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PROCEEDINGS  I 

OF  THE 

AMERICAN  ACADEMY  OF  ARTS 
AND  LETTERS 

AND  OF  THE 

NATIONAL  INSTITUTE  OF  ARTS 
AND  LETTERS 


1909-1910 


THE  DE  VINNE  PRESS 
NEW  YORK 


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CONTENTS 

PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  FIRST  PUBLIC  MEETINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY 
Sessions  in  Washington,  December  14  and  16,  1909 

PAGE 

Opening  Address  of  the  President 

IVilliam  Dean  Howells  ....      $y^ 

The  Evolution  of  Style  in  Modern  Architecture 

Thomas  Hastings 9 

In  Praise  of  Poetry 

I  "I  Marvel  Not" 
II  Refuge 
III  "He  Came  so  Be.\utifully  Clad*' 

Richard  Watson  Gilder      ...     16 

The  Actual  State  of  Art  Among  Us 

Edwin  Howland  Blashfield    .    .     17 

RusKiN  and  Norton 

Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson  .    22 

The  Molly  Maguires  in  the  Anthracite  Region  of  Pennsylvania 

James  Ford  Rhodes 25 

The  Capitol 

Julia  Ward  Howe 35 

Concerning  Contemporary  Music 

Horatio  William  Parker    ...    36 


Sketch  of  the  Academy  and  List  of  Members  and  Officers  .    .     44 


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PROCEEDINGS 

OF  THE 


American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters 

AND  OF  THE 

National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters 


Published  at  intervals  by  the  Societies 


Copies  may  be  had  on  application  to  the  Permanent  Secretary  of  the  Academy,  Mr.  R.  U.  Johnson, 
35  East  17th  Street,  New  York  Price  per  annum  $1.00 


Vol.  I 


New  York,  June  id,  19 10 


No.  I 


THE  AMERICAN  ACADEMY  OF  ARTS  AND  LETTERS 

First  Public  Meetings  held  in  Washington,  D.  C,  December 
14  and  16,  1909 


Opening  Address  of  the  President, 
William  Dean  Howells 


It  might  very  well  be  expected  that  the 
President  of  the  American  Academy  of 
Arts  and  Letters,  in  opening  its  first 
public  session,  would  say  something  of 
its  origin  and  its  object,  its  nature  and 
its  function,  so  far  as  these  can  be  de- 
clared or  conjectured. 

Not  wholly  to  disappoint  such  an  ex- 
pectation, if  it  exists,  I  will  state  as 
briefly  as  may  be  that  this  Academy 
derives  from  the  National  Institute  of 
Arts  and  Letters,  which  in  turn  was 
originally  a  section  of  the  Social  Sci- 
ence Association.  Several  years  after 
the  Institute  had  become  an  independent 
body,  certain  of  its  members  felt  that 
an  Academy  chosen  from  it  could  more 
succinctly  represent  to  the  country  what 
had  been  accomplished  in  literature,  in 
music,  in  painting,  in  sculpture,  and  in 
architecture.  The  group  of  artists  and 
authors,  so  chosen  to  the  number  of 


thirty,  became  thereafter  elective,  and 
enlarged  itself  to  the  number  of  fifty, 
always  drawing  its  members  from  the 
Institute,  but  no  longer  sharing  their 
selection  with  that  body. 

So  far  as  the  disinterested  will  of 
either  the  Institute  or  the  Academy 
could  effect  the  end  in  view,  this  Acad- 
emy is  representative.  It  is  possible 
that,  by  an  oversight,  which  we  should 
all  deplore,  some  artist  or  author  or 
composer  whose  work  has  given  him 
the  right  to  be  of  us  is  not  of  us.  It  is 
also  possible  that  time  will  decide  that 
some  of  us  who  are  now  here  were  not 
worthy  to  be  here,  and  by  this  decision 
we  must  abide.  But  until  it  is  ren- 
dered, we  will  suffer  with  what  meek- 
ness, what  magnanimity,  we  may  the 
impeachments  of  those  contemporaries 
who  may  question  our  right  to  be  here. 

Concerning    our    affinity    with    like 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY 


bodies  in  different  countries,  I  shall  not 
try  to  make  out  a  case.  The  French 
Academy  is  the  first  of  the  august  com- 
panies with  which  the  American  Acad- 
emy would  wish  not  to  claim  kindred 
or  challenge  comparison.  The  Spanish 
Academy,  the  Berlin  Academy,  the 
Academy  of  St.  Petersburg,  as  well  as 
the  academies  of  the  other  European 
nations  and  those  of  the  Spanish- 
American  republics,  have  each  an  au- 
thoritative structure  and  an  authorita- 
tive office  to  which  we  do  not  pretend, 
and  would  not  wish  to  pretend.  The 
law  of  our  being,  however  voluntary, 
is  tempered  by  the  arbitrary  cast  of  our 
race,  and  we  cannot  hope  to  shape 
American  arts  and  letters  by  our  col- 
lective action.  But  if  each  one  of  us,  as 
I  trust,  stands  for  something  distinctive 
in  his  kind,  it  is  reasonable  to  hope  that 
our  aggregation  will  make  for  standing 
in  all  our  different  kinds.  In  our  Amer- 
ican community,  whose  average  intelli- 
gence is  unsurpassed,  not  to  say  un- 
equaled,  the  appreciation  of  permanent 
achievement  in  literature  and  art  is  less 
constant  than  in  any  other.  The  gen- 
eral eye  follows  the  sweep  of  the  comet 
across  our  skies,  and  when  the  comet 
sinks  from  sight  in  the  pale  ether  where 
the  modest  planets  and  the  patient  stars 
are  shining,  the  general  eye  seeks  an- 
other comet.  By  and  by  there  will  be 
one,  but  in  those  intercometary  moments 
which  must  ensue,  I  have  the  belief 
that  our  Academy  may  make  itself  felt 
as  an  influence  in  behalf  of  luminaries 
which  have  or  seem  to  have  planetary 
and  stellar  qualities. 

The  place  of  many  of  these  has  been 
or  will  be  fixed  by  time,  and  it  might  be 
supposed  that  any  academic  influence 
would  be  superfluous  in  holding  them 
there.  But  this  is  one  of  those  popular 
fallacies  in  which  our  indolence  too 
willingly  reposes.  The  classics,  the  best 
things,  the  greatest  things,  the  stellar 
and  planetary  things,  do  not  keep  them- 
selves from  being  forgotten;  it  is  the 
zeal  of  those  who  love  beauty  and  truth 
which  from  age  to  age  renews  them  in 


secular  effulgence.  For  those  lights 
which  swim  into  our  ken  from  the 
bounds  of  mystery  where  the  promise 
of  beauty  and  truth  abides,  ready  to 
fulfil  itself  when  the  hour  strikes,  still 
more  is  a  favoring  and  fostering  wel- 
come needed. 

It  is  my  own  hope,  and  I  think  it  will 
be  the  opinion  of  those  who  listen  to 
the  papers  about  to  be  read  here,  in  the 
first  public  sessions  of  the  Academy,  that 
this  influence  can  now  make  itself  felt 
as  it  could  not  before.  If  it  should  re- 
main simply  atmospheric,  with  no  direct 
tendency,  it  seems  to  me  that  all  those 
who  love  the  arts  and  long  to  devote 
themselves  to  their  service  will  find  it 
vital.  They  must  be  aware  of  a  kin- 
dred passion,  a  like  worship,  a  common 
aspiration,  where  before  there  might 
have  seemed  at  the  best  a  friendly  irony 
or  a  tolerant  doubt  in  the  measureless 
space  about  them. 

In  our  vast,  striving  world  of  ma- 
terial enterprises  and  activities,  the 
Academy,  as  I  imagine  it,  seeks  to  em- 
body a  fraternal  consciousness  of  those 
who  dedicate  themselves  to  the  arts, 
and  a  promise  of  affectionate  recogni- 
tion, prompt,  hopeful,  and  encouraging. 
It  should  count  for  something ;  it  should 
count  for  much,  in  the  service  and  the 
love  of  the  arts,  that  there  is  an  asso- 
ciation of  those  who  have  done  things 
in  them,  and  are  always  thinking  of 
them,  and  desiring  their  greater  honor 
among  us.  The  proof  of  such  a  fact 
will  be  apparent  in  the  essays  which  I 
will  not  long  delay  you  from  hearing, 
and  which  will  form  the  proceedings 
of  the  Academy  on  this  occasion.  I 
may  say  that  each  of  the  Academicians 
who  speaks  will  speak  with  an  author- 
ity in  his  sort  which  the  Academy  col- 
lectively is  not  willing  to  claim.  To- 
gether they  will  affirm  for  the  present 
the  effectivity  of  the  Academy,  and  if 
no  more  specific  action  of  it  testified 
in  its  behalf,  I  think  their  testimony 
in  its  behalf  would  be  enough.  But 
still  I  hope  for  something  else  here- 
after, some  direct,  if  not  immediate, 


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OPENING  ADDRESS  OF  THE  PRESIDENT 


effect  of  that  potential  usefulness  which 
I  like  to  imagine  in  it. 

What  I  really  think  we  might  do, 
would  be  somediing  actual,  something 
approximately  advisable  and  applicable. 
I  shall  not  answer  for  the  arts,  but  I 
venture  to  say  for  the  letters  that,  if 
at  each  annual  reimion  of  our  society 
some  member  of  it  would  speak  of  a 
^  new  American  book  which  he  had 
read  with  a  sense  of  its  peculiar  ex- 
cellence in  its  sort,  he  would  be  doing 
our  literature  a  very  helpful  service.  I 
should  not  care  at  what  large  or  little 
length  he  spoke  his  praise,  so  that  he 
did  it  with  a  single  devotion  to  the 
honor  of  letters  and  the  recognition  of 
a  novel  gift  in  the  author.  His  praise 
would  serve  with  us  the  purpose  of 
that  coronation  which  is  the  supreme 
act  of  the  French  Academy,  and  yet 
would  not  commit  our  whole  number  to 
his  opinions,  or  infringe  that  individu- 
ality which,  whether  we  will  or  no,  will 
probably  always  remain  our  distin- 
guishing characteristic,  in  virtue  of  our 
being  by  origin  and  circumstance 
Anglo-Saxon.  As  has  been  expressed 
to  me  by  one  of  the  first  among  us,  we 
can  never  hope  to  take  that  concordant 
attitude  toward  examples  of  literature 
and  art  which  in  the  Continental  acad- 
emies responds  to  the  Latin  impulse 
originating  and  animating  them ;  and  I 
have  the  feeling  that  we  American 
Anglo-Saxons  will  probably  act  even 
less  than  British  Ajiglo-Saxons  as  a 
whole.  So  deeply  do  I  realize  that  our 
membership  may  at  some  time  or  on 
some  point  prove,  like  the  sentences  of 
Emerson,  an  association  of  "infinitely 
repellent  particles,"  that  I  have  a  pre- 
science of  such  difference  among  us  even 
as  I  had  vaguely  forecast  our  possible 
functioning;  I  am  aware  of  speaking 
rather  for  myself  than  for  all  my  fel- 
low-Academicians or  for  any  of  them. 
But  this  feeling  liberates  me,  as  I  hope 
its  expression  will  liberate  them,  to  any 
bolder  prevision  of  our  duty  to  the 
esthetic  life  of  the  nation.  It  enables 
me  to  entertain  with  a  livelier  hospi- 


tality the  hope  that  what  I  have  imag- 
ined one  of  our  literary  section  doing 
for  some  signal  performance  each  year 
in  literature,  some  member  of  our  sev- 
eral artistic  sections  will  do  for  what  he 
thinks  the  best  work  in  painting  or 
sculpture  or  architecture  or  music, 
always  without  committing  the  others 
to  his  opinion,  but  trying  his  best  to 
make  known,  with  what  authority  his 
own  standing  gives,  the  merits  of  the 
work  he  praises. 

If  the  American  Academy  of  Arts  and 
Letters  did  no  more  than  this,  I  am  ready 
to  say  that  it  would  serve  a  great  and 
worthy  end.  It  would  do  something 
to  establish  a  criterion  of  esthetic  criti- 
cism, and  not  leave  this  to  every  wind 
that  blows  too  lullingly  or  too  blight- 
ingly  through  the  avenues  where  young 
talent  has  so  often  drowsed  or  shivered. 
The  very  nature  of  such  criticism, 
which  should  never  be  mere  praise  and 
never  mere  blame,  would  save  our  ver- 
dicts from  the  contempt  which  has 
phrased  itself  in  a  word  drawn  from 
the  name  of  the  judgment-seat  itself. 
Our  verdicts  would  not  be  a  choice 
arising  from  indifference  or  complai- 
sance, but  springing  from  the  duteous 
pleasure  of  the  critic,  and,  offered 
freely,  gladly,  in  payment  of  a  debt  of 
delight,  would  save  us  from  the  last 
and  sharpest  reproach  of  academies :  it 
would  not  be  academic. 

Perhaps  it  is  too  fond  a  fancy,  but  it 
does  not  appear  to  me  impossible  that 
in  some  such  way  our  judgments  of 
the  arts  might  be  commensurate  with 
others'  achievements  in  them.  We 
might  in  this  way  make  our  criticisms 
distinctively  American,  though  I  hazard 
the  word  with  reluctance,  with  misgiv-  , 
ing.  If  the  Academician  whom  the 
duty  and  pleasure  of  appreciation 
moved  should  respond  in  the  love  of 
such  beauty  as  the  American  condi- 
tioning of  the  universal  arts  had  fos- 
tered, he  would  perhaps  also  be  moved 
to  accept  an  American  conditioning  for 
his  analysis  and  synthesis,  and  praise 
the  work  in  hand  from  as  fresh  an  ar- 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY 


dor  as  stimulated  the  poet  or  novelist  or 
historian,  the  painter  or  sculptor  or 
architect  or  composer  who  created  it. 

We  dwell  in  a  New  World,  but  it  is 
the  unaging  youth  of  the  Old  World  in 
our  hearts  and  brains,  the  inherent  dis- 
cipline of  the  soul,  the  immemorial  civ- 
ilization of  the  conscience,  which  will 
make  us  equal  to  our  opportunity.  So 
far  as  we  shall  spread  some  perception 
of  this,  and  from  our  light,  if  we  have 
it,  enlighten  the  dark  places  of  patri- 
otism by  inculcating  a  self-esteem  based 
only  upon  worthy  achievement  in  the 
arts  and  letters,  so  far  we  shall  serve 
our  generation  well  and  deserve  well  of 
it.  If  we  do  nothing  of  this  kind,  then 
I  am  afraid  we  shall  not  outlast  our 
generation.  Our  power  of  continuous 
immortality  through  our  collectivity 
will  not  avail  us;  we  shall  be  forgot- 
ten, at  least  as  Academicians,  even 
before  we  are  dead,  and  we  shall 
sit  time-bound  ghosts  awaiting  our  dis- 
embodiment in  the  chairs  from  which 
no  envious  competitors  will  wish  to 
push  us. 

At  present  we  are  here  for  what  we 
have  unitedly  or  severally  done.  If  I 
consider  the  things  accomplished  in  lit- 
erature and  art  by  the  gentlemen  pres- 
ent, I  think  that  such  provisional  exis- 
tence as  we  claim  is  fully,  is  amply, 
authorized.  If  some  or  any  of  my  fel- 
lows should  hold  that  we  had  done 
enough  to  let  our  work  work  for  us,  and 
be  that  influence  which  I  have  been 
imagining,  without  our  further  effort,  I 
might  have  my  moments  of  agreeing 
with  them;  but  I  do  not  know  of  such 


a  disposition  in  our  number.  I  believe 
that  each  of  us  is  sensible  in  himself, 
and  in  the  rest,  of  that  inward  call  to 
further  endeavor  which  is  the  supreme 
joy  of  work  done,  and  I  am  sure  that 
out  of  this  longing  for  perpetual  use, 
this  molecular  stir  of  the  universal  ac- 
tivity in  our  wills,  something  more  and 
more  will  come  to  justify  us  in  calling 
ourselves  the  American  Academy. 

Without  fulfilling  any  specific  wish, 
or  lending  ourselves,  however  provi- 
sionally, to  the  promise  of  definite  ac- 
tion, we  can  still  practise  an  enlight- 
ened, I  trust  the  most  enlightened,  op- 
portunism. If  we  hold  this  attitude 
frankly,  honestly,  occasion  will  not  be 
wanting  to  us,  and  I  believe  we  shall 
not  be  wanting  to  occasion.  To  relate 
itself  to  the  esthetic  life  of  the  nation, 
which  in  the  last  analysis  is  its  ethical 
life,  will  be  the  instinctive  impulse,  and  , 
will  become  the  conscious  purpose  of 
an  association  which  through  its  expe- 
rience has  been  constructive,  and  from 
its  condition  is  critical.  If  we  are  here, 
in  the  first  place,  because  we  have  each 
of  us  done  something,  we  can  remain 
only  because  in  the  next  place  we  desire 
others  to  do  something  yet  more  sig- 
nificant and  important. 

I  shall  not  delay  you  further  by  these 
wandering  and,  I  hope,  inconclusive 
guesses  at  our  office  from  the  series  of 
papers  which  will  now  be  read  by  mem- 
bers of  the  different  sections  of  the 
Academy,  and  which  by  their  scope  and 
range  will  tend  to  give  dimension  to 
the  design  from  which  I  have  shrunk 
from  trying  to  give  precision. 


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THE  EVOLUTION  OF  STYLE  IN 
MODERN  ARCHITECTURE 

By  Thomas  Hastings 


The  architectural  style  or  language  of 
any  time  in  history  is,  and  always  has 
been,  a  universal  language  common  to 
all  peoples.  In  solving  problems  of 
modem  life,  the  essential  is  not  so  much 
to  be  national  or  American  as  it  is  to 
be  modem  and  of  our  own  period. 

The  question  of  supreme  interest  is, 
What  influence  life  in  its  different 
phases  has  upon  architectural  style? 
Style  in  architecture  is  that  method  of 
expression  in  the  art  which  has  varied 
in  different  periods,  almost  simultane- 
ously throughout  the  civilized  world, 
without  reference  to  the  different  coun- 
tries beyond  slight  differences  of  na- 
tional character  mostly  influenced  by 
climate  and  temperament.  Surely  mod- 
em architecture  should  not  be  the 
deplorable  creation  of  the  would-be 
style-inventor,  or  that  of  the  illogical 
architect  living  in  one  age  and  choos- 
ing a  style  from  another ! 

The  important  and  indisputable  fact 
is  not  generally  realized  that  from  pre- 
historic times  until  now  each  age  has 
built  in  one,  and  only  one,  style.  Since 
the  mound-builders  and  cave-dwellers, 
no  people,  until  modem  times,  ever  at- 
tempted to  adapt  a  style  of  a  past  epoch 
to  the  solution  of  a  modem  problem: 
in  such  attempts  is  the  root  of  all  mod- 
em evils.  In  each  successive  style  there 
has  always  been  a  distinctive  spirit  of 
contemporaneous  life  from  which  its 
root  drew  nourishment.  But  in  our 
time,  contrary  to  all  historic  precedents, 
there  is  a  confusing  selection  from  the 
past  of  every  variety  of  style.  Why 
should  we  not  be  modem  and  have  one 
characteristic  style  expressing  the  spirit 
of  our  own  life?    History  and  the  law 


of  development  alike  demand  that  we 
build  as  we  live. 

One  might  consider  the  history  and 
development  of  costumes  to  illustrate 
the  principle  involved.  In  our  dress  to- 
day we  are  modern,  but  sufficiently  re- 
lated to  the  past,  which  we  realize  when 
we  look  upon  the  photographs  of  our 
ancestors  of  only  a  generation  ago.  We 
should  not  think  of  dressing  as  they 
did,  or  of  wearing  a  Gothic  robe  pr  a 
Roman  toga;  but  as  individual  as  we 
might  wish  to  be,  we  should  still  be 
inclined,  with  good  taste,  to  dress  ac- 
cording to  the  dictates  of  the  day. 

The  irrational  idiosyncrasy  of  mod- 
em times  is  the  assumption  that  each 
kind  of  problem  demands  a  particular 
style  of  architecture.  Through  preju- 
dice, this  assumption  has  become  so 
fixed  that  it  is  common  to  assume  that, 
if  building  a  church  or  a  university,  we 
must  make  it  Gothic;  if  a  theater,  we 
must  make  it  Renaissance.  One  man 
wants  an  Elizabethan  house,  another 
wants  his  house  early-Italian.  With  this 
state  of  things,  it  would  seem  as  though 
the  serious  study  of  character  were  no 
longer  necessary.  Expression  in  archi- 
tecture, forsooth,  is  only  a  question  of 
selecting  the  right  style. 

The  two  parties  with  which  we  must 
contend  are,  on  the  one  hand,  those  who 
would  break  with  the  past,  and,  on  the 
other,  those  who  would  select  from  the 
past  according  to  their  own  fancy. 

Style  in  its  growth  has  always  been 
governed  by  the  universal  law  of  devel- 
opment. If  from  the  early  times,  when 
painting,  sculpture,  and  architecture 
were  closely  combined,  we  trace  their 
progress  through  their  gradual  devel- 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY 


opment  and  consequent  differentiation, 
we  can  but  be  impressed  by  the  way  in 
which  one  style  has  been  evolved  from 
another.  This  evolution  has  always 
kept  pace  with  the  progress  of  the  po- 
litical, religious,  and  economic  spirit  of 
each  successive  age.  It  has  manifested 
itself  unconsciously  in  the  architect's 
designs,  under  the  imperatives  of  new 
practical  problems  and  of  new  require- 
ments and  conditions  imposed  upon 
him.  This  continuity  in  the  history  of 
architecture  is  universal.  As  in  nature 
the  types  and  species  of  life  have  kept 
pace  with  the  successive  modifications 
of  lands  and  seas  and  other  physical 
conditions  imposed  upon  them,  so  has 
architectural  style  in  its  growth  and  de- 
velopment until  now  kept  pace  with  the 
successive  modifications  of  civilization. 
For  the  principles  of  development 
should  be  as  dominant  in  art  as  they  are 
in  nature.  The  laws  of  natural  selec- 
tion and  of  the  survival  of  the  fittest 
have  shaped  the  history  of  architectural 
style  just  as  truly  as  they  have  the  dif- 
ferent successive  forms  of  life.  Hence 
the  necessity  that  we  keep  and  cultivate 
the  historic  spirit,  and  that  we  respect 
our  historic  position  and  relations,  and 
that  we  more  and  more  realize  in  our 
designs  the  fresh  demands  of  our  time, 
more  important  even  than  the  demands 
of  our  environment. 

What  determining  change  have  we 
had  in  the  spirit  and  methods  of  life 
since  the  revival  of  learning  and  the  Re- 
formation to  justify  us  in  abandoning 
the  Renaissance  or  in  reviving  medieval 
art,  Romanesque,  Gothic,  Byzantine,  or 
any  other  style  ?  Only  the  most  radical 
changes  in  the  history  of  civilization, 
such  as,  for  example,  the  dawn  of  the 
Christian  era  and  of  the  Reformation, 
and  the  revival  of  learning,  have 
brought  with  them  correspondingly 
radical  changes  in  architectural  style. 

Were  it  necessary,  we  could  trace  two 
distinctly  parallel  lines,  one  the  history 
of  civilization,  the  other  the  history  of 
style  in  art.  In  each  case  we  should 
find   a  gradual   development,   a   quick 


succession  of  events,  a  revival,  perhaps 
almost  a  revolution,  and  a  consequent 
reaction,  always  together,  like  cause 
and  effect,  showing  that  architecture  and 
life  must  correspond.  In  order  to  build 
a  living  architecture,  we  must  build  as 
we  live. 

Compare  the  Roman  orders  with  the 
Greek  and  with  previous  work.  When 
Rome  was  at  its  zenith  in  civilization, 
the  life  of  the  people  demanded  of  the 
architect  that  he  should  not  only  build 
temples,  theaters,  and  tombs,  but  baths, 
palaces,  basilicas,  triumphal  arches, 
commemorative  pillars,  aqueducts,  and 
bridges.  As  each  of  these  new  prob- 
lems came  to  the  architect,  it  was  sim- 
ply a  new  demand  from  the  new  life  of 
the  people,  a  new  work  to  be  done. 
When  the  Roman  architect  was  given 
such  varied  work  to  do,  there  was  no 
reason  for  his  casting  aside  all  prece- 
dent. While  original  in  conception,  he 
was  called  upon  to  meet  these  exigencies 
only  with  modifications  of  the  old 
forms.  These  modifications  very  grad- 
ually gave  us  Roman  architecture.  The 
Roman  orders  distinctly  show  them- 
selves to  be  a  growth  from  the  Greek 
orders,  but  the  variations  were  such 
as  were  necessary  in  order  that  the 
orders  might  be  used  with  more  free- 
dom in  a  wider  range  of  problems. 
These  orders  were  to  be  brought  in  con- 
tact with  wall  or  arch,  or  to  be  super- 
imposed upon  one  another,  as  in  a 
Roman  amphitheater.  The  Roman  rec- 
ognition of  the  arch  as  a  rational  and 
beautiful  form  of  construction,  and  the 
necessity  for  the  more  intricate  and 
elaborate  floor-plan,  were  among  the 
causes  which  developed  the  style  of  the 
Greeks  into  what  is  now  recognized  as 
Roman  architecture. 

We  could  multiply  illustrations  with- 
out limit.  The  battlements  and  machic- 
olated  cornices  of  the  Romanesque, 
the  thick  walls  and  the  small  windows 
placed  high  above  the  floor,  tell  us  of 
an  age  when  every  man's  house  was  in- 
deed his  castle,  his  fortress,  and  his 
stronghold.    The  style  was  then  an  ex- 


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II 


pression  of  that  feverish  and  morbid 
aspiration  peculiar  to  medieval  life. 
The  results  are  great,  but  they  are  the 
outcome  of  a  disordered  social  status 
not  like  our  own,  and  such  a  status 
could  in  no  wise  be  satisfied  with  the 
simple  classic  forms  of  modem  times, 
the  architrave  and  the  column. 

Compare  a  workman  of  to-day  build- 
ing a  Gothic  church,  slavishly  following 
his  detail  drawings,  with  a  workman  of 
the  fourteenth  century  doing  such  detail 
work  as  was  directed  by  the  architect, 
but  with  as  much  interest,  freedom,  and 
devotion  in  making  a  small  capital  as 
the  architect  had  in  the  entire  structure. 
Perhaps  doing  penance  for  his  sins,  he 
praises  God  with  every  chisel-stroke. 
His  life  interest  is  in  that  small  capital ; 
for  him  work  is  worship ;  and  his  life  is 
one  continuous  psalm  of  praise.  The 
details  of  the  capital,  while  beautiful, 
may  be  grotesque,  but  there  is  honest 
life  in  them.  To  imitate  such  a  capital 
to-day,  without  that  life,  would  be  af- 
fectation. Now  a  Gothic  church  is  built 
by  men  whose  one  interest  is  to  increase 
their  wages  and  diminish  their  working- 
hours.  The  best  Gothic  work  has  been 
done,  and  cannot  be  repeated.  When 
attempted,  it  will  always  lack  that  kind 
of  medieval  spirit  of  devotion  which  is 
the  life  of  medieval  architecture. 

We  might  enumerate  such  illustra- 
tions indefinitely.  If  one  age  looks  at 
things  diflFerently  from  another  age,  it 
must  express  things  differently.  With 
the  revival  of  learning,  with  the  new 
conceptions  of  philosophy  and  religion, 
with  the  great  discoveries  and  inven- 
tions, with  the  altered  political  systems, 
with  the  fall  of  the  Eastern  Empire, 
with  the  birth  of  modem  science  and 
literature,  and  with  other  manifold 
changes  all  over  Europe,  came  the  dawn 
of  the  modem  world;  and  with  this 
modem  world  there  was  evolved  what 
we  should  now  recognize  as  the  modem 
architecture,  the  Renaissance,  which 
pervaded  all  the  arts  and  which  has 
since  engrossed  the  thought  and  labor 
of  the  first  masters  in  art.    This  Re- 


naissance is  a  distinctive  style  in  itself, 
which,  with  natural  variations  of  char- 
acter, has  been  evolving  for  almost  four 
hundred  years. 

So  great  were  the  changes  in  thought 
and  life  during  the  Renaissance  period 
that  the  forms  of  architecture  which 
had  prevailed  for  a  thousand  years  were 
inadequate  to  the  needs  of  the  new  civi- 
lization, to  its  demands  for  greater  re- 
finement of  thought,  for  larger  tmth- 
fulness  to  nature,  for  less  mystery  in 
forms  of  expression,  and  for  greater 
convenience  in  practical  living.  Out  of 
these  necessities  of  the  times  the  Re- 
naissance style  was  evolved,— taking 
about  three  generations  to  make  the 
transition,— and  around  no  other  style 
have  been  accumulated  such  vast  stores 
of  knowledge  and  experience,  under  the 
lead  of  the  great  masters  of  Europe. 
Therefore,  whatever  we  now  build, 
whether  church  or  dwelling,  the  law  of 
historic  development  requires  that  it  be 
Renaissance,  and  if  we  encourage  the 
tme  principles  of  composition,  it  will 
involuntarily  be  a  modem  Renaissance. 

Imagine  the  anachronism  of  trying 
to  satisfy  our  comparatively  realistic 
tastes  with  Gothic  architectural  sculp- 
ture or  with  painting  made  by  modem 
artists !  Never  until  the  present  genera- 
tion have  architects  presumed  to  choose 
from  the  past  any  style  in  the  hope  to 
do  as  well  as  was  done  in  the  time  to 
which  that  style  belonged.  In  other 
times,  they  would  not  even  restore  or 
add  to  a  historic  building  in  the  style 
in  which  it  was  first  conceived.  It  is 
interesting  to  notice  how  the  architect 
was  even  able  to  complete  a  tower  or 
add  an  arcade  or  extend  a  building,  fol- 
lowing the  general  lines  of  the  original 
composition,  without  following  its  style, 
so  that  almost  every  historic  building 
within  its  own  walls  tells  the  story  of 
its  long  life.  How  much  more  inter- 
esting alike  to  the  historian  and  the 
artist  are  these  results ! 

In  every  case  where  the  medieval 
style  has  been  attempted  in  modem 
times,  the  result  has  shown  a  want  of 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY 


life  and  spirit  simply  because  it  was  an 
anachronism.  The  result  has  always 
been  dull,  lifeless,  and  uninteresting. 
It  is  without  sympathy  with  the  present 
or  a  germ  of  hope  for  the  future— only 
the  skeleton  of  what  once  was.  We 
should  study  and  develop  the  Renais- 
sance, and  adapt  it  to  our  modem  con- 
ditions and  wants,  so  that  future  gene- 
rations can  see  that  it  has  truly  inter- 
preted our  life.  We  can  interest  those 
who  come  after  us  only  as  we  thus  ac- 
cept our  true  historic  position  and  de- 
velop what  has  come  to  us.  Without 
this  we  shall  be  only  copyists,  or  be 
making  poor  adaptations  of  what  was 
never  really  ours. 

The  time  must  come,  and,  I  believe, 
in  the  near  future,  when  architects  of 
necessity  will  be  educated  in  one  style, 
and  that  will  be  the  style  of  their  own 
time.  They  will  be  so  familiar  with 
what  will  have  become  a  settled  convic- 
tion, and  so  loyal  to  it,  that  the  entire 
question  of  style,  which  at  present 
seems  to  be  determined  by  fashion, 
fancy,  or  ignorance,  will  be  kept  sub- 
servient to  the  great  principles  of  com- 
position, which  are  now  more  or  less 
smothered  in  the  general  confusion. 

Whoever  demands  of  an  architect  a 
style  not  in  keeping  with  the  spirit  of 
his  time  is  responsible  for  retarding  the 
normal  progress  of  the  art.  We  must 
have  a  language,  if  we  would  talk.  If 
there  be  no  common  language  for  a  peo- 
ple, there  can  be  no  communication  of 
ideas  either  architectural  or  literary.  I 
believe  that  we  shall  one  day  rejoice  in 
the  dawn  of  a  modem  Renaissance, 
^  and,  as  always  has  been  the  case,  we 
shall  be  guided  by  the  fundamental 
principles  of  the  classic.  It  will  be  a 
modem  Renaissance,  because  it  will  be 
characterized  by  the  conditions  of  mod- 
em life.  It  will  be  the  work  of  the 
Renaissance  architect  solving  new  prob- 
lems, adapting  his  art  to  an  honest  and 
natural  treatment  of  new  materials  and 
conditions.  Will  he  not  also  be  uncon- 
sciously influenced  by  the  twentieth-cen- 
tury spirit  of  economy  and  by  the  appli- 


cation of  his  art  to  all  modem  industries 
and  speculations  ? 

Only  when  we  come  to  recognize  our 
tme  historic  position  and  the  principles 
of  continuity  in  history,  when  we  allow 
the  spirit  of  our  life  to  be  the  spirit  of 
our  style,  recognizing  first  of  all  that 
form  and  all  design  are  the  natural  and 
legitimate  outcome  of  the  nature  or 
purpose  of  the  object  to  be  made,  only 
then  can  we  hope  to  find  a  real  style 
everywhere  asserting  itself.  Then  we 
shall  see  that  consistency  of  style  which 
has  existed  in  all  times  until  the  present 
generation;  then  shall  we  find  it  in 
every  performance  of  man's  ingenuity, 
in  the  work  of  the  artist  or  the  artisan, 
from  the  smallest  and  most  insignificant 
jewel  or  book-cover  to  the  noblest 
monument  of  human  invention  or  cre- 
ation, from  the  most  ordinary  kitchen 
utensil  to  the  richest  and  most  costly 
fumiture  or  decoration  that  adoms  our 
dwelling. 

We  must  all  work  and  wait  patiently 
for  the  day  to  come  when  we  shall  work 
in  unison  with  our  time.  Our  Renais- 
sance must  not  be  merely  archaeological, 
the  literal  following  of  certain  periods 
of  the  style.  To  build  a  French  Louis 
XII  or  Francis  I  or  Louis  XIV  house, 
or  to  make  an  Italian  cinquecento  de- 
sign, is  indisputably  not  modem  archi- 
tecture. No  architect  until  our  times 
slavishly  followed  the  characteristics  of 
any  particular  period,  but  he  used  all 
that  he  could  get  from  what  preceded 
him,  solving  such  new  problems  as  were 
the  imperatives  of  his  position. 

What  did  a  man  like  Pierre  Lescot, 
the  architect  of  the  Henry  II  Court  of 
the  Louvre,  endeavor  to  do?  It  would 
have  been  impossible  for  him  actually 
to  define  the  style  of  his  own  period. 
That  is  for  us,  his  successors,  to  do. 
For  him  the  question  was  how  to  meet 
the  new  demands  of  contemporaneous 
life.  He  studied  all  that  he  could  find 
in  classic  and  Renaissance  precedents  ap- 
plicable to  his  problem.  He  composed, 
never  copying,  and  always  with  that  art- 
istic sense  and  the  sense  of  the  fitness  of 


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y  : 


things,  which  were  capable  of  realizing 
what  would  be  harmonious  in  his  work. 
In  the. same  way  all  architects,  at  all 
times,  contributed  to  a  contemporaneous 
architecture,  invariably  with  modifica- 
tions to  meet  new  conditions.  This 
must  be  done  with  a  scholarly  apprecia- 
tion of  that  harmonious  result  which 
comes  only  from  a  thorough  education. 
So,  with  freedom  of  the  imagination 
and  unity  of  design,  an  architecture  is 
secured  expressive  of  its  time. 

How  is  it  with  us  in  this  country? 
Not  only  do  many  architects  slavishly 
follow  the  character  of  some  selected 
period,  but  they  also  deliberately  take  en- 
tire motives  of  composition  from  other 
times  and  other  places  to  patch  and 
apply  them  to  our  new  conditions  and 
new  life.  Every  man's  conscience  must 
speak  for  itself  as  to  whether  such  pla- 
giarism is  right;  but  while  the  moral 
aspect  of  this  question  has  very  little  to 
do  with  art,  yet  intellectually  such  imi- 
tative work,  though  seemingly  success- 
ful, positively  stifles  originality,  imagi- 
nation, and  every  effort  to  advance  in 
the  right  direction. 

The  way  is  now  prepared  for  us  to 
endeavor  to  indicate  what  are  some  of 
the  principal  causes  of  the  modern  con- 
fusion in  style.  With  us  Americans,  an 
excessive  anxiety  to  be  original  is  one 
of  the  causes  of  no  end  of  evil.  The 
imagination  should  be  kept  under  con- 
trol by  given  principles.  We  must  have 
ability  to  discern  what  is  good  among 
our  own  creations  and  courage  to  reject 
what  is  bad.  Originality  is  a  spontane- 
ous effort  to  do  work  in  the  simplest 
and  most  natural  way.  The  conditions 
are  never  twice  alike;  each  case  is  new. 
We  must  begin  our  study  with  the  floor- 
plan,  and  then  interpret  that  floor-plan 
in  the  elevation,  using  forms,  details, 
and  sometimes  motives,  with  natural 
variations  and  improvements  on  what 
has  gone  before.  The  true  artist  leaves 
his  temperament  and  individuality  to 
take  care  of  themselves. 

Some  say  that  if  this  is  all  that  we 
are  doing,  there  is  nothing  new  in  art ; 


but  if  we  compose  in  the  right  way, 
there  can  be  nothing  that  is  not  new. 
Surely  you  would  not  condemn  nature 
for  not  being  original  because  there  is  a 
certain  similarity  between  the  claw  of 
a  bird  and  the  foot  of  a  dog,  or  between 
the  wing  of  a  bird  and  the  fin  of  a  fish. 
The  ensemble  of  each  creature  is  the 
natural  result  of  successive  stages  of 
life,  with  variations  of  the  different 
parts  according  to  the  principles  of  evo- 
lution. There  are  countless  structural 
correspondencies  in  the  skeletons  of  or- 
ganic life,  but  these  show  the  wonderful 
unity  of  the  universe ;  and  yet,  notwith- 
standing this  unity,  nature  is  flooded 
with  an  infinite  variety  of  forms  and 
species  of  life. 

We  must  logically  interpret  the  prac- 
tical conditions  before  us,  no  matter 
what  they  are.  No  work  to  be  done  is 
ever  so  arbitrary  in  its  practical  de- 
mands but  that  the  art  is  elastic  and 
broad  enough  to  give  these  demands 
thorough  satisfaction  in  more  than  a 
score  of  different  ways.  If  only  the 
artist  will  accept  such  practical  impera- 
tives as  are  reasonable,  if  only  he  will 
welcome  them,  one  and  all,  as  friendly 
opportunities  for  loyal  and  honest  ex- 
pression in  his  architecture,  he  will  find 
that  these  very  conditions  will  do  more 
than  all  else  besides  for  his  real  progress 
and  for  the  development  of  contempo- 
raneous art  in  composition. 

The  architects  in  the  early  history  of 
our  country  were  distinctly  modern,  and 
closely  related  in  their  work  to  their 
contemporaries  in  Europe.  They  seem 
not  only  to  have  inherited  traditions,  but 
to  have  religiously  adhered  to  them.  I 
believe  that  it  is  because  of  this  that  the 
genuine  and  naive  character  of  their 
work,  which  was  of  its  period,  still  has 
a  charm  for  us  which  cannot  be  imi- 
tated. McComb,  Bulfinch,  Thornton, 
Letrobe,  L'Enfant,  Andrew  Hamilton, 
Strickland,  and  Walters  were  suffi- 
ciently American  and  distinctly  modern, 
working  in  the  right  direction.  Upjohn 
and  Renwick,  men  of  talent,  were  mis- 
led, alas !  by  the  confusion  of  their  times. 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY 


the  beginning  of  this  modern  chaos,  the 
so-called  Victorian-Gothic  period. 

Gifted  as  Richardson  was,  and  great 
as  his  personality  was,  his  work  is  al- 
ways easily  distinguished,  because  of  its 
excellent  quality,  from  the  so-called 
Romanesque  of  his  followers.  But  I 
fear  the  good  he  did  was  largely  undone 
because  of  the  bad  influence  of  his  work 
upon  his  profession.  Stumpy  columns, 
squat  arches,  and  rounded  corners,  with- 
out Richardson,  form  a  disease  from 
which  we  are  only  just  recovering.  Mc- 
Comb  and  Bulfinch  would  probably  have 
frowned  upon  Hunt  for  attempting  to 
graft  the  transitional  Loire  architecture 
of  the  fifteenth  century  upon  American 
soil,  and  I  believe  all  will  agree  that  the 
principal  good  he  accomplished  was  due 
to  the  great  distinction  of  his  art,  and 
the  moral  character  of  the  man  himself, 
rather  than  to  the  general  influence  and 
direction  of  his  work. 

McKim's  name  at  this  time  we  men- 
tion almost  with  bated  breath.  Whether 
he  was  right  or  wrong,  whether  we 
agree  with  him  or  not,  in  wanting  to  re- 
vive in  the  nineteenth  century  the  art 
of  Bramante,  St.  Galo,  and  Peruzzi,  he 
had  perhaps  more  of  the  true  sense  of 
beauty  than  any  of  his  predecessors. 
His  was  the  art  of  the  man  who  loved 
the  doing  of  it  without  thought  of 
credit,  and  this  makes  itself  felt  in  every 
example  of  his  work,  which  was  always 
refined,  personal,  and  with  a  distinctly 
more  classic  tendency  in  his  most  recent 
work. 

We  have  seen  that  the  life  of  an  epoch 
makes  its  impress  upon  its  architecture. 
It  is  equally  true  that  the  architecture  of 
a  people  helps  to  form  and  model  its 
character.  If  there  is  beauty  in  the 
plans  of  our  cities,  and  in  the  buildings 
which  form  our  public  squares  and  high- 
ways, its  good  influence  will  make  itself 
felt  upon  every  passer-by.  Beauty  in 
our  buildings  is  an  open  book  of  invol- 
untary education  and  refinement,  and  it 
uplifts  and  ennobles  human  character: 
it  is  a  song  and  a  sermon  without  words. 
It  inculcates  in  a  people  a  true  sense  of 


dignity,  a  sense  of  reverence  and  a  re- 
spect for  tradition,  and  it  makes  an 
atmosphere  in  its  environment  which 
breeds  the  proper  kind  of  contentment 
—that  kind  of  contentment  which  stimu- 
lates ambition. 

But,  above  all,  it  cultivates  the  sense 
of  beauty  itself,  which  is  as  important  a 
factor  in  a  well-formed  character  as  is 
the  sense  of  humor,  and  almost  as  neces- 
sary as  the  sense  of  honor.  It  is,  I  be- 
lieve, a  law  of  the  universe  that  the 
forms  of  life  which  are  fittest  to  sur- 
vive—nay, the  very  universe  itself —are 
beautiful  in  form  and  color.  Natural 
selection  is  beautifully  expressed,  ugli- 
ness and  deformity  are  synonymous; 
and  so,  in  the  economy  of  life,  what 
would  survive  must  be  beautifully  ex- 
pressed. 

If  a  story  is  to  live,  it  must  be  told 
with  art,  and  a  message  of  truth  will 
carry  further  and  be  of  more  lasting 
service  if  beautifully  expressed.  There 
is  literary  style  in  every  good  book, 
however  personal  or  simply  written. 
Beauty  of  design  and  line  in  construc- 
tion builds  well,  and  with  greater  econ- 
omy and  endurance  than  construction 
which  is  mere  engineering.  The  quali- 
tative side  of  construction  should  first 
be  considered,  then  the  quantitative 
side.  The  practical  and  the  artistic  are 
inseparable.  There  is  beauty  in  nature 
because  all  nature  is  a  practical  problem 
well  solved.  The  truly  educated  archi- 
tect will  never  sacrifice  the  practical  side 
of  his  problem.  The  great  economic  as 
well  as  architectural  calamities  have 
been  performed  by  so-called  practical 
men  with  an  experience  mostly  bad  and 
with  no  education. 

Construction  should  first  be  designed, 
then  calculated.  Know  where  you  want 
to  go  before  seeking  a  way  to  go  there. 
The  separation  of  the  architect  and  the 
modem  engineer  has  been  brought  about 
principally  because  of  the  innovation  of 
railroads  and  steel  construction. 

The  engineer  and  architect  should 
work  hand  in  hand  at  the  very  incep- 
tion   of    the    structural    design.     The 


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architect  should  not  be  called  in,  as  is 
generally  the  case,  to  decorate  badly  de- 
signed construction  with  useless  orna- 
ment. We  should  meet  these  new 
conditions  of  life  in  construction  with 
art  in  the  very  skeleton  of  the  construc- 
tion itself;  and  even  so,  with  this  unfor- 
tunate separation  of  engineering  and 
architecture,  something  should  be  done 
to  bring  them  closer  together,  and  they 
should  join  forces  at  the  very  beginning 
of  every  important  undertaking.  Other- 
wise we  shall  suffer  for  it  even  as  we 
have  already,  and  it  is  only  by  being 
forewarned  that  we  can  forestall  the 
consequences. 

When  we  think  of  what  the  past  ages 
have  done  for  us,  should  we  not  be 
more  considerate  of  those  that  are  yet 
to  come?  A  great  tide  of  historic  in- 
formation has  constantly  flowed  through 
the  channel  of  monuments  erected  by 
successive  civilizations,  and  we  can  al- 
most live  in  the  past  through  its  monu- 
ments. 

The  recently  discovered  buried  cities 
of  Assyria  give  us  a  vivid  fdea  of  a 
civilization  lost  to  history.  The  Pyra- 
mid of  Cheops  and  the  temples  of 
Karnak  and  Luxor  tell  us  more  of  that 
ingenuity  which  we  cannot  fathom,  and 
the  grandeur  of  the  life  and  history  of 
the  Egyptian  people,  than  the  scattered 
and  withered  documents  or  fragments 
of  inscriptions  that  have  chanced  to 
survive  the  crumbling  influences  of  time. 
The  Parthenon  and  the  Erechtheum  be- 
speak the  intellectual  refinement  of  the 
Greeks  as  much  as  their  epic  poems  or 
their  philosophy.  The  triumphal  arches, 
the  aqueducts,  the  Pantheon,  and  the 


basilicas  of  Rome  tell  us  more  of  the 
great  constructive  genius  of  the  early 
republic  and  the  empire  of  the  Caesars 
than  the  fragmentary  and  contradictory 
annals  of  wars  and  political  intrigues 
can  tell. 

The  unsurpassed  and  inspiring  beauty 
of  the  Gothic  cathedrals  which  bewilders 
us,  and  the  cloisters  which  enchant  us, 
impress  on  our  minds  a  living  picture  of 
the  feverish  and  morbid  aspiration  of 
medieval  times— a  civilization  that 
must  have  had  mingled  with  its  mys- 
ticism an  intellectual  and  spiritual  gran- 
deur which  the  so-called  Dark  Ages  of 
the  historian  have  failed  adequately  to 
record ;  and  here,  in  and  around  Wash- 
ington and  in  our  own  country  in  gen- 
eral, even  amid  the  all-absorbing  work 
of  constructing  a  new  government,  our 
people  found  time  to  speak  to  us  to-day, 
in  the  silent  language  of  their  simple 
architecture,  of  the  temperament  and 
character  of  our  forefathers. 

Consider  the  time  in  which  we  are 
now  living.  Will  our  monuments  ade- 
quately record  the  splendid  achievements 
of  our  contemporaneous  life— the  spirit 
of  modern  justice  and  liberty,  the 
progress  of  modern  science,  the  genius 
of  modern  invention  and  discovery,  the 
elevated  character  of  our  institutions? 
Will  disorder  and  confusion  in  our 
architecture  express  the  intelligence  of 
this  twentieth  century?  Would  that 
those  in  authority  might  learn  a  lesson 
from  the  past,  and  awaken  in  their  wis- 
dom to  build  our  national  monuments 
more  worthy  of  the  dignity  of  this  great 
nation,  and  more  expressive  of  this  won- 
derful contemporaneous  life ! 


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IN  PRAISE  OF  POETRY 
By  Richard  Watson  Gilder 


I  MARVEL  NOT*' 


I  MARVEL  not  that  thy  blest  votaries, 
O  spirit  of  Song,  from  time's  beginning, 

thee 
Imaged  a  woman,  loveliest  of  all, 
A  goddess  dearest  of  gods,  service  of 

whom 
Was  rapture ;  nor  can  I— least  worthy, 

though. 
Of  all  thy  far-off  passionate  worship- 
ers- 
Image  thee  less  than  wbman-Gbd.    For 
thee 


To  worship,  to  commune  with,  thee  to 

know, 
Even  for  a  moment  of  consummate  joy, 
Means  to  be  noble,  aye,  to  be  divine. 
Perpetual  beauty  and  immortal  youth— 
These,  these  thou  art ;  and  something 

even  of  these 
Enters  in  flame  the  soul  of  those  who 

seek 
With  humble  heart  the  splendor  of  thy 

shrine. 


REFUGE 


I  KNOW,  I  know. 

The  momentary  and  the  dateless  woe 

That  haunts  the  heart  of  man  from  birth 

to  death— 
From  pain-wrapt  birth,  to  the  slow,  sad 

ending  breath. 
I  know  it  all,  and  yet  shall  not  earth's 

sorrow 
Encompass  and  unman  the  day  or  mor- 
row: 
For  I,  the  bard,  shall  with  my  singing 

still 
The  trouble  of  the  world,  the  world  with 

music  fill ; 
And  through  that  heavenly  art 
From  every  soul  the  anguish  shall 

depart. 
And  even  the  singer  shall  restore  his 

heavy  heart. 

II 

Even  if  the  world  be  wrong, 
This  shall  be  right— the  music  of  the 
song. 


This  shall  create  within  the  vast,  uncer- 
tain. 

Electric  whirl  of  things  that  people 
space 

A  little  isle  of  grace, 

A  home  behind  the  dark,  mysterious 
curtain, 

A  haunt  of  beauty  and  of  rest 

Wherein  to  gentle  souls  are  manifest 

All  loveliest  thoughts  and  best. 

Ill 

Then  thrill,  thrill,  thrill, 

Thrill,  my  song,  till  thou  dost  shatter  ill. 

If  but  for  an  instant!    Oh,  annihilate 

The  cosmic  cruelty  that  men  call  fate ! 

Let  all  be  well,  as  thou  art  well ; 

Sing  thou  and  soar  like  tones  of  a  well- 
tuned  bell ! 

With  thy  perfection  all  the  evil  drown 

That  taints  wild  nature  and  the  ensan- 
guined town ! 

Thrill,  my  song,  thrill ! 

Till  all  the  world  forgets  the  endless  ill ! 


HE  CAME  SO  BEAUTIFULLY  CLAD" 


He  came  so  beautifully  clad. 
They  did  not  see  the  strength  he  had. 
His  eye  so  gentle,  they  not  knew 
That  violet  beam  could  pierce  them 
through. 


His  voice  so  sweet,  how  could  they  think 
Its  music  reached  creation's  brink? 
'Neath  that  young  brow  how  could  they 

deem 
All  the  world's  wisdom,  all  its  dream  ? 


16 


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THE  ACTUAL  STATE  OF  ART  AMONG  US 

By  Edwin  Howland  Blashfield 


Some  of  us  here,  looking  backward,  can 
remember  well  the  output  of  American 
artists  fifty  years  ago,  the  art  galleries 
and  museums  of  what  Mr.  Henry  James 
called  medieval  New  York.  .  In  those 
days,  long,  open  sleighs  plied  as  winter 
buses  on  Broadway.  The  snow  was 
banked  in  a  wall  down  the  middle  of  the 
thoroughfare,  for  there  were  no  "white- 
wings"  to  carry  it  away,  and  upgoing 
and  downgoing  people  caught  sight  of 
one  another  only  as  they  passed  the  side 
streets.  The  pictorial  art  which  was 
most  to  be  seen  between  the  Battery 
and  Grace  Church— an  art  dear  to 
my  childish  heart— was  that  which  pre- 
sented, upon  oval  panels,  giraffes,  os- 
triches, elephants,  and  all  the  rest,  on 
the  front  of  Barnum^s  Museum,  big  and 
imposing  for  its  time,  upon  the  site  of 
the  present  Saint  Paul  Building.  For 
real  art  one  went  away  up-town,  nearly 
to  Union  Square,  to  Williams  &  Stevens, 
or  to  the  pictures  in  the  Diisseldorf 
gallery,  or,  while  the  great  exhibition 
lasted,  one  fared  on  to  the  terminus  of 
bus-lines,  the  jumping-off  place  of 
Forty-second  Street,  to  the  Crystal 
Palace,  where  one  might  visit  that  cyno- 
sure and  sensation,  the  bronze  "Amazon 
and  Tiger."  In  those  days  we  strained 
our  eyes  across  seas  toward  the  prom- 
ised land,  the  streets  of  Diisseldorf  and 
Antwerp,  the  ateliers  of  the  Latin  Quar- 
ter, the  studios  of  the  Via  Margutta. 
As  late  as  the  spring  of  1867,  William 
Morris  Hunt  said  to  one  very  young 
student:  "Go  straight  to  Paris.  Any- 
thing which  you  learn  here  you  will 
have  to  unlearn.'* 

We  have  changed  all  that.  We  have 
parted  with  the  Italian  image-vender's 
tray,  borne  upon  his  head  down  area- 


steps  of  brownstone  houses,  and  the 
negotiations  for  a  plaster  woolly  lamb 
or  a  "Little  Samuel  Woke"  have  risen 
to  Barbediennes  bronzes.  We  are  up  to 
date,  and  the  Undines  and  kobolds  of 
Diisseldorfers  of  half  a  century  ago 
have  become  the  Manets  and  Monets  of 
to-day;  indeed,  with  some  people,  Manet 
is  already  demode.  Our  change  of  heart 
was  first  effected  along  the  lines  of  the 
least  resistance:  the  sleek  porcelain 
sheep  of  Verboeckhoven  were  received 
into  our  fold  before  we  could  tolerate 
the  shaggy  real  ones  of  later  artists ;  in 
our  collections  the  little  wax  maidens  of 
Meyer  von  Bremen  grew  only  very 
gradually  into  the  flesh-and-blood  ones 
of  French  canvases.  We  imported  much 
sculpture  which  now  seems  to  all  of  us 
less  fit  for  the  auctioneer's  hammer  than 
for  the  road-mender's.  We  grew  per- 
haps by  fits  and  starts,  but  we  did  grow, 
and  at  last  swiftly  and  mightily.  Wil- 
liam Morris  Hunt  was  wise  as  well  as 
great  in  his  own  generation,  when  one 
had  "to  unlearn  American  art  teaching," 
but  no  one  would  glory  more  than  he  in 
the  fact  that  to-day  our  young  people 
may  learn  in  America  as  well  as  in  any 
schools  in  the  world  the  spelling  and 
grammar  of  their  art,  and  may  stand  as 
firmly  and  squarely  here  upon  their 
technic  as  ever  they  could  in  the  streets 
of  Paris.  Our  landscape  school  may 
take  its  place  beside  any,  and  as  for  por- 
trait-painting, there  is  an  American  in 
London  to-day  whom  Frans  Hals,  could 
he  come  back  to  us,  would  call  brother, 
standing  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  him. 
And  yet,  though  achievement  is  ours, 
though  momentum  has  been  attained 
and  well  directed,  though  our  public  is 
prodigal    of    purse    and    praise,    your 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY 


fingers,  gentlemen,  the  fingers  of  the 
practitioners  of  that  wider  art  which  in- 
cludes literature  and  music,  are  alAiost 
as  much  needed  upon  the  pulse  of  that 
same  public  as  they  were  in  the  days  of 
the  medieval  New  York  aforesaid. 

We  buy  enormously,  we  praise  much, 
but  we  also  neglect  much ;  we  love  per- 
haps not  too  well,  but  surely  at  times 
not  too  wisely.  We  have  worn  out 
many  fashions  in  admiration,  and  in 
wearing  them  out  we  have  learned  from 
each ;  but  we  have  not  yet  learned  steadi- 
ness of  purpose,  or  quite  acquired  the 
fair-mindedness  which  should  be  sheet- 
anchor  to  the  omnivorous  collector  we 
seem  destined  to  become  among  nations. 
It  is  likely  that  we  tire  only  temporarily 
of  the  really  good,  but  we  tire  often. 
For  a  few  seasons  we  will  have  in  music 
only  gods  and  giants,  dragons  and  swan 
maidens.  Then  all  at  once  "La  Travi- 
ata"  or  "Lucia"  pushes  "Brunhilde"  out 
of  the  saddle,  and  "Madama  Butterfly" 
sings  "Elsa"  off  the  boards.  We  have 
gone  into  and  out  of  phases  that  may 
almost  be  labeled  Harbison  School 
phase;  Munich  phase  of  bitumen; 
Monet  phase  of  blue  shadows ;  worsted- 
sampler  phase  of  little  vibrant  streaks  of 
color;  Carriere  phase,  where  the  house 
is  always  on  fire,  and  the  family  group 
poses  peacefully  in  a  room  filling  with 
smoke.  In  each  of  these  phases  is 
beauty,  in  some  marvelous  beauty;  but 
do  we  not  go  through  them  too  com- 
pletely, and  then  abandon  them  too  ut- 
terly? 

Names  have  become  potent  to  con- 
jure with,  and  are  growing  greater  and 
greater.  Hoppners,  Romneys,  Rey- 
noldses.  and,  wonderful  to  tell,  Van- 
dykes, Halses,  even  Rembrandts,  are  al- 
most pouring  into  the  country ;  fifty  years 
ago  so  many  aeroplanes  from  the  Conti- 
nent would  hardly  have  seemed  more 
unlikely  visitors  than  these  pictures, 
darlings  of  collectors  in  old  castles  and 
manors,  and  coveted  by  the  museums  of 
all  Europe.  For  in  our  enthusiasm  and 
our  art  growth  we  have  waxed  so  fat  and 
kicked  so  mightily  that  we  have  kicked 


out  the  timbers  of  the  dam  of  protection, 
so  that  the  frightened  amateurs  of  Eng- 
land and  the  Continent,  who  fifty  years 
ago  could  look  down  upon  us  from  the 
height  of  justified  patronage,  are  pro- 
claiming their  apprehension  through 
their  press  in  shrill,  prophetic  cries. 
Our  opportunity,  thanks  to  our  great 
collectors,  is  indeed  splendid,  invalua- 
ble; and  yet  the  very  greatness  of  it 
should  breed  caution. 

It  is  when  the  magician  conjures  with 
his  most  fascinating  material  that  we 
most  easily  forget  to  watch  his  sleeves ; 
when  he  says  Rembrandt,  how  Eeck- 
hout  and  Bol  and  Flinck  drop  out  of 
our  remembrance !  And  when  the  scrap 
surely  is  by  the  great  man,  how  large  it 
looms  to  us  in  comparison  with  the  size 
which  it  would  have  assumed  for  his 
contemporaries,    above    all,    for    him! 

You  say  that  is  right:  any  scraps  by 
certain  men  are  priceless.  Granted, 
but  such  men  are  very  rare;  the  per- 
sonalities which  were  so  divine  as  to 
hallow  all  that  came  from  them  are 
almost  more  than  rare.  One  may  even 
discount  Homer's  nodding  to  the  extent 
of  admitting  that.  Great  men  do  much 
work  which  they  reject.  Then  comes, 
let  us  say,  Corot's  model.  "I  found 
this  sketch  behind  the  coal-box,  M. 
Corot,  covered  with  dirt.  May  I  have 
it ?"  "Yes,  my  child,"  (for  Corot  was  a 
notable  example  as  giver,)  and  so  later 
the  public,  like  the  model,  begs  for  it 
and  obtains  it,  but  not,  like  the  model, 
at  the  price  of  a  "Thank  you." 

It  would  probably  not  be  possible  to- 
day for  a  Homer  Alartin  to  watch  his 
canvases  selling  for  twenty-five  dollars 
at  an  auction,  those  canvases  which  now 
bring  thousands;  a  Millet  could  not 
long  remain  undiscovered,  because  dis- 
covery has  grown  to  mean  fortune,  and 
we  have  cultivated  the  eyes  of  lynxes 
and  the  noses  of  hunting-dogs.  But  we 
mistake  and  exaggerate,  nevertheless, 
and  often  in  the  direction  most  opposed 
to  what  one  would  expect.  We  not  only 
worship  the  atelier  rubbish  of  the  dead 
artist;  we  cultivate  the  idiosyncrasies 


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THE  ACTUAL  STATE  OF  ART  AMONG  US 


'9 


and  mannerisms  of  the  live  artist. 
"But  don't  you  think,"  said  a  woman 
artist  to  me,  "that  Puvis  de  Chavannes 
would  be  much  less  interesting  if  he 
drew  better?"  I  understood  her,  and 
knew  that  she  did  not  mean  what  she 
said;  but  her  opinion,  so  enounced, 
could  hardly  have  been  useful  to  pupils. 
It  is  just  such  people  as  worship  the 
limitations  before  the  potentialities,  who 
wear  blinders,  and  are  held  up  only  by 
the  shafts, — the  shafts  of  the  admira- 
tion of  the  moment,— who  pave  the  way 
for  straying  in  the  wrong  direction,  and 
make  the  lay  public  forget  those  who 
follow  the  right  road.  For  such  people 
the  accident  is  the  essential,  the  normal 
is  negligible,  and  nothing  but  caviar  is 
worth  eating;  if  they  could  see  a  play 
on  a  house  roof,  or  in  a  cellar,  they 
would  value  it  far  more  highly  than  in 
a  theater;  they  tilt  head  down  at  any 
one  who  makes  a  rule  and  keeps  it,  and 
they  call  all  that  is  not  amorphous  aca- 
demic. It  is  their  outcry  which  imposes 
upon  the  great,  indifferent  general  public, 
and  which  occasionally,  when  a  question 
of  genuine  expediency  arises,  does  real 
harm.  To  this  little  group,  straining 
for  the  exotic,  it  seemed  not  unreason- 
able that  a  dozen  cities  should  surpass 
New  York  utterly  in  provision  for  exhi- 
bitions, and  that  the  current  work  of 
the  greatest  of  American  producers, 
New  York,  should  remain  unhoused. 

To  these  people,  again,  any  academy, 
quia  academy,  is  objectionable.  They 
admire  eccentricity  not  as  a  manifesta- 
tion of  possibilities,  but  just  as  eccen- 
tricity, and  to  them  is  coming  some  day 
regret  for  their  inculcation  of  technic  as 
end,  not  means,  and,  far  worse,  for  their 
limitation  of  technic  to  manipulation  of 
pigment.  To  cry  out  against  labored 
canvases,  to  put  on  paint  in  a  dashing 
manner,  and  cry,  "Live  Frans  Hals  and 
Vitality !"  is  fine,  certainly ;  but  it  must 
not  be  forgotten  that  the  strength  of 
Hals  and  his  vitality,  his  viability  as 
artist,  lie  not  in  the  width  of  his  brush- 
strokes, but  in  the  fact  that  his  broad 
strokes  are  of  the  right  size  and  shape 


and  value,  and  put  in  exactly  the  right 
place. 

Yet  in  spite  of  exaggerations  and 
what,  though  it  seems  almost  perversity, 
we  must  admit  to  be  sincere,  if  mis- 
taken, the  great  trend  of  our  art  is  to- 
ward sanity,  and  a  sanity  which  is 
become  yearly  less  and  less  a  derivation, 
more  and  more  an  American  product. 
For  the  last  fifteen  years  especially  we 
have  been  moving  forward  with  aston- 
ishing swiftness  over  the  field  of  art, 
and  as  we  moved  we  have  to  a  consid- 
erable extent  surveyed  and  leveled  and 
cleared  the  ground;  but  there  are  still 
unexpected  holes  in  which  we  trip,  quag- 
mires in  which  we  flounder,  unsus- 
pected chasms,  like  the  sunken  road  at 
Waterloo,  into  which  our  cavalry- 
charge  of  enthusiasm  tumbles  pell-mell, 
checking  all  advance  till  the  latter  again 
becomes  possible  over  the  bridge  of 
thwarted  endeavor  made  by  the  bodies 
of  the  fallen.  All  this  we  expect ;  deci- 
mation and  more  than  decimation  of  our 
combatants  we  must  discount;  but  you 
can  help  us.  You,  the  Academy,  can  be 
like  that  marvelous  general  staff  of  the 
German  army:  you  may  not  fight  the 
battle  of  the  allied  arts  yourselves,  but 
you  may  make  it  possible  for  us,  the 
active  army,  to  fight  successfully. 

I  am  told  by  those  who  travel  in 
America  that  the  awakening  of  interest 
in  what  we  call  the  arts  is  almost  in- 
credible throughout  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  Union.  There  are  exhi- 
bitions, permanent  and  recurrent  and 
ambulant.  There  are  societies  for  the 
encouragement  of  municipal  art,  of 
decorative  art,  and  of  applied  art. 
Senator  Newlands  has  told  us  that  in 
tiny  towns  of  Nevada  and  Montana 
musical  societies  work  single-heartedly 
and  effectively  toward  a  higher  level  of 
culture ;  all  over  the  country,  boys  leave 
the  plow  for  the  palette.  To  the  door  of 
my  own  studio  in  the  Carnegie  Building 
comes  a  steady  stream  of  young  fellows 
who  want  to  be  my  assistants  for  a 
small  salary— in  many  cases  for  no  re- 
muneration at  all  save  the  instruction  to 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY 


be  derived  from  work.  Blue-aproned 
girls,  caked  with  paint  and  clay  and  fired 
with  enthusiasm,  flock  from  the  schools 
of  the  little  cities  to  the  schools  of  the 
big  ones,  and  pass  onward  overseas 
until  they  tell  me  that  in  Paris  the  term 
"art  student"  has  come  to  mean  Ameri- 
can girl.  This  condition  is  phenomenal ; 
it  is  going  to  be  alarming,  if  not  rightly 
handled,  and  so  to  handle  it  is  our  busi- 
ness, and  in  a  wider  and  higher  sense, 
your  business,  gentlemen  of  the  Acad- 
emy. The  mill  that  in  the  Northern 
story,  at  the  bottom  of  the  ocean,  grinds 
out  the  salt  that  savors  all  the  seas,  is 
hardly  more  active  than  are  our  schools 
in  the  production  of  boys  and  girls  in 
possession  of  a  fair  technic.  We  have 
high  ideals,  and  with  admirable  and,  I 
fully  believe,  justifiable  courage,  our  in- 
fant industry  asks  not  to  be  protected, 
and  lets  down  the  bars  to  foreign  art  of 
all  kinds.  In  the  welter  which  is  sure 
for  some  time  at  least  to  follow  this 
wave  of  enthusiasm,  this  stream  of  pro- 
duction from  West  to  East,  what  need 
there  is  of  a  tribunal  such  as  yours,  gen- 
tlemen, what  need  of  an  arbiter,  by 
no  means  always  elegantiarum!  And 
you  are  an  arbiter  which  the  great 
universal  client  called  the  public  will  re- 
spect ;  you  are  the  gods  of  the  machine, 
the  men  from  higher  up,  from  our  Par- 
nassus. In  you  that  many-headed  client 
has,  relatively,  confidence.  True,  you 
do  not  in  every  case  rise  to  the  alti- 
tude of  being,  first  of  all,  business  men, 
but  you  are  scholars,  writers;  you  are 
thinkers,  not  unpractical  dreamers, 
and  there  have  not  yet  been  imputed 
to  you,  as  the  necessary  conditions  of 
greatness,  even  of  genuineness,  that  you 
never  keep  your  appointments  or  pay 
you  bills. 

Therefore,  in  the  ever-recurring  dis- 
cussion between  the  great  public  and  the 
great  body  of  artists,  if  you  will  throw 
your  authority  into  the  scales  for  us,  it 
shall  be  as  the  sword  of  Brennus  to 
weigh,  as  the  sword  of  Alexander  to  cut 
the  Gordian  tangle  of  our  difficulties. 

And  so  strong  are  the  analogies  be- 


tween our  arts  that  we  are  trained  to 
understand  and  help  one  another.  As 
every  French  soldier  had  in  his  knapsack 
the  possible  baton  of  a  marshal,  so  every 
one  of  us  has  among  his  professional 
tools  the  potential  pass-key  to  the  ady- 
tum, the  inner  sanctuary,  of  the  other 
arts.  Among  us  every  man's  mystery, 
as  they  said  in  the  Middle  Ages,  may 
become  so  clear  to  his  fellows  that  we 
all  may  join  hands. 

Our  Academy  and  Institute,  made  up 
of  men  who  rub  against  the  issues  of 
the  day,  yet  live  a  kind  of  cloistered 
mental  life  of  their  own,  given  to  the 
pursuit  of  knowledge  and  the  attempt 
to  create  the  beautiful,  has  more  than 
once  reminded  me  of  an  excursion 
which  I  made  to  the  great  monastery  of 
Monte  Oliveto  Maggiore,  sixteen  miles 
above  Siena,  in  the  hills.  It  is  now  nearly 
empty,  but  once  it  was  a  microcosm 
in  its  activities.  There  the  brothers,  the 
thinkers  and  writers  and  recorders  of 
the  time,  shut  up  in  church  and  cloister 
and  scriptorium,  opened  their  outbuild- 
ings to  the  world,  and  there,  especially 
upon  certain  fixed  days  of  festival  or 
council,  of  papal  or  imperial  progress, 
the  world  was  harbored  in  the  vast 
courtyard.  The  latter  was  a  caravan- 
sary, where  provinces  were  pigeonholed. 
The  names  are  still  upon  the  pigeon- 
holes, big,  bare,  echoing,  vaulted  rooms, 
with  yards  tor  the  beasts.  Here  you 
read  over  the  entrance,  Lombardy,  here 
Tuscany,  there  and  yonder  Genoa, 
Venice,  Romagna.  Here  the  laymen 
paused  for  a  day  from  their  business 
and  listened  to  the  teaching  of  those 
who  thought  and  planned. 

And  note— and  here  is  my  point  to- 
ward which  we  have  journeyed  among 
the  Tuscan  hills— note  that  this  was 
neutral  ground,  the  territory  not  only  of 
the  church,  but  of  the  arts. 

Perhaps  while  the  monastery  court- 
yard held  these  people  safe  and  quiet, 
outside  there  was  fighting;  very  likely 
while  Lombards  and  Venetians  were 
cooking  their  meals  or  foddering  their 
beasts  with  only  a  party-wall  between 


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21 


ihem,  Lombardy  and  Venetia  were  cut- 
ting each  other's  throats.  But  with  the 
quarrelsome  laymen  there  entered  one 
group  of  people  who  were  not  quarrel- 
some, and  whose  names  were  entered 
upon  the  lists  of  the  major  crafts.  They 
were  the  artists,--the  architects,  squlp- 
tors,  painters,— sure  of  a  warm  welcome 
from  their  tonsured  hosts,  who  were 
artists  also — poets,  musicians,  histo- 
rians, calligraphers,  illuminators. 

And  the  power  of  these  artists  went 
afield ;  if  within  the  monastery  was  the 
truce  of  God,  the  artist,  as  far  as  his 
personal  security  went,  carried  the  truce 
of  God  with  him.  Through  the  four- 
teenth century,  Italy  was  a  battle-field, 
but  Giotto  and  his  painters,  Giovanni 
Pisano  and  his  sculptors,  Arnolfo  and 
his  architects,  went  up  and  down  the 
battle-field  unharmed,  and  entered 
through  the  breached  walls  of  cities  to 
paint  allegorical  pictures  of  the  blessings 
of  peace  in  the  town  halls. 

And  these  artists  were  a  little  band  of 
men  knit  together,  as  we  should  be  now, 
by  the  closest  bonds  of  interdependence 
and  mutual  comprehension.  They  un- 
derstood one  another's  specialties,  and 
in  the  days  when  Dante  tried  to  draw  an 
angel,  or,  later,  when  Raphael  scrawled 
rhymes  for  sonnets  on  the  backs  of  his 
studies,  the  artist  was  ambidextrous, 
holding  the  chisel  in  one  hand,  the  brush 
in  the  other,  and  taking  up  now  and 
again  lute  or  pen  or  compass. 

The  world  calls  artists  jealous  (I  use 
the  word  "artists"  in  its  largest  sense), 
but  a  better  freemasonry  has  existed 
among  us  for  eighteen  hundred  years 
tlian  anywhere  else  outside  the  church, 
and  our  freemasonry  dates  from  before 
Christianity.  To-day  is  like  yesterday : 
war,  commercial  war,  is  bitter  all  about 
us.  We  are  neutral,  and  if  the  ideal  en- 
lightened   layman    needs   a   breathing- 


spell,  he  interests  himself  in  helping  a 
museum  or  backing  the  improvement 
of  a  city's  topographical  ordering.  He 
joins  hands  with  us  for  our  good  and 
his  good  and  everybody's  good,  and  yet 
we  speak  a  language  of  our  own,  and 
there  are  times  when  we  belong  together, 
and  only  together.  We  need  the  contact 
of  the  world,  too,  that  is  certain ;  and  if, 
like  the  monks  aforesaid,  each  of  us 
withdraws  into  his  individual  cell  during 
the  period  of  meditation,  later  we  must, 
like  them  again,  work  altogether  in  the 
monastery  garden's  sunshine  for  our 
mental  health.  I  do  not  mean  that  we 
should  confuse  our  works,  but  that  they 
should  proceed  pari  passu  under  the 
mutual,  stimulating  general  influence. 
A  picture  does  not  look  better  because 
it  is  called  a  "nocturne,"  nor  does  a 
musical  movement  seem  more  lovely,  to 
me  at  least,  because  it  is  called  a  "study" 
in  some  color  or  other.  There  are  peo- 
ple who  tell  me  that  names  mean  colors 
to  them;  that  Lucy  is  pink,  and  Mary 
blue,  and  Jane  brown,  and  so  on.  I 
am  not  subtle  enough  for  that.  But  we 
do  have  our  signs  that  pass  current 
among  us  only.  We  have  much  to  say 
to  one  another  that  we  are  not  ready  to 
say  to  other  men  until  our  work  is  com- 
plete and  fit  for  presentation.  When 
Babel  was  building  and  the  confusion  of 
tongues  came  upon  man,  two  languages 
remained  common  to  all— the  language 
of  the  emotions  and  our  language,  that 
of  the  arts.  This  latter  tongue,  spoken 
intimately  among  ourselves,  is  under- 
stood broadly  by  all.  By  reason  of  this 
possession,  we,  the  writers,  musicians, 
architects,  sculptors,  painters,  if  but 
struck  aright,  sound  in  the  great  sym- 
phony of  the  world's  activities  as  one 
harmonious  chord.  By  reason  of  it  the 
artist  is  a  citizen  of  the  world,  at  home 
urbi  et  orbi. 


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RUSKIN  AND  MORTON 

A  Link  Between  the  Old  and  New  Worlds 
By  Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson 


Has  there  ever  been  a  personal  tie  be- 
tween the  Old  and  the  New  Worlds 
which  was  stronger  and  tenderer  than 
that  between  the  English  Ruskin  and 
our  American  Norton  ?  It  began  with  a 
half -accidental  meeting  of  strangers ;  it 
was  interrupted  by  ten  years  of  separa- 
tion during  a  war ;  it  was  followed  by  a 
long  correspondence,  ending  with  the 
sad  chronicle,  by  the  younger  author,  of 
the  gradual  waning  of  the  older  man's 
mind.  All  this  was  recorded,  step  by 
step,  with  singularly  delicate  and  accu- 
rate narration,  by  Professor  Norton  in 
the  issues  of  "The  Atlantic  Monthly" 
ranging  from  May  to  September,  1904, 
under  the  simple  name  of  "Letters  of 
Ruskin."  Now  that  Norton  himself  has 
followed  Ruskin  out  of  this  world,  the 
correspondence,  in  the  re-reading,  be- 
comes more  and  more  profoundly  inter- 
esting. We  see  there  the  close  personal 
intercourse  between  two  of  the  most 
highly  cultivated  men  of  two  nations; 
and  it  is  well  to  make  a  careful  survey, 
at  this  distance  of  time,  as  to  the  relative 
attitude  of  each. 

For  myself,  I  never  saw  Ruskin,  al- 
though I  was  familiar  with  the  first  issue 
of  his  "Modern  Painters"  more  than 
sixty  years  ago.  But  Norton,  though  a 
few  years  younger  than  I,  was  born 
on  the  same  street  with  me  in  Cam- 
bridge, Massachusetts ;  our  fathers  were 
alike  officers  of  Harvard  College,  and 
as  early  as  I  can  remember  I  had  gone 
to  dancing-school  and  various  other 
gatherings  in  the  Norton  residence. 
Any  intercourse  between  Charles  Nor- 
ton and  Ruskin  was  most  interesting  to 


me,  and  I  must  begin  by  describing  it  a 
little. 

Charles  Norton,  on  voyaging  to  Eng- 
land in  October,  1855,  received  from  a 
fellow-passenger,  not  known  to  him 
previously,  a  letter  of  introduction  to 
Ruskin,  who  was  at  that  time  thirty-six 
years  old,  Norton  being  twenty-eight. 
Ruskin  had  got  as  far  in  publication  as 
the  "Stones  of  Venice"  and  the  fourth 
volume  of  "Modern  Painters/'  while  his 
younger  acquaintance  had  got  only  far 
enough  to  aid  his  father  in  his  "Transla- 
tion of  the  Gospels."  Yet  from  this 
time  on  to  the  end  of  their  lives  the  two 
became  close  friends,  with  the  pathetic 
separation  brought  on  by  political  differ- 
ences. Each  was  meanwhile  developing 
rare  powers  in  his  own  way,  combined 
with  very  decided  opinions,  Norton 
absolutely  persisting  in  stanch  Ameri- 
canism, beneath  Ruskin's  sharpest  dis- 
approval, and  hardly  visiting  England 
until  he  went  unwillingly  to  take  charge 
of  his  friend's  literary  remains. 

During  this  period,  we  see  Ruskin  en- 
gaged in  delightful,  but  formidable  un- 
dertakings, as  when,  in  1857,  he  had  to 
arrange  the  nineteen  thousand  sketches 
by  Turner  in  the  National  Galler>'  and 
to  make  a  facsimile  of  one  of  these  to  be 
sent  to  Norton;  or  when,  in  1859.  dis- 
agreeing with  everybody,  he  bemoaned 
his  loss  of  friends.  It  was  a  time  when, 
it  would  seem,  he  had  lost  alike  his 
Protestant  and  Catholic  acquaintances, 
being  also  regarded  by  his  Tory  friends 
as  worse  than  Robespierre,  while  his 
Roman  Catholic  neighbors  thought  he 
ought    to    be    burned.     His    domestic 


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RUSKIN  AND  NORTON 


23 


kindred  counted  him  as  a  Bluebeard, 
and  his  artistic  allies  as  "a  mere  packet 
of  quibs  and  crackers,"  whatever  that 
may  be.  In  his  despair,  he  wrote  to 
Norton :  "I  rather  count  on  Lowell  as  a 
friend,  although  I  've  never  seen  him. 
He  and  the  Brownings  and  you.  Four ! 
well,  it  's  a  good  deal."  Certainly  it 
was. 

Thirty  years  later,  in  1889,  after  writ- 
ing his  "Praeterita,"  Ruskin  was  no 
longer  able  to  take  up  the  broken  thread 
of  his  story,  and  the  last  nine  or  ten 
years  of  his  life  were  spent  in  retire- 
ment, though  he  still  enjoyed  nature  and 
art,  loved  to  hear  his  favorite  books  read 
aloud,  and  listened  with  pleasure  to 
simple  music.  At  length  Norton  re- 
ceived, after  forty  years  of  friendship, 
a  few  words  of  farewell  in  pencil,  writ- 
ten November  i,  1896,  and  signed, 
"from  your  loving  J.  R." 

I  well  remember  the  time,  although  I 
cannot  give  the  precise  date,  when  I  re- 
sumed my  acquaintance  in  maturity  with 
my  childish  playmate,  Charles  Norton. 
After  twenty  years  or  more  of  separa- 
tion, I  found  him  sitting  beside  me  at  a 
public  dinner,  probably  in  Boston.  He 
had  but  lately  returned  from  Europe,— 
in  1856,  or  thereabouts,  I  think,— to  be- 
come a  permanent  resident,  not  having 
yet  attained  prominence  as  a  public 
leader.  During  these  years  of  absence 
he  had  been  mainly  in  foreign  countries, 
and  I  had  not  yet  crossed  the  ocean,  so 
that  we  soon  found  ourselves  comparing 
notes. 

I  remember  vividly  how  his  conversa- 
tion gratified  me  from  the  very  first,  he 
taking  emphatically  the  ground  that  this 
nation  was  the  most  interesting  in  the 
world  in  which  to  live,  were  it  only  for 
the  sake  of  seeing  the  mass  of  people 
comfortable— "probably  more  so,"  he 
said,  "as  a  whole,  than  any  nation  in  the 
world  had  ever  been."  The  drawback 
was,  he  went  on  to  say,  that  the  American 
continent  was  not  destined  to  achieve 
any  real  distinction  at  any  time  in  litera- 
ture or  in  art. 

When  I  asked  why  not,  he  tranquilly 


said  that  it  would  be  a  geographical  im- 
possibility. No  nation  on  the  American 
continent,  which  stretched  from  the 
Atlantic  to  the  Pacific,  could  ever  be  in- 
tellectually great,  but  only  physically 
comfortable.  For  science  and  art,  he 
said,  we  must  look  to  countries  pene- 
trated by  gulfs,  bays,  and  rivers,  and 
interrupted  by  mountains,  so  that  all 
could  communicate  easily  with  one  an- 
other, as  in  Europe.  Here,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  a  vast  continent  not  provided 
by  nature  with  such  internal  communi- 
cations except  to  a  very  limited  extent, 
and  separated  by  a  whole  ocean  from  all 
European  countries;  while  i(i  those 
countries  the  opportunity  for  mutual  in- 
tercourse was  abundant.  Here,  on  the 
contrary,  there  was  only  a  wide  interior 
region,  as  yet  uninhabited  except  by 
savages,  and  much  of  it  probably  a 
desert,  and  destined  to  remain  such  for- 
ever. This  appeared  to  be  his  sole  point 
of  view  at  that  day.  How  shall  we 
explain  the  fact  ? 

We  shall  begin  to  understand  it  by 
remembering  the  statement  made  by 
Charles  Godfrey  Leland  in  the  year 
1848,  which  was  somewhat  before  the 
time  of  my  talk  with  Norton.  Leland 
boasted  that  it  had  taken  him  forty-three 
days  to  cross  the  Atlantic  on  an  ordinary 
voyage.  That  tells  a  large  part  of  the 
story.  Now  it  takes  less  than  a  week  to 
cross  the  ocean,  and  only  the  same  time 
to  cross  the  continent.  It  was  long  after 
this  that  Emerson  made  his  partly  con- 
soling suggestion,  "Europe  stretches  to 
the  Alleghanies."  There  was,  however, 
a  period  when  Emerson  himself,  in  his 
first  lecturing  tour  in  what  was  then 
called  the  Far  West,  found  printed  on 
the  tickets  of  admission  at  one  place, 
"Tickets  to  Emerson  and  the  ball,  one 
dollar,"  so  that  men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren, coming  from  a  long  distance,  could 
all  have  something  to  amuse  them.  It 
was  at  a  period  when  I  myself  saw  a 
handbill  printed  in  Indiana  on  which 
Mr.  J.  Jackson  offered  to  read  "Hamlet" 
for  twenty-five  cents,  ladies  free,  with 
the  understanding  that  after  the  reading 


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24 


PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY 


he  would  develop  a  plan  for  the  forma- 
tion of  a  company  for  the  manufacture 
of  silk  handkerchiefs,  and  would  relate 
some  incidents  of  his  early  life  in  con- 
nection with  "this  particular  article." 
Norton's  limitation  was  that  he  was 
speaking  more  than  ten  years  in  advance 
of  the  first  overland  railway  train, 
which  crossed  in  1869 ;  and  Gail  Hamil- 
ton was  more  foreseeing  than  he  when 
she  said  that  "if  there  were  never  to  be 
railroads,  it  would  have  been  a  real  im- 
pertinence for  Columbus  to  have  dis- 
covered this  continent." 

All  this  truth  was  for  Norton  to 
discover,  and  he  lived  to  show  that  he 
had  done  just  that,  and  accepted  so 
nobly  the  work  devolving  upon  him  that 
he  stayed  in  his  native  land  for  the  rest 
of  his  life,  with  only  one  brief  absence. 
He  even  went  so  magnificently  and  al- 
most incredibly   far  as  to  write  to  a 


Western  friend,  when  in  his  eightieth 
year,  that  if  his  life  were  to  be  lived 
again,  he  thought  that  he  should  like  to 
live  it  in  Chicago.  He  gave  as  a  reason 
that,  in  all  the  welter  of  vulgarity  and 
commercialism,  there  was  visible  there 
a  power  for  good  that  would  in  time 
come  to  its  own.  Words  of  more  utter 
self  devotion  than  this,  I  suspect,  none 
of  his  early  playmates  could  rival.  I 
know  one  of  them  who  never  got  so 
far;  but  such  were  Norton's  words. 
The  New  World  had  learned  much 
from  him,  and  in  its  turn  had  taught 
him  much. 

With  all  his  varied  and  delightful 
culture,  the  more  we  study  this  man's 
career,  the  more  we  find  it  based  on 
the  simplest  and  clearest  foundations, 
resting,  as  in  Wordsworth's  formula, 
on  "a  few  strong  instincts  and  a  few 
plain  rules." 


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THE  MOLLY  MAGUIRES  IN  THE  ANTHRACITE 
REGION  OF  PENNSYLVANIA 

By  James  Ford  Rhodes 


Holding  a  brief  for  the  Historic  Muse, 
it  might  seem  fitting  that  I  should  treat 
in  a  general  way  of  the  study  and  writ- 
ing of  history;  but  in  a  number  of  ad- 
dresses before  learned  societies  and  to 
university  students  I  have  gathered 
everything  in  my  power  from  this  well- 
reaped  field.  To  recombine  and  restate 
what  I  have  already  said  would  in  no 
way  be  worthy  of  this  occasion,  and  I 
think  that  I  can  better  serve  my  Muse. 

Some  one  asked  Jowett,  "Is  logic  a 
science  or  an  art?"  "Neither,"  he  said; 
"it  is  a  dodge."  And  some  scoffers,  im- 
pressed with  the  saying  attributed  to 
Napoleon  that  "History  is  lies  agreed 
upon,"  have  answered  likewise  the  same 
question  when  applied  to  history.  Na- 
poleon, indeed,  struck  at  two  of  the 
masters  when  he  said  that  Tacitus 
writes  romances,  and  Gibbon  is  no  better 
than  a  man  of  sounding  words.  There- 
fore it  has  seemed  to  me  that  the  rela- 
tion of  an  episode  that  has  been  investi- 
gated according  to  the  modern  method 
will  better  show  our  aim  at  the  truth 
than  a  laudation  over  results  that  have 
been  accomplished.  And  I  have  chosen 
an  episode  into  which  no  question  of 
party  politics  intrudes— the  operations 
of  the  Molly  Maguires  in  the  anthracite 
coal-region  of  Pennsylvania  between 
1865  and  1876. 

The  name  and  organization  of  this 
hidebound  secret  order— the  Molly 
Maguires— came  from  Ireland;  no  one 
but  an  Irish  Roman  Catholic  was  eligi- 
ble for  membership.  During  the  Civil 
War  there  had  been  an  enormous  de- 
mand for  anthracite  coal  at  high  prices, 
and  this  had  caused  a  large  influx  of 
foreigners,— Irish,      English,      Welsh, 


Scotch,  and  Germans,— so  that  the  col- 
liery towns  were  under  their  control; 
and  the  Irish,  from  their  number  and 
aggressiveness,  were  the  most  important 
single    factor.     Many   of   the    Mollies 
were  miners,  and  the  mode  of  working 
the  mines  lent  itself  to  their  peculiar 
policy.    Miners  were  paid  by  the  cubic 
yard,  by  the  mine-car,  or  by  the  ton, 
and,  in  the  driving  of  entries,  by  the 
lineal    yard.     In    the    assignment    of 
places,  which  was  made  by  the  mining 
boss,  there  were  "soft"  jobs  and  hard. 
If  a  Molly  applied  for  a  soft  job,  and 
was  refused,  his  anger  was  great,  and 
not  infrequently,  in  due  time,  the  of- 
fending boss  was  murdered.    If  he  ob- 
tained employment,  there  was  constant 
chance  for  disagreement  in  measuring 
up   the   work   and    in    estimating   the 
quality  of  the  coal  mined;  for  it  was 
the  custom  to  dock  the  miners  for  bad 
coal,  with  too  much  slate  and  dirt,  and 
a  serious  disagreement  was  apt  to  be 
followed  by  vengeance.    Little  wonder 
was  it  that,  as  the  source  of  the  out- 
rages   was    well    understood,    mining 
bosses  refused  to  employ  Irishmen ;  but 
this  did  not  insure  their  safety,  as  they 
might  then  be  murdered  for  their  re- 
fusal.   In  his  quality  of  superior  officer, 
a  good  superintendent  of  any  colliery 
would  support  an  efficient  mining  boss, 
and  would  thus  fall  under  the  ban  him- 
self. 

The  murders  were  not  committed  in 
the  heat  of  sudden  passion  for  some 
fancied  wrong;  they  were  the  result  of 
a  deliberate  system.  The  wronged  per- 
son laid  his  case  before  a  proper  body, 
demanding  the  death,  say,  of  a  mining 
boss,  and  urging  his  reasons.     If  they 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY 


were  satisfying,  as  they  usually  were, 
the  murder  was  decreed;  but  the  deed 
was  not  ordered  to  be  done  by  the  ag- 
grieved person  or  by  any  one  in  his  and 
the  victim's  neighborhood.  Two  or 
more  Mollies  from  a  different  part  of 
the  county,  or  even  from  the  adjoining 
county,  were  selected  to  do  the  killing, 
because,  being  unknown,  they  could  the 
more  easily  escape  detection.  Refusal 
to  carry  out  the  dictate  of  the  conclave 
was  dangerous  and  seldom  happened, 
although  an  arrangement  of  substitu- 
tion, if  properly  supported,  was  per- 
mitted to  be  made.  The  meeting  gen- 
erally took  place  in  an  upper  room  of  a 
hotel  or  saloon,  and  after  the  serious 
business  came  the  social  reunion,  with 
deep  libations  of  whisky. 

During  the  decade  beginning  in  1865, 
a  great  many  men  were  killed  to  satisfy 
the  revengeful  spirit  of  the  Molly  Ma- 
guires.  Some  of  the  victims  were  men 
so  useful,  conspicuous,  and  beloved  in 
their  communities  that  their  assassina- 
tion caused  a  profound  and  enduring 
impression. 

While  the  murders  were  numerous, 
still  more  numerous  were  the  threats  of 
murder  and  warnings  to  leave  the  coun- 
try, written  on  a  sheet  of  paper  with  a 
rude  picture  of  a  coffin  or  a  pistol,  and 
sometimes  with  both.  One  notice  read, 
"Mr.  John  Taylor— We  will  give  you 
one  week  to  go  but  if  you  are  alive  on 
next  Saturday  you  will  die."  Another, 
to  three  bosses  charged  with  "cheating 
thy  men,''  had  a  picture  of  three  pistols 
and  a  coffin,  and  on  the  coffin  was  writ- 
ten, "This  is  your  home."  In  other 
mining  districts  and  in  manufacturing 
localities,  during  strikes  and  times  of 
turbulence,  similar  warnings  have  been 
common,  and  have  been  laughed  at  by 
mining  bosses,  superintendents,  and 
proprietors ;  but  in  the  anthracite  region 
between  1865  and  1876  the  bravest  of 
men  could  not  forget  how  many  of  his 
fellows  had  been  shot,  or  suppress  a 
feeling  of  uneasiness  when  he  found 
such  a  missive  on  his  door-step,  or 
posted  upon  the  door  of  his  office  at  the 


mine.  Many  a  superintendent  and  min- 
ing boss  left  his  house  in  the  morning 
with  his  hand  on  his  revolver,  wonder- 
ing if  he  would  ever  see  wife  and  chil- 
dren again. 

For  the  commission  of  murder,  the 
young  men  of  the  order  were  selected ; 
above  them  were  older  heads  holding 
high  office  and  in  a  variety  of  ways  dis- 
playing executive  ability.  They  were 
quick  to  see  what  a  weapon  to  their 
hand  was  universal  suffrage,  and  with 
the  aptitude  for  politics  which  the  Irish 
have  shown  in  our  country,  they  de- 
veloped their  order  into  a  political 
power  to  be  reckoned  with.  Number- 
ing in  Schuylkill  County  only  500  or 
600  out  of  5000  Irishmen  in  a  total 
population  of  116,000,  the  Molly  Ma- 
guires  controlled  the  common  schools 
and  the  local  government  of  the  to>Mi- 
ships  in  the  mining  regions  of  the 
county.  They  elected  at  different  times 
three  county  commissioners,  and  one 
of  their  number  who  had  acquired 
twenty  thousand  dollars  worth  of  prop- 
erty they  came  near  electing  associate 
judge  of  the  Court  of  Oyer  and  Ter- 
miner. In  one  borough  a  Molly  was 
chief  of  police ;  in  Mahanoy  Township, 
another.  Jack  Kehoe,  was  high  consta- 
ble. In  the  elections  were  fraudulent 
voting,  stuffing  of  ballot-boxes,  and 
false  returns;  in  the  administration  of 
the  offices,  fraud  and  robbery. 

Despite  the  larg^  number  of  murders 
by  Molly  Maguires  from  1865  to  1875, 
there  were  few  arrests,  few  trials,  and 
never  a  conviction  for  murder  in  the  first 
degree.  The  defense  usually  relied  on  was 
an  alibi,  made  fairly  easy  to  establish, 
as  the  men  who  did  the  killing  were  un- 
known in  the  locality  of  it,  and  as  there 
were  Mollies  in  abundance  equal  to  any 
amount  of  false  and  hard  swearing  at 
the  dictation  of  their  order. 

During  the  summer  and  autumn  of 
1874,  the  Molly  Maguires  were  at  the 
height  of  their  power;  yet,  while  there 
was  nothing  in  sight  menacing  their 
dominion,  operations  against  them  had 
been    begun    by    Franklin    B.    Gowen. 


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THE  MOLLY  MAGUIRES  IN  THE  ANTHRACITE  REGION 


2^ 


Shortly  after  coming  of  age,  Gowen,  in 
company  with  others,  had  worked  a 
mine  in  Schuylkill  County;  but  owing 
to  the  aftermath  of  the  panic  of  1857, 
his  venture  had  not  been  successful.  He 
turned  to  the  study  of  law,  was  ad- 
mitted to  the  Schuylkill  County  bar,  was 
elected  district  attorney,  and  later,  se- 
curing a  large  and  lucrative  practice, 
became  attorney  for  the  Philadelphia 
and  Reading  Railroad,  and  in  1869,  at 
the  age  of  thirty-three,  its  president. 
He  organized  the  Philadelphia  and 
Reading  Coal  and  Iron  Company,  which 
secured  an  immense  amount  of  coal- 
land  and  became  the  largest  producer 
of  anthracite  coal.  He  knew  Schuylkill 
County  through  and  through,  and  made 
up  his  mind  that  a  regular  and  profita- 
ble conduct  of  mining  operations  would 
become  impossible  if  the  terror  of 
the  Molly  Maguires  continued  to  grow. 
As  the  guardian  of  the  great  Reading 
property,  he  felt  it  his  duty  to  break  up 
the  criminal  organization,  and  in  addi- 
tion to  his  local  knowledge  and  ex- 
perience, he  possessed  peculiar  qualities 
for  the  work.  With  restless  ability  and 
indomitable  energy,  he  combined  in  a 
remarkable  degree  both  physical  and 
moral  courage.  He  was  convinced  that 
the  Molly  Maguires  could  be  exposed 
only  by  the  employment  of  detectives. 
With  this  view,  he  applied  to  Allan 
Pinkerton  of  Chicago,  "an  intelli- 
gent and  broad-minded  Scotchman." 
Pinkerton  chose  James  McParlan,  a 
native  of  Ireland  and  a  Roman  Catholic, 
who,  coming  to  Chicago  in  1867,  had 
been  a  teamster,  the  driver  of  a  meat 
wagon,  a  deck-hand  on  a  lake  steamer, 
a  wood-chopper  in  the  wilds  of  Michi- 
gan, a  private  coachman  in  Chicago,  a 
policeman  and  detective,  then  an  em- 
ployee in  a  wholesale  liquor  establish- 
ment, developing  from  this  into  the  pro- 
prietor of  a  liquor  store  and  a  saloon. 
The  store  burned  down  in  the  great  fire 
of  1871,  and,  as  the  saloon  was  no 
longer  remunerative,  he  sold  it  out  and, 
in  April,  1872,  went  into  the  employ  of 
Allan  Pinkerton.    In  October,  1873,  ^^ 


the  age  of  twenty-nine,  he  reported  to 
the  Pinkerton  agent  in  Philadelphia  for 
orders,  with  the  understanding  that  he 
was  to  receive  twelve  dollars  a  week  as 
his  salary  and,  in  addition,  his  expenses. 
After  preliminary  observation  of  his 
field,  McParlan  took  up  his  residence  in 
the  anthracite  region  in  the  following 
December,  first  at  Pottsville,  then  at 
Shenandoah.  Under  a  disguise,  and  the 
assumed  name  of  James  McKenna,  Mc- 
Parlan was  a  "broth  of  a  boy"  who 
could  sing  a  song,  dance  a  jig,  pass  a 
rough  joke,  and  stand  treat,  apparently 
taking  his  full  share  of  whisky,  which 
was  the  usual  beverage.  Still  other 
qualities  were  needed,  so  he  said  he  had 
killed  his  man  in  Buffalo  and  was  a 
fugitive  from  justice.  Supposedly  a 
workman,  he  got  a  job,  but  found  this 
too  confining  and  laborious,  and  soon 
appreciated  that  it  was  unnecessary  for 
his  object.  But  he  had  to  account  for 
the  money  which  he  spent  freely,  and 
quickly  learning  that  honest  labor  was 
no  recommendation  to  the  Molly  Ma- 
guires, he  concocted  the  story  that  he 
was  in  receipt  of  a  pension  from  the 
United  States  Government,  fraudulently 
obtained,  and  that  he  was  also  a  coun- 
terfeiter engaged  in  "shoving  the  queer." 
This  latter  proved  a  clever  device,  .as  it 
explained  both  his  ready  command  of 
money  and  his  frequent  journeys  from 
place  to  place,  which  were  necessary  in 
his  work  of  detection,  warning,  and 
prevention  of  crime.  The  tale,  as  Mc- 
Parlan told  it  on  the  witness-stand,  is 
better  than  any  detective  story,  for  it  is 
based  on  a  diary  of  actual  happenings 
in  the  shape  of  regular  written  reports 
to  a  superior  officer  in  Philadelphia. 
He  gained  the  confidence  of  his 
brother  Irishmen  and  Catholics  and,  on 
April  14,  1874,  was  initiated  into  the 
order  and  became  a  full-fledged  Molly 
Maguire.  Loud,  brawling,  boastful  of 
crimes,  and  in  education  superior  to 
most  of  his  fellows,  he  was  soon  chosen 
secretary  of  his  division,  the  duties  and 
privileges  of  which  office  made  him  a 
local  leader,  gave  him  an  insight  into 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY 


the  secret  workings  of  the  order,  and 
imparted  to  him  a  knowledge  of  their 
past  crimes  and  projected  murders. 
While  he  was  working  with  zeal  and 
discretion,  learning  each  week  some- 
thing more  of  their  practices  and  plans 
of  operation,  other  events  were  tending 
toward  the  end. 

In  1875  there  was  a  recrudescence 
of  Molly  Maguire  outrages.  As  the  re- 
sult of  a  certain  feud,  a  Molly,  in 
accordance  with  the  rule  of  the  organ- 
ization, brought  his  case  before  a  con- 
vention held  in  a  second-story  room  of 
a  hotel  in  Mahanoy  City.  He  main- 
tained that  he  had  been  shot  at,  and 
that  it  was  the  intention  of  two  brothers 
named  Major  and  of  one  "Bully  Bill," 
otherwise  William  M.  Thomas,  a 
Welshman,  to  kill  him.  !H[e  therefore 
asked  his  society  to  put  these  three  men 
out  of  the  way.  The  meeting  to  con- 
sider this  request  was  opened  with 
prayer,  and  presided  over  by  Jack 
Kehoe,  the  county  delegate  of  Schuyl- 
kill, the  highest  officer  in  the  county 
organization.  There  were  also  present 
the  county  delegate  of  Northumberland, 
three  body-masters,— the  body-master 
was  the  chief  officer  of  the  division, — 
three  other  officers,  and  James  McPar- 
lan  (McKenna),  our  detective,  who  was 
also  secretary  of  the  Shenandoah  divi- 
sion. The  matter  was  discussed,  and 
after  some  consideration  a  motion  was 
made  that  Thomas  and  the  Major 
brothers  be  killed.  It  was  carried.  The 
mode  of  the  killing  caused  some  discus- 
sion, but  there  seemed  to  be  no  lack  of 
men  ready  and  willing  to  do  the  job. 
In  the  end,  certain  Mollies  were  agreed 
upon  and  selected  for  the  murders,  Mc- 
Parlan  being  one  of  those  assigned  for 
the  despatch  of  Thomas.  There  being 
no  further  business  before  the  meeting, 
it  adjourned  in  due  form.  Having 
doubtless  taken  many  drinks  of  whisky, 
the  Mollies  dined  at  the  tavern,  when, 

1  Although  Thomas  was  not  killed,  his  doom  and 
the  assault  on  him  formed  a  characteristic  incident. 
The  limit  of  this  paper,  however,  does  not  permit 
me  to  enlarge  upon  its  importance.  In  the  Court 
of  Quarter  Sessions,  Schuylkill  County,  Jack  Kehoe 


SO  the  account  reads,  other  matters  were 
sociably  discussed. 

On  the  morning  of  June  28,  four 
Mollies  from  Shenandoah,  of  ages  from 
nineteen  to  twenty-three,  started  out  to 
kill  Thomas,  expecting  to  shoot  him  as 
he  walked  toward  the  drift-mouth  of 
Shoemaker's  colliery,  a  mile  from  Ma- 
hanoy City.  Thomas  was  in  the  stable 
talking  to  the  stable-boss.  The  hour  of 
half-past  six  arrived,  and  the  Mollies, 
becoming  impatient  that  he  did  not 
come  out,  started  toward  the  stable. 
When  they  reached  the  door,,  one  fired 
at  Thomas,  hitting  him  in  the  breast. 
Thomas  jumped  toward  the  man  and 
grasped  the  revolver,  when  a  second 
bullet  took  effect.  Then  another  Molly 
shot  him  twice  in  the  neck,  one  wound 
being  within  a  quarter  of  an  inch  of  the 
jugular  vein;  the  other  two  fired,  but 
apparently  did  not  hit  the  victim. 
Thomas,  covered  with  blood,  fell  and 
crawled  under  the  horses  that  had  not 
been  hit.  One  horse  was  killed,  and  an- 
other wounded.  Thinking  that  Thomas 
was  dead,  the  assassins  fled  to  Shenan- 
doah and,  "wet  with  sweat,"  found  Mc- 
Parlan,  and  reported  what  they  had 
done.* 

Jimmy  Kerrigan,  the  body-master  of 
the.  Tamaqua  division,  Schuylkill 
County,  and  his  chum,  Thomas  Duffy, 
hard  drinkers,  reckless  and  quarrelsome 
in  their  cups,  had  been  arrested  and  im- 
prisoned more  than  once  by  the  police. 
They  had  therefore  conceived  a  violent 
hatred  against  Policeman  Yost,  who, 
with  an  associate,  constituted  the  night 
watch  of  Tamaqua,  and  on  one  occa- 
sion had  overcome  the  resistance  of 
Duflfy  by  beating  him  on  the  head  with 
his  club.  Yost  was  a  man  of  good  char- 
acter, kindly  nature,  and  much  liked  in 
the  community,  but  the  Tamaqua  divi- 
sion decided  that  he  must  die. 

At  the  same  time  the  Mollies  of 
Storm  Hill,  Carbon  County,  had  deter- 

and  a  number  of  other  Molly  Maguires  were  con- 
victed for  aggravated  assault  and  battery  with  in- 
tent to  kill  William  M.  Thomas,  and,  in  a  trial 
immediately  thereafter,  for  conspiracy  to  murder 
the  Majors. 


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mined  upon  the  murder  of  John  P. 
Jones,  a  mining  boss  in  the  employ  of 
the  Lehigh  and  Wilkesbarre  Coal  Com- 
pany, because  it  was  supposed  that  he 
had  blacklisted  William  Mulhall  and 
Hugh  McGehan.  An  exchange  of 
"Mollie  courtesies"  was  at  once  sug- 
gested and  decided  upon.  Carbon 
County  Mollies  were  to  be  sent  over  for 
the  murder  of  Yost,  and  in  return 
Schuylkill  Mollies  would  undertake  to 
put  Jones  out  of  the  way.  Yost  was  to 
be  assassinated  first,  and  the  time  fixed 
upon  was  the  early  morning  of  July  6, 
at  the  hour  when  he  should  extinguish 
the  last  gas-light  in  the  town.  Mulhall, 
who  was  a  married  man  with  a  la/ge 
family,  was  relieved  from  the  work, 
and  James  Boyle,  being  conveniently  at 
hand,  was  substituted  in  his  place. 

McGehan  and  Boyle,  the  Carbon 
County  representatives,  came  to  Tama- 
qua,  and  were  guided  by  Kerrigan  and 
Duffy.  About  midnight,  DuiTy  took 
the  two  to  the  cemetery  and  returned  to 
the  Union  House,  an  inn  kept  by  a 
prominent  Molly,  so  that  he  might  prove 
an  alibi  when,  as  was  highly  probable, 
suspicion  fell  upon  him.  Somewhat 
later,  Kerrigan  took  a  bottle  of  whisky 
to  the  cemetery ;  but  the  drink  was  for 
himself  and  Boyle,  as  McGehan,  who 
was  a  tall  young  man  of  about  twenty- 
two,  of  powerful  frame,  with  brawny 
arms,  never  touched  a  drop  of  liquor. 
Kerrigan  led  the  two  to  the  street-lamp, 
and  placed  them  under  the  shade-trees 
near  by.  After  a  while  Yost  and  his 
associate  watchman  appeared,  and  went 
into  Yost's  house  to  get  something  to 
eat.  Coming  out  at  a  little  after  two 
o'clock,  Yost  went  at  once  to  the  lamp- 
post, placed  his  ladder  against  it,  began 
to  climb  the  ladder,  heard  footsteps  be- 
hind him,  and  turned  to  see  who  was 
coming  from  under  the  trees.  As  he 
turned,  McGehan  reached  up  and  shot 
him  in  the  right  side.  Yost  fell  off  the 
ladder,  exclaiming:  "Oh,  my  God!  I 
am  shot!  My  wife!"  His  wife,  lean- 
ing out  of  the  window,  saw  him  climb- 
ing the  ladder,  saw  the  flash  of  the  pis- 


tol, heard  that  and  a  second  report,  the 
scream  of  her  husband,  the  sound  of  re- 
treating footsteps,  and,  rushing  down- 
stairs and  out,  found  him  mortally 
wounded.  "Give  me  a  kiss,"  he  said; 
"I  am  shot,  and  have  to  die."  Later  to 
his  brother-in-law  he  said :  "This  is  the 
last  of  me ;  I  must  die.  I  have  been  so 
long  in  the  army  and  escaped,  and  now 
I  must  be  shot  innocently."  He  died 
that  day,  but  not  before  stating  that  he 
had  seen  his  murderers  plainly.  They 
were  both  Irishmen,  but  neither  was 
Kerrigan  or  Duffy,  who  were  the  only 
enemies  he  had  in  the  world. 

Kerrigan  piloted  McGehan  and  Boyle 
away  to  a  point  whence  they  could 
easily  return  to  their  own  county.  Mc- 
Gehan boasted  to  Kerrigan  of  the 
deed.  "I  dislike,"  he  said,  "to  draw 
Irish  blood;  but  I  want  no  better  sport 
than  to  shoot  such  men  as  Yost.  When 
he  was  shot  he  ^hollered'  like  a  panther." 
The  murderers  reached  their  homes 
without  apprehension.  Not  until  seven 
months  afterward  were  they  arrested. 

McGehan  became  a  hero.  All  the 
Mollies  admired  his  "clean  job,"  for 
which  it  was  generally  recognized  a 
suitable  reward  should  be  given.  Camp- 
bell, a  leading  Molly  of  Carbon  County, 
bestirred  himself  in  his  behalf,  and 
started  him  in  a  saloon  •  near  Storm 
Hill. 

I  pass  over  two  murders  by  Mollies 
in  August  to  the  murder  of  Thomas 
Sanger.  An  Englishman,  thirty-three 
years  old,  of  good  character  and  amiable 
disposition,  a  mining  boss  at  Raven- 
run  colliery,  he  had  somehow  incurred 
the  ill-will  of  some  of  the  Molly  Ma- 
guires,  and  he  was  doomed  to  die.  On 
the  morning  of  September  i,  a  little 
before  seven  o'clock,  as  he  walked  to- 
ward the  mine  to  set  the  men  to  work, 
he  was  attacked  by  five  Mollies,  shot, 
and  killed,  as  was  also  William  Uren,  a 
young  man  who  was  with  him  and  in- 
terfered in  his  defense.  Although  a 
hundred  men  and  boys  witnessed  the 
assault,  they  were  so  terrified  by  the 
promiscuous  firing  that  they  made  no 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY 


attempt    to    arrest    the    Mollies,    who 
escaped  to  the  mountains. 

The  sensation  in  Schuylkill  and  Car- 
bon counties  was  profound.  The  vic- 
tims had  been  Welsh,  Pennsylvania- 
German,  or  English,  and  the  feeling  of 
their  blood-brothers  toward  the  Irish 
Catholics  was  growing  into  a  keen  de- 
sire for  vengeance. 

But  the  day  of  reckoning  was  at 
hand,  although  the  Mollies,  arrogant  in 
their  success,  drunk  with  deeds  of  vio- 
lence, and  thirsting  for  blood,  little 
recked  that  the  period  of  their  dominion 
was  drawing  to  an  end. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  in  return 
for  the  murder  of  Yost,  the  Schuylkill 
County  Mollies  had  promised  to  kill 
John  P.  Jones,  a  Welshman,  a  mining 
boss  at  Storm  Hill,  Carbon  County. 
Through  McParlan,  he  had  been 
warned,  and  for  a  number  of  weeks 
had  slept  at  the  house  of  his  superin- 
tendent under  guard  of  Coal  and  Iron 
Police.  The  changes  of  design  and 
shifting  of  plans  were  so  frequent  that 
the  detective  was  unable  to  trace  them 
all,  and  he  was  hoping  that  this  project 
had  been  abandoned  when  the  commu- 
nity received  another  shock  in  the  fol- 
lowing manner. 

Jimmy  Kerrigan,  who  knew  the  by- 
paths in  this  difficult  mountainous 
country,  led  Edward  Kelly,  whose  selec- 
tion had  been  by  lot,  and  Michael  J. 
Doyle,  who  had  volunteered  to  take  the 
place  of  a  married  man  with  a  family, 
into  Carbon  County,  and  they  stopped 
all  night  with  Campbell,  in  whose  saloon 
they  were  well  entertained.  Jones,  pass- 
ing the  first  night  for  a  long  while  in  his 
own  house,  left  it,  after  taking  break- 
fast and  chatting  with  his  family,  at  a 
little  after  seven  on  the  morning  of 
September  3  to  go  to  the  mining  super- 
intendent's office  near  the  railroad  sta- 
tion. As  the  train  from  Tamaqua  was 
nearly  due,  a  hundred  men— miners  and 
railroad  employees— were  about  the 
place.  As  Jones  approached  them,  two 
strange  men  suddenly  stepped  forward 
and  fired  a  number  of  balls   into  his 


body,  killing  him  almost  instantly.  At 
once  they  fled  to  the  mountains.  Wild 
excitement  prevailed  at  the  station,  but 
the  mining  superintendent  kept  his  head 
and  organized  a  party  for  pursuit  Jimmy 
Kerrigan  led  his  two  men  by  unfre- 
quented roads  and  by-paths,  and,  elud- 
ing all  pursuers,  got  them  safely  by 
Tamaqua,  five  miles  from  the  scene  of 
the  murder.  Had  he  kept  on,  instead 
of  stopping  to  show  his  hospitality,  he 
could  have  taken  them  to  Tuscarora, 
where  there  was  a  nest  of  Molly  Ma- 
guires.  Some  of  these  could  easily 
have  conducted  the  assassins  to  Potts- 
ville,  where,  merged  in  the  crowd,  de- 
tection would  have  been  impossible. 
But  when  they  had  left  Tamaqua  be- 
hind and  were  near  his  own  house,  Ker- 
rigan left  them  in  the  bush,  and  went 
home  to  get  them  whisky  and  something 
to  eat. 

Meanwhile  Beard,  a  young  law  stu- 
dent who  had  seen  the  dead  body  of 
Jones  immediately  after  the  murder 
and  was  one  of  the  first  to  bring  the 
news  of  it  to  Tamaqua,  happened  to 
hear  that  Jimmy  Kerrigan  with  two 
strange  men  had  been  seen  west  of  the 
town.  Going  to  a  hill  whence  with  a 
spy-glass  a  pretty  good  view  of  the  sur- 
rounding country  could  be  obtained,  he 
saw  Kerrigan  wave  a  handkerchief, 
whereupon  two  other  men  appeared, 
and  the  three  went  to  a  spring  on  the 
side  of  the  mountain.  Hurrying  back 
to  town.  Beard,  together  with  an  elder 
brother,  mustered  a  force  of  twenty, 
went  out  to  the  bush,  captured  Kerrigan 
and  his  associates,  and,  bringing  them 
to  town,  had  them  confined  in  the  Tama- 
qua lock-up.  They  were  surrendered 
to  the  deputy  sheriff  of  Carbon  County 
on  his  properly  supported  demand. 

The  trial  of  the  murderers  of  Jones, 
which  had  been  fixed  for  October  19, 
was  postponed  on  sufficient  ground; 
and,  as  it  was  well  understood  that 
strong  evidence  for  an  alibi  was  being  . 
manufactured,  and  as  the  Molly  Ma- 
guires  were  at  the  height  of  their  politi- 
cal power,   fears  were  entertained  by 


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many  that  the  assassins  would  escape 
the  punishment  which  was  justly  their 
due.  But  these  people  had  no  concep- 
tion of  the  impending  doom  of  the 
terrible  order,  owing  to  the  irrefragable 
evidence  gathered  by  McParlan,  the 
energy  and  discretion  of  Gowen  and 
Parrish,*  and  the  high  character  of  the 
bench  and  bar  of  Carbon  and  Schuylkill 
counties. 

On  January  18,  1876,  the  trial  of  the 
three  assassins  of  Jones  began  at 
Mauch  Chimk  before  Judge  Dreher. 
Assisting  the  district  attorney  in  the 
prosecution  were  Charles  Albright  and 
F.  W.  Hughes,  one  a  Democrat,  the 
other  a  Republican,  who  had  clasped 
hands  in  the  determination  to  root  out 
the  Molly  Maguires  by  process  of  laV. 
Five  attorneys  appeared  for  the  de- 
fense, of  whom  two  at  least  were  able 
lawyers,  and  a  third  was  the  Republican 
member  of  Congress  for  Schuylkill 
County.  The  prisoners  demanded  sepa- 
rate trials,  and  the  commonwealth 
elected  to  begin  with  Michael  J.  Doyle. 
The  testimony  presented  on  its  part  was 
complete.  The  defense  was  a  carefully 
manufactured  alibi ;  but  as  it  was  evi- 
dent that  the  commonwealth  stood  ready 
to  prosecute  for  perjury  as  well  as  for 
murder,  the  counsel  for  Doyle,  either 
too  timid  or  too  honorable  to  put  upon 
the  stand  men  who  they  knew  would 
swear  falsely,  did  not  call  their  wit- 
nesses, and  let  the  case  go  to  the  jury 
on  the  evidence  of  the  commonwealth. 
Three  arguments  were  made  by  the 
prosecution;  two  "stirring  appeals  to 
the  jury"  on  behalf  of  the  prisoner.  On 
February  i,  the  jury  brought  in  a  ver- 
dict of  guilty  of  murder  in  the  first  de- 
gree, the  first  conviction  in  the  anthra- 
cite region  of  a  Molly  Maguire  for  a 
capital  crime.  Later  the  judge  refused 
a  motion  for  a  new  trial,  and  sentenced 
Doyle  to  be  hanged. 

Kerrigan  decided  to  turn  state's  evi- 
dence, and,  before  the  conviction  of 
Doyle,  told  Albright  and  Hughes,  who 
were  accompanied  by  a  stenographer, 

1  President  of  the  Lehigh  and 


the  story  of  the  murders  of  Jones  and 
Yost,  and  disclosed  the  inside  workings 
of  the  society  of  Molly  Maguires.  On 
February  4,  Campbell  was  arrested  as 
accessory  before  the  fact  to  the  murder 
of  Jones,  and  on  the  same  day  the  two 
principals  and  three  accessories  to  the 
murder  of  Yost  were  committed  to  the 
Pottsville  jail.  On  February  lo,  two 
men  were  arrested  for  the  murder  of 
Sanger  and  Uren  at  Ravenrun. 

The  Molly  Maguires  were  much 
alarmed.  They  knew  that  the  arrests  of 
Campbell  and  of  the  murderers  of  Yost 
were  due  to  the  disclosures  of  Kerrigan, 
and  they  were  bitterly  indignant  at  his 
treachery ;  but  they  did  not  believe  that 
the  arrest  of  Sanger's  assassin  could  be 
laid  to  his  charge,  as  Kerrigan  was  in  a 
different  division,  and  had  no  intimate 
connection  with  the  murder.  It  was 
rumored  that  a  detective  was  among 
them,  and  suspicion  fell  upon  McParlan. 
Having  heard  the  report  more  than 
once.  Jack  Kehoe,  one  of  the  most 
adroit  men  in  the  society,  became  con- 
vinced of  its  truth,  and  sent  the  word 
around  that  McParlan  (McKenna)  was 
a  detective,  and  that  members  must  be- 
ware of  him.  Hearing  this,  McParlan 
went  to  Kehoe  and  demanded,  "Why  do 
you  spread  these  reports  about  me?" 

"I  heard  it  from  a  conductor  on  the 
Reading  Railroad,"  was  the  answer. 
"He  called  me  into  the  baggage-car,  and 
said  that  I  might  be  certain  that  you 
were  a  detective.  I  told  him  it  was  not 
the  first  time  I  had  heard  the  charge 
made  against  you." 

McParlan  denounced  the  charge  as  a 
slander,  and  demanded  a  convention  of 
the  order  to  investigate  the  matter.  "I 
will  let  the  society  try  me,"  he  said, 
"and  if  I  find  out  the  man  who  is  lying 
about  me,  I  will  make  him  suffer.  It 
is  a  terrible  thing  to  charge  a  man  like 
me  with  being  a  detective." 

They  agreed  that  a  county  convention 
should  be  called,  and  as  Kehoe  was  too 
nervous  to  write  the  notices,  he  asked 
McParlan  to  write  them  in  his  name, 

Wilkesbarre  Coal  Company. 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY 


who  therefore  summcmed  in  proper 
form  all  the  body-masters  of  the  county 
to  convene  at  Shenandoah,  about  March 
I,  for  his  own  trial. 

Meanwhile  the  report  concerning  Mc- 
Parlan  gained  force,  helped  on  by  the 
assertion  of  the  leading  attorney  for 
the  defense  of  Doyle  that,  in  some  un- 
accountable way,  the  attorneys  for  the 
commonwealth  had  obtained  minute  de- 
tails of  their  line  of  defense.  On  the 
day  before  the  one  fixed  for  the  conven- 
tion, McParlan,  while  at  Pottsville,  was 
charged  with  being  a  detective  by  an- 
other Molly,  who  further  asserted  that 
the  convention  at  Shenandoah  was  a 
game  of  his  to  get  all  the  body-masters 
and  officers  together  and  have  them  ar- 
rested by  Captain  Linden  *  and  his  Coal 
and  Iron  Police.  To  allay  this  suspi- 
cion, McParlan  went  at  once  to  see  Lin- 
den, and  asked  him  not  to  have  the 
police  there  at  all.  "I  believe,"  he  said, 
"I  can  fight  them  right  through,  and 
make  them  believe  I  am  no  detective." 
Linden  reluctantly  consented,  but  told 
McParlan  that  he  was  running  a  very 
great  risk. 

Linden  was  right.  Earlier  in  the  day, 
McParlan  had  seen  Kehoe,  and  the  two 
arranged  to  travel  together  to  Shenan- 
doah that  evening  that  they  might  be 
there  for  the  convention  early  on  the 
morrow.  But  Kehoe  stole  away  tfiither 
on  an  earlier  train,  got  together  Mc- 
xA.ndrew,  the  body-master  of  the  Shen- 
andoah division,  and  a  number  of  the 
Mollies,  telling  them  that  beyond  doubt 
McParlan  was  a  detective  and  must  be 
killed.  "For  God's  sake,  have  him 
killed  to-night,"  he  added,  "or  he  will 
hang  half  the  people  in  Schuylkill 
County."  The  men  consented,  McAn- 
drew  with  reluctance,  as  he  was  fond 
of  McParlan.  Kehoe  went  home,  but 
a  dozen  men  assembled  a  little  below  the 
station,  armed  with  axes,  tomahawks, 
and  sledges,  and  waited  for  the  coming 
of  McParlan,  intending  to  inveigle  him 

I  Linden,  the  assistant  superintendent  of  the 
Pinkerton  Agency  in  Chicago,  was  sent  to  the 
anthracite  region,  and  became  captain  of  the  Coal 


down  the  track  and  kill  him,  avoiding 
the  use  of  firearms  in  order  not  to  at- 
tract the  attention  of  policemen  about 
the  station. 

Meanwhile  McParlan  was  traveling 
toward  Shenandoah  on  the  evening 
train,  his  suspicions  aroused  from  Ke- 
hoe^s  failure  to  join  him  as  agreed. 
They  grew  stronger  when  he  was  not 
met  as  usual  at  the  station  by  five  or  six 
comrades  to  discuss  the  news  and  have 
a  drink.  He  went  into  the  saloon  of  a 
member,  whom  he  found  so  nervous 
and  excited  that  he  could  hardly  open 
the  bottle  of  porter  called  for.  Walk- 
ing on,  he  met  another  member,  ordi- 
narily friendly,  who  hardly  spoke  to 
him;  then  another,  Sweeney,  who  was 
less  cold,  but  of  whom  he  was  so  sus- 
picious that,  as  they  went  on  together, 
he  invented  some  excuse  to  make 
Sweeney  walk  ahead  lest  he  should  re- 
ceive a  blow  from  behind.  He  kept  his 
hand  on  his  revolver,  ready  to  meet  an 
attack.  Arriving  at  Mc Andrew's,  he 
noticed  two  Mollies  on  guard  and  that 
his  friend  was  nervous  and  uneasy. 
Sweeney  went  out,  came  back  again, 
and  threw  a  little  piece  of  snow  at  Mc- 
Andrew  as  a  signal  for  action,  to  which 
the  latter  replied:  "My  feet  are  sore.  I 
guess  I  will  take  off  my  boots,"  which 
was  as  much  as  to  say,  "I  have  aban- 
doned the  project."  With  truth  Mc- 
Andrew  told  McParlan  next  day,  "I 
saved  your  life  last  night" 

McParlan,  on  the  alert,  knew  some- 
thing was  up,  and  after  a  question  about 
the  meeting,  said  good  night  and  started 
for  his  boarding-house,  but  not  by  his 
usual  route,  taking,  instead,  a  byway 
through  a  swamp.  He  slept  little,  for 
he  was  constantly  on  his  guard  against 
an  attempt  at  assassination. 

Next  morning  there  was  no  sign  of  a 
convention,  and  McParlan  made  up  his 
mind  to  go  to  Girardville  and  demand 
of  Kehoe  the  reason.  Hiring  a  horse 
and  cutter,   he  took  Mc Andrew   with 

and  Iron  Police,  his  calling  of  detective  being 
known  only  to  the  few  whose  guiding  hands  were 
in  the  enterprise. 


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him ;  and  two  other  Mollies,  in  a  similar 
conveyance,  started  after  them. 

'*What  does  this  mean?"  asked  Mc- 
Parlan. 

**Look  here,"  was  the  reply,  "you  had 
better  look  out;  for  that  man  who  is 
riding  in  that  sleigh  behind  you  calcu- 
lates to  take  your  life.  Have  you  got 
your  pistols  ?" 

**Yes,"  said  McParlan. 

'*So  have  I,"  returned  Mc Andrew, 
."and  I  will  lose  my  life  for  you.  I  do 
not  know  whether  you  are  a  detective 
or  not,  but  I  do  not  know  anything 
against  you.  I  always  knew  you  were 
doing  right,  and  I  will  stand  by  you. 
Why  don't  they  try  you  fair?"  Then 
Mc  Andrew  told  of  the  plot  of  the  pre- 
vious day,  adding,  "You  will  find  out 
that  you  are  in  a  queer  company  this 
minute." 

"I  do  not  give  a  cent,"  replied  Mc- 
Parlan ;  "I  am  going  down  to  Kehoe's." 

To  Kehoe's  they  went.  Kehoe  was 
surprised  to  see  McParlan  still  alive  and 
in  company  with  the  men  who  had 
agreed  to  kill  him.  Yet  they  fell  to  dis- 
cussing the  burning  question  when 
Kehoe  intimated  to  him  that  he  had 
learned  his  true  character  from  Father 
O'Connor.  On  McParlan's  determin- 
ing to  go  to  see  the  priest  at  M^ahanoy 
Plane,  a  number  of  Mollies  went  along. 
The  one  to  whom  the  killing  of  the  de- 
tective was  assigned  got  too  drunk  to 
make  the  attempt ;  but  on  their  return  to 
Shenandoah,  McAndrew  would  not  per- 
mit McParlan  to  go  to  his  boarding- 
house  for  fear  of  assassination,  but 
insisted  that  he  should  sleep  in  his  (Mc- 
Andrew's)  quarters. 

Having  failed  to  find  Father  O'Con- 
nor when  he  left  Kehoe's,  McParlan 
made  a  second  unsuccessful  attempt  on 
the  next  day ;  but  not  caring  to  pass  an- 
other night  at  Shenandoah,  he  went  on 
to  Pottsville. 

"There,"  he  said  to  Captain  Linden, 
'*I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  they 
have  had  a  peep  at  my  hand  and  that 
the  cards  are  all  played." 

Shadowed  by  Linden,  on  the  follow- 


ing day  he  went  to  Mahanoy  Plane,  and 
had  a  long  talk  with  Father  O'Connor, 
learning  that  not  only  O'Connor,  but 
two  other  Catholic  priests  as  well,  be- 
lieved that  he  was  a  Pinkerton  detective 
in  the  employ  of  the  Reading  Company. 
Satisfied  that  his  mission  was  generally 
known,  he  returned  to  Pottsville  that 
evening,  and  next  morning  (March  5 
or  6)  left  for  Philadelphia,  ending  his 
experience  of  nearly  two  years  as  a 
Molly  Maguire. 

A  word  here  should  be  said  concern- 
ing the  position  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
clergy.  Father  O'Connor's  aversion  to 
McParlan  was  not  due  to  any  love  for 
the  Molly  Maguires.  On  the  contrary, 
he  had  denounced  them  from  the  pulpit, 
and  read,  only  a  short  time  previous, 
the  pastoral  letter  of  Archbishop  Wood 
excommunicating  all  lawless  societies 
and  especially  the  Molly  Maguires.  But 
Father  O'Connor  looked  upon  McPar- 
lan as  a  stool-pigeon,  egging  his  asso- 
ciates on  to  crime  in  order  to  enhance 
his  own  glory  and  profit  as  a  detective. 

Wood  was  the  archbishop  of  Phila- 
delphia, and  had  almost  from  the  first 
been  cognizant  of  and  sympathetic  with 
the  means  which  Gowen  employed  to 
bring  the  Molly  Maguires  to  justice. 

In  the  trial  of  the  murderers  of  Yost 
McParlan  was  the  chief  witness  for  the 
commonwealth.  The  Molly  Maguires 
knew  Jim  McKenna,  a  man  with 
bushy  red  hair  and  rough  dress,  a 
brawler  and  a  roysterer,  "the  biggest 
Molly  of  us  all."  They  saw  before 
them  in  the  witness-box  James  McPar- 
lan, a  man  slightly  built,  but  muscular, 
of  fair  complexion,  closely  cut  dark- 
chestnut  hair  above  a  broad,  full  fore- 
head, and  gray  eyes.  Dressed  plainly  in 
black,  wearing  spectacles,  with  an  intel- 
ligent and  grave  countenance  and  gentle- 
manly bearing,  he  resembled  a  college 
professor  rather  than  a  rowdy,  fre- 
quenting bar-rooms  and  saloons. 

McParlan  told  his  wonderful  story 
slowly,  without  an  attempt  at  theatrical 
display,  and  he  was  listened  to  with 
breathless  interest  by  judges,  attorneys, 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY 


prisoners,  and  officers  of  the  law.  He 
remained  upon  the  witness-stand  for 
four  days,  and  instead  of  being  shaken 
by  the  searching  cross-examination  to 
which  he  was  subjected,  he  was  able  to 
add  evidence  which  told  against  the 
prisoners  and  which  had  been  objected 
to  on  his  examinatioil-in-chief.  Accu- 
rate and  truthful,  he  excelled  as  wit- 
ness, as  he  had  as  detective,  and  when 
he  finished  his  testimony,  the  case  of 
the  commonwealth  was  won. 

McParlan  testified  in  a  number  of 
subsequent  cases.  More  of  the  Mollies 
turned  state's  evidence,  and  proof  was 
piled  upon  proof.  Conviction  after  con- 
viction for  murder  followed,  and  death- 
sentences  were  pronounced.  Many  of 
the  cases  were  taken  up  to  the  Supreme 
Court  on  writs  of  error,  with  the  result 
that  the  sentences  of  the  lower  courts 
were  affirmed. 

On  June  21,  1877,  at  Mauch  Chunk, 
four  Molly  Maguires  were  hanged, 
three  for  the  murder  of  Jones,  one  for 
the  murder  of  Powell  in  1871.  At 
Pottsville  six  were  hanged,  five  for  the 
murder  of  Yost,  and  one  for  the  murder 
of  Sanger.  In  the  meantime  arrests 
had  been  made  of  Mollies  who  had  com- 
mitted murders  previous  to  1875.  For 
the  killing  in  Columbia  County  of  a 
mine  superintendent  in  1868,  three  were 
convicted,  and  on  March  25,  1878,  were 
hanged  at  Bloomsburg.  For  killing  a 
breaker-boss  in  1862,  the  mighty  Jack 
Kehoe  was  found  guilty  of  murder  in 
the  first  degree,  and  on  December  18, 
1878,  was  hanged  at  Pottsville. 

In  all,  nineteen  Mollie  Maguires  were 
hanged;  a  greater  number  for  lesser 
crimes  than  murder  received  various 
sentences  of  imprisonment.  The  maj- 
esty of  the  law  was  vindicated.  The 
Molly  Maguires  were  crushed.  Never 
did  the  society  reappear  in  the  anthra- 
cite region.  The  weapon  of  coolly  de- 
vised and  violent  assassination  was 
never  afterward  employed  on  the  part 
of  labor.    The  region  did  not  again  suf- 


fer from  the  lawlessness  which  had  pre- 
vailed there  from  1865  to  1875.  That 
this  result  was  accomplished  not  by  vigi- 
lance committees  and  lynchings,  but  by 
the  regular,  patient,  and  considerate 
process  of  law,  was  due  to  Gowen,  Mc- 
Parlan, Parrish,  the  bench  of  Carbon, 
Schuylkill,  Columbia,  and  Northumber- 
land counties,  and  the  lawyers  who 
acted  for  the  commonwealth. 

The  racial  characteristics  shown  in 
this  story  are  worth  a  passing  note.  All 
the  Molly  Maguires  were  Irish.  Mc-' 
Parian,  who  exposed  them  and  served 
his  employer  with  stanch  fidelity,  was 
Irish,  and  Gowen,  to  whom  the  greatest 
credit  is  due  for  the  destruction  of  the 
society,  was  the  son  of  an  Irishman. 

A  peculiar  feature  stands  out,  differ- 
entiating the  Molly  Maguires  from  any 
criminal  organization,  so  far  as  I  know, 
of  any  other  peoples  of  the  Indo-Euro- 
pean family.  We  read  of  strong  drink 
and  carousing,  of  robbery  and  murder, 
but  nowhere,  during  the  orgies  of 
whisky,  of  dissolute  women.  We  read 
of  wives  and  families,  of  marriage  and 
the  giving  in  marriage,  of  childbirth, 
but  nowhere  of  the  appearance  of  the 
harlot.  The  Irishman,  steeped  in  crime, 
remained  true  to  the  sexual  purity  of 
his  race. 

The  characteristic  failings  of  the 
Celts,  as  the  ancient  Romans  knew  them, 
were  intensified  in  their  Irish  descend- 
ants by  the  seven  centuries  of  misgov- 
ernment  of  Ireland  by  England. 
Subject  to  tyranny  at  home,  the  Irish- 
man, when  he  came  to  America,  too 
often  translated  liberty  into  license,  and 
so  ingrained  was  his  habit  of  looking 
upon  government  as  an  enemy  that, 
when  he  became  the  ruler  of  cities  and 
stole  the  public  funds,  he  was.  from  his 
point  of  view,  only  despoiling  the  old 
adversary.  With  his  traditional  hos- 
tility to  government,  it  was  easy  for  him 
to  become  a  Molly  Maguire,  while  the 
English,  Scotch,  and  Welsh  immigrant 
shrank  from  such  a  society  with  horror. 


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THE  CAPITOL 

By  Julia  Ward  Howe 


Where  shall  our  nation's  temple  stand  ? 

Center  of  counsel  and  command ; 

A  Mecca  of  unfailing  faith; 

A  Zion  of  unwavering  hope ; 

A  fortress  that  with  grim  assault 

And  deadly  stratagem  may  cope ; 

A  Rome  that  weaves  no  slavish  bond, 

But  wins  allegiance  firm  and  fond. 

I  see  the  noble  structure  rise, 
The  dome  descending  from  the  skies 
To  lofty  station,  that  the  eye 
And  will  of  man  may  aim  so  high, 
While  walls  of  hospitable  space 
The  people's  judgment-seat  embrace. 
Here  shall  avail  the  argument 
Of  just  endeavor  and  intent; 
Here  shall  the  widow's  prayer  be 

brought, 
The  orphan's  sacred  claim  be  sought ; 
The  heavenly  sisterhood  of  art 
Keeping  unstained  a  nation's  heart ; 
An  altar  for  each  honest  creed, 
A  court  where  each  just  cause  may 

plead. 

A  sentence  of  eternal  lore 
Uttered  in  whispers  heretofore, 
But  now  with  silver  trump  proclaimed 
To  men  and  regions  newly  named, 
That  right  with  right  may  fitly  join. 
The  weal  of  each  for  all  combine ; 
No  need  to  snatch,  no  need  to  slay. 


For  a  republic's  holiday. 

The  chief  who  gave  our  shrine  his  name 

Barred  it  thenceforth  from  evil  fame. 

Upon  his  laureled  tomb  doth  lie 

The  pledge  of  immortality. 

For  all  his  way  was  writ  of  Fate 

In  holy  footsteps  consecrate. 

Where  the  sad  spoils  of  warfare  rest 
Nirvana  sits,  a  solemn  guest. 
Safeguard  of  rule  that  may  not  cease, 
Sponsor  of  righteousness  and  peace. 

How  shall  we  overmatch  the  past 
With  merits,  shaming  each  the  last  ? 
Fast  holding  each  illustrious  theft 
Old  Time  has  patterned  in  his  weft. 
Losing  no  touch  of  hero  song. 
Yielding  no  step  of  vanquished  wrong. 
No  conquering  grace  that  marks  the  line 
Where  human  beauties  grow  divine. 

Let  him  who  stands  for  service  here 
With  deeply  reverent  soul  draw  near. 
Intent  irom  every  season's  youth 
To  pluck  the  new  commissioned  truth ; 
To  lift  the  weight  that  most  offends, 
The  need  that  other  needs  transcends ; 
In  distant  prisons,  sad  and  drear. 
The  captive's  lonely  heart  to  cheer, 
And  in  earth's  wildest  wastes  arouse 
The  music  of  the  Father's  house — 
Home  for  the  homeless,  priceless  rest. 
Heaven's  seal  of  promise,  dearest,  best. 


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CONCERNING  CONTEMPORARY  MUSIC 
By  Horatio  Parker 


A  FAMOUS  orchestral  conductor  once 
told  me  that  he  was  glad  he  would  be 
dead  in  fifty  years,  so  that  he  would  not 
have  to  hear  the  music  of  that  time.  It 
is  needless  to  say  that  he  was  conserva- 
tive, but  it  should  be  stated  that  he  was, 
and  is,  one  of  the  best-known  and  most 
efficient  conductors  we  have  ever  had  in 
this  country.  Although  his  remark  is 
typical  of  the  critical  attitude  of  many 
who  have  to  do  with  new  music,  yet  it 
does  not  in  the  least  represent  the  atti- 
tude of  the  public,  which  is  interested 
and  pleased  as  never  before  with  the 
music  of  our  own  time.  There  have  al- 
ways been  people  to  declare  that  the 
particular  art  in  which  they  were  inter- 
ested, at  the  particular  time  in  which 
they  lived,  was  going  to  the  dogs,  and 
there  seem  to  be  peculiar  excuses  for 
this  belief  in  music-lovers  just  now. 
But  there  ought  to  be  some  way  of 
reconciling  the  pessimism  of  the  critics 
and  the  optimism  of  the  public,  which 
expresses  itself  eloquently  in  the  buying 
of  many  tickets.  By  critics  I  do  not 
mean  merely  the  journalists.  I  mean 
rather  essayists  and  those  accustomed  to 
give  well-deliberated  judgment  on  mat- 
ters of  permanent  importance.  The 
journalists  have  been  so  often,  so  rudely 
shocked  that  they  not  only  fear  to  tread, 
but  fail  to  rush  in,  and  at  a  first  hearing 
of  new  things  are  fain  to  give  forth  an 
uncertain  sound,  which,  in  the  light  of 
subsequent  developments,  may  be  taken 
for  approval  or  censure. 

The  pursuit  and  enjoyment  of  music 
call  for  the  exercise,  on  the  part  of  its 
devotees,  of  three  principal  functions 
widely  diflferent.  These  are  the  func- 
tions of  the  composer,  of  the  performer, 
and  of  the  listener. 


The  composer  is  the  source  and 
motive  power  of  all  art-music,  the  pro- 
ducer who  draws  his  inspiration  from 
the  recesses  of  his  inner  artistic  con- 
sciousness, whose  desire  and  aim  are  to 
realize  as  well  as  possible  the  ideals  with 
which  his  brain  is  filled.  He  seeks  to 
give  expression  to  musical  ideas  which 
shall  call  forth  sympathetic  feeling  in 
those  to  whom  the  utterance  is  ad- 
dressed. Although  in  some  cases  it  is 
apparently  meant  for  an  ideal  audience 
which  has  no  existence,  nevertheless,  if 
the  utterance  be  true  and  skilfully  made, 
it  will  in  no  case  fail  of  audience  or  of 
effect,  even  though  the  time  be  delayed. 

The  second  function  necessary  to  the 
practice  of  music  is  that  of  the  per- 
former or  reproducer.  This  activity  is 
closely  allied  to  the  first,  which  is  in 
truth  dependent  upon  it.  It  is  of  high 
importance,  and  in  ideal  instances  may 
be  artistic  activity  of  a  kind  hardly 
lower  than  that  of  the  composer,  though 
wholly  different  in  character.  This  also 
is  at  root  a  manifestation  of  a  desire  for 
utterance,  of  the  craving  to  awaken 
sympathetic  feeling  in  others;  but  it  is 
different  in  that  it  seeks  and  gives  ex- 
pression to  ideas  which  are  already  in 
existence.  The  composer  seeks  those 
which  do  not  yet  exist.  The  performer 
gives  utterance  to  the  thought  of  an- 
other; the  composer,  to  his  own.  But 
the  work  of  the  performer  is  for  most 
people  the  only  actual  embodiment  of 
the  results  of  the  first  function,  and  he 
frequently  clarifies  and  enhances  the 
composer's  work  in  a  measure  beyond 
expectation.  It  calls  for  self-control  as 
well  as  for  self-abandonment,  for  sym- 
pathy in  the  highest  degree,  and  a  two- 
fold sympathy, —with  the  composer  and 


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CONCERNING  CONTEMPORARY  MUSIC 


37 


with  the  audience,— and  for  personal, 
magnetic  power  to  such  an  extent  that 
it  is  wholly  quite  natural  that  people 
should  frequently,  even  usually,  lose  all 
sight  and  sense  of  the  composer  or  pro- 
ducer, who  is  remote  from  them,  and 
admire  the  work  of  the  reproducing 
artist,  who  is  always  near. 

The  third  function  is  of  equal  im- 
portance with  the  other  two,  but  differs 
from  them  more  than  they  do  from  each 
other.  It  is  the  function  of  the  audi- 
ence or  the  listeners.  This  function  is 
largely  misunderstood  and  usually  un- 
dervalued. It  is  the  exact  opposite  of 
the  other  two  essentials  of  music-mak- 
ing in  that  it  calls  for  receptive  activity, 
if  one  may  so  express  it,  for  intelligent, 
passive  sympathy.  This  sympathy  of 
the  audience  is  the  mark  at  which  both 
composer  and  performer  are  aiming.  It 
has  no  public  or  open  reward,  though  it 
well  deserves  one.  Audiences  certainly 
should  receive  credit  for  intelligent  lis- 
tening, though  it  is  hard  to  know  just 
how  or  when  to  give  it.  The  quality  of 
sympathy  is  elusive  and  difficult  to  ap- 
preciate. To  most  audiences  it  seems 
unimportant  whether  it  be  given  or 
withheld;  the  only  matter  of  conse- 
quence is  the  applause.  Genuine  appre- 
ciation is  often  hard  to  identify  or 
recognize.  It  is  quite  impossible  to 
know  whether  a  smooth,  impassive,  self- 
restrained  Anglo-Saxon  face  hides  the 
warmest  appreciation  or  the  densest 
ignorance  or  indifference.  Such  emo- 
tions often  resemble  one  another.  Nor 
can  one  ever  tell  whether  the  heightened 
color  and  brightened  eyes  are  caused  by 
the  long  hair  and  hands  of  the  performer 
or  by  beautiful  music.  A  particularly 
good  luncheon  or  dinner  preceding  the 
concert  may  have  the  same  outward  ef- 
fect. So  the  successful  listener  is  a 
mystery,  but  a  pleasing  and  very  neces- 
sary one.  His  work  is  as  important  as 
that  of  the  composer  or  performer,  and 
his  rewards  are  none  the  less  real  be- 
cause they  are  not  counted  out  to  him 
in  cash,  because  he  pays  and  does  not 
receive  a  tangible  medium  of  exchange. 


They  lie  in  the  listening  itself  and  in 
the  consciousness  of  improvement 
which  is  the  result  of  his  effort. 

In  speaking  of  modern  music,  we  can 
omit  personalities  concerning  classical 
composers.  Their  works  fall  entirely  to 
the  exercises  of  the  second  and  third 
functions  mentioned ;  but  since  the  bulk 
of  contemporary  music  is  by  classical 
composers,  it  may  be  well  to  speak 
briefly  of  the  attitude  of  performers  and 
audiences  toward  music  of  this  kind. 
In  an  ideal  world  the  performer  and  the 
listener  would  have  the  same  kind  and 
degree  of  pleasure  in  music  except  in  so 
far  as  it  is  more  blessed  to  give  than  to 
receive.  "We  are  all  musicians  when 
we  listen  well."  It  may  be  laid  down 
as  a  general  principle  that  performers 
of  classical  music  have  more  enjoyment 
than  listeners.  Palestrina  is  a  pre- 
classical  composer  with  distinct  limita- 
tions, and  it  is  quite  reasonable  that  he 
should  appeal  under  ordinary  conditions 
to  a  small  audience,  and  to  that  imper- 
fectly. He  is  a  religious  composer,  and 
most  audiences  prefer  to  keep  their  re- 
ligious feelings  for  Sunday  use.  He  is 
a  composer  of  church  music  to  be  sung 
in  church,  so  that  his  work  must  miss  its 
effect  in  a  modern  concert-room.  We 
have  very  few  churches  in  our  country 
fit  for  the  performance  of  Palestrina*s 
music.  I  know  a  jail  or  two  where  it 
would  sound  wonderfully  effective,  but 
there  are  obvious  reasons  for  not  going 
so  far  in  the  pursuit  of  art.  It  follows, 
therefore,  that  Palestrina  in  a  concert- 
room  is  enjoyed  by  the  average  listener 
only  by  means  of  a  lively  exercise  of 
the  imagination,  with  frequent,  perhaps 
unconscious,  mental  reference  to  what 
he  has  read  or  heard  about  it. 

If  there  is  enthusiasm,  it  is  surely  for 
the  performance,  because  the  music  it- 
self is  so  clear,  so  pure,  so  absolutely 
impersonal,  that  it  is  hardly  reasonable 
to  expect  it  to  appeal  to  the  listener  of 
to-day.  He  is  too  remote  from  it,  and 
should  not  think  less  of  himself  because 
he  does  not  feel  an  immediate  response. 
In    proper    circumstances,    in    a    real 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY 


church,  he  would  surely  respond  at  once. 
For  this  music  is  the  summit  of  a  great 
wave  of  musical  development.  Nothing 
exists  of  earlier  or  later  date  which  may 
be  compared  with  it.  It  is  ideal  church 
music,  ideal  religious  music,  the  greatest 
and  purest  ever  made ;  and  it  can  never 
be  surpassed,  for  we  have  gone  by  the 
point  in  the  history  of  the  art  at  which 
such  effort  as  Palestrina's  can  bring 
forth  such  fruit. 

The  public  attitude  toward  Bach  is 
much  more  natural  and  unconstrained. 
He  is  nearer  to  us  and  is  an  instru- 
mental composer.  Although  in  some- 
what archaic  terms,  his  music  is  personal 
expression  in  a  much  higher  degree  than 
that  of  the  absolutely  impersonal  Pales- 
trina.  The  vigor,  the  life,  and  the  ani- 
mation which  inform  the  whole  texture 
of  his  work  are  so  obvious  that  we  can- 
not miss  them.  Again,  in  his  greatest 
work  the  feeling  of  design  is  so  clear, 
the  upbuilding  and  the  resulting  mas- 
siveness  are  so  faultless,  that  the  devout 
and  habitual  lover  of  music  has  the  re- 
poseful and  at  the  same  time  exciting 
conviction  that  he  is  hearing  the  inevita- 
ble. Enjoyment  is  easy  even  to  the  un- 
learned. In  those  works  which  are  less 
massive  than  the  greatest,  the  pleasure 
we  have  from  Bach  is  more  subtle,  more 
refined,  and  perhaps  less  acute,  but  we 
always  feel  that  we  listen  to  a  master. 
Bach  gives,  perhaps,  the  highest  satis- 
faction in  his  chamber-music.  Much  of 
his  work  is  so  very  intimate  that  we  find 
the  balance  of  expression  and  form 
most  easily  when  we  are  near  enough 
to  hear  every  note.  The  church  can- 
tatas in  church,  the  great  organ  works 
in  a  comparatively  small  place,  or  the 
orchestral  music  in  a  hall  of  moderate 
size,  are  among  the  keenest  enjoyments 
for  performers  and  audience.  Ap- 
plause, if  it  is  given,  must  be  for  the 
performers  or  for  their  work.  The 
compositions  are  above  approval.  To 
praise  them  is  like  speaking  well  of  the 
Bible. 

In    the   work   of   his    contemporary 
Handel,  whose   texture  is   less  purely 


polyphonic  and  instrumental,  the  en- 
joyment of  performer  and  listener 
comes  nearer  to  a  point  of  coincidence. 
The  audience  can  love  it  more  nearly 
as  a  performer  does.  We  feel  that  the 
vitality  in  Handel  is  of  a  more  human 
kind;  that  it  is  nearer  our  level,  less 
supernal :  but  it  is  convincing  and  satis- 
fying even  when  most  popular,  and  is 
not  disappointing  upon  intimate  ac- 
quaintance, even  though  it  lack  the 
nearly  superhuman  fluidity  and  the  mar- 
velous texture  of  Bach. 

The  music  of  Beethoven  is  so  well 
known,  so  frequently  heard,  and  so 
clearly  understood  that  we  may  take  it 
for  granted,  and  go  on  to  music  which 
is  modern  in  every  sense,  made  in  our 
own  time,  and  addressed  to  our  own  per- 
sonal feelings.  Our  present-day  music 
is  twofold  in  character,  a  direct  result 
of  the  labors  of  Beethoven  and  his  suc- 
cessors in  pure  music,  and  of  Wagner 
and  the  romanticists  in  music  which  is 
not  absolute.  The  symphony  or  sonata 
form  is  now  archaic  in  the  same  sense 
that  the  fugue  is  archaic.  Beautiful 
music  may  be,  will  be,  made  in  both 
forms,  but  that  is  no  longer  the  general 
problem. 

It  is  probably  true  that  since  the  four 
symphonies  of  Brahms,  no  symphonic 
works  carry  the  conviction  of  the  sym- 
phonic poems  of  Richard  Strauss.  Al- 
though these  are  cast  in  a  modification 
of  the  symphonic  form  of  Beethoven, 
they  always  have  a  psychological  basis 
or  an  original  impulse  outside  of  music. 
They  are  intended  to  characterize  in 
musical  speech  or  language  things  which 
can  only  by  vigorous  effort  be  brought 
into  any  connection  with  music  itself. 
The  question  naturally  arises.  Has  the 
power  of  making  absolute  music  en- 
tirely disappeared  ?  I  am  loath  to  think 
so,  but  surely  the  practice  has  dwindled 
in  importance. 

We  need  not  be  concerned  to  examine 
these  extra-musical  bases.  Granting 
them  to  be  necessary,  one  is  much  the 
saiTie  as  another.  But  that  is  just  what 
many  are  reluctant  to  grant.    Many  are 


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brazen  enough  to  enjoy  program-music 
frequently  in  spite  of,  not  on  account 
of,  the  program;  and  some  people  pre- 
fer the  advertisements,  which  are  usually 
in  larger  print.  Both  save  thinking. 
But  the  underlying  program  is  not  what 
most  critics  object  to.  The  commonest 
criticisms  which  we  hear  of  strictly 
modefn  music  charge  it  with  a  lack  of 
economy,  amotmting  to  constant  ex- 
travagance; a  lack  of  reserve,  amount- 
ing almost  to  shamelessness ;  and  a 
degree  of  complexity  entirely  incompre- 
hensible to  the  average  listener,  and,  if 
we  are  to  believe  careful  critics,  out  of 
all  proportion  to  the  results  attained. 
Of  course  economy  is  a  great  and  essen- 
tial virtue  in' art,  but  it  is  not  incom- 
patible with  large  expenditures.  It 
depends  on  the  size  of  the  fund  which 
is  drawn  upon.  Nor  is  explicit  and 
forceful  utterance  incompatible  with  re- 
serve. As  for  complexity,  it  may  some- 
times be  beyond  the  power  of  any 
listener  to  appreciate.  Perhaps  only  the 
composer  and  the  conductor  can  see  or 
hear  all  the  subtleties  in  an  orchestral 
score.  But  is  such  complexity  a  waste  ? 
Not  necessarily,  for  good  work  is  never 
wasted.  Although  beauties  in  a  viola 
part  or  in  the  second  bassoon  may  not 
be  obvious  to  the  casual  listener,  how- 
ever hard  he  may  listen,  they  are  not 
necessarily  futile.  They  may,  perhaps, 
be  noticed  only  by  the  composer,  the 
conductor,  and  the  individual  per- 
former, but  they  are  there  and  they 
constitute  a  claim  on  the  respect  and 
affection  of  future  musicians.  If  all 
the  beauties  were  hidden,  they  would 
be  useless,  but  as  gratuitous  additional 
graces  they  call  for  approbation.  But 
one  may  not  admire  complexity  for  its 
own  sake.  It  is  far  easier  to  achieve 
than  forceful  simplicity. 

At  a  recent  performance  of  a  modem 
symphonic  work  which  was  very  long 
and  called  for  nearly  all  possible  fa- 
miliar musical  resources,  I  recall  won- 
dering whether  or  not  it  is  a  bad  sign 
that  a  composer  gets  respectful  hearing 
for  pretentious  trivialities  and  vulgari- 


ties uttered  at  the  top  of  the  many 
times  reinforced  brazen  lungs  of  an 
immense  orchestra.  There  were,  in- 
deed, a  few  minutes  of  exquisite  beauty, 
but  after  more  than  an  hour  of  what 
seemed  an  arid  waste  of  dust  and  dull- 
ness. Meanwhile,  there  were  long  cres- 
cendos,  with  new  and  cruel  percussion 
instruments  working  industriously  ever 
louder  and  faster,  but  leading  up  time 
after  time  to  an  absolute  musical 
vacuum.  One*s  hopes  were  raised  to 
the  highest  point  of  expectation;  but 
they  were  raised  only  to  be  frustrated. 
It  is  such  unsatisfying  work  as  this 
which  elicits  pessimistic  forebodings  as 
to  the  future  of  music  as  an  independent 
art.  Serious  critics  and  essayists  have 
made  vigorous  attempts  to  oust  the 
music  of  the  future  from  existence  as 
an  independent  art  and  to  relegate  it  to 
the  position  of  a  sort  of  language  which 
is  to  be  used,  when  it  is  quite  grown  up, 
to  express  more  or  less  pictorially  hu- 
man happenings  or  emotions.  And  there 
have  not  been  wanting  composers  to 
support  this  hopeless  view.  The  appli- 
cation of  pure  reason  to  such  emotional 
phenomena  as  our  pleasure  in  music  re- 
sults occasionally  in  something  very  like 
nonsense.  The  arts  have  different 
media  of  expression,  but  excepting  the 
art  of  literature,  the  medium  is  no 
spoken  or  written  language.  Indeed, 
artists  are  apt  to  regard  with  some  de- 
gree of  suspicion  one  who  expresses 
himself  well  in  any  other  than  his  own 
peculiar  medium.  Amateur  is  a  dread 
term  often  applied  to  such  men,  and 
they  are  very  likely  to  be  amateur 
artists  or  amateur  writers,  perhaps  both. 
It  is  consoling  to  think  that  all  the  words 
written  and  spoken  about  art  have  never 
yet  influenced  creative  artists  to  any  dis- 
cernible extent.  Their  inspiration  or 
their  stimulus  must  come  from  within, 
and,  after  the  preliminary  technical 
progress  over  the  well-trod  paths  of 
their  artistic  forefathers,  which  progress 
no  great  artist  has  ever  yet  evaded  or 
avoided,  their  further  advancement  is 
always  by  empirical  and  not  by  logical 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY 


processes;  not  logical  except  in  an 
artistic  sense,  for  logic  in  art,  although 
very  real,  is  not  reducible  to  words  until 
after  it  has  already  become  an  accom- 
plished fact  through  empirical  or  in- 
stinctive practice.  The  evolution  of 
logic  in  art  cannot  be  foreseen  or  fore- 
told. 

The  opera  is  just  now  the  largest 
figure  on  our  musical  horizon,  and 
opera,  always  responsive  to  the  latest 
fashion,  has  undergone  very  important 
typical  changes  of  late  years.  "Sa- 
lome," by  Richard  Strauss,  for  instance, 
is  more  an  extended  symphonic  poem 
than  opera  in  the  older  sense.  It  is  as 
if  scenery,  words,  and  action  had  been 
added  to  the  musical  resources  of  such 
a  work  as  Strauss's  "Zarathustra."  It 
is  only  about  twice  as  long  as  "Zara- 
thustra."  Strauss*s  "Salome'*  and  De- 
bussy's "Pelleas  and  Melisande"  are 
typical  modem  musical  achievements. 
In  spite  of  the  suavity  and  popularity 
of  Italian  operas  of  our  time  and  of  the 

•  operatic  traditions  of  the  Italians  as  a 
nation,  they  do  not  appear  to  have  the 
importance  of  the  German  and  French 
works  just  mentioned.  The  two  men 
mentioned  seem  just  now  the  most 
active  forces  in  our  musical  life,  and  it 
may  throw  light  upon  the  music  of  our 
own  time  to  compare  the  two  operas 
with  each  other,  not  with  other  classic 
or  modern  works  of  the  same  nature; 
for  from  such  they  differ  too  widely  for 
a  comparison  to  be  useful.  Old-fash- 
ioned people  seek  in  opera  a  union  of 
speech  and  song,  and  each  of  these  two 
composers  has  renounced  the  latter  defi- 
nitely. No  human  voice  gives  forth  any 
musically  interesting  phrase  in  "Pelleas 
and  Melisande."  In  "Salome"  the 
voices,  when  used  melodically,  which  is 
seldom,  are  treated  like  instruments,  and 
it  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  song  is 
relegated  entirely  to  the  orchestra.  The 
voices  declaim,  the  orchestra  sings. 
Each  opera  is  a  natural  continuation  of 
its  composer's  previous  work.    Each  is 

•an  independent  growth.     Neither  com- 
poser has  influenced  the  other  to  a  dis- 


cernible extent.  Yet  it  seems  impossi- 
ble to  find  any  other  notable  musical 
work  of  our  own  day  which  does  not 
show  the  influence  of  one  or  the  other 
of  these  two  men. 

"Salome"  is  in  one  act  and  lasts  an 
hour  and  a  half;  "Pelleas  and  Meli- 
sande" is  in  five  acts  and  lasts  about 
three  hours.  The  difference  in  time  is 
largely  due  to  the  underlying  play  which 
determines  the  form  and  length  of  each 
opera.  It  may  be  granted  that  each  of 
these  two  works  reflects  conscientiously 
the  spirit  of  the  text.  The  shadowy, 
wistful  people  of  Maeterlinck's  drama 
are  faithfully  portrayed  in  the  uncertain, 
keyless  music  of  Debussy,  as  are  the 
outrageous  people  of  Wilde's  play  in 
the  extravagant,  vociferous  music  of 
Strauss.  "Pelleas  and  Melisande"  as  a 
play  is  perhaps  the  extreme  of  mystic 
symbolism.  When  reduced  to  its  sim- 
plest terms  in  every-day  speech,  it  may 
mean  anything,  everything,  or  nothing. 
The  motive  of  the  play  "Salome"  is 
frankly  an  attempt  to  shock  Herod,  as 
tough  a  sinner  as  ever  was  drawn.  The 
object  is  attained,  and  it  is  small  wonder 
that  the  audience  is  moved.  There 
seems  to  be  throughout  Debussy's  work, 
to  speak  pathologically,  a  preponder- 
ance of  white  blood-corpuscles.  In  our 
day  and  generation  we  want  red  blood 
and  plenty  of  it,  and  we  find  it  in 
"Salome,"  a  whole  cistern  spattered 
with  it.  At  its  first  performance  in  New 
York  so  much  got  on  the  stage  that 
ladies  had  to  be  led  out  and  revived. 

There  is  a  great  diflFerence  in  the  mat- 
ter of  pure  noise.  Throughout  the 
whole  of  "Pelleas  and  Melisande"  one 
feels  that  the  orchestra  has  its  mouth 
stuffed  with  cotton  wool  lest  it  should 
really  make  a  noise.  Most  people  want 
a  healthy  bellow  from  time  to  time  to 
show  that  the  orchestra  is  alive.  And  in 
"Salome"  we  have  an  orchestra  with  its 
lid  entirely  removed.  The  hazy,  inde- 
terminate, wistful  vagueness  which  is  so 
much  admired  in  Maeterlinck's  poem 
some  people  resent  in  the  music.  That 
is  too  much  like  an  ^Eolian  harp,  too 


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4> 


purely  decorative,  too  truly  subordinate. 
Tlie  orchestra  never  gets  up  and  takes 
hold  of  the  situation  as  it  often  so 
frankly  does  in  Strauss's  "Salome/* 
**Pelleas"  is  a  new  sensation,  perhaps  a 
new  art ;  but  it  is  a  little  like  looking  at 
the  stage  through  colored  glass.  Un- 
doubtedly the  play  is  the  thing. 

The  musical  vocabulary  of  the  two 
men  differs  immensely.  Many  admirers 
of  the  modem  French  school  think 
Strauss's  music  vulgar  because  it  really 
has  tunes,  and  because  one  can  almost 
always  tell  what  key  it  is  in.  In  the 
French  music  the  continual  evasion  of 
everything  we  consider  obvious  becomes 
monotonous  and  after  an  hour  or  tWo 
furiously  unimportant.  One  longs  in 
vain  for  a  tonal  point  of  departure,  for 
some  drawing;  but  there  is  only  color. 
In  passing  it  may  be  said  that  the  play 
in  its  form  and  vocabulary  is  the  exact 
opposite  of  the  music.  Points  of  de- 
parture are  not  lacking  in  its  construc- 
tion, and  the  language  is  marvelously 
simple,  lucid,  and  direct. 

The  matter  of  tonality  remains.  The 
six-tone  scale  which  Debussy  loves  and 
uses  so  much  divides  the  octave  into  six 
equal  parts.  The  augmented  triad, 
which  he  uses  with  the  same  frequency, 
divides  the  octave  into  three  equal  parts. 
Both  devices  constitute  a  definite  nega- 
tion of  tonality  or  the  key  sense;  for 
we  used  the  recurrence  of  semitones  in 
any  scale  which  is  to  be  recognizable  as 
having  a  beginning  and  an  end.  It  may 
be  that  our  grandchildren  will  not  want 
tonality  in  our  sense,  and  again  it  may 
well  be  that  they  will  prize  it  more 
highly  than  we  do.  It  is  hard  to  imagine 
what  can  take  its  place;  certainly  there 
is  no  substitute  for  it  in  music,  for  the 
essence  of  musical  form  consists  chiefly 
in  a  departure  from  and  a  return  to  a 
clearly  expressed  tonality.  A  substitute 
for  tonality  outside  of  music  would 
seem  a  hopeless  abandonment  of  nearly 
all  that  makes  the  music  of  Beethoven, 
Bach,  and  Wagner  great  to  us.  Com- 
pare Strauss  and  Debussy  in  this  re- 
spect.   Each  composer  has  a  rich,  indi- 


vidual, personal,  melodic,  and  harmonic 
vocabulary;  each  offers  new  and  satis- 
fying rhythmic  discoveries ;  each  shows 
us  a  wealth  of  new  and  beautiful  color. 
The  differences  in  melody  lie  in  the 
greater  directness  of  Strauss's  work. 
His  tunes  are  sometimes  garish  in  their 
very  baldness  and  simplicity.  This  is 
never  true  of  Debussy,  to  whom  a  plain 
tune  like  the  principal  dance  tune  in 
"Salome''  would  seem  utterly  common 
and  hateful.  Polyphony  is  regarded  as 
the  highest,  the  ultimate  development.of 
melody.  There  seems  to  be  vastly 
more  polyphonic  and  rhythmic  vitality 
in  Strauss's  work  than  in  Debussy's. 
"Salome"  is  as  alive  as  an  ant-hill. 
"Pelleas"  is  more  like  an  oyster-bed, 
with  no  actual  lack  of  life,  but  not  much 
activity. 

Harmony  has  become  an  attribute  of 
melody,  and  our  harmonic  sense,  a  re- 
cent growth,  furnishes  the  only  means 
we  have  of  definitely  localizing  formal 
portions  of  musical  structure.  Total 
absence  of  form  is  inconceivable  in 
music,  and  form  implies  inevitably  some 
degree  of  formality.  This  element  is 
always  clearly  present  in  Strauss  and 
always  purposely  absent  in  Debussy, 
who  steadfastly  avoids  the  indicative 
mood  and  confines  himself  apparently 
to  the  subjunctive.  At  great  climaxes 
Strauss  ordinarily  seeks  a  simple  triad, 
Debussy  some  more  than  usually  ob- 
scure and  refined  dissonance.  The  har- 
monic element  in  Strauss  is,  perhaps, 
less  refined,  but  it  is  less  subtle.  In 
Debussy  this  element  is  less  direct  and 
perhaps  less  beautiful,  but  quite  dis- 
tinctly less  obvious  or  common,  even  if 
less  varied. 

Fully  aware  of  inviting  the  warmest 
kind  of  dissent,  I  venture  to  suggest 
that  Strauss  may  be  a  positive  and  De- 
bussy a  negative  force  in  music,  the  one 
greatest  in  what  he  does,  the  other  in 
what  he  avoids.  After  all,  we  cannot 
get  on  without  the  common  things  of 
daily  life,  and,  admitting  his  occasional 
lapses  into  the  commonplace  or  some- 
thing lower,  Strauss  is  the  most  con- 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY 


summate  master  of  musical  expression 
the  world  has  ever  seen ;  not  the  greatest 
composer,  but  the  one  most  fully  able  to 
realize  in  sound  his  mental  musical  con- 
ceptions. In  the  last  analysis  it  is,  of 
course,  what  a  man  has  to  say,  not  en- 
tirely how  he  says  it,  which  furnishes 
the  basis  for  a  sound  judgment  of  him. 
We  should  not  be  too  much  impressed 
by  Strauss's  skill  in  writing  for  great  or- 
chestral masses.  In  itself  that  signifies 
little  more  than  ability  to  use  the  wealth 
of  orchestral  material  now  available 
in  Germany.  Strauss's  appetite  for  or- 
chestra is  a  little  like  the  Eastport  man's 
appetite  for  fish.  It  is  easily  satisfied 
and  not  too  extravagant.  Much  more 
convincing  is  the  accuracy  with  which 
he  finds  rhythm,  melody,  harmony,  and 
color  to  express  just  the  shade  of  mean- 
ing he  wishes  to  convey.  To  repeat,  no 
musician  was  ever  so  well  equipped  to 
give  to  the  world  his  musical  creations, 
and  yet  since  he  was  a  very  young  man 
Strauss  has  produced  no  pure  music, 
nothing  without  an  extra-musical  foun- 
dation; and  although  many  of  his 
friends  and  admirers  hope  still  that  he 
will,  he  admits  frankly  that  he  does  not 
intend  to. 

Are  we,  therefore,  to  believe  that 
music  must  be  pinned  down  henceforth 
to  its  illustrative  function  ?  One  prefers 
to  think  that  our  living  composers  are 
unconsciously  intoxicated  by  the  luxu- 
riance and  wealth  of  new  and  beautiful 
musical  resources  which  have  only  re- 
cently been  placed  at  their  command. 
They  confuse  the  means  with  the  end. 
They  have  not  ytt  learned  to  use  their 
wealth.  They  are  nouveaux  riches. 
The  more  perfect  performers,  the  more 
intelligent  listeners,  the  new  riches  on 
every  side  tempt  them  to  concrete 
rather  than  to  abstract  utterance.  I  be- 
lieve that  in  the  future  the  highest 
flights  of  composers  will  be,  as  they  have 
been  in  the  past,  into  those  ideal,  imper- 
sonal, ethereal  regions  where  only  im- 
agination impels,  informs,  and  creates. 
As  for  illustrative  music,  it  must  always 
have  one   foot  firmly  fixed  on  earth. 


How,  then,  can  it  rise  to  the  heavens? 
Although  not  yet  with  us,  the  new  vision 
will  come  in  the  fullness  of  time;  and 
when  it  does,  the  whole  world  will  know 
and  follow  it. 


I  HAVE  been  asked  to  suggest  some 
way  by  which  the  Academy  can  be  use- 
ful to  the  art  of  music.  It  has  occurred 
to  me  that  if  we  were  well-established 
and  wealthy,  something  like  the  French 
Prix  de  Rome  might  be  offered  and 
awarded,  not  necessarily  every  year,  but 
perhaps  once  in  five,  ten,  or  even  twenty 
years,  to  one  of  an  age  and  of  promise 
to  profit  by  it.  Wisely  planned  provi- 
sions for  its  use  should  accompany  such 
a  prize.  We  know  that  good  work  is  its 
own  reward,  but  there  is  no  reason  why 
it  should  be  its  only  reward.  Whether 
such  a  prize  might  properly  go  forth 
from  such  a  body  as  ours,  supposing  we 
had  it  to  give,  I  do  not  know.  Better 
from  us,  however,  than  not  at  all.  The 
Academy  can  surely  help  to  give  weight 
and  dignity  to  the  enthusiasm  which  to 
the  man  in  the  street,  when  he  thinks  of 
it  casually,  seems  rather  useless,  perhaps 
silly,  but  which  we  know  to  be  holy  and 
illuminating.  And  the  Academy  can 
help  to  quicken  public  insight  into  the 
problems  of  all  those  who  seek  beauty 
and  truth  in  art  and  letters.  It  may  well 
help  to  keep  alight  the  fires  of  the  old 
days,  a  task  to  which  our  universities, 
for  instance,  seem  insufficiently  sensitive 
just  at  present. 

In  this  democratic  country  we  are 
theoretically  adverse  or  inimical  to  mere 
decorations.  We  seem  fain  to  have  our 
rewards  counted  out  in  cash  or  in  cash- 
bringing  celebrity ;  but  virtually  we  are, 
in  truth,  idealists.  The  approval  of  the 
Academy,  however  expressed,  when  its 
constitution,  its  aims,  and  ideals  are  gen- 
erally known  among  us,  may  be,  and 
should  be  in  time,  one  of  the  most  stimu- 
lating of  the  rewards  held  out  for  crea- 
tive artists.    We  cannot  create  creators, 


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CONCERNING  CONTEMPORARY  MUSIC  43 

but  we  can  recognize  them  before  the  group  as  ours,  and  its  judicious  and  gen- 
world.  We  can  approve  them  and  their  erous  exercise  will  justify  our  organiza- 
work,  and  we  can  encourage  them  to  tion.  I  believe  such  exercise  cannot 
higher  flights.  This  seems  the  most  im-  fail  to  benefit  and  elevate  our  country 
portant  function  conceivable  for  such  a  through  the  class  we  seek  to  represent. 


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SKETCH  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  LIST  OF 
MEMBERS  AND  OFFICERS 


The  American  Academy  of  Arts  and 
Letters  was  founded  in  1904  as  an  in- 
terior organization  of  the  National  In- 
stitute of  Arts  and  Letters,  which  in 
turn  was  founded  in  1898  by  the 
American  Social  Science  Association. 
In  each  case  the  elder  organization  left 
the  younger  to  choose  the  relations 
that  should  exist  between  them.  Ar- 
ticle XII  of  the  Constitution  of  the 
Institute  provides  as  follows : 

In  order  to  make  the  Institute  more  effi- 
cient in  carr>'ing  out  the  purposes  for  which 
it  was  organized,— the  protection  and  further- 
ance of  literature  and  the  arts,— and  to  give 
greater  definiteness  to  its  work,  a  section  of 
the  Institute  to  be  known  as  the  ACADEMY 
OF  ARTS  AND  LETTERS  shall  be  organ- 
ized in  such  manner  as  the  Institute  may  pro- 
vide; the  members  of  the  Academy  to  be 
chosen  from  those  who  at  any  time  shall 
have  been  on  the  list  of  membership  of  the 
Institute. 

The  Academy  shall  at  first  consist  of 
thirty  members,  and  after  these  shall  have 
organized  it  shall  elect  its  own  officers,  pre- 
scribe its  own  rules,  the  number  of  its  mem- 
bers, and  the  further  conditions  of  mem- 
bership; provided  that  no  one  shall  be  a 
member  of  the  Academy  who  shall  not  first 
have  been  on  the  list  of  regular  members  of 
the  Institute,  and  that  in  the  choice  of  mem- 
bers individual  distinction  and  character,  and 
not  the  group  to  which  they  belong,  shall 
be  taken  into  consideration;  and  provided 
that  all  members  of  the  Academy  shall  be 
native  or  naturalized  citizens  of  the  United 
States. 

The  manner  of  the  organization  of 
the  Academy  was  prescribed  by  the 
following  resolution  of  the  Institute 
adopted  April  23,  1904 : 

Whereas,  the  amendment  to  the  Consti- 
tution known  as  Article  XII,  providing  for 
the  organization  of  the  Academy  of  Arts  and 
Letters,  has  been  ratified  by  a  vote  of  the 
Institute, 


Resolved:  that  the  following  method  be 
chosen  for  the  organization  of  the  Academy 
—to  wit,  that  seven  members  be  selected  by 
ballot  as  the  first  members  of  the  Academy, 
and  that  these  seven  be  requested  and  cm- 
powered  to  choose  eight  other  members,  and 
that  the  fifteen  thus  chosen  be  requested  and 
empowered  to  choose  five  other  members, 
and  that  the  twenty  members  thus  chosen 
shall  be  requested  and  empowered  to  choose 
ten  other  members,— the  entire  thirty  to  con- 
stitute the  Academy  in  conformity  with 
Article  XII,  and  that  the  first  seven  mem- 
bers be  an  executive  committee  for  the  pur- 
pose of  insuring  the  completion  of  the 
number  of  thirty  members. 

Under  Article  XII  the  Academy  has 
effected  a  separate  organization,  but, 
at  the  same  time  it  has  kept  in  close 
relationship  with  the  Institute.  On  the 
seventh  of  March,  1908,  the  membership 
was  increased  from  thirty  to  fifty  mem- 
bers, and  on  the  seventh  of  November, 
1908,  the  following  Constitution  was 
adopted : 

CONSTITUTION  OF  THE  ACADEMY 

I.    ORIGIN  AND  NAME 

The  American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters 
is  an  association  primarily  organized  by  the 
National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters.  Its 
aim  is  to  represent  and  further  the  interests 
of  the  Fine  Arts  and  Literature. 

II.    MEMBERSHIP  AND  ELECTIONS 

It  shall  consist  of  not  more  than  fifty  mem- 
bers, and  all  vacancies  shall  be  filled  from 
the  membership  of  the  National  Institute  of 
Arts  and  Letters.  No  one  shall  be  elected  a 
member  of  the  Academy  who  shall  not  have 
received  the  votes  of  a  majority  of  the  mem- 
bers. The  votes  shall  be  opened  and  coimted 
at  a  meeting  of  the  Academy.  In  case  the 
first  ballot  shall  not  result  in  an  election  a 
second  ballot  shall  be  taken  to  determine  the 
choice  between  the  two  candidates  receiving 
the  highest  number  of  votes  on  the  first  bal- 


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SKETCH  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  LIST  OF  MEMBERS  AND  OFFICERS    45. 


lot.  Elections  shall  be  held  only  on  due 
notice  under  rules  to  be  established  by  the 
Academy. 

III.    AIMS 

That  the  Academy  may  be  bound  together 
in  community  of  taste  and  interest,  its  mem- 
bers shall  meet  regularly  for  discussion,  and 
for  the  expression  of  artistic,  literary  and 
scholarly  opinion  oh  such  topics  as  are 
brought  to  its  attention.  For  the  purpose  of 
promoting  the  highest  standards,  the  Acad- 
emy may  also  award  such  prizes  as  may  be 
founded  by  itself  or  entrusted  to  it  for 
administration. 

IV.    OFFICERS 

The  officers  shall  consist  of  a  President  and 
a  Chancellor,  both  elected  annually  from 
among  the  members  to  serve  for  one  year 
only;  a  Permanent  Secretary,  not  necessarily 
a  member,  who  shall  be  elected  by  the  Acad- 
emy to  serve  for  an  indeterminate  period, 
subject  to  removal  by  a  majority  vote ;  and  a 
Treasurer.  The  Treasurer  shall  be  appointed 
as  follows:  Three  members  of  the  Academy 
shall  be  elected  at  each  annual  meeting  to 
serve  as  a  Committee  on  Finance  for  the  en- 
suing year.  They  shall  appoint  one  of  their 
number  Treasurer  of  the  Academy  to  serve 
for  one  year.  He  shall  receive  and  protect 
its  funds  and  make  disbursements  for  its  ex- 
penses as  directed  by  the  Committee.  He 
shall  also  make  such  investments,  upon  the 
order  of  the  President,  as  may  be  approved 
by  both  the  Committee  on  Finance  and  the 
Executive  Committee. 

V.    DUTIES  OF  OFFICERS 

It  shall  be  the  duty  of  the  President,  and  in 
his  absence  of  the  Chancellor,  to  preside  at 
all  meetings  throughout  his  term  of  office, 
and  to  safeguard  in  general  all  the  interests 
of  the  Academy.  It  shall  be  the  duty  of  the 
Chancellor  to  select  and  prepare  the  business 
for  each  meeting  of  his  term.  It  shall  be  the 
duty  of  the  Secretary  to  keep  the  records ;  to 
conduct  the  correspondence  of  the  Academy 
under  the  direction  of  the  President  or  Chan- 
cellor; to  issue  its  authorized  statements; 
and  to  draw  up  as  required  such  writings  as 
pertain  to  the  ordinary  business  of  the  Acad- 
emy and  its  committees.  These  three  officers 
shall  constitute  the  Executive  Committee. 

VI.    AMENDMENTS 

Any  proposed  amendment  to  this  Constitu- 
tion must  be  sent  in  writing  to  the  Secretary 
signed  by  at  least  ten  members ;  and  it  shall 
then  be  forwarded  by  the  Secretary  to  every 
member.     It  shall   not  be  considered   until 


three  months  after  it  has  been  thus  sub- 
mitted. No  proposed  amendment  shall  be 
adopted  unless  it  receives  the  votes  in  writing 
of  two-thirds  of  the  members. 


MEMBERS  AND  OFFICERS 

Following  is  the  list  of  members  in  the 
order  of  their  election: 

*  William  Dean  Howells 
♦Augustus  Saint-Gaudens 
♦Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 

^John  La  Farge 
♦Samuel  Langhome  Clemens 
♦John  Hay 
♦Edward  MacDowell 
^  Henr>'^  James 
♦Charles  Follen  McKim 
^Henry  Adams 
♦Charles  Eliot  Norton 
♦John  Quincy  Adams  Ward 

*  Thomas  Raynesford  Lounsbury 
/^Theodore  Roosevelt 
♦Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 
♦Joseph  Jefferson 

John  Singer  Sargent 
♦Richard  Watson  Gilder 
>»  Horace  Howard  Furness 
«iJohn  Bigelow 
■^'Winslow  Homer 
♦Carl  Schurz 
•♦Alfred  Thayer  Mahan 
♦Joel  Chandler  Harris 

Daniel  Chester  French 
*John  Burroughs 

James  Ford  Rhodes 
**  Edwin  Austin  Abbey 
-♦Horatio  William  Parker 

William  Milligan  Sloane 
♦Edward  Everett  Hale 

Robert  Underwood  Johnson 

George  Washington  Cable 
♦Daniel  Coit  Gilman 

*  Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson 
♦Donald  Grant  Mitchell 
^Andrew  Dickson  White 

Henry  van  Dyke 
William  Crary  Brownell 
Basil  Lanneau  Gildersleeve 
,:J^Julia  Ward  Howe 
^Woodrow  Wilson 
Arthur  Twining  Hadley 
Henry  Cabot  Lodge 

*  Francis  Hopkinson  Smith 
♦Francis  Marion  Crawford 
♦Henry  Charles  Lea 

Edwin  Howland  Blashfield 
«  William  Merritt  Chase 
Thomas  Hastings 


*  Deceased. 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY 


Hamilton  Wright  Mabic 
♦Bronson  Howard 

Brander  Matthews 

Thomas  Nelson  Page 
*  Elihu  Veddcr 

George  Edward  Woodberry 
^William  Vaughn  Moody 
i  Kenyon  Cox 

*  Deceased. 


George  Whitefield  Chadwick 
A  Abbott  Handerson  Thayer 
*John  Muir 

'Charles  Francis  Adams 
'Henry  Mills  Alden 

George  DeForest  Brush 

William  Rutherford  Mead 
*  John  White  Alexander 

Bliss  Perrv 


J. 


THE  OFFICERS  FOR  THE  YEAR  1910/ARE 


President,  Mr.  Howells.  Chancellor,  ^ 

Permanent  Secretary,  M».  Joh> 
Committee  on  Finance:  Messrs.  Rhodes,  Hastings^ 


The  meetings  of  the  Academy  re- 
corded in  this  "Volume  of  the  Pro- 
ceedings" are  the  first  which  have  been 
open  to  the  public ;  but  there  have  been 
many  conferences  for  discussion,  for 
elections,  and  for  deliberation  as  to  th^  in  private  audience. 

/ 

/ 


R.  Sloane. 


Sloane  (Treasurer). 


scope  oft  work  to  be  undertaken  in  the 
inter^  of  letters  and  the  arts. 

the  15th  of  December,  1909,  the 

ademy  had  the  honor  of  a  reception 

y  President  Taft  at  the  White  House 


(       i 


.  ./>■. 


';;■.:/■-./• 


X  < — 


(? 


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PROCEEDINGS 

OF  THE 

AMERICAN  ACADEMY  OF  ARTS 
AND  LETTERS 

AND  OF  THE 

NATIONAL  INSTITUTE  OF  ARTS 
AND  LETTERS 


Number  II:  1 909-1 910 


Mew  York 

!  ■ 

Google 


Digitized  by  ^ 


Pa  3o./«>' 


■  ^  \\ 

1*  FEB   2    1912  J 


Copyright,  191 1,  by 
The  American  Academy  op  Arts  and  Letters 


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CONTENTS 


PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  NATIONAL  INSTITUTE  OF  ARTS  AND  LETTERS 

MEETIHG  AT  THE  FINE  ARTS  SOCIETY,  HEW  YORK,  NOVEMBER  30,  I9O9,  TO  CONFER  UPON  THE  WORK  OF 

AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS  THE  GOLD  MEDAL  OF  THE  INSTITUTE 

DESIGNED  BY  ADOLPH  A.  WEINMAN 


PAGB 


Thb  Influbncb  of  Saint-Gaudbns 


Royal  Cortissoz 5 


PRBSBNTATION  OF  THB  MbDAL  TO  MrS.  SaINT-GaUDBNS 

Henry  van  Dyke 8 

PresU^mi  of  tbt  InstihOe 


Rbsponsb 


Homer  Saint'Gaudens    . 


Odb:  *'Saint-Gaudens' 


Robert  Underwood  Johnson    .     10 


Music 


The  Kneisel  Quartet  .    .     . 

FroHT  Kmeiul       Louis  Svocenski 
JuUiuRonUgtn     WiUemWitUhe 


17 


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PROCEEDINGS 

OF  THE 

American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters 

AND  OF  THE 

National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters 


Published  at  intervals  by  the  Societies 


Copies  may  be  had  on  application  to  the  Permanent  Secretary  of  the  Academy,  Mr.  R.  U.  Johnson, 
35  East  17th  Street,  New  York  Price  per  annum  $1.00 


Vol.  I 


New  York,  November  i,  1911 


No.  2 


THE  NATIONAL  INSTITUTE  OF  ARTS  AND  LETTERS 

Meeting  at  the  Fine  Arts  Sodety,  New  York,  November  20,  1909 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF  SAINT-GAUDENS 
By  Royal  Cortissoz 


It  is  always  difficult  to  put  into 
words  the  exact  nature  of  the  service 
which  a  great  artist  renders  to  his  con- 
temporaries. There  is  a  good  saying 
of  Lowell's  about  a  lecture  of  Emer- 
son's that  he  had  heard.  He  could  not 
tell,  he  said,  precisely  what  the  philoso- 
pher had  talked  about.  He  simply  felt, 
as  he  came  from  the  lecture,  that  some- 
thing beautiful  had  passed  that  way. 
So  Saint-Gaudens,  I  think,  has  left  us 
feeling  that  something  beautiful  has 
passed  our  way.  Reflecting  more  in 
detail  on  what  this  means  to  us,  the 
first  thing  I  think  of  is  the  special  char- 
acter of  his  work  as  an  artist,  the  par- 
ticular gift  of  genius  with  which  he  en- 
riched American  sculpture. 

This  was  the  gift  of  charm.  Look- 
ing back  over  his  career  and  remember- 
ing the  works  with  which  he  began  it, 
one  is  struck  by  what  I  can  only  de- 
scribe as  a  kind  of  gracious  and  beguil- 
ing note  in  them.  Those  early  por- 
traits of  his  are  not  only  very  intimate 
and  realistic;  they  are  enveloped  in  an 
atmosphere  of  beauty,  of  originality,  of 
charm.     And  the   important  thing  is 


that  this  charm  rests  upon  the  purest 
sculptural  basis,  that  it  belongs  to  the 
very  grain  of  his  technic.  The  secret 
of  his  success  was  just  a  secret  of  mod- 
eling. Since  modeling  has  gone  to  the 
making  of  every  piece  of  sculpture  that 
ever  existed,  I  may  seem  for  a  moment 
to  be  talking  about  one  of  the  rudi- 
ments; but  there  is,  of  course,  model- 
ing and  modeling.  With  Saint-Gau- 
dens it  was  the  kind  in  which  every 
touch  spells  knowledge  and  genius  and 
a  definite  purpose.  Consider  especially 
this  matter  of  purpose.  We  have 
seen  a  good  deal  in  recent  years 
of  the  modeling  that  spends  itself 
in  virtuosity.  The  example  of  one 
brilliant  French  master  has  set  any 
number  of  his  juniors  at  play- 
ing a  sort  of  game  with  form.  They 
place  a  figure  in  some  strained  position, 
and  then  attempt  to  "show  off"  by  mod- 
eling it  with  prodigious  subtlety.  They 
call  the  result  "Love  and  the  Infinite," 
or  by  some  such  high-sounding  title, 
and  then  expect  us  to  tell  them  that 
they  are  indeed  worthy  of  Rodin.  I 
do  not  deny  that  their  work  is  often 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  INSTITUTE 


very  clever,  but  neither  do  I  hesitate  to 
afiirm  that  much  of  it  is  weak,  for  the 
simple  reason  that  the  modeling  in  it  is 
meaningless  and  tricky  and  quite  with- 
out personal  character.  The  influence 
of  Saint-Gaudens  was  always  against 
this  sort  of  thing.  In  looking  at  his 
surfaces,  you  realize  how  lovingly  and 
how  thoughtfully  he  caressed  them,  how 
he  modulated  them  not  for  the  sake 
of  a  "pretty"  effect,  but  to  express  the 
beauty  of  nature  through  the  beauty  of 
art.  He  could  not  have  been  tricl^r  if 
he  had  tried.  Beneath  that  delicacy  of 
touch  which  gives  an  exquisitely  sen- 
suous charm  to  his  surfaces  there  was 
a  deep  rectitude,  a  great  artist's  passion 
for  truth.  His  modeling  is  not  only 
beautiful,  but  sound.  It  is  this  quite  as 
much  as  his  flair  for  low  relief  which 
links  him  to  Mino  da  Fiesole  and  other 
masters  of  the  Italian  Renaissance. 

I  do  not  mean  to-night  to  engage  up- 
on an  exhaustive  analysis  of  his  work ; 
but  there  is  another  specific  phase  of 
it  to  which  I  must  briefly  refer.  I  mean 
his  composition.  Survey  the  whole 
body  of  his  sculpture, — ^his  portrait  me- 
dallions, his  busts,  his  monuments, — 
and  see  if  you  find  anywhere  a  trace  of 
uncertainty  or  restlessness  or  sensation- 
alism. Perhaps,  in  a  single  instance — 
that  of  the  angel  in  the  upper  part  of 
the  "Shaw" — he  would  have  reconsid- 
ered his  design  after  it  was  put  into 
the  bronze.  But  the  dominating  char- 
acter of  his  composition  is  found  in  per- 
fect simplicity  and  balance.  When  he 
is  working  in  the  round  h^  finds  just 
the  natural  and  artistic  arrangement  for 
his  figure.  When  he  is  working  in 
relief  he  finds  just  the  right  placing  for 
his  portrait,  and  gives  it  in  its  back- 
ground just  the  right  proportions.  Con- 
sider, too,  the  restraint  and  the  felicity 
of  his  decoration;  how  his  lettering  is 
in  itself  beautiful  and  is  always  so  dis- 
posed that  It  is  really  part  and  parcel 
of  the  whole  design.  He  put  his  sig- 
tiature  on  a  relief  with  the  same  care 
that  Whistler  used  in  putting  the  fa- 


mous butterfly  on  one  of  his  paintings. 
I  remember  once  talking  with  him  in 
his  studio  in  Paris  while  the  "Steven- 
son" for  Edinburgh  was  going  forward. 
You  know  what  a  great  quantity  of  let- 
tering forms  part  of  that  design.  Saint- 
Gaudens  was  "all  worked  up"  over  it 
He  told  me  of  his  anxiety  about  it, 
and  I  may  say  now,  without  violating 
any  confidence,  that  the  lettering  on 
the  "Stevenson"  was  ultimately  done 
over  and  over  again  an  almost  incredi- 
ble number  of  times.  It  is  an  instance 
of  the  pains  he  was  always  taking.  He 
was  himself  the  severest  of  his  critics, 
and  he  was  almost  never  satisfied  with 
what  he  had  done.  He  worked  for 
years  over  the  "Shaw."  One  day  I  got 
a  note  from  him  saying  that  it  was  fin- 
ished. I  went  up  to  his  studio,  and  I 
found  him  positively  unhappy.  He  felt 
the  joy  of  release  from  a  long  task,  but 
he  was  half  inclined  to  do  it  all  over 
again. 

It  is  at  this  point  that  I  want  to  relate 
the  qualities  of  his  work  to  his  quali- 
ties as  a  man  and  to  speak  of  the  tan- 
gible thing  that  his  influence  has  been 
among  the  sculptors  of  to-day.  I  know 
pupils  of  his, — ^pupils  whom  he  consid- 
ered creditable  to  his  teaching, — and 
one  of  the  things  I  have  noticed  about 
them  is  the  fact  that  they  are  not  try- 
ing to  be  little  Saint-Gaudenses.  They 
are  not  trying  to  reproduce  his  manner. 
They  are  not  trying  to  handle  draperies 
as  he  handled  them  or  to  copy  his  deco- 
rative motives.  What  crops  out  in  their 
personalities,  and  what  you  can  see  in 
their  work,  is  simply  that  he  got  them 
into  the  way  of  being  honest  about  their 
modeling  and  composition,  into  the 
habit  of  trying  for  the  right  and  seri- 
ous qualities  of  sculpture.  It  was  a 
fine  thing  that  he  was  generous  in  en- 
couragement, that  he  went  out  of  his 
way  to  praise  and  help;  but  I  think  it 
was  even  finer  that  he  created  around 
himself  a  stimulating  atmosphere,  and 
somehow  made  one  feel  that  what  he 
must  take  as  a  matter  of  course  was 


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THE  INFLUENCE  OF  SAINT-GAUDENS 


the  hardest  kind  of  hard  work  and  the 
highest  possible  standard  of  excellence. 
I  do  not  know  how  better  to  express 
the  ideal  that  he  stood  for  than  to  say 
that  from  the  Saint-Gaudens  point  of 
view  the  doing  of  a  scamped  or  insin- 
cere piece  of  work  was  a  fairly  shame- 
ful performance,  a  kind  of  moral 
wrong.  Work  yourself  to  death,  he 
seemed  to  say,  but  give  the  world  your 
very  best.  He  had  the  true  artist's  con- 
fidence in  himself,  and  no  consideration 
for  outside  influences  could  move  him 
from  what  he  believed  to  be  right.  But 
he  had  a  keen  sense  of  what  he  owed 
to  the  world.  I  wonder  if  any  one  in 
this  room  can  claim  to  have  seen  much, 
if  anything,  outside  of  his  studio  or  in 
exhibitions  arranged  since  his  death,  of 
his  sketches  and  fragments?  It  is  the 
fashion  nowadays  to  make  much  of 
the  morceau,  and  there  are  some  sculp- 
tors who  think  it  worth  while  to  let 
the  public  see  unfinished  work  or  the 
odds  and  ends  with  which  they  have 
amused  themselves.  Personally,  I  con- 
fess to  being  interested  in  these  things, 
as  I  am  in  an  artist's  sketch-book  or 
his  studio  drawings.  Nevertheless,  I 
like  the  pride  and  the  principle  which 
will  lead  a  man  to  show  the  pub- 
lic nothing  save  that  which  rep- 
resents the  fullest  and  finest  expres- 
sion of  his  genius.  Saint-Gaudens  had 
that  pride  and  that  principle.  He  stood, 
if  ever  a  man  did,  for  the  dignity  of 
art. 


His  pupils  felt  this,  and  so,  as  I  have 
said,  did  everybody  else  who  came  in 
contact  with  him,  and,  what  is  more, 
his  influence  was  acknowledged  con- 
sciously or  unconsciously  in  a  thousand 
different  directions.  If  the  young 
sculptor,  working  under  Saint-Gaudens 
or  not,  strove  the  harder  at  his  task,  in 
the  hope  that  he  might  be  worthy  of 
the  leader  of  his  profession  in  this 
country,  architects  and  committees 
everywhere  also  insensibly  came  to  ad- 
mit the  obligation  that  he  had  done  so 
much  to  lay  upon  them.  Everybody 
knows  how  the  character  of  our  public 
monuments  has  been  improving  and 
how  the  sculpture  on  our  public  build- 
ings is  greater  in  quantity  and  better  in 
quality  every  year.  This  is  because  we 
have  been  developing  a  competent 
school  of  sculpture,  filled  with  able  men 
of  Saint-Gaudens's  generation  and  with 
younger  artists  trained  by  him  and  by 
them.  I  think  that  all  these  sculp- 
tors and  their  fellows  in  painting  and 
architecture  will  unite  in  agreement  up- 
on the  great  impetus  that  he  gave  to 
the  standard  they  uphold.  By  precept 
and  example,  as  an  artist  and  as  a  man 
of  character,  he  exerted  an  influence 
making  for  progress.  This  medal  that 
brings  us  here  to-night  is  not  simply  in 
honor  of  a  man  who  is  gone ;  it  is  in 
honor  of  an  artistic  force  that  is  still 
working. 


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The  Gold  Medal 

( Designed  and  Executed  by  Adolph  A.  Weinman) 


PRESENTATION  OF  THE  MEDAL  TO  MRS.  SAINT-GAUDENS 
BY  HENRY  VAN  DYKE 

President  of  the  Institute 


Ruskin  says  that  the  only  real  weahh 
is  life,  and  a  greater  Master  tells  us  that 
the  end  of  divine  revelation  is  "that  ye 
might  have  life  and  have  it  more  abun- 
dantly/' But  the  true  life  is  not  some- 
thing that  ends  with  death;  it  is  that 
which  conquers  and  survives  death,  be- 
ing beyond  the  power  of  mortality  to 
dissolve. 

Here,  then,  is  the  highest  ministry  of 
art :  to  enrich  the  world  by  giving  an 
enduring  life,  to  thoughts,  emotions, 
ideals,  characters,  which  are  in  them- 
selves strong  and  clear  and  beautiful 
enough  to  be 

Immortalized  by  Art's  immortal  praise. 

In  the  bestowal  of  this  wealth 
through  the  medium  of  sculpture,  Au- 
gustus Saint-Gaudens  was  a  master 
and  a  prince.  In  youth  he  fought  his 
w^ay  through  poverty  to  enter  into  his 
kingdom.  In  maturity  he  wrestled  with 
the  stubborn  matter  in  bronze  and  mar- 
ble to  subdue  it  to  his  royal  thought, 
his  generous  purpose.  And  so  he  gave 
to  his  country,  in  visible  forms  of  noble 
humanity,  larger  and  richer  gifts  than 


if  he  had  been  a  thousand  times  a  mil- 
lionaire. 

What  strong  simplicity  in  his  ex- 
quisite medallions!  What  incorporate 
spirituality  in  his  symbolic  figures! 
What  personal  significance  in  his  silent- 
speaking  heads !  What  poised  and  im- 
perishable vitality  in  his  monuments  of 
national  heroes! 

It  is  the  strength  and  glory  of  a 
great  country  to  cherish  the  memory  of 
4ier  noble  dead.  America,  in  the  rush 
of  her  work,  in  the  pride  of  her  power, 
must  not  forget,  else  will  she  sink  into 
the  shame  and  weakness  of  an  oblivi- 
ous and  ungrateful  land. 

Honor  to  the  arts  which  help  her  to 
remember.  Among  the  great  Ameri- 
cans stands  the  great  sculptor  whose 
ardent,  patient,  skilful  hand  has  given 
to  their  faces,  forms,  and  souls  "a  life 
beyond  life"  for  the  enrichment  of  his 
country. 

The  National  Institute  of  Arts  and 
Letters,  holding  this  faith  in  regard  to 
literature  and  the  other  fine  arts,  has 
caused  its  first  medal  to  be  made  in 
honor  of  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens.  To 
you,  Madam,  as  its  natural  custodian, 


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RESPONSE  BY  HOMER  SAINT-GAUDENS 


this  medal  is  given.  We  appreciate  your 
presence  here  in  this  time  of  sorrow.* 
But  the  grief  that  rests  upon  us  all  for 
the  loss  of  an  artist  but  lately  gone 
should  not  stay  this  tribute  to  one  who 
has  gone  before.  Let  us  remember  the 
words  which  Gilder  wrote  of  the  stat- 
ues of  Saint-Gaudens : 

Once,  lo!  these  shapes  were  not,  now  do 

they  live. 
And  shall  forever  in  the  hearts  of  men; 
And   from  their  life  new  life  shall  spring 

again, 
To  souls  unborn  new  light  and  joy  to  give. 
"Victory,  victory,  he  hath  won  the  fight!" 

Dr.  van  Dyke,  President  and  Members 
of  the  National  Institute  of  Arts  and 
Letters : 

You  have  presented  to  the  memory 
of  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens  this  medal 
by  his  admired  pupil  Adolph  Weinman. 
With  this  s)rmbol  of  your  appreciation 
you  have  bestowed  upon  my  father  the 
final  honor  in  a  series  unprecedented  in 
the  case  of  any  American  who  has  la- 
bored at  his  art.  Were  he  here  to  ac- 
knowledge his  personal  feeling,  you 
would  surely  find  it  of  the  character 
expressed  in  this,  his  letter,  written  to 
Mr.  E.  A.  Abbey,  on  the  occasion  of 
Mr.  Abbey's  congratulating  him  on  his 
election  to  the  English  Royal  Academy : 

It  is  a  big  honor  that  the  Royal  Academy 
has  done  me,  and  one  that  I  appreciate  a 
very  great  deal.  All  the  more  for  the  sur- 
prise of  it At  the  same  time,  I  feel 

almost  ashamed  when  I  think  that  I  step 
into  Dubois's  shoes  and  that  I  follow  in  the 


orocession  with  such  a  lot  of  other  swells. 
I  don't  know  how  these  thinp^  make  you 
feel,  but  they  overpower  me  with  a  sense  of 
humility,  and  I  feel  like  a  fraud. 

More  than  for  the  sake  of  individual 
satisfaction  at  the  significance  of  this 
gift,  however,  my  father  would  have 
welcomed  your  offering  because  of  his 
understanding  of  the  merit  your  action 
would  confer  upon  the  growing  art  of 
the  United  States.  For,  with  att  the 
sincerity  of  which  he  was  capable, 
Augustus  Saint-Gaudens  believed  that 
the  arts  of  painting  and  sculpture  have 
become  vital  to  the  mental  development 
of  our  nation.  And  their  chief  require- 
ment to-day,  he  felt,  was  that  respect 
should  be  tendered  them  to  foster  the 
self-confidence  needed  to  provide  them 
with  final  strength. 

You  are  a  body  of  men  with  special 
gifts,  whose  distinction  is  established 
by  the  strong,  though  unformulated,  de- 
sire of  the  men  and  women  passing  on 
the  sidewalk  that  the  place  of  art  be- 
come defined  in  their  lives.  My  father 
has  been  accepted  as  the  leader  in  mod- 
em American  sculpture.  Yet  my  father 
existed  only  because  his  fellow-country- 
men, having  built  their  homes,  wished 
to  make  them  beautiful.  Your  gift 
adds  rich  honor  to  the  memory  of 
Augustus  Saint-Gaudens.  Above  that, 
this  recognition  by  the  American  peo- 
ple adds  great  prestige  to  American  art. 

•This  cerenony  took  place  on  the  day  of  the  funeral  of 
Richard  Watson  Gilder. 


In  the  absence  of  the  author,  extracts  from  the  ode  which  follows  were  read  by  Hamilton 
Wright  Mabie. 


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SAINT-GAUDENS 

Bom  in  Dublin,  Ireland,  March  i,  1848— Died  in  Cornish,  New  Hampshire. 
August  3,  1907. 

By  Robert  Underwood  Johnson 

I 

Uplands  of  Cornish !    Ye  that  yesterday 
Were  only  beauteous,  now  are  consecrate. 
Exalted  are  your  humble  slopes,  to  mate 
Proud  Settignano  and.  Fiesole, 
For  here  new-bom  is  Italy's  new  birth  of  Art. 
In  your  beloved  precincts  of  repose 
Now  is  the  laurel  lovelier  than  the  rose. 

Henceforth  there  shall  be  seen 
An  unaccustomed  glory  in  the  sheen 
Of  yonder  lingering  river,  overleant  with  green, 
Whose  fountains  hither  happily  shall  start, 
Like  eager  Umbrian  rills,  that  kiss  and  part. 
For  that  their  course  will  run 
One  to  the  Tiber,  to  the  Amo  one. 
O  hills  of  Cornish !  chalice  of  our  spilled  wine. 

Ye  shall  become  a  shrine. 
For  now  our  Donatello  is  no  morel 
He  who  could  pour 
His  spirit  into  clay,  has  lost  the  clay  he  wore, 
And  Death,  again,  at  last, 
Has  robbed  the  Future  to  enrich  the  Past. 
He  who  so  often  stood 
At  joyous  worship  in  your  Sacred  Wood, 
He  shall  be  missed 
As  autumn  meadows  miss  the  lark. 
Where  Summer  and  Song  were  wont  to  keep  melodious  tryst. 
His  fellows  of  the  triple  guild  shall  hark 
For  his  least  whisper  in  the  starry  dark. 
Here,  in  his  memory,  Youth  shall  dedicate 
Laborious  years  to  that  unfolding  which  is  Fate. 
By  Beauty's  faintest  gleams 
She  shall  be  followed  over  glades  and  streams. 
And  all  that  is  shall  be  forgot 
For  what  is  not ; 
And  every  common  path  shall  lead  to  dreams. 

II 
Poet  of  Cornish,  comrade  of  his  days : 

When  late  we  met, 
With  his  remembrance  how  thine  eyes  were  wet! 
Thy  faltering  voice  his  praise 
More  eloquently  did  rehearse 


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SAINT-GAUDENS  n 

Than  on  his  festal  day  thy  liquid  verse. 
Since  once  to  love  is  never  to  forget, 
Let  us  defer  our  plaint  of  private  sorrow 
Till  some  less  unethereal  to-morrow. 
To-day  is  not  the  poet's  shame 
But  the  dull  world's ;  not  yet 
Shall  it  be  kindled  at  the  living  flame 

Whose  treasured  embers 

Ever  the  world  remembers. 
Not  so  the  sculptor — his  immediate  bays   . 
No  hostile  climate  withers  or  delays. 
Let  us  forego  the  debt  of  friendly  duty ; 
A  nation  newly  is  bereft  of  beauty. 
Sing  with  me  now  his  undef erred  fame, — 

For  Time  impatient  is  to  set 
This  jewel  in  his  country's  coronet; 
When  all  men  with  new  accent  speak  his  name, 
And  all  are  blended  in  a  vast  regret, 
There  is  no  place  for  grief  of  thee  or  me: 
One  reckons  not  the  rivers  in  the  sea. 
Sing  not  to-day  the  hearth  despoiled  of  fire : 
Ours  be  the  trumpet,  not  the  lyre. 

Death  makes  the  great 
The  treasure  and  the  sorrow  of  the  State. 

Nor  is  it  less  bereaved 

By  what  is  unachieved. 
Oh,  what  a  miracle  is  Fame ! 
We  carve  some  lately  unfamiliar  name 
Upon  an  outer  wall,  as  challenge  to  the"  sun ; 

And  half  its  claim 

Is  deathless  work  undone. 
Although  the  story  of  our  art  is  brief. 
Thrice  in  the  record,  at  a  fadeless  leaf. 
Falls  an  unfinished  chapter;  thrice  the  flower 
Qosed  ere  the  noonday  glory  drank  its  dew; 
Thrice  have  we  lost  of  promise  and  of  power — 
The  torch  extinguished  at  its  brightest  hour — 
His  comrades  all,  for  whom  he  twined  the  rue. 

But  though  they  stand  authentic  and  apart 
This  is  in  our  new  land  the  first  great  grief  of  Art. 

Ill 
Yet,  sound  for  him  the  trumpet,  not  the  lyre — 
Him  of  the  ardent,  not  the  smouldering,  fire : 
Whose  boyhood  knew  full  streets  of  martial  song 

When  the  slow  purpose  of  the  throng 
Flamed  to  a  new  religion,  and  a  soul. 

He  knew  the  lure  of  flags ;  caught  first  the  far  drums'  roll ; 
Thrilled  with  the  flash  that  runs 
Along  the  slanted  guns ; 
Kept  time  to  the  determined  feet 
That  ominously  beat 


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12  PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  INSTITUTE 

Upon  the  city's  floor 
The  finn,  mad  rhythm  of  war. 

With  envious  enterprise 

He  saw  the  serried  eyes 
That,  level  to  the  hour's  demand, 
Looked  straight  toward  Duty's  promised  land. 
Then  to  be  boy  was  to  be  prisoned  fast 
With  the  great  world  of  battle  sweeping  past, 

While  every  hill  and  hollow 
Heard  the  heart-melting  music,  calling  "Follow!" 
The  day  o'er-brimmed  with  longing  and  the  night 
With  beckoning  dreams  of  many  a  dauntless  fight, 
As  though  doomed  heroes  summoned  us  to  see 

Thermopylaes  and  Marathons. 
— Ah,  had  he  known  who  was  to  be 

Their  laureate  in  bronze ! 

But  who 'can  read  To-morrow  in  To-day? 
Fame  makes  no  bargain  with  us,  will  not  say 
Do  thus,  and  thou  shalt  gain,  or  thus  and  lose ; 
Nay,  will  not  let  us  for  another  choose 

The  trodden  and  the  lighted  way. 
She  bums  the  accepted  pattern,  breaks  the  mould. 

Prefers  the  novel  to  the  old. 
Revels  in  secrets  and  surprise; 

And  while  the  wise 
Seek  knowedge  at  the  sages'  gate 
The  schoolboy  by  a  truant  path  keeps  rendezvous  with  Fate, 

IV 

This  is  the  honey  in  the  lion's  jaws : 

That  from  the  reverberant  roar 

And  wrack  of  savage  war 
Art  saves  a  sweet  repose,  by  mystic  laws 

Not  by  long  labor  learned 

But  by  keen  love  discerned ; 

For  this  it  bears  the  palm : 
To  show  the  storms  of  life  in  terms  of  calm. 

Not  what  he  knew,  but  what  he  felt. 

Gave  secret  power  to  this  Celt. 
Master  of  harmony,  his  sense  could  find 
A  bond  of  likeness  among  things  diverse, 
And  could  their  fornis  in  beauty  so  immerse 

That  to  the  enchanted  mind 
Ideal  and  real  seem  a  single  kind. 

Behold  our  gaunt  Crusader,  grimly  brave, 

The  swooping  eagle  in  his  face. 

The  very  genius  of  command. 
And  her  not  less,  with  her  imperious  hand, — 
The  herald  Victory  holding  equal  pace. 


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5A1NT-GAUDENS  ij 

Not  trulier  in  the  blast 

Moves  prow  with  mast; 
Line  mates  with  flowing  line,  as  wave  with  following  wave — 

Rider  and  homely  horse 

Intent  upon  their  course 
As  though  she  went  not  with  them.    Near  or  far 
One  is  their  import:  she  the  dream,  the  star — 
And  he  the  prose,  the  iron  thrust — of  War. 

V 

So,  on  the  traveled  verge 
Of  storied  Boston's  green  acropolis 
That  sculptured  music,  that  immortal  dirge 
That  better  than  towering  shaft 

Has  fitly  epitaphed 
The  hated  ranks  men  did  not  dare  to  hiss ! 
When  Duty  makes  her  clarion  call  to  Ease 
Let  her  repair  and  point  to  this : 

Why  seek  another  clime? 

Why  seek  another  place? 
We  have  no  Parthenon,  but  a  nobler  frieze, — 
Since  sacrifice  than  worship  nobler  is. 
It  sings — the  anthem  of  a  rescued  race ; 
It  moves — the  epic  of  a  patriot  time. 
And  each  heroic  figure  makes  a  martial  rhyme. 
How  like  ten  thousand  treads  that  little  band, 
Fit  for  the  van  of  armies  I    What  command 
Sits  in  that  saddle !    What  renouncing  will ! 
What  portent  grave  of  firm-confronted  ill! 
And  as  a  cloud  doth  hover  over  sea, 
Bom  from  its  waters  and  returning  there. 
Fame,  spnmg  from  thoughts  of  mortals,  swims  the  air 
And  gives  them  back  her  memories,  deathlessly. 

VI 

I  wept  by  Lincoln's  pall  when  children's  tears. 

That  saddest  of  the  nation's  years. 
Were  reckoned  in  the  census  of  her  grief; 
And,  flooding  every  eye, 
Of  low  estate  or  high, 
The  crystal  sign  of  sorrow  made  men  peers. 

The  raindrop  on  the  April  leaf 
Was  not  more  unashamed.    Hand  spoke  to  hand 
A  universal  language;  and  whene'er 
The  hopeful  met  't  was  but  to  mingle  their  despair. 

Our  yesterday's  war-widowed  land 
To-day  was  orphaned.     Its  victorious  voice 
Lost  memory  of  the  power  to  rejoice. 
For  he  whom  all  had  learned  to  love  was  prone. 
The  weak  had  slain  the  mighty ;  by  a  whim 
The  ordered  edifice  was  overthrown 
And  lay  in  futile  ruin,  mute  and  dim. 


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14  PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  INSTITUTE 

O  Death,  thou  sculptor  without  art, 

What  didst  thou   to  the  Lincoln  of  our  heart  ? 

Where  was  the  manly  eye 

That  conquered  enmity? 

Where  was  the  gentle  smile 

So  innocent  of  guile — 

The  message  of  good-will 

To  all  men,  whether  good  or  ill  ? 

Where  shall  we  traqe 
Those  treasured  lines,  half  humor  and  half  pain, 
That  made  him  doubly  brother  to  the  face? 
For  these,  O  Death,  we  search  thy  mask  in  vain! 

Yet  shall  the  Future  be  not  all  bereft : 
Not  without  witness  shall  its  eyes  be  left. 
The  soul,  again,  is  visible  through  Art, 
Servant  of  God  and  Man.    The  immortal  part 
Lives  in  the  miracle  of  a  kindred  mind. 
That  found  itself  in  seeking  for  its  kind. 
The  htlmble  by  the  humble  is  discerned; 
And  he  whose  melancholy  broke  in  sunny  wit 
Could  be  no  stranger  unto  him  who  turned 
From  sad  to  gay,  as  though  in  jest  he  learned 
Some  mystery  of  sorrow.    It  was  writ : 
The  hand  that  shapes  us  Lincoln  must  be  strong 
As  his  that  righted  our  bequeathed  wrong; 
The  heart  that  shows  us  Lincoln  must  be  brave, 
An  equal  comrade  unto  king  or  slave; 
The  mind  that  gives  us  Lincoln  must  be  clear 

As  that  of  seer 
To  fathom  deeps  of  faith  abiding  under  tides  of  fear. 
What  wonder  Fame,  impatient,  will  not  wait 

To  call  her  sculptor  great 
Who  keeps  for  us  in  bronze  the  soul  that  saved  the  State  I 

VII 

Most  fair  his  dreams  and  visions  when  he  dwelt 

His  spirit's  comrade.    Meager  was  his  speech 

Of  things  celestial,  save  in  line  and  mould; 

But  sudden  cloud-rift  may  reveal  a  star 

As  surely  as  the  unimpeded  sky. 

The  deer  has  its  deep  forest  of  retreat : 

Shall  the  shy  spirit  have  none?    Be,  then, 

The  covert  unprofaned  wherein  withdrew 

The  soul  that  'neath  his  pensive  ardor  lay  ? 

Find  the  last  frontier — Man  is  still  unknown  ground. 

Things  true  and  beautiful  made  a  heaven  for  him. 
Childhood,  the  sunrise  of  the  spirit  world, 
Yielded  its  limpid  secrets  to  his  eye. 
He  was  in  Friendship  what  he  was  in  Art — 
Wax  to  receive  and  metal  to  endure. 


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SAlNT-GAUDbNS  15 


Looking  upon  his  warriors  facing  death. 

Heroes  seem  human,  such  as  all  might  be — 

Yet  not  without  the  consecrating  will ! 

Age  is  serener  by  his  honoring; 

And  wheii  he  sought  the  temple's  inmost  fane 

The  angels  of  his  Adoration  Jent 

Old  hopes  new  glory,  and  his  reverent  hand 

Wrought  like  Beato  at  the  face  of  Christ. 

But  what  is  this  that,  neither  Hope  nor  Doom, 
Waits  with  eternal  patience  at  a.tc»nb? 
A  brooding  spirit  without  name  or  date, 
Or  race,  or  nation,  or  belief ; 
Beyond  the  reach  of  joy  or  grief, 
Above  the  plane  of  wrong  or  right ; 
A  riddle  only  to  the  sorrowless ;  the  mate 
Of  all  the  elements  in  calm — still  winter  night, 
Sea  after  tenipest,  time-scarred  mountain  height ; 

Passive  as  Buddha,  single  as  the  Sphinx, — 
Yet  neither  that  sweet  god  that  seems  to  smile 

On  mortal  good  and  guile, 
Nor  wide-eyed  monster  that  into  Egypt  sinks 
And  Beast  and  Nature  links ; 
But  something  human,  with  an  inward  sense 
Profound,  but  nevermore  intense; 
And  though  it  doth  not  stoop  to  teach, 

It  will  with  each 
Attuned  to  beauty  hold  a  muted  speech; 
In  its  Madonna-lidded  meditation 
Not  more  a  mystery  than  a  revelation ; 
Listen !  It  doth  to  Man  the  Universe  relate. 
O  Sentinel  before  the  Future's  Gate! 
If  thou  be  Fate,  art  thou  not  still  our  Fate? 

For  those  who  fain  would  live,  but  must  breathe  on 

Prisoners  of  this  prosaic  age — 
Ah,  who  for  them  shall  read  that  page 
Since  winged  Shelley  and  wise  Emerson  are  gone? 

VIII 

How  shall  we  honor  him  and  in  his  place 
His  comrades  of  the  Old  and  Happy  Race 
Whose  Art  is  refuge  Sorrow  comes  not  nigh. 
Though  Art  be  twin  to  Sorrow  ?    They  reply 
From  all  the  centuries  they  outsoar, 
From  every  shore 
Of  that  three-continented  sea 
To  which  the  streams  of  our  antiquity 
Fell  swift  and  joyously: 
'*How,  but  to  live  with  Beautyf" 
Across  our  Western  world  without  surcease 
How  many  a  column  sounds  the  name  of  Greece ! 


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t6  PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  INSTITUTE 

The  sun  loth-lingering  on  the  crest  of  Rome, 
Finds  here  how  many  an  imitative  dome! 
O  classic  quarries  of  our  modem  thought. 
What  blasphemies  in  stone  from  you  arc  wrought  I 
For  though  to  Law,  Religion,  or  the  State, 
These  stones  to  Beauty  first  are  dedicate. 
Yet  to  what  purpose,  if  we  but  revere 
The  temple,  not  the  goddess? — if  whene'er 
The  magic  of  her  deep  obsession  seem 
To  master  any  soul,  we  call  it  dream  ? 

Come,  let  us  live  with  Beauty! 
Her  name  is  ever  on  our  lips ;  but  who 
Holds  Beauty  as  the  fairest  bride  to  woo? 
The  gods  oft  wedded  mortals :  now  alone 
May  man  the  Chief  Immortal  make  his  own. 
To  Time  each  day  adds  increment  of  age 
But  Beauty  ne'er  grows  old.    There  is  no  gauge 
To  count  the  glories  of  the  counted  hours. 
Flowers  die,  but  not  the  ecstacy  of  flowers. 

Come,  let  us  live  with  Beauty! 
What  infinite  treasure  hers!  and  what  small  need 
Of  our  cramped  natures,  whose  misguided  greed, 
Hound-like,  pursues  false  trails  of  Luxury 
Or  sodden  Comfort!    Who  shall  call  us  free^ — 
Content  if  but  some  casual  wafture  come 
From  fields  Elysian,  where  the  valleys  bloom 
With  life  delectable?    Such  happy  air 
Should  be  the  light  we  live  in ;  unaware 
It  should  be  breathed,  till  man  retrieves  the  joy 
Philosophy  has  wrested  from  the  boy. 

Come,  let  us  live  with  Beauty! 

Who  shall  put  limit  to  her  sovereignty? 

Who  shall  her  loveliness  define  ? 
Think  you  the  Graces  only  three? — 

The  Muses  only  nine? 
Beyond  our  star-sown  deep  of  space 
Where,  as  for  solace,  huddles  world  with  world 
(A  human  instinct  in  the  primal  wrack) , 
Mayhap  there  is  a  dark  and  desert  place 

Of  deeper  awe 
With  but  one  outer  star,  there  hurled 
By  cataclysm  and  there  held  in  leash  by  law : 
If  lonely  be  that  star,  't  is  not  for  Beauty's  lack. 
She  was  ere  there  was  any  need  of  Truth, 
She  was  ere  there  was  any  stir  of  Love ; 
And  when  Man  came,  and  made  her  world  uncouth 
With  sin,  and  cities,  and  the  gash  of  hills 
And  forests,  and  a  thousand  brutish  ills. 

Regardless  of  his  ruth 
She  hid  her  wounds  and  gave  him,  from  above, 
The  magic  all  his  happiness  is  fashioned  of. 


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SAINT-GAUDENS  17 

IX 

Knights  of  the  five  arts  that  our  sculptor  prized : 

How  shall  ye  honor  him  and,  in  his  place, 

Those  others  of  the  Old  and  Happy  Race 

Who  lived  for  beauty,  and  the  golden  lure  despised? 

Painter  of  music,  Architect  of  song, 
Sculptor  in  color,  Poet  in  clay  and  bronze, 
And  thou  whose  unsubstantial  fancy  builds 
Abiding  symphonies  from  stone  and  space! 
Mount  ye  to  large  horizons :  ever  be 
As  avid  of  other  beauty  as  your  own. 
As  nations  greater  are  than  all  their  states. 
More  than  the  sum  of  all  the  arts  is  Art. 
High  are  their  clear  commands,  but  Art  herself 
Makes  holier  summons.    Ever  open  stand 
The  doors  of  her  free  temple.    At  her  shrine 
In  service  of  the  world,  whose  hurt  she  heals, 
Ye,  too,  physicians  of  the  mind  and  heart — 
Shall  ye  not  take  the  Hippocratic  oath? 
Have  ye  not  heard  the  voices  of  the  night 
Call  you  from  kindred,  comfort,  sloth  and  praise. 
To  lead  into  the  light  the  willing  feet 
That  grope  for  order,  harmony  and  joy? — 
To  reach  full  hands  of  bounty  unto  those 
Who  starve  for  beauty  in  our  glut  of  gold  ? 

How  shall  we  honor  him  whom  we  revere — 
Lover  of  all  the  arts  and  of  his  land  ? 
How,  but  to  cherish  Beauty's  every  flower? — 
How,  but  to  live  with  Beauty,  and  so  be 
Apostles  of  Rejoicing  to  mankind? 


MUSIC 

Beethoven's  Quartet  in  E  Minor,  Opus  59,  No.  2 

The  Kneisel  Quartet 


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THE  INSTITUTE  MEDAL 


The  Gold  Medal  of  the  Institute  is 
annually  awarded  to  any  citizen  of  the 
United  States,  whether  a  member  of 
the  Institute  or  not,  for  distinguished 
services  to  arts  or  letters  in  the  crea- 
tion of  original  work. 

The  conditions  of  the  award  are 
these : 

(i)  'That  the  medal  shall  be  awarded  for 
the  entire  work  of  the  recipient,  without 
limit  of  time  during  which  it  shall  have  been 
done;  that  it  shall  be  awarded  to  a  living 
person  or  to  one  who  shall  not  have  been 
dead  more  than  one  year  at  the  time  of  the 
award;  and  that  it  shall  not  be  awarded 
more  than  once  to  any  one  person. 

(2)  **That  it  shall  be  awarded  in  the  fol- 
lowing order:  First  year,  for  Sculpture;  sec- 
ond year,  for  History  or  Biography;  third 
year,  for  Music;  fourth  year,  for  Poetry; 
fifth  year,  for  Architecture;  sixth  year,  for 


Drama;  seventh  year,  for  Painting;  eighth 
year,  for  Fiction;  ninth  year,  for  Essays  or 
Belles-Lettres, — returning  to  each  subject 
every  tenth  year  in  the  order  named 

(3)  *That  it  shall  be  the  duty  of  the  Secre- 
tary each  year  to  poll  the  members  of  the 
section  of  the  Institute  dealing  with  the  sub- 
ject in  which  the  medal  is  that  year  to  be 
awarded,  and  to  report  the  result  of  the  poll 
to  the  Institute  at  its  Annual  Meeting,  at 
which  meeting  the  medal  shall  be  awarded 
by  vote  of  the  Institute." 

The  medal  was  designed  by  Adolph 
A.  Weinman,  of  the  Institute,  in  1909. 

The  first  award — for  sculpture — was 
to  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens.  The 
medal  was  presented  to  Mrs.  Saint- 
Gaudens  at  the  meeting  held  in  memory 
of  her  husband  on  Nov.  20,  1909. 

The  second  medal — for  history — 
was  awarded  to  James  Ford  Rhodes. 


^ 


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CONSTITUTION  OF  THE  NATIONAL  INSTITUTE 
OF  ARTS  AND  LETTERS 

(Founded  1898  by  the  American  Social  Science  Association) 


I.  ORIGIN  AND  NAME 
This  society,  organized  by  men  nominated 
and  elected  by  the  American  Social  Science 
Association  at  its  annual  meeting  in  1898, 
with  a  view  to  the  advancement  of  art, 
music  and  literature,  shall  be  known  as  the 
National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters. 

II.    MEMBERSHIP 

1.  Qualification  for  membership  shall  be 
notable  achievement  in  art,  music  or  litera- 
ture. 

2.  The  number  of  members  shall  be  limited 
to  two  hundred  and  fifty. 

III.  ELECTIONS 
The  name  of  a  candidate  shall  be  proposed 
to  the  Secretary  by  three  members  of  the 
section  in  which  the  nominee's  principal 
work  has  been  performed.  The  name  shall 
then  be  submitted  to  the  members  of  that 
section,  and  if  approved  by  a  majority  of 
the  answers  received  within  fifteen  days 
may  be  submitted  by  a  two-thirds  vote  of 
the  council  to  an  annual  meeting  of  the  In- 
stitute for  formal  election  by  a  majority 
vote  of  those  present.  The  voting  shall  be 
by  ballot. 

IV.    OFFICERS 

1.  The  officers  of  the  Institute  shall  consist 
of  a  President,  six  Vice-Presidents,  a  Secre- 
tary and  a  Treasurer,  and  they  shall  consti- 
tute the  council  of  the  Institute. 

2.  The  council  shall  always  include  at  least 
one  member  of  each  department. 

V.    ELECTION  OF  OFFICERS 
Officers   shall   be   elected   by   ballot   at   the 
annual  meeting,  but  the  council  may  fill  a 
vacancy  at  any  time  by  a  two-thirds  vote. 

VI.    MEETINGS 

1.  The  annual  meeting  of  the  Institute  shall 
be  held  on  the  first  Tuesday  in  September, 
unless  otherwise  ordered  by  the  council.* 

2.  Special  meetings  may  be  called  by  the 
President  on  recommendation  of  any  three 
members  of  the  council,  or  by  petition  of  at 
least  one-fourth  of  the  membership  of  the 
Institute. 

VII.    DUTIES  OF  OFFICERS 

1.  It  shall  be  the  duty  of  the  President  to 
preside  at  all  meetings  of  the  Institute  and 
of  the  council. 

2.  In  the  absence  of  the  President,  the  senior 
Vice-President  in  attendance  shall  preside. 

*For  convenience  the  annual  meeting:  Is  usually  called  |fbr 
January  or  February. 


3.  The  Secretary  shall  keep  a  minute  of  all 
meetings  of  the  Institute  and  of  the  council, 
and  shall  be  the  custodian  of  all  records. 

4.  The  Treasurer  shall  have  charge  of  all 
funds  of  the  Institute  and  shall  make  dis- 
bursements only  upon  order  of  the  council. 

VIII.      ANNUAL  DUES 
The  annual  dues   for  membership  shall  be 
five  dollars. 

IX.    INSIGNIA 
The  insignia  of  the  Institute  shall  be  a  bow 
of  purple  ribbon  bearing  two  bars  of  old 
gold. 

X.    EXPULSIONS 
Any  member  may  be  expelled  for  unbecom- 
ing  conduct   by   a  two-thirds   vote   of   the 
council,  a  reasonable  opportunity  for  defense 
having  been  given. 

XL  AMENDMENTS 
This  Constitution  may  be  amended  by  a 
two-thirds  vote  of  the  Institute  upon  the 
recommendation  of  the  council  or  upon  the 
request,  in  writing,  of  any  five  members. 
The  Secretary  shall  be  required  to  send  to 
each  member  a  copy  of  the  proposed  amend- 
ment at  least  thirty  days  before  the  meeting 
at  which  such  amendment  is  to  be  consid- 
ered. 

XII.  THE  ACADEMY  OF  ARTS 
AND  LETTERS 
In  order  to  make  the  Institute  more  efficient 
in  carrying  out  the  purposes  for  which  it 
was  organized, — the  protection  and  further- 
ance of  literature  and  the  arts, — and  to  give 
greater  definiteness  to  its  work,  a  section 
of  the  Institute  to  be  known  as  the  Academy 
OF  Arts  and  Letters  shall  be  organized  in 
such  manner  as  the  Institute  may  provide; 
the  members  of  the  Academy  to  be  chosen 
from  those  who  at  any  time  shall  have  been 
on  the  list  of  membership  of  the  Institute. 
The  Academy  shall  at  first  consist  of  thirty 
members,  and  after  these  shall  have  organ- 
ized it  shall  elect  its  own  officers,  prescribe 
its  own  rules,  the  number  of  its  members, 
and  the  further  conditions  of  membership; 
Provided  that  no  one  shall  be  a  member 
of  the  Academy  who  shall  not  first  have 
been  on  the  list  of  regular  members  of  the 
Institute,  and  that  in  the  choice  of  members 
individual  distinction  and  character,  and  not 
the  group  to  which  they  belong,  shall  be 
taken  into  consideration:  and  Provided  that 
all  members  of  the  Academy  shall  be  native 
or  naturalized  citizens  of  the  United  States. 


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MEMBERS  AND  OFFICERS  OF  THE  INSTITUTE 


Department  of  Literature 

Adams,  Brooks 

Adams,  Charles  Francis 

Adams,  Henry 

Ade,  George 

Alden,  Henry  M. 

Aldrich,  Richard 

Allen,  James  Lane 

Baldwin,  Simeon  E. 

Bates,  Arlo 

Bi^elow,  John 

Bridges,  Robert 

Brownell,  W.  C. 

Burroughs^  John 

Burton,  Richard 

Butler,  Nicholas  Murray 

Cable,  George  W. 

Carman,  Bliss 

Cawein,  Madison  J. 

Chambers,  R.  W. 

Channing.  Edward   ' 

Cheney,  John  Vance 

Churchill,  Winston 

Connolly,  James  B. 

Cortissoz,  Royal 

Cross,  Wilbur  L. 

Crothers,  Samuel  McChord 

de  Kay,  Charles 

Dunne,  Finley  P. 

Egan,  Maurice  Francis 

Femald,  Chester  Bailey 

Finck,  Henry  T. 

Finley,  John  Huston 

Ford,  Worth ington  C. 

Fox,  John,  Jr. 

Furness,  Horace  Howard 

Fumess,  Horace  Howard,  Jr. 

Garland,  Hamlin 

Gildersleeve,  Basil  L. 

Gillette.  William 

Gilman,  Lawrence 

Gordon   George  A. 

Grant,  Robert 

Greenslct,  Ferris 

Griffis.  W.  E. 

Hadlcy,  Arthur  Twining 

Hardy,  Arthur  Sherburne 

Harper,  George  McLean 

Herford,  Oliver 

Herrick,  Robert 

Hitchcock,  Ripley 

Howe,  M.  A.  De  Wolfe 

Howells,  William  Dean 

Huntington,  Archer  M. 

James,  Henry 

Johnson,  Owen 

Johnson,  Robert  Underwood 

Kennan,  George 

Lloyd,  Nelson 

Lodge,  Henry  Cabot 

Loiig,  John  Luther 

Lounsbury,  Thomas  R. 


Lovett,  Robert  Morss 
Lowell^  Abbott  Lawrence 
Lummis,  Charles  F. 
Mabie,  Hamilton  Wright 
Mackaye,  Percy 
Mahan,  Alfred  T. 
Markhanu  Edwin 
Martin,  Edward  S. 
Matthews,  Brander 
McKelway,  St.  Clair 
McMaster,  John  Bach 
Miller,  Joaquin 
Mitchell,  John  Ames 
Mitchell,  Langdon  E. 
MorCj  Paul  Elmer 
Morris,  Harrison  S. 
Morse,  John  Torrey,  Jr. 
Muir,  John 
Nicholson,  Meredith 
Page,  Thomas  Nelson 
Payne,  Will 

Payne,  William  Morton 
Peck,  Harry  Thurston 
Perry,  Bliss 

Perry,  Thomas  Sergeant 
Phelps,  William  Lyon 
Pier,  Arthur  S. 
Rhodes,  James  Ford 
Riley,  James  Whitcomb 
Roberts,  Charles  G.  D. 
Robmson,  Edward  Arlington 
Roosevelt,  Theodore 
Royce,  Josiah 
Schelling,  Felix  Emanuel 
Schuyler,  Montgomery 
Scollard,  Ginton 
Sedgwick,  Henry  D. 
Seton,  Ernest  Thompson 
Sherman,  Frank  Dempster 
Shorey,  Paul 
Sloane,  William  M. 
Smith,  F.  Hopkinson 
Sullivan,  Thomas  Russell 
Tarkington,  Booth 
Thayer,  A.  H. 
Thayer,  William  Roscoe 
Thomas,  Augustus 
Tooker,  L.  Frank 
Torrence,  Ridgely 
Trent,  William  P. 
van  Dyke,  Henry 
Van  Dyke,  John  C. 
Wendell,  Barrett 
West,  Andrew  F. 
White,  Andrew  Dickson 
White.  William  Allen 
Whiting,  Charles  G. 
Williams,  Jesse  Lynch 
Wilson,  Harry  Leon 
Wilson,  Woodrow 
Wister,  Owen 
Woodberry,  George  E. 


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MEMBERS  AND  OFFICERS  OF  THE  INSTITUTE 


21 


Department  of  Art 

Adams,  Herbert 
Alexander,  John  W. 
Babb,  George  F. 
Ballin,  Hugo 
Barnard,  George  Gray 
Bartlett,  Paul  W. 
Beckwith,  J.  Carroll 
Benson,  Frank  W. 
Bitter,  Karl 
Blashfield,  Edwin  H. 
Brooks,  Richard  E. 
Brown,  Glenn 
Brush,  George  de  Forest 
Bunce,  William  Gedney 
Bumham,  Daniel  Hudson 
Carlsen,  Emil 
Chase,  William  M. 
Cole,  Timothy 
Cook,  Walter 
Cox,  Kenyon 
Crowninshield,  Frederic 
Dannat,  William  T. 
Day,  Frank  Miles 
De  Camp,  Joseph 
Dewey,  Charles  Melville 
Dewing,  Thomas  W. 
Dielman,  Frederick 
Donaldson,  John  M. 
Dougherty,  Paul 
Duveneck,  Frank 
Foster,  Ben 
French,  Daniel  C. 
Gay,  Walter 
Gibson,  Charles  Dana 
Gilbert,  Cass 
Grafly,  Charles 
Gu^rin,  Jules 
Hardenbergh,  Henry  J. 
Harrison,  Alexander 
Harrison,  Birge 
Hassam,  Childe 
Hastings,  Thomas 
Henri,  Robert 
Howard,  John  Galen 
Howe,  William  Henry 
Isham,  Samuel 
Jones,  Francis  C. 
Jones,  H.  Bolton 
Kendall,  W.  Sergeant 
La  Farge,  Bancel 
Low,  Will  H. 
MacMonnies,  Frederick 
Mac  Neil,  Hermon  A. 
Marr,  Carl 
McEwen,  Walter 
Mead,  William  Rutherford 
Melchers,  Gari 
Metcalf,  Willard  L. 
Millet,  Francis  D. 
Mowbray,  H.  Siddons 
Ochtman,  Leonard 
Parrish,  Maxfield 
Peabody,  Robert  S. 
Pearce,  Charles  Sprague 
Penncll,  Joseph 
Piatt,  Charles  A. 
Post,  George  B. 


Potter,  Edward  Clark 
Pratt,  Bela  L. 
Proctor,  A.  Phimister 
Redfield,  Edward  W. 
Reid,  Robert 
Roth,  Frederick  G.  R. 
Ruckstuhl,  F.  W. 
Ryder,  Albert  P. 
Sargent,  John  S. 
Schofield.  W.  Elmer 
Shrady,  Henry  M. 
Simmons,  Edward 
Smedley,  William  T. 
Taft,  Lorado 
Tarbell,  Edmund  C. 
Tryon,  Dwight  W. 
Vedder,  Elihu 
Walden,  Lionel 
Walker,  Henry  Oliver 
Walker,  Horatio 
Warren,  Whitney 
Weinman,  Adolph  A. 
Weir,  J.  Alden 
Wiles,  Irving  R. 

Department  of  Music 

Bird,  Arthur 
Brockway,  Howard 
Chadwick,  George  Whitfield 
Converse.  F.  S. 
Damrpsch,  Walter 
De  Koven,  Reginald 
Foote,  Arthur 
Gilchrist,  W.  W. 
Hadley,  H..K. 
Herbert,  Victor 
Kelley,  Edgar  Stillman 
Loeffler,  Charles  M. 
Parker,  Horatio  W. 
Shelley,  Harry  Rowe 
Smith,  David  Stanley 
Van  der  Stucken,  F. 
Whiting,  Arthur 


DECEASED  MEMBERS 

Department  of  Literature 

Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey 

Clemens,  Samuel  L.  (Mark  Twain) 

Conway,  Moncure  D. 

Crawford,  Francis  Marion 

Daly,  Augustin 

Dodge,  Theodore  A. 

Eggleston   Edward 

Fawcett,  Edgar 

Fiske,  Willard 

Ford,  Paul  Leicester 

Frederic,  Harold 

Gilder,  Richard  Watson 

Gilman,  Daniel  Coit 

Godkin,  E.  L. 

Godwin,  Parke 

Hale,  Edward  Everett 

Harland,  Henry 

Harris,  Joel  Chandler 

Harte,  Bret 

Hay,  John 

Heme,  James  A. 


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23 


PROCEEDINGS  OF  THK  INSTITUTE 


Higginson,  Thomas  Wentworth 

Howard,  Bronson 

Howe,  Julia  Ward 

Hutlon,  Laurence 

Jefferson,  Joseph 

Johnston,  Richard  Malcolm 

Lea,  Henry  Charles 

Lodge,  George  Cabot 

Mitchell,  Donald  G. 

Moody,  William  Vaughn 

Munger,  Theodore  T. 

Nelson,  Henry  Loomis 

Norton,  Charles  Eliot 

Perkins,  James  Breck 

Schurz,  Carl 

Scudder,  Horace 

Shaler,  N.  S. 

Shirlaw,  Walter 

Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence 

Stillman,  William  J. 

Stockton,  Frank  R. 

Stoddard,  Charles  Warren 

Thompson,  Maurice 

Tyler,  Moses  Coit 

Vielc,  Herman  K. 

Warner,  Charles  Dudley 


Department  of  Art 

Abbey,  Edwin  A. 
Bierstadt,  Albert 
Blum,  Robert  Frederick 
Carrere,  John  M. 
Collins,  Alfred  Q. 
Homer,  Winslow 
La  Farge,  John 
Lathrop.  Francis 
Loeb,  Louis 


McKim,  Charles  FoUen 
Porter,  Benjamin  C. 
Pyle,  Howard 
Remington,  Frederic 
Saint-Gaudens,  Augustus 
Twachtman,  John  H. 
Vinton,  Frederick  P. 
Ward,  J.  Q.  A. 
White,  Stanford 
Wood,  Thomas  W. 

Department  op  Music 

Buck,  Dudley 
MacDowell,  Edward 
Nevin,  Ethelbert 
Paine,  John  K. 


OFFICERS 


President 
John  W.  Alexander 

Vice-Presidents 
Arthur  Whiting 
Brander  Matthews 
Hamlin  Garland 
Robert  Underwood  Johnson 
Hamilton  W.  Mabie 
Harrison  S.  Morris 

Secretary 
Jesse  Ljmch  Williams 

Princeton,  N.  J. 

Treasurer 
Samuel  Isham 

471  Park  Avenue,  New  York 


[November,  191 1] 


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Pa  30.  y^" 

PROCEEDINGS 


OF  THE 


AMERICAN   ACADEMY  OF  ARTS 
AND    LETTERS 


AND  OF  THE 


NATIONAL    INSTITUTE   OF   ARTS 
AND    LETTERS 


No.  Ill:    1910-191 1 


NEW    YOR  K 


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FAZc^'fii' 


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Copyright,  191 1,  by 
The  AMERICAN  ACADEMY  OF  ARTS  AND  LETTERS 


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CONTENTS 

PUBLIC  MEETING  UNDER  THE  AUSPICES  OF  THE  ACADEMY   IN   MEMORY 
OF  SAMUEL  LANGHORNE  CLEMENS   (MARK  TWAIN) 

Held  at  Carnegie  Hall,  New  York,  November  30,  1910 
ADDRESSES 

PAGB 

The  President,  William  Dean  Howells 5 

Hon.  Joseph  H.  Choate 6 

Rev.  Joseph    H.  Twichell       12 

Hon.  Joseph  G.  Cannon 15 

Hon.  Champ  Clark 18 

George  W.  Cable 21 

Col.  Henry  Watterson 24 

POEM 

Henry  van  Dyke 29 


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PROCEEDINGS 

OF  THE 


American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters 

AND    OF   THE 

National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters 


IHtblished  at  intervals  by  the  Societies 


Copies  may  be  had  on  application  to  the  Permanent  Secretary  of  the  Academy,  Mr.  R.  U.  JOHNSON, 
33  East  17th  Street,  New  York  Price  per  annum  $1.00 


Vol.  I 


New  York,  November  i,  191  i 


No.  3 


The  American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters 

Public  Meeting  held  in  Carnegie  Hall,  New  York, 
November  30,  19 10 


IN   MEMORY   OF  MARK  TWAIN 


Mr.    Howells,    President    op    the 
Academy: 

Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  Fellow  Aca- 
demicians and  Guests  of  the  Academy : 

At  other  times  and  in  other  places 
I  have  said  so  much  of  the  friend  whom 
all  the  world  has  lost  in  the  death  of 
Samuel  Langhome  Clemens  that  I 
need  say  very  little  of  him  here  to- 
night. It  is  my  official  privilege  to 
ask  you  rather  to  hear  what  shall  be 
said  by  the  distinguished  men  whom 
the  Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters  has 
invited  to  join  us  in  our  commemora- 
tion of  him.  It  is  they  who  will  de- 
termine what  the  mood  and  make  of 
this  commemoration  shall  be.  If  the 
question  could  be  left  to  him,  with  the 
hope  of  answer,  I  could  imagine  his 
answering : 

**  Why,  of  course,  you  mustn't  make 
a  solenmity  of  it;  you  mustn't  have  it 


that  sort  of  obsequy.  I  should  want 
you  to  be  serious  about  me — ^that  is, 
sincere;  but  not  too  serious,  for  fear 
you  should  not  be  sincere  enough.  We 
don't  object  here  to  any  man's  affec- 
tions; we  like  to  be  honored,  but  not 
honored  too  much.  If  any  of  you  can 
remember  some  creditable  thing  about 
me,  I  shouldn't  mind  his  telling  it, 
provided  always  he  didn't  blink  the 
palliating  circumstances,  the  mitigat- 
ing motives,  the  selfish  considerations, 
that  accompany  every  noble  action.  I 
shouldn't  like  to  be  made  out  a  miracle 
of  humor,  either,  and  left  a  stumbling- 
block  for  any  one  who  was  intending 
to  be  moderately  amusing  and  instruc- 
tive, hereafter.  At  the  same  time,  I 
don't  suppose  a  commemoration  is 
exactly  the  occasion  for  dwelling  on 
a  man's  shortcomings  in  his  life  or  his 
literature,  or  for  realizing  that  he  has  en- 
tered upon  an  immortality  of  oblivion." 


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So,  I  believe,  or  in  some  such  terms, 
I  imagine,  he  might  deliver  his  prefer- 
ence, if  indeed  it  were  his  preference. 
He  would  put  it  in  the  lowest  terms, 
for  the  soul  of  the  man  was  modest. 
Yet  no  man  loved  more  to  bask  in  the 
sunshine  of  full  recognition.  He  loved 
the  limelight  of  life's  stage,  and  for 
long  years  he  sought  it.  The  time 
came  when  physically  he  could  not 
bear  it.  But  now  again,  when  all 
physical  inadequacy  is  past  for  him, 
I  cannot  help  thinking  how  he  would 
have  glowed,  how  he  would  have 
gloried,  in  such  a  magnificent  presence 
as  this,  where  every  man  and  woman 
of  it  is  his  loving  and  praising  friend. 

I  must  speak  of  him  as  if  he  was  still 
alive,  with  a  living  interest  in  this 
occasion.  He  is  indeed  alive,  as  part 
of  the  universal  life  we  shared  with 
him  and  share  with  one  another  here. 
But  he  is  living  for  us  in  yet  another 
sense.  In  that  microcosm  which  each 
man  is  there  will  remain  till  he  dies 
such  an  image  of  his  epoch  as  he  has 
been  capable  of  receiving.  The  great 
men  he  has  known  by  living  in  sight 
and  hearing  of  them  abide  his  con- 
temporaries as  long  as  he  lives  after 
them.  For  him  they  do  not  become 
of  the  past;  through  his  unsevered  as- 
sociation they  continue  of  the  present. 
The  man  whom  we  commemorate  sur- 
vives in  us  our  contemporary,  because 
in  our  several  measure  or  manner  we 
personally  knew  him.  Others  here- 
after may  prove  him  the  greatest 
humorist,  the  kindest  and  wisest  mor- 
alist. We  alone  who  were  of  his 
acquaintance  can  best  offer  by  our 
remembrance  a  composite  likeness  of 
him  which  will  keep  him  actual  in 
the  long  time  to  come. 

In  certain  details  our  respective  im- 
pressions of  him  must  vary  one  from 
another,  but  in  the  large  things,  the 
vital  traits  that  characterize,  they 
must  be  alike.  What  he  would  do 
next  no  man  could  forecast  from  what 
he  had  done  last;    but  he  could  be 


unerringly  predicted  from  what  he  was 
and  he  could  be  expected  wherever 
a  magnanimous  word,  or  a  generous 
deed,  or  a  sanative  laugh  was  due.  He 
was  not  only  a  lover  of  the  good,  but 
a  lover  of  doing  good.  If  you  were  of 
his  mere  acquaintance  you  could  not 
help  seeing  this;  if  you  were  of  his 
intimacy,  you  felt  in  your  heart  a 
warmth,  a  joy.  Then  you  understood 
how  he  could  be  one  of  the  subtlest 
intelligences,  because  he  was  one  of  the 
openest  natures.  Sanguine,  sorrowful; 
despairing,  exulting;  loving,  hating; 
blessing,  cursing;  mocking,  mourning; 
laughing,  lamenting;  he  was  a  con- 
geries of  contradictions,  as  each  of  us  is ; 
but  contradictions  confessed,  explicit, 
positive;  and  I  wish  we  might  show  him 
frankly  as  he  always  showed  himself. 

We  may  confess  that  he  had  faults, 
while  we  deny  that  he  tried  to  make 
them  pass  for  merits.  He  disowned 
his  errors  by  owning  them;  in  the  very 
defects  of  his  qualities  he  triumphed, 
and  he  could  make  us  glad  with  him 
at  his  escape  from  them.  We  can  be 
glad  with  him  now  at  his  escape  from 
them  to  that  being,  hoped  for  in  our 
faltering  or  unfaltering  faith,  where 
the  cosmic  defects  of  the  cosmic  quali- 
ties, the  seeming  aberrations  of  the 
highest  Wisdom  and  the  primal  Love 
which  so  daunt  and  bewilder  our  rea- 
son here,  shall  haply  or  surely  be  justi- 
fied to  all  doubting  souls,  and  a  world 
where  death  is  shall  be  retrieved  by 
a  world  where  death  is  no  more. 

The  first  speaker  whom  we  shall  hear 
to-night  is  one  whose  name  indefinitely 
simplifies  my  chief  function  as  chair- 
man. In  this  city,  in  this  country,  on 
this  continent — not  to  mention  the  British 
Isles  and  their  colonies  in  all  the  shores 
and  seas — one  does  not  introduce  him; 
one  merely  stands  aside  for  Mr.  Choate. 

Mr.  Choate; 

It  is  very  kind  in  Mr.  Howells  to 
introduce  me,  but  after  he  has  read 


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MARK  TWAIN   MEMORIAL  CEREMONIES 


it  (pointing  to  his  notes)  all  through 
from  beginning  to  end,  I  don't  see 
how  I  can  possibly  make  any  use  of 
it  (laughter).  Certainly  we  are  not 
here  to-night  to  mourn  for  Mark  Twain 
nor  to  lament  his  death.  In  all  his 
later  years  he  always  said  that  he  en- 
vied the  dead,  and  to  him  they  were 
better  and  happier  as  they  were: 
**  Better  are  the  dead  that  are  already 
dead  than  the  living  that  are  not  yet 
alive."  So  when  we  heard  Gilder  was 
dead,  he  said,  **  Ah!  no  such  good  luck 
comes  to  me!"  No;  this  great  assem- 
blage, itself  a  splendid  tribute  to  his 
memory,  has  gathered  here  to-night  to 
glory  and  exult  in  his  noble  life  and 
character,  in  his  prolonged  and  benef- 
icent career,  in  all  the  triumphs  he 
achieved,  and  in  all  that  he  did  to 
make  his  fellow  men  and  women  hap- 
pier and  better,  and  no  man  in  the  last 
thirty  years,  I  think,  has  done  more 
or  as  much.  His  success  in  delighting 
the  world  was  as  unique  as  his  per- 
sonality, and  grew  directly  out  of  it. 

For  nearly  half  a  century  I  had  been 
in  the  habit  of  appearing  with  him  on 
the  same  platform,  speaking  for  public 
and  charitable  causes  which  seemed 
to  him  to  be  good.  He  never  failed 
to  respond,  and  was  the  shining  light 
of  every  such  occasion,  and  when  we 
last  met  on  such  an  occasion  he  said 
that  we  had  been  familiar  acquaint- 
ances in  that  way  for  forty-seven  years; 
and  so  I  could  not  fail  to  respond  to- 
night in  this  hall,  where  we  have  often 
so  labored  together,  for  good,  I  hope. 
No  matter  what  the  cause  was,  whether 
for  charity  or  good  government,  for 
reform  or  education,  or  for  Hampton 
or  Tuskegee,  those  great  schools  which 
appeal  so  strongly  to  the  conscience  of 
the  nation,  he  was  always  the  same — 
as  direct  as  he  was  quaint,  and  as  ear- 
nest as  he  was  droll,  always  bringing 
in  no  end  of  fun  and  satire  to  the  aid 
of  the  cause,  and  generally  chaffing 
its  other  advocates  with  unfailing  good 
humor.     I  remember  his  last  words  to 


me  on  such  an  evening,  when  I  had 
been  indulging  in  reminiscence :  *'Yes, 
Choate  is  full  of  history,  and  some  of 
it  is  true,  too.*'     (Laughter.) 

I  believe  that  I  am  expected  to  say 
something  of  his  success  abroad,  and 
particularly  in  England,  where  he  came 
at  last  to  be  a  popular  idol,  quite  as 
much  so  as  at  home.  Well,  it  was 
sixty  years  to  a  day,  almost,  from  the 
time  he  was  apprenticed  to  a  printer 
in  Hannibal  for  his  clothes  and  board 
— **more  board  than  clothes,"  as  he 
said — until  the  crowning  triumph  of 
his  life  at  Oxford.  At  the  beginning 
of  that  long  period  English  people  had 
no  idea  that  any  good  could  come  out 
of  Missouri  (laughter),  or  that  a  bom 
humorist  was  then  getting  his  educa- 
tion by  setting  type  on  the  banks  of 
the  Mississippi  who  would  live  to  chal- 
lenge comparison,  and  perhaps  the 
leadership,  in  wit  and  humor  with 
their  own  Chaucer  and  Fielding  and 
Swift  and  Dickens. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  they  are 
sometimes  a  little  slow  at  first  over 
there  at  recognizing  American  humor. 
They  have  to  get  used  to  it  and  under- 
stand it,  and  then  they  are  quite  ready 
to  claim  it  as  the  common  property 
of  the  English-speaking  race.  When 
Charles  Darwin,  greatest  of  naturalists, 
first  read  The  Jumping  Frog  of  Cala- 
veras County,  I  do  not  know  how  seri- 
ously he  took  it  as  a  new  fact  in  natural 
history;  but  what  a  charming  sequel 
it  would  have  made  to  his  Variation 
of  Animals  and  Plants  under  Domestic 
cation,  which  was  just  going  to  the 
press.  The  frog  was  certainly  do- 
mesticated, and  did  undergo  the  most 
wonderful  variations.  However  that 
may  be,  that  great  philosopher  soon 
became  an  ardent  admirer  of  Mark 
Twain,  and  so  continued  to  the  end  of 
his  life,  which  accounts  for  his  telling 
Professor  Norton  that  for  sleeplessness 
he  had  two  cures,  under  the  headlight 
by  his  bedside,  the  Bible  and  The 
Innocents   Abroad,  and  on  the  whole 


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PROCEEDINGS   OF  THE   ACADEMY 


he   didn't   know  which   he   used  the 
most. 

Certainly  no  other  short  story  that 
was  ever  told  or  written  made  such  an 
impression  on  the  English-speaking 
world,  or  won  for  its  author  such  last- 
ing fame  as  that.  It  is  one  of  the 
shortest  on  record;  for  after  he  has 
introduced  Smiley  and  his  fifteen- 
minute  mare,  and  the  bull-pup*  and 
his  rat-terriers  and  chicken-cocks  and 
tomcats,  and  before  he  comes  to  the 
frog,  there  are  but  two  short  pages 
left  to  tell  the  story  in.  Not  even 
Lincoln's  immortal  two-minute  speech 
at  Gettysburg  has  found  so  many 
readers,  or  is  known  so  thoroughly  by 
heart  wherever  our  common  tongue 
is  spoken.  And  in  England  it  soon 
became  familiar  not  only  to  men  of 
the  highest  culture,  like  Darwin,  but 
to  the  man  and  the  boy  in  the  street. 
I  wish  I  knew  whether  it  were  a  real 
fact  or  only  one  of  the  author's  yams. 
But  I  have  read  that  once  at  a  dinner 
in  London  the  gentleman  who  sat  next 
him  said:  **Do  you  know,  sir,  how 
old  that  story  of  yours  about  the 
Jumping  Frog  is?"  and  he  replied: 
*'Why,  yes;  I  can  tell  you  exactly. 
I  picked  it  up  in  the  mining  camp  just 
forty  years  ago.  It  is  just  forty-five 
years  old."  **No,  it  isn't,"  said  he: 
**no,  it  isn't;  it's  two  thousand  years 
old,  at  least."  And  after  that  this 
fellow  showed  him  a  Greek  text-book, 
and  he  exclaimed:  **Thereitis;  there 
it  is — my  Jumping  Frog  in  Bopotia  two 
thousand  years  ago."  But  the  mystery 
of  the  Boeotian  was  soon  solved,  for 
it  turned  out  that  Prof.  Henry  Sidg- 
wick,  Arthur  Balfour's  brother-in-law, 
had  admired  it  so  much  that  he  had 
translated  it  into  the  Greek  text-book 
to  take  its  place  among  the  other  an- 
cient fables;  and  before  the  author's 
first  visit  to  England  it  had  been  trans- 
lated into  French  and  German.  How 
the  French  or  German  mind  could  ever 
master  such  a  wonderful  narrative 
passes  all  comprehension,  and  it  was 


impossible:  for  Mark  Twain  himself 
imdertook  to  translate  it  back  literally 
into  English,  and  was  wholly  unable 
to  identify  his  original  frog,  and  loud- 
ly protested  against  its  slaughter  by 
foreign  hands. 

Well,  before  he  ever  made  his  per- 
sonal appearance  among  them  all 
Englishmen  who  read  at  all  had  de- 
voured that  wonderful  book  of  travel. 
The  Innocents  Abroad,  and  his  name 
was  as  well  known  among  them  as 
that  of  any  of  their  own  great  authors, 
so  that  they  were  well  prepared  to 
welcome  and  honor  him  when  he  came 
for  his  first  visit,  in  1872.  On  that 
occasion  he  gave  some  lectures  and 
made  a  number  of  those  inimitable 
speeches,  one  at  the  Savage  Club,  an- 
other at  the  Mitre  Tavern  in  honor  of 
Stanley  and  Livingstone,  and  another 
at  the  Annual  Festival  of  the  Scottish 
Corporation  in  London,  in  response  to 
a  toast  to  **  Woman,"  which  was  one 
of  his  most  impossible  extravaganzas. 
He  studied  well  the  English  people 
and  their  customs,  and  made  hosts  of 
friends;  and  although,  both  before  and 
after,  he  indulged  in  no  small  amount 
of  good-natured  satire  at  their  tepense. 
he  learned  to  appreciate  most  thorough- 
ly their  great  qualities,  their  unfalter- 
ing love  of  liberty,  and  the  great  things 
that  England  had  accomplished  for  the 
world.  He  was  there  again  in  1879, 
and  again  his  great  and  groi^nng  repu- 
tation followed  him  and  attracted  uni- 
versal attention. 

I  remember  meeting  him  on  a  hot 
summer  day  in  that  year  in  St.  George's 
Chapel,  evidently  exhausted  by  sight- 
seeing; and  while  we  were  admiring 
the  beauty  of  the  sacred  structure,  by 
which,  however,  he  didn't  seem  to  be 
much  impressed,  he — and  I  supposed 
some  solemn  reference  to  the  buried 
kings  was  coming — whispered  in  my 
ear,  *'  How  awful  it  is  to  be  in  a  place 
where  it  isn't  possible  to  smoke."  But 
I  remembered  his  devotion  to  tobacqo, 
how  much  it  helped  him  in  his  work. 


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MARK  TWAIN   MEMORIAL  CEREMONIES 


and  was  not  surprised  that  he  was  im- 
patient to  get  back  to  it. 

These  repeated  visits  to  London, 
and  the  wide  acquaintance  he  acquired 
after  the  pubUcation  of  his  earUest 
works,  created  an  appetite  for  his 
books  which  was  always  on  the  in- 
crease there.  It  grew  by  what  it  fed 
on.  and  I  think  the  statistics  will  show 
a  wonderful  market  for  his  wares 
among  English  readers.  As  volume 
after  volume,  rich  in  humor  and  in 
human  sympathy,  issued  from  his  pro- 
lific pen,  they  were  eagerly  devoured, 
and  the  names  of  the  unique  and  fas- 
cinating characters  which  he  created, 
Tom  Sawyer,  Huckleberry  Finn,  and 
Colonel  Sellers,  became  equally  famil- 
iar, and  were  household  words  on  both 
sides  of  the  water.  Of  course,  it  was 
chiefly  for  their  wit  and  humor,  so 
racy,  so  fresh  from  the  soil,  so  ex- 
travagant and  uncompromising,  so 
American,  so  unlike  everything  that 
England  had  ever  produced  or  enjoyed, 
that  these  wonderful  books  chiefly  ap- 
pealed to  them.  It  was  the  fascina- 
tion of  success.  Nothing  succeeds  like 
success  on  either  side  of  the  water. 
They  saw  a  poor  and  friendless  boy, 
^  born  and  bred  in  humble  circumstances 
and  with  no  advantages  whatever, 
thrown  on  his  own  resources  at  twelve, 
leaving  the  most  meager  schooling  be- 
hind him,  and  starting  in  life  as  an 
apprentice  to  a  poor  printer,  then  for 
four  years  a  pilot,  and  one  of  the  best 
pilots,  most  sure  and  most  safe,  on 
the  River.  The  River — the  supreme 
and  ultimate  ambition  of  his  boyish 
dreams. 

It  is  quite  impossible  to  exaggerate 
the  charm  and  influence  which  that 
great  river — ^the  Father  of  Waters — 
exercised  upon  his  whole  life  and 
character.  To  him  it  was  a  great  liv- 
ing creature,  full  of  action  and  passion 
and  whim  and  caprice;  now  overwhelm- 
ing him  by  its  power,  and  again  ab- 
sorbing his  soul  by  its  irresistible 
charm.     Until  he  was  twenty-five  years 


old  it  was  the  boundary  of  his  ambi- 
tion and  the  center  of  his  life,  as  it  is 
now,  and  is  bound  always  to  be,  the 
center  of  the  life  of  America. 

These  four  years  that  he  spent  in 
studying  and  mastering  it  were  his 
University  career — more  fniitful  and 
inspiring  than  Harvard  or  Yale  could  ' 
ever  have  been.  He  had  absolutely 
to  know  every  inch  of  the  river  for 
twelve  hundred  miles,  by  night  and 
by  day,  up-stream  and  down-stream, 
its  surface  and  its  shore,  its  depths 
and  its  shallows,  its  banks  and  its 
bars,  its  moods  and  its  ever-changing 
temper  and  movement.  It  was  not 
enough  for  him  to  think — ^he  must 
know  it  all  exactly;  and  no  student 
at  any  university  ever  studied  any- 
thing so  hard  and  to  so  much  purpose. 
It  developed  all  his  powers  and  facul- 
ties as  no  books  could  ever  have  done 
— patience,  observation,  memory,  judg- 
ment, courage,  undying  tenacity  of 
purpose — and  these  entered  into  and 
governed  all  his  subsequent  work,  and  it 
opened  his  eyes  to  the  world  beyond.  As 
he  said  some  twenty  years  afterward: 

**  I  am  to  this  day  profiting  by  that 
experience,  for  in  that  brief,  sharp 
schooling  I  got  personally  and  fa- 
miliarly acquainted  with  about  all  the 
different  types  of  human  nature  that 
are  to  be  found  in  fiction,  biography, 
or  history.  My  profit  is  various,  in 
kind  and  degree;  but  the  feature  of 
it  which  I  value  most  is  the  zest  which 
that  early  experience  has  given  to 
my  later  reading.  When  I  find  a 
well-known  character  in  fiction  or 
biography  I  generally  take  a  warm 
interest  in  him,  for  the  reason  that 
I  have  known  him  before — I  met  him 
on  the  River." 

Next,  upon  the  outbreak  of  the  war, 
when  he  quit  piloting,  he  was  a  Second 
Lieutenant  in  the  Confederate  Army — 
for  two  weeks — ^the  most  anomalous 
episode  of  his  whole  career;  for  no 
man  was  a  more  ardent  patriot,  a 
truer  lover  of  his  country,  more  de- 


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voted  to  the  memories  of  Lincoln  and 
Grant,  and  to  what  they  achieved  for 
their  country  and  the  world  than  he. 

Now  again  a  hopeless  miner,  fetch- 
ing water  while  his  comrade  washed  for 
gold,  but  protesting  that  each  pailful 
was  his  last.  **  Bring  one  more  pail- 
^ful,"  Jim  pleaded.  "I  won't  do  it, 
Jim.  Not  a  drop.  Not  if  I  knew 
there  was  a  million  dollars  in  that 
pan!"  But  then  and  there  he  picked 
up  the  greatest  single  nugget  ever 
found  in  pocket  mining,  in  the  Jump- 
ing Frog,  that  started  him  on  the 
highroad  to  victory,  and  from  that 
day,  and  from  those  squalid  begin- 
nings, how  swift  and  sure  his  flight 
was  to  the  great  and  undreamt-of  prize 
of  world-wide  fame — ^translated  into 
many  languages,  read  by  countless 
millions,  keeping  the  whole  world 
laughing  and  in  good  spirits  for  thirty 
years.  Whoever  could  do  that  is  just- 
ly counted  among  the  world*s  greatest 
benefactors.  Such  success,  so  dear 
to  himself,  was  justly  appreciated  by 
all  who  spoke  his  tongue.  And  it  an- 
swered forever  to  Englishmen  Sydney 
Smith's  cynical  question:  **In  all  the 
four  quarters  of  the  globe  who  reads 
an  American  book?*' 

To  the  average  Englishman — ^the 
middle  classes  as  they  are  called  over 
there — a  misnomer  nowadays,  perhaps 
— his  works  had  one  irresistible  charm. 
I  mean  the  plain  English  in  which  they 
were  written.  Not  since  Robinson 
Crusoe  came  out,  about  one  hundred 
and  fifty  years  before,  had  Englishmen 
read  anything  in  such  plain,  clear,  and 
simple  language  as  we  have  in  Tom 
Sawyer  and  Huckleberry  Finn,  The 
Prince  and  the  Pauper,  and  most  of  his 
other  books.  Not  a  trace  of  Greek 
or  Latin;  for  he  had  none  of  either, 
except  what  was  imbedded  and  rooted 
in  the  common  speech  of  the  people. 
In  every  sentence  he  meant  what  he 
said,  and  meant  it  so  clearly  and 
strongly  that  every  one  who  read  could 
understand    every    word — ^in    striking 


contrast  to  some  authors  whose  sen- 
tences you  have  to  read  over  three 
or  four  times  to  discover  what  they 
thought  they  meant,  and  can  only 
guess  at  it  then. 

One  other  trait  of  our  hero — ^for  he  is 
one  of  the  greatest  of  our  heroes — dear 
to  the  British  heart,  was  his  indomitable 
courage:  never  to  submit  or  yield  to 
illness,  or  bereavement,  or  debt,  or 
any  other  calamity  or  adversity,  but 
to  take  up  his  burden  and  fight  his 
way  through  to  the  end.  They  had 
seen  their  own  great  novelist,  under 
almost  identical  circumstances,  at 
about  the  same  age,  in  the  full  tide  of 
his  success,  suddenly  ruined — buried 
under  a  mountain  of  debt,  incurred 
by  no  fault  of  his  own — starting  out 
in  Ufe  anew,  refusing  all  compromise, 
and  determined  to  devote  all  that  re- 
mained of  life  to  paying  the  whole 
debt,  dollar  for  dollar.  It  was  this 
heroic  self-sacrifice  that  embalmed  the 
memory  of  Scott  forever  in  the  hearts 
of  his  countrymen.  So  when  they  saw 
our  own  great  humorist  following 
exactly  in  his  footsteps,  inspired  with 
the  same  lofty  spirit,  leaving  home 
and  much  that  he  held  dear  behind 
him  and  starting  out  on  that  wonder- 
ful reading  tour — to  Australia,  New 
Zealand,  South  Africa — and  arriving 
in  England  again  with  the  money  to 
pay  the  whole  debt,  they  recognized 
him  as  the  true  and  worthy  successor 
to  their  own  Sir  Walter  Scott,  an 
honor  which  they  had  never  expected 
to  pay  to  any  man. 

No  wonder,  then,  that  after  his  sev- 
entieth birthday  had  been  duly  cele- 
brated by  his  own  countrymen,  as  life 
was  drawing  to  its  destined  end,  the 
scholars  and  statesmen  and  authors  of 
England  should  desire  to  pay  him  the 
highest  tribute  within  their  gift;  and 
to  this  end  Lord  Curzon,  the  newly 
elected  Chancellor  of  Oxford,  himself 
one  of  England's  most  accomplished 
scholars  and  statesmen,  invited  him 
to  come  over  and  receive  the  Honor- 


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MARK  TWAIN    MEMORIAL  CEREMONIES 


ary  Degree  of  Doctor  of  Letters. 
Nothing  ever  touched  his  heart  like 
that.  He  said  he  would  gladly  have 
walked  to  Mars  and  back  to  get  that 
degree.  During  the  thousand  years 
that  Oxford  had  been  the  nursery  and 
seat  of  the  learning  and  culture  of 
England^  the  Mississippi  had  been 
pouring  its  mud  to  the  sea,  to  lay  the 
foundations  of  that  crude  civilization 
in  which  he  had  been  bom  and  bred. 
Starting  from  that  humble  beginning, 
with  no  adventitious  aids  whatever, 
with  no  education  but  that  which  he 
had  given  himself,  fighting  his  way 
against  fearful  obstacles  and  odds,  he 
had  come  to  be  recognized  and  pro- 
claimed by  the  highest  academic  au- 
thority as  America's  greatest  living 
author  and  the  world's  greatest  humor- 
ist, and  on  the  26th  of  June,  1907,  he 
stood  in  the  Sheldonian  Theater,  sur- 
rounded by  the  flower  of  England's 
scholarship,  to  receive,  in  common  with 
the  Prime  Minister,  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor, and  the  Lord  Chief-Justice  of 
England,  Rudyard  Kipling,  and  others, 
all  men  of  great  mark,  the  highest 
honor  that  England  had  in  her  gift. 
He  received  the  greatest  ovation  of 
the  day,  and  never  has  there  been 
more  vociferous  applause  in  that  fa- 
mous hall  than  when  his  name  was 
called.  Lord  Curzon's  words  to  him 
in  Latin  were  well  chosen.  Let  me 
translate  them:  *'0h,  man,  most 
jocund,  most  pleasant,  most  humorous, 
who  shaketh  the  sides  of  the  whole 
world  by  the  hilarity  of  thine  own 
nature,  by  my  authority,  and  that  of 
the  whole  University,  I  pronounce  you 
Doctor  of  Letters,  Honoris  Causa.** 

Not  the  University  only,  but  all  Eng- 
land, seemed  to  give  itself  up  for  ten 
days  to  reveling  with  him  and  over  him. 
The  King  and  Queen  entertained  a  dis- 
tinguished company  with  him  at  Wind- 
sor and  paid  him  great  honor.  No 
American,  I  think,  was  ever  before  so 
applauded  as  he.  The  climax  was 
reached  at  the  Pilgrims'  Club,  when 


Mr.  Birrell,  himself  one  of  the  wittiest 
of  EngUshmen,  presided,  and  ex- 
changed felicities  with  the  happy 
American,  and  gave  him  a  chance  of 
which  he  gladly  availed  himself. 

Mr.  Birrell  had  inadvertently  said 
that  he  hardly  knew  how  he,  the  Chief 
Secretary  for  Ireland,  got  there  to 
preside.  When  the  guest's  turn  came, 
he  recalled  this  remark,  with  his 
grimace  and  droUish  humor:  **  He  says 
he  hardly  knows  how  he  got  here,  but 
I  have  looked  into  his  wine-glasses; 
I  can  certify  that  he  has  drunk  nothing 
here,  and  can  assure  him  that  we  will 
see  him  safely  home."  But  Mr.  Birrell 
spoke  for  all  England  in  proposing  his 
health  when  he  said:  **Mark  Twain  is 
a  man  whom  English  and  Americans 
do  well  to  honor.  He  is  the  true  con- 
solidator  of  nations.  His  delightful 
humor  is  of  the  kind  which  dissipates 
and  destroys  national  prejudices.  His 
truth  and  his  honor,  his  love  of  truth, 
and  his  love  of  honor,  overflow  all 
boundaries.  He  has  made  the  world 
better  by  his  presence." 

Twain's  last  words  in  reply  were 
most  touching  and  tender.  He  spoke 
of  the  marks  of  affection  that  flowed 
in  upon  him  from  men  and  women  of 
all  sorts  and  conditions  in  England, 
and  said  in  taking  his  seat :  **  All  these 
make  me  feel  that  here  in  England,  as 
in  America,  when  I  stand  under  the 
English  flag,  I  am  not  a  stranger,  I  am 
not  an  alien,  but  at  home."  In  three 
short  years  after  this  truly  inter- 
national jubilee  he  was  laid  in  his 
grave  at  Elmira,  but  for  many  gen- 
erations yet  he  will  live  in  the  hearts 
of  all  in  both  countries  who  honor 
genius  and  a  noble  soul,  and  love  good 
English,  good  nature,  and  good  fun. 

Mr.  Howells: 

In  those  happy  years  when  it  was  the 
supreme  joy  of  life  to  visit  the  Clemens 
household  in  Hartford,  the  friend  and 
neighbor  nearest  and  dearest  to  its  hospi- 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE   ACADEMY 


table  heart  was  the  man  who  knew  Mark 
Twain  best,  and  therefore  loved  him  most. 
For  his  own  sake,  not  less  than  for  Mark 
Twain's  sake,  I  am  sure  you  will  welcome 
his  comrade,  his  aUnoner,  his  pastor,  the 
Rev.  Joseph  H.  TwichelL 

Mr.  Twichell: 

My  acquaintance  with  the  beloved 
man  who  is  the  theme  of  our  memo- 
ries to-night  dates  from  the  winter  of 
1867-68,  when  he  was  in  Hartford  at- 
tending on  the  pubUcation  there  by  a 
parishioner  of  mine  of  The  Innocents 
Abroad,  the  book  that  first  made  him 
widely  known  as  an  author. 

We  were  nearly  the  same  age — ^about 
thirty — were,  by  grace  of  favoring  cir- 
cumstances, brought  much  together 
from  the  start,  and  were  soon  launched 
on  a  friendship  that  through  the  whole 
more  than  forty  succeeding  years  was 
to  me,  from  first  to  last,  the  source  of 
untold  pleasure. 

At  that  time,  though  he  was  rising 
into  notice,  and  coming  to  be  some- 
thing of  a  celebrity,  no  one  dreamed  of 
the  shining,  world-wide  fame  he  was 
destined  to  achieve,  himself  least  of 
all.  I  distinctly  recall  the  mingled  as- 
tonishment and  triumph  he  manifested 
at  the  reproduction  of  an  extract  from 
his  pen  in  an  English  periodical;  and 
the  same  again  when  he  had  a  let- 
ter from  Mr.  Osgood  of  The  Atlantic 
Monthly  asking  him  to  contribute  to 
that  magazine.  He  could  hardly  be- 
lieve his  eyes  when  he  read  it.  He  did 
not,  as  yet,  rate  himself  properly  a 
member  ot  the  literary  guild.  He  was 
hoping  for  permanent  employment  in 
some  capacity  in  the  profession  of 
journalism,  in  which  he  had  served 
apprenticeship. 

Unquestionably  for  the  height  and 
extent  of  the  distinction  he  attained, 
his  career  is  a  phenomenon  without 
parallel  in  any  day.  To  cite  a  few 
things  that  illustrate  and  attest  this: 
How  marvellous  it  was,  for  instance. 


that  the  youth  who  quit  the  pilot- 
house of  a  Mississippi  River  steamboat 
at  the  age  of  twenty-six  received,  not 
so  many  years  after,  from  the  Marquis 
of  Lome,  Governor-General  of  Canada, 
and  the  Princess  Louise,  his  wife — 
neither  of  whom  had  ever  seen  him — 
an  invitation  soliciting  a  visit  from 
him  at  their  house  in  Ottawa,  because 
they  so  wanted  to  see  him;  an  invita- 
tion which  he  accepted. 

It  chanced  during  his  stay  with  them 
that  the  opening  of  the  Canadian  Par- 
liament took  place,  to  which  Mark 
went  in  company  with  his  host  and 
hostess,  he  occupying  the  same  car- 
riage with  the  latter,  following  those 
that  conveyed  Lord  Lome  and  the 
principal  dignitaries  of  state. 

The  approach  to  the  Parliament 
House  was  the  signal  for  the  firing  of 
the  artillery  salute  appropriate  to  the 
occasion,  upon  hearing  which  Mark 
could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  say 
— and  wickedly  did  say — to  the  Prin- 
cess, that  he  had  had  a  great  many 
compliments  paid  him  before,  but  none 
came  up  to  this;  and  the  poor  lady 
had  to  explain  to  him  that  the  salute 
was  for  the  Governor-General. 

For  another  instance  of  later  date, 
the  German  Kaiser,  learning  that  he 
was  in  Berlin,  sent  an  officer  of  his 
household  to  bring  him  to  the  im- 
perial residence,  and  upon  Mark's  being 
presented  to  him  he  called  out  to  the 
Empress — using  her  first  name — I  for- 
get what  it  is:  **0h,  come  here!  Come 
here!     Here  is  Mark  Twain!" 

And  yet  for  another,  more  recent 
still:  How  amazing  it  was  that  he,  a 
man  of  almost  no  schooling  at  all — for 
the  rest  he  was  self-educated — was 
summoned  by  the  old  University  of 
Oxford  to  cross  the  sea  and  take  at 
her  hand  the  degree  of  Doctor  of 
Letters,  one  of  the  most  valued  honors 
in  her  gift.  A  London  publisher  told 
me,  when  I  was  in  that  city  two  years 
since,  that  never  in  his  life  had  he 
seen  universal  England  give  such  wel- 


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13 


come  to  any  other  visitor  whomsoever 
as  to  Mr.  Clemens  on  that  occasion. 

In  the  summer  of  1892  I  was  with 
him  at  Homburg,  Germany,  famed  for 
its  medicinal  springs,  and,  in  the  sea- 
son, very  much  a  resort  of  royalty.  As 
we  stood  the  next  morning  after  our 
arrival  watching  the  people  at  the 
springs,  a  mile  or  so  from  the  town, 
taking  the  water,  a  gentleman  ap- 
proached us  and,  addressing  Mark 
with  great  politeness,  explained  that 
he  came  from  the  Prince  of  Wales — 
the  late  King  Edward  VII. — who  was 
near  by,  and  that  his  Royal  Highness 
desired,  if  he  pleased,  to  have  speech 
with  him.  Naturally  I  observed  the 
meeting  of  the  two  men  with  lively 
interest.  His  Royal  Highnesses  man- 
ner toward  Mark  was  notably  cordial, 
and  they  at  once  fell  to  talking  and 
laughing  together  like  old  friends. 
When,  by-and-by,  it  was  time  to  re- 
turn to  the  town,  the  Prince  took  Mark 
along,  and  side  by  side  up  the  wide 
promenade  they  headed  the  procession 
of  the  Prince's  attendants — a  dozen, 
perhaps,  in  number — presenting  in 
their  persons  a  striking  and  even  comi- 
cal contrast — ^the  Prince,  solid,  erect, 
stepping  with  a  firm  and  soldier-like 
tread;  Mark  moving  along  in  that 
shambling  gait  of  his,  in  full  tide  of 
talk,  brandishing,  as  an  instrument  of 
gesture,  an  umbrella  of  the  most  scan- 
dalous description — a  sight  never  to 
be  forgotten.  I  have  often  wished  that 
a  snap-shot  of  it  might  have  been  taken. 
His  comments  on  the  adventure,  when 
we  rejoined  one  another  in  our  room 
at  the  hotel,  were,  as  you  will  believe, 
highly  entertaining.  He  said  that  he 
found  the  Prince  decidedly  quick- 
witted. But  he  couldn't  forgive  him- 
self that  he  had  not  thought  to  say 
anything  to  him  about  the  visit  to  his 
sister  at  Ottawa.  The  Prince  was  so 
charmed  with  him,  that  shortly  after 
he  had  him  to  supper,  and  they  passed 
a  whole  evening  in  company. 

It  is  nothing  more  than  the  truth  to 


say  that  the  world  over  he  had,  before 
he  reached  middle  age,  come  to  be  re- 
garded a  Feature  of  America.  For  a 
series  of  years  visitors  of  eminence  from 
abroad,  no  matter  of  what  class  or 
degree — statesmen,  authors,  artists, 
divines — sought  the  opportunity  of 
meeting  him,  and  many  such  were  his 
guests.  Because  I  was  his  neighbor 
and  friend,  it  fell  to  my  fortunate  lot 
to  sit  at  his  table  with,  or,  at  least,  to 
take  the  hand  of,  Matthew  Arnold; 
Stanley,  the  explorer;  Sir  Henry  Irv- 
ing, Moncure  Conway,  to  name  a  few; 
of  numbers,  also,  of  our  own  choicest 
and  best — Mr.  Howells,  here,  and  dear 
Aldrich — would  that  he  were  with  us 
to-night — and  Doctor  Holmes,  and  Mr. 
Lowell,  and  Bret  Harte,  and  Richard 
Gilder,  and  Joseph  Jefferson.  (I  do 
not  include  Mrs.  Stowe  and  Charles 
Warner,  whose  houses  were  within 
sight  of  his,  for  them  I  knew  before  I 
knew  him.)  And  what  a  recognition 
of  his  primacy  was  betokened  by  the 
extraordinary  tribute  of  honor  and 
affection  that  signalized  the  memorable 
celebrations  in  this  city  of  his  sixty- 
seventh  and  seventieth  birthdays! 

By  such  things,  I  say,  to  which  more 
of  the  like  might  be  added,  was  indi- 
cated the  throne-place  he  had  won  in 
the  kingdom  of  letters;  wholly  unan- 
ticipated— ^impossible  to  anticipate — 
at  the  time  I  first  saw  his  shaggy  head, 
in  1867. 

