  also  so  many  newer 
and  younger  men  of  immense  promise 
and  immense  performance?  John 
Morley  and  Leslie  Stephen  still  pour 
out  for  us  limpid  virile  prose  of  exquis- 
ite finish.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
still  keeps  up  for  us  the  highest  tradi- 
tions of  English  humor  and  English 
imagination.  Symonds  and  Pater, 
s  Cotter  Morrison  and  Saintsbury,  all 
give  us  work  of  a  kind  that  in  its  own 
way  has  rarely  been  equaled  in  English 
literature.  Justin  McCarthy,  Black- 
more,  William  Black,  Besant,  Hardy, 
Mrs.  Oliphant,  Mrs.  Lynn  Linton, 
Norris,  Henry  James,  Mallock,  Christie 
Murray,  Robert  Buchanan,  Baring 
Gould,  and  Hall  Caine  worthily  keep 
up  the  unbroken  succession  of  English 
novelists.  Even  among  the  much 
younger  men,  touches  of  distinct  and 
recognizable  genius  streak  through 
Rider  Haggard  8  Kxtw  Solomon^ s  Mines 
and  Gutfee's  Vice  Versd,  Lawrence 
Oliphant,   Clark   Rnssell,   and  James 


Runciman  deserve  also  not  to  go 
unmentioned.  Among  humorists,  have 
we  not  Samuel  Butler,  the  greatest 
master  of  caustic  irony  in  the  English 
language,  and  **Lewis  Carroll,"  the 
creator  of  Alice,  that  absolute  empress 
in  the  realm  of  clever  nonsense?  In 
science,  besides  the  giants  of  the  last 
generation  already  named,  have  we  not 
Tyndall,  Bates,  and  Croll;  Geikie,  who 
has  treated  geology  with  a  breadth  and 
firmness  of  cosmical  grasp  to  which  no  . 
other  thinker  ever  yet  accustomed  us; 
Balfour  Stewart,  who  has  thrown  new 
vastness  of  conception  into  physical 
thought;  Proctor  and  Romanes,  Farrer 
and  Maudsley,  Boyd  Dawkins  and 
Evans,  Ray  Lankester  and  Thisleton 
Dyer,  Karl  Pearson  and  Riicker,  the 
Darwins  and  the  other  ^evolutionary 
juniors?  In  philology.  Max  Miiller 
and  the  drawing-room  school  have 
yielded  place  to  thoroijgh  workers  like 
Sayce  and  Rhys  and  Powell:  in 
mythology  they  have  given  way  t6 
Tylor  and  Spencer,  to  Clodd  and 
Farrer.  And  in  general  literature, 
through  all  its  branches,  how  many 
names  could  one  not  still  mention  like 
Gosse  and  Frederick  Myers,  Alfred 
Austin  and  Julian  Sturgis,  Churton 
Collins  and  Comyns  Carr,  Theodore 
Wattes  and  Sydney  Colvin,  Sime  ^nd 
Church,  Shorthouse  and  Palgrave, 
Hutton,  Bryce  and  Minto,  Isaac  Taylor 
and  Sully,  Hamerton  and  Christie, 
Trevelyan  and  Gardiner,  Phil  Robinson 
and  Jefferies,  Gilbert  and  Pinero?  At 
no  other  time,  I  firmly  believe,  would 
it  have  been  possible  to  find  in  the 
British  Isles,  1  do  not  say  merely  so 
high  a  general  average  of  distinct 
talent,  but  also  so  large  and  marvelous 
a  sprinkling  of  indubitable  genius. 

There  are  as  good  fish  in  the  sea  as 
ever  came  out  of  it.  Probably,  there 
are  some  a  great  deal  better.  And  as 
the  sea  grows  more  thickly  peopled" 
every  day,  the  number  of   good  fish 


688 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


must,  other  things  being  equal,  increase 
in  proportion.  Moreover,  other  things 
are  more  than  equal:  the  stir  and 
ferment  of  the  world  are  none  the  less 
but  greater  than  ever.  Periods  of 
expansidi  are  always  periods  of  high 
intellectual  and  emotional  development. 
When  the  Mediterranean  became  a 
Greek  lake,  Athens  had  her  iEschylus, 
her  Thucydides,  her  Aristophanes,  and 
her  Plato.  When  Rome  enlarged  her 
bounds  to  include  the  world — "Urbem 
fecisti  quod^  prius  orbis  erat" — even 
Rome  had  her  Catullus,  her  Lucretius, 
her  Virgil,  and  her  Tacitus.  When 
Western  Europe  woke  up  to  its  new 
life,  with  the  discovery  of  America  and 
of  the  Cape  route,  which  removed  the 
center  of  gravity  of  civilization  from 
the  Mediterranean  to  the  Atlantic  basin, 
from  Rome  and  Florence  to  Paris  and 
London,  England  had  her  Shakespeare, 
her  Spenser,  her  Sydney,  and  her 
Bacon.  We  live  now  at  the  very  crisis 
of  another  and  similar  great  expansive 
mundane  movement.  As  civilization 
once  widened  from  the  ^geau  to  Great 
Greece  and  Sicily;  again  from  the 
eastern  basin  of  the  inland  sea  to  the 
Mediterranean  at  large  and  peninsular 
Europe;  and  once  more,  from  the 
Mediterranean  itself,  right  about  face, 
to  the  Atlantic  coasts  of  either  con- 
tinent from  Spain  and  Scotland  to 
Virginia  and  Mexico;  so  now,  it  is 
widening  yet  another  time  to  include 
California,  Japan^  Australia,  New 
Zealand,  the  whole  Pacific,  the  South 
Sea  Islands,  the  entire  stretch  of  Africa, 
of  America,  of  China,  and  of  India. 
Our  relations  with  all  the  maritime  or 
accessible  world  have  undergone  a 
complete  change;  England  has  carried 
her  landmarks  to  the  ends  of  the  earth; 
'Atlantic  cables,  Pacific  railways,  Suez 
canals,  Mont  Cenis  tunnels,  have 
brought  us  nearer  by  five  thousand 
miles  to  everybody  everywhere.  We 
ran  across  to  Chicago  for  a  summer 


holiday;  drop  in  at  Delhi  for  a  Christ- 
mas vacation;  cruise  in  tfie  Sunbeam 
among  the  Pacific  archipelagos;  picnic 
under  arms  among  the  Boers  and 
Zulus.  Our  Edwins  are  cowboys  on 
American  plains;  our  Angelinas  Red 
Cross  sisters  in  Bulgarian  villages;  our 
J^orvals  feed  their  flocks  among  New 
Zealand  sheep  walks;  our  Gileses  and 
our  Hodges  sow  fall  wheat  on  Mani- 
toban  prairies;  our  Tommy  Atkins 
discourses  familiarly  at  the  village 
pothouse  of  Suakim  and  the  Cataracts, 
of  Majuba  mountain  and  the  Khyber 
Pass.  Everywhere  our  sphere  has 
rapidly  widened  from  the  four  sea  walls 
of  the  isle  of  Britain  to  the  great 
oceans  that  gird  and  connect  the  con- 
tinents of  our  planet. 

•The  psychical  expansion  exceeds 
even  the  physical  ;  our  outlook  on  the 
cosmos  has  widened  yet  faster  than  our 
outlook  on  the  material  world  around 
us.  Evolution  has  been  a  peculiarly 
English  idea:  and  it  has  brought  us 
into  relations  with  sun  and  star,  with 
plant  and  animal,  with  matter  and 
energy,  with  the  inmost  core  and  back- 
ground of  things,  in  a  way  that  neither 
Plato  nor  Aristotle,  Moses  nor  Augus- 
tine, Descartes  nor  Liebnitz,"  Kant  nor 
Fichte,  Hegel  nor  Schopenhauer,  ever 
before  brought  us.  Our  ideas  have 
indeed  widened  with  the  process  of  the 
suns.  New  beliefs  and  new  impulses 
gather  strength  and  head  within  us; 
a  larger  utterance  follows  as  of  course; 
literature  and  science  echo  the  age: 
an  age  that  rolls  down  the  abysses  of 
time  as  conscious  as  ours  docs,  can- 
not fail  to  pour  forth  its  full  heart 
in  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated 
cosmical  music.  The  present  is  richer 
far  in  genius  than  the  past:  the  future 
bears  within  it  the  * 'promise  and 
potency"  of  a  still  richer  and  nobler 
harvest  than  the  present. — The  Fori- 
nightly  Review, 


ROBERT  EDWARD  LEE. 


669 


ROBERT  EDWARD  LEE.* 

The  history  of  the  war  between  the 
Northern  and  Southern  States  of  North 
America  is  yet  to  be  written.  General 
Long's  work  on  the  great  Confederate 
general  is  a  contribution  toward  the 
history  of  that  grand  but  unsuccessful 
struggle  by  the  seceding  States  to  shake 
off  ail  political  connection  with  the 
LTnion  Government.  It  will  be  read 
with  incerest  as  coming  from  the  pen 
of  one  who  was'  Lee's  military  secre- 
tary, and  its  straightforward,  soldier- 
Jikcstyle  u  ill  commend  it  to  all  readers. 
It  is  not  my  intention  to  enter  upon 
any  narrative  of  the  events  which  led 
to  that  fratricidal  war.  The  unpreju- 
diced outsider  will  generally  admit  the 
sovereign  right,  both  historical  and 
legal,  which  each  State  possessed  under 
the  Constitution,  to  leave  the  Union 
when  its  people  thought  fit  to  do  so. 
At  the  same  time,  of  Englishmen  who 
believe  that  "union  is  strength,"  and 
who  are  themselves  determined  that 
no  dismemberment  of  their  own  em- 
pire shall  be  allowed,  few  will  find  fault 
with  the  men  of  the  North  for  their 
manly  determination,  come  what  might, 
to  resist  every  effort  of  their  brothers 
in  the  South  to  break  up  the  Union. 
It  was  but  natural  that  all  Americans 
should  be  proud  of  the  empire  which 
the  military  genius  of  General  Wash 
ington  had  created,  despite  the  efforts 
of  England  to  retain  her  Colonies. 

It  is  my  wish  to  give  a  short  outline 
of  General  Lee's  life,  and  to  describe 
him  as  I  saw  him  in  the  autumn  of 
1862,  when  at  the  head  of  proud  an4^ 
victorious  troops  he  smiled  at  the  no- 
tion of  defeat  by  any  army  that  could 
be  sent  against  him.  I  desire  to  make 
known  to  the  reader  not  only  the  re- 
nowned   soldier,   whom    I  believe    to 


*  Memoin  of  Robert  B.  Lee ;  hU  Military  and  Per- 
sonal Hiet(«ry.  By  General  JL  h.  Long  and  General 
MarcuB  J.  Wright.    1886. 


have  l^een  the  greatest  of  his  a^,  but 
to  give  some  insight  into  the  character 
of  one  whom  I  have  always  considered 
the  most  perfect  man  I  ever  met. 
Twenty-one  years  have  passed  since  the 
great  Secession  war  ended,  but  even 
still,  angi*y  remembrances  of  it  prevent 
Americans  from  taking  an  impartial 
view  of  the  contest,  and  of  those  who 
were  the  leaders  in  it.  Outsiders  can 
best  weigh  and  determine  the  merits  of 
the  chief  actors  on  both  sides,  but  if  in 
this  attempt  to  estimate  General  ee's 
character  I  offend  any  one  by  the  out- 
spoken expression  of  my  opinions,  I 
hope  I  may  be  forgiven.  On  one  side  I 
can  see,  in  the  clogged  determination 
of  the  North  persevered  in  to  the  end 
through  years  of  recurring  failure,  the 
spirit  for  which  the  men  of  Britain 
have  always  been  remarkable.  It  is  a 
virtue  to  which  the  United  States  owed 
its  birth  in  the  last  century,  and  its 
preservation  in  1865.  It  is  the  quality 
to  which  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  is  most 
indebted  for  its  great  position  in  the 
world.  On  the  other  hand,  I  can  re- 
cognize the  chivalrous  valor  of 'those, 
gallant  men  whom  Lee  led  to  victory: 
who  fought  not  only  for  fatlierland 
and  in  defence  of  home,  but  for  those 
rights  most  prized  by  free  men.  Wash- 
ington's stalwart  soldiers  were  styled 
rebels  by  our  king  and  his  ministeiii^ 
and  in  like  manner  the  men  who  wore 
the  gray  uniform  of  the  Southern  Con- 
federacy were  denounced  as  rebels  from 
the  banks  of  the  Potomac  to  the  head 
waters  of  the  St.-  Lawrence.  Lee's 
soldiers,  well  versed  as  all  Americans 
are  in  the  history  of  their-  forefathers' 
struggle  against  King  George  the  Third, 
and  believing  firmly  in  the  justice  ol 
their  cause,  saw  the  same  virtue  in  one 
rebellion  that  was  to  be  found  in  the 
other.  This  was  a  point  upon  which, 
during  my  stay  in  Virginia  in  186:;^.  I 
found  every  Southerner  laid  the  gre?*  * '  t 
stress.    It  is  a  feeling  that  as  yet  ....j 


690 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


not  been  fully  acknowledged  by  writere 
on  tne  Northern  side. 

"Rebellion,  foul  dishonoring  word, 
Wbose  wrongful  blight  so  oft Ixath  stained 

The  holiest  cause  that  tongue  or  sword 
Of  mortal  ever  lost  or  gainea. 

How  many  a  spirit  bom  to  bless 
Ilath  sunk  beneath  thy  wiiliering  name, 

Whom  but  a  day's,  an  hour's  success, 
Had  wafted  to  eternal  fame.'* 

As  a  looker-on,  I  feel,  that  both  par- 
ties in  the  war  have  so  much  to  be 
proud  of,  that  both  can  afford  to  hear 
what  impartial  Englishmen  or  foreign- 
ers have  to  say  about  it;  Inflated  and 
bubble  reputations  were  .acquired  dur- 
ing its  progress,  few  of  which  will  bear 
the  test  of  time.  The  idol  momentarily 
set  up,  often  for  political  reasons, 
crumbles  in  time  into  the  dust  from 
which  its  limbs  were  perhaps  originally 
moulded.  To  me,  however,  two  figures 
stand  out  in  that  history  towering 
above  all  others,  both  cast  in  hard 
metal  that  will  be  forever  proof  against 
the  belittling  efforts  of  all  future  de- 
tractors. One,  General  Lee,  the  great 
soldier:  the  other,  Mr.  Lincoln,  the 
far-seeing  statesman  of  iron  will,  of  un- 
flinching determination.  Each  is  a 
good  representative  of  the  genius  that 
characterized  his  country.  As  I  study 
the  history  of  the  Secession  war,  these 
seem  to  me  the  two  men  who  influenc- 
ed it  most,  and  who  will  be  recognized 
as  its  greatest  heroes  when  future  gen- 
erations of  American  historians  record 
its  stirring  events  with  impartiality. 