Yet  I  am  persuaded  that  it  was  not 
alone  or  chiefly  his  work  judged  simply 
as  literature  or  as  humor  that  ac- 
counted for  his  so  quickly  accomplish- 
ing the  conquest  of  the  world.  It  was 
rather — and  in  this  I  am  sure  you  will 
agree  with  me — the  genial,  kindly, 
friendly,  human  soul  in  him  that  was 
everywhere  expressed  in  it,  and  made 
itself  felt;  and  it  was,  above  all,  of 
the  general  heart  that  he  laid  hold, 
and  his  conquest  was  a  spiritual  one 
in  that  sense.  He  had,  indeed,  the 
keenest  appreciation  of  the  ignoble 
side  of  human  nature,  and  was  wont, 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE   ACADEMY 


now  and  then,  as  Mr.  Howells  has  told, 
to  rail  at  the  human  race  accordingly. 
He  once  broke  out  in  a  letter  I  had 
from  him:  "Oh,  this  infernal  Human 
Race!  I  wish  I  had  it  in  the  Ark 
again — with  an  auger!" 

Still  and  notwithstanding,  his  pre- 
dominant mood  toward  humanity  was 
that  of  sympathy.  He  commiserated 
it  far  more  than  he  despised  it.  He 
was  ever  profoundly  affected  with  the 
feeling  of  the  pathos  of  life.  Contem- 
plating its  heritage  of  inevitable  pain 
and  tears,  he  would  question  if  to 
any  one  it  was  a  good  gift. 

**  Would  you,*'  he  demanded  of  me 
once — **  would  you,  as  a  kind-hearted 
man,  start  the  human  race?  Would 
you,  now?"  And  I  confess  the  inter- 
rogation gave  me  a  turn.  Yet  he  was 
not  a  cynic.  He  was  not  wanting  in 
high  admirations  and  generous  tolera- 
tions. The  theory  of  character,  as 
determined  absolutely  by  the  condi- 
tions to  which  the  individual  is  sub- 
ject, with  the  deduction  of  man's  total 
moral  irresponsibility,  which  some  of 
us  had  heard  him  maintain  long  before 
he  came  out  with  it,  as  inconsistent 
with  those  impeachments  of  mankind 
that  have  been  referred  to,  was,  I  truly 
believe,  a  device  of  his  charity. 

He  never  applied  to  himself.  He 
was  humble  enough  in  that  direction. 
Years  ago  he  said  to  me  that  nothing 
besides  made  him  feel  so  mean  as  his 
wife's  thinking  so  much  better  of  him 
than  he  deserved. 

The  impressions  of  Mark  Twain  that 
rule  my  thought  of  him  were  acquired 
in  the  intercourse  of  the  fireside — his 
and  mine — in  the  course  of  a  great 
many  long  summer  afternoon  rambles 
(we  were  both  of  the  pedestrian  habit), 
and  in  travels  at  home  and  abroad,  in 
the  close  companionship  of  which  we 
usually  slept  in  the  same  room,  often 
in  the  same  bed,  and  hundreds  of 
times — as  I  trust  it  is  not  amiss  for 
me  to  recall  here — said  our  prayers 
together. 


The  memories  of  him  that  I  most 
value,  that  mean  most  to  me,  are  of 
those  things  in  him  that  were  lovable. 
Intellectually  he  was  always  an  en- 
livening comrade.  His  talk,  his  com- 
mon talk,  was  invariably  fascinating. 
It  has  seemed  to  me  that  nothing  he 
wrote  came  for  richness  quite  up  to  it. 

One  evening  when,  at  his  own  table, 
he  had  been  rehearsing  at  length  in  his 
picturesque  dramatic  style  incidents  of 
his  early  days  in  Nevada,  I  remember 
that  Mr.  Howells,  by  whom  I  had  sat, 
said  to  me  aside  as  we  rose:  **  What 
could  possibly  be  more  delicious? 
There  is  certainly  no  one  else  alive 
who  can  equal  it."  But,  after  all,  it 
is  the  amiabilities  of  the  man  that  are 
dearest  to  recollection.  And  he  aboimd- 
ed  in  them.  He  was  in  some  external 
respects  emphatically  a  **  man  with 
the  bark  on,"  yet  there  was  no  more 
exquisite  refinement  of  taste  and  senti- 
ment. I  have  seldom  known  any  one 
so  easily  moved  to  tears. 

He  loved  children,  and  children  loved 
him;  the  young  folk  of  our  time  in 
Hartford  were  all  very  fond  of  **  Uncle 
Mark."  He  delighted  in  planning 
amusements  for  them,  getting  up  cha- 
rades and  tableaux,  and  himself  taking 
part  as  a  performer  in  them. 

He  loved  animals.  He  could  scarce- 
ly meet  a  cat  on  the  street  without 
stopping  to  make  its  acquaintance. 
Happiest  of  the  tribe  was  she  who 
purred  under  his  caress  while  he  read 
his  book.  He  could  never  bear  to 
have  a  horse  touched  with  the  whip. 
Repeatedly  I  have  seen  him  put  out 
a  restraining  hand  to  a  driver  who  was 
reaching  for  that  implement,  and  say, 
"Never  mind  that;  we  are  going  fast 
enough;   we  are  in  no  hurry." 

One  day  during  our '  *  Tramp  Abroad ,  * ' 
when  we  were  toiling  up  the  long  as- 
cent above  Chamouni,  from  the  Riff  el 
Inn  to  the  Gomer  Grat,  as  we  paused 
for  a  rest,  a  lamb  from  a  flock  of  sheep 
near  by  ventured  inquisitively  toward 
us;  whereupon  Mark  rested  himself  on 


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a  rock,  and  with  beckoning  hand  and 
soft  words  tried  to  get  it  to  come  to 
him.  On  the  lamb's  part  it  was  a 
struggle  between  curiosity  and  timid- 
ity, but  in  a  succession  of  advances  and 
retreats  it  gained  confidence,  though 
at  a  very  gradual  rate.  It  was  a  scene 
for  a  painter — ^the  great  American  hu- 
morist on  one  side  of  the  game,  and 
that  silly  little  creature  on  the  other, 
with  the  Matterhom  for  a  background. 
Mark  was  reminded  that  the  time  he 
was  consuming  in  that  diversion  was 
valuable;  but  to  no  purpose.  The 
Gomer  Grat  could  wait.  He  held  on 
with  undiscouraged  perseverance  till 
he  carried  his  point:  the  lamb  finally 
put  its  nose  in  his  hand;  and  he  was 
happy  over  it  all  the  rest  of  the  day. 

Of  what  he  was  in  his  home,  and  of 
what  his  home  was  to  him,  as  it  came 
under  my  observation  through  all  the 
years  of  our  friendship,  I  may  not  speak 
at  this  time.  The  dearest  place  in 
the  world  to  him  was  ever  his  own  fire- 
side. 

The  supreme  experiences  of  his  life, 
joyful  and  sorrowful  alike,  were  do- 
mestic. A  tenderer,  more  affection- 
ate heart  never  beat  in  human  breast. 
He  who  cheered  and  brightened  the 
spirit  of  his  generation  with  laughter 
had,  himself,  deep  acquaintance  with 
grief. 

With  all  .his  splendid  prosperity  he 
lived  to  be  a  lonely,  weary-hearted 
man,  and  a  good  while  before  he  left 
us  the  thought  of  his  departure  hence 
had  been  welcome  to  him. 

Gathered  here,  yet  looking  down  as 
in  thought  we  all  are  upon  the  mound 
of  his  new-made  grave,  we  may,  in 
taking  farewell  of  him  and  consigning 
him  to  his  last  rest,  fitly  borrow  the 
requiem  which  a  few  years  since  he 
brought  home  with  him  from  the  other 
side  of  the  world — ^it  was  in  a  burial- 
ground  in  Australia  that  he  came  upon 
it — and  caused  to  be  inscribed  on  the 
headstone  of  a  beloved  daughter  who 
sleeps  beside  him: 


"  Warm  summer  sim, 

Shine  kindly  here;     , 
Warm  summer  wind, 

Blow  softly  here. 
Green  sod  above, 

Lie  light,  lie  light. 
Good-night,  dear  heart; 

Good-night;  good-night  1" 


Mr.  Ho  wells: 

At  a  memorable  copyright  hearing  of 
authors  before  the  joint  Congressional 
Committee  in  Washington,  four  or  five 
years  ago,  Mark  Twain,  white  from  head 
to  foot  in  complete  flannels,  launched 
himself  ai  that  iniquitous  dragon  of  non- 
property  in  ideas  invented  by  Macaulay 
for  the  conclusion  of  legislation,  and 
utterly  demolished  it.  Then  he  put  on 
his  long  overcoat  and  said  he  was  going 
round  to.  the  House  to  see  the  Speaker, 
Somehow  he  knew  that  in  that  wise  and 
level  head  lay  the  hope  of  literature,  as 
a  vocation,  as  a  livelihood.  What  passed 
when  those  two  men,  differently  great,  put 
their  cigars  together,  the  eminent  states- 
man, whom  we  are  so  glad  and  so  proud 
to  have  with  us  here,  alone  can  say.  Per- 
haps he  will  also  tell  us  how  much  he  liked 
Mark  Twain.  I  knew  long  ago  how  much 
Mark  Twain  liked  Joseph  G.  Cannon. 

Mr.  Cannon: 

Mr.  Chairman,  Ladies  and  Gentle- 
men :  I  am  glad  to  meet  with  the  fellow- 
workers  of  Mark  Twain  to  honor  his 
memory.  I  was  just  a  friend  and  ad- 
mirer of  this  man  who  made  his  name 
a  household  word,  not  only  in  America 
but  throughout  the  world.  I  was  not 
an  intimate  friend — and,  perhaps,  I 
should  use  the  word  "acquaintance" — 
but  everybody  who  read  Mark  Twain 
or  heard  him  lecture  felt  that  there  was 
a  bond  of  friendship,  and  if  they  clasped 
hands  with  him,  and  entered  into 
friendly  conversation,  they  claimed  in- 
timate friendship,  if  not  kinship.  I 
had  that  pleasure. 

My    friendly    relations    with    Mark 


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Twain  were  those  of  a  sympathetic  ad- 
mirer who  tried  to  help  him  when  he 
was  exercising  his  rights  as  a  citizen, 
and  urging  upon  Congress  legislation 
that  would  give  him  greater  protection 
to  the  product  of  his  labor. 

In  the  eariy  days  in  the  West  I 
often  heard  this  musical  sound,  "  Mark 
twain!"  as  sung  out  by  the  lineman 
to  the  pilot  on  the  old  Mississippi 
River  boats,  indicating  two  fathoms  of 
water,  or  no  bottom;  but  I  never  ex- 
pected then  to  see  it  made  one  of  the 
most  popular  names  in  the  world  of 
literature,  and  given  such  a  personality 
as  it  has  had  for  many  years  through 
the  genius  of  this  man,  whose  real  name 
seems  to  have  become  secondary  in  his 
work  and  reputation.  The  announce- 
ment by  the  lineman  was  a  most  seri- 
ous and  hopeful  fact  for  the  pilot  and 
the  captain,  indicating  plenty  of  water 
and  clear  sailing.  Mr.  Clemens  said 
that  he  confiscated  this  name  from  one 
of  the  oldest  and  most  reliable  pilots 
on  the  Mississippi  River,  because  with 
that  old  man  it  was  a  sign  and  symbol 
and  warrant  that  whatever  was  found 
in  its  company  might  be  gambled  upon 
as  being  the  petrified  truth. 

We  call  Mark  Twain  America's  great- 
est humorist,  but  I  have  taken  him  at 
his  word,  and  I  have  his  own  warrant 
for  accepting  his  characters  as  photo- 
graphs rather  than  as  creatures  of  fancy. 
Tom  Sawyer  is  the  most  natural  boy 
I  ever  met  between  the  covers  of  a 
book,  and  Col.  Mulberry  Sellers  is  a 
daily  visitor  to  the  national  capital. 
In  fact,  the  last  time  I  met  Mark  Twain 
he  admitted  that  he  was  playing  the 
part  of  Colonel  Sellers  and  trying  to 
make  me  see  that  "there's  millions  in 
it,"  for  he  had  come  to  Washington  to 
lobby  for  the  Copyright  Bill.  He  had 
no  aversion  to  the  term  **  lobbyist," 
but  recognized  his  temporary  vocation 
while  in  the  capital,  just  as  he  recog- 
nized men  in  their  various  disguises  all 
through  life. 

He  was  an  author  asking  protection 


for  his  work.  He  took  over  a  part  of 
the  enthusiasm  of  Colonel  Sellers  as  he 
talked  to  members  of  Congress  about 
the  benefits  of  the  Copyright  Bill,  and 
he  showed  some  dissatisfaction,  if  not 
disgust,  when  he  discovered  that  other 
people  were  taking  advantage  of  his 
efforts  and  his  influence. 

At  the  close  of  his  visit  he  came  into 
the  Speaker's  Room,  as  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  do  every  morning,  and  said: 
**See  here.  Uncle  Joe;  does  every  fel- 
low who  comes  here  get  hitched  up  to 
a  train  he  does  not  want  to  pull?  I 
came  down  here  to  pull  the  Copyright 
Bill  through  Congress,  because  I  want 
the  copyright  on  my  literary  work  ex- 
tended so  that  I  can  keep  the  benefits 
to  myself  and  family,  and  not  let  the 
pirates  get  it.  I  hitched  my  locomo- 
tive to  that  car,  which  was  to  carry 
literary  efforts  into  longer  protected 
life,  and  just  when  the  locomotive  got 
under  way  it  had  to  be  halted  to  at- 
tach a  new  car,  then  another,  and  an- 
other, until  now  the  steam  is  getting 
low  and  the  train  is  so  long  I  don't 
know  whether  it  will  move  or  not. 
And  I  don't  know  that  I  want  to  pull 
it,  now,  with  all  sorts  of  cars  attached 
which  have  no  possible  relation  to  the 
purpose  I  had  in  coming  to  Washing- 
ton or  the  legislation  I  believe  neces- 
sary for  the  protection  of  my  literary 
work." 

I  told  him  he  had  the  usual  experi- 
ence of  men  who  wanted  to  reform  the 
world  according  to  their  own  views  by 
legislation.  There  were  so  many  peo- 
ple ready  to  help  him  who  did  not 
fully  agree  with  him,  that  the  product 
of  his  effort  soon  became  more  or  less 
a  stranger  to  its  parent.  I  could  have 
given  him  many  illustrations  of  good 
intentions  embarrassed  by  other  good 
intentions,  and  also  of  men  placed  in 
charge  of  a  locomotive  becoming  dis- 
satisfied with  some  of  the  freight  they 
were  pulling. 

He  had  that  understanding  of  hu- 
man nature  that  made  him  quick  to 


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MARK  TWAIN   MEMORIAL  CEREMONIES 


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see  the  diflSciilties  that  surround  legis- 
lative effort  without  making  him  sus- 
picious that  the  other  fellow*s  efforts 
were  not  just  Uke  his  own — wisely  self- 
ish— ^but  he  insisted  that  there  ought 
to  be  several  classes  of  trains  in  legis- 
lation, as  there  are  on  the  railroads, 
so  that  real  inspiration  and  "canned 
goods"  should  not  be  hooked  up  to- 
gether in  the  same  train.  I  agreed 
with  him,  but  those  who  were  insisting 
on  co-operating  with  him  did  not. 
They  were  all  insisting  on  getting  on 
the  same  train  with  so  popular  a 
leader. 

He  had  more  influence  with  the  legis- 
lators than  others  had,  and  he  was 
frank  to  admit  a  selfish  interest.  He 
came  to  lobby  for  a  bill,  and  was  not 
ashamed  to  admit  that  he  had  a  self- 
interest  in  the  legislation  he  sought. 
There  was  no  ialtruistic  humbug  about 
his  effort. 

He  wanted  to  go  on  the  floor  of  the 
House  to  lobby,  but  those  confounded 
"Cannon  Rules"  prohibited  him,  and 
they  likewise  so  bound  the  Speaker 
that  he  could  not  recognize  another 
member  to  ask  unanimous  consent  to 
admit  Mark  Twain  or  any  other  man 
to  the  floor.  Mark  studied  those  rules 
and  discovered  that  the  only  excep- 
tion made  was  in  favor  of  those  who 
had  received  the  thanks  of  Congress. 
So  he  wrote  to  me,  and,  acting  as  his 
own  messenger,  came  into  the  Speaker's 
Room  one  cold  morning  and  laid  the 
letter  on  my  desk.     It  was  as  follows: 

** December  7,  1908. 

"Dear  Uncle  Joseph, — Please  get 
me  the  thanks  of  Congress — not  next 
week,  but  right  away!  It  is  very  nec- 
essary. Do  accomplish  this  for  your 
affectionate  old  friend  —  and  right 
away!  By  persuasion  if  you  can,  by 
violence  if  you  must. 

"For  it  is  imperatively  necessary 
that  I  get  on  the  floor  for  two  or  three 
hours  and  talk  to  the  members,  man 
by  man,  in  behalf  of  the  support,  en- 


couragement and  protection  of  one  of 
the  nation's  most  valuable  assets  and 
industries — its  literature.  I  have  ar- 
guments with  me — ^also  a  barrel.  With 
liquid  in  it! 

"Get  me  a  chance!  Get  me  the 
thanks  of  Congress.  Don't  wait  for 
the  others — ^there  isn't  time.  Fur- 
nish them  to  me  yourself,  and  let  Con- 
gress ratify  later.  I  have  stayed  away 
and  let  Congress  alone  for  seventy-one 
years,  and  am  entitled  to  the  thanks. 
Congress  knows  this  perfectly  well;  and 
I  have  long  felt  hurt  that  this  quite 
proper  and  earned  expression  of  grati- 
tude has  been  merely  felt  by  the  House 
and  never  publicly  uttered. 

"  Send  me  an  order  on  the  Sergeant- 
at-Arms. 

"Quick! 

"When  shall  I  come? 

"With    love    and   a    benediction, 
"Mark  Twain." 

After  reading  that  letter  I  repeated 
what  I  have  said  about  the  embarrass- 
ment of  those  rules  not  only  as  affect- 
ing him,  but  as  affecting  the  Speaker, 
and  he  laughed  as  he  said  his  joke 
must  have  been  pretty  clear  for  me  to 
catch  the  point  at  the  first  reading. 

I  called  my  messenger — s,  colored 
man  who  has  served  every  Speaker  for 
the  last  thirty  years,  and  who  knows 
all  the  members — and  I  said  to  Mark 
Twain:  "1  am  in  full  sympathy  with 
you,  and  will  help  you  lobby.  Neal 
will  take  you  to  the  Speaker's  private 
room,  which  is  larger,  more  comfort- 
able, and  more  convenient  than  this 
one.  That  room  and  the  messenger 
are  yours  while  you  stay,  and  if  you 
don't  break  a  quorum  of  the  House  it 
will  be  your  own  fault." 

He  installed  himself  in  that  room, 
and  the  messenger  went  on  the  floor 
whispering  to  Champ  Clark,  Adam 
Bede,  and  others  on  both  sides  of  the 
House,  and  in  a  few  minutes  there  was 
not  a  quorum  on  the  floor.  They  were 
all  crowding  into  the  Speaker's  private 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY 


room  to  see  Mark  Twain  and  promise 
him  to  vote  for  the  Copyright  Bill,  for 
he  allowed  ho  admirer  to  escape. 
After  the  day's  session  Mark  came  to 
me  to  say  that  those  confounded  niles 
were  not  so  bad  after  all,  and  that  he 
didn't  object  to  a  "czar"  who  ab- 
dicated and  allowed  him  to  occupy  the 
throne-room. 

I  have  many  pleasant  recollections 
of  Mark  Twain's  literary  work,  which 
I  have  enjoyed  through  the  years  since 
he  was  in  Washington  as  a  newspa- 
per correspondent ;  but  my  pleasantest 
recollections  are  of  the  man  and  his 
straightforward  way  of  meeting  other 
men,  and,  without  pretense,  present- 
ing his  views.  The  world  recognized 
him  as  a  humorist,  but  he  was  also  a 
philosopher  and  a  practical  man. 

Mr.  Howells: 

When  the  French  people  had  kings 
and  one  of  their  kings  came  to  die,  the 
heralds  shouted  in  one  breath,  **  The  King 
is  dead:  long  live  the  King!''  Unlike 
those  French  kings,  American  czars,  when 
they  were  good  czars,  never  died;  and 
we  can  hail  Mr.  Cannon  and  his  suc- 
cessor with  as  much  loyalty  as  those 
fellows,  and  with  far  more  logic  in  our 
cry  of,  ''The  Czar  lives:  long  live  the 
Czarr 

His  successor  has  already  imitated 
Mr.  Cannon  in  his  friendship  for  the 
calling  of  letters,  and  in  his  collaboration 
with  Mark  Twain  for  their  honor  before 
the  law  and  prophets  in  the  nation. 
The  man  whom  he  has  declared  the  great- 
est Missourian  who  ever  lived  must  re- 
ceive adequate  recognition  front  the  great- 
est living  Missourian,  the  Hon.  Champ 
Clark. 

Mr.  Clark: 

Mr.  Chairman,  Ladies  and  Gentle- 
men: It  is  in  keeping  with  the  eternal 
fitness  of  things  that  a  Missourian 
should  participate  in  paying  honor 
to  the  most  famous  Missourian  that 


ever  lived.     With  me  it  is  a  labor  of 
love. 

In  his  time  Mark  Twain  played  many 
parts — Printer,  Mississippi  River  Pilot, 
Soldier,  Office-holder,  Reporter,  Editor, 
Lecturer,  Author,  Humorist,  Philoso- 
pher, Controversialist,  Traveler,  Hu- 
manitarian, Satirist,  Stump-speaker, 
and  Lobbyist.  Mirabile  dictu!  he 
played  them  all  successfully.  In  ver- 
satility he  ranks  with  Thomas  Jeffer- 
son. Perhaps  a  busier  man  never 
lived.  He  obeyed  literally  the  Scrip- 
tural injimction:  "Whatsoever  thy 
hand  findeth  to  do,  do  it  with  thy 
might." 

I  consider  it  my  good  fortune  to  have 
known  this  extraordinary  and  lovable 
man  personally  at  all,  and  my  bad 
fortune  not  to  have  known  him  for  a 
longer  period.  He  was  bom  within  a 
few  miles  of  my  Congressional  district, 
at  the  confluence  of  the  three  forks 
of  Salt  River,  a  stream  of  evil  omen 
to  candidates,  upon  whose  briny  cur- 
rent many  of  them  sail  into  the  Gulf 
of  Oblivion.  He  was  reared  at  Hanni- 
bal, which  adjoins  my  district,  and  his 
celebrated  cave,  rendered  immortal  by 
his  pen,  is  in  Ralls  Cotmty,  the  north- 
ernmost coimty  in  the  district  iiMch 
I  have  the  honor  to  represent.  I  had 
read  with  avidity  every  word  he  ever 
wrote,  and  counted  him  among  the 
world's  benefactors;  but  luck  or  fate 
or  fortune  so  ordered  things  that  I 
never  beheld  him  in  the  flesh  until 
he  was  in  the  gorgeous  sunset  days  of 
his  long,  useful  and  glorious  life;  and 
it  was  the  most  prosaic  of  business 
matters  that  brought  us  together  at 
last — a  happening  which  forms  the 
basis  of  one  of  the  most  fondly  cher- 
ished memories  of  my  life.  When  I  had 
met  him  face  to  face  and  conversed 
with  him,  or,  speaking  more  exactly, 
when  I  had  heard  with  rapture  his 
fascinating  monologue,  I  felt  as  did 
the  Queen  of  Sheba  when,  upon  be- 
holding the  splendors  of  King  Solo- 
mon's temple,  she  exclaimed  with  won- 


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MARK  TWAIN   MEMORIAL  CEREMONIES 


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der  and  enthusiasm,  **The  half  hath 
not  been  told." 

The  way  I  came  to  know  Mark  Twain 
personally  is  that  three  or  four  years 
ago  he  visited  Washington  as  a  lobby- 
ist! Let  not  the  prudish  and  squeam- 
ish shudder  at  the  term,  for  Mark  Twain 
was  not  only  a  lobbyist  but  a  very 
prince  of  lobbyists.  He  did  honor  to 
both  the  lobbyists  and  those  with  whom 
he  lobbied.  There  are  all  sorts  of 
lobbyists,  good,  bad,  and  indifferent, 
ranging  in  character  from  men  who  will 
never  find  appropriate  homes  till  the 
doors  of  the  penitentiary  close  upon 
them,  to  men  who  deserve  the  fine 
tribute  which  Thomas  Jefferson  paid  to 
James  Monroe  when  he  said:  ** Monroe 
is  so  pure  that  you  might  turn  his  soul 
inside  out  and  not  find  a  blot  upon  it" 
— a  saying  which  I  take  it  is  equally 
applicable  to  Mark  Twain. 

I  am  aware  that  the  word  **  lobbyist," 
like  the  word  **  politician,"  has  come 
to  have  a  sinister  meaning,  and  that 
divers  good  folks  would  incontinently 
abolish  all  lobbyists  and  all  politicians. 
Nevertheless,  a  politician,  considered 
etymologically,  is  a  practitioner  of  one 
of  the  noblest  of  all  sciences — ^the 
science  of  government;  and  in  a 
country  whose  institutions  are  bot- 
tomed on  popular  suffrage,  every  citi- 
zen should  be  a  politician.  I  do  not 
mean  that  he  should  be  necessarily  an 
office-seeker.  That  is  a  poor  business 
when  you  succeed,  and  unspeakably 
poor  when  you  fail.  In  that  respect 
I  have  been  tried  by  both  extremes  of 
fortune,  and  speak  by  the  card.  What 
I  do  mean  is  that  in  this  puissant  and 
beneficent  republic  every  citizen  should 
inform  himself  on  the  issues  before  the 
people  and  take  an  active  part,  a  man's 
part,  at  the  primaries  and  at  the  gen- 
eral elections.  No  man  should  regard 
himself  as  too  good  or  too  lofty  to  do 
that,  and  he  who  fails  to  do  it  falls 
short  of  his  duty  to  his  country  and 
his  kind.  That  masterful  great  man, 
Thomas  Brackett  Reed,  voiced  his  bit- 


ter scorn  of  the  cant  about  poUticians 
in  his  famous  fnot:  "A  statesman  is  a 
politician  who  is  dead!" 

A  lobbyist  is  a  person  who  seeks  by 
letter  or  personal  interview  or  other- 
wise to  influence  legislators,  municipal. 
State,  or  national.  Sometimes  the 
measures  which  they  advocate  are  bad 
and  their  methods  reprehensible,  im- 
moral, even  criminal.  At  other  times 
the  measures  urged  are  of  the  best, 
and  the  methods  of  lobbying  above 
reproach,  even  highly  laudable,  while 
the  motives  are  as  pure  and  unselfish 
as  ever  animated  any  of  the  multitudi- 
nous sons  and  daughters  of  Adam.  Mr. 
Speaker  Reed,  whose  honesty  was  pro- 
verbial, always  insisted  that  a  lobby 
is  a  necessary  part  of  our  Congressional 
machinery.  He  based  his  opinion  on 
the  fact  ftiat  into  each  Congress  there 
are  introduced  some  thirty  thousand 
bills,  and  that  it  is  utterly  impossible 
for  any  Representative  or  Senator  to 
inform  himself  as  to  all  of  them. 
Therefore,  he  contended  that  a  lobby- 
ist who  was  interested  in  a  bill  not 
only  had  a  perfect  right  to  expoimd 
it  to  Representatives  and  Senators, 
but  was  conferring  a  benefit  on  them 
by  so  doing.  It  is  not  the  lobby  per 
se  against  which  honest  and  patriotic 
people  protest,  but  a  dishonest,  a  cor- 
rupting lobby.  That  the  corrupt  and 
corrupting  lobby  should  be  scourged 
from  every  capital  in  the  land  with  a 
whip  of  scorpions  goes  without  saying. 

When  Joseph  Wingate  Folk  was  Gov- 
ernor of  Missouri  he  issued  a  ukase  to 
the  effect  that  all  lobbyists  visiting 
Jefferson  City  during  the  sittings  of 
the  Legislature  should  enroll  them- 
selves as  such,  stating  what  interests 
they  represented  and  what  measures 
they  advocated,  and  his  scheme  worked 
measurably  well  and  might  be  put  into 
practice  generally  with  good  results. 
While  I  have  talked  with  many  lobby- 
ists on  many  subjects,  ranging  from 
matters  of  international  importance  to 
matters  of  narrow  local  or  personal  in- 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE   ACADEMY 


terest,  and  extracted  more  information 
from  them  than  they  did  from  me,  I 
can  truthfully  say  that  during  one 
term  in  the  Missouri  Legislature  and 
sixteen  years  in  Congress  no  mortal 
man  ever  made  to  me  a  suggestion 
that  even  squinted  at  corruption. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  on  a  memo- 
rable day  Mark  Twain,  Lobbyist,  with 
his  world-wide  reputation  as  his  avanU 
courier,  descended  upon  the  Capitol 
in  dazzling  attire,  sweeping  every- 
thing before  him.  Solomon  in  all  his 
glory  was  not  arrayed  as  was  this  great 
Missourian,  for  in  the  dead  of  winter 
he  wore  a  suit  of  white  flannels,  white 
as  the  snow  which  filled  the  air,  while 
all  the  world  wondered.  He  created 
a  profound  sensation — as  he,  no  doubt, 
intended  to  do — a  sensation  which,  so 
far  as  he  was  concerned,  was  strictly 
utilitarian  in  character  and  cunningly 
planned  for  effect  upon  hard-headed, 
matter-of-fact,  unimaginative  Solons. 
The  newspapers  were  filled  with  Mark 
Twain  and  his  unseasonable  raiment. 
He  was  the  theme  of  every  tongue  from 
White  House  to  police-station,  from 
Porto  Rico  to  far  Cathay.  Since 
Joseph's  coat  of  many  colors,  no  article 
of  apparel  of  any  other  male  person 
was  ever  so  extensively  advertised — 
not  even  excepting  the  wonderful 
coronation  robes  of  George  IV.,  or  the 
cocked  hat  and  gray  overcoat  of 
Napoleon,  or  the  white  plume  of  Na- 
varre. With  his  snowy  flannels,  snowy 
hair  and  snowy  mustache,  he  made  a 
superb  picture,  one  on  which  affection 
loves  to  linger. 

The  subject-matter  of  his  lobbying 
was  improvement  in  the  copyright 
laws,  which  were  sadly  in  need  of  im- 
provement. It  was  a  subject  near  his 
heart.  He  was  intensely  in  earnest — 
persistent,  enthusiastic,  optimistic.  He 
sent  for  me  for  three  reasons:  (i)  We 
had  had  some  correspondence  on  that 
vexed  and  vexing  subject;  (2)  for 
years  I  had  been  a  member  of  the 
Committee    on    Patents,    which    has 


jurisdiction  in  copyright  matters;  (3) 
he  and  I  were  both  Missourians,  in- 
effably proud  of  that  imperial  com- 
monwealth. I  was  delighted  to  be 
of  service  to  this  remarkable  man, 
who  had  delighted  millions  and  who 
will  deUght  millions  yet  unborn.  Mr. 
Speaker  Cannon  gracefully  and  gra- 
ciously turned  over  one  of  his  rooms  to 
Mark  Twain,  and  in  it  he  held  his 
court,  somewhat,  it  must  be  confessed, 
to  the  demoralization  of  business  in 
the  Congress,  for  so  long  as  he  re- 
mained in  the  Capitol  it  was  almost 
impossible  to  maintain  a  quorum  in 
the  House,  so  eager  were  members  to 
look  into  his  face,  shake  his  hand, 
form  his  acquaintance,  and  listen  to  his 
conversation.  All  men  and  all  women, 
and  even  the  little  children  in  the 
street,  vied  with  each  other  to  do  him 
honor.  It  pleased  him  mightily,  and 
in  those  halcyon  days  he  was  undoubt- 
edly happy,  and  being  happy  was  **at 
his  best** — ^as  James  Steerforth  begged 
David  Copperfield  to  remember  him. 
and  as  all  of  us  would  choose  to  be 
remembered.  No  other  man  of  let- 
ters in  the  history  of  the  world  ever 
received  such  a  hearty  welcome  as 
Mark  Twain  received  in  Washington, 
except  Voltaire  upon  his  last  visit  to 
Paris  in  his  extreme  old  age.  The 
great-hearted  Missourian  enjoyed  it  to 
the  limit.  He  was  as  pleased  as  a  lit- 
tle child.  His  cordial  reception  warmed 
the  cockles  of  his  heart.  He  extend- 
ed the  glad  hand  to  everybody.  He 
made  no  effort  to  conceal  his  de- 
light. He  talked  with  perfect  aban- 
don on  a  multitude  of  subjects,  and 
all  the  while  he  lobbied — lobbied  skil- 
fully— lobbied  in  delightful  manner — 
lobbied  with  side-splitting  yams — lob- 
bied with  philosophical  remarks — ^lob- 
bied with  wealth  of  reminiscence — 
lobbied  with  fetching  arguments  for 
justice,  and  accomplished  the  sub- 
stance of  what  he  sought — a  rich  bene- 
faction to  American  authors.  Then, 
quitting  his  country's  capital  forever — 


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MARK  TWAIN   MEMORIAL  CEREMONIES 


21 


his  country  which  he  had  honored  in 
every  quarter  of  the  globe — he  might, 
without  exaggeration  or  bad  taste, 
have  repeated  the  proud  boast  of 
Caesar:    ''Vent!     Vidi!     Vicir 

I  think  myself  happy  to  have  been 
able  to  aid  him  in  his  self-imposed  task 
of  aiding  American  writers.  They 
have  in  their  kindness  done  me  honor 
overmuch.  The  men  to  whom  your 
gratitude  is  primarily  and  in  largest 
part  due  are  the  members  of  the  Com- 
mittee on  Patents,  headed  on  the 
Republican  side  by  Hon.  Frank  D. 
Currier,  of  New  Hampshire,  and  on  the 
Democratic  side  by  Hon.  William 
Sulzer,  of  New  York. 

Mr.  Chairman,  we  honor  ourselves  in 
honoring  Mark  Twain. 

Mr.  Howells: 

If  some  finer  andnoblernovelthan  **  The 
Grandissimes'*  has  been  written  in  this 
land,  any  time,  I  Itave  not  read  it.  From 
Mark  Twain  himself  I  learned  to  love  the 
literature  of  the  delightful  Master  who 
wrote  that  book,  and  it  is  with  a  peculiar 
sense  of  fitness  in  his  presence  here  to- 
night that  I  ask  you  to  join  me  in  listen- 
ing to  George  W.  Cable. 

Mr.  Cable: 

The  great  man  whose  memory  to- 
night we  give  ourselves  the  tender  joy 
to  honor  was  one  whom,  I  venture  to 
say,  no  one  who  knew  him  personally 
and  well  ever  thought  of  for  a  moment 
long  enough  to  pass  beyond  a  contem- 
plation of  the  vast  grotesqueness  of  his 
wit  and  humor  without  being  impressed 
with  the  rare  beauty  of  his  mind. 

I  do  not  mean  a  beauty  consisting 
in  great  structural  symmetry  or  finish, 
as  of  some  masterpiece  of  Greek  or 
Gothic  elaboration.  I  mean  a  beauty 
such  as  the  illimitable  haphazard  of 
Nature  a  few  times  in  our  planet*s  his- 
tory has  hit  upon,  where  angels  would 
seem  to  have  builded  in  a  moment  of 


careless  sport,  as  in  the  Grand  Cafton 
of  the  Colorado,  or  some  equal  wonder 
of  supernal  color  and  titanic  form  in 
that  great  West  which  had  so  much 
to  do  with  the  shaping  of  his  genius 
— ^in  so  far  as  his  genius  was  ever 
really  shaped. 

The  beauty  of  that  mind  was  a  beauty 
of  form  and  color,  so  to  speak,  rather 
than  of  mechanism.  The  marvellous 
union  of  rudeness  and  grace  in  those 
vast  natural  formations  in  the  West 
symbolizes  well  the  energy  of  his  pur- 
poses, as  the  marvellous  variety  and  in- 
tensity of  their  colors  do  the  many  pas- 
sions of  his  spirit.  Many,  I  say,  for 
he  was  a  packed  cluster  of  passions. 
His  passion  for  the  charms  of  Nature 
compelled  him  to  blindfold  himself  to 
them,  as  it  were,  whenever  he  would 
use  his  pen.  Every  one  knows  how 
he  had  to  renounce  the  beautiful  study 
lovingly  built  for  him  and  furnished 
with  every  appointment  for  ease  and 
convenience  because  of  the  enthrall- 
ing views  of  hill,  vale  and  stream  to  be 
seen  from  its  windows.  As  I  repic- 
ture  him  in  his  housetop  study  at  Hart- 
ford I  see  him  sitting  at  a  table  where 
every  time  he  lifted  his  eyes  from 
pencil  and  paper  they  met  only  the 
blank  stare  of  the  wall  against  which 
it  was  set,  and  I  remember  one  morn- 
ing when,  some  time  after  he  had 
started  up  to  his  work  in  that  third- 
story  room,  I  came  upon  him  at  a 
half-way  stair-landing,  gazing  out  of 
its  window  close  into  the  vivid  red 
and  yellow  depths  of  a  maple  steeped 
in  autumn  sunlight.  Fastened  to  the 
spot  he  was,  as  he  confessed  himself 
in  a  burst  of  praise  which  I  wish  yet 
I  had  written  down. 

No  less  a  passion  was  his  feeling  for 
humankind  at  large,  and  all  his  hot 
scoldings  at  it  were  only  an  outcome 
of  elder  -  brotherly  solicitude.  On  a 
certain  evening  some  twenty-six  years 
ago  it  was  my  fortune  to  be  included 
with  him  in  a  very  small  group  of 
men  with  whom  he  was  particularly 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY 


at  ease — Osgood,  Aldrich.  O'Reilly — 
all  now  at  rest.  Dining  with  them  in 
Boston,  his  unrestrained  wit  and  ti- 
tanic grimness  of  mirth  kept  them  for 
hours  wild  with  parrying  cut  and 
thrust,  and  literally  beside  themselves 
with  jollity.  Yet  that  is  but  the  back- 
ground of  the  complete  picture  which 
is  fresh  in  my  memory  to  this  day. 
Early  next  morning,  as  he  and  I  left 
the  city  by  train  together,  I  was  some- 
how emboldened  to  point  out  to  him 
how  the  beauty  of  a  sunrise  on  the 
river  Charles  was  enhanced  in  poetic 
charm  through  the  human  interest 
given  it  by  two  or  three  especially 
slender  and  graceful  factory  chimneys 
distantly  overtowering  the  flat  land 
and  low  mists;  and  for  half  an  hour 
it  was  my  privilege  to  hear  him  set 
forth  the  poetry  of  toil  with  an  elo- 
quence so  free  from  false  sentiment, 
yet  so  reverential  to  all  the  affections 
and  upward  strivings  of  lowliest  hu- 
manity, that  I  saw  then  what  has 
never  been  hidden  from  me  since — 
that  he  was  made  of  a  finer  clay  than 
the  common  type  of  men,  if  not  the 
common  type  of  great  men. 

It  seems  to  me  evident  to  all  of  us, 
if  not  to  all  the  critical  world,  that 
that  great  human  kindness  of  his  was 
one  of  the  foundations,  the  funda- 
mental element,  of  his  humor,  and  by 
it  he  gained  the  heart  of  the  world. 
But  I  was  warned  in  the  first  place 
that  this  was  not  to  be  an  occasion 
for  elaborate  oratory,  and  that  it 
would  be  better  for  us  all  if  we  should 
spend  these  moments  as  nearly  as 
possible  as  if  we  sat  at  the  fireside  and 
talked  of  the  friend  who  has  lately 
gone  from  us  to  some  other  place  to 
better  his  condition — whom  we  should 
some  day  rejoin.  So  I  do  not  care 
how  little  coherence  I  shall  have  from 
this  time  on,  through  the  few  minutes 
I  purpose  occupying  your  time  with 
a  reminiscence  or  two  of  Mark  Twain. 
These  shall  be  in  one  or  two  cases  at 
least   to   show,   to   illustrate,   the   re- 


ciprocation of  this  human  kindness 
from  the  human  race  to  Mark  Twain 
in  his  goings  and  comings. 

It  was  down  in  New  Orleans  that 
one  day  we  were  about  sending  him 
back  up  the  Mississippi  with  Captain 
Bixby,  his  old  captain,  to  complete 
his  observations  for  the  writing  of  his 
Old  Times  on  the  Mississippi  Rii^er. 
There  was  a  great  crowd  around  him 
to  shake  his  hand.  Men  wished  to 
shake  his  hand  as  they  might  have 
been  glad  to  shake  the  hand  of  a  king. 
It  was  in  a  worshipful  spirit,  in  an 
affectionate  spirit,  that  they  crowded 
around,  to  have  as  they  counted  it 
that  great  privilege.  And  when  we 
were  all  ordered  off  the  boat,  Osgood, 
who  was  with  us,  said  that  he  had 
traveled  through  this  countr>'  with 
Charles  Dickens,  that  idol  of  his  time 
in  the  hearts  of  all  English-speaking 
readers,  and  that  not  even  Charles 
Dickens  had  commanded  the  outward 
demonstration  of  affection  which  Mark 
Twain  did  at  every  turn,  and  which  he 
received  from  every  possible  class  and 
species  of  the  people.  As  we  were 
going  down  on  the  narrow  stage- work 
that  is  characteristic  of  Mississippi 
steamboats,  in  a  group  of  friends  that 
included  myself,  we  heard  a  man  talk- 
ing behind  us,  who  I  supposed  must 
have  represented  and  voiced  the  senti- 
ments of  hundreds  who  had  spoken  of 
Mark  Twain  in  that  way.  This  man 
said:  *'I  have  read  every  page  he  ever 
wrote,  but  I  was  so  rattled  and  knocked 
to  pieces  with  my  opportunity  when  I 
came  to  shake  his  hand  that  I  could 
not  think  of  anything  in  the  world  to 
thank  him  for  that  he  had  written, 
except  the  *  Heathen  Chinee'!" 

It  is  because  of  that  hold  he  has  on 
all  our  hearts — and  I  speak  for  the 
whole  American  people — ^it  was  that 
spirit  that  caused  an  audience  once  in 
Paris,  Kentucky,  who  had  applauded 
him  until  their  palms  were  sore  and 
until  their  feet  were  tired,  and  who 
had  laughed  as  he  came  forward  for 


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MARK  TWAIN   MEMORIAL  CEREMONIES 


23 


the  fourth  alternation  of  our  reading 
together — ^the  one  side  of  him  drag- 
ging, one  foot  limping  after  the  other 
in  the  peculiar  way  known  to  us  all — 
the  house  burst  into  such  a  storm  of 
laughter,  coming  from  so  crowded  a 
house,  that  Mark  Twain  himself,  grim 
controller  of  his  emotions  at  all  times, 
burst  into  laughter  and  had  to  ac- 
knowledge to  me,  as  he  came  off  the 
platform:  **Yes,  yes'* — still  laughing 
with  joy  of  it  himself — **yes;  they  got 
me  off  my  feet  that  time." 

I  remember  the  hold  he  had  upon 
children's  hearts,  another  field  of  his 
human  kindness  to  all  humankind. 
It  is  illustrated  in  an  experience  he 
had  in  Cincinnati  when  certain  chil- 
dren were  brought  by  their  aunt  to 
hear  Mark  Twain  read  from  his  pages 
in  that  great  city,  brought  down  from 
the  town  of  Hamilton,  and  who  went 
back  home  in  the  late  hours  of  the 
night,  beside  themselves  with  the  de- 
'  light  of  their  clear  understanding  and 
full  appreciation  of  his  humor,  saying 
to  their  kinswoman :  "Oh,  Auntie !  Oh, 
Auntie !  it  was  better  than  Buffalo  Bill  !'* 

One  point  I  should  like  to  make  to 
indicate  the  conscientiousness  with 
which  he  held  himself  the  custodian 
of  the  affections  of  the  great  mass  of 
the  people  who  loved  him  in  every 
quarter  of  the  land.  It  was  the  rigor 
of  his  art,  an  art  which  was  able  to 
carry  the  added  burden  beyond  the 
burden  of  all  other  men's  art,  the  bur- 
den of  absolutely  concealing  itself  and 
of  making  him  appear,  whenever  he 
appeared,  as  slipshod  in  his  mind  as  he 
was  in  his  gait.  We  were  at  Toronto, 
Canada.  The  appointment  was  for 
us  to  read  two  nights  in  succession, 
and  he  had  read  one  night.  The  vast 
hall  was  filled  to  overflowing.  I  heard 
from  the  retiring-room  the  applause 
that  followed  every  period  of  his  utter- 
ance, heard  it  come  rolling  in  and 
tumbling  like  the  surf  of  the  ocean. 
Well,  at  last,  as  we  were  driving  home 
to  our  hotel,  I  found  him  in  an  abso- 


lutely wretched  condition  of  mental 
depression,  groaning  and  sighing,  and 
all  but  weeping,  and  I  asked  him  what 
in  the  world  justified  such  a  mood  in 
a  man  who  had  just  come  from  such 
a  triumph.  "Such  a  triumph?"  he 
said.  "A  triumph  of  the  moment; 
but  those  people  are  going  home  to 
their  beds,  glad  to  get  there,  and  they 
will  wake  up  in  the  morning  ashamed 
of  having  laughed  at  my  nonsense." 

"Nonsense?"  I  said.  "How  is  it 
nonsense?" 

"  I  have  spent  the  evening  and  their 
time,  and  taxed  them  to  the  last  of 
their  ability  to  show  their  apprecia- 
tion of  my  wit  and  humor,  and  I  have 
spent  that  whole  time  simply  spin- 
ning yarns." 

I  said:  "Don't  mind;  you  are  going 
to  meet  virtually  the  very  same  au- 
dience to-morrow,  and  to-morrow  night 
you  shall  give  them  good  literature,  if 
any  living  writer  in  a  living  language 
has  got  that  chance."  I  don't  know 
if  he  slept  that  night,  but  I  know 
he  did  what  he  did  not  often  relish. 
He  rehearsed,  and  rehearsed,  and  re- 
hearsed, and  the  next  night  he  gave 
them  a  programme  which  he  chose  to 
begin,  at  my  suggestion,  with  the  *'Blue 
Jay's  Message."  He  left  that  house  as 
happy  as  any  one  ever  saw  Mark 
Twain,  and  that  was  with  a  feeling  of 
acute  joy  because  he  had  won  friends 
he  considered  worthy,  he  had  won 
every  handclap  and  applause  with  a 
programme  worthy  of  honor. 

One  more  point:  Every  one  knows 
that  one  of  his  passions  was  for  his- 
tory, and  I  assume  that  that  passion 
for  history  was  one  of  the  demonstra- 
tions of  his  human  kindness.  It  was 
the  story  of  the  human  heart,  and  he 
loved  history,  because  it  was  the  story 
of  humanity. 

One  night  we  were  in  Rochester  to- 
gether. It  was  Saturday  night,  and 
for  a  wonder  we  were  without  an  en- 
gagement that  night,  and  we  started 
out  for  a  walk,  and  we  had  gone  a  few 


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24 


PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE   ACADEMY 


steps  when  we  found  a  bookstore,  and 
at  the  same  moment  it  was  beginning 
to  rain.  I  said:  **Let  us  go  in  here." 
He  said:  *' I  remember  I  have  not  pro- 
vided myself  with  anything  to  read 
all  day  to-morrow.*'  I  said:  "We  will 
get  it  here.  I  will  look  down  that 
table,  and  you  look  down  this  one." 
Presently  I  went  over  to  him,  and  said 
I  had  not  found  anything  that  I 
thought  would  interest  him,  and  asked 
him  if  he  had  found  anything.  He 
said  no,  he  had  not;  but  there  was  a 
book  he  did  not  remember  any  pre- 
vious acquaintance  with.  He  asked 
me  what  that  book  was. 

'*\Vhy,"  I  said,  "that  is  Sir  Thomas 
Mallory's  Mort  d'Arthur.**  And  he 
said:  "Shall  we  take  it?*'  I  said: 
"  Ves;  and  you  will  never  lay  it  down 
until  you  have  read  it  from  cover  to 
cover.'*  It  was  easy  to  make  the 
prophecy,  and,  of  course,  it  was  ful- 
filled. He  had  read  in  it  a  day  or 
two,  when  I  saw  come  upon  his  cheek- 
bones those  two  vivid  pink  spots 
which  every  one  who  knew  him  in- 
timately and  closely  knew  meant  that 
his  mind  was  working  with  all  its 
energies.  I  said  to  myself:  "Ah,  I 
think  Sir  Thomas  Mallory*s  Mort 
d' Arthur  is  going  to  bear  fruit  in  the 
brain  of  Mark  Twain.*'  A  year  or  two 
afterward,  when  he  came  to  see  me  in 
my  Northampton  home,  I  asked  him 
what  he  was  engaged  in,  and  he  said 
he  was  writing  a  story  of  A  Yankee  in 
the  Court  of  King  Arthur.  I  said :  "If 
that  be  so,  then  I  claim  for  myself  the 
godfathership  of  that  book."  He  said : 
"Yes;  you  are  its  godfather.**  I  can 
claim  no  higher  honor  than  to  have  the 
honor  to  claim  that  here  and  now,  to- 
night, and  to  rejoice  with  you  that  we 
are  able  to  offer  a  tribute  of  our  affec- 
tion to  the  memory  of  Mark  Twain. 

Mr.  Howells: 

Not  only  as  a  soldier  whose  fame  the 
North  may  well  envy  the  South,  not  only 


as  a  leading  American  journalist,  not 
only  as  a  publicist  whose  patriotism  can 
instruct  us  all  in  the  love  of  country,  but 
as  the  friend  and  brother  of  the  man  who 
was  a  friend  and  brother  of  everybody,  do 
I  now  invoke  the  welcome  which  I  know 
you  have  been  keeping  warm  for  CoL 
Henry  Watterson,  of  Kentucky, 

Colonel  Watterson: 

Although  when  Mark  Twain  first  ap- 
peared east  of  the  Alleghanies  and 
north  of  the  Blue  Ridge  he  showed 
the  weather-beating  of  the  West — the 
stigmata  alike  of  the  pilot-house  and 
the  mining  camp  very  much  in  evi- 
dence— he  came  of  decent  people  on 
both  sides  of  his  house.  The  Clemenses 
and  the  Lamptons  were  of  good  old 
English  stock.  Toward  the  middle  of 
the  eighteenth  century  three  younger 
scions  of  the  Manor  of  Durham  mi- 
grated from  the  County  of  Durham  to 
Virginia,  and  thence  branched  out  into 
Tennessee,  Kentucky,  and  Missouri. 

Mark  Twain*s  mother  was  the  love- 
liest old  aristocrat,  with  a  taking  drawl 
— 2l  drawl  that  was  high-bred  and 
patrician,  not  rustic  and  plebeian — 
which  her  famous  son  inherited.  All 
the  women  of  that  ilk  were  gentle- 
women. The  literary  and  artistic  in- 
stinct which  attained  its  fruition  in 
him  had  percolated  through  the  veins 
of  a  long  line  of  silent  singers,  of 
poets  and  painters,  unborn  to  the 
world  of  expression  till  he  arrived 
upon   the   scene. 

Although  Mark  Twain  and  I  called 
each  other  "cousin,"  and  claimed  to 
be  blood-relatives,  the  connection  be- 
tween us  was  by  marriage.  A  great- 
uncle  of  his  married  a  great-aunt  of 
mine;  his  mother  had  been  named 
after  and  reared  by  this  great  aunt; 
and  the  children  of  the  marriage  were, 
of  course,  his  cousins  and  mine.  An 
exceeding  large,  varied,  and  pictu- 
resque assortment  they  were.  Though 
the  family  became  widely  separated. 


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we  were  lifelong  and  very  dear  friends; 
passed  much  time  together  at  home 
and  abroad;  and  had  many  common 
ties  and  memories. 

Just  after  the  successful  production 
of  his  play,  The  Gilded  Age,  and  the 
uproarious  hit  of  the  comedian,  Ray- 
mond, in  its  leading  r61e,  I  received 
a  letter  from  him  in  which  he  told  me 
he  had  made  in  Col.  Mulberry  Sell- 
ers a  close  study  of  a  certain  mutual 
kinsman,  and  thought  he  had  drawn 
him  to  the  life — "But  for  the  love 
of  Heaven,"  he  said,  "don't  whisper 
it;  for  he  would  never  understand  or 
forgive  me;  if  he  did  not  thrash  me 
on  sight.*' 

The  pathos  of  the  part,  and  not  its 
comicality,  had  most  impressed  him. 
He  designed  and  wrote  it  for  Edwin 
Booth.  From  the  first  and  always  he 
was  disgusted  by  the  Raymond  por- 
trayal. Except  for  its  popularity  and 
money-making,  he  would  have  with- 
drawn it  from  the  stage,  as,  in  a  fit 
of  pique,  Raymond  himself  did  while 
it  was  still  packing  the  theatres.  The 
original  "Sellers"  had  partly  brought 
him  up  and  been  very  good  to  him; 
a  second  Don  Quixote  in  appearance 
and  not  unlike  the  knight  of  La  Mancha 
in  character.  It  would  have  been  safe 
for  nobody  to  laugh  at  him — nay,  by 
the  slightest  intimation,  look  or  ges- 
ture, to  treat  him  with  inconsideration, 
or  any  proposal  of  his — however  pre- 
posterous— with  levity.  He  once  came 
to  see  me  upon  a  public  occasion  and 
during  a  function.  I  knew  that  I  must 
introduce  him,  and  with  all  possible 
ceremony,  to  my  colleagues.  He  was 
very  queer:  tall  and  peaked,  wearing 
a  black  swallow-tailed  suit,  shiny  with 
age ;  a  silk  hat,  bound  with  black  crepe 
to  conceal  its  rustiness,  not  to  indicate 
a  recent  death;  but  his  lineu  as  spot- 
less as  new-fallen  snow.  I  had  my 
doubts.  Happily,  the  company,  quite 
dazed  by  the  apparition,  proved  dec- 
orous to  solemnity,  and  the  kind  old 
gentleman,  pleased  with  himself  and 


proud  of  his  "  distinguished  young  kins- 
man," went  away  highly  gratified. 
^  Not  long  after  this  one  of  his 
daughters — pretty  girls  they  were,  too, 
and  in  charm  altogether  worthy  of 
their  cousin  Sam  Clemens — was  to  be 
married,  and  "Sellers"  wrote  me  a 
stately  summons,  all-embracing, though 
stiff  and  formal,  such  as  a  baron  of 
the  Middle  Ages  might  have  indited  to 
his  noble  relative,  the  Field-Marshal, 
bidding  him  bring  his  good  lady  and 
his  retinue  to  abide  within  the  castle 
until  the  festivities  were  ended — 
though  in  this  instance  the  castle  was 
a  suburban  cottage  scarcely  big  enough 
to  accommodate  the  bridal  party.  I 
showed  the  bombastic  but  hospitable 
and  sincere  invitation  to  the  actor 
Raymond,  who  chanced  to  be  playing 
in  Louisville  when  it  reached  me.  He 
read  it  through  with  care  and  re-read 
it.  "Do  you  know,"  said  he,  "it 
makes  me  want  to  cry.  That  is  not 
the  man  I  am  trying  to  impersonate 
at  all."  Be  sure  it  was  not;  for  there 
was  nothing  funny  about  the  spiritual 
being  of  Mark  Twain's  Colonel  Mul- 
berry Sellers;  he  was  as  brave  as  a 
lion,  and  as  upright  as  Sam  Clemens 
himself. 

When  a  very  young  man  living  in 
a  woodland  cabin  down  in  the  "  Penny- 
rile"  region  of  Kentucky,  with  a  wife 
he  adored  and  two  or  three  small  chil- 
dren, he  was  so  carried  away  by  an 
unexpected  windfall  that  he  lingered 
overlong  in  the  near  -  by  village,  dis- 
pensing a  royal  hospitality — in  point 
of  fact,  he  "got  on  a  spree."  Two  or 
three  days  passed  before  he  regained 
possession  of  himself.  When  at  last 
he  reached  his  home,  he  found  his  wife 
ill  in  bed  and  the  children  nearly 
starved  for  want  of  food.  He  said 
never  a  word,  but  walked  out  of  the 
cabin,  tied  himself  to  a  tree,  and  was 
dangerously  horsewhipping  himself 
when  the  cries  of  the  frightened  family 
summoned  the  neighbors,  and  he  was 
brought  to  reason.     He  never  touched 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY 


an  intoxicating  drop  from  that  day  to 
the  day  of  his  death. 

Another  one  of  our  fantastic  mu- 
tual cousins  was  the  "  Earl  of  Durham." 
I  ought  to  say  that  Mark  Twain  and  I 
grew  up  on  old  wives*  tales  of  estates 
and  titles,  which — maybe  it  was  a 
kindred  sense  of  humor  in  both  of  us — 
we  treated  with  shocking  irreverence. 
It  happened  some  forty  years  ago  that 
there  turned  up,  first  upon  the  plains 
and  afterward  in  New  York  a^d  Wash- 
ington, a  lineal  descendant  of  the  old- 
est of  the  Virginia  Lamptons — he  had 
somehow  gotten  hold  of  or  had  fabri- 
cated a  bundle  of  documents — who 
was  what  a  certain  famous  American 
would  call  **a  corker."  He  wore  a 
sombrero,  with  a  rattlesnake  for  a 
band,  and  a  belt  with  a  couple  of  six- 
shooters,  and  described  himself  and 
claimed  to  be  the  Earl  of  Durham. 

"He  touched  me  for  a  tenner  the 
first  time  I  ever  saw  him,"  drawled 
Mark  Twain,  "and  I  coughed  it  up, 
and  have  been  coughing  them  up, 
whenever  he*s  around,  with  punctual- 
ity and  regularity." 

The  "Earl"  was  indeed  a  terror — 
especially  when  he  had  been  drinking. 
His  behef  in  his  peerage  was  as  abso- 
lute as  Colonel  Sellers's  in  his  millions. 
All  he  wanted  was  money  enough  "to 
get  over  there"  and  "state  his  case." 
During  the  Tichbome  trial  Mark  Twain 
and  I  were  in  London,  and  one  day 
he  said  to  me:  "I  have  investigated 
this  Durham  business  down  at  the 
herald's  office.  There's  nothing  to  it. 
The  Lamptons  passed  out  of  the  de- 
mesne of  Durham  a  hundred  years  ago. 
They  had  long  before  dissipated  the 
estates.  Whatever  the  title,  it  lapsed. 
The  present  earldom  is  a  new  creation 
— not  the  same  family  at  all.  But,  I 
tell  you  what,  if  you'll  put  up  five 
hundred  dollars,  I'll  put  up  five  hun- 
dred more;  we'll  fetch  our  chap  across 
and  set  him  in  as  a  claimant,  and,  my 
word  for  it,  *  Kenealy's  Fat  Boy'  won't 
be  a  marker  to  him." 


He  was  so  pleased  with  his  conceit 
that  afterward  he  wrote  a  novel  and 
called  it  The  Claimant,  It  is  the  only 
one  of  his  books — ^though  I  never  told 
him  so-ythat  I  could  never  read.  Many 
years  after,  I  happened  to  see  upon  a 
hotel  register  in  Rome  these  entries: 
"The  Earl  of  Durham."  and  in  the 
same  handwriting  just  below  it,  "  Lady 
Anne  Lambton"  and  "The  Hon.  Regi- 
nald Lambton."  So  the  Lambtons — 
they  spelled  it  with  a  "b"  instead  of 
a  "p" — were  yet  in  possession.  A 
Lambton  was  Earl  of  Durham.  The 
next  time  I  saw  Mark  Twain  I  rated 
him  on  the  deception.  He  did  not 
defend  himself — said  something  about 
its  being  necessary  to  perfect  the  joke. 

"Did  you  ever  meet  this  present 
peer  and  possible  usurper?"  I  asked. 
"No,"  he  answered,  "I  never  did; 
but  if  he  had  called  on  me  I  should 
have  had  him  come  up." 

His  mind  turned  ever  to  the  droll. 
Once  in  London  I  was  hving  with  my 
family  at  103  Mount  Street.  Between 
103  and  102  there  was  the  parochial 
workhouse — quite  a  long  and  imposing 
edifice.  One  evening  upon  coming  in 
from  an  outing  I  found  a  letter  he  had 
written  on  the  sitting-room  table.  He 
had  left  it  with  his  card.  He  spoke  of 
the  shock  he  had  received  upon  finding 
that  next  to  102 — presumably  103 — 
was  the  workhouse.  He  had  loved 
me,  but  had  always  feared  that  I  would 
end  by  disgracing  the  family — ^being 
hanged  or  something — ^but  the  "work- 
*us,"  that  was  beyond  him;  he  had  not 
thought  it  would  come  to  that.  And 
so  on  through  pages  of  horse-play;  his 
relief  on  ascertaining  the  truth  and 
learning  his  mistake;  his  regret  at  not 
finding  me  at  home;  closing  with  a 
dinner  invitation.  Once  at  Geneva, 
in  Switzerland,  I  received  a  long,  over- 
flowing letter,  full  of  buoyant  oddities, 
written  from  London.  Two  or  three 
hours  later  came  a  telegram:  "Bum 
letter.  Blot  it  from  your  memory. 
Susie  is  dead." 


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MARK  TWAIN   MEMORIAL  CEREMONIES 


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How  much  of  melancholy  lay  hidden 
behind  the  mask  of  the  humorist  it 
would  be  hard  to  say.  His  griefs  were 
tempered  by  a  vein  of  philosophy.  He 
was  a  medley  of  contradictions.  Uncon- 
ventional to  the  point  of  eccentricity, 
his  sense  of  his  own  dignity  was  all- 
sufficient.  Though  lavish  in  the  use 
of  money,  he  had  a  full  realization  of 
its  value,  and  made  close  contracts 
for  his  work.  Like  Sellers,  his  mind 
soared  when  it  sailed  financial  currents. 
He  lacked  sound  business  judgment  in 
the  larger  things,  while  an  excellent 
economist  in  the  lesser. 

His  marriage  was  the  most  brilliant 
success  of  his  life.  He  got  the  woman 
of  all  the  worid  he  most  needed — a 
truly  lovely  and  wise  helpmeet — who 
kept  him  in  bonds  and  headed  him 
straight  and  right  while  she  lived;  the 
best  of  housewives  and  mothers,  and 
the  safest  of  counsellors  and  soundest 
of  critics.  She  knew  his  worth;  she 
understood  his  gentus;  she  clearly  saw 
his  limitations  and  angles.  Her  death 
was  a  grievous  disaster  as  well  as  a 
staggering  blow.  He  never  quite  sur- 
vived it. 

It  was  in  the  early  seventies  that 
Mark  Twain  dropped  into  New  York, 
where  there  was  already  gathered  a 
congenial  group  to  meet  and  greet 
him.  John  Hay  described  this  as  "of 
high  aspirations  and  peregrinations." 
It  radiated  between  Franklin  Square, 
where  Joseph  W.  Harper — "Joe  Brook- 
lyn," we  called  him — reigned  in  place 
of  his  uncle,  Fletcher  Harper,  the 
literary  man  of  the  original  Harper 
Brothers — and  the  Lotus  Club,  then 
in  Irving  Place,  and  Delmonico's,  at 
the  comer  of  Fifth  Avenue  and  Four- 
teenth Street;  with  Sutherland's,  in 
Liberty  Street,  for  a  down-town  place 
of  luncheon  resort,  not  to  forget  Dor- 
Ion's,  in  Fulton  Market.  The  Harper 
contingent,  besides  the  chief,  embraced 
Tom  Nast  and  Col.  William  A.  Seaver, 
whom  John  Russell  Young  named 
"Papa  Pendennis,"  and  described  as 


"a  man  of  letters  among  men  of  the 
worid,  and  a  man  of  the  world  among 
men  of  letters" — a  very  apt  por- 
trayal, albeit  appropriated  from  Doctor 
Johnson — and  Major  Constable,  a  giant 
who  looked  like  a  dragoon,  and  not  a 
bookman,  yet  had  known  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  and  was  sprung  from  the  family 
of  Edinburgh  publishers.  Bret  Harte 
had  but  newly  arrived  from  California. 
Whitelaw  Reid,  though  still  subordi- 
nate to  Greeley,  was  beginning  to  make 
himself  felt  in  journalism.  John  Hay 
played  high  priest  to  the  revels.  I 
used  to  make  periodic  and  pious  pil- 
grimage to  the  delightful  shrine. 

Truth  to  tell,  it  emulated  rather  the 
gods  than  the  graces — though  all  of  us 
had  literary  leanings  of  one  sort  and 
another — especially  late  at  night-^- 
and  Sam  Bowles  would  come  over  from 
Springfield  and  Murat  Halstead  from 
Cincinnati  to  join  us.  Howells,  living 
in  Boston,  held  himself  at  too  high 
account;  but  often  we  had  Joseph 
Jefferson,  then  in  the  heyday  of  his 
great  career,  with,  once  in  a  while, 
Edwin  Booth,  who  could  not  quite 
trust  himseljF  to  go  our  gait.  The  fine 
fellows  we  caught  from  over  the  sea 
were  innumerable,  from  the  elder 
Sothem  and  Sala  and  Yates  to  Lord 
Dufferin  and  Lord  Houghton.  Things 
went  very  well  those  days,  and,  while 
some  looked  on  askance — notably  Cur- 
tis and,  rather  oddly,  Stedman — and 
thought  we  were  wasting  time  and  con- 
vivializing  more  than  was  good  for 
us,  we  were  mostly  young  and  hearty, 
ranging  from  thirty  to  five-and-forty 
years  of  age,  with  amazing  capacities, 
both  for  work  and  play,  and  I  cannot 
recall  that  any  harm  to  any  of  us 
came  of  it.  Although  robustious,  our 
frolics  were  harmless  enough — ebulli- 
tions of  gayety  sometimes,  perhaps  un- 
guarded— ^though  each  shade,  or  sur- 
vivor, referring  to  those  Nodes  Am- 
hrosiancB,  might  repeat  to  the  other 
the  words  of  Curran  to  Lord  Avon- 
more: 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE   ACADEMY 


"We  spent  them  not  in  tojrs,  or  lust,  or 

wine; 
But  search  of  deep  philosophy, 
Wit,  eloquence  and  poesy, 
Arts  which  I  loved,  for  they,  my  friend, 

were  thine." 

Mark  Twain  was  the  life  of  every 
company  and  all  occasions.  I  remem- 
ber a  practical  joke  of  his  suggestion 
played  upon  Halstead.  A  party  of  us 
were  supping  after  the  theatre  at  the 
old  Brevoort  House.  A  card  was 
brought  to  me  from  a  reporter  for  The 
World,  I  was  about  to  deny  myself, 
when  Mark  Twain  said:  ** Give  it  to  me. 
ril  fix  it."  and  left  the  table.  Presently 
he  came  to  the  door  and  beckoned 
me  out. 

**  I  ifepresented  myself  as  your  secre- 
tary and  told  this  man,*'  said  he,  **that 
you  were  not  here,  but  that  if  Mr. 
Halstead  would  answer  just  as  well,  I 
would  fetch  him.  The  fellow  is  as 
innocent  as  a  lamb,  and  doesn't  know 
either  of  you.  I  am  going  to  intro- 
duce you  as  Halstead,  and  we'll  have 
some  fun." 

No  sooner  said  than  done.  The  re- 
porter proved  to  be  a  little,  bald- 
headed  cherub,  newly  arrived  from 
the  isle  of  dreams,  and  I  lined  out  to 
him  a  column  or  more  of  **  very  hot 
stuff,"  reversing  Halstead  in  every  ex- 
pression of  opinion.  I  declared  him 
in  favor  of  paying  the  national  debt 
in  greenbacks.  Touching  the  sectional 
question,  which  was  then  the  burning 
issue  of  the  time,  I  made  the  mock 
Halstead  say:  "The  *  bloody  shirt'  is 
only  a  kind  of  Pickwickian  battle-cry. 
It  is  convenient  during  political  cam- 
paigns and  on  election  day.  Perhaps 
you  do  not  know  that  I  am  myself  of 
dyed-in-the-wool  Southern  and  Se- 
cession stock.  My  father  and  grand- 
father came  to  Ohio  from  North  Caro- 
lina just  before  I  was  bom.  Naturally, 
I  have  no  sectional  prejudices,  but  I 
live  in  Cincinnati,  and  I  am  a  Repub- 
lican." 

There  was  a  good  deal  more  of  the 


same  sort.  How  it  passed  through  the 
World  office  I  know  not,  but  it  actually 
appeared.  On  returning  to  table  I 
told  the  company  what  Mark  Twain 
and  I  had  done.  They  thought  I  was 
joking.  Without  a  word  to  any  of 
us,  next  day  Halstead  wrote  a  note  to 
the  World  repudiating  the  **  interview," 
and  the  World  printed  his  disclaimer 
with  a  line  which  said:  '*When  Mr. 
Halstead  talked  with  our  reporter  he 
had  dined."  It  was  too  good  to 
keep.  John  Hay  wrote  an  amusing 
"story"  for  the  Tribune  which  set 
Halstead  right  and  turned  the  laugh 
on  me. 

They  are  all  gone  now.  Only  the 
American  Ambassador  in  England  and 
my.self  are  left  to  tell  the  tale.  I  am 
warned  by  the  terms  of  the  summons 
which  has  brought  us  together  against 
anything  sorrowful,  especially  any- 
thing lachrymose.  Yet  when  my  mind 
goes  back  to  those  bygone  days  and 
nights,  the  lines  of  the  Irish  bard  spring 
unbidden  to  my  heart: 

**  The  walks  we  have  roamed  without  tiring. 

The  songs  that  together  we've  sung. 
The  jests  to  whose  merry  inspiring 

Our  mingling  of  laughter  hath  rung; 
Oh,  trifles  like  these  become  precious, 

Embalmed  in  the  memory  of  years; 
And  the  smiles  of  the  past  so  remembered. 

How  often  they  waken  our  tearr!" 

Mark  Twain's  place  in  literature  it 
is  not  for  us  to  fix.  We  are  here  the 
rather  to  commemorate  his  character 
and  his  personality;  his  courageous  and 
upright  manhood  as  strong  as  Scott's, 
as  primitive  as  Carlyle's.  as  unassum- 
ing and  simple  as  Irving's  and  Whit- 
tier's;  integrity  the  bedrock,  hard  and 
fast,  quite  hidden  under  the  verdure 
of  sentiment  and  the  flora  of  the  loyal 
and  the  gentle. 

With  the  fine,  unerring  phrasing  of 
penetrative  insight,  Mr.  Howells  calls 
him  **the  Lincoln  of  our  literature." 
It  is  a  striking  title,  and  as  suggestive 
and  apposite  as  striking.     The  genius 


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29 


of  Clemens  and  the  genius  of  Lincoln 
possess  a  kinship  outside  the  circum- 
stances of  their  early  lives:  the  com- 
mon lack  of  tools  to  work  with;  the 
privations  and  hardships  to  be  en- 
dured and  to  overcome ;  the  way  ahead 
through  an  unblazed  and  trackless 
forest ;  every  footstep  over  a  stumbling- 
block,  and  each  effort  saddled  with 
a  handicap.  But,  they  got  there — 
both  of  them — they  got  there;  and 
mayhap  somewhere  beyond  the  stars 
the  light  of  their  eyes  is  shining  down 
upon  us  here  to-night. 

Mr.  Howells: 

Now  in  our  full  cup,  before  we  drain 
it  to  the  memory  of  the  man  so  dear  to 
us,  we  dissolve  the  pearl  which  a  poet 
gives  us  from  the  richness  of  his  head 
and  heart.  Poet,  humorist,  divine,  by 
which  natne  shall  we  best  thank  our 
honored  and  beloved  Henry  Van  Dyke? 


Dr.  Van  Dyke: 

MARK  TWAIN 

We   know   you   well,    dear   Yorick   of   the 

West, 
The  very  soul  of  large  and  friendly  jest, 
That  loved  and  mocked  the  broad  grotesque 

of  things 
In  this  new  world  where  all  the  folk  are 

kings. 

Your  breezy  humor  cleared  the  air,   with 

sport 
Of  shame  that  haunts  the  democratic  court ; 
For  even  where  the  sovereign  people  rule, 
A  human  monarch  needs  a  royal  fool. 

Your  native  drawl  lent  flavor  to  your  wit ; 
Your  arrows  lingered,  but  they  always  hit; 
Homeric  mirth  around  the  circle  ran, 
But  left  no  wound  upon  the  heart  of  man. 

We  knew  you  kind  in  trouble,  brave  in  pain; 
We  saw  your  honor  kept  without  a  stain. 
We  read  this  lesson  of  our  Yorick's  years: 
True  wisdom  comes  with  laughter  and  with 
tears. 


Mr.  Howells: 

Here  ends  our  part  in  the  memorial  to  Mark  Twain:  it  is  for  the  ages  to  take  up 

the  task  and  carry  it  on.     You  may  trust  them. 


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PROCEEDINGS 


OF  THE 


AMERICAN  ACADEMY  OF  ARTS 
AND  LETTERS 


AND  OF  THE 


NATIONAL  INSTITUTE  OF  ARTS 
AND  LETTERS 


Number  IV:  1910-1911 


New  York 

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,    ^5Ul.^O-^X'V^.<l;C 


L.^ 


Copyright,  191 1,  by 
The  American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters 


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CONTENTS 

PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  PUBLIC  MEETINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  OF  ARTS  AN 
LETTERS,  and  of  THE  NATIONAL  INSTITUTE  OF  ARTS  AND  LETTERS 

Sessions  at  the  New  Theatre,  New  York,  December  8-9,  1910 

December  8:   Morning 

William  Dean  Howells, 
President  of  the  Academy,  in  the  Chair 

PACB 

A  Breakfast  with  Alexandre  Dumas 

John  Bigelow 5 

Criticism 

William  Crary  Brownell    .     .     11 

The  Revolt  of  the  Unfit:    Reflections  on  the  Doctrine  of 

Evolution 

Nicholas  Murray  Butler    .     .     21 

The  Living  Past  in  the  Living  Present 

Henry  Mills  Alden    ....     25 

December  8:  Afternoon.    Henry  Van  Dyke, 
President  of  the  Institute,  in  the  Chair 

Music  and  the  Americans 

Waller  Damrosch      ....    31 

The  Worker  in  Poetry 

Percy  Mackaye 37 

Local  Color  as  the  Vital  Element  of  American  Fiction 

Hamlin  Garland 41 

Recent  Tendencies  in  Sculpture 

Lorado  Taft 46 

December  9:   Morning 

Commemorative  Papers: 

Saint-Gaudens,  Stedman,  Clemens,  Hay,  MacDowell 

Brander  Malthews     ....    55 

McKim.  Norton,  Ward,  Aldrich,  Jefferson 

William  Milligan  Shane    .     .    59 

Gilder,  Harris,  Hale,  Schurz,  Homer 

Hamilton  Wright  Mabie     .     .    65 


Reading  from  Shakespeare*s  ''Henry  V*' 

Horace  Howard  Furness 


Sketch  of  the  Academy  and  List  of  its  Members 

and  Officers 69 


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PROCEEDINGS 

OF  THE 


American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters 

AND   OF  THE 

National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters 


Published  at  intervals  by  the  Societies 


Copies  may  be  had  on  application  to  the  Permanent  Secretary  ol  the  Academy.  Mr   R.  U  Johnson, 
33  East  17th  Street,  New  York  Price  per  annum  $1.00 


Vol.  I  New  York,  November  i,  191  i  No.  4 


THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 

Public  Meetings  held  at  the  New  Theatre,  New  York,  December  8-9,    1910 

William  Dean  Howells 
President  of  the  Academy  in  the  Chair 


A  BREAKFAST  WITH  ALEXANDRE  DUMAS 

ByJJohn  Bigelow 

In   the  month  of   October,    1864,  a  my  acceptance  of  his  invitation,  and  the 

gentleman  called  at  my  apartment  in  following  morning  took  the  train  from 

Paris,  and  failing  to  find  me  there,  left  the  St.  Lazare  station,  which  brought 

his  card,  on  which  the  following  lines  me     to     Enghein    at    twelve    o'clock, 

were  inscribed  with  pencil:  whence  I  took  a  cab  for  St.  Gratien. 

Si    Monsieur   etait   rhomme  aimable  que  ^'^^^er   driving  about   a   quarter  of   an 

I'on   dit,  il  viendrait  dejeuner  demain  avec  hour,  I  remarked,  at  the  roadside  we 

moi  a  St    Gratien,  Avenue  du  Lac,  en  pre-  ^yere  approaching,  a  large  and  rather 

nant  le  chemm  de  fer  du  Nord  a  11  heures  .  ^                 1     1  •                    .      j- 

moins  10  minutes.  picturesque-lookmg  man  standmg  m  a 

Je  lui  serre  bien  cordialement  la  main.  gateway   opening   into   the    front  yard 

Alex.  Dumas.  of  a  modest  wooden  cottage.     He  was 

In  other  words  that  standing,  with  his  head  uncovered  and 

If  Mr.  Bigelow  is  the  amiable  man  he  is  a  book  in  his  hand,  talking  to  a  passer- 
said  to  be,  he  will  come  and  breakfast  with  by.     I  recognized  at  once,  from  bis  re- 

me  at  St.  Gratien,  Avenue  du  Lac,  taking  the      ^^^ui^„^^  4.^  ^u^  t^^w.r.^  ..u^^.^^- Ur, 

du  Nord  railway  at  10  minutes  before  11.    I  semblance  to  the  familiar  photographs, 

cordially  press  his  hand.  the  author  of  "Monte  Cristo." 

Alex.  Dumas.  While     exchanging     with     him   ,the 

As  I  had  never  met  or  seen  this,  the  commonplaces    which    usually    inaugju- 

most  popular  French  romancer  of  his  rate  acquaintance  made  by  strangers,.  I 

time,  of  course  I  promptly  telegraphed  took  a  hasty  but  careful  survey  of  my 

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host  and  his  surroundings.  Dumas 
himself,  I  discovered  to  my  surprise, 
was  over  six  feet  high,  and,  but  for  an 
inclination  to  corpulency,  well  propor- 
tioned. He  had  all  the  more  distinc- 
tive characteristics  of  the  African 
race:  the  brown  complexion  of  the 
quadroon,  crisp,  bushy  hair  which  no 
comb  could  straighten,  a  head  low  and 
narrow  in  front,  but  enlarging  rapidly 
as  it  receded,  thick  lips,  a  large  mouth, 
and  a  throat,  all  uncovered,  of  enor- 
mous proportions. 

But  for  the  retreating  in  all  direc- 
tions of  his  forehead,  his  face  would 
have  been  handsome  for  one  of  its 
kind,  in  which  the  animal  nature  was 
in  full  force.  He  was  dressed  in  dark 
trousers,  a  spotted  muslin  shirt  un- 
buttoned at  the  throat,  no  cravat,  and 
a  white  flannel  roundabout  with  a  ca- 
pote attached,  all  scrupulously  neat. 
He  moved  with  the  alertness  of  a 
school-boy,  talked  all  the  time  and  rap- 
idly. The  cottage  which  he  occupied 
was  simply  furnished,  and  suggested 
nothing  of  interest  except  the  great 
change  in  his  fortunes  since  he  built 
his  famous  villa  at  St.  Germain,  and 
"warmed"  it  with  a  festival  of  six  hun- 
dred covers,  in  the  days  when  his  in- 
come is  reported  to  have  been  over  one 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars  a 
year. 

As  we  had  never  met  before,  he  took 
an  early  opportunity  of  letting  me 
know  his  purpose  in  calling  upon  me 
the  previous  day.  He  had  been  told, 
he  said,  that  if  he  would  go  to  America 
and  write  a  story,  it  would  have  a  great 
sale  there.  He  wished  to  know  what 
I  thought  about  it.  I  replied  that  he 
was  scarcely  better  known  in  France 
than  in  America;  that  he  could  not 
write  a  book  that  would  not  sell,  and 
that  his  welcome  in  the  United  States 
would  be  enthusiastic.  He  said  that  a 
lawyer  in  New  York  of  French  origin, 
whose  name  I  did  not  distinctly  hear, 
had  recommended  him  to  come,  and 
promised  him  a  great  success  if  he 
would  go  at  that  time;  that  he  pro- 


posed, if  I  thought  well  of  it,  to  leave 
in  about  two  months,  and  to  be  absent 
four.  It  occurred  to  me  at  once  that 
in  view  of  the  critical  contest  still  wag- 
ing in  America,  in  which  the  African 
race  had  so  much  at  stake,  and  where 
the  question  of  emancipation  as  a  war 
measure  was  under  discussion,  the  ap- 
pearance of  one  who  had  done  more, 
perhaps,  than  any  other  person  of 
African  descent  to  vindicate  the  intel- 
lectual capabilities  of  that  race,  would 
be  interesting  and  perhaps  useful  to 
my  country  people,  and,  without  doubt, 
lucrative  to  him. 

I  remarked  that  the  time  seemed 
short  to  see  so  large  a  country,  and 
asked  him  whether,  instead  of  making 
a  story,  or,  as  he  called  it,  a  roman,  he 
had  not  better  give  the  world  the  bene- 
fit of  his  personal  observations ;  that  it 
was  an  historical  epoch  with  us,  and 
that  the  events  occurring  every  week 
transcended  in  interest  and  importance 
anything  legitimately  available  for  ro- 
mance. 

To  this  he  made  of  course  no  direct 
reply,  but  went  on  to  say  that  the  idea 
he  had  formed  was  to  enter  into  rela- 
tions with  some  bookseller  to  write  a 
four-volume  romance,  and  sell  it  by 
subscription.  He  said  also  that  he  had 
received  several  invitations  to  corre- 
spond with  the  press.  I  advised  him 
to  enter  into  no  arrangement  with  any 
bookseller  till  his  book  was  completed, 
for  he  could  scarcely  tell  till  he  had 
done  it  what  sort  of  book  it  would  be, 
nor,  therefore,  how  it  could  be  most 
profitably  marketed.  I  recommended 
him  to  keep  his  pen  free  to  make  such 
a  book  as  a  brief  visit  to  the  United 
States  might  inspire,  and,  when  made, 
to  sell  it  in  the  best  market  he  could 
find;  and  I  invoked  the  example  of  De 
Tocqueville,  who,  in  his  private  letters, 
frequently  congratulated  himself  that 
he  had  forborne  to  publish  his  first 
impressions  about  America,  but  had 
waited  till  they  had  had  time  to  ripen. 
Time  and  reflection,  I  said,  will  often 
suggest  to  the  most  experienced  trav- 


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A  BREAKFAST  WITH  ALEXANDRE  DUMAS 


eler  things  to  add  and  correct  which 
sometimes  determine  the  fortunes  and 
usefulness  of  a  book. 

In  reply  to  these  remarks  he  for  the 
first  time  betrayed  to  me  his  African 
blood.  He  said  he  never  corrected 
anything;  he  wrote  dans  I'abondance, 
and  sent  his  manuscript  to  the  printer 
without  looking  it  over;  that  he  had 
never  reread  an)rthing  he  had  written 
in  his  life  except  in  proof.  "My  manu- 
script," he  said,  "is  without  an  era- 
sure;  if  I  get  to  altering  and  correcting, 
I  always  end  by  throwing  it  into  the 
fire  and  beginning  anew.  I  will  show 
you  one  of  my  manuscripts."  With 
that  he  called  his  secretary,  a  dark- 
eyed,  dark-haired,  and  intellectual- 
looking  young  gentleman  of  some 
twenty-two  years,  and  requested  him 
to  bring  him  a  chapter  of  San  Felice." 
The  secretary  presently  returned  with 
fifty  or  sixty  pages  of  quarto  manu- 
script, which  he  placed  in  my  hands. 
There  was  not  a  single  erasure  or  cor- 
rection in  it  from  beginning  to  end, 
and,  what  surprised  me  more,  the  writ- 
ing was  in  a  clear,  round  hand,  and  not 
at  all  like  the  current  French  chirog- 
raphy.    It  was  as  legible  as  print. 

I  subsequently  learned  some  facts 
about  Dumas's  literary  habits  which 
render  it  a  little  less  than  absolutely 
certain  that  I  really  saw  his  own  manu- 
script in  the  package  that  was  shown 
to  me.  His  secretary,  it  is  said,  wrote 
so  much  like  the  great  romancer  that 
no  one  but  an  expert  could  distinguish 
the  manuscript  of  one  from  that  of  the 
other.  His  son  and,  indeed,  many  oth- 
ers were  said  to  possess  this  accomplish- 
ment as  well.  In  other  words,  Dumas 
was  in  the  habit  of  putting  his  name  to 
romances  he  had  scarcely  read,  much 
less  written;  he  sometimes  published  in 
a  single  year  more  volumes  than  the 
most  rapid  penman  could  copy  in  twice 
that  time.  For  example,  in  1845,  sixty 
volumes  purporting  to  be  the  work  of 
his  pen  were  issued  from  the  Parisian 
press.  The  copying  alone  of  them 
could  not  have  been  done  by  a  single 


man  in  a  year.  The  remainder,  be  they 
more  or  less,  were  done  by  others,  at 
first  under  his  name  alone,  and  later 
under  the  joint  name  of  himself  and 
their  authors.  I  have  been  assured  that 
Dumas  had  a  sort  of  manufactory  of 
plays  and  romances  in  Paris  at  one 
time.  His  part  of  the  work  consisted 
in  giving  it  his  name  and  perhaps  its 
title.  One  of  his  most  faithful  and  fer- 
tile collaborators,  Auguste  Maquet,  is 
said  to  have  contributed  not  less  than 
eighty  volumes  to  the  stock  of  the  con- 
cern. Dumas  is  reported  to  have  taken 
yet  greater  liberties  with  printed 
works.  His  appropriations,  in  one 
way  or  another,  of  other  writers'  la- 
bors got  him  into  several  duels  and  as 
many  lawsuits,  from  none  of  which 
was  he  so  fortunate  as  to  retire  with 
quite  all  the  character  with  which  he 
embarked  in  them. 

In  showing  me  his  manuscript  he 
may  have  had  it  in  his  mind  to  disabuse 
mine  of  any  impression  I  might  have 
received  of  his  plowing  with  other 
people's  heifers  by  showing  the  manu- 
script of  a  work  which  he  had  but  re- 
cently finished.  I  had  no  doubt  then 
that  it  was  his,  nor  have  I  much  doubt 
now,  though  unhappily  his  calling  it  his 
was  in  itself  by  no  means  conclusive 
proof.  Whether  his  or  not,  I  fully  be- 
lieve that  he  wrote  dans  I'abondance, 
as  he  said,  and  did  not  revise.  There 
was  where  the  African  came  in.  He 
had  no  reflective  faculties.  The  mo- 
ment be  began  to  correct  he  became 
confused,  and  the  train  of  his  thought 
was  irrecoverably  broken.  He  had  to 
run  down,  like  a  clock,  as  he  was 
wound  up,  and  without  stopping.  It  is 
the  peculiarity  of  the  African  that,  for 
want  of  the  reflective  and  logical  facul- 
ties, he  is  incapable,  except  in  rare  in- 
stances, of  measuring  distance,  size,  or 
time,  or  of  thoroughly  mastering  the 
common  rules  of  arithmetic.  Dumas's 
blood  was  not  sufficiently  strained — or 
shall  I  say  corrupted? — to  be  an  excep- 
tion in  this  respect.  At  school  he  could 
never  be  made  to  learn  arithmetic,  and 


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the  greatest  di£Bculty  was  found  in  get- 
ting a  little  Latin  into  his  head.  He 
excelled,  however,  in  hunting  birds' 
nests,  snaring  game,  poaching,  riding 
horses,  fencing,  and  pistol-shooting, 
and  it  was  in  gratifying  these  propen- 
sities that  he  acquired  the  hardy  consti- 
tution which  three-score  years  of  a  by 
no  means  exemplary  life  had  failed  in 
the  least  to  impair. 

In  view  of  his  contemplated  excur- 
sion to  America  I  asked  him  if  he  spoke 
English.  He  replied  that  he  read  it 
a  little,  but  he  added,  "Ma  maitresse 
est  Anglaise,  et  elle  me  fera  parler 
tout  de  suite!'  I  looked  at  him  again 
to  see  if  I  had  not  misunderstood  him, 
and  if  he  had  not  meant  his  valet,  but 
he  went  on  to  say  that  he  had  taught 
her  French,  and  that  she  was  only 
waiting  till  her  accent  was  perfect  to 
appear  at  the  opera. 

He  wished  to  know  how  much  he 
would  require  for  his  expenses  during 
his  absence,  and  if  2,000  francs  a 
month  would  be  enough.  I  told  him 
that  if  he  took  but  one  servant  and  no 
woman  it  would. 

While  discussing  these  matters,  the 
door  opened,  and  in  walked  a  young 
woman  whom  he  addressed  cordially 
as  '^Madame,"  and  presented  to  me. 
She  saluted  me  in  idiomatic  English. 
A  glance  at  her  convinced  me  that  she 
was  the  maitresse  who  was  to  endow 
him  with  the  requisite  English  for  his 
transatlantic  excursion.  She  seemed 
to  be  about  twenty  years  of  age,  of 
regular  features,  and  but  that  her  head 
over  the  forehead  was  too  flat  would 
have  been  beautiful.  I  did  not  hear 
her  name,  if  it  was  pronounced,  but 
she  told  me,  I  think,  that  one  of  her 
parents  was  Irish,  that  she  had  given 
concerts  in  America;  and  she  showed 
me  a  letter  from  a  Mr.  Thompson  of 
Cincinnati  to  her  in  which  she  was 
addressed  as  "Picciola." 

Matrimony  is  an  institution  the  true 
nature  of  which  Dumas,  I  fear,  never 
<romprehended  either  the  necessity  or 
the    propriety.      He    was    once    mar- 


ried, but  not  in  obedience  to  any  con- 
viction that  there  was  any  fitness  in 
such  formalities.  It  happened  in  this 
wise,  say  the  Paris  gossips.  When 
about  eighteen  years  of  age,  upon  the 
recommendation  of  General  Foy,  who 
took  him  tmder  his  protection,  he  was 
appointed  to  a  secretaryship  under  the 
Duke  of  Orleans,  afterward  Louis 
Philippe,  at  a  salary  of  about  $250  a 
year.  When  the  duke  had  become 
king,  Dumas,  with  the  same  insensi- 
bility to  the  distinction  between  a  wife 
and  a  mistress  which  he  showed  in 
proposing  to  take  his  "Picciola"  with 
him  to  America  to  teach  him  English, 
escorted  a  yotmg  actress,  who  had  fig- 
ured at  several  of  the  minor  theaters 
of  Paris,  to  a  ball  given  by  the  young 
Duke  of  Orleans,  the  king's  eldest  son. 
After  they  had  presented  themselves 
and  been  received  by  the  duke,  he  said 
in  a  dignified  tone  to  his  chivalric 
guest: 

'7/  est  entendu,  mon  cher  Dumas, 
que  vous  n'avez  pu  me  presenter  que 
votre  femme." 

These  words  were  equivalent  to  an 
order,  a  disregard  of  which  would  have 
involved  his  disgrace.  They  were 
married  at  once;  all  the  literary  nota- 
bilities were  invited  on  the  occasion, 
and  even  the  austere  Chateaubriand 
was  one  of  the  official  witnesses.  They 
soon,  however,  discovered  that  as  mar- 
ried people  they  got  on  better  separate 
than  together;  he  remained  in  Paris, 
and  she  went  to  Florence,  where  she  is 
reported  to  have  died  of  an  epidemic. 

We  waited  breakfast  till  one  o'clock 
for  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Genesca,  the 
editor  of  "UEurope*'  from  whom  a 
telegram  then  arrived  informing  us 
that  he  had  missed  the  train  by  two 
minutes.  The  proprietor  of  the  cot- 
tage and  a  professional  musician  wxre 
the  only  other  guests.  The  honor  of 
conducting  Madame  to  the  table  fell  to 
me.  The  breakfast  was  admirably 
served,  though  it  did  not  escape  the 
criticism  of  our  host.  A  carp,  cold  and 
more  than  two  feet  long,  taken  from 


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A  BREAKFAST  WITH  ALEXANDRE  DUMAS 


the  neighboring  lake,  with  a  sauce  pi- 
quante,  was  followed  by  a  hot  roasted 
leg  of  delicious  mutton.  Then  came  a 
riz  de  veau,  with  tomato  sauce.  When 
Dumas  was  handed  some  he  declined, 
saying,  *'Je  me  defie  de  la  sauce  tomate 
que  je  ne  fais  pas  moi-meme."  One  of 
the  guests  insisting  that  the  sauce  was 
very  good,  "Ah,"  replied  Dumas  in  a 
tone  between  a  sigh  and  a  grunt,  "it  is 
not  as  I  like  it."  He  afterward  re- 
marked of  another  dish  not  entirely  to 
his  taste,  "I  can't  quit  the  kitchen  five 
minutes  without  something  going 
wrong."  After  the  riz  de  veau  we  had 
ecrevisses,  of  which  he  ate  enormously. 
By  this  time  his  breathing  had  become 
as  distinctly  audible  as  if  it  had  been 
effected  by  the  aid  of  a  high-pressure 
engine.  I  never  saw  a  person  eat  so 
much  like  an  animal.  Grapes  and  pears 
concluded  our  repast,  which  was  con- 
ducted to  its  destination  with  cham- 
pagne, claret,  and  excellent  burgundy. 
Soon  after  we  had  made  an  end  of 
our  eating  and  drinking,  our  host  re- 
lapsed into  a  state  of  stertorous  somno- 
lency against  which  he  struggled  for  a 
while  manfully,  but  in  vain.  I  ob- 
served, however,  that  this  was  a  famil- 
iar experience  with  the  household,  and 
was  not  to  be  noticed.  Though  some- 
what reassured  by  the  tranquil  air  of 
my  commensales  I  could  not  help  feel- 
ing a  little  as  if  I  were  the  guest  of 
honor  at  one  of  La  Fontaine's  feasts 
of  the  animals.  In  about  half  an  hour, 
however,  he  overcame  his  drowsiness, 
and  then  talked  on  rapidly,  and  some- 
times eloquently,  and  the  more  he 
talked,  the  better  looking  he  became. 
His  smile  was  very  sweet,  and  there 
was  not  a  sordid,  or  mercenary,  or 
selfish  trait  in  one  of  his  features.  He 
spoke  of  topics  of  current  interest  like 
a  man  of  decided  opinions,  but  evi- 
dently saw  them  from  a  very  restricted, 
rather  than  from  a  philosophic  or  na- 
tional, point  of  view.  He  said  some 
things  that  were  striking.  The  em- 
peror, he  remarked,  was  un  vrai  con- 
spirateur  and  not  a  brave  man,  hence 


he  did  everything  requiring  courage  in 
the  night,  and  then  enumerated  several 
of  his  important  nocturnal  perform- 
ances. He  compared  him  to  those 
beasts  of  prey  that  seek  their  food  only 
at  night,  such  as  foxes,  wolves,  jackals, 
etc.,  and  said  that  he  had  the  eye  of 
that  class  of  animals. 

The  Franco-Italian  Convention  of 
September  nth,  which  had  then  been 
recently  signed,  and  of  which  the  world 
had  just  witnessed  the  auspicious  con- 
sunmiation,  he  pronounced  very  in- 
genious and  quite  sure  to  restore  Italy 
to  Rome.  He  spoke  with  great  admi- 
ration of  our  novelist  Cooper,  whose 
works  were  lying  on  his  table,  and 
whom  he  professed  to  have  known, 
which  was  probably  true. 

Before  leaving  St.  Gratien  I  re- 
turned to  the  subject  of  his  projected 
American  expedition,  made  proffer  of 
such  letters  and  counsel  as  might  prom- 
ise to  be  of  service  to  him,  and  re- 
peated the  advice  I  had  given  him  be- 
fore, to  make  a  book  about  the  United 
States,  and  not  to  sell  it  until  it  was 
written.  It  was  obvious  that  for  some 
reason,  then  not  intelligible  to  me,  this 
advice  was  not  altogether  palatable. 

During  my  ride  home,  reflecting 
upon  what  had  passed,  I  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  his  hope  was  that  our 
government,  following  the  example  of 
several  European  states  when  in  trou- 
ble, might  desire  to  enlist  his  pen  in  its 
service,  and  that  perhaps  I  was  pre- 
pared, under  the  cover  of  a  bookseller's 
engagement,  to  take  him  into  the  ser- 
vice of  the  republic. 

Speaking  of  his  proposal,  a  few  days 
later,  to  Mr.  Laboulaye,  a  distinguished 
member  of  the  Institute,  he  told  me 
that  I  should  caution  all  to  whom  I 
gave  him  letters  not  to  lend  him 
money;  for,  said  he,  he  will  levy  upon 
every  one  of  them,  '*il  est  un  grand 
mangeur,  and  always  in  want  of 
money."  This,  he  added,  is  so  notori- 
ously his  character  that  I  feel  no  re- 
morse in  warning  you  of  it.  He 
thought,  however,  Dumas  might  make 


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a  good  book,  and  perhaps,  in  the  cir- 
cumstances, a  useful  one. 

I  need  hardly  add  that  I  never  of- 
fered Dumas  any  special  inducements 
to  visit  America,  nor  that  he  ever  exe- 
cuted the  project  about  which  he  con- 
sulted me.  That  he  did  not  I  think 
may  be  regarded  as  a  matter  for  our 
joint  congratulations.  For  years  Dumas 
had  been  adored  in  France;  his  books 
were  to  be  found  on  the  table  of  every 
Paris  salon,  and  he  was  recognized 
ever)rwhere  as  one  of  the  literary  pa- 
tricians of  the  world.  In  America  he 
would  have  found  none  of  his  race 
with  whom  he  or  even  his  maitresse 
would  have  associated.  No  President 
of  the  United  States  had  ever  yet 
dared  to  welcome  a  descendant  of  Ham 
to  his  table.  Booker  T.  Washington 
was  then  only  a  lad,  racially 

"Born 
r  th'  eclipse,  and  rigg'd  with  curses  dark." 


In  Washington,  or  indeed  in  iany  of 
our  great  social  centers,  Dumas  would 
soon  have  discovered  that  he  was 
among  people  many  of  whom  publicly 
avowed  that  to  the  race  to  which  he 
belonged  none  of  the  promises  of  the 
Christian  Bible  were  extended.  It  is 
highly  probable  that  both  would  have 
abruptly  left  our  country  for  their 
homes,  furious  and  vindictive.  In 
what  way  and  to  what  extent  they 
would  have  made  us  expiate  what  to 
them  would  have  seemed  our  brutal  in- 
hospitality  I  shrink  from  trying  to 
imagine.  But  it  is  safe  to  say  that  it 
was  as  fortunate  for  us  at  that  crisis 
in  our  national  life  that  Mr.  Dumas  did 
not  come  to  us  as,  if  he  were  still  liv- 
ing, his  coming  might  exert  a  healing 
influence  upon  our  much  ameliorated 
racial  dissensions. 


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CRITICISM 
By  William  Crary  Brownell 

I 


Criticism  itself  is  much  criticized, 
which  logically  establishes  its  title.  No 
form  of  mental  activity  is  commoner, 
and  where  the  practice  of  anything  is 
all  but  universal,  protest  against  it  is 
as  idle  as  apology  for  it  should  be 
superfluous.  Indeed,  I  should  be  con- 
scious of  slighting  just  proportion  and 
intellectual  decorum  in  laying  any  par- 
ticular stress  on  the  aspersions  of  the 
sciolists  of  the  studios,  such  as,  for 
example,  the  late  Mr.  Whistler,  and  of 
literary  adventurers,  such  as,  for  an- 
other instance,  the  late  Lx)rd  Beacons- 
field.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  these  two 
rather  celebrated  disparagers  of  criti- 
cism were  greatly  indebted  to  the  criti- 
cal faculty,  very  marked  in  each  of 
them. 

More  worth  while  recalling  than 
Disraeli's  inconsistency,  however,  is 
the  fact  that,  in  plagiarizing,  he  dis- 
torted Coleridge's  remark,  substituting 
"critics"  for  ''reviewers,"  as  those  who 
had  failed  in  creative  fields.  The  sub- 
stitution is  venial  in  so  far  as  in  the  ' 
England  of  that  day  the  critics  were 
the  reviewers.  But  this  is  what  is  es- 
pecially noteworthy  in  considering  the 
whole  subject;  namely,  that  in  Eng- 
land, as  with  ourselves,  the  art  of  criti- 
cism is  so  largely  the  business  of  re- 
viewing as  to  make  the  two,  in  popular 
estimation  at  least,  interconvertible 
terms.  They  order  the  matter  diflfer- 
ently  in  France,  where  even  in  the  lit- 
erary reviews  what  we  should  call  the 
reviewing  is  apt  to  be  consigned  to  a 
few  back  pages  of  running  chronique, 
or  a  supplementary  leaflet.  With  us, 
even  when  the  literature  reviewed  is 
eminent  and  serious,  it  is  estimated  by 


the  anonymous  expert,  who  at  most, 
and  indeed  at  his  best,  confines  himself 
to  the  matter  in  hand  and  delivers  a 
kind  of  bench  decision  in  a  circum- 
scribed case,  whereas  in  France  this  is 
left  to  subsequent  books  or  more  gen- 
eral articles,  with  the  result  of  releas- 
ing the  critic  for  more  personal  work 
of  larger  scope.  Hence  there  are  a 
score  of  French  critics  of  personal 
quality  for  one  English  or  American. 
Even  current  criticism  becomes  a 
province  of  literature  instead  of  being 
a  department  of  routine.  Our  own 
current  criticism,  anonjrmous  or  other, 
is,  I  need  not  say,  largely  of  this  rou- 
tine character,  when  it  has  character, 
varied  by  the  specific  expert  decision 
in  a  very  few  quarters  and  only  occa- 
sionally by  a  magazine  article  de  fond 
of  real  synthetic  value.  This  last  I 
should  myself  like  to  see  the  Academy, 
whose  function  must  be  mainly  criti- 
cal, encourage  by  every  means  open  to 
it  by  way  of  giving  more  standing  to 
our  criticism,  which  is  what  I  think  it 
needs  first  of  all. 

The  critics  of  reviewing,  however, 
deem  it  insufficiently  expert,  and  I  dare 
say  this  is  often  just.  But  the  objec- 
tion to  it  which  is  apparently  not  con- 
sidered, but  which  I  should  think  even 
more  considerable,  is  its  tendency  to 
monopolize  the  critical  field,  and  estab- 
lish this  very  ideal  of  specific  expert- 
ness,  which  its  practice  so  frequently 
fails  to  realize,  as  the  ideal  of  criticism 
in  general.  This  involves,  I  think,  a 
restricted  view  of  the  true  critic's  field 
and  an  erroneous  view  of  his  function. 
Virtually  it  confines  his  own  field  to 
that  of  the  practice  he  criticizes  and 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF.  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


his  function  to  that  of  estimating  any 
practice  with  reference  to  its  technical 
standards.  In  a  word,  expert  criticism 
is  necessarily  technical  criticism,  and, 
not  illogically,  those  whose  ideal  it  is 
insist  that  the  practitioner  himself  is 
the  only  proper  critic  of  his  practice. 
This  was  eminently  the  view  of  the 
late  Russell  Sturgis,  who  had  an  inex- 
haustible interest  in  technic  of  all 
kinds,  and  maintained  stoutly  that  art 
should  be  interpreted  from  the  artist's 
point  of  view,  assuming,  of  course,  the 
existence  of  such  a  point  of  view.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  there  is  none,  and 
v/hen  it  is  sought,  what  is  found  is 
either  an  artist's  point  of  view,  which 
is  personal  and  not  professional,  or 
else  it  is  that  of  every  one  else  suffi- 
ciently educated  in  the  results  -which 
artists  could  hardly  have  produced  for 
centuries  without  sooner  or  later  at  least 
betraying  what  it  is  their  definite  aim 
distinctly  to  express.  The  esoteric  in 
their  work  is  a  matter  not  of  art,  but 
of  science ;  it  does  not  reside  in  the 
point  of  view,  but  in  the  process. 

All  artistic  accomplishment  divides 
itself  naturally,  easily,  and  satisfac- 
torily, however  loosely,  into  the  two 
categories,  moral  and  material.  The 
two  certainly  overlap,  and  this  is  par- 
ticularly true  of  the  plastic  arts,  the 
peculiarity  of  which  is  to  appeal  to  the 
senses  as  well  as  to  the  mind.  A  cer- 
tain technic,  therefore, — that  is  to  say, 
the  science  of  their  material  side. — ^is 
always  to  be  borne  in  mind.  But  a  far 
less  elaborate  acquaintance  with  this 
than  is  vital  to  the  practitioner  is  am- 
ple for  the  critic,  who  may,  in  fact, 
easily  have  too  much  of  it,  if  he  have 
any  inclination  to  exploit  rather  than 
subordinate  it.  The  artist  who  exacts- 
more  technical  expertness  from  the 
critic  than  he  finds,  is  frequently  look- 
ing in  criticism  for  what  it  is  the  prov- 
ince of  the  studio  to  provide:  he  re- 
quires of  it  the  educational  character 
proper  to  the  class-room  or  the  quali- 
fications pertinent  to  the  hanging-com- 
mittee.    Millet,  who  refused  to  write 


about  a  fellow-painter's  work  for  the 
precise  reason  that  he  was  a  painter 
himself,  and  therefore  partial  to  his 
own  different  way  of  handling  the 
subject,  was  a  practitioner  of  excep- 
tional breadth  of  view,  and  would 
perhaps  have  agreed  with  Aristotle, 
who,  as  Montaigne  says,  *'will  still 
have  a  hand  in  everything,"  and  who 
asserts  that  the  proper  judge  of  the 
tiller  is  not  the  carpenter,  but  the 
helmsman.  Indeed,  'The  wearer  knows 
where  the  shoe  pinches"  is  as  sound  a 
maxim  as  ''Ne  sutor  ultra  crepidant," 
and  the  authority  of  the  latter  itself 
may  be  invoked  in  favor  of  leaving 
criticism  to  critics. 

It  is  true  that  we  have  in  America — 
possibly  in  virtue  of  our  inevitable 
eclecticism — sl  considerable  number  of 
practising  artists  who  also  write  dis- 
tinguished criticism.  But  to  ascribe  its 
excellence  to  their  technical  expertness 
rather  than  to  their  critical  faculty 
would  really  be  doing  an  injustice  to 
the  felicity  with  which  they  subordi- 
nate in  their  criticism  all  technical 
parade  beyond  that  which  is  certainly 
too  elementary  to  be  considered  eso- 
teric. As  a  rule,  indeed,  I  think  they 
rather  help  than  hinder  the  contention 
that  criticism  is  a  special  province  of 
literature,  with,  in  fact,  a  technic  of  its 
own  in  which  they  show  real  expert- 
ness, instead  of  a  literary  adjunct  of 
the  special  art  with  which  it  is  vari- 
ously called  upon  to  concern  itself. 
And  in  this  special  province,  material 
data  are  far  less  considerable  than 
moral,  with  which  latter,  accordingly, 
it  is  the  special  function  of  criticism 
to  deal.  Every  one  is  familiar  with 
plastic  works  of  a  perfection  that  all 
the  technical  talk  in  the  world  would 
not  explain,  as  no  amount  of  technical 
expertness  could  compass  it.  However 
young  the  artist  might  begin  to  draw 
or  model  or  design,  whatever  masters 
he  might  have  had,  however  long  he 
might  have  practised  his  art,  whatever 
his  skill,  native  or  acquired,  whatever 
his  professional  expertness,  in  a  word, 


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CRITICISM 


U 


no  artist  could  have  achieved  the  par- 
ticular result  in  question  without  those 
qualities  which  have  controlled  the  re- 
sult and  which  it  is  the  function  of 
criticism  to  signalize,  as  it  is  the  weak- 
ness of  expert  evaluation  to  neglect. 

Criticism,  thus,  may  not  inexactly  be 
described  as  the  statement  of  the  con- 
crete in  terms  of  the  abstract.  It  is  its 
function  to  discern  and  characterize 
the  abstract  qualities  informing  the 
concrete  expression  of  the  artist. 
Every  important  piece  of  literature,  as 
every  important  work  of  plastic  art,  is 
the  expression  of  a  personality,  and  it 
is  not  the  material  of  it,  but  the  mind 
behind  it,  that  invites  critical  interpre- 
tation. As  it  is  the  qualities  of  the 
writer,  painter,  sculptor,  and  not  the 
properties  of  their  productions  that  are 
his  central  concern,  as  his  fimction  is 
to  disengage  the  moral  value  from  its 
material  expression, — I  do  not  mean 
of  course  in  merely  major  matters,  but 
in  minutiae  as  well,  such  as  even  the 
lilt  of  a  verse  or  the  drawing  of  a 
wrist,  the  distinction  being  one  of  kind, 
not  of  rank, — qualities,  not  properties, 
are  the  very  substance,  and  not  merely 
the  subject,  of  the  critic's  own  expres- 
sion. The  true  objects  of  his  contem- 
plation are  the  multifarious  elements 
of  truth,  beauty,  goodness,  and  their 
approximations  and  antipodes,  under- 
lying the  various  phenomena  which  ex- 
press them,  rather  than  the  laws  and 
rules  peculiar  to  each  form  of  phe- 
nomena) expression,  which,  beyond  ac- 
quiring the  familiarity  needful  for 
adequate  appreciation,  he  may  leave  to 
the  professional  didacticism  of  each. 
And  in  thus  confining  itself  to  the  art, 
and  eschewing  the  science  of  whatever 
forms  its  subject, — mindful  mainly  of 
no  science,  indeed,  except  its  own, — 
criticism  is  enabled  to  extend  its  field 
in  restricting  its  function,  and  form  a 
distinct  province  of  literature,  in  re- 
linquishing encroachments  upon  the 
territory  of  more  exclusively  construc- 
tive art.  Of  course  thus  individualiz- 
ing the  field  and  the  function  of  criti- 


cism neither  •  predicates  universal  ca- 
pacity in,  nor  prescribes  tmiversal 
practice  to,  the  individual  critic,  who, 
however,  will  specialize  all  the  more 
usefully  for  realizing  that  both  his  field 
and  his  function  are  themselves  as 
special  as  his  faculty  is  universally 
acknowledged  to  be. 

II 

The  critic's  equipment,  consequently, 
should  be  at  least  commensurate  with 
the  field  implied  by  this  view  of  his 
function.  But  it  should  really  even  ex- 
ceed it  on  the  well-known  principle 
that  no  one  knows  his  subject  who 
knows  his  subject  alone.  And  this 
implies  for  criticism  the  possession  of 
that  cognate  culture  without  which 
specific  erudition  produces  a  rather 
lean  result.  If,  which  is  doubtful,  it 
achieves  rectitude,  it  misses  richness. 
The  mere  function  of  examining  and 
estimation  can  hardly  be  correctly  con- 
ducted without  illumination  from  the 
side-lights  of  culture.  But  certainly  if 
criticism  is  to  have  itself  any  opulence 
and  amplitude,  any  body  and  energy, 
it  must  bring  to  its  specific  business  a 
supplementary  fund  of  its  own. 

Obviously,  therefore,  that  general 
culture  which  is  a  prerequisite  to  any 
philosophy  of  life  is  a  necessity  of  the 
critic's  equipment,  without  which  he 
can  neither  estimate  his  subject  aright 
nor  significantly  enrich  his  treatment 
to  the  end  of  producing  what  consti- 
tutes literature  in  its  turn,  an  ideal 
which,  as  I  have  already  intimated,  ex- 
hibits the  insufficiency  of  what  is 
known  as  expert  criticism.  And  of  this 
general  culture,  I  should  call  the  chief 
constituents  history,  philosophy,  and 
esthetics.  "The  most  profitable  thing 
in  the  world  for  the  institution  of  hu- 
man life  is  history,"  says  Froissart, 
and  the  importance  of  history  to  any 
criticism  which  envisages  life  as  well 
as  art  and  letters  certainly  needs  no 
more  than  mention.  Nor  can  a  modi- 
cum of  philosophic  training  be  consid- 
ered superfluous  in  a  matter  so  explic- 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


itly  involving  the   discussion  of   prin- 
ciples as  well  as  of  data. 

Esthetics,  however,  in  their  broader 
aspect  may  be  especially  commended 
to  even  the  purely  literary  critic  as  an 
important  part  of  his  ideal  equip- 
ment at  the  present  day.  They  consti- 
tute an  element  of  cognate  culture 
which  imposes  itself  more  and  more, 
and  literary  critics  who  deem  them 
negligible  are  no  doubt  becoming  fewer 
and  fewer.  No  one  could  maintain 
their  parity  with  history  as  such  an 
element,  I  think,  for  the  reason  that 
they  deal  with  a  more  restricted  field. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  extent  rather 
than  the  particularity  of  this  field  is 
now  increasingly  perceived,  and  the 
prodigious  part  played  by  the  plastic  in 
the  history  of  human  expression  is  re- 
ceiving a  recognition  long  overdue.  I 
remember  once  many  years  ago  a  num- 
ber of  us  were  wasting  time  in  playing 
one  of  those  games  dear  to  the  desul- 
tory, consisting  of  making  lists  of  the 
world's  greatest  men.  We  had  dis- 
cussed and  accredited  perhaps  a  dozen, 
when  Homer  Martin,  being  asked  to 
contribute,  exclaimed,  "Well,  I  think 
it  's  about  time  to  put  in  an  artist  or 
two."  The  list  was  revised,  but  less 
radically,  I  imagine,  than  it  would  be 
to-day.  In  France  to-day  no  literary 
critic  with  a  tithe  of  Sainte-Beuve's 
authority  would  be  likely  to  incur  the 
genuine  compassion  expressed  for 
Sainte-Beuve  when  he  ventured  to  talk 
about  art  by  the  Goncourts  in  their 
candid  diary.  In  England  such  a  critic 
as  Pater  probably  owes  his  reputation 
quite  as  much  to  his  sense  for  the  plas- 
tic as  to  his  Platonism.  In  Germany, 
doubtless,  the  importance  of  esthetics 
as  a  constituent  of  general  culture  has 
been  generally  felt  since  Lessing's  time, 
and  could  hardly  fail  of  universal 
recognition  in  the  shadow  of  Goethe. 
With  us  in  America  progress  in  this 
very  vital  respect  has  notoriously  been 
slower,  and  it  is  not  uncommon  to  find 
literary  critics  who  evince  or  even  pro- 
fess an  ignorance  of  art  more  or  less 


consciously  considered  by  them  a  mark 
of  more  concentrated  literary  serious- 
ness. And  if  an  academy  of  art  and 
letters  shoqld  contribute  in  the  least 
to  remove  this  misconception,  it  would 
disclose  one  raison-d' etre  and  justify 
its  modest  pretensions. 

For  so  far  as  criticism  is  concerned 
with  the  esthetic  element,  the  element  of 
beauty,  in  literature  a  knowledge  of  es- 
thetic history  and  philosophy,  theory 
and  practice,  serves  it  with  almost  self- 
evident  pertinence.  The  principles  of 
art  and  letters  being  largely  identical, 
esthetic  knowledge  in  the  discussion  of 
belles-lettres  answers  very  much  the 
purpose  of  a  diagram  in  a  demonstra- 
tion. In  virtue  of  it  the  critic  may 
transpose  his  theme  into  a  plastic  key, 
as  it  were,  and  thus  get  nearer  to  its 
essential  artistic  quality  by  looking  be- 
yond the  limitations  of  its  proper  tech- 
nic.  Similarly  useful  the  art  critic  of 
any  distinction  has  always  found  lite- 
rary culture,  and  if  this  has  led  him 
sometimes  to  overdo  the  matter,  it  has 
been  due  not  to  his  knowledge  of  litera- 
ture, but  to  his  ignorance  of  art.  But 
this  ignorance  is  measurably  as  inca- 
pacitating to  the  critic  of  belles-lettres, 
whose  ability  to  deal  with  the  plastic 
that  can  only  be  felt  must  manifestly  be 
immensely  aided  by  an  education  in  the 
plastic  that  can  be  seen  as  well.  And 
for  the  critic  of  thought  as  well  as  of 
expression,  the  critic  who  deals  with 
the  relations  of  letters  to  life,  the  cul- 
ture that  is  artistic  as  well  as  literary, 
has  the  value  inherent  in  acquaintance 
with  the  history  and  practice  of  one  of 
the  most  influential,  inspiring,  and  illu- 
minating fields  that  the  human  spirit 
has  cultivated  almost  from  the  begin- 
ning of  time. 

Examples  in  abundance  fortify  the 
inherent  reasonableness  of  this  general 
claim  for  what  I  have  called  cognate 
culture.  The  "cases'*  confirm  the 
theory,  which  of  course  otherwise  they 
would  confute.  The  three  great  mod- 
ern critics  of  France  show  each  in  his 
own  way  the  value  of  culture  in  the 


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critical  equipment.  Sainte-Beuve's  criti- 
cism is  what  it  is  largely  because  of  his 
saturation  with  literature  in  general, 
not  belles-lettres  exclusively,  of  the 
sensitiveness  and  severity  of  taste  thus 
acquired,  or  at  least  certified  and  in- 
vigorated, and  of  the  instinctive  ease 
and  almost  scientific  precision  with 
which  he  was  thus  enabled  to  apply  in 
his  own  art  that  comparative  method 
already  established  in  the  scientific 
study  of  linguistics  and  literary  history. 
Moreover,  the  range  within  which  his 
exquisite  critical  faculty  operated  so 
felicitously  acquired  an  extension  of 
dignity  and  authoritativeness  quite  be- 
yond the  reach  of  belles-lettres  in  the 
production  of  his  massive  and  monu- 
mental history  of  Port  Royal.  His  cul- 
ture, in  a  word,  as  well  as  his  native 
bent,  was  such  as  considerably  to  ob- 
scure the  significance  of  his  having 
"failed"  in  early  experimentation  as  a 
novelist  and  as  a  poet. 

How  predominant  the  strain  of 
scholarship  and  philosophic  training 
is  in  the  criticism  of  Taine  it  is  super- 
fluous to  point  out;  the  belletristic 
fanatics  have  been  so  tireless  in  its  dis- 
paragement that  at  the  present  time, 
probably,  his  chief  quality  is  popularly 
esteemed  his  characteristic  defect.  But 
the  apt  consideration  for  our  present 
purpose  is  the  notable  service  which  his 
philosophy  and  history  have  rendered 
a  remarkable  body  of  criticism  both 
esthetic  and  literary,  not  the  occasional 
way  in  which  they  invalidate  its  con- 
clusiveness. Almost  all  histories  of 
English  literature  seem  inconsecutive 
and  desultory  or  else  congested  and 
casual  compared  with  Taine's  great 
work,  whose  misappreciations,  as  I  say, 
correct  themselves  for  us,  but  whose 
stimulus  remains  exhaustless.  And  one 
may  say  that  he  has  established  the 
criticism  of  art  on  its  present  basis. 
The  "Lectures"  and  the  "Travels  in 
Italy"  first  vitally  connected  art  with 
life,  and  demonstrated  its  title  by  recog- 
nizing it  as  an  expression  rather  than 
as   an   exercise.     Certainly   the   latter 


phase  demands  interpretative  treatment 
also,  and  it  would  be  idle  to  ignore  in 
Taine  a  lack  of  the  sensuous  sensitive- 
ness that  gives  to  Fromentin's  slender 
volume  so  much  more  than  a  purely 
technical  interest.  Just  as  it  would  be 
to  look  in  him  for  the  exquisite  appre- 
ciation of  personal  idios)mcrasy  pos- 
sessed by  Sainte-Beuve.  But  in  his 
treatment  of  art,  as  well  as  of  litera- 
ture, the  philosophic  structure  around 
which  he  masses  and  distributes  his  de- 
tail is  of  a  stability  and  significance  of 
design  that  amply  atone  for  the  mis- 
application or  misunderstanding  o£ 
some  of  the  detail  itself. 

Another  instance  of  the  value  of  cul- 
ture in  fields  outside  strictly  literary 
and  esthetic  confines,  though,  as  I  am 
contending,  strictly  cognate  to  them,  is 
furnished  by  the  essays  of  Edmond' 
Scherer.  To  the  comparative,  per- 
sonal, and  circumstantial  judgments  of 
Sainte-Beuve,  to  the  systematic  his* 
torical  and  evolutionary  theory  o£ 
Taine,  there  succeeded  in  Scherer  the 
point  of  view  suggested  rather  than 
defined  in  the  statement  of  Rod,  to  the 
eflfect  that  Scherer  judged  not  with  his 
intelligence,  but  with  his  character. 
Rod  meant  his  epigram  as  a  eulogy. 
Professor  Saintsbury  esteems  it  a  be- 
trayal, his  own  theory  of  criticism 
being  of  the  art-for-art's-sake  order, 
finding  its  justification  in  that  "it  helps 
the  ear  to  listen  when  the  horns  of  Elf- 
land  blow,"  and  denying  to  it,  or  to 
what  he  calls  "pure  literature,"  any  but 
hedonistic  sanctions — ^piquant  philoso- 
phy, one  may  remark,  for  a  connoisseur 
without  a  palate.  Character,  at  all 
events,  forms  a  signal  element  in  the 
judgments  of  Scherer's  austere  and 
elevated  criticism,  and  if  it  made  him 
exacting  in  the  presence  of  the  frivol- 
ous, the  irresponsible,  and  the  insincere, 
and  limited  his  responsiveness  to  the 
comic  spirit,  as  it  certainly  did  in  the 
case  of  Moliere,  it  undoubtedly  made 
his  reprehensions  significant  and  his 
admirations  authoritative.  He  began 
his  career,  you  remember,  as  a  pasteur^ 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


and  though  he  gradually  reached  an 
agnostic  position  in  theology,  he  had 
had  an  experience  in  itself  a  guarantee, 
in  a  mind  of  his  intelligence,  of  spiritu- 
ality and  high  seriousness  in  dealing 
with  literary  subjects,  and  as  absent 
from  Sainte-Beuve's  objectivity  as  it  is 
from  Taine's  materialistic  determinism. 
Without  Renan's  sinuous  charm  and 
truly  catholic  open-mindedness,  this 
Protestant-trained  theologian  turned 
critic  brings  to  criticism  not  merely  the 
sinews  of  spiritual  centrality  and  per- 
sonal independence,  but  a  philosophic 
depth  and  expertness  in  reasoning  that 
set  him  quite  apart  from  his  congeners, 
and  establish  for  him  a  unique  position 
in  French  literature.  Criticism  has 
never  reached  a  higher  plane  in  litera- 
ture conceived  as,  in  Carlyle's  words, 
'The  Thought  of  Thinking  Souls,"  and 
it  holds  it  not  only  in  virtue  of  a  na- 
tive ideality  and  a  perceptive  penetra- 
tion that  atone  in  soundness  for  what- 
ever they  may  lack  in  plasticity,  but 
also,  it  is  not  to  be  doubted,  in  virtue 
of  the  severe  and  ratiocinative  culture 
for  which  Geneva  has  stood  for  cen- 


luries. 


Ill 


Its  equipment  established,  criticism 
calls  for  a  criterion.  Sainte-Beuve  says 
somewhere  that  our  liking  anything  is 
not  enough ;  that  it  is  necessary  to  know 
further  whether  we  are  right  in  liking 
it— one  of  his  many  utterances  that 
show  how  thoroughly  and  in  what  clas- 
sic spirit  he  later  rationalized  his  early 
romanticism.  The  remark  judges  in 
advance  the  current  critical  impres- 
sionism. It  involves  more  than  the 
implication  of  Mr.  Vedder's  well- 
known  retort  to  the  time-honored  phil- 
istine  boast,  "I  know  nothing  of  art, 
but  I  know  what  I  like,"  "So  do  the 
leasts  of  the  field."  Critical  impres- 
sionism, intelligent  and  scholarly,  such 
as  that  illustrated  and  advocated  by  M. 
Jules  Lemaitre  and  M.  Anatole  France, 
for  example,  though  it  may,  I  think,  be 
strictly  defined  as  appetite,  has  certain- 


ly nothing  gross  about  it,  but,  contrari- 
wise, everything  that  is  refined.  Its 
position  is,  in  fact,  that  soundness  of 
criticism  varies  directly  with  the  fas- 
tidiousness of  the  critic,  and  that  con- 
sequently this  fastidiousness  cannot  be 
too  highly  cultivated,  since  it  is  the 
court  of  final  jurisdiction.  It  is,  how- 
ever, a  court  which  resembles  rather  a 
star  chamber,  in  having  the  peculiarity 
of  giving  no  reasons  for  its  decisions. 
It  has  therefore  at  the  outset  an  ob- 
vious disadvantage  in  the  impossibility 
of  validating  its  decisions  for  the  ac- 
ceptance of  others.  So  far  as  this  is 
concerned,  it  can  only  say,  "If  you  are 
as  well  endowed  with  taste,  native  and 
acquired,  as  I  am,  the  chances  are  that 
you  will  feel  in  the  same  way."  But  it 
is  of  the  tolerant  essence  of  impres- 
sionism to  acknowledge  that  there  is 
no  certainty  about  the  matter.  And  in 
truth  the  material  to  be  judged  is  too 
multifarious  for  the  criterion  of  taste. 
The  very  fact  that  so  much  matter  for 
criticism  still  remains  matter  of  contro- 
•  ersy  proves  the  proverb  that  tastes 
diflFer,  and  the  corollary  that  there  is 
no  use  in  disputing  about  them.  It  is 
quite  probable  that  M.  France  would 
find  M.  Lemaitre's  plays  and  stories 
insipid,  and  quite  certain  that  M.  Le- 
maitre would  shrink  from  the  strain  of 
salacity  in  M.  France's  romance.  High 
diflFerentiation  and  the  acme  of  aristo- 
cratic fastidiousness,  which  both  of 
these  writers  illustrate,  manifestly  do 
not  serve  to  unify  their  taste.  An  ap- 
peal to  taste  as  a  universal  arbiter  is 
vain,  since  there  is  no  universal  taste. 
And  criticism,  to  be  convincing,  must 
appeal  to  some  accepted  standard.  And 
the  aim  of  criticism  is  conviction. 
Otherwise  actuated,  it  must  be  pursued 
on  the  art-for-art  theory,  which,  in  its 
case,  at  least,  would  involve  a  loss  of 
identity. 

Feeling  the  unsatisfactoriness  of  the 
impressionist's  irresponsibility,  the  late 
Ferdinand  Bruneti^re  undertook  a 
campaign  in  opposition  to  it.  He  be- 
gan it,   if   I   remember  aright,   in  his 


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lectures  in  this  country  a  dozen  years 
ago.  These  lectures,  however,  and  the 
course  of  polemics  which  followed  them 
excelled  particularly,  I  think,  in  at- 
tack. They  contained  some  very  eflFec- 
tive  destructive  criticism  of  mere  per- 
sonal preference,  no  matter  whose,  as 
a  final  critical  criterion.  Constructively, 
on  the  other  hand,  Brunetiere  was  less 
convincing.  In  a  positive  way  he  had 
nothing  to  offer  but  a  defence  of  aca- 
demic standards.  He  harked  back  to 
the  classic  canon — that  canon  in  ac- 
cordance with  which  were  produced 
those  works  designed,  as  Stendhal  says, 
"to  give  the  utmost  possible  pleasure 
to  our  great-grandfathers."  Whereas 
criticism  is  a  live  art,  and  contempo- 
raneousness is  of  its  essence.  Once 
codified,  it  releases  the  genuine  critic 
to  conceive  new  combinations, — ^the 
'*new  duties*'  taught  by  "new  occa- 
sions,"— ^and  becomes  itself  either  ele- 
mentary or  obsolete.  Whatever  our 
view  of  criticism,  it  is  impossible  at 
the  present  day  to  conceive  it  as  for- 
mula, and  the  rigidity  of  rules  of  taste 
is  less  acceptable  than  the  license  per- 
mitted under  the  reign  of  taste  unreg- 
ulated, however  irregular,  individual, 
and  irresponsible.  In  spite  of  the 
logical  weakness  of  the  impressionist 
theory,  it  is  to  be  observed  that  a  high 
level  of  taste  uniform  enough  to  consti- 
tute a  very  serviceable  arbiter  is  practi- 
cally attainable,  and,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  is,  in  France  at  least,  often  at- 
tained. 

For  in  criticism,  as  elsewhere,  it  is 
true  that  we  rest  finally  upon  instinct, 
and  faith  underlies  reason.  The  im- 
pressionist may  properly  remind  us 
that  all  proof,  even  Euclidian,  proceeds 
upon  postulates.  The  postulates  of 
criticism,  however,  are  apt  unsatisfac- 
torily to  differ  from  those  of  mathe- 
matics in  being  propositions  taken  for 
granted  rather  than  self-evident.  The 
distinction  is  radical.  It  is  not  the  fact 
that  everybody  is  agreed  about  them 
that  gives  axioms  their  validity,  but 
their    self-evidence.     Postulates    that 


depend  on  the  sanction  of  imiversal 
agreem^t,  on  the  other  hand,  are  con- 
ventions. Even  sound  intuitiops,  fun- 
<iamental  as  they  may  be,  do  not  take 
us  very  far.  Pascal,  who,  though  one 
of  the  greatest  of  reasoners,  is  always 
girding  at  reason,  was  obliged  to  admit 
that  it  does  the  overwhelming  bulk  of 
the  work.  "Would  to  God,"  he  ex- 
claims, "that  we  had  never  any  need 
of  it,  and  knew  everything  by  instinct 
and  sentiment !  But  Nature  has  refused 
us  this  blessing;  she  has,  on  the  con- 
trary, given  us  but  very  little  knowl- 
edge of  this  kind,  and  all  other  knowl- 
edge can  be  acquired  only  by  reason- 
ing." But  if  intuitions  had  all  the 
importance  claimed  for  them,  it  would 
still  be  true  that  conventions  are  ex- 
tremely likely  to  be  disintegrated  by 
the  mere  lapse  of  time  into  what  every 
one  sees  to  have  been  really  inductions 
from  practice  become  temporarily  and 
more  or  less  fortuitously  general,  and 
not  genuine  intuitive  postulates  at  all. 

So  that,  in  brief,  when  the  impres- 
sionist alleges  that  a  correct  judgment 
of  a  work  of  literature  or  art  depends 
ultimately  upon  feeling,  we  are  quite 
justified  in  requiring  him  to  tell  us  why 
he  feels  as  he  does  about  it.  It  is  not 
enough  for  him  to  say  that  he  is  a 
person  of  particularly  sensitive  and 
sound  organization,  and  that  his  feel- 
ing, therefore,  has  a  corresponding 
finality.  In  the  first  place,  as  I  have 
already  intimated,  it  is  impossible  to 
find  in  the  judgments  derived  from 
pure  taste  anything  like  the  uniformity 
to  be  found  in  the  equipments  as  re- 
e^ards  taste  of  the  judges  themselves. 
But  for  all  their  fastidiousness,  they 
are  as  amenable  as  grosser  spirits  to 
the  test  of  reason.  And  it  is  only 
rational  that  the  first  question  asked  of 
them  when  they  appeal  to  the  arbitra- 
ment of  feeling  should  be,  Is  your 
feeling  the  result  of  direct  intuitive 
perception  or  of  unconscious  subscrip- 
tion to  convention  ?  Your  true  distinc- 
tion from  the  beasts  of  the  field  surely 
should  be  not  so  much  in  your  superior 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


organization  resulting  in  superior  taste, 
as  in  freedom  from  the  conventional, 
to  which  even  in  their  appetites  the 
beasts  of  the  field,  often  extremely 
fastidious  in  point  of  taste,  are  never- 
tlieless  notoriously  enslaved.  In  a  word, 
even  though  impressionism  be  philo- 
sophically sound  in  its  impeachment  of 
reason  unsupported  by  intuitive  taste, 
it  cannot  dethrone  reason  as  an  arbiter 
in  favor  of  the  taste  that  is  not  intui- 
tive, but  conventional.  The  true  cri- 
terion of  criticism,  therefore,  is  to  be 
found  only  in  the  rationalizing  of  taste. 

There  is  nothing  truistic  at  the  pres- 
ent time  in  celebrating  the  thinking 
power,  counseling  its  cultivation  and 
advocating  its  application,  at  least  with- 
in the  confines  of  criticism  where  the 
sensorium  has  decidedly  supplanted  it 
in  consideration.  Nor,  on  the  other 
hand,  is  there  anything  recondite  in  so 
doing.  It  is  as  true  as  it  used  to  be 
remembered,  that  it  is  in  "reason"  that 
a  man  is  "noble,"  in  "faculty"  that  he  is 
"infinite,"  in  "apprehension"  that  he  is 
"like  a  god."  The  importance  of  his 
exquisite  sensitiveness  to  impressions 
is  a  post-Shaksperian  discovery. 

In  America  I  think  our  star  exam- 
ples illustrate  the  soundness  of  the  ra- 
tional rather  than  the  impressionist 
standard,  and  point  the  pertinence  of  its 
recommendation  to  those  who  have  per- 
haps an  idea  that  it  died  with  Macaulay 
and  is  as  defunct  as  Johnson,  having 
given  place  to  that  which  perhaps  dis- 
counts its  prejudices,  but  plainly  ca- 
resses its  predilections  as  warrant  of 
^'insight"  and  "sympathy."  Certainly 
American  literature  has  one  critic  who 
so  definitely  illustrated  the  value  of  the 
thinking  power  in  criticism  that  he  may 
be  said  almost  to  personify  the  princi- 
ple of  critical  ratiocination,  I  mean 
Poe.  Poe's  reasons  were  not  the 
result  of  reflection,  and  his  ideas  were 
often  the  "crotchets"  Stedman  calls 
them,  but  he  was  eminently  prolific  in 
both,  and  his  handling  of  them  was  ex- 
oertness  itself.  His  ratiocination  here 
has  the  artistic  interest  it  had  in  those 


of  his  tales  that  are  based  on  it,  and 
that  are  imaginative,  as  mathematics 
are  imaginative.  And  his  dogmas  were 
no  more  conventions  than  his  conclu- 
sions were  impressions.  His  criticism 
was  equally* removed  from  the  canoni- 
cal and  the  latitudinarian.  If  he  stated 
a  proposition,  he  essayed  to  demon- 
strate it;  and  if  he  expressed  a  pref- 
erence, he  told  why  he  had  it. 

The  epicurean  test  of  the  impression- 
ist, let  nie  repeat,  is  of  course  not  a 
standard,  since  what  gives  pleasure  to 
some  gives  none  to  others.  And  some 
standard  is  a  necessary  postulate  not 
only  of  all  criticism,  but  of  all  discus- 
sion or  even  discourse.  Without  one, 
art  must  indeed  be  "received  in  si- 
lence," as  recommended  by  the  taciturn 
Whistler.  In  literature  and  art  there 
are,  it  is  true,  no  longer  any  statutes; 
but  the  common  law  of  principles  is  as 
applicable  as  ever,  and  it  behooves  criti- 
cism to  interpret  the  cases  that  come 
before  it  in  the  light  of  these.  Its  func- 
tion is  judicial,  and  its  business  to 
weigh  and  reason  rather  than  merely  to 
testify  and  record.  And  if  it  belongs 
in  the  field  df  reason  rather  than  in  that 
of  emotion,  it  must  consider  less  the 
pleasure  that  a  work  of  art  produces 
than  the  worth  of  the  work  itself.  This 
is  a  commonplace  in  ethics,  where  con- 
duct is  not  approved  by  its  happy  re- 
sult, but  by  its  spiritual  worthiness. 
And  if  art  and  literature  were  felt  to 
be  as  important  as  ethics,  the  same  dis- 
tinction would  doubtless  have  become 
as  universal  in  literary  and  art  criti- 
cism. Which  is  of  course  only  another 
way  of  stating  Sainte-Beuve's  conten- 
tion that  we  need  to  know  whether  we 
are  right  or  not  when  we  are  pleased. 
And  the  only  guide  to  this  knowledge, 
beyond  the  culture  which  however  im- 
mensely it  may  aid  us,  does  not  auto- 
matically produce  conformity  or  secure 
conviction,  is  the  criterion  of  reason 
applied  to  the  work  of  ascertaining 
value  apart  from  mere  attractiveness. 
The  attractiveness  will  take  care  of  it- 


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CRITICISM 


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self,  as  happiness  does  when  we  have 
done  our  duty. 

Finally, — ^and  if  I  have  hitherto 
elaborated  to  excess,  here  I  need  not 
elaborate  at  all, — no  other  than  a  ra- 
tional criterion  so  well  serves  criticism 
in  the  most  important  of  all  its  func- 
tions— that  of  establishing  and  deter- 
mining the  relation  of  art  and  letters  to 
the  life  that  is  their  substance  and  their 
subject  as  well. 

IV 

And  a  rational  criterion  implies  a 
constructive  method.  In  itself  analysis 
reaches  no  conclusion,  which  is  the  end 
and  aim  of  reason.  Invaluable  as  is  its 
service  in  detail,  some  rational  ideal 
must  underlie  its  processes ;  and  if  these 
are  to  be  fruitful,  they  must  determine 
the  relations  of  the  matter  in  hand  to 
this  ideal,  and  even  in  dissection  con- 
tribute to  the  synthesis  that  constitutes 
the  essence  of  every  work  of  any  in- 
dividuality. A  work  of  criticism  is  in 
fact  as  much  a  thesis  as  its  theme,  and 
the  same  thematic  treatment  is  to  be 
exacted  of  it.  And  considered  in  this 
way  as  a  thesis,  its  unity  is  to  be  se- 
cured only  by  the  development  in  de- 
tail of  some  central  conception  prelim- 
inarily established  and  constantly  re- 
ferred to,  however  arrived  at,  whether 
by  intuition  or  analysis.  The  detail  thus 
treated  becomes  truly  contributive  and 
constructive  in  a  way  open  to  no  other 
method.  We  may  say,  indeed,  that  all 
criticism  of  real  moment,  even  impres- 
sionist criticism,  has  this  synthetic  as- 
pect at  least,  as  otherwise  it  must  lack 
even  the  appearance  of  that  organic 
quality  necessary  to  effectiveness.  And 
when  we  read  some  very  interesting 
and  distinguished  criticism, — such  as 
the  agglutinate  and  amorphous  essays 
of  Lowell,  for  example, — and  compare 
it  with  concentric  and  constructive 
work, — such  as  par  excellence  that  of 
Arnold, — ^we  can  readily  see  that  its 
failure  in  force  is  one  of  method  as 
well  as  of  faculty. 

It  is  true  that  the  monument  which 


Sainte-Beuve's  critical  essays  constitute 
is,  in  spite  of  their  disproportionate 
analysis,  far  otherwise  considerable 
than  the  fascinating  historical  and  evo- 
lutionary frame-work  within  which 
Taine's  brilliant  synthesis  so  hypnotizes 
our  critical  faculty.  But  in  detail  it 
is  itself  markedly  synthetic,  showing  in 
general  at  the  same  time  that  the  wiser 
business  of  criticism  is  to  occupy  itself 
with  examples,  not  with  theories.  For 
with  examples  we  have  the  unity 
"given" ;  it  is  actual,  not  problematical. 
And  in  criticism  of  the  larger  kind,  as 
distinct  from  mere  reviewing  or  expert 
commentary,  by  examples  we  mean, 
virtually,  and  excluding  topics  of 
more  comprehensive  scope,  personali- 
ties. That  is  to  say,  not  "Don  Juan," 
but  Byron;  not  the  Choral  Symphony, 
but  Beethoven.  I  mean,  of  course,  so 
far  as  personality  is  expressed  in  work, 
and  do  not  suggest  invasion  of  the  field 
of  biography,  except  to  tact  commensu- 
rable with  that  which  so  notably  served 
Sainte-Beuve.  There  is  here  ample 
scope  for  the  freest  exercise  of  the 
synthetic  method  without  issuing  into 
more  speculative  fields.  For  person- 
ality is  the  most  concrete  and  consistent 
entity  imaginable,  mysteriously  unify- 
ing the  most  varied  and  complicated  at- 
tributes. The  solution  of  this  mystery 
is  the  end  of  critical  research.  To  state 
it  is  the  crown  of  critical  achievement. 
The  critic  may  well  disembarrass  him- 
self of  theoretical  apparatus,  augment 
and  mobilize  his  stock  of  ideas,  sharp- 
en his  faculties  of  penetration,  and  set 
in  order  all  his  constructive  capacity 
before  attacking  such  a  complex  as  any 
personality  worthy  of  attention  at  all 
presents  at  the  very  outset.  If  he  takes 
to  pieces  and  puts  together  again  the 
elements  of  its  composition,  and  in  the 
process  or  in  the  result  conveys  a  cor- 
rect judgment  as  well  as  portrait  of 
the  original  thus  interpreted,  he  has  ac- 
complished the  essentially  critical  part 
of  a  task  demanding  the  exercise  of  all 
his  powers.  And  I  think  he  will  achieve 
the  most  useful  result  in  following  the 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


line  I  have  endeavored  to  trace  in  the 
work  of  the  true  masters  of  this  branch 
of  literature,  the  born  critics  whose 
practice  shows  it  to  be  a  distinctive 
branch  of  literature,  having  a  function, 
an  equipment,  a  standard,  and  a  method 
of  its  own.  For  beyond  denial  criti- 
cism is  itself  an  art  and,  as  many  of  its 
most  successful  products  have  been  en- 
titled ''portraits,"  sustains  a  closer 
analogy  at  its  best  with  plastic  portrait- 
ure than  with  such  pursuits  as  history 
and  philosophy,  which  seek  system 
through  science.  One  of  Sainte- 
Beuve's  studies  is  as  definitely  a  por- 
trait as  one  of  Holbein's,  and,  on  the 
other  hand,  a  portrait  by  Sargent,  for 
example,  is  only  more  obviously  and 
not  more  really  a  critical  product  than 
are  the  famous  portraits  that  have  in- 
terpreted to  us  the  generations  of  the 
great.  More  exclusively  imaginative 
art  the  critic  must,  it  is  true,  forego. 
He  would  wisely  confine  himself  to 
portraiture  and  eschew  the  panorama. 
In  essaying  a  "School  of  Athens,"  he 
is  apt,  rather,  to  produce  a  "Victory  of 
Constantine."  His  direct  aim  is  truth 
even  in  dealing  with  beauty,  forgetting 
which  his  criticism  is  menaced  with 
transmutation  into  the  kind  of  poetry 


that  one  "drops  into"  rather  than  at- 
tains. 

I  have  dwelt  on  the  esthetic  as  well 
as  the  literary  field  in  the  province  of 
criticism,  and  insisted  on  the  esthetic 
element  as  well  as  the  historic  in  the 
culture  that  criticism  calls  for,  because 
it  is  eminently  pertinent  to  do  so  in 
addressing  the  Academy  and  Institute 
of  Arts  and  Letters.  But  there  is  the 
additional  and  intrinsic  pertinence,  im- 
plied in  the  title  itself  of  these  institu- 
tions, that  in  a  very  true  and  funda- 
mental sense  art  and  letters  are  one. 
They  are  so,  at  all  events,  in  so  far  as 
the  function  of  criticism  is  concerned, 
and  dictate  to  this  the  same  practice. 
Current  philosophy  may  find  a  prag- 
matic sanction  for  a  pluralistic  uni- 
verse, but  in  the  criticism  of  art, 
whether  plastic  or  literary,  we  are  all 
"monists."  The  end  of  our  eflFort  is 
a  true  estimate  of  the  data  encountered 
in  the  search  for  that  beauty  which  from 
Plato  to  Keats  has  been  identified  with 
tiuth,  and  the  highest  service  of  criti- 
cism is  to  secure  that  the  true  and  the 
beautiful,  and  not  the  ugly  and  the 
false,  may  in  wider  and  wider  circles 
of  appreciation  be  esteemed  to  be  the 


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THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  UNFIT 

Reflections  on  the  Doctrine  of  Evolution 

By  Nicholas  Murray  Butler 


There  are  wars  and  rumors  of  wars 
in  a  portion  of  the  territory  occupied 
by  the  doctrine  of  organic  evolution. 
All  is  not  working  smoothly  and  well 
and  according  to  formula.  It  begins  to 
appear  that  those  men  of  science  who, 
having  derived  the  doctrine  of  organic 
evolution  in  its  modem  form  from  ob- 
servations on  earthworms,  on  climb- 
ing-plants, and  on  brightly  colored 
birds,  and  who  then  straightway  ap- 
plied it  blithely  to  man  and  his  affairs, 
have  made  enemies  of  no  small  part  of 
the  human  race. 

It  was  all  well  enough  to  treat  some 
earthworms,  some  climbing-plants,  and 
some  brightly  colored  birds  as  fit,  and 
others  as  unfit,  to  survive;  but  when 
this  distinction  is  extended  over  human 
beings  and  their  economic,  social,  and 
political  affairs,  there  is  a  general 
pricking-up  of  ears.  The  consciously 
fit  look  down  on  the  resulting  discus- 
sions with  complacent  scorn.  The 
consciously  unfit  rage  and  roar 
loudly;  while  the  unconsciously  unfit 
bestir  themselves  mightily  to  overturn 
the  whole  theory  upon  which  the  dis- 
tinction between  fitness  and  unfitness 
rests.  If  any  law  of  nature  makes  eo 
absurd  a  distinction  as  that,  then  the 
offending  and  obnoxious  law  must  be 
repealed,  and  that  quickly. 

The  trouble  appears  to  arise  primar- 
ily from  the  fact  that  man  does  not 
like  what  may  be  termed  his  evolution- 
ary poor  relations.  He  is  willing  enough 
to  read  about  earthworms  and  climb- 
ing-plants and  brightly  colored  birds, 
but  he  does  not  want  nature  to  be  mak- 
ing leaps  from  any  of  these  to  him. 


The  earthworm,  which,  not  being 
adapted  to  its  surroundings,  soon  dies 
unhonored  and  unsung,  passes  peace- 
fully out  of  life  without  either  a  coro- 
ner's inquest,  an  indictment  for  earth- 
worm slaughter,  a  legislative  proposal 
for  the  future  protection  of  earth- 
worms, or  even  a  new  society  for  the 
reform  of  the  social  and  economic  state 
of  the  earthworms  that  are  left.  Even 
the  quasi-intelligent  climbing-plant  and 
the  brightly  colored  bird,  humanly 
vain,  find  an  equally  inconspicuous  fate 
awaiting  them.  This  is  the  way  nature 
operates  when  imimpeded  or  unchal- 
lenged by  the  powerful  manifestations 
of  human  revolt  or  human  revenge.  Of 
course  if  man  understood  the  place  as- 
signed to  him  in  nature  by  the  doctrine 
of  organic  evolution  as  well  as  the 
earthworm,  the  climbing-plant,  and  the 
brightly  colored  bird  understand  theirs, 
he,  too,  like  them,  would  submit  to  na- 
ture's processes  and  decrees  without  a 
protest.  As  a  matter  of  logic,  no  doubt 
he  ought  to;  but  after  all  these  centu- 
ries, it  is  still  a  far  cry  from  logic  to 
life. 

In  fact,  man,  unless  he  is  conscious- 
ly and  admittedly  fit,  revolts  against  the 
implication  of  the  doctrine  of  evolu- 
tion, and  objects  both  to  being  consid- 
ered unfit  to  survive  and  succeed,  and 
to  being  forced  to  accept  the  only  fate 
which  nature  offers  to  those  who  are 
unfit  for  survival  and  success.  Indeed, 
he  manifests  with  amazing  pertinacity 
what  Schopenhauer  used  to  call  "the 
will  to  live,"  and  considerations  and  ar- 
guments based  on  adaptability  to  en- 
vironment have  no  weight  with  him.  So 


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22  PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


much  the  worse  for  environment,  he 
cries ;  and  straightway  sets  out  to  prove 
it. 

On  the  other  hand,  those  humans 
who  are  classed  by  the  doctrine  of  evo- 
lution as  fit,  exhibit  a  most  disconcert- 
ing satisfaction  with  things  as  they  are. 
The  fit  make  no  conscious  struggle  for 
existence.  They  do  not  have  to.  Be- 
ing fit,  they  survive  ipso  facto.  Thus 
does  the  doctrine  of  evolution,  like  a 
playful  kitten,  merrily  pursue  its  tail 
with  rapturous  delight.  The  fit  sur- 
vive ;  those  survive  who  are  fit.  Noth- 
ing could  be  more  simple. 

Those  who  are  not  adapted  to  the 
conditions  that  surround  them,  how- 
ever, rebel  against  the  fate  of  the 
earthworm  and  the  climbing-plant  and 
the  brightly  colored  bird,  and  engage 
in  a  conscious  struggle  for  existence 
and  for  success  in  that  existence  despite 
their  inappropriate  environment.  Stat- 
utes can  be  repealed  or  amended ;  why 
not  laws  of  nature  as  well?  Those 
human  beings  who  are  unfit  have,  it 
must  be  admitted,  one  great,  though 
perhaps  temporary,  advantage  over  the 
laws  of  nature ;  for  the  laws  of  nature 
have  not  yet  been  granted  suffrage,  and 
the  organized  unfit  can  always  lead  a 
large  majority  to  the  polls.  So  soon 
as  knowledge  of  this  fact  becomes  com- 
mon property,  the  laws  of  nature  will 
have  a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour  in  more 
countries  than  one. 

The  revolt  of  the  unfit  primarily 
takes  the  form  of  attempts  to  lessen 
and  to  limit  competition,  which  is  in- 
stinctively felt,  and  with  reason,  to  be 
part  of  the  struggle  for  existence  and 
for  success.  The  inequalities  which  na- 
ture makes,  and  without  which  the  proc- 
ess of  evolution  could  not  go  on,  the 
unfit  propose  to  smooth  away  and  to 
wipe  out  by  that  magic  fiat  of  collective 
human  will  called  legislation.  The 
great  struggle  between  the  gods  of 
Olympus  and  the  Titans,  which  the  an- 
cient sculptors  so  loved  to  picture,  was 
child's  play  compared  with  the  strug- 


gle between  the  laws  of  nature  and  the 
laws  of  man  which  the  civilized  world 
is  apparently  soon  to  be  invited  to  wit- 
ness. This  struggle  will  bear  a  little 
examination,  and  it  may  be  that  the  laws 
of  nature,  as  the  doctrine  of  evolution 
conceives  and  states  them,  will  not  have 
everything  their  own  way. 

Professor  Huxley,  whose  orthodoxy 
as  an  evolutionist  will  hardly  be  ques- 
tioned, made  a  suggestion  of  this  kind 
in  his  Romanes  lecture  as  long  ago  as 
1893.  He  called  attention  then  to  the 
fact  that  there  is  a  fallacy  in  the  no- 
tion that  because,  on  the  whole,  animals 
and  plants  have  advanced  in  perfection 
of  organization  by  means  of  the  strug- 
gle for  existence  and  the  consequent 
survival  of  the  fittest,  therefore,  men  as 
social  and  ethical  beings  must  depend 
upon  the  same  process  to  help  them  to 
perfection.  As  Professor  Huxley  sug- 
gests, this  fallacy  doubtless  has  its 
origin  in  the  ambiguity  of  the  phrase 
"survival  of  the  fittest.**  One  jumps 
to  the  conclusion  that  fittest  means  best ; 
whereas,  of  course,  it  has  in  it  no  moral 
element  whatever.  The  doctrine  of 
evolution  uses  the  term  fitness  in  a  hard 
and  stern  sense.  Nothing  more  is 
meant  by  it  than  a  measure  of  adapta- 
tion to  surrounding  conditions.  Into 
this  conception  of  fitness  there  enters 
no  element  of  beauty,  no  element  of 
morality,  no  element  of  progress  toward 
an  ideal.  Fitness  is  a  cold  fact  ascer- 
tainable with  almost  mathematical  cer- 
tainty. 

We  now  begin  to  catch  sight  of  the 
real  significance  of  this  struggle  be- 
tween the  laws  of  nature  and  the  laws 
of  man.  From  one  point  of  view  the 
struggle  is  hopeless  from  the  start; 
from  another  it  is  full  of  promise.  If 
it  be  true  that  man  really  proposes  to 
halt  the  laws  of  nature  by  his  legisla- 
tion, then  the  struggle  is  hopeless.  It 
is  only  a  question  of  time  when  the 
laws  of  nature  will  have  their  way.  If, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  struggle  between 
the  laws  of  nature  and  the  laws  of  man 
is  in  reality  a  mock  struggle,  and  the 


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23 


supposed  combat  merely  an  exhibition 
of  evolutionary  boxing,  then  we  may 
find  a  clue  to  what  is  really  going  on. 

It  might  be  worth  while,  for  exam- 
ple, to  follow  up  the  suggestion  that  in 
looking  back  over  the  whole  series  of 
products  of  organic  evolution,  the  real 
successes  and  permanences  of  life  are 
to  be  foimd  among  those  species  that 
have  been  able  to  institute  something 
like  what  we  call  a  social  system.  Wher- 
e\er  an  individual  insists  upon  treating 
himself  as  an  end  in  himself,  and  all 
other  individuals  as  his  actual  or  po- 
tential  competitors  or  enemies,  then  the 
fate  of  the  earthworm,  the  climbing- 
plant,  and  the  brightly  colored  bird  is 
sure  to  be  his ;  for  he  has  brought  him- 
self under  the  jurisdiction  of  one  of 
nature's  laws,  and  sooner  or  later  he 
must  succumb  to  that  law  of  nature, 
and  in  the  struggle  for  existence  his 
place  will  be  marked  out  for  him  by  it 
with  unerring  precision.  If,  however, 
he  has  developed  so  far  as  to  have  risen 
to  the  lofty  height  of  human  sympathy, 
and  thereby  has  learned  to  transcend 
his  individuality  and  to  make  himself 
a  member  of  a  larger  whole,  he  may 
then  save  himself  from  the  extinction 
which  follows  inevitably  upon  proved 
unfitness  in  the  individual  struggle  for 
existence. 

So  soon  as  the  individual  has  some- 
thing to  give,  there  will  be  those  who 
have  something  to  give  to  him,  and  he 
elevates  himself  above  this  relentless 
law  with  its  inexorable  punishments  for 
the  unfit.  At  that  point,  when  indi- 
viduals begin  to  give  each  to  the  other, 
then  their  mutual  cooperation  and  in- 
terdependence build  human  society,  and 
participation  in  that  society  changes  the 
whole  character  of  the  human  struggle. 
Nevertheless,  large  numbers  of  human 
beings  carry  with  them  into  social  and 
political  relations  the  traditions  and  in- 
stincts of  the  old  individualistic  strug- 
gle for  existence,  with  the  laws  of  or- 
ganic evolution  pointing  grimly  to  their 
several  destinies.  These  are  not  able 
to   realize    that    moral    elements,    and 


what  we  call  progress  toward  an  end 
or  ideal,  are  not  found  under  the  op- 
eration of  the  law  of  natural  selection, 
but  have  to  be  discovered  elsewhere 
and  added  to  it.  Beauty,  morality,  prog- 
ress have  other  lurking-places  than  in 
the  struggle  for  existence,  and  they 
have  for  their  sponsors  other  laws  than 
that  of  natural  selection.  You  will  read 
the  pages  of  Darwin  and  of  Herbert 
Spencer  in  vain  for  any  indication  of 
how  the  Parthenon  was  produced,  how 
the  Sistine  Madonna,  how  the  Ninth 
Symphony  of  Beethoven,  how  the  "Di- 
vine Comedy,''  or  "Hamlet"  or  "Faust." 
There  are  many  mysteries  left  in  the 
world,  thank  God  and  these  are  some 
of  them. 

The  escape  of  genius  from  the  cloud- 
covered  mountain-tops  of  the  unknown 
into  human  society  has  not  yet  been  ac- 
counted for.  Even  Rousseau  made  a 
mistake.  When  he  was  writing  the 
"Contrat  social"  it  is  recorded  that  his 
attention  was  favorably  attracted  by 
the  island  of  Corsica.  He,  being  en- 
gaged in  the  process  of  finding  out  how 
to  repeal  the  laws  of  man  by  the  laws 
of  nature,  spoke  of  Corsica  as  the  one 
country  in  Europe  that  seemed  to  him 
capable  of  legislation.  This  led  him 
to  add:  "I  have  a  presentiment  that 
some  day  this  little  island  will  astonish 
Europe."  It  was  not  long  before  Cor- 
sica did  astonish  Europe,  but  not  by 
any  capacity  for  legislation.  As  some 
clever  person  has  said,  it  let  loose  Na- 
poleon. We  know  nothing  more  of  the 
origin  and  advent  of  genius  than  that. 

Perhaps  we  should  comprehend  these 
things  better  were  it  not  for  the  persis- 
tence of  the  superstition  that  human  be- 
ings habitually  think.  There  is  no  more 
persistent  superstition  than  this.  Lin- 
naeus helped  it  on  to  an  undeserved  per- 
manence when  he  devised  the  name 
Homo  sapiens  for  the  highest  species 
of  the  order  primates.  That  was  the 
quintessence  of  complimentary  nomen- 
clature. Of  course  human  beings  as 
such  do  not  think.  A  real  thinker  is 
one  of  the  rarest  things  in  nature.    He 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


comes  only  at  long  intervals  in  htipian 
history,  and  when  he  does  come,  he  is 
often  astonishingly  unwelcome.  In- 
deed, he  is  sometimes  speedily  sent  the 
way  of  the  unfit  and  unprotesting  earth- 
worm. Emerson  understood  this,  as 
he  understood  so  many  other  of  the 
deep  things  of  life.  For  he  wrote:  "Be- 
ware when  the  great  God  lets  loose  a 
thinker  on  this  planet.  Then  all  things 
are  at  risk." 

The  plain  fact  is  that  man  is  not 
ruled  by  thinking.  When  man  thinks 
he  thinks,  he  usually  merely  feels ;  and 
his  instincts  and  feelings  are  powerful 
precisely  in  proportion  as  they  are  ir- 
rational. Reason  reveals  the  other  side, 
and  a  knowledge  of  the  other  side  is 
fatal  to  the  driving  power  of  a  preju- 
dice. Prejudices  have  their  important 
uses,  but  it  is  well  to  try  not  to  mix 
them  up  with  principles. 

The  underlying  principle  in  the  wide- 
spread and  ominous  revolt  of  the  un- 
fit is  that  moral  considerations  must 
outweigh  the  mere  blind  struggle  for 
existence  in  human  aflfairs. 

It  is  to  this  fact  that  we  must  hold 
fast  if  we  would  understand  the  world 
of  to-day,  and  still  more  the  world  of 
to-morrow.  The  purpose  of  the  re- 
volt of  the  unfit  is  to  substitute  interde- 
pendence on  a  higher  plane  for  the 
struggle  for  existence  on  a  lower  one. 


Who  dares  attempt  to  picture  what  will 
happen  if  this  revolt  shall  not  suc- 
ceed? 

These  are  problems  full  of  fascina- 
tion. In  one  form  or  another  they  will 
persist  as  long  as  humanity  itself. 
There  is  only  one  way  of  getting  rid  of 
them,  and  that  is  so  charmingly  and 
wittily  pointed  out  by  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson  in  his  fable,  "The  Four  Re- 
formers," that  I  wish  to  quote  it: 

"Four  reformers  met  under  a  bram- 
ble-bush. They  were  all  agreed  the 
world  must  be  changed.  *We  must 
abolish  property/  said  one. 

"  'We  must  abolish  marriage,'  said 
the  second. 

"  'We  must  abolish  God,'  said  the 
third. 

"  'I  wish  we  could  abolish  work,'  said 
the  fourth. 

"  T)o  not  let  us  get  beyond  practical 
politics,'  said  the  first.  The  first  thing 
is  to  reduce  men  to  a  common  level.' 

"  The  first  thing,'  said  the  second,  'is 
to  give  freedom  to  the  sexes.' 

"  'The  first  thing,'  said  the  third,  'is 
to  find  out  how  to  do  it.' 

"  'The  first  step,'  said  the  first,  'is  to 
abolish  the  Bible.' 

"'The  first  thing,'  said  the  second, 
'is  to  abolish  the  laws.' 

"  'The  first  thing,'  said  the  third,  'is 
to  abolish  mankind.' " 


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THE  LIVING  PAST  IN  THE  LIVING  PRESENT 
By  Henry  Mills  Alden 


The  mind  of  man  is  prophetic  and 
reflective — "looking  before  and  after." 
The  soul  dreams  and  remembers.  But 
if  we  would  comprehend  what  it  really 
is  to  dream  or  to  remember,  we  must 
give  back  to  time  the  integrity  which 
belongs  to  it  as  a  term  of  life,  but  which 
is  formally  divided  by  our  understand- 
ing. Seen  as  sections,  apart  from  life, 
past,  present,  and  future  are  not  real, 
but  notional.  The  past  is  not  realiza- 
ble, if  we  think  ^of  it  as  having  wholly 
passed;  the  future  is  not,  if  we  think 
of  it  as  yet  to  come ;  and  the  present  is 
least  of  all  realizable,  for  while  we  have 
memory  or  record  of  the  past,  and  hope 
or  dream  of  the  future,  the  present 
wholly  eludes  our  grasp — one  part  of 
it  gone  and  the  other  not  yet  come. 
Past  and  future  have  no  continent,  yet 
there  only  can  we  dwell,  and  the  pres- 
ent, which  alone  is  a  continent,  waits 
not  for  our  dwelling.  The  passing 
alone  is  real,  and  there  is  no  time  except 
in  our  sense  of  this  passing — b.  living 
and  immediate  sense  of  it  not  as  me- 
chanical motion,  but  as  pulsation.  Life 
is  creative,  and  the  only  reality  is  the 
forever  becoming. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  thinkers  were  turning  to  Kant, 
who  presented  a  scheme  of  the  Under- 
standing in  which  the  ideas  of  time, 
space,  and  causation  were  seen  as  sub- 
jective. At  the  beginning  of  the  twen- 
tieth century,  we  are  turning  to  Berg- 
son,  who,  by  the  substitution  of  crea- 
tive procedure  for  Kant's  subjective 
scheme,  has  solved  all  the  problems 
which  the  formal  and  inadequate  Kan- 
tian system  left  to  vex  the  minds 
of  his  successors.  The  moment  we  re- 
gard life  as  creative,  all  problems  dis- 
appear.    We  no  longer  seek  explica- 


tion, but  rest  upon  implication  through 
a  living  reason,  itself  as  creative  as  life 
is.  The  real  excludes  the  notional.  Life 
is  qualitative,  not  quantitative.  We  see 
flux  and  persistence  as  complementary. 

In  what  are  called  practical  aflFairs — 
where  we  consider  everything  with  ref- 
erence to  antecedence  and  consequence, 
thus  acquiring  a  mechanical  view  of 
causation — ^we  regard  experience  as 
static.  In  creative  life — where  we  are 
freed  from  the  fixed  nexus  of  sequence, 
where  we  live  intensively,  and  do  not 
ask  of  any  quality  "Why?"  or  ''What 
for?" — experience  is  wholly  dynamic. 

Here  we  touch  the  pulse  of  vibrant, 
enduring  life,  intensive  and  persistent. 
We  see  what  the  historic  sense — the 
sense  of  the  integrity  and  continuity  of 
life — really  is,  and  what  sensibility  it- 
self is,  being  a  response,  in  a  rhythmic 
living  organism,  to  rhythmic  vibrations, 
and  that  there  is  no  reality  outside  of 
the  pulsing  life.  Here  we  arrive  at  true 
transvaluations — from  static  and  me- 
chanical to  dynamic.  Life  is  creative, 
crescent  and,  in  its  incessant  mutations, 
renascent.  Memory  is  not  a  storehouse, 
but  a  resurgence,  and  there  is  nothing 
of  vital  importance  to  us  in  the  record 
which  registers  memory  save  as  we  feel 
in  it  a  living  pulse  coherent  with  pres- 
ent impulse.  That  is  what  I  mean  by 
the  "living  past  in  the  living  present." 

The  more  intensively  a  people  lives, 
with  swift  mutations  of  its  creative 
life  in  art  and  literature,  the  deeper  is 
its  curiosity  concerning  the  past  and  the 
greater  its  capacity  to  hold  the  past  in 
dynamic  coherence  with  its  present. 

Our  twentieth-century  present  has  a 
quicker  pulse  of  creative  life  than  has 
ever  been  felt  before  in  the  world.  Yet 
there  has  never  been  an  age  in  which 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


the  living  past  has  been  so  deeply  in- 
volved in  the  creative  realization  of  its 
ideals.  This  is  so  because  our  present 
civilization  is  more  intensively  dynamic 
than  that  of  any  previous  age,  therefore 
more  crescent,  more  vitally  assimilative, 
more  quickly  eliminative,  rejecting  the 
non-living  and  the  unreal.  In  our  use 
of  the  subtle  and  imponderable  physical 
forces,  our  mechanism  simulates  the 
processes  of  life.  The  electric  dynamo 
is,  in. its  responses  and  inhibitions,  al- 
most physiological.  We  have  not  so 
much  to  say  about  the  inevitable  **vice 
of  system"  as  we  had  twenty  years  ago, 
because  our  vibrant  life  has  entered  in- 
to our  systems,  giving  them  heart  and 
nerve  and  sensibility.  In  the  field  of 
imagination  the  pulse  of  a  creative  hu- 
man life  dominates  the  creations  of  art 
and  literature,  discarding  the  notional 
and  artificial  and  the  dimensionally  im- 
pressive, and  emphasizing  the  inten- 
sive quality. 

Ours  is  indeed  a  living  present.  Its 
swift  mutations  give  a  new  measure  to 
time  itself — the  measure  of  our  forever 
renascent  purpose  and  sensibility,  the 
•measure  of  our  human  consciousness, 
expanding  with  each  new  moment  of 
the  more  and  more  intensive  life. 
When  we  consider  the  forward-looking 
purpose  of  our  time,  we  are  sensibly 
impressed  by  immense  achievements 
and  undertakings  furthering  our  mate- 
rial progress,  and  we  know  that  in  this 
field  the  modem  man  is  self-sufficient. 
But  the  organization  of  our  twentieth- 
century  life,  apart  from  its  practical 
side,  where  we  aim  at  efficiency,  is  com- 
ing to  participate  in  our  creative  ideals. 
We  take  note  of  this  especially,  of 
course,  in  associate  altruistic  work, 
prompted  not  by  conscience,  but  by  sen- 
sitive sympathy.  But  our  creation  of 
a  new  politics  springs  from  the  same 
beautiful  motive,  in  full  harmony  with 
that  vital  altruism  which  desires  to 
effect,  in  so  far  as  possible,  the  equali- 
zation of  social  opportunity.  The  or- 
ganization of  business  on  a  non-com- 
petitive basis,  working  hand  in   hand 


with  this  new  politics,  promises  to 
reach  a  rhythmic  harmony  which  will 
not  only  transcend  arbitrary  industrial 
control,  but  connote  brotherhood  and 
expel  war  from  Christendom. 

In  this  survey  of  mutations  by 
which  our  consciousness  is  at  once  ex- 
panded and  transformed,  we  have  only 
noted  the  manifest  alliance  between 
ultra-modem  organization  and  ultra- 
modern ideals;  we  have  not  touched 
upon  these  ideals  thertiselves,  which  are 
not  defined  by  any  of  these  manifes- 
tations, and  which  are,  indeed,  inex- 
plicable, always  beyond  us,  eluding 
even  their  fairest  embodiments. 

But  when  we  consider  this  human 
consciousness  of  bur  time,  so  diflferent 
from  the  old  heroic  consciousness  and 
from  the  most  developed  consciousness 
of  Greek,  Roman,  or  barbarian,  do  we 
not  naturally  ask  what  it  can  possibly 
want  of  the  past?  From  a  so  superior 
point  of  vantage  why  look  back  ? 

It  is  not  a  question  of  what  attitude 
we  need  to  take,  or  ought  to  take,  to- 
ward the  past.  There  are  no  practical 
utilities  to  be  derived  from  the  study  of 
Hebrew,  Greek,  or  Latin;  and  in  the 
field  of  our  ideals  the  knowledge  of 
history,  as  mere  information,  does  not 
serve  us.  If  we  confine  ourselves  and 
our  living  experience  to  the  aims  and 
motives  stimulated  by  present-day 
needs  and  prompted  by  present-day  as- 
pirations, we  shall  have  practical  effi- 
ciency in  everything  relating  to  material 
progress,  and  shall  not  lack  in  scientific 
research  or  in  the  arts  of  painting,  mu- 
sic, and  poetry.  Fiction  will  lose  noth- 
ing of  its  power  and  charm,  and  our 
human  sympathies  will  have  abundant 
opportunity  for  wide  and  noble  exer- 
cise. But  the  disposition  thus  to  con- 
fine ourselves  would  imply  a  lack  in 
our  human  nature  itself  such  as  would 
shame  our  content  and  self-sufficiency. 

The  historic  sense  is  to  humanity 
what  gravitation  is  to  the  physical  uni- 
verse— the  reflex  of  its  expansion.  The 
earth's  orbit  is  its  confession  of  solar 
attraction,    of    harmonious    coherence 


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THE  LIVING  PAST  IN  THE  LIVING  PRESENT 


27 


with  its  source.  So  the  historic  sense, 
too  often  apparent  to  us  merely  by  its 
gravities,  is  really  an  attraction,  a  con- 
tinuing dynamic  factor  in  the  evolution 
of  himianity.  Physiologically,  racially, 
and  psychically  humanity  is  spherical 
and  orbital,  as  a  result  of  this  attrac- 
tion, bound  together  in  its  severalties, 
remembering  religiously  a  creative 
source,  feeling  in  its  own  pulsations  the 
beat  of  the  fountain. 

Our  culture,  in  so  far  as  it  is  a  cul- 
ture of  the  humanities,  is  the  stun  of 
our  cults — ^that  is,  of  the  things  we 
cherish  because  of  this  attraction, 
which,  as  we  have  said,  is  inseparable 
from  htunan  nature.  We  try  to  explain 
this  attraction  to  ourselves  in  definite 
terms.  We  say  that  it  is  curiosity,  the 
desire  to  include  all  knowledge  within 
our  mental  domain;  or  that  it  is  ro- 
mance, the  charm  of  that  strangeness 
which  is  associated  with  the  antique: 
but  it  existed  before  there  was  any 
mental  awakening,  almost  as  a  human 
instinct,  and  in  that  long  period  of 
primitive  naturalism  when  man,  in  a 
provincially  intensive  life,  had  only  the 
backward  and  downward  look,  it  was 
a  sense  of  familiarity  rather  than  of 
strangeness,  the  close  bond  of  kinship 
holding  the  souls  which  death  had 
strengthened  and  magnified  in  intimate 
communion  with  the  living  in  the  near 
and  friendly  darkness.  The  only  cul- 
ture then  was  made  up  of  two  cults, — 
that  of  the  earth-mother  and  that  of 
ancestors, — each  too  immediate  to  be 
called  worship.  This  period  of  what 
may  be  called  an  insulated  historic 
sense  is  especially  interesting  to  us  who 
are  growing  into  a  new  realism,  a  sec- 
ond naturalism,  the  terms  of  which 
correspond  to  those  of  the  first,  though 
a  whole  world  apart.  The  truth  of  life, 
after  complex  brokenness,  is  reintegrat- 
ing, felt  again  as  real,  freed  from  no- 
tional distortions,  from  polemical  dis- 
cussions, and  fanciful  apprehensions — 
all  this  as  in  that  primitive  seclusion, 
but  a  luminous  intuition  instead  of  a 
sealed  instinct.     Our  historic  sense  is 


not  insulated,  but  open — a.  sense  of  kin^ 
ship  raised  to  a  psychical  plane.  It  is 
as  inexplicable  as  our  idealism  is,  rest- 
ing upon  no  logical  grounds;  like  our 
forward-looking  ideals,  it  springs  from 
the  very  heart  of  desire.  Therefore  it 
gathers  into  the  present,  by  vital,  rather 
than  by  arbitrary,  selection,  the  radiant 
moments  of  the  creative  life  and  art  of 
the  past,  however  diverse  from  our  own 
their  outward  investment.  These  mo- 
ments are  notes  in  a  rhythmic  harmony 
not  just  in  our  key,  perhaps,  but  re- 
sponsive, and  cherished — as  old  songs 
are — for  the  human  music  in  them. 

We  are  not  considering  here  the  in- 
evitable participation  of  the  past  in  the 
present  as  a  matter  of  biology  or  hered- 
ity. Cultures  have  blended  where  races 
have  not.  Thus  Buddhism  came  to 
Japan  from  India.  Thus  Greece  and 
Rome  and,  in  the  course  of  a  few  cen- 
turies, all  Europe  received  from  Judea 
a  spiritual  principle  which  the  Hebrews 
as  a  race  repudiated,  and  which,  con- 
fined to  the  East,  would  have  had  only 
a  degenerate  development.  This  prin- 
ciple, embodied  in  the  living  experience 
of  men  and  women  for  generations 
before  its  official  recognition,  trans- 
formed Europe  from  pagandom  to 
Christendom.  This  most  creative  of  all 
cultures  was  even  more  a  living  heri- 
tage from  one  Christian  generation  to 
another  than  if  it  had  been  racial.  And 
it  is  significant  that  the  spirit  of  He- 
brew prophecy  and  of  the  gospel  was 
not  less  potently  operative  or  less  eflfec- 
tively  transmitted  when  the  peoples  ac- 
cepting these  could  not  read  the  He- 
brew or  the  Greek  texts  through  which 
they  were  conveyed,  and  that  when  they 
came  to  read  the  Bible  at  all,  they  read 
it  in  their  own  vernacular. 

But  the  whole  Hebrew  movement 
culminating  in  Christianity  was  so  sin- 
gular, so  distinct  from  all  other  cur- 
rents that  have  vitalized  civilization, 
that  it  refuses  classification. 

Looking  back,  then,  to  those  ancient 
races  from  which  such  heritage  as  we 
may  have  is  indirect  or,  as  in  the  case 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


of  the  Indo-European  races,  hidden  in 
the  lowest  strattim  of  our  language,  we 
find  ourselves  dependent  upon  texts, 
montunents,  and  surviving  examples 
for  any  knowledge  of  their  creative  art 
and  literature.  This  whole  field  is  open 
to  special  scholarship,  aided  by  archaeo- 
logical discoveries,  and  is  deeply  in- 
teresting to  the  philosopher.  It  is  all 
human,  and  our  knowledge  of  it  is  an 
important  contribution  to  the  expansion 
of  our  modern  consciousness.  No  part 
of  it — Egyptian,  Phoenician,  Accadian, 
Babylonian,  Assyrian,  or  Aryan — is 
alien  to  human  interest  and  curiosity. 
But  of  all  these  races  the  Hellenic 
alone  presents  a  distinctively  creative 
ideal  which,  with  all  its  limitations,  is 
vibrantly  responsive  to  our  own. 

Greek  culture,  as  compared  with  the 
Roman,  is  detached  from  us — from  our 
language,  our  laws,  our  institutions, 
and  the  texture  of  our  literature.  Our 
debt  to  the  Roman  is  immense,  and  es- 
pecially to  those  qualities  of  the  Roman 
which  the  Greek  lacked, — justice  and 
sincerity, — without  which  armies  and 
navies  innumerable  would  have  been 
ineffectual  and  world-empire  impossi- 
ble. The  genius  of  the  Roman  for  the 
building  of  institutions,  including  that 
of  the  family,  was  almost  creative;  it 
was  architectonic,  without  the  Hellenic 
sense  of  beauty.  The  emperor's 
title  of  Pontifex  Maximus  was  might- 
ily significant  not  only  for  the  old  po- 
litical empire,  but  as  prophetic  of  the 
ecclesiastic  pontificate.  The  Greek  edi- 
fication was  psychically  expansive,  fol- 
lowing the  lines  of  the  creative  imagi- 
nation, and  manifest,  therefore,  chiefly 
in  the  achievements  of  her  mighty 
poets,  philosophers,  sculptors,  archi- 
tects, and  painters — a  kind  of  empire 
which  could  not  be  overthrown. 

Rome  knew  no  dawn ;  we  behold  her 
only  in  lier  maturity  and  decline.  But 
she  died  for  the  world.  Greece  is  for- 
ever young — ^immortal,  as  genius  is. 
She  lived  in  the  world  which  over- 
whelmed her  in  such  measure  as  its 
principle  of  selection  would  allow. 


Her  culture  became  the  elegant  orna- 
ment of  Eastern  princes ;  the  equipment 
of  Cicero,  to  some  purpose,  and  of 
Oesar — to  what  issue  it  is  as  impossible 
to  divine  as  to  conjecture  what  Chris- 
tianity could  have  meant  to  Constan- 
tine  three  centuries  later.  In  the  Ro- 
man aedification  of  the  Catholic  Church, 
at  least  in  the  matter  of  doctrine,  Hel- 
lenism was  not  silent.  Augustine,  the 
chief  of  the  Latin  Fathers,  was  finally 
converted  to  the  faith  through  the  epis- 
tles of  St.  Paul,  the  Hellenist,  and  had 
come  to  these  by  way  of  Plato,  though 
doubtless  in  a  Latin  version,  as  he  was 
not  a  master  of  the  Greek  tongue.  But 
the  ecclesiastic  fabric  was  as  distinc- 
tively Roman  as  that  of  the  empire 
had  been;  the  Greek  spirit  forever 
eluded  its  formal  lines. 

The  medieval  cosmopolitanism  which 
the  Church  fostered  by  pilgrimages  and 
crusades,  developing  European  rather 
than  separately  national  consciousness, 
helped  to  bring  on  the  Renaissance,  but 
threatened  to  overwhelm  Europe  with 
Latinity,  and  would  have  succeeded  but 
for  the  resolve  of  the  several  Gothic 
peoples  to  develop  independent  nation- 
alities and  to  maintain  their  vernacular 
speech.  But  this  reaction  did  not  help 
to  a  true  revival  of  the  Hellenic  spirit. 
Latinity  was  the  recognized  bulwark  of 
uniformity  and  established  authority. 
The  new  art  found  its  stimulus  in  Greek 
examples,  a  poetic  exaltation  of  love  in 
select  circles  fed  upon  Plato;  but  in 
education  and  literature  generally  Ro- 
man traditions  were  dominant. 

The  Elizabethan  era  produced  a 
drama  which  was  the  only  parallel  of 
Greek  tragedy  in  the  age  of  Pericles; 
but  its  glory  was  not  a  direct  response 
to  its  antetype.  yEschylus  did  not  live 
in  Marlowe's  mighty  line,  and  Shaks- 
pere  knew  him  not.  It  was  only  such 
another  time  come  to  England  as 
Greece  had  known — a  time  of  awaken- 
ing, of  youth  and  buoyancy;  such  an- 
other people,  with  the  sense  in  them  of 
the  sea ;  such  another  renascence  of  cre- 
ative genius. 


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H 


.  The  jeighteenth-century  literature,  be- 
fore the  Romantic  revival,  in  no  way 
reflected  Greek  genius.  The  nineteenth 
century  began  and  continued  in  a  dif- 
ferent mood,  reflective,  and  interpreta- 
tive as  no  previous  century  had  been, 
prompted  by  high  curiosity  in  scientific 
investigation,  with  those  swift  muta- 
tions of  sensibility  and  ever-widening 
expansions  of  consciousness  which 
deepen  the  historic  sense.  The  Napo- 
leonic wars,  by  reaction,  stimulated  and 
strengthened  European  nationalities 
and  the  development  of  an  international 
policy.  The  romantic  note  of  revolt 
against  artifice  and  convention,  against 
merely  traditional  and  hereditary  privi- 
lege and  power,  was  dominant,  stimu- 
lating individualism. 

It  was  in  the  historic  sense  deter- 
mined by  such  an  attitude  that  made  it 
not  only  possible,  but  inevitable,  that 
Hellenism  should  be  revived  in  its  own 
essential  quality  and  form,  eliminated 
from  its  Latin  habiliments  and  affilia- 
tions. It  began  to  be  creatively  inter- 
preted by  vital  assimilation  in  the 
poetry  of  Shelley  and  Keats  and, 
later,  in  that  of  Tennyson  and  Brown- 
ing, and  by  the  greatest  imaginative 
prose-essayists  of  the  century,  such  as 
De  Quincey  and  Pater  and  Symonds. 
No  disclosures  made  by  archaeology 
have  been  deemed  so  precious  as  those 
which  have  brought  to  light  new  exam- 
ples of  Greek  art  or  new  texts  of  the 
Greek  poets. 

It  is  because  Hellenism,  as  it  is  pre- 
sented to  us,  is  capable  of  so  complete 
detachment,  and  can  be  regarded  in  its 
integrity,  that  its  distinctive  charm  and 
imaginative  values  may  be  clearly  ap- 
prehended by  us  and  enter  into  our  cul- 
ture of  the  humanities  for  just  what 
they  are,  not  for  spiritual  exaltation  or 
for  any  profound  suggestiveness  of  the 
mystery  of  our  human  life,  but  as  real- 
izing in  utmost  visible  perfection  the 
forms  of  beauty  and  the  rhjrthmic  har- 
mony of  united  physical  and  mental  ac- 
tion. It  is  perhaps  chiefly  as  illustrat- 
ing the  play  of  life,  even  in  its  agonism, 


that  Greek  culture  is  our  inspiration. 
Here  at  least  our  youth  might  derive 
frcmi  that  culture  an  uplifting  sugges- 
tion. The  Hellenic  games  and  public, 
spectacles  were  inseparably  associated 
with  poetry  and  the  plastic  arts...  The. 
love  of  joy  was  jpinefl  to  the  love  of 
beauty.  Athletic  exercise  made  the 
human  body  the  inspiration  of  the  sculp- 
tor, and  it  was  fitting  that  the  most  emi- 
nent sculptors  should  niake  statues  of 
Olympic  victors.  When  we  think  of 
the  Olympic  gaines,  we  think  also  of 
Pindar  and  Herodotus,  and  of  the  art- 
ists who  made  these  games  the  occa- 
sion for  an  exhibition  of  their  paintings. 
We  can  hardly  think  of  these  affairs  as 
amusements,  since  the  Muses  were  so 
conspicuously  present. 

But  while  Hellenic  more  largely  than 
any  other  ancient  culture  contributes 
to  the  expansion  of  our  modem  con- 
sciousness, yet,  as  a  part  of  our  edu- 
cational curriculum,  it  should  not  be 
compulsory,  but  elective — elective  be- 
cause only  as  a  dilection  has  it  any  liv- 
ing significance  in  our  culture.  There 
is  nothing  incongruous  in  the  blending 
of  culture  with  practical  efficiency.  Our 
most  eminent  financier  is  a  man  of  fine 
scholarly  tastes  and  a  connoisseur  and 
promoter  of  art.  But  the  youth  whose 
sole  aim  is  practical  efficiency  is  not  in 
the  mood  to  enjoy  Greek  literature  or, 
for  that  matter,  to  get  much  good  out 
of  Latin.  Culture  is  dependent  upon 
individual  desire  and  aspiration.  Bryant 
had  barely  two  years  of  a  college 
course,  but  from  choice  he  became  a  fit 
translator  of  the  ''Iliad"  and  the  "Odys- 
sey." Americans  have  attained  a  fore- 
most place  in  literature,  have  received 
the  highest  degrees  from  Oxford,  and 
have  assimilated  more  of  ancient  and 
modern  culture  than  one  out  of  a  thou- 
sand college  graduates,  though  they  had 
no  university  training.  Scholarship,  in 
the  special  sense,  is  not  to  be  depre- 
ciated. Horner  and  Pindar,  Aristo- 
phanes and  the  Greek  tragedians,  are 
more  intimately  known  by  those  who 
read  them  in  the  original,  as  Dante  is  to 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


those  who  read  him  in  the  Italian ;  but 
the  best  prose  of  any  language  is  acces- 
sible, in  adequate  perfection,  through 
translations.  Much  time  would  be  saved 
by  reading  Plato  in  Jowett's  translation, 
and  the  reader  would  thereby  know 
Plato  better,  without  any  appreciable 
loss.  Not  only  all  the  known  facts, 
but  the  most  subtle  phases  of  ancient 
life,  art,  and  literature,  are  open  in  his 
own  language  to  any  ardent  student 
who  has  the  passion  for  knowledge.  If 
he  has  not  the  passion,  there  cannot 
be,  from  any  source,  a  living  past  in  his 


present,  or  any  living  present  to  feel 
the  pulse  of  that  past. 

The  nearer  past  invites  us  as  allur- 
ingly as  the  remote.  Tennyson's  dream, 
happily  realized,  was  to  write  "The 
Idylls  of  the  King."  Browning  felt  the 
Gothic  enchantment.  The  Romantic 
revival  led  Keats  that  way.  Among  the 
most  interesting  creative  interpretations 
yet  to  come  will  be  those  tracing  the 
evolution  of  the  barbarian  races  of 
Europe  along  native  lines  before  and 
after  their  blending  with  Christianity, 
and  illuminated  from  the  present  or, 
rather,  the  coming  moment. 


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MUSIC  AND  THE  AMERICANS 


By  Walter  Damrosch 


This  shall  not  be  an  effort  to  give  you 
a  thirty-minutes'  history  of  music  in 
this  country.  If  that  were  my  object, 
I  could  begin  by  telling  you  how  that 
uncannily  omniscient  Benjamin  Frank- 
lin played  the  guitar  with  taste  and 
skill;  how  Boston  once  welcomed 
George  Washington  with  a  choral  can- 
tata, especially  composed  for  the  occa- 
sion, and  performed  with  great  eclat 
with  trumpets  and  drums,  quite  in  the 
Handelian  fashion.  But  while  all  this 
is  no  doubt  interesting,  it  can  be  found 
in  various  books  and  monographs  on 
this  subject.  I  shall  endeavor,  however, 
to  speak  of  all  this  only  in  so  far  as  it 
relates  to  the  present  and  future  state 
of  music  in  this  country — a  country  we 
all  love  passionately,  whether  it  be  ours 
by  birth  or  adoption. 

For  to  the  artist  this  love  of  country 
may  be  a  religion,  and  no  socialistic 
dream  of  a  universal  brotherhood  can 
as  yet  offer  us  a  satisfactory  substitute 
for  a  bond  that  at  present  unites  ninety 
million  people  sprung  from  all  races 
and  creeds  into  an  empire  which  is,  at 
least  politically,  already  an  accom- 
plished fact.  I  say  politically  only,  for 
if  the  real  proof  of  a  racial  and  na- 
tional union  can  be  found  only  in  a 
country's  art,  its  literature,  sculpture, 
painting,  and  music,  we  can  as  yet 
claim  to  be  only  on  the  threshold  of 
such  a  lovely  vision. 

There  seems  to  be  no  doubt  that  at 
the  end  of  the  eighteenth  and  the  be- 
ginning of  the  nineteenth  centuries 
music  was  cultivated  in  simple  fashion 
by  Americans  as  a  real  part  of  their 
home  life.  Then  came  the  opening  of 
the  West,  the  discovery  of  gold  in  Cali- 
fornia, and  the  influx  of  thousands, 
nay,  millions  of  immigrants.  The  stu- 
pendous commercial   possibilities   thus 


opened  before  them  seem  to  have 
killed  for  many  years  nearly  all  artis- 
tic aspirations.  The  real  object  of  life, 
the  cultivation  and  adoration  of  the 
beautiful,  was  lost  in  a  general  unrest 
and  a  mad  lust  for  wealth.  For  a 
time  it  seemed  as  if  the  national  soul 
had  been  drowned  in  an  ocean  of  ma- 
terial prosperity  or  in  the  desire  for  it. 
The  possibility  of  acquiring  wealth 
quickly  became  so  great  and  so  allur- 
ing that  true  patriotism  seemed  to  have 
been  lost  in  individualism  become  ram- 
pant. Those  were  the  brag  and  bluster 
days  of  ''American  Patriots,"  whose 
sneers  at  everything  European  and  bla- 
tant praise  of  everything  American 
made  "America"  a  byword  abroad. 
They  carried  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
everywhere  in  noisy  acclaim,  perhaps 
even  pinning  the  sacred  emblem  some- 
where about  their  august  person  as 
they  reluctantly  climbed  into  the  Euro- 
pean four-poster,  in  order  to  register 
a  perpetual  protest  against  the  Euro- 
pean feather-bed. 

It  is  an  ugly  picture  that  writers  and 
historians  present  to  us  of  life 
in  America  during  the  twenty-five  years 
preceding  the  War  of  the  Rebellion. 
There  was  no  sculpture  or  painting,  no 
architecture,  no  music  worthy  the 
name,  but  such  faces  as  Hawthorne, 
Longfellow,  and  Emerson  loom  up  as 
proof  that  in  literature  at  least 
the  national  spirit  was  being  nursed 
and  fostered  to  burn  again  into  brighter 
flame  when  better  conditions  should 
arise.  Then  came  the  internecine  war 
of  the  North  and  the  South,  which  by 
reawakening  a  love  of  country  merged 
the  individual  into  a  greater  whole,  and 
through  suffering  and  sacrifice  devel- 
oped the  higher  aspirations  of  the  coun- 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


try,  and  kindled  a  torch  the  light  of 
which  has  ever  since  illuminated  the 
pathway  of  our  art  and  literature. 

Such  music  as  we  have  developed 
since  then  seems  to  have  come  to  us  in 
different  fashion  than  in  Europe.  There 
it  has  sprung  for  centuries  from  the 
people  and  from  the  people's  songs. 
There  folk-songs  blossomed  like  flowers 
from  the  soil,  and  were  carried  into 
the  homes  of  the  people,  to  be  guarded 
there,  and  cultivated  as  a  precious  pos- 
session, until  the  simple  folk-song 
gradually  became  a  Beethoven  symph- 
ony or  a  Wagner  opera.  America  has 
had  no  folk-songs,  and  therefore  no 
home  music,  and  what  music  we  now 
have  has  been  acquired  by  education 
atone,  and  only  among  that  class  that 
had  not  only  the  yearning  for  the  beau- 
tiful, but  also  the  time  to  develop  it.  I 
mean  the  American  woman. 

For  teachers  and  performers,  these 
women  naturally  turned  to  Europe, 
where  music  had  been  cultivated  for 
centuries,  and  soon  these  began  to  arrive 
in  a  steady  stream.  Singers,  instru- 
mentalists, teachers,  and  orchestral 
players  came  by  the  hundreds,  and  for 
a  long  time,  even  into  our  day,  every- 
thing that  had  a  European  trade-mark 
was  considered  far  superior  to  any- 
thing that  could  be  produced  here.  A 
musician  had  to  speak  with  a  foreign 
accent  to  be  accepted.  If  he  had  long 
hair,  so  much  the  better.  American 
singers  had  to  study  in  Milan  or  Paris, 
and  if  they  could  boast  of  certain  ro- 
mantic episodes  there,  though  they 
might  not  be  invited  to  dinner,  it  cer- 
tainly made  them  more  interesting  on 
the  stage.  Europe  alone  was  supposed 
to  give  them  that  delightfully  wonder- 
ful and  mysterious  something  called  an 
"artistic  temperament,"  which  of  course 
could  not  be  acquired  in  New  York  or 
Brooklyn,  Kokomo  or  Walla  Walla. 

But  let  us  not  rail  too  much  at  these 
first  inchoate  yearnings  of  the  Ameri- 
can women  for  an  emotional  uplift,  for 
we  owe  to  them  in  the  main  whatever 
support  music  has  received.  These  wom- 


en, together  with  a  long  line  of  illus- 
trious foreign  musicians  who  made 
America  their  home,  worked  wonders 
in  a  comparatively  short  time,  and  as 
one  of  the  results  of  this  work  we  now 
have  many  American  musicians  who 
can  hold  their  own  against  the  world. 
But  if  New  York,  with  a  population  of 
four  million,  can  number  only,  perhaps, 
a  paltry  fifty  thousand  who  may  be  con- 
sidered musical,  and  of  these  fifty  thou- 
sand at  least  forty  thousand  are  women, 
we  can  hardly  claim  as  yet  to  be  a 
musical  people,  no  matter  how  great 
the  progress  from  nothing. 

Even  to-day  a  timid  public  may  dis- 
criminate against  the  American  in  paint- 
ing or  music  because  the  old  idea  that 
only  Europe  can  produce  real  art  still 
prevails,  and  it  is  true  that  the  Ameri- 
can artist  has  often  suffered  cruelly  be- 
cause of  this  discrimination  and  injus- 
tice. Our  singers  have  had  to  make  a 
success  abroad  before  they  could  be  ac- 
credited here,  and  American  instnuncn- 
talists  and  conductors  have  sometimes 
been  pushed  aside  to  make  room  for 
visiting  foreigners,  birds  of  passage, 
who,  no  matter  how  high  their  artistic 
ideals  in  tlieir  own  country,  have  come 
over  here  for  greed  alone.  Artistic 
temperament  ?  No !  Commercialism 
run  riot,  though  masquerading  under 
high-sounding  phrases  about  art.  What 
a  long  procession  of  avaricious  foreign- 
ers wends  its  way  to  our  hospitable 
shores  every  autumn !  Behold  them  as 
they  approach!  Portrait-painters,  of- 
ten no  better  than  their  American 
rivals,  but  more  suave,  keen,  and  com- 
mercial, fawning  with  foreign  gallan- 
try at  the  feet  of  our  rich  men's. wives, 
and  always  with  an  eye  toward  possible 
sitters.  Singers,  demanding  four  times 
the  wage  they  could  obtain  abroad,  and 
often  exaggerating  their  art  into  gro- 
tesque sensationalism  such  as  they 
could  not  display  in  Berlin  or  Paris 
without  being  hooted  oflF  the  stage.  Cele- 
brated or  notorious  composers,  who 
even  cynically  sell  their  services  to  de- 
partment  stores    for   large    sums    of 


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money  because,  as  they  declare,  "It 
makes  no  difference  what  you  do  in 
America."  Guest-conductors,  blandly 
ignorant  of  the  glorious  orchestral  tra- 
ditions which  at  least  New  York  and 
Boston  can  claim  for  the  last  forty 
years,  who  think  that  they  can  instruct 
us  in  the  classics  by  presenting  them  in 
distorted  fashion  or  by  impiously  rein- 
strumentating  pages  and  pages  of  the 
master  works  of  the  classic  composers 
on  the  plea  that  if  these  unfortunates 
had  lived  in  our  time,  they  certainly 
would  have  used  the  modem  orchestra. 
Just  as  if  a  modern  painter  would 
take  a  Botticelli  Madonna  and  say: 
"Yes,  the  drawing  is  good,  but  the 
colors  of  the  fifteenth  century  are  so 
crude  that  I  will  repaint  it  in  modern 
style." 

All  this  motley  crew  returns  to 
Europe  with  bulging  pockets  the  mo- 
ment their  season  here  is  over,  and  the 
moment  that  they  have  squeezed  the 
very  last  dollar  out  of  a  credulous  pub- 
lic. America  and  its  development  in 
art  is  nothing  to  them,  and  money 
seems  to  be  their  only  reason  for  com- 
ing here. 

Yet  we  need  not  despair.  For  con- 
ditions are  slowly  but  surely  improv- 
ing not  only  in  New  York,  but  all  over 
the  country.  Where  forty  years  ago 
there  were  only  two  S3miphony  orches- 
tras, and  those  but  poorly  supported, 
there  are  to-day  well  endowed  S3miph- 
ony-orchestras  in  New  York,  Boston, 
Philadelphia,  Chicago,  Minneapolis,  St 
Paul,  St.  Louis,  and  Seattle.  Many  of 
these  are  conducted  by  musicians  who, 
if  not  bom  Americans,  have  made 
America  their  home  and  hope,  and  a 
constantly  growing  percentage  of  the 
orchestral  players  were  either  born  or 
educated  in  this  country.  We  have 
well  endowed  operas  in  New  York, 
Boston,  Philadelphia,  and  Chicago,  and, 
above  all,  it  is  no  longer  necessary  for 
a  musical  student  to  go  abroad  for  his 
education.  Musical  schools  with  ex- 
cellent instructors  are  to  be  found  in 
most  of  our  musical  centers. 


Formerly  our  students  in  composition 
had  to  go  abroad  for  proper  instruction, 
with  the  result  that  having  spent  their 
most  impressionable  years  in  a  foreign 
country,  they  came  back  as  a  more  or 
less  good  imitation  of  a  German  or 
French  composer,  as  the  case  may  be. 
To-day  they  can  study  in  New  York  or 
Boston,  and  draw  their  inspiration 
from  their  native  soil.  Surely  the  place 
for  the  American  artist  is  in  his  own 
country,  and  it  is  better  for  him  to 
be  unhappy  here  than  happy  else- 
where, even  though  his  only  reward  be 
a  martyr's  crown.  We  now  estimate 
those  Americans  at  their  proper  worth 
who  have  voluntarily  left  this  country 
to  live  abroad  not  for  purposes  of 
study  or  research  or  for  the  education 
of  their  children,  but  because,  as  they 
will  tell  you,  gloves  are  five  francs 
cheaper  than  in  America,  and  one  can 
get  a  splendid  cook  there  for  eight  dol- 
lars a  month.  These  people,  having 
given  up  their  own  country  and  not 
really  made  themselves  part  or  parcel 
of  another,  are  truly  exiles  in  a  foreign 
land,  men  without  a  country.  And,  as 
Orestes  says  in  Euripides's  "Electra," 
"though  he  have  bread  to  eat,  an  exile 
is  a  helpless  man  at  best." 

As  a  fact,  the  American  man  has  gen- 
erally held  aloof  from  the  entire  mu- 
sical development.  He  looks  on  music 
as  something  foreign,  something  like  an 
accomplishment  which  his  wife  and 
daughters  can  acquire,  or  buy,  if  they 
wish  it,  but  too  effeminate  for  his  sons  ; 
and  as  for  himself,  why,  of  course  he 
has  no  time  for  anything  of  that  kind. 
And  so,  partly  owing  to  the  constant 
pressure  of  competition  in  business,  the 
perpetual  harping  on  the  one  idea  of 
business,  of  desire  for  wealth,  or  of 
feverishly  developing  the  resources  of 
this  country,  he  has  gradually  become 
that  dreadful  modern  product,  "the 
tired  American  business  man." 

If  you  should  wander  through  the 
residential  quarters  of  this  city,  you 
would  see  rows  and  rows  of  nice,  re- 
spectable, often  palatial-looking  houses 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


which  repeat  themselves  on  dozens  and 
dozens  of  streets,  and  you  may  wonder 
who  lives  in  them.  The  inmates  do  not 
seem  to  figure  largely  in  the  social  life 
of  the  city;  they  are  not  seen  much  at 
the  opera  or  at  concerts,  and  yet  they 
must  be  well  to  do,  for  real  estate  is 
valuable  and  rents  are  high.  These 
houses  are  comfortably,  perhaps  even 
luxuriously,  furnished;  but  there  is 
something  curiously  silent  about  them. 
They  are  like  a  forest  without  singing 
birds,  melancholy  and  lifeless.  Just  as 
in  such  a  forest  you  may  hear  occasion- 
ally the  raucous  croakings  of  a  crow,  so 
in  these  houses,  when  the  piano  is 
opened,  it  is  only  to  be  used  either  for 
the  mechanical  and  predigested  paper 
rolls  of  the  piano-player  or  for  some 
vulgar  or  platitudinous  song  of  the  day, 
which,  clad  in  gaudy  red  covers,  has 
been  brought  home  by  the  daughter  of 
the  house.  There  is  no  family  life  as 
we  understand  it,  no  gayety,  no  chaff, 
no  joy  of  living.  All  that  the  great  mas- 
ters of  the  world  have  fashioned  for  us 
in  art  and  literature  does  not  exist  for 
these  people.  They  are  like  corpses 
going  drearily  through  the  mere  sem- 
blance of  life. 

Who,  then,  are  they  and  what  do 
they  get  out  of  this  semblance?  I 
will  tell  you  the  terrible  secret.  All 
these  hundreds  and  hundreds  of 
nice  houses  are  inhabited  by  the 
"tired  American  business  man'*  and 
his  family.  Every  morning  at  seven- 
thirty  he  drags  himself  from  his  weary 
couch,  and  after  a  breakfast  much  too 
heavy  for  his  needs,  he  goes  to  that 
dreadful  region  of  the  city  called 
"down-town,"  where  he  begins  his 
daily  round  of  business  at  nine  o'clock, 
and  continues  it  until  five  or  six.  Noth- 
ing but  business,  business  all  day  long. 
For,  as  he  will  tell  you,  competition, 
like  a  fiend,  is  always  at  his  flanks, 
driving  him  on,  or  beckoning  to  him 
with  alluring  gestures  that  the  great 
natural  resources  of  the  country 
must  be  developed.  If  you  argue  with 
him  that  there  is  no  inner  necessity  why 


these  resources  should  be  developed  so 
immediately  and  so  feverishly,  and  that 
there  is  nothing  that  can  possibly  make 
up  to  him  for  what  he  loses  in  the 
real  enjoyment  of  life,  which  is  percep- 
tion of  beauty,  whether  in  the  lines  of 
a  Rodin,  the  tints  of  a  Turner,  or  the 
symphonies  of  a  Beethoven,  he  will  look 
at  you  in  amazement.  He  has  no  time 
for  such  foolishness,  and  of  course  the 
country  has  to  be  developed,  and  more- 
over, if  he  did  not  do  it,  his  rival 
would. 

He  may  have  had  four  years  of  rol- 
licking, care-free  college  life — a  life  of 
some  ideals,  of  contact  with  things  ar- 
tistic ;  but,  alas !  under  the  grind  of  this 
devil  business,  most  of  these  finer  per- 
ceptions and  aspirations  have  been 
smothered  or  atrophied  from  lack  of 
use.  No  wonder  that  under  such  pres- 
sure, from  which  there  seems  no  re- 
lease, he  becomes — tired.  He  can  no 
longer  read  a  book  which  makes  de- 
mands on  the  esthetic  side  of  his  na- 
ture. To  go  to  a  concert  would  bore 
him;  for  his  mind  is  not  capable  of 
following  the  development  of  a  musical 
idea  into  symphonic  woof  and  struc- 
ture. When  he  comes  home  in  the 
evening,  he  seems  fitted  for  nothing 
perhaps  but  a  visit  to  the  lightest  of 
farce-comedies,  or,  better  still,  an  early 
bed.  And  mind  you,  this  condition  is  not 
peculiar  to  New  York,  but  repeats  itself 
in  every  city  of  the  Union.  And  most 
strange,  this  unnatural  life  of  dreary 
drudgery  is  accepted  by  every  good 
wife  as  a  perfectly  normal  and  universal 
condition,  which  is  even  further  accen- 
tuated in  summer,  when  she  and  the 
children  go  to  the  country.  Small  won- 
der that  family  life  cannot  exist  where 
there  is  so  little  community  of  interest, 
and  the  desire  for  the  joy  of  living, 
which  is  so  strong  and  so  natural  in 
young  hearts,  may  degenerate  in  the 
case  of  the  son  into  a  life  of  dissipation, 
and  in  the  daughter  into  the  silliest  of 
silly  amusements.  Is  this  necessary 
and  inevitable? 

I  have  seen  something  of  the  young 


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35 


men  of  our  country.  I  have  often 
played  with  my  orchestra  at  Princeton, 
Cornell,  and  in  the  miiversities  of  Illi- 
nois, California,  Oregon,  and  so  on.  I 
have  looked  into  thousands  of  their  en- 
thusiastic young  and  manly  faces.  Must 
they  all  endure  the  same  fate?  Is  this 
curse  on  our  country  so  powerful  that 
they  all  must  become  forever  and  aye 
"tired  American  business  men?*'  Can 
nothing  be  done  to  lift  that  fatigue 
from  the  tired  business  man's  heavy 
eyes  and  brow  ?  Must  his  first  smile  of 
content  appear  only  as  he  snuggles 
into  his  coflSn  with  the  blissful  certainty 
that  he  can  at  last  sleep  without  that 
terrible  round  of  work  devoted  only  to 
money-getting  beginning  again  the  next 
day? 

When  I  was  a  very  yotmg  man  I  had 
the  pleasure  and  honor  of  taking  many 
walks  with  John  Morley  over  the 
Scotch  moors,  and  I  remember  his  once 
telling  me  that  his  great  friend  Glad- 
stone asserted  that  the  only  real  relaxa- 
tion for  a  man  of  affairs  and  intellect 
was  not  to  be  fotmd  in  cessation  of 
work,  but  in  change  of  work.  He  found 
relaxation,  as  you  all  know,  in  chopping 
trees,  translating  Homer  from  the  orig- 
inal Greek,  and  quarreling  with  theo- 
logians about  the  early  Christian  fa- 
thers. I  do  not  know  how  good  his 
translations  were  nor  how  sound  his 
theology,  but  we  do  know  that  he  kept 
his  intellectual  vigor,  and  therefore  his 
enjoyment  of  life  up  to  the  day  of  his 
death  at  a  ripe  old  age. 

Now,  it  occurs  to  me  that  here  is 
where  music  could  and  should  step  in 
and  take  the  creases  out  of  the  tired 
business  man's  brain,  which  has  been 
so  strained  by  overmuch  attention  to 
business  matters. 

But  here  the  gentle,  anxious  wife  ex- 
claims: "My  husband  does  not  like  to 
go  out  in  the  evening.  He  is  too  tired. 
I  have  to  go  alone  to  the  opera  and 
concert-matinees,  as  I  cannot  find  any 
one  to  go  with  me  in  the  evening."  My 
remedy  is  of  a  different  nature,  and  is 
intended  not  only  as  a   cure   for  the 


tired  business  man,  but  as  a  wonderful 
cementing  and  strengthening  of  the 
family  ties.  Let  us  call  it  a  drama  en- 
titled, "The  Salvation  of  the  Tired 
Business  Man."  There  are  in  New 
York  literally  dozens  and  dozens  of  fine 
pianists,  men  and  women,  trained  here 
and  abroad,  who  cannot  get  public  ap- 
pearances owing  to  the  glut  in  the  mar- 
ket. But  they  love  to  play.  They  are 
enthusiastic  musicians,  who  are  com- 
pelled to  devote  most  of  their  days  to 
the  drudgery  of  teaching.  This  is  also 
true  of  many  violinists.  There  is  not 
a  violinist  or  'cellist  in  my  orchestra, 
or  in  any  other  S3miphony  orchestra, 
who  cannot  sustain  his  part  in  a 
Beethoven  trio  or  sonata  or  quartet  with 
skill.  He  loves  chamber-music,  but  has 
little  or  no  way  of  gratifying  this  love. 
Chamber-music,  written  for  a  combina- 
tion of  a  few  instruments,  possesses  a 
wonderfully  rich  literature  by  the 
greatest  masters,  and  is  intended  to  be 
performed  in  the  home  primarily ;  but, 
alas !  there  is  very  little  of  this  form  of 
entertainment  to  be  found  in  our  coun- 
try. 

Now,  having  produced  some  of  the 
actors  for  my  little  domestic  drama,  let 
me  set  the  scenes  and  properties,  and 
give  you  the  plot.  The  tactful  wife  of 
the  tired  business  man  must  tell  him 
that  she  wants  to  have  chamber-music 
at  her  house  once  a  week  or  perhaps 
once  a  month.  The  children  are  grow- 
ing up,  and  it  is  more  and  more  diffi- 
cult to  keep  them  at  home.  Even  the 
pathetic  billiard-table  which  the  mother 
has  had  placed  in  the  basement  does 
not  seem  to  be  a  sufficient  inducement 
for  son  Jack.  She  has  found  out  that 
the  musicians  can  be  obtained  for  a  very 
small  outlay,  for  they  are  glad  of  the 
opportunity  to  play  their  beloved  cham- 
ber-music ;  and  even  this  expense  could 
be  divided  among  two  or  three  fami- 
lies, if  desired.  Then  the  tactful  wife 
must  accomplish  the  rest. 

Let  us  assume  that  she  has  prevailed 
upon  her  husband  (for  American  hus- 
bands are  proverbially  gentle  and  yield- 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


ing),  the  few  guests  have  been  selected, 
the  musicians  have  been  arranged  for, 
and  the  tired  business  man  has  reluc- 
tantly put  on  his  dinner-jacket,  while 
the  wife  has  eagerly  donned  her  best 
gown.  For  these  evenings  are  to  be 
gala  occasions,  and  there  is  a  fine  sym- 
bolism in  holiday  clothes.  The  children 
are  of  course  allowed  to  sit  up;  but 
the  mother  has  swept  away  from  the 
piano  the  pile  of  disgusting  and  stupid 
so-called  popular  songs  of  the  day 
which  the  children  have  acctmiulated. 
The  electric  lights  have  been  turned  off, 
and  candles  lit  in  their  place.  There  is 
nothing  like  candle-light  with  music. 
Then  the  guests  arrive,  among  them 
perhaps,  the  family  doctor,  who,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  is  musical.  Did  he 
not  take  a  post  graduate  medical  course 
in  Vienna,  where  he  went  to  the  opera 
and  concerts  almost  every  day,  and  is 
he  not  suspected  of  secretly  harboring 
a  violincello  in  his  bedroom? 

Then  the  musicians  tune  their  in- 
struments (delicious  moment),  and  a 
Beethoven  trio  begins.  The  tired  busi- 
ness man  sits  hunched  up  in  an  arm- 
chair, at  first  a  little  uneasy  at  what  he 
has  been  "let  in  for."  What  has  he  to 
do  with  classical  music?  That  is  some- 
thing for  women.  He  is  a  business 
man,  and  he,  sir,  is  developing  the  coun- 


try. But  gradually,  as  the  lovely 
adagio  begins,  his  senses  as  well  as 
his  muscles  begin  to  relax.  After 
all,  it  is  nice  to  have  his  family  all 
together,  he  sees  them  so  little.  He 
looks  at  the  piano,  and  there  sits  his 
boy  Jack  next  to  the  performer,  for 
whom  he  is  eagerly  turning  the  pages- 
He  cannot  follow  the  notes  readily,  but 
with  a  boy's  cleverness  he  watches  the 
face  of  the  performer  at  the  critical 
places,  and  at  his  agitated  nod  over  goes 
the  page. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  room  sits 
the  daughter,  looking  sweet  and  happy; 
and  so  she  ought,  as  she  has  her  best 
young  man  devotedly  at  her  side. 

And  then  the  tired  business  man 
looks  at  his  wife.  Yes,  her  hair  has 
grown  a  little  gray,  but  her  face?  It  is 
easily  the  most  beautiful  in  the  room, 
even  more  beautiful  than  when  he  first 
courted  her.  And  then  the  music  of  the 
adagio  and  his  own  musings  seem  to  be- 
come one.  They  seem  literally  to  melt 
tenderly  one  into  the  other. — How 
sweet  it  all  is ! — ^And  how  far  removed 
from  bills  of  lading  and  the  "develop- 
ment of  the  country !"  Let  the  country 
wait  a  little  while. — ^And  as  his  eyelids 
close,  and  perhaps,  for  a  few  minutes 
only  he  nods  into  Dreamland, — shall 
we  blame  him? 


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THE  WORKER  IN  POETRY 
By  Percy  MacKaye 


"Who  sweeps  a  room  as  for  Thy  laws, 
Makes  that  and  th'  action  fine." 

The  room  may  be  a  low-raftered 
kitchen;  the  worker,  broom  in  hand, 
may  bestir  himself  among  familiar  pots 
and  kettles,  rag  carpets  and  plain 
stools ;  or  he  may  motmt  his  implement 
and  be  whisked  away  "ninety  times  as 
high  as  the  moon"  to  a  room  impan- 
eled with  worlds,  where  the  fire-flaked 
ceiling  has  no  zenith,  and  the  star-tiled 
floor  no  nadir.  It  is  all  one  to  the 
worker  "as  by  God's  laws."  One  con- 
cern is  his:  If  his  action  is  to  be  fine, 
it  must  accord  with  the  laws  of  the 
master  of  the  house  wherein  he  serves. 

Thus  the  work  in  hand  chiefly  con- 
cerns the  worker,  whether  in  poetry  or 
in  so-called  more  practical  things.  The 
nature  of  the  work,  its  possibilities  in 
his  hands,  its  infinite  possibilities  in  the 
hands  of  his  successors,  this,  the  poten- 
tial in  his  work,  interests  him  far  more 
than  the  actual.  But  about  this  he  says 
little,  he  works  much.  How  he  sweeps 
the  room,  how  he  writes  the  poem,  he 
is  probably  glad  to  leave  to  those  ex- 
pert guides  to  good  housekeeping,  the 
critics,  to  point  out  or  dispute.  Or, 
questioned  by  the  idly  curious  as  to 
the  way  he  does  his  work,  he  may  find 
relief  in  that  unexpurgatable  reply 
which  Saint-Gaudens  once  made  to  the 
persistent  inquiries  of  an  esthete,  and 
answer,  "Any  old  damned  way." 

Why  he  does  his  work  he  knows,  for 
he  knows  he  is  the  willing  servant  of 
the  master,  or,  in  housekeeping  phrase, 
the  mistress,  of  his  labors,  the  Muse. 

How  and  why,  then,  important 
though  these  may  be  in  themselves,  are 
questions  of  his  work  which  do  not 
greatly  concern  the  worker  in  poetry 
to  talk  about. 


One  question,  however,  does  concern 
him  to  ask,  and  all  others  whom  his 
work  affects  to  answer:  Has  he  the 
practical  opportunity  to  work  "as  by 
God's  laws"? 

We  all  know  too  well  to-day  that, 
for  sweepers  of  rooms,  for  makers  of 
bread,  for  diggers  of  coal  and  iron,  for 
the  countless  workers  of  the  world, 
man's  laws,  by  which  they  must  work, 
do  not  tend  to  jibe  with  God's  laws. 
To  the  laws  of  beauty  and  joy  there  are 
impediments  in  practical  conditions. 
The  worker  in  poetry  shares  in  these 
conditions.  To  the  poet's  ideal  work, 
as  to  all  ideal  work,  there  are  practical 
restrictions.  But  as  it  is  perhaps  em- 
phatically the  function  of  the  poet  to 
devote  his  energies  to  ideal  work  or 
none,  the  practical  restrictions  of  his 
work  become  the  more  important. 

As  a  worker  in  that  field,  I  shall 
try,  therefore,  to  point  out,  in  the  very 
brief  space  of  this  paper,  a  few  of  those 
restrictions  as  they  appear  to  me,  and 
to  suggest  how  possibly  some  may  be 
surmounted. 

But  first.  What  is  a  worker  in 
poetry?  I  have  spoken  of  workers  in 
coal  and  bread  and  iron ;  these  are  spe- 
cific things.  Poetry  is  a  vaguer  term. 
Roughly,  then,  to  define  it,  I  mean  by 
poetry  the  perennial  stuff  of  the  racial 
imagination.  Poets  are  molders  of  that 
stuff  in  useful  forms.  And  by  useful 
forms  I  mean  forms  serviceable  to  the 
happiness  of  the  race. 

Under  such  a  definition,  the  great  dis- 
coverers of  the  world,  in  science,  art, 
engineering,  medicine,  religion,  agricul- 
ture, what  you  will,  may  be  called  g^eat 
poets;  and  such  they  are,  for  they  are 
constructive  imaginers,  or  inventors, 
who  serve  the  race  by  their  work.  But 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


a  special  class  of  these  has  usually 
claimed  the  name  of  poet ;  to  wit,  writ-  ' 
ers  in  verse.  Obviously,  that  special 
class  is  my  subject,  but,  not  to  limit  this 
class  by  any  misleading  distinction  be- 
tween verse  and  prose,  I  shall  mean  by 
a  poet  an  inventor  of  useful  images  in 
the  emotional  cadences  of  speech;  in 
brief,  a  singer  of  imagination.  Among 
such,  of  course,  singers  in  verse  are 
dominant,  and  their  work  is  chiefly  to 
be  emphasized. 

Now,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  if  I 
should  escort  you  to  the  nearest  busi- 
ness directory  of  our  great  metropolis, 
turn  to  the  letter  P,  and  scan  the  pages 
carefully,  from  pasteboard-makers, 
through  plumbers  to  publishers,  we 
should  search  in  vain  for  the  profes- 
sional address  of  a  poet.  For  this  prob- 
ably we  would  smilingly  thank  God, 
but  we  would  do  well  to  think  why  we 
thank  him.  Our  thanks  and  our  smiles 
are  perhaps  our  truest  compliment  to 
the  poet's  calling;  but  they  are  likewise 
our  truest  condemnation  of  human  so-^ 
ciety  as  we  are  pleased  to  accept  it.  It 
is  of  course  simply  natural  that  a  call- 
ing whose  office  is  to  mold  the  stuff  of 
the  racial  imagination  in  the  emotional 
cadences  of  speech  should  find  no  place 
in  a  society  organized  not  primarily  for 
the  state  or  the  race,  but  for  individu- 
als. It  is  also  far  better  for  the  poet  to 
fill  no  recognized  vocation  than  any  rec- 
ognized one  which  should  debase  his 
true  calling  to  commercial  ends.  For 
this  reason  the  poet  becomes  a  worker 
chiefly  by  avocation,  and  therefore  he 
is  often  popularly  conceived  as  a  spe- 
cies of  human  papilio,  subsisting  pre- 
sumably on  ambrosia,  culled  from  the 
flowers  of  his  own  fancy.  The  fact, 
,  however,  that  the  poet  has  no  profes- 
sional vocation  is  a  real  restriction  to 
his  work.  It  is  a  restriction  because, 
unless  he  is  supported  by  income  or  pat- 
ronage, it  compels  him  to  make  an  avo- 
cation of  his  highest  powers.  The  main 
current  of  his  being  is  deflected  and 
consumed  in  waste  products.  He  can 
serve  the  Muse  relatively  in  moments, 


not  in  hours,  of  labor.  Yet  the  poet's 
work  peculiarly  requires  concentration 
and  continuity. 

Other  workers  in  the  fine  arts,  paint- 
ers, sculptors,  musicians,  architects, 
may  make  their  art  their  recog^zed 
calling.  They  may  combine  their  dis- 
tinctive labor  with  their  livelihood.  To 
them  society  offers  a  vocation;  not  so 
to  the  poet.  In  his  case,  except  in  the 
rarest  instances,  his  means  of  living 
are  derived  from  other  sources  than  his 
work  in  poetry.  Where  such  sources 
are  lacking,  either  his  work  ceases,  or  is 
debased  by  purely  commercial  uses,  or 
the  poet  himself  starves.  Perhaps  the 
most  notable  modem  exception  to  this 
is  the  work  of  Mr.  Alfred  Noycs, 
whose  poetry  is  said  to  be  self-sustain- 
ing ;  yet  even  in  his  case,  the  significant 
announcement  is  made  that  a  play  by 
Mr.  Noyes  will  soon  be  produced. 

Let  us  remember,  therefore,  when  the 
dearth  of  true  poets  is  bemoaned,  that 
society  provides  no  vocation  for  the 
poet. 

But  this  restriction  to  his  work  leads 
to  another.  Having  failed  to  provide 
him  a  livelihood  for  his  work,  society 
proceeds  to  judge  his  work  by  the  re- 
sults. The  results  are  what  might  be 
expected  from  such  failure  to  provide: 
a  wholesale  driving  out  and  killing  out 
of  poets. 

First,  the  driving-out.  Thousands,  I 
had  almost  said  millions,  of  poets  are 
born  every  year.  I  mean  the  little 
children  of  the  world.  Bom  "as  by 
God's  laws"  with  divine  curiosity  and 
eager  imagination,  they  are  maturely 
confronted  with  man*s  laws.  Then  the 
most  eager  imaginers  among  them,  see- 
ing no  vocation  in  the  song  which 
springs  to  their  lips,  seek  expression 
elsewhere;  and  so  they  become  the 
poets  of  science  and  law  and  medicine 
and  industry — the  captains  of  the 
world. 

Next,  the  killing-out.  The  great  mass, 
with  no  choice  except  between  death 
and  mere  life,  ply  the  vast  loom  of 
songless  labor  and  unimaginative  hope. 


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THE  WORKER  IN  POETRY 


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Lastly,  the  few  singers  left  are  of  two 
sorts,  those  with  incomes  and  those 
without.  Among  the  former  are  found 
most  of  the  excellent  names  in  English 
poetry,  a  fact  which  is  hardly  a  compli- 
ment to  our  civilization.  Among  the 
latter  are  the  few  remaining  ones  who 
excel  in  spite  of  adversity,  and  the  far 
greater  number  whom  the  life  of  the 
hack  deteriorates  or  poverty  reduces  to 
join  those 

"Derelicts  of  all  conditions, 
Poets,  rogues  and  sick  physicians." 

Around  both  classes  swarm  the  para- 
sites of  true  poetry :  the  dilettantes  and 
the  esthetes.  Judging,  then,  by  the  re- 
sults of  its  own  ineptitude,  society  com- 
forts itself  by  repeating  two  compla- 
cent proverbs:  "Well,  well,  after  all, 
*poets  are  bom  and  not  made' " ;  and 
**You  see,  'true  genius  always  suc- 
ceeds/ " 

Another  misconstruction  of  society  is 
an  obstacle  to  the  poet's  work:  its  pas- 
sionate nature.  The  dilettante  and  the 
esthete  are  easily  tolerated,  if  not  vm- 
derstood,  by  society,  for  their  pseudo- 
passion  does  not  disturb  its  conven- 
tions. But  living  passion  for  the  beau- 
tiful is  usually  preferred — posthu- 
mously. Moreover,  those  long  accus- 
tomed to  work  without  joy  or  passion 
find  it  hard  to  conceive  of  the  singer 
as  a  worker  at  all.  For  them,  "to  loaf 
and  invite  one's  soul"  is  an  invitation  to 
laziness,  not  to  labor;  "the  poet's  eye 
in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling"  is  the  merry 
symbol  of  a  numskull. 

Nevertheless,  the  poet  is  perhaps  the 
most  laborious  of  toilers: 

•*For  to  articulate  sweet  sounds  together 
Is  to  work  harder  than  all  these,  and  yet 
Be  thought  an  idler  by  the  noisy  set 
The  martyrs  call  the  world." 

Thus  modem  society  has  organized 
often  for  temperance,  but  hardly  for 
temperament.  Yet  recognition  of  the 
function  of  temperament  is  essential  to 
recognition  of  the  poet.  Perhaps,  for 
this  instance,  it  is  sufficient  to  mention 
the  names  of  Walt  Whitman  and  Edgar 
Allan  Poe. 


There  are  other  restrictions.  By  the 
nature  of  his  work,  the  poet  seeks  to 
stir  the  elemental  in  man,  the  racial 
imagination.  This  all  artists  seek  more 
or  less  to  do.  But  the  singer  must  ac- 
complish this  by  means  of  the  uttered 
word.  It  is  not  sufficient,  it  is  not  even 
essential,  that  his  poem  be  written.  To 
fulfil  its  object  it  must  be  spoken  or 
sung.  It  is  as  reasonable  to  expect  an 
architect  to  be  content  with  a  specifica- 
tion of  his  building,  or  a  painter  with 
a  photogravure  of  his  painting,  as  a 
poet  with  the  printed  page  of  his  poem. 
The  cadences,  the  harmonies,  the  seiz- 
ure by  the  imagination  upon  conso- 
nants and  vowels,  of  sounds  which 
subtly  evoke  the  hiunan  associations  of 
centuries — these  are  addressed  to  the 
ears,  not  to  the  eyes,  of  his  audience. 

Originally  his  audience  was  not  a 
person,  but  a  people.  Homer  sang  to 
all  Hellas,  not  from  the  printed  page, 
but  from  the  mouths  of  minstrels. 

Thus  the  very  craftsmanship  of  the 
poet  is  based  upon  two  assumptions 
which  are  seldom  granted  him  to-day: 
the  sung  or  chanted  word,  a  convened 
audience. 

It  is  not  surprising,  therefore,  that 
his  power  with  the  people  has  waned. 
The  inspiration  of  the  ancient  bards 
has  never  passed  from  the  earth.  It  is 
perennial  in  the  poet's  heart.  But  it 
can  never  pass  effectively  into  the 
hearts  of  the  people  through  their  eyes 
from  the  pages  of  printed  volumes  or 
magazines.  No;  a  partial  renascence 
of  those  older  conditions  of  poetry  is 
needed  for  the  work  of  the  poet.  Is 
such  a  renascence  feasible  ?  Is  it  prob- 
able? 

Not  to  invoke  the  millennium  or  the 
golden  age,  I  think  the  worker  in  poetry 
may  find  true  encouragement  in  the 
promise  of  the  present,  and  the  present 
here  in  Anierica. 

Foremost,  there  exists  for  him  one 
vocation,  whose  object,  like  his  own,  is 
to  evoke  the  racial  imagination  by  the 
uttered  word.  There  exists  the  drama. 
To  the  drama  the  noblest  poets  of  the 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


past  have  turned  for  livelihood  and  the 
fruition  of  their  labor.  At  the  Globe 
Theater,  in  London,  Shakspere  earned 
both  daily  bread  and  immortality; 
Sophocles  both  at  the  theater  in 
Athens. 

To-day  in  America,  the  theater,  it- 
self but  half  aware,  is  being  stirred  by 
mighty  forces  of  re-birth,  and  the 
drama  is  awakening  to  fresh  and 
splendid  horizons.  For  the  poet,  then, 
in  verse  or  prose,  the  craftsmanship  of 
the  dramatist  already  offers  an  actual 
vocation. 

Besides  this,  a  revived  form  of 
democratic  drama  outside  the  theater 
is  rapidly  developing  new  opportunities 
for  the  singer.  The  pageant  has  come 
to  stay.  Participated  in  by  the  people 
from  town  to  town,  the  civic  pageant  is 
being  welcomed  as  a  constructive  form 
of  expression  for  our  national  and  local 
holidays.  For  this.  Memorial  Day,  the 
Fourth  of  July,  Labor  Day,  Columbus 
Day,  Thanksgiving,  Christmas,  Lin- 
coln's and  Washington's  birthdays,  pre- 
sent magnificent  opportunities  for  the 
noblest  imaginings  of  poets  and  artists. 
In  particular  these  festivals  give  prom- 
ise of  vocation  to  the  poet  as  such  in 
the  revival  and  growth  of  the  masque, 
the  ballad,  and  the  choral  song. 

Unique  in  respect  to  these  begin- 
nings, last  summer,  the  MacDowell 
Pageant  at  Peterborough,  devised  by 
Professor  George  Pierce  Baker  of  Har- 
vard, gave  scope  for  the  admirable 
lyrics  of  one  of  our  best  younger  poets, 
Hermann  Hagedom.  His  songs,  set  to 
the  music  of  MacDowell,  and  sung  with 
simple  charm  by  those  New  Hampshire 
country  people,  made  history  for  work- 
ers in  poetry. 

Another  form  excellent  in  possibility 
is  the  occasional  poem,  recording  mo- 
ments of  public  importance.  Largely 
because  of  the  equivocal  vocation  of 
poets,  this  form  has  fallen  into  semi- 
repute.  It  has  even  been  urged  by  su- 
perficial persons  that  special  commis- 
sions for  works  of  poetry  are  beneath 
the  dignity  of  true  poets  to  accept.  The 
same  persons  should,  I  think,  urge  true 


painters  never  to  paint  special  por- 
traits or  decorations  for  particular 
places,  and  true  sculptors  never  to  ac- 
cept commissions  for  particular  stat- 
ues. However,  to  the  worker  in  poetry, 
mindful  of  his  art,  a  possible  revival 
of  the  vocation  of  Pindar  gives  no 
shock  to  dignity  and  taste.  He  calls 
to  mind,  without  esthetic  pain,  the  spe- 
cial commissions  of  the  Greek  occa- 
sional poet  for  songs  of  encomium, 
hymns,  paeans,  choral  odes,  dance-songs, 
epinicia,  dirges,  drinking-songs ;  and  he 
recalls  also  with  gratitude  the  lofty  oc- 
casional poem  composed  by  our  Ameri- 
can poet  William  Vaughn  Moody,  "In 
Time  of  Hesitation." 

In  presenting,  then,  some  problems 
and  promises  of  his  work  to  the  pub- 
lic, the  worker  in  poetry  to-day  sum- 
mons to  mind  not  merely  to-day,  but 
yesterday  and  to-morrow,  for  his  work 
deals  with  the  long  continuity  of  the 
racial  imagination. 

Briefly,  his  ideal  is  the  child  ideal, 
and  his  work  is  based  in  that.  Like  a 
child,  he  demands  opportunity  to  work 
"as  by  God's  laws":  that  is,  to  play. 
Yet  to  play  in  no  immature  sense.  For 
to  the  perfecting  of  play,  the  poet 
brings  the  ripest  powers  of  his  will  and 
imagination,  and  in  consecration  to  play 
he  puts  aside  all  merely  unconstructive 
pleasures,  happy 

"To  scorn  delights  and  live  laborious  days." 

Thus,  even  though  for  him  to  play 
may  be  to  imagine  intensely  the  bitter- 
est sorrows  of  life,  and  to  burden  his 
songs  with  "saddest  thought" ;  yet  free- 
dom and  joy  in  his  work  are  the  axioms 
of  its  execution,  even  as  with  the  play 
of  childhood. 

By  that  ideal  of  work,  then,  he  re- 
jects the  arguments  of  the  fatalist,  that 
childhood  is  a  lovely  condition  of  the 
soul,  necessarily  to  be  outgrown ;  of  the 
sophist,  that  it  is  forever  impractical  in 
a  practical  world;  of  the  commercial- 
ist,  that  its  only  use  is  to  renew  the 
foundations  of  sordid  facts  as  they  are. 
To  all  such  he  replies,  with  the  Master 
of  poets,  "Unless  ye  be  as  a  little  child." 


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LOCAL  COLOR  AS  THE  VITAL  ELEMENT 
OF  AMERICAN  FICTION 

By  Hamlin  Garland 


No  one  can  run  through  even  the 
briefest  collection  of  books  written  in 
America  without  coming  to  a  realiza- 
tion that  the  history  of  our  literature  is 
the  history  of  provincialism  slowly  be- 
coming less  all-pervasive. 

By  provincialism,  I  mean  of  course 
that  dependence  upon  a  mother-country 
which  marks  a  colony.  This  is  the 
sense  in  which  the  critic  of  compara- 
tive literature  would  use  the  word.  The 
case  may  be  epitomized  thus:  here  on 
the  shore  of  America,  one  hundred  and 
fifty  years  ago,  lay  a  chain  of  colonies 
predominantly  English — offshoots  of  the 
Old  World,  whose  citizens  naturally 
looked  back  to  the  mother-country  for 
intellectual  support,  precisely  as  they 
imported  their  household  furniture  and 
the  cloth  from  which  their  finer  gar- 
ments were  cut.  They  did  not  presume 
to  manufacture  for  themselves;  how 
could  they  transmute  the  hard  and  re- 
pellent features  of  their  environment 
into  art?  Their  very  preachers  were 
imported,  and  for  the  most  part  took 
their  exile  sadly. 

In  all  that  dreary  mass  of  stuflF  writ- 
ten between  1700  and  1812  you  will  find 
little  that  is  distinctive,  little  that  is 
hopeful,  and  nothing  with  the  accent 
of  joyous  life.  There  is  not  in  all  that 
time  a  single  line  to  delineate  the 
song  of  a  bird,  the  bloom  of  a  flower, 
the  laugh  of  a  child.  The  wilderness 
was  an  enemy,  the  near  at  hand  pro- 
saic or  repellent,  the  life  of  the  colo- 
nist without  literary  grace  or  color. 

It  is  true  that  during  the  Revolution 
the  political  paragrapher  turned  verse- 
writer,  and  in  some  sort  attempted  a 


statement  of  the  time,  but  nothing  in 
what  might  be  called  art-form  is  record- 
ed till  Philip  Freneau  in  verse  and 
Brockden  Brown  in  prose  fumblingly 
touched  upon  certain  phases  of  their 
physical  environment.  Freneau  wrote 
one  or  two  poems  of  graceful  flow  and 
easy  rhyme,  and  William  Qiffton,  a 
young  Quaker,  published  a  poem  on  a 
robin,  and  Brockden  Brown  put  into 
"Arthur  Mervyn"  some  vivid  prose  de- 
scriptions of  the  streets  of  Philadelphia 
during  the  plague. 

The  War  for  Independence  strength- 
ened the  colonist's  love  for  his  native 
land  and  convinced  him  of  the 
necessity  of  iseparation  from  Eng- 
land, liberating  him  in  fact  from  the 
political  sovereignty  of  the  Old  World, 
but  left  him  timid  and  provincial  in 
literary  affairs.  Beginning  shortly  af- 
ter the  War  of  181 2,  we  may  detect  the 
first  signs  of  an  awakening  literary 
and  artistic  perception  of  the  value  of 
native  themes  and  near-by  landscape. 
Here  and  there  a  song  was  sung  from 
a  sincere  wish  to  embody  some  tender 
experience,  some  sweet  or  epic  phase  of 
nature,  but  it  was  not  till  Cooper,  of 
deliberate  intent,  wrote  "The  Spy"  that 
we  may  claim  for  America  an  Ameri- 
can writer  worthy  to  be  studied. 

I  do  not  think  the  eflFect  of  Cooper's 
work  can  be  overestimated.  His  suc- 
cess proved  not  merely  that  the  local 
novel  could  be  written,  but  that  it 
would  be  read.  His  successive  studies 
of  the  red  man  and  the  primeval  forest 
taught  not  merely  America  but  the 
world  the  epical  quality  of  the  west- 
ward march  of  American  pioneers,  and 


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42  PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


he  was  followed  (at  a  respectable  dis- 
tance) by  Sims,  Hoffman,  Bird,  Web- 
ber, and  other  cruder  chroniclers  of 
"the  dark  and  bloody  ground"  of  the 
West. 

These  story-writers  were  hardly 
more  than  dime-novelists,  and  yet  they 
were  at  close-hand  grapple  with  life, 
and  were  honestly  trying  to  put  into 
permanent  literary  form  the  characters 
•  and  incidents  they  knew  and  found  of 
greatest  interest.  They  were  rough  and 
ragged,  without  grace  or  charm,  and 
yet  in  those  books  was  the  hint  of 
something  native  and  true. 

As  the  settlements  increased  in  size, 
as  the  pressure  of  the  forest  and  wild 
beast  became  less  oppressive,  expres- 
sion rose  to  a  higher  plane.  Men  sof- 
tened in  speech  and  manner,  yet  re- 
tained a  certain  quality  which  was 
American.  This  border  literature,  how- 
ever, did  not  attain  widely  acceptable 
form  till  after  the  Civil  War,  though 
New  England  and  New  York  had  taken 
up  the  local  movement,  carrying  it  for- 
ward to  illustrious  achievement  through 
Bryant,  Hawthorne,  Whittier,  Lowell, 
and  Emerson.  In  Lowell  and  Whittier 
especially  are  to  be  found  the  begin- 
nings of  the  vernacular  in  American 
verse,  and  in  Whitman  rose  the  song 
of  the  American  democrat  in  love  with 
the  thousand  aspects  of  his  physical  en- 
vironment.* 

Then  came  the  Civil  War,  which  may 
be  taken  to  mark  the  line  between  the 
nation  as  a  youth  and  the  nation  as  a 
man.  Its  epic  story,  its  passion,  came 
near  to  freeing  American  writers  from 
slavery  to  Old  World  models  and 
themes,  its  experiences  certainly  broad- 
ened and  deepened  the  currents  of  our 
national  life. 

Not  merely  did  this  struggle  give  rise 
to  a  splendid  body  of  ballads  and  short 
stories ;  it  created  historians  and  proph- 
ets. It  gave  us  perspectives  on  our 
colonial  wars  and  chieftains.  Up  to 
this  time  American  social  movements 
had  not  been  to  any  considerable  extent 
embodied  in  art.     American  landscape 


was  but  feebly  reflected  on  canvas.  Na- 
tive utterance  was  for  the  most  part 
artless  or  timid  and  academic,  and  the 
great  interior  of  the  nation,  the  border- 
land, the  plains,  and  the  mountains, 
were  as  yet  unrepresented  by  poets  and 
novelists. 

Nevertheless,  two  young  men  were 
being  prepared  for  this  great  work,  and 
when  Bret  Harte  and  Joaquin  Miller 
united  to  depict  the  epic  march  of  the 
Forty-niners  and  their  absorbingly  in- 
teresting life  on  the  Pacific  Slope,  local 
color  came  into  the  power  and  signifi- 
cance which  Whitman  had  prophesied. 
The  success  of  these  men,  their  instant 
recognition  at  home  and  abroad,  gave 
inspiration  and  direction  to  the  up- 
springing  writers  of  other  parts  of  the 
States. 

One  by  one  recruits  joined  the  col- 
umn. "Mark  Twain"  of  Missouri, 
George  W.  Cable  of  New  Orleans, 
Joel  Chandler  Harris  of  Georgia, 
Thomas  Nelson  Page  of  Virginia, 
James  Lane  Allen  of  Kentucky,  Mary 
E.  Wilkins  of  Massachusetts,  and 
others  almost  equally  representative,  be- 
gan to  bring  to  New  York,  our  great 
central  mart  and  exchange,  their  pic- 
turing of  the  particular  part  of  the  na- 
tion which  they  knew  best,  and  so  an 
American  school  of  local  fiction  was 
established.  Deeply  considered,  Wil- 
liam Dean  Howells,  Charles  Dudley 
Warner,  and  others  of  what  might  be 
called  the  urban  g^oup,  were  in  effect 
parts  of  the  local  movement;  for  they, 
too,  were  engaged  in  imparting  local 
color  to  their  stories  of  life  in  Ameri- 
can cities,  and  to-day  we  have  groups 
of  writers  all  over  America  engaged  in 
delineating  the  life  they  love  best,  and 
know  the  best,  whose  work  bears  very 
little  trace  of  Old- World  prejudices, 
Old  World  flavor.  "The  com  has 
flowered,  the  cotton-boll  has  broken 
into  "bloom." 

Local  color— what  is  it  ?  To  me  it  is 
the  spontaneous  reflection  of  life,  the 
natural  and  unstrained  art  which  fol- 


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43 


lows  upon  a  man's  love  for  what  he 
sees  clearest  and  loves  deepest. 

It  is  a  settled  conviction  with  me  that 
our  nation  must  produce  its  own  lit- 
erary record,  utter  its  own  songs,  paint 
its  own  pictures  in  its  own  way,  and 
that  no  other  race  or  nation  can  do 
these  things  for  us ;  and  when  Fenimore 
Cooper  said,  *'Why  should  we  look 
away  to  England,  to  Greece,  and  to 
Rome  for  our  themes?  Why  not  take 
our  own  men,  our  own  scenes,  as  sub- 
jects of  fiction?"  he  laid  the  comer- 
stone  of  our  literature.  That  he  failed 
of  fineness,  or  fervor,  or  imagination, 
is  beside  the  point.  He  made  a  brave 
beginning,  and  a  conscious  beginning. 

It  is  not  my  purpose  to  proceed  fur- 
ther along  the  historical  line.  I  have 
said  this  much  to  prepare  the  way  for 
my  real  contention,  which  is  that 
American  literature,  so  far  as  it  is  crea- 
tive, so  far  as  it  is  distinctive,  is  an 
embodiment  of  local  color. 

Mark  well  that  I  do  not  say  that  lo- 
cal color  is  the  only  element  of 
vital  importance  in  American  fiction, 
merely  claim  for  it  supreme  value  and 
importance  at  this  stage  of  our 
social  evolution.  It  is  possible  that 
some  of  you  may  disagree  with  me 
when  I  say  that  local  color  is  demon- 
strably the  most  hopeful  and  distin- 
guishing characteristic  of  our  best 
painting,  as  well  as  of  our  best  music, 
because  by  local  color  I  mean  the  native 
element,  the  differentiating  element,  the 
quality  which  corresponds  to  the  subtle 
divergence  which  sets  one  person  apart 
from  his  fellows.  It  is  the  difference 
which  interests  us,  not  the  similarities. 

Historically  the  local,  the  realistic, 
has  gained  in  power  and  suggestion 
from  Chaucer  down  to  the  present  day. 
Each  successive  generation  seems  to 
have  been  able  to  embody  a  little  more 
of  its  daily  trials,  defeats,  and  victories 
than  its  predecessors,  until  to-day  every 
nation  in  Europe  is  filled  with  novelists 
and  dramatists  whose  pages  drip  with 
local  color. 

All  over  the  world  men  and  women 


are  writing  of  the  life  close  about  them 
as  naturally  as  the  grass  grows.  They 
are  looking  at  the  earth  and  sky  as 
Whitman  would  have  them  to  do.  ''Stop 
this  day  and  night  with  me,  and  I  will 
show  you  the  origin  of  all  poems.  You 
shall  not  look  through  my  eyes  either, 
nor  through  the  eyes  of  the  dead.  You 
shall  look  with  your  own  eyes,  and 
filter  the  world  for  yourself."  And  in 
America  the  movement  of  these  local 
novelists  is  already  like  the  drift  of  an 
army. 

Not  all  our  writers  are  of  this  mind. 
Some  of  them  still  despise  or  fear  the 
local,  the  democratic;  but  they  seem  to 
me  to  stand  outside  the  normal  devel- 
opment of  our  art.  Is  it  not  in  a  sense 
unnatural  and  sterile  when  an  Ameri- 
can steps  aside  to  write  novels  of  the 
Old  World,  of  distant  lands?  Can 
there  be  lasting  vitality,  national  sig- 
nificance in  such  work?  What  sort  of 
figure  would  we  present  to  the  histori- 
an, if  all  our  writers  were  still  compos- 
ing poems,  dramas,  and  novels  upon 
French  or  English  or  Russian  themes? 

I  assert  that  it  is  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world  for  the  young  writer 
to  love  his  birthplace,  to  write  of  it,  to 
sing  of  it.  All  the  associations  of  his 
youth  and  early  manhood  naturally  ap- 
pear in  his  art,  or  would  appear,  were 
he  not  in  some  way  warped  by  educa- 
tion or  blinded  by  criticism.  *From  this 
it  follows  that  the  local  color  which  I 
am  describing  is  not  put  in,  or  should 
not  be  put  in,  for  the  sake  of  local 
color.  It  should  go  in  because  the  writ- 
er cannot  help  it,  because  he  carries 
with  him  consciously  or  unconsciously 
a  compelling  sense  of  its  power,  its 
beauty,  its  significance.  If  the  novelist 
is  profoundly  sincere,  he  will  not  stop 
to  consider  whether  the  work  will  sell 
largely  or  not.  He  will  make  his  ap- 
peal irrespective  of  success,  irrespec- 
tive of  the  dollar. 

What  we,  as  readers,  should  demand 
of  our  writers,  is  not  universality  of 
theme,  but  beauty  and  strength  of 
treatment,  leaving  the  novelist,  the  poet. 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


the  dramatist,  to  work  out  his  theme  in 
his  own  way,  in  his  own  time.  I  agree 
with  all  those  who  say  American  art 
should  be  raised  to  the  highest  level  in 
its  technic,  but  I  think  the  critic  should 
be  careful,  very  careful,  not  to  cut  into 
the  creative  man's  spontaneous  and  in- 
dividual quality. 

To  one  who  believes  that  each  age  is 
its  own  best  interpreter  the  idea  of  de- 
cay in  literature  never  comes.  That 
which  the  absolutist  takes  for  decay  is 
merely  change.  The  conservative  fears 
change,  and  the  radical  welcomes  it. 
The  absolutist  argues  that  fundamen- 
tals cannot  change,  that  the  life  of  man 
is  essentially  the  same  yesterday,  to-day 
and  to-morrow;  and  yet  if  this  were 
true,  the  future  to  the  creative  artist 
would  be  hopeless. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  minute  dif- 
ferences which  the  absolutist  calls 
''non-essentials"  are  the  saving  elements 
of  every  art.  All  promise,  all  growth, 
are  in  these  non-essentials.  It  is  the 
difference  between  characters,  the  dif- 
ference  between  writers,  the  difference 
between  nations,  which  forever  allure 
the  fictionist. 

To  perceive  the  hopelessness  of  abso- 
lutism in  literature  we  have  only  to  con- 
sider for  a  moment.  To  admit  that  the 
past  rules,  that  models  are  to  be  rig- 
idly followed,  that  there  are  forms  to 
which  every  young  writer  must  refer 
his  work,  is  to  commit  ourselves  to  a 
hopeless  round  of  repetition. 

There  are  no  blind  alleys  in  art.  Each 
artist  is  bom  into  the  world  with  the 
right  to  change,  to  affirm,  or  to  deny. 
Each  writer  stands  accountable  only 
to  himself,  first,  and  to  the  facts  of 
life  last. 

Life  is  always  changing,  never  the 
same,  and  art  and  the  artist,  the  paint- 
er and  the  poet,  change  with  it.  Poetry 
— ^that  is  to  say,  impassioned  outlook  on 
life — is  in  no  greater  danger  of  extinc- 
tion to-day  than  it  was  in  the  days  of 
Shakspere,  but  its  manner,  of  expres- 
sion is  changing.  Consciously  or  uncon- 
sciously the  point  of  view  of  the  mod- 


ern writer  is  that  of  the  truth-stater. 
Criticism  of  things  as  they  are  is  al- 
most universal,  and  this  is  at  once  an 
expression  of  democracy  and  the  out-- 
come  of  spontaneous  art.  We  of 
America  do  not  look  to  the  past,  but 
to  the  future. 

It  is  natural  for  youth  to  break  from 
bonds,  to  overleap  barrier^.  The  man 
of  to-day  naturally  discards  the  wig  and 
the  shoe-buckles  of  his  grandfather. 
They  amuse  him  as  relics,  but  he  does 
not  wear  them.  In  the  same  way 
he  comes  to  reject,  perhaps  a  little  too 
brusquely,  the  literary  forms  and  artis- 
tic models  which  accompanied  the  shirt- 
frills  and  the  snuff. 

He  respects  the  past  as  history,  but 
he  loves  the  life  of  to-day,  the  abound 
ing,  irreverent,  ttunultuous  life  of 
America,  the  life  that  stings  and  smoth- 
ers like  the  salt  surf — life  with  its  ter- 
rors and  triumphs,  its  familiar  words 
and  ways,  its  loves  and  its  hates. 

In  all  the  best  art  of  our  day  life  is 
the  model,  truth,  the  master,  the  red 
heart  of  the  artist,  the  motive  power. 

Of  what  avail,  then,  the  attempt  to 
turn  back  the  wave  of  democracy,  the 
flood  of  fire  ?  The  child  will  become  a 
man,  the  strong  will  become  weak,  the 
old  will  be  forgotten,  for  such  is  the 
law  of  life. 

To  him  who  sees  that  difference,  va- 
riation from  the  past  is  the  vitalizing 
quality  of  art;  there  comes  no  rebel- 
lion against  change.  The  artist  of  the 
future  will  take  care  of  himself,  pre- 
cisely as  did  Shakspere  and  Rembrandt, 
Corot  and  Scott. 

In  this  word  difference  therefore  lies 
the  highest  hope  of  American  art.  It 
is  to  me  not  only  false,  it  is  self-de- 
structive, to  say  that  humanity  is  the 
same  yesterday,  to-day,  and  to-morrow. 
To  say  that  the  writer  is  committed  to 
the  humble  restatement  of  life  in  terms 
of  the  past  is  to  stop  the  river  in  its 
flow,  the  grass  in  its  season. 

Some  elements  of  life  are  compara- 
tively unchanging,  just  as  certain  facts 
of  nature  seem  to  maintain  inflexible 


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LOCAL  COLOR  IN  AMERICAN  FICTION 


45 


routine.  The  snow  will  fall,  spring  will 
come,  men  and  women  will  wed,  the 
stars  will  rise  and  set,  and  the  grass  re- 
turn a  thousand  years  hence,  much  the 
same  as  now;  but  society  will  not  be 
what  it  is  to-day.  The  men  and  women 
of  that  far  cycle  will  be  only  remotely 
related  to  the  men  and  women  of  our 
time. 

The  physical  face  of  this  continent  is 
changing — changing  so  swiftly  that  few 
are  able  to  follow  its  transformations, 
and  these  changes  will  certainly  go  on. 
Our  mountains  will  lose  their  wildness, 
their  austerity.  Our  dun  plains  will 
take  on  green  robes;  roses  will  bloom 
where  now  the  hot  sands  drift.  Cities 
will  rise  and  pleasure-walks  be  laid 
in  canons  where  only  the  savage  pan- 
ther prowls.  Swifter  means  of  trans- 
portation will  make  the  distant  seem 
very  near.  The  States  of  South  and  of 
North  will  be  drawn  closer  together. 
The  physical  and  mental  characteristics 
of  our  citizens  East  and  West  will 
change,  the  relation  of  sex  to  sex  and 


man  to  man  will  change,  and  our  lit- 
erature will  chronicle  these  changes. 

To  me  the  present  is  the  vital  theme. 
The  past  is  a  tale  that  is  told,  the 
future  a  mountain  in  the  mist.  My 
sympathies  are  with  the  iconoclast  who 
asserts  that  there  is  no  traditional  cri- 
terion by  which  to  judge  men  whose 
aim  is  not  to  conform  to  conventions, 
but  to  ignore  them,  who  claim  for  the 
artist  perfect  freedom  to  express  him- 
self in  his  own  way,  in  his  own  time. 

Realism,  Americanism,  local  color, 
do  not  spring  from  a  theory  so  much  as 
from  a  condition  of  mind, — that  is  to 
say,  faith  in  the  freedom  of  art.  The 
American  writer  needs  only  one  fun- 
damental rule — to  be  true  to  his  time. 
He  should  recognize  but  one  master — 
life.  He  may  fail  of  allegiance  now  and 
again,  and  fall  below  the  level  of  his 
highest  hope;  but  that  does  not  alter 
the  law,  nor  check  the  advance  of  the 
column.  American  art  cannot  be  the 
reproduction  of  art;  it  must  be,  and  it 
will  be,  the  creation  of  a  new  art. 


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RECENT  TENDENCIES  IN  SCULPTURE 


By  Lorado  Taft 


The  most  ancient  and  enduring  of 
the  arts  has,  like  all  things  human,  its 
fashions.  Styles  come  and  go  in  the 
sculptors'  studios,  as  in  the  millinery 
shops;  the  changes,  however,  are 
slower,  and  the  discredited  products  of 
the  chisel  remain  inexorably  permanent 
for  the  diversion  of  new  generations. 
Now  and  then  a  work  conquers  our 
esteem  through  sheer  beauty  or  disarms 
us  by  reason  of  its  quaintness ;  but  out 
of  the  "weed-like  crop"  of  any  period 
little  there  is  that  survives  the  ephem- 
eral moment  which  gives  it  birth. 

In  the  story  of  France,  Gothic  art 
was  developed  from  the  Romanesque, 
and  gave  way  in  turn  before  the  in- 
sinuating appeal  of  the  Italian  Renais- 
sance. This  new  gift  of  the  South, 
transplanted  to  Gallic  soil,  developed 
unforeseen  qualities  of  adaptability, 
and  delighted  the  world  with  its  charm 
in  the  hands  of  Jean  Goujon  and  Ger- 
main Pilon,  followed  by  Puget  and 
Coysevox,  but  faded  utterly  before 
Italy's  next  invasion  under  the  banner 
of  Canova. 

And  so  it  is  to-day.  To  some  of  us 
whose  memories  hark  back  lovingly  to 
halcyon  student  days  in  the  early 
eighties,  when  France's  modem  school 
was  in  its  prime,  making  Paris  the 
Mecca  of  all  the  world — to  us  it  seems 
that  no  such  nobility  of  united  purpose 
and  grandeur  of  concerted  result  is  to 
be  found  in  the  story  of  the  centuries 
since  the  nameless  cathedral-builders 
made  real  their  splendid  dreams  all 
over  northern  France.  The  medieval 
sculptors  carved  "to  the  glory  of  God" 
and  of  their  native  towns.  This  later 
group  may  have  been  less  directly  con- 


cerned in  the  glory  of  God,  but  was 
certainly  inspired  by  a  lofty  sense  of 
citizenship  and  a  desire  to  uphold  the 
fair  fame  of  France.  To  one  who  has 
known  and  revered  Paul  Dubois,  Henri 
Chapu,  and  Barrias,  who  has  delighted 
in  the  ingenuity  of  St.  Marceaux,  the 
magic  touch  of  Falguiere,  the  fire  and 
grace  of  Merde's  "Efeivid"  and  "Gloria 
Victis,"  the  ethereal  charm  of  the  "Au- 
rora" of  Delaplanche,  and  who  after 
all  these  years  cannot  think  of  the  ear- 
nestness and  integrity  of  these  men 
without  a  thrill  of  emotion — to  such 
a  pilgrim  a  visit  to  the  Paris  of  to-day 
brings  grievous  disappointment.  The 
giants  are  all  gone.  Frcmiet,  the  last 
of  that  early  brotherhood,  died  this 
year.  Mercie,  a  younger  man,  long 
since  succumbed  to  fatty  degeneration 
of  the  imagination  and  rises  no  more 
to  those  youthful  heights.  Even  Rodin, 
the  great  insurgent,  has  become  harm- 
less now.  Old  and  prosperous,  he  has 
done  nothing  of  interest  in  the  last  ten 
years. 

In  place  of  a  self-respecting  art 
worthy  of  its  ancient  lineage,  we  find 
in  Paris  to-day  the  puerile  effronteries 
of  Matisse  and  of  Maillot,  delighting 
through  their  very  ineptitude  a  public 
avid  of  new  sensations.  Realism  and 
unbridled  cleverness  have  run  their 
course,  and  the  jaded  <:ritics  find  re- 
freshment in  willful  bungling  and  pre- 
tence of  naivete. 

One  protests  that  these  things  are 
merely  the  froth  of  the  annual  exhi- 
bitions, that  there  is  always  a  great  body 
of  admirable  work,  less  obtrusive,  be- 
cause decent.  This  is  doubtless  true, 
but  the  fact  remains  that  the  general 


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47 


trend  is  pretty  clearly  indicated  by  the 
character  of  recent  public  monuments. 
Can  you  recall  a  single  distinguished 
work  erected  in  Paris  since  1900?  On 
the  other  hand,  the  ignoble  "stunts" 
given  hopeless  eternalization  there 
within  the  last  few  years  are  too  many 
to  catalogue.  Rodin  is  undoubtedly 
the  greatest  sculptural  genius  of  our 
time,  but  this  master  of  form  has  taken 
nearly  two  decades  to  complete  a  form- 
less monument  to  Victor  Hugo.  Even 
his  vivid  fancy  has  its  limitations;  he 
proved  early  in  his  **Claude  Lorraine" 
that  he  ignored  the  most  elementary 
requirements  of  a  work  to  be  seen  from 
a  distance.  Like  the  two  French  sculp- 
tors who,  under  the  very  shadow  of 
the  Athenian  Acropolis,  erected  that 
strange  white  confusion  to  the  memory 
of  Lord  Byron,  this  mighty  dreamer  has 
neglected  more  than  once  to  make  his 
work  legible,  and  though  constantly 
seeking,  as  he  tells  us,  "to  find  the  la- 
tent heroic  in  every  natural  movement," 
he  has  often  failed  to  express  himself 
in  nobility  of  line.  We  should  not 
hold  him  personally  responsible  for  the 
present  decadence  any  more  than  we 
can  charge  the  decline  of  the  Italian 
Renaissance  to  Michelangelo.  The 
eminence  of  the  master  makes  his  in- 
fluence all-powerful.  His  weaknesses 
and  peculiarities  are  more  easily  copied 
than  his  real  inherent  strength,  the 
growth  of  a  lifetime.  So  the  lesser 
men  follow,  developing  with  enthusi- 
asm any  license  encouraged  by  such 
high  example.  Rodin's  carelessness  of 
the  silhouette  has  been  gratefully  emu- 
lated by  an  army  of  young  sculptors 
and  by  not  a  few  of  the  older  men  as 
well.  Dalou's  tribute  to  Delacroix  in 
the  Luxembourg  Gardens  is  an  un- 
happy tribute  to  Rodin  also  in  that  it 
is  one  of  the  most  offensive  and  perni- 
cious examples  of  the  new  method. 
The  stolid  bust  of  the  painter  is  as- 
sailed by  a  nude  female  of  adventurous 
mien,  who  endeavors  to  climb  his  slen- 
der pedestal  in  order  to  decorate  him. 
Her  voluptuous   form  is  precariously 


supported  by  a  violent  figure  of 
*Time,"  who,  taxed  to  the  utmost,  is 
encouraged  by  Apollo  with  out- 
stretched, applauding  hands.  The 
impression  of  tumultuous  acrobatics 
is  undignified  and  irritating  beyond 
words.  There  is  no  sense  of  eternity 
where  Time  plays  such  pranks. 

The  present  generation  follows  pell- 
mell.  M.  Puech,  once  so  promising, 
showed  steady  decline  after  that  early 
and  truly  beautiful  work,  "The  Muse 
of  Andre  Chenier,"  in  the  Luxembourg. 
His  "Siren"  was  all  wings  and  waves 
and  fish-tails  picturesquely  incoherent. 
His  famous  relief,  "The  Nymph  of  the 
Seine,"  was  too  true  to  be  good,  too 
faithful  to  fact  to  be  very  noble  sculp- 
ture— a  dainty  and  fragile  nude  of 
most  personal  look.  Such  things  may 
perhaps  be  excusable  in  relief,  pro- 
tected, as  they  are,  by  the  conventions 
of  that  delicate  form  of  sculpture,  but 
they  point  a  dangerous  tendency.  Two 
recent  works  of  a  public  character  by 
M.  Puech  are  lamentable.  A  class  me- 
morial in  a  manual  training  school 
shows  a  saucy  Parisienne,  quite  nude, 
of  course,  seated  upon  an  anvil  and  toy- 
ing with  a  pair  of  pincers.  The  union 
of  assurance  and  inadequacy  suggested 
by  the  blithe  young  lady  of  the  up-to- 
date  coiffure  is  symbolic  of  the  mental- 
ity of  an  artist  who  could  design  such 
a  work  as  a  fit  personification  of  intel- 
ligent toil.  This  popular  sculptor  has 
done  one  thing  even  more  ludicrously 
unfortunate.  His  monument  to  a  cer- 
tain admiral,  on  the  Avenue  de  I'Ob- 
servatoire,  shows  the  portrait  bust  of 
a  hero  of  Oriental  seas  rising  from  a 
surging  tangle  of  Tritons  and  mer- 
maids, waving  arms,  palm  branches, 
and  carved  paddles.  Confusion  reigns. 
The  very  commonplace  admiral,  with 
the  Dundreary  side-whiskers,  seems  to 
find  it  impossible  to  conceal  a  look  of 
polite  inquiry  in  the  face  of  this  sculp- 
tural explosion. 

M.  Larche  carved  awhile  back  a  de- 
lightful group,  "Les  Violettes,"  three 
little  children,  exquisitely   tender  and 


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48  PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


poetic,  in  guise  of  violets.  The  same 
sculptor's  monument  to  Corot,  recently 
erected,  is  a  pitiful  conception:  a  bust 
of  the  great  painter  upon  a  formless 
pedestal  built  apparently  of  clouds ;  then 
the  inevitable  nude  woman  playing  hide- 
and-seek  with  the  public,  though  osten- 
sibly paying  homage  to  the  bust.  She 
is  not  one  of  Corot's  vaporous  idealiza- 
tions, but  evidently  a  portrait,  face  and 
body,  of  the  little  minx  who  posed  for 
the  figure.  One  feels  that  the  honest 
old  paysagiste  would  have  been  embar- 
rassed by  the  juxtaposition. 

Roger-Bloche  modeled  a  few  years 
ago  his  striking  group  **Le  Froid,"  the 
unhappy  pair  whom,  on  some  torrid 
July  noon,  you  may  have  seen  shivering 
at  the  entrance  of  the  Luxembourg. 
Last  year  this  artist  employed  his  nota- 
ble talents  in  "L'Accident,'*  a  gathering 
of  detached  figures  around  a  workman 
fallen  at  a  street  corner;  a  bit  of  jour- 
nalism of  wonderful  skill  and  charac- 
terization, but  having  no  more  sculp- 
tural intent  than  the  most  scattered  of 
our  own  Rogers's  childlike  groups. 

Lefevre's  relief,  **Springtime,'*  shows 
three  young  couples  in  realistic  modem 
costume  walking  up  the  side  of  a  great 
block  of  marble.  These  are  separated 
by  some  distance,  and  have  no  relation 
to  one  another.  **Aux  Champs"  is  a 
peasant,  with  a  wheelbarrow  heaped 
high  with  hay.  He  is  followed  by  his 
wife,  and  there  is  no  structural  reason 
why  the  procession  should  not  include 
a  dozen  children,  dogs,  and  farm  ani- 
mals strolling  in  as  casually  as  a  baby's 
arrangement  of  its  Noah's  ark  figures. 

These  things  are  significant  because 
they  are  not  the  work  of  ignorant  be- 
ginners, but  are  the  presumably  ma- 
ture expressions  of  the  leaders  and  men 
of  standing  in  modern  sculpture. 
Others  emulate  Rodin  in  eager  portray- 
al of  the  primitive  passions,  vulgarizing 
with  insistent  ostentation  the  most  sa- 
cred things  in  life.  Insensible  to  the 
charm  and  poetry  of  suggestion,  such 
crude  disciples  of  modernism  picture 
everything  with  a  brutal  frankness  that 


repels.  Sculpture  has  become  taxi- 
dermy, and  their  stuffed  men  and  wom- 
en lack  only  color  and  real  hair  to  vie 
with  the  tableaux  of  ethnological  and 
surgical  museums. 

One  understands  now  the  warning 
of  that  great  artist  and  seer,  Bartho- 
lome,  whose  noble  monument,  **Aux 
Morts,"  you  have  seen  at  Pere  la 
Chaise:  "There  will  be  no  new  renais- 
sance of  French  sculpture  until  the 
young  modelers  turn  once  more  to  the 
limestone  of  which  the  cathedrals  were 
built,  and  carve  great,  simple  figures  in 
it,  as  did  the  medieval  masters."  Out 
of  the  exigencies  of  such  a  material 
might  be  developed  a  grave  and  simple 
art,  a  new  school  of  sculpture. 

Most  of  us  think  of  modem  Italian 
sculpture  as  hopeless  beyond  redemp- 
tion. We  recall  the  plastic  jokes  and  in- 
decencies at  our  world's  fairs,  the  pa- 
tient carvings  garlanded  with  the  cards 
of  hundreds  of  purchasers ;  we  shudder 
at  memories  of  the  Campo  Santo  of 
Milan — and  we  dismiss  them  utterly. 
At  the  Columbian  Exposition  the  only 
Interesting  work  in  the  Italian  section 
was  made  by  a  Russian,  whose  mother 
was  an  American,  and  at  the  next  fair 
Prince  Troubetskoy  did  not  exhibit. 
Biondi's  "Satumalia"  epitomized  cmel- 
ly,  but  not  unjustly,  the  trend  of  con- 
temporaneous sculpture  in  Italy,  with 
all  its  misplaced  effort  and  its  incredi- 
ble, not  to  say  fiendish,  cleverness. 

It  is  a  joy  to  find  that  there  are  some 
real  sculptors  there,  after  all,  men  of 
high  ideals  and  artistic  conscience.  The 
great  danger  with  even  these  is  the 
malaria  which  surrounds  them,  that  at- 
mosphere of  perilous  facility  which 
cannot  withhold  the  hand,  but  embroi- 
ders and  accentuates  until  every  square 
inch  of  surface  is  tormented  with  a 
perfect  eczema  of  detail.  One  who  es- 
capes this  malady  upon  occasions  is 
Signor  Bistolfi  of  Turin,  a  great  artist 
who  has  been  called  "the  sculptor-poet 
of  Death." 

His  relief,  "Memories"  and  other 
funereal  works  are  exquisite  in  sugges- 


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RECENT  TENDENCIES  IN  SCULPTURE 


49 


tion.  Now  and  then  he  falls  from  grace 
and  elaborates  the  marble  to  destruc- 
tion, but  in  his  **Christ  in  the  Wilder- 
ness," his  Garibaldi,  and  his  nude  "The 
Spirit  of  the  Snowy  Alps*'  (in  memory 
of  his  friend  Segantini),  he  divests 
himself  entirely  of  the  things  that  are 
petty,  rising  to  a  height  of  aloofness 
that  few  modems  ever  attain. 

There  are  others  who  show  promise 
of  emergence  from  the  shadow  of  com- 
mercialism that  has  so  long  character- 
ized Italian  sculpture.  Believe  me,  we 
shall  yet  see  new  wonders  from  that 
land  of  eternal  youth,  that  immemorial 
cradle  of  Beauty. 

Perhaps  one  should  apologize  for  in- 
cluding England  in  a  review  like  this, 
since  our  ancestral  home  is  certainly 
not  the  nursery  of  sculpture  and  has 
never  produced  a  great  master  of  the 
chisel.  Nevertheless,  England  shows  an 
occasional  sporadic  work  of  consider- 
able interest.  Some  of  her  painters,  like 
Lord  Leighton,  were  undoubtedly 
sculptors  at  heart,  and  ability  is  by  no 
means  rare.  There  is  a  form  of  artis- 
tic atavism,  however,  to  which  her 
sculptors  almost  inevitably  succumb 
sooner  or  later.  No  matter  how  great 
the  promise  and  the  originality,  they  all 
come  in  time  to  work  in  the  same  way, 
unless,  perchance,  they  die  young,  like 
gifted  Harry  Bates. 

Thomycroft  surrendered  long  since 
to  this  inscrutable  fate;  since  *'The 
Mower"  and  "Teucer"  he  has  done  lit- 
tle that  would  interest  the  foreigner. 
Even  the  colonists  who  come  to  the 
English  shore  seem  destined  to  lose 
their  originality  and  their  skill.  Bertram 
McKennal,  a  brilliant  Australian,  re- 
vealed in  his  *'Circe"  and  'The  Seats 
of  the  Mighty"  a  promise  of  great 
things.  Since  settling  in  England  his 
work  has  become  distinctly  common- 
place. 

Henry  James  observes  somewhere 
that  if  the  English  ever  succeed  in 
art,  it  will  be  by  virtue  of  their  love 
for  overcoming  difficulties.  Industry 
counts;  they  delight  in  ''takmg  pains," 


and  too  often  their  sculpture  reveals 
little  else.  No  man,  for  instance,  could 
be  more  serious  than  Sir  George 
Frampton,  who  has  had  many  a  sculp- 
tural idea;  but  the  effect  is  frequently 
dissipated  by  his  love  of  curious  com- 
binations of  metals  and  stones,  and  his 
insistence  upon  ornamental  detail.  Of 
course  beautiful  results  are  possible  in 
such  unions,  as  even  modern  art  has 
shown;  Dampt  and  Riviere,  among 
many  in  Paris,  and  the  young  German 
Emil  Geiger,  have  produced  charming 
works  in  chryselephantine  and  poly- 
chromatic sculpture.  Max  Klinger's 
extraordinary  "Beethoven,"  on  the 
other  hand,  seems  to  thwart  its  own 
purpose.  The  central  idea  is  clouded 
by  the  clamorous  appeal  of  many  jar- 
ring elements.  Of  course  one  looks  for 
no  such  exuberance  in  the  products  of 
an  English  studio,  yet  there  is  one  re- 
markable exception,  a  very  accom- 
plished sculptor  of  pyrotechnic  powers, 
whose  art  has  likewise  become  curious- 
ly perverted  through  too  generous  an 
admixture  of  the  decorative  crafts. 

In  the  old  Parisian  school-days  we 
used  to  hear  much  of  "Geelbert,"  a 
gifted  young  Englishman  who  had  just 
left  the  Beaux-Arts  and  whose  **Icarus" 
was  pronounced  by  the  camarades  as 
good  as  they  could  do  themselves.  To- 
day Alfred  Gilbert  is  one  of  the  promi- 
nent figures  in  English  art.  His  vari- 
ous public  works,  like  the  statue  of 
Queen  Victoria  at  Winchester,  have 
been  creditably  done  and  have  given 
him  a  great  reputation. 

However,  a  strange  peculiarity  re- 
vealed itself  early  in  his  art,  which 
threatens  to  rob  it  of  value.  Perhaps 
at  some  time  he  may  have  visited  Ve- 
rona and  been  impressed  by  the  tombs 
of  the  family  Delia  Scala.  There,  or 
somewhere,  at  any  rate,  he  became  fas- 
cinated with  wrought-iron  effects.  They 
appear  first  as  a  little  spray  of  volutes 
above  the  head  of  the  Queen  in  the 
Winchester  memorial,  but  develop  rap- 
idly, in  later  productions,  into  a  veri- 
table jungle  of  thorn-apples  and  che- 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


veaux'de-frise,  which  seem  intended  to 
confuse  and  belittle  the  essentially 
monumental  features  of  his  art.  The 
malady  has  recently  attacked  the  stat- 
ues themselves.  His  Saint  Michael  on 
the  Qarence  tomb  at  Windsor  contem- 
plates with  helpless  gaze  an  incredibly 
complicated  sword, — a  sort  of  Aaron's 
rod  that  budded, — while  the  saint's  ar- 
mor is  so  overwrought  that  it  fairly 
peels  off  from  the  figure,  giving  the 
limbs  the  look  of  shag-bark  hickories. 
A  statuette  of  the  Virgin  is  overgrown 
with  vines  and  blossoms,  through  which 
its  original  beauty  peeps  out  to  tanta- 
lize us.  The  culmination  is  reached  in 
his  group  of  *'Saint  George  and  the 
Dragon.''  Here  the  actors  have  become 
virtually  indistinguishable  in  the  gen- 
eral mix-up.  The  effect  is  that  of  the 
comic-supplement  method  of  suggesting 
a  dog  fight  or  a  falling  figure — b,  whirl 
of  broken  lines. 

When  shall  we  sculptors  learn  that 
the  greatest  asset  of  our  art  is  its  hint 
of  eternity?  That  look  of  serene  per- 
manence which  is  so  dependent  upon 
mass  and  simple  contour  is  what  im- 
presses one  in  the  great  works.  It  is 
not  the  feverish,  gesticulating  figure 
that  is  convincing.  Is  it  not,  rather, 
the  quiet  gesture  of  an  Adams  memori- 
al, so  still  that  it  seems  to  move? 

It  is  in  Germany  that  we  meet  our 
greatest  surprise.  Germany,  the  hope- 
lessly academic,  the  land  of  belated  sur- 
vivals, where  centaurs  still  pursue  Ama- 
zons, and  where  have  flourished  such 
anachronisms  as  Schwanthaler  and 
Schiefelbein,  Schilling  and  Rietschel; 
where  Drake  was  followed  by  Wolff, 
and  Briitt  by  Hundrieser,  in  deadly  se- 
quence; where  the  official  sculptors  of 
to-day  are  led  by  such  masters  of  or- 
nate grandiloquence  as  Reinhardt  Be- 
gas,  with  his  spectacular  monument  to 
William  I,  "surrounded  by  floating  vic- 
tories, roaring  lions,  standards,  cannon, 
and  chariots";  and  Rudolf  Slemering, 
whose  "Bismarck"  at  Frankfort  leads 
Germania's  fiery  steed  with  one  hand 
and  grasps  his  sword  with  the  other, 


while  the  enemies  of  the  Vaterland  are 
personified  by  a  crawly  dragon,  to  be 
trampled  under  foot  from  time  to  time. 
Siemering's  monument  to  Washington 
in  Fairmount  Park  we  know  all  too 
well,  though  you  may  not  have  noticed 
Washington  himself,  lost  as  he  is  amid 
a  comprehensive  collection  of  American 
fauna  done  into  German  bronze. 

With  vague,  unhappy  memories  of 
similar  monuments  glimpsed  through- 
out Germany  and  particularly  abundant 
in  Berlin,  one  is  amazed  to  discover 
that  the  most  interesting  works  of 
sculpture  and  architecture  now  being 
produced  in  Europe  are  to  be  found  in 
the  growing  cities  of  that  land.  There 
is  a  saying  that  "When  things  become 
as  bad  as  they  can,  something  has  got  to 
happen."  The  something  has  happened 
in  Germany,  and  these  pretentious  alle- 
gories are  giving  way  before  the 
thoughtful  work  of  a  younger  genera- 
tion who  have  in  mind  first  of  all  the 
reasonable  use  of  the  medium  con- 
cerned; who  treat  stone  as  stone  and 
bronze  as  bronze,  producing  delightful 
results  with  an  astonishing  economy  of 
effort. 

Most  remarkable,  perhaps,  of  these 
men  is  Hugo  Lederer,  whose  Bismarck 
memorial  at  Hamburg — a  suggestion  of 
the  protecting  Roland  statues  of  many 
German  cities — is  one  of  the  truly  great 
monuments  of  these  later  times.  An 
armored  figure  of  colossal  size  standing 
guard  upon  the  hill-top  and  supported 
by  massive  architecture  of  which  it 
forms  a  part,  this  statue  is  impressive 
beyond  words  because  it  was  "con- 
ceived big,"  instead  of  being  an  ordi- 
nary portrait  enlarged.  An  appreciative 
writer  says  of  it :  "No  attempt  has  been 
made  to  obliterate  the  fissures  between 
the  granite  blocks  that  compose  the 
mighty  figure;  each  block  is  seen  in 
clear  outline,  and  thus  the  whole  struc- 
ture appears  almost  as  the  result  of  the 
up-building  forces  of  Nature  herself. 
Power  in  calm  repose — that  is  the  im- 
pression which  forces  itself  irresistibly 
upon  the  spectator." 


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Another  great  monument,  the  Kyff- 
hauser  Memorial,  owes  its  impressive- 
ness  to  the  architect  rather  than  to  the 
sculptor's  contribution.  It  is  one  of 
several  admirable  works  by  Bruno 
Schmitz,  who  has  here  evolved  a  mas- 
sive tower,  along  with  its  protecting  ar- 
cades of  heavy  masonry,  directly  out  of 
the  mountain  quarry  which  gave  them 
birth.  One  looks  through  the  arches 
across  a  field  of  ragged  rocks  to  where 
reposes,  in  his  subterranean  refuge, 
"Der  alte  Barbarossa,  der  Kaiser  Fried- 
erich."  Above  this  recess,  upon  the 
side  of  the  tower,  appears  the  gigantic 
equestrian  statue  of  the  founder  of  the 
new  empire.  Despite  the  inadequacy  of 
this  portion  of  the  sculpture,  the  con- 
ception is  grandiose. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  of  recent 
combinations  of  sculpture  and  architec- 
ture is  found  in  that  extraordinary  res- 
taurant of  Berlin  called  Rheingold 
Haus,  where  Professor  Franz  Metzner 
has  produced  a  series  of  weird  and 
strikingly  original  effects,  using  the  hu- 
man figure  as  others  employ  plant 
forms ;  conventionalizing  the  body,  am- 
plifying it,  and  now  and  then  compres- 
sing it  into  unwonted  spaces,  but  al- 
ways with  a  pattern  so  essentially  deco- 
rative and  a  touch  so  sure  that  one  is 
compelled  to  recognize  his  authority. 
He  is  master  here,  and  these  are  his 
creatures,  to  obey.  Arbitrary  and 
whimsical  uses  of  the  figure  which 
might  easily  lead  to  eccentricities  in 
other  hands  or  in  other  places  seem  ad- 
mirably suited  to  this  pleasure-resort, 
where  monstrous  heads  peer  out  from 
shadowy  corners,  brawny  giants  up- 
hold the  fantastic  masonry  of  the  halls, 
and  lithe-limbed  Rhine  maidens  gleam 
through  billows  of  tobacco-smoke.  Yet 
with  all  this  prodigality  of  invention, 
this  bewildering  versatility  and  power, 
there  is  no  effect  of  lawlessness,  of  riot- 
ous excess.  Bronze  and  stone  and 
wooden  panels  are  treated  according  to 
the  dertiands  of  the  materials  and  the 
severe  requirements  of  sculpture.  The 
directness  and  the  thrift  of  means  here 


shown,  the  almost  austerity  of  design, 
contribute  to  a  result  which  is  legiti- 
mately sculptural. . 

To  mention  just  one  more  instance 
among  many,  the  old-time  city  of  Diis- 
seldorf ,  associated  in  most  of  our  minds 
with  an  extinct  school  of  romantic 
painting,  offers  us  to-day  one  of  the 
finest  examples  of  modem  architecture 
and  sculpture  blended  in  happy  union. 
It  is  only  a  department  store,  a  **Siegel 
&  Cooper's,"  called  the  Haus  Tietz,  but 
its  design  is  most  admirable.  Our  own 
architects,  as  a  rule,  seem  possessed  of 
a  desire  to  minimize  the  height  of  their 
lofty  structures  by  stratifying  them, 
cutting  their  fagades  with  as  many 
horizontal  stripes  or  ruffJes  as  possible. 
In  the  building  under  consideration  the 
designer  has  frankly  acknowledged  its 
height,  and,  with  a  perfectly  practica- 
ble plan,  has  developed  an  effect  of 
soaring  which  is  truly  an  Inspiration. 
Its  ranks  of  graceful  piers  suggest  a 
great  pipe-organ.  Its  sculptural  adorn- 
ments are  not  the  casual  groups  and 
figures  that  are  set  upon  shelves  on  our 
fagades,  but  are  like  an  efflorescence  of 
its  rough  stones,  sparing  in  number,  but 
holding  just  the  right  proportion  to  its 
restful  surfaces.  Like  the  design  as  a 
whole,  they  are  organic,  growing  out  of 
the  very  structure  itself.  An  apprecia- 
tive traveler  remarks  of  this  building: 
"Its  treatment  seems,  to  have  been  dic- 
tated by  the  stone  that  it  is  made  of; 
respecting  its  material,  it  is  exalted  by 
it.'' 

Such  work  as  this,  so  new,  so  inde- 
pendent, and  so  delightful,  recalls  the 
dictum  of  Mauclair  that  one  should  be 
as  concerned  in  how  he  is  going  to  do  a 
thing  as  in  what  he  is  to  do;  in  other 
words,  that  the  treatment  merits  no  less 
thought  than  the  subject  itself.  This 
is  a  consideration  which  we  Americans 
are  disposed  to  overlook. 

Of  Professor  Metzner's  remarkable 
pupil,  that  untamed  young  Dalmatian 
Ivan  Mestrovic,  one  scarcely  knows 
how  to  speak.  This  youth  of  twenty- 
three  seems  to  be  obsessed  by  the  crea- 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


tive  impulse  and  toils  furiously  to  give 
expression  to  his  teeming  fancies.  He 
keeps  all  artistic  Europe  wondering 
what  he  will  do  next.  One  might  say 
of  him,  as  was  said  of  Balzac,  "He  is 
not  a  man,  but  one  of  the  forces  of 
Nature."  His  output  gives  one  this 
feeling  not  only  because  of  its  prodigal 
abundance,  but  by  reason  of  its  con- 
trasts. He  produces  indifferently  beauty 
and  bestiality.  These  swarming  chil- 
dren of  his  are  often  weird  beyond  de- 
scription, but  they  are  always  conceived 
as  sculpture  and  treated  in  a  big,  ele- 
mental way.  "Treated"  seems  hardly 
the  word ;  they  have  no  look  of  submis- 
sion to  treatment,  but  seem  to  have 
evolved  themselves  out  of  the  rock,  like 
the  children  of  Deucalion  and  Pyrrha. 
Some  still  struggle  and  clamor  for  re- 
lease. They  strain  their  giant  limbs  and 
frown  like  demons.  Yet  others  have 
the  serenity  of  the  ages  on  their  placid 
brows. 

The  handsome  youth  who  has  called 
them  into  existence, — he  of  the  dark 
mane  and  the  flashing  eyes, — is  pro- 
nounced by  Rodin  to  be  the  most  ex- 
traordinary of  living  sculptors.  One  can 
understand  the  sympathy:  Mestrovic's 
creations  seem  to  have  passed  through 
Rodin's  "Gates  of  Hell." 

More,  doubtless,  than  any  other  man 
did  Saint-Gaudens  contribute  to  the  ele- 
vation of  American  sculpture.  His 
beneficent  influence  was  all  on  the  side 
of  purity  of  line  and  perfection  of 
technic.  His  more  personal  artistic  vir- 
tues were,  however,  so  involved  in 
that  able  craftsmanship  of  his  that 
they  were  but  slightly  transferable  and 
cannot  be  said  to  have  left  a  marked 
impress  upon  the  work  of  his  fellows 
in  the  sense  of  developing  a  peculiarly 
national  art.  Many  have  been  but  su- 
perficially influenced,  contenting  them- 
selves with  the  form,  but  forgetting  the 
spirit.  Happily,  however,  there  are 
not  a  few  who  emulate  our  greatest 
master  in  both  his  high  ideals  and  his 
skill,  but  who  reaKze  as  well  that  they 
must  think  their  own  thoughts  and  em- 


ploy their  own  language.  Upon  these 
the  heritage  of  his  exalted  effort  falls 
as  a  precious  benediction. 

As  has  been  so  well  pointed  out  by 
Mr.  Kenyon  Cox,  Saint-Gaudens  was 
essentially  a  designer  and  modeler ;  his 
compositions  were  nearly  always  des- 
tined for  the  bronze,  and  never  sug- 
gested the  wresting  of  imprisoned 
forms  from  the  stone.  Few  of  our 
sculptors  are  practical  marble-cutters, 
and  there  is  almost  always  a  hint  of  the 
careful  joiner,  the  patient  cabinet-mak- 
er, in  all  of  our  work.  We  have  not 
begun  at  the  right  end.  Michelangelo 
probably  meant  what  he  said  when  he 
spoke  of  drinking  in  his  art  with  his 
foster-mother's  milk  in  that  stone-yard 
of  Settignano.  Donatello's  very  first, 
commissions,  those  foolish  little  proph- 
ets over  one  of  the  side  doors  of  the 
cathedral  at  Florence,  were,  however 
crude,  the  conceptions  of  a  real  sculp- 
tor. 

Mr.  French's  later  works  are  turning 
interestingly  in  this  direction.  He  shows 
us  how  it  is  possible  for  an  artist,  by 
"taking  thought,"  to  acquire  a  new 
point  of  view.  The  gain  has  been 
great,  as  in  the  Parkman  and  Melvin 
Memorials.  The  custom  house  groups, 
particularly  the  "Africa,"  show  like- 
wise a  feeling  for  the  whole  which  is 
not  emphasized  in  the  graceful  composi- 
tions of  the  Cleveland  post-office.  Mr. 
French's  relief  in  memory  of  Alice 
Freeman  Palmer  is  almost  a  classic  not 
only  in  general  form,  but  in  nobility  of 
thought  and  simple  grace  of  execution. 

The  numerous  ideal  portraits  of  the 
Brooklyn  Institute,  done  under  Mr. 
French's  direction,  mark  a  decided 
step  in  architectural  sculpture.  With 
few  exceptions  they  are  successful  stat- 
ues, a  very  different  thing  from  clever 
counterfeits  of  men.  How  many 
buildings  are  "decorated"  with  figures 
that  seem  to  have  strolled  out  upon 
their  facades  and  roofs  to  take  an  air- 
ing! There  is  nothing  casual  about 
these  Brooklyn  marbles.  They  are  ma- 
terial abstractions,  if  one  may  be  per- 


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mitted  the  paradox.  They  typify  their 
subjects,  and  yet  they  are  frankly 
images  in  stone.  It  was  time  that  they 
should  come. 

Another  good  work  of  this  character 
is  Mr.  Bitter's  pediment  for  the  new 
State-house  of  Wisconsin.  This  is  al- 
most archaic  in  its  severity,  and  gains 
immensely  by  the  restraint.  Probably 
no  better  architectural  sculpture  has 
ever  been  done  in  this  country. 

Yet  another  pedimental  group  des- 
tined to  interest  us  all  is  the  great  un- 
dertaking upon  which  Mr.  Bartlett  is 
now  engaged  for  the  National  Capitol. 
Let  us  hope  that  Thomas  Crawford's 
naive  effort  may  be  allowed  to  remain 
in  the  tympanum  of  the  senate  wing  for 
the  value  of  the  instructive  contrast 
thus  afforded.  The  one  was  the  work 
of  an  ingenious,  but  untrained  enthu- 
siast, who  had  no  glimmer  of  the  re- 
quirements of  the  problem;  the  other 
will  be  the  thoughtful  effort  of  a  pro- 
found student  and  a  consummate  art- 
ist. Mr.  Bartlett's  earlier  experience  in 
carrying  out  Mr.  Ward's  design  for  the 
stock  exchange  was  of  inestimable 
value  to  him,  but  the  rh3rthm  of  line 
and  the  charm  of  light  and  shade  that 
he  is  putting  into  this  new  work  will 
set  It  in  a  class  by  itself.  It  is  a  most 
gratifying  sign  of  progress  that  a  com- 
mission of  this  importance  should  be 
entrusted  by  congress  to  a  sculptor  of 
high  standing. 

It  is  not  too  late  to  mention  Mr.  Bart- 
lett's  equestrian  **Lafayette,"  which,  af- 
ter ten  years  or  more  of  study  and  ex- 
periment, has  been  crystallized  into  per- 
manent form.  The  conscientious  and 
deliberate  sculptor  playfully  completed 
his  work  with  a  plodding  tortoise,  a 
gentle  taunt  to  his  critics  and  an  inti- 
mation that  he  "got  there  just  the 
same."  The  monument  is  said  to  be  a 
masterpiece,  completely  worthy  of  its 
exalted  position  within  the  court  of  the 
Louvre. 

Recurring  once  more  to  sculpture 
purely  architectural,  may  I  not  be  per- 
mitted to  express  a  personal  and  never 


diminishing  gratification  in  those  works 
of  Andrew  O'Connor  which  adorn  the 
front  of  St.  Bartholomew's  Church  in 
New  York?  I  seldom  find  myself  in 
the  neighborhood  of  the  Grand  Central 
Station  without  stepping  over  to  Madi- 
son Avenue  to  study  and  admire  the 
amazing  craftsmanship  of  those  sculp- 
tured slabs.  In  their  union  of  richness 
and  simplicity  they  are  indeed  trium- 
phant works.  It  is  carving  reduced  to 
its  "lowest  terms,"  wherein  every 
chisel-stroke  is  made  to  count. 

From  among  the  many  intelligent 
men  who  are  doing  good  work  in  this 
country,  we  can  select  only  two  or  three 
more  examples.  Mr.  MacNeil,  the 
president  of  the  National  Sculpture  So- 
ciety, is  completing  a  very  noble  mili- 
tary monument  for  Albany.  A  great 
rectangular  block  of  stone  of  impos- 
ing mass,  and  decorated  by  an  engir- 
dling frieze  of  warriors,  forms  the 
background  for  a  stately  figure  of  un- 
usual beauty  personifying  the  Republic. 

Mr.  Weinman  has  done  an  equal  ser- 
vice for  Baltimore.  His  soldiers'  me- 
morial there  is  of  extraordinary  sig- 
nificance and  power,  a  work  in  every 
way  worthy  of  the  Monumental  City. 

Mr.  Shrady's  superb  lions  guard  in 
Washington  the  empty  pedestal  which 
awaits  his  great  Grant  monument.  If 
the  remainder  of  the  sculpture  is  as 
good  as  those  creatures,  the  monument 
will  be  a  decidedly  new  note  in  Wash- 
ington. 

The  great  event,  however,  of  the 
sculptors'  year  in  this  country,  as  in 
France,  has  been  the  completion  of 
George  Barnard's  heroic  groups  for 
Harrisburg.  The  ill-famed  state-house 
is  to  have  its  adornments  in  spite  of 
tragic  delays  and  disappointments.  Two 
visits  to  Moret  while  these  magnificent 
dreams  were  taking  shape  convinced 
me  that  they  were  among  the  great 
works  of  modern  times.  The  French 
are  not  doing  such  things  to-day.  One 
is  not  surprised  to  learn  that  these  two 
enormous  processional  groups,  epito- 
mizing the  joys  and  burdens  of  human- 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


ity,  held  the  place  of  honor  at  the  Salon 
this  year.  The  eulogies  written  and 
spoken  by  such  men  as  Jean-Paul 
Laurens,  Rodin,  Mercie,  Boucher,  and 
many  others  of  eminence,  must  have 
done  something  toward  atoning  for 
the  sacrifices  that  this  gigantic  work  has 
cost.  Such  reward  is  doubly  sweet,  for 
it  belongs  not  only  to  the  artist,  but  to 
the  land  that  gave  him  birth.  He 
brings  it  home  to  us,  asking  only  that 
we  share  it  with  him. 

Thus  the  work  goes  on,  as  it  always 
will.    We  are  doing  well,  and  we  ought 


to  do  much  better.  Most  of  us  lade 
style,  and  always  shall.  We  have  little 
conception  of  real  architectural  sculp- 
ture. We  need  to  study  the  demands  of 
the  various  materials  that  we  handle. 

Above  all,  we  need  to  remember  that 
our  work  lives  after  us,  that  it  is  our 
privilege  to  convey  a  message  of  cour- 
age and  good  cheer  to  millions  of  men 
— to  generations  that  follow  one  an- 
other like  the  waves  of  the  sea. 

Mr.  Chairman,  "your  committee  re- 
ports progress." 


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SAINT-GAUDENS,  STEDMAN,  CLEMENS,  HAY,  MacDOWELL 

By  Brander  Matthews 


Three  score  years  ago  and  more 
Emerson  declared  that  in  this  country 
literature  suffered  from  a  lack  of  com- 
panionship. "If  something  like  the 
union  of  like-minded  men  were  at- 
tempted, as  formerly  at  Will's  or  But- 
ton's coffee-houses,  or  in  the  back  room 
of  the  bookseller's  shop,  where  scholars 
might  meet  scholars  without  passing  the 
picket  and  guard-post  of  etiquette,  it 
would  add  happy  hours  to  the  year." 
What  Emerson  asserted  of  literature 
was  equally  true  of  the  other  arts  which 
adorn  life.  Perhaps  we  may  go  fur- 
ther and  say  that  if  it  is  wholesome 
for  the  practitioners  of  any  single  craft 
to  get  together  and  thus  to  create  an 
atmosphere  of  common  endeavor,  it  is 
beneficial  also  for  men  of  varied  in- 
terests to  be  drawn  closer  for  that  un- 
conscious stimulus  which  one  art  may 
exert  upon  another.  The  poet  may 
thus  borrow  color  from  his  commerce 
with  the  painter,  and  the  historian  may 
find  his  imagination  stirred  by  associa- 
tion with  the  sculptor. 

All  arts  are  one, — all  branches  on  one 

tree, — 
All  fingers,  as  it  were,  upon  one  hand. 

The  necessity  for  that  union  of  like- 
minded  men  which  Emerson  wished 
for  was  felt  by  many  of  us;  and  in 
time  it  led  to  the  organization  of  the 
National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Let- 
ters, wherein  every  one  of  the  arts 
was  fully  represented.  The  Institute 
was  established  in  1898;  and  year  by 
year  its  membership  was  enlarged  un- 
til in  time  it  enrolled  almost  every  one 
of  the  leaders  in  their  several  callings. 
Then  in  1904,  in  order  to  give  greater 
definiteness  to  its  work  of  protecting 
and  furthering  literature  and  the  other 


arts,  the  Institute  believed  itself  strong 
enough  at  last  to  found  the  American 
Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters.  It  con- 
fided the  election  of  the  later  associates 
to  a  chosen  seven  of  its  own  members, 
whose  right  there  was  none  to  dispute, 
— William  Dean  Howells,  Augustus 
Saint-Gaudens,  Edmund  Clarence  Sted- 
man,  John  La  Farge,  Samuel  Langhome 
Clemens,  John  Hay,  and  Edward  Mac- 
Dowell, — a  seven-branched  candlestick 
on  the  altar  of  art. 

These  seven  accepted  the  duty  of 
adding  to  themselves  eight  others,  and 
to  these  fifteen  was  intrusted  the  fur- 
ther obligation  of  extending  their  num- 
bers to  twenty.  Then  this  first  score, 
thus  cautiously  selected,  slowly  expand- 
ed our  membership  to  half  a  hundred, 
which  is  to  be  the  limit  for  the  present. 
It  was  upon  the  first  seven  that  lay  the 
major  part  of  the  responsibility ;  and  if 
this  American  Academy  is  to  endure, 
if  it  is  to  accomplish  its  honorable  pur- 
pose, and  if  it  is  to  become  a  power  for 
good  in  the  land,  we  shall  stand  eter- 
nally indebted  to  the  seven  men  who 
bore  the  burden  and  heat  of  the  day 
and  who  laid  the  solid  foundation  for 
the  future. 

It  was  Joseph  de  Maistre  who  once 
declared  that  "the  fatherland — la 
pairie — is  an  association  on  the  same 
soil  of  the  living  and  the  dead,  with 
those  who  are  yet  to  be  born."  We  hold 
that  every  man  should  be  loyal  to  his 
fatherland ;  and  by  this  word  we  do  not 
mean  merely  so  much  of  the  earth's 
surface  arbitrarily  set  off  by  political 
boundaries;  we  have  in  mind  ever  the 
men  who  have  made  our  country  worth 
living  in  and  worth  dying  for.  We 
mean  also  and  always  the  lofty  tradi- 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


tions  they  have  transmitted  to  us,  the 
high  ideals  they  cherished,  and  the 
noble  examples  they  have  bequeathed. 

This  American  Academy  of  Arts  and 
Letters  is  already  an  association  of  the 
living  and  the  dead ;  and  we  have  a  firm 
hope  that  it  will  abide  to  be  an  associa- 
tion with  those  yet  to  be  born.  Of  the 
seven  men  to  whom  the  task  of  its  or- 
ganization was  intrusted  only  six  years 
ago,  six  have  already  left  us.  They 
died  full  of  years  and  also  full  of  hon- 
ors, for  they  had  survived  long  enough 
to  win  wide  recognition  for  their  ser- 
vices to  their  fellow-countrymen  and  to 
the  world  outside  our  borders. 

As  we  draw  nearer  to  the  end  of  the 
journey  of  life,  we  find  that  every  mile- 
stone is  a  tombstone,  with  a  friend 
buried  beneath  it.  One  by  one  they 
have  left  us;  we  are  the  lonelier  for 
their  departure,  as  we  are  also  the 
richer  for  what  they  did  and  for  what 
they  were.  We  may  have  recognized 
their  worth  while  they  were  still  with 
us,  and  yet  a  false  shame  may  have  pre- 
vented the  adequate  expression  of  our 
appreciation.  Now  they  are  gone,  and 
it  is  too  late  for  them  to  learn  the  high 
esteem  in  which  we  held  them  and  to 
savor  the  grateful  incense  of  our  praise. 
None  the  less  is  it  now  our  duty  to  ex- 
press this  esteem,  to  voice  this  appro- 
bation, and  to  declare  our  ample  regard 
for  their  achievements.  Here  we  can 
take  pattern  by  the  French,  who  pre- 
serve the  classical  standard  of  propri- 
ety. For  more  than  two  centuries  and 
a  half  it  has  been  the  honored  custom 
of  the  French  Academy  to  require  that 
every  man  elected  to  its  membership 
shall  pronounce  the  eulogy  of  the  de- 
ceased member  to  whose  seat  he  has 
succeeded.  Perhaps  in  the  future  this 
worthy  tradition  may  establish  itself  in 
the  American  Academy  of  Arts  and 
Letters. 

To-day,  however,  it  is  my  solemn 
task  to  commemorate  five  of  the  seven 
founders  of  this  Academy.  Their 
fame  is  secure.  To  them  it  matters  lit- 
tle what  may  now  be  said  in  praise  of 


them  or  of  their  achievements;  and  it 
is  not  for  their  sake,  but  for  ours,  that 
we  pay  them  this  tribute.  They  were 
chiefs  in  their  several  callings,  Saint- 
Gaudens  the  sculptor  and  MacDowell 
the  musician,  Stedman  the  poet-critic 
and  Mark  Twain  the  humorist-moral- 
ist, John  Hay  the  historian,  who  was 
also  a  statesman.  They  were  all  my 
friends,  and  on  me  is  laid  the  sad  duty 
of  tendering  to  them  our  last  greeting. 

Saint-Gaudens,  like  so  many  Ameri- 
cans, came  of  commingled  stocks.  He 
was  at  once  French  and  Irish,  and  per- 
haps he  drew  from  ancestors  so  dis- 
similar some  part  of  his  varied  endow- 
ment. He  acquired  at  first  the  delicate 
craft  of  the  cameo-cutter;  and  it  may 
be  that  he  owed  to  this  early  training 
the  exquisite  quality  of  his  later  por- 
traits in  low  relief.  Then  he  underwent 
a  strenuous  apprenticeship  as  a  sculp- 
tor. He  was  able  to  achieve  the  union 
of  strength  and  refinement.  There  is 
a  stark  virility  in  his  single  figures, 
standing  or  seated,  and  a  masculine 
vigor  in  his  mounted  men.  He  was  an 
insatiable  artist,  resolutely  grappling 
with  technical  problems  and  untiring  in 
seeking  a  fit  solution.  He  was  not 
easily  satisfied  with  what  he  had 
wrought,  being  ever  hungry  for  an  in- 
tangible perfection.  Sir  Joshua  Reyn- 
olds, having  in  mind  his  own  art  of 
the  portrait-painter,  so  closely  akin  to 
that  of  the  sculptor,  once  asserted  that 
a  man  could  put  into  a  face  only  what 
he  had  in  himself.  And  this  test  Saint- 
Gaudens  withstood  triumphantly,  for 
the  faces  he  modeled  have  power  and 
beauty  and  grace. 

Stedman  was  a  poet  who  was  pre- 
vented by  adverse  circumstances  from 
giving  his  whole  heart  to  poesy.  In  the 
battle-years  of  half  a  century  ago  he 
served  for  a  season  as  a  war-correspon- 
dent, and  for  the  rest  of  his  life  he  bore 
himself  valiantly  on  the  firing-line  of 
another  battle-field,  where  the  fighting 
was  as  fierce,  even  though  the  weapons 


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were  bloodless.  He  allowed  himself  to 
be  tempted  from  poetry  to  prose,  and 
the  larger  part  of  the  scant  leisure  he 
could  snatch  from  the  turmoil  of  the 
market  he  surrendered  to  literary  criti- 
cism. He  devoted  loyal  and  laborious 
years  to  the  evaluation  of  contemporary 
poets,  his  masters  and  his  rivals.  This 
criticism  was  the  more  intimate,  the 
more  searching,  the  more  inspiring,  be- 
cause he  was  himself  a  poet  with  an  in- 
stinctive understanding  of  the  aims  of 
the  lyric  artist  and  of  the  secrets  of  the 
art.  To  poetry,  which  he  worshiped, 
he  could  give  only  the  remnants  of  his 
busy  life;  and  it  is  a  marvel  that  he 
was  able  to  achieve  what  he  did.  He 
hung  an  ode  upon  Hawthorne,  like  Or- 
lando in  the  Forest  of  Arden;  and  he 
evoked  the  quaint  figure  of  Pan  in  Wall 
Street,  piping  like  Orpheus  to  charm 
the  strange  beasts  which  roam  at  large 
through  that  disenchanted  thorough- 
fare. If  we  apply  to  him  the  loftiest 
standard,  as  he  would  have  wished  us 
to  do,  he  may  not  have  been  a  great 
poet;  but  he  was  a  true  poet,  with  a 
true  poet's  directness  of  vision  and  cer- 
tainty of  touch. 

Mark  Twain — for  it  is  idle  to  give 
him  any  other  name  than  that  which  he 
had  made  for  himself — grew  up  in  the 
Middle  West,  settling  at  last  in  the 
East  while  he  was  yet  young.  With  his 
own  eyes  he  saw  many  aspects  of 
American  life,  and  what  he  had  seen  he 
recorded  with  unforgetable  felicity.  He 
had  a  sturdy  simplicity  of  phrase. 
Abundant  humor  was  his  as  well  as 
abundant  good  humor.  From  faithful 
transcripts  of  travel  and  adventure  he 
turned  in  time  to  story-telling,  to  a  fic- 
tion as  faithful  and  as  immitigably 
veracious  as  his  earlier  descriptions  of 
things  actually  seen  by  himself.  With 
the  advancing  years  he  ripened  and 
mellowed;  and  the  melancholy  which 
sustained  the  fun  of  Cervantes  and  Mo- 
liere  and  Swift  was  his  also.  He  re- 
vealed the  same  piercing  insight  into  the 
weakness  of  human  nature  which  they 


possessed.  A  master  of  narrative,  he 
was  also  a  master  of  style;  and  under- 
lying his  stories  there  was  a  deep  feel- 
ing for  the  meaning  of  life.  A  great 
humorist  he  was,  beyond  all  question, 
controlling  the  springs  of  laughter ;  but 
he  was  also  a  profound  moralist,  with 
a  scorching  contempt  for  many  of  the 
meannesses  of  our  common  himianity. 

John  Hay  led  a  career  of  unusual 
variety,  and  revealed  a  versatility  char- 
acteristic of  America.  He  began  as  the 
secretary  of  Lincoln.  Then  he  went 
abroad  to  fill  a  minor  post  in  the  dip- 
lomatic service.  He  returned  to  write 
a  graphic  description  of  Spain  and  to 
labor  awhile  on  a  newspaper.  He 
dropped  into  poetry,  and  composed  a 
group  of  Pike  County  Ballads,  vigor- 
ous in  episode,  picturesque  in  charac- 
ter, and  racy  in  vernacular  terseness. 
Then,  like  the  earlier  American  his- 
torians, Parkman  and  Motley,  he  ad- 
ventured himself  in  fiction;  and  his 
story,  anonymous  as  it  was,  met  with 
a  wider  approval  than  theirs.  But  he 
devoted  the  full  strength  of  his  ma- 
turity to  the  life  of  the  great  chief  he 
had  served  in  his  youth,  to  the  history 
of  the  American  who  had  made  his- 
tory. Finally  he  came  back  to  the  ser- 
vice of  the  nation  and  took  charge  of 
our  foreign  affairs  at  a  critical  moment. 
By  a  striking  coincidence,  the  author 
of  the  life  of  him  who  had  saved  this 
country  from  disunion  was  able  him- 
self to  preserve  from  dismemberment 
an  ancient  Oriental  empire. 

MacDowell  was  the  youngest  of  the 
seven  founders  of  this  American  Acad- 
emy, and  he  was  also  the  youngest  to 
die,  untimely  taken  off  before  his  work 
was  done  and  perhaps  even  before  his 
genius  had  achieved  its  fullest  expan- 
sion. He  was  the  foremost  of  Ameri- 
can composers,  with  a  fragrant  origi- 
nality of  his  own.  He  was  also  the  first 
to  win  wide  recognition  abroad.  His 
compositions  had  marked  individuality ; 
they  were  modern  and  yet  classic.  His 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


music  was  poetry,  for  he  had  the  vision 
and  the  faculty  divine.  He  had  the 
sensitiveness  of  the  poet,  and  the  poet's 
delicacy  of  perception  as  well;  and  he 
possessed  also  the  structural  simplicity 
which  we  discover  in  the  masterpieces 
of  the  major  poets.  The  true  lyrist's 
integrity  of  workmanship  he  had  in  ad- 
dition, doing  nothing  in  haste  or  at  ran- 
dom, and  holding  himself  always  to  the 
severest  standard  of  artistic  perfec- 
tion. Although  he  had  early  reaped  the 
reward  of  his  work,  and  although  suc- 
cess had  come  to  him,  he  was  not  led 
astray  by  it.  He  went  on  his  lonely 
way  uncontaminated  by  applause,  as 
though  he  had  taken  to  heart  the  wise 
saying  of  Confucius  which  bids  us 
"rate  the  task  above  the  prize." 

Such  they  were,  the  five  men  of  va- 
ried achievement  whom  it  is  my  privi- 
lege to  commemorate  to-day.  They  as- 
pired each  in  his  own  way  to  an  Attic 
excellence,  and  they  left  us  examples 
of  Attic  urbanity.  The  Athenians,  so 
Dionysius  of  Halicarnassus  declared, 
"made  gentle  the  life  of  the  world." 
And  this  praise  might  be  bestowed  also 
on  these  five  Americans.  They  differed 
widely  in  their  accomplishments  and  in 
their  aims,  but  they  had  the  grace  of 
urbanity.  And  they  had  in  common  one 
other  characteristic:  they  had  all  of 
them  the  full  flavor  of  the  soil  of  their 
nativity ;  they  were  intensely  American. 
Perhaps  their  careers  were  most  of 
them  possible  only  in  this  New  World, 
cut  off  from  ancient  Europe  by  the 
wide  leagues  of  the  Western  Ocean. 
They  were  American  in  nothing  more 
than  in  their  avoidance  of  overt  eccen- 
tricity and  in  their  desire  to  be  judged 
by  standards  not  local,  but  cosmopolitan 
and  universal.  Stedman  once  told  me 
that  he  had  prepared  his  volume  on  the 
Victorian  poets  so  that  he  might  feel 
free  afterward  to  write  his  book  on 


the  American  poets;  and  MacDowell 
refused  to  allow  his  works  to  be  per- 
formed in  a  concert  of  exclusively 
American  music,  insisting  that  it  had 
to  hold  its  own  without  any  adventi- 
tious support  of  patriotic  prejudice  in 
favor  of  a  native  composer. 

Washington  Irving  was  the  earliest 
of  our  men  of  letters  to  win  acceptance 
abroad,  and  he  explained  modestly  that 
some  part  of  the  welcome  he  received 
from  our  kin  across  the  sea  was  due  to 
the  surprise  of  the  British  at  discover- 
ing an  American  with  a  quill  in  his 
hand  instead  of  a  feather  in  his  hair. 
It  is  always  difficult  for  Europeans  to 
perceive  that  although  we  may  be  a 
young  nation,  our  artists  have  had  as 
many  forebears  as  those  of  any  other 
stock.  We  are  the  legitimate  inheri- 
tors of  the  best  of  the  past;  and  to  be 
ourselves,  to  be  intensely  American,  we 
do  not  need  to  assert  any  violent  and 
freakish  originality.  We  are  the  heirs 
of  the  ages;  and  we  have  all  the 
mighty  men  of  old  as  our  artis- 
tic ancestors.  Sometimes  the  kinship 
with  the  foreigner  is  very  close;  it  is 
scarcely  too  much  to  say  that  Rousseau 
was  a  collaborator  of  the  writer  of  the 
Declaration  of  Independence  and  that 
Montesquieu  was  one  of  the  authors  of 
the  Constitution. 

These  five  Americans,  the  sculptor, 
the  musician,  and  the  three  authors, 
were  glad  to  continue  the  transmitted 
traditions  of  their  several  arts  and  to 
labor  in  honorable  rivalry  with  their 
fellow-craftsmen  in  other  lands.  And 
yet,  although  they  might  profit  by  all 
that  had  been  wrought  by  those  who 
had  gone  before  both  here  and  abroad, 
they  were  rooted  in  the  land  of  their 
birth.  They  proved  by  their  works  that 
the  arts  can  flourish  here  in  our  own 
new  country ;  and  they  themselves  were 
"new  births  of  our  new  soil." 


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McKlM,  NORTON,  WARD,  ALDRICH,  JEFFERSON 
By  William  Milligan  Sloane 


The  keenest  enjoyment  of  a  finer 
mind  is  in  whatever  makes  the  absent 
and  unreal  present  and  apparent.  This 
emotion  is  basic  to  all  the  fine  arts  with- 
out exception,  for  it  gives  almost  un- 
hampered play  to  the  imagination,  to 
the  representative  faculties,  which  em- 
body without  the  limit  and  clog  of  mat- 
ter that  subtle  essence  which  in  suc- 
cessive stages  of  social  development  is 
felt  to  be  beautiful.  Poetry,  painting, 
and  sculpture,  the  imitative  arts,  do  this 
manifestly;  less  patently,  but  even 
more  poignantly,  do  likewise  music  and 
architecture.  Whatever  the  inner  struc- 
ture of  the  music,  the  resultant  voice  of 
its  production  arouses  emotions  which 
in  their  very  vagueness  are  universal 
and  to  the  initiated  almost  articulate, 
which  entrance  because  they  summon 
thoughts  and  visions  from  sources 
never  before  tapped  and  often  unsus- 
pected to  exist.  Architecture,  aside 
from  the  categorical  imperative  of  util- 
ity to  which  it  is  subject,  presents  to 
the  eye,  as  music  to  the  ear,  intricate 
combinations  that  likewise  afford  a  uni- 
tary resultant  free  from  the  trammels 
of  imitation,  which  abstractedly  and 
vaguely  lures  the  mind  into  a  sense  of 
proportion  and  sublimity  that  awakens 
spiritual  aspiration. 

These  familiar  and  generally  accept- 
ed views  are  recalled  to  connect  the 
commemoration  of  Charles  Follen  Mc- 
Kim  with  those  of  the  founders  who 
preceded  him  in  their  passage  to  the 
beyond.  It  is  noteworthy  as  an  aid  to 
memory  that  our  great  composer  and 
our  great  architect  were  in  recollection 
left  to  us  and  to  posterity  as  comrades 
in  time  and  activity,  the  one  with  world 


renown  for  his  appeal  to  humanity 
through  the  trained  ear,  the  other  with 
similar  fame  through  his  command  of 
the  trained  eye.  Both  have  been  honored 
in  other  lands  than  this,  their  local 
fame  has  been  carried  to  the  stars  by 
appreciative  fellow-laborers  and  by  a 
national  public.  What  posterity  may 
decide  we  know  not,  but  the  test  of 
genius  is  as  fully  in  the  inspiration  and 
stimulus  given  to  the  present  age  as  it 
is  in  the  instruction  and  the  plaudits  of 
succeeding  ones.  In  this  respect  Mc- 
Kim  stands  forth  a  preeminent  figure. 
His  life  began  in  a  heroic  epoch  of 
tumult  and  national  reform,  and  ended 
in  an  age  of  struggle  for  emancipation 
from  materialism  and  its  complemen- 
tary tension  of  nervous  exaltation. 
Throughout  he  stood  apart,  a  citizen  of 
the  nation  and  of  the  world,  detached 
from  the  popular  movement,  as  had 
been  his  ancestry,  but  keenly  observant 
of  the  slowly  forming  aspiration  of  so- 
ciety toward  permanence  of  institutions 
and  the  equilibrium  of  mind  and  mat- 
ter, of  soul  and  body,  of  social  and  per- 
sonal balance.  Historically  minded  in 
the  highest  degree,  he  marked  the  mo- 
ment of  his  nation's  birth,  the  stock  of 
which  it  was  a  mighty  bough,  the  forms 
in  which  its  already  ancient  civilization 
had  then  expressed  itself.  His  intense 
interest  in  the  divagations  of  national 
taste,  in  the  evidences  of  contrition  for 
structural  faults  in  politics  and  art,  in 
the  eclecticism  which  was  proof  of  a 
search  for  garments  that  would  fit,  in 
the  freaks  of  selection  or  abortion 
which  were  misnamed  pure  American, 
in  the  totality  of  effort,  conscious  or 
unconscious,  for  a  place  in  the  proces- 
sion of  nations  and  ages.    In  short  he 


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was  a  profound  student,  a  shrewd  ob- 
server, a  man  of  meditation  and  phi- 
losophy before  he  became  the  poetic 
creator  which  he  finally  was.  This  was 
the  spiritual  and  intellectual  training 
which  drew  upon  him  the  attention  of 
his  fellows,  of  his  own  people,  of 
craftsmen  and  artists  beyond  the  sea. 
The  sincerity  and  vigor  of  his  art  made 
him  the  prophet  of  a  school,  much, 
there  is  reason  to  believe,  against  his 
will.  But  the  greatness  which  was  his 
own  having  once  been  recognized  and 
leadership  having  been  thrust  upon  him, 
he  did  not  shrink  from  the  responsibil- 
ity. During  his  ripest  years  he  was  hos- 
pitable to  collaboration,  receptive  to  all 
assistance  from  the  ancillary  arts, 
catholic  in  association  and  taste.  Com- 
manding his  clients,  personal,  corpo- 
rate, or  national,  he  dominated  them 
and  their  commissions  by  force  of 
character  and  the  array  of  proof.  It 
was  thus  that  he  made  the  capital  city 
of  his  country  one  focus  of  his  ellipse, 
her  metropolis  the  other.  In  both  the 
lines  of  architectural  development  in 
present  and  future  work  were  convin- 
cingly set  forth  by  weighty  argument. 
And  for  one  generation  at  least  the 
public  taste  was  directed*  toward  the 
beginnings  of  national  architecture  in 
those  modifications  of  Georgian  and 
classical  style  which  seemed  to  him  in 
further  evolution  likely  to  furnish  the 
perfect  garb  for  the  faith  and  ambition 
of  his  land,  the  solid  substance  of  the 
vision  vouchsafed  to  a  people  who  had 
asserted  partnership  in  the  affairs  of 
the  world.  For  politics,  for  commerce, 
and  for  the  fine  arts  he  left  symbolic 
structures :  the  War  College,  the  Penn- 
sylvania station,  the  Morgan  library, 
all  of  which  exhibit  complicated  unity, 
sensibility  in  structure,  refinement  in 
decoration,  and  adequacy  in  mass. 
These  alone  would  suffice  as  permanent 
foundation  for  his  fame  as  a  creative 
artist.  Space  forbids  the  enumeration 
of  his  works  in  other  fields  of  human 
life :  they  are  quite  as  illustrious  each  in 


its  own  way — his  homes  for  the  club, 
the  family,  the  church. 

The  wary  writer  does  not  venture  in 
these  days  tu  give  any  positive  defini- 
tion of  beauty.  Men  do  many,  many 
things  in  play  solely  because  they 
choose  to  do  them.  In  pleasing  them- 
selves, they  give  permanent  delight  to 
many  others.  The  elect  few  or  many 
have  the  instinct  of  these,  but  the  mul- 
titude yearns  to  have  the  matter  set 
forth  in  syllogism.  The  average  taste 
is  not  the  best,  somehow;  the  average 
man  desires  to  know  both  why  he 
should  admire  the  compositions  of 
MacDowell,  the  buildings  of  McKim. 
He  ought  to  be  told,  he  ought  to  hear, 
how  the  born  artist  or  poet  is  further 
trained,  to  what  point  this  training  is 
general,  where  it  becomes  individual, 
and  finally  the  secret  mystery  of  per- 
sonal liberty,  the  emancipation  at  last 
from  tradition,  rule,  maxim,  the  portal 
through  which  genius  alone  may  enter 
and  bring  forth  for  common  use  that 
which  is  fine  and  is  art,  the  fine  arts 
of  music  or  architecture,  of  sculpture, 
painting  or  poetry,  all  which  lift  us 
into  the  realm  of  imagination.  This  is 
the  work  of  the  critic.  Put  flatly,  it  is 
his  business  to  point  out  alike  the  faults 
and  beauties  of  each.  Long  since  in 
the  fine  arts,  as  in  every  other  sphere  of 
human  activity,  authority  reigned  su- 
preme, and  within  the  memory  of  man 
it  was  discarded.  The  critic  dare  no 
longer  deal  in  positive  standards:  high 
and  low  alike  flout  them.  He  can  ap- 
peal to  the  indefinite  and  negative,  the 
cautious  groping  of  superior  minds,  to 
the  enthusiasms  of  one  generation,  to 
the  reactions  of  the  next. 

This  was  the  sense  in  which  Charles 
Eliot  Norton  was  preeminently  a  critic. 
In  every  fiber  of  his  being  he  was  sen- 
sitive and  alive.  Like  McKim,  he  was 
of  reforming  stock,  he  of  the  English 
Puritan  type,  the  other  of  the  Scotch ; 
both  rebels  bom  against  complacency 
and  sham,  both  intense,  impatient,  fe- 
cund.    The  one  was  a  devotee  of  fine 


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art  in  literature,  just  as  the  other  was 
in  architecture.  Norton  from  the  be- 
ginning exhibited  in  his  attitude  the 
furthest  degree  of  revolt  from  spiritual 
and  intellectual  authority.  His  Uni- 
tarian ancestry  made  him  an  ultra  pro- 
tester, his  fine  education  made  him  ex- 
quisite in  taste,  his  strength  as  a  rea- 
soner  made  him  both  a  cautious  and 
somewhat  precious  writer  as  well  as  a 
caustic  and  convincing  critic.  Nothing 
argues  higher  training  in  a  fertile  mind 
than  the  capacity  for  substitution  and 
for  the  transubstantiation  of  itself. 
This  Norton  could  do.  He  was  a  man 
of  the  Renaissance  projected  into  the 
nineteenth  century,  an  Italian  in  subtle- 
ty, a  Briton  of  the  Preraphaelite  type, 
an  American  in  his  innate  contempt  for 
medievalism.  His  profession  was  the 
research  and  the  instruction  of  history 
as  revealed  in  the  long,  unsophisticated 
record  of  the  human  soul  manifesting 
itself  through  art.  Since  art  is  the  un- 
trammeled  play  of  the  spirit,  men  have 
evolved  what  pleased  them  for  the  time 
in  ornament,  in  drawing,  in  form  gen- 
erally, and  in  color.  The  record  of  the 
fine  arts,  pure  or  applied,  is  therefore 
truer  and  more  legible  than  any  other. 
What  Norton  taught  about  this  was 
fascinating,  his  transmutation  of  him- 
self at  every  epoch  was  alchemy.  He 
was  Hellenist  in  the  Greek  air  when  he 
breathed  it ;  his  Italian  was  impeccable ; 
his  Dante  scholarship  not  only  rich,  but 
supreme;  he  was  so  Victorian  that 
Ruskin  and  Carlyle  were  under  his 
spell,  and  so  American  that  he  was  a 
motive  power  in  the  Boston  school  of 
letters  at  its  apogee.  This  must  not  be 
mistaken  for  versatility.  On  the  con- 
trary, the  basic  concept  of  a  Puritan 
soul  is  immediacy,  and  to  every  exhibit 
of  the  man-power  in  action  he  was 
subtly  sensitive  and  sensible.  It  was 
the  comprehensiveness  of  the  scholar. 
What  he  had  not,  and  what  he  dis- 
dained, was  spiritual  feeling;  for  those 
who  groped  after  the  unknown  he  was 
intolerant,  for  the  exercise  of  finite 
powers  the   finite   world   was  quite   a 


sufficient  field,  and  in  that  field  the 
relation  of  man  to  his  environ- 
ment was  to  him  more  important 
than  the  learning  of  theology  with 
which  he  was  saturated  as  a  boy,  and 
against  which  in  manhood  he  rebelled 
with  the  distaste  of  satiety.  They  say 
there  are  only  three  metropolitan  cities, 
London,  Paris,  and  New  York,  since 
the  inhabitant  of  any  one  will  gladly 
abuse  and  join  in  abuse  of  his  own,  so 
secure  is  he  in  its  supremacy  that  he 
fears  no  attack  on  it,  and  refuses  to  as- 
sume the  defensive.  Norton  was  in 
this  very  high  sense  a  patriot :  as  a  fel- 
low-member wrote  of  him  last  year,  he 
became  so  convinced  of  his  country's 
place  in  history  that  to  correct  its 
bumptiousness,  prune  its  exuberance, 
and  train  its  powers,  was  to  him  a 
cheerful  duty.  Its  art  and  its  litera- 
ture expressed  to  him  the  degrees  of  his 
people's  civilization :  to  direct,  to  warn, 
to  stimulate  he  understood  to  be  impera- 
tive on  all  who  had  the  trained  gift, 
and  sloth  in  that  regard  he  detested.  He 
was  almost  an  academy  in  himself,  au- 
thoritative and  fearless,  a  man  of  the 
academic  t)rpe. 

In  marked  contrast  to  him  was  our 
great  sculptor  John  Quincy  Adams 
Ward.  Put  to  the  categorical  question, 
he  would  probably  have  admitted  the 
value  of  all  the  esthetic  disciplines — 
those  of  the  amateur,  the  philosopher, 
and  the  critic ;  he  would  have  admitted 
also  the  existence  and  the  validity  of 
rules  and  axioms.  But  neither  the  rule 
nor  the  trained  beholder  was  his  first 
concern.  Each  instance  presented  to 
him  a  separate  and  absorbing  problem, 
to  be  solved  only  by  the  communings  of 
the  individual  artist  with  that  particu- 
lar task.  The  rule  was  well  as  far  as 
it  goes,  but  the  test  of  the  rule  is  the 
exception.  Hence  the  interest  of 
Ward's  work  in  its  varied,  widely 
varied  aspects. 

Educated  in  American  studios,  un- 
familiar in  early  life  with  great  orig- 
inal creations  of  any  epoch,  he  studied 


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castb  or  pictures,  read  descriptions,  and 
worked  as  opportunity  came.  As  a 
craftsman  he  secured  a  manual  train- 
ing so  fine  that  it  gave  restraint  to  his 
exuberant  fancy.  So  far  as  he  can  be 
identified  with  a  school  he  was  a  Hel- 
lenist and  classical.  To  subjective,  sug- 
gestive, impressionist  sculpture  he  was 
utterly  strange.  In  the  pediments  of 
the  Stock  Exchange  in  New  York  his 
genius  reached  its  climax.  He  could 
not  bear  the  restraint  of  low  relief, 
scarcely  of  high,  and  those  virile  figures, 
each  a  superb  American  type,  stand  out 
full  in  the  round  with  only  a  suggestion 
of  attachment  to  the  architecture  which 
they  adorn.  His  work  is  objective  to 
the  highest  degree,  and  stands  in  close 
relation  not  only  to  the  trained,  but  to 
the  average  beholder  by  the  conviction 
of  reality  which  it  enforces  on  the  hu- 
man eye. 

Ward  thoroughly  understood  the 
American  public,  and  to  that  public  he 
addressed  himself,  and  was  understood. 
Some  of  his  ideas  were  no  doubt  alien 
to  those  generally  cherished  by  the 
members  of  his  gild,  and  it  remains  so 
far  true  that  in  the  heroic  and  monu- 
mental he  was  not  always  at  his  best, 
so  instinctive  was  his  feeling  for  meas- 
ure and  proportion;  but  in  what  was 
purely  statuesque,  in  breadth  and  scale, 
in  the  realization  of  his  vision,  he  could 
and  did  accomplish  what  few  have 
done,  and  was  thus  defiant  of  criticism. 
His  knowledge  and  his  sympathy  were 
comprehensive,  and  his  gift  of  expres- 
sion was  uncommon.  A  true  democrat, 
he  was  not  indiflferent  to  the  noisy,  in- 
sistent self-assertion  of  mediocrity,  for 
he  knew  its  power  in  forming  public 
opinion.  Hence  he  never  permitted  him- 
self to  be  silenced  by  its  wearisome 
iteration.  To  it  he  often  addressed 
himself  with  trenchant  language,  and 
as  a  rule  came  off  triumphant  against 
the  cuckoo  throng.  There  was  noth- 
ing of  what  is  styled  in  art  the  precious 
about  his  temperament  or  his  work. 

The  man  whose  name  is  next  on  our 


honor-roll  was  neither  an  interpreter  of 
national  aspiration,  nor  a  stem  judge 
of  taste  and  manners,  nor  yet  a  prophet 
with  a  message  to  the  Philistine.  His 
was  the  joy  of  holding  up  the  mirror 
to  three  stages  in  a  national  evolution. 
Our  distinctively  American  literature 
dates  from  1830.  For  the  most  part  the 
books  published  this  side  the  sea  had 
been  cheap  reprints  of  foreign  writings. 
The  few  native  writers  of  importance 
unconsciously  found  inspiration  in  the 
European  volumes  which  were  their  in- 
tellectual nourishment.  But  two  gen- 
erations of  repubUcan-democrats  had 
now  produced  a  third,  which  was  the 
offspring  of  American  tradition  and 
education.  Insensibly  the  literary  and 
artistic  output  was  more  and  more  ex- 
pressive of  the  environment  in  which  it 
was  engendered,  and,  the  process  once 
begun,  the  American  quality  grew  more 
and  more  intense,  until  even  British 
models  were  utterly  neglected.  There 
is  of  course  a  common  and  enduring 
element  in  all  literature,  especially  in 
poetry,  but  the  fine  essence  becomes  in 
time  peculiarly  national,  even  local,  and 
sometimes  parochial.  The  door-step 
poet  is  often  preeminently  the  more  ex- 
tensive in  his  art  because  so  intensive 
and  penetrating  in  that  mystery  of 
vision  and  insight  which  creates  not 
alone  verse  or  rhythm  or  cadence 
or  musical  regularity;  but  re- 
creates, represents,  and  gives  definition 
to  what  was,  but  is  not,  to  what  is 
imagined,  but  not  yet  found.  Bom  in 
this  transition,  and  nurtured  in  the  new 
American  life,  Aldrich  became  the 
bond  of  union  between  the  three  co- 
horts of  American  writers — those  of 
the  early  nineteenth  century,  those  of 
the  later  generation,  which  again  were 
finding  inspiration  amid  novel  condi- 
tions subsequent  to  the  Civil  War,  and 
the  very  last,  which  discovers  a  people 
imperious  in  temper,  interested  in  itself 
as  never  before,  and  aware  of  a  nation- 
ality that  embraces  the  breeding-stocks 
of  every  race  and  clime.  To  the  soul 
of  this  new  people,  to  its  abode,  to  its 


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musing,  to  its  energizing,  present  and 
coming  interpreters  must  direct  their 
attention  and  find  for  it  some  voice. 

Throughout  the  long  career  of  his 
authorship  Aldrich  was  an  attentive  lis- 
tener to  the  men,  a  careful  observer  of 
the  nature,  among  whom  and  amid 
which  he  found  himself.  His  theme 
was  neither  one  nor  the  other,  but  the 
interrelations  of  both,  the  man  person- 
ally and  socially  both  in  his  home  and 
in  his  habitat.  At  twenty  he  published 
a  fugitive  piece  of  verse  which  was  so 
appreciated  that  he  was  encouraged  to 
further  literary  effort,  and  for  half  a 
century  his  pen  was  busy.  Throughout 
that  long  period  he  was  the  exemplifi- 
cation of  the  artist  in  literature.  The 
writing  impulse  was  intermittent:  his 
genius  was  not  in  perpetual  bloom,  his 
fruitage  was  irregular.  But  from  first 
to  last  he  was  intimate  with  his  own 
pr^uction,  which,  though  never  aca- 
demic, was  alert  against  crudity,  and 
careful  in  workmanship;  he  was  him- 
self a  stem  critic  of  what  he  made  pub- 
lic. The  sense  of  spontaneity  which  his 
readers  felt  was  due  to  his  art.  In  long 
parturition  he  matured  his  thought,  and 
found  the  intimate  connection  between 
conception  in  idea  and  the  expression 
of  it  in  verbal  signs  which  alone  gives 
reality  through  sight  and  hearing.  Bom 
in  Massachusetts  and  by  the  accident  of 
his  father's  business  demands  a  Louisi- 
anian  in  childhood,  it  was  New  York 
which  made  him  an  elect  journalist,  an 
author  of  promise.  Boston  again  sum- 
moned him,  and  his  powers  ripened  in 
the  soil  whence  he  sprang.  Conscien- 
tious in  his  study  of  contemporary  lit- 
erature, he  was  sensitive  also  to  Euro- 
pean movements.  Hence  his  work  as 
a  whole  possesses  much  variety  in  its 
essential  unity,  and  is  marked  by  the 
charm  and  grace  of  wide  experience. 
There  is  little  that  is  polemic  in  it,  and 
most  of  it  bears  the  stamp  of  Arcadian 
lightness.  There  were  times  when  he 
ate  his  bread  in  tears,  but  his  inborn 
joyousness  consigned  the  influences  of 
trial  for  the  most  part  to  oblivion.    His 


drama  is  never  tragic,  because  melan- 
choly of  the  sort  that  grips  was  not 
natural,  and,  when  insistent,  was  due 
to  causes  which  could  be  and  were  dis- 
missed by  force  of  will.  Nor  is  either 
his  poetry  or  his  prose  stamped  with 
the  hall-mark  of  passion.  Prosperity 
was  essentially  and  peculiarly  his  bless- 
ing, and  the  permanent  elements  of  his 
genius  exhibit  the  temporary  emergence 
of  American  letters  into  the  blithe  up- 
per air  from  out  the  storm-and-stress 
period  in  which  they  began,  and  again 
from  beneath  the  desperate  urgency  in 
which  they  struck  the  war-note  during 
the  struggle  of  civic  war. 

Upon  the  question  whether  the  true 
actor  is  or  is  not  the  creator  of  his  part 
there  will  be  long  discussion  in  the  fu- 
ture as  in  the  past.  But  in  any  case  the 
Actor  who  loses  himself  in  his  part  is 
lost  indeed,  for  he  is  no  longer  the 
master  of  that  by  which  he  creates,  to 
wit:  his  gesture,  his  speech,  and  his 
costume.  On  the  contrary,  he  has  be- 
come their  slave,  and  is  the  creature, 
not  the  creator.  Into  this  pit  Joseph 
Jefferson,  third  and  greatest  of  his  name, 
fourth  of  his  stock  likewise  to  be  a 
player,  never  fell.  His  personality  was 
so  genial,  his  soul  so  kind  and  appre- 
ciative, his  quality  so  sensitive,  his  hu- 
mor so  good,  and  his  heart  so  true, 
that  to  outward  and  surface  seeming  his 
heredity  blended  completely  with  his 
environment,  and  the  beholder  felt  as 
if  the  actor  and  the  character  portrayed 
were  one.  But  those  who  were  fa- 
vored with  his  intimacy  knew  quite  to 
the  contrary.  Within  that  capacious 
brow  and  in  the  convolutions  of  that 
spacious  brain  was  a  mind  of  grasp 
and  penetration,  its  own  severest  critic, 
sternest  judge,  and  fairest  jury.  His 
great  roles  were  neither  the  imaginings 
of  the  author  nor  his  own.  From  the 
powers  of  the  playwright,  the  manager, 
and  the  interpreter  was  made  a  careful 
selection  for  securing  the  resultant 
which  we  all  saw  and  at  which  we  all 
wondered.     The   performances,   more- 


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over,  were  not  iterations  or  repetitions : 
each  stood  out  by  itself,  marked  by  lit- 
tle whimsical  touches  of  genius  which 
made  every  presentation  of  the  dra- 
matic tale  a  new  experience  to  the 
playgoer.  To  have  seen  JeflFerson  once 
in  a  part  was  the  sure  inducement  to 
seeing  him  again  and  again  and  again 
in  the  same  part.  Autopsies  and  the 
use  of  the  knife  do  not  reveal  genius, 
nor  does  wordy  analysis.  To  be  great 
in  any  line  requires  a  great  man.  To 
this  the  actor  is  no  exception.  Our 
greatest  American  actors  have  been 
great  men  off  the  stage  as  well  as  on 
it,  fit  for  any  Olympian  circle.  Jeffer- 
son could  be  judged  by  his  intimacies 
and  by  his  avocation  of  painting  almost 
as  well  as  by  the  art  in  which  he  was 
so  grand  a  master.  He  was  a  worthy 
comrade  in  conversation  with  states- 
men, with  writers,  with  creative  mind^ 
of  every  kind,  thoroughly  versed  in  the 
ways  of  men  throughout  the  past  and 
at  the  present  hour.  His  amusements 
were  varied,  and  among  other  recrea- 
tions was  that  of  out-door  sport:  his 
prowess  as  an  angler  admitted  him  to 
high  circles  of  the  gentle  art,  and  there 
his  lighter  gifts  found  the  freest  play. 
But  his  painting  was  almost  a  passion, 


and  while  he  remained  an  amateur  to 
the  end,  there  was  depth  and  breadth  in 
his  composition,  a  revel  of  color  in  his 
spaces,  and  great  suggestiveness  in  the 
moods  of  nature  as  he  sought  to  present 
them.  Solitude  in  the  forest,  careless 
ease  in  the  use  of  brush  and  pigment* 
a  temperament  disposed  to  gentle  mel- 
ancholy, given  these,  and  you  have  the 
design  and  purpose  together  with  the 
handicraft  of  the  actor-painter.  His 
life  was  opulent  in  friends  and  in 
worldly  success ;  his  hand  was  open  to 
relieve  the  embarrassments  of  his  fel- 
lows; the  reservoir  of  his  gladness  to 
lend  a  hand  was  overflowing. 

Of  the  five  men  thus  briefly  and  in- 
adequately commemorated,  all  belong 
to  the  eight  selected  by  the  original 
seven  as  coadjutors.  But  the  fifteen 
were  equals  in  power  on  their  respective 
fields  of  activity,  and  the  men  of  our 
list  were  peers  and  compeers  of  their 
contemporaries.  Widely  different  in 
vocation,  they  were  strangely  alike  in 
the  Americanism  which  alone  can  and 
does  give  quality  to  our  Academy, 
which  seeks  to  associate  men  eminent 
not  in  one,  but  in  all  of  the  fine  arts. 


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GILDER,  HARRIS,  HALE,  SCHURZ,  HOMER 
By  Hamilton  W.  Mabib 


Of  the  five  members  of  the  Academy 
whom  it  is  my  privilege  to  commemo- 
rate, four  showed  how  local  is  the 
maxim  of  the  specialists  that  a  man 
can  do  only  one  thing  well,  and  rein- 
forced the  ancient  opinion  that  talent 
of  a  high  order  is  a  force  that  can  be 
applied  successfully  along  several  lines 
of  aptitude  and  interest.  Richard  Wat- 
son Gilder  was  a  poet,  an  editor,  and 
a  man  of  those  affairs  which  concern 
the  common  welfare;  and  in  each  of 
these  capacities  his  work  was  memora- 
ble. His  formal  education  did  not  go 
beyond  the  old-fashioned  seminary,  but 
his  vital  education  was  a  by-product  of 
all  his  activities.  The  bugle  sounded 
in  his  youth,  but  there  were  more  com- 
manding calls  for  him.  Journalism  af- 
forded him  a  brief  apprenticeship  in 
preparation  for  the  editorial  direction 
of  "Hours  at  Home,"  of  "Scribner's 
Monthly,"  and  finally  of  the  "Century 
Magazine,"  a  connection  of  life-long 
duration  and  of  effective  service  to  the 
rising  art  and  widening  literature  of  the 
country.  His  nature  was  quick  to  re- 
spond to  the  unspoken  appeal  of  neg- 
lected children  and  to  the  evil  condi- 
tions of  over-crowded  tenements;  he 
was  a  citizen  whose  ideals  sent  him  into 
most  laborious  and  painstaking  work, 
and  inspired  him  with  the  vision  of  a 
city  that  should  be  clean,  wholesome, 
and  beautiful.  Organized  decency  and 
organized  art  found  in  him  an  apostle 
whose  gifts  of  mind  and  of  character 
made  him  a  leader;  while  the  activity 
of  his  hands  and  the  deep  stirrings  of 
his  heart  enriched  his  poetry  and  gave 
it  a  fine  sincerity,  a  moving  sense  of 
brotherhood  with  men  in  their  various 
fortunes.  The  slender  volumes  of  verse 


in  which  his  life  and  art  find  record 
have  been  gathered  into  a  single  book  of 
lyrics;  for  he  was  a  song-writer  after 
the  older  English  fashion.  His  sensi- 
tive imagination ;  his  delicate  touch,  in- 
vigorated by  conviction  and  thought; 
his  artistic  temperament,  enamoured  of 
the  beautiful  and  drawn  to  new  and 
freer  poetic  forms,  gave  his  verse  vi- 
tality and  charm,  half-pathetic  and 
half-prophetic  of  the  better  fortunes  of 
the  race  to  come. 

"Bom  and  bred  in  a  pine-patch"  in 
middle  Georgia,  like  Brer  Rabbit,  it 
was  the  good  fortune  of  Joel  Chandler 
Harris  to  play  in  the  fields  he  was  to 
describe,  to  live  with  the  characters 
whose  local  traits  piqued  the  curiosity 
of  the  world,  and  to  overhear  a  new 
kind  of  fairy-tale,  the  romance  of  which 
lay  in  natural  cunning,  in  a  humor 
abounding,  spontaneous,  and  original, 
and  in  a  philosophy  so  domestic  and 
familiar  that  it  became  an  informal  wis- 
dom of  life.  His  path  to  his  vocation, 
as  in  the  case  of  many  another  man  of 
original  gift,  made  credible  the  homely 
adage  that  might  have  come  from  his 
own  cornfields — the  longest  way  round 
is  the  shortest  way  there.  He  set  type, 
read  law,  became  an  editor  of  a  leading 
Southern  journal,  and  wrote  books  as 
original  in  substance,  quaint  in  style, 
and  rich  in  human  interest  as  the  coun- 
tryside of  which  they  form  an  authentic 
and  enduring  record.  Uncle  Remus  is 
one  of  the  real  figures  in  American  lit- 
erature. He  is  a  raconteur  of  legends 
which  are  as  classic  in  their  way  and 
place  as  the  "Arabian  Nights."  These 
tales,  full  of  appeal  to  the  imagination 
of  children  and  to  the  memory  of  their 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


elders,  preserve  the  humor  and  wis- 
dom of  a  vanished  social  condition ;  and 
Uncle  Remus,  emerging  from  the  ro- 
manticism and  tragedy  of  the  ante- 
bellum period  and  the  cheap  exaggera- 
tion of  the  minstrel-show  that  followed 
the  war,  attains  the  dignity  of  the  pro- 
tagonist of  a  vanished  type — the  plan- 
tation negro.  In  apparent  unconscious- 
ness, Uncle  Remus  shows  us  the  reac- 
tion of  slavery  on  the  slave:  his  easy, 
care-free  attitude;  his  humorous  phi- 
losophy born  of  helplessness;  his  kind- 
liness; his.  homely  sagacity  of  the  cabin 
and  the  cotton-field;  his  shrewd  obser- 
vation of  the  people  he  served,  and  his 
keen  thrusts  at  their  foibles  and  weak- 
nesses ;  his  sense  of  the  mystery  of  the 
animal  world,  and  his  primitive  relation 
with  it;  the  pathos  of  the  struggle  of 
the  weak  against  the  strong;  and  the 
never-failing  spirit  of  mischievous  fun 
in  which  the  powerful  and  alert  are  out- 
witted and  disarmed.  Uncle  Remus, 
Daddy  Jake,  Brer  Rabbit,  and  Tiddy, 
will  be  eX'Offi<:io  members  of  the  folk- 
lore societies  for  all  time  to  come;  but 
they  belong  to  literature,  and  their  cre- 
ator to  the  group  of  those  Americans 
who  have  made  original  contributions 
to  literature. 

The  range  of  social  and  climatic  con- 
ditions in  this  country  could  hardly  be 
more  strikingly  brought  out  than  in 
the  contrast  between  Joel  Chandler 
Harris,  the  faithful  recorder  of  a  cross- 
section  of  Georgia  life,  and  Edward 
Everett  Hale,  the  New  Englander  who 
became  neighbor  to  the  whole  country. 
The  stamp  of  New  England  education 
was  on  Dr.  Hale  from  the  beginning. 
He  came  of  a  family  notable  for  intel- 
ligence and  individuality  of  character; 
he  was  bom  in  Boston;  he  was  pre- 
pared for  college  in  the  Latin  School; 
he  was  graduated  from  Harvard;  he 
studied  theology  and  entered  the  Uni- 
tarian ministry.  During  a  long  life  of 
varied  and  tireless  activities  his  home 
was  in  Roxbury.  He  was  predestined 
to  be  an  editor,  and  knew  how  to  set 


type  almost  as  soon  as  his  head  was 
level  with  the  case.  He  loved  history^ 
and  wrote  it  as  a  journalist  writes  of 
the  events  of  the  day.  He  was  a  story- 
teller by  nature,  and  wrote  tales  as  if 
he  were  writing  history.  He  had  some- 
thing of  Defoe's  gift  of  giving  fiction 
the  simple  and  convincing  detail  of 
fact.  He  was  never  an  exact  writer; 
but  he  had  a  genius  for  getting  at  the 
truth.  He  was  neither  emotional  nor 
dramatic ;  but  his  heart  was  in  his  work 
of  whatever  kind,  and  he  was  a  rare 
preacher  of  the  gospel  of  helpfulness. 
His  aim  was  practical,  he  was  never  a 
student  of  style,  his  strength  lay  in  in- 
vention rather  than  in  imagination ;  but 
it  was  his  good  fortune  to  write  a 
short  story  so  close  to  the  facts  of  hu- 
man nature  that  it  almost  defies  the  en- 
deavor to  class  it  with  fiction.  "The 
Man  Without  a  Country"  has  the 
pathos  of  a  tragedy  of  personal  life, 
staged  so  simply  that  it  escapes  all  sug- 
gestion of  artifice,  and  unless  duly  au- 
thenticated as  fiction,  it  will  some  day 
be  read  as  history.  A  citizen  of  one  of 
the  centers  of  light  and  leading  in  the 
New  World,  Dr.  Hale  was  brother  to 
all  men;  in  the  informal,  unconven- 
tional society  of  America  he  accepted 
the  ultimate  inferences  of  democracy 
not  with  the  timidity  of  the  man  of  aca- 
demic training,  but  with  the  joyful 
courage  of  a  serene  faith  in  the  spirit- 
ual worth  of  humanity.  He  organized 
helpfulness  as  if  it  were  the  chief  bt|si- 
ness  of  mankind,  wrote  its  legends  and 
text-books,  and  spoke  and  acted  as  if 
society  were  a  league  of  men  and  wom- 
en bent  on  helping  instead  of  preying 
upon  one  another.  He  had  the  saving 
common  sense,  the  habit  of  industry, 
and  the  illuminating  humor  of  one  to 
whom  men  as  men  were  dear  and  com- 
panionable. 

The  contributions  of  Germany  to 
thought  and  life  in  this  country  were 
less  evident  in  the  early  stages  of  our 
history  than  those  of  England,  Hol- 
land, and  France ;  but  since  the  awak- 


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COMMEMORATIVE  PAPERS 


67 


ening  of  American  intelligence  to  its 
intellectual  isolation  in  the  decade  be- 
tween 1820  and  1830,  German  philos- 
ophy, poetry,  and  music  have  formed 
probably  the  most  powerful  single 
stream  of  influence  that  has  come  to  us 
from  Europe.  Quite  as  important  has 
been  the  addition  to  our  population  of 
a  host  of  men  and  women  of  German 
blood  and  education,  and  foremost 
among  American  citizens  of  German 
breeding  was  Carl  Schurz.  He  was  a 
student  in  the  University  of  Bonn  when 
his  love  of  liberty  took  him  into  the 
ranks  of  the  revolutionists  in  1848.  He 
came  to  this  country  in  1852,  and  was 
admitted  to  the  bar;  but  he  was  irre- 
sistibly swept  into  the  anti-slavery 
movement,  and  so  into  the  field  of  po- 
litical action.  He  was  a  convincing  and 
lucid  speaker,  and  his  advocacy  was  an 
effective  reinforcement  of  the  anti- 
slavery  party.  When  the  great  debate 
ended  and  the  war  began,  he  served 
with  credit  as  an  officer  in  the  field. 
After  a  successful  career  as  a  journal- 
ist, he  entered  the  United  States  Sen- 
ate, where  his  trained  intelligence  and 
power  of  statement  gave  him  both 
popular  reputation  and  legislative  influ- 
ence ;  while  his  political  idealism  and  in- 
dependence made  him  the  advocate  of 
reform  in  the  civil  service  and  in  party 
organization,  of  sound  money,  of  tariff 
for  revenue  only,  and  of  the  Indepen- 
dent movement,  which  has  raised  the 
standards  of  public  service  and  political 
action  in  this  country. 

Mr.  Schurz's  work  as  a  writer  was 
marked  by  candor,  intelligence,  and  dis- 
tinction of  tone  and  manner.  His  **Life 
of  Henry  Oay"  lacked  the  intimacy 
with  local  conditions  which  a  man  bom 
on  the  soil  of  which  Clay  was  so  char- 
acteristic a  product  would  have  given 
it;  but  it  has  genuine  historical  value 
and  marked  narrative  interest.  He  was 
at  variance  with  Lincoln  on  important 
points  of  policy  during  the  war,  and 
was  not  slow  to  express  his  dissent; 
but  his  monograph,  written  in  later 
years  and  from  riper  knowledge,  is  an 


interpretation  of  Lincoln's  character 
and  career  of  permanent  value.  His 
most  important  contribution  to  litera- 
ture is  his  "Reminiscences,  1829-1863," 
written  after  his  retirement  from  po- 
litical and  editorial  activity,  a  memora- 
ble addition  to  the  small  group  of 
American  biographies  which  have  the 
double  value  of  historical  record  and 
personal  narrative.  The  story  of  Mr. 
Schurz's  life  is  an  adventure  of  the 
spirit,  told  with  clearness,  vigor,  and  a 
strong  infusion  of  personal  quality.  He 
was  by  training  and  breadth  of  inter- 
est a  man  of  cosmopolitan  temper;  but 
he  was  an  American  in  his  devotion  to 
popular  government  and  his  ardent%er- 
vice  of  what  may  be  called  applied  free- 
dom. 

Winslow  Homer  was  a  great  per- 
sonal force  poured  into  a  single  channel. 
He  was  a  painter  by  instinct  and  by  in- 
tention. He  was  born  in  Boston  in 
1836,  and  spent  his  boyhood  in  Cam- 
bridge, which  was  then  a  New  England 
village  with  open  spaces  ample  for  the 
out-of-door  activities  of  a  vigorous 
boy.  Unusual  skill  as  a  draftsman 
gave  him  pleasure  and  training  in  child- 
hood, and  at  the  age  of  nineteen  he  was 
doing  the  artistic  work  of  a  lithogra- 
pher's office.  Two  years  later  he  was 
making  illustrations;  and  in  1859  he 
had  his  own  studio  in  New  York, 
worked  in  the  night  class  of  the  Acad- 
emy of  Design,  and  learned  from  Ron- 
del how  to  set  his  palette  and  handle 
his  brushes.  His  chance  for  original 
work  came  with  the  Army  of  the  Po- 
tomac in  1865;  and  the  series  of  pic- 
tures which  he  put  on  canvas,  includ- 
ing "Prisoners  from  the  Front,"  made 
a  deep  impression  by  their  vigorous 
technic  and  unaffected  human  feeling. 
From  this  direct  dealing  with  the  facts 
of  life,  Homer's  work  gained  its  dis- 
tinctive note  in  American  painting.  He 
was  an  authentic  and  authoritative  re- 
corder of  three  or  four  phases  of 
American  life;  daringly  intimate,  sin- 
cere, and  frank.    Largely  self-educated, 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


and  unaflfected  by  European  associa- 
tionSy  he  was  a  painter  of  the  New 
World  whose  clear  vision  made  him  an 
uncompromising  truth-teller,  and  whose 
powerful  imagination  and  vigorous 
technic  emphasized  his  rugged  strength. 
His  studies  of  army  life,  of  the  mas- 
sive ocean  front  of  Maine,  of  Adiron- 
dack scenery,  of  men  of  elemental  oc- 
cupation and  vigor, — sailors,  soldiers, 
farmers,  teamsters  ,  negroes, — showed 
uncompromising  fidelity  to  the  fact  vi- 
tally presented.  He  was  an  open-air, 
out-of-door  painter  of  real  men  in 
primitive  occupations  and  experiences; 
but  his  range  was  neither  narrow  nor 
one-sided.  His  later  work  was  dra- 
matic, powerful,  at  times  almost  brutal ; 
but  in  earlier  life  he  painted  landscapes 


of  idyllic  and  shimmering  charm,  com- 
bining at  times  the  most  vivid  realism 
with  the  subtle  skill  that  records  the 
stir  of  the  wind  and  the  translucencc  of 
diffused  sunlight. 

No  American  painter  has  surpassed 
him  in  the  ease  with  which  he  lifts 
great  waves  and  sends  them  crashing 
against  the  rocks  with  a  force  that  fills 
the  imagination  with  a  deafening  roar. 
Vigorous  composition,  bold  use  of 
color,  passion  for  the  elemental  strug- 
gles of  strong  men,  nature  in  moments 
of  intense  action,  lay  well  within 
Homer's  art ;  and  to  him  was  given  the 
power  to  paint  "The  surge  and  thunder 
of  the  Odyssey."  His  nature  was  in  the 
tone  of  his  art:  he  was  fearless,  inde- 
pendent, unconventional,  and  loyal. 


On  December  9th,  at  11  a.m.,  the  proceedings  were  continued  at  the  New 
Theatre,  under  the  chairmanship  of  Mr.  Howells,  by 


A   READING  FROM  .SHAKESPEARE'S 

BY 

Horace  Howard  Furness. 


HENRY  V," 


On  the  same  day  at  4  p.m.,   a   Reception   was  given   to  The  Academy  and 
The  Institute  at  the  Lenox  Library 

BY 

HIS  HONOR,  THE  MAYOR  OF  THE  CITY  OF  NEW  YORK, 

William  J.  Gaynor. 


On    December  8th,   the    Gold    Medal  of  The  Institute  was  presented,  in   the 

department  of  History,  to 

James  Ford  Rhodes, 
Author  of  ''A  History  of  the  United  States." 


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SKETCH  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  LIST  OF 
MEMBERS  AND  OFFICERS 


The  American  Academy  of  Arts  and 
Letters  was  founded  in  1904  as  an  in- 
terior organization  of  the  National  In- 
stitute of  Arts  and  Letters,  which  in 
turn  was  founded  in  1898  by  the 
American  Social  Science  Association. 
In  each  case  the  elder  organization  left 
the  younger  to  choose  the  relations  that 
should  exist  between  them.  Article 
XII  of  the  Constitution  of  the  Insti- 
tute provides  as  follows: 

In  order  to  make  the  Institute  more  effi- 
cient in  carrying  out  the  purposes  for  which 
it  was  organized, — the  protection  and  fur- 
therance of  literature  and  the  arts, — and  to 
give  greater  definiteness  to  its  work,  a  sec- 
tion of  the  Institute  to  be  known  as  the 
ACADEMY  OF  ARTS  AND  LETTERS 
shall  be  organized  in  such  manner  as  the 
Institute  may  provide;  the  members  of  the 
Academy  to  be  chosen  from  those  who  at 
any  time  shall  have  been  on  the  list  of  mem- 
bership of  the  Institute. 

The  Academy  shall  at  first  consist  of 
thirty  members,  and  after  these  shall  have 
organized  it  shall  elect  its  own  officers,  pre- 
scribe its  own  rules,  the  number  of  its  mem- 
bers, and  the  further  conditions  of  mem- 
bership; provided  that  no  one  shall  be  a 
member  of  the  Academy  who  shall  not  first 
have  been  on  the  list  of  regular  members  of 
the  Institute,  and  that  in  the  choice  of  mem- 
bers individual  distinction  and  character,  and 
not  the  group  to  which  they  belong,  shall 
be  taken  into  consideration;  and  provided 
that  all  members  of  the  Academy  shall  be 
native  or  naturalized  citizens  of  the  United 
States. 


The  manner  of  the  organization  of 
the  Academy  was  prescribed  by  the  fol- 
lowing resolution  of  the  Institute  adopt- 
ed April  23,  1904: 

Whereas,  the  amendment  to  the  Consti- 
tution known  as  Article  XII,  providing  for 
the  organization  of  the  Academy  of  Arts 
and  Letters,  has  been  ratified  by  a  vote  of 
the  Institute, 


Resolved:  that  the  following  method  be 
chosen  for  the  organization  of  the  Academy 
— ^to  wit,  that  seven  members  be  selected  by 
ballot  as  the  first  members  of  the  Academy, 
and  that  these  seven  be  requested  and  em- 
powered to  choose  eight  other  members,  and 
that  the  fifteen  thus  chosen  be  requested  and 
empowered  to  choose  five  other  members, 
and  that  the  twenty  members  thus  chosen 
shall  be  requested  and  empowered  to  choose 
ten  other  members, — the  entire  thirty  to  con- 
stitute the  Academy  in  conformity  with 
Article  XII,  and  that  the  first  seven  mem- 
bers be  an  executive  committee  for  the  pur- 
pose of  insuring  the  completion  of  the 
number  of  thirty  members. 

Under  Article  XII  the  Academy  has 
effected  a  separate  organization,  but 
at  the  same  time  it  has  kept  in  close  re- 
lationship with  the  Institute.  On  the 
seventh  of  March,  1908,  the  member- 
ship was  increased  from  thirty  to  fifty 
members,  and  on  the  seventh  of  No- 
vember, 1908,  the  following  Constitu- 
tion was  adopted: 

CONSTITUTION  OF  THE  ACADEMY 
I.    ORIGIN  AND  NAME 

The  American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters 
is  an  association  primarily  organized  by  the 
National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters.  Its 
aim  is  to  represent  and  further  the  interests 
of  the  Fine  Arts  and  Literature. 

II.     MEMBERSHIP   AND   ELECTIONS 

It  shall  consist  of  not  more  than  fifty  mem- 
bers, and  all  vacancies  shall  be  filled  from 
the  membership  of  the  National  Institute  of 
Arts  and  Letters.  No  one  shall  be  elected  a 
member  of  the  Academy  who  shall  not  have 
received  the  votes  of  a  majority  of  the  mem- 
bers. The  votes  shall  be  opened  and  counted 
at  a  meeting  of  the  Acadeniy.  In  case  the 
first  ballot  shall  not  result  in  an  election  a 
second  ballot  shall  be  taken  to  determine  the 
choice  between  the  two  candidates  receiving 
the  highest  number  of  votes  on  the  first  bal- 
lot. Elections  shall  be  held  only  on  due 
notice  under  rules  to  be  established  by  the 
Academy. 


69 


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III.    AIMS 

That  the  Academy  may  be  bound  together 
in  community  of  taste  and  interest,  its  mem- 
bers shall  meet  regularly  for  discussion,  and 
for  the  expression  of  artistic,  literary  and 
scholarly  opinion  on  such  topics  as  are 
brought  to  its  attention.  For  the  purpose  of 
promoting  the  highest  standards,  the  Acad- 
emy may  also  award  such  prizes  as  may  be 
founded  by  itself  or  entrusted  to  it  for 
administration. 


IV.    OFFICERS 

The  officers  shall  consist  of  a  President  and 
a  Chancellor,  both  elected  annually  from 
among  the  members  to  serve  for  one  year 
only;  a  Permanent  Secretary,  not  necessarily 
a  member,  who  shall  be  elected  by  the  Acad- 
emy to  serve  for  an  indeterminate  period, 
subject  to  removal  by  a  majority  vote;  and  a 
Treasurer.  The  Treasurer  shall  be  appointed 
as  follows :  Three  members  of  the  Academy 
shall  be  elected  at  each  annual  meeting  to 
serve  as  a  Committee  on  Finance  for  the  en- 
suing year.  They  shall  appoint  one  of  their 
number  Treasurer  of  the  Academy  to  serve 
for  one  year.  He  shall  receive  and  protect 
its  funds  and  make  disbursements  for  its  ex- 
penses as  directed  by  the  Committee.  He 
shall  also  make  such  investments,  upon  the 
order  of  the  President,  as  may  be  approved 
by  both  the  Committee  on  Finance  and  the 
Executive  Committee. 


V.    DUTIES  OF  OFFICERS 

It  shall  be  the  duty  of  the  President,  and  in 
his  absence  of  the  Chancellor,  to  preside  at 
all  meetings  throughout  his  term  of  office, 
and  to  safeguard  in  general  all  the  interests 
of  the  Academy.  It  shall  be  the  duty  of  the 
Chancellor  to  select  and  prepare  the  business 
for  each  meeting  of  his  term.  It  shall  be  the 
duty  of  the  Secretary  to  keep  the  records ;  to 
conduct  the  correspondence  of  the  Academy 
under  the  direction  of  the  President  or 
Chancellor;  to  issue  its  authorized  state- 
ments; and  to  draw  up  as  required  such 
writings  as  pertain  to  the  ordinary  business 
of  the  Academv  and  its  committees.  These 
three  officers  shall  constitute  the  Executive 
Committee. 


VI.    AMENDMENTS 

Any  proposed  amendment  to  this  Constitu- 
tion must  be  sent  in  writing  to  the  Secretary 
signed  by  at  least  ten  members;  and  it  shall 
then  be  forwarded  by  the  Secretary  to  every 
member.  It  shall  not  be  considered  until 
three  months  after  it  has  been  thus  sub- 
mitted. No  proposed  amendment  shall  be 
adopted  unless  it  receives  the  votes  in  writ- 
ing of  two-thirds  uf  the  members. 


MEMBERS  AND  OFFICERS 

Following  is  the  list  of  members  in 
the  order  of  their  election : 

William  Dean  Howells 
^Augustus  Saint-Gaudens 
♦Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 
♦John  La  Farge 
♦Samuel  Langhome  Clemens 
♦John  Hay 
♦Edward  MacDowell 

Henry  James 
♦Charles  Follcn  McKim 

Henry  Adams 
♦Charles  Eliot  Norton 
♦John  Quincy  Adams  Ward 

Thomas  Raynesford  Lounsbury 

Theodore  Rooseveh 
♦Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 
♦Joseph  Jefferson 

John  Singer  Sargent 
♦Richard  Watson  Gilder 

Horace  Howard  Fumess 
*John  Bigelow 
♦Winslow  Homer 
♦Carl  Schurz 

Alfred  Thayer  Mahan 
♦Joel  Chandler  Harris 

Daniel  Chester  French 

John  Burroughs 

James  Ford  Rhodes 
♦Edwin  Austin  Abbey 

Horatio  William  Parker 

William  Milligan  Sloane 
♦Edward  Everett  Hale 

Robert  Underwood  Johnson 

George  Washington  Cable 
♦Daniel  Coit  Gilman 
♦Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson 
♦Donald  Grant  Mitchell 

Andrew  Dickson  White 

Henry  van  Dyke 

William  Crary  Brownell 

Basil  Lanneau  Gildersleeve 
♦Julia  Ward  Howe 

Woodrow  Wilson 
Arthur  Twining  Hadley 

Henry  Cabot  Lodge 

Francis  Hopkinson  Smith 
♦Francis  Marion  Crawford 
♦Henry  Charles  Lea 

Edwin  Howland  Blashfield 

William  Merritt  Chase 

Thomas  Hastings 

Hamilton  Wright  Mabie 
♦Bronson  Howard 

Brander  Matthews 

Thomas  Nelson  Page 

Elihu  Vedder 

George  Edward  Woodberry 
♦William  Vaughn  Moody 

Kenyon  Cox 

George  Whitefield  Chadwick 

Abbott  Handerson  Thayer 

John  Muir 

Charles  Francis  Adams 

Henry  Mills  Alden 

George  deForest  Brush 


•Deceased. 


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William  Rutherford  Mead  James  Whitcomb  Riley 

John  White  Alexander  Nicholas  Murray  Butler 

Bliss  Perry  Paul  Wayland  Bartlett 

Francis  Davis  Millet  George  Browne  Post. 
Abbott  Lawrence  Lowell 

OFFICERS  FOR  THE  YEAR  191 1 

President:    Mr.  Howells.  Chancellor:    Mr.  Sloane. 

Permanent  Secretary:    Mr.  Johnson. 

Finance  Committee:    Messrs.  Sloane,  Rhodes,  and  Hastings. 


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PROCEEDINGS 


OF  THE 


AMERICAN  ACADEMY  OF  ARTS 

AND  LETTERS  Av 


AND  OF  THE 


NATIONAL  INSTITUTE  OF  ARTS 
AND  LETTERS 


Number  V:  191 2 


New  York 


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thmri  College  Library 
FEB  20  1913 

^  Gratis. 


Copyright,  1912,  by 
The  American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters 


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CONTENTS 

PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  PUBLIC  MEETINGS  OF  THE  AMERICAN  ACADEMY  OF 
ARTS  AND  LETTERS  and  of  THE  NATIONAL  INSTITUTE  OF  ARTS  AND  LETTERS 

Sessions  at  the  Bellevue-Stratford  (Clover  Club  Rooms),  Philadelphia,  January  26,  1912 

First  Session,   10:30  a.m. 

William  M.  Sloane, 
Chancellor  of  the  Academy,  Presiding 

PACB 

Opening  Remarks  of  the  Chancellor 5 

Address  of  Welcome 

His  Honor ^  the  Mayor  0/  PhiUuielphia — 
Rudolph  Blankenburg 8 

Theocritus  on  Cape  Cod 

Hamilton  Wright  Mabie ,  9 

Shakespeare  as  an  Actor 

Brandet  Matthews 18 

Rousseau,  Godwin,  and  Wordsworth 

George  McLean  Harper 2 

Musico- Dramatic  Problems 

Edgar  Stillman  Kelley 35 

Second  Session,  "s  p.m. 

John  W.  Alexander, 
President  of  the  Institute,  Presiding 

The  Trent  Affair 

Charles  Francis  Adams 44 

The  American  Temperament 

Birge  Hart  ison 52 

Some  of  the  Conditions  of  Architectural  Design 

Walter  Cook 60 


The  Institute  Medal 66 

Data  Concerning  the  Two  Organizations 66-73 


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PROCEEDINGS 

OF  THE 


American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters 

AND   OF  THE 

National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters 


Publkhed  at  intervals  by  the  Societies 

Copies  may  be  had  on  application  to  the  Permanent  Secretary  of  the  Academy,  Mr.  R.  U.  Johnson, 
35  East  17th  Street,  New  York  Price  per  annum  $1.00 

Vol.  1  New  York,  October  i,  1912  No  5 

THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 

Public  Meetings  held  at  the  Bellevue-Stratford,  Philadelphia,  January  25-26, 1912 

William  M.  Sloane 
Chancellor  of  the  Academy,  in  the  Chair 


OPENING  REMARKS  OF  WILLIAM  M.  SLOANE 

At  the  First  Session,  January  26,  Philadelphia 

This  is  the  fifth  public  meeting  held  the  inclination  for  such  service.    The 

by  the   National    Institute    and    the  National  Institute  is  the  child  of  the 

Aimerican  Academy  of  Arts  and  Let-  American  Social  Science  Association, 

ters  the  proceedings  of  which  either  and  when  there  are  vacancies  in  its 

have  been  or  will  be  published.    The  number  it  chooses  to  fill  them  with 

double   name  has   a  historical  basis,  such  artists  and  men  of  letters  as  ap- 

Although  both  are  one,  and  that  one  ply  for  membership,  and  who  are  duly 

the  Institute,  it  was  thought  best  some  certified  as  to  fitness  by  members  of 

years  ago  to  select  a  section  of  it  to  their  own  group.     The  Academy  se- 

be  styled  the  Academy.    This  action  lects  its  members  from  those  of  the 

has  secured  a  very  desirable  clearness  Institute. 

in  the  minds  of  all  who  are  interested,  Our  association  is  fifteen  years  old. 
because  of  the  manifest  parallel  with  For  many  years  its  existence  was  that 
the  National  Academy  of  Sciences,  of  a  private  club.  Its  meetings  were 
Both  Academies  desire  to  serve  the  fairly  frequent  and  altogether  delight- 
country  to  the  utmost  of  their  ability  ^"1 ;  papers  were  read,  and  discus- 
through  the  association  of  men  emi-  sions  were  held ;  and  as  time  passed,  it 
nent  in  their  respective  spheres — men  grew  manifest  that  it  must  and  could 
who  have  not  only  the  leisure,  but  also  become  a  public  force.     Accordingly 

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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


there  is  now  annually  at  least  one 
public  meeting,  some  years  two.  This 
year  our  Philadelphia  members  are 
our  hosts,  and  we  are  proud  to  accept 
the  gracious  hospitality  so  kindly  ten- 
dered by  them  by  the  great  city  itself 
through  His  Honor  the  Mayor  and 
by  the  Franklin  Inn.  For  many  rea- 
sons we  feel  entirely  at  home  in  this 
splendid  metropolis  and  common- 
wealth. Creative  art  and  literature, 
criticism,  music,  and  the  drama  are 
represented  in  America  by  a  great 
throng  of  Pennsylvanians ;  there  are 
no  names  of  higher  distinction  on  our 
roll  than  those  of  members  bom  and 
in  great  measure  trained  in  this  com- 
monwealth, and  for  the  most  part  in 
this  city.  Boasting  of  them,  we  ren- 
der just  due  to  the  State  and  the  stock 
which  produced  them;  indeed,  the 
chief  presiding  officer  last  night  and 
to-day  is  in  the  land  of  his  birth  and 
on  his  own  soil. 

That  we  are  not  more  numerous  in 
our  attendance  is  because  of  our  zeal 
in  that  for  which  we  stand.  Some  of 
us  are  weaker  in  body  than  in  spirit 
because  of  age;  the  younger  absentees 
are  overwhelmed  with  the  labors  of 
their  professions,  and  cannot  escape 
stern  necessity.  Were  American  ben- 
efactors, so  wonderful  in  other  direc- 
tions, as  disposed  to  endow  creative 
minds  as  they  are  to  support  eleemosy- 
nary institutions,  the  two  Academies 
of  the  country  could  render  services 
to  their  members  and  to  the  nation 
similar  to  the  splendid  examples  af- 
forded by  like  bodies  in  other  lands. 
So  far  the  struggle  for  life  by  men 
of  science  and  men  of  art  has  pre- 
cluded in  America  the  close-knit  as- 
sociation which  alone  carries  the  real 
force  of  the  country  in  matters  of  dis- 
covery, research,  taste,  and  discipline. 
What  is  done  by  them,  and  it  is  much, 
is  a  free  g^ft,  a  generous  personal  con- 


tribution by  those  to  whom  arduous  la- 
bor, unremitting  industry,  and  small 
returns  make  such  a  largess  as  im- 
portant as  princely  bequests  of  money. 

You  will  remember  that  Lord  Clive, 
when  charged  with  enriching  himsdf 
in  India,  retorted  that  in  view  of  his 
opportunities  he  was  astonished  at  his 
own  moderation.  Reversing  this,  I  am 
amazed  at  the  participation  our  asso- 
ciation secures  from  the  busy  men  who 
are  its  members.  It  proves  that  each 
of  us  values  at  a  cost  as  high  as  that 
of  living  the  stimulus  we  get  from 
one  another  and  the  sympathy  of  those 
who  honor  us  with  their  presence.  In 
the  course  of  a  fairly  long  life  I  have 
not  seen  perish  a  single  viable  and 
valuable  ideal  in  the  world  of  scien- 
tific and  humanistic  endeavor.  Simply 
to  exist  is  much  for  such  an  associa- 
tion, and  a  long  period  of  frugality  in 
production  and  consumption  is  not 
only  to  be  expected,  but  to  be  desired. 
This  we  have  had,  and  the  time  seems 
approaching  when,  having  displayed 
devotion  and  persistency  in  serving 
others,  the  world  will  give  us  the 
means  of  serving  our  nation  and  man- 
kind proportionate  to  our  capacity. 

As  a  writer  of  history  I  naturally 
turn  to  those  of  my  own  profession 
for  an  example,  and  in  this  case  it  is 
that  of  a  Philadelphian.  Of  those  who 
have  gone  before  not  one  has  left  be- 
hind him  greater  renown  than  he  who 
as  yet  is  by  experts  of  the  world  and 
the  nation  considered  the  most  eminent 
.American  in  his  combination  of  phil- 
osophic, literary,  and  scientific  histor>*. 
Henry  Charles  Lea.  May  I  say  that 
the  interest  he  felt  in  this  organization 
was  profound ;  his  letters  bear  witness 
to  the  fact,  and  while  he  lived  his  con- 
tributions of  money  and  moral  support 
were  second  to  those  of  no  other. 
What  his  fellow- workers  owe  to  this 
fact  only  those  aware  of  the  drudgery 
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OPENING  REMARKS  OF  WILLIAM  M.  SLOANE 


and  sacrifice  incident  to  historical 
work  can  know«  and  their  recognition 
of  it  has  been  generous.  What  our 
other  associates  and  this  public  owe 
is  a  debt  that  cannot  be  repaid  ex- 
cept in  the  effort  to  emulate  him,  in 
feeling  the  persistent  sense  of  his  wis- 
dom, and  in  enjoying  the  conscious- 
ness of  his  approval.  Similar  encour- 
agement from  men  of  his  rank  could 
be  adduced,  but  here  and  now  this 
may  suffice. 

It  is  therefore  much  that  we  are 
alive  and  active  and  that  we  are  more 
and  more  widely  known  not  as  those 
who  assume  a  crown,  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, as  those  who  volunteer  for  serv- 
ice when  service  is  demanded.  We 
may  go  further,  for  we  may  even  force 
our  services  on  an  unwilling  master, 
should  occasion  arise,  and  experience 
prove  that  our  spoken  words  would 
help  in  the  great  decisions  that  are  so 


often  committed  to  the  inexpert  for 
settlement.  Voluntary  association  is 
the  law  of  Anglo-Saxon  society,  and 
if  we  truly  desire,  as  we  assert  to  be 
the  case,  to  get  the  best  in  art  and 
letters  for  our  material  life,  to  keep 
the  public  taste  at  the  highest  stand- 
ard for  public  instruction  and  reproof, 
we  may  have  to  cry  aloud  and  spare 
not.  Who  has  a  better  right?  The 
noisy  agitator  for  selfish  purposes,  the 
leveler,  the  vulgar,  who  are  a  law 
unto  themselves?  Surely  not.  As  in- 
dividuals or  as  groups  of  individuals, 
thef  members  of  this  association  have 
always  been  courageous,  most  certain- 
ly and  successfully  in  the  field  of  art 
and  architecture,  and  have  reaped  a 
reward.  Similar  triumphs  are  possi- 
ble in  other  fields,  and  whether  as  men 
or  an  association  of  men,  we  may 
hope  to  win  more  and  more  of  them. 


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ADDRESS  OF  WELCOME 
By  His  Honor  the  Mayor  of  Philadelphfa,  Rudolph  Blankbnburg 


It  is  a  pleasure  and  a  privilege  for 
me  to  greet  you,  members  of  the 
American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Let- 
ters and  of  the  National  Institute  of 
Arts  and  Letters,  and  to  extend  to  you 
a  warm  welcome  to  the  City  of  Broth- 
erly Love.  Among  the  many  conven- 
tions and  meetings  held  here  by  or- 
ganizations of  all  kinds  and  characters, 
there  is  hardly  any  that  deserves 
greater  attention  and  a  warmer  greet- 
ing than  yours.  In  this  age  of  ma- 
terialism, when  in  so  many  phases  of 
life  the  dollar  is  king,  it  is  refreshing 
indeed  to  meet  a  body  of  men  who  are 
more  interested  in  ethics,  in  science, 
in  arts,  and  in  letters  than  in  the  pur- 
suit of  worldly  riches.  Unfortunately, 
such  movements  for  the  higher  aims 
in  life  are  not  many;  yet  there  seems 
to  be  a  new  impulse  of  intellectual  and 
artistic  improvement  that  bodes  good 
for  the  future  and  cannot  fail  to  make 
a  lasting  impression.  Let  me  express 
the  hope  that  this  impulse  may  in- 
crease from  day  to  day  and  extend  all 
over  our  country. 

It  can  hardly  be  expected  that  I,  a 
plain  business  man,  should  deliver  to 
you  an  address  on  a  subject  in  which 
you  are  so  much  more  at  home  than  I, 
but  the  spirit  that  prompts  my  thought 
is  one  that  should  prevail  among  all 
our  people,  leading  to  the  promotion 
of  higher  education  and  higher  ideals, 
and  the  encouragement  of  all  those  in- 
terested in  the  uplift  of  mankind.  1 
shall  not  detain  you  by  delivering  a 
set  speech,  but  I  do  extend  to  you  a 
welcome  that  is  all  the  warmer  because 
it  is  real. 

We  all  need  an  incentive  to  the 
higher  things  in  life,  and  your  or- 
ganizations  are   specially   adapted   to 


arouse  greater  and  nobler  aspirations. 
Who  knows  what  talent  or  ambitious 
spirit  may  lie  dormant  in  the  breast 
of  many  an  American  artist  ?  Perhaps 
to-day  we  harbor  among  us,  unknown, 
but  ready  to  display  his  talents,  a 
Callicrates,  an  Apelles,  or  a  Phidias, 
Perhaps,  also,  we  may  have  a  counter- 
part to  Pericles,  to  whose  encourage- 
ment of  art  and  literature,  perhaps 
more  than  to  any  other  man,  ancient 
Greece  is  indebted  for  its  fame.  It 
is  possible  that  through  meetings  like 
this  a  genius  hitherto  undeveloped  may 
arise  and  add  luster  to  the  name  of  our 
great  country,  which  is  to-day  known 
mainly  for  its  wonderful  physical  de- 
velopment and  its  progress  in  material 
wealth. 

In  this  connection  let  me  suggest 
whether  it  would  not  be  wise  for  your 
institute  to  organize  in  America  an 
Academy  something  like  the  great 
French  Academy.  This  should  be  ac- 
complished by  national  legislation 
that  would  impress  upon  the  creation 
of  such  a  body  the  seal  of  national  ap- 
proval. I  hope  to  live  to  see  the  day 
when  we  shall  have  an  American 
Academy  equal,  at  least,  to  that  which 
has  given  France  its  prominent  place 
in  the  literary,  scientific,  and  artistic 
world.  France  has  her  forty  im- 
mortals living,  her  many  times  forty 
immortals  dead  and  yet  living-  Lei 
us  follow  her  example  and  create  a 
body  equal  to  hers  of  truly  American 
genius  and  spirit. 

It  is  my  sincere  wish  and  earnest 
hope  that  your  deliberations  may  lead 
to  these  results  and  that  the  future  of 
your  organizations  may  be  even 
brighter  than  the  past. 


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THEOCRITUS  ON  CAPE  COD 

By  Hamilton  Wright  Mabie 


Cape  Cod  lies  at  the  other  end  of 
the  world  from  Sicily  not  only  in  dis- 
tance, but  in  the  look  of  it,  the  lay 
of  it,  the  way  of  it.  It  is  so  far  off 
that  it  offers  a  base  from  which  one 
may  get  a  fresh  view  of  Theocritus. 

There  are  very  pleasant  villages  on 
the  Cape,  in  the  wide  shade  of  ancient 
elms,  set  deep  in  the  old-time  New 
England  quiet.    For  there  was  a  time 
before  the  arrival  of  the  Syrians,  the 
Armenians,  and  the  automobile,  when 
New   England   was   in   a   meditative 
mood.    But  Cape  Cod  is  really  a  ridge 
of    sand    with    a    backbone    of  soil, 
rashly  thrust  into  the  Atlantic,  and  as 
fluent  and  volatile,  so  to  sjjeak,  as  one 
of  those  far  Western  rivers  that  are 
shifting  currents  sublimely  indifferent 
to  private  ownership.    The  Cape  does 
not  lack  stability,  but  it  shifts  its  lines 
with    easy    disregard   of   charts   and 
boundaries,  and  remains  stable  only  at 
its  center;  it  is  always  fraying  at  the 
edges.     It  lies,   too,  on  the  western 
edg^  of  the  ocean  stream,  where  the 
forces  of  land  and  sea  are  often  at 
war  and  the  palette  of  colors  is  limit- 
ed.    The   sirocco   does   not   sift   fine 
sand  through  every  crevice  and  fill  the 
heart   of   man   with    murderous    im- 
pulses; but  the  east  wind  diffuses  a 
kind  of  elemental  depression. 

Sicily,  on  the  other  hand,  is  high- 
built  on  rocky  foundations,  and  is  the 
wide-spreading  reach  of  a  great  vol- 
cano sloping  broadly  and  leisurely  to 
the  sea.  It  is  often  shaken  at  its  cen- 
ter, but  the  sea  does  not  take  from 
nor  add  to  its  substance  at  will.  It 
lies  in  the  very  heart  of  a  sea  of  such 
ravishing  color  that  by  sheer  fecundity 
of  beauty  it  has  given  birth  to  a  vast 


fellowship  of  gods  and  divinely  fash- 
ioned creatures;  its  slopes  are  white 
with  billowy  masses  of  almond  blos- 
soms in  that  earlier  spring  which  is 
late  winter  on  Cape  Cod ;  while  gray- 
green,  gnarled,  and  twisted  olive-trees 
bear  witness  to  the  passionate  moods 
of  the  Mediterranean,  mother  of 
poetry,  comedy,  and  tragedy,  often 
asleep  in  a  dream  of  beauty  in  which 
the  shadowy  figures  of  the  oldest  time 
move,  often  as  violent  as  the  North 
Atlantic  when  March  torments  it  with 
furious  moods.  For  the  Mediter- 
ranean is  as  seductive,  beguiling,  and 
uncertain  of  temper  as  Cleopatra,  as 
radiant  as  Hera,  as  voluptuous  as 
Aphrodite.  Put  in  terms  of  color,  it 
is  as  different  from  the  sea  round 
Cape  Cod  as  a  picture  by  Sorolla  is 
different  from  a  picture  by  Mauve. 

Theocritus  is  interested  in  the  magic 
of  the  island  rather  than  in  the  mys- 
tery of  the  many-sounding  sea,  and  to 
him  the  familiar  look  of  things  is 
never  edged  like  a  photograph;  it  is 
as  solid  and  real  as  a  report  of  the 
Department  of  Agriculture,  but  a  mist 
of  poetry  is  spread  over  it,  in  which, 
as  in  a  Whistler  nocturne,  many  de- 
tails harmonize  in  a  landscape  at  once 
actual  and  visionary.  There  is  no  ex- 
ample in  literature  of  the  unison  of 
sight  and  vision  more  subtly  and  elu- 
sively  harmonious  than  the  report  of 
Sicily  in  the  "Idylls."  In  its  occupa- 
tions the  island  was  as  prosaic  as  Cape 
Cod,  and  lacked  the  far-reaching  con- 
sciousness of  the  great  world  which  is 
the  possession  of  every  populated 
sand-bar  in  the  Western  world ;  but  it 
was  enveloped  in  an  atmosphere  in 
which  the  edges  of  things  were  lost  in 

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a  sense  of  their  rootage  in  poetic  rela- 
tions, and  of  interrelations  so  elusive 
and  immaterial  that  a  delicate  but  per- 
sistent charm  exhaled  from  them. 

Sicily  was  a  solid  and  stubborn  real- 
ity thousands  of  years  before  Theo- 
critus struck  his  pastoral  lyre;  but  its 
most  obvious  quality  was  atmospheric. 
It  was  compacted  of  facts,  but  they 
were  seen  not  as  a  camera  sees,  but  as 
an  artist  sees ;  not  in  sharp  outline  and 
hard  actuality,  but  softened  by  a  flood 
of  light  which  melts  all  hard  lines  in 
a  landscape  vibrant  and  shimmering. 
Our  landscape-painters  are  now  re- 
porting Nature  as  Theocritus  saw  her 
in  Sicily;  the  value  of  the  overtone 
matching  the  value  of  the  undertone, 
to  quote  an  artist's  phrase,  "apply 
these  tones  in  right  proportions," 
writes  Mr.  Harrison,  "and  you  will 
find  that  the  sky  painted  with  the  per- 
fectly matched  tone  will  fly  away  in- 
definitely, will  be  bathed  in  a  perfect 
atmosphere."  We  who  have  for  a 
time  lost  the  poetic  mood  and  strayed 
from  the  poet's  standpoint  paint  the 
undertones  with  entire  fidelity ;  but  we 
do  not  paint  in  the  overtones,  and  the 
landscape  loses  the  luminous  and 
vibrant  quality  which  comes  into  it 
when  the  sky  rains  light  upon  it.  We 
see  with  the  accuracy  of  the  camera; 
we  do  not  see  with  the  vision  of  the 
poet,,  in  which  reality  is  not  sacrificed, 
but  subdued  to  larger  uses.  We  insist 
on  the  scientific  fact;  the  poet  is  in- 
tent on  the  visual  fact.  The  one  gives 
the  bare  structure  of  the  landscape; 
the  other  gives  us  its  color,  atmos- 
phere, charm.  Here,  perhaps,  is  the 
real  difference  between  Cape  Cod  and 
Sicily.  It  is  not  so  much  a  contrast 
between  encircling  seas  and  the  sand- 
ridge  and  rock-ridge  as  between  the 
two  ways  of  seeing,  the  scientific  and 
the  poetic. 

The  difference  of  soils  must  also  be 


taken  into  account.  The  soil  of  his- 
tory on  Cape  Cod  is  almost  as  thin  as 
the  physical  soil,  which  is  so  light  and 
detached  that  it  is  tdown  about  by  all 
the  winds  of  heaven.  In  Sicily,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  soil  is  so  much  a  part 
of  the  substance  of  the  island  that  the 
sirocco  must  bring  from  the  shores  of 
Africa  the  fine  particles  with  which  it 
tortures  men.  On  Cape  Cod  there  arc 
a  few  colonial  traditions,  many  heroic 
memories  of  brave  deeds  in  awful 
seas,  some  records  of  prosperous  dar- 
ing in  fishing-ships,  and  then  the 
advent  of  the  summer  colonists;  a 
creditable  history,  but  of  so  recent 
date  that  it  has  not  developed  the 
fructifying  power  of  a  rich  soil,  out  of 
which  atmosphere  rises  like  an  exhala- 
tion. In  Sicily,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
soil  of  history  is  so  deep  that  the 
spade  of  the  archaeologist  has  not 
touched  bottom,  and  even  the  much- 
toiling  Freeman  found  four  octavo 
volumes  too  cramped  to  tell  the  whole 
story,  and  mercifully  stopped  at  the 
death  of  Agathocles. 

Since  the  beginning  of  history, 
which  means  only  the  brief  time  since 
We  began  to  remember  events,  every- 
body has  gone  to  Sicily,  and  most  peo- 
ple have  stayed  there  until  they  were 
driven  on,  or  driven  out,  by  later  com- 
ers; and  almost  everybody  has  been 
determined  to  keep  the  island  for  him- 
self, and  set  about  it  with  an  ingenuity 
and  energy  of  slaughter  which  make 
the  movement  toward  universal  peace 
seem  pallid  and  nerveless.  It  is  safe 
to  say  that  on  no  bit  of  ground  of 
equal  era  has  more  history  been  en- 
acted than  in  Sicily ;  and  when  Theo- 
critus was  young,  Sicily  was  already 
venerable  with  years  and  experience. 

Now,  history,  using  the  word  as  sig- 
nifying things  which  have  happened, 
although  enacted  on  the  ground,  gets 
into  the  air,  and  one  often  feels  it  bc^ 


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THEOCRITUS  ON  CAPE  COD 


II 


fore  he  knows  it.  In  this  volatile  and 
pervasive  form  it  is  diffused  over  the 
landscape  and  becomes  atmospheric; 
and  atmosphere,  it  must  be  remember- 
ed,, bears  the  same  relation  to  air  that 
the  countenance  bears  to  the  face:  it 
reveals  and  expresses  what  is  behind 
the  physical  features.  There  is  hardly 
a  half-mile  of  Sicily  below  the  upper 
ridges  of  MtnsL  that  has  not  been 
fought  over;  and  the  localities  are  few 
which  cannot  show  the  prints  of  the 
feet  of  the  gods  or  of  the  heroes  who 
were  their  children. 

It  was  a  very  charming  picture  on 
which  the  curtain  was  rolled  up  when 
history  began,  but  the  island  was  not 
a  theater  in  which  men  sat  at  ease  and 
looked  at  Persephone  in  the  arms  of 
Pluto;  it  was  an  arena  in  which  race 
followed  close  upon  race,  like  the 
waves  of  the  sea,  each  rising  a  little 
higher  and  gaining  a  little  wider 
sweep,  and  each  leaving  behind  not 
only  wreckage,  but  layers  of  soil  po- 
tent in  vitality.  The  island  was  as  full 
of  strange  music,  of  haunting  pres- 
ences, of  far-off  memories  of  tragedy, 
as  the  island  of  the  "Tempest" :  it  bred 
its  Calibans,  but  it  bred  also  its  Pros- 
peros.  For  the  imagination  is  nour- 
ished by  rich  associations  as  an  artist 
is  fed  by  a  beautiful  landscape ;  and  in 
Sicily  men  grew  up  in  an  invisible 
world  of  memories  that  spread  a 
heroic  glamour  over  desolate  places 
and  kept  Olympus  within  view  of  the 
mountain  pastures  where  rude  shep- 
herds cut  their  pipes: 

A  pipe  discoursing  through  nine  mouths 
I  made,  full  fair  to  view; 

The  wax  is  white  thereon,  the  line  of 
this  and  that  edge  true. 

The  soil  of  history  may  be  so  rich 
that  it  nourishes  all  manner  of  noxious 
things  side  by  side  with  flowers  of 
glorious  beauty;  this  is  the  price  we 
pay  for  fertility.     A  thin  soil,  on  the 


other  hand,  sends  a  few  flowers  of 
delicate  structure  and  haunting  frag- 
rance into  the  air,  Uke  the  arbutus  and 
the  witchiana,  which  express  the 
clean,  dry  sod  of  Cape  Cod,  and  are 
symbolic  of  the  poverty  and  purity  of 
its  history.  Thoreau  reports  that  in  one 
place  he  saw  advertised,  *'Fine  sand 
for  sale  here,"  and  he  ventures  the 
suggestion  that  *'some  of  the  street" 
had  been  sifted.  And,  possibly,  with 
a  little  tinge  of  malice  after  his  long 
fight  with  winds  and  shore-drifts,  he 
reports  that  **in  some  pictures  of  Prov- 
incetown  the  persons  of  the  inhabi- 
tants are  not  drawn  below  the  ankles, 
so  much  being  supposed  to  be  buried 
in  the  sand."  "Nevertheless,"  he  con- 
tinues, "natives  of  Provincetown  as- 
sured me  that  they  could  walk  in  the 
middle  of  the  road  without  trouble, 
even  in  slippers,  for  they  had  learned 
how  to  put  their  feet  down  and  lift 
them  up  without  taking  in  any  sand." 
On  a  soil  so  light  and  porous  there  is 
a  plentiful  harvesting  of  health  and 
substantial  comfort,  but  not  much 
chance  of  poetry. 

In  the  country  of  Theocritus  there 
was  great  chance  for  poetry;  not  be- 
cause anybody  was  taught  anything, 
but  because  everybody  was  born  in  an 
atmosphere  that  was  a  diffused  poetry. 
If  this  had  not  been  true,  the  poet 
could  not  have  spread  a  soft  mist  of 
poesy  over  the  whole  island:  no  man 
works  that  kind  of  magic  unaided ;  he 
compounds  his  potion  out  of  simples 
culled  from  the  fields  round  him. 
Theocritus  does  not  disguise  the  rude- 
ness of  the  life  he  describes;  goat- 
herds and  he-goats  are  not  the  con- 
ventional properties  of  the  poetic 
stage.  The  poet  was  without  a  touch 
of  the  drawing-room  consciousness  of 
crude  things,  though  he  knew  well 
softness  and  charm  of  life  in  Syracuse 
under  a  tyrant  who  did  not  "patronize 

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12         PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


the  arts,"  but  was  instructed  by  them. 
To  him  the  distinction  between  poetic 
and  unpoetic  things  was  not  in  the 
appearance,  but  in  the  root.  He  was 
not  ashamed  of  Nature  as  he  found 
her,  and  he  never  apologized  for  her 
coarseness  by  avoiding  things  not  fit 
for  refined  eyes.  His  shepherds  and 
goat-herds  are  often  gross  and  unman- 
nerly, and  as  stuffed  with  noisy  abuse 
as  Shakespeare's  people  in  "Richard 
in."  Lacon  and  Cometas,  rival  poets 
of  the  field,  are  having  a  controversy, 
and  this  is  the  manner  of  their  argu- 
ment: 

LACON 
When  learned  I  from  thy  practice  or  thy 

preaching  aught  that's  right, 
Thou  puppet,  thou  mis-shapen  lump  of 

ugliness  and  spite? 

COMETAS 
When?    When  I  beat  thee,  wailing  sore; 

your  goats  looked  on  with  glee, 
And  bleated;  and  were  dealt  with  e'en  as 

I  had  dealt  with  thee. 

And  then,  without  a  pause,  the  land- 
scape shines  through  the  noisy  talk : 

Nay,  here  are  oaks  and  galingale:   the 

hum  of  housing  bees 
Makes  the  place  pleasant,  and  the  birds 

are  piping  in  the  trees, 
And  here  are  two  cold  streamlets;  here 

deeper  shadows  fall 
Than  yon   place   owns,   and  look   what 

cones  drop  from  the  pine  tree  tall. 

Thoreau,  to  press  the  analogy  from 
painting  a  little  further,  lays  the  un- 
dertones on  with  a  firm  hand:  **It  is 
a  wild,  rank  place  and  there  is  no  flat- 
tery in  it.  Strewn  with  crabs,  horse- 
shoes, and  razor-clams,  and  whatever 
the  sea  casts  up, — a  vast  morgue, 
where  famished  dogs  may  range  in 
packs,  and  cows  come  daily  to  glean 
the  pittance  which  the  tide  leaves 
them.  The  carcasses  of  men  and 
beasts  together  lie  stately  up  upon  its 
shelf,  rotting  and  bleaching  in  the  sun 
and  waves,  and  each  tide  turns  them 
in  their  beds,  and  tucks  fresh  sand 
under  them.    There  is  naked  Nature, 


— inhumanely  sincere,  wasting  no 
thought  on  man,  nibbling  at  the  cliffy 
shore  where  gulls  wheel  amid  the 
spray." 

It  certainly  is  naked  Nature  with 
a  vengeance,  and  it  was  hardly  fair 
to  take  her  portrait  in  that  condition. 
Theocritus  would  have  shown  us  Ac- 
teon  surprising  Artemis,  not  naked, 
but  nude;  and  there  is  all  the  diflFcr- 
ence  between  nakedness  and  nudity 
that  yawns  between  a  Greek  statue 
and  a  Pompeiian  fresco  indiscreetly 
preserved  in  the  museum  at  Nafdes. 
Theocritus  shows  Nature  nude,  but 
not  naked ;  and  it  is  worth  noting  that 
the  difference  between  the  two  lies  in 
the  presence  or  absence  of  conscious- 
ness. In  Greek  mythology,  nudity 
passes  without  note  or  comment;  the 
moment  it  begins  to  be  noted  and  com- 
mented upon  it  becomes  nakedness. 

Theocritus  sees  Nature  nude,  as  did 
all  the  Greek  poets,  but  he  does  not 
surprise  her  when  she  is  naked.  He 
paints  the  undertones  faithfully,  but 
he  always  lays  on  the  overtones,  and 
so  spreads  the  effulgence  of  the  sky- 
stream  over  the  undertones,  and  the 
picture  becomes  vibrant  and  luminous. 
The  fact  is  never  slurred  or  ignored; 
it  gets  full  value,  but  not  as  a  solitary 
and  detached  thing  untouched  by 
light,  unmodified  by  the  landscape. 
Is  there  a  more  charming  impression 
of  a  landscape  bathed  in  atmosphere, 
exhaling  poetry,  breathing  in  the  very 
presence  of  divinity,  than  this,  in 
Calverley's  translation : 

I  ceased.  He,  smiling  sweetly  as  before. 
Gave   me   the   staff,  "the   Muses'"  parting 

gift. 
And  leftward  sloped  toward  Pyxa.    We 

the  while 
Bent  us  to  Phrasydene's,  Eucritus  and  I, 
And  baby-faced  Amyntas:  there  we  lay 
Half-buried  in  a  couch  of  fragrant  reed 
And  fresh-cut  vine  leaves,  who  so  glad 

as  we? 
A  wealth  of  elm  and  poplar  shook  o'cr- 


hcad; 


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THEOCRITUS  ON  CAPE  COD 


>3 


Hard  by,  a  sacred  spring  flowed  gurgling 

on 
From  the  Nymphs*  grot,  and  in  the  som- 
bre boughs 
The  sweet  cicada  chirped  laboriously. 
Hid  in  the  thick  thorn-bushes  far  away 
The    tree    frog's   note   was    heard;    the 

crested  lark 
Sang  with  the  goldfinch;  turtles   made 

their  moan; 
And  o'er  the  fountain  hung  the  gilded 

bee. 
All  of  rich  summer  smacked,  of  autumn 

all: 
Pears  at  our  feet,  and  apples  at  our  side 
Rolled   in   luxuriance;   branches  on   the 

ground 
Sprawled,  overweighted  with   damsons; 

while  we  brushed 
From  the  cask's  head  the  crust  of  four 

long  years. 
Say,    ye    who    dwell    upon    Parnassian 

peaks. 
Nymphs  of  Castalia,  did  old  Chiron  e'er 
Set  before  Hercules  a  cup  so  brave 
In    Pholus'    cavern  —  did    as    nectarous 

draughts 
Cause  that  Anapian  shepherd,  in  whose 

hand 
Rocks  were  as  pebbles,  Polyphpeme  the 

strong, 
Featly    to     foot     it     o'er    the     cottage 

lawns: — 
As,  ladies,  ye  bid  flow  that  day  for  us 
All    by    Demeter's    shrine    at    harvest- 
home? 
Beside    whose    corn-stacks    may    I    oft 

again 
Plant  my  broad  fan:  while  she  stands 

by  and  smiles, 
Poppies  and  corn-sheaves  on  each  laden 

arm. 

Here  is  the  landscape  seen  with  a 
poet's  eye;  and  the  color  and  shining 
quality  of  a  landscape,  it  must  be  re- 
membered, are  in  the  exquisitely  sen- 
sitive eye  that  sees,  not  in  the  struc- 
ture and  substance  upon  which  it 
rests.  The  painter  and  poet  create 
nature  as  really  as  they  create  art, 
for  in  every  clear  sight  of  the  world 
we  are  not  passive  receivers  of  im- 
pressions, but  partners  in  that  creative 
work  which  makes  nature  as  contem- 
poraneous as  the  morning  newspaper. 

It  is  true,  Sicily  was  poetic  in  its 
very  structure  while  Cape  Cod  is 
poetic  only  in  oases,  bits  of  old  New 
England  shade  and  tracery  of  elms, 
the  peace  of  ancient  sincerity  and  con- 
tent   honestly    housed,    the    changing 


color  of  marshes  in  whose  channels 
the  tides  are  singing  or  mute ;  but  the 
Sicily  of  Theocritus  was  seen  by  the 
poetic  eye.  In  every  complete  vision 
of  a  landscape  what  is  behind  the  eye 
is  as  important  as  what  lies  before  it, 
and  behind  the  eyes  that  looked  at 
Sicily  in  the  third  century,  B.C., 
there  were  not  only  the  memories  of 
many  generations,  but  there  was  also 
a  faith  in  visible  and  invisible  crea- 
tures which  peopled  the  world  with 
divinities.  The  text  of  Theocritus  is 
starred  with  the  names  of  gods  and 
goddesses,  of  heroes  and  poets:  it  is 
like  a  rich  tapestry,  on  the  surface  of 
which  history  has  been  woven  in  beau- 
tiful colors;  the  fiat  surface  dissolves 
in  a  vast  distance,  and  the  dull  warp 
and  woof  glows  with  moving  life. 

The  "Idylls"  are  saturated  with  re- 
ligion, and  as  devoid  of  piety  as  a 
Bernard  Shaw  play.  Gods  and  men 
differ  only  in  their  power,  not  at  all  in 
their  character.  What  we  call  morals 
were  as  conspicuously  absent  from 
Olympus  as  from  Sicily.  In  both 
places  life  and  the  world  are  taken  in 
their  obvious  intention;  there  was  no 
attempt,  apart  from  the  philosophers, 
who  are  always  an  inquisitive  folk,  to 
discover  either  the  mind  or  the  heart 
of  things.  In  the  Greek  Bible,  which 
Homer  composed  and  recited  to 
crowds  of  people  on  festive  occasions, 
the  fear  of  the  gods  and  their  ven- 
geance are  set  forth  in  a  text  of  un- 
surpassed force  and  vitality  of  imag- 
ination ;  but  no  god  in  his  most  disso- 
lute mood  betrays  any  moral  con- 
sciousness, and  no  man  repents  of  sins. 
That  things  often  go  wrong  was  as 
obvious  then  as  now,  but  there  was 
no  sense  of  sin.  There  were  Greeks 
who  prayed,  but  none  who  put  dust  on 
his  head  and  beat  his  breast  and  cried, 
"Woe  unto  me,  a  sinner!"  There 
were  disasters  by  land  and  sea,  but 

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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


no  newspaper  spread  them  out  in 
shrieking  type,  and  by  skillful  omis- 
sion and  selection  of  topics  wore  the 
semblance  of  an  official  report  of  a 
madhouse;  there  were  diseases  and 
deaths,  but  patent-medicine  advertise- 
ments had  not  saturated  the  common 
mind  with  ominous  symptoms ;  old  age 
was  present  with  its  monitions  of 
change  and  decay : 

Age  o'ertakes  us  all; 
Our  tempers  first;  then  on  o'er  cheek 

and  chin. 
Slowly  and  surely,  creep  the  frosts  of 

Time. 
Up  and  go  somewhere,  ere  thy  limbs  are 

sere. 

Theocritus  came  late  in  the  classical 
age,  and  the  shadows  had  deepened 
since  Homer's  time.  The  torches  on 
the  tombs  were  inverted,  the  imagery 
of  immortality  was  faint  and  dim ;  but 
the  natural  world  was  still  naturally 
seen,  and,  if  age  was  coming  down  the 
road,  the  brave  man  went  bravely  for- 
ward to  meet  the  shadow. 

It  was  different  on  Cape  Cod.  Even 
Thoreau,  who  had  escaped  from  the 
morasses  of  theology  into  the  woods 
and  accomplished  the  reversion  to  pa- 
ganism in  the  shortest  possible  man- 
ner, never  lost  the  habit  of  moralizing, 
which  is  a  survival  of  the  deep-going 
consciousness  of  sin.  Describing  the 
operations  of  a  sloop  dragging  for 
anchors  and  chains,  he  gives  his  text 
those  neat,  hard  touches  of  fancy 
which  he  had  at  command  even  in  his 
most  uncompromising,  semi-scientific 
moments:  'To  hunt  to-day  in  pleas- 
ant weather  for  anchors  which  had 
been  lost, — the  sunken  faith  and  hope 
of  mariners,  to  which  they  trusted  in 
vain;  now,  perchance  it  is  the  rusty 
one  of  some  old  pirate  ship  or  Nor- 
man fisherman,  whose  cable  parted 
here  two  hundred  years  ago,  and  now 
the  best  bower  anchor  of  a  Canton  or 
California  ship  which  has  gone  about 
her  business." 


And  then  he  drops  into  the  depths 
of  the  moral  subconsciousness  from 
which  the  clear,  clean  waters  of  Wal- 
den  Pond  could  not  wash  him:  "If 
the  roadsteads  of  the  spiritual  ocean 
could  be  thus  dragged,  what  rusty 
flukes  of  hope  deceived  and  parted 
chain-cables  of  faith  might  again  be 
windlassed  aboard !  enough  to  sink  the 
finder's  craft,  or  stock  new  navies  to 
the  end  of  time.  The  bottom  of  the 
sea  is  strewn  with  anchors,  some 
deeper  and  some  shallower,  and  alter- 
nately covered  and  uncovered  by  the 
sand,  perchance  with  a  small  length  of 
iron  cable  still  attached,  to  whidi 
where  is  the  other  end?  ...  So,  if 
we  had  diving  bells  adapted  to  the 
spiritual  deeps,  we  should  see  anchors 
with  their  cables  attached,  as  thick  as 
eels  in  vinegar,  all  wriggling  vainly  to- 
ward their  holding  ground.  But  that 
is  not  treasure  for  us  which  another 
man  has  lost;  rather  it  is  for  us  to 
seek  what  no  other  man  has  found  or 
can  find."  The  tone  is  light,  almost 
trifling,  when  one  takes  into  account 
the  imagery  and  the  idea,  and  the  sub- 
consciousness is  wearing  thin;  but  it 
is  still  there. 

Thoreau*s  individual  consciousness 
was  a  very  faint  reflection  of  an  ances- 
tral consciousness  of  the  presence  of 
sin,  and  of  moral  obligations  of  an 
intensity  almost  inconceivable  in  these 
degenerate  days.  There  was  a  time 
in  a  Cape  Cod  community  when  cor- 
poral punishment  was  inflicted  on  all 
residents  who  denied  the  Scriptures, 
and  all  persons  who  stood  outside  the 
meeting-house  during  the  time  of 
divine  service  were  set  in  the  stocks. 
The  way  of  righteousness  was  not  a 
straight  and  narrow  path,  but  a  ma- 
cadamized thoroughfare,  and  woe  to 
the  man  who  ventured  on  a  by-path ! 
One  is  not  surprised  to  learn  that 
"hysteric  fits"  were  very  common,  and 

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that  congregations  were  often  thrown 
into  the  utmost  confusion;  for  the 
preaching  was  far  from  quieting. 
**Some  think  sinning  ends  with  this 
life,"  said  a  well-known  preacher, 
**but  it  is  a  mistake.  The  creature  is 
held  under  an  everlasting  law;  the 
damned  increase  in  sin  in  hell.  Pos- 
sibly, the  mention  of  this  may  please 
thee.  But,  remember,  there  shall  be  no 
pleasant  sins  there;  no  eating,  drink- 
ing, singing,  dancing;  wanton  dalli- 
ance, and  drinking  stolen  waters;  but 
damned  sins,  bitter,  hellish  sins;  sins 
exasperated  by  torments;  cursing 
God,  spite,  rage,  and  blasphemy.  The 
guilt  of  all  thy  sins  shall  be  laid  upon 
thy  soul,  and  be  made  so  many  heaps 
of  fuel.  .  .  .  He  damns  sinners 
heaps  upon  heaps." 

It  is  not  surprising  to  learn  that 
as  a  result  of  such  preaching  the 
hearers  were  several  times  greatly 
alarmed,  and  "on  one  occasion  a  com- 
paratively innocent  young  man  was 
frightened  nearly  out  of  his  wits." 
One  wonders  in  what  precise  sense  the 
word  "comparatively"  was  used;  it  is 
certain  that  those  who  had  this  sense 
of  the  sinfulness  of  things  driven  into 
them  were  too  thoroughly  frightened 
to  see  the  world  with  the  poet's  eye. 

In  Sicily  nobody  was  concerned  for 
the  safety  of  his  soul;  nobody  was 
aware  that  he  had  a  soul  to  be 
saved.  Thoughtful  people  knew  that 
certain  things  gave  offense  to  the 
gods;  that  you  must  not  flaunt  your 
prosperity  after  the  fashion  of  some 
American  millionaires,  who  have  dis- 
covered in  recent  years  that  there  is 
a  basis  of  fact  for  the  Greek  feeling 
that  it  is  wise  to  hold  great  possessions 
modestly ;  that  certain  family  and  state 
relations  are  sacred,  and  that  the  fate 
of  (Edipus  was  a  warning:  but  no- 
body was  making  observations  of  his 
own  frame  of  mind;  there  were  no 


thermometers  to  take  the  spiritual 
temperature. 

In  his  representative  capacity  as 
poet,  Theocritus,  speaking  for  his  peo- 
ple, might  have  said  with  Gautier,  "I 
am  a  man  for  whom  the  visible  world 
exists."  It  is  as  impossible  to  cut  the 
visible  world  loose  from  the  invisible 
as  to  see  the  solid  stretch  of  earth 
without  seeing  the  light  that  streams 
upon  it  and  makes  the  landscape;  but 
Gautier  came  as  near  doing  the  im- 
possible as  any  man  could,  and  the 
goat-herds  and  pipe-players  of  Theo- 
critus measurably  approached  this  in- 
stable position.  On. Cape  Cod,  it  is 
true,  they  looked  "up  and  not  down," 
but  it  is  also  true  that  they  "looked 
in  and  not  out" ;  in  Sicily  they  looked 
neither  up  nor  down,  but  straight 
ahead.  The  inevitable  shadows  fell 
across  the  fields  whence  the  distracted 
Demeter  sought  Persephone,  and  En- 
celadus,  uneasily  bearing  the  weight  of 
Mtm,  poured  out  the  vials  of  his 
wrath  on  thriving  vineyards  and  on 
almond  orchards  white  as  with  sea- 
foam;  but  the  haunting  sense  of  dis- 
aster in  some  other  world  beyond  the 
dip  of  the  sea  was  absent.  If  the  hope 
of  living  with  the  gods  was  faint  and 
far,  and  the  forms  of  vanished  heroes 
were  vague  and  dim,  the  fear  of  re- 
tribution beyond  the  gate  of  death  was 
a  mere  blurring  of  the  landscape  by  a 
mist  that  came  and  went. 

The  two  workmen  whose  talk  Theo- 
critus overhears  and  reports  in  the 
"Tenth  Idyll"  are  not  discussing  the 
welfare  of  their  souls;  they  are  not 
even  awake  to  the  hard  conditions  of 
labor,  and  take  no  thought  about 
shorter  hours  and  higher  wages :  they 
are  interested  chiefly  in  Rombyca, 
"lean,  dusk,  a  gypsy," 

.    .    .  twinkling  dice  thy  feet. 

Poppies    thy    lips,    thy    ways    none    knows 
how  sweet! 


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And  they  lighten  the  hard  task  of  the 
reaper  of  the  stubborn  corn  in  this 
fashion : 

O   rich  in  fruit  and  corn-blade:  be  this 

field 
Tilled  well,   Demeter,   and   fair  fruitage 

yield! 

Bind    the    sheaves,    reapers:    lest    one, 

passing,  say — 
"A  fig  for  these,  they're  never  worth  their 

pay !" 

Let  the  mown  swathes  fook  northward, 

ye  who  mow, 
Or  westward — for  the  ears  grow  fattest 

so. 

Avoid  a  noon-tide  nap,  ye  threshing 
men: 

The  chaff  fles  thickest  from  the  corn- 
ears  then. 

Wake   when   the   lark  wakes;   when   he 

slumbers  close 
Your  work,  ye  reapers:  and  at  noontide 

doze. 

Boys,  the  frogs'  life  for  me!    They  need 

not  him 
Who    fills    the    flagon,    for    in    drink    they 

swim. 

Better  boil  herbs,  thou  toiler  after  gain, 
Than,  splitting  cummin,  split  thy  hand 
in  twain. 

In  Sicily  no  reckoning  of  the  waste 
of  life  had  been  kept,  and  armies  and 
fleets  had  been  spent  as  freely  in  the 
tumultuous  centuries  of  conquest  as 
if,  in  the  over-abundance  of  life,  these 
losses  need  not  be  entered  in  the  book 
of  account.  Theocritus  distils  this 
sense  of  fertility  from  the  air,  and  the 
leaves  of  the  "Idylls"  are  fairly  astir 
with  it.  The  central  myth  of  the 
island  has  a  meaning  quite  beyond  the 
reach  of  accident;  poetic  as  it  is,  its 
symbolism  seems  almost  scientific. 
Under  skies  so  full  of  the  light  which, 
in  a  real  sense,  creates  the  landscape, 
encircled  by  a  sea  which  was  fecund 
of  gods  and  goddesses,  Sicily  was  the 
teeming  mother  of  flower-strewn  fields 
and  trees  heavy  with  fruit,  trunks  and 
boughs  made  firm  by  winds  as  the 
fruit  grew  mellow  in  the  sun.  De- 
meter    moved    through    harvest-fields 


and  across  the  grassy  slopes  where 
herds  are  fed,  a  smiling  goddess, 

Poppies   and   corn-sheaves   on   each   laden 
arm. 

Forgetfulness  of  the  ills  of  life, 
dreams  of  Olympian  beauty  and  tem- 
pered energy  in  the  fields — are  not 
these  the  secrets  of  the  fair  world 
which,  survives  in  the  "Idylls"  ? 

The  corn  and  wine  were  food  for 
the  gods  who  gave  them  as  truly  as 
for  the  men  who  plucked  the  ripened 
grain  and  pressed  the  fragrant  grape. 
If  there  was  a  sense  of  awe  in  the 
presence  of  the  gods,  there  was  no 
sense  of  moral  separation,  no  yawning 
chasm  of  unworthiness.  The  gods 
obeyed  their  impulses  not  less  readily 
than  the  men  and  women  they  had 
created ;  both  had  eaten  of  the  fruit  of 
the  tree  of  life,  but  neither  had  eaten 
of  the  tree  of  knowledge  of  good 
and  evil.  Anybody  might  happen 
upon  Pan  in  some  deeply  shadowed 
place,  and  the  danger  of  surprising 
Diana  at  her  bath  was  not  wholly  im- 
aginary. Religion  was  largely  the 
sense  of  being  neighbor  to  the  gods ; 
they  were  more  prosperous  than  men 
and  had  more  power,  but  they  were 
diflferent  only  in  degree,  and  one 
might  be  on  easy  terms  with  them. 
They  were  created  by  the  poetic  mind, 
and  they  repaid  it  a  thousand-fold 
with  the  consciousness  of  a  world 
haunted  by  near,  familiar,  and  radiant 
divinity.  The  heresy  which  shattered 
the  unity  of  life  by  dividing  it  between 
the  religious  and  the  secular  had  not 
come  to  confuse  the  souls  of  the  good 
and  put  a  full  half  of  life  in  the  hands 
of  sinners ;  religion  was  as  natural  as 
sunlight  and  as  easy  as  breathing. 

There  was  little  philosophy  and  less 
science  in  Sicily  as  Theocritus  reports 
it.  The  devastating  passion  for 
knowledge  had  not  brought  self-con- 
sciousness in  like  a  tide,  nor  had  the 


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THEOCRITUS  ON  CAPE  COD 


n 


desire  to  know  about  things  taken  the 
place  of  knowledge  of  the  things 
themselves.  The  beauty  of  the  world 
was  a  matter  of  experience,  not  of 
formal  observation,  and  was  seen  di- 
rectly as  artists  see  a  landscape  before 
they  bring  technical  skill  to  reproduce 
it.  So  far  as  the  men  and  women  who 
work  and  sing  and  make  love  in  the 
"Idylls"  were  concerned,  the  age  was 
delightfully  unintellectual  and,  there- 
fore, normally  poetic.  The  vocabulary 
of  names  for  things  was  made  up  of 
descriptive  rather  than  analytical 
words,  and  things  were  seen  in  wholes 
rather  than  in  parts. 

From  this  point  of  view  religion 
was  as  universal  and  all-enfolding  as 
air,  and  the  gods  were  as  concrete  and 
tangible  as  trees  and  rocks  and  stars. 
They  were  companionable  with  all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  men,  and  if 
one  wished  to  represent  them,  he  used 
symbols  and  images  of  divinely  fash- 


ioned men  and  women,  not  philosoph- 
ical ideas  or  scientific  formulae.  In 
this  respect  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church  has  been  both  a  wise  teacher 
and  a  tender  guardian  of  lonely  and 
sorrowful  humanity.  Homer  was  not 
a  formal  theologian,  but  the  harvest  of 
the  seed  of  thought  he  sowed  is  not 
even  now  fully  gathered.  He  peopled 
the  whole  world  of  imagination. 
Christianity  is  not  only  concrete  but 
historic,  and  some  day,  when  the  way 
of  abstraction  has  been  abandoned  for 
that  way  of  vital  knowledge,  which  is 
the  path  of  the  prophets,  the  saints, 
and  the  artists,  it  will  again  set  the 
imagination  aflame.  Meantime  Theo- 
critus is  a  charming  companion  for 
those  who  hunger  and  thirst  for 
beauty,  and  who  long  from  time  to 
time  to  hang  up  the  trumpet  of  the 
reformer,  and  give  themselves  up  to 
the  song  of  the  sea  and  the  simple 
music  of  the  shepherd's  pipe. 


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SHAKESPEARE  AS  AN  ACTOR 
By  Brander  Matthews 


It  is  one  of  the  most  curious  coinci- 
dences of  literary  history  that  the  two 
greatest  dramatists  of  modem  times, 
Shakespeare  and  Moliere,  should  have 
begun  their  connection  with  the  the- 
ater by  going  on  the  stage  as  actors, 
without  having  at  first,  so  far  as  we 
can  guess,  any  intention  of  becoming 
playwrights.  After  having  acquired 
practical  experience  as  performers, 
both  of  them  ventured  modestly  into 
dramatic  authorship,  starting  in  the 
most  unpretending  fashion  by  adapt- 
ing the  popular  pieces  of  older  con- 
temporaries, and  then  essaying  them- 
selves in  imitation  of  the  more  suc- 
cessful playwrights  of  the  time.  At 
first  it  was  only  tentatively  that  they 
developed  their  own  individuality  and 
revealed  their  own  originality  after 
continual  practice  had  given  them  a 
more  assured  skill.  But  to  the  very 
end  of  their  careers  in  the  theater  they 
continued  to  act;  Shakespeare  ceased 
to  appear  on  the  stage  only  when  he 
left  London  and  retired  to  Stratford 
to  live  the  life  of  a  country  gentleman, 
and  Moliere  was  stricken  fatally  while 
taking  part  in  the  fourth  performance 
of  his  last  play. 

Moliere  certainly,  and  quite  possibly 
Shakespeare  also,  was  better  known  to 
the  playgoers  of  his  own  day  as  an 
actor  than  as  an  author.  Moliere 
was  the  foremost  comedian  of 
his  day,  and  there  is  no  dispute 
about  his  supremacy  as  an  im- 
personator of  humorous  characters. 
Indeed,  his  enemies  were  wont  to 
praise  his  acting  and  to  disparage  his 


writing.  They  affected  to  dismiss  his 
plays  as  poor  things  in  themselves, 
owing  the  most  of  their  undeniable 
success  to  the  brilliancy  of  the  au- 
thor*s  own  performance  of  the  chief 
parts.  As  actor,  as  author,  and  as 
manager,  Moliere  was  the  center  of 
his  company.  Can  as  much  be  said 
of  Shakespeare?  Great  as  Moliere  is 
as  a  dramatist,  we  cannot  but  feel  that 
Shakespeare  is  still  greater.  When 
we  note  that  Moliere  was  preeminent 
among  the  players  of  his  age  in 
France,  we  naturally  wonder  whether 
Shakespeare  was  also  foremost  among 
the  performers  of  his  time  in  England. 
Moliere  is  the  master  of  modern 
comedy,  and  it  was  by  the  impersona- 
tion of  his  own  comic  characters  that 
he  won  his  widest  popularity  with  the 
playgoers  of  Paris.  Shakespeare  is  the 
mightiest  of  tragic  authors.  Was  he 
also  chief  of  the  tragedians  who 
held  spellbound  the  gallants  and  the 
groundlings  thronging  to  London  thea- 
ters in  the  spacious  days  of  Elizabeth  ? 
That  the  leader  of  English  play- 
wrights was  also  the  leader  of  English 
actors  is  what  we  should  like  to  believe 
in  our  natural  desire  to  g^ive  to  him 
that  hath.  This  desire  has  led  Sir 
Sydney  Lee  to  remark  that  when  the 
company  of  the  Globe  accepted  the 
royal  summons  to  appear  before  the 
queen  at  Christmas,  1594,  Shakes- 
peare was  then  "supported  by  actors 
of  the  highest  eminence  in  their  gener- 
ation." And  yet  Sir  Sydney  is  frank 
in  expressing  his  own  opinion  that  the 
great  dramatist  "was  nevec^o  win  the 
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SHAKESPEARE  AS  AN  ACTOR 


19 


laurels  of  a  great  actor."  He  honestly 
admits  that  Shakespeare's  "histrionic 
fame  had  not  progressed  at  the  same 
rate  as  his  literary  repute";  and  he 
informs  us  that  when  the  officials  of 
the  court  invited  the  company  to  per- 
form before  Elizabeth,  "directions 
were  given  that  the  greatest  of  the 
tragic  actors  of  the  day,  Richard  Bur- 
bage,  and  the  greatest  of  the  comic 
actors,  WiUiam  Kemp,  were  to  bear 
the  young  actor  company."  And  he 
adds  that  "with  neither  of  these  was 
Shakespeare's  histrionic  position  then, 
or  at  any  time,  comparable,"  since 
"for  years  they  were  leaders  of  the 
acting  profession." 

This  forces  us  to  the  conclusion 
that  in  his  pardonable  longing  to 
glorify  Shakespeare,  Sir  Sydney  has 
been  led  into  giving  us  a  wrong  im- 
pression. The  queen  did  not  summon 
Shakespeare  to  appear  before  her ;  she 
summoned  her  whole  company,  to 
which  Shakespeare  belonged,  and 
almost  certainly  it  was  Burbage  and 
Kemp  whom  she  wanted  to  see  on  the 
stage  rather  than  Shakespeare.  Bur- 
bage and  Kemp  were  the  chief  orna- 
ments of  the  company,  and  although 
Shakespeare  was  also  a  member,  his 
position  in  the  ranks  of  the  company 
does  not  afford  any  warrant  for  the 
assumption  that  Elizabeth  gave  any 
special  thought  to  him  as  an  actor. 
What  she  was  desirous  of  witnessing 
was  a  series  of  performances  by  a 
famous  company  of  which  Burbage 
and  Kemp  were  the  most  famous 
members.  And  in  this  series  of  per- 
formances at  court  it  was  Shakes- 
peare who  supported  Burbage  and 
Kemp. 

It  must  be  noted  also  that  we  do 
not  know  the  program  of  those  per- 
formances at  court  in  the  last  week 
of  1594,  and  we  are  left  in  doubt 
whether  Shakespeare  was  the  author 
of  any  one  of ,  the  plays  then   pre- 


sented. Perhaps  it  is  as  well  to  point 
out  further  that  he  had  up  to  that 
time  produced  no  one  of  the  major 
masterpieces  on  which  his  fame  as  a 
dramatist  now  rests  securely. 

While  Moliere  composed  the  chief 
character  in  almost  every  one  of  his 
plays  for  his  own  acting,  Shakespeare 
wrote  the  chief  serious  parts  in  his 
pieces  for  Burbage  and  the  chief 
comic  parts  for  Kemp,  until  that 
highly  dowered  comedian  left  the 
stage.  For  himself  he  modestly  re- 
served characters  of  less  prominence; 
in  fact,  in  many  of  his  plays,  perhaps 
even  in  a  majority  of  them,  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  discover  any  part  which  seems 
to  be  specially  adjusted  to  his  own  ca- 
pacity as  an  actor.  It  is  well  known 
that  Burbage  appeared  as  Hamlet 
while  Shakespeare  humbly  contented 
himself  with  the  subordinate  part  of 
the  Ghost.  Who  the  original  Orlando 
may  have  been  has  not  yet  been  as- 
certained, but  tradition  tells  us  that 
the  author  of  "As  You  Like  It"  im- 
personated Adam,  the  faithful  old 
servitor  of  the  hero.  And  in  Ben 
Jonson's  comedy  of  "Every  Man  in 
his  Humor,"  which  is  believed  to  have 
been  accepted  for  performance  by  the 
company  owing  to  Shakespeare's  in- 
fluence, the  part  of  the  elder  Knowell 
is  said  to  have  been  taken  by  Shakes- 
peare himself;  and  this  seems  quite 
probable,  since  it  was  a  character 
which  might  very  well  be  assumed  by 
the  performer  of  Adam  and  of  the 
Ghost, 

These  are  the  only  three  parts' 
which  tradition,  not  always  trust- 
worthy, has  ascribed  to  Shakespeare 
as  an  actor.  All  three  of  them  belong 
to  the  line  of  business  which  is 
technically  known  as  "old  men."  And 
this  is  the  solid  support  of  Sir  Sydney 
Lee's  assertion  that  Shakespeare  "or- 
dinarily  confined    his   efforts   to    old 

men  of  secondary  rank."      r^^^^T^ 
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Shakespeare,  so  Sir  Sydney  believes, 
was  twenty-two  when  he  left  his  wife 
and  his  three  children  at  Stratford 
and  trudged  up  to  London  to  seek  his 
fortune,  and  he  was  probably  about 
twenty-five  before  his  first  piece  was 
performed.  We  have  no  information 
as  to  the  means  whereby  he  supported 
himself  when  he  first  arrived  in  the 
capital.  He  may  have  held  horses  at 
the  door  of  the  theater,  as  one  tradi- 
tion has  it,  or  he  may  have  been  able 
to  attach  himself  at  once  to  one  of 
the  half-dozen  companies  of  actors  in 
London,  since  he  might  have  won 
friends  among  their  members  when 
one  or  another  of  them  had  appeared 
at  Stratford  in  the  summers  imme- 
diately preceding  his  departure  from 
his  birthplace.  Malone  recorded  a 
tradition  "that  his  first  office  in  the 
theater  was  that  of  prompter's  attend- 
ant"— that  is  to  say,  call-boy,  as  the 
function  is  now  styled.  This  may  be 
a  fact,  of  course,  but  it  seems  a  little 
unlikely,  since  a  man  of  twenty-two 
would  be  rather  mature  for  such  work, 
easily  within  the  capacity  of  a  lad  of 
fourteen. 

If  Shakespeare  left  Stratford  in 
1586,  he  had  already  established  him- 
self in  London  as  an  actor  six  years 
later,  when  he  was  twenty-eight.  It 
was  in  1592  that  Chettle,  the  publisher, 
apologizing  for  having  issued  Greene's 
posthumous  attack  on  Shakespeare, 
declared  that  he  was  "excellent  in  the 
quality  he  professes" — that  is  to  say, 
excellent  as  an  actor. 

This  is  high  praise  for  so  young  a 
performer;  but  Chettle's  testimony 
does  not  carry  as  much  weight  as  it 
might,  since  he  is  here  seeking  by  frank 
flattery  to  make  amends  for  the  attack 
he  had  previously  published.  Yet  this 
praise  may  be  taken  as  evidence  that 
Shakespeare  by  that  time  had  suc- 
ceeded in  achieving  a  recognized  po- 
sition on  the  stage  as  an  actor.    A  tra- 


dition, that  was  first  recorded  in  1699. 
declared  that  he  was  "better  poet  than 
player." 

Whether  or  not  he  began  his  career 
in  the  theater  as  a  call-boy,  he  seems 
very  early  to  have  made  choice  of  the 
"line  of  business"  which  he  wished  to 
play.  He  may  have  chosen  it  because 
he  believed  himself  to  be  best  fitted 
for  parts  of  that  kind,  or  he  may  have 
drifted  into  the  performance  of  "old 
men"  because  there  happened  at  that 
moment  to  be  a  vacancy  in  the  com- 
pany for  a  competent  performer  of 
these  elderly  characters.  Although 
the  impersonator  of  these  parts  is  said 
to  play  "old  men,"  the  characters  he  is 
to  assume  are  not  all  of  them  stricken 
in  years,  even  if  they  are  grave  and 
sedate,  lacking  in  the  exuberant  vi- 
vacity of  youth.  The  Ghost,  for  ex- 
ample, and  Adam  also,  are  technically 
"old  men."  So  are  many  of  the  dukes 
and  other  chiefs  of  state,  personages 
of  noble  bearing  and  of  emphatic  dig- 
nity. That  Shakespeare  appeared  in 
characters  of  this  type  in  more  than 
one  of  his  own  plays  is  more  than 
probable.  In  fact,  one  John  Davies 
of  Hereford  recorded  that  Shakes- 
peare "played  some  kingly  parts  in 
sport."  Just  what  the  words  "in 
sport"  may  mean  must  be  left  to  the 
imagination. 

That  these  austere  and  lofty  char- 
acters are  known  in  the  theater  tcxlay 
as  "old  men"  does  not  imply  tfiat  the 
actor  who  has  choseh  this  line  of  busi- 
ness is  himself  elderly.  On  the  con- 
trary, young  actors  have  often  deliber- 
ately decided  to  devote  themselves  to 
the  performance  of  "old  men."  The 
late  John  Gilbert,  for  example,  long 
connected  with  Wallack's  Theater  in 
New  York  and  celebrated  for  his  un- 
rivaled rendering  of  Sir  Peter  Teazle 
and  Sir  Anthony  Absolute,  began  to 

impersonate  elderly  characters^  be forcj 

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SHAKESPEARE  AS  AN  ACTOR 


21 


he  was  twenty.  If  Shakespeare  played 
the  Ghost  and  Adam,  and  if  Gilbert 
also  undertook  these  characters,  as  he 
did,  then  it  is  possible  that  certain 
of  the  other  Shakespearian  parts  as- 
sumed by  the  American  actor  as  the 
**old  man"  of  his  company  may  have 
been  originally  written  by  Shakes- 
peare for  his  own  acting.  And  this 
leads  us  to  the  plausible  supposition 
that  Shakespeare  may  have  been  the 
original  performer  of  ^geon  in  the 
**C(Mnedy  of  Errors,*'  of  Leonato  in 
"Much  Ado  About  Nothing,"  Baptista 
in  the  "Taming  of  the  Shrew,"  Friar 
Lawrence  in  "Romeo  and  Juliet,"  the 
King  of  France  in  "All's  Well  that 
Ends  Well,"  the  Duke  in  "Othello," 
the  Duke  in  the  "Merchant  of  Ven- 
ice," and  possibly  also  the  Duke  in 
"Measure  for  Measure,"  although  in 
this  last  somber  comedy  it  may  be 
that  the  part  which  Shakespeare  per- 
formed was  one  or  the  other  of  the 
two  Friars, 

The  ascription  of  these  characters 
to  Shakespeare  as  an  actor  may  be 
only  a  hazardous  guess,  but  it  is  a 
guess  in  accordance  with  the  customs 
of  the  theatrical  profession,  which  are 
as  the  laws  of  the  Medes  and  Persians. 
It  is  a  guess  which  is  supported  by 
all  the  known  facts.  A  minute  inves- 
tigation of  all  his  plays  by  an  expert 
in  theatrical  history  and  in  histrionic 
tradition  would  greatly  increase  the 
number  of  the  parts  which  we  have 
fair  warrant  for  assuming  to  have 
been  written  by  Shakespeare  with  an 
eye  to  his  own  acting. 

The  parts  that  have  been  here  listed 
tentatively,  and  those  that  may  be 
added  to  the  catalogue,  will  be  found 
to  have  certain  general  characteristics. 
They  are  all  of  them  important  and 
they  are  none  of  them  prominent. 
The  demands  they  severally  made 
upon  the  actor  who  undertook  them 


are  not  few  and  not  insignificant. 
For  their  proper  representation  most 
of  them  required  a  dignified  presence, 
a  courtly  bearing,  an  air  of  authority, 
and  a  large  measure  of  elocutionary 
skill.  But  the  qualities  these  parts  did 
not  necessitate  are  equally  significant. 
They  called  primarily  for  intelligence 
and  only  secondarily,  if  at  all,  for  any 
large  exhibition  of  emotion.  Now,  it 
is  by  the  power  of  expressing  passion 
at  the  great  crises  of  existence  and  by 
the  faculty  of  transmitting  his  feel- 
ing to  his  audience  that  the  born  actor 
is  revealed.  If  he  has  not  this  native 
gift  of  communicable  emotion,  he  can 
never  be  intrusted  with  the  moving 
characters  of  a  play.  And  apparently 
this  native  gift  was  denied  to  Shakes- 
peare, who  had  so  many  others.  An 
actor  could  acquit  himself  admirably 
in  the  Ghost  and  in  Adam  and  in  all 
the  other  "old  men"  which  may  have 
been  performed  by  Shakespeare,  he 
could  have  performed  them  to  the  en- 
tire satisfaction  of  the  most  critical 
spectators,  without  revealing  the  pos- 
session of  the  vital  spark  which  illum- 
inates the  creative  work  of  the  truly 
great  actor.  In  other  words,  these 
parts  do  not  demand  that  the  per- 
former of  them  shall  possess  more 
than  a  moderate  share  of  that  mimetic 
faculty,  that  fullness  of  feeling,  that 
amplitude  of  passion,  which  is  the  es- 
sential qualification  for  histrionic  ex- 
cellence. 

To  say  this  is  not  to  suggest  that 
Shakespeare  had  not  a  keen  under- 
standing of  the  fundamental  principles 
of  the  art  of  acting.  Such  an  under- 
standing was  his  beyond  all  question, 
since  that  is  a  matter  of  the  intelli- 
gence, of  intellectual  appreciation.  To 
be  assured  of  this  we  have  only  to  re- 
call the  rehearsal  of  Bottom  and  his 
fellows,  and  to  read  again  Hamlet's 
pregnant  advice  to  the  Players.    This 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


understanding  of  the  art  of  acting  a 
playwright  must  always  have  or  he 
will  fail  to  get  the  utmost  out  of  his 
actors.  It  is  a  condition  precedent  to 
his  success  as  a  writer  of  stage-plays ; 
and  it  is  possessed  by  every  successful 
dramatist,  by  Racine  and  by  Sheridan, 
by  Sardou  and  by  Bronson  Howard, 
by  Pinero  and  Henry  Arthur  Jones. 
The  playwrights  must  know  what  can 
be  done  with  every  part  in  every  play 
of  theirs,  and  they  can  then  help  the 
performers  to  attain  this.  They  know 
what  can  be  done,  but  it  does  not  fol- 
low that  they  can  do  it  themselves. 
Their  grasp  of  the  principles  of  the 
art  does  not  imply  that  they  themselves 
could  act  any  one  of  their  best  parts  as 
they  would  wish  to  have  this  acted. 
They  may  be  the  most  skilful  of  train- 
ers, and  yet  lack  the  histrionic  gift 
themselves. 

And  not  merely  dramatists,  but 
stage-managers — "producers,"  as  they 
are  now  styled — may  have  this  faculty 
of  directing  and  guiding  and  inspiring 
performers  to  achieve  their  utmost 
without  themselves  being  capable  of 
doing  as  actors  what  they  feel  ought  to 
be  done.  Any  one  at  all  familiar  with 
stage  history  can  cite  men  who  have 
not  been  eminent  as  actors  and  yet 
who  were  able  to  suggest  to  others  how 
to  get  the  best  out  of  themselves.  It 
was  little  Bowes  who  taught  the  Foth- 
eringay  the  effects  which  so  impressed 
the  youthful  Pcndcnnis.  It  was  Sam- 
son, a  withered  comedian  of  limited 
range,  but  of  keen  artistic  intelligence, 
who  suggested  to  Rachel  many  of  her 
broadest  and  boldest  strokes  in 
tragedy. 

When  we  set  Hamlet's  speech  to 
the  Players  over  against  the  remarks 
which  Moliere  made  in  his  own  per- 
son in  the  "Impromptu  of  Versailles," 
we  cannot  help  seeing  that  these  great 
dramatists  were  alike  in  abhorring  ar- 


tificiality in  acting,  in  abominating  vio- 
lence, in  detesting  rant,  and  in  relish- 
ing simplicity  and  apparent  natural- 
ness. Both  of  them  inculcated  the 
necessity  of  truth  in  the  portrayal  of 
character  and  of  passion.  Moliere  at- 
tained also  to  the  highest  levels  of  the 
histrionic  art;  Shakespeare  did  not, 
probably  because  he  was  lacking  in 
some  one  of  the  several  physical  quali- 
fications which  the  actor  of  domi- 
nating parts  must  have.  Apparently 
he  was  a  well-proportioned  man,  even 
if  not  positively  good-looking.  But 
his  body  may  have  been  rebellious  to 
his  will,  with  the  result  that  his  ges- 
tures, however  well  intentioned,  would 
be  ineffective  and  even  awkward.  It 
may  be  that  it  was  his  voice  which  was 
at  fault,  and  a  noble  organ  of  speech 
is  almost  indispensable  to  a  gp-eat 
actor.  In  one  of  his  papers  on  "Actors 
and  the  Art  of  Acting,"  always  full 
of  insight  into  the  principles  of  that 
little-understood  art,  George  Henry 
Lewes  considered  this  possibility : 

I  dare  say  he  declaimed  finely,  as  far 
as  rhythmic  cadence  and  a  nice  accentua- 
tion went.  But  his  non-success  implies 
that  his  voice  was  intractable  or  limited  m 
its  range.  Without  a  sympathetic  voice, 
no  declamation  can  be  effective.  The  tones 
which  stir  us  need  not  be  musical,  need 
not  be  pleasant,  even,  but  they  must  have 
a  penetrating,  vibrating  quality.  Had 
Shakespeare  possessed  such  a  voice  he 
would  have  been  famous  as  an  actor. 
Without  it  all  his  other  gifts  were  as  noth- 
ing on  the  stage.  Had  he  seen  Garrick, 
Kemble,  or  Kean  performing  in  plays  not 
his  own  he  might  doubtless  have  per- 
ceived a  thousand  deficiencies  in  their  con- 
ception, and  defects  in  their  execution;  but 
had  he  appeared  on  the  same  stage  with 
them,  even  in  plays  of  his  own,  the  audi- 
ences would  have  seen  the  wide  gulf  be- 
tween conception  and  presentation.  One 
lurid  look,  one  pathetic  intonation,  would 
have  more  power  in  swaying  the  emotions 
of  the  audience  than  all  the  subtle  and 
profound  passion  which  agitated  the  soul 
of  the  poet  but  did  not  manifestly  express 
itself:  the  look  and  the  tone  may  come 
from  a  man  so  drunk  as  to  be  scarcely  able 
to  stand;  but  the  public  sees  only  the 
look,  hears  only  the  tone,  and  is  irresistibly 
moved  by  these  intelligible  symbols. 


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SHAKESPEARE  AS  AN  ACTOR 


23 


A  little  earlier  in  this  same  sug- 
gestive discussion  of  "Shakespeare  as 
an  Actor  and  Critic,"  Lewes  asserted : 

Shakespeare  doubtless  knew — none  knew 
so  well — how  Hamlet,  Othello,  Richard,  and 
Falstaff  should  be  personated;  but  had  he 
been  called  upon  to  personate  them  he 
would  have  found  himself  wanting  in 
voice,  face,  and  temperament.  The  deli- 
cate sensitiveness  of  his  organization,  which 
is  implied  in  the  exquisiteness  and  flexi- 
bility of  his  genius,  would  absolutely  have 
unfitted  him  for  the  presentation  of  char- 
acters demanding  a  robust  vigor  and  a 
weighty  animalism.  It  is  a  vain  attempt 
to  paint  frescos  with  a  camel's  hair  brush. 
The  broad  and  massive  effects  necessary  to 
scenic  presentation  could  never  have  been 
produced  by  such  a  temperament  as  his.. 

Probably  it  was  because  Shakes- 
peare had  the  delicate  sensitiveness 
with  which  Lewes  credited  him  that 
he  had  also  a  distaste  for  acting, 
if  we  may  interpret  any  of  the  lines 
of  his  sonnets  as  lyric  revelations  of 
his  own  sentiment.  The  intrigue 
which  we  think  we  can  disentangle  by 
a  minute  analysis  of  these  poems  may 
be  feigned  and  unreal,  a  mere  com- 
pliance with  a  literary  fashion  of  the 
moment;  but  there  is  a  sincerer  note 
of  personal  feeling  in  the  sonnets  in 
which  Shakespeare  seems  to  be  ex- 
pressing his  dislike  for  the  calling  by 
which  he  made  his  living.  In  the  hun- 
dred-and-tenth  sonnet  he  confessed: 

"Alas,  'tis  true  I  have  gone  here  and  there 
And  made  myself  a  motley  to  the  view." 

And  in  the  hundred-and-eleventh, 
which  links  itself  logically  with  its 
predecessor,  he  appealed  for  a  more 
tolerant  consideration  of  his  char- 
acter contaminated  by  the  stage: 

"O,  for  my  sake  do  you  with  Fortune  chide, 

The  guilty  goddess  of  my  harmful  deeds, 
That  did  not  for  my  life  provide 

Than  public  means  what  public  manners 
breeds. 
Thence  comes  it  that  my  nature  receives  a 
brand ; 

And  almost  thence  my  nature  is  subdued 
To  what  it  works  in,  like  the  dyer's  hand: 

Pity  me  then  and  wish  I  were  renew'd," 

If  Shakespeare  is  here  speaking  of 
himself  as  an  actor,  if  this  lyric  is 


really  wrung  from  the  bottom  of  his 
heart,  then  we  have  an  ample  explana- 
tion for  his  failure  to  attain  to  the 
higher  summits  of  the  histrionic  art. 
He  did  not  like  his  profession,  he  did 
not  enjoy  acting,  and  we  may  take 
it  as  certain  that  no  man  ever  won  to 
the  front  in  a  calling  which  he  did  not 
love,  just  as  no  man  ever  despised  the 
art  in  which  he  excelled.  Shakes- 
peare's dislike  of  acting  may  have 
been  the  consequence  of  this  or  it 
may  have  been  the  cause  of  it.  Of 
course  it  is  dimly  possible  that  we  are 
reading  into  these  sonnets  more  than 
Shakespeare  meant  to  put  into  them, 
and  that  the  quoted  lines  do  not  repre- 
sent his  own  feelings.  And  even  if 
they  do,  they  may  voice  what  was  only 
a  fleeting  disgust  for  that  personal  ex- 
hibition which  is  the  inseparable  con- 
dition of  acting  and  from  which  the 
practitioners  of  all  the  other  arts  ex- 
cept oratory  are  exempt — z  personal 
exhibition  doubly  disagreeable  to  a 
poet  of  Shakespeare's  "delicate  sensi- 
tiveness." 

Perhaps  it  is  not  fanciful  to  find  in 
"As  You  like  It"  itself  evidence  in 
behalf  of  the  contention  that  Shakes- 
peare was  not  greatly  interested  in 
himself  as  an  actor.  Adam,  who  is 
a  character  of  some  importance  in  the 
first  half  of  the  comedy,  most  unex- 
pectedly disappears  out  of  it  in  the 
second  half.  Now,  if  the  author  had 
been  anxious  for  ampler  histrionic  op- 
portunity, it  would  not  have  been  dif 
ficult  for  him  to  bring  on  Adam  agau 
toward  the  end  of  the  play,  that  h% 
might  Impress  himself  more  securely 
on  the  memory  of  the  audience. 

It  was  probably  in  1598  that  Shakes- 
peare first  appeared  as  Adam  and  as 
the  elder  Knowell,  and  it  was  prob- 
ably in  1602  that  he  first  personated 
the  Ghost,  being  then  thirty-eight 
years  old.    He  was  to  remain  on  the 


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stage  ten  or  twelve  years  longer;  but 
there  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  the 
parts  he  played  in  later  life  were  any 
more  important.  We  do  not  know 
what  characters  he  undertook  in  the 
plays  which  he  wrote  after  "Hamlet," 
nor  do  we  know  what  parts  he  as- 
sumed in  the  many  pieces  by  other  au- 
thors which  made  up  the  repertory  of 
the  company.  That  he  continued  to 
act  we  need  not  doubt;  for  instance, 
he  was  one  of  the  performers  in  Ben 
Jonson's  "Sejanus,"  probably  pro- 
duced in  1602  or  1603.  But  the  ab- 
sence of  specific  information  on  this 
point  is  evidence  that  he  did  not  im- 
press himself  upon  his  contemporaries 
as  an  actor  of  power.  As  Lewes  de- 
clared, "the  mere  fact  that  we  hear 
nothing  of  his  qualities  as  an  actor 
implies  that  there  was  nothing  above 
the  line,  nothing  memorable  to  be 
spoken  of."  The  parts  which  we  be- 
lieve him  to  have  played  did  not  "de- 
mand or  admit  various  excellencies." 
Shakespeare  may  have  had  lofty  his- 
trionic ambitions,  but  probably  he  was 
not  allowed  to  gratify  his  longings, 
and  certainly  we  have  no  tradition  or 
hint  that  he  ever  failed  in  what  he  at- 
tempted in  the  theater.  Perhaps  we 
are  justified  in  believing  that  he  had 
gone  on  the  stage  merely  as  the  easiest 
means  of  immediately  earning  his  liv- 
ing, that  he  did  not  greatly  care  for 
acting,  and  that  he  was  satisfied  to 
assume  the  responsible  but  subordi- 
nate parts  for  which  he  was  best 
fitted. 

This  view  of  his  capacity  as  an 
actor  is  sustained  by  another  consid- 
eration. Whatever  Shakespeare's  po- 
sition as  a  performer  may  have  been, 
his  later  popularity  as  a  playwright 
is  beyond  dispute;  indeed,  his  appeal 
to  the  playgoing  public  was  so  potent 
that  it  tempted  more  than  one  un- 
scrupulous publisher  to  put  Shakes- 


peare's name  to  plays  which  were  not 
his.  And  his  position  as  a  member  of 
the  company  was  equally  solidly  estab- 
lished. All  his  plays,  with  one  pos- 
sible and  unimportant  exception,  had 
been  written  for  this  company,  to 
which  he  had  been  early  admitted  and 
of  which  he  soon  became  one  of  the 
managers  who  had  the  responsibilities 
and  who  shared  the  profits  of  the  en- 
terprise. He  ranked  high  in  the  com- 
pany, and  when  King  James  took  it 
under  his  direct  patronage  shortly  af- 
ter his  accession  in  1603,  Shakes- 
peare's name  is  the  second  on  the  list 
of  actors  as  it  appears  on  the  royal 
warrant,  and  Burbage's  is  third. 
There  is  ample  evidence  that  he  was 
held  in  high  esteem  by  his  comrades 
of  the  theater.  That  he  had  a  warm 
regard  for  them  is  shown  by  the  fact 
that  in  his  will  he  left  money  to  Bur- 
bage,  Condell,  and  Heming  for  the 
purchase  of  memorial  rings.  That 
they  cherished  his  memory  is  proved 
by  the  publication,  seven  years  after 
his  death,  of  the  folio  edition  of  his 
complete  plays,  due  to  the  pious  care 
of  Condell  and  Heming.  Shakespeare 
had  the  gift  of  friendship  and  he 
bound  his  fellows  to  him  with  hooks 
of  steel.  Outside  of  the  theater  also 
he  was  widely  liked ;  and  the  personal 
references  to  him  which  have  been 
gleaned  from  contemporary  writers, 
however  inadequate  they  may  seem  to 
us  nowadays  in  appreciation  of  his 
genius,  are  abundant  in  expressions  of 
regard  for  the  man  for  his  gentleness 
and  his  courtesy. 

Now,  if  Shakespeare  was  popular 
with  his  fellow-actors,  with  the  play- 
going  public,  with  those  he  met  out- 
side the  theater,  there  is  no  other  pos- 
sible explanation  of  the  fact  that  he 
did  not  take  the  chief  parts  in  at  least 
a  few  of  his  own  plays  except  that  he 
was  either  incapable  of  so  doing  or 


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SHAKESPEARE  AS  AN  ACTOR 


25 


not  desirous  of  attempting  it.  We 
have  only  to  consider  the  history  of 
the  theater  to  discover  that  every 
actor-playwright,  from  Moliere  to 
Boucicault  and  Mr.  Gillette,  who  had 
both  ambition  and  ability,  composed 
the  central  characters  of  his  own  plays 
for  his  own  acting.  This  is  what  has 
happened  always  in  the  past,  and  it  is 
what  must  happen  whenever  a  gifted 
actor  takes  to  writing  or  whenever  a 
gifted  writer  takes  to  acting.  If, 
therefore,  Shakespeare  did  not  him- 
self undertake  Richard  III  or  Hamlet 
or  Lear  or  any  other  of  those  over- 
whelming parts,  but  devised  them 
rather  for  the  acting  of  Burbage,  we 
are  forced  to  the  conclusion  that  he 
knew  himself  incapable  of  them  and 
that  his  comrades  in  the  theater,  his 
fellow-managers,  knew  this  also.  In 
other  words,  Shakespeare  appeared  as 
Adam  and  as  the  Ghost  and  he  con- 
fined his  acting  to  "old  men,"  because 
these  parts  were  well  within  his  phys- 
ical limitations.  This  conclusion,  that 
the  greatest  of  dramatists  was  not  also 
great  as  an  actor,  may  be  unwelcome, 
but  there  is  no  escape  from  it. 

For  Shakespeare  himself,  however, 
if  not  for  his  modern  admirers,  there 
was  one  obvious  compensation.  He 
may  not  have  been  fond  of  the  art; 
he  may  even  have  disliked  the  prac- 
tice of  his  profession,  and  he  may  not 
have  revealed  himself  as  a  performer 
of  more  than  respectable  ability,  but 
he  owed  to  acting  the  solid  foundation 
of  his  fortune.  He  went  to  London  in 
his  youth  with  no  visible  means  of 
support,  although  already  burdened 
with  a  wife  and  three  children;  and 
he  went  back  to  Stratford  not  only 
well-to-do,  but  probably  better  off  than 
any  other  resident  of  the  little  town. 
Even  if  Shakespeare  was  not  a  great 
actor,  it  was  as  an  actor  that  he 
gained  entrance  into  the  theater,  that 


he  acquired  that  intimate  familiarity 
with  stage  technic  which  is  evident 
in  his  masterpieces,  and  that  he  was 
able  to  get  his  successive  plays  swiftly 
produced  by  the  very  actors  for  whose 
performance  he  had  specially  devised 
them.  It  is  because  he  was  an  actor 
that  he  was  able  speedily  to  make  his 
way  as  a  playwright,  and  it  was  be- 
cause he  was  valuable  to  the  company 
as  actor  and  playwright  that  he  was 
admitted  partner  in  the  undertaking 
If  he  had  not  become  an  actor,  he 
might  or  he  might  not  have  written 
"Hamlet"  and  "Julius  Caesar"  and 
"As  You  Like  It,"  but  he  probably 
would  never  have  been  able  to  buy 
New  Place,  to  get  a  grant  of  arms  for 
his  father,  and  to  spend  the  final  years 
of  his  life  in  easy  leisure.  And  we 
may  rest  assured  that  Shakespeare 
himself  recognized  all  the  advantage 
it  was  to  him  to  be  an  actor,  even  if 
he  did  affect  in  one  or  another  of  his 
sonnets  to  rail  against  the  disadvan- 
tages. Great  poet  as  he  was,  he  was 
also  a  good  man  of  business,  with  a 
keen  eye  to  the  main  chance. 

Shakespeare  had  three  sources  of 
income,  as  an  actor,  as  an  author,  and 
as  one  of  the  managers.  Sir  Sydney 
Lee  has  calculated  that  in  the  earlier 
years  of  Shakespeare's  connection 
with  the  theater  he  received  at 
least  a  hundred  pounds  a  year  as 
a  performer  and  at  least  twenty 
pounds  more  as  a  playwright,  with 
possibly  some  slight  additional  in- 
come from  the  sale  of  his 
poems,  which  were  repeatedly  re- 
printed. Allowing  for  the  greater 
purchasing  power  of  money  in  those 
days,  we  may  assume  that  this  gave 
Shakespeare  an  annual  income  about 
equivalent  to  five  thousand  dollars  to- 
day. Later  the  price  paid  for  plays 
rose,  and  by  that  time  Shakespeare 
had  become  one  of  the  partners  in  the 

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26         PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 

theater.  There  is  a  likelihood  that  than  it  is  to-day,  still  it  was  worthy 
Shakespeare  took  upon  himself  a  por-  of  some  remuneration.  That  Shakes- 
tion  of  the  labor  of  stage-management  peare  in  his  youth  had  gone  on  the 
and  of  producing  new  plays ;  and  al-  stage  as  an  actor  proved  to  be  as  profit- 
though  the  customs  of  the  Elizabethan  able  to  his  pocket  as  it  was  helpful  to 
theater  made  this  task  less  burdensome  his  mastery  of  stagecraft. 


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ROUSSEAU,  GODWIN,  AND  WORDSWORTH 

By  George  McLean  Harper 


Wordsworth's  early  life  presents 
a  remarkable  parallel  to  the  position 
of  magnanimous  youth  to-day.  His 
world,  like  ours,  was  a  scene  of  con- 
flict between  discredited  institutions 
and  a  new  spirit,  which  sent  men  back 
to  first  principles.  He  had  not  him- 
self experienced  the  worst  that  the 
old  order  could  inflict,  but  he  per- 
ceived its  injustice  and  sympathized 
with  its  victims.  He  studied  with  an 
open  mind  the  new  philosophy,  which 
rehabilitated  the  doctrines  of  human 
perfectibility  and  equality,  and  the 
doctrine  of  the  supreme  claim  of  rea- 
son over  habit.  Yet  he  was  fully  con- 
scious of  the  danger  not  only  to  pub- 
lic tranquility,  but  to  culture,  which 
was  involved  in  abandoning  settled 
courses.  It  is  true  he  came,  or  seem- 
ed to  come,  at  last  to  a  conviction  that 
the  old  ways  were  best;  but  he  never 
really  gave  up  the  sympathies  and 
still  less  the  intellectual  method  of 
his  young  manhood. 

He  is  most  interesting,  and  to  our 
newly  awakened  age  most  instructive, 
as  he  stood  in  the  last  decade  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  with  the  light  of 
social  hope  beaming  in  his  eyes.  As 
he  was  then  most  courageous,  per- 
haps, too,  he  was  then  nearest  the 
truth;  for  of  that  fair  lady  it  may 
certainly  be  affirmed  that  faint-heart 
never  won  her.  These  years  of 
Wordsworth's  personal  history  had 
all  the  charm  of  adventure  and 
romance,  together  with  a  spice 
of  danger;  and  furthermore  he 
touched,  as  with  his  bare  hand,  the 
mighty  coils  that  were  generating 
light  and  heat  for  a  world  that  was 


to  move  faster  than  ever  before  and 
through  clearer  spaces.  His  poetry 
yields  sustenance  to  old  and  young,  to 
the  ignorant  and  the  well-informed, 
but  can  be  really  appreciated  only  by 
those  who  have  entered  into  its  spirit 
in  two  ways,  by  natural  sympathy 
with  his  mode  of  thought  and  by 
knowledge  of  his  life. 

One  of  the  most  decisive  periods  of 
that  life  was  the  thirteen  or  fourteen 
months  of  his  second  visit  to  France. 
From  the  seclusion  of  Hawkshead, 
the  sheltered  luxury  of  Cambridge, 
the  slow  pace  and  quiet  tone  of  Eng- 
lish and  Welsh  parsonages  and 
country-houses,  he  stepped,  literally 
in  a  single  day,  into  the  brilliancy, 
the  hardness,  the  externality,  and  peril 
of  revolutionary  France.  The  con- 
trast between  the  two  countries  would 
have  been  stimulating  to  him  at  any 
time;  in  1791  it  was  overpowering. 
His  sojourn  in  France  enabled  him 
to  gather  into  the  solidity  of  a  sys- 
tem those  faint  impulses  of  love  for 
humanity  which  were  stirring  in  him 
already.  His  doubts  of  the  religion 
in  which  he  had  been  brought  up  were 
now  confirmed.  His  implicit  republi- 
canism was  strengthened  into  an  ex- 
plicit political  creed.  His  faith  in  the 
paramount  excellence  of  his  own 
country  was  shaken.  Thus  was  im- 
mensely widened  the  scope  of  his 
"citism,"  to  use  a  word  more  current 
then  than  now. 

Had  those  months  of  his  life  been 
spent  at  Cambridge  or  in  London  or 
in  the  Lake  Country,  he  could  never 
have  written  the  "Prelude";  there 
would  have  been  r^^;;M^^6g\e 


28         PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


fragment  of  a  "Recluse,"  and  from  all 
his  best  poetry  we  should  miss  the 
deepest  note.  Not  only  so,  but  the 
underlying  principle,  which  is  pro- 
foundly philosophical,  which  is  polit- 
ical, which  is  democratic,  would  be 
lacking. 

Wordsworth  was  not  in  his  youth 
a  browsing  reader.  Books  to  him 
were  even  then  "a  substantial  world," 
very  real,  as  real  almost  as  living  per- 
sons, and  therefore  not  to  be  treated 
lightly.  Amid  their  pressure,  as  amid 
the  unremitting  urgency  of  friends, 
he  still  preserved  his  independence. 
He  rather  neglected  reading  during 
his  months  of  leisure  after  leaving 
college.  One  author,  however,  he  al- 
most certainly  read  before  the  close 
of  1791,  and,  curiously  enough,  this 
was  a  writer  who  had  himself  been 
completely  indifferent  to  books.  Rous- 
seau it  is  far  more  than  any  other 
man  of  letters  either  of  antiquity  or 
of  modern  times  whose  works  have 
left  their  trace  in  Wordsworth's 
poetry.  This  poor,  half-educated 
dreamer,  just  because  he  was  poor, 
half-educated,  and  a  dreamer,  found 
his  way  to  the  center  of  his  age — 
the  center  of  its  intellectual  and  emo- 
tional life.  And  here  all  original  and 
simple  souls  met  him.  They  were 
drawn  thither  by  the  same  force  that 
drew  him,  by  a  desire  to  return  to 
nature.  Exaggeration  apart,  and 
thinking  not  so  much  of  his  system- 
atic working-out  of  his  views,  which 
was  generally  too  abstract  and  spe- 
ciously consistent,  as  of  their  origin, 
purpose,  and  spirit,  one  must  perceive 
their  truth.  They  are  as  obviously 
true  now  as  they  were  startlingly  true 
when  first  uttered. 

They  could  not  have  seemed  novel 
to  Wordsworth,  who  was  prepared 
for  them  by  having  lived  with  lowly 
people    of    stalwart    intelligence    and 


worthy  morals  in  the  village  of 
Hawkshead.  Originality  often  con- 
sists in  having  remained  unconscious 
of  perverse  departures  from  simple 
and  natural  ways  of  thought.  A  per- 
son who  has  been  brought  up  to  know 
and  speak  plain  truth  appears  original 
in  perverse  and  artificial  society.  We 
can  imagine  Wordsworth  becoming, 
without  the  aid  of  Rousseau,  very 
nearly  what  he  did  become.  Never- 
theless, the  points  of  agreement  are 
too  numerous  to  be  the  result  of  mere 
coincidence.  Had  Rousseau  been  less 
occupied  with  general  ideas,  had  he 
been  dominated  by  a  poet's  interest 
in  what  Blake  called  "minute  par- 
ticulars," it  is  not  too  fanciful  to  sup- 
pose that  he  would  have  chosen  sub- 
jects like  those  which  Wordsworth 
took  from  "familiar  life";  and  an 
examination  of  Rousseau's  language 
shows  the  same  tendency  to  use  the 
diction  of  common  speech.  Words- 
worth's earliest  poems,  composed  be- 
fore he  had  read  Rousseau,  reveal 
little  of  this  tendency.  It  is  quite 
likely  that  he  owes  more  in  this  re- 
spect to  Rousseau  than  has  yet  been 
acknowledged.  And  in  that  case  the 
debt  should  be  shared  by  Coleridge. 
Whether  it  was  he  or  Coleridge  who 
took  the  initiative  in  the  metrical  and 
rhetorical  reform  which  found  its  first 
marked  expression  in  "Lyrical  Bal- 
lads" has  often  been  discussed.  There 
can  be  no  doubt  that  Coleridge  would 
see  more  quickly  than  Wordsworth 
the  theoretical  consequences  and  im- 
plications of  what  they  had  done,  and 
would  be  the  first  to  suggest  formu- 
lating a  theory.  But  it  may  be  that 
certain  philosophical  principles  de- 
rived from  Rousseau  were  already 
lodged  in  Wordsworth's  mind.  For, 
after  all,  Coleridge's  native  bent  was 
towards  the  uncommon,  the  mystical, 

the  abstruse,  the  splendid.  He  adaptad 
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ROUSSEAU,  GODWIN,  AND  WORDSWORTH 


29 


himself  with  cordial  sympathy  to  the 
new  idea,  of  which  he  perceived  the 
importance.  But  affection,  love  of 
fellowship,  and  zeal  to  confer  kind- 
ness may  have  carried  him  much 
further  than  he  would  have  ever 
dreamed  of  going  alone  in  the  direc- 
tion indicated  by  "Lyrical  Ballads" 
and  the  critical  expositions  which 
form  so  large  and  noble  a  part  of 
"Biographia  Literaria." 

What,  in  fine,  are  the  distinctive 
elements  in  Rousseau?  In  the  first 
place,  we  recognize  in  him  the  prev- 
alence of  revery  as  a  mode  of 
thought.  Revery  is  an  inactive,  un- 
systematic kind  of  meditation,  distin- 
guished from  logical  processes  of  dis- 
course by  the  absence  of  consciously 
perceived  steps.  It  is  in  so  far  unsat- 
isfactory that  the  results  cannot  be  de- 
termined beforehand  and  the  move- 
ment cannot  be  retraced  backward, 
as  one  would  "prove"  a  result  in 
arithmetic.  It  has,  however,  an  ad- 
vantage over  the  ordinary  kind  of 
philosophic  speculation — ordinary  at 
least  in  the  Occidental  world — in  that 
it  involves  a  more  complete  merging 
of  the  thinker  in  his  thought,  en- 
gaging his  sentiment  and  giving  him 
a  spiritual  rather  than  a  corporal  ap- 
proach to  objects  of  sensation.  In 
revery  a  person  seems  to  touch,  taste, 
smell,  hear,  and  see  by  a  reflex  dis- 
turbance of  the  organs,  or  physical 
reminiscence.  Revery  is  thus  almost 
sensuous.  Furthermore,  it  is  not  dis- 
cursive; it  does  not  characteristically 
tend  to  movement;  it  is  static.  It 
discloses  to  the  mind  what  the  mind 
already  contains,  but  discovers  no  new 
subjects  of  thought.  It  arouses,  ar- 
ranges, unifies  the  elements  of  one's 
soul,  and  the  dreamer  may  emerge 
from  his  dream  with  a  truer  knowl- 
edge of  himself  and  a  more  definite 
purpose.  External  events  and  objects 
are    not    primarily    essential    of    this 


state,  though  they  may  induce  or 
stimulate  it.  This  is  truly  the  poetic 
process,  and  Rousseau,  in  all  his  most 
original,  vital,  and  characteristic  pas- 
sages, is  a  poet.  We  are  reminded 
when  we  read  them  of  Wordsworth's 
remark,  "Poetry  is  emotion  recol- 
lected in  tranquillity." 

A  second  element  in  Rousseau  is 
his  desire  to  simplify,  to  reduce  the 
number  and  complexity  of  experi- 
ences and  ideals.  The  mode  of  revery 
itself  tends  to  concentrate  and  unite 
the  multitude  of  concepts  which  have 
come  into  the  dreamer's  mind  from 
many  and  diverse  sources.  To  one 
who  contemplates  in  this  way,  all  dis- 
persion of  energy  is  painful  and  re- 
pugnant. So  it  was  with  Rousseau. 
The  tragedy  of  his  life  and  the  cause 
of  his  madness  was  an  abnormal 
shrinking  from  being  torn  asunder,  as 
all  men  must  be  continually  torn 
asunder,  by  the  demands  of  other 
people.  Contrast  with  this  Voltaire's 
joy  of  combat,  his  enthusiastic  readi- 
ness to  give  his  time  and  talents  to 
others,  his  radiant  sociability.  The 
danger  that  besets  a  poetic  tempera- 
ment, the  danger  of  excessive  intro- 
version, of  shrinking  from  the  ex- 
pense of  spirit  in  a  waste  of  external 
reality,  was  absent  in  Voltaire's  case, 
but  lurked  in  the  very  heart  of  Rous- 
seau. Nevertheless,  when  applied  to 
things  outside  himself,  to  the  social 
problem,  the  domestic  life,  the  poli- 
tics, the  religion  of  his  age,  Rousseau's 
desire  to  simplify  gave  him  the  master 
touch.  He  laid  his  finger  on  the 
racked  nerves  and  prescribed  quiet, 
concentration,  and  simplicity. 

But  this  meant  revolution.  For  the 
habits  and  laws  of  society  had  been 
made  on  a  different  principle.  "The 
impulse  to  shake  off  intricacies  is  the 
mark  of  revolutionary  generations," 
says   John   Morleyg.J,;an^^iQ^^^^{;g 


30 


PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


starting  point  of  all  Rousseau's  men- 
tal habits  and  of  the  work  in  which 
they  expressed  themselves.  *  *  *   Sim- 
plification of  religion  by  clearing  away 
the  overgrowth  of  errors,  simplifica- 
tion of  social  relations  by  equality,  of 
literature    and    art    by    constant    re- 
turn to  nature,  of  manners  by  indus- 
trious homeliness  and  thrift — this  is 
the  revolutionary  process    and   ideal, 
and  this  is  the    secret  of  Rousseau's 
hold    over    a    generation    that    was 
lost  amid  the  broken  maze  of  fallen 
systems."       Rousseau's       discourses, 
"Whether  the  Restoration  of  the  Arts 
and   Sciences  has    tended  to    purify 
Manners,"  and  "On  the  Sources  of 
Inequality  Among    Men,"  show     by 
their  very  titles  the  sequence  of    his 
thought,  and  how  the  idea  of  simpli- 
fication leads  to  the  idea  of  equality. 
Now,  inequality  is  a  sign  and  a  cause 
of  unstable  equilibrium.     Where  ine- 
quality  exists   there    is   constantly   a 
pressure  to  restore  the  balance.    He 
therefore  who  desires  that  life  shall 
be  simple,  and  that  men  shall  attain 
as  nearly  as  possible  a  level  of  op- 
portunity,   loves    permanence    and  is 
the  true  conservative.    Moreover,  one 
who  thinks  by  means  of  revery  is  by 
this  peculiarity  inclined  to  prefer  per- 
manence to  change.      The  ruminative 
process  is  slow.     Its  objects  are  lov- 
ingly retained  and  caressed.     Self  as 
an  active  agent  seems  to  the  dreamer 
to  be  of  less  consequence  than  self  as 
a  receptive,  passive  organ,  inwardly 
transforming  and     assimilating  what 
comes  to  it.     By  this  persistent  asso- 
ciation of  self  with  the  objects  of  con- 
templation, the  latter  become  infused 
with  life  from  the  former.    They  lose 
their  difference.  They  become  human- 
ized.   Harmony  is  thus  established  be- 
tween the  poet  as  dreamer  and  the 
world   which   has   so   long  been   his 
world.     He  endows  it  with  his  own 


consciousness.  He  sympathizes  with 
it,  after  first  projecting  himself  into 
it.  And  by  a  dangerous  turn  the 
world,  or  rather  so  much  of  it  as  he 
has  thus  appropriated,  may  become  his 
accomplice,  his  flatterer.  We  have 
here  perhaps  the  clue  to  that  practice 
which  Ruskin  termed  "the  pathetic 
fallacy" — ^the  practice  of  reading  into 
nature  feelings  which  are  not  prop- 
erly nature's,  but  man's.  Possibly,  too, 
we  have  here  an  explanation  of  the 
calm  egoism  of  many  poets. 

But,  to  continue  our  attempt  to  an- 
alyze Rousseau,  it  must  be  apparent 
that  the  permanent  is  the  natural,  the 
truly   permanent,   I   mean,   which   in 
the  long  run  holds  out  against  all  ar- 
tifice.      And  the  natural  qualities  of 
human  beings  are  common  to  nearly 
all.     To  the  many,  then,  and  not  to 
the  privileged  or  the  perverted  few, 
must  he  go  who  would  understand 
life.  This  conviction,  proceeding  from 
his  habit  of  revery  and  his  love  of 
simplicity,  is  the  third  characteristic 
of  Rousseau.     Being  a  child  of  the 
people,  knowing  their  soundness  and 
vigor,  he  felt  no  surprise  in  connec- 
tion with  such  a  principle  and  set  it 
forth  as  self-evident  in  his  books.  But 
it  surprised  Europe.     To  him  it  was 
a  matter  of  course  that  wisdom  should 
be  justified  of  all  her  children :  securus 
judicat   orbis   terrarum.     There   was 
nothing   new   in   this   conviction.     It 
has  no  doubt  been  held  always  by  nine 
tenths  of  the  human  race.    But  it  was 
new  in  a  man  of  letters.    It  was  not 
the  opinion  of  cultivated  people.    To 
culture    as    a    process    of    distinction 
Wordsworth,  too,  showed  repugnance 
at  Cambridge  and  in  his  London  life. 
He  who  was  to  write  "of  joy  in  widest 
commonalty  spread"    scarcely  needed 
the  formulas     in     which     Rousseau 
stated  the  instinctive  faith  that  was  in 

them  both.     The  social  aspect  of  the 
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ROUSSEAU,  GODWIN,  AND  WORDSWORTH 


31 


French  Revolution,  its  glorious  recog- 
nition of  equal  rights  and  common 
brotherhood,  seemed  to  him,  so  gra- 
cious had  been  the  influences  of  his 
boyhood,  only  natural,  and  he  conse- 
quently sings: 

If  at  the  first  great  outbreak  I  rejoiced 
Less  than  might  well  befit  my  youth,  the 

cause 
In  part  lay  here,  that  unto  me  the  events 
Seemed   nothing  out    of    nature's    certain 

course, 
A    gift    that    was    come    rather    late    than 

soon. 

A  fourth  quality  of  Rousseau  is  his 
intense  individualism.  Men  in  a  state 
of  nature,  in  close  contact  with  the 
earth,  with  animals,  and  with  other 
men  not  overpoweringly  different 
from  themselves,  have  to  rely  on  their 
own  resources.  A  brooding,  introspec- 
tive person  in  such  circumstances  is 
liable  to  form  a  very  high,  if  not  an 
exaggerated,  estimate  of  his  own  con- 
sequence. He  is  more  likely  to  ac- 
knowledge the  dependence  of  man 
upon  nature  than  the  solidarity  of  men 
with  one  another.  The  political  views 
of  Rousseau,  as  stated,  for  example, 
in  "The  Social  Contract,"  are  ex- 
tremely individualistic.  They  are 
based  on  the  assumption  that  society 
was  originally  anarchical,  a  collection 
of  independent  persons  or  families. 
And  the  individual,  not  having  been  a 
coordinate  part  of  a  preexisting 
harmony,  still  retains,  as  it  were,  the 
right  of  secession.  He  has  merely  en- 
tered into  a  pact  with  other  free  and 
independent  beings,  and  his  surrender 
of  some  of  his  liberty  may  be  only  for 
a  time.  As  has  often  been  pointed 
out,  this  conception  would  hardly  have 
been  possible  in  a  Catholic.  It  was 
ultra-Protestant.  It  was  Calvinistic. 
Wherever  the  influence  of  the  Gene- 
van republic  has  been  strongest,  the 
spirit  of  independence  has  been  most 
active.     The  histories  of  the  Nether- 


lands, of  Scotland,  of  the  North  of 
Ireland,  of  England  in  the  seventeenth 
century,  of  the  American  Revolution, 
and  of  the  American  Civil  War,  have 
their  beginnings  in  Geneva.  Consider- 
ing Rousseau's  origin,  it  is  easy  to 
understand  his  restiveness  under  re- 
straint, his  horror  of  patronage,  his 
association  of  human  strength  not 
with  union  among  men,  but. with  the 
wild  and  stern  aspects  of  nature. 

Wordsworth,  with  his  Anglican 
training,  never  went  to  extremes  in 
his  love  of  liberty.  Even  when  most 
rebellious  against  the  spirit  of  his 
bringing  up  and  his  environment,  he 
still  felt  that  social  ties  had  something 
of  the  naturalness  and  permanence  of 
the  external  world.  He  thus  acted  the 
mediating  part  of  a  true  Englishman, 
and  even,  one  might  say,  of  a  true 
Anglican,  by  trying  to  preserve  his- 
toric continuity  without  surrendering 
the  right  of  private  judgment.  Rous- 
seau reasoned  more  trenchantly.  But 
trenchant  reasoning  in  the  complex 
field  of  social  relations  is  seldom 
sound.  The  natural,  which  is  perma- 
nent, is  also  rational,  and  the  rude  pop- 
ular way  of  arguing  from  analogy  and 
precedent  is  therefore,  after  all,  a 
sort  of  reasoning.  Thus  Wordsworth 
was  not  less  rational  than  Rousseau, 
though  in  him  pure  reason  was  stead- 
ily counterbalanced  by  instinct.  In 
Rousseau  there  was  rarely  an  equi- 
librium between  the  two.  He  was  al- 
ternately swayed  by  the  one  or  the 
other.  He  at  times  surrendered  him- 
self to  revery  and  earned  the  name 
of  sentimentalist;  and  again  he  was 
seduced  by  the  speciousness  of  ab- 
stract reason,  and  has  therefore,  per- 
haps not  undeservedly,  been  called  a 
sophist.  Wordsworth,  as  became  a 
poet,  did  not  thus  separate  his  mental 
processes.  His  revery  was  more  like 
reflection;  it  had  more  of  a  rational. 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


discursive  quality  than  Rousseau's; 
and  his  reasoning  was  less  abstract; 
it  never  lost  touch  with  things  and 
events.  As  Edward  Caird,  using  the 
method  and  language  of  Hegel,  puts 
the  case,  Wordsworth  **transcends" 
Rousseau,  reconciling  his  contradic- 
tions in  a  higher  plane. 

He  who  believes  that  tillers  of  the 
soil  and  those  in  walks  of  life  but 
little  removed  from  them — ^that  is,  the 
majority  of  mankind — are  leading 
natural  and  therefore  rational  lives, 
and  that  their  social  laws  are  per- 
manent, and  therefore  not  wanting  in 
authority,  is  not  likely  to  be  made 
unhappy  by  the  outbreak  of  a  revolu- 
tion which  promises  to  restore  the 
artificially  disturbed  balance  of  human 
power  and  happiness.  Rousseau's 
message,  notwithstanding  the  final 
gloom  of  his  life,  was  one  of  glad- 
ness. More  than  any  other  feature 
of  the  Revolution,  Wordsworth  felt 
its  joy. 

It  is  needless  at  this  time  to  narrate 
how  public  events  in  France  disap- 
pointed him.  Suffice  it  to  say  that 
modern  readers  who  take  their  tone 
from  Burke  are  liable  to  overlook  the 
fact  that  the  most  generous  souls  in 
England  felt  exalted  where  Burke 
was  depressed,  and  downcast  where 
Burke  began  to  revive.  In  Words- 
worth's case  the  discouragement  was 
profound,  for  his  hopes  had  been 
very  high.  But  he  stubbornly  refused 
to  abandon  the  republican  cause. 
Through  five  or  six  years,  in  the  face 
of  bad  news  and  the  martial  rage  of 
his  countrymen,  he  clung  to  his  prin- 
ciples, mastering  his  gloom  as  best  he 
could. 

In  truth,  he  rose  above  the  storm  of 
circuriT^tance  by  establishino^  his  life, 
for  a  time,  upon  the  principles  of  Wil- 
liam Godwin.  This  is  a  fact  which 
no  biographer  of  the  poet  has  ven- 
tured to  deny,  though  many  attempts 


have  been  made  to  minimize  its  im- 
portance. I  am  acquainted  with  no 
account  of  Wordsworth's  life  that 
does  justice  to  the  strength  and  at- 
tractiveness of  the  philosophy  upon 
which  he  disciplined  his  powerful  rea- 
soning faculties  and  to  which  he  yield- 
ed a  brave  and  obstinate  allegiance 
from  his  twenty-third  to  his  twenty- 
eighth  year.  When  one  considers  that, 
in  the  lives  of  nearly  all  poets,  the 
third  decade  stands  pre-eminent  as  a 
formative  and  productive  period,  it 
seems  impossible  to  exaggerate  the 
value  of  Godwin's  ideas  to  Words- 
worth. Wordsworth  is  admitted  to 
be  a  great  philosophical  poet.  Yet  all 
his  biographers  have  termed  God- 
win's system  "preposterous."  Words- 
worth, on  the  other  hand,  even  when 
he  renounced  it,  fully  appreciated  how 
formidable  was  its  character. 

Godwin's  "Enquiry  concerning  Po- 
litical Justice"  would  have  been  an 
epoch-making  work  if  it  had  been 
published  in  a  year  less  unpropitious 
to  radical  speculation  than  1793.  But 
books  have  their  fates,  and  this  re- 
markable treatise  has  fared  ill,  for  it 
was  from  the  beginning  covered  with 
obloquy,  and  probably  no  literary  or 
philosophical  work  of  equal  value  has 
been  so  little  read  in  proportion  to  its 
merit.  Such  is  the  force  of  organized 
prejudice.  The  "patriotic"  party  were 
not  content  with  crushing  the  demo- 
cratic movement  in  England ;  they  did 
their  best  to  smother  even  the  memory 
of  it.  Not  only  did  they  promptly 
check  overt  acts  of  a  revolutionary 
tendency ;  they  entered  into  a  century- 
long  conspiracy  to  suppress  a  number 
of  noble  intellectual  works.  Contemp- 
tuous disapproval  was  the  means  em- 
ployed, and  it  succeeded.  It  seems 
to  me  the  poet  Blake  was  right  when 
he  declared  that  to  clip  the  wings  of 
genius  was  to  sin  against  the  Holy 
Ghost. 


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ROUSSEAU,  GODWIN,  AND  WOR.DSWORTH 


3} 


The  share  of  Godwin's  "Political 
Justice*'  in  the  intellectual  movement 
of  the  nineteenth  century  was  not  at 
all  considerable,  if  we  set  aside  its  in- 
fluence on  Wordsworth  and  Shelley 
and  the  Utilitarian  school  of  philos- 
ophy. No  other  fact  so  strikingly 
suggests  the  reactionary  character  of 
political  theory  in  that  century.  The 
twentieth  seems  to  have  linked  itself 
more  directly  to  the  eighteenth  than  to 
the  nineteenth,  which  lies  between  its 
neighbors  like  a  great  confused  pa- 
renthesis. More  carefully  stated,  the 
truth  may  be  that,  of  two  eternally  op- 
posed and  equally  indispensable  types 
of  thought,  one,  represented  by  Locke 
and  Hume  and  Godwin,  enjoyed 
towards  the  close  of  the  eighteenth 
century  a  degree  of  general  accept- 
ance which  it  has  until  lately  not 
enjoyed  since;  while  the  other,  elo- 
quently preached  by  Burke  and  Car- 
lyle,  and  always  more  openly,  more 
officially,  more  popularly  held,  has 
been  for  a  much  longer  time  domi- 
nant. There  should  be  no  illusions  as 
to  the  comparative  attractiveness  of 
these  two  systems.  It  is  enough  to 
observe  that  their  merits  have  seldom 
been  fairly  contrasted. 

Wordsworth,  while  still  seeing  man 
and  nature  very  much  as  Rousseau 
saw  them,  became  a  disciple  of  God- 
win. This  did  not  mean  the  accept- 
ance of  his  master's  political  theory 
alone,  but  of  his  S)rstem  as  a  whole. 
Godwin  has  this  at  least  in  common 
with  Locke,  that  his  philosophy  is  in- 
tegral. It  is  rigorously  deduced  from 
a  few  chief  principles.  Thus  its  eth- 
ics cannot  be  held  separately  from  its 
metaphysics,  nor  can  its  politics  be 
detached  from  its  psychology.  The 
largest  and  the  soundest  parts  of  the 
"Enquiry  concerning  Political  Jus- 
tice" are  devoted  to  ethical  and  polit- 
ical considerations,  which  can  indeed 


hardly  be  distinguished  from  one  an- 
other, as  it  is  his  dearest  purpose  to 
show  they  should  not  be, 

Godwin  insists  that  his  conclusions 
in  these  departments  of  practical 
conduct  depend  on  his  doctrines  of 
knowledge  and  will.  He  is  a  detcr- 
minist,  and  the  only  weak  element  of 
his  book  is  his  unsubstantial  argument 
for  necessity.  The  many  pleas  in  fa- 
vor of  free-will  which  suggest  them- 
selves even  to  j^ilosophers,  as  well  as 
to  humbler  thinkers,  he  almost  wholly 
fails  to  take  into  account. 

Equally  dc^^matic,  though  not  so 
audacious,  because  more  widely 
shared,  is  his  belief  that  experience  is 
the  source  of  all  knowledge.  "Noth- 
ing can  be  more  incontrovertible,"  he 
asserts,  *'than  that  we  do  not  bring 
pre-established  ideas  into  the  world 
with  us." 

Justice,  he  contends,  is  the  whole 
duty  of  man.  Aind  it  seems  that  his 
criterion  of  justice  is  the  greatest 
good  of  the  greatest  number ;  he  says, 
"Utility,  as  it  regards  percipient  be- 
ings, is  the  only  basis  of  moral  and 
political  truth."  Reason  is  the  only 
organ  whereby  men  can  discover  what 
is  just.  "To  a  rational  being,  there 
can,"  he  says,  "be  but  one  rule  of  con- 
duct,  justice,  and  one  mode  of  ascer- 
taining that  rule,  the  exercise  of  his 
understanding."  Intuition,  and  every 
form  of  mystical  illumination,  togeth- 
er with  all  authority,  whether  of  num- 
bers, antiquity,  institutions,  or  "in- 
spired words,"  are  calmly  set  aside. 
Morality  is  a  matter  of  knowledge. 
"The  most  essential  part  of  virtue," 
he  says,  "consists  in  the  incessantly 
seeking  to  inform  ourselves  more  ac- 
curately upon  the  subject  of  utility 
and  right." 

We  see  that,  however  individualis- 
tic some  of  Godwin's  doctrines  may 
look,  his  system  is  not  indivi4ualistiC| 

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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


at  all  when  one  comes  to  apply  it 
practically.  For  to  construe  justice 
as  that  which  secures  the  greatest 
good  of  the  greatest  number  is  to 
nourish  another  leviathan.  It  is 
Wordsworth's  great  distinction  as  a 
philosophical  poet  to  have  made  a 
synthesis  of  the  views  presented  to 
his  mind  successively  by  Rousseau 
and  Godwin.  He  indeed  "reconciled 
them  in  a  higher  plane."  With  Rous- 
seau and  Godwin  he  had  looked  be- 
fore and  after  and  pined  for  what 
was  not;  and  he  saw  absolute  perfec- 
tion neither  in  the  past  nor  in  the 
future.  He  read  deeply  in  books  of 
travel  which  told  of  primitive  races; 
he  dreamed  with  philosophers  who 
predicted  a  new  golden  age,  and  in 
neither  case  did  he  find  what  he 
sought.  But  looking  home  to  men  as 
they  are,  to  life  as  it  may  be  and  often 
is,  here  and  now,  he  found, 

A    never-failing    principle    of    joy 
And  purest  passion. 

He  perceived  "the  unappropriated 
good"  in  natural  beauty,  in  the  lan- 
guage of  every  day,  in  the  souls  of 
plain  people;  and  he  sang  trium- 
phantly 

Of  moral  strength  and  intellectual  Power; 
Of  joy  in  widest  commonalty  spread; 
Of    the    individual    Mind    that    keeps    her 

own 
Inviolate  retirement,  subject  there 
To  Conscience  only,  and  the  law  supreme 
Of  that  Intelligence,  which  governs  all. 

Let  us  not  forget  that  to  this  recon- 
ciled mood  the  poet  came  by  way  of 
what  is  common  to  Rousseau  and 
Godwin,  their  trust  in  human  nature, 
their  belief  in  equality.  Joy  is  not 
joy  w^hich  is  not  shared  by  all.  For 
a  longer  time  than  has  been  generally 
admitted  Wordsworth  retained  his 
reverence  for  reason.  In  his  young 
manhood  he  clung  with  passionate 
fervor  to  the  pure  word  of  the  Revo- 
lution. 

Godwinism  soon  fell  into  deep  and 
undeserved  disrepute.     This  was  not 


due  wholly  to  its  peculiar  features, 
some  of  which  were  beyond  the  com- 
prehension of  pragmatical  minds,  and 
others  objectionable  on  the  very 
grounds  of  general  utility  to  which 
Godwin  sought  to  refer  his  thinking. 
It  was  due  chiefly  to  the  inherent  un- 
attractiveness  of  the  whole  philosophy 
of  the  Enlightenment,  and  to  the  in- 
auspicious character  of  the  times. 
Pure  .rationalism  can  perhaps  never 
be  expected  to  win  the  favor  of  more 
than  a  small  minority  even  among 
reflective  men.  Its  voice  is  in  no  age 
altogether  silent,  but  the  echoes  near- 
ly always  come  back  mingled  with 
alien  notes,  the  note  of  classicism, 
the  note  of  transcendentalism,  the 
note  of  romanticism.  That  Godwin's 
system  did,  through  Bentham  and 
Mill,  for  a  while,  at  all  events,  and 
in  a  limited  degree,  faire  ecole,  is  in- 
deed remarkable.  The  age,  moreover, 
was  not  propitious.  The  passion  of 
patriotism,  lately  starved  by  the  dis- 
approval with  which  thoughtful  Eng- 
lishmen viewed  the  conduct  of  their 
government  before  and  during  the 
American  war  throughout  the  period 
of  state  trials  between  its  disastrous 
conclusion  and  the  opening  of  the  new 
French  w^ar,  in  1793,  the  passionate 
desire  to  justify  the  past  of  England 
and  her  present  course,  made  men 
very  impatient  of  Godwin's  imper- 
turbable criticism.  This  was  no  time, 
they  thought,  for  reform. 

Wordsworth,  one  of  the  first,  as  he 
was  the  greatest,  of  its  converts,  ad- 
hered to  the  Godwinian  system  for  six 
years.  He  met  the  passion  of  the  hour 
wMth  his  own  deep  inward  passion. 
He  conquered  love  of  country  with 
love  of  mankind.  He  rebuked  with  a 
reasoned  hatred  of  war  the  elemental 
instincts  of  a  people  in  arms.  For 
six  years  his  tenacious  and  inwardly 
energetic  nature  held  fast  its  own 
religion. 

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MUSICO-DRAMATIC  PROBLEMS 

By  Edgar  Stillman  Kelley 


The  opinion  is  sometimes  expressed 
that  Shakespeare's  plays  were  in- 
tended to  be  read,  not  acted.  Cer- 
tain connoisseurs  maintain  that  a 
higher  degree  of  enjoyment  is  derived 
from  a  perusal  of  one  of  his  works 
than  is  afforded  by  a  stage  perform- 
ance. A  similarly  ascetic  view  is 
maintained  by  those  music-lovers  who 
prefer  the  contemplation  of  the  silent 
page  of  a  Beethoven  symphony  to 
the  complete  rendition  by  full  or- 
chestra. 

In  defense  of  these  Platonic  pleas- 
ures, it  may  be  urged  that  it  is  better 
to  rely  on  our  imaginations  for  the 
action,  scenery,  tone  color,  and  other 
accessories,  than  to  permit  our  senses 
to  be  harrowed  by  imperfect  produc- 
tions. But  whosoever  deliberately 
absents  himself  from  worthy  presen- 
tations of  these  masterpieces  misses 
much.  Shakespeare  himself  more 
than  once  assures  us  that  the  world 
is  a  stage,  and,  furthermore,  claims 
that  *'the  play  is  the  thing."  Con- 
cerning the  musical  phase  of  the  ques- 
tion, Richard  Wagner  is  equally  em- 
phatic. In  a  letter  to  Liszt,  thanking 
him  for  his  newly  published  sym- 
phonic poems,  he  writes :  "That  they 
are  beautiful  I  can  see  from  the 
scores.  Nevertheless,  I  long  to  hear 
them,  for,  after  all,  the  living  tone  is 
the  real  salt,  without  which  all  music 
is  flavorless." 

In  spite  of  the  austere  sentiments 
entertained  by  purists,  it  is  a  signifi- 
cant fact  that  the  longing  to  win  the 
s>'mpathy  and  affection  of  the  general 
public  by  means  of  a  dramatic  appeal 
in   theatrical   form  has  been   experi- 


enced by  many  of  the  proudest  poets 
and  most  aristocratic  composers.  This 
desire  was  felt  by  Milton,  Byron, 
Tennyson,  Browning,  Poe,  and  Long- 
fellow, whose  names  are  chiefly  asso- 
ciated with  forms  of  art  far  removed 
from  the  stage.  Chopin,  Schumann, 
and  Mendelssohn,  composers  identi- 
fied with  abstract  or  absolute  music, 
sought  in  vain  for  satisfactory  opera 
librettos.  Chopin  early  abandoned  the 
project,  but  Schumann  and  Mendels- 
sohn struggled  with  poor  texts.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  all  three  possessed 
dramatic  talent.  Chopin  was  a  gifted 
amateur  actor;  Schumann,  in  supply- 
ing music  to  Byron's  "Manfred,"  gave 
utterance  to  some  of  his  most  inspired 
strains;  while  Mendelssohn's  greatest 
spontaneity  is  shown  in  his  setting  of 
Shakespeare's  "Midsummer  Night's 
Dream." 

Notwithstanding  the  fact  that  nu- 
merous composers  of  the  first  rank 
have  devoted  themselves  to  the  elab- 
oration of  operas,  many  denounce  this 
art  form  as  a  jumble  of  effects,  and 
claim  that  abstract,  absolute,  or  un- 
mixed music  is  the  only  worthy  spe- 
cies of  the  art  of  tones.  Undoubtedly 
music,  like  others  of  the  divine  sister- 
hood, should  be  able  to  express  her- 
self independently,  but  the  ultra-par- 
tizans  of  absolute  music  forget  that 
some  of  their  favorite  composer  he- 
roes were  guilty  of  mixing  arts  when- 
ever they  wrote  for  the  voice.  Now, 
the  moment  we  combine  poetry  with 
music,  neither  art  appears  in  its  essen- 
tial purity.  Certain  critics  have  cen- 
sured Beethoven  for  introducing  bird- 
notes    in    the    "Pastoral    Symphony." 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


And  yet  these  same  writers  listen  to 
the  "Eroica"  with  satisfaction  despite 
the  fact  that  the  first  movement  may 
mean  conflict,  while  the  second  cer- 
tainly denotes  the  hero's  passage  to 
the  grave.  Strictly  speaking,  the  mo- 
ment music  suggests  definite  action, 
emotion,  or  even  the  psychological 
processes  of  a  given  character,  it  is 
no  longer  absolutely  absolute. 

That  the  imaginative  composer 
should  be  fired  with  enthusiasm  by  a 
good  play  or  novel  is  only  natural. 
Witness  the  numerous  opera  texts 
based  upon  the  dramas  and  romances 
of  Shakespeare,  Goethe,  Schiller, 
Scott,  Bulwer,  and  Victor  Hugo.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  dramatists  seem 
to  have  derived  no  special  impetus  to 
speak  of  from  the  symphonies  or 
other  instrumental  works  of  Mozart 
or  Beethoven,  and  few  authors  desire 
to  have  their  finished  plays  disinte- 
grated and  recast  for  operatic  treat- 
ment. True,  Scribe,  who  possessed 
a  specifically  theatrical  genius,  pro- 
duced ad  libitum  plays  or  opera  lib- 
rettos, and  even  Goethe  drafted  a  sec- 
ond part  of  Mozart's  ''Magic  Flute," 
which  he  annotated  with  friendly  sug- 
gestions to  the  composer.  But  Victor 
Hugo  bitterly  resented  the  employ- 
ment of  his  dramas  for  opera  texts, 
and  despised  the  trivial  melodies  with 
which  some  of  his  most  impressive 
scenes  were  decorated.  And  yet  one 
morning  at  a  rehearsal  he  heard  the 
orchestra  play  something  that  ap- 
pealed to  him  as  beautiful  and  sug- 
gestive. He  demanded  its  title.  The 
answer  was,  "The  andante  from  a 
Beethoven  symphony."  This  and  sim- 
ilar incidents  tend  to  prove  that  there 
exists  a  stronger  bond  of  sympathy 
between  the  truly  dramatic  dramatists 
and  the  genuinely  creative  composers 
than  they  perchance  may  be  aware 
of. 


In  impartially  reviewing  the  more 
important  attempts  to  solve  the  prob- 
lem of  joining  music  with  the  drama, 
we  shall  find  that  special  stress  is  laid 
now  upon  this  element,  now  upon 
that,  as  in  theology  and  philosophy, 
a  given  truth  may  at  one  time  be 
overlooked,  ignored,  or  forgotten. 
Presently  it  is  rediscovered,  revivified, 
and  acquires  such  prominence  that 
complementary  truths  of  equal  impor- 
tance are  thrust  aside,  and  in  turn  fall 
into  desuetude,  until  the  inevitable  re- 
action brings  them  again  to  the  fore. 
This  is  the  familiar  history  of  the  rise 
and  fall  of  sects  and  schools,  of  reli- 
gion, philosophy,  and  art. 

The  series  of  solutions  of  the  mu- 
sico-dramatic  problems  which  I  now 
venture  to  submit  are  not  arranged 
in  the  chronological  order  of  their  ap- 
pearance in  history,  but  rather  ac- 
cording to  the  importance  attached  to 
the  union  of  the  respective  arts,  be- 
ginning with  the  least  intimate  rela- 
tionship. 

When  the  composer  provides  each 
act  or  scene  of  a  play  with  an  ap- 
propriate instrumental  prelude,  we 
have  the  simplest  combination  of  mu- 
sic with  the  drama.  In  this  alterna- 
tion of  activities,  each  art  is  indepen- 
dent, the  music  gives  the  mood,  while 
the  text  and  actipn  define  what  music 
can  only  suggest.  But,  no  matter  how 
satisfactory  the  result,  we  have  as  yet 
no  genuine  art  fusion.  This  attempt 
resembles,  rather,  a  mere  mechanical 
mixture  as  compared  with  a  true 
chemical  union. 

A  step  toward  a  closer  connection 
of  the  arts  is  taken  when  portions  of 
the  text  of  a  play  assume  the  forms 
of  songs  and  choruses,  and  are  treated 
by  the  composer.  This  phase  of  mu- 
sic and  drama  was  known  for  centu- 
ries in  Germany  as  the  SingspieL  and 
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from  this  unpretentious  beginning 
was  evolved  the  German  opera. 

Before  proceeding,  it  will  be  well 
to  consider  the  advisability  of  joining 
even  words  to  music.  When  this  is 
eflFected  with  skill,  not  only  is  the 
emotional  power  of  the  text  enhanced, 
but  the  very  meaning  is  sometimes  in- 
tensified. Thus,  in  Schumann's  set- 
ting of  Chamisso's  series  of  poems 
known  as  "Frauenliebe  und  Leben," 
the  composer  imparted  to  the  words  a 
depth  of  feeling  which  the  author 
himself  may  not  have  experienced. 
This  is  also  true  of  Schubert's  version 
of  the  "Ave  Maria"  from  Scott's 
**Lady  of  the  Lake,"  while  the  same 
composer  certainly  keeps  equal  pace 
with  the  poet  in  Goethe's  "Erl  King," 
and  Shakespeare's  **Hark,  hark!  the 
lark." 

Up  to  this  point  we  are  in  favor  of 
musical  settings.  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  it  must  be  admitted  that  the 
best  of  composers  are  sometimes 
forced,  when  following  a  melodic  out- 
line, to  indulge  in  a  false  quantity  or 
give  undue  accent  to  a  weak  syllable. 
Robert  Franz  once  wrote  me  that  he 
endeavored  to  follow  the  meaning  of 
each  word  in  order  to  avoid  this  evil, 
and  let  the  melody  be  shaped  by  the 
text  throughout.  Again,  a  familiar 
specific  difficulty,  which  militates 
against  the  happy  union  of  text  and 
music,  is  found  in  the  fact  that  the 
music  demands  variety  in  its  dynamic 
effects,  and,  in  the  forte  passages,  the 
text,  together  with  its  meaning,  is  of- 
ten wholly  lost.  Concerning  the  mul- 
titude of  unworthy  versions  of  noble 
poems  where  the  original  ideals  are 
given  the  semblance  of  platitudes  I 
need  not  speak. 

Another  means  of  appl)dng  music 
to  the  drama  is  the  so-called  melo- 
drama, in  which  the  text  is  spoken 
through  music.     Although    in   vogue 


among  the  Chinese  for  thousands  of 
years,  and  employed  by  the  great 
Greek  poets  in  connection  with  their 
dramas,  the  first  instance  of  an  en- 
tire play  thus  treated  was  in  1774, 
when  Benda's  "Ariadne"  created  such 
a  sensation  that  Mozart  himself  de- 
termined to  write  in  this  form.  Beet- 
hoven has  employed  melodrama  with 
true  dramatic  insight  in  the  prison 
scene  of  his  opera  "Fidelio."  Remi- 
niscent strains  of  Florestan  s  aria  pa- 
thetically indicate  the  prisoner's  long- 
ing to  see  his  wife  once  more.  Were 
this  dialogue  sung  instead  of  spoken, 
the  effect  would  be  ruined.  The  lu- 
gubrious supernatural  mood  of  the 
Wolf's  Glen  in  **Der  Freischiitz,"  and 
the  fairy  incantation  of  Oberon  in 
"Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  have 
been  far  more  effectively  suggested 
through  the  melodramatic  treatment 
of  Weber  and  Mendelssohn  than  by 
means  of  the  spoken  text  unaccom- 
panied or  by  intoned  recitative. 

Like  all  other  forms  of  art,  how- 
ever, melodrama  has  its  limitations 
as  well  as  its  mission,  and  its  value 
is  often  questioned.  When  a  long 
melodic  phrase  accompanies  the  text, 
our  attention  is  curiously  distracted. 
We  either  listen  to  the  music  and  ne- 
glect the  text,  or  we  follow  the  latter 
and  ignore  the  music.  This  doubtless 
led  Wagner  to  regard  melodrama  as 
a  hyDrid,  neither  opera  nor  play.  But 
we  must  not  forget  that  Wagner,  in 
many  of  his  declamatory  passages, 
has  given  the  actors  such  unmelodious 
intervals  to  recite  that  they  frequent- 
ly employ  speech  pure  and  simple, 
so  that  in  the  "Nibelungen"  itself  we 
hear  considerable  melodrama,  espe- 
cially in  the  speeches  of  the  more  gro- 
tesque characters. 

As  a  relief  from  these  various  at- 
tempts to  solve  the  problem  of  blend- 
ing music  with  the  text  of  the  play. 

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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


we  may  turn  for  an  instant  to  the 
opera  without  words.  This  we  meet 
with  under  the  names  of  ballet  or 
pantomime,  familiar  instances  of 
which  are  Delibes's  *'Coppelia,"  and 
Tschaikowsky's  "Lake  of  the  Swans." 
This  art  form  has  the  advantage  of 
being  equally  intelligible  to  auditors 
of  all  nationalities,  although  the  finer 
shades  of  meaning  often  escape  one. 
Nevertheless,  pantomime,  too,  has  a 
worthy  place  in  our  group  of  arts. 

There  are  moments  in  the  opera 
where  pantomime,  accompanied  by  ap- 
propriate music,  becomes  a  more 
powerful  agent  in  conveying  the 
thoughts  and  emotions  of  the  actors  to 
the  auditor  than  text  spoken  or  sung. 
Beethoven  felt  this  when  he  planned 
the  close  of  the  first  scene  in  the 
second  act  of  *Tidelio."  Wagner  still 
further  developed  its  possibilities  in 
Act  I  of  "Tristan  and  Isolde,"  where 
the  hero  and  heroine  drink  the  love- 
potion,  action  and  music  telling  of  the 
potency  of  the  philtre,  and  the  change 
from  the  anticipation  of  death  to  the 
transport  of  love.  A  still  more  elab- 
orate instance  is  the  scene  in  the  last 
act  of  "Die  Meistersinger,"  where 
Beckmesser  recalls  the  mishaps  of  the 
previous  evening.  Wagner  had  a 
great  advantage  over  all  other  com- 
posers of  pantomime,  because  his  au- 
diences were  aware  of  the  import  of 
his  leading  motives,  of  which  more 
later.  These  themes  enabled  him  to 
suggest  with  great  exactness  the 
meaning  of  the  action.  He  has  even 
created  significant  episodes  in  the 
"Ring"  and  in  "Parsifal,"  where 
music  illuminates  moving  scenery. 

In  the  construction  of  the  grand 
opera,  the  poet,  the  composer,  and 
the  executive  artists  confront  the 
most  complex  of  all  the  musico-dra- 
matic  problems.  Here  the  entire 
series  of  subordinate  problems  are 
involved;  namely,  the  union  of  music 


with  action,  the  union  of  music  with 
moving  scenery,  the  union  of  music 
with  poetry,  and  the  union  of  speech 
with  action.  Having  reviewed  the 
difiiculties  encountered  in  solving 
these  individual  problems,  we  can 
readily  understand  that  many  who 
appreciate  each  and  every  art  sepa- 
rately should  view  with  disfavor  the 
attempt  to  group  them  all  together. 
Indeed,  the  timid  might  be  easily 
frightened  into  a  belief  that  a  part- 
nership of  the  arts  can  lead  only  to 
deterioration  of  the  various  members 
and  bring  no  compensating  advan- 
tages whatever. 

In  the  numerous  solutions  of  this 
manifold  problem,  racial  traits  and  the 
influence  of  environment  show  them- 
selves as  in  other  lines  of  activity.  In 
Italy,  where  beautiful  voices  abound, 
it  was  only  natural  that  the  vocal 
element  should  predominate;  hence 
the  aria,  with  its  florid  cadenzas, 
which  often  impeded  the  action  of 
the  drama.  In  France,  where  the 
opera  was  an  evolution  from  the  bal- 
let, plot  and  action  formed  interesting' 
features,  while  the  music,  light,  and 
lyric  were  never  symphonic.  In  Ger- 
many, when  the  naive  Singspiel  began 
to  assume  a  more  serious  character, 
composers  felt  the  growing  possibili- 
ties of  harmonic  richness  and  orches- 
tral coloring,  and  their  music  evinced 
a  leaning  toward  dramatic  character- 
ization. At  length  Wagner  appeared, 
and  he  pushed  this  dramatic  quality 
of  the  music  to  an  unprecedented  ex- 
treme. In  his  solution  of  the  musico- 
dramatic  problem,  he  seized  the  op- 
portunity of  welding  the  arts  to  a  de- 
gree of  perfection  possible  only  to  a 
master  of  all. 

In  order  properly  to  estimate  the 
value  of  Wagner's  solution  of  the 
musico-dramatic  problem,  it  will  be 
necessary  to  call  attention  to  his  career 
as    poet   and    dramatist    as    well    as 


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musician.  It  is  owing  to  the  unfor- 
tunate circumstance  that  Wagner  is 
catalogued  with  the  specifically  music- 
al men  of  genius  that  neither  he  nor 
his  creations  are  appreciated  at  their 
full  value.  His  works  doubtless  are 
convincing  to  the  multitude  who  are 
impressed  with  their  marvelous  emo- 
tional and  intellectual  power,  but, 
wherein  his  true  greatness  lies,  where- 
in he  has  succeeded,  and  wherein  he 
has  failed,  can  be  revealed  only  when 
he  is  studied  as  a  poet,  then  as  a  play- 
wright, then  as  a  musician,  noting  his 
achievements  in  each  capacity  inde- 
pendent of  the  others. 

That  Wagner  has  proved  his  right 
to  be  ranked  with  the  great  poets 
there  can  be  no  doubt.  The  lofty  sen- 
timent, the  stately  lines,  and  the  cu- 
rious alliteration  of  the  "Ring  of  the 
Niebelung"  create  a  wonderful  mood 
without  the  aid  of  music.  The  "Tris- 
tan" poem,  with  its  idealized  pessimis- 
tic philosophy,  combines  rhyme  with 
alliteration  in  a  fascinating  manner, 
while  in  "Die  Meistersinger"  Wagner 
shows  his  genius  for  the  lighter  vein 
of  verse.  Happily  characterizing  the 
various  persons  of  the  play,  the  tender 
lyrics  contrast  strongly  with  those  ex- 
pressing the  heroic  and  the  grotesque. 
In  the  humorous  choruses  in  the  last 
act.  where  the  guides  assemble,  he 
proves  himself  a  juggler  with  words 
unsurpassed  by  W.  S.  Gilbert  in  the 
"Mikado." 

As  a  dramatist,  Wagner  showed 
such  consummate  mastery  of  stage- 
craft that  throughout  all  Europe  his 
influence  is  now  seen  not  only  in  the 
mounting  of  operas  other  than  his 
own,  but  in  the  setting  of  plays  where 
the  text  is  spoken.  His  musical  gifts 
led  him  to  devise  one  invaluable  ex- 
pedient, the  above  mentioned  leading 
motive,  by  means  of  which  the  audi- 
tor is  made  cognizant  of  the  actor's 
emotions   and   intent.     This    enabled 


him  to  dispense  with  the  conven- 
tional "aside,"  where  the  actor  talks 
up  his  sleeve  for  the  benefit  of  the 
public. 

Concerning  Wagner  as  a  musician, 
few  realize  that  he  was  a  complete 
master  of  all  the  phases  of  tonal  struc- 
ture, even  those  that  are  associated 
with  the  older  classical  or  scholastic 
methods.  Thus  in  "Tristan,"  "Die 
Meistersinger,"  and  the  "Ring"  are 
to  be  seen  splendid  examples  of  coun- 
terpoint (simple,  double,  and  quad- 
ruple), imitation,  canon,  fugue,  rondo, 
and  sonata.  But  his  most  remarkable 
achievements  were  in  the  creation  of 
harmonic  designs  and  modulating 
themes,  together  with  their  develop- 
ment. This  is  a  phase  of  modern  mu- 
sic which  only  men  of  the  order  of 
Chopin,  Schumann,  Grieg,  and  Tschai- 
kowsk}'  have  successfully  grappled 
with  and  conquered. 

I  beg  permission  at  this  point  to 
employ  the  terminology  of  those  es- 
theticians  who  contrast  the  moving 
arts — music,  poetry,  and  orchestique, 
or  pantomime — with  the  static  arts — 
architecture,  painting,  and  sculpture.     • 

Of  all  attempts  to  unite  the  moving 
arts,  from  the  days  of  ^schylus  and 
Sophocles  to  the  present  time,  that  of 
Wagner  is  the  most  remarkable.  There 
is  no  other  triple  genius  of  his  di- 
mensions in  the  realm  of  poetry  and 
music.  To  find  his  prototype,  we 
must  search  in  the  domain  of  the 
static  arts  for  an  artist  whose  mind 
showed  a  similar  three-fold  function. 
Michaelangelo,  architect,  sculptor,  and 
painter,  was  so  abundantly  endowed 
that  it  lay  within  his  power  to  build  a 
church,  adorn  it  with  paintings,  and 
decorate  it  with  sculpture  of  his  own 
creation. 

It  is  obvious  that  the  greater  the 
number  of  component  factors  pre- 
sented by  a  given  work  of  art,  the 
greater  will  be  the  difficulty  experi- 

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40        PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


enccd  by  the  bdiolder  or  auditor  in 
comprehending  the  purpose  of  the  ar- 
tist. Thus  the  inspection  of  the  cathe- 
dral at  Ulm  is  now  a  far  more  com- 
plicated matter  than  formerly,  owing 
to  the  additions  of  the  stained-glass 
windows  and  carvings.  If  this  be  true 
of  the  static  arts,  where  one  can  study 
the  details  of  a  work  at  his  leisure, 
how  much  greater  will  be  the  nerve- 
strain  involved  when  eye  and  ear  are 
forced  to  seize  on  the  instant  the 
fleeting  features  of  the  moving  arts? 
In  the  more  elaborate  music-drama,  so 
great  at  times  is  the  accumulation  of 
details  that  no  mortal  being  can  grasp 
them  in  their  entirety.  Numerous  in- 
stances of  thi§  demand  of  the  impos- 
sible upon  the  capacity  of  the  auditor 
are  aflForded  by  "Tristan  und  Isolde." 
In  the  remarkable  duo  in  Act  II  we 
are  expected  to  follow,  aside  from 
scenery  and  action,  passages  in  which 
the  subtle  thought  is  expressed  in  fine- 
ly wrought  verse,  characterized  by  a 
liquid,  rhythmic  flow  and  a  unique 
combination  of  rh)ane  and  alliteration. 
Simultaneously  the  music  assumes 
even  more  rarely  original  forms.  The 
potent  themes  suggesting  Love, 
Death,  and  Nirvana  are  so  carefully 
introduced  that  they  fit  the  text  to  a 
nicety.  More  than  this,  they  belong, 
for  the  most  part,  to  that  difficult  and 
involved  class  of  motive  known  as  the 
harmonic  design.  If  we  are  to  do  full 
justice  to  this  masterpiece,  we  must 
follow  intelligently  the  unusual  or- 
chestration, in  which  the  lines  of  the 
melodies  and  counter-melodies  are  so 
interwoven  that  the  printed  page 
looks  like  lacework.  But  despite 
our  consciousness  of  this  wealth  of 
beauty  surrounding  us,  to  grasp  it  in 
its  entirety  is  as  hopeless  a  task  as 
that  of  the  child  who  endeavors  to 
follow  all  that  takes  place  in  a  three- 
ringed  hippodrome.     In  order  to  en- 


joy thorou^ly  passages  of  such  hy- 
per-complexity, wc  must  memorize 
entire  pages  of  the  score,  a  procedure 
for  which  few  have  the  time  or  in- 
clination. 

Not  long  ago,  when  "Tristan"  was 
given  in  the  Prinz-Regcnten  Theatre 
in  Munich,  an  attempt  was  made  to 
ameliorate  the  above  mentioned  dif- 
ficulties. In  order  the  better  to  pre- 
serve the  integrity  of  the  text,  the  or- 
chestra was  greatly  subdued.  The 
beauty  of  the  diction  was  indeed  more 
apparent,  but  the  power  of  the  music, 
the  significance  of  the  leading  themes, 
and  the  dramatic  character  of  the  or- 
chestration, were  reduced  to  a  mini- 
mum, and  the  result  was  far  from 
satisfactory.  The  failure  of  all  at- 
tempts to  tamper  with  Wagner's  solu- 
tion of  the  musico-dramatic  problem 
shows  that  we  must  take  his  works 
as  we  find  them,  with  their  unsur- 
passed qualities  in  certain  respects, 
along  with  their  less  desirable  fea- 
tures. 

But  these  unparalleled  masterpieces, 
with  their  almost  supernatural  glow 
of  exalted  human  passion,  that  take 
us  to  realms  of  which  the  older  poets 
had  merely  dreamed — ^these  very  mas- 
terpieces contain  the  seeds  of  discord 
and  the  elements  of  dissolution.  In 
his  very  enthusiasm  for  the  noble,  the 
beautiful,  and  the  ideal,  Wagner  ex- 
perienced a  horror  for  the  common- 
place and  the  conventional,  forgetting 
that  certain  esthetical  conventions 
are  as  indispensable  to  art  as  are  the 
ethical  conventions  to  society.  In  his 
disgust  for  the  customary  cadence- 
formulas  and  the  trite  recitatives  of 
old  Italian  opera,  Wagner  formed  tfie 
habit  of  modulating  more  and  more 
rapidly,  whether  the  situation  de- 
manded it  or  not.  He  avoided  full 
cadences,  those  punctuation-marks  of 
musical   sentences,   in   order  to  g^^e 

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greater  continuity  to  the  flow  of  his 
thought.  In  many,  perhaps  most,  in- 
stances, this  was  effective,  but  often 
one  wishes  he  would  come  to  a  full 
close  that  we  might  take  breath  and 
that  elsewhere  we  might  be  really  de- 
ceived by  a  deceptive  cadence;  for 
when  the  unexpected  always  occurs, 
we  grow  to  expect  it.  This  feature 
has  become  greatly  exaggerated  by 
those  who  adopt  Wagner's  style,  so 
that  a  simple  cadence  is  a  great  rar- 
ity. No  wonder,  then,  that  the  multi- 
tude long  for  a  genuine,  clear-cut  mel- 
ody, in  which  the  harmony  is  not  trite, 
but  tangible. 

Wagner's  vocal  style,  while  homo- 
geneous with  the  rest  of  his  work, 
and  often  wonderfully  effective,  is 
very  wearing  on  the  voice,  especially 
where  the  accompaniment  is  full  and 
heavy.  One  can  usually  note  the  in- 
fluence of  his  operas  upon  singers 
when  they  give  song-recitals,  unless 
they  chance  to  be  especially  robust. 
A  friend  of  mine  who  greatly  ad- 
mired Wagner  said  that  the  story, 
music,  scenery,  and  orchestration  en- 
chanted him  until  the  actors  began  to 
sing.  "That,"  said  he,  "was  like  a 
crack  in  the  china."  Tschaikowsky, 
too,  speaks  of  Wagner's  peculiar  man- 
ner of  shaping  the  vocal  part,  "now 
doubling  the  first  violin,  then  again 
the  third  horn,  and  so  on." 

Without  doubt  the  constant  surge 
of  the  tide  of  harmony,  unrelieved 
except  at  rare  intervals  by  truly  lyric 
moments,  engenders  a  feeling  of  un- 
rest. Composers  who  have  made  a 
specialty  of  magnifying  Wagner's 
mannerisms  might  well  consider  Ed- 
gar Poe's  axiom^  that  "after  a  period 
of  exaltation,  the  poem  should  descend 
to  the  commonplace";  that  is,  to  the 
simple  or  naive. 

Hanslick,  usually  bitterly  unjust 
toward  Wagner,  made  one  point  wor- 


thy of  our  consideration.  In  review- 
ing the  scene  between  Hans  Sachs  and 
David  in  Act  III  of  "Die  Meister- 
singer,"  he  wrote :  "On  the  stage  they 
speak  of  sausage  and  bread,  in  the 
orchestra  we  hear  gallows  and  wheel. 
When  such  discords  are  employed  to 
express  the  sentiments  of  peaceful 
burghers,  with  what  shall  we  describe 
the  French  Revolution?"  Although 
the  limit  seemed  to  have  been  reached, 
later  writers  have  devised  new  dy- 
namic agents,  so  that  where  Wagner 
drives  tacks  with  a  sledge-hammer, 
others  employ  a  pile-driver;  where 
Wagner  mixes  a  love-potion  of  ab- 
sinthe and  opium,  others  prepare  a 
nepenthe  of  gin  and  sulphuric  acid. 

The  influence  of  Wagner  upon  his 
contemporaries  and  successors  has 
possibly  never  been  better  expressed 
than  by  Carl  Schurz  in  his  "Reminis- 
cences," where  we  find  the  following 
tribute:  "How  long  Wagner's  works 
will  hold  the  stage  as  prominently  as 
they  do  now  will  of  course  depend 
upon  what  may  follow  him.  So  far, 
they  are  proving  an  embarrassing,  if 
not  positively  oppressive,  standard  of 
comparison.  If  a  new  composer  adopt 
Wagner's  conception  of  the  music- 
drama,  he  will  be  liable  to  be  called 
an  imitator.  If  he  adhere  to  old  mod- 
els or  strike  out  on  new  lines  of  his 
own,  his  music  will  be  in  danger  of 
being  found  thin  and  commonplace." 

From  the  futility  of  following  in  the 
footprints  of  Wagner  it  is  obvious 
that  the  Bayreuth  solution  of  the  mu- 
sico-dramatic  problem  is  not  the  final 
one.  The  great  master's  series  of 
music-dramas  stand  forth  with  monu- 
mental impressiveness,  but  to  demand, 
as  he  did,  that  all  operatic  expression 
should  take  that  form,  and  that  com- 
posers must  write  their  own  texts,  is 
as  absurd  as  to  claim  that  all  churches 
should  be  modeled  after  St.    Peter's 


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42        PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


and  all  architects  provide  their  own 
decorations. 

The  static  arts  did  not  die  with  Mi- 
chaelangelo,  nor  have  the  moving 
arts  passed  away  with  Richard  Wag- 
ner. It  is  no  discredit  to  Sir  Chris- 
topher Wren  that  he  did  not  fresco 
the  interior  of  St.  Paul's;  nor  do  we 
think  less  of  Titian,  Tintoretto,  or 
Rubens,  because  they  did  not  build 
the  churches  that  they  beautified. 

It  may  well  be  doubted  whether  the 
world  will  ever  see  Wagner's  equal 
in  the  triple  role  he  played,  but  when 
kindred  talents  unite,  they  may  yet 
produce  music-dramas  of  merit  and 
magnitude.  Thus  the  libretto  of 
"Carmen"  involved  the  labors  of  four 
men,  Prosper  Merimee,  Meilhac, 
Halevy,  and  Bizet  himself.  Neverthe- 
less, the  result  was  worth  the  effort, 
for,  combined  with  the  rare  music  of 
Bizet,  it  has  become  one  of  the  most 
valuable  contributions  to  the  litera- 
ture of  the  stage.  By  preserving  a 
greater  proportion  of  purely  musical 
features — ^lyric  forms,  subtle  returns 
from  foreign  tonalities  to  the  main 
key,  refined  orchestration  so  humane- 
ly planned  that  the  singer  has  a  liv- 
ing chance* — Bizet  has  done  the  world 
of  art  a  service  of  inestimable  value. 
Its  influence  is  heard  in  the  charming 
"Lakme"  of  Delibes,  "Pique  Dame," 
and  "Eugene  Onegin"  by  Tschaikow- 
sky,  and  many  of  the  more  refined 
works  of  the  French,  Italians,  and 
Russians. 

But  the  joining  of  music  to  poetry 
and  action  is  not  the  only  instance  of 
troublesome  art  combination.  A  paral- 
lel case  may  be  found  in  the  domain 
of  the  static  arts.  In  contemplating 
a  classic  temple,  a  Gothic  cathedral, 
or  a  truly  artistic  modem  public 
building,  we  are  impressed  by  the 
symmetry  of  the  architectural  design 
and   the  homogeneity  of  its  various 


members;  we  enjoy  the  composition 
and  coloring  of  the  mural  decorations 
and  the  grouping  of  the  sculptures. 
We  admire  the  manner  in  which  these 
details  blend  with  one  another,  seem- 
ing an  outgrowth  of  the  architectural 
plan  rather  than  so  many  separate 
creations.  But  while  the  totality 
contributes  to  our  esthetic  pleasure, 
we  rarely  think  of  the  many  strug- 
gles that  it  cost  not  only  the  archi- 
tect, but  the  sculptors  and  painters,  to 
fuse  all  these  elements  into  a  har- 
monious whole.  The  sculptor,  in 
planning  a  group  for  the  pediment  of 
a  classical  structure,  must  conceive 
the  composition  in  which  the  central 
figures  rise  to  the  apex  of  the  trian- 
gle, while  those  to  the  right  and  left 
are  appropriately  adapted  to  the  slop- 
ing sides.  The  painter,  in  like  manner, 
must  fill  in  spaces  of  peculiar  and  ob- 
stinate shape,  irregular  ovals,  trian- 
gles, quadrangles,  etc.  Sometimes 
these  complex  problems  are  happily 
solved,  but,  again,  the  exigencies  of 
the  case  preclude  the  possibility.  Wit- 
ness the  group  of  the  Muses  in  the 
New  York  Metropolitan  Opera  House, 
where  the  classic  number  nine  is  re- 
duced to  the  practical  number  eight, 
four  on  one  side  of  Apollo  and  four 
on  the  other. 

In  concluding  the  rehearsal  of  these 
attempts  to  unite  the  various  arts,  wc 
are  forced  to  admit  that  the  demands 
of  each  will  conflict;  that  the  dash- 
ing of  interests  will  develop  friction, 
and  valuable  features  will  be  disin- 
tegrated, now  from  this  art,  and  again 
from  another,  as  a  result  of  this  at- 
trition. But  in  spite  of  all  these  dif- 
ficulties, it  must  be  conceded  that,  un- 
der favorable  conditions,  the  union 
may  create  moods  far  more  powerful 
than  would  be  possible  to  the  same 
arts  acting  individually.  Further- 
more, that  certain  results  may  be  ob- 


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MUSICO-DRAMATIC  PROBLEMS 


43 


tained    impossible    to    effect    in    any 
other  manner. 

The  writers  of  opera  or  music- 
drama  at  the  present  day  have  at 
their  command  scenic  decorations, 
properties,  lighting,  costumes,  and  or- 
chestral apparatus  never  before 
equaled.  The  potentialities  of  mel- 
ody, rhythm,  and  harmony  are  doubt- 
less promising.  There  are  still  new- 
possibilities  of  contrasting  the  dram- 
atic episodes,  symphonically  treated, 
with  lyric  moments,  when  the  smaller 
song  forms  and  dances  may  be  ap- 
propriately introduced.     To  what  ex- 


tent the  dramatic  element  shall  pre- 
dominate, and  in  how  far  the  lyric  or 
tuneful  shall  become  the  main  feature 
— all  this  will  depend  upon  the  indi- 
viduality of  the  author  and  composer. 
In  order,  then,  to  produce  a  work  of 
art  that  shall  worthily  express  the 
spirit  of  the  age,  the  writers  of  the 
new  music-dramas  should  absorb  all 
those  fundamental  principles  that  have 
vitalized  the  standard  works.  There 
then  remains,  as  Taine  says,  only  one 
thing  needful;  that  is,  "that  they  be 
born   geniuses." 


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THE  TRENT  AFFAIR 
By  Charles  Francis  Adams 


As  doubtless  all  of  us  have  had 
frequent  occasion  to  observe,  there 
are  few  occurrences  which  in  their 
relative  connection  with  other  occur- 
rences or  with  things  at  large  do  not 
assume  with  the  lapse  of  time  aspects 
strangely  different.  The  passage  of 
fifty  years  is  a  great  dissolvent  and 
clarifier.  The  international  incident, 
still  memorable,  known  as  the  affair 
of  the  Trent  and  the  seizure  by  Cap- 
tain Charles  Wilkes,  then  command- 
ing the  San  Jacinto,  of  Messrs.  Mason 
and  Slidell,  the  two  Confederate  en- 
voys, occurred  on  the  eighth  of  No- 
vember, 1861,  and  the  fiftieth  recur- 
rence of  that  date  has  accordingly 
been  reached. 

The  course  of  events,  briefly  stated, 
was  as  follows:  Immediately  after 
the  firing  upon  Fort  Sumter,  Jeffer- 
son Davis,  President  of  the  then 
newly  organized  Confederate  States, 
had  sent  out  to  Europe  agents  to  for- 
ward the  interests  of  the  proposed  na- 
tionality. These  agents  had  there 
spent  some  seven  months,  accomplish- 
ing little.  Disappointed  at  their  fail- 
ure, Davis  determined  upon  a  second 
and  more  formal  mission.  The  new 
representatives  were  designated  as 
"Special  Commissioners  of  the  Con- 
federate States  of  America,  near  the 
Government,"  whether  of  Great 
Britain  or  of  France,  as  the  case 
might  be.  James  Murray  Mason  of 
Virginia  and  John  Slidell  of  Louisiana 
were  selected,  the  first  named  for  Lon- 
don, the  second  for  Paris.  Both,  it  will 
be  remembered,  had  recently  been  sen- 
ators of  the  United  States,  Slidell 
having   withdrawn    from    the    Senate 


February  4,  1861,  immediately  after 
the  passage  of  the  Ordinance  of  Se- 
cession by  the  State  of  Louisiana; 
while  Miason,  having  absented  himself 
about  March  20th,  during  the  session 
of  the  Senate  for  executive  business, 
did  not  again  take  his  seat.  Virginia 
seceded  April  17,  and  Mason,  to- 
gether with  several  other  Southern 
senators,  was  in  his  absence  expelled 
by  formal  vote  (July  11)  at  the  spe- 
cial session  of  the  Thirty- Seventh 
Congress,  which  met  under  the  call  of 
President  Lincoln,  July  4,  1861. 
Probably  no  two  men  in  the  entire 
South  were  more  thoroughly  obnox- 
ious to  those  of  the  Union  side  than 
Mason  and  Slidell.  The  first  was  in 
many  and  by  no  means  the  best  ways, 
a  typical  Virginian.  Very  provincial 
and  intensely  arrogant,  his  dislike  of 
New  England,  and  especially  of  Mas- 
sachusetts, was  pronounced,  and  ex- 
ceeded only  by  his  contempt.  It  was 
said  of  him  at  the  time  that  when 
trouble  was  brewing,  and  he  was  in- 
vited to  make  a  speech  in  Boston,  he 
had  replied  that  he  would  not  again 
visit  Massachusetts  until  he  went 
there  as  an  ambassador.  Slidell,  on 
the  other  hand,  was  considered  one  of 
the  most  astute  and  dangerous  of  all 
Confederate  public  characters.  An  in- 
triguer by  nature,  unscrupulous  in  his 
political  methods,  he  was  credited  with 
having  fraudulently  defeated  by 
secret  manipulations  the  Clay  ticket 
in  Louisiana  in  the  1844  Presidential 
election,  and  was  generally  looked 
upon  as  the  most  dangerous  person  to 
the  Union  the  Confederacy  could  se- 
lect for  diplomatic  work  in  Europe. 


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THE  TRENT  AFFAIR 


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The  first  object  of  the  envoys  was  to 
secure  the  recognition  of  the  Confed- 
eracy. The  ports  of  the  Confederate 
States  were  then  blockaded,  but  the 
blockade  had  not  yet  become  really 
effective.  The  new  envoys  selected 
Charleston  as  their  port  of  embark- 
ation, and  October  12  as  its  date.  The 
night  of  the  twelfth  was  dark  and 
rainy,  but  with  little  or  no  wind,  con- 
ditions altogether  favorable  for  their 
purpose.  They  left  Charleston  on  the 
little  Confederate  steamer  Theodora, 
evaded  the  blockading  squadron,  and 
reached  New  Providence,  Nassau, 
two  days  later,  the  fourteenth.  It  had 
been  the  intention  of  the  envoys  to 
take  passage  for  Europe  at  Nassau  on 
an  English  steamer ;  but,  failing  to  find 
one  which  did  not  stop  at  New  York, 
the  Theodora  continued  her  voyage  to 
Cardenas  in  Cuba,  whence  the  envoys 
and  those  accompanying  them  pro- 
ceeded overland  to  Havana.  Arriv- 
ing at  Havana  about  the  twenty-sec- 
ond of  October,  Messrs.  Mason  and 
Slidell  remained  there  until  the  sev- 
enth of  November.  They  then  em- 
barked on  the  British  steamer  Trent, 
the  captain  of  the  Trent  having 
full  knowledge  of  their  diplomatic 
capacity  as  envoys  of  an  insur- 
gent community,  and  giving  con- 
sent to  their  embarkation.  The  Trent 
was  a  British  mail-packet,  mak- 
ing regular  trips  between  Vera  Cruz, 
in  the  Republic  of  Mexico,  and  the 
Danish  island  of  St.  Thomas.  She 
was  in  no  respect  a  blockade-runner, 
was  not  engaged  in  commerce  with 
any  American  port,  and  was  then  on 
a  regular  voyage  from  a  port  in  Mex- 
ico, by  way  of  Havana,  to  her  adver- 
tised destination,  St.  Thomas,  all 
neutral  ports.  At  St.  Thomas  direct 
connection  could  be  made  with  a  line 
of  British  steamers  running  to  South- 
ampton.   The  envoys,  therefore,  when 


they  left  Havana,  were  on  a  neutral 
mail-steamer,  sailing  under  the  British 
flag,  on  a  schedule  voyage  between 
neutral  points. 

At  just  that  time  the  United  States 
war-steamer  San  Jacinto,  a  first-class 
sloop  mounting  fifteen  guns,  was  re- 
turning from  a  cruise  on  the  western 
coast  of  Africa,  where  for  twenty 
months  she  had  been  part  of  the 
African  squadron  engaged  in  sup- 
pressing the  slave  trade.  She  was 
commanded  by  Captain  Wilkes,  who 
had  recently  joined  her.  Returning 
by  way  of  the  Cape  Verd  Islands, 
Captain  Wilkes  there  learned  from  the 
newspapers  about  the  last  of  Septem- 
ber of  the  course  of  public  events  in 
the  United  States,  and  rumors  reached 
him  of  Confederate  privateers,  as  they 
were  then  called,  destroying  Ameri- 
can vessels  in  West  India  waters.  He 
determined  to  make  an  effort  at  the 
capture  of  some  of  these  "privateers." 
On  October  10  the  San  Jacinto 
reached  the  port  of  St.  Thomas,  and 
subsequently  touched  at  Cienfuegos, 
on  the  south  coast  of  Cuba.  There 
Captain  Wilkes  learned,  also  from  the 
newspapers,  that  the  Confederate  en- 
voys were  at  that  very  time  at  Ha- 
vana, and  about  to  take  passage  for 
Southampton.  Reaching  Havana  on 
the  twenty-eighth  of  October,  the 
commander  of  the  San  Jacinto 
further  learned  that  the  commis- 
sioners were  to  embark  on  the 
steamer  Trent,  scheduled  to  leave  Ha- 
vana on  the  seventh  of  November. 
Captain  Wilkes  then  conceived  the  de- 
sign of  intercepting  the  Trent,  exer- 
cising the  right  of  search,  and  mak- 
ing prisoners  of  the  envoys.  No  ques-  . 
tion  as  to  his  right  to  stop,  board,  and 
search  the  Trent  seems  to  have  entered 
the  mind  of  Captain  Wilkes.  He  did, 
however,  take  into  his  confidence  his 
executive  officer.  Lieutenant  Fairfax, 

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46        PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


disclosing  to  him  his  project.  Lieu- 
tenant Fairfax  entered,  it  is  said,  a 
vigorous  protest  against  the  proposed 
action,  and  strongly  urged  on  Captain 
Wilkes  the  necessity  of  proceeding 
with  great  caution  unless  he  wished 
to  provoke  international  difficulties, 
and  not  impossibly  a  war  with  Great 
Britain.  He  then  suggested  that  his 
commanding  officer  consult  an  Ameri- 
can Judge  at  Key  West,  an  authority 
on  maritime  law,  which,  however, 
Captain  Wilkes  declined  to  do.  Leav- 
ing Key  West  on  the  morning  of 
November  5,  Captain  Wilkes  di- 
rected the  course  of  the  San  Jacinto 
to  what  is  known  as  the  Bahama 
Channel,  through  which  the  Trent 
would  necessarily  pass  on  its  way  to 
St.  Thomas,  and  there  stationed  him- 
self. About  noon  on  the  eighth  of 
November,  the  Trent  hove  in  sight, 
and  when  she  had  approached  suffi- 
ciently near  the  San  Jacinto,  a  round 
shot  was  fired  athwart  her  course; 
the  United  States  flag  was  run  up  at 
the  mast-head  at  the  same  time.  The 
approaching  vessel  showed  the  Eng- 
lish colors,  but  did  not  check  her  speed 
or  indicate  a  disposition  to  heave  to. 
Accordingly,  a  few  instants  later,  a 
shell  from  the  San  JcLcinto  was  ex- 
ploded across  her  bows.  This  had  the 
desired  effect.  The  Trent  immcr 
diately  stopped,  and  a  boat  from  the 
San  Jacinto  proceeded  to  board  her. 
It  is  unnecessary  to  go  into  the  details 
of  what  then  occurred.  For  present 
purposes  it  is  sufficient  to  say  that  the 
two  envoys,  together  with  their  secre- 
taries, were  identified  and  forcibly  re- 
moved, being  taken  on  board  the  San 
Jacinto,  which,  without  interfering 
with  the  mails  or  otherwise  subjecting 
the  Trent  to  search,  then  laid  its 
course  for  Fort  Monroe.  Arriving 
there  on  the  fifteenth,  news  of  the 
capture  was  immediately  flashed  over 


the  country.  The  Trent,  on  the  other 
hand,  proceeded  to  St.  Thomas,  where 
her  passengers  were  transferred  to 
another  steamer,  and  completed  the 
voyage  to  Southampton.  They  ar- 
rived, and  the  report  of  the  trans- 
action was  made  public  in  Great  Brit- 
ain November  27,  twelve  days  after 
the  arrival  of  the  San  Jacinto  at  Fort 
Monroe  and  the  publication  of  the 
news  of  the  arrest  in  the  United 
States. 

Such  were  the  essential  facts  in  the 
case,  and,  while  a  storm  of  enthusi- 
astic approval  was  sweeping  over  the 
northern  part  of  the  United  States  in 
the  twelve  days  between  November 
15  and  November  27,  a  storm  of 
indignation  of  quite  equal  intensity 
swept  over  Great  Britain  between 
November  27  and  the  close  of  the 
year.  Most  fortunately  there  was  no 
ocean  cable  in  those  days,  and  the 
movement  of  the  Atlantic  steamers 
was  comparatively  slow.  Accordingly 
the  first  intimations  of  the  commotion 
caused  in  Great  Britain  by  the  action 
of  Captain  Wilkes  did  not  reach 
America  until  the  arrival  of  the  Hansa 
at  New  York,  December  12.  Strange 
as  it  now  seems,  therefore,  almost  an 
entire  month  had  elapsed  between  the 
arrival  of  the  San  Jacinto  at  Fort 
Monroe  (November  15)  and  the  re- 
ceipt in  America  (December  12)  of 
any  information  as  to  the  effect  of 
the  seizure  of  the  envoys  on  the 
British  temper,  a  most  important 
fact  to  be  now  borne  in  mind. 

Such  being  the  facts  of  the  "affair" 
and  the  dates  of  the  occurrences  in  its 
development,  it  is  of  interest  now,  and 
certainly  not  without  its  value  as  mat- 
ter of  experience,  to  consider  the 
courses  then  possible  to  have  been 
pursued  by  the  United  States  and  to 
contrast  them  coolly  and  reflectively 
with  that  which  was  actually  pursued. 


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THE  TRENT  AFFAIR 


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And  in  so  doing  the  thought  which 
first  suggests  itself  is  one  not  con- 
ducive in  us  to  an  increased  sense  of 
national  pride.  What  an  opportunity 
was  then  lost!  How  completely  our 
public  men,  and  through  them  our 
community,  failed  to  rise  to  the  height 
of  the  occasion!  For,  avowed  in  the 
perspective  of  history,  it  is  curious, 
and  for  an  American  of  that  period 
almost  exasperating,  to  reflect  upon 
what  a  magnificent  move  in  the  critical 
game  then  conducted  would  have  been 
made  had  the  advice  of  Montgomery 
Blair  been  followed  to  the  letter  and 
in  spirit. 

Montgomery  Blair,  it  will  be  re- 
membered, was  then  Postmaster-Gen- 
eral in  the  Cabinet  of  President  Lin- 
coln. According  to  Secretary  Welles, 
in  his  work  subsequently  (1874)  pub- 
lished, Montgomery  Blair  alone  in  tlie 
Cabinet  "from  the  first  denounced 
Wilkes's  act  as  unauthorized,  irregu- 
lar, and  illegal,"  and  even  went  so  far 
as  to  advise  that  Wilkes  be  ordered 
to  take  the  San  Jacinto  and  go  with 
Mason  and  Slidell  to  England,  and  de- 
liver them  to  the  British  Government. 
In  view  of  the  excitement  and  un- 
reasoning condition  of  the  public 
mind,  such  a  disposition  of  the  ques- 
tion was  perhaps  virtually  impossible, 
though  even  this  admits  of  question. 
Nevertheless,  seen  through  the  vista 
of  half  a  century,  this  would  clearly 
have  been  the  wisest  as  well  as  the 
most  dignified  course  to  pursue,  far 
more  so  than  that  ultimately  adopted ; 
for,  as  Secretary  Welles  a  dozen  years 
later  wrote,  "the  prompt  and  volun- 
tary disavowal  of  the  act  of  Wilkes, 
and  delivering  over  the  prisoners, 
would  have  evinced  our  confidence  in 
our  own  power,  and  been  a  manifesta- 
tion of  our  indifference  and  contempt 
for  the  emissaries,  and  a  rebuke  to 
the  alleged  intrigues  between  the  reb- 


els and  the  English  cabinet."  Mr. 
Welles  might  have  further  remarked 
that  such  a  disposition  of  the  matter, 
besides  being  in  strict  consistency 
with  a  long-proclaimed  international 
policy,  would  have  afforded  for  the 
navy  a  most  salutary  disciplinary  ex- 
ample. 

To  revert  to  the  chess  simile,  by 
such  a  playing  of  the  pieces  on  the 
board  as  Blair  here  suggested,  how 
effectually  a  checkmate  would  have 
been  administered  to  the  game 
of  both  the  Confederates  and 
their  European  sympathizers!  In 
the  first  place,  the  act  of  Wilkes, 
as  was  subsequently  and  on  bet- 
ter reflection  generally  conceded, 
was  ill  considered,  improper,  and  in 
violation  of  all  correct  naval  usage. 
It  should  have  been  rebuked  accord- 
ingly, and  officers  should  have  been 
taught  by  example  and  at  the  be- 
ginning that  they  were  neither  dip- 
lomatic representatives  nor  judicial 
tribunals  administering  admiralty  law. 
It  was  for  them  to  receive  instruc- 
tions and  implicitly  to  obey  them.  A 
reprimand  of  much  the  same  nature 
was  almost  at  this  very  time  adminis- 
tered to  General  John  C.  Fremont, 
when  in  Missouri  he  undertook  by  vir- 
tue of  martial  law  to  proclaim  the 
freedom  of  the  slave  throughout  the 
military  department  under  his  com- 
mand. His  ill-considered  order  was 
revoked,  and  he  was  officially  in- 
structed that  he  was  to  confine  himself 
to  his  military  functions,  and  that  the 
administration  reserved  to  itself  all 
action  of  a  political  character.  So 
much  for  Captain  Wilkes  and  the 
reprimand  he  should  have  received 
because  of  his  indiscreet  and  unau- 
thorized proceeding. 

Next,  such  a  line  of  conduct  would 
have  been  on  the  part  of  the  Govern- 
ment a  severe  and  manly  adjierence^ 

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48        PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


to  the  past  contentions  of  the  United 
States.  It  would  have  recognized  in 
the  action  taken  by  Wilkes  an  attempt 
to  carry  the  right  of  search  and  power 
of  impressment  far  beyond  any  pre- 
cedent ever  established  by  the  British 
Government  even  in  the  days  of  its 
greatest  maritime  ascendency  and  con- 
sequent arrogance.  In  the  strong  and 
contemptuous  language  of  Mr. 
Adams,  America,  in  sustaining  Wilkes, 
was  consenting  "to  take  up  and  to 
wear  [Britain's]  cast-off  rags."  If, 
instead  of  so  bedizening  itself,  the 
United  States  had  now  boldly,  defiant- 
ly, and  at  once  adhered  to  its  former 
contentions,  its  attitude  would  have 
been  simply  magnificent ;  and,  as  such, 
it  would  have  commanded  respect  and 
admiration. 

Nor  was  this  aspect  of  the  situation 
wholly  unseen  by  some  at  the  time; 
for,  writing  from  his  post  in  London 
to  J.  L.  Motley  in  Vienna  on  the 
fourth  of  December,  1861,  the 
date  at  which  the  tension  be- 
tween the  United  States  and  Great 
Britain  was  at  the  breaking-point, 
Mr.  Adams  thus  expressed  him- 
self: "It  ought  to  be  remembered 
that  the  uniform  tendency  of  our  own 
policy  has  been  to  set  up  very  high 
the  doctrine  of  neutral  rights,  and  to 
limit  in  every  possible  manner  the 
odious  doctrine  of  search.  To  have 
the  two  countries  virtually  changing 
their  ground  under  this  momentary 
temptation  would  not,  as  it  seems  to 
me,  tend  to  benefit  the  position  of  the 
United  States.  Whereas,  a  contrary 
policy  might  be  made  the  means  of 
securing  a  great  concession  of  princi- 
ple from  Great  Britain.  Whether  the 
government  at  home  will  remain  cool 
enough  to  see  its  opportunity,  I  have 
no  means  of  judging."  And  a  few 
days  later  (December  7,  1861),  John 
Bright,  writing  to  Charles  Sumner, 
expressed  himself  to  the  same  eflFect: 


"You  may  disappoint  your  enemies 
by  the  moderation  and  reasonableness 
of  your  conduct,  and  every  honest  and 
good  man  in  England  will  applaud 
your  wisdom.  Put  all  the  fire-eaters 
in  the  wrong,  and  Europe  will  admire 
the  sagacity  of  your  Government." 
"Sagacity  of  your  Government!" 
That  phrase  expressed  exactly  what 
the  situation  called  for,  and  got  only 
in  a  very  modified  degree. 

Taken  immediately  and  openly  in 
the  presence  of  the  whole  world,  the 
position  advised  by  Blair  would  have 
indicated,  as  Secretary  Welles  later 
pointed  out  in  the  words  I  have  just 
quoted,  the  supreme  confidence  we 
felt  in  our  national  power,  and  the 
pronounced  contempt  in  which  we  held 
both  those  whom  we  called  "rebels" 
and  those  whom  they  termed  their 
"envoys."  If  reached  and  publicly 
announced  after  mature  deliberation 
during  the  week  which  followed  the 
announcement  of  the  seizure  from 
Fort  Monroe  (November  23),  as 
transatlantic  communication  was  con- 
ducted in  those  days  the  news  would 
scarcely  have  reached  England  be- 
fore the  third  of  December,  just  three 
days  after  the  peremptory  and  some- 
what offensive  despatch  of  Earl  Rus- 
sell demanding  the  immediate  sur- 
render of  the  arrested  envoys  was  be- 
yond recall  or  modification  and  well  on 
its  way  to  America.  A  situation  would 
have  resulted  almost  ludicrous  so  far 
as  Great  Britain  was  concerned,  but, 
for  the  United  States,  most  consistent, 
dignified,  and  imposing.  Excited, 
angry,  arrogant,  bent  on  reparation  or 
war.  Great  Britain  would  have  been 
let  down  suddenly  and  very  hard  and 
flat.  Its  position  would,  to  say  the 
least,  have  been  the  reverse  of  im- 
pressive. But  for  us  it  would  have 
established  our  prestige  in  the  eyes  of 
foreign  nations,  and  once  for  all  si- 
lenced the  numerous  emissaries  v/hjp^ 


THE  TRENT  AFFAIR 


49 


were  sedulously  working  in  every  part 
of  Europe  to  bring  about  our  undoing 
through  foreign  interference.  In  par- 
ticular, the  immediate  delivery  of  the 
envoys,  in  advance  of  any  demand 
therefor  and  on  the  very  ship  which 
had  undertaken  to  exercise  the  right 
of  search  and  seizure  under  the  com- 
mand of  the  officer  who  had  thus  ex- 
ceeded his  authority  and  functions, 
would,  so  to  speak,  have  put  the  Gov- 
ernment of  Great  Britain  thenceforth 
imder  bonds  so  far  as  the  United 
States  was  concerned.  Thereafter  any 
effort  either  of  the  "envoys*'  thus 
contemptuously  surrendered  or  of 
other  Confederate  emissaries  would, 
so  far  as  this  country  was  concerned, 
have  been  futile.  Reciprocity  would 
from  that  moment  have  been  in  order, 
and  all  question  of  foreign  recognition 
would  have  ceased.  The  whole  course 
of  international  events  in  the  inmie- 
diate  future  would  probably  have 
been  far  different  from  what  it  was; 
for  with  what  measure  we  had  used, 
it  would  necessarily  have  been  meas- 
ured to  us  again. 

Such  a  line  of  conduct,  immediately 
decided  on  and  boldly  declared,  would 
have  been  an  inspiration  worthy  of  a 
Cavour  or  a  Bismarck;  but,  though 
actually  urged  in  the  Cabinet  meetings 
by  Montgomery  Blair,  its  adoption 
called  for  a  grasp  of  the  situation  and 
a  quickness  of  decision  which  very 
possibly  could  not  reasonably  be  ex- 
pected under  conditions  then  existing. 
It  also  may  even  yet  be  urged  that,  if 
then  taken  and  announced,  such  a 
policy  would  have  failed  to  command 
the  assent  of  an  excited  public  opinion. 
That  It  would  have  failed  to  do  so  is, 
however,  open  to  question;  for  it  is 
more  than  possible,  it  is  even  probable, 
that  American  intelligence  would  even 
then  have  risen  at  once  to  the  inter- 
national possibilities  presented,  and  in 
that  crisis  of  stress  and  anxiety  would 


have  measured  the  extent  to  which 
the  "affair"  could  be  improved  to  the 
public  advantage.  The  national  van- 
ity would  unquestionably  have  been 
flattered  by  an  adherence  so  consistent 
and  sacrificing  to  the  contentions  and 
policies  of  the  past.  The  memories 
of  1812  would  have  revived.  How- 
ever, admitting  that  a  policy  of  this 
character,  now  obviously  that  which 
should  have  been  pursued,  was  under 
practical  and  popular  conditions  then 
prevailing  at  least  inadvisable,  it  re- 
mains to  consider  yet  another  alterna- 
tive. 

Assuming  that  the  course  pursued 
remained  unchanged  an  entire  month 
after  the  seizure,  and  up  to  the  twelfth 
of  December,  when  the  news  arrived 
in  America  of  the  excitement  occa- 
sioned by  the  seizure  in  Great  Britain 
and  the  extreme  seriousness  of  the 
situation  resulting  therefrom — ^assum- 
ing this,  it  is  now  obvious  that  the 
proper  policy  then  and  under  such 
conditions  to  have  been  adopted,  al- 
though it  could  not  have  produced 
the  results  which  would  have  been 
produced  by  the  policy  just  consid- 
ered if  adopted  and  announced  ten 
days  earlier,  would  still  have  been 
consistent  and  dignified,  and,  as  such, 
would  have  commanded  general  re- 
spect. It  was  very  clearly  outlined  by 
Mr.  Adams  in  a  letter  written  in  the 
following  month  to  Cassius  M.  Clay, 
then  the  representative  of  the  country 
at  St.  Petersburg.  He  expressed 
himself  as  follows :  "Whatever  opin- 
ion I  may  have  of  the  consistency  of 
Great  Britain,  or  of  the  temper  in 
which  she  has  prosecuted  her  latest 
convictions,  that  does  not  in  my  judg- 
ment weigh  a  feather  in  the  balance 
against  the  settled  policy  of  the  United 
States  which  has  uniformly  con- 
demned every  and  any  act  like  that,  of 
Captain  Wilkes  when  authorized  by 
other  nations.     The  extension  of  theg 


50        PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


rights  of  neutrals  on  the  ocean  and  the 
protection  of  them  against  the  arbi- 
trary exercise  of  mere  power  have 
been  cardinal  principles  in  the  system 
of  American  statesmen  ever  since  the 
foundation  of  the  Government.  It  is 
not  for  us  to  abandon  them  under  the 
transient  impulse  given  by  the  capture 
of  a  couple  of  vmworthy  traitors. 
What  are  they  that  a  country  Hke  ours 
should  swerve  one  hair  from  the  line 
of  its  ancient  policy,  merely  for  the 
satisfaction  of  punishing  them?" 

If  the  advisers  of  Mr.  Lincoln  had 
viewed  the  situation  in  this  light  when 
his  Secretary  of  State  sat  down  to 
prepare  his  answer  to  the  English  de- 
mand, with  a  bold  sweep  of  the  hand 
he  would  at  once  have  dismissed  as 
rubbish  the  English  precedents  and 
authorities,  reverting  to  the  attitude 
and  contentions  uniformly  and  con- 
sistently held  during  the  earlier  years 
of  the  century  by  the  Government  for 
which  he  spoke.  The  proceeding 
of  Captain  Wilkes  would  then  have 
been  pronounced  inconsistent  with  the 
traditions  and  established  policy  of 
the  United  States,  and  the  line  of 
action  by  it  to  be  pursued  in  the  case 
immediately  presented  would  have 
been  dictated  thereby.  The  course  to 
be  pursued  on  the  issue  raised  was 
clear,  and  the  surrender  of  the  envoys 
must  be  ordered  accordingly,  and 
this  in  no  degree  because  of  their  small 
importance,  as  suggested  by  Lord 
Palmer ston  in  his  talk  with  Mr.  Ad- 
ams, though  unquestionably  the  fact 
would  have  secretly  exercised  no  little 
influence  on  the  mind  of  the  Secre- 
tary, and  still  less  was  it  ordered  be- 
cause of  any  failure  of  Captain  Wilkes 
to  seize  the  Trent  as  prize  on  the 
ground  of  alleged  breach  of  neutral- 
ity ;  but  exclusively  for  the  reason  that 
the  seizure  in  question  was  unauthor- 
ized, in  direct  disregard  of  the  estab- 
lished policy  of  the  United  States  and 


its  contentions  in  regard  to  the  rights 
of  neutrals,  clearly  and  repeatedly  set 
forth  in  many  previous  controversies 
with  the  Government  represented  by 
Earl  Russell.  From  that  policy,  to 
quote  the  language  of  Mr.  Adams, 
"this  country  was  not  disposed  to 
swerve  by  a  single  hair's  breadth."  In 
accordance  with  it,  delivery  of  the  so- 
called  "envoys"  was  ordered. 

Again  an  <H)portunity  was  lost. 
Such  an  attitude  would  have  been  dig- 
nified, consistent,  and  statesmanlike. 
It  would  have  had  in  it  no  element  of 
adroitness  and  no  appearance  of  spe- 
cial pleading.  It  could  hardly  have 
failed  inmiediately  to  commend  itself 
to  the  good  judgment  as  well  as  pride 
of  the  American  people,  and  it  would 
certainly  have  commanded  the  respect 
of  foreign  nations. 

Of  the  elaborate  and  in  many  re- 
spects memorable  dispatch  addressed 
by  Secretary  Seward  to  Lord  Lyons 
in  answer  to  the  categorical  demand 
for  the  immediate  release  of  the  two 
envoys,  it  is  not  necessary  here  to 
speak  in  detail.  It  is  historical,  and 
my  paper  has  already  extended  far 
beyond  the  limits  originally  proposed. 
Of  this  state  paper  I  will  therefore 
merely  say  that,  reading  it  now, 
"clever,"  not  "great,"  is  the  term 
which  suggests  itself  as  best  de- 
scriptive. Much  commended  at  the 
time,  it  has  not  stood  the  test.  In 
composing  it,  the  writer  plainly  had 
his  eye  on  the  audience ;  while  his  ear, 
so  to  speak,  was  in  manifest  proximity 
to  the  ground.  Indeed,  his  vision 
was  directed  to  so  many  different 
quarters,  and  his  ear  was  intent  on 
such  a  confusion  of  rumblings,  that  it 
is  fair  matter  for  surprise  that  he 
acquitted  himself  even  as  successfully 
as  he  did.  In  the  first  place,  it  was 
necessary  for  him  to  persuade  a  Presi- 
dent who  had  "put  his  foot  down," 
and  whose  wishes  inclined  to  a  quite 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


THE  TRENT  AFFAIR 


5» 


diflferent   disposition   of   the   matter. 
In  the  next  place,  the  reluctant  mem- 
bers of  a  divided  Cabinet  were  to  be 
conciliated  and  unified.     After  this, 
Captain  Wilkes,  the  naval  idol  of  the 
day,  must  be  justified  and  supported. 
Then  Congress,  with  its  recent  com- 
mitments as  respects  approval,  thanks, 
gold  medals,  etc.,  had  to  be  not  only 
pacified,    but    reconciled    to    the    in- 
evitable; and,  finally,  an  aroused  and 
patriotic    public   opinion    was   to    be 
soothed  and  gently  led  into  a  lamb- 
like acquiescence.   The  situation,  in  the 
aspect  it  then  bore,  was,  it  cannot  be 
denied,  both  complicated  and  delicate. 
Accordingly,    in    reading    the    Secre- 
tary's commvmication  to  Lord  Lyons 
of  December  26,  1861,  one  is  aware 
of  a  distinct  absence  therein  of  both 
grasp    and    elevation.      That    '*bold 
sweep  of  the  hand"  before  suggested 
is  conspicuous  for  its  absence.     The 
English  and  British  precedents  were 
by  no  means  dismissed  as  antiquated 
"rubbish" ;  while,  on  the  contrary,  our 
own    earlier    and    better    contentions 
were  silently  ignored.    In  their  stead, 
British    principles    were    adopted    as 
sound   and  of  established  authority; 
and  thus  the  final  action  of  the  United 
States  in  delivering  the  so-called  en- 
voys was  rested  on  what  the  Duke  of 
Argyll  presently,  and  most  properly, 
characterized    in    his    letter    to    Mr. 
Adams   as  "a  narrow   and   technical 
ground."    Captain  Wilkes,  it  was  ar- 
gued, while  acting  in  strict  accordance 
with  law  and  precedent,  had  failed  to 
seize  the  Trent  as  lawful  prize,  and 
as  such,  send  her  into  an  American 
port  for  adjudication.    It  was  a  com- 
plete abandonment  of  the  traditional 
American  contentions  in  favor  of  the 
arrogant    and    high-handed    policies 
formerly  pursued   by   Great  Britain, 
but  now  by  her  silently  dismissed  as 
antiquated     and     inconvenient — "her 
cast-off  rags!" 


It  can,  therefore,  now  hardly  be 
denied  that  there  was  more  than  an 
element  of  truth  in  the  criticisms 
passed  upon  the  Secretary's  mo- 
mentous reply  to  Lord  Russell's  de- 
mand by  Hamilton  Fish,  in  a  letter  to 
Charles  Sumner,  written  at  the  time. 
Mr.  Fish,  then  in  retirement,  not  im- 
possibly entertained  feelings  of  a  na- 
ture not  altogether  friendly  toward 
Mr.  Seward,  whose  colleague  he  had 
been  in  the  Senate,  and  whom  later  he 
was  to  succeed  in  charge  of  the  De- 
partment of  State.  They  were  both 
from  New  York,  and  had  been  con- 
temporaneously active  in  New  York 
politics.  Those  also  whose  attention 
has  been  called  to  the  grounds  of  com- 
parison will  perhaps  hardly  be  dis- 
posed to  deny  that  for  natural  grasp 
of  the  spirit  and  underlying  principles 
of  international  law,  Hamilton  Fish 
was  better  endowed  than  either  Sew- 
ard or  Sumner.  Fish  now  wrote: 
"In  style  [the  letter]  is  verbose  and 
egotistical;  in  argument,  flimsy;  and 
in  its  conception  and  general  scope  it 
is  an  abandonment  of  the  high  posi- 
tion we  have  occupied  as  a  nation 
upon  a  great  principle.  We  are  hum- 
bled and  disgraced,  not  by  the  act  of 
the  surrender  of  four  of  our  own 
citizens,  but  by  the  manner  in  which 
it  has  been  done,  and  the  absence  of 
a  sound  principle  upon  which  to  res. 
and  justify  it.  .  .  .  We  might  and 
should  have  turned  the  affair  vastly 
to  our  credit  and  advantage;  it  has 
been  made  the  means  of  our  humilia- 
tion." 

The  ultimate  historical  verdict  must 
apparently  be  in  accordance  with  the 
criticism  here  contemporaneously  ex- 
pressed. The  Seward  letter  was  in- 
adequate to  the  occasion.  A  possible 
move  of  unsurpassed  brilliancv  on  the 
international  chessboard  had  almost 
unseen   been  permitted  to  escape  us. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


THE  AMERICAN  TEMPERAMENT 
By  Birge  Harrison 


During  a  recent  visit  to  America, 
Mr.  Henry  James,  the  novelist,  was 
lunching  with  a  party  of  friends  at 
one  of  the  well-known  New  York 
clubs.  One  of  the  company  having 
asked  him  if  his  present  trip  had  re- 
sulted in  any  particularly  fresh  and 
vivid  impression  of  things  American, 
he  replied:  "Had  your  question  been 
put  to  me  yesterday,  I  should  probably 
have  been  obliged  to  answer  it  in  the 
negative.  But  this  morning  I  had  an 
extraordinary  experience,  and  re- 
ceived an  impression  so  compelling 
and  unexpected  as  almost  to  fill  me 
with  terror.  I  had  been  invited  to  visit 
the  imjmigration  station  at  Ellis 
Island.  Five  huge  ocean  liners  were 
discharging  their  human  freight  simul- 
taneously, and  more  than  three  thou- 
sand immigrants  were  to  pass  inward 
during  the  day.  They  were  a  strange 
and  picturesque  lot,  comprising  speci- 
mens of  almost  every  nation  in  Eu- 
rope, and  of  not  a  few  of  the  tribes 
of  Africa  and  A^ia. 

"While  I  stood  there  studying  the 
curious  human  types  as  they  filed  past 
in  endless  procession,  a  feeling  of  un- 
easiness gradually  crept  over  me.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  there  was  some- 
thing hostile,  threatening,  almost  ap- 
palling about  this  slow-moving,  mur- 
muring, never-ending  throng;  and 
finally  it  burst  upon  me  that  this  was 
an  invasion — silent  and  furtive,  but 
nonetheless  sinister,  formidable,  and 
irresistible.  It  is  a  disaster,  gentle- 
men; a  flood,  a  human  inundation, 
which,  if  unchecked,  is  destined  to  sub- 
merge   the    old    Anglo-Saxon    stock. 


to  engulf  and  utterly  destroy  the  fine 
old  Anglo-Saxon  civilization.  In  the 
West  we  have  closed  our  doors  to  the 
Asiatic,  but  in  the  East  we  have 
thrown  them  wide  open  to  the  oflF- 
scourings  of  Europe  and  the  Medi- 
terranean. Is  not  this  white  peril  of 
the  East  as  dangerous — as  much  to 
be  feared  and  deprecated — ^as  the  yel- 
low peril  of  the  West?  What  is  to 
become  of  all  our  cherished  Puritan 
ideals  and  traditions?  Where  are  we 
to  look  for  our  future  Emersons  and 
Thoreaus  ?  In  my  opinion  we  are  face 
to  face  with  a  genuine  racial  tragedy." 
"But,"  said  Marble,  "this  tragedy 
began  long  ago — k>ng  before  the  tide 
of  European  immigration  assumed 
any  serious  proportions.  By  that 
time  the  decadence  of  our  old  Anglo- 
Saxon  stock  was  far  advanced.  If 
you  knew  as  well  as  I  do  the  hinter- 
lands of  Maine,  New  Hampshire,  and 
Vermont,  to  say  nothing  of  the  moun- 
tain regions  of  the  Carolinas,  Ken- 
tucky, Tennessee,  and  Georgia,  you 
would  welcome  this  influx  of  new 
blood  as  a  life-saving  strain.  Why, 
there  are  counties  in  our  own  State 
of  New  York  where  one  third  of  the 
inhabitants  can  neither  read  nor  write, 
where  ninety-five  per  cent  of  the  vote 
is  purchasable,  and  wliere  the  oflFer  of 
a  free  public  library  would  be  re- 
garded as  a  huge  and  ineflFable  joke. 
To  some  of  us  it  seems  that  our  old 
American  stock  is  distinctly  'on  the 
toboggan,'  and  that  it  is  sadly  in  need 
of  just  such  fresh  blood  as  Europe  is 
providentially  sending  us.  Isn't  this 
the  history  of  nations  ?    Has  not  every 


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THE  AMERICAN  TEMPERAMENT 


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truly  great  and  vigorous  people  grown 
out  of  some  such  graft  of  one  race 
upon  the  stock  of  another — some  tri- 
bal overflow  resulting  in  a  specially 
happy  racial  blend?  Was  it  not  so 
with  Greece,  with  Rome,  with  Anglo- 
Saxon  England  even,  with — " 

"Softy,  softly.  Marble,*'  interrupt- 
ed the  chairman.  "Your  lecture  on 
ancient  history  will  be  in  order  at  the 
next  monthly  meeting  of  the  club"; 
then  turning  to  the  pedagogic  mem- 
ber he  inquired,  "What  is  your  view 
of  the  question,  Ellison?" 

"Well,"  replied  the  latter,  "it  is  at 
least  curious  that  this  very  morning 
while  Mr.  James  was  observing  the 
future  American  on  his  first  arrival, 
I  was  studying  his  children  at  a  great 
public  school  down  in  one  of  the 
worst  of  our  East  Side  slum  districts. 
In  this  school  I  found  nearly  two 
thousand  pupils,  nine  tenths  of  whom 
were  aliens.  In  age  they  ranged  from 
six  to  twelve  years,  and  they  repre- 
sented some  twenty-seven  different  na- 
tionalities. Nevertheless,  the  instruc- 
tion was  given  exclusively  in  English, 
and  in  spite  of  this  handicap,  the  prin- 
cipal assured  me  that  the  alien  pupil 
was  as  far  advanced  in  his  studies  as 
the  American  boy  or  girl  of  a  like 
age.  When  asked  in  what  order  he 
would  be  inclined  to  class  the  two 
great  racial  divisions  as  regards  the 
question  of  general  intelligence,  he  re- 
plied that  the  main  difference  between 
them  appeard  to  be  that  of  the  point 
of  view,  which  was  certainly  divergent 
enough.  The  alien  child  was  simply 
voracious  for  knowledge ;  for  him  the 
hours  of  study  were  never  sufficiently 
long,  while  the  American  lad  hailed 
the  sound  of  the  closing  gong  with 
unfeigned  joy.  To  the  alien  this  new 
country  of  ours,  with  all  its  wonders, 
was  a  fairy-land  of  untold  possibili- 
ties ;  while  to  the  American  it  was  the 


old  workaday  world  where  he  would 
one  day  succeed  dad  or  Uncle  Tom 
or  Uncle  Joe  as  a  huckster,  an  ice- 
man, or  a  ward  heeler.  It  was  evi- 
dent that  my  friend,  the  principal,  was 
inclined  to  be  optimistic  in  regard  to 
his  foreign-born  charges.  Their  keen 
ambition,  their  lively  imagination,  and 
their  industry  were  all  in  their  favor ; 
and  as  future  citizens  he  believed  that 
more  might  reasonably  be  expected 
of  them  than  of  the  average  Amer- 
ican scholars." 