General  Lee  came  from  the  class  of 
landed  gentry  that  has  furnished  Eng- 
land at  all  times  with  her  most  able  and 
distinguished  leaders.  The  first  of  his 
family  who  went  to  America  was  Rich- 
ard Lice,  who  in  1641  became  Colonial 
Secretary  to  the  Governor  of  Virginia. 
The  family  settled  in  Westmoreland^ 
one  of  the  most  lovely  counties  in  thttk 
historic  state,  and  members  of  it  from 
time  to  time  held  high  positions  in  the 


government.  Several  of  the  family 
distinguished  themselves  during  the 
War  of  Independence,  amongst  whom 
was  Henry,  the*  ftitlwr  of  General  Rob- 
ert Lee.  He  raised  a  n^ounted  corps 
known  as  "Lee's  Legion,'*  in  command 
of  which  he  obtained  the  reputation 
of  being  an  able  and  gallant  soldier. 
He  was  nicknamed  bv  his  comrades. 
"Light  Horse  Harry.'  He  was  three 
times  Governor  of  his  native  State.  To 
him  is  attributed  the  authorship  of 
the  eulogy  on  General  Washington,  in 
whicB  occurs  the  so-often-quoted  sen- 
tence, "First  in  war,  first  in  peace, 
and  first  in  the  hearts  of  his  country- 
men," praise  tliat  M'ith  equal  truth 
might  have  been  subsequently  applied 
to  his  own  distinguished  son. 

The  subject  of  this  slight  sketch, 
Robert  Edward  Lee,  was.  horn  January 
9th,  1807,  at  the  family  place  of  Strat- 
ford, in  the  county  of  Westmoreland, 
State  of  Virginia.  Wlwen  only  a  few 
years  old  his  parents  moved  to  the  small 
town  of  Alexandria,  which  is  on  the 
right  bank  of  the  Potomac  river,  nearly 
opposite  Waslungton,  but  a  littli  below 
it. 

He  was  but  a  T)oy  of  eleven  when 
his  father  died,  leaving  his  famiJy  in 
straitened  circumslaiK^cs.      Like  nmnv 

» 

other  great  comnuuiders,  he  was  in 
consequeiKje  bron;;Iit  np  in  compara- 
tive poverty,  a  condition  which  has 
been  pronouneed  by  tlic  .greatest  of 
them  as  the  best  training  for  soldiers. 
During  his  eariyyears  he  attended  a  day- 
school  tiear  his  home  in  AlexandrJuL 
He  was  thus  Hble  'in  liis  leisure  hours 
to  help  his  invalid  mother  in  all  hex 
household  concerns,  and  to  afford  her 
that  watchful  c<ixe  which,  owing  to  her 
verv xlelicate  health,  she  so  mucn  need- 
ed.  She  was  a  clever,  highly-gifted 
woman,  and  by  her  'fond  care  his  char- 
acter W416  formed  an(l  stamped  mth 
honest  truthfulness.  By  lier  he  was 
taught  never  to  forget  that  he  was  well- 


ROBERT  EDWARD  LEE. 


691 


bom,  and  that,  as  a  gentleman,  honor 
must  be  his  guiding  star  through  life. 
It  was  from  her  lips  he  learnt  his  Bible, 
from  her  teaching"  he  drank  in  the  sin- 
cere belief  in  revealed  religion  which 
he  never  lost.  It  was  she  who  imbued 
her  great  son  with  an  ineradicable  be- 
lief in  the  efficacy  of  prater,  and  in  the 
reality  of  God's  interposition  in  the 
every-day  affairs  of  the  true  believer. 
No  son  ever  returned  a  mother's  love 
with  more  heartfelt  intensity.  She 
Vas  his  idol,  and  he  worshiped  her 
with  the  deep-seated,  inborn  love  which 
is  known  onlj  to  the  son  in  whom  filial 
affection  is  strengthened  by  respect  and. 
personal  admiration  for  the  woman  who 
bore  him.  He  was  her  all  in  all,  or,  as 
she  described  it,  he  was  both  son  and 
daughter  to  her.  He  watched  over  her 
in  weary  hours  of  pain,  and  served  her 
with  all  that  soft  tenderness  which  was 
fiuch  a  marked  trait  in  the  character  of 
this  great,  stem  leader  of  men. 

He  seems  to  have  been  throughout  his 
boyhood  and  early  youth  perfect  in  dis- 
position, in  bearing,  and  in  conduct-^- 
a  model  of  all  that  was  noble,  honor- 
able, and  manly.  Of  the  early  life  of 
very  few  great  men  can  this  be  said. 
Many  who  have  left  behind  the  greatest 
reputations  for  usefulness,  in  whom 
middle  age  was  a  model  of  virtue  and 
perhaps  of  noble  self-denial,  began  their 
career  in  a  whirlwind  of  wild  excess. 
Often,  again,  we  find  that,  like  Nero, 
the  virtuous  youth  de%'elops  into  the 
middle-aged  fiend,  who  leaves  behind 
him  a  name  to  be  execrated  for  all 
time.  It  would  be  difficult  to  find  in 
history  a  great  man,  be  he  soldier  or 
statesman,  with  a  character  so  irre- 
profichable  throughout  his  whole  life  as 
that  which  in  boyhood,  youth,  man- 
liood,  and  to  his  death,  distinguished 
Robert  Lee  from  all  contemporaries. 

He  «ntefed,  th«  military  academy  of 
IVest  Point  at  the  age  6t  eighteen, 
where  lie  worked  hard,  became  Mju- 


taht  of  the  cadet  corps,  and  finally 
graduated  at  the  head  of  his  class. 
There  he  mastered  the  theory  of  war, 
and  studied  the  campaigns  of  the  great 
masters  in  that  most  ancient  of  all 
sciences.  Whatever  he  did,  even  as  a 
boy,  he  did  thoroughly  with  order  and 
method.  Even  at  this  early  age  he  was 
the  model  Christian  gentleman  in 
thought,  word,  and  deed.  Careful  and 
exact  in  the  obedience  he  rendered  his 
superiors,,  but  remarkable  for  that  dig- 
nity of  deportment  which  all  through 
his  career  struck  strangers  with  admir- 
ing respect. 

He  left  West  Point  when  tweaty-two, 
having  gained  its  highest  honors,  and 
at  once  obtained  a  commission  in  the 
Engineers.  Two  years  afterward  he 
married  the  grand-daughter  and  heiress 
of  Mrs.  Custis,  whose  ;ecoud  Husband 
had  been  General  Washiiigton,  but  by 
whom  she  left  no  children.  It  was  a 
great  match  for  a  poor  subaltern  offi- 
cer, as  his  wife  was  heiress  to  a  very 
extensive  property  and  to  a  large  num- 
ber of  slaves.  She  was  clever,  very  well 
educated,  and  a  general  favorite:  he 
was  handsome,  tall,  well  made,  with  a 
graceful  figure,  and  a  good  rider:  his 
manners  were  at  once  easy  and  captiva- 
ting. These  young  people  had  long 
known  one  another,  and  each  was  the 
other's  first  love.  She  brought  with 
her  as  part  of  her  fortune  Genei'al 
Washington's  beautiful  property  of  Ar- 
lington, situated  od  tho  picturesque 
wooded  heights  that  overhang  the 
Potomac  r'^ver,  opposite  the  capital  to 
which  the  great  \\  ashingten  had  givea 
his  name.  In  talking  to  me  of  the 
Northern  troops,  whose  conduct  in  Vir- 
ginia was  then  denounced  by  every  lo- 
cal paper,  no  bitter  expression  pasised 
hie  lips,  but  tears  filled  his  eyes  as  he 
refen-ed  to  the  destruction  of  his  place 
that  had  been  the  cherished  .home  of 
the  father  of  the  United  States.  He 
could  forgive  their  cutting  down  hLs 


692 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


trees^  their  wanton  conyersion  of  his 
pleasure  grounds  into  a  grave-yard; 
out  he  could  never  forget  their  reck- 
less plunder  of  all  the  camp  equipment 
and  other  relics  of  General  Washington 
that  Arlington   House  had  contained. 

Robert  Lee  first  saw  active  service 
during  the  American  war  with  Mexico 
in  1846,  where  he  was  wounded,  and 
evinced  a  remarkable  talent  for  war 
that  brought  himself  prominently  into 
notice.  He  wau  afterward  engaged  in 
operations  against  hostile  Indians,  and 
obtained  the  reputation  in  his  army  of 
being  an  able  officer  of  great  promise. 
General  Scott,  then  the  general  of 
greatest  repute  in  the  United  States, 
was  especially  attracted  by  the  zeal  and 
soldierly  instinct  of  the  young  captain 
of  Engineers,  and  frequently  employed 
him  on  distant  expeditions  that  requir- 
ed cool  nerve,  confidence,  and  plenty  of 
common  sense.  It  is  a.  cul'ious  fact 
that  throughout  the  Mexican  war  Gen- 
eral Scott  in  his  dispatches  and  reports 
made  frequent  mention  of  three  offi- 
cor^Lee,  Beauregard,  and  McClellan 
— Whose  names  became  household  words 
in  America  afterward,  during  the  great 
Southern  struggle  for  independence. 
General  Scott  had  the  highest  opinion 
of  Lee's  military  genius,  and  did  not 
hesitate  to  ascribe  much  of  his  success 
in  Mexico  as  due  to  Lee's  "skill,  valor, 
and  undaunted  energy.  *'  Indeed 
subsequently,  when  the  day  came  that 
these  two  men  should  part,  each  to  take 
a  different  side  in  the  horrible  contest 
before  them.  General  Scott  is  said  to 
have  urged  Mr.  Lincoln's  Government 
to  secure  Lee  at  any  price,  alleging  he 
"would  be  worth  fifty  thousand  men 
to  them."  His  valuable  services  were 
duly  recognized  at  Washington  by  more 
than  one  step  of  brevet  promotion:  he 
obtained  the  rank  of  colonel,  and  was 
given  command  of  a  cavalry  regiment 
shortly  afterward. 

I  must  now  pass  to  the  most  impor- 


tant epoch  of  his  life,  when  the  Ktoth- 
em  States  left  the  Union  and  set  up  a 
government  of  their  own.  Mr.  Lin- 
coln was  in  1860  elected  President  of 
the  United  States  in  the  Abolitionist 
interest.  Both  parties  were  6i>  angry 
that  thoughtful  men  soon  began  to  see 
war  alone  could  end  this  bitter  dispute. 
Shipwreck  was  before  the  vessel  of 
state,  which  General  Washington  had 
built  and  guided  with  so  much  oxtq 
during  his  long  and  hard-fought  con- 
test. Civil  war  stared  the  American 
citizen  in  the  face,  and  Lee's  heart  wa^ 
well  nigh  broken  at  the  prospect. 
Early  in  1861  the  seven  Cotton  Statt^ 
passed  Acts  declaring  their  withdrawal 
irom  the  Union,  and  their  establish- 
ment of  an  independent  republic,  un- 
der the  title  of  "The  Confederate 
States  of  America."  This  declaration 
of  independence  was  in  reality  a  revolu- 
tion: war  alone  could  ever  again  bring 
all  the  States  together. 

Lee  viewed  this  secession  with  hor- 
ror.    Until  the  month  of  April — when 
Virginia,     his    own     dearly- cherished 
State,    joined    the    Confederacy  —  he 
clunff  fondly  to  the  hope  that  the  gulf 
which  separate<l  the  iforth  from  the 
South  might  yet  be  bridged  over.     He 
believed  the  dissolution  oi  the  Union  to 
be  a  dire  calamity  not  only  for  his  own 
country,   but  for   civilization   and   all 
mankind.     "Still,"  he  said,  "a  Union 
that  can  only  be  maintained  by  swords 
and  bayonets  and  in  which  strife  and 
civil    war  are    to    take  the    place   of 
brotherly   love   and    kindness,  has   no 
charm  for  me."     In  common  with  all 
Southerners    he    firmly  believed    that 
each  of  the  old  States  had  a  le^l  and 
indisputable    right    by  its    individual 
Constitution,  and  by  Us  act  of  Union, 
to  leave  at  will  the  Great  Union  into 
which  each  had  separately  entered  as  a 
Sovereign  State.      This  was  with  him 
an  article  of  faith  of  which  he  was  as 
sure  as  of  any  Divine  truths  he  found 


ROBERT  EDWARD  LEE. 


698 


in  the  Bible/  This  fact  must  be  kept 
always  in  mind  by  those  who 'would 
rightly  understand  his  ,character,  or 
the  course  he  pursued  in  1861,  He 
loved  the  Union  for  which  his  father 
and  family  in  the  previous  century 
had  fought  so  hard  and  done  so  much. 
But  he  loved  his  own  State  still  more. 
She  was  the  Sovereign  to  whom  in  the 
first  place  he  owed  allegiance,  and 
whose  orders,  as  expressed  through  her 
legally-constituted  government,  he  was, 
he  felt,  bound  in  law,  in  honor,  and 
in  love  to  obey  withc^ut  doubt  or  hesita- 
tion. This  belief  was  the  mainspring 
that  kept  the  Southern  Confederacy 
going,  as  it  was  also  the  corner-stone 
of  its  constitution.  In  April,  1861, 
at  Fort  Sumter,  Charleston  Harbor, 
the  first  shot  was  fired  in  a  war  that 
was  only  ended  in  April,  1865,  by  the 
surrender  of  General's  Lee's  army 
at  Appomattox  Court  House  in  Vir- 
ginia. In  duration  it  is  the  longest 
w^ar  waged  since  the  great  Napoleon's 
power  was  finally  crushed  at  Waterloo. 
As  the  heroic  struggle  of  a  small  popu- 
lation that  was  cut  off  from  all  outside 
help  against  a  great,  populous  and  very 
rich  Kepublic,  with  every  market  in 
the  world  open  to  it,  and  to  whom  all 
Europe  was  a  recruiting  ground,  this 
Secession  war  stands  out  prominently 
in  the  history  of  the  world.  When  the 
vast  numbers  of  men  put  into  the  field 
by  the  Northern  States,  and  the  scale 
upon  which  their  operations  were  car- 
ried on,  are  duly  considered,  it  must  be 
regarded  as  a  war  fully  equal  in  mag- 
nitude to  the  successful  invasion  of 
France  by  Germany  in  1870.  If  the 
mind  be  allowed  to  speculate  on  the 
course  that  events  will  take  in  centuries 
to  come,  as  they  flow  surely  on  with 
varying  swiftness  to  the  ocean  of  the 
unknown  future,  the  influence  which 
the  result  of  this  Confederate  war  is 
bound  to  exercise  upon  man's  future 
history  will  seem  very  great.     Think 


of  what  a  power  the  ^-United  States 
will  be  in  another  cexJiMry!  Of  what  it 
will  be  in  the  twenty-first  century  of 
the  Christian  era!  If,  as  many  believe, 
China  is  destined  to  absorb  all  Asia, 
and  then  to  overrun  Europe,  may  it 
not  be  in  the  possible  future  that  Ar- 
mageddon, the  fini:l  contest  between 
lieathendojn  and  Christianity,  may  be 
fought  out  between  China  and  North 
America?  Had  secession  been  victo- 
rious, it  is  tolerably  certain  that  the 
United  States  would  have  broken  up 
still  further,  and  instead  of  the  present 
magnificent  and  English-speaking  em- 
pire, we  should  now  see  in  its  place  a 
number  of  small  powers  with  separate 
interests. 

Most  certainly  it  was  the  existence 
of  slavery  in  the  South  that  gave  rise 
to  the  bitter  antagonism  of  feeling 
which  led  to  secession.  But  it  was 
not  to  secure  emancipation  that  the 
North  took  up  arms,  although  during 
the  progress  of  the  war  Mr.  Lincoln 
proclaimed  it,  for  the  purpose  of  strik- 
ing his  enemy  a  serious  blow.  Lee 
hated  slavery,  but,  as  he  explained  to 
me,  he  thought  it  wicke<l  to  give  free- 
dom suddenly  to  some  millions  of  peo- 
ple who  were  incapable  of  using  it  with 
profit  to  themselves  or  the  State.  He 
assured  me  he  had  long  intended  to 
gradually  give  his  slaves  their  liberty. 
He  believ^  the  institution  to  be  a 
moral  and  political  evil,  and  more  hurt- 
ful to  the  white  than  to  the  black  man. 
He  had  a  strong  affection  for  the  negro, 
but  he  deprecated  any  sudden  or  violent 
interference  on  the  part  of  the  State 
between  master  and  slave.  Nothing 
would  have  induced  him  to  fight  for  the 
continuance  of  slavery:  indeed  he  de- 
clared that  had  he  owned  every  slave 
in  the  South,  he  would  willingly  give 
them  all  up,  if  by  so  doing  he  could 
preserve  the  Union.  He  was  opposed 
to  secession,  and  to  prevent  it  he  would 
willingly    sacrifice    everything    except 


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THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


honor  and  duty,,  which  forbid  him  to 
desert  his  State.  When  in  April,  1861, 
she  formally  and  by  an  act  of  her  Leg- 
islature l^ft  the  Union,  he  resigned  his 
commission  in  the  United  States  army 
With  the  intention  of  retiring  into  pri- 
vate life.  He  endeavored  to  choose 
what  was  right..  Every  personal  inter- 
est bid  him  throw  in  his  lot  with  the 
Union.  His  property  lay  so  close  to' 
Washington  that  it  was  certain  to  be 
destroyed  and  swept  of  every  slave,  as 
belonging  to  a  rebel.  But  the  die  was 
cast:  he  forsook  everything  for  princi- 

?le  and  the  stern  duty  it  entailed. 
*hen  came  that  final  temptation  which 
opened  out  before  him  a  vista  of  power 
and  importance  greater  than  that  which 
any  man  since  Wasliington  had  held  in 
America.  General  Long's  book  proves 
beyond  all  further  doubt  that  he  was 
offered  the  post  of  commander-in-chief 
of  the  Federal  army.  General  Scott, 
his  great  friend  and  leader,  whom  he 
loved  and  respected,  then  commanding 
that  ai'my,  used  all  his  influence  to 
persuade  him  to  throw  in  his  lot  with 
the  North,  but  to  no  purpose.  Noth- 
ing would  induce  him  to  have  any  part 
in  the  invasion  of  his  own  State,  much 
as  he  abhorred  the  war  into  which  he 
felt  she  was  rushing.  His  love  of 
country,  bis  unselfish  patriotism,  caus- 
ed him  to  relinquish  homCj  fortune,  a 
certain  future,  in  fact  everything  for 
her  sake. 

He  was  not,  however,  to  remain  a 
spectator  of  the  coming  conflict:  he 
was  too  well  known  to  his  conn  try  aien 
in  Virginia  as  the  officer  in  whom  the 
Federal  army  had  most  confidence. 
The  Stiftte  of  Virginia  appointed  him 
major-general  and  commander-in-cliief 
of  all  her  military  forjces.  In  open  and 
crowded  convention  he  formally  accept- 
ed, this  position,  saying,  with  all  that 
dignity  and  ^race  of  manner  which  dis- 
tinguished him,  that  he  did  so  'trust- 
ing iu  Almighty  God,   an  approving 


conscience,  and  the  aid  of  my  fellow- 
citizens/"  The  scene  was  most  im- 
pressive: there  were  present  all  the 
leading  men  of  Virginia,  and  represen- 
tatives of  all  the  first  families  in  a  State 
where  great  store  was  attached  to  gentle 
birth,  and  where  society  was  very  ex- 
clusive. General  Lee's  presence  com- 
manded respect,  even  from  strangers, 
by  a  calm  self-possessed  dignity,  the 
like  of  which  I  have  never  seen  in  other 
men.  Naturally  of  strong  passions,  ho 
kept  them  under  perfect  control  by  that 
iron  and  determined  will,  of  which  his 
expression  and  his  face  gave  evidence. 
As  this  tall,  handsome  soldier  stood  be- 
fore his  countrymen,  he  was  the  picture 
of  the  ideal  patriot,  unconscious  and 
self-possessed  in  his  strength:  he  in- 
dulged in  no  theatrical  display  of  feel- 
ing: there  was  in  his  fa<:e  and  about 
him  that  placid  resolve  which  bespoke 
great  confidence  iu  self,  and  which  in 
his  case — one  knows  not  how — quickly 
communicated  its  magnetic  influence  to 
others. 

He  was  then  just  fifty-four  yearg  old, 
the  age  of  Marlborough  when  he  de- 
stroyed the  French  army  at  Blenheim: 
in  many  ways  and  on  many  points 
these  two  great  men  much  resembled 
each  other.  Both  were  of  a  dignified 
and  commanding  exterior:  eminently 
handsome,  with  a  .figure  tall,  graceful, 
and  erect,  whilst  a  muscular,  square- 
built  frame  bespoke  great  activity  of 
body.  The  charm  of  manner,  which  I 
have  mentioned  as  very  winning  in 
Lee,  was  possessed  in  the  highest  de- 
gree by  Marlborough.  Both,  at  the 
outset  of  their  great  career  of  victory, 
were  regarded  as  oss«ntially  national 
commanders.  Both  had  mai-ried  young, 
and  were  faithful  husbands  and  devot- 
ed fathers.  Both  had  in  all  their  cam- 
paigns the  same  belief  in  an  ever-watch- 
ful Providence,  in  whose  help  they 
trusted  implicitly,  and  for  whose  inter- 
position they  prayed  M  all  ti  nies.     They 


ROBERT  EDWARD .  LEE. 


OiW^ 


were  gifted  with  the  same  military 
instinct,  the  same  genius  for  war.  The 
power  of  fascinating  tliose  with  whom 
they  were  associated,  the  spell  which 
they  cast  over  their  soldiers,  who  believ- 
ed almost  snperstitiously  in  their  cer- 
tainty of  victory,  their  contempt  of 
danger,  their  daring  courage,  consti- 
tute a  parallel  that  is  difficult  to  equal 
between  any  other  two  great  men  of 
modern  times. 

From  the  first  Lee  anticipated  a  long 
and  bloody  struggle,  although  from  the 
bombastic  oratory  of  self- elected  politi- 
cians and  patriots  the  people  were  led 
to  believe  that  the  whole  business  would 
be  settled  in  a  few  weeks.  This  folly 
led  to  a  serious  evil,  namely,  the  enlist- 
ment of  soldiers  for  only  ninety  days, 
lice,  who  understood  war,  pleaded  in 
favor  of  the  engagement  being  for  the 
term  of  the  war,  but  he  pleaded  in 
vain.  To  add  to  his  militaiy  difficul- 
ties, the  politician  insisled  upon  the 
officers  being  elected  by  their  men. 
This  was  a  point  which,  in  describing 
to  me  the  constitution  of  his  army,  Lee 
most  deplored.  When  war  bursts  upon 
a  country  unused  to  that  ordeal,  and 
therefore  unskilled  in  prepariji^:  for  it^ 
the  frothy  babbling  of  politicians  too 
often  forces  the  nation  into  silly  meas- 
ures to  its  serious  injury  during  the 
ensuing  operations.  That  no  great 
'military  success  can  be  achieved  Quick- 
ly by  an  improvized  army  is  a  lesson 
that  of  all  others  is  made  most  clear,  by 
the  narrative  of  this  war  on  both  sides. 
All  through  its  earlier  phases,  the 
press,  both  Northern  and  Southern, 
called  loudly,  and  oftentimes  angrily, 
for  quick  results.  It  is  this  impa- 
tience of  the  people,  which  the  press  is 
able  to  empbiisize  so  strongly,  that- 
drives  many  weak  generals  into  im- 
mature action.  Lee,  as  well  as  others 
at  this  time,  had  to  submit  to  the 
sneers  which  foolish  men  circulated 
widely  in  the  daily  newspapers.      It' 


is  quite  certain  that. under  the  existing 
condition  of  things  no  Fabius  would 
be  tolerated,  and  that  the  far-seeing . 
military  policy  which  triumphed  at 
Torres  Vedras  would  not  be  submitted 
to  by  the  English  public  of '  to-day. 
Lee  was  not,  however,  a  man  whom  any 
amount  of  irresponsible  writing  could 
force  beyond  the  pace  he  knew  to  be 
most  conducive  to  ultimate  success. 

The  formation  of  an  army  with  the 
means  alone  at  his  disposal  was  a  colos- 
sal task.  Everything  had  to  be  created 
by  this  exti-aordinary  man.  The  South 
was  an  agricultural,  not  a  manufactur- 
ing coiuitry,  and  the  resources  of  for- 
eign lands  were  denied  it  by  the  block- . 
ade  of  its  ports  maintained  by  the  Heel 
of  the  United  States.  Lee  was  a  thor- 
ough man  of  Business,  quick  in  decis-  . 
ion,  yet  methodical  in  au  he  did.  He 
knew  what  he  wanted.  He  knew  what 
an  army  should  be,  and  how  it  should 
be  organized,  both  in  a  purely  military  . 
as  well  as  an  administrative  sen^c.  In 
abont  two  months  he  had  created  a  lit- 
tle army  of  fifty  thousiuid  men,  ani- 
mated by  a  lofty  patriotism  and  courage 
that  made  them  unconquerable  by  any 
similarly  constituted  army.  In  an- 
other month,  this  army  at  Bull's  Bun"" 
fained  a  complete  victory  over  the 
Northern  invaders,  who  were  driven 
back  across  the  Potomac  like  herds  of 
frightened  slMjep.  As  the  Federals 
ran,  they  threw  away  their  arms,  and 
everything— guns,  tents,  wa;][ons,  etc. — 
was  abandoned  to  the  victors.  The 
arms,  ammunition,  and  equipment  then 
taken  were  real  godsends  to  those  en- 
gaged in  the  organization  of  the  South- 
ern armies.  Thenceforwai'd  a  battle  to 
the  Confederates  meant  a  new  supply  of 
evervthing  an  army  requ  i red .  It  may  be 
truthfully  said,  that  practically  the  Gov- 
vemment  at  Washington  haito  provide 
and  pay  for  the  arms  and  cmiipment 
of  its  enemies  as  well  as  for  all  thut  its 
own  enormous  armJles  required. 


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THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


The  day  I  presented  myself  in  Gen- 
eral Lee's  camp,  as  I  stood  at  the  door 
of  his  tent  awaiting  admission^  I  was 
amused  to  find  it  stamped  as  belonging 
to  a  colonel  of  a  New  Jersey'regiment. 
I  remarked  upon  this  to  General  Lee, 
who  laughingly  said,  "Yes,  I  think  you 
will  find  that  all  our  tents,  guns,  and 
even  the  men's  pouches  are  similarly 
marked  as  having  belonged  to  the 
United  States  army."  Some  time, 
afterward,  when  General  Pope  and  hiq 
large  invading  army  had  been  sent  back 
flying  across  the  5laryland  frontier,  I 
overheard  this  conversation  between 
two  Confederate  soldiers:  **Have  you 
hear  the  news?     Lee  has  resigned!" 

"Good  G !"  was, the  reply,  "What 

for?"  "He  has  resigned  because  he  says 
he  cannot  feed  and  supply  his  army 
any  longer,  now  that  his  commissary, 
General  Pope,  has  been  removed." 
Mr.  Lincoln  had  iust  dismissed  General 
Pope,  replacing  nim  by  General  Mc- 
Clellan. 

The  Confederates  did  not  follow  up 
their  victory  at  Bull's  Run.-  A  rapid 
and  daring  advance  would  have  given 
them  possession  of  AVashington,  their 
enemy  s  capital.  Political  considera- 
tions at  Richmond  were  allowed  to  out- 
weigh the  very  evident  military  expe- 
diency of  reaping  a  solid  advantage 
from  this  their  first  great  success. 
Often  afterward,  when  this  attempt  to 
allay  the  angry  feelings  of  the  North 
against  the  Act  of  Secession  had  entire- 
ly failed,  was  this  action  of  their  poli- 
tical Tuhixa  lamented  by  the  Confeder- 
ate commanders. 

In  this  article  to  attempt  even  ^ 
sketch  of  the  subsequent  military 
operations  is  "not  to  be  thought  of. 
Both  sides  fought  well,  and  both  have 
such  true  reason  to  be  proud  of  their 
achievements  that  they  can  now  afford 
to  hear  the  professional  criticisms  of 
their  English  Iriends  in  the  same  spirit 
that  we  Britishers  have  learnt  to  read 


of  the  many  defeats  inflicted  upon  our 
arms  by  General  Washington. 