"That,"  said  the  artist  member,  "re- 
minds me  of  a  recent  experience  of  my 
own.  Last  Sunday  morning  I  dropped 
in  at  the  music-school  settlement  of 
David  Mannes,  down  in  East  Third 
Street,  and  spent  an  hour  listening  to 
his  wonderful  little  orchestra  of  East 
Side  children.  They  played  the  Tann- 
hauser'  overture,  a  Brahms  sonata, 
and  something  by  Grieg;  and 
they  played  those  things  with  al- 
most as  much  technical  ability, 
and  fully  as  much  musical  com- 
prehension, as  the  Philharmonic 
up  in  Carnegie  Hall.  After  the 
performance  I  asked  Mr.  Mannes  how 
many  Americans  he  had  in  his  band. 
*Not  a  blessed  one,'  he  replied.  The 
American  children  who  have  tempera- 
ment enough  for  this  sort  of  thing  live 
in  upper  Fifth  Avenue.  You  won't 
find  them  in  the  slums.  Rather  cu- 
rious, isn't  it?'  he  added.  *For  the 
chilren  of  well-to-do  Americans  are 
temperamentally  as  sensitive  to  music 
and  all  other  artistic  influences  as  any 
in  the  world.' " 

Here,  it  seemed  to  me,  was  the  key 
to  the  whole  problem  under  discus- 
sion, a  solution  which  explained  and 
offered  a  reasonable  basis  for  either 
of  the  two  widely  divergent  opinions 
which  had  been  advanced. 

During  Mr.  James's  visits  to  Amer- 
ica he  had  come  into  contact  mainly 


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54        PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


with  the  cultivated  classes,  the  cream 
of  the  old  civilizations  of  New  Eng- 
land and  the  South.  Marble  had  had 
a  wider  experience  and  had  touched 
our  varied  American  life  at  many 
points.  Ellison  had  first-hand  knowl- 
edge of  the  crude  material  out  of 
which  the  future  American  was  to 
be  evolved,  but  Mr.  Mannes  alone  had 
touched  upon  both  sides  of  the  ques- 
tion. If  his  statement  was  to  be  ac- 
cepted, we  must  admit  the  apparent 
anomaly  of  a  people  one  half  of  which 
is  advancing  in  the  intellectual  scale, 
while  the  other  half  is  declining.  And 
this,  I  think,  is  precisely  what  we  shall 
be  forced  to  admit.  But  in  order  to 
comprehend  fully  the  seeming  para- 
dox, we  must  inquire  somewhat  close- 
ly into  the  nature  of  this  thing  called 
temperament,  without  the  coopera- 
tion of  which  no  great  artistic  creation 
is  possible;  for,  much  as  the  word 
is  bandied  about,  the  quality  is  one  of 
the  least  understood  attributes  of  the 
human  mind.  This  lack  of  compre- 
hension is  clearly  shown  by  the  numer- 
ous words  which  have  been  invented 
to  describe  its  functions,  all  of  which 
leave  its  true  nature  as  much  as  ever 
enshrouded  in  mystery.  Leaving  out 
the  word  temperament  we  have  gen- 
ius, inspiration,  intuition,  imagination, 
etc.,  all  of  which  are  virtually  synoni- 
mous  and  interchangeable  terms,  but 
none  of  which  does  more  than  hint 
at  a  vagfue  and  apparently  supra-nor- 
mal something,  to  which  the  words 
God-given  and  heaven-sent  are  fre- 
quently enough  prefixed  as  elucidating 
and  explanatory  adjectives. 

And,  indeed,  at  first  sight  tempera- 
ment is  certainly  a  most  contradictory 
quality,  for  while  it  often  accompanies 
the  most  perfect  physical  and  mental 
health,  it  is  quite  as  likely  to  appear 
in  the  mentally  abnormal  and  un- 
sound, and  its  function  seems  to  be 


nearly,  if  not  quite,  independent  of  the 
pathologic  condition  of  the  upper  con- 
sciousness of  the  thinking,  reasoning, 
directing  ego.  We  find  it  producing 
great  work,  for  instance,  in  such 
undoubted  neurasthenics  as  Heine  and 
Byron,  and  even  in  incipient  para- 
noiacs  like  Blake  and  Goya;  while  in 
other  cases,  of  which  Shakespeare, 
Burns,  and  Emerson  may  be  cited  as 
examples,  the  temperamental  artist 
walks  hand  in  hand  with  the  normal 
man.  It  is  evident,  therefore,  that  in 
attempting  to  elucidate  the  true  diar- 
acter  of  temperament  we  attack  one  of 
the  most  elusive  of  all  psychological 
phenomena,  the  interrelations  of  con- 
scious and  unconscious  cerebration,  of 
reason  and  intuition;  in  a  word,  of 
the  conscious  and  the  subconscious  in- 
tellio^ence.  Now,  there  can  be  abso- 
lutely no  question  that  temperament 
resides  wholly  in  the  subconscious 
mind ;  it  might  almost  be  claimed  that 
it  is  the  subconscious  mind,  and  that 
the  quality  and  amount  of  our  genius, 
our  inspiration,  our  imagination,  our 
intuition,  depends  upon  the  activity 
and  wide-awakedness  of  our  subcon- 
scious selves. 

That  there  is  a  very  distinct  line 
of  demarcation  between  these  two 
principal  divisions  of  the  brain  hardly 
admits  of  discussion.  It  even  seems 
demonstrable  that  one  division  may  be 
seriously  aflFected  by  illness  while  the 
other  portion  remains  in  sound  and 
perfect  health.  And  in  these  cases  it 
is  the  so-called  reasoning  and  control- 
ling faculty  which  is  most  susceptible 
to  disturbance,  while  the  deeper-lying 
subconscious  ego  retains  all  its  pow- 
ers unaffected  and  undiminished. 

I  have  known  personally  one  artist 
of  distinction  who  became  insane  as 
the  result  of  a  great  and  overwhdming 
sorrow.  He  was  very  wisely  permit- 
ted to  continue  the  practice  of  his  art 


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THE  AMERICAN  TEMPERAMENT 


55 


in  the  enforced  seclusion  of  the  asy- 
lum, and  his  pictures  show  none  of 
the  eflFects  of  the  brain-storm  which 
destroyed  his  conscious  intelligence. 
They  are  just  as  simple,  just  as  sane, 
just  as  lovely  as  ever. 

This  line  of  demarcation  is  so  clear- 
cut  and  so  sharply  defined  that  accord- 
ing to  one  of  the  latest  theories  of 
advanced  psychology  the  subcon- 
scious never  sleeps,  but,  like  a  watch- 
ful sentinel,  ever  stands  guard  over 
the  slumbering  master  mind,  which 
alone  needs  the  recuperative  balm  of 
sleep.  In  support  of  this  theory  there 
are  well-authenticated  cases  where  the 
solution  of  some  knotty  problem  which 
had  been  long  and  unsuccessfully 
studied  by  the  conscious  intelligence 
was  found  clear-cut  and  perfect  in  the 
mind  on  awakening  from  sound  sleep. 
In  these  cases  the  presumption  is  clear 
that  the  subconscious  had  been  at 
work  on  the  problem  during  the  hours 
of  slumber  and  had  solved  the  dif- 
ficulty which  had  proved  too  much  for 
the  conscious  mind. 

Recently  I  had  a  personal  ex- 
perience which  may  be  worth  citing 
here,  for  it  does  at  least  prove  definite- 
ly and  beyond  question  that  the  sub- 
conscious mind  may  be  wide-awake 
while  the  conscious  mind  sleeps 
soundly. 

One  cold  and  windy  evening,  on  re- 
turning from  a  walk,  I  seated  myself 
before  the  open  fire  and  began  read- 
ing aloud  to  my  wife.  The  comfort- 
able glow  of  the  fire,  succeeding  the 
sharp  cold  without,  produced  its  us- 
ual effect,  and  shortly  I  fell  into  a 
very  deep  and  heavy  slumber.  From 
this  I  was  presently  awakened  by  a 
startled  exclamation  from  my  com- 
panion. '*What  is  the  matter,  dear?*' 
she  cried.  On  regaining  consciousness 
I  found  that  my  eyes  were  still  scan- 
nmg  the  pages  of  the  book  and  my 


lips  still  forming  and  enunciating  the 
printed  words.  My  wife  assured  me 
that  I  had  not  for  a  moment  ceased 
reading,  but  that  for  some  minutes  my 
voice  had  taken  on  a  strange,  uncanny 
intonation,  and  that  my  sentences  were 
poured  forth  in  a  monotonous  stream 
without  the  slightest  inflection  or  ex- 
pression. I  perused  again  the  chapter 
which  I  had  been  reading  and  foimd 
that  the  point  at  which  I  had  lost 
consciousness — that  is,  gone  to  sleep — 
was  about  four  pages  back.  During 
the  time  which  was  occupied  by  the 
reading  of  these  four  pages,  therefore, 
the  whole  of  the  work  must  have  been 
done  under  the  direction  of  the  sub- 
conscious part  of  my  brain,  which  was 
certainly  wide-awake,  while  the  con- 
scious part  of  me  slept  soundly.  Now. 
a  little  consideration  will  show  what 
a  very  complicated  process  of  mental 
and  physical  action  and  reaction  had 
been  carried  through  without  any  as- 
sistance from  the  conscious  mind.  In 
the  first  place  the  sensitive  nerves  of 
the  eyes  had  correctly  received  the 
impression  of  the  letters  and  words, 
and  had  correctly  transmitted  their 
message  to  the  brain,  whence  again 
the  message  had  been  forwarded  to 
the  vocal  organs,  with  directions  to 
form  and  enunciate  the  sounds  which 
the  brain  knew  to  correspond  with 
the  printed  characters;  and,  finally, 
the  vocal  chords  under  this  brain  di- 
rection had  correctly  performed  their 
office.  Here  were  four  distinct  ac- 
tions, each  dependent  on  the  preced- 
ing movement,  which  had  been  car- 
ried through  without  a  slip  or  failure 
of  any  kind.  It  would  be  difficult 
to  maintain  that  this  complicated  pro- 
cess had  been  carried  through  with- 
out intelligent  control  of  some  kind, 
and  as  the  conscious  brain  in  this 
case  was  most  certainly  asleep,  there 
seems  no  escape  from  the  conclusion 

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s6        PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


that  the  work  was  done  wholly  under 
the  direction  of  the  subconscious  in- 
telligence. This  little  incident  should 
be  sufficient  to  prove  to  even  the  most 
hardened  non-believer  in  the  duplex 
nature  of  the  human  consciousness 
the  possibility  of  independent  cerebra- 
tion on  the  part  of  the  subconscious 
mind.  It  seems  rather  a  pity  that 
it  should  also  dispose  of  the  clever 
aphorism  of  a  certain  famous  profes- 
sor of  psychology  who,  when  asked  to 
describe  in  a  few  words  the  nature  of 
the  subconscious  brain,  replied, 
'There  is  none." 

Of  course  we  can  have  no  knowl- 
edge of  the  more  exalted  activities  of 
the  subconscious  brain  save  through 
a  study  of  its  intellectually  tangible 
results.  But  these  results  are  so  ap- 
parent in  every  work  of  creative  art 
that  it  may  be  stated  as  an  axiom  that 
art  is  not,  and  cannot  be,  the  work 
of  the  reasoning  faculties  alone  and 
unassisted.  Any  creative  artist  will 
tell  you  that  his  best  thoughts,  his  **in- 
spirations,"  his  happiest  phrases  are 
not  reasoned  out.  They  simply  **come" 
to  him,  are  thrust  at  him  from  he 
knows  not  where;  and  he  is  often  as 
much  surprised  as  any  one  at  the  com- 
pleteness of  the  idea,  the  beauty  of  the 
color  scheme,  the  charm  of  the  music- 
al phrase  which  is  thus  handed  to 
him  out  of  the  void  like  a  gift  from 
heaven.  And  this  is  true  not  only  of 
the  artist,  the  writer,  the  musician,  but 
of  any  man  of  true  creative  genius 
working  in  any  line  of  human  endeav- 
or. Even  in  so  exact  a  science  as 
mathematics  the  great  discoveries  have 
been  first  diznned,  and  afterward 
proved  by  weeks  and  months  of  la- 
borious calculation.  But  the  great 
mathematician  knew  the  result  long 
before  he  had  proved  it  with  figures. 
The  great  man  is  always  a  seer;  he 
sees  things  in  advance.     The  proved 


conclusion  is  for  him  a  foregone  con- 
clusion. 

Now,  just  what  is  the  nature  of  this 
obscure  cerebral  action  by  virtue  of 
which  the  man  of  genius  is  enabled 
,to  grasp  in  an  instant  some  great  cer- 
tainty, or  to  group  together  into  some 
conception  of  perfect  artistic  beauty 
floating  sounds  or  colors  or  words 
which  had  in  themselves  no  special 
or  transcendant  worth — ^in  other 
words,  "what  is  temperament?" 

It  is  best  described,  I  think,  as  an 
extremely  sensitive  organization  of  the 
subconscious  ego,  that  portion  of  the 
brain  where  the  automatic  or  intuitive 
reasoning  process  goes  on  free  from 
all  interference  on  the  part  of  our 
conscious  selves.  Operating  at  the  verj' 
center  and  fountain-head  of  being, 
its  so-called  ''instinctive"  conclusions 
may  very  well  be  the  result  of  a  finer 
and  more  perfect  form  of  reasoning 
than  is  possible  to  the  more  or  less 
mechanical  and  blundering  conscious 
ego;  and  the  "flash  of  genius"  repre- 
sents an  instantaneous  correlation  and 
organization  of  ideas  in  that  perfect 
adjustment  to  one  another  which  could 
be  achieved  only  by  the  subconscious 
intelligence. 

But  we  must  remember  that  tem- 
perament is,  after  all,  only  a  tool,  and 
although  a  very  perfect  implement,  it 
is  worthless  unless  it  have  at  its  com- 
mand the  crude  material  out  of  which 
the  great  conception  is  to  be  evolved 
or  the  g^eat  masterpiece  is  to  be  fash- 
ioned. The  poet,  the  painter,  the  mu- 
sician, the  mathematician  must  be  able 
to  call  at  any  moment  upon  a  well- 
stored  memory  for  all  the  facts  that 
may  be  needed  in  the  elaboration  of 
his  work,  and  these  facts  must  pre- 
viously have  been  gathered  by  the 
physical  senses  of  sight  and  hearing, 
and  stored  away  in  the  brain  like  so 
many  negatives  and  records,  all  ready 

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THE  AMERICAN  TEMPERAMENT 


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for  instantaneous  use  whenever  they 
are  called  upon;  for  the  senses  are 
the  feeders  of  the  mind.  A  brain  as 
finely  organized  as  that  of  Shake- 
speare wotild  remain  forever  a  blank 
if  its  owner  were  blind  and  deaf  and 
devoid  of  the  sense  of  touch.  For 
as  nothing  can  come  out  of  a  barrel 
that  has  not  been  previously  put  into 
that  barrel,  so  nothing  can  come  out 
of  an  empty  mind.  And  the  artist 
who  attempts  to  evolve  a  work  of 
art  out  of  nothing  will  produce  noth- 
ing. The  "mute,  inglorious  Milton'* 
is  doubtless  a  far  more  usual  phenom- 
enon than  most  of  us  realize. 

Possession  of  temperament,  there- 
fore, is  not  the  only  essential  for  a 
creative  artist.  He  must  love  nature 
and  study  her  constantly,  and  he  must 
report  his  impressions  with  absolute 
and  disinterested  honesty;  for  art  is 
the  one  himian  profession  in  which 
there  can  be  no  success  without  sin- 
cerity. The  reason  for  this  is  not  far 
to  seek.  Art,  to  be  in  any  way  distin- 
guished, must  be  original;  and  origi- 
nality presupposes  sincerity — the  naive 
and  fearless  presentation  of  the  ar- 
tist's own  personal  vision  of  nature. 
Indeed,  in  the  final  analysis  art  and 
personality  are  synonymous  terms. 
Here  we  have  the  secret  of  all  crea- 
tive art:  it  is  the  intimate  expression 
of  the  personality  of  its  creator;  and 
as  no  two  brains  were  ever  made  alike, 
so  no  two  genuine  artists  could  pos- 
sibly produce  an  exactly  similar  pic- 
ture or  poem  or  symphony,  even  where 
they  used  the  same  theme  or  motive 
as  the  basis  of  their  work.  Here  also 
we  have  the  reason  why  no  combina- 
tion of  lenses,  no  mechanical  device, 
can  ever  be  expected  to  produce  a  gen- 
uine work  of  art.  Even  in  the  so- 
called  art  photography  the  quality  of 
the  production  depends  upon  how 
much  of  his  own  personality  the  artist 


photc^apher  has  been  able  to  infuse 
into  his  work;  and  if  color  photog- 
raphy should  ever  attain  to  mechanical 
perfection,  it  would  be  found  to 
be  mainly  valuable  as  an  adjimct  to 
the  artist's  equipment. 

But  although  temperaments  vary 
vastly  in  different  men,  they  do 
nevertheless  fall  into  certain  large  ra- 
cial groups,  each  with  distinct  char- 
acteristics of  its  own.  The  Germanic 
temperament  diflfers  essentially  from 
the  'Spanish,  and  that  again  from  the 
English.  This  is  so  obvious  that  it 
calls  for  no  special  pleading.  It  shows 
clearly  in  the  painting,  the  literature, 
and  the  music  of  the  countries  men- 
tioned. An  English  glee,  a  Spanish 
ronda,  and  a  German  lied  require  no 
label  to  tell  the  nationality  of  their 
composers;  and  we  know  whether  a 
picture  is  of  Dutch,  Spanish,  or  Eng- 
lish origin  without  inquiring  the  name 
of  the  artist  who  painted  it. 

It  is  this  unfailing  law,  assuring  to 
each  nation  its  own  racial  temperamen- 
tal characteristics,  which  gives  to  the 
art  of  Japan  its  peculiar  and  distinc- 
tive charm,  which  makes  the  art  of 
Persia  just  what  it  is,  and  which  says 
that  each  people  shall  express  through 
its  art  its  own  special  ideals.  Now, 
admitting  as  we  needs  must,  that  the 
American  nation  has  finally  developed 
a  distinct  racial  type  of  its  own,  we 
at  the  same  time  recognize  the  Amer- 
ican temperament,  and  concede  to  it 
qualities  and  characteristics  which  dif- 
ferentiate it  from  those  of  any  other 
race. 

Before  inquiring  as  to  the  exact  na- 
ture of  these  peculiarly  American 
traits,  it  will  be  well  to  devote  a  mo- 
ment to  a  survey  of  the  general  condi- 
tions which  have  produced  them,  the 
sequence  of  forces  and  events  which 
have  gradually  molded  and  evolved 
the  American  type  as  it  stands  to-day. 

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58        PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


If  history  teaches  any  one  thing  with 
special  clearness,  it  is  that  civiliza- 
tions closely  resemble  individuals  in 
their  manner  of  growth.  Both 
have  their  periods  of  childhood,  of 
adolescence,  of  full  maturity,  and  of 
senile  decay.  It  shows  us  also  that 
every  g^eat  nation  has  its  blossoming 
time,  when  with  an  irresistible  im- 
pulse it  bursts  forth  into  art,  and  in 
one  glorious  and  reckless  impulse  ex- 
pends its  stored-up  energy  in  the  ef- 
fort to  put  into  permanent  form  its 
own  particular  ideals  of  beauty.  This 
period  invariably  follows  the  day  of 
conquest,  of  great  physical  and  mate- 
rial prosperity,  and  precedes  the  final 
and  inevitable  decline  which  is  the 
fate  of  races  as  it  is  of  individuals. 
The  sequence  is  so  unvarying  that  we 
can  predict  with  certainty  the  ap- 
proaching end  of  any  nation  which  has 
just  given  birth  to  a  great  art  move- 
ment. I  think,  for  instance,  that  we 
are  witnessing  this  phenomenon  in 
France  at  the  present  monrent.  The 
madness  of  their  "post-impressionists'* 
is  simply  one  of  the  aberrations  to  be 
expected  of  a  decadent  people  in  whom 
the  love  of  nature  and  of  simple  beau- 
ty has  been  replaced  by  a  morbid  crav- 
ing for  strange  mental  and  artistic 
stimulants.  In  England,  on  the  con- 
trary, the  dawn  of  art  is  only  just  be- 
ginning. The  sturdy  old  Anglo-Saxon 
race  has  retained  its  youthful  vital- 
ity longer  than  most  modem  nations, 
and  the  nervous  strain  and  tension 
which  invariably  accompany  the 
birth  of  temperament  in  a  people  are 
with  them  only  just  beginning  to  show 
themselves.  But  slow  as  has  been  this 
movement  in  England,  it  is  safe  to 
predict  of  a  nation  physically  and 
mentally  as  sound  and  vigorous  as  the 
British  that  it  will  finally  develop  one 
of  the  greatest  schools  of  art  that  the 
world  has  ever  seen. 


How  is  it  with  us  in  America?  We 
are  of  the  same  old  Anglo-Saxon 
stock;  but  three  centuries  ago  this 
stock  was  transplanted  into  a  wilder- 
ness where  it  was  placed  in  strange 
surroundings  and  face  to  face  with 
hitherto  untried  conditions.  In  this 
new  environment  all  of  its  old  social 
props  were  suddenly  withdrawn,  and 
it  had  not  only  to  subdue  the  wilder- 
ness to  its  physical  needs,  but  to  evolve 
a  new  social  order  and  to  build  up  a 
new  state  that  would  suit  the  new 
conditions.  At  the  same  time  it  was 
subjected  to  the  strain  of  a  change- 
able, trying,  nerve-racking  climate. 
Under  the  stress  of  these  strenuous 
conditions  the  American  offshoot 
seems  to  have  come  to  maturity  more 
rapidly  than  the  parent  stock;  for 
there  is,  I  think,  overwhelming  evi- 
dence that  the  American  civilization 
which  is  founded  upon  the  old  English 
stock  is  approaching  its  high-water 
mark,  and  that  the  period  of  its  great 
artistic  production  is  near  at  hand.  I 
am  very  much  mistaken  if  America 
does  not  in  the  near  future  assume 
the  lead  in  all  matters  pertaining  to 
art;  and  it  will  be  interesting,  there- 
fore, to  inquire  in  what  particulars  the 
new  American  art  will  differ  from  Ae 
art  which  has  preceded  it.  This,  I 
think,  it  is  possible  to  forecast  with 
reasonable  exactitude ;  for  we  have  al- 
ready advanced  far  enough  upon  the 
road  to  indicate  the  direction  in  which 
we  are  going.  In  the  first  place, 
American  art  will  probably  be  marked 
by  great  clarity  and  directness  of  vis- 
ion, a  forceful  and  at  the  same  time 
refined  simplicity;  for  our  sense  of 
humor  as  a  nation  will  be  sure  to  elim- 
inate and  preclude  any  tendency  to 
fad  or  peculiarity.  It  will  also  be 
an  art  in  which  beauty  and  delicacy 
of  color  will  count  for  much,  and  this 
strong  racial  tendency  will  show  even 

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THE  AMERICAN  TEMPERAMENT 


59 


in  its  sculpture.  In  regard  to  the  ques- 
tion of  design  and  decorative  arrange- 
ment, it  is  more  difficult  to  predicate. 
In  general  the  Germanic  and  Scandi- 
navian races  of  the  North,  with  their 
strong  underlying  strain  of  mysti- 
cism, have  tended  more  to  color  and  to 
sentiment  in  their  art  than  to  design; 
while  the  Southern  races  have  shown 
that  marked  predilection  for  form 
which  has  given  us  the  sculptures  of 
the  Parthenon  and  the  arabesques  of 
the  Alhambra.  Nevertheless,  there  are 
indications  in  some  of  our  recent 
mural  paintings  of  a  very  marked 
feeling  for  decorative  balance  and  ar- 
rangement of  form.  It  may  be  that  the 
long  scientific  training  which  has  pre- 
ceded the  art  expansion  in  America 
has  tuned  us  to  demand  correct  bal- 
ance and  accurate  adjustment  of 
forms,  and  that  this  will  be  reflected 
in  our  art. 

In  some  respects  it  seems  to  me  that 
the  American  art  of  the  future  will 
more  nearly  approximate  the  great  art 
of  the  Italian  Renaissance  than  any 
more  recent  art  development.  Its  san- 
ity, its  loving  fidelity  to  nature  and  to 
nature's  beauty  certainly  point  in  that 
direction;  and  its  own  original  quali- 
ties of  delicacy  and  fine  opalescent 
color  will  only  add  a  new  grace  and 


charm  to  the  old  approved  and  be- 
loved art  of  the  past.  Any  art  which 
is  to  last  must  be  built  upon  the  broad 
basis  of  sane  and  wholesome  human 
nature.  However  much  its  outward 
manifestations  may  vary,  its  funda- 
mental laws  must  remain  the  same  so 
long  as  the  human  race  endures. 

Finally,  let  me  say  that  in  my  opin- 
ion America  in  one  respect  holds  a  po- 
sition absolutely  unique  in  the  histor>' 
of  the  world.  When  the  art  move- 
ment which  is  just  now  beginning  has 
reached  its  end,  there  is  every  proba- 
bility that  our  country  may  look  for- 
ward at  some  later  date  to  another  and 
still  greater  renaissance;  and  if  this 
occurs,  we  shall  owe  it  to  that  very 
foreign  invasion  which  Mr.  James  so 
deeply  deplored.  Out  of  the  admix- 
ture of  so  many  and  such  diverse  race 
units,  grafted  upon  the  old  Anglo-Sax- 
on stock,  there  should  develop  during 
the  next  century  or  two  a  new  people 
— a  people  more  powerful  perhaps 
than  any  the  world  has  heretofore 
known.  And  in  due  season  these  new 
Americans,  following  the  universal 
law,  would  develop  an  art  of  their 
own  which  would  be  brilliant  and 
forceful  and  beautiful  in  proportion  to 
the  force,  the  brilliancy,  and  the  love 
of  beauty  in  the  race  itself. 


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SOME  OF  THE  CONDITIONS  OF  ARCHITECTURAL 

DESIGN 
By  Walter  Cook 


The  Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters, 
which  might  perhaps  be  more  prop- 
erly called  the  Institute  of  Arts 
including  that  of  Letters,  is  composed, 
it  is  true,  of  various  kinds  of  ar- 
tists; but  all  its  members  are  sup- 
posed to  be  artists  in  the  broad  and 
true  sense  of  the  word.  Whether  a 
man  is  working  as  a  poet  or  a  novelist 
or  a  historian,  as  a  painter,  a  musi- 
cian, a  sculptor  or  an  architect,  his 
claim  to  be  a  member  of  this  body 
rests  upon  the  fact  that  he  has  been 
adjudged  to  be  an  artist.  But  the 
conditions  under  which  we  exercise 
our  various  arts  differ  very  widely. 
The  writer  sits  down  and  composes  his 
poem  or  his  essay  or  his  novel  pretty 
much  as  he  pleases  and  sees  fit,  and 
prays  Heaven  for  an  enlightened  pub- 
lisher and  an  appreciative  public ;  and 
the  same  is  true  in  a  way  of  the  mu- 
sician. The  painter  and  sculptor  have 
set  before  them  problems  of  which  at 
least  the  initial  statement  is  of  great 
simplicity ;  they  are  asked  in  each  case 
to  produce  a  beautiful  object,  and  if 
they  succeed  in  doing  so,  their  mis- 
sion is  fulfilled.  But  with  us  archi- 
tects, while  we,  too,  strive  toward  the 
same  goal,  the  conditions  are  in  many 
ways  so  different  that  it  seems  inter- 
esting to  consider  some  of  them  to- 
day. 

It  is  hardly  worth  while,  however, 
to  dwell  in  any  detail  on  what  we 
may  call  the  material  difficulties  of  our 
art,  the  ever  present  necessity  of  unit- 
ing the  utile  and  the  dulce.  Every- 
one knows  that  we  are  called  upon  to 
produce  something  which  shall  in  the 


highest  degree  fulfil  many  and  com- 
plicated material  requirements,  and  at 
the  same  time  satisfy  the  highest  es- 
thetic ones.  Perhaps  this  may  not  be 
an  unmitigated  misfortune,  and  that 
it  is  only  another  example  of  Theo- 
phile  Gautier*s  oft-quoted  sentiment: 

Qui,  I'ceuvre  sort  plus  belle 

D'une  forme  au  travail 

Rebelle, 

Vers,  marbre,  onyx,  email. 

Certain  it  is  that  some  of  the  ma- 
terials we  have  to  contend  with — 
some  of  our  clients,  for  example — ^are 
at  least  as  hard  as  marble  or  onyx, 
and  as  complicated  as  the  most  elabo- 
rate verse  that  has  been  evolved  since 
the  prosody  of  the  Greek  chorus. 

But  even  if  the  poet's  verse  be  ac- 
cepted as  a  literal  truth,  we  may  be 
pardoned  for  hoping  devoutly  that  no- 
body will  ever  make  any  further  in- 
ventions destined  to  make  the  lot  of 
man  in  general  happier,  and  that  of 
the  architect  more  miserable.  For 
each  of  these  is  one  more  stumbling- 
block  in  the  path  that  leads  to  beauty. 

Of  course  every  architect  begins  his 
study  with  the  plan  of  his  building. 
Now,  it  is  difficult  to  explain  to  the 
man  on  the  street  exactly  what  an 
architect  means  when  he  talks  of  a 
beautiful  plan;  for  to  him  the  plan 
seems  nothing  more  ihan  a  diagram 
which  shows  how  certaii\  requirements 
are  to  be  met  and  how  .certain  con- 
veniences are  to  be  obtained.  But  this 
is  not  the  architect's  conception  of  it, 
or  only  partly  so;  for  in  it  he 
sees  at  every  point  the  possibility 
of  beautiful  effects  and  artistic  com- 


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SOME  OF  THE  CONDITIONS  OF  ARCHITECTURAL  DESIGN       6i 


positions,  and  knowing  and  realizing 
these,  his  plan  becomes  in  itself  a 
thing  of  beauty,  which  only  the  spe- 
cially trained  eye  can  recogtiize  and 
appreciate.  So  that  in  this  part  of 
his  artistic  work  he  is  speaking  a  lan- 
guage which  is  quite  unintelligible  to 
the  world  at  large,  and  can  be  entirely 
understood  only  by  a  chosen  few. 
How  many  of  you  who  are  here  to- 
day, and  to  whom  the  beauty  of  the 
great  buildings  of  the  world  is  a  fa- 
miliar word,  have  even  heard  of  the 
wonderful  plan  of  the  Baths  of  Cara- 
calla,  in  antiquity — a  plan  which  has 
been  said  to  contain  all  the  elements 
of  all  the  plans  made  before  or  since, 
or,  in  modem  times,  that  of  the  opera- 
house  in  Paris?  For  the  architect 
there  is  no  part  of  any  important  plan 
where  he  is  not  continually  asking 
himself  how  will  this  look  when  the 
walls  are  built  upon  its  lines,  and  how 
can  this  or  that  motive  be  treated  in- 
side and  outside.  And  these  possiUli- 
ties  he  learns  to  recognize  instinctive- 
ly from  the  aspect  of  the  plan, — call  it 
diagram  if  you  will, — which  becomes 
to  him  as  distinctively  beautiful  or  un- 
beauitiful  in  itself  as  though  it  were  a 
picture  of  the  Virgin,  a  statue  of 
Apollo,  or  an  ode  of  Keats. 

And  then  when  he  comes  to  the 
study  of  his  exterior,  already  more 
or  less  distinct  in  his  mind  before  a 
line  has  been  drawn,  he  remembers 
rapturously  that  "Beauty  is  truth, 
truth  beauty."  And  then  in  the  twin- 
kling of  an  eye  he  is  assailed  by 
doubt,  and  begins  to  question  the 
poet's  words  except  in  the  broadest 
sense.  For  in  architecture,  as  in  life 
in  general,  there  are  a  large  number 
of  unpleasant  truths,  and  if  we  are 
to  be  compelled  to  proclaim  them  from 
the  housetops,  we  shall  have  to  revise 
all  our  preconceived  notions  of  beau- 
ty.   If,  for  instance,  we  are  compelled 


by  truth  in  regard  to  the  water-pres- 
sure of  our  cities  to  place  a  large  tank 
upon  the  roof  of  a  building,  we  can- 
not be  blamed  if  we  use  all  the  means 
in  our  power  to  conceal  the  fact;  or 
if  we  are  unable  to  do  so,  to  erect  such 
a  monumental  tower  to  contain  it  that 
no  one  suspects  the  painful  reality. 
No,  we  can  carry  this  principle  only 
to  a  certain  point.  We  try  to  suggest 
in  the  exterior  of  our  building  what- 
ever we  think  significant  or  interest- 
ing in  the  interior.  But  there  may  eas- 
ily be  an  excess  of  outspokenness  in 
our  architecture,  as  we  often  find  to 
be  the  case  with  our  friends.  Even 
sincerity  may  become  a  vice;  and  one 
has  only  to  loc^  at  some  examples  of 
the  present  worship  of  the  so-called 
practical  and  utilitarian  to  be  con- 
vinced of  it.  After  all,  if  we  are  really 
architects,  we  are  like  the  other  ar- 
tists in  that  we  strive  to  create  the 
beautiful,  and  to  tell  all  pleasant 
truths  in  our  work.  .Architecture 
at  its  best  should  be  in  all  ways  an 
expressive  art,  and  that  is  sometimes 
the  hardest  part  of  it.  If  we  are 
building  a  house  for  some  one,  we 
ought,  paradoxical  though  it  may  seem, 
to  try  to  express  in  some  way  or  other 
the  tastes  and  the  personality  of  our 
client.  After  all,  a  house  is  really  a 
kind  of  frame  for  the  picture  made  up 
of  the  people  that  live  in  it,  and  all 
the  painters  will  agree  that  the  most 
beautiful  frame  is  not  suited  to  every 
picture.  Really  we  ought  to  study 
our  man  quite  as  carefully  as  the  phy- 
sician does  his  patient,  the  father  con- 
fessor his  penitent,  or  as  the  portrait- 
painter  who  seeks  to  read  the  char- 
acter of  the  face  he  is  depicting.  It 
is  a  matter  of  almost  secondary  im- 
portance to  know  whether  he  prefers 
brick  or  stone,  Tudor  rooms  or  those 
of  Louis  XVI.  These  points  we  can 
easily  inform     ourselves     about;  the 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


burning  questions  are  whether  he  is 
a  devotee  of  Beethoven  or  of  De- 
bussy, whether  he  reads  Shakespeare 
or  Alexandre  Dumas,  and  what  his 
convictions  are  on  the  question  of  the 
trusts.  If  we  could  really  get  an  in- 
sight into  real  character,  we  might 
perhaps  be  able  to  build  a  house  which 
would  reflect  not  only  the  individual- 
ity of  the  architect,  but  that  of  the 
people  who  are  to   live  in  it. 

And  of  course  this  imperative  desire 
for  a  particular  expression,  apart 
from  our  own,  a  particular  appro- 
priateness, we  feel  as  much  in  our 
other  work  as  in  the  dwelling-house; 
and  the  problem  is  perhaps  even  more 
difficult,  for  here  we  are  seeking  for 
some  ideal  to  express,  whether  the 
case  be  that  of  a  church  or  a  museum, 
a  court-house  or  a  bank;  and  it  is 
not  always  easy  to  formulate  the 
ideal  in  our  own  minds.  Some  time 
ago  a  certain  foreigner,  who  was  here 
on  a  visit,  criticized  with  some  sever- 
ity what  he  saw  in  New  York,  and 
particularly  the  new  Pennsylvania 
Station,  taking  the  ground  that  as  a 
railway  station  was  a  place  of  much 
hurry  and  bustle,  its  architectural  ex- 
pression should  above  all  be  that  of 
unrest — quot  homines,  tot  sententice. 

Every  important  building  which 
has  been  erected  for  a  specific  pur- 
pose tends,  if  it  is  an  artistic  success, 
to  establish  a  type  for  those  which 
succeed  it.  And  it  is  only  once  in  a 
while  that  some  new  and  original 
wonder  appears,  the  old  monarch  is 
dethroned  and  a  new  regime  begins. 
And  as  the  ideals  are  varied  and 
the  individualities  diflFerent,  we  are 
forced  to  speak  or  to  try  to  speak 
various  languages;  we  must,  if  a  lit- 
erary parallel  may  be  used,  turn  from 
a  Sapphic  ode  to  a  history  of  bank- 
ing in  the  nineteenth  century,  from 
Pelleas  and  Melisande  to  a  life  of 
Gladstone. 


The  art  of  any  period,  we  are  told, 
always  reflects  the  life  of  the  period 
itself,  and  always  should  do  so.  How 
far  this  is  a  universal  truth  may  per- 
haps be  questioned.  Oscar  Wilde  in 
his  most  amusing  effusion,  called 
"The  Decay  of  Lying,"  in  which  there 
is  contained  a  good  deal  of  truth  as 
well  as  of  amusement,  causes  his  es- 
sayist to  say:  "Life  imitates  Art  far 
more  than  Art  imitates  Life.  We 
have  all  seen,  in  our  own  day  in  Eng- 
land, how  a  certain  curious  and  fas- 
cinating type  of  beauty,  invented  and 
emphasized  by  two  imaginative 
painters,  has  so  influenced  Life,  that 
whenever  one  goes  to  a  private  view 
or  an  artistic  salon  one  sees,  here  the 
mystic  eyes  of  Rossetti's  dream,  the 
long  ivory  throat,  the  strange  square- 
cut  jaw,  the  loosened  shadowy  hair 
that  he  so  ardently  loved;  there  the 
sweet  maidenhood  of  The  polden 
Stair,'  the  blossom-like  mouth  and 
weary  loveliness  of  the  'Laus  Amo- 
ris,'  the  passion-pale  face  of.  Andro- 
meda, the  thin  hands  and  lithe  beauty 
of  the  'Vivien'  in  'Merlin's  Dream.' 
And  it  has  always  been  so.  A  great 
artist  invents  a  type,  and  Life  tries  to 
copy  it,  to  reproduce  it  in  a  popular 
form,  like  an  enterprising  publisher. 
Neither  Holbein  nor  Van  Dyck  found 
in  England  what  they  have  given  us. 
They  brought  their  types  with  them, 
and  Life  with  her  keen  imitative  fac- 
ulty set  herself  to  supply  the  master 
with  models." 

Whatever  we  may  think  in  our 
more  analytical  moments  of  this  the- 
ory, it  is  certainly  an  inspiring  idea 
that  the  artists  are  not  merely  pic- 
turing the  life  of  our  epoch,  but  arc 
actually  in  a  measure  creating  it,  and 
if  we  could  only  be  convinced  of  its 
truth,  a  particularly  inspiring  one  to 
the  architect.  For  his  creations,  his 
pictures,  are  not  shut  up  in  galleries 
where  only  the  ar^-^^^^j^^  ^ose  whoe 


SOME  OF  THE  CONDITIONS  OF  ARCHITECTURAL  DESIGN       63 


are  least  in  need  of  esthetic  teach- 
ing, go  to  see  them,  but  are  set  forth 
in  full  view  of  every  passer-by  in  the 
street,  who  has  to  look  at  them  wheth- 
er he  will  or  not,  and  is,  let  us  hope 
at  least,  more  or  less  affected  by 
them  for  good  or  evil.  But  unfortu- 
nately for  us,  Mr.  Wilde  in  a  later 
page  modifies  his  dictum  and  says: 
"The  more  abstract,  the  more  ideal 
an  art  is,  the  more  it  reveals  to  us 
the  temper  of  its  age.  If  we  wish 
to  understand  a  nation  by  means  of 
its  art,  let  us  look  at  its  architecture 
or  its  music"  So  that  it  appears  that 
we  must  after  all  be  content  to  inter- 
pret, to  reflect,  as  it  were,  one  age  and 
one  country,  in  company  with  the  mu- 
sicians; that  we  cannot  help  doing 
so,  in  the  first  place;  and  that,  if  we 
try  to  do  otherwise,  we  are  working 
in  defiance  of  natural  laws,  and  that 
our  efforts  are  predestined  to  failure. 

"Whoever  demands  of  an  architect 
a  style  not  in  keeping  with  the  spirit 
of  his  time,"  said  Mr.  Hastings  in 
his  paper  read  before  you  last  year,  "is 
responsible  for  retarding  the  normal 
progress  of  the  art.  We  must  have 
a  language  if  we  would  talk.  If  there 
be  no  common  language  for  a  people, 
there  can  be  no  communication  of 
ideas,  either  architectural  or  literary. 
I  believe  that  we  shall  one  day  re- 
joice in  the  dawn  of  a  modern  renais- 
sance; and  as  has  always  been  the 
case,  we  shall  be  guided  by  the  fun- 
damental principles  of  the  classic." 

This  is  the  particular  reflection 
which  one  of  our  distinguished  men 
sees  in  the  mirror  which  he  holds  up 
to  nature.  But  there  are  a  good  many 
different  kinds  of  mirrors,  and  the 
reflections  seen  in  them  differ  accord- 
ingly. I  have  in  mind  another  of 
my  professional  brethren,  who  holds 
that  the  Renaissance — that  which 
began     in     the     fifteenth     century — 


was  in  no  sense  a  natural  develop- 
ment, but  should  properly  be  thought 
of  as  a  hideous  calamity,  a  sort  of 
universal  earthquake  which  shook  the 
mind  of  the  world  and  left  it  in  ruins ; 
that  only  in  the  present  age  are  we 
beginning  to  recover  from  this  dread- 
ful day  of  wrath,  and  that  we  must 
do  our  utmost  to  forget  and  ignore 
it,  to  treat  it  as  a  hideous  night- 
mare. We  should,  he  says,  imagine 
what  the  world  would  have  done  if 
it  had  proceeded  on  its  way  peace- 
fully and  normally;  for,  Heaven  be 
praised,  we  are  finally  awakening  to 
the  truth;  and  an  art  which  takes  up 
the  old  story,  the  only  true  story,  not 
archaeologically,  but  with  the  earnest 
endeavour  to  continue  and  to  develop 
according  to  our  present  conditions 
the  great  ideas  of  the  past,  shattered 
though  they  were  by  insane  delusions, 
is  really  reflecting  in  the  truest  sense 
the  best  life  of  our  time. 

And  there  are  yet  others  among  us 
who  declare  that  when  they  hold  up 
their  mirrors  they  see  nothing  which 
reminds  them  in  any  way  of  the  past, 
and  that  if  we  really  had  any  grand- 
fathers, the  best  thing  we  can  do  is  to 
forget  all  about  them.  This  is  an  age 
of  originality,  they  say,  and  only  of 
originality;  and  so  they  evolve  an 
architecture  which  we  look  upon  with 
unmixed  wonder,  uncertain  in  our 
minds  as  to  whether  it  pictures  the 
civilization  of  the  twenty-fifth  century 
before  Christ  or  the  twenty-fifth 
after. 

Now,  if  we  look  at  other  phases  of 
life  as  we  see  it  to-day,  do  we  not 
see  various  states  of  mind  correspond- 
ing in  a  measure  with  these  divergent 
ideas  of  the  architects?  In  literature, 
the  realistic  novel,  the  one  written 
for  that  important  person,  the 
•*tired  business  man,"  and  the  psycho- 
logical romance,  glare  at  each  other 

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64 


PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


defiantly ;  the  French  successors  of  the 
English  Preraphaelites,  Maeterlinck 
and  Stephane  Mallarme,  sound  quite 
another  note  from — Mr.  H.  G.  Wells, 
let  us  say.  In  religion,  one  can  never 
be  certain  whether  one  is  talking  to 
a  stanch  churchman  or  to  an  eso- 
teric Buddhist.  And  in  the  field  of 
politics,  even  if  we  assume  that  we 
are  all  Socialists,  we  have  to  begin 
as  Pontius  Pilate  did,  and  ask  "What 
is  socialism?"  with  small  chance  of 
agreeing  upon  an  answer. 

So  it  may  well  be  that  a  certain  in- 
coherence in  the  architecture  of  to- 
day, as  we  may  call  it,  when  viewed 
as  a  whole,  is  in  reality  the  most  gen- 
uine expression  of  our  life  and  our 
time.  No  cme  of  us  can  be  condemned 
as  false  to  the  truth  of  his  art  be- 
cause his  expression  of  it  is  quite  dif- 
ferent from  that  of  his  neighbour. 

The  individuality  of  the  designer, 
if  he  be  fortunate  enough  to  possess 
one,  he  cannot  well  get  away  from, 
even  if  he  try  to  do  so;  and  this  in- 
dividuality leads  him  to  a  preference 
for  certain  forms,  for  a  certain  style. 
But,  as  has  already  been  said,  the 
architect  must  speak  various  lan- 
guages; one  of  them  will  always  re- 
main his  mother-tongue,  and  the 
others  will  be  spoken  with  some  lit- 
tle accent,  some  reminiscence  of  the 
land  native  to  his  particular  expres- 
sion. Tamen  u^que  recurret.  And  it 
sometimes  happens  that  the  adoption, 
even  unwillingly,  of  a  style  which  the 
conditions  impose  on  him,  influenced 
as  it  is  by  his  personal  predilections, 
results  in  something  which  possesses 
a  special  charm  of  its  own,  and  may 
even  be  the  beginning  of  something 
new;  just  as  the  French  architects  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  starting  with 
the  to  them  novel  ideas  of  the  Italians, 
and  being  still  saturated  with  their 
own  medieval  style,   evolved  one  of 


the  most  charming  and  picturesque 
mixtures  that  we  know — a  style  of  its 
own,  one  possessing  a  true  originality, 
as  all  of  us  who  have  seen  the  castles 
of  Touraine  will  acknowledge. 

I  have  kept  for  the  end  of  this  per- 
haps rather  desultory  paper  that  con- 
dition of  architectural  design  which 
differs  most  from  those  of  the  other 
arts,  and  which  would  seem  to  show 
that,  of  all  the  artists,  imagination  is 
most  necessary  to  the  architect.  Alone 
among  all,  the  architect  never  sees 
what  he  has  created  until  it  is  too 
late  to  change  it.  We  make  our 
drawings,  we  study  everything  about 
them  from  every  point  of  view  we  can 
think  of.  We  wonder,  we  question, 
we  criticize,  we  change;  we  have 
models  made  of  certain  details,  of  cer- 
tain motives,  even  sometimes  of 
the  whole  exterior  of  our  build- 
ing. Unfortunately  we  are  unable 
to  make  a  real  man  of  the 
same  relative  size,  who  from  his  Lilli- 
putian point  of  view  can  give  us  a 
true  artistic  appreciation.  The  thing 
itself,  the  real  thing  we  create,  re- 
mains the  creature  of  our  imagina- 
tion, and  we  never  see  it  as  we  have 
conceived  it  until  the  fatal  words  have 
been  spoken,  *'No  change  is  possi- 
ble." We  never  see  for  the  first  time 
what  we  have  made  without  a  cer- 
tain feeling  of  surprise — of  elation 
when  our  expectations  are  realized,  of 
sadness  when  we  note  how  this  mo- 
tive is  too  important  or  that  one  too 
little  so;  how  the  attic  is  too  heavy, 
or  the  whole  composition  looks 
forced. 

Now,  consider  one  by  one  the  con- 
ditions existing  in  the  other  arts. 

When  a  book  is  written,  the  author 
continually  rewrites,  and  improves 
and  corrects.  He  labors  over  cer- 
tain parts  of  it  again  and  again  until 
he  is  satisfied.     And  when  the  book 

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SOME  OF  THE  CONDITIONS  OF  ARCHITECTURAL  DESIGN       65 


is  finished,  he  lays  it  aside  for  a  while 
and  then  comes  back  to  it  fresh  and 
almost  as  another  person,  and  perhaps 
recomposes  parts  of  it  entirely.  And 
it  is  not  without  having  seen  and  con- 
sidered it  as  a  whole,  without  having 
studied  each  part  and  its  relation  to 
the  other  parts,  that  he  finally  sends 
it  forth  to  the  world. 

The  painter  proceeds  in  the  same 
way;  he  finishes,  as  he  supposes,  his 
picture,  and  then  wipes  out  and  re- 
paints sometimes  a  part,  sometimes 
the  whole.  And  when  what  seems  to 
be  the  final  result  is  reached,  he  still 
returns  and  adds  an  effect  here,  an 
accent  there,  even  though  it  be  on 
varnishing  day.  The  sculptor  is 
equally  fortunate.  He,  too,  sees  and 
criticizes;  he,  too,  changes  and  modi- 
fies at  will.  And  the  musician  is  the 
most  fortunate  of  all.  He  composes 
his  symphony  or  his  opera,  hears  all 
the  rehearsals,  and  has  abundant  op- 
portunities to  judge  of  his  own  work 
as  though  he  were  an  outsider.  And 
then  a  year  or  two  later  he  writes  en- 
tirely anew  a  movement  or  an  act 
which  dissatisfies  him,  or  composes  a 
new  overture  to  his  opera.  Beethoven 
wrote  three  different  ones  for  "Fi- 
delio." 

"Ah,  you  who  are  without  pity 
for  the  mistakes  of  the  architect,  have 
you  ever  thought  of  this,"  says  M. 
Gamier  in  his  book  on  the  Paris 
opera-house — ^  book  in  which  he 
frankly  points  out  and  discusses  his 
own  mistakes  and  his  own  successes 
— ^"that  alone  perhaps  among  the  ar- 
tists and  the  producers  they  have  to 


succeed  the  very  first  time?  Every- 
.thing  in  this  world  is  only  done 
through  tryings-on :  your  boots  and 
your  clothes  are  tried  on  before  they 
are  sent  home  to  you ;  the  cook  tastes 
his  sauces  before  he  serves  them  at 
your  table;  only  the  architects  have 
to  work  without  feeling  their  way, 
and  without  any  hesitation  they  must 
hit  the  buirs-eye  with  their  first  shot ! 

"For  my  part,  I  have  shot  some- 
times wide  of  the  mark.  Never  mind. 
In  spite  of  it,  I  look  back  on  my  rec- 
ord as  a  marksman,  and  do  not  blush 
too  deeply  on  account  of  my  misses." 

Happy  those  of  us  who  can  say  as 
much ! 

Why  is  it,  then,  may  be  asked,  that 
we  all  glory  in  our  special  art,  when 
so  many  of  its  conditions  seem 
fraught  with  difficulties?  Why  did 
Brunelleschi,  beginning  as  a  sculptor 
and  winning  no  small  renown  in  his 
work,  forsake  it  and  devote  his  whole 
life  to  the  Cathedral  of  Florence? 
We  who  are  in  the  midst  of  the  fray 
can  easily  answer  this  in  the  light  of 
our  own  experience.  The  joy  of  vic- 
tory is  in  proportion  to  the  perils  of 
the  combat.  We  have  not  only  the 
exultation  which  every  artist  has  in 
making  something  that  is  all  his  own, 
but  whenever  we  achieve  any  meas- 
ure of  success,  we  remember  the 
stones  that  beset  our  path,  and  re- 
joice  that,  despite  all,  we,  too,  have 
set  up  something  in  the  light  of  day, 
to  be  seen  of  all  men,  which  may  per- 
haps add  something  to  the  beauty  of 
the  world. 


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THE  INSTITUTE  MEDAL 

The  Gold  Medal  of  the  Institute  is  each  subject  every  tenth  year  in  the  order 

annually  awarded  to  any   citizen  of  'JJ^^.I^^^^  .^  ^^^„  ^^  ^^  ^^^^  ^^  ^j,^  gee- 

the   United   States,   whether  a  mem-  retary  each  year  to  poll  the  members  of  the 

ber  of  the  Institute  or  not,   for  dis-  section  of  the  Institute  dealing  with  the  su^ 

»  ject  m  which  the  medal  is  that  year  to  be 

tinguished   services   to  arts  or  letters  awarded,  and  to  report  the  result  of  the 

in  the  creatinn  of  nnVinfll  wnrt  P°"  *°  ^^^  Institute  at  its  Annual  Meeting, 

m  tne  creation  ot  original  work.  ^^  ^j^j^^  meeting  the  medal  shall  be  award- 

The  conditions   of    the   award   are  ed  by  vote  of  the  Institute." 

these:  The  medal  was  designed  by  Adolph 

(i)  "That  the  medal  shall  be  awarded  for  A.    Weinman,    of    the    Institute,    in 

the  entire  work  of   the   recipient,   without  ,qqq 

limit  of  time   during  which   it  shall  have  ^iA^' 

been  done;  that  it  shall  be  awarded  to  a  The    first    award — for    sculpture — 
living  person  or  to  one  who  shall  not  have  „,^^  ^^  A,trT.,o*iie  Qn;«f  r^^^At^nc     TVia 
been  dead  more  than  one  year  at  the  time  ^^^  ^^  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens.   The 
of   the   award;   and   that   it   shall   not  be  medal   was  presented  to   Mrs.   Saint- 
awarded  more  than  once  to  any  one  person.  Qaudens  at  the  meeting  held  in  mem- 
(2)  "That  It  shall  be  awarded  in  the  fol-  ^^„  ^r  t  ^^  u„cko«^  \t^„    <yr^    rrwv. 
lowing  order:   First  year,   for  Sculpture;  ^ry  of  her  husband  Nov.  20,  1909. 
second   year,    for   History   or    Biography;  The    second    medal — for   history — 
third   year,    for    Music;    fourth   year,    for  jj^     t            -cj-dlj 
Poetry;  fifth  year,  for  Architecture;  sixth  ^as  awarded  to  James  Ford  Rhodes, 
year,  for  Drama;  seventh  year,  for  Paint-  The  third  medal* — for  poetry — ^was 
ing;   eighth  year,  for  Fiction;  ninth  year,  j   j   .      t             wti^'j.        i.   r>'i 
for  Essays  or  Belles-Lettres,-lreturning  to  awarded  to  James  Whitcomb  Riley. 


On  January  25,  at  7.30  p.m.,  the  Thirteenth  Annual  Meeting  and  Dinner  of 

the  National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters  was  held  at  the  University 

Club,  Philadelphia,  when  the  third  Gold  Medal  of  the  Institute 

was  awarded  in  the  department  of  Poetry  to 

James  Whitcomb  Riley 


On  January  26,  the  sessions  of  the  Academy  and  Institute  were  opened  by  an 
address  of  welcome  (10.30  a.  m..  Clover  Room,  Bellevue-Stratford)  by 

HIS  HONOR,  THE  MAYOR   OF  THE  CITY  OF  PHILADELPHIA, 

Rudolph  Blankenburg 


At  the  close  of  the  momingf  session  a  luncheon  at  the  Franklin  Inn  was  gfiven 
to  the  members  of  the  Academy  and  the  Institute 

BY 

Mr.  Harrison  S.  Morris 


At  the  close  of  the  afternoon  session  a  Reception  was  given  to  the  members  of 

the  Academy  and  Institute  at  the  Bellevue-Stratford  through  the  courtesy 

of  Dr.  S.  Weir  Mitchell  and  the  members  of  the  Franklin  Inn  Club 

*  The  third  medal  was  to  have  been  awarded  for  Music,  but  thoug:h  several  polls  were  taken  In  the  Department  of 
Music,  none  of  the  nominees  received  a  sufficient  proportion  of  votes.  It  was  therefore  regrettably  necessary  to  pass 
over  the  award  of  the  medal  for  Music  until  its  turn  recurs  in  due  course. 


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CONSTITUTION  OF  THE  NATIONAL  INSTITUTE 
OF  ARTS  AND  LETTERS 

(Founded  1898  by  the  American  Social  Science  Association) 


I.  ORIGIN  AND  NAME. 
This  society,  organized  by  men  nominated 
and  elected  by  the  American  Social  Science 
Association  at  its  annual  meeting  in  18^, 
with  a  view  to  the  advancement  of  art, 
music  and  literature,  shall  be  known  as  the 
National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters. 

II.    MEMBERSHIP. 

1.  Qualification  for  membership  shall  be 
notable  achievement  in  art,  music  or  litera- 
ture. 

2.  The  number  of  members  shall  be  limited 
to  two  hundred  and  fifty. 

III.  ELECTIONS. 
The  name  of  a  candidate  shall  be  proposed 
to  the  Secretary  by  three  members  of  the 
section  in  which  the  nominee's  principal 
work  has  been  performed.  The  name  shall 
then  be  submitted  to  the  members  of  that 
section,  and  if  approved  by  a  majority  of 
the  answers  received  within  fifteen  days 
may  be  submitted  by  a  two-thirds  vote  of 
the  council  to  an  annual  meeting  of  the  In- 
stitute for  formal  election  by  a  majority 
vote  of  those  present.  The  voting  shall  be 
by  ballot. 

IV.    OFFICERS. 

1.  The  oflficers  of  the  Institute  shall  consist 
of  a  President,  six  Vice-Presidents,  a  Sec- 
retary and  a  Treasurer,  and  they  shall  con- 
stitute the  council  of  the  Institute. 

2.  The  council  shall  always  include  at  least 
one  member  of  each  department. 

V.    ELECTION  OF  OFFICERS 
Officers  shall   be  elected  by  ballot  at  the 
annual  meeting,  but  the  council  may  fill  a 
vacancy  at  any  time  by  a  two-thirds  vote. 

VI.    MEETINGS 

1.  The  annual  meeting  of  the  Institute  shall 
be  held  on  the  first  Tuesday  in  September, 
unless  otherwise  ordered  by  the  council.* 

2.  Special  meetings  may  be  called  by  the 
President  on  recommendation  of  any  three 
members  of  the  council,  or  by  petition  of  at 
least  one-fourth  of  the  membership  of  the 
Institute. 

VII.    DUTIES  OF  OFFICERS 

1.  It  shall  be  the  duty  of  the  President  to 
preside  at  all  meetings  of  the  Institute  and 
of  the  council. 

2.  In  the  absence  of  the  President,  the 
senior  Vice-President  in  attendance  shall 
preside. 

•  For  convenience  the  annual  meeting  Is  usually  called 
for  January  or  Februarv. 


3.  The  Secretary  shall  keep  a  minute  of  all 
meetings  of  the  Institute  and  of  the  council, 
and  shall  be  the  custodian  of  all  records. 

4.  The  Treasurer  shall  have  charge  of  all 
funds  of  the  Institute  and  shall  make  dis- 
bursements only  upon  order  of  the  council. 

VIIL    ANNUAL  DUES 
The  annual  dues  for  membership  shall  be 
five  dollars. 

IX.    INSIGNIA 
The  insignia  of  the  Institute  shall  be  a  bow 
of  purple  ribbon  bearing  two  bars  of  old 
gold. 

X.    EXPULSIONS 
Any  member  may  be  expelled  for  unbecom- 
ing conduct  by  a  two-thirds   vote  of   the 
council,  a  reasonable  opportunity   for   de- 
fense having  been  given. 

XI.  AMENDMENTS 
This  Constitution  may  be  amended  by  a 
two-thirds  vote  of  the  Institute  upon  the 
recommendation  of  the  council  or  upon  the 
request,  in  writing,  of  any  five  members. 
The  Secretary  shall  be  required  to  send  to 
each  member  a  copy  of  the  proposed  amend- 
ment at  least  thirty  days  before  the  meeting 
at  which  such  amendment  is  to  be  consid- 
ered. 

XII.  THE  ACADEMY  OF  ARTS 
AND  LETTERS 
In  order  to  make  the  Institute  more  efficient 
in  carrying  out  the  purposes  for  which  it 
was  organized, — the  protection  and  further- 
ance of  literature  and  the  arts, — ^and  to  give 
greater  definiteness  to  its  work,  a  section 
of  the  Institute  to  be  known  as  the  Acad- 
emy OF  Arts  and  Letters  shall  be  organ- 
ized in  such  manner  as  the  Institute  may 
provide ;  the  members  of  the  Academy  to  be 
chosen  from  those  who  at  any  time  shall 
have  been  on  the  list  of  membership  of  the 
Institute. 

The  Academy  shall  at  first  consist  of  thirty 
membeis,  and  after  these  shall  have  organ- 
ized it  shall  elect  its  own  officers,  prescribe 
its  own  rules,  the  number  of  its  members, 
and  the  further  conditions  of  membership; 
Provided  that  no  one  shall  be  a  member  of 
the  Academy  who  shall  not  first  have  been 
on  the  list  of  regular  members  of  the  In- 
stitute, and  that  in  the  choice  of  members 
individual  distinction  and  character,  and  not 
the  group  to  which  they  belong,  shall  be 
taken  into  consideration;  and  Provided  that 
all  members  of  the  Academy  shall  be  native 
or  naturalized  citizens  of  the  United  States. 


67 


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MEMBERS  AND  OFFICERS  OF  THE  INSTITUTE 


Department  of  Literature 

Adams,  Brooks 
Adams,  Charles  Francis 
Adams,  Henry 
Ade,  George 
Alden,  Henry  M. 
Aldrich,  Richard 
Allen,  James  Lane 
Baldwin,  Simeon  E. 
Bates,  Arlo 
Bridges,  Robert 
Brownell,  W.  C. 
Burroughs,  John 
Burton,  Richard 
Butler,  Nicholas  Murray 
Cable,  George  W. 
Carman,  Bliss 
Cawein,  Madison  J. 
Chambers,  R.  W. 
Channing,  Edward 
Cheney,  John  Vance 
Churchill,  Winston 
Connolly,  James  B. 
Cortissoz,  Royal 
Croly,  Herbert  D. 
Cross,  Wilbur  L. 
Crothers,  Samuel  McChord 
de  Kay,  Charles 
Dunne,  Finley  P. 
Egan,  Maurice  Francis 
Femald,  Chester  Bailey 
Finck,  Henry  T. 
Finley,  John  Huston 
Ford,  Worthington  C. 
Fox,  John,  Jr. 

Furness,  Horace  Howard,  Jr. 
Garland,  Hamlin 
Gildersleeve,  Basil  L. 
Gillette,  William 
Gilman,  Lawrence 
(jordon,  George  A. 
Grant,  Robert 
Greenslet,  Ferris 
Griffis,  Wm.  Elliot 
Hadley,  Arthur  Twining 
Hamilton,  Clayton 
Hardy,  Arthur  Sherburne 
Harper,  George  McLean 
Herford,  Oliver 
Herrick,  Robert 
Hitchcock,  Ripley 
Howe,  M.  A.  De  Wolfe 
Howeils,  William  Uean 
Huntington,  Archer  M. 
James,  Henry 
Johnson,  Owen 
Johnson,  Robert  Underwood 
Kennan,  George 
Lloyd,  Nelson 
Lodge,  Henry  Cabot 
Long,  John  Luther 
Lounsbury,  Thomas  R. 


Lovett,  Robert  Morss 
Lowell,  Abbott  Lawrence 
Lummis,  Charles  F. 
Mabie,  Hamilton  Wright 
Mackaye,  Percy 
Mahan,  Alfred  T. 
Markham,  Edwin 
Martin,  Edward  S. 
Matthews,  Brander 
McKelway,  St  Clair 
McMaster,  John  Bach 
Miller,  Joaquin 
Mitchell,  John  Ames 
Mitchell,  Langdon  E. 
More,  Paul  Elmer 
Morris,  Harrison  S. 
Morse,  John  Torrey,  Jr. 
Muir,  John 
Nicholson,  Meredith 
Page,  Thomas  Nelson 
Payne,  Will 

Payne,  William  Morton 
Peck,  Harry  Thurston 
Perry,  Bliss 

Perry,  Thomas  Sergeant 
Phelps,  William  Lyon 
Pier,  Arthur  S. 
Rhodes,  James  Ford 
Riley,  James  Whitcomb 
Roberts,  Charles  G.  D. 
Robinson,  Edward  Arlington 
Roosevelt,  Theodore 
Royce,  Josiah 
Schelling,  Felix  iimanuel 
Schouler,  Tames 
Schuyler,  Montgomery 
ScoUard,  Clinton 
Sedgwick,  Henry  D. 
Seton,  Ernest  Thompson 
Sherman,  Frank  Dempster 
Shorey,  Paul 
Sloane,  William  M. 
Smith,  F.  Hopkinson 
Sullivan,  Thomas  Russell 
Tarkington,  Booth 
Thayer.  A.  H. 
Thayer,  William  Roscoe 
Thomas,  Augustus 
Tooker,  L.  Frank 
Torrence,  Ridgely 
Trent,  William  P. 
van  Dyke,  Henry 
Van  Dyke.  John  C. 
Wendell,  Barrett 
West.  Andrew  F. 
White,  Andrew  Dickson 
W^hite,  William  Allen 
Whiting,  Charles  G. 
Williams,  Jesse  Lynch 
Wilson,  Harry  Leon 
Wilson,  Woodrow 
Wister,  Owen 
Woodberry,  George  E. 


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MEMBERS  AND  OFFICERS  OF  THE  INSTITUTE 


69 


Department  of  Art 

Adams,  Herbert 
Alexander,  John  W. 
Babb,  George  F. 
Ballin,  Hugo 
Barnard,  George  Gray 
Bartlett,  Paul  W. 
Beckwith,  J.  Carroll 
Benson,  Frank  W. 
Bitter,  Karl 
Blashfield,  Edwin  H. 
Brooks,  Richard  £. 
Brown,  Glenn 
Brush,  George  de  Forest 
Bunce,  William  Gedney 
Carlsen,  Emil 
Chase,  William  M. 
Cole,  Timothy 
Cook,  Walter 
Cox,  Kenyon 
Crowninshield,  Frederic 
Dannat,  William  T. 
Day,  Frank  Miles 
De  Camp,  Joseph 
Dewey,  Charles  Melville 
Dewing,  Thomas  W. 
Dielman,  Frederick 
Donaldson,  John  M. 
Dougherty,  Paul 
Duveneck,  Frank 
Foster,  Ben 
French,  Daniel  C 
Gay,  Walter 
Gibson,  Charles  Dana 
Gilbert,  Cass 
Grafly,  Charles 
Guerin,  Jules 
Hardenbergh,  Henry  J. 
Harrison,  Alexander 
Harrison,  Birge 
H^ssam,  Childe 
Hastings,  Thomas 
Henri,  Robert 
Howard,  John  Galen 
Howe,  William  Henry 
Howells,  J.  M. 
Isham,  Samuel 
Jones,  Francis  C. 
Jones,  H.  Bolton 
Kendall.  W.  Sergeant 
La  Farge,  Bancel 
Low,  Will  H. 
MacMonnies,  Frederick 
Mac  Neil,  Hermon  A. 
Marr,  Carl 
McEwen,  Walter 
Mead,  William  Rutherford 
Melchers,  Gari 
Metcalf,  Willard  L. 
Mowbray,  H.  Siddons 
Ochtman,  Leonard 
Parrish,  Maxfield 
Peabody,  Robert  S. 
Pearce,  Charles  Sprague 
Pennell,  Joseph 
Piatt,  Charles  A. 
Post,  George  B. 
Potter,  Edward  Clark 
Pratt,  Bela  L. 
Proctor,  A.  Phimister 
Redfield,  Edward  W. 
Reid,  Robert 


Roth,  Frederick  U  R. 
Ruckstuhl,  F.  W. 
Ryder,  Albert  P. 
Sargent,  John  S. 
Schofield,  W.  Elmer 
Shrady,  Henry  M. 
Simmons,  Edward 
Smedley,  William  T. 
Taft,  Lorado 
Tarbell,  Edmund  C. 
Tryon,  Dwight  W. 
Vedder,  Elihu 
Walden,  Lionel 
Walker,  Henry  Oliver 
Walker,  Horatio 
Warren,  Whitney 
Weinman,  Adolph  A. 
Weir,  J.  Alden 
Wiles,  Irving  R. 

Department  of  Music 

Bird,  Arthur 
Brockway,  Howard 
Chadwick,  George  Whitfield 
Converse,  F.  S. 
Damrosch,  Walter 
De  Koven,  Reginald 
Foote,  Arthur 
Gilchrist,  W.  W. 
Hadley,  H.  K. 
Herbert,  Victor 
Kelley,  Edgar  Stillman 
Loeffler,  Charles  M. 
Parker,  Horatio  W. 
Shelley,  Harry  Rowe 
Smith,  David  Stanley 
Van  der  Stucken,  F. 
Whiting,  Arthur 

DECEASED  MEMBERS 

Department  of  Literature 

Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey 

Bigelow,  John 

Clemens,  Samuel  L.  (Mark  Twain) 

Conway,  Moncure  D. 

Crawford,  Francis  Marion 

Daly,  Augustin 

Dodge,  Theodore  A. 

Eggleston,   Edward 

Fawcett,  Edgar 

Fiske,  Willard 

Ford,  Paul  Leicester 

Frederic,  Harold 

Furness,  Horace  Howard 

Gilder,  Richard  Watson 

Gilman,  Daniel  Coit 

Godkin,  E.  L. 

Godwin,  Parke 

Hale,  Edward  Everett 

Harland,  Henry 

Harris,  Joel  Chandler 

Harte,  Bret 

Hay,  John 

Heme,  James  A. 

Higginson.  Thomas  Wentworth 

Howard,  Bronson 

Howe,  Julia  Ward 

Hutton,  Laurence 

Jefferson,  Joseph 

Johnston,  Richard  Malcolm 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  INSTITUTE 


Lea,  Henry  Charles 
Lodge,  George  Cabot 
Mitchell,  Donald  G. 
Moody,  William  Vaughn 
Munger,  Theodore  T. 
Nelson,  Henry  i^omis 
Norton,  Charles  Eliot  • 
Perkins,  James  Breck 
Schurz,  Carl 
Scudder,  Horace 
Shaler,  N.  S. 
Shirlaw,  Walter 
Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence 
Stillman,  William  J. 
Stockton,  Frank  R. 
Stoddard,  Charles  Warren 
Thompson,  Maurice 
Tyler,  Moses  Coit 
Viele,  Herman  K. 
Warner,  Charles  Dudley 

Department  of  Abt 

Abbey,  Edwin  A. 
Bierstadt,  Albert 
Blum,  Robert  Frederick 
Burnham,  Daniel  Hudson 
Carrere,  John  M. 
Collins,  Alfred  Q. 
Homer,  Winslow 
La  Farge,  John 
Lathrop,  Francis 
Loeb,  Louis 
Millet.  Francis  D. 
McKim,  Charles  Follen 
Porter.  Benjamin  C. 
Pyle,  Howard 


Remington,  Frederic 
Saint-Gaudens,  Augustus 
Twachtman,  John  H. 
Vinton,  Frederick  P. 
Ward,  J.  Q.  A. 
White,  Stanford 
Wood,  Thomas  W. 

Department  of  Music. 

Buck,  Dudley 
MacDowell,  Edward 
Nevin,  Ethelbert 
Paine,  John  K. 


OFFICERS 

President 
John  W.  Alexander 

Fice-Presidents 
Arthur  Whiting 
Brander  Matthews 
Hamlin  Garland 
Robert  Underwood  Johnson 
Hamilton  W.  Mabie 
Harrison  S.  Morris 

Secretary 

Jesse  Lynch  Williams 

Princeton,  N.  J. 

Treasurer 
Samuel  Isham 

471  Park  Avenut,  New  York 


[November,  1912] 


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SKETCH  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  LIST  OF 
MEMBERS  AND  OFFICERS 


The  American  Academy  of  Arts 
and  Letters  was  founded  in  1904  as 
an  interior  organization  of  the  Na- 
tional Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters, 
which  in  turn  was  founded  in  1898 
by  the  American  Social  Science  As- 
sociation. In  each  case  the  elder  or- 
ganization left  the  younger  to  choose 
the  relations  that  should  exist  be- 
tween them.  Article  XII  of  the  Con- 
stitution of  the  Institute  provides  as 
follows : 


In  order  to  make  the  Institute  more  effi- 
cient in  carrying  out  the  purposes  for  which 
it  was  organized,— the  protection  and  fur- 
therance of  literature  and  the  arts, — and  to 
give  greater  definiteness  to  its  work,  a  sec- 
tion of  the  Institute  to  be  known  as  the 
ACADEMY  OF  ARTS  AND  LETTERS 
shall  be  organized  in  such  manner  as  the 
Institute  may  provide;  the  members  of  the 
Academy  to  be  chosen  from  those  who  at 
any  time  shall  have  been  on  the  list  of 
members  of  the  Institute. 

The  Academy  shall  at  first  consist  of 
thirty  members,  and  after  these  shall  have 
organized  it  shall  elect  its  own  officers,  pre- 
scribe its  own  rules,  the  number  of  its 
members,  and  the  further  conditions  of 
membership ;  provided  that  no  one  shall  be  a 
member  of  the  Academy  who  shall  not  first 
have  been  on  the  list  of  regular  members 
of  the  Institute,  and  that  in  the  choice  of 
members  individual  distinction  and  charac- 
ter, and  not  the  group  to  which  they  be- 
long, shall  be  taken  into  consideration ;  and 
provided  that  all  members  of  the  Academy 
shall  be  native  or  naturalized  citizens  of 
the  United  States. 


The  manner  of  the  organization  of 
the  Academy  was  prescribed  by  the 
following  resolution  of  the  Institute 
adopted  April  23,   1904: 


Whereas,  the  amendment  to  the  Consti- 
tution known  as  Article  XII,  providing  for 
the  organization  of  the  Academy  of  Arts 
and  Letters,  has  been  ratified  by  a  vote  of 
the  Institute, 


Resolved:  that  the  following  method  be 
chosen  for  the  organization  of  the  Academy 
— to  wit,  that  seven  members  be  selected  by 
ballot  as  the  first  members  of  the  Academy, 
and  that  these  seven  be  requested  and  em- 
powered to  choose  eight  other  members, 
and  that  the  fifteen  thus  chosen  be  re- 
quested and  empowered  to  choose  five  other 
members,  and  that  the  twenty  members 
thus  chosen  shall  be  requested  and  empow- 
ered to  choose  ten  other  members, — the  en- 
tire thirty  to  constitute  the  Academy  in  con- 
formity with  Article  XII,  and  that  the  first 
seven  members  be  an  executive  committee 
for  the  purpose  of  insuring  the  completion 
of  the  number  of  thirty  members. 


Under  Article  XII  the  Academy 
has  effected  a  separate  organization, 
but  at  the  same  time  it  has  kept  in 
close  relationship  with  the  Institute. 
On  the  seventh  of  March,  1908,  the 
membership  was  increased  from 
thirty  to  fifty  members,  and  on  the 
seventh  of  November,  1908,  the  fol- 
lowing Constitution  was   adopted: 

CONSTITUTION  OF  THE  ACADEMY 
I.    ORIGIN  AND  NAME 

The  American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Let- 
ters is  an  association  primarily  organized 
by  the  National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Let- 
ters. Its  aim  is  to  represent  and  further 
the  interests  of  the  Fine  Arts  and  Lite- 
rature. 

II.    MEMBERSHIP  AND  ELECTIONS 

Jt  shall  consist  of  not  more  than  fifty 
members,  and  all  vacancies  shall  be  filled 
from  the  membership  of  the  National  In- 
stitute of  Arts  and  Letters.  No  one  shall 
be  elected  a  member  of  the  Academy  who 
shall  not  have  received  the  votes  of  a  ma- 
jority of  the  members.  The  votes  shall  be 
opened  and  counted  at  a  meeting  of  the 
Academy.  In  case  the  first  ballot  shall  not 
result  in  an  election  a  second  ballot  shall 
be  taken  to  determine  the  choice  between 
the  two  candidates  receiving  the  highest 
number  of  votes  on  the  first  ballot.  Elec- 
tions shall  be  held  only  on  due  notice  under 
rules  to  be  established  by  the^Academy.  j 

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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


III.    AIMS 

That  the  Academy  may  be  bound  together 
in  community  of  taste  and  interest,  its 
members  shall  meet  regularly  for  discus- 
sion, and  for  the  expression  of  artistic, 
literary  and  scholarly  opinion  of  such  top- 
ics as  are  brought  to  its  attention.  For  the 
purpose  of  promoting  the  highest  stand- 
ards, the  Academy  may  also  award  such 
prizes  as  may  be  founded  by  itself  or  en- 
trusted to  it  for  administration. 


IV.    OFFICERS 

The  officers  shall  consist  of  a  President 
and  a  Chancellor,  both  elected  annually 
from  among  the  members  to  serve  for  one 
year  only;  a  Permanent  Secretary,  not  nec- 
essarily a  member,  who  shall  be  elected  by 
the  Academy  to  serve  for  an  indeterminate 
period,  subject  to  removal  by  a  majority 
vote;  and  a  Treasurer.  The  Treasurer 
shall  be  appointed  as  follows :  Three  mem- 
bers of  the  Academy  shall  be  elected  at 
each  annual  meeting  to  serve  as  a  Commit- 
tee on  Finance  for  the  ensuing  year.  They 
shall  appoint  one  of  their  number  Treas- 
urer of  the  Academy  to  serve  for  one  year. 
He  shall  receive  and  protect  its  funds  and 
make  disbursements  for  its  expenses  as  di- 
rected by  the  Committee.  He  shall  also 
make  such  investments,  upon  the  order  of 
the  President,  as  may  be  approved  by  both 
the  Committee  on  Finance  and  the  Execu- 
tive Committee. 


V.     DUTIES  OF  OFFICERS 

It  shall  be  the  duty  of  the  President,  and 
in  his  absence  of  the  Chancellor,  to  preside 
at  all  meetings  throughout  his  term  of  of- 
fice, and  to  safeguard  in  general  all  the 
interests  of  the  Academy.  It  shall  be  the 
duty  of  the  Chancellor  to  select  and  pre- 
pare the  business  for  each  meeting  of  his 
term.  It  shall  be  the  duty  of  the  Secretary 
to  keep  the  records;  to  conduct  the  corre- 
spondence of  the  Academy  under  the  direc- 
tion of  the  President  or  Chancellor;  to 
issue  its  authorized  statements;  and  to 
draw  up  as  required  such  writing  as  per- 
tain to  the  ordinary  business  of  the  Acad- 
emy and  its  committees.  These  three 
officers  shall  constitute  the  Executive  Com- 
mittee. 


VI.    AMENDMENTS 


Any  proposed  amendment  to  this  Consti- 
tution must  be  sent  in  writing  to  the  Secre- 
tary signed  by  at  least  ten  members ;  and  it 
shall  then  be  forwarded  by  the  Secretary  to 
every  member.  It  shall  not  be  considered 
until  three  months  after  it  has  been  thus 
submitted.  No  proposed  amendment  shall 
be  adopted  unless  it  receives  the  votes  in 
writing  of  two-thirds  of  the  members. 

♦Deceased 


MEMBERS  AND  OFFICERS 

Following:  is  the  list  of  members  in 
the  order  of  their  election : 

William  Dean  Howells 
♦Augustus  Saint-Gaudens 
♦Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 
♦John  La  Farge 
♦Samuel  Langhorne  Clemens 
♦John  Hay 
♦Edward  MacDowell 

Henry  James 
♦Charles  Follen  McKim 

Henry  Adams 
♦Charles  Eliot  Norton 
♦John  Quincy  Adams  Ward 

Thomas  Raynesford  Lounsbury 

Theodore  Roosevelt 
♦Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 
♦Joseph  Jefferson 

John  Singer  Sargent 
♦Richard  Watson  Gilder 
♦Horace  Howard  Furness 
♦John  Bigelow 
♦Winslow  Homer 
♦Carl  Schurz 

Alfred  Thayer  Mahan 
♦Joel  Chandler  Harris 

Daniel  Chester  French 

John  Burroughs 

James  Ford  Rhodes 
♦Edwin  Austin  Abbey 

Horatio  William  Parker 

William  Milligan  Sloane 
♦Edward  Everett  Hale 

Robert  Underwood  Johnson 

George  Washington  Cable 
♦Daniel  Coit  Gilman 
♦Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson 
♦Donald  Grant  Mitchell 

Andrew  Dickson  White 

Henry  van  Dyke 

William  Crary  Brownell 

Basil  Lanneau  Gildersleeve 
♦Julia  Ward  Howe 

W^oodrow  Wilson 

Arthur  Twining  Hadley 

Henry  Cabot  Lodge 

Francis  Hopkinson  Smith 
♦Francis  Marion  Crawford 
♦Henry  Charles  Lea 

Edwin  Howland  Blashfield 

William  Merritt  Chase 

Thomas  Hastings 

Hamilton  Wright  Mabie 
♦Bronson  Howard 

Brander  Matthews 

Thomas  Nelson  Page 

Elihu  Vedder 

George  Edward  Woodberry 
♦William  Vaughn  Moody 

Kenyon  Cox 

George  Whitefield  Chadwick 

Abbott  Handerson  Thayer 

John  Muir 

Charles  Francis  Adams 

Henry  Mills  Alden        ^^^  | 

George  deForest  Bru§|iV^OOQlC 


LIST  OF  MEMBERS  AND  OFFICERS  73 

William  Rutherford  Mead  Nicholas  Murray  Butler 

John  White  Alexander  Paul  Wayland  Bartlett 

Bliss  Perry  George  Browne  Post 

♦Francis  Davis  Millet  Owen  Wister 

Abbott  Lawrence  Lowell  Herbert  Adams 

James  Whitcomb  Riley  Augustus  Thomas 

OFFICERS  FOR  THE  YEAR  1912 

President:    Mr.  Howells.  Chancellor:    Mr.  Sloane. 

Permanent  Secretary:    Mr.  Johnson. 

Finance  Committee:    Messrs.  Sloane,  Rhodes,  and  Hastings. 


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MrVi:J  T'  ■  .    i.r.,;y  '        ^ 


V 


r 


PROCEEDINGS 


OF  THE 


AMERICAN  ACADEMY  OF  ARTS 
AND  LETTERS 


AND  OF  THE 


NATIONAL  INSTITUTE  OF  ARTS 
AND  LETTERS 

Number  VI:  1913 


New  York 


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Copyright,  1913,  by 
The  American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters 


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CONTENTS 


PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  PUBLIC  MEETINGS  OF  THE  AMERICAN  ACADEMY  OF 
ARTS  AND  LETTERS  and  of  THE  NATIONAL  INSTITUTE  OF  ARTS  AND  LETTERS 

Sessions  at  the  New  York  Historical  Society,  New  York,  December  n,  1912 

First  Session,  10:30  a.  m. 

Dr.  Henry  Van  Dyke, 
Acting  Chancellor  of  the  Academy,  Presiding 

PAGE 

Opening  Remarks  of  the  Chancellor 5 

A  Passion  Plav  in  America 

Augustus  Thomas 7 

In  the  Defenses  of  Washington 

Thomas  R.  Lounsbmy  ...  13 
Taste  and  Technique 

Carroll  Beckwith 27 

Realism  and  Reality  in  Fiction 

William  Lyon  Phelps  ....    31 

Second  Session,  3  p.  m. 

John  W.  Alexander, 
President  of  the  Institute,  Presiding 

Outlook  and  In  look  Architectural 

John  Galen  Howard  ....  37 
The  Illusion  of  Progress 

Kenyon  Cox 45 

National  Assets 

Francis  Hopkinson  Smith     .     .     50  i^ 

Music  : 

Piano  Compositions  bv  Howard  Brockway.    Played  by  the 

Composer       55 

Recital  by  The  Barrhre  Ensemble 55 


Commemorative  Papers  read  before  the  Academy  at  the  Special 
Meeting  in  New  York,  Friday,  December  13,  191 2: 

FuRNESS,  Lea,  Mitchell,  Oilman 

Arthur  T  Hadley 56 

La  Farge,  Abbey,  Millet 

Thomas  Hastings 59 

HiGGiNsoN,  Mrs.  Howe,  Crawford,  Moody 

Bliss  Perry 63 

The  Institute  Medal  and  Other  Data 67 


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PROCEEDINGS 

OF  THE 


American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters 

AND  OF  THE 

National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters 


Pubttshed  at  intervals  by  the  Societies 


Copies  may  be  had  on  appHcition  to  the  Permtnent  Secretary  of  the  Academy,  Mr.  R.  U.  Johnsok, 
537  Lexington  Avenue,  New  York  Price  per  annum  $1.00 


Vol.  I  New  York,  June  i,  1913  No.  6 


THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 

Public  Meetings  held  at  The  New  York  Historical  Society,  New  York 

December  13,  191 2 

Dr.  Henry  van  Dyke 

Acting  Chancellor  of  the  Academy,  Presiding 


OPENING  REMARKS  OF  HENRY  VAN  DYKE 

At  the  First  Session,  December  13,  New  York 

It  is  due  to  a  double  accident, — the  use   of   this    admirable   building   as   a 

absence  of   Mr.  \V.  D.  Ilowells  on  a  meeting-place.   We  have  as  yet  no  such 

voyage  for  health,  and  the  absence  of  home  of  our  own  as  that  which  Maz- 

Prof.  W.  M.  Sloane,  who  is  lecturing  arin  built  in  Paris  for  his  college,  and 

to  the  international  minds  in  Derhn, —  Napoleon  turned  over  in.  1805  to  the 

it  is  solely  on  acount  of  this  accidental  Institute  of  France.    We  are  "landless 

coincidence  of  wanderlust  in  the  Presi-  men,''     wandering     servants     of     the 

dent  and  the  Chancellor  of  the  Ameri-  Muses;  and  while  we  await  a  day  of 

can  Academy,  that  the  duty  of  presid-  better   fortunes,   we  are  grateful   that 

ing  at  this  meeting  descends  uikmi  me. '  our  annual  assembly  finds  shelter  with- 

There  is  only  one  thing  that  I  can  do  in  a  house  so  stately  and  so  friendly 

to  win  your  indulgence :  I  can  prevent  as  this. 

the  accident  from  becoming  a  catastro-  The  next  word  that  must  be  sixjken 

phe  by  refraining  from  a  formal  ad-  is  one  of  fellowship  and  greeting  to  the 

dress.     But    there   are   a    few,    simple  members    of    the    Institute    and    the 

words   which   ought   to   be   said   upon  Academy  who  are  present. 

such  an  occasion.  We  are  all  alike  in  this,  that  we  all 

First,  a  word  of  hearty  thanks  to  the  belong  to  the  working-classes.    There 

New  York  Historical  Society  for  the  is  not   a   man   in   these   two   societies 

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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


whose  life  has  not  hecn  laborious. 
Since  our  last  meeting  in  Philadelphia 
most  of  us  have  been  busy  along  our 
special  lines,  tryinji;  to  do  belter  work 
in  architecture  and  music  ajid  sculp- 
ture and  painting  and  ix:)etry  and  prose 
literature.  Let  us  remember,  as  we 
come  together,  the  secret  unity  of  all 
the  arts  as  an  effort  to  express  the 
inner  life  of  man  and  the  meaning  of 
the  world. 

We  are  jealous,  and  rightly,  for  the 
independence  and  autonomy  of  that 
particular  region  of  art  in  which  we 
work.  We  would  not  have  pictures 
judged  from  a  literary  standpoint,  nor 
literature  from  a  pictorial  standpomt : 
we  would  not  have  sculpture  measured 
by  the  standards  of  the  moving-picture 
show,  nor  architecture  considered  as 
"frozen  music."  To  each  of  the  arts 
its  own  rules  and  methods  and  ideals: 
and  yet  for  all  the  same  high  standard 
of  sincerity,  beauty,  and  significance 
in  the  finished  work.  Something  seen 
or  heard  or  felt,  some  voice  or 
vision  that  makes  the  artist  wish  to 
create;  and  then  the  long  toil,  the  lov- 
ing pains  of  labor,  to  embody  this  in- 
w^ard  gift  in  tone  or  color,  in  song  or 
story,  in  statue  or  facade,  for  the  joy 
and  welfare  of  the  world.  That  is  the 
life  of  art,  and  those  who  share  in  it 
should  feel  a  sense  of  brotherhood. 
They  should  cheer  and  encourage  one 
another  to  do  good  work.  They  should 
stand  together  in  endeavor  to  keep  our 
modern  world  from  being  brutalized, 
our  modern  cities  from  being  uglified, 
our  modem  existence  from  being 
mechanized  and  commercialized 
through  the  neglect  and  loss  of  the 
great  and  beautiful  art  of  life. 

The  last  word  that  needs  to  be 
spoken  at  this  moment  is  one  of  wel- 
come, and  explanation,  to  our  guests. 


Pray  do  not  sup|X)se  that  you  are 
with  a  company  of  men  who  imagine 
themselves  "Immortals.''  Such  a  fancy 
name  does  not  fit  the  sobriety  of  our 
thoughts.  Every  year  we  have  to 
mourn  the  death  of  some  members  of 
this  very  mortal  brotherhood.  T^very 
day  we  have  occasion  to  reflect  upon 
the  vicissitudes  of  fame  and  the  uncer- 
tain judgments  of  posterity. 

No,  this  is  not  a  company  of  self- 
appointed  inheritors  of  immortal  celeb- 
rity. Not  a  man  in  the  Institute  or  the 
Academy  has  had  any  voice  in  his  own 
election.  Each  has  been  chosen  by  the 
votes  of  his  competitors  and  rivals, 
without  solicitation.  The  bond  that 
holds  us  together  is  respect  for  good 
work  in  literature  and  the  other  arts. 
The  Institute,  which  is  the  parent  body, 
and  the  Academy,  which  is  chosen  from 
the  Institute  and  ccMuposed  of  older, 
not  of  better,  soldiers,  stands  for  the 
recognition  of  permanence  and  vitality 
in  the  ideals  of  arts  and  letters. 

Not  to  encourage  the  trampling  of 
our  noble  English  language  with  the 
hooves  of  buffaloes,  not  to  confuse 
advertisement  with  criticism,  not  to 
acquiesce  in  the  vulgarizing  of  the  fine 
arts  or  to  mistake  hysteria  for  original- 
ity, not  to  admit  that  the  only  way  to 
be  American  is  to  be  provincial — these 
are  the  purposes  of  conservation  and 
defense  which  unite  the  members  of 
these  two  societies.  On  the  positive 
side  their  aim  may  be  stated  even  more 
simply.  To  maintain  a  high  standard 
with  a  broad  taste,  and  always  to  take 
their  work  seriously,  but  not  to  take 
themselves  solemnly — that.  T  think,  is 
the  ambition  of  the  American  Academy 
and  National  Institute  of  Arts  and 
Letters. 


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A  PASSION  PLAY  IN  AMERICA 

By  Augustus  Thomas 


Should  there  be  a  p^sion-play  in 
America?  Would  its  presentation  in  a 
theater  or  tabernacle  serve  the  highest 
purpose  ?  Would  the  moving,  speaking 
figure  of  the  Christ  bring  His  message 
to  minds  now  closed  to  it?  Would 
mental  impressions  now  wrong  or  dull 
or  dormant  be  made  right  and  clearer 
and  awake?  Would  the  real  purpose 
of  religious  teaching,  the  growth  of  the 
spiritual  in  man,  be  thereby  furthered? 

Macaulay,   in   his   essay   on   Milton, 

says: 

The  great  mass  of  men  must  have  images. 
Judaism  scarcely  ever  acquired  a  proselyte. 
God  the  uncreated,  the  incomprehensible,  the 
invisible,  attracted  few  worshipers.  It  was 
before  divinity  embodied  in  a  human  form, 
walking  among  men,  partaking  of  their  in- 
firmities, leaning  on  their  bosoms,  weeping 
over  their  graves,  slumbering  in  the  manger, 
bleeding  on  the  cross,  that  the  prejudices  of 
the  synagogues,  and  the  doubts  of  the 
academy,  and  the  pride  of  the  portico  and 
the  fasces  of  the  lictors,  and  the  swords  of 
thirty  legions,  were  humbled  in  the  dust. 

If  we  grant  this  statement  of  Macau- 
lay's,  for  us  there  may  be  significance  in 
the  fact  that  this  conquest,  so  eloquent- 
ly described,  occurred  during  centuries 
when  every  man,  after  the  fashion  of  his 
private  heart,  set  up  in  his  own  mind  a 
picture  of  the  God  so  walking,  weeping, 
slumbering,  and  bleeding ;  that  this  con- 
quest occurred  before  Italian  art  in  its 
decadent  period,  by  repetition  and  sten- 
cil, captured,  cramped,  and  imprisoned 
free  and  personal  concept  in  its  conven- 
tion— a  convention  characterized  by  fee- 
bleness and  sentimentality  and  devoid 
of  the  masculine  vigor  that  Angelo  or 
even  Titian  expressed.  But  as  "seeing 
is  believing,"  as  the  eye  is  more  easily 
persuaded  than  the  ear,  more  quickly 
and  more  permanently  conquered,  the 
Christ  of  that  declining  period,  by  mere 
repetition  of  woodcut  and  chromo,  has 
subdued  imagination  as  the  persistence 


of  gravity's  attraction  stoops  the 
strongest  shoulders. 

Even  though  there  is  here  not  time 
fully  to  consider  the  question,  it  is  perti- 
nent to  ask  how  far  the  pictured  image 
thus  set  up  in  earlier  time  by  hands 
quite  as  fallible  as  our  own  fails  to 
command  the  modern  imagination,  es- 
pecially in  our  self-reliant  and  vital 
America;  how  far  the  suggested  physi- 
cal weakness  is  out  of  harmony  with 
our  perhaps  unconscious  conception  of 
leadership,  and  what  discrepancy  there 
may  be  between  the  Christ  so  pictured 
and  his  reported  speech  and  action; 
how  far,  in  fact,  this  portrait  is  untrue ; 
and  how  far  its  acceptance  and  circula- 
tion have  weakened  the  recruiting  pow- 
er of  His  message?  Also,  what  value 
there  would  be  in  attempts  to  revise  the 
popular  conception  ? 

Non-resistance  in  a  figure  incapable 
of  successfully  resisting  is  the  virtue 
of  necessity;  but  strength  declining  to 
smite  back  has  persuasive  eloquence. 
The  peaceful  carpenter  of  Nazareth 
possessed  the  beauty  of  physical  pow- 
er ;  a  careful  reading,  of  the  synoptic 
Gospels  makes  this  the  only  logical  de- 
duction. He  was  above  the  usual  stat- 
ure; he  was  "more  than  common  tall," 
a  leader  promptly  recognized.  Women 
believed  him  and  believed  him  quickly. 
Several  women  of  means  followed  his 
pilgrimages;  "Joanna  the  wife  of 
Chuza  Herod's  steward,  and  Susanna, 
and  many  others,  which  ministered 
unto  him  of  their  substance."  The  his- 
tory of  the  world  is  filled  with  the  sto- 
ries of  sincere  attachments  of  women 
for  men  of  moderate  stature,  but  they 
are  records  of  attachments  grown 
through  association,  and  not  that  admi- 
ration of  first  sight.  Women  admired 
this  man  at  once.    That  is  slight  ground 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


upon  which  to  build  an  opinion  as  to 
his  height,  but  there  is  other  support. 

A  centurion — that  is  to  say,  an  officer 
commanding  one  hundred  Roman  war- 
riors— came  to  Jesus  one  day  to  solicit 
his  healing  office  for  a  servant  that  was 
sick.  The  Master  offered  to  accom- 
pany the  centurion  to  his  residence,  and 
thereupon  the  officer  replied: 

Lord,  I  am  not  worthy  that  thou  shouldest 
come  under  my  roof:  but  speak  the  word 
only,  and  my  servant  shall  be  healed. 

For  I  anl  a  man  under  authority,  having 
soldiers  under  me:  and  I  say  to  this  man, 
Go,  and  he  goeth;  and  to  another,  Come, 
and  he  cometh;  and  to  my  servant.  Do  this, 
and  he  doeth  it. 

This  fighting  Roman,  quartered  in 
a  conquered  province,  meeting  Jesus, 
recognized  the  man  of  authority. 
Again  in  Jerusalem,  angered  at  the 
desecration  of  the  temple  by  the 
merchants  who  had  erected  in  it 
stands  under  permission  from  the 
priests,  He  made  a  whip  of  knotted 
cords  and  drove  from  the  temple  the 
money-changers,  those  who  had  sold 
oxen  and  doves  and  sheep  for  sacrifice. 
It  is  no  doubt  possible  for  a  man  of 
ordinary  stature  to  drive  one  Jew  from 
his  stand  of  merchandise,  it  might  even 
be  possible  for  an  angry  man  with  a 
weapon  to  drive  away  two  or  three,  but 
to  drive  away  a  number  who  could 
easily  unite  against  hiiit — a  number  ten- 
acious of  their  commercial  rights  and 
who  in  their  going  would  suffer  finan- 
cial loss,  bears  out  this  asstmiption. 
Again,  on  Calvary,  at  the  ctose  of 
day,  the  Roman  soldiers,  wishing  to  be 
sure  of  the  death  of  the  three  who  had 
been  crucified,  broke  the  legs  of  the 
thieves  who  were  hanging  there,  but 
into  the  side  of  Jesus,  whom  they  be- 
lieved already  dead,  they  thrust  a  spear. 
If  not  dead,  then  surely  this  was  a 
quicker  release  than  the  cruel  treat- 
ment for  the  thieves.  This  discrimina- 
tion was  not  a  show  of  disrespect,  as 
many  have  accepted  it,  but  was  com- 
passion, was  only  such  consideration 
as  the  gladiator  on  guard  would  give  a 
condemned  man  whose  physical  quality 
won  his  admiration. 


Jesus  was  deep  of  chest,  had  power 
of  lung  and  throat.  From  Cana  to 
Nazareth  is  three  miles  up  the  moun- 
tain road,  a  climb  made  by  Him  often 
as  a  boy,  a  youth,  a  man.  The  dwellers 
in  such  mountain  districts  are  deep- 
chested  and  strong-limbed. 

In  His-  ministry  the  multitude  to 
which  He  spoke  was  sometimes  five 
thousand,  not  counting  the  women  and 
children,  a  total  gathering  of  probably 
twice  that  number.  In  a  modern  audi- 
torium, designed  and  constructed  for 
the  purpose,  the  speaker  who  is  heard 
by  such  an  audience  is  unusual.  This 
one  of  Nazareth,  listened  to  by  ten  thou- 
sand on  the  summer  hillsides  of  Gallilee, 
was  no  invalid,  but  an  orator  of  great 
vocal  power.  The  chest  was  deep,  the 
shoulders  were  broad,  the  right  one. 
like  that  of  most  toilers,  somewhat 
higher  than  the  left.  The  throwing  of 
stones  by  Jewish  boys  was  a  practice 
as  constant  as  that  of  throwing  a  ball 
by  our  modern  boy.  There  were  of- 
fenses under  the  Jewish  law  punishable 
by  death ;  the  execution  was  by  stoning. 
The  Jews  were  stone-throwers,  and 
they  began  the  practice  in  their  youth. 

Much  of  Palestine  was  under  culti- 
vation. A  considerable  part  of  the 
crop,  especially  in  the  hill  districts,  was 
grapes.  The  young  carpenter  of  Naza- 
reth was  familiar  with  the  vineyards, 
with  their  care  as  to  pruning  and  the 
disposal  of  the  dead  branches  by  fire; 
as  to  their  cultivation,  as  to  tKe  treat- 
ment of  their  product,  the  wage  of  the 
worker,  his  hours.  Where  the  vine  is 
cultivated  as  a  business,  there  is  not  the 
umbrageous  product  made  to  trail 
above  an  arbor.  The  treatment  for  the 
growth  of  the  fruit  is  an  annual  cutting 
back  of  the  original  branches.  The 
commercially  productive  vines  are  sel- 
dom more  than  four  feet  high.  They 
are  set  so  close  together  that  when  in 
bloom  their  equally  spreading  foliage 
and  fruit  make  an  unbroken  deck  some 
four  feet  above  the  field.  The  employ- 
ment of  men  in  the  vineyards  for  any 
purpose   after   the  pruning  is   seldom 


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A  PASSION  PLAY  IN  AMERICA 


profitable.  The  laborers  are  usually 
children.  The  children  creep  under  the 
vines,  and  gather  clusters  without  fa- 
tigue until  the  end  of  the  day,  and  with 
agility,  where  the  adult  tires  and  is  slow 
and  destructive.  A  second  employment 
for  boys  in  the  vineyards  is  to  drive 
away  the  birds.  iEschylus  watched  the 
vineyards  in  his  day,  and  this  first  of 
Greek  dramatic  poets  was  often  flogged 
in  his  youth  for  neglecting  his  duties 
while  he  dreamed  his  immortal  verse. 

The  trade  of  carpenter  in  Nazareth 
was  not  a  demanding  one.  Joseph's 
helper  was  not  always  busy;  the  boy 
would  have  many  idle  hours.  Nazareth 
was  surrounded  by  vineyards;  there 
was  in  them  work  to  drive  away  the 
birds.  This  was  done  by  shaking  a 
wooden  clapper  that  made  a  noise,  but 
was  supplemented,  when  the  birds  were 
too  bold,  by  the  throwing  of  stones.  A 
lad  who  had  been  encouraged  to  trace 
his  lineage  from  David  would  wish  to 
emulate  his  heroic  ancestor.  When  the 
boys  threw  with  fatal  accuracy,  they 
were  allowed  to  sell  the  birds  they 
killed.  Two  sparrows  sold  for  a  far- 
thing, but  already  there  had  been  creep- 
ing into  the  mind  of  the  young  Messiah 
the  tender  thought  that  "One  of  them 
shall  not  fall  on  the  ground  without 
your  Father."  He  was,  however,  a 
stone-thrower.  That  exercise,  as  much 
as  carpentry,  develops  arm  and  shoul- 
der. 

Jesus  was  right-handed;  He  thought 
always  in  the  terms  of  the  right-handed 
man:  "WTiosoever  shall  smite  thee  on 
the  right  cheek,  turn  to  him  the  other 
also."  Men  are  usually  smitten  on 
the  left  cheek  and  by  the  right  hand 
of  an  opponent;  but  He  was  so  right- 
handed  in  his  thinking  that  in  the  readi- 
ness of  discourse  He  overlooked  this 
distinction.  He  said,  "If  thy  right  eye 
oflFend  thee,  pluck  it  out;  *  *  *  if 
thy  right  hand  oflFend  thee,  cut  it  oflF." 
**Let  not  thy  left  hand  know  what  thy 
right  hand  doeth."  With  Him  the  right 
hand  was  the  doer.  The  hands  were 
the  hands  of  a  carpenter,  of  a  work- 


man who  had  lived  by  the  sweat  of 
his  brow.  The  hand  of  a  carpen- 
ter is  broad  and  calloused  and  strong. 
Jesus  also  helped  the  fishermen.  From 
Nazareth  or  from  Cana  to  the  Sea  of 
Gennesaret  is  about  ten  miles.  The 
shores  of  the  sea  once  reached,  Ca- 
pernaum was  only  two  hours'  sail  in 
the  primitive  craft  of  that  day.  It  is 
not  probable,  when  the  hostile  unbe- 
lievers were  asking  loudly,  "Is  n't  this 
who  preaches  to  us  only  the  carpen- 
ter?" that  the  two  fisher  sons  of  Zebi- 
dee  left  their  nets  and  followed  after 
Him  without  previous  acquaintance. 
Christian  tradition  says  with  great 
probability  that  these  men  were  his 
cousins.  In  the  many  years  also  pre- 
ceding His  ministry  the  probabilities 
are  that  He  was  often  found  at  Caper- 
naum, and  that  these  young  men  were 
his  friends ;  that  their  mother,  Salome, 
had  admired  for  years  the  gentle  and 
earnest  companion  of  her  boys,  whom 
she  afterward  followed  to  His  death. 
It  is  probable  that  when  not  working  at 
the  trade  of  carpentry  much  of  His 
young  manhood  was  passed  in  the  boats 
of  James  and  John.  This  carpenter  un- 
derstood the  casting  of  nets,  he  under- 
stood the  management  of  boats.  At 
one  time,  when  pressed  by  the  multi- 
tude, he  stepped  into  one  of  these  small 
boats  belonging  to  Zebidee  or  Simon 
Peter  and  pushed  from  the  land,  using 
its  thwart  as  a  rostrum  and  keeping  it 
in  place  as  he  addressed  the  congrega- 
tion on  the  shore.  Any  man  who  has 
managed  during  the  days  of  a  few 
weeks'  outing  the  smallest  cat-boat 
knows  what  wet  ropes  do  to  the  hand. 
If  Jesus  had  not  been  an  honest  car- 
penter, his  association  with  the  fisher- 
men and  the  help  that  He  must  impul- 
sively have  lent  them  working  at  their 
nets  would  have  taken  His  hands  out 
of  the  wax-work  and  manicured  class. 

The  nails  on  the  fingers  were  heavy 
and  worn  and  broken ;  those  of  all  car- 
penters are,  those  of  all  net  fishermen. 
Often  the  Pharisees  criticised  His  dis- 
ciples and  Him  because  after  the  day's 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


k,  the  day's  walk,  the  day's  curing 
iie  sick,  and  the  day's  ministrations, 
r  sat  down  to  their  evening  meal 
lOut  washing  the  hands.  The  wash- 
of  hands  at  that  time  was  a  relig- 
rite,  and  the  criticism  was  of  course 
1  that  account;  but  the  failure  to 
h  the  hands  nevertheless  speaks  the 
wart  indifference  to  their  appear- 
t.  When  the  erring  woman  was 
ight  to  Him  in  the  temple  at  Jeru- 
m  that  He  might  pass  judgment 
1  her,  He  "stooped  down,  and  with 
finger  wrote  on  the  ground."  So 
n  they  continued  asking  Him,  He 
ed  up  himself,  and  said  unto  them, 
that  is  without  sin  aniong  you,  let 

first  cast  a  stone  at  her.  And 
n  he  stooped  down,  and  wrote  on 
ground.  And  they  which  heard 
fting  convicted  by  their  own  con- 
ice,  went  out  one  by  one,  begin- 
l  at  the  eldest,  even  unto  the  last: 

Jesus  was  left  alone,  and  the 
lan  standing  in  the  midst." 
ne  conunentator,  speaking  of  this 
irrence,  says  that  the  Master 
ped  and  wrote  on  the  ground  not 
wing  what  to  say.  Another  com- 
tator  says  that  this  deduction  is  im- 
;ible  and  that  He  probably  wrote  on 
floor  of  the  temple  to  remind  the 
s  of  a  law  which  had  been  originally 
ten  upon  stone.  This  assumption  is 
e  untenable  than  the  other.  The 
s  at  the  moment  were  invoking  the 

and  the  law  read  death.  It  is  in- 
:eivable  that  this  man  of  mercy  was 
inding  these  hunters  of  that  san- 
lary  code.     One  minister  suggests 

the  Master  probably  traced  some 
ilistic  figures  which  had  a  secret 
ificance  the  occult  meaning  of  which 

read  by  some  one  in  the  group, 
re  is  a  simpler  explanation  than  any 
hese.  A  grandmother  who,  if  she 
t  alive,  would  be  one  hundred  years 
ge,  told  that  when  she  was  a  little 
of  ten,  ninety  years  ago,  the  chil- 
I  in  the  schools  had  no  pencils  and 
tr  and  slates.  All  of  their  exer- 
;  in  written  arithmetic  were  traced 


in  a  box  of  wet  sand  with  a  stylus, 
or  sharpened  stick.  When  the  sum 
was  done,  the  surface  of  the  wet  sand 
was  smoothed  again  for  a  second 
trial.  The  sand  box  was  the  ordi- 
nary tab  of  antiquity;  the  poetic  allu- 
sion to  a  name  written  in  the  sand  re- 
fers to  that.  Such  simple  computations 
as  the  carpenter  of  Nazareth  found 
necessary  He  probably  proved  upon  the 
dirt  floor  of  His  shop  with  a  sliver  of 
cedar.  In  the  temple,  with  His  mar- 
velous intuition  and  tact,  he  knew  that 
to  continue  looking  into  the  faces  of 
those  accusers  to  whom  He  had  said, 
"He  that  is  without  sin  among  you,  let 
him  first  cast  a  stone  at  her,"  would 
have  been  to  invite  the  natural  antago- 
nism that  comes  with  a  duel  of  the 
eyes;  and  just  as  any  wholesome  young 
man  of  to-day  in  the  same  position, 
wishing  to  give  his  auditors  time  for 
reflection,  would  take  his  pencil  and 
mark  mechanically  upon  the  newspaper 
on  his  table,  the  Master  stooped  and 
wrote  upon  the  ground  with  His  finger 
as  He  had  often  written  on  the  dirt 
floor  of  the  shop  in  Nazareth. 

He  wrote  on  the  ground  with  His 
finger. 

This  was  a  finger  in  strong  sympathy 
with  the  ground,  not  the  finger  of  idle- 
ness and  vanity  and  shapeliness  and 
care:  it  was  the  finger  of  a  carpenter. 

The  fast  in  the  wilderness,  the  faint- 
ing under  the  cross,  the  cry  of  agony 
at  the  last,  all  go  to  make  in  the  story 
high  lights  that  determined  the  sorrow- 
ful Renaissance  conception,  but  the 
body  of  the  Master  was  symmetrical 
and  well  nourished.  He  had  had  a  boy- 
hood of  great  liberty  and  self-reliance; 
He  was  an  orphan  in  His  early  youth. 
Although  Joseph  had  lived  until  there 
were  eight  children  in  the  family,  Jesus 
was  called  by  the  neighbors  the  Son  of 
Mary.  They  said:  "Is  n't  this  the  car- 
penter? Is  n't  His  mother  Mary,  and 
are  not  His  brothers  James  and  Joses 
and  Simon  and  Judas;  and  are  not  all 
His  sisters  with  us?"  Not  His  sister 
alone,    nor   both    His   sisters,   as   they 


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would  have  spoken  had  there  been  only 
two,  but  all  His  sisters.  So  that  with 
four  brothers  named  and  at  least  three 
sisters  it  is  indicated  that  He  was  the 
first  of  eight  orphans. 

This  oldest  of  the  boys  had  great 
freedom  as  a  child.  In  the  day  He  was 
for  many  hours  without  inquiry  from 
the  mother.  This  is  shown  by  the  fact 
that  when  He  was  twelve  years  old  the 
family,  returning  from  the  feast  in 
Jerusalem,  starting  on  their  homeward 
way  supposing  Him  to  be  in  the 
company,  went  a  day's  journey,  and 
then  sought  him  among  their  kinfolk 
and  acquaintance;  "and  when  they 
found  Him  not,  they  turned  back  again 
to  Jerusalem,  seeking  Him.  And  it 
came  to  pass,  that  after  three  days  they 
found  Him  in  the  temple,  sitting  in  the 
midst  of  the  doctors,  both  hearing  them, 
and  asking  them  questions.** 

The  trust  in  the  boy*s  ability  to  take 
care  of  himself  which  would  let  Mary 
dismiss  Him  from  her  mind  for  an  en- 
tire day,  and  that  day  one  of  travel,  in- 
dicates the  freedom  that  we  must  infer. 
Where  were  these  long  and  undirected 
holidays  and  half-days  passed?  There 
is  little  to  be  seen  from  the  town  of 
Nazareth  itself,  but  above  it,  higher  on 
the  mountain,  there  is  a  plateau  which 
overlooks  the  highest  houses,  and  from 
which  may  be  had  a  view  of  the  Valley 
of  the  Jordan,  and,  on  the  west,  Carmel, 
backed  by  the  Mediterranean  clear  to 
the  horizon.  This  must  have  been  a 
favorite  playground  of  the  little  dream- 
er. From  there  the  waters  gather  on 
the  rainy  days  and  tumble  through  the 
stony  gutters  of  Nazareth;  down  these 
little  streams  He  must  have  chased  His 
splintered  boats  launched  from  the  shop 
of  Joseph. 

A  mountain  boy,  a  carpenter,  a  fisher- 
man, hill-climber,  worker,  athlete,  but 
well  nourished.  One  neighbor  com- 
plained that  the  disciples  of  John  fasted 
often  and  made  prayers,  and  likewise 
the  Pharisees ;  but  His  ate  and  drank." 
At  another  time  Jesus  himself  said, 
"John  came  neither  eating  nor  drink- 


ing and  they  say  He  hath  a  devil.  The 
Son  of  man  came  eating  and  drinking, 
and  they  say.  Behold  a  man  gluttonous, 
and  a  winebibber." 

There  is  also  an  esthetic  reason  for 
the  inference  that  he  was  not  emaci- 
ated. Young  men  in  the  gymnasium 
and  other  places  where  they  go  semi- 
nude  are  reluctant  to  make  a  display  of 
a  body  that  is  unattractive.  The  mem- 
bers of  the  group  about  the  Master 
were  often  in  scanty  clothing,  often 
half  naked  or  entirely  so.  After  the 
resurrection,  when  Jesus  was  walking 
on  the  shores  of  the  lake  and  some  of 
the  disciples  had  returned  to  their  old 
vocation.  He  called  to  them  from  the 
shore,  "Children  have  you  any  meat?" 
"Now  when  Simon  Peter  heard  that  it 
was  the  Lord,  he  girt  his  fisher's  coat 
unto  him,  (for  he  was  naked),  and  did 
cast  himself  into  the  sea." 

In  the  garden  of  Gethsemane,  upon 
the  occasion  of  the  arrest,  "there  fol- 
lowed him  a  certain  young  man,  having 
a  linen  cloth  cast  about  his  naked  body ; 
and  the  young  men  laid  hold  on  him: 
and  he  left  the  linen  cloth,  and  fled 
from  them  naked.**  There  were  times 
with  that  early  group  when  a  piece  of 
linen  about  the  waist  was  covering 
enough. 

At  the  supper  at  Bethany,  when 
Mary  broke  the  alabaster  box  of  spike- 
nard and  poured  it  on  the  head  of 
Jesus,  He  said,  "She  hath  poured  this 
ointment  on  my  body,  she  did  it  for 
my  burial.'*  And  this  statement  that 
Mary  anointed  the  body  of  Jesus,  oc- 
curring in  more  than  one  account  of 
the  event,  is  probably  a  literal  statement 
of  the  fact. 

At  that  Saturday  supper  of  an  April 
in  Judea,  in  the  little  room  of  this  poor 
family  of  which  the  leper  Simon  was 
the  head  and  in  which  Lazarus  was  a 
brother,  a  reasonable  deduction  is  that 
the  air  was  heavy  and  oppressive.  The 
sun-burned  shoulders  of  the  itinerant 
shepherd  and  the  members  of  His  little 
flock  were  probably  without  covering. 
And  at  the  last  supper  five  days  later, 


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during  a  discourse  and  a  colloquy  by 
no  means  brief,  "there  was  leaning  on 
Jesus'  bosom  one  of  his  disciples, 
whom  Jesus  loved."  This  disciple  was 
John,  that  young  man  of  sufficient 
vigor  to  escape  from  those  of  the  sher- 
iff's party  who  laid  hold  on  Him  later 
in  the  garden  at  the  time  of  arrest.  A 
young  man  of  vigor,  but  leaning  on  a 
stouter  bosom  than  his  own.  Earlier 
at  this  supper  the  Master  himself  rose 
from  His  place,  laid  aside  His  gar- 
ments, girded  a  towel  about  His  loins, 
poured  water  in  a  basin,  and  washed 
the  feet  of  the  disciples,  wiping  them 
with  the  towel  wherewith  He  was  gird- 
ed. The  figure  that  took  the  bowl  and 
water  and  knelt  in  turn  at  the  feet  of 
each  was  that  of  an  athlete  trained  by 
a  daily  walking,  by  work  in  the  boats, 
by  mountain-climbing,  by  a  boyhood  of 
liberty,  by  life  in  the  open  air. 

Speaking  of  John  the  Baptist  to  the 
multitude,  he  asked:  "What  went  ye 
out  into  the  wilderness  to  see  ?  A  reed 
shaken  with  the  wind?*'  Nothing  ane- 
mic in  that  tone.  And  in  the  wilder- 
ness, all  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth 
which  the  devil  offered  were  either  a 
genuine  temptation  or  they  were  the 
delusions  of  a  man  crazed  with  long 


fasting,  and  therefore  not  temptations 
at  all.  If  veritable,  the  promised  king- 
doms were  under  Roman  dominion; 
the  temptation  to  possess  them  was 
temptation  to  armed  revolt.  The  temp- 
tation was  put  behind  him,  but  its  mar- 
tial potentiality  was  written  on  the 
face. 

And  so  with  time  enough  we  might 
infer  even  more  minutely,  and  with  fair 
accuracy,  of  the  face,  with  its  marks  of 
oratory,  of  self-control,  of  steadfast 
determination,  of  quite  military  cour- 
age blended  with  the  power  of  vision. 

A  recent  writer  says  it  was  a  stroke 
of  genius  to  make  the  gymnasium  the 
central  feature  of  the  Young  Men's 
Christian  Association.  Physical  culture 
is  the  recruiting  idea  of  the  most  flour- 
ishing adjunct  of  modern  Christianity; 
but  it  is  an  idea  in  diametric  opposition 
to  the  traditional  and  unattractive 
presentation  of  the  founder.  The  vig- 
orous and  expressive  characteristics  of 
the  real  man  of  Nazareth  a  proper 
passion-play  would  give;  under  right 
direction  and  with  the  cooperation  and 
interest  of  the  Church,  its  influence 
would  be  stimulating,  would  be  wide 
and  deep  and  permanent. 


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IN  THE  DEFENSES  OF  WASHINGTON 
By  Thomas  R.  Lounsbury 

The  article  which  here  follows  was  written  in  May,  i86j.  Two  or  three  times  extracts 
have  been  read  from  it  at  private  gatherings ;  otherwise  it  has  lain  undisturbed  and  virtually 
buried  all  these  years.  Only  a  portion  of  the  original,  though  distinctly  the  larger  portion, 
is  here  printed.  As  it  was  written  nearly  fifty  years  ago,  it  naturally  expresses  views  which 
I  do  not  now  entertain  and  says  things  which  I  should  not  now  say.  But  it  seemed  best 
to  leave  it  as  it  first  appeared  in  order  to  give  a  faint  conception  of  the  way  men,  at  least 
some  men,  thought  and  felt  in  the  midst  of  the  mighty  struggle  which  was  then  going  on. 
Accordingly,  no  alteration  has  been  made  save  what  has  been  rendered  necessary  to  connect 
sentences  where  intervening  paragraphs  have  been  omitted,  or  where  certain  passages  have 
been  transposed.  One  instance  only  is  an  exception.  In  deference  to  the  more  amiable 
feelings  which  have  sprung  up  since  "the  late  unpleasantness,"  wherever  the  word  rebel 
occurred  in  the  original, — and  it  occurred  pretty  often, — the  word  Confederate  has  been 
substituted  when  I  speak  in  my  own  person. 


It  was  about  one  o'clock  in  the  af- 
ternoon of  the  third  of  December,  1862, 
that  we  took  the  cars  at  Alexandria  for 
Union  Mills.  The  precise  situation  of 
the  latter  place  none  of  us  knew,  and 
it  was  soon  evident  that  our  scanty 
stock  of  geographical  information  was 
not  to  be  largely  increased  by  the  an- 
swers given  to  our  inquiries  by  the  in- 
habitants. The  Virginia  poor  white 
is  a  man  of  more  than  average  intelli- 
gence, who  knows  where  he  lives  him- 
self, let  alone  any  acquaintance  with 
points  more  remote.  "A  right  smart 
heap  of  a  way,  I  reckon,"  was  the  reply 
usually  made  in  the  genuine  native  ver- 
nacular. This  pursuit  of  knowledge 
under  difficulties  was,  however,  re- 
warded at  last  by  the  information  that 
Union  Mills  was  a  station  on  the 
Orange  and  Alexandria  Railway  where 
the  track  crosses  Bull  Run,  and  was  the 
extreme  point  in  that  direction  of  the 
defenses  of  Washington.  From  that 
city  it  was  about  twenty  miles  distant. 

The  turn  of  the  road  which  shut  out 
the  view  of  the  place  we  had  left  be- 
hind seemed  to  shut  out  also  at  the 
same  time  all  the  sights  and  sounds  of 
civilized  life.  Everything  bore  the 
marks  of  decay.  A  few  houses  could 
be  seen  from  the  cars  as  we  passed  by, 
but  most  of  these  had  long  been  de- 
serted and  were  fast  going  to  ruin. 
No  plowed  fields,  no  fences,  no  land- 


marks of  any  kind,  existed  to  show  that 
men  cared  longer  either  to  own  or  to 
cultivate  the  soil.  The  smoke  of  occa- 
sional fires,  slowly  rising  from  the 
depths  of  the  pine  forests  on  each  side 
of  us,  and  the  scattered  tents  of  the 
soldiers  guarding  the  road,  were  almost 
the  only  evidences  of  life  that  broke  the 
monotony  of  desolation.  The  entire 
region  was  rapidly  returning  to  the 
abandonment  and  waste  from  which  the 
labor  of  successive  generations  had 
rescued  it.  The  day,  too,  was  a  cold 
and  cheerless  one,  imparting  an  addi- 
tional gloom  to  the  scenes  through 
which  we  passed.  Green  and  gold  of 
the  autumn  woods  had  long  since  de- 
parted, while  ocasional  tufts  of  grass, 
still  struggling  to  retain  their  fresh- 
ness amid  the  general  decay,  seemed 
only  to  give  by  contrast  a  more  leaden 
look  to  the  folds  of  snow-clouds  which 
hung  heavy  on  the  hills. 

On  we  whirled  through  plains  cov- 
ered by  dense  thickets  and  between 
hills  surmounted  by  impenetrable  for- 
ests of  pine;  through  Annandale,  past 
Burke  and  Fairfax  and  Sangster's  sta- 
tions. The  train  stopped  at  last  with- 
out any  particular  reason  for  so  doing 
that  could  be  gathered  from  anything 
visible  in  the  neighborhood.  Here, 
however,  was  our  destination.  We  had 
reached   the  limit  of   Northern   sover- 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


eignty.  Loyalty  stopped  short  at  the 
little  stream  which  rolled  at  our  feet 
and  only  looked  beyond.  Before  us 
lay  the  bloody  debatable  land  on  which 
more  than  on  any  other  part  of  the  con- 
tinent had  fallen  the  curse  of  war  in 
its  heaviest  form.  The  few  persons 
who  still  clung  to  the  soil,  bound  to  it 
by  an  iron  necessity,  had  long  given  up 
thought  or  care  for  the  morrow,  and 
lived  only  the  aimless,  hopeless  life  of 
the  inhabitants  of  the  border.  The  re- 
gion had  become  historic  ground;  but, 
like  all  historic  ground,  had  become  so 
at  the  price  of  tears  and  blood. 

As  we  got  oflf  the  cars,  I  looked  for 
the  mills  which  had  given  their  name 
to  the  spot.  One  glance  was  enough  to 
show  that  they  were  in  a  far  more 
ruinous  condition  than  the  Union,  after 
which  they  had  been  called.  The  build- 
ing was  entirely  torn  down,  and  the 
millstones  lying  alongside  of  the 
stream  were  the  only  evidences  of  the 
noisy  life  which  they  had  survived. 
The  owner  had  not  stayed  behind  to 
save  the  miserable  remnants  of  his 
property.  While  ground  is  getting  to 
be  historic,  it  loses  altogether  its  at- 
tractions as  a  residence  for  human  be- 
ings. 

The  line  guarded  by  our  brigade  was 
part  of  the  outer  line  of  the  defenses 
of  Washington,  and  extended  from 
Wolf  Run  Shoals  on  the  Occoquan  to 
Chantilly.  But  the  whole  distance  was 
never  at  one  time  picketed  by  us.  The 
outposts  were  stationed  along  the  lower 
course  of  Bull  Run  as  far  up  as  Mitch- 
ell's Ford,  ^t  which  point  they  left  that 
stream,  which,  rising  in  the  Manassas 
mountains,  there  turns  off  to  the  west. 
Whence  Bull  Run  received  its  name 
none  of  the  inhabitants  seemed  to 
know;  but  it  was  probably  due  to  the 
same  taste  which  called  a  rivulet 
emptying  into  it  Cub  Run,  and  gave  to 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  tributaries  of 
the  Potomac  the  name  of  Goose  Creek. 
There  is,  however,  some  justice  in  the 
title,  if  not  much  poetry.  For  though 
ordinarily   a   quiet   but   always    swift- 


moving  stream.  Bull  Run,  under  the  in- 
fluence of  winter  rains,  quickly  becomes 
a  roaring  torrent,  rapidly  rising,  over- 
flowing its  banks  wherever  it  passes 
through  level  country,  and  bearing 
down  to  the  Occoquan  in  its  rushing 
current  large  fragments  of  ice,  blocks 
of  wood,  and  now  and  then  an  up- 
rooted tree.  Its  fall  is  always  as  sud- 
den as  its  rise.  Below  Union  Milk  the 
scenery  through  which  it  flows  is  of  a 
character  so  romantic  as  to  have  made 
its  beauty  felt  even  under  the  dismal 
circiunstances  under  which  we  formed 
its  acquaintance.  The  stream  there 
rushes  on  through  meadow-land  and 
gorge,  by  sloping  hillsides  and  under 
overhanging  cliffs,  while  the  path  along 
its  eastern  bank,  trodden  by  our  pa- 
trols, wound  its  way  over  heights  and 
hollows,  through  groves  of  laurel  and 
the  desolate  ruins  of  what  had  once 
been  great  forests.  On  the  opposite 
side,  overshadowing  us,  were  frowning 
ramparts  of  rock,  sentinelled  by  gi- 
gantic pines,  seemingly  as  motionless 
and  to  mortal  eyes  as  enduring  as  the 
hills  upon  which  they  stood.  These 
lofty  parapets  which  nature  had  built 
were  at  this  point  the  real  defenses  of 
the  line;  for  there  are  few  places  in 
which  Bull  Run  is  ordinarily  too  deep 
to  be  fordable  by  infantry. 

Our  life  was  in  many  respects  a  hard 
one.  The  long  line  of  from  eight  to 
sixteen  miles,  guarded  by  our  brigade, 
required  that  officers  and  men  should 
go  on  duty  nearly  every  other  day.  The 
winter,  too,  was  a  cold  and  cheerless 
one,  with  storms  of  rain  and  snow  fre- 
quent and  severe.  One  of  the  heaviest 
of  the  latter  occurred  as  late  as  the 
fifth  of  April.  If  this  was  the  "sunny 
South,"  it  was  quite  a  general  feeling 
that  we  had  got  on  the  shady  side  of 
it.  On  the  fifteenth  of  March  there 
was  a  thunder-storm,  accompanied  by 
a  fall  of  snow,  or,  rather,  of  sleet,  a 
circumstance  to  me  somewhat  surpris- 
ing, and  which  left  my  meteorologkal 
ideas,  never  very  clear,  in  quite  a  mixed 
state.    In  addition  to  the  severe  weath- 


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IN  THE  DEFENSES  OF  WASHINGTON 


15 


er,  the  whole  country  for  three  months 
seemed  one  complete  sea  of  mud;  and 
much  as  has  been  said  of  it,  nothing 
too  mean,  nothing  too  vituperative,  ever 
has  been  said  or  ever  can  be  said  of 
Virginia  mud.  Yet  down  there  they 
call  such  soil  "sacred." 

The  constant  exposure  either  killed 
the  men  of  weaker  vitality  or  rendered 
their  discharge  a  necessity  in  conse- 
quence of  the  diseases  they  contract- 
ed. Still,  it  was  no  harder  life  than 
many  others  were  having  at  the  same 
time  and  doubtless  not  so  hard  as  some. 
We  grumbled,  of  course;  we  had  not 
been  soldiers  had  we  not.  Every  man 
in  the  army  is  apt  to  think  that  the  pri- 
vations he  endures  are  far  worse  than 
those  endured  by  any  one  else ;  that  the 
particular  ground  upon  which  he  slcjeps 
is  encumbered  with  much  sharper  pro- 
tuberances, the  particular  stone  he 
uses  for  a  pillow  is  much  harder,  the 
particular  air  which  surrounds  him  is 
much  chillier,  the  particular  rain  which 
falls  upon  his  person  is  much 
wetter,  the  particular  mud  in  which 
he  marches  is  much  stickier,  and 
the  particular  rations  served  out 
to  him  much  fuller  of  animal  and 
vegetable  life,  than  the  particular 
grotmd,  stone,  air,  rain,  mud,  and  ra- 
tions which  enter  into  the  experience 
of  any  other  individual.  It  is  the  sol- 
dier's privilege  to  grumble;  and  the 
deprivation  of  it  could  never  be  coun- 
terbalanced by  any  increase  of  pay.  It 
is  the  one  thing  that  binds  him  to  the 
life  he  has  left  behind.  He  has  sur- 
rendered his  free-will.  He  sometimes 
eats,  and  even  relishes,  food  which  at 
home  he  would  not  give  to  any  cat  or 
dog  of  respectable  character.  He  oc- 
casionally drinks  water  in  which  there 
he  would  not  think  of  washing  his 
hands.  He  goes  to  bed  at  dark,  and 
gets  up  at  ridiculously  early  hours.  On 
the  march  he  inhabits  a  ^og-kennel, 
which  courtesy  and  the  regulations  call 
a  shelter-tent — probably  because  it  af- 
fords no  shelter.  Vague  memories  only 
linger  in   his   mind   of  that   far-away 


past,  that  pre-existent  state,  in  which 
he  ate  oysters  and  drank  wine  and 
lounged  about  luxurious  apartments. 
True,  occasional  delicacies  do  astonish 
his  pork-oppressed  stomach;  bottles  of 
wine,  surreptitiously  procured,  do 
sometimes  gladden  his  heart;  and  car- 
peted rooms,  with  sofas  and  easy-chairs 
drawn  up  before  cheerful  fires,  do  now 
and  then  refresh  his  frame:  but  such 
events  are  rare.  They  appeal,  more- 
over, to  the  outer  man  only.  They  en- 
ervate while  they  delight. 

Not  so  with  the  grumble.  That  is 
the  natural  outgrowth  of  his  condition. 
Station  him  on  the  summit  of  the  Blue 
Ridge  amid  cold  and  sleet  and  snow, 
and  he  grumbles;  station  him  in  Fifth 
Avenue,  he  will  do  the  same.  Grum- 
bling is  the  safety-valve  through  which 
the  bitter  thoughts  engendered  by  the 
manifold  discomforts  of  his  life  find 
their  way  into  the  great  universe,  and 
there  pass  into  vacancy.  He  is  a  fool 
who  regards  such  utterances  as  seri- 
ous; he  is  a  greater  fool,  as  well  as  a 
traitor,  who  would  think  to  act  upon 
them.  Our  hearts  were  always  loyal, 
whatever  our  lips  might  say.  Ours  was 
the  fault-finding  of  that  earnest  devo- 
tion which  wished  the  Government  to 
do  more,  not  of  that  mulish  opposition 
which  wished  it  to  do  nothing.  It 
cleared  our  minds  for  the  contemplation 
of  the  happy  scenes  of  that  good  time 
coming,  when  the  wars  would  all  be 
over,  and  we  should  have  gone  back 
from  the  border.  Many  a  winter  night, 
tired  out  with  long  patrols,  with  feet 
wet,  with  bodies  chilled,  did  we  sit 
cowering  and  shivering  over  some  fee- 
ble fire  on  the  outposts,  and  ''indulge 
our  sacred  fury"  in  grumbling  at  the 
hardships  we  suffered,  at  the  courage 
and  capacity  of  the  generals  by  whom 
we  were  commanded,  at  the  inefficiency 
of  the  Government  we  served.  Then 
with  hearts  relieved,  our  thoughts 
would  wander  far  away,  in  the  long 
hours  that  followed,  from  the  barren 
hills  and  relentless  skies  which  encir- 
cled us,  to  cheerful  rooms  in  Northern 


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homes,  curtained  away  from  the  chill 
December  air,  populous  with  books,  ra- 
diant with  the  firelight,  more  radiant 
still  with  the  light  of  love. 

All  around  were  visible  traces  of  the 
Confederate  occupation.  Our  camp 
was  about  a  mile  north  of  the  railroad, 
in  the  direction  of  Centreville,  and  was 
also  at  an  equal  distance  from  Mc- 
Lean's Ford,  well  known  as  the  place 
where  a  body  of  our  troops  under 
General  Tyler  suffered  a  severe  repulse 
in  the  first  advance  of  the  army  of  the 
Potomac.  In  front  of  us  was  a  de- 
serted village,  as  it  might  be  called,  of 
huts  built  of  pine  logs  and  plastered  to- 
gether with  earth.  A  collection  of  habi- 
tations similar  in  construction,  though 
much  larger  in  number,  existed,  and 
probably  now  exists,  just  across  Bull 
Run  at  Blackburn's  Ford;  and  farther 
back  towards  Manassas  Junction  these 
former  residences  of  the  Southern 
troops  were  still  more  abundant.  The 
telegrams  which  used  to  announce  dur- 
ing the  winter  of  1861-62  that  the 
rebels  were  dying  off  in  consequence  of 
exposure  and  privation,  must  have  lied 
even  more  than  ordinarily ;  for  no  quar- 
ters that  have  anywhere  been  provided 
for  our  troops  could  have  excelled  in 
comfort  these  huts,  when  occupied  by 
the  enemy.  Ruined,  forts,  in  all  cases 
made  of  earth  and  many,  doubtless, 
never  mounted  with  cannon,  were  scat- 
tered over  the  country ;  while  rifle-pits, 
half  full  of  water,  stretched  for  miles 
in  every  direction.  One  in  particular, 
running  along  the  main  road  from 
Union  Mills  to  Centreville,  was  so 
completely  hidden  by  the  trees  and 
dense  undergrowth  as  to  be  hardly  vis- 
ible at  the  distance  of  a  few  feet.  All 
through  this  region — in  fact,  through- 
out the  borderland  between  the  two 
armies — the  houses  which  had  been 
deserted  by  their  occupants  had  been 
pretty  generally  burned  down.  Those 
which  had  been  left  standing  were  as 
a  rule  thoroughly  dismantled.  These 
last  at  times  gave  an  almost  ghastly 
look  to  the  landscape. 


Of  actual  fighting  during  the  months 
we  were  in  the  defenses  of  Washing- 
ton we  saw  little  or  nothing.  Rumors 
of  wars  always  abounded;  but  an  oc- 
casional shot  exchanged  with  some 
wandering  bushwhacker  or  prowling 
guerilla  from  Mosby's  band  made  up 
the  sum  total  of  our  field  operations. 
If,  however,  we  were  not  disturbed  for 
ourselves,  Washington  was  for  us.  That 
city  was  always  excited,  always  un- 
easy, perhaps  necessarily  so,  from  its 
comparatively  exposed  position,  and 
the  vast  interests  involved  in  its  perma- 
nent and  unbroken  possession  by  our 
authorities.  But  confident  as  we  were 
in  our  own  safety,  the  reports  that  con- 
stantly reached  us  from  its  streets  in 
regard  to  the  perik  by  which  we  were 
surrounded  aroused  no  other  feeling 
than  amusement.  One  could  hardly 
say  with  truth  that  the  solicitude  felt 
by  the  city  for  our  safety  was  fully 
returned  by  us.  The  great  attraction 
of  Washington  in  our  eyes  was  that,  so 
far  as  we  knew,  it  was  the  only  accessi- 
ble place  where  steamed  oysters  could 
be  procured.  Beyond  that,  sentiment 
on  our  part  did  not  go.  There  was 
never  any  of  that  regard  expressed  for 
it  which  we  should  naturally  expect 
would  be  felt  for  the  capital  of  the  na- 
tion. Were  it  not  for  the  public  build- 
ings, it  seemed  to  be  a  general  feeling 
with  us  that  it  would  be  much  better 
for  our  cause  if  the  city  were  six  feet 
under  ground.  This  feeling,  of  course, 
did  not  prevent  our  being  alive  to  the 
disgrace,  and  consequences  more  dire- 
ful still,  involved  in  its  capture. 

If,  however,  we  did  not  see  much 
fighting,  we  heard  enough  of  it.  The 
hills  which  slope  down  to  Bull  Ron 
from  Centreville  to  Wolf  Run  Shoals 
are  a  perfect  sounding-board,  reechoing 
the  report  of  any  artillery  engagement 
that  takes  place  between  them  and  the 
Manassas  and  Kittoctan  mountains, 
and  even,  when  the  wind  is  favorable, 
between  them  and  the  Blue  Ridge  it- 
self. The  bombardment  of  Harper's 
Ferry  in  September,  1862,  was  distmct- 


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IN  THE  DEFENSES  OF  WASHINGTON 


17 


ly  heard  at  Union  Mills,  which  is  more 
than  forty  miles  distant  in  an  air  line. 
No  great  movement  was  made  by  any 
portion  of  the  army  of  which  the  ar- 
tillery did  not  give  early,  if  not  very 
satisfactory,  information.  The  sound, 
according  as  it  grew  fainter  or  louder, 
told  usually  how  the  day  was  going. 

Such  times  were  ever  with  us  times 
of  interest  and  eager  expectation.  The 
noise  of  a  cannonade  is  always  exciting, 
and  always  pleasant — if  a  good  way  oflF. 
I  remember,  in  particular,  how  the  re- 
port of  the  artillery  opening  the  caval- 
ry action  at  Upperville  on  the  twenty- 
first  of  June,  1863,  startled  all  the 
camps.  I  could  not  but  think  that 
beautiful  Sunday  morning  that  while 
thousands  of  mothers  and  sisters,  both 
North  and  South,  were  praying,  in  the 
words  of  the  litany,  that  a  good  Lord 
would  deliver  their  sons  and  brothers 
"from  battle  and  murder  and  sudden 
death,"  those  same  sons  and  brothers 
were  at  the  very  moment  furnishing  a 
peculiar  commentary  upon  those  peti- 
tions by  striving  to  cut  one  another's 
throats.  Our  enforced  inactivity,  al- 
ways tiresome,  at  these  periods  became 
hateful.  I  doubt  whether  there  is  any 
man  living  who  really  loves  fighting 
for  its  own  sake.  The  mystery  of 
death,  confronting  and  overshadowing 
the  spirit,  awes  at  such  a  time  the  most 
boastful  and  presumptuous.  Yet  there 
is  a  terrible  fascination  about  a  battle, 
in  spite  of  the  dread  uncertainty  and 
horror  that  attend  it,  which  cannot  be 
explained  by  any  feeling  of  duty,  of 
pride,  still  less  of  curiosity.  These,  of 
course,  had  their  weight  with  us.  We 
could  not  expect  to  feel  at  ease  in  our 
comparative  safety  while  our  fellow- 
soldiers  were  falling;  and  restlessly 
wandering  about  the  camps,  we  lis- 
tened eagerly  for  the  tidings  of  fierce 
conflicts  whose  far-off  sound  reached 
our  ears,  but  in  whose  mighty  passion 
we  could  not  share. 

Nothing  occurred  during  the  month 
of  December  to  disturb  the  monoto- 
nous quiet  of  our  life  except  a  hostile 


raid,  really  insignificant  in  its  propor- 
tions, but  much  magnified  at  the  time 
by  uncertainty  and  apprehension. 
Slocum's  corps,  in  marching  from 
Harpers'  Ferry  to  reinforce  Bumside, 
passed  within  the  defenses  of  Washing- 
ton; and  the  advance  of  a  portion  of 
that  force  from  Fairfax  Station,  where 
it  had  been  encamped,  separated  from 
the  main  body  a  part  of  Stuart's  cav- 
alry, variously  estimated  at  from  six 
hundred  to  two  thousand  men,  and  with 
these  four  pieces  of  artillery.  To  make 
good  their  escape,  they  were  forced  to 
go  through  our  lines.  This  they  did 
successfully,  crossing,  on  the  twenty- 
eighth  of  December,  the  Orange  and 
Alexandria  Railway  at  Burke's  Station, 
where  they  captured  some  of  the  guard 
and  telegraphed,  it  is  said,  various  im- 
pudent messages  to  the  quarter-mas- 
ter general.  After  cutting  the  wires 
and  tearing  up  a  small  portion  of  the 
track,  they  passed  on  to  the  North. 
The  troops  in  the  defenses  of  Washing- 
ton south  of  the  Potomac  were  every- 
where put  under  arms.  Our  brigade 
was  ordered  out,  and  detachments  from 
it  sent  to  guard  different  points  and  to 
close,  after  the  most  approved  fashion 
of  scientific  warfare,  several  military 
stable-doors  out  of  which  the  horses 
had  escaped.  The  fords  on  Bull  Run 
were  carefully  watched.  Behind  an  ex- 
tempore fortification  thrown  up  at  Mc- 
Lean's, a  huge  saw-log,  blackened  in 
the  fire,  was  mounted  by  some  of  our 
officers  on  a  pair  of  cart-wheels  which 
were  found  near  the  place.  This  pie<ie 
of  artillery,  pointed  threateningly 
across  the  stream,  had  quite  an  im- 
posing effect  when  seen  from  a  dis- 
tance, and,  I  doubt  not,  has  done  as 
good  service  as  most  of  the  heavy 
ordnance  in  the  defenses  of  Washing- 
ton. But  no  enemy  ever  came  to  try 
its  strength.  Where,  indeed,  that  band 
of  horsemen  went  to  I  never  could 
find  out.  I  fancy  they  must  have  lost 
themselves  somewhere  in  that  bound- 
less North  towards  which,  when  last 
seen,  they  were  heading;  for  though 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


day  after  day  I  read  the  newspapers 
with  scrupulous  care,  never  a  word  or 
hint  could  be  found  in  them  of  the  fate 
which  befell  those  bold  riders. 

But  no  one  could  fail  to  be  struck  at 
the  time  with  a  feeling  which  seemed 
to  be  universal  among  our  troops,  that 
if  these  daring  raiders  would  pass  on 
without  attacking  or  injuring  us,  we 
would  be  willing  to  reciprocate  the  fa- 
vor. We  would  offer  no  opposition  to 
their  escape,  provided  they  behaved 
themselves  properly,  and  did  not  put  us 
under  that  painful  necessity.  This  is 
not  very  complimentary  to  our  soldiers ; 
but  although  it  would  be  far  from  be- 
ing true  now,  it  was  too  true  then.  A 
general  gloom  hung  over  the  army  in 
consequence  of  the  repulse  of  Burn- 
side  at  Fredericksburg.  But,  in  par- 
ticular, the  daring  and  yet  successful 
raids  of  Stuart  on  the  Peninsula  and  in 
Pennsylvania  had  given  at  that  time 
to  the  arm  of  the  Confederate  service 
commanded  by  him  a  reputation  and 
prestige  which  subsequent  events  have 
failed  to  confirm.  Moreover,  it  was 
felt  that  little  or  no  reliance  could  be 
placed  upon  our  cavalry,  which  alone 
could  properly  have  any  hope  of  inter- 
cepting such  flying  bodies  of  the  enemy. 
It  was  usually  worsted  by  half  of  its 
nimiber,  or  at  least  believed  so  to  be; 
and  if  it  chanced  to  be  successful, 
seemed  itself  always  surprised  at  the 
result.  Our  cavalry,  indeed,  was  at 
that  period  an  object  of  contempt  with 
all  of  the  infantry.  A  remark  of  one 
of  the  soldiers  of  the  Pennsylvania  Re- 
serves, while  undergoing  punishment, 
expressed  a  feeling  then  very  common. 
When  he  enlisted  again,  he  said,  he  was 
going  to  join  the  cavalry;  for  he  had 
been  in  ten  battles,  and  had  never  seen 
a  dead  cavalryman  yet.  It  is  hardly 
necessary  to  say  that  no  such  feeling 
prevails  now.  The  rapid  rise  in  con- 
duct, in  reputation,  and  in  general 
morale  of  that  arm  of  the  service,  its 
transformation  into  the  formidable 
body  it  has  now  become,  is,  to  any  one 
acquainted  with  its  previous  condition, 


one  of  the   most   remarkable   circum- 
stances of  the  war. 

January,  February,  and  March  were 
naturally  the  months  that  tried  most 
severely  the  endurance  of  the  men.  A 
part  of  that  time  it  seemed  as  if  one 
half  of  the  various  regiments  would  be 
collected  every  morning  at  their  respec- 
tive surgeons'  quarters  at  the  bugle- 
call  for  the  sick ;  while  to  the  air  of  the 
same  call  the  other  half  would  be  sing- 
ing the  words  generally  sung  to 
it  throughout  our  command : 

Come  all  ye  sick! 

Come  all  ye  sic!< ! 
Come  and  get  your  quinine, 
Come  and  get  your  quinine, 
Come  and  get  your  quinine  pills! 

Among  so  large  a  number  there  were 
doubtless  some  who  feigned  illness. 
But  the  triple  volleys  that  reechoed  at 
the  twilight  of  so  many  successive  days 
over  new-made  graves  proved  that  ex- 
posure and  privation  were  telling  fear- 
fully upon  the  health  and  lives  of  the 
men.  Their  bodies  were  generally 
sent  home,  a  fact  which  the  soldiers 
with  ghastly  facetiousness  held  out  to 
one  another  as  the  great  inducement  to 
die  at  that  spot  and  time.  If  they  fell 
in  the  coming  battles,  whose  shadow 
darkened  us  ever  from  out  of  the  fu- 
ture, their  fate  might  possibly  be,  yes. 
probably  would  be,  the  fate  of  their 
comrades  whose  uncovered  bones  still 
whitened  the  plains  of  Manassas. 
Boards  are  always,  to  any  large  army, 
wherever  encamped,  the  greatest  of 
rarities  and  luxuries;  and  at  that 
place  and  period  scarcely  enough  of 
them  could  be  found  for  the  rude 
coffins  of  those  we  buried.  Two  mem- 
bers of  the  company  to  which  I  be- 
longed died  of  smallpox,  and  of  course 
their  remains  could  not  be  removed.  It 
is  some  consolation  to  know  that  to 
them,  if  not  to  those  who  live  to  lament 
them,  it  is  no  sorrow.  I  doubt  not  they 
sleep  as  peacefully  in  their  solitary 
fi^ravcs  on  that  Virginia  hillside  as  they 
would  in  the  crowded  churchyards  of 
their  Northern  home. 


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IN  THE  DEFENSES  OF  WASHINGTON 


'9 


The  fact  of  our  remaining  so  long  in 
one  encampment  saved  our  men  from 
dying  to  any  extent  of  any  of  the 
United  States  general  hospitals.  Dy- 
ing to  the  regiment,  I  mean.  War  may 
slaughter  its  thousands,  but  these 
slaughter  their  tens  of  thousands.  When 
a  soldier  leaves  a  regiment  in  active 
service  for  one  of  the  United  States 
hospitals,  he  practically  leaves  it  for- 
ever. At  first,  if  he  became  well,  he 
was  detailed ;  if  he  remained  ill,  he  was 
discharged.  Now  he  is  put  into  the 
invalid  corps,  which  is  a  slight  im- 
provement. But  so  far  as  his  own 
regiment  is  concerned,  he  may  as  well 
be  dead.  Vainly  will  he  seek  to  re- 
turn, vainly  will  his  officers  strive  to 
reclaim  him.  The  grip  of  the  surgeon- 
in-charge  upon  him  has  a  tenacity 
alongside  of  which  the  connection  ex- 
isting between  the  Old  Man  of  the  Sea 
and  Sindbad  was  a  tie  of  the  most 
frivolous  character.  Military  author- 
ity is  far-reaching  and  mighty ;  but  it  is 
the  puniest  of  powers  when  it  comes 
face  to  face  with  quinine  and  calomel. 
One  of  my  own  men,  able-bodied  and 
thoroughly  healthy,  was  on  duty  with 
his  company  three  weeks;  the  remain- 
ing period  of  his  service  he  has  so  far 
spent  in  a  United  States  general  hos- 
pital. Several  times  he  made  efforts 
to  return  to  his  regiment,  but  all  to  no 
effect;  and  at  last  I  sent  him  word,  if 
he  knew  when  he  was  well  off,  he 
would  stay  where  he  was. 

During  the  latter  part  of  February 
and  the  beginning  of  March  the  emi- 
gration from  the  South  began  to  ap- 
proach to  the  dignity  of  an  exodus. 
Men,  women,  and  children  poured  into 
the  lines  of  our  brigade  at  the  rate  of 
from  twenty-five  to  seventy-five  a  day. 
They  were  mostly  foreigners,  leaving 
the  Confederacy,  in  which  they  could 
no  longer  find  a  livelihood.  A  very  few 
were  citizens  fleeing  before  the  Con- 
scription Act,  which  was  at  that  time 
said  to  be  enforced  throughout  Vir- 
ginia with  merciless  rigor.  The  ap- 
pearance of  these  emigrants  was  sad- 


dening in  the  extreme.  Every  day  a 
silent,  sorrowful  procession  of  old 
men,  young  men,  women  leading  little 
children  by  the  hand,  almost  fainting 
with  weariness,  passed  our  camp"  under 
guard  to  headquarters.  Their  earthly 
posessions  were  usually  all  carried  on 
their  backs,  but  the  household  goods  of 
some  in  more  fortunate  circumstances 
were  packed  in  rickety  wagons,  drawn 
by  horses  so  skeleton-like  that  it  seemed 
as  if  they  would  fall  to  pieces  were  it 
not  for  the  harness.  All  of  these  per- 
sons told  the  same  sad  story  of  distress 
and  destitution  in  the  South ;  and  their 
looks  would  have  convinced  the  stout- 
est disbeliever  in  the  policy  of  star- 
vation that  they  did  not  come  from  a 
land  of  universal  plenty. 

By  an  order  of  General  Heintzelman, 
the  commander  of  our  corps,  issued  in 
the  latter  part  of  March,  the  guards 
were  instructed  not  to  allow  any  person 
from  the  Confederacy  to  come  in.  Yet 
for  a  long  time  afterwards  many  came 
up  to  our  lines  and  sought  to  gain  an 
entrance,  and  even  stayed  days  and 
weeks  in  houses  near  by  in  the  vain 
hope  of  at  last  being  admitted.  Their 
presence  only  added  to  the  general  dis- 
tress. It  was  the  season  when  the  prod- 
ucts of  the  previous  year  were  nearly 
if  not  altogether  used  up,  and  the  prod- 
ucts of  the  new  year  had  not  as  yet 
come  on.  The  inhabitants  could  not 
enter  our  lines ;  they  lived  too  far  away 
from  any  sources  of  Confederate  sup- 
ply to  obtain  any  food  from  that  quar- 
ter. Although  provisions  were  occa- 
sionally sent  out  to  them,  but  little  re- 
liance could  be  placed  upon  a  succor 
so  precarious.  All  along  that  part  of 
Virginia,  just  outside  of  the  region  oc- 
cupied by  our  forces,  the  destitution  in 
many  families  at  that  time  was  terrible. 
Women  came  up  to  the  outposts,  and 
with  eyes  swollen  with  weeping  de- 
clared themselves  starving,  and  grate- 
fully accepted  the  hard  fare  shared  with 
them  by  our  soldiers.  This  was  not 
common;  but  it  actually  happened. 

The  cold  weather  and  the  mud  pre- 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


vented  any  drilling  worth  speaking  of 
during  January,  February,  and  most  of 
March.  Consequently,  when  off  duty 
there  was  nothing  for  either  officers  or 
men  to  do;  and  here  the  monotony  of 
military  life  made  itself  most  severely 
felt.  Till  a  man  keeps  a  diary,  and  at- 
temps  to  set  down  in  it  the  acts  which 
he  regards  as  worthy  of  special  record, 
he  never  fully  appreciates  how  little 
happens  in  his  daily  experience  outside 
of  eating,  drinking,  and  sleeping.  In 
our  peculiar  situation  all  of  these  had 
with  us  an  unnatural  prominence.  Din- 
ner was  as  much  the  great  event  of  the 
day  as  to  well-regulated  individuals 
who  aim  to  be  healthy,  wealthy  and 
wise,  slumber  is  of  the  night.  All  of 
the  intellect  and  skill  of  the  camp  was 
constantly  engaged  in  the  effort  to  get 
up  new  and  palatable  dishes  out  of  our 
somewhat  limited  resources;  and  cer- 
tain of  the  feats  of  the  culinary  art, 
then  and  there  accomplished,  would 
have  brought  tears  to  the  eyes  of 
Soyer,  Vattel,  or  any  others  who  have 
greatly  cooked.  My  own  masterpiece 
was  a  pancake  against  which  forks 
vainly  struggled  and  knives  could  not 
prevail,  the  capacity  of  which  to  re- 
sist foreign  impressions  was  only 
equalled  by  the  sublime  tenacity  with 
which  the  separate  particles  of  matter 
constituting  its  internal  economy  clung 
to  one  another.  Cooking  was,  indeed, 
our  pleasure  in  prosperity  and  our 
solace  in  adversity;  and  with  ever- 
varying,  but  always  remarkable  and 
hitherto  unheard-of,  experiments  on 
meats  and  vegetables,  we  whiled  away 
many  dreary  hours  of  the  long  winter, 
and  on  several  occasions  cheated  our- 
selves into  temporary  and  delusive  an- 
ticipations of  having  once,  at  least,  a 
good  meal. 

True,  there  were  other  things  to  be 
done.  Lessons  were  to  be  learned  and 
recited  in  the  tactics  and  the  regula- 
tions; but  in  spite  of  their  attractions, 
these  works  could  not  be  studied  all  the 
time.  The  lack  of  reading  matter  was 
the  principal  want  felt.     Books  were 


not  easily  procured,  were  too  heavy  to 
be  carried,  and  were  always  liable  to 
abuse  and  destruction  while  lying  about 
a  camp;  consequently,  the  inducements 
to  create  a  large  library  were  never 
very  powerful.  Works  that  anywhere 
else  I  would  not  have  thought  of  look- 
ing into,  there  were  eagerly  welcomed 
and  diligently  read.  I  individually 
went  through  a  course  of  Beadle^s 
Dime  Novels  and  Waverley  Maga- 
zines, and  just  before  we  left  the  de- 
fenses of  Washington,  felt  exceedingly 
obliged  for  a  loan  of  Tupper's  "Pro- 
verbial Philosophy." 

No  one  under  such  circumstances 
could  fail  to  be  impressed  with  the  fact 
that  the  mental  deterioration  of  a  man 
long  connected  with  the  army,  if  sta- 
tioned far  away  from  his  feUow-men, 
must  be  rapid  unless  his  situation  or 
his  character  is  peculiar,  or  unless  his 
position  is  so  high  as  to  call  into  requi- 
sition and  develop  the  moral  powers 
which  react  upon  the  mind.  Any  regi- 
mental officer,  if  he  applies  himself, 
can  in  a  year's  time  learn  all  that  it  is 
essential  for  him  to  know  to  perform 
his  regimental  duties.  After  that  he 
may  as  well  die  for  any  further  use  his 
brain  will  be  to  him — of  course  so  far 
as  regards  acquisition,  not  action.  His 
knowledge  will  not  be  materially  in- 
creased, though  it  will  certainly  be  less 
liable  to  be  forgotten,  if  he  remains  in 
the  army  fifty  years.  In  camp  there 
are  no  inducements  from  without  to 
resist  the  tendency  to  be  lazy  when  he 
can  just  as  well  be  lazy.  His  pay  is  the 
same  whether  he  be  much  or  little  in- 
formed; and  his  promotion  depends 
not  upon  his  ability,  but  upon  his  sen- 
iority or  the  political  influence  he  can 
bring  to  bear.  In  active  service  he  can 
learn  nothing  if  he  wishes.  He  cannot 
take  with  him  books  to  read  or  to  study. 
He  cannot  carry  his  investigations  be- 
yond the  simplest  elements  of  his  pro- 
fession. His  individuality  is  lost.  He 
is  part  of  a  great  and  complex  machine, 
is  called  into  action  and  assigned  to 
duty  without  any  consultation  of  his 


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IN  THE  DEFENSES  OF  WASHINGTON 


21 


tastes,  of  his  opinions,  and  too  often  of 
his  capacities.  He  is  confined  to  a 
narrow  circle  of  ideas,  which  the  soH- 
tariness  of  his  profession  and  its  want 
of  contact  with  other  professions  and 
other  modes  of  thought  prevent  ever 
being  enlarged  or  broken  up.  Of  the 
grand  movements  of  the  times,  the 
hopes  which  exalt,  the  fears  which  de- 
press, the  passions  which  agitate,  he 
knows  nothing.  I  soon  ceased  to  won- 
der why  some  of  the  older  officers  of 
the  regular  army,  who  had  spent  their 
lives  largely  in  outpost  service,  seemed 
so  stupid.  That  was  a  result  they 
could  hardly  help.  One  of  our  ablest 
corps  commanders,  himself  a  graduate 
of  West  Point,  once  told  a  friend  of 
mine  that  a  West  Pointer  knew  more 
the  day  he  graduated  than  he  ever  did 
afterwards;  and  the  remark,  however 
untrue  even  then  of  many,  and  how- 
ever exaggerated  of  all,  was  unques- 
tionably prompted  by  a  knowledge  of 
the  necessary  consequences  that  follow 
the  enforced  inaction  of  mind  and  body 
and  want  of  contact  with  society  which 
are  peculiar  to  military  life  as  lived  in 
the  remote  stations  in  the  Territories 
and  on  the  frontiers. 

II 

On  the  twenty-fourth  of  March 
headquarters  were  changed  from 
Union  Mills  to  Centreville.  With  them 
to  the  latter  place  went  all  the  regi- 
ments of  the  brigade  which  had  been 
stationed  at  the  former.  During  the 
whole  of  the  month  the  air  had  been 
filled  with  rumors  of  great  enterprises 
in  which  we  were  to  have  a  share,  and 
this  movement  looked  as  if  our  strength 
was  to  be  collected  for  some  offensive 
purpose.  Nothing  came  of  it,  however, 
if  anything  was  ever  intended. 

Ever  since  the  war  began  I  had 
heard  of  Centreville.  There  had  been 
assembled  the  first  body  of  Southern 
troops  which  could  justly  be  styled  an 
army.  There  the  reserve  of  McDow- 
ell's forces,  drawn  up  in  line,  had 
checked  the  advance  of  the  enemy  after 


the  first  disastrous  battle  of  Bull  Run. 
There  had  been  encamped  during  the 
winter  of  1861-62  that  formidable 
multitude,  estimated  by  the  varying 
shades  of  contempt  or  fear  as  number- 
ing everywhere  between  fifty  and  two 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand,  against 
whose  possible  attack  the  telegraph  re- 
peated on  every  pretext  to  the  waiting 
nation  the  startling  and  inspiriting  de- 
spatch that  Washington  was  now  re- 
garded as  safe.  I  had  seen  the  name  of 
the  place  so  often  and  so  many  times 
in  such  large  type,  I  had  heard  so  much 
of  the  importance  of  its  position  and  its 
reported  natural  and  artificial  strength, 
I  had  kpown  it  so  long  as  the  central 
point  of  mighty  armies,  that  it  is  no 
wonder  my  conceptions  of  it  had  as- 
sumed a  vastness  and  grandeur  which 
its  actual  condition  was  far  from  real- 
izing. 

Centreville  is  a  broken-down  village 
which  before  the  war  had  about  four 
hundred  inhabitants,  but  now  would 
muster  scarcely  more  than  fifty  or 
sixty.  The  houses  are  all  old,  all  dirty, 
all  dilapidated.  Most  have  never 
known  paint,  and  the  few  which  have 
known  it  have  long  since  forgotten  it. 
Nearly  all  are  built  in  that  peculiar  Vir- 
ginia style  which  consists  in  flanking 
each  side  with  a  tremendous  chimney 
of  brick  or  of  stone,  this  last  append- 
age of  Northern  mansions  forming  in 
Southern  domiciles  a  "peculiar  domes- 
tic institution"  by  itself.  Both  in  the 
village  and  in  the  neighboring  country 
the  woodwork  of  these  buildings  has  in 
many  cases  been  burned  or  torn  down, 
leaving  the  lofty  chimneys  still  stand- 
ing. The  place  had  always  a  thriftless, 
ruined  appearance;  and,  as  might  be 
expected,  has  it  more  especially  at  the 
present  time.  Everything  has  gone  to 
seed;  for  in  addition  to  the  natural 
shiftlessness  of  the  inhabitants,  the  war 
forbids  any  extensive  or  expensive  in- 
dulgence in  modern  improvements. 

But  miserable  as  the  town  looks  so 
far  as  it  is  the  creation  of  its  miserable 
inhabitants,    the    scenery    about    it    is 


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22         PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


magnificent.  As  if  to  compensate  for 
the  failure  of  art,  nature  has  been  more 
than  ordinarily  bountiful  in  beauty. 
The  village  is  situated  three  miles  east 
of  Bull  Run  on  the  range  of  hills  which 
slope  down  to  that  stream.  Right  be- 
fore it  lies  the  vast  plain  which  the 
conflict  of  two  opposing  civilizations 
has  twice  made  a  battle-field.  Those 
desperate  struggles  disfigured  the 
ground  with  shattered  and  ghastly 
wrecks  of  humanity,  which  man  left  un- 
buried,  committing  to  the  more  merciful 
agencies  of  air  and  water  and  fire  the 
task  of  returning  to  their  native  earth 
the  bodies  and  bones  of  those  who  have 
fallen.  This  broad  tract  of  level  coun- 
tr}'  stretches  to  the  Manassas  moun- 
tains, which  stand  up  clear  against  the 
western  sky;  while  beyond  them  and 
the  intervening  valley,  far  away  on  the 
edge  of  the  horizon,  can  be  seen  the 
misty  cones  of  the  Blue  Ridge. 

Naturally  we  had  rarely  come  in  con- 
tact with  the  best  representatives  of  the 
people  of  Virginia.  In  the  regions 
where  active  military  operations  had 
been  going  on,  the  finest  mansions  were 
fairly  sure  to  be  deserted  and  disman- 
tled, and  those  who  had  occupied  them 
had  almost  inevitably  gone  to  Dixie  or 
the  deuce.  But  within  the  lines,  espe- 
cially well  within  the  lines  of  the  de- 
fenses of  Washington,  a  number  of 
families  of  all  sorts  and  conditions  still 
continued  to  dwell.  To  a  man  brought 
up  in  the  North  the  ignorance,  or,  rath- 
er, the  illiteracy  of  some  of  these  in- 
habitants seemed  amazing.  During  the 
last  months  of  our  stay  in  Centreville 
I  was  connected  with  the  provost- 
marshal's  department  of  the  division. 
By  the  nature  of  the  duty  I  was 
brought  into  frequent  contact  with  the 
families  in  the  neighborhood.  All 
passes  for  citizens  were  granted  at  our 
office,  and  before  given,  the  signature 
of  each  person  was  required  to  a  print- 
ed oath  that  the  pass  would  not  be  used 
against  the  interests  of  the  United 
Slates.  Nothing  surprised  me  more  at 
first  than  to  have  individuals  whom  I 


knew  as  men  of  apparent  respectability 
and  possessing  some  landed  property, 
confess  that  they  could  not  write  their 
own  names.  That,  however,  was  too 
common  there  to  be  long  a  matter  of 
wonder.  As  for  loyalty,  they  hardly 
knew  what  the  word  meant.  In  fact, 
the  unreal  world  of  dreams  never  fur- 
nished a  more  intangible  collection  of 
spectres  than  the  Union  men  of  the 
South — that  is,  the  Union  men  of  the 
kind  we  heard  so  much  of  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  war,  and  have  seen  so 
little  of  since.  The  ceaseless  pressure 
resulting  from  the  occupation  of  the 
soil  and  the  lack  of  confidence  in  a  fail- 
ing cause  has,  it  is  true,  led  many  with- 
in our  lines  to  take  the  oath  of  alle- 
giance. But  I  never  saw  in  the  South  an 
actively  loyal  man,  one  who  had  a  rea- 
son for  the  faith  that  was  in  him,  who 
was  not  either  an  anti-slavery  man  or 
rapidly  becoming  so.  There  are,  in- 
deed, a  few  knock-kneed,  blear-eyed 
individuals  who  profess  themselves 
equally  addicted  to  the  Union  and  to 
slavery;  but  the  earnest  workers  on 
both  sides  scarcely  affect  to  hide  the 
contempt  they  feel  for  these  fossilized 
fragments  of  the  old  Union. 

The  women  everywhere  were  natu- 
rally the  most  outspoken.  Relying  upon 
the  protection  afforded  them  by  their 
sex,  they  often  gave  expression  to  their 
sentiments  in  a  manner  so  violent  as 
to  cause  evident  uneasiness  to  their 
suspected  and  therefore  more  suspi- 
cious male  relatives.  These  were  some- 
times at  great  pains  to  check  the  in- 
temperance of  the  language  used  by 
their  wives  and  daughters,  and  to  ex- 
plain away  the  meaning  of  their  words. 
They  might  succeed  in  restraining  the 
older  ones ;  but  the  girls  were  never  to 
be  deterred  by  any  dread  of  remote  con- 
sequences from  saying  anything  that 
could  possibly  annoy  or  irritate  the 
Union  officers  or  soldiers.  It  is  but 
fair  to  state  that  their  conduct  sprang 
more  from  a  love  of  mischief  than  from 
any  other  feeling.  The  most  insulting 
remark  ever  made   was   the   standard 


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IN  THE  DEFENSES  OF  WASHINGTON 


reply  to  any  observation  upon  the 
ragged  condition  of  the  Confederate 
troops,  that  Southern  gentlemen  did  not 
think  it  necessary  to  dress  up  in  order 
to  slaughter  hogs.  The  origin  of  this 
speech  was  contemporaneous  with  the 
first  advance  of  the  Union  army,  and 
from  the  frequency  with  which  it  is 
still  repeated  I  judge  it  to  be  the  cul- 
minating effort  of  the  female  mind  as 
now  found  in  Virginia. 

The  women  of  the  families  which 
continued  to  dwell  within  the  lines  of 
the  defenses  of  Washington,  though  no 
less  disloyal,  were  in  other  respects  an 
improvement  upon  the  majority  of  their 
Virginia  sisters  whom  I  had  previously 
encountered.  They  were  bright,  lively, 
intelligent  brunettes,  and  were  as  con- 
trary, tantalizing,  spiteful,  and  other- 
wise agreeable  as  girls,  the  world  over, 
generally  are.  One  of  the  most  attrac- 
tive of  them,  mentally,  physically,  and 
pecuniarily,  professed  herself  exceed- 
ingly anxious  to  become  a  martyr  in  the 
cause  of  Southern  rights.  Whether 
sincere  or  not  in  her  feelings,  she  had 
her  wish  to  some  extent  gratified,  as 
after  we  had  taken  our  departure,  the 
provost-marshal  who  next  succeeded — 
a  wretch  evidently  as  hard-hearted  as 
he  was  hard-headed — ^sent  her  to  Wash- 
ingtcwi  to  become  an  inmate,  probably 
a  temporary  one,  of  the  Old  Capitol 
Prison. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  the  policy  of 
employing  negroes  in  the  military  serv- 
ice of  the  United  States  was  adopted 
by  the  Government.  Upon  no  other 
subject  could  the  indignation  of  these 
damsels  be  sooner  aroused.  Language 
seemed  powerless  to  express  their  dis- 
gust and  wrath  whenever  the  topic  was 
brought  under  discussion,  as  we  took 
care  it  should  be  often.  One  day  I 
propounded  to  one  of  the  prettiest  and 
most  pugnacious  of  these  how  near  to 
her  she  would  allow  me  to  come,  pro- 
vided I  was  put  in  command  of  a  negro 
regiment.  "Not  within  fifty  miles," 
was  the  spiteful  answer.  I  vainly  tried 
to  reduce  the  number  to  forty-nine,  but* 


the  obdurate  fair  one  would  not  come 
down  a  furlong  or  even  a  rod.  The 
cloud-compelling  Jove  himself  could 
not  have  moved  that  indomitable  dam- 
sel one  inch. 

In  spite  of  their  constant,  boastful 
assertions  that  the  South  would  never 
succumb,  there  was  in  all  they  said  an 
undercurrent  of  doubt  and  sadness. 
This  was  partly  due  to  the  confident 
tone  of  the  Northern  troops,  which  no 
defeat  or  disaster  could  ever  shake. 
"When  do  you  think  the  war  will  be 
over?*'  was  the  question  always  asked. 
"Oh,  in  five  or  six  years,"  was  the  com- 
mon reply,  sometimes  because  such  was 
really  the  belief,  but  oftener  prompted 
by  the  desire  to  create  the  evident  feel- 
ing of  depression  which  invariably  fol- 
lowed. Such  an  answer  always  made 
them  look  sadder,  though  doubtless  in 
many  cases  unconsciously;  for  they,  if 
no  one  else,  recognized  the  resolution 
that  lay  behind  it.  Indeed,  the  one 
thing  which  has  characterized  the  senti- 
ment of  the  Northern  soldiers  during 
the  struggle  which  has  so  long  con- 
tinued, has  been  the  determination  that 
the  war  shall  never  end  until  it  is  ended 
forever ;  that  it  shall  go  on  until  every- 
where throughout  the  entire  land  the 
integrity  of  the  nation  shall  be  ac- 
knowledged. Whatever  be  the  result 
of  the  mighty  conflict  which  has  al- 
ready wasted  so  much  of  treasure  and 
blood,  the  feeling  prevails  in  the  army 
as  powerfully  now  as  it  did  at  the  very 
beginning,  that  rather  than  have  the 
Union  broken  up,  better  it  were  that 
the  whole  land  should  return  to  the 
desolation  from  which  centuries  of  toil 
have  reclaimed  it,  and  the  civilization 
of  the  future  begin  its  work  with  a 
theodolite  and  a  surveyor's  chain. 

One  cannot  help  having,  however,  a 
sentiment  of  compassion  for  these  girls 
in  spite  of  their  defiant  speech,  dwell- 
ing as  they  did  within  our  lines  in  the 
midst  of  an  alien  and  hostile  soldiery. 
Theirs  was,  indeed,  a  dreary  prospect. 
For  them  the  future  held  out  little  hope 
and  less  promise.    One  year,  two  years. 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


had  swept  by,  and  still  the  mighty 
struggle  which  both  parties  entered 
upon  as  a  mere  holiday  pastime  seemed 
no  nearer  its  end.  Brothers  and  lovers 
had  all  gone  to  the  wars.  Rarely  came 
any  word  across  the  lines  to  tell  of  the 
fate  which  had  befallen  them.  Day 
after  day  dragged  on  slowly  in  their 
solitary  lives,  with  only  occasional  mes- 
sages at  best  from  those  of  whose  con- 
stant companionship  they  had  been  de- 
frauded. Marrying  and  giving  in  mar- 
riage there  was  no  more.  Throughout 
all  the  borderland  of  Virginia  that  had 
practically  ceased.  Even  wherever 
there  were  men,  the  times  were  too  un- 
settled, the  chances  of  supporting  a 
family  too  doubtful,  the  future  too  full 
of  darkness  and  despair,  to  warrant 
such  a  step.  It  seemed  as  if  the  growth 
of  the  population  would  be  brought  to  a 
standstill  through  the  want  of  faith  and 
hope.  Life  was  too  wretched  to  be  in- 
flicted upon  any  one  who  could  be  saved 
from  the  curse  of  living.  In  all  of  my 
journeyings  in  Virginia  north  of  the 
Rappahannock,  I  do  not  recollect  to 
have  ever  seen  a  child  under  two  years 
of  age.  Stripped  as  the  country  had 
been  of  men  capable  of  bearing  arms, 
babies  w^ere  even  scarcer.  I  doubt 
whether  a  general  search-warrant 
would  find  fifty  wherever  active  mili- 
tary operations  have  been  going  on. 

With  a  severe  snowstorm  in  the  early 
part  of  April  the  winter  passed  away. 
The  long-reluctant  days  of  sunny 
weather  came  at  last.  Camps  were 
decorated  with  pines  and  cedars  from 
the  neighboring  woods,  and  the  rows  of 
white  tents  were  half  hidden  in  the 
avenues  of  overshadowing  evergreens. 
With  the  sunny  weather  came  also  the 
wives  and,  in  a  few  cases,  the  daugh- 
ters of  many  of  the  officers.  Crinoline 
swept  through  the  company  streets 
with  as  much  assurance  as  if  they  were 
the  streets  of  a  Northern  city.  Picnics 
were  planned  and  went  off  with  music 
and  dancing,  very  much  like  picnics 
anywhere  else,  except  that  the  ladies 
were  nearly  all  married,  and  it  never 


rained.  Excluding  the  drilling,  it  was  a 
lazy,  happy,  dreamy  time.  All  was 
quiet  on  the  Potomac,  the  Rappahan- 
nock, and  on  Bull  Run.  The  officer  of 
the  outposts  lounged  on  the  fresh  grass, 
watching  the  silent,  sunny  plain  or  the 
hazy  outlines  of  the  distant  mountains, 
and  wished  never  to  be  relieved.  The 
officer  of  the  day  sat  in  his  tent,  smoked 
cigars,  drank  uninspiring  lemonade, 
and  wrote  letters.  The  terrible  bugle- 
call  for  drill  was  the  skeleton  in  our 
closet.  Had  it  not  been  for  that,  ours 
would  almost  have  been  the  life  of  the 
lotus-eaters  over  again.  Even  with  it, 
all  that  was  needed  to  bring  back  the 
life  we  had  left  behind  was  the  pres- 
ence of  woman ;  and  I  for  one  felt  lit- 
tle disposition  to  blame  those  who  sent 
for  their  wives  and  daughters  in  spite 
of  the  frowns  of  some  of  the  powers 
that  be. 

For  certainly  to  a  cultivated  mind 
the  one  great  privation  of  military  life 
is  the  lack  of  female  society.  Day  after 
day  to  see  men  only;  to  hear  nothing 
but  their  talk,  often  earthy  and  some- 
times gross ;  to  be  ministered  to  in  sick- 
ness by  their  clumsy  hands,  and  in  sor- 
row by  their  clumsy  sympathy — all  these 
are  ever-present  facts  which  give  one  a 
peculiarly  vivid  "realizing  sense*'  of  his 
dependence  upon  woman.  Her  absence 
was  felt  more  in  the  comparative  quiet 
of  the  garrison  than  in  that  active  serv- 
ice, where  the  hurrying  incidents  of  as- 
sault or  defense,  of  flight  or  pursuit, 
drove  from  the  mind  all  thoughts  save 
those  of  the  stern  questions  of  success 
or  failure  which  presented  themselves 
for  solution  daily  and  hourly.  Fortu- 
nate was  she  who  came  to  us  in  our 
solitude;  for  in  the  dreary  monotony 
of  camp  life  our  imaginations  were  al- 
ways ready  and  willing  to  invest  with 
the  attributes  of  a  goddess  any  woman 
whose  appearance  gave  us  the  least  ex- 
cuse for  so  doing.  During  the  winter, 
when  our  stock  of  beauty  ran  low,  it 
was  natural  that  she  who  had  even  very 
moderate  pretensions  to  it  should  be 
rated  high. 


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IN  THE  DEFENSES  OF  WASHINGTON 


25 


Our  lady  visitors  ornamented  the 
dress-parades  of  the  various  regiments 
through  the  months  of  April  and  May 
and  even  longer.  It  required  some 
courage  for  them  to  stand  their  ground. 
Hints  from  division  headquarters  that 
they  were  not  needed  came  thick  and 
fast  and  threatened  soon  to  become  or- 
ders. Some  retreated  early  in  May  along 
with  Hooker;  but  many  manfully  per- 
sisted in  remaining,  and,  subsequently 
being  largely  reinforced,  bade  a  respect- 
ful but  obstinate  defiance  to  the  mili- 
tary authorities.  Insinuations  that  they 
were  or  might  be  in  the  way,  that  move- 
ments were  in  contemplation,  made  no 
impression  upon  these  indomitable  fair 
ones.  Stay  they  would,  and  stay  they 
did,  some  even  late  enough  to  part  for 
the  last  time  with  their  husbands  be- 
fore the  march  to  Gettysburg. 

The  retreat  of  Hooker  from  Chan- 
cellorsville  turned  our  attention  to  dig- 
ging. It  is  a  very  fortunate  thing  for 
me  that  I  have  no  military  reputation, 
for  if  I  had,  it  would  doubtless  be  for- 
ever ruined  by  what  I  am  going  to  say. 
The  extensive  fortifications  of  Centre- 
ville  always  seemed  to  me  a  humbug, 
a  gigantic  imposition  upon  the  credulity 
of  the  American  people.  They  are 
made  up  of  a  chain  of  small  forts,  of 
value  only  as  a  defense  against  a  direct 
attack  in  front,  and  almost  utterly  pow- 
erless to  resist  an  assault  from  the 
flank.  These  were  the  only  works  that 
cost  any  labor,  and  these  could  have 
cost  but  little.  Rifle-pits,  to  be  sure, 
covered  the  country  for  miles,  but  rifle- 
pits,  as  every  soldier  knows,  are  the 
creation  of  a  few  hours.  What  nature 
has  done  for  the  defense  of  the  posi- 
tion is  another  question;  but  the  elabo- 
rate fortifications,  which  tasked  for 
months  the  military  genius  of  Beaure- 
gard to  construct,  existed  only  in  the 
fertile  minds  of  newspaper  correspond- 
ents. That  he  himself  did  not  regard 
Centreville  so  highly  as  some  of  our 
civilians  is  clearly  shown  by  his  falling 
back  to  the  line  of  Bull  Run  on  the  first 
advance  of  the  army  of  the  Potomac. 


It  may  have  been  no  object  to  attack 
these  works ;  it  probably  was  not.  Nor 
do  I  mean  to  say  that  they  could  have 
been  taken  without  great  loss  of  life. 
Very  few  places  are,  so  far  as  I  have 
had  an  opportunity  of  observing.  But 
it  seems  never  to  get  through  the  heads 
of  some  men  that  the  strength  of  a  po- 
sition depends  not  so  much  on  its  forti- 
fications as  it  does  on  the  number  and 
spirit  of  the  soldiers  who  hold  it,  and 
the  ability  and  resolution  of  the  officer 
who  commands  it.  Our  brigade  spent 
several  days  in  digging  rifle-pits  and 
building  batteries ;  and  as  we  never  ex- 
pected them  to  be  used,  we  endeavored 
to  make  them  appear  as  ornamental  as 
possible.  They  were,  when  we  depart- 
ed, the  best  fortifications  to  be  found 
at  or  near  Centreville ;  but  by  this  time, 
doubtless,  Beauregard  has  all  the  credit 
of  their  construction.  If  any  troops  are 
now  stationed  at  that  place,  they  pretty 
certainly  point  them  out  to  visitors  as 
triumphal  monuments  of  his  ceaseless 
activity  and  engineering  skill. 

From  the  first  of  May  to  the  middle 
of  June  the  weather  was  exceedingly 
warm.  The  skies  seemed  made  of  brass, 
not  a  drop  of  rain  falling  for  six  weeks. 
Our  life  was  more  quiet,  if  possible, 
than  before.  We  were  scarcely  even 
disturbed  by  rumors;  bugs  and  flies 
were  the  only  terrestrial  enemies  which 
annoyed  us.  The  former  were  every- 
where. You  swallowed  them  in  your 
food;  you  snuffed  them  up  your  nose; 
you  speared  them  in  the  bottles  of  ink 
with  your  pen.  Mosquitoes,  however, 
were  so  rare  as  to  be  considered  al- 
most a  curiosity.  Day  after  day  passed 
by  unmarked  by  anything  more  im- 
pressive than  the  inevitable  six  hours 
of  drill.  But  this  unnatural  calm  ended 
so  abruptly  that  a  few  days  only  con- 
stituted the  transition  period  from  it  to 
the  excitement  of  military  life  in  its 
sternest  form. 

I  was  lying  in  my  tent  on  the  after- 
noon of  Sunday,  the  fifteenth  of  June, 
when  I  saw  several  horsemen  ride  up 
to  division   headquarters,   which  were 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road.  In  a 
little  while  the  news  went  like  wildfire 
through  the  camps  that  the  eleventh 
corps,  the  advance  of  the  army  of  the 
Potomac,  was  coming.  It  was  a  thun- 
derbolt from  a  clear  sky.  Not  even  a 
rumor  of  any  movement  in  progress  or 
in  contemplation  had  reached  us  pre- 
viously. At  first  the  report  could  hard- 
ly be  believed;  but  a  little  later  in  the 
day,  those  standing  on  the  forts  sur- 
mounting the  heights  could  see  the 
rolling  clouds  of  dust  that  almost  hid 
from  view  the  southern  sky.  About 
sundown  General  Howard  and  his  staff 
rode  in ;  but  his  command  lay  encamped 
for  the  night  near  Blackburn's  Ford  on 
Bull  Run,  and  did  not  reach  Centre- 
ville  until  the  next  morning.  It  was 
followed  immediately  by  the  first  and 
the  fifth  corps.  On  Wednesday,  the 
seventeenth,  the  third  corps  arrived; 
on  Friday,  the  nineteenth,  the  second, 
and  about  the  time  we  were  leaving  the 
place  the  sixth  corps  made  its  appear- 
ance. 

From  the  first  moment  of  the  com- 
ing of  these  troops  the  monotonous 
quiet  of  Centreville  was  entirely  broken 
up.  Every  day  some  new  body  of  in- 
fantry, cavalry,  and  artillery  came  and 
went.  The  ceaseless  march  of  men  to 
the  North,  the  long  and  seemingly  end- 
less trains  of  baggage-  and  ammunition- 
wagons,  the  entire  ignorance  that  pre- 
vailed even  among  the  highest  officers 
as  to  the  movements  of  either  army, 
and  the  thousand  reports  to  which  such 
ignorance  gave  rise — all  these  kept  the 
place  in  a  constant  tumult  of  excite- 
ment. Rumors  that  Lee  was  in  Penn- 
sylvania, rumors  that  he  was  directly 
in  our  front,  rumors  that  he  was  re- 
treating towards  Richmond,  rumors 
that  he  was  moving  up  the  Shenan- 
doah valley,  rumors  that  he  held  the 
gaps  of  the  Manassas  mountains,  ru- 
mors that  we  held  them,  rumors  that 
the  occupation  of  the  Pennsylvania 
border  was  a  mere  feint  to  draw  away 


our  troops  from  Washington,  rumors 
that  it  was  but  the  beginning  of  a  gen- 
eral invasion  of  the  North,  planned 
long  ago  and  now  carried  into  execu- 
tion, rumors  that  Lee  had  been  out- 
generaled by  Hooker,  rumors  that 
Hooker  had  been  outgeneraled  by  Lee, 
— these  and  numberless  others  of  a 
similar  character  followed  one  another 
in  endless  succession.  Every  man  had 
his  theory  and  by  constantly  asserting 
it  soon  became  convinced  of  its  abso- 
lute truth,  and  finally  proclaimed  it  as 
a  fact.  Confused  by  the  reports  of 
every  hour,  which  contradicted  the  re- 
ports of  the  hour  previous,  we  could 
only  wait  for  the  development  which 
the  future  would  bring.  We  were  not 
kept  long  in  uncertainty.  With  the 
smoke-clouds  that  in  a  few  days  rose 
from  the  field  of  Gettysburg  passed 
away  all  the  mystery  that  veiled  from 
us  our  own  movements  and  those  of 
the  enemy. 

In  the  rumors  in  regard  to  the  desti- 
nation of  our  own  brigade  we  natu- 
rally had  a  very  lively  interest.  As  day 
after  day  the  endless  columns  of  troops 
marched  through  Centreville,  it  was  a 
question  eagerly  asked  by  every  one, 
whether  we  were  to  go  or  to  stay.  The 
answer  came  speedily.  On  the  twen- 
ty-third of  June  orders  were  received 
to  be  ready  for  the  field  with  ten  days* 
rations.  We  had  been  transferred,  we 
were  informed,  to  the  second  corps  of 
the  army  of  the  Potomac,  commanded 
by  General  Hancock.  So  on  the  twen- 
ty-fifth of  June  "the  band-box  brigade," 
as  our  new  associates  styled  it,  with 
drums  beating  and  banners  flying,  bade 
adieu  to  the  defenses  of  Washington 
and  took  the  road  to  the  North.  In  a 
little  more  than  a  month  afterwards  it 
reached  the  Rappahannock  on  its  south- 
ward march  from  Pennsylvania;  but  in 
the  meantime  it  had  left  in  Northern 
graves  and  hospitals  more  than  two- 
thirds  of  its  eflFective  force. 


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TASTE  AND  TECHNIQUE 

By  Carroll  Beckwith 


Mr.  President,  associates,  ladies,  and 
gentlemen:  my  distinguished  prede- 
cessors are  more  fortunate  than  I, 
because  they  have  spoken  of  things 
rather  removed  from  present  condi- 
tions. Mr.  Thomas  told  us  of  events 
at  the  beginning  of  the  Christian  era; 
Professor  Lounsbury,  those  of  the  War 
of  the  Rebellion. 

I   must   apologize   beforehand,    per- 
haps, for  touching  on  some  of  the  ques- 
tions of  the  present  moment,  on  which 
there  may  be  many  differences  of  opin- 
ion.    Therefore,  I  fear,  I  shall  lay  my- 
self  open    to   your   disapproval.     The 
opening  words  I  have  written  here  have 
been  illustrated  for  me  by  Mr.  Brock- 
way,  in  his  beautiful  musical  perform- 
ance: "All  art  work  is  an  expression 
of  human  emotion."     We  all  know  that 
art  is  not  a  fact.     It  is  not  real.     It  is 
a  dream.     It  is  an  ideal.     It  is  some- 
thing that  comes  from  within  the  artist 
and  touches  something  within  you.    Its 
language,   as   I   imagine,   is   taste   and 
technique.     Nature,     in     her    creative 
thoughts,  searches  for  a  language  and 
for  a  channel  of  expression.  This  chan- 
nel is  our  taste — our  technique.  It  is  in- 
dividual, it  is  personal,  it  is  yourself,  it 
is  myself;  and  yet  it  is  guided  by  tradi- 
tion.    It  is  tradition  which  has  estab- 
lished   standards — standards    of    com- 
parison.    They  are  arbitrary  or  not  as 
you  choose  to  interpret  them;  yet  they 
are     dangerous     to     defy.     Intelligent 
retrospect  governs  the  quality  of  pres- 
ent culture.     It  is  what  has  passed  be- 
fore, what  has  endured  the  criticism, 
the    trial,    of    time,    and    has    proved 
worthy,  which  we  adopt  to-day  as  our 
standard.     It  is  by  the  measuring-rod 
of  an  art  that  is  past  that  we  judge 
contempory  work.     Xow,  is  this  just? 
Is     it    right?     Does    it    handicap    the 


producer  of  the  art  of  to-day? 
Is  he  shackled  by  the  standards  of 
the  past?  The  sculptors  of  Greece, 
the  color  of  the  Venetian  painters,  the 
music  of  Mozart,  have  established 
standards  to  which  we  have  all 
bowed.  The  young  man  in  his 
youth  feels  defiant  that  he  should  be 
restrained  by  the  adoption  of  laws  that 
to  him  are  arbitrary  and  cruel.  He 
desires  a  revolution  that  will  enable 
him  to  be  free.  He  wishes  to  cast 
aside  the  old  standards  and  create  new 
ones.  Revolutions  occur,  in  which 
these  standards  of  taste  are  temporarily 
tossed  to  the  winds,  and  new  guides 
are  brought  forward  to  be  praised  by 
the  press,  as  the  press  is  always  in 
search  of  novelty,  and  is  eager  to  put 
something  in  the  head-lines,  to  put 
something  or  somebody  in  the  spot- 
light. Therefore,  before  the  young  man 
invents  something  out  of  his  imagina- 
tion, he  finds  that  he  has  gained  a  posi- 
tion in  the  foreground,  and  he  thinks 
that  the  past  has  gone.  It  is  only  tem- 
porary, however.  The  standards  that 
are  cast  down  for  the  moment  by  these 
revolutions  do  not  go  to  oblivion. 

When,  after  the  French  Revolution, 
David  ruled  supreme  in  the  schools  of 
France,  and  was  followed  by  Ingres, 
then  Watteau,  Fragonard,  and  Boucher 
were  forgotten.  Their  work  was  turned 
to  the  wall.  Nobody  was  interested  in 
them  any  more.  The  last  century  has 
brought  us  to  the  point  of  appreciation, 
and  justice  is  again  meted  out  to  them 
as  though  no  revolution  had  occurred. 

Youth  and  genius  rebel  against  re- 
straints. Was  there  ever  a  time  when 
in  the  beginning  youth  and  genius  did 
not  rebel  against  the  art  work  of  an 
earlier  period?  The  art  of  the  late- 
eighteenth    century    conies    back,    and 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


with  it  comes  that  school  of  the  crafts- 
men. Every  new  movement,  every  at- 
traction for  which  we  temporarily 
strive,  becomes,  after  sifting,  a  valu- 
able asset  or  is  cast  aside.  It  goes  on 
and  on,  and  is  cast  aside  again  and 
jagain  for  the  moment,  and  brilliant 
and  strong  men  like  Delacroix  and 
Millet  produce  their  temporary  revolu- 
tions of  thought.  The  schools  that  are 
prominent  to-day  must  recall  the  fact 
that  Millet,  the  peasant  painter,  was 
one  of  the  most  ingenious  and  skilled 
draftsmen,  as  is  shown  by  his  nudes. 

Then  another  movement  appears, 
and  Manet  comes  to  the  center  of  the 
stage,  and  beauty  and  poetry  are  cast 
aside,  and  a  crude  reality  is  empha- 
sized. His  lack  of  ability  in  drawing, 
his  clumsy,  often  awkward  technique, — 
his  lack  of  mastery  of  his  trade,  in 
other  words, — were  compensated  for  in 
his  mind  by  the  emphasis  of  the  fact. 
Brilliant  in  personality,  brilliant  in 
color!  If  you  will  pardon  me,  I  will 
tell  you  a  little  incident  about  him 
when  I  met  him  in  Paris  for  a  moment 
in  1875.  It  was  a  time  when  the  now 
well-known  skating-rink  was  a  great 
novelty.  The  first  one  constructed  in 
Paris  was  in  the  Rue  Blanche,  and  the 
skating  was  done  on  roller-skates.  I 
met  a  rich  American,  and  he  asked 
me  to  go  to  the  skating-rink  on  the 
opening  night  as  his  guest.  We  met 
there  at  the  appointed  hour,  and  in  the 
course  of  the  evening  he  led  me  into  the 
loge  of  a  famous  lady  of  the  Sec- 
ond Empire,  and  there  I  found  gath- 
ered about  her  a  number  of  gentlemen. 
Soon  there  entered  a  man  quite  English 
in  dress  and  style,  with  a  square-cut, 
reddish  beard.  I  asked  my  hostess  who 
he  was,  and  she  turned  and  presented 
me  to  M.  Edouard  Manet.  Then  she 
asked  him: 

"M.  Manet,  qu'est  que  vous  faites 
pour  le  Salon  ?" 

I,  from  the  Latin  Quarter,  knew 
from  the  gossip  of  the  studios  that  he 
was  regularly  refused  at  the  Salon  and 


wondered  what  his  reply  would  be. 
He  said:  "Je  fais  un  tas  de  choses." 

Values  were  then  far  more  important 
than  regard  for  form.  To-day  neither 
values  nor  form  is  much  cared  about; 
they  are  rather  ignored.  However, 
M.  Manet  was  a  little  too  much  in  evi- 
dence at  that  moment  to  endure,  and 
although  I  was  an  enthusiast  about  him 
at  that  time,  I  wondered  how  long  he 
would  last. 

We  then  come  to  another  period,  the 
latest  revolution — that  of  Cezanne  and 
Matisse,  who  have  occupied  the  head- 
Hnes.  From  my  point  of  view,  not  only 
have  values  and  form  been  disregarded, 
but  awkwardness  seems  to  be  sought 
for,  and  the  rules  of  skilled  craftsman- 
ship have  been  defied.  It  is  now  a  sin 
to  be  a  skilful  draftsman.  It  is  con- 
sidered obnoxious  in  the  schools  of 
Paris  to  draw  too  well.  It  is  not  natu- 
ral. Nature  draws  clumsily.  We  have 
a  distinguished  illustration  of  this  ten- 
dency in  the  work  of  the  very  great 
sculptor  Rodin.  Until  twenty  years 
ago,  Rodin  was  undoubtedly  proud  of 
his  technique  and  skill.  To-day  he 
makes  his  figures  heavy,  ponderous,  and 
oftentimes  shapeless.  This  movement 
is  strong  in  France.  It  is  even  strong- 
er in  Italy,  where  the  Futurists  are; 
but  in  Paris  to-day  the  movement  is 
like  a  tremendous  cyclone,  sweeping 
everything  before  it. 

I  was  told  that  in  Paris  there  were 
thirty-two  diflferent  dealers  in  Impres- 
sionist work.  While  going  down  the 
Rue  Lafitte  one  day  I  looked  in  at  a 
window  which  I  was  passing.  I  said 
to  myself,  "Here  is  a  restorer  of  pic- 
tures." I  looked  up  at  the  sign  in 
front  of  the  shop,  and  it  was  owned 
by  one  VoUard.  I  saw  many  canvasses 
in  a  rather  disorderly  array.  It  looked 
Hke  a  workshop.  I  said  to  myself,  *Tt 
is  one  of  those  dealers  in  the  latest  Im- 
pressionists." Out  of  curiosity  I  went 
in,  and  was  met  by  the  head  of  the 
shop ;  I  asked  to  look  at  the  picture  on 


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TASTE  AND  TECHNIQIJE 


2Q 


the  easel  in  the  window.  That  picture 
looked  like  a  Turkish  rug  cast  over  a 
chair.  I  asked  the  dealer  if  it  was  a 
picture  of  still  life.  He  said  very  rev- 
erently : 

*Tt  is  a  portrait.  Here  is  the  hand 
on  the  chair,  and  here  is  the  head." 

I  looked  at  it  and  thought  deeply,  en- 
deavoring to  define  the  figure,  but  fail- 
ing in  my  eflfort.    I  asked: 

"But  can  you  see  it  ?" 

Shrugging  his  shoulders,  he  an- 
swered : 

"Yes,  sometimes,  and  sometimes  not." 

Only  a  year  before  certain  young 
painters  in  the  Latin  Quarter  decided 
that  they  would  create  a  sensation. 
They  brought  a  donkey  and  a  large 
canvas  to  a  studio  and,  tying  a  paint- 
brush to  the  donkey's  tail,  set  the  blank 
canvas  behind  the  donkey.  They  mixed 
various  paints,  moved  the  canvas  to 
and  fro,  and  tickled  the  donkey  to 
make  him  switch  his  tail.  They  thus 
produced  a  picture,  and  were  photo- 
graphed in  the  act,  and  that  picture 
was  hung  on  the  wall  at  the  autumn 
Salon !  Later  they  came  out  in  the  pub- 
lic prints  and  said,  "Here  is  an  example 
of  the  work  that  goes  on  the  line  in  this 
exhibition,"  and  they  had  the  photo- 
graph published  to  prove  how  the 
painting  was  produced. 

I  met  in  Rome  a  gentleman  connected 
with  the  Futurists.  He  was  really  an 
advanced  member.  He  said :  "We  can- 
not get  on  so  long  as  these  museums, 
with  their  false  standards,  exist  to  mis- 
guide the  public.  The  only  thing  to 
do  is  to  burn  down  the  museums."  Now 
we  are  being  experimented  upon  and 
vivisected,  and  ideas  and  theories  are 
being  turned  upside  down ;  but  we  must 
endure  the  movement  for  a  time,  as  it 
will  pass,  and  its  incoherence  will  soon 
cast  it  into  oblivion,  because  the  lan- 
guage of  art  cannot  be  gained  without 
hard  labor,  and  no  art  can  exist  that 
does  not  respect  the  past  and  its  stan- 
dards. The  earliest  and  best  art  should 
be  drilled  into  the  minds  and  hearts  of 


the  young  painters  so  that  they  may 
know  what  the  art  of  past  ages  is. 

I  am  sure  that  in  the  art  that  Mr. 
Brockway  represents  there  are  those 
standards  which  are  the  foundation  of 
his  education  and  upon  which  he  has 
built.  Taste — taste,  modest  and  non- 
combative,  distinguished  and  refined — 
is  now  cast  aside.  The  other  night 
I  saw  in  the  New  Theater  the  most 
beautiful  modern  decoration  that  I 
know  of  in  the  world,  Baudry's  ceil- 
ing. No  one  looked  at  it.  People 
seemed  to  be  indifferent  to  it.  In  Bos- 
ton we  have  Puvis  de  Chavannes  in 
the  Public  Library.  When  this  decora- 
tion was  painted,  it  was  remarked  that 
this  time  Puvis  de  Chavannes  had  really 
made  gingerbread  figures.  I  never 
look  at  that  painting  without  thinking 
that  they  are  indeed  gingerbread  fig- 
ures; but  when  I  go  into  the  other 
room  and  see  the  Sargent,  I  am  con- 
vinced of  it. 

Last  winter,  in  Paris,  there  occurred 
a  most  interesting  incident.  A  gentle- 
man of  the  old  school,  to  which  I  be- 
long, rebelled  against  the  Impression- 
ists. M.  Olivier  Merson  put  on  his  hat, 
went  out,  and  called  on  his  confreres, 
saying:  "Cannot  we  get  up  an  exhibi- 
tion that  may  be  as  interesting  as  some 
of  the  others  about  Paris?  Let  us  form 
ourselves  into  a  little  society  and  adopt 
the  name  *Les  Pompiers.'  "  You  may 
not  be  aware  that  in  Paris  an  exact 
copy  of  the  classic  Greek  helmet  is  used 
by  the  firemen.  On  the  invitation-card  of 
this  society  of  "Les  Pompiers"  was  a 
large  design  of  the  old  Greek  helmet. 
This  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and 
brilliant  exhibitions  I  saw  abroad,  com- 
bining the  men  of  the  end  of  the  last 
century  who  are  still  working  and  the 
conservatives  of  to-day,  and  there  were 
gathered  together  two  hundred  beauti- 
ful works.  I  urge  you  to  bear  in  mind, 
in  considering  these  paintings,  that  they 
grow  more  beautiful  as  time  goes  on, 
that  they  improve  with  age.  Yes,  we  will 


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50  PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 

go  back  and  look  at  them,  study  them,  moves  up  and  then  down,  and  one  day 

and  learn  to  adopt  and  apply  the  lessons  we  are  classic  and  another  day  we  are 

we  learned  from  them  in  our  youth.  We  Impressionists ;  but  it  is  my  belief  and 

will  look  at  El  Greco,  we  will  look  at  hope  that  what  is  good  in  the  past  may 

Velasquez,    and    then    we    will    come  always  be  preserved,  that  we  shall  not 

down  to  the  modern  Zuloaga  and  the  forget  it,  and  that  we  shall  keep  it  as 

painting  from  the  brush  of  Fortuny;  one  of  our  standards  and  measuring- 

by  the  normal  and  the  scholarly,  stand  rods  by  which  to  judge  modern  produc- 

the  erratic  and  the  bizarre.    The  way  tion. 


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REALISM  AND  REALITY  IN  FICTION 

By  William  Lyon  Phelps 


During  those  early  years  of  his 
youth  at  Paris,  which  the  melancholy 
but  unrepentant  George  Moore  insists 
he  spent  in  riotous  living,  he  was  on 
one  memorable  occasion  making  a 
night  of  it  at  a  ball  in  Montmartre.  In 
the  midst  of  the  revelry  a  gray  giant 
came  placidly  striding  across  the  crowd- 
ed room,  looking,  I  suppose,  some- 
thing like  Gulliver  in  Lilliput.  It  was 
the  Russian  novelist  Turgenieff.  For  a 
moment  the  young  Irishman  forgot  the 
girls,  and  plunged  into  eager  talk  with 
the  man  from  the  North.  Emile  Zola 
had  just  astonished  Paris  with  "L'As- 
sommoir."  In  response  to  a  leading 
question,  Turgenieff  shook  his  head 
gravely  and  said:  "What  difference 
does  it  make  whether  a  woman  sweats 
in  the  middle  of  her  back  or  under  her 
arms  ?  I  want  to  know  how  she  thinks, 
not  how  she  feels." 

In  this  statement  the  great  master  of 
diagnosis  indicated  the  true  distinction 
between  realism  and  reality.  A  work 
of  art  may  be  conscientiously  realistic, 
— few  men  have  had  a  more  importu- 
nate conscience  than  Zola, — and  yet  be 
untrue  to  life,  or,  at  all  events,  untrue 
to  life  as  a  whole.  Realism  may  de- 
generate into  emphasis  on  sensational 
but  relatively  unimportant  detail:  re- 
ality deals  with  that  mystery  of  mys- 
teries, the  human  heart.  Realism  may 
degenerate  into  a  creed;  and  a  formal 
creed  in  art  is  as  unsatisfactory  as  a 
formal  creed  in  religion,  for  it  is  an 
attempt  to  confine  what  by  its  very  na- 
ture is  boundless  and  infinite  into  a 
narrow  and  prescribed  space.  Your 
microscope  may  be  accurate  and  pow- 
erful, but  its  strong  regard  is  turned 
on  only  one  thing  at  a  time;  and  no 
matter  how  enormously  this  thing  may 
be  enlarged,  it  remains  only  one  thing 


out  of  the  infinite  variety  of  God's  uni- 
verse. To  describe  one  part  of  life  by 
means  of  a  perfectly  accurate  micro- 
scope is  not  to  describe  life  any  more 
than  one  can  measure  the  Atlantic 
Ocean  by  means  of  a  perfectly  accurate 
yardstick.  Zola  was  an  artist  of  ex- 
traordinary energy,  sincerity,  and  hon- 
esty ;  but,  after  all,  when  he  gazed  upon 
a  dunghill,  he  saw  and  described  a 
dunghill.  Rostand  looked  steadfastly 
at  the  same  object,  and  beheld  the  vis- 
ion of  Chahtecler, 

Suppose  some  foreign  champion  of 
realism  should  arrive  in  New  York  at 
dusk,  spend  the  whole  night  visiting 
the  various  circles  of  our  metropolitan 
hell,  and  depart  for  Europe  in  the 
dawn.  Suppose  that  he  should  make  a 
strictly  accurate  narrative  of  all  that 
he  had  seen.  Well  and  good ;  it  would 
be  realistic,  it  would  be  true.  But  sup- 
pose he  should  call  his  narrative 
"America."  Then  we  should  assuredly 
protest. 

"You  have  not  described  America. 
Your  picture  lacks  the  most  essential 
features." 
He  would  reply :  . 
"But  is  n't  what  I  have  said  all  true  ? 
I  defy  you  to  deny  its  truth.  I  defy  you 
to  point  out  errors  or  exaggerations. 
Everything  that  I  described  I  saw  with 
my  own  eyes." 

All  this  we  admit,  but  we  refuse 
to  accept  it  as  a  picture  of  America. 
Here  is  the  cardinal  error  of  realism. 
It  selects  one  aspect  of  life, — usually 
a  physical  aspect,  for  it  is  easy  to 
arouse  strained  attention  by  physical 
detail, — and  then  insists  that  it  has 
made  a  picture  of  life.  The  modern 
Parisian  society  drama,  for  example, 
cannot  possibly  be  a  true  representa- 
tion of  French  family  and  social  life. 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


Life  is  not  only  better  than  that;  it 
is  surely  less  monotonous,  more  com- 
plex. You  cannot  play  a  great  sym- 
phony on  one  instrument,  least  of  all 
on  the  triangle.  The  plays  of  Bern- 
stein, Bataille,  Hervieu,  Donnay,  Ca- 
pus,  Guinon,  and  others,  brilliant  in 
technical  execution  as  they  often  are, 
really  follow  a  monotonous  convention 
of  theatrical  art.  rather  than  life  itself. 
As  an  English  critic  has  said,  "The  Pa- 
risian dramatists  are  living  in  an  at- 
mosphere of  half-truths  and  shams, 
grubbing  in  the  divorce  courts  and  liv- 
ing upon  the  maintenance  of  social 
intrigue  just  as  comfortably  as  any 
bully  upon  the  earnings  of  a  prostitute/* 
An  admirable  French  critic,  M.  Henry 
Bordeaux,  says  of  his  contemporary 
playwrights,  that  they  have  ceased  to 
represent  men  and  women  as  they 
really  are.  This  is  not  realism,  he  de- 
clares; it  is  a  new  style  of  false  ro- 
manticism, where  men  and  women  are 
represented  as  though  they  possessed 
no  moral  sense — a  romanticism  sensual, 
worldly,  and  savage.  Life  is  pictured 
as  though  there  were  no  such  things 
as  daily  tasks  and  daily  duties. 

Shakespeare  was  an  incorrigible  ro- 
mantic ;  yet  there  is  more  reality  in  his 
composition  than  in  all  the  realism  of 
his  great  contemporary,  Ben  Jonson. 
Confidently  and  defiantly,  Jonson  set 
forth  his  play  "Every  Man  in  His  Hu- 
mour" as  a  model  of  what  other  plays 
should  be;  for,  said  he,  it  contains 
deeds  and  languages  such  as  men  do 
use.  So  it  does:  but  it  falls  far  short 
of  the  reality  reached  by  Shakespeare 
in  that  impossible  tissue  of  absurd 
events  which  he  carelessly  called  "As 
You  Like  It."  In  his  erudite  and  praise- 
worthy attempt  to  bring  back  the  days 
of  ancient  Rome  on  the  Elizabethan 
stage  Jonson  achieved  a  resurrection  of 
the  dead:  Shakespeare,  unembarrassed 
by  learning  and  unhampered  by  a  creed, 
achieved  a  resurrection  of  the  living. 
Catiline  and  Sejanus  talk  like  an  old 
text ;  Brutus  and  Cassius  talk  like  liv- 


ing men.  For  the  letter  killeth,  but  the 
spirit  giveth  life. 

The  form,  the  style,  the  setting,  and 
the  scenery  of  a  work  of  art  may  deter- 
mine whether  it  belongs  to  realism  or 
romanticism;  for  realism  and  roman- 
ticism are  affairs  of  time  and  space. 
Reality,  however,  by  its  very  essence, 
is  spiritual,  and  may  be  accompanied 
by  a  background  that  is  contemporary, 
ancient,  or  purely  mythical.  An  opera 
of  the  Italian  school,  where,  after  a 
tragic  scene,  the  tenor  and  soprano 
hold  hands,  trip  together  to  the  foot- 
lights, and  produce  fluent  roulades, 
may  be  set  in  a  drawing-room,  with 
contemporary,  realistic  furniture.  Com- 
pare "La  Traviata"  with  the  first  act  of 
"Die  Walkiire,"  and  see  the  difference 
between  realism  and  reality.  In  the 
wildly  romantic  and  mythical  setting, 
the  passion  of  love  is  intensely  real; 
and  as  the  storm  ceases,  the  portal 
swings  open,  and  the  soft  air  of  the 
moonlit  spring  night  enters  the  room, 
the  eternal  reality  of  love  makes  its 
eternal  appeal  in  a  scene  of  almost  in- 
tolerable beauty.  Even  so  carefully 
realistic  an  opera  as  "Louise"  does  not 
seem  for  the  moment  any  more  real 
than  these  lovers  in  the  spring  moon- 
light, deep  in  the  heart  of  the  whisper- 
ing forest. 

A  fixed  creed,  whether  it  be  a  creed 
of  optimism,  pessimism,  realism,  or  ro- 
manticism, is  a  positive  nuisance  to  an 
artist.  Joseph  Conrad,  all  of  whose 
novels  have  the  unmistakable  air  of 
reality,  declares  that  the  novelist 
should  have  no  program  of  any  kind 
and  no  set  rules.  In  a  memorable 
phrase  he  cries,  "Liberty  of  the  imagi- 
nation should  be  the  most  precious 
possession  of  a  novelist."  Optimism 
may  be  an  insult  to  the  sufferings  of 
humanity,  but,  says  Mr.  Conrad,  pes- 
simism is  intellectual  arrogance.  He 
will  have  it  that  while  the  ultimate 
meaning  of  life — if  there  be  one — is 
hidden  from  us,  at  all  events  this  is  a 
spectacular  universe,  and  a  man  who 
has     doubled     the     Horn     and     sailed 


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33 


through  a  typhoon  on  what  was  unin- 
tentionally a  submarine  vessel  may  be 
pardoned  for  insisting  on  this  point  of 
view.  It  is  indeed  a  spectacular  uni- 
verse, which  has  resisted  all  the  at- 
tempts of  realistic  novelists  to  make  it 
dull.  However  sad  or  gay  life  may  be, 
it  affords  an  interesting  spectacle.  Per- 
haps this  is  one  reason  why  all  works 
of  art  that  possess  reality  never  fail 
to  draw  and  hold  attention. 

Every  critic  ought  to  have  a  hospit- 
able mind.  His  attitude  toward  art  in 
general  should  be  like  that  of  an  old- 
fashioned  host  at  the  door  of  a  coun- 
tr>'  inn,  ready  to  welcome  all  guests 
except  dangerous  criminals.  It  is  im- 
possible to  judge  with  any  fairness  a 
new  poem,  a  new  opera,  a  new  picture, 
a  new  novel,  if  the  critic  have  precon- 
ceived opinions  as  to  what  poetry,  mu- 
sic, painting,  and  fiction  should  be. 
We  are  all  such  creatures  of  conven- 
tion that  the  first  impression  made  by 
reality  in  any  form  of  art  is  sometimes 
a  distinct  shock,  and  we  close  the  win- 
dows of  our  intelligence  and  draw  the 
blinds  that  the  new  light  and  the  new 
air  may  not  enter  in.  Just  as  no  form 
of  art  is  so  strange  as  life,  so  it  may 
be  the  strangeness  of  reality  in  books, 
in  pictures,  and  in  music  that  makes 
our  attitude  one  of  resistance  rather 
than  of  welcome. 

Shortly  after  the  appearance  of 
Wordsworth's  "Resolution  and  Inde- 
pendence,'* 

There  was  a  roaring  in  the  wind  all  night, 
The  rain  came  heavily  and  fell  in  floods, 

some  one  read  aloud  the  poem  to  an 
intelligent  woman.  She  burst  into 
tears,  but,  recovering  herself,  said 
shamefacedly,  "After  all,  it  is  n't  po- 
etry." When  Pushkin,  striking  off  the 
shackles  of  eighteenth  century  conven- 
tions, published  his  first  work,  a  Rus- 
sian critic  exclaimed,  "For  God's  sake! 
don't  call  this  thing  a  poem!"  These 
two  poems  seemed  strange  because 
they  were  so  natural,  so  real,  so  true, 
just  as  a  sincere  person  who  speaks  his 


mind  in  social  intercourse  is  regarded 
as  an  eccentric.  We  follow  conven- 
tions and  not  life.  In  operas  the  lover 
must  be  a  tenor,  as  though  the  love  of 
a  man  for  a  woman  were  something 
soft,  something  delicate,  something 
emasculate,  instead  of  being  what  it 
really  is,  the  very  essence  of  masculine 
virility.  I  suppose  that  on  the  operatic 
stage  a  lover  with  a  bass  voice  would 
shock  a  good  many  people  in  the  audi- 
torium, but  I  should  like  to  see  the 
experiment  tried.  In  Haydn's  "Crea- 
tion," our  first  parents  sing  a  bass  and 
soprano  duet  very  sweetly.  But  Verdi 
gave  that  seasoned  old  soldier  Otello 
a  tenor  role,  and  even  the  fearless 
Wagner  made  his  leading  lovers  all 
sing  tenor  except  the  Flying  Dutch- 
man, who  can  hardly  be  called  human. 
In  society  dramas  we  have  become  so 
accustomed  to  conventional  inflections, 
conventional  gestures,  conventional 
grimaces,  that  when  an  actor  speaks 
and  behaves  exactly  as  he  would  were 
the  situation  real,  instead  of  assumed, 
the  effect  is  startling.  Virgin  snow  of- 
ten looks  blue,  but  it  took  courage  to 
paint  it  blue,  because  people  judge  not 
by  eyesight,  but  by  convention,  and 
snow  conventionally  is  assuredly  white. 
In  reading  works  of  fiction  we  have 
become  so  accustomed  to  conven- 
tions that  we  hardly  notice  how  often 
they  contradict  reality.  In  how  many 
novels  I  have  read  I  have  been  intro- 
duced to  respectable  women  with  scar- 
let lips,  whereas  in  life  I  never  saw 
a  really  good  woman  with  such  labial 
curiosities.  Conversations  are  conven- 
tionally unnatural.  A  trivial  illustra- 
tion will  suffice.  Some  one  in  a 
group  makes  an  attractive  proposition. 
"Agreed !"  cried  they  all.  Did  you  ever 
hear  any  one  say  "Agreed"  ? 

I  suppose  that  all  novels,  no  matter 
how  ostensibly  objective,  must  really 
be  subjective.  "Out  of  the  abundance 
of  the  heart  the  mouth  speaketh." 
Every  artist  feels  the  imperative  need 
of  self-expression.  Milton  used  to  sit 
in  his  arm-chair,  waiting  impatiently  for 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


his  amanuensis,  and  cry,  *1  want  to  be 
milked."  Even  so  dignified,  so  reti- 
cent, and  so  sober-minded  a  novelist  as 
Joseph  Conrad  says,  "The  novelist  does 
not  describe  the  world:  he  simply  de- 
scribes his  own  world."  Sidney's  ad- 
vice, "Look  in  thy  heart,  and  write,"  is 
as  applicable  to  the  realistic  novelist 
as  it  is  to  the  lyric  poet.  We  know  now 
that  the  greatest  novelist  of  our  time, 
Tolstoi,  wrote  his  autobiography  in  every 
one  of  his  so-called  works  of  fiction. 
The  astonishing  air  of  reality  that  they 
possess  is  owing  largely  to  the  fact  not 
merely  that  they  are  true  to  life,  but 
that  they  are  the  living  truth.  When  an 
artist  succeeds  in  getting  the  secrets 
of  his  inmost  heart  on  the  printed  page, 
the  book  lives.  This  accounts  for  the 
extraordinary  power  of  Dostoyevsky, 
who  simply  turned  himself  inside  out 
every  time  he  wrote  a  novel. 

The  only  reality  that  we  can  con- 
sistently demand  of  a  novel  is  that  its 
characters  and  scenes  shall  make  a  per- 
manent impression  on  our  imagination. 
The  object  of  all  forms  of  art  is  to 
produce  an  illusion,  and  the  illusion 
cannot  be  successful  with  experienced 
readers  unless  it  have  the  air  of  re- 
ality. The  longer  we  live,  the  more 
difficult  it  is  to  deceive  us :  we  smile  at 
the  scenes  that  used  to  draw  our  tears, 
we  are  left  cold  by  the  declamation  that 
we  once  thought  was  passion,  and  we 
have  supped  so  full  with  horrors  that 
we  are  not  easily  frightened.  We  are 
simply  bored  as  we  see  the  novelist  get 
out  his  little  bag  of  tricks.  But  we 
never  weary  of  the  great  figures  in 
Fielding,  in  Jane  Austen,  in  Dickens,  in 
Thackeray,  in  Balzac,  in  TurgenieflF,  for 
they  have  become  an  actual  part  of  our 
mental  life.  And  it  is  interesting  to 
remember  that  while  the  ingenious  situ- 
ations and  boisterous  swashbucklers  of 
most  romances  fade  like  the  flowers  of 
the  field.  Cooper  and  Dumas  are  read 
by  generation  after  generation.  Their 
heroes  cannot  die,  because  they  have 
what  Mrs.  Browning  called  the  "prin- 
ciple of  life." 


The  truly  great  novelist  is  not  only  in 
harmony  with  life ;  his  characters  seem 
to  move  with  the  stars  in  their  courses. 
"To  be,"  said  the  philosopher  Ia)tze. 
"is  to  be  in  relations."  The  moment 
a  work  of  art  ceases  to  be  in  relation 
with  life,  it  ceases  to  be.  All  the  great 
novelists  are  what  I  like  to  call  sidereal 
novelists.  They  belong  to  the  earth, 
like  the  procession  of  the  seasons ;  they 
are  universal,  like  the  stars.  A  com- 
monplace producer  of  novels  for  the 
market  describes  a  group  of  people 
that  remains  nothing  but  a  group  of 
people;  they  interest  us  perhaps  mo- 
mentarily, like  an  item  in  a  newspaper ; 
but  they  do  not  interest  us  deeply,  any 
more  than  we  are  really  interested  at 
this  moment  in  what  Brown  and  Jones 
are  doing  in  Rochester  or  Louisville. 
They  may  be  interesting  to  their  au- 
thor, for  children  are  always  interest- 
ing to  their  parents ;  but  to  the  ordinary 
reader  they  begin  and  end  their  fic- 
tional life  as  an  isolated  group.  On 
the  contrary,  when  we  read  a  story  like 
"The  Return  of  the  Native,"  the  book 
seems  as  inevitable  as  the  approach  of 
winter,  as  the  setting  of  the  sun.  All 
its  characters  seem  to  share  in  the  di- 
urnal revolution  of  the  earth,  to  have 
a  fixed  place  in  the  order  of  the  uni- 
verse. We  are  considering  only  the 
fortunes  of  a  little  group  of  people  liv- 
ing in  a  little  corner  of  England,  but 
they  seem  to  be  in  intimate  and  neces- 
sary relation  with  the  movement  of  the 
forces  of  the  universe. 

The  recent  revival  of  the  historical 
romance,  which  shot  up  in  the  nineties, 
flourished  mightily  at  the  end  of  the 
century,  and  has  already  faded,  was 
a  protest  not  against  reality,  but 
against  realism.  Realism  in  the  eighties 
had  become  a  doctrine,  and  we  know 
how  its  fetters  cramped  Stevenson.  He 
joyously  and  resolutely  burst  them,  and 
gave  us  romance  after  romance,  all  of 
which  except  the  "Black  Arrow"  showed 
a  reality  far  superior  to  realism.  The 
year  of  his  death,  1894,  ushered  in  the 
romantic    revival.      Romanticism    sud- 


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REALISM  AND  REALITY  IN  FICTION 


denly  became  a  fashion  that  forced 
many  new  writers  and  some  experts 
to  mold  their  work  in  its  form.  A 
few  specific  illustrations  must  be  given 
to  prove  this  statement.  Mr.  Stanley 
Weyman  really  wanted  to  write  a  real- 
istic novel,  and  actually  wrote  one,  but 
the  public  would  none  of  it:  he  there- 
fore fed  the  mob  with  "The  House  of 
the  Wolf,''  with  "A  Gentleman  from 
France,"  with  "Under  the  Red  Robe." 
Enormously  successful  were  these  stir- 
ring tales.  The  air  become  full  of 
obsolete  oaths  and  the  clash  of  steel — 
"God*s  bodikins!  man,  I  will  spit  you 
like  a  lark !"  To  use  a  scholar's  phrase, 
we  began  to  revel  in  the  glamour  of  a 
bogus  antiquity.  For  want  hi  a  better 
term,  I  call  all  these  romances  the 
"Gramercy"  books.  Mr.  Winston 
Churchill,  now  a  popular  disciple  of  the 
novel  of  manners,  gained  his  reputa- 
tion by  "Richard  Carvel,"  with  a  picture 
of  a  duel  facing  the  title-page.  Per- 
haps the  extent  of  the  romantic  craze 
is  shown  most  clearly  in  the  success 
attained  by  the  thoroughly  sophisticated 
Anthony  Hope  with  "The  Prisoner  of 
Zenda,"by  the  author  of  "Peter  Stirling" 
with  "Janice  Meredith,"  and  most  of  all 
by  the  strange  "Adventures  of  Captain 
Horn,"  a  bloody  story  of  buried  treas- 
ure, actually  written  by  our  beloved 
humorist  Frank  Stockton.  Mr.  Stock- 
ton had  the  temperament  most  fatal  to 
romance,  the  bright  gift  of  humorous 
burlesque;  the  real  Frank  Stockton  is 
seen  in  that  original  and  joyful  work, 
"The  Casting  Away  of  Mrs.  Leeks  and 
Mrs.  Aleshine."  Yet  the  fact  that  he 
felt  the  necessity  of  writing  "Captain 
Horn"  is  good  evidence  of  the  tide. 
This  romantic  wave  engulfed  Europe 
as  well  as  America,  but  so  far  as  I  can 
discover,  the  only  work  after  the  death 
of  Stevenson  that  seems  destined  to 
remain,  appeared  in  the  epical  histori- 
cal romances  of  the  Pole  Sienkiewicz. 
Hundreds  of  the  romances  that  the 
world  was  eagerly  reading  in  1900  are 
now  forgotten  like  last  year's  almanac; 
but  they  served  a  good  purpose  apart 
from  temporary  amusement  to  invalids, 


overtired  business  men,  and  the  young. 
There  was  the  sound  of  a  mighty  wind, 
and  the  close  chambers  of  modem 
reaHsm  were  cleansed  by  the  fresh  air. 
A  new  kind  of  realism,  more  closely 
related  to  reality,  has  taken  the  place 
of  the  receding  romance.  We  now  be- 
hold the  "life"  novel,  the  success  of 
which  is  a  curious  demonstration  of  the 
falseness  of  recent  prophets.  We  were 
told  a  short  time  ago  that  the  long 
novel  was  extinct.  The  three-volume 
novel  seemed  very  dead  indeed,  and 
the  fickle  public  would  read  nothing 
but  a  short  novel,  and  would  not  read 
that  unless  some  one  was  swindled,  se- 
duced, or  stabbed  on  the  first  page. 
Then  suddenly  appeared  "Joseph 
Vance,"  which  its  author  called  an  ill 
written  autobiography,  and  it  con- 
tained 280,000  words.  It  was  devoured 
by  a  vast  army  of  readers,  who  clam- 
ored for  more.  Mr.  Arnold  Bennett, 
who  had  made  a  number  of  short  flights 
without  attracting  much  attention, 
produced  "The  Old  Wives'  Tale."  giv- 
ing the  complete  life-history  of  two 
sisters.  Emboldened  by  the  great  and 
well-deserved  success  of  this  history, 
he  launched  a  trilogy,  of  which  two 
huge  sections  are  already  in  the  hands 
of  a  wide  public.  No  details  are 
omitted  in  these  vast  structures;  even 
a  cold  in  the  head  is  elaborately  de- 
scribed. But  thousands  and  thousands 
of  people  seem  to  have  the  time  and 
the  patience  to  read  these  volumes. 
Why  ?  Because  the  story  is  in  intimate 
relation  with  life.  A  gifted  Frenchman 
appears  on  the  scene  with  a  novel  in 
ten  volumes,  "Jean  Christophe,"  deal- 
ing with  the  life  of  this  hero  from  the 
cradle  to  the  grave.  Although  the  last 
sections  have  not  yet  appeared,  the 
earlier  ones  are  being  translated  into 
all  the  languages  of  Europe,  so  intense 
is  the  curiosity  of  the  world  regarding 
this  particular  book  of  life.  Some  may 
ask.  Why  should  the  world  be  bur- 
dened with  this  enormous  mass  of 
trivial  detail  in  rather  uneventful  lives? 
The  answer  may  be  found  in  Fra  Lippo 
Lippi's    spirited    defense    of    his    art, 


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36  PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 

which   diifered   from  the  art  of   Fra  I    find   in   the   contemporary   "life" 

Angelico  in  sticking  close  to  reality :  novel  a  sincere,  dignified,  and  success- 

"For.  don't  you  mark?  we're  made  so  that  ^^1  effort  to  substitute  reality  for  the 

we  love  former  rather  narrow  realism;  for  it 

First  when  we  see  them  painted,  things  we  j^   ^n   attempt   to   represent   life  as  a 

have  passed  ,    .               ^               *^ 

Perhaps  a  hundred  times  nor  cared  to  see."  whole. 


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OUTLOOK  AND  INLOOK  ARCHITECTURAL 
By  John  Galen  Howard 


Just  as  the  twig  is  bent  the  tree  *s  inclined. 

The  die  was  cast  for  the  distinctive 
character  of  American  architecture  for 
all  time,  I  think,  when  a  certain  Pil- 
grim first  set  an  Old-World  foot  on 
Plymouth  Rock,  and  found  it  good 
building  material.  It  was  a  trifle  hard, 
and  therefore  difficult  to  work,  doubt- 
less, with  some  few  fractures,  or,  at  all 
events,  distinctly  noticeable  stratifica- 
tions or  lines  of  cleavage,  and  with  not 
a  few  rough  edges,  but,  on  the  whole, 
sound,  as  rocks  go,  and  firmly  fixed  in 
ancient  world  tradition.  Strong  stuff 
was  Plymouth  Rock;  but  it  held  its 
own  not  merely  by  reason  of  its 
strength,  but  by  virtue  of  the  sort  of 
strength  it  had. 

An  architecture  is  determined  neither 
by  material  alone  nor  by  the  mind  that 
molds  it,  but  by  both  together,  insepar- 
able and  interactive.  No  mere  cart- 
horse kind  of  power  was  the  force 
which  fastened  Plymouth  Rock.  Kin- 
ship in  mettle  to  the  Arabian  thorough- 
bred gave  it  aptness  to  the  desert  task, 
with  its  long  thirsts  and  hungers,  its 
utter  isolations,  its  lonesome  yearnings. 
Not  mere  strength,  but  fined  strength, 
was  its  property.  For  refinement  of  that 
sort  which  is  a  thing  of  eliminations 
rather  than  of  delicacies,  and  is  deter- 
mined about  equally  by  temperament 
(coldness  of  temperament  agreed  in 
this  case)  and  by  means  too  straitened 
for  much  kicking  over  the  traces  even 
had  the  blood  been  hotter — refinement 
was  one,  if  not  the,  salient  character- 
istic of  the  architecture  which  arose 
in  those  old  days  out  of  arduously 
shaped  Plymouth  Rock,  and  despite  all 
the  kicking  over  the  traces  in  which  our 
people  has  indulged  in  more  recent 
times.     Refinement,  even  though  it  be 


of  another  stripe,  is  still  a  dominant 
characteristic  of  the  American  style. 

There  is,  I  suppose,  little  room  for 
disagreement  as  to  the  old  work.  Look 
at  the  delicate,  thin  treatment  every- 
where, the  paucity  of  ornament,  the 
dryness  of  surface,  the  amenity — ^not 
inconsistent  with  a  degree  of  vigor, 
either — of  the  whole,  above  all,  the  total 
absence  of  anything  remotely  resem- 
bling "splurge."  These  points  witness  a 
psychological  tendency  in  a  way  quite 
independent  of  the  particular  forms 
used,  of  the  "style"  in  which  it  found 
its  tongue.  One  thinks  of  the  pure 
beauty  of  the  Greek  work,  of  the  gran- 
deur of  the  Roman;  Byzantine  spells 
splendor ;  the  medieval  cathedrals  voice 
daring  aspiration.  So  our  Colonial 
work  connotes  essentially  that  not  very 
large,  perhaps,  but  at  any  rate,  so  far 
as  it  goes,  admirable  quality  which  I 
have  named;  and  of  that  quality  the 
phase  in  which  almost  ascetic  restraint 
plays  the  major  part.  Granted.  But  is 
it  as  readily  evident  that  that  same 
quality  runs  through,  and  indeed  in- 
forms, our  characteristic  architecture 
of  to-day?  With  its  wide  range  of 
styles,  its  genuine  eclecticism,  from  the 
point  of  view  of  the  field  as  a  whole, 
however  "correct"  within  their  own 
choice  of  style  individual  practitioners 
may  be,  is  it  clear  that  this  note  of  re- 
finement is  dominant?  Does  the  point 
need  discussion  ?    That  may  be. 

Suppose,  to  start  with,  we  look  back 
over  the  way  we  've  come. 

"Cut  out  passion,"  not  "Make  pas- 
sion lovely,"  was  the  unwritten  law  of 
early  cis-Atlantic  eflFort  in  the  way  of 
art,  as  of  life ;  of  art,  what  there  was  of 
it^  doubtless  because  of  life.  Yet,  after 
all,  he  who  sets  himself  consciously  to 
cut  out  passion  lets  his  cat  out  of  the 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


bag.  There  must  have  been  passion  to 
cut  out ;  and  the  chances  are  that  sooner 
or  later,  if  he  seek  to  cut  out  passion 
by  putting  it  in  a  bag,  he  will  bring 
about  all  the  more  viciously  mordant 
scratchings,  and  in  the  end,  if  the  cat 
is  really  there,  and  a  cat,  with  the  cus- 
tomary complement  of  lives,  an  all  the 
more  tempestuous  felinity  of  escape, 
but  by  way  of  ragged  rent  instead  of 
by  way  of  neatly  hemstitched  placket. 
We  have  sometimes  been  privileged  to 
observe  the  cat  in  the  act  of  issuing 
from  the  bag,  and  by  that  issue,  as, 
indeed,  by  all  self-respecting  cats,  there 
hangs,  if  you  will  permit  the  expres- 
sion, a  tale;  and  in  this  case,  what  is 
more,  a  tale  of  passion,  which  proves 
reassuringly  that  the  cat  was  there.  As 
the  saying  is,  "A  muffled  cat  is  no  good 
mouser."  Open  bags  make  more  suc- 
cessful meets  than  do  tied-bag  prisons. 
For  the  architect  they  make  capitally 
warm  nests,  in  fact,  as  styles,  while  as 
prisons  "styles"  are  apt  to  be  either  too 
strong,  in  which  case  they  inhibit  action, 
or  else  they  are  too  flimsy,  and  invite 
disrespect.  If  at  times  our  cat  has  been 
too  close  muffled,  the  escapes,  not  to  say 
the  escapades,  have  restored,  or  tended 
to  restore,  a  fair  average.  As  a  whole, 
our  architecture  can  hardly  be  said  to 
be  too  "correct." 

Half  a  century  or  more  ago  we  saw 
the  cat  of  the  English  Gothic  revival, 
poor  creature  though  it  was,  and  worse 
for  water-wear,  which  all  cats  hate, 
scratch  out  the  eyes  of  our  Colonial 
tradition,  and  leave  it  nigh  to  death, 
with  "none  so  poor  to  do  him  rever- 
ence." The  purest  poetic  justice  was 
done  when,  reversing  the  ancient  course 
of  architectural  history,  Gothic  was 
transmogrified  into  Ropianesque.  The 
most  anemic  of  all  lack-sap  stocks  begot 
the  fullest  blooded  of  all  sports.  There 
was  passion  for  you,  and  not  in  a  bag 
at  that!  But  is  this  a  cat  I  see?  Nay, 
a  very  lion  in  the  way,  a  king  of  cats, 
it  would  seem,  that  can  consent  no  fur- 
ther than  to  hold  a  bag  to  be  a  con- 
venient nest  or  lair  of   refuge,   when 


desired,  but  never,  never,  never  such  a 
pitiful  thing  as  a  prison.  "In  truth, 
the  prison  unto  which  we  doom  our- 
selves, no  prison  is,"  and  styles  may  be 
comforts  to  the  creative  mind,  but  only 
on  condition  that  they  have  no  draw- 
ing-strings. So,  at  all  events,  Richard- 
son regarded  his  Romanesque;  its 
sounding  name  was  as  an  open  sesame 
to  consideration,  a  big  stick  of  resonant 
authority,  if  you  like,  but,  you  may  rest 
well  assured,  not  for  a  moment  a  limi- 
tation to  the  activities  of  his  imagina- 
tion. And  that  may  be  one  reason  why 
his  style  was  not  found  to  serve  in  the 
long  run.  It  was  too  personal,  it  oper- 
ated on  too  narrw  a  margin  of  common 
consent,  despite  all  its  own  robust  splen- 
dor. Being  so  personal,  the  range  of 
vision  for  other  workers  was  too  close. 
There  was  not  room  enough  in  it  for 
more  than  that  one  great  personality, 
which  informed  and  filled  it,  and  made 
it  in  certain  ways,  and  in  certain  very 
important  ways,  too,  big  with  promise. 

All  this  time  poor  little  Colonius  lay 
stripped  of  his  raiment,  and  wounded 
by  the  way.  Priest  in  the  gown  of 
Gothic,  and  Levite  with  Provencal 
scrip,  had  not  so  much  as  looked  on 
him,  but  passed  by  on  the  other  side. 
"But  a  certain  Samaritan,  as  he  jour- 
neyed, came  where  he  was:  and  when 
he  saw  him,  he  had  compassion  on 
him."  On  the  face  of  things,  Colonius 
Redivivus  owed  his  oil  and  wine  to  the 
insight,  taste,  and  wisdom  of  McKim 
and  White  and  others  of  their  group. 
I  should  say  particularly  Mead  but 
for  the  manner  of  anthologies,  which 
omit  living  names  lest  their  owners 
blush  becomingly,  no  doubt;  but  he 
owed  his  resuscitation  fundamentally 
to  his  Americanism.  McKim,  Mead 
and  White  were  the  active  instrument 
of  a  latent  movement  larger  than  them- 
selves. 

The  Colonial  revival  succeeded  not 
because  that  kind  of  architecture  was 
the  best  conceivable,  or  because  it  was 
in  such  refreshing  contrast  to  the  pre- 
ceding fashion,  or  because  of  the  per- 


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39 


sonal  power  of  those  who  reintroduced 
it,  great  as  that  power  was,  or  for  any 
other  reason  whatsoever  but  that  it 
was  in  real  harmony  with  the  Ameri- 
can instinct,  taste,  and  ideaL  And  it 
had  the  further  advantage  of  being 
worthy  tradition,  all  the  stronger  and 
more  acceptable  for  having  been  neg- 
lected for  a  time.  Penitence  pointed 
our  return.  Convalescence  gave  a  fil- 
lip to  what  otherw^ise  might  have 
seemed  insipid.  Plymouth  Rock,  too, 
in  these  circumstances,  was  found  to 
have  a  sparkle.  We  felt  as  though  we 
had  got  back  home  from  hospital,  and 
had  a  reassuring  sense  of  knowing 
where  we  were.  Very  likely  we  struck 
out  too  blindly  in  our  new  health 
against  the  spell  that  just  now  bound 
us.  We  hated  Romanesque  so  cor- 
dially that  we  could  not  fairly  focus 
the  compelling  genius  that  loomed  be- 
hind and  above  the  smoke  of  our  tem- 
porary aberration.  In  the  new  joy  of 
finding  a  working  system  of  architectu- 
ral hygiene  to  which  we  were  all 
equally  heritors,  discovered  to  us  and 
interpreted  by  masters,  it  is  true,  but 
ours  just  as  much  as  theirs,  after  all, 
we  became  possessed  of  a  sense  of  well- 
being  and  mastery  which  was  most 
agreeable. 

And  it  was  a  habit  well  worth  while 
acquiring,  to  be  sure,  that  using  of  a 
style  the  limits  of  which  we  well  knew, 
and  were  pleased  to  accept.  It  induced 
a  frame  of  mind  which  enabled  us  later 
to  turn  to  other  closely  related,  more 
monumental,  not  to  say  more  funda- 
mental, styles — styles  which  had  all  the 
while  underlain  the  Colonial,  and  work 
in  them  with  something  flatteringly  re- 
sembling the  ease  of  mastery;  with  no 
small  degree  of  archaeological  dryness 
at  times,  we  must  concede,  but  with  a 
correctness  which  for  the  time  being 
was  in  itself  a  valuable  quality,  pro- 
vided the  tendency  were  not  carried  too 
far.  Architecture  has,  like  other 
growing  phenomena,  to  go  to  school  be- 
fore it  can  wisely  be  emancipated.  It 
is  a  distinctly  promising  sign  of  future 


power  for  a  young  people  and  for  a 
young  art,  as  well  as  for  a  young  man, 
to  feel  his  oats,  looking  upon  his  indi- 
viduality, and  finding  it  good,  and, 
aware  of  original  power,  to  forget  self 
for  the  time  being  in  the  quiet,  assidu- 
ous acquisition  of  knowledge  already 
established  by  others.  The  time  for 
fresh  [personal  expression  will  come 
later.  But  get  the  schooling  first,  and 
of  course  as  early  as  may  be;  for  the 
blade  of  creative  originality  may  lose 
its  edge  if  it  keep  scabbard  too  long. 

I  have  spoken  of  the  succession  of 
architectural  styles  among  us.  That 
is  merely  a  convenient  way  of  referring 
to  the  several  phases  through  which 
this  art,  and  perhaps  other  arts  as  well, 
have  passed  in  these  latter  decades.  But 
I  do  not  wish  to  lay  too  much  stress  on 
these  phases  as  styles.  In  fact,  I  do 
not  take  much  stock  in  styles,  anyway. 
What  I  do  take  stock  in — all  I  can  get 
and  have  the  money  to  pay  for,  and  I 
pray  for  more — is  style.  The  Gothic 
revival  in  this  country  in  the  middle  of 
the  last  century  was  not  really  a  revival 
of  Gothic  at  all.  The  fact  that  pointed 
arches  "came  in,''  the  more  pointed  the 
better,  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  The 
pointed  arch  was  a  fashion  in  architec- 
tural dress  merely,  like  the  crinoline  or 
the  poke  bonnet ;  but,  gracious  me !  did 
you  ever  think  for  one  minute  that  the 
lady  inside  the  crinoline  was  that  shape  ? 
No  more,  then,  the  architecture  that 
wore  pointed  arches  was  that  kind  in- 
wardly. I  adore  the  real  thing  too  de- 
votedly to  let  it  be  supposed  that  I 
mean  what  I  say  when  I  call  that  sort 
of  thing  Gothic;  but  one  can't  always 
tack  across  the  page  a  dozen  times  to 
make  port.  One  must  go  as  the  crow 
flies,  especially  if  there  's  only  twenty 
minutes  headway  or  so.  Take  the  old 
word  for  the  new  thought,  and  let 's  get 
on.  Just  as  the  Gothic  revival  was  not 
Gothic,  neither  was  the  Romanesque 
Romanesque.  They  were  both  little 
more  than  the  manifestation  of  phases 
of  our  national  life,  ante-belltmi  and 
post-bellum.     The  former  was  the  ex- 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


pression  of  a  life  gone  to  seed,  dried 
up,  finished,  the  last  leaf  dropped  short 
of  a  new  sowing.  Then  was  "the  win- 
ter of  our  discontent";  the  "glorious 
summer"  followed,  with  all  the  exuber- 
ance of  new  life,  and  its  expression  in 
architecture  was  more  exuberant  even 
than  itself  because  of  the  overwhelming 
exuberance  of  the  man  responsible  for 
the  architecture.  Of  course  in  this  we 
have  to  reckon  with  the  wholly  ex- 
traordinary Richardson.  Without  him 
and  his  personal  passion  for  Roman- 
esque, we  should  have  had  some  other 
exuberance.  He,  like  all  other  great 
men,  had  happened  at  just  the  right 
moment.  Those  not  on  our  list  have 
happened  at  the  wrong  moment,  though 
of  course  the  great  moment  tends  to 
enlarge  all  its  men,  and  make  its  great 
ones  greater.  That  's  what  happened  to 
Richardson;  he  was  the  great  person- 
ality of  the  art  of  his  time,  the  period 
of  reconstruction,  of  the  laying  in  of 
the  foundations  of  our  real  national 
existence,  and  the  architecture  of  that 
period  was  determined  almost  solely  by 
him.  The  artist  and  his  period,  his 
community,  grew  more  exuberant  hand 
in  hand,  each  on  its  own  account,  and 
each  the  more  for  the  other. 

And  quite  contrary  to  what  it  is  now 
the  fashion  to  maintain,  the  influence 
of  Richardson  has  not  proved  ephem- 
eral in  its  larger  character  and  signifi- 
cance. The  art  of  our  own  time  is  dif- 
ferent and  larger  for  his  foundation 
work.  Whether  we  anathematize  his 
art  or  admire  from  afar  off  (for  there 
are  few  or  none  nowadays  who  venture 
to  come  nigh  unto  it),  it  must  be  recog- 
nized that  because  of  him,  because  of 
his  breaking  ground,  and  making  big 
and  solid  and  sound,  when  we  began  all 
over  again  on  a  firmer  footing  to  try  to 
be  a  nation,  the  building  that  came  after 
was  bigger  and  solider  and  sounder 
than  it  would  otherwise  have  been.  Can 
it  be  thought  for  one  instant  that  Mc- 
Kim  and  White,  to  whom  we  largely 
owe  the  turning  back  to  the  classic 
manner,  came  under  Richardson's  inti- 


mate influence  without  being  touched 
by  it?  Richardson's  sort  of  radio- 
activity has  a  way  of  making  indelible 
marks.  He  was  a  great  man  in  being; 
they  were  great  men  in  embryo,  young 
and  impressionable.  They  had  their 
own  point  of  view,  and  they  adhered  to 
it  with  the  tenacity  which  is  an  attrib- 
ute of  the  finest  type  of  genius;  but 
their  ideas  were  enlarged,  their  views 
clarified  and  fixed,  and  their  ideals  en- 
riched by  association  with  their  great 
master.  And  with  all  the  daintiness  of 
their  detail,  more  especially  at  first,  they 
took  aboard  with  them,  when  they  em- 
barked with  Mead  on  their  own  career, 
a  generous  measure  of  the  discoverer. 
"Vogue  la  galere!"  Undoubtedly,  as 
time  went  on,  Richardson's  influence, 
not  consciously  as  his  influence,  but  as 
the  development  within  themselves  of 
seeds  he  had  wakened  and  nourished, 
though  they  had  been  sown  in  their 
very  being,  became  more  and  more 
manifest  in  increased  largeness  of  con- 
ception and  organic  simplicity  of  hand- 
ling. And  it  is  for  those  qualities  for 
which  we  are  even  more  indebted  to 
McKim,  Mead  and  White  (I  speak  now 
of  the,  I  hope,  permanent  institution, 
eliminating  personalities)  than  we  arc 
for  their  exquisite  detail,  incomparable 
as  that  is.  The  detail  was  a  part  of  our 
heritage;  the  largeness  was  a  needed 
contribution,  offered  in  the  first  in- 
stance by  Richardson,  continued  by 
them,  and  complexed  with  the  fineness 
which  was  from  of  old  inbred  in  our 
architectural  sense.  And  in  both  these 
respects,  of  largeness  and  of  exquisite- 
ness  alike,  let  me  recur  again  for  a  mo- 
ment to  the  personal  note  in  recogniz- 
ing the  ever-potent  influence  of  Mead. 
He  had  had  no  direct,  or,  at  any  rate, 
no  close  association  with  Richardson: 
he  simply  did  not  escape,  and.  being 
big  himself,  was  all  the  readier  to  ac- 
cept what  no  one  in  this  country  has 
wholly  escaped,  whether  he  would  or 
not — the  contagious  largeness  of  that 
personality.  To  maintain  this  is  no 
derogation    of    the   original    power   of 


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41 


each  member  of  the  great  firm,  the  per- 
manent institution,  as  I  have  called  it. 
It  only  goes  to  prove,  what  I  began 
with,  that  style  in  the  great  sense  has 
little  or  nothing  to  do  with  the  style  in 
the  small  sense  in  which  a  given  archi- 
tect may  be  working.  It  is  style  in  the 
great  sense  that  McKim,  Mead  and 
White  and  all  others  who  follow  the 
true  faith  of  architectural  development 
in  this  country  have  in  common,  diffi- 
cult as  it  often  is  to  put  one's  finger  on 
its  elements.  Style  overlies  and  in- 
cludes, or  may  include,  a  multitude  of 
styles.  And  we  have  now  right  at 
hand  an  example  of  this,  which  brings 
me  fairly  to  the  second  stage  of  my 
discussion. 

There  is,  and  I  think  that  all  will  be 
disposed  to  agree,  somehow  a  closer 
affinity  between  the  Gothic  work  of 
Cram,  Goodhue  and  Ferguson  (and,  by 
the  way,  don't  mix  up  their  lovely  work 
with  the  earlier  "Gothic  Revival"  al- 
ready referred  to)  and  the  classical 
work  of  McKim,  Mead  and  White  than 
there  is  between  the  latter  and  the  work 
of,  say.  Palmer  and  Hornbostel,  for 
example.  Yet  these  last,  too,  are  work- 
ing mostly  in  a  modified  classic  style, 
even  more  modified,  to  use  Mr.  Cram's 
word  (I  think  it  is  his)  than  his  own 
modified  Gothic.  Of  course  the  truth 
of  the  matter  is  that  neither  of  them 
is  either  Gothic  or  classic  unless  you 
much  emphasize  the  '^modified."  Of 
course  they  both  have  to  be  modified 
to  meet  modern  conditions.  I  am  not 
unfavorably  criticizing,  but  rather 
praising,  them,  from  my  own  point  of 
view,  when  I  insist  on  the  "modified," 
as  both  Mr.  Cram  and  Mr.  Hornbostel 
would  surely  wish  me  to  do.  I  take  it 
they  use  the  words  Gothic  and  classic, 
as  I  do,  as  short  cuts.  If  they  do  not,  I 
beg  their  pardon.  But  I  must  ask  the 
privilege,  just  the  same,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  the  present  analysis.  On  Gothic, 
read  Moore,  and  you  may  be  convinced, 
though  I  am  not  wholly,  I  must  con- 
fess, by  that  particular  reasoning.  As 
for  classic,  he  who  runs  may  read.  But, 


after  all,  this  is  more  or  less  a  haggling 
over  terms. 

Despite  my  original  intention  to  avoid 
all  personal  references  in  this  paper,  I 
have  ventured  to  mention  three  firms. 
This  is  merely  a  short-cut  method,  like 
my  Gothic  and  classic.  There  are  many 
other  names  that  might  have  answered 
my  purpose  almost  equally  well,  and 
certainly  many  others  that  deserve  ad- 
miring tributes,  or  the  reverse,  were 
this  a  piece  of  praise  and  blame;  but 
I  am  merely  trying  to  bring  out  the 
general  characteristics  of  our  architec- 
ture at  this  time  and  its  trend.  I  have 
quite  inevitably  named  McKim,  Mead 
and  White  because  they  stand  in  a  pe- 
culiarly representative  relation  to  our 
art.  It  is  hardly  too  much  to  say  that 
we  have  two  lists  of  architects:  those 
who  are  McKim,  Mead  and  White  men 
and  those  who  are  not,  and  the  latter 
list  is  the  smaller.  But  of  course  in  the 
former  category  are  included  many  who 
have  not  actually  worked  with  the  great 
firm  as  well  as  all  of  those  who  have. 
The  list  of  their  lineal  descendants, 
now  running  into  several  generations 
of  pupilage,  is  astonishingly  long,  and 
includes  many  names  in  the  first  rank 
of  achievement.  And  the  penumbra  of 
that  pupilage  is  even  larger  and  quite 
as  distinguished.  In  the  camp  of  that 
tradition  is  pretty  much  solidarity  now- 
adays as  to  essentials.  In  the  others  is 
schism ;  nay,  confusion  worse  confound- 
ed. But  I  seem  to  see  two  main  groups 
here  among  the  minority  who  are  not 
McKim,  Mead  and  White  men,  which 
for  the  purposes  of  this  discussion  may 
be  identified  by  the  mention  of  the 
other  two  firms  I  have  named.  I  have, 
then,  mentioned  these  three  firms  as 
each  representing  a  phase  of  our  art 
now:  the  first  stands  for  the  simple, 
straightforward  dignity  and  beauty  of 
architectural  art  typified  in  classic  or 
renaissance  feeling,  as  nearly  as  may 
be  in  an  ancient  manner;  Palmer  and 
Hornbostel  represent,  indeed,  a  pseudo- 
classic-renaissance  type,  generally  tak- 
ing the  old  Roman  or  Greek  forms  as  a 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


basis,  but  using  them  in  a  well-nigh 
wholly  free  and  individual  way,  even 
mingled  with  elements  from  other 
styles,  especially  in  ornament,  which  to 
the  taste  of  the  purist  are  inharmonious 
with  the  general  architectonic  schema 
and  even  a  superf etation  upon  it ;  while 
Cram,  Goodhue  and  Ferguson  repre- 
sent the  Gothic  manner,  not  indeed  at 
all  punctiliously  as  regards  archaeologi- 
cal correctness,  but  yet  far  more  so  than 
Palmer  and  Hornbostel  their  classic, 
while  less  so  perhaps  than  McKim, 
Mead  and  White  theirs. 

I  am  not  a  Gothicist  by  any  manner 
of  means,  if  to  be  a  Gothicist  means  to 
advocate  the  use  of  pointed  forms  in 
our  modern  work  for  general  purposes, 
though  I  yield  to  none  in  admiration 
for  the  old  thirteenth-century  master- 
pieces. Except  for  certain  special  uses, 
such  as,  for  instance,  those  churchly 
types  to  which  Cram,  Goodhue  and 
Ferguson  for  the  most  part  confine 
them,  those  forms  seem  to  me  not  natu- 
rally expressive  of  our  modern  needs, 
and  in  most  cases  quite  out  of  key  with 
our  life.  And  yet,  for  all  that,  I  feel  in 
the  psychology  of  Cram,  Goodhue  and 
Ferguson's  work  a  something  which, 
despite  the  forms  in  which  it  is  ex- 
pressed, breathes  the  genuine  American 
spirit  in  a  striking  degree.  Perhaps  I 
feel  the  psychological  quality  of  it  all 
the  more  keenly  for  a  certain  detach- 
ment. It  has  a — what  shall  I  say? — 
a  something  catholic  about  it,  even 
though  it  be  Anglican  catholic,  and  per- 
haps too  pointedly  Anglican  at  that. 
But  if  Anglican,  why  not,  by  an  easy 
transition,  American?  That  is,  in  fact, 
precisely  what  I  am  trying  to  identify 
— the  American  catholic  in  architecture. 
I  am  seeking  to  ignore  mere  forms  in 
order  to  get  at  the  spirit  behind  them. 
The  style  may  go;  character  must  re- 
main. So  any  work,  no  matter  what 
style  it  is  in,  which  manages  to  express 
broadly  enough  our  national  spirit  is 
yVmerican  catholic. 

Well,  then,  if  I  am  right  in  sensing  a 
real    kinship    between    McKim,    Mead 


and  White's  work  and  Cram,  Goodhue 
and  Ferguson's,  it  is  interesting  to  ask 
whether  the  qualities  they  have  in  com- 
mon can  be  identified.  If  they  can,  I 
take  it  that  we  shall  be  in  the  way  of 
identifying  the  dominant  quality  of  our 
architecture^ — the  quality  which  a 
wholly  disinterested  observer,  say,  five 
centuries  hence,  might  see  to  be  char- 
acteristic of  our  age,  just  as  we  fix  on 
the  essential  note  of  Greek,  of  Roman, 
of  Byzantine,  of  medieval  work.  For 
undoubtedly  these  two  firms,  with  their 
adherents,  not  only  represent  two  of 
the  most  vital  forces  in  our  architec- 
ture at  the  present  time,  but  they  repre- 
sent the  extremes  of  divergent  choice 
as  to  style.  Classic  and  Gothic — ^thc 
fight  is  on  between  these  two  as  be- 
tween no  others.  If  their  special  cham- 
pions have  something  vital  in  conmion, 
it  must  be  something  very  American 
indeed,  and  even  more  important  for 
the  purposes  of  the  critic  than  their 
very  styles  themselves.  All  the  more 
will  this  be  true  if  we  find  the  same 
something  in  the  notable  workers  of 
strongly  marked  individualistic  ten- 
dencies who  belong  to  neither  of  these 
schools,  if  one  may  call  them  such,  nor 
in  fact  to  any  school,  since  they  stand 
virtually  alone — men  like  Sullivan,  for 
instance,  or  the  Ponds.  But  there  are 
not  very  many  of  them. 

To  begin  with,  classicists,  Gothicists, 
Byzantinists,  eclecticists — all  these  de- 
spise the  coarse  thing,  the  overdone 
thing,  like  poison.  Anything  like  a 
"shocker"  they  would  avoid  assidu- 
ously; they  are  afraid  of  it  as  with  a 
religious  fear.  They  would  be  as 
ashamed  of  a  lewd  architectural 
thought  as  an  old  maid.  Refined  taste 
is  the  thing.  And  if  we  are  to  judge  of 
architectural  tendencies  by  professional 
successes,  this  tendency  has  of  late 
become  even  more  accentuated  than 
ever.  I  suppose  the  work  built  within 
these  last  few  years  that  has  received 
the  most  general  approval  is  a  certain 
Washington  house  of  Pope's  in  the 
Adams's  manner,  which  carries  refine- 


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ment  one  point  beyond  anything  else 
we  have.  Walk  past  it  almost  any  day 
or  any  hour  of  the  day,  and  you  will 
find  some  admirer  on  his  knees,  figu- 
ratively speaking,  before  it.  I  admire 
it  heartily  myself,  but  I  mention  it  here 
merely  to  point  my  argument  without 
attempting  to  estimate  its  value  as  a 
milestone,  or,  rather,  as  a  stepping- 
stone,  to  future  progress.  It  is  the 
dernier  cri  of  a  tendency  which  is  vir- 
tually general  among  our  representative 
architects — refinement  first,  last,  and 
all  the  time.  Here  we  see  the  Colonial 
tradition  more  powerful  than  ever. 
Character,  indeed,  as  the  Greeks  held, 
is  Fate.  Plymouth  Rock  is  still  our 
backbone.  But,  you  say,  how  about 
those  others  who  are  using  classic  as  a 
base,  yet  who  are  further  from  the 
representative  classicists  than  are  the 
Gothicists  themselves?  Ah,  they  are 
perhaps  the  exception  that  proves  the 
rule. 

But,  now,  that  word  refinement.  It 
is  an  extremely  "refined"  word ;  I  have 
used  it  to  fix  a  notable  quality,  good  or 
bad,  good  and  bad,  which  seems  to  dis- 
tinguish American  architecture  from 
that  of  most  other  countries  nowadays. 
I  do  not  wholly  like  the  word;  it  has 
connotations  somewhat  too  feminine. 
I  have  used  it,  perhaps,  often  enough. 
It  has  carried  us  far;  let  us  not  force 
a  willing  horse.  If  we  could  only  find 
a  more  robust  word — for  a  greater 
thing. 

And,  any  way,  it  is  not  only  one 
quality  we  are  looking  for;  it  takes 
more  than  one  thing  to  make  up  the 
American  catholic.  Surely,  in  addition 
to  the  restrained  delicacy  which  was 
characteristic  of  the  Colonial  work, 
and  which,  to  the  extent,  and  more,  that 
the  original  stock  still  colors  our  civili- 
zation, we  must  recognize  as  an  equally 
general  property  of  American  architec- 
ture that  freedom  which  is  traditionally 
identified  with  our  national  life.  It  is 
partly  a  thing  of  origins,  partly  an  ever- 
renewed  contribution  from  the  new- 
comers, and  which  is,  I  take  it,  a  funda- 


mental, actually  as  well  as  traditionally, 
of  9ur  character.  And  then,  again,  we 
cannot  fail  to  acknowledge  a  law-abid- 
ingness,  a  sane  and  persistent  respect 
for  precedent,  which  is  wholly  con- 
sonant with  that  high  type  of  intellec- 
tual courage — the  courage  to  be  wholly 
one's  self  even  in  acknowledgement  of 
indebtedness  to  forerunners.  The  small 
type  of  original  dares  not  place  himself 
alongside  the  elder  great.  He  strives, 
therefore,  for  a  new  kind,  and  ends,  as 
likely  as  not,  in  mere  eccentricity.  The 
larger  original,  and  especially  the  great- 
est, is  not  afraid  to  stand  with  the  eld- 
ers, fully  aware  that  his  own  mind  will 
at  the  same  time  gain  from  close  re- 
lationship with  theirs,  and  yet  all  the 
more  clearly  separate  itself  and  hold 
its  own  against  them  as  a  background. 
Many  of  our  best  men  have  that  kind 
of  courage;  perhaps  none  deserves  to 
be  called  best  who  does  not  possess  it. 
In  any  case,  I  feel  that  it  has  been  a 
distinguishing  quality  of  all  our  work 
best  worth  remembering  and  treasuring, 
and  that  it  is  and  must  in  the  nature 
of  things  be  a  quality  inherent  in  all 
permanent  art. 

I  was  seeking  for  a  word  to  group 
these  qualities  under.  Refinement,  free- 
dom, respect  for  precedent,  courage — 
these  I  think  make  up  as  aggregates  the 
greater  part  of  that  particular  kind  of 
reinforced  concrete  which  I  have  called 
the  American  catholic.  They  are  all 
aristocratic  virtues,  and  they  deserve  an 
aristocratic  name.  What  better  one  is 
there  than  distinction?  Distinction  is, 
after  all,  what  we  are  all  after.  In  all 
the  wholly  successful  American  work, 
that,  I  feel,  is  the  representative  beauty 
which  we  all  recognize  the  value  of  and 
which  we  struggle  consciously  or  un- 
consciously to  attain  in  our  work,  how- 
ever far  short  individual  achievement 
may  fall.  Here  in  America,  just  where 
a  priori  you  might  least  expect  to  find 
precisely  that  ideal,  you  find  it  most 
securely  horsed  and  oflF  for  the  crusade. 
Compare  the  representative  American 
work    of    to-day    with    corresponding 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


work  abroad.  You  will  find  here  a  tire- 
less and  persistent  search  for  the  fine 
thing  as  the  key-note  of  design,  as 
against  the  venturing  into  new  fields 
over  there,  especially  on  the  Continent. 
I  know  there  are  reasons,  sound  rea- 
sons, for  this.  They  have  their  fine  old 
examples,  they  are  tired  of  imitating 
them,  they  want  to  try  their  wings,  and 
they  often  go  far  afield  to  do  it ;  but  the 
fact  remains,  as  I  have  said,  that  we 
are  on  the  whole  the  conservatives,  they 
are  the  free-lances.  L'art  nouveau, 
that  iconoclastic  socialism,  not  to  say 
anarchy,  of  art,  has  gone  like  wildfire 
from  end  to  end  of  Europe  these  last 
years,  while  we  are  on  the  still  hunt  for 
aristocratic  distinction.  I  am  not  say- 
ing by  any  means  that  we  always  bag 
the  game  or  that  we  have  all  the  ad- 
vantage in  this  comparison.  I  dare  say 
Europe  may  in  some  ways  be  in  ad- 
vance on  the  trail  to  the  future,  and 
may  have  that  to  offer  even  in  the 
new  art  which  we  must  needs  take 
over  if  we  are  to  join  the  world  move- 
ment onward.  They  seem  to  be  already 
in  the  aeroplane  age  of  architecture, 
while  we  are  still  content  with  auto- 
mobiling.  But,  as  a  prejudiced  ob- 
server, I  may  be  permitted,  I  hope,  to 


express  the  conviction  that  on  the  whole 
we  are  on  the  surer  ground— on  the 
ground,  I  should  say,  instead  of  in  the 
air.  With  painting  it  is  much  the  same. 
Europe  is  tired  of  saying  and  doing  the 
same  old  things,  and  bursts  with  desire 
to  get  on ;  America  distrusts  and  hates 
more  and  more  the  crudities  and  anx- 
ieties of  revolt,  and  yearns  for  the  hal- 
cyon peace  of  establishment.  We  could 
almost  stand  a  state  religion,  I  some- 
times think,  provided  it  were  catholic 
enough,  and  we  are  actually  within  gun- 
shot of  a  state  architecture.  Faguct 
brings  out  capitally  the  necessity  of  in- 
corporating the  aristocratic  principle  in 
democracy,  just  as  Croly  does  in  an- 
other way.  Believe  me,  it  is  even  more 
vital  in  architecture. 

Nuns  fret  not  at  their  convent's  narrow 
room. 

In  the  midst  of  freedom,  "Form !  give 
us  form !"  we  cry,  and  too  often  we  get 
mere  standardization.  There  is  our 
Scylla  over  against  the  Charybdis  of 
license.  After  all,  we  must  steer  a 
mean  course,  keep  mid-channel,  if  our 
ship  is  to  come  in.  And  there  is  no  rule 
for  sailing  a  ship  except  to  sail  it 
Above  all,  keep  on  deck ! 


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THE  ILLUSION  OF  PROGRESS 
By  Kenyon  Cox 


In  these  days  all  of  us,  even  Acade- 
micians, are  to  some  extent  believers  in 
progress.  Our  golden  age  is  no  longer 
in  the  past,  but  in  the  future.  We 
know  that  our  early  ancestors  were  a 
wretched  race  of  cave-dwellers,  and  we 
believe  that  our  still  earlier  ancestors 
were  possessed  of  pointed  ears  and 
tails.  Having  come  so  far,  we  are 
sometimes  inclined  to  forget  that  not 
every  step  has  been  an  advance,  and  to 
entertain  an  illogical  confidence  that 
each  future  step  must  carry  us  still  fur- 
ther forward;  having  indubitably  pro- 
gressed in  many  things,  we  think  of 
ourselves  as  progressing  in  all.  And  as 
the  pace  of  progress  in  science  and  in 
material  things  has  become  more  and 
more  rapid,  we  have  come  to  expect  a 
similar  pace  in  art  and  letters,  to  imag- 
ine that  the  art  of  the  future  must  be 
far  finer  than  the  art  of  the  present  or 
than  that  of  the  past,  and  that  the  art 
of  one  decade,  or  even  of  one  year, 
must  supersede  that  of  the  preceding 
decade  or  the  preceding  year,  as  the 
19 1 2  model  in  automobiles  supersedes 
the  model  of  191 1.  More  than  ever 
before  "To  have  done  is  to  hang  quite 
out  of  fashion,"  and  the  only  title  to 
consideration  is  to  do  something  quite 
obviously  new  or  to  proclaim  one's  in- 
tention of  doing  something  newer.  The 
race  grows  madder  and  madder.  It  is 
hardly  two  years  since  we  first  heard 
of  ^'Cubism,"  and  already  the  "Futur- 
ists" are  calling  the  "Cubists"  reaction- 
ary. Even  the  gasping  critics,  pounding 
manfully  in  the  rear,  have  thrown  away 
all  impedimenta  of  traditional  standards 
in  the  desperate  eflfort  to  keep  up  with 
what  seems  less  a  march  than  a  stam- 
pede. 

But  while  we  talk  so  loudly  of  prog- 
ress in  the  arts,  we  have  an   uneasy 


feeling  that  we  are  not  really  progress- 
ing. If  our  belief  in  our  own  art  were 
as  full-blooded  as  was  that  of  the  great 
creative  epochs,  we  should  scarce  be  so 
reverent  of  the  art  of  the  past.  It  is 
perhaps  a  sign  of  anemia  that  we  have 
become  founders  of  museums  and  con- 
servers  of  old  buildings.  If  we  are  so 
careful  of  our  heritage,  it  is  surely  from 
some  doubt  of  our  ability  to  replace  it. 
When  art  has  been  vigorously  alive,  it 
has  been  ruthless  in  its  treatment  of 
what  has  gone  before.  No  cathedral- 
builder  thought  of  reconciling  his  own 
work  to  that  of  the  builder  who  pre- 
ceded him;  he  built  in  his  own  way, 
confident  of  its  superiority.  And  when 
the  Renaissance  builder  came,  in  his 
turn  he  contemptuously  dismissed  all 
medieval  art  as  "Gothic"  and  barbarous, 
and  was  as  ready  to  tear  down  an  old 
faqade  as  to  build  a  new  one.  Even 
the  most  cock-sure  of  our  moderns 
might  hesitate  to  emulate  Michelangelo 
in  his  calm  destruction  of  three  frescoes 
by  Perugino  to  make  room  for  his  own 
"Last  Judgment."  He  at  least  had  the 
full  courage  of  his  convictions,  and  his 
opinion  of  Perugino  is  of  record. 

Not  all  of  us  would  consider  even 
Michelangelo's  arrogance  entirely  justi- 
fied; but  it  is  not  only  the  Michel- 
angelos  w^ho  have  had  this  belief  in 
themselves.  Apparently  the  confidence 
of  progress  has  been  as  great  in  times 
that  now  seem  to  us  decadent  as  in 
times  that  we  think  of  as  truly  progres- 
sive. The  past,  or  at  least  the  imme- 
diate past,  has  ^tlways  seemed  "out  of 
date,"  and  each  generation  has  plumed 
itself  upon  its  superiority  to  that  which 
was  leaving  the  stage  as  it  made  its 
entrance.  The  architect  of  the  most 
debased  baroque  grafted  his  "improve- 
ments" upon  the  buildings  of  the  high 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


Renaissance  with  an  assurance  not  less 
than  that  with  which  David  and  his 
contemporaries  banished  the  whole 
charming  art  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
Van  Orley  and  Frans  Floris  were  as 
sure  of  their  advance  upon  the  ancient 
Flemish  painting  of  the  Van  Eycks  and 
of  Memling  as  Rubens  himself  must 
have  been  of  his  advance  upon  them. 

We  can  see  plainly  enough  that  in  at 
least  some  of  these  cases  the  sense  of 
progress  was  an  illusion.  There  was 
movement,  but  it  was  not  always  for- 
ward movement.  And  if  progress  was 
illusory  in  some  instances,  may  it  not 
possibly  have  been  so  in  all?  It  is  at 
least  worth  inquiry  how  far  the  fine  arts 
have  ever  been  in  a  state  of  true  prog- 
ress, going  forward  regularly  from 
good  to  better,  each  generation  building 
on  the  work  of  its  predecessors,  and 
surpassing  that  work,  in  the  way  in 
which  science  has  normally  progressed 
when  material  conditions  were  favor- 
able. 

If,  with  a  view  to  answering  this 
question,  we  examine,  however  cursor- 
ily, the  history  of  the  five  great  arts, 
we  shall  find  a  somewhat  different  state 
of  affairs  in  the  case  of  each.  In  the 
end  it  may  be  possible  to  formulate 
something  like  a  general  rule  that  will 
accord  with  all  the  facts.  Let  us  begin 
with  the  greatest  and  simplest  of  the 
arts,  the  art  of  poetry. 

In  the  history  of  poetry  we  shall  find 
less  evidence  of  progress  than  anywhere 
else,  for  we  shall  find  that  its  acknowl- 
edged masterpieces  are  almost  invari- 
ably near  the  beginning  of  a  series 
rather  than  near  the  end.  Almost  as 
soon  as  a  clear  and  flexible  language 
has  been  formed  by  any  people,  a  great 
poem  has  been  composed  in  that  lan- 
guage which  has  remained  not  only  un- 
surpassed, but  unequaled  by  any  subse- 
quent work.  Homer  is  for  us,  as  he 
was  for  the  Greeks,  the  greatest  of  their 
poets,  and  if  the  opinion  of  all  culti- 
vated readers  in  those  nations  which 
have  inherited  the  Greek  tradition  could 
be  taken,  it  is  doubtful  if  he  would  not 


be  acclaimed  the  greatest  poet  of  the 
ages.  Dante  has  remained  the  first  of 
Italian  poets,  as  he  was  one  of  the 
earliest.  Chaucer,  who  wrote  when  our 
language  was  transforming  itself  from 
Anglo-Saxon  into  English,  has  still  lov- 
ers who  are  willing  for  his  sake  to  mas- 
ter what  is  to  them  almost  a  foreign 
tongue,  and  yet  other  lovers  who  ask 
for  new  translations  of  his  works  into 
our  modem  idiom;  while  Shakespeare, 
who  wrote  almost  as  soon  as  that  trans- 
formation had  been  accomplished,  is 
universally  reckoned  one  of  the  greatest 
of  world  poets.  There  have,  indeed, 
been  true  poets  at  almost  all  stages  of 
the  world's  history,  but  the  preeminence 
of  such  masters  as  these  can  scarce  be 
questioned,  and  if  we  looked  to  poetry 
alone  for  a  type  of  the  arts,  we  should 
almost  be  forced  to  conclude  that  art  is 
the  reverse  of  progressive.  We  should 
think  of  it  as  gushing  forth  in  full 
splendor  when  the  world  is  ready  for 
it,  and  as  unable  ever  again  to  rise  to 
the  level  of  its  fount. 

The  art  of  architecture  is  later  in  its 
beginning  than  that  of  poetry,  for  it 
can  exist  only  when  men  have  learned 
to  build  solidly  and  permanently.  A 
nomad  may  be  a  poet,  but  he  cannot  be 
an  architect;  a  herdsman  might  have 
written  the  **Book  of  Job,"  but  the  great 
builders  are  dwellers  in  cities.  But 
since  men  first  learned  to  build  they 
have  never  quite  forgotten  how  to  do 
so.  At  all  times  there  have  been  some- 
where peoples  who  knew  enough  of 
building  to  mold  its  utility  into  forms 
of  beauty,  and  the  history  of  architec- 
ture may  be  read  more  continuously 
than  that  of  any  other  art.  It  is  a  his- 
tory of  constant  change  and  of  con- 
tinuous development,  each  people  and 
each  age  forming  out  of  the  old  ele- 
ments a  new  style  to  express  its  mind, 
and  each  style  reaching  its  point  of 
greatest  distinctiveness  only  to  begin  a 
further  transformation  into  something 
else.  But  is  it  a  history  of  progress? 
Building,  indeed,  has  progressed  at  one 
time  or  another.     The  Romans,  with 


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their  domes  and  arches,  were  more  sci- 
entific builders  than  the  Greeks,  with 
their  simple  post  and  lintel,  but  were 
they  better  architects?  We  of  to-day, 
with  our  steel  construction,  can  scrape 
the  sky  with  erections  that  would  have 
amazed  the  boldest  of  medieval  crafts- 
men; can  we  equal  his  art?  If  we  ask 
where  in  the  history  of  architecture  do 
its  masterpieces  appear,  the  answer 
must  be,  "Almost  anywhere."  Wher- 
ever men  have  had  the  wealth  and  the 
energy  to  build  greatly,  they  have 
bnilded  beautifully,  and  the  distinctions 
are  less  between  style  and  style  or  epoch 
and  epoch  than  between  building  and 
building.  The  masterpieces  of  one  time 
are  as  the  masterpieces  of  another,  and 
no  man  may  say  that  the  nave  of 
Amiens  is  finer  than  the  Parthenon  or 
that  the  Parthenon  is  nobler  than  the 
nave  of  Amiens.  One  may  only  say 
that  each  is  perfect  in  its  kind,  a  su- 
preme expression  of  the  human  spirit. 

Of  the  art  of  music  I  must  speak 
with  the  diffidence  becoming  to  the 
ignorant,  but  it  seems  to  me  to  consist 
of  two  elements  and  to  contain  an  in- 
spirational art  as  direct  and  as  simple 
as  that  of  poetry  and  a  science  so  diffi- 
cult that  its  fullest  mastery  is  of  very 
recent  achievement.  In  melodic  inven- 
tion it  is  so  far  from  progressive  that 
its  most  brilliant  masters  are  often  con- 
tent to  elaborate  and  to  decorate  a 
theme  old  enough  to  have  no  history — 
a  theme  the  inventor  of  which  has  been 
so  entirely  forgotten  that  we  think  of  it 
as  sprung  not  from  the  mind  of  one 
man,  but  from  that  of  a  whole  people, 
and  call  it  a  folk-song. 

The  song  is  almost  as  old  as  the  race, 
but  the  symphony  has  had  to  wait  for 
the  invention  of  many  instruments  and 
for  a  mastery  of  the  laws  of  harmony ; 
and  so  symphonic  music  is  a  modern 
art.  We  are  still  adding  new  instru- 
ments to  the  orchestra  and  admitting  to 
our  compositions  new  combinations  of 
sounds,  but  have  we  in  a  hundred  years 
made  any  essential  progress  even  in  this 
part  of  the  art?     Have  we  produced 


anything,  I  will  not  say  greater,  but  any- 
thing so  great  as  the  noblest  works  of 
Bach  and  Beethoven? 

Already,  and  before  considering  the 
arts  of  painting  and  sculpture,  we  are 
coming  within  sight  of  our  general  law. 
This  law  seems  to  be  that  in  so  far  as 
an  art  is  dependent  upon  any  form  of 
exact  knowledge,  in  so  far  it  partakes 
of  the  nature  of  science  and  is  capable 
of  progress.  In  so  far  as  it  is  expres- 
sive of  a  mind  and  soul,  its  greatness  is 
dependent  upon  the  greatness  of  that 
mind  and  soul,  and  it  is  incapable  of 
progress.  It  may  even  be  the  reverse 
of  progressive,  because  as  an  art  be- 
comes more  complicated  and  makes  evjer 
greater  demands  upon  technical  mas- 
tery, it  becomes  more  difficult  as  a  me- 
dium of  expression,  while  the  mind  to 
be  expressed  becomes  more  sophisti- 
cated and  less  easy  of  expression  in  any 
medium.  It  would  take  a  greater  mind 
than  Homer's  to  express  modern  ideas 
in  modem  verse  with  Homer's  serene 
perfection;  it  would  take,  perhaps,  a 
greater  mind  than  Bach's  to  employ  all 
the  resources  of  modern  music  with  his 
glorious  ease  and  directness.  And 
greater  minds  than  those  of  Bach  and 
Homer  the  world  has  not  often  the  fe- 
licity to  possess. 

The  arts  of  painting  and  sculpture 
are  imitative  arts  above  all  others,  and 
therefore  more  dependent  than  any  oth- 
ers upon  exact  knowledge,  more  tinged 
with  the  quality  of  science.  Let  us  see 
how  they  illustrate  our  supposed  law. 

Sculpture  depends,  as  does  architec- 
ture, upon  certain  laws  of  proportion  in 
space  which  are  analogous  to  the  laws 
of  proportion  in  time  and  in  pitch  upon 
which  music  is  founded.  But  as  sculp- 
ture represents  the  human  figure, 
whereas  architecture  and  music  repre- 
sent nothing,  sculpture  requires  for  its 
perfection  the  mastery  of  an  additional 
science,  which  is  the  knowledge  of  the 
structure  and  movement  of  the  human 
figure.  This  knowledge  may  be  ac- 
quired with  some  rapidity,  especially 
in  times  and  countries  where  man  is 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


often  seen  unclothed.  So,  in  the  his- 
tory of  civilizations,  sculpture  devel- 
ops early,  after  poetry,  but  with 
architecture,  and  before  painting  and 
polyphonic  music.  It  reached  the 
greatest  perfection  of  which  it  is 
capable  in  the  age  of  Pericles,  and 
from  that  time  progress  was  impos- 
sible to  it,  and  for  a  thousand  years 
its  movement  was  one  of  decline.  Af- 
ter the  Dark  Ages  sculpture  was  one 
of  the  first  arts  to  revive,  and  again  it 
developed  rapidly,  though  not  so  rap- 
idly as  before,  conditions  of  custom 
and  climate  being  less  favorable  to  it, 
until  it  reached,  in  the  first  half  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  something  near  its 
former  perfection.  Again  it  could  go 
no  further,  and  since  then  it  has 
changed,  but  has  not  progressed.  In 
Phidias,  by  which  name  I  would  sig- 
nify the  sculptor  of  the  pediments  of 
the  Parthenon,  we  have  the  coincidence 
of  a  superlatively  great  artist  with  the 
moment  of  technical  and  scientific  per- 
fection in  the  art,  and  a  similar  coinci- 
dence crowns  the  work  of  Michel- 
angelo with  a  peculiar  glory.  But, 
apart  from  the  work  of  these  two  men, 
the  essential  value  of  a  work  of  sculp- 
ture is  by  no  means  always  equal  to 
its  technical  and  scientific  completeness. 
There  are  archaic  statues  which  are 
almost  as  nobly  beautiful  as  any  work 
by  Phidias,  and  more  beautiful  than 
almost  any  work  which  has  been  done 
since  his  time.  There  are  bits  of 
Gothic  sculpture  that  are  more  valu- 
able expressions  of  human  feeling  than 
anything  produced  by  the  contempo- 
raries of  Buonarroti.  Even  in  times 
of  decadence  a  great  artist  has  created 
finer  things  than  could  be  accomplished 
by  a  mediocre  talent  of  the  great 
epochs,  and  the  world  could  ill  spare 
the  Victory  of  Samothrace  or  the  por- 
trait busts  of  Houdon. 

As  sculpture  is  one  of  the  simplest 
of  the  arts,  painting  is  one  of  the  most 
complicated.  The  harmonies  it  con- 
structs are  composed  of  almost  innu- 
merable elements  of   lines  and   forms 


and  colors  and  degrees  of  light  and 
dark,  and  the  science  it  professes  is  no 
less  than  that  of  the  visible  aspect  of 
the  whole  of  nature,  a  science  so  vast 
that  it  has  never  been  and  perhaps 
never  can  be  mastered  in  its  totality. 
Anything  approaching  a  complete  art 
of  painting  can  exist  only  in  an  ad- 
vanced stage  of  civilization.  An  entire- 
ly complete  art  of  painting  never  has 
existed  and  probably  never  will  exist. 
The  history  of  painting,  after  its  early 
stages,  is  a  history  of  loss  here  balanc- 
ing against  gain  there,  of  a  new  means 
of  expression  acquired  at  the  cost  of 
an  old  one. 

We  know  comparatively  little  of  the 
painting  of  antiquity,  but  we  have  no 
reason  to  suppose  that  that  art,  how- 
ever admirable,  ever  attained  to  ripe- 
ness, and  we  know  that  the  painting  of 
the  Orient  has  stopped  short  at  a  com- 
paratively early  stage  of  development. 
For  our  purpose  the  art  to  be  studied 
is  the  painting  of  modem  times  in  I-lu- 
rope  from  its  origin  in  the  Middle 
Ages.  Even  in  the  beginning,  or  be- 
fore the  beginning,  while  painting  was 
a  decadent  reminiscence  of  the  past 
rather  than  a  prophecy  of  the  new 
birth,  there  were  decorative  splendors 
in  the  Byzantine  mosaics  hardly  to  be 
recaptured.  Then  came  primitive  paint- 
ing, an  art  of  the  line  and  of  pure 
color,  with  little  modulation  and  no 
attempt  at  the  rendering  of  solid  fonn. 
It  gradually  attained  to  some  sense  of 
relief  by  the  use  of  degrees  of  light 
and  less  light;  but  the  instant  it  ad- 
mitted the  true  shadow,  the  old  bright- 
ness and  purity  of  color  had  become 
impossible.  The  line  remained  domi- 
nant for  a  time,  and  was  carried  to  the 
pitch  of  refinement  and  beauty :  but 
the  love  for  solid  form  gradually  over- 
came it,  and  in  the  art  of  the  high 
Renaissance  it  took  a  second  place. 
Then  light  and  shade  began  to  be 
studied  for  its  own  sake;  color,  no 
longer  pure  and  bright,  but  deep  and 
resonant,  came  in  again,  and  the  line 
vanished  altogether,  and  even  form  he- 


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came  secondary.  The  last  step  was 
taken  by  Rembrandt,  and  even  color 
was  subordinated  to  light  and  shade, 
which  existed  alone  in  a  world  of 
brownness.  At  every  step  there  has 
been  progress,  but  there  has  also  been 
regress.  Perhaps  the  greatest  balance 
of  gain  against  loss  and  the  nearest 
approach  to  a  complete  art  of  painting 
was  with  the  great  Venetians.  The 
transformation  is  still  going  on,  and 
we  have  in  our  own  day  conquered 
some  corners  of  the  science  of  visible 
aspects  which  were  unexplored  by  our 
ancestors.  But  the  balance  has  turned 
against  us;  our  loss  has  been  greater 
than  our  gain,  and  our  art  is,  even  in 
its  scientific  aspect,  inferior  to  that  of 
the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centu- 
ries. 