What  most  strikes  the  regular  soldier 
in  these  campaigns  of  General  Lee  is 
the  inefficient  manner  in  which  both 
he  and  his  opponents  were  often  served 
by  their  subordinate  commanders,  and 
how  badly  the  staff  and  outpost  work 
generally  was  performed  on  both  sides. 
It  is  must  difficult  to  move  with  any 
effective  precision  young  armies  consti- 
tuted as  these  were  during  this  war. 
The  direction  and  movement  of  large 
bodies  of  newly-raised  troops,  even 
when  victorious,  is  never  easy,  is  often 
impossible.  Over  and  over  again  was 
the  South  apparently  "within  a  stone's 
throw  of  independence,"  as  it  has  been 
many  times  remarked,  when,  from 
want  of  a  thoroughly  good  staff  to  or- 
ganize pursuit,  the  occasion  was  lost, 
and  the  enemy  allowed  *to  escape. 
Lee's  combinations  to  secure  victory 
were  the  conceptions  of  a  truly  great 
strategist,  and,  when  they  had  been 
effected,  his  tactics  were"  also  almost 
always  everything  that  could  be  desired 
up  to  the  moment  of  victory,  but  there 
his  action  seemed  to  stop  abruptly. 
Was  ever  an  army  so  hopelessly  at  the 
mercy  of  anot^ier  as  that  of  MeClellan 
when  he  began  his  retreat  to  Harri- 
son's Landing  after  the  seven  days' 
fighting  around  Richmond?  What 
commander  could  wish  to  have  his  foe 
in  a  "tighter  place"  than  Burnside  was 
in  after  his  disastrous  attack  upon  Lee 
at  Fredericksburg?  Yet  in  both  in- 
stances the  Northern  commander  got 
safely  away,  and  other  similar  instances 
could  be  mentioned.  The  critical  mil- 
itary student  of  this  war  wlio  knows 
the  power  which  repilar  troops,  well- 
officered  and  well-directed  by  a  thor- 
oughly efficient  staff,  place  in  the 
hands^^pf  an  able  general,  and  who  has 
acquired  an  intimate  and  complete 
knowledge  of  what  these  two  contend- 
ing American  armies  were  really  like^ 


ROBERT  EDWARD  LER 


697 


will,  I  think,  agree  that  from  first  to 
last  the  co-operation  of  even  one  army 
corps  of  regular  troops  would  have 
given  complete  victory  to  which  ever 
side  it  fought  on.  I  felt  this  when  I 
visited  the  South,  and  during  the  pro- 
cess of  the  war  I  heard  the  same  opin- 
ion expressed  by  many  others  who  had 
inspected  the  contending  armies.  I 
say  this  with  no  wish  to  detract  in  any 
way  from  the  courage  or  other  fighting 
qualities  of  the  troops  engaged.  I 
yield  to  none  in  my  admiration  of  their 
warlike  achievements,  but  I  cannot 
blind  myself  to  the  hyperbole  of  writers 
who  refer  to  these  armies  as  the  finest 
that  have  ever  existed. 

Those  who  know  how  difficult  it  is 
to  supply  onr  own  militia  and  volunteer 
forces  with  efficient  officers  can  appre- 
ciate what  difficulties  General  Lee  had 
to  overcome  in  the  formation  of  the 
army  he  so  often  led  to  victory.  He 
had  about  him  able  assistants,  who, 
like  himself,  had  received  an  excellent 
military  education  at  West  Point.  To 
the  experienced  soldier  it  is  no  matter 
of  surprise,  but  to  the  general  reader 
it  will  be  of  interest  to  know  that,  on 
either  side  in  this  war,  almost  every 
genercal  whose  name  will  be  remember- 
ed in  the  future  had  been  educated 
M  that  military  school,  and  had  been 
trained  in  the  old  regular  army  of  the 
United  States.  In  talking  to  me  of 
all  the  Federal  generals,  Lee  mentioned 
McClellan  with  most  respect  and  re- 
gard. He  spoke  bitterly  of  none-^ 
remarkable  fact,  as  at  that  time  men 
on  both  sides  were  wont  to  heap  the 
most  violent  terms  of  abuse  upon  their 
respective  enemies.  He  thus  reproved 
a  clergyman  who  had  spoken  in  his 
sermon  very  bitterly  of  their  enemies: 
— ''I  have  fought  against  the  people  of 
the  North  because  I  believed  they  were 
seeking  to  wrest  from  the  South  her 
dearest  rights;  but  I  have  never  cher- 
ished toward  them  bitter  or  vindictive 


feelings,  and  I  have  never  seen  the  day 
when  I  did  not  pray  for  them.^* 

I  asked  him  now  many  men  he  had 
at  the  battle  of  Antietam,  from  wjiich 
he  had  then  recently  returned.  He 
t^id  he  had  never  had,  during  that 
whole,  day,  more  than  about  thirty 
thousand  men  in  line,  although  he  had 
behind  him  a  small  army  of  tired 
troops  and  of  shoeless  stragglers  who 
never  came  up  during  the  battle.  He 
estimated  McClellan 's  army  at  about 
one  hundred  thousand  men.  A  friend 
of  mine,  who  at  that  same  time  was  at 
the  Federal  headquarters,  there  made 
similar  inquiries.  General  McOlellan's 
reply  corroborated  the  correctness  of 
Lee's  estimate  of  the  Federal  numbers 
at  Antietam,  but  he  said  he  thought 
the  Confederate  army  was  a  little 
stronger  than  that  under  his  command. 
I  mention  this  because  both  those  gen- 
erals were  most  truthful  men,  and 
whatever  they  stated  can  be  implicitly 
relied  on.  I  also  refer  to  it  because  the 
usual  proportion  throughout  the  war 
between  tna  contending  sides  in  each 
action  ranged  from  about  twice  to  three 
times  more  Federals  than  there  were 
Confederates  engaged.  With  reference 
to  the  relative  numbers  employed  on 
both  sides,  the  following  amusing  story 
was  told  to  me  at  the  time.  A  deputa- 
tion from  some^of  the  New  England 
States  had  attended  at  the  White  House, 
and  laid  their  business  before  the  Presi- 
dent.  As  they  were  leaving  Mr.  Lin- 
coln's room  one  of  the  delegates  turned 
round  and  said:  "Mr.  President,  1 
should  very  much  like  to  know  what 
you  reckon  to  be  the  number  of  rebels 
in  arms  against  us."  Mr.  Lincoln, 
without  a  moment's  hesitation,  replied: 
**Sir,  I  have  the  best  possible  reason 
for  knowing  the  number  to  be  one  mil- 
lion of  men,  for  whenever  one  of  our 
generals  engages  a  rebel  army  he  reports 
that  he  baa  encountefM  a  force  twice 
his  strength:  now  I  know  we  have  half 


(M6 


THB  :LIB]UBT  MAOAZO^B. 


a  million  of  Boldiera  in  th^  field,  so  I 
am  bound  to  believe  the  rebels  have 
twice  that  number, "     .^ 

As  a  stucleiit  of  war  I  would  fain 
linger  over  the  intei'estin^  lessons  to 
be  learnt  from  Lee's  campaigns:  of  the 
Siime  race  as  both  belligerents,  I  could 
with  tho  utmost  pleasure  dwell  upon 
the  many  brilliant  feats*  of  arms  on 
both  sides;  but  I  cannot  do  so  here. 

The  end  came  at  last,  when  the  well- 
supplied  North,  rich  enough  to  pa}' 
recruits,  no  matter,  where  "they  came 
from,  a  bounty  of  over  five  hundred 
dollars  a  liead,  triumphed-  over  an  ex- 
hausted Soutli,  hemmed  in  on  all  sides, 
and  even  cut  off  from  all  communica- 
tion with  the  outside  world.  Q'he  des- 
perate, though  drawn  bat*^le  of  Gettys- 
burg was  the  death-knell  of  Southern 
independence;  and  General  Shernmn's 
splendid  but  almost  unopposed  Inarch 
to  the  sea  showed  the  world  that  all 
further  resistance  on  the  part  of  the 
Confederate  States  could  only  be  a 
profitless  waste  of  blood.  In  the  thirty- 
five  days  of  fighting  near.  Richmond 
which  ended  the  war  of  1865,  General 
Grant's  army  numbered  one  hundred 
and  ninety  tliousand,  that  of  Lee  only 
fifty  one  thousiuid  men.  Every  man 
lost  by  the  former  was  easily  replaced, 
but  an  exhausted  South  could  find  no 
more  soldiers,  **The  right  of  self- 
government,"  which  Washington 'Won, 
and  for  which  Lee  fought,  was  no  lon- 
ger to  be  a  watchword  to  stir  men's 
blood  in  the  United  States.  The  South 
was  humbled  and  beaten  by  its  own 
flesh  and  blood  in  the  North,  ^nd  it  is 
difficult  to  know  which  to  admire  most, 
the  good  sense  with  which  the  result 
was  accepted  in  the  so-called  Confeder- 
ate States,  or  the  wise  magnanimity  dis- 
j)layed  by  the  victors.  The  wounds  are 
now  heaJed  on  both  sides:  Northerners 
and  Southerners  are  now  once  more  a 
united  people,  with  a  future  before  them 
to  which  no  oth^r  nation  can  aspire. 


If  the  English-speaking  people  of  the 
earth  caiinot  all  acknowledge  the  same 
Sovereign,  they  can,  and,  I  am  snre 
they  will,  at  least  combine  to  work  in 
the  interests  of  truth  and  of  peace,  for 
the  good  of  mankind.  The  wise  men 
on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic  will  take 
care  to  chase  away  all  passing  clouds 
that  may  at  any  time  throw  even  a 
shadow  of  dispute  or  discord  between 
the  two  great  families  into  which  our 
race  is  divided. 

Like  ,aU  men,  hee  had  his  faults: 
like  ali  the  greatest  of  geaerals*  he 
sometimes  made  mistakes.  His  nntnre 
shrank  with  such  horror  from  the 
dread  of  wounding  the  feeling*  of 
others,  that  upon  occasions  he  left  men 
in  positions  of  responsibility  to  which 
their  abilities  were  not  equal.  This 
softness  of  heart,  amiable  as  that  qual- 
ity may  be,  amounts  to  a  crime  in  the 
man  intrusted  with  the  disection  of 
public  affairs  at  critical  moments. 
Lee's  devotion  to  duty  and  great  re- 
spect for  obedience  seem  at  times  to 
have  made  him  too  subservient  to  those 
charged  with  the. civil  government  of 
his  country.  Ho  carried  out  too  literal- 
ly the;orders  of  those  whom  the  Con- 
federate Constitution  made  his  supe- 
riors, although  he  must  have  known 
them  to  be  entirely  ignorant  of  the 
science  of  war.  He  appears  to  have 
forgotten  that  ho  was  the  great  Revolu- 
tionary Chief  engaged  in  a  great  Revo- 
lutionary war:  that  he  was  no  mere 
leader  in  a  political  struggle  of  parties 
carried  on  wit  bin  the  lines  of  an  old, 
well-established  form  of  governments 
It  was  very  clear  to  many  at  tlie  time  as 
it  will  be  commonly  acknowledged  now,, 
that  the  South  could  only  hope  to  win 
under  the  rule  of  a  Military  Dictator^ 
If  General  Washington  had  had'*  Mr. 
Davis  over  him,  could  be  have  accom-^ 
plished  what  he  did?  It  will,  I  am 
sure,  be  news  to  many  that  General 
Lee  was  given  the  command  over  all 


ROBERT  EDWARD  LEE. 


em 


the  Confederate  armiea  a  mouth  or  two 
ouly  before  tLe  final  collapse;  and 
that  the  military  policy  of  the  South 
was  all  throughout  the  war  dictated  by 
Mr.  Davis  as  President  of  the  Confede- 
rate States.  Lee  had  no  power  to  re- 
ward soldiers  or  to  promote  officers. 
It  was  Mr.  Davis  who  selected  the  men 
to  command  divisions  iind  armies.  Is 
it  to  be  supposed  that  Cromwell,  King 
William  the  Third,  Washington,  or 
Napoleon  could  have  succeeded  in  the 
revolutions  with  which  their  names  are 
identified,  hud  they  submitted  to  the 
will  and  authority  of  a  politician  as 
Lee  did  to  Mr.  Davis? 

Lee  was  opnosed  to  the  final  defence 
of 'Richmond  Tliat  was  urged  upon  him 
for  political,  not  military  reasons.  It 
was  a  great  strategic  eiTor.  General 
Grant's  large  army  of  men  was  easily 
fed,  and  its  daily  losses  easily  recruit- 
ed from  a  near  base;  whereas  if  it  had 
been  drawn  fur  into  the  interior  after 
the  little  army  with  which  Lee  en- 
deavored to  protect  Richmond,  its 
fighting  strength  would  have  been 
largely  reduced  by  the  detachments  re- 
quired to  guard  a  long  line  of  communi- 
cations through  a  hostile  country.  It 
is  profitless,  however,  to  speculate  upon 
what  miglit  have  been,  and  the  mili- 
tary student  must  take  these  campaigns 
as  they  were  carried  out.  No  fair,  es- 
timate of  Lee  as  a  general  can  be  made 
by  a  simple  comparison  of  what  he 
achieved  with  that  which  Napoleon, 
Wellington,  or  Von  Moltke  accomplish- 
ed, unless  due  allowani'.e  is  made  for 
the  ditfereuce  in  the  nature  of  the 
American  armies,  and  of  the  armies 
commanded  and  encountered  by  those 
great  leaders.  They  were  at  the  head 
of  perfecMy  organized,  thoroughly 
trained  and  well  disciplined  troops; 
whilst  Lee*8  soldiers,  though  gallant 
and  daring  to  a  fault,  lacked  the  mili- 
tary cohesion  and  efficiency,  the  ti'ain- 
ed  company  lead^r^,  aiid  the  educated 


staff  which  are  only  to  be-  found  in  a 
regular  army  of  long  standing.  A  trial 
heat  between  two  jockeys  mounted  on  ■ 
unti*ained  horses  may  be  interesting, 
but  no  one  would  ever  quote  the  ])or- 
formance  as  an  instance  of  great  racing 
speed. 

Who  shall  ever  fathom  the  depth  of 
Lee's  anguish  when  the  bitter  end 
came,  and  when,  beaten  down  by  sheer 
force  x)f  numbers,  and  by  absolutely 
nothing  else,  he  found  hijuself  obliged 
to  surrender!  The  handful  of  starv- 
ing men  remaining  with  him  laid  down 
their  arms,  and  the  proud  Confederacy 
ceased  to  be.  .  Surely  the  crushing, 
maddening  anguish  x>f  awful  sorrow  is  . 
only  known  to  the  leader  who  has  bo 
failed  to  accomplish  some  lofty,  some  . 
noble  aim  for  which  he  has  long  totriven  . 
with  might  and  main,  with  lieart  and 
soul — in  the  interests  of  king  or  of 
country.  A  smiling  face,  a  cheerful 
manner,  may  conceal  the  sore  place 
from  the  eyes,  possibly  even  from  the  . 
knowledge  of  his  friends;  but  there  is 
no  healing  for  such  a  wound,  -  which 
eats  into  the  very  heart  of  him  who  has 
once  received  it. 

General  Lee  survived  the  destruction  . 
of  the  Confederacy  for  five  years,  when, 
at  the  age  of  si^^ty-three,  and  surround-  . 
ed  by  his  family,  life  j&bbed  slowly  from 
him. .  Where  else  in  history  is  a  great 
man  to  be  foupd  whose  whole  life  waa  < 
one  such  blameless  record  qf  duty,  nobly 
done?  It  was  consistent  in  all  its  parts, 
complete  in  all  its  relations.  The  most 
perfect  gentleman  of  a  State  long  cele- 
brated for  its  chivalry,  he  was  just, 
gentle,  and  generous,  and  child-like  in 
the  simplicity  of  his  character.  Never 
elated  with  success,  he  bore  reverse, 
and  at  last,  complete  overthrow,  with 
dignified  resignation.  Throughout  this 
long  and  cruel  struggle  his  was  all  the 
responsibility,  but  not  the  power  that 
should  have  accompanied  it. 

The  fierce  light  which  beats  upon  the 


7M 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


throne  is  as  that  of  a  nishlight  in  com- 
parison with  the  electric  glare  which 
our  newspapers  now  focus  upon  the 
public  man  in  Lee's  position.  His 
character  has  been  subjected  to  that 
ordeal,  and  who  can  point  to  any  spot 
upon  it!  His  clear,  sound  judgment, 
personal  courage,  untiring  activity, 
genius  for  war,  and  absolute  devotion 
to  his  State  mark  him  out  as  a  public 
man,  as  a  patriot  to  be  forever  remem- 
bered by  all  Americans.  His  amiability 
of  disposition,  deep  sympathy  with 
those  in  pain  or  sorrow,  nis  love  for 
children,  nice  sense  of  personal  honor 
and  genial  courtesy  endeared  him  to  all 
his  friends.  I  shall  never  forget  his 
Bweet  winning  smile,  nor  his  clear, 
honest  eyes  that  seemed  to  look  into 
your  heart  while  they  searched  your 
brain.  I  have  met  many  of  the  great 
men  of  my  time,  but  Lee  alone  impress- 
ed me  with  the  feeling  that  I  was  m  the 
presence  of  a  man  who  was  cast  in  a 
grander  mould,  and  made  of  different 
and  of  finer  metal  than  all  other  men. 
He  is  stamped  upon  my  memory  as  a 
being  apart  and  superior  to  all  others 
in  every  way:  a  man  with  whom  none 
I  e\er  Knew,  and  very  few  of  whom  I 
have  read,  are  worthy  to  be  classed.  1 
have  met  but  two  men  who  realize  my 
ideas  of  what  a  true  hero  should  be: 
my  friend  Charles  Gordon  was  one, 
General  Lee  was  the  other. 

The  following  lines  seem  written  for 
him: 

"Who  is  the  honest  man? 

He  doth  still  and  strongly  good  pursue. 
To  God.  his  country  and  himself  most 
true; 
Who  when  1  e  comes  to  deal 
With  sick  folk,  women,  those  whom  pas- 
sions sway, 
Allows  for  this,  and  keeps  his  constant 
way.*' 

When  all  the  angry  feelings  roused 
by  Secession  are  buried  with  those 
which  existed  when  the  Declaration  of 


Independence  was  written,  when 
Americans  can  review  the  history  of 
their  last  great  rebellion"  with  calm  im- 
partiality, I  believe  all  will  admit  that 
General  Lee  towered  far  above  all  men 
on  either  side  in  that  struggle:  I  be- 
lieve he  will  be  regarded  not  only  as  the 
most  prominent  figure  of  the  Confed- 
eracy, but  as  the  great  American  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  whose  statue  is  well 
worthy  to  stand  on  an  equal  pedestal 
with  that  of  Washington,  and  whose 
memory  is  equally  worthy  to  be  en- 
shrined in  the  hearts  of  all  his  countrj*- 
men. — General  Lord  Garnet  Wol- 
SELET,  in  Macmillan^s  Magazine. 


NINE  UNPUBLISHED  LETTERS 
OF  OLIVER  CROMWELL. 

Six  of  the  following  letters  are  from 
the  Egerton  MSS.  in  the  British 
Museum  (No.  2620).  To  these  three 
from  newspapers  and  pamphlets  of  the 
period  have  been  added  m  order  to  sup- 
plement certain  of  the  letters  printed 
by  Carlyle,  and  for  convenience  of  ref- 
erence. 

I. 

Mereurius  Anlicus  for  80  April  1645 
describes  Cromwell's  attempt  to  storm  Far- 
ringdon  un  tUe  morning  of  30  April,  and  states 
that  Cromwell  lost  200  killed,  a  captain,  an 
ensign,  and  8  Boldiers  prisoners,  and  had  a 
large  nural)er  of  wounded.  Under  1  May  it 
priut8  the  following  leller,  which  is  in  strik- 
mg  contrast  to  tlie  two  printed 'by  Cariylc 
(letters  xxvi.  xxvii.)  *'Next  morning  Master 
Cromwell  sent  this  letter  oZ  tliankes  to  Lieu- 
tenant Colouell  Burgess.'* 

Sir, — There  shall  bo  no  interruption 
of  your  viewing  and  ffathering  together 
the  dead  bodies,  and  I  doe  acknowledge 
it  as  a  favour,  your  willingnesse  to  let 
me  dispose  of  them.  Captaine  Cannon 
is  but  a  Captaine,  his  Mayor  is  Smith 
so  farre  as  i  know,  but  he  is  a  stranger 
to  me^   I  am  confident  he  is  bnt  a 


NIKE  UNPUBLISHED  LETTERS  OF  OLIVER  CROMWELL. 


m 


Captaine^  Master  Elmes  but  an  Ancient^ 
I  tnaiike  you  for  your  civility  to  them, 
you  may  credit  me  in  this,  1  rest 
Your  Servant 

Oliveb  Cromwell. 
April  30. 

If  you  accept  of  equall  exchange  I 
shall  perform  my  part. 

ri. 

Letter  on  behalf  of  John  Lilburne^ 

My  Lord, — You  heere  in  •  what  a 
flame  theise  westerne  pajtes  are,  I 
cannot  but  minde  your  Excellency 
that  the  enimie  are  designing  to  sur- 
prise many  places,  and  wee  shall  still 
play  the  aftergame.  I  thinke  it  of 
absolute  necessitye  that  some  men  bee 
put  into  Bristoll,  especially  since 
Chepstow  IS  taken,  with  which  (as  I 
heered^  they  hould  correspondency. 
Sir  (?),  Bristol  must  have  a  fixed 
guarison  of  foote.  I  beseech  you 
recommend  itt  to  the  Parliament  that 
it  may  be  donn,  theere  cannot  bee  lesse 
then  600  men  for  itt.  Leit  Col  Rolphe 
wou^d  bee  a  fitt  man  hee  is  able  to  give 
helptt  HVHho  business  by  his  Father 
Skippon  his  interest  and  it  would  bee 
well  taken  if  your  LordP  would  recom- 
mend him,  there  is  necessitye  of  speede 
in  mv  opinion,  the  cittye  desire  it.  I 
take  leave  and  rest 

Your  ex.  most  humble  Servant 

0  Cromwell 
May  9th,  1648. 

My  Lord  Lieut  Col  Blackmore  is  w*** 
mee,  hee  is  a  godly  man  and  a  good 
souldier  I  beg  a  commission  to  make 
him  an  Adjutant  Gon^  to  the  Army. 
Hee  is  verv  able  as  most  [?]  ever  were 
in  this  amiy.' 

'This  letter  is  obviously  directed  to  liOrd 
Fairfax.  Its  place  is  between  letters  Iviii. 
and  Hx.  in  Carly]e*8.  It  was  written  bv  Crom- 
well on  the  march  to  Chepstow,  whicti  he 
*?ached  two  days  later. 


III.  • 

Sir, — ^Wee  have  read  your  Declaration 
heere  and  see  in  itt  nothinge  but  what 
is  honest  and  becominge  Christians  and 
honest  men  to  say  and  offer,  its  good 
to  looke  up  to  God  who  alonne  is  able 
to  sway  hartes  to  agree  to  the  good 
and  just  thinges  contained  therein.  I 
verilye  believe  the  honest  partye  in 
Scotland  will  be  satisfied  in  the  just- 
nesse  thereof;  however  it  wilbe  good 
that  Will  Rowe  bee  hastened  with 
instructions  thither.  I  beseech  you 
command  him  (if  it  seems  good  to 
your  excell"  iudgment])  to  goe  away 
with  all  speede,  what  is  tymely  donn 
herein  njay  prevent  misunderstandings 
in  them.  I  hope  to  waite  speedily 
upon  you,  att  least  to  begin  my  journey 
upon  Tuseday.  Your  owne  regiment 
wilbe  cominge  up.  Soe  will  Okey, 
mine  Harrison's  and  some  others  the 
two  garrisons  have  men  enow  (if  pro- 
vided for)  to  doe  that  worke.  Lambert 
will  looke  to  them  I  rest  my  Lord, 
your  excellency's  most  humble  and 
faythfull  servant, 

0  Cromwell 
Nov.     ,  1648. 

This  letter — also  to  Fairfax — was  apparently 
written  from  Pontefract  near  the  end  oi 
November,  for  it  refers  to  the  Army  Remon- 
strance and  to  Cromweirs  approaching 
intention  of  starting  for  headquarters. 


IV. 


Mr.  Rush  worth, — I  desire  you  to 
order  as  from  the  Gen^  Col  Tomiinson'a 
men  now  in  Hantshire  to  remove  more 
westward  and  not  to  exact  monies 
before  they  goe.  It  beinge  certified 
that  that  uonntye  hath  payed  all  theire 
monies.  I  desire  you  to  give  the 
bearer  the  orders 

I  rest  Your  loving  friend 

0  Cbomwsll 
I  April  2Sih,  1649. 


703 


THE  IJBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


V. 

This  letter,  from  the  Moderate,  No.  54,  July 
17-24,  1649,  is  sufficiently  explained  by  the 
extract  from  that  newspaper  which  precedes 
it.  "Our  Commander  in  chief,  fearing  scar- 
city of  Provisions  for  the  Souldiers,  when  they 
lire  come  to  tlie  several  Ports  for  Transporta- 
tion, hath  therefore  directed  his  Letters  to  the 
Chief  Ju8tict»s  of  those  several  Counties;  to 
desire,  Tliat  tiiey  will  speedily  cause  Procla- 
mution  to  be  maHe,  that  there  may  be  Markets 
kept  in  the«  several  Villages,  near  Milford 
Haven;  which  because  short,  and  of  publike 
concern tncnt  for  those  parts,  take  a  true 
<sopy  thereof  at  large." 

OentlemcTi, — ^Forasmnch  as  we   are 


VI. 

•  To  Lord  Fairfax. 

May  it  please  your  Excellencye, — I 
could  not  satMe  mvselfe  to  otuitt  this 
oportiinitye,  it  rejoyceth  mee  to  \\^re 
of  the  prosperitye  of  your  afPaires 
wherein  the  good  of  all  honest  men  is 
soe  much  coiicerned,  and  indeed  my 
Lord  such  intemperate  spirits  beinge 
suifered  to  break  forth  ai:d  shew  their 
venbme,  &  vett  from  time  to  time  to 
be  suppressed,  shewes  the  same  ^ood 
God  watcheth  over  you  which  hatli 
gone  [?]  with  you  all  alonge  hither*^ 


to  march  by  you,  to  ship  for  Ireland,   and  wil  be  with  you  to  the  end,  I  am 


iind  the  Forces  ingaged  will  stand  in 
need  of  Provisions  for  tbej»  shipping; 
and  several  Regiments  having  orders 
irom   me,   to  march    to   tlie  Port  of 


order  thereunto,  -those  are  to  desire. 
That  you  will  speedily  cause  Proclam- 
ation to  be  made,  or  .publike  notice 
given  in  the  several  Miirket  Towns, 
within  your  Counties,  or  Association, 

*That  a  free  Market  will  be  kept  in  the 
several  Villtiges,  lying  neer  Milford 
Haven,  upon  Tuesday  the  31.  of  July 

^.instant;  and  to  be  kei)t  .daily,  till  all 
the  Forces  be  shipped,  for  4iU  sorts  of 
Provisions,  both  lor  H(fl*se,  and  men; 
And  that  all  people,  that  bring  such 

'Provisions,  shall  have  ready  money 
for  whatsoever  w6  buy.  This  1  thought 
fit  to  signifie,  that  if  possible  there 
may  be  a  sufficiency  of  Provisions,  both 
ior  Accommodation  erf  the  Forces,  ^nd 

.  ^ase  of  the  places  adjacent  to  the'Haven 
where  so  many  Forces  are  to  he.drawn 
together. 

Your  affectionate  Friend, 

and  Servant 

O  GitOKWSEL. 

Bristol,  July  21, 16^. 