And  just  because  there  has  never 
been  a  complete  art  of  painting,  en- 
tirely rounded  and  perfected,  it  is  the 
clearer  to  us  that  the  final  value  of  a 
work  in  that  art  has  never  depended 
on  its  approach  to  such  completion. 
There  is  no  one  supreme  master  of 
painting,  but  a  long  succession  of  mas- 
ters of  different  and  equal  glory.  If 
the  masterpieces  of  architecture  are 
everywhere  because  there  has  often 
been  a  complete  art  of  architecture,  the 
masterpieces  of  painting  are  every- 
where for  the  opposite  reason.  And  if 
we  do  not  always  value  a  master  the 
more  as  his  art  is  more  nearly  com- 
plete, neither  do  we  always  value  him 
especially  who  has  placed  new  scien- 
tific conquests  at  the  disposal  of  art. 
Palma  Vecchio  painted  by  the  side  of 
Titian,  but  is  only  a  minor  master; 
Botticelli  remained  of  the  generation 
before  Leonardo,  but  he  is  one  of  the 
immortal  great.  Paolo  Uccello,  by  his 
study  of  perspective,  made  a  distinct 
advance  in  pictorial  science,  but  his 
interest  for  us  is  purely  historic;  Fra 
Angelico  made  no  advance  whatever, 
but  he  practised  consummately  the  cur- 
rent art  as  he  found  it,  and  his  work 
is  eternally  delightful.  At  every  stage 
of  its  development  the  art  of  painting 
has  been  a  sufficient  medium  for  the 
expression  of  a  great  man's  mind,  and 


wherever  and  whenever  a  great  man 
has  practised  it,  the  result  has  been  a 
great  and  permanently  valuable  work 
of  art. 

For  this  seems  finally  to  be  the  law 
of  all  the  arts.  The  one  essential  pre- 
requisite to  the  production  of  a  great 
work  of  art  is  a  great  man.  You  can- 
not have  the  art  without  the  man,  and 
when  you  have  the  man  you  have  the 
art.  His  time  and  his  surroundings 
will  color  him;  his  art  will  not  be  at 
one  time  or  place  precisely  what  it 
might  be  at  another.  But  at  bottom 
the  art  is  the  man,  and  at  all  times  and 
in  all  countries  is  just  as  great  as  the 
man. 

Let  us,  then,  clear  our  minds  of  the 
illusion  that  there  is  in  any  important 
sense  such  a  thing  as  progress  in  the 
fine  arts.  We  may  with  a  clear  con- 
science judge  each  new  work  for  what 
it  appears  in  itself  to  be,  asking  of  it 
that  it  be  noble  and  beautiful  and  rea- 
sonable, not  that  it  be  novel  and  pro- 
gressive. If  it  be  great  art,  it  will  al- 
ways be  novel  enough,  for  there  will  be 
a  great  mind  behind  it,  and  no  two 
great  minds  are  alike.  And  if  it  be 
novel  without  being  great,  how  shall 
we  be  the  better  off?  There  are 
enough  forms  of  mediocre  or  evil  art 
in  the  world  already.  Being  no  longer 
intimidated  by  the  fetish  of  progress, 
when  a  thing  calling  itself  a  work  of 
art  seems  to  us  hideous  and  degraded, 
indecent  and  insane,  we  shall  have  the 
courage  to  say  so,  and  shall  not  care 
to  investigate  it  further.  Detestable 
things  have  been  produced  in  the  past, 
and  are  none  the  less  detestable  because 
we  are  able  to  see  how  they  came  to 
be  produced.  Detestable  things  are 
produced  now,  and  they  will  be  no 
more  admirable  if  we  learn  to  under- 
stand the  minds  that  create  them.  Even 
should  such  things  prove  to  be  not  the 
mere  freaks  of  a  diseased  intellect 
they  seem,  but  a  necessary  outgrowth 
of  the  conditions  of  the  age  and  a  true 
prophecy  of  "the  art  of  the  future," 
they  ar^  not  necessarily  the  better  for 
that.  It  is  only  that  the  future  will  be 
very  unlucky  in  its  art. 

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NATIONAL  ASSETS 

By  Francis  Hopkinson  Smith 


Some  weeks  ago  I  stood  on  the  Capi- 
toline  Hill  in  Rome,  close  to  the  statue 
of  Marcus  Aurelius,  the  golden  lustre 
of  its  bronze  showing  through  the 
stains  of  centuries.  Against  the  blue, 
glistening  like  a  glacier,  towered  the 
marble  memorial  to  Victor  Emmanuel, 
the  sweep  of  its  serried  steps  echoing 
the  tread  of  hundreds  of  reverent  feet. 
The  bronze  was  cast  when  the  victori- 
ous legions  of  the  empire  crowded  the 
Appian  Way ;  the  marble  was  chiseled 
only  a  few  years  ago,  and  the  sound  of 
the  completing  hammer  is  still  heard 
along  its  unfinished  front.  Both  ex- 
press the  gratitude  and  homage  of  na- 
tions enriched  and  glorified  by  the  per- 
sonal achievements  of  men  with  but  a 
single  eye  to  their  country's  good.  Both 
men  in  the  highest  and  widest  sense 
stood  head  and  shoulders  above  their 
brothers.  Both  men  were  national  as- 
sets. 

Behind  the  outburst  of  gratitude 
which  prompted  these  tributes  to  their 
deeds,  perpetuating  their  names  so  that 
all  the  people  might  see,  lay  a  deeper 
and  more  significant  meaning,  one  full 
of  purpose.  This  was  that  neither  their 
own  nor  subsequent  generations  should 
forget.  England  thus  laid  the  founda- 
tion of  her  empire,  so  that  to-day  her 
written  history  is  only  a  repetition  of 
the  names  of  the  men  who  made  her 
great. 

Perhaps  in  a  new  civilization  like 
our  own,  where,  as  has  been  the  case 
in  other  young  republics,  each  and 
every  man  was  king,  one  as  good  as 
the  other,  it  was  to  be  expected  that,  at 
least  for  a  while,  the  nation  could  do 
without  heroes.  More  important  things 
absorbed  us,  and  influenced  our  na- 
tional life,  the  converting  of  stone  into 
bread  being  one.     Then  there  followed 


the  struggle  for  family  existence  inside 
and  outside  the  blockhouse,  and,  as  the 
years  wore  on,  there  came  the  struggle 
to  repair  the  fences  that  the  War  of  the 
Revolution  had  laid  low. 

Only  one  or  two  heroes  loomed  up, 
and  these  were  duly  honored  in  marble 
and  brick,  notably  the  Father  of  his 
country,  as  well  as  a  few  of  those  who 
had  been  of  immediate  use  in  giving 
the  new  republic  the  right  to  live. 

With  the  Civil  War  and  our  escape 
from  national  chaos,  an  increased  and 
wider  spirit  of  gratitude  toward  those 
who  had  fought  and  died  in  the  defense 
of  the  Union  asserted  itself,  and  in  the 
immediately  succeeding  years  statues 
of  marble  and  bronze  were  hidden  in 
convenient  and  ofttimes  charitable  foli- 
age, planted  boldly  on  commanding 
hills,  or  placed  in  the  center  of  spacious 
squares.  Some  of  these  testimonials,  it 
is  true,  were  rather  late  in  seeing  the 
light,  and  the  hat  had  to  be  passed  and 
repassed  with  persistent  frequency  be- 
fore the  roof  shed  the  rain  or  the  en- 
circling scaflfolding  was  razed  to  the 
ground.  In  one  instance,  when  a  me- 
morial to  a  great  soldier  remained  in- 
complete, an  eyesore  and  reproach  to 
the  throngs  who  passed  it  daily,  it  was 
only  when  another  distinguished  Ameri- 
can traversed  the  city  in  a  cab,  begging 
literally  from  door  to  door,  that  the 
necessary  funds  were  collected,  and  the 
structure  was  finished. 

The  debt  of  gratitude  due  the  hero 
whose  efforts  had  resulted  in  our  na- 
tional wealth  and  prosperity,  and  whose 
bones  were  to  be  enshrined  within  its 
granite  walls,  could  wait.  We  had  be- 
come busy — extremely  and  profitably 
busy. 

This  absorption  in  our  own  affairs 
showed  itself  in  other  and  less  excus- 


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able  forms.  So  acute  had  become  the 
competition  in  the  climb  of  life,  and  so 
insistent  were  some  of  us  to  get  on  and 
up,  that  a  new  line  of  action  was  agreed 
upon.  To  rise  above  your  fellow-man 
in  the  mad  rush  up  the  ladder  of  recog- 
nition and  accomplishment,  it  became 
necessary  not  only  to  mount  your  neigh- 
bor's shoulders,  but  to  be  equally  active 
with  your  muddy  boots  when  you 
passed  the  gentleman's  visage. 

Another  discovery  was  that  while  one 
could  catch  more  flies  with  honey  than 
with  vinegar,  there  swarmed  a  very 
large  mass  who  could  be  tempted  with 
carrion. 

Then  followed  the  still  further  dis- 
covery that  this  last  procedure  could  be 
made  to  pay  commercially,  in  some  in- 
stances to  pay  enormously.  Instantly, 
certain  men  of  the  baser  sort  got  to- 
gether, and  a  flood  of  abuse  and  mis- 
representation unequaled  in  the  world's 
history  was  let  loose.  As  the  months 
went  by,  not  only  some  of  the  more 
sensational  newspapers,  but  one  or 
more  of  the  respectable  magazines,  lent 
their  aid.  Individuals,  corporations, 
groups  of  men  prominent  in  the  com- 
munity, were  attacked,  and  their  names 
held  up  to  ridicule  and  contempt,  many 
of  them  names  which  in  the  near  fu- 
ture, it  is  to  be  hoped,  will  be  borne  on 
the  bronze  and  marble  of  grateful  gen- 
erations yet  unborn. 

This  new  and  highly  profitable  indus- 
try was  thought  to  have  reached  the 
climax  of  success  immediately  before 
the  late  Spanish  War,  when  the  center 
of  the  attack  was  directed  against  the 
then  President  of  the  United  States, 
afterward  the  nation's  martyr,  for  with- 
holding his  hand  from  the  sword  until 
every  other  means  of  adjustment  had 
failed.  That  this  surmise  was  prema- 
ture is  proved  by  the  subsequent  as- 
saults, after  the  war  was  over,  made 
upon  the  men  who  had  carried  out  his 
orders  and  who,  by  their  pluck,  their 
devotion  to  duty,  their  patriotism  and 
their  interest  in  all  that  made  for  the 


welfare  of  the  republic,  had  brought  the 
conflict  to  a  successful  end. 

It  will  be  just  as  well  to  recall  the 
nature  and  quality  of  this  abuse.  It 
may  help  us  to  a  clearer  vision  of  the 
motive  and  results.  It  is  not  so  very 
far  back. 

We  all  remember  that  morning  in 
May  when  a  thrill  quivered  throughout 
the  country — a  thrill  that  kept  up  its 
vibrations  for  months.  A  mere  boy  he 
was,  compared  to  the  others.  The  Gov- 
ernment had  paid  for  his  education, 
and  he  must  do  something  in  return. 
Our  fleet  of  cats  crouched  in  a  circle. 
Behind  a  narrow  crack  in  the  Cuban 
coast  lay  the  Spanish  Armada.  Plug 
the  mouth  of  the  crack  with  a  sunken 
transport,  and  the  mice  would  be 
trapped,  an  easy  prey  to  land  cats  and 
water  cats.  When  the  dawn  broke,  he 
was  clinging  to  a  fragment,  his  body 
scorched,  his  clothes  in  tatters.  Even 
the  Spanish  admiral  sent  out  his  boat 
and  later  a  flag  of  truce,  conveying  his 
unbounded  admiration  over  the  exploit 
of  one  so  young  and  so  daring. 

His  countrymen  took  up  the  refrain: 
"Our  gallant  hero!"  "Our  wonder  of 
the  world !''  "A  man  made  of  the  stuff 
Americans  are  made  of !"  Thermopylae, 
Horatius  at  the  bridge  were  child's 
play  compared  with  it. 

How  long  did  it  last?  Until  a  fool- 
ish and  highly  emotional  woman  kissed 
him  in  a  Western  city. 

Take  another  morning  and  another 
hero,  one  who  woke  the  civilized  globe 
to  the  realization  that  from  that  time  on 
the  United  States  was  a  world  power — 
and  it  did  not  take  sixty  minutes. 
"When  you  are  ready,  Gridley."  And 
it  was  all  over. 

For  weeks  the  echoes  of  that  first 
gun  rolled  on.  Presidents,  kings,  em- 
perors, czars  sat  up  and  rubbed  their 
eyes.  They  are  still  at  it.  At  home, 
while  the  roar  of  the  echoes  lasted,  his 
countrymen  tumbled  over  one  another 
in  their  eagerness  to  do  him  honor. 
Triumphal  arches  were  built;  miles  of 
people    under    acres    of    waving   flags 


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shouted  themselves  hoarse.  Then  an- 
other wave  set  in — one  of  gratitude  to- 
ward the  man  who  had  exalted  their 
flag.  Money  began  to  pour  in  by  the 
fives,  tens,  hundreds,  and  thousands. 
Some  testimonial  must  be  given  the 
sea-god.  He  must  have  a  house  all  his 
own,  to  do  with  as  he  pleased,  to  be  a 
comfort  and  a  blessing  in  his  later 
years,  the  gift  of  the  nation  really,  the 
gift  of  those  he  had  glorified.  And  it 
must  be  in  Washington,  too,  where  the 
diplomats  of  the  globe  could  see  how 
w^e  honored  our  heroes. 

The  purchase  was  made,  the  deeds 
were  drawn,  the  installation  was  com- 
pleted. Then  the  recipient,  a  grizzled 
old  sea-dog  who  had  spent  his  best 
years — all  of  them,  in  fact — in  the  ser- 
vice of  his  country,  keeping  watch  in 
sleet  and  storm,  or  walking  the  quarter- 
deck, took  unto  himself  a  wife,  and 
settled  himself  in  his  easy-chair  for  a 
few  years  of  well-deserved  rest.  Hav- 
ing kept  his  honor  clean,  and  with  only 
his  pay,  and  being  also  a  gentleman 
with  fixed  ideas  regarding  provision  for 
the  woman  he  married,  he  gave  her 
what  was  his  own. 

Then  the  sluice-gates  were  opened; 
words  of  one  syllable  in  the  blackest  of 
ink  swept  half-way  across  the  front 
page.  Paragraphs  in  italics  told  of  the 
infamy.  Such  phrases  as  "a  case  of 
naval  cerebral  distension,"  "an  over- 
rated man,"  followed  by  the  more  posi- 
tive criticisms,  "to  say  the  least,  it  was 
closely  allied  to  sheer  robbery,  this  tak- 
ing property  which  was,"  etc.,  etc., 
crowded  the  succeeding  columns. 

I  can  see  him  now  as  his  jaw  tight- 
ened, just  as  it  tightened  that  morning 
off  Manila,  and  I  can  see  his  brows 
knit  when  he  remembered,  as  he  read, 
that  there  was  perhaps  nothing  so  un- 
grateful as  a  republic — his  only  re- 
sponse, you  will  remember;  for  he  did 
not  open  his  lips,  silence  being  the  one 
reply  that  his  dignity  would  permit. 

And  there  comes  another  morning — 
the  morning  of  our  day  of  national  in- 
dependence.   Guns  from  a  mighty  fleet 


this  time;  each  man  a  hero,  from  the 
boy  scrubbing  each  deck,  to  the  captain 
who  walked  it.  For  weeks  they  had 
lain  in  wait ;  so  severe  had  been  the  dis- 
cipline that  the  thoughtless  lighting  of 
a  cigarette  put  a  man  in  irons.  This 
time  it  took  only  half  an  hour — forty 
minutes,  to  be  exact — to  wipe  a  power 
oflf  the  map  of  the  world. 

The  country  went  wild.  "Our  noble 
fleet!"  "Our  boys!"  "The  man  behind 
the  gun !"  Balls,  receptions,  gold  med- 
als, the  thanks  of  Congress,  fire-works, 
illuminations,  photographs  of  the  sev- 
eral commanders,  dozens  of  them,  some 
when  they  were  ten  years  old,  as  long 
as  the  "news"  proved  profitable. 

The  financial  managers  of  this  new 
and  now  enormously  profitable  industry 
again  put  their  heads  together.  The 
best  way  to  throw  mud  in  this  instance 
was  with  both  hands.  Take  the  two 
heroes  and  pit  them  against  each  other : 
then  let  them  have  it,  taking  care  so 
that  each  could  abuse  the  other.  Thanks 
be  to  God,  neither  of  them  did! 

There  was  no  word  of  gratitude 
now,  only  money  talked ;  nor  was  there 
any  consideration  for  the  feelings  of 
the  men  who  had  risked  their  lives  to 
save  their  country,  as  had  been  the  case 
with  those  other  heroes  of  Rome  and 
England.  This  time  the  attack  was 
from  behind  fences,  in  small  head-lines, 
and  in  double-headed  columns;  such 
phrases  as  "A  trustworthy  gentleman 
conversant  with  facts,  says,"  etc..  or 
"It  is  currently  reported  among  his  in- 
intimate  friends,"  etc.,  or  "A  promi- 
nent officer  who,  of  course,  wishes  his 
name  withheld,  being  subject  to  discip- 
line, was  on  the  bridge  at  the  time, 
and  is  positive  that,"  etc.,  caught  the 
public  eye  and  poisoned  the  public 
mind. 

Well,  they  broke  his  heart  and  sent 
him  to  his  grave  before  his  time,  this 
brave,  simple,  God-fearing,  honest  gen- 
tleman, who  never  lifted  his  voice  to 
defame  any  man,  and  who  would  ra- 
ther have  cut  oflF  his  right  hand  than 
rob  a  brother-officer  of  his  just  due. 


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These  assaults  are  seldom  made  on 
the  common  man — the  man  with  the 
hoe  or  the  dinner-pail,  but  on  those 
whose  official  positions  often  make  it 
impossible  for  them  to  strike  back.  The 
man  with  the  hoe  could  seek  out  the 
writer  and  break  his  head  with  its  han- 
dle, but  the  man  of  good  breeding  and 
official  dignity  must  continue  to  suffer 
in  silence. 

But  think  of  the  agony  endured — 
Lincoln,  sitting  alone  through  the 
night,  his  very  soul  torn  with  the  in- 
justice meted  out  to  him  by  the  very 
men  he  was  giving  his  heart's  blood  to 
save  from  annihilation;  Grant,  his 
great  spirit  crushed  and  broken  by  ill- 
deserved  comments  on  his  financial 
ruin;  McKinley,  his  tender,  kindly  na- 
ture misunderstood,  his  courage  and 
loyalty  denied,  his  unselfish  devotion 
to  the  cause  of  peace  and  mercy  ridi- 
culed and  laughed  at,  and  this  day  af- 
ter day,  while  the  lives  of  thousands  of 
men  was  dependent  upon  the  stroke  of 
his  pen. 

And  the  list  can  be  extended,  is  being 
extended  to-day,  whenever  and  wher- 
ever an  American  citizen  in  either  civil, 
military,  or  official  life,  no  matter  how 
honorable  his  motives,  or  how  great 
his  sacrifice,  lifts  his  head  above  the 
crust.  Especially  has  it  been  extended 
during  the  political  campaign  just 
closed.  In  fact,  it  may  as  well  be  ad- 
mitted that  the  heap  of  journalistic 
dirt  and  miscellaneous  rubbish  has 
never  risen  to  such  mammoth  propor- 
tions. 

And  yet,  when  the  dust  of  conflict 
has  been  blown  away  by  the  sober 
breath  of  the  people,  and  the  common 
sense  of  most  of  the  community  has 
had  a  chance  to  assert  itself,  there  will 
be  found  not  one  clear,  unbiased  mind 
among  us  who  will  not  affirm  that  the 
three  principal  candidates  of  the  last 
compaign  stood  for  all  that  is  highest 
in  personal  honesty,  courage,  and  intel- 
ligence. The  sober-minded  knew  at  the 
time,  as  they  know  now,  the  motive  of 
these  defamations,  and  the  money  made 
out  of  the  despicable  business.     They 


knew,  moreover,  that,  according  to  his 
lights,  each  candidate  has  done  his  duty 
as  he  saw  it,  and  each  candidate  had 
given  the  best  that  was  in  him,  for 
the  welfare  of  his  country  and  his 
countrymen. 

But  how  about  men  who  are  not 
sober-minded?  A\'hat  about  the  igno- 
rant immigrant  who  lands  upon  our 
shores?  How  does  this  continued 
abuse  of  our  public  men,  whether 
statesmen,  financiers,  or  manufacturers, 
affect  him? 

Consider  for  a  moment  the  magni- 
tude and  variety  of  this  influx.  Con- 
sider, too,  its  marvelous  and  unprece- 
dented growth.  Take  our  own  city 
alone,  and  grasp,  if  you  can,  the  fact 
that  our  municipal  control  is  slipping 
from  us,  and  that  to-day  over  forty 
per  cent,  of  our  population  is  foreign- 
bom.  Of  these,  Russians,  Poles,  Aus- 
trians,  Hungarians,  and  Italians  pre- 
dominate, the  increase  in  the  ten  years 
equaling  one-sixth  of  our  whole  popu- 
lation, namely,  six  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  souls. 

In  detail,  the  Russians  have  in  these 
ten  years  risen  from  180,000  to 
483,000;  the  Austrians  from  90,000  to 
193,000;  the  Hungarians  have  doubled; 
the  Italians  show  an  increase  of 
200,000,  while  the  number  of  Greeks, 
Roumanians,  and  Turkish  subjects 
have  swelled  in  proportion.  As  an  ex- 
ample of  the  figures  to  which  the  more 
recent  invasion  has  reached,  take  those 
of  the  Poles,  showing  that  in  191 1 
alone  71,466  Polish  immigrants  were 
admitted  to  this  country,  64,000  of 
whom  were  over  fourteen  years  of 
age,  of  which  last  number  one  third 
could  neither  read  nor  write.  Again, 
of  this  total  of  71,466,  only  170  had 
a  profession,  and  only  5384  were 
skilled  laborers,  the  balance  being  of 
the  kind  known  as  ''coarse  labor." 

The  only  falling  off  in  this  enor- 
mous immigration  is  in  the  easily 
assimilated,  and  therefore  the  more 
desirable,  peoples  from  northern 
Europe — England,  Sweden,  Norway, 
and  Denmark,  as  well  as  Canada,  both 


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English  and  French,  whose  arrivals 
show  so  small  an  increase  as  to  be  un- 
appreciable.  For  many  of  these  speak 
our  tongue,  and  have  a  just  and  rea- 
sonable regard  for  our  national  aims, 
institutions,  and  by  common  consent 
must  be  regarded,  and  I  say  it  in  all 
respect,  as  the  most  welcome  and  the 
most  favored  accession  to  our  ranks. 

We  have,  therefore,  whether  we  ad- 
mit it  or  not,  to  grapple  with  and  edu- 
cate men  and  women — in  the  case  of 
the  Poles  only  a  fraction  of  them  were 
children — all  ignorant  of  our  language, 
who  have  not  only  lived  in  lands  where 
the  struggle  for  existence  is  acute,  but 
under  sovereignty  where  in  many  cases 
simple  justice  has  been  denied  them. 

What,  then,  will  be  the  impression 
made  on  their  minds  when  they  are 
told  that  our  national  motto  is 
"Money,"  that  every  branch  of  our  po- 
litical and  civil  life  is  corrupt,  and  that 
the  same  antagonism  between  the  rich 
and  poor  exists  here  even  in  worse 
form  than  it  did  at  home?  Is  it  at  all 
strange  that  they  soon  become  the  will- 
ing tools  of  wild  and  incoherent  agi- 
tators as  ignorant  as  themselves,  and 
that  Chicago,  Lawrence,  and  West 
Virginia,  and  only  two  days  ago  under 
the  Palisades  in  New  Jersey,  with  their 
list  of  dead  and  wounded,  are  the  re- 
sult? 

More  important  still,  what  do  our 
young  men  think — those  who  are  gradu- 
ated by  the  hundreds  and  tens  of  hun- 
dreds every  year  from  our  colleges  and 
universities?  Is  no  man  in  public  life 
honest  ?  Whether  he  is  or  not,  is  there 
any  incentive  for  any  one  of  them  to 
enter  public  life  when  one  of  the  re- 
wards, sometimes  the  only  reward,  is 
the  ridicule  and  contempt  heaped  upon 
him,  to  say  nothing  of  charges  affect- 
ing his  personal  character  and  indi- 
vidual honesty? 

What,  then,  is  the  remedy?  A  suit 
for  libel  would  be  so  futile  as  to  be 
heartily  welcomed;  the  publicity  would 
not  only  increase  the  circulation,  but 
the  award  of  one  cent  damages  be  a 
veritable  joy  to  the  business  end  of 
the  paper.     And  it   is  hard  to  expect 


a  greater  sum  than  one  cent.  It  is 
true  that  two  years  ago  some  English 
newspapers  paid  one  quarter  of  a 
million  of  pounds  to  a  soap  manufac- 
turer because  of  a  series  of  editorials 
which  were  so  mild  in  form,  accord- 
ing to  our  standards,  that  they  would 
have  been  looked  upon  as  spicy  adver- 
tisements rather  than  defamations; 
but  we  are  not  in  England,  or  France, 
or  Germany,  or  any  other  part  of  the 
globe  where  it  is  unsafe  to  besmirch 
the  character  of  your  fellow-man.  On 
the  contrary,  we  live  under  the  Stars 
and  Stripes,  emblem  of  the  greatest 
country  on  earth,  a  land  whose  proud- 
est boast  is  of  equal  rights  and  free- 
dom, and  whose  written  law  guarantees 
every  man  a  square  deal. 

How,  then,  can  we  cut  this  cancer 
from  the  body  politic?  How  cure  the 
disease  and  thus  rehabilitate  the  pa- 
tient ? 

The  remedy  lies  with  ourselves. 
With  you,  fellow-members  of  the  In- 
stitute, and  with  me,  and  with  every 
soul  who  boasts  a  ten-commandment 
conscience.  Let  me  recall  them  for 
you. 

"Love  thy  God."  Certainly,  we  say, 
with  the  greatest  of  pleasure. 

"Thou  shalt  not  steal."  Of  course 
not;  no  gentleman  ever  does. 

"Thou  shalt  do  no  murder."  By  no 
manner  of  means.  How  dare  you  in- 
sult me? 

"Thou  shalt  not  bear  false  witness 
against  thy  neighbor."  Here  follows 
a  dead  silence.  That  is,  thou  shalt  not 
steal  his  good  name,  nor  murder  his 
career,  nor  brand  him  as  a  criminal  or 
a  fool,  these  ten  commandments,  re- 
member, being  ten  rods  bound  to- 
gether by  a  ribbon  of  justice,  mercy, 
and  peace.  To  keep  one,  means  to 
keep  all. 

The  sum  of  the  ten  is,  **Do  unto 
others  as  you  would  have  them  do  unto 
you" — the  law  of  the  Square  Deal. 

We  keep  its  letter  and  its  spirit  best 
when  we  honor  the  names  and  uphold 
the  hands  of  the  men  who  are  our  true 
national  assets. 


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At  the  morning  session  Mr.  Howard  Brockway,  a  member  of  the  Institute, 
played  music  of  his  own  composition,  as  follows: 

a.  Dance  of  the  Sylphs.  Op.  19. 

(From  Sylvan  Suite  for  Orcheslra.) 

b.  AtTwiligrht.  Op.  39.  No.  i. 

c.  Idyl  of  Murmuring  Water.  Op.  39.  No.  2. 

and  in  the  second  group: 

a.  Humoreske.  Op.  36.  No.  4. 

b.  Ballade.  F  major.  Op.  10. 


At  the  afternoon  session  the  following  program  was  rendered  by  the 

Barrere  Ensemble: 

Rondino  (2  oboes,  2  clarinets,  2  horns,  2  bassoons)  Beethoven 

Menuet     (i  flute,  2  oboes,  2  clarinets,  2  horns,  2  bassoons)  C  Debussy 

Scherzo  from  Little  Symphony  (i  flute,  2  oboes,  2  clarinets, 

2  horns  and  2  bassoons)     Ch,  Gounod 
Finale,  from  Serenade  E  flat  (2  oboes,  2  clarinets,  2  horns,  2  bassoons)  Mozart 


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FURNESS,  LEA,  MITCHELL,  OILMAN* 
By  Arthur  Twining  Hadley 


Forty-one  years  ago  Horace  Howard 
Furness  published  his  variorum  edi- 
tion of  *'Rbmeo  and  Juliet."  Within 
the  compass  of  a  single  volume  he 
brought  together  the  materials  and  re- 
sults of  Shakespearean  scholarship 
which  the  reader  had  hitherto  been 
forced  to  seek  in  many  books  and  many 
places.  No  such  work  had  been  done 
in  England  for  half  a  century ;  no  such 
work  had  ever  been  done  in  the  United 
States. 

What  first  impressed  the  critics  was 
the  comprehensiveness  and  thorough- 
ness of  the  collection.  It  included 
whatever  was  worth  including;  it  re- 
produced with  accuracy  whatever  it 
quoted.  But  as  time  went  on  and  as 
similar  editions  of  other  plays  fol- 
lowed, the  essential  importance  of  Fur- 
ness's  own  contributions  came  more 
and  more  into  the  foreground.  His  se- 
lection and  quotation  were  marked  by 
the  spirit  of  the  scholar.  His  own  com- 
ment, brief  as  it  often  was,  had,  beside 
the  merit  of  scholarship,  the  added 
charm  of  literary  form.  On  both 
shores  of  the  Atlantic  it  was  recog- 
nized that  we  had  here  a  man  who  un- 
derstood Shakespeare  and  could  help 
to  the  world's  understanding  of  him,  a 
man  of  letters  in  his  own  right.  And 
the  world's  chief  regret  about  this  edi- 
tion now  is  that  the  span  of  human  life 
was  too  short  for  even  Furness's  amaz- 
ing industry  to  cover  quite  half  of  the 
field  which  he  had  chosen. 

It  has  been  the  misfortune  of 
Shakespearean  critics  in  general  that 
they  have  allowed  themselves  to  be  sur- 
rounded and  befogged  by  the  cloud  of 
controversy;  and  too  often  this  cloud 
has  thickened  as  years  went  on  until 

*The  three  papers  that  follow  were  read 
l)efore  the  Academy  at  the  special  meeting  in 
New  York,  Friday,  December  13.  1912. 


little  was  left  of  the  original  illumina- 
tion except  angry  flashes  of  lightning. 
With  Furness  it  was  otherwise.  Al- 
though he  was  bred  to  the  law,  or  per- 
haps because  he  was  bred  to  the  law, 
he  learned  that  the  ideas  which  he  had 
to  convey  would  be  most  fully  accepted 
if  he  kept  clear  of  unnecessary  argu- 
ment or  quarrel.  As  a  consequence, 
each  decade  saw  him  more  admired 
and  loved  by  his  fellow-workers,  more 
serene  in  temper,  and  more  charming 
in  courtesy.  The  wine  of  his  nature 
was  of  that  full-flavored  kind  which  is 
mellowed  rather  than  soured  with  age. 
For  it  was  not  by  his  writings  alone 
that  he  elucidated  the  spirit  of  Shakes- 
peare. He  did  it  yet  more  fully  in  his 
life  and  in  his  person.  I  knew  no 
greater  pleasure  than  that  of  listening 
to  Furness  as  he  read  with  whole-heart- 
ed enthusiasm  and  occasional  quaint 
comment  some  familiar  play  whose  text 
took  new  life  through  his  voice.  For 
he  had  lived  with  the  great  dramatist 
until  Shakespeare's  spirit  had  become 
his;  and  if,  as  we  hope,  he  is  gone 
where  he  may  hold  personal  converse 
with  the  immortals  of  three  hundred 
years  ago,  the  Raleighs  and  the  Bacons 
and  the  Jonsons  will  welcome  him  as 
one  of  their  nimiber.  For  to  that  so- 
ciety did  he  already  belong  while  yet 
he  was  here  with  us. 

It  is  but  a  short  time  since  Dr.  Fur- 
ness was  himself  called  upon  to  deliver 
a  commemorative  address  in  honor  of 
a  fellow-member  of  our  body,  Henry 
Charles  Lea.  I  cannot  forbear  making 
a  brief  quotation  from  what  was  then 
said  of  one  friend  by  another  who  was 
so  soon  to  follow  in  his  footsteps: 

"A  man's  light  [as  Jeremy  Taylor  says] 
burns  awhile  and  then  turns  blue  and  faint, 
and  he  goes  to  converse  with  spirits:  then 


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FURNESS,  LEA,  MITCHELL,  OILMAN 


57 


he  hands  his  taper  to  another."  But  where 
shall  we  find  him  who  is  worthy  to  accept 
Lea's  taper?  Of  him  who  shall  venture  to 
hold  it,  it  will  crave  wary  walking  to  keep 
its  flame  as  pure  and  bright  as  when  it  il- 
lumined the  pages  beneath  Lea's  own  hand. 

And  warily  must  a  man  walk,  as 
critics  have  often  found  to  their  cost, 
who  will  try  to  estimate  Lea's  work  in 
its  full  profundity.  If  I  had  to  pick 
out  his  salient  characteristic,  I  should 
say  that  it  was  honesty;  strict,  uncom- 
promising devotion  to  truth.  He  had 
two  sides  to  his  public  life,  the  practical 
and  the  scholarly;  yet  in  each  of  them 
the  same  fundamental  characteristics 
were  manifest.  As  a  practical  man  of 
affairs  he  stood  for  honest  government ; 
as  a  scholar  and  writer  he  stood  for 
honest  treatment  of  history. 

Those  of  us  who  have  ever  tried  to 
write  history,  even  on  a  small  scale, 
know  how  hard  this  is.  It  is  so  easy 
to  generalize  on  inadequate  evidence, 
and  so  vastly  laborious  to  hunt  down 
facts  which  may  in  the  end  run  coun- 
ter to  our  own  prepossessions,  that 
most  men,  especially  if  they  have  the 
gift  of  literary  style,  incline  toward 
the  smoother  path.  This  temptation 
must  have  been  particularly  subtle  in 
the  case  of  Lea.  For  he  did  not  ap- 
proach the  ''History  of  the  Inquisi- 
tion," or  the  various  other  topics  of 
medieval  and  modem  jurisprudence 
which  he  treated,  in  the  spirit  of  a 
mere  chronicler.  It  was  for  principles, 
not  for  facts,  that  he  cared.  The  in- 
stinct of  generalization  was  strong 
within  him.  The  ethical  element  was 
ever  before  his  mind.  Yet  with  all 
these  excuses  for  preferring  what  is 
commonly  called  the  philosophic  treat- 
ment of  his  subject,  he  kept  himself  to 
the  strictly  historic  one.  Lea  showed 
us  how  history  ought  to  be  written, 
and  he  showed  us  the  resolution  with 
which  a  true  man  of  letters  can  resist 
the  temptation  to  write  it  otherwise. 

We  can  well  close  this  tribute  with 
the  words  of  Mr.  James  Bryce,  himself 
a  shining  example  of  the  combination 
of  honest  citizenship  and  honest  schol- 


arship: "I  may  sum  up  the  impression 
which  Mr.  Lea's  intellectual  character 
and  attitude  leave  upon  his  readers,  and 
left  most  of  all  upon  those  who  knew 
him  personally,  by  saying  that  he  loved 
truth  with  a  whole-hearted  devotion." 

Bred,  like  Furness,  to  the  law, 
Donald  Grant  Mitchell  found  the  at- 
tractions of  literature  stronger  than 
those  of  forensic  ambition.  While  Fur- 
ness was  frequenting  the  society  of 
Elizabethan  days,  Mitchell,  in  his  own 
quaint  and  quiet  way,  was  preparing 
himself  for  the  companionship  of 
choice  souls  of  another  type.  I  doubt 
not  that  he  has  already  received  a  warm 
welcome  from  the  congenial  spirits  of 
Izaak  Walton  and  Dr.  Thomas  Browne 
and  our  own  Washington  Irving;  and 
has  compared  notes  with  Horace  and 
Pliny  about  Sabine  farms  or  Tuscan 
villas.  For  his  was  essentially  the  field 
of  the  contemplative  essay,  the  dream 
or  reverie,  in  which  the  autobiographi- 
cal form  adds  charm  to  the  style  and 
felicity  to  the  thought. 

If  he  passed  from  the  speculative  to 
the  practical  side  of  life,  it  was  to 
touch  with  deft  hand  upon  the  joys 
and  cares  of  the  country  gentleman. 
Of  this  good  old  English  type  Mitchell 
was  himself  a  superb  representative; 
handsome  in  person,  genial  in  manner, 
unfailing  in  kindness  of  heart.  Living 
on  a  hillside  farm  just  outside  of  the 
city,  but  during  his  lifetime  untouched 
by  the  city's  expansion, — "My  Farm  of 
Edgewood,"  of  which  he  wrote  so  de- 
lightfully,— the  view  from  his  window 
over  the  spires  of  the  town  to  the  woods 
and  the  sea  beyond  them  was  sym- 
bolical of  his  whole  outlook  on  life. 

In  the  last  public  address  which  he 
delivered  Mitchell  summarized  in  char- 
acteristic fashion  his  attitude  toward 
certain  present-day  educational  move- 
ments : 

There  are  oldish  people  astir,  gone-by 
products  of  these  mills  of  learning — who 
will  watch  anxiously  lest  harm  be  done  to 
apostles  of  the  old  humanities.  You  may 
apotheosize  the  Faradays  and  Danas  and  the 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


Edisons  and  Huxleys,  and  we  will  fling  our 
caps  in  the  air.  But  we  shall  ask  that  you 
spare  us  our  Plato,  our  Homer,  our  Vergil, 
our  Dante,  and  perhaps  our  "chattering" 
Aristotle  and  scoffing  Carlyle.  Truth,  how- 
ever and  wherever  won,  without  nervous  ex- 
pression to  spread  and  plant  it,  is  helpless — 
a  bird  without  wings !  And  there  are  beliefs 
tenderly  cherished — and  I  call  the  spires  of 
nineteen  centuries  to  witness — which  do  not 
rest  on  the  lens  or  the  scalpel. 

It  was  fortunate  for  American  educa- 
tion that  it  numbered  among  its  leaders 
men  who  took  the  same  large  view  of 
life  that  Mitchell  did.  And  of  such  men 
none  was  more  eminent  for  his  catholic- 
ity of  understanding  than  Daniel  Coit 
Oilman.  Well  might  he  have  said,  with 
the  Roman  of  old,  "Homo  sum,  humani 
nihil  a  me  alienum  puto."  His  literary 
activity  indicates  his  breadth  of  in- 
terest. In  his  work  on  Monroe  he  is  a 
historian;  in  his  life  of  Dana  he  is  a 
biographer ;  in  his  two  books  on  educa- 
tion he  appears  as  an  essayist  and  a 
critic. 

There  was  but  one  thing  which  Gil- 
man  demanded  of  a  subject,  and  that 
was  that  it  should  be  interesting.  Dull- 
ness, whenever  and  wherever  found, 
was  an  unpardonable  fault;  persistent 
and  confirmed  dullness  was  the  sin 
against  the  Holy  Ghost  which  could 
not  be  forgiven.  This  demand  was 
what  most  frequently  brought  Gilman 
into  conflict  with  the  conservatives  in 
educational  matters.  As  far  as  mere 
pedagogic  theory  was  concerned,  he 
was  by  no  means  so  radical  as  Eliot  or 
White.  For  classical  study,  if  classical 
study  could  be  made  stimulating,  he 
had  the  strongest  sympathy;  to  a  well- 
ordered  curriculum,  if  it  could  enlist 
the  active  interest  of  the  students,  he 
gave  appreciation  and  approval.  But 
the  college  curriculum  as  Gilman  gen- 
erally found  it  was  not  made  interest- 


ing. Language  was  taught  mechanical- 
ly; psychology  and  metaphysics  were 
handled  according  to  the  dictates  of 
the  Scotch  school,  that  apotheosis  of 
dullness;  history  and  science  were 
either  learned  by  rote  or  not  learned  at 
all.  No  wonder  that  his  earlier  years 
at  Yale  and  at  California  were  spent  in 
waging  conflicts  not  always  successful 
against  those  who  loved  the  dry  bones 
of  routine  or  inefficiency. 

At  Johns  Hopkins  he  was  given  a 
freer  hand,  and  was  able  to  collect 
about  him  as  the  nucleus  of  a  new  uni- 
versity men  who  were  animated  by  in- 
tellectual interest  of  a  type  akin  to  Gil- 
man's  own.  They  cared  enough  about 
their  several  subjects  to  make  re- 
searches. They  were  animated  by  Gil- 
man's  example  and  precept  to  give  the 
benefit  of  their  researches  to  the  world 
of  science  and  letters.  Students  were 
not  numerous,  appliances  were  not  ade- 
quate ;  but  Gilman  had  created,  as  Soc- 
rates in  his  day  had  created,  a  phron- 
tistery,  a  thinking-shop,  of  a  kind 
America  has  probably  never  seen  be- 
fore or  since. 

No  man's  total  contribution  to  science 
or  letters  is  measured  by  his  own  pub- 
lished work.  The  best  service  which 
he  renders  is  generally  found  in  the 
stimulus  which  he  gives  to  others  about 
him  and  after  him.  He  who  approves 
what  is  vital  and  rejects  what  is  ster- 
ile, who  encourages  the  men  of  talent 
and  genius  and  protects  them  against 
the  tyranny  of  routine,  is  the  man 
whose  labor  counts  for  most  in  the  end. 
Measured  in  this  fashion,  Gilman's 
work  stands  out  in  its  true  proportions 
as  a  contribution  to  the  arts  and  letters 
of  the  country  and  the  world. 

Thus  thought  on  thought  is  piled,  till  some 
vast  mass 
Is  loosened,  and  the  nations  echo  round. 


Horace  Howard  Furness  died  August  13,  1912;  Henry  Charles  Lea  died  October  ag,  1909; 
Donald  Grant  Mitchell  died  December  15,  1908;  Daniel  Coit  Gilman  died  October  13,  IQ08, 


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LA  FARGE,  ABBEY,  MILLET 
By  Thomas  Hastings 


While  here  assembled,  let  us  pay  trib- 
ute to  the  distinguished  services  of 
three  members  of  this  Academy  who 
have  recently  been  taken  from  us: 
John  La  Farge,  Edwin  Austin  Abbey, 
and  Francis  Davis  Millet.  As  they 
lived  in  their  work,  they  are  still  alive 
in  the  influence  their  untiring  endeavors 
have  produced  upon  modern  art.  They 
have  helped  to  quicken  within  us  our 
sense  of  beauty,  and  to  aid  us  to  un- 
derstand better  its  uplifting  and  refin- 
ing influences.  Such  lives  largely  con- 
tribute to  the  happiness  of  their  fel- 
low-men. Those  of  us  who  enjoyed 
personal  intercourse  with  them  must 
realize  how  they  themselves  found  hap- 
piness in  their  work;  they  were  happy 
temperamentally,  and  so  imparted  hap- 
piness to  others.  There  was  another  in- 
herent quality  of  character  of  which 
they  all  had  full  measure — that  enthu- 
siasm which  made  all  intercourse  with 
them  interesting  and  stimulating.  It 
was  the  enthusiasm  of  the  real  artist, 
the  enthusiasm  which  stimulates  the 
creative  faculties  and  intuitively  quick- 
ens the  insight  and  understanding. 
When  we  find  the  experience  and 
knowledge  which  come  with  age  stimu- 
lated by  an  enthusiasm  which  does  not 
grow  old  under  these  conditions,  men 
have  retarded  their  declining  years  and 
have  often  produced  their  best  work 
late  in  life.  The  flowing  stream  never 
becomes  stagnant.  While  a  man's  in- 
terest in  the  opportunities  of  life  con- 
tinues, the  possibilities  of  productive- 
ness are  unlimited.  We  may  think  that 
by  observation  we  have  learned  what  to 
expect  of  one  another,  but  if  we  still 
have  enthusiasm,  we  need  know  no 
limitations  in  what  we  may  expect  of 
ourselves.  The  loss  of  enthusiasm  is 
the  end  of  the  artist's  career. 


John  La  Farge  was  a  young  old  man. 
He  was  born  in  New  York  in  March, 
1835.  His  father  was  a  Frenchman,  an 
officer  in  the  navy,  who,  in  1806,  took 
part  in  an  expedition  to  Santo  Domin- 
go, where  he  married  the  daughter  of 
a  planter  who  is  said  to  have  had  some 
skill  as  a  miniature-painter.  John  La 
Farge  married  Margaret  M.  Perry,  the 
granddaughter  of  Commodore  O.  H. 
Perry.  In  his  early  life  La  Farge  un- 
dertone the  study  of  law;  but,  always 
attracted  to  art,  it  was  not  long  before 
he  devoted  himself  wholly  to  the  study 
of  painting.  At  that  time,  while  in 
Newport,  he  studied  under  William 
Morris  Hunt.  The  charm  of  some  of 
his  early  landscapes,  painted  there  and 
while  he  was  studying  with  Couture  in 
Paris,  is  well  remembered  by  those  of 
us  who  have  seen  them  at  our  current 
exhibitions. 

It  was  in  the  early  seventies  that  he 
first  began  experimenting  in  glass 
that  afterward  resulted  in  his  ingen- 
ious and  well-known  new  methods  of 
construction  and  use  of  materials,  with 
their  accompanying  brilliancy  of  color. 
His  work  in  this  direction  made  a  re- 
markable impression  upon  American 
glass.  Through  all  the  years  of  glass- 
working  he  continued  to  paint,  produc- 
ing many  important  decorations,  more 
especially  in  some  of  our  churches.  An 
event  in  his  life  was  when  H.  H.  Rich- 
ardson commissioned  him  to  decorate 
Trinity  Church  in  Boston.  Later,  his 
work  appeared  in  the  Church  of  the 
Ascension,  the  Church  of  the  Paulist 
Fathers,  the  Brick  Church,  and  the  St. 
Thomas's  Church  that  was  destroyed 
by  fire. 

In  1886,  La  Farge  went  to  Japan  with 
his  friend  Mr.  Henry  Adams,  and  after- 
ward to  the  South  Sea  Islands.  His  cor- 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


respondence,  which  later  appeared  in 
"The  Century  Magazine,"  established 
him  in  the  minds  of  the  public  as  a  writ- 
er of  unusual  natural  ability.  In  his 
later  work  as  a  literary  man  he  showed 
an  unusual  degree  of  versatility  and 
flexibility  of  mind.  For  those  of  us 
who  know  well  the  extent  and  unusual 
quality  and  merits  of  the  man's  talents, 
it  is  futile  at  this  time  to  comment  fur- 
ther upon  his  undertakings,  his  draw- 
ings, his  water-colors,  his  paintings,  his 
glass,  or  his  writings,  or  to  attempt  to 
enumerate  the  many  honors  he  re- 
ceived during  his  long  and  successful 
life — honors  not  only  from  his  own 
country,  but  from  France,  England,  and 
Germany.  Had  we  time,  we  would 
rather  dwell  upon  him  as  our  friend 
and  fellow-Academician,  a  remarkable 
character,  an  artist  philosopher.  Those 
of  us  who  knew  him  would  agree,  I  be- 
lieve, that,  when  all  else  had  been  said, 
to  know  him  and  to  talk  with  him  was 
to  find  La  Farge  at  his  best.  He  was 
indeed  an  artist  in  conversation,  a  man 
of  ideas,  with  as  brilliant  a  coloring 
in  his  personality  as  in  his  painting. 
His  talk,  drawn  from  his  broad  experi- 
ence, was  always  full  of  suggestion,  de- 
lightful in  anecdote  and  incident,  with 
a  profound  sense  of  humor,  and  a  lit- 
erary quality  of  great  refinement  un- 
usual even  in  written  form. 

From  the  time  of  Benjamin  West 
until  John  S.  Sargent,  there  has  always 
been  a  considerable  number  of  self- 
expatriated  American  artists  who  have 
given  renown  to  American  art  in 
Europe.  Edwin  Austin  Abbey  was  un- 
questionably one  of  the  most  illustrious 
of  this  number.  He  was  born  in  Phila- 
delphia, April  I,  1852,  a  grandson  of 
R  OS  well  Abbey,  a  prosperous  merchant, 
who  was  also  an  inventor  of  type-foun- 
dry appliances  and  a  man  of  decided 
artistic  temperament.  He  was  the  son 
of  William  Maxwell  Abbey,  who  was 
likewise  a  Philadelphia  merchant,  and 
something  of  an  amateur  artist. 

In   1866,  when  only  fourteen  years 


of  age.  Abbey  published  his  first  draw- 
ings in  Oliver  Optic's  paper,  "Our 
Boys  and  Girls."  During  the  early 
years  of  his  life  he  was  a  student  in  the 
Philadelphia  Academy  of  Fine  Arts. 
Coming  to  New  York  at  the  age  of 
twenty,  he  quickly  developed,  and  was 
soon  after  employed  by  "Harper's  Mag- 
azine." Here  he  acquired  a  remarkable 
facility  as  a  draftsman  in  black  and 
white.  His  distinguished  work  as  an  il- 
lustrator gave  him  at  an  unusually 
early  age  a  wide  and  popular  reputa- 
tion. Even  at  this  time  Old-World 
legends  had  a  potent  influence  upon  his 
character  and  the  general  direction  of 
his  work.  In  his  portrayal  of  old  songs 
and  ballads,  as  well  as  in  his  illustra- 
tions of  historic  characters,  he  seemed 
to  bring  to  life  and  to  make  real  the 
finest  fancies  of  English  literature. 
"She  Stoops  to  Conquer/'  "The  Desert- 
ed Village,"  Herrick's  poems,  and 
Shakespeares'  plays,  were  brought  into 
a  new  light  by  the  facile  pen  of  the 
young  artist.  It  was  perhaps  this  spe- 
cial interest  in  English  literature  that, 
in  1883,  influenced  him  to  make  his 
residence  in  England. 

At  frequent  intervals  his  work,  more 
especially  his  drawings,  pastels,  and 
water-colors,  have  been  shown  both 
here  and  abroad  at  the  exhibitions  of 
the  numerous  societies  to  which  he  be- 
longed. It  always  attracted  the  ad- 
miration of  a  large  and  appreciative 
audience.  It  was  not  until  1895, 
through  the  influence  of  Charles  F. 
McKim,  that  he  was  commissioned  to 
paint  his  first  important  decoration,  the 
well-known  series  of  panels,  "The  Holy 
Grail,"  for  the  Boston  Public  Library, 
which,  with  Sargent's  notable  decora- 
tions in  the  same  building,  have  be- 
come renowned  as  perhaps  the  most  re- 
markable mural  decorations  ever  paint- 
ed by  American  artists.  Not  only  did 
he  show  in  this  comparatively  new  un- 
dertaking his  great  ability  as  a  painter, 
but  he  fulfilled  to  the  utmost  what  his 
earlier  work  had  promised — a  studious 
conscientiousness  in  all  matters  of  de- 


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tail,  with  a  remarkable  capacity  for  re- 
search into  the  costumes  and  customs 
of  past  ages. 

In  1890  he  married  Gertrude  Mead  of 
New  York,  and  for  many  years  they 
lived  in  Fairford,  Gloucestershire,  Eng- 
land, surrounded  by  a  most  artistic  at- 
mosphere. 

In  1901  he  was  commissioned  by 
King  Edward  VII  to  paint  for  Buck- 
ingham Palace  the  official  picture  of 
the  coronation.  From  that  time  the 
greater  part  of  his  life  was  devoted  to 
painting,  his  last  and  most  recent  work 
being  three  important  decorative  panels 
for  the  State  House  at  Harrisburg,  in 
his  native  State.  Unfortunately,  he 
did  not  live  to  see  this  work  completed. 

In  this  country  many  honors  and  uni- 
versity degrees  were  conferred  upon 
him,  and  he  was  the  recipient  of  many 
foreign  decorations,  and  in  1898  he  was 
made  a  Royal  Academician.  His  last 
year  was  the  sixtieth  of  his  life,  and 
judging  from  the  progressive  excellence 
of  his  work  and  the  vitality  and  en- 
thusiasm of  the  man,  there  was  every 
promise  of  even  greater  and  finer  re- 
sults if  he  had  lived  longer  to  reap 
more  fully  the  benefits  of  experience 
and  his  constant  and  untiring  habits  of 
work. 

An  unparalleled  event  in  the  his- 
tory of  navigation  was  the  recent  foun- 
dering of  the  great  steamship  Titanic. 
Frank  Davis  Millet  was  one  of  her  pas- 
sengers. In  mid-ocean,  under  a  starlit 
sky,  which  had  dissolved  the  darkness 
of  the  night,  he  must  have  seen  the  last 
of  this  world.  Amid  the  confusion  and 
debris  of  the  sinking  ship,  he  could  see 
only  an  unbroken  horizon  over  the  wa- 
ters of  the  Atlantic,  a  circle  on  the 
earth's  surface,  emblem  of  eternal  life. 
Thinking  more  of  the  safety  of  others 
than  of  himself,  our  friend  was  taken 
from  us  in  the  fullness  of  his  power.  I 
know  of  no  other  American  artist  who 
has  served  such  high  and  varied  pur- 
poses with  such  unselfish  devotion  to 
the  interests  of  American  art,  and  with 


such  an  untiring  capacity  for  work,  un- 
hesitatingly sacrificing  his  time  for  the 
good  of  others.  Indeed,  he  was  so  pub- 
lic-spirited that  I  have  often  thought 
that  he  gave  himself  so  freely  that  his 
unselfishness  seriously  interfered  with 
his  own  private  interests  in  life. 

Though  gentle  and  unassuming,  he 
was  a  leader  of  men,  an  educator  of 
men.  He  would  have  succeeded  in 
whatever  he  might  have  undertaken. 
He  had  a  singular  gift  for  making 
friends.  To  know  him  was  to  love 
him.  He  had  a  remarkable  fund  of  in- 
teresting information  on  the  widest  va- 
riety of  subjects. 

We  were  members  together  of  the 
National  Fine  Arts  Commission  in 
Washington,  where  I  learned  to  know 
what  a  delightful  privilege  it  was  to 
work  with  him.  Intellectually  he  was 
somewhat  inclined  to  wander,  being  of- 
ten drawn  into  other  channels  than  art. 

He  was  born  at  Mattapoisett,  Massa- 
chusetts, in  November,  1846.  He  was 
the  youngest  man  of  sixty-six  I  have 
ever  known.  During  the  Civil  War  he 
was  a  drummer  in  the  50th  Massachu- 
setts Regiment.  In  1869  he  was  gradu- 
ated from  Harvard,  later  associating 
himself  with  Boston  journalism,  and  de- 
voting what  spare  time  he  could  find  to 
the  study  of  art.  It  was  not  long  be- 
fore he  went  to  Europe  and  entered  as 
a  student  in  the  Royal  Academy  of 
Antwerp,  where  he  made  great  progress 
and  showed  much  promise.  He  then 
traveled  widely,  returning  to  Boston  to 
assist  La  Farge  in  his  work  in  Trinity 
Church. 

For  his  brilliant  services  as  corre- 
spondent for  the  New  York  and  Lon- 
don papers  in  the  Russo-Turkish  War, 
and  for  bravery  on  the  battle-field,  he 
was  decorated  by  the  czar.  Later  he 
was  sent  as  a  war-correspondent  to  the 
Philippines.  He  was  chairman  of  the 
Advisory  Committee  of  the  National 
Museum,  a  member  of  the  Municipal 
Art  Commission  of  New  York,  a  trus- 
tee of  the  Metropolitan  Museum  of 
Art,  secretary  of  the  American  Federa- 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


tion  of  Arts,  and  member  of  the  Na- 
tional Fine  Arts  Commission.  He  had 
recently  been  appointed  the  executive 
officer  of  the  United  American  Aca- 
demy and  the  American  School  of 
Classical  Studies  at  Rome,  and  was 
returning  on  the  Titanic  after  visit- 
ing Rome  in  the  interest  of  this  insti- 
tution. It  seemed  a  fitting  place  for 
him,  with  his  unusual  ability  for  organi- 
zation. 

In  1879  he  married  Elizabeth  Greeley 
Merrill.  While  their  home  was  in 
Broadway,  Worcestershire,  England, 
his  life  in  recent  years  was  spent  most- 
ly between  Washington,  New  York,  and 
Rome.  With  all  this  time  given  to 
traveling  and  public  affairs,  it  seems 
almost  incredible  that  he  could  have 
produced  so  much  in  painting,  which 
was  the  actual  means  of  his  livelihood. 
He  had  traveled  extensively  all  over 
the  world,  and  spoke  nearly  all  of  the 
principal  languages  of  Europe. 

In  1 89 1  he  made  a  canoe  trip  the  full 
length    of    the    Danube    for    Harper 


Brothers,  who  published  his  book  enti- 
tled "The  Danube  from  the  Black  For- 
est to  the  Black  Sea."  About  the  same 
time  appeared  his  collection  of  short 
stories  and  his  translation  of  Tolstoi's 
"Sebastapol." 

In  recent  years  he  devoted  a  great 
deal  of  time  to  decorations.  The  his- 
torical paintings  in  the  capitol  at  St. 
Paul,  the  decorations  in  the  custom- 
house at  Baltimore,  and  a  historical 
decoration  in  the  court-house  at 
Newark,  New  Jersey,  are  among  his 
most  important  later  works. 

Few  men  enjoyed  life  as  he  did,  and 
few  men  gave  more  enjoyment  to 
others.  He  will  be  missed,  and  no  one 
man  can  be  fotmd  to  fill  his  place — 
alas !  so  many  places  I 

Millet  was  a  strong,  intelligent  man 
of  character,  with  a  sweetness  and  sim- 
plicity almost  childlike.  His  nature  was 
joyous,  which  attracted  men  to  him, 
and  always  assured  him  their  collabora- 
tion in  whatever  work  he  undertook. 


John  La  Farge  died  November  14,  1910;  Edwin  Austin  Abbey  died  August  i,  1911;  Frank 
Davis  Millet  died  April   14,   1912. 


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HIGGINSON,  MRS.  HOWE,  CRAWFORD.  MOODY 

By  Bliss  Perry 


Compared  with  the  men  treasured  in 
Thomas  Wentvvorth  Higginson's 
inexhaustible  memories,  he  himself  be- 
longed to  the  "second  growth"  of  our 
literature,  but  he  had  sprung  tall  and 
straight  and  graciously  from  the  as  yet 
unexhausted  New  England  soil.  In 
the  attics  of  old  houses  in  Salem  there 
may  still  be  seen  wide  boards  of  clear, 
straight-grained  pine,  toned  to  a  mel- 
low violin  coloring  by  the  stray  shafts 
of  sunlight.  Colonel  Higginson's  prose 
had  that  same  flawless  texture,  the  same 
heritage  and  tinge  of  sunshine.  His 
style  matured  very  early.  It  was  al- 
ready perfected  when  he  wrote  the 
gay,  supple,  singing  "Charge  with 
Prince  Rupert."  It  is  as  difficult  to 
date  one  of  his  essays  by  the  test  of  its 
style  as  it  is  to  date  one  of  Aldrich's 
songs  or  Longfellow's  sonnets.  He 
did  not  have  the  fortune,  like  his  friend 
Mrs.  Howe,  to  win  fame  by  one  ec- 
static lyric,  or,  like  Wasson  and  El- 
lery  Channing,  to  be  remembered  by 
one  famous  line.  Yet  there  is  quality 
throughout  Higginson's  prose  and  his 
slender  pages  of  verse,  and  there  is 
rich  variety. 

It  would  be  hard  to  find  in  American 
literature  any  nature  essays  which  sur- 
pass his  "Water-Lilies,"  "Foot-paths" 
and  "A  Summer  Afternoon";  or  an 
ethical  essay  more  tonic  than  "Saints 
and  Their  Bodies."  We  have  had  no 
biographical  essay  more  wholly  admi- 
rable than  the  "Theodore  Parker,"  and 
certainly  none  more  delightful  than  the 
"John  Holmes";  while  a  more  clever 
controversial  essay  than  "Ought  Wom- 
en to  Learn  the  Alphabet"  has  not  been 
written  since  the  alphabet  came  into 
general  use.  Higginson  coasted  by 
the  shores  of  Romance  in  "Malbone" 
and  "The  Monarch  of  Dreams."     He 


tested  repeatedly  his  gifts  as  a  biog- 
rapher. In  "Army  Life  in  a  Black 
Regiment"  we  touch  autobiography. 
The  book  demanded  tact  and  humor, 
a  sense  of  human  and  historical  values, 
and  a  professional  pride  in  which  the 
colonel  of  the  First  South  Carolina 
Volunteers  was  never  wanting.  I  re- 
member that  upon  one  of  the  last  oc- 
casions when  he  attended  a  meeting 
of  the  Massachusetts  Historical  So- 
ciety a  paper  was  read  demonstrating 
the  ignorance  and  illiteracy  of  the  ne- 
groes of  the  South  Atlantic  States, 
who,  we  were  assured,  could  scarcely 
speak  or  even  understand  English.  The 
veteran  colonel  of  the  First  South 
Carolina  rose  very  unsteadily  to  his 
feet  and  made  this  perfect  reply:  "My 
men  could  understand  me  when  I  gave 
the  word  'Forward!*'' 

To  praise  Higginson's  "Cheerful 
Yesterdays"  is  to  praise  him,  so  per- 
fectly was  it  a  part  of  him;  not  the 
mere  inevitable  and  conscious  betrayal 
of  the  personality  of  an  author,  but  the 
unconditional  surrender  of  it  to  the 
minds  and  hearts  of  his  friends.  In 
other  words,  Mr.  Higginson  was  one 
of  those  fortunate  writers  who  could 
transfer  to  his  pages  the  whole  of  his 
personal  character.  You  can  no  more 
subtract  from  his  books  his  idealism, 
his  consistent  courage,  his  erect  Ameri- 
canism, than  you  can  subtract  Sir 
Philip  Sidney's  knightly  qualities  from 
his  essay  on  the  nature  of  poetry. 

Higginson  loved  children  and  all 
innocent  things.  He  was  chivalrous 
not  merely  toward  women,  which  is 
easy,  but  toward  "woman,"  which  is 
somewhat  more  difficult.  His  wit  had 
always  a  touch  of  tartness  for  the 
American  parvenu,  for  he  had  lived 
long  in  Newport  and  was  a  good  field 


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naturalist.  His  satire  also  amused  it- 
self with  the  Englishmen  who  could 
not  understand  what  our  Civil  War 
was  fought  for.  But  in  general  Hig- 
ginson's  list  of  antipathies  was  not 
much  longer  than  such  a  list  should  be. 
Surrounded  all  his  life  by  reformers, 
he  had,  like  Emerson,  a  shrewd,  de- 
tached sense  of  the  eccentricities  of  re- 
formers. He  wrote  an  amusing  essay 
about  it.  He  used  to  bare  his  noble 
gray  head  whenever  he  entered  a  poll- 
ing-booth, but  he  never  took  off  his  hat 
to  any  mere  vulgar  political  or  literary 
majority.  To  the  very  end  he  remained 
what  Europeans  call  an  "1848"  man; 
he  carried  that  old  idealism  serenely 
through  the  demoralized  American 
epoch  of  the  eighties  and  nineties  into 
the  new  idealistic  current  of  to-day. 
It  16  no  wonder  that  he  was  idolized  by 
the  young. 

Yet  his  good  fortune  lay  not  merely 
in  this  identification  of  his  character 
with  his  work  as  a  man  of  letters.  He 
was  also  fortunate  in  settling  upon  a 
form  of  literature  precisely  adapted  to 
the  instincts  of  his  mind.  He  was  a 
bom  essayist  and  autobiographer. 
Too  versatile  a  workman,  and  too  de- 
pendent upon  his  pen  for  bread,  to 
confine  himself  to  his  true  genre,  he 
still  kept  returning  to  it,  like  the  hom- 
ing bee.  The  flexibility  of  the  essay 
form,  its  venturesomeness,  its  perpetu- 
al sally  and  retreat,  tempted  his  happy 
audacity.  But  beneath  the  wit  and  grace 
and  fire  of  his  phrases  there  is  the  fine 
conservatism  of  the  scholar,  the  inimi- 
table touch  of  the  writer  whose  taste 
has  been  trained  by  the  classics.  His 
essays  on  "An  Old  Latin  Text-Book" 
and  "Sunshine  and  Petrarch"  reveal  the 
natural  bookman.  That  style  of  his,  as 
light  and  flexible  as  a  rod  of  split  bam- 
boo, is  the  style  of  many  of  the  im- 
mortal classics  and  humanists;  and  it 
holds  when  the  bigger  and  coarser 
styles  warp  and  weaken. 

No  contemporary  of  any  writer  can 
solve  what  Higginson  once  called  "the 
equation    of    fame."      That    equation 


contains  too  many  unknown  quantities. 
Lamb's  "Essay  on  Roast  Pig,"  which 
has  simply  a  good  deal  of  Charles 
Lamb  in  it,  is  now  as  sure  of  immor- 
tality, as  far  as  we  can  see,  as  Gib- 
bon's "Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman 
Empire."  At  least  we  can  say,  here 
are  a  dozen  volumes  into  which 
Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson  has  put 
a  great  deal  of  himself,  clear-grained, 
seasoned,  sun-bathed  stuff.  They  will 
outlast  our  day  and  many  days. 

Mrs.  Julia  Ward  Howe,  the  first 
woman  to  be  honored  by  an  election  to 
the  American  Academy  of  Arts  and 
Letters,  was,  like  her  friend  Colonel 
Higginson,  a  representative  of  the 
best  stock  of  colonial  America.  Like 
him,  she  lived  to  a  great  age,  and  re- 
ceived with  unfeigned  pleasure  the 
homage  of  the  third  generation  of 
writing  men  and  writing  women.  Her 
first  books  and  her  earliest  literary 
friendships  date  from  that  quaint  New 
York  of  the  forties,  the  Washington 
Irving  period  as  it  was  about  to  van- 
ish. Thenceforward  her  home  was  in 
Boston.  Her  marriage  to  Dr.  Howe 
and  her  quick  responsiveness  to  ethical 
impulses  brought  her  into  intimate  re- 
lations with  that  restless,  aspiring 
movement  of  reform  which  character- 
ized New  England  for  a  score  of 
years  before  and  after  the  Civil  War. 
Mrs.  Howe  flung  herself  with  girlish 
enthusiasm  into  a  dozen  "causes,"  the 
education  of  the  blind,  the  relief  of 
the  poor,  the  Americanization  of  for- 
eigners, the  liberalizing  of  religion, 
the  emancipation  of  women,  the  move- 
ment for  international  peace.  She  was 
tireless,  witty,  undismayed,  gifted  with 
an  amazing  bodily  endurance  and  a 
flashing  radiance  of  spirit.  She  wrote 
essays,  verses,  sermons,  and  a  play,  but 
her  fame  as  a  writer  rests  almost 
wholly  upon  her  "Battle  H>Tnn  of  the 
Republic."  The  poem  was  scribbled 
hastily  in  the  gray  dawn  after  a  sound 
night's  sleep.  It  was  composed,  like 
many  of  the  songs  of  Bums,  to  a  well- 


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known  tune.  It  interpreted,  as  no 
other  lyric  of  the  war  quite  succeeded 
in  interpreting,  the  mystical  glory  of 
sacrifice  for  freedom.  Soldiers  sang 
it  in  camp;  women  read  it  with  tears; 
children  repeated  it  in  school,  vaguely 
but  truly  perceiving  in  it,  as  thirty 
years  before  their  fathers  had  per- 
ceived in  Webster's  "Reply  to  Hayne," 
the  idea  of  union  made  "simple,  sensu- 
ous, passionate."  No  American  poem 
has  had  a  more  dramatic  and  intense 
life  in  the  quick-breathing  imagination 
of  men. 

Mrs.  Howe  lived  for  half  a  century 
after  her  famous  lyric  was  written,  but 
the  aureole  of  that  one  achievement 
rested  over  her  until  the  end.  She  was  a 
notable  figure  at  public  gatherings,  and 
her  commemorative  verses  on  various 
centenary  occasions  were  received  with 
delight.  She  prepared  a  poem  for  the 
first  meeting  of  the  American  Academy 
of  Arts  and  Letters  at  Washington,  in 
December,  1909.  She  was  then  eighty, 
and  to  the  very  close,  in  her  public  ap- 
pearances, she  preserved  the  clear, 
telling  voice,  the  wit,  the  indomitable 
energy,  of  youth.  A  very  human  wom- 
an, a  very  feminine  and  wise  woman, 
Mrs.  Howe  had  a  place  all  her  own  in 
the  aflfectionate  admiration  of  her  con- 
temporaries. 

Francis  Marion  Crawford,  cos- 
mopolite and  story-teller,  became  a  sin- 
gularly successful  professional  soldier 
in  that  regiment  of  literature,  "the 
strangest  in  her  Majesty's  service", 
in  which  Mrs.  Howe,  his  kinswoman, 
had  served  as  a  brilliant  volunteer. 
Crawford's  youth  was  passed  mainly 
in  Italy,  in  that  American  colony  whose 
pioneer  period  has  been  sketched  by 
Mr.  Henry  James  in  his  life  of  W.  W. 
Story.  But  he  also  studied  at  Trinity 
College,  Cambridge,  and  at  Heidelberg, 
and,  like  Mr.  Kipling,  he  had  edited  a 
newspaper  in  India,  before  he  became  a 
special  student  of  Sanscrit  at  Harvard 
in  1881. 

It  was  in  the  following  year  that  his 


uncle,  Samuel  G.  Ward,  knowing  the 
rich  fund  of  experience  which  lay  in 
the  young  man's  mind,  awaiting  some 
magical  evocation,  half  persuaded  and 
half  forced  Crawford  to  write  that 
most  purely  fascinating  of  all  his 
books,  "Mr.  Isaacs."  The  exotic  qual- 
ities of  a  fertile  and  somewhat  mysti- 
cal imagination  were  restrained  even 
in  that  first  book  by  a  skilful  sense  of 
what  could  be  spun  in  a  yarn  rather 
than  adumbrated  in  a  poem.  Novel 
after  novel  followed  in  a  stream  unin- 
terrupted until  the  author's  death — 
novels  written  with  a  rapidity  which 
rivaled  that  of  Walter  Scott,  even  as 
they  almost  seemed  to  rival  Scott's 
popularity.  A  workman  as  intelligent 
as  he  was  facile,  Crawford  set  forth 
his  theory  of  the  novel  in  the  phrase, 
"It  is  a  pocket  stage."  He  illustrated 
his  theory  by  brilliant  dialogue  and 
moving  action  and  in  sketching  his 
varied  backgrounds  of  Southern  Euro- 
pean life.  Himself,  and  in  a  double 
sense,  an  adopted  child  of  Rome,  Italy 
had  few  secrets  that  were  hidden  from 
Crawford's  view.  He  wrote  compre- 
hensive books  on  Rome  and  Venice  in 
a  style  happily  blended  of  the  antiqua- 
rian and  the  sentimental  traveler.  It 
may  be  surmised  that  Thomas  Car- 
lyle,  if  he  could  have  had  the  plea- 
sure of  reading  Crawford's  tales,  might 
have  found  that  long  row  of  delight- 
ful and  often  powerful  stories  deficient 
in  a  "message,"  and  indeed  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  affirm  that  they  contained  any 
doctrine  except  the  enchanting  one 
that  this  world  is  full  of  a  number  of 
things.  But  no  reader  of  Crawford 
cared,  such  was  the  glamour  of  his  in- 
ventiveness, the  fidelity  with  which  he 
reproduced  the  tone  and  spirit  of  pic- 
turesque Europe. 

Crawford  was  personally  but  slight- 
ly known  to  his  fellow-workers  in  the 
craft  of  literature ;  but  the  most  casual 
meeting  with  him  revealed  a  certain 
sailor-like  quality  of  frankness  and  di- 
rectness which  gave  charm  to  his  per- 
son and  to  his  conversation.     He  will 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


no  doubt  remain  a  representative  figure 
of  literary  cosmopolitanism.  In  the 
new  alignments  caused  by  the  strong 
currents  of  contemporary  change  he 
may  well  prove  greater  or  less  than  we 
think  him  now;  but  it  will  be  long  be- 
fore we  shall  find  a  more  adept  guar- 
dian of  Aladdin's  lamp. 

In  the  death  of  Wiluam  Vaughn 
Moody  the  Academy  has  lost  a  poet  of 
rich  endowment  and  great  distinction. 
Like  Colonel  Higginson,  Mrs.  Howe, 
and  Mr.  Crawford,  he  had  the  cosmo- 
politan temper,  and  he  was  haunted  by 
the  beauty  of  Greek  literature.  Un- 
like them,  he  was  perplexed  by  our 
modern  world,  and  was  never  fully  at 
home  in  it.  Perhaps  this  is  only  say- 
ing that  he  was  a  poet.  As  a  Harvard 
undergraduate,  Moody  revealed  a  mind 
of  uncommon  richness  and  complexity 
of  pattern;  but  even  at  forty  he  had 
not  wholly  succeeded  in  bringing  that 
mind  into  lucid  order,  into  a  steady 
grasp  of  structural  design.  A  lover  of 
Milton,  Shelley,  and  Euripides,  he  was 
enraptured  of  beautiful  words.  His 
lyrics  sing  in  burdened,  thrush-like 
cadences  w^hich  are  too  heavy  with 
thought,  too  deeply  drenched  with  pas- 
sionate feeling;  the  wet  boughs  of  his 
fragrant  verse  bend  low,  blinding  the 
eyes  of  his  readers.  But  more  than 
once,  as  in  the  masterly  "Ode  in  Time 
of  Hesitation/*  in  "Gloucester  Moors," 
and  in  some  of  the  songs  in  his  dramas, 
feeling  and  form  were  wrought  into 
consummate  perfection  of  expression. 


Here   were   '^thoughts   that   voluntary 
moved  harmonious  numbers." 

Moody's  incompleted  trilogy,  "The 
Fire-Bringers,"  "The  Masque  of  Judg- 
ment," and  "The  Death  of  Eve,"  con- 
tains memorable  passages,  but  the  key 
to  his  cosmologies  and  mythologies  is 
hard  to  find,  and  perhaps — perhaps 
there  was  none.  One  of  his  prose 
plays,  "The  Great  Divide,"  had  notable 
success  upon  the  boards,  but  at  the 
time  of  his  death  he  seems  to  have 
abandoned  the  ambitions  of  a  play- 
wright. Never  quite  at  ease  in  our 
contemporary  America;  teaching  lit- 
erature with  abundant  scholarship,  but 
with  no  love  for  his  profession ;  writ- 
ing poetic  dramas  which  few  persons 
lead;  dear  beyond  most  men  to  his 
friends,  but  shy  and  wilful ;  splendidly 
courageous  in  hazarding  every  sacri- 
fice in  the  service  of  poetry,  William 
Vaughn  Moody  lost  much  that  other 
men  of  letters  care  for,  but  he  won, 
who  shall  say  how  much  more,  in  inner 
power  and  in  creative  mastery  over  the 
forms  of  his  art.  His  friend,  Mr. 
Percy  Mackaye,  has  nobly  written  his 
eulogy  in  "Uriel";  and  surely  it  is  m 
verse  only,  and  not  in  prose,  that  we 
should  fitly  record  the  passing  of  this 
strong,  perturbed  spirit.  He  chose 
high  and  hard  paths,  but  paths  which 
were  surely  leading  to  serenity  of  vis- 
ion, as  they  had  already  led  him  into  the 
secret  places  of  beauty  and  close  to  the 
passionate  and  troubled  heart  of  the 
sons  of  Eve. 


Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson  died  May  9,  1911 ;  Julia  Ward  Howe  died  October  17.  1910; 
Francis  Marion  Crawford  died  April  9,  1909;  William  Vaughn  Moody  died  October  16,  1910 


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THE  INSTITUTE  MEDAL 


The  Gold  Medal  of  the  Institute  is 
annually  awarded  to  any  citizen  of 
the  United  States,  whether  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Institute  or  not,  for  dis- 
tinguished services  to  arts  or  letters 
in  the  creation  of  original  work. 

The  conditions  of  the  award  are 
these : 

(i)  "That  the  medal  shall  be  awarded  for 
the  entire  work  of  the  recipient,  without 
limit  of  time  during  which  it  shall  have 
been  done;  that  it  shall  be  awarded  to  a 
living  person  or  to  one  who  shall  not  have 
been  dead  more  than  one  year  at  the  time 
of  the  award;  and  that  it  shall  not  be 
awarded  more  than  once  to  any  one  person. 
(2)  "That  it  shall  be  awarded  in  the  fol- 
lowing order:  First  year,  for  Sculpture; 
second  year,  for  History  or  Biography; 
third  year,  for  Music;  fourth  year,  for 
Poetry;  fifth  year,  for  Architecture;  sixth 
year,  for  Drama;  seventh  year,  for  Paint- 
ing; eighth  year,  for  Fiction;  ninth  year, 
for  Essays  or  Belles-Lettres, — returning  to 
each  subject  every  tenth  year  in  the  order 
named. 


(3)  "That  it  shall  be  the  duty  of  the  Secre- 
tary each  year  to  poll  the  members  of  the 
section  of  the  Institute  dealing  with  the  sub- 
ject in  which  the  medal  is  that  year  to  be 
awarded,  and  to  report  the  result  of  the 
poll  to  the  Institute  at  its  Annual  Meeting, 
at  which  meeting  the  medal  shall  be  award- 
ed by  vote  of  the  Institute." 

The  medal  was  designed  by  Adolph 
A.  Weinman,  of  the  Institute,  in 
1909. 

The  first  award — for  sculpture — 
was  to  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens.  The 
medal  was  presented  to  Mrs.  Saint- 
Gaudens  at  the  meeting  held  in  mem- 
ory of  her  husband  Nov.  20,  1909. 

The  second  medal — for  history — 
was  awarded  to  James  Ford  Rhodes. 

The  third  medal — for  poetry — was 
awarded  to  James  Whitcomb  Riley. 

The  fourth  medal — for  achitecture — 
was  awarded  to  William  Rutherford 
Mead. 


On  December  12,  1912,  at  7:30  p.  m..  the    Fourteenth   Annual    Meeting   and 

Dinner  of  the  National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters    was    held    at    the 

University  Club,  New  York,  when  the   fourth   Gold   Medal  of   the 

Institute  was  awarded  in  the  department  of  Architecture  to 

William  Rutherford  Mead. 


On  December  13,  the  sessions  of  the  Academy  and  Institute  were  opened  by  an 

address  by 

THE  ACTING  CHANCELLOR  OF  THE  ACADEMY, 

Dr.  Henry  Van  Dyke. 


At  the  close  of  the  morning  session  a  luncheon  was  given  to  the  members  of  the 

Academy  and  the  Institute  by 

The  New  York  Members  of  the  Institute. 


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CONSTITUTION  OF  THE  NATIONAL  INSTITUTE 
OF  ARTS  AND  LETTERS 

(Founded  1898  by  the  American  Social  Science  Association) 


I.     ORIGIN  AND  NAME 

This  society,  organized  by  men  nominated 
and  elected  by  the  American  Social  Science 
Association  at  its  annual  meeting  in  1898, 
with  a  view  to  the  advancement  of  art, 
music  and  literature,  shall  be  known  as  the 
National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters. 

II.     MEMBERSHIP 

1.  Qualification  for  membership  shall  be 
notable  achievement  in  art,  music  or  litera- 
ture. 

2.  The  number  of  members  shall  be  limited 
to  two  hundred  and  fifty. 

III.     ELECTIONS 

The  name  of  a  candidate  shall  be  proposed 
to  the  Secretary  by  three  members  of  the 
section  in  which  the  nominee's  principal 
work  has  been  performed.  The  name  shall 
then  be  submitted  to  the  members  of  that 
section,  and  if  approved  by  a  majority  of 
the  answers  received  within  fifteen  days 
may  be  submitted  by  a  two-thirds  vote  of 
the  council  to  an  annual  meeting  of  the  In- 
stitute for  formal  elecion  by  a  majority 
vote  of  those  present.  The  voting  shall  be 
by  ballot. 

IV.     OFFICERS 

1.  The  officers  of  the  Institute  shall  consist 
■of  a  President,  six  Vice-Presidents,  a  Secre- 
tary and  a  Treasurer,  and  they  shall  con- 
stitute the  council  of  the  Institute. 

2.  The  council  shall  always  include  at  least 
one  member  of  each  department. 

V.    ELECTION  OF  OFFICERS 

Officers  shall  be  elected  by  ballot  at  the 
annual  meeting,  but  the  council  may  fill  a 
vacancy  at  any  time  by  a  two-thirds  vote. 

VI.     MEETINGS 

1.  The  annual  meeting  of  the  Institute  shall 
be  held  on  the  first  Tuesday  in  September, 
unless  otherwise  ordered  by  the  council.* 

2.  Special  meetings  may  be  called  by  the 
President  on  recommendation  of  any  three 
members  of  the  council,  or  by  petition  of  at 
leact  one- fourth  of  the  membership  of  the 
Institute. 

VII.     DUTIES  OF  OFFICERS 

I.  It  shall  be  the  duty  of  the  President  to 
preside  at  all  meetings  of  the  Institute  and 
of  the  council. 

In    the    absence    of    the    President,    the 


senior    Vice-President 
preside. 


in    attendance    shall 


3.  The  Secretary  shall  keep  a  minute  of  all 
meetings  of  the  Institvte  and  of  the  council 
and  shall  be  the  custodian  of  all  records. 

4.  The  Treasurer  shall  have  charge  of  all 
funds  of  the  Institute  and  shall  make  dis- 
bursements only  upon  order  of  the  council 

VIII.    ANNUAL  DUES 
The  annual  dues   for  membership   shall  be 
five  dollars. 

IX.     INSIGNIA 

The  insignia  of  the  Institute  shall  be  a  bow 
of  purple  ribbon  bearing  two  bars  of  old 
gold. 

X.    EXPULSIONS 

Any  member  may  be  expelled  for  unbecom- 
ing conduct  by  a  two-thirds  vote  of  the 
council,  a  reasonable  opportunity  for  de- 
fense having  been  given. 

XL    AMENDMENTS 

This  Constitution  may  be  amended  by  a 
two-thirds  vote  of  the  Institute  upon  the 
recommendation  of  the  council  or  upon  the 
request,  in  writing,  of  any  five  members. 
The  Secretary  shall  be  required  to  send  to 
each  member  a  copy  of  the  proposed  amend- 
ment at  least  thirty  days  before  the  meeting 
at  which  such  amendment  is  to  be  consid- 
ered. 

XII.  THE  ACADEMY  OF  ARTS 
AND.  LETTERS 

In  order  to  make  the  Institute  more  efficient 
in  carrying  out  the  purposes  for  which  it 
was  organized, — the  protection  and  further- 
ance of  literatare  and  the  arts, — and  to  give 
greater  definiteness  to  its  work,  a  section 
of  the  Institute  to  be  known  as  the  Acad- 
emy OF  Arts  and  Letters,  shall  be  organ- 
ized in  such  manner  as  the  Institute  nuy 
provide ;  the  members  of  the  Academy  to  be 
chosen  from  those  who  at  any  time  shall 
have  been  on  the  list  of  membership  of  the 
Institute. 

The  Academy  shall  at  first  consist  of  thirty 
members,  and  after  these  shall  have  organ- 
ized it  shall  elect  its  own  officers,  prescribe 
its  own  rules,  the  number  of  its  members, 
and  the  further  conditions  of  membership; 
Provided  that  no  one  shall  be  a  member  of 
the  Academy  who  shall  not  first  have  been 
on  the  list  of  regular  members  of  the  In- 
stitute, and  that  in  the  choice  of  members 
individual  distinction  and  character,  and  not 
the  group  to  which  they  belong,  shall  be 
taken  into  consideration;  and  Provided  that 
all  members  of  the  Academy  shall  be  native 
or  naturalized  citizens  of  the  L^nited  States 


*  For  convenience  the  annual  meeting  is  usually  called  for  January  or  February. 

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MEMBERS  AND  OFFICERS  OF  THE  INSTITUTE 


Department  of  Literature 

Adams,  Brooks 
Adams.  Charles  Francis 
Adams,  Henry 
Ade,  George 
Alden,  Henry  M 
Aldrich,    Richard 
Allen,  James   Lane 
Baldwin,  Simeon  E. 
Bates,  Arlo 
Bridges,  Robert 
Brownell,  W.  C 
Burroughs,  John 
Burton,  Richard 
Butler,  Nicholas  Murray 
Cable,  George  W. 
Carman,  Bliss 
Cawein,  Madison  J. 
Chadwick,  French  E. 
Chambers,  R.  W. 
Channing,  Edward 
Chatfield-Taylor,  H.  C. 
Cheney,  John  Vance 
Churchill,  Winston 
Connolly,  James  B. 
Cortissoz,   Royal 
Croly,  Herbert  D. 
Cross,  Wilbur  L. 
Crothers,  Samuel  McChord 
de  Kay,  Charles 
Dunne,  Finley  P. 
Edwards,  Harry  Stillwell 
Egan,  Maurice  Francis 
Femald,  Chester  Bailey 
Finck,  Henry  T. 
Finley,  John  Huston 
Firkins,  O.  W 
Ford,  Worthington  C. 
Fox,  John,  Jr. 

Furness,  Horace  Howard,  Jr. 
Garland,  Hamlin 
Gildersleeve,  Basil  L. 
Gillette,  William 
Gilman,  Lawrence 
Gordon,  George  A. 
Grant,  -Robert 
Greenslet.  Ferris 
Griffis.  Wm.  Elliot 
Hadley.  Arthur  Twining 
Hamilton,  Clajrton 
Harben,  Will  N. 
Hardy,  Arthur  Sherburne 
Harper,  George  McLean 
Herford,  Oliver 
Herrick,  Robert 
Hibben,  John  Grier 
Hitchcock,  Ripley 
Hooker,  Brian 
Howe,  M.  A.  De  Wolfe 
Howells,  William  Dean 
Huntington,  Archer  M. 
James,  Henry 
Johnson,  Owen 
Johnson,  Robert  Underwood 
Kennan,  George 


Lloyd,  Nelson 
Lodge,  Henry  Cabot 
Long.  John  Luther 
Lounsbury,  Thomas  R. 
Lovett,  Robert  Morss 
Lowell,  Abbott  Lawrence 
Lummis,  Charles  F. 
Mabie,  Hamilton  Wright 
Mackaye,  Percy 
Mahan,  Alfred  T. 
Markham,  Edwin 
Martin,  Edward  S. 
Matthews,  Brander 
McKelway,  St.  Clair 
McMaster,  John  Bach 
Mitchell,  John  Ames 
Mitchell,  Langdon  E. 
More,  Paul  Elmer 
Morris,  Harrison  S. 
Morse,  John  Torrey,  Jr. 
Muir,  John 
Nicholson,  Meredith 
Page,  Thomas  Nelson 
Payne,  Will 

Payne,  William  Morton 
Peck,  Harry  Thurston 
Perry,  Bliss 

Perry,  Thomas  Sergeant 
Phelps,  William  Lyon 
Pier,  Arthur  S. 
Rhodes,  James  Ford 
Riley,  James  Whitcomb 
Roberts,  Charles  G.  D. 
Robinson,  Edward  Arlington 
Roosevelt.  Theodore 
Royce,  Josiah 
Schelling,  Felix  Emanuel 
Schouler,  James 
Schuyler,  Montgomery 
Scollard,  Clinton 
Sedgwick,  Henry  D. 
Seton,  Ernest  Thompson 
Sherman,  Frank  Dempster 
Shorey,  Paul 
Sloane,  William  M. 
Smith,  F.  Hopkinson 
Sullivan,  Thomas  Russell 
Tarkington,  Booth 
Thayer,  William  Roscoe 
Thomas.  Augustus 
Tooker,  L.  Frank 
Torrence,  Ridgcly 
Trent.  William  P. 
van  Dyke,  Henry 
Van  Dyke,  John  C. 
Wendell,  Barrett 
West,  Andrew  F. 
White,  Andrew  Dickson 
White,  William  Allen 
Whiting,  Charles  G. 
Williams  Francis  Howard 
Williams,  Jesse  Lynch 
Wilson,  Harry  Leon 
Wilson,  Woodrow 
Wister,  Owen 
Woodberry.  George  E. 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


Department  of  Art 

Adams,  Herbert 
Alexander.  John  W. 
Babb,  George  F. 
Ballin,   Hugo 
Barnard,  George  Gray 
Bartlett,  Paul  W. 
Beckwith,  J.  Carroll 
Benson,  Frank  W. 
Betts,  Louis 
Bitter,  Karl 
Blashfield,  Edwin  H. 
Brooks,  Richard  E. 
Brown,  Glenn 
Brush,  George  de  Forest 
Bunce.  William  Gedney 
Carlsen,  Emil 
Chase,  William  M. 
Clarkson,  Ralph 
Cole,  Timothy 
Cook,  Walter 
Cox,  Kenyon 
Crowninshield,  Frederic 
Dannat,  William  T. 
Day,  Frank  Miles 
De  Camp,  Joseph 
Dewey,  Charles  Melville 
Dewing,  Thomas  W. 
Dielman,  Frederick 
Donaldson,  John  M. 
Dougherty,  Paul 
Duveneck,  Frank 
Foster,  Ben 
French,  Daniel  C. 
Gay,  Walter 
Gibson,  Charles  Dana 
Gilbert,  Cass 
Grafly,  Charles 
Guerin,  Jules 
Hardenbergh,  Henry  J. 
Harrison,  Alexander 
Harrison,  Birge 
Hassam,  Childe 
Hastings,  Thomas 
Henri,  Robert 
Howard.  John  Galen 
Howe.  William  Henry 
Howells.  J.  M. 
Isham,  Samuel 
Jaegers,  Albert 
Jones,  Francis  C. 
Jones,  H.  Bolton 
Kendall,  W.  Sergeant 
La  Farge,  Bancel 
Low,  Will  H. 
MacMonnies,  Frederick 
Mac  Neil.  Hermon  A. 
Marr,  Carl 
McEwen,  Walter 
Mead,  William  Rutherford 
Melchers.  Gari 
Metcalf,  Willard  L. 
Mowbray,  H.  Siddons 
Ochtman,  Leonard 
Parrish,  Maxfield 
Peabody,  Robert  S. 
Pearce,  Charles  Sprague 
Pennell,  Joseph 
Piatt,  Charles  A. 
Pond,  L  K. 
Post,  George  B. 


Potter,  Edward  Clark 
Pratt,  Bela  L. 
Proctor,  A.  Phimister 
Redfield,  Edward  W. 
Reid,  Robert 
Roth,  Frederick  G.  R. 
Ruckstuhl,  F.  W. 
Ryder,  Albert  P. 
Sargent,  John  S. 
Schofield,  W.  Elmer 
Shrady,  Henry  M. 
Simmons,  Edward 
Smedley.  William  T. 
Taft,  Lorado 
Tarbell,  Edmund  C. 
Thayer,  A.  H. 
Tryon,  Dwight  W. 
Vedder,  Elihu 
Walden,  Lionel 
Walker,  Henry  Oliver 
Walker,  Horatio 
Warren,  Whitney 
Weinman,  Adolph  A. 
Weir,  J.  Alden 
Wiles,  Irving  R. 

Department  of  Music 

Bird,  Arthur 
Brockway,  Howard 
Chadwick,  George  Whitfield 
Converse.  F.  S. 
Damrosch,  Walter 
De  Koven,  Reginald 
Foote,  Arthur 
Gilchrist.  W.  W. 
Hadley,  H.  K. 
Herbert,  Victor 
Kelley,  Edgar  Stillman 
Loeffler,  Charles  M. 
Parker,  Horatio  W. 
Shelley,  Harry  Rowe 
Smith,  David  Stanley 
Stock,  Frederick  A. 
Van  der  Stucken,  F. 
Whiting,  Arthur 


DECEASED  MEMBERS 
Department  of  Literature 

Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey 

Bigelow,  John 

Clemens,  Samuel  L.  (Mark  Twain) 

Conway,  Moncure  D. 

Crawford,  Francis  Marion 

Daly,  August  in 

Dodge,  Theodore  A. 

Eggleston,  Edward 

Fawcett,   Edgar 

Fiske,  Willard 

Ford,  Paul  Leicester 

Frederic,  Harold 

Furness,  Horace  Howard 

Gilder.  Richard  Watson 

Gilman,  Daniel  Coit 

Godkin,  E.  L. 

Godwin,  Parke 

Hale.  Edward  Everett 

Harland,  Henry 

Harris,  Joel  Chandler 


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MEMBERS  AND  OFFICERS  OF  THE  INSTITUTE 


V 


Harte.  Bret 

Hay,  John 

Heme,  James  A. 

Higginson.  Thomas  Wentworth 

Howard,   Uronson 

Howe,  JuHa  Ward 

Hutton,  Laurence 

Jefferson,  Joseph 

Johnston,  Richard  Malcolm 

Lea,  Henry  Charles 

Lodge,  George  Cabot 

Miller,  Joaquin 

Mitchell,  Donald  G. 

Moody.  William  Vaughn 

Munger,  Theodore  T. 

Nelson,  Henry  Loomis 

Norton,  Charles  Eliot 

Perkins,  James   Breck 

Schurz,  Carl 

Scudder.  Horace 

Shaler,  N.  S. 

Shirlaw,  Walter 

Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence 

Stillman.  William  J. 

SttTckton.  Frank  R. 

Stoddard,  Charles  Warren 

Thompson,  Maurice 

Tyler,  Moses  Coit 

Viele,  Herman  K. 

Warner.  Charles  Dudley 

Department  of  Art 
Abbey,  Edwin  A. 
Bierstadt,  Albert 
Blum.   Rol)ert    Frederick 
Burnham,  Daniel   Hudson 
Carrere,  John  M. 
Collins.  Alfred  Q. 
Homer.  Winslow 
La  Farge,  John 
Lathrop,  Francis 


Loeb,  Louis 
Millet,   Francis  D. 
McKim,  Charles  Follen 
Porter,  Benjamin  C. 
Pyle,  Howard 
Remington,  Frederic 
Saint-Gaudens.  Augustus 
Twachtman,  John   H. 
Vinton,  Frederick  P. 
Ward,  J.  Q.  A. 
White,  Stanford 
Wood,  Thomas  W. 

Department  ok  Music 
Buck.  Dudley 
MacDowell,  Edward 
Nevin,  Ethelbert 
Paine,  John  K. 


OFFICERS 

President 

Brander  Matthews 

J  Ice-Presidents 

Arthur  Whiting 

Hamlin  Garland 

Robert   Underwood   Johnson 

Hamilton  W.  Mabie 

Harrison  S.  Morris 

Jesse  Lynch  Williams 

Secretary 
Henry  D.  Scdgtvick 

I20  E.  226  St., 


New  York 


Treasurer 
Samuel  Lsham 

471  Park  Avenue,  New  York 


[June,  1913I 


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SKETCH  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  LIST  OF 
MEMBERS  AND  OFFICERS 


The  American  Academy  of  Arts 
and  Letters  was  founded  in  1904  as 
an  interior  organization  of  the  National 
Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters,  which  in 
turn  was  founded  in  1898  by  the  Ameri- 
can Social  Science  Association.  In 
each  case  the  elder  organization  left  the 
younger  to  choose  the  relations  that 
should  exist  between  them.  Article 
XII  of  the  Constitution  of  the  Institute 
provides  as  follows: 

In  order  to  make  the  Institute  more  effi- 
cient in  carrying  out  the  purposes  for  which 
it  was  organized, — the  protection  and  fur- 
therance of  literature  and  the  arts, — and  to 
give  greater  definiteness  to  its  work,  a  sec- 
tion of  the  Institute  to  be  known  as  the 
ACADEMY  OF  ARTS  AND  LETTERS 
shall  be  organized  in  such  manner  as  the 
Institute  may  provide;  the  members  of  the 
Academy  to  !>e  chosen  from  those  who  at 
any  time  shall  have  been  on  the  list  of 
members  of  the  Institute. 

The  Academy  shall  at  first  consist  of 
thirty  members,  and  after  these  shall  have 
organized  it  shall  elect  its  own  officers,  pre- 
scribe its  own  rules,  the  number  of  its 
members,  and  the  further  conditions  of 
membership;  proz'ided  that  no  one  shall  be  a 
member  of  the  Academy  who  shall  not  first 
have  been  on  the  list  of  regular  members 
of  the  Institute,  and  that  in  the  choice  of 
members  individual  distinction  and  charac- 
ter, and  not  the  group  to  which  they  be- 
long, shall  be  taken  into  consideration :  and 
provided  that  all  members  of  the  Academy 
shall  be  native  or  naturalized  citizens  of  the 
United  States. 

The  manner  of  the  organization  of 
the  Academy  was  prescribed  by  the 
following  resolution  of  the  Institute 
adopted  April  2^^,  1904: 

lyhereas,  the  amendment  to  the  Consti- 
tution known  as  Article  XI T,  providing  for 
the  organization  of  the  Academy  of  Arts 
and  Letters,  has  been  ratified  by  a  vote  of 
the  Institute. 

Resolved:  that  the  following  method  be 
chosen  for  the  organization  of  the  Academy 
— to  wit,  that  seven  meml:>ers  he  selected  by 
ballot  as  the  first  members  of  the  Academy, 
and  that  these  seven  be  requested  and  em- 
powered to  choose  eight  other  members, 
and  that  the  fifteen  thus  chosen  be  re- 
quested and  empowered  to  choose  five  other 


members,  and  that  the  twenty  members 
thus  chosen  shall  be  requested  and  empow- 
ered to  choose  ten  other  members, — the  en- 
lire  thirty  to  constitute  the  Academy  in  con- 
formity with  Article  XII,  and  that  the  first 
seven  members  be  an  executive  committee 
for  the  purpose  of  insuring  the  completion 
of  the  number  of  thirty  members. 

Under  Article  XII  the  Academy 
has  effected  a  separate  organization, 
but  at  the  same  time  it  has  kept  in 
close  relationship  with  the  Institute, 
on  the  seventh  of  March,  1908,  the 
membership  was  increased  from  thirty 
to  fifty  members,  and  on  the  seventh  of 
November,  1908,  the  following  Consti- 
tution was  adopted : 

CONSTITUTION  OF  THE  ACADEMY 

I.    ORIGIN  AND  NAME 

The  American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Let- 
ters is  an  association  primarily  organized 
by  the  National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Let- 
ters. Its  aim  is  to  represent  and  further 
the  interests  of  the  Fine  Arts  and  Litera- 
ture. 

II.     MEMBERSHIP  AND  ELECTIONS 

It  shall  consist  of  not  more  than  fifty 
members,  and  all  vacancies  shall  be  filled 
from  the  membership  of  the  National  In- 
stitute of  Arts  and  Letters.  No  one  shall 
be  elected  a  member  of  the  Academy  who 
shall  not  have  received  the  votes  of  a  ma- 
jority of  the  members.  The  votes  shall  be 
opened  and  counted  at  a  meeting  of  the 
Academy.  In  case  the  first  ballot  shall  not 
result  in  an  election  a  second  ballot  shall 
be  taken  to  determine  the  choice  between 
the  two  candidates  receiving  the  highest 
number  of  votes  on  the  first  ballot.  Elec- 
tions shall  be  held  only  on  due  notice  under 
rules  to  be  established  by  the  Academy  . 

III.     AIMS 

That  the  Academy  may  be  bound  together 
in  community  of  taste  and  interest,  its 
members  shall  meet  regularly  for  discus- 
sion, and  for  the  expression  of  artistic 
literary  and  scholarly  opinion  of  such  top- 
ics as  arc  brought  to  its  attention.  For  the 
purpose  of  promoting  the  highest  standards, 
the  Academy  may  also  award  such  prizes 
as  may  be  founded  by  itself  or  entrusted  to 
it  for  administration. 


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LIST  OF  MEMBERS  AND  OFFICERS 


73 


IV.    OFFICERS 

The  officers  shall  consist  of  a  President  and 
a  Chancellor,  both  elected  annually  from 
among  the  members  to  serve  for  one  year 
only;  a  Permanent  Secretary,  not  neces- 
sarily a  member,  who  shall  be  elected  by  the 
Academy  to  serve  for  an  indeterminate  pe- 
riod, subject  to  removal  by  a  majority  vote; 
and  a  Treasurer.  The  Treasurer  shall  be 
appointed  as  follows:  Three  members  of 
the  Academy  shall  be  elected  at  each  annual 
meeting  to  serve  as  a  Committee  on  Finance 
for  the  ensuing  year.  They  shall  appoint 
one  of  their  number  Treasurer  of  the  Acad- 
emy to  serve  for  one  year.  He  shall  receive 
and  protect  its  funds  and  make  disburse- 
ments for  its  expenses  as  directed  by  the 
Committee.  He  shall  also  make  such  in- 
vestments, upon  the  order  of  the  President, 
as  may  be  approved  by  both  the  Committee 
on  Finance  and  the  Executive  Committee. 

V.     DUTIES  OF  OFFICERS 

It  shall  be  the  duty  of  the  President,  and 
in  his  absence  of  the  Chancellor,  to  preside 
at  all  meetings  throughout  his  term  of  of- 
lice,  and  to  safeguard  in  general  all  the 
interests  of  the  Academy.  It  shall  be  the 
duly  of  the  Chancellor  to  select  and  pre- 
pare the  business  for  each  meeting  of  his 
term.  It  shall  be  the  duty  of  the  Secretary 
to  keep  the  records;  to  conduct  the  corre- 
spondence of  the  Academy  under  the  direc- 
tion of  the  President  or  Chancellor;  to 
issue  its  authorized  statements ;  and  to  draw 
up  as  required  such  writing  as  pertain  to 
the  ordinary  business  of  the  Academy  and 
its  committees.  These  three  officers  shall 
constitute  the  Executive  Coni"iittee. 

VI.  AMENDMENTS. 
Any  proposed  amendment  to  this  Constitu- 
tion must  be  sent  in  writing  to  the  Secre- 
tary signed  by  at  least  ten  members;  and  it 
shall  then  be  forwarded  by  the  Secretary  to 
every  member.  It  shall  not  be  considered 
until  three  months  after  it  has  been  thus 
submitted.  No  proposed  amendment  shall 
be  adopted  unless  it  receives  the  votes  in 
writing  of  two-thirds  of  the  members. 

MEMBERS  AND  OFFICERS 
Following  is  the  list  of  members  in 
the  order  of  their  election : 

William  Dean   Howclls 
♦Augustus   Saint-Gaudens 
♦Edmund   Clarence  Stedman 
♦John  La  Farge 
♦Samuel   Langhornc   Clemens 
♦John  Hay 
♦Edward  MacDowell 

Henry  James 
♦Charles  F'ollen  McKim 

Henry  Adams 
♦Charles  Eliot  Norton 


♦John  Quincy  Adams  Ward 

Thomas  Raynesford  Lounsbury 

Theodore  Roosevelt 
♦Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 
♦Joseph  Jefferson 

John  Singer  Sargent 
♦Richard  Watson  Gilder 
♦Horace  Howard  Furness 
♦John  Bigelow 
♦Winslow  Homer 
♦Carl  Schurz 

Alfred  Thayer  Mahan 
♦Joel  Chandler  Harris 

Daniel  Chester  FVench 

John  Burroughs 

James  Ford  Rhodes 
♦Edwin  Austin  Abbey 

Horatio  William  Parker 

William  Milligan  Sloane 
♦Edward  Everett  Hale 

Robert  Underwood  Johnson 

George  Washington  Cable 
♦Daniel  Coit  Gilman 
♦Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson 
♦Donald  Grant  Mitchell 

Andrew  Dickson  White 

Henry  van  Dyke 

William  Crary  Brownell 

Basil  Lanneau  Gildersleeve 
♦Julia  Ward  Howe 

Woodrow  Wilson 

Arthur  Twining  Hadley 

Henry  Cabot  Lodge 

Francis  Hopkinson  Smith 
♦Francis  Marion  Crawford 
♦Henry  Charles  Lea 

Edwin  Howland  Blashfield 

William  Merritt  Chase 

Thomas  Hastings 

Hamilton  Wright  Mabie 
♦Bronson  Howard 

Brander  Matthews 

Thomas  Nelson  Page 

Elihu  Vedder 

George  Edward  Woodberry 
♦William  Vaughn  Moody 

Kenyon  Cox 

George  Whitefield  Chadwick 

Abbott  Handerson  Thayer 

John  Muir 

Charles  Francis  Adams 

Henry  Mills  Alden 

George  deForest  Brush 

William  Rutherford  Mead 

John  White   .Alexander 

Bliss  Perry 
♦I'rancis  Davis  Millet 

Ab!K)tt  Lawrence  Lowell 

James  Whitcomb  Riley 

Nicholas  Murray  Butler 

Paul  Wayland  Bartlett 

George  Browne  Post 

Owen  Wister 

TTerbert  Adams 

Augustus  Thomas 

Timothy  Cole 
♦Deceased 


OFFICERS  FOR  THE  YEAR  1913 
President:  Mr.   Howells.        Chancellor:   Mr.   Sloaxe.         Acting  Chancellor:  Mr.  Smith. 
Permanent  Secretary:    Mr.  John.son. 
Finance  Committee :  Messrs.   Sloane,  Rhodes,  and   Hastings. 


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TA  30. 15 


PROCEEDINGS  #^ 


OF  THE 


AMERICAN  ACADEMY  OF  ARTS 
AND  LETTERS     . 


AND  OF  THE 


NATIONAL  INSTITUTE*  OF  ARTS 
AND  LETTERS 

/  Number  VII:  1914 


New  York 


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Copyright,  1914,  by 
The  American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters 


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CONTENTS 

PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  PUBLIC  MEETINGS  OF  THE  AMERICAN  ACADEMY  OF 
ARTS  AND  LETTERS  and  of  THE  NATIONAL  INSTITUTE  OF  ARTS  AND  LETTERS 

Sessions  at  Fullerton  Hall,  The  Art  Institute,  Chicago,  November  14-15,  1913 

First  Session,  11  a.  m  ,  November  14 

William  Milligan  Sloane 
Chancellor  of  the  Academy,  Presiding 


RbM ARKS  OF  THB  ChANCBLLOR 

IViiliafn  MUligan  Sloane 

Lettbr  from  the  Presidbnt  of  THB  Academy 

William  Dean  Howelis 

Letter  from  the  President  of  the  United  States 

Woodrow  Wilson    . 

The  Song  of  Songs 

Madison  Cawein 

The  Influence  of  Literature  on  Modern  Art 

Thomas  Hastings  . 

•'The  Illusion  of  the  First  Time**  in  Drama 

William  GiUetU     . 

Opera  in  English 

Reginald  DeKoven 

Science  and  Literature 

John  Burroughs 

Second  Session,  11  a.  m.,  November  15 

Brander  Matthews 
President  of  the  Institute,  Presiding 


PAGE 

5 
6 

II 
16 

33  J^ 


Robert  Southey  as  Poet  and  Historian 
The  Sunny  Slopes  of  Forty 
A  Plea  for  Choral  Singing 


Free  Trade  vs.  Protection  in  Literature 

Samuel  Mc  Chord  Cr others 


Thomas  Raynesford  Lounsbury  39 
Meredith  Nicholson  ....  51 
George  Whitefie/d  Chadwick  .    56 

60 


Rbsponse  by  Augustus  Thomas  on  Receiving  the  Gold  Medal 

OF  THE  Institute  for  Drama 63 

Program  Notes  of  a  Concert  by  the  Chicago  Symphony  Orchestra 

Consisting  of  Compositions  by  Members  of  the  Institute     .    •    64 

The  Institute  Medal  and  Other  Data 72 


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PREFATORY  NOTE 

The  regfular  sessions  herein  recorded  were  preceded  by  a 
banquet  to  the  two  organizations  on  the  evening  of  November 
13  in  the  Sculpture  Hall  of  the  Art  Institute,  the  hosts  of  the 
occasion  being  these  institutions :  The  City  of  Chicago,  The  Art 
Institute  of  Chicago,  The  Caxton  Club,  The  Chicago  Society  of 
Arts,  The  Chicago  Theatre  Society,  The  Cliff  Dwellers,  The 
Friends  of  American  Art,  The  Illinois  Chapter  of  the  American 
Institute  of  Architects,  Lake  Forest  College,  The  Literary  Oub, 
The  Little  Room,  The  Musical  Art  Society,  The  Northwestern 
University,  The  Orchestral  Association,  The  Press  Club,  The 
University  of  Chicago  and  The  Writers'  Guild. 

The  Chairman  was  Mr.  H,  C.  Chatfield-Taylor  and  the 
toastmaster  Mr.  Charles  L.  Hutchinson.  The  Mayor  of  Chi- 
cago, being  absent  from  the  city,  was  represented  by  the  Hon. 
William  H,  Sexton,  Corporation  Counsel.  Other  speakers  were 
Hon.  Walter  L.  Fisher,  the  Chancellor  of  the  Academy,  the 
President  of  the  Institute,  Mr.  Lorado  Taft,  and  Mr.  Hamlin 
Garland. 

Among  the  other  hospitalities  to  the  visiting  members  were 
a  luncheon  by  The  Cliff  Dwellers  on  the  14th,  followed  by  the 
concert  of  the  Chicago  Symphony  Orchestra  and  a  reception  at 
the  Art  Institute,  and  in  the  evening  Mr.  H.  C.  Chatfield- 
Taylor  was  the  host  of  the  National  Institute  at  the  Chicago 
Club  at  its  annual  dinner  and  meeting. 


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PROCEEDINGS 

OF  THE 

American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters 

AND  OF  THE 

National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters 


Published  at  intervals  by  the  Societies 


Copies  may  be  had  on  application  to  the  Penmanent  Secretary  of  the  Academy,  Mr.  R.  U;  Johnson, 
337  Lexington  Avenue,  New  York.  Price  per  Annum  $i.oo 


Vol.  II.  New  York,  August  i,  1914  No.  i 


THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 

Public  Meetings  held  at  The  Art  Institute,  Chicago 
November  14-15,   191 3 

William  Milligan  Sloane,  Chancellor  of  the  Academy 
and  Brander  Matthews,  President  of  the  Institute,  Presiding 


REMARKS  OF  MR.  SLOANE 

At  the  Banquet,  November  13 

In  response  to  a  toast  to  the  Academy,  parallels.    We  aim  at  an  eventual  activi- 

the    Chancellor    of    that    body,     Mr.  ty    so    far   impossible    on   account    of 

William  M.  Sloane,  said,  in  part:  poverty,  every  penny  expended  f or  pub- 

Mr.  President  :  The  Academy  and  lication  and  the  dissemination  of  our 
the  Institute  are  not  self-appointed,  but  view-s  having,  throughout  a  fairly  long 
came  into  existence  through  a  selection  history,  come  out  of  our  own  pockets, 
and  a  mandate  of  an  old,  a  numerous,  j^  ^^^  association  in  such  a  way  of 
and  a  highly  respected  association.  We  ^^^^  ^  ^^  ^^^^  ^^^^^  j^ 
arroeate  no  superiority  beyond  what  ^  -^  e  -  t  %  -jj 
our  membership  and  activities  may  tunity  for  immense  usefulness,  provided 
secure  for  us  in  the  effort  to  maintain  ^^^  ^^  accepted  for  what  we  are- 
high  standards  in  literature  and  the  national  not  local,  comprehensive  and 
fine  arts.  We  deprecate  all  compari-  not  specialized,  laborious  and  not  judi- 
sons  with  foreign  bodies  of  similar  cial,  above  all  American,  and  though 
name,  because  we  are  essentially  Ameri-  glad  to  take  the  best  whenever  found, 
can  in  temper  and  aspiration,  and  are  not  copying  the  style  and  ceremony  of 
hampered  in  our  work  by  misleading  the  past. 

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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


LETTER  FROM  WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS 


President  of 
(Read  at  th 

New  York,  November  11,  1913. 
Dear  Mr.  Secretary: 

You  know  how  very  proud  and  glad 
I  should  be  to  share  the  welcome 
offered  you  of  the  Institute  and 
Academy  by  the  lovers  of  arts  and 
letters  in  the  most  hospitable  city  of 
Chicago.  I  cannot  go  with  you,  not 
because  Chicago  is  so  far,  but  because 
I  am.  Chicago  is  very  near,  near  every 
heart  that  loves  great  and  generous 
things,  and  believes  them  more  and 
more  possible  as  time  goes  on,  and  the 
perplexed  and  anxious  present  becomes 
the  secure  and  radiant  future,  when  all 


the  Academy 
e  Banquet) 

the  poems  and  novels,  the  pictures  and 
statues,  shall  be  as  good  as  those  we 
should  each  like  to  create.  When  I  tell 
over  to  myself  the  names  of  the 
Chicagoans  who  have  done  fine  and 
beautiful  things  already  in  those  kinds, 
I  begin  to  envy  the  inspiration  you  will 
find  among  them.  I  hope  you  will  bring 
something  of  it  back  to  me,  whom 
adverse  conditions  keep  from  going 
v/ith  you. 

Yours  sincerely, 

W.   D.   HoWELLS. 

R.  U.  Johnson,  Esq., 
Secretary  of  the  Academy. 


LETTER  FROM  WOODROW  WILSON 

President  of  the  United  States 
(Read  at  the  Opening  of  the  First  Session) 


The  White  House 
Washington,  November  5,  1913. 

My  dear  Mr.  Johnson  : 

I  wish  most  sincerely  that  I  were  free 
to  be  present  at  the  joint  meeting  of  the 
x\cademy  and  the  National  Institute  of 
Arts  and  Letters,  but  I  am  held  fast 
here  by  duties  from  which  I  cannot  in 
conscience  turn  away,  even  for  a  little 
while. 

I  should  like  to  be  present  to  say  how 
sincerely  I  believe  in  the  usefulness  of 
the  two  bodies  joining  in  the  meeting. 
It  is  of  no  small  import  to  the  country 


that  such  influences  for  upholding  ideal 
standards  of  creative  art  should  be 
encouraged.  The  commerce  and 
material  development  of  the  countr\' 
are  of  deep  consequence  to  it,  but  above 
all  must  rise  the  objects  we  have  in 
view.  If  those  objects  are  disinterested 
and  touched  with  insight,  our  greatness 
will  bear  greater  distinction  and  enjoy 
the  greater  spiritual  soundness  and 
health. 

Cordially  and  sincerely  yours, 

WooDROw  Wilson. 

Mr.  Robert  Underwood  Johnson, 
Permanent  Secretary. 


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THE  SONG  OF  SONGS 
By  Madison  Cawein 

/  heard  a  Spirit  singing  as,  beyond  the  morning  winging, 
Its  radiant  form  went  swinging  like  a  star: 

In  its  song  prophetic  voices  mixed  their  sounds  with  trumpet-noises, 
As  when,  loud,  a  Land  rejoices  after  war. 
And  it  said : 

I. 
Hear  me! 

Above  the  roar  of  cities, 
The  clamor  and  conflict  of  Trade, 
The  frenzy  and  fury  of  Commercialism, 
Is  heard  my  voice, 
Chanting,  intoning. 

Down  the  long  corridors  of  Time  it  comes, 
Bearing  my  message,  bidding  the  soul  of  man  arise 
To  the  realization  of  his  dream. 
Now  and  then  discords  seem  to  intrude, 
Tones  that  are  false  and  feeble — 
Beginnings  of  the  perfect  chord 

From  which  is  evolved  the  unattainable,  the  ideal  whole. 
Hear  me ! 

Ever  and  ever,  above  the  tumult  of  the  years, 
The  blatant  cacophonies  of  war, 
The  wranglings  of  politics, 
Arch-demons  of  unrest, 
My  song  persists,  addressing  the  soul 
With  the  urge  of  an  astral  something. 
Supernal,  elemental,  Promethean, 
Instinct  with  an  everlastinfif  fire. 

II. 
Hear  me ! 

I  am  the  expression  of  the  subconscious. 
The  utterance  of  intellect, 
The  voice  of  mind 
That  stands  for  civilization. 
Out  of  my  singing  sprang,  Minerva-like, 
Full-armed  and  fearless, 
Liberty, 

Conqueror  of  tyrants,  who  feed  on  the  strength  of  Nations. 
Out  of  my  chanting  arose, 

As  Aphrodite  arose  from  the  foam  of  the  ocean, 
The  Dream  of  Spiritual  Desire, 
Mother  of  Knowledge, 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 

Victor  o'er  Hate  and  Derision, 

Ancient  and  elemental  Daemons, 

Who,  with  Ignorance  and  Evil,  their  consorts, 

Have  ruled  for  eons  of  years. . 

HI. 
Hear  me ! 

Should  my  chanting  cease. 
My  music  utterly  fail  you, 
Behold! 

Out  of  the  hoary  Past,  most  swiftly,  surely, 
Would  gather  the  Evils  of  Earth, 
The  Hydras  and  harpies,  forgotten, 
And  buried  in  darkness : 
Amorphous  of  form, 
Tyrannies  and  Superstitions, 
Torturing  body  and  soul: 
And  with  them, 

Gargoyls  of  dreams  that  groaned  in  the  Middle  Ages — 
Aspects  of  darkness  and  death  and  hollow  eidolons. 
Cruel,  inhuman, 

Wearing  the  faces  and  forms  of  all  the  wrongs  of  the  world. 
Barbarian  hordes  whose  shapes  make  hideous 
The  cyles  of  error  and  crime : 
Grendels  of  darkness. 
Devouring  the  manhood  of  Nations; 
Demogorgons 

Of  War  and  Misrule,  blackening  the  Earth  with  blood. 
Hear  me ! 

Out  of  my  song  have  grown 
Beauty  and  joy. 

And  with  them  the  triumph  of  Reason, 
The  c9nfirmation  of  Hope, 
Of  Faith  and  Endeavor : 
The  Dream  that  's  immortal, 
To  whose  creation  Thought  gives  concrete  form. 
And  of  which  Vision  makes  permanent  substance. 

IV. 
Fragmentary,  out  of  the  Past, 
Down  the  long  aisles  of  the  Centuries, 
Uneasy  at  first  and  uncertain. 
Hesitant  and  harsh  of  expression, 
My  song  was  heard. 
Stammering,  appealing, 
A  murmur  merely : 

Then,  coherent,  singing  itself  into  form, 
Assertive,  ecstatic, 
Louder  and  lovelier,  more  insistent, 
Sonorous,  proclaiming ; 
Qearer  and  surer  and  stronger, 


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THE  SONG  OF  SONGS 

Attaining  the  desired  expression,  evennore  truer  and  truer : 

Masterful,  mighty  at  last, 

Committed  to  conquest,  and  with  beauty  coeval. 

Part  of  the  wonder  of  life. 

The  triumph  of  light  over  darkness : 

Taking  the  form  of  Art, 

Art,  that  is  voice  and  vision  of  the  soul  of  man. 

Hear  me ! 

Confident  ever, 

One  with  the  beauty  my  song  shall  evolve, 

My  voice  is  become  as  an  army  with  banners. 

Marching  irresistibly  forward. 

With  the  roll  of  the  drums  of  attainment, 

The  blare  of  the  bugles  of  fame. 

Tramping,  tramping,  evermore  advancing, 

Till  the  last  redoubt  of  prejudice  is  overcome, 

And  the  Eagles  and  Fasces  of  learning 

Make  glorious  the  van  o'  the  world. 

V. 

They  who  are  deaf  to  my  singing. 

Who  disregard  me, 

Let  them  beware  lest  the  splendor  escape  them, 

The  splendor  of  light  that  is  back  o*  the  blackness  of  life. 

And  with  it. 

The  blindness  of  spirit  overwhelm  them. 

They  who  reject  me 

Reject  the  gleam  that  goes  to  the  making  of  Beauty ; 

And  put  away 

The  loftier  impulses  of  heart  and  of  brain. 

They  shall  not  possess  the  dream  of  ultimate  things, 

That  is  part  of  the  soul  that  aspires, 

That  sits  with  the  spirit  of  Thought, 

The  radiant  spirit  who  weaves, 

Directed  of  Destiny, 

At  its  infinite  pattern  of  stars. 

They  shall  not  know  the  exaltations  that  make 

Endurable  here  upon  Earth, 

The  ponderable  veil  of  the  flesh. 

VI. 
Hear  me ! 

I  control,  and  direct; 
I  wound  and  heal ;  elevate  and  subdue 
The  vaulting  energies  of  man. 
I  am  part  of  the  cosmic  strain  o*  the  universe : 
I  captain  the  thoughts  that  grow  into  deeds, 
Material  and  spiritual  facts, 
Pointing  the  world  to  greater  and  higher  things. 
Hear  me ! 
My  daedal  expression  peoples  the  past  and  the  present 


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lo  PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 

With  forms  that  symbolize  Beauty: 

The  Beauty  expressing  itself  now — as  Poetry, 

And  now — as  Philosophy; 

As  Truth  and  Religion  now — 

And  now — 

As  Science  and  Law,  vaunt-couriers  of  Civilization. 


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THE  INFLUENCE  OF  LITERATURE  ON 
MODERN  ART 
By  Thomas  Hastings 


In  my  address  before  the  meeting  of 
the  American  Academy  and  the  Na- 
tional Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters,  held 
at  Washington  in  December,  1909, 1  en- 
deavored to  show  why  the  architectural 
styles  of  past  ages  do  not  stand  in  any 
intellectual  relatdon  to  our  age,  and 
how  these  styles,  in  their  growth,  have 
always  been  governed  by  the  universal 
law  of  development,  an  evolution  which 
has  manifested  itself  in  the  architects' 
designs  imder  the  imperatives  of  new 
practical  problems.  I  contended  that 
in  the  nineteenth  century,  for  the  first 
time  in  the  history  of  civilization  the 
architect  made  the  vital  error  of  en- 
deavoring to  adapt  the  style  or  language 
of  other  periods  to  the  solution  of 
modem  problems;  I  pleaded  for 
modernity  and  for  historic  continuity, 
with  the  hope  that  we  should  some  day 
have  an  art  expressive  of  our  own  age. 

We  are  here  today  representing 
literature  and  the  arts,  in  friendly  in- 
tercourse; therefore,  speaking  frankly 
and  without  fear  of  being  misunder- 
stood, I  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that  I 
attribute  a  great  deal  of  this  modem 
confusion,  or  this  want  of  modernity, 
to  the  influence  of  modem  literature 
upon  art. 

The  modem  improvements  in  the 
printing-press,  facilitating  the  publish- 
ing of  books  to  distribute  broadcast 
among  the  people  of  all  classes,  have 
revolutionized  the  intellectual  world  far 
more  than  its  original  conception,  or 
perhaps  even  more  than  all  the  com- 
bined inventions,  discoveries,  and  re- 
forms that  took  place  at  the  dawn  of  the 
Renaissance.  This  fact  has  produced 
a  great  volume  of  criticism  which,  be- 
cause of  the  facility  of  publication,  is 
largely  irresponsible  and  unintelligent. 


Alas!  as  long  as  this  condition  exists, 
I  fear  that  the  artist  must  be  resigned 
to  meet  this  kind  of  hostile  criticism 
in  the  same  spirit  in  which  he  encoun- 
ters and  finds  a  way  to  surmount  other 
difficulties  in  his  work,  for  it  is  only 
another  condition  in  modern  life,  a 
moral  situation  which  must  have  its  in- 
fluence upon  architectural  style,  in  its 
development,  as  tmly  as  does  the  in- 
troduction of  steel  in  building-construc- 
tion, or  any  other  modem  physical  in- 
novation imposed  upon  the  architect  in 
his  every-day  practice. 

It  is  unfortunate  that  the  word 
* 'criticism"  so  frequently  sugg^ests  hos- 
tility, especially  as  the  best  criticism 
is  constmctive  rather  than  destructive. 

How  strange  it  is  that  there  are  so 
many  men  in  modem  times  who  will 
take  advantage  of  this  medium  without 
considering  the  sensibilities  of  an  artist, 
and  say  things  to  the  whole  world  about 
him  and  his  work  which  they  would  not 
have  the  courage  to  say  to  his  face! 

Friendly  criticism  and  the  informal 
discussion  of  art  is  usually  stimulating 
and  uplifting,  and  has  always  obtained, 
but  not  until  modem  times  has  criticism 
been  put  into  print  to  impress  itself 
in  so  lasting  a  way, — and  as  though 
with  authority, — upon  so  vast  a  number 
of  people. 

Would  that  we  might  have  less  liter- 
ature in  art,  and  more  art  in  our  liter- 
ature ;  perhaps  also  the  artist  might  ex- 
change some  of  his  story-telling  and 
pedantic  thought  of  the  subject-matter 
for  better  composition,  and  the  writer 
find  more  study  of  the  art  of  expression 
in  literature;  fewer  pictures  that  only 
tell  stories,  and  stories  that  have  no 
pictorial  side. 

Words  may  have  color  as  full  and 


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12  PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


luminous  as  may  be  found  in  any  school 
of  painting,  and  fonn  as  subtle  and 
radiant  as  may  be  revealed  in  the  art 
of  the  sculptor  or  architect,  and  music 
as  beautiful  and  melodious  as  a  song, — 
there  are  symphonies  of  words  in  prose 
as  well  as  in  poetry;  indeed  the  art 
of  literature,  or  language  well  expressed, 
may  be  claimed  to  be  the  mother  of  all 
the  arts. 

The  extremist  reaction  from  adapta- 
tion and  from  the  modem  archae- 
ological tendency  in  art,  brought  about, 
I  believe,  by  literary  criticism,  has 
driven  us  into  what  we  call  realism, 
which  is  art  with  the  art  of  design 
omitted.  We  are  sadly  in  need  of  more 
invention,  or  idealism,  and  serious 
study,  and  less  realism  and  so-called 
impressionism,  more  especially  in  paint- 
ing and  sculpture. 

The  painter  or  sculptor  may  with  un- 
tiring practice  arrive  at  great  dexterity 
and  agility  of  expression,  without  much 
thought  of  design,  reproducing  in  color 
or  form  only  what  he  sees;  such  men 
may  be  painters  and  sculptors,  but  they 
are  not  artists,  for  we  have  a  right  to 
expect  of  them  as  much  thought  and 
design  in  their  work  as  in  the  work  of 
the  architect,  or  the  musician,  to  whom 
Nature  can  give  no  direct  suggestion, 
but  who  can  only  imbibe  constant  help 
from  the  general  principle  suggested 
by  the  laws  of  the  Universe.  The  so- 
called  "Art  Nouveau"  of  today  is  prob- 
ably the  expression  of  modern  realism 
in  its  influence  upon  architecture,  while 
it  seems  to  me,  under  the  same  influence, 
much  of  our  modem  music,  which  many 
pretend  to  enjoy  without  even  under- 
standing, has  become  more  or  less  mere 
jargon  or  sound  without  either  harmom' 
or  melody. 

With  all  the  ingenuity  and  brilliant 
mechanism  of  the  modem  stage,  I  be- 
lieve that  the  mere  reproduction  of 
scenes  that  we  encounter  in  every-day 
life  is  not  the  real  art  of  the  drama, 
and  I,  for  one,  long  for  more  of  the  ap- 
plication to  modern  life  of  the  ancient 


traditions   expressed   in    dramatic   elo- 
quence, declamation,  and  oratory. 

Nowithstanding  all  that  has  been 
said,  the  over-production  of  literary 
criticism  has  unquestionably  awakened 
the  public  interest  and  stimulated  en- 
thusiasm in  this  age.  It  has  shaken  us 
out  of  the  dry  and  uninteresting  period 
of  a  generation  or  two  ago,  but  it  might 
be  interesting  to  question  whether  the 
public  interest  has  not  run  riot ;  whether 
we  might  not  find  in  Art  as  in  Govern- 
ment that,  if,  solely  in  the  interest  of 
a  selfish  demagogue  whose  one  thought 
is  to  obtain  votes,  an  entire  people  is  to 
be  consulted  in  the  affairs  of  the  nation, 
by  means  of  universal  suffrage,  and  all 
the  safeguards  of  the  Constitution, 
created  to  protect  the  unintelligent 
majority  are  to  be  removed,  it  may  be 
only  a  question  of  time  until  represent- 
ation will  be  what  it  represents,  igno- 
rance and  confusion. 

It  may  be  that  this  enlivened  interest 
in  art,  and  consequent  independent 
judgment  without  respect  for  authorit)\ 
has  evolved  a  revolution,  and  divorced 
us  from  the  traditions  of  our  fore- 
fathers. In  matters  of  art  as  in  politics^ 
there  is  too  much  talk  to  the  people 
about  the  people  and  their  interests. 
Should  not  the  majority  always  be  led 
by  the  minority?  The  people  want  and 
should  have  what  is  best  for  them,  and 
perhaps  this  can  only  be  administered 
by  the  intelligent  minority  without  too 
much  interference. 

Let  us  consider  the  fallacy  of  some 
of  our  recent  literary  criticism.  One 
of  the  most  striking  instances,  mislead- 
ing even  the  most  intelligent  layman, 
is  the  oft-expressed  opinion  in  our 
schools  of  learning  as  well  is  in  our 
books,  to  the  effect  that  the  Roman 
architects  were  mere  copyists  of  the 
Greeks,  mere  engineers  or  construc- 
tors, and  not  artists.  No  practicinfr 
architect  or  man  who  has  been  appren- 
ticed in  the  art  can  help  but  feel  the 
deepest  debt  of  gratitude  to  the  Roman 
architects.  They  were  in  no  sense  of 
the  word  copyists,  they  were  perhaps 


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THE  INFLUENCE  OF  LITERATURE  ON  MODERN  ART 


U 


the  most  original  and  creative  artists 
that  the  world  has  ever  known.  Greek 
architecture  in  all  its  perfection  was 
slowly  evolved,  one  generation  after 
another  had  similiar  problems  to  solve, 
such  as  the  Choragic  Monument  or  the 
Temple,  until,  for  example,  they  ar- 
rived at  such  perfection  in  monumental 
building  as  the  Parthenon. 

Rome  was  the  birthplace  of  modem 
architecture,  and  it  was  in  Rome  that 
the  individual  began  to  think  for  him- 
self more  than  ever  before.  He  was 
obliged  to  solve  in  his  time  the  modern 
living-problems  which  until  then  had 
never  been  presented,  and  which  were 
similar  to  ours  of  today  and  almost  as 
varied, — triumphal  arches,  colonnades, 
great  amphitheatres,  monumental  baths 
and  bridges,  intricate  floor-planning, 
and  the  beautiful  and  general  application 
of  the  use  of  the  arch  and  the  dome  in 
construction.  All  of  these  were  the  ex- 
pression of  the  life  of  the  people  in  a 
reconstructed  government,  and  in  the 
quick  upbuilding  of  a  great  city.  In  the 
last  four  hundred  years  the  beginning 
of  the  working  architect's  education  has 
always  been  in  the  study  of  the  Roman 
orders  and  not  the  Greek.  The  Renais- 
sance was,  and  should  still  be,  built 
upon  the  traditions  of  Rome  and  not 
upon  those  of  Greece.  The  adaptation 
of  Greek  art  to  modem  life  has  resulted 
in  a  neo-Greek  modem  art,  cold  and 
lifeless,  not  to  be  commended. 

Let  us  consider  another  illustration. 
Books  have  been  written  in  raptural 
eloquence  of  the  poetry  and  beauty  of 
Gothic  architecture,  and  men  of  real 
literary  genius  have  decried  the  very 
birth  of  the  Renaissance,  and  have 
wished  that  it  had  never  happened.  In 
the  so-called  Victorian  age,  writers 
about  art  have  tried  to  persuade  us  that 
all  architecture  since  the  fifteenth  or 
sixteenth  century  has  been  a  failure. 
They  would  have  us  believe  that  all  the 
great  artists  of  the  past  four  hundred 
years  have  been  misled.  While  we 
share  their  admiration  of  the  Gothic, 
we  see  no  reason  for  a  mediaeval  re- 


vival. One  might  continue  to  illustrate 
the  fallacy  of  much  of  the  4iterary 
criticism  of  the  day  that  has  been 
promulgated  through  the  medium  of  the 
modem  press  to  bring  about  chaos  in 
modem  thought. 

Men  who  have  learned  about  art  only 
in  a  literary  way  write  hostile  criticism 
about  it,  creating  unreasonable  prej- 
udices even  against  some  of  the  great- 
est artistic  works.  Men  have  always 
freely  expiessed  their  opinions  about 
art,  and  always  should  do  so,  but  the 
printing-press  has  not  always  existed 
for  the  widespread  promulgation  of 
such  criticism.  Until  modem  times 
writers  on  art  usually  have  been  fa- 
miliar with  working  methods, — they 
have  been  apprenticed  in  the  art  itself, — 
like  Vitruvius,  Vasari,  Vignola,  and 
Alberti. 

Let  the  literary  man  criticize  liter- 
ature if  he  must.  Let  Aristophanes 
criticize  and  ridicule  the  plans  of  Euri- 
pides in  his  Comedy  of  the  Frogs;  or 
Aristotle  write  his  Poetics  and  Rhet- 
oric; let  live  the  school  of  critic-gram- 
marians, and  Lucian,  and  Longinus,  the 
splendor  of  whose  style  lifts  him  to  the 
highest  rank  among  literary  critics.  Let 
Servius  commentate  upon  Virgil;  who 
would  not  humble  himself  at  the  thought 
of  Dante  and  Boccaccio,  in  their  relation 
to  the  art  of  their  time,  or  revel  in  the 
keen  philosophical  criticism  of  Samuel 
Johnson.  Let  the  modem  literary  critic 
tell  writers  how  to  write,  but  not  tell 
architects  how  to  plan,  or  painters  how 
to  paint,  nor  endeavor  to  instruct 
sculptors  and  musicians  in  the  methods 
of  their  work. 

In  matters  of  art  the  literary  critic 
is  a  layman  and  may  know  what  he 
likes,  but  he  should  not,  in  his  wisdom 
or  ignorance,  whichever  the  case  may 
be,  endeavor  to  instruct  others  as  to 
what  they  should  like. 

One  of  the  greatest  modem  critics, 
Sainte-Beuve,  has  given  us  the  true 
principles  which  should  obtain  in  this 
relation.  He  said:  "The  Revue  des 
Deux  Mondes  mixes  a  good  deal  of  its 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


wishes  and  its  hopes  with  its  criticisms; 
and  its  endeavor  is  to  explain  and  to 
stimulate  rather  than  to  judge.  I  hold 
very  little  to  literary  opinions.  What 
does  occupy  me  seriously  is  life  itself 
and  the  object  of  it.  I  am  accustomed 
to  call  my  judgments  in  question  anew, 
and  to  recast  my  opinions  the  moment 
I  suspect  them  to  be  without  validity. 
What  I  have  wished  is  to  say  not  a  word 
more  than  I  thought;  to  stop  even  a 
little  short  of  what  I  believed  in  certain 
cases,  in  order  that  my  words  might 
acquire  more  weight  as  historical  tes- 
timony."   This  is  high  authority. 

These  strong  words  have  a  lesson  for 
our  time.  I  am  convinced  that  the 
modem  confusion  in  architectural  styles 
comes  from  the  endless  diversity  of 
opinions  which  are  too  hastily  put  into 
print.  Perhaps  the  confusion  in  build- 
ing has  come  from  a  confusion  of 
tongues.  It  is  a  modem  Tower  of 
Babel  that  confronts  us.  Those  who 
would  write  about  architecture  should 
first  be  familiar  with  the  working  meth- 
ods of  the  art.  Only  so  can  they  be- 
come an  integral  part  of  the  life  and 
growth  of  tme  art,  arid  only  so  can  they 
be  qualified  to  write  that  which  the  time 
needs  to  read. 

No  artist  would  deny  the  well-in- 
formed literary  critic  the  right  of  speak- 
ing or  writing  about  art  in  all  its  phases, 
if  his  aim  be  to  stimulate  and  encourage. 
We  may  look  to  him  for  the  history  of 
art,  and  of  its  influence  upon  the  human 
race.  We  should  be  the  last  to  deny 
ourselves  the  pleasure  of  enjoying  and 
benefiting  by  much  good  literary  work 
which  may  be  done  in  this  way.  We 
should,  in  fact,  insist  upon  its  being 
every  man's  duty  to  express  freely  the 
impressions  that  different  works  of  art 
make  upon  himself.  This  would  be 
helpful  in  promoting  a  more  general 
interest  in  art;  but  only  the  artist  can 
so  know  the  principles  and  working 
methods  of  his  art  as  to  be  qualified 
to  write  that  which  will  help  progress. 

Where  is  the  literary  man  who  would 
write   about  disease  without  knowing 


pathology  or  having  a  hospital  exper- 
ience? Why,  then,  should  not  men  who 
would  write  critically  about  architecture 
leam  the  structural  principles  of  the 
art? 

The  man  who  does  the  most  good 
is  the  man  who  can  teach  the  public  to 
appreciate  what  is  generally  conceded 
to  be  good,  rather  than  the  man  who 
would  make  bad  things  more  conspicu- 
ous by  calling  attention  to  them. 
The  literary  critic  sees  and  understands 
the  subject-matter,  the  story  told;  the 
artist,  the  way  in  which  it  is  told.  And 
this  is  art. 

Too  often  we  are  misled  by  a  lack 
of  thought  under  a  flow  of  words  gen- 
erally concealed  by  pompous  general- 
ization. It  has  been  said  that  the  proper 
aim  of  criticism  is  to  see  the  object  as 
in  itself  it  really  is,  but  I  contend  that 
this  object  can  be  seen  only  by  the  man 
who  has  been  apprenticed.  Voltaire 
says  that  false  critics  have  built  domes 
of  glass  between  the  heavens  and  them- 
selves, domes  which  genius  has  to  shat- 
ter in  pieces  before  it  can  make  itself 
comprehended. 

Poor  John  Vanbrugh,  one  of 
England's  greatest  architects,  whose 
charming  floor-plan  of  Blenheim  Palace 
will  be  admired  for  all  time  to  come, 
notwithstanding  elevations  inexplicably 
unworthy  of  so  great  an  artist,  how  was 
he  written  about  by  no  less  a  man  than 
Pope !  The  poet  little  thought  that  he 
was  building  a  lasting  monument  to  his 
own  want  of  appreciation  of  anything 
good  in  architecture  when  he  wrote  of 
Vanbrugh's  work: 

"Lo!  what  huge  heaps  of  littleness  around. 
The  whole  a  labored  quarry  above  ground." 

What  a  total  insensibility  to  good 
composition,  perhaps  the  very  best  that 
was  being  done  in  England  at  that  time! 

I  have  always  had  a  feeling  of  ad- 
miration for  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds'  ap- 
preciation of  an  architect's  work  in  that 
he  came  to  the  rescue  of  Vanbrugh  and 
expressed  his  admiration  of  the  Blen- 


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THE  INFLUENCE  OF  LITERATURE  ON  MODERN  ART  15 

heim  plan  in  opposition  to  so  strong  perhaps  feeble  literary  ability,  to  re- 
a  criticism.  spond  to  such  opportunities  as  are  off- 
Let  us  more  and  more  realize  that  ered  them  to  speak  for  themselves  and 
the  true  way  for  a  man  to  educate  the  for  their  fellow-artists,  if  only  to  add 
public  judgment  is  to  teach  it  how  to  something  of  what  they  have  learned 
discriminate  for  itself.  The  surprising  from  their  working  experience  to 
thing  to  me  is  that  so  many  honest  men  counteract  the  ill  effects  of  illegitimate 
have  done  so  much  harm  inadvertently,  fault-finding,  and  to  complement  much 
and  I  look  forward  to  the  day  when  the  of  the  refining  and  uplifting  influence 
artists   will   come   forth,   though   with  of  true  literary  criticism. 


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^^THE  ILLUSION  OF  THE  FIRST  TIME"  IN  DRAMA 
By  William  Gillette 


I  am  to  talk  a  brief  paper  this  morn- 
ing on  a  phase  of  what  is  called  Drama, 
by  which  is  meant  a  certain  well-known 
variety  of  stage  performance  usually 
but  not  necessarily  taking  place  in  a 
theatre  or  some  such  public  building, 
or  even  transplanted  out  into  the  grass, 
as  it  occasionally  is  in  these  degenerate 
days. 

If  you  care  at  all  to  know  how  I  feel 
about  having  to  talk  on  this  subject — 
which  I  do  not  suppose  you  do — but 
I'll  tell  you  anyway — I  am  not  as  highly 
elated  at  the  prospect  as  you  might 
imagine.  Were  I  about  to  deliver  a 
Monograph  on  Medicine  or  V^aluable 
Observations  on  Settlement  Work 
and  that  sort  of  thing — or  even  if  I 
had  been  so  particularly  fortunate  as 
to  discover  the  Bacillus  of  Poetry  and 
could  now  report  progress  toward  the 
concoction  of  a  serum  that  would  ex- 
terminate tlie  disease  without  killing 
the  poet — that  is,  without  quite  killing 
him,  I  could  feel  that  I  was  doing  some 
good.  But  I  can't  do  any  good  to 
Drama.  Nobody  can.  Nothing  that  is 
said  or  written  or  otherwise  promul- 
gated on  the  subject  will  affect  it  in  the 
slightest  degree.  And  the  reason  for 
this  rather  discouraging  view  of  the 
matter  is,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  the  very 
simplest  in  the  world  as  well  as  the  most 
unassailable,  and  that  is,  the  Record. 

And  what  is  meant  by  a  *'Record"  is. 
roughly  speaking,  a  History  of 
Behavior  along  a  certain  line — a  history 
of  what  has  been  done — of  what  has 
taken  place,  happened,  occurred — of 
what  effect  has  been  produced,  in 
the  particular  direction  under  consid- 
eration. We  might  say  that  Records 
are  past  performances  or  conditions 
along  a  specified  line. 

And  upon  these  Records  or  Histories 
of    Behavior,    Occurrences,    or   Condi- 


tions, depend  all  that  we  know  or  may 
ever  hope  to  know;  for  even  Experi- 
ment and  Research  are  but  endeavors 
to  produce  or  discover  Records  that 
have  been  hidden  from  our  eyes.  To 
know  anything — to  have  any  opinion 
or  estimate  or  knowledge  or  wisdom 
worth  having,  we  must  take  account  of 
Past  Performances,  or  be  aware  of  the 
results  of  their  consideration  by  others 
— perhaps  more  expert  than  we.  Yet, 
notwithstanding  this  perfectly  elemen- 
tary fact  of  existence,  there  is  a  group 
or  class  of  these  Records,  many  of 
them  relating  to  matters  of  the  utmost 
interest  and  importance,  the  considera- 
tion of  which  would  at  least  keep  people 
from  being  so  shamelessly  duped  and 
fooled  as  they  frequently  are,  to 
which  no  one  appears  to  pay  the 
slightest  attention. 

This  class  or  group  of  forgotten  or 
ignored  Items  of  Behavior  I  have 
\entured,  for  my  own  amusement,  to 
call  the  Dead  Records, — meaning  there- 
by that  they  are  dead  to  us — dead  so 
far  as  having  the  slightest  effect  upon 
human  judgment  or  knowledge  or  wis- 
dom is  concerned,  buried  out  of  sight 
by  our  carelessness  and  neglect.  And 
in  this  interesting  but  unfortunate 
group,  and  evidently  gone  to  its  last 
long  rest,  reposes  the  Record  of  the 
Effect  upon  Drama  of  what  has  been 
said  and  written  about  it  by  scholars 
and  thinkers  and  critics.  .\nd  if  this 
Record  could  be  roused  to  life — that 
is,  to  consideration  but  for  a  moment, 
it  would  demonstrate  beyond  the 
shadow  of  a  doubt  that  Drama  is  per- 
fectly immune  from  the  manoeuvres  of 
any  germ  that  may  lurk  in  what  people 
who  are  supposecl  to  be  **Intellectuar* 
may  say  or  write  or  otherwise  put 
forth  regarding  it. 

The  unending  torrent  of  variegated 


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THE  ILLUSION  OF  THE  FIRST  TIME"  IN  DRAMA 


>7 


criticism,  condemnation,  advice,  con- 
tempt,— the  floods  of  space-writing, 
prophesying,  high-brow  and  low-brow 
dinner-table  and  midnight-supper  an- 
athematizing that  has  cascaded  down 
upon  Drama  for  centuries  has  never 
failed  to  roll  lightly  off  like  water  from 
the  celebrated  back  of  a  duck — not 
even  moistening  a  feather. 

From  all  of  which  you  will  be  able 
to  infer  without  difficulty  that  it 
is  perfectly  hopeless  for  me  to  try 
to  do  any  good  to  Drama.  And  I 
can't  do  it  any  harm  either.  Even  that 
would  be  something.  In  fact  nothing 
at  all  can  be  done  to  it.  And  as  I  am 
cut  off  in  that  direction  there  seems  to 
be  nothing  left  but  to  try  if,  by  des- 
cribing a  rather  extraordinary  and 
harassing  phase  of  the  subject  in- 
volving certain  conditions  and  require- 
ments from  a  Workshop  point  of  view, 
it  is  possible  so  to  irritate  or  annoy 
those  who  sit  helpless  before  me,  that 
I  can  feel  something  has  been  accom- 
plished, even  if  not  precisely  what  one 
might  wish. 

It  must  be  a  splendid  thing  to  be  able 
to  begin  right — to  take  hold  of  and 
wrestle  with  one's  work  in  life  from  a 
firm  and  reliable  standing-ground,  and 
to  obtain  a  comprehensive  view  of  the 
various  recognized  divisions,  forms,  and 
limitations  of  that  work,  so  that  one 
may  choose  with  intelligence  the  most 
advantageous  direction  in  which  to 
apply  his  efforts.  The  followers  of 
other  occupations,  arts,  and  professions 
appear  to  have  these  advantages  to  a 
greater  or  less  degree,  while  we  who 
struggle  to  bring  forth  attractive 
material  for  the  theatre  are  without 
them  altogether;  and  not  only  without 
them,  but  the  jumble  and  confusion  in 
which  we  find  ourselves  is  infinitely  in- 
creased by  the  inane,  contradictory,  and 
ridiculous  things  that  are  written  and 
printed  on  the  subject.  Even  ordinary 
names  which  mi^t  be  supposed  to 
define  the  common  varieties  of  stage 
work  are  in  a  perfectly  hopeless 
muddle.  No  one  that  I  have  ever  met 


or  heard  of  has  appeared  to  know  what 
Melodrama  really  is;  we  know  very 
well  that  it  is  not  Drama-with-Music 
as  the  word  implies.  I  have  asked 
people  who  were  supposed  to  have 
quite  powerful  intellects  (of  course  the 
cheap  ones  can  tell  you  all  about  it — 
just  as  the  silliest  and  most  feeble- 
minded are  those  who  instantly  inform 
you  regarding  the  vast  mysteries  of  the 
universe) — I  say  I  have  made  inquiries 
regarding  Melodrama  of  really  intel- 
lectual people,  and  none  of  them  have 
appeared  to  be  certain.  Then  there's  t 
plain  Drama — without  the  Melo,  a  very 
loose  word  applied  to  any  sort  of  per- 
formance your  fancy  dictates.  And 
Comedy — some  people  tell  you  it's  a 
funny,  amusing,  laughable  affair,  and 
the  Dictionaries  bear  them  out  in  this; 
while  others  insist  that  it  is  any  sort  of 
a  play,  serious  or  otherwise,  which  is 
not  Tragedy  or  Farce.  And  there's 
Farce,  which  derives  itself  from  force — 
to  stuff, — ^because  it  was  originally  an 
affair  stuffed  full  of  grotesque  antics 
and  absurdities; — yet  we  who  have 
occasion  to  appear  in  Farce  at  the 
present  day  very  well  know  that  unless 
it  is  not  only  written  but  performed 
with  the  utmost  fidelity  to  life  it  is  a 
dead  and  useless  thing.  In  fact  it  must 
not  by  any  chance  be  Farce !  And  there 
is  the  good  old  word  Play  that  covers 
any  and  every  kind  of  Theatrical  Ex- 
hibition and  a  great  many  other  things 
besides.  Therefore,  in  what  appears — 
at  least  to  us — ^to  be  this  hopeless  con- 
tusion, we  in  the  workshops  find  it  nec- 
essary to  make  a  classification  of  Stage 
Work  for  our  own  use.  I  am  not 
advising  anyone  else  to  make  it,  but  am 
confessing,  and  with  considerable  trepi- 
dation— for  these  things  are  supposed  to 
be  sacred  from  human  touch — that  we 
do  it.  Merely  to  hint  to  a  real  Student 
of  the  Drama  that  such  a  liberty  has 
been  taken  would  be  like  shaking  a  red 
bull  before  a  rag.  Sacrilege  is  the  name 
of  this  crime. 

More  or  less  unconsciously,  the..,  :nd 
without  giving  any  names  or  definitions 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


(I  am  doing  that  for  you  this  morning), 
we  who  labor  in  the  shops  divide  Stage 
Performances  in  which  people  endeavor 
to  represent  others  than  themselves  for 
the  amusement  and  edification  of  specta- 
tors, into  two  sections : 

1.  Drama. 

2.  Other  Things. 

That's  all.  Its  so  simple  that  I 
suppose  you'll  be  annoyed  with  me  for 
talking  about  it.  Drama — in  the  dic- 
tionary which  we  make  for  ourselves, 
,  is  that  form  of  Play  or  Stage  Repre- 
sentation which  expresses  what  it  has 
to  express  in  Terms  of  Human  Life. 
Other  Things  are  those  which  do  not. 
Without  doubt  those  Other  Things  may 
be  classified  in  all  sorts  of  interesting 
and  amusing  ways,  but  that  is  not  our 
department.  What  we  must  do  is 
to  extricate  Drama  from  among  them ; 
— and  not  only  that,  but  we  must 
carefully  clear  off  and  brush  away  any 
shreds  or  patches  of  them  that  may  cling 
to  it.  We  do  not  do  this  because  we 
want  to,  but  because  we  have  to. 

For  us,  then,  Drama  is  composed  of 
— or  its  object  is  attained  by — simulated 
bfe  episodes  and  complications,  serious, 
tragic,  humorous,  as  the  case  may  be ;  by 
the  interplay  of  simulated  human  pas- 
sion and  human  character. 

Other  Things  aim  to  edify,  interest, 
amuse,  thrill,  delight,  or  whatever  else 
they  may  aim  to  do,  by  the  employment 
of  language,  of  voice,  of  motion,  of  be- 
havior, etc.,  as  they  would  not  be  em- 
ployed in  the  natural  course  of  human 
existence.  These  unlife-like  things, 
though  they  may  be  and  frequently  are, 
stretched  upon  a  framework  of  Drama, 
are  not  Drama;  for  that  framework 
so  decorated  and  encumbered  can  never 
be  brought  to  a  semblance  or  a  simula- 
tion of  life. 

Although  I  have  stated,  in  order  to 
shock  no  one's  sensibilities,  that  this 
is  our  own  private  and  personal  classi- 
fication of  Stage  Work,  I  want  to 
whisper  to  you  very  confidentially  that 
It  doesn't  happen  to  be  original  with 


us ;  for  the  development  and  specializa- 
tion of  this  great  Life-Qass,  Drama — 
or  whatever  you  may  please  to  call  it, 
has  been  slowly  but  surely  brought 
about  by  that  section  of  the  Public 
which  has  long  patronized  the  better 
class  of  theatres.  It  has  had  no  theories 
— no  philosophy — ^not  even  a  realiza- 
tion of  what  it  does,  but  has  very 
well  known  what  it  wants — ^yet  by  its 
average  and  united  choosing  has  the 
character  of  Stage  Work  been  changed 
and  shaped  and  moulded,  ever  develop- 
ing and  progressing  by  the  survival  of 
that  which  was  fittest  to  survive  in  the 
curious  world  of  Human  Preference. 

Be  so  good  as  to  understand  that  I 
am  not  advocating  this  classification  in 
the  slightest  degree,  or  recommending 
the  use  of  any  name  for  it.  I  am 
merely  calling  attention  to  the  fact  that 
this  Grand  Division  of  Stage  Work  is 
here — with  us — at  the  present  day ;  and 
not  only  here,  but  as  a  class  of  work 
— as  a  method  or  medium  for  the  ex- 
pressing of  what  we  have  to  express — 
is  in  exceedingly  good  condition.  After 
years  and  centuries  of  development, 
always  in  the  direction  of  the  humani- 
ties, it  closely  approximates  a  perfect 
instrument,  capable  of  producing  an 
unlimited  range  of  effects,  from  the 
utterly  trivial  and  inconsequent  to  the 
absolutely  stupendous.  These  may  be 
poetical  with  the  deep  and  vital  poetry 
of  Life  itself,  rather  than  the  pleasing 
arrangement  of  words,  thoughts,  and 
phrases;  tragical  with  the  quivering 
tragedy  of  humanity  —  not  the  mock 
tragedy  of  vocal  heroics;  comical  with 
the  absolute  comedy  of  human  nature 
and  human  character — ^not  the  forced 
antics  of  clowns  or  the  supernatural 
witticisms   of   professional   humorists. 

The  possibilities  of  the  instrument 
as  we  have  it  to-day  are  infinite.  But 
those  who  attempt  to  use  it — ^the  writers 
and  makers  and  constructors  of  Drama, 
are,  of  course,  very  finite  indeed.  They 
must,  as  always,  range  from  the  multi- 
tudes of  poor  workers — of  the  cheap 
and  shallow-minded,  to  the  few  who 


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THE  ILLUSION  OF  THE  FIRST  TIME"  IN  DRAMA 


19 


are  truly  admirable.  I  have  an  impres- 
sion that  the  conditions  prevailing  in 
other  arts  and  professions  are  not 
entirely  dissimilar.  Some  one  has 
whispered  that  there  are  quite  a  few 
Paintings  in  existence  which  could 
hardly  be  said  to  have  the  highest 
character;  a  considerable  quantity  of 
third,  fourth,  and  fifth  rate  Music — 
and  some  of  no  rate  at  all ;  and  at  least 
six  hundred  billion  trashy,  worthless, 
or  even  criminally  objectionable, 
Novels.  It  would  not  greatly  surprise 
me  if  we  of  the  theatre — even  in  these 
days  of  splendid  decadence — ^had  a 
shade  the  best  of  it.  But  whether  we 
have  or  have  not,  the  explanation  of 
whatever  decline  there  may  be  in 
Dramatic  Work  is  so  perfectly  simple 
that  it  should  put  to  shame  the  vast 
army  of  writers  who  make  their  living 
by  formulating  indignant  inquiries  re- 
garding it.  For  the  highest  authority 
in  existence  has  stated  in  plain  language 
that  the  true  purpose  of  the  Play  is  to 
hold  the  mirror  up  to  Nature — mean- 
ing, of  course,  human  nature;  and  this 
being  done  at  the  present  day  a  child  in 
a  kindergarten  could  see  why  the  reflec- 
tions in  that  mirror  are  of  the  cheapest, 
meanest,  most  vulgar  and  revolting 
description.  Imagine  for  one  moment 
what  would  appear  in  a  mirror  that 
could  truthfully  reflect,  upon  being  held 
up  to  the  average  Newspaper  of  to-day 
in  the  United  States  1  But  I  admit 
that  this  is  an  extreme  case. 

And  now  I  am  going  to  ask  you — 
(but  it  is  one  of  those  questions  that 
orators  use  with  no  expectation  of  an 
answer) — I  am  going  to  inquire  if  any- 
one here  or  any  where  else  goes  so  far 
as  to  imagine  for  an  instant  that  a 
Drama — a  Comedy — ^  Farce — ^a  Melo- 
drama—or, in  one  word,  a  Play, 
is  the  manuscript  or  printed  book  which 
is  ordinarily  handed  about  as  such? 
And  now  I  will  answer  myself — ^as  I 
knew  I  should  all  the  time.  One 
probably  does  so  imagine  unless  he  has 
thought  about  it.  Doubtless  you  all 
suppose  that  when  a  person  hands  you  a 


play  to  read  he  hands  you  that  Play — 
to  read.  And  I  am  here  with  the  un- 
pleasant task  before  me  of  trying  to 
dislodge  this  perfectly  innocent  impres- 
sion from  your  minds.  The  person 
does  nothing  of  that  description.  In  a 
fairly  similar  case  he  might  say,  "Here 
is  the  Music,*'  putting  into  your  hands 
some  sheets  of  paper  covered  with 
diflferent  kinds  of  dots  and  things  strung 
along  what  appears  to  be  a  barbed- 
wire  fence.  It  is  hardly  necessary 
to  remind  you  that  that  is  not  the  Music. 
If  you  are  in  very  bad  luck  it  may  be 
a  "Song"  that  is  passed  to  you,  and  as 
you  roll  it  up  and  put  it  in  your  hand- 
bag or  your  inside  overcoat-pocket,  do 
you  really  think  that  is  the  Song  you 
have  stuffed  in  there?  If  so,  how 
cruel!  But  no!  You  are  perfectly 
v/ell  aware  that  it  is  not  the  Song  which 
you  have  in  your  hand-bag  or  music- 
roll,  but  merely  the  Directions  for  a 
Song.  And  that  Song  cannot,  does 
not,  and  never  will  exist  until  the 
specific  vibrations  of  the  atmosphere 
indicated  by  those  Directions  actually 
take  place,  and  only  during  the  time 
in  which  they  are  taking  place. 

And  quite  similarly  the  Music  which 
we  imagined  in  your  possession  a 
moment  ago  was  not  Music  at  all,  but 
merely  a  few  sheets  of  paper  on  which 
were  written  or  printed  certain  Direc- 
tions for  Music;  and  it  will  not  be 
Music  tmtil  tho^e  Directions  are 
properly  complied  with. 

And  again  quite  similarly  the  Play 
which  you  were  supposed  to  be  hold- 
ing in  your  hand  is  not  a  Play  at  all, 
but  simply  the  written  or  printed 
Directions  for  bringing  one  into  being ; 
and  that  Play  will  exist  only  when  these 
Directions  for  it  are  being  followed  out 
— and  not  then  unless  the  producers 
are  very  careful  about  it. 

Incredible  as  it  may  seem  there  are 
people  in  existence  who  imagine  that 
they  can  read  a  Play.  It  would  not 
surprise  me  a  great  deal  to  hear  that 
there  are  some  present  with  us  this  very 
morning  who  are  in  this  pitiable  condi- 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


tion.  Let  me  relieve  it  without  delay. 
The  feat  is  impossible.  No  one  on 
earth  can  read  a  Play.  You  may  read 
the  Directions  for  a  Play  and  from  these 
Directions  imagine  as  best  you  can  what 
the  Play  would  be  like ;  but  you  could  no 
more  read  the  Play  than  you  could  read 
a  Fire  or  an  Automobile  Accident  or  a 
Base-Ball  Game.  The  Play— if  it  is 
Drama— does  not  even  exist  until  it 
appeals  in  the  form  of  Simulated  Life. 
Reading  a  list  ,of  the  things  to  be  said 
and  done  in  order  to  make  this  appeal 
is  not  reading  the  appeal  itself. 

And  now  that  all  these  matters  have 
been  amicably  adjusted,  and  you  have 
so  quietly  and  peaceably  given  up  what- 
ever delusion  you  may  have  entertained 
as  to  being  able  to  read  a  Play,  I  would 
like  to  have  you  proceed  a  step  further 
in  the  direction  indicated  and  suppose 
that  a  Fortunate  Dramatic  Author  has 
entered  into  a  contract  with  a  Fortunate 
Producing  Manager  for  the  staging  of 
his  work.  I  refer  to  the  Manager  as 
fortunate  because  we  will  assume  that 
the  Dramatist's  Work  appears  promis- 
ing; and  I  use  the  same  expression  in 
regard  to  the  Author,  as  it  is  taken  for 
grfinted  that  the  Manager  with  whom 
he  has  contracted  is  of  the  most 
desirable  description — one  of  the  essen- 
tials being  that  he  is  what  is  known  as  a 
Commercial  Manager. 

If  you  wish  me  to  classify  Managers 
for  you, — or,  indeed,  whether  you  wish 
it  or  not, — I  will  cheerfully  do  so. 
There  are  precisely  two  kinds.  Com- 
mercial Managers  and  Crazy  Managers. 
The  Commercial  Managers  have  from 
fifty  to  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
dollars  a  year  rent  to  pay  for  their 
theatres,  and,  strange  as  it  may  seem, 
their  desire  is  to  have  the  productions 
they  make  draw  money  enough  to  pay 
it,  together  witK  other  large  expenses 
necessary  to  the  operation  of  a  modem 
playhouse.  If  you  read  what  is  written 
you  will  find  unending  abuse  and  insult 
for  these  men.  The  followers  of  any 
other  calling  on  the  face  of  the  earth 
may  be  and  are  commercial  with  im- 


punity. Artists,  Musicians,  Opera 
Singers,  Art  Dealers,  Publishers, 
Novelists,  Dentists,  Professors,  Doctors, 
Lawyers,  Newspaper  and  Magazine 
Men  and  all  the  rest — even  Secretaries 
of  State — are  madly  hunting  for  money. 
But  Managers — Scandalous,  Mon- 
strous, and  Infamous !  And  because  of 
a  sneaking  desire  which  most  of  them 
nourish  to  produce  plays  that  people 
will  go  to  see,  they  are  the  lowest  and 
most  contemptible  of  all  the  brutes  that 
live.  I  am  making  no  reference  to  the 
managerial  abilities  of  these  men;  in 
that  they  must  vary  as  do  those  engaged 
in  any  other  pursuit,  from  the  multi- 
tudinous poor  to  the  very  few  good. 
My  allusion  is  solely  to  this  everlasting 
din  about  their  commercialism;  and  I 
pause  long  enough  to  propound  the  in- 
(|uiry  whether  other  things  that  proceed 
from  intellects  so  painfully  puerile 
should  receive  the  slightest  attention 
from  sensible  people. 

Well,  then,  our  Book  of  Directions 
is  in  the  hands  of  one  of  these  Wretches, 
and,  thinking  well  of  it,  he  is  about  to 
assemble  the  various  elements  neces- 
sary to  bring  the  Drama  for  which  it 
calls  into  existence.  Being  a  Com- 
mercial Person  of  the  basest  descrip- 
tion he  greatly  desires  it  to  attract  the 
paying  public,  and  for  this  reason  he 
must  give  it  every  possible  advantage. 
In  consultation  with  the  Author,  with 
his  Stage-Manager  and  the  heads  of 
his  Scenic,  Electric,  and  Propcrt)' 
Departments  he  proceeds  to  the  work 
of  complying  with  the  requirements  of 
the  Book. 

So  far  as  painted,  manufactured,  and 
mechanical  elements  are  concerned, 
there  is  comparatively  little  trouble. 
To  keep  these  things  precisely  as  much 
in  the  background  as  they  would  appear 
were  a  similar  episode  in  actual  life 
under  observation — and  no  more — is 
the  most  pronounced  difficult}'.  But 
when  it  comes  to  the  Human  Beings 
required  to  assume  the  Characters 
which  the  Directions  indicate,  and  not 
only  to   assume  them  but   to  breathe 


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into  them  the  Breath  of  Life — ^and  not 
the  Breath  of  Life  alone  but  all  other 
elements  and  details  and  items  of  Life 
so  far  as  they  can  be  simulated,  many 
and  serious  discouragements  arise. 

For  in  these  latter  days  Life-Ele- 
ments are  required.  Not  long  ago  they 
were  not.  In  these  latter  days  the 
merest  slip  from  true  Life-Simulation 
is  the  death  or  crippling  of  the  Charac- 
ter involved,  and  it  has  thereafter  to  be 
dragged  through  the  course  of  the  play 
as  a  disabled  or  lifeless  thing.  Not  all 
plays  are  sufficiently  strong  in  them- 
selves to  carry  on  this  sort  of  morgue 
or  hospital  service  for  any  of  their  im- 
portant roles. 

The  perfectly  obvious  methods  of 
Character  Assassination  such  as  the 
sing-song  or  "reading"  intonation,  the 
exaggerated  and  grotesque  use  of  ges- 
ture and  facial  expression,  the  stilted 
and  unnatural  stride  and  strut,  cause 
little  difficulty.  These,  with  many  other 
inherited  blessings  from  the  "Palmy 
Days"  when  there  was  acting  that 
really  amounted  to  something,  may 
easily  be  recognized  and  thrown  out. 

But  the  closeness  to  Life  which  now 
prevails  has  made  audiences  sensitive 
to  thousands  of  minor  things  that  would 
not  formerly  have  affected  them.  To 
illustrate  my  meaning,  I  am  going  to 
speak  of  two  classes  of  these  defects. 
I  always  seem  to  have  two  classes  of 
everything — but  in  this  case  it  isn't  so. 
There  are  plenty  more  where  these 
came  from.  I  select  these  two  because 
they  are  good  full  ones,  bubbling 
over  with  Dramatic  Death  and  De- 
struction. One  I  shall  call — to  dis- 
tinguish it,  "The  Neglect  of  the  Illu- 
sion of  the  First  Time" ;  the  other,  "The 
Disillusion  of  Doing  it  Correctly." 
There  is  an  interesting  lot  of  them 
which  might  be  assembled  under  the 
heading  "The  Illusion  of  Unconscious- 
ness of  What  Could  Not  Be  Known" 
— but  there  will  not  be  time  to  talk  about 
it.  All  these  groups,  however,  are 
closely  related,  and  the  "First  Time" 
one   is   fairly  representative.     And  of 


course  I  need  not  tell  you  that  we  have 
no  names  for  these  things — no  groups 
— no  classification;  we  merely  fight 
them  as  a  whole — as  an  army  or  mob 
of  enemies  that  strives  for  the  down- 
fall of  our  Life-Simulation,  with  poi- 
soned javelins.  I  have  separated  a 
couple  of  these  poisons  so  that  you  may 
see  how  they  work,  and  incidentally 
how  great  little  things  now  are. 

Unfortunately  for  an  actor  (to  save 
time  I  mean  all  known  sexes  by  that), 
unfortunately  for  an  actor  he  knows  or 
is  supposed  to  know  his  part.  He  is 
fully  aware — especially  after  several 
performances — of  what  he  is  going  to 
say.  The  Character  he  is  representing, 
however,  does  not  know  what  he  is 
going  to  say,  but,  if  he  is  a  human 
being,  various  thoughts  occur  to  him 
one  by  one,  and  he  puts  such  of  those 
thoughts  as  he  decides  to,  into  such 
speech  as  he  happens  to  be  able  to  com- 
mand at  the  time.  Now  it  is  a  very 
difficult  thing — and  even  now  rather  an 
uncommon  thing — for  an  actor  who 
knows  exactly  what  he  is  going  to  say 
to  behave  exactly  as  though  he  didn't; 
to  let  his  thoughts  (apparently)  occur 
to  him  as  he  goes  along,  even  though 
they  are  there  in  his  mind  already ;  and 
(apparently)  to  search  for  and  find  the 
words  by  which  to  express  those 
thoughts,  even  though  these  words  are 
at  his  tongue's  very  end.  That's  the 
terrible  thing — at  his  tongue's  very  end ! 
Living  and  breathing  creatures  do  not 
carry  their  words  in  that  part  of  their 
systems;  they  have  to  find  them  and 
send  them  there — with  more  or  less 
rapidity  according  to  their  facility  in 
that  respect — as  occasion  arises.  And 
audiences  of  today,  without  knowing 
the  nature  of  the  fatal  malady  are  fully 
conscious  of  the  untimely  demise  of 
the  Character  when  the  actor  portray- 
ing it  apparently  fails  to  do  this. 

In  matters  of  speech,  of  pauses,  of 
giving  a  Character  who  would  think 
time  to  think ;  in  behavior  of  eyes,  nose, 
mouth,  teeth,  ears,  hands,  feet,  etc., 
while  he  does  think  and  while  he  selects 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


his  words  to  express  the  thought — this 
ramifies  into  a  thousand  things  to  be 
considered  in  relation  to  the  language 
or  dialogue  alone. 

This  menace  of  Death  from  "Neg- 
lect of  the  lUusiop  of  the  First  Time" 
is  not  confined  to  matters  and  methods 
of  speech  and  mentality,  but  extends 
to  every  part  of  the  presentation,  from 
the  most  climacteric  and  important 
action  or  emotion  to  the  most  insignifi- 
cant item  of  behavior — a  glance  of  the 
eye  at  some  unexpected  occurrence — the 
careless  picking  up  of  some  small  object 
which  (supposedly)  has  not  been  seen 
or  handled  before.  Take  the  simple 
matter  of  entering  a  room  to  which, 
according  to  the  plot  or  stor>',  the  Char- 
acter coming  in  is  supposed  to  be  a 
stranger:  unless  there  is  vigilance  the 
actor  will  waft  himself  blithely  across 
the  threshold,  conveying  the  impression 
that  he  has  at  least  been  bom  in  the 
house — ^finding  it  quite  unnecessary  to 
look  where  he  is  g'oing  and  not  in  the 
least  worth  while  to  watch  out  for 
thoughtless  pieces  of  furniture  that  may, 
in  their  ignorance  of  his  approach,  have 
established  themselves  in  his  path.  And 
the  different  scenes  with  the  different 
people ;  and  the  behavior  resulting  from 
their  behavior;  and  the  love-scenes  as 
they  are  called — these  have  a  little 
tragedy  all  their  own  for  the  perform- 
ers involved ;  for,  if  an  actor  plays  his 
part  in  one  of  these  with  the  gentle  awk- 
wardness and  natural  embarrassment  of 
one  in  love  for  the  first  time — as  the  plot 
supposes  him  to  be — he  will  have  the 
delight  of  reading  the  most  withering 
and  caustic  ridicule  of  himself  in  the 
next  day's  papers,  indicating  in  no  po- 
lite terms  that  he  is  an  awkward  ama- 
teur who  does  not  know  his  business, 
and  that  the  country  will  be  greatly 
relieved  if  he  can  see  his  way  clear  to 
quitting  the  stage  at  once;  whereas  if 
he  behaves  with  the  careless  ease 
and  grace  and  fluency  of  the  Palmy 
Day  Actor,  softly  breathing  airy  and 
poetic  love-messages  down  the  back  of 
the  lady's  neck  as  he  feelingly  stands 


behind  her  so  that  they  can  both  face 
to  the  front  at  the  same  time,  the  audi- 
ence will  be  perfectly  certain  that  the 
young  man  has  had  at  least  fifty-seven 
varieties  of  love-affairs  before  and  that 
the  plot  has  been  shamelessly  lying 
about  him. 

The  foregoing  are  a  few  only  of  the 
numberless  parts  or  items  in  Drama- 
Presentation  which  must  conform  to 
the  "Illusion  of  the  First  Time."  But 
this  is  one  of  the  rather  unusual  cases 
in  which  the  sum  of  all  the  parts  does 
not  equal  the  whole.  For  although 
every  single  item  from  the  most  impor 
tant  to  the  least  important  be  success- 
fully safeguarded,  there  yet  remains  the 
Spirit  of  the  Presentation  as  a  whole. 
Each  successive  audience  before  which 
it  is  given  must  feel — not  think  or  rea- 
son about  it,  but  feel — ^that  it  is  wit- 
nessing, not  one  of  a  thousand  weary 
repetitions,  but  a  Life  Episode  that  is 
being  lived  just  across  the  magic  bar- 
rier of  the  footlights.  That  is  to  say, 
the  Whole  must  have  that  indescribable 
Life-Spirit  or  Effect  which  produces 
the  Illusion  of  Happening  for  the  First 
Time.  Worth  his  weight  in  something 
extremely  valuable  is  the  Stage-Direc- 
tor who  can  conjure  up  this  rare  and 
precious  spirit! 

The  dangers  to  dramatic  life  and  limb 
from  "The  Disillusion  of  Doing  it  Cor- 
rectly" are  scarcely  less  than  those  in 
the  "First  Time*'  class,  but  not  so  diffi- 
cult to  detect  and  eliminate.  Speaking, 
breathing,  walking,  sitting,  rising,  stand- 
ing, gesturing — in  short  behaving  cor- 
rectly, when  the  character  under  repre- 
sentation would  not  naturally  or  cus- 
tomarily do  so,  will  either  kill  that  char- 
acter outright  or  make  it  ver>'  sick  in- 
deed. Drama  can  make  its  appeal  only 
in  the  form  of  Simulated  Life  as  it  is 
Lived — not  as  various  authorities  on 
Grammar,  Pronunciation,  Etiquette, 
and  Elocution  happen  to  announce  at 
that  particular  time  that  it  ought  to  be 
lived. 

But  we  find  it  well  to  go  much  further 
than  the  keeping  of  studied  and  unusual 


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''THE  ILLUSION  OF  THE  FIRST  TIME"  IN  DRAMA 


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correctness  out,  and  to  put  common  and 
tO'be-expected  errors  in,  when  they 
may  be  employed  appropriately  and  un- 
obtrusively. To  use  every  possible 
means  and  device  for  giving  Drama 
that  which  makes  it  Drama — Life- 
Simulation — must  be  the  aim  of  the 
modem  Play-Constructor  and  Pro- 
ducer. And  not  alone  ordinary  errors 
but  numberless  individual  habits,  traits, 
peculiarities  are  of  the  utmost  value  for 
this  purpose. 

Among  these  elements  of  Life  and 
Vitality  but  greatly  surpassing  all  others 
in  importance  is  the  human  character- 
istic or  essential  quality  which  passes 
under  the  execrated  name  of  Person- 
ality. The  very  word  must  send  an 
unpleasant  shudder  through  this  highly 
sensitive  assembly ;  for  it  is  supposed  to 
be  quite  the  proper  and  highly  cultured 
thing  to  sneer  at  Personality  as  an  alto- 
gether cheap  affair  and  not  worthy  to 
be  associated  for  a  moment  with  what 
is  highest  in  Dramatic  Art.  Neverthe- 
less, cheap  or  otherwise,  inartistic  or 
otherwise,  and  whatever  it  really  is  or 
is  not,  it  is  the  most  singularly  impor- 
tant factor  for  infusing  the  Life-Illu- 
sion into  modem  stage  creations  that 
is  known  to  man.  Indeed  it  is  some- 
thing a  great  deal  more  than  important, 
for  in  these  days  of  Drama's  close  ap- 
proximation to  Life,  it  is  essential.  As 
no  human  being  exists  without  Person- 
ality of  one  sort  or  another,  an  actor 
who  omits  it  in  his  impersonation  of 
a  human  being  omits  one  of  the  vital 
elements  of  existence. 

In  all  the  history  of  the  stage  no 
performer  has  yet  been  able  to  simu- 
late or  make  use  of  a  Personality  not 
his  own.  Individual  tricks,  mannerisms, 
peculiarities  of  speech  and  action  may 
be  easily  accomplished.  They  are  the 
capital  and  stock  in  trade  of  the  "Char- 
acter Comedian"  and  the  **Lightning- 
Change  Artist,"  and  have  nothing  what- 
ever to  do  with  Personality. 

The  actors  of  recent  times  who  have 
been  universally  acknowledged  to  be 
great  have  invariably  been  so  because 


of  their  successful  use  of  their  own 
strong  and  compelling  PersonaHties  in 
the  roles  which  they  made  famous. 
And  when  they  undertook  parts,  as  they 
occasionally  did,  unsuited  to  their  Per- 
sonalities, they  •  were  great  no  longer 
and  frequently  quite  the  reverse.  The 
elder  Salvini's  "Othello'*  towered  so  far 
above  all  other  renditions  of  the  char- 
acter known  to  modem  times  that  they 
were  lost  to  sight  below  it.  His  "Gladi- 
ator" was  superb.  •  His  "Hamlet"  was 
an  unfortunate  occurrence.  His  person- 
ality was  marvelous  for  "Othello"  and 
the  "Gladiator,"  but  unsuited  to  the 
Dane.  Mr.  Booth's  personality  brought 
him  althost  adoration  in  his  "Hamlet" 
— selections  from  it  served  him  well  in 
"lago,"  "Richelieu,"  and  one  or  two 
other  roles,  but  for  "Othello"  it  was  not 
all  that  could  be  desired.  And  Henry 
Irving  and  Ellen  Terry  and  Modjeska, 
Janauschek  and  Joseph  Jefferson  and 
Mary  Anderson,  each  and  every  one  of 
them  with  marvelous  skill  transferred 
their  Personalities  to  the  appropriate 
roles.  Even  now — once  in  a  while — 
one  may  see  "Rip  Van  Winkle"  excel- 
lently well  played,  but  without  Mr.  Jef- 
ferson's Personality.  There  it  is  in 
simple  arithmetic  for  you — a  case  of 
mere  subtraction. 

As  indicated  a  moment  ago  I  am  only 
too  welj  aware  that  the  foregoing  view 
of  the  matter  is  sadly  at  variance  with 
what  we  are  told  is  the  Highest  Form 
of  the  Actor's  Art.  According  to  the 
deep  thinkers  and  writers  on  matters  of 
the  theatre,  the  really  great  actor  is  not 
one  who  represents  with  marvelous 
power  and  truth  to  life  the  characters 
within  the  limited  scope  of  his  Person- 
ality, but  the  performer  who  is  able  to 
assume  an  unlimited  number  of  totally 
divergent  roles.  It  is  not  the  thing  at 
all  to  consider  a  single  magnificent  per 
formance  such  as  Salvini's  "Othello," 
but  to  discover  the  Highest  Art  we 
must  inquire  how  many  kinds  of  things 
the  man  can  do.  This,  you  will  observe, 
brings  it  down  to  a  question  of  pure 
stage  gymnastics.  Watch  the  actor  who 


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24  PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 

can  balance  the  largest  number  of  roles  is  only  a  Landscape  Artist.  Find  the 
in  the  air  without  allowing  any  of  them  chap  who  can  paint  forty  different 
to  spill  over.  Doubtless  an  interesting  kinds."  I  have  an  idea  the  Theatre- 
exhibition  if  you  are  looking  for  that  going  Public  is  to  be  congratulated  that 
form  of  sport.  In  another  art  it  would  none  of  the  great  Stage  Performers, 
be :  '*Do  not  consider  this  man's  paint-  at  any  rate  of  modem  times,  has 
ings,  even  though  masterpieces,  for  he  entered  for  any  such  competition. 


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OPERA  IN  ENGLISH  IN  ITS  BEARING  ON  THE  AMERICAN 
COMPOSER  AND  MUSIC  IN  AMERICA 

By  Reginald  DeKoven 


It  can  hardly  be  denfed  that  the  pre- 
vailing tendencies  of  modem  creative 
musical  expression  are  definitely  em- 
piric; cacophony,  clamor,  and  com- 
plexity, the  triple  octave  of  modernity, 
are  the  distinguishing  signs  today  of 
our  musical  progress  or  retrogression — 
according  to  the  varying  standpoint  of 
the  onlooker  or  commentator.  The 
great  musicians  of  the  time,  the  men 
of  genius  with  a  real  messag^e,  seem 
inclined  to  exalt  a  formula  of  expres- 
sion at  the  expense  of  artistic  sincerity, 
imagination,  and  inspiration;  while  the 
lesser  talents,  the  imitators,  the  camp- 
followers  of  any  army  on  the  march 
forward,  having  absorbed  or  appropri- 
ated some  formula  not  their  own,  and 
distorted  and  exaggerated  it  in  a  pain- 
ful endeavor  for  some  new  thing,  force 
their  eccentric  lucubrations  on  a  long- 
suffering  public  with  the  smug  assur- 
ance that  they  have  contributed  some- 
thing to  musical  literature. 

If  the  capacity  among  composers  for 
writing  absolute  or  pure  music  along 
traditional  and  accepted  lines  has  not 
entirely  lapsed,  the  desire  for  so  doing 
has  certainly  disappeared,  and  opera, 
or  one  of  its  kindred  and  allied  forms 
of  musico-dramatic  expression,  has  be- 
come the  goal  and  Mecca  of  the  major- 
ity of  the  workers  in  the  field  of  creat- 
ive music,  as  affording  them  the  great- 
est latitude  and  opportunity,  the  widest 
publicity,  and  the  surest  attention,  for 
the  promulgation  of  whatever  theories, 
vagaries,  or  idiosyncrasies  the  modem 
decadent  desire  for  the  novel  and  the 
eccentric  may  impel  them  to. 

Whether  Strauss  or  Debussy  should 
be  the  High  Priest  and  King  of  this 
now  most  popular  form  of  musical  Art ; 
whether  the  stentorian  and  aggressive 


intensity  of  the  one  or  the  elusive, 
colorful,  mystic  formlessness  of  the 
other  should  most  be  emulated; 
whether  the  voice  or  the  orchestra 
should  mle  and  dominate  the  operatic 
realm;  or  whether  music-drama,  nt<Ao- 
drama,  or  the  more  conventional  and 
accepted  operatic  formulae  are  most 
desirable  in  this  class  of  work,  it  is  not 
my  intention  to  discuss  in  this  paper. 
The  question,  however,  of  the  language 
in  which  opera — not  opera  in  general, 
but  our  opera  in  America,  in  particular 
— should  be  sung,  is,  in  my  judgment, 
and  in  its  bearing  on  the  future  activi- 
ties of  the  American  composer,  and 
the  development  of  his  creative  ability, 
one  of  the  most  vital  and  important 
for,  if  not  in,  this  country  at  the  present 
time.  Just  how  the  giving  of  opera  in 
the  vernacular  may  affect  music  in 
America  and  the  American  composer, 
and  more  particularly  from  a  National 
standpoint,  it  will,  therefore,  be  my 
endeavor  to  point  out. 

Opera  in  the  vernacular — opera  sung 
in  the  English  language — is  no  new 
thing  in  this  country.  More  than  a 
generation  ago,  when  grand  opera  was 
a  heavily  subsidized  luxury  for  the 
wealthy  and  cultured  few,  and  the 
Metropolitan  Opera  House  in  New 
York  was  still  a  tentative  and  costly 
experiment,  the  so-called  standard 
operas  were  being  sung  in  English 
throughout  the  country  by  traveling 
operatic  organizations,  like  those  of 
Emma  Abbott,  the  Boston  Ideals,  the 
Bostonians  and  others,  generally 
adequately  interpreted  by  competent 
artists,  with  a  degree  of  popular  inter- 
est and  appreciation  and  consequent 
financial  success,  which  made  hand- 
some  fortunes    for   the   projectors   of 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


these  enterprises.  The  artistic  success 
achieved  by  the  Thurber  Opera  Com- 
pany— really  the  first  to  give  opera 
in  English  on  anything  like  a  com- 
plete and  Metropolitan  scale — showed 
that  the  lack  of  permanence  of 
this  praiseworthy  experiment  was  due 
to  extravagant  conditions  of  organiza- 
tion and  to  financial  mismanagement, 
rather  than  because  the  public  at  large 
did  not  desire  or  care  for  opera  in 
English.  In  later  years,  both  Mr. 
Henry  W.  Savage  and  the  Messrs. 
Abom  have  given  grand  opera  in  Eng- 
lish in  more  or  less  satisfactory  artistic 
fashion  throughout  the  country,  and 
with  generally  uniform  financial  success. 
In  view  of  these  facts,  it  is  hard  to 
see  why  we  are  not  forced  to  admit  that 
opera  in  English  in  this  country  has 
not  been  for  some  time  a  definite  and 
accepted  fact,  rather  than  a  questionable 
possibility.  Within  the  last  decade, 
however,  the  conditions  of  opera-giving 
have  very  much  changed.  After  years 
of  expensive  struggle  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  House  grew  by  degrees  out  of  a 
tentative  exi>eriment  into  a  quasi- 
National  institution,  which  centralized 
in  itself,  and  practically  entirely  dom- 
inated and  controlled  operatic  interests 
and  activities  in  this  country.  From 
its  success,  and  the  enterprise  and 
liberality  of  its  directors  and  supporters, 
the  present  permanent  opera  com- 
panies in  Boston  and  Chicago  came 
into  being,  and  opera,  once  a  luxury 
of  the  few,  has  developed  into  a 
generally  popular  form  of  intellectual 
recreation,  a  necessity,  almost,  of  the 
many.  It  is  only  within  the  last  few 
years,  when  interest  in  opera  as  a 
form  of  entertainment  has  spread  and 
increased  to  a  notable  extent,  that  indi- 
vidual writers  and  critics,  and  societies 
and  organizations,  like  the  National 
Federation  of  Musical  Clubs,  and  the 
National  Society  for  the  Propagation  of 
Opera  in  English,  of  which  I  have  the 
honor  to  be  president,  have  voiced  a 
rapidly  growing  popular  sentiment, 
desire,  and  opinion  by  asking  the  ques- 


tion why  opera  in  English  should  not 
be  admitted  to  our  great  opera  houses. 
The  foreign  influences  which  have  con- 
trolled, and  to  a  great  and  regrettable 
extent  still  control,  these  enterprises, 
were  at  first  definitely  inimical  to  in- 
cluding opera  in  the  vernacular  in  their 
scheme  of  opera-giving.  But  popular 
opinion  is  mighty  and  will  prevail;  so 
that  now  opera  in  the  vernacular,  both 
original  and  in  translations  of  standanl 
works,  has  gained  a  permanent  place 
in  the  regular  repertoires  and  plans  of 
our  three  leading  operatic  institutions. 

This  being  so,  it  might  seem  super- 
fluous to  argue  the  question  further  pro 
or  con,  or  to  insist  that  we  are  the 
only  musical  people  of  the  world — 
England  as  an  essentially  non-operatic 
country  being  excepted — who  permit 
their  opera  to  be  sung  to  them  other- 
wise than  in  the  vernacular,  or  to 
demand  that  all  their  opera  should  be  so 
sung.  But  the  entering  wedge  for  opera 
in  English  has  only  just  been  driven 
in,  and  there  are  still  so  many  intelligent 
opera-lovers  and  musicians  who  declaim 
against  and  decry  opera  sung  in  Eng- 
lish, that  it  may  not  be  amiss  briefly  to 
indicate  the  points  at  issue,  and,  if 
possible,  clinch  the  argument  in  favor 
of  a  proposition  which  has  a  definite 
and  important  bearing  on  the  future 
development  of  music  in  Anrerica. 

From  a  purely  aesthetic  standpoint. 
it  must,  I  think,  be  admitted  that  Ac 
contention  that  opera  should  be  sung 
in  the  language  which  originally  inspired 
the  music  is  a  valid  one.  From  the 
standpoint  of  practical  possibilities, 
however,  this  contention  can  hardly 
be  sustained;  as  otherwise  the  Russian 
opera  "Pique  Dame"  would  not  be 
sung  to  us  in  Italian;  we  should  not 
be  obliged  to  hear  the  original 
Bohemian  text  of  the  "Bartered  Bride" 
in  a  German  translation;  or  have  the 
original  German  idiom  of  "Kuhreigcn" 
distorted  into  French.  If  the  text  of 
operas  must,  of  necessity,  be  trans- 
lated, why,  in  an  English-speaking 
country,  not  translate  them  into  Eng- 


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lish  ?  Inconsistencies  of  this  kind  must 
surely  invalidate  the  aesthetic  plea  for 
the  original  text  so  often  urged  against 
opera  in  the  vernacular. 

The  principal  arguments  against 
opera  in  English,  as  I  have  heard  them 
raised,  would  seem  to  be : 

First.  The  unaccustomed  sound  of 
the  language,  making  the  sentiments 
expressed  in  song  seem  oftentimes 
strange,  uncouth,  and  even  ludicrous. 

Second.  The  inferior  and  inartistic 
qualities  of  the  translations  of  the  texts 
in  use. 

Third.  The  limitations  and  difficul- 
ties of  the  English  language  as  a 
language  of  Song. 

Fourth.  The  lack  of  artists  com- 
petent to  sing  in  that  language. 

The  first  two  of  the  above  objections 
may  readily  be  answered  as  one;  for 
were  we  to  have  the  proper  artistic 
translations  of  foreign  texts,  now 
readily  obtainable,  both  would  disap- 
pear. It  is  certain,  in  answer  to  the 
third  objection,  that  anyone  who  has 
heard  Signor  Bonci  sing  a  song  in  Eng- 
lish can  no  longer  maintain  that  English 
as  a  singing  language  is  either  difficult 
or  impractical ;  and  it  is  equally  certain, 
to  reply  to  the  last  objection,  that  if  the 
public  should  demand,  as  in  time  it 
surely  will,  that  all  opera  be  sung  in  the 
vernacular,  singers  a  plenty  to  sing 
them  can  and  will  be  found.  As  a  prac- 
tical musician,  having  sung  myself  in 
four  languages,  I  maintain  confidently 
that  to  an  English-speaking  person, 
English,  always  next  to  Italian  the  pure 
language  of  song,  when  properly 
studied,  is  the  easiest  language  in  which 
to  sing.  In  this  day  and  age  of  dramatic 
opera  when  intelligible  dramatic  diction 
has  become  a  sine  qua  non  for  any  kind 
of  intelligent  enjoyment,  the  hackneyed 
and  lackadaisical  argument  that  opera 
is  always  unintelligible,  and  that,  there- 
fore, the  language  in  which  it  is  sung 
matters  not  at  all,  seems  too  puerile  to 
discuss. 

The    gist    and    inwardness    of    the 
whole  question  of  opera  in  English  for 


American  audiences,  is,  I  think,  summed 
up  and  set  forth  in  a  conversation  I 
had  a  couple  of  years  ago  with  Signor 
Gatti-Casazza,    the    Director    of    the 
Metropolitan  Opera  House,  then  newly 
arrived  on  these  shores,  in  reference 
to  his   including  opera   in  English  in 
his  regular  operatic  plans.     Knowing 
that   a    large   portion    of   his    reputa- 
tion as  an  impressario  was  due  to  his 
mounting   of    the    Wagner   operas    at 
La  Scala,  I  said  to  him:    "May  I  ask, 
Mr.  Gatti,  when  you  gave  your  per- 
formances   of    Wagner    in    Milan,    in 
what  language  these  operas  were  sung?" 
He   replied:    "In   Italian,   of   course." 
"May  I  ask  further?"  I  continued,  "had 
you  given  these  operas  with  the  original 
German  text,  what  would  have  been 
the  result?"     He  then  replied:  "Why, 
nobody  would  have  come  to  see  them ;" 
thus  proving  conclusively  that  in  Italy, 
at  least,  it  is  impossible  from  either  an 
artistic  or  financial  standpoint  to  give 
opera  in  any  language  other  than  the 
vernacular.     But  if  the  Italians  insist 
imperatively  that  their  opera  shall  be 
sung  to  them  exclusively  in  their  native 
tongue,  thereby  making  of  Opera  an 
intelligible,  and,  therefore,  more  popular 
and  generally  interesting  entertainment, 
making  of  it  in  fact  a  National  institu- 
tion, for  the  masses  and  not  alone  for 
the  classes — all  of  which  arguments  for 
opera  in  the  vernacular  apply  equally 
here — why  should  not  we  opera-lovers 
of   America   free   ourselves    from   the 
chains  and  fetters  imposed  by  foreign 
influences  which  bind  and  impede  our 
National    operatic    development,    and 
demand  the  same  thing.     We  must,  I 
believe,  admit  that  opera  in  English  is 
practical     from     the     standpoint     of 
language;  desirable  from  its  resultant 
intelligibility    and     consequent     wider 
appeal    to   popular   interest   and    sym- 
pathy; and,  therefore,  finally  inevitable 
for  us,  as  an  English-speaking  musical 
people.      For,   if   to-day,   opera,   as   it 
undoubtedly   is,   be  the  dominant,  the 
most    popularly    appealing    and    most 
opportunistic    musical    form    for    the 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


expression  of  creative  musical  thought, 
it  is  also  inevitable  that  the  future 
activities  of  the  American  composer 
must  be  largely  operatic  to  assure  to 
himself  artistic  progress  and  delevop- 
ment,  and  secure  for  his  Art  the  needed 
wider  National  recognition,  significance 
and  importance.  And  to  what  language 
shall  a  composer  write  opera,  if  not 
his  own? 

I  have  so  far  employed  the  term 
"Opera  in  English,"  in  referring  to 
that  language  when  used  in  connection 
with  music  in  opera.  But  there  is 
another  term — "English  Opera" — 
which  has  a  far  more  pertinent  and 
important  significance  in  its  bearing  on 
the  subject  under  discussion,  as  affect- 
ing the  development  of  National  musi- 
cal art,  both  creative  and  interpreta- 
tive. Opera  in  English  and  English 
Opera,  though  correlated  terms,  are, 
nevertheless,  not  sufficiently  coincident 
to  be  employed  interchangeably.  Opera 
in  English,  as  I  take  it,  means  the 
performance  in  the  English  language 
of  the  operas  of  the  standard  repertoire ; 
while  English  Opera  would  mean  the 
production  of  operas  originally  written 
to  an  English  text  by  composers  of 
whatever  nationality.  Bearing  in  mind 
the  undoubted  influence  of  a  language 
on  the  conception  and  expression  of  a 
composer's  thought,  the  consideration 
of  English  Opera  opens  up  an  entirely 
new  range  of  artistic  suggestion.  How- 
ever opinions  may  vary  as  to  the 
desirability  or  suitability  of  Opera  in 
English,  there  can  be  at  the  present 
time  but  one  opinion  as  to  the  positive 
necessity  of  English  Opera  as  the 
readiest  means  to  our  hand  not  only  to 
stimulate  and  develop  American  musi- 
cal art  and  the  American  composer,  but 
also  to  encourage  and  increase  that 
much  needed  National  confidence  in 
native  musical  possibilities  which  begets 
a  National  Art  and  the  love  and  respect 
of  a  Nation  for  it. 

As  giving  the  American  composer 
important  and  available  opportunities 
for  the  display  of  his  abilities  to  a  still 


somewhat  incredulous  public,  the  bent- 
fits  of  English  Opera  can  hardly  be 
doubted;  while  the  case  of  Opera  in 
English  cannot  be  considered  as  con- 
clusively proved  until  the  popular 
demand  for  it  in  our  great  opera- 
houses  has  been  registered,  as  it  has 
hardly  been  hitherto,  in  unmistakable 
fashion.  Indications  at  the  present 
time  definitely  point  to  thie  fact  that  the 
operatic  powers-that-be  have  realized 
that  there  is  a  genuine  feeling  abroad 
among  the  public,  that  the  time  has 
come  for  at  least  an  experiment  in 
English  Opera-giving,  and  the  reper- 
toire of  our  principal  opera-houses 
for  1913-14,  as  announced  thus  far. 
show  that  English  Opera  rather  than 
Opera  in  English  has  been  chosen 
to  illustrate  the  experiment.  I  be- 
lieve confidently  that,  were  opera  to 
be  once  generally  sung  in  English, 
the  appreciation  for  this  form  of  Art 
and  of  music  in  general,  by  the  public 
at  large,  would  be  notably  increased. 
Such  increased  appreciation,  would, 
I  further  believe,  in  its  turn  and  by 
degrees,  foster  and  develop  that 
National  interest  in  and  feeling  for 
music  as  an  art,  which  we  still  lack, 
and  which  we  instantly  need  in  order 
that  this  art  with  us  may  assume  in  the 
minds  of  the  people  the  position  and 
National  significance  which  it  enjoys 
abroad,  and  to  which  it  owes  its  influ- 
ence and  importance  there. 

Any  development  of  a  National 
School  of  Music  in  this  country  de- 
pends, therefore,  to  my  thinking  en- 
tirely upon  the  stimulus  to  music  in 
general,  which  Opera  in  English  and 
English  Opera  would  undoubtedly  give. 

My  friend,  the  late  Mr.  McDowell, 
was  always  very  impatient  at  being  put 
forward  as  an  American  composer,  and 
was  wont  to  declare,  with  some  heat, 
that  he  would  rather  not  be  heard  at 
all  than  to  be  known  simply  as  a  com- 
poser whose  works  were  exploited  for 
purely  National  reasons.  While  one 
may  understand  and  appreciate  his 
reluctance  to  be  judged  as  a  composer 


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seeking  for  international  reputation  by 
merely  local  standards  and  because  of 
local  indulgence,  I  am  inclined  to  think 
that  his  attitude  in  this  matter  was 
wrongly  taken.  The  greatest  music 
known  to  the  world  today  is  so  strongly 
marked  and  influenced  by  distinctively 
National  characteristics  and  feeling, 
that  it  may  almost  be  set  down  as  axio- 
matic that  music  to  be  great  must,  in  a 
sense,  be  National;  for  the  history  of 
music  shows  that  the  best  music — that 
music  which  has  shown  the  greatest 
permanence — has  been  written  by  the 
composers  of  those  countries  where  the 
greatest  amount  of  National  feeling 
prevails.  Perhaps  what  music  in 
America  most  needs  today  for  its 
proper  and  progressive  development,  is 
a  larger  measure  of  national  confidence 
in  National  ability  in  this  particular 
field  of  Art.  It  is  National  pride  as 
well  as  National  feeling  that  begets  and 
fosters  a  National  Art. 

Paris  is  now  the  great  art-producing 
center  that  it  is,  because  the  French  in 
all  matters  pertaining  to  Art  are  so 
intensely  National.  To  a  Frenchman, 
French  Art  is  better  and  more  perfect 
than  any  other  Art;  and  in  order  that 
French  Art  should  be  encouraged  and 
developed,  Frenchmen  are  ready  to 
incur  even  the  charge  of  provincialism. 
It  cannot  be  doubted  that  this  National 
confidence  in  a  National  ability  has 
everything  to  do  with  the  productive 
vitality  which  is  characteristic  of  French 
Art  in  all  its  branches .  to-day.  It  is 
also  beyond  question  that  the  lack  of 
that  National  confidence  in  National 
artistic  capacity  which  distinguishes 
France,  is  the  principal  cause  why  we 
in  America  are,  to  a  great  extent,  a 
Nation  of  adapters  and  imitators  rather 
than  originators  and  creators,  artisti- 
cally speaking;  why,  from  a  dramatic 
standpoint,  our  theatrical  managers  re- 
produce rather  than  produce;  why,  at 
any  of  our  principal  opera-houses  an 
unknown  German,  Frenchman,  or 
Italian  has  a  better  chance  of  having 
an    unknown    and    untried    work    pro- 


duced, than  an  American ;  why  we  have 
had,  strictly  speaking,  hitherto  no 
National  drama,  no  National  music,  and 
far  too  little  National  pride  or  interest 
in  National  achievement  in  any  branch 
of  Art.  Literature,  on  the  other  hand, 
has  ever  fared  better.  Is  there  any 
reason  why,  with  the  proper  oppor- 
tunity and  the  needed  encouragement, 
which,  as  I  contend,  will  best  be  secured 
by  giving  him  the  chance  of  being  heard 
in  opera,  the  time  is  not  ripe  for  the 
American  composer  to  take  an  equal 
place  in  popular  affection  and  esteem 
with  that  occupied  by  the  workers  in 
literary  fields? 

It  is,  perhaps,  not  surprising,  that  up 
to  now  our  musical  productiveness  has 
not  been  on  a  par  with,  or  attained 
equal  eminence  or  distinction  with,  our 
achievements  in  the  other  branches  of 
Art  and  Literajture.  The  hurry  and 
bustle,  the  ceaseless  activity  and  untir- 
ing energ>'  of  our  busy  life,  have  left  to 
our  people  little  time  for  meditation  and 
the  contemplation  and  cultivation  of 
the  higher  emotions  and  faculties. 
Music  is  the  natural  expression,  the 
wordless  language  of  a  part  of  our 
being  which  our  daily  business  and 
commerical  pursuits  have  not  only  not 
encouraged  but,  of  necessity,  impeded. 
I  well  remember  on  my  first  arrival  in 
Chicago,  more  years  ago  than  I  care 
to  think  of,  being  told  by  a  gentleman 
— 3,  leader  at  the  Bar — who  represented 
at  that  time  the  literary  culture  of  the 
City,  that  he  considered  that  any  man 
— with  the  accent  on  the  MAN — who 
devoted  any  attention  to  music  was 
little  better  than  a  fool !  And  Chicago 
was  not  alone  in  this  point  of  view  at 
that  time ;  and  I  feel  sure  that  the  solid 
business  man,  even  today,  is  still  only 
too  ready  to  look  upon  any  worker  in 
artistic  fields  from  much  the  same 
standpoint;  to  measure  his  achieve- 
ments by  a  purely  financial  standard, 
and  regard  his  failure  to  obtain  im- 
portant financial  returns  for  his  work 
as  conclusive  evidence  that  Art  as  a 
profession  is  but  a  poor  thing  at  best. 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


It  is  certainly  true  that  in  music, 
at  least,  and  until  very  recently,  our 
culture  has  been  from  the  top  down, 
rather  than,  as  it  should  be,  from  the 
bottom  up.  The  American  composer, 
largely  owing  to  the  difficulties  of  ob- 
taining anything  like  an  adequate  and 
comprehensive  musical  training  in  this 
country,  has  been,  by  education,  asso- 
ciation, environment,  sympathy,  and 
acquired  tradition  in  thought  and  feel- 
ing, in  method  and  practice,  essentially 
foreign,  rather  than  distinctively  Amer- 
ican. 

We  do  not  possess  in  this  country 
the  folk-music  which  makes  the  music 
of  Spain  and  Italy,  Russia  and  Swe- 
den, Germany  and  the  Czech  countries 
so  individual  and  so  characteristic, 
wherewith  a  composer  might  start  in 
to  build  up  a  National  School  of  Music ; 
for  it  is  idle  to  allege^  in  spite  of  the 
efforts  of  Dr.  Dvorak  and  others,  that 
the  folk-music  —  Indian,  Negro,  and 
Creole — ^which  undoubtedly  exists  in 
this  country  is  really  valuable  as  a  basic 
foundation  for  a  School  of  Music 
which  could  be  considered  in  any  sense 
National. 

The  popular  airs,  or  folk-music,  of 
a  Nation  might  well  be  called  the  al- 
most unconscious  soul-utterances  of 
the  people ;  their  very  existence  in  most 
instances  is  due  to  some  National  crisis, 
some  wave  of  National  feeling  or  emo- 
tion; at  times  they  emerge  from  the 
fiery  crucible  of  a  Nation's  anguish, 
and  at  other  times  the  irresistible  out- 
burst of  a  Nation's  joy  gives  them  be- 
ing. But,  up  to  comparatively  recent 
times,  we  have  been  a  people  rather 
than  a  Nation;  and  until  we  shall  fin- 
ally and  once  for  all  have  done  away 
with  our  hyphenated  nationalities  and 
consequently  divided  National  feeling, 
we  cannot  expect  to  have  an  expression 
in  music  which  shall  be  distinctly  Amer- 
ican, and  readily  recognizable  as  such. 
It  was  because  of  the  divided  National 
feeling  which  caused  the  Civil  War, 
that  the  numerous  melodies  brought 
into    being   by    the    emotions    of    that 


titanic  struggle,  which  otherwise 
might  well  have  ranked  with  many  of 
the  most  characteristic  folk-songs  of 
Foreign  Nations,  obtained  little  or  no 
permanence.  The  Spanish  War  which 
for  the  first  time  really  bridged  the 
bloody  chasm  between  North  and  South 
and  began  to  build  up  a  feeling  of 
united  Nationality,  marked,  in  my  judg- 
ment, a  definite  period  and  milestone 
in  our  musical  history  and  progress. 
Since  that  time  music  in  this  countr>' 
has  received  an  impetus  and  gained  a 
development,  not  alone  artistic,  but 
popular,  that  it  had  never  compasse<l 
before. 

If  folk-music  be  an  inevitable  neces- 
sity for  the  foundation  of  a  National 
School  of  Music,  we  are  but  now  be- 
ginning to  be  that  Nation  which  could 
find  a  vent  for  its  emotions  or  feelings 
in  such  a  form.  I  am  not  one  of  those 
who  decry  or  cavil  at  the  enormous  and 
heterogeneous  output  of  so-called  pop- 
ular music — ^be  it  ragtime  or  what  you 
will — which  is  characteristic  of  Music 
in  America  today.  In  bringing  music 
as  a  fact  and  a  pleasurable  feature  of 
daily  life  to  people  who  had  previously 
never  considered  or  known  it  at  all. 
this  music  has  achieved  a  definite  result 
and  worked  an  enduring  benefit.  Be- 
cause of  it,  and  for  the  first  time  in  our 
musical  history,  musical  culture  lias 
been  begun,  as  it  should  begin,  from 
the  bottom  up ;  for  publishers  of  popu- 
lar music  are  responsible  for  the  state- 
ment that  the  popular  song  has  vastly 
improved  in  character  and  artistic  qual- 
ity during  the  past  decade,  and  that  a 
song  of  merit  sufficient  to  obtain  a 
vogue  and  widespread  popularity  five 
years  ago  is  now  no  longer  good 
enough  to  secure  general  popular  sym- 
pathy and  recognition.  All  this  is  cer- 
tainly vastly  ^encouraging,  and  tends  to 
show  that  music  is  becoming  that  fac- 
tor and  interest  in  the  daily  life  of  the 
many,  and  not  alone  of  the  cultured 
few,  which,  when  properly  assimilated, 
will  lead  the  public,  as  the  result  of  an 
emotion,    to    express    itself    musically. 


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when  occasion  shall  arise,  in  a  manner, 
and  with  a  voice  that  shall  be  recog- 
nizably American.  So,  it  is  possible 
that  this  popular  music  of  the  day, 
ei^emeral  though  it  be,  may  contain 
the  germ  of  the  folk-song,  that  uncon- 
scious utterance  of  the  people  referred 
to  above,  which  some  day  will  make 
American  music  as  distinctively  Na- 
tional as  that  of  other  nations.  And, 
our  composers  of  to-day  would  do  well 
to  heed  these  signs  of  the  times. 

The  trend  of  all  music  at  the  present 
time  is  away  from  form,  formalism,  and 
pre-accepted  theory.  Greater  latitude 
and  unlimited  freedom  of  expression  is 
now  the  cry  of  the  musician,  who  has 
by  slow  degrees  been  emancipated  from 
the  chains  and  shackles  of  tradition  and 
convention  which  bound  and  fettered 
musical  Art  through  long  years  of  pro- 
gressive development;  and  what  the 
American  composer  now  most  needs,  in 
order  to  secure  the  National  confidence 
and  pride  in  his  abilities  which  will  in 
time  render  a  distinctively  National 
School  of  Music  a  possibility,  is  to  be 
heard.  Opera  in  any  one  of  its  numer- 
ous forms  or  varieties — Grand,  Lyric, 
Light  or  Comic — would  seem  to  afford 
him  the  needed  opportunity,  and  if  he 
write  opera  at  all,  he  must  write  Eng- 
lish Opera;  hence  the  vast  importance 
of  English  Opera  and  Opera  in  English 
— the  latter  surely  a  preparation  for  the 
former — to  the  American  composer  as 
a  formative  influence  towards  an  ulti- 
mate National  expression,  and  as  a 
means  of  inducing  the  public  at  large, 
to  whom  Opera  every  year  more  and 
more  appeals,  to  support  and  recognize 
his  abilities  and  assist  in  his  develop- 
ment. 

But,  any  argument  in  support  of 
English  Opera  and  Opera  in  English 
would  be  only  half  stated,  any  discus- 
sion on  the  bearing  of  Opera  in  the  ver- 
nacular on  music  in  America  and  the 
American  composer,  would  be  incom- 
plete and  half-hearted,  without  refer- 
ence to  the  significance  and  importance 
of   the   undoubted   influence   of    such 


Opera  upon  the  American  singer  and 
operatic  artist.  If  a  country  the  size 
of  Italy  can  support,  as  it  does  today, 
more  than  sixty  theatres  and  opera- 
houses  where  original  Opera  is  pro- 
duced, think  of  the  possibilities  of  oper- 
atic production  in  a  country  of  the  size 
and  wealth  of  America,  when  Opera 
through  being  sung  in  the  vernacular, 
shall  attain  that  measure  of  popular  in- 
terest and  appreciation  which  will  ren- 
der it  an  essential  part  of  the  intellec- 
tual and  artistic  life  and  enjoyment  of 
the  people  here,  as  it  is  in  Italy  at  the 
present  time.  Were  such  a  condition 
of  opera-giving  ever  to  obtain  in  this 
country,  as  is  by  no  means  unlikely,  we 
should  have  permanent  opera-com- 
panies, not  only  in  our  three  principal 
cities,  but  in  a  score ;  while  the  thou- 
sands of  young  American  singers  who 
are  now  barnstorming  in  opera  in  for- 
eign countries,  singing  minor  roles  at 
starvation  salaries,  would  have  the 
needed  and  much-to-he-desired  oppor- 
tunity of  being  heard  and  appreciated 
in  the  country  where  they  belong,  and 
from  which  this  present  lack  of  oppor- 
tunity has,  to  a  great  extent,  exiled 
them.  There  are  to-day  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  young  men  and  women 
studying  singing  in  this  country,  wait- 
ing, hoping,  and  too  often  in  vain,  for 
the  hardly-won  chance  to  show  their 
talents  to  the  public,  and  thus  justify 
the  labor,  time,  and  money  they  have 
spent  in  cultivating  them.  Now  that 
it  is  possible,  as  never  before,  to  obtain 
in  this  country  a  competent  and  thor- 
ough vocal  training,  there  is  all  the 
more  nee<l  for  those  who  elect  to  gain 
an  education  here  to  be  heard  here, 
without  being  first  compelled  to  go 
abroad,  to  obtain  the  reputation  which 
now  seems  necessary  to  secure  them 
even  a  hearing  at  home.  The  fact 
that  the  diction  of  so  many  of  our 
native-born  singers  is  faulty  and  im- 
perfect in  English  has  been  due  largely 
to  the  necessity  of  singing  almost  exclu- 
sively in  foreign  languages,  consequent 
upon  their  having  been  trained  abroad. 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


It  is  a  great  point  in  favor  of  the  de- 
velopment of  Opera  in  this  country  that 
this  necessity  no  longer  exists.  In  this 
connection,  it  is  a  little  curious  to  note 
that  the  principal  opponents  of  Opera 
in  English  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
Hoitse  have  so  far  been  the  American- 
bom  and  English-speaking  members  of 
that  organization,  who,  because  of  their 
foreign  training  having  never  studied 
how  to  sing  in  their  own  language, 
and,  moreover,  being  generally  unintel- 
ligible in  any  language,  have  been 
seemingly  disinclined  to  place  their 
faulty  and  imperfect  diction  in  bold 
relief  by  singing  in  English. 

It  is  certain,  and  I  cannot  make  the 
contention  too  emphatic,  that  any  in- 
telligent person,  with  proper  study,  can 
sing  the  English  language  intelligibly. 
The  fact  has  been  proven,  and  should, 
therefore,  no  longer  be  cited  as  a  prin- 
cipal and  prohibitive  objection  to  the 
English  language  as  a  language  of 
opera  and  song. 

Critics  have  long  denied  the  exist- 
ence of  conditions  founded  on  arbitrary 
conventions,  which,  according  to  them, 
would  render  the  existence  of  a  Na- 
tional  School  of  Music  a  possibility; 


why,  it  is  a  little  hard  to  see.  In  every 
other  branch  of  Science,  or  Art,  or 
Industry,  we  have,  as  a  Nation, 
equaled,  if  not  excelled,  the  achieve- 
ments of  older  civilizations,  and  the 
very  variety  of  the  elements  which 
are  now  forming  the  American  Nation 
would  argue  in  favor  of  the  possibility 
of  the  ultimate  establishment  of  a 
School  of  Music,  which,  by  uniting  the 
characteristics  of  many  peoples,  might 
well,  in  time,  develop  into  something 
broader,  stronger,  fresher,  and  more 
spontaneous  than  anything  the  world 
has  yet  seen.  As  a  people  today  we 
have  an  eminently  original  imagina- 
tive and  constructive  faculty,  and  when 
the  rapid  civilizing  and  developing  pro- 
cesses which  we  are  now  undergoing 
shall  have  given  us  more  leisure,  and 
broadened  our  perception  to  the  extent 
of  enabling  us  to  see  in  the  cultivation 
of  the  Arts  one  of  the  noblest  fields  for 
the  exercise  of  human  energy,  we  may 
confidently  expect  to  see  the  American 
composer  take  a  place  in  the  world  of 
Music  commensurate  with  the  position 
to  which  workers  in  Literature  and  the 
other  Arts,  as  well  as  in  the  Sciences, 
in  this  country  have  already  attained. 


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SCIENCE  AKD  LITERATURE 


By  John  Burroughs 


It  is  not  in  the  act  of  seeing  things 
or  apprehending  facts  that  we  differ  so 
much  from  one  another,  as  in  the  act 
of  interpreting  what  we  see  or  appre- 
hend. Interpretation  opens  the  door  to 
the  play  of  temperament  and  imagina- 
tion, and  to  the  bias  of  personality.  A 
mind  that  has  a  lively  fancy  and  a 
sense  of  mystery  will  interpret  phenom- 
ena quite  differently  from  a  mind  in 
which  these  things  are  absent.  The 
poetic,  the  religious,  the  ethical  mind, 
will  never  be  satisfied  with  the  inter- 
pretation of  the  physical  universe  given 
us  by  the  scientific  mind.  To  these 
mental  types  such  an  interpretation 
^eems  hard  and  barren;  it  leaves  a 
large  part  of  our  human  nature  un- 
satisfied. If  a  man  of  science  were  to 
explain  to  a  mother  all  the  physical 
properties,  functions,  and  powers  of  her 
baby,  and  all  its  natural  history,  would 
the  mother,  see  her  baby  in  such  a  por-. 
traiture?  Would  he  had  told  her  why 
she  loves  it?  Is  it  the  province  of 
literature  and  art  to  tell  her  why  she 
loves  it,  and  to  make  her  love  it  more ; 
of  science  to  tell  her  how  she  came  by 
it,  and  how  to  secure  its  physical  well- 
being.  Literature  interprets  life  and 
nature  in  terms  of  our  sentiments  and 
emotions;  science  interprets  them  in 
terms  of  our  understanding. 

The  habit  of  mind  begotten  by  the 
contemplation  of  Nature,  and  by  our 
emotional  intercourse  with  her,  is  in 
many  ways  at  enmity  with  the  habit 
of  mind  begotten  by  the  scientific  study 
of  nature.  The  former  has  given  us 
literature,  art,  religion;  out  of  the 
latter  has  come  our  material  civiliza- 
tion. Out  of  it  has  also  come  our 
enlarged  conception  of  the  physical 
universe,  and  a  true  insight  as  to  our 
relations  with,  albeit  this  gain  seems  to 
have  been  purchased,  more  or  less,  at 
the  expense  of  that  state  of  mind  that 
in  the  past  has  given  us  the  great  poets 
and  prophets  and  religious  teachers  and 
inspirers. 


As  I  have  said,  the  two  types  of  mind, 
the  scientific  and  the  artistic,  the  analytic 
and  the  synthetic,  look  upon  nature  and 
life  with  quite  different  eyes.  Words- 
worth said  of  his  poet  that  he  was  quite 
**contented  to  enjoy  what  others  under- 
stood." When  Whitman,  as  he  records 
in  one  of  his  poems,  fled  from  the 
lecture-hall  where  the  "learned  astron- 
omer" was  discoursing  about  the  stars, 
and  in  silence  gazed  up  at  the  sky 
gemmed  with  them,  he  showed  clearly 
to  which  type  he  belonged.  Tyndall 
said  that  men  of  warm  feelings,  with 
minds  open  to  the  elevating  impres- 
sions produced  by  nature  as  a  whole, 
whose  satisfaction  therefore  is  rather 
ethical  than  logical,  lean  to  the  syn- 
thetic side,  while  the  analytic  harmo- 
nizes best  with  the  more  precise  and 
more  mechanical  bias  which  seeks  the 
satisfaction  of  the  understanding. 
Tyndall  said  of  Goethe  that  while  his 
discipline  as  a  poet  went  well  with  his 
natural  history  studies,  it  hindered  his 
approach  to  the  physical  and  mechani- 
cal sciences.  "He  could  not  formulate 
distinct  mechanical  conceptions;  he 
could  not  see  the  force  of  mechanical 
reasoning,"  as  Tyndall  himself  could 
see  it.  Tyndall  was  a  notable  blending 
of  the  two  types  of  mind ;  to  his  pro- 
ficiency in  anal3rtical  and  experimental 
science  he  joined  literary  gifts  of  a 
high  order.  It  is  these  gifts  that  made 
his  work  rank  high  in  the  literature 
of  science. 

Tyndall  was  wont  to  explain  his 
mechanistic  views  of  creation  to 
Carlyle,  whom  he  greatly  revered.  But 
Carlyle  did  not  take  kindly  to  them. 
This  was  one  of  the  phases  of  physical 
science  which  repelled  him.  Carlyle 
revolted  at  the  idea  that  the  ^un  was 
the  physical  basis  of  life.  He  could 
not  endure  any  teaching  that  savored 
of  materialism.  He  would  not  think 
of  the  universe  as  a  machine,  but  as 
an  organism.  Igdrysill,  the  Tree  of 
Life,    was   his    favorite   image.     Con- 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


sidering  how  the  concrete  forces  of 
the  universe  circulate  and  pull  together, 
he  found  no  similitude  so  true  as  that 
of  the  tree.  "Beautiful,  altogether 
beautiful  and  great,"  said  he.  "The 
Machine  of  the  universe — alas!  do 
think  of  that  in  contrast!" 

Carlyle  was  a  poet  and  a  prophet 
and  saw  the  world  through  his  moral 
and  spiritual  nature,  and  not  through 
his  logical  faculties.  He  revolted  at 
the  conception  of  the  mystery  we  name 
life  being  the  outcome  of  physical  and 
chemical  forces  alone. 

Literature,  art  and  religion  are  not 
only  not  fostered  by  the  scientific  spirit, 
but  this  spirit,  it  seems  to  me,  is  almost 
fatal  to  them,  at  least  so  far  as  it 
banishes  mystery  and  illusion,  and 
checks  or  inhibits  our  anthropomorphic 
tendencies.  Literature  and  art  have 
their  genesis  in  love,  joy,  admiration, 
speculation,  and  not  in  the  exact  knowl- 
edge which  is  the  foundation  of  science. 
Our  creative  faculties  may  profit  by 
exact  knowledge  of  material  things, 
but  they  can  hardly  be  inspired  by  it. 
Inspiriition  is  from  within,  but  scientific 
knowledge  is  from  without. 

There  is  no  literature  or  art  without 
love  and  contemplation.  We  can  make 
literature  out  of  science  only  when  we 
descend  upon  it  with  love,  or  with 
some  degree  of  emotional  enjoyment. 
Natural  history,  geolog>%  biology, 
astronomy,  yield  literary  material  only 
to  the  man  of  emotion  and  imagina- 
tion. Into  the  material  gathered  from 
outward  nature  the  creative  artist  puts 
himself,  as  the  bee  puts  herself  into 
the  nectar  she  gathers  from  the  flowers 
to  make  it  into  honey.  Honey  is  the 
nectar  plus  the  bee;  and  a  poem,  or 
other  work  of  art,  is  fact  and  observa- 
tion plus  the  man.  In  so  far  as 
scientific  knowledge  checks  our 
tendency  to  humanize  nature,  and  to 
infuse  ourselves  into  it,  and  give  to  it 
the  hues  of  our  own  spirits,  it  is  the 
enemy  of  literature  and  art.  In  so  far 
as  it  gives  us  a  wider  and  truer  con- 
ception of  the  material  universe,  which 
it    certainly   has   clone   in    every   great 


science,  it  ought  to  be  their  friend  and 
benefactor.  Our  best  growth  is 
attained  when  we  match  knowl^^  with 
love,  insight  with  reverence,  under- 
standing with  sympathy  and  enjoy- 
ment; else  the  machine  becomes  more 
and  more,  and  the  man  less  and  less. 

Fear,  superstition,  misconception, 
have  played  a  great  part  in  the  litera- 
ture and  religion  of  the  past ;  they  have 
given  it  reality,  picturesqueness  and 
power;  it  remains  to  be  seen  if  love, 
knowledge,  democracy  and  human 
brotherhood  can  do  as  well. 

The  literary  treatment  of  scientific 
matter  is  naturally  of  much  more 
interest  to  the  general  reader  than  to 
the  man  science.  By  literary  treatment 
I  do  not  mean  taking  liberties  with 
facts,  but  treating  them  so  as  to  give 
the  reader  a  lively  and  imaginative 
realization  of  them — a  sense  of  their 
aesthetic  and  intellectual  values.  The 
creative  mind  can  quicken  a  dead  fact 
and  make  it  mean  something  in  the 
emotional  sphere. 

When  we  humanize  things,  we  are 
beyond  the  sphere  of  science  and  in  the 
sphere  of  literature.  We  may  still  be 
dealing  with  truths,  but  not  with  facts. 
Tyndall,  in  his  Fragments,  very  often 
rises  from  the  sphere  of  science  into 
that  of  literature.  He  does  so,  for 
instance,  in  considering  the  question  of 
personal  identity  in  relation  to  that  of 
molecular  change  in  the  body.  He 
asks: 

How  is  the  sense  of  personal  identity 
maintained  across  this  flight  of  the  molecules 
that  goes  on  incessantly  in  our  bodies,  so 
that  while  our  physical  being,  after  a  cer- 
tain number  of  years,  is  entirely  renewed, 
our  consciousness  exhibits  no  solution  of 
tontinuity?  Like  changing  sentinels,  the 
oxygen,  hydrogen,  and  carbon  that  depart 
seem  to  whisper  their  secret  to  their  com- 
rades that  arrive,  and  thus,  while  the  Non- 
ego  shifts,  the  Ego  remains  the  same.  Con- 
stancy of  form  in  the  grouping  of  the  mole- 
cules, and  not  constancy  of  the  molecules 
themselves,  is  the  correlative  of  this  con- 
stancy of  perception.  Life  is  a  twitr  which 
in  no  two  consecutive  moments  of  existence 
is  composed  of  the  same  particles. 

Tyndall  has  here  stated  a  scientific 
fact  in  the  picturesque  and  poetic 
manner  of  literature.     Henri  Rergson 


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does  this  on  nearly  every  page.  When 
his  subject-matter  is  scientific,  his 
treatment  of  it  is  literary.  Indeed,  the 
secret  of  the  charm  and  power  of  his 
"Creative  Evolution"  is  the  rare  fusion 
and  absorption  of  its  scientific  and 
philosophical  material  by  the  literary 
and  artistic  spirit. 

How  vividly  present  Huxley  is  in 
everything  he  writes  or  speaks,  the  man 
shining  through  his  sentences  as  if  the 
sword  were  to  shine  through  its  scab- 
bard— a  different  type  from  Tyndall, 
more  controversial.  A  lover  of  combat, 
he  sniffs  the  battle  afar;  he  is  less 
poetical  than  Tyndall,  less  given  to 
rhetoric,  but  more  a  part  of  what  he 
says,  and  having  a  more  absolutely 
transparent  style.  How  he  charged  the 
foes  of  Darwin,  and  cleared  the  field 
of  them  in  a  hurry.  His  sentences  went 
through  their  arguments  as  steel 
through  lead. 

As  a  sample  of  fine  and  eloquent 
literary  statement  I  have  always  greatly 
admired  that  cldsing  passage  in  his 
essay  on  "Science  and  Morals"  in  which 
he  defends  physical  science  against  the 
attacks  of  Mr.  Lilly,  who,  armed  with 
the  weapons  of  both  theology  and 
philosophy,  denounced  it  as  the  evil 
gfenius  of  modem  days : 

If  the  diseases  of  society,  says  Huxley, 
consist  in  the  weakness  of  its  faith  in  the 
existence  of  the  God  of  the  theologians,  in 
a  future  state,  and  in  uncaused  volitions,  the 
indication,  as  the  doctors  say,  is  to  suppress 
Theology  and  Philosophy,  whose  bickerings 
about  things  of  which  tney  know  nothing 
have  been  the  prime  cause  and  continusU 
sustenance  of  that  evil  scepticism  which  is 
the  Nemesis  of  meddling  with  the  unknow- 
able. 

Cinderella  is  modestly  conscious  of  her 
igrnorance  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  down-stairs. 
She  sees  the  order  which  pervades  the  seem- 
ing disorder  of  the  world;  the  great  drama 
of  evolution,  with  its  full  share  of  pity  and 
terror,  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  moralitjr  is  to  have 
done,  once  and  for  all,  with  lying;  to  give 
up  pretending  to  believe  that  for  which  there 
is  no   evidence,   and  repeating  unintelligible 


propositions  about  things  beyond  the  possi- 
bilities of  knowledge. 

She  knows  that  the  safety  of  morality  lies 
neither  in  the  adoption  of  this  or  that  theo- 
logical creed  but  in  a  real  and  living  belief 
in  that  fixed  order  of  nature  which  sends 
social  disorganization  upon  the  track  of  im- 
morality as  surely  as  it  sends  physical  dis- 
ease after  physical  trespasses.  And  of  that 
firm  and  lively  faith  it  is  her  high  mission 
to  be  the  priestess. 

Herbert  Spencer,  so  far  as  I  have 
read  him,  never  breathes  the  air  of 
pure  literature.  "Life,"  says  Spencer, 
"is  a  continuous  adjustment  of  internal 
relations  to  external  relations."  In 
other  words,  without  air,  water  and 
food  our  bodies  would  cease  to  func- 
tion and  life  would  end.  Spencer's 
definition  is  of  course  true  so  far  as 
it  goes,  but  it  is  of  no  more  interest 
than  any  other  statement  of  mere  fact. 
It  is  like  opaque  and  inert  matter. 
Tyndall's  free  characterization  of  life 
as  a  "wave  which  in  no  two  consecu- 
tive moments  of  its  existence  is  com- 
posed of  the  same  particles"  pleases 
much  more,  because  the  wave  is  a 
beautiful  and  suggestive  object.  The 
mind  is  at  once  started  upon  the  inquiry, 
What  is  it  that  lifts  the  water  up  in 
the  form  of  a  wave  and  travels  on, 
while  the  water  stays  behind?  It  is  a 
force  imparted  by  the  wind,  but  where 
did  the  wind  get  it,  and  what  is  the 
force?  The  impulse  we  call  life  lifts 
the.  particles  of  the  inorganic  up  into 
the  organic,  into  the  myriad  forms  of 
life — plant,  tree,  bird,  animal — ^and, 
when  it  has  run  its  course,  lets  them 
drop  back  again  into  their  former 
inanimate  condition. 

Although  Tyndall  and  Huxley 
possessed  fine  literary  equipments, 
making  them  masters  of  the  art  of 
eloquent  and  effective  statement,  they 
were  nevertheless  on  their  guard  against 
any  anthropomorphic  tendencies.  They 
were  not  unaware  of  the  emotion  of  the 
beautiful,  the  sublime,  the  mysterious, 
but  as  men  of  science  they  could  inter- 
pret evolution  only  in  terms  of  matter 
and  energy.  Most  of  their  writings 
are  good  literature,  not  because  the 
,authors  humanize  the  subject-matter 
and  read  themselves  into  nature's  script, 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE? ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


but  because  they  are  masters  of  the 
art  of  expression,  and  give  us  a  lively 
sense  of  the  workings  of  their  own 
minds. 

Spencer  was  foreordained  to  the 
mechanistic  view  of  life.  His  mind 
moves  in  the  geometric  plane.  It  is  a 
military  and  engineering  intellect 
applied  to  the  problems  of  organic 
nature.  How  smoothly  and  orderly  his 
intellect  runs,  with  what  force  and 
precision,  turning  out  its  closely  woven 
philosophical  fabric  as  great  looms  turn 
out  square  miles  of  textiles,  without  a 
break  or  a  flaw  in  the  process.  Never 
WJis  a  mind  of  such  power  so  little 
inspired;  never  was  an  imagination  of 
such  compass  so  completely  tamed  and 
broken  into  the  service  of  the  reason- 
ing intellect.  There  is  no  more  aerial 
perspective  in  his  pages  than  there  is 
in  a  modem  manufacturing  plant,  and 
no  hint  whatever  of  *'the  light  that 
never  was  on  sea  or  land."  We  feel 
the  machine-like  run  of  his  sentences, 
each  one  coming  round  with  the 
regularity  and  precision  of  the  revolving 
arms  of  a  patent  harvester,  making  a 
clean  sweep  and  a  smooth  cut;  the 
hdmogeneous  and  the  heterogeneous, 
the  external  and  the  internal,  the 
inductive  and  the  deductive  processes, 
alternating  in  a  sort  of  rhythmic  beat 
like  the  throb  of  an  engine.  Spencer 
had  a  prodigious  mind  crammed  with 
a  prodigious  number  of  facts,  but  a 
more  juiceless,  soulless  system  of 
philosophy  has  probably  never  emanated 
from  the  human  intellect. 

The  tendency  to  get  out  of  the 
sphere  of  science — the  sphere  of  the 
verifiable — into  the  sphere  of  literature, 
or .  of  theology,  or  of  philosophy,  is 
pronounced,  even  in  many  scientific 
minds.  It  is  pronounced  in  Sir  Oliver 
Lodge,  as  seen  in  his  book,  "Science 
and  Immortality."  It  is  very  pronounced 
in  Alfred  Russell  Wallace;  in  fact,  in 
his  later  work  his  anthropomorphism 
is  rampant.  He  has  cut  more  fantastic 
tricks  before  the  high  heaven  of  science 
than  any  other  man  of  our  time  of  equal 
scientific  attainments.    What  a  contrast 


to  the  sane,  patient  and  truth-loving 
mind  of  Darwin!  Yet  Darwin,  it 
seems  to  me,  humanized  his  birds  when 
he  endowed  the  females  with  human 
femininity,  attributing  to  them  love  of 
ornament  and  of  fine  plumage,  and 
this  making  love  of  ornamentation  the 
basis  of  his  theory  of  sexual  selection- 
It  seems  as  though  in  that  case  he  could 
not  find  the  key  to  his  problem,  and  so 
proceeded  to  make  one — ^a  trick  to 
which  we  are  all  prone. 

Since  science  dehumanizes  nature,  its 
progress  as  science  is  in  proportion  as 
it  triumphs  over  the  anthropomorphic 
character  which  our  hopes,  our  fears, 
our  partialities,  in  short,  our  innate 
humanism,  has  bestowed  upon  the  out- 
ward world.  Literature,  on  the  other 
hand,  reverses  this  process,  and 
humanizes  everything  it  looks  upon ;  its 
products  are  the  fruit  of  the  human 
personality  playing  upon  the  things  of 
life  and  nature,  making  everything 
redolent  of  human  qualities,  and  speak- 
ing to  the  heart  and  to  the  imagination. 
Science  divests  nature  of  all  human 
attributes  and  speaks  to  impersonal 
reason  alone.  For  science  to  be  anthro- 
j)omorphic  is  to  cease  to  be  science: 
and  for  literature  to  be  anything  else  is 
to  fail  as  literature.  Accordingly,  the 
poet  is  poet  by  virtue  of  his  power  to 
make  himself  the  center  and  focus  of 
the  things  about  him,  but  the  scientific 
mind  is  such  by  virtue  of  its  power  to 
emancipate  itself  from  human  and 
personal  consideration,  and  rest  with 
the  naked  fact.  There  is  no  art  without 
the  play  of  personality,  and  there  is  no 
science  till  we  have  escaped  from 
personality,  and  from  all  forms  of  the 
anthropomorphism  that  doth  so  easily 
beset  us.  It  is  not  that  science  restricts 
the  imagination;  it  is  that  it  sterilizes 
nature,  so  to  speak,  reducing  it  to 
inorganic  or  non-human  elements.  This 
is  why  the  world,  as  science  sees  it, 
is  to  so  many  minds  a  dead  world. 

When  we  find  fault  with  science,  and 
accuse  it  of  leading  us  to  a  blank  wall 
of  material  things,  or  of  deadening  our 
esthetic    sensibilities,    we    are    finding 


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fault  with  it  because  it  lcK>ks  upon  the 
universe  in  the  light  of  cold  reason,  and 
not  through  that  of  the  emotions.  But 
our  physical  well-being  demands  the 
dehumanization  of  the  physical  world, 
until  we  see^  our  true  relation  to 
the  forces  amid  which  we  live  and 
move  —  our  concrete  bodily  relations 
—  we  are  like  children  playing  with 
fire,  or  with  edged  tools,  or  with 
explosives.  Man  made  no  headway 
against  disease,  against  plague  and  pes- 
tilence, till  he  outgrew  his  humanistic 
views,  dissociated  them  from  evil  spirits 
and  offended  deities,  and  looked  upon 
them  as  within  the  pale  of  natural 
causation.  Early  man  saw  and  felt  and 
heard  spirits  on  all  sides  of  him — in  fire, 
in  water,  in  air,  but  he  controlled  and 
used  these  things  only  so  far  as  he  was 
practically  scientific.  To  catch  the  wind 
in  his  sails  he  had  to  put  himself  in 
right  physical  relation  to  it.  If  he 
stayed  the  ravages  of  flood  or  fire,  he 
was  compelled  to  cease  to  propitiate 
these  powers  as  offended  deities,  and 
fight  them  with  non-human  forces,  as 
he  does  to-day.  And  the  man  of  to-day 
may  have  any  number  of  superstitions 
about  his  relations  to  the  things  around 
him,  and  about  theirs  to  him,*  but  he  is 
successful  in  dealing  with  them  only 
when  he  forgets  his  superstitions  and 
approaches  things  on  rational  grounds. 

There  is  no  danger  that  our  exact 
knowledge  will  ever  exhaust  the 
Universe.  There  will  always  be  vast 
vistas  ahead  of  inexact  knowledge,  or 
of  the  uncertain,  the  problematical  that 
will  stimulate  the  imagination  and 
excite  the  emotions.  Both  literature 
and  religion  may  find  a  congenial  field 
always  in  advance  of  our  exact  knowl- 
edge. The  more  we  know,  the  vaster 
the  outlook  into  the  Universe. 

Our  fathers  who  held  that  every 
event  of  their  lives  was  fixed  and 
unalterable,  according  to  the  decrees  of 
an  omnipotent  being,  could  not  have 
survived  had  their  daily  conduct  been 
in  harmony  with  their  beliefs.  But 
when  ill,  they  sent  for  the  doctor;  if  the 
house  got  afire,  they  tried  to  put  the 


fire  out;  if  crops  failed,  they  improved 
their  husbandry.  They  slowly  learned 
that  better  sanitation  lessened  die  death- 
rate;  that  temperate  habits  prolonged 
life;  that  signs  and  wonders  in  the 
heavens  and  in  the  earth  had  no  human 
significance;  that  wars  abated  as  men 
grew  more  just  and  reasonable.  We 
come  to  grief  the  moment  that  we  for- 
get that  nature  is  neither  for  nor  against 
us.  We  can  master  her  forces  only 
when  we  see  them  as  they  are  in  and  of 
themselves,  and  realize  that  they  make 
no  exception  in  our  behalf. 

The  superstitious  ages,  the  ages  of 
religious  wars  and  persecutions,  the 
ages  of  famine  and  pestilence,  were 
the  ages  when  man's  humanization  of 
nature  was  at  its  height ;  and  they  were 
the  ages  of  the  great  literature  and  art, 
because,  as  we  have  seen,  these  things 
thrive  best  in  such  an  atmosphere. 
Take  the  gods  and  devils,  the  good  and 
bad  spirits,  fate  and  foreknowledge, 
and  the  whole  supernatural  hierarchy 
out  of  the  literature  and  art.  of  the  past, 
and  what  have  we  left?  Take  it  out 
of  Homer  and  -^lischylus,  and  Virgil, 
and  Dante,  and  Milton,  and  we  come 
pretty  near  to  making  ashes  of  them. 
In  modem  literature,  or  the  literature 
of  a  scientific  age,  these  things  play  an 
insignificant  part.  Take  them  out  of 
Shakespeare,  and  the  main  things  are 
left;  take  them  out  of  Tennyson,  and 
the  best  remains;  take  them  out  of 
Whitman,  and  the  effect  is  hardly 
appreciable.  Whitman's  anthropomor- 
phism is  very  active.  The  whole 
universe  is  directed  to  Whitman,  to 
you,  to  me;  but  Whitman  makes  little 
or  no  use  of  the  old  stock  material  of 
the  poets.  He  seeks  to  draw  himself 
and  to  assimilate  and  imbue  with  the 
human  spirit  the  entire  huge  material- 
ism of  the  modem  democratic  world. 
He  gives  the  first  honors  to  science,  but 
its  facts,  he  says,  are  not  his  dwelling. 

I  but  enter  by  them  to  an  area  of  my 
dwelling. 

Being  a  poet,  he  must  live  in  the 

world  of  the  emotions,  the  intuitions, 

the    imagination — the    world    of    love, 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


fellowship,  beauty,  religion — the  super- 
scientific  world.  As  practical  beings 
with  need  of  food,  shelter,  transporta- 
tion, we  have  to  deal  with  the  facts 
within  the  sphere  of  physical  science; 
as  social,  moral  and  esthetic  beings,  we 
live  in  the  super-scientific  world.  Our 
house  of  life  has  upper  stories  that 
look  off  to  the  sky  and  the  stars.  We 
are  less  as  men  than  our  fathers,  have 
less  power  of  character,  but  are  more 
as  tools  and  vehicles  of  the  scientific 
intellect. 

Man  lives  in  his  emotions,  his  hopes 
and  fears,  his  loves  and  sympathies, 
his  predilections,  and  his  affinities,  more 
than  in  his  reason.  Hence,  as  we  have 
more  and  more  science,  we  must  have 
less  and  less  great  literature;  less  and 
less  religion;  less  and  less  war;  less 
and  less  racial  and  political  antagon- 
isms; more  and  more  freedom  and 
fellowship  in  all  fields  and  with  all 
peoples.  Science  tends  to  unify  the 
nations  and  make  one  family  of  them. 

The  antique  world  produced  great 
literature  and  great  art,  but  much  of 
its  science  was  childish.  We  produce 
great  science,  but  much  of  our  litera- 
ture and  art  is  feeble  and  imitative. 

Science,  as  such,  neither  fears,  nor 
dreads,  nor  wonders,  nor  trembles,  nor 
scoffs,  nor  scorns;  is  not  puffed  up; 
thinketh  no  evil;  has  no  prejudices; 
turns  aside  for  nothing.  Though  all 
our  gods  totter  and  fall,  it  must  go  its 
way.  It  dispels  our  illusions  because 
it  clears  our  vision.  It  kills  supersti- 
tion because  it  banishes  our  irrational 
fears. 

Mathematical  and  scientific  truths  are 
fixed  and  stable  quantities ;  they  are  like 
the  inorganic  compounds ;  but  the  truths 
of  literature,  of  art,  of  religion,  of 
philosophy,  are  in  perpetual  flux  and 
transformation,  like  the  same  com- 
pounds in  the  stream  of  life. 

How  much  of  the  power  and  the 
charm  of  the  poetic  treatment  of  nature 
lies  in  the  fact  that  the  poet  reads  him- 
self into  the  objects  he  portrays,  and 
thus  makes  everything:  alive  and  full 
of  human  interest?     To  him 

The  jocund  day 

Stands  tip-toe  on  the  misty  mountain-top; 


he  sees  the  highest  peak  of  the  mountain 
range  to  be 

The  last  to  parley  with  the  setting  sun ; 
he  sees 

The  white  arms  out  in  the  breakers  tire- 
lessly tossing; 

while  the  power  and  the  value  of 
science  is  to  free  itself  from  ,these 
tendencies,  and  see  things  in  the  white 
light  of  reason.  Science  is  the  enemy 
of  our  myth-making  tendency,  but  it 
is  the  friend  of  our  physical  well-being. 

Every  material  thing  and  process  has 
its  physics,  which,  in  most  cases,  seem 
utterly  inadequate  to  account  for  the 
thing  as  it  stands  to  us.  Life  is  a 
flower,  and  the  analysis  of  it  does  not 
tell  us  why  we  are  so  moved  by  it. 
The  moral,  the  esthetic,  the  spiritual 
values  which  we  find  in  life  and  in 
nature,  are  utterly  beyond  the  range 
of  physical  science,  and  I  suppose  it  is 
because  the  physico-chemical  explana- 
tion of  the  phenomenon  of  life  takes  no 
account,  and  can  take  no  account,  of 
these,  that  it  leaves  us  cold  and  unin- 
terested. Spencer  with  his  irrefragible 
mechanistic  theories  leaves  us  indiffer- 
ent, while  Bergson,  with  his  "Creative 
Evolution,"  sets  mind  and  spirit  all 
aglow.  One  interprets  organic  nature 
in  terms  of  matter  and  motion,  the 
other  interprets  it  in  terms  of  life  ami 
spirit. 

Science  is  the  critic  and  doctor  of 
life,  but  never  its  inspirer.  It  enlarges 
the  field  of  literature,  but  its  aims  are 
unliterary.  The  scientific  evolution  of 
the  great  problems — life,  mind,  con- 
sciousness— seem  strangely  inadequate : 
they  are  like  the  scientific  definition  of 
light  as  vibrations  or  electric  oscolla- 
tions  in  the  ether  of  space,  which  would 
not  give  a  blind  man  much  idea  of 
light.  The  scientific  method  is  supreme 
in  its  own  sphere,  but  that  sphere  is 
not  commensurate  with  the  whole  of 
human  life.  Life  flowers  in  tlie  sub- 
jective world  of  our  sentiments,  emo- 
tions and  aspirations,  and  to  this  world 
literature,  art  and  religion  alone  have 
the  key.  ^-^  j 

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SOUTHEY  AS  POET  AND  HISTORIAN 
By  Thomas  R.  Lounsbury 


Do€s  anyone  now  read  Southcy's 
poetry — ^that  is,  anyone  besides  the 
special  student  of  literature  who  re- 
gards  it  a  duty  to  make  himself 
acquainted  with  what  the  rest  of  the 
world  has  chosen  to  neglect?  Many 
are  doubtless  familiar  with  certain 
short  pieces  of  his  which  usually  find 
a  place  in  anthologies.  But  it  is  of  the 
longer  poems,  especially  of  the  so-called 
epics,  upon  which  he  expected  to  build 
the  enduring  basis  of  his  reputation, 
that  the  question  is  asked.  One  indeed 
must  guard  against  the  common  error 
of  asserting  that  an  author  is  no  longer 
read  because  he  meets  with  little  favor 
or  abundant  dislike  in  the  circle  to 
which  the  speaker  or  writer  chances  to 
belong.  To  that  not  unfrequent  con- 
tention the  constant  renewal  of  editions 
and  their  large  sale  furnishes  the  all- 
sufficient  and,  indeed,  the  overwhelm- 
ingly conclusive  disproof.  But  to  the 
argument  that  he  is  still  read  Southey 
cannot  successfully  appeal.  Both 
modern  editions  of  his  works  and 
modem  purchasers  of  them  are  lacking. 
Readers  there  doubtless  are;  but  they 
must  be  scanty  in  number.  Compara- 
tively few,  in  fact,  were  those  who  read 
his  poems  in  his  lifetime;  and  the 
number  has  certainly  not  increased  since 
his  death. 

Yet  very  high  was  the  reputation  of 
Southey  in  his  own  day.  Many  there 
were  then  who  looked  upon  him  as  a 
great  intellectual  leader,  and  some  there 
were  who  achieved  what  seems  to  us 
now  the  peculiarly  difficult  task  of 
regarding  him  as  being  as  great  a  poet 
as  he  considered  himself  to  be.  One 
man  of  eminence  there  was  among  his 
contemporaries  who  held  such  a  faith 
ftrmly  and  held  it  unshaken  till  his 
death.    This  was  Walter  Savage  Lan- 


dor.  The  two  poets  indeed  may  be 
said  to  have  formed  a  limited  Mutual 
Admiration  Society.  Southey  was  one 
of  the  very  few  persons  of  that  time 
who  had  read  Landor's  epic  of  "Gebir." 
He  assured  the  author  in  fullest  sin- 
cerity that  while  the  poem  as  a  poem 
was  not  a  good  one,  it  nevertheless  con- 
tained the  finest  poetry  in  the  language. 
Some  will  recall  the  mortification  which 
DeQuincey  felt  or  professed  to  feel 
when  he  found  that  Southey  also  was 
familiar  with  this  epic.  He  had  con- 
ceited himself  to  be  the  sole  reader  in 
England  of  the  work,  and  the  sole  pur- 
chaser of  it.  He  had  fancied  himself, 
while  stalking  along  the  streets  of 
Oxford,  being  pointed  out  by  his  fellow 
students  as  the  one  person  in  Europe 
who  actually  possessed  a  copy  of 
**Gebir,"  and  had  possibly  read  it. 
Great  accordingly  was  his  sorrow  to 
find  that  Southey  also  had  achieved  this 
feat  of  literary  derring-do.  It  may  have 
been  a  mock  regard  which  De  Quincey 
professed.  But  Southey's  admiration 
tor  Landor  was  a  genuine  one  and 
Landor  repaid  it  in  kind.  In  season  and 
out  of  season,  he  celebrated  the  merits 
of  his  widely  lauded  but  little  read  con- 
temporary. In  season  and  out  of  season, 
he  extolled  him  on  all  occasions  and  in 
all  companies.  One  of  the  great  objects 
of  Emerson's  visit  to  Europe  in  1833 
was  to  see  Landor,  who,  he  thought, 
was  strangely  underrated  in  his  own 
country.  Of  the  interview  he  has  left 
a  vivid  description  in  his  ''English 
Traits."  But  of  one  of  Landor's  likes 
he  seemed  to  have  had  too  much.  "He 
pestered  me  with  Southey,"  lie  wrote; 
"but  who  is  Southey?" 

Yet  at  this  particular  time  many  there 
were  who  would  have  been  as  indignant 
with  Emerson's  impatient  query  as  was 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


Landor  himself  when  it  was  published 
much  later.  A  ^reat  deal  of  Southey's 
repute  was  undoubtedly  due  to  the  fact 
that  he  was  constantly  before  the  public. 
All  his  life  he  toiled  not  intermittently 
but  unceasingly.  To  this  he  was  com- 
pelled by  the  necessity  of  supporting 
those  dependent  upon  him.  fiut  even 
had  that  compulsion  not  existed,  he 
w^ould  have  kept  at  work  as  earnestly 
and  as  incessantly,  though  the  char- 
acter of  his  production  might  have 
undergone  some  change.  Literary 
labor  was  in  accordance  with  his  tastes 
and  desires.  His  life  was  very  largely 
in  his  books  and  his  greatest  pleasure 
lay  in  writing,  and  in  reading  the  proof- 
sheets  of  what  he  had  written.  There 
was  scarcely  anything  in  the  way  of 
prose  or  verse  which  he  did  not  attempt. 
He  wrote  ballads,  he  wrote  odes,  he 
wrote  elegies,  he  wrote  tales  of  wonder, 
he  wrote  narrative  stories,  he  wrote 
epics.  This  was  in  poetry ;  and  in  that, 
not  content  with  English  measures,  he 
sought  to  introduce  the  sapphics  and 
hexameters  of  the  classic  tongues.  In 
prose  he  wrote  essays  on  all  sorts  of 
topics,  reviews  of  books  on  all  sorts  of 
subjects,  treatises  discussing  all  sorts 
of  social  and  political  questions,  biogra- 
phies of  persons  of  the  most  diverse 
character,  and  histories  both  civil  and 
ecclesiastical.  He  edited  the  works  of 
poets  of  great  repute,  of  small  repute, 
and  of  no  repute.  His  talents,  which 
were  of  an  exceedingly  high  order, 
were  so  constantly  employed  upon  such 
a  vast  variety  of  subjects  that  they  not 
only  kept  his  name  always  before  the 
public  but  they  gave  it  the  impression 
of  a  force  which  was  entitled  to  be 
called  genius.  In  his  incessant  industry 
and  the  effects  wrought  by  it,  Southey 
corresponded  very  closely  to  the  well- 
known  Puritan  conception  of  the  devil, 
who,  of  course,  is  in  no  way  equal  to 
the  Almighty,  but  somehow  manages 
to  make  up  in  a  measure  for  his  inferi- 
ority in  power  by  his  infernal  activity. 
There  was  little  indeed  in  the  way  of 
literary  undertakings  which  he  had  not 


at  times  contemplated  in  imagination. 
From  his  early  years  he  was  always 
planning  great  or  at  least  bulky  enter- 
prises. "Is  it  not  a  pity,"  he  said  to  a 
friend  in  1796,  "that  I  should  not 
execute  my  intention  of  writing  more 
verses  than  Lope  de  Vega,  more  trage- 
dies than  Dryden,  and  more  epic  poems 
than  Blackmore?  The  more  I  write, 
the  more  I  have  to  write."  To  his 
friend,  Grosvenor  Bedford,  he  wrote  in 
1801,  asking  him  his  opinion  of 
**Thalaba."  In  his  letter  he  expressed 
bis  intention  of  trying  the  different 
m)rthologies  that  were  almost  new  to 
poetry.  He  had  begun  with  the  Moham- 
medan. "The  Hindoo,  the  Runic,  and 
the  Old  Persian,"  he  went  on  to  say, 
"are  all  striking  enough  and  enough 
known.  Of  the  Runic  I  have  hardly 
yet  dreamt.  I  have  fixed  the  g^round- 
plan  of  the  Persian.  The  Hindoo  is 
completely  sketched ;  you  can  make  little 
of  its  title,  'The  Curse  of  Keradon.' " 
This  state  of  mind  never  left  him.  To 
the  very  end  of  his  active  career,  he 
was  projecting  works,  the  proper  com- 
pletion of  any  one  of  which  would 
have  required  the  conscientious  labor 
of  a  good  part  of  a  lifetime. 

To  men  of  the  present  day  it  may 
seem  strange  that  there  should  ever 
have  been  a  time  when  Southey  was 
reckoned  a  great  poet;  that  his  name 
should  be  regularly  mentioned  in  con- 
junction with  those  of  Coleridge  and 
Wordsworth,  and  should  be  almost 
universally  ranked  above  that  of  Shel- 
ley or  of  Keats.  Yet  it  is  certain  that 
for  a  long  time  he  was  regarded,  at 
least  by  a  large  number,  with  not  merely 
respect  for  his  life — ^which  he  more 
than  deserved — ^but  with  a  belief  in  his 
genius  which  it  is  no  longer  easy  to 
comprehend.  His  works,  to  be  sure, 
had  usually  no  large  sale.  But  as  he 
wrote  much,  he  was  always  before  the 
public;  and  the  number  of  his  produc- 
tions compensated  to  some  extent  for 
their  lack  of  circulation.  What  was 
perhaps  of  more  importance  to  the 
spread  of  his  reputation  was  the  fact 


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that  he  was  always  spoken  of  in  the 
\  ery  highest  terms  by  a  body  of  influen- 
tial reviewers.  A  deference  was  felt 
for  his  learning  which  later  scholarship 
cannot  sanction ;  for  while  multifarious, 
it  was  neither  accurate  nor  profound. 
A  further  deference  was  expressed  for 
his  imputed  genius  which  men  of 
modem  times  do  not  feel.  Especially 
was  this  true,  during  that  long  preval- 
ence of  Tory  domination  which  ex- 
tended from  the  fall  of  Napoleon  to 
the  passage  of  the  Reform  Bill.  He 
was  universally  celebrated  in  the  reac- 
tionary periodicals  of  the  period  as  one 
of  the  most  eminent  authors  of  the 
time,  occasionally  as  the  most  eminent. 
He  was  reckoned  among  the  sublimest 
of  poets,  the  profoimdest  of  scholars, 
the  most  excellent  of  Uprose  writers. 
These  were  the  assertions  constantly 
made  by  the  men  of  the  party  to  which 
he  belonged.  They  were  not  seriously 
contested  by  the  men  of  the  party  to 
which  he  was  opposed.  His  works,  as 
fast  as  they  appeared  —  and  they 
appeared  very  fast  —  were  regularly 
reviewed  in  about  every  prominent 
periodical,  and  so  far  as  the  periodicals 
professing  his  own  political  faith  were 
concerned,  they  were  almost  invariably 
reviewed  with  high  praise. 

Nor  did  this  estimate  of  Southey, 
which  ranked  him  on  an  equality  with 
Coleridge  and  Wordsworth,  come 
entirely  from  ordinary  men.  The 
unqualified  praise  of  Landor — almost 
the  only  continuous  praise  ever  ex- 
pressed by  him  of  anybody — ^may  be 
disregarded;  for  in  several  instances, 
though  particularly  in  this  one,  Landor 
had  a  perversity  of  admiration  which 
excited  on  the  part  of  his  fellow  men 
sometimes  surprise,  sometimes  amuse- 
ment, and  sometimes  irritation.  But 
as  an  illustration  of  a  by  no  means 
uncommon  attitude  at  the  time,  take  the 
letter  to  Southey  written  in  1813  by 
Walter  Scott  in  regard  to  the  laureate- 
ship.  For  the  sake  of  the  writer's 
character,  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  he 
meant  what  he  said,  little  as  it  resounds 


10  the  credit  of  his  judgment.  "I  am 
not  such  an  ass,"  wrote  Scott,  "as  not 
to  know  that  you  are  my  better  in 
poetry,  though  I  have  had  (probably 
but  for  a  time)  the  tide  of  popularity 
in  my  favor." 

Against  this  laudatory  estimate  of 
professional  critics — ^and  to  some  extent 
of  authors  of  high  repute — stood  then, 
and  has  always  continued  to  stand,  un- 
shaken the  indifference  of  the  general 
public  of  cultivated  men.  They  could 
not  be  induced  to  read,  or,  if  induced, 
they  could  not  be  made  to  admire. 
Their  attitude  toward  Southey  is 
another  proof  among  the  many  proofs 
familiar  to  the  student  of  literary  his- 
tory, of  the  truth  of  the  dictum,  when 
properly  understood,  of  the  great  Greek 
philosopher,  that  the  people  at  large, 
however  contemptible  they  may  appear 
v;hen  taken  one  by  one,  are  not,  when 
collectively  considered,  unworthy  of 
sovereignty.  "The  principle,"  said 
Aristotle,  "that  the  multitude  ought  to 
be  supreme  rather  than  the  few  best  is 
capable  of  a  satisfactory  explanation. 
Each  individual  among  the  many  has 
a  share  of  virtue  and  judgment,  and 
when  they  meet  together  they  become 
in  a  manner  one  man.  .  .  .  Hence 
the  many  are  better  judges  than  a  single 
man  of  music  and  poetry;  for  some 
understand  one  part  and  some  another, 
and  among  them  they  understand  the 
whole." 

There  is,  indeed,  something  almost 
pathetic  in  Southey's  career,  and  in  the 
contrast  furnished  by  it  between  the 
great  anticipations  he  cherished  and  the 
proportionately  petty  realities  he  accom- 
plished. He  believed  in  himself  so  sin- 
cerely and  so  thoroughly  that  it  was 
perhaps  well  that  he  lived  no  longer 
than  he  did,  to  witness  any  further 
crumbling  of  his  hopes  and  expectations 
than  that  which  he  actually  experienced. 
And  in  certain  ways  he  had  a  right  to 
believe  in  himself.  Never  was  there  a 
man  who  did  his  full  duty  with  more 
consistent  r^[ularity  and  fidelity.  In 
all  the  relations  of  private  life,  he  was 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


more  than  blameless;  he  was  in  the 
highest  degree  exemplary.  Never  was 
there  a  better  husband,  a  kinder  father. 
Never  was  there  a  man  more  bent  on 
looking  after  the  well-being  of  those 
mtrusted  to  his  charge,  either  by  his 
own  act  or  the  improvidence  of  those 
to  whom  he  was  allied.  Never  was 
there  one  more  willing  to  sacrifice  him- 
self for  the  sake  of  his  friends,  never 
one  more  generous  in  hastening  to  the 
aid  of  strangers  in  distress  whom  he 
deemed  deserving.  He  brought  hope 
and  help  from  his  own  scanty  resources 
to  those  struggling  with  difficulties.  He 
was,  in  truth,  unwearied  in  well-doing ; 
and  in  spite  of  his  positive  opinions 
there  was  in  his  nature  a  wide  and 
embracing  charity  for  the  views  of 
men,  whether  living  or  dead,  for  whose 
character  and  ability  he  had  respect 
if  any  common  ground  could  be  dis- 
covered upon  which  they  could  stand. 
All  this  can  be  said  justly;  even  more 
could  be  said  truly.  The  praise,  though 
in  certain  respects  of  the  very  highest 
kind,  is  not  in  the  least  degree  exag- 
gerated. But  a  man  may  be  the  best  of 
husbands  and  fathers,  the  most  faithful 
of  friends,  generous  in  feeling,  upright 
in  conduct,  without  being  a  man  of 
genius;  and  Southey,  though  possessed 
of  great  and  varied  talents,  was  very  far 
from  being  a  man  of  genius.  Flawless 
too  as  he  was  in  all  the  relations  of  pri- 
vate life,  he  was  also  in  his  way  one  of 
the  most  unreasoning,  intolerant,  and 
narrow-minded  bigots  that  ever  lived. 
He  thought  and  spoke  of  political  and 
literary  foes  with  a  bitterness  and  un- 
charitableness  which  to  men  of  the 
present  day  is  none  the  less  offensive 
because  he  honestly  believed  that  in  so 
doing  he  was  acting  as  the  special  cham- 
pion of  the  Lord.  He  had  started  out 
in  life,  holding  the  most  extreme  radical 
opinions.  He  had  then  given  expres- 
sion to  sentiments  which  had  brought 
down  upon  him  the  invectives  of  the 
men  who  styled  themselves  Anti- Jaco- 
bins. His  political  views  and  his  metri- 
cal experiments  had  been  travestied  by 


Canning  in  imitations  which  are  far 
superior  to  the  originals.  From  the 
extreme  position  in  one  direction  which 
he  had  early  taken  he  had  gone  to  the 
extreme  in  the  other  direction.  It  wa,s 
inevitable  that  the  intemperance  of 
opinion  he  displayed  on  some  topics 
should  lead  to  his  opinions  on  others 
being  misinterpreted  and  misrepre- 
sented. He  was  more  than  once 
charged  with  expressing  views  which 
he  was  so  far  from  entertaining  that  he 
felt  for  them  actual  aversion.  He  was, 
for  instance,  thoroughly  out  of  sym- 
pathy with  the  tone  of  the  Quarterly 
Review  when  speaking  of  American 
men  and  American  affairs.  He  pro* 
tested  not  only  against  the  injustice  of 
the  attitude  but  against  its  folly.  Yet 
so  close  was  his  own  connection  with 
tliat  periodical  that  he  was  then  held 
and  has  sometimes  been  held  since 
responsible  for  the  very  utterances  he 
disliked  and  deplored. 

There  is  nothing  vcr>^  unnatural  in 
the  change  of  opinion  which  Southey 
underwent,  nor  under  ordinar>*  condi- 
tions is  there  anything  about  it  objec- 
tionable. What  was  offensive  was  the 
fury  he  exhibited  toward  those  who 
continued  to  advocate  the  views  which 
he  himself  had  abandoned.  Against 
them  he  was  continually  breathing  out 
thrcatenings  and  slaughter.  The  pri- 
vate utterances  preserved  in  his  pub- 
hshed  correspondence  read  often  like 
the  ravings  of  a  fanatic  monk,  and  dis- 
play the  spirit  of  a  Spanish  inquisitor. 
It  is  hard  to  believe  that  a  good  man. 
which  Southey  unquestionably  was. 
could  give  vent  to  the  aspersions  he  diti 
upon  the  character  and  motives  of  those 
whose  opinions  differed  from  his  own; 
or  that  an  intelligent  man  living  in  the 
nineteenth  century  should  indulge  in 
beliefs  which  would  have  been  almost 
discreditable  to  an  ignorant  monk  of 
the  ninth.  Nothing  irritated  him  more 
than  that  the  men  of  the  party  to  which 
he  was  opposed  should  be  permitted  to 
express  their  opinions  unchecked.  Dur- 
ing the  years  of  Tory  domination  that 


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43 


followed  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  he  was 
constantly  clamoring  for  restraints  upon 
the  liberty,  or  as  he  called  it,  the  licen- 
tiousness of  the  press.  The  news- 
papers, he  declared  in  1820,  ought  to 
be  under  the  control  of  the  government. 
Nothing  inflammatory,  nothing  hostile 
tc  existing  institutions  should  be  suf- 
fered to  appear.  In  the  same  year  he 
declared  that  the  freedom  of  the  press 
was  incompatible  with  public  security. 
His  later  correspondence,  in  truth,  is 
fairly  dolorous  with  its  predictions  of 
coming  calamity ;  for  the  prophetic  rage 
took  hold  of  him  as  the  poetic  rage 
abated ;  only  it  was  not  on  the  lyre  but 
in  his  letters  that  he  "struck  the  deep 
sorrows  of  his  soul."  In  the  concession 
of  the  Catholic  claims  he  foresaw  as 
early  as  1822  the  approaching  ruin  of 
the  country.  The  measure,  he  said, 
might  be  staved  off  for  a  while,  but 
it  was  certain  to  be  carried  at  last.  "I 
do  not  dream  of  preserving  our  liber- 
ties," he  wrote;  "the  question  is  how 
much  it  will  be  possible  to  save  from  the 
*vreck,  and  how  long  before  we  arrive 
at  that  strong  and  armed  government 
with  which  all  changes  of  that  nature 
must  end."  A  little  earlier  he  had 
written  to  a  friend  to  the  same  mourn- 
ful effect.  "Things  cannot  continue 
thus,"  he  said  in  1820,  "and  whatever 
course  they  may  take,  if  you  and  I 
should  reach  the  age  of  three-score 
years  and  ten,  we  shall,  in  all  human 
p»robability,  have  outlived  the  English 
constitution  and  the  liberties  of  Eng- 
land." All  the  industrial  development 
of  modem  society  met  with  his  unquali- 
fied disapproval.  As  late  as  1832  he 
wrote  to  a  friend  that  he  could  not  con- 
ceive of  a  great  cotton  manufactory  as 
anything  but  an  abomination  to  God  and 
man.  These  establishments  in  fact 
were  producing  more  goods  than  the 
world  could  afford  a  market  for,  and  the 
ebb  tide  of  prosperity  was  as  certain  as 
the  flow;  and  then,  he  added,  in' some 
neap  tide  Radicalism,  Rebellion,  and 
Ruin  will  rush  in  through  the  breach 
which  hunger  has  made.  "I  was  bom," 


he  wrote  in  a  letter  of  September,  1829, 
"during  the  American  revolution;  the 
French  revolution  broke  out  just  as  I 
grew  up,  and  my  latter  days  will  in  all 
likelihood  be  disturbed  by  a  third 
revolution  more  terrible  than  cither." 

Men  who  sincerely  entertain  such 
sentiments  are  not  apt  to  regard  with 
tenderness  those  who  hold  contrary 
views.  All  such  were,  in  Southey's 
opinion,  the  vilest  of  the  vile.  It  can  be 
well  understand  therefore  that  a  person 
of  this  character  should  become  an 
object  of  dislike,  and  almost  of  detesta- 
tion, to  the  men  of  the  opposite  party. 
He  was  constantly  termed  a  turn-coat 
and  a  renegade ;  and  the  epithets  he  sent 
out  were  retumed  to  him  with  added 
virulence.  His  life  in  consequence  was 
in  certain  aspects  little  more  than  a  long 
conflict  with  literary  and  political  foes. 
But  in  one  respect  he  occupied  a  posi- 
tion of  peculiar  advantage.  This  was 
the  perfect  satisfaction  he  felt  with 
everything  he  himself  said  or  did.  In 
all  of  Southey's  trials  and  tribulations 
— and  in  some  ways  they  were  numer- 
ous and  in  all  ways  nobly  borne — he 
was  invariably  comforted  with  the  con- 
sciousness that  in  any  and  every  view 
he  expressed  at  any  time  on  any  subject 
he  was  absolutely  right.  If  during  the 
course  of  his  career  he  had  changed  his 
opinions,  it  was  something  for  which  he 
felt  neither  moral  nor  intellectual  con- 
trition. The  discarded  views,  even  if 
they  were  mistaken,  belonged  properly 
to  the  period  in  life  in  which  they  were 
held.  They  were  no  more  to  his  dis- 
credit than  teething  in  an  infant. 

There  must  have  been  something 
peculiariy  exasperating  to  Southey's 
opponents  in  the  knowledge  they  could 
not  fail  to  gain  of  this  tranquil  self- 
sufficiency.  The  rock  •  of  serene  self- 
satisfaction  upon  which  he  was  perched, 
constituted  an  impregnable  barrier  from 
which  argument  retired  baffled ;  against 
it  the  waves  of  criticism  and  calumny 
dashed  in  vain.  As  a  rule  over  the 
minds  of  the  most  positive  of  men  there 
comes  at  times  doubt  as  to  the  absolute 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


correctness  of  their  own  conclusions. 
If  we  can  trust  Southey's  recorded 
utterances,  never  did  there  appear 
among  his  convictions  the  slightest  trace 
of  that  weak  paltering  with  one's 
own  self-confidence,  which  sometimes 
obtrudes  its  hateful  presence  into  the 
thoughts  of  the  most  opinionated — that, 
upon  any  subject  about  which  he  ex- 
pressed himself  with  assurance,  he 
could  be  mistaken.  In  whatever  dispute 
he  became  engaged,  he  did  not  merely 
suppose,  he  was  positively  certain  that 
he  was  completely  in  the  right.  In  any 
historic  or  literary  discussion  in  which 
he  took  part,  he  never  had  a  moment's 
doubt  that  he  knew  far  more  of  the 
subject  than  his  opponent.  He  was 
consequently  always  sure  to  come  off 
victorious.  In  the  controversies  he 
carried  on,  he  professed  himself  to  be 
always  in  good  humor  with  his  oppo- 
nents. He  could  not  be  heartily  angry 
with  them,  because  they  lay  so  com- 
pletely at  his  mercy.  Every  attack  they 
directed  against  any  position  he  had 
taken,  served  only  to  make  manifest  its 
strength.  Such  are  his  very  words 
found  on  more  than  one  occasion  in 
his  letters.  They  represented  accurately 
his  state  of  mind.  The  serene  happi- 
ness brought  to  life  by  the  conviction 
that  one  is  always  right  and  one's 
adversaries  are  always  wrong,  is  some- 
thing that  defies  any  estimate  of  value 
which  the  ordinary  imagination  is  able 
either  to  calculate  or  to  comprehend. 
Southey  possessed  in  its  perfection  this 
most  precious  of  treasures.  Thrice  is 
he  armed,  says  the  poet,  who  hath  his 
quarrel  just;  but  thrice  three  times  is 
he  armed  that  hath  an  unwavering  con- 
fidence in  the  justness  of  his  quarrel. 
Along  with  this  faith  in  the  correct- 
ness of  his  views  went  an  equal  faith  in 
his  own  greatness — especially  in  his 
greatness  as  a  poet  and  as  a  historian. 
In  1796,  at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  he 
made  his  most  successful  poetic  venture 
in  an  epic  entitled  "Jo^^  of  Arc."  Two 
years  later  it  appeared  in  a  second  and 
revised    edition.      Then    followed    in 


succession  a  number  of  works  remark- 
able for  their  extent,  if  not  for  their 
merit,— 'Thalaba  the  Destroyer"  in 
1801,  "Madoc"  in  1805,  "The  Curse  of 
Kehama"  in  1810,  and  "Roderick  the 
Last  of  the  Goths"  in  1814.  There  were 
many  other  poems  produced  both  before 
and  after  the  appearance  of  these.  But 
it  is  these  of  which  he  himself  had  the 
highest  opinion;  it  is  upon  these  that 
praises  were  lavished  by  distinguished 
contemporaries.  Upon  these  too  his 
poetical  reputation  mainly  rested  then 
and  rests  now,  so  far  as  he  can  be  said 
to  have  poetical  reputation  at  all.  "Joan 
of  Arc,"  as  he  himself  asserted,  set  him 
up  in  the  world.  It  gave  him  hopes  of 
a  popularity  which  was  never  realized 
by  the  success  of  the  productions  which 
followed.  That  the  great  excellence  of 
his  verse  would  be  recognized  ultimately 
he  never  had  the  slightest  question  from 
the  outset,  though  he  was  compelled  to 
ptit  off  the  happy  day,  first  to  his  later 
years,  and  then  to  posterity.  For  as 
time  went  on,  his  poetry  met  with  less 
and  less  favor,  so  far  as  favor  depends 
not  on  the  praise  of  critics  but  on  the 
multitude  of  readers.  Its  sale  dimin- 
ished instead  of  increasing.  But  it  was 
not  his  fault  that  his  writings  were  not 
popular;  it  was  entirely  the  fault  of  the 
public.  Future  times  would  reverse  the 
verdict  of  the  present;  and  upon  that 
which  was  now  disregarded  and  fre- 
quently decried  would  be  built  the 
enduring  monument  of  his  fame. 

No  one  embraced  more  heartily  than 
Southey  and  promulgated  more  con- 
stantly the  dictum  that  the  great  author 
must  create  his  own  audience,  and  that 
the  opinion  of  contemporaries  must  be 
of  little  or  no  value.  As  late  as  1831 
he  expressed  his  thorough  conviction 
that  they  who  seek  anxiously  the 
applause  of  their  own  age  must  be  con- 
tented with  it,  for  they  would  never 
have  that  of  any  succeeding  one. 
"Many  years  must  elapse,"  he  wrote  at 
another  time,  "before  tfie  opinion  of  the 
few  can  become  the  law  of  the  many." 
To  posterity  the  poet  must  always  be 


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looking,  forgetting  that  posterity  has 
so  much  laid  upon  its  shoulders  by  the 
living  who  are  demanding  its  attention, 
that  it  has  but  comparatively  little 
leisure  left  it  to  rehabilitate  the  dead. 
His  state  of  mind,  as  revealed  in  his 
correspondence,  shows  the  slow  declen- 
sion of  confidence  in  immediate  success 
into  almost  absolute  hopelessness;  and 
there  would  be  something  saddening  in 
watching  the  gradual  decadence  of  high- 
wrought  expectation,  were  not  such 
feelings  counteracted  by  observing  the 
steady  increase  which  went  on  in  his 
own  self-estimate.  There  can,  indeed, 
be  found  in  his  earlier  correspondence 
one  half-hearted  doubt  expressed  as  to 
the  absolute  supremacy  of  his  position. 
This  was  in  1811.  In  a  letter  of  that 
year  to  Grosvenor  Bedford,  he  modestly 
disavowed  the  character  which  that 
friend  had  given  him  in  an  article  on 
"The  Curse  of  Kehama,"  written  for 
the  Quarterly  Review,  but  never 
printed.  "I  wish,"  he  wrote  in  serious 
remonstrance,  "you  would  not  call  me 
the  most  sublime  poet  of  the  age, 
because  on  this  point  both  Wordsworth 
and  Landor  are  at  least  my  equals.  You 
will  not  suspect  me  of  any  mock- 
modesty  in  this.  On  the  whole  I  shall 
have,  doiie  greater  things  than  either, 
but  not  because  -  I  possess  greater 
powers." 

It  was  this  sort  of  conviction  that 
sustained  Southey's  courage  during  a 
career  in  which  his  poetry  was  much 
praised  but  little  read.  It  enabled  him  to 
look  with  a  certain  degree  of  equanimity 
upon  the  success  of  contemporary 
authors.  He  admired  and  respected 
Scott ;  of  his  own  superiority  to  him  as 
a  poet  he  had  not,  however,  the  slightest 
question.  "We  shall  both  be  remem- 
bered hereafter,"  he  wrote  to  him  in 
1813,  "and  ill  betide  him  who  shall 
institute  a  comparison  between  us. 
There  has  been  no  race ;  we  have  both 
got  to  the  top  of  the  hill  by  different 
paths,  and  meet  there  not  as  rivals  but 
as  friends."  "You  and  I,"  he  wrote  to 
him  the  following  year,  "are  not  yet 


off  the  stage ;  and  whenever  we  quit  it, 
it  will  not  be  to  men  who  make  a  better 
figure  there."  Through  all  these  years 
of  working  and  waiting  he  gave  his 
iriends  to  understand  that  his  standard 
of  achievement  was  something  to  which 
only  a  few  of  the  world's  great  poets 
had  attained.  As  like  them  he  stood 
on  lofty  and  lonely  heights,  like  them 
he  must  expect  to  be  visited  but  by  the 
few.  This  state  of  mind  was  reached 
only  as  a  result  of  the  chastenings  of 
experience.  The  success  of  "Joan  of 
Arc"  led  him  to  anticipate  more  for 
"Thalaba."  Before  it  was  published, 
he  wrote  that  its  sale  was  of  importance 
to  him.  He  would  not,  he  declared, 
sell  his  whole  property  in  it  "because 
I  expect  the  poem  will  become  popular 
and  of  course  productive."  His  expec- 
tations were  disappointed.  The  work 
appeared  in  the  first  half  of  1801.  In 
November  of  that  year  he  wrote  to  a 
friend  an  account  of  its  success.  "The 
sale  of  Thalaba'  is  slow,"  he  said; 
"about  three  hundred  only  gone." 

Naturally  after  this  experience,  he 
did  not  look  with  confidence  upon  the 
prospects  of  "Madoc,"  his  next  work, 
to  which  in  particular  he  trusted  for 
immortality.  "I  shall  get  by  it  less 
money  than  fame,"  he  wrote  to  his 
brother  in  October,  1803,  "and  less 
fame  than  envy;  but  the  envy  will  be 
only  life-long."  In  1808  he  wrote  to  a 
friend  about  certain  great  poems  he  was 
still  planning.  "Considering,"  he  said, 
"that  the  first  edition  of  Thalaba'  is 
lying  in  the  warehouse,  and  that  my 
whole  profits  upon  it  have  amounted  to 
five  and  twenty  pounds,  this  is  having 
good  heart.  But  I  cast  my  bread  upon 
the  waters,  and  if  I  myself  should  not 
live  to  find  it  after  many  days,  my 
children  will."  Later  in  that  same  year 
he  communicated  to  the  same  friend 
the  news  that  this  work  had  at  last 
reached  the  end  of  its  slow  seven  years' 
sale,  and  that  its  reprinting  at  once  was 
recommended  by  the  publishers.  He 
took  courage,  though  he  was  far  from 
being  duly  exultant.    "Slow  and  sure," 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


he  wrote,  *'but  it  is  satisfactory  to  see 
the  fruit  trees  of  one's  own  planting 
beginning  to  bear,  however  slender  the 
first  crop."  A  few  years  later  he 
seemed  to  take  a  melancholy  pride  in 
the  little  acceptance  of  his  work  by  the 
public  as  compared  with  the  enormous 
success  which  waited  upon  the  produc- 
tions of  some  of  his  contemporaries. 
He  contrasted  the  disproportion  be- 
tween the  sale  of  "The  Curse  of  Keha- 
ma,"  and  that  of  "The  Lady  of  the 
Lake,"  which  had  been  published  at 
nearly  the  same  time.  Of  the  latter 
twenty-five  thousand  copies  had  been 
printed;  of  the  former  five  hundred. 
Even  of  this  five  hundred,  he  wrote  in 
February,  1811,  "if  they  sell  in  seven 
years  I  shall  be  surprised."  But  as  he 
was  enabled  to  gain  his  support  from 
other  sources,  it  was  a  matter  of  little 
consequence.  "So,"  he  added,  "as  I 
feel  no  want  of  any  profit  from  these 
works,  which  are  for  futurity,  I  am 
completely  indiflferent  concerning  the 
immediate  success." 

As  wUl  be  inferred  from  the  extracts 
already  quoted,  the  failure  of  his  poems 
to  sell  did  not  shake  in  the  slightest 
Southey's  faith  in  himself  or  his  con- 
fidence that  the  neglect  of  contempo- 
raries would  be  more  than  made  up  by 
the  admiring  reverence  of  future 
generations.  After  he  was  gone,  he 
would  receive  that  justice  which  is  as 
seldom  denied  to  the  dead  as  it  is 
granted  to  the  living.  Of  "Kehama" 
he  observed  that  it  would  increase  his 
reputation  without  increasing  his  popu- 
larity. "Every  generation,"  he  wrote 
to  his  brother  in  1809,  "will  aflFord  me 
some  half-dozen  admirers  of  it,  and  the 
everlasting  column  of  Dante's  fame 
does  not  stand  upon  a  wider  basis." 
Later  in  the  same  year  he  wrote  to  a 
friend  about  the  same  poem.  "With 
regard  to  'Kehama,' "  he  said,  "I  was 
perfectly  aware  that  I  was  planting 
acorns,  while  my  contemporaries  were 
setting  Turkey  beans.  The  oak  will 
grow ;  and  though  I  may  never  sit  under 
its    shade,    my    children    will."      Four 


years  later  he  expressed  himself  to  the 
same  effect  about  "Roderick,  the  Last 
of  the  Goths."  The  work  could  not 
have  a  great  sale.  "I  am  neither 
sanguine,"  he  wrote  to  Cottle  in  1814, 
"about  its  early  nor  doubtful  about  its 
ultimate  acceptance  in  the  world."  "The 
sale  of  it,"  he  said  to  another  friend, 
"will  become  of  importance,  when  by 
the  laws  of  literary  property  it  will  no 
longer  benefit  the  author  or  his  family." 
"The  passion  for  novelty  is  soon  satis- 
fied," he  wrote  to  his  brother  in  Decem- 
ber, 1815,  "and  the  poem  is  of  far  too 
high  a  character  to  become  popular  till 
time  has  made  it  so.  It  is  like  an  acorn 
upon  Latrigg.  The  thistles  and  the 
fern  will  shoot  up  faster,  and  put  it 
out  of  sight  for  a  season,  but  the  oak 
will  strike  root  and  grow." 

As  no  one  would  buy  his  poetry,  he 
was  compelled  to  turn  to  prose  for  his 
subsistence.  It  was  very  well,  he 
observed,  to  be  content  with  posthu- 
mous fame ;  but  it  was  impossible  to  be 
so  with  posthumous  bread  and  cheese. 
In  this  department  of  intellectual  exer- 
tion, he  was  far  more  fortunate.  Here- 
in he  met  with  a  fair  degree  of  success ; 
in  a  few  instances  with  great  success. 
What  is  more  it  was  a  success  right- 
fully won.  His  prose,  though  lacking 
in  llie  very  highest  graces  of  style,  and 
by  no  means  deserving  of  the  excessive 
laudation  sometimes  bestowed  upon  it, 
is  generally  delightful  and  fully  merited 
the  favor  with  which  it  was  regarded. 
It  was  simple,  clear,  and  unaffected, 
and  was  frequently  marked  by  felicities 
of  phrase  which  arrest  the  attention  and 
enforce  the  idea.  It  is  even  now  always 
read  with  pleasure  save  when  he  sought 
to  play  the  part  of  a  humorist  The 
drollery  of  Southey  is  one  of  the  most 
depressing  things  in  literature.  It 
excites  a  distrust  in  human  nature, 
almost  a  sense  of  shame,  that  an3rthing 
so  preposterous  should  ever  have  been 
mistaken  for  facetiousness  by  any  civi- 
lized man,  still  more  by  a  man  of  a  high 
order  of  ability.  Yet  it  has  further  to 
be  said  that  even  in  his  prose  his  success 


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SOUTHEY  AS  POKT  AND  HISTORIAN 


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was  largely  due  to  work  which  he  him- 
self regarded  as  comparatively  unim- 
portant. These  were  the  little  sketches, 
essays,  and  reviews  which  he  produced 
merely  as  potboilers.  One  of  these 
short  pieces  has  done  more  to  keep  his 
name  before  the  world  of  readers  than 
his  most  laborious  performances.  The 
"Life  of  Nelson,"  is  the  most  popular 
vvork  he  ever  wrote.  In  its  first  form 
it  was  an  article  in  the  Quarterly 
Review.  Even  at  this  day  its  circula- 
tion in  England  is  very  large. 