^For  the   Justicea  of  Peace  of  the 
County,  of — .* 


verilye  persuaded  the  discovery  of 
theise  men's  spirits  makes  them  so 
manifest  that  I  hope  at  least  the  godly 
shall  not  be  deceaved  by  them,  w"»  wil 


Milford   Haven,   and    thereabouts;   in  be  cause  of  much  rejoycinge.     Truely 


my  noble  Lord  mv  prayers  are  for  you, 
and  I  trust  shal  bee  that  God  will 
still  •cont.inew  his  presence  and  the 
light  of  his  countenance  with  you  to 
the  end.  The  Lord  shewes  us  gi*eat 
mercy  heere,  indeed-  IE§e,  hee  only  gave 
this  strong  towne  of  Wexfoi^^ft^o  our 
hands,  the  particulars  I  for|HB|cause 
I  have  Hsppnt  some  pavns  in  writing 
them  to  the  Parl^.  1  have  noe  more 
att  pi*esent,  but  the  tender  of  the  iateg- 
ritye  and  a^fiTection  of 

My  Lord 
Your  excellencye^  most  humble  ser- 
•vant  0  Cromwell 

Octob  15  1649  Wexford 

■  Sir, — If  "by  yoiif  tavor  -or  interest  S* 
John  Barlacye  may  obteyne  any  iiicor- 
agement  ,for  his  fbrepast  services  for 
-the  State,  either  fiaom  Par*"^  or  the 
.  Cou&cell  of  State  in  Flngkmd,  «tid 
that,  any  direction  may.b^  given  io 
niee  therein  {,?]  I  shaUbe  glad  to  be  ^r- 
vioea1}le  to  him  in  executinge  their 
commandes,  ^and  this>2  cnn  assure  your 
Ero^lenoye  "that  the  reducing  t)f  his 
xeg^^  was  not  in  the  l^ist  a  xefiectioQ 


NIKE  UNPUBMSHBD  LETTBRa  OP  OMVER  CROMWELL. 


708 


npin    him  but    to  save    the    state  a 
charge' 

This  letter  refert  to  th«  late  rising  of  the 
Levellers  at  Oxford  in  September  1649.  Sir 
John  Borlase,  son  of  tlve  lord  justioe  of  the 
same  name,  is  the  person  mentioned  in  the 
postscript.  Tiie  elder  Sir  John  Borlase' died 
in  1049. 

VII. 

For  tilt  rigJtt  konoraMe  William 
LenflHiU  Esq.,  Speaker  of  the  Par- 
lift?rfe?U  of  tlie  Ccmmonwealth  of 
England,  ^ 

Sir,— I  beg  your  pardon  for  that  I 
writ  by  Paine  the  messenger  that  there 
were  taken  prisoners  of  the  evening  in 
Pife  five  or  six  hundred  whereas  upon 
fuller  information  I  find  that  there 
were  taken  prisoners  between  fifteen 
and  sixteen  hundred 

I  reraain.  Sir, 
Your  most  humble  servant 

0  CEOMWBUi 

Lithgoto  22  July  i65L 

(From  'Several  Proceedings  in  Par- 
liament,' 24-31  July  1651.) 

This  letter  corrects  the  one  given  by  CJarlyle 
as  No.  oixxv.  The  same  paper  gives  a  better 
text  of  clxxiv.  than  the  one  copi^by  Garlyle 
froD*  Kimbcr's  Lift  of  QromweU. 

VHI, 

To  Colonel  Robert  XillurTL 

Sir, — Having  some  occasion  to  speake 
with  some  godly  ministerfl  and  Chris- 
tians to  accomodate  the  interest  and  to 
beget  a  good  uBderstanding  ^tween 
the  people  of  God  of  different 'Judg- 
ments in  this  nation;  and  remembenng 
well  you  did  onee  hint  to  me  some 
purpose  of  Mr.  Patrick  Oilasbie's 
thoughte  to  come  up  hither  in  order; 
(as  I  suppose)  to  some  what- relating  to 
the  people  of  Ood  in  Scotland;  I  have 
thought  fit  to  require  the  ^ornming  np 
of  mr.  John  Levinggton, » Mr. .^Pamck. 
Gilasby,  and  Mr.  John  Meinzeis^  to 
w^  purpose  I  have  here  iBcloaed  sent 


to  each  of  them  a  L'®  appointing  them 
the  time  of  their  appearance  heese;  I 
desire  you  to  speed  their  L""*"  to  them, 
especially  to  Mr.  John  Meinzies  who 
is  8oe  far  lemote  <at  Aberdene,  I  desire 
you  to  let  them  have  xx£  a  peice  to 
defray  the  charges  of  their  lourney; 
lett  it  be  out  of  the  Treasury  m  Scci- 
iland,  not  doubting  of  yo'  care  and 
dilligence  herein,  I  rest 

Yo'  loving  ffriend 

GUVEK  P. 

Cockpitt  1th  of  March  1653 

I  desire  you  to  continue  yo  'care  to 
looke  out  after  Middleton  upon  the 
Coast  for  I  heare  he  was  driven  back 
by  foule  weatner.  I  desire  you  not  to 
make  too  publique  the  ends  of  sending 
for  these  Gentlemen. 

For  the  honble  Coll  Lilborne  Commander 
in  chief  e  of  the  f  orcesw  in  .Scotland. ' 

KEichard  Cromwell  to  General  Monk. 

My  Lord, — Although  I  cannot  sup- 
pose you  altogether  unacquainted  with 
my  present  condition,  nor  unsensible 
of  what  my  friends  have  represented  to 
•yon  concerning  it.  Yet  being  urged 
fay  my  present  exigencies  and  necessi- 
tated for  some  time  of  late  to  reti^ 
into  hiding  places  to  avoid  arrests  for 
debts  oontracted  upon  the  public 
account;  I  liave  been  encouraged  from 
the  persuasion  I  have  of  your  aifection 
to  me,  and  the  op]X)rtumtie  you  now 
have  to  show  me  kindness  to  adde  thifi 
request  to  the  former  solicitations  of 
my  friends,  thait  when  the  Parliament 
shall  bee  met  y&u.  <would  make  use  <yf 
your  interest  .on  my  behalf e  tliat  I  hee 
not  left .  liable  to  debts,  which  I  Am 
confident  neither  God  nor  conscience 
^ean  ....  mine.  I  cannot  but  prom- 
ise myself  that  when  it  shall  be  season- 
able, I  shall  not  want  a  faithful  friend 
4n  you  to'  take  effectual  care  of  my 
^oancemmenta;  *  having  this  persuasion 


704 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


of  you,  that  as  I  cannot  but  thinke 
myself  unworthy  of  great  things,  so 
you  will   not  thinke  mee  worthy  of 
utter  ruine, 
My  Lord,  I  am  your  affectionate 

friend  to  serve  you, 
R.  Cromwell. 
April  18,  1660. 

An  earlier  letter  of  Fleetwood  to  Monk,  14 
Jiin.  16JS.  asks  his  aid  '.n  behalf  of  that 
distressed  family  of  his  late  Highness  whose 
condiliou  I  think  is  as  sad  as  any  poore  familie 
in  England,  the  debts  contracted  during  the 
government  falling  upon  my  Lord  Richard 
Cromwell. '— Egerton  MSS.  2618.  ■—  C.  H. 
Firth,  in  77ie  Englinh  HUtorieal  Bmew 


THE  ENGLISH  COUNTEY 
PARSON. 

What  is  trying  in  the  country 
parson's  life  is  its  isolation.  That's  a 
very  different  thing  from  saying  that 
he  lives  a  lonely  life.  The  parson  who 
is  conscientiously  trying  to  do  his  duty 
in  a  country  parish  occupies  a  unique 
position.  He  is  a  man,  and  yet  he  must 
he  something  more  than  man^  and 
something  less  too.  He  must  be  more 
than  man  in  that  he  must  be  free  from 
human  passions  and  human  weaknesses^ 
or  the  whole  neighborhood  is  shocked 
by  his  fraiJty;  he  must  be  something 
less  than  man  in  his  tastes  and  amuse- 
ments and  way  of  life,  or  there  will  be 
those  who  will  be  sure  to  denounce  him 
as  a  worldling  who  ought  never  to  have 
taken  orders.  If  he  be  a  man  of  birth 
and  refinement,  he  is  sure  to  be  report- 
ed of  as  proud  and  haughty;  if  he  be 
not  quite  a  gentleman,  he  will  be 
snubbed  and  flouted  outrageously.  The 
average  country  parson  and  his  family 
has  on;en  to  bear  an  amount  of  patron- 
izing impertinence  which  is  sometimes 
very  trying.  Even  the  squire  and  the 
parson  do  not  always  get  on  well  to- 
gether,   and    when   they  do  not,  the 


parson  is  very  much  at  the  other's  mcrcj 
and  may  be  thwarted  and  worried  and 
humiliated  almost  to  any  extent  by  a 
powerful,  ill-conditioned,  and  unscru- 
pulous landed  proprietor.  But  it  is 
from  the  come-aud-go  people  who  hire 
the  country  houses  which  their  owners 
are  compelled  to  let,  that  we  suffer 
most.  Not  that  this  is  always  the  case, 
for  it  not  unfrequently  happens  that  the 
change  in  the  occupancy  of  a  country 
mansion  is  a  clear  gain  socially,  morally, 
and  intellectually  to  a  whole  neighbor- 
hood— when,  in  the  place  of  a  necessi- 
tous Squire  Western,  and  his  cubs  of 
sons  and  his  half  educated  daughters, 
drearily  impecunious,  but  not  the  less 
self -asserting  and  supercilious,  we  get  a 
family  of  gentle  manners  and  culture 
and  accomplishments^  and  lo!  it  is  as 
sunshine  after  rain.  But  sometimes 
the  new  comers  are  a  grievous  infliction: 
town-bred  folk  who  emerge  from  the 
back  streets  and  have  amassed  money 
by  a  new  hair-wash  or  an  improvement 
in  sticking-plaster.  Such  as  these  are 
out  of  harmony  with  their  temporary 
surroundings:  they  giggle  in  the  faces 
of  the  farmers'  daughters,  ridicule  the 
speech  and  manners  of  the  laborers  and 
their  wives,  and  grumble  at  everything. 
They  cannot  think  of  walking  in  the 
dirty  lanes,  they  are  afraid  of  cows,  and 
call  children"  nasty  little  things,  and 
their  hospitalities  are  very  trying. 

*^Come,  my  boy.  Have  a  cut  at  the 
venison.  Don't  be  afraid.  You  shall 
have  a  good  dinner  for  once;  shan't  he, 
my  dear?  and  as  much  champagne  as 
you  like  to  put  inside  you!"  It  was  a 
bottle-nosed  Sir  Gorgious  Midas  who 
spoke,  and  his  lady  at  the  other  end  of 
the  table  gave  me  a  kindly  wink  as  she 
caught  my  eye.  But  the  wine  was 
Gilby's,  and  not  his  best.  These  are  the 
people  who  demoralize  our  country 
villages.  They  introduce  a  vulgarity 
of  tone  quite  indescribable,  and  the  rap- 
idity of  the  change  wrought  in  the  sen- 


THE  EKGLiSH  OOlJltTRT  PAiioOSr, 


700 


timents  and  language  of  the  rnetios  is 
sometimes  quite  wonderful. 

The  people  don't  like  these  come- 
and-go  folk,  but  they  get  dazzled  by 
them  notwithstanding;  they  resent  the 
airs  which  the  footmen  and  ladies'  maids 
give  themselves,  but  nevertheless  they 
envy  them  and  think,  * 'There's  my 
gal  Polly — she'd  be  a  lady  if  she  was  to 
get  into  sich  a  house  as  that!"  When 
they  hear  that  the  ladies  at  the  hall 
play  tennis  on  Sunday  afternoons,  the 
old  people  are  perplexed,  and  wonder 
what  the  world  is  coming  to;  the  boys 
and  girls  begin  to  think  that  their  iokiy 
time  IS  near,  when  they  too  shall  submit 
to  no  restraint,  and  join  the  revel  ront 
of  scoffers.  The  sour  puritan  snarls  out 
"Ah!  there's  your  gentlefolks,  they 
don/^t  want  no  religion,  they  don't — and 
we  don't  want  no  gentlefolks!"  For 
your  sour  puritan  somehow  has  always 
tt  lurking  sympathv  with  the  Socialist 

Programme,  and  it  s  honey  and  nuts  to 
im  to  find  out  some  new  occasion  for 
venting  his  spleen  at  things  that  are. 
But  one  and  all  look  askance  at  the 
parson,  and  inwardly  chuckle  that  he  is 
not  having  a  pleasant  time  of  it.  '  'Our 
Beverend^  been  took  down  a  bit,  since 
that  voung  gent  at  the  Hall  lit  his  ]pipe 
in  the  church  porch.  'That  ain't 
seemly,'  says  parson.  'Dunno  about 
that,'  says  the  tother,  'but  it  seems 
nice.'"  Chorus,  half -giggle,  half- 
sniggle. 

Do  not  the  scientists  teach  that  no  two 
atoms  are  in  absolute  contact  with  each 
other;  that  some  interval  separates  every 
molecule  from  its  next  of  kin?  Cer- 
tainly this  is  inherent  in  the  office  and 
function  of  the  country  parson,  that  he 
is  not  quite  in  touch  with  any  one  in 
his  parish  if  he  be  a  really  earnest  and 
conscientious  parson.  He  is  too  good 
for  the  average  happy-go-lucky  fellow 
who  wants  to  be  let  alone.  There  is 
nothing  to  gain  by  insulting  him.  '  'He's 
tha^  r*»tr-lM^e^  V   ^Aji't  seem  to  mind 


nothing — only  swearing  at  him  I'*  Yoto 
cannot  get  him  to  take  a  side  in  a  quar- 
rel. He  speaks  out  very  unpleasant 
truths  in  public  and  private.  He  occu- 
pies a  social  position  that  is  sometimes 
anomalous.  He  has  a  provoking  knadc 
of  taking  things  by  the  right  nandle. 
He  does  not  believe  in  the  almi^tgr 
dollar,  as  men  of  sense  ought  to  believe; 
and  he  is  usually  in  the  right  when  it 
comes  to  a  dispute  in  a  vestry  meeting 
because  he  is  the  only  man  in  the  parish 
that  thinks  of  pre^ring  himself  for  the 
discussion  beforehand.  This  isolation 
extends  not  merely  to  matters  social 
and  intellectual;  it  is  much  more  ob- 
servable in  the  domain  of  sentiment. 
A  rustic  cannot  at  all  understand  what 
motive  a  man  can  possibly  have  for  being 
a  bookworm;  he  suspects  a  student  of 
being  engaged  in  some  impious  re- 
searches. '  'To  hear  that  there  Beverend 
of  ours  in  the  pulpit  you  might  think  he 
was  all  right.  But,  bless  you!  he  ain't 
same  as  other  folks.  He  do  keep  a 
horoscope  top  o'  his  house  to  look  at  the 
stares  and  sich." 

Not  one  man  in  a  hundred  of  the 
laborers  reads  a  book,  and  only  when 
a  book  is  new  with  a  gaudy  outside  does 
he  seem  to  value  it  even  as  a  chattel. 
That  anyone  should  ever  have  any  con- 
ceivable use  for  a  big  book  is  to  him 
incomprehensible. 

"If  I  might  be  so  bold,  sir,"  said 
Jabez,  an  intelligent  father  of  a  family 
with  some  very  bright  children  who 
are  "won'erful  for'ard  in  their  lam- 
ing," "If  I  might  be  so  bold,  might  I 
ask  if  you've  really  read  all  these  grit 
books?"  "No,  Jabez;  and  I  should 
be  a  bigger  dunce  than  I  am  if  I  ever 
tried  to.  I  keep  them  to  use;  they're 
my  tools,  like  your  Spade  and  hoe. 
What's  that  thing  called  that  I  saw  in 
your  hand  the  other  day  when  vou  were 
working  at  the  draining  job?  i  ou  don't 
often  use  that  tool,  I  think,  do  yon  '* 
"Well>  no.    But  then  we  don't  gtv  a 


706 


THE  LIBRARY  MAGAZINE. 


1"ob  o'  draining  now  same  as  we  used. 
'.  mean  to  say  as  a  man  may  go  ten  years 
at  a  stretch  and  lay  a  never  a  drain- 
tile."  "Well,  then,  how  about  the  use 
of  his  tools  all  this  time?"  Jabez  smiled, 
slowly  put  his  hand  to  his  head,  saw 
the  point,  and  yet  didn't  see  it.  "But, 
lawK  sir!  that's  somehow  different.  I 
can't  see  what  you  can  du  wi'  a  grit 
book  like  this  here."  It  was  a  massive 
volume  of  Littr6's  great  dictionary, 
which  I  bad  just  taken  down  to  consult; 
it  certainly  did  look  portentous.  "Why, 
Jabez,  that's  a  dictionary — a  French 
dictionary.  If  I  want  to  know  all 
about  a  French  word,  you  know,  I 
look  it  up  here.  Sometimes  I  don't 
find  exactly  what  I  want;  then  I  go  to 
that  book,  which  is  another  French 
dictionary;  and  if  .  ..."  I  saw  by 
the  blank  look  in  honest  Jabez's  face 
that  it  was  aJl  in  vain.  "Want  to  know 
nil  about  French  words.  Why  you  ain't 
agoing  to  fix  no  drain-tiles  with  them 
sort  o  things.  Now  that  du  wholly  pet 
me  aywt,  that  du." 

I  think  no  one  who  has  not  tried  pain- 
fully to  lift  and  lead  others  can  have 
the  least  notion  of  the  difficulty  which 
the  country  parson  has  to  contend  with 
in  the  extreme  thinness  of  the  stratum 
in  which  the  rural  intellect  moves. 
Since  the  schools  have  given  more  at- 
tention to  geography,  and  since  emigra- 
tion has  brought  us  now  and  then  some 
entertaining  letters  from  those  who 
have  emigrated  to  "furren  parts,"  the 
people  have  slowly  learnt  to  think  of 
a  wider  area  of  space  than  heretofore 
they  could  imagine.  Though  even 
now  their  notions  of  geography  are 
almost  as  vague  as  their  notions  of  as- 
tronomy. I  have  never  seen  a  map  in 
an  agricultural  laborer's  cottage. 
But  their  absolute  ignorance  of  history 
amounts  to  an  incapacity  of  conceiving 
the  reality  of  anything  that  may  have 
happened  in  past  time.  What  their 
grandfathers  have  told  them,  that  is  to 


them  history — everything  before  that  is 
not  so  much  as  fable;  it  is  not  romance, 
it  is  a  formless  void,  it  is  chaos.  The 
worst  of  it  is  that  they  have  no  curiosity 
about  the  past.  The  same  is  true  of 
their  knowledge  of  anvthing  approach- 
ing to  the  rudiments  of  physical  science; 
it  simplv  does  not  exist.  A  belief  in 
the  Ptolemaic  system  is  universal  in 
Arcady.  I  suspect  that  they  think  less 
about  these  things  than  they  did« 
"That  there  old  Gladstone,  lawk! 
he's  a  deep  un  he  is!  He's  as  deep  as 
the  Pole  Star  he  is!"  said  Solomon 
Bunch  to  me  one  day.  "Pole  Star?" 
1  asked  in  surprise.  "Where  is  the 
Pole  Star,  Sol?"  "Lawks!  I  dunno; 
I've  heerd  tell  o'  the  Pole  Star  as  the 
deep  un  ever  sin'  I  was  a  boy?" 

It  is  this  narrowness  in  their  range 
of  ideas  that  makes  it  so  hard  for  the 
townsman  to  become  an  effective 
speaker  to  the  laborers.  You  could 
not  make  a  greater  mistake  than  by 
aflsuming  you  have  only  to  use  plain 
language  to  out  rustics.  So  far  from 
it,  they  love  nothing  better  than  sonor- 
ous words,  the  longer  the  better.  It  is 
when  he  attempts  to  make  his  audience 
follow  a  chain  of  reasoning  that  the 
orator  fails  most  hopelessly,  or  when 
he  comes  to  his  illustrations.  TTie  poor 
people  know  so  little,  they  read  nothing, 
their  experience  is  so  confined,  that  one 
IS  very  hard  jput  to  it  to  find  a  simile 
that  is  intelligible. 

"Young  David  stood  before  th« 
monarch's  throne.  With  harp  in 
hand  he  touched  the  -chords,  like  some 
later  Scald  he  sang  his  saga  to  King 
Saul!"  It  really  was  rather  fine — plain 
and  simple  too,  monosyllabic,  terse, 
and  wifh-a  musical  sibillation.  Unfor- 
tunately one  of  the  worthy  preacher's 
hearers  told  me  afterward  with  some 
displeasure  that  he  "didn't  hold  wi' 
David  being  all  sing-son^n?  and  scold- 
ing, he'd  no  opinion  o  that."  The 
stories  of  the  queer  mistakes  which  onr 


THE  ENGLISH  COUNTRY  PABSON. 


r07 


hearers  make  in  interpreting  our  ser- 
mons are  simply  enalessn  sometimes 
almost  incredible.  Nevertheless,  no  in- 
vention of  the  most  inveterate  story- 
teller could  equal  the  facts  which  are 
matters  of  weekly  experience. 

**As  yow  was  a  saying  in  your  sar- 
ment,  'tarnal  mowing  won't  du  wirout 
tarnal  making — yow  mind  that!  yer 
ses,  an'  I  did  mind  it  tu,  an'  we  got  up 
4;hat  hay  surprising?"  Mr.  Perry  had 
just  a  little  misconceived  my  words.  I 
had  quoted  from  Philip  Van  Arteveldt. 
"^'He  that  lacks  time  to  mourn  J'  lacks 
time  to  mend.     Eternity  mourns  that. " 

Not  many  months  ago  I  was  visiting 
jsk  good  simple  old  man  who  wiis  death- 
stricken^  and  had  been  Jong  lingering 
/on  the  verge  bf  the  dark  river.  "I've 
.been  thinking  sir,  of  that  little  hymn  as 
you  said  about  the  old  devil  when  he 
'Was  took  bad.  I  should  like  to  hear 
that  again."  I  was  equal  to  the  oc- 
casion. 

"  The  devil  was  sicls— the  de\il  a^alnt  would 
be; 
The  devil  got  well^not  a  bit  of  a  samt  was 
hel'* 

lit  was  necessary  to  soften  down  the 
ianguage  of  the. original!] 

Is  Uiat  what  you  mean?"  Yes!  it 
was  that.  ^^Well  Fve  .been  a  thinking 
as  if  the  old  devil  had  laid  a  bit  longer 
•.and  been  icfflicted  same  as  some  on  ^em, 
lie'd  a  been  the  better  for  it.  Ain't 
there  no  more  o'  that  there  little  hymn, 
sir?" 

The  religious  talk  of  our  Arcadians  is 
sometimes* very  trying — trying  I  mean 
to  any  man  with  only  too  keen  a  sense 
of  the  ludicrous,  and  who  would  not 
for  the  world  betray  himself  if  he  could 
help  it. 

It  is  always  better  to  let  people  wel- 
come you  as  a  friend  ana  neighbor, 
rather  than  as  a  clergyman,  oven  at  the 
risk  of  being  considered  by  the  *^unco 
guid'*  as  an  Irreverent  heathen.  But 
jou  are  often  j)ulled  up  short  by  a  re- 


minder  more  or  less  reproaohfnl,  that 
if  you  have  forgotten  your  vocation  your 
host  has  not;  as  thus: — 

"Ever  been  to  Tombland  fair,  Mrs. 
Cawl?"  Mrs.  Cawl  has  a  perennial 
flow  of  words,  which  come  from  her 
lips  in  a  steady,  unceasing,  and  deliber- 
ate monotone,  a  slow  trickle  of  verbiage 
with  never  the  semblance  of  a  stop: 

**Never  been  to  no  fairs  sin'  I  was  a 
^irl  bless  the  lord  nor  mean  to  ^xcept 
once  when  my  Betsy  went  to  place  and 
father  told  me  to  take  her  to  a  show 
and  there  was  a  giant  and  a  dwarf 
xiressed  in  a  green  petticoat  like  ii 
monkey  on  an  organ  an'  I  ses  to  Betsy 
my  dear  theys  the  works  of  the  Lord 
but  they  hadnH  ought  to  be  showed  but 
as  the  works  of  the  Lord  to  be  had  m. 
remembrance  and  don't  you  think  sir 
as  when  they  shows  the  works  of  the 
Lord  they'd  ought  to  begin  with  « 
little  prayer?'^ 

There  is  one  salient  drfect  in  the 
East  Anglian  character  which  presents 
an  almost  insuperable  obstacle  to  the 
country  parson  who  is  anxious  to  raise 
the  toTie  of  his  people,- and  to  awaken  ^ 
response  wnen  he  appeals  to  their  con- 
sciences and  affections.  The  East  An- 
glian is,  of  all  thejnhabitants  of  these 
islands,  most  wanting  in  native  cpurtesy, 
in  delicacy  of  feeling,  and  in  anything 
remotely  resembling  romantic  senti- 
ment. The  i^esult  is  that  it  is  extremely 
difficult,  almost  impossifele,  to  deal 
with  a  genuine  Norfolk  man  when  he 
is  out  of  temper.  How  much  of  this 
coarseness  of  mental  fiber  is  to  be  cred- 
ited to  their  Danish  ancestry  I  know 
not,  but  whenever  I  have  noticed  a 
gleam  of  enthusiasm,  I  think  1  have 
invariably  found  it  among  those  who 
had  French  Huguenot  blood  in  their 
veins-  Always  shrewd,  the  Norfolk 
peasant  is  never  tender;  a  wrong,  real 
or  imagined,  rankles  within  him 
through  a  lifetime.  He  stubbornly 
refuses  to  believe  that  hatred   in  hia 


705 


THE 


JLiXx>xvixnx    »*akurjv£ua.'^£t. 


case  is  blameworthjjr.  Befinement  of 
feeling  he  is  quite  incapable  of^  and 
without  in  the  least  wishing  to  be  rude^ 
gross,  or  profane,  he  is  often  all  three 
at  once,  quite  innocently,  during  five 
minutes^  talk.  I  have  had  things  said 
to  me  by  really  good  and  well-meaning 
men  and  women  in  Arcady  that  would 
make  susceptible  people  swoon.  It 
would  have  been  quite  idle  to  remon- 
strate.- You  might  as  well  preach  of 
duty  to  an  antelope.  If  you  want  to 
make  any  impression  or  exercise  any 
influence  for  good  upon  your  neigh- 
bors, you  must  take  them  as  you  find 
them,  and  not  expect'  too  much  of 
them.  You  must  work  in  faith,  and 
you  must  work  upon  the  material  that 
presents  itself.  "The  sower  soweth 
the  word.'*  The  mistake  we  commit 
so  often  is  in  assuming  that  because  we 
sow — ^which  is  our  duty — therefore  we 
have  a  right  to  reap  the  crop  and  garner 
it.  "It  CTOws  to  guerdon  after-days." 
Meanwhile  we  have  such  home  truths 
as  the  following  thrown  at  us  in  the 
most      innocent       manner: 


Tree 

score ?'^  Is  that  all  you'  be?  Why 
there's  some  folks  as  ^ud  take  you  for  a 
hundred  wi'  that  hair  o'  yourn?" 

Mr.  Snape  spoke  with  an  amount  of 
irritation  which  would  have  made  an 
outsider  believe  I  was  his  deadliest  foe; 
yet  we  are  really  very  good  friends,  and 
the  old  man  scolds  me  roundly  if  I  am 
long  without  going  to  look  at  him. 
But  he  has  quite  a  fierce  repugnance  to 
gray  hair.  "You  must  take  me  as  a  I 
am,  Snape,"  I  replied;  "1  began  to  get 
gray  at  thirty.  Would  you  have  me 
dye  my  hair?"  "Doyl  Why  that  hev 
doyd,  an'  wuss  than  that — it's  right 
rotten,  thet  is!" 

Or  we  get  taken  into  confidence  now 
and  then,  and  get  an  insight  into  our 
Arcadians'  practical  turn  of  mind. 
I  was  talking  pleasantly  to  a  good 
v.oman  about  ner  children.  *  *  Yes, '  she 
said,    ^they're   all  off  my  hands  now. 


but  I  reckon  I've  had  a  expense-hive 
family.  I  don't  mean  to  say  as  it 
might  not  have  been  worse  if  they'd  all 
lived,  and  we'd  had  to  bring 'em  aH 
up,  but  my  meaning  is  as  they  never 
seemed  to  die  convenient.  I  had  twins 
once,  and  they  both  died,  you  see,  and 
we  had  the  club  money  for  both  of 
•'em,  but  then  one  lived  a  fortnight 
after  the  other,  and  so  that  took  two 
funerals,  and  that  come  expense-hive!" 