But  there  was  one  field  in  the  depart- 
ment of  prose  which  he  purposed  to 
make  peculiarly  his  own.  This  was 
history.  To  build  upon  it  a  great  name 
v/as  one  of  his  most  ardent  ambitions. 
To  one  work  in  particular  he  devoted 
his  attention  at  an  early  period  and 
labored  at  it  more  or  less  during  his 
v/hole  life.  This  was  a  history  of 
Portugal.  It  was  never  completed  and 
no  portion  of  it  was  ever  published. 
An  offshoot  of  it,  indeed — ^the  history 
of  Brazil — came  out  between  the  years 
1810  and  1819  in  three  very  bulky  vol- 
umes. I  have  never  read  it — a  peculi- 
arity I  share  with  nearly  all  the  mem- 
bers of  the  English-speaking  race — 
and  therefore  have  not  a  right  to 
express  an  opinion  as  to  its  merits ;  but 
in  r^ard  to  its  fortune,  it  can  be 
asserted  that  it  met  with  no  more  favor 
from  the  public  than  did  "Madoc,"  and, 
in  this  instance,  with  much  less  mercy 
from  the  reviewers.  A  history  of  the 
Peninsular  War, — which  appeared  be- 
tween 1823  and  1832, — was  received 
with  somewhat  greater  indulgence, 
owing  to  the  more  general  interest  in 
the  subject;  but  it  did  not  at  the  time 
satisfy  the  requirements  of  those  best 
acquainted  with  the  events  and  most 
interested  in  their  proper  representa- 
tion. As  a  consequence  it  was  cast  in 
the  shade  then,  and  has  been  still  more 
so  in  modern  times,  by  the  slightly  later 
production  of  Colonel  Napier.  But  the 
prospective  publication  of  the  work  of 
another  for  which  Wellington  had 
reserved  his  materials,  did  not  abate  in 


the  slightest  Southey's  serene  confidence 
in  the  inevitable  superiority  of  his  own 
work.  The  Duke  might  have  behaved 
with  more  wisdom,  he  wrote  to  Caro- 
line Bowles.  "Let  who  may  write  the 
military  history,"  he  added,  "it  is  in  my 
book  that  posterity  will  read  of  his 
campaigns." 

The  truth  is  that  Southey  was  un- 
fitted both  by  temperament  and  train- 
ing for  a  historian.  By  nature  he  was 
the  intensest  of  partisans.  To  every 
investigation  he  made  or  question  he 
considered  he  brought  a  bundle  of 
prejudices  and  preconceived  views.  He 
lacked  entirely  the  judicial  cast  of  mind 
which  is  never  swerved  from  the  truth 
by  the  merely  plausible.  He  lacked  still 
more  that  high  historical  imagination 
which  gives  to  its  possessor  an  almost 
intuitive  insight  into  the  motives  which 
sway  both  individuals  and  masses  of 
men.  Furthermore  he  had  only  the 
most  elementary  notions  of  research. 
With  his  own  private  library,  large  as 
it  was,  —  especially  in  Spanish  and 
Portuguese  books — ^he  could  not  have 
written  an  enduring  work  for  the  his- 
tory of  a  modem  state.  It  would 
require  the  study  of  an  infinitude  of 
detail  which  he  could  never  have  made 
the  claim  of  having  accomplished,  and 
of  the  necessity  of  which  he  had  not  the 
slightest  comprehension.  Nor  was  the 
resulting  lack  of  accuracy  counter- 
balanced in  his  case  by  the  interest 
which  wrath  and  partiality  usually  lend 
to  that  mixture  of  fact  and  fable  which 
we  agree  to  call  history. 

Yet  of  his  greatness  as  a  historian 
Southey  had  no  more  doubt  than  of  his 
greatness  as  a  poet.  What  he  did  in  the 
former  capacity  he  recognized  must  be 
slower  of  production  than  in  the  latter ; 
but  it  would  be  just  as  enduring. 
"Pyramids  are  not  built  in  a  day,"  he 
wrote  in  1801,  "and  I  mean  to  make 
mine" — by  which  he  meant  the  history 
of  Portugal  —  "to  outlive  and  outrage 
the  Egyptian  ones."  He  knew,  he 
declared,  that  his  work  would  be  of 
more  permanent  reputation  than  Gib- 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


bon's.  Pages  could  be  filled  with 
extracts  from  his  private  correspon- 
dence expressing  these  laudatory  esti- 
mates of  himself  as  a  historian.  The 
future,  to  which  he  was  constantly 
appealing  from  the  verdict  of  contem- 
porary opinion,  has  failed  to  accept  him 
at  his  own  valuation.  Yet  during  a 
great  part  of  the  fourth  decade  of  the 
nineteenth  century — in  fact  till  toward 
its  close — Southey,  owing  to  the  multi- 
plicity of  his  undertakings,  filled  on 
the  whole  a  larger  space  in  the  public 
eye  than  any  other  living  man  of  letters. 
Posterity,  instead  of  wondering  at  his 
greatness,  as  he  anticipated,  now  finds 
itself  wondering  at  the  fame  he  achieved 
in  his  lifetime.  Its  present  attitude  is 
a  singular  commentary  upon  his  remaric 
in  a  letter  to  a  friend  as  late  as  1832 : 
"It  is  more  profitable  to  have  your 
reputation  spread  itself  in  breadth;  I 
am  satisfied  with  looking  to  the  probable 
length  of  mine." 

One  purely  literary  production  of  his 
of  some  notoriety,  if  not  of  much  im- 
portance, made  its  appearance  during 
this  same  decade.  It  had  been  in  his 
mind  a  score  of  years  before  he  pre- 
pared it  for  publication.  This  was  the 
work  entitled  "The  Doctor,"  the  first 
part  of  which  came  out  in  1834.  The 
last  two  of  its  seven  volumes  did  not 
appear  till  after  his  death.  There  are, 
it  may  be  said,  interesting  passages  in 
it,  but  it  is  not  interesting  as  a  whole. 
Worse  than  anything  else,  it  is  every- 
where deformed  by  that  terrible  faccT 
tiousness  in  which  Southey  took  delight, 
and  in  that  bastard  wit  which  relies  for 
its  effect  not  upon  the  idea  which  is 
sought  to  be  conveyed  but  upon  the 
variations  of  type  in  which  the  words 
are  printed.  Literature  in  fact  has  little 
more  depressing  than  the  ghastly 
attempts  at  humor  found  here.  An 
elephant  playfully  endeavoring  to  gam- 
bol like  a  kitten  may  give  one  a  physical 
counterpart  to  the  mental  feats  of 
Southey  in  his  desperate  struggles  to  be 
jocose. 

The  work  was  anonymous.    It  never 


had  a  large  sale,  in  spite  of  Southey's 
persistent  efforts  to  arouse  interest  in 
it  by  making  inquiries  about  it,  and 
suggesting  the  name  of  some  noted  man 
as  its  possible  author.  This  practice  he 
carried  on  in  a  way  that  has  occasionally 
shocked  the  sentiments  or  excited  the 
indignation  of  moralists.  His  conduct, 
indeed,  in  the  methods  he  followed  to 
conceal  his  having  any  concern  with  the 
work,  brings  up  for  consideration,  one 
o£  the  most  mooted  questions  in  casu- 
istry. Has  an  author,  who  desires  to 
remain  unknown,  the  right  to  deny  his 
having  written  any  particular  produc- 
tion when  the  question  is  put  to  him 
directly?  On  this  point  controversy 
has  raged  for  an  indefinite  period.  That 
sturdy  moralist,  Dr.  Johnson,  apparently 
took  the  affirmative  view.  He  told  Bos- 
well  that  he  was  sure  that  Burke  was 
not  the  author  of  "J^^^^s."  He  was 
sure  of  it  because  Burke  had  told  him 
so  of  his  own  accord.  "The  case  would 
have  been  different,"  he  added,  "had  I 
asked  him ;  a  man  so  questioned,  as  to 
an  anonymous  publication,  may  think 
he  has  a  right  to  deny  it"  Obviously 
the  contrary  view  puts  the  writer  at 
the  mercy  of  any  impudent  seeker  after 
information  whose  social  position  or 
physical  strength  suggests  the  inadvisa- 
bility  or  prevents  the  possibility,  of 
returning  that  proper  answer  which  can 
be  made  only  through  the  agency  of 
the  boot. 

But  those  who  dissent  from  this  view 
assure  us  that  a  direct  denial  is  never 
justifiable.  Whewell,  the  Master  of 
Trinity,  discussed  this  question  in  his 
"Elements  of  Morality."  He  took 
strongly  the  negative  side.  He  insisted 
upon  the  wrongfulness  of  a  direct  denial 
even  when  the  mere  refusal  to  answer 
at  all  would  be  equivalent  to  answering 
in  the  affirmative.  Other  methods  could 
be  followed  by  the  persecuted  author 
who  sought  to  save  himself  from 
the  impertinent  inquisitor.  "He  may 
evade  the  question,"  this  moralist  tells 
us,  "or  turn  off  the  subject.  There  is 
nothing  to  prevent  his  saying,  'How  can 


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SOUTHEY  AS  POET  AND  HISTORIAN 


4Q 


you  ask  me  such  a  question?*  or  any- 
thing of  the  like  kind."  Again  he 
informs  us  that  the  author  interrogated 
may  seek  for  some  turn  of  conversation 
by  which  he  may  baffle  curiosity  with- 
out violating  truth.  This  is  the  course 
of  conduct  recommended  in  this  particu- 
lar case  by  the  moralist  who  in  the  same 
work  had  previously  laid  it  down  as  a 
dictum  that  he  "who  has  used  expres- 
sions with  a  view  to  their  being  mis- 
understood" has  violated  the  duty  of 
truth;  who  had  further  said  that 
"not  only  lying  but  every  mode  of 
conveying  a  false  belief  is  prohibited 
by  the  principle  of  truth."  The 
doctrine  is  assuredly  sound.  The 
whole  essence  of  a  lie  consists  in  the 
intention  to  produce  in  the  mind  of 
another  a  false  impression  of  a  given 
fact.  That  impression  this  professed 
moralist  tells  us  it  is  wrong  to  produce 
directly;  but  it  is  right  to  produce  it 
indirectly.  You  may  word  your  answer 
so  as  to  induce  your  hearer  to  believe 
something  contrary  to  the  truth.  Hav- 
ing achieved  this  desired  result,  if  con- 
fronted later  with  your  supposed  denial, 
when  the  truth  has  come  out,  you  can 
proudly  point  to  the  fact  that  your 
language  is  susceptible  of  quite  another 
mterpretation  from  that  which  it  would 
naturally  bear  and  which  at  the  time  you 
actually  intended  to  have  it  bear.  This 
is  a  sort  of  cheap  morality  which  is  held 
in  high  esteem  by  a  certain  class  of 
advocates  of  so-called  truth.  To  any 
but  a  moralist  of  this  sort  it  would  seem 
much  more  manly  for  the  writer,  who  is 
determined  to  have  his  identity  con- 
cealed, to  lie  boldly  like  a  gentleman, 
than  to  palter,  like  a  sneak,  with  words 
in  a  double  sense  intended  to  produce 
an  impression  contrary  to  the  truth. 

However  this  may  be,  neither  of  these 
methods  can  Southey  be  said  to 
have  followed.  Among  intelligent  men 
familiar  with  his  writings  there  was 
never  doubt  as  to  his  authorship  of 
"The  Doctor."  The  opinions  expressed, 
both  literary  and  political,  were  his, 
the  likes   and   dislikes   were   his,   the 


methods  of  expression  were  his.  Con- 
jecture accordingly  pointed  to  him 
almost  invariably  from  the  outset. 
Now  had  he  been  content  to  deny  the 
authorship,  whenever  charged  with  it 
or  asked  about  it,  no  serious  fault  could 
be  found  with  his  conduct  by  those  who 
hold  the  view  taken  by  Dr.  Johnson. 
But  it  is  only  the  direct  personal  ques- 
tioning that  justifies  the  denial.  What 
may  be  called  a  negative  mendacity  is 
all  that  the  most  tolerant  of  casuists 
would  be  willing  to  treat  as  legitimate. 
Positive  mendacity  in  such  a  matter 
can  plead  nothing  in  its  defense.  The 
anonymous  author  cannot  be  permitted 
to  go  out  of  his  way  to  create  the 
impression  that  he  is  not  responsible  for 
the  work  under  consideration.  Yet  this 
is  something  which  "the  great  and  good 
Southey,"  as  his  admirers  delighted  to 
term  him,  actually  did.  His  conceal- 
ment of  his  authorship  of  the  work 
assumed  an  almost  aggressive  character. 
Again  and  again  he  introduced,  of  his 
own  accord,  the  subject  in  letters  so 
worded  as  to  lead  inevitably  to  the 
inference  that  he  had  nothing  whatever 
to  do  with  its  production.  His  son 
tells  us  in  his  biography  that  his  father's 
mystification  in  regard  to  the  matter 
was  "one  of  his  chief  sources  of  amuse- 
ment, and  indeed  his  only  recreation 
during  his  latter  years." 

In  an  unremitting  devotion  to  this 
peculiar  sort  of  pleasure  Southey  antici- 
pated the  necessity  of  making  any  posi- 
tive denial  of  his  authorship  by  sedu- 
lously attempting  to  saddle  it  upon  vari- 
ous other  writers.  His  suggestion  of 
their  names  was  always  accompanied 
with  high  encomiums  of  the  work  itself. 
One  of  the  latest  he  selected  for  this 
compliment,  as  he  assuredly  considered 
it,  was  Theodore  Hook.  "I  have  to 
thank  you  for  a  copy  of  The  Doctor,'  " 
he  wrote  to  him  on  one  occasion.  To 
him  also  he  duly  forwarded  letters  on 
the  work  which  had  come  addressed  to 
himself.  He  tried  another  experiment 
of  the  'same  general  kind  of  denial 
upon    Lockhart,    the    editor    of    the 


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Qt4arterly.  This  was  utterly  unpro- 
voked by  any  inquiry  of  the  latter  or 
by  any  curiosity  expressed  by  him  about 
the  book.  "The  Doctor/'  Southey 
wrote  to  him  in  February,  1834,  **has 
been  sent  to  me  with  my  name  in  rubric 
letters  on  the  back  of  the  title-page, 
and  with  the  author's  compliments,  but 
with  no  indication  who  that  author  is; 
nor  has  the  channel  through  which  it 
came  enabled  me  to  guess  the  source. 
Some  guesses  that  seemed  likely  enough 
were  met  by  greater  unlikelihoods;  but 
when  I  heard  Frere  named  as  the  sup- 
posed author,  I  wondered  I  had  not 
thought  of  him  at  first.  I  know  not  in 
what  other  person  we  could  find  the  wit, 
the  humor,  the  knowledge  and  the  con- 
summate mastery  of  style."  Lockhart 
was  a  good  deal  surprised  at  receiving 
this  unsolicited  information;  for  in  his 
own  mind  he  had  fastened  upon 
Southey  as  the  author.  But  after  such 
a  volunteered  disclaimer,  as  it  seemed, 
of  having  written  it,  he  naturally 
assumed  that  it  could  not  be  his.  He 
wrote  a  review  of  it  for  the  Quarterly, 
which  while  giving  up  much  of  its  space 
to  extracts  from  its  better  portions,  con- 
tained remarks  upon  it  as  a  whole  which 
could  hardly  have  been  pleasing  for 
Southey  to  read.  For  most  of  what  the 
anonymous  author  had  written  Lock- 
hart  expressed  little  admiration.  "Two- 
thirds  of  his  performance,"  he  said, 
"look  as  if  they  might  have  been 
penned  in  the  vestibule  of  Bedlam."  He 
suspected,  indeed,  that  the  work  was 
the  production  of  a  man  who  stood  more 
in  need  of  physic  than  of  criticism.  He 
furthermore  spoke  of  the  author's  self- 
esteem,  his  heavy  magniloquence,  his 
prolix  babble  on  various  topics  and  his 
dolorous  jesting.  Southey  must  have 
gained  from  this  review  a  clear  impres- 
sion of  the  inadvisability  of  successfully 
imposing  upon  an  editor.  For  once, 
at  least,  the  contributor  got  from  the 
Quarterly  an  unbiased  view  of  the  way 


his  work  was  regarded  w^hen  its  author- 
ship was  not  known. 

With  the  fifth  volume  of  "Tht 
Doctor,"  which  came  out  in  1838, 
Southey's  literary  life  practically  ended. 
In  the  following  year  came  the  begin- 
ning of  his  breakdown.  It  was  not. 
however,  until  1843,  that  the  body  wa^ 
relieved  from  an  existence  in  which  the 
mind  had  largely  ceased  to  share.  It 
was  a  tragic  ending  to  what  had  been 
in  many  ways  a  long  and  honorable 
career.  It  may  have  been  as  well  that 
his  life  was  not  protracted  to  witness 
what  would  have  been  to  him  the  more 
tragic  gradual  decadence  of  the  estimate 
in  which  he  was  held.  All  his  antici- 
pations of  a  popularity  with  posterity 
that  would  more  than  counterbalance 
the  indifference  of  his  contemporarie> 
have  come  to  nought.  The  burden  he 
cast  upon  it,  so  far  it  has  declined  tf» 
take  up.  Charles  Lamb  stood  infinitely 
lower  than  he  in  repute  while  the  two 
were  living.  Him  Southey  liked  ex- 
ceedingly and  on  one  or  two  occasion> 
championed  vigorously.  But  that  his 
aear  but,  in  his  opinion,  humble  friend 
V'Ould  ever  rival  him  in  the  regard  of 
posterity  never  so  much  as  occurre<I 
to  his  thoughts.  Yet  Lamb's  writings, 
even  the  most  trivial,  have  been  care- 
fully collected  and  brought  out  in 
edition  after  edition.  Their  popularit> . 
in  truth,  shows  every  sign  of  increasing. 
No  such  fortune  has  befallen  Southe> . 
There  has  been  no  call  for  that  com- 
plete posthumous  edition  of  his  works, 
by  the  sale  of  which  he  expected  \u> 
descendants  to  be  enriched;  which  by 
containing  his  latest  additions  and  cor- 
rections would  effectually  prevent  the 
piratical  attempts  of  unscrupulous  pub- 
lishers. His  reputation  in  fact  has 
slowly  but  steadily  sunk  since  his  death, 
in  spite  of  occasional  efforts  to  revive 
it;  and  that  posterity,  which  in  hi> 
opinion  was  to  revere  his  memor\',  is 
already  beginning  to  come  dangerously 
near  to  forgetting  his  name. 


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THE  SUNNY  SLOPES  OF  FORTY 
By  Mbrbdith  Nicholson 


We  who  gain  the  watershed  of  the 
years,  no  matter  how  humble  our  sta- 
tion or  how  flimsy  our  achievements, 
may  be  pardoned  for  loitering  to  throw 
out  and  reappraise  the  accumulations 
in  our  pack  with  a  view  to  lightening 
the  load  for  further  traveling.  Those 
who,  climbing  the  ladder  of  the  paral- 
lels toward  the  white  North,  pause  at 
life's  meridian  to  compare  notes  of 
their  adventures,  may  still  profit  by  crit- 
icism; whereas  others  who  wait  to 
cache  the  reflections  of  their  senecti- 
tude  in  the  polar  ice,  to  be  resurrected 
by  later  travelers,  may  commit  them- 
selves irrevocably  to  error.  If  we  have 
gained  the  ridge  in  good  spirits  we  are 
still  able  to  fight  back,  and  to  defend 
ourselves  from  attack. 

The  sunny  slopes  of  forty  are  those 
that  dip  down  on  the  farther  side  of 
the  Great  Divide.  Any  one  can  see 
with  half  an  eye  that  they  are  less 
precipitous  than  the  geographers  de- 
scribe them.  It  appears  from  a  cau- 
tious survey  that  by  following  the  more 
deliberate  streams  that  longest  hold  the 
heat  of  the  sun  we  may  delay  appre- 
ciably our  arrival  at  the  polar  waste. 
We  are  not  of  those  who,  having  mis- 
laid their  charcoal  tablets: 

"in  disdainful  silence  turn  away, 
Stand  mute,  self -centered,  stern,  and  dream 
no  more." 

We  mean  to  give  the  official  chloro- 
former  a  lively  sprint  before  he  over- 
takes us.  We  shall  fool  the  world  as 
long  as  we  can  by  keeping  our  trousers 
pressed  and  flaunting  the  bravest  neck- 
wear the  haberdasher  affords.  By  tack- 
ing a  new  collar  to  our  spring  overcoat 
and  shaking  out  the  moth  balls  we  may 
carry  it — thrown  indifferently  over  the 
arm  as  though  we  never  expected  to  use 
it — a  long  way  into  November. 


Those  of  us  who  have  reached  the 
great  watershed  certainly  cannot  com- 
plain of  the  fate  that  launched  us  on 
our  pilgrimage  in  the  last  half  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  The  drama  has 
never  been  dull  and  we  have  watched 
the  course  of  many  excellent  players. 
An  imaginative  boy,  bom  in  the  later 
sixties,  could  still  hear  the  bugles  and 
the  clash  of  arms.  Throughout  this  mid- 
western  country  every  hearthside  had 
its  Iliad.  Now  and  then,  within  my 
own  recollection,  there  appeared  at  the 
doorstep  men  who,  unable  to  redomesti- 
cr.te  themselves  after  four  years  of 
camp  and  field,  still  clung  to  the  open 
road.  How  long  the  faded  old  army 
overcoat  hung  together — and  on  how 
many  shoulders  it  became  an  adver- 
tisement of  valor,  an  asset,  a  plea  for 
alms!  Having  been  denied  the  thrills 
of  war  itself  it  was  no  small  compensa- 
tion to  look  upon  its  heroes — to  observe 
daily  in  the  street  men  who  had  com- 
manded armies,  to  attend  those  gather- 
ings of  veterans  that  so  brightly  visual- 
ized for  curious  youth  the  magnitude 
of  the  great  struggle  of  the  sixties.  If 
one's  father  had  been  of  the  mighty 
legion;  if  there  existed  in  the  garret  a 
musket  or  a  sword  that  he  had  borne 
in  the  conflict;  if  there  remained,  in  a 
soap-box  under  the  eaves,  the  roster 
of  his  company,  an  order  or  a  report 
or  a  bundle  of  old  letters,  for  inspection 
on  rainy  days,  the  luckier  the  lad  to 
whom  such  memorabilia  came  as  a 
birthright.  It  is  inconceivable  that  any 
boy  bom  in  those  times  could  have 
escaped  the  fascination  of  those  heroes, 
whether  he  sat  at  meat  with  them  daily 
in  his  own  household,  or  saw  them  in 
the  streets  with  the  stamp  of  the  drill 
sergeant  still  upon  them.  And  nothing 
was  so  impressive  as  the  fact  that  they 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


had  flung  down  their  youth  as  the  gage 
of  battle. 

We  are  none  of  us  without  our  wist- 
ful tenderness  for  those  who  won  "the 
immortal  youthfulness  of  the  early 
dead": 

"Shelley  and  Keats,  with  laurels  fresh  and 

fair, 
Shining  unwithered  on  each  sacred  head; 
And  soldier  boys  who  snatched  death's  starry 

prize, 
With  sweet  life  radiant  in  their  fearless  eyes, 
The  dreams  of  love  upon  their  beardless  lips. 
Bartering  dull  age  for  immortality: 
Their  memories  hold  in  death's  unyielding 

fee 
The  youth  that  thrilled  them  to  the  finger 

tips." 

The  historian  and  the  philosopher 
have  not  yet  exhausted  those  decades 
that  immediately  followed  the  war.  The 
social  and  political  conditions  of  the 
post-bellum  period  present  phenomena 
as  interesting  as  any  in  our  history,  and 
in  spite  of  the  dark,  shameful  pages  of 
reconstruction  it  still  seems  little  short 
of  a  miracle  that  the  combatants  yielded 
themselves  as  readily  as  they  did  to 
readjustment.  I  remember  when  "The 
Fool's  Errand"  was  a  novel  much  dis- 
cussed ;  it  must  have  been  the  best  seller 
of  its  day.  But  quite  aside  from  its 
value  as  a  criticism  of  life  or  as  a 
protest  against  Ku-Klux  ferocity,  I 
recall  Judge  Tourgee's  appearance  in  a 
Methodist  pulpit  in  my  town  one  Sun- 
day morning,  dashingly  arrayed  in 
evening  dress. 

The  display  of  these  obscene  vest- 
ments, so  cooly  flaunted  in  the  sanctu- 
ary, deepened  my  early  impression  of 
the  literary  life  as  a  gay  adventure, 
against  which  even  the  terrors  of  a 
provincial  Sabbath  could  not  prevail. 
However,  the  garment  oftenest  in  the 
eyes  of  the  youth  of  those  days  was  the 
enticingly  described  bloody  shirt,  whose 
pleasant  appellation  envisaged  it  in 
glowing  scarlet  and  seemed  to  set  it 
dancing  on  all  the  clothes-lines  in 
Christendom.  It  was,  I  fancy,  from  the 
sheer  contrariness  of  youth,  that  having 


heard  from  the  cradle  so  much  of  the 
unreconstructed  and  menacing  char- 
acter of  the  Southern  colonels  and 
brigadiers,  I  clearly  resolved  to  identify 
myself  with  the  political  party  whose 
strength  lay  chiefly  in  the  states  lately 
in  rebellion.  I  must  be  pardoned  if  I 
mention  this  the  least  bit  jauntily,  for 
in  dark  alleys  and  on  vacant  lots  safely 
remote  from  the  domestic  altar  my  ir- 
reconcilable playmates  made  necessar>' 
the  defense  of  my  apostasy  with  fists 
none  too  skillful  and  a  frame  wherein 
anaemia  threatened  early  extinction. 
My  sinful  leanings  toward  mag^animit>* 
and  tolerance  I  shall  not  seek  to  justify 
on  any  high  grounds:  though  perhaps 
there  was  a  degree  of  sincerity  in  my 
feeling  that  the  war  being  over  it  was 
preposterous  to  renew  the  fight  ever}- 
time  the  community  was  called  upon  to 
elect  a  constable. 

Those  feelings  and  agitations  had  the 
eflPect  nevertheless  of  stimulating  in 
most  of  my  generation  an  interest  in 
politics.  The  idealism  that  had  flow- 
ered in  the  war  not  unnaturally  with- 
ered and  awaited  a  refreshening  of  the 
exhausted  soil.  It  was  with  real  aston- 
ishment that  most  of  us  whose  youth 
synchronized  with  the  complete  un- 
broken domination  of  the  humbled 
South  and  who  saw  the  spirit  of  mili- 
tary triumph  revived  in  all  political 
struggles,  began  to  hear  strange  mur- 
murings  on  our  own  side  of  the  Ohio 
as  we  approached  manhood.  In  1876 
there  had  been  rumblings  that 
threatened  for  a  time  to  deepen  into 
the  bellowings  of  cannon — when  it 
seemed  that  those  swords  that  had  not 
been  beaten  into  plowshares  but  provi- 
dentially stored  away  in  the  attic,  mi^^t 
be  oiled  and  sharpened  for  other 
battles. 

The  limitations  of  time  compel  roe 
to  compress  in  a  word  a  belief,  by  no 
means  original  with  me,  that  the  cam- 
paign of  1884  marked  a  reflowering  of 
idealism  in  our  political  life.  It  seems 
in  the  retrospect  that  the  exalted  faith 
which  had  planted  its  bright  gonfalon 


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THE  SUNNY  SLOPES  OF  FORTY 


53 


on  the  heights  of  so  many  battlefields 
in  the  sixties  had  begun  once  more  to 
assert  itself.  Not  the  last  interesting 
circumstances  attending  Mr.  Cleve- 
land's appearance  as  the  protagonist  of 
a  new  gospel  was  his  unconscious 
appeal  to  what  may  be  called  the 
academic  element  in  our  population, 
long  scorned  as  an  impractical  body  of 
visionaries,  but  which  from  his  advent 
has  exerted  an  increasingly  salutary 
influence  in  public  affairs.  The  once 
despised  professor  with  his  prepos- 
terous ideals,  his  fatuous  insistence  that 
human  experience  is  not  to  be  neglected 
in  the  scrutiny  of  present  tasks  and 
duties,  has  now  become  a  force  to 
reckon  with  in  public  matters  great  and 
small.  It  must  be  with  a  certain  grim 
htunor  that  those  of  us  who  take  our 
politics  seriously  glance  toward  Wash- 
ington and  see  there,  in  the  seat  of  the 
Presidents,  a  gentleman  finely  repre- 
sentative of  the  academic  type — ^who 
on  ceremonial  occasions  in  the  groves 
of  academe  wore  so  demure  and  clois- 
tral an  air — administering  the  affairs 
of  the  United  States  with  an  intelli- 
gence, a  poise,  a  courage,  that  are  so 
admirable  to  the  majority  of  his  coun- 
trymen, so  bewildering  to  the  hungry 
and  thirsty  among  his  fellow  partisans. 
I  beg  to  be  indulged  a  moment  longer 
to  reflect  a  conviction  held  by  many 
that  our  colleges  and  universities  are 
to  exert  more  and  more  an  influence 
upon  our  political  ideals  and  the  effici- 
ency of  governmental  administration. 
I  shall  not  attempt  to  enumerate  the 
long  list  of  scholars  in  universities  who 
have  in  the  past  twenty  years  taught 
political  morality  and  economic  free- 
dom, or  who  have  not  scrupled  to  stand 
on  the  firing  line  when  there  was  work 
for  fighting  men  to  do;  but  the  indi- 
vidual cases  are  not  so  impressive  as 
the  appearance  in  so  many  states,  and 
notably  in  so  many  state  universities, 
of  men  who,  often  with  personal  dis- 
comfort and  sacrifice,  are  stimulating  in 
American  youth  a  faith  in  ideals  and 
the    courage    to    defend    and    support 


them.  It  is  not,  I  believe,  a  fantastic 
notion,  that  within  twenty  years  we 
shall  find  in  American  universities^ 
scliools  for  the  education  of  men  and 
women  in  all  branches  of  municipal 
administration,  and  that  towns  and 
cities  will  draw  upon  these  specially- 
trained  students  for  their  public  ser- 
vants in  the  same  spirit  in  which  other 
corporations  seek  the  best  available 
talent  to  administer  their  business.  And 
manifestly  there  is  no  sane  reason  why 
any  community  should  choose  to  be 
governed  from  the  gutter  rather  than 
by  experts  with  no  other  ambition 
than  to  serve  the  public  honestly  and 
efficiently. 

The  boy  that  I  seem  to  have  been  in 
those  green  valleys  below  was  not 
interested  solely  in  military  and  politi- 
cal heroes,  though  my  first  literary 
admirations  were  linked  in  some  degree 
to  the  earlier  passion.  I  took  into  my 
boyish  pantheon  Emerson,  Lowell, 
Whittier,  Longfellow  and  Thoreau, 
whom  I  appraised  as  quite  worthy  to* 
trail  their  austere  robes  among  the  mili- 
tary and  political  heroes  of  my  adora- 
tion; and  their  New  England,  which 
none  of  my  forbears  had  ever  looked 
upon,  became  a  half -mythical  and 
fabled  world.  Nor  can  I  think  of  them 
now  as  other  than  priests  of  high  con- 
secration who  stood  valiantly  at  their 
simple  altars  and  preached  the  clean 
gospel  that  was  in  them.  Democracy, 
as  they  interpreted  it,  became  a  finer 
thing  than  it  had  been  before  and 
fortunate  are  the  new  generations  if 
they  do  not  wholly  neglect  them. 

By  what  transitional  processes  or 
under  what  guidance  I  gave  over  the 
concealment  and  perusal  of  trash  and 
dipped  into  those  deeper  and  cleaner 
currents  I  have  no  impression,  but  I 
recall  that  at  sixteen  I  was  the  most 
devoted  of  Emersonians.  Having 
habitually  secreted  innumerable  copies 
of  Beadle's  most  seductive  romances 
in  the  lining  of  my  waistcoat  or,  as 
being  more  in  keeping  with  the  daring 
spirit  of  the  tales  themselves,  tucked 


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them  into  the  top  boots  which  boys  wore 
in  those  days,  the  open  display  of  pocket 
volumes  of  Emerson  marked  an  ad- 
vance in  moral  tone  as  well  as  in  taste. 
Conceit  and  priggishness  which  dance 
malevolently  on  the  ink-bottle  at  this 
point  must  vanish  before  my  admission 
that  in  the  case  of  Emerson  at  least,  I 
had  found  and  pocketed  only  an  odd 
stone,  as  puzzling  in  its  way  as  a  mag- 
net and  affording  the  unexpected 
shocks  of  a  toy  battery.  The  very  dis- 
continuity of  the  essays  and  their  allu- 
siveness  and  irrelevances  w^re  well 
calculated  to  arrest  and  charm  the  young 
mind.  And  they  were  so  amazingly 
plausible!  Higher  up  on  the  slopes  of 
youth  I  was  to  find  the  English  poets, 
but  quite  likely  they  would  have  bound 
me  less  strongly  if  the  New  Englanders 
had  not  fallen  in  my  way  just  when 
they  did. 

I  have  since  learned  that  Emerson 
propounded  no  consistent  philosophy; 
that  he  was  after  all  only  a  kind  of 
rural  almanac  man,  the  keeper  of  a 
wayside  spring  who  handed  up  cold 
water  in  a  rusty  dipper  to  the  passerby ; 
and  yet  I  have  never  escaped  his  charm ; 
and  an  acquaintance  with  him  and  his 
contemporaries  implanted  in  me  a  rev- 
erence for  the  New  England  landscape 
over  which  in  my  fancy  they  roamed, 
uttering  wisdom  and  chanting  songs. 
I  speak  of  this  only  because  it  is  fair 
to  assume  that  to  many  thousands  of  us 
in  these  prairies  those  New  England 
voices  came  as  a  great  inspiration.  In 
these  days  of  literary  exploitation,  when 
a  new  genius  is  heralded  every  morning 
and  eclipsed  by  another  at  sundown, 
when  the  horse  power  of  every 
novelist's  motor  is  advertised  to  hasten 
the  steps  of  the  hesitating  purchaser 
toward  the  bookshop,  those  austere 
Olympians  appear  a  trifle  dingy.  We 
are  assured  that  Emerson  was  a 
peddler  of  discarded  rubbish  from  old 
garrets,  that  Whittier  piped  a  thin 
music,  and  that  Longfellow  was  only  a 
benevolent  Sunday-school  teacher  lead- 
ing his  class  for  a  picnic  in  the  forest 


primeval.  Lowell  has  been  described 
as  a  dull  essayist  and  a  poet  who 
gleaned  a  negligible  aftermath  in  older 
fields,  Hawthorne  as  a  melancholy  bore, 
and  Holmes  as  a  cheerful  one ;  and  yet 
for  those  of  us  who  found  them  in 
youth,  when  returning  travelers  brought 
news  of  them  from  the  seat  of  the 
Brahmins,  they  still  speak  with  golden 
tongues. 

We  may  well  wonder,  now  that 
everyone  and  everyone's  aunt  writes 
a  novel,  whether  the  literar>'  calling 
will  ever  again  enjoy  the  dignity  of 
those  days.  Authorship  seems  bent 
upon  confusing  itself  with  journalism, 
with  which,  we  used  to  be  told,  it  has 
no  kinship  whatever.  I  can  recall  at 
the  moment  no  new  shrine  at  a  Con- 
cord, a  Cambridge  or  a  Salem,  no  lately 
discovered  cottage  in  a  snow-bound 
Amesbury  that  is  likely  to  lure  the  pious 
pilgrim.  Those  brooding  New  Eng- 
landers seem  rather  absurd  in  these 
roaring  times  when  every  daily  news- 
paper boasts  a  staff  poet  and  when 
a  novelist  who  fails  to  utter  two  books 
a  year  is  neglecting  his  opportunities. 
Where  some  prosperous  manufacturer 
of  salacious  romance  is  becalmed  in  his 
motor,  and  dictates  to  his  secretary 
while  a  new  tire  is  being  adjusted — 
there  indeed  may  the  delighted  villagers 
pour  forth  to  render  him  homage;  but 
those  who  attempt  to  look  upon  the 
author  at  home  are  as  likely  as  not  to 
be  whipped  from  the  estate  by  the  game 
keepers  or  drowned  for  my  lord's 
entertainment  in  the  lilied  moat 
beneath  the  royal  windows. 

The  literature  of  Democracy  has  its 
own  path  to  blaze,  and  its  opportunities 
for  service  are  enormous.  Certain 
recent  tendencies  toward  the  vulgar  and 
vicious  in  fiction  are  disturbing  and 
disheartening,  but  it  is  to  be  hoped  that 
they  are  only  temporary.  It  is  hardly 
possible  that  the  novel  is  to  be  linked 
permanently  to  the  garbage  can;  that 
the  strength  of  the  "strong*'  books  of 
which  we  hear  lies  hierely  in  their 
malodorousness,     or  that  the  novel  as 


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:>•) 


a  representation  of  life  and  manners  is 
to  be  abandoned  wholly  to  literary 
adventurers  who  combine  the  confec- 
tioner's trade  with  the  fragant  calling 
of  the  scavenger.  American  fiction  has 
not  lacked  noble  servants,  and  there  are 
writers  still  abiding  with  us — 
Howells,  James  and  Cable,  to  go  no 
further — ^who  have  carried  the  torch 
high  and  firmly  planted  it  for  our 
guidance. 

We  need  chant  no  miserere  as  we 
lift  our  pack  and  look  down  upon  our 
further  course.  We  are  still  alive,  mid- 
way of  a  great  era,  and  some  things  of 
worth  we  have  seen  accomplished.  A 
perceptible  strengthening  of  moral  fibre 
in  our  political  life  and  an  increasing 
patience  with  idealism  in  its  many 
expressions  w^  may  safely  jot  down  on 
our  tablets. 

I  take  it  as  a  good  omen  that  this 
society,  whose  purpose  is  the  encourage- 
ment of  sobriety  and  earnestness  in  all 
the  arts,  has  unfolded  its  young  banner 
in  this  teeming  Chicago.  As  a  citizen  of 
another  state  no  sentiment  of  local 
pride  inspires  my  feeling  that  here  in 
this  great  city,  whose  aspect  is  not  with- 
out its  terrors  for  the  unfamiliar  eye, 
idealism  is  struggling  to  flower  with 
as  fine  a  spirit  as  may  be  found  any- 
where in  America.  Nothing  is  more 
cheering  than  the  knowledge  that  here 
at  the  foot  of  the  lakes,  in  this  great 
western  clearing  house,  this  huge 
caldron  of  the  nations,  so  many  great- 
hearted and  earnest  men  and  women 
are    addressing    themselves    to    social 


betterment,  to  political  freedom  and 
honesty,  to  the  dissemination  of  sweet- 
ness and  light.  The  ills  of  Chicago 
may  strike  the  unfriendly  critic  as 
appalling,  but  there  are  many  wise  and 
skilled  physicians  seeking  to  diagnose 
her  afBictions  and  supply  the  remedies. 
It  may  be  doubted  whether  any  city 
of  its  size  m  the  world,  with  any  similar 
history,  ever  offered  encouragement 
along  so  many  lines  of  progress  as 
this  western  capital.  If  to  Chicagoans 
this  tribute  appear  gratuitous  and  pre- 
sumptuous, I  make  it  nevertheless  with 
a  feeling  that  I  should  like  some  such 
expression  to  become  a  part  of  the 
record  of  this  society.  We  find  here 
not  only  groups  of  people  interested 
in  civic  administration,  in  social  uplift, 
and  in  education  along  broad  lines,  but 
we  find  a  municipal  spirit  that  we 
have  only  to  know  to  admire.  It  is 
conceivable  that  here  within  the  lives 
of  many  of  us  the  municipal  riddle 
shall  be  solved  and  ideals  of  beauty  and 
utility  so  blended  and  standarized  as 
to  become  an  example  to  forward-look- 
ing cities  everywhere.  And  it  is  a 
privilege  and  a  pleasure  thus  to  bring 
from  a  sister  province  and  a  sister  city 
this  frail  wreath  to  hang  upon  the  huge 
door,  imaginably  wrought  of  iron  and 
somewhat  battered,  that  stands  at  this 
western  gate.  The  pillars  may  loom 
grim  and  forbidding  against  the  un- 
softened  glare  of  the  prairies,  but  at 
the  top  there  are  already  tracings  of 
"lily-work,"  as  on  the  columns  that 
Hiram  lifted  to  the  glory  of  Solomon. 


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A  PLEA  FOR  CHORAL  SINGING 
By  George  Whitefield  Chadwioc 


About  the  year  1836,  a  musical  society 
was  organized  in  the  little  town  of  Bos- 
cawen,  N.  H.  The  town  records  state 
that  it  had  a  membership  of  singers, 
and  of  players  on  the  flute,  clarinet, 
bugle,  violin,  and  bass  viol,  and  that  it 
was  in  existence  for  more  than  forty 
years.  This  society  was  the  successor 
of  an  earlier  one  which  was  organized 
before  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  called  the  Martin  Luther 
Society,  of  which  Daniel  Webster  and 
his  brother  Ezekiel  were  members,  and 
to  which  they  contributed  a  bass  viol 
and  a  bassoon. 

Such  musical  activities  were  not  ex- 
ceptional or  peculiar  to  that  little  town ; 
on  -the  contrary  they  were  typical  of 
the  interest  in  music  all  over  rural  New 
England,  for  in  those  days  every  village 
had  its  church  and  every  church  its 
choir,  and  in  that  church  and  choir  the 
social  as  well  as  the  religious  interests 
of  the  place  were  largely  concentrated. 
There  were  very  few  organs  in  the 
churches,  so  they  brought  their  bass 
viols,  large  and  small,  and  sometimes 
their  clarinets  and  flute.  To  this  day 
these  old  instruments,  mostly  of  Ameri- 
can manufacture,  are  to  be  found  in 
the  garrets  of  old  New  England  houses. 

This  musical  interest  was  not  con- 
fined to  the  rural  districts;  it  invaded 
the  towns  and  cities,  and  from  these 
choirs  was  eventually  developed  the 
Musical  Convention,  a  kind  of  periodi- 
cal singing-school,  of  which  the  Wor- 
cester Festival,  in  Massachusetts,  is  a 
direct  descendant.  Also,  great  choral 
societies  were  formed,  like  the  Handel 
and  Haydn  Society  of  Boston,  which 
has  been  one  of  the  most  powerful  fac- 
tors in  the  creation  and  preservation  of 
musical  taste  in  that  city.  Besides  this, 
some  of  these  country  players  of  the 


viol,  the  bugle,  and  the  clarinet  strayed 
into  Harvard  Collie  (it  was  easier 
then  than  at  present),  and,  to  the  con- 
sternation of  the  Faculty,  formed  a 
Musical  Club  called  the  Pierian  Sodct}*. 
From  that  small  and  much  disparaged 
association  descended  in  the  third 
generation,  through  the  generosity  and 
public  spirit  of  one  who  had  himself 
quaffed  the  Pierian  spring,  the  Boston 
Symphony  Orchestra.  For  the  Har- 
vard Musical  Association  sprang  from 
the  Pierian  Sodality,  and  through  its 
efforts  orchestral  music  was  nurtured 
and  kept  alive  in  Boston  amid  a 
period  of  storm  and  stress  until  the 
Symphony  Orchestra  was  organized; 
and  largely  owing  to  the  influence  of 
the  Harvard  Musical  Association,  the 
chair  of  music  at  Harvard  Universit)* 
was  established.  Such  was  musical 
New  England  in  the  early  part  of  the 
last  century. 

And  how  is  it  now  ?  In  the  country, 
beyond  the  reach  of  the  trolley,  a  musi- 
cal desert,  a  barren  waste  broken  only 
by  the  occasional  squeak  of  a  wheezy 
cabinet  organ  drooling  out  a  ragtime 
gospel  hymn,  or  a  vulgar  scrap  of 
vaudeville  music  issuing  from  the 
strident  horn  of  a  talking-machine. 
The  village  blacksmith  no  longer  re- 
joices to  hear  his  daughter's  voice  sing- 
ing in  the  choir.  He  listens  to  a  paid — 
and  usually  overpaid — quartet  choir 
simpering  and  snickering  behind  their 
curtain,  and  to  an  organist  who  rafales 
the  congregation  with  selections  from 
the  operas,  or  thinly  disguised  imita- 
tions of  them.  And  in  the  cities,  grand 
opera,  so-called  musical  comedy,  sym- 
phony concerts,  chamber  concerts, 
artists'  recitals,  great  schools  of  music, 
pianolas  and  talking-machines — every- 
thing to  amuse  and  entertain  the  public. 


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A  PLEA  FOR  CHORAL  SINGING 


57 


but  not  much  which  includes  it  in  active 
musical  life. 

All  these  things  are  very  well,  very 
amusing,  sometimes  even  educating;  but 
they  can  never  take  the  place  of  that 
music  which  is  made  in  the  home  and 
by  the  family, — ^made  by  the  people,  for 
the  people,  and  through  which  the 
people  may  achieve  a  part  of  that 
spiritual  uplift  which  is  the  highest  and 
best  element  of  the  musical  art  For 
without  the  interest  of  the  people  them- 
selves in  choral  singing  and  in  home 
music,  the  support  of  the  general  public 
is  not  to  be  expected. 

Why  is  Germany  considered  to  be 
the  most  music-loving  nation?  Not 
because  opera  and  concerts  are  cheap 
and  good;  that  is  the  effect,  not  the 
cause.  It  is  because  everybody,  from 
the  Emperor  down,  is  expected  to  sing, 
and  does  sing.  Students  sing  in  their 
corps-meetings,  and  soldiers  on  the 
march.  Every  workman  in  a  factory 
belongs  to  his  little  Gesang-Verein.  In 
Leipsic  alone  there  are  sixty  or  seventy 
of  these  societies. 

The  English  have  the  reputation  of 
being  an  unmusical  nation,  which,  in  my 
opinion,  is  not  at  all  deserved.  They 
may  be  somewhat  lacking  in  discrimina- 
tion, but  their  appetite  for  music  is 
simply  omnivorous,  and  there  is  no  town 
of  a  thousand  inhabitants  in  England 
without  its  choral  society.  Very  often 
it  has  an  amateur  orchestral  society  also. 
The  great  choral  festivals  of  England, 
in  Birmingham,  Worcester,  Gloucester, 
Hereford,  Sheffield,  and  London  would 
not  be  possible  except  for  this  wide- 
spread interest  in  choral  singing  among 
the  people.  It  is  their  joy  and  delight, 
and  they  even  have  a  musical  notation 
of  their  own  which  is  a  direct  result 
of  it. 

To  be  sure,  there  are  many  choral 
societies  in  the  large  cities  of  the  United 
States,  and  in  many  places  musical 
festivals  are  annually  given,  with  per- 
formances of  choral  works  of  greater 
or  less  importance,  at  which  the  choral 
forces  study  during  a  portion  of  the 


year.  These  festivals  are  usually 
assisted  and  sometimes  arranged  by  the 
symphony  orchestras  of  large  cities, 
which  happen  to  be  on  tour.  In  such 
cases,  as  for  example  at  Worcester  and 
Cincinnati,  at  the  University  at  Evan- 
ston,  at  the  University  of  Michigan  at 
Ann  Arbor,  and,  above  all,  at  Toronto, 
where  the  unrivaled  Mendelssohn  choir 
holds  an  annual  festival  assisted  by  the 
splendid  Chicago  Orchestra,  the  results 
--both  artistic  and  financial — are  so 
decided  that  the  struggling  choral  socie- 
ties of  larger  cities  may  well  envy  them 
their  success. 

In  the  larger  cities  the  choral  socie- 
ties, particularly  those  which  have  been 
longest  established,  are  meeting  with 
little  support  from  the  public,  and  with 
a  lack  of  interest  on  the  part  of  singers 
which  makes  it  difficult  for  them  to  keep 
their  ranks  full.  The  young  people  who 
are  trying  to  study  singing  with  a 
teacher,  but  who  would  learn  much 
more  by  singing  in  a  chorus,  usually  re- 
gard their  voices  as  too  precious  for 
that  purpose,  and  the  others  would  much 
rather  play  bridge-whist,  or  dance,  or 
go  to  a  moving-picture  show.  They 
dislike  to  bind  themselves  to  attend 
rehearsals  of  serious  music  which  may 
possibly  interfere  with  these  diversions. 

And  this  is  not  altogether,  as  some 
have  supposed,  because  our  American 
public  has  lost  interest  in  the  older 
forms  of  classic  choral  music, — the 
oratorios  of  Handel  and  Mendelssohn 
and  the  great  works  of  Bach ;  rather,  it 
is  because  our  young  people  have  not 
been  brought  up  to  sing,  and  thus  have 
never  experienced  the  keen  delight  of 
self-expression  through  the  singing 
voice  and  the  inspiration  that  comes 
through  participation  in  a  choral  per- 
formance. 

But  there  is  a  class  of  our  people  who 
have  discovered  these  pleasures  for 
themselves.  They  are  the  wage-earners, 
the  artisans,  the  domestics,  even  the 
day-laborers,  who  have  been  organized 
into  People's  Choral  Unions  in  sev- 
eral places.    This  movement,  originally 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


started  by  Mr.  Frank  Damrosch  in 
New  York,  has  spread  to  other  cities, 
large  and  small,  with  excellent  results 
to  the  community,  both  socially  and 
artistically.  These  choral  societies  in  a 
certain  way  have  taken  the  place  of  the 
old-fashioned  singing-school.  The  con- 
ductor is  usually  an  enthusiast  who 
gives  his  services  gratis.  The  members 
pay  a  small  sum  at  each  rehearsal  for 
the  running  expenses  and  the  organiza- 
tion is  self-supporting. 

Beginning  with  elementary  instruc- 
tion in  sight-singing  and  voice-produc- 
tion, these  people  are  eventually  trained 
to  take  part  in  the  performance  of 
oratorios  and  choral  works.  A  large 
proportion  of  the  members  in  large 
cities  is  of  foreign  birth,  and  they  are 
setting  a  good  example  to  our  native- 
born  citizens  who  are  idling  away  their 
Sunday  afternoons  or  dozing  over 
lurid  Sunday  papers. 

If  we  hope  ever  to  become  a  really 
musical  nation,  this  interest  in  choral 
singing  must  extend  to  all  classes  of 
society.  The  great  choruses  of  Eng- 
land are  recruited  from  families  of  the 
well-to-do,  and  even  from  the  nobility, 
as  well  as  from  the  working-classes. 
In  Germany,  the  Gesang-Verein  in- 
cludes people  of  every  station  in  life, 
banded  together  by  their  common  love 
of  music.  And  so  it  must  be  in  this 
country  if  we  are  to  realize  the  vision 
of  Walt  Whitman,  and  "hear  America 
singing." 

But  before  this  millennium  can  arrive 
there  is  much  work  to  be  done.  The 
soil  must  be  fertilized  and  made  ready 
to  receive  this  seed  from  which  a  musi- 
cal nation  is  to  grow.  To  do  this  we 
must  begin  at  the  very  beginning.  And 
the  beginning  is  in  the  school;  not  only 
in  the  public  but  in  the  private  school. 
For  in  the  boy's  preparatory  schools, 
with  the  exception  of  those  which  have 
a  daily  church  service  and  choir,  the 
teaching  of  singing  is  almost  wholly 
neglected ;  and  one  direct  result  of  this 
is  that  college  choral  singing,  with  the 
exception  of  the  glee  clubs,  is  almost 


entirely  confined  to  the  football-fidd, 
or  to  convivial  occasions. 

In  the  public  schools  good  work  is 
being  done  and  much  has  already  been 
accomplished.  In  some  of  the  Eastern 
schools  works  like  Haydn's  Creation 
have  been  performed  by  high-school 
choruses.  When  their  students  can 
accomplish  so  much  it  would  seem 
money  well  spent  for  the  school  authori- 
ties to  provide  competent  solo  singers 
and  an  orchestral  accompaniment, — ^but 
unfortunately  they  are  not  always  so 
liberal.  There  is  room  for  improve- 
ment not  only  in  methods  but  in  admin- 
istration, and  especially  in  the  adjust- 
ment of  the  study  of  music  to  the  rest 
of  the  curriculum  of  the  school.  Above 
all,  the  question  of  politics  should  be 
absolutely  eliminated.  The  training  of 
youthful  voices  should  never  be  in- 
trusted to  unqualified  persons — be  they 
ever  so  useful  Republicans,  Democrats 
or  Progressives. 

One  thing  more !  The  women's  musi- 
cal clubs  have  become  a  potent  musical 
influence  all  over  the  country.  They 
are  ceaselessly  working,  studying  and 
organizing,  and  to  them  more  than  to 
any  other  one  factor  is  due  the  growing 
appreciation  of  good  music  in  this 
country.  To  them  the  American  com- 
poser owes  much,  for  they  have  insisted 
that  he  shall  be  heard,  and  respected. 
These  clubs  usually  include  a  chorus, 
■—necessarily  of  sopranos  and  alto? 
only;  but  could  the  "mere  men"  be 
annexed,  in  a  strictly  ex-officio  capacit\' 
of  course,  what  glorious  choral  results 
would  soon  follow!  No  longer  would 
choral  music  languish  in  this  country. 
In  one  generation,  or  before,  choral 
singing  would  become  universal,  as  it 
is  in  England  and  Germany,  to  the 
great  advantage  of  the  community 
socially,  morally,  and  vocally;  for  it 
is  no  longer  a  subject  of  controversy 
that  music  does  exert  a  salutary  influ- 
ence. It  is  conceded,  even  by  those 
who  are  oblivious  of  its  delight  and  deaf 
to  its  appeal ;  even  its  therapeutic  value 
has  been  demonstrated. 


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A  PLEA  FOR  CHORAL  SINGING  59 

So,  let  these  devoted  women  use  all  cal  hive;  and  there  compel  them  to 
those  arts  of  persuasion  for  which  their  serve  their  queens  loyally  and  faith- 
sex  is  so  justly  renowned,  and,  even  by  fully  in  the  cause  of  song.  It  would 
force  if  necessary,  bring  their  husbands,  add  the  brightest  jewel  to  their  already 
brothers,  sons,  and  lovers  into  the  musi-  glittering  diadem. 


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FREE  TRADE  versus  PROTECTION  IN  LITERATURE 
By  Samuel  McChord  Crothers 


In  the  old-fashioned  text-book  we 
used  to  be  told  that  the  branch  of  learn- 
ing that  was  treated  was  at  once  an  art 
and  a  science.  Literature  is  much  more 
than  that.  It  is  an  art,  a  science,  a  pro- 
fession, a  trade,  and  an  accident.  The 
literature  that  is  of  lasting  value  is  an 
accident.  It  is  something  that  happens. 
After  it  has  happened,  the  historical 
critics  busy  themselves  in  explaining  it. 
But  they  are  not  able  to  predict  the  next 
stroke  of  genius. 

Shelley  defines  poetry  as  the  record 
of  "the  best  and  happiest  moments  of 
the  best  and  happiest  minds."  When 
we  are  fortunate  enough  to  happen  in 
upon  an  author  at  one  of  these  happy 
moments,  then,  as  the  country  news- 
paper would  say,  "a  very  enjoyable  time 
was  had."  After  we  have  said  all  that 
can  be  said  about  art  and  craftsman- 
ship, we  put  our  hopes  upon  a  happy 
chance.  Literature  cannot  be  stand- 
ardized. We  never  know  how  the  most 
painstaking  work  may  turn  out.  The 
most  that  can  be  said  of  the  literary 
life  is  what  Sancho  Panza  said  of  the 
profession  of  knight-errantry:  "There 
is  something  delightful  in  going  about 
in  expectation  of  accidents." 

After  a  meeting  in  behalf  of  Social 
Justice,  an  eager,  distraught  young  man 
met  me,  in  the  streets  of  Boston,  and 
asked : 

"You  believe  in  the  principle  of 
equality  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Don't  I  then  have  just  as  much  right 
lo  be  a  genius  as  Shakespeare  had?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  why  ain't  I?" 

I  had  to  confess  that  I  didn't  know. 

It  is  with  this  chastened  sense  of  our 
limitations  that  we  meet  for  any  organ- 


ized attempt  at  the  encouragement  of 
literary  productivity.  Matthew  Arn- 
old's favorite  bit  of  irreverence  in  which 
he  seemed  to  find  endless  enjoyment  was 
in  twitting  the  unfortunate  Bishop  who 
had  said  that  "something  ought  to  be 
done"  for  the  Holy  Trinity.  It  was 
a  business-like  proposition  that  involved 
a  spiritual  incongruity. 

A  confusion  of  values  is  likely  to  take 
place  when  we  try  to  "do  something" 
for  American  Literature.  It  is  an 
object  that  appeals  to  the  uplifter  who 
is  anxious  to  "get  results."  But  the 
difficulty  is  that  if  a  piece  of  writing  is 
literature,  it  does  not  need  to  be  up- 
lifted. If  it  is  not  literature,  it  is  likdy 
to  be  so  heavy  that  you  can't  lift  it. 
We  have  been  told  that  a  man  by  taking 
thought  cannot  add  a  cubit  to  his 
stature.  It  is  certainly  true  that  we 
cannot  add  many  cubits  to  our  literary 
stature.  If  we  could  we  should  all  be 
giants. 

When  literary  men  discourse  wth 
one  another  about  their  art,  they  often 
seem  to  labor  under  a  weight  of  respon- 
sibility which  a  friendly  outsider  would 
seek  to  lighten.  They  are  under  the 
impression  that  they  have  left  undone 
many  things  which  they  ought  to  have 
done,  and  that  the  Public  blames  them 
for  their  manifold  transgressions. 

That  Great  American  Novel  ought  to 
have  been  written  long  ago.  There 
ought  to  be  more  local  color  and  less 
imitation  of  European  models.  There 
ought  to  have  been  more  plain  speaking 
to  demonstrate  that  we  are  not  squeam- 
ish and  are  not  tied  to  the  apron-strings 
cf  Mrs.  Grundy.  There  ought  to  be  a 
literary  centre  and  those  who  are  at  it 
ought  to  live  up  to  it. 

In  all  this  it  is  asstuned  that  contem- 


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FREE  TRADE  versus  PROTECTION  IN  LITERATURE 


6i 


porary  writers  can  control  the  literary 
situation. 

Let  me  comfort  the  over-strained  con- 
sciences of  the  members  of  the  writing 
fraternity.  Your  responsibility  is  not 
nearly  so  great  as  you  imagine. 

Literature  differs  from  the  other  arts 
in  the  relation  in  which  the  producer 
stands  to  the  consumer.  Literature  can 
never  be  made  one  of  the  protected 
industries.  In  the  Drama  the  living 
actor  has  a  complete  monopoly.  One 
might  express  a  preference  for  Garrick 
or  Booth,  but  if  he  goes  to  the  theatre 
he  must  take  what  is  set  before  him. 
The  monopoly  of  the  singer  is  not  quite 
so  complete  as  it  once  was.  But  until 
canned  music  is  improved,  most  people 
will  prefer  to  get  theirs  fresh.  In  paint- 
ing and  in  sculpture  there  is  more  or 
less  competition  with  the  work  of  other 
ages.  Yet  even  here  there  is  a  measure 
of  natural  protection.  The  old  masters 
may  be  admired,  but  they  are  expensive. 
The  living  artist  can  control  a  certain 
market  of  his  own. 

There  is  also  a  great  opportunity  for 
the  artist  and  his  friends  to  exert  pres- 
sure. When  you  go  to  an  exhibition  of 
new  paintings,  you  are  not  a  free  agent. 
You  are  aware  that  the  artist  or  his 
friends  may  be  in  the  vicinity  to  observe 
how  First  Citizen  and  Second  Citizen 
enjoy  the  masterpiece.  Conscious  of 
this  espionage,  you  endeavor  to  look 
pleased.  You  observe  a  picture  which 
outrages  your  ideas  of  the  possible. 
You  mildly  remark  to  a  bystander  that 
you  have  never  seen  anything  like  that 
before. 

"Probably  not,"  he  replies,  "it  is  not 
a  picture  of  any  outward  scene,  it  repre- 
sents the  artist's  state  of  mind." 

"Oh,"  you  reply,  "I  understand.  He 
is  making  an  exhibition  of  himself." 

It  is  all  so  personal  that  you  do  not 
feel  like  carrying  the  investigation 
further.  You  take  what  is  set  before 
you  and  ask  no  questions. 

But  with  a  book  the  relation  to  the 
producer  is  altogether  different.  You 
go  into  your  library  and  shut  the  door. 


and  you  have  the  same  sense  of  intellec- 
tual freedom  that  you  have  when  you 
go  into  the  polling-booth  and  mark 
your  Australian  ballot.  You  are  a 
sovereign  citizen.  Nobody  can  know 
what  you  are  reading  unless  you  choose 
to  tell.  You  snap  your  fingers  at  the 
critics.  In  the  "tumultuous  privacy"  of 
print  you  enjoy  what  you  find  enjoy- 
able, and  let  the  rest  go. 

Your  mind  is  a  free  port.  There  are 
no  customs-house  officers  to  examine  the 
cargoes  that  are  unladen.  The  book 
which  has  just  come  from  the  press  has 
no  advantage  over  the  book  that  is  a 
century  old.  In  the  matter  of  legibility 
the  old  volume  may  be  preferable,  and 
its  price  is  less.  Whatever  choice  you 
make  is  in  the  face  of  the  free  competi- 
tion of  all  the  ages.  Literature  is  the 
timeless  art. 

Clever  writers  who  start  fashions  in 
the  literary  world  should  take  account 
of  this  secrecy  of  the  reader's  position. 
It  is  easy  enough  to  start  a  fashion ;  the 
difficulty  is  to  get  people  to  follow  it. 
Few  people  will  follow  a  fashion  except 
when  other  people  are  looking  at  them. 
When  they  are  alone  they  relapse  into 
something  which  they  enjoy  and  which 
they  find  comfortable. 

The  ultimate  consumer  of  literature 
is  therefore  inclined  to  take  a  philo- 
sophical view  of  the  contentions  among 
literary  people,  about  what  seem  to 
them  the  violent  fluctuations  of  taste. 
These  fashions  come  and  go,  but  the 
quiet  reader  is  undisturbed.  There  are 
enough  good  books  already  printed  to 
last  his  life-time.  Aware  of  this,  he 
is  not  alarmed  by  the  cries  of  the 
"calamity-howlers"  who  predict  a 
famine. 

From  a  purely  commercial  viewpoint, 
this  competition  with  writers  of  all 
generations  is  disconcerting.  But  I  do 
not  see  that  anything  can  be  done  to 
prevent  it.  The  principle  of  protec- 
tion fails.  Trades-unionism  offers  no 
remedy.  What  if  all  the  living  authors 
should  join  in  a  general  strike!  We 
tremble  to  think  of  the  army  of  strike- 


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62  PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 

breakers  that  would  rush  in  from  all  must  not  put  all  our  thought  on  increas- 

centuries.  mg  the  output    In  order  to  meet  the 

From  the  literary  viewpoint,  how-  free  competition  to  which  we  are  ex- 

ever,  this  free  competition  is  very  stimu-  posed,  we  must  improve  the  quality  of 

lating  and  even  exciting.    To  hold  our  our  work.    Perhaps  that  may  be  good 

own  under  free-trade   conditions,   we  for  us. 


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RESPONSE  OF  AUGUSTUS  THOMAS 
Upon  the  Presentation  to  Him  of  the  Gold  Medal  of  the  Institute,  for  Drama 


Mr.  President:  I  cannot  conceive 
of  a  jury  in  the  United  States,  however 
that  jury  might  be  constituted,  however 
chosen  or  appointed,  however  com- 
missioned or  delegated  or  empowered, 
whose  approval  in  a  field  of  art  or  of 
letters  would  be  so  authoritative  as  is 
the  approval  of  the  men  and  the  organ- 
ization for  whom  you  speak. 

The  proper  fear  concerning  that 
approval  is  not  that  it  may  not  be 
sufficiently  esteemed,  but  that  its 
bestowal  may  in  the  recipient  produce 
self-consciousness  to  a  benumbing  and 
inhibiting  degree. 

Nothing  like  this  presentation  has 
ever  been  done  to  me  except  once,  and 
my  experience  then  does  not  help  me 
now,  because  then  I  was  alone,  and 
because  we  had  nothing  to  do  but  to 
take  it  and  not  let  our  new  shoes 
squeak  so  much  going  back  to  our  seats. 
In  the  present  parallel  to  that  remem- 
bered scene  I  miss  this  morning  our 
parents  standing  about  the  wall.  I  miss 
— my  eyes  aren't  as  good  as  they  were 
then — I  almost  miss  the  girls  in  their 
pink  ribbons.  I  miss  the  lilacs  on  the 
teacher's  desk  and,  just  behind  her,  the 
Tropic  of  Capricorn.  It  had  been  there 
all  winter,  but  never  so  awfully  plain  as 
on  that  shiny  morning  in  May  with  the 
sun  outside,  and  then  the  cowbells,  and 
the  trees,  and  the  great,  wonderful 
world  turning  on  its  own  axis  once  in 
every  twent-four  hours.  That  was 
forty-five  years  ago,  and  although  I 
have    remembered   it   ever   since,    the 


Tropic  of  Capricorn  has  never  been  of 
any  real  help  to  me  until  now. 

My  mother  was  eighty-nine  last 
March,  and,  besides,  she  is  not  very 
well.  The  other  children  couldn't  get 
away,  and  she  has  had  to  live  in  St. 
Louis.  I  have  decided  not  to  go  back 
to  New  York  to-night,  but  to  go  home 
and  show  her  this  medal.  She  will  not 
appreciate  it  as  much  as  I  do,  and  al- 
though I  shall  explain  to  her  how  kind 
you  men  are,  and  how  careful  you  have 
to  be,  she  will  only  wonder  what  has 
made  all  the  delay. 

When  we  grow  up  it  is  not  good  to 
be  too  proud,  but  one  may  certainly 
take  to  himself  such  comfort  as  he  may 
find  in  that  clause  of  your  constitution 
which  provides  that  this  medal  must  be 
given  to  a  living  person  or  to  one  who 
has  not  been  dead  more  than  one  year; 
and  as  this  embarrassing  moment  pro- 
longs itself,  there  is  comfort  also 
toward  which  I  reach,  perhaps  need- 
lessly, in  that  other  clause  which  says 
the  medal  must  not  be  awarded  twice 
to  any  one  person. 

But,  Dr.  Matthews,  knowing  as  I  do 
the  greatness  of  the  honor,  and  know- 
ing also  at  first  hand  much  of  human 
weakness,  I  see  no  happiness  in  this 
business  except  by  regarding  this  award 
as  the  Institute's  comment  upon  the 
intentions  of  the  recipient  and  the  seem- 
ing direction  of  his  efforts,  rather  than 
upon  their  results,  and  in  accepting  it 
not  as  a  record  but  as  a  stimulus  and 
an  obligation. 


6j 


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Compositions  by  members  of  the  Institute  made  up  in  its  entirety  the  Fifth 
Program  of  the  Chicago  Symphony  Orchestra's  Twenty-third  Season,  the 
concert  being  given  on  Friday  afternoon,  November  14,  1913,  and  repeated 
Saturday  evening,  November  15,  1913. 

^PRELUDE  TO  ACT  III,  "Natoma" Herbeit 

fA  NORTHERN  BALLAD,  Opus  46 Parker 

"DRAMATIC   OVERTURE,   "Melpomene" Chadwick 

^CONCERTO  FOR  PIANOFORTE  No.  2,  D  minor.  Opus  23. . .  .MacDowell 
Lahchetto  calmato. 
Presto  giocoso. 
Largo — Molto  allegro. 

Soloist:   Miss  Edith  Thompson 

INTERMISSION 

*'THE  DEFEAT  OF  MACBETH" Kelley 

*FOUR  CHARACTER  PIECES,  Opus  48 Foote 

*  FESTIVAL  MARCH  AND  HYMN  TO  LIBERTY Stock 


♦Conducted  by  the  Composer  at  the  first   concert. 

tConducted  by  Mr.  Frederick  A.  Stock,   leader  of  the  Orchestrtu 


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PROGRAM  NOTES 

(Published  by  the  Chicago  Symphony  Orchestra) 

Prepared  by  Felix  Borowski  of  Chicago 


Introduction  to  Act  III 
"Natoma'' 

Victor  Herbert  • 

Born  Feb.  1.,  1859,  at  Dublin 

"Natoma,"  Victor  Herbert's  first  con- 
tribution to  the  literature  of  serious 
opera,  was  produced  for  the  first  time 
Februar>'  25,  1911,  by  the  Chicago 
Opera  Company,  at  Philadelphia.  The 
cast  was  as  follows:  Natoma:  Miss 
Mary  Garden;  Barbara:  Miss  Lillian 
Grenville;  Lieut.  Paul  Merrill:  John^ 
MacCormack;  Alvarado:^  Mario  Sam- 
laarco;  Father  Peralta:  Hector  Du- 
franne;  Don  Francisco  de  la  Guerra: 
Gustave  Huberdeau;  Pico:  Armand 
Crabbe;  Jose  Castro:  Frank  Preisch. 
Geofonte  Campanini  was  the  conductor. 
Four  days  after  the  Philadelphia  per- 
formance "Natoma"  was  brought  out 
at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House,  New 
York,  with  the  cast  that  had  played  and 
sung  it  at  the  first  performance.  The 
opera  was  not  interpreted  in  Chicago 
until  December  15,  1911.  The  libretto 
of  Mr.  Herbert's  work  was  written  by 
Joseph  D.  Redding.  *  This  author 
placed  the  scene  of  the  opera  in  Cali- 
fornia— its  first  act  on  the  Island  of 
Santa  Cruz;  the  second  in  the  plaza  of 
the  town  of  Santa  Barbara  on  the  main- 
land, and  the  third  inside  the  mission 
church,  whose  exterior  had  formed  the 
background  of  the  plaza  in  the  second 
act.  The  time  of  the  action  was  1820, 
under  the  Spanish  regime. 


♦Joseph  Deighn  Redding  (born  Sept.  13, 
1859,  at  Sacramento,  Cal.)  is  by  profession  a 
lawyer.  Educated  first  at  California  Military 
Academy,  he  was  graduated  from  the 
Harvard  Law  School  in  1879,  and  has  been 
in   practice  in   San  Francisco  since   1882. 


The  story  of  "Natoma"  is  concerned  with 
the  Indian  girl,  whose  name  gives  the  title 
to  the  opera,  and  her  love  for  Lieut.  Paul 
Merrill,  of  the  United  States  brig  Liberty. 
The  latter  has  had  some  sentimental  passages 
with  Natoma,  but  when  he  sets  eyes  on  Bar- 
bara^ the  daughter  of  Don  Francisco  de  la 
Guerra — to  her  Natoma  has  long  been  a  com- 
panion— ^his  fancy  for  the  Indian  girl  is  swal- 
lowed up  in  the  stronger  passion  for  her  mis- 
tress. The  young  Spaniard,  Alvarado,  also 
loves  Barbara,  who  is  his  cousin,  and  it  is 
not  long  before  he  is  made  aware  that  the 
girl  reciprocates  the  affection  of  the  young 
lieutenant  whose  ship  is  lying  off  the  island 
of  Santa  Cruz.  Alvarado  conceives  the  plan 
of  killing  Merrill,  but  Castro,  a  half-breed, 
persuades  him  that  a  safer  scheme  would  be 
to  abduct  Barbara  and  carry  her  away  into 
the  mountains.  They  propose  to  do  this  on 
the  morrow  when  the  festivities  of  the  maid- 
en's name-day  will  be  at  their  height.  Na- 
toma, however,  overhears  the  plot,  and  when 
the  fiesta  is  gayest  she  kills  Alvarado  with  a 
dagger  just  as  he  is  about  to  abduct  his 
cousin.  The  crowd  is  on  the  point  of  taking 
vengeance  on  Natoma  when  the  door  of  the 
mission  church  swings  open  and  Father  Pe- 
ralta, the  padre,  appears  on  the  steps  holding 
a  cross  aloft.  He  gives  the  Indian  girl  sanc- 
tuary, and  under  the  stress  of  his  pleading 
Natoma  makes  a  final  renunciation;  for  she 
gives  up  the  world  and  love  and  finds  sur- 
cease of  sorrow  among  the  nuns  of  the 
neighboring  convent. 


Mr.  Herbert's  prelude  is  written  for 
the  following  orchestra:  two  flutes, 
piccolo,  two  oboes,  English  horn,  two 
clarinets,  bass  clarinet,  two  bassoons, 
double  bassoon,  four  horns,  three  trum- 
pets, three  trombones,  tuba,  kettle- 
drums, cymbals,  triangle,  harp  and 
strings.  It  opens  (Feroce,  ma  in  tempo 
moderato)  with  a  marked  phrase  ff  in 
the  full  orchestra,  and  a  slower  section 
eight  measures  long  leads  into  a  broad 
theme  {Maestoso  e  patetico,  C  sharp 
minor,  4-4  time)  given  out  by  all  the 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


strings,  the  double  basses  excepted.  At 
the  eighteenth  measure  there  is  heard 
in  the  violins  and  woodwind  alternately 
the  motive  associated  with  Natoma,  or 
more  properly  with  the  amulet  which 
she  wears  round  her  neck  and  which, 
connected  with  the  history  and  destiny 
of  her  people,  may  be  considered  as 
signifying  Natoma's  fate.  Following 
this  there  comes  a  division  which,  fre- 
quently recurring  in  the  course  of  the 
opera  itself,  is  concerned  with  Natoma 
and  her  love  for  Lieut.  Paul  Merrill. 
Here  it  is  given  to  the  first  violins,  a 
broken  chord  figure  in  the  violas  and 
harp  arpeggios  accompanying  it.  After 
a  development  of  this  the  prelude  ends. 


"A  Northern  Ballad'' 

Opus  46 

Horatio  W.  Parker 

Born  Sept.  5,  1863,  at  Auburndale,  Mass. 

This  work  was  composed  at  New 
Haven,  Conn.,  in  1899,  and  was  pro- 
duced for  the  first  time  at  a  concert  of 
the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra,  Bos- 
ton, Dec.  29,  1899.  Wilhelm  Gericke 
was  the  conductor.  The  programme 
also  contained  Moszkowski's  first 
suite  for  orchestra,  opus  39 — this  pre- 
ceded "A  Northern  Ballad''— and  Bee- 
thoven's sixth  (Pastoral)  symphony, 
which  followed  it.  The  score — still  un- 
published— ^bears  a  dedication  to  Theo- 
dore Thomas.  It  was  performed  at 
these  concerts  during  the  ninth  season 
(Feb.  10,  1900),  Mr.  Thomas  having 
been  the  conductor.  The  composer 
states  that  "A  Northern  Ballad"  bears 
no  "program."  The  work  is  scored  for 
two  flutes,  piccolo,  oboe,  English  horn, 
two  clarinets,  two  bassoons,  four  horns, 
two  trumpets,  three  trombones,  tuba, 
harp,  kettledrums,  bass  drum,  cymbals 
and  strings. 

When  the  piece  was  played  for  the 
first  time  at  Boston  in  1899,  William  F. 
Apthorp,  then  the  editor  of  the  program 
book,  contributed  the  following  analysis 
which  has  been  forwarded  by  the  com- 
poser for  reproduction  here : 


"The  composition  is  essentially  in  sonata 
form.  It  begins  with  a  slow  introduction, 
Molto  moderato,  E  minor,  3-4  time,  in  which 
a  theme  of  folk-song  character  is  developed, 
at  first  simply,  by  the  woodwind  and  horns, 
then  against  counterph rases  in  the  strinsrs. 
Episodic  phrases  from  the  main  body  of  the 
composition  lead  over  to  the  Allegro  non 
troppo  in  E  minor  (3-4  time).  This  begins 
widi  its  fitful  first  theme,  the  development, 
in  which  there  is  a  good  deal  of  contrapuntal 
imitation,  going  on  from  piano  to  fortissimo. 
After  a  change  to  D  minor,  the  'cclli  enter 
with  a  more  cantabile  phrase  against  flutter- 
ing arpeggois  in  the  woodwind,  which  is  soon 
taken  up  by  the  first  violins.  This  is  tran- 
sitional; the  second  theme  coming  in  the 
woodwind  in  D  minor,  over  a  simple  accom- 
paniment in  the  strings.  This  theme  is  de- 
veloped at  some  length,  a  new  lightly  skip- 
ping figure  coming  in  the  flute,  then  the  clari- 
net, as  the  closing  developments  of  the  sec- 
ond theme  lead  over  to  the  free  fantasia. 
This  begins  with  fragments  of  the  first 
theme,  of  the  folk-song  theme  of  the  intro- 
duction, and  a  new  dancing  phrase.  The 
working-out,  though  not  so  very  long,  is 
often  of  an  elaborate  description.  The  third 
part  begins  in  the  tonic,  but  somewhat  irr^^u^ 
larly,  with  figures  from  the  first  theme,  not 
with  the  theme  itself  in  the  shape  in  which 
it  appeared  at  the  beginning  of  the  first  part ; 
it  sounds  like  a  continuation  of  the  working- 
out,  when  all  of  a  sudden  you  find  yourself 
in  the  midst  of  the  first  theme  itself,  and 
become  conscious  that  the  third  part  has  be- 
gun. Its  relation  to  the  first  part  is  r^^Iar, 
the  second  theme  coming  now  in  the  tonic 
E  major.  There  is  a  long  coda  running 
almost  entirely  on  the  second  theme,  the 
composition  ending  pianissimo  in  the  full 
orchestra  in  D  flat  major." 


Dramatic  Overture,  "Melpomene. '^' 

George  Whitefield  Chadwick, 

Born  Nov.  13,  1854,  at  Lowell,  Mass. 

Concerning  his  overture  "Melpo- 
mene," Mr.  Chadwick  has  supplied  the 
following  information  for  the  purposes 
of  this  program :  "It  was  composed  in 
the  year  1886  and  first  performed  by 
the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra  under 
Mr.  Gericke  in  December  of  the  same 
year.  It  was  originally  intended  as  a 
companion  piece  for  my  earlier  overture 
Thalia/  the  full  title  of  which  was 
'Overture  to  an  Imaginary  Comedy." 
'Melpomene/  however,  somewhat  out- 


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grew  its  original  scope,  so  that  it  can 
hardly  be  called  'Overture  to  an  Imagi- 
nary Tragedy'  but  rather  a  piece  which 
typifies  an  atmosphere  of  tragic  poetry 
in  general.  It  was  published  in  1887, 
since  which  time  it  has  probably  been 
played  more  than  any  of  my  other  or- 
chestral works,  having  been  performed 
at  the  Philharmonic  in  London,  at  the 
Worcester  Festival,  in  England,  Paris, 
Leipzig,  Copenhagen,  and  several  other 
European  cities." 

Melpomene  was  one  of  the  nine  muses 
who,  originally  included  among  the 
nymphs,  were  afterward  regarded  as 
quite  distinct  from  them.  Although 
Hesiod  in  his  "Theogony"  calls  the 
muses  the  nine  daughters  of  Zeus  and 
Mnemosyne,  the  enimieration  varied 
with  other  poets.  Homer,  writing  now 
of  one  and  now  of  many  muses,  con- 
sidered them  as  deities  dwelling  in 
Olympus  who,  at  the  banquets  of  the 
gods,  sing  to  the  lyre  of  Apollo  and 
inspire  his  song.  According  to  Hesiod 
the  names  and  attributes  of  the  muses 
were  as  follows:  1.  Calliope,  the  muse 
of  epic  song,  represented  as  standing 
with  a  wax  tablet  and  a  pencil  in  her 
hand.  2.  Qio,  the  muse  of  history,  with 
a  scroll.  3.  Euterpe,  the  muse  of  lyric 
song,  with  a  double  flute.  4.  Thalia, 
the  muse  of  comedy  and  bucolic  poetr>', 
with  the  comic  mask,  the  ivy  wreath 
and  the  shepherd's  staff.  5.  Melpo- 
mene, the  muse  of  tragedy,  with  tragic 
mask  and  ivy  wreath.  6.  Terpsichore, 
the  muse  of  danciijg,  with  the  lyre.  7. 
Erato,  the  muse  of  erotic  poetry,  with 
a  smaller  lyre.  8.  Polyhymnia,  the  muse 
of  sacred  songs,  usually  represented  as 
veiled  and  pensive.  9.  Urania,  the  muse 
of  astronomy,  with  the  celestial  globe. 

"Melpomene"  is  scored  for  two  flutes,  pic- 
colo, oboe,  English  horn,  two  clarinets,  two 
bassoons,  four  horns,  two  trumpets,  three 
trombones,  tuba,  kettle  drums,  bass  drum, 
cymbals  and  strings.  The  overture  opens 
with  a  slow  Introduction  (Lento  e  dolente, 
D  minor,  4-4  time),  its  theme  given  out  by 
the  English  horn  over  sustained  harmony  of 
the  trombones.  The  phrase  thus  played  by 
the  English  horn  is  repeated  by  the  oboe  a 


fourth  higher.  Following  this  idea  there  is 
heard  a  melody,  based  on  the  same  material 
and  given  to  the  oboe.  This  leads  to  the 
main  movement  (Allegro  agitato,  D  minor, 
2-2  time)  whose  subject,  after  some  intro- 
ductory chords  in  the  full  orchestra,  is  an- 
nounced by  the  strings.  There  is  a  crescendo, 
and  the  principal  theme  is  thundered  out  ff 
and  in  augmentation  by  the  basses  and  trom- 
bones. After  some  stormy  treatment  of  this 
material,  the  second  theme  enters  with  the 
oboes,  English  horn  and  violoncellos.  Fol- 
lowing this  comes  (in  the  woodwind)  a  theme 
which  had  been  heard  in  the  Introduction, 
its  accompaniment  being  given  pissicato  to 
the  strings,  and  to  a  broken  chord  figure  in 
the  clarinet.  Allegro.  There  is  a  fanfare  for 
the  trumpets,  and  the  character  of  the  music 
becomes  one  of  greater  excitement.  A  mo- 
tive in  the  trombones  forte  suggests  that 
which  had  been  given  to  the  English  horn 
at  the  beginning  of  the  Introduction.  After 
a  climax  has  been  attained,  the  excitement 
subsides,  and  a  new  division  (Un  poco  piu 
moderato)  is  introduced,  its  material  being, 
however,  a  fugato  based  on  the  principal 
theme.  The  Introduction's  motive  returns 
(animato)  in  the  woodwind,  following  the 
opening  phrase  of  the  principal  theme  given 
in  augmentation  to  the  trombones,  this  be- 
ing, in  reality,  the  beginning  of  the  Recapitu- 
lation. There  is  a  ritardando  and  the  sec- 
ond subject  is  sung  by  the  oboe  and  English 
horn  in  octaves.  The  trumpet  fanfare  re- 
turns, and  the  mood  is  again  one  of  excite- 
ment. There  is  a  great  climax,  a  crash  of 
cymbals  followed  by  a  pause.  Lento.  The 
material  of  the  Introduction  is  now  reheard 
in  modified  form,  and  with  this  the  overture 
is  brought  to  a  conclusion. 


Concerto  for  Pianoforte 

No.  2,  D  minor,  Opus  23 

Edward  Alexander  MoxDowell 

Bom  Dec.  18,  1861,  at  New  York 
Died  Jan.  23,  1908,  at  New  York 

MacDowell  began  the  composition  of 
the  second  of  his  two  concertos  for 
piano  in  1884  at  Frankfort,  and  the 
work  was  completed  in  1885  at  Weis- 
baden.  Some  of  the  material  in  the 
scherzo  of  the  concerto  had  been  writ- 
ten in  the  summer  of  1884  as  sketches 
for  a  symphonic  poem — it  was  to  have 
been  entitled  "Beatrice  and  Benedick*' 
— which  had  been  inspired  by  a  per- 
formance of  ''Much  Ado  About  Noth- 
ing" given  by  Henry  Irving  and  Ellen 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


Terry  at  the  Lyceum  Theatre,  London.* 
The  symphonic  poem  was  eventually 
abandoned.  The  first  performance  of 
MacDoweirs  second  concerto  took  place 
March  5,  1889,  at  a  Theodore  Thomas 
Symphony  concert,  Chickering  Hall, 
New  York,  the  composer  having  also 
been  the  soloist.  At  the  same  concert 
Tschaikowsky's  fifth  symphony  was 
played  for  the  first  time  in  America. 
Four  months  later  (July  12)  Mac- 
Dowell  played  his  work  at  an  "Ameri- 
can Concert''  given  at  the  Paris  Expo- 
sition. In  England  the  second  concerto 
was  first  played  by  Mme.  Teresa  Car- 
reno  at  a  Crystal  Palace  Concert,  April 
7,  1900. 

The  orchestra  employed  by  Mac- 
Dowell  in  the  accompaniment  of  his 
second  concerto  comprises  two  flutes, 
two  oboes,  two  clarinets,  two  bassoons, 
four  horns,  two  trumpets,  three  trom- 
bones, kettle  drums  and  strings. 

I.  (Larghetto  calmato,  D  minor,  6-8  time). 
The  movement  is  constructed  in  a  somewhat 
irregular  sonata  form.  It  opens  with  a  sub- 
ject given  to  the  muted  strings  pianissimo. 
The  piano  enters  alone  with  a  broader  theme, 
fortissimo.  The  first  idea  is  taken  up  again, 
this  time  by  the  woodwind  and  second  vio- 
lins, the  solo  instrument  then  stating  alone 
(poco  piu  mosso  e  con  passione)  the  real 
principal  subject  of  the  movement.  This  is 
worked  over  at  some  length,  eventually  giv- 
ing way  to  the  second  theme  in  F  major, 
which  is  heard  in  the  violoncellos,  with  a 
running  accompaniment  in  the  violins.  The 
piano  takes  up  the  running  figure,  and  the 
first  violins  play  a  counter  subject  against 
the  second  theme  played  by  the  second  vio- 
lins and  violas.  There  follows  a  strongly 
marked  idea  in  the  brass,  drawn  from  the 
first  piano  theme.  Development  takes  place 
and  the  piano  plays  a  passage  based  on  the 
principal  subject,  which  leads  into  a  Reca- 
pitulation. The  second  theme,  now  in  D 
major,  is  given  to  the  violins,  its  running 
accompaniment  in  the  piano  part.    There  is 


a  short  coda  which  brings  the  movement  to 
a  soft  and  tranquil  close. 

II.  (Presto  giocoso,  B  flat  major,  2-4 
time).  Although  not  so  entitled  on  the 
score,  this  movement  is  practically  a  scherzo. 
It  opens  with  an  elf -like  subject  given  partly 
to  the  woodwind  and  strings  and  partly  to 
the  piano.  It  is  followed  by  a  more  vigorous 
idea,  the  true  second  theme  appearing  in  the 
horns  (F  major),  the  piano  accompanying 
it  with  a  semi-trill.  The  first  theme  re- 
appears  and  there  is  a  tutti,  which  opens  the 
Development  section.  An  episode  (first  for 
the  solo  instrument,  afterward  taken  up  by 
the  strings)  is  now  introduced,  it,  in  its  turn, 
being  succeeded  by  the  first  theme.  There 
is  development  of  the  episode  and  the  Re- 
capitulation sets  in,  the  principal  subject 
being  given  out  much  as  in  the  opening 
portion  of  the  movement.  The  second 
theme  is  allotted  once  more  to  the  horns. 
There  is  a  short  coda  ending  pianissimo, 

III.  The  movement  opens  (Largo,  D 
minor,  3-4  time)  with  an  Introduction  in 
which  the  principal  theme  of  the  main  move- 
ment is  foreshadowed.  (Molto  Allegro,  D 
major,  3-4  time).  The  woodwind  prepare 
the  way  for  the  entrance  of  the  first  sub- 
ject, stated  by  the  piano,  ff.  Another  idea, ' 
drawn  from  the  first,  is  given  out  lightly  by 
the  piano  and  strings  in  F  major.  The  first 
theme  is  worked  out,  and  a  new  and  vigorous 
theme  appears  if  in  B  minor  in  the  full 
orchestra.  This  is  developed  together  with 
the  opening  subject.  The  Recapitulation  of 
the  first  theme  opens  with  the  first  theme  in 
the  brass  and  the  movement  ends  with  a 
brilliant  and  sonorous  coda. 


*It  was  a  representation  of  Shakespeare's 
"Hamlet"  given  by  Henry  Irving  and  Miss 
Terry  at  the  Lyceum  Theatre  in  1884  which 
inspired  MacDowell  to  the  composition  of  his 
symphonic  poem  "Hamlet  and  Ophelia" 
(1885).  The  score  of  that  work  he  dedicated 
to  the  two  artists. 


"The  Defeat  of  Macbeth" 

Edgar  Stillman  Kelley 

Born  April  14,  1857,  at  Sparta,  Wis. 

Mr.  Kelley,  who  with  "The  Defeat 
of  Macbeth"  is  given  representation  for 
the  first  time  on  the  programs  of  these 
concerts,  obtained  his  musical  training 
from  F.  W.  Merriam  (1870-74) ;  Qar- 
ence  Eddy  and  N.  Ledochowski  in  Chi- 
cago (1874-76);  in  1876  he  went  to 
Stuttgart  where  for  four  years  he  was 
a  pupil  of  Max  Seifriz  (in  composi- 
tion), Wilhelm  Kriiger  and  Wilhebn 
Speidel  (in  piano  playing)  and  Fried- 
rich  Finck  (organ  playing).  Mr.  Kel- 
ley acted  as  organist  in  Oakland  and 
San  Francisco,  Cal.  He  conducted  a 
light    opera   company   in   the   Eastern 


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69 


States  (1890-91)  and  taught  piano  play- 
ingi  organ  and  composition  in  various 
schools  in  California  and  New  York. 
He  was  musical  critic  for  the  San  Fran- 
cisco Examiner  from  1893  until  1895; 
in  1896  special  instructor  in  composi- 
tion at  New  York  College  of  Music; 
in  1901-02  at  Yale  University.  In  con- 
nection with  music  for  the  stage  Mr. 
Kelley  has  written  music  to  "Macbeth" 
(produced  1885  and  1887).  Newly 
written  and  given  at  the  Ducal  Court 
Theatre,  Coburg  (1909-10)  ;  music  to 
"Ben  Hur"  (1899)  ;  music  to  "Prome- 
theus Bound" ;  comic  opera  "Puritania*' 
(given  first  at  the  Tremont  Theatre, 
Boston,  June  9,  1892).  He  has  com- 
posed for  orchestra  a  Chinese  Suite, 
"Aladdin" — the  Chinese  themes  in  this 
were  the  result  of  a  study  of  Chinese 
music  made  by  Mr.  Kelley  during  his 
residence  in  San  Francisco ;  "Gulliver," 
humorous  symphony;  "New  England" 
symphony,  produced  at  the  Norfolk 
Festival,  1913. 

"The  Defeat  of  Macbeth"  is  the  last 
number  of  a  Suite  for  orchestra  which 
— containing  five  movements — was  con- 
structed from  the  incidental  music  to 
Shakespeare's  tragedy  to  which  refer- 
ence has  been  made  in  a  preceding  para- 
graph. The  Suite  is  thus  composed: 
I.  Overture ;  II.  "Arrival  of  King  Dun- 
can" ;  III.  Introduction  to  Act  II ;  IV. 
Banquet  Music;  V.  "The  Defeat  of 
Macbeth." 

"The  Defeat  of  Macbeth"  is  scored 
for  two  flutes,  piccolo,  two  oboes,  two 
clarinets,  two  bassoons,  four  horns,  four 
trumpets,  three  trombones,  tuba,  kettle- 
drums, bass  drum,  side  drum,  triangle, 
cymbals,  gong  and  strings.  On  a  fly 
leaf  of  the  autograph  score  the  com- 
poser has  written  the  following  pro- 
gram of  the  work: 

"Trumpets  in  the  English  camp  sum- 
mon the  allied  armies  to  advance  on 
Dunsinane.  The  peaceful  mood  of  the 
Highlands  is  broken  by  distant  gallop- 
ing of  Macbeth's  horsemen.  The  war- 
horns  of  the  approaching  Scots  are  an- 


swered by  the  English  trumpets  preced- 
ing the  shock  of  arms.  Macbeth  falls 
and  his  forces  fly.  The  English  trum- 
pets signal  the  conquerors  to  assemble 
and  Malcolm  is  proclaimed  King  of 
Scotland."  The  following  additional 
explanation  was  inserted  in  the  pro- 
gram book  of  the  Cincinnati  Sym- 
phony orchestra,  when  Mr.  Kelley's 
work  was  played  by  that  organiza- 
tion at  Cincinnati,  Feb.  28-Mar.  1, 
1913: 

"  The  Defeat  of  Macbeth,^  when  given 
in  connection  with  the  play,  is  the  intro- 
duction to  the  final  act  and  is  based  on 
the  closing  events  of  the  tragedy. 
Primitive  trumpet  calls  in  divers  keys, 
answering  each  other,  form  the  intro- 
duction, and  lead  to  the  march  of  the 
English.  As  the  movement  dies  away, 
the  mood  of  the  Scotch  hills  is  sug- 
gested by  a  quieter  section  (given  out 
by  the  oboe) .  A  second  allusion  to  the 
English  soldiery  is  followed  by  the  ap- 
proach of  Macbeth's  horsemen  (gal- 
loping figure  in  violas  and  violoncellos) . 
It  is  heard  first  in  the  distance  and  ever 
growing  nearer.  Now  the  hoarse,  chal- 
lenging tones  of  the  Scotch  war-homs 
are  answered  by  the  bright  fanfare  of 
the  English  trumpets.  The  varied  events 
of  medieval  warfare  are  portrayed  by 
the  well-adapted  use  of  some  of  the 
devices  of  modem  orchestration  in 
which  numerous  harmonic  designs  may 
be  traced.  Macbeth  falls  and  his  forces 
fly.  To  those  familiar  with  the  preced- 
ing numbers  of  the  work,  additional  sig- 
nificance is  imparted  by  the  final  pro- 
nouncement of  the  motive  associated 
with  the  weird  sisters  and  their  proph- 
ecy concerning  Macbeth's  fate  (trom- 
bones and  tuba).  This  motive,  heard 
first  in  the  overture,  then  in  connection 
with  Macbeth's  first  interview  with  the 
witches,  and  again  in  the  incantation 
scene,  where  the  sybillic  admonition — 
that  he  has  no  cause  to  fear  till  Bir- 
nam  Wood  come  to  high  Dunsinane 
Hill— finds,  at  the  fulfillment  of  the 
prophecy,  its  fullest  and  most  elaborate 
development." 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


Four  Character  Pieces 

Opus  48 

Arthur  William  Foote 

Bom  March  5,  1853,  at  Salem,  Mass. 

These  Four  Character  Pieces  are 
transcriptions  of  some  piano  composi- 
tions which,  entitled  "Five  Poems  after 
Omar  Khayyam" — were  written  by  Mr. 
Foote  at  Dedham,  Mass.,  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1898.  Of  these  five  poems,  four 
were  orchestrated  in  July  and  August, 
1900,  and  they  were  performed  for  the 
first  time  Dec.  20-21,  1907,  at  the 
eleventh  concert  of  the  Chicago  S)mi- 
phony  Orchestra — at  that  time  the 
Theodore  Thomas  Orchestra — under 
the  direction  of  Frederick  Stock.  The 
program  also  comprised  Elgar's  "Frois- 
sart"  overture;  the  Pastorale  from  the 
Christmas  Oratorio  by  Bach;  Wilm's 
Concertstiick  for  harp  and  orchestra 
(performed  by  Enrico  Tramonti) ; 
Block's  "Triptyque  S^ymphonique" 
and  Liszt's  symphonic  poem,  "Les  Pre- 
ludes." The  work,  dedicated  to  Georg 
Henschel,  was  published  in  1912.  For 
the  program  book  of  the  Chicago  con- 
certs Mr.  Foote  supplied  the  following 
explanation  of  his  music  which,  as  has 
been  said,  is  based  on  quatrains  from 
the  "Rubaiyat"  of  Omar  Khayyam : 

I 
Tram  indeed  is  gone  with  all  his  Rose, 
And  Jamshyd's  Sev'n-ring'd  Cup  where  no 
one  knows; 
But  still  a  Ruby  kindles  in  the  Vine, 
And  many  a  Garden  by  the  Water  blows. 

Andante  comodo,  in  B  major  and  3-4 
time: — ^The  theme  heard  at  the  outset 
in  the  solo  clarinet  runs  through  the 
whole,  with  a  contrasting  counter-sub- 
ject; while  always  there  is  an  accom- 
paniment persisting  with  a  "strum- 
ming" sort  of  rhythm. 

II 
They  say  the  Lion  and  the  Lizard  keep 
The  Courts  where  Jamshyd  gloried  and  drank 
deep: 
And  Bahram,  that  great  Hunter— the  Wild 
Ass 
Stamps  o'er  his  Head,  but  cannot  ])reak  his 
Sleep. 


Allegro,  in  B  minor  and  3-4  time: — 
The  basis  of  this  is  a  strongly  accented 
theme  stated  at  the  commencement  of 
the  first  violins.  For  this  the  fullest 
orchestra  is  used,  and  there  are  occa- 
sional touches  of  cymbals,  tambourine, 
etc. 

The  middle  part  is  as  a  revery. 

Yet  Ah,  that  Spring  should  vanish  with  the 

Rose! 
That     Youth's     sweet-scented     manuscripts 

should  close! 
The  Nightingale  that  in  the  branches  sang, 
Ah  whence,  and  whither  flown  again,  who 

knows! 

In  this  the  accompaniment  is  softly 
given  by  the  strings,  harp,  etc.,  the  mel- 
ody being  sung  by  clarinet  and  by  flute. 
This  dies  out,  and  the  first  theme  re- 
turns— ending  ft. 

Ill 
A  Book  of  Verses  underneath  the  Bough, 
A  Jug  of  Wine,  a  Loaf  of  Bread — and  Thou 

Beside  me  singing  in  the  Wilderness — 
Oh,  Wilderness  were  Paradise  enow! 

Comodo,  in  A  major  and  4-4  time  :— 
The  subject  heard  at  the  start  in  the 
strings  appears  in  changing  forms — 
without  any  other  contrasting  theme, 
and  is  throughout  based  on  an  organ- 
point  on  the  dominant  (prolonged  £ 
in  the  bass).  It  fades  out  in  the  strings 
in  their  highest  positions,  with  a  few 
last  Es  in  the  harp. 

IV 
Yon  rising  Moon  that  looks  for  us  again— 
How  oft  hereafter  will  she  wax  and  wane; 

How  oft  hereafter  rising  look  for  us 
Through  this  same  Garden — and  for  one  in 
vain! 

With  strongly  marked  rhythm,  in  E 
minor  and  6-8  time: — After  some 
chords  with  harp  and  strings  pizzicato 
the  theme  enters  in  the  solo  horn  and 
violoncello — rises  to  ft  and,  again,  dies 
out  in  the  E  minor  chord,  being  suc- 
ceeded by  the  Piu  allegro  (in  B  major 
and  3-4  time)  — 

Waste  not  your  Hour,  nor  in  the  vain  pursuit 
Of  This  and  That  endeavour  and  dispute; 
Better  be  jocund  with  the  fruitful  Grape 
Than  sadden  after  none,  or  bitter,  Fruit. 


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PROGRAM  NOTES 


71 


This  next  is  a  sort  of  Scherzo,  toward 
the  end  of  which  is  a  reminiscence  of 
the  theme  of  the  first  piece,  fortissimo. 
This  subsides,  and  after  a  pause  the 
first  theme  returns,  with  a  wavy  ac- 
companiment in  divided  strings — the 
movement  proceeding  to  an  expressive 
pianissimo  close. 


Festival  March 

Frederick  A.  Stock 

Born  Nov.  11,  1872,  at  Jiilich,  Germany 

In  commemoration  of  the  twentieth 
anniversary  of  the  founding  of  the 
Chicago  Symphony  Orchestra — it  was 
at  the  time  of  that  foundation,  in  1891, 
the  Chicago  Orchestra  —  Mr.  Stock 
composed  his  Festival  March,  which  re- 
ceived its  first  performance  at  the  first 
concerts  of  the  season,  Oct.  14-15, 
1910.  A  note  at  the  end  of  the  manu- 
script score  states  that  the  March  was 
composed  at  Aachen  (Aix-Ia-Chapelle) 
and  that  it  was  begun  August  11,  1910, 
and  completed  August  25 — ^the  work 
having  been  an  artistic  product  of  its 
composer's  vacation  spent  in  Germany. 

Since  the  labors  of  the  Chicago  Sym- 
phony Orchestra  have  been  entirely  de- 
voted to  the  cause  of  musical  progress 
in  America  it  was,  perhaps,  a  natural 
decision  which  led  Mr.  Stock  to  incor- 
porate with  his  own  creative  material 
certain  national  tunes  which  have  long 
been  associated  with  the  folk  music  of 
this  country.  As  will  be  heard  during 
the  interpretation  of  the  March  these 
tunes  are,  with  the  exception  of  "The 
Star  Spangled  Banner,"  rather  suggest- 
ed than  unfolded  at  length,  and  they 
are  largely  given  contrapuntal  develop- 
ment with  other  material.  The  national 
melodies  thus  drawn  upon  are  "The 
Old  Folks  at  Home,"  "Yankee  Doodle," 
"Dixie"  and  "The  Star  Spangled  Ban- 
ner." His  composition  the  writer  dedi- 
cated to  the  officers  and  members  of  the 
association  which  for  so  long  has  sup- 


ported the  provision  of  the  highest  type 
of  orchestral  art  in  this  city,  and  of 
which  he  has  been  the  musical  director 
since  its  founder's  death.  The  Festival 
March  is  written  for  a  large  orchestra, 
the  following  instruments  being  called 
for  by  the  score — two  flutes,  piccolo, 
three  oboes  (one  interchangeable  with 
an  English  horn),  two  clarinets,  bass 
clarinet,  two  bassoons,  double  bassoon, 
four  horns,  four  trumpets,  three  trom- 
bones, tuba,  kettle  drums,  bass  drum, 
side  drum,  cymbals,  triangle,  bells, 
glockenspiel  castagnettes,  tambourine, 
harp  and  strings. 

The  work  opens  with  an  introduction 
(Moderato,  Maestoso  e  Pesante)  twenty-five 
measures  long  in  which  the  principal  theme 
is  foreshadowed  in  passages  for  the  lower 
strings  over  a  long  continued  organ-point  on 
F.  There  is  a  hint  of  the  two  first  measures 
of  "The  Star  Spangled  Banner"  occurring  in 
the  trombones  eleven  bars  after  the  begin- 
ning of  the  piece.  Still  later  a  suggestion  of 
"Yankee  Doodle"  is  heard  in  the  violoncellos 
and  trombones.  A  crescendo  working  up  to 
a  ff  leads  into  the  main  theme,  put  forward 
by  the  full  orchestra. 

.  The  subject  having  been  worked  over  at  some 
length  and  with  much  sonority,  the  music 
becomes  more  tranquil,  and  over  a  tremolo 
in  the  divided  violoncellos  there  is  heard  (in 
the  woodwind)  four  measures  of  "Dixie," 
this  being  interwoven  with  "The  Old  Folks 
at  Home"  in  the  second  violin.  The  develop- 
ment of  these  melodies  is  continued,  with 
hints  of  "Yankee  Doodle"  given  out  by  the 
violoncellos  and  trombones. 

Working  over  of  the  main  theme  is  re- 
sumed, and  nine  measures  later  the  whole 
first  phrase  of  "Yankee  Doodle"  is  given  to 
the  tuba  and  "bass  clarinet,  following  this 
there  being  heard  the  first  phrase  of  "Dixie" 
in  the  woodwind.  The  main  theme  returns 
ff,  A  climax,  followed  by  a  diminuendo  and 
a  rallentando,  leads  into  the  Trio,  the  subject 
of  which  (Sehr  ruhig)  is  allotted  to  the  first 
violins. 

At  the  close  of  the  Trio  a  return  is  made 
to  the  main  subject-matter  over  a  long  organ- 
point  on  F,  "Dixie"  and,  later,  "Yankee 
Doodle"  also  being  suggested.  A  long  cres- 
cendo leads  to  the  climax  of  the  work  in 
which,  after  a  pause,  "The  Star  Spangled 
Banner"  is  shouted  forth  first  by  the  brass 
{Maestoso)  and  after  it  by  the  full  orches- 
tra; and  with  this  Hymn  to  Liberty  the 
March  comes  to  its  conclusion. 


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THE  INSTITUTE  MEDAL 


The  Gold  Medal  of  the  Institute  is 
anrtually  awarded  to  any  citizen  of 
the  United  States,  whether  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Institute  or  not,  for  dis- 
tinguished services  to  arts  or  letters 
in  the  creation  of  original  work. 

The  conditions  of  the  award  are 
these : 

(1)  "That  the  medal  shall  be  awarded  for 
the  entire  work  of  the  recipient,  without 
limit  of  time  during  which  it  shall  have 
been  done;  that  it  shall  be  awarded  to  a 
living  person  or  to  one  who  shall  not  have 
been  dead  more  than  one  year  at  the  time 
of  the  award;  and  that  it  shall  not  be 
awarded  more  than  once  to  any  one  person. 

(2)  "That  it  shall  be  awarded  in  the 
following  order:  First  year,  for  Sculpture; 
second  year,  for  History  or  Biography; 
third  year,  for  Music;  fourth  year,  for 
Poetry;  fifth  year,  for  Architecture;  sixth 
year,  for  Drama;  seventh  year,  for  Paint- 
ing; eighth  year,  for  Fiction;  ninth  year, 
for  Essays  or  Belles-Lettres — returning  to 
each  subject  every  tenth  year  in  the  order 
named. 

(3)  "That  it  shall  be  the  duty  of  the  Secre- 
tary each  year  to  poll  the  members  of  the 
section    of    the    Institute    dealing    with    the 


subject  in  which  the  medal  is  that  year  to  be 
awarded,  and  to  report  the  result  of  the 
poll  to  the  Institute  at  its  Annual  Meeting, 
at  which  meeting  the  medal  shall  be  awarded 
by  vote  of  the  Institute." 

The  medal  was  designed  by  Adolph 
A.  Weinman,  of  the  Institute,  in 
1909. 

The  first  award — for  sculpture — 
was  to  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens.  The 
medal  was  presented  to  Mrs.  Saint- 
Gaudens  at  the  meeting  held  in  mcm- 
or}'  of  her  husband,  November  20,  1909. 

The  second  medal — for  history — 
was  awarded  to  James  Ford  Rhodes, 
1910. 

The  third  medal — for  poetry — was 
awarded  to  James  Whitcomb  Rilev. 
1911. 

The  fourth  medal — for  architecture 
— was  awarded  to  William  Rutherford 
Mead,  1912. 

The  fifth  medal — for  drama — was 
awarded  to  Augustus  Thomas,  1913. 


On  November  14,  1913,  the  Fifteenth  Annual  Meeting  and  Dinner  of  the  National 

Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters  was  held,  when  the  fifth  Gold  Medal  of 

the  Institute  was  awarded,  in  the  Department  of  Drama,  to 

Augustus  Thomas. 


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CONSTITUTION  OF  THE  NATIONAL  INSTITUTE 
OF  ARTS  AND  LETTERS 

(Founded,  1898,  by  the  American  Social  Science  Association) 


I.    ORIGIN  AND  NAME 

This  society,  organized  by  men  nominated 
and  elected  by  the  American  Social  Science 
Association  at  its  annual  meeting  in  1898, 
with  a  view  to  the  advancement  of  art, 
music  and  literature,  shall  be  known  as  the 
National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters. 

II.    MEMBERSHIP 

1.  Qualification  for  membership  shall  be 
notable  achievement  in  art,  music  or  litera- 
ture. 

2.  The  number  of  members  shall  be  limited 
to  two  hundred  and  fifty. 

III.    ELECTIONS 

The  name  of  a  candidate  shall  be  proposed 
to  the  Secretary  by  three  members  of  the 
section  in  which  the  nominee's  principal 
work  has  been  performed.  The  name  shall 
then  be  submitted  to  the  members  of  that 
section,  and  if  approved  by  a  majority  of 
the  answers  received  within  fifteen  days 
may  be  submitted  by  a  two-thirds  vote  of 
the  council  to  an  annual  meeting  of  the 
Institute  for  formal  election  by  a  majority 
vote  of  those  present.  The  voting  shall  be 
by  ballot. 

IV.    OFFICERS 

1  The  officers  of  the  Institute  shall  consist 
of  a  President,  six  Vice-Presidents,  a  Secre- 
tary and  a  Treasurer,  and  they  shall  con- 
stitute the  council  of  the  Institute. 
2.  The  council  shall  always  include  at  least 
one  member  of  each  department. 

V.    ELECTION   OF  OFFICERS 

Officers  shall  be  elected  by  ballot  at  the 
annual  meeting,  but  the  council  may  fill  a 
vacancy  at  any  time  by  a  two-thirds  vote. 

VI.    MEETINGS 

1.  The  annual  meeting  of  the  Institute  shall 
be  held  on  the  first  Tuesday  in  September, 
unless  otherwise  ordered  by  the  council.* 

2.  Special  meetings  may  be  called  by  the 
President  on  recommendation  of  any  three 
members  of  the  council,  or  by  petition  of  at 
least  one-fourth  of  the  membership  of  the 
Institute. 

VII.    DUTIES  OF  OFFICERS 

1.  It  shall  be  the  duty  of  the  President  to 
preside  at  all  meetings  of  the  Institute  and 
of  the  council. 

2.  In  the  absence  of  the  President,  the 
senior  Vice-President  in  attendance  shall 
preside. 


3.  The  Secretary  shall  keep  a  minute  of  all 
meetings  of  the  Institute  and  of  the  council, 
and  shall  be  the  custodian  of  all  records. 

4.  The  Treasurer  shall  have  charge  pf  all 
funds  of  the  Institute  and  shall  make  dis- 
bursements only  upon  order  of  the  council. 

VIIL    ANNUAL  DUES 

The  annual  dues  for  membership  shall  be 
five  dollars. 

IX.    INSIGNIA 

The  insignia  of  the  Institute  shall  be  a  bow 
of  purple  ribbon  bearing  two  bars  of  old 
gold. 

X.    EXPULSIONS 

Any  member  may  be  expelled  for  unbecom- 
ing conduct  by  a  two-thirds  vote  of  the 
council,  a  reasonable  opportunity  for  defense 
having  been  given. 

XI.    AMENDMENTS 

This  Constitution  may  be  amended  by  a 
two-thirds  vote  of  the  Institute  upon  the 
recommendation  of  the  council  or  upon  the 
request,  in  writing,  of  any  five  members. 
The  Secretary  shall  be  required  to  send  to 
each  member  a  copy  of  the  proposed  amend- 
ment at  least  thirty  days  before  the  meeting 
at  which  such  amendment  is  to  be  consid- 
ered. 

XII.  THE  ACADEMY  OF  ARTS  AND 
LETTERS 

In  order  to  make  the  Institute  more  efficient 
in  carrying  out  the  purposes  for  which  it 
was  organized, — ^the  protection  and  further- 
ance of  literature  and  the  arts, — and  to  give 
greater  definiteness  to  its  work,  a  section 
of  the  Institute  to  be  known  as  th-e  Acad- 
emy OF  Abts  and  Letters,  shall  be  organ- 
ized in  such  manner  as  the  Institute  may 
provide;  the  members  of  the  Academy  to  be 
chosen  from  those  who  at  any  time  shall 
have  been  on  the  list  of  membership  of  the 
Institute. 

The  Academy  shall  at  first  consist  of  tiiirty 
members,  and  after  these  shall  have  organ- 
ized it  shall  elect  its  own  officers,  prescribe 
its  own  rules,  the  number  of  its  members, 
and  the  further  conditions  of  membership; 
Provided  that  no  one  shall  be  a  member  of 
the  Academy  who  shall  not  first  have  been 
on  the  list  of  regular  members  of  the  In- 
stitute, and  that  in  the  choice  of  members 
individual  distinction  and  character,  and  not 
the  group  to  which  they  belong,  shall  be 
taken  into  consideration;  and  Provided  that 
all  members  of  the  Academy  shall  be  native 
or  naturalized  citizens  of  the  United  Stages. 


♦For  convenience  the  annual  meeting  is  usually  called  for  November  or  December. 

73 


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MEMBERS  AND  OFFICERS  OF  THE  INSTITUTE 


Department  of  Literature 

Adams,  Brooks 
Adams,  Charles  Francis 
Adams,  Henry 
Ade,  George 
Alden,  Henry  M. 
Aldrich,  Richard 
Allen,  James  Lane 
Baldwin,  Simeon  £. 
Bates,  Arlo 
Bridges,  Robert 
Brownell,  W.  C. 
Burroughs,   John 
Burton,  Richard 
Butler,  Nicholas  Murray 
Cable,  George  W. 
Carman,  Bliss 
Cawein,  Madison  J. 
Chadwick,  French  E. 
Chambers,  R.  W. 
Channing,  Edward 
Chatficld-Taylor,  H.  C. 
Cheney,  John  Vance 
Churchill,  Winston 
Connolly,  James  B. 
Cortissoz,  Royal 
Croly,  Herbert  D. 
Cross,  Wilbur  L. 
Crothers,  Samuel  McChord 
de  Kay,  Charles 
Dunne,  Finley  P. 
Edwards,  Harry  Stillwell 
Egan,  Maurice  Francis 
Fernald,  Chester  Bailey 
Finck,  Henry  T. 
Finley,  John  Huston 
Firkins,  O.  W. 
Ford,  Worthington  C. 
Fox,  John,  Jr. 

Furncss,  Horace  Howard,  Jr. 
Garland,  Hamlin 
Gildcrsleeve,  Basil  L. 
Gillette,  William 
Gilman,  Lawrence 
Gordon,  George  A. 
Grant,  Robert 
Greenslet,  Ferris 
Griffis,  Wm.  Elliot 
Gummere,  F.  B. 
Hadley,  Arthur  Twining 
Hamilton,  Clayton 
Harben,  Will  N. 
Hardy,  Arthur  Sherburne 
Harper,  George  McLean    . 
Herford,  Oliver 
Herrick,  Robert 


Hibbcn,  John  Gricr 
Hitchcock,  Ripley 
Hooker,  Brian 
Howe,  M.  A.  De  Wolfe 
Howells,  William  Dean 
Huntington,  Archer  M. 
James,  Henry 
Johnson,  Owen 
Johnson,  Robert  Underwood 
Kennan,  George 
Lloyd,  Nelson 
Lodge,  Henry  Cabot 
Long,  John  Luther 
Lounsbury,  Thomas  R. 
Lovett,  Robert  Morss 
Lowell,  Abbott  Lawrence 
Lummis,  Charles  F. 
Mabie,  Hamilton  Wright 
Mackaye,   Percy 
Mahan,  Alfred  T. 
Markham,    Edwin 
Martin.  Edward  S. 
Mather,  F.  J.,  Jr. 
Matthews,  Brander 
McKelway,  St.  Clair 
McMaster,  John  Bach 
Mitchell,  John  Ames 
Mitchell,  Langdon  E. 
More,  Paul  Elmer 
Morris,  Harrison  S. 
Morse,  John  Torrey,  Jr. 
Muir,  John 
Nicholson,  Meredith 
Page,  Thomas  Nelson 
Payne,  Will 

Payne,   William   Morton 
Perry,  Bliss 

Perry,  Thomas  Sergeant 
Phelps,  William  Lyon 
Pier,  Arthur  S. 
Rhodes,  James  Ford 
Riley,  James  Whitcomb 
Roberts,  Charles  G.  D. 
Robinson,  Edward  Arlington 
Roosevelt,  Theodore 
Royce,  Josiah 
Schelling,  Felix  Emanuel 
Schouler,  James 
Scollard,  Clinton 
Sedgwick,  Henry  D. 
Seton,  Ernest  Thompson 
Sherman,  Frank  Dempster 
Shorey,  Paul 
Sloane,  William  M. 
Smith,  F.  Hopkinson 


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MEMBERS  AND  OFFICERS  OF  THE  INSTITUTE 


73 


Sullivan,  Thomas  Russell 
Tarkington,  Booth 
Thayer,  William  Roscoe 
Thomas,  Augustus 
Thorndike,  A.  H. 
Tookcr,  L,  Frank 
Torrence,  Ridgely 
Trent,  William  P. 
van  Dyke,  Henry 
Van  Dyke,  John  C. 
Wendell,  Barrett 
White,  Andrew  Dickson 
White,  William  Allen 
Whiting,  Charles  G. 
Whiilock,  Brand 
Williams,  Francis  Howard 
Williams,  Jesse  Lynch 
Wilson,  Harry  Leon 
Wilson,  Woodrow 
Wister,  Owen 
Woodbcrry,  George  E. 

Depaktment  of  Art 

Adams,  Herbert 
Alexander,  John  W. 
Babb,  George  F. 
Bacon,  Henry 
Ballin,  Hugo 
Barnard,  George  Gray 
Bartlett,  Paul  W. 
Beckwith.  J.  Carroll 
Benson,  Frank  W. 
Betts,  Louis 
Bitter,  Karl 
Blashfield,  Edwin  H. 
Brooks,  Richard  E. 
Brown,  Glenn 
Brunner,  Arnold  W. 
Brush,  George  de  Forest 
Bunce,  William  Gedney 
Carlsen,  Emil 
Chase,  William  M. 
Clarkson,  Ralph 
Cole,  Timothy 
Cook,  Walter 
Cox,  Kenyon 
Dannat,  William  T. 
Day,  Frank  Miles 
De  Camp,  Joseph 
Dewey,  Charles  Melville 
Dewing,  Thomas  W. 
Dielman,  Frederick 
Donaldson,  John  M. 
Dougherty,  Paul 
Duveneck,  Frank 
Foster,  Ben 
French,.  Daniel  C. 
Gay,  Walter 
Gibson,  Charles  Dana 
Gilbert,  Cass 
Grafly,   Charles 
Gu^rin,  Jules 
Hardenbergh,  Henry  J. 


Harrison,  Birge 
Hassam,  Childe 
Hastings,  Thomas 
Henri,  Robert 
Howard,  John  Galen 
Howe,   William   Henry 
Howells,  J.  M. 
Jaegers,  Albert 
Jones,  Francis  C. 
Jones,  H.  Bolton 
Kendall,  W.  Sergeant 
La  Farge,  Bancel 
Low,  Will  H. 
MacMonnies,  Frederick 
Mac  Neil,  Hermon  A. 
Marr,  Carl 
McEwen,  Walter 
Mead,  William   Rutherford 
Melchers,  Gari 
.  Metcalf,  Willard  L. 
Mowbray,  H.  Siddons 
Ochtman,  Leonard 
Parrish,  Maxfield 
Peabody,  Robert  S. 
Pearce,  Charles  Sprague 
Pennell,  Joseph 
Piatt,  Charles  A. 
Pond,  I.  K. 
Potter,  Edward  Clark 
Pratt,  Bela  L. 
Proctor,  A.  Phimister 
Redfield,  Edward  W. 
Reid,  Robert 
Roth,  Frederiijk  G.  R. 
Ruckstuhl,  F.  W. 
Ryder,  Albert  P. 
Sargent,  John  S. 
Schofield,  W.  Elmer 
Shrady,  Henry  M. 
Simmons,  Edward 
Smedley,  William  T. 
Taft.  Lorado 
Tarbell.  Edmund  C. 
Thayer,  A.  H. 
Tryon,  D wight  W. 
Vedder.  Elihu 
Walden,  Lionel 
Walker,  Henry  Oliver 
Walker,  Horatio 
Warren,  Whitney 
Weinman,  Adolph  A. 
Weir,  J.  Alden 
Wiles,  Irving  R. 

Department  of  Music 

Bird,  Arthur 
Brockway,  Howard 
Chadwick,  George  Whitefield 
Converse,  F.  S. 
Damrosch,  Walter 
De  Koven,  Reginald 
Foote,  Arthur 


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76 


PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


Gilchrist,  W.  W. 
Hadley,  H.  K. 
Herbert,  Victor 
Kelley,  Edgar  Stillman 
LoeflFler,   Charles   M. 
Parker,  Horatio  VV. 
Schelling,  Ernest 
Shelley,  Harry  Rowe 
Smith,  David  Stanley 
Stock,  Frederick  A. 
Van  der  Stucken,  F. 
Whiting,  Arthur 

DECEASED   MEMBERS 
Department  of  Literature 

Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey 

Bigelow,  John 

Clemens,  Samuel  L.  (Mark  Twain) 

Conway,  Moncure  D. 

Crawford,  Francis  Marion 

Daly,  Augustin 

Dodge,  Theodore  A. 

Eggleston,   Edward 

Fawcett,  Edgar 

Fiske,  Willard 

Ford,  Paul  Leicester 

Frederic,  Harold 

Furness,  Horace  Howard 

Gilder,  Richard  Watson 

Gilman,  Daniel  Coit 

Godkin,  E.  L. 

Godwin,   Parke 

Hale,  Edward  Everett 

Harland,  Henry 

Harris,  Joel  Chandler 

Harte,  Bret 

Hay,  John 

Heme,  James  A. 

Higginson,  Thomas  Wentworth 

Howard,  Bronson 

Howe,  Julia  Ward 

Hutton,  Laurence 

Jefferson,  Joseph 

Johnston,  Richard  Malcolm 

Lea,  Henry  Charles 

Lodge,  George  Cabot 

Miller,  Joaquin 

Mitchell,  Donald  G. 

Moody,  William  Vaughn 

Munger,  Theodore  T. 

Nelson,  Henry  Loomis 

Norton,   Charles  Eliot 

Peck.  Harry  Thurston 

Perkins,  James  Breck 

Schurz,  Carl 

Schuyler,  Montgomery 

Scudder,   Horace 

Shaler,  N.  S. 

Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence 


Stillman,  William  J. 
Stockton,  Frank  R. 
Stoddard,  Charles  Warren 
Thompson,  Maurice 
Tyler,  Moses  Coit 
Viele,  Herman  K. 
Warner,  Charles  Dudley 

Department  of  Art 

Abbey,  Edwin  A. 
Bierstadt,  Albert 
Blum,  Robert  Frederick 
Burnham,   Daniel  Hudson 
Carrere,  John  M. 
Collins,  Alfred  Q. 
Homer,  Winslow 
Isham,  Samuel 
La  Farge,  John 
Lathrop,  Francis 
Loeb,  Louis 
Millet,  Francis  D. 
McKim,  Charles  Follen 
Porter,  Benjamin  C. 
Post,  George  B. 
Pyle,  Howard 
Remington,  Frederic 
Saint-Gaudens,  Augustus 
Shirlaw,  Walter 
Twachtman,  John  H. 
Vinton,  Frederick  P. 
Ward,  J.  Q.  A. 
White,  Stanford 
Wood,  Thomas  W. 

Department  of  Music 

Buck,   Dudley 
MacDowell,  Edward  A. 
Nevin,  Ethelbert 
Paine.  John  K. 


OFFICERS 

President 
Brander  Matthews 

Vice-Presidents 
Arthur  Whiting 
Hamlin  Garland 
Robert  Underwood  Johnson 
Hamilton  W.  Mabie 
Harrison  S.  Morris 
Jesse  Lynch  Williams 

Secretary 
Henry  D.  Sedgwick 

120  E.  22d  St.,  New  York 

Treasurer 

(to  be  appointed, 
vice  Samuel  Isham,  deceased) 


[September.  1914] 


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SKETCH  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  LIST  OF 
MEMBERS  AND  OFFICERS 


The  American  Academy  of  Arts 
and  Letters  was  founded  in  1904  as 
an  interior  organization  of  the  National 
Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters,  which  in 
turn  was  founded  in  1898  by  the  Ameri- 
can Social  Science  Association.  In 
each  case  the  elder  organization  left  the 
younger  to  choose  the  relations  that 
should  exist  between  them.  Article 
XII  of  the  Constitution  of  the  Institute 
provides  as  follows: 

In  order  to  make  the  Institute  more  eflfi- 
cient  in  carrying  out  the  purposes  for  which 
it  was  organized, — the  protection  and  fur- 
therance of  literature  and  the  arts, — and  to 
give  greater  definiteness  to  its  work,  a  sec- 
tion of  the  Institute  to  be  known  as  the 
ACADEMY  OF  ARTS  AND  LETTERS 
shall  be  organized  in  such  manner  as  the 
Institute  may  provide;  the  members  of  the 
Academy  t6  be  chosen  from  those  who  at 
any  time  shall  have  been  on  the  list  of 
members  of  the  Institute. 

The  Academy  shall  at  first  consist  of 
thirty  members,  and  after  these  shall  have 
organized  it  shall  elect  its  own  officers,  pre- 
scribe its  own  rules,  the  number  of  its 
members,  and  the  further  conditions  of 
membership;  provided  that  no  one  shall  be  a 
member  of  the  Academy  who  shall  not  first 
have  been  on  the  list  of  regular  members 
of  the  Institute,  and  that  in  the  choice  of 
members  individual  distinction  and  charac- 
ter, and  not  the  group  to  which  they  be- 
long, shall  be  taken  into  consideration;  and 
provided  that  all  members  of  the  Academy 
shall  be  native  or  naturalized  citizens  of  the 
United  States. 

The  manner  of  the  organization  of 
the  Academy  was  prescribed  by  the 
following  resolution  of  the  Institute 
adopted  April  23,  1904 : 

Whereas,  the  amendment  to  the  Consti- 
tution known  as  Article  XII,  providing  for 
the  organization  of  the  Academy  of  Arts 
and  Letters,  has  been  ratified  by  a  vote  of 
the  Institute, 

Resolved:  that  the  following  method  be 
chosen  for  the  organization  of  the  Academy 
to  wit,  that  seven  members  be  selected  by 
ballot  as  the  first  members  of  the  Academy, 
and  that  these  seven  be  requested  and  em- 
powered to  choose  eight  other  members, 
and  that  the  fifteen  thus  chosen  be  re- 
quested and  empowered  to  choose  five  other 


members,  and  that  the  twenty  members 
thus  chosen  shall  be  requested  and  empow- 
ered to  choose  ten  other  members, — ^the  en- 
tire thirty  to  constitute  the  Academy  in  con- 
formity with  Article  XII,  and  that  the  first 
seven  members  be  an  executive  committee 
for  the  purpose  of  insuring  the  completion 
of  the  number  of  thirty  members. 

Under  Article  XII  the  Academy 
has  effected  a  separate  organization, 
but  at  the  same  time  it  has  kept  in 
close  relationship  with  the  Institute. 
On  the  seventh  of  March,  1908,  the 
membership  was  increased  from  thirty 
to  fifty  members,  and  on  the  seventh  of 
November,  1908,  the  following  Consti- 
tution was  adopted: 


CONSTITUTION  OF  THE  ACADEMY 

I.    ORIGIN  AND  NAME 

The  American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Let- 
ters is  an  association  primarily  organized 
by  the  National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Let- 
ters. Its  aim  is  to  represent  and  further 
the  interests  of  the  Fine  Arts  and  Litera- 
ture. 

II.    MEMBERSHIP  AND  ELECTIONS 

It  shall  consist  of  not  more  than  fifty 
members,  and  all  vacancies  shall  be  filled 
from  the  membership  of  the  National  In- 
stitute of  Arts  and  Letters.  No  one  shall 
be  elected  a  member  of  the  Academy  who 
shall  not  have  received  the  votes  of  a  ma- 
jority of  the  members.  The  votes  shall  be 
opened  and  counted  at  a  meeting  of  the 
Academy.  In  case  the  first  ballot  shall  not 
result  in  an  election  a  second '  ballot  shall 
be  taken  to  determine  the  choice  between 
the  two  candidates  receiving  the  highest 
number  of  votes  on  the  first  ballot.  Elec- 
tions shall  be  held  only  on  due  notice  under 
rules  to  be  established  by  the  Academy. 

III.    AIMS 

That  the  Academy  may  be  bound  together 
in  community  of  taste  and  interest,  its 
members  shall  meet  regularly  for  discus- 
sion, and  for  the  expression  of  artistic, 
literary  and  scholarly  opinion  on  such  topics 
as  are  brought  to  its  attention.  For  the 
purpose  of  promoting  the  highest  standards, 
the  Academy  may  also  award  such  prizes 
as  may  be  founded  by  itself  or  entrusted  to 
it  for  administration. 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


IV.    OFFICERS 

The  officers  shall  consist  of  a  President  and 
a  Chancellor,  both  elected  annually  from 
among  the  n>enibers  to  serve  for  one  year 
only;  a  Permanent  Secretary,  not  neces- 
sarily a  member,  who  shall  be  elected  by  the 
Academy  to  serve  for  an  indeterminate 
period,  subject  to  removal  by  a  majority 
vote;  and  a  Treasurer.  The  Treasurer  shall 
be  appointed  as  follows:  Three  members  of 
the  Academy  shall  be  elected  at  each  annual 
meeting  to  serve  as  a  Committee  on  Finance 
for  the  ensuing  year.  They  shall  appoint 
one  of  their  number  Treasurer  of  the  Acad- 
emy to  serve  for  one  year.  He  shall  receive 
and  protect  its  funds  and  make  disburse- 
ments for  its  expenses  as  directed  by  the 
Committee.  He  shall  also  make  such  in- 
vestments, upon  the  order  of  the  President, 
as  may  be  approved  by  both  the  Committee 
on  Finance  and  the  Executive  Committee. 

V.    DUTIES  OF  OFFICERS 

It  shall  be  the  duty  of  the  President,  and 
ir.  his  absence  of  the  Chancellor,  to  preside 
at  all  meetings  throughout  his  term  of  office, 
and  to  safeguard  in  general  all  the  interests 
of  the  Academy.  It  shall  be  the  duty  of 
the  Chancellor  to  select  and  prepare  the 
business  for  each  meeting  of  his  term.  It 
shall  be  the  duty  of  the  Secretary  to  keep 
the  records;  to  conduct  the  correspondence 
of  the  Academy  under  the  direction  of  the 
President  or  Chancellor;  to  issue  its  author- 
ized statements;  and  to  draw  up  as  required 
such  writing  as  pertain  to  the  ordinary  busi- 
ness of  the  Academy  and  its  committees. 
These  three  officers  shall  constitute  the 
Executive  Committee. 

VI.    AMENDMENTS 

Any  proposed  amendment  to  this  Constitu- 
tion must  be  sent  in  writing  to  the  Secre- 
tary signed  by  at  least  ten  members;  and  it 
shall  then  be  forwarded  by  the  Secretary  to 
every  member.  It  shall  not  be  considered 
until  three  months  after  it  has  been  thus 
submitted.  No  proposed  amendment  shall 
be  adopted  unless  it  receives  the  votes  in 
writing  of  two-thirds  of  the  members. 

MEMBERS  AND  OFFICERS 
Following  is  the  list  of  members  in 
the  order  of  their  election : 

William  Dean  Howells 
♦Augustus  Saint-Gaudens 
♦Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 
♦John  La  Farge 
♦Samuel  Langhorne  Clemens 
♦John  Hay 
♦Edward  MacDowell 

Henry  James 
♦Charles  Follen  McKim 

Henry  Adams 
♦Charles  Eliot  Norton 


♦John  Quincy  Adams  Ward 

Thomas  Raynesford  Lounsbury 

Theodore  Roosevelt 
♦Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 
♦Joseph  Jefferson 

John  Singer  Sargent 
♦Richard  Watson  Gilder 
♦Horace  Howard  Fumess 
♦John  Bigelow 
♦Win  slow  Homer 
♦Carl  Schurz 

Alfred  Thayer  Mahan 
♦Joel  Chandler  Harris 

Daniel  Chester  French 

John  Burroughs 

James  Ford  Rhodes 
♦Edwin  Austin  Abbey 

Horatio  William  Parker 

William  Milligan  Sloane 
♦Edward  Everett  Hale 

Robert  Underwood  Johnson 

George  Washington  Cable 
♦Daniel  Coit  Gilman 
♦Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson 
♦Donald  Grant  Mitchell 

Andrew  Dickson  White 

Henry  van  Dyke 

William  Crary  Brownell 

Basil  Lanneau  Gildersleeve 
♦Julia  Ward  Howe 

Woodrow  Wilson 

Arthur  Twining  Hadley 

Henry  Cabot  Lodge 

Francis  Hopkinson  Smith 
♦Francis  Marion  Crawford 
♦Henry  Charles  Lea 

Edwin  Howland  Blashfield 

William  Merritt  Chase 

Thomas  Hastings 

Hamilton  Wright  Mabie 
♦Bronson  Howard 

Brander  Matthews 

Thomas  Nelson  Page 

Elihu  Vedder 

George  Edward  Woodberry 
♦William  Vaughn  Moody 

Kenyon  Cox 

George  Whitefield  Chadwidc 

Abbott  Handerson  Thayer 

John  Muir 

Charles  Francis  Adams 

Henry  Mills  Alden 

George  deForest  Brush 

William  Rutherford  Mead 

John  White  Alexander 

Bliss  Perry 
♦Francis  Davis  Millet 

Abbott  Lawrence  Lowell 

James  Whitcomb  Riley 

Nicholas  Murray  Butler 

Paul  Wayland  Bartlett 

♦George  Browne  Post 

Owen  Wister 

Herbert  Adams 

Augustus  Thomas 

Timothy  Cole 


'  Deceased. 


OFFICERS  FOR  THE  YEAR  1914 
President:    Mr.  Howells.  Chancellor:    Mr.  Sloane. 

Permanent  Secretary:    Mr.  Johnson. 
Finance  Committee:   Messrs.  Sloane,  Rhodes,  and  Hastings. 


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TH  3o.|5 


PROCEEDINGS 


OF  THE 


AMERICAN  ACADEMY  OF  ARTS 
AND  LETTERS 


AND  OF  THE 


NATIONAL  INSTITUTE  OF  ARTS 
AND  LETTERS 

Number  VIII:  1915 

Sixth  Annual  Joint  Meeting,  New  York,  November  19-20,  1914 


New  York 

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Harvard  CoUo   o  Ijibrary 
Jan.  2  .,   1-  1  ' 
Uift  of 
Pp©6.  C.  W.  Bliot. 


Copyright,  1915,  by 
Thb  American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Lbttbrs 


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CONTENTS 

PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  PUBLIC  MEETINGS  OF  THE  AMERICAN  ACADEMY  OF 
ARTS  AND  LETTERS  and  of  THE  NATIONAL  INSTITUTE  OF  ARTS  AND  LETTERS 

Sessions  at  Aeolian  Hall,  New  York,  November  19-30,  1914 

First  Session,  10.45  a*  m.,  November  19 

William  Dean  Howells 
President  of  the  Academy,  Presiding 

PAGE 

Grbbting  by  His  Honor,  The  Mayor  op  New  York 

John  Purtoy  MUchel     ...      5 

Address  by  the  President  of  the  Academy 

U^iHam  Dean  Howells  7  ^ 

Lb  Theatre  Commb  Instrument  d' Amelioration  Sociale 
(WITH  Letter  prom  Pres.  Poincare)        M,  Eughte  Brieux  ....      8 

d€  I'Aeadimit  Pranfoiu 

Greeting  to  M.  Brieux 

President  Woodrow  Wilson   .     13 

What  is  Pure  English? 

Brattder  Matthews    ....    14 

The  Quality  op  Imagination  in  American  Life 

Robert  Merrick 19 

Second  Session,  3.15  p.  m  ,  November  19 

A  PRESENTATION  OF  ORCHESTRAL  MUSIC 

Composed  by  Members  of  the  Institute 

[See  page  24] 

Third  Session,  10.45  a*  '^•i  November  20 

Edwin  Howland  Blashfield 
President  of  the  Institute,  Presiding 
Remarks  by  the  President  of  the  Institute 

Edwin  Howland  Blashfield     .    26 

Announcements  by  the  Chancellor  op  the  Academy 

William  Milligan  Sloane  .    .    27 

Poem:    The  Maker  of  Images 

Brian  Hooker 28 

The  American  Composer 

Arthur  Whiting ^q 

Certain  Tendencies  in  Modern  Painting 

Paul  Dougherty ^6 

A  Novelist's  Philosophy 

George  W,  Cable 41 

Conferring  upon  John  S.  Sargent  of  the  Gold  Medal  of  the 

Institute       45 


Text  of  the  Response  of  President  Wilson  to  the  Letter 

of  President  Poincare 47 

The  Institute  Medal  and  other  Data 48 

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PREFATORY  NOTE 

During  the  sessions  herein  recorded  many  courtesies  were 
extended  to  the  members  of  the  Academy  and  the  Institute. 

On  the  evening:  of  November  i8,  Dr.  Nicholas  Murray 
Butler  gave  a  dinner  to  his  fellow-members  of  the  Academy  to 
meet  M.  Brieux,  the  representative  of  the  French  Academy,  and 
afterward  a  reception  to  the  members  of  the  Institute  and  many 
other  guests.  On  the  20th  Mr.  J.  Pierpont  Morgan  gave  the 
hospitality  of  the  Morgan  Library,  and  the  members  were  invited 
to  a  special  exhibition  arranged  in  their  honor  at  the  American 
Museum  of  Natural  History.  Other  institutions  that  offered 
courtesies  were  The  New  York  Historical  Society,  The  Brooklyn 
Institute  of  Arts  and  Sciences,  The  New  York  Public  Library, 
Botanical  Gardens,  The  New  York  Zoological  Society,  The  Cen- 
tury Association,  The  Hispanic  Society  of  America,  The  Women's 
Cosmopolitan  Club,  and  The  Metropolitan  Museum  of  Art. 

The  presentation  of  the  compositions  in  the  concert  of  the 
20th  was  made  through  the  generosity  of  Mr.  Harry  Harkness 
Flagler  and  Mr.  Harrison  S.  Morris. 


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PROCEEDINGS 

OF  THE 

American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters 

AND  OF  THE 

National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters 


Published  at  intervals  by  the  Societies 


Copies  may  be  had  on  application  to  the  Permanent  Secretary  of  the  Academy,  Mr.  R.  U.  Johnson, 
327  Lexington  Avenue,  New  York.  Price  per  Annum  $1.00 


Vol.  II  New  York,  September  i,  1915  No,  1 

THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 

Public  Meetings  held  at  Aeolian  Hall,  New  York 
November  19-20,   19 14 

\ 

William  Dean  Howells,  President  of  the  Academy,  and 
Edwin  Howland  Blashfield,  President  of  the  Institute,  Presiding 


[Session  of  November  19] 

ADDRESS  OF  WELCOME  BY  HIS  HONOR  THE  MAYOR  OF 
THE  CITY  OF  NEW  YORK,  JOHN  PURROY  MITCHEL 

Gentlemen  of  the  American  Academy  to  this  meeting  of  the  men  who  repre- 

of  Arts  and  Letters  and  of  the  National  sent  America's  living  leaders  in  the  fine 

Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters,  and  Mr.  arts,    in   literature,   and   in   music.     I 

Brieux :    It  is  to  me  a  source  of  genuine  think  that  whatever  might  have  been 

satisfaction  and  pleasure  that  I  am  per-  said  in  the  past,  it  can  no  longer  be  said 

mitted  to  come  here  this  morning  as  that  New  York  City  is  provincial  or 

the  representative  of  the  city  to  extend  narrow.     In  fact,  cannot  we  say  with 

a    welcome    to    the    members    of    the  truth   to-day  that   New   York   is   the 

Academy  and  of  the  Institute  and  to  center  of  literature  and  of  art  in  this 

their    most    distinguished    guest,    Mr.  country?     We  have  here  the  writers. 

Brieux,     the     representative     of     the  We  have  here  the  magazines,  if  indeed 

French  Academy.     The   city   of   New  they  are  literature.    We  have  here  the 

York  feels  a  very  deep  interest  in  litera-  great      printing      establishments      and 

ture  and  in  the  fine  arts,  and  therefore  houses  which  help  the  business  men  of 

it  is  glad  to  extend  an  official  welcome  the  community  to  profit  by  the  genius 

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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


of  the  members  of  the  Academy  and 
the  Institute.  But  we  have  particularly 
those  great  institutions — the  Metropoli- 
tan Museum  of  Art  and  the  others — 
that  have  contributed  greatly  to  the  up- 
building and  the  support  of  the  fine  arts 
in  this  country.  The  citizens  of  New 
York  take  a  deep  and  genuine  interest 
in  the  development  of  literature  and 
art,  and  surely  no  better  proof  of  this 
could  be  found  than  the  splendid  gift  to 
the  city  recently  made  by  Mr.  Altman  in 
that  magnificent  collection  that  is  but 
just  housed  in  the  Metropolitan  Mu- 
seum.   I  am  glad  that  the  Institute  and 


the  Academy  have  chosen  New  York 
as  the  place  for  their  annual  meeting 
this  year,  and  I  recommend  New  York 
to  them  as  a  place  for  succeeding  an- 
nual meetings. 

Ladies  and  gentlemen,  we  arc  par- 
ticularly delighted  to-day  to  welcome 
here  Mr.  Brieux,  who  comes  both  as  a 
most  distinguished  citizen  of  France 
and  as  a  representative  of  her  great 
Academy.  I  know  that  I  merely  ex- 
press your  sentiments  when  I  extend 
to  him  the  hearty  welcome  of  the  whole 
city  of  New  York. 


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ADDRESS  OF  WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS 

President  of  the  Academy 


Gentlemen  of  the  American  Acad- 
emy, and  of  the  Institute,  and  you, 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  who  have  favored 
us  with  your  presence :  It  is  my  singular 
privilege  as  President  of  the  American 
Academy  to  thank  the  French  Acad- 
emy for  sending  one  of  its  most  dis- 
tinguished members  to  oflfer  us  its 
friendly  recognition.  Hitherto  that 
Academy  has  not  authorized  any  of  its 
members  to  represent  it  abroad,  and  I 
cannot  say  what  reasons  moved  it  to 
contravene  its  custom  in  our  favor. 
But  perhaps  the  French  Academy  real- 
ized that  in  coming  to  a  kindred  so- 
ciety in  a  nation  which  Lafayette 
helped  Washington  to  found,  our  guest 
would  still  be  in  his  own  country, 
among  a  people  united  with  his  in  the 
fellow-citizenship  of  the  democratic 
spirit,  and  the  imperishable  ideals  of 
liberty,  equality,  fraternity. 

T  could  not  express  too  strongly  my 
sense  of  the  honor  which  the  French 
Academy  has  done  us,  and  I  will  not 
multiply  words  in  the  vain  endeavor. 
It  is  enough,  though  little,  to  say  that 
it  is  an  honor  beyond  the  gift  of  princi- 
palities or  powers,  and  that  it  could 
come  from  no  other  source  in  the 
world.  Whatever  civic  grace  this 
honor  might  have  lacked  has  been  add- 
ed by  the  exchange  of  letters  concern- 
ing it,  which  you  will  hear  read,  be- 
tween the  President  of  the  French 
Republic,  a  member  of  the  French 
Academy,  and  the  President  of  the 
United  States,  a  member  of  the  Ameri- 
can Academy. 

As  for  the  bearer  of  the  French 
Academy's  assurance  of  good-will  to 
ours,  the  envoy  whom  we  have  here 
with   us   this   morning,   he   is   already 


known  to  us,  past  all  praise  of  mine, 
by  that  work  of  his  in  which  we  are 
aware  of  an  imagination  finding  su- 
preme expression  in  the  drama;  a  pro- 
found reverence  for  truth  as  the  life 
of  invention;  an  instinctive  obedience 
to  the  authority  that  rests  with  reality 
alone;  a  keen  wit  sparely  flickering  at 
moments  into  delicate  humor  or  broad- 
ening into  rich  burlesque;  an  unfail- 
ing mastery  of  character,  and  a  quick 
sensibility  to  every  variance  of  motive ; 
a  pervading  awe  of  the  tragedy  of  life, 
not  less  in  its  nature  than  in  its  condi- 
tioning; a  tender  compassion  for  suf- 
fering and  helplessness;  a  manly  ad- 
horrence  of  cruelty  and  a  loathing  of 
baseness.  These  are  the  qualities,  the 
principles,  of  an  author  whose  work 
has  its  highest  effect  in  making  us 
judges  of  ourselves,  and  whether  we 
see  his  work  on  the  stage  or  in  the 
vaster  theater  of  the  printed  page, 
where  Shakespeare  is  at  his  best,  we 
yield  to  the  spell  which  art  lays  upon  us 
when  its  appeal  is  from  soul  to  soul. 
For  this  poet's  art  is  not  art  as  it  used 
to  be  imagined, — art  for  its  own  selfish 
sake  or  for  beauty's  sake  only, — but 
it  is  art  for  truth's  sake,  for  justice' 
sake,  for  humanity's  sake.  It  is  art  in 
which  we  never  cease  to  feel  the  throb 
of  a  generous  heart,  modulated  by  a 
powerful  mind,  and  governed  by  a 
faithful  conscience. 

This  author,  whom  I  am  so  glad  and 
so  proud  to  welcome  here,  will  speak 
to  you  of  "The  Theater  as  a  Means  of 
Social  Betterment";  and  now  I  will  no 
longer  keep  you  from  greeting  Mon- 
sieur Eugene  Brieux,  French  Academi- 
cian. 


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ADDRESS  OF  M.  EUGENE  BRIEUX 

Member  and  Representative  of  the  French  Academy 


Messieurs  et  chers  confreres :  J'ai  ete 
charge  par  Monsieur  Poincare,  Presi- 
dent de  la  Republique  f  rangaise  et  mem- 
bre  de  TAcademie  frangaise,  de  re- 
mettre  a  Monsieur  Wilson,  President 
de  la  Republique  americaine  et  membre 
de  TAcademie  americaine,  la  lettre 
suivante : 

Monsieur  le  President  et  illustre  Confrere: 

Monsieur  Butler  avait  bien  voulu,  il  y  a 
quelques  mois,  me  convier  a  la  session  solen- 
nelle  de  TAcademie  americaine  des  Arts  et 
des  Lettres.  Si  vif  que  fut  mon  d^sir  de 
saisir  cette  heureuse  occasion  de  rencontrer 
Votre  Excellence,  j'avais  exprime  la  crainte 
que  les  devoirs  de  ma  charge  ne  me  per- 
missent  pas  de  me  rendre  a  cette  aimable 
invitation.  Les  evenements  qui  depuis  lors 
sont  survenus  en  Europe  et  qui  ont  pour  la 
liberty  des  peuples  une  importance  vitale 
m'empechent  naturellement  aujourd'hui  de 
m'eloigner  de  France.  Je  ne  veux  pas  du 
moins  laisser  partir  Monsieur  Brieux  sans 
le  prier  de  vous  transmettre  la  nouvelle 
assurance  de  mes  sentiments  confraternels 
et  de  mon  amitie. 

UAcademie  frangaise,  fidele  gardienne  des 
traditions  litteraires  de  mon  pays,  a  charge 
Monsieur  Brieux  de  porter  a  la  brillante 
civilisation  americaine  le  salut  de  la  vieille 
et    immortelle    civilisation    mediterraneenne. 

Laissez-moi  joindre  i  cet  hommage  col- 
lectif  le  temoignage  personnel  de  ma  vivc 
admiration  pour  la  grande  republique  aux 
destinees  de  laquelle  vous  presidez  si  noble- 
ment.  Laissez-moi  joindre  aussi  Texpres- 
sion  de  la  constante  sympathie  qu'eprouve 
pour  votre  glorieuse  nation  la  libre  demo- 
cratic dont  j*ai  Thonneur  d'etre  le  represen- 
tant. 

Veuillez  agreer,  Monsieur  le  President  et 
cher  Confrere,  Texpression  de  mes  senti- 
ments devoues. 

R.  PoiNCARi:* 

C'est  avec  une  profonde  emotion, 
Messieurs,  que  je  vous  apporte  ce  salut 
et  celui .  de  TAcademie  franqaise.  Je 
sens  mieux  que  je  ne  le  sais  dire  im- 
portance de  rhonneur  qui  m'est  fait. 
Le  souvenir  de  ce  jour  restera  fixe  dans 
ma  memoire  aussi  longtemps  que  je 
vivrai,  je  vous  le  dis  en  toute  simplicite. 

Pour  TAcademie   frangaise  et  pour 


vous-memes  il  eut  certes  mieux  valu 
qu'elle  fit  un  meilleur  choix,  mais  pour 
moi  Terreur  qu'elle  a  pu  commettre  ainsi 
est  particulierement  heureuse.  Je  me 
suis  longtemps  demande  en  quoi  j'avais 
pu  meriter  une  telle  faveur  et  malgre 
mes  efforts  je  n*ai  pu  decouvrir  en  moi 
rien  qui  la  justifiat.  La  seule  explica- 
tion que  j'aie  trouvee  est  celle-ci:  mes 
confreres  de  TAcademie  savaient  ma 
grande  reconnaissance  pour  les  Etats- 
Unis;  ils  ont  voulu,  non  pas  me  per- 
mettre  d'acquitter  cette  dette,  mais  me 
donner  le  moyen  de  la  reconnaitre  pub- 
liquement.    Je  les  en  remercie. 

Messieurs,  j'aurais  voulu,  dans  cette 
lecture  traiter  quelque  sujet  qui  vous 
interessat.  J'avais  demande  a  Mon- 
sieur le  President  Butler  de  me  donner 
sur  ce  point  quelques  indications,  au 
moins,  j'aurais  cm  avoir  quelque  chance 
de  ne  point  vous  deplaire  tout  a  fait. 
Monsieur  le  President  Butler  m'a  re- 
fuse ce  precieux  concours  et  il  m'a  con- 
seille  de  vous  parler  de  moi-meme,  de 
mon  ceuvre,  et  de  mon  ideal  litteraire.  Je 
le  livre  a  vos  rancunes.  Parler  de  moi ! 
Si  je  le  fais  avec  trop  de  modestie,  avec 
trop  d'exactitude,  je  causerai  decide- 
ment  un  trop  grand  tort  k  ceux  qui 
m'ont  envoye;  et  si  je  le  fais  avec 
orgueil,  que  penserez-vous  de  ma  suf- 
fisance  ?  Je  vais  done  vous  parler  plutot 
de  ce  que  j'ai  voulu  faire  que  de  ce 
que  j'ai  fait. 

C'est  aux  Etats-LTnis  qu'on  a  le  mieux 
compris  la  nature  de  mes  efforts.  C'est 
de  la  part  des  robustes  citoyens  de  cette 
saine  democratic  que  j'ai  regu  les 
applaudissements  auxquels  j'ai  ete  le 
plus  sensible.  A  Paris,  j'en  dois  foumir 
ici  Taveu,  dans  le  monde  tres  parisien, 
et  aussi  parmi  les  purs  artistes,  la  forme 
moralisatrice  de  mon  theatre  a  etc 
quelque  peu  meprisee.     On  m'appelait 


♦The  response  of  President  Wilson  to  this  letter  will  be  found  on  page  47. 


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ADDRESS  OF  M.  EUGENE  BRIEUX 


9 


par  derision  "L'honnete  Brieux"  et 
parce  que  je  suis  fils  d'ouvriers,  on 
m'avait  aussi  sumomme  "le  Tolstoi  du 
faubourg  du  Temple." 

Je  ne  m'en  suis  pas  senti  diminue, 
au  contraire,  et  si  je  revendique  devant 
vous  conrme  un  titre  de  gloire  ces 
appellations  qu'on  voulait  dedaigneuses, 
c'est  que  je  sais  bien  qu'a  vos  yeux  on 
n'est  diminue  ni  parce  qu'on  est  hon- 
nete,  meme  avec  maladresse,  et  fils  du 
peuple,  meme  avec  fierte. 

Si  Ton  cherche  a  degager,  dans  mon 
oeuvre,  une  ligne  directrice  on  peut  y 
trouver  une  preoccupation  constante, 
celle  de  protester  contre  Tabus  de  la 
puissance  sous  plusieurs  formes.  Cest 
en  abusant  de  la  petite  ou  de  la  grande 
quantite  de  puissance  devolue  a  chacun 
que  des  etres  qui  passent  pour  des 
honnetes  gens,  qui  se  croient  des  lion- 
netes  gens,  et  a  qui  nous  serrons  cor- 
dialement  la  main  sont  purement  et 
simplement  des  criminels  qui  seraient 
bien  etonnes  qu*on  le  leur  dit. 

II  n'y  a  pas  de  tyrans  que  sur  des 
trones,  il  en  est  sous  la  lampe  familiale, 
et,  surtout  dans  les  pays  latins,  il  y  a 
des  hommes  modestes,  humbles  bour- 
geois, venerables,  a  la  figure  patemelle, 
qui  sont  de  detestables  despotes  et  qui 
tiennent  sous  le  joug  leur  femme  et 
leurs  enfants.  Remarquez  bien  (et 
c'est  ce  qui  fait  Tinteret  de  Tetude) 
qu*un  tel  homme  est  un  brave  homme, 
un  honnete  homme ;  il  ne  peche  que  par 
im  orgueil  qu'il  ignore,  il  est  convaincu 
qu'il  sait  mieux  que  ses  enfants  ce  qui 
leur  convient.  II  y  a  de  pauvres  petits 
etres  dont  on  a  decide  des  leur  enfance 
et  pariois  meme  avant  qu*il  fussent  nes 
qu'ils  seraient  generaux,  ingenieurs, 
medecins,  ou  avocats,  qu'ils  vendraient 
du  coton  ou  des  valeurs  de  bourse.  Le 
tyran,  le  plus  souvent,  agit  dans  le 
•desir  obscur  de  se  continuer  lui-meme 
par  ses  enfants.  II  voudrait  leur  voir 
realiser  le  reve  qu'il  avait  fait  et  qu'il 
n'a  pas  realise.  II  croit  sa  raison 
superieure  a  celle  de  ses  fils  et  de  ses 
filles,  il  croit  fermement  savoir  mieux 
qu'eux   Tepouse    ou    Tepoux    qui    leur 


convient,  et  il  commet  cette  formidable 
erreur  d'imposer  a  des  jeunes  gens  la 
comprehension  de  la  vie  de  sa  propre 
maturite.  L'initiative,  I'audace,  Tamour 
du  risque,  le  besoin  et  le  devoir  d'ex- 
pansion,  de  realisation  sont  des  vertus 
qu'il  ne  peut  plus  pratiquer,  qu'il 
meprise  par  consequent;  il  n'est  plus 
capable  que  de  prudence,  cette  forme  de 
I'avarice,  et  il  ne  veut  entendre  parler 
que  la  prudence,  et  il  veut  enseigner  la 
prudence,  et  il  veut  imposer  la  prudence 
a  ceux  qui  ont  I'heureux  apanage  et  le 
devoir  de  la  mepriser.  Comme  il  se 
trouve  bien  de  porter  des  bequilles,  il 
en  conclut  que  les  bequilles  sont  indis- 
pensables  a  tous,  et  il  veut  forcer  a  en 
porter  ceux  pour  qui  elles  ne  pourraient 
etre  qu'un  ridicule  et  un  embarras. 

Avec  la  puissance  patemelle,  la 
puissance  la  plus  redoutable  que  les 
hommes  se  soient  attribuee,  est  celle 
du  medecin  et  aussi  celle  du  juge.  Que 
certains,  parmi  nous,  aient  ose  revendi- 
quer  un  de  ces  deux  roles,  c'est,  si  Ton 
reflechit  bien,  presque  incroyable.  Sans 
doute  il  est  necessaire  qu'il  y  ait  des 
medecins,  puisqu'il  y  a  des  malades,  et 
qu'il  y  ait  des  juges,  puisqu'il  y  a  des 
criminels;  mais  songez  que  suivant  le 
mot  connu,  bien  souvent  I'intervention 
du  medecin  se  borne  a  introduire  des 
medicaments  qu'il  connait  peu  dans  un 
corps  qu'il  ne  connait  pas;  songez  que 
les  juges — je  ne  parle  que  de  ceux  de 
I'Europe,  bien  entendu — infligent  par- 
fois  avec  legerete  des  chatiments  par- 
fois  tres  lourds,  et  condamnent  a  des 
peines  qu'ils  ne  peuvent  apprecier  pour 
des  fautes  dont  ils  ignorent  I'orig^ne. 

II  est  des  juges  etourdis,  il  en  est  de 
cruels.  II  en  est  qui,  pendant  I'audi- 
ence,  pensent  a  toute  autre  chose,  qui 
meditent  sur  le  mauvais  caractere  de 
leur  epouse  et  sur  I'indiscipline  de  leurs 
enfants,  sur  le  cours  de  la  bourse  et 
sur  leur  avancement,  qui  supputent  le 
temps  qu'il  fera  dimanche  et  reflechis- 
sent  sur  I'emploi  des  loisirs  que  leur 
donnera  la  retraite.  Cependant,  ces  hom- 
mes prononcent  ensuite  des  jugements 
qui  ruineront  un  homme  dans  son  hon- 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


neur  ou  dans  sa  fortune.  D'autres  juges, 
s*ils  ont  a  se  prononcer  sur  la  culpabilite 
d'un  accuse,  se  feront,  d'avance,  apres 
un  leger  examen  du  dossier,  une  opinion. 
A  parti r  de  ce  moment,  s'ils  ont  par 
exemple,  decide  que  Thomme  arrete  est 
bien  le  coupable,  ils  ecarteront  les  argu- 
ments en  sa  faveur  qu'ils  pourront  ren- 
contrer,  ils  les  declareront,  d'avance, 
sans  valeur  et  sans  portee.  Tout  au 
contraire,  ils  accueilleront  les  arguments 
opposes  comme  des  allies  et  des  amis. 
Les  temoins  a  decharge,  ils  les  con- 
sidereront,  d'avance  encore,  comme  des 
imposteurs  ou  des  imbeciles,  et  il^ 
accueilleront  les  autres  avec  sympathie. 
Le  resultat  sera  parfois  la  condamna- 
tion  d'un  innocent. 

Et  cependant,  ces  juges  sont  des 
hommes,  et  des  hommes  qui  se  croient 
honnetes,  que  Ton  croit  honnetes.  Com- 
ment peuvent-ils  done,  sans  s*en  aper- 
cevoir,  etre  cependant  de  tels  criminels? 
C'est  qu*ils  manquent  d'elevation  mo- 
rale, c'est  surtout  parce  que  Thabitude 
a  emousse  leur  sensibilite;  c*est  qu'ils 
ont  subi  la  deplorable  deformation  pro- 
fessionnelle  qui  leur  fait  accomplir 
comme  un  metier  ce  qui  devrait  etre 
pratique  comme  un  sacerdoce. 

J*ai  etudie  ce  cas  dans  une  piece  in- 
titulee  la  Robe  Rouge,  de  meme  que 
j'avais  etudie  le  cas  du  medecin  dans 
['Evasion.  D'autres  oeuvres  ont  con- 
damne  Tabus  de  la  puissance  paternelle ; 
il  en  reste  beaucoup  a  ecrire.  II  y  aurait 
a  condamner  Tabus  de  puissance  de 
Targent,  de  la  presse,  de  la  tribune,  de 
la  politique. 

L'argent,  la  presse,  la  politique  peu- 
vent  etre,  en  effet,  selon  Temploi  qui 
en  est  fait,  des  forces  bienfaisantes  ou 
redoutables. 

Qui  ne  condamnerait  la  richesse 
lorsqu'elle  est  employee  comme  mani- 
festation de  ^anite,  d'egoisme,  lors 
quelle  est  insolente,  aveugle,  et  sterile? 
Quelle  puissance  haissable  dans  ses 
abus!  Mais  quels  eloges  ne  merite  pas 
son  emploi  lorsque  celui  qui  Ta  con- 
quise,  non  content  de  la  regarder  comme 
une      consecration      legitime,      comme 


un  resultat  merite  de  son  intelligence  ct 
de  son  travail,  Temploie  encore  au  sou- 
lagement  de  la  misere;  non  pas  a  un 
soulagement  aveugle  qui  ne  fait  qu'cn- 
tretenir  et  perpetuer  le  mal  au  lieu  dc 
le  supprimer,  mais  a  un  concours  clair- 
voyant. Le  vrai  but  de  la  charite,  le 
seul  but  qu'elle  doive  viser,  c'est  dc 
mettre  les  miserables  en  etat  de  se 
passer  d'elle;  c*est  non  pas  dc  leur 
donner  Topium  de  Taumone,  mais  dc 
leur  foumir  le  moyen  de  redcvenir  des 
etres  libres,  independants,  qui  puiscnt 
dans  le  travail  le  droit  a  la  fierte.  La 
fortune  qui  agit  ainsi  merite  d'etre 
saluee  ainsi  que  la  memoire  de  ccux — 
nombreux  parmi  les  citoyens  de  votrc 
Republique — qui,  a  leur  mort,  affectent 
ce  qu'ils  ont  acquis  a  la  fondation  d'tmi- 
versites,  de  musees,  de  bibliotheques, 
d'hopitaux,  et  qui,  apres  avoir  donne 
Texemple  du  travail  recompense,  don- 
nent  celui  du  patriotisme  efficace  et  de 
Taltruisme  intelligent. 

Dans  une  democratic  la  presse  est  une 
puissance  de  premier  ordre.  Rien  n'est 
plus  haissable  qu'elle  si  elle  s'abaissc 
a  servir  des  interets,  a  assouvir  des 
vengeances,  a  satisfaire  des  ambitions 
injustifiees,  et  si  elle  emploie  comme 
moyens  la  diffamation,  le  mensonge  ou 
Tinjure.  Au  contraire,  son  role  est  Ic 
plus  beau  de  tons  les  roles,  sa  puissance, 
la  puissance  la  plus  utile,  lorsqu'ellc 
entreprend  de  rcdresser  les  abus,  lors 
qu'elle  recherche  la  realisation  du  bien 
public,  lorsqu'elle  s'emploie  a  fairc 
I'education  du  peuple  et  a  lui  inspirer 
des  idees  de  progres;  lorsqu'elle  lui 
apprend  a  la  fois  le  respect  du  passe 
et  la  confiance  dans  Tavenir. 

S'il  est  un  don  precieux  parmi  ceux 
qu'un  homme  puisse  recevoir,  c'est  bien 
le  don  de  la  parole,  c'est  bien  le  don  de 
Teloquence.  Malheur  a  celui  qui,  Tayant 
re<;u,  commet  cet  autre  abus  de  puis- 
sance qui  consiste  a  eveiller  des  haincs, 
a  provoquer  des  revendications  qu'il 
salt  ne  pouvoir  etre  satisfaites,  a  ex- 
citer des  appetits  qu'il  sait  ne  pouvoir 
etre  apaises;  malheur  a  celui  qui  dans 
un  but  d'ambition  person  nelle  provoque 


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ADDRESS  OF  M.  EUGENE  BRIEUX 


dans  les  profondeurs  de  la  masse  Tenvie, 
la  haine,  et  la  colere.  Toute  puissance 
cree  un  devoir  a  celui  qui  en  est  favo- 
rise.  Et  Tabus  de  cette  puissance  est 
une  sorte  de  crime. 

Messieurs,  si  j'en  avais  le  temps,  si 
j  avais  le  talent  necessaire,  je  tenterais 
d*aj outer,  sur  ce  sujet,  quelques  pieces 
a  these  a  celles  que  j'ai  deja  ecrites. 
J'ai  la  conviction  profonde  que  le 
theatre  peut  etre  un  precieux  moyen 
d'enseignement.  II  ne  saurait  borner 
son  ambition  a  egayer  les  spectateurs. 
Non  que  je  veuille  dire  qu'on  ne  puisse 
Tutiliser  a  faire  rire  les  honnetes  gens, 
a  leur  faire  oublier  les  soucis  de  la 
joumee,  a  suppleer  aussi,  si  Ton  veut, 
a  la  penurie  de  leurs  emotions.  Mais 
de  meme  qu'on  accepte  qu'il  y  ait  des 
romans  gais  ou  emouvants,  et  des 
livres  inktructifs,  on  doit  reconnaitre  au 
theatre  le  droit,  de  temps  en  temps  tout 
au  moins,  de  traiter  les  questions  les 
plus  graves  et  les  sujets  les  plus, 
importants. 

En  ce  qui  me  concerne,  j'ai  tou jours 
envisage  le  theatre  non  comme  un  but, 
mais  comme  un  moyen.  J'ai  voulu  par 
lui  non  seulement  provoquer  des^  re- 
flexions, modifier  des  habitudes  et  des 
actes,  mais  encore  (et  on  a  pu  me  le 
reprocher  vivement  sans  me  le  faire 
regretter)  determiner  des  arretes  ad- 
ministratifs  qui  m'apparaissaient  desi- 
rables. J'ai  voulu  que,  parce  que  j'aurai 
vecu,  la  quantite  de  souffrance  repandue 
sur  la  terre  fut  diminuee  d'un  peu. 
J'ai  I'immense  satisfaction  d'y  avoir 
reussi,  et  je  sais  que  deux  de  mes 
pieces,  les  Remplacantes  et  les  Azmriis, 
ont  contribue  a  sauver  des  ex- 
istences humaines,  et  a  en  rendre 
d'autres  moins  douloureuses.  Des 
efforts  plus  grands  ont  pu  etre  steriles ; 
la  chance  a  favorise  les  miens. 

A  cela  je  n'ai  aucun  merite.  J'ai  agi 
sous  la  poussee  de  mes  instincts.  Je 
n'aurais  pas  pu  faire  autre  chose  que 
ce  que  j'ai  fait.  J'etais  ne  avec  une 
ame  d'apotre— encore  une  fois,  je  n'en 
tire  aucune  vanit6 ;  ce  n'est  pas  moi  qui 
me  la  suis  cre6e — ^mais  la  vue  de  la 


souffrance  des  autres  m'a  toujours  ete 
insupportable.  Dans  ma  mesure,  j'ai 
voulu  me  delivrer  de  la  colere  et  de 
la  gene  qu'elle  me  causait.  Tout  enfant, 
je  revais  d'aller  ou  civiliser  les  Apaches 
de  Gustave  Aimard  et  de  Fenimore 
Cooper  ou  sauver  les  petits  Chinois  dont 
les  Annales  de  la  Propagation  de  la  Foi 
me  racontaient  les  martyres.  J'ai  voulu 
aller  catechiser  les  sauvages.  "Mais," 
m'a  dit  M.  le  Marquis  de  Segur,  dans 
son  discours  de  reception,  "ce  ne  fut 
qu'une  velleite  passagere;  vous  avez 
bientot  reconnu  qu'en  Afrique,  en 
Oceanie,  il  n'etait  plus  guere  de  sau- 
vages, mais  qu'il  en  est  beaucoup  en 
France,  et  vous  vous  etes  restreint  a 
evangeliser  ceux-la." 

II  s'est  trouve  que  mes  dispositions 
natu  relies  d'esprit  me  permettaient  de 
me  servir  de  ce  porte-voix  retentissant 
qu'est  le  theatre.  Et,  on  I'a  dit  avec 
raison,  je  n'ai  souvent  fait  qu'enfoncer 
des  portes  ouvertes.  Ces  portes  ou- 
vertes,  beaucoup  les  croyaient  fermees, 
et  a  ceux-la  j'ai  montre  qu'elles  ne 
I'etaient  pas  en  y  passant.  Dans  ce 
porte-voix  je  n'ai  crie  rien  de  nouveau, 
je  le  sais  bien.  J'y  ai  repete  dans  un 
langage  que  la  masse  de  mes  contem- 
porains  pouvait  mieux  comprendre  des 
ve^^ites  que  des  philosophes  et  des 
savants  avnient  decouvertes,  eux,  et 
renfermees  dans  des  livres  que  les  habi- 
tues de  theatre  n'avaient  pas  la  tenta- 
tion  d'ouvrir.  Voila  pourquoi  j'ai  ete 
un  auteur  dramatique.  Vous  venez, 
Messieurs,  de  vous  apercevoir  que  cette 
seule  ambition  m'etait  permise,  et  que 
je  ne  pouvais  songer  a  etre  un  orateur. 
Je  ne  puis  done  que  m'excuser  d'avoir 
cependant  parle  devant  vous,  et  vous 
remercier  de  votre  bienveillante  atten- 
tion. Mais  si  je  I'exprime  mal,  vous 
sentirez  cependant  je  veux  I'esperer,  la 
fierte  que  je  ressens  a  etre  regu  par 
votre  conipagnie,  et  la  joie  que  j'ai 
eprouvee  a  prendre  contact  avec  I'ad- 
mirable  societe  americaine,  avec  cette 
republique  soeur,  reservoir  immense  et 
intarissable    de    jeunes    energies,    de 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


sagesse^   d'independance,   et   de   gene- 
rosite. 

Messieurs,  vous  ne  me  comprendriez 
pas  si  je  ne  vous  disais  pas  un  mot  de 
la  France.  Mais  vous  ne  me  ferez  pas 
Tinjure  de  redouter  pendant  un  seul 
instant  que  je  puisse  avoir  la  con- 
damnable  pretention  de  peser  sur  vos 
consciences.  J'ai  le  respect  de  votre 
liberte  et  Testime  de  votre  jugement. 
Je  veux  vous  dire  cependant  la  pro- 
fonde  emotion  que  j'ai  ressentie  en  face 
des  sympathies  que  vous  temoignez  a 
mon  pays.  Nous  avions  pris  un  re- 
grettable plaisir,  pendant  longtemps  a 
nous  denigrer  nous-memes.  Nos  ro- 
manciers,  trop  souvent,  ont  calomnie 
la  femme  frangaise.  Des  esprits  moins 
clairvoyants  que  les  votres  eussent  pu 


s*y  tromper.  Vous  avez  reagi.  Ceux 
d'entre  vous  qui  sont  alles  a  Paris,  et 
y  ont  vu  autre  chose  que  les  boulevards, 
ceux  surtout  qui  ont  pris  contact  avec 
la  bourgeoisie  en  province,  sont  revenus 
agreablement  surpris  de  la  difference 
qu'ils  avaient  constatee  entre  les  fran- 
gaises  de  nos  livres  et  celles  de  la 
realite.  Vous  savez.aussi  quelles  re- 
serves de  foi,  d'energie,  et  de  patrio- 
tisme  la  France  pent  tirer,  au  moment 
necessaire,  des  profondeurs  de  sa  con- 
science, quelle  generosite  et  quelle  force 
elle  est  capable  d'apporter  au  service 
de  son  droit  et  a  la  defense  de  sa  liberte. 
Je  voulais  vous  en  remercier,  au  nom 
de  TAcademie  frangaise  et  au  nom  de 
tous  mes  compatriotes. 


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GREETING  TO  MONSIEUR  BRIEUX 

From  the  President  of  the  United  States 

Air.  Matthews,  before  delivering  the  share  in  the  pleasure  of  greeting  Mon- 

address  that   follows,   read   this  letter  sieur  Brieux.     Since  it  is  not,  may  I 

from  Mr.  Wilson:  not  through  you  send  a  cordial  mes- 
sage of  welcome  to  Monsieur  Brieux 

My  dear  Prof.  Matthews:  and  an  expression  of  my  warmest  in- 

"I  wish  sincerely  that  it  were  possible  Merest  in  the  meeting  of  the  two  socie- 

for  me  to  attend  the  joint  meeting  of  ^^^s. 

the  American  Academy  and  the  Nation-  "Cordially  and  sincerely  yours, 

al  Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters,  and  to  "Woodrow  Wilson/' 


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WHAT  IS  PURE  ENGLISH  ? 
By  Brander  Matthews 


There  is  no  topic  about  which  men 
dispute  more  frequently,  more  bitterly, 
or  more  ignorantly  than  about  the  right 
and  the  wrong  use  of  words.  Even 
political  questions  and  religious  ques- 
tions can  be  debated  with  less  acri- 
mony than  linguistic  questions.  The 
usual  explanation  of  this  unexampled 
acerbity  in  discussion  is  probably  ac- 
curate; it  is  that  our  political  and  our 
religious  opinions  are  our  own,  and  we 
are  individually  responsible  for  them, 
whereas  our  linguistic  opinions  are  the 
result  of  habits  acquired  from  those 
who  brought  us  up,  so  that  asper- 
sions on  our  parts  of  speech  appear 
to  us  to  be  reflections  on  our  parents. 
To  misuse  words,  to  make  grammatical 
blunders,  is  an  evidence  of  illiteracy; 
and  to  accuse  a  man  of  illiteracy  is  to 
disparage  the  social  standing  of  his 
father  and  his  mother. 

The  uneducated  are  inclined  to  re- 
sent any  speech  more  polished  than 
their  own,  and  the  half-educated  are 
prompt  to  believe  that  their  half -knowl- 
edge includes  all  wisdom.  As  the  half- 
educated  acquired  their  half-knowledge 
from  a  grammar,  they  naturally  turn 
to  it  as  to  an  inspired  oracle,  not  sus- 
pecting that  the  immense  majority  of 
the  grammars  in  use  in  our  schools, 
until  very  recently,  abounded  in  un- 
founded assertions  about  our  language, 
and  laid  down  rules  without  validity. 
And  one  immediate  result  of  this  was 
singularly  unfortunate.  Since  some  of 
these  new-fangled  rules  had  not  been 
known  to  the  translators  of  the 
Bible,  to  Shakespeare  and  to  Milton, 
students  were  called  upon  to  point  out 
the  so-called  "errors"  in  the  writings 
of  these  mighty  masters  of  language! 
Not  only  was  this  absurd;  it  was  also 
injurious  in  that  it  misdirected  the 
effort   of   those   who  wished   to  learn 


how  to  use  English  accurately.  It  fo- 
cused attention  on  the  purely  negative 
merit  of  avoiding  error  instead  of  cen- 
tering it  on  the  positive  merit  of  achiev- 
ing sincerity,  clarity,  and  vigor.  The 
energies  of  the  students  were  wasted, 
and  worse  than  wasted,  in  the  futili- 
ties of  what  President  Stanley  Hall 
has  contemptuously  termed  "linguistic 
manicuring." 

The  same  attitude  had  been  taken  by 
the  highly  trained  Roman  rhetoricians 
toward  the  Latin  of  certain  of  the 
fathers  of  the  church,  the  vernacular 
vigor  of  whose  writings  did  not  please 
the  ultra-refined  ears  of  the  over-edu- 
cated critics.  After  recording  this  fact 
in  his  study  of  the  "End  of  Paganism,'* 
the  wise  and  urbane  Gaston  Boissier 
remarked  that  "When  we  have  spent 
all  our  life  recommending  purity  and 
correction  and  elegance, — ^that  is  to  say, 
the  lesser  merits  of  style, — we  often 
become  incapable  of  seeing  its  larger 
merits";  and  "we  set  up  a  standard  of 
perfection  based  on  the  absence  of  de- 
fects rather  than  on  the  presence  of 
real  qualities ;  and  we  are  no  longer  apt 
to  appreciate  what  is  new  and  original." 
The  refined  taste  of  the  over-educated 
is  always  likely  to  be  more  appreciative 
of  the  absence  of  defects  than  of  the 
presence  of  what  is  new  and  original. 
This  explains  why  it  was  that  the  sin- 
ewy strength  and  masculine  veracity  of 
Mark  Twain's  style  (in  his  later  writ- 
ings) did  not  earlier  receive  the  recog- 
nition they  deserved,  although  there  had 
been  prompt  praise  for  the  effeminate 
graces  of  Walter  Pater's  labored 
periods. 

Like  the  Roman  rhetoricians  con- 
temporary with  Tertullian,  '  our  lin- 
guistic manicurists  are  forev<;ir  recom- 
mending purity  and  correcitness  and 
elegance,    three,  qualities   n(i)t  easy    to 


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WHAT  IS  PURE  ENGLISH  ? 


i^ 


define.  Elegance  is  to  be  attained  only 
by  those  who  do  not  stoop  to  seek  it 
too  assiduously.  Correctness  is  likely  to 
be  misinterpreted  as  a  compliance  with 
the  niles  laid  down  by  the  uninspired 
grammarians  rather  than  obedience  to 
the  larger  laws  whereby  the  language 
is  freely  guided.  And  purity  is  a  cha- 
meleon word,  changing  meaning  while 
we  are  looking  at  it. 

Many  of  those  who  are  insisting 
upon  the  preservation  of  the  purity  of 
our  language  mean  that  English  must 
be  kept  free  from  contamination  by 
foreign  tongues,  that  we  who  use  it 
must  refrain  from  borrowing  words 
from  other  languages  and  from  making 
new  words  of  our  own,  and  that,  in 
short,  we  must  stick  to  the  old  stock 
and  use  nothing  but  what  an  impas- 
sioned orator  once  called  "real  angular 
Saxon."  Now,  it  needs  but  a  moment's 
reflection  to  show  that  an  insistence  on 
this  kind  of  purity  would  deprive  Eng- 
lish of  its  immemorial  privilege  of 
helping  itself  with  both  hands  to  terms 
of  all  sorts  from  all  sorts  of  languages, 
ancient  and  modem,  civilized  and  bar- 
baric. To  the  exercise  of  this  indis- 
putable right  English  owes  its  unparal- 
leled richness  of  vocabulary  and  its 
unequaled  wealth  of  words,  more  or 
less  equivalent,  yet  deftly  discriminated 
by  delicate  shades  of  difference. 

Of  course  this  power  to  enrich  itself 
from  other  tongues  is  not  peculiar  to 
English,  and  ever\'  other  language  has 
profitably  availed  itself  of  its  freedom 
to  annex  the  outlying  words  it  needed 
for  the  rectification  of  its  linguistic 
frontiers.  When  Latin  was  a  living 
speech  it  was  continually  levying  upon 
Greek  for  the  terms  it  lacked  itself.  In 
Latin  the  vocabulary  of  philosophy, 
for  example,  was  almost  exclusively  de- 
rived from  the  Greek,  just  as  in  English 
the  vocabularies  of  millinery  and  of 
cookery  and  of  war  are  derived  from 
the  French. 

If  the  preservation  of  the  purity  of 
English  meant  that  we  must  exclude 
from    our    language    every    word    not 


native  to  our  speech,  erecting  a  pro- 
hibitive tariff  wall  to  keep  out  all  im- 
ported terms,  then  it  would  become  the 
duty  of  every  lover  of  our  tongue  to 
advocate  impurity.  To  do  its  work, 
our  language,  like  every  other,  ancient 
and  modern,  needs  now  and  again  to 
be  replenished  and  reinvigorated  by 
fresh  blood.  Just  as  the  population  of 
the  British  Isles  is  Celtic  and  Roman, 
Anglo-Saxon  and  Norman,  and  just  as 
the  population  of  the  United  States  is 
compounded  of  a  variety  of  ethnic  in- 
gredients, so  the  English  language,  the 
joint  possession  of  British  and  Ameri- 
cans, is  itself  a  melting-pot,  a  linguistic 
crucible  into  which  have  been  thrown 
words  from  every  possible  source. 

As  the  vocabularies  of  war,  of  mil- 
linery, and  of  cookery  have  been  re- 
cruited from  the  French,  so  the  vocab- 
ulary of  shipping  has  been  recruited 
from  the  Dutch  and  the  Scandinavian, 
and  the  vocabulary  of  music  from  the 
Italian.  The  vocabulary  of  philosophy 
is  partly  Latin,  but  mainly  Greek;  and 
even  the  rude  dialects  of  the  American 
Indians  have  been  laid  under  contribu- 
tion to  describe  things  native  to  North 
America — moccasin,  for  example,  and 
tepee  and  totem.  Certain  Dutch  words 
— stoop  for  one  and  boss  for  another — 
were  imported  into  the  general  English 
use  from  America — from  the  New 
Amsterdam  which  is  now  New  York. 

In  all  these  cases  the  words  which 
were  adopted  from  foreign  tongues 
are  now  regarded  as  native.  They  have 
been  completely  assimilated,  and  the 
language  is  the  richer  for  their  inclu- 
sion within  it.  Even  the  most  pedantic 
of  purists  unconsciously  employs  count- 
less terms  which  he  would  be  com- 
pelled by  his  principles  to  reject  if  he 
stopped  to  consider  that  they  are  not 
outgrowths  of  the  native  stock.  We  all 
use  words  for  what  they  mean  to  us 
now  and  here,  without  regard  to  their 
remoter  source  in  some  other  tongue 
once  upon  a  time,  and  without  regard 
to  their  exact  meaning  in  that  other 
tongue.      "Language    as     written,    as 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


spoken,  is  an  art  and  not  a  science," 
Professor  Gildersleeve  has  asserted, 
adding  the  encouraging  comment  that 
"the  study  of  origins,  of  etymology, 
has  very  little,  if  anything,  to  do  with 
the  practice  of  speaking  and  writing. 
The  affinity  of  English  with  Greek  and 
Latin  is  a  matter  that  does  not  enter 
into  the  artistic  consciousness  of  the 
masses   that   own   the   language." 

To  the  pedants  and  to  the  purists  no 
declaration  could  be  more  shocking 
than  that  the  masses  own  the  language ; 
and  yet  no  assertion  is  more  solidly 
rooted  in  the  fact  and  more  often  em- 
phasized by  those  who  have  trained 
themselves  to  a  mastery  of  their  own 
tongue.  The  fastidious  French  poet 
Malherbe,  when  asked  as  to  the  pro- 
priety of  a  word,  used  to  refer  the  in- 
quirer to  the  porters  of  the  Haymarket 
in  Paris,  saying  that  these  were  his  mas- 
ters in  language.  The  fastidious  Cicero 
was  constantly  refreshing  his  own 
scholarly  vocabular\'  by  the  apt  terms 
he  took  over  from  Plautus,  who  had 
found  them  in  the  tenements  of  the 
Roman  populace.  And  the  wise  Roger 
Ascham  put  the  case  pithily  when  he 
wrote  in  his  "Toxophilus"  that  "he  that 
will  write  well  in  any  tongue  must  fol- 
low the  counsel  of  Aristotle,  to  speak  as 
the  common  people  do,  to  think  as  the 
wise  men  do." 

Language  can  be  made  in  the  library, 
no  doubt,  and  in  the  laboratory  also, 
but  it  is  most  often  and  most  effectively 
created  in  the  workshop  and  in  the 
market-place,  where  the  imaginative 
energy  of  our  race  expresses  itself 
spontaneously  in  swiftly  creating  the 
lacking  term  in  response  to  the  unex- 
pected demand.  Nothing  could  be  bet- 
ter, each  in  its  own  way,  than  pictur- 
esque vocables  like  scare-head  and 
loan-shark^  wind-jammer  and  hen- 
minded,  all  of  them  American  contri- 
butions to  the  English  language,  and 
all  of  them  examples  of  the  purest 
English.  Hen-minded  is  an  adjective 
devised  by  Mr.  Howells  to  describe  the 
"women   who   are   so   common    in   all 


walks  of  life,  and  who  are  made  up  of 
only  one  aim  at  a  time,  and  of  manifold 
anxieties  at  all  times."  Scare-head  and 
loan-shark  are  the  products  of  the 
newspaper  office,  while  wind-jammer 
was  put  together  by  some  down-east 
sailor-man,  inheritor  of  the  word- form- 
ing gift  of  his  island  ancestors  who 
helped  to  harr>^  the  Armada.  "/riW- 
jammer/'  remarked  Professor  Gilder- 
sleeve, trained  by  his  intimate  knowl- 
edge of  Greek  to  appreciate  verbal  vigor 
as  well  as  verbal  delicacy — **ivind-jam- 
mer"  is  a  fine  word,  I  grant,  and  so  is 
tvery  Anglo-Saxon  compound  that 
grows  and  is  not  made." 

But  all  new  words  are  not  of  neces- 
sity good  words.  Ben  Jonson,  who 
was  himself  a  frequent  maker  of  new 
words,  displayed  his  shrewdness  when 
he  declared  that  "Custom  is  the  most 
certain  Mistress  of  Language  as  the 
publicke  stampe  makes  the  current 
money,"  adding  as  a  caution,  "but  we 
must  not  be  too  frequent  with  the  mint, 
every  day  coyning." 

Our  treasury  is  enriched  when  we 
take  over  needed  terms  from  abroad 
and  reissue  them  stamped  with  our  own 
image  and  superscription.  There  is  no 
damage  to  the  purity  of  English  if  the 
borrowed  words  are  absolutely  assim- 
ilated; but  there  is  danger  when  they 
remain  outlanders  and  refuse  to  take 
out  their  naturalization  papers.  Moc- 
casin and  boss,  lieutenant  and  omelet, 
zvaltc  and  tremolo,  are  now  citizens  of 
our  vocabulary,  although  they  were 
once  immigrants  admitted  on  suflFer- 
ance.  Unfortunately,  hosts  of  other 
linguistic  importations  have  retaine<i 
their  foreign  spelling,  often  with  alien 
accents,  and  have  kept  their  un-Eng- 
lish pronunciation.  Ennui  and  genre 
and  nuance  are  not  yet  acclimated  in 
English  speech,  because  they  cannot  be 
pronounced  properly  by  those  unfa- 
miliar with  spoken  French.  Quite  as 
bad  is  the  case  of  difi  and  mitier  and 
role,  all  of  which  still  wear  the  accents 
of  their  native  tongue,  abhorrent  in 
English  orthography. 


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WHAT  IS  PURE  ENGLISH  ? 


n 


Probably  chauffeur  and  garage  have 
come  to  stay;  they  are  not  transients, 
but  permanent  boarders  in  that  inn  of 
strange  meetings  which  the  English 
language  is.  But  chauffeur  offensively 
violates  the  principles  of  English  or- 
thography, and  garage  still  preserves  its 
foreign  pronunciation,  although  there 
are  some  already  who  have  had  the 
courage  to  speak  it  as  if  it  rhymed 
with  marriage,  thus  Anglicizing  it  once 
for  all.  It  is  pleasant  to  see  that  there 
are  others  who  do  not  shrink  from 
speaking  and  writing  risky  in  place  of 
risque,  and  brusk  in  place  of  brusque, 
just  as  the  French  have  transmogrified 
beefsteak  and  roast  beef  into  biftek 
and  rosbif. 

The  real  danger  of  impurity  lies  not 
in  taking  over  foreign  terms,  but  in 
employing  them  without  taking  them 
over  completely.  Either  a  word  is  Eng- 
lish or  it  is  not.  If  it  is  not  English, 
a  speaker  or  a  writer  who  knows  his 
business  ought  to  be  able  to  get  along 
without  it.  There  is  no  imperative  call 
for  us  to  borrow  mise-en-sckne  or  pre- 
midrCf  for  instance,  artiste  or  dinoue- 
ment,  Zeitgeist  or  rifaciamento,  and  it 
is  perfectly  possible  to  express  in  our 
own  tongue  the  meanings  conveyed  by 
these  terms  imported  in  the  original 
package. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  a  word  is  now 
English,  whatever  its  earlier  origin, 
then  it  ought  to  be  treated  as  English, 
deprived  of  its  foreign  accents,  and 
forced  to  take  an  English  plural.  No 
one  doubts  for  a  moment  that  cherub 
and  criterion,  medium  and  index,  can 
claim  good  standing  in  our  English 
vocabulary,  yet  we  find  a  pedant  now 
and  then  who  still  bestows  upon  these 
helpless  words  the  plurals  they  had  to 
use  in  their  native  tongues,  and  who 
therefore  writes  cherubim  and  criteria, 
media  and  indices,  violating  the  gram- 
matical purity  of  English.  The  pedant 
who  is  guilty  of  this  affectation  is 
"showing  off,"  as  the  boys  say;  he  is 
trying  to  display  his  acquaintance  with 
foreign  languages,  and  he  is  only  re- 


vealing his  ignorance  of  his  own  tongue. 
It  is  blank  ignorance,  intensified  by 
sheer  affectation,  which  tempts  any  one 
to  speak  of  a  foyer-hall  or  of  a  grille- 
room,  misbegotten  hybrids  impossible 
to  a  man  who  is  on  speaking  terms 
with  either  English  or  French.  This 
same  combination  of  ignorance  and 
affectation  is  responsible  for  employe 
and  repertoire,  when  we  have  already 
the  simple  English  employee  and  reper- 
tory. And  no  phrase  of  contempt  is 
cutting  enough  for  those  friends  of 
aviation  who  persist  in  calling  a  shed 
wherein  a  flying  machine  is  sheltered 
a  hangar,  in  blissful  unconsciousness 
that  hangar  is  simply  the  exact  French 
equivalent  for  shed.  Ignorance  could 
go  but  one  step  further,  and  we  may 
expect  to  see  it  bestowing  a  pedantic 
plural  upon  omnibus^  terming  those  use- 
ful vehicles  omnibi. 

It  cannot  be  said  too  emphatically  or 
too  often  that  that  English  is  pure,  and 
that  only  that  English  is  pure,  which 
conforms  to  the  free  genius  of  our  en- 
ergetic and  imaginative  mother  tongue. 
It  does  not  matter  whether  the  word 
or  the  term  or  the  usage  is  new-fangled 
or  old-fashioned,  Anglo-Saxon  or  Ro- 
mance, borrowed  from  a  barbaric 
tongue  or  made  out  of  hand  to  meet 
the  pressing  necessity  of  the  moment; 
if  it  is  in  accord  with  the  spirit  and 
tradition  of  the  language,  it  is  pure. 

A  good  omen  it  is  that  there  has 
recently  been  founded  in  England  a  new 
organization  designed  to  spread  abroad 
a  knowledge  of  the  true  theory  and  the 
proper  practice  of  the  English  language. 
It  will  encourage  "those  who  possess 
the  word-making  faculty  to  exercise  it 
freely.*'  It  will  advocate  the  thorough 
Anglicizing  of  all  alien  words  deserv- 
ing incorporation  into  English,  thus 
defending  the  purity  of  the  language 
against  the  pedants.  In  the  society's 
preliminary  pamphlet,  in  its  declaration 
of  principles,  which  is  really  a  ring- 
ing declaration  of  independence  from 
pedantry  and   from   the   false   idea   of 


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purity,  there  is  one  very  significant 
passage : 

"Believing  that  language  is  or  should 
be  democratic  both  in  character  and  ori- 
gin, and  that  its  best  word-makers  are 
the  uneducated,  and  not  the  educated 
classes,  we  should  prefer  vivid  popular 
terms  to  the  artificial  creations  of 
scientists.  We  shall  often  do  better  by 
inquiring,  for  instance,  not  what  name 
the  inventor  gave  to  his  new  machine, 
but  what  it  is  called  by  the  workmen 
who  handle  it;  and  in  adopting  their 
homespun  terms  and  giving  them 
literary  currency  we  shall  help  to  pre- 
serve the  living  and  the  popular  char- 
acter of  our  speech." 

This    new    British    organization    is 


headed  by  the  new  poet  laureate,  and 
it  is  felicitously  entitled  the  Society  for 
Pure  English. 

There  is  need  of  a  corresponding 
organization  on  this  side  of  the  Atlan- 
tic; and  as  the  French  Academy  is  the 
guardian  of  the  French  language, 
cautiously  giving  its  sanction  to  the  new 
words  and  new  usages  spontaneously 
created  in  response  to  new  necessities, 
so  the  American  Academy  of  Arts  and 
Letters  may  in  time  take  upon  itself 
to  defend  the  true  purity  of  English 
against  the  pedants  who  are  ever  its 
most  insidious  enemies,  dangerous  to 
the  freedom  of  the  noble  tongue  which 
is  the  birthright  of  both  the  British  and 
the  Americans. 


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THE  QUALITY  OF  IMAGINATION  iN  AMERICAN  LIFE 

By  Robert  Herrick 


The  traveler  speeding  east  or  west 
on  the  railroad  between  New  York  and 
Chicago  skirts  the  southern  shore  of 
Lake  Michigan,  along  which  rise  hills 
of  sand  that  are  sparsely  covered  with 
scrubby  pines.  Between  these  dunes 
open  vistas  of  the  blue  waters  of  the 
lake,  shading  into  a  far  horizon  of 
mysterious  gray.  A  few  years  ago — 
less  than  a  dozen — this  was  all  there 
was  except  an  occasional  fisherman's 
hut  beneath  the  dunes.  But  here,  it 
seems,  was  the  strategic  point  where 
the  iron  ores  coming  by  ship  from  the 
upper  lakes  could  best  meet  the  coke 
coming  from  the  mines  in  the  Alle- 
ghanies,  where  the  finished  product  of 
steel  could  most  easily  be  shipped  to 
its  ultimate  destination  over  the  many 
railroads  radiating  to  the  east  and  west, 
to  the  north  and  south.  So  here  within 
a  few  months'  time  there  rose  magically 
among  these  bare  sand-dunes  the 
modern  industrial  city  of  Gary.  Now 
as  the  train  speeds  one  sees  a  cloud  of 
smoke  hovering  above  the  long,  low 
buildings  or  drifting  eastward  before 
the  lake  breeze.  Large  ore  vessels  dock 
in  a  harbor  hollowed  out  of  the  sand. 
The  ore  is  dipped  from  the  bowels  of 
these  steel  vessels  by  long  electric- 
scoops,  handed  to  neighboring  blast-fur- 
naces, and  melted  into  pig-iron,  which 
in  turn  is  recreated  into  steel  on  neigh- 
boring hearths.  Then  the  steel  ingots 
are  run  through  rail  mills  and  dumped 
on  waiting  cars,  or  taken  to  the  mer- 
chant mill  to  be  fashioned  into  the 
many  metal  shapes  on  which  our  civi- 
lization is  being  built  skyward. 

There  is  no  waste  of  time  or  labor 
in  all  this  process;  it  is  the  best  ex- 
ample I  know  of  scrupulous  economy 
in  the  shaping  of  means  to  ends  on  a 
large  scale.  Gary  is  a  triumph  of  prac- 
tical imagination,  created  whole  within 


a  few  months  on  the  waste  sand- 
dunes  along  the  lake,  created  efficiently 
for  a  necessary  purpose.  It  is  one  of 
those  modern  marvels  of  which  Ameri- 
cans are  rightly  proud.  For  it  repre- 
sents just  as  truly  the  operation  of  the 
imaginative  spirit,  daringly  incarnating 
itself  in  fact,  as  the  canvas  of  the 
artist,  the  ode  of  the  poet,  or  the  sym- 
phony of  the  musician.  And  the  spirit 
that  conceived  this  large  work  of  the 
practical  imagination  is  the  same  spirit, 
compact  of  venture  and  shrewdness  and 
dream,  that  has  poured  this  nation  out 
across  a  continent  from  sea  to  sea ;  that 
has  filled  these  one  hundred  millions 
of  people  with  restless  ambitions  and 
desires;  that  has  made  us  Americans 
the  paradox  of  the  modem  world — the 
most  material  and  the  most  ideal  people 
that  has  ever  lived. 

Into  this  new  city  by  the  lake  have 
come  workmen  by  the  tens  of  thousands, 
mostly  new  Americans  from  European 
countries,  such  as  engage  in  the  coarser 
labors  of  our  civilization.  For  them 
the  city  of  Gary  has  been  plotted,  run- 
ning back  into  the  prairie  for  several 
miles,  with  its  checkerboard  squares 
filled  in  spasmodically  by  brick  and 
cement  buildings,  with  long  vistas  of 
concrete  walks  and  macadam  roads — 
such  a  dwelling-place  as  one  may  see 
almost  anywhere  in  this  broad  country 
of  ours,  only  newer,  fresher,  and  more 
uncompromisingly  ugly  in  its  drab  and 
yellow  coloring. 

Here  is  where  Americans  house 
themselves  by  the  millions  after  the 
day's  labor  in  our  enormous  hives — ^this 
or  worse.  Yet  out  of  this  raw,  ugly 
city  has  come  recently  the  one  original 
idea  in  education  that  America  has  pro- 
duced— an  industrial  education  through 
actual  work  by  the  children  of  work- 
ing-men, school  and  industry  united — 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


an  idea  that  gives  meaning  alike  to 
school  and  labor,  that  makes  education 
real.  The  Gary  idea  in  education  is  an 
effort  of  the  constructive  imagination 
perhaps  more  enduring  than  the  steel 
city  itself,  which  through  some  acci- 
dent of  invention  or  economic  adjust- 
ment may  be  conjured  out  of  existence 
as  swiftly  as  it  was  built.  In  the  neigh- 
boring center  of  Chicago  many  other 
constructive  ideas,  fruit  of  American 
imagination  in  the  art  of  social  life,  are 
at  work,  such  as  the  juvenile  courts, 
the  park  and  the  playground  systems. 
These  are  prosaic  conceptions,  but  built 
as  surely  with  imagination  as  cathedral 
or  statue;  efforts  to  realize  the  dream 
of  a  more  perfectly  humanized  indus- 
trial life,  to  develop  a  free  society  in 
a  new  environment,  to  fuse  the  raw 
human  elements  of  our  nation,  gathered 
from  all  the  world,  into  something  ser- 
viceable and  fit.  As  I  take  my  evening 
walk  on  the  lake  esplanade  and  watch 
the  lamping  fires  of  the  steel  works 
glow  upon  the  southern  sky,  I  feel  the 
imagination  of  America  ardently  at 
work  in  the  creation  of  a  new  and 
better  world. 

*     *     * 

There  is  a  plain  brick  building  in 
New  York  that  looks  like  a  well-kept 
factory  or  warehouse,  an  unpretentious, 
unbeautiful,  serviceable  building  within 
and  without,  fireproofed,  antiseptic, 
equipped  with  every  labor-saving  device. 
In  this  unpoetic  laboratory  are  rising 
to-day  the  boldest  dreams  of  the 
modem  world.  Pale,  thoughtful  men, 
dressed  in  scrupulous  white,  pass 
through  the  corridors  or  bend  over  the 
stone  benches  in  the  separate  rooms. 
There  is  no  pomp,  no  ceremony,  but 
the  even-tempered,  silent  atmosphere  of 
science.  Here  the  hidden  enemies  of 
men  are  tracked  down,  isolated,  exter- 
minated. You  may  watch  under  the 
microscope  the  germ  of  one  of  man- 
kind's curses,  centuries  old,  whose  toll 
of  human  life  and  happiness  makes  the 
death-list  of  all  the  world's  wars  seem 
petty.     Such  an  unpretending  company 


of  scientists  seeking  the  secrets  of 
disease  may  be  found  in  many  of  our 
larger  cities,  engaged  in  the  persistent 
struggle,  which  will  last  as  long  as 
civilization  endures,  to  make  men  more 
nearly  masters  of  their  fate,  to  free 
them  from  the  grosser  limitations  of 
their  flesh.  No  wonder,  then,  that  the 
silent  campaign  of  the  laboratory  has 
become  noised  abroad;  that  its  results 
are  seized  upon,  exaggerated  by  the 
popular  imagination.  The  scientist  has 
usurped  the  fascination  formerly  ex- 
ercised by  the  church,  by  literature,  and 
by  art.  Of  similar  popular  inspiration 
are  those  gardens  in  the  California 
valley  where  Burbank  has  created  new 
plant  forms,  seeking  to  give  man  the 
same  command  over  food  that  experi- 
mental medicine  does  over  disease.  And 
to  these  might  be  added  the  laboratory 
of  the  inventor,  the  workshops  of 
Edison  or  Wright.  For  these  are 
the  things  that  stir  the  imagination  of 
our     youth — speed     and     power     and 

knowledge. 

*     *     * 

When  the  city  of  San  Francisco  was 
shaken  by  an  earthquake,  devastated 
by  fire,  its  inhabitants  fled  by  thousands 
to  the  fields  beyond  the  city,  there  to 
camp  in  the  open  for  weeks.  From  all 
accounts,  after  the  first  shock,  in  the 
flight  of  the  fugitives  from  their  crumb- 
ling, burning  homes,  there  was  no  panic, 
no  rioting,  no  despair.  At  once  in  the 
strickert  people  the  American  instinct 
for  organization,  reconstruction,  re-cre- 
ation, asserted  itself,  and  in  that  army 
of  fugitives,  bereft  of  ever>'thing,  was 
displayed  a  high  spirit  of  hopefulness 
and  kindness,  of  mutual  help  and  cour- 
age. The  whole  nation,  at  the  news  of 
the  disaster,  made  that  response  to  the 
call  for  help  which  is  the  American's 
noblest  characteristic.  Aid  poured  into 
the  devastated  city  in  a  steady  volume 
— money,  provisions,  men.  Relief  was 
organized,  the  destitute  were  provided 
with  food  and  clothing  and  shelter. 
All  this  was  but  another  example  of 
the  practical  working  of  the  American 


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THE  CyJALITY  OF  IMAGINATION  IN  AMERICAN  LIFE 


21 


imagination  in  efficient  deeds  of  imagi- 
native sympathy.  To-day  we  are  pre- 
paring to  feed  a  stricken  nation  across 
the  sea. 

The  notable  fact  of  the  San  Fran- 
cisco disaster  was  the  spirit  of  faith 
and  courage  there  aroused.  A  peculiai 
light  comes  to  the  faces  of  all  those 
who  participated  in  that  crisis  when 
their  minds  go  back  to  it — a  vision  of 
enhanced  life  once  seen.  "It  was  the 
greatest  experience  in  all  my  life,"  "I 
should  never  have  known  what  life 
might  be  if  I  had  not  lived  through 
that,"  they  say.  Why  ?  Because  for  one 
time  in  their  lives  they  saw  men  strip- 
ped of  conventions,  naked  to  their  souls, 
and  from  the  understanding  it  gave 
them  they  drew  courage  and  a  fresh 
faith  in  humanity.  That  dream  of  uni- 
versal brotherhood,  which  despite  much 
dissolution  still  rests  at  the  bottom  of 
American  hearts,  seemed  for  a  short 
time  to  have  become  real.  Men  trusted 
one  another,  men  bore  one  another's 
burdens,  men  worked  for  all,  not  for 
self. 

Among  all  those  refugees  camped  out- 
side their  ruined  city  there  was  no  dis- 
ease, no  debauchery;  selfishness  was 
made  ashamed.  For  once  the  hectic  in- 
dividualism of  our  life  was  subdued 
beneath  a  larger  ideal. 

"And  when,"  said  I  to  a  friend  who 
had  been  a  leader  there,  "did  this  idvll 
end?" 

"When  the  banks  opened,  and  the 
saloons,"  was  his  reply.  In  other  w>rds, 
when  human  nature  returned  to  iVs  ac- 
customed plane  of  life.  But  for  a  few 
vivid  weeks  at  least  each  had  had  the 
vision,  the  dream  of  man's  brotherhood 
made  real  for  a  little  time  in  the  ruined 
city. 

The  San  Francisco  disaster  evoked 
not  merely  the  imaginative  generosity 
of  America,  so  quick  to  respond  to 
every  call  for  need,  but  also  that  fun- 
damental idealism  in  our  national  char- 
acter, which  is  compact  of  imagination. 
It  was  evidence  of  the  ineradicable 
faith  we  have  in  human  nature,  in  the 


possibility  of  creating  a  nobler  society 
than  any  the  world  has  known,  where 
a  more  exact  justice  will  be  done  to  all, 
where  rich  and  poor  will  no  longer 
draw  off  and  snarl  at  each  other,  where 
men  will  no  longer  be  content  to  sell 
themselves  for  wealth,  where  the  state 
will  become  the  higher  consciousness 
of  all  its  citizens.  This  dream  of  a  pos- 
sible brotherhood  of  man  is  just  as  real, 
just  as  vital  a  possession  of  our  people 
as  that  other  national  epic  of  the  self- 
made  man — of  the  poor  youth  cleaving 
his  way  upward  to  worldly  success 
without  the  aid  of  family  or  education. 
Both  are  fit  democratic  epics.  And  this 
imaginative  ideal  of  social  obligation  is 
compelling  among  us  to-day,  rising  in 
wave  after  wave  of  effort  and  enthusi- 
asm, seeking  by  manifold  means  to  im- 
pose its  vision  of  justice,  of  service. 
Strip  America  to-day  of  her  imagina- 
tive efforts  for  the  making  over  of 
society,  and  it  would  be  a  sad  place 
indeed. 

*     *     * 

Ten  months  ago  I  sat  in  the  Senate- 
chamber  at  Washington,  listening  to 
the  long  debate  on  the  sending  of 
troops  into  Mexico.  As  Senator  after 
Senator  rose  and  spoke  on  the  urgent 
question  of  national  policy  that  might 
— indeed,  that  most  felt  must — at  that 
hour  mean  war  with  our  neighbor 
nation,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  list- 
ening to  the  voices  of  the  American 
people,  east  and  west,  north  and  south, 
affirming  their  national  ideals.  There 
was  the  selfish  voice  of  those  who  had 
property  in  Mexico,  or  who  secretly 
hoped  to  exploit  its  riches  for  their 
private  gain.  These  scolded  because 
this  country  had  not  recognized  Huerta 
according  to  the  precedents  of  a  cal- 
lous and  selfish  diplomacy.  There  were 
the  voices  of  lusty  young  Americans, 
descendants  of  that  pioneer  breed  that 
had  pushed  its  way  across  this  conti- 
nent, exterminating  the  inferior  Indian. 
"On  to  Mexico — to  the  Panama  Canal !" 
was  their  cry.  The  right  of  conquest 
of  the  inferior  by  the  superior  was  a 

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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


necessity,  the  destiny  of  the  race,  and  so 
forth,  was  the  argument.  There  were 
the  voices  of  the  merely  timid,  who 
were  alarmed  over  the  whole  business, 
who  prayed  that  we  might  get  out  of  it 
somehow  without  disturbing  our  own 
welfare.  And  there  were  also  other 
voices,  blending  in  this  concert  of  opin- 
ion— voices  of  those  who  maintained 
that  this  great  nation,  strong  as  it  is, 
with  the  might  to  conquer  and  crush, 
had  a  duty  to  itself  and  to  the  world — 
a  duty  of  self-restraint — not  to  conquer 
and  crush  because  it  could  or  because 
its  people  had  property  involved,  but 
to  use  its  strength  for  help  to  its  dis- 
tracted neighbor.  These  last  voices 
happily  prevailed.  Already  there  is 
entering  the  consciousness  of  Ameri- 
cans a  perception  that  a  powerful  state 
has  a  higher  course  to  pursue  than  to 
further  the  private  speculations  of  its 
citizens  on  a  foreign  soil,  than  to  im- 
pose its  superior  civilization  upon  its 
weaker  neighbor;  furthermore,  that 
one  nation  in  dealing  with  another 
must  obey  the  same  standard  of  scru- 
pulous honor  and  disinterestedness  that 
the  best  type  of  its  citizens  employ  in 
their  private  affairs.  The  President's 
insistence  upon  our  living  up  to  the 
spirit  of  our  treaties  exemplifies  the 
working  of  moral  and  spiritual  im- 
agination in  the  state.  It  is  the  new 
statesmanship  as  opposed  to  the  old 
diplomacy. 

As  I  listened  to  those  speeches  that 
long  April  day,  I  seemed  to  hear  the 
old  and  the  new  arguing  together — the 
old  America,  so  raw,  so  individualistic, 
so  self -centered,  and  the  inarticulate 
new  America,  struggling  to  express  an 
unrealized  ideal  of  personal  faith  and 
national  conduct  that  was  higher,  more 
satisfactory  to  the  complex  conscious- 
ness of  our  day  than  any  we  have 
aimed  at.  And  that  is  what  I  hear  all 
about  me,  especially  since  the  catas- 
trophe of  this  European  war  came 
upon  the  world.  The  old  America  that 
you  and  I  have  known  was  brave,  buoy- 
ant,   optimistic     with    the    easy    opti- 


mism of  youth  and  comfort,  super- 
ficially objective,  as  youth  is  often  su- 
perficially objective,  content  with  crude 
satisfactions,  marveling  easily  at  its 
own  size  and  strength,  without  much 
sense  of  outward  beauty,  of  inward  ne- 
cessities; nevertheless,  eager  and  un- 
satisfied, always  seeking,  selfish  and 
splendidly  generous,  egotistic  and  de- 
voted, swift,  practical,  and  ideal.  That 
and  much  more  was  the  America  we 
have  known.  And,  as  I  have  tried  to 
present  to  you  in  a  few  simple  illustra- 
tions, this  old  America  has  been  filled 
\v4th  imagination  for  the  practical,  for 
the  scientific,  for  the  ideal,  yes,  for  the 
spiritual. 

What  is  to  be  the  new  America — 
more  of  the  ideal  and  of  the  spiritual 
individually,  and  as  a  nation,  or  less; 
given  over  utterly  to  a  riot  of  practical 
deeds,  of  force?  We  cannot  longer 
remain  unaware  of  our  purpose. 

For  the  crisis  has  come,  not  of  our 
making,  yet  testing  us  inevitably,  as 
it  must  test  all  the  world.  The  old  mo- 
rality has  ,  broken  down — ^a  personal, 
family,  isolated-state  morality.  It  was 
not  large  enough.  The  old  religion  has 
broken  down — a  personal-salvation, 
mystical-sacrifice  religion.  It  was  not 
true  enough.  It  could  not  satisfy  the 
souls  of  modem  men.  Are  we,  then, 
to  admit  the  defeat  of  our  imaginative 
faiths;  to  confess  that  we  have  lived 
self-deluded  in  a  world  of  brute  forces, 
which  may  spin  for  a  few  fitful  aeons, 
to  be  snuffed  out  ultimately  into  a  cold 
darkness?  And  that  we,  sojourners 
here,  are  animals  merely  capable  of  ris- 
ing at  rare  moments  on  the  tiptoes  of 
imagination  to  conceive  what  we  might 
become  if  we  could  but  rule  our  pas- 
sions of  fear  and  greed  and  hate?  I 
hear  many  proclaiming  the  frankest 
materialism,  which  has  risen  to  the  sur- 
face at  the  shock  of  war,  insisting  that 
into  this  new  world  of  ours  we  must 
bring  the  habit  of  suspicion  and  fear 
and  hate  that  is  now  making  a  hell  of 
Europe,  that  the  duty  of  nations,  as 
of  individuals,  is  to  fight,  to  conquer. 


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THE  QUALITY  OF  IMAGINATION  IN  AMERICAN  LIFE 


23 


to  possess.  Are  we  individually  and  as 
a  nation  to  accept  this  forlorn  answer 
to  the  riddle? 

Or  are  we  to  rise  from  this  world 
shock  stronger  and  larger,  more  im- 
aginative in  our  conceptions  of  what 
life  shall  be,  both  personal  and  national, 
putting  from  us  childish  delights  and 
crude  ideals?  Are  we  to  grasp  fear- 
lessly the  opportunity  that  fate  has  giv- 
en us,  to  attain  the  spiritual  as  well  as 
the  material  primacy  of  the  world? 
Shall  we  refuse  to  suffer  the  evil  spell 
that  Europe  has  endured  these  many 
ages,  to  sow  here  in  the  New  World 
that  seed  of  hate  from  which  Europe 
is  now  reaping  the  crop?  Are  we  to 
remain  confident  in  our  strength,  our 
upright  purposes  toward  all  the  world, 
going  on  our  way  serenely,  holding 
forth  a  higher  faith  for  humanity?  Are 
we  to  maintain  unaltered  that  hospi- 
tality to  the  poor  of  all  races  that  has 
distinguished    us,    by   which   we   have 


proved  our  ideal  of  brotherhood,  or  are 
we  to  shut  our  doors  selfishly  against 
unprivileged  strangers  who  may  seek 
refuge  in  our  paradise?  In  sum,  are  we 
to  realize  imaginatively  our  lofty  po- 
sition as  arbiter  and  leader  of  the  world, 
with  fresh  conceptions  of  the  worth 
and  dignity  of  life,  of  success  and  ser- 
vice, or  are  we  to  prepare  America  to 
become  the  next  great  battle-ground  of 
the  world? 

We  seem  to  sit  here  waiting,  listen- 
ing, contemplating  the  terrible  spec- 
tacle of  war  across  the  sea,  judging, 
making  up  our  minds  about  momentous 
matters,  one  and  all.  As  we  answer 
these  questions,  and  come  to  a  final  de- 
cision with  ourselves,  we  shall  reveal 
the  true  quality  of  our  imagination.  Is 
it  the  American  union  of  the  practical 
with  the  ideal  that  is  to  find  the  solu- 
tion of  a  world  peace  without  national 
dishonor  or   social   degeneration? 


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24  PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 

SECOND  SESSION 
Thursday,  November  I^h,  at  3:15  P.  M. 

A  PRESENTATION  OF  ORCHESTRAL  MUSIC 
composed  by  members  of  the  institute 

The  Orchestra 

OF 

The  Symphony  Society  of  New  York 
walter  damrosch,  conductor 

PROGRAM 

Ormazd,  Symphonic  Poem  ...  .  F.  S.  Converse 

(Composed  for  a  Persian  Poem  rendered  from  the  Zend  Avesta 

by  Percy  Mackaye) 

Andante,  from  Symphony,  No.  1  ....  .  Frederick  A.  Stock 

Fantasy,  Pianoforte  with  Orchestra,  Op.  11  .  Arthur  Whiting 

Moderate  Maestoso— Allegro  Appassionato — Pastorale — 

Allegro  Appassionato— Allegro  Scherzando 

(Played  by  the  Composer) 

La  Villanelle  du  Diable,  Fantasie  Symphonique  .  .  Charles  M.  Loeffler 

Prince  Hal,  An  Overture,  Op.  31  .  David  Stanley  Smith 

(Conducted  by  the  Composer) 

With  the  exception  of  "La  Villanelle  du  Diable"  these  works  were  heard  in  New  York 

on  this  occasion  for  the  first  time. 


ORMAZD .  .         .         F.  S.  Converse 

(Rendered  after  the  Bundehesch  of  the  ancient   Persians   by  Percy   MacKaye) 

On  the  far  mountain  Albordj,  in  the  realm  Twice    on    huge    wings,    above    abysmal 

of  primal  light,  is  the  abode  of  Ormazd.  Duzahk,    he    fluttered    up    toward    Albordj ; 

Beyond    the    spheres    of    high    heaven    he  twice  fell  he  back, 

created  his  shining  hosts:   the  Sun,  his  giant  Beyond  his  bleak  pit  of  doom,   beautiful 

runner,    who    never    dies;    the    Moon,    who  rose  the  peak  of  Albordj;  in  the  bowels  of 

girdles    the    earth;    and    the    Planets,    his  darkness,  like  fire,  were  the  dreams  of  the 

splendid    captains.      Such-like    as    the    hairs  damned. 

upon  a  Titan's  head  were  the  unnumbered  A    third     time,    then,    Ahriman    uprose : 

stars   on  the  ramparts   of   Ormazd.     Seven  around  him  he  marshalled  his  hordes,  cold 

were    his    splendid    captains.      Beyond    the  stars   and   wandering   comets,   the   kings   of 

spheres  of  high  heaven  marshalled  he  them.  chaos.     Glittered  against  them  the  ranks  of 

In  the  realm  Gorodman,  the  dwelling  of  Ormazd.    Dazzling  and   dark  was   the  con- 

the  blessed  Fravashis,  the  circling  of  worlds  flict. 

in  their  spheres  was  like  to  immortal  music.  For  ninety  nights  the  smoke  of  stars  ob- 

Below  the  bright  bridge  Chinevat,  in  the  scured  them,  till  back  into  abysmal  Duzahk 

bowels  of  darkness,  is  the  abode  of  Ahri-  fell   Ahriman,    defeated.     Golden    then   was 

man.  the  laughter  of  Ormazd.    Like  laughter,  the 

Deep   in  abysmal   Duzahk  he  created  his  gold-haired    Planets   rattled   their   shields, 

terrible    numbers  —  for    every    creature    of  In  the  realm  of  Gorodman,  the  dwelling 

light  a   Daeva  of   gloom.     Like  the   death-  of    the    blessed    Fravashis,    the    circling    of 

pang  of   the  primal  Bull  was  the  moaning  worlds    in    their    spheres    was    like    to    im- 

of   Ahriman — ^his  loathing  for  Ormazd.  mortal  music. 


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A  PRESENTATION  OF  ORCHESTRAL  MUSIC 


25 


LA  VILLANELLE  DU  DIABLE         .         .         .         Charles  M. 
(After  the  poem  of  M.  Rollinat;  translation  by  Philip  Hale) 


LOEFFLER 


Hell  *s  a  burning,  burning,  burning. 
Chuckling  in  clear  staccato, 
The  devil,  prowling,   runs  about. 

He  watches,  advances,  retreats 

Like  zagzag  lightning; 

Hell's  a  burning,  burning,  burning. 

In  dive  and  cell. 
Underground  and  in  the  air. 
The  devil,  prowling,  runs  about. 

Now  he  is  flower,  dragon-fly, 
Woman,  black  cat,  green  snake; 
Hell's  a  burning,  etc. 

And  now  with  pointed  mustache, 
Scented  with  vetiver, 
The  devil,  etc. 

Wherever  mankind  swarmrs. 
Without  rest,  summer  and  winter; 
Hell 's  a  burning,  etc. 

From  alcove  to  hall. 
And  on  the  railways. 
The  devil,  etc. 

He  is  Mr.  Seen-at-Night, 

Who  saunters  with  staring  eyes; 

Hell's  a  burning,  etc. 

There  floating,  like  a  bubble, 
Here  squirming  like  a  worm. 
The  devil,  etc. 


He's  grand  seigneur,  tough. 
Student  or  teacher; 
Hell 's  a  burning,  etc. 

He  inoculates  each  soul 
With  his  bitter  whispering; 
The  devil,  etc. 

He  promises,  bargains,  stipulates, 
In  gentle  or  proud  tones; 
Hell's  a  burning,  etc. 

Mocking  pitilessly 

The  unfortunate  whom  he  destroys, 

The  devil,  etc. 

He  makes  goodness  ridiculous, 
And  the  old  man  futile; 
Hell 's  a  burning,  etc. 

At  the  home  of  the  priest  or  skeptic. 
Whose  soul  and  body  he  wishes. 
The  devil,  etc. 

Beware  of  him  to  whom  he  toadies, 
And  whom  he  calls  "My  dear  Sir." 
Hell 's  a  burning,  etc. 

Friend  of  the  tarantula. 

Of  darkness,  and  the  odd  number. 

The  devil,  etc. 

My  clock  strikes  midnight. 
If  I  should  go  to  see  Lucifer? 
Hell  *s  a  burning,  burning,  burning ; 
The  devil,  prowling,   runs  about. 


PRINCE  HAL 


David  Stanley  Smith 


The  work  is  a  portrait  in  tones  of  the  young  royal  friend  of 
Falstaff  as  we  find  him  in  "Henry  IV."  It  attempts  to  set  forth 
his  buoyancy  and  high  spirits  and  to  follow  Shakespeare  in  em- 
phasizing the  manly  dignity  which  in  the  young  prince  already  fore- 
shadowed the  greater  Henry  V. 


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THIRD  SESSION 
November  20 

RHMARKS  BY  EDWIN  H.  BLASHFIELD 

President  of  the  Institute 


Our  Guest,  Fellow-Members,  Ladies 
AND  Gentlemen: 

The  National  Institute  of  Arts  and 
Letters  holds  to-day  its  annual  exer- 
cises. The  members  of  the  Institute 
and  the  Academy  are  practitioners  of 
the  arts  of  peace,  literary,  musical,  and 
graphic,  and  we  are  uplifted  to-day  by 
the  presence  of  our  distinguished  guest, 
a  visitor  from  that  country  which  for 
a  thousand  years  has  stood  in  the  fore- 
front of  the  art-producing  nations. 

His  presence  is  a  vivid  reminder, 
too,  of  the  deep  sympathy  which  we 
feel  for  all  our  brothers  across  the  sea 
in  this  moment  when  the  voice  of  the 
arts  is  so  terribly  dominated  by  the 
voice  of  the  cannon. 

For  all  the  stress,  with  its  inevitable 
depression,  we  dare  look  forward  to 
a  time  when  the  arts  and  letters  shall 
come  to  their  own  again,  and,  confident 
in  that  future,  we  have  not  ceased  in 
our  activity. 

Under  the  peaceful  rule  of  our  fel- 
low-member in  the  White  House,  we 
write  verses,  we  record,  we  compose, 
we  build,  we  model,  and  iwe  paint. 
There  are  no  drones  in  our  hive:  all 
are  workers.  The  activities  of  the  In- 
stitute, actual  and  potential,  are  great. 
Its  influence  extends  as  far  as  our 
country  does,  up,  down,  and  across. 
Through  a  membership  which  covers 
territory  reaching  from  ocean  to  ocean 
and  from  the  gulf  to  the  lakes,  the  hand 


of  the  Institute  directs  forces  for  ed- 
ucation, for  cultivation,  for  embellish- 
ment. Its  hand  is  at  the  helm  of  our 
foremost  universities  and  museums, 
upon  the  pen  of  poets  and  prose- 
writers,  upon  brush  and  chisel.  It 
holds  the  baton  of  those  who  direct 
our  musical  seasons ;  it  moves  the  read- 
er in  his  study,  the  public  in  the  play- 
houses ;  and  it  plans  and  builds  the  sky 
line  of  our  cities.  Indeed,  wherever 
there  is  a  program  of  activities,  wheth- 
er written  or  unwritten,  there  you  will 
surely  note  the  presence  of  some  mem- 
ber of  the  National  Institute  of  Arts 
and  Letters,  some  one  who  is  talking  or 
writing,  designing  or  acting  or  com- 
posing for  the  public. 

It  is  pleasant  to  us  to  think  of  Acad- 
emy and  Institute  as  a  vehicle  for  the 
presentation  of  the  results  of  individ- 
ual achievement,  pleasant  to  hear  those 
results  applauded.  But  it  is  still  closer 
to  our  wish  that  the  Institute  shall  be 
a  field  in  which  we  may  strive  together 
in  s)rmpathetic  reaction  of  mind  upon 
mind;  in  a  mutual  endeavor  which  in 
the  arts  and  letters  may  promote  the 
evolution  of  American  standards.  And 
we  of  the  Institute  have  asked  you 
here,  you,  the  public,  our  audience,  be- 
cause we  earnestly  hope  for  those 
closer  relations  of  inspiration  on  your 
part — inspiration  of  our  work — w4iich 
shall  help  to  make  it  a  part  of  the 
national  usefulness. 


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ADDRESS  OF  WILLIAM  M.  SLOANE 

Chancellor  of  the  American  Academy 


The  Institute  and  the  Academy  have 
already  served  the  public  during  one 
generation  of  men.  The  original  mem- 
bers were  chosen  by  the  American 
Social  Science  Association,  then  the 
most  numerous  and  active  organization 
of  its  kind  in  America.  With  such  a 
mandate  the  work  has  advanced,  our 
membership  has  been  enlarged,  and  its 
standards  have  been  preserved,  by 
careful  selection  from  the  candidates 
desiring  to  enlist  for  the  cause.  No 
member  has  ever  proposed  himself. 

Being  one  in  origin,  the  Institute  and 
the  Academy  are  one  in  singleness  of 
purpose  and  activity,  the  latter  having 
been  created  by  the  former  as  a  stimulus 
to  endeavor.  They  ape  no  other  exist- 
ing institution,  and  their  chief  end 
and  aim  are  to  emphasize  the  unity  of 
the  fine  arts  and  cooperate  with  every 
existing  association  for  the  promotion 
of  any  one  of  them,  as  far  as  is  desired. 
Our  membership  is  representative  in 
that  within  it  are  active  workers  in 
letters,  painting,  sculpture,  architecture, 
music,  and  the  drama.  The  list  of  our 
members  is  a  roll  of  honor  only  in  so 
far  as  individuals  distinguish  them- 
selves. As  a  body,  we  do  not  seek  to 
pronounce  decisions  as  to  merit,  except 
in  so  far  as  we  are  called  on  to  bestow 
recognition  for  work  in  administering 
trusts  given  to  us  for  specific  purposes 
by  generous  donors.  But  we  have  been 
highly  successful  in  our  chief  aim,  that 
of  stimulating  one  another  and  broaden- 
ing our  horizons  by  contact  with  our 
fellow-workers,  who  are  specialists  in 
some  one  of  the  fine  arts.  The  most 
eminent  public  servants  in  connection 
with  those  arts  have  been  largely  of  our 
membership.  We  are,  of  course,  a  self- 
perpetuating  body,  and  as  our  intelli- 
gence serves  us,  we  fill  vacancies  from 


those  who  either  have  deserved  or 
seem  likely  to  deserve  well  of  their 
country. 

Hitherto  we  have  been  absolutely 
self-supporting,  and  we  intend  so  to 
remain,  if  necessary.  But  there  are,  to 
our  belief,  prospective  foundations  for 
various  literary  and  artistic  purposes 
which  we  shall  be  called  on  to  manage, 
as  similar  bodies  do  elsewhere.  It  is 
not  likely  that  we  shall  shrink  from  the 
task  when  it  is  laid  upon  us. 

We  already  draw  upon  our  own 
funds  for  the  Institute  medal,  and  in 
the  separate  treasury  of  the  Academy 
there  is  accumulated  a  fund  sufficient 
to  establish  a  corresponding  Academy 
medal. 

Finally,  it  is  my  duty  and  my  great 
privilege  to  announce  that  since  our 
last  annual  meeting  the  Academy  has 
been  incorporated,  as  the  Institute 
already  was;  that  in  its  corporate  ca- 
pacity a  noble  building  site  has  been 
conveyed  to  it,  on  condition  that 
within  five  years  a  portion  at  least  of 
such  a  building  shall  have  been  erected 
as  may  eventually  provide  a  dignified 
and  suitable  home  for  both  Institute 
and  Academy ;  and,  finally,  that  antece- 
dent to  the  outbreak  of  the  European 
war  a  generous  contribution  to  the 
endowment  fund  was  made. 

For  myself  and  my  fellow-members 
of  the  Board  of  Directors  I  beg  to 
express  our  assurance  that  sudh  an 
illustrious  example  will  find  imitators, 
and  that,  while  we  have  yet  a  long  way 
to  go,  we  hope,  before  very  long,  even 
at  a  time  of  such  financial  stress,  to 
make  further  announcements  of  a 
similar  sort.  We  are  encouraged  to  go 
forward  because  some  men  of  insight 
comprehend  and  appreciate  the  work 
already  done. 


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(Copyright  1915  by  Brian  Hooker) 

THE  MAKER  OF  IMAGES 
By  Brian  Hooker 

Sunbeam  and  storm-cloud  over  the  wonderful 
Sea,  whereupon  ships  labor  and  mariners 

Hope  and  despair,  while,  safe  in  haven, 
Weavers  of  dream  by  the  wayside  wander, 
Whose  hands  know  not  the  oar,  nor  their  eyes  endure 
Insurgent  ocean.   Nevertheless,  they  live 

Not  vainly,  if  at  heart  their  dreams  be 
One  with  the  heart  of  the  world  forever. 
Long  since  an  unknown  maker  of  images 
Walked  where  the  shore  looms  high  before  Pergamon, 

Fronting  the  sea.     And  while  he  dreamed  there, 
Suddenly  over  the  bright  horizon 
Fell  darkness.     Birds  cried  out,  flying  heavily 
Down  the  wind.     Blue  gloom,  swallowing  sail  by  sail. 

Swung  landward.     The  tall  meadow-grasses 
Swayed  like  the  mane  of  a  beast  in  anger 
Arousing.     Then  one  glare,  and  a  thunderbolt 
Cracked,  and  the  world  went  out  into  colorless 

Ruin  of  rain,  and  sky  and  headland 
Blent  with  the  spray  of  the  plunging  ocean. 
Meanwhile,  amazed,  the  maker  of  images 
Clung  to  the  cliff,  then  rose;  and  at  eventide 

Through  dew-sweet  fields  and  rain-washed  woodland 
Wandered,  as  one  having  seen  a  vision, 
Homeward,  without  speech.     And  for  many  days 
Carved  on  the  new-raised  altar  of  Pergamon 

What  he  had  seen;  yet  not  the  unmeaning 
Welter  of  cloud  over  storm-torn  water, 
But  warfare  of  white  gods,  the  Olympians, 
Against  the  earth-born, — Zeus,  thunder-panoplied, 

Pallas,  and  Ares,  and  Poseidon 
Ranging  the  van  of  his  windy  legions, — 
While  underneath,  vain  giants  in  agony 
Piled  mountains;  and  alone,  understanding  all. 

Foam-bosomed  Aphrodite  smiled  down 
Quietly  out  of  the  heights  above  them. 
Storms  pass;  untold  suns,  glooms  beyond  numbering, 
Vanish.     The  unchanging  pageant  elaborates, 

And  kingdoms  fail,  and  strange  commanders 
Govern  imperial  generations 
Of  momentary  dust;   and  the  pyramid 
Follows  the  prince,  where,  emulous,  tremulous. 

Like  motes  along  the  moonbeam  dancing 
Into  the  dark,  the  enchanter  changes 


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THE  MAKER  OF  IMAGES  29 

Men  and  the  deeds  of  men.    Yet  through  centuries 
Gone,  since  before  that  altar,  adoringly. 

With  arms  upraised,  the  Pergameans 
Gazed,  and  grew  stronger  of  heart,  beholding 
Their  dreams  remain.    Still,  still,  as  a  thousand  years 
Embody  June,  so  now  and  forevermore 

New  lamps,  new  eyes,  one  light  undying. 
Hold,  and  reveal  in  a  thousand  rainbows. 
All  gods  of  all  times  fight  for  us,  laugh  with  us ; 
Forgotten  angels  cool  our  delirium; 

Vague  monsters  from  primeval  caverns 
Widen  the  wondering  eyes  of  children; 
And  knights  of  old,  high-hearted  adventurers, 
Ride  errant  with  us,  making  a  tournament 

Of  toil;  and  new-hung  moons  remember 
Passion  and  pang  of  imagined  lovers 
Whose  perfumed  souls  in  blossomy  silences 
Hunger,  forlorn:    Adonis,  Endymion; 

Brynhild,  Elaine,  Ysolde,  Helen, — 
Names  like  the  touch  of  the  lips  that  loved  them, — 
And  brazen-handed  heroes  who  sang  as  they 
Charged  home  against  impregnable  destiny 

Clang  trumpets  in  our  wars;  and  saints  leave 
Lilies  of  peace  by  the  lonely  highway. 
Pray,  therefore,  that,  ourselves  being  treasures 
Of  beauty  brought  from  Eden,  ephemeral 

Husbands  of  ageless  dawn,  our  dreams,  too, 
Mold  for  a  moment  the  gold  immortal 
Not  fouled  by  unclean  hands,  nor  unworthily 
Shapeff  for  gain ;  nor  scorned,  while  idolaters 

Of  deities  unborn  unwisely 
Gather  barbarian  toys  of  tinsel 
To  flatter  purblind  eyes.     But  remembering 
The  beautiful  old  gods  and  the  champions 

Of  storied  wars  and  sylvan  horn-calls 
Waking  mysterious  elfin  laughter, 
We,  in  our  own  hour  makers  of  images, 
Charm  storm  and  day-dream  into  such  harmony 

As  men  of  deeds,  beholding,  long  for, 
Forging  the  world  into  forms  of  heaven. 


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THE  AMERICAN  COMPOSER 

By  Arthur  Whiting 


For  the  last  forty  years  compositions 
of  music  by  academically  trained 
Americans  have  been  submitted  to  the 
judgment  of  the  public.  The  verdict 
on  the  merits  of  the  works  returned  by 
the  popular  jury  is  not  unanimous,  but 
is  given  in  every  degree  of  apprecia- 
tion, influenced  by  every  degree  of 
prejudice  from  chauvinism  to  anti- 
Americanism.  Intelligent  optimists  dis- 
cover signs  of  character  in  the  composi- 
tions which,  if  sporadic,  promise  for  the 
near  future  a  national  style.  Intelligent 
pessimists  see  in  them  nothing  but  the 
musical  mannerisms  of  all  nations  sedu- 
lously collected  and  stamped  "Yankee." 
Unintelligent  optimists  shout  that,  being 
American,  they  must  be  good.  Unin- 
telligent pessimists  jeer  that,  being 
American,  they  must  be  bad. 

This  article  is  an  inquiry  into  the  re- 
lation of  the  American  composer  to  con- 
temporary musical  art.  It  is  an  attempt 
to  give  the  findings  and  conclusions  of 
critics  who  know  that  if  they  over- 
praise, they  belittle  and  dishonor,  but 
that  if,  on  the  other  hand,  they  do  not 
give  just  due,  they  retard  and  dishearten 
a  movement  for  which  they  feel  the 
deepest  concern — a  movement  by  which 
native  music  may  worthily  stand  beside 
American  literature  and  painting.  As 
a  preliminary  to  this  inquiry,  let  us  dis- 
miss from  the  council  the  unintelligent 
shouters  and  jeerers.  Let  all  profes- 
sional agitators  and  advocates,  and  all 
editors  who  preach  that  a  protective 
policy  will  advance  American  art,  be 
invited  to  retire. 

Great  music  is  national,  expressing 
the  temper  and  character  of  a  nation. 
The  most  homogeneous  people  have 
produced  the  most  characteristic  art. 
The  music  of  Germany  is  pure  German, 
the  music  of  Italy  is  the  very  essence 
of  Italian  minds,  and  even  the  most  ex- 
perimental   and    venturesome    French 


composer  never  leaves  Paris.  The 
alleged  absence  of  idiom  in  the  language 
of  the  American  composer  is  attributed 
by  some  to  the  fact  that  the  national 
character  of  the  citizens  of  these  United 
States  of  America  is  not  yet  fixed,  that  it 
will  acquire  distinction  of  feature  only 
after  the  many  elements  of  race  within 
these  borders  have  been  fused. 

Whatever  the  American  composers  of 
the  future  may  be,  those  of  the  present, 
whom  we  are  now  discussing,  are  by  a 
very  large  majority  of  British  stock. 
While  they  are  now  living  and  produc- 
ing in  all  parts  of  the  country,  they  or 
their  parents  were  bred  near  the  eastern 
shore  of  the  United  States.  The  Eng- 
lish-speaking native,  who  has  domi- 
nated the  continent  for  three  centuries, 
is  still  a  pure  type,  and  his  musical 
descendant  has  grown  up  under  homo- 
geneous conditions  and  influences. 

The  American  of  to-day  is  unique. 
He  has  his  own  face,  his  own  way  of 
doing  and  of  feeling  things.  If  his 
emotions  have  as  yet  no  complete  musi- 
cal representation,  it  is  not  because  they 
cannot  be  represented  in  tones,  for  we 
have  one  song  at  least — our  beloved 
"Dixie" — which  throbs  exactly  with  the 
national  pulse,  and  which  is  of  such 
sterling  worth  that  it  has  survived  fifty 
years  of  hard  usage,  and  is  to-day  as 
thrilling  and  impelling  as  when  it  led 
the  tired  marchers  of  the  Southern 
Confederacy. 

The  official  and  ceremonial  hymn  of 
a  country  is  usually  perfunctory  and 
Philistine.  It  is  pious  custom  more  than 
spontaneous  feeling  which  brings  us  to 
our  feet  when  we  sing  that  common- 
place tune  which  we  borrowed  from 
England,  which  she  borrowed  from 
Germany,  the  words  of  which  we 
vaguely  remember  to  begin, 

God  save  our  *t  is  of  thee. 


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I  speak  thus  disrespectfully  of  our 
national  anthem  because  it  is  not  our 
national  anthem;  it  is  not  a  musical 
representation  of  our  national  feeling 
or  experience.  As  to  the  verses,  I  leave 
them  to  any  American  conscience. 

If  many  of  the  accredited  hymns  of 
nations  are  characterless,  there  are  at 
least  three  popular  songs  which  are,  in 
a  real  sense,  national.  The  "Rakoczy 
March"  of  Hungary,  the  "Marseillaise" 
of  France,  and  "Dixie"  of  America,  are 
intoxicants  which  stimulate  the  nerves 
of  their  respective  races,  so  that  the 
first  two  have  often  been  forbidden  by 
the  police  in  times  of  special  excite- 
ment. But  there  is  nothing  warlike  or 
vengeful  in  our  own  song:  it  has  good- 
natured  energy,  a  certain  confident 
strength;  its  saucy  gait  has  humor;  it 
is  not  theatrical,  self-conscious,  or 
sentimental — it  represents  the  Ameri- 
can character. 

The  skeptic  asks,  "Is  there  any 
formal  music  by  native  American  com- 
posers which  is  not  more  or  less  a  blend 
of  German,  French,  and  Scandinavian 
styles?"  Such  a  searching  question 
must  be  answered  in  perfect  honesty, 
after  a  careful  review  of  the  works 
available  for  criticism. 

I  confess  to  remembering  that  in  the 
American  compositions  of  twenty-five 
years  ago  —  overtures,  symphonies, 
poems  (symphonic  and  otherwise), 
chamber  and  choral  music — that  whilom 
guarantee  of  quality,  that  orthodox 
watermark  "Made  in  Germany,"  was 
impressed  on  too  many  pages  of  the 
score.  I  confess  to  remembering  that 
at  that  period  some  composers  of  lighter 
works  smuggled  Scandinavian  rhythms 
and  harmonies  across  our  frontier, 
naturalizing  them  by  the  simple  device 
of  changing  the  title-page. 

I  must  acknowledge  also  that  in 
recent  years,  while  recognizing  the 
steadfastness  of  those  few  belated  minds 
whose  reconciliation  to  Brahms  has 
become  so  complete  that  they  have 
adopted  his  style  for  their  own,  too 
many    of    our    composers,    unabashed. 


have  exchanged  their  former  German 
for  a  French  manner,  thereby  inviting 
the  consideration  which  we  give  to  the 
versatile  chameleon.  All  this  is  damag- 
ing evidence,  but  it  condemns  those 
whose  talents  are  so  superficial  that 
they  would  be  chameleons  in  any 
country. 

Now  that  the  witnesses  for  the  prose- 
cution have  been  heard,  we  can  call  on 
many  to  testify  for  the  defense.  We 
are  proud  to  be  able  to  say  that  we 
have  men  who  have  produced  music 
with  a  flavor  of  its  own,  composers 
whose  European  education  has  only  in- 
tensified and  confirmed  their  natural 
qualities.  That  peculiar  energy  which 
marks  the  tune  of  "Dixie"  is  native  to 
them — an  energy  which  is  not  out  of 
place  in  large  and  dignified  form.  One 
hears  from  them  a  turn  of  phrase,  a 
lilt,  and  a  catch  which,  without  mental 
reservations,  can  be  stamped  "Made  in 
America." 

Given  a  nation  of  nervous  tempera- 
ments, it  follows  that  the  principal 
characteristic  of  its  composers  will  be 
rhythm,  the  most  important  and  at 
present  the  most  neglected  element  of 
music.  The  European  world  since 
Wagner  has  become  so  obsessed  by  the 
idea  of  harmonic  possibilities  and  re- 
fined tone-color  that  many  craftsmen 
are  now  employed  exclusively  in  the 
splitting  of  harmonic  hairs.  Under  this 
treatment  the  texture  of  music  is  fast 
losing  its  substance,  and  the  tonal  spec- 
trum is  merging  into  monochrome. 

This  evolution  at  the  expense  of  the 
great  complement,  rhythm,  is  a  one- 
sidedness  which  the  strong-beating 
pulse  of  America  may  help  to  correct 
in  some  degree  if  her  composers  use 
their  natural  power.  Indeed,  that 
popular  syncopation,  now  fallen  into 
such  low  company  that  it  answers  to 
the  name  of  "rag-time,"  is  a  legitimate 
contribution  to  the  art  of  music,  an 
invention  of  our  own  which  has  been 
eagerly  accepted  by  Europe  as  some- 
thing new. 

The     influences     which    have    been 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


potent  in  forming  the  character  of  our 
native  music  are,  first,  negro  melodic 
idiom,  and,  second,  Celtic  and  English 
national  songs. 

The  negro  influence  has  been  one 
of  propinquity.  The  African  slave  is  a 
singer  whose  life  of  suffering  and  hard- 
ship has  brought  to  the  surface  all  his 
powers  of  expression.  A  humble  mem- 
ber of  the  national  family  from  the 
beginning,  his  songs  of  pathos  and 
glorification  have  made  a  deep  impres- 
sion on  every  music-loving  child,  who, 
on  becoming  later  a  trained  musician, 
finds  his  own  speech  somewhat  akin  to 
that  of  his  old  friend. 

The  Celtic  and  English  influence  is 
that  of  blood,  an  inheritance  which  is 
felt  in  the  music  of  our  most  character- 
istic writers. 

There  has  been  much  to-do  recently 
over  the  alleged  neglect  of  our  com- 
posers by  the  public  and  by  those  high 
in  authority.  It  is  said  that  talent 
languishes  for  lack  of  recognition,  and 
that  therefore  the  country  should  organ- 
ize to  the  end  that  no  genius  remain 
undiscovered.  This  cry  has  been  raised 
principally  by  professional  agitators, 
and  has  been  so  persistent  that  many 
earnest  and  patriotic  people  now  re- 
proach themselves  that  they  find  more 
interest  in  current  European  music  than 
in  that  of  their  own  countr>^men,  and 
determine  that  hereafter  they  will  re- 
member the  assurance  of  the  editor  that 
the  domestic  is  quite  as  good  as  the 
imported  article. 

An  enemy  could  hardly  devise  any- 
thing more  humiliating  to  artists  than 
this,  or  put  the  American  composer  in 
a  more  unhappy  relation  to  his  public. 
No  one  can  rebuke  so  effectively  these 
foolish  friends  of  American  art  as  the 
self-respecting  composers  themselves, 
and  the  blame  rests  with  them  that  this 
grotesque  movement  has  not  been 
suppressed. 

In  fact,  the  American  composer  has 
not  always  been  fortunate  in  his  friends. 
Many  real  friends  have  hesitated  to  act 
as  such  and  to  be  helpful  by  unsparing 


comment  in  fear  of  the  charge  of  na- 
tional disloyalty — a  fear  which  will  re- 
strain almost  any  well-meaning  critic. 
The  healthful  growth  of  our  music  has 
been  retarded,  standards  have  been  mis- 
placed, weak  men  have  been  given 
praise  which  should  have  been  reserved 
for  strong  men,  and  all  because  certain 
irresponsible  people  have  the  power,  by 
simply  uttering  two  words,  "unpatri- 
otic" and  "disloyal,"  to  silence  needful, 
strengthening,  in  the  highest  sense 
friendly,  criticism. 

As  to  any  adverse  predisposition  on 
the  part  of  the  public,  there  is  no  in- 
stinctive prejudice  against  the  Ameri- 
can poet,  painter,  sculptor,  or  architect ; 
there  is  no  such  prejudice  against  the 
brother  artist  in  music  when  his  work 
is  as  good  as  theirs.  For  any  acquired 
antipathy  that  may  be  in  the  public 
mind  at  present  the  composers  them- 
selves are  to  blame. 

It  is  said  that  our  conductors  and 
public  often  prefer  the  works  of  second- 
rate  European  composers  to  works  of 
equal  musical  merit  by  our  own  men. 
No  doubt  there  is  such  preference  at 
times,  and  it  is  not  difficult  to  find  the 
reason.  The  material  of  the  American 
compositions  may  be  quite  as  good  as 
that  of  the  foreigner;  but  when  it 
happens  that  the  technical  treatment  is 
inferior,  that  the  material  is  not  handled 
with  the  same  skill,  conductors  who  are 
not  chauvinists  will  take  the  better 
workmanship,  other  things  being  equal, 
and  the  public  will  applaud  them  for  so 
doing. 

There  is  a  harmful  tradition  in  this 
countr\'  that  the  free-bom  American 
artist  is  exempt  from  that  servile  ap- 
prenticeship to  the  technique  of  com- 
position and  instrumentation  which  the 
•European  student  accepts  without  a 
thought  of  protest.  The  conviction  that 
a  Yankee  can  do  anything  he  sets  his 
mind  to  is  a  survival  of  the  spirit  of 
pioneer  days  when  the  woodsman's 
family  would  have  suffered  or  died  but 
for  his  ready  and  complete  resourceful- 
ness.     Tie    was    obliged    to    surmount 


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difficulties  without  training  or  experi- 
ence, and  we  are  proud  of  his  make- 
shifts and  homely  ingenuities. 

But  makeshifts  are  inadequate  to 
the  requirements  of  modem  art,  and 
any  young  man  who  tries  to  dodge  the 
grind  which  alone  can  make  him  master 
of  his  craft  will  confess  when  he 
reaches  the  age  of  fifty  that  they  were 
blameless  who  rejected  his  talent  in  the 
rough  for  the  highly  polished  work  of 
his  European  or  his  wiser  American 
rival.  -Students  will  find  men  in  this 
country  who  are  models  of  prepared- 
ness— men  who  were  far-seeing  in  their 
youth,  who,  feeling  that  they  had  some- 
thing to  express,  labored  unceasingly 
to  express  it  like  artists. 

Such,  indeed,  are  the  best  of  our 
American  composers  whose  music  has 
received  cordial,  if  not  always  quick, 
recognition.  They  have  been  garlanded 
and  honored,  so  much  so  that  some  of 
them  have  suffered  from  the  solicita- 
tions of  an  eager  and  hero-worshiping 
public. 

There  are  many  musical  laymen 
among  us  who  wish  to  be  helpful  in  the 
cause  of  native  production,  but  who  are 
uncertain  what  their  relation  to  the 
young  composer  should  be. 

But  who  are  the  friends  of  an  artist  ? 
There  can  be  but  one  answer,  which  is : 
those  who  love  art  more  than  they  love 
the  artist.  This  dictum  and  what  is 
now  to  follow  will  be  recognized  as  that 
wholesome,  but  unpalatable,  draught, 
the  counsel  of  perfection.  It  should  be 
reasonably  diluted  before  being  taken, 
otherwise  it  will  make  one's  eyes  water. 

These  truth-loving  friends,  then,  wish 
to  be  of  service  to  American  music 
through  their  influence  on  the  work  of 
the  young  composer.  To  this  end  they 
put  him  and  his  metal  to  tests.  Will 
he  bend  or  will  he  break  under  them? 
Instead  of  ^'encouraging"  talent, — an 
unhappy  expression  in  connection  with 
what  is  nothing  if  it  be  not  spontaneous, 
— they  subject  him  to  that  trial,  that 
cruiel,  experience  for  the  young  enthu- 
siast,   namely,   temporary   neglect.      If 


they  find  him,  after  years,  still  making 
music  to  no  audience,  they  can  be  sure 
that  he  loves  music  more  than  he  loves 
an  audience,  and  score  him  one  for 
disinterestedness. 

Then  there  is  the  quality  of  his  pro- 
duction. Is  it  the  plausible  manuscript 
which  any  accomplished  musician  can 
make  as  the  result  of  his  study  and  pro- 
fessional experience — music  which  has 
every  appearance  and  every  feature  of 
life,  but  which  is,  after  all,  only  a  lay 
figure?  Is  the  work  of  the  young  pro- 
bationer characteristic,  idiomatic,  na- 
tional? And,  finally,  is  it  prophetic, 
daring,  lawless,  reckless  to  startle  the 
ladies,  of  both  sexes? 

If  the  friends  (it  will  be  noted  that 
they  are  extremely  intelligent)  find 
these  qualities,  in  addition  to  disin- 
terestedness, they  may  safely  and  con- 
fidently raise  their  hats,  for  they  are  in 
the  presence  of  a  genius.  Having  found 
him,  what  shall  they  do  with  him? 
Their  responsibilities  are  quite  over- 
whelming. What  is  their  duty  to  art, 
regardless  of  human  feelings?  Shall 
they  announce  him  to  the  world  at 
once? 

In  these  times  and  in  this  country  a 
discovered  genius  is  an  artist  heavily 
handicapped,  a  worker  loaded  with  re- 
sponsibilities from  which  in  obscurity 
he  was  free.  Unless  he  has  a  character 
of  iron,  the  public  will  undo  him. 
Therefore  let  the  announcement  be  de- 
ferred until  the  precious  manuscripts 
make  a  goodly  pile.  Do  not  advise 
him,  but  give  him  all  opportunity  for 
experiment,  and  shield  him  from  the 
public  unto  that  day  when  he  is  firm  on 
his  feet;  then  he  will  do  the  rest. 

What  is  the  counsel  of  perfection  to 
the  friends  in  their  relation  to  lesser 
talents;  to  those  whose  music  is  silent 
when  there  is  none  to  listen ;  who  bend 
until  they  break  under  neglect;  whose 
work  is  reminiscent,  law-abiding,  pro- 
nounced sane  by  professional  critics? 

We  know  what  nature  does  to  ani- 
mals that  lack  the  boisterousness  of 
youth;  we  know  that  she  resists  any 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


artificial  means  to  strengthen  and  pro- 
long the  life  of  the  congenitally  weak. 
But  whether  it  be  for  the  good  of  art 
that  only  the  best  survive  may  be  left 
to  the  judgment  of  the  friends. 

However,  the  composing  of  music  as 
education,  not  as  a  contribution  to  an 
demanding  public  attention,  is  indis- 
pensable to  every  complete  musician. 
There  are  hidden  and  unsuspected 
wonders  in  the  works  of  the  masters 
which  can  be  discovered  only  by  the 
student  of  composition.  Such  modest 
work  sometimes  rewards  the  doer  un- 
expectedly by  the  discovery  of  a  vein 
of  originality  in  his  expression.  In 
other  words,  the  Cinderella  of  the  study 
may  unconsciously  possess  the  foot  for 
the  slipper. 

The  question  comes  up:  How  can 
a  young  composer  hear  and  judge  the 
effect  of  his  music  when  conductors 
and  the  public  ignore  him? 

One  of  the  phases  of  ingenuous 
youth  which  appeal  to  grown-up  s)nn- 
pathy  is  the  young  painter's  demand 
for  the  largest  canvas,  the  young  sculp- 
tor's call  for  the  hugest  block  of  marble, 
the  young  musician's  helplessness  with- 
out the  service  of  an  augmented 
orchestra.  In  the  midst  of  such  pro- 
portions one  hesitates  to  suggest  less 
expensive  means  of  demonstration,  to 
say  that  it  takes  fewer  instruments  to 
prove  one's  self  a  genius  or  a  fool,  or 
any  modification  of  these  extremes. 
That  ever-present  help,  the  domesti- 
cated pianoforte,  was  alone  sufficient 
for  Chopin's  superlative  art.  One  voice 
added  to  it  was  all  that  Lowe  required 
to  state  his  case.  Such  every-day  ma- 
terial and  simple  combinations  of  string 
and  wind  instruments  are  always  avail- 
able, and  the  youth  who  says  some- 
thing notable  with  them  will  find 
orchestral  conductors  the  following 
morning  calling  at  his  door. 

If  the  office  of  the  friends  is  to  dis- 
cover genius  and  to  prevent  others 
from  doing  the  same,  if  the  wisdom  of 
encouraging  mediocrity  is  questioned, 
what  active  business  is  at  hand  for 
them? 


A  task  awaits  them  which,  employ- 
ing their  full  strength,  will  not  be  fin- 
ished for  many  generations,  perhaps 
centuries ;  that  is,  preparing  the  ground 
in  which  musical  genius  will  grow, 
spreading  the  influence  of  good  art, 
fertilizing  the  soil  with  general  knowl- 
edge and  love  of  beauty. 

No  doubt  such  methods  will  strike 
the  American  mind  as  somewhat  vague 
and  up  in  the  air,  and  the  fruition  so 
deferred  that  practical  men  will  look 
over  and  under  and  through  the  situa- 
tion for  some  short  cut  by  which  genius 
may  be  delivered  within  a  reasonable 
time  after  the  order  has  been  placed. 
But  we  should  not  for  a  moment  be- 
lieve that  this  is  a  field  for  up-to-date 
promoting  schemes.  There  is  only  one 
way  to  produce  genius,  and  that  is  the 
way  it  has  been  done  in  Europe  from 
the  beginning. 

Johann  Sebastian  Bach,  the  supreme 
music  product  of  the  world,  was  the 
result  of  a  thousand  influences,  operat- 
ing for  centuries.  The  work  of  thou- 
sands of  minor  composers  before  him 
had  to  die  and  rot  and  be  ground  into 
a  compost  before  the  soil  should  be  rich 
enough  to  grow  that  glory  of  German 
art. 

.  Bach  did  not  happen  because  the 
"Ladies'  Monday  Musical"  of  Eisenach 
joined  with  the  "Chromatic  Qub"  of 
Weimar  and  the  "G  Qefs"  of  Kothen  in 
passing  resolutions,  first,  that  composi- 
tions of  native  composers  should  be 
heard  with  more  interest;  and,  second, 
that  these  societies  hereby  pledge  them- 
selves to  prefer  the  domestic  output  to 
the  imported  Italian  product;  and, 
third,  that  they  hereby  censure  that 
snobbishness  which  believes  in  the  su- 
periority of  foreign  music. 

Bach  was  not  encouraged  to  use  his 
powers  and  to  become  aware  of  what 
was  really  in  him  because  of  the  stimu- 
lus to  art  given  by  the  "Leipsic  Choral 
Union,"  which  offered  a  prize  of  a 
thousand  gulden  for  the  most  inspired 
setting  of  the  St.  Matthew  Passion,  stir- 
ring composers  for  miles  around  (who 
needed  that  sum  of  money)  to  produce 

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the  kind  of  originality  which  they  be- 
lieved to  be  likely  to  pique  the  fancy 
of  the  particular  gentlemen  who  had 
kindly  consented  to  act  as  judges  for 
the  competition. 

The  editor  of  that  esteemed  weekly 
(with  trade  supplement),  "Musical 
Germany,"  did  not  call  with  clarion 
voice  that  teachers  should  stand  shoul- 
der to  shoulder  against  foreign  preten- 
tiousness. 

In  other  words,  we  should  hardly 
consider  the  science  of  organization  in 
the  musical  affairs  of  those  times  to 
be  a  science  at  all.  And  yet  their 
primitive  methods  were  rewarded,  and 
those  conditions  which  had  existed  for 
generations  finally  produced  the  flower. 

The  American  composer  has  been  at 
his  art  for  forty  years.  It  may  be  said 
that  conditions  did  not  produce  him, 
for  there  were  no  conditions.  When 
we  look  at  the  very  thin  soil  out  of 


which  our  native  music  has  so  recently 
sprung,  land  which  has  never  known 
plow  or  fertilizer,  we  wonder  not  at 
the  many  weeds,  but  that  flowers  of 
real  beauty  should  be  found  here  and 
there.  These  scattered  specimens  are 
pledges  of  the  garden  of  the  future. 

And  now,  musical  laymen  of  the 
country  who  want  to  help  the  Ameri- 
can composer,  apply  your  energies  to 
enriching  the  musical  life  of  the  nation ; 
give  every  child  the  best  music;  advise 
students  to  compose  not  to  see  how 
great  their  own  powers  are,  but  to 
measure  and  venerate  true  greatness. 
Tjspke  long  views;  do  everything  by 
years,  and  not  by  days.  Then,  when 
future  generations  have  continued  the 
labor  of  love  you  began,  the  American 
composer,  expressing  in  music  the  very 
spirit  of  America,  may  be  acclaimed  by 
his  happy  countrymen. 


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CERTAIN  TENDENCIES  IN  MODERN  PAINTING 
By  Paul  Dougherty 


What  I  shall  have  to  say  to  you  this 
morning  will  not  be  either  learned  or 
startling.  I  appear  in  the  guise  neither 
of  the  prophet  nor  of  the  critic.  I 
merely  wish  to  point  out  certain  things 
that  seem  to  me  fundamental  and,  for 
that  reason,  very  simple  and  perhaps 
easily  forgotten.  I  cannot  hope  that 
you  will  all  agree  with  me,  but  I  do 
hope  that  you  will  not  all  disagree,  and 
that  we  shall  all  bear  in  mind  Dr.  John- 
son's saying:  "That  any  man  has  a 
right  to  say  what  he  thinks,  and  any 
other  man  the  right  [mentally]  to  knock 
him  down  for  it." 

Periodically,  the  world  of  modern 
art  is  convulsed  with  the  cries  of  new 
prophets,  and  we  hear  of  the  creation 
of  a  new  art:  a  movement  has  been 
launched.  Forty  years  ago  it  was  Im- 
pressionism ;  the  day  before  yesterday 
it  was  Post-impressionism;  yesterday, 
Futurism;  to-morrow,  what?  Person- 
ally I  must  confess,  quite  unashamed, 
that  I  am  not  a  believer  in  movements. 
It  is  true  that  the  minority  of  pictures 
at  each  period  of  the  history  of  art 
have  a  kind  of  family  likeness,  as  sixty 
years  ago  they  were  Romantic,  recently 
impressionistic,  to-day  at  least  a  grow- 
ing minority  post-impressionistic. 

This  is  proof  neither  for  nor  against 
a  movement,  but  only  that  most  people 
who  paint  are  without  specific  original 
power.  In  this  predicament,  and  with 
tools  to  use,  a  technique  that  is  in  itself 
a  delight,  they  must  imitate  somebody, 
and  it  is  more  appealing  to  be  in  fashion 
than  out  of  it.  This  is  why  Post-im- 
pressionism numbers  its  followers  by 
the  thousands.  It  is  because  most 
people  cannot  discern  between  chaff  and 
wheat  that  they  seem  to  be  witnessing 
in  astonished  helplessness  the  trans- 
formation of  painters  whose  work 
was  once  quite  commonplace,  indeed, 
magic  of  a  doctrine,  into  shining  gen- 
iuses, who  produce  what  we  are  told 


are  great  original  works  with  the  same 
facility  that  a  magician  in  evening  dress 
and  a  black  imperial  brings  forth 
often  students'  beginnings,  under  the 
numerous  rabbits  out  of  a  presumably 
empty  black  hat.  After  all,  a  poor 
Post-impressionist  picture  is  no  worse 
than  a  poor  Impressionist  or  a  poor 
salon  piece.  It  is  severe  to  blame 
the  unoriginal  painter.  If  any  one  is 
to  be  scolded,  it  is  the  public  that  can- 
not distinguish  between  good  and  bad. 
The  reactionary,  who  thinks  that  be- 
cause a  work  is  what  is  called  "modem" 
in  tendency  it  must  be  worthless,  is 
guilty  of  the  same  kind  of  foolishness 
as  he  who  thinks  that  because  it  is  built 
out  of  cubes  it  must  be  a  masterpiece. 

No  doctrine  can  give  men  genius. 
There  are  no  short  cuts  or  panaceas  in 
art,  as  in  nothing  else  are  there  specifics 
against  stupidity  or  incompetence.  Good 
art  teachings  can  no  more  make  good 
artists  than  good  laws  can  make  good 
men.    But  I  anticipate. 

It  seems  that  we  live  in  one  of  those 
transitional  periods  in  which  history  is 
made  rapidly,  as  if  oft-denied  and  long- 
accumulated  impulses  gathered  force 
sufficient  to  break  barriers  and  sweep 
along  events  with  dramatic  suddenness ; 
eras  of  change  in  which  irresistible 
restlessness  challenges  established  stan- 
dards; a  restlessness  that  is  spiritual, 
demanding  reality  and  questioning  the 
meanings  of  things.  It  often  threatens 
cherished  possessions  or  refuses  old 
valuations. 

In  art  it  proclaims  the  futility  of 
most  of  the  art  of  the  past;  where  it 
concedes  that  there  have  been  great 
men,  it  declares  them  to  be  going  in 
the  wrong  direction,  diseased  and  mis- 
shapen giants.  Its  audacity  is  superb; 
it  ruthlessly  destroys  the  old,  and  sets 
itself  the  task  of  forging  a  new 
esthetics,  and  a  new  philosophy.  This 
is     a     courageous,     manly,     healthful 


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37 


attitude  in  those  in  whom  it  is  honest, 
and  I  believe  they  are  many;  but  it  is 
also  possible  that  it  may  be  all  this,  and 
still  be  mistaken,  and  it  is  here  we 
reach,  I  think,  the  crux  of  the  matter, 
that  it  is  one  thing  to  state  a  doctrine 
of  esthetics  that  may  be  valid,  and  quite 
another  thing  to  make  that  doctrine 
powerful  to  produce  great  and  moving 
art.  Certain  writers  on  Post-impres- 
sionism have  expounded  a  theory  of 
esthetics  that  seems  to  be  patently 
sound,  though  I  cannot  feel  it  to  be 
new  or  peculiar  to  themselves.  We  hear 
it  said,  for  example,  that  the  object  of 
art  is  not  representation ;  that  in  paint- 
ing forms  should  be  used  not  as  means 
of  suggesting  emotions  or  conveying  in- 
formation, which  is  mere  description, 
but  as  objects  of  emotion  in  themselves. 
The  aim  is  the  essential,  etc.  All  this 
is  quite  true.  I  only  beg  to  interject 
that  while  I  am  a  radical  myself,  I 
wish  to  be  just,  and  I  cannot  see  that 
really  great  art  at  any  time  has  occupied 
itself  with  mere  representation. 

Out  of  what  conditions  has  this  pro- 
test grown  ?  Under  the  burden  of  what 
impression  has  this  passionate  reaction 
accumulated?  To  understand  it,  you 
must  be  able  to  relate  it  to  the  back- 
ground, the  history  that  has  immedi- 
ately preceded  it.  If  we  look  clearly 
and  honestly,  we  shall  find,  I  think 
reasons  for  its  existence,  even  if  they 
are  not  adequate  to  explain  its  violence. 
We  find  in  the  painting  of  the  immedi- 
ate past  a  continual  dilution  of  the  wine 
of  the  original  French  Impressionists ;  a 
continual  searching,  more  and  more, 
after  what  the  painter  understands  by 
effect,^a  diminishing  occupation  with 
the  substances  over  which  the  effect 
plays;  a  preoccupation  with  the  phe- 
nomena of  life,  becoming  more  and 
more  tenuous  and  unsubstantial;  a 
tendency  to  the  use  of  color  as  a  merely 
decorative  agent;  a  thinness  of  sub- 
stance; a  preoccupation  with  the  light 
of  the  moment;  a  sacrifice  of  funda- 
mentals to  the  study  of  values.  This  in 
what  we  know  as  easel  pictures.     In 


decoration  it  becomes  a  servile  sub- 
serviency to  the  color  scheme  of  the 
room,  a  kind  of  millinery  idealism,  a 
slavish  submission  to  architectural  be- 
hest; in  architecture,  an  abandonment 
to  the  fallacy  that  what  was  living,  vital, 
and  beautiful  in  Greece  or  Italy  or 
France,  in  centuries  past,  must  be  the 
same  here  and  now,  if  copied  or  tran- 
scribed with  sufficient  accuracy  and 
skill;  in  other  words,  a  crystallization 
according  to  standards  instead  of  the 
outgrowth  of  an  inward  necessity. 

We  have  been  much  dominated 
by  a  fear  of  going  wrong,  and  in 
America  we  walk  perilously  near  a 
sterile  and  elegant  eclecticism.  To-day, 
I  think,  conditions  are  different,  they 
are  certainly  changing,  and  the  future 
holds  the  hope  of  something  better ;  but 
the  answer  is  not  in  the  doctrine  ex- 
pounded by  the  preachers  of  Post- 
impressionism,  sound  as  much  of  it 
is,  and  still  less  in  the  hysterical 
screeching  of  the  gentlemen  who 
call  themselves  Futurists.  I  fear  that 
what  is  offered  us  is  but  the  substi- 
tution of  one  academic  ideal  for  an- 
other. 

I  have  said  that  much  of  the  doctrine 
of  Post-impressionism  is  sound.  It  ad- 
vocates a  return  to  essentials.  It  de- 
mands the  resuscitation  of  design.  It 
preaches  the  truth  of  the  unity  of  form 
and  color,  and  it  presses  for  simplifi- 
cation, not  representation,  the  substi- 
tution of  significant  forms  for  external 
imitation  or  literal  description,  howso- 
ever noble,  in  paint.  No  one  who  thinks 
clearly  can  reject  the  soundness  and 
saneness  and  healthfulness  of  such  a 
scheme.  How,  then,  does  it  come  that 
the  work  that  is  offered  to  us  as  an 
illustration  of  this  doctrine  is  so 
strangely  unmoving  and  puzzling?  The 
answer  lies  in  the  question  itself.  It  is 
because  most  of  it  was  made  to  illustrate 
a  doctrine,  that  it  was  painted  to  prove 
a  theory.  The  statement  of  a  doctrine 
of  esthetics  is  an  intellectual  process. 
Let  us  examine  the  problem  of  the 
artist  and  the  process  that  is  involved 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


in  the  creation  of  his  art.  Now,  the 
production  of  a  work  of  art  is  not  a 
mental  process  at  all.  It  is  the  outcome 
of  the  entire  spiritual  nature  of  the 
artist  speaking  through  a  more  or  less 
fully  commanded  medium.  Its  genesis 
is  emotional  and  peiceptive,  and  not 
rationalistic.  Hence  we  have  the  reason 
for  the  external  sterility  of  doctrine, 
however  reasoned  in  its  application  to 
the  production  of  art.  The  doctrinaire, 
when  he  turns  to  the  practice  of  art, 
paints  or  models  to  prove  his  theory. 
He  is  preeminently  occupied  with  the 
justification  and  exposition  of  the  dog- 
ma which  he  holds.  He  incorporates 
into  his  work,  by  a  sheer  effort  of  the 
will,  those  qualities  that  he  deems 
strengthening.  His  final  object  is  the 
establishment  of  a  scheme  of  logic. 

The  artist's  procedure  is  quite  con- 
trary. He  is  not  interested  in  proving 
anything.  He  looks  at  the  visible  uni- 
verse, and  it  is  beautiful  or  ugly  or  any 
one  of  a  thousand  shades  between 
them.  The  point  is  that  it  exites  him 
with  a  stimulus  that  is  not  mental,  but 
sensational.  He  is  aware  of  a  mysteri- 
ous, but  immediate,  relationship  be- 
tween himself  and  it.  Life  is  height- 
ened and  intensified  in  him,  and  in  his 
art  he  asks  you  to  share  his  experience 
and  not  to  listen'  to  the  proof  of  a 
theory.  He  will  not  be  thwarted  with- 
out a  fight.  You  may  say  to  him  that 
the  cumulative  expression  of  the  past 
means  more  to  you  than  his  offering. 
It  probably  means  as  much  to  him  as 
to  you,  but  he  is  speaking  of  a  direct 
experience,  and,  sooner  or  later,  if  he 
speaks  truly,  you  are  bound  to  listen. 

But  the  audience,  too,  has  its  rights. 
It  stands  on  ancient  ground,  hard  won, 
that  has  stood  in  good  stead  through 
the  generations;  it  demands  that  it 
shall  be  convinced.  It  says  it  cannot 
believe  your  story  unless  you  make  it 
seem  real  to  it.  It  is  not  so  much  that 
it  says  so,  but  that  it  feels  so,  and  it  is 
within  its  rights.  If  you  are  asked  to 
believe  that  some  one  has  had  a  great 
experience    and    you    find    his    witness 


vague,  that  he  cannot  tell  where  or 
how  it  was,  you  are  likely  to  be  un- 
moved. You  may  be  wrong,  but  don't 
be  afraid.  But  if  this  experience  is  put 
before  you  so  that  you  feel  yourself  to 
be  not  only  there,  but  with  him,  so  that 
what  he  experienced  becomes  part  of 
your  experience,  living  and  real  to  you. 
you  believe  his  truth.  It  is  your  truth. 
Now,  the  painter  presents  to  you  a 
world  that  exists  with  indefinite  bound- 
aries, usually  four,  and  on  a  surface 
that  you  know  to  be  fiat.  The  conven- 
tions at  his  disposition  are  forms  and 
colors.  He  speaks  to  you  of  adventures 
in  the  moving,  material  universe  that 
surrounds  us.  He  seeks  to  tell  you 
what  it  has  made  him  feel.  His  object, 
it  is  true,  is  not  to  represent  in  a  toy 
fashion,  however  skilfully,  the  mere 
facts  of  that  universe,  but  the  realities 
of  his  feelings  about  it.  He  asks  you 
to  believe  that  it  has  interested  him  and 
filled  him  with  emotion.  In  order  to 
make  you  feel  that,  he  must  convince 
you  that  he  has  really  seen  it,  that  its 
existence  and  reality  have  sunk  deep 
into  his  consciousness;  that  the  objects 
contained  in  it  exist  for  him  in  the 
same  intensity  as  they  exist  in  nature. 
Now,  the  first  great  fact  about  the  ex- 
istence of  objects  is  what,  for  lack  of  a 
better  word,  I  might  call  a  kind  of 
"thereness"  about  them.  They  are 
solids,  and  have  weight  and  displace- 
ment. If  inside  the  world  the  picture 
offered  you  you  cannot  be  convinced 
of  its  volumetric  existence,  you  have 
a  discouraging  sense  that  whatever 
else  you  are  asked  to  believe  by  its 
author  is  not  based  on  a  substantial 
structure.  The  painter,  by  process  of 
selection,  sunders  the  images  of  objects 
from  natural  space,  and  he  must  re- 
create them  in  pictorial  space,  and  il- 
luminate them  with  the  sense  of  their 
volumetric  existence,  unimpaired,  or, 
better,  amplified  to  attain  this.  It  is  im- 
possible to  conceive  of  form  and  color 
as  different  phenomena.  They  arc  the 
two  directions  of  one  movement.  With- 
out light,  there  is  no  vision.   To  illumi- 


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nate  an  object  is  to  reveal  its  existence. 
To  color  it  is  to  particularize  the  mode 
of  its  revelation;  hence  it  is  impossible 
to  alter  the  color  of  an  object  without 
corrupting  its  structure.  To  deny  this 
is  to  father  an  instability  which  is  ab- 
surd, and  to  disorganize  and  unbalance 
the  scheme  of  reality  both  natural  and 
esthetic.  In  this  basic  sense,  then, 
representation  becomes  the  original 
groundwork  of  art;  its  final  aim  the 
projection  of  essentials  revealed  by 
objects  in  a  state  of  intense  and  ener- 
getic volumetric  existence.  But  the  key 
to  this  living  world  is  to  be  found  in 
the  artist's  personality,  and  not  in  some 
geometrically  or  philosophically  con- 
structed universe. 

The  artist's  eyes  serve  him  in  quite  a 
different  stead  from  those  of  most  per- 
sons, who  use  them  chiefly  for  acquir- 
ing facts.  Art  is  concerned  with  a 
world  of  emotional  realities,  and  with 
material  things  only  so  far  as  they  are 
emotionally  significant.  Now,  any  talk 
dealing  with  emotion  is  difficult,  for 
many  persons,  never  having  felt  any 
esthetic  emotions,  are  inclined  to  think 
that  one  is  dealing  with  what  is  not. 
I  do  not  wish  to  seem  to  discount 
the  processes  of  logic,  but  this  point 
of  view  precludes  the  appreciation 
of  what  is  nevertheless  a  fact,  that 
.emotions  are  as  real  as  sensory  sen- 
sations and  that  there  are  other 
realities  than  those  of  the  physical 
world.  The  religiense,  the  mystic,  and 
the  artist  hold  this  view.  To  them  there 
are  things  the  worth  of  which  cannot  be 
related  to  the  physical ;  things  the  worth 
of  which  is  not  relative  but  absolute; 
things  that  are  good,  just  as  red  is  red, 
because  it  is  so.  Let  us,  then,  have  the 
courage  to  recognize  that  there  are 
things  beyond  the  realm  of  proof ;  that 
logic  has  its  limitations  as  well  as  its 
uses;  that  sensibility  in  certain  things 
— and  art  is  one  of  them — is  the  key  to 
experiences   that    logic   cannot   reveal. 

And  here  I  must  object  to  some  well- 
intentioned  cultivated  people  who  are 
attempting  to  bring  art  to  the  people. 
Who  has  not  seen  them  with  flocks  of 


victims  shuffling  through  the  museums, 
instructing  them  by  dates,  tags,  and 
labels.  What  have  these  professional 
rhapsodists  or  historical  analysts  to  do 
with  art?  An  intelligent  child  might 
get,  if  left  to  himself,  something  from 
a  visit  to  the  Metropolitan  Mraseum, 
provided  no  cultivated  persons  were 
there  to  tell  him  what  was  the  proper 
thing  to  feel,  or  prevent  his  feeling 
anything  but  a  desire  to  escape  by  com- 
manding him  to  think. 

Dogma,  then,  is  only  the  substitution 
of  one  system  for  another,  the  change 
from  one  academic  model  to  another; 
it  has  no  hope  to  oflFer.  What,  then, 
can  break  the  huge  machine  of  slavery, 
convention,  imitation,  and  emptiness  in 
which  we  all,  even  the  freest  of  us,  are 
caught  and  partly  maimed?  If  dogma 
fails  as  a  revivifying  power,  to  what, 
then,  are  we  to  turn  ?  What  are  usually 
called  the  intellectual  classes  will  reply, 
'^Culture."  Now,  it  is  difficult  to  define 
culture,  though  most  of  us  know  a 
cultivated  person  when  we  meet  one; 
usually  it  is  some  one  who  has  traveled 
in  Italy. 

In  the  deepest  sense  culture  means  an 
education  that  has  intensified  person- 
ality and  strengthened  its  powers  of 
expression;  but,  alas!  we  get  no  help 
here,  for  such  an  education  as  this  is 
not  for  sale.  It  is  an  intellectual  ad- 
venture, sought  by  some  in  solitude, 
found  by  others  in  society,  that  closes 
only  when  life  closes,  but  it  is  always 
individual.  That  is  its  hall-mark,  and 
in  this  It  resembles  art  itself.  In  the 
usual  sense  of  the  word,  a  cultivated 
society  is  one  that  has  been  educated 
to  a  series  of  standards  of  taste,  a  kind 
of  foot-rule  for  the  measurement  of 
achievements,  and  its  vision  is  always 
rearward.  Cultivated  people  have  al- 
ways been  defenders  of  the  antique,  as 
if  the  great  antique  needed  that. 

In  art  schools  one  draws  from  it  be- 
fore one  draws  from  life,  to  show  one, 
I  suppose,  where  life  goes  wrong.  Cul- 
ture makes  a  person  familiar  with 
masterpieces,  but  it  cannot  make  one 
sensitive  to  that  which  makes  them 
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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


masterpieces.  It  is  consequently  ret- 
rospective, which  is,  after  all,  its  safest 
ground.  Culture,  too,  is  apt  to  get  its 
rules  mixed,  so  that  it  is  angry  and  hurt 
to  find  that  the  artist  is  not  always  a 
gentleman.  It  is  more  dangerous  than 
Philistinism,  for  it  is  better  armed, 
more  intelligent,  and  more  pliant,  and 
it  has,  moreover,  an  air  of  being  on  the 
side  of  the  artist.  But  it  is  his  enemy, 
for  it  appeals  to  authority  and  not  to 
sensibility.  The  essence  of  originality, 
however,  is  that  it  feels  and  thinks  for 
itself.  It  is  not  picturesque,  because,  if 
it  is  original,  it  is  new ;  and  we  all  know 
that  to  be  picturesque  things  must  be 
old.  It  seems  strange,  and  it  is  dis- 
quieting, and  culture  is  all  too  apt  to 
attack  it. 

But  of  late  years  we  have  seen  a  re- 
versal of  this,  for  cultivated  persons, 
having  had  to  adopt  so  many  things 
they  would  have  liked  to  reject, — in 
fact,  did  reject,  but  have  had  forced  on 
them,  though  only  then  to  make  the 
part  of  a  tradition,  a  standard,  to  beat 
down  the  next  original, — the  cultivated, 
after  many  mistakes,  nervously  de- 
termine to  be  right  this  time  in  refer- 
ence to  the  new  art.  This  has  given  us 
the  spectacle  of  some  bravely,  but  re- 
gretfully, confessing  themselves  behind 
the  times,  with  many  uneasily  enunci- 
ating the  strange  accents  of  a  new  faith. 

Whence,  then,  is  the  wind  of  free- 
dom to  blow?  In  what  quarter  will 
the  new  dawn  break?  Histor>'  assures 
us  that  nothing  short  of  a  revival  of 
the  religious  spirit  can  restore  the  con- 
ditions in  which  the  great  types  of  art 
may  reach  again  their  full  stature.  It 
is  evident  that  monumental  art  calls 
for  sacrifices  of  small  imitations;  but 
they  are  sacrifices  dictated  by  the  mys- 
tic vision  of  the  inward  eye,  and  no 
intellectual  substitute  for  that  vision 
can  be  valid  in  Egypt,  Greece,  in  early 
Gothic,  in  Byzantine  mosaic,  in  Ori- 
ental drawings  and  pottery,  for  in  all, 
in  their  primitive  manifestations,  some- 
thing of  the  divine  eternal  was  com- 
municated, undiluted  by  the  medium. 
The  sacrifices  of  the  Post-impression- 


ists, as  a  witty  Englishman  has  said, 
are  sacrifices  in  the  wrong  places,  and 
not  to  be  laid  upon  the  altar  even  of 
an  absent  god.  Just  as  one  hundred 
years  ago  men  played  at  being  classic, 
to-day,  from  a  deeper  ennui,  we  play 
at  being  primitive,  Coptic,  Greek,  or 
Aztec. 

Let  us.  then,  honestly  confess  our- 
selves beaten.  We  are  not,  and  can- 
not be,  primitive,  howsoever  much  we 
should  like  to  be,  or  howsoever  inter- 
esting we  find  it  to  try  to  be.  Like  the 
occupation  of  lifting  oneself  over  ob- 
stacles by  one's  boot-straps,  it  may  be 
amusing, — one  may  even,  if  the  straps 
are  stout  enough,  put  one's  whole 
strength  into  it, — but  it  is  unprofitable. 
However,  if  we  cannot  be  real  primi- 
tives, we  can  be  something  better  than 
imitation  ones.  If  we  cannot  live  in  an 
age  of  great  religious  revival,  we  can 
at  least,  each  and  all  of  us,  live  honestly 
and  deeply,  and  if  we  are  brave  enough, 
we  can  be  free.  If  modem  life  cannot 
oflfer  the  artist  the  background  of  a 
great  religious  experience,  it  can  at  least 
oflfer  him  liberty,  an  open  road  to  free 
individual  expression,  unhampered  by 
a  past  that  sits  in  judgment  on  him. 
rather  than  its  more  legitimate  role  as 
a  source  of  refreshment  and  inspiration 
to  him. 