It  is  very  shocking  to  a  sensitive 
person  to  hear  the  way  in  which  the  old 
people  speak  of  their  dead  wives  and 
nus bands  exactly  as  if  they'd  been 
horses  or  dogs.  They  are  always 
proud  of  having  been  married  more 
than  once.  "You  didn't  think.  Miss, 
as  I'd  had  five  wives,'  now  did  you? 
Ah!  but  I  have  though  —  leastways  I 
buried  five  on  'em  in  the  churchyard, 
that  I  did — and  tree  on  'ew  beewtiesl*^ 
On  another  occasion  I  playfully  sug- 
gested, "Don't  you  mix  up  your  hus- 
bands now  and  then,  Mrs.  Page,  when 
you  talk  about  them?"  "Well,  to  tell 
you  the  truth,  sir,  I  really  du!  But  my 
third  husband,  he  was  a  man!  I  don't 
mix  him  up.  He  got  killed,  fighting 
— you've  heerd  tell  o'  that  I  make  no 
doubt.  The  others  warn't  nothing  to 
him.  He'd  ha'  mixed  them  up  quick 
enough  if  they'd  interfered  wi'  him. 
Lawk  ah!  He  d  'a  made  nothing  of 
'em!" 

Instances  of  this  obtuseness  to  any- 
thing in  the  nature  of  poetic  sentiment 
among  our  rustics  might  be  multiplied 
indefinitely.  Norfolk  has  never  pro- 
duced a  single  poet  or  romancer.  We 
have  no  local  songs  or  ballads,  no  tradi- 
tions of  valor  or  nobleness,  no  legends 
of  heroism  or  chivalry.  In  their  place 
we*  have  a  frightfully  long  list  of  fero- 
(?ious  murderers:  Thurtell,  and  Tawell, 
and  Manning,  and  Greenacre,  and  Rush, 
and  a  dozen  more  whose  names  stand 
out  pre-eminent  in  the  horrible  annals 
of   crime.    The  temperament  of  the 


CUKRENT  THOUGHT. 


701 


sons  of  Arcady  is  stmngely  callous  to 
all  the  softer  and  gentle  emotions.  — 
AuausTUS  Jessop,  D.D.,  in  Th^  Nine- 
teenth Century, 


CURRENT  THOUGHT. 

Thb  Death  op  Socrates. — By  way  of 
introduction  to  an  essay  on  Hesiod,  the 
Earliest  Greek  Moralist,"  a  writer  in  Macmil- 
lan's  Magazine  thus  speaks  of  the  Life  and 
Death  of  Socrates: — 

"The  most  notable  event  in  the  history  of 
the  Greek  race  is  undoubtedly  the  death  of 
Socrates.  Let  us  briefly  recall  the  circum- 
stances of  that  death^^r  rather  martyrdom. 

"Socrates  was  an  Athenian,  who  spent  the 
{greater  part  of  a  long  life  chiefly  in  instruct- 
mg  his  fellow-countrymen  in  the  principles  of 
a  high  morality,  ite  gathered  around  him  a 
small  circle  of  admirers  and  disciples — ^men 
mostly  much  younger  tlian  himself — invited 
them  to  examine  the  foundations  of  the 
accepted  morality,  rejected  it  when  it  was 
unsound;  inculcated  both  by  example  and 
precept  doctrines  of  temperance,  soberness, 
and  chastity — such  as  command- respect  even 
in  these  days  of  brilliant  moral  illumination 
— and,  if  we  mav  believe  his  disciple,  Plato, 
was  convinced  that  the  supremest  happiness 
was  uprightness  of  life,  ana  guilt  the  grwitest 
misery.  The  formal  dogmas  of  his  country- 
men as  to  the  nature  of  tlie  gods  he  does  not 
seem  directly  to  have  interfered  with,  and, 
indeed,  to  have  accepted  on  this  subject  the 
popular  view.  But  m  spite  of  such  modera- 
tion in  speculation,  and  nobleness  of  life,  he 
was  at  the  age  of  seventy  accused  of  corrupt- 
ing the  jroung  men  of  Athens,  of  worshiping 
gMs  which  that  city  did  not  worship;  and  on 
this  charge  was  condemned  to  death. 

"The  victims  of  religious  persecution  have 
l)een  so  many  since  his  day,  and  we  are  so  well 
accustomerl  to  the  deaths  of' courageous  men 
in  support  of  a  religion,  that  we  are  apt  to 
undervalue  the  greatness  of  the  first  heathen 
philosopher  who  sealed  his  evidence  to  the 
cause  of  goodness  with  his  blood.  And  this 
is  the  more  to  be  lamented,  because  there  has 
probably  been  no  more  consistent  life  and 
death  recorded  in  the  pages  of  profane 
history,  with  the  exception,  perhaps,  of  our 
oMm  countryman,  Sir  Thomas  More. 

"Socrates,  like  Sir  Thomas  More,  might 
have  escaped  the  extreme  penalty  of  death 
;iad  he  been  willing  to  plead  guilty.    In  a 


large  jury  of  nearly  six  hundred  persons,  a 
migonty  of  five  votes  only  found  a  verdict 
against  him,  and  had  he  appealed  for  mercy 
there  is  no  doubt  that  it  would  have  been 
granted.  But  to  appeal  for  mercy  would 
have  been  to  admit  guilt;  and  to  admit  guilt 
would  have  been  to  discredit  that  divine  com* 
mission  to  better  his  countrymen  which  he 
believed  himself  to  have  received.  Further, 
he  had  always  declared  that  death  was  in 
itself  no  evil;  to  live  unjustly  was  evil;  to 
suffer  unjustly  was  a  small  misfortune  in 
comparison  with  doing  unjust  acts;  and  so  he 
submitted  to  his  sentence  with  a  dignified 
cheerfulness,  which,  as  described  by  his  friend 
and  disciple,  Plato,  has  been  the  object  of  the 
veneration  of  all  the  centuries  of  learned  and 
good  men  who  have  since  been  privileged 
with  contemplation  of  his  great  example. 

"But  if  our  admiration  and  love  for  Socrates 
are  high,  what  are  our  feelings  toward  his 
accusers?  What  toward  those  who  .  con- 
demned him?  There  was  a  time  when  thetr 
wickedness  was  accepted  as  a  matter  of 
course,  and  readily  accounted  for  by  the 
proverbial  fickleness  and  unsoundness  of  a 
democracy.  .  .  .  But  when  all  is  said  and 
done,  if  we  abandon  the  primary  awump- 
tion  of  an  innate  depravity  of  the  Athenian 
people,  and  judge  them  on  this  occasion  by 
the  light  of  their  other  history,  these  sugges- 
tions apppear  somewhat  trivial;  and  so, 
perhaps,  it  may  bo  as  well  to  assume  that 
there  were,  after  all,  a  sufilcient  number  of 
men  in  Athens  who  honestly  believed  that 
their  religion  was  threatened  by  the  actions 
of  Socrates,  to  make  that  generally  tolerant 
people  suddenly  appear  in  the  character  of  a 
Torauemada. 

"The  chief  obstacle  in  the  way  of  adopting 
this  View  has  been  a  tendency  to  deny  to  the 
Greeks,  as  a  nation,  any  morality  based  on 
religion  at  all.  Most  of  us  know  them  only 
by  the  light  of  St.  Paul's  £pistles,  and  his 
contemptuous  deseriptions  of  their  trivial 
intellectuality  and  abandoned  moral  condi- 
tion. Others  of  us  who  have  read  Greek, 
have  a  vague  impression  that  Greek  morality 
began  with  Socrates — was  indeed  invented  by 
him;  that  previously  to  his  time  there  had 
been  superstition — if  you  will,  sacrifices, 
expiations—but  no  body  of  popular  morality 
of  sufl)ciently  definite  and  positive  form  to  be 
sensible  of  its  own  existence  and  resent  the 
emergence  of  another  moral  code.  Faith 
there  was  in  Destiny,  a  mysterious  curse  ever 
following  the  pen^etrators  of  particular  crimes, 
in  a  strange  retribution  which  overtook  the 
too  prosperous  man;  but  morality  based  on 
religious    conviction,    and    associated  with 


Tie 


THE  LIBRARY  MAG'AZINB. 


strictly  religioufl  ideaa  did  iiot>exist."— The 
remainder  of  the  present  paper  has  two  main 
purposes,  one  of  which  is  to  prove  that  the 
Greeks  did  believe  in  such  a  thing  as  a  divine 
jevelation  of  morality. 


How  Birds  Flt.— Many  years  «go,  Pro- 
fessor Renwick,  of  Columbia  College,  was 
wont  to  "take  down"  the  young  gentletnen 
who  attended  his  classes  in  Natural  Philoso- 
phy by  asking  tliem  what  operations  tliey 
went  through  in  the  act  of  walking.  The 
almost  univecsal  reply  was  to  the  effect  that 
ibey  raised  one  foot,  and  put  it  down  again; 
then  raised  the  other  and  put  it  down,  and  ^o 
jon.  He  would  then  /quietly  ask  the  student 
io  stand  bolt  upright,  at  one  end  of  the  room, 
iraise  and  tower  his  feet,  as  he  had  described, 
and  see  how  long  it  would  take  him  to  walk 
across  the  room.  The  young  gentleman 
would  discover  to  his  astonishment  that  he  did 
♦not  budge  an  inch.  Mr.  Harrison  Allen^  in 
Science,  tells  birds  what  they  do  when  ihey  .fly. 
'We  question  whether  many  binis  will  read 
4iie  paper,  or  if  they  should  jread  it,  whether 
^hey  would  fully  understand  it;  but  we  sup- 
jpose  they  fly  none  the  wocse  for  not  being 
able  to  tell  how  they  do  it. 

**Th&wing  is  extended  upward  from  the 
•horizontal  position  by  the  deltoid  and  the 
iaiimmus  dor*i  muscles  to  a  line  which  is 
-perpendicular  to  the  body,  and  is  quickly 
again  depressed  to- the  honaontai  position  l^ 
^the  pectarales.    This  constitutes  the  first  st^e 
of  the  'stroke.'    'Recover*  is  initiated  by  an 
inward  rotation  of  the  humerus,  semiflexion 
of  the  wing  at  the  elbow  (the  pinion  remain- 
ing extended  and  directed  obliquely  ^\«i- 
'watd  and  outward),  and  is  carried  well  for- 
ward to  a  degree  sufficient,  when  "seen  in 
-profile,  to  conceal  the  head.    In  this  position 
the  primaries  are  semirotated  so  as  to  present 
'th » least  amount  of  surface  to  the  air  in  the 
direction  in  which  the  bird  is  moving.    The 
•^impetus  excited  by  the  stroke  carries  the  bird 
-upward  and  forward.    In  the  second  stage  of 
'•^recover,'  the  humerus  ifih  rotated  outward, 
•Ihe  arm  is  quickly  raisM,  the  primaries  re- 
'Btored  to  the  position  seen  in  the  bird  at  rest, 
•and  the  wing  is  a  second  time  in  the  position 
-for  the  'stroke.'    In  the  eagle  and  the  hawk 
the  legs  are  in  the  position  of  the  'stroke' 
when  the  wings  are  similarly  placed.    During 
•the  'stroke*  the  legs  move  backward.    This 
motion  continues  during  the  'recover'  of  the 
-wing,  so  that  the  time  of  the  'recover'  of  the 
wing  is  also  that  of  the  'recover'  of  the  leg. 
"The  action  of  both  wings  and  feet,  since  both 
pairs  act  together/  is^  what  I  propose  to  call 


'synftdelphic'  The  study  of  the  fli^t 
confined  to  the  eagle,  the  hawk,  the  pigeon, 
and  the  parrot,  in  the  series  of  iustantaneou* 
photographs  .taken  by  Mr.  Edward  Muy- 
bridge,  under  the  auspices  of  the  University 
of  Pennsylvania." 


Don't  Cake  a -D  •  *  *.— This  phra« 
certainly  sounds  rather  profanely.  But  in  ita 
origin,  as  giwen  fey/ Col.  Yule,  inliis  very  cu- 
rious Anglo-Indian  Glouary,  there  is  nothing 
At  all  objectionable.    Col.  Yule  says:— 

'  'I>am,—Bm^   Originally  an  actual  oopper 

coin.    Ihe  tendency  of  denominations  of  coin 

is  always  to  sink  in  value.    Damrl  is  a  oom- 

mon  enough  expression  for  the  infinitesimal 

in  coin,  and  one  has  often  heard  a  Briton  in 

India. say:     'No!    I  won^t  give  a  damreef* 

with    but    a  vague    notion   what   a  damri 

meant,  as  in  Scotland  we  have  heard,     .*! 

wonU;  gi\»  a  plack,'  tliouffh    certamly  ahe 

speaker  could  not  have  statea  the  value  of  tJhat 

ancient  coin.    And  this  leads  to  the  sugges- 

.tion,  that  a  like  expression,  often  heard  from 

coarse  talkers  in  England  as  well  as  in  India, 

originated  in  the    latter  country,  and  that 

whatever  iprofanity  there  may  be  in  the  ani- 

jnus  there  is  none  in  the  etymology,  when 

such  a  one  blurts  out  'I  don't  care  a  daml' 

i.e.   in  other  words,   '1  don't  care  a  brass 

,farthuagl'      If  the  gentle  reader  deems  this  a 

far-fetSied  suggestion^  let  us  back  it  by  a 

second.    We  Sod  in  Cliaucer: ' ne  raugbt 

he  not  a  ken^*  which  means^lie  recked  not 
*aci'ew'  .{ne  flocci  quidem);  an  expressiqn 
which  is  found  also  in  Piers  Plowman: 
'Wisdom,  and  witte  nowe  is.  not  worthe  a 
kerse/  And  this,  we  doubt  not,  has  given 
rise  to  that  other  vulgar  expression,  'I  don  t 
care  a  curse;'  curiously  parallel  in  its  cor- 
ruption to  that  in  JUustration  of  which  we 

quote  it." 

Tbat^s  thu  Cheesb.— Col.  Tule  ^vcs  at 
least  a  probable  Oriental  origin  for  this  Eng- 
lish slang  phrase:— 

"Cheese. — This  word  is  well  known  to  be 
used  in  modem  English  «lMig^  for  'anything 
ffood,  first-rate  An  qmality,  gwimne,  ple^nf* 
or  advantageous.'  And  Uie  most  gt)baWe 
source  of  the  term  in  Pers.  and  H.  cAw, 
thing.  For  that  expression  nsed  to  l>e 
common  among  young  AnKlo-J?<*»wiS' ,^j£: 
'My  new  Arab  is  ^he  Teal  ehvi;  Thc« 
cheroots  are-  real  ehiz,'  i.e.,  the  real  thing. 
The  word  may  have  been  an  Anglo-Indian 
importation,  and  itisdifflcuU  oUwrwisc  ^ 
account  ibrik" 


0^\