We  all  wish  to  do  something  for  art. 
and  this  is  what  we  can  do:  organize 
society  so  that  liberty  is  increased, — 
liberty  of  thought, — for  art  thrives  in 
a  liberal  atmosphere.  Make  it  less  diffi- 
cult for  each  to  speak  his  truth  as  he 
sees  it,  and  do  not  foster  the  spirit  of 
compromise.  Do  not  expect  all  men 
to  be  sensitive  in  the  same  direction, 
or  think  that  art  is  something  that  can 
be  acquired  by  hard  study.  Let  us  not 
fear  to  go  wrong  in  these  matters,  if 
we  go  for  what  we  like.  Art  is  not 
morality,  though  they  are  deeply  re- 
lated in  quite  another  way.  Let  us 
realize  that  it  is  more  important  to  be 
honest  than  to  be  polite,  though  delight- 
ful if  we  can  be  both,  and  that  social 
virtues,  good  as  they  are,  are  not  the 
only  ones. 

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A  NOVELlST^S  PHILOSOPHY 
Bx  Gforge  W.  Cablr 


A  novelist  should  have  as  clear  a 
conviction  of  how  to  live  as  of  how  to 
write,  and  on  occasion  may  state  it  with 
the  freedom  of  an  actor  answering  a 
curtain-call. 

In  either  case  originality  is  not  the 
supreme  necessity,  and  so  I  would 
say  that  the  chief  element  in  a  life 
worth  living  is  what  the  preachers  call 
character,  and  that  in  character  the 
three  paramount  constituents  must  be 
courage,  fidelity,  and  affection.  These 
are  the  three  dimensions  of  the  soul. 
Every  form  of  conscious  wrong-doing 
is  a  default  in  one  or  more  of  these 
three  graces.  Every  plan  of  life  aban- 
doned as  a  failure  owes  both  its  wreck 
and  its  abandonment  to  a  shortage  in 
one  or  another  of  these  qualities,  a 
narrowing  of  them  upon  too  few  things 
or  facts. 

How  wide,  then,  should  their  com- 
pass be?  It  should  be  as  wide  as  the 
world  we  have  to  live  in.  In  a  life 
truly  centered,  the  right  courage, 
fidelity,  and  affection  toward  anything 
whatever  do  not  conflict  with  the  right 
courage,  fidelity,  and  affection  toward 
anything  else.  No  art  of  living  can  be 
wise  or  safe  which  does  not  keep  this 
truth  for  its  guiding-star.  Like  all  arts, 
the  art  of  life  is  difficult,  and  much  of 
it  lies  in  keeping  our  courage,  fidelity, 
and  affection  for  matters  nearest  to  us 
equally  or  proportionately  operative  in, 
to,  and  for  matters  farthest  away. 

Our  imperfect  natures  can  never  do 
this  perfectly,  and  if  they  could,  we 
should  not  escape  the  censure  of  this 
very  imperfect  world.  We  should  cer- 
tainly incur  it,  and  quite  as  certainly 
its  blunders  are  ours.  But  be  they  ours 
or  not,  our  courage,  fidelity,  and 
affection  toward  it  should  make  its  ap- 
proval sweet,  and  yet  should  be  too 
large  to  accept  that  approval  as  a  guide 
of  life  or  as  life's  chief  reward. 


But  why  ?  Why  be  bound  to  a  whole 
world  whose  censure  the  noblest  living 
is  certain  to  incur?  For  at  least  five 
reasons.  No  life  can  escape  that  cen- 
sure. Second,  censure  is  not  all  that 
the  world  pays  to  noble  living;  it  pays 
also  noble  rewards.  Third,  we  gain  the 
reward  of  self-approval.  Fourth,  the 
more  we  broaden  the  range  of  our 
courage,  fidelity,  and  affection,  the 
more  we  have  of  them,  the  more  we 
live.  And  fifth,  we  may  not  choose; 
we  come  to  our  birth  bound.  We  in- 
itially owe  the  whole  world  these  three 
golden  coins.  They  are  the  admission 
fee  into  human  society,  into  a  world 
brought  to  its  present  imperfect,  yet 
magnificent,  order  and  beauty  by  the 
imperfect,  yet  aspiring,  courage,  fidelity, 
and  affection  of  unnumbered  millions 
through  thousands  of  past  years.  It 
is  mainly  by  trying  to  slip  through  life 
without  paying  this  gate-money  in  full 
to  a  whole  living  world  that  we  em- 
bitter life  and  lives. 

What,  must  we  set  out  into  life,  and 
rise  and  work,  and  sleep  day  and  night, 
day  and  night,  to  life's  end  under  a 
sense  of  incalculable  debt  to  a  whole 
world?  Is  that  to  make  the  best 
of  life?  Yes.  The  proposition  contains 
everything  essential  to  a  fairer,  better 
life  and  world  than  ever  yet  have  been. 
This  naked  statement  of  it  shows  its 
grinning  skeleton,  but  what  would  even 
a  Venus  or  an  Adonis  be  without  a 
skeleton?  If  this  is  saying  no  more 
than  "Be  good,  and  you  '11  be  happy," 
what  of  it?  Has  any  method  yet  been 
found  by  which  a  man  can  make  him- 
self happy  or  life  worth  while  by  being 
bad  ?  This  is  axiomatic,  that  no  worthy 
happiness  can  be  had  without  nobility. 

What,  then,  is  noble?  I  wish  the  ten 
commandments^  or  the  last  six,  leaving 
out  of  all  debate  the  first  four,  were 
known  by  some  kinder,  more  appreci- 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


ative  name.  They  are  so  much  more 
than  mere  law.  They  are  the  naturally 
essential  requisites  of  nobility.  Who- 
ever first  gave  them,  that  is  largely  why 
they  were  given.  They  are  the  logical 
necessities  of  our  courage,  fidelity,  and 
affiection,  and  the  limits  of  our  prac- 
tical acceptance  of  them  are  the  exact 
delimiting  measure  of  our  savagery. 

Ordinarily  the  savage's  sense  of  his 
moral  obligations  suddenly  loses  nine 
tenths  of  its  energy  at  the  bounds  of 
his  village  or  tribe.  At  times  the  re- 
maining tenth  may  reach  farther,  but 
rarely  indeed  as  a  principle  of  living 
fully  reasoned  out.  When  it  does,  that 
reasoner  is  no  longer  a  savage.  We 
have  a  strong  parallel  among  enlight- 
ened peoples.    We  cr>' — 

Lives  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead, 

but  thousands  who  would  scorn  a 
scorner  of  patriotism  can  only  smile 
at  a  plea  for  a  courage,  fidelity,  and 
affection  devoted  to  a  whole  world  as 
one  universal  mother. 

It  is  rare  for  the  sentiment  of  pa- 
triotism to  be  reasoned  out  into  a  prin- 
ciple of  life.  Its  true  essence  is  a  fear- 
less, faithful,  affectionate  membership 
in  the  social  system  to  which  we  belong. 
As  such  it  becomes  a  constant,  daily 
motive,  saturating  every  activity  and 
aspiration  of  the  most  ordinary  life. 

A  true  sentiment  of  citizenship  must 
be  grounded  in  a  lively  perception  of 
the  illimitable  beneficence  of  human 
government — a  beneficence  only  less 
than  divine.  To  the  fostering  care  of 
government  we  owe  every  element  of 
life  which  makes  us  anything  better 
than  gregarious  animals.  The  words 
'^mother-country*'  and  "fatherland" 
confess  this.  Without  government  not 
one  in  a  million  of  us  would  ever  have 
been  born  and  no  one  would  have  been 
born  in  our  place.  For  without  govern- 
ment man  is  hard  put  to  it  to  steal  a 
wretched  animal  subsistence  from  a 
thousand  square  miles  to  the  man, 
while  under  government  he  may  live 
the  civilized  life  a  thousand  men  to  the 
mile. 


Our  food,  drink,  clothes,  tools,  uten- 
sils, every  foot  of  highway,  under- 
ground piping,  or  overhead  wire,  ever>' 
written  or  printed  line,  ever>'  house  of 
residence,  education,  healing,  or  wor- 
ship, every  ship,  lighthouse,  or  chart, 
every  coin  bearing  Caesar's  or  Lib- 
erty's image,  every  hour  of  physical 
safety,  we  owe  to  the  care  of  our  gov- 
ernments and  to  the  comity  between 
them. 

National  government  and  inter- 
national comity  are  an  atmosphere  of 
blessing  as  essential  to  our  very  being  as 
the  air  we  breathe.  They  do  not  merel\ 
enable  a  million  men  to  live  where 
hardly  a  hundred  could  live  in  sav- 
agery; the  million,  because  they  are  a 
million  instead  of  a  hundred,  can  have 
ten  thousand  things  ten  thousand  times 
as  inexpensively  as  one  savage  could 
get  them  from  another,  especially  all 
the  things — and  restraints — that  make 
life  long,  high,  broad,  and  rich.  Gov- 
erment  is  human  providence,  and  the 
difference  between  it  and  life  without 
it  would  be  yet  more  tremendous  were 
it  not  impossible  for  savagery  to  l)e 
absolute  or  government  perfect. 

Now,  there  are  multitudes  honestly 
seeking  the  life  best  worth  living  who 
every  day  thank  God  for  a  host  of 
blessings — life  itself  and  freedom  and 
safety  to  worship  Him,  not  one  of  which 
they  could  have  without  government, 
yet  whose  patriotic  devotion  sleeps  from 
one  war  to  another.  They  worship  Got! 
and  endure  government,  without  which 
they  never  would  have  heard  of  a  gt>d 
whom  it  would  be  decent  to  worship. 

The  nobler  notion  of  government 
embraces  the  whole  pulsating  frame- 
work of  society,  public  and  private, 
with  its  uncounted  governments  within 
governments,  and  he  who  is  mean  to 
his  government  dwarfs  his  life.  We 
belong  to  the  whole  of  human  society, 
and  the  truer  our  courage,  fidelity,  and 
affection  to  it  is,  the  more  bearable  will 
be  our  ills,  the  richer  our  joys. 

A  life  with  this  spread  of  boughs  is 
a  tree  the  roots  of  which  are  so  many 
and  so  strong,  reach  so  far^nd  so  deep. 
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and  feed  so  richly  on  the  best  things, 
that  no  storms  can  wreck  it.  It  cannot 
be  a  failure  by  its  own  fault,  and  so 
cannot  be  a  failure  at  all.  It  is  likely 
to  be  rich  in  constant  rewards.  More- 
over this  likelihood  grows  stronger  as 
more  and  more  of  mankind  actually 
live  by  these  principles.  Individuality 
is  a  superb  necessity  to  a  noble  life,  yet 
the  most  of  life's  disappointments  come 
of  a  mistaken  individuality  stifling  this 
high  sentiment  of  collectivism,  whose 
happier  name  is  civilization. 

But  there  is  an  undue  individualism 
in  whole  peoples  toward  other  whole 
peoples.  We  see  it  in  the  patriotism 
commonly  taught  to  children  —  and 
soldiers;  a  sentiment  of  courage,  fidel- 
ity, and  aflFection  for  their  own  people, 
transmuting  itself  into  valor,  pride,  and 
contempt  toward  other  peoples ;  a  purely 
militant  spirit  of  clan.  No  life  can  be 
quite  at  its  best  which  does  not  demand 
and  seek  for  its  national  social  order 
a  brave,  faithful,  fraternal  subordina- 
tion of  itself  to  the  common  welfare 
and  self -betterment  of  all  peoples,  the 
maintenance  and  advancement  of  one 
universal  order,  an  inteqiational  ap- 
plication of  the  golden  rule. 

Oddly  enough,  we  are  everywhere 
nearer  to  this  seeming  Utopia  in  con- 
duct than  in  motive.  This  comes  by 
commerce;  and  such  conduct  will  re- 
main better  than  its  usual  motive  until 
in  the  popular  mind  the  lawful  pursuit 
of  wealth  is  held  in  nobler  esteem  than 
it  ever  has  been.  One  reason  why  the 
all  but  universal  pursuit  of  wealth  is 
not  more  honored  is  that  to  producer, 
carrier,  seller,  and  consumer  it  can 
operate  beneficently  with  no  more 
benevolence  than  the  most  superficial 
good-will  and  good  faith.  Also,  because 
it  cannot  normally  sustain  a  benevolent 
motive  on  any  terms  alien  to  a  self- 
seeking  exchange  of  benefits.  Savants, 
missionaries,  soldiers,  artists,  states- 
men, poets  are  singled  out  for  special 
approval  for  seeking  their  reward  in 
the  giving  of  benefits  and  regarding  but 
lightly  their  own  compensation  in  things. 


They  find  joy  in  the  belief  that  "a 
man's  life  consisteth  not  in  the  abun- 
dance of  the  things  which  he 
possesseth." 

Well,  neither  does  his  destruction. 
A  people's  life,  especially,  does  con- 
sist so  largely  in  the  spiritual  use  of 
things  that  their  possession  in  abun- 
dance is  of  vast  importance.  The  very 
existence  of  millions  of  souls  well 
worthy  to  exist  depends  on  it.  The 
splendid  precept  is  aimed  not  against 
wealth,  but  against  greed. 

Wealth  itself  is  sacred,  a  thing  trans- 
muted from  human  life  and  transmut- 
able  into  human  life  again.  Any  sor- 
didness  lies  only  in  the  way  it  may  be 
got,  held,  spent,  or  coveted,  and  it  is 
as  easy  for  the  poorest  man  to  be 
sordid  with  one  dollar  as  for  the  richest 
with  his  millions.  Even  the  missionary 
may  forget  at  times  that  he  could  not 
be  a  missionary,  content  with  no  harvest 
but  souls,  were  there  not  some  ten 
thousand  men  immersed  in  commerce, 
law,  and  all  the  comparatively  selfish 
beneficences,  and  that  two  of  the  activi- 
ties into  which  he  would  rejoice  to  lift 
the  savage  are  civil  government  and 
the  pursuit  of  wealth. 

The  breath  and  blood  of  this  pursuit 
is  the  ancient  rule  of  quid  pro  quo,  yet 
it  can  be  at  the  same  time  a  labor  of 
love.  Millions  who  feel  their  lives  to 
be  well  worth  living  do  make  the  pur- 
suit of  wealth,  whether  in  dividends  or 
wages,  a  labor  of  true  love,  and  find 
their  chief  satisfaction  in  so  doing. 
L'nfortunately,  in  business  love  chiefly 
pushes  from  behind,  draws  but  little  in 
front,  operates  half  through  the  busi- 
ness relation,  and  there  dies.  Consider 
any  ferr>'-boat  or  suburban  train,  black 
with  its  human  swarm  hurrying  to  or 
from  work.  Every  soul  in  that  swarm 
is  helping  to  make  or  do  something  not 
directly  for  self,  but  for  humanity  as 
a  whole,  and  will  draw  his  or  her 
reward  not  from  one  employer  alone, 
but  from  civilization  at  large  in  all  its 
manifold  providence  over  him.  Nearly 
every  one  of  them  is  going  or  coming, 


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not  with  any  zeal  for  civilization,  yet 
neither  in  brute  greed  for  self  alone, 
but  mainly  for  the  sake  of  those  who 
by  the  bonds  of  love  and  birth  are  pre- 
eminently his  or  hers  and  whose  he  or 
she  preeminently  is. 

Better,  this  pursuit  always  recognizes 
in  some  degree  that  these  bonds  ought 
to  reach  not  only  backward  into  the 
home,  but  also  forward  into  all  busi- 
ness relations.  It  finds  courage  essen- 
tial to  enterprise,  fidelity  to  credit, 
amity  to  harmonious  understanding, 
and  it  is  largely  on  the  buoying  power 
of  this  perception  that  the  world  and 
worthy  living  have  risen  to  where  they 
are. 

Yet  the  seeker  of  wealth,  to  apply  it 
to  the  life  which  makes  wealth  most 
real,  will  perceive  that  these  virtues 
cannot  work  effectually  on  mercenary 
promptings  without  the  promptings  also 
of  citizenship,  local  and  universal.  But 
fancy  the  world's  trade  carried  forward 
on  true  quid  pro  quo  principles  and  at 
the  same  time  on  the  principles  of 
world  citizenship,  and  say  if  that  would 
not  make  a  better  world  than  man  has 
ever  yet  seen. 

There  are  men  to-day  pursuing  wealth 
on  those  joint  principles — rich  men, 
poor  men,  the  lofty,  the  lowly.  They 
do  not  expect  this  wealth-hungry  world 
to  come  quite  around  to  their  theories 
or  practice  in  any  visible  future,  yet 
they  are  living  the  life  best  worth  while. 
They  have  their  errors,  their  sorrows, 
small  and  great,  but  it  is  not  their  kind 
who  die  broken-hearted  or  by  their  own 
hand. 

Finally,  under  these  few  principles 
of  collectivism  the  life  best  worth  living 
secures  abundant  play  for  an  individual- 
ism so  rich  and  fine  that  compared  with 
it  all  self-assertion  in  discord  with  such 
principles  is  ignoble  and  self -embitter- 
ing. Also  It  is  needless.  Human  life,, 
whether  to  be  human  or  divine,  must 
aspire  and  must  rejoice.  Whatever 
man  chooses  to  do,  seek,  or  suflFer  is 


either  immediately  or  ultimately  for 
joy.  Too  monotonously  the  cry  of  the 
earnest  is,  "Of  what  use?"  The  idle 
fret  them  into  this  narrowness  by  their 
yet  narrower  test  question,  "What  joy  ?*' 
until  sometimes  the  earnest  can  see  little 
good  in  most  of  the  world's  activities. 
They  cry  or  sigh,  "To  what  purpose  is 
this  waste?'* 

Doubtless  there  is  waste,  yet  I  think 
a  great  deal  of  other-worldliness  is 
badly  mixed  with  an  amazing  ingrati- 
tude to  human  society.  This  worid 
seems  to  me  as  definitely  for  joy  as  for 
use  or  discipline;  not  a  world  with 
which  we  should  have  as  little  to  do 
as  we  may,  but  as  much  as  we  can. 
Both  its  joy  and  ours  are  one  of  the 
debts  we  daily  owe  it.  In  the  best  life, 
for  a  man  or  a  world,  use  and  joy  are 
yoke-mates.  Every  joy  should  be  use- 
ful, every  use  joyful,  and  the  world's 
work  should  be  the  making  not  of 
utilities  only  for  later  joys,  but  joy  it- 
self, present  joy.  And  in  this  joy-mak- 
ing it  is  not  every  man  for  himself, — 
that,  again,  were  savager\% — but,  as 
truly  as  in  commerce,  each  one  of  us 
for  thousands  of  thousands  other  than 
himself. 

The  heroine  of  a  certain  novel,  beinp 
asked  to  pray  by  a  dying  soldier  and 
captive  foe,  says: 

"I  know,  captain,  that  wc  can't  have  long- 
ings, strivings,  or  hopes  without  beliefs;  bc^ 
liefs  are  what  they  live  on.  I  believe  in 
being  strong  and  sweet  and  true  for  the  pure 
sake  of  being  so,  and  yet  more  for  the 
world's  sake;  and  as  much  more  again  for 
God's  sake,  as  God  is  greater  than  his  works. 
I  believe  in  beauty,  and  in  joy.  I  believe 
they  are  the  goal  of  all  goodness  and  of  all 
God's  work  and  wish.  As  to  resurrectron, 
punishment  and  reward,  I  can't  see  what 
my  noblest  choice  has  to  do  with  them ;  they 
seem  to  me  to  be  God's  part  of  the  matter. 
Mine  is  to  love  perfect  beauty  and  perfect 
joy,  both  in  and  infinitely  beyond  myself, 
with  the  desiring  love  with  which  I  rejoice 
to  believe  God  loves  them»  and  to  pity  the 
lack  of  them  with  the  loving  pity  with  which 
God  pities  it.  And  above  all  I  believe  that 
no  beauty  and  no  joy  can  be  perfect  apart 
from  a  love  that  loves  the  whole  world's 
joy  better  than  any  separate  joy  of  any 
separate  soul." 


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CONFERRING  ON  MR.  SARGENT  OF  THE  GOLD  MEDAL 

OF  THE  INSTITUTE 


In  presenting  the  medal  Mf.  Blash- 
field  said: 

The  gold  medal  of  the  National  In- 
stitute of  Arts  and  Letters,  designed 
and  executed  by  one  of  its  members, 
Mr.  A.  A.  Weinman,  has  been  given 
five  times :  To  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens, 
for  sculpture;  to  James  Ford  Rhodes, 
for  history;  to  James  Whitcomb  Riley, 
for  poetry;  to  William  Rutherford 
Mead,  for  architecture;  to  Augustus 
Thomas,  for  dramatic  composition.  To- 
day it  is  awarded,  in  the  department  of 
painting,  to  John  Singer  Sargent. 

To  state  the  titles  of  its  recipient  is 
needless.  To  present  in  detail  to  such 
an  audience  as  this  the  artistic  claims 
of  Sargent  would  be  as  superfluous  as 
to  explain  why  President  Wilson  or 
Mr.  Roosevelt  is  known  to  his  country- 
men. 

For  thirty-five  years  the  master  has 
been  a  prominent  figure  in  art,  looming 
always  larger.  It  is  for  painting  that 
this  medal  is  given,  and  to  me  (in  his 
absence  I  can  say  it  freely)  Sargent  as 
painter  is  greater  than  any  man  alive. 
It  is,  then,  rather  to  Sargent  as  a  man 
and  as  an  influence  that  I  shall  give  the 
few  words  which  I  have  to  say. 

Thirty-five  years  ago  by  the  calendar, 
a  thousand  years  or  so  by  the  changes 
that  have  come,  very  many  of  us,  then 
young  men,  were  studying  in  that  sister 
republic  from  which  our  distinguished 
visitor,  Monsieur  Brieux,  comes  to  us 
to-day.  Happy  in  her  hospitality,  we 
were  glad  indeed  to  find  shelter  even 
under  the  very  edge  of  that  mantle  of 
art,  which,  descending  from  the  Greeks, 
has  rested  for  centuries  upon  the 
shoulders  of  France.  Already  Sargent 
wa5?  a  phenomenon  to  us  and  to  his 
Pre  nch  comrades.  Bom  in  Florence, 
fami  liar   even    as   a    child   with    what 


Italy  had  to  teach,  he  quickly  assimilated 
Gallic  traditions,  became  his  master's 
best  pupil,  and  soon  "bettered  his  in- 
structions." Sensational  his  work  was 
because  better  than  that  of  others;  but 
as  we  look  back,  we  realize  that  it  was 
never  eccentric.  As  long  as  those  about 
him  were  more  or  less  conventional,  he 
was  daring.  While  innovation  was  still 
tonic,  Sargent  was  an  innovator.  When 
in  later  years  innovation  lapsed  at  the 
hands  of  some  men  into  incoherency, 
Sargent  held  a  straight  course  and  re- 
mained coherent.  He  could  perform 
all  the  feats  of  the  most  ultra-realist 
of  the  plein-air  school,  as  in  his  Hermit, 
in  the  picture  at  the  Metropolitan  Mu- 
seum. Such  a  figure  is  like  a  gun  on 
a  disappearing  carriage ;  he  appears  and 
produces  his  effect  at  the  artist's  will, 
or  he  is  lost  in  the  woods  by  that  same 
will,  and  you  have  to  look  for  him  to 
find  him. 

Such  technical  cleverness  Sargent 
possesses  absolutely,  but  he  makes  it 
a  means,  never  an  end,  and  thereby 
as  an  influence  he  is  always  in  medio 
and  always  tutissimus. 

His  work  is  marked  by  sincerity, 
strength,  and  sanity.  To  prove  that 
he  is  a  true  academician,  respectful 
of  the  great  conventions  of  art,  let 
me  quote  to  you  a  line  from  a  letter 
which  I  received  from  him  years  ago. 
He  says,  "Composition  and  form  are 
the  rarest  things  nowadays,  and  seem 
to  me  the  only  things  worth  trying  for." 

Once,  not  having  seen  him  for  years, 
I  passed  an  hour  in  his  studio.  When 
we  left  it  the  lady  who  was  with 
me  said,  "Did  you  realize  that  Mr. 
Sargent  is  still  shy,  as  he  was  years 
ago?"  Translate  the  word  modest,  and 
you  have  the  man.  Since  we  had  seen 
him  he  had  painted  kings  and  heroes 


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46  PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 

and  sages,  meeting  them  on  his  own  not  only  to  a  great  artist,  but  to  a  great- 
ground,  and  still  he  remained  modest,  hearted  man? 

When  we  add  to  this  that  in  a  jealous  In  the  much-regretted  absence  of  Mr. 
world  no  one  has  heard  a  hard  word  Sargent  I  place  this  medal  for  him  in 
spoken  of  Sargent,  may  we  not  con-  the  hands  of  the  Secretary  of  the  In- 
clude that  we  are  awarding  our  medal  stitute. 


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RESPONSE  OF  PRESIDENT  WILSON  TO 
PRESIDENT  POINCARE* 


The  White  House. 
December  7,  1914. 

My  dear  Mr.  President: 

I  feel  honored  to  address  you  also  as 
my  colleague  in  letters  and  wish  to 
thank  you  most  sincerely  for  the  kind 
message  you  were  gracious  enough  to 
send  through  Monsieur  Brieux. 

I,  of  course,  fully  understand  the 
circumstances  which  have  made  it  im- 
possible for  you  to  visit  the  United 
States,  but  I  wish,  nevertheless,  to  ex- 
press my  sincere  regret  that  it  is  not 
possible  for  you  to  do  so,  and  I  desire 
to  take  advantage  of  this  occasion 
not  only  to  express  my  personal  re- 
spect and  admiration,  but  also  to  assure 
you  of  the  warm  feeling  of  men  of  let- 


ters and  of  thought  throughout  the 
United  States  for  the  distinguished 
President  of  France. 

The  relations  between  our  two  peo- 
ples have  always  been  relations  of  such 
genuine  and  cordial  friendship  that  it 
gives  me  peculiar  pleasure  as  the  offi- 
cial representative  of  the  people  of  the 
United  States  to  send  through  you,  the 
distinguished  spokesman  of  France,  my 
warmest  greetings  to  the  people  of  the 
great  French  Republic. 

Be  pleased  to  accept,  my  dear  Mr. 
President  and  my  admired  colleague, 
the  assurances  of  my  sincere  con- 
sideration. 

WooDRow  Wilson. 

Hon.  R.  Poincare, 
President  of  the  French  Republic. 


♦See  page  8  for  President  Poincare's  letter. 


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THE  INSTITUTE  MEDAL 


The  Gold  Medal  of  the  Institute  is 
annually  awarded  to  any  citizen  of 
the  United  States,  whether  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Institute  or  not,  for  dis- 
tinguished services  to  arts  or  letters 
in  the  creation  of  original  work. 

The  conditions  of  the  award  are 
these : 

(1)  "That  the  medal  shall  be  awarded  for 
the  entire  work  of  the  recipient,  without 
limit  of  time  during  which  it  shall  have 
been  done;  that  it  shall  be  awarded  to  a 
living  person  or  to  one  who  shall  not  have 
been  dead  more  than  one  year  at  the  time 
of  the  award ;  and  that  it  shall  not  be 
awarded  more  than  once  to  any  one  person. 

(2)  "That  it  shall  be  awarded  in  the 
following  order:  First  year,  for  Sculpture; 
second  year,  for  History  or  Biography; 
third  year,  for  Music;  fourth  year,  for 
Poetry;  fifth  year,  for  Architecture;  sixth 
year,  for  Drama;  seventh  year,  for  Paint- 
ing; eighth  year,  for  Fiction;  ninth  year, 
for  Essays  or  Belles-Lcttres — returning  to 
each  subject  every  tenth  year  in  the  order 
named. 

(3)  "That  it  shall  be  the  duty  of  the  Sec- 
retary each  year  to  poll  the  members  of  the 
section    of    the    Institute    dealing    with    the 


subject  in  which  the  medat  is  that  year  to  be 
awarded,  and  to  report  the  result  of  the 
poll  to  the  Institute  at  its  Annual  Meeting, 
at  which  meeting  the  medal  shall  be  awarded 
by  vote  of  the  Institute." 

The  medal  was  designed  by  Adolph 
A.  Weinman,  of  the  Institute,  in 
1909. 

The  first  award — for  sculpture — 
was  to  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens.  The 
medal  was  presented  to  Mrs.  Saint- 
Gaudens  at  the  meeting  held  in  mem- 
ory of  her  husband,  November  20,  1909. 

The  second  medal — for  history — 
was  awarded  to  James  Ford  Rhodes, 
1910. 

The  third  medal — for  poetr>' — was 
awarded  to  James  Whitcomb  Rilev, 
1911. 

The  fourth  medal — for  architecture 
— was  awarded  to  William  Rutherford 
Mead,  1912. 

The  fifth  medal — for  drama — was 
awarded  to  Augustus  Thomas,  1913. 


On  November  18,   1914,  the  Sixteenth  Annual  Meeting  and  Dinner  of  the 

National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters  was  held,  when  the 

Sixth  Gold  Medal  of  the  Institute  was  awarded, 

in  the  Department  of  Painting  to 

John  Singer  Sargent 


48 


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CONSTITUTION  OF  THE  NATIONAL  INSTITUTE 
OF  ARTS  AND  LETTERS 

(Founded,  1898,  by  the  American  Social  Sdence  Association) 


I.    ORIGIN  AND  NAME 

This  society,  organized  by  men  nominated 
and  elected  by  the  American  Social  Science 
Association  at  its  annual  meeting  in  1896, 
with  a  view  to  the  advancement  of  art, 
music  and  literature,  shall  be  known  as  the 
National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters. 

II.    MEMBERSHIP 

1.  Qualification  for  membership  shall  be 
notable  achievement  in  art,  music  or  litera- 
ture. 

2.  The  number  of  members  shall  be  limited 
to  two  hundred  and  fifty. 

III.    ELECTIONS 

The  name  of  a  candidate  shall  be  proposed 
to  the  Secretary  by  three  members  of  the 
section  in  which  the  nominee's  principal 
work  has  been  performed.  The  name  shall 
then  be  submitted  to  the  members  of  that 
section,  and  if  approved  by  a  majority  of 
the  answers  received  within  fifteen  days 
may  be  submitted  by  a  two-thirds  vote  of 
the  council  to  an  annual  meeting  of  the 
Institute  for  formal  election  by  a  majority 
vote  of  those  present.  The  voting  shall  be 
by  ballot. 

IV.    OFFICERS 

1.  The  officers  of  the  Institute  shall  consist 
of  a  President,  six  Vice-Presidents,  a  Sec- 
retary and  a  Treasurer,  and  they  shall  con- 
stitute the  council  of  the  Institute. 

2.  The  council  shall  always  include  at  least 
one  member  of  each  department. 

V.    ELECTION  OF  OFFICERS 

Officers  shall  be  elected  by  ballot  at  the 
annual  meeting,  but  the  council  may  fill  a 
vacancy  at  any  time  by  a  two-thirds  vote. 

VI.    MEETINGS 

1.  The  annual  meeting  of  the  Institute  shall 
be  held  on  the  first  Tuesday  in  September, 
unless  otherwise  ordered  by  the  council.* 

2.  Special  meetings  may  be  called  by  the 
President  on  recommendation  of  any  three 
members  of  the  council,  or  by  petition  of  at 
least  one-fourth  of  the  membership  of  the 
Institute. 

VII.    DUTIES   OF  OFFICERS 

1.  It  shall  be  the  duty  of  the  President  to 
preside  at  all  meetings  of  the  Institute  and 
of  the  council. 

2.  In  the  absence  of  the  President,  the 
senior  Vice-President  in  attendance  shall 
preside. 


3.  The  Secretary  shall  keep  a  minute  of  all 
meetings  of  the  Institute  and  of  the  council, 
and  shall  be  the  custodian  of  all  records. 

4.  The  Treasurer  shall  have  charge  of  all 
funds  of  the  Institute  and  shall  make  dis- 
bursements only  upon  order  of  the  council. 

VIII.    ANNUAL  DUES 

The  annual  dues  for  membership  shall  be 
five  dollars. 

IX.    INSIGNIA 

The  insignia  of  the  Institute  shall  be  a  bow 
of  purple  ribbon  bearing  two  bars  of  old 
gold. 

X.    EXPULSIONS 

Any  member  may  be  expelled  for  unbecom- 
ing conduct  by  a  two-thirds  vote  of  the 
council,  a  reasonable  opportunity  for  defense 
having  been  given. 

XI.    AMENDMENTS 

This  Constitution  may  be  amended  by  a 
two-thirds  vote  of  the  Institute  upon  the 
recommendation  of  the  council  or  upon  the 
request,  in  writing,  of  any  five  members. 
The  Secretary  shall  be  required  to  send  to 
each  member  a  copy  of  the  proposed  amend- 
ment at  least  thirty  days  before  the  meeting 
at  which  such  amendment  is  to  be  con- 
sidered. 

XII.  THE  ACADEMY  OF  ARTS  AND 
LETTERS 

In  order  to  make  the  Institute  more  efficient 
in  carrying  out  the  purposes  for  which  it 
was  organized, — the  protection  and  further- 
ance of  literature  and  the  arts, — and  to  give 
greater  definiteness  to  its  work,  a  section 
of  the  Institute  to  be  known  as  the  Acad- 
emy OF  Arts  and  Letters,  shall  be  organ- 
ized in  such  manner  as  the  Institute  may 
provide ;  the  members  of  the  Academy  to  be 
chosen  from  those  who  at  any  time  shall 
have  been  on  the  list  of  membership  of  the 
Institute. 

The  Academy  shall  at  first  consist  of  thirty 
members,  and  after  these  shall  have  organ- 
ized it  shall  elect  its  own  officers,  prescribe 
its  own  rules,  the  number  of  its  members, 
and  the  further  conditions  of  membership ; 
Provided  that  no  one  shall  be  a  member  of 
the  Academy  who  shall  not  first  have  been 
on  the  list  of  regular  members  of  the  In- 
stitute, and  that  in  thf  choice  of  members 
individual  distinction  and  character,  and  not 
the  group  to  which  they  belong,  shall  be 
taken  into  consideration:  and  Provided  that 
all  members  of  the  Academy  shall  be  native 
or  naturalized  citizens  of  the  United  States. 


♦For  convenience  the  annual  meeting  is  usually  called  for  November  or  p€;cember.  | 

49  Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


MEMBERS  AND  OFFICERS  OF  THE  INSTITUTE 


Department  of  Literature 

Adams,  Brooks 

Adams,  Henry 

Ade,  George 

Alden.  Henry  M. 

Aldrich,  Richard 

Allen,  James  Lane 

Baldwin,  Simeon  E. 

Bates,  Arlo 

Br'dges,  Robert 

Brownell,  W.  C. 

Burroughs,  John 

Burton,  Richard 

Butler,  Nicholas  Murray 

Cable,  George  W. 

Chadwick,  French  Ensor 

Chambers,  R.  W. 

Channing,  Edward 

Chatfield-Taylor,  H.  C 

Cheney,  John  Vance 

Churchill,  Winston 

Connolly,  James  B. 

Cortissoz,  Royal 

Croly,  Herbert 

Cross,  Wilbur  L. 

Crothers,  Samuel  McChord 

deKay,  Charles 

Dunne,  Finley  Peter 

Edwards,  H.  S. 

Egan,   Maurice  Francis 

Fernald.  C.  B. 

Finley,  John  H. 

Firkins,  O.  W. 

Ford,  Worthington  C. 

Fox,  John,  Jr. 

Furness,  Horace  Howard,  Jr. 

Garland,  Hamlin 

Gildersleeve,  Basil  L. 

Gillette,  William 

Gilman,  Lawrence 

Gordon,  George  A. 

Grant,  Robert 

Greenslet,  Ferris 

Griffis,  William  Elliot 

Gummere,  Francis  B. 

Hadley,  Arthur  Twining 

Hamilton,  Clayton 

Harben,  Will  N. 

Hardy,  Arthur  Sherburne 

Harper,  George  McLean 

Harrison,  Henry  Sydnor 

Henderson,  William  J. 

Herford,  Oliver 

Herrick,  Robert 

Hibben,  John  Grier 

Hitchcock,  Ripley 

Hooker,  Brian 

Howe,  M.  A.  De  Wolfe 

Howells,  William  Dean 

Huntington,  Archer  M. 

James,  Henry 

Johnson,  Owen 

Johnson,  Robert  Underwood 

Kennan.  George 

Lloyd,  Nelson 


Lodge,  Henry  Cabot 
Long,  John  Luther 
Lovett,  Robert  Morss 
Lowell,  A.  Lawrence 
Lummis,  Charles  F. 
Mabie,  Hamilton  Wright 
Mackaye,  Percy 
Markham,  Edwin 
Martin,  E.  S. 
Mather,  F.  J.,  Jr. 
Matthews,  Brander 
McMaster,  John  Bach 
Mitchell,  John  Ames 
Mitchell,  Lang  don  E. 
More,  Paul  Elmer 
Morris,  Harrison  S. 
Nicholson,  Meredith 
Page,  Thomas  Nelson 
Payne,  Will 
Payne,  W.  Morton 
Perry,  Bliss 
Phelps,  W.  Lyon 
Pier,  Arthur  Stanwood 
Rhodes.  James  Ford 
Riley,  James  Whitcomb 
Rives,  George  L. 
Roberts,  C  G.  D. 
Robinson,  Edward  A. 
Roosevelt,  Theodore 
Royce,  Josiah 
Schelling,  Felix  E. 
Schouler,  James 
Scollard,  Clinton 
Sedgwick,  Henry  D. 
Seton,  Ernest  Thompson 
Sherman,  Frank  Dempster 
Shorey,  Paul 

Sloane,   William   Milligan 
Sullivan,  T.  R. 
Tarkington,  Booth 
Thayer,  William  Roscoc 
Thomas,  Augustus 
Thomdike,  Ashley  H. 
Tooker,  L.  Frank 
Torrence,   Ridgley 
Townsend,  E.  W. 
Trent,  W.  P. 
van  Dyke,  Henry 
Van  Dyke,  John  C. 
White,  Andrew  Dickson 
White,  William  Allen 
Whiting,  C  G. 
Whitlock,  Brand 
William,  Francis  Howard 
Williams,  Jesse  Lynch 
Wilson,  Harry  Leon 
Wilson,  Woodrow 
Wister,  Owen 
Woodberry,  George  E. 

Department  of  Art 

Adams,  Herbert 
Bacon,  Henry 
Ballin,  Hugo 
Barnard,  George  Gray 


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MEMBERS  AND  OFFICERS  OF  THE  INSTITUTE 


5> 


Bartlett.  Paul  W. 

Beckwith,  J.  Carroll 

Benson,  F.  W. 

Betts,  Louis 

Blashfield.  Edwin  Rowland 

Brooks,  Richard  E. 

Brown,  Glenn 

Bnmner,  Arnold  W. 

Brush,  George  de  Forest 

Carl  sen,  Emil 

Chase,  William  M. 

Clarkson,  Ralph 

Cole,  Timothy 

Cook,  Walter 

Cox.  Kenyon 

Dannat,  W.  T. 

Day,  Frank  Miles 

De  Camp,  Joseph 

Dewey,  Charles  Melville 

Dielman,  Frederick 

Donaldson,  John  M. 

Dougherty,  Paul 

Duveneck,  Frank 

Foster,  Ben 

French,  Daniel  Chester 

Gay,  Walter 

Gibson,  Charles  Dana 

Gilbert,  Cass 

Grafly,  Charles 

Guerin,  Jules 

Hardenbergh,  Henry  J. 

Harrison,  Alexander 

Harrison,  Birge 

Hassam,  Childe 

Hastings,  Thomas 

Henri,  Robert 

Howard,  John  Galen 

Howe,  W.  H. 
Howells,  J.  M. 

Jaegers,  Albert 
Jones,  Francis  C. 
Jones,  H.  Bolton 

Kendall,  W.  Mitchell 

Kendall,  W.  Sergeant 

Low,  Will  H. 

MacMonnies,  Frederick 

MacNeil,  Hermon  A. 

Marr,  Carl 

McEwen,  Walter 

Mead,  William  Rutherford 

Melchers,  Gari 

Metcalf.  W.  L. 

Mowbray,  H.  Siddons 

Ochtman,  Leonard 

Peabody.  R.  S. 

Pennell,  Joseph 

Piatt,  Charles  A. 

Pond,  L  K. 

Potter,  Edward  C. 

Pratt,  Bela  L. 

Proctor.  A.  Phimister 

Redfield,  E.  W. 

Roth,  F.  G.  R. 

Ruckstuhl,  F.  W. 

Ryder,  Albert  P. 

Sargent,  John  S. 

Schofield,  W.  E. 

Shrady,  Henry  M. 

Smedley,  W.  T. 

Sjmions,  Gardner 

Taft,  Lorado 


Tarbell,  E.  C 
Thayer,  A.  H. 
Tryon,  D.  W. 
Vedder,  Elihu 
Walden,  Lionel 
Walker,  Henry  O. 
Walker,  Horatio 
Warren,  Whitney 
Weinman,  A.  A. 
Weir,  J.  Alden 
Wiles,  Irving  R. 

Department  of  Music 

Bird,  Arthur 
Brockway,  Howard 
Chadwicic,  G.  W. 
Converse,  F.  S. 
Damrosch,  Walter 
De  Koven,  Reginald 
Foote,  Arthur  * 

Gilchrist,  W.  W. 
Hadley,  H.  K. 
Herbert,  Victor 
Kelley,  Edgar  Stillman 
Loeffler,  Charles  M. 
Parker,  Horatio  W. 
Schelling,  Ernest 
Shelley,  Harry  Rowe 
Smith,  David  Stanley 
Stock,  Frederick  A. 
Van  der  Stucken,  F. 
Whiting,  Arthur 

DECEASED  MEMBERS 
Department  of  Literature 

Adams,  Charles  Francis 

Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey 

Bigelow,  John 

Cawein,  Madison  J. 

Clemens,  Samuel  L.  (Mark  Twain) 

Conway,  Moncure  D. 

Crawford,  Francis  Marion 

Daly,  Augustin 

Dodge,  Theodore  A. 

Eggleston.  Edward 

Fawcett.  Edgar 

Fiske,  Willard 

Ford,  Paul  Leicester 

Frederic,  Harold 

Furness,  Horace  Howard 

Gilder,  Richard  Watson 

Gilman,  Daniel  Coit 

Godkin,  E.  L. 

Godkin,  Parke 

Hale,  Edward  Everett 

Harland,  Henry 

Harris,  Joel  Chandler 

Harte,  Bret 

Hay,  John 

Heme,  James  A. 

Higginson,  Thomas  Wentworth 

Howard,  Bronson 

Howe,  Julia  Ward 

Hutton,  Laurence 

Jefferson,  Joseph 

Johnston,  Richard  Malcolm 

Lea,  Henry  Charles 

Lodge,  George  Cabot 

Lounsbury,  Thomas  R. 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


Mahan,  Alfred  T. 
McKelway,   St.  Clair 
Miller,  Joaquin 
Mitchell.  Donald  G. 
Moody,  William  Vaughn 
Muir,  John 
Munger,  Theodore  T. 
Nelson,  Henry  Loomis 
Norton,  Charles  Eliot 
Peck,  Harry  Thurston 
Perkins,  James  Breck 
Schurz,  Carl 
Schuyler,    Montgomery 
Scudder,  Horace 
Shaler,  N.  S. 
Smith,  F.  Hopkinson 
Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence 
Stillman,  William  J. 
Stockton,  Frank  R. 
Stoddard,  Charles  Warren 
Thompson,  Maurice 
Tyler,  Moses  Coit 
Viele,  Herman  K. 
Warner,  Charles  Dudley 

Department  of  Art 

Abbey,  Edwin  A. 
Alexander,  John  W. 
Babb,  George  F. 
Bierstadt,  Albert 
Bitter,  Karl 

Blum,  Robert  Frederick 
Burnham,  Daniel  Hudson 
Carrere,  John  M. 
Collins,  Alfred  Q. 
Homer,  Winslow 
I  sham,  Samuel 
La  Farge,  John 
Lathrop,  Francis 
Loeb,  Louis 
Millet,  Francis  D. 


McKim,  Charles  FoUen 
Pearce,  Charles  Spragfue 
Porter,  Benjamin  C. 
Post,  George  B. 
Pyle,*  Howard 
Remington,  Frederic 
Saint-Gaudens,  Augustus 
Shirlaw,  Walter 
Twachtman,  John  H. 
Vinton,  Frederick  P. 
Ward,  J.  Q.  A. 
White,  Stanford 
Wood,  Thomas  W. 

Department  of  Music 

Buck,  Dudley 
MacDowell,  Edward 
Nevin,  Ethelbert 
Paine,  John  K. 


OFFICERS 

President 
Edwin  H.  Blashfield 

Vice-Presidents 
Arthur  \\Tiiting 
Hamlin  Garland 
Walter  Cook 
Paul  Dougherty 
William  Lyon  Phelps 
Henry  D.  Sedgwick 

Secretary 
Ripley  Hitchcock 

34  Gramercy  Park,  New  York 

Treasurer 
Arnold  W.  Brunner 

101   Park  Avenue.   New  York 


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SKETCH  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  LIST  OF 
MEMBERS  AND  OFFICERS 


The  American  Academy  of  Arts 
and  Letters  was  founded  in  1904  as 
an  interior  organization  of  the  National 
Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters,  which  in 
turn  was  founded  in  1898  by  the  Ameri- 
can Social  Science  Association.  In 
each  case  the  elder  organization  left  the 
younger  to  choose  the  relations  that 
should  exist  between  them.  Article 
XII  of  the  Constitution  of  the  Institute 
provides  as  follows: 

In  order  to  make  the  Institute  more  effi- 
cient in  carrying  out  the  purposes  for  which 
it  was  organized, — the  protection  and  fur- 
therance of  literature  and  the  arts. — and  to 
give  greater  definiteness  to  its  work,  a  sec- 
tion of  the  Institute  to  be  known  as  the 
ACADEMY  OF  ARTS  AND  LETTERS 
shall  be  organized  in  such  manner  as  the 
Institute  may  provide ;  the  members  of  the 
Academy  to  be  chosen  from  those  who  at 
any  time  shall  have  been  on  the  list  of 
members  of  the  Institute. 

The  Academy  shall  at  first  consist  of 
thirty  members,  and  after  these  shall  have 
organized  it  shall  elect  its  own  officers,  pre- 
scribe its  own  rules,  the  number  of  its 
members,  and  the  further  conditions  of 
membership ;  provided  that  no  one  shall  be 
a  member  of  the  Academy  who  shall  not 
first  have  been  on  the  list  of  regular  mem- 
bers of  the  Institute,  and  that  in  the  choice 
of  members  individual  distinction  and  char- 
acter, and  not  the  group  to  which  they  be- 
long, shall  be  taken  into  consideration;  and 
proznded  that  all  members  of  the  Academy 
shall  be  native  or  naturalized  citizens  of  the 
United  States. 

The  manner  of  the  organization  of 
the  Academy  was  prescribed  by  the 
following  resolution  of  the  Institute 
adopted  April  23,  1904: 

Whereas,  the  amendment  to  the  Consti- 
tution known  as  Article  XII,  providing  for 
the  organization  of  the  Academy  of  Arts 
and  Letters,  has  been  ratified  by  a  vote  of 
the  Institute. 

Resolved:  That  the  following  method  be 
chosen  for  the  organizafon  of  the  Academy, 
to  wit.  that  seven  members  be  selected  by 
ballot  as  the  first  members  of  the  Academy, 
and  that  these  seven  be  requested  and  em- 
powered to  choose  eight  other  members, 
and  that  the  fifteen  thus  chosen  be  re- 
quested and  empowered  to  choose  five  other 


members,  and  that  the  twenty  members 
thus  chosen  shall  be  requested  and  empow- 
ered to  choose  ten  other  members, — the  en- 
tire thirty  to  constitute  the  Academy  in  con- 
formity with  Article  XII,  and  that  the  first 
seven  members  be  an  executive  committee 
for  the  purpose  of  insuring  the  completion 
of  the  number  of  thirty  members. 

Under  Article  XII  the  Academy  has 
efltected  a  separate  organization,  but  at 
the  same  time  it  has  kept  in  close  re- 
lationship with  the  Institute.  On  the 
seventh  of  March,  1908,  the  member- 
ship was  increased  from  thirty  to  fifty 
members,  and  on  the  seventh  of  Novem- 
ber, 1908,  the  following  Constitution 
was  adopted: 

CONSTITUTION    OF    THE    ACADEMY 

I.    ORIGIN  AND  NAME 

The  American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Let- 
ters is  an  association  primarily  organized 
by  the  National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Let- 
ters. Its  aim  is  to  represent  and  further 
the  mterests  of  the  Fine  Arts  and  Litera- 
ture. 

II       MEMBERSHIP    AND    ELECTIONS 

It  shall  consist  of  not  more  than  fifty 
members,  and  all  vacancies  shall  be  filled 
from  the  membership  of  the  National  In- 
stitute of  Arts  and  Letters.  No  one  shall 
be  elected  a  member  of  the  Academy  who 
shall  not  have  received  the  votes  of  a  ma- 
jority of  the  members.  The  votes  shall  be  , 
opened  and  counted  at  a  meeting  of  the 
Academy.  In  case  the  first  ballot  shall  not 
result  in  an  election  a  second  ballot  shall 
be  taken  to  determine  the  choice-  between 
the  two  candidates  receiving  the  highest 
number  of  votes  on  the  first  ballot.  Elec- 
tions shall  be  held  only  on  due  notice  under 
rules  to  be  established  by  the  Academy. 

III.    AIMS 

That  the  Academy  may  be  bound  together 
in  community  of  taste  and  interest,  its 
members  shall  meet  regularly  for  discus- 
sion, and  for  the  expression  of  artistic, 
literary  and  scholarly  opinion  on  such  topics 
as  are  brought  to  its  attention.  For  the 
purpose  of  promoting  the  highest  standards, 
the  Academy  may  also  award  such  prizes 
as  may  be  founded  by  itself  or  entrusted  to 
it  for  administration. 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


IV.    OFFICERS 

The  officers  shall  consist  of  a  President  and 
a  Chancellor,  both  elected  annually  from 
among  the  members  to  serve  for  one  year 
only;  a  Permanent  Secretary,  not  neces- 
sarily a  member,  who  shall  be  elected  by  the 
Academy  to  serve  for  an  indeterminate 
period,  subject  to  removal  by  a  majority 
vote;  and  a  Treasurer.  The  Treasurer  shall 
be  appointed  as  follows:  Three  members  of 
the  Academy  shall  be  elected  at  each  annual 
meeting  to  serve  as  a  Committee  on  Finance 
for  the  ensuing  year.  They  shall  appo»ni 
one  of  their  number  Treasurer  of  the  Acad- 
emy to  serve  for  one  year.  He  shall  receive 
and  protect  its  funds  and  make  disburse- 
ments for  its  expenses  as  directed  by  the 
Committee.  He  shall  also  make  such  in- 
vestments, upon  the  order  of  the  President, 
as  may  be  approved  by  both  the  Committee 
on  Finance  and  the  Executive  Committee. 

V.    DUTIES  OF  OFFICERS 

It  shall  be  the  duty  of  the  President,  and 
in  his  absence  of  the  Chancellor,  to  preside 
at  all  meetings  throughout  his  term  of  office, 
and  to  safeguard  in  general  all  the  interests 
of  the  Academy.  It  shall  be  the  duty  of 
the  Chancellor  to  select  and  prepare  the 
business  for  each  meeting  of  his  term.  It 
shall  be  the  duty  of  the  Secretary  to  keep 
the  records;  to  conduct  the  correspondence 
of  the  Academy  under  the  direction  of  the 
President  or  Chancellor;  to  issue  its  author- 
ized statements;  and  to  draw  up  as  required 
such  writing  as  pertain  to  the  ordinary  busi- 
ness of  the  Academy  and  its  committees. 
These  three  officers  shall  constitute  the 
Executive  Committee. 

VI.    AMENDMENTS 

Any  proposed  amendment  to  this  Constitu- 
tion must  be  sent  in  writing  to  the  Secre- 
tary signed  by  at  least  ten  members;  and  it 
shall  then  be  forwarded  by  the  Secretary  to 
every  member.  It  shall  not  be  considered 
until  three  months  after  it  has  been  thus 
submitted.  No  proposed  amendment  shall 
be  adopted  unless  it  receives  the  votes  in 
,  writing  of  two-thirds  of  the  members. 

MEMBERS  AND  OFFICERS 

Following  is  the  list  of  members  in 

the  order  of  their  election : 

*  William  Dean  Howells 

♦Augustus  Saint-Gaudens 

♦Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 

♦John  La  Farge 

♦Samuel  Langhorne  Clemens 

♦John  Hay 

♦Edward  MacDowell 

Henry  James 
♦Charles  Follen  McKim 

Henry  Adams 
♦Charles  Eliot  Norton 
♦John  Quincy  Adams  Ward 


♦Thomas  Rayncsford  Lounsbury 

Theodore  Roosevelt 
♦Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 
♦Joseph  JeflFcrson 
.  John  Singer  Sargent 
♦Richard  Watson  Gilder 
♦Horace  Howard  Fumess 
♦John  Bigelow 
♦Winslow  Homer 
♦Carl  Schurz 
♦Alfred  Thayer  Mahan 
♦Joel  Chandler  Harris 

Daniel  Chester  French 
'John  Burroughs 

James  Ford  Rhodes 
♦Edwin  Austin  Abbey 

Horatio  William  Parker 

William  Milligan  Sloane 
♦Edwin  Everett  Hale 

Robert   Underwood  Johnson 
^  George  Washington  Cable 
♦Daniel  Coit  Gilman 
♦Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson 
♦Donald  Grant  Mitchell 

.\ndrew  Dickson  White 

Henry  van  Dyke 

William  Crary  Brownell 

Basil  Lanneau  Gildersleeve 
♦Julia  Ward  Howe 

Woodrow  Wilson 

Arthur  Twining  Hadley 
'  Henry  Cabot  Lodge 
♦Francis  Hopkinson  Smith 
♦Francis  Marion  Crawford 
♦Henry  Charles  Lea 

Edwin  Howland  Blashfield 

William  Merritt  Chase 

Thomas  Hastings 

Hamilton  Wright  Mabie 
♦Bronson  Howard 

Brander  Matthews 

Thomas  Nelson  Page 

Elihu  Vedder 

George  Edward  Woodbcrry 
♦William  Vaughn  Moody 

Kenyon  Cox . 

George  Whitefield  Chadwick 

Abbott  Handerson  Thayer 
♦John  Muir 
♦Charles  Francis  Adams 

Henry  Mills  Alden 

George  deForest  Brush 

William  Rutherford  Mead 
♦John  White  Alexander 

Bliss  Perry 
♦Francis  Davis  Millet 

Abbott  Lawrence  Lowell 

James  Whitcomb  Riley 

Nicholas  Murray  Butler 

Paul   Wayland   Bartlctt 
♦George  Browne  Post 

Owen  Wister 

Herbert  Adams 

Augustus  Thomas 

Timothy  Cole 

Cass  Gilbert 

William  Roscoe  Thayer 


♦Deceased. 


OFFICERS  FOR  THE  YEAR  1914-15 
President:    Mr.  Howells  Chancellor  and  Treasurer 

Permanent  Secretary:    Mr.  Johnson 
Directors:    Messrs.  Blashfield,  Brownell.  Hastings,  Howells,  J< 

and   Si.OANE  Digitized  by 


Mr.  SLOAmc 


FORM   OF   BEQUEST 

I  hereby  give,  devise,  and  bequeath  to  the  American  Acad- 
emy OF  Arts  and  Letters,  a  corporation  organized  and  incor- 
porated under  the  laws  of  the  State  of  New  York,  the  sum  of 

dollars,  to  be  applied 

to  the  uses  of  said  corporation. 


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r^  3o/  IS 


PROCEEDINGS 


OF  THE 


AMERICAN  ACADEMY  OF  ARTS 
AND  LETTERS 


AND  OF  THE 


''■ATIONAL  INSTITUTE  OF  ARTS 
,ND  LETTERS 

■'1 6 

vember  18-19,  '9'^ 


.A 

Arnold  W,  Br\ 

-^UCATION 

Nicholas  Murray  * 

^AiCAN  Literature  i 

Brand  Whitlock  ....^ 

Dean  Howells  of  the  Gold  Medal 
.  Fiction 

Hamilton  Wright  Mahi^ 

« 

jwells  in  Acceptance  of  the  Medal | 

.  t 

Memorial  Tributes: 

s  ^DAMS  [  William  M,  Sloane 

Robert  Underwood  Johnson.,     5s 

'tSFORD  Lounsbury  Brandcr  Matthews 61 

^  Institute  and  the  Academy,  and  Other  Data 65 


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n 


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r^  3o,  IS 


PROCEEDINGS 


OF  THE 


AMERICAN  ACADEMY  OF  ARTS 
AND  LETTERS 


AND  OF  THE 


NATIONAL  INSTITUTE  OF  ARTS 
AND  LETTERS 

Number  IX:  1916 

Seventh  Annual  Joint  Meeting,  Boston,  November  18-19,  i9»5 


New  York 

Office  of  the  Academy,  70  Fifth  Avenue 


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1 


Copyright,   1916,  by 
The  American  Academy  op  Arts  and  Lbttbrs 


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CONTENTS 

PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  PUBLIC  MEETINGS   OF  THE  AMERICAN 

ACADEMY    OF   ARTS     AND    LETTERS    and    of     THE    NATIONAL 

INSTITUTE  OF  ARTS  AND  LETTERS 

Sessions  at  Jordan  Hall,  Boston,  November  18-19,  1915 
First  Session,  10.45  a.  m.,  November  18 

William  M.  Sloane 
Chancellor  of  the  Academy,  Presiding 

Address  by  the  Chancellor 

William  M,  Sloane 5 

The  IJevolt  of  Modern  Democracy  against  Standards  of  Duty 

Brooks  Adams  8 

The  Country  Newspaper 

William  Allen  White 13 

An  American  Mania  as  seen  by  a  Foreigner 

.    .  Paul  W.  Bartlett 19 


Poems:    I.    Remarks  about  Kings 
II.    Lights  Out 


Henry   Van  Dyke 26 


Second  Session,  3.15  p.  m.,  November  18 
CONCERT  OF  COMPOSITIONS  BY  MEMBERS  OF  THE  INSTITUTE 

(See  page  27) 

Third  Session,  10.45  a.  m.,  November  19 

Edwin  Howland  Blashfield 
President  of  the  Institute,  Presiding 

Remarks  by  the  President  of  the  Institute 

Edwin  Howland  Blashfield,,     28 

Poem  :    Federation 

Percy  MacKaye 28 

Architecture  and  the  Man 

Arnold  W.  Brunner 30 

DiSaPLINE  AND  THE  SOCIAL  AlM   IN   EDUCATION 

Nicholas  Murray  Butler 36 

The  American  Quality  in  American  Literature 

Brand  Whitlock  41 

Presentation  to  William  Dean  Howells  of  the  Gold  Medal 
OF  THE  Institute  for  Fiction 

Hamilton  Wright  Mabie 51 

Letter  from  Mr.  Howells  in  Acceptance  of  the  Medal 53 


Memorial  Tributes: 

Alfred  Thayer  Mahan     I                                 u/:ii:^^   i/    qi^„^^  ^a 

Charles  Francis  Adams  f                                 ^^^^^^'^  ^^-  '^'''^^^ ^^ 

John  Muir                                                          Robert  Underwood  Johnson,,  58 

Thomas  Raynesford  Lounsbury                      Brandcr  Matthews 62 

Medals  of  the  Institute  and  the  Academy,  and  Other  Data 65 


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PREFATORY  NOTE 

On  the  evening  of  November  17,  President  and 
Mrs.  A.  Lawrence  Lowell  gave  a  reception  to  the 
members  of  the  Institute  and  their  wives.  On  the 
eighteenth  Mr.  James  Ford  Rhodes  gave  a  luncheon 
to  the  members  of  the, Academy;  that  evening  the 
dinner  of  the  Institute  was  held  at  the  Harvard 
Club.  On  the  afternoon  of  the  nineteenth,  Mrs. 
John  L.  Gardner  threw  open  Fenway  Court  to  the 
members  of  the  Institute  and  their  wives.  Institu- 
tions that  offered  their  courtesies  were  the. Boston 
Museum  of  Fine  Arts,  the  Harvard  Club,  the  Union 
Club,  the  St.  Botolph  Club,  and  the  Tavern  Club. 

Through  the  courtesy  of  Mr.  George  W.  Chad- 
wick  the  sessions  were  held  in  Jordan  Hall. 


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PROCEEDINGS 

OF  THE 

American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters 

AND  OF  THE 

National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters 

Published  at  mteroals  by  the  Societies 

Copies  may  be  had  on  application  to  the  Permanent  Secretary  of  the  Academy,  Mr.  R.  U.  Johnson, 
Room  41 1 ,  70  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York  Price  per  Annum  $1.00 

Vol.  II  New  York,  November,  191 6  No.  3 

THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 

Public  Meetings  held  at  Jordan  Hall,  New  York 
November  18-19,  1915 

William  M.  Sloane,  Chancellor  of  the  Academy,  and 
Edwin  Howland  Blashfield,  President  of  the  Institute,  Presiding 


[Session  of  November  i8] 

ADDRESS  OF  WILLIAM  M.  SLOANE 

Chancellor  of  the  Academy 

Were  Mr.  Howdls  present  in  person,  its   development.      The   range   of   his 

as  he  is  in  spirit,  he  would  magnify  genius   has  been   such  that  he  is  an 

his  office  as  president  of  this  associa-  American  in  the  broadest  sense,  and  his 

tion.      Of  that  you  may  be  assured,  power  has  been  so  commanding  that 

because  in  our  annual  meetings  of  the  wherever  our  language  is  read  he  is 

past  he  has  repeatedly  lent  the  whole  esteemed  national  in  dimensions,  corre- 

force    of    his   personal    reputation   to  sponding  to  all  the  diversities  of  our 

maintain  and  explain  our  history  and  land  and  people ;  and  human  as  a  citizen 

purposes,  as  well  as  the  high  respon-  of  the  world,  possessor  of  what  is  the 

sibilities  which  have  been  placed  on  general  heritage  of  his  art  among  the 

the  Institute  and  Academy  of  Arts  and  choicest  of  mankind. 
Letters.    This  I  am  sure  he  would  have         In  this  he  is  the  manifest  standard 

been  proud  to  do  once  more  in  this  city  and  standard-bearer  for  this  body  of 

of  renown,  which  was  the  home  of  his  artists  and  men  of  letters,  which  was 

soul  during  one  of  the  finest  periods  of  styled  National  and  American  by  the 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


Social  Science  Association,  its  creator, 
a  noble  band  of  patriots,  whose  moving 
spirit  in  the  days  of  its  highest  efficiency 
was  Frank  B.  Sanborn,  a  respected  and 
devoted  New  Englander.  It  was  that 
organization  which  selected  the  original 
membership  of  the  Institute.  We 
derive,  therefore,  in  a  certain  sense 
from  the  Boston  and  Concord  spirit. 
The  list  embraced  men  from  every  part 
of  our  land;  as  it  has  been  enlarged, 
and  the  dead  have  been  replaced  by  the 
living,  that  fact  has  not  been  forgotten, 
and  what  is  now  a  tradition  has  the 
sanctity  of  customary  law.  Were  the 
birth^aces  affixed  to  the  names  of  our 
members,  it  might  appear  as  if  effort 
had  been  exerted  to  uphold  it ;  but  in 
fact  the  great  hearthstones  of  artistic 
and  literary  energy,  the  city  centers, 
glow  by  forces  which  collect  there  by 
the  law  of  gravitation  from  whereso- 
ever they  originate  in  town  or  country. 

Two  elements,  therefore,  enter  into 
our  fervid  life,  that  of  place  quality  and 
that  of  art  unity.  As  America  is  one 
and  indivisible,  r^ardless  of  miles  and 
hours,  an  incontestible  truth,  so  our 
central  purpose  is  to  unify  all  its  artistic 
energies.  There  is  no  similar  associa- 
tion elsewhere,  because  ho  other  com- 
pany seeks  or  has  sought  to  include  all 
the  fine  arts  in  its  purview.  Ours  is  the 
age  of  the  highest  specialization  known 
to  history.  To  this  we  owe  the  amazing 
achievements  in  the  applied  arts  and 
sciences  which  in  far  less  than  a  century 
have  revolutionized  the  conditions  and 
conduct  of  life  more  radically  than  dur- 
ing the  previous  millennium. 

But  movement  is  not  necessarily 
progress,  and  the  chapter  we  have 
written  in  the  history  of  morals  awaits 
the  judgment  of  time  and  the  critics. 
Specialization  in  the  fine  arts  has  not 
reached  an  equal  development,  but  it 
has  gone  far  on  the  same  road.  So,  too, 
has  education.  The  finest  spirits  in  both 
have  become  aware  of  the  inherent 
danger  of  too  wide  a  cleft  between  the 
segments.  Each  needs  the  organic  con- 
nection with  all  the  others;  secession 


means  the  stopps^e  of  spiritual  circula- 
tion, and,  if  not  death,  either  atrophy 
or  eccentricity.  To  illustrate  from  the 
field  of  my  own  activities,  the  new 
history,  so  called,  became  so  scientific 
as  to  be  arid.  Within  a  single  lustrum  I 
have  heard  the  meed  of  highest  merit 
assigned  by  experts  of  the  four  great 
Western  powers  to  Macaulay  because 
above  all  else,  while  neglecting  neither 
erudition  nor  research,  he  was  a  man 
of  letters.  The  great  musician  is  the 
man  of  broadest  culture,  while  an  artist 
and  sculptor  of  the  highest  rank  are  the 
profoundest  students  in  the  history  of 
their  arts. 

In  the  short  time  at  my  disposal  it 
would  not  be  possible  to  explain  the 
exquisite  transfusion  of  benefits  which 
the  meetings  of  Institute  and  Academy 
set  up  in  the  hearts  and  minds  of  those 
who  attend  them.  Once  every  year  in 
some  great  community  which  cultivates 
the  things  of  the  spirit  we  seek  for  an 
even  broader  sympathy.  Homogeneity 
is  stagnation.  Too  much  inertia,  too 
much  stability,  too  much  local  patriot- 
ism, too  much  homekeeping  either  in 
place  or  occupation,  create  but  a 
homely  wit.  We  need,  in  order  to  be 
truly  national  and  American,  to  breathe 
the  different  atmospheres,  be  it  the  cir- 
cumambient air  of  the  Federal  capital, 
or  of  the  metropolitan  cities  of  East  or 
West,  or  of  Boston,  still  as  ever  the 
mother  alike  of  movements  and  of 
leaders.  So  we  thank  you  for  the 
opportunity  which  your  hospitality  gives 
us.  What  you  give  we  accept  in  the 
spirit  of  a  like  generosity  and  open- 
mindedness.  To  make  clear,  entirely 
clear,  to  the  multitude,  what  are  our 
aims  requires  long  agitation ;  but  from 
each  of  those  who  honor  us  with  their 
presence  we  may  hope  for  help  and 
stimulus.  Primarily  we  exist  for  our- 
selves as  a  mutual-benefit  society;  we 
are  no  Olympian  court  to  sit  in  judg- 
ment, nor  actors  on  a  stage  theatrically 
attitudinizing  before  one  another  or  the 
public.  We  are  a  company  of  strenuous 
workers,  merchants  and  manufacturers 


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ADDRESS  OF  WILLIAM  M.  SLOANE 


of  wares  conceived  in  the  spirit  at  least 
of  beauty  and  fitness.  If  we  are  to  make 
a  mark  on  the  public  taste,  if  we  are  to 
promote  the  efficiency  of  the  fine  arts 
in  rendering  democracy  efficient  in  peace 
or  war,  it  will  be  by  the  democratic 
temper  and  the  individual  output  of 
each  of  us  as  a  public  servant. 

For  the  purposes  of  our  organic  life 
and  artistic  propaganda  we  must  h^ve 
a  home  and  endowments.  For  the 
former  we  have  the  conditional  gift  of 
a  dignified  site,  and  of  endowment  we 
have  a  handsome  banning,  sufficient 
to  insure  permanency  but  not  full 
efficiency.  But  we  have  yet  to  find  that 
moral  support  which  springs  from 
understanding   and    sympathy   by   the 


minds  which  rise  above  mediocrity,  men 
and  women  who,  passionately  loving 
their  country,  realize  that  what  art  and 
literature  create  for  it  must  be  the  best 
expression  of  its  genius.  Liberty  and 
democracy  do  not  mean  subordination, 
but  coordination.  Why  should  the 
workers  in  the  American  world  of 
literature  and  fine  arts  not  demand  in 
their  turn  a  full  share  of  the  great  bene- 
fits in  moral  and  material  support 
lavishly  bestowed  on  the  stupendous 
activities  of  men  in  other  fields,  no  more 
devoted,  no  more  able,  no  more  com- 
manding in  power  than  those  whose 
names  adorn  the  roll  of  the  National 
Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters? 


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THE  REVOLT  OF  MODERN    DEMOCRACY  AGAINST 
STANDARDS  OF  DUTY 

By  Brooks  Adams 


I  know  not  how  it  may  be  with  others, 
but  I  am  aware  of  a  growing  reluctance 
to  express  my  views  in  public,  which 
of  late  has  approached  absolute  re- 
pugnance. Perhaps  this  feeling  may  be 
due  to  the  sombreness  of  age,  but  I 
rather  incline  to  ascribe  it  to  an  appre- 
hension of  the  future  which  dawned  on 
me  long  ago,  but  which  of  late  has 
deepened  with  a  constantly  augmenting 
,  acceleration.  If  I  thought  that  anything 
/  that  I  could  do  would  effect  the  final 
/  issue,  I  might  be  more  inclined  to  effort ; 
I  but  I  perceive  myself  to  be  so  far 
\  sundered  from  most  of  my  countrymen 
that  I  shrink  exceedingly  from  thrust- 
ing on  them  opinions  which  will  give 
offense  or,  more  likely  still,  excite 
derision.  For  when  I  look  about  me 
I  see  the  American  people  as  a  whole 
quite  satisfied  that  they  have  solved  the 
riddle  of  the  universe,  and  firmly  con- 
vinced that  by  means  of  plenty  of 
money,  popular  education,  cheap  trans- 
portation, universal  suffrage,  unlimited 
amusements,  the  moral  uplift,  and  the 
"democratic  ideal,"  they  have  only  one 
more  step  to  take  to  land  them  in 
perfection. 

I  cannot  altogether  share  this  opti- 
mism, and  particularly  I  have  doubts 
touching  the  American  "democratic 
ideal."  It  is  of  these  doubts  that  I 
intend  to  speak  to-day,  as  I  consider 
this  apotheosis  of  the  "democratic  ideal" 
the  profoundest  and  most  far-reaching 
phenomenon  of  our  age.  Yet  I  so  much 
dislike  assuming  'the  critical  attitude 
that  I  should  hav^  declined  the  flatter- 
ing invitation  you  have  given  me  to 
address  you  had  I  deemed  it  quite 
becoming  for  a  member  of  an  associa- 
tion like  this  to  refuse  to  participate  in 
your  proceedings  when  requested  to  do 
so  by  your  officers.  I  have  only  this  one 
claim  to  urge  to  your  indulgence:  at 


least  I  have  not  sought  to  vex  you  by 
obtruding  my  speculations  on  you. 

I  start  with  this  proposition,  which  to 
me  is  self-evident,  and  which  I  there- 
fore assume  as  axiomatic:  that  no 
organized  social  system,  such  as  wc 
commonly  call  a  national  civilization, 
can  cohere  against  those  enemies  which 
must  certainly  beset  it,  if  it  fail  to  recog- 
nize as  its  primary  standard  of  duty  the 
obligation  of  the  individual  man  and 
woman  to  sacrifice  themselves  for  the 
whole  community  in  time  of  need.  And, 
furthermore,  that  this  standard  may  be 
effective  and  not  theoretical,  it  must  be 
granted  that  the  po>ver  Jo_4etermine 
when  the  moment  of  need  has  arisen  lies 
not  with  the  individual,  but  with  society 
in_jits— corporate  capacity.  This  last 
crucial  attribute  can  never  be  admitted 
to  inhere  in  private  judgment. 

I  shall  ask  you  to  consider  with  me 
first  the  nature  of  the  American  "demo- 
cratic ideal,"  and  subsequently  to  test 
it  by  this  standard.  For  my  part,  for 
the  last  twelve  months  this  subject  has 
been  constantly  in  my  thoughts,  fixed 
there  by  the  war  now  raging. 

Last  August  I  chanced  to  be  in  Paris 
when  hostilities  began,  and  I  came  home 
filled  with  the  solemn  impression  of  the 
French  sense  of  duty  made  on  me  by 
seeing  the  whole  manhood  of  France 
march  to  the  frontier  without  a  murmur 
and  without  a  quaver.  I  knew  that  the 
same  thing  was  going  on  in  Germany. 
I  thought  that  men  could  do  no  more. 
Now,  the  rights  and  wrongs  of  this  war 
are,  for  my  present  purpose,  im- 
material; all  that  concerns  me  is  the 
national  standard  it  illustrates  of  self- 
sacrifice  and  of  duty.  And  on  both  sides 
of  the  Rhine  I  found  that  standard 
good.  It  seemed  to  me  also  to  be  the 
true  standard  of  pure  democracy.  For 
what  can  be  more  democratic  than  that 


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REVOLT  OF  MODERN  DEMOCRACY  AGAINST  STANDARDS  OF  DUTY  9 


y 


prince  and  peasant,  plutocrat  and 
pauper,  shall  serve  their  country  to- 
gether side  by  side,  marching  in  the 
same  regiment,  wearing  the  same  uni-  . 
form,  submitting  to  the  same  discipline, 
enduring  the  same  hardships,  and  dying 
the  same  death  ?  In  mass  universal  ser-t  \ 
vice  is  absolute  equality.  Some  men,  it'  ^ 
is  true,  serve  as  officers,  but  these  men 
are  officers  only  because,  by  lives 
devoted  to  obedience,  to  self-denial, 
and  to  study,  they  have  made  them- 
selves fit  for  command,  and  when  the 
hour  of  danger  is  at  hand  this  fitness 
for  command  is  recognized  by  their 
countrymen  who  have  chosen  more 
lucrative  or  easier  walks  in  life. 

I  had  supposed  that  in  our  democracy 
these  great  facts  would  be  appreciated 
and  honored  by  all,  even  though  it  might 
possibly  be  argued  that  in  America  the 
necessity  for  such  self-abnegation  had 
not  yet  arisen.  I  never  fell  into  greater 
error.  Familiar  as  I  am  with  American 
idiosyncrasies,  I  was  astonished,  on 
landing  in  New  York,  to  find  the 
German  military  system  bitterly  assailed 
as  conflicting  with  the  American  "demo- 
cratic ideal,"  and  I  asked  myself  why 
this  should  be.  It  is  true  that  the 
German  system  of  universal  military 
service  had  been  the  first  to  be 
thoroughly  organized,  but  that  could  not 
impeach  its  principle  or  make  it  conflict 
with  a  sound  "democratic  ideal." 

I  beg  you  to  grant  me  an  instant  in 
which  to  explain  myself.  I  wish  to 
make  it  clear  that  I  have  never  admired 
Germany  as  a  whole,  although  I  have 
known  her  rather  intimately.  A  genera- 
tion ago,  when  it  was  the  fashion  here 
almost  to  worship  the  Germans,  even  to 
their  art,  their  literature,  their  language, 
and  their  mapners,  when  eminent  gentle- 
men who  have  no  good  word  for 
Germany  now  used  to  insist  to  me  at 
college  that  nothing  but  a  Germanized 
education  could  suffice  for  the  student, 
I  rebelled.  I  protested  that  Germany 
had  made  no  such  contribution  to  our 
civilization,  in  comparison,  for  instance, 
vith  France,  as  to  justify  in  us  any  such 


servile  attitude,  and  that  I  could  not 
admit  her  claims.  In  later  years  I  have 
distrusted  her  ambitions,  I  have  detested 
her  manners,  I  have  abhorred  her 
language  and  her  art,  I  have  feared  her 
competition,  and  I  have  been  jealous  of 
her  navy,  but  I  have  never  questioned  in 
my  heart  that  her  military  system  of 
universal  service  is  truly  democratic, 
and  I  have  wished  that  it  might  be 
adopted  here.  It  never  occurred  to  me 
that  it  could  be  denounced  as  undemo- 
cratic, or  reviled  as  a  tool  of  the  Junker 
class,  used  by  them  for  their  own 
aggrandizement  and  for  the  oppression 
of  the  German  people.  Such  an  accusa- 
tion would  have  seemed  to  me  too 
shallow  to  be  noticed.  I  could  not  com- 
prehend how  any  sober-minded  man 
who  knew  the  history  of  the  Seven 
Years  War  and  of  Jena  could  fail  to 
perceive  that  the  German  military 
system  was  an  effect  of  a  struggle  of  a 
people  for  existence,  and  that  the 
German  people  and  the  German  army 
are  one.  Their  vices  and  their  virtues 
are  the  same.  To  imagine  that  a  hand- 
ful of  Prussian  squires,  most  of  whom 
are  far  from  rich,  could  coerce  millions 
of  their  countrymen  from  all  ranks  in 
life,  who  equally  with  the  Junkers  are 
trained  and  armed  soldiers,  into  doing 
something  which  they  thought  harmful, 
and  waging  wars  which  they  hated  as 
ruinous  or  wrong,  was  and  is  to  me  a 
proposition  too  absurd  to  deserve 
serious  refutation.  What,  then,  I  asked 
myself,  could  be  the  secret  of  the 
hostility  of  Americans  to  German  uni- 
versal military  service,  a  hostility  which 
Americans  disguised  under  the  phrase 
of  faith  in  "democratic  ideals"?  And 
as  I  watched  this  phenomenon  and 
meditated  upon  what  I  saw  and  heard, 
the  suspicion  which  had  long  lain  half- 
consciously  in  my  mind  ripened  into 
the  conviction  that  the  real  tyranny- 
against  which  my  countrymen  revolted  I 
was  the  tyranny  of  universal  self-sicri-  '^\ 
fice,  and  that  they  hated  German  uni- 
versal military  service  because  it  rigor- 
ously demanded  a  sacrifice  from  every 


/ 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


man  from  which  they  personally 
shrank;  for,  enforced  in  America,  as 
it  might  be  were  Germany  to  prevail  in 
this  war,  they  would  perhaps  be  con- 
strained to  give  one  year  of  their  lives 
to  their  country. 

If    this    inference    were    sound,    it 

occurred  to  me  that  not  improbably  our 

^'democratic  ideal"  consisted  in  the  prin- 

.     ciple  that  men  or  women  should  not  be 

f     obliged  to  conform  to  any  standard  of 

duty  against  their  will,  or,  in  short,  in 

\the  principle  of  universal   selfishness. 

Then    I    turned    to    our    women    for 

enlightenment,   as   the    female    sex   is 

supposed  to  set  ours  an  example  in  un- 

seUishness.  To  instruct  myself  I  read 

the    modern    feminist    literature    and 

followed  a  little  the  feminist  debate, 

and  very  shortly  I  found  my  question 

answered. 

Since  civilization  first  dawned  oa 
earth  the  family  has  been  the  social 
unit  on  which  jdl  authority,  all  order, 
and  all  obedience  has  reposed.  There- 
fore the  family  has  been  the  cement  of 
society,  and  the  chief  element  in  co- 
^hesion.  To  preserve  the  family,  and 
I  thus  to  make  society  stable,  the  woman 
has  always  sacrificed  herself  for  it,  as 
the  man  has  sacrificed  himself  for  her 
upon  the  field  of  battle.  The  obliga- 
tions and  the  sacrifices  have  been 
correlative.  But  I  beheld  our  modern 
women  shrilly  repudiating  such  a 
standard  of  duty  and  such  a  theory  of 
self-sacrifice.  On  the  contrary,  they 
denied  that  as  individual  units  they 
owed  society  any  duty  as  mothers  or  as 
wives,  and  maintained  that  their  first 
duty  was  to  themselves.  If  they  found 
the  bonds  of  the  family  irksome,  they 
might  renounce  them  and  wander 
whither  they  would  through  the  world 
in  order  to  obtain  a  fuller  life  for  them- 
selves. This  phase  of  individualism 
would  appear  to  be  an  ultimate  form  of 
selfishness,  and  the  final  resolution  of 
society  into  atoms,  but  none  the  less  it 
would  also  appear  to  be  the  feminine 
interpretation  of  the  American  "demo- 
cratic ideal." 


Proceeding  a  little  further,  I  come  to 
the  capitalistic  class — a  class  which  I 
take  to  be  a  far  more  powerful  class 
with  us  than  are  the  Prussian  Junkers 
in  Germany.  Nothing,  therefore,  can 
be  more  important  to  our  present  pur- 
pose than  to  appreciate  the  standard 
recognized  by  them.  I  shall  take  but 
one  test  of  many  I  applied,  because  time 
is  pressing. 

The  railways  are  to  a  modem 
country  what  the  arteries  are  to  the 
human  body.  The  national  life-blood 
flows  through  them.  They  are  a  prime 
factor  in  our  prosperity  and  content- 
ment in  time  of  peace,  and  our  first 
means  of  defense  in  time  of  war. 
Though  they  are  vital  to  our  corporate 
life,  our  Government  confides  their 
administration  to  capitalists  as  trustees, 
who  are  supposed  to  collect  for  their 
work  as  trustees  a  reasonable  compen- 
sation, which  they  levy  on  the  public  by 
a  tax  on  transportation  which  we  call 
rates.  Very  clearly  no  injustice  could 
be  more  flagrant  and  no  injury  deeper 
than  that  such  taxes  should  be  unequal 
or  excessive.  I  ask  in  what  spirit  this 
most  sacred  of  trusts  has  been  per- 
formed? The  l^islation  that  cumbers 
our  statute-books,  the  cases  that 
cram  our  law  reports,  and  the  wrecks 
upon  the  stock-market  tell  the  tale 
better  than  could  any  words  of  mine. 
It  is  hardly  a  tale  of  self-abn^ation  to 
meet  a  standard  of  public  duty,  though 
it  may  well  be  an  exemplification  of  the 
American  ''democratic  ideal." 

Next  in  order  would  naturally  come 
labor.  The  spectacle  in  democratic 
England  of  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
coal  miners  utilizing  the  extremity  of 
their  country's  agony  as  a  means  of  ex- 
torting from  society  a  selfish  pecuniary 
advantage  for  themselves  brings  before 
us  vividly  enough  the  workman's  under^ 
standing  of  the  "democratic  ideal." 

Supposing,  for  our  own  edification, 
we  contemplate  ourselves,  we  who  are 
artists  and  literary  men,  and  ask  our- 
selves what  our  interpretation  is  of  our 
"democratic  ideal."    At  this  suggestior 


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REVOLT  OF  MODERN  DEMOCRACY  AGAINST  STANDARDS  OF  DUTY  ii 


there  rises  before  my  mind  a  vision  of 
long  ago.  I  was  one  evening  conversing 
in  a  dub  with  a  well-known  painter 
about  some  decorations  which  were 
attracting  attention  and  were  very 
costly,  but  which  offended  my  taste  as 
being  frankly  plutocratic.  I  observed 
that  though  they  brought  high  prices, 
I  questioned  whether  they  conformed 
to  any  true  canon  of  art.  Like  a  flash 
he  turned  on  me  and  said : 

"And  who  are  you  to  talk  of  artistic 
standards?  In  our  world  there  is  but 
one  standard,  and  that  the  standard  of 
price.  That  which  sells  is  good  art,  that 
which  does  not  sell  is  bad  art.  There 
can  be  no  appeal  from  price." 

I  made  no  answer,  for  I  saw  that  he 
was  right.  Art  is  a  form  of  expression, 
and  art  can,  therefore,  express  only  the 
society  which  environs  it,  and  our 
standard  is  money,  or,  in  other  words, 
\the  means  of  self-indulgence.  I  had 
been  tmconsciously  thinking  of  the  civi- 
lization which  produced  the  old  tower 
of  Chartres  and  the  Virgin's  Portal  at 
Paris,  when  monks,  safe  in  their  con- 
vents, could  concentrate  their  souls  on 
expressing  the  aspirations  and  the  self- 
devotion  of  their  age.  I  wonder 
whether  we  as  literary  men  have  in 
mind,  when  we  do  our  work,  an  ideal 
which  is  our  standard,  as  religion  was 
their  standard  or  as  the  verdict  at 
Olympia  was  the  standard  of  the 
Greeks;  or  do  we  worry  little  over  the 
form  or  the  substance  of  our  labor,  and 
think  mostly  of  the  artifices  which  may 
attract  the  public,  and  charm  the  pub- 
lisher by  stimulating  sales.  If  we  do 
the  latter,  we  exemplify  the  American 
"democratic  ideal,"  which  denies  any 
standard  save  the  standard  of  self- 
interest  which  is  incarnated  in  price. 

I  had  reached  this  point  in  my  re- 
flections when  it  occurred  to  me  to  test 
my  inferences  by  applying  them  to  our 
collective  public  thought.  After  some 
hesitation  I  have  concluded  that,  as  a 
unified  organism,  we  Americans  are 
nearly  incapable  of  continuous  collective 
thought  except  at  long  intervals  under 


the  severest  tension.  For  instance,  dur- 
ing the  Civil  War  one-half  of  our 
country  sustained  what  might  be  called 
a  train  of  partly  digested  collective 
thought  through  some  four  years,  but 
on  the  return  to  the  Union  of  the 
Southern  States  our  thought  became 
more  disorderly  than  ever.  Ordinarily  > 
we  cannot  think  except  individually  or 
locally.  Hence  the  particular  interest » 
must,  as  a  rule,  dominate  the  collective  \ 
interest,  so  that  scientific  legislation  is  1 
impossible,  and  no  fixed  policy  can  be 
long  maintained.  Thus  we  can  formu- 
late no  scientific  tariff,  since  our  tariffs 
are  made  by  combinations  of  private 
and  local  interests,  with  little  or  no 
relation  to  collective  advantage.  We 
can  organize  no  effective  army,  because 
the  money  aridlhe  effort  needed  to  con- 
struct an  effective  army  must  be 
frittered  away  to  gratify  localities;  nor 
can  we  have  a  well-adjusted  navy, 
because  we  can  persist  in  no  plan 
developed  by  a  central  intelligence.  We 
call  our  appropriation  bill  for  public 
works  our  pork-barrel,  probably  with 
only  too  good  reason.  But  the  point  to 
be  marked  is  that  in  our  national  legis- 
lature the  instinct  of  unity,  continuity, 
and  order  seldom  prevails  over  in- 
dividualism or  disorder,  with  the  result 
that  our  collective  administration  otf 
public  affairs  may  not  unreasonably  be 
termed  chaotic. 

Descending  from  the  Union  to  the 
State,  the  same  rule  holds.  This  year 
a  constitution  was  submitted  to  the 
voters  of  New  York,  the  object  of 
which  was  to  check  in  some  small 
measure  the  chaos  of  individualism  in 
state  affairs.  It  was  defeated  by  an 
enormous  majority  because  the  "demo- 
cratic ideal"  does  not  tolerate  the  notion 
of  unity  or  order  at  the  cost  of  private 
self-interest. 

But  after  all  the  most  perfect  ex- 
emplification of  the  American  "demo- 
cratic ideal,"  or  the  principle  of  selfish- 
ness in  public  affairs,  occurs  in  our 
cities.  In  America  there  is  one  city 
administered  on  the  principle  of  unity 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


and  self-restraint.  It  is  Washington, 
but  I  suppose  that  no  other  municipality 
in  the  land  would  endure  such  a  yoke, 
and  the  reason  is  plain.  In  Washington 
private  interests  are  subordinated  to 
public  interests,  but  our  "democratic 
ideal"  contemplates  a  municipal  system 
which  yields  an  opposite  result.  Self- 
interest  requires  that  our  municipalities 
should  be  so  organized  that  every  rich 
man  may  buy  such  franchises  as  he 
needs  to  enrich  himself,  while  every 
poor  man  may  obtain  his  job  at  the  pub- 
lic cost.  This  is  the  complete  subordina- 
tion of  the  principle  of  unity  to  that  of 
diversity,  of  order  to  chaos,  of  the  com- 
munity to  the  individual,  of  self-sacri- 
fice to  selfishness.  It  is  in  fine  the  pure 
American  ''democratic  ideal." 

I  submit  most  humbly  that  untold 
ages  of  human  experience  have  proved 
to  us  that  nature  is  inexorable  and 
demands  of  us  self-sacrifice  if  we  would 
have  our  civilization,  our  country,  our 
families,  our  art,  or  our  literature 
survive.  Unselfishness  is  what  the 
words  patriotism  and  maternal  love 
mean.  Those  words  mean  that  we  can- 
not survive  and  live  for  ourselves  alone. 
We  cannot  be  individualistic,  or  selfish 
to  an  extreme,  we  cannot  hope  for 
salvation  through  our  "democratic 
ideal."  For,  if  we  accept  that,  we 
accept  the  conclusion  that  our  country 
can  never  exert  her  strength  in  the  hour 
of  peril,  because  we  leave  to  private 
judgment  the  sacrifice  which  every  citi- 


zen shall  make  her.  We  renounce  a 
standard  of  duty.  But  surely  sooner  or 
later  that  mortal  peril  must  arise  which 
none  can  hope  to  escape,  either  from 
within  or  from  without,  and  when  wc 
least  expect  it.  "But  of  that  day  and 
hour  knoweth  no  man,  for  ye  know 
not  what  hour  your  Lord  may  come." 

If  it  be  true,  as  I  do  apprehend,  that 
our  "democratic  ideal"  is  only  a  phrase 
to  express  our  renunciation  as  a  nation 
of  all  standards  of  duty,  and  the  sub- 
stitution therefor  of  a  reference  to 
private  judgment;  if  we  men  are  to 
leave  to  ourselves  as  individual  units  the 
decision  as  to  how  and  when  our 
country  may  exact  from  us  our  lives; 
if  each  woman  may  dissolve  the  family 
bond  at  pleasure;  if,  in  fine,  we  are  to 
have  no  standard  of  duty,  of  obedience, 
or,  in  substance,  of  right  and  wrong 
save  selfish  caprice ;  if  we  are  to  resolve 
our  society  from  a  firmly  cohesive  mass, 
unified  by  a  common  standard  of  duty 
and  self-sacrifice,  into  a  swarm  of  atoms 
selfishly  fighting  one  another  for  money, 
as  beggars  scramble  for  coin,  then  I 
much  fear  that  the  hour  cannot  be  far 
distant  when  some  superior,  because 
more  cohesive  and  intelligent,  organism, 
such  as  nature  has  decreed  shall  always 
lie  in  wait  for  its  victim,  shall  spring 
upon  us  and  rend  us  as  the  strong  have 
always  rent  those  wretched,  because 
feeble,  creatures  who  are  cursed  with 
an  aborted  development. 


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THE  COUNTRY  NEWSPAPER 

By  William  Allen  White 


The  country  town  is  one  of  those 
things  we  have  worked  out  for  our- 
selves here  in  America.  Our  cities  are 
not  unlike  other  cities  in  the  world ;  the 
trolley  and  the  omnibus  and  the  sub- 
way, the  tender,  hot-house  millionaire 
and  the  hardy,  perennial  crook,  are 
found  in  all  cities.  Qass  lines  extend 
from  city  to  city  well  around  the  globe. 
And  American  aversion  to  caste  dis- 
appears when  the  American  finds  him- 
self cooped  in  a  city  with  a  million  of 
his  fellows.  But  in  the  country  town — 
the  political  unit  larger  than  the  village 
and  smaller  than  the  city,  the  town  with 
a  population  between  three  thousand 
and  one  hundred  thousand — we  have 
built  up  something  distinctively  Ameri- 
can. Physically,  it  is  of  its  own  kind; 
the  people  for  the  most  part  live  in 
detached  wooden  houses,  on  lots  with 
fifty  feet  of  street  frontage  and  from 
one  hundred  to  one  hundred  and  fifty 
feet  in  depth.  Grass  is  the  common 
heritage  of  all  the  children — grass  and 
flowers.  A  kitchen-garden  smiles  in  the 
back  yard,  and  the  service  of  public 
utilities  is  so  cheap  that  in  most  country 
towns  in  America  electricity  for  light- 
ing and  household  power,  water  for  the 
kitchen  sink  and  the  bath-room,  gas  for 
cooking,  and  the  telephone  with  un- 
limited use  may  be  found  in  every 
house.  In  the  town  where  these  lines 
are  written  there  are  more  telephones 
than  there  are  houses,  and  as  many 
water  intakes  as  there  are  families,  and 
more  electric  lights  than  there  are  men, 
women  and  children.  Civilization  brings 
its  labor-saving  devices  to  all  the  people 
of  an  American  country  town.  The  un- 
civilized area  is  negligible,  if  one 
measures  civilization  by  the  use  of  the 
conveniences  and  luxuries  that  civiliza- 
tion has  brought. 

In  the  home  the  difference  between 
the  rich  and  the  poor  in  these  towns  is 


denoted  largely  by  the  multiplication  of 
rooms ;  there  is  no  very  great  difference 
in  the  kinds  of  rooms  in  the  houses  of 
those  who  have  much  and  those  who 
have  little.  And,  indeed,  the  economic 
differences  are  of  no  consequence.  The 
average  American  thinks  he  is  saving 
for  his  children  and  for  nothing  else. 
But  if  the  child  of  the  rich  man  and  the 
child  of  the  poor  man  meet  in  a  common 
school,  graduate  from  a  common  high 
school,  and  meet  in  the  country  college 
or  in  the  state  university, — ^and  they  do 
associate  thus  in  the  days  of  their  youth, 
— there  is  no  reason  why  parents  should 
strain  themselves  for  the  children;  and 
they  do  not  strain  themselves.  They 
relax  in  their  automobiles,  go  to  the 
movies,  inhabit  the  summer  boarding- 
house  in  the  mountains  or  by  the  sea, 
and  hoot  at  the  vulgarity  and  stupidity 
of  those  strangers  who  appear  to  be  rich 
and  to  be  grunting  and  sweating  and 
saving  and  intriguing  for  more  money, 
but  who  really  are  only  well-to-do 
middle-class  people. 

In  the  American  country  town  the 
race  for  great  wealth  has  slackened. 
The  traveler  who  sees  our  half- 
dozen  great  cities,  who  goes  into  our 
industrial  centers,  loafs  about  our 
pleasure  resorts,  sees  much  that  is  sig- 
nificantly American.  But  he  misses 
much  also  if  he  fails  to  realize  that  there 
are  in  America  tens  of  thousands  of 
miles  of  asphalted  streets  arched  by 
elms,  bordered  by  green  lawns,  fringed 
with  flowers  marking  the  procession  of 
the  seasons,  and  that  back  from  these 
streets  stand  millions  of  houses  owned 
by  their  tenants — houses  of  from  five  to 
ten  rooms,  that  cost  from  twenty-five 
hundred  to  twenty-five  thousand  dollars, 
and  that  in  these  houses  live  a  people 
neither  rural  nor  urban,  a  people  who 
have  rural  traditions  and  urban  aspira- 
tions, and  who  are  getting  a  rather  large 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


return  from  civilization  for  the  dollars 
they  spend.  Besides  the  civilization  that 
comes  to  these  people  in  pipes  and  on 
wires,  they  are  buying  civilization  in 
the  phonograph,  the  moving-picture,  the 
automobile,  and  the  fifty-cent  reprint 
of  last  year's  fiction  success.  The 
Woman's  City  Federation  of  Clubs  is 
bringing  what  civic  beauty  it  can  lug 
home  from  Europe  and  the  Eastern 
cities;  the  opportune  death  of  the 
prominent  citizen  is  opening  play- 
grounds and  hospitals  and  parks;  and 
the  country  college,  which  has  multi- 
plied as  the  sands  of  the  sea,  supple- 
ments the  state  schools  of  higher  learn- 
ing in  the  work  of  bringing  to  youth 
opportunities  for  more  than  the  com- 
mon-school education. 

Now,  into  this  peculiar  civilization 
comes  that  curious  institution,  the 
country  newspaper.  The  country  news- 
paper is  the  incarnation  of  the  town 
spirit.  The  newspaper  is  more  than  the 
voice  of  the  country-town  spirit;  the 
newspaper  is  in  a  measure  the  will  of 
the  town,  and  the  town's  character  is 
displayed  with  sad  realism  in  the  town's 
newspapers.  A  newspaper  is  as  honest 
as  its  town,  is  as  intelligent  as  its  town, 
as  kind  as  its  own,  as  brave  as  its  town. 
And  those  curious  phases  of  abnormal 
psychology  often  found  in  men  and 
women,  wherein  a  dual  or  multiple  per- 
sonality speaks,  are  found  often  in  com- 
munities where  many  newspapers  babble 
the  many  voices  arising  from  the  dis- 
organized spirits  of  the  place.  For  ten 
years  and  more  the  tendency  in  the 
American  country  town  has  been  toward 
fewer  newspapers.  That  tendency  seems 
to  show  that  the  spirit  of  these  com- 
munities is  unifying.  The  disassociated 
personalities  of  the  community  —  the 
wrangling  bankers,  the  competing  public 
utilities,  the  wets  and  the  drys,  the 
Guelfs  and  the  Ghibellines  in  a  score  of 
guises  that  make  for  discord  in  towns — 
are  slowly  knitting  into  the  spirit  of  the 
place.  So  one  newspaper  in  the  smaller 
communities — in  communities  under  fif- 
teen thousand,  let  us  say — is  becoming 


the  town  genus.  And  in  most  of  the 
larger  towns — so  long  as  they  are  towns 
and  not  cities — one  newspaper  is  rising 
dominant  and  authoritative  because  it 
interprets  and  directs  the  community. 
The  others  are  merely  expressions  of 
vagrant  moods;  they  are  unhushed 
voices  that  are  still  uncorrected,  still 
unbridled  in  the  community's  heart. 

It  is  therefore  the  country  newspaper, 
the  one  that  speaks  for  the  town,  that 
guides  and  cherishes  the  town,  that  era- 
bodies  the  distinctive  spirit  of  the  town, 
wherein  one  town  differeth  from 
another  in  glory — it  is  that  country 
newspaper,  which  takes  its  color  from 
a  town  and  gives  color  back,  that 
will  engage  our  attention  at  present 
That  newspaper  will  be  our  vision. 

Of  old,  in  this  country,  the  newspaper 
was  a  sort  of  poor  relative  in  the  com- 
merce of  a  place.  The  newspaper  re- 
quired support,  and  the  support  was 
given  somewhat  in  charity,  more  or  less 
in  return  for  polite  blackmail,  and  the 
rest  for  business  reasons.  The  editor 
was  a  tolerated  person.  He  had  to  be 
put  on  the  chairmanship  of  some  im- 
portant committee  in  every  community 
enterprise  to  secure  his  help.  In  times 
of  social  or  political  emergency  he  sold 
stock  in  his  newspaper  company  to 
statesmen.  That  was  in  those  primeval 
days  before  corporations  were  con- 
trolled; so  the  editor's  trusty  job-press 
never  let  the  supply  of  stock  fall  behind 
the  demand.  Those  good  old  days  were 
the  days  when  the  editor  with  the 
"trenchant  pen"  stalked  to  g^ory 
through  libel-suits  and  shooting  scrapes, 
and  when  most  American  towns  were 
beset  by  a  newspaper  row  as  by  a  fiend- 
ish mania. 

But  those  fine  old  homicidal  days  of 
the  newspaper  business  are  past,  or  arc 
relegated  to  the  less-civilized  parts  of 
the  land.  The  colonel  and  the  major 
have  gone  gallantly  to  dreams  of  glory, 
perhaps  carrying  more  buckshot  with 
them  to  glory  than  was  needed  for  bal- 
last on  their  journey;  but  still  they  arc 
gone,  and  their  race  has  died  with  them. 


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THE  COUNTRY  NEWSPAPER 


'5 


The  newspaper-man  of  to-day  is  of 
another  breed.  How  the  colonel  or  the 
major  would  snort  in  derision  at  the 
youth  who  pervades  the  country  news- 
paper office  to-day !  For  this  young  man 
is  first  of  all  a  manufacturer!  The 
shirt-tail  full  of  type  and  the  cheese- 
press,  which  in  times  past  were  held  as 
emblems  of  the  loathed  contemporary's 
plant,  have  now  grown  even  in  country 
villages  to  little  factories.  The  smallest 
offices  now  have  their  typesetting  ma- 
chines. The  lean,  sad-visaged  country 
printer,  who  had  tried  and  burned  his 
wings  in  the  editorial  flight,  is  no  more. 
Instead  we  have  a  keen-eyed,  dressy 
young  man  who  makes  eyes  at  the  girls 
in  the  front  office  and  can  talk  shows 
with  the  drummer  at  the  best  hotel  or 
books  with  the  high-school  teacher  in 
the  boarding-house.  This  young  gentle- 
man operates  the  typesetting  machine. 
Generally  he  is  exotic,  frequently  he  is 
a  traveler  from  far  countries;  but  he 
rides  in  the  Pullman,  and  the  clay  of 
no  highway  ever  stains  his  dainty  feet. 
In  the  country  town,  in  the  factory  that 
makes  even  the  humblest  of  our  country 
dailies,  the  little  six-  and  eight-page 
affairs,  all  unknown,  unhonored,  and 
unsung,  three  or  four  and  sometimes 
half  "a  dozen  of  the  smart,  well-fed, 
nattily  dressed  machine-operators  are 
hired,  and  the  foreman — the  dear  old 
pipe-smoking,  unshaven  foreman  who 
prided  himself  in  a  long  line  of  appren- 
tice printers,  the  foreman  who  edited 
copy,  who  wrote  the  telegraph  heads, 
and  ruled  the  reporters  in  the  front 
office  with  an  iron  rod  of  terror,  the 
foreman  who  had  the  power  of  life  and 
death  over  every  one  around  the  build- 
ing but  the  advertising  man,  the  fore- 
man who  spent  his  princely  salary  of 
fifteen  dollars  a  week  buying  meals  for 
old  friends  drifting  through  with  the 
lazy  tide  of  traffic  between  the  great 
cities,  the  foreman  who  could  boast  that 
he  once  held  cases  on  the  "Sun"  and 
knew  old  Dana — that  foreman  is  gone ; 
in  his  place  we  know  the  superin- 
tendent.  And,  alas!  the  superintendent 


is  not  interested  in  preserving  the 
romance  of  a  day  that  is  past.  He  is  not 
bothered  by  the  touch  of  a  vanished 
hand.  When  the  vanished  hand  tries  to 
touch  the  superintendent  of  the  country 
newspaper  office  to-day  a  ticket  to  the 
Associated  Charities'  wood-yard  is  his 
dull  response.  The  superintendent  is 
interested  largely  in  efficiency.  The  day 
of  romance  is  past  in  the  back  room 
of  the  country  newspaper. 

But  in  the  front  room,  in  the  editorial 
offices,  in  the  business  office  even,  there 
abides  the  spirit  of  high  adventure  that 
is  incarnate  in  these  marvelous  modem 
times.  Never  before  were  there  such 
grand  doings  in  the  world  as  we  are 
seeing  to-day.  Screen  the  great  war 
from  us,  and  still  we  have  a  world  full 
of  romance,  full  of  poetry,  full  of  an 
unfolding  progress  that  is  like  the 
gorgeous  story  of  some  enchanter's 
spell.  Where  in  all  the  tales  of  those 
"Arabian  Nights'  Entertainments"  is 
an3rthing  so  wonderful  as  wireless 
telegraphy,  so  weird  and  uncanny  as 
talking  over  the  seas  without  wires? 
What  is  Cinderella  and  her  romance 
compared  with  the  Cinderella  story  to- 
day— the  story  that  tells  us  how  the 
world  is  turning  into  her  prince, 
shortening  her  hours  of  work,  guar- 
anteeing her  a  living  wage,  keeping  her 
little  brothers  and  sisters  away  from  the 
factory  and  in  school,  and  pensioning 
her  widowed  mother  that  she  may  care 
for  her  little  flock!  How  tame  is  the 
old  Cinderella  story  beside  this!  And 
Sindbad  is  losing  his  load,  too ;  slowly, 
as  the  years  form  into  decades,  Sindbad 
is  sloughing  off  the  old  man  of  the  sea. 
The  twelve-hour  day  is  almost  gone, 
and  the  eight-hour  day  is  coming 
quickly;  the  diseases  and  accidents  of 
labor  are  falling  from  his  shoulders, 
being  assumed  by  his  employer;  his 
bank-savings  are  guaranteed  by  his 
government;  his  food  is  no  longer 
poisoned ;  his  tenement  is  ceasing  to  be 
a  pit  of  infection ;  his  shop  is  no  longer 
a  place  of  torture.  And  every  day  the 
newspaper  brings  some  fresh  and  in- 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


spiring  chapter  of  these  great  stories  to 
their  readers.  Stories  of  progress  are 
the  magnificent  tales  of  sorcery  and 
wizardry  that  come  gleaming  in  celestial 
light  across  the  pages  of  our  news- 
papers every  day.  And  in  our  country 
papers  we  rejoice  in  them,  because  we 
know  the  heroes.  We  know  Cinderella; 
she  works  in  our  button  factory.  We 
knew  her  father,  who  lived  on  Upper 
Mud  Creek,  and  was  a  soldier  in  the 
big  war  of  the  sixties.  We  know 
Sindbad;  he  is  our  neighbor  and  friend. 
He  is  not  a  mere  number  and  a  wheel- 
tender  to  us.  We  played  with  him  as 
boys ;  we  went  to  school  with  him  in  the 
lower  grades  before  he  had  to  leave, 
when  his  father  died,  to  support  the 
family.  We  see  Cinderella  and  Sindbad 
every  day,  and  when  we  read  of  their 
good  fortunes  we  feel  kindly  toward  the 
paper  that  tells  us  of  these  fine  things. 
We  open  the  country  paper  and  say, 
"How  beautiful  upon  the  mountains 
are  the  feet  of  him  that  bringeth  good 
tidings!"  And  so  we  read  it,  every 
line.  It  is  the  daily  chronicle  of  the 
doings  of  our  friends. 

Of  course  our  country  papers  are  pro- 
vincial. We  know  that  as  well  as  any 
one.  But,  then,  so  far  as  that  goes,  we 
know  that  all  papers  are  provincial. 
How  we  laugh  at  the  provincialisms  of 
the  New  York  and  Boston  and  Chicago 
papers  when  we  visit  those  cities !  For 
the  high  gods  of  civilization,  being 
jealous  of  the  press,  have  put  upon  all 
newspapers  this  spell,  that  every  one 
must  be  limited  ip  interest  to  its  own 
town  and  territory.  There  can  be  no 
national  daily  newspaper,  for  before  it 
reaches  the  nation  its  news  is  old  and 
dull  and  as  clammy  as  a  cold  pancake. 
News  does  not  keep.  Twelve  hours 
from  the  press  it  is  stale,  flat,  and 
highly  unprofitable.  However  the  trains 
may  speed,  however  the  organization  of 
the  subscription  department  and  the 
press-room  may  perfect  itself,  the  news 
spoils  before  the  ink  dries,  and  there 
never  may  be  in  our  land  a  cosmopoli- 
tan press.     So  the  cities'  papers  find 


that  they  must  fill  with  city  news  those . 
spaces,  that  in  a  nation-wide  paper 
should  be  filled  with  the  news  from  the 
far  corners  of  our  land.  Thus  in  every 
country  paper  we  have  the  local  gossip 
of  its  little  world.  And  our  country 
papers  are  duplicated  on  a  rather 
grander  scale  in  the  cities.  What  we 
do  in  six  or  eight  or  ten  or  twelve  pages 
in  the  country  the  city  papers  do  in 
twenty  or  forty  pages.  What  they  do 
with  certain  prominent  citizens  in  the 
social  and  criminal  and  financial  world 
we  do  also  with  our  prominent  citizens 
in  their  little  worlds. 

And  in  the  matter  of  mere  circula- 
tion, our  American  country  newspapers 
are  a  feeble  folk,  yet  they  do  as  a  matter 
of  fact  build  their  homes  upon  the  rock. 
The  circulation  of  daily  newspapers  in 
our  cities — towns  of  over  four  hundred 
thousand — aggregates  something  over 
eleven  millions.  The  other  daily  news- 
papers in  the  country  circulate  more 
than  twelve  millions,  and  the  weeklies 
circulate  twenty  millions  more,  and 
most  of  these  weeklies  are  printed  in 
our  small  country  towns.  We  have, 
therefore,  a  newspaper  circulation  of 
nearly  thirty-four  millions  outside  of 
our  great  cities,  and  only  eleven  millions 
in  the  great  cities.  At  least  so  says  our 
latest  census  bulletin.  And  the  money 
we  country  editors  have  invested  is  pro- 
portionately larger  than  that  our  city 
brethren  have  invested. 

But  the  beauty  and  the  joy  of  our 
papers  and  their  little  worlds  is  that  wc 
who  live  in  the  country  towns  know  our 
own  heroes.  Who  knows  Murphy  in 
Nlew  York?  Only  a  few.  Yet  in 
Emporia  we  all  know  Tom  O'Connor — 
and  love  him.  Who  knows  Mk>rgan  in 
New  York?  One  man  in  a  hundred 
thousand.  Yet  in  Emporia  who  does 
not  know  George  Newman,  our  banker 
and  merchant  prince?  Boston  people 
pick  up  their  morning  papers  and  read 
with  shuddering  horror  of  the  crimes 
of  their  daily  villain,  yet  read  without 
that  fine  thrill  that  we  have  when  we 
hear  that  Al  Ludorph  is  in  jail  again  in 


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THE  COUNTRY  NEWSPAPER 


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Emporia.  For  we  all  know  M ;  we  've 
ridden  in  his  hack  a  score  of  times. 
And  we  take  up  our  paper  with  the 
story  of  his  frailties  as  readers  who 
begin  the  narrative  of  an  old  friend's 
adventures. 

The  society  columns  of  our  city  pa- 
pers set  down  the  goings  and  comings, 
the  marriages  and  the  deaths  of  the 
people  who  are  known  only  by  name; 
there  are  gowns  realized  only  in 
dreams;  there  are  social  ftmctions  that 
seem  staged  upon  distant  stars.  Yet 
you  city  people  read  of  these  things 
with  avidity.  But  our  social  activities, 
chronicled  in  our  coimtry  papers,  tell 
of  real  people,  whose  hired  girls  are 
sisters  to  our  hired  girls,  and  so  we 
know  the  secrets  of  their  hearts.'  We 
know  a  gown  when  it  appears  three 
seasons  in  our  society  columns,  dis- 
guised by  its  trimming  and  its  covering, 
and  it  becomes  a  familiar  friend.  To 
read  of  it  recalls  other  and  happier 
days.  And  when  we  read  of  a  funeral 
in  our  country  newspapers,  we  do  not 
visualize  it  as  a  mere  church  fight  to 
see  the  grand  persons  in  their  solemn 
array  on  dress-parade.  A  funeral  no- 
tice to  us  country  readers  means  some- 
thing human  and  sad.  Between  the 
formal  lines  that  tell  of  the  mournful 
affair  we  read  many  a  tragedy;  we 
know  the  heartache ;  we  realize  the  des- 
titution that  must  come  when  the  flow- 
ers are  taken  to  the  hospital ;  we  know 
what  insurance  the  dead  man  carried, 
and  how  it  must  be  stretched  to  meet 
the  needs.  We  can  see  the  quiet  lines 
on  each  side  of  the  walk  leading  from 
the  house  of  sorrow  after  the  services, 
the  men  on  one  side,  the  women  on  the 
other,  waiting  to  see  the  mourning  fam- 
ilies and  to  be  seen  by  them;  we  may 
smile  through  our  tears  at  the  uncon- 
genial pall-bearers,  and  wonder  what 
common  ground  of  mirth  they  will  find 
to  till  on  the  way  back  from  the  ceme- 
tery. In  lists  of  wedding-guests  in  our 
papers  we  know  just  what  poor  kin  was 
remembered  and  what  was  snubbed. 
We  know  when  we  read  of  a  bank- 


ruptcy just  which  member  of  the  firm 
or  family  brought  it  on  by  extravagance 
or  sloth.  We  read  that  the  wife  of  the 
hardware  merchant  is  in  Kansas  City, 
and  we  know  the  feelings  of  the  dry- 
goods  merchant  who  reads  it  and  sees 
his  own  silks  ignored.  So  when  we  see 
a  new  kind  of  lawn-mower  on  the  dry- 
goods  merchant's  lawn,  we  don't  blame 
him  much  for  sending  to  the  city  for  it. 

Our  papers,  our  little  country  papers, 
seem  drab  and  miserably  provincial  to 
strangers;  yet  we  who  read  them  read 
in  their  lines  the  sweet,  intimate  story 
of  life.  And  all  these  touches  of  nature 
make  us  wondrous  kind.  It  is  the  coun- 
try newspaper,  bringing  together  daily 
the  threads  of  the  town's  life,  weaving 
them  into  something  rich  and  strange, 
and  setting  the  pattern  as  it  weaves, 
directing  the  loom,  and  giving  the  cloth 
its  color  by  mixing  the  lives  of  all  the 
people  in  its  color-pot — it  is  this  country 
newspaper  that  reveals  us  to  ourselves, 
that  keeps  our  country  hearts  quick  and 
our  country  minds  open  and  our  country 
faith  strong. 

When  the  girl  at  the  glove-counter 
marries  the  boy  in  the  wholesale  house, 
the  news  of  their  wedding  is  good  for  a 
forty-line  wedding  notice,  and  the  forty 
lines  in  the  country  paper  give  them 
self-respect.  When  in  due  course  we 
know  that  their  baby  is  a  twelve  pound- 
er named  Grover  or  Theodore  or  Wood- 
row,  we  have  that  neighborly  feeling 
that  breeds  the  real  democracy.  When 
we  read  of  death  in  that  home  we  can 
mourn  with  them  that  mourn.  When 
we  see  them  moving  upward  in  the 
world  into  a  firm  and  out  toward  the 
country-club  neighborhood,  we  rejoice 
with  them  that  rejoice.  Therefore,  men 
and  brethren,  when  you  are  riding 
through  this  vale  of  tears  upon  the  Cali- 
fornia Limited,  and  by  chance  pick  up 
the  little  country  newspaper  with  its 
meager  telegraph  service  of  three  or 
four  thousand  words,  or,  at  best,  fifteen 
or  twenty  thousand;  when  you  see  its 
array  of  ^countryside  items ;  its  inter- 
minable local  stories;  its  tiresome  edi- 


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i8  PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 

torials  on  the  waterworks,  the  schools,  clay  from  your  eyes  and  read  the  little 

the  street  railroad,  the  crops,  and  the  paper  as  it  is  written,  you  would  find 

city  printing,  don't  throw  down  the  con-  all  of  God's  beautiful,  sorrowing,  strug- 

temptible  little  rag  with  the  verdict  that  gling,  aspiring  world  in  it,  and  what  you 

there  is  nothing  in  it.    But  know  this,  saw  would  make  you  touch  the  little 

and  know  it  well :  if  you  could  take  the  paper  with  reverent  hands. 


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AN  AMERICAN  MANIA  AS  SEEN  BY  A  FOREIGNER 

By  Paul  W.  Bartlett 


One  morning,  a  few  weeks  ago,  on 
leaving  Boston  for  New  York,  I  met  on 
the  train  the  royal  commissioner  of 
fine  arts  from  a  foreign  country  to  the 
Panama-Pacific  Exposition.  I  had 
made  his  acquaintance  at  the  fair;  we 
had  served  together  on  the  international 
jniy  of  awards,  and,  despite  that,  we 
had  become  good  friends. 

He  greeted  me  heartily. 

"Here  I  am  at  last,"  he  exclaimed. 
"I  have  nearly  finished  my  grand  tour 
of  America,  and  I  am  delighted.  I  have 
been  everywhere,  seen  everything. 
Your  great  cities,  some  of  them  barely 
names  before,  have  materialized  for  me. 
Your  country  is  grandiose.  What  a 
great  field  for  art — architecture,  for 
painting,  for  sculpture!  It  was  a  rev- 
elation to  me.  What  an  inspiration  you 
Americans  ought  to  have!"  He  hesi- 
tated a  moment,  then  softly  said,  "But 
I  have  discovered  that  you  already  have 
a  mania." 

"A  mania!"    I  exclaimed. 

"Yes,"  he  said  sadly.  "I  cannot  call 
it  art,  and  I  would  not  call  it  sculpture : 
Americans  have  a  mania  for  portrait 
statues." 

"Oh,  I  understand,"  I  answered; 
"you  have  seen  some  of  the  cousins  of 
your  masterpieces  of  the  Campo  Santo 
of  Genoa,  not  to  speak  of  similar  work 
in  France  and  England." 

"Yes,"  he  admitted,  "and  I  am  pro- 
foundly ashamed  of  the  relationship.  I 
deplore  this  modem  form  of  production 
on  principle ;  but,  grotesque  as  they  are, 
hopeless  as  the  modern  costume  cer- 
tainly is  for  a  sculptor,  our  statues,  even 
at  Genoa,  show  at  least  an  attempt 
toward  feeling  and  sen^^iment.  While 
yours,  apart  from  a  few  fine  examples, 
show  nothing,  stiff  photographic,  epi- 
leptic mannikins  that  they  are,  many 
not  even  fit  for  a  dry-goods  store. 

"They  are  to  be  found  everywhere 


in  the  United  States  and  Canada,  in- 
doors and  out.  They  are  placed  in  your 
buildings  without  any  more  regard  for 
architectural  style  and  rhythm  than  if 
style  and  rhythm  did  not  exist.  These 
statues  must  perforce,  Americans  think, 
harmonize  with  all  styles. 

"To  be  sure,  I  did  find  in  the  West 
some  towns  that  were  still  in  the  'peb- 
ble-stone' or  cast-iron  fountain'  period ; 
but  despite  that,  the  statue  was  always 
omnipresent.'  If  it  had  not  come,  it 
was  on  the  way. 

"Sometimes  they  had  only  one,  some- 
times two,  three,  or  more.  In  St.  Paul, 
for  instance,  I  discovered  a  nest  of 
them;  four  all  huddled  together  in  the 
capitol,  and  an  extra  one  that  had 
spilled  over  on  the  steps.  The  people 
there  did  not  seem  to  be  discouraged, 
as  they  had  prepared  pedestals  for 
more. 

"I  was  shown  these  things  with  pride, 
and  while  I  felt  very  much  confused 
at  being  obliged  to  comment  upon  them 
and  dissemble  my  feelings,  the  inno- 
cence of  my  hosts  was  so  obviously  sin- 
cere that  I  could  not  feel  angry,  hurt, 
or  insulted. 

"One  of  these  gentlemen  said,  'I  am 
very  proud  of  this  statue,  because  I 
helped  to  pay  for  it.'  Another  one  re- 
marked, 'You  know,  I  have  been  very 
much  interested  in  this  kind  of  work 
since  I  have  been  connected  with  our 
new  cemetery.'  A  third  one  explained : 
The  sculptor  of  this  statue  wanted  to 
make  it  standing,  because  the  subject 
was  short  and  had  a  large  head;  but 
we  could  not  understand  it  that  way. 
We  wanted  him  sitting.  That  is  the 
way  our  Tom  used  to  do  his  thinking.'  " 

The  commissioner  looked  at  me  for 
a  moment  and  then  asked: 

"Bartlett,  is  all  this  pure  stupidity  or 
is  it  a  mild  form  of  mental  aberration  ?" 

"My  dear  friend,"  I  replied,  feeling 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


a  little  shocked,  **you  must  not  take  it 
so  seriously.  I  should  prefer  to  have 
you  think  that  it  is  simple  ignorance. 
For  a  large  percentage  of  our  people 
sculpture  is  nothing  more  than  a  statue 
— the  statue  of  some  one  they  wish  to 
honor.  Decorative  forms,  poetical  sym- 
bolism expressed  in  sculptural  language, 
do  not  appeal  to  them  yet,  although  this 
may  come.  They  are  not  thinking  of 
beauty.  Memory  is  their  sole  object. 
The  formula  of  their  expression  of 
memory  is  unfortunate,  no  doubt,  and 
all  these  statues  might  be  properly 
termed  pivic  memorial  tombs.  In  most 
cases  a  simple  bust  would  be  sufficient, 
and  fulfil  their  ultimate  purpose,  which 
is,  although  not  always  realized  by  them, 
the  exaltation  of  the  mentality  of  the 
deceased. 

"It  would  indeed  be  extraordinary  if 
these  works  were  not  epileptic,  stiff, 
and  photographic,  as  they  are  all  exe- 
cuted from  photographs,  and  instan- 
taneous photography  is  very  much  in 
vogue  at  the  present  time.  These  stat- 
ues stand  and  please  not  for  what  they 
are,  but  for  what  they  mean. 

"Very  well,*'  the  commissioner  re- 
plied, "I  will  grant  your  plea  of  ignor- 
ance for  some  of  your  younger  cities; 
but  you  cannot  make  the  same  excuse 
for  the  East — for  Philadelphia,  New 
York,  or  Boston." 

"Certainly  not,"  I  admitted ;  "and  for 
Boston  least  of  all." 

He  was  thoughtful,  and  after  a  long 
silence  he  resumed  in  a  philosophical 
strain : 

"We  all  make  mistakes.  There  seem 
to  be  long  periods  of  mistakes,  and  we, 
wonder  why.  The  advent  of  genius  is 
mysterious  and  cannot  be  foreseen ;  but 
taste  and  knowledge,  based  upon  sound 
tradition,  may  be  developed. 

"I  cannot  maintain  that  our  taste  in 
Europe  is  as  good  as  it  used  to  be,  but 
the  old  roots  are  still  there.  I  cannot 
deny  that  at  present  we  have  more  skill 
than  genius,  but  in  our  countries  art 
attained  the  great  heights.  Our  past 
looms  up  with  the  majesty  of  ages,  in 


forms  of  magnificence  and  dignity.  Our 
knighthood  is  not  at  stake,  despite  our 
errors  and  vagaries. 

"The  beauty  of  our  inheritance  is  a 
guaranty  for  the  possibilities  of  our  fu- 
ture. Why  cannot  America  profit  by 
our  experience?  You  are  spending 
more  money  than  we  are,  and  imitating 
too  often  our  failures.  How  can  the 
gentlemen  of  your  committees,  in  face 
of  such  lamentable  results,  imagine,  as 
I  understand  they  do,  that  they  have 
any  special  artistic  insight?  They  arc 
reckless  because  they  do  not  feel  that 
they  have  anything  to  lose,  while  in 
reality  they  are  losing  sight  of  the  main 
chance — the  chance  of  building  up  not 
only  great  cities,  but  also  handsome 
ones. 

I  remained  silent,  and  he  calmly  went 
on: 

"I  was  thinking  of  all  these  questions 
the  other  day  on  my  way  from  Quebec 
to  Boston,  and  I  also  thought  with  dis- 
tinct relief  and  pleasure:  *Now,  I  am 
approaching  Boston,  the  great,  the  old, 
the  respectable  classic  city  of  New  Eng- 
land. Everything  there  will  be  differ- 
ent. There  I  will  find  harmony.'  In 
fact,  you  told  me  so  yourself,"  He 
stopped,  looked  at  me  severely  for  a 
moment,  and  burst  out,  "How  could  you 
have  dared  to  deceive  a  friend,  a 
stranger  ?" 

"Deceive  you,"  I  retorted.  "But,  I 
assure  you — " 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  with  somewhat 
of  a  sneer,  "you  assured  me  before — 
you  told  me  that  Boston  was  the  one 
city  in  the  United  States  where  art  was 
studied,  beloved,  and  respected.  Now 
all  that  may  be  true,  but  it  must  be  an 
inner  grace,  and  I  am  accustomed  to 
more  palpable  exterior  evidence." 

"Well,"  I  argued  quietly,  "did  you 
not  feel  there  a  certain  peaceful  and 
tranquil  spirit,  a  certain  quiet  and  en- 
thusiastic energy,  different  in  quality 
from  anything  else  in  this  country?  Did 
you  not  feel  there  a  certain  grandeur 
and  strength,  a  certain  poise  and  dis- 
tinction, a  certain  mellowness  and  am- 


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AN  AMERICAN  MANIA  AS  SEEN  BY  A  FOREIGNER 


21 


bience,  akin  and  equal  to  that  of  your 
own  old  cities?  Yes?  Well,  then,  I 
did  not  deceive  you,  after  all." 

He  apologized.  He  had  spoken  has- 
tily. 

"I  was  thinking/*  he  said,  **more  es- 
pecially of  your  national  brand  of  stat- 
ues, which  I  was  surprised  to  find  there. 
They  appear  all  the  more  trivial  in 
such  a  noble  setting.  They  ought  to 
know  in  Boston  that  the  durability  of 
sculpture,  one  of  its  grand  virtues  when 
it  is  good,  becomes  a  terrible  calamity 
when  it  is  ugly,  and  that  it  requires 
nothing  less  than  an  earthquake  or  a 
foreign  invasion  to  destroy  or  remove  a 
statue  which  has  been  firmly  riveted  on 
its  pedestal  by  a  ceremony  and  a  few 
sentimental  speeches." 

"Mr.  Commissioner,"  I  said,  "permit 
me  to  differ  with  you  again.  The  city 
of  Boston  removed  a  few  years  ago,  of 
its  own  free  will,  a  statue  from  the 
Public  Garden.  The  statue  was  in  gran- 
ite, represented  a  soldier,  and  was  orna- 
mented with  a  tin  sword.  It  was  re- 
placed by  a  very  fine  statue  in  bronze." 

He  recovered,  and  this  was  his  re- 
tort: 

"A  time  will  come  when  it  will  be 
necessary  to  use  that  same  free  will 
all  over  the  United  States.  In  the 
meanwhile,"  he  added,  shrugging  his 
shoulders,  '*you  are  all  alike,  and  you 
remind  me  of  that  old  trouble  between 
Gerome  and  Besnard — Gerome,  the 
celebrated,  the  respected,  the  classic 
professor  at  the  Ecole  des  Beaux  Arts ; 
Besnard,  the  brilliant,  the  erratic,  the 
esthetic  genius  of  the  day. 

"Besnard  had  recently  returned  from 
Rome,  and  was  much  talked  of  in  art 
circles.  At  that  time  an  art  critic  called 
on  Gerome  to  talk  over  the  future  of 
French  art.  The  name  of  Besnard  was 
mentioned. 

"  'Oh,  yes,'  said  Gerome,  'Besnard. 
Poor  Besnard,'  he  does  not  even  know 
how  to  draw !' 

"The  interview  was  published,  and 
the  next  morning  the  critic  promptly 
called  on  Besnard. 


"  *Oh,  yes,'  said  Besnard,  'you  come 
about  Gerome.  Poor  Gerome !  he  does 
not  even  know  what  drawing  means!' 

"And  there  you  are,"  the  commissi- 
oner cried.  "You  do  not  know  what 
sculpture  means,  and  much  less  how  to 
use  it.  And,  besides,"  he  concluded 
aggressively,  "you  have  another  mania." 

I  was  })eginning  by  this  time  to  feel 
angry,  and  I  thought  to  myself,  "I 
really  can't  stand  this  much  longer." 
But  I  had  to  be  polite,  so  I  blandly 
said: 

"I  am  not  surprised  that  you  have 
found  something  else." 

"You  must  not  be  surprised,"  he  re- 
peated. "A  detailed  report  is  expected 
from  me  by  my  Government.  I  have 
investigated  these  matters  more  thor- 
oughly than  you  may  think,  and  I  have 
noticed  that  the  persistent  effort  in 
America  to  marry  art  and  business  is 
taking  the  form  of  a  mania — a  mania 
which  to  me  is  not  devoid  of  'une  pointe 
de  jalousie^  towards  the  artist." 

I  made  a  movement,      y 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  understand;  but 
with  us  it  is  different.  We  have  art 
in  our  business,  and  appreciate  the  as- 
set. But  Americans  insist  on  business 
in  their  art.  There  is  a  nuance,  as 
Verlaine  would  have  said. 

"  'He  has  no  head  for  business'  is  a 
common  American  complaint  against 
the  artist.  Now  tell  me  seriously.  Why 
should  an  artist  pay  any  particular  at- 
tention to  business  ?  Is  the  mental  atti- 
tude of  the  artist  toward  his  work  akin 
in  any  way  to  ordinary  business  ?  Has 
the  state  of  mind,  emotional  and  recep- 
tive, which  is  necessary  to  the  artist 
to  feel  and  interpret  with  any  nobility 
the  beauty  of  nature  anything  to  do 
with  business?  Do  the  months  and 
years  of  patient  toil  which  are  necessary 
to  the  sculptor  in  his  search  for  the 
concrete  and  synthetical  forms  in  which 
he  strives  to  embody  his  inspirations 
and  ideals  have  anything  to  do  with 
business  ? 

"America  has  hundreds,  nay,  thou- 
sands of  business  men  for  one  artist. 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


and  it  seems  to  me  that  you  ought  to 
thank  God  when  a  real  artist  and  poet 
is  bom  to  your  country — one  who  is 
not  a  business  man." 

I  was  still  angry,  but  he  was  right, 
and  I  said: 

"My  dear  sir,  I  feel  obliged  to  agree 
with  you." 

He  continued: 

"I  have  never  heard  this  criticism 
formulated  abroad.  In  fact,  with  us  the 
artist  who  shows  too  much  facility  in 
his  affairs  loses  caste.  How  often  have 
I  heard  the  remark,  Oh,  un  tel,  ce  n'est 
pas  un  peintre;  c'est  un  ma/rchand,'  or 
'So-and-So,  he  does  not  make  statues: 
he  sells  them!'  We  even  once  had  a 
sculptor  who  was  commonly  known  as 
'Le  sculpteur  en  gros/ 

"The  amusing  part  in  your  case  is 
that  the  criticism  is  not  only  silly,  but 
that  it  is  also  fallacious,  as,  unbeknown 
to  you,  perhaps,  a  certain  number  of 
your  artists  have  become  very  efficient 
business  men.  The  business  guilds 
would  not  deny,  for  instance,  that  title, 
say,  to  a  sculptor  of  second  or  third- 
rate  talent  who  has  made  a  fortune  and 
name  by  producing  works  which  have 
little  more  value  than  the  materials  in 
which  they  are  executed. 

"It  would  also  be  willing  to  confer 
the  same  title  upon  the  painter  of  the 
same  grade  of  talent  who  by  skillful 
manoeuvering  manages  to  sell  his  pic- 
tures at  factitious  prices,  the  frames,  in 
this  case,  being  the  only  valuable  assets. 
Americans  like  the  trumpet  and  the 
bass-drum;  only  the  other  day  one  of 
your  art  critics  said  to  me :  *You  know 
So-and-So.  He  speaks  more  and  acts 
more  like  a  genius  than  any  one  we 
have,  and,'  he  added,  'the  people  like 
it.' 

"Charlatans  are  never  without  ability. 
For  them  art  is  not  art,  but  business — 
artful  business.  For  them  every  monu- 
ment becomes  a  moneyed  transaction. 
Every  statue  is  a  deal,  and  the  legiti- 
mate sale  of  pictures  is  reduced  to 
a  traffic. 


"This  influence  is  so  pernicious  that 
one  of  your  best  men  recently  confided 
to  me,  quite  unconsciously,  that  never 
since  he  started  his  business  had  he  had 
such  a  bad  year  as  this  one." 

I  was  speechless. 

The  commissioner  continued,  this 
time  without  gloves: 

"I  had  the  pleasure  of  knowing  some 
of  your  young  artists  twenty-five  or 
thirty  years  ago,  when  they  came  to  us 
to  study.  At  that  time  they  had  talent. 
enthusiasm  and  ideals.  We  loved  them, 
their  masters  loved  them,  and  guided 
their  minds  and  hands  with  the  same 
care  that  they  bestowed  upon  the  sons 
of  their  own  blood.  I  had  hoped  to 
find  them  here,  in  their  prime,  produc- 
ing great  works,  the  pride  of  their  coun- 
try, an  honor  to  their  masters.  Imagine 
my  disappointment,  my  despair,  to  see 
them  demoralized  by  American  com- 
mercialism, their  talents  impaired,  their 
enthusiasm  exhausted,  their  ideals  de- 
based to  dollars  and  cents. 

"It  is  because  you  confided  their 
youthful  years  to  us,  because  we  edu- 
cated them  and  equipped  them  with  the 
knowledge  and  traditions  of  our  fore- 
fathers, that  I  feel  so  indignant  at  their 
abuse,  and  that  I  have  the  right  to 
speak  to  you  as  I  do. 

"I  feel  all  the  more  deeply,  perhaps, 
because  my  life,  my  career,  are  devoted 
to  the  care  and  to  the  furtherance  of 
the  art  of  my  country.  As  a  member 
of  our  ministry  of  fine  arts  it  is  my 
duty  to  see  that  the  funds  devoted  to 
art  by  the  state  are  properly  spent.  It 
is  m>  duty  to  watch,  to  find,  to  nurse 
every  young  talent,  to  follow  its  career, 
and  when  the  artist  has  developed  his 
power  of  production,  to  be  careful  that 
work  suitable  to  his  talent  is  put  in 
his  way,  and  later,  when  he  is  in  the 
glory  of  his  achievements,  to  sec  that 
the  proper  honors  are  bestowed  upon 
him,  adding  thereby  to  his  authority 
and  dignity,  and  loudly  proclaiming  his 
fame  and  genius  to  the  worW.  Per- 
sonally, I  have  no  talent,  but  it  gives 


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AN  AMERICAN  MANIA  AS  SEEN  BY  A  FOREIGNER 


me  the  greatest  joy  to  help  to  guide 
and  protect  the  genius  of  my  race  and 
be  useful  to  my  country." 

I  could  not,  after  this  vital  declara- 
tion, feel  angry  any  more,  so  I  said : 

"My  dear  friend,  I  sincerely  wish 
we  had  you  here  to  help  us,  as  we  have, 
despite  all,  and  fortunately  for  the 
honor  of  the  American  school,  a  strong 
body  of  sincere,  stubborn,  and  talented 
men.  You  saw  their  work  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, and  you  know  that  we  may  well 
be  proud  of  them.  They  are  genuine 
and  energetic,  and  can  hold  their  own 
even  against  commercialism. 

"They  are  modest  and  retiring,  and 
all  this  stupidity  offends  them.  They 
realize  that  the  only  honest  claim  the 
artist  can  have  on  the  love  and  respect 
of  his  contemporaries  and  on  that  of 
posterity  is  based  upon  the  fact  that 
he  may  have  added  during  his  career 
some  beauty  to  our  inheritance.  They 
are  living  up  to  this  ideal,  and  while 
they  may  be  iearful  to  protest,  I  can 
assure  you  that  they  have  in  their  hearts 
the  most  profound  contempt  for  this 
commercialism  and  for  all  those  who 
foster  it." 

He  nodded  in  approval,  so  I  contin- 
ued: 

"This  intense  feeling  was  illustrated 
a  few  years  ago  in  an  amusing  way  in 
one  of  those  quiet  country  villages 
where  the  painters  love  to  spend  the 
summer  months. 

'There  happened  to  be  at  the  head 
of  the  little  band  an  austere  and  studi- 
ous artist  who  took  advantage  of  his 
authority  to  advise  and  criticise  his  fel- 
low-workers, among  whom  was  a 
younger  man  who  had  been  in  business 
before  he  'turned  to  art.' 

"This  last  one  was  finally  annoyed, 
and  said  one  evening  at  dinner: 

"  *Mr.  So-and-So,  I  am  very  much 
pained  to  see  that  you  criticize  me  so 
severely.  I  am  afraid  you  dislike  me 
because  I  am  the  son  of  a  grocer.' 

"'Oh,  no,'  the  austere  painter  re- 
plied, 'I  do  not  dislike  you  because  your 


father  was  a  grocer  or  because  you 
have  been  a  grocer  yourself.  What  I 
object  to  is  that,  in  spite  of  your  efforts 
and  success  in  art,  you  are  still  a  gro- 
eery 

At  this  very  moment  we  pulled  into 
New  Haven. 

"Here,  for  instance,"  the  commis- 
sioner exclaimed,  "in  this  provincial 
town,  there  is  a  point  of  view  and  a 
situation  that  I  cannot  comprehend.  I 
visited  New  Haven  and  Yale  before 
I  went  West,"  he  explained. 

"Now,  any  sane  person  would  think 
that  this  great  university,  with  its 
charming  museum,  with  its  school  of 
art,  would  have  some  influence  on  the 
artistic  activities  of  the  city,  such  as 
they  might  be.  One  could  suppose  that 
the  city  would  be  glad  to  be  guided  by 
the  wisdom,  the  culture,  the  good  judg- 
ment to  be  found  in  the  faculty.  But, 
alas,  for  New  Haven !  It  goes  blindly 
on,  like  all  the  others! 

"I  was  shown  there  a  group  in  bronze 
which  would  shame  a  founder  of  'tin 
soldiers,'  and  when  some  decorative 
motives  are  needed  for  a  new  building, 
they  are  casually  bought  by  the  jrard 
or  by  the  ton.  I  cautiously  questioned 
a  member  of  the  faculty. 

"  'Are  you  not  somewhat  distressed 
by  these  conditions?*  I  asked. 

"  'Why  no,'  he  answered,  with  a 
smile.  'We  are  thankful  that  the  re- 
sults are  not  worse.' 

"  'Not  worse !'  I  cried !  'Come  to  my 
help,  ye  Gods  of  Olympus !' 

"This  was  my  first  moral  shock  in 
America.  I  understood  then  that  there 
were  possibly  things  in  the  United 
States  which  would  be  difficult  for  me 
to  understand." 

The  commissioner  was  quiet  for  a 
few  moments.    The  train  thundered  on. 

"What  a  difference!"  he  finally  mur- 
mured. 

"What  a  difference?"  I  questioned. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  was  thinking  of 
the  past.  I  was  thinking  of  the  spirit 
of  the  Middle  Ages  and  of  the  glory 


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24 


PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


of  the  Italian  and  French  Renaissance. 
The  artists  and  artisans  were  then  all 
men.  Their  skill,  their  honesty,  their 
love  for  their  work,  are  apparent;  ex- 
ude from  every  cornice,  from  every  or- 
nament, from  every  form  and  every 
plait  of  every  statue;  and  the  beauty 
which  emanates  from  their  extraor- 
dinary compositions  was  patiently  in- 
stilled into  them  drop  by  drop.  The 
Maitres  Imagiers  lived  at  the  different 
courts  and  monastaries,  wandered  from 
church  to  cathedral,  Jagonnant  leurs 
images  fondant  leurs  chefs-d'oeui/re*  as 
we  are  told.  There  was  no  business 
there. 

"These  conditions  obtained,  as  you 
know,  for  centuries,  and  the  result  of 
this  touching  simplicity  was  grandiose, 
— masterpieces  without  number  and  of 
all  kinds,  in  the  presence  of  which  we 
all  bow  in  reverence,  our  hearts  over- 
flowing with  admiration  and  our  eyes 
filling  with  tears  and  our  minds  with 
indignation  when  we  hear  of  their  wan- 
ton destruction.  Add  to  this  the  re- 
membrance of  the  integrity,  the  virility, 
and  the  haughty  independence  of  the 
great  masters  of  the  sixteenth  and  sev- 
enteenth centuries.  'There  was  no  busi- 
ness there.' 

"I  was  also  thinking  of  that  naive  de- 
scription, given  to  us  in  San  Francisco 
by  the  commissioner  of  China,  concern- 
ing the  position  of  artists  in  his  coun- 
try." The  commissioner  pulled  out  a 
paper.  "Here  it  is,'*  he  said,  "as  far 
as  I  can  remember,"  and  he  read : 

"  *We  in  China  love  and  respect  ar- 
tists and  grave-hunters. 

"  'We  love  artists  because  artists 
make  portraits  of  grandfather,  grand- 
mother, mother,  and  father. 

"  'We  don't  have  photographs  yet, 
and  never  make  portraits  of  young 
Chinese,  because  not  good  enough  yet. 

"  'Only  make  portraits  of  Chinese 
when  old  enough  to  have  become  real 
men,  real  women. 

"  *When  Chinaman  get  enough 
money,  and  want  portrait  of    family, 


he  get  artist  to  come  and   live  with 
family. 

"  'Good  portraits  not  made  quick. 
Sometimes  takes  weeks,  sometimes 
takes  months,  sometimes  takes  years. 

"  'Artist  must  know  people  well  be- 
fore he  can  make  good  portrait. 

"  'And  that  is  why  Chinese  families 
admire  and  cherish  artists,  because  they 
make  faithful  portraits  of  grandfather, 
grandmother,  father,  and  mother. 

"  'We  love  grave-hunters  because 
they  find  beautiful,  secluded  places 
where  ancestors  may  rest  quietly,  and 
bring  good  luck  to  family.'  " 

The  commissioner  was  fully  aroused 
by  this  time.    He  raised  his  voice : 

"I  am,  of  course,  fully  aware  that 
these  medieval  ideas  and  customs,  quaint 
and  attractive  as  they  may  be  to  us 
personally,  are  not  suitable  for  our 
time  or  for  young  America.  However, 
something  must  be  done  if  your  country 
wishes  to  improve  its  opportunities.  I 
venture  to  predict  that,  barring  extra- 
ordinary characters  whose  genius  dom- 
inates any  conditions,  America  will  not 
have  a  g^eat  national  school  until  it 
fully  understands  that  art  is  not  busi- 
ness, and  treats  it  accordingly, — until 
Americans  appreciate  the  fact  that  a 
real  artist  is  a  rare  and  sensitive  bein^. 
however  much  energy  and  strength  he 
may  have,  and  that  his  constant  effort 
to  gn*asp  an  ever-fleeting  beauty  must 
be  helped  and  encouraged  in  order  to 
attain  the  highest  results, — until  the\' 
realize  that  the  artist  sees  things  they 
do  not  see,  and  feels  things  they  do 
not  feel,  and  that  the  works  of  his  hands 
and  brains  are  precious  not  only  be- 
cause they  are  beautiful  and  lasting,  but 
also  because  he  alone  can  do  them. 

"Until  then  they  will  go  on  indulging 
in  their  manias,  encumbering  their 
buildings  and  parks  with  monstrosities, 
deceiving  themselves  and  being  de- 
ceived, as  they  are  now." 

I  tried  to  interrupt.  He  lifted  his 
nand. 

"Not  a  word  I"  he  said,  "not  a  word !" 
I  have  spoken  to  you  as  a  kind  master 


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AN  AMERICAN  MANIA  AS  SEEN  BY  A  FOREIGNER  25 

to  a  pupil.    I  hope  you  are  not  offended,  member  that  I  told  you  what  I  believed 

and  that  you  may  profit  by  my  words,  to  be  the  truth." 
I  leave  to-morrow  for  my  country,  for         We  parted,  and  the  next  day  I  re- 

the  front,  where  I  shall  fight  for  liberty,  ceived  a  card  on  which  was  written : 
justice,  and  honor.     You   may  never         "Nevertheless,  a  noble  and  intelligent 

see  me  again,  and  I  want  you  to  re-  mania  might  lead  you  to  an  ideal." 


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26  PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 

POEMS 

By  Henry  van  Dyke 

I.— REMARKS  ABOUT  KINGS 

God  said,  I  am  tired  of  kings, — Emerson. 

God  said,  "I  am  tired  of  kings," 

But  that  was  a  long  while  ago. 

And  meantime  Man  said,  "No; 

I  like  their  looks  in  their  robes  and  rings." 

So  he  crowned  a  few  more, 

And  they  went  on  playing  the  game  as  before. 

Fighting  and  spoiling  things. 

Man  said,  "I  am  tired  of  kings. 

Sons  of  the  robber  chiefs  of  yore. 

They  make  me  pay  for  their  lust  and  their  war. 

I  am  the  puppet;  they  pull  the  strings; 

The  blood   of  my  heart  is  the  wne   they   drink. 

I  will  govern  myself  for  a  while,  I  think, 

And  see  what  that  brings." 

Then  God,  who  made  the  first  remark, 

Smiled  in  the  dark. 

II.-LIGHTS  OUT 

"Lights  out!"  along  the  land, 

"Lights  out!"  upon  the  sea; 

The  night  must  put  her  hiding  hand 

O'er  peaceful  towns,  where  children  sleep, 

And  peaceful  ships  that  da-rkly  creep 

Across  the  waves,  as  if  they  were  not  free. 

The  dragons  of  the  air, 
The  hell-hounds  of  the  deep. 
Lurking  and  prowling  everywhere, 
Go  forth  to  seek  their  helpless  prey. 
Not  knowing  whom  they  maim  or  slay, 
Mad  harvesters,  who  care  not  what  they  reap. 

Out  with  the  tranquil  lights! 
Out  with  the  lights  that  burn 
For  love  of  law  and  human  rights ! 
Set  back  the  clock  a  thousand  years! 
All  they  have  gained  now  disappears, 
And  the  Dark  Ages  suddenly  return. 

You  that  let  loose  wild  death 

And  terror  in  the  night, 

God  grant  you  draw  no  quiet  breath 

Until  the  madness  you  began 

Is  ended,  and  long-suffering  man. 

Set  free  from  war-lords,  cries,  "Let  there  be  light!" 


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SECOND  SESSION 
Thursday,  November  18th,  at  3.30 

CONCERT 

OF  COMPOSITIONS  BY  MEMBERS  OF  THE  INSTITUTE 

given  by 

The  Boston  String  Quartet 

Sylvain  Noack,  first  violin ;  Otto  Roth,  second  violin ;  Emil  Ferir,  viola ; 
Alwin  Schroder,  violoncello.  Assisted  by  J.  Theodorowicz,  violin, 
and     by     Charles     Bennett,     bass,     and     Wallace     Goodrich,     pianist 

PROGRAM 

I.    Charles  M.  Loeffler 

Lyrisches  Kammermusiksttick  in  F  Major  for  Strings 
(Allegro   Commodo — Poco   Allegretto — Allegro) 

II.    David  Stanley  Smith Songd 

Music  When  Soft  Voices  Die 
Flower  of  Beauty 
Evening  Song 
Love's  Music 

III.  Howard  Brockway 

Suite  for  Violoncello  and  Pianoforte,  Op.  35 

Ballade 

Serenade  au  Carneval 

The  pianoforte  part  played  by  the  composer 

IV.  Songs 

G.  W.  Chadwick        .         .        Ballad  of  Trees  and  the  Master 

F.  S.  Converse Bright  Star 

Arthur  Foote Tranquility 

Edgar   Stillman   Kelley Eldorado 

V.    Henry  Hadley 

Quintet  in  A   Minor  for  Pianoforte  and   Strings 
(Allegro   Energico — Andante — Scherzo — Finale) 

The  pianoforte  part  played  by  the  composer 


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THIRD  SESSION 
Friday,  November  19TH,  1915 

THE  CHAIRMAN  (Mr.  Blashfield) 

I  need  not  pronounce  an  address  pants  became  articulate.  To-day  we  who 
before  this  audience.  Until  lately  the  are  descendants  of  those  infant  pro- 
Institute  has  felt  bound  to  introduce  it-  genitors  of  the  Arts  and  Letters  are 
self  annually,  but  to-day  even  our  Gold  deeply  appreciative  of  Boston's  hos- 
Medal  celebrates  its  seventh  birthday,  pitality. 

Yet  it  is  not  our  venerable  age  which         As  for  the  artists,  in  these  late  years 

emboldens  us,   but  hospitable  Boston,  of  perturbed  and  sometimes  antagon- 

Here  in  Boston,  which  has  Cambridge  istic  effort,  the  Boston  painters  have 

at  its  door  and  Concord  only  over  the  shown  that  the  admirable  sanity  and 

way,  every  man  of  letters  and  every  solidarity  which  they  have  maintained 

artist,  wherever  he  may  have  been  born,  through  it  all  can  also  become  brilliant 

feels   that   for  the  time  he  is  in  his  as  a  contribution.     We  have  so  much 

father's  house.    It  is  quite  certain  that  before  us  this  morning  that  I  shall  say 

somewhere  among  the  historic  furniture  nothing   further  than  to  reaffirm  our 

brought  in  the  Mayflower  was  hidden  pleasure  and  reiterate  our  thanks, 
the    cradle    of    American    Arts    and         Upon  all  subjects  of  greatest  import 

Letters  in   America,  and  that  Boston  the  world  has  looked  for  the  first  and 

has  rocked  it,  sometimes  more,  some-  last  word  to  the  poet.    I  have  the  honor 

times  less,  gently  until  its  twin  occu-  to  introduce  Mr.  Percy  MacKaye. 


FEDERATION 
By  Percy  MacKave 

Over  there  they  know  the  singeing  and  blinding  of  sorrow. 

Over  there  they  know  the  young  dead;  they  know  the  dear 
Touch  of  the  living  that  shall  be  the  dead  to-morrow: 

Here — what  know  we  here? 

Over   there  they   feel*  the  heart-rage,  the  sick  hating 
Of  bitter  blood-lust,  the  imminent  storm  of  steel, 

Burden  and  pang  of  terror  never-abating: 
Here — what  do  we  feel? 

There,  where  they  snuff  the  reek  of  a  burning  censer 
Borne  by  the  stark-mad  emperors,  their  pain. 

Tinged  with  a  hallowed  pride,  takes  on  the  intenser 
Soul  of  a  world  insane. 

We,  who  still  spared  to  reason,  here  where  the  thunder 
And  surge  of  the  madness  dwindle  to  murmurs  and  cease. 

We  who,  apart,  stand  dazed  by  the  demons  of  plunder. 
How  shall  we  conjure  peace? 

Peace — did  we  call  her,   the  gluttonous  mother  who  suckled 
Her  monster  child  till  it  waxed  to  this  Minotaur? 

Peace — did  we  crown  her,  the  secret  harlot  who  truckled 
To  breed  from  the  loins  of  War? 

28 


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FEDERATION  29 

One  word,  one  only,  will  be  ours  in  awaking: 

Nevermore  1  Nevermore  let  us  build  for  merely  our  own. 

Peace  is  not  ours  alone  for  the  making  or  breaking; 
Peace  is  the  world's  alone. 

For  the  battle-gauge  is  feud-lust  or  federation. 

The  ultimate  beast  is  enthroned,  and  man  is  its  thrall; 
And  beast  or  man  shall  survive  as  nation  with  nation 

Fights  not  for  one,  but  all. 

A  dream?   Yes,  the  dream  that  once  was  a  planet's  derision 

Now  blazons  a  planet's  prayer:  the  cry  to  be  free 
Of  a  world  unconceived  in  woe  of  a  Dante's  vision, 

Or  Christ's  on  the  blasted  tree. 

For  our  deeds  are  the  henchmen  of  dreams.     Since  only  by  another 
Dream  can  the  dreamer  be  vanquished,  let  ours  create 

The  beautiful  order  of  brother  united  with  brother. 
Victorious  dreaming  is  fate. 

America,  dreamer  of  dreams,  be  destiny's  leader. 

Militant  first  for  mankind;  for  so  your  own  soul, 
Blended  of  all,  for  all  shall  be  interceder 

And  guide  to  the  world's  goal. 


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THE  CHAIRMAN 


Of  all  artists  it  seems  to  me  we  may 
count  him  most  important  who  makes 
the  sky-line  of  our  cities,  who  estab- 
lishes the  surface  character  of  our 
municipal  home,  with  its  outdoor 
furnishing  of  street  and  square,  church, 
crest,  and  tower.    We  are  to  hear  from 


one  who  has  traveled  east, 'west,  north, 
and  south  in  the  interest  of  this  city 
planning,  in  the  interest,  that  is  to  say, 
of  the  widest  relativity  of  his  art  of 
architecture.  I  have  the  honor  to  in- 
troduce Mr.  Arnold  W.  Brunner. 


ARCHITECTURE  AND  THE  MAN 
By  Arnold  W.  Brunnbr 


Architects  are  the  scene-painters  of 
the  world.  Much  of  the  scenery,  the 
backgrounds  of  great  events,  remain 
to-day  as  records,  and  are  perhaps  more 
convincing  than  written  history.  Con- 
structed of  enduring  materials,  these 
scenes  of  marble,  granite,  and  bronze 
bring  to  our  senses  a  vivid  realization 
of  stirring  actions  and  heroic  deeds  of 
actors  long  since  gone. 

To  regard  architecture  as  a  back- 
ground may  seem  to  relegate  it  to  a 
secondary  place  and  to  indicate  a  lack 
of  appreciation  of  its  importance.  And 
by  architecture  I  mean  all  that  the  word 
implies — that  art  so  often  called  the 
noblest  of  the  arts,  because  it  embraces 
the  others,  sculpture,  painting,  the 
treatment  of  the  landscape,  and  to-day 
the  newer  architecture  of  cities.  It  is 
a  mixed  art,  largely  diluted,  or 
strengthened,  if  you  please,  by  science. 
Its  aim  is  to  produce  a  combination  of 
the  useful  and  the  beautiful. 

I  have  heard  it  charged  that  our 
training  and  practice  have  a  tendency 
to  make  us  grow  more  interested  in 
things  than  in  people,  and  we  architects 
have  often  been  reminded  that  humanity 
is  of  more  importance  than  inanimate 
objects.  Such  criticism  is  fair  enough, 
and  we  may  well  remember  that  the 
value  of  our  designs  and  creations 
depends  on  their  eflfect  upon  those  who 
use  them  and  who  are  inspired  by  them. 
Architecture,  unlike  other  arts,  cannot 


depend  on  beauty  alone.  To  serve  its 
mission  fully  it  must  provide  a  fitting 
background  for  human  activities. 

In  the  theater  the  painted  scene  and 
artificial  accessories  which  simulate 
the  real  thing  as  closely  as  possible 
have  been  considered  by  actors  to  be 
important  factors  in  their  success.  Even 
the  advocates  of  the  new  school,  who 
favor  stern  simplicity  and  extreme 
breadth  of  treatment,  believe  that  the 
actor  needs  the  assistance  of  stage 
decorations  to  illuminate  the  intention 
of  the  author  and  to  bring  out  fully 
the  purpose  of  the  drama. 

It  seems  to  me  that  in  our  daily  lives 
we  have  underestimated  the  influence 
that  our  backgrounds,  our  scenery, 
exert  on  us.  I  know  a  church  that 
suggests  a  music-hall.  I  know  a  theater 
so  somber  and  gloomy  that  our  spirits 
are  depressed  when  we  enter  it.  I  know 
a  museum  of  fine  arts  where  it  is  almost 
impossible  to  concentrate  one's  atten- 
tion on  the  paintings  and  sculpture. 
These  buildings,  pretty  enough  to  look 
at,  violate  the  first  rul^  of  the  game. 
They  do  not  express  their  purpose,  but 
on  the  contrary  nullify  and  contradict 
it. 

Some  years  ago  I  had  occasion  to 
Visit  a  court  room  in  New  York.  Men 
kept  on  their  hats,  whistled,  and 
laughed.  Large  brass  spittoons  were 
numerous,  but,  though  necessary,  were 
copiously   disregarded.     A  noisy   lady 


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ARCHITECTURE  AND  THE  MAN 


3^ 


who  sold  apples  was  gamilious  and 
apparently  in  great  favor.  The  general 
atmosphere  was  most  disorderly,  and 
the  attendants  had  difficulty  in  secur- 
ing silence  at  the  entrance  of  the  judge, 

A  few  years  later  I, visited  the  same 
court  room,  and  was  astonished  to  find 
all  this  changed.  Men  removed  their 
hats  when  they  entered,  and  talked  in 
low  tones.  The  apple-lady  remained 
in  the  corridor,  and  an  air  of  dignity 
and  decency  prevailed. 

The  reason  for  this  gfratifying  change 
was  that  the  eastern  wall  had  been 
covered  by  a  mural  painting  of  great 
beauty,  Simmons's  figure  of  Justice  in 
the  center,  flanked  by  well-painted 
groups  on  each  side,  three  prisoners  on 
the  right,  and  the  three  Fates  on  the 
left,  dominated  the  room.  The  influence 
of  this  powerful  composition  had  made 
the  previous  disgraceful  conditions  im- 
possible. The  picture  made  its  appeal, 
and  the  appeal  was  instantly  answered. 

Whoever  has  seen  Blashfield's  mural 
painting  in  the  United  States  Court 
Room  in  the  Qeveland  Federal  Build- 
ing must  recall  its  effect  on  the  public. 
Its  beauty  and  strength — the  two 
splendid  angels  pointing  to  the  Ten 
Commandments,  the  majesty  of  the  law 
and  the  tragedy  of  crime — here,  too, 
make  a  background  that  speaks,  that 
fulfills  its  purpose.  Many  other  in- 
stances come  to  mind,  but  I  shall  not 
multiply  examples. 

We  can  build  a  study  in  which  no 
man  can  study,  a  library  in  which  no- 
body can  read ;  or  we  can  design  rooms 
for  such  purposes,  restful  in  treatment, 
simple  in  form,  quiet  in  tone,  that  will 
not  irritate  and  distract,  but  on  the  con- 
trary soothe  the  inmates  and  make  con- 
centration easier.    Such  rooms  exist. 

The  needs  of  humanity  are  para- 
mount, and  the  arts  of  design  should 
yield  to  the  man.  We  need  feel  no  loss 
of  dignity  in  taking  the  view  that  the 
interior  of  our  buildings  are  back- 
grounds, for  making  backgrounds  is  not 
easy.  The  effect  of  perfect  harmony 
required  to  produce  a  congenial  atmos- 


phere demands  die  sacrifice  of  in- 
dividual triumphs.  Perhaps  interesting 
features  of  design  must  be  omitted, 
decorations  toned  down,  stained-glass 
windows  subdued,  details  suppressed 
for  the  benefit  of  the  ensemble,  just  as 
the  true  musician  in  a  great  orchestra 
restrains  and  sinks  his  individuality. 

We  all  recall  the  mural  paintings  of 
Puvis  de  Chavannes  in  the  Pantheon, 
and  how  he  deliberately  kept  them  flat 
and  in  a  low  key  to  harmonize  with 
the  stone  walls  of  that  noble  building. 
Other  painters  strove  to  outdo  one 
another  in  the  brilliancy  and  strength 
of  their  pictures,  but  Puvis  believed  it 
imperative  to  preserve  the  tranquility 
and  unity  of  eflfect  of  the  great  interior, 
and  by  self-denial  and  omission  he 
succeeded  where  they  failed,  and  pro- 
duced a  splendid  work  of  art,  a  decora- 
tion, yet  only  a  background. 

We  have  heard  a  great  deal  durii^ 
the  last  few  years  about  the  power  of 
suggestion  over  our  subjective  mind. 
A  glance,  a  touch,  a  gesture,  or  a  word, 
and,  we  are  told,  our  subconscious  self 
responds  instantly.  Probably  this  is  all 
true,  but  who  will  deny  that  our  objec- 
tive or  every-day  mind,  acting  through 
the  five  senses,  is  swayed  by  suggestion 
and  strongly  affected  by  its  environ- 
ment? Beauty  makes  a  powerful  appeal 
to  us,  and  we  are  sensitive  to  the  in- 
fluence of  ugliness.  There  are  d^^rees 
of  disorder,  hideousness,  and  gloom 
against  which  no  gaiety  of  temperament 
can  prevail. 

George  B.  McQellan,  when  he  was 
mayor  of  New  York,  once  said  that  if 
a  man  arose  from  a  bench  in  City  Hall 
Park  and  happened  to  look  to  the  north, 
he  would  be  made  happier  and  better 
by  the  sight  of  the  City  Hall;  but  if  he 
chanced  to  look  the  other  way,  and  his 
vision  was  greeted  by  the  Post-Office,  it 
would  be  natural  for  dismal  and  even 
homicidal  thoughts  to  arise  in  his  mind. 
Try  it.  Stand  at  the  side  of  the  foolish 
fountain  in  the  middle  of  the  park  and 
glance  through  the  trees  at  the  lovely 
little  City  Hall,  and  see  if  its  charming 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


proportions  and  simple  beauty  do  not 
induce  a  different  frame  of  mind  from 
that  which  comes  from  an  inspection 
of  the  hideous  Post-Office,  with  its 
bulbous  and  useless  Mansard  roof, 
easily  the  worst  of  the  late  Mr.  MuUett's 
creations. 

Then  try  if  you  can  to  preserve  a 
happy  and  contented  disposition  when 
you  walk  through  some  of  the  noisy 
neighboring  streets,  where  ugliness  and 
shabbiness  vie  with  vulgarity.  I  need 
not  select  the  streets;  they  have  their 
counterparts  in  other  cities  where  the 
air  of  unrest  and  incompleteness  is 
emphasized  by  ragged  sky-lines  and 
ugly  buildings.  Yet  this  is  the  scenery 
to  which  we  submit,  the  background  of 
our  daily  lives. 

Let  us  take  Broadway,  or  a  part  of 
it,  as  an  example.  "A  walk  on  Broad- 
way" has  been  a  favorite  theme  with 
many  distinguished  writers  who  have 
amused  and  instructed  us  by  their 
observations.  Artists  have  sketched  it 
over  and  over  again,  and  charmed  us 
with  pictures  which  showed  exactly 
how  it  would  look  if  it  looked  that  way. 
At  the  risk  of  discovering  the  dis- 
covered, let  us  walk  down  Broadway, 
and  without  being  too  critical  frankly 
note  what  we  see. 

If  we  begin  at  Fifty-ninth  Street 
we  find  Columbus  Circle  a  grievous 
disappointment  Here  is  an  intersec- 
tion of  very  important  streets  with  a 
monumental  entrance  to  Central  Park 
in  the  picture,  but  the  serio-comic  shaft 
in  the  center  and  the  unfortunate  build- 
ings that  surround  it  are  most  distress- 
ing. There  is  no  composition,  no 
harmony.    It  goes  all  to  pieces. 

Proceeding  down-town  we  find 
irregularity  and  disorder,  the  big  and 
little,  the  expensive  and  the  shabby, 
mixed  on  all  sides.  The  intensity  of 
the  struggle  and  the  competition  of 
commercial  life  are  everywhere  pain- 
fully apparent,  and  the  result  is  a  con- 
fused mass  of  incongruities.  The 
Metropolitan  Opera  House,  where  the 
best  operatic  performances  in  the  world 


are  presented,  has  no  setting  at  all,  and 
is  squeezed  in  between  a  bank  and  a 
shop.  Opposite,  and  up  and  down  for 
many  blocks,  are  hideous,  cheap  struc- 
tures built  largely  of  galvanized  iroa 
and  bill-boards.  The  larger  and  more 
pretentious  buildings  have  f  agades  with 
some  attempt  at  design,  but  their  toa 
conspicuous  backs  and  sides  go  bare. 

The  little  Herald  Building,  which  in 
itself  has  distinction  and  recalls  far- 
away Verona,  is  strangled  by  the 
elevated  railroad  and  a  jumble  of  in- 
congruous buildings  in  a  very  vortex 
of  confusion.  Below  Twenty-third 
Street  we  are  surprised  at  the  apparent 
desolation  of  disuse,  for  here  is  what 
is  known  as  a  "blighted  district,"  with 
air  its  characteristics,  in  the  middle  of 
Broadway. 

I  dwell  on  these  wretched  facts 
because  every  favorable  chance  for 
design  has  been  thrown  away.  Times 
Square,  Miadison  Square,  Union  Square 
are  three  conspicuous  instances  of 
neglected  opportunities.  Each  one  is 
capable  of  treatment  that  might  make 
it  a  beauty  spot  in  our  crowded  city,, 
but  no  attempt  has  been  made  to  design 
properly  and  maintain  these  little  parks. 
As  the  encircling  buildings  tower  up- 
ward, these  squares  are  apparently 
shrinking  in  size  and  certainly  in  impor- 
tance and  dignity;  so  they  now  appear 
to  be  disregarded  and  almost  forgotten. 

Individualism  is  admirable,  but  it  may 
degenerate  into  license.  Even  in  a  free 
country,  a  democracy,  there  is  a  limit 
to  the  rights  of  the  individual,  and 
that  limit  is  reached  when  they  run 
counter  to  the  rights  of  the  community. 
A  crowd  organized,  drilled,  and  led 
may  become  an  army,  but,  lacking 
restraint,  will  be  a  mob.  Broadway  is 
now  in  the  mob  state.  How  can  we 
expect  men  and  women  in  such 
surroundings  to  "fill  the  unforgiving 
minute  with  sixty  seconds  worth  ol 
distance  run"  ?  I  have  heard  Broadway 
called  picturesque,  but  do  not  believe  it. 
It  is  only  sordid;  the  picturesque  is 


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ARCHITECTURE  AND  THE  MAN 


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created  by  a  happy  collaboration  of 
chance  and  time. 

According  to  Arnold  Bennett,  the 
"human  machine"  is  often  foolishly 
neglected.  In  his  book  about  it  he  calls 
our  attention  to  various  means  of 
making  the  machine  travel  through  the 
world  more  smoothly,  but  he  takes  little 
note  of  the  friction  tfiat  may  come  from 
without  or  of  the  fact  that  we  may 
accomplish  a  good  deal  by  paying  some 
attention  to  the  roads  on  which  we 
travel. 

To  mend  them  will  require  much 
effort.  We  become  used  to  noises, 
chaotic  streets,  and  the  disregarded 
demands  of  order  and  beauty;  but  we 
need  not  become  fatalists  and  meekly 
accept  any  distasteful  environment  into 
which  pernicious  conditions  have 
thrown  us.  We  can  largely  mitigate 
the  exaggerated  ugliness  of  our  cities  if 
we  determine  to  do  it.  And  we  will 
determine  to  do  it  only  when  we  realize 
the  tremendous-  influence  that  our 
surroundings  exert  on  us. 

Twenty-five  years  ago  one  of  our  few 
architectural  critics,  the  late  Mont- 
gomery Schuyler,  said  that  American 
architecture  was  apparently  "the  art  of 
covering  one  thing  with  another  thing 
to  imitate  a  third  thing,  which,  if 
genuine,  would  be  highly  uijdesirable." 
Perhaps  this  criticism  is  still  deserved, 
for  if  we  survey  the  field  we  must  admit 
that  of  the  great  number  of  buildings 
erected  every  year  there  is  only  a  small 
fraction  of  them  that  may  be  con- 
sidered good  architecture. 

Not  only  are  materials  woefully  mis- 
applied and  combined,  but  the  first  prin- 
ciples of  design  are  commonly  ignored, 
and  the  result  is  that  atrocious  build- 
ings abound.  Looking  further,  we  find 
sky-scrapers  in  positions  where  extreme 
height  is  a  crime,  buildings  that  swear  at 
their  neighbors  and  have  no  relation  to 
the  streets  on  which  they  are  built, 
villanous  "improvements,"  as  the  real- 
estate  fraternity  call  them,  that  are  the 
acme  of  ugliness.  It  would  be  interest- 
ing,   incidentally,    to    determine    how 


many  "improvements"  are  required  to 
ruin  a  neighborhood. 

It  has  been  said  that  American 
humor  has  found  its  fullest  expression 
in  architecture,  but  as  humor  is  merely 
one  of  our  by-products  and  not  our 
acknowledged  purpose,  we  may  wonder 
what  is  the  matter  and  how  it  happens. 
It  may  be  that  if  it  was  the  custom  for 
the  architect  to  sign  his  building  he 
would  be  more  alive  to  his  responsibili- 
ties and  at  least  strive  to  do  his  best. 
At  present  architects  are  generally 
anonymous,  and  a  building  is  popularly 
supposed  to  be  the  result  of  some 
process  of  nature  and  not  the  product 
of  human  thought  and  endeavor. 

Perhaps  the  trouble  is  the  lack  of  a 
discerning  public,  and  perhaps  the  press 
on  which  the  public  relies  is  to  blame. 
Like  new  books  and  new  plays,  new 
buildings  are  over-advertised  and  over- 
praised without  discrimination.  We  are 
always  assured  that  the  last  hotel, 
department  store,  theatre,  or  what  not, 
is  a  marvel  of  beauty  and  an  ornament 
to  the  city.  I  have  read  columns  of 
praise  of  a  building  with  a  plan  so  com- 
plicated that  it  was  difficult  to  find  the 
stairs  and  elevators  without  a,  guide. 
The  impossible  facade,  whose  composi- 
tion was  apparently  suggested  by  the 
kaleidoscope,  was  so  overloaded  with 
bad  ornament  ("spinach"  we  call  it) 
that  it  looked  like  a  petrified  growth  of 
fungus ;  but  the  printed  description  con- 
tained a  glowing  testimonial  to  its  ex- 
quisite charm. 

Surprising  combinations  of  gigantic 
columns  and  arches  resting  lightly  on 
a  solid  base  of  plate  glass,  and  playfully 
interspersed  with  balconies,  electric 
signs,  bay  windows,  and  balustrades, 
surmounted  by  a  collection  of  undis- 
guised water-tanks  on  stilts,  are  adver- 
tised as  superlatively  beautiful.  The 
public  is  told  this  repeatedly  and  con- 
tinuously, and  apparently  believes  it. 

American  cities  are  now  undergoing 
vital  transformations.  As  most  of  them 
have  been  planned  on  the  "rush-hour" 
principle,  their  growing  pains  have  been 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


unnecessarily  severe.  Accordingly,  the 
architecture  of  cities,  or  city  planning, 
as  it  has  been  called,  has  been  forced 
on  the  attention  of  the  public.  The 
problems  arising  from  an  ever-increas- 
ing population,  new  traflSc  conditions, 
congestion  of  people  in  buildings  and 
of  buildings  on  ground,  tmexpected 
changes  of  all  kinds,  are  complicated 
and  extremely  difficult.  This  is  not 
work  for  the  amateur.  Experience, 
patient  study,  and  a  constructive 
imagination  are  needed  to  increase  the 
efficiency  of  a  city  as  a  working 
machine,  and  at  the  same  time  to  secure 
the  beauty  that  comes  from  order  and 
fitness  of  purpose. 

All  this,  however,  is  entirely  ignored 
by  our  so-called  critics.  Cactus-like 
growth  of  towns,  aimless  streets,  absurd 
extensions  of  the  city  map,  miscalled 
civic  centers,  often  not  more  than 
irregular  open  spaces  in  front  of  the 
leading  hotel — all  are  proclaimed  in  the 
public  prints  as  brilliant  examples  of 
city  planning. 

This  is  the  stuff  that  forms  the  public 
taste.  Of  real  criticism  by  real  critics 
we  have  unfortunately  very  little.  The 
inadequacy  of  most  of  it  reminds  one 
of  the  opinion  expressed  by  Charles  II, 
who  almost  drove  Sir  Christopher  Wren 
to  despair  when  he  was  designing  St. 
Paul's.  After  many  plans  had  been 
made  and  rejected,  the  king  was  finally 
greatly  pleased  with  what  was  unques- 
tionably the  worst  of  Wren's  designs, 
and  expressed  his  approval  by  saying 
that  it  was  "very  artificial,  proper,  and 
useful." 

Ac'cordingly,  we  need  not  be  surprised 
to  find  that  what  we  may  call  our  "best 
sellers,"  types  that  are  repeated  with 
unimportant  variations  all  over  the 
country,  are  unquestionably  the  worst 
examples.  They  are  not  architecture 
at  all,  even  if  they  look  like  it  and 
masquerade  under  its  honored  name; 
and  for  the  most  part  they  are  not 
designed  by  trained  architects,  but  by 
imposters  with  no  qualifications  for 
their  work. 


I  have  borrowed  the  term  *T)est 
sellers"  from  the  literary  market, 
because  I  am  credibly  informed  that  the 
most  popular  books  are  the  most  mere- 
tricious. The  work  of  the  architect, 
however,  is  more  nearly  paralleled  by 
that  of  the  dramatist.  Plays  are  built 
apparently  on  much  the  same  principle 
as  buildings.  The  main  motifs  in  both 
arts  must  be  clear,  simple,  and  con- 
vincing. The  incidentals,  the  details, 
explain  and  assist,  but  cannot  save  a 
defective  or  weak  backbone. 

We  are  told  on  excellent  authority 
that  a  written  play  is  not  the  play  at 
all;  it  is  only  a  book  of  directions  for 
bringing  one  into  existence.  Similarly, 
a  set  of  plans  does  not  constitute  an 
architect's  output  any  more  than  a  copy 
of  his  specifications.  Like  a  play,  the 
plans  are  merely  the  directions  for  pro- 
ducing something.  A  drawing,  be  it 
ever  so  attractive  and  convincing,  is 
only  a  promissory  note  which  binds  its 
maker  to  deliver  in  the  concrete  what  is 
stated  on  its  paper  face.  Sometimes  it 
may  be  well  to  pause  and  consider  if 
the  author  has  sufficinet  funds  in  his 
mental  bank  to  make  good. 

Like  the  dramatist,  certain  forces 
stand  between  the  architect  and  his 
audience.  I  am  told  that  dramatic 
authors  often  find  difficulty  in  main- 
taining their  conceptions  and  persuad- 
ing managers,  producers,  and  actors  to 
follow  their  ideas  and  faithfully  inter- 
pret them.  The  architect  has  his  inter- 
preters, too:  masons  and  carpenters, 
plasterers  and  cabinet-makers,  carvers 
and  decorators,  workmen  of  all  kinds, 
whose  only  aim  in  life  is  apparently  to 
deviate  from  the  plans  as  much  as 
possible.  These  mechanics  can  so 
mutilate  and  distort  a  design  that  the 
result  may  be  very  different  from  the 
architect's  conception,  which  remains  a 
dream  that  the  public  will  never  know. 

There  are  other  points  of  similarity 
between  architecture  and  the  drama. 
For  instance,  both  arts  are  constantly 
pronounced  hopelessly  decadent  and  on 
the  other  hand  they  are  loudly  defended. 


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ARCHITECTURE  AND  THE  MAN 


35 


and  declared  to  be  in  a  flourishing  and 
healthy  condition,  developing  steadily 
and  triumphantly.  On  the  whole,  the 
optimists  seem  to  have  it. 

Good  architecture  is  now  beginning 
to  receive  recognition  from  many  new 
sources.  The  modem  educator  admits 
the  moral  and  physical  effect  of  beauty 
in  the  school-house,  and  he  demands  a 
sympathetic  atmosphere  for  his  pupils. 

In  the  hospital  of  to-day  gfreat  care  is 
taken  to  prevent  the  suggestion  of  any- 
thing disagreeable  or  dispiriting.  Wards 
must  be  light,  sunny,  and  well  pro- 
portioned. Attractive  surroundings,  a 
pleasant  outlook,  everything  that  can 
add  to  the  effect  of  cheerfulness,  are 
considered  powerful  factors  in  aiding 
the  physicians  to  secure  a  larger  per- 
centage of  cures. 

There  has  been  a  revolution  in 
factory  building,  for  it  has  been  dis- 
covered that  the  condition  of  the  work- 
shop counts.  Men  and  women  are 
depressed  or  stimulated  as  the  work- 
shops are  dull  and  ugly,  or  bright  and 
cheerful.  Not  only  light,  temperature, 
comfort,  and  cleanliness  are  subjects 
of  grave  considieration,  but  we  are 
seriously  informed  that  a  certain 
amount  of  beauty  is  thought  necessary 
for  the  modem  workshop. 

This  is  not  the  conclusion  of  philan- 
thropists,   but   the   last    word   of   the 


modern  manufacturer,  who  places  effici- 
ency above  all  else.  How  much  work 
can  he  get  out  of  his  employees,  and 
what  is  it  worth  in  dollars  and  cents? 
Apparently  it  is  worth  a  great  deal. 

Accordingly  the  commercial  value  of 
beauty  has  unexpectedly  come  to  our 
rescue,  and  we  may  hope  for  an  in- 
creased appreciation  of  good  archi- 
tecture and  even  for  a  growing  love  of 
beauty  for  its  own  sake. 

The  American  Academy  in  Rome  is 
doing  much  for  architectural  education, 
and  the  two  expositions  in  California 
are  greatly  stimulating  public  interest. 
No  one  can  see  the  splendid  combina- 
tion of  buildings  and  sculpture,  courts 
and  gardens,  in  San  Francisco  or  the 
entirely  charming  reminiscences  of 
Spain  assembled  for  our  benefit  among 
the  luxuriant  foliage  of  San  Diego  with- 
out experiencing  a  thrill  of  delight.  The 
excellence  of  the  work  of  the  individual 
designers  is  perhaps  less  notable  than 
the  poise  and  balance  that  come  from 
symmetry  of  arrangement  and  well- 
studied  grouping,  a  proof  of  the  im- 
mense value  of  good  team  work. 

The  influence  of  these  two  archi- 
tectural triumphs  will  go  far,  as  far  we 
hope  as  Washington,  where  unfor- 
tunately it  has  been  necessary  to  main- 
tain a  constant  struggle  to  preserve  the 
dignity  and  beauty  of  the  capital  city. 


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THE  CHAIRMAN 


If  ever  there  has  been  a  time  in  our 
history  when  discipline  should  become 
a  word  to  conjure  with  it  is  now. 
Leaders  in  letters,  in  music,  painting, 
sculpture,  tell  us  of  the  rebellion  of 
pupils  against  sustained  work  and  their 
pursuit  of  that  ignis  fatuus  which  is 


supposed  to  light  a  short-cut  toward 
attainment.  The  distinguished  leader 
of  the  largest  body  of  university  men 
in  the  country  will  address  us,  and  will 
talk  of  Discipline  and  the  Social  Aim 
in  Education. 


DISCIPLINE  AND  THE  SOCIAL  AIM  OF  EDUCATION 

By  Nicholas  Murray  Butler 


The  brief  paper  which  I  shall  read 
this  morning  has  been  written  to  con- 
clude a  somewhat  extended  argument 
as  to  the  meaning  of  the  process  and 
human  institution  that  we  call  educa- 
tion. In  the  course  of  that  argument 
the  fundamental  philosophical  prin- 
ciples upon  which  education  rests  have 
been  examined  and  discussed.  Applica- 
tion of  those  principles  has  been  pro- 
posed to  a  number  of  practical  educa- 
tional problems.  In  the  4;ourse  of  the 
argument  attention  is  given  to  those 
tests  and  standards  by  which  the  educa- 
tional progress  of  the  individual  man 
may  be  measured.  There  remains  the 
question  as  to  the  social  aim  of  educa- 
tion. What  should  be  the  object  of 
discipline  in  this  respect?  This  par- 
ticular question  is  forced  upon  us  at  the 
moment  by  the  events  of  the  European 
War.  We  are  everywhere  taking  note 
of  and  contrasting  various  national 
ideals  of  education  and  of  social  organi- 
zation. What  should  be  the  American 
ideal  in  these  respects?  To  that  ques- 
tion I  should  like  briefly  to  address 
myself. 

All  training  implies  an  end  or  pur- 
pose. The  systematic  development  of 
knowledge  and  capacity,  and  the  syste- 
matic formation  of  habits  of  thought 
and  of  action,  would  have  no  signifi- 
cance or  value  unless  they  aimed  to 
accomplish  some  definite  result.  Moral- 


ists and  political  philosophers  have 
toiled  for  ages  to  formulate  and  to 
define  an  end  or  object  of  training  and 
discipline,  and  the  result  is  some  of  the 
most  illuminating  and  inspiring  of  the 
world's  literature. 

A  moment's  reflection  will  make  it 
plain  that  the  purpose  of  training  and 
of  discipline  will  depend  upon  the 
philosophy  of  life  which  controls  our 
thinking  and  our  action.  If  one's 
philosophy  of  life,  so  called,  is  to  have 
no  philosophy,  but  only  to  try  to  deal 
with  each  situation  as  it  arises  and  to 
make  the  best  of  it,  then  the  end  and 
purpose  of  training  will  be  simply  that 
one  may  drift  aimlessly  about  on  a  sea 
which  he  has  no  instruments  to  measure, 
and  be  borne  by  currents  which  he  has 
no  power  to  divert  or  to  withstand.  It 
is  apparent,  too,  that  under  the  influence 
of  a  system  of  caste,  or  of  a  uniform 
religious  belief,  or  of  an  all-controlling 
national  aim  or  purpose,  discipline  and 
training  will  be  given  a  precise  and 
definite  form.  The  younger  generation 
will  be  taught  either  to  feel  the  force 
of  the  caste  distinctions  and  to  enter 
into  a  caste  with  all  that  it  implies,  or 
to  accept  the  formulas  and  the  ritual  of 
a  religion  to  which  it  gives  inherited 
adherence,  or  to  subject  itself  to  the 
legally  organized  powers  and  organs  of 
the  state  and  to  do  their  will  uncom- 
plainingly and  as  effectively  as  possible. 


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DISCIPLINE  AND  THE  SOCIAL  AIM  OF  EDUCATION 


31 


For  the  great  modem  democracies, 
no  one  of  these  ends  or  aims  of  dis- 
cipline is  possible,  since  these  democ- 
racies rest  upon  the  principles  of 
equality  before  the  law  and  of  oppor- 
tunity open  freely  to  talent  of  every 
kind.  The  purpose  and  function  of 
discipline  in  a  democracy  are  neces- 
sarily quite  diflFerent  from  those  that 
approve  themselves  in  an  absolute 
monarchy  or  in  a  nation  which  accepts 
the  principles  that  the  state  is  diflferent 
from,  and  superior  to,  the  individuals 
that  compose  it,  and  that  it  is  not  sub- 
ject to  the  moral  and  legal  limitations 
which  bind  the  indiyiduaL  Membership 
in  such  a  st^te  is  not  citizenship,  but 
subordination.  Such  a  state  may  attain, 
for  a  time  at  least,  a  high  degree  of 
social  and  political  effectiveness,  but  this 
effectiveness  will  be  gained  at  the  cost 
of  civil  liberty ;  and  the  price  is  far  too 
high  to  pay.  The  educational  system 
of  a  nation  which  accepts  a  form  of 
political  philosophy  sudi  as  this  will 
naturally  aim  at  two  things.  It  will 
aim  to  train  the  few  for  effective  leader- 
.ship  and  it  will  aim  to  train  the  many 
for  effective  subordination.  It  will  fix 
a  substantial  barrier  between  those 
schools  and  institutions  which  train  for 
leadership  and  those  schools  and  institu- 
tions which  train  for  subordination. 
This  subordination  may  be  political  or 
it  may  be  social  or  it  may  be  economic 
or  it  may  be  military,  but  if  it  exists, 
there  can  be  no  such  thing  as  common 
schools  in  the  nation.  The  conception 
of  conmion  schools  and  the  very  name 
itself  are  the  product  of  the  social 
philosophy  of  democracy.  The  com- 
mon school  is  not  and  cannot  be  a  class 
school.  It  is  a  school  for  the  children 
of  the  whole  people  in  which  they  are 
to  be  given  that  instruction  and  that 
discipline  which  lay  the  foundations 
not  for  leadership  in  a  state  and  not  for 
subordination  in  a  §tate,  but  for  citizen- 
ship of  a  state ;  and  these  are  the  same 
for  all. 

The  ethical  and  the  social  aims  of 
education  are  accomplished  in  part  by 


example,  in  part  by  precept,  and  in  still 
larger  part  by  practice.  The  inculca- 
tion of  virtue  by  precept  is  far  less 
effective  than  the  inculcation  of  virtue 
by  example,  and  the  inculcation  of 
virtue  by  example  requires  for  its  com- 
pletion the  habitual  practise  of  that 
virtue  by  the  pupil.  This  explains  why, 
in  the  elementary  and  secondary  schools, 
so  little  attention  is  paid  to  formal  in- 
struction in  morals  and  in  duties,. and 
why  so  much  emphasis  is  properly  laid 
upon  the  personality  of  the  teacher  and 
upon  the  actual  behavior  and  habits  of 
the  pupils. 

The  problem  of  discipline  in  the 
educational  system  of  a  democracy  is 
the  world-old  problem  of  reconciling 
liberty  with  order,  progress  with  perma- 
nence, and  government  with  justice. 
Not  until  mankind  is  itself  perfect  will 
this  problem  be  finally  ^nd  completely 
solved.  The  pressing  question  that  now 
arises  to  perplex  the  democracies  of  the 
world  is  how  to  secure  increased 
national  effectiveness  without  the  sacri- 
fice of  liberty,  how  to  move  forward 
toward  the  attainment  .of  a  national 
purpose  without  calling  upon  the  agents 
and  organs  of  despotism  to  take  com- 
mand. In  other  words,  the  question  is 
how  to  reconcile  the  civil  liberty  of  the 
individual  with  an  increasing  degree  of 
national  organization  for  national  needs 
and  with  a  steadily  increasing  sense  of 
individual  responsibility  for  a  collective 
purpose  or  policy.  This  is  the  precise 
topic  which  most  concerns  the  philoso- 
phers of  to-day  who  would  throw  light 
upon  the  difficult  problems  of  the 
moment  as  these  arise  in  education,  in 
ethics,  and  in  politics. 

It  is  of  the  essence  of  democracy  that 
every  man  shall  be  called  upon  to  do 
the  best  that  is  in  him  and  to  do  this  in 
such  manner  as  not  to  limit  the  similar 
right  and  the  equal  opportunity  of  every 
other  man  to  do  the  same.  Therefore, 
every  one's  share  in  collective  action  or 
in  the  accomplishment  of  a  collective 
purpose  must  be  something  which  he 
imposes  upon  himself,  and  not  some- 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


thing  which  is  imposed  upon  him  by 
force  from  without  or  by  the  authority 
of  other  wills  than  his  own.  The  abnor- 
mal or  atypical  person  must,  of  course, 
be  dealt  with  in  abnormal  and  atypical 
ways,  but  the  normal  human  being  must 
be  called  upon  to  become  responsible 
for  himself  and  to  render  service  to  the 
community  as  his  own  free  act  and  not 
in  response  to  the  compulsion  of 
another. 

There  can  be  no  dispute  as  to  the 
fact  that  society  is  composed  of  in- 
dividual men,  but  there  appears  to  be 
wide  difference  of  opinion  as  to  the 
relation  in  which  society  should  stand 
to  the  individual  units  that  compose  it. 
There  are  those  who,  confident  of  the 
wisdom  of  their  own  opinions  and  judg- 
ment, impatient  of  the  slow  sagacity  of 
nature,  and  dissatisfied  with  the  imper- 
fect results  of  education,  would  extend 
the  rule  of  compulsion  over  the  conduct 
and  habits  of  men  from  the  necessary 
to  the  merely  expedient,  and  from  the 
highly  important  to  the  trivial  and  in- 
significant. It  is  just  now  a  common 
observation  that  whenever  a  majority, 
however  fickle  or  however  fortuitous, 
can  be  obtained  in  support  of  a  given 
restriction  upon  others  which  com- 
mends itself  to  their  own  judgment  or 
their  own  feelings,  they  will  promptly 
impose  that  restriction  upon  all  men 
within  reach  of  their  authority,  quite 
regardless  of  its  ultimate  moral  and 
social  effects.  This  is  the  disposition 
which  for  many  centuries  has  been 
responsible  at  one  time  or  another  for 
sumptuary  legislation  of  various  kinds, 
and  for  the  annoying  and  foolish  re- 
strictions which  have  from  time  to  time 
been  imposed  upon  men  without  any 
permanent  result  other  than  to  make 
clear  the  unwisdom  of  the  principles 
and  policies  which  guide  such  action. 
This  is  the  danger  that  is  always  present 
in  those  movements  which,  to  those  who 
are  enthusiastic  in  their  support,  and 
frequently  high-minded,  appear  to  make 
for  moral  and  economic  progress  and 
prosperity,  but  which  in  reality  have  an 


opposite  effect,  because  they  extend  the 
area  of  compulsion  over  conduct. 

Sound  discipline  has  a  higher  social 
aim  than  this,  and  it  proceeds  by  a  quite 
different  method.  It  takes  its  start 
from  the  capacity  and  the  educability 
of  the  person.  Upon  this  it  makes  the 
most  rigorous  and  insistent  demands. 
It  aims  to  develop  personality,  self,  to 
the  utmost,  but  it  aims  to  develop  it  as 
selfhood  and  not  as  selfishness.  The 
gap  between  selfhood  and  selfishness  is 
as  wide  as  the  gap  between  a  sound 
and  an  unsound  individualism.  Unsound 
individualism  errs  on  its  side  as  com- 
pletely as  does  collectivism  on  the  other 
side.  The  one  means  an  eventful 
anarchy  where  right  is  determined  by 
the  rule  of  might;  the  other  means  a 
stagnation  where  right  is  determined  by 
tradition  and  by  custom.  Between  the 
two,  sharing  the  advantages  of  in- 
dividualism and  of  collectivism  alike 
and  avoiding  the  evils  of  both,  lies  that 
form  of  political  and  moral  philosophy 
which,  for  lack  of  a  better  term,  may 
be  called  institutionalism.  This  philoso- 
phy teaches  that  the  man  finds  his  com- 
pletion and  his  satisfaction  in  willing 
membership  in  the  social  whole,  with  all 
the  obligations  that  such  membership 
brings  as  to  human  service  and  as  to 
collective  responsibility. 

Institution^ism  finds  in  the  family, 
in  the  church,  in  the  state,  in  private 
property,  in  science,  in  literature,  and 
in  the  fine  arts  those  institutions  and 
undertakings  which  represent  the  striv- 
ing of  human  personality  toward  the 
goal  of  self-expression  and  attainment. 
No  one  of  these  institutions  or  under- 
takings is  static  or  fixed,  but  every  one 
of  them  reveals  in  history  a  process  of 
development  which  appears  to  be 
toward  greater  perfection  and  the  in- 
creasing satisfaction  of  man.  Where, 
as  in  the  case  of  the  church,  of  litera- 
ture, and  of  the  fine  arts,  there  seem 
to  be  exceptions  to  this  rule,  inasmuch 
as  an  astounding  standard  of  perfection 
was  reached  in  the  early  stages  of 
Western  civilization,  there  is  much  food 


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DISCIPLINE  AND  THE  SOCIAL  AIM  OF  EDUCATION 


39 


for  reflection.  It  may,  perhaps,  be  true 
that  some  of  the  more  subtle  and 
imaginative  forms  of  himian  expres- 
sion and  achievement  are  as  well  able 
to  approximate  perfection  in  their 
earliest  manifestations  as  after  a  long 
course  of  development. 

It  is  in  these  institutions  and  under- 
takings that  man  finds  that  larger  edu- 
cation which  life  superimposes  upon 
the  discipline  and  training  of  the  school. 
It  is  through  participation  in  these  in- 
stitutions and  undertakings  and,  in  the 
case  of  exceptional  men,  through  con- 
tribution to  our  knowledge  of  them  or 
through  furthering  their  development, 
that  personality  finds  its  highest  expres- 
sion and  its  fullest  satisfaction.  A 
person  is,  as  Kant  long  ago  pointed  out, 
not  a  means  to  an  end ;  a  human  person 
is  an  end  in  himself.  The  enriching  of 
one's  own  personality  is  the  real  basis 
for  human  service  and  for  bearing  a 
share  of  collective  responsibiUty.  The 
objective  goods  that  may  follow  from 
human  service  and  from  collective 
action  are  of  course  highly  important, 
but  the  subjective  results  in  the  minds 
and  characters  of  those  who  participate 
in  them  are  more  important  still. 

Autocracy  and  an  all-powerful  non- 
moral  state  have  demonstrated  that 
they  can  obtain  and  manifest  a  marked 
degree  of  national  efficiency.  It  re- 
mains for  democracy  to  prove  that  it 
can  do  the  same,  or  it  will  eventually 
succumb  before  a  more  effective  type 
of  national  organization  in  which  true 
civil  liberty  is  unknown. 

The  difficulties  of  democracy  are  the 
opportunities  of  education.  It  is  for 
the  educational  system  of  a  really  free 
people  so  to  train  and  discipline  its 
children  that  their  contribution  to  na- 
tional organization  and  national  effec- 
tiveness will  be  voluntary  and  generous, 
not  prescribed  and  forced. 

The  service  and  the*  sacrifice  which 
are  the  results  of  a  self-imposed  limita- 
tion are  worth  many  times  the  service 
and  the  sacrifice  that  follow  prescrip- 
tion and  compulsion.    The  moment  that 


we  substitute  for  an  autonomous  will, 
a  will  that  is  self-directed,  an  heterono- 
mous  will,  a  will  that  is  directed  by 
others,  we  have  treated  the  human 
being  not  as  a  person,  but  as  a  thing; 
we  have  substituted  mechanism  for  life. 

The  early  training  and  discipline  of 
the  child  are  for  the  purpose  of  teaching 
his  will  to  form  itself,  to  direct  itself, 
to  walk  alone.  Fortunately,  the  child 
is  not  asked  to  begin  his  life  ^t  the 
point  where  the  race  began,  but  he  is 
offered  through  the  family,  the  church, 
and  the  school  the  benefits  of  the  age- 
long experience  of  the  race  and  of  its 
inherited  culture  and  efficiency.  These 
are  offered  him  not  as  rods  for  chas- 
tisement or  formulas  for  repression,  but 
rather  as  food  upon  which  to  grow  and 
as  a  ladder  upon  which  to  climb.  If 
the  process  of  training  and  discipline 
has  been  wisely  ordered,  the  child  will 
come  to  the  end  of  his  formal  training 
not  only  with  keen  appreciation  of  what 
has  been  done  for  him,  but  with  eager 
anticipation  of  the  opportunity  that  lies 
open  before  him.  It  is  the  merest  sciol- 
ism to  suppose  that  every  child  can  or 
should  construct  the  world  anew  for 
himself.  His  own  reactions,  his  own 
experiences,  his  own  appreciations,  his 
own  reflections,  are  only  important  as 
part  of  a  process,  and  that  process  is 
his  gfrowing  into  an  understanding  of 
what  the  world  has  been  and  is,  in  order 
that  through  participation  in  it  he  may 
strive  to  alter  it  for  the  ^better. 

The  ideal  society  and  the  ideal  state 
is  not  one  ruled  by  a  despot,  by  a  mili- 
tary caste,  or  by  a  controlling  oligarchy, 
however  beneficent  these  may  be,  or 
however  efficiently  organized  the  masses 
whom  they  order  and  control.  The 
ideal  society  and  the  ideal  state  is  a 
democracy  in  which  every  man  and 
every  woman  is  fitted  to  be  free,  to  put 
forth  the  best  possible  eflFort  in  self-ex- 
pression through  participation  in  the 
great  human  institutions  and  undertak- 
ings that  constitute  civilization,  and  in 
service  like-minded  with  themselves. 
This  is  the  social  aim  of  a  soundly  con- 


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40  PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 

ceived  education.     To  its  accomplish-  complish  this,  they  are  futile.     "For 

ment,  all  training,  all  discipline,  all  vo-  what  shall  it  profit  a  man,  if  be  shall 

cational  preparation,  all  scholarship  are  gain  the  whole  world,  and  lo«e  bis  own 

intended  to  lead.     If  they  do  not  ac-  soul?" 


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THE  CHAIRMAN 


As  the  poet  Dante  passed  in  the 
streets  of  Florence,  the  women  and  chil- 
dren shrank  from  him,  saying,  "That 
is  the  man  who  has  been  in  hell."  To- 
day a  man  who  has  been  in  hell  is 
coming  towards  us  upon  the  ocean  only 
a  day  away.  It  was  to  him  that,  in 
their  hour  of  direst  need,  the  women 
and  children  of  Belgium  crowded  for 
help  and  sympathy.  At  the  very  center 
of  the  great  conflict,  facing  danger  and 


ministering  to  need,  he  yet  found  time 
for  a  service  to  art  and  to  the  Institute. 
In  a  time  of  doubt  he  has  seen  his 
way  clearly  and  has  "stood  four  square 
to  all  the  winds  that  blow."  We  count 
it  great  fortune  to  hear  about  the  Amer- 
ican quality  from  one  who  in  this  dis- 
tracted time  has  so  nobly  upheld  what 
we  think  are  American  ideals.  Mr. 
Whitlock's  paper  will  be  read  by  the 
friend  whom  he  specially  designated 
as  its  reader,  Mr.  Hamlin  Garland. 


THE  AMERICAN  QUALITY  IN  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

By  Brand  Whitlock 


In  Walt  Whitman's  essay  on  "Demo- 
cratic Vistas,"  there  is  a  passage  that 
has  long  had  for  me  a  curious  fascina- 
tion. The  poet  in  his  ardent  way  had 
been  studying  the  achievements  and  ten- 
dencies of  our  republic,  and  he  tells  us 
that  in  passing  to  and  fro,  beholding  the 
crowds  in  the  great  cities,  a  singular 
awe  falls  upon  him.  He  feels  "with  de- 
jection and  amazement"  that  among  our 
geniuses  few  or  none  have  yet  really 
spoken  to  this  people,  created  a  single 
image-making  work  for  them.  He  says : 

"What  has  filFd  and  fills  to-day  our 
intellect,  our  fancy,  furnishing  the 
standards  therein,  is  yet  foreign.  The 
great  poems,  Shakspere's  included,  are 
poisonous  to  the  pride  and  dignity  of 
the  common  people,  the  life  blood  of 
democracy.  The  models  of  our  litera- 
ture, as  we  get  it  from  other  lands, 
ultra-marine,  have  had  their  birth  in 
courts,  and  bask'd  and  grown  in  castle 
sunshine;  all  smells  of  princes'  favors. 
Of  writers  of  a  certain  sort,  we  have 
indeed  plenty,  contributing  after  their 
kind;  many  elegant,  many  leam'd,  all 
complacent.  But  touched  by  the  na- 
tional test,  or  tried  by  the  standards  of 
democratic  personality,  they  wither  to 
ashes." 


And  then  he  exclaims :  "Do  you  call 
those  genteel  little  creatures  American 
poets  ?  Do  you  call  that  perpetual,  pis- 
tareen,  paste-pot  work,  American  art, 
American  drama,  taste,  verse?  I  think 
I  hear,  echoed  as  from  some  mountain- 
top  afar  in  the  West,  the  scornful  laugh 
of  the  Genius  of  These  States." 

He  is  speaking  of  American  democ- 
racy here  in  his  capacity  of  prophet 
rather  than  in  his  capacity  of  poet,  even 
if  his  prophecy  does  sound  much  like 
his  poetry.  It  is  a  long  essay,  more  or 
le3S  abstruse,  and  probably  as  little  liked 
as  it  is  little  read.  In  it  Whitman 
sounds,  as  he  was  wont  to  say,  his  bar- 
baric yawp  over  the  housetops;  much 
of  it,  like  much  of  all  prophecy  and 
poetry,  if  not  over  the  housetops,  is  at 
least  over  the  head,  though  Whitman 
might  have  said  of  his  prophecy,  as 
Browning  said  of  his  own  poetry,  that 
he  never  intended  it  as  a  substitute  for 
a  cigar, — art,  I  suppose,  being  a  collab- 
oration between  the  artist  and  the  ama- 
teur, and  subjective  poetry  and  subjec- 
tive democracy  difficult  to  comprehend 
even  by  that  limited  aristocracy  that 
finds  them  one  and  the  same  thing. 

Whitman  was  writing  in  1871,  at  the 
beginning  of  that  decade  in  which  taste 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


in  America  was  so  poor  that  years  af- 
terward, when  Mr.  Howells  wished  to 
show  how  bad  some  bit  of  architecture 
and  decoration  was,  he  had  only  to  say, 
'The  70's  had  done  their  worst."  The 
epoch  made  memorable  by  the  names  of 
Irving,  Cooper,  and  Bryant,  Poe  and 
Emerson,  Hawthorne,  Longfellow, 
Whittier,  Lowell  and  Holmes,  had 
closed  with  the  Civil  War,  and,  al- 
though Whitman  respected  and  admired 
much  of  that  literature,  and  said  he 
could  not  imagine  any  better  luck  befall- 
ing these  States  for  a  poetical  beginning 
and  initiation  than  had  come  from  Em- 
erson, Longfellow,  Bryant,  and  Whit- 
tier, he  had  for  its  romanticism  the  im- 
patience that  romanticism  always  in- 
spires in  the  democratic  temperament. 
For  when  it  was  not  wholly  of  roman- 
ticism, it  was  of  its  traditions  from  the 
days  of  Irving,  who  imported  the  or- 
iginal stock.  Hawthorne  had  frankly 
regretted  that  there  was  no  romantic 
ruins  in  America  to  inspire  him,  and 
Cooper  found  in  his  own  land  only  the 
scene  and  not  the  spirit  of  those  tales 
the  heroes  of  which  were  medieval 
knights  in  buckskin  and  Indian  chiefs 
who  talked  like  Mr.  Gladstone. 

In  the  sick  mind  of  Poe,  that  pioneer 
of  decadence,  whom  Emerson  called 
"the  jingle  man,"  romanticism  found  a 
fertile  soil  for  its  rankest  growths.  His 
gloomy  and  morbid  genius  was  as  alien 
to  the  American  spirit  as  that  of  the 
luxurious  Baudelaire,  his  translator, 
commentator,  and  admirer,  who  de- 
spised America  and  hated  the  whole 
scheme  of  democracy,  and  it  was  pre- 
cisely for  that  reason,  as  he  does  not 
fail  to  make  clear,  that  Baudelaire  se- 
lected Poe  as  the  only  one  of  our  race 
with  whom  he  could  have  sympathy. 

Of  all  the  brilliant  group,  Emerson,  in 
his  thought,  was  the  most  distinctly 
American,  as  ruggedly  and  originally 
American  as  Lincoln  himself,  and  with 
an  almost  identical  sense  of  the  spiritual 
meaning  and  purpose  of  the  New 
World.  Perhaps  it  was  this  fact  that 
made  him  so  universal,  so  that  his  phil- 


osophy lifts  him  out  of  common  cate- 
gories and  places  him  in  the  ranks  of 
Montaigne  and  Marcus  Aurelius. 

The  others  were  all  sound,  whole- 
some, genial  normal  men,  and  normal 
Americans,  too,  in  all  their  civic  sym- 
pathies, and  proudly  aware  of  their  citi- 
zenship in  the  New  World.  Longfellow 
was  perhaps  nearer  the  people  than  any 
of  the  others,  though  it  may  be  that  I 
have  this  impression  because  there  is 
very  clear  in  my  memory  that  wintry 
morning  in  the  Ohio  school-house  when 
the  teacher  told  us  he  was  dead.  We 
were  all  as  depressed  as  though  we  had 
lost  a  friend,  and  one  litle  girl  put  her 
head  down  on  her  desk  and  cried.  She 
was  the  girl,  I  think,  to  whom  the  poet 
had  sent  his  autograph  for  the  school's 
celebration  of  his  birthday  only  a  month 
before.  No  poet  can  be  far  from  the 
people  of  his  land  when  he  is  loved  by 
the  children  in  the  public  schools.  Whit- 
tier had  much  of  this  same  affection, 
for  he  was  of  the  people,  too,  and  as 
Quaker  could  hardly  fail  to  be  genu- 
inely of  the  American  spirit,  just  as  the 
noble  Commemoration  Ode  shows  Low- 
ell mostly  to  have  been. 

They  courageously  took  their  part  as 
scholars  in  politics,  though  they  guarded 
their  art  from  its  contacts,  and  lived  in 
another  world,  as  artists  are  wont  to  do 
— 3L  world  that  one  somehow  thinks  of 
in  the  case  as  that  Victorian,  or,  better, 
that  Tennysonian,  world  of  country 
gentlemen  living  gracefully  in  old 
Georgian  mansions,  among  elms  and 
yew-trees  and  lovely  lawns,  with  sun- 
dials and  trim  hedges,  a  fixed  and 
finished  world,  with  every  man  content- 
ed in  his  place. 

The  successive  imitations,  dilutions, 
and  attenuations  that  immediately  fol- 
lowed them  were  less  and  less  of  the 
people,  now  interested  in  other  things. 
For  with  the  great  war  over,  new 
thoughts,  new  aspirations  were  stirring. 
Before  the  nation  lay  a  mighty  task, 
a  new  and  fascinating  adventure,  an 
ambition  no  less  than  to  subjugate  a 
continent,    and   men   sprang   with   the 


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spirit  of  Jacob  to  wrestle  with  the 
earth.  No  man  now  for  romanticism 
in  presence  of  the  romantic  reality !  The 
imagination  of  the  land  was  turned 
toward  the  boundless  West,  and  young 
men,  as  ruthless  as  the  Forty-niners 
or  the  old  scouts  and  Indian-fighters, 
joined  the  splendid  pageant  of  the  pi- 
oneers to  stretch  railroads  across  the 
prairies,  uprear  cities,  make  a  civil- 
ization in  the  wilderness,  and  grow  up 
with  the  country. 

They  had  little  sympathy  with  writ- 
ers in  general,  much  less  with  writers 
who,  bhnd  to  all  that  was  going  on  out 
of  doors,  knew  the  people  only  as  a 
vague  element  against  which  to  draw 
the  characters  they  traced  from  other 
books,  like  those  pallid  students  one 
sees  in  the  Louvre  making  copies  of  the 
masters.  Small  wonder  the  "Genius  of 
These  States"  poured  his  scornful 
laugh  from  the  mountain-top  afar  in  the 
West. 

Whitman,  in  regretting  that  none  of 
our  geniuses  had  yet  spoken  to  the 
people,  could  not  have  failed  to  observe 
from  his  own  experience  how  difficult 
is  that  supreme  achievement,  especially 
for  the  sophisticated  artists.  It  is  one 
thing  to  write  about  the  people,  quite 
another  to  write  for  them.  It  requires 
that  naivete  which  artists  early  lose,  or 
that  simplicity  which  they  rarely  attain. 

We  sometimes  sigl*.  over  the  want  of 
appreciation  of  art  among  us,  as  though 
there  were  somewhere  a  country  in 
which  all  the  people  have  cultivated 
tastes ;  but  there  is  no  such  country.  In 
the  older  nations  there  is,  of  course, 
a  greater  accumulation  of  artistic  treas- 
ure, public  monuments  on  which  Time, 
the  consummate  artist,  has  placed  her 
subtle  patina,  and  unconsciously  the 
taste  is  affected  by  these  noble  pres- 
ences ;  but  the  public  there  has  the  same 
idols  the  public  worships  everywhere, 
and  if  there  is  an  altar  to  art,  it  is  to 
an  unknown  God.  Even  the  great 
painters  had  small  recognition  in  their 
day.  The  taste  of  the  crowd  was  fixed 
on  the  cinema  of  their  time,  numerous 


examples  of  which  still  exist  in  the 
galleries  of  Europe.  The  public  recog- 
nition accorded  Phidias  was  the  accusa- 
tion by  the  people  of  Athens  of  having 
stolen  the  gold  intrusted  to  him  for  the 
embellishment  of  his  statue  of  Zeus, 
and  Rembrandt's  great  painting  "The 
Night- Watch"  was  refused  by  the  cor- 
poration of  Amsterdam  because  the  por- 
traits were  said  not  to  resemble  the 
originals.  In  pictures  the  public  looks 
not  for  beauty  or  artistic  excellence, 
but  for  some  drama,  some  story,  that 
literatesque  quality,  the  defect  of  many 
English  and  American  paintings,  which 
easily  piques  the  interest.  It  is  no 
doubt  the  first  requisite  of  any  work 
of  the  imagination  that  it  be  inter- 
esting, but  what  interests  the  artist 
and  what  interests  the  public  are  two 
widely  different  things.  The  public 
likes  the  primitive  tale  of  adventure, 
in  which  the  adventurer  does  not  have 
to  pay  in  his  own  character  for  his 
deeds,  and  sentimental  stories  that  ig- 
nore the  logic  of  life;  and  seemingly 
it  likes  the  same  story  over  and  over 
again,  like  children  who  resent  the  alter- 
ation of  a  single  idea  in  the  tales  told 
to  them  at  bedtime  and  hold  one  to 
one's  identical  phrases.  It  is  no  mean 
power,  this  ability  to  touch  the  common 
heart,  to  gratify  the  public  taste,  but 
a  noble  one,  and  the  pity  is  that  the 
writers  who  are  endowed  with  it  often 
seem  insensible  to  the  responsibility 
it  entails. 

This  adolescent  taste,  common  to 
the  people  everywhere,  is  especially 
marked  in  time  of  abnormal  material 
growth,  such  as  the  era  that  followed 
the  Civil  War.  Not  only  the  creation, 
but  the  appreciation,  of  art  requires  en- 
ergy, and  the  energies  of  men  intensely 
preoccupied  with  worldly  achievement, 
always  at  variance  with  artistic  ideals, 
are  absorbed  in  their  conflicts.  The 
superman  is  too  impatient  for  what  he 
calls  results  to  develop  qualities  that 
do  not  directly  serve  his  ends,  and  his 
esthetic  and  emotional  nature  remains 
undeveloped  and  elemental    Unwilling 


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to  admit  any  inferiority  in  himself,  he 
is  irritated  by  anything  he  cannot  un- 
derstand at  a  glance.  Poetry  he  simply 
cannot  grasp;  as  well  ask  a  pugilist  to 
read  "Rabbi  Ben  Ezra."  And  yet,  he 
has  his  hours  of  relaxation,  consents  to 
be  amused,  and  turning  from  the  serious 
things  of  life  to  the  soft,  the  dreamy, 
the  impracticable,  he  may  smile  indul- 
gently on  artists,  whom  he  regards  as 
part  of  his  valetry,  with  chorus  girls, 
comedians,  clowns,  and  negro  minstrels. 
Publishers,  editors,  and  theatrical  man- 
agers begin  to  flatter  him,  to  pander  to 
him,  to  give  him  what  he  wants.  If  the 
author  listens  to  the  tempter,  he  aban- 
dons art  for  business,  and,  since  paper 
can  be  manufactured  from  wood,  and 
books  be  bound  by  machines,  a  busi- 
ness that  can  be  made  very  profitable. 
All  men  of  good-will  everywhere  re- 
joice to  see  the  artist  prosper,  and  salute 
him  with  admiration  as  he  passes  in 
his  touring-car,  but  they  nevertheless 
guard  themselves  against  the  resulting 
confusion  between  literature  and  print- 
ed matter. 

The  memory  of  the  first  clear  note  of 
the  American  motive  in  our  fiction  takes 
us  back  to  the  days  in  which  we  seem 
to  have  had  more  literary  criticism  than 
we  have  in  these,  when  publishers,  tak- 
ing culture  into  their  own  hands,  wisely 
observe  the  precaution  to  print  a  re- 
view of  each  book  on  its  cover.  We 
were  all  thrilling  then  over  Mr.  How- 
ells's  battle  for  realism,  as  we  under- 
stand the  word  in  America,  not  natural- 
ism, or  mere  meticulous  accuracy  in  re- 
porting superficial  details,  but  that  in- 
ner realism  which  is  the  soul  of  things 
and  one  with  the  logic  of  life,  the  eye 
clear  enough  to  see  and  the  heart  strong 
enough  to  accept  the  results  of  char- 
acter and  deed.  It  is  a  principle  that 
must  be  the  basis  of  any  art  that  is 
democratic,  as  it  is  the  basis  of  democ- 
racy itself. 

It  was,  indeed,  the  democratic  faith, 
no  less  than  the  literary  genius,  of  Mr. 
Howells  that  gave  the  first  impulse 
toward  a  native  and  indigenous  fiction. 


and  with  the  vision  that  accompanies 
all  real  faith  he  saw  what  art  might  do 
with  the  rich  and  varied  life  that  lay 
all  undiscovered  before  the  eyes  of 
American  writers.  In  **A  Modem  In- 
stance,*' and  "The  Rise  of  Silas  Lap- 
ham,"  to  select  only  two  of  his  many 
novels,  he  laid  the  foundation  of  a  new 
literature  in  America.  We  had  for  the 
first  time  American  novels  that  were  of 
American  authenticity;  that  is,  they 
were  faithful  to  the  American  condition 
they  pictured,  with  portraits,  instead  of 
photographs  and  caricatures,  of  typical 
American  characters,  fresh  from  the 
hand  of  an  American  who  knew  Ameri- 
can life,  viewed  it  with  sympathy  and 
understanding,  and,  above  all,  from  the 
American  point  of  view. 

It  is  difficult  to  realize  now  just  what 
those  novels  meant  in  our  literature,  in 
view  of  what  it  had  been.  There  was 
in  them  a  new  quality,  genuine  and  in- 
vigorating, and  they  exercised  an  in- 
fluence on  American  literature  as  pro- 
found as  had  Gogol's  "Cloak"  on  Rus- 
sian literature.  More  by  his  perform- 
ance even  than  by  his  precept,  since  the 
best  criticism  of  any  work  is  better 
work,  Mr.  Howells  changed  the  man- 
ner of  writing  novels  in  America,  as 
Ibsen  created  a  revolution  in  the  writing 
of  plays  everywhere.  Playwrights  might 
scoff  at  Ibsen,  but  they  did  not  dare  to 
write  as  they  had  written  before  he 
wrote ;  their  old  tricks,  expedients,  and 
dodges  would  no  longer  serve ;  no  more 
soliloquys,  no  more  asides,  no  more 
lapses  of  time,  once  Ibsen  had  shown 
how  silly  and  unreal  these  were.  And 
so  with  Mr.  Howells;  no  one  in  Amer- 
ica writes  as  he  might  have  written  be- 
fore Mr.  Howells  wrote.  Under  his 
Imfluence,  and  affected,  no  doubt,  by 
those  Russian,  Spanish,  and  Italian 
writers  whom  he  introduced  to  his 
people,  and,  so  far  as  manner  was  con- 
cerned, by  the  modem  French  school, 
the  work  of  creating  an  American  liter- 
ature was  undertaken,  one  might  almost 
say,  in  the  practical  American  way. 
Every  writer  who  felt  the  impulse  to 


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interpret  his  own  time  and  his  own 
people  quite  wisely  began  at  home. 
There  was  an  industrious  scratching  of 
the  native  soil,  every  part  of  the  Union 
was  subjected  to  a  careful  examination, 
every  State  in  turn  minutely  analyzed, 
the  customs  and  habits  of  different  re- 
gions duly  set  down  and  noted,  and  the 
several  dialects  of  the  English  language 
spoken  among  us,  some  of  them  still 
redolent  of  the  accents  of  foreign  lands, 
faithfully  recorded.  There  was  an  ex- 
tensive survey,  an  immense  documen- 
tation of  localities,  and  if  the  whole 
body  of  work  lacked  that  envergure 
that  would  make  it  national  in  range 
and  scope,  if  it  did  not  immediately 
take  on  the  epic  grandeur  of  our  terri- 
torial expansion  and  produce  an 
epopee  with  the  national  type  distinctly 
identified,  it  was  the  inevitable  conse- 
quence of  the  wide  extent  and  variation 
of  the  land,  of  lingering  sectionalism, 
and  of  conflicting  currents  of  race  and 
tradition. 

It  was  a  loving  labor,  all  animated  by 
the  same  intention  of  truth,  honesty, 
and  sincerity.  These  writers  wrote  be- 
cause they  had  a  story  to  tell  rather 
than  because  they  had  to  tell  a  story; 
their  work  had  a  native  flavor;  one  at 
least  with  the  nation's  mind,  it  was 
evolving  with  the  nation.  Critics  have 
said  that  it  was  sectional,  a  New  Eng- 
land, a  Southern,  a  Mid- Western,  and 
a  Western,  rather  than  an  American 
literature;  that  is  was  provincial,  not 
national.  It  was,  indeed,  representative 
of  the  several  distinct  regions  of  the 
land  and  of  their  local  pecuHarities,  but 
if  it  was  provincial  it  was  in  that  sense 
that  "Eugenie  Grandet"  or  "Madame 
Bovary"  or  "Pierre  et  Jean"  or  "Jude 
the  Obscure"  are  provincial.  The  scene 
if.  laid  in  the  provinces,  the  microcosm 
in  which  life,  everywhere  the  same,  may 
be  more  easily  studied,  and  I  suspect 
that  any  disappointment  that  might  have 
been  felt  in  it  was  due  to  our  American 
habit  of  looking   for  the  big. 

We  used  to  talk  in  those  days  of  the 
Great  American  Novel,  and  most  of  us 


fully  intended  some  day  to  write  it. 
But  is  was  found  to  be  a  rather  large 
order.  America  was  in  the  process  of 
that  recurrent  discovery  that  has  been 
going  on  since  Columbus's  time,  and 
changed  too  often  and  loomed  too 
large  for  any  single  imagination;  it 
was  beyond  the  writer,  as  the  Grand 
Canon  or  Niagara  are  beyond  the 
painter.  But  it  had  a  quality  that  de- 
termined its  validity  as  American  above 
any  other  claim,  and  that  was,  it  was 
not  pervaded  by  the  subtle  and  de- 
bilitating atmosphere  of  caste  and  rank 
and  privilege ;  even  in  the  dialect  stories 
the  characters  were  not  treated  patron- 
izingly, en  grand  seigneur,  de  hatit  en 
bas.  Between  this  work  and  what  had 
gone  before  there  was  the  difference  be- 
tween the  position  a  gillie  is  permitted 
to  assume  in  one  of  the  novels  of  Sir 
Walter  and  that  which  a  Scotsman 
takes  naturally  in  the  poems  of  Robert 
Bums.  The  novels  that  were  written 
as  the  result  of  this  impulse  were  not 
pel  haps  widely  popular.  The  new  ten- 
dency was  criticized,  sometimes  bitterly, 
a  fact  that  was  proof  of  its  significance. 
Most  of  us  can  remember  with  what  an 
outcry  Mr.  Howells's  "A  Hazard  of 
New  Fortunes"  was  received,  and  how 
Mr.  Howells  was  urged  to  continue  on 
the  safe  ground  of  old  sequences,  for 
he  was  getting  dangerously  near  truths 
that  have  a  very  high  explosive  poten- 
tiality. Our  language  had  not  been  en- 
riched at  that  time  by  the  word  "muck- 
raker,"  so  that  Mr.  Howells  could  not 
be  disposed  of  so  summarily  as  have 
some  of  our  novelists  who  since  that 
time  have  exposed  wrong  and  injustice, 
even  if  they  did  not  do  it  with  the  art 
that  is  inseparable  from  everything  he 
writes.  It  was  not  openly  declared  that 
wrong  and  injustice  should  not  be  ex- 
posed; it  was  only  insisted  that  it  was 
not  the  province  of  art  to  expose  them, 
and  if  art  felt  it  must  do  so,  it  was 
suggested  that  it  issue  pamphlets — 
which  nobody  would  read.  Perhaps 
the  same  reproach  was  visited  on  Cer- 
vantes when  he  muckraked  chivalry  in 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


'*Don  Quixote,"  for  that  book  must  have 
hurt  business  seriously,  or  on  Tolstoy 
when  he  muckracked  war  in  "War  and 
Peace,"  or  on  Turgenieff  when  he 
muckraked  serfdom  in  "The  Memoirs 
of  a  Sportsman." 

The  innate  conservatism  of  the  peo- 
ple— for  no  one  is  so  conservative  as 
the  crowd — opposes  innovation,  and 
with  people  of  our  race  art  always  en- 
counters the  chilling  influence  of  the 
Puritan  spirit,  always  suspicious  of 
beauty.  In  keeping  art  clean,  Puritan- 
ism risks  making  it  sterile ;  it  never  can 
Icam  that  there  is  something  antiseptic 
in  liberty,  so  that  it  purifies  itself  and 
heals  its  own  wounds.  It  is  not  so  in- 
transigeant  as  it  was,  and  yet  by  a  re- 
spectable portion  of  certain  of  our  com- 
munities, very  clean,  honest,  earnest, 
and  industrious  folk,  no  more  worthy 
to  be  found  anywhere,  it  was  actually 
considered  not  so  very  many  years  ago 
a  sin  to  read  a  novel  or  to  see  a  play, 
so  that  young  boys  were  left  either  to 
the  puerile  stories  given  out  in  Sunday 
schools  or  to  the  "Nickel  Libraries," 
which  could  be  folded  conveniently  for 
the  pocket  and  so  read  under  a  desk 
leaf  at  school,  and  then  exchanged,  in 
that  circulating  library  the  boys  thus 
early  founded  without  having  been  en- 
dowed by  Mr.  Carnegie.  I  remember, 
indeed,  to  have  read  an  excellent  one 
myself,  dealing  with  the  life,  trials, 
and  triumphs  of  Jesse  James  and  his 
brother  Frank.  I  seem  to  have  read 
it  at  the  time  with  absorbing  interest, 
though  I  could  not  read  it  now,  unless 
it  were  given  a  pasteboard  bade  and 
sold  for  a  dollar  and  eighteen  cents, 
with  a  cover  announcing  the  sensational 
discovery  of  the  latest  Alexander  Du- 
mas who  would  have  written  it. 

Romanticism,  indeed,  in  some  form 
always  contrives  to  flourish  on,  and 
to  prevail  over  its  patient,  meritorious 
rival,  even  if  it  has  to  go  into  the 
cinema,  where  under  the  censorship  of 
police  sergeants  it  is,  from  all  reports, 
doing  well  even  now.  And  doubtless 
it   will    continue   to   do   this,    for  our 


business  men,  after  two  hours  spent  in 
dictating  to  distinguished  stenographers 
in  the  morning,  two  hours  at  luncheon 
at  the  club  in  the  middle  of  the  day, 
and  eighteen  holes  of  golf  in  the  after- 
noon, are  so  tired  in  the  evening  that 
they  cannot  apply  their  undoubted 
judgment  in  art  to  the  works  of  serious 
writers,  while  their  lovely  daughters, 
whom  our  publishers  are  assiduous  to 
please,  have  long  since  passed  on  to 
William  Blake  and  Nietzsche.  And  as 
for  our  working-men,  after  the  day's 
work  is  done,  instead  of  reading  about 
the  upper  classes  in  the  English  serials 
that  are  always  running  in  the  maga- 
zines, they  go  out  to  see  the  movies. 
Sometimes  it  seems  indeed  that  the 
audience  is  so  reduced  and  limited  that 
there  is  nobody  left  for  whom  novels 
may  be  written,  unless  the  novelists 
write  for  one  another,  and  as  the  eti- 
quette of  the  profession  requires  that 
they  present  one  another  with  auto- 
graph copies  of  their  works,  they  seem 
sometimes  to  be  in  danger  of  eating 
one  another  up,  and  perishing  out  of 
the  earth  altogether. 

Fortunately,  however,  it  is  not  quite 
so  bad  as  that;  for,  notwithstanding 
the  confusion  of  standards,  our  writers 
of  the  tendency  I  have  no  doubt  too 
dimly  and  vaguely  defined,  have  gone 
on,  down  to  this  very  day,  writing 
novels  the  best  of  which  will  stand  that 
practical  test  which  alone  can  determine 
the  national  quality  of  a  novel. 

Ask  a  Russian  to  recommend  a  few 
books  that  would  enlighten  one  as  to 
the  genius,  ideals,  and  mentality  of  his 
nation,  and,  preferring  fact  to  fiction, 
stipulate  that  the  books  be  novels  and 
not  histories,  and  he  will  instantly 
say :  "Why,  read  Gogol,  GontscharoflF, 
Dostoievsky,  Ostrovsky,  TurgenieflF, 
Tolstoy,  Garshin."  He  will  tell  you 
that  he  does  not  agree  with  all  the 
ideas  they  advance,  and  then,  with  a 
shrug  of  the  shoulders  and  a  little  smile 
of  tolerant  affection,  he  will  add,  "But 
it  is  Russia." 

From  the  names  of  a  score  of  novel- 


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47 


ists  one  can  select  twice  that  many 
books  that  will  tell  the  inquiring  for- 
eigner of  the  mentality  of  the  American 
people  and  the  quality  of  their  life,  and 
I  think  that  certain  of  the  novels  of 
Mr.  Howells,  of  Mark  Twain,  and  of 
Frank  Norris,  to  name  no  others,  will 
rank  with  the  best  in  any  literature, 
and,  if  the  work  that  was  less  than 
theirs  somehow  fell  short  of  the  highly 
incandescent,  imaginative  quality  that 
is  a  prerequisite  to  the  synthesis  of 
great  art,  it  was  an  authentic  expression 
of  the  national  consciousness  growing 
brighter  and  more  vivid  all  the  while. 
But  why,  after  all,  American  art? 
Since  art  is  universal,  why  not  just  art? 
In  what  would  American  art  consist? 
How  would  American  literature  be  dis- 
tinguished from  other  literatures, 
American  poetry  from  other  poetry, 
American  novels  from  other  novels? 
By  its  personality,  that  is  all.  Art,  in- 
deed, is  personality,  not  alone  individ- 
ual personality,  but  national  personality, 
and  the  supreme  artist  incarnates  the 
mentality  of  his  race.  He  thinks  as 
the  nation  thinks,  feels  as  it  feels,  as 
Lincoln,  by  a  kind  of  anthroposcopy, 
knew  all  the  various  whims  and  currents 
of  the  public  mind.  It  is  a  quality  our 
humorists  have  always  possessed.  It 
is  that  which  has  made  them  distinctive 
and  different  from  the  wits  and  satir- 
ists of  other  lands.  Nowhere  do  the 
people  read  more  than  in  America, 
nowhere  do  they  protect  themselves 
and  their  institutions  so  much  by  the 
sharp  weapon  of  ridicule.  Our  humor- 
ists, despite  all  their  exaggeration,  have 
been  wholly  American  and  generally 
right  minded ;  they  have  represented  us 
pretty  accurately,  and  often  protected 
us  against  representatives  who  were 
not  so  faithful,  and  against  many  an  old 
fraud  and  pretense  that  still  flourish 
elsewhere  and  work  their  tragedies  in 
the  lives  of  men  have  withered  in  the 
scornful  laugh  of  the  Genius  of  These 
States.  For  it  has  been  precisely  that 
genius,  this  American  humor,  bound  in 
a   profound   and   intimate   relation   to 


the  fundamental  American  spirit;  for 
what  are  they  both  but  that  intuitive 
sense  of  human  values  which  scorns 
all  affectation,  especially  that  of  superi- 
ority, refuses  to  estimate  men  by  any 
other  standard  than  that  of  individual 
character,  is  impressed  only  by  natural 
human  dignity,  and  requires  every  tub 
to  stand  on  its  own  bottom? 

One,  indeed,  who  wishes  to  under- 
stand Ajnerica  might  read  our  humor- 
ists and  know  all  about  us  if  it  were 
not  for  the  fact  that  he  would  have 
to  understand  our  country  and  be  in  the 
secret  of  its  coterie  speech  in  order  to 
understand  the  humorists.  The  novel- 
ists might  learn  much  from  them.  The 
Russian  realists  viewed  humanity  in 
despairing  pity.  The  French  realists,  and 
especially  Flaubert,  viewed  it  in  con- 
tempt and  disgust.  The  American  real- 
ist, I  should  say,  would  view  it  much 
as  the  American  humorists  have  viewed 
it:  they  have  known  most  of  its  de- 
fects, but  they  have  viewed  it  tolerant- 
ly, sympathetically,  and  with  respect 
for  the  dignity  and  the  right  there  is 
somewhere  in  every  man  simply  be- 
cause he  is  a  man. 

I  should  be  filled  with  regret  if  I 
thought  in  any  way  I  had  suggested 
that  American  literature  would  be  chau- 
vinistic, or  of  the  mind  of  a  politician 
whooping  it  up  at  the  Fourth  of  July 
picnic.  Art  does  not  raise  her  voice  in 
controversy  or  perspire  in  argument. 
She  is  not  concerned  in  advancing 
causes  or  in  bringing  about  reforms. 
She  is  not  interested  in  the  initiative 
and  referendum,  and  is  wholly  indiffer- 
ent as  to  whether  the  town  votes  wet 
or  dry.  She  cares  not  whether  the 
Government  is  conservative  or  radical, 
reactionary  or  progressive,  scorns  'dull 
economics,  and  turns  impatiently  away 
from  preaching  and  propaganda.  She 
is  equally  at  home  in  monarchy  or  re- 
public, and  is  of  a  glad,  free,  spon- 
taneous democracy,  a  kind  of  loose 
character  kept  under  constant  surveil- 
lance by  the  police  of  formalism  and 
respectability. 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


But,  while  Art  has  no  interest  in 
parties  or  schools  of  thought, — she  has 
seen  so  many  of  these  ephemerae! — she 
is  curious  about  those  who  are  preoccu- 
pied by  their  demand  and  devote  their 
lives  to  them,  for  she  is  curious  about 
life  in  all  its  manifestations,  and,  above 
all,  in  man  as  its  highest  manifestation. 
If  the  novelist  would  serve  art,  then,  he 
takes  man  where  he  finds  him,  provided 
that  man  is  interesting,  or  interesting 
to  him.  Novels  are  not  distinguished 
because  they  portray  distinguished 
characters,  but  because  they  are  written 
by  distinguished  intelligences,  and  the 
novelist  will  seek  life  in  some  other 
epoch  or  in  some  other  parish  in  vain; 
all  he  can  know  of  life  is  that  which 
he  sees  in  the  life  about  him,  for  there 
is  no  other  life  that  any  one  can  know, 
and  most  of  us  cannot  know  even  that 
very  well. 

Walt  Whitman  has  prepared  an  elab- 
orate questionnaire  for  those  who  aspire 
to  the  august  place  of  poet  in  these 
States.  It  is  to  be  found  in  his  poem 
'*By  Blue  Ontario's  Shore,"  and  if  the 
intending  poet  has  not  time  to  read 
the  entire  poem,  he  should  not  fail  to 
make  out  answers  to  the  interrogatories 
in  those  two  cantos  in  which  old  Walt 
questions  him  with  many  and  stem 
questions,  as  though  he  were  a  candi- 
date for  public  office,  as,  indeed,  in 
a  very  important  sense,  he  is:  Has  he 
studied  out  the  land,  its  idioms,  and 
men  ?  Has  he  left  all  feudal  processes 
and  poems  behind,  and  assumed  the 
poems  and  processes  of  democracy?  Is 
he  really  of  the  whole  people  ?  Is  what 
he  offers  America  not  something  that 
has  been  better  told  or  done  before? 
Has  not  it  or  the  spirit  of  it  been  im- 
ported on  some  ship?  Does  it  not  as- 
sume that  what  is  notoriously  gone  is 
still  here  ? 

It  would  doubtless  require  something 
more  than  this  to  constitute  a  poet,  but 
I  think  the  root  of  the  matter  is  there. 
An  American  novel  would  not  consist 
merely  in  a  story  the  scene  of  which  is 
laid  in  the  United  States.    It  would  be 


entirely  feasible  to  write  a  novel,  laying 
the  scene  in  New  Yorfc,  with  none  but 
American  citizens  as  characters,  and 
have  it  no  American  novel  at  all.  It 
has,  indeed,  been  done  several  times. 
For  American  is  a  state  of  mind;  like 
the  kingdom  of  heaven,  it  is  within  you, 
or — it  is  not.  It  is  simply  a  question  of 
the  artist's  conception  of  life,  of  his 
relation  to  other  men.  Does  he  natur- 
ally, spontaneously,  and  consistently  as- 
sume the  American  attitude  toward 
life? 

Maupassant  advanced  the  doctrine 
that  the  novelist  should  be  a  detached, 
impartial,  and  impersonal  observer — a 
captivating  theory,  but  the  difficulty  is 
that  no  writer  can  long  remain  in  that 
state  of  mind,  least  of  all  Maupassant. 
In  his  essay  on  the  works  of  this  writer, 
Tolstoy  begins  by  telling  how  Turgcn- 
ieff,  leaving  Yasnya  Poliana  after  a 
visit,  took  a  book  from  his  valise  and 
gave  it  to  Tolstoy,  saying:  "Read  this 
when  you  have  time.  It  is  by  a  young 
French  writer."  The  book  was  "La 
Maison  Tellier,"  and  with  the  reluct- 
ance we  all  have  for  a  book  a  friend 
has  urged  upon  us,  Tolstoy  did  not  read 
it  for  a  long  time,  and  then  one  day  he 
read  it,  and  wrote  a  long  essay  on  it. 
The  purpose  of  Tolstoy's  essay  is  to 
show  Maupassant's  moral  attitude 
toward  the  personages  and  the  prob- 
lems involved  in  the  book  and  toward 
life  in  general.  But  it  is  not  neces- 
sary to  read  Tolstoy's  essay  to  sec 
what  is  Maupassant's  attitude  in 
these  respects ;  it  is  only  necessary  to 
read  "La  Maison  Tellier." 

For  though  a  writer  may  succeed  in 
showing  nothing  else,  in  revealing 
no  other  character,  always,  inevit- 
ably, he  reveals  himself.  All  books 
are  autobiographies.  From  any  given 
book  we  may  learn  little,  but  we 
may  learn  all  that  it  is  essential  to 
know  about  the  author  of  that  book : 
whether  he  is  a  gentleman  and  a 
scholar  or  a  bounder  and  a  cad; 
whether  he  is  a  liberal  or  bigot; 
whether  he  is  intelligent  or,  despite 


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THE  AMERICAN  QLJALITY  IN  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 


49 


all  his  instruction,  essentially  igno- 
rant; whether,  in  a  word,  he  is  by 
turns  sentimentalist,  brute,  and  cynic, 
or  a  man  of  sympathy,  humor,  and 
compassion,  who  loves  his  fellow-men 
even  when  they  seem  least  to  deserve 
it. 

As  to  the  future  of  American  letters, 
its  highest  hope  lies  where  the  hope  of 
the  race  lies,  in  allegiance  to  that 
America  of  the  mind  where  all  who 
love  their  fellow-men  have  dwelt.  I 
speak  of  this  conception  of  life  as  the 
American  attitude  not  because  it  is  an 
attitude  characteristic  of  all  Ameri- 
cans, for  there  are  many,  born  in 
America,  who  still  find  themselves  be- 
wildered and  disconcerted  immigrants 
in  the  land,  but  because  it  is  the  atti- 
tude of  one  imbued  with  the  spirit  that 
has  led  so  many  of  the  best  of  mankind 
to  behold  in  the  achievement  of  the 
American  ideal  the  hope  of  mankind. 
And  as  Lincoln,  in  whom  this  spirit 
was  nobly  incarnated,  asked,  where 
will  one  find  a  better  or  an  equal  hope  ? 

One,  even  a  prophet,  is  apt  to  grow 
vague  and  hazy  when  he  begins  to  dis- 
cuss the  form  anything  will  take  in  the 
future,  especially  anything  so  spiritual 
as  art,  and  I  shall  not  idly  speculate 
about  something  of  which  in  reality  I 
can  know  nothing.  We  are  living  in  a 
solemn  hour  of  change;  the  world  will 
never  again  be  the  world  we  knew. 
But  I  think  the  best  of  our  novels  will 
continue  to  be  more  and  more  of  that 
human  spirit  we  have  been  considering. 
One  is  always  reading  that  realism  has 
passed  or  is  passing  or  is  about  to  pass, 
but  it  will  pass  only  when  the  desire 
for  truth  passes  from  the  human  heart. 
It  has  never  known  any  final  form,  nor 
ever  will,  any  more  than  truth  will; 
but  in  each  of  its  stages  it  makes  a 
little  more  progress  toward  perfection, 
as  the  race  does,  and  it  makes  progress 
only  along  that  way  in  which  there  is 
freedom  and  equality  for  all.  Our 
veracious  and  veritable  fiction  would 
be  as  sympathetically  concerned  about 
all    men    as    the    Declaration    of    In- 


dependence, and  it  will  be  one  with 
that  higher  poetry,  which,  whenever  it 
finds  it  necessary  to  complete  expres- 
sion, will  not  hesitate  to  fling  off  the 
tyranny  of  prosodic  rule, — meanwhile, 
aware  no  doubt  that  the  mere  fact  that 
emotional  statements  are  printed  in 
lines  that,  to  use  an  expression  of  the 
old-time  printer,  have  not  been  "justi- 
fied," is  not  of  itself  sufficient  to  con- 
stitute them  poetry. 

Thus  informed,  it  could  not  be  of 
that  shabby  snobbery  that  is  exclusively 
preoccupied  with  the  luxurious  and 
fashionable,  and  with  those  who  rever- 
ence and  imitate  them,  as  if  there  were 
no  other  people  of  interest ;  nor  would 
it  be  concerned  with  the  shamed  apology 
and  evident  regret  that  America  has  no 
officially  recognized  social  class;  nor, 
with  the  air  of  making  the  best  of  a 
bad  bargain,  would  it  try  to  make 
plutocrats  do  for  aristocrats,  and  mil- 
lionaires for  lords.  Perhaps  in  no  re- 
spect will  the  change  be  so  marked,  so 
revolutionary,  as  in  the  place  women 
will  occupy  in  the  novel;  it  will  be 
significantly  one  with  that  change  in 
the  place  she  will  occupy  in  the  re- 
public. The  novel,  too,  will  be  equally 
concerned  with  working-men  and  work- 
ing-women and  their  emotions,  their 
longings,  and  the  problems  that  perplex 
them,  and  with  the  drama  of  the  crowds 
in  cities.  And  all  these  people  would  be 
in  it  in  their  own  right,  not,  like  those 
shabby  choruses  in  the  operas,  to  show 
off  the  brilliant  and  costly  stars.  Fic- 
tion, in  a  word,  would  not  be  so  class- 
conscious,  for  there  can  be  no  hope  of 
the  emanation  of  beauty  from  the 
warped,  darkened,  and  asymmetrical 
mind  that  purblindly  sees  sharp  divis- 
ions, fixed  and  implacable  distinctions 
and  rigid  separations  between  mortals 
who  are  all  alike  involved  in  the  snares 
of  the  capricious  fates,  all  alike  the 
victims  and  the  heirs  of  time. 

To  the  imagination  of  the  Old  World 
there  has  always  been  something  per- 
plexing, troubling,  in  the  dim  vision  of 
America,  lying  off  there  in  the  west, 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


vast,  vague,  and  mysterious  in  her  pos- 
session of  other  standards  and  ideals. 
Time  and  time  again  the  Old-World 
writers  have  crossed  the  ocean  on  their 
hurried  visits,  desperately  determined 
to  understand  her,  to  tear  her  secret 
from  her.  Some  of  them  were  polite 
and  ccMTiplimentary,  some,  like  young 
Tocqueville,  sympathetically  reported 
on  her  institutions  and  intelligently 
criticized  them,  while  others,  noting 
only  superficial  manners  and  jotting 
down  with  relish  any  crudity,  any 
gaucherie,  they  might  detect,  returned, 
to  cover  her  with  contempt  and  snob- 
bish scorn.  And  not  one  of  them  seems 
ever  to  have  envisaged  her,  ever  to 
have  divined  her;  not  one  of  them 
seems  ever  to  have  caught  the  faintest 
conception  of  her  spiritual  significance 
or  to  have  beheld  even  so  much  of  the 
vision  as  glows  any  morning  in  dark 
eyes  on  Ellis  Island;  all  failed  in  that 
poetic  insight  which  alone  can  interpret 
her  meaning  and  apprehend  her  relation 


to    the  development   of   man   the   in- 
dividual unit. 

And  all  the  while  America,  impassive, 
inscrutable,  patient,  amused,  waited  for 
her  poet  to  interpret  and  reveal  her, 
aware  that  her  dream  was  for  the  poet 
alone.  And  her  poet  will  come  some 
day  out  of  the  stress  and  strain  and 
turmoil,  out  of  the  dust  and  tears  and 
sweat  of  common  life,  from  the  world 
of  common  men.  He  will  have  no 
illusions  about  them ;  he  will  know  their 
folly,  their  foibles,  and  their  sins  as  well 
as  their  wisdom,  their  virtues,  and  their 
sacrifices;  and,  thus  knowing  them, 
understanding  them,  loving  them,  as 
one  of  their  very  own,  will  reveal  them 
not  only  to  themselves,  but  to  those 
others  who  are  precisely  like  them  in  all 
essentials  except  in  the  weakness  of 
imagining  themselves  somehow  uncom- 
mon, diflferent,  and  better;  and  by  the 
revelation  of  his  art  he  will  transmtutc 
into  life  the  truth  and  beauty  of  the 
dream. 


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PRESENTATION  TO   MR.  WILLIAM  DEAN    HOWELLS   OF 
THE  GOLD  MEDAL  OF  THE  INSTITUTE 


In  presenting  the  medal  Mr.  Hamil- 
ton Wright  Mabie  said : 

The  Gold  Medal  of  the  National 
Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters,  designed 
and  executed  by  one  of  its  members, 
Mr.  A.  A.  Weinman,  has  been  given 
to  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens  for  sculp- 
ture, to  James  Ford  Rhodes  for  his- 
tory, to  James  Whitcomb  Riley  for 
poetry,  to  William  Rutherford  Mead 
for  architecture,  to  Augustus  Thomas 
for  dramatic  composition,  and  to  John 
Singer  Sargent  for  painting.  It  is  given 
to-day  to  William  Dean  HJowells  for 
fiction. 

No  selection  of  a  man  of  letters  to 
receive  a  distinction  conferred  by  a 
jury,  not  of  his  peers,  but  of  his  fellow- 
craftsmen,  could  more  happily  combine 
recognition  of  achievement  and  the  fit- 
ting moment.  Mr.  Howells  was  the 
first  man  chosen  by  the  Institute  to 
constitute  the  American  Academy  of 
Arts  and  Letters;  he  was  elected  its 
first  president,  and  his  succession  to 
himself  has  not  been  interrupted.  He 
is  not  only  the  official  head  of  the  Acad- 
emy, but  in  his  work  and  character 
he  interprets  its  spirit  and  purpose.  So 
long  as  he  remains  where  he  is,  the 
Academy  needs  no  gloss. 

And  this  distinction  is  conferred  in 
the  city  of  Mr.  Howells's  earliest  liter- 
ary friendships  and  reputation.  In  the 
closing  hours  of  the  first  day  of  creative 
work  in  American  literature  he  became 
the  associate  of  the  men  who  gave  the 
beginnings  of  that  literature  elevation 
of  thought  and  dignity  of  form;  here 
his  verse  was  first  published;  and  here 
he  came  into  the  view  of  the  country 
as  the  editor  of  the  magazine  which  at 
the  beginning  allied  itself  with  the 
American  writing  that  was  to  endure. 

Standing  at  the  compositor's  frame 
in  the  friendly,  human  atmosphere  of 
an  Ohio  town,  he  shared  the  charac- 


teristic life  of  his  country  when  the 
insights  are  deepest  because  they  are 
unconscious.  It  was  a  long  way  from 
Martin's  Ferry  to  Venice,  but  to  youth 
the  Old  World  is  always  new,  as  to 
the  man  who  studies  men  the  New 
World  is  always  old. 

Ardent  and  eager  in  heart  and  poetic 
in  spirit,  Mr.  Howells  went  from  the 
frontier  of  a  young  and  practical  coun- 
try to  the  elusiye  frontier  city,  half 
palace,  half  mirage,  of  the  ancient  realm 
of  art  and  romance.  Four  years  in  Ven- 
ice was  a  university  course  in  the  hu- 
manities without  the  distractions  of 
college  life.  If  you  add  knowledge  of 
the  modem  languages  and  of  the  vital 
books  of  the  day  in  poetry  and  fiction, 
you  have  an  education  shaped  by  im- 
pulses passionate  in  their  appeal,  but 
tempered  and  modulated  by  the  tradi- 
tions of  beauty  and  skill.  Under  such 
influences  the  realist  who  had  the  Tol- 
stoyan  passion  for  his  kind  became  the 
sensitive  artist  whose  tools  have  the 
delicate  precision  of  a  Benvenuto 
Cellini. 

A  man  of  the  modem  temper,  un- 
dismayed by  the  newest  method  and 
the  latest  radicalism,  Mr.  Howells  is 
always  the  artist.  However  advanced 
his  doctrine,  his  speech  never  misses 
the  charm  which  has  made  art  the  uni- 
versal language.  In  Altruria,  as  in 
Venice,  one  hears  the  accent  which 
survives  all  changes  of  time  and  place 
and  taste.  A  journalist  at  times,  Mr. 
Howells  never  ceased  to  be  a  man  of 
letters ;  a  patient  and  courteous  editor, 
he  never  lost  the  artist's  sense  of  re- 
sponsibility for  the  casual  line  as  for 
the  carefully  executed  work. 

It  is  his  distinction  that  he  has  made 
commonplace  people  significant  and 
the  unsalted  average  man  and  woman 
interesting.  Fiction,  reminiscence, 
poetry,  impressions  of  places  and  peo- 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


pie,  essays,  comedies,  criticisms — what 
variety  of  substance,  what  uniformity 
of  skill,  of  that  fineness  of  taste  which 
is  bom  of  right  feeling  as  well  as  of 
sound  training! 

To  call  him  an  American  in  any 
divisive  sense  is  to  belittle  Mr.  Howells, 
since  it  is  the  quality  of  art  that  it 
uses  the  vernacular  to  speak  of  univer- 
sal things ;  but  in  a  very  real  sense  Mr. 
Howells  is  not  only  a  man  of  his  time 
and  country,  but  of  his  region.  Neither 
the  old  nor  the  new  West  has  given 
us  a  novel  reading  of  the  mystery  of 
life;  but  fifty  years  ago  in  the  Ohio 
Valley  and  to-day  on  each  slope  of  the 
Rocky  Mountains  men  and  women  are 
impatient  of  traditions  and  keep  open 
house  to  ideas.  It  is  true  they  as  often 
entertain  cranks  as  angels,  but  they 
have  made  all  human  kind  welcome  and 
at  home.  Life  as  a  work  of  art  has 
interested  them  less  than  life  as  an  ex- 
periment. 

Hawthorne  invested  the  austere  ro- 
mance of  the  Puritan  spirit  with  dusky 
splendor,  and  Cooper  gave  his  genera- 
tion the  romance  of  primitive  feeling 
and  action  on  land  and  sea.  Mr.  How- 
ells, divesting  the  novel  of  the  dramatic 
aids  of  station,  passion,  and  adventure, 
has  brought  into  view  those  elements 
of  character  and  of  circumstance  which, 
in  the  newest  as  in  the  oldest  world, 
give  life  perennial  interest.  In  "The 
Rise  of  Silas  Lapham"  and  "A  Hazard 
of  New  Fortunes"  he  dramatized  op- 
portunity, the  romance  of  American 
life.  A  realist,  but  never  a  literalist, 
whose  faith  in  democracy  is  saved  from 
superstition  by  that  breadth  of  view 
and  play  of  imagination  which  we  call 
humor,  Mr.  Howells  has  made  Ameri- 
canism synonymous  with  sanity,  hope. 


the  idealism  of  the  clean  hearth,  and 
seriousness  of  mood  tempered  by  op- 
timism, humor,  and  good  fellowship. 

Last  year  a  slender  book  of  fantasy 
came  from  Mr.  Howells's  hand.  It  had 
to  do  with  Shakspere  and  Bacon  re- 
visiting "the  pale  glimpses  of  the  moon" 
at  Stratford-on-Avon.  It  has  the  air 
of  a  digression,  of  a  romancer  givii^ 
himself  a  half-holiday.  It  is  the  story 
of  a  skylark ;  a  poet  of  an  ease  of  wing 
and  magic  of  song  akin  with  the  sky- 
larks that  rise  out  of  the  meadows 
at  Hampton  Lucy  and  pour  out  a  flood 
of  unpremeditated  music  as  they  ascend 
the  invisible  stairways  of  the  sky. 
There  is  no  sign  of  toil  in  this  slender 
book,  but  there  is  more  of  Shakspere 
in  it  than  in  many  of  those  ponderous 
octavos  that  recall  the  old-time  descrip- 
tion of  the  German  scholar:  he  goes 
down  deeper  and  stays  down  longer 
and  comes  up  muddier  than  any  other 
scholar  in  the  world.  The  facts  drift 
into  the  current  so  casually  that  only 
the  experienced  reader  knows  that  he 
holds  in  his  hand  one  of  the  most  in* 
telligent  biographies  of  Shakspere  that 
has  appeared.  The  owls  have  often 
given  us  their  account  of  the  skylark; 
this  is  a  poet's  report. 

A  serious  thing  fashioned  without  a 
trace  of  toil,  the  wings  liberated  frcnn 
the  stone  and  every  sign  of  tool  and 
dust  vanished.  Is  not  this  the  sign  and 
witness  of  art? 

So  to-day,  at  the  summit  of  his  years, 
the  National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Let- 
ters does  not  presume  to  honor  William 
Dean  Howells;  it  is  content  to  recog- 
nize the  beauty  and  value  of  a  contribu- 
tion to  American  literature  made  by 
one  who  has  not  only  the  suffrages,  but 
the  hearts  of  his  fellow-craftsmen. 


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LETTER  FROM  MR.  HOWELLS  IN  ACCEPTANCE  OF  THE 

MEDAL 


Gentlemen  of  the  Institute  and  the 
Academy — ^A  rumor  of  one  of  those 
good  things  which  seem  too  good  to 
be  true  has  come  to  me  with  such  in- 
sistence that  I  must  take  it  for  fact, 
and  I  am  asking  the  Secretary  of  the 
Institute  to  acknowledge  it  for  me.  I 
know  he  will  fitly  account  for  my  not 
doing  this  in  person,  and  I  will  not 
hamper  him  with  any  expressions  of 
my  preference  as  to  how  he  shall  con- 
vey to  you  my  sense  of  the  supreme 
honor  which  your  award  of  the  medal 
for  fiction  has  done  me.  In  the  last 
analysis,  I  find  this  sense  a  sort  of 
dismay,  which  it  would  be  difficult  to 
render. 

Yet  I  will  not  pretend  that  it  is  alto- 
gether the  unexpected  which  has  hap- 
pened, or  that,  with  whatever  con- 
sciousness of  demerit,  I  did  not  hope 
it  might  happen.  I  felt  that  if  by  no 
other  right  the  medal  of  fiction  might 
be  mine  by  the  right  of  seniority,  for 
I  have  been  writing  novels  now  for 
nearly  fifty  years,  and  I  have  outlived 
nearly  every  contemporary  who  might 
have  outrivaled  me  in  the  competition. 
If  this  triumph  of   longevity  had  its 


inevitable  sadness,  I  hoped  that  there 
might  be  some  touch  of  the  kindness 
which  sweetens  the  acclaim  of  his  ar- 
rival to  the  man  who  is  out  of  the 
running. 

So  far  as  pure  criticism  has  governed 
your  vote,  I  might  say  that  the  novelist 
whom  you  have  done  the  greatest  honor 
that  the  world  could  do  him  has  striven 
for  excellence  in  his  art  with  no  divided 
motive,  unless  the  constant  endeavor 
for  truth  is  want  of  fealty  to  fiction. 
The  fashion  of  this  world  passes  away, 
and  I  have  seen  it  come  and  go  in  my 
art,  or  phases  of  it.  The  best  novel 
of  my  day  is  not  the  best  novel  of  yours 
in  some  of  these.  But  if  I  could  be- 
lieve the  vital  things  were  not  the  same 
in  your  esteem,  I  could  not  prize  your 
medal  as  I  do.  As  it  is,  with  my  belief 
that  you  have  peculiarly  in  your  keep- 
ing the  standard  of  the  arts  which 
Burke  says  every  man  has  by  mere 
fidelity  to  nature,  and  that  you  will 
have  it  increasingly  as  you  welcome  to 
your  number  whoever  is  striking  for 
beauty  in  any  art,  I  prize  your  award 
more  than  all  the  words  of  my  many 
books  could  sav. 


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MEMORIAL   ADDRESSES 

CHARLES  FRANCIS  ADAMS* 
By  William  M.  Sloane 


Charles  Francis  Adams,  fourth  in 
descent  from  President  John  Adams 
through  President  John  Quincy  Adams 
and  a  scarcely  less  famous  sire  of  his 
own  name,  died  in  his  eighty-first  year, 
a  young  man  to  the  end.  He  was 
soldier,  financier,  and  historian,  con- 
sumed by  zeal  in  each  of  his  successive 
vocations.  Of  our  company  he  had 
been  a  member  for  ten  years.  Unani- 
mously chosen  as  a  representative  his- 
torian, he  was  active  in  the  enterprises 
of  the  Academy,  making  public  appear- 
ances of  dramatic  power,  and  generous 
in  his  support  of  its  undertakings.  His 
personality  was  altogether  sympathetic 
among  us.  The  members  of  other 
bodies,  personal  friends  of  longer  stand- 
ing than  most  of  us,  have  described 
him  in  their  pubHc  tributes  as  brusque 
and  positive,  yet  open-minded  and  re- 
ceptive; as  aristocrat  by  temper  and 
democrat  in  conduct ;  as  alike  an  icono- 
clast and  a  conservative;  in  short,  as 
the  embodiment  of  paradox,  physical 
and  mental. 

Doubtless,  in  one  sphere  of  his  activi- 
ties and  during  the  years  of  combat, 
he  so  appeared  and  so  was.  Much,  too, 
depended  on  the  temper  of  his  asso- 
ciates, who  all  unconsciously  may  have 
presented  a  similar  front  to  him.  He 
was  a  doughty  gladiator  in  the  cause 
of  righteousness,  and  had  a  heavy  fist 
where  dishonesty  in  affairs  lurked  be- 
hind fine  phrases  and  shiny  euphem- 
isms. While  in  a  high  degree  endowed 
with  insight,  while  his  vision  of  the 
goal  was  always  clear,  and  while  his 
reasoning  processes  made  him  in  many 
instances  prophetic,  he  was  really  a 
warrior;  he  loved  the  joy  of  battle  even 
more  than  conquest.    The  weapons  of 


his  concrete  knowledge  and  ruthless 
logic  were  not  unfair  and  never  foully 
wielded,  but  they  were  unsparing.  With 
gallant,  honest  foes  he  was  even  chival- 
rous. It  was  not  safe  to  menace  him 
with  precedent  or  the  ethos  of  history 
or  the  lessons  of  experience.  He  was 
sure  to  have  interpretations  of  his  own 
which  were  alike  novel  and  founded  on 
unsuspected  aspects  of  familiar  facts. 
Authority  was  for  him  no  thunderbolt, 
but  rather  a  flickering,  dancing  will-o'- 
the-wisp. 

This  temper  he  manifested  as  an  offi- 
cer of  the  line  in  the  Civil  War,  as  a 
student  and  director  of  railways  and 
systems  of  transportation,  as  an  advo- 
cate of  radical  changes  in  the  higher 
education  given  by  American  universi- 
ties, and,  what  concerns  us  most  as  his 
colleagues  of  Institute  and  Academy, 
in  his  treatment  of  history  as  a  human 
discipline. 

Among  us  he  was  always  suave  and 
genial,  as  befitted  a  recognized  person- 
age. For  many  years  of  his  later  life 
his  home  was  Washington,  and  in  the 
national  society  comprising  men  and 
women  from  all  regions  and  of  all  ages, 
he  found  a  flattering  recognition  as  a 
sage,  which  calmed  his  spirit  and  soft- 
ened his  manners.  But  in  matters  of 
history  he  was  a  knight-errant  to  the 
last.  He  regretted  the  discovery  of 
America  as  having  occurred  a  century 
too  soon ;  he  discredited  the  veracity  of 
the  enthroned  divinities  of  history  from 
Herodotus  onward;  the  accepted  view 
of  Washington  as  a  strategist  of  the 
first  order  he  sedulously  attacked.  He 
was  an  advocate  of  state's  rights  and 
supported  the  project  for  a  monument 
to   Lee  in  the  national   capitol.     His 


♦Read  before  the   Academy,   December  9,  1915. 


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CHARLES  FRANCIS  ADAMS 


55 


attitude  as  a  historian  was  pre-emi- 
nently that  of  the  doubter  and  the  icon- 
oclast. It  has  been  said  of  Voltaire 
that  he  transformed  the  writing  of 
history  by  the  sheer  force  of  doubt. 
In  the  present-day  era  of  modern  and 
radical  reconstruction  Mr.  Adams  made 
his  many  readers  keen  and  alert,  even 
if  he  could  not  always  command  con- 
viction. 

His  complete  works  are  embraced  in 
eleven  volumes.  In  a  sense  he  was  a 
writer  of  pamphlets  and  miscellanies, 
but  from  first  to  last  there  is  a  unity 
of  style  and  purpose,  whether  the  theme 
be  ancient,  modem  or  contemporary; 
social,  economic  or  political.  His  style 
is  rugged  and  polished  by  turns,  but 
always  a  style — readable  and  reasoned. 
The  contents  are  uneven  in  value,  but 
everywhere  you  find  something  worth 
while.  For  him  there  was  all  around 
a  turbulent,  living,  throbbing  world, 
little  concerned  with  academic  stand- 
ards of  form  and  fashion,  indifferent 
to  culture,  hard-fisted  and  selfish.  The 
morals  of  such  a  world  were  more 
gristle  than  bone,  and  needed  harden- 
ing. And  so  he  was  a  teacher  of  ethics, 
not  of  the  chair  and  school,  but  of  the 
lawgiver.  He  writes  magisterially,  he 
enforces  judicially,  and  he  flays  like 
the  judges  in  the  gate. 

That  he  wielded  power  as  an  his- 
torian is  beyond  all  peradventure,  but 
it  was  not  because  of  his  style.  His 
title  to  a  high  place  rests  on  his  untiring 
industry  as  an  investigator.  For  drud- 
gery he  had  both  capacity  and  respect, 
since  without  the  ceaseless  murmur  of 
the  treadmill  no  power  can  be  gener- 
ated. In  biography  he  excelled;  the 
lives  of  his  father  and  of  Richard 
Henry  Dana  are  masterpieces  of  com- 
position and  vivid  description.  His  lec- 
•tures  delivered  at  Oxford  and  pub- 
lished as  the  last  volume  of  his  series 
are  a  fine  performance  of  daring,  didac- 
tic controversy.  While  he  had  a  certain 
British  cast  to  his  Americanism,  he 
never  forgot,  and  did  not  entirely  for- 
give, the  treatment  to  which  his  country 


was  subjected  by  official  and  social  Eng- 
land during  the  Civil  War.  It  was  bold, 
though  not  overbold,  within  the  thresh- 
old of  their  own  house,  to  instruct,  to 
warn,  and  to  correct  the  descendants 
of  the  sires  who  had  so  wrought.  The 
university,  aware  of  his  sincerity  and 
impartial  in  its  own  judgments,  be- 
stowed on  him  its  highest  honor  but 
one,  the  degree  of  doctor  of  letters. 

The  visit  was  particularly  fruitful  in 
that,  like  a  mole,  he  burrowed  among 
the  tap-roots  of  historical  knowledge, 
namely,  the  private  papers  put  at  his 
disposal  by  the  families  whose  progeni- 
tors had  made  English  and  American 
history.  Nothing  daunted  him,  age  had 
neither  withered  nor  staled  him,  and 
the  leads  which  he  opened  he  and  his 
highly  prized  friend,  Mr.  Worthington 
C.  Ford,  most  industriously  worked, 
bringing  a  wealth  of  rich  ore  to  be 
assayed  in  America.  He  may  be  said 
to  have  retained  undiminished  energy 
to  the  end  of  his  long  and  strenuous 
life.  While  his  independence  of  char- 
acter, his  unflinching  treatment  of  pub- 
lic questions,  and  his  proud  conscious- 
ness of  inherited  obligations,  forbade 
any  close  organic  connection  with  party 
machinery,  he  was  nevertheless  a 
statesman,  an  elder  counselor  in  politics. 
His  advice,  when  sought,  was  freely 
given,  and,  when  not  sought,  was  pro- 
claimed in  such  ways  as  to  secure  gen- 
eral attention  from  the  intelligent  pub- 
lic. Legislators  were  powerfully  in- 
fluenced by  it. 

He  was  therefore  in  some  sense  a 
maker  of  history  as  well  as  a  writer 
of  it.  His  nature  was  eminently  social ; 
he  frequented  private  dinners  and  re- 
ceptions and  was  always  prominent; 
he  talked  abundantly  and  listened  at- 
tentively. Again  and  again  he  de- 
clared that  no  platform  was  better  than 
that  of  a  great  public  banquet,  and  as 
an  after-dinner  speaker  he  made  ad- 
dresses which  were  always  weighty 
with  thought.  His  intimate  friends 
were  proud  and  happy  in  his  society 
and  confidences,  for  he  was  alike  witty 


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56        PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY:   MEMORIAL  ADDRESSES 


and  humorous.  Like  the  monk  of  med- 
ieval fable  whose  name  was  "Give,"  he 
found  comrades  entitled  "It  shall  be 
given,"  and  with  all  the  gravitv  of  hi? 
nature,  the  seriousness  of  his  purpose, 


and  the  occasional  frostiness  of  his  ad- 
dress, he  enjoyed  life  to  the  full  as 
few  have  done.  It  is  a  pleasant  duty 
to  commemorate  his  work  and  his  stim- 
ulus in  this  association. 


ALFRED  THAYER   MAHAN* 
By  William  M.  Sloanb 


Alfred  Thayer  Mahan  died  last 
year  at  the  age  of  seventy-four.  De- 
riving in  family,  training,  and  confes- 
sion from  the  old  New  York,  his  an- 
cestry was  notable.  He  was  bom  at 
West  Point,  where  his  father,  a  learned 
engineer  of  high  repute,  was  then  pro- 
fessor. His  career  from  his  student 
days  at  Columbia  University  and  An- 
napolis onward  to  his  fiftieth  year  was 
that  of  a  faithful,  painstaking  officer 
and  Christian  gentleman  of  the  Angli- 
can mold.  In  1883  he  had  published 
an  admirable  professional  study  entitled 
"The  Gulf  and  Inland  Waters,"  and 
two  years  later  he  was  made  lecturer 
on  naval  history  and  strategy  at  the 
Naval  War  College  in  Newport.  Upon 
his  duties  as  teacher  he  entered  with 
the  fitness  due  to  university  education 
and  professional  discipline.  Five  years 
later  was  published  "The  Influence  of 
Sea  Power  on  History."  During  the 
twenty-three  years  following-  he  pub- 
lished no  fewer  than  seventeen  pieces 
of  important  historical  work,  short  and 
long,  making  a  total  of  nineteen  titles 
to  his  credit. 

His  biographies  of  Farragut  and  Nel- 
son, as  well  as  the  finely  studied  bit  of 
autobiography  entitled  "From  Sail  to 
Steam,"  are  all  works  of  the  highest 
importance.  They  exhibit  the  mind  and 
style  of  the  author  with  great  clarity, 
because  none  of  them  is  abstract,  meta- 
physical, or  controversial.  Further- 
more, they  display  the  man  as  his  mind 
worked  without  artficial  stimulus,  and 
naturally  expressed  itself  in  language. 
There  is  the  patient,  unwearying  search 


for  truth,  for  he  had  trained  himself  in 
archival  study  and  the  comparative 
method  in  establishing  facts;  there  is 
his  characteristic  insight  and  grasp  of 
meaning,  for  he  was  essentially  a  moral- 
ist and  interpreter;  there  is  his  plain 
dealing  and  lucid  style.  While  he  was 
a  man  of  letters,  he  held  his  construc- 
tive imagination  in  firm  control,  a  hand- 
maiden and  not  a  mistress.  It  was  the 
aflFair  of  his  readers  to  supply  the  ele- 
ment of  fancy,  if  they  chose  to  do  so. 
To  the  landsman  the  ocean  is  a  favorite 
field  for  the  play  of  that  faculty,  and 
readers  give  it  full  scope  under  the 
stimulus  of  his  suggestions. 

It  has  been  the  function  of  certain 
American  historians  to  exhibit  to  Euro- 
pean peoples  the  hidden  meanings  of 
their  past.  Among  them  Admiral  Ma- 
han was  easily  a  chief.  Were  we  to 
reckon  the  greatness  of  historical  woric 
by  its  contemporary  influence,  his 
would  be  a  reputation  to  which,  in  the 
long  list  of  modern  historians  in  all 
lands  none  can  be  exactly  paralleled. 

Behind  the  historian  was  the  man,  a 
devout  and  orthodox  Christian,  with  a 
strain  of  mysticism,  inquiring  into  the 
divine  purposes  as  revealed  in  the 
course  of  human  events.  Among  all 
forms  of  this  transcendent  power  in 
action  the  sailor-historian  magnified  that 
exhibited  by  national  eflFort  on  the  high 
seas.  His  epochal  woric,  for  it  wa^' 
nothing  less,  is  contained  in  his  series 
of  six  volumes  on  Sea  Power,  embrac- 
ing substantially  the  historical  ages  in 
their  entirety.  Every  people  and  every 
age  was  carefully  examined  in  its  rela- 


♦Read  before  the  Academy,  December  9,  1915. 


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ALFRED  THAYER  MAHAN 


37 


tive  importance,  and  naturally  the  older 
lands,  entering  on  the  portentous  strug- 
gle to  maintain  territories  and  prestige, 
were  more  profoundly  interested  than 
the  newer,  his  own  included. 

While  therefore  it  cannot  be  said 
that  he  failed  to  secure  from  Americans 
the  due  meed  of  honor,  yet  it  was  be- 
yond the  seas  that  he  was  revered  and 
admired  with  a  passionate  intensity 
never  fully  apprehended  in  his  own 
country.  When  in  1902  he  was  presi- 
dent of  the  American  Historical  Asso- 
ciation, the  theme  of  his  presidential 
address  was  "Subordination  in  Histori- 
cal Treatment,"  and  his  exposition  re- 
lated his  own  method  in  emphasizing 
the  central  elements  of  his  thought  as 
a  historian.  So  successful  was  he  in 
his  sea-power  books  that  his  message 
was  a  revelation  to  Europe  generally 
and  to  Great  Britain  particularly. 
Within  a  single  year  both  Oxford  and 
Cambridge  bestowed  upon  him  their 
highest  honors.  The  advocates  of  the 
Greater  England  and  the  Three-Power 
Standard  found  in  him  their  prophet 
and  in  his  studies  their  justification. 
As  the  volumes  appeared,  they  were,  in 
whole  or  in  part,  translated  into  the 
leading  European  languages,  and  care- 
fully edited  excerpts  were  the  text- 
books for  naval  expansion.  That  the 
ocean,  so  far  from  being  the  barrier 
it  had  been  considered,  was  in  reality 
the  great  highway,  the  all-uniting  men- 
struum of  isolation,  burst  as  a  fact 
upon  the  consciousness  of  Europe  like 
a  convulsion  of  nature. 

To  be  sure,  the  stresses  of  expansion 
were  already  powerful  in  international 
politics,  and  the  European  world  was 
beginning  to  groan  in  spirit  over  prob- 
lems entailed  by  material  prosperity 
and  the  growth  of  population.  The 
forces  of  nature  were  being  harnessed 
for  the  multiplicaton  indefinitely  of 
human  industry  and  the  inflation  of 
wealth.  Statesmen  were  sorely  in  need 
of  pretexts  for  armament,  and  they 
seized  for  a  comer  stone  of  their  policy 
upon  the  fact  ruthlessly  exposed  by  the 


American  historian  that  Nelson,  rather 
than  Wellington,  had  worn  away  to  in- 
nocuous and  tenuous  inefficiency  the 
portentous  power  of  Napoleon.  The 
cars  which  heard  alike  in  England  and 
Germany  were  only  too  receptive,  the 
grasp  of  national  understandings  only 
too  swift,  and  the  subsequent  activities 
only  too  mischievous.  But  we  must  not 
fall  into  the  baneful  fallacy  of  sequence 
as  proving  cause  and  effect.  Secular 
history  is  not  the  record  of  human 
Utopias,  and  what  it  reveals  is  not  the 
dealings  of  regenerate  mankind.  Un- 
varnished truth  is  the  characteristic  of 
Mahan's  pages,  the  truth  fairly  stated 
and  philosophically  considered ;  for  him 
it  was  no  counsel  of  perfection;  it  was 
an  exhibition  of  how  unstable  is  the 
equilibrium  in  the  nice  balance  of  poli- 
tical powers.  His  work,  dispassionately 
considered,  has  neither  charm  nor  se- 
duction ;  in  a  high  degree  it  is  a  caution 
against  danger,  a  warning  against  false 
interpellations  of  facts.  That  self- 
seekers  should  abuse  it  is,  alas!  the 
way  of  the  world. 

Speaking  from  frequent  contact  with 
Admiral  Mahan  throughout  many 
years  of  pleasant  acquaintance,  the 
writer  must  enter  a  protest  against  the 
charge  that  he  was  at  any  time,  in  con- 
versation or  in  his  writings,  an  apostle 
of  war.  So  far  from  that,  he  was  pre- 
eminently an  apostle  of  peace.  It  is  a 
sacrilege  to  distort  the  general  tendency 
of  a  life-work  by  false  emphasis  on 
particulars.  He  did  not  write  primarily 
for  others,  because,  great  as  he  was  in 
other  respects,  he  was  greatest  as  an 
American,  and  the  lesson  he  taught  was 
intended  for  American  patriots.  He 
advocated  a  powerful  fleet  and  battle* 
ships  of  great  size,  but  solely  for  the 
safety  and  dignity  of  the  land  which 
was  dear  to  him  and  to  protect  against 
violence  a  pacific  evolution  of  the  civil- 
ization he  believed  to  be  the  highest 
Knowing  the  genius  of  peoples  as  few 
others  did,  he  realized  the  passions,  am- 
bitions, and  imprincipled  purposes  of 
contemporary  nationalities,  the  shifti- 


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58       PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY:  MEMORIAL  ADDRESSES 


ness  of  policies,  the  flimsiness  of  alli- 
ances and  treaties,  the  lust  for  glory, 
for  wealth,  and  for  power.  He  had 
marked  how  the  embittered  hates  of  one 
generation  were  swiftly  transformed 
into  the  fawning  flatterings  of  the  next, 
and  how  readjustment  of  understand- 
ings occurs  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye 
when  common  material  advantage  im- 
periously commands  it.  Fully  aware  of 
such  appalling  truths,  and  sensitive  to 
his  own  convictions  about  sea  power, 
he  desired  his  country  to  be  on  its 
guard  against  empty  protests  of  affec- 
tion and  shallow  pretenses  of  aloofness. 
It  was  good  to  know  a  man  of  such 
elevated  character,  to  hear  his  fascinat- 
ing talk,  to  enjoy  his  courtesy,  and  to 
delight  the  eyes  with  his  fine  appear- 
ance. Tall,  slender,  erect,  with  expres- 
sive blue  eyes  and  a  clear  complexion, 
he  was  moderate  and  modest  in  his 
intercourse  with  men,  though  fearless 
and  often  unsparing  in  the  defense  of 


his  principles.  He  was  mindful  of  his 
duties  great  and  small,  meticulous  in 
his  attention  to  obligations  he  had  ac- 
cepted, and  so  in  our  company  a  genial, 
appreciate  comrade.  He  shrank  from 
all  notoriety  and  self -display,  and 
during  his  years  of  incumbency  in  the 
Institute  and  Academy  there  was  never 
a  time  when  he  was  conspicuous  to  the 
degree  of  his  eminence  in  the  great 
world.  As  the  perspective  of  time 
lengthens,  our  devotion  to  his  memory 
is  likely  to  increase.  The  trusted  ad- 
viser of  the  Government,  he  died  in 
Washington  with  all  his  armor  as  a 
patriot  on,  w^h  faculties  keen  and  alert. 
The  awful  conVulsions  of  the  hour  had 
justified  his  mterpretations  of  sea 
power,  but  I  Wye  heard  that  they  had 
likewise  filled  T^ijn  with  consternation 
lest  as  a  result,  deferred  perhaps,  yet 
probable,  the  political  map  of  America 
might  eventually  be  as  completely  re- 
made as  that  of  Europe. 


JOHN  MUIR* 
By  Robert  Underwood  Johnson 


Sometime,  in  the  evolution  of  Amer- 
ica, we  shall  throw  off  the  two  shackles 
that  retard  our  progress  as  an  artistic 
nation — philistinism  and  commercialism 
— and  advance  with  freedom  toward 
the  love  of  beauty  as  a  principle.  Then 
it  will  not  be  enough  that  one  shall  love 
merely  one  kind  of  beauty,  each  worker 
his  own  art,  or  that  art  shall  be  separ- 
ated from  life  as  something  too  precious 
for  use:  men  will  search  for  beauty  as 
scientists  search  for  truth,  knowing 
that  while  truth  can  make  one  free,  it  is 
beauty  of  some  sort,  as  addressed  to 
the  eye,  the  ear,  the  mind,  or  the  moral 
sense,  that  alone  can  give  permanent 
happiness.  When  that  apocalyptic  day 
shall  come,  the  world  will  look  back 
to  the  time  we  live  in  and  remember 
the  voice  of  one  crying  in  the  wilder- 
ness and  bless  the  memory  of  John 


Muir.  To  some  beauty  seems  only  an 
accident  of  creation:  to  Muir  it  was 
the  very  smile  of  God.  He  sang  the 
glory  of  nature  like  another  psalmist 
and,  as  a  true  artist,  was  unashamed  of 
his  emotions. 

An  instance  of  this  is  told  of  him  as 
he  stood  with  an  acquaintance  at  one 
of  the  great  view-points  of  the  Yose- 
mite  Valley,  and,  filled  with  wonder 
and  devotion,  wept.  His  companion* 
more  stolid  than  most,  could  not  un- 
derstand his  feeling,  and  was  so 
thoughtless  as  to  say  so. 

"Mon,"  said  Muir,  with  the  Scotch 
dialect  into  which  he  often  lapsed,  "can 
ye  see  unmoved  the  glory  of  the  Al- 
mighty?" 

"Oh,  it's  very  fine,"  was  the  reply, 
"but  I  do  not  wear  my  heart  upon  niy 
sleeve." 


♦Read   before    the   Academy,   January  6,  1916. 


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JOHN  MUIR 


S9 


"Ah,  my  dear  mon,"  said  Muir,  "in 
the  face  of  such  a  scene  as  this  it's  no 
time  to  be  thinkin'  o'  where  ye  wear 
your  heart." 

No  astronomer  was  ever  more  de- 
vout. The  love  of  nature  was  his  reli- 
gion, but  it  was  not  without  a  personal 
God,  whom  he  thought  as  great  in  the 
decoration  of  a  flower  as  in  the  launch- 
ing of  a  glacier.  The  old  Scotch  train- 
ing persisted  through  all  his  studies  of 
causation,  and  the  keynote  of  his  phil- 
osophy was  intel%ent  and  benevolent 
design.  His  wonder  grew  with  his  wis- 
dom. Writing  for  the  first  time  to  a 
young  friend,  he  expressled  the  hope 
that  she  would  "find  that  going  to  the 
mountains  is  going  home  and  that 
Christ's  Sermon  on  the  Mount  is  on 
every  mount." 

It  was  late  in  May,  1889,  that  I  first 
met  him.  I  had  gone  to  San  Francisco 
to  organize  the  series  of  papers  after- 
ward published  in  "The  Century  Miaga- 
zine"  under  the  title  of  "The  Gold- 
hunters  of  California,"  and  promptly 
upon  my  arrival  he  came  to  see  me. 
It  was  at  the  Palace  Hotel  in  San 
Francisco.  I  was  dressing  for  dinner, 
and  was  obliged  to  ask  him  to  come 
up  to  my  room.  He  was  a  long  time 
in  doing  so,  and  I  feared  he  had  lost 
his  way.  I  can  remember  as  if  it  were 
yesterday  hearing  him  call  down  the 
corridor:  "Johnson,  Johnson!  where 
are  you  ?  I  can't  get  the  hang  of  these 
artificial  canons,"  and  before  he  had 
made  any  of  the  conventional  greetings 
and  inquiries,  he  added,  "Up  in  the 
Sierra,  all  along  the  gorges,  the  glaciers 
have  put  up  natural  sign-posts,  and  you 
can't  miss  your  way;  but  here  there's 
nothing  to  tell  you  where  to  go." 

With  all  his  Scotch  wit  and  his  demo- 
cratic feeling,  Muir  bore  himself  with 
dignity  in  every  company.  He  readily 
adjusted  himself  to  any  environment. 
In  the  high  Sierra  he  was  indeed  a 
voice  crying  in  the  wilderness;  more- 
over, he  looked  like  John  the  Baptist 
as  portrayed  in  bronze  by  Donatello  and 
others    of    the    Renaissance    sculptors. 


spare  of  frame,  hardy,  keen  of  eye  and 
visage,  and,  on  the  march,  eager  of 
movement.  It  was  difficult  for  an  un- 
trained walker  to  keep  up  with  him  as 
he  leaped  from  rock  to  rock  as  surely 
as  a  mountain  goat  or  skimmed  the 
surface  of  the  ground,  a  trick  of  easy 
locomotion  learned  from  the  Indians. 
If  he  ever  became  tired,  nobody  knew 
it,  and  yet,  though  he  delighted  in 
badinage  at  the  expense  of  the  "tender- 
foot," he  was  as  sympathetic  as  a 
mother.  I  remember  a  scramble  we  had 
in  the  upper  Tuolumne  Canon  which 
afforded  him  great  fun  at  my  expense. 
The  detritus  of  the  wall  of  the  gorge 
lay  in  a  confused  mass  of  rocks  varying 
in  size  from  a  market-basket  to  a 
dwelling-house,  the  interstices  over- 
grown with  a  most  deceptive  shrub,  the 
soft  leaves  of  which  concealed  its  iron 
trunk  and  branches.  Across  such  a 
Dantean  formation  Muir  went  with  cer- 
tainty and  alertness,  while  I  fell  and 
floundered  like  a  bad  swimmer,  so  that 
he  had  to  give  me  many  a  helpful  hand 
and  cheering  word,  and  when  at  last  I 
was  obliged  to  rest,  Muir,  before  going 
on  for  an  hour's  exploration,  sought 
out  for  me  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
spots  I  had  ever  seen,  where  the  rush- 
ing river,  striking  pot-holes  in  its  gran- 
ite bed,  was  thrown  up  into  waterwheels 
twenty  feet  high.  When  we  returned  to 
camp  he  showered  me  with  little  atten- 
tions and  tucked  me  into  my  blankets 
with  the  tenderness  that  he  gave  to 
children  and  animals. 

Another  Scotch  trait  was  his  surface 
antipathies.  He  did  not  hate  anything, 
not  even  his  antagonists,  the  tree  van- 
dals, but  spoke  of  them  pitifully  as 
"misguided  worldlings";  yet  he  had  a 
wholesome  contempt  for  the  contempt- 
ible. His  growl — he  never  had  a  bark 
—was  worse  than  his  bite.  His  pity 
was  often  expressed  for  the  blindness 
of  those  who,  through  unenlightened 
selfishness,  chose  the  lower  utility  of 
nature  in  place  of  the  higher. 

Many  have  praised  the  pleasures  of 
solitude;    few    have    known    them    as 


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6o       PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY:  MEMORIAL  ADDRESSES 


Muir  knew  them,  roaming  the  high 
Sierra  week  after  week  with  only  bread 
and  tea  and  sometimes  berries  for  his 
subsistence,  which  he  would  have  said 
were  a  satisfactory  substitute  for  the 
"locusts  and  wild  honey"  of  his  proto- 
type. His  trips  to  Alaska  were  even 
more  solitary,  and  we  should  say  for- 
bidding, but  not  he ;  for  no  weather,  no 
condition  of  wildness,  no  absence  of 
animal  life  could  make  him  lonely.  He 
was  a  pioneer  of  nature,  but  also  a 
pioneer  of  truth,  and  he  needed  no 
comrade  Many  will  recall  his  thrilling 
adventure  on  the  Muir  Glacier,  told  in 
his  story  entitled  "Stickeen,"  named 
for  his  companion,  the  missionary's 
dog.  I  heard  him  tell  it  a  dozen  times, 
how  the  explorer  and  the  little  mongrel 
were  caught  on  a  peninsula  of  the 
glacier,  and  how  they  escaped.  It  is  one 
of  the  finest  studies  of  dogliness  in  all 
literature,  and,  told  in  Muir's  whimsical 
way,  betrayed  unconsciously  the  ten- 
derness of  his  heart.  Though  never 
lonely,  he  was  not  at  all  a  professional 
recluse:  he  loved  companions  and 
craved  good  talk,  and  was  glad  to  have 
others  with  him  on  his  tramps;  but  it 
was  rare  to  find  congenial  friends  who 
cared  for  the  adventures  in  which  he 
reveled.  He  was  hungry  for  sympathy 
and  found  it  in  the  visitors  whom  he 
piloted  about  and  above  the  Yosemite 
Valley — Emerson,  Sir  Joseph  Hooker, 
Torrey,  and  many  others  of  an  older 
day  or  of  late  years,  including  Presi- 
dents Roosevelt  and  Taft. 

Muir  was  clever  at  story-telling 
and  put  into  it  both  wit  and  sym- 
pathy, never  failing  to  give,  as  a 
background,  more  delightful  informa- 
tion about  the  mountains  than  a  pro- 
fessor of  geology  would  put  into  a 
chapter.  With  his  one  good  eye, — for 
the  sight  of  the  other  had  been  im- 
paired in  his  college  days  in  Wiscon- 
sin by  the  stroke  of  a  needle, — ^he 
saw  every  scene  in  detail  and  in  mass. 
This  his  conversation  visualized  until 
his  imagination  kindled  the  imagina- 
tion of  his  hearer. 


Adventures  are  to  the  adventurous. 
Muir,  never  reckless,  was  fortunate 
in  seeing  Nature  in  many  a  wonderful 
mood  and  aspect.  Who  that  has  read 
them  can  forget  his  descriptions  of 
the  wind-storm  in  the  Yuba,  which 
he  outrode  in  a  treetop,  or  of  the 
avalanche  in  the  Yosemite,  or  of  the 
spring  floods  pouring  in  hundreds  of 
streams  over  the  rim  of  the  valley? 
And  what  unrecorded  adventures  he 
must  have  had  as  pioneer  of  peak  and 
glacier  in  his  study  of  the  animal  and 
vegetable  life  of  the  Sierra !  Did  any 
observer  ever  come  nearer  than  he  to 
recording  the  soul  of  nature?  If 
"good-will  makes  intelligence,"  as 
Emerson  avers,  Muir*s  love  of  his 
mountains  amounted  to  divination. 
What  others  learned  laboriously,  he 
seemed  to  reach  by  instinct,  and  yet 
he  was  painstaking  in  the  extreme 
and  jealous  of  the  correctness  of  both 
his  facts  and  his  conclusions,  defend- 
ing them  as  a  beast  defends  her  young. 
In  the  Arctic,  in  the  great  forests  of 
Asia,  on  the  Amazon,  and  in  Africa 
at  seventy-three,  wherever  he  was,  he 
incurred  peril  not  for  "the  game/* 
but  for  some  great  emprise  of  science. 

But  Muir's  public  services  were 
not  merely  scientific  and  Hterary. 
His  countrymen  owe  him  gratitude 
as  the  pioneer  of  our  system  of  Na- 
tional Parks.  Before  1889  we  had 
only  one  of  any  importance,  the  Yel- 
lowstone. Out  of  the  fight  which  he 
led  for  the  better  care  of  the  Yosemite 
by  the  State  of  California  grew  the 
demand  for  the  extension  of  the  sys- 
tem. To  this  many  persons  and  or- 
ganizations contributed  but  Muir's 
writings  and  enthusiasm  were  the 
chief  forces  that  inspired  the  move- 
ment. All  the  other  torches  were 
lighted  from  his.  His  disinterested- 
ness was  too  obvious  not  to  be  recog- 
nized even  by  opponents.  To  a  friend 
who,  in  1906,  made  an  inquiry  about 
a  mine  in  California  he  wrote:  "I 
don't  know  anything  at  all  about  the 
^mine  or  any  other.   Nor  do  I  know 


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JOHN  MUIR 


6i 


any  mine-owners.  All  this  $  geology 
is  out  of  my  line."  It  was  in  his  name 
that  the  appeal  was  made  for  the  crea- 
tion of  the  Yosemite  National  Park  in 
.  1890,  and  for  six  years  he  was  the 
leader  of  the  movement  for  the  re- 
trocession by  California  of  the  valley 
reservation,  to  be  merged  in  the  sur- 
rounding park,  a  result  which,  by  the 
timely  aid  of  Edward  H.  Harriman, 
was  accomplished  in  1905. 

In  1896-97,  when  the  Forestry  Com- 
mission of  the  National  Academy  of 
Sciences,  under  the  chairmanship  of 
Professor  Charles  S.  Sargent  of  Har- 
vard, was  making  investigations  to 
determine  what  further  reservations 
ought  to  be  made  in  the  form  of 
National  Parks,  Muir  accompanied  it 
over  much  of  its  route  through  the 
Far  West  and  the  Northwest  and 
gave  it  his  assistance  and  counsel. 
March  27,  1899,  he  wrote:  "I've 
spent  most  of  the  winter  on  forest 
protection;  at  least  I've  done  little 
besides  writing  about  it."  From  its 
inception  to  its  lamentable  success  in 
December,  1913,  he  fought  every  step 
of  the  scheme  to  grant  to  San  Fran- 
cisco for  a  water  reservoir  the  famous 
Hetch  Hetchy  Valley,  part  of  the 
Yosemite  National  Park,  which,  as  I 
have  said,  had  been  created  largely 
through  his  instrumentality.  In  the 
last  stages  of  the  campaign  his  time 
was  almost  exclusively  occupied  with 
this  contest.  He  opposed  the  project 
as  unnecessary,  as  objectionable  in- 
trinsically and  as  a  dangerous  prece- 
dent, and  he  was  greatly  cast  down 
when  it  became  a  law.  But  he  was 
also  relieved.  Writing  to  a  friend, 
he  said:  "I'm  glad  the  fight  for  the 
Tuolumne  yosemite  is  finished.  It 
has  lasted  twelve  years.  Some  com- 
pensating good  must  surely  come  from 
so  great  a  loss.  With  the  New  Year 
comes  new  work.  I  am  now  writing 
on  Alaska.  A  fine  change  from  faith- 
less politics  to  crystal  ice  and  snow." 
It  is  also  to  his  credit  that  he  first  made 
known  to  the  world  the  wonder  and 


glory  of  the  Big  Trees ;  those  that  have 
been  rescued  from  the  saw  of  the 
sordid  lumbermen  owe  their  salvation 
primarily  to  his  voice. 

Muir's  death,  on  Christmas  Eve  of 
^  1914,  though  it  occurred  at  the  ripe  age 
of  seventy-six,  and  though  it  closed  a 
life  of  distinguished  achievement,  was 
yet  untimely,  for  his  work  was  by  no 
means  finished.  For  years  I  had  been 
imploring  him  to  devote  himself  to  the 
completion  of  his  record.  The  material 
of  many  contemplated  volumes  exists  in 
his  numerous  note-books,  and  though, 
I  believe,  these  notes  are  to  a  great 
degree  written  in  extenso  rather  than 
scrappily,  and  thus  contain  much  avail- 
able literary  treasure,  yet  where  is  the 
one  that  could  give  them  the  roundness 
of  presentation  and  the  charm  of  style 
which  are  found  in  Muir's  best  literary 
work?  One  always  hesitates  to  use  the 
word  "great"  of  one  who  has  just 
passed  away,  but  I  believe  that  history 
will  give  a  very  high  place  to  the  in- 
domitable explorer  who  discovered  the 
great  glacier  named  for  him,  and  whose 
life  for  eleven  years  in  the  high  Sierra 
resulted  in  a  body  of  writing  of  marked 
excellence,  combining  accurate  and 
carefully  coordinated  scientific  observa- 
tion with  poetic  sensibility  and  expres- 
sion. His  chief  books,  "The  Mountains 
of  California,"  "Our  National  Parks," 
and  "The  Yosemite,"  are  both  delight- 
ful and  vivid,  and  should  be  made  sup- 
plemental reading  for  schools.  When 
he  rhapsodizes  it  is  because  his  sub- 
ject calls  for  rhapsody,  and  not  to 
cover  up  thinness  of  texture  in  his 
material.  He  is  likely  to  remain  the 
one  historian  of  the  Sierra,-  importing 
into  his  view  the  imagination  of  the 
poet  and  the  reverence  of  the  wor- 
shiper. 

Muir  was  not  without  wide  and 
aflfectionate  regard  in  his  own  state, 
but  California  was  too  near  to  him  to 
appreciate  fully  his  greatness  as  a 
prophet  or  the  service  he  did  in  try- 
ing to  recall  her  to  the  gospel  of  beauty. 
She  has,  however,  done  him  and  her- 


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62       PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY:  MEMORIAL  ADDRESESS 


self  honor  in  providing  for  a  path  on 
the  high  Sierra  from  the  Yosemite  to 
Mount  Whitney  to  be  called  the  John 
Muir  Trail.  William  Kent,  during 
Muir's  life,  paid  him  a  rare  tribute  in 
giving  to  the  nation  a  park  of  red- 
woods with  the  understanding  that  it 
should  be  named  Muir  Woods.  But 
the  nation  owes  him  more.  His  work 
was  not  sectional,  but  for  the  whole 
people,  for  he  was  the  real  father  of 
the  forest  reservations  of  America.  The 
National  Government  should  create 
from  the  great  wild  Sierra  Forest 
Reserve  a  National  Park  to  include  the 
King's  River  Canon,  to  be  called  by  his 
name.  This  recognition  would  be,  so 
to  speak,  an  overt  act,  the  naming  of 
the  Muir  Glacier  being  automatic  by 
his  very  discovery  of  it.  It  is  most 
appropriate    and    fitting    that    a    wild 


Sierra  region  should  be  named  for  him. 
There  has  been  only  one  John  Muir. 

The  best  monument,  however,  would 
be  a  successful  movement,  even  at  this 
late  day,  to  save  the  Hetch  Hetchy 
Valley  from  appropriation  for  com- 
mercial purposes.  His  death  was 
hastened  by  his  grief  at  this  unbeliev- 
able calamity,  and  I  should  be  recreant 
to  his  memory  if  I  did  not  call  special 
attention  to  his  crowning  public  service 
in  endeavoring  to  prevent  the  disaster. 
The  Government  owes  him  penance  at 
his  tomb. 

In  conclusion,  John  Muir  was  not  a 
"dreamer,"  but  a  practical  man,  a  faith- 
ful citizen,  a  scientific  observer,  a 
writer  of  enduring  power,  with  vision, 
poetry,  courage  in  a  contest,  a  heart  of 
gold,  and  a  spirit  pure  and  fine. 


THOMAS  RAYNESFORD   LOUNSBURY* 
By  Brander  Matthews 


When  the  National  Institute  of  Arts 
and  Letters  decided  that  the  time  was 
ripe  for  the  founding  of  an  American 
Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters,  it 
selected  seven  of  its  members  and  em- 
powered them  to  select  eight  others. 
Thomas  Raynesford  Lounsbury  was 
one  of  the  eight  thus  chosen,  and  he 
was  therefore  one  of  the  first  fifteen 
original  members  of  the  Academy.  He 
was  faithful  in  his  attendance  at  our 
annual  meetings,  journeying  to  Wash- 
ington, to  Philadelphia,  and  to  Chicago, 
and  enriching  our  programs  on  two 
occasions  by  papers  of  characteristic 
interest. 

He  was  bom  on  the  first  of  January, 
1838,  and  he  was  graduated  from  Yale 
when  he  was  twenty-one.  He  labored 
for  a  year  or  two  on  the  American 
Cyclopedia,  edited  by  Ripley  and  Dana. 
At  the  outbreak  of  the  Civil  War  he 
enlisted  in  the  126th  New  York  Volun- 
teers, serving  to  the  end.     At  Gettys- 


burg his  regiment  was  deployed  down 
the  slope  of  Cemetery  Ridge,  the  men 
being  so  exhausted  that  they  went  to 
sleep,  despite  the  noise  of  tfie  terrific 
artillery  duel  which  preceded  Pickett's 
charge. 

Shortly  after  the  end  of  the  war 
Lounsbury  was  called  to  an  instructor- 
ship  in  the  SheflSeld  Scientific  School 
of  Yale;  and  to  the  Sheffield  School 
and  to  Yale  he  rendered  devoted  ser- 
vice for  nearly  forty  years.  He  was 
made  professor  of  English  in  1871 ;  and 
in  1906  he  was  regretfully  allowed  to 
retire  into  the  innocuous  desuetude  of 
the  emeritus  professor.  Always  inde- 
fatigable in  research  and  in  the  accumu- 
lation of  information  scientifically  veri- 
fied, he  was  regretfully  hampered  in 
the  later  years  of  his  life  by  a  failing 
of  sight,  which  forced  him  to  limit  his 
hours  of  labor.  Yet  he  retained  to  the 
end  his  cheery  good  humor  and  his 
keen  interest  in  life.    Although  he  was 


*Read  before  the  Academy,  March  9,  1916. 


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THOMAS  RAYNESFORD  LOUNSBURY 


(>) 


seventy-six  when  he  came  to  the  meet- 
ing in  New  York  in  November,  1914, 
he  seemed  to  be  as  full  of  vitality  as 
ever.  He  survived  until  the  following 
spring,  dying  in  April,  1915. 

At  the  time  of  his  lamented  death 
the  position  held  by  Professor  Louns- 
bury  was  without  parallel.  He  was 
recognized  as  the  chief  of  all  the 
scholars  who  in  Great  Britain  and  in 
the  United  States  had  devoted  them- 
selves to  what  is  known  in  university 
<:ircles  as  "English,"  and  he  was  the 
final  survivor  of  those  of  this  group  of 
students  who  maintained  a  command- 
ing place  in  the  two  halves  of  the  sub- 
ject, in  the  history  of  the  English 
language  and  in  the  history  of  English 
literature  in  both  its  branches,  British 
and  American.  No  other  English 
scholar  on  either  side  of  the  Atlantic 
could  speak  with  equal  authority  about 
both  the  language  and  the  literature. 

His  brief  history  of  the  English 
language  is  a  little  masterpiece  of  care- 
fully controlled  information  and  of 
marvelously  lucid  exposition;  and  he 
followed  this  with  later  discussions  of 
usage,  of  pronunciation,  of  spelling,, 
and  of  Americanisms  and  Briticisms. 
These  several  books  were  the  result  of 
wide-spread  and  incessant  investiga- 
tion ;  they  were  solidly  rooted  in  knowl- 
edge ;  they  were  informed  with  wisdom ; 
and  they  were  illumined  by  both  wit 
and  humor.  Never  was  there  a  student 
•of  linguistics  less  pedantic  than  Louns- 
buryy  or  more  human  in  his  understand- 
ing of  the  essential  fact  that  speech  is 
the  possession  of  the  people  as  a  whole 
and  not  an  appanage  of  the  self-ap- 
pointed grammarians.  In  all  his  discus- 
sions of  the  English  language,  its 
idioms,  and  its  orthography,  Lounsbury 
was  as  independent  and  as  individual  as 
he  was  as  a  biographer.  He  was  willing 
to  stand  up  and  be  counted  in  the  com- 
pany of  the  much  decried  spelling  re- 
formers. He  attacked  the  Tories  who 
ventured  to  defend  our  complicated 
and  chaotic  spelling,  employing  all  the 
weapons  furnished  him  by  his  erudition 


and  his  wit.  Ten  years  ago  he  was  one 
of  the  organizers  of  the  Simplified 
Spelling  Board,  and  for  several  years 
he  served  as  its  president,  lending  to 
the  cause  the  weight  of  his  authority 
and  of  his  character. 

The  same  sanity  and  good  humor, 
the  same  comprehensive  thoroughness, 
the  same  untiring  industry  in  getting 
at  the  exact  facts,  the  same  sagacity  in 
interpreting  these  facts  anew,  char- 
acterized his  many  contributions  to  the 
history  of  English  literature.  He 
mastered  his  successfve  subjects  with 
the  meticulous  accuracy  of  a  conscien- 
tious man  of  science,  and  he  presented 
the  results  of  his  labor  to  the  reader 
with  the  skill  of  an  accomplished  man 
of  letters.  His  own  task  was  hard  in 
order  that  our  work  might  be  easy.  He 
began  his  career  as  a  biographer  with 
his  cordial  and  delightful  study  of 
Fenimore  Cooper.  He  erected  an  endur- 
ing monument  in  the  three  solid  tomes 
of  his  Chaucer.  He  devoted  several 
volumes  to  the  vicissitudes  of  Shak- 
spere's  fame.  He  narrated  with  a  host 
of  new  facts  the  early  years  of  Brown- 
ing's poetic  activity,  and  he  left  in- 
complete at  his  death  his  final  study  of 
the  slow  and  steady  rise  of  the  reputa- 
tion of  Tennyson. 

He  left  it  incomplete  only  in  so  far 
as  it  was  unfinished  and  in  part  un- 
revised.  But  it  is  not  a  fragment;  it 
covers  the  ground  thoroughly  as  far  as 
he  had  carried  his  work.  It  is  larger 
in  scope  than  a  mere  biography  of 
Tennyson.  It  is  this  first  of  all,  of 
course,  but  it  is  also  a  searching  analysis 
of  the  literary  history  of  Great  Britain 
in  the  third,  fourth,  and  fifth  decades 
of  the  last  century,  made  possible  at 
the  cost  of  tremendous  labor  in  examin- 
ing the  files  of  a  host  of  dead-and-gone 
periodicals.  The  result  of  this  in- 
domitable research,  carried  on  un- 
flinchingly despite  many  disadvantages, 
is  a  masterly  reconstruction  of  the  cir- 
cumstances of  English  literature  in  the 
thirty  years  during  which  Tennyson 
was  gaining  the  unchallenged  position 


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64       PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY:  MEMORIAL  ADDRESSES 


he  occupied  in  the  final  thirty  years  of 
his  life. 

Nowhere  does  the  author  allow  him- 
self to  be  choked  by  the  dust  of  the 
back-numbers  he  disturbed  from  their 
silent  sleep.  Everywhere  he  retains 
control  of  his  vast  mass  of  material, 
and  everywhere  does  he  handle  it  with 
a  fine  artistic  sense  of  its  significance. 
Everywhere  does  he  reveal  his  own 
fundamental  characteristics,  his  fair- 
ness, his  tolerance,  his  transparent 
honesty,  his  understanding  of  human 
nature,  and  his  omnipresent  sense  of 
humor.  He  is  never  overcome  by  the 
burden  of  his  material;  he  is  never 
hurried,  and  he  conducts  his  leisurely 
inquiry  in  accord  with  his  large  and 
liberal  method.  He  knew  that  he  had 
a  long  job  to  do,  and  he  did  it  as  he 
felt  that  it  ought  to  be  done.  What  is 
more,  he  did  it  once  for  all;  and  most 
unlikely  is  it  that  any  later  delvers  into 


this  period  will  be  able  to  add  anything 
significant,  or  will  find  any  occasion  to 
modify  the  judgments  here  expressed. 

Nor  is  it  likely  that  critics  of  another 
generation  will  be  tempted  to  attack  the 
main  positions  taken  by  Lounsbury  in 
his  earlier  studies  of  Chaucer,  of  Shak- 
spere,  of  Browning,  and  of  Fenimore 
Cooper.  Whatever  memorial  he  was 
about  to  build,  Lounsbury  always  sank 
his  foundations  down  to  bed-rock. 

His  position  among  American 
scholars  was  lofty,  and  it  will  be  long 
before  his  authority  will  be  in  any  way 
diminished.  In  fact,  one  might  well 
apply  to  him  a  remark  he  himself  made 
about  Tennyson:  "Every  great  writer 
attains  in  time  to  a  certain  wealth  of 
reputation,  not  indeed  an  unearned  in- 
crement, but  an  amount  of  compound 
interest  which  has  been  accruing  since 
the  investment  was  first  made." 


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THE  INSTITUTE  MEDAL 


The  Gold  Medal  of  the  Institute  is 
awarded  to  any  citizen  of  the  United 
States,  whether  a  member  of  the  Insti- 
tute or  not,  for  distinguished  services 
to  arts  and  letters  in  the  creation  of 
original  work. 

The  conditions  are  that  the  medal 
shall  be  awarded  for  the  entire  work  6f 
the  recipient,  without  limit  of  time  dur- 
ing which  it  shall  have  been  done ;  that 
it  shall  be  awarded  to  a  living  person  or 
to  one  who  shall  not  have  been  dead 
more  than  one  year  at  the  time  of  the 
award ;  and  that  it  shall  not  be  awarded 
more  than  once  to  any  one  person. 

The  medal  was  designed  by  Adolph 
A,  Weinman,  member  of  the  Institute, 
in  1909. 


The  first  award — for  sculpture — was 
to  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens.  The  medal 
was  presented  to  Mrs.  Saint-Gaudens 
at  the  meeting  held  in  memory  of  her 
husband,  November  20,  1909. 

The  second  medal — for  history — 
was  awarded  to  James  Ford  Rhodes, 
1910. 

The  third  medal — for  poetry — was 
awarded  to  James  Whitcomb  Riley, 
1911. 

The  fourth  medal — for  architecture 
— was  awarded  to  William  Rutherford 
Mead,  1912. 

The  fifth  medal — for  drama — was 
awarded  to  Augustus  Thomas,  1913. 

The  sixth  medal — for  fiction — was 
awarded  to  William  Dean  Howells  in 
1915. 


THE  ACADEMY  MEDAL 


The  Gold  Medal  of  the  Academy  is 
conferred  in  recognition  of  special  dis- 
tinction in  literature,  art  or  music,  and 
for  the  entire  work  of  the  recipient, 
who  may  be  of  either  sex,  and  must  be 
a  native  or  naturalized  citizen  of  the 
United  States,  and  not  a  member  of  the 
Academy.   It  was  first  awarded  to  Dr. 


Charles  William  Eliot,  at  the  annual 
meeting  in  Boston,  November  18,  1915, 
and  the  presentation  was  made  in  behalf 
of  the  Academy  by  Dr.  Nicholas 
Murray  Butler  in  New  York,  January 
27,  1916.  The  medal  was  designed  and 
modeled  by  James  Earle  Fraser,  mem- 
ber of  the  Institute. 


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THE  ACADEMY  LECTURES 


The  first  course  of  lectures  by  mem-  Street,  New  York.    During  this  course 

hers  of  the  Academy,  under  its  auspices,  were  delivered  the  memorial  addresses 

was  given  during  the  season  of  1915-16  here  printed.    Following  is  the  list  of 

at  the  Chemists'   Club,   52   East  41st  the  papers: 


December  9,  1915, 

January      6,  1916, 

January    27, 
February  17, 

March         9, 

March       30, 


Nicholas  Murray  Butler:    "A  Voyage 
of  Discovery." 

Edwin  H.  Blashfiejd:    "The  Value  of 
Disciplined  Thought  in  Art." 

Bliss  Perry:    "Concerning  Satire." 

William  M.  Sloane:    "Democracy  and 
Efficiency." 

Timothy  Cole :   "The  Analogy  between 
Engraving  and  Painting." 

Brander  Matthews:    "Shakspere's 
Stage  Traditions." 


FORM    OF    BEQUEST 

I  hereby  give,  devise,  and  bequeath  to  the  American  Academy 
OF  Arts  and  Letters,  incorporated  under  an  Act  of  the  Congress 
of   the   United   States,   approved   April    17,    1916,   the   sum   of 


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T  A  e>''./< 


PROCEEDINGS 


OF  THE. 


AMERICAN  ACADEMY  OF  ARTS 
AND  LETTERS 


AND  OF  THE 


NATIONAL  INSTITUTE  OF  ARTS 
AND  LETTERS 

NUMBER  X:  1917 


EIGHTH  ANNUAL  JOINT  MEETING 
NEW  YORK,  NOVEMBER  16-17, 1916 


\ 


New  York 

OFFICE  OF  THE  ACADEMY,  70  FIFTH  AVENUE 


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Copyright,  1917,  by 
The  American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters 


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CONTENTS 

PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  PUBLIC  MEETINGS  OF  THE  AMERICAN 

ACADEMY  OF  ARTS  AND  LETTERS  and  THE  NATIONAL 

INSTITUTE  OF  ARTS  AND  LETTERS 

Sessions  at  the  Ritz-Carlton  Hotel,  New  York,  November  16-17,  1916 

First  Session,  10.30  a.m.,  November  16 

William  M.  Sloane,  Chancellor  of  the  Academy,  Presiding 

Address  by  the  Chancellor 

WiUiam  M.  Sloane 5 

La  Fonction  des  Influences  ^trang^es  dans  le  D^veloppe- 

MENT  DE  la  LiTT^RATURE  FrAN^AISE 

Monsieur  Gustave  Lanson     7 
Professor  of  French  Literature  in  the  University  of  Paris,  and  in 
Columbia  University,  19 16-17 

Nationalism  in  Literature  and  Art 

Theodore  Roosevelt   11 


Second  Session,  2.15  p.m.,  November  16 
Concert  of  Compositions  by  Members  of  the  Institute 18 


Third  Session,  10.30  a.m.,  November  17 
Edwin  Howland  Blashfield,  President  of  the  Institute,  Presiding 

Standards 

William  Crary  Brownell.,  19 
History,  Quick  or  Dead? 

William  Roscoe  Thayer.,.  29 
The  Future  Fight  (Poem) 

Richard  Burton   35 

A  Few  Eternal  Verities  of  the  Arts  of  Design 

Will  H.  Low 43 

Memorial  Tributes  to  Members  of  the  Academy 

William  Merritt  Chase  Kenyon  Cox  49 

John  White  Alexander  Edwin  Howland  Blashfield  51 

George  Browne  Post  Thomas  Hastings  54 

Bronson  Howard  Augustus  Thomas   56 

John  Bigelow  WiUiam  Milligan  Sloane. .  59 

Medals  of  the  Institute  and  the  Academy,  and  Other  Data 63 

Note  on  the  Address  of  Monsieur  Henri  Bergson,  de  l'Acad^mie  Franchise 64 

Correspondence  of  the  Academy  with  the  Acad^mie  Franc^aise  and  the  Acad^mie  des 
Beaux-Arts 64 


PUBLISHED  AT  INTERVALS  BY  THE  SOCIETIES 


Copies  may  be  had  on  application  to  the  Permanent  Secretary  of  the  Academy, 

Mr.  R.  U.  Johnson,  70  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York 

Price  per  Annum,  f  1.00 


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PREFATORY  NOTE 

On  the  evening  of  November  1 5,  Dr.  Nicholas  Murray  Butler 
gave  a  dinner  to  his  associates  of  the  Academy  at  his  house, 
followed  by  a  reception  to  the  members  of  the  Institute  by 
Dr.  and  Mrs.  Butler.  On  the  evening  of  the  i6th  the  Annual 
Meeting  and  dinner  of  the  Institute  took  place  at  the  Uni- 
versity Club.  On  the  afternoon  of  the  i6th  Mr.  Henry  C. 
Frick  gave  the  hospitality  of  his  art  galleries  to  the  members. 
On  the  17th,  by  courtesy  of  Mr.  Archer  M.  Huntington,  they 
were  received  at  the  Hispanic  Society  of  America  at  the  open- 
ing of  a  special  exhibition  of  Spanish  tapestries,  etc.,  and 
the  same  evening  a  musical  reception  was  given  in  their  honor 
by  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Walter  Damrosch.  Institutions  that  offered 
courtesies  were  the  Century,  University,  and  Cosmopolitan 
Clubs. 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE 

AMERICAN  ACADEMY  OF  ARTS  AND  LETTERS 

AND  OF  THE 

NATIONAL  INSTITUTE  OF  ARTS  AND  LETTERS 


Vol.  II 


NEW  YORK,  NOVEMBER,  1917 


No.  4 


Public  Meetings  held  at  the  Ritz-Carlton  Hotel,  New  York,  November  16-17,  >9>6 

WILLIAM  M.  SLOANE,  Chancellor  of  the  Academy,  and 
EDWIN  ROWLAND  BLASHFIELD,  President  of  the  Institute,  Presiding 


[session  of  NOVEMBER  1 6] 

ADDRESS  OF  WILLIAM  M.  SLOANE 

Chancellor  of  the  Academy 


When  twice  in  succession  our  presi- 
dent finds  it  necessary  to  seek  recupera- 
tion and  healing  under  milder  skies,  the 
chancellor  of  the  Academy  can  merely 
renew  our  expression  of  regret  in  his 
enforced  absence,  and  convey  to  our 
friends  his  warmest  greeting.  It  is  im- 
possible to  emulate  the  gracious  lan- 
guage with  which  he  would  have  wel- 
comed you  and  the  distinguished  guest, 
M.  Lanson,  who  brings  us  the  tribute  of 
good  will  from  a  sister  institution  over 
the  sea.  For  this  reason  my  words  are 
few,  and  shall  be  confined  to  a  brief  ac- 
count of  my  stewardship  during  the  last 
year.  Your  own  hearts  will  supply  what 
I  forbear  to  say  when  time  is  short  and 
art  is  long. 

Our  seventh  annual  meeting  was  held 
a  year  ago  in  Boston.  The  welcome  was 
worthy  of  the  place  in  every  regard,  and 
the  program  provided  for  the  sympa- 
thetic public  illuminated  perfectly  the 
purposes  of  Institute  and  Academy  to 
emphasize  the  unity  of  all  the  fine  arts 
in  their  reciprocity  one  with  another; 
in  stimulating  each  and  all  to  higher 
achievement,  while  likewise  exhibiting 
this  high  purpose  in  every  portion  of  our 
broad  domain.     We  were  as  much  at 


home  in  Boston  as  we  had  been  in 
Philadelphia  and  Chicago,  as  we  should 
be  in  New  OrJeans  or  San  Francisco. 
The  national  spirit  of  science  in  the  fine 
arts  knows  nothing  of  local  jealousy, 
though  it  knows  much  of  local  character. 
Throughout  the  winter  our  activities 
as  individual  members  have  been  as  in- 
tense and  constant  as  ever,  which  is  a 
matter  of  course.  But  organically  we 
have  likewise  been  diligent  in  business. 
Congress  has  recognized  the  nation-wide 
scope  of  the  Academy  as  well  as  of  the 
Institute  in  granting  to  the  former,  as  it 
had  already  done  to  the  latter,  a  na- 
tional charter.  With  marked  success  we 
have  held  a  series  of  public  meetings  in 
this  city,  at  each  of  which  a  paper  of 
high  character  has  been  read  to  large  and 
select  audiences.  There  will  be  a  similar 
course  during  the  coming  winter,  six  in 
all,  for  which  tickets  can  be  secured  on 
application  to  Mr.  Johnson's  office,  70 
Fifth  Avenue.  There  is  no  charge  for 
admission,  and  the  directors  believe  that 
as  the  public  interest  grows,  the  institu- 
tion of  Institute  and  Academy  lectures 
will  be  not  only  permanent,  but  of  the 
highest  value  to  the  choice  spirits  who 
favor  the  speakers  by  their  attendance. 


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PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


At  one  of  these  meetings  the  medal  of 
the  Academy  was  bestowed  for  the  first 
time.  The  recipient  was  Charles  W. 
Eliot,  and  the  award  was  for  his  mastery 
in  the  use  of  the  English  language. 
This,  too,  was  an  enlargement  of  our 
activities,  and  one  which  has  met  with 
wide-spread  commendation. 

As  if  to  emphasize  the  duty  of  a  body 
like  the  Academy  in  laboring  to  preserve 
the  beauty  of  our  English  tongue  and  to 
enrich  its  vocabulary  as  modern  ideas 
demand  modern  expression,  a  lady  has 
given  to  us  the  sum  of  three  thou- 
sand dollars  for  this  purpose.  This 
sum  is  offered  in  the  belief  that,  with 
much  expenditure  of  thought  and  judg- 
ment, a  relatively  small  expenditure  of 
money  may  be  rich  in  result.  We  are 
to  have  at  our  disposal  a  third  of  the 
sum  each  year  for  three  successive  years 
in  order  to  secure  papers  and  conferences 
which  will  lead  to  the  formation  of  a 
plan  not  for  rewarding  the  expert,  but 
for  guiding  the  striving  artist  by  the 
suggestion  of  principles  and  standards. 
This  appears  to  the  directors  an  auspi- 
cious beginning  of  what  must  necessarily 
be  a  long,  arduous  labor;  but  we  enter 
upon  it  with  gladness,  assured  that  those 
who  come  after  will  perform  their  tasks 


with  the  same  enthusiasm  and  consci- 
entiousness as  we  assume  to  perform 
them  for  ourselves  and  our  successors. 
Such  a  trust  implies  a  chivalric  devotion 
on  the  part  of  her  who  initiates  it;  those 
who  accept  will  surely  not  be  slothful  in 
the  affair. 

These  are  the  items  of  our  present 
condition  in  matters  intellectual  and 
spiritual.  Our  material  condition  has 
not  changed:  we  are  still  without  a 
home,  and  our  endowment  is  far  from 
sufficient.  But  we  feel  no  dismay  that 
benefactors  are  as  yet  sympathetically 
inquisitive  rather  than  actively  gener- 
ous. So  far  we  have  been  delighted  by 
the  interest  shown,  and  by  the  warm  en- 
couragement we  have  received.  Every 
member  is  himself  a  generous  contrib- 
utor: most  in  money,  some  in  kind,  a 
few  in  both;  and  all  exhibit  their  faith 
by  works.  The  example  we  set  for  our- 
selves we  do  not  herald  all  abroad,  but 
we  commit  our  needs  of  larger  dimen- 
sion to  the  intelligent  and  discriminating 
founders  who  in  America  have  abun- 
dantly met  the  educational  and  elee- 
mosynary demands  of  their  country  with 
a  liberality  unprecedented  in  history.  A 
goodly  portion  of  the  shower  will  fall 
on  us  if  we  deserve  it,  as  we  aim  to  do. 


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LA  FONCTION  DES  INFLUENCES  6TRANG6RES 

DANS  LE  DEVELOPPEMENT  DE  LA 

LITTfiRATURE  FRAN^AISE 

By  Monsieur  Gustave  Lanson 


Mesdames,  Messieurs:  Puisque  Tln- 
stitut  National  des  Arts  et  des  Lettres 
et  TAcademie  Americaine  m'ont  fait  le 
tres  grand  honneur  de  m'inviter  a  lire 
devant  vous  dans  cette  seance  solennelle, 
mes  premieres  paroles  ne  peuvent  etre 
que  I'expression  de  ma  profonde  grati- 
tude. Je  sais  bien  que  cet  honneur  va 
au-dela  de  ma  personne,  et  que  j'en  suis 
redevable  surtout  k  mon  pays,  i  la 
France,  dont  la  civilisation,  la  littera- 
ture  et  les  arts  sont  aim^s  ici  d'un  amour 
si  fervent.  Je  le  sais;  mais  cette  certi- 
tude, pour  un  coeur  fran^ais,  ne  fait  que 
rendre  la  dette  plus  grande,  et  plus 
douce  a  reconnaitre. 

On  remarque  dans  la  vie  litt^raire  de 
la  France  depuis  des  slides— et  c'est  un 
de  ses  caractires  les  plus  curieux — une 
sorte  de  rythme,  un  mouvement  de  bas- 
cule qui  fait  qu'alternativement  nous 
nous  ouvrons,  nous  nous  fermons  a  im- 
portation des  idees  et  des  formes  d'art 
etrangires.  Les  p^riodes  d'imitation  suc- 
cfedent  aux  piriodes  de  creation,  et  de 
nouveau  leur  font  place,  sans  que  jamais 
nous  demeurions  longtemps  satisfaits 
d'etre  simplement  nous. 

Nous  sommes  Italiens,  Grecs,  Latins, 
Espagnols,  avant  d'etre  nous-mfemes 
dans  nos  chefs-d'oeuvre  classiques.  Nous 
nous  jetons  ensuite  dans  I'anglomanie,  et 
nous  nous  entichons  d'une  douce,  re- 
veuse,  et  m^nagire  Allemagne.  Enfin, 
recemment,  vous  nous  avez  vus  nous 
Jeter  ^perdument  dans  le  Tolstoisme  et 
I'lbsinisme,  voire  le  Nietzscheisme;  et 
c'est  un  peu  votre  William  James  qui 
nous  a  fait  tater  du  pragmatisme. 

Ces  ph^nomenes  ont  ite  considires 
souvent  par  les  contemporains  avec  in- 
dignation, par  les  historiens  avec  s6ve- 
riti.    Par  une  association  d'idees  invo- 


lontaire  et  presque  fatale,  les  moments 
d'influence  etrangere  dans  notre  littera- 
ture  se  sont  assimiles  dans  nos  esprits 
aux  temps  maudits  ou  I'itranger  a  en- 
vahi  notre  sol,  occupe  nos  villes,  et 
menace  I'existence  nationale. 

Les  souffles  du  dehors  ont  paru  mor- 
tels  a  I'esprit  franjais,  et  Ton  a  juge 
qu'il  ne  pouvait  s'y  ouvrir  sans  s'alt^rer, 
les  appeler  sans  s'abandonner  et  se 
trahir. 

11  y  a  la,  Messieurs,  beaucoup  d'illu- 
sion :  on  prend  des  abstractions  pour  des 
rialitis;  on  se  figure  je  ne  sais  quelle 
bataille  des  id£es  indigenes  et  des  idees 
etrangeres,  des  genres  indigenes  et  des 
genrfe  Strangers,  comme  se  battent  les 
Vertus  et  les  Vices  dans  un  tableau  de 
primitif.  Alors  c'est  un  malheur  na- 
tional quand  le  genre  Stranger  repousse 
le  genre  indigene,  ou  quand  I'idee  fran- 
Saise  est  exterminee  par  I'idee  du  dehors. 
Mais  regardons  les  choses  comme  elles 
sont:  dans  ces  fantastiques  batailles,  le 
seul  etre  r6el  est  I'esprit,  I'esprit  franjais 
qui  va  vers  plus  de  verity,  plus  de 
beauts,  et  qui  gagne  toujours,  quand  il 
acquiert  une  idee.  Car  est-ce  I'idee  qui 
le  prend,  ou  lui  qui  prend  I'idfe?  Le 
point  de  vue  de  Joachim  du  Bellay  est  le 
plus  juste,  lorsqu'il  compare  le  transport 
des  richesses  d'une  littirature  itrangire 
dans  la  notre  a  une  conquete,  et  qu'il  in- 
vite la  jeunesse  frangaise  k  I'assaut,  au 
pillage  de  la  Grfece,  de  Rome  et  de 
ritalie. 

Ce  n'est  point  la  un  paradoxe.  Si  vous 
voulez  bien  r^fl^chir  un  instant  k  la 
fonction  qu'a  remplie,  dans  la  vie  litt^- 
raire  de  notre  pays,  I'afflux  intermittent 
de  la  pensfe  et  de  I'art  Strangers,  vous 
verrez  que,  loin  de  correspondre  k  une 
diminution  de  vitality,  k  une  depression, 
k  un  ^puisement,  il  manifeste  la  volont^ 


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8 


PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


d'etre,  la  force  de  renouvellement  d'un 
genie  toujours  actif  et  robuste. 

La  fonction  dont  je  parle  est  double. 
Dans  son  premier  aspect,  qu'on  decouvre 
d'abord,  elle  consiste  a  Clever  I'esprit 
national  au  dessus  de  lui-meme,  a 
raider,  en  le  nourrissant,  a  se  develop- 
per.  II  faudrait  avoir  I'esprit  bien  mal 
fait  pour  refuser  d'envoyer  un  enfant  a 
I'ecoie,  de  peur  qu'il  n'y  corrompit  la 
purete  originelle  de  son  g^nie.  Mais  ce 
ne  serait  pas  avoir  I'esprit  plus  sain,  que 
de  pretendre,  a  I'age  adulte,  ne  plus  rien 
tenir  que  de  soi-meme,  de  son  develop- 
pement,  de  ses  propres  decouvertes,  et 
de  refuser  toutes  les  acquisitions  dont  on 
serait  redevable  a  d'autres.  11  n'en  va 
pas  autrement  des  nations.  Celle  qui 
s'enfermera  dans  la  contemplation  de 
soi-meme,  et  croira  n'avoir  rien  a  rece- 
voir  de  personne,  s'epuisera,  s'ankylo- 
sera,  se  dessechera  plus  ou  moins  vite: 
sa  lumi^re  est  condamnde  k  s'^teindre. 

Nos  autres  Fran^ais,  nous  sommes  un 
peuple  curieux.  Nous  n'avons  jamais 
pu  voir  avec  tranquillite,  que  d'autres 
hommes  comprissent  ce  que  nous  ne 
comprenions  pas,  eussent  des  plaisirs 
que  nous  ne  sentions  pas.  L'avance 
prise  par  d'autres  dans  les  lettres  et  dans 
les  arts  nous  a  enflamm^s  d'emulation, 
excites  a  marcher  sur  leurs  pas,  non 
pour  nous  trainer  derrifere  eux,  mais 
pour  les  rattraper,  si  nous  pouvions,  et 
les  depasser.  Nous  nous  sommes  donne 
une  Trag£die  aux  i6e  et  176  siicles, 
parce  que  les  Grecs  et  les  Italiens  en 
avaient  une;  nous  nous  sommes  donne 
une  poesie  lyrique  au  ipe  siecle,  parce 
que  les  Anglais  et  les  AUemands  en 
avaient  une.  Notre  volont^  a  suivi 
notre  intelligence;  et  notre  effort  de 
creation  a  ete  dirige  par  Vid6e  claire  de 
ce  qui  nous  manquait,  et  que  nous  aper- 
cevions  chez  d'autres. 

Qui  sait  si,  sans  ces  excitations  du 
dehors,  nous  ne  serions  pas  restes  infini- 
ment  au  dessous  de  nous-memes? 

Pendant  quatre  ou  cinq  siecles,  du 
moyen-age  au  milieu  du  i6e  siecle,  nous 
avons  un  theatre  florissant,  et  I'art  dra- 
matique  ne  fait  pas  de  progres.    Un  jour 


nous  nous  mettons  a  imiter  Seneque  et 
Sophocle,  voire  le  Trissin  ou  Giraldi :  au 
bout  d'un  sikle,  sortent  le  Cid  et  An- 
dromaque;  et  il  apparait  que  cet  art 
dramatique,  que  nous  n'avons  pas  su 
organiser  tous  seuls,  est  I'une  des  plus 
certaines  vocations  du  genie  frangais. 
Ainsi,  au  point  de  depart  de  beaucoup  de 
nos  progres,  il  y  a  une  influence  du  de- 
hors, un  parti  pris  d'imitation,  qui,  loin 
d'eteindre  notre  originalite,  I'eveille  et 
nous  oblige  a  tirer  de  nous  la  puissance 
latente  dont  autrement  nous  n'aurions 
peut-etre  jamais  pris  conscience. 

L'autre  fonction  des  litteratures 
etrangeres,  qui  n'est  pas  moins  impor- 
tante,  a  ete  de  nous  rendre,  k  de  certains 
moments,  le  droit  d'etre  nous:  plus  d'une 
fois  I'influence  du  dehors  a  €t€  libera- 
trice.  Un  jour  la  latinite  nous  debar- 
rasse  de  I'italianisme;  un  autre  jour, 
I'Angleterre  nous  aide  i  rejeter  le  poncif 
greco-romain.  Mais  parfois  aussi  I'une 
ou  l'autre  des  nations  cultivees  nous  a 
delivres  de  nous  memes.  11  arrive  que 
Ton  emploie  les  chefs-d'ceuvre  du  genie 
a  paralyser  le  g6nie.  On  ne  songe  pas 
que  Corneille  et  Racine  ont  fait,  comme 
disait  Flaubert,  "ce  qu'ils  ont  voulu": 
et  Ton  condamne  ceux  qui  viendront 
apres  eux  a  faire,  non  pas  comme  eux, 
ce  qu'ils  veulent,  mais  d'aprb  eux,  qu'ils 
veuillent  ou  ne  veuillent  pas.  On  ne 
trouve  de  pi^s  bien  faites  que  celles 
qui  sont  jetees  dans  les  moules  d'Augier 
ou  de  Dumas  fils,  quand  ce  n'est  pas 
dans  ceux  de  Scribe  et  de  Sardou:  II  ne 
s'agit  pas  de  ressembler  k  la  vie,  ni  d'ex- 
primer  une  vue  personnelle  de  la  vie,  il 
s'agit  de  ne  pas  s'ecarter  des  modeles. 
Alors  celui  qui  a  quelque  chose  a  dire, 
celui  qui  congoit  une  idee  ou  sent  une 
beaute  dont  la  technique  traditionnelle 
ne  veut  pas,  s'insurge,  tantot  au  nom  de 
Shakespeare,  tantot  au  nom  d'lbsen, 
aujourd'hui  pour  un  ideal  anglais,  de- 
main  pour  un  ideal  scandinave. — en  rea- 
lity toujours  pour  lui-meme,  pour  I'ideal 
intime  et  personnel  de  sa  nature  poe- 
tique. 

II  arrive  aussi  que  la  societe  frangaise 
a  change  d'esprit,  qu'elle  a  acquis  de 


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INFLUENCES  eiRANGeRES  DANS  LA  LITieRATURE  FRAN^AISE    9 

qu'ils  sont,  avec  ce  qui  les  fait  ressem- 
bler  et  plaire  a  la  nation  qui  les  a  pro- 
duits;  nous  n'en  prenons  que  ce  qui  est 
a  notre  usage.  L'idfe  que  nous  nous  en 
faisons,  exacte  ou  fausse,  n'a  besoin  que 
d'etre  adaptee  au  reve  inexprime  de 
notre  coeur;  nous  faisons  de  Shakespeare 
ou  de  Byron,  de  Schiller  et  d' Ibsen  selon 
les  temps,  ce  que  Montaigne  faisait  de 
Plutarque  et  de  Seneque.  Nous  ne  cher- 
chons  pas  leur  sens  mais  le  notre;  et 
nous  disons  d'apres  eux  "pour  d'autant 
mieux  nous  dire." 

11  pourra  se  faire  sans  doute  que  tel 
ecrivain  soit  ecrase  sous  le  poids  de  son 
butin,  qu'a  tel  moment  Timitation  de- 
vienne  mecanique  et  servile.  Je  ne  veux 
pas  rehabiliter  la  Franciade  de  Ronsard. 
un  grand  poete  pourtant  et  d'un  vaste 
genie;  mais  ce  sont  justement  ces  expe- 
riences malheureuses  qui  marquent  les 
limites  des  appropriations  possibles  et 
fecondes.  Et  les  echecs  meme  d'un  jour 
preparent  la  victoire  du  lendemain. 

II  a  fallu  gacher  bien  des  tragedies 
pendant  pres  d'un  siecle  pour  que  fut 
realisable  la  perfection  du  Cid  et  d'Ho- 

RACE. 

Je  sais  bien  encore  qu'il  y  a  des 
peuples  dont  I'esprit  n'a  pu  recevoir  I'in- 
fluence  etrangere  sans  en  etre  opprim^, 
sans  y  perdre  son  originalite.  Soyez 
surs  qu'ils  n'ont  perdu  que  ce  qu'ils  n'a- 
vaient  pas.  Je  doute  d'une  personnalite 
qui  s'evapore  siais^ment  au  soleil,  et 
qui  se  dissout  au  premier  contact.  En 
tout  cas,  je  ne  crains  rien  pour  la 
France.  II  y  a  parfois  des  medecins 
tant-pis  qui  nous  prescrivent  de  tenir 
I'esprit  frangais  a  la  chambre,  de  le 
mettre  a  la  diete.  lis  lui  interdisent  les 
voyages,  de  peur  des  courants  d'air;  ils 
I'empechent  de  se  nourrir,  de  peur  qu'il 
n'altere  son  essence  par  I'absorption  des 
substances  etrangeres.  C'est  le  traiter 
en  personne  de  bien  petite  sante !  Je  le 
crois  plus  robuste,  capable  de  reagir  k 
toutes  les  pressions  du  dehors,  capa- 
ble d'assimiler  tous  les  aliments  qu'il 
absorbe;  notre  passe  me  repond  de  notre 
avenir.    Nous  avons  bien  digere  Rome. 

Cette  puissance  d'assimilation,  et  la 


nouveaux  sentiments,  des  manieres  nou- 
velles  de  reagir  aux  conditions  ^ternelles 
de  la  destinee  humaine  ou  aux  condi- 
tions modifiees  de  I'existence  nationale. 
dependant  les  litterateurs  ne  se  trou- 
blent  pas  pour  si  peu  dans  leur  tran- 
quille  petite  Industrie,  et  ils  continuent 
de  fournir  les  memes  produits  a  un 
public  qui  n'est  plus  le  meme.  Ce  pu- 
blic, alors,  se  detourne  d'un  art  qui  ^tait 
fait  pour  ses  arriere-grands-peres,  et  va 
demander  a  des  ceuvres  etrangeres  les 
idees,  les  emotions,  la  beaute  poetique 
qui  correspondent  aux  aspirations  se- 
cretes du  temps  present.  On  se  tourne 
vers  Ossian,  parce  qu'on  a  Bernis;  on 
se  tourne  vers  Byron,  parce  qu'on  a 
Parny.  L'imitation  est  un  moyen  de 
s'affranchir.  II  y  avait  trois  quarts  de 
siecle  que  les  ames  franjaises  etaient 
gonflees  de  sentiments  romantiques, 
quand  le  romantisme  du  C^nacle,  en 
ayant  I'air  de  sacrifier  la  tradition  clas- 
sique  a  un  gout  malsain  de  bizarreries 
exotiques,  a  tout  simplement  bris^  des 
formes  surann^es,  refondu  une  langue 
figee  et  readapte  la  litterature  franjaise 
a  la  vie  frangaise.  Lamartine  a  6crit  la 
poesie  que  Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse, 
de  toute  la  passion  orageuse  de  son  coeur 
insatiable,  appelait,  et  ne  pouvait  obte- 
nir  des  hommes  de  gout  tvhs  polis  qui 
I'entouraient. 

Par  la  s'explique  une  apparente  con- 
tradiction dont  on  ne  peut  manquer 
d'etre  frappe.  On  nous  voit,  au  cours  de 
notre  histoire,  les  yeux  toujours  fixfe  sur 
les  litteratures  etrangeres,  occupes  a  les 
admirer,  a  les  introduire,  a  les  copier. 
Et  Ton  nous  dit  toujours  que  nous 
sommes  incapables  de  les  comprendre. 
Le$  Anglais  s'amusent  de  nos  imitations 
Shakespeariennes;  et  Mariano  de  Lara 
&late  de  rire  devant  I'Espagne  d'Her- 
nani.  C'est  un  fait,  que  la  plupart  de 
nos  romantiques,  et  souvent  les  plus 
barbouilles  d'exotisme,  ne  savent  pas  ou 
savent  tres  mal  I'allemand,  I'anglais,  et 
meme  I'espagnol. 

C'est  qu'en  fait,  ce  qui  nous  inte- 
resse,  ce  n'est  pas  de  reproduire  la  pen- 
see  etrangere,  le  poeme  etranger,  tels 


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curiosite  qui  lui  fournit  de  la  mati^re, 
sont  dans  un  rapport  ^troit  avec  un  des 
caractires  les  plus  marques  de  notre  lit- 
t^rature,  le  caractere  que  Brunetiire, 
dans  un  de  ses  plus  beaux  essais,  a  si 
iloquemment  d^fini.  D'autres  littera- 
tures  sont  peut-etre  plus  originales  que 
la  notre;  la  nationality,  la  race,  s'y  font 
sentir  plus  fortement;  elles  ont  mieux 
conserve  leur  ind^pendance,  leur  pu- 
rete,  leur  saveur  primitive  de  terroir. 
Chez  nous,  la  nationality  s'est  depouillfe. 
Nous  ne  nous  sommes  pas  developpes 
dans  le  sens  de  la  particularite,  de  la 
locality,  mais  dans  celui  de  Tuniversa- 
lit^,  de  I'humaniti.  Nous  avons  voulu 
qu'on  devint  plus  frangais,  a  mesure 
qu'on  serait  plus  humain.  Nous  n'avons 
jamais  su  ce  que  c'^tait  que  des  V^rit^s 
Fran^aises:  nous  ne  connaissons  que  la 
verite,  sans  epithfetes,  la  verity  de  tous 
les  hommes. 

Et  c'est  pour  cela  que  nous  avons 
toujours   recueilli   toutes  les   idfes   de 


toutes  les  nations;  nous  les  avons  trai- 
ts comme  nos  propres  id^,  filtrto. 
humanist,  pour  les  distribuer  ensuite 
par  toute  I'Europe  et  dans  le  monde 
entier.  La  vertu  civilisatrice  de  notre 
litt^rature  tient  k  ce  que  nous  n'avons 
jamais  repouss^  ni  une  forme  de  la  ve- 
rite ni  une  forme  de  la  beaut6  conune 
etrang^res  k  notre  race.  Notre  puis- 
sance d'expansion  est  faite  de  notre  re- 
ceptivity meme.  Si  I'Europe,  si  le  monde 
ont  donn^  parfois  k  notre  langue  un 
empire  presque  universel,  c'est  qu'ils 
estimaient — ils  savaient — que  nous  ne 
leur  apportions  pas  la  tyrannie  d'un 
temperament  ethnique,  mais  la  lumiire 
de  la  raison  humaine. 

Aurions-nous  pu  remplir  ce  role  histo- 
rique,  qui  est  notre  gloire,  si  nous  avions 
eu  le  souci  illusoire  et  pueril  de  rester 
purs,  Torgueilleuse,  la  sauvage  preten- 
tion de  ne  pas  meler  notre  esprit  aux 
esprits  des  autres  peuples,  et  de  donner 
sans  recevoir? 


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NATIONALISM  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART 
By  Theodore  Roosevelt 


Mr.  Chancellor,  our  distinguished 
guest,  Monsieur  Lanson,  fellow-mem- 
bers of  the  Academy  and  Institute:  I 
am  in  the  position  of  having  had  my 
speech  mad6  for  me  by  Monsieur  Lan- 
son  far  better  than  I  could  make  it.  I 
do  not  mean  that  I  am  to  speak  about 
France;  but  that  what  i  have  to  say  on 
!'Nationalism  in  Literature  and  Art"  has 
been  said  by  our  guest  with  that  clear- 
ness and  fineness  of  expression  which 
can  perhaps  be  attained  only  by  masters 
of  the  French  language. 

And  let  me  at  the  outset  say  anent  the 
tribute  paid  to  William  James  as  having 
familiarized  France  with  the  philosophy 
of  pragmatism,  that  not  a  few  of  us  ad- 
mired William  James  without  clearly 
understanding  him  until  Monsieur  Emile 
Boutroux  translated  him  for  us. 

In  speaking  of  the  French  genius. 
Monsieur  Lanson  has  most  clearly  set 
forth  the  attitude  that  should  be  taken  in 
every  country  as  regards  both  the  duty 
of  seeking  for  everything  good  that  can 
be  contributed  by  outside  nations  and 
the  further  duty  of  refusing  merely  to 
reproduce  or  copy  what  is  thus  taken, 
but  of  adapting  it  and  transmuting  it 
until  it  becomes  part  of  the  national 
mind  and  expression. 

There  is  only  one  thing  worse  than 
the  stolid  refusal  to  accept  what  is  great 
and  beautiful  from  outside,  and  that  is 
^  servilely  to  copy  it.  Monsieur  Lanson 
must  permit  me  to  say  that  even  the 
greatest  authors  do  not  shine  at  their 
best  when  they  are  nearest  to  copying  a 
foreign  masterpiece.  A  great  French 
dramatist  has  produced  a  play  modeled 
on  a  great  Spanish  epic,  and  the  great 
English  dramatist  in  'Troilus  and  Cres- 
sida"  adapted  part  of  a  medievalized 
tradition  of  Homer.  I  think  1  prefer  the 
Spanish  epic  to  the  French  drama  in 
that  particular  case,  and  i  know  that  1 
prefer  even  a  dozen  lines  of  the  Greek 


epic  to  all  but  half  a  dozen  lines  of  the 
English  play, — although  in  some  of  his 
other  plays  I  believe  that  the  dramatist 
in  question  rose  above  all  the  other  poets 
of  all  time. 

The  greatest  good  that  is  done  by  the 
reception  and  the  assimilation  of  a  for- 
eign culture  is  in  the  effect  on  the  mind 
of  the  person  who  so  assimilates  it  that 
he  can  use  it  in  doing  productive  work 
in  accordance  with  the  genius  of  his  own 
country. 

I  cannot  forbear  saying  in  the  pres- 
ence of  Monsieur  Lanson  a  word  as  to 
the  debt  we  all  owe  France  for  the 
French  example,  and  especially  the 
French  example  at  this  moment.  As 
one  of  our  own  beloved  American  writ- 
ers who  is  present  with  us  to-day  has 
said — in  speaking  of  what  he  will  hardly 
pardon  me  for  calling  a  warped,  al- 
though a  rugged,  genius  of  American 
poetry,  Walt  Whitman — as  John  Bur- 
roughs has  said,  strength  comes  before 
beauty  and  valor  before  grace.  If  France 
had  been  only  a  literary  and  artistic 
country,  we  should  not  now  have  the 
feeling  that  we  have  as  we  rise  to  our 
feet  when  French  heroism  is  mentioned. 

The  other  day  1  was  interested  in  cer- 
tain paleontological  and  archaeological 
studies  at  the  point  where  the  two  sci- 
ences come  together,  and  I  happened  to 
be  reading  the  work  of  a  great  French- 
man. 1  made  inquiries  about  him,  and 
found  that  he  is  dead  in  the  trenches, 
because,  although  he  was  a  great  ar- 
chaeologist, he  put  patriotism,  love  of 
country,  and  the  duty  to  be  a  man  ahead 
of  the  duty  of  being  a  scientific  or  liter- 
ary man. 

There  is  another  example  for  us  in 
France.  Our  guest  has  correctly  said 
that  the  Frenchman  is  not  bound  by 
local  ideas f  he  is  national;  he  is  not 
addicted  merely  to  the  cult  of  belfry 
patriotism;  he  is  content  to  be  a  French- 


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12        PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


man  and  nothing  else.  It  would  be  well 
for  us  here,  when  we  grow  a  little  mel- 
ancholy as  to  the  time  taken  by  the 
melting-pot  to  turn  out  a  purely  Amer- 
ican product,  to  remember  that,  vast 
though  this  country  is,  the  racial  differ- 
ences are  not  one  whit  greater  in  our 
population  than  in  the  population  of 
France.  The  Norman,  the  Breton,  the 
Gascon,  the  man  of  Languedoc,  the  man 
of  the  center  of  France,  represent  the  ex- 
treme types  of  all  the  different  races  of 
central  and  western  Europe;  but  they 
have  all  been  assimilated  into  one  co- 
herent and  distinctive  French  national- 
ity, so  that  the  man  of  Toulouse,  the 
man  of  Rouen,  the  man  of  Marseilles, 
the  man  of  Lyons  or  of  Paris,  are  all 
essentially  alike,  despite  the  wide  dif- 
ferences in  blood  and  ancestry.  This  is 
something  worth  our  while  remember- 
ing, and  it  is  something  that  is  encour- 
\  aging  to  remember.  And  in  what  I  am 
about  to  say  it  really  would  hardly  be 
necessary  for  me  to  do  more  than  to 
tell  us  to  take  example  by  the  develop- 
ment of  French  art  and  literature  from 
the  days  of  the  "Song  of  Roland"  down 
to  the  present  year. 

French  literature  has  changed  much. 
Our  guest  will  allow  me  to  coitiment 
upon  the  fact  that  in  the  great  epic 
which  I  have  mentioned,  a  great,  typical 
French  poem,  containing  scores  of  thou- 
sands of  lines,  only  one  woman — at  least 
only  one  French  woman — is  mentioned, 
and  only  three  lines  are  devoted  to  her, 
and  two  of  these  lines  describe  her 
death.  There  has  been  development  in 
French  literature  since  that  time! 

France  has  helped  humanity  because 
France  has  remained  French.  There  is 
no  more  hopeless  creature  from  the 
point  of  view  of  humanity  than  the  per- 
son who  calls  himself  a  cosmopolitan, 
who  spreads  himself  out  over  the  whole 
world,  with  the  result  that  he  spreads 
himself  out  so  thin  that  he  comes 
through  in  large  spots.  We  can  help 
humanity  at  large  very  much  to  the  ex- 
tent that  we  are  national — in  the  proper 
sense,  not  in  the  chauvinistic  sense — 


that  we  are  devoted  to  our  own  country 
first.  1  prize  the  friendship  of  the  man 
who  cares  for  his  family  more  than  he 
cares  for  me;  if  he  does  not  care  for  his 
family  any  more  than  he  cares  for  me, 
1  know  that  he  cares  for  me  very  little. 
What  is  true  in  individual  relations  is 
no  less  true  in  the  world  at  large. 

So  you  see  that  the  most  important 
part  of  my  paper  had  beeif  given  before 
I  came  to  it! 

One  thing  that  the  French  can  teach 
us  is  the  need  of  leadership.  There  can  be^ 
no  greater  mistake  from  the  democratic 
point  of  view,  nothing  more  ruinous 
can  be  imagined  from  the  point  of  view 
of  a  true  democracy,  than  to  believe  that 
democracy  means  absence  of  leadership. 
Of  course  it  is  hard  to  tell  exactly  how 
much  can  be  done  in  any  given  case  by 
the  leadership  that  is  differentiated  from 
the  mass  work.  That  is  true  in  produc- 
ing a  national  art  or  national  literature, 
just  as  it  is  true  in  other  activities  of 
national  life.  Something,  of  course,  and 
in  some  cases  much,  can  be  accom- 
plished. But  the  greatest  literature,  the 
greatest  art,  must  spring  from  the  soul 
of  the  people  themselves.  There  must 
be  leadership  in  the  blossoming  period, 
in  any  blossoming  period,  of  any  great 
artistic  or  literary  nation.  But  if  the 
art  is  genuinely  national,  the  leadership 
must  take  advantage  of  the  life  of  the 
people,  and  must  follow  the  trend  of  its 
marked  currents.  Greek  art,  like  Gothic 
architecture,  owed  more  to  the  national 
spirit  than  to  any  conscious  effort  of 
any  group  of  men;  and  this  is  likewise 
true  of  the  Greek  and  English  litera- 
tures. On  the  other  hand,  Latin  litera- 
ture was  not  really  an  expression  of  the 
soul  of  the  Latin  race  at  all,  and  this 
will  seem  strange  only  to  the  men  who 
have  not  succeeded  in  freeing  their 
thought  from  the  narrow  type  of  scho- 
lastic education  prevalent  in  our  univer- 
sities and  schools  up  to  the  present  day. 
Latin  literature  was  merely  an  elegant 
accomplishment  developed  by  small 
groups  of  Latin-speaking  men  who  self- 
consciously set  themselves  to  theproduc- 


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>3 


tion  of  a  literature  and  an  art  modeled 
on  Greek  lines.  The  result  of  the  efforts 
of  these  men  has  had  a  profound  effect 
upon  the  civilization  of  the  last  two 
thousand  years  throughout  the  world; 
but  this  effect  has  come  merely  because 
the  race  to  which  this  artificial  literature 
belonged  was  a  race  of  conquerors,  of  ad- 
ministrators, of  empire-builders.  Greek 
literature  and  art,  Greek  philosophy, 
Greek  thought,  have  profoundly  shaped 
the  after  destinies  of  the  world,  although 
the  Greek  was  trampled  under  foot  by 
the  Roman.  But  Roman  literature. 
Latin  literature,  would  not  be  heard  of 
at  this  day  if  it  were  not  for  the  fact 
that  the  Latin  stamped  his  character  on 
all  occidental  and  central  Europe. 

^  Normally  there  must  be  some  relation 
between  art  and  the  national  life  if  the 
art  is  to  represent  a  real  contribution  to 
the  sum  of  artistic  world  development. 
Nations  have  achieved  greatness  with- 
out this  greatness  representing  any  ar- 
tistic side;  other  great  nations  have 
developed  an  artistic  side  only  after  a 
preliminary  adoption  of  what  has  been 
supplied  by  the  creative  genius  of  some 
wholly  alien  people.  But  the  national 
greatness  which  is  wholly  divorced  from 
every  form  of  artistic  production, 
whether  in  literature,  painting,  sculp- 
ture, or  architecture,  unless  it  is  marked 
by  extraordinary  achievements  in  war 
and  government,  is  not  merely  a  one- 
sided, but  a  malformed,  greatness,  as 
witness  Tyre,  Sidon,  and  Carthage. 

It  behooves  us  in  the  United  States 
not  to  be  content  with  repeating  on  a 
larger  scale  the  history  of  commercial 
materialism  of  the  great  Phenician  com- 
monwealths. This  means  that  here  in 
America,  if  we  do  not  develop  a  serious 
art  and  literature  of  our  own,  we  shall 
have  a  warped  national  life.  Most  cer- 
tainly I  do  not  mean  that  the  art  and 
literature  are  worth  developing  unless 
they  are  built  on  a  national  life  which 
is  strong  and  great  in  other  ways,  unless 
they  are  expressions  of  that  valor  of 
soul  which  must  always  come  before 

^beauty.    If  a  nation  is  not  proudly  will- 


ing and  able  to  fight  for  a  just  cause, — 
for  the  lives  of  its  citizens,  for  the 
honor  of  its  flag,  even  for  the  rescue  of 
some  oppressed  foreign  nationality, — 
then  such  a  nation  will  always  be  an 
ignoble  nation,  and  this  whether  it 
achieves  the  sordid  prosperity  of  those 
who  are  merely  successful  hucksters,  or 
whether  it  kills  its  virility  by  an  ex- 
clusive appreciation  of  grace,  ease,  and 
beauty.  Strength,  courage,  and  justice 
must  come  first.  When  the  beauty-lov- 
ing, beauty-producing  Greek  grew  cor- 
rupt and  lost  his  hold  upon  the  great 
arts  of  war  and  government,  his  pro- 
ficiency in  arts  of  a  different  kind  did 
not  avail  him  against  the  Roman.  The 
glory  of  Greece  culminated  in  those  cen- 
turies when  her  statesmen  and  soldiers 
ranked  as  high  as  her  sculptors  and 
temple-builders,  her  poets,  historians, 
and  philosophers. 

We  of  this  nation  are  a  people  differ- 
ent from  all  of  the  peoples  of  Europe,  but 
akin  to  all.  Our  language  and  literature 
are  English,  and  the  fundamentals  of 
our  inherited  culture  are  predominantly 
English.  But  we  have  in  our  veins  the 
blood  of  many  different  race-stocks,  and 
we  have  taken  toll  of  the  thought  of 
many  different  foreign  nations.  We  have 
lived  for  three  centuries,  and  are  still 
living  under  totally  new  surroundings. 
These  new  surroundings  and  the  new 
strains  in  our  blood  interact  on  one 
another  in  such  fashion  that  our  na- 
tional type  must  certs^inly  be  new;  and 
it  will  either  develop  no  art  and  no  lit- 
erature, or  else  the  art  and  literature 
must  be  distinctly  our  own. 

In  a  recent  number  of  the  "Suwanee 
Review" — incidentally,  the  "Suwanee 
Review"  represents  the  kind  of  work 
which  Americans  should  welcome — it 
was  pointed  out  how  the  names  of  our 
writers,  painters,  and  poets  of  to-day 
show  the  growing  divergence  of  our  peo- 
ple from  the  English  stock.  This  does 
not  in  the  least  mean  that  there  should 
be  any  break  with  English  scholarship 
and  culture,  any  failure  to  take  full  ad- 
vantage of  their  immense  storehouse; 


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14        PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


but  it  does  mean  that  this  country  is 
steadily  evolving  a  new  national  type. 
This  new  national  type  can  add  to 
the  sum  of  world  achievement  only 
if  it  develops  its  own  forms  of  na- 
tional expression,  social,  literary,  and 
artistic. 

Of  course  to  make  the  type  self-con- 
sciously anti-English  shows  as  mean  a 
sense  of  uneasy  inferiority  as  to  make  it 
a  mere  imitation  of  the  English.  Take 
three  widely  different  books  which  have 
dealt  with  vital  conditions  during  the 
last  two  years,  and  consider  the  names 
of  the  authors.  Two  of  them  deal  with 
conditions  growing  out  of  the  World 
War  and  the  failure  of  this  nation  to 
act  in  accordance  with  its  loftiest  tradi- 
tions of  the  past.  The  other,  the  first 
one  of  which  1  speak,  refers  not  to  any- 
thing special  to  this  nation,  but  to  some- 
thing of  vital  interest  to  all  modern 
nations.  I  refer  to  Bade's  'The  Old  Tes- 
tament in  the  Light  of  To-day,"  very 
much  the  ablest  and  most  remarkable 
Biblical  study  produced  anywhere  in 
any  country  of  recent  years.  Another  is 
Owen  Wister's  "Pentecost  of  Calamity," 
which  every  American  should  read,  and 
the  third  is  Gustavus  Oehlinger's  "Their 
True  Faith  and  Allegiance,"  which 
should  be  read  by  every  man  who  claims 
to  be  an  American,  whether  he  is  of  old 
colonial  stock  or  is  a  naturalized  citi- 
zen or  is  the  son  of  a  naturalized  citi- 
zen; and  if  any  man  fails  with  all  his 
heart  to  stand  for  the  doctrines  therein 
set  forth,  this  country  is  not  the  place 
for  him  to  live.  None  of  these  three  au- 
thors is  English  by  blood,  at  least  on  his 
father's  side.  All  are  of  mixed  blood, 
and  all  are  purely  American,  through 
and  through— -American  in  every  sense 
which  can  possibly  aid  in  making  the 
term  one  of  pride  to  us  and  one  of  use- 
fulness to  mankind  at  large. 

Now,  conditions  in  this  country  are 
such  that  from  time  to  time  a  certain 
number  of  our  people  are  lost  to  us. 
Some  painters  go  to  live  in  France,  some 
writers  in  England,  some  musicians  and 
even  occasionally  some  scientists,  else- 


where in  continental  Europe.  Occasion- 
ally these  men  may  individually  benefit 
themselves,  in  which  case  all  I  can  say 
is,  I  trust  they  cease  calling  themselves 
Americans.  1  don't  want  to  call  them 
American-French  or  American-English. 
Let  them  be  frankly  English  or  French 
and  stop  being  American.  They  repre- 
sent nothing  but  loss  from  the  point  of 
view  of  national  achievement  and  must 
be  disregarded  in  any  study  of  our  de- 
velopment. 

It  is  eminently  necessary  that  we 
should  draw  on  every  hoard  of  garnered 
wisdom  and  ability  anywhere  in  the 
world  of  art  and  of  literature,  whether  / 
it  be  in  France  or  Japan,  in  Germany, 
England,  Russia,  or  Scandinavia.  But^ 
what  we  get  we  must  adapt  to  our  own 
uses.  Largely  we  must  treat  it  as  an  in- 
spiration to  do  original  productive  work 
ourselves,  so  that  we  may  develop  nat- 
urally along  our  own  lines.  We  need 
have  scant  patience  with  artificial  devel- 
opment in  nationalism  or  in  anything 
else.  I  care  little  more  for  the  Cubist 
school  in  patriotism  than  I  care  for  it  in 
art  or  in  poetry.  The  effort  to  be  orig- 
inal by  being  fantastic  is  always  cheap. 
Second-rate  work  is  second-rate  work, 
even  if  it  is  done  badly.  Nor  does  the 
possession  of  a  national  art  mean  in  the 
least  that  the  subjects  treated  shall  be 
only  domestic  subjects.  But  the  posses- 
sion of  a  national  art  does  mean  that 
the  training  and  habit  of  thought  of  the 
men  of  artistic  and  literary  expression 
shall  put  them  into  sympathy  with  the 
nation  to  which  they  belong.  Partly  they 
must  express  the  soul  of  a  nation, 
partly  they  must  lead  and  guide  the  soul 
of  the  nation;  but  only  by  being  one 
with  it  can  they  become  one  with  human- 
ity at  large.  When  the  greatest  men,  the 
men  whose  appeal  is  to  mankind  at  large, 
make  their  appeal,  it  will  be  found  that 
it  carries  most  weight  when  they  speak 
in  terms  that  are  natural  to  them,  when 
they  speak  with  the  soul  of  their  own 
land.  Normally  the  man  who  can  do 
most  for  the  nations  of  the  world  as 
a  whole  is  the  man  the  fibers  of  whose 


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being  are  most  closely  intertwined  with 
those  of  the  people  to  which  he  himself 
belongs. 

Merely  to  copy  something  already 
produced  by  another  nation  is  probably 
y  useless.    Cultivated  Englishmen,  for  ex- 
ample, have  added  immensely  to  their 
scholarly  productivity  by  their  study 
of  the  Latin  tongue  and  their  familiarity 
with  it.    The  study  of  Latin  has  helped 
them  to  do  productive  work.    But  when 
they  themselves  have  tried  to  become 
Latin  writers  they  have  never  done  any- 
thing at  all.    One  form  of  their  effort 
to  write  Latin  has  represented,  I  sup- 
pose,   in   the   aggregate,    as   large   an 
amount  of  sheer  waste  as  anything  in  all 
education,  and  that  is  the  setting  of  boys 
and  young  men  to  writing  Latin  verses. 
Millions  of  Latin  verses  have  been  writ- 
ten by  Englishmen,  cultivated  English- 
men ;  and  there  is  n't  one  of  them  which 
any  human  being  would  put  in  a  Latin 
anthology  to-day.     It  has  represented 
sheer  waste  of  effort — a  waste  as  sheer 
as  learning  the  Koran  by  heart  in  a 
Moslem  university,  and  the  product  is 
of  no  more  permanent  value  than  the 
verses  scribbled  at  a  week-end  house- 
party. 
/     There  have  been  countless  American 
artists  who  have  spent  their  time  paint- 
ing French  and  Dutch  subjects.    Some 
have  done  good  work — almost  as  good 
as  if  they  were  Frenchmen  or  Dutch- 
men.   All  of  them  put  together  have  not 
added  to  the  sum  of  American  achieve- 
ment or  to  the  world's  artistic  develop- 
ment as  much  as  Remington  when  he 
painted  the  soldier,  the  cow-boy,  and  the 
Indian  of  the  West.    Now  let  me  add 
for  the  benefit  of  the  worthy  persons 
who,   having  seen  this  statement,  will 
write    me    the    day    after    to-morrow, 
yearning  for  a  commission,  that  the  fact 
that  they  would  like  to  paint  Indians 
does  not  mean  that  they  are  going  to  do 
good  work.    If  Remington's  desire  had 
not  been  equaled  by  his  power  of  artistic 
achievement,  what  he  did  would  have 
been     worthless.    Good    Joel     Barlow 
found  he  had  a  new  nation  and  no  epic; 


and  as  he  figured  to  himself  that  Ho- 
mer had  self-consciously  written  the  epic 
of  Greece,  and  as  he  knew  about  Milton, 
he  sat  down  and  wrote  an  epic  of  Amer- 
ica conceived  in  the  same  spirit  that 
made  us  put  Washington  naked  to  the 
waist  and  with  a  toga  around  him  in 
front  of  the  Capitol — ^the  same  spirit,  if  ' 
our  guest  will  pardon  me,  which  made 
the  French  seventeenth-century  sculp- 
tors put  Louis  XIV  in  a  Roman  corse- 
let. Well,  poor  Joel  Barlow  wrote  his^ 
"Columbiad";  I  have  one  of  the  copies 
of  the  original  edition.  I  would  not  have 
it  out  of  my  library  for  any  considera- 
tion unless  1  were  required  to  read  it; 
if  I  had  to  read  it  I  would  surrender  it.     / 

Many  Americans  of  wealth  have  ren- 
dered real  service  by  bringing  to  this 
country  collections  of  pictures  by  the 
masters  of  painting.  But  all  of  these 
men  of  wealth  who  have  brought  over 
paintings  to  this  country,  put  together, 
have  not  added  to  the  sum  of  productive 
civilization  in  this  country  as  much  as 
that  strange,  imaginative  genius,  Mar- 
cus Symons,  who  was  utterly  neglected 
in  life,  who  is  n't  known  in  death,  but 
who  will  assuredly  be  known  to  gener- 
ations that  come  after  us  as  perhaps  the 
greatest  imaginative  colorist  since  Tur- 
ner. 

I  was  struck  the  other  day  by  some- 
thing that  Lady  Gregory  mentioned  to 
me.  She  is  one  of  that  knot  of  men  and 
women  who  of  recent  years  have  made 
Ireland  a  genuine  influence  in  the  world 
of  literature.  She  and  her  fellows  have 
done  this  because  their  work  has  been 
essentially  national.  In  this  country  she 
lectured  upon  the  need  that  we  Ameri- 
cans should  develop  our  own  drama  and 
poetry  along  similar  national  lines.  She 
has  told  with  much  humor  (and  in  pri- 
vate conversation  has  elaborated  with 
examples)  how  some  of  her  auditors, 
like  those  victims  of  medieval  magic 
who  were  made  to  learn  the  Lord's 
Prayer  backward,  deliberately  inverted 
her  teachings,  and  proposed  themselves 
to  her  to  write  not  American,  but  Irish, 
prose  or  poems!    She  spoke  in  various 


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cities  of  the  need  that  we  should  develop 
local  schools  of  literary  activity,  not 
anti-national  schools,  but  representative 
of  all  the  local  features  of  our  composite 
nationality.  She  urged  our  people  to 
realize  the  deep  humor  and  interest  in 
the  new  types  developed  in  each  new 
center  of  American  life.  She  asked  the 
hearers  in  different  centers  to  develop 
from  each  the  local  story,  the  local  play, 
the  local  poem,  exactly  as  she  and  those 
like  her  had  done  in  Ireland.  She  de- 
scribed in  some  detail  what  they  had 
done  in  Ireland;  whereupon  in  each  unit 
a  considerable  portion  of  her  auditors 
thought  they  would  like  to  imitate  what 
she  had  done  in  Ireland,  under  the  im- 
pression that  they  were  following  out 
her  advice  to  be  original ! 

For  example,  she  told  of  one  case 
where,  having  produced  one  of  her  plays 
in  which  a  cowherd  was  concerned,  one 
of  her  auditors  sent  her  a  few  days  af- 
terward a  play  of  his  own  on  "Irish  Cat- 
tle-keeping," where  one  of  the  features 
was  the  tinkling  of  the  cow-bells.  Now, 
they  do  not  have  cow-bells  in  Ireland. 
He  knew  how  cow-bells  sounded  in  the 
pasture  lot  at  home,  just  as  he  knew  how 
the  rails  sound  when  they  clatter  down 
on  the  ground  as  the  hired  man  lets  the 
cows  out.  And  he  might  just  as  well 
have  attributed  the  sound  of  the  falling 
of  rails  to  a  region  of  stone  walls  as  to 
have  attributed  cow-bells  to  Ireland. 
He  and  his  kind  are  zealous,  well-mean- 
ing, profoundly  foolish  persons,  who 
thought  that  they  were  inspired  by  her 
teachings  to  undertake  something  for 
which  they  were  exquisitely  unfitted. 
They  were  not  really  inspired  at  all. 
They  were  simply  filled  with  the  desire 
to  copy  somebody  else  because  they 
did  not  have  in  their  own  souls  the  ca- 
pacity for  original  or  productive  work. 

The  easiest  of  all  things  is  to  copy. 
Ordinary  writers  do  not  write  about 
what  they  themselves  see,  for  they  see 
very  little.  They  merely  repeat  what 
has  already  been  written  in  books  about 
what  somebody  else  has  seen.  You  re- 
member Oliver  Wendell  Holmes's  state- 


ment that  it  took  over  a  century  to  ban- 
ish the  lark  from  American  literature, 
and  1  am  bound  to  say  that  the  lark  oc- 
casionally survives  here  and  there  in 
American  literature  to  this  day.  Yet 
no  American  has  ever  heard  the  skylark 
in  America,  because  he  is  not  here  to  be 
beard.  But  the  average  American  writer 
has  read  Hogg  or  Shelley  or  Shakspere; 
and  so  when  he  thinks  of  going  out  in 
the  early  morning  in  the  country,  and 
does  not  know  anything  about  the  coun- 
try, he  thinks  he  ought  to  feel  inspired 
by  the  skylark,  and  writes  accordingly. 
Ordinary  people,  as  they  grow  wealthy 
and  become  vaguely  aware  of  new  needs, 
— or,  if  that  is  too  strong  an  expression, 
grow  vaguely  to  feel  that  they  ought  to 
show  some  evidence  of  growth  in  taste  to 
parallel  their  growth  in  wealth, — ^find  it 
easier  to  import  not  only  their  own 
ideas,  but  their  material  surroundings. 
When  our  multi-millionaires  beconse 
wealthy  enough,  they  are  apt  to  copy  Old 
World  palaces  and  to  fill  these  palaces 
with  paintings  brought  from  the  Old 
World.  If  the  millionaire  is  sufficientiy 
primitive,  he  will  explain  to  you  with 
pride  that  the  paintings  are  hand-made. 
Now,  it  is  eminently  right  to  try  to  add 
to  our  own  development  by  the  studies 
of  great  architecture  and  the  great 
schools  of  painting  of  the  Old  World.  If 
we  do  not  study  them,  we  shall  never 
develop  anything  worth  having  on  our 
own  side  of  the  water.  But  neither  the 
mere  reproduction  of  a  specimen  of  a 
great  architecture  nor  the  mere  purchase 
of  the  product  of  a  great  school  of  paint- 
ing is  of  the  slightest  consequence  in  add- 
ing to  the  sum  total  of  worthy  national 
achievement.  A  minutely  accurate  re- 
production of  a  beautiful  and  very  ex- 
pensive French  chateau,  popped  down  at 
the  foot  of  some  unkempt  mountain- 
range,  or  elbowing  another  imitation 
chateau  of  a  totally  different  nationality 
and  type  in  some  summer  capital  of  the 
wealthy,  does  not  represent  any  advance 
in  our  taste  or  culture  or  art  of  living. 
It  represents  nothing  but  a  personal  in- 
ability to  make  wise  use  of  acquired  or 


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NATIONALISM  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART 


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\  inherited  riches.  The  Raphaels  in  Eng- 
land reflect  credit  primarily  on  Italy, 
not  on  England.  It  is  to  the  Turners 
in  the  National  Gallery  that  we  must 
turn  when  we  desire  to  consider  real 
achievements  by  England  in  the  field  of 
art.  We  neither  know  nor  care  whether 
the  Spanish  grandees  and  Dutch  burgo- 
masters of  the  seventeenth  century  ac- 
cumulated masterpieces  of  Italian  paint- 
ers. Our  concern  is  solely  with  the 
artistic  genius  that  produced  Velasquez 
and  Murillo,  with  the  artistic  genius 
that  produced  Rembrandt  and  Franz 
Hals.  Similarly,  it  means  very  little  to 
have  an  Egyptian  obelisk  in  Central 
Park.  (In  the  effort  to  avoid  overstate- 
ment, I  have  made  this  statement 
feebly.)  But  it  means  a  great  deal  to 
have  Saint-Gaudens's  Farragut  and 
Sherman  in  New  York,  Saint-Gaudens's 
Lincoln  in  Chicago,  and  MacMonnies's 
Kit  Carson  in  Denver. 
Of     course     an     over-self-conscious 


straining  after  a  nationalistic  form  of 
expression  may  defeat  itself.  But  this  is 
merely  because  self-consciousness  is  al- 
most always  a  drawback.  The  self-con- 
scious striving  after  originality  also 
tends  to  defeat  itself.  Yet  the  fact  re- 
mains that  the  greatest  work  must  bear 
the  stamp  of  originality.  In  exactly  the 
same  way  the  greatest  work  must  bear 
the  stamp  of  nationalism.  American 
work  must  smack  of  our  own  soil,  men- 
tal and  moral,  no  less  than  physical,  or 
it  will  have  little  of  permanent  value. 

Let  us  profit  by  the  scholarship,  art, 
and  literature  of  every  other  country 
and  every  other  time;  let  us  adapt  to 
our  own  use  whatever  is  of  value  in  any 
other  language,  in  any  other  literature, 
in  any  other  art;  but  let  us  keep  steadily 
in  mind  that  in  every  field  of  endeavor 
the  work  best  worth  doing  for  Amer- 
icans must  in  some  degree  express  the 
distinctive  characteristics  of  our  own 
national  soul. 


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SECOND  SESSION 
Thursday,  November  i6rH,  at  2.15 

CONCERT 
OF  COMPOSITIONS  BY  MEMBERS  OF  THE  INSTITUTE 

Given  by 

The  Kneisel  Quartet 

Franz  Kneisel,  First  Violin  Hans  Letz,  Second  Violin 

Louis  Svecenski,  Viola  Willem  Willeke,  Violoncello 


PROGRAMME 

George  W.  Chadwick  Quartet  in  D  Minor,  No.  5 

Allegro  moderator  Andantino—Leggiero  e  presto 

Allegro  vivace 

Arthur  Foote  Tema  con  Variazioni  in  A  Major,  Op.  ^2 

Henry  K.  Hadley     Quintet  in  A  Minor  for  Pianoforte  and  Strings,  Op.  30 

Allegro  energico— Andante— Allegro  giocoso  (Scherzo) 

Allegro  con  moto 

The  Composer  at  the  Piano 


18 


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[session  of  NOVEMBER  1 7] 

STANDARDS 
By  William  Crary  Brownell 


It  is  perhaps  a  little  difficult  precisely 
to  define  the  term  "standards/'  but  it  is 
happily  even  more  superfluous  than  dif- 
ficult, because  every  one  knows  what  it 
means.  Whereas  criticism  deals  with 
the  rational  application  of  principles  ap- 
plicable to  the  matter  in  hand,  and  has 
therefore  a  sufficiently  delimited  field  of 
its  own,  standards  are  in  different  case. 
They  belong  in  the  realm  of  sense  rather 
than  in  that  of  reason,  and  are  felt  as 
ideal  exemplars  for  measurement  by 
comparison,  not  deduced  as  criteria  of 
absolute  authority.  As  such  they  arise 
insensibly  in  the  mind,  which  automat- 
ically sifts  its  experiences,  and  are  not 
the  direct  result  of  reflection.  In  a  word, 
they  are  the  products  not  of  philosophy, 
but  of  culture,  and  consequently  perti- 
nent constituents  of  every  one's  intellec- 
tual baggage.  In  this  presence  1  shall 
not  be  exi)ected  to  apologize  for  using 
the  term  to  denote  a  quality  rather  than 
a  defect,  and  just  as  when  we  si)eak  of 
"style"  we  mean  good  style  and  not  bad, 
to  mean  by  standards  high  standards, 
not  low,  or,  what  is  the  same  thing,  ex- 
acting, not  indulgent,  ones.  So  that  we 
may  leave  these  latter  out  of  the  account 
in  noting  as  one  of  the  really  significant 
signs  of  our  revolutionary  and  transi- 
tional time  the  wide  disapi)earance  of 
standards  altogether,  the  contempt  felt 
for  them  as  conventions,  the  indignation 
aroused  by  them  as  fetters,  the  hatred 
inspired  by  them  as  tyranny. 

This  spirit  of  revolt— conceived,  of 
course,  as  renovation  by  its  votaries,  but 
still  manifestly  in  the  destructive  stage, 
witnessed  by  the  fierceness  of  its  icono- 
clastic zest,  so  much  greater  than  its 
constructive  concentration — is  plainly 
confined  to  no  one  people  and  to  no  one 
field  of  activity.  It  is  indeed  so  marked 
in  the  field  of  art  and  letters  because  it 
is  general,  and  because  the  field  of  art 
and  letters  is  less  and  less  a  sheltering 


inclosure  and  more  and  more  open  to 
the  winds  of  the  world.  Goethe's  idea 
of  "culture  conquests"  has  lost  its  value 
because  the  new  spirit  involves  a  break 
with,  not  an  evolution  of,  the  past.  In 
the  new  belles-lettres  a  historical  refer- 
ence arouses  uneasiness  and  a  mytholog- 
ical allusion  irritation  because  they  are 
felt  to  be  not  obscure,  but  outworn.  The 
heart  sinks  with  ennui  at  the  mention 
of  Amaryllis  in  the  shade  and  thrills  with 
pleasure  in  imaging  the  imagist  in  the 
bath.  The  plight  of  the  pedant  in  the 
face  of  suqh  preferences  as  prevail 
arouses  pity.  His  entire  mental  furni- 
ture is  of  a  sudden  out-moded.  The  ad- 
vantages of  standardization  are  left  to 
the  material  world.  Esthetic  coin  may 
be  of  standard  weight  and  fineness;  it 
loses  its  currency  if  its  design  is  not 
novel,  making  it,  that  is  to  say,  fiat  and 
irredeemable  in  the  mart  of  art,  sterling 
only  in  its  grosser  capacity.  The  objec- 
tion is  to  formulations  themselves  as 
restrictions  on  energy.  The  age  feels 
its  vitality  with  a  more  exquisite  con- 
sciousness than  any  that  has  preceded 
it.  It  does  little  else,  one  may  say  in  a 
large  view,  than  in  one  form  or  another 
express,  illustrate,  or  celebrate  this  con- 
sciousness. And  every  one  who  sympa- 
thetically "belongs"  to  it  feels  himself 
stanchly  supported  by  the  consensus  of 
all  it  esteems.  All  the  "modernist" 
needs  to  do,  if  challenged,  is  to  follow 
the  example  of  Max  Miiller,  who  replied 
to  an  opponent  seeking  to  confute  him 
by  citing  St.  Paul:  "Oh,  Paulus!  1  do 
not  agree  with  Paulus." 

Why  is  it  that  the  present  age  differs 
so  radically  from  its  predecessors  in  its 
attitude  to  its  ancestry  ?  Why  its  drastic 
departure  from  its  own  traditions,  its 
light-hearted  and  adventurous  abandon- 
ment of  its  heritage?  The  present  ochlo- 
cratic  expansion,  modified  only  by  con- 
centration on   securing  expansion   for 


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20        PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


others,  and  contemptuous  of  results 
achieved  even  to  this  end  by  any  former 
exj)erience,  is  so  striking  because  it  is  in 
no  wise  a  phase  of  traceable  evolution, 
but  is  so  marked  a  variation  from  tyj)e. 
The  cause  is  to  be  found,  no  doubt,  in 
the  immense  extension  in  our  time  of 
what  may  be  called  the  intellectual  and 
esthetic  electorate,  in  which,  owing  to 
education,  either  imperfect  or  highly 
si)ecialized,  genuine  culture  has  become 
less  general — ^with  the  result  that  the  in- 
tellect which  has  standards  has  lost 
co6j)erative  touch  with  the  susceptibility 
and  the  will,  which  have  not,  but  whose 
activities  are  vastly  more  seductive, 
as  involving  not  only  less  tension,  but 
often  no  tension  at  all.  For  the  instinct- 
ive hostility  to  standards  proceeds  from 
the  tension  which  conformity  imposes 
both  on  the  artist  who  produces  and  the 
public  which  appreciates.  Hence  the 
objection  to  standards  as  sterilizing  the 
spontaneity  which  is  a  corollary  of  our 
energetic  vitality.  But  the  foundations 
of  the  structure  in  the  roomy  upper  sto- 
ries of  which  the  artist  works  and  the 
public  enjoys  are  based  upon  standards, 
and  any  one  whose  spontaneity  is  unable 
to  find  scope  for  its  exercise  in  these  up- 
per stories,  or  who  is  unprepared  by  the 
requisite  preliminary  discipline  to  cope 
with  the  comi)etition  he  finds  there,  and 
who  in  consequence  undertakes  to  recon- 
struct the  established  foundations  of  the 
splendid  edifice  of  letters  and  art,  will 
assuredly  need  all  the  vitality  that  even 
a  child  of  the  twentieth  century  is  likely 
to  possess. 

The  mutual  relation  existing  between 
artist  and  public  has  always  been  ob- 
vious to  any  analysis  of  the  origin  and 
development  of  art,  whose  genesis 
plainly  proceeds  from  the  fusion  of  co- 
oi)eration,  and  whose  growth  has  been 
governed  by  demand  not  less  than  by 
supply,  since,  however  the  artist  may 
have  stimulated  demand,  he  is  himself  a 
product.  It  is  plain,  accordingly,  that 
in  the  main  a  public  gets  not  only,  as  has 
been  remarked,  the  newspapers  it  de- 


serves, but  the  art  and  letters  it  appre- 
ciates. And  since  every  public  is  at  pres- 
ent far  more  sensitive  than  ever  before 
to  the  general  spirit  of  the  era  without 
restrictions  of  time  and  place,  our  own 
has  taken  the  general  grievance  of  stand- 
ards very  hard,  because,  owing  to  its 
ingrained  individualism,  it  has  accentu- 
ated what  elsewhere  has  been  a  more 
unified  phase  of  a  general  movement  by 
the  incoherency  of  personal  obstreper- 
ousness.  This  solvent  has  disintegrated 
the  force  as  well  as  the  decorum  of  our 
public  and  made  it  clear  that  the  agency 
of  which  art  and  letters  now  stand  in 
most  urgent  need  is  a  public  with  stand- 
ards to  which  the}'  may  appeal  and  by 
which  they  may  be  constrained.  De- 
mocracy— to  which  so  far  as  art  and  let- 
ters are  concerned  any  advocate  who 
does  not  conceive  it  as  the  spread  "in 
widest  commonalty"  of  aristocratic  vir- 
tues is  a  traitor — has  largely  become  a 
self-authenticating  cult  with  us,  as  an- 
tagonistic as  Kultur  to  culture,  and  many 
of  its  devotees  now  mainly  illustrate 
aristocratic  vices:  arrogance,  contemp- 
tuousness,  intolerance,  obscurantism. 
Terribly  little  learning  is  enough  to  in- 
cur the  damnatory  title  of  high-brow. 
The  connoisseur  is  deemed  a  dilettante, 
and  the  dilettante  a  snob,  fastidiousness 
being  conceived  as  necessarily  affecta- 
tion and  not  merely  evincing  defective 
sympathies,  but  actively  mean.  "Peo- 
ple desire  to  popularize  art,"  said  Manet, 
"without  j)erceiving  that  art  always 
loses  in  height  what  it  gains  in  breadth." 
If  Moliere,  who  spoke  of  his  metier  as 
the  business  of  making  les  bonnetes  gens 
laugh,  had  only  practised  on  his  cook, 
which  he  is  said  to  have  also  done,  "we 
should  have  had,"  observes  M.  Andre 
Gide,  "more  'Fourberies  de  Scapin'  and 
other  'Monsieur  de  Pourceaugnacs,'  but 
I  doubt  if  he  would  have  given  us  *Le 
Misanthrope.' "  And  M.  Gide  contin- 
ues: "These  bonnetes  gens,  as  Moliere 
called  them,  equally  removed  from  a 
court  that  was  too  rigid  and  a  pit  that 
was  too  free,  were  precisely  what  Mo- 
liere regarded  as  his  particular  public. 


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STANDARDS 


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and  it  was  to  this  public  that  he  ad- 
dressed himself.  The  court  of  Louis 
XIV  represented  formalism;  the  par- 
terre represented  naturalism;  they  rep- 
resented good  taste.  And  it  was  through 
them  that  the  admirable  French  tradi- 
tion was  so  long  maintained." 

A  public  like  this  we  once  had,  and 
we  have  it  no  longer.  Its  limitations 
were  marked,  but  they  emphasized  its 
existence.  Its  standards  were  narrow, 
but  it  had  standards.  We  had  a  class 
not  numerous,  but  fairly  defined,  cor- 
responding to  the  class  Charles  Sumner 
found  in  England,  distinct  from  the  no- 
bility, but  possessed  in  abundance  of  se- 
rious knowledge,  high  accomplishment, 
and  refined  taste — ^the  class  precisely 
called  by  Moliere  les  honnites  gens. 
We  have  now  a  far  larger  public,  but  a 
promiscuous  one,  in  which  the  elements 
least  sensitive  to  letters  and  art  are  disr 
proportionately  large,  owing,  among 
other  things,  to  the  si)ecialization  of  the 
elective  system,  with  its  consequent  de- 
struction of  common  intellectual  inter- 
ests and  therefore  of  common  standards 
in  our  higher  education,  and  in  which, 
owing  to  the  spread  of  popular  educa- 
tion, all  standards  are  often  swamped 
by  the  caprices  of  pure  appetite  and 
the  demands  of  undisciplined  desires. 
Rapacity  is  not  fastidious,  and  the  kind 
of  art  and  literature  that  satisfies  its 
pangs  shares  its  quality  as  well  as  re- 
sponding quantitatively  to  its  exorbi- 
tant needs. 

To  expect  literary  and  art  standards 
of  such  a  public  as  this — incontestably 
superior  as  it  is,  1  think,  in  other  re- 
spects, and  esi)ecially  as  it  api)ears  to 
the  eye  of  hope! — is  visionary.  What 
does  such  a  public  ask  of  art  and  letters? 
It  asks  sensation.  Hence  its  inordinate 
demand  for  novelty,  which  more  surely 
than  anything  else  satisfies  the  craving 
for  sensation  and  which,  accordingly,  is 
so  generally  accepted  at  its  face-value. 
The  demand  is  impolitic  because  the 
supply  is  disproportionately  small.  An 
ounce  of  alcohol  will  give  the  world  a 
new  asj)ect,  but  one  is  supposed  to  be 


better  without  it,  if  for  no  other  reason 
because  a  little  later  two  ounces  are 
needed,  and  when  the  limits  of  capacity 
are  reached  the  original  staleness  of 
things  becomes  intensified.  Undoubt- 
edly letters  and  art  suffer  at  the  present 
time  from  the  effort  to  satisfy  an  over- 
stimulated  appetite  which  only  extrava- 
gance can  appease.  The  demand  is  also 
unphilosophic  because  novelty  is  of  ne- 
cessity transitory,  and  the  moment  it 
ceases  to  be  so  it  is  no  longer  novel.  The 
epithet  "different,"  for  example,  now  so 
generally  employed  as  the  last  word  of 
laudation,  we  should  hasten  to  make  the 
most  of  while  it  lasts;  some  little  child, 
like  the  one  in  Andersen's  story  of  "The 
Two  Cheats,"  is  sure  ere  long  to  ask 
how  it  is  synonymous  with  "preferable." 
And  in  losing  its  character  novelty  in- 
evitably, of  course,  loses  its  charm. 
Nothing  is  more  grotesque  than  last 
year's  fashions. 

If  our  public  would  once  admit  that 
the  element  of  novelty  in  anything  has 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  value 
of  the  object,  it  might  reflect  usefully 
on  the  mind  that  considers  the  object, 
with  the  result  of  coming  to  j)erceive, 
on  the  one  hand,  that  all  that  can  be 
asked  of  the  object  is  to  possess  intrinsic 
value,  and,  on  the  other,  that  it  is  very 
much  its  own  business  to  justify  the 
value  of  its  novel  sensations.  This  may 
easily  be  below  standard,  like  the  pug- 
nacity of  the  generous  soul  who  had 
heard  of  the  crucifixion  only  the  day  be- 
fore. Carlyle,  reading  the  Scriptures 
while  presiding  at  prayers  in  the  home 
of  an  absent  friend,  and,  on  encounter- 
ing the  line,  "Is  there  any  taste  in  the 
white  of  an  egg?"  exclaiming,  to  the  con- 
sternation of  the  household,  "Bless  my 
soul,  I  did  n't  know  that  was  in  'Job'!" 
exhibits  a  surprise  of  different  quality 
from  that  of  Emerson's  small  boy  who, 
laboriously  learning  the  alphabet  and 
having  the  letter  pointed  out  to  him, 
exclaimed,  "The  devil!  Is  that 'Z'!"  It 
has  a  richer  background — a  background 
Carlyle  himself  needed  when,  announc- 
ing that  he  did  n't  consider  Titian  of 


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22        PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


great  importance,  he  earned  Thackeray's 
retort  that  the  fact  was  of  small  im- 
portance with  regard  to  Titian,  but  of 
much  with  regard  to  Thomas  Carlyle. 

So  on  those  occasions,  admittedly 
rare,  when  candor  compels  crudity  to 
confess  to  culture,  "I  never  thought  of 
that,"  or  "What  surprises  me  about 
Shakspere  is  his  modernness,"  what  cul- 
ture feels  is  the  lack  of  standards  im- 
plied in  the  lack  of  background  disclosed. 
"How  do  you  manage  to  invent  those 
hats?"  inquired  a  friend  of  the  comedian 
Hyacinthe.  "I  don't  invent  them,"  re- 
plied the  actor;  "I  keep  them."  One 
need  not  be  learned  in  its  hats  to  value 
the  light  a  knowledge  of  the  past  throws 
on  the  present.  All  the  same,  a  little 
general  learning  has  come  to  be  a  use- 
ful thing  in  a  world  where  from  its  in- 
frequency  it  has  ceased  to  be  dangerous 
and  where  the  thirsty  drink  deep,  but 
taste  not  the  Pierian  spring. 

A  sound  philosophy,  however,  is  no 
more  than  general  culture  the  desid- 
eratum of  an  emotional  age,  and  it  is 
not  difficult  to  trace  our  depreciation 
of  the  former  to  a  popular  recoil  from 
disciplined  thought,  in  itself  emotional, 
and  of  the  latter  to  the  purely  emotional 
extension  which  our  democratic  tradi- 
tion has  of  late  so  remarkably  acquired. 
One  of  the  results  has  been  the  wide- 
spread feeling  that  intellectual  standards 
are  undemocratic,  as  excluding  the 
greenhorn  and  the  ignoramus  from  sym- 
pathies extended  to  the  sinner  and  the 
criminal — who  have  assuredly  a  differ- 
ent title  to  them,  belonging  at  least  to  a 
different  order  of  unfortunates. 

A  public  of  which  a  large  element  feels 
in  this  way  is  bound  to  make  few  de- 
mands of  knowledge  in  its  artists  and 
authors — even  in  its  writers  of  fiction. 
Accordingly,  one  must  admit  that  in  the 
field  of  fiction,  bewilderingly  populous 
at  the  present  time,  our  later  writers, 
excelling  in  whatever  way  they  may, 
nevertheless  differ  most  noticeably  from 
their  European  contemporaries  in  pos- 
sessing less  of  the  knowledge  which  is 
power  here  as  elsewhere.    They  are  cer- 


tainly not  less  clever,  any  more  than 
their  public  is  less  clever  than  the  Euro- 
pean public.  But  every  one  is  clever 
nowadays.  We  are  perhaps  suffering 
from  a  surfeit  of  cleverness,  since,  being 
merely  clever,  it  is  impossible  to  be 
clever  enough.  Our  cleverness  is  apt  to 
stop  short  of  imagination  and  rest  con- 
tentedly in  invention,  forgetful  of  Shel- 
ley's reminder  that  the  Muses  were  the 
daughters  of  Memory.  Columbus  him- 
self invented  nothing,  but  the  children 
of  his  discovery  have  imperfectly  shared 
the  ruling  passion  to  which  they  owe 
their  existence.  New  discoveries  in  life 
are  hardly  to  be  expected  of  those  who 
take  its  portrayal  so  lightly  as  to  neglect 
its  existing  maps  and  charts.  And  this 
is  why  our  current  fiction  seems  so  ex- 
perimental, so  speculative,  so  amateur 
in  its  portrayal  of  life,  why  it  seems  so 
immature,  in  one  word,  compared  grade 
for  grade  with  that  of  Europe.  The 
contrast  is  as  sensible  in  a  page  as  in  a 
volume  in  any  confrontation  of  the  two. 
I  know  of  no  English  short-story 
writer  of  her  rank  who  gives  me  the 
positive  delight  that  Miss  Edna  Ferber 
does — or  did.  But  why  should  we  play 
all  the  time?  Why  should  we  bracket 
O.  Henry's  immensely  clever  "expanded 
anecdotes,"  as  Mrs.  Gerould  calls  them, 
with  the  incisive  cameos  carved  out  of 
the  very  substance  of  life  taken  se- 
riously, however  limitedly,  of  a  consum- 
mate artist  like  Maupassant?  Such  fixed 
stars  of  our  fiction  as  Henry  James  and 
Mr.  Howells  are  perfectly  comparable 
with  their  European  coevals;  but  I  am 
speaking  of  the  present  day,  not  of  the 
day  before  yesterday,  the  horoscope  of 
which,  so  rapid  are  our  changes,  is  al- 
ready superseded.  And  how  are  we  to 
have  a  standard  of  culture,  of  solidity, 
of  intellectual  seriousness,  in  fine,  as  ex- 
acting as  that  to  which  a  Swiss  or  Scan- 
dinavian novelist  is  held, — a  standard 
to  which  such  rather  solitary  writers  as 
Mrs.  Wharton  in  prose  and  Mrs.  Dargan 
in  poetry,  having  the  requisite  talent 
and  equipment,  instinctively  conform, — 
if  our  public  is  so  given  over  to  the  ela- 


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tion  of  emotion  as  to  frown  impatiently 
on  any  intellectual  standard  of  severity, 
or,  owing  to  its  dread  of  conventionality, 
on  any  common  standard  whatever? 

An  enthusiastic  writer,  herself  a  poet, 
speaks  ecstatically  of  "the  unprecedented 
magnificence  of  this  modern  era,  the  un- 
precedented emotion  of  this  changing 
world,"  as  if  the  two  were  interde- 
pendent, which  I  dare  say  they  are; 
but  also  as  if  mercurial  emotion  were 
a  better  thing  than  constancy,  which 
is  more  doubtful,  or  as  if  unprece- 
dented emotion  were  a  good  thing  in 
itself,  whereas  it  is  probably  bad  for 
the  health.  Orderly  evolution,  which 
is  at  least  spared  the  retesting  of  its  ex- 
clusions, is  unsatisfactory  to  the  impa- 
tient, desirous  of  changing  magnificence. 
It  involves  such  long  periods  that  we 
can  hardly  speak  of  its  abruptest  phases 
as  unprecedented,  unless  they  occur  as 
"sports,"  which  are  indeed  immune  from 
the  virus  of  precedent.  However,  it  is 
quite  right  to  talk  of  this  changing 
world,  and  since  it  is  so  changing,  diffi- 
cult to  talk  of  it  long — except  in  the  lan- 
guage of  emotion.  Otherwise  than  emo- 
tionally one  is  impelled  to  consider  its 
shiftings  as  related  to  the  standards  of 
what  is  stable,  which  is  just  what  it 
objects  to.  Hence  the  difficulty  its  apos- 
tles and  its  critics  have  in  getting  to- 
gether about  it. 

To  assign  to  art  and  letters  the  work 
of  transforming  esthetically  the  repre- 
sentative public  of  an  era  like  this  is  to 
set  them  a  task  of  a  difficulty  that  would 
deject  Don  Quixote  and  dismay  Mrs. 
Partington.  There  remains  the  alterna- 
tive of  increasing  the  "remnant."  Of  the 
undemocratic  doctrine  of  the  "remnant" 
in  the  social  and  political  field  1  my- 
self have  never  felt  either  the  aptness 
or  the  attraction.  The  interests  of  people, 
in  general  are  not  those  of  the  remnant, 
and  history  shows  how,  unchecked,  the 
remnant  administers  them.  Except  in  a 
few  fundamentals,  they  are  less  matters 
of  principle  than  matters  of  adjustment. 
And  the  attractiveness  of  the  doctrine 
must  be  measured  by  the  character  of 


the  remnant  itself,  in  our  case  certainly 
hardly  worth  the  sacrifice  of  the  rest  of 
the  nation  to  achieve.  But  the  remnant 
in  art  and  letters  is  another  affair  alto- 
gether. It  cannot  be  too  largely  in- 
creased at  whatever  sacrifices;  and  the 
only  way  in  which  it  can  be  increased  is 
by  the  spread  of  its  standards.  Other- 
wise art  and  letters  will  be  deprived  of 
the  public  which  is  their  stimulus  and 
their  support  and  be  reduced  to  that 
which  subjects  them  to  the  satisfaction 
of  standardless  caprice. 

A  heterogeneous  public  at  one  chiefly 
in  its  passion  for  novelty  may  easily 
have  the  vitality  it  vaunts,  but  there  is 
one  quality  which  ineluctably  it  must 
forego;  namely,  taste.  I  hasten  to  ac- 
knowledge that  it  reconciles  itself  with 
readiness  to  this  deprivation  and  depre- 
ciates taste  with  the  sincerity  insepara- 
ble from  the  instinct  for  self-preserva- 
tion. Certainly  there  are  ideals  of  more 
importance,  and  if  the  sacrifice  of  taste 
were  needed  for  their  success,  it  would 
be  possible  to  deplore  its  loss  too  deeply. 
We  may  be  sure,  however,  that  the  alter- 
native is  fundamentally  fanciful.  The 
remark  once  made  of  an  American 
dilettante  of  distinction  that  he  had 
convictions  in  matters  of  taste  and 
tastes  in  matters  of  conviction  implies, 
it  is  true,  an  exceptional  rather  than  a 
normal  attitude.  But  though  it  is  quite 
needless  to  confound  the  two  categories, 
it  is  still  quite  possible  to  extend  consid- 
erably the  conventional  confines  of  taste 
without  serious  encroachment  on  the  do- 
main of  convictions.  Nothing  is  in  bet- 
ter taste  than  piety,  for  example.  And 
since  also  nothing  is  more  fundamental, 
any  one  in  search  of  an  explanation  of 
our  present  wide-spread  antipathy  to 
taste  as  outworn  and  unvital  might  do 
worse  than  scrutinize  the  various  psycho- 
logical changes  that  have  accompanied 
the  much-talked-of  decline  of  religion, 
one  result  of  which  has  apparently  been 
to  divide  the  traditional  worship  of  the 
world  between  two  distinct  and  inter- 
hostile  groups  of  secular  schismatics — 


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24        PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


one  adoring  the  golden  calf  and  the 
other  incensing  the  under  dog. 

Taste  is  indeed  essentially  a  matter 
of  tradition.  No  one  originates  his  own. 
Of  the  many  instances  in  which  man- 
kind is  wiser  than  any  man  it  is  one 
of  the  chief.  It  implies  conformity  to 
standards  already  crystallized  from  for- 
mulae already  worked  out.  And  it  has 
the  great  advantage  of  being  cultivable. 
There  is  nothing  recondite  about  it.  It 
is  a  quality  particularly  proper  to  the 
public  as  distinct  from  the  artist.  In- 
deed, its  possession  by  the  public  pro- 
vides the  artist  with  precisely  the  con- 
straint he  most  needs  and  is  most  apt 
to  forget,  esj)ecially  in  the  day  of  so- 
called  "free  art."  It  cannot  be  acquired, 
of  course,  without  cooperation,  and  it 
involves  the  effort  needed  to  acquire, 
and  is  not  fostered  by  the  emotion  that 
is  an  end  in  itself.  At  the  present  time, 
accordingly,  its  pursuit  is  attended  with 
the  discomfort  inherent  in  the  invidious. 
It  is  pathetically  ironical  to  pass  one's 
life,  as  doubtless  is  still  done  now  and 
then,  in  regretting  that  one  knows  so 
little,  and  at  the  same  time  arouse  dis- 
gust for  knowing  so  much.  The  rem- 
nant, if  extended,  will  have  to  be  of 
martyr  stuff,  but  it  need  fear  no  com- 
punctions if  it  is  tempted  into  occasional 
reprisal,  consoled  by  Rivarol's  reflection, 
"No  one  knows  how  much  pain  any  man 
of  taste  has  had  to  suffer  before  he  gives 
any." 

What  most  opposes  the  advancement 
of  this  salutary  element  of  exacting 
taste  in  our  public,  however,  is  the  vigor 
of  the  spirit  of  nonconformity,  which 
by  definition  has  no  standards,  and 
which  is  no  longer  the  affair  of  tempera- 
ment it  used  to  be,  but  is  a  conscious 
ideal.  As  such,  of  course,  in  an  emo- 
tional era,  pursued  with  passion,  it  is 
also  pursued  into  details  of  high  differ- 
entiation— manners,  tastes,  preferences, 
fastidious  predilections.  To  the  new 
theology,  the  new  sincerity,  the  new 
poetry  and  painting,  the  new  every- 
thing, in  fact,  will  ultimately,  no  doubt, 
be  added  the  new  refinement,  the  new 


decorum.  Meantime  our  nonconform- 
ists are  concentrated  upon  vilipending 
the  old.  This  is  a  field  in  which  the 
new  egotism  may  assert  itself,  with  the 
minimum  of  effort  involved  in  mere  talk 
— talk  that  asserts  an  independence  of 
conventions  marked  by  positive  fanati- 
cism. 

Gibbon  notes  with  his  accustomed 
perspicacity  the  affinity  of  independ- 
ence for  fanaticism  in  remarking  the 
hostility  of  fanaticism  to  superstition, 
the  bugbear  of  the  present  time.  "The 
independent  spirit  of  fanaticism,"  he 
says  in  his  chapter  on  Mahomet,  "looks 
down  with  contempt  on  the  ministers 
and  slaves  of  superstition,"  and  the  re- 
mark explains  the  current  Islamic  inva- 
sion of  the  reticences  of  life.  Given  her 
undeniably  fanatical  independence,  for 
example,  it  is  easy  to  see  why  the  con- 
temporary young  girl  of  the  thoughtful 
variety  is  so  shocked  by  the  constitution 
of  society  as  it  is,  as  to  vary  her  impas- 
sioned sympathy  for  the  street-walker 
by  grinding  her  teeth  at  the  thought  of 
the  Sunday  school.  But  is  it  not  a 
rather  literal  logic  that  leads  her  to  in- 
volve the  purely  decorative  elements 
with  the  structure  of  the  civilization 
that  has  produced  her?  Why,  for  in- 
stance, should  she  be  "thrilled"  by  read- 
ing, why  should  she  herself  write,  that 
not  inconsiderable  part  of  the  detail  of 
the  latest  fiction  that  is  else  too  color- 
less to  have  any  other  motive  than  the 
purely  protestant  one  of  heartening  the 
robust  by  revolting  the  refined?  Why 
should  this  fiction  itself  be  at  such  pains 
to  display  what  even  the  public  ward 
of  the  maternity  hospital  screens,  and 
insist  on  those  intimate  ineptitudes  that 
are  paraded  in  letters  only  because  they 
are  curtained  in  life? 

Dress  illustrates  the  same  phenomenon 
of  impatience  with  standards  of  deco- 
rum. Here  we  can  see  how  fashions 
differ  from  standards,  and  how  exacting 
is  the  tyranny  which  replaces  the  slavery 
of  convention  with  the  despotism  of 
whim.  The  aspect  of  "this  changing 
world"  presented  by  its  habiliments  is 


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indeed  such  as  to  arouse  "unprecedented 
emotion."  Already,  to  be  sure,  there  are 
sjgns  of  even  more  change,  but  since  it 
is  manifestly  to  be  progressive  instead 
of  purely  haphazard,  we  know  whither 
we  are  drifting,  and  that  our  need  of 
purely  emotional  appreciation  will  re- 
main stable.  The  current  affinity  of  the 
bottom  of  the  skirt  for  that  of  the 
decolletage  is  destined,  no  doubt,  to  a 
richer  realization,  owing  to  what  we  are 
now  calling  an  "intensive"  conviction 
of  the  truth  that  "the  body  is  more  than 
raiment."  And  as  we  are  to  be  above 
all  things  natural,  and  as,  except  for  ar- 
tists, the  female  form  is  the  loveliest 
thing  in  nature,  we  not  only  have  the 
prospect  of  still  further  emotional  felic- 
ity in  the  immediate  future,  but  may 
look  forward  with  the  gentle  altruism 
of  resignation  to  the  increase  of  man- 
kind's stock  of  happiness  in  a  remoter 
hereafter — in  the  spirit  of  the  French 
seer  who,  on  the  eve  of  the  Revolution, 
exclaimed:  "Les  jeunes  gens  sont  bien 
heureux;  Us  verront  de  belles  cboses." 
We  know  how  Mme.  Tallien  justified 
him. 

Undress,  too,  as  well  as  dress,  holds 
out  an  alluring  prospect,  at  least  in 
fiction,  in  which  the  imagination  is  al- 
ready very  considerably  "stimulated" 
by  what  the  eye  is  condemned  to  forego 
in  fact.  No  community  has,  of  course, 
as  yet  adopted  the  Virgtlian  motto  half- 
heartedly suggested  by  Hawthorne  for 
Brook  Farm,  "Sow  naked,  plow  naked," 
but  fiction  may  be  said  to  front  that 
way.  Mr.  Galsworthy  is  only  the  most 
distinguished  of  those  who  enable  their 
readers  to  emulate  Actaeon  at  their  ease, 
and  we  are  constantly  assisting  at  the 
bath  of  beauty  in  company  with  lady 
novelists  to  whom  the  experience  must 
naturally  seem  less  sensational,  but  who 
are  especially  sensitive  to  the  desirabil- 
ity of  being  "in  the  swim,"  if  not  reck- 
less of  becoming  what  Shelley  calls 
"naked  to  laughter"  in  the  process. 

However,  it  is  not,  after  all,  the  more 
obvious  traits  of  our  public  as  a  whole 


that  give  the  cause  of  art  and  letters  at 
the  present  time  an  especial  claim  on 
our  attention.  Considered  in  the  mass, 
a  mercurial  public  may  conspicuously 
fail  in  its  duty  to  this  cause,  but  being 
mercurial,  it  is  susceptible  of  transfor- 
mation. The  character  of  the  persons 
composing  it  is  the  more  fundamental 
consideration.  This  character  is  particu- 
larly marked  by  a  general  characteristic 
calculated  to  create  even  in  the  optimist 
some  concern,  and  fairly  enough  de- 
scribed as  mediocrity  invigorated  by  thie 
current  aimless,  but  abounding,  vitality, 
which  gives  mediocrity  a  force  it  has 
never  heretofore  conceived  of  itself  as 
possessing.  Ours  is  the  day  of  the  ma- 
jority, but  there  is  nothing  invidious  in 
ascribing  mediocrity  to  the  majority  in 
the  intellectual  sphere.  One  may  ac- 
knowledge it  with  the  same  wry  frank- 
ness with  which  Thackeray  discoursed 
of  snobs.  As  Henley,  who  certainly  did 
not  suffer*  from  morbid  self-disparage- 
ment, once  wrote  me,  "We  are  all  too 
damnably  second-rate."  What  is  new 
is  the  extraordinary  self-respect  that  me- 
diocrity has  suddenly  acquired.  The 
new  humanity  should  add  a  chapter 
about  it,  to  bring  its  gospel  up  to  date. 
Democracy  is  to  my  sense  the  finest 
thing  in  the  secular  world,  but  in  a 
cosmic  universe  there  is  a  place  for 
everything,  and  it  should  keep  its  place. 
The  modern  person  is,  to  begin  with, 
under  some  misconception  as  to  his  own 
nature,  which  he  has  somehow  come  to 
conceive  of  as  that  of  a  highly  organized 
personality.  Reflection  would  assure 
him,  however,  that  mere  individuality 
is  a  matter  of  the  will,  personality  of 
the  character.  One  can  be  propagated  by 
mere  fission;  the  other  cannot  even  be 
inherited.  One  synthetizes  individual 
traits,  the  other  divides  without  dis- 
tinguishing one  unit  from  another — 
sheep,  for  example.  In  fact,  the  extreme 
attenuation  of  j)ersonality  is  especially 
conspicuous  in  many  persons  whose 
claims  to  its  possession  in  all  its  fullness 
are  aggressively  asserted.  Yet  it  is  in  vir- 
tue of  his  assumed  personality,  always 


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26       PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


an  exceptional  possession,  that  the  per- 
son who  is  not  exceptional  at  all  asserts 
his  title  to  a  special  sanction  for  his  ac- 
tivities in  either  production  or  apprecia- 
tion. 

Naturally  independence  is  his  central 
ideal,  which  incidentally  accounts  for 
the  disintegration  of  the  public  he  com- 
poses. It  is  his  duty  to  live  his  own 
life,  to  do  his  own  thinking,  unaware  of 
the  handicap  he  involuntarily  assumes 
and  unmindful  of  Huxley's  warning,  "It 
is  when  a  man  can  do  as  he  pleases  that 
his  troubles  begin."  Accordingly  we 
fairly  whirl  in  centrifugal  discussion 
which  contemplates  agreement  as  little 
as  it  achieves  it.  The  proverbial  ego- 
tism of  the  young,  to  whom  no  doubt 
the  world's  progress  is  chiefly  due,  is 
I)erhaps  a  source  of  strength  to  them  in 
their  work  of  amelioration  and  advance. 
Modesty  is  doubt,  says  Balzac,  and  ego- 
tism gives  them  the  requisite  confidence 
in  a  world  largely  given  over  to  the 
grosso  modo  in  its  struggles  upward. 
But  the  most  sympathetic  observer  of 
their  attitude  and  activities  at  the  pres- 
ent time  must  note  a  fundamental 
change  in  this  advantageous  quality — 
a  transformation  of  force  into  ferocity, 
modified  by  fatuousness,  making  it  pe- 
culiarly difficult  for  age  to  bear  in  mind 
that  principle  of  pleasing  which  renders 
it  necessary,  as  Scherer  observes,  to 
learn  many  things  that  one  knows  from 
those  who  are  ignorant  of  them. 
Another  detail  of  the  seriousness  with 
which  the  modern  person  contemplates 
his  individuality  is  witnessed  by  the 
latest  phase  of  what  is  known  as  "mod- 
ern art."  "Every  expressor  is  related 
solely  to  himself,"  announces  one  of  the 
exhibitors  in  the  catalogue  deraisonne 
of  a  recent  modern  show.  As  to  which 
the  observer  may  reflect  with  Mr.  San- 
tayana  that  "solipsism  in  another  is  ab- 
surd." The  artist  cannot  be  permitted 
to  function  for  himself  alone.  If  he  has 
not,  in  popular  parlance,  "got  it  over," 
how  do  we  know  that  he  has  got  it  out? 
He  has  perhaps  had  his  catharsis,  but  in 
secret.     Besides,  we  want  ours.    Ours, 


indeed,  was  the  one  Aristotle  had  in 
mind.  And  we  are  not  likely  to  get  it 
if,  asking  for  ^ 

Lisht  feet,  dark  violet  tyes,  and  parted  hair. 
Soft,  dimpled  hands,  white  neck,  and  creamy 
breast, 

our  expressor  gives  us  instead 

Lead  feet,  bold  blueblack  eyes,  and  violet 

hair, 
Hard,  knotty  hands,  green  neck,  and  chalky 

breast, 

however  closely  these  may  be  related  to 
himself. 

So  far  as  benevolence  is  concerned, 
however,  it  must  be  acknowledged  that 
self-esteem  was  never  more  abundantly 
justified.  Probably  there  never  was  a 
time  in  which  there  was  so  much  war- 
rant for  a  wide-spread  secular  feeling 
comparable  to  that  which  the  young 
man  of  great  possessions  would  have 
enjoyed  had  he  taken  the  counsel  he 
sought.  To  deny  the  need  of  new  stand- 
ards for  new  phenomena  would  indeed 
exemplify  a  smugness  exaggeratedly 
Victorian, — ^to  employ  the  stigma  so  lav- 
ishly affixed  to  their  own  nest  by  the 
Stymphalidae  of  the  day.  And  the  most 
conspicuous  advance  that  can  be  chron- 
icled is  the  penetration  by  the  demo- 
cratic spirit  of  society  in  general  so  as 
appreciably  to  have  increased  the  sym- 
pathy between  •classes  and  stations  in 
life.  Nothing  could  have  been  more 
needed  in  view  of  the  comparatively 
recent  establishment  among  ourselves  of 
virtually  i)ermanent  inequalities,  which 
make  purely  contractual  ethics,  first  for- 
mulated by  the  first  murderer,  seem  in- 
adequate save  to  Pharisaism,  power,  and 
its  parasites.  But  as  regards  the  indi- 
vidual, the  psychology  of  service  is  still 
unsettled.  The  ideal  has  largely  sup- 
planted that  of  mere  duty,  hitherto 
proverbially  "the  law  of  human  life." 
"Service"  is  too  compact  of  energy  and 
emotion  itself  to  submit  to  the  discipline 
now  felt  to  be  so  devitalizing,  but  here- 
tofore a  prime  factor  in  the  development 
of  standardized  character.   Its  conscious- 


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ness  has  awarded  it  indulgences  that 
have  pushed  all  notion  of  penance  into 
the  background.  Du  sollst  entbehren 
expresses  an  idea  rarely  heard  of  now 
save  as  necessarily  involved  in  the  pur- 
suit of  some  practical  utility.  The  pop- 
ular literature  of  philanthropy  is  fiercely 
polemic.    As  a  recent  poet  sings: 

It  is  a  joy  to  curse  a  wrong. 

Indignation  is  the  most  self-indulgent 
of  the  passions — at  least  of  those  which 
may  also  be  virtues.  It  requires  no  ten- 
sion. The  gentlest  souls  sag  into  its 
luxurious  embrace  by  mere  relaxation. 
Nothing,  in  fact,  is  more  characteristic 
of  the  complicated  psychology  of  ser- 
vice pursued  with  enthusiasm,  than  a 
certain  savagery,  subtly  intensified  by 
the  self-righteousness  that  lies  in  wait 
for  any  altruism  that  is  absorbing.  And 
we  may  say  that  the  philanthropic 
movement  itself  has  become  popularized 
as  it  could  hardly  have  been  otherwise 
by  the  affinity  of  a  certain  side  of  it  for 
a  particularly  alluring  form  of  original 
sin.  Naturally  our  fiction  reflects  it  as 
it  does  the  other  egotistic  phenomena  of 
our  individualist  independence.  Accord- 
ingly, owing  to  its  preoccupation  with 
the  superficialities  of  self-expression,  and 
of  efferent  energies  so  exclusively,  we 
have  had  in  recent  years  very  little  of 
it  dealing  with  the  inner  life. 

Are  art  and  letters  to  be  sentimental- 
ized out  of  their  established  standards 
by  the  comprehensive  and  militant  dem- 
ocratic movement  of  our  time?  is  the 
question  in  which  our  whole  discussion 
ends.  Still  more  succinctly,  are  they 
to  be  produced  by  and  for  the  crude  or 
the  cultivated?  The  field  is,  after  all, 
a  circumscribed  one  in  the  world  of 
mankind's  activities,  and  its  proper  cul- 
tivation has  reached  a  pitch  of  intensive- 
ness  that  demands  more  knowledge  and 
more  training  than  mere  iukling  and 
energy  have  at  their  command.  Like 
the  water  of  life  in  the  Apocalypse,  art 
is  now  prescribed  to  be  taken  freely  and 


by  all  comers.  Multitudes  have  cer- 
tainly come,  such  numbers  indeed  as  to 
put  the  principle  of  natural  selection 
quite  out  of  commission  and  make  one 
look  back  wistfully  to  the  old  disciplined 
novitiate  as  a  preparation  for  at  least 
the  priesthood  of  the  cult.  But  conced- 
ing the  artist's  possession  of  his  craft, 
the  pitch  of  cleverness  our  writers  have 
achieved,  the  weakness  of  the  practi- 
tioner in  general  in  the  field  of  art  and 
letters  at  the  present  time  is  that,  not 
as  an  artist  or  as  a  writer,  but  as  a  man 
he  does  not  know  enough.  The  fact  may 
be  noted  without  invidiousness,  since  it 
only  places  him  in  the  same  category  in 
which  Arnold  set  Byron  and  Words- 
worth, the  two  figures  in  English  litera- 
ture that  after  Shakspere  and  Milton  he 
deemed  the  most  majestic.  But  it  is  not 
necessary  to  argue  from  august  examples 
the  value  of  knowledge  to  the  criticism 
of  life  on  a  stately  scale  in  order  to  ap- 
preciate the  importance  to  any  specific 
work  of  intelligence  of  its  intellectual 
connotation.  In  point  of  fact,  the  first 
thing  we  wish  to  know,  to  feel,  to  see  in 
a  work  of  art  is  just  this.  What  and  how 
much  does  the  mind  of  the  artist  con- 
tain? What  is  its  other  furniture  be- 
sides merely  the  special  aptitude  and 
equipment  required  for  the  production 
of  this  particular  thing,  of  which  this 
particular  thing  is  but  the  sample?  It 
is  not  the  foot  that  interests  us,  but  Her- 
cules. We  are  brought  around  finally, 
I  think,  to  make  the  same  demand  of 
culture  in  the  case  of  the  artist  which 
I  began  by  suggesting  in  the  case  of  his 
public. 

At  all  events,  it  is  to  have  in  mind 
some  other  cause  than  that  of  art  and 
letters,  to  conceive  these  as  an  absolutely 
uninclosed  domain,  as  the  common  of 
civilization,  so  to  say,  whose  weedy  as- 
j)ects  and  worn  places  and  rubbish- 
heaps  are  as  legitimate  details  as  its 
cultivated  area.  Ought  not  access  to 
this  territory  to  be  made  more  difficult, 
as  difficult  as  possible?  At  least  let  us 
have  a  gate — the  strait  gate  whereby 
he  who  has  some  kind  of  credentials 


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28        PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


may  enter  in,  and  so  far  as  possible  win 
public  opinion  to  approve  the  closing  up 
of  those  other  ways  accessible  to  the  thief 
and  the  robber.  Q^is  custodiet  ipsos 
custodes?  Not  the  authority  of  autoc- 
racy, certainly.  Nor  even  that  of  criti- 
cism, whose  function,  as  I  have  said,  is 
the  exposition  of  those  principles  that 
are  the  test  of  standards,  so  much  as  the 
standards  themselves,  which  arise  in- 
sensibly in  the  mind  of  the  cultivated 
public  and  spread  in  constantly  widen- 
ing circles.  Mankind,  once  more,  is 
wiser  than  any  man,  and  its  correlative 
in  the  case  of  art  and  letters  is  the  pub- 
lic which  you,  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
represent,  and  the  cooperation  of  which 
is  quite  as  important  as  that  of  their  rep- 
resentatives on  the  platform.  For  it  is 
always  to  be  remembered  that  the  cause 


of  letters,  the  cause  of  art,  is  not  that 
of  its  practitioners — hardly  that  of  its 
practice — but  of  its  constituting  stand- 
ards, just  as  the  cause  of  mankind  is 
not  that  of  the  men  who  compose  it, 
which  it  is  the  weakness  of  purely  ma- 
terial philanthropy  to  forget.  The  idea 
is  not  a  vague  one.  It  is  one  which 
is  at  the  present  time  being  illustrated 
with  that  precision  which  in  the  world 
of  ideas  is  a  French  characteristic.  We 
have  before  our  eyes  the  demonstration 
of  its  definiteness  by  an  entire  people 
animated  by  the  clear  consciousness  that 
what  counts  for  them  in  this  brief  in- 
terlude of  time  between  two  eternities 
is  not  the  comfort  or  even  the  lives  of 
any  or  all  Frenchmen,  but  the  perpetual 
renewal  of  the  consecrated  oil  that  feeds 
the  torch  of  France. 


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HISTORY,  QUICK  OR  DEAD? 
By  William  Roscob  Thayer 


A  critic,  reviewing  my  biography  of 
Cavour,  said  in  substance:  The  author 
plunges  us  back  into  the  very  life  of  the 
period  he  describes.  He  makes  us  feel 
the  passions  of  the  actors,  great  and 
small,  who  played  in  the  drama  of  the 
Risorgimento.  We  are  infected  by 
their  prejudices;  we  take  sides;  we  al- 
most forget  ourselves,  and  become  tem- 
porarily a  part  of  the  titanic  conflict. 
This  is  not  history. 

Such  a  frank  assertion  forces  us  to 
ask.  What  is  history? 

The  streets  of  Naples  are  paved  with 
slabs  of  lava  quarried  at  the  foot  of 
Vesuvius.  If  you  wished  to  write  an 
account  of  an  eruption  of  the  volcano, 
would  you  visit  the  Chiaja,  note-book 
in  hand,  measure  and  weigh  the  lava 
paving-stones,  and  analyze  them  with  a 
microscope  ?  Or  would  you  assemble  all 
the  reports  of  witnesses  of  the  eruption, 
climb  Vesuvius  itself,  trace  the  streams 
of  lava,  look  into  the  crater,  observe  the 
changes  caused  by  explosions  and  by  the 
caving  in  of  walls,  and  so  saturate  your- 
self with  the  records  and  the  setting  of 
the  event  that  it  became  real  and  living 
and  visible  to  you?  Only  on  these  terms 
can  you  make  it  real  and  living  and 
visible  to  your  readers. 

But  my  critic  declares  that  history 
must  be  dead,  and  there  can  be  no  ques- 
tion that  much  of  the  history  written 
up  to  the  present  time  has  been  dead, 
and  has  stayed  dead. 

But  may  there  not  possibly  be  need 
and  perhaps  an  opening  for  a  minimum 
of  live  history?  May  we  not,  by  ac- 
cepting too  narrow  a  definition,  shut  out 
one  branch  of  history  which  not  only 
has  a  right  to  exist,  but  does  exist,  and 
under  favorable  conditions  may  bear 
the  finest  fruit  on  the  tree?  The  pen- 
alty of  exclusiveness  is  deprivation.  We 
ought  to  recognize  that  the  writing  of 
history  embraces  work  of  many  kinds. 


some  higher,  some  lower,  all  honorable, 
all  necessary.  But  this  recognition  must 
not  blind  us  to  the  fact  that  there  is  a 
distinction  between  the  lower  and  the 
higher.  The  architect  who  designs  a 
cathedral  is  deservedly  held  in  far  dif- 
ferent esteem  from  the  masons  who  lay 
the  physical  foundations  or  the  hodmen 
who  carry  the  mortar  to  bind  stone  on 
stone.  In  America  documentarians  have 
somehow  been  accepted  as  the  chief,  if 
not  the  only,  historians. 

Speaking  broadly,  historical  workers 
may  be  divided  into  two  great  classes: 
First,  the  men  whose  interest  lies 
chiefly  in  facts;  and,  next,  the  men  who, 
having  ascertained  the  facts,  cannot  rest 
until  they  have  attempted  to  interpret 
them.  These  two  aims,  information  and 
interpretation,  should  not  be  regarded 
as  mutually  hostile,  but  as  mutually 
complementary. 

The  worship  of  Fact,  which  must  not 
be  confounded  with  Truth,  does  not  lead 
us  far.  To  know  that  Q)lumbus  discov- 
ered America  on  October  12,  1492,  or 
that  the  Declaration  of  Independence 
was  made  on  July  4,  1776,  or  that  Na- 
poleon lost  the  battle  of  Waterloo  on 
June  18,  181 5,  is  interesting;  but  unless 
these  statements  are  reinforced  by  much 
matter  of  a  different  kind,  they  are 
hardly  more  important  for  us  than  it 
would  be  to  know  the  number  of  leaves 
on  a  tree.  And  this  is  true,  though  the 
facts  be  indefinitely  multiplied. 

1  have  read,  for  instance,  an  account 
of  the  American  Revolution  in  which 
the  uncontroverted  facts  followed  one 
another  in  as  impeccably  correct  a  se- 
quence as  the  telegraph  poles  which 
carry  the  wires  over  the  850  miles  of  the 
Desert  of  Gobi.  The  paramount  interest 
in  this  case,  however,  is  not  the  number 
of  poles,  nor  the  expanse  of  desert,  but 
the  contents  of  the  telegrams  flashed 
along  the  wires.  That  may  symbolize  the 


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difference  between  the  historian  of  in- 
formation and  the  historian  of  interpre- 
tation. Not  for  a  moment,  of  course, 
does  any  one  deny  the  usefulness  of  the 
former;  but  we  shall  not  be  able  to  pen- 
etrate far  into  man's  historic  past  by  the 
method  of  counting  telegraph  poles  or 
of  measuring  the  distance  between  them. 
The  message  borne  by  the  telegram,  the 
meaning  of  the  sequent  or  scattered 
events  in  any  historic  movement,  be  it 
of  long  duration  or  merely  a  fleeting 
episode,  that  alone  can  have  significance 
for  us. 

Viewed  thus,  history  is  a  resurrec- 
tion. The  dead  actors  in  remote  dramas 
cease  to  be  dead;  the  plot,  the  meaning 
emerge,  as  when  an  electric  current  is 
turned  on  and  lights  up  the  pieces  set 
in  many  patterns.  In  one  sense  history 
resembles  an  autopsy,  for  it  usually 
deals  with  cadavers;  but  whereas  the 
physician  makes  his  post-mortem  to  see 
what  the  patient  died  of,  the  historian 
examines,  or  should  examine,  to  discover 
how  his  subjects  lived.  Life,  evermore 
life,  is  the  paramount  theme  for  those 
who  live — life,  in  which  death  is  the 
inevitable  incident,  often  tragic,  some- 
times pathetic,  but  never  so  significant 
as  life.  The  maladies  of  nations  and  of 
institutions,  and  even  the  diseases  of 
which  they  died,  form  much  of  the  ma- 
terial of  history;  but  you  cannot  isolate 
them  from  the  larger  living  organism 
in  which  they  appeared.  Gibbon  traced 
through  thirteen  hundred  years  the  de- 
cline and  fall  of  the  Roman  Empire; 
and  yet  each  symptom  of  imperial  decay 
which  he  described  coincided  with  signs 
of  the  growth  of  new  forces,  new  states, 
new  ideals;  so  that  you  may  read  his 
monumental  and  matchless  work  either 
as  a  funeral  oration  over  the  grandeur 
which  was  Rome  or  as  a  chronicle  of  the 
springing  into  life  of  the  world  which 
replaced  Rome. 

Without  a  sense  for  transformation 
we  shall  not  come  far  either  as  students 
or  as  critics  of  history.  Gibbon  pos- 
sessed that  sense  in  a  superlative  degree, 
although   he  emphasized  the  negative 


transformation  of  dissolution  instead  of 
its  positive  counterpart,  growth.  There 
will  be  no  more  Gibbons,  because  the 
accumulation  of  material  would  crush 
any  daring  i)ersons  who  should  attempt 
to  survey  history  by  the  millennium,  as 
he  did;  but  no  one  deserves  to  be  called 
a  historian  who  lacks  this  sense. 

In  the  world  of  nature  outside  us  vast 
processes  are  continuously  going  on:  an 
endless  dance  of  atoms;  a  passing  out 
of  one  thing  into  another  and  from  that 
to  a  third;  a  hide-and-seek  of  phenom- 
ena; night  chasing  day;  the  fruit  suc- 
ceeding to  the  flower;  the  stalk,  yellow 
with  full-eared  corn  one  week,  stubble 
the  next;  fruition  only  another  name  for 
beginning,  for  a  new  seed-time;  and  so 
on  forever  with  this  cosmic  metamor- 
phosis, in  which  the  sun  also  and  the 
stars  take  their  turn,  on  a  scale  beyond 
our  human  comprehension.  And  in  this 
protean  masquerade,  forces  do  not  act 
singly;  but  several  may  work  through 
the  same  body  simultaneously,  each 
toward  a  different  end. 

Until  you  perceive  that  mankind, 
like  inanimate  matter,  is  the  medium 
through  which  a  similar  array  of  intel- 
lectual and  moral  forces  shuttle  per- 
petually, you  will  get  nothing  from  his- 
tory except  the  foam  and  bubbles  that 
float  on  its  surface.  It  is  because  these 
forces,  which  often  repel  or  seem  to  neu- 
tralize one  another,  pursuing  their  way 
at  different  rates  of  speed,  and  appar- 
ently capable  of  unnumbered  transfor- 
mations, never  stop,  that  life,  manifold 
and  complex  life,  is  the  substance  of 
human  history;  and  the  representation 
which  the  historian  makes  of  any  frag- 
ment or  series  of  this  boundless  evolu- 
tion must  possess  first  of  all  life,  the 
stuff  out  of  which  the  original  flows. 

We  need  have  no  fear,  therefore,  that 
a  history  can  ever  be  too  lifelike.  Com- 
pared with  the  actual  that  he  wishes  to 
portray,  the  utmost  the  historian  can 
compass  is  like  an  eight-by-ten-inch 
painting  of  Niagara  to  the  Falls  them- 
selves. He  must  use  the  devices  which 
art  supplies  in  order  to  represent  his 


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subject  on  such  a  scale  and  in  such  a 
manner  that  it  will  make  on  the  mind 
of  his  readers  an  impression  equivalent 
to  that  made  by  the  original.  The  art 
which  the  historian  must  employ  is  lit- 
erature— the  art  of  conveying  by  words 
in  the  best  way  human  facts,  ideas,  and 
emotions.  Whoever  uses  speech,  writ- 
ten or  oral,  must  obey  the  laws  of 
sj)eech;  he  cannot  claim  exemption  on 
the  ground  that  he  is  a  "scientific  his- 
torian," amenable  only  to  the  laws  of 
science.  For  every  man  of  science,  if 
he  treat  his  special  subject  by  writing, 
and  not  by  technical  symbols  and  dia- 
grams, is  bound  by  literary  laws.  It 
makes  no  difference  whether  you  put  out 
to  sea  in  a  dory  or  in  an  ocean  liner,  the 
laws  of  flotation  will  inexorably  gov- 
ern you.  Protesting  that  you  are  a 
landsman  and  not  a  mariner,  a  devotee 
of  science  and  not  of  literature,  will  not 
save  you  from  capsizing.  That  the  large 
concerns  of  science  may  be  treated  with 
literary  excellence  without  losing  their 
scientific  quality  the  works  of  Buffon, 
Faraday,  Darwin,  Huxley,  and  Tyndall 
show. 

The  war  which  once  raged  over  the 
question  whether  history  is  a  science 
seems  to  have  reached  a  truce — the  truce 
of  indifference,  in  which  each  side  is  at- 
tending to  its  business  as  if  j)eace  were 
restored.  Like  the  ancient  literary  feud 
of  the  Classicists  and  the  Romanticists, 
this  also  tends  to  reduce  itself  to  a  mat- 
ter of  terms.  If  you  mean  that  history 
is  a  science  like  chemistry  or  optics  or 
algebra,  you  mistake.  The  algebraic 
formulae  were  as  true  5000  B.C.  as  they 
will  be  A.D.  5000.  You  can  predict 
that  the  molecules  of  hydrogen  and  oxy- 
gen, when  combined  in  the  same  ratio, 
will  always  form  water;  but  you  can 
predict  nothing  about  the  action  of 
human  ingredients.  On  the  afternoon 
of  April  14,  1865,  nobody  foresaw  that 
within  twelve  hours  Abraham  Lincoln 
would  die  by  assassination;  nor  could 
the  effect  of  his  death  be  foretold.  None 
of  us  knows  what  will  happen  next  week, 
much  less  next  month  or  next  year.  This 


ignorance  is  not  science;  it  renders  sci- 
ence impossible. 

So  we  must  abandon  the  delusion  that 
history  can  be  a  science;  for  science 
deals  with  elements  which  are  constant 
and  verifiable,  while  history  deals  with 
the  human  motives  and  will  of  the 
atoms — ^that  is,  the  individual  persons 
— ^which  compose  society.'  These  can 
never  be  completely  measured,  nor  do 
they  combine  with  or  react  on  one 
another  in  precisely  the  same  way.  Even 
if  it  were  possible  to  get  a  formula  for 
a  person  in  his  normal  state,  we  should 
still  be  unable  to  guess  what  he  would 
do  if  he  suddenly  went  crazy.  Molecules 
of  oxygen  never  go  crazy;  the  chemist 
knows  how  they  will  behave  under  any 
given  conditions.  This  liability  to  in- 
sanity is  only  one  of  a  thousand  facts 
which  prove  that  human  beings  cannot 
be  "explained"  by  the  laws  which  gov- 
ern material  atoms. 

But  though  history  can  never  be  an 
exact  science,  the  historical  student  will 
follow  the  scientific  method  in  his  in- 
vestigations. He  will  search  for  his  ma- 
terials as  patiently,  analyze  them  as 
carefully,  and  draw  his  conclusions  from 
them  as  sincerely,  as  the  chemist  does 
with  his  materials.  He  has  no  instru- 
ments of  fixed  capacity  to  work  with. 
His  insight,  his  judgment,  his  fund  of 
information,  must  serve  him  instead  of 
microscope  or  burette,  blowpipe  or  acid 
test. 

We  must  not  forget  that  the  partizans 
of  history  as  a  science  are  inspired  by 
the  noblest  motive — the  sense  of  justice. 
Except  duty,  no  other  attribute  is  so 
august  as  justice,  no  other  demarks  so 
clearly  the  difference  between  man  and 
animal.  The  beasts  of  the  field  share 
with  us,  according  to  their  kind,  love 
and  hate,  courage  and  fear;  they  are  sly 
and  mean,  they  are  cruel;  but,  so  far 
as  appears,  they  are  unmoved  by  any 
desire  for  justice  for  themselveis;  nor  do 
they  question  the  justness  of  the  uni- 
verse. Even  among  men  this  desire  de- 
veloped late,  and  the  cheeriest  lover  of 
his  kind  would  hardly  claim  that  it  has 


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32     prcx:eedings  of  the  academy  and  the  institute 


yet  dominated  the  dealings  either  of  in- 
dividual men  or  of  nations  with  one 
another. 

Under  one  aspect  justice  is  at  the 
heart  of  every  modern  religion.  From 
Job  to  Milton,  and  so  on  down  to  to-day, 
thinkers  and  moralists — and  how  many 
j)erplexed  nameless  souls  besides! — 
have  busied  themselves  trying  to  justify 
the  ways  of  God  to  men?  The  entrance 
of  morality  into  human  affairs  brought 
with  it  the  recognition  of  justice.  When 
lightning  sets  fire  to  a  house  or  earth- 
quake destroys  thousands  of  human  be- 
ings, when  a  tiger  leaps  upon  and  slays ' 
a  huntsman  or  a  pernicious  microbe 
spreads  an  epidemic  over  a  whole  city, 
the  man  of  science,  unless  he  be  unscien- 
tifically eager  to  prove  a  pet  theory,  will 
record  the  happening  without  bias.  It 
is  unmoral, — even  the  legal  fiction  of 
regarding  unpreventable  natural  calami- 
ties as  "acts  of  God"  does  not  give  a 
moral  complexion  to  them, — and  he  re- 
mains dispassionate.  But  suppose  that 
an  incendiary  started  the  fire,  or  that  an 
anarchist  set  off  the  bomb  which  killed 
a  crowd,  or  that  a  highwayman  garroted 
a  passer-by,  or  that  a  miscreant  poisoned 
the  milk  supply,  the  case  would  be  al- 
tered completely.  The  act  would  be 
human;  we  should  examine  it  under  its 
moral  aspects;  and  justice,  seeking  to 
appraise  it,  would  go  behind  the  legal 
fact  to  determine,  if  possible,  the  mo- 
tive. 

So  we  are  brought  back  to  my  earlier 
remark  that  motives  constitute  the  ulti- 
mate stuff  of  history.  The  scientific  his- 
torian sets  up  the  judge  as  his  model 
because  he  reverences  fairness,  impar- 
tiality; but  j)erhaps  he  fails  to  see  that 
the  judge  himself  is  already  biased,  being 
bound  to  investigate  each  case  and  to 
interpret  it  according  to  the  existing 
code.  In  this  respect  the  man  of  science 
does  not  differ  from  the  judge.  Is  not 
the  chemist  also  bound  rigidly  by  laws? 
Does  he  not  try  by  every  device  to  les- 
sen the  possibility  of  error  which  may 
J'.e  in  his  j)ersonal  equation?  And  yet 
what  are  his  laws,  or  the  judge's,  or 


those  of  moralists  and  of  priests  but 
conclusions  reached  and  demonstrated 
by  their  forerunners  and  accepted  by 
their  fellows? 

The  "personal  equation"!  Is  it  not 
just  that,  if  it  be  of  the  proper  kind, 
which  makes  the  great  discoveries?  How 
many  million  apples  had  dropped  mean- 
ingless to  the  ground  before  the  one 
which  fell  within  sight  of  Newton  ?  And 
what  except  Newton's  personal  equation 
made  that  the  most  significant  apple  in 
history?  And  what  makes  an  opinion 
handed  down  by  John  Marshall  a  law 
which  will  bind  men  as  long  as  they 
acknowledge  its  force — ^what  but  his  per- 
sonal equation? 

If  the  j)ersonal  equation  play  such  a 
part  in  matters  as  positive  as  the  phys- 
ical sciences  or  the  law,  how  much  more 
must  it  influence  the  work  of  those  who 
deal  directly  with  human  nature,  that 
elusive,  erratic,  volatile,  protean  sub- 
stance which  is,  notwithstanding,  the 
most  enduring  of  all?  When  we  come 
to  the  arts, — to  music,  poetry,  painting, 
— the  personal  equation  is  the  artist  And 
how  often  is  this  true  in  medicine,  where 
the  master  of  diagnosis  j)erceives,  as  if 
by  divination,  the  cause  of  a  disease 
which  his  colleagues,  though  equally 
learned  as  he  in  medical  laws  and  prac- 
tices, had  been  blind  to? 

By  this  road,  too,  the  road  of  science, 
we  arrive  at  Interpretation  as  the  high- 
est oflTice  of  the  historian.  And  how 
could  it  be  otherwise,  since  history  most 
nearly  concerns  the  motives  and  deeds 
of  men?  What  the  scientific  historian 
means  is  that  historians  should  aim  at 
the  fairness  and  impartiality  of  a  judge, 
and  should  employ  the  scientific  meth- 
ods of  investigation  which  promote  the 
highest  accuracy.  To  this  we  all  say 
amen.  This  ideal  was  not  invented  by 
Ranke  or  any  other  modern;  it  has  in- 
spired every  true  historian  since  Herod- 
otus. Do  you  suppose  that  Thucydides 
was  not  immensely  concerned  to  know 
and  state  the  truth? 

Happily,  we  are  not  always  so  bad  as 
the  doctrines  we  profess.    Some  "scien- 


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33 


tific"  historians  who  shudder  at  the 
thought  of  being  "interesting"  are  read 
because,  despite  themselves,  they  have 
literary  aptitude;  some  "literary"  his- 
torians are  welcomed  even  in  the  ranks 
of  the  Philistines.  The  greatest  surprise 
of  all  awaits  the  American  who  is  taught 
to  go  to  the  Germans  for  models  of  sci- 
entific objectivity.  He  goes,  and  finds 
them  anything  but  objective;  he  finds 
Treitschice,  a  glorified  partizan  pam- 
phleteer; Sybel,  a  subsidized  eulogist  of 
the  Hohenzollern  dynasty;  and  even 
Ranke  and  Mommsen  taking  little  pains 
to  disguise  their  prejudices.  All  of  which 
means  that  the  instrument,  being  hu- 
man, will  more  or  less  affect  the  work 
it  produces.  Were  it  otherwise,  it  might 
be  possible  to  degrade  man  to  the  level 
of  a  machine,  as  soulless  and  as  correct 
as  a  cash-register. 

Contemj)orary  verdicts  and  state- 
ments are  proverbially  incomplete,  if 
not  incorrect  or  downright  false.  There- 
fore, argue  the  advocates  of  dead  his- 
tory, history  must  be  written,  after  the 
evidence  is  all  in,  as  a  lifeless  chronicle 
which  is  as  irrevocable  as  the  entries  in 
the  Book  of  Judgment.  To  this  the  be- 
liever in  quick  history  replies:  "All 
that  the  accumulation  of  evidence  has 
done  has  been  to  put  us — ^years,  or,  it 
may  be  centuries  after  an  event — ^into 
the  position  of  an  omniscient  contempo- 
rary observer.  We  know  both  sides,  all 
sides,  better  than  the  actors  themselves 
could  know  them.  Our  increased  knowl- 
edge enables  us  to  see  a  living  picture 
of  the  event,  to  appraise  the  motives 
of  the  men  and  women,  to  see  how  the 
episode  fits  into  the  larger  sequence  of 
history."  Until  a  historian  looks  upon 
his  testimony  as  alive,  he  cannot  pre- 
sent it  truly;  for  life  is  the  fundamental 
truth  underlying  human  facts.  To  sup- 
pose that  by  regarding  his  material  as 
dead  the  historian  will  be  more  likely 
to  tell  the  truth  is  a  delusion.  The  qual- 
ity of  truthfulness  is  in  the  man,  not  in 
the  material. 

After  all,  if  a  man  write  honestly,  his 
personal   bias  will   never   deceive   his 


readers.  Only  those  who  falsify  or  omit 
or  garble  the  evidence  do  harm,  and 
they  are  wretches  indeed,  perjurers,  not 
historians.  I  do  not  believe  that  any- 
body was  ever  misled  by  Macaulay's 
Whigism  or  by  Gibbon's  skepticism 
or  by  Carlyle's  hero-worship  or  by 
Treitschke's  magnification  of  Prussian 
absolutism. 

And  why  should  we  not  wish  to  hear 
the  opinions  of  masterful  historians  in 
regard  to  important  historical  events? 
In  literature  we  set  the  highest  value  on 
what  Sainte-Beuve  thinks  of  a  book  or 
of  an  author.  The  masters  of  literature 
stand  each  for  some  unborrowed  point 
of  view.  Thackeray,  Dickens,  George 
Eliot,  Meredith — ^we  would  not  have 
them  alike;  each  sees  life  originally,  and 
tries  to  describe  it  honestly,  and  so  adds 
to  our  knowledge  of  it.  In  its  more  re- 
cent manifestation,  fiction  seems  to  be  so 
closely  engaged  in  a  competition  with 
the  kodak  that  it  matters  little  who 
writes  it;  for  the  personality  of  the  man 
who  holds  the  camera  counts  for  little. 
But  some  of  us  still  prefer  a  painting  to 
a  photograph,  not  only  because  a  paint- 
ing has  color,  but  because  it  has  the 
personality  of  the  painter  behind  it. 
We  know  that  Rembrandt  or  Turner 
put  on  his  canvas  something  that  the 
photographic  plate  could  not  see. 

I  say  this  not  to  urge  that  the  his- 
torian should  make  a  purely  subjective 
figment  of  his  material,  but  to  remind 
you  that  the  personal  equation  may — 
nay,  must — determine  the  value  of  the 
completed  book.  Whatever  be  our  the- 
ories, which  our  practices  may  improve 
on,  no  man  fit  to  be  called  a  historian 
ever  finished  his  work  without  feeling 
the  inadequacy  of  his  own  powers,  or  of 
any  conceivable  human  means,  to  repro- 
duce even  the  little  fragment  of  history 
which  he  has  chosen.  And  no  his- 
torian can  work  far  or  deep  without  be- 
ing aware  that  he  is  reporting  from  the 
heart  of  human  life  matters  too  sacred 
to  be  twisted  in  the  narration  to  suit  his 
private  fancy.  He  is  aware  of  the  mani- 
festation of  mighty  forces — of  forces 


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34        PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


mightier  than  those  which  drive  the 
Mississippi  from  Minnesota  to  the  Gulf 
or  that  swing  the  oceans  to  and  fro  in 
their  tidal  pendulation.  He  senses, 
though  he  cannot  see.  Presences  which 
lead  the  actors  of  the  everlasting  human 
drama  on  and  off  the  stage;  Spirits 
which  teach  them  their  parts  and 
prompt  them  when  they  falter;  Furies 
which  pursue,  punish,  and  avenge;  Fates 
which  accomplish  their  tasks  as  dispas- 
sionately as  heat  or  cold. 

In  the  calendar  of  nature  four  seasons 
fill  the  measure  of  each  year;  each 
merges  in  the  next;  and  though  there 
may  be  slight  annual  variations,  no  year 
passes  without  completing  its  circuit  of 
spring,  summer,  autumn,  winter.  In  hu- 
man evolution  there  is  no  such  sequence. 
If  there  be  seasons,  they  are  of  such  vast 
duration  that  we  have  not  yet  observed 
them.  There  is  no  recurrent  return  to 
the  starting-point.  Each  race  passes 
through  the  order  appointed  for  all  liv- 
ing creatures:  first,  birth,  then  growth, 
prime,  decrepitude,  and  death;  but  no 
race,  in  expiring,  bequeaths  its  hoard  to 
another.  Generally  there  is  the  slow  ob- 
literation through  blending;  and  where 
a  race  grows  strong  by  conquest,  its 
strength  is  often  sapped  by  the  process 
of  merger  with  the  weaker  conquered. 
The  Roman  Empire  was  in  ho  sense  the 
heir  of  Athens,  nor  Catholic  Spain  of 
the  Saracens,  nor  England  of  the  North- 
men, who  as  Normans  from  France  con- 
quered the  Saxon  kingdom.  Doubtless 
the  new  combinations  are  conditioned 
by  the  remains  of  the  old  elements,  but 
there  is  no  lineal  descent.  In  races  which 
at  different  epochs  occupy  the  same  re- 
gion there  is  rather  such  a  law  of  suc- 
cession as  we  sometimes  find  among  our 
forests:  when  the  primeval  pines  go, 
oaks  shoot  up;  and  after  the  oaks, 
beeches  and  birches  follow. 

What  determines  the  handing  on  of 
the  torch  from  race  to  race?    We  men 


are  such  incorrigible  optimists  that  we 
assume  that  every  transmission  means 
advance;  but  this  is  not  true.  Often  a 
race  lower  in  everything  except  brute 
force  subdues  a  higher.  There  is  a 
deeper  principle  at  work.  Sometimes 
the  baffled  historian  concludes  that  our 
human  life,  and  the  consecutive  record 
of  it  in  history,  can  be  explained  only 
by  physical  reactions.  A  drought  in  cen- 
tral Asia  causes  the  raid  of  Tartar 
hordes  into  Europe,  with  all  that  fol- 
lows; the  Venetian  Republic  languishes 
and  dies  because  the  discovery  of  a  new 
ocean  route  diverts  the  commerce  of  the 
world  away  from  her. 

But  even  as  he  acknowledges  these 
facts,  which  seem  to  reduce  man  to  the 
level  of  an  automaton,  the  sport  of 
purely  material  agents,  the  historian  re- 
members the  saints  and  heroes  before 
whose  spiritual  potency  matter  is  as 
yielding  as  glass  is  to  sunshine. 

This  is  the  high  mission  of  the  his- 
torian. He  starts  out  to  narrate  a  sec- 
tion of  history,  aiming  only  at  describ- 
ing what  he  sees,  without  plea  or  preju- 
dice. Narration  is  his  chief  concern,  but 
through  it  he  will  reveal — unconsciously, 
it  may  be — ^the  forces  which  impel  the 
flow  of  events,  the  deeps  from  which  hu- 
man acts  well  up,  and  into  which  they 
return  and  dissolve.  He  must  have  no 
specialty  except  truth;  and  yet,  though 
he  must  write  neither  as  poet  nor  dram- 
atist, philosopher  nor  man  of  science, 
he  will  need  at  times  the  skill  of  each 
of  them;  they  will  all  find  in  his  history, 
as  in  life  itself,  the  substance  of  their 
specialty.  For  he  is  always  aware  of  the 
Presences,  invisible  and  immaterial, 
ceaselessly  passing,  shaping,  completing, 
and  renewing;  not  merely  weavers  at 
the  loom  of  Destiny,  but  Destiny  itself; 
and  he  seeks  in  human  motives  to  dis- 
cover the  transcendent  motive,  the  liv- 
ing will,  which  causes  and  sustains  the 
world. 


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THE  FUTURE  FIGHT 
By  Richard  Burton 

I  stand  at  gaze  upon  an  autumn  knoll, 
Whose  interwoven  harmonies  of  green 
And  gold  and  russet  red  make  music  deep, 
Somber,  yet  beautiful,  and  full  of  thought; 
No  tripping  melody  of  spring,  but  rich. 
Grave  tones  orchestral  played  by  dreamful  gods 
Upon  the  season's  resonant  instruments 
Of  earth  and  air. 

A  mood  of  memory 
Broods  all  along  the  hills  and  o'er  the  fields 
And  down  the  river  reaches;  and  where  now 
The  forests  steal  the  sunset  pageantries 
A  universal  harvesting  is  spread, 
With  augury  of  winter's  stored-up  fruit. 
October's  oracle  sounds  in  mine  ear: 

"My  name  is  peace  and  plenty.    Lx)ok  afar. 
And  list,  and  take  the  lesson  to  your  heart." 

And  I,  obeying,  let  my  vision  roam 

Beyond  this  scene  of  goodly  garnering. 

Over  the  lands,  across  the  sundering  seas. 

And  up  and  down  the  hell-tracks  dug  by  hate 

And  horror;  see  the  carrion  pools  of  slain. 

The  anguished  wriggle  of  the  dying;  hear 

The  shrieks,  the  oaths,  the  ravings;  mark  how  sure 

The  beast  in  man,  unleashed,  springs  up  to  kill. 

And  circling  far  beyond  this  central  pit 

Of  frenzy  and  of  lust  there  comes  a  moan 

Vast,  vague,  and  terrible,  filling  the  air. 

From  violated  shrines  of  hearth  and  home 

Where  women  wait  and  stretch  out  asking  arms — 

Mothers  whose  wails  once  brought  those  bodies  forth. 

Who  prayed  above  their  breathing,  little  babes. 

So  frail,  so  tender,  come  to  such  as  this. 

The  mothers  whose  gray  doom  for  birth  and  death 

It  is  to  suffer  and  to  lose  the  loved. 

But,  soaring  up  above  all  other  cries 
Of  battle,  in  my  dazed  ear  there  throbs 
Deep-mouthed,  reiterant,  a  sullen  word. 
The  boom  and  boom  of  cannon,  detonant. 
That  is  war's  antichrist  and  deadliest  cry: 
No,  No,  it  seems  to  say,  again  the  No, 
With  intervals  of  silence  sent  to  mock 
All  hope  of  ceasing.    Now  it  stabs  the  air. 
Forever  No  and  No,  a  muttering 

3'5 


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36       PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 

Of  devils  kenneled  in  their  smoke  and  smell. 
The  drab  horizon  pulses  with  that  pain; 
The  great  denial  of  man's  will  to  turn 
Away  from  hate  to  labor  and  to  love; 
The  hideous  negation  of  the  guns. 

As  if  released  from  out  a  torturing  trance 
In  some  black  night,  lo!  I  awake  to  see 
The  sweet,  full  sunlight  flood  about  my  feet. 
October  slumbers,  smiles,  and  richly  dreams 
Her  dream  of  wisdom,  while  sky  amethysts 
And  opals  blend  to  make  the  vault  above 
A  miracle,  the  soul's  own  halcyon  hour 
Of  reverie,  a  time  to  guess  God's  plan 
For  earth,  and  glimpse  the  meaning  of  the  years. 

"Surely,"  I  said,  the  while  the  vision  fades 
Of  hate  and  horror,  and  the  autumn  fields 
Glow  more  benignant  to  mine  eased  eyes — 

"Surely,  Earth  fought  her  way  to  scenes  of  tilth 
And  bounty  and  the  fullness  of  the  ear? 
The  spring's  sharp  labor  pains  bring  in  the  ripe 
Fruition  and  the  reaping  of  the  sown? 
Surely,  the  grim,  long  struggle  up  from  dust 
To  meet  divinity  means  only  this. 
Warfare  eternal,  strong  subduing  weak, 
And  weak  a  sacrifice  unto  the  strong: 
Might  has  been  right  from  sod  to  throne  of  God?" 

No  answer  from  October;  distantly 
That  sullen  No  still  sounds.   The  air  is  cleft 
With  red  reverberations  masked  in  reek 
That  gives  the  lie  to  every  dream  of  peace 
And  laughs  at  Love. 

Again  I  face  the  month 
So  mellow  in  her  fruitage.    "Say  to  me, 
O  glamour  of  the  hills,  is  it  not  so? 
Shall  not  the  Right  be  precious  down  the  years 
That  linger  at  Time's  portal?    Shall  not  we 
In  after  days  still  strive  to  make  it  reign. 
Opposing  wrong  with  arms,  our  fathers'  way. 
And  sanctified  by  blood  their  fathers  shed? 
For  naught  is  precious  but  the  Right;  it  shines. 
And  shall  forever  shine,  God's  luminous  gem; 
And  man  must  alway  band  himself  against 
The  leaguered  hordes  of  devildom.    Of  old 
So  stormed  the  angels  epically,  and  drove 
Dark  Lucifer  from  out  their  boundaries. 
And  so  saved  heaven,  and  made  him  lord  of  hell." 

A  silence;  then,  behold!  a  wonder-thing! 
For  sudden  looms  against  the  purple  leagues 


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THE  FUTURE  FIGHT  37 

Of  harvest  hill  and  mountain  magicry 
A  figure,  white-robed,  eloquent  of  face. 
With  gracious  majesty  of  mien,  whose  eyes 
Seemed  all  ayearn  and  sad  beyond  compare. 
And  in  a  voice  more  sweet  than  any  bird's 
That  haunts  the  summer,  spoke: 

"O  foolish  ones 
The  shows  of  earth  bedazzle,  who  so  blind 
As  they  who  will  not  see?   The  law  of  life 
Begins  in  age-long  struggle — ^woe  the  years 
Innumerous,  the  never-noted  tears — 
Before  there  blossoms  from  the  slime  of  hate 
And  immemorial  shocks  of  enmity 
(Blind,  blind  the  impulse,  and  the  mystery  strange) 
A  wee,  white  flower  that  grows  and  waxes  great 
Until,  where  once  red  passion-growths  were  rife 
And  yellow  flauntings  of  earth's  sin,  uprears 
A  stately  lily,  like  a  light  from  God, 
To  lead  life  onward,  upward  to  the  Good 
That  knows  no  law  but  this:  Love  lifted  up 
Aloft,  and  to  be  seen  of  all  the  lands; 
The  law  of  lust  become  the  law  of  love 
By  high,  supernal  fiat;  and  the  law 
Of  killing,  that  which  shames  the  victor's  way. 
Become  that  law  diviner  named  good  will. 
Of  which  the  soul  is  peace." 

The  tones  thrilled  through 
The  throb  of  autumn,  but  the  Presence  melted 
Into  the  purple  mists  that  crowned  the  hills 
As  with  a  coronal  of  grapes. 

I  cried, 
Left  lonely,  and  my  doubts  in-rushing  swift: 
"1  cannot  see  it!"   All  my  soul  was  in 
That  cry  of  agony.    "I  cannot  see 
How  man  shall  ever  cease  from  troubling  man. 
Wrath,  lust  of  power,  and  pride,  and  love  of  gain 
(Words,  words,  that  only  stand  for  selfhood),  these 
Will  sway  him,  and  his  weapons  be  unsheathed 
To  challenge  all  who  seek  to  stem  his  will. 
Grant  that  he  love:  his  foe  who  comes  with  hate 
Must  in  that  mood  be  met  and  beaten  down 
Into  the  better  mood  which  in  the  end 
Rounds  into  amity  and  soothfast  hands. 
Ah,  how  can  endless  eons  alter  this?" 

So  said  1,  and  my  soul  yearned  through  the  words. 

Again  the  flute-like  voice  (how  strange  a  flute 
Can  pierce  the  orchestra's  assembled  cries 
As  if  it  were  alone — that  gentle  voice!) 
Enriched  the  air;  the  messenger  returned. 


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38       PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 

"Faith  is  the  evidence  of  things  not  seen, 
And  Love,  belovfed,  ye  of  little  faith. 
The  greatest  is  of  these:  great  to  endure. 
To  conquer,  and  to  bring  the  benison 
Of  perfect  concord.    Then  earth's  coarse  huzzas 
Shall  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  resolve 
Into  divine  hosannas,  and  the  lamb 
Couch  with  the  lion.    This,  the  dream,  can  be 
If  only  mortals,  rousing  from  their  swoon. 
Love-wonder  in  their  eyes,  dare  stoutly  believe. 
Such  strength  is  from  on  high;  no  battlements 
Or  engines  of  destruction  or  defense 
But  they  shall  crumble  at  one  pleading  strain 
Piped  by  the  Shepherd  whose  poor  sheep  ye  are 
This  long  time  gone  astray." 

Silence.    And  still 
The  golden  pulse  of  Indian  summer-time. 
Grape-purpled,  winy-breathed,  and  drowsed  in  dream. 
Throbbed  sentiently  along  the  vistas  veiled 
To  where,  unseen,  incredible,  yet  true, 
A  world-war  ravaged  men. 

My  restless  mind. 
Awed  by  the  semblance  of  this  Spokesman  sweet, 
Lulled  by  such  silver  speech,  must  question  on. 

"Is  it  not  true,"  I  said  (the  Shape  seemed  gone. 
And  once  again  I  stood  and  gazed  alone 
On  flushed  October  in  that  memoried  mood 
When  Nature  meets  the  spirit  like  a  friend 
For  balm  of  kindly  counsel) — "surely,  life. 
The  highest,  holiest,  must  be  wrestled  for, 
Ever  the  wished-for  goal  be  won  by  pain, 
The  step  ahead  be  taken  inch  by  inch 
In  the  brow's  sweat;  and  how  be  won  at  all. 
Unless  in  conquering,  the  conqueror 
Stand  on  his  slain? 

And  shall  not  man  wax  weak. 
And  in  a  supine  ease  grow  fat,  unthewed. 
If  ne'er  in  crush  of  conflict  be  he  roused 
To  martial  doing  and  to  deeds  that  blazon 
The  record  brave?   To  lay  down  arms  is  well. 
To  take  them  up  is  well,  when  clear  the  call 
To  master  evil,  save  our  faith,  or  be 
A  friend  in  day  of  peril  to  a  friend. 
To  fight  is  but  to  live;  perpetual  peace 
Spells  death." 

Then  through  the  autumn  mists  again 
The  form,  the  figure  white,  reshapes,  the  voice, 
A  strain  of  music,  moves  the  vibrant  air: 

"Yea,  man  with  man,  shut  in  by  years  and  spheres, 
Must  struggle;  life,  the  while  ye  earthlings  are, 
Issue  in  conflict  that  is  sent  to  bring 
Out  of  the  atom-dance  a  wondrous  pact. 


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THE  FUTURE  FIGHT  39 

Ancient  antagonists  made  meek  at  last 
Through  ever-surer  seeing. 

So  will  come 
The  mist-hid  summers  of  that  fuller  day 
To  be,  if  only  ye  have  faith.    The  fight 
Is  but  begun.    No  more  ensanguined  fields 
And  hecatombs  of  dead  and  stricken  homes; 
No  more  the  sequent  lack  of  bread,  the  maimed 
And  miserable  leavings  of  the  strife. 
Nor  shifted  barriers  to  bicker  o'er. 
Sure  cause  for  further  parley:  nay,  instead, 
No  man  shall  "seek  to  rend  his  fellow-man. 
But  each  shall  kill  the  evils  in  himself. 
Combat  undying,  asking  all  his  strength 
And  courage,  never  o'er  till  heaven  and  earth 
Are  as  one  home  for  all  the  tribes  of  men 
Beneath  the  roof-tree  of  the  universe, 
Where  Gipsy-like  they  wander  now. 

For  aye 
The  fight  to  make  insensate  nature  yours; 
Harness  the  elements,  uncover  caverns 
That  hide  the  precious  stones,  make  clouds  and  winds 
The  subject  of  your  pleasure,  and  enchain 
The  mountains,  and  bring  verdure  to  the  deserts. 
Making  them  smile. 

And  starry  souls  shall  strive. 
Forgetting  cold  and  hunger  and  despair, 
To  reach  the  far  earth-ends  and  leave  a  flag 
On  perilous  peaks,  and  outposts  ne'er  attained 
By  earlier  emprise.   This  battle-front 
Shall  never  waver,  nor  one  drop  of  blood 
Shall  soil  its  footsteps;  all  its  paths  are  peace. 

Forever  also  shall  the  fight  be  fought 
To  bring  good  tidings  unto  heathen  hearts, 
Heal  wounds,  and  comfort  them  in  darkness.    God, 
Great  Captain  of  these  hosts,  His  soldiery  calls 
To  such  endeavor;  nor  may  any  wight 
Escape  from  shame  if  he  be  written  down 
Deserter. 

Ever  does  the  roll-call  ring 
In  mighty  cities,  too,  that  harbor  sin, 
And  so  shall  harbor  till  we  take  the  van. 
Fighters  with  God,  to  make  the  crooked  straight. 
Pour  sunlight's  cleansing  into  darkling  dens 
And  sodden  shambles,  and  in  triumph  set. 
Where  once  was  only  brawl  and  devious  deed. 
And  each  man's  hand  was  raised  against  his  brother. 
The  undefeated  flags  of  fellowship! 

Yea,  these  good  contests  ne'er  shall  pass  from  earth ; 
They  are  the  goads  to  prick  earth  toward  heaven. 
Whose  very  saints  contend  to  please  the  King 
In  loving  service.    Heaven  shows  earth  the  way." 


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40       PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 

The  voice,  in  ceasing,  was  like  muted  song. 
But  yet  again  1  spoke  the  earthly  view: 

"How  often  man  becomes  more  beautiful 
By  sacrifice,  through  hero  deeds  and  love 
Of  kin  and  country;  spirits  valorous, 
How  they  do  hearten  us,  and  gleam,  and  sing 
The  steps  of  laggards  into  marching  time! 
A  man,  a  people,  find  their  better  selves 
Only  when  called  to  conquer." 

Answer  came: 

"There  is  in  evil  things  a  strain  of  good. 
And  e'en  war's  murders  sometime  sow  a  seed 
To  feed  a  soul  anhungered;  and  the  crop 
Is  not  all  wasted  on  the  blood-bought  fields. 
But  hero  deeds  and  dauntless  deaths,  and  strength 

.  That  is  the  strength  of  ten  since  it  is  pure, 
May  find  full  use,  may  blossom  and  grow  fair 
Without  one  blow  against  a  brother;  keep 
The  fighting  fervor,  let  the  blood-rage  die. 
Transform  brute  violence,  that  tears  the  flesh. 
Into  a  heavenly  anger,  ardor  of 
The  soul  whose  enemy  is  evil  done. 
Not  men  the  foe,  but  all  that  ugly  is  ^ 

In  men;  and  hence  how  foolish-fond  the  will 
To  kill  the  body,  let  the  spirit  live. 
And  grow  to  greater  power  because  we  mar 
And  maim  and  straight  destroy  the  spirit's  shell. 
Up-piling  blows;  whereas  each  act  of  grace — 
The  cup  of  water  held  to  alien  lips. 
The  blow  forborne,  the  trickery  forgiven. 
The  kindness  in  the  stead  of  cruelty — 
Flies  up  the  blue,  clear  of  the  carnage  smoke, 
To  join  the  others  that  go  sailing  there 
Like  air-ships  manned  of  angels.    For  One  said: 

'And  if  ye  do  it  to  the  least  of  these, 
Ye  do  it  unto  me.'   Treasure  the  words." 

Sweet  meanings  flowed  along  the  river  of 
This  discourse,  as  a  flower  might  float  upon 
The  buoyant  current  of  some  spring-urged  stream; 
Yet  still  my  reason  answered : 

"Men  are  men 
So  long  as  time  is  time,  and  we  must  meet 
The  fashion  of  this  world  as  those  who  dwell 
Within  the  world.    In  other  stars,  who  knows? 
This  earth-star  teaches  us  to  walk  our  ways 
In  earth's  sad  wisdom." 

Once  again  the  voice: 
"Yea,  men  are  men,  and  men  are  beasts,  and  men 
Are  angels  in  the  making;  dimly  glimpsed 
In  Marcus,  him  the  golden  emperor. 


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THE  FUTURE  FIGHT  41 

With  words  like  honey  dropping;  or  in  him, 

A-Kempis,  soul  abrood;  or  Plato,  who 

Dreamt  him  a  state  for  which  men  yearn  to-day; 

And,  plainlier  seen,  and  lovelier  to  our  hope, 

In  Christ,  who  said.  They  know  not  what  they  do!' " 

For  the  last  time  my  brain-bom  question  rose: 
"How  may  we  in  this  present  state  perform 
These  high  behests  and  counsels?    For,  alack! 
Stem  is  the  call,  and  instant  is  the  stress. 
And  Love  now  lies  a-bleeding." 

As  the  voice 
Floated  in  flute-like  cadence,  lo!  it  seemed 
Diminished  and  the  speaker  far  away. 
Dimmer  and  dimmer  heard:  • 

"Ye  believe  in  love: 
Ask  any  pair  of  lovers.   Ye  are  bound 
In  ties  of  blood  where  household  gods  protect 
The  homes  whose  name  is  legion;  and  full  oft 
The  bond  of  native  land  makes  fealty 
Not  less  than  claims  of  kin;  it  sometimes  haps 
The  hostile  folk  across  hate's  barriers 
Suddenly  smile,  strike  hands,  and  are  at  one, 
Though  momently.    Oh,  will  ye  see  at  last? 
The  magic  of  this  love  from  out  the  sky 
Shall  blend  all  lesser  loves — ^the  ties  of  kin 
And  country,  and  of  lands  which  side  by  side 
Seek  the  same  freedom,  worship  the  same  shrines; 
Till,  rounding  out  its  destiny,  it  find 
But  brother  man  wherever  mortal  breathes. 
Made  one  by  loving-kindness,  blind  no  more; 
The  children  of  that  love  that  spins  the  stars 
In  harmony  down  august  lanes  of  air. 
Such  changes  are  in  nature,  so  in  men. 
E'en  as  the  pomp  and  pageant  of  the  fall 
Gives  way  to  winter,  winter  ushers  in 
The  April  raptures  of  the  crescent  year. 
How  can  that  dead  womb  blossom  forth  with  life?" 

And  as  the  voice  became  a  silence,  where 
The  Shape  had  passed,  a  breath  of  fragrancy 
Stirred  in  the  trees  and  hovered  o'er  the  grain. 

Then  hail,  O  power  beyond  our  pitiful 
Earth-ken  I    Most  j)otent  of  the  gifts  of  God, 
The  love  that  is  the  heart  of  every  song, 
And  opes  the  lily  to  release  her  scent; 
This  love  that  works  through  life,  and  bids  the  stars 
Quiver,  yet  keep  their  orbits;  the  same  love 
That  makes  man  die  for  men;  this  holy  thing, 
This  love,  must  be  the  future's  battle-cry 
In  some  far  land,  in  some  unguessed-of  place 


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42        PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 

Where  kindness  is  the  one  felicity. 
O  country  dim,  but  dear,  truer  than  time 
Or  any  present  seeming,  recompense 
For  seeing  darkly  and  for  waiting  long! 
O  sweet,  hid  land,  bring  in  the  hoped-for  day. 
And  give  us  patience  in  this  night  of  pain ! 
And  if  it  be  His  will,  be  ours  that  land, 
Saved  by  the  seas  from  greed,  with  room  for  men 
Of  gentleness  to  grow  in,  and  with  hope 
Of  comrade  joy  to  halo  our  great  chance! 
Help  us  to  nurse  the  vision  far  and  fair: 
New  dream  of  battle,  bloodless,  beautifyl; 
No  lazy  paradise  of  sinews  slacked, 
But  a  confederated  brotherhood 
•  Of  work  and  worship  and  of  sun-topped  heights. 

Because  life  thrills  with  purpose,  even  death 
(That  old,  dark  name  we  give  the  spirit's  leap 
Beyond  the  dark)  turns  radiant;  rosy-lipped, 
The  while  we  brace  us  to  go  forward!    Hark! 
The  morning  trumpets  cleave  the  clearing  mists! 
Not  drum-taps,  but  reveille  is  our  mood. 
The  conquering  mood  that  leaves  the  ultimate 
To  Him,  the  Great  Commander;  and  we  march 
As  soldiers  in  the  ranks,  soul-satisfied 
But  to  obey,  and  trust  beyond  the  guns 
Are  robin  songs  and  rainbow  promises; 
Deep  graven  in  each  heart  this  word  of  fire: 
"Love  conquers  all.    Press  on;  God  asks  our  aid." 
•  ••••• 

Day  glimmers,  wanes;  more  duskly  broods  the  hour; 
Now  steals  the  twilight  up  the  heaven;  no  sound 
Of  guns  across  the  seas:  but  murmurously 
Rises  athwart  the  gloaming  witcheries 
The  intersong  of  night.    A  vast  content 
Is  on  the  land;  and,  look!  above  the  line 
Of  warder  hills  a  new-born  splendor  shines 
To  turn  the  dun  warm  gold — low-hung  and  large. 
The  mellow  magic  of  October's  moon ! 


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A  FEW  ETERNAL  VERITIES  OF  THE  ARTS  OF  DESIGN 

By  Will  H.  Low 


To  justify  the  title  of  my  paper,  I  was 
seeking  my  authority.  I  consulted  Va- 
sari's  "Lives  of  the  Painters"  to  verify 
the  date  of  Cimabue's  birth.  I  had 
found  it,  the  pretty  phrase  which  recites 
how,  "by  the  will  of  God,  in  the  year 
1240,  Giovanni  Cimabue,  of  the  noble 
family  of  that  name,  was  born  in  the 
city  of  Florence,  to  give  the  first  light  to 
the  art  of  painting."  I  turned  from  the 
book  to  find  that  I  was  not  alone,  and 
the  next  moment  1  recognized  my  visitor 
as  Vasari.  I  knew  him  at  a  glance  from 
his  portrait  in  the  Uffizi,  which,  you  may 
remember,  hangs  in  the  collection  of 
self-portraits  by  the  world's  most  fa- 
mous artists,  upon  the  third  row,  about 
three  pictures  from  the  window  on  the 
left. 

That  it  was  Vasari  in  person,  and  not 
his  astral  body,  became  at  once  evident, 
as  he  stood  between  me  and  the  light, 
and,  thus  seen,  was  quite  opaque.  In 
our  subsequent  and  at  times  heated  con- 
versation he  appeared  to  attribute  some- 
thing of  this  thickness  to  me;  but,  if  1 
understood  him,  it  was  mental  rather 
than  physical  attributes  to  which  he  re- 
ferred.   He  began  abruptly: 

"Are  you  a  painter,  a  modern 
painter?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  and  then,  noting 
his  qualification,  I  added,  "Although  I 
am  a  member  of  the  Academy  of  Design, 
and  there  are  those — " 

"No  matter;  there  are  always  some 
who  dispute,"  he  interrupted.  "By  your 
age  I  see  that  you  have  lived  through 
a  considerable  period  of  so-called  mod- 
em art,  and  you  may  be  able  to  explain 
some  things  which  puzzle  me,  especially 
in  your  new  country." 

"I  am  tolerably  familiar  with  what  we 
have  tried  to  do  here,"  1  graciously  as- 
sented, "and  having  since  my  early 
youth  made  many  voyages  to  Europe — " 


"Don't  speak  to  me  of  Europe,"  he 
broke  in.  "I  am  newly  come  from  there, 
and  they  are  mad,  battling  on  a  scale 
which  reduces  the  little  strifes  I  knew  in 
my  time  to  the  proportions  of  a  polite 
duello.  They  are  paying  no  particular 
attention  to  the  arts  of  design  in  Europe 
to-day,  and  we  will  not  speak  of  the  war. 
Of  course  you  are  neutral,  whereas  I  am 
pro-Ally— " 

Here  it  was  my  turn  to  interrupt,  and 
leaning  forward,  1  lapsed  into  the  ver- 
nacular, saying: 

"Shake."! 

After  a  hand-shake  that  was  no  wise 
clammy,  Vasari  resumed: 

"There  are  those  of  course  to  whom 
art  means  life,  and  they'  are  thinking, 
and  thinking  seriously.  There  seems  to 
be  a  hope  of  their  return  to  the  gods 
whom  they  have  forsaken;  so  that  I  may 
be  wrong  in  calling  Europe  mad,  for, 
from  my  point  of  view,  they  were  far 
more  mad  before  the  war  in  all  that  re- 
lates to  art." 

"You  refer  to  the  Autumn  Salon,"  I 
interjected,  desiring  to  show  that  my 
own  knowledge  of  art  was  more  than 
parochial. 

"Yes,  to  that  and  the  kindred  mani- 
festations that  masqueraded  in  the  guise 
of  art,  which  France  tolerated,  which 
Germany  praised,  and  even  bought,  and 
which  almost  penetrated  the  barbed-wire 
barrier  that  surrounds  English  art." 

"As  for  its  toleration  in  France,  it  was 
never  more  than  that,"  I  protested. 
"Was  it  not,  on  the  contrary,  a  proof  of 
liberality  for  those  who  control  art  in 
France  to  give  ear  to  the  clamor  of  the 
Independents,  the  Futurists,  the  Cubists, 
the  Illusionists,  and  the  Intentionists, 

1  Of  course  this  paper  was  read  before  the 
Academy  and  the  Institute  at  a  date  preceding 
the  declaration  of  war,  when  some  of  our  com- 
patriots were  endeavoring  to  remain  neutral 
—even  in  thought.— W.  H.  L. 


43 


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44        PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


and  to  open  wide  the  doors  of  their 
Palace  of  Fine  Arts,  in  order  that  they 
might  win  their  spurs,  if  they  could, 
upon  the  field  where  the  greater  battles 
of  militant  art  had  been  fought  for  more 
than  a  century?  As  for  the  Germans, 
was  it  not  a  gentler  trait  than  many  they 
have  shown  recently  confidingly  to  ac- 
cept this  manifestation  as  the  art  of  the 
future,  it  being  so  visibly  unlike  the  art 
of  the  past  or  the  present?  And,  believe 
me,  the  attack  upon  the  intrenched  art 
of  Great  Britain  was  but  the  slightest  of 
skirmishes." 

"And  here,"  inquired  Vasari,  "was 
there  not  an  ultra-modern  show  which  I 
saw  in  an  armory?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  with  some  admirable 
work  by  Weir,  Hassam,  and  others. 
'Que  diable  allaient-ils  faire  dans  cette 
galeref  And  a  charming  picture  by 
Theodore  Robinson,  together  with  an 
ultra-modern  work  by  Puvis  de  Cha- 
vannes,  which  I  first  saw  in  1873  in  the 
galleries  of  Durand-Ruel  in  Paris,  since 
when  it  had  acquired  almost  the  patina 
of  an  old  master.  And  there  were  others. 
Doubtless  you  saw  the  'Nude  Descend- 
ing a  Staircase'?" 

"No,"  said  Vasari;  "I  did  not  see  it." 

"Why,  how  did  you  miss  it?"  I  ex- 
claimed in  surprise;  "it  was  the  most- 
talked-of  work  in  the  show." 

"I  heard  the  talk,"  responded  Vasari, 
"saw  the  title  in  the  catalogue,  and 
found  the  canvas  bearing  the  number 
printed  there;  but  I  did  not  see  the 
'Nude  Descending  a  Staircase.'  " 

"Well,  now  you  mention  it,  I  've  never 
found  any  one  that  did,"  I  agreed.  "But 
we  need  not  quarrel  over  movements 
like  these.  They  undoubtedly  serve  a 
purpose  in  'stirring  up  the  gold-fish,'  and 
from  them  occasionally  emerges  a  real 
artist.  The  'Salon  des  Refuses'  of  1863, 
after  all,  gave  Manet,  Monet,  and  Whis- 
tler to  the  world,  and  though  it  is  dis- 
appointing that  the  ten  or  twelve  suc- 
cessive years  of  the  Autumn  Salon  have 
not  done  as  much,  the  reason  is  un- 
doubtedly that  all  our  official  exhibitions 
to-day  are  so  liberal  in  spirit  that  the 


new-comer  who  shows  the  slightest  sign 
of  talent  is  welcomed  rather  more 
warmly  then  are  men  of  established  and 
merited  reputation." 

"Then,"  replied  Vasari,  with  scorn  in 
his  tone,  "I  see  that  you  are  one  of  those 
trifling  optimists  who  hold  that  'all  is 
best  in  this  best  of  worlds.'  " 

"Not  in  the  least.  Aphorism  for  apho- 
rism, I  give  you  'eternal  vigilance  is  the 
price  of  liberty.'  There  always  remain 
the  'eternal  verities.' " 

"Fine  words,"  quoth  Vasari.  "Do  you 
know  what  are  these  'eternal  verities'  of 
which  you  prate?" 

"As  well  as  you,"  I  replied.  "Indeed, 
we  shall  find  the  answer  in  your  own 
written  words."  Evidently  mollified,  my 
questioner  agreed. 

"Undoubtedly  there  is  much  of  worth 
in  what  I  have  written;  but  the  world  is 
five  hundred  years  older  since  then,  and 
your  modern  art — " 

"Modern  art,"  I  replied  quickly,  "is  a 
question  of  epoch.  I  defy  any  artist,  no 
matter  how  hard  he  may  try,  to  cast  his 
work  in  the  mold  of  another  period  than 
that  in  which  he  lives,  to  escape  entirely 
contemporary  and,  consequently,  mod- 
ern influences." 

"That  is  in  a  measure  true,"  asserted 
Vasari;  "for  since  you  have  studied  my 
writings,  you  will  recall  that  in  the  thir- 
teenth century  certain  Greek  painters, 
having  been  called  to  Florence  to  paint 
a  chapel  in  Santa  Maria  Novella, 
worked  'not  in  the  excellent  manner  of 
the  ancient  Greeks,  but  in  the  rude  mod- 
ern style  of  their  own  day.  Wherefore, 
though  Cimabue  imitated  his  Greek  in- 
structors, he  very  much  improved  the 
art,  relieving  it  greatly  from  their  un- 
couth manner.'  And  his  methods  were 
those  of  to-day,  for  on  the  same  page 
you  will  find,  'After  this  he  painted  a 
small  picture  of  St.  Francis,  in  panel  on 
a  gold  ground,  drawing  it  from  nature,  a 
new  thing  in  these  times.' " 

"  'The  more  it  changes,  the  more  it 
remains  the  same  thing,' "  I  muttered  in 
fluent  French.  "But  let  us  begin  at  the 
beginning.    What  is  art?" 


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45 


At  this  Vasari's  face  clouded,  and,  re- 
lapsing into  his  native  tongue,  he  poured 
out  a  sonorous  array  of  vowels,  quite 
untranslatable  and  probably  unfit  for 
publication.  Mastering  himself,  he  re- 
sumed: "By  our  Lady,  but  you  are  rash. 
Do  you  not  know  that  blood  has  been 
shed  in  Florence  many,  many  times 
upon  that  question?  If  Benvenuto  were 
here—" 

"Of  course,"  1  quickly  responded. 
"I  've  even  seen  the  Century  Club  agi- 
tated upon  the  subject.  Nevertheless, 
every  artist  has  a  workable  theory  as  to 
what  constitutes  a  work  of  art,  derived 
from  his  personal  intuition,  and  con- 
firmed, to  the  degree  of  his  ability,  by 
his  practice.  Many  have  cast  these  defi- 
nitions into  maxims,  of  which  Zola's  re- 
mains one  of  the  shortest  and  best:  'Na- 
ture seen  through  a  temperament/  But 
that  hardly  accounts  for  more  than  the 
external  aspect  of  nature.  I  should  pre- 
fer to  extend  it  so  far  as  to  say  that  the 
artist's  task  is  to  render  the  outward  and 
visible  aspect  of  the  world  about  him, 
and  to  endow  it  with  whatever  inner 
and  spiritual  grace  his  spirit  may  receive 
and,  transmitting,  convey  to  others." 

"The  first  part  of  your  definition 
might  pass,"  assented  Vasari,  ungra- 
ciously, "but  the  rest  of  it  is  rank  non- 
sense." 

"But  surely,"  I  urged,  "the  noble  men 
whose  lives  you  have  written  were  not 
mere  copyists;  surely  they  mixed  their 
colors  with  the  essence  of  their  spiritu- 
ality." 

"They  mixed  their  colors  to  make 
them  flow,"  answered  my  doughty  op- 
ponent, "the  earlier  ones  with  egg  and 
vinegar,  and  after  the  secret  of  the 
Flemings  was  brought  to  Italy,  with 
oil.  The  men  of  whom  I  wrote  were 
above  all  craftsmen.  From  their  child- 
hood they  had  but  one  thought — to 
learn  their  trade.  I  have  seen  since  those 
days,  in  countries  where  princes  and 
governments  have  thought  to  foster  the 
arts,  strange  pretensions  arise,  putting 
the  artist  as  a  man  apart  from  other 
men,  permitting  to  him  a  strange  code 


of  manners,  and  ofttimes  of  morals  as 
well.  Here  in  this  country,  I  am  told, 
there  is  comparatively  little  affectation 
of  that  sort,  owing  to  the  fact  that  so  few 
are  interested  in  art  or  artists,  save  the 
practitioners  themselves,  and  that,  con- 
sequently, they  remain  con^paratively 
decent  citizens.  This  is  well,  for  no  one 
less  than  the  artist  should  adopt  this 
attitude  of  aloofness;  for  such  tribute  as 
he  brings  to  the  treasure  of  the  world 
is  the  work  of  his  hands,  cunningly 
wrought,  demanding,  if  you  will,  a  skill 
beyond  that  of  other  craftsmen,  but,  by 
this  quality,  taking  its  place  among  the 
products  of  skilled  labor.  We  saw 
clearly  that  the  mystery  of  the  arts  of 
design  fell  within  the  category  of  the 
crafts,  and  so  enrolled  our  artists  in  a 
gild,  with  the  grades  of  apprentice,  ac- 
cepted workman,  and  master,  precisely 
as  in  the  other  arts.  The  greatest  of  our 
artists  rose  from  this.  Children,  they 
moistened  the  clay,  they  ground  the  col- 
ors; later,  as  their  aptitude  grew,  they 
were  employed  on  details  of  the  masters' 
work;  advancing  even  as  their  skill  in-^ 
creased  to  more  and  more  important 
tasks  until  such  proficiency  was  attained 
that,  from  my  time  to  yours,  men  of  the 
trade  and  inquiring  critics  have  disputed 
as  to  where  the  apprentice  left  off  and 
the  master  completed  the  work.  Were  a 
detail  needed,  the  apprentice  was  sent 
to  nature,  and,  the  drawing  made,  the 
master  incorporated  it  into  his  design; 
or,  contrariwise,  the  master  gave  the 
apprentice  the  study  to  weave  into  the 
work  in  hand.  Thus,  between  reference 
to  nature  and  the  continued  influence  of 
the  master's  work,  there  gradually  grew 
a  third  element  derived  from  the  per- 
sonality of  the  apprentice.  Very  faint 
at  first  was  the  evidence  of  individual 
expression,  even  when,  by  independent 
work,  the  docile  apprentice  sought  ad- 
vancement to  the  grade  of  accepted 
workman.  There  has  been  over-much 
talk  since  concerning  the  danger  of 
stifling  the  originality  of  the  young  art- 
ist by  too  great  subservience  in  his  stu- 
dent days;  but  those  who  continue  to 


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46       PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


prattle  in  the  dialect  of  the  nursery 
throughout  their  adult  years  are  the 
weaklings  who  have  naught  to  say  of 
their  own.  The  grammar  which  the 
young  Raphael  was  taught  in  the  school 
of  Perugino  made  his  first  speech 
strangely  like  that  of  his  master;  but  his 
tongue  once  loosed,  he  spoke  with  a 
voice  of  his  own.  So  each  of  these  men 
learned  his  trade  and,  as  the  succession 
of  masters  grew,  each  one  adding  some 
little  or  great  secret  wrested  from  the 
store  of  nature  to  increase  the  knowledge 
of  the  arts  of  design,  so  art  progressed; 
and  every  new  aspirant  saw  clearly 
spread  before  him  the  astonishingly  sim- 
ple task  which  nature  prescribes  to  each 
and  every  sincere  artist." 

"Astonishingly  simple!"  I  exploded. 
"Of  all  the  complex,  puzzling,  baffling 
tasks  prescribed  to  man !  How  to  paint, 
what  to  paint,  what  when  done  is  a  work 
of  art?  Don't  you  know  that  no  two 
men  are  agreed  upon  this?" 

Vasari  smiled  reminiscently. 

"We  had  our  disputes  in  Florence 
also.  You  must  have  noticed  that,  nu- 
merous as  are  the  lives  of  artists  I  have 
transcribed,  they  are  but  few  as  com- 
pared with  the  many  who  practised  in 
my  time.  These  last,  the  lesser  men,  were 
frequently  disturbed  by  such  questions, 
and  in  their  practice  showed  the  lack 
of  conviction,  the  shifting,  time-serving 
direction  which  imperfect  vocation  fas- 
tens uj)on  such  as  these.  Yes,  we  had 
much  dispute,  for  there  were  also  those 
who,  lacking  technical  knowledge  and 
misapprehending  the  artist's  aim,  wrote 
on  art;  as  well  as  those  who,  loudly 
proclaiming  that  they  knew  nothing  of 
art,  knew  what  they  liked." 

"What,  already?"  I  queried. 

"Yes,  already  and  in  great  numbers. 
But  it  mattered  little.  The  serene  and 
sincere  artist  looked  on  nature  and 
found  her  infinite.  Each  day  he  tried  to 
add  some  particle,  some  new  veracity, 
to  his  accumulated  store,  the  while  ob- 
serving the  conventions  of  his  art,  the 
precious  tradition  which  bound  him  to 
his  predecessors,  but  bound  him  with  so 


loose  a  chain  that  within  its  tether  his 
forward  progression  was  in  no  wise  ham- 
pered." 

"True,"  I  assented;  "but  the  world 
was  young  then,  and  painting,  lost  in 
Greece,  devitalized  in  Byzantium,  was 
reborn  with  the  vigor  of  youth.  This 
to-day  we  can  feel  almost  as  keenly  as 
the  joyous  artists  who  gave  it  form. 
They  had  much  to  learn  that  is  the  com- 
monplace of  the  artist  to-day;  but 
though  Botticelli's  'Venus'  stands  on  her 
feet  in  a  way  that  a  tyro  in  our  art 
school  would  disdain  to  draw,  yet  the 
fair  body  of  the  gracious  lady  rises 
over  the  conventionalized  sea,  relieved 
against  a  pale  sky,  her  presence  endowed 
with  a  gracile  charm  as  moving  in  this 
year  of  grace  as  when,  five  centuries  ago, 
la  bella  Simonetta  disrobed  before  her 
painter.  But  the  world  was  young  then, 
and  to-day  the  painter's  task  is  far  more 
complicated." 

"Did  Millet  find  it  complicated?  Did 
not  Puvis  de  Chavannes  paint  with  all 
the  serenity  and  conviction  that  the 
earlier  masters  j)ossessed?  And  Corot, 
phe  Corot,  fairly  whistled  like  a  thros- 
tle through  his  art  life,  the  embodiment 
of  joyous  art  production.  Around  all 
these  men  was  waged  a  war  of  words 
for  or  against  them,  even  the  few  who 
stood  by  them  creating  strange  legends 
as  to  the  purpose  and  meaning  of  their 
work,  while  their  simple  intent  was  to 
paint  what  they  saw  as  well  and  as 
truly  as  they  knew  how." 

By  this  time  I  was  somewhat  in  the 
position  of  the  devil's  advocate,  arguing 
against  the  canonization  of  saints  in 
whom  I  devotedly  believed;  but,  to 
make  clear  certain  points,  I  returned  to 
the  attack. 

"Apparently  you  claim  that  the  art- 
ist has  only  to  seek  nature,  copy  her 
with  skill,  and  a  work  of  art  results. 
But  how  about  choice,  how  about  the 
subconsciousness  of  the  artist,  his  mem- 
ory of  other  work?  How  about  his  pos- 
sible desire  to  reduce  the  actual  fact  be- 
fore him  into  something  less  incidental 
and  more  typical  than  his  model?    Be- 


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47 


yond  doubt  your  great  men  had  these 
thoughts,  common  to  all  artists  endowed 
with  the  slightest  imagination." 

"Common  to  them  all,"  rejoined  Va- 
sari,  "and  all  contributory  to  the  great 
variety  of  their  work.  Leonardo,  for 
instance — " 

"Yes,  Leonardo,"  I  interrupted. 
"Surely  there  was  one  who  painted  'the 
light  that  never  was,  on  sea  or  land,'  a 
mystic  dominating  the  scientist,  the  un- 
wearied searcher  through  the  vast  arcana 
of  speculative  theory.  Consider  all  that 
he  dreamed,  all  that  he  wrote." 

"His  writings  are  indeed  voluminous," 
quoth  Vasari,  "but  of  them  all  I  most 
esteem  a  single  paragraph  in  a  letter 
which  he  wrote  to  the  Duke  of  Milan  in 
1482.  Addressing  a  warlike  lord,  he 
dwells  most  upon  his  achievements  as  a 
military  engineer,  with  a  pride  alone 
justifiable  in  a  man  like  Da  Vinci.  But 
to  the  artist  the  real  Leonardo  speaks  at 
the  conclusion  of  the  letter,  where  he 
says:  'Furthermore,  1  can  execute  works 
in  sculpture,  marble,  bronze,  or  terra- 
cotta. In  painting  also  1  can  do  what 
may  be  done  as  well  as  any  other,  be  he 
who  he  may.' " 

"In  painting,  then,  you  insist  that  his 
chief  merit  is  due  to  his  close  adherence 
to  nature?" 

"Most  certainly.  1  was  but  a  strip- 
ling when  he  died  and  never  spoke  with 
the  master;  but  I  fancy  that  if  I  had 
questioned  him  concerning  his  methods, 
he  would  have  answered  as  did  one  of 
the  most  esteemed  of  living  French 
painters,  M.  Bonnat,  to  a  like  question. 
'At  my  first  sitting  for  a  portrait,'  said 
M.  Bonnat,  'I  make  it  as  much  like  what 
1  see  before  me  as  possible;  at  the  sec- 
ond sitting  1  try  to  make  it  more  like; 
at  the  third  1  add  what  more  of  truth 
I  am  able  to  do;  and  so  on  to  the  con- 
clusion.' " 

"The  results  are  very  different  with 
Bonnat  and  Leonardo,"  1  objected. 

"They  always  have  been  and  always 
will  be,"  responded  Vasari,  impatiently. 
"As  you  call  yourself  an  artist,  you  must 
know  that  no  two  men,  looking  on  na- 


ture, see  her  alike  or  render  her  infinite 
visage  the  same." 

"Even  in  a  mere  portrait,"  I  repeated 
obstinately,  "Leonardo  did  more  than 
merely  copy  what  he  saw  before  him. 
The  'Mona  Lisa,'  for  instance.  Think 
how  the  world  has  dreamed  before  that 
picture!  Have  you  read  the  pages  of 
Thfophile  Gautier  or  Walter  Pater,  to 
name  but  two  of  the  scores  who  have 
seen  the  history  of  an  epoch,  the  quin- 
tessence of  a  certain  type  of  femininity, 
in  that  'simple  woman's  face'?" 

"Fine  literature,"  fairly  snorted  Va- 
sari in  reply.  "Again  overmuch  inter- 
pretation concerning  great  works  of  art. 
Remember  your  English  artist  Turner, 
who  said  of  Ruskin  that  there  was  an 
Oxford  graduate  who  saw  far  more  in 
his  work  than  he  had  ever  put  there,  or 
another  great  living  painter  who  smarts 
under  the  accusation  of  being  an  acute 
psychologist.  Being  told  that  he  had 
torn  the  veil  from  a  certain  woman's 
face,  he  answered  simply:  'Rot!  If  she 
had  had  a  veil,  I  should  have  painted 
it.'  If  all  that  you  speak  of  is  in  'Mona 
Lisa's'  face,  it  was  the  special  vision  of 
the  artist,  subconscious,  if  you  will,  that 
put  it  there.  What  he  was  trying  to  do 
in  simple  fashion  was  to  do  justice  to 
the  model  before  him.  Before  men's 
brains  grew  sick  with  much  splitting  of 
hairs,  we  looked  not  for  fourteen 
o'clock  at  noon;  and  if  you  would 
know  what  Leonardo's  contemporaries 
thought  of  the  'Mona  Lisa,'  turn  again 
to  my  book  and  read  what  is  written 
there." 

Obeying  him,  I  opened  the  book  and 
read: 

Whoever  shall  desire  to  see  how  far  art  can 
imitate  nature,  may  do  so  to  perfection  in 
this  head,  wherein  every  peculiarity  that 
could  be  depicted  by  the  utmost  subtlety  of 
the  pencil  has  been  most  faithfully  repro- 
duced. The  eyes  have  the  lustrous  brightness 
and  moisture  which  is  seen  in  life,  and  around 
them  are  those  pale,  red,  and  slightly  livid 
circles,  also  proper  to  nature,  with  the  lashes 
which  can  only  be  copied,  as  these  are,  with 
the  greatest  difficulty;  the  eyebrows,  also,  are 
represented  with  the  closest  exactitude,  where 
fuller  and  where  more  thinly  set,  with  the 
separate  hairs  delineated  as  they  issue  from 


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48       PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


the  skin,  every  turn  being  followed,  and  all  the 
pores  exhibited  in  a  manner  that  could  not 
pe  more  natural,  than  it  is;  the  nose,  with  its 
beautiful  and  delicately  roseate  nostrils, 
might  be  easily  believed  to  be  alive;  the 
mouth,  admirable  in  its  outline,  has  the  lips 
uniting  the  rose-tints  of  their  color  with  that 
of  the  face  in  the  utmost  perfection,  and  the 
carnation  of  the  cheek  does  not  appear  to  be 

f>ainted,  but  truly  of  flesh  and  bloiod :  he  who 
ooks  earnestly  at  the  pit  of  the  throat  can- 
not but  believe  that  he  sees  the  beating  of  the 
pulses,  and  it  may  truly  be  said  that  this 
work  is  painted  in  a  manner  well  calculated 
to  make  the  boldest  master  tremble,  and  as- 
tonishes all  who  behold  it,  however  well  ac- 
customed to  the  marvels  of  art. 

With  sadness  at  the  thought  of  the 
time-embrowned,  though  beautiful,  ruin 
that  we  alone  can  know  as  the  "Mona 
Lisa,"  I  turned  to  Vasari. 

"Again  we  are  more  agreed  than  would 
appear.  I  believe  that  Leonardo  sat  at 
the  feet  of  physical  perfection,  and 
through  his  insight  copied  that  which 
his  eyes  beheld.  There  remain,  however, 
numbers  of  beautiful  works  which  from 
their  nature  must  have  first  found  con- 
ception in  the  mind,  in  what  we  call  the 
imagination  of  the  artist.  In  their  exe- 
cution nature  has  served  as  the  instru- 
ment of  their  fulfilment;  but,  in  order 
that  they  might  attain  the  character  de- 
sired by  their  creator,  the  element  of 
exact  transcription,  the  quality  desira- 
ble in  a  portrait,  has  been  studiously 
avoided." 

"No  one  leaps  save  from  a  firm  foun- 
dation," replied  Vasari,  sententiously. 
"The  conception,  the  composed  pictures 
which  spring  full  fledged  in  the  mind  of 
the  artist,  may  all  be  traced  back  to 
some  fact  of  nature,  sometimes  far  re- 
moved from  the  resulting  image,  but  a 
tangible  impression,  nevertheless.  The 
special  aptitude  of  the  artist,  trained  as 
it  is  by  practice,  stores  these  impres- 
sions, and,  cunningly  concealed  in  the 
cells  of  his  brain,  there  they  remain  im- 
prisoned until  such  time  as  he  may  need 
them,  when,  presto!  they  appear  at  his 
half-conscious  bidding.  Think  you  that 
when  Raphael,  on  being  asked  whence 


came  the  model  for  one  of  his  works, 
replied  that  it  was  painted  'from  a  cer- 
tain lady  who  resided  in  his  brain' — 
think  you  that  he  spoke  of  an  empty 
brain?" 

"It  is  true,"  I  answered,  "that  Blake 
maintained  that  he  actually  saw  the  fig- 
ures of  his  visions,  and  drew,  as  any 
artist  does  from  nature,  'the  morning 
stars  as  they  sang  together.'  Nor  will  I 
soon  forget  the  earnestness  and  convic- 
tion with  which  Puvis  de  Chavannes  as- 
sured me  that  he  sat  before  the  empty 
space  in  the  Sorbonne  which  his  great 
decoration  now  adorns  until  he  saw  his 
picture  on  the  wall.  'And  you  would 
be  surprised,'  he  said,  with  fine  simplic- 
ity, 'if  you  could  see  how  exactly  the 
complete  work  corresponds  with  the  vis- 
ion that  came  to  me  before  I  touched 
brush  to  canvas.' " 

"Two  confirmations,"  boasted  Vasari, 
"the  one  from  a  'genius  to  madness  near 
allied,'  the  other  from  one  who  was  the 
embodiment  of  the  sanity  and  clarity  of 
the  highest  French  intellect.  Not  that  I 
expect  you  to  agree  with  me  fully  even 
now,  for  the  essence  of  all  art  discussion 
is  that  it  is  as  eternal  as  is  art  itself. 
And  the  hour  is  late,  and  I  must  return 
to  the  happy  painting-ground  of  the  art- 
ists beyond.  But  this  much  we  may 
conclude.  With  a  decent  knowledge  of 
his  craft,  an  untiring  effort  to  improve 
his  technical  methods,  a  single-hearted 
devotion  to  and  reliance  upon  nature 
seen  through  his  own  peculiar  vision, 
and  a  hearty  respect  for  the  lessons  of 
his  great  predecessors,  the  path  of  the 
artist  lies  before  him  to-day  as  clear  as 
it  was  to  the  forefathers  seven  hundred 
years  ago.  The  aim  has  never  changed. 
Even  the  tools  remain  the  same.  A 
lump  of  clay,  a  few  primary  colors  suf- 
ficed for  Michelangelo  and  Titian  in 
their  trade,  as  they  suflliced  for  Augustus 
Saint-Gaudens  so  little  time  ago,  for 
William  Merritt  Chase  the  day  before 
yesterday." 


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MEMORIAL  ADDRESSES 


WILLIAM  MERRITT  CHASE ^ 
By  Kenyon  Cox 


In  the  death,  on  October  25,  191 6,  of 
William  Merritt  Chase,  the  American 
Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters  lost  a 
member  who  had  been  one  of  the  fore- 
most figures  in  American  art  for  nearly 
forty  years  and  a  painter  of  interna- 
tional reputation  for  at  least  a  quarter 
of  a  century.  From  the  moment  of  his 
return  to  this  country,  in  1878,  from  his 
studies  in  Munich  he  became  a  leader  of 
what  was  then  the  younger  school,  and 
during  all  succeeding  changes  he  never 
lost  his  dominating  position.  As  a 
teacher  he  probably  exercised  a  wider 
influence  on  American  painting  than  any 
other  artist  has  ever  done. 

He  painted  a  great  variety  of  subjects, 
from  the  nude  figure,  through  portrait, 
genre,  and  landscape,  to  still  life;  and 
in  a  variety  of  manners,  now  precise  and 
minute  and  again  broad  and  even  sum- 
mary, dark  and  bituminous  in  tone  in 
his  early  work,  later  often  cool  and 
bright,  more  generally  in  an  interme- 
diate tone  neither  somber  nor  over- 
brilliant.  But  with  all  the  appearance 
and  the  presence  of  versatility,  there  is 
yet  a  singular  unity  in  all  his  work,  and 
a  perfectly  definite  point  of  view,  which 
never  changes. 

He  was  entirely  of  his  time,  that  lat- 
ter third  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
which  was  essentially  naturalistic  in  its 
aims,  and  he  never  attempted  to  paint 
anything  more  than  can  be  seen  with  the 
bodily  eye.  After  his  first  few  costume 
pieces,  he  scarcely,  went  so  far  as  to  ar- 
range the  things  he  would  paint,  but 
preferred  to  take  what  came  as  it  came, 
knowing  that  wherever  he  might  be, 
there  could  be  no  lack  of  good,  paintable 
material  all  about  him,  and  devoting  his 


acute  vision  and  his  skilled  hand  to  the 
registering  of  his  discoveries  of  the  world 
in  which  he  lived. 

Yet,  naturalist  as  he  was  in  his 
choice  of  materials,  he  entirely  escaped 
that  besetting  danger  of  naturalism,  the 
scientific  temper.  He  was  never  among 
the  strenuous  investigators  of  form  or 
light  or  color;  he  was  essentially  the 
painter,  using  so  much  of  the  attain- 
ments of  his  time  as  he  could  readily 
compel  to  his  own  end  of  facile  produc- 
tion, but  with  no  notion  of  sacrificing 
his  art  that  his  successors  might  benefit 
by  the  invention  of  new  tools  or  the 
acquisition  of  greater  knowledge.  Pos- 
sessed of  great  energy  and  bodily  vigor, 
of  a  cool,  if  keen,  vision  and  of  extraor- 
dinary technical  ability,  unbiased  by 
theories  and  untroubled  by  emotion, 
never  attempting  more  than  he  could  do 
easily,  however  difficult  the  doing  of  it 
might  be  to  others,  he  poured  forth  with 
a  genial  fecundity  a  long  series  of  works, 
ever  new,  yet  ever  the  same,  demonstra- 
tions of  his  lively  interest  in  the  differ- 
ing aspects  of  nature  and  of  his  even 
livelier  joy  in  the  exercise  of  his  own 
powers.  His  message  to  the  world  was 
no  other  than  that  simple  yet  profound 
one  which  Stevenson  expressed  in  his 
"Child's  Garden  of  Verses": 

The  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  things, 
I  am  sure  we  should  all  be  as  happy  as  kings. 

Few  of  us  can  have  been  happier  than 
Chase  himself,  whose  life  was  devoted  to 
the  continuously  successful  accomplish- 
ment of  tasks  in  which  he  delighted. 

Profoundly  convinced  of  the  truth  that 
the  business  of  a  painter  is  to  paint, — 
inclined,  perhaps,  to  the  more  doubtful 


1  Read  before  the  Academy,  March  8,  1917. 
49 


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50       PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


belief  that  the  sole  business  of  a  painter 
is  to  paint — ^the  same  qualities  that  made 
William  M.  Chase  seem  revolutionary 
and  protestant  in  his  youth,  when  paint- 
ing was  lingeringly  academic,  literary, 
and  sentimental,  made  him  a  conserva- 
tive in  his  age,  when  painting  was  trying 
to  purge  itself  of  its  representative  ele- 
ment and  to  transform  itself  into  an  art 
of  pure  expression.  At  both  extremes 
his  influence  was  a  wholesome  one.  It 
was  well  for  us  in  America,  in  his  early 
time,  to  be  taught  that  it  is  not  enough 
to  have  feelings,  ideas,  and  knowledge, 
that  one  must  also  learn  one's  trade.  It 
is  well  for  all  the  world  to-day  to  be 
reminded  that  the  art  of  painting  exists. 


that  it  is  by  its  nature  an  imitative  art, 
and  that  just  observation  and  beautiful 
workmanship  must  always  have  their 
place  in  it  and  will  always  retain  their 
value. 

As  man,  as  artist,  and  as  teacher  he 
had  lived  his  life,  had  done  what  he  had 
to  do  and  said  what  he  had  to  say.  We 
who  knew  him  will  miss  the  invigorating 
contact  with  his  intensely  vital  person- 
ality, but  a  longer  life  would  scarcely 
have  added  greatly  to  the  sum  of  what 
he  was.  His  place  in  American  art  is 
fixed,  and  as  long  and  as  widely  as 
that  art  may  interest  mankind,  so  long 
and  so  widely  will  his  name  be  remem- 
bered. 


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JOHN  W.  ALEXANDERS 
By  Edwin  H.  Blashheld 


In  John  White  Alexander  a  frail  body 
lodged  a  tireless,  eager  spirit — ^tireless 
and  unquenched  by  illness  to  the  very 
end,  eager  not  only  in  search  for  beauty, 
but  in  service  to  his  fellows.  Among 
artists,  some  are  recorders,  some  ar- 
rangers, some  are  creators,  and  some  are 
dreamers  of  dreams. 

Now  and  then  comes  a  man  who  may 
belong  to  any  one  of  these  groups,  but 
who  adds  to  his  artistic  gift  and  his 
technical  acquirement  a  capacity  for 
communication  of  enthusiasm  to  others 
and  an  instinctive  desire  to  stimulate,  to 
push  at  the  wheels  wherever  he  sees  that 
they  turn  slowly.  Such  a  man  soon  be- 
comes a  leader.  Toward  leadership 
John  Alexander  gravitated  instinctively, 
and  in  it  he  established  himself  solidly, 
using  the  experience  of  one  official  posi- 
tion to  affirm  that  of  another,  touching 
the  circle  of  the  arts  at  many  points  in 
its  circumference,  and  strengthening  him- 
self by  every  fresh  touch.  If  a  man  is 
strong  enough  physically  to  withstand 
the  demands  of  such  arduous  effort,  he 
gains  enormously  in  the  power  to  syn- 
thetize  that  effort  and  to  build  up  from 
one  department  to  another. 

Alexander  was  not  strong  enough,  and 
he  paid  the  physical  penalty;  but  while 
his  life  lasted  he  never  relaxed  that  ef- 
fort, and  he  made  it  fruitful,  feeding  it 
always  with  persistent  enthusiasm. 

For  an  instance  in  this  synthetizing  of 
effort,  he  worked  first  as  a  member  of 
the  Metropolitan  Museum's  board  at  in- 
creasing and  safeguarding  that  muse- 
um's treasures;  next  as  a  member  of  the 
School  Art  League  he  worked  at  the 
provision  of  intelligent  appreciation  of 
those  treasures — appreciation  planted  in 
the  minds  of  the  children  of  the  city  to 
grow  till  it  should  reward  the  museum's 
effort  with  understanding  adult  and 
trained. 


He  talked  to  the  children  who  flocked 
to  see  the  painting  and  sculpture  and  the 
artobjectsof  all  kinds.  And  when  the  chil- 
dren went  away,  he  followed  them  to  their 
East  Side  clubs  and  schools  and  talked 
to  them  again,  encouraging  them  to  try 
experiments  of  their  own  in  painting  and 
modeling,  and  he  stimulated  them  with 
prizes  that  adjudged  and  sometimes  in- 
stituted. He  loved  this  work  among  the 
children,  and  he  told  me,  with  a  twinkle, 
and  more  than  once,  of  how  these  very 
young  people  managed  to  fortify  the 
doubtful  experiment  of  a  journey  into 
art  by  the  undoubted  pleasure  of  at 
least  beginning  that  journey  on  roller- 
skates.  "Dozens  of  them,"  said  he, 
"skate  to  their  lecture."  If  he  was  busy 
with  the  children's  welfare,  the  interests 
of  his  comrades  of  all  ages  busied  him 
still  more.  He  was  a  painter  through 
and  through;  nevertheless,  the  sister  arts 
of  music  and  the  drama  claimed  and 
obtained  his  time  in  one  of  his  favorite 
fields  of  effort,  the  MacDowell  Club. 

To  the  plastic  presentation  of  the 
drama,  its  costuming,  lighting,  and  col- 
ors, he  gave  enthusiastic  attention,  aided 
almost  always  by  Mrs.  Alexander.  It 
was  an  easy  progression  for  him  from 
his  canvases  to  the  moving-pictures  of 
a  pageant  or  a  play,  and  his  swift  in- 
ventiveness enabled  him  to  get  through 
a  prodigious  amount  of  work  in  a  short 
time,  in  such  productions,  for  instance, 
as  Miss  Maude  Adams's  "Jeanne  d'Arc" 
at  the  Harvard  Stadium,  or  in  the  many 
series  of  tableaux  which  he  arranged  for 
charity.  "If  you  have  a  frame  and  some 
gauze,"  said  he  to  me,  "you  have  no  idea 
how  much  you  can  do  in  a  moment  with 
a  few  colored  rags."  1  had  an  idea,  for 
1  had  seen  him  juggle  with  them  and 
had  admired  the  effects  which  he  pro- 
duced so  easily,  for  he  seemed  to  take 
pains  easily,  and  with  a  geniality  which 


Read  before  the  Academy,  March  8,  1917. 
5> 


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52        PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


relieved  his  beneficiary  from  a  sense  of 
too  great  obligation.  This  graceful 
suavity  was  a  potent  factor  in  his  help- 
fulness; but  he  was  so  smiling  and 
kindly  that  I  fear  one  did  not  always 
realize  how  much  his  ready  service  some- 
times tired  him. 

During  the  last  year  of  his  life  I  saw 
him  many  times  a  week,  and  we  often 
came  home  together  from  the  Academy 
council  or  from  other  committee  meet- 
ings. 

Although,  as  I  have  said,  his  spirit 
was  not  tired,  his  body  was.  Again  and 
again  he  rose  from  a  sick-bed  to  preside 
upon  a  platform.  His  delicate  features, 
which  recalled  some  cavalier's  portrait 
by  Vandyke,  were  at  times  during  his  last 
year  almost  transparent-looking.  And 
yet  he  was  so  resilient,  he  so  responded 
to  the  stimulus  of  work  to  do,  he  had 
recovered  so  many  times  from  severe 
attacks,  that  his  death,  when  it  came, 
was  not  only  a  great  shock,  but  was  a 
surprise. 

Critics,  writers  of  books,  will  talk  to 
us  at  length  of  his  art;  there  is  time  to- 
day for  only  the  briefest  impression  of 
it.  One  would  say  that  a  refinement  ris- 
ing to  distinction  was  its  most  obvious 
quality.  Pattern  and  lighting  were  what 
seemed  to  interest  him  most  of  all.  Lx)ng, 
sweeping,  curving  lines  he  sought  for  or 
rather  seemed  to  find  without  searching, 
and  they  gave  a  decorative  character  to 
all  his  portraits. 

In  his  color  restraint  was  a  notable 
quality,  a  notable  preservative,  a  nota- 
ble insurance  against  either  crudity  or 
lushness,  against  vulgarity  of  any  kind. 
Now  and  again  he  composed  large  and 
elaborated  groups,  as  in  his  panels  for 
the  Carnegie  Institute  of  Pittsburgh, 
which  make  up  one  of  the  most  consid- 
erable extensive  series  of  decorations 
ever  painted.  But  he  loved  simplicity, 
and  thought  simply  in  his  painting,  and 
he  seemed  to  like  best  and  be  happiest 
in  his  treatment  of  single  figures.  It  was 
peculiarly  in  these  that  his  sense  of  pat- 
tern and  of  line,  of  long,  sweeping 
curves,  never  failed  him. 


He  was  very  personal  in  lighting, 
which  was  simple  and  large,  yet  at  the 
same  time  was  often  extremely  pictur- 
esque in  its  arrangement.  Its  effect  was 
not  a  little  enhanced  by  his  predisposi- 
tion toward  masses  of  reflected  light, 
which  he  used  with  great  skill. 

Restraint  reaching  to  sobriety  marked 
most  of  his  color.  He  liked  to  use  a 
warm  gray  in  wide  planes,  and  then  to 
strike  into  it  one  or  two  dominant  spots 
of  rich  or  brilliant  colors.  Just  before 
his  death  he  built  a  very  large  studio  in 
the  Catskills,  and  I  believe  that  the  trees 
and  hills  of  his  beloved  Onteora  got  into 
the  color  of  his  pictures  and  helped  to- 
ward that  predilection  for  a  whole 
gamut  of  greens  which  one  may  easily 
note  on  the  wails  of  his  exhibitions — 
gray  greens,  blue  greens,  olive  greens, 
yellow  greens,  greens  of  the  color  of 
thick  glass.  His  pigment  was  brushed 
easily  and  flowingly.  Sometimes  he 
painted  a  whole  portrait  with  what  art- 
ists would  call  a  "fat  brush,"  but  usu- 
ally the  color  was  thin,  with  occasional 
loaded  passages,  the  canvas  being  some- 
times hardly  more  than  stained. 

The  sureness  of  his  recording  was  re- 
markable, and  its  swiftness  was  phe- 
nomenal. This  of  course  was  an  extraor- 
dinary insurance  against  any  kind  of 
heaviness  in  his  color,  since  over-paint- 
ing is  one  of  the  worst  enemies  to  fresh- 
ness of  surface.  His  swiftness  of  record- 
ing must  be  emphasized  again.  I  should 
hardly  dare  to  say  in  how  short  a  time 
he  executed  one  or  two  portraits  that 
hung  upon  the  walls  of  his  drawing- 
room,  and  which  he  called  unfinished, 
though  they  were  very  satisfying,  cer- 
tainly, to  me. 

Much  as  I  should  like  to  linger  over 
his  painting,  I  cannot  keep  away  from 
the  subject  of  his  eagerness  to  help  other 
artists  to  find  a  gallery  adequate  to  the 
housing  of  their  painting.  The  search 
for  a  home  for  the  National  Academy  of 
Design  was  the  central  preoccupation  of 
the  last  years  of  his  life.  It  was  inter- 
esting, indeed,  when  he  spoke  upon  any 
platform  and  any  subject,  to  see  how 


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many  angles  of  approach  he  could  find  messenger,  bringing  stimulus  of  words 

to  that  one  subject  which  was  nearest  his  and  example,  writing  his  name  with  Ben 

heart,  the  new  gallery,  which  should  Adhem's  as  a  lover  of  his  fellow-men. 

some  day  house  a  dozen  different  so-  And  a  dreamer  he  was  of  dreams — of  a 

cieties  of  artists.  dream  which  we  fully  believe  will  come 

I  have  said  that  some  artists  are  re-  true,  when  New  York  will  have  a  great 

corders,  some  creators,  and  some  are  gallery  all  its  own,  and  which  we  may 

dreamers  of  dreams.    Recorder  and  ere-  link  in  our  thought  with  the  memory  of 

ator  he  certainly  was.  While  he  was  still  that  brilliant  artist  and  devoted  presi- 

a  child  he  was  for  a  while  a  little  mes-  dent  of  the  National  Academy  of  De- 

senger-boy,  and  he  never  ceased  to  be  a  sign,  John  White  Alexander. 


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GEORGE  BROWNE  POST^ 
By  Thomas  Hastings 


George  Browne  Post,  the  son  of  Joel 
B.  and  Abbey  M.  Post,  was  born  in  New 
York  City,  December  15,  1837.  His  ca- 
reer was  most  intimately  associated  for 
almost  sixty  years  with  the  architectural 
development  of  this  metropolis.  In 
order  to  provide  for  the  rapid  increase 
of  population  during  this  time,  there  was 
an  unparalleled  growth  in  building.  An 
endless  variety  of  new  problems  had  to 
be  solved  in  order  to  meet  the  vast  di- 
versity and  multiplicity  of  demands. 
Not  only  was  the  city  reaching  out 
along  new  avenues  and  over  new  areas 
of  what  were  once  fertile  pasture-lands, 
but,  alas!  for  want  of  legislative  re- 
straint, and  not  for  want  of  space,  one 
city  was  actually  being  builded  over  an- 
other, several  times  in  height,  reaching 
into  the  clouds,  like  so  many  Towers  of 
Babel,  scattered  about  in  a  confusion  of 
styles.  During  this  period  Mr.  Post  was 
perhaps  the  most  active  and  successful 
architect  in  finding  a  solution  which 
would  best  meet  the  constructive  difficul- 
ties of  the  modern  tall  building,  involv- 
ing the  engineer's  method  of  skeleton 
framework  construction,  accompanied 
by  the  development  and  general  use  of 
the  passenger-elevator. 

When  designing  the  old  Produce  Ex- 
change, one  of  our  notable  buildings,  he 
employed  for  the  first  time,  in  the  inner 
court  of  this  building,  iron  columns  and 
beams  to  support  several  stories  of  floors 
and  walls.  This  was  one  of  the  first 
contributions  to  the  evolution  of  the 
modern  steel-frame  building. 

There  were  no  traditions  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  art  which  would  seem  to  sug- 
gest the  solution  of  this  problem,  and 
there  was  a  real  demand  for  originality 
to  meet  such  a  hopeless  situation.  It  is 
difficult  to  realize  to  what  an  extent  Mr. 
Post  paved  the  way  for  others  to  follow. 
In  the  art  of  architecture  more  than  in 


any  other  creative  pursuit,  perhaps,  the 
general  public  ofttimes  finds  it  difficult 
to  discern  the  true  author  of  what  may 
be  a  very  original  conception.  Lost  in 
the  many  modifications  and  slight  vari- 
ations, the  same  idea  is  so  often  repro- 
duced by  others  that  it  becomes  com- 
monplace. A  conspicuous  example 
might  be  cited  in  Michelangelo's  dome 
of  St.  Peter's,  one  of  the  most  original 
designs  ever  conceived  by  the  genius  of 
man.  Its  originality  can  be  appreciated 
only  when  one  realizes  that  other  domes, 
such  as  the  Val-de-Grace,  Les  Invalides, 
Soufflot's  Pantheon,  or  Wren's  St.  Paul's, 
were  all  built  at  a  later  date,  and  that  no 
dome  of  this  character,  with  the  pen- 
dentive  and  the  drum,  preceded  this 
most  original  masterpiece  of  architec- 
ture. 

Mr.  Post  was  really  doing  pioneer 
work  at  a  time  when  the  educational 
advantages  and  the  condition  of  Ameri- 
can architecture  were  not  to  be  compared 
with  those  of  the  present  day.  In  his 
early  life  he  served  his  country  in  the 
Civil  War  as  aide  on  the  staff  of  Gen- 
eral Burnside,  who  commanded  the 
Army  of  the  Potomac  in  1862,  at  the 
first  battle  of  Fredericksburg.  He  was 
at  one  time  colonel  of  the  Twenty-third 
Regiment  of  the  National  Guard  of  New 
York. 

Mr.  Post  was  first  educated  as  an  en- 
gineer, being  graduated  from  the  scien- 
tific school  of  New  York  University  in 
the  class  of  1858.  What  we  now  recog- 
nize as  engineering,  with  the  innovation 
of  steel  and  railroad  construction,  is 
comparatively  a  modern  science,  which 
rapidly  became  differentiated  from  the 
art  of  architecture.  At  that  time  there 
was  little  design  in  construction.  As 
Mr.  Post  saw  rather  the  qualitative  than 
the  quantitative  side  of  construction,  he 
was  attracted  to  architecture,  and  he 


1  Read  before  the  Academy,  March  29, 1917. 
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studied  for  three  years  with  Richard 
Morris  Hunt.  Perhaps  his  first  conspicu- 
ous work  was  the  old  Chickering  Hall, 
on  lower  Fifth  Avenue,  now  destroyed. 
He  was  one  of  the  principal  architects 
who  conceived  and  constructed  the  Co- 
lumbian Exposition  of  Chicago.  I 
might  almost  say,  without  further  men- 
tion, that  we  need  only  to  look  about 
us  to  see  his  many  works.  As  a  man  he 
was  fearless  and  strong,  with  a  true 
sense  of  proportion  and  justice.  He  had 
unusual  executive  and  administrative 
ability,  and  notwithstanding  his  great 


enthusiasm  and  impulsive  temperament, 
there  were  always  a  quiet  restraint  and 
dignity  which  made  him  one  of  the  most 
representative  men  of  his  profession. 
He  was  frequently  called  upon  by  both 
federal  and  municipal  governments  to 
render  public  service,  both  because  of 
his  generous  willingness  to  give  his  valu- 
able time  and  because  of  his  distin- 
guished personality,  which  made  its 
impression  upon  men.  The  long  and 
eventful  life  of  our  friend  and  fellow- 
Academician  was  ended  November  28, 
1914. 


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BRONSON  HOWARD 
By  Augustus  Thomas 


Bronson  Howard  died  in  August  of 
1908  in  his  sixty-sixth  year.  He  was  at 
that  time,  and  had  been  for  thirty  years, 
the  foremost  dramatist  of  America.  He 
was  a  vice-president  of  the  National  In- 
stitute of  Arts  and  Letters,  which  he 
helped  to  organize,  and  he  was  a  mem- 
ber of  this  Academy. 

He  was  the  son  of  a  prominent  mer- 
chant of  Detroit,  and  the  great-grandson 
of  an  English  ensign  who  fought  under 
General  Wolfe  at  the  capture  of  Quebec 
and  who  in  later  manhood  died  in  the 
sight  of  General  Washington,  whom  he 
followed  at  Monmouth.  Behind  that 
Revolutionary  soldier  the  family  traced 
itself  directly  to  the  Howards  of  Nor- 
folk, premier  dukes  of  England. 

At  the  usual  age  Bronson  Howard  pre- 
pared for  admission  to  Yale  University, 
but,  owing  to  a  serious  trouble  with  his 
eyes,  did  not  enter.  As  a  later  writer 
has  said  of  himself,  he  was  forced  to 
choose  between  journalism  and  an  edu- 
cation. He  turned  his  attention  to  hu- 
morous writing  for  the  Detroit  "Free 
Press." 

In  1865  he  came  to  New  York  City  to 
work  as  a  reporter  on  the  "Tribune"  un- 
der the  direction  of  Horace  Greeley.  Mr. 
Howard  was  then  twenty-three  years 
old.  He  worked  for  the  "Tribune"  and 
later  for  "The  Evening  Post."  On  these 
two  papers,  before  he  left  them  to  em- 
bark altogether  upon  play-writing  as  his 
profession,  he  labored  seven  years,  the 
historic  time  of  service  that  Jacob 
agreed  upon  with  Laban. 

Between  the  years  1870  and  1899  he 
was  the  author  of  seventeen  plays,  the 
greater  part  of  which  were  successful. 
In  a  profession  that  has  no  curriculum 
but  sympathetic  living  and  understand- 
ing, and  no  diploma  but  the  smiles  and 
tears  of  his  fellow-men,  he  won  a  first 
distinction. 


Very  soon  after  he  began  to  write  for 
the  stage  his  accurate  observation,  his 
fine  apprehension  of  motive,  his  delicate 
measurement  of  effect,  his  truthful  tran- 
scription and  vivid  presentation  of  life, 
placed  him  in  a  class  by  himself  among 
American  playwrights.  In  an  epoch  of 
hurried  and  commercial  and  very  con- 
ventional production  his  careful,  lifelike, 
and  unhackneyed  offerings  were  in  the 
main  artistic  masterpieces,  valuable  not 
only  for  the  fef reshing  qualities  that  they 
served  to  the  public  of  that  time,  but 
as  examples  of  considered  workmanship, 
and  as  models  to  men  already  in  his  pro- 
fession and  to  those  preparing  to  join  it. 
This  is  especially  true  of  the  work  of  his 
matured  and  ripened  years.  His  pains- 
taking amounted  almost  to  genius,  and 
its  effect  upon  a  play  was  a  finish  less 
enamel  than  it  was  bloom.  The  body 
of  the  play  was  solid,  too.  It  gave  an 
impression  of  life.  The  happenings 
seemed  not  only  true,  but  intimate  and 
inevitable.  The  people  were  like  our- 
selves; like  us  not  only  in  their  better 
and  heroic  moments,  when  we  hoped 
they  were  our  very  kindred,  but  like  us 
in  their  shortcomings,  their  failings,  and 
their  meannesses,  when  we  knew  they 
were. 

The  blue  pencil  of  the  city  editor  had 
taught  Bronson  Howard  the  unpardon- 
ableness  of  being  dull.  He  had  learned 
our  general  incapacity  for  sustained 
attention,  our  thirst  for  variety,  our 
delight  in  surprise,  our  readiness  to 
laugh,  and  our  blindness  to  the  ambush 
of  the  pathetic.  He  knew  that  skilful 
counterpoint  was  the  way  to  keep  us 
rocking  and  susceptible,  and  he  could  sit 
at  his  table  and  dramatize  not  only  the 
people  of  his  play,  but  those  dim  gather- 
ings beyond  the  barrier  of  the  footlights 
that  should  lean  and  listen,  gasp  and 
inhale  and  laugh,  frown  and  be  tender. 


1  Read  before  the  Academy,  March  29, 1917. 
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weep  and  clap  hands,  like  reflected 
moods  invoked  in  a  magic,  but  shad- 
owed, mirror. 

The  older  theater-goers  will  remember 
with  respect  and  affection  his  great  suc- 
cesses, "The  Banker's  Daughter"  and 
"Young  Mrs.  Winthrop,"  "Shenandoah" 
and  "The  Henrietta";  and  while  his 
reputation  will  probably  rest  upon  these 
four  fine  plays,  his  other  work  was  of 
wide  range  and  high  merit. 

Mr.  Brander  Matthews,  the  writer 
most  qualified  by  acquaintance  with  the 
man  and  his  epoch  and  with  the  theater 
to  write  of  them  all,  has  called  our  atten- 
tion to  the  fact  that  Bronson  Howard's 
career  as  a  dramatist  covered  the  transi- 
tion period  of  the  modern  drama,  when 
it  was  changing  from  the  platform  stage 
to  the  picture-frame  stage;  that  period 
that  was  dismissing  "the  rhetorical  em- 
phasis, confidential  soliloquies  to  the  au- 
dience, and  frequent  change  of  scene  in 
the  course  of  an  act."  And  almost  as 
though  he  were  being  guided  by  the  wis- 
dom of  Polonius  on  fashions,  he  was 

...  not  the  first  by  whom  the  new  is  tried. 
Nor  yet  the  last  to  lay  the  old  aside. 

He  moved  with  his  time,  and  so  dis- 
creetly that  men  working  under  the  tacit 
acceptance  of  his  leadership  suffered 
neither  martyrdom  nor  neglect. 

His  associates  were  the  leading  man- 
agers and  the  foremost  actors  of  the 
time.  His  material  circumstances 
changed  from  the  embarrassing  lack  of 
an  overcoat  during  his  reportorial  ad- 
venture in  New  York  to  a  life  of  com- 
fort and  the  means  to  make  an  endow- 
ment to  the  American  Dramatists'  Club, 
with  substantial  bequests  in  other  direc- 
tions. 

The  Dramatists'  Club  was  an  out- 
growth of  the  unusual  modesty  that  was 
a  Bronson  Howard  characteristic.  He 
had  had  some  success  in  England,  and 
our  insular  brethren  there  insisted  on  re- 
garding him  not  only  as  an  American 
playwright  of  prominence,  but  as  the 
only  one  existing.  With  the  avowed  pur- 
pose to  answer  and  inform  and  correct 
this  attitude,  he  got  together  in   1890 


fifty  men  in  America  who  had  profes- 
sionally produced  their  plays.  A  society 
was  formed  that  still  exists,  and  includes 
in  its  membership  the  principal  drama- 
tists of  the  United  States.  Mr.  Howard 
was  its  first  president,  and  held  that 
office  until  his  death.  He  left  to  the 
society  his  dramatic  library,  one  of  the 
largest  in  the  country,  and  also  left  a 
fund  to  maintain  and  to  increase  it.  He 
so  arranged  his  affairs  that  upon  the 
death  of  Mrs.  Howard  a  sustaining  en- 
dowment came  to  the  society  itself,  to- 
gether with  the  valuable  rights  to  his 
plays. 

But  if  Bronson  Howard  had  never 
written  a  play  or  delivered  a  lecture  upon 
that  art,  or  established  and  endowed  a 
society  of  dramatists,  he  would  still  be 
a  notable  figure  in  the  history  of  the 
drama  in  America,  as  it  was  owing  to  his 
initiative  and  persistence,  his  advocacy 
and  persuasion,  that  dramatic  composi- 
tions finally  obtained  proper  protection 
under  the  United  States  copyright  law, 
and  in  the  various  States  similar  protec- 
tion under  the  common  law  for  plays 
that  had  not  been  copyrighted.  This 
achievement  was  the  work  of  many 
years,  embracing  repeated  trips  to  Wash- 
ington, many  appearances  and  contests 
before  committees,  and  volumes  of  cor- 
respondence with  authors,  journalists, 
attorneys,  and  legislators.  This  monu- 
ment to  the  man  is  the  finer  from  the 
fact  that  for  many  years  before  its  ac- 
complishment he  personally  had  virtu- 
ally retired  from  the  field. 

To  commemorate  only  this  profes- 
sional side  of  his  life,  however,  would  be 
to  neglect  the  larger  and  the  finer  part 
of  the  man.  Play-writing  seemed  rather 
the  avocation  of  a  full  and  broad  and 
deep  and  vibrant  soul,  the  chief  expres- 
sion of  which  was  life  itself.  His  under- 
standing was  so  complete,  his  sympathy 
so  general,  his  patience  so  detached  and 
yet  so  fraternal,  his  justice  of  such  even 
balance,  his  humor  so  lubricant  and 
healing,  that  any  business  he  might  have 
chosen  would  have  seemed  an  equal  ab- 
dication of  his  larger  rights.    He  looked 


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like  a  successful  general  who  had  quit 
the  arts  of  war  to  practise  medicine.  He 
smiled  like  a  righteous  judge  who  hesi- 
tated to  convict  because  he  understood 
the  promising  humanity  of  the  offense. 
He  listened  like  a  father  who  had  been  a 
playmate,  and  all  who  knew  him  remem- 
ber, and  many  have  commented  in  some 
fashion  upon,  his  singularly  blue  eyes, 
and  the  steadiness  of  their  gaze,  encour- 
aging, not  disconcerting,  and  which 
seemed  not  to  pierce,  but  to  infiltrate. 
He  was  an  adequate  and  noticeable  fac- 
tor of  any  assembly,  the  most  delightful 
associate  in  the  ideal  companionship  of 
two,  and  perfectly  sufficient  to  himself  in 
the  longest  hours  of  self-chosen  solitude. 
I  remember  visiting  him  for  two 
or  three  short  consultations  during  a 
winter  in  the  middle  nineties,  when  it 
was  his  daily  custom  to  leave  New  York 
in  the  morning,  with  his  lunch  in  a  pa- 
per, and  spend  the  day  in  a  little,  eight- 
by-ten-foot  wooden  cabin  built  in  the 
corner  of  the  back  yard  of  a  cottage  he 


had  owned  at  New  Rochelle.  The  furni- 
ture of  this  cabin  was  two  wooden  chairs, 
a  deal  table,  a  little  cannon  stove,  a  coal- 
hod,  and  a  brierwood  pipe.  He  found 
there  the  isolation  and  the  quiet  that  his 
work  required,  and  traveled  in  a  virtu- 
ally empty  train  both  ways,  as  the  com- 
muting tide  was  opposite  to  his  direc- 
tion at  his  hour.  This  was  at  the 
period  of  his  greatest  artistic  and  finan- 
cial success.  His  home  in  New  York  at 
that  time  was  a  comfortable,  but  unpre- 
tentious, apartment  in  a  quarter  not 
fashionable.  Both  the  apartment  and 
the  cabin  could  be  closed  and  left  at  the 
shortest  notice,  and  their  owner  was  free 
to  follow  where  his  whim  invited.  He 
knew  that  real  happiness  did  not  attach 
to  things,  and  Fortune  in  her  most  en- 
ticing moods  could  deceive  him  no  more 
than  she  had  frightened  him  with  her 
frowns.  We  must  record  him  a  man 
equipped  with  the  emotional  power  of 
an  artist,  the  generosity  of  a  cavalier, 
and  the  temperance  of  a  gentleman. 


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JOHN  BIGELOW^ 
•  By  William  Milligan  Sloane 


The  man  of  letters  in  public  life  prac- 
tises a  fine  art  second  to  no  other.  It  is 
useless  to  analyze  the  causes  which  lead 
members  of  the  Academy  to  choose  their 
colleagues,  for  the  finer  senses  are  elusive 
in  their  action.  But  in  the  case  of  John 
Bigelow  there  was  no  mystery.  He  was 
not  only  a  distinguished  writer:  he  was 
also  a  famous  publicist,  statesman,  and 
diplomat,  with  a  genius  alike  for  leader- 
ship and  cooperation.  In  every  impulse 
and  instinct  he  was  a  colleague:  when 
others  faltered  about  the  place  of  our 
organization  in  American  life  he  was 
secure  in  his  judgment,  placing  time, 
energy,  and  money  at  the  service  of  this 
Academy.  His  convictions  as  to  the 
work  it  had  to  do  and  his  unshaken 
faith  that  in  time  its  place  would  be 
established  in  American  life  were  a 
source  of  inspiration  to  us  all. 

This  was  due  to  the  fullest  knowledge 
of  men  and  their  institutions  in  all  lands, 
and  to  his  comparative  study  of  life  in 
America  with  that  elsewhere.  He  was 
born  at  Maiden  on  the  Hudson  River  in 
1817  and  died  at  ninety-four.  For  him 
there  was  neither  youth  nor  old  age,  but 
a  beautiful  childhood  and  adolescence 
until  he  was  graduated  at  eighteen  from 
Union  College,  when  he  seems  to  have 
entered  instantly  on  a  maturity  which 
lasted  without  withering  for  over  seven- 
ty-five years.  And  such  years ! — ^the  years 
during  which  his  own  and  every  other 
.civilized  land  was  totally  reconstructed. 
He  studied  law,  was  admitted  to  the  bar, 
and  built  up  a  handsome  practice.  But 
his  heart  was  not  absorbed  in  his  profes- 
sion, because  he  was  a  born  publicist  and 
pamphleteer.  His  fixed  purpose  was  to 
earn  a  competence  so  that  he  might  as 
early  as  possible  become  a  public  ser- 
vant. This  he  accomplished  by  the  time 
he  was  fifty;  but  long  before  that  he 
began  to  write,  and  was  a  welcome  con- 


tributor to  no  fewer  than  seven  news- 
papers and  periodicals.  Of  one,  "The 
Plebeian,"  he  became  the  literary  editor. 

It  was  about  1838  that  the  magnet  of 
this  metropolis  drew  him  from  Hudson, 
the  local  capital,  to  New  York.  At  once 
he  became  a  member  of  an  association, 
known  as  "The  Column,"  composed  of 
brilliant  young  lawyers,  taking  them- 
selves most  seriously,  which  was  in  itself 
an  embryo  Academy.  Their  purpose  was 
to  broaden  their  culture  and  magnify 
their  influence  by  the  force  of  organiza- 
tion. Sooner  or  later  they  all  became 
members  of  the  Century  Association, 
and  the  two  venerable  survivors,  Parke 
Godwin  and  John  Bigelow,  while  the  lat- 
ter was  president  of  that  famous  guild, 
placed  their  emblem,  a  handsome  col- 
umn surmounted  by  the  lamp  of  learn- 
ing, in  the  keeping  of  the  Association. 
Their  notable  careers  were  measurably 
due  to  their  reactions  upon  each  other, 
and  this  was  one  of  the  facts  which  in- 
fluenced John  Bigelow  in  his  devotion 
to  the  National  Institute  with  its  Senate, 
the  Academy. 

Having  found  his  powers  and  solidi- 
fied his  convictions,  he  entered  the  field 
of  national  politics  as  an  ardent  Free- 
Soil  Democrat.  So  skilful  and  convinc- 
ing was  his  polemic  in  favor  of  Van 
Buren  that  William  Cullen  Bryant  se- 
cured him  as  a  partner  in  the  ownership 
and  as  a  co-editor  of  "The  Evening 
Post."  The  struggle  to  prevent  the  ex- 
tension of  slavery  into  the  Territories 
was  regarded  by  that  paper  as  most  im- 
portant, and  to  this  the  new  editor  par- 
ticularly devoted  himself.  In  journalism 
he  had  the  "heavy  fist"  of  stern  convic- 
tion; but  simultaneously,  until  he  sold 
his  shares  to  Parke  Godwin  in  186 1  and 
withdrew,  he  was  busy  with  literary 
work.  He  traveled  in  Jamaica,  Hayti, 
and  Europe,  writing  almost  continuously 


^  Read  before  the  Academy,  April  18,  1917. 
59 


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6o        PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 


social  and  political  studies  of  the  lands 
he  visited,  all  of  which  were  printed. 
Some  were  collected  into  book  form. 
For  long  years  he  continued  his  contri- 
butions to  the  press,  and  to  the  end  of 
his  life  he  was  as  famous  a  pamphleteer 
as  any  man  employing  the  English  lan- 
guage. 

It  was  in  1845  that  his  public  service 
began.  For  three  years  he  was  an  in- 
spector of  New  York  prisons,  and  it  was 
by  his  measures  that  Sing  Sing  peniten- 
tiary became  the  model  prison  it  once 
was.  This  was  the  moment  when  Tilden 
was  beginning  his  political  career  as 
assemblyman.  Three  years  older  than 
Bigelow,  he  was  not  yet  a  Free-Soiler. 
But  the  two  young  statesmen  of  similar 
faith  formed  about  this  time  an  acquain- 
tance, which,  considerably  later,  ripened 
into  a  friendship  extremely  important  in 
molding  the  character  of  both.  Tilden 
was  a  distant  and  reticent  man,  with  a 
comparatively  small  circle  of  friends, 
even  of  acquaintances;  but  he  knew  how 
to  bind  a  select  few  both  to  his  person 
and  his  interests.  Almost  the  last  act 
of  John  Bigelow  was  to  reject  with  scorn 
the  proffer  of  Congress  for  a  Tilden  bust 
to  be  placed  in  the  Capitol  at  Washing- 
ton. He  thought  his  friend  worthy  of  a 
monumental  statue.  It  was  he  who 
remedied  the  results  of  Tilden's  defec- 
tive will,  which  was  likely,  as  an  invalid 
document,  to  thwart  every  desire  Of  the 
would-be  testator.  By  his  influence  the 
City  of  New  York  secured  the  great 
Tilden  Foundation  for  a  public  library; 
and,  as  far  as  word  or  deed  could  accom- 
plish it,  the  memory  of  Tilden  was  im- 
pressed on  posterity  as  a  man  of  feeling, 
of  power,  and  of  rectitude.  Such  loyalty 
was  characteristic  of  John  Bigelow;  it 
was  that  quality  in  him  which  gave  us 
the  Bryant  monument  in  Bryant  Park. 

His  public  life  was  destined  to  shine 
with  great  luster.  In  1861  he  was  sent 
as  consul  to  Paris,  when  the  admirable 
Dayton  was  head  of  the  legation.  The 
barriers  between  consular  and  diplo- 
matic service  were  not  then  so  high  as 
to-day,  and  in  1864,  when  Dayton  died. 


Bigelow  was  put  in  charge  of  the  office. 
So  admirable  had  been  his  foreign  career 
that  he  was  speedily  made  envoy  and 
minister,  a  position  he  held  until  1867. 
These  seven  years  in  Paris  at  least 
parallel,  if  they  do  not  surpass,  in  ser- 
vice rendered  any  similar  period  in  the 
career  of  an  American  diplomat.  By  an 
important  volume  written  in  French  and 
published  in  1864  he  set  the  situation  of 
his  country  clearly  before  the  French- 
men of  the  Empire,  then  as  always 
dumbly  hostile  to  America.  The  Napo- 
leonic government  had  connived  with 
secret  agents  to  permit  the  escape  from 
French  harbors  of  four  armed  and  iron- 
clad cruisers.  Bigelow  not  merely  dis- 
covered and  collected  the  necessary  evi- 
dence, but  so  presented  it  to  the  French 
Government  as  to  prevent  the  escape  of 
a  single  ship.  When  we  recall  what  hap- 
pened in  the  case  of  the  Alabama  and  the 
Georgia,  built  in  England,  we  may  esti- 
mate what  his  work  as  a  diplomat  meant 
during  and  after  the  war.  His,  too,  were 
the  negotiations,  backed  by  a  stalwart 
administration  in  Washington,  which 
compelled  Napoleon  III  to  abandon  the 
dream  of  his  uncle  that  a  great  Latin 
empire  should  embrace  the  Gulf  of  Mex- 
ico. It  was  in  Paris,  too,  that  he  obtained 
and  published  to  the  world  the  original 
and  complete  manuscript  of  Franklin's 
"Autobiography,"  so  shamefully  muti- 
lated by  a  grandson  under  the  guise  of 
editing. 

The  influences  of  European  life  on 
John  Bigelow  were  culturally  very  pro- 
found; he  returned  to  its  various  coun- 
tries again  and  again  after  his  public 
service  was  completed.  It  would  be  dif- 
ficult to  recall  a  great  name  of  his  epoch 
with  whose  possessor  he  was  unac- 
quainted; with  most  of  the  highly  emi- 
nent he  was  at  times  in  personal  touch; 
with  Gladstone  he  waged  a  bitter  con- 
troversy in  America's  behalf.  There  is 
a  type  of  American,  largely  represented 
over  the  seas,  who  beholds  and  admires 
Europe  only  to  weaken  his  loyalty  and 
make  him  apologize  for  his  origin.  Of 
such  was  not  Bigelow.    He  was  a  severe 


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MEMORIAL  ADDRESSES 


6i 


critic  of  his  country,  as  he  was  of  him- 
self, but  the  intrinsic  truth  and  power  of 
the  American  system  was  a  part  of  his 
gospel,  a  faith  from  which  he  never  wa- 
vered; his  highest  aim  was  to  illuminate 
it  by  comparative  study.  At  the  time  of 
his  death  it  was  recalled  that  he  had 
lived  under  every  President  of  the  coun- 
try except  Washington,  and  was  even  a 
contemporary  of  Napoleon.  His  mental 
range  was  as  extensive  as  his  life  and 
experience  of  living;  but  everything  fo- 
cused in  a  land  which  was  his  as  it 
belonged  to  few  others:  his  family  had 
been  on  the  soil  since  1642. 

His  passion  for  liberty  made  him  a 
strong  individualist.  He  was  in  eco- 
nomics the  most  extreme  free-trader  of 
his  day.  Socially  he  was  exquisitely  con- 
siderate of  others,  but  his  time  was  the 
capital  of  which  his  creator  had  made 
him  the  steward,  and  his  style  of  life  was 
delightfully  original.  At  a  festival  in 
the  house  of  his  birth  a  loyal  son  once 
put  in  use  the  pulpit  and  pews  from  the 
old  Maiden  Presbyterian  Church,  of 
which  his  grandsire  had  been  an  elder 
and  upon  which  his  famous  father  had 
sat  as  a  child;  but  spiritually  John 
Bigelow  was  a  rebel  against  the  historic 
faith  of  his  sires.  While  in  the  island 
of  St.  Thomas  when  he  was  about  forty 
years  of  age  a  Swedish  gentleman  had 
drawn  his  attention  to  the  work  of 
Emanuel  Swedenborg,  as  an  interpreter 
of  the  Bible,  the  literary  supremacy  of 
which  volume  then  as  ever  fascinated 
Bigelow,  though  some  of  the  contents 
were  to  him,  literally  construed,  a  hard 
saying.  He  was  attracted  by  the  doc- 
trine of  the  Stockholm  philosopher  as  to 
"correspondences"  between  nature  and 
spirit,  and  was  until  his  sixtieth  year  or 
longer  a  devoted  and  critical  student  of 
that  type  of  theosophy.  Later  his  ardor 
was  somewhat  diminished,  and  he  told  to 
me,  as  doubtless  to  others,  when  he  was 
far  advanced  in  the  eighties,  that  he 
could  not  consider  himself  a  regular 
member  of  the  sect  with  which  he  had 
long  identified  himself.  Yet  he  had 
found  and  stored  deep  in  his  mind  the 


"arcana  ccelestia,"  and  never  lost  the  se- 
rene optimism  or  the  implicit  trust  of  a 
childlike  faith.  As  few  others,  he  was  a 
spiritually  minded  man. 

Besides  his  fugitive  writings,  there  are 
nineteen  titles  to  John  Bigelow's  credit 
in  the  history  of  American  letters.  Most 
of  these  represent  substantial  books,  in 
the  biographies  of  Tilden,  Bryant,  and 
Franklin,  as  well  as  in  his  own  recollec- 
tions, two  and  three  volumes.  In  all 
those  thousands  of  pages  there  is  not  a 
careless  word  or  thought.  He  was  a  con- 
scientious writer,  with  a  clear,  vivid, 
trenchant  style,  and  he  expounded  the 
truth  without  fear  as  it  was  given  to 
him.  To  such  as  he  was  the  world  gives 
its  confidence  and  imposes  on  them  great 
trusts.  He  was,  of  course,  connected 
with  the  leading  historical  societies, 
those  of  the  nation  and  his  native  State 
among  the  number;  he  sat  on  the  manag- 
ing boards  of  the  Public  Library  and  the 
Metropolitan  Museum;  he  was  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Municipal  Art  Commission, 
and  president  of  the  Century  Associa- 
tion. Such  were  his  known  activities, 
but  there  was  the  commanded  reticence 
between  his  two  hands  in  the  matter  of 
private  beneficence;  not  even  his  nearest 
and  dearest  were  in  that  secret  of  the 
Lord,  which  is  with  them  that  fear  Him. 

A  philosopher  in  thought,  a  citizen  in 
action,  a  paragon  in  domestic  life,  he 
reaped  in  full  measure  where  he  had 
sown.  Thinkers,  statesmen,  and  a  cir- 
cle of  worth-while  friends  respected  and 
loved  him.  His  person  was  always  at- 
tractive and  to  the  end  he  wisely  culti- 
vated the  style  of  dress  in  which  he  was 
most  at  ease,  that  of  his  fifties  and  six- 
ties. As  ever-advancing  age  bestowed  its 
abundant  bounties  upon  him,  he  became 
the  first  citizen  of  New  York,  in  a  meas- 
ure, of  the  nation,  and  was  on  all  occa- 
sions unfailingly  recognized  as  such  by 
those  present.  His  features  were  boldly 
cut,  generous  but  firm  in  line  and  di- 
mension. His  eyes  were  brilliant  even 
in  his  latest  years,  and  with  his  strong 
frame,  his  pleasant  address,  and  self- 
respecting  dignity  there  was  something 


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62        PROCEEDINGS  OF  THE  ACADEMY  AND  THE  INSTITUTE 

leonine  in  his  personality.     His  humor  wealth  of  sympathy.     His  advice  and 

was  a  never-failing  buckler  against  an  suggestions  were  never  perfunctory,  and 

adversary's  darts  or  his  own  petulance,  his  sagacity  generally  indicated  the  tac- 

an  affliction  carefully  concealed  if  he  tics  of  practical  common  sense  suited  to 

had  it.    His  wit  was  spontaneous,  genial,  each  one  of  the  many  who  consulted  him. 

and  of  his  soul's  very  essence.  For  rising  He  was  an  asset  of  the  greatest,  impor- 

men  and  writers  struggling  with  the  ad-  tance  to  this  Academy,  and  his  memory 

verse  conditions  of  the  hour  he  had  a  will  abide  in  its  history  and  traditions. 


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PRESENTATION  TO  MR.  JOHN  BURROUGHS  OF  THE 
GOLD  MEDAL  OF  THE  INSTITUTE 


At  the  opening  of  the  third  session, 
November  17,  Mr.  Edwin  Howl  and 
Blashfield,  President  of  the  Institute,  an- 
nounced that  at  the  annual  meeting  of 
the  Institute  held  at  the  University  Club, 
November  16,  the  Gold  Medal  for  Es- 


says or  Belles-Lettres  had  been  awarded     you  all." 


to  Mr.  John  Burroughs.  Mr.  Blashfield 
then  presented  the  medal  to  Mr.  Bur- 
roughs, who  said: 

"This  is  a  surprise  to  me.  I  will  not 
even  attempt  to  make  any  response. 
You  do  me  a  very  great  honor.    1  thank 


THE  INSTITUTE  MEDAL 


The  Gold  Medal  of  the  Institute  is 
awarded  to  any  citizen  of  the  United 
States,  whether  a  member  of  the  Insti- 
tute or  not,  for  distinguished  services 
to  arts  and  letters  in  the  creation  of 
original  work. 

The  conditions  are  that  the  medal 
shall  be  awarded  for  the  entire  work  of 
the  recipient,  without  limit  of  time  dur- 
ing which  it  shall  have  been  done;  that 
it  shall  be  awarded  to  a  living  per- 
son or  to  one  who  shall  not  have  been 
dead  more  than  one  year  at  the  time 
of  the  award;  and  that  it  shall  not  be 
awarded  more  than  once  to  any  one 
person. 

The  medal  was  designed  by  Adolph 
A.  Weinman,  member  of  the  Institute, 
in  1909. 

The  first  award — for  sculpture — ^was 


to  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens.  The  medal 
was  presented  to  Mrs.  Saint-Gaudens  at 
the  meeting  held  in  memory  of  her  hus- 
band, November  20,  1909. 

The  second  medal — for  history — ^was 
awarded  to  James  Ford  Rhodes,  1910. 

The  third  medal — for  poetry — ^was 
awarded  to  James  Whitcomb  Riley, 
1911. 

The  fourth  medal — for  architecture — 
was  awarded  to  William  Rutherford 
Mead,  1912. 

The  fifth  medal — for  drama — ^was 
awarded  to  Augustus  Thomas,  191 3. 

The  sixth  medal — for  fiction — ^was 
awarded  to  William  Dean  Howells  in 
1915. 

The  seventh  medal — for  essays  or 
belles-lettres — ^was  awarded  to  John 
Burroughs  in  19 16. 


THE  ACADEMY  MEDAL 


The  Gold  Medal  of  the  Academy  is 
conferred  in  recognition  of  special  dis- 
tinction in  literature,  art,  or  music,  and 
for  the  entire  work  of  the  recipient,  who 
may  be  of  either  sex,  and  must  be  a 
native  or  naturalized  citizen  of  the 
United  States,  and  not  a  member  of  the 
Academy.    It  was  first  awarded  to  Dr. 


Charles  William  Eliot,  at  the  annual 
meeting  in  Boston,  November  18,  191 5, 
and  the  presentation  was  made  in  behalf 
of  the  Academy  by  Dr.  Nicholas  Murray 
Butler  in  New  York,  January  27,  19 16. 
The  medal  was  designed  and  modeled 
by  James  Earle  Eraser,  member  of  the 
Institute. 


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ADDRESS  OF  MONSIEUR  BERGSON 


By  invitation  of  the  Directors  of  the 
Academy,  Monsieur  Henri  Bergson,  of 
the  Academie  Frangaise,  addressed  the 
Academy  on  the  8th  of  March,  191 7,  on 
the  subject  of  "The  French  Academy  in 
its  Relation  to  France  at  the  Present 
Time."  In  introducing  Professor  Berg- 
son Chancellor  William  M.  Sloane  said: 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  colleagues  of 
the  Institute  and  the  Academy,  we  es- 
teem it  a  privilege  to  make  this  session 
one  of  homage  to  M.  Bergson,  to  the 
French  Academy,  of  which  he  is  a  dis- 
tinguished member,  and  to  his  great 
country,  exhibiting  as  she  does  such  a 
degree  of  moral,  intellectual,  and  physi- 
cal courage  under  terrible  trial  as  may 
well  serve  us  and  posterity  as  a  con- 
spicuous example  in  virtue.  Our  guest 
has  reached  the  highest  eminence  as  an 
exponent  of  the  intuitive  philosophy  and 
as  a  man  of  letters.  At  an  age  when 
fame  generally  rewards  the  deserving 
with  serenity  of  life  he  has  sprung  to 
obey  the  call  of  his  country,  and  is 


gladly  heard  when  he  expounds  her  faith 
and  develops  her  purpose.  America 
needs  no  propaganda  to  keep  her  heart 
warm  toward  France.  We  feel  pro- 
foundly and  can  never  forget  the  re- 
ciprocity of  affection  and  service  be- 
tween us.  But  to  learn  from  M.  Berg- 
son's  lips  the  place  taken  by  the  first 
and  oldest  among  Academies  in  efficient 
support  of  the  people  who  have  cher- 
ished it  for  centuries  is  an  experience 
absolutely  unique.  It  can  be  nothing 
less  than  an  inspiration  for  our  own  so- 
ciety, whose  directors  have  already  as- 
sured their  fellow-member,  the  President 
of  the  United  States,  of  their  personal 
and  collective  support,  and  have  re- 
ceived from  him  a  grateful  reply." 

Professor  Bergson  spoke  first  in  Eng- 
lish and  afterward  in  French  to  a  large 
and  enthusiastic  audience.  In  the  course 
of  his  address  he  referred  to  the  Ameri- 
can Academy  as  "the  very  dear  and 
cherished  younger  sister  of  the  French 
Academy." 


GREETINGS  TO  THE  ACADEMY  FROM  THE  ACADEMIE 
FRANgAlSE  AND  THE  ACADEMIE  DES  BEAUX-ARTS 

Following  are  letters  from  the  two  great  Academies  of  France,  addressed  to  the  American 
Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters,  felicitating  it  on  the  granting  of  its  charter  by  Congress,  ex- 
tending to  it  cordial  greetings,  and  requesting  it  to  be  the  medium  of  conveying  to  Americans 
the  appreciation  of  the  sympathy  and  the  service  which  they  gave  to  France  during  the  pres- 
ent conflict  in  Europe  before  the  declaration  of  war  by  the  United  States. 


[The  Academie  Fran^aise  to  the  Members  of 
the  American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Letter s\ 

INSTITUT  DE  FRANCE 

academie  fran9aise 

Messieurs, 

Votre  secretaire  perpituel,  M.  R.  U. 
Johnson,  nous  ayant  inform^  que,  par 
un  acte  du  17  avril  de  cette  annee,  votre 
compagnie  est  devenue  institution  na- 
tionale,  I'Academie  frangaise  s'empresse 
de  vous  envoyer  ses  felicitations. 

Elle  n'a  pas  oubli^  Taccueil  qu'a  re^u 


de  vous  M.  Eugene  Brieux,  qui  la  repri- 
senta  il  y  a  deux  ans  aux  fetes  oil  vous 
nous  aviez  invites.  Notre  confrire  nous 
a  dit  combien  il  fut  touchi  de  vos  senti- 
ments amicaux  k  regard  de  rAcad^mie 
f  rangaise,  imu  de  votre  vive  et  profonde 
sympathie  pour  la  France. 

Notre  pays  est  tr^  sensible  aux 
marques  d'estime  et  d'affection  qui  nous 
viennent  de  la  grande  Republique  am6- 
ricaine.  De  communs  nobles  souvenirs, 
plus  que  siculaires,  vivent  dans  la  m6- 
moire  de  nos  deux  peuples. 

Au  temps  de  la  Revolution  amiri- 


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65 


caine  et  de  la  Revolution  f rangaise,  nous 
avons  congu,  vous  et  nous,  un  id^al  de 
justice,  de  liberte,  de  dignite:  justice, 
liberte,  dignite  pour  la  personne  hu- 
maine  individuelle  et  pour  ces  per- 
sonnes  collectives,  n^s  de  la  nature  et 
de  rhistoire,  qu'on  appelle  les  nations. 

A  cet  ideal,  nous  sommes  demeur^s 
fideles,  vous  et  nous,  au  cours  de  nos 
histoires. 

Une  preuve  de  ce  permanent  accord 
nous  a  6x6  donn^  ces  jours-ci.  Un 
manifeste  signe  par  cinq  cents  citoyens 
notables  des  Etats-Unis  a  proclame  en 
termes  clairs  et  vibrants  qu'avec  nos 
allies  nous  combattons  pour  "la  civilisa- 
tion" et  pour  la  defense  et  le  maintien 
des  "lois  morales  de  Thumanite."  A 
rheure  ou  nos  soldats  luttent  avec  tant 
d'hero'isme'  pour  une  si  grande  cause, 
nous  avons  ete  heureux  de  nous  en- 
tendre dire  par  vos  compatriotes  que 
"leurs  sympathies  et  leurs  esperances 
sent  avec  nous,"  et  qu'ils  sont  "sOrs 
d'exprimer  les  convictions  de  I'immense 
majorite  des  Americains." 

Messieurs  et  chers  confreres,  I'Aca- 
demie  frangaise,  qui  bientot  celebrera 
son  troisieme  centenaire,  souhaite  longue 
et  glorieuse  vie  a  I'Academie  naissante 
qui  porte  le  beau  nom  d'Academie  ame- 
ricaine  des  arts  $t  des  lettres. 

Le  Directeur  de  VAcademie  Fran^aise, 

E.  Lavisse. 

Le  Cbancelier,  M.  Don  nay. 

Le  Secretaire  perpetuel,  E.  Lamy. 


[response] 

AMERICAN  ACADEMY  OF  ARTS 
AND  LETTERS 

70  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 

Gentlemen:  August  22,  1916. 

It  is  an  official  privilege  to  thank  you 
for  your  letter  congratulating  this  Acad- 
emy upon  its  nationalization  by  Act  of 
Congress,  and  offering  from  the  French 
Academy  a  recognition  more  precious 
than  any  oth^  that  could  be  given  us. 

We  wish  to  read  in  your  welcome  an 


expression  of  friendship  from  the  gener- 
ous nation  which  you  represent  in  the 
highest  things,  and  we  assure  you  that 
we  have  been  deeply  touched  by  your 
advertence  to  those  historic  ties  which 
have  allied  our  peoples  from  the  time  of 
our  own  struggle  for  independence.  As 
Americans  we  gratefully  remember  the 
vital  assistance  which  France  rendered 
us  in  that  ds^rkest  hour,  and  as  artists 
and  men  of  letters  we  feel  gladly  bound 
with  all  the  world  in  our  sense  of  the 
magnanimous  hospitality  which  she  has 
shown  to  the  arts  and  letters  every- 
where. 

We  trust  that  we  have  a  peculiar  right 
to  claim  kindred  with  you  in  those  ideals 
of  liberty  and  humanity  which  form  the 
noblest  incentive  to  aesthetic  as  well  as 
civic  endeavor;  and  we  beg  you  to  be- 
lieve that  our  hearts  respond  warmly  to 
yours  in  the  feelings  which  animate  your 
Republic  in  its  devotion  to  the  enlight- 
enment and  amelioration  of  mankind. 

We  remember  the  visit  of  your  distin- 
guished colleague  Mr.  Brieux  with  a  full 
sense  of  the  unique  favor  done  us  by 
your  Academy  in  permitting  us  to  wel- 
come that  great  dramatic  humanist  be- 
yond the  limits  prescribed  to  the  public 
appearance  of  French  Academicians; 
and  we  shall  not  cease  to  prize  above 
any  other  the  honor  of  your  welcome 
to  historic  association  with  yourselves, 
which  we  would  so  willingly  believe  in- 
cludes our  Academy  within  these  limits. 
As  a  first  effect  of  this  welcome,  may  we 
be  among  the  earliest  to  proffer  you  the 
felicitations  upon  the  approach  of  your 
Three  Hundredth  Anniversary,  in  which 
all  civilization  will  unite. 

Yours  very  truly, 

W.  D.  HowELLS,  President. 
William  M.  Sloane,  Chancellor. 
Robert  Underwood  Johnson, 
Permanent  Secretary. 
Messieurs 
E.  Lavisse,  Directeur, 
M.  Don  NAY,  Cbancelier, 
E.  Lamy,  Secretaire  perpetuel, 
de  I'Academie  Frangaise. 


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CORRESPONDENCE  WITH  THE  FRENCH  ACADEMIES 


11 

[The  Acadimie  des  Beaux-Arts  to  the  Secre- 

tary  of  the  American  Academy  of  Arts 

and  Letters^ 

INSTITUT  DE  FRANCE 

ACADEMIE  DES   BEAUX-ARTS 

Paris,  le  8  juillet,  1916. 

TRfeS  HONORS  ET  CHER  CoLLfeGUE, 

L' Academic  des  Beaux-Arts  de  Tlnsti- 
tut  de  France  a  et^  heureuse  d'ap- 
prendre  qu'une  Academie  nationale  des 
Arts  et  des  Lettres  venait  d'etre  officiel- 
lement  reconnue  par  le  gouvernement 
americain. 

Elle  en  salue  cette  consecration  avec 
une  joie  fraternelle  et  Taccueille  de  ses 
voeux  les  plus  chers.  Elle  en  augure  le 
glorieux  avenir  avec  une  afTectueuse  et 
confiante  certitude. 

Nous  connaissons  et  admirons  vos 
peintres,  vos  sculpteurs  et  vos  archi- 
tectes;  nous  nous  enorgueillissons  d'en 
compter  parmi  nos  confreres.  Nous 
aimons  vos  artistes  presque  comme  des 
camarades,  si  nombreux  sont  ceux  qui 
ont  partage  la  vie  de  nos  ateliers,  con- 
tribui  a  T&lat  de  nos  salons,  et  si  fideles 
ils  sont  demeures,  apres  avoir  itudi^  a 
coti  de  nous,  au  souvenir  de  leurs  pro- 
fesseurs  et  a  I'amiti^  de  leurs  condis- 
ciples.  Et  quelles  emouvantes  preuves 
ne  nous  ont-ils  pas  donnees  de  leur  at- 
tachement  par  Taction  et  la  parole,  au 
cours  de  ces  deux  terribles  ann^es,  se- 
courant,  soulageant,  consolant  nos  re- 
fugi^s  et  nos  blesses,  partageant  nos 
revoltes  et  nos  fiertes,  nos  angoisses  et 
nos  espoirs,  affirmant  leur  foi  et  confir- 
mant  la  notre  dans  la  bonte  et  la  beauts 
de  notre  cause! 

Pour  leur  porter  k  tous  I'expression 
de  notre  gratitude,  nous  nous  adressons 
a  vous  le  repr^sentant  de  la  Compagnie 
ou  si^gent  les  maitres  de  Tart. 

Et  puisque  Elle  reunit  aussi  ceux  de  la 
Litterature,  qu'en  elle  toutes  les  forces 
et  toutes  les  illustrations  de  I'intelligence 
am^ricaine  se  doivent  grouper,  comme 
sur  I'azur  de  votre  ^tendard  les  6toiles 
de  tous  les  Etats  de  TUnion,  nous  la 


prions  d'etre,  par  votre  entremise,  I'in- 
terprete  de  nos  sentiments  aupr^  des 
universites,  aupres  des  Cinq  Cents,  elite 
de  toutes  les  classes  sociales  et  de  toutes 
les  professions,  aupres  de  tous  ceux  en- 
fin  qui  nous  ont,  dans  notre  dur  combat, 
donne  le  concours  de  leur  industrie  et 
de  leur  richesse,  la  sympathie  de  leur 
coeur,  et  par-dessus  tout,  le  temoignage 
murement  reflechi  de  leur  conscience. 

Unie  a  votre  Academie  par  une  egale 
passion  pour  ces  biens  supremes  que  les 
Grecs  jugeaient  inseparables,  verite, 
justice  et  beauti,  dans  un  culte  commun 
pour  toutes  les  nobles  choses  que  les 
Latins  resumaient  dans  le  mot  d'Huma- 
nite,  notre  Academie  lui  tend  cordiale- 
ment  la  main  et  I'assure  de  ses  senti- 
ments confraternels. 

Veuillez,  tres  honor^  et  cher  collegue, 
lui  en  transmettre  I'expression,  et  agreez 
vous-meme  I'assurance  de  notre  haute 
consideration. 

Le  President,  Ch.  Waltner. 

Le  Vice-President,  Th.  Dubois. 

Le  Secretaire  perpetuel,  Ch.  M.  Widor. 


[response] 

AMERICAN  ACADEMY  OF  ARTS 

AND  LETTERS 

70  fifth  avenue,  new  york 

Dear  and  Honored  Colleagues: 

The  friendly  letter  of  welcome  and 
felicitation  which  the  Academie  des 
Beaux-Arts  has  addressed  to  the  Ameri- 
can Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters,  on  the 
occasion  of  the  granting  of  the  National 
Charter,  has  been  transmitted  to  all  of 
its  members,  and  has  given  a  satisfac- 
tion which  it  is  difficult  to  express.  The 
touching  messages  of  appreciation  to 
others  of  our  countrymen  which  you 
have  honored  us  by  entrusting  to  our 
care  we  have  delivered  through  official 
organizations  and  the  press. 

The  special  bonds  that  exist  between 
your  great  institution  and  American  ar- 
tists bear  witness  to  the  high  plane  on 
which  your  country  has  always  regarded 


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CORRESPONDENCE  WITH  THE  FRENCH  ACADEMIES 


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the  arts.  It  has  never  been  necessary 
among  you  to  plead  the  cause  of  the 
beautiful,  and  your  love  and  cultivation 
of  it  have  not  been  merely  for  your- 
selves but  for  all  the  world.  At  your 
flame  the  artists  of  every  nationality 
have  caught  inspiration.  Your  laws 
have  fortified  the  rights  and  dignity  of 
Literature  and  Art.  Your  schools,  re- 
nowned for  standards  and  discipline, 
have  made  every  American  pupil  a  fos- 
ter-child of  France.  It  is  no  wonder, 
therefore,  that  you  have  transmitted  to 
our  artists  the  same  affection,  the  same 
sense  of  justice,  and  the  same  chivalrous 
loyalty  to  your  ideals  that  you  have 
nourished  in  your  own.  We  assure  you 
that  you  do  not  exaggerate  the  depth, 
the  strength,  or  the  extent  of  this  sym- 
pathetic feeling. 

Justice  is  indeed  a  kind  of  Beauty,  and 
it  is  the  spirit  of  the  artist,  expressing 
itself  in  the  field  of  moral  judgments, 
that  has  made  France  the  apostle  of  al- 
truism to  the  world. 

We  beg  of  you  to  accept  our  deep  ap- 
preciation of  the  fellowship  to  which 


your  distinguished  body  has  so  cordially 
admitted  us.  In  our  effort  to  promote 
in  this  country  an  inspiring  comradeship 
of  men  of  letters  and  of  the  arts,  a  com- 
radeship that  shall  be  of  constant  and 
permanent  service,  we  shall  be  cheered 
and  strengthened  by  remembrance  of 
your  sympathy  and  by  the  vision  of 
what  you  have  shown  may  be  accom- 
plished by  such  cooperation  as  yours. 

Pray  accept,  valued  and  honored  col- 
leagues, for  the  Acadimie  and  for  your- 
selves, our  thanks,  our  highest  respect, 
and  our  most  sympathetic  consideration. 

William  Dean  Howells, 

President 
William  Milligan  Sloane, 

Chancellor, 
Robert  Underwood  Johnson, 

Permanent  Secretary, 
Messieurs 
Ch.  Waltner,  President, 
Th.  Dubois,  Vice-Prisident, 
Ch;  M.  WiDOR,  Secretaire  perpetuel, 
de   VAcadimie  des   Beaux- Arts, 
Paris, 


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FORM  OF  BEQUEST 

1  hereby  give,  devise,  and  bequeath  to  the  American  Academy 
OF  Arts  and  Letters,  incorporated  under  an  Act  of  the  Congress 
of    the    United    States,    approved    April    17,    19 16,    the    sum    of 

dollars,  to  be  applied  to  the  uses  of  said  corporation. 


